I lost a game of Truth or Dare, and my penalty was to text Julian Thorne. I typed out the dare: [You’re the one who forced me into this twisted relationship—not quite an adopted son, not quite a lover.] The second it sent, I panicked and hit “unsend.” [Sorry, wrong person.] One second later, my phone rang. It was Julian. Beside me, my roommate yelled, “Hey Sawyer, where are the condoms?” Over the phone, Julian’s voice dropped to sub-zero temperatures. “What are you doing?” I looked around the room. My roommates had cleared the mahjong table and replaced it with enough snacks and drinks to fuel a small army. They were clearly pulling an all-nighter. I smirked into the receiver. “Getting a room.” A few hours later, I found Julian standing outside my dorm building. 1 I lost at mahjong. The punishment was a dare. The dare was to send a line of dialogue from a soap opera to the person pinned at the top of my chat list. [You’re the one who forced me into this twisted relationship—not quite an adopted son, not quite a lover.] I stared at the pinned contact: Julian Thorne. My throat went dry. Can I really send this? This is playing with fire. My roommates were jeering, making sure I didn’t chicken out. I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves, and hit send. Three seconds later, I unsent it. But I watched as the little “Typing…” bubble appeared. Then it vanished. Then my screen lit up with an incoming call. My hand shook so hard I almost threw my phone across the room. My roommate, Leo, winked at me. “Who’d you text? They called back fast.” I ignored his teasing and bolted for the balcony. When I pressed answer, my heart was pounding like a drum solo. This was our first conversation since we parted on bad terms three months ago. “Julian,” I said, my voice dry. There was a pause on the other end. “I’m your elder. You should call me Uncle Julian.” He’s not my uncle. He’s barely older than me—definitely younger than my dad would have been. He just insists on the title because he and my late father were “brothers.” Julian was clearly hung up on the text. “Just now, you…” Before he could finish, my dorm president, Greg, yelled from inside the room: “Sawyer! Where are the condoms?” Greg had just lost a round of Truth or Dare and had to make everyone’s bed. He was asking for the duvet covers, but in his slang, it sounded… suggestive. Greg has a voice that carries. I guarantee Julian heard it. Because the line went dead silent. I couldn’t even hear him breathing. After a long pause, his voice came through, colder than liquid nitrogen. “Sawyer. What are you doing?” I looked back at the mahjong table, the scattered chip bags, the beer cans, and my roommates’ excited faces ready for a night of debauchery. I let the devil take the wheel. I chuckled. “Getting a room. What else?” Julian laughed. It was a dry, angry sound. “Stop messing around.” Damn man. When I confessed to you, you said I was too young and didn’t understand my feelings. Now you care? I hung up on him. Click. The phone rang again. And again. I put it on silent. I went back inside and told everyone to keep playing. Julian sent one last text. [Sawyer, don’t make me come get you.] I scoffed. Like he’d drive all the way to campus in the middle of the night just to catch me. 2 Turns out, you shouldn’t tempt fate. We played for another two hours. It was only 11 PM. We ran out of snacks and beer. I volunteered to go on a run. I needed a breather anyway. Walking downstairs, I checked my phone. Julian had blown it up with messages. I couldn’t deny the twisted satisfaction I felt. He cares so much, yet he keeps pushing me away. The thought made me frustrated. I ran a hand through my hair and fished a cigarette out of my pocket. Just as I lit it, I saw a figure standing under the streetlamp outside the dorm. The light was dim, but I knew that silhouette. Julian. He saw me, too. He started walking toward me. My stomach dropped. Instinctively, I hid the cigarette in my palm. Julian hates smoking. He doesn’t even know I smoke. I stammered, “W-what are you doing here?” “You know why.” Julian grabbed my wrist and pried my fingers open, taking the cigarette. Only then did I feel the sting. In my panic, I’d burned my palm. “Since when do you smoke?” I opened my mouth and lied. “Just started a few days ago.” Actually, I’ve smoked for years. I just played the good boy whenever he was around. Julian hummed but didn’t press it. He walked to his car and gestured. “Get in.” Sitting in the passenger seat, I noticed his hair was a little messy. There were shadows under his eyes. Guilt washed over me. His company has been swamped lately. And he drove all this way, late at night, just for me. I wanted to explain the text, but I wanted something else more. I wanted to know why he was so panicked. I wanted him to admit he cared. That he liked me. “Julian, you care about me, don’t you? You’re afraid I’ll hook up with someone else, right?” Julian rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. He took off his coat and tossed it aside, his movements agitated. “Sawyer, this is an elder worrying about a junior. If your parents were here, they’d be worried too.” My chest tightened. That excuse again. I lowered my head, not wanting to look at him, but I explained anyway. “I wasn’t messing around. I lost a game of Truth or Dare. I sent it randomly.” Julian sighed at my silence. He reached over and ruffled my hair. “You’ll understand the difference eventually. Stop throwing tantrums, okay?” We hadn’t had a real conversation in three months. Ever since I impulsively confessed after high school graduation, he’d put up a wall. He started sleeping at the office, avoiding coming home. I’d never been treated like that by him. So I gave him the cold shoulder right back. I missed him. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “It’s late. Stay here tonight. Drive back tomorrow.” Julian nodded. “You go back to the dorm. I’ll get a hotel.” “Curfew’s passed.” A lie. But I wanted to be with him. Julian looked at me. Finally, he said nothing and drove us to a hotel. 3 Back at the hotel, Julian went out again. When he came back, he was holding a pharmacy bag. He beckoned. “Come here.” I sat next to him obediently. He took out a tube of burn ointment and gestured for my hand. I gave him my right hand. He applied the ointment carefully. His fingertips brushed against my palm, sending shivers up my arm. I watched his lowered eyelashes. Like I was possessed, I leaned in. My lips barely grazed his eyelid before he dodged. He pushed me away. Just like that night three months ago. After my graduation party, I was riding a high. Julian took the day off just to be with me. That night, I got a little tipsy. Julian asked what I wanted for a graduation gift. I stared into his eyes, unable to stop myself from hugging him. “Uncle Julian, will you give me anything I want?” Julian hugged me back, laughing. “Of course. Whatever you want, Uncle will get it for you.” The feelings I’d buried for years exploded. I cupped his face. And I kissed him. The moment our lips touched, he shoved me away. I fell back onto the sofa. “Uncle, I like you. Can I have you?” Julian stood up abruptly. His face was tight. His fists were clenched and shaking. “Sawyer, you’re drunk.” I shook my head frantically. “No, I’m not! I like you. I like you in the way that I want to be with you…” I tried to take his hand, but he avoided me. My heart ached. Julian wasn’t comforting me like he used to. He stood there, cold and distant, telling me my feelings were an illusion. That I couldn’t tell the difference between dependence and love. I was hearing the same lecture for the second time. The pain in my hand traveled to my chest. “I know the difference, Julian. I’m not a kid. I know what love is.” But Julian is stubborn. Especially with me. He set the ointment down and stood up to leave. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I forced an ugly smile. “Julian, I don’t get hard for people I don’t like.” Julian paused. Then he walked out without looking back. I barely slept. The next morning, I met him with dark circles under my eyes. He didn’t ask. He drove me back to campus. When the car stopped, I realized we were parting ways again. I didn’t move. I just wanted a few more minutes. Julian didn’t rush me. He leaned back in his seat. “Sawyer, your parents are gone. They entrusted me to raise you. You call me Uncle, so I am your elder.” “I don’t want you wasting your time on me. I’m ten years older than you. You have youth and potential. Go look at other people.” I stayed silent, protesting without words. Finally, Julian said: “Go. I have to leave too.” 4 After that, we entered a weird “Cold War.” He’d show appropriate concern, like an elder. But he stopped replying to my endless texts about my day. Like he was constantly reminding me: We are impossible. I knew how decisive Julian could be. But I was stubborn too. I threw myself into my studies, trying to numb the pain. My roommates thought I’d lost my mind. College freshman, grinding like a Ph.D. candidate. This went on for a month until Fall Break approached. Greg asked, “Sawyer, did you buy your ticket home?” I paused. Shook my head. “No. I’m not going back.” There was a competition coming up. I planned to stay and prep. But mostly, I didn’t know how to face Julian. I knew this drift was my fault. I pushed too hard. I was greedy. If I could do it over, maybe I wouldn’t have been so impulsive. Then, even if Julian stayed my “Uncle” forever, he wouldn’t push me away. I could still hug him, be his closest family. Greg patted my shoulder. “Alright. I’ll bring you some local specialties when I get back.” “Thanks,” I smiled. I opened Julian’s chat. Just a few sporadic messages over the last month. I stared at the screen. Maybe he heard me thinking about him, because the phone rang. It was Julian. I answered instantly. “Hello?” “Sawyer.” His voice made my heart tremble. “Did you buy a ticket? If not, I’ll have the driver pick you up…” For the first time in my life, I interrupted him. “Julian, I’m not coming back.” Silence. He hadn’t expected that. He paused for a few seconds, said a few polite words of concern, and hung up. I stared at the two-minute call log, feeling incredibly wronged. I say I’m not coming back, and you just let it go? For the next few days, I don’t know if I was mad at Julian or myself. I focused entirely on the competition. Zero communication with him. Once, I even missed his call. Finally, on a break, I got a call from Driver Wang. “Hello, Uncle Wang?” His voice was frantic. “Sawyer! Mr. Thorne… he’s been drinking all night. His stomach is acting up, but he won’t go to the hospital, and he won’t let anyone help him. I can’t talk sense into him. I had to call you.” Uncle Wang used to drive me to school. We were close. He knew to call me if anything happened to Julian. I frowned immediately. “Where is he?” “At home.” I hung up and dialed Julian. It rang and rang. No answer. My anxiety spiked. I told Uncle Wang to watch him and call an ambulance if it got bad. Then I bought the next ticket home. 5 I got home after 10 PM. Uncle Wang had checked on him a few times. Stubborn as a mule. I don’t know what got into him. No one forces Julian Thorne to drink these days. The house was dark. I fumbled for the light switch and saw Julian lying on the sofa. He eyes were closed. Asleep or passed out from pain? I walked over and squatted down, whispering. “Julian?” I touched his face. Hot. Worried he had a fever, I shook him. “Hey, don’t sleep yet. Let me take your temperature. Take some medicine first.” Julian opened his eyes and stared at me blankly. He looked pale. I’d never seen him this fragile. It broke my heart. I helped him sit up, grumbling, “Who pissed you off? Why drink so much? Don’t you know your stomach is bad?” Julian leaned into me, taking the thermometer. “Why are you back?” I draped a blanket over him. “If I didn’t come back, you’d die of pain.” He didn’t speak. I assumed he was still hurting. I stood up to make him honey water. Julian grabbed my wrist. “What?” He opened his mouth, then whispered, “Stomach hurts.” I frowned and sat back down, gently rubbing his stomach. I used to do this when he came home drunk from business dinners. Maybe because of the alcohol, he didn’t push me away. When he looked a bit better, I said, “Rest a bit, don’t sleep. I’ll make the water, then take the meds.” Julian nodded. “Okay.” By the time everything was done, it was late. I herded him to his bedroom and tucked him in. “Rest properly. You really don’t care about your body.” I was sleepy too. I turned to go to my room. “Sawyer,” Julian called out. “When… are you going back to school?” My drowsiness vanished. I turned around, looking at him in disbelief. I run all the way back here, nurse him back to health, and all he cares about is when I leave? Am I an eyesore now? But seeing him sick and pale, I couldn’t get angry. I glared at him, suffocating on my own frustration. “I’m leaving tomorrow.” I slammed the door and left.

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On my first day back home for the holidays, my mom pushed a young, hot guy into my arms. She winked and left me with a cryptic, “You know what to do.” I thought I understood the assignment. So, I took him upstairs and… had my way with him. Afterward, my mom asked, “So, where’s Leo? Did you finish his English tutoring session?” Looking at the exhausted man lying in my bed, I started to sweat. 1 My company gave me an extended break, so I happily dragged my suitcase home for the holidays. The moment I stepped through the door, my mom shoved a young guy toward me. She gave me a meaningful look and whispered, “You know what to do.” Then she grabbed her purse and sprinted out the door to her weekly bridge game. The guy was tall—at least 6’1″—with striking eyebrows, clear eyes, and a faint smile playing on his lips. He looked at me obediently and said, “Hey, Sis.” His eyes were innocent. He looked easy to trick. I immediately understood the assignment. I flashed an ‘OK’ sign at my mom’s retreating back, pulled the guy inside, and locked the front door tight. He watched me lock the door, paused, and let out a confused, low-pitched, “Hmm?” That sound. If I listened to it too long, I might get pregnant. I turned back, put a finger to my lips, shushed him, and took his warm hand to lead him upstairs. His fingers were long, smooth, and delicate. How does a guy keep his hands so soft? Although confused, he furrowed his brow but obediently let me lead him. It wasn’t until I pushed him onto the bed that he started squirming like a caterpillar, looking terrified. “Sis, what are you doing?” I straddled his waist, pinned his hands by his ears, and leaned down, whispering softly, “What else? It was going to happen eventually. We’re just… skipping ahead.” For a younger guy, he was strong. As soon as I finished speaking, he grabbed my shoulders. “Sis, think about this!” He turned his head away, cheeks flushing red as he stared at my wrists, his voice righteous and stern. He kept pushing, bending his long legs trying to dislodge me. I reached out and patted his handsome face. “Good boy, save your strength for later.” He tried to say something else, but I covered his mouth. “Shh. Don’t talk.” The struggling boy froze the moment I kissed his Adam’s apple. And then, it was like I hit a switch. In a split second, the innocent boy turned into a wolf. The world spun, and suddenly, I was the one being devoured. 2 My mom is the classic parent who banned dating in high school but started demanding grandkids the second I hit college. In college, she told me to target classmates. In grad school, it was colleagues. After graduation, she was setting me up with every “local talent” she could find on weekends. Despite her efforts, I never clicked with anyone. Either they were frogs, or I was the ugly duckling. The few guys who actually met my standards? I was too chicken to make a move. She always complained I had no guts. She loved to tell the story of how my dad was the village heartthrob back in the day. She wasn’t the prettiest or the richest, but she was bold. She basically clubbed him over the head like a cavewoman and dragged him home. If she hadn’t taken the initiative, I wouldn’t exist. She told me to learn from her. If you like him, club him. So when I saw her winking at me with this guy, I thought I got the message. I boldly dragged him upstairs to cook the rice, so to speak. When he flipped me over, I thought, Finally, I’m being bold. An afternoon later, I was lying in bed, gasping for air, unable to move a finger. The boy looked at me, wanting to say something but hesitating. I was too tired to talk, so I closed my eyes and started drifting off. Suddenly, a demonic voice pierced through the door: “Chloe! Where’s Leo?” “Wasn’t he there for English tutoring? Did he leave already?” “Why didn’t you ask him to stay for dinner?” … I bolted upright, kneeling on the bed. Leo? The chubby kid from next door who was three years younger than me? The one I tutored in phonics in elementary school, listening comprehension in middle school, and grammar in high school? The chubby kid my mom said was coming over for GRE tutoring a few days ago? I remember he didn’t look like this. How did losing weight make him this hot? I pointed a trembling finger at the guy. “Leo?” He widened his eyes and nodded obediently. “Here for English tutoring?” He nodded again, looking innocent. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?!” I thought he was a blind date my mom set up! When I first saw him, I was so moved I almost cried. I used to suspect my parents were secretly billionaires pretending to be poor to build my character. Then I suspected I was adopted. But seeing Leo, I thought, Okay, billionaires aren’t even this generous. Only biological parents would save a resource this good for their own daughter! Turns out, he’s just a studious neighbor kid who failed his GREs! Leo looked at me with puppy eyes, his face still flushed, his eyes misty. “You didn’t give me a chance to speak.” I felt a myocardial infarction coming on. Hearing my mom’s footsteps getting closer, I held my breath and locked the door. I turned around to see Leo putting on his clothes. His back was a perfect V-shape, muscles rippling… and covered in long red scratch marks. Leo was terrifyingly calm. He looked at me innocently. “Why are you locking the door? Let’s go out together. Be bold, right?” I slapped the back of his head. “Since when are you so responsible?” I grabbed him, opened the window, and shoved him toward it. “Window! Go!” Leo froze, clearly unhappy. “Sis, what does this mean?” I was sweating bullets. I shoved him again. “What does it mean? It means you got lucky today!” He held the window frame and sighed. “Sis, this is the second floor. Are you trying to kill the witness?” Click! Clack! The door handle jiggled. My heart was in my throat. My mom’s voice boomed again. “Chloe! What are you doing? Why is the door locked?” “Where is Leo?” My brain spun. Hundreds of excuses flashed by. I grabbed one, swallowed hard, and yelled: “He finished tutoring and went home!” I lowered my voice, sounding pitiful and exhausted. “I was on the bus all morning, I’m dead tired. I knew you’d come in and pull the covers off, so I locked it.” “I just want to rest.” Mom instantly felt guilty. “Oh, okay. Rest well. I’ll go make dinner.” Downstairs? That was Leo’s only escape route! I quickly yelled, “Mom! I really want the roast goose from the village entrance! Can you go buy some?” At this moment, I truly admired my own genius. But my mom, being considerate, said, “Your dad is on his way back. I’ll tell him to get it.” I gasped. “Mom, I’m starving! Like, dying! You can take the e-bike and be back in ten minutes. I’ll eat while waiting for Dad!” “Fine, fine! You glutton.” Hearing her go downstairs, I sighed in relief. I shoved Leo’s clothes into his arms and dragged him out. He stood there like a statue, eyes dark, clearly unhappy. “Sis, is that it?” My brain was mush. I just wanted him gone. Without thinking, I blurted, “You ate me? And you want to eat my goose too?” I pushed him down the stairs. He resisted, looking grim. He called me by my full name. “Chloe King, are we just going to pretend this didn’t happen?” What else? I’m broke. I stopped pushing. “I thought you were a blind date. I was a little impulsive. Sorry…” His eyes turned red. He looked like he was about to cry. I panicked. I grabbed two steamed buns from the kitchen and shoved them into his hands. “Don’t cry. You worked hard all afternoon. Eat on the way. Good boy, go home…” Before I could finish, Leo turned and stormed off. Watching his figure disappear down the winding dirt road, my heart finally settled back into my chest. Suddenly exhausted, my legs gave out, and I almost knelt on the floor. But there were… stains on the sheets to deal with. I wanted to cry. I pulled the sheets off and started scrubbing them in a basin. Fun in bed, funeral afterwards. I was replaying the afternoon’s events while regretting my life choices. “What are you doing?!” I screamed and fell on my butt, hitting the floor hard. I stammered, “Period… accident. Got on the sheets.” My mom glanced at me. “Normal thing. Look at you, acting like you committed a crime.” She parked the e-bike, holding the goose, and started rambling. “Leo’s dad has helped our family a lot over the years.” “Teach Leo well. Tomorrow, don’t wait for him to come here. You go to his house to tutor him.” Go to his house? My brain exploded. “He got into a top university for undergrad, how could he fail the GRE…” “You’re as brainless as your father. If his dad hadn’t thrown some projects our way during the pandemic, we would have starved.” “It’s rare they need us for something. We have to repay the favor.” My mom’s tone left no room for argument. “Go tomorrow after lunch.” 3 My mom means what she says. The next day after lunch, she shoved my old GRE prep books into my hands and pushed me out the door. Forget tutoring, I didn’t even have the face to see Leo. I decided to find a sheltered spot outside, play on my phone all afternoon, and go home. But before I could cross two fields, I ran into Leo’s mom, Aunt Liu. Leo’s family was in construction. They got rich and moved to the city, only coming back for holidays. The city water must be good because Aunt Liu looked younger than she did years ago. From across the field, Aunt Liu yelled, “Chloe! Your mom said you were coming to tutor Leo. Come on, it’s freezing out here, let’s go inside and warm up.” She crossed the field, took the books from my hand, and dragged me toward her house. “That boy Leo, studying so poorly and doesn’t even know to come to the teacher. I’ll lecture him later! That’s no way to treat a teacher!” I wanted to die. What kind of luck is this? Aunt Liu dragged me inside and yelled upstairs, “Leo! Chloe is here!” Leo stood at the top of the stairs, one hand in his pocket, looking down at me. His mouth was a straight line, a little petulant. “Sis, come up.” As soon as he spoke, we both froze. The memories of yesterday afternoon hit us like a tidal wave. Our eyes met and instantly darted away. Aunt Liu didn’t notice. Seeing us standing there, she complained, “Stinky brat, why are you just standing there? Get Chloe upstairs to the heater.” I snapped out of it. Afraid Aunt Liu would think I was rude, I forced myself to walk up. Leo came down two steps, took the books from his mom, and followed me up. He led me to the study, pulled out a chair for me, and pulled another one right next to it for himself. An English workbook was spread out on the desk. Next to it was a scratch pad, covered in chaotic scribbles. Under the lines, I could faintly see handwriting. I leaned in. Just as I made out the word “Chloe,” Leo snatched it away. Fine. Don’t look. I don’t care. “Did you come specifically to tutor me?” Leo asked. Specially? I was basically kidnapped by Aunt Liu halfway here. Afraid he’d overthink it, I honestly shook my head. He didn’t speak for a long time. I looked up. Leo’s face and ears were bright red. He looked down shyly, fiddling with his fingers. He peeked at me through his lashes, then quickly looked down again. My heart jumped. I think he misunderstood. His focus was on “not to tutor.” My focus was on “not specifically.” There was no good answer to this. I stayed silent… Awkwardness spread through the room. “Hot soy milk.” Aunt Liu suddenly pushed the door open, put down two drinks with a smile, told us to study hard, and thoughtfully closed the door. The room fell silent again. “Sis…” Leo’s voice sounded like a kitten scratching, startling me. I took a deep breath, slammed the workbook open, and said loudly, “Okay! Let’s start with question one.” Seeing the atmosphere get serious, I secretly relaxed. My eyes drifted… and landed on a red mark on Leo’s collarbone. The heater was on, so he had unbuttoned his top two buttons. I saw everything. The mark was darker in the center, fading out. I estimated it was the shape of two overlapping… actions. Leo silently sat up straight, his long fingers buttoning his collar. I died of embarrassment right there. I wanted to dig a hole and bury myself. From that moment on, the letters on the page started dancing. My senses went into overdrive. The fruity scent of Leo’s cologne drilled into my nose and tickled my heart. He silently picked up his cup and drank. I suddenly felt thirsty too and took a sip. Maybe the heat was too high. We drank three cups in a row. After the third cup, Leo shook the empty pitcher. “Sis, why am I getting thirstier the more I drink?” Pfft! I almost sprayed my milk. I held it in, but a few drops leaked from the corner of my mouth. Leo quickly grabbed a tissue. Before I could take it, he reached over and gently wiped my lips. His eyes darkened, heat rolling in them. A pair of long fingers suddenly gripped my shoulder. Before I could react, the owner of the fingers was leaning in, eyes half-closed. Leo’s lashes trembled, his red lips parted slightly. The buttons on his chest were undone again, revealing a vast expanse of skin. Things were spiraling out of control. Just as we were about to cross the line, the door opened. “I cut some fruit, take a brea—” Thump! Startled, I leaned back too far and tipped over in the chair, crashing to the floor. Leo helped me up, buttoning his shirt with one hand, looking annoyed and embarrassed. “Mom! Why didn’t you knock?! We were studying seriously, you scared us to death!” I didn’t know if Aunt Liu saw anything. My face was burning. I took out my phone, put it back, touched my butt, touched my head, picked up the workbook, put it down. I didn’t know what to do with my hands. Finally, I found an excuse: “My pigs are hungry. I have to go feed the pigs.” Without waiting for an answer, I fled the scene. On the way back, the more I thought about it, the more I felt Aunt Liu saw everything. Parents really shouldn’t be oblivious. You can’t just invite any tutor into your home. In freezing weather, I walked home sweating. But Aunt Liu operates on the same wavelength as my mom. She meant what she said. The next day, Leo showed up at my door right on time. 4 Aunt Liu came with him, carrying bags of gifts, warm and enthusiastic. She said it was a “small token of appreciation” for tutoring Leo. I looked. Premium bird’s nest, high-end skincare. This was not small. My parents refused to accept it. Aunt Liu said some heartfelt words, making everyone happy. Chatting, she patted Leo’s arm. “Silly boy, it’s rare for Chloe to be home. Hurry up and let your sister teach you.” Leo took the hint and stood up straight. “Troubling you, Sis.” I heard “create a private study environment” and my scalp tightened. I fidgeted with my fingers. “Actually, bad timing. We’re going to her grandma’s house this afternoon.” I was about to stand up when my mom suddenly spoke. “That’s fine, come tomorrow.” “Chloe might be busy lately. Auntie Wang introduced a few boys for her to meet.” Aunt Liu was shocked. “Chloe needs blind dates? Such a pretty girl, families must be fighting over her. Plus, she’s young, no rush.” She glanced at Leo. “Maybe Chloe already has someone she likes.” My mom waved her hand, looking disgusted. “She’s turning 27 after New Year’s, and she has no guts. If there’s a good one, she needs to meet him early before someone else snatches him up.” “True. Leo isn’t young either. He’s turning 24. I’m worried too…” My mom patted Aunt Liu’s hand. “You don’t have to worry. Leo is so handsome, who knows how many girls like him. You’ll just worry about picking the best one…” My dad and I watched the two women go back and forth. My mom basically said Chloe and Leo aren’t a match, while Aunt Liu almost explicitly said they were perfect. After half an hour, Aunt Liu forced us to exchange WeChats so we could “study” later, and left reluctantly. I was confused. Once Leo left, I grabbed my mom. “We aren’t going to Grandma’s today…” “You!” My mom poked my forehead in frustration. “Don’t get confused by Leo’s face.” “Just chatting for a bit, and his eyes were glued to you.” “The prettier the boy, the more unreliable!” She glared at my dad. “Especially in construction. Too many temptations. Girls chasing them even when they’re 50!” My dad, catching strays, grumbled, “Who are you mocking? I’m innocent! I think Leo is a good kid, honest, no bad intentions!” “Besides, is it our fault we’re handsome?” I sighed, feeling inexplicably annoyed. So my mom doesn’t like Leo.

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When I discovered Richard was cheating, both of us remained incredibly calm. Richard shielded the girl behind him, his voice flat. “Don’t blame her. It was a moment of passion. She’s innocent.” I nodded. “I understand.” That night, Richard came home and handed me a divorce agreement. “I’ve made concessions financially. Look it over. If there are no issues, sign it.” I tossed the agreement into the trash can, smiling with boundless tolerance. “Relax. I won’t make a fuss over something so trivial.” It’s just an affair. In this age of fast love, who hasn’t faced temptation? I couldn’t even control myself; how could I blame Richard? 1 Richard paused just as he was about to light a cigarette. He looked up at me, surprised. I knew why he was shocked. In the past, I was the kind of person who couldn’t tolerate a speck of dust in my eye. Richard had always been popular with women. Back when we were madly in love, he tried hard to keep himself clean for me. But some women just threw themselves at him. We used to fight about it constantly. But over the years, maybe because we’d been together too long and the passion faded, or maybe just because we got older and lost the energy to argue, our marriage became like stagnant water. Not a ripple in sight. When life gets too bland, people crave excitement. “Richard, we’ve known each other for twenty years. Married for almost ten. The company is thriving. Our parents get along great.” “Do you know what it means if we divorce?” It means assets need to be divided. The stock price will tank. It means major upheavals for both families. Our parents are old, they have health issues; they might not survive the shock. Richard was silent for a long time. finally, he said, “I’m doing this out of respect for you.” “Your respect for me is finding a mistress and cuckolding me?” Richard frowned, disapproving. “She’s not a mistress! I told you, I was shameless. She knew I had a family and kept rejecting me.” “I get it. You don’t need to explain. Love is hard to control with reason.” I laid it all out. “You’re just afraid I’ll use my status as your wife to bully her, right? Don’t worry. I, Sarah Vance, might have many flaws, but I am generous.” Richard looked at me tentatively. “You really don’t mind?” “To say I don’t mind at all would be a lie, but you two are true love,” I sighed softly. “True love is rare these days. I always respect and bless it.” 2 Richard wasn’t swayed by my sweet talk, but he knew I was stating facts. So he said he’d reconsider the divorce. For several days, he came home on time. Occasionally his phone would ring. He’d glance at me, then hang up. I said generously, “Was that her? Answer it. Don’t make her sad. You can’t give her a legitimate status, so don’t let her suffer in other ways.” Richard endured it for a moment, then got up and went into the study. The door closed tight, just like his heart, which hadn’t been open to me for a long time. Actually, I understood him. People are very tolerant of those they love deeply or don’t love at all. They are only harsh toward those they once loved deeply but no longer do. Richard probably detested me right now. Detested me so much that breathing the same air in the living room felt unbearable. Yet, because he was afraid I’d hurt his lover, he had to come home every day and pretend with me. It must be hard for him. At night, as usual, I slept alone. I can’t remember how long it’s been since Richard and I had a normal married life. At first, I tried to seduce him. But he always used “tired” as an excuse. But men are creatures who can impregnate women at eighty and try to grope nurses while paralyzed in bed. I knew then that Richard wasn’t tired. He had just been satisfied by another woman. But a thirty-year-old woman has needs. I was in my prime. With no other choice, I found a clean man. Before sleeping, I received a message. [When are you getting a divorce?] [I told you, I won’t be a homewrecker! If you don’t divorce him, don’t contact me again!] I thought of his eight-pack abs and licked my lips with regret. Divorce was impossible. But since he was so firm, I couldn’t force him. So I moved my finger and deleted him. Luckily, three-legged frogs are hard to find, but two-legged men are everywhere. Goodbye is just a chance to say hello to the next one. 3 Monday. Shareholders’ meeting. Ever since I had a miscarriage from overwork two years ago, I stopped going to the office. I stayed home, rested, and collected dividends. But I still attended the quarterly meetings. Compared to the last time I was here, there were new faces. I immediately spotted the woman in the corner taking notes. Seeing me, she panicked, looking left and right before shrinking back and lowering her head. I didn’t feel any hostility toward her, just a bit of pity. She was the first woman Richard had brought in front of me. But she wasn’t the first woman Richard had cheated with during our marriage. Richard was someone who separated public and private life. He never brought his past flings to the company. Thinking of how Richard defended her, I thought, maybe this really was true love. At ten o’clock, Richard walked into the conference room on time. But he didn’t start the meeting. After a while, there was noise outside. The heavy doors opened, and a man in a dark grey suit walked in. “Sorry, I’m late.” He apologized verbally, but his face showed zero remorse. He sat down next to Richard. Seeming to sense my gaze, he looked over indifferently, then looked away expressionlessly. I clicked my tongue. This guy has a poker face. Especially in bed—the more intense the desire, the colder he looks. But I might be a bit masochistic. The colder he is, the more excited I get. “Director Vance, who is this?” the shareholder next to me whispered, surprised. “Caleb Sterling. Our angel investor,” I explained softly. “Without him, the company wouldn’t exist.” “But I’ve never seen him before?” “He has a lot of assets. We invite him to every meeting, but he always declines.” “Why did he come this time?” I smiled and shook my head. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s bored?” 4 The meeting ended near noon. I didn’t rush to leave, planning to have lunch with Richard. When I came out of the restroom after washing my hands, Richard’s lover walked in. Seeing me, her instinct was to run. But after a moment, she shuffled over, head down, voice like a mosquito: “Director Vance.” I washed my hands slowly, pulled a paper towel, and dried them. Receiving no response, she started crying from the grievance. Her shoulders shook, looking pitiful. “Director Vance, I really didn’t mean to ruin your marriage. I… I didn’t know he was married…” She sobbed, starting to defend herself: “I thought about leaving him, but, but…” “But you love him too much,” I took out a handkerchief, lifted the girl’s chin, and wiped her tears with pity, speaking for her. “The thought of leaving Richard breaks your heart.” “So you had to stay entangled with him. Later, he got you a job at the company so you could be together day and night, right?” I finished her lines. She was stunned, forgetting to cry. “Do you have something to say to me?” I asked her. The company is huge. If she really wanted to avoid me, it would be easy. Her intentions were too obvious. She was too weak. So weak that I found her somewhat cute. “Director Vance, you’re so capable, beautiful, and rich. So, so… could you please divorce him…” Knowing she was in the wrong, she started crying again. “I really have no choice. I… I’m pregnant…” “Does Richard know?” I asked calmly. She nodded. “But he says you won’t divorce. But Director Vance, the child is innocent… I came from a broken home. I really want to give my child a complete family!” “You can call me shameless, but for my child, I’ll do anything!” I smiled slightly and nodded. “I understand. Stop crying. You’re pregnant; be careful.” “Thank you for your blessing.” Saying that, she tried to kneel. But realizing I wasn’t stopping her, her knees hovered awkwardly in mid-air. I checked the time on my watch. It was late. No wonder I was hungry. “I’ll discuss the divorce with Richard again.” I patted her shoulder and floated away. Richard’s office was large. When I pushed the door open, he was chatting with Caleb. Seeing me, Richard smiled and stood up. “Just in time. Caleb, you haven’t seen Sarah in a long time, right? Lunch together?” Not that long. We slept together last week. Caleb glanced at me and nodded slightly. “It has been a while. I was planning to message you guys for dinner today, but Sarah seems to have deleted me?” “Impossible.” Richard picked up my phone and scrolled through it. He really didn’t see Caleb’s name. “Must be accidental,” Richard explained immediately. “Sarah never deletes people.” “It’s fine. Just add me back.” Caleb held out his QR code, personally watching Richard scan it and send the request. I rolled my eyes internally. Who was the one last night swearing never to contact me again?

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I was three when they took me from the amusement park. The grief turned my parents’ hair white overnight, or so they said. Five years later, they found me. They wept, clutching the girl I’d become—malnourished, bruised, and silenced by trauma. I had selective mutism, a cage of silence built from years of abuse. But the daughter they’d adopted in my absence, Chloe, didn’t like the ghost who’d returned. When our parents weren’t around, she’d whisper it in my ear. “Mute freak. Get out of my house.” “I’ll make them hate you,” she promised, her voice a sweet poison. “I’m their only daughter now.” And she was right. The way my parents looked at me began to change, to curdle. The bedtime stories stopped. The special meals, the weekend trips to the park, the therapy sessions—they all faded away. The patient lessons, trying to coax my voice back from the darkness, ceased. Chloe told them I’d cheated to get first place in my class, just to humiliate her. They believed her. I was forced to make a public apology for my “cheating” in front of the entire school. I lost my only friend. Chloe told them I stole her money. They believed her. They cut off my allowance for a year. My body, already ravaged by years of starvation, began to fail. This time, Chloe said I was jealous of her beautiful singing voice and had tried to poison her with boiling water to ruin her throat. Their eyes burned with rage. My mother pinned me down, my father pried my jaw open, and they poured the scalding water from the kettle down my throat. “You’re a silent little monster, so you have to silence your sister, too? You’re worse than an animal! Apologize to her!” A scream was trapped in my throat, a silent, searing agony that came out as a choked, rasping gasp. A cold wave of despair washed over me. I grabbed a pair of scissors from the desk and pressed the tip to my own throat. 1 SLAP— The sting blossomed across my cheek, hot and sharp. My hand jerked, and the point of the scissors sliced my palm open. Blood welled, dark and thick. “Pathetic,” my mother spat, her eyes dripping with contempt. “Always the same cheap tricks. You have no class.” My father scoffed. “Did you really think hurting yourself would make us feel sorry for you? That we’d fall for that? It’s laughable.” No, I wanted to scream. Rory wasn’t trying to trick you this time. Unable to speak, I could only shake my head frantically. During those five lost years, whenever the son of my captors did something wrong, he would refuse to eat. He’d starve himself, cry for hours, and eventually, they would break. They always gave in. I was naive; I thought that trick worked on all parents. So, the first time Chloe accused me of cheating, I’d climbed onto the balcony ledge, holding a notepad where I’d scrawled, I DIDN’T CHEAT, over and over. But my parents didn’t see me. They only saw Chloe. “Shh, don’t cry, sweetie. It’s your sister’s fault. She’s shameless, cheating to steal your spot.” Chloe didn’t have to do anything but shed a few perfect tears. As my parents rushed to comfort her, my mother turned, bumping into me accidentally. I tumbled backward. The wind on the third-floor balcony rushed past my ears, a final roar before impact. The sound of my own bones snapping was sickeningly clear. The next day, they made me walk onto the stage at the school assembly, my leg in a cast, and deliver that public apology. The shame and the pain drilled through me, a million tiny needles piercing my heart. That’s when I finally understood. Hurting yourself to prove your innocence only works if you are loved. For a child like me, there was only obedience. I clutched my bleeding palm, the blood seeping through my fingers and dripping onto the hardwood floor, each drop a tiny, crimson starburst. Just like every other time Chloe had framed me, I lowered my head and knelt. I’m sorry. I was wrong, I wrote on a piece of paper, again and again. My parents seemed pleased when I was compliant. A small pool of blood was gathering on the floor beneath my hand. My mother’s eyes widened, and she took an instinctive step toward me. Chloe immediately grabbed her arm. “Mom, that’s probably stage blood from the drama club. It’s impossible to clean out of the floorboards. Don’t get too close.” She then walked over to me, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Rory, you know I’ll always forgive you, no matter what you do to me. Why do you have to create these elaborate lies to scare Mom and Dad?” She stepped on the paper I was writing on, grinding it into the blood, silencing my last chance to explain. “Do you want them to hate me that much? Do you want them to kick me out? What did I ever do to you that makes you despise me so much?” My eyes widened in disbelief. Why was she saying these things? I wasn’t using fake blood. I never wanted her to leave. Why was she lying? The words were logjammed in my throat, but not a single sound could escape. When my mother looked at me again, her expression was pure disgust. “Aurora! When did you become so vile? Let me tell you something. From now on, I don’t care if you’re bleeding. I don’t care if you’re dying. Don’t you dare do it in this house. You’ll stain the floors.” “Clean this mess up. You’re disgusting.” With that, she turned back to Chloe, her face melting into a mask of pure adoration. She wrapped her arms around her. “Don’t say such silly things, sweetie. You’re my precious baby. No one is ever going to send you away.” Her voice softened. “And from now on, you stay away from her. I don’t want her to have another chance to hurt you. When you said your throat hurt earlier, my heart just broke.” My own heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, crushing the air from my lungs. I had never hated my silence more than in that moment. I couldn’t even say a single word in my own defense. The cleaning powder stung the gash in my palm, a chemical fire searing my flesh. For a fleeting, insane moment, I had a thought— Maybe if I scrub clean enough, Mom will love Rory again. Just a little. But I knew better. That was a fantasy. I scrubbed until the powder caked into the wound, until the metallic scent of blood was gone from the floor. As I looked up, my eyes caught the calendar on the wall, and a dull ache spread through my chest. Today was Rory’s birthday. It would also be my last. “Aurora, your organs are failing at an alarming rate,” the doctor had told me yesterday, his voice gentle but firm. “You have a month. At most.” The death sentence was handed to me on a crisp piece of paper. The autumn air felt unnaturally cold as I walked out of the clinic, the paper crumpled in my fist. During those five years, I’d rarely had a full meal. When I finally came home, Chloe accused me of stealing, and my parents cut off my allowance. I survived that first month back by drinking the free soup from the school cafeteria. But my body had paid the price. It had finally given up. My mind had been a blank slate since the diagnosis. That’s why I’d forgotten this morning. I’d forgotten the routine my parents insisted on—testing the water on the back of my hand, over and over, to gauge the temperature before serving Chloe anything. I’d just handed her the cup. “AHH!” Her shriek had filled the house. The shattering ceramic, the hot splash against my leg, and my mother’s slap had all happened in the same instant. “You vicious little brat! If you ever hurt Chloe again, you can get out!” I glanced toward the living room now. My parents were excitedly discussing the party they were planning for Chloe after her singing competition tonight. I blinked hard, forcing back the tide of tears. Just get through today, I told myself. After my birthday, I’ll leave. I don’t want to make them unhappy anymore. During the years I was gone, I’d watch my captors’ son celebrate his birthday with a jealous ache. Every year, on my own birthday, I’d squat in the dirt yard and build myself a cake out of mud and sand. “Happy birthday, Rory.” “I wish I could go home to Mommy and Daddy and never leave them again.” Then I’d blow, and the sand would fly into my eyes, mixing with my tears and trickling into my mouth, gritty and bitter. “Our Chloe is going to be the most beautiful princess tonight. Let’s go buy her a few more dresses.” My parents were leaving. My heart clenched. I scrambled to my feet and rushed to my mother, tugging on her sleeve. I held up a note: 【Mom, Dad, do you remember what today is?】 My mother paused, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “Oh, that’s right! I almost forgot!” A warmth spread through my chest. She remembered. She still remembered. “It’s the anniversary of the day we brought Chloe home! It’s her special day!”

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I married into one of New York’s oldest families with a terrible command of their native tongue: French. So, naturally, on our honeymoon in the South of France, I had to show off on Instagram. [Photo: A sun-drenched selfie, me beaming, my handsome husband Leo in the background on his phone, a turquoise sea behind him.] Caption: The way my husband speaks French should be illegal! So incredibly hot! The thing is, I’d accidentally posted it as a Live Photo. In the three-second clip, you could see Leo turn to the camera, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his lips. You could also hear every word of his phone call. The comments started rolling in almost immediately. The first was from a French friend from college. 【Hot? Hannah, are you kidding me?】 Then another. 【OMG, he’s literally flirting with someone else on the phone while you’re grinning like an idiot!】 1 I stared at the comments, my heart giving a painful lurch. Live Photo. I’d completely forgotten. Another friend, ever so “helpful,” posted a translation in the comments: 【He’s telling her not to call during the honeymoon. He also said the takeout she ordered doesn’t hold a candle to your cooking, but since you’re from the Midwest, you don’t know how to make a proper bouillabaisse. He said if her skills are any good, maybe he’ll stop by her place for a taste when they get back.】 A cold knot formed in my stomach. I looked over at Leo. He did always rave about my cooking. He hung up the phone, that same smile from the video still playing on his lips—seductive, intoxicating. He took my hand, raising it to his mouth to press a soft kiss against my knuckles. “What’s wrong?” His tone was completely normal. I hesitated for a beat, then asked, “Who was that?” “Just a friend,” he said, the words light as air. He offered no further explanation. I didn’t feel like I had the right to press him. But as I looked back down at my phone, at the stream of likes and comments pouring in from friends, family, and Leo’s entire social circle, my face burned with a humiliating heat. My hands trembling, I deleted the post. 2 My mind was still racing. Leo was already on his feet, sliding his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers. “You handle the check-out. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.” I mumbled an agreement. He must have sensed my distraction. He paused. “Still thinking about that call?” he asked, his voice laced with a gentle, weary amusement. “It was really just a friend. A guy friend. I’ll introduce you when we get back.” A real smile finally broke through my anxiety. “I wasn’t worried.” But it felt like a ten-ton weight had been lifted from my chest. Leo just shook his head, a fond smile on his face, and headed downstairs. After I finished packing, I wrestled our two enormous suitcases out of the room. Down at the front desk, I switched effortlessly into French to settle the bill. “Madame, your French is excellent,” the concierge noted, impressed. “Thank you,” I said with a small, proud smile. I’d minored in French in college; languages always came easily to me. Everything except the specific, old-world dialect Leo’s family spoke amongst themselves. It was my one great failure, the one area where I couldn’t seem to keep up. Leo had insisted I not even try. He’d once whispered against my earlobe, his voice a low murmur, “You’re my wife, Hannah. I’m the one who should adapt to you. Besides, I’m opening a new branch in Chicago this year. You should be teaching me proper American idioms. For instance, how do you say, ‘I want you again, baby’?” … The memory of his words sent a flush of heat creeping up my neck. But when I finally dragged the suitcases into the lobby, sweating and flustered, the memory evaporated. I found him laughing with a stunning woman—a willowy brunette with sharp, model-esque features. “Leo?” I called out. He and the woman turned in unison. Her face was bright and beautiful, but her eyes, when they landed on me for interrupting, were sharp with annoyance. I froze, asking, “Who’s this?” Leo leaned back against the concierge desk, crossing his arms with an air of relaxed amusement. “She was hitting on me. Aren’t you going to assert your claim?” I felt a surge of awkward panic. I had never been in a situation like this in my life. I looked at him, utterly lost. “What am I supposed to do?” And then— One of Leo’s hands cupped the back of my neck, pulling me in for a deep, possessive kiss. With his other hand, he theatrically covered the brunette’s eyes, which were practically shooting flames. His voice was a playful, seductive purr. “Isn’t this enough?” I melted into the kiss, my head spinning. Through the haze, I heard the brunette let out a short, sharp gasp. 3 It wasn’t until we were in the taxi heading to the airport that the wrongness of it all started to crystallize. His movements… it was like he was performing for both of us. Seducing two women at once. I was about to say something when my mother’s call came through. She wanted to know why I hadn’t posted any honeymoon pictures today. I stammered something about being busy with travel. Her voice immediately hardened. “You need to post, Hannah. You’re a Davenport now. Your social media presence is part of the package. This isn’t your old life; you can’t afford to be so thoughtless.” I looked down at my hands, my voice barely a whisper. “Okay.” After I hung up, I re-uploaded the photo, making sure this time that the Live Photo feature was off. A moment later, a sixty-second voice memo from my mother buzzed through. 【…What is going on with your hair! Those bangs are all stringy, couldn’t you have brushed them before taking a picture? And those denim shorts are far too short, you don’t look like a lady at all! You look so… unpolished! How do you expect the Davenports to ever respect you if you present yourself like this!…】 A profound sense of powerlessness washed over me, extinguishing any desire to fight back. It was like being the stepsister trying to cram her foot into Cinderella’s slipper. If a part didn’t fit, you just had to slice it off. Eventually, it’s easier to just curl your toes, to surrender to the shape of the unyielding glass. I sighed and typed back: 【I know, Mom. I’ll be more careful next time.】 After that, I lost the heart to question Leo about anything. 4 “Why the long face?” Leo squeezed my cheek gently. “How about I take you skydiving for our next stop?” “Skydiving?” My eyes widened, a spark of excitement cutting through the gloom. Our honeymoon had only been twenty days, but in that time, I’d done more than in all my twenty-two years. Rock climbing sheer cliffs. Surfing in Biarritz. Getting deliciously drunk in a smoky jazz club in Paris. I even learned to play Texas Hold’em. And won a few thousand dollars. It wasn’t a lot of money, but the thrill of it kept me awake all night. I looked at everything with wide-eyed wonder, and Leo seemed to look at me with even more. “Hannah,” he’d say, laughing, “you’re something else.” At first, I’d been resistant. Extreme sports, bars, casinos—they were all on the long list of things my mother had strictly forbidden. When I told Leo this, he threw his back his head and laughed. “Hannah, how old are you? You still listen to your mother?” I just looked at him, feeling lost. He pulled me onto his lap, his smile wicked. “Well, you’re married now. Doesn’t that mean you should listen to your husband? And your husband wants you to have fun with him. Trust me, it’s incredible. Besides, your mom isn’t here. You don’t have to tell her everything.” Hesitantly, I tried. And it was more than fun. It was freedom. For the first time in my life, I tasted what it was like to be truly free. Leo was so, so good to me. And I loved him so, so much. He never forced me to do anything. When we got back to New York after the honeymoon, he even deleted the Rosetta Stone app for French from my laptop. “Why work so hard? It hurts me to see you stress over it. All our staff speaks English, and most of my business is stateside anyway. You just stay home, relax, and enjoy yourself.” I was so moved at the time, I nearly cried. But it was the one thing I didn’t listen to him about. I kept studying in secret. I was a language major, after all. I knew that a person’s deepest thoughts and feelings are intrinsically tied to their mother tongue. Even though Leo’s English was perfect, we still had moments of being lost in translation. I was learning because I wanted to understand him. All of him. 5 Thankfully, I was a fast learner. Within a few months, I could understand most of what people were saying. My own speech was still clumsy, but I was getting there. I wanted to wait until I was fluent to surprise Leo. He, however, surprised me first. One evening, his closest friends came over to our penthouse for drinks. “To Leo Davenport, married off at twenty-six! We had to come celebrate the end of an era,” one of them toasted. “Seriously, man, why get married so young? Did you finally decide to settle down, or did something… stop working?” Another one shot a suggestive look at Leo’s tailored trousers. Their crass, frat-boy energy made my cheeks burn. Leo just smiled, ruffling my hair. “Don’t be nervous. They’re my best friends.” He introduced them. They were all tall and impossibly handsome, like a casting call for a luxury watch ad. Even the ones who weren’t conventionally attractive were polished to a high shine by expensive suits and ridiculously opulent watches. But the way they looked at me was anything but polished. It was critical, appraising. One of them made a soft tsk sound. “Couldn’t really tell under all that wedding makeup, but she’s actually pretty average. Her legs aren’t as long as Chantal’s, and her skin’s not as pale as Cherry’s. And that body is…” Rage, hot and sharp, flared in my chest. Did he have any idea what he was saying? Leo stepped in front of me, planting a light kick on the guy’s shin. “Say one more word,” he said, his voice low and angry. “…” The friend took a half-step back, a flicker of surprise on his face. 6 The mood in the room turned heavy. I used making tea as an excuse to escape to the kitchen. As I left, I heard Leo sit down, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk. “It was just a joke, man. Don’t be so serious.” By the time I returned with the tea tray, the boisterous atmosphere had returned. His best friend, a guy named Grant, asked, “So your wife doesn’t speak French?” I blinked, saying nothing. Leo looked over at me, a smile playing in his eyes. “Nope,” he confirmed. Grant raised an eyebrow. “Then why’d you marry her? As a decoration? I thought your father had a whole lineup of eligible French heiresses for you.” Leo leaned back into the plush sofa, looking impossibly relaxed. “Because she’s sweet.” He paused, a memory seeming to cross his mind, and a slow grin spread across his face. “So damn sweet.” My face felt like it was on fire. I knew instantly what he was thinking of. Our wedding night. I had been so nervous. His hands had moved over my body like a slow burn, his voice full of genuine wonder. “You’re twenty-two and you’ve never even had a boyfriend?” I trembled under his touch, mortified, and shot back, “Who says I haven’t?” He just laughed, his arms tightening around my waist as his whole body shook with amusement. “Liar.” “You’re pure as the driven snow. Don’t pretend to be experienced, sweet girl.” I swatted at his chest in frustration. His only response was the arch of his back, crashing into me in waves, and the broken, breathless words he gasped out between thrusts: “So… damn… sweet.” … “You have to cleanse the palate after too much spicy food, right?” someone joked. Leo kicked out at him again, but this time he was laughing. “You asshole! That’s my wife you’re talking about. You can’t compare her to the girls on the outside.” Their crude talk made me frown. I tugged on Leo’s sleeve, but he didn’t seem to notice, just squeezed my hand and kept going. “For a wife, of course you choose the sweetest, most innocent one.” I didn’t feel complimented. A sick feeling was growing in my gut. I decided I’d wait until his friends left to tell him how I felt. But then Grant spoke again. “So, no more nights out for you? Chantal lives in the same building as that girl I’m seeing. She’s asked me a bunch of times why you don’t come around anymore. I heard she’s been taking cooking classes, learning all the French classics.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Leo didn’t deny it. He just gave a lazy, tired shrug. “We’ll see.” Then, his gaze fell on me, soft and possessive. He tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, his voice a gentle murmur. “I’m very happy with my wife now.” My heart stuttered. If I couldn’t understand what came next, I would have drowned in the warmth of his eyes. But his words, spoken in that fluid, aristocratic French, were like daggers, stabbing me over and over. “She’s sweet, she’s a great cook, and she takes such good care of me.” “The fact that she doesn’t speak French is a bonus, you know?” “She can’t read the gossip rags writing about my flings.” “She can’t send me angry texts in French demanding I come home.” “And even if she wants to start a fight, I can just pretend I don’t understand.” The room erupted in raucous laughter. “You’re a bastard, Davenport! Playing your own wife for a fool?” Leo laughed along with them, loud and unrestrained. Only I remained silent, my face ashen, my body starting to tremble as if struck by lightning. “Leo,” I said, my voice clear and steady. He turned to look at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Because I had said his name in perfect, unaccented French. I held his stunned gaze, and continued, enunciating every single syllable. “Je comprends tout.” (I understand everything.) Every grating laugh screeched to a halt. And the wicked, self-satisfied smile on Leo’s face instantly vanished.

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The night of our wedding, the scent of wilted peonies and day-old champagne still hung in the air as I scrolled through the raw photos on my laptop. A cold dread trickled down my spine. Eight hundred images, and fewer than ten of them showed my face. The camera hadn’t been telling our story; it had been telling his. There was Ethan, my new husband, bending to pick up a fallen napkin, a candid shot of him adjusting his cufflink, his brow furrowed in concentration. My own presence was reduced to a series of blurry profiles, a ghost at my own celebration. White-hot anger surged through me. Then, a single, jarring photo stopped me cold. I waited until Ethan came out of the shower, a towel slung around his neck. “You know Leo Vance well?” I asked, my voice tight. He paused for half a second, the motion of drying his hair momentarily frozen. “Not really.” “Then how does he have this?” I spun the laptop around. The image on the screen was of Ethan, shirtless, in the middle of changing. The distinctive red mole on his lower back was in sharp focus. The background was unmistakably the apartment he lived in before we were married. 1 The towel slipped from Ethan’s hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud. He bent to retrieve it, and as his shirt lifted, the mole on his lower back was exposed—a perfect match to the one in the photograph. He walked over, his face a mask of carefully constructed confusion. I zoomed in on the photo until the mole filled the screen, an undeniable crimson dot. He leaned in, his tone casual. “Oh, that. I did a favor for a friend of his once, some headshots for his portfolio. He must have slipped it in by mistake.” Ethan reached out to stroke my hair. “It’s nothing, Sienna. Don’t work yourself up. You know how disorganized Leo can be.” Still seething, I pulled away from his touch. “Work myself up? Eight hundred photos and my own husband’s wedding photographer couldn’t find ten decent shots of the bride? That’s ‘nothing’?” “A private, shirtless photo of you suddenly appearing in the files is ‘nothing’?” I had spent a week of late nights scrolling through portfolios to find the right photographer. I wanted a perfect ending, a perfect collection of memories. A wedding is a one-time event. And he was telling me not to work myself up? His fingers found the mouse, and with a quiet click, he closed the folder. His voice was laced with a weary patience. “I told you I didn’t want to hire him. You were the one who insisted.” “You loved his style so much, so I gave in. Now that it’s turned into this mess, there’s not much to be said, is there?” His words silenced me. He took the opportunity to pull me into his arms. “Come on, Si. Don’t be angry.” “We’ll find another studio. We’ll do a reshoot, something even more beautiful.” I pushed against the strange feeling in my gut. “Do you really think a reshoot is the point?” “If you had taken five minutes away from your precious work to look at portfolios with me, this disaster wouldn’t have happened.” He sighed, a long, theatrical sound. “The company is resting entirely on my shoulders right now, Sienna. I can’t step away for a single day. You spend your days having fun, of course you don’t understand.” He looked at me, his expression a mixture of apology and exhaustion. “Trust me, Si. I’ll make it right. You’ll be happy with the new photos, I promise.” I looked up at him, my anger softening, but a seed of doubt had been quietly planted. The next morning, Ethan announced he had already booked a session with the top-rated photography studio in all of Crestwood Hills. A night’s sleep had cooled my temper. Maybe he was just under too much pressure, too overwhelmed to focus on the wedding details. I accepted his gesture. The photoshoot was seamless. The photographer was a true professional, his jokes and easy banter making both Ethan and me laugh. The lingering shadows of the previous night began to dissipate. But Ethan seemed distracted. When I stepped out in a new dress, I saw him hunched over his phone, his thumbs flying across the screen. A faint, tender smile played on his lips. I lifted the hem of my gown and walked toward him, curious. He immediately shoved the phone into his pocket, a flicker of panic in his eyes. “Who was that?” I asked casually. “Just work stuff.” He wrapped an arm around my waist, his grip a little too tight. “God, how do you manage to look so beautiful in everything?” The compliment felt hollow. I pouted. “Can’t you put work away for one afternoon? Try to be present?” He chuckled, a low, tired sound, and took my hand. “I have to build the empire before I can settle in the castle. That’s the only way I can deserve my Sienna.” I squeezed his hand back, my brow furrowing. “There you go again. I’ve told you, stop thinking like that. I love you. That’s all that matters.” He stared at me for a moment, then pulled me into a hug. That evening, he gave me an expensive necklace as a peace offering. For the next week, everything felt normal. Except he suddenly started a new routine of morning runs and gym sessions. For seven days straight, I woke up to an empty bed. Then, a notification popped up on my phone. A message from Leo. “Ms. Hale, the edited photos will be ready for you to review tomorrow afternoon.” I frowned, confused. When Ethan got home, I mentioned it to him. His expression froze. He was pouring a glass of water, and a few drops sloshed onto the counter. I moved closer. “Do you want to come with me to pick up the prints tomorrow?” I asked softly. Ethan hesitated for a beat. “There’s no need to speak with a guy like that.” I stepped into his space, looking up at him. “He was so unprofessional. I think we should go together. Let’s see if he’s still so arrogant with you standing right there.” He was silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay. Whatever you want.” The next afternoon, the sun beat down relentlessly. Ethan drove us to a run-down part of the city, navigating the streets with a familiarity that felt unsettling. “Looked up the address online,” he explained, a little too quickly. He parked in front of a tired-looking pre-war walk-up and pointed to a third-floor window. “That’s the one.” We climbed the stairs together and knocked. The door opened to reveal Leo, still in his pajamas. He looked startled to see me. “The photos?” Ethan cut straight to the point, his voice hard. Leo said nothing. He walked over to his computer, clicked a few times, and handed me an external hard drive. I took it, my voice steady. “Mr. Vance, I don’t understand. As a wedding photographer, why would you deliberately not photograph the bride? Is that your standard of professional ethics?” Leo leaned against his desk, arms crossed, his gaze flickering past me to Ethan. A mocking smile touched his lips. “I shoot what the client asks for.” “The fact that I took any photos of you was a courtesy. Right, Ethan?” Ethan’s face turned ashen. “Leo, that’s enough,” he snapped. Leo just shrugged, a picture of indifference. “I’ll refund your money.” His dismissiveness sent a fresh wave of anger through me. I opened my mouth to argue, but Ethan grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. “Let’s go, Sienna. There’s no point arguing with someone like him.” In the split second before the door clicked shut, my eyes darted around the room. A flash of dark wood in the corner caught my attention, and my breath hitched. It was an acoustic guitar, a deep mahogany. Near the bottom of the body was a thin, silvery scratch—a scar I had accidentally made years ago on Ethan’s beloved college guitar. He’d told me he’d thrown it out.

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A meteor, the color of a flash of cobalt, tore across the night sky with a magnificent, burning tail. I snapped the photo, my heart thrumming, and immediately sent it to Leo, a thousand miles away. He’s been my boyfriend for years, ever since we met during my semester abroad. Back when his family was still footing the bills, before the fall. Now, he was just another broke student in London trying to make it work. I texted: This one should sell for a good price. As soon as the payment hits, I’ll wire you the money. Get yourself a decent meal. Don’t starve. He replied with a single word: Okay. The next day, my meteor picture was everywhere online. I followed the digital breadcrumbs back to an Instagram account belonging to a girl in the UK. She was listed as the “original artist.” The account wasn’t just for photography. Sprinkled among the professional shots were glimpses of her life, a curated story in filtered squares: navigating a supermarket in dreary, gray London with a tall, slender man whose face was always just out of frame, hunting for discount vegetables; sharing a single scarf on a snowy walk down a city street; kissing on a blanket in the grass on a rare sunny day. It was so romantic. It would have been perfect, if the watch on his wrist wasn’t the exact one I’d given Leo. 1 My vision blurred as I scrolled back, my thumb moving frantically. I landed on a video. A girl’s sweet, playful voiceover. “Someone said he wanted to celebrate landing the project bonus, so he booked this place as a surprise! I’m so spoiled!” The camera panned to the man sitting across from her. Only his jawline and the hand cradling a wine glass were visible. On that wrist, the watch I’d bought him was a searing brand. He murmured a low “Mm,” and the sound was laced with a familiar, lazy smile. It was the tone he only used when he was in an exceptionally good mood. A project bonus? My mind flashed back a week. Leo had vaguely mentioned being part of some group project, that there might be a small stipend. I’d been so happy for him that I’d transferred him the eight hundred dollars I’d saved by eating ramen for a month straight. Buy yourself some supplements, I’d texted. Don’t work yourself to death. Now, the thought was a bitter pill. My money probably just covered the bouquet of flowers sitting on their romantic dinner table. At the end of the video, the girl cooed, “I love that watch. You wear it every time I see you.” The man’s voice was laced with a casual, indulgent affection. “It’s an old thing. But it felt right for tonight.” An old thing. Felt right for the occasion. Every word was a needle dipped in ice, piercing my eardrum, plunging straight into my heart. I’d spent three months taking on every freelance gig I could find, working until I was so exhausted I ended up in urgent care on an IV drip, just to save up for that watch. And he wore it to accessorize a romantic dinner with someone else. “Anya!” Mark, a guy from the university photography club, tapped my shoulder, pulling me from the screen. “You can’t wear that busted old coat to the desert next month. It’s literally got holes in it.” He gestured to my frayed parka. “It’s not professional, and it’s definitely not warm enough. You should get a real technical jacket.” I forced a smile. “No money.” He looked completely baffled. “How is that possible? Anya, your work is incredible. Magazines would kill for some of your shots. How are you always broke?” “The money I’ve earned the last few years? I fed it all to a dog.” I laughed, a hollow, self-mocking sound. My eyes dropped back to my phone. I dialed Leo’s number. “The meteor photo that’s all over the internet,” I said, my voice flat. “What’s going on?” He paused, then his voice turned cool. “You were going to sell it anyway, right? I just sold it to a classmate ahead of time.” “Where’s the money?” “I kept it. Saves you the trouble of wiring it back to me.” I took a deep breath, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Leo, are we still a couple?” His tone sharpened, turning dark. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you breaking up with me?” A raw, painful laugh escaped my lips. “I’m not the one who wants to let go. But I’m not so sure about you.” The line went silent. All I could hear was his breathing, each exhalation heavier than the last. The cool, self-possessed man I knew, the heir who never lost his composure, was finally angry with me. “Anya Ross,” he seethed, his voice tight with fury. “Say that again.” But before I could speak, he hung up. It was just like when his family’s fortune first collapsed. He couldn’t handle the loss of status, and he’d lash out just like this—angry outbursts, hung-up calls. And within a day, I’d be the one crawling back, apologizing, sending him money, waiting for him to graciously accept my apology. But not this time. Ignoring the stabbing pain in my chest, I opened an airline app, my face a mask of stone. Destination: London, United Kingdom. I confirmed the booking. My passport and visa were still valid from a trip we’d planned and canceled. The entire process was brutally fast. The flight was on the 23rd. Fine, Leo. If you don’t want to listen to what I have to say, I’ll just have to come show you the proof in person. 2 My fingertips were trembling, but I forced myself to keep digging through her account. The girl, Chloe, wasn’t just sharing her life; she was a well-known photography influencer on the platform. The Northern Lights, the Milky Way over snow-capped peaks, star trails in the desert… she had posted dozens of breathtaking, magnificent photos, earning her a legion of adoring fans. They called her a prodigy, a visual queen. Her latest post had just gone up. My favorite photo of the year. Come enjoy the cosmic fireworks with me~ The attached image: my meteor photo. Including that one, every single one of her posts with over a hundred thousand likes was a photo I had taken. I was the original artist. But I had no capital to prove it. Because I had sold them all. I’d sold them completely—usage rights, credit, everything. It was the only way to get a high price quickly, the only way I could make enough money to support Leo’s life abroad. I opened my message history with my regular buyer, a private account that went by “Mr. S.” Leo, is it fun using my photos to pave the way for your new girlfriend? A single question mark appeared in response. You’re a real piece of work. (This message could not be delivered. You have been blocked by this user.) Ha. Hahahaha! I clutched my stomach, laughter bubbling up and turning into gasping sobs that tore from my throat. I remembered, before he left the States, a crisp autumn day when Leo had driven me deep into the mountains to a forest of golden aspen trees. He was wearing a dark gray cashmere sweater, and his warm hand enveloped mine as we pressed the shutter button together. The proud, privileged man I knew had leaned in, for the first time, and whispered softly in my ear. “Anya,” he’d said. “I will always love the world I see through your camera.” He was the one who led me down this path, and then he was the one who bled me dry, sucking the marrow from my bones. All to elevate his bright, dazzling new love. I had become a ghost, a photographer with no name and no dignity. The irony was crushing. The moment I stepped into my dorm room, my roommate’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Well, look who it is. If it isn’t the great photographer Anya, always too busy for us mere mortals.” She rolled her eyes. “All that time shooting and not a single decent photo to your name. And you’re still president of the photo club…” She scoffed. “You’re not half the artist Chloe is.” I tilted my head. “Who’s Chloe?” That was all the invitation she needed. She shoved her phone in my face. Oh, I knew that face all too well. The girl who had built her fame on my work. “Her full name is Chloe Reed,” my roommate gushed. “Her family doesn’t have much, but she worked her ass off and got a full scholarship to study in London! She’s talented, beautiful, and she has a super hot boyfriend.” She pointed to the screen. “Look, this meteor shot that’s gone viral? She took it.” I pushed her hand away. “I took that picture,” I said, my voice low and heavy. I hadn’t signed a contract for that one. It was still mine. “Bullshit!” she snapped, instantly defensive. “Just because you can’t produce anything good yourself, you’re going to steal credit for someone else’s hard work?” My other roommate, who had been reading, looked up. “Seriously, have some self-respect.” I was about to argue, but the first roommate suddenly shrieked. “Oh my god, Chloe just posted again! She’s in such a good mood today, she put up a bunch of new pics with her boyfriend!” I immediately unlocked my own phone. A new post had just appeared on her feed. Waves and sand~ The photo was of her in a cute, sexy bikini, her chest pressed tightly against a man’s bare torso. There were faint, ambiguous red marks on her neck, her waist, even near her bikini line. Someone in the comments mentioned she must be rich. She replied instantly: Not me, but the people around me are! lol~ I think he comes from some big, important family. Even though all the signs had been pointing to the fact that Leo wasn’t as broke as I’d believed, seeing it laid out so clearly was like a punch to the gut. “Hey,” my roommate taunted, “I heard you have a boyfriend abroad too. How does he stack up against Chloe’s?” My mouth opened, but no words came out. My heart felt like it was being squeezed and torn apart. What could I possibly say? That my boyfriend had already been sleeping with someone else? That while he was working up a sweat in bed with Chloe Reed, I was wearing through the soles of my boots in the desert just to capture a landscape that would sell for a high price? I ate cheap bread and skipped meals, I wore clothes until they fell apart, all so I could send every last cent to him. In all these years, I could count the number of times he’d kissed me. But the number of times he’d been with that girl… it was probably more than the number of words he’d said to me all month. Anya Ross, how pathetic can you be? I pushed past them and dialed a number I kept buried deep in my contacts. “Hello?” A deep, commanding male voice answered. I picked at a hangnail. “I need to file a lawsuit. Someone stole my photography, and it’s getting a lot of attention. I need your help.” “Anya Ross?” The man’s voice softened, a note of lazy amusement creeping in. “Give me one good reason why I should help you.” “Because you’re in love with me.” 3 A stunned silence hung on the other end of the line. Finally, the man’s voice came back, tight and strained. “You’ve got a lot of nerve. Do you really think I’m some dog you can keep on a leash? That you can just call whenever you feel like it?” My own voice was eerily calm. “You’re not a dog, Evan. You’re the only person I trust right now.” I could almost hear Evan Grant trying to suppress a smile. He adopted a strange, mocking tone. “What’s wrong? Why not ask Leo? Your precious boyfriend, the one you’ve poured your heart and soul into for all these years?” “He cheated on me. And he’s been lying to me for years, using my work to build a platform for the girl he’s sleeping with.” “…What?” Each word was clipped, precise. Evan’s voice had turned arctic. “That bastard. How dare he?” I didn’t say any more. I hung up and sent him a text. [I’ll send you the evidence and her account info later. I have something to take care of first.] [?? Where are you going?] [To catch a cheater.] On the morning of the 23rd, I boarded the plane. I didn’t sleep for a second during the ten-hour flight, and by the time we landed, my eyes were shot with red. Ding-dong. I rang the doorbell of Leo’s apartment. After a long moment, I heard the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching. A woman’s delicate, breathy voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?” She pulled it open. I was face to face with the girl I’d seen a thousand times on my phone. Chloe Reed, looking sweet and pretty, was wrapped in nothing but a bath towel, her lips suspiciously red and swollen. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin was covered in fading marks, and she had the languid, dazed look of someone who’d just been thoroughly fucked. From the bathroom a few feet away, I could hear the shower running. Leo’s voice, husky and satisfied, drifted out. “Chloe, baby, who’s at the door?” She tilted her head, looking at me with confusion. “Can I help you?” “Chloe Reed?” I asked, my voice flat. She nodded, frowning, and started to close the door. I jammed my foot in the opening and then kicked it hard. As she stumbled back, off-balance, I swung my arm in a wide arc and slapped her across the face. CRACK. “Ahh!” she screamed, a hand flying to her cheek where a red mark was already blooming. “Are you insane?!” Hearing the commotion, Leo rushed out, not even bothering to put on pants. He had a towel wrapped around his waist. “Chloe! What’s wrong?” When he saw me, his furious expression froze. He stared in disbelief, murmuring my name like a ghost. “Anya… Anya Ross?” I just looked at him, saying nothing. Hidden at my sides, my nails were digging so deep into my palms that I was sure I’d drawn blood. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, embarrassment, regret… Finally, he swept his damp hair back from his forehead, revealing his sharp, handsome features. His eyes, however, were filled with a thick, suffocating… disgust. “Following me all the way here,” he said coolly. “You’re really overplaying your hand.” I thought I’d misheard him. The blood in my veins turned to ice. “I’m overplaying my hand?” Chloe scrambled behind him, grabbing his arm timidly. “Leo, she just hit me. It really hurts…” His brow furrowed into a deep line. He nodded at me. “Apologize.” “Chloe! I got the mini-cupcakes you wanted!” A cheerful voice interrupted the standoff. It was my younger brother, Sam. The bright smile on his face vanished the second he saw me. “Anya.” He shoved past me, his voice full of complaint. “What are you doing here? You’re going to scare Chloe.” I grabbed his arm, my own voice tight and strained. “You’re my brother, Sam. Leo is cheating on me. Why didn’t you…” Why didn’t you tell me? He wrenched his arm away. “It’s not cheating! Chloe is amazing, and she and Leo are in love!” He glared at me. “Besides, don’t you think showing up here like this makes you look like a crazy, jealous wife?” A… crazy wife? I stared at my empty hand, numb. “Sam, don’t talk to your sister like that. You’ll hurt her feelings,” Chloe chided, pouting. But the look she shot me was pure, undisguised triumph. Sam rolled his eyes. “Who cares? She dresses like a slob, never wears makeup. It’s so trashy. I’m embarrassed to even admit she’s my sister when we’re in public.” “Enough!” Leo rubbed his temples. He strode forward, grabbed my hand, and yanked me into his arms. His fingers clamped around my jaw, forcing me to look up at him. His tone was the same as always—arrogant, entitled. “I already told you I’m going to marry you. What I do for fun is none of your business.” My body was pressed against his bare chest. The thought of what he had just been doing with Chloe in this apartment made my stomach churn with nausea. Fighting the urge to vomit, I squeezed two words through my teeth. “We’re done.” Leo’s brow tightened. He didn’t believe me. “Stop playing hard to get. The position of Mrs. Maxwell will be yours eventually. All this drama is just annoying.” I screamed, my voice raw. “I SAID WE’RE DONE! YOU’RE A FILTHY ANIMAL WHO CAN’T KEEP IT IN HIS PANTS, AND THE THOUGHT OF YOU DISGUSTS ME!” His expression shuttered, the atmosphere around him turning dangerously cold. “Say that again.” He crushed my struggles, pinning me against him. I was burning with a helpless, bloody rage, completely unable to move. Suddenly, there was a sharp whistling sound through the air. THWACK! A fist connected with Leo’s jaw, sending him stumbling backward. A familiar voice, cold and vicious, came from behind me. “She said let go. Didn’t you hear her?” It all happened in an instant. A long, strong hand landed on my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. The person leaned in close to my ear, his voice a low, teasing drawl. “Good thing I made it in time. Wouldn’t want our Anya getting bullied, now would we?” Tears instantly welled in my eyes. It was Evan. He was here.

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The seventh year of our marriage was the year I found the proof. Not in a lipstick-stained collar, but in the digital breadcrumbs of an affair: a confirmation for a king suite at The Ritz-Carlton on his phone. It was three in the morning. I was sitting on the floor of our walk-in closet, the silk of a Hermès scarf he’d brought back from his “business trip” cool against my skin. The box, with its crisp orange corners, had a sticker from the Saks Fifth Avenue flagship, but there was no corresponding charge on our Amex statement. The sound of the shower cut off from the master bath. I quickly locked the screen, the WhatsApp chat he’d left open burning itself onto the back of my eyelids. The last message was a voice note from a woman named Chloe. “Ethan,” she’d purred, her voice a little husky. “Next time, try not to bite. People at the office will talk.” In the background, I could hear the faint, distinctive sweep of the second hand on the watch I’d given him last month. “Hey. Why are you still up?” Ethan emerged from the bathroom, rubbing a towel through his dark hair, droplets of water tracing paths down the hard lines of his abdomen. My eyes fixed on a fresh scratch, angry and red, just above his collarbone. The image was violently superimposed over the email I’d gotten from my doctor that afternoon. My latest blood work. CA-125 levels are significantly elevated. Abnormal tumor marker. He leaned in to kiss me, and I turned my head, the silk scarf whispering against my cheek. “You said you were in Chicago last week? For the conference?” “Yeah, closing the deal with the Henderson Group.” He answered so quickly. His thumb began to rub, almost imperceptibly, along the polished steel edge of his phone. His tell. The little motion that always gave away the lie. It was laughable, really. This was the boy who had once thrown his arm in front of a pot of boiling water to shield me in our crappy college dorm kitchen. Now, he couldn’t even be bothered to invent a new lie. My phone buzzed on the floor beside me. A new text from an unknown number. It was a picture—a grainy, black-and-white ultrasound. The message below it read: Mrs. Hayes, when the baby comes, should it call you Auntie Nora? Or Mommy? 1 Later that week, the champagne tower at the company’s IPO victory party reflected the ballroom’s crystal chandeliers in a thousand fractured points of light. I stood beside Ethan, a perfect portrait of the supportive wife, as he navigated the sea of investors with an easy, practiced charm. The sapphire cufflinks I’d given him for his last birthday flashed cold and blue as he lifted his glass in a toast. “You’re a lucky woman, Nora,” the wife of a board member murmured, squeezing my arm. “I hear you two were college sweethearts. From the dorm room to the NASDAQ… you don’t see that kind of story anymore.” I managed a tight smile, my gaze finding Ethan across the room. He was leaning in close to a female venture capitalist, his lips curved into that familiar, devastating smile. The woman wore a dark berry lipstick, and her fingers drifted, as if by accident, against the sleeve of his Tom Ford suit. A vibration in my palm. My phone. A notification from my patient portal. Your test results are ready to view. I swiped the screen open, my eyes scanning the document until they snagged on a single line. CA-125. Abnormal. Ovarian cancer marker. “What are you looking at so intensely?” Ethan was suddenly beside me, his breath warm with scotch. I locked my phone instinctively. “Nothing. Just a reminder from the clinic.” My hand went to straighten his tie, a gesture I’d performed a million times. As my fingers brushed against the side of his neck, they found it: a smear of rosy pink that wasn’t a trick of the light. Ethan flinched back, a half-step, but it felt like a mile. “What’s wrong?” I asked, my hand frozen in mid-air. “It’s just… hot in here.” He loosened his tie, his gaze darting away from mine. “Frank is waving me over. I’ll see you at home?” The rosy pink, I realized as he walked away, was the faint, blurred outline of a kiss. 2 It was in the seventh year that Ethan started locking his phone. “Just sensitive client data, you know how it is,” he’d explained, his finger tracing a pattern on the screen I couldn’t decipher. In college, we’d shared an Amazon account. In the acknowledgements of his senior thesis, he’d written, And to Nora Evans, for letting me scroll through her phone at all hours of the night in search of inspiration. Now, his phone was always, always screen-down on the nightstand. I stood in the closet, clutching the Hermès scarf he’d given me. The box was from the Fifth Avenue store, but our credit card statement showed no such purchase. Deep in his side of the closet, tucked into the pocket of a gray suit he wore often, I’d found it: a crumpled receipt from The Ritz-Carlton, Central Park. The date matched the Tuesday he was supposedly in Chicago. I’d pulled up Google Maps. The hotel was 1.2 miles from his office. The shower started in the en-suite bathroom. Mechanically, I tied the scarf around my neck. The silk felt like a cold snake against my skin. In the full-length mirror, my reflection was a ghost. My face was pale, drawn, with dark, sleepless circles under my eyes. At thirty, no amount of La Mer could compete with the effortless collagen of a twenty-something. The water stopped. I quickly closed the Maps app. Ethan walked out, a towel slung low on his hips, water beading on his abs. This was the body I had traced a thousand times with my fingertips, and now it felt like a stranger’s. “Your birthday’s tomorrow,” he said, picking his phone up from the charger. “What do you want?” I looked at the fresh scratch near his collarbone, the one I hadn’t mentioned. “I want you to come with me to the doctor,” I said softly. “My results came in.” “Tomorrow?” He frowned, his eyes already on his screen. “I don’t think I can swing it. An emergency meeting popped up, have to fly to Boston to meet a client.” He was typing rapidly now, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards into a slight smile. “I’ll have my assistant book a table at Per Se. You and your friends can celebrate.” I watched the muscles in his jaw work as he typed. He’d had that same suppressed smile ten years ago, when he was texting me to come meet him outside my dorm. I found out later he was live-texting the whole thing to his frat brothers, who had a running bet on whether he’d have the guts to kiss me. The curve of his lips was exactly the same. 3 On the morning of my thirtieth birthday, a delivery arrived. Ninety-nine long-stemmed Ecuadorian roses with a card bearing a generic, pre-printed message. Even his signature was just part of the font. My phone buzzed. A text from Ethan. Flight was moved up, heading to JFK now. Happy birthday. I’ll make it up to you. I called him. It rang seven times before he picked up. The background was silent. Not the chaotic din of an airport terminal. “In the Uber?” I asked. “Yeah, almost at Terminal 4,” he said. His breathing was strained, almost a gasp. “Signal’s probably spotty.” I opened the Find My Friends app. For “safety,” we’d agreed to share our locations years ago. His icon, a smiling picture of him from our trip to Italy, was pulsing steadily over an address on the Upper East Side. The Astor, a new, obscenely expensive condominium. The red dot burned into my retinas. “Which hotel did you say you were staying at last week?” I asked, keeping my voice light, conversational. “The Shangri-La, downtown,” he said instantly, then corrected himself. “No, wait, it was the Hyatt near the convention center.” A faint female voice drifted through the line. “Ethan, the water in the shower…” The call disconnected. I stood in front of the mirror, looking at the blush-pink silk dress I’d chosen for my birthday dinner. It was his favorite color on me. He said it reminded him of the slip I wore on our first real date. Now, the dress hung on my frame, loose and foreign. I’d lost twelve pounds in two months. On the coffee table sat his gift, still in its dark blue box. A pair of Patek Philippe watches, a matched set. The back of the men’s watch was engraved: To My Lighthouse. The women’s: To My Harbor. We were seniors in college, sitting on a cold beach in Maine, watching the distant beam of a lighthouse cut through the fog. He’d said I was his light when he felt lost at sea. I’d said he was the harbor I could always come home to. The doorbell rang. I turned, a stupid flicker of hope in my chest, but it was just a delivery guy. He handed me a small cake box. “From a Mr. Hayes. He requested a 7 p.m. delivery sharp.” I opened it. Tiramisu. He’d forgotten I was lactose intolerant. 4 I drove to The Astor. The doorman saw the Porsche and waved me through without a word. In the underground garage, on level B2, sat Ethan’s Audi A8. The last three digits of the license plate were 608, our wedding anniversary. June 8th. The elevator required a key fob. I stood in the marble lobby and called Ethan. On the seventh try, he answered, his voice tight with barely concealed anger. “What is it? I’m with a client.” “I’m in the lobby of The Astor,” I said. “Either you come down, or I start asking the concierge to let me up.” The silence on the other end of the line was absolute. Five minutes later, the elevator doors slid open. Ethan stood there, wearing a navy blue lounge set I’d never seen before. The collar was open, revealing a fresh, dark bruise on his neck. A hickey. Behind him stood a young woman in a silk robe, her bangs held back by the same designer hair clip I owned. “Nora?” the girl gasped. “Oh my god, Ethan, you didn’t tell me she was…” I knew her. Chloe. A management trainee from the marketing department we’d hired right out of college. I’d personally handed her her employee badge on her first day. She’d told me then how much she admired our love story. Now she was wearing my wedding ring on her finger.

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Winter is here again. For three months every year, my husband, Mark, and our son, Leo, become allergic to me. It starts with the first frost—a mysterious, violent rash that blooms across their skin if they get too close. We’ve never found the source. So, for the sake of their health, they leave. They move into another one of our properties across town, drawing a clean, sterile line between us. They weren’t there when I slipped on the ice last year and my head bled all over the pristine snow. They weren’t there when a car ran a red light and I spent a week in the hospital. Those were wars I fought alone. We became the loneliest kind of family, separated by a sickness I couldn’t see, a sickness caused by my very presence. I was the thing that could kill them. All I could do was endure the frozen silence, counting the days until spring would thaw the world and bring my family back to me. But this year, I overheard a conversation that shattered everything. “Daddy,” Leo’s small voice drifted from the other room, “we only get to see Momma Annie in the winter. Can’t the allergies last a little longer?” Momma Annie? That was the name for Mark’s childhood sweetheart. His first love. I heard the sound of Mark’s hand ruffling Leo’s hair. “Too many antihistamines aren’t good for you, buddy. Besides, Momma Annie would worry. I’ll bring you to see her whenever I can.” Leo clapped his hands. “Yay! I love the winter mango candies. That’s how I know we’ll get to see Momma Annie.” The world went silent. All I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart. Mango. The one thing Leo was deathly allergic to. The one thing I had spent his entire life protecting him from. I stood in the biting wind for a long time before I finally went back inside. When spring returned them to my doorstep, I felt nothing. The warmth was gone. “Eat what you want,” I told Leo, my voice flat, as I watched him unwrap a piece of candy. “If you think I’m abusing you, you can call the police. I don’t want custody.” 1 Leo froze, his eyes wide. He’d never heard me speak like that. For a long moment, he just stared at me. Then, with a flicker of defiance, he tore the wrapper off a small, orange candy. A mango candy. The look of anticipation in his eyes was a knife in my heart. He truly believed that eating it would send him back to her. All my warnings, all the notes engraved on his school ID, all of it was just noise he had learned to ignore. Suddenly, Mark lunged across the room, smacking the candy from Leo’s hand. It skittered across the hardwood floor. “Lea, what’s gotten into you?” he demanded, his voice tight with alarm. “You’re not thinking straight. He almost ate it! You know how severe his allergy is, it could kill him.” Yes, I thought. I know. I was the clown who had built a fortress against a single fruit. I scrutinized every label on every snack, every carton of milk, terrified of a stray ingredient. I repeated the same warnings to him, his teachers, the parents of his friends. “Leo has a severe mango allergy. Please be careful.” I treated mangoes like a loaded gun. But this one, this little piece of poison, had been given to him by Mark. It was their secret password. Their ticket to Momma Annie. I let my gaze settle on my husband. “How did he get a mango candy in the first place? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” A flicker of panic crossed Mark’s face before he masked it with a casual excuse and ushered our son upstairs. On this day, the first day of spring, they were used to a celebration. A feast I would have spent days preparing, handmade gifts waiting for them. A grand reunion. This time, the dining table was bare. Mark’s brow furrowed. “Lea, what is wrong with you today?” He noticed the redness in my eyes and his expression softened into one of weary patience. “Are you still upset? I promise, we’ll find a way to fix this thing with me and Leo. It’s this damn winter. It always makes me absent when you need me the most.” My nails dug into my palms. He remembered. When I was pregnant with Leo, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia. Mark wanted to protect the baby; I wanted to save my mother. “I’m donating my marrow,” I had told him, my voice raw. “Nothing you say will change my mind.” It was an impossible choice. I loved our unborn child, but this was my mother. It was as if my mom heard our arguments through the hospital walls. Her condition deteriorated rapidly, making a transplant impossible. We learned later that she had stopped taking her medication, quietly trading her own life for a new one. I gave birth through a fog of grief and rage, and the hormonal crash that followed plunged me into a severe postpartum depression. The winters were the worst. Alone in the quiet house, the silence screamed at me. I didn’t want to live. But then I would look at Leo—the child my mother had died for—and the thought of him growing up without me was the one thing that kept my hands from doing the unthinkable. I had tried everything to keep them with me during the winter. I’d wrapped myself in layers, worn a ridiculous respirator mask, but it was no use. The moment winter arrived, the red welts would appear on their skin. “Lea, the allergies are back,” Mark would say, his voice full of false regret as he packed his and Leo’s bags. “We have to go. Just hold on until spring. I’ll bring him back then.” I couldn’t understand it. I would scrub my body in the shower until my back was raw and bleeding, punishing myself for a crime I didn’t know I’d committed. I would cry in the bathtub until I fell asleep. Those winters were a bitter, agonizing penance. And it was all a lie. I pulled my hand from Mark’s grasp and went to our bedroom, alone. That night, Leo ended up in the hospital anyway. He’d found another candy and eaten it in secret. Delirious with fever, he kept murmuring the same words. “I want Momma Annie… I don’t want to go home.” Each word was a razor blade. I had just finished taking notes from the doctor, and his whispers nearly made me collapse. I handed the notepad to Mark, the sigh escaping my lips feeling like the last breath of a dying woman. “Let’s get a divorce. He can have his Momma Annie.” Mark laughed, a hollow sound. “He’s a kid, Lea. You can’t believe the things he says when he’s sick.” He looked me in the eye, his expression a careful blend of truth and lies. “You know Annie. We haven’t spoken since our wedding. I took Leo to see her once, a while ago. He must have gotten his memories mixed up. You know how kids are with new people.” Before I could respond, Annie herself burst into the room, rushing straight to Leo’s bedside. She scooped him into her arms, her face a mask of anguish, and then turned to me, her voice dripping with accusation. “Lea, how could this happen? He’s such a good boy, why would you let him suffer like this? He was perfectly healthy just a few days ago when he was with me.” Heads turned. Murmurs rippled through the nearby visitors. “That must be the stepmom. So sad when families break up.” Noticing my stare, Annie quickly backpedaled. “Oh, Lea, don’t misunderstand. That’s not what I meant. I’m just so worried about him. Why does he always have to go through so much pain?” I walked out and went to the restroom, splashing cold water on my face until the shaking subsided. He went through this pain to escape me. To see her. Every winter, from the time he was three years old until now. When I returned, I paused outside the door, hearing their voices inside. “Daddy, can I stay with Mommy for a few more days?” Leo pleaded. He called her “Mommy” so easily. Annie looked at Mark, her eyes hopeful. “No,” Mark said, his tone firm. “It was risky enough for you to come here. I told you, we can’t let this blow up in front of Lea.” Annie’s lower lip jutted out in a practiced pout. “Just one more time, please? We can be careful. I just want to make sure he’s okay before I leave. I only get to see him for three months a year. What’s a few more days?” Mark stared at her for a long moment, then sighed in defeat. “Fine. This is the last time.” A bitter laugh escaped me. In my own life, I was the other woman, the one they had to sneak around. A doctor entered the room and turned to Mark, rattling off questions. “What’s the boy’s history with this allergy? What medications has he taken before? What was his most severe symptom?” Mark just stood there, clueless. The doctor’s frustration grew. “You’re his parents, don’t you pay attention to these things?” Annie wrung her hands. Mark, flustered, pulled out his phone to text me. That’s when I pushed the door open. “Talk to me,” I said, walking toward the doctor. “I’m his…” I trailed off. What was I? I gave the doctor a detailed account of our son’s entire medical history. He was the child I had given birth to; I couldn’t stand to see him suffer, no matter what. When I returned to the room, Annie was making a show of getting ready to leave. At the sight of me, Leo burst into tears. “No! No! I want Momma Annie!” His shrieks echoed off the sterile walls. I knew what this was. It was a performance, a play designed to drive me away and give them the space they wanted. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, but I forced them back. I looked at my son, the child I would have died for. “Fine,” I said, my voice steady. “I won’t come back.” That night, a splitting headache took hold of me. Dazed, I accidentally called Mark instead of my doctor. He came home immediately, bringing me water, finding my medication. “Don’t blame Leo,” he murmured, stroking my hair as I swallowed the pills. “It’s just a novelty for him. In a few days, he’ll be crying for his mom again. This is good, it gives you a chance to rest. You’ve gotten so thin.” He waited until I seemed comfortable before returning to the hospital. But over the next few days, a crushing fatigue settled over me. I slept constantly, and when I was awake, my mouth was filled with a bitter taste and my stomach churned with a dull, cramping pain. I went to the hospital alone. My doctor looked at my chart, then at me, with a puzzled expression. “Did you change your prescription? The medication you were on was working very well.” I shook my head. I carried my pills with me everywhere. The bottle was the same. The doctor took it from me, ran a quick test, and his brow furrowed. “This isn’t your antidepressant. It’s almost identical to a sleeping pill. I prescribed you one once, years ago when you had that bout of insomnia, and you had a bad reaction. You’re not supposed to take these. Who gave this to you?” A chill washed over me, so cold it felt like ice water in my veins. I saw Mark’s face, fumbling with my pill bottle in the dim light of my bedroom. He was so annoyed that I had disturbed him, so afraid it might happen again, that he had drugged me. He had switched my antidepressants with sleeping pills. I remembered him warning me just a few weeks ago, “Be careful with these, Lea. Don’t ever get your pills mixed up.” The easiest way to ensure I wouldn’t bother him was to keep me asleep. The bitter laugh that escaped my lips was a sound of pure agony. My heart felt like it was being carved out of my chest, piece by piece. I went home and started packing. There was nothing left to discuss. While clearing out a drawer, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It was one of Leo’s school essays, a perfect score circled in red at the top. The teacher’s comment read: Such a sincere expression of love for your mother. Wonderful! For a moment, I was transported back in time. Leo in preschool, learning his first song. He held my hand as we walked home, singing off-key, “My mommy is the best in the world.” He’d looked up at me with his big, serious eyes. “Mommy, when I grow up, I’m going to buy you a big house. You’re the best mommy.” I picked up the essay and began to read. My mom and I are like frost on a winter night. We can only be together in the cold, and when the warmth comes, we melt away. I wish winter would come sooner. Every line was filled with love. But it wasn’t for me. An immense, crushing weight of failure settled on my shoulders, bowing my spine. I sat there for a long time. Finally, I stood up, walked to the mantelpiece, and carefully wiped down the silver frame holding my mother’s photograph. I held it to my chest. Mom, the gift you left me isn’t a good one, I thought. I’m taking you with me. I didn’t want any of them anymore. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence. Mark and Leo were home from the hospital. Leo, too young to be discreet, was still complaining. “Daddy, now we have to wait another nine months. I have to sit up straight and stand up straight, and I can’t eat this and I can’t eat that. It’s torture.” Mark tapped him on the head. “Don’t say that. Your mother is just trying to do what’s best for you.” Leo pouted. “But I’m not happy. Momma Annie wouldn’t do that.” So that was it. My nine months of painstaking care, the time I cherished, was their prison sentence. The three months of separation that I dreaded, that I feared would stretch on forever, was their great escape. Mark saw me in the bedroom and, assuming I hadn’t heard, brought Leo over. “Lea, this little guy is just being mischievous. It’s a good thing you didn’t come to the hospital. He would have worn you out completely.” I murmured a quiet agreement, slipping my mother’s photograph into my handbag. On the pretense of running an errand, I took our marriage certificate to a lawyer. The young associate took one look at it and gave me a sympathetic glance. “This is a forgery,” she said gently.

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I had just checked into my hotel after a long-haul flight when I saw the post on a forum I scroll through. [My husband brings home stuff from his office every day. What should I do?] The latest reply caught my eye: [Crucify him. Seriously. Compile the evidence into a PowerPoint presentation. Trust me.] I laughed. Who would ever be that intense? A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a message from my wife, Lina. It was a single file. The filename: Report on the Misappropriation of Company Property by Captain Jack Connelly. I opened it. A sixty-five-page PowerPoint presentation. 1 The title slide was my corporate headshot. My name and employee ID were outlined in a thick, red box. The background was the deep blue of the Apex Air logo, which made the whole thing feel unnervingly official. Slide two: [FOREWORD]. In calm, restrained prose, Lina detailed how she, as my wife, had been “heartbroken” to discover my “illicit activities.” She wrote: “To protect the interests of the company, and more importantly, to save a soul teetering on the brink of corruption, I, Lina Connelly, have chosen to report this, regardless of our personal relationship.” I nearly crushed my phone in my hand. Save a soul? Because I brought home some leftover napkins, bottled water, and a pair of disposable slippers from the plane? I swiped to the next slide. [EVIDENCE LOG]. From this point on, the presentation took a surreal turn. Every single “stolen” item I had brought home was photographed in high-definition with a DSLR camera. Each was laid out on a sterile white cloth, a ruler placed next to it for scale. An unopened packet of wet naps. A plastic cup with the Apex Air logo. Two small bags of pretzels, extras from the in-flight snack service. There was even a photo of a half-used roll of toilet paper I’d pocketed from the galley, planning to use at the hotel. Beneath every image, a detailed description: [Item Name]: Apex Air In-Flight Moist Towelette. [Date of Acquisition]: October 2025, procured from flight rotation. [Estimated Market Value]: Approx. $0.75/unit. [Behavioral Analysis]: This act constitutes the preliminary requirements for a charge of corporate asset misappropriation. Sixty-five pages. An exhaustive catalog of every trivial item I’d brought home in two years. From a single strand of dental floss to an unworn pair of slippers from First Class. She had even attached my complete flight schedule for the past two years, cross-referencing it to prove that her “Date of Acquisition” for each item was deadly accurate. The blood rushed to my head, hot and loud. My phone buzzed again. Lina: [Jack, I’ve already sent the presentation to the corporate email for the Professional Standards Committee.] A second message followed. [I’m doing this for your own good. A person can’t lose their way.] I dialed her number immediately. It went straight to voicemail. Then, another text. [I’m busy. Don’t bother me. Also, I’m preparing a hard copy of this report to be couriered to the FAA.] I was grounded. The official notice came faster than I could have imagined. The very next morning, my lead captain called me, her voice a tightrope of confusion and protocol. “Jack, don’t come to the airport today. The Standards Committee wants to speak with you. Your… your wife reported you?” The question was heavy with disbelief. “Yeah,” I managed, my throat too dry to form any other words. Captain Rostova was silent for a moment on the other end. “She said you’ve been stealing from the company? And she made a PowerPoint? Jack, what the hell is going on? What did you steal?” “A few packs of napkins. Some bottled water.” “…That’s it?” “And a couple of mini-muffins.” 2 Another stretch of silence from Captain Rostova. “Okay. I’ll be in touch. Just… hang tight.” The line went dead. I sat on the cold, unforgiving chair in my hotel room, watching planes take off and land outside my window. For the first time, the sky felt a million miles away. The group chat for my pilot cohort was already on fire. No one was tagging me directly, but the frantic flashing of icons and the rapid-fire messages felt like a public execution. [You guys hear about Connelly? His wife turned him in for stealing company property.] [Stealing what? A fucking engine?] [I heard she sent in a 65-page PPT. Hard evidence. Photos and everything.] [Jesus Christ, that’s next level. What did he do to her? Is she a fed or something?] [Well, this is a new one. Connelly’s going to be the first pilot in Apex history to get grounded for taking napkins.] I shut off my phone and buried my face in my hands. Shame and rage were two hands wrapped tight around my throat, squeezing. I flew home as a passenger. During the flight, a flight attendant I knew saw me. Her expression was a painful mix of shock and pity. When she handed me my meal, her movements were tentative, as if I might shatter. I kept my hat and mask on for the entire three-hour flight, which felt like a century. When I pushed open the door to our apartment, Lina was sitting on the sofa, sipping tea with an air of perfect tranquility. She glanced at me, her eyes as calm and still as a frozen lake. “You’re back.” I dropped my duffel bag on the floor. It landed with a heavy, satisfying thud. “Lina, what the hell are you trying to do?” She set down her teacup and pointed to a cardboard box next to the coffee table. “Your ‘stolen goods.’ I’ve organized them all for you. This is the physical evidence. I have an appointment with your company’s committee tomorrow. I’ll be delivering it to them personally.” I walked over and stared into the box. Inside, stacked with obsessive neatness, were all the items she had photographed for her report. The “evidence” of my crimes. “Are you insane?” I stared into her eyes. “You’re going to ruin my career over this?” Lina stood up, her expression filled with a kind of compassionate, sorrowful righteousness. “I’m not ruining you, Jack. I’m saving you.” She stepped toward me, her voice low but every word a poisoned dart. “Today, you dare to take a pack of napkins. Tomorrow, you’ll take a bottle of premium whiskey from the galley. And the day after that? What’s next, Jack? Are you going to start dismantling the plane for spare parts to take home?” The absurdity of her logic made me want to laugh. “Do you really think that’s possible? You think my character, my integrity, is worth a few bags of pretzels?” “Evil begins with the smallest of steps,” she said, her face a mask of solemnity. “I can’t just stand by and watch you slide into that abyss. My husband must be a man of integrity. Upstanding. Incorruptible.” I looked at her face, flushed and almost ecstatic with her own sense of justice, and a deep, profound chill spread from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. We had been married for three years, and in that moment, I realized I didn’t know this woman at all. Lina’s parents called while I was packing a suitcase, ready to leave this house. It was her mother, and she got straight to the point. “Jack, I heard you’ve been taking things from your company. Lina told me everything, and she did the right thing!” I held the phone to my ear, silent. “The foundation of our family is integrity. To live honestly, to work cleanly. Since you married our Lina, you’re expected to uphold those same standards. This kind of behavior… it’s disgraceful.” “Ma’am,” I finally said, my voice hoarse. “I took a few disposable items from the plane. They were worthless.” “Does being worthless make it right?” her mother’s voice shot up, sharp and accusatory. “This is about principle! Lina is trying to pull you back from the edge! You should be thanking her, not getting angry with her!” 3 Listening to the lecture from the other end of the line, I felt a wave of bitter amusement. This entire family was drowning in a sea of self-congratulatory “justice.” I hung up and dragged my suitcase out of the bedroom. Lina blocked my path. “Where are you going?” “This home is a little too ‘righteous’ for me. I can’t afford to live here.” I tried to step around her. She grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Jack, this is just you refusing to face your mistakes! Do you think you can run away from the problem just by moving out?” I yanked my arm free. “I’ll go to the office tomorrow and explain everything. As for you, Lina… we’re done.” I turned, pulled open the front door, and walked out without looking back. Her cold voice followed me into the hallway. “Fine. That’s fine. It seems the only way you’ll truly wake up is if I make this an even bigger deal.” The atmosphere in the Professional Standards Committee meeting room was suffocating. Two investigators sat across from me, their faces grim. On the table between us lay my death sentence: a printed, full-color copy of the sixty-five-page PowerPoint. “Mr. Connelly, we’ve received a formal, signed complaint from your wife, Ms. Lina Connelly. We’ve reviewed the materials,” the older of the two men began. “Do you have an explanation for the behaviors detailed in this presentation?” I took a deep breath. “I admit, I took these items home from the aircraft. But they were all disposable supplies, leftovers that weren’t used by the crew or passengers. Standard procedure is for these things to be thrown out anyway.” “Standard procedure?” the younger investigator pushed his glasses up his nose. “Can you point to a specific clause in the employee handbook that states staff are permitted to take home items designated for ‘disposal’?” I had no answer. “No.” “Then it’s a violation of policy,” he concluded flatly. The older man tapped the table. “Jack, we know you’re one of our best pilots. Your technical skills are superb, your flight record is flawless. But this report… the implications are extremely serious.” He flipped through the presentation, stopping on one page. “Look at this. Your wife was very… ‘thorough.’ She even took a picture of a half-empty bottle of water, noted the ‘approximate remaining volume of 150ml,’ and calculated its value.” I stared at the image, my stomach churning. “This report came from your wife,” the younger man added. “That forces us to take it with the utmost gravity. A normal person wouldn’t do this to their own husband.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Therefore, we have reason to suspect that the problem may be far more severe than what’s on these pages.” I understood. To them, a report this detailed, this obsessive, coming from a man’s own wife, was in itself proof of a much deeper issue. No sane person would go to these lengths over a few napkins. Unless I had committed some unforgivable sin that she was using this to expose. Lina had achieved her goal. Through her twisted, fanatical crusade, she had successfully branded me a man with something to hide. A man guilty of something terrible. The meeting ended. I was instructed to suspend all flight duties and await the committee’s final decision at home. Stepping out of the corporate building, the sunlight was blinding. I pulled out my phone and saw that a friend had forwarded me a link to an anonymous online forum. [Dude, you need to see this. Your wife is being hailed as some kind of hero.] I clicked the link. It led to a popular Reddit community. A post at the top had thousands of upvotes. The title: [AITA for reporting my pilot husband for his habit of petty theft?] In the main post, the user “ClearConscience88” wrote in a hesitant, conflicted tone about how she discovered her husband was “pilfering” company property, how torn she was, and how she ultimately decided to act for the sake of “justice” and to “save her husband from himself.” The writing style was identical to the foreword of Lina’s PowerPoint. The comment section was a thousand replies deep. The vast majority were praising her. 4 [NTA. Your principles are rock solid! You’re saving your husband!] [SUPPORT! People like him need a harsh lesson, or this will escalate into something much worse.] [A pilot? They make great money and he’s still this cheap? That’s a serious character flaw. OP, you need to run!] Of course, there were a few voices of dissent. [It’s just some napkins and cups, right? Isn’t this a massive overreaction?] [Oh, please. Don’t be an enabler. A small leak can sink a great ship! OP did the right thing!] Reading the supportive comments sent a chill through my entire body. Lina was out there, on a public stage, curating a new identity for herself: the noble wife, forced to sacrifice her love for the greater good. And I was the villain. The cautionary tale to be scorned and nailed to a public cross. She wasn’t just trying to destroy my career. She was trying to destroy my name. I moved into a corporate apartment hotel near the airport. I had just finished unpacking when the preliminary disciplinary notice arrived from Apex Air. A company-wide written reprimand. A three-month suspension from all flight duties, with forfeiture of all salary and benefits during this period. A $5,000 fine as restitution for the “misappropriated assets.” Upon completion of the suspension, mandatory attendance at a one-week professional ethics seminar, with a passing grade required to be reinstated for flight duty. For a pilot, this was a career-killer. It would be a permanent black mark on my professional record. I held my phone, staring at the digital notice, my fingers trembling. Right on cue, Lina called. I answered, saying nothing. “Did you get the decision?” Her voice was devoid of emotion. “Are you satisfied now?” I asked. “No.” My heart sank. “Jack, this punishment is far too light. It’s not nearly enough to make you understand the gravity of your mistake.” Her voice turned to ice. “I feel it’s my duty to forward my report to the media. Let the public decide if Apex Air’s response is just, and if your behavior should be let off so easily.” I finally understood. She didn’t want to “save” me. She wanted me dead and buried. I ended the call, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. I collapsed onto the sofa, my gaze falling blankly on the box of “evidence” I had brought with me from our apartment. The box Lina had packed herself, telling me to keep it in sight, to use it for “self-reflection.” It was a bitter fucking joke. I stood up, intending to hurl the whole disgusting box into the nearest dumpster. I ripped it open. On top were the neatly arranged napkins, cups, and bags of pretzels from her photoshoot. I dug through them in disgust, wanting to grab the box from the bottom and dump its contents. That’s when my fingers brushed against a small, hard, cold object. It was buried at the very bottom, hidden beneath a pair of disposable slippers. I pulled it out. It was a small, deep blue velvet jewelry box, embossed with the logo of a luxury brand I didn’t recognize. I had never bought Lina anything like this. A cold knot formed in my stomach. I opened it. The box was empty, except for a small, folded receipt. I carefully unfolded it. [Item: Custom “Tears of Starlight” Diamond Necklace] [Amount: $18,500.00] [Purchaser: Mr. Cole] [Date: Two weeks ago] Mr. Cole? My mind went blank with a roar like static. Just then, my phone screen lit up. It was a text from my childhood friend, Dave. [Jack, you need to see this NOW. Your wife’s “ClearConscience88” account just got doxxed! Someone posted pictures of her with another guy!] Beneath the text was a photo.

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