I’d just finished showing the last property of the day to a client I’d connected with through a professional networking app. On the surface, he seemed thrilled with the place. He was ready to sign then and there, but what he said next made my blood run cold. He leaned in, suggesting a “no-money-down” scheme—a blatant case of mortgage fraud. I didn’t hesitate. I kept my voice firm and professional, telling him that what he was suggesting was illegal and that I wouldn’t be a part of it. Instead of backing off, he let out a wet, raspy chuckle, his rounded belly shaking beneath a sweat-stained shirt. He gave me a look that made my skin crawl. “Look, kid, I know how this industry works,” he said, his voice dripping with an oily confidence. “You brokers always get a kickback for these kinds of deals. I don’t have the cash right now, sure.” Then his eyes traveled slowly down my body, lingering in places that made me want to shower in lye. “But I’ve also heard that when a deal is on the line, you girls are willing to play… ‘creative games’ to get the commission across the finish line.” He actually had the nerve to smirk, as if he were doing me a favor. “Tell you what. I’ll ‘sacrifice’ my afternoon to play with you, and in exchange, you make sure those papers go through with the zero-down clause. Deal?” For a second, my brain just stuttered. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. … 1 I stared at Donnie Russo, my jaw tight with a mix of disbelief and mounting fury. His face was a map of broken capillaries and slick grease, twisted into a grin that made my stomach turn. His gaze was predatory, roaming over me with a disgusting sense of entitlement. Automatically, I pulled my leather portfolio to my chest, a pathetic shield against his eyes. “Mr. Russo, you need to leave,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “This is a legitimate real estate firm. If you’re looking for… ‘other’ services, you’ve got the wrong person and the wrong company.” He didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked amused. Suddenly, his fleshy hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His skin was rough, clammy with a film of sweat that felt like it was seeping into my pores. He started to rub his thumb against my skin in a way that was supposed to be suggestive but felt like a violation. “Aw, come on. Little firecracker, aren’t you?” Donnie leaned closer. His breath was a toxic cocktail of stale cigarettes and cheap bourbon. “Don’t tell me you don’t play. I know the drill. I don’t have the green, but I’ve got the moves. I’ll make it worth your while, sweetheart. You’ll be thanking me by the time we’re done.” I tried to wrench my arm back, but his grip was surprisingly powerful. My heart started hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. This wasn’t just a bad meeting anymore. This was a nightmare. In broad daylight, in an upscale condo, I was trapped with a predator. The door was only two steps away. I shoved down the nausea and threw every ounce of my weight into pulling away. “Let go!” I shouted, my voice cracking with a sharp edge of panic. “Let go right now or I’m calling the cops!” Donnie didn’t look scared. He laughed, a loud, jagged sound that echoed through the empty hallway. “The cops? Please. Who are they gonna believe? A girl like you, dressed like that, trying to close a deal? I know your type. You’re all the same.” He stepped closer, backing me toward the master bedroom. “This is gonna be my new place soon anyway. You play nice, and maybe I’ll let you keep a key. We can have a regular thing.” As he reached down, his hand moving toward my waist, the fear vanished, replaced by a white-hot flash of survival instinct. I didn’t think. I just drove my heel as hard as I could into his crotch. Donnie let out a choked wheeze, doubling over and clutching himself. I bolted. I scrambled for the exit, but as he stumbled back, his massive frame blocked the entryway to the foyer. He looked up at me, his small eyes no longer greasy with lust, but gleaming with a terrifying, vengeful malice. “You little bitch,” he hissed, his voice trembling with rage. “You think you can do that to me? I’ll kill you before I let you walk out that door.” He started toward me, hobbling but determined. Panic finally won. My reason shattered. I saw the bedroom door to my left and dived inside. In one fluid motion, I grabbed the key from the inside of the lock, slammed the door shut, and turned the bolt. I collapsed against the wood, gasping for air. Seconds later, the heavy thud of footsteps reached the door. Then came the pounding. “Open the door, Casey! Open it now!” The doorframe shuddered under his weight. I backed away, my whole body shaking so violently I could barely stand. “I’m warning you!” Donnie’s voice came through the wood, muffled but toxic. “This door is solid oak. You break it, you pay for it. Be a smart girl. Come out, take care of me, and we’ll call it even.” Pay for it? The absurdity of the comment hit me like a physical blow. I looked around the room. It was minimalist—just a staged bed and an empty closet. There was a large window, but we were twenty-one stories up. Jumping meant death. Staying meant something that felt just as final. I’ve always believed in anticipating the worst in people. It’s how I’ve survived this city. And right now, the worst was screaming on the other side of the door. 2 I couldn’t take the chance. I forced a deep breath into my lungs, trying to steady my vocal cords. I needed him to think I was breaking. “Donnie… Donnie, stop,” I called out, my voice trembling just enough to sound convincing. “Okay, okay! Just… stop hitting the door. Give me a second to get my head straight. I’ll… I’ll come out. Just give me a minute.” While I stalled him, my fingers were flying over my phone screen. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it. I opened the office Slack channel and dropped my “Live Location” along with one word: HELP. Then, I jumped to the emergency text line. I typed the address—The Pinnacle, 2103—and a brief description of the assault. SENT. The moment those letters appeared, a tiny spark of hope flickered in my chest. But then, the pounding outside stopped. The silence was worse. It was heavy, pregnant with a new kind of threat. Then—BOOM. A kick, harder than the rest, made the entire frame groan. The wood near the lock began to splinter, a jagged white crack appearing in the dark grain. “You think I’m stupid?!” Donnie roared. “You think I don’t know you’re calling someone in there? You’re dead, you hear me? Dead!” My heart stopped. How did he know? I’d been quiet. I’d sent the messages in seconds. There was no more time. The door wasn’t going to hold another minute. I ran to the window and threw it open. Outside, a narrow ledge meant for HVAC maintenance ran along the side of the building. It was barely a foot wide—a concrete tightrope suspended over the abyss. From the twenty-first floor, the cars below looked like colorful grains of rice. The wind whipped my hair across my face, stinging my eyes. If I fell, I’d be nothing but a headline. But if I stayed, I’d be his. Just as I prepared to climb out, my phone exploded in my hand. The caller ID read: Braden Holt. My manager. My lifeline. I swiped ‘accept’ immediately. “Braden! Thank God! Where are you? Donnie Russo—he’s losing it, he’s trying to—” “Casey, listen to me,” Braden’s voice was hurried, but there was a strange, sharp edge to it. “Where are you exactly?” “The Pinnacle! Unit 2103! I’m locked in the bedroom, he’s breaking the door down! I called the cops, they’re on their way!” I expected him to tell me he was five minutes away. I expected him to tell me to hang on. Instead, the line went quiet. Only the faint hiss of static filled the air. “Braden?” I whispered, my stomach dropping. “You…” he finally spoke, his voice low and cautious. “You need to call the police back. Cancel the report.” “What?” I couldn’t believe it. “Braden, he’s trying to rape me!” “Russo has deep pockets, Casey. He has connections. If you blow this up, it’s going to be a PR nightmare for the firm. It’ll ruin your career, too.” Braden sounded annoyed now, as if I were being an inconvenience. “Just de-escalate. I’m on my way. I’ll talk to him. We can settle this quietly.” Settle this? He was talking about me like I was a disputed commission, not a human being in danger. A chill that had nothing to do with the wind crawled up my spine. And then, I heard it. A tiny, mechanical sound from the door. I stared at the handle. It wasn’t being kicked anymore. It was turning. Slowly. Deliberately. Click. He had a key. Of course he had a key. Braden must have given him the master code or a duplicate. Braden was still talking in my ear, but I didn’t hear a word. I hung up. I had one option left: out. “Hehehe… nowhere left to go, little bird,” Donnie’s voice oily and triumphant as the door creaked open. I didn’t look back. I lunged for the window. 3 Whoosh. The wind hit me like a physical wall. Twenty-one stories of empty air pulled at my heels. I didn’t let myself think. I swung my legs over the sill and pressed my body against the cold, rough exterior of the building. My fingers curled around the metal maintenance ladder bolted to the wall. I moved like a shadow, inching toward the neighboring unit’s window. “Hey! What the hell are you doing?!” Donnie’s scream shattered the air behind me. Suddenly, I felt a violent jerk at my waist. I looked back and saw his bloated face, distorted with fury, leaning out the window. His hand was clamped onto the hem of my blazer, tugging hard. “Get back in here!” He yanked, and my feet slipped from the ledge. For a terrifying second, I was swinging in the air, held up only by the grip of my white-knuckled fingers on the ladder and Donnie’s hold on my clothes. The adrenaline was a roar in my ears. My palms were slick with cold sweat. I felt the fabric of my jacket starting to give. Donnie was too heavy to climb out, but his brute strength was enough to drag me back toward the abyss of the room. I looked down. Below my feet was the metal cage of an AC compressor. I made a choice. I jammed my foot into the gap of the compressor’s railing, using it as a fulcrum. With a guttural scream, I threw my entire body weight outward, away from the building. Rrip! The sound of tearing polyester was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. I tumbled onto the narrow ledge of the next unit, my heart thumping so hard it hurt. “You crazy bitch!” Donnie’s face was purple. He stared at me, his eyes wide with a murderous promise. “You think you’re safe? You’re either dying in my bed or hitting the pavement. There is no third option!” SLAM. He retreated and slammed the window shut. I heard the lock turn. He’d just sealed my only way back inside. The phone. I needed to check on the police. I reached into my pocket, my fingers trembling, fumbling for the device. But my hands were too slick. As I pulled it out, the phone hit the edge of the ledge, bounced once, and vanished into the dark crevice between the building’s facade and the structural columns. Gone. My only link to the world, swallowed by the skyscraper. I didn’t have time to cry. I looked up. The maintenance ladder led to the roof—the thirty-second floor. It was a long way up, and the metal was biting into my hands, but it was my only path. I climbed. I didn’t look down. I focused on one rung at a time, my muscles screaming, the wind trying to peel me off the wall. Just as I reached the ledge of the floor above, a sharp, blinding pain exploded at the top of my head. My vision went white. I almost lost my grip, my body swaying dangerously over the drop. Someone had grabbed my hair. I looked up through the haze of pain. It was him. Donnie. He’d run to the stairwell, made it to the next floor, and opened a hallway window. He was leaning out, his face twisted in a hideous sneer of triumph. “Gotcha! You little slut, did you really think you could outrun me?” He reached out with his free hand and delivered a stinging slap across my face. Crack. The sound echoed in the open air. My cheek burned, but the humiliation hurt worse. The fear that had been paralyzing me suddenly curdled into something sharper. Something lethal. “You’re done!” he screamed, raising his hand for another blow. In that split second, I let go of the ladder with my left hand. As he swung, I reached up and drove my fingernails with everything I had into the soft, vulnerable skin of his wrist—right where the pulse thrummed. “AGHHH!” Donnie let out a shriek like a stuck pig. The pain was enough to make him instinctively recoil, his grip on my hair loosening just enough. I didn’t wait. I scrambled up the ladder, moving with a frantic, desperate speed I didn’t know I possessed. “I’m gonna kill you! I’m gonna find you and break every bone in your body!” His curses faded as I reached the thirty-second floor. There was a small maintenance platform there, a tiny concrete island. I saw a window slightly ajar—a service hallway. I shoved it open and rolled inside, collapsing onto the dusty floor. I was in. I barely had a moment to breathe before I heard the heavy, rhythmic thud of footsteps coming up the fire stairs. He was coming. He wasn’t giving up. I looked around wildly. The hallway was empty, under renovation. Near one door sat a stack of large, empty appliance boxes from someone’s recent move. I dove into the largest one, pulling the flaps shut and curling into a ball. I pressed my hands over my mouth, trying to silence the ragged sound of my own breathing. The footsteps got louder. Slow. Deliberate. The silence that followed was deafening. Had he passed? I started to let out a breath I’d been holding. Suddenly, the top of the box was ripped open. Donnie’s sweaty, grinning face appeared in the opening, looming over me like a monster from a fever dream. “Found you.” My blood turned to ice.

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The sun hadn’t even broken the horizon yet. I was huddled on the 4:45 AM commuter bus, the blue light of my phone screen searing into my tired eyes. A post flickered onto my feed, the headline dripping with staged desperation: “My daughter won’t come home after graduation. Who will take care of me when I’m old?” I almost swiped past it. I was too exhausted for suburban melodrama. But a high-engagement comment pinned at the top caught my eye, and my thumb froze. The commenter was clinical, almost predatory. They said that young women these days only care about real estate. If you want a daughter to move back to a dead-end hometown, you use a house as bait. Tell her you’ll put the deed in her name the moment she unpacks. The comment went on: Local jobs are scarce, so she’ll be forced to take a stable, boring government position. That’s how you tether her. Once she’s in that system, she’s yours. My heart did a slow, painful roll in my chest. This was my life. Every word felt like a blueprint of my last five years. But it was the next part that made the blood turn to ice in my veins. The commenter bragged that you never actually have to give them the house. It’s just a carrot on a stick. If she asks to see the place, or move in, or check the paperwork, you just lie. You stall. You play the victim. The commenter finished with a digital smirk: My daughter has been back for five years now. I have seven rental properties, and every single one of them is still safely in my name. She doesn’t suspect a thing. The post was flooded with likes. People called the author “brilliant” and “shrewd.” I sat there, the vibration of the bus rattling my teeth, feeling a profound, soul-deep chill. 01 I read the post again. And again. Seven properties. A “stable” dead-end job. Five years since graduation. I checked the user’s IP location—it was right here, in this county. Then I looked at the profile picture. It was a close-up of a white lily. The exact same photo my mother used for everything. My fingers trembled as I typed a response to the comment: [Aren’t you afraid she’ll get angry and leave?] The reply came almost instantly: [Afraid of what? She took a clerk job in the sticks. The pay is pathetic. After taxes, she can barely afford her gas, let alone a security deposit on a new place. Where’s she going to go?] I felt sick. My monthly salary was barely enough to cover my basic needs. I didn’t even own a car; I woke up at 4:00 AM every morning to catch three different buses just to get to the office on time. Someone else asked how she managed to keep the daughter out of the seven houses for five years. [It’s easy,] the Lily responded. [First, I said it was being renovated. Then I said the paint fumes were toxic. Then I said the neighborhood wasn’t safe for a single woman. If she pushes, I just start crying about my heart condition. Works every time.] The bus pulled into my stop, but I didn’t move for a long moment. I dialed my mother, my hand shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. “Mom,” I said, my voice tight. “I have to pull overtime this weekend. Can you give me the keys to the condo in the Heights? It’s right by the office. I can stay there so I don’t have to commute in the dark.” My mother’s voice came through the line, instantly pivoting to that familiar, honey-thick concern. “Oh, Myra, honey! That area is so dangerous at night. I wouldn’t sleep a wink knowing you were there alone. Just call an Uber when you’re done, okay? I’ll leave the porch light on for you.” I forced myself to breathe. “Mom, the commute is killing me. My doctor said the sleep deprivation is wrecking my immune system. I was in the hospital last month, remember?” There was a pregnant silence on the other end. Then came the soft, wounded sniffle. “Are you saying we’re a burden to you, Myra? Your father and I just wanted to spend these few years with you before you get married and leave us forever. Is that so much to ask?” I gripped the handrail of the bus seat until my knuckles turned white. The Lily. The “toxic paint.” The emotional blackmail. It was all there. She never had any intention of giving me a home. I was just an insurance policy for her old age, kept in a cage made of empty promises. When my shift finally ended, a co-worker saw me waiting at the curb for a ride-share. “Myra? Still taking the long way home?” he asked, frowning. “Is that condo still under renovation? It’s been, what, five years?” I remembered the lie I’d told everyone when I first moved back. I’d bragged about the three-bedroom place my parents had “bought” for me. Everyone was so jealous. Now, looking at the pity in his eyes, I realized how pathetic I looked. I was the girl with the “rich” parents who lived like a pauper, gray-faced from exhaustion, trapped in a childhood bedroom that smelled like damp carpet. I just nodded, unable to find my voice. 02 When I walked through the front door, my mother was on the sofa, her thumbs flying across her phone screen. A smug little smile played on her lips. I felt a physical jolt of revulsion. “What are you looking at, Mom?” She flipped the phone face-down on the coffee table with practiced speed. “Just Zillow, sweetie. The value of those two units on the east side just jumped. Some developer offered me 1.5 million last week, but I said no. Those are for your future.” She did this once a week. She’d show me “our” assets to remind me why I was working a job I hated in a town that felt like a graveyard. It used to make me feel secure. Now, it just felt like the rattling of chains. “If I can’t live in them, Mom, maybe we should just sell them,” I said quietly. She bristled immediately. “Don’t be ridiculous! We’re just waiting for the HOA to finalize the new security guards. You can’t put a price on your safety, Myra. Those houses are your safety net. You can’t just throw that away.” I wanted to laugh. Safety? For whom? “Mom, I saw a post today. On that community forum. Was it you?” I held up my phone, the “Lily” profile picture front and center. Her face went from pale to a blotchy, panicked red. “I… I don’t know what that is. Why are you looking at trash like that?” “It describes us perfectly, Mom. The seven houses. The ‘toxic paint’ excuse. The ‘dangerous neighborhood’ lie. It’s all there.” She opened her mouth, fumbled for a word, and then the waterworks started. Her eyes welled up with practiced ease. “Is that what you think of me? After everything we’ve sacrificed?” She scrambled to open a text thread on her phone. The contact name was “AAA Property Manager.” The last message, sent a week ago, read: Mrs. Reed, the security team isn’t fully vetted yet. Better not let your daughter move in. Not safe. “See?” she sobbed. “I’m trying to protect you! Why would I lie to my only child?” I looked at the message. It was the only one in the thread. No history. No previous logs. It was a burner or a renamed contact. The front door slammed. My father walked in, his face already set in a scowl. “What’s going on? Myra, why is your mother crying? Can’t you go one night without upsetting her?” My mother threw herself into his arms, wailing about how I didn’t trust her. He glared at me, his jaw set. “She does everything for you. We kept those properties away from your Uncle’s bankruptcy lawyers just to make sure you had a legacy, and this is how you treat her?” “A legacy I’m not allowed to touch?” I countered, my voice eerily calm. “I’m done. I don’t want the houses. I don’t want the legacy.” I looked at them—two people who had spent five years gaslighting me into a life of quiet desperation. “I’m moving out. Tonight.” 03 I turned to head toward my room, but my mother grabbed my arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong for a woman who claimed to have a weak heart. “Myra, please! You’re just upset. If you think I’m lying, I’ll call the manager right now! I’ll prove it!” She was fumbling with her phone, her breathing coming in ragged gasps. I just shook my head. “Mom, do you remember what you told me the day I graduated?” I’d had an offer. A junior executive track in Chicago. Forty-five thousand to start, with a clear path to six figures. My mother had sat me down and told me that the city would swallow me whole. She said that if I came home, I’d have a million dollars in real estate in my name before I was twenty-five. I wanted my own space so badly. My current room was a converted pantry with no windows. When it rained, the walls felt fuzzy with moisture. My bed was the same twin-sized frame I’d had since I was ten. My feet literally hung off the end. She’d used the houses to stop me from going to Chicago. She’d used them to stop me from taking that study abroad program in London. She’d used them to keep me small, keep me local, and keep me available to drive her to her “appointments.” She wasn’t afraid of me being unsafe. She was afraid of being alone. “You lied to get me back here,” I said, the words tasting like ash. “I lost the career I wanted. I lost five years of my youth. And there is no house, Mom. There never was.” Slap. The sound echoed through the small house. My father’s hand was still raised, his face livid. “Your mother loves you more than life itself, and you’re talking to her like she’s some kind of criminal over a piece of property? You’re a selfish brat!” “Robert, don’t! Myra, honey, are you okay?” My mother reached for my face, her eyes wide with faux-horror. I flinched away from her touch. She stood there, her hand suspended in the air. Finally, she whispered, “Fine. If the house is all you care about, I’ll take you to the lawyer’s office tomorrow. We’ll start the deed transfer. Just… let’s all calm down. Please?” She even ran to the safe and pulled out a stack of folders. Title deeds. Property surveys. She laid them out like a peace offering. I looked at the red mark on my face in the hallway mirror, then at my father’s cold eyes and my mother’s desperate, manipulative smile. I didn’t say a word. I went into my room and locked the door. The next morning was Saturday. I was woken up by a sharp rapping on the wood. “Myra? Your aunts are here for brunch,” my mother called out. When I opened the door, the living room was an ambush. Five of them sat there—the “Council of Karens”—holding mimosas and judgment. My Aunt Sarah spoke first. “Myra, your mother tells us you’re trying to force her to sell the family assets? At her age? With her heart the way it is?” Aunt Janie tapped her long nails against the property folders on the table. “I thought we raised you better than this. Demanding a deed transfer like a common thief? It’s incredibly greedy, Myra.” My mother sat in the corner, head bowed, dabbing at her dry eyes. “This is what happens when girls get too much education,” Aunt Martha huffed. “They start thinking they’re smarter than the people who gave them life. It’ll all be yours eventually, Myra. Why are you in such a hurry for her to die?” I looked at my mother. She peeked through her fingers, checking to see if the pressure was working. “I’m not being mean, Myra,” she sniffled. “I just worry. There are so many scammers out there. I wanted to keep the titles in my name to protect you. I’ll give them to you when you get married. I can even write a letter of intent.” “No letters!” Aunt Sarah barked. “She’s your daughter, not a business associate!” “You should be grateful,” Janie added. “Most girls your age are drowning in rent. You have a guaranteed inheritance. Just apologize to your mother and stop this nonsense.” I realized then that this was just another layer of the trap. The “lawyer’s office” would never happen. There would always be another aunt, another “heart scare,” another reason to wait. I looked at my mother and smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who had finally stopped feeling the weight of the hook in their jaw. “You’re right, Mom,” I said. “I was wrong.” My mother’s face lit up. She stood up to hug me. “Oh, thank God. I knew you’d understand, honey.” “I was wrong,” I repeated, stepping back so her arms hit empty air. “I was wrong to believe a single word you’ve ever said.” I reached behind the door and pulled out the suitcase I’d packed in the middle of the night. “I’m leaving. For good.” My mother’s smile didn’t just fade—it curdled.

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The alarm in my head didn’t just ring; it screamed—a jagged, digital shriek that tore through my consciousness. SYSTEM ALERT: Ten-year commitment mission failed. Marriage license requirement unfulfilled. Termination sequence initiated. Countdown: 48 hours. A wave of icy dread washed over me, drowning out the ambient noise of the boutique wedding chapel. It had all unraveled minutes ago, right as the photographer asked us to lean in for our official marriage license portrait. I had tilted my head toward Elliot, a practiced, joyful smile on my face, expecting him to meet me halfway. Instead, he flinched. He jerked his shoulder away as if my touch burned him, his expression suddenly unreadable. He brought up the raid from yesterday—the one my unit had executed. He said he’d seen me there. I froze, the confusion thick in my throat. I told him it was a classified sting, part of a city-wide vice operation. There was no way he could have been there. But his next words were a serrated blade, carving straight through my chest. He told me that while I was leading my team through the building next door, he was in the shadows, pinning a girl against a brick wall, kissing her until they both lost breath. He described how she had trembled, more terrified than her first time, staying silent even as my colleagues’ boots thundered past the alleyway. She didn’t make a sound until I was gone. I followed his gaze—a look so full of sickening tenderness it made my stomach churn—and saw her. Across the room, holding a professional camera, was Lexie. My brain felt like it was detonating. Lexie. The girl my father had died for. During a high-profile kidnapping a decade ago, my father had taken seven stabs to the chest to shield her. He’d died a hero; she’d survived as his legacy. Just ten minutes ago, she had been holding my hands, tears in her eyes, swearing that if Elliot ever made me unhappy, she’d give her life to make it right. Elliot stepped into my line of sight, shielding her from my gaze. His voice was soft, a velvet caress that felt like poison. He asked me, with a terrifyingly calm tilt of his head, if we were going to finish the paperwork or if I’d rather have a good cry and come back another day. … 1 I stood paralyzed, my blood turning to slush in my veins. Nausea rolled over me in waves, and the edges of my vision began to fray into black. Elliot reached out to steady me, his thumb tracing a path over the tears I hadn’t realized were falling. “You’re going to be a mother soon, Jill,” he murmured, his voice infuriatingly steady. “You need to learn how to keep your composure.” Anger, sharp and jagged, pierced through my shock. I stared at him, my voice a hollow rasp. “Why? Why today of all days?” Elliot paused. His eyes drifted past me to Lexie, and his tone softened even further. “I wanted to keep the lie going. I really did.” He sounded almost regretful. “She was always out there, taking photos of us, smiling through the pain like she didn’t matter. I just… I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t keep her in the shadows.” He hesitated, then added, “I owe her too much. As for you… I’ve already compensated you with a child.” The last tether of my sanity snapped. “Compensated? What the hell does that mean, Elliot?” He spoke as if he were discussing the weather. “Your last miscarriage. It wasn’t an accident. We… Lexie and I… we were careless with some lubricant on the hardwood near the stairs.” A physical explosion seemed to go off in my skull. I had blamed myself for months. I thought I had been too reckless, too focused on my work, that I hadn’t been careful enough with the life inside me. After the surgery, I had spent weeks curled in a ball, sobbing until my lungs hurt. And every time, Elliot had been there, holding me, whispering that it wasn’t my fault. It had all been a performance. Every comfort, every kiss, every “I love you.” I bit my lip so hard the iron taste of blood filled my mouth. Before I could think, I swung my hand. The slap echoed through the quiet chapel, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. Elliot didn’t even flinch. If anything, he looked relieved. “I’m glad it’s out,” he said, his voice light with an easy, terrifying freedom. “I’m done making Lexie suffer for your sake. She’s young, she’s fragile. If you’re angry, take it out on me.” I tore the veil from my hair, the lace ripping with a satisfying screech. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, but his smile remained. “I take it we’re done for today. We can sign the papers whenever. We’ve been together ten years, Jill. What’s a few more days?” As he turned to walk away, his footsteps synced perfectly with the voice in my head: 10th Anniversary deadline expired. Mission: Failure. Termination sequence: Initializing. Countdown: 48 hours. A second later, Lexie lowered her camera. She looked at me, her face a mask of faux-innocence. “Jill? Why aren’t you smiling? You’re supposed to be the most beautiful woman in the world today.” She looked around, pretending to notice the tension for the first time. Her voice began to tremble. “Oh, God… Jill… do you know?” I looked at her, my eyes burning, my smile a bitter, bloody thing. Lexie suddenly raised her camera and smashed the lens against the floor, right at Elliot’s feet. He didn’t move. “I told you!” she screamed, her voice raw and theatrical. “I told you I never wanted a title! How could you tell her today? How could you hurt her like this?” 2 Elliot ignored the trickle of blood on his forehead where a piece of glass had nicked him. He just looked at Lexie with an aching devotion. “What about you?” he asked. “When are you ever going to think about yourself?” I watched them, this grotesque display of ‘star-crossed’ passion, and felt like I was watching a cheap soap opera. I turned to leave, but the door swung open, and Captain Wyatt stepped in, blocking my path. “Jill, stop,” Wyatt said, his voice heavy with a condescending pity. “Lexie just wants a family. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” It took me a moment to find my voice. “You knew? The raid last week—you sent me to the wrong sector on purpose?” Wyatt sighed, looking away. “Jill, think about the Bridge Street kidnapping. A hundred hostages. Lexie was the only one who made it out alive. She looks up to you like a sister. You’ve looked after her for years. Even if she made a mistake, isn’t that on you for not raising her better?” He stepped closer. “Don’t be cruel. Her entire family died in that basement. She has no one.” No one? I was the one who had taken her in because I pitied her. I had treated her like blood. But Wyatt seemed to forget that his mentor—my father—was the reason she was breathing. He had been turned into a vegetable saving her, lingering in a hospital bed for years before finally slipping away. “Jill,” Lexie whispered, stepping toward me. “You can hit me. You can hate me. Just don’t hate Elliot.” She reached for my hand, and I saw it—the silver compass hanging from her neck. It was my father’s. The only thing he’d left me. I lunged, ripping it from her throat. Lexie gave a tiny, bird-like whimper. Elliot’s face instantly darkened, and he shoved me back with enough force to make me stumble. I stared at him, breathless with disbelief. “I’ll take you home so you can calm down,” Wyatt said softly. Elliot didn’t even look back as he gathered Lexie into his arms. “She’s scratched. I’m taking her to the ER. We’ll talk about ‘us’ later, Jill.” I didn’t even make it halfway home before my phone buzzed. “Jill, if you have a problem, come at me. Don’t pull this petty, pathetic shit online.” Wyatt slammed on the brakes at the sound of Elliot’s voice through the Bluetooth, and my head cracked against the dashboard. Elliot had sent a screenshot. Someone had posted a photo from the courthouse—Lexie and me. Lexie was circled, the caption reading: So young and already a homewrecker. “I didn’t post that,” I said, my voice dead. “And even if I did,” I added, “is it a lie?” “Enough,” Elliot snapped. “Lexie never wanted to take your place. Why can’t you just let her have a little piece of happiness? She isn’t like you, Jill. Don’t use your ‘detective skills’ to ruin a girl who has nothing.” Wyatt frowned, looking at me through the rearview mirror. “Jill, she’s the girl your father died for. Do you really want to see her life destroyed over a scandal?” Before I could answer, a text popped up from Lexie: Jill, I’m not trying to win. I was actually trying to convince Elliot to apologize to you. But it’s my fault… he wanted to play a game earlier, made me wear a blindfold and guess what he was going to do to me next. I was so worried about you I kept getting the answers wrong. He’s even angrier now. You should probably stay away for a bit. I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white, then clicked the screen off. Noticing my silence, Wyatt softened his tone. “Lexie’s graduation is tomorrow. You’re the guest of honor. You’ll present her award. It’ll kill the rumors instantly.” Elliot’s voice came through again, offering a hollow olive branch. “Do this for her, and we’ll go back to the courthouse the day after. We’ll get it done.” “No,” I said, my voice a dry husk. “You make me sick, Elliot. Is that all you think about? Blindfolds and ‘games’ while my father’s legacy is rotting?” Elliot laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “Oh, please. Don’t act so holier-than-thou. You’ve been used as an ‘enhancement’ for years, Jill. This isn’t new.” Blood rushed to my face. “What?” “The day of your father’s funeral,” he said, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper. “Remember when Lexie called you, crying, trying to comfort you? I was right behind her. I heard every word you said. And I didn’t stop moving for a second. She was so breathless she could barely speak, and there you were, thanking her for being such a good friend.” My blood froze. For the first time in my life, I felt a pure, unadulterated hatred for the world. The System’s voice echoed in my skull: Detection: Hostile environment. User’s will to live is plummeting. Termination countdown accelerated. 24 hours remaining. I tightened my grip on the phone. “Fine,” I said into the receiver. “The graduation. I’ll be there.” 3 The auditorium was bathed in a golden glow. Lexie stood under the spotlight in a custom white gown, the image of the “Perfect Survivor.” Behind me, the students were whispering. “She’s so brave. She’s living for all the people who died in that basement.” Lexie saw me and blew a kiss. “I’m so glad you made it, Jill.” Elliot stood off to the side, giving me a pointed, “do your job” look. I walked to the podium and unfolded the piece of paper he’d written for me. I was hormonal yesterday. I overreacted and hit Lexie. The rumors about her are false, and I will be seeking legal action against those who spread them. I looked at the words, then slowly, deliberately, tore the paper into confetti. I looked at Elliot’s narrowing eyes, grabbed the microphone, and spoke. “Why would I give a parasite a second chance?” The room went silent. “I’m here to clarify,” I said, my voice projecting to the back of the hall. “The rumors aren’t rumors. Lexie is exactly what they say she is.” Chaos erupted. Lexie froze, her eyes filling with tears instantly. “Jill… you’ve done so much for me… I was even willing to help you raise your child as my own… why are you doing this?” “You’re delusional,” I spat. Suddenly, she pulled a small red book from her bouquet. A marriage certificate. Dated yesterday. “Jill, we’re the ones who are legally married.” I spun toward Elliot. He looked at me with total indifference. “I realized yesterday we didn’t have any ‘official’ photos,” he whispered as he approached the stage. “I thought it would be a nice graduation gift to make it legal for a day. I was going to divorce her tomorrow and marry you next month. It was just a gesture, Jill. Don’t be dramatic.” Lexie leaned into the microphone, her voice trembling. “Jill, I know you’re afraid I’ll tell people the truth about how your father’s ‘heroism’ actually caused the deaths of those other hundred hostages. But you shouldn’t have tried to ruin me.” I lunged, my hand raised to strike her. “What did you say? My father saved you!” A hand clamped onto my wrist like a vice. Wyatt had jumped onto the stage. He shoved me back, his face a mask of cold fury. “We’re standing right here and you’re still bullying her? Who’s going to protect her when we aren’t around?” I stared at him. “Why aren’t you defending him? He was your mentor! He was a hero!” Wyatt’s eyes flickered with a brief hesitation, but then he hardened. “If we have to strip you of your ‘Gold Star Daughter’ status to keep you from hurting Lexie, then so be it. You don’t deserve the title anyway.” Elliot leaned in close to my ear. “Jill, your father is dead. The living are what matter now. Just play nice.” In my head, the clock was ticking. Three hours remaining. I laughed, a sound that tore through my throat. “And what about me? What if I’m the one who doesn’t survive?” Elliot’s breath hitched for a fraction of a second. Then, the crowd surged. Someone threw a bucket of red industrial paint. It splashed across my police dress uniform, thick and smelling of chemicals. “Her father killed everyone!” someone screamed. “She’s trying to trap a man with a baby that isn’t even his! Shameless!” “Like father, like daughter! Murderer and whore!” A sea of students swarmed the stage. Hands tore at my collar, shoulders shoved me, spit landed on my cheek. Elliot tried to move toward me, but Lexie grabbed her head with a cry. “My head… it hurts… the basement… I can’t breathe!” Wyatt instantly scooped her up and turned away. Elliot hesitated, then looked at me. “It’s just kids blowing off steam, Jill. You’re a cop. You can handle a little roughhousing.” The System spoke: Vital signs dropping. Critical threshold reached. I couldn’t hear the insults anymore. Everything was a dull roar. I felt a sudden, warm gush between my legs. Someone screamed. “Wait, is that blood? Is she actually hurt?” 4 On the operating table, the instruments were cold and soulless. I felt the last of the life inside me slip away, and for the first time, I felt a strange sense of relief. Maybe this world was too dark for a child anyway. That evening, I dragged my broken body back to the apartment. Elliot looked up from his laptop, noted my pale face, and pushed a glass of water toward me. “I was just about to come pick you up. Don’t be mad at Lexie. If you hadn’t tried to embarrass her in public, she wouldn’t have snapped and said those things.” He sighed. “Stop being so sensitive. You’re a mother now; act like one.” “I told Lexie to file for divorce. Once the waiting period is over, we’ll get our license.” I didn’t speak. I looked at the framed engagement photo on the wall. I grabbed the glass of water and hurled it at the frame. The glass shattered, a jagged shard slicing right through Elliot’s face in the photo. Elliot’s expression darkened. Lexie stepped out of my bedroom, clutching her phone. “Elliot… I’m so sorry. I was trying to file the papers, but I was so shaken up I put the password in wrong three times… the account is locked for seven days.” I didn’t even blink. Elliot studied my face. When he saw that I wasn’t going to explode, he actually chuckled. “Fine. We won’t rush it then. If Jill isn’t in a hurry, why should we be? Everyone knows we’ve been together ten years. She’s already family.” A flash of resentment crossed Lexie’s face, but she quickly masked it. She threw herself at my feet, sobbing. “Jill, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean it! Look, let me show you—” She pressed her phone against my ear, her voice dropping to a demonic whisper. “Is the baby gone, Jill? Is he off to visit your father in hell?” Her voice became a venomous hiss. “Why did your father have to be a hero? If my parents had to die, yours should have too. I like Elliot. He’s a good provider.” “Oh, and by the way? The day your father started showing signs of waking up from his coma? I visited him. I showed him a video of Elliot and me. Did you know he bit through his own oxygen tube? He literally chose to die rather than watch more.” The pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth was unbearable. I gathered every ounce of strength I had left and slapped her across the face. Elliot didn’t wait. He kicked me. The blow landed right on my surgical incision. I hit the floor, the world spinning, as blood began to soak through my shirt. “What is wrong with you, Jill!” I laughed, tears of blood leaking from my eyes. “She killed him… she killed my father!” Elliot froze, but before he could speak, Wyatt burst in. He pulled Lexie toward him, his eyes full of protective rage. “Jill, you’re a police officer! Look at you! You’re pathetic!” He looked at my bleeding stomach and sighed. “The news is spreading. The department is reopening your father’s case—they’re going to remove him from the Memorial Wall. As for you, you’re suspended. Lexie is unstable; you’re going to stay here and take care of her.” Elliot stepped forward. “You’re carrying your father’s badge number. Hand over your gun and your credentials. You aren’t leaving this house until you learn how to apologize.” In my mind, the System began the final ten-second count. I looked at the tiny, triumphant smirk on Lexie’s lips. I reached for my service weapon, stroking the cold metal one last time, and backed toward the open window. As Elliot reached out to take the gun, I flipped it. I pressed the barrel against my temple. “I owe her an apology?” I whispered. “Is a life enough?” Elliot’s face drained of color. He lunged for me, his fingers splayed, his pupils blown wide with terror. I smiled. “I’m sorry.” Bang. The sound of the shot shattered the window glass. “JILL! NO!”

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I was leaning back against my personal trainer’s chest, mindlessly scrolling through my feed, when a post featuring my own home address stopped my thumb dead. The user, some girl cosplaying as a “struggling house help,” was sobbing in her caption. She’d “accidentally” ruined her employer’s haute couture gown and was terrified she could never afford the repairs. I didn’t need a detective to solve this one. It was Faith, the live-in maid at the townhouse I shared with my husband-of-convenience. Usually, she was all thumbs and clumsy apologies, but apparently, she was a pro when it came to curated digital sympathy. The comments were a bloodbath. Half the people were calling her out, saying if you break it, you buy it, and crying for clout wouldn’t pay the bill. The other half—the “eat the rich” crowd—was coddling her. Then, Faith replied. Her tone was the digital equivalent of a bashful tuck of the hair behind the ear. She claimed she wanted to pay for it, but her “Sir” had already found a different way for her to “compensate” him… all night long. The implication was as thick as New York humidity. I couldn’t help but laugh. I hit the share button and sent the link straight to my “Inner Circle”—a group chat filled with the city’s most eligible bachelors who had been orbiting me for years. I typed out a single message: “Whoever can shave five percent off the Pierce Group’s stock price by the closing bell gets the chance to replace my useless husband.” 1. “Ms. Blackwood, the Pierce Group just hit a five-point-three percent drop.” My assistant’s voice crackled through the intercom. I leaned back in my leather executive chair, watching the red candles flicker on the Bloomberg terminal. The sell-off had started at 2:00 PM sharp, volume spiking like a heart attack. “Understood,” I said, hanging up. I opened my phone. The “Inner Circle” chat was blowing up—hundreds of messages. [Caleb: Evie, I leaked their Q3 receivables to three major financial analysts. The numbers are cooked.] [Leo: I’ve got an ESG firm drafting a report on their environmental violations as we speak.] The last message was from Carter Walsh, my childhood best friend and the heir to the Walsh fortune. [Carter: Done. Five points, on the dot.] I smirked and typed back: “You move fast.” “I’ve been waiting three years for you to ask,” he replied instantly. “I don’t miss my window.” I was about to respond when my phone vibrated with an incoming call. Greg Pierce. “Evelyn,” his voice was a low growl, vibrating with suppressed rage. “What the hell are you doing to my stock?” “Greg,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “The market is a fickle mistress. Your company’s failure has nothing to do with me.” “Don’t lie to me!” he barked. “Is this because I told Faith she didn’t have to pay for that dress?” “That ‘dress’?” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “Greg, that was a vintage McQueen. It was my mother’s eighteenth birthday gift to me. It’s worth nearly a million dollars. Your little maid ruined it on purpose, and you think I’m the one being unreasonable?” “She was just trying to be diligent! Besides, I owe her. She’s done things for me you wouldn’t understand. A dress is nothing compared to her loyalty.” “Diligent?” I interrupted. “Is that why she was posting thirst-traps with our home address at 2:00 AM? Claiming I was ‘stomping on her dignity’ while she spent the night ‘compensating’ you?” “She only posted that because you’ve been suffocating her,” Greg snapped. “I know you look down on her, Evelyn. But she works for a living. She’s earned her place more than someone born into a golden cradle ever will.” I was actually stunned into a laugh. “Greg, do you hear yourself? You’re acting like you’re some self-made man of the people. You’re a Pierce. You’re literally the poster boy for old money.” “I know who I am,” he said. “And I know what this marriage is. It’s business. You’ve used my family’s resources for three years; the least you could do is act like a wife. Faith is a girl with nothing. Why are you so obsessed with bullying her?” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of my office, watching the clouds roll over Manhattan. This petty drama was beneath me. “Greg,” I said. “Since you want to talk about business, let’s talk about the bottom line.” “What?” “The Blackwood-Pierce merger involves six major projects totaling nearly four billion dollars,” I said, sitting up straight. “Because of your maid’s social media antics, my own stock took a three-point hit today. Do you know what that translates to in market cap?” Silence. “Eleven hundred million dollars,” I enunciated every syllable. “A billion-dollar headache because your ‘loyal’ maid wanted to play victim on TikTok. Now, I’m giving you two choices.” “Choice one: Faith Jenkins makes a public apology, admits she destroyed the dress and lied for clout, and she’s out of New York by tonight.” “Absolutely not!” he shouted. “She’s done nothing wrong—” “Choice two,” I cut him off. “We divorce. And I’m invoking Article Seven of our pre-nup. I assume you remember it?” I heard him catch his breath. Article Seven: In the event of gross negligence or reputational damage leading to the dissolution of the marriage, the offending party forfeits fifteen percent of their personal equity to the spouse. “You’re threatening me, Evelyn?” “I’m giving you an out. You have three days to decide.” 2. Three days later, I walked into the townhouse and found Faith on her knees in the living room, scrubbing the floor. She was using a white cashmere throw—the one I’d just brought back from Milan—as a rag. “Ms. Blackwood!” she squeaked, jumping to her feet. She stood straight, clutching the soaked, ruined fabric. “You… you’re home early.” I looked at the throw. The cashmere was matted, dripping with floor cleaner. “That throw,” I said, my eyes meeting hers, “was five thousand Euros. I’ll be deducting that from your final paycheck.” Her face went pale, her lip trembling. “I didn’t mean to… I just thought it looked soft, and I wanted the floors to be perfect for you…” “Perfect?” I stepped into the room. “Faith, we have a closet full of professional cleaning supplies. You’ve been here three months. Don’t tell me you haven’t found them.” “I… I just want to be better…” Her eyes started to well up, but there was a stubborn glint in them. “I know I’m not like you. I know I’m ‘the help.’ But you can’t just use your luxury items to humiliate me because I’m poor!” “Humiliate you?” I smiled. “Faith, if you break something, you pay for it. That’s a lesson they teach in kindergarten. Since when does being broke give you a license to be a thief?” “I’m not a thief!” She raised her voice, chin trembling like a cornered animal. “I’ll pay it back! I have a savings account. I have three thousand dollars… I’ve worked years for that.” She slammed a debit card onto the marble coffee table. “I’ll pay you five hundred a month for the rest. I’ve calculated it. It’ll take me… thirteen years. But I’ll do it. I’ll work nights, I’ll take a second job—” “Your math is off.” I picked up the card, spinning it between my fingers. “The McQueen dress is currently valued at nearly a million dollars. At five hundred a month, you’ll be paying me back for the next hundred and sixty years. And that’s before interest.” She froze. “And this?” I tossed the card back onto the table. “Three thousand dollars? That wouldn’t even cover the dry-cleaning bill for my rugs.” The tears finally fell, but she bit her lip, refusing to let out a sob. It was a masterclass in the “wronged-but-strong” archetype. I was about to end the performance when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Greg rushed down, and the moment he saw Faith crying, his face twisted into a knot of fury. “Evelyn! Again? You’re still on this?” “On this?” I gestured to the cashmere rag. “Greg, your ‘loyal assistant’ just used five-thousand-dollar cashmere to mop the floor. Asking for compensation isn’t bullying—it’s basic accounting.” Greg looked at the ruined fabric, then at Faith’s neck. There was a faint, moon-shaped birthmark peeking out from her collar. That birthmark was his twenty-year obsession. When he was a kid, abandoned by his stepmother in a rough neighborhood for a few hours, a girl with that same mark had shared her sandwich with him. He’d convinced himself she was his “Guardian Angel.” He’d only “found” Faith a few months ago. “She doesn’t know any better,” Greg said, his voice softening as he looked at her. “You could just teach her instead of—” “Why is it my job to raise your maid?” I snapped. “I pay her a salary to work, not to be my apprentice. This isn’t a charity, Greg.” “You’re so cold,” he hissed. “She’s had a hard life—” “A hard life?” I laughed. “She’s making six figures to live in a mansion and ruin my clothes. That’s a dream life for most people.” I walked up to Faith, looking at her tear-stained face. “Faith, if you want to be ‘better,’ stop talking and start paying. If you can’t afford the lifestyle you’re destroying, stop touching things that don’t belong to you.” She glared at me. The sadness was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated resentment. “Ms. Blackwood,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “I know you look down on me. You were born with everything. You don’t know what it’s like to fight for a scrap of dignity. But I’d rather die than beg for your mercy.” “Brava,” I said, clapping slowly. “Then please, pack your bags and leave my house. As for the compensation… you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” “Evelyn!” Greg pulled Faith behind him. “You’re really going to do this?” I looked at them—the CEO and the ‘Mistreated’ Maid. A classic melodrama. “Greg, I’m giving you one last chance to be a businessman. Because if we go the legal route, intentional destruction of property at this value carries a prison sentence of three to seven years. Faith, do you want to see if the prison jumpsuits are made of cashmere?” Faith turned ghost-white and grabbed Greg’s arm. “Sir… I don’t want to go to jail…” Greg stared at me, his eyes full of venom. “You’re a monster, Evelyn.” “And you’re a cliché.” I checked my watch. “Five minutes. Both of you. Get out of my house.” I turned and walked upstairs, calling my estate manager to ensure they didn’t “accidentally” pack any of my jewelry on their way out. 3. Three days later was the grand opening of the “Blackwood-Pierce Plaza,” a nearly two-billion-dollar commercial complex. It was the crowning jewel of our merger, the symbol of our families’ union. The gala was held in the glass-walled ballroom on the penthouse floor. Every power player in Manhattan was there. The paparazzi were lined up at the entrance, flashes firing like lightning. I was in a vintage Chanel fishtail gown, holding court in the center of the room. A reporter shoved a mic in my face. “Ms. Blackwood, rumors are swirling about your marriage. Care to comment?” I smiled professionally. “Tonight is about the Plaza. Let’s stick to business.” “But they say you and Mr. Pierce are living apart—” “In business,” I interrupted, “what matters is the ROI. Mr. Pierce and I have always been a high-yield partnership.” Just then, a hush fell over the room. Greg had arrived. And he wasn’t alone. Faith was on his arm. She was wearing a white silk dress—a dress I recognized. I’d tossed it into a donation bin last month because it was out of season. It had been crudely tailored to fit her, cinched tight at the waist to emphasize her curves. But the real insult was the necklace. A strand of South Sea pearls. My father’s wedding gift to me. Worth seven figures. I felt a surge of white-hot rage, but I kept my face a mask of bored elegance. The press swarmed them. “Mr. Pierce! Who is your companion?” “Is this a statement about your marriage, Greg?” Greg looked stiff, trying to shield her from the cameras. “This is my personal assistant. She’s just here to help with the event—” “Sir,” Faith said, her voice soft but perfectly projected for the mics. “Don’t hide me. I’ll tell them.” She stepped forward, giving the cameras a practiced, forty-five-degree-angle smile. “Hi, I’m Faith. I know I shouldn’t be here, but Greg needed someone to lean on. Evelyn is… so busy with work. She doesn’t have time for him. I’m just doing my part to care for him. It’s the least I can do.” The room went silent. Every eye turned to me. I stood my ground, the professional smile still etched on my face. The stage was set. I walked toward the podium and took the microphone. “It seems everyone has seen the headlines,” I said, my voice echoing through the ballroom. “Perfect. Since you’re all here, I have an announcement.” The giant LED screen behind me lit up with a single sentence: “THE CURTAIN FALLS.” “Three years ago, the Blackwood and Pierce families joined in a marriage of strategic interests,” I began, my voice steady. “It was meant to be a model of corporate synergy.” I paused, looking down at Greg, whose face was turning a sickly shade of gray. “Unfortunately, some people forgot that this was just a contract. They started believing in their own fairytales.” “Evelyn!” Greg tried to storm the stage, but my security team blocked his path. “So, tonight,” I raised my voice, “I am announcing three things.” “First: As of this moment, my marriage to Greg Pierce is over. The papers are signed. I wish him and Miss Jenkins a long and… expensive life together.” The room erupted. “Second: All joint ventures between Blackwood Holdings and the Pierce Group are hereby terminated. My legal team is already filing for breach of contract.” “Third…” I looked toward the back of the room. The heavy oak doors swung open.

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When I opened my eyes, the world snapped back into focus with a sharp, terrifying clarity. I was sitting in the same velvet-lined booth at the bistro, across from the man I thought was my future and the cousin I thought was my conscience. Carly didn’t even wait for the appetizers to arrive before she leaned in, her voice a staged whisper. “Nicole, don’t walk away from this guy. Run. He’s a predator. He’s going to lure you into some hellhole and sell you off.” Carly had always been our family’s golden child, gifted with an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to detect a lie the second it left someone’s lips. She was a “human lie detector,” a consultant for the DA’s office, the girl who could never be fooled. Because of that, I had lived my life by her word. In my previous life—or what I remembered as my previous life—she told me my wealthy, venture-capitalist boyfriend was a monster, so I dumped him in a fit of panic. Later, she told me the high-six-figure executive offer I’d landed at a Fortune 500 tech firm was actually a front for a money-laundering scheme. I turned it down without a second thought. Then came the call. Kidnappers. They claimed they had my parents and demanded five million dollars. Carly sat me down, looked me in the eye, and told me they were bluffing. She said it was a scam, that my parents were fine. I believed her. I told the “kidnappers” to go to hell. The next day, my parents—who had narrowly escaped a brutal ordeal—didn’t come home to hug me. They came home to disown me. They called me a cold-blooded sociopath and threw me out onto the street. I had wandered, broken and confused, trying to find Carly to ask her why. Instead, I saw her stepping out of that very same tech firm I’d turned down, draped in designer silk, leaning into the arms of the “predator” ex-boyfriend I’d abandoned. The shock had paralyzed me. I’d lunged toward her, screaming for the truth, only to be leveled by a speeding truck. 1 The echo of her words made my skin crawl. I looked up, staring at the two people across from me. Am I actually back? Brett, my boyfriend, was midway through explaining his family’s real estate empire, just like he had before. In the first version of this day, Carly had cut him off after the first sentence, claiming the vintage Porsche he’d driven to lunch was a rental and that his “empire” was built on sand. Back then, I’d turned cold immediately. I’d ignored his pleas and demanded to see his registration. When he fumbled for an answer, I took his hesitation as guilt. I ended it right there. I remember the look on his face. “Nicole, you’re really going to throw away three years because of one sentence from her?” I hadn’t blinked. I’d kicked him out of my life. It wasn’t until the moments before my “death” that I learned the truth: Brett was exactly who he said he was—the youngest son of the city’s most influential developer. Carly had systematically dismantled my life to pave her own way. But this time? I wasn’t playing her game. I was lost in the fog of memory until Brett squeezed my hand, looking concerned. “Nicole? You okay? Look, I know I’m not great with paperwork—I don’t keep receipts for cars—but I promise, I’m being straight with you.” Carly scoffed, her mouth opening to deliver the killing blow. I beat her to it. I smiled, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and placed a piece of sea bass on Brett’s plate. “Don’t worry about it, honey. I believe you.” In that flash of memory before the truck hit me, I remembered seeing Brett’s face on a Forbes “30 Under 30” billboard. He wasn’t just rich; he was the rising star of the Chicago business world. Carly’s brow furrowed. She looked genuinely baffled. The cousin who always listened, the girl who followed her lead like a shadow, had just ignored her “gift.” “Nicole,” Carly said, her voice dropping an octave, thick with faux-urgency. “He’s a trafficker. Why aren’t you listening? He’s going to take you somewhere dark and you’ll never come back.” I looked at her, and for the first time, I saw the cracks in the performance. If I hadn’t seen her smug grin in the moments before my death, I would have fallen for this worried-sister routine again. I let my expression harden. “Carly, stop it. I know exactly who Brett is. If you say one more word against him, we’re going to have a serious problem.” It was the first time I’d ever pushed back. She looked stunned, then insulted. “Fine,” she snapped, grabbing her clutch. “I’ve warned you. When you’re rotting in a basement, don’t say I didn’t try to save you.” She stormed out. I felt a surge of relief, focusing all my attention on Brett, piling his plate with food, determined to hold onto this version of my life. Brett looked moved, his eyes shining. “Thank you for trusting me, Nico. Really. Look, I want you to meet my parents tomorrow. My dad’s been asking about you.” I agreed instantly. Meeting the “King of Chicago Real Estate” was a dream I’d let Carly destroy once. Not again. After lunch, Brett stepped away to the restroom. I went to the bar to settle the tab, but as I turned the corner toward the back hallway, I heard his voice. Low. Cold. “The bait’s taken. I’m bringing her in tomorrow. Tell the buyer to have the cash ready; this one’s a beauty. He’s going to love her.” 2 I pressed my back against the cold tile of the wall, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. What the hell did he just say? Moments ago, he was talking about Sunday dinner with his parents. Now he was talking about “bait” and “buyers.” Was Carly actually… right? I took several jagged breaths, my mind racing. I needed a second opinion. I slipped out of the restaurant, snapped a covert photo of Brett through the window, and sent it to a contact I’d made through my volunteer work—a man who knew the underbelly of the city. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. “Where is he? Are you with him? Send me your location now.” The text was followed by a call. “Nicole, get away from him. We’ve been hunting this guy’s parents for years. He’s not just a bystander; he’s the scout for one of the most sophisticated human trafficking rings in the Midwest.” My hand shook so violently I nearly dropped the phone. I was seconds away from being “brought in.” But how? In my memory—that “past life”—Brett was a billionaire’s son. A philanthropist. Why was he a monster in this reality? My head felt like it was splitting in two, the “memories” and the “now” clashing with violent intensity. A notification popped up in the family group chat. My parents had just received a formal offer letter for me from a top-tier consulting firm. Before I could even process it, Carly called. Her voice was stiff, still nursing her bruised ego. “Nicole, look. Whether you’re mad at me or not, I have to tell you—that job offer? It’s a scam. I called a contact. The minute you walk into that office, you’re sign-off on legal liabilities you’ll never get out of. It’s a boiler room operation. If you take that job, your career is dead.” It was the exact same warning from my “previous life.” Last time, I believed her and stayed unemployed for a year while she took the job and became a millionaire. This time, I should have ignored her. But after the Brett situation, I was paralyzed. I didn’t want to lose a dream job, but I couldn’t risk walking into a trap. “Carly,” I said, my voice trembling. “Come with me tomorrow. To the office. Help me check it out.” I figured if she was lying to keep the job for herself, she’d make an excuse. But she agreed immediately. She even suggested we call the police to do a sweep. She sounded… righteous. Excited, even. The next morning, we arrived at the corporate plaza. In my memory, this company had been a titan of industry, featured on the news for its innovation. I’d seen Carly on TV as their Managing Director, looking like a queen. But when we walked through the glass doors, the reality was a nightmare. The sprawling “open-plan office” was a mess of stained carpets and flickering lights. Dozens of people sat at cramped desks, looking malnourished and terrified, headsets practically glued to their ears. It was a literal digital sweatshop. I stood there, frozen. How? Why was everything Carly “detected” as a lie suddenly coming true? If she had lied to me in the “past,” then why was the billionaire now a predator, and the Fortune 500 company now a scam? 3 Carly shoved me toward the door as the police moved in to raid the place. Her face was full of genuine concern, but for a split second, it flickered—merging with the memory of the smug, triumphant woman who had watched me die. I forced myself to breathe. A detective I recognized from the Brett investigation—Officer Rossi—walked up to us. He nodded at me before turning to Carly. “We got the confirmation on the photo you sent, Carly. Good catch. If you hadn’t flagged his face against the interstate trafficking database yesterday, we wouldn’t have linked him to the ring so fast.” He looked at me. “You’re lucky to have her. Carly’s intuition has closed more cases for us than a dozen veteran detectives. You shouldn’t have doubted her.” Carly crossed her arms, huffing. “She didn’t believe me about the boyfriend. Said she’d cut me off.” Rossi shook his head. “Well, you know better now. Trust the gift.” My mind was a kaleidoscope of confusion. In this timeline, Carly was a hero. But the memories of her betrayal were so visceral I could still feel the phantom pain of the truck hitting my ribs. I decided then: I wouldn’t trust her. I wouldn’t trust anyone. I would only trust the patterns. Three days later, my parents left for their annual retreat in the Berkshires. In my “memory,” this was when the nightmare truly began. I’d lost contact with them for forty-eight hours. Then, the call came. The phone on the coffee table began to ring. It was a number I knew by heart. My breath hitched. “We have your parents,” a distorted voice growled. “Five million dollars by tomorrow morning. Central Park, the boathouse. If you call the cops, they’re dead.” The line went dead. My hands were so cold they felt numb. I had cancelled their trip. I had checked their flight cancellations. How were they still missing? How was the script still playing out exactly like the “memory,” even when I changed the inputs? I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t know if I was in a nightmare or a reality. I only knew I couldn’t lose them again. 4 Even with my parents’ successful business, five million was a staggering amount of liquid cash to find in twenty-four hours. In the “memory,” I’d started the process of liquidating our family’s holdings and selling our house immediately. Carly was there, just like before. She grabbed my wrists, her eyes wide. “Nicole, stop! Don’t do this.” “I heard the call, Nico. My gut is screaming at me—this is a hoax. They aren’t kidnapped. It’s a sophisticated phishing scam. They probably just jammed their signals. Don’t throw away the family legacy for a lie!” I stared at her. The “memory” and the “now” were screaming at each other in my brain. Why did she lie last time? Why was she so insistent this time? Was it possible my parents weren’t kidnapped? “I’m calling the police,” I whispered. “No!” Carly’s voice was too sharp, too high. She caught herself, softening her tone. “Nicole, if you call the cops over a prank, the embarrassment alone will ruin your dad’s reputation. Just wait. They’ll call from the hotel soon.” I frowned. Her reaction was wrong. It was too desperate. Was she trying to stop me from saving them, just like before, so she could swoop in and play the grieving “adopted” daughter? “I’m reporting it,” I said, reaching for my phone. Before I could dial, a text came through. I opened it and felt the world tilt. It was a photo. My parents, bound and gagged in a dark, concrete room, their faces pale and bruised. The message underneath was simple: One word to the cops and we send them back in pieces. I lost it. The “gifted” cousin was wrong. They were in danger. “You said they weren’t kidnapped!” I screamed, shoving the phone in her face. Carly’s breath hitched. She looked at the photo, her voice wavering. “Nico… that’s… that’s a deepfake. It has to be. Don’t believe it.” I looked at her, and all I felt was ice. “I am done listening to you.” I spent the next twelve hours in a fever dream of wire transfers, predatory bridge loans, and signing away the title to our lake house. I scraped together every cent. The next morning, I ignored Carly’s protests and dropped the bag at the designated spot. I went home and sat in the dark, waiting. As the sun began to set, I heard the front door open. My parents walked in, laughing, carrying bags from a boutique in Lennox. They weren’t traumatized. They weren’t bruised. They looked like they’d just had the best vacation of their lives. The realization hit me like a physical blow. They were never kidnapped. Carly was right. But as my father looked at me—realizing I had liquidated his entire life’s work for a “hoax”—his face turned a shade of purple I’d never seen. He didn’t hug me. He slapped me so hard I fell against the wall. The fog in my brain finally began to clear. I saw the truth through the stinging pain. I knew exactly what was happening.

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At my mother’s birthday dinner, I did the one thing no one expected. I set up the projector, connected my laptop, and hit play. For the next ten minutes, the room was filled with years of secretly recorded audio clips and a scrolling list of bank transfers. My relatives sat in a stunned, suffocating silence. My mother’s face went from a celebratory flush to a sickly, ashen gray. I leaned in, flashing her a bright, empty smile. I told her that this “tribute” to her parenting was my final gift to her—something for the whole family to savor. The irony was, this all started because she’d had the nerve to tell me that the seventy thousand dollars sitting in my savings account wasn’t mine. To her, it was a “Family Fund” meant to buy my younger brother a new BMW. Back then, I had simply nodded, playing the part of the dutiful daughter. But inside, I was already counting down the days until tonight. … 1 The day began like any other, with a rare, suspiciously sweet phone call from my mother, Diane, inviting me over for dinner. An hour later, I was sitting at the scarred oak table in her cramped kitchen, listening to her dictate exactly how she planned to spend every cent of my hard-earned money. “Casey, honey, Kyle found this gorgeous BMW M3 he’s obsessed with,” she said, sliding a plate of overcooked roast beef toward my brother without looking at me. “You’ve got that seventy thousand saved up. I need you to wire it over to him tonight.” Kyle, my brother—five years younger and ten times more entitled—didn’t even look up from his phone. His mouth was full of food as he chimed in. “Make sure it’s the full amount, Case. I’m not doing a loan; the interest rates are a total scam right now. You can figure out the rest later. Oh, and see if you can pull some extra from your 401k for the taxes and insurance, okay?” My knuckles turned white as I gripped my fork. “Mom, that money is my life savings. I’ve been working sixty-hour weeks for years to finally put a down payment on a place of my own.” “A place of your own?” Diane finally looked at me, her lip curling in a dismissive sneer. “What does a single woman need a house for? You’re just going to get married eventually, and then all that equity goes to some stranger’s family. It’s a waste.” She leaned forward, her voice softening into that manipulative purr she used when she wanted something. “Think of the big picture. This car will help Kyle’s image. He’s trying to get into high-end real estate; he needs to look the part. When he makes his first million, don’t you think he’ll take care of his big sister?” “Totally, Case,” Kyle added, wiping his greasy hands on his napkin—and then, seemingly by accident, brushing them against my silk sleeve. “Once I hit it big, I’ll buy you a mansion.” A cold, hard knot formed in my chest. “Real estate? Kyle, you’ve had four jobs since graduation, and you haven’t kept one for more than three months. Why does a guy who sleeps until noon need a seventy-thousand-dollar car to ‘look the part’?” “Casey!” Diane slammed her hand on the table. “Watch your tone! Kyle is your brother. Just because he hasn’t found his footing yet doesn’t mean he won’t be successful. If his own sister won’t back him, who will? Do you want to see this family name disappear into nothing?” “Is his old Honda suddenly not working?” My voice was trembling. “That piece of junk?” Kyle scoffed. “My friends are all driving European imports. I’m the only one showing up in a clunker. It’s embarrassing. Honestly, it’s like you don’t want me to succeed.” His wife, Tiffany, who had been quietly scrolling through her phone, finally chimed in with a saccharine poison. “Casey, look at it this way. Kyle is the head of this family’s future. If he does well, we all do well. Why sit on that cash while it loses value to inflation? Investing in Kyle is the smartest move you could make.” I looked at their faces—hungry, greedy, and utterly devoid of empathy. They weren’t asking. They were notifying me. They were telling me to hand over the years of missed vacations, the skipped meals, and the late-night shifts so they could pour it all into a bottomless pit of entitlement. “Do you have any idea how much we sacrificed to raise you?” Diane started, pivoting to her favorite weapon: the guilt trip. “We put clothes on your back, food in your mouth, sent you to college… and now that you have a little success, you’re too selfish to help your own blood?” “You’re a leech, Case,” Kyle muttered. “You don’t care about anyone but yourself.” “Is that what you want?” I asked, my voice cracking with a desperation I didn’t know I still possessed. “Do I have to give up everything until I have nothing left to give before you’re satisfied? Do I have to die for you to be happy?” Diane let out a sharp, jagged laugh that set my teeth on edge. “Die? Casey, if you died tomorrow, the least you could do is make sure that money went to your brother’s car.” That was it. The final thread snapped. The last flickering hope I held for a mother’s love was extinguished by a blast of icy reality. I looked at them and felt a sudden, bizarre sense of clarity. These people weren’t my family. They were predators. After a few seconds of dead silence, I lowered my head. When I looked up again, I forced a calm, almost eerie smile onto my face. “Fine,” I said, my voice as flat as a heart monitor’s drone. “I’ll buy the car.” The table went quiet. Even Tiffany looked up, surprised. They hadn’t expected me to cave so quickly. Diane’s face cleared instantly, a fake warmth radiating from her. “Oh, honey! I knew you’d see reason. That’s my good girl.” Kyle grinned, pumping his fist. “Yes! Case, you’re the best. Seriously. I’ve got your back from now on.” I watched them celebrate, watched them laugh as if Diane hadn’t just told me she’d value my corpse only for its net worth. Somewhere deep inside, the girl who wanted to be loved finally stopped breathing. 2 I returned to my tiny, one-bedroom apartment—the one with the leaky faucet and the $1,200 rent—and locked the door. For the first time all day, I could breathe. I sat in front of my laptop, the blue light illuminating my pale face. I logged into the backend of my blog. Most people knew me only as “The Echo,” an anonymous account with over three million followers. It was my only sanctuary. Thousands of people sent me their secrets, their traumas, and their stories of injustice. I was the one who offered them comfort through my writing. The irony was nauseating. In the real world, I was a doormat. Online, I was a pillar of strength for the broken-hearted. I scrolled through the messages. “Echo, my parents took my graduation money to pay for my brother’s wedding. I can’t even afford my insulin.” “My boss keeps telling me I’m worthless and that I’ll never find another job. I feel trapped.” I felt every word. My family was just a microcosm of a much larger, systemic rot. A dark, frantic idea began to take root in my mind. If they wanted to squeeze the life out of me, if they wanted to treat me like a resource instead of a human being, then I would show them exactly what a resource could do when it was depleted. I didn’t post a scathing rant immediately. That would be too easy. They’d just play the victim and call me ungrateful. No, I needed to be surgical. I opened our family group chat and played the role of the compliant daughter. “Mom, I’ll start the transfer tomorrow. Since it’s a large amount, I have to clear some things with the bank and take a morning off work. It might take a few days.” “Kyle, send me the exact specs and the dealership info. I want to make sure everything is perfect.” The chat exploded with heart emojis. Diane: “Thank God! I knew you were a sweetheart, Casey!” Kyle: “You’re a legend, Case! I’ll go to the dealership with you when the funds clear!” Tiffany: “@Kyle: Love you babe! @Casey: Thanks, sis!” I watched the screen, nauseated by their hypocrisy. I screenshotted every message, every fake “I love you,” and saved them to a secure folder. Then, I began the real work. I pulled the footage from the hidden camera I’d installed in my mom’s kitchen months ago after I suspected Kyle was stealing cash from her purse. I went through years of Venmo history and bank statements. Rent for Kyle – $1,500. Kyle’s new iPhone – $1,200. Mom’s ‘medical bills’ (which were actually Tiffany’s designer bags) – $3,000. Every cent was a piece of my soul they’d carved away. At the same time, “The Echo” started a new series. I posted a prompt: “When was the exact moment you realized your family didn’t love you—they just loved what you could do for them?” Within hours, the comment section was a sea of blood and tears. I curated the most heartbreaking stories, the ones that mirrored my own. I also reached out to a journalist who had been pestering me for an interview for months. I sent an anonymous tip: “I have proof of a systemic case of familial financial abuse and emotional extortion. It involves high-level evidence: recordings, transcripts, and financial records. Are you interested?” The reply was instantaneous. “Absolutely. Your identity will be 100% protected.” Everything was moving. I felt a cold, sharp thrill. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t the victim. I was the architect. Two days later, Kyle called. The “gratitude” was gone, replaced by his usual impatient whine. “Case, where’s the money? The sales guy at the BMW dealership has called me twice. Can you hurry it up? Some of us have lives, you know.” I leaned back in my chair, staring at the progress bar of a video I was rendering. “Almost there, Kyle. Banks are slow with five-figure wires. Just hang tight.” 3 My mother insisted on a big dinner for her 60th birthday at a high-end steakhouse in the city. She wanted all the relatives there to witness her “triumph.” The private room was packed. My aunts and uncles were draped over Diane and Kyle, their voices thick with practiced flattery. “Diane, you’re so lucky!” Aunt Martha gushed. “Kyle is doing so well, buying a BMW? He’s really the star of the family.” “And Casey is such a good sister,” another uncle added. “Giving up seventy thousand dollars just like that? That’s real family loyalty.” Diane beamed, her vanity on full display. “Oh, you know how it is. The kids are just so successful. Casey’s just doing her part. It’s what we do for each other.” Kyle was strutting around the room like he’d already won the lottery, his chest puffed out, enjoying the attention he hadn’t earned. Tiffany was clinging to his arm, making sure everyone heard her say, “Kyle promised the first ride is for Mom. She’s worked so hard; she deserves a little luxury.” I sat in the corner, a ghost at my own execution, picking at a salad. Finally, an aunt turned to me. “So, Casey, now that your savings are going to your brother, what about you? Any plans for a house? Or a husband?” Diane jumped in before I could breathe. “Oh, Casey? She’s got her books and her little job. She’s too picky anyway. Besides, a woman should use her money to support the men in her family. Who else is going to protect her when she’s old?” The words felt like needles under my skin. But I just took a sip of water and felt the weight of the digital recorder in my pocket. Kyle stumbled over, clearly a few drinks in, and slapped my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Case! When I’m a millionaire, I’ll give you a nice little allowance for your wedding. If you ever find a guy who can stand you! Haha!” Tiffany smirked. “So, Case, the car… the money is all set, right? You aren’t just talking big to impress the family, are you?” I put my glass down and looked her straight in the eyes. I gave her a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Don’t worry, Tiffany. You’ll get exactly what’s coming to you. All of you will.” She blinked, confused by my tone, and drifted away. The atmosphere reached a fever pitch. It was time for the cake. A massive, three-tier cake was wheeled in. Diane stood up, basking in the candlelight. She made a show of making a wish, then blew out the candles to a round of applause. “Casey, honey,” she said, her voice projecting to the back of the room. “Since everyone is here, why don’t you give Kyle his gift? Let everyone share in the joy.” Every eye in the room turned to me. Some were curious, some were envious, a few looked pitying. Kyle and Tiffany were practically vibrating with greed. I stood up slowly. Instead of a check or a bank card, I pulled a sleek black USB drive from my purse. The room had a projector and a screen—Diane had intended to use it for a slideshow of her “glory days.” I walked over to the laptop, my movements steady. “Mom, don’t worry,” I said, my voice eerily polite. “The money is ready. But before we get to that, I wanted to show everyone a little tribute I put together. A look at how ‘harmonious’ this family really is.” I plugged the drive in. Kyle frowned. “Case, what are you doing? Just give me the card.” Diane’s smile faltered. “Casey, don’t be dramatic. Just sit down.” I ignored them. I clicked on the folder labeled Birthday Surprise and hit play.

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I’ve recently acquired the neighbor from hell. She owns a plant—a rare, spindly thing she claims absorbs “cosmic energy”—and it has become the focal point of the entire building’s misery. It started when she decided the electromagnetic radiation from my electronics was poisoning her precious “Aether Lily.” She demanded I kill my power twenty-four hours a day. No lights, no TV, and absolutely no Wi-Fi. I tried the rational route. I explained that I work remotely, that the internet is my livelihood, and that there is zero scientific evidence that a router affects plant biology. I told her if she was that worried, she should line her own walls with lead. She didn’t take it well. “Is the internet more important than a life?” she shrieked. “If my Lily withers, you’ll be paying for it. I’ll sue you for crimes against nature!” When communication broke down, her behavior went from eccentric to unhinged. She started patrolling the hallway with a handheld EMF detector. Then, while I was away on a business trip, she actually picked my lock. She broke into my home and drowned my router, my TV, my MacBook, and even my phone chargers in a bucket of water. She called it “radiant purification.” I was ready to call the police and press every charge in the book, but then I saw a post on a local rental forum that felt like a gift from the universe. A self-described “Signal Architect” was looking for a new place. Apparently, he’d been evicted from his last complex for boosting his Wi-Fi signal to such a degree that it interfered with the local radio station. He was desperate for a landlord who would let him blast high-frequency signals all day, every day. I called him immediately. With people like her, you don’t win by being reasonable. You win by finding someone even crazier. I was going to give her a neighbor who spoke her language—the language of total signal saturation. 1 The pounding on my door was frantic, rhythmic, and loud enough to rattle the frame. Then came Agnes’s shrill voice, cutting through the wood like a jigsaw. “Lydia! I know you’re in there! Your radiation levels are spiking again! My Aether Lily is dropping leaves!” I pulled the door open. Agnes stood there, her face a mask of pinched, self-righteous fury. She was cradling that bizarre, variegated plant against her chest like a sickly infant. This was the third time tonight. “Agnes,” I said, my voice tight. “It’s ten p.m.” “And? Does wellness have an expiration date?” She shoved the plant toward my face. It looked like a common hosta that had been through a blender, but she’d reportedly paid five figures for it at some ‘holistic auction.’ She claimed it purified the local magnetic field and cured everything from insomnia to gout. To protect it, Agnes had turned her own apartment into a Faraday cage and expected the rest of us to join her in the Stone Age. The other neighbors on our floor had already fled, breaking their leases just to escape her. Now, it was just the two of us left in this wing of the building. “I’ve told you,” I said, trying to maintain a shred of patience. “Wi-Fi signals don’t harm plants. I have a deadline. I’m not turning off the router.” “Science is a lie told by corporations!” she screamed. “You’re selfish! You’re murdering a living soul! Do you have any idea what this plant is worth?” I didn’t have the energy for a debate. I started to close the door, but she jammed her foot in the crack, waving her EMF meter around like a holy relic. The device let out a sharp, jagged beep. “Aha! Dangerously high! You’re a killer, Lydia! A killer!” I shoved the door shut, locked the deadbolt, and put on my noise-canceling headphones. I could still hear her muffled cursing, but I blocked it out, focusing on the blue light of my screen. 2 The next morning, I found a makeshift “shield” made of tinfoil taped to my front door. It fell off the moment I opened it. I crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash without a second thought. Over the next week, Agnes escalated. She put superglue in my locks. She found the utility closet and snipped my fiber-optic line in the middle of the night. I called the police, but when they arrived, Agnes turned into a tragic figure. She clutched the plant and wept big, fat crocodile tears. “Officer, she’s the aggressor! Her radiation is poisoning my Lily! Look at the yellowing on the edges—that’s electronic rot!” She pointed to a leaf that was naturally yellow. The cops, clearly out of their depth with a “neighbor dispute,” gave her a warning and told us to work it out. I had the locks changed and the cable guy out to repair the line, thinking that would be the end of it. Then, my firm sent me to Chicago for a week-long conference. I was barely at the airport when I got a call from the building manager. “Lydia? We have a leak coming from your unit. It’s soaking through the floor into the apartment below.” My heart dropped. I authorized them to enter with a locksmith. Thirty minutes later, the manager sent me a video. My living room was a graveyard. My router, my 65-inch OLED TV, my PC tower, my laptop—even my electric toothbrush—were submerged in a massive plastic utility tub filled with water. The water had overflowed, warping the hardwood floors. Agnes was standing right there in the frame, clutching a set of prayer beads, chanting under her breath. “Purify. I am purifying the source,” she muttered. In the video, the manager shouted, “Agnes, what the hell are you doing?” She looked at the camera with the serene, terrifying gaze of a martyr. “I’m saving her. These devices are demons. They create karmic debt. I’m doing her a favor.” I was shaking so hard I nearly dropped my phone. I booked the first flight back. By the time I walked through my door, the police had already taken Agnes down to the station for a statement. My home was a wreck. The floors were buckled, and every piece of technology I owned was a “cold, dead corpse” at the bottom of a bucket. The next day, at the precinct, Agnes remained unrepentant. “I was doing a good deed! She should be thanking me! If I hadn’t stepped in, she would’ve developed radiation sickness by Christmas!” She even tried to counter-sue, claiming my “high-frequency environment” had caused her mental distress and “nutritional deficits” in her plant. Because there were no cameras inside my unit, she claimed I’d left the door unlocked and she’d entered to “investigate a smell of ozone” to save me. With no witnesses, the police chalked it up to a messy civil dispute. She was ordered to pay me three thousand dollars for property damage. Three thousand. My PC build alone cost more than that. I watched her walk out of the station, cradling her “Aether Lily” with a smug, triumphant grin. You can’t reason with a fanatic. But you can overwhelm them. I sat on my ruined floor, scrolling through my phone until I found the post again. Title: I boosted my Wi-Fi so hard I got evicted. Looking for a new HQ where I can run high-gain antennas 24/7. Rent is no object. The user was “Signal_Junkie_99.” I sent him a DM immediately. 3 Me: I saw your post. I have a three-bedroom. You can blast whatever signal you want. In fact, the stronger, the better. He replied instantly. Is this a setup? Are you a fed? I gave him the cliff notes version of the Agnes saga. I told him I had a neighbor who was “allergic” to technology and I wanted a tenant who could provide a “counter-frequency” to her nonsense. Say no more, he replied. I’m a specialist in signal saturation. You give me a room, and I’ll turn that floor into a 5G fortress. Your neighbor won’t know what hit her. “Can you meet today?” I asked. I’m in the parking lot of a motel with my van. I can be there in twenty minutes. His name was Arlo. He was in his early twenties, tall, lanky, and wearing a T-shirt that said ‘DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH ANALOG.’ He looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in a month, but his eyes lit up when he saw the “Aether Lily” charms and hex signs Agnes had started hanging in the hallway. “Interesting decor,” Arlo said, pushing up his glasses. “Artistic expression,” I replied, opening the door. He stepped inside and winced at the water damage. “Rough. But the bones are good. I can work with this. I’ll take the two smaller bedrooms—one for sleep, one for the ‘Array.’” “Electricity and high-speed fiber are on me,” I said. “I only have one rule.” “Shoot.” “Keep the signal at max. Twenty-four-seven. And I want the antennas pointed directly at that wall.” I gestured toward Agnes’s unit. Arlo grinned. It was a sharp, tech-savvy smirk. “Understood. Operation ‘Static Storm’ is a go.” 4 Arlo moved in like a whirlwind. He hauled up crates of servers, tangled nests of Category 6 cables, and several high-gain directional antennas that looked like something stolen from NASA. He set up his “Command Center” in the bedroom sharing a wall with Agnes. Within hours, the room was bathed in the blue glow of LED fans and the low, industrial hum of cooling systems. “Lydia, check this out.” Arlo handed me a professional-grade signal meter. The needle didn’t just move; it slammed against the right side of the gauge. “This is just ‘Idling’ mode,” Arlo whispered. “Once I spin up the ‘Storm Matrix,’ the density will be ten times this.” “Perfect,” I said. That night, as I was drifting off, a blood-curdling scream erupted from next door. It was Agnes. It sounded like she’d seen a ghost. Then came the thumping—she was throwing herself against the shared wall. “WHO IS IT? WHO IS DOING THIS? MY LILY! MY LILY IS VIBRATING!” I pulled my duvet up, listening to the chaos next door with a sense of profound peace. Arlo poked his head out of his room and gave me a thumbs-up. “Phase one complete. The neighbor is ‘sensor-aware.’ Moving to phase two.” The next morning, Agnes was waiting at my door. She had massive dark circles under her eyes, and her hair looked like a bird’s nest. She held her EMF detector, but the needle was spinning in frantic, useless circles. “It’s you! I know it’s you!” she shrieked, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “What did you do? The air tastes like metal! My detector is broken!” I leaned against the doorframe, sipping my coffee. “Oh? Maybe it’s just the new router. It’s a high-performance model.” “Router? No router does this!” She tried to push past me. “Agnes, trespassing is a crime. Remember the police talk?” Arlo stepped out behind me, yawning. He was in a wrinkled t-shirt and boxers, looking every bit the unbothered gamer. Agnes stared at him with pure disgust. “Who is this? You brought a man into this nest of filth? No wonder the energy is so foul!” Arlo adjusted his glasses. “Ma’am, first off, I’m a legal tenant. Second, electromagnetic waves don’t care about your morals. And third, that device in your hand is a glorified random-number generator. It has the processing power of a toaster.” Agnes sputtered. “You… you liar! Who are you?” “I’m a systems engineer,” Arlo said flatly. “If you’d like to discuss Maxwell’s equations or the inverse-square law of signal degradation, I’m free at noon. Otherwise, you’re blocking the airflow to my vents.” Agnes let out a frustrated wail, clutched her plant, and fled back into her unit. 5 Agnes went quiet for two days. During that time, Arlo finalized the “Storm Matrix.” Three massive directional antennas were mounted inside the window, aimed like cannons at the wall separating our units. “We just need a catalyst,” Arlo said, tapping away at his keyboard. “Something to push her over the edge.” The catalyst arrived on the third day. Agnes had hired help. A man in flowing linen robes, carrying a wooden compass and smelling of heavy incense, began pacing the hallway. An “Energy Consultant.” He stopped in front of my door, and his compass needle started spinning like a top. “Darkness!” the man gasped. “The malignant force is coming from this void!” Agnes nodded fervently. “I knew it! They’re using black tech to kill my Lily!” “Fear not,” the ‘Consultant’ said, waving a bundle of sage. “I shall cast a ‘Solar Seal’ to lock this evil away.” Arlo and I watched through the peephole. Arlo started laughing. “Oh, he wants to play magic? Let’s give him a soundtrack.” Arlo hit a button on his phone. Suddenly, a hidden Bluetooth speaker I’d placed near the door began to blare a deep, distorted, bass-heavy chant—something that sounded like a robotic exorcism. “REBOOTING SYSTEM… PURGING ANALOG INTERFERENCE… DATA IS ETERNAL… BIOLOGICALS ARE OBSOLETE…” The Consultant jumped nearly a foot in the air. His face went pale. “What… what kind of spirit is that?” Arlo switched the audio. A booming, synthesized voice echoed in the hallway: “I SEE YOU, FRAUD. YOUR SAGE HAS NO POWER OVER THE GRID. LEAVE NOW OR BE UPLOADED.” The Consultant didn’t wait. He dropped his sage, nearly tripped over his robes, and sprinted for the elevator. Agnes stood there, jaw-dropping, as her “expert” abandoned her. 6 Agnes didn’t give up, but she did get weirder. She bought rolls of industrial tinfoil and began wallpapering her entire apartment. She even covered her windows, effectively turning her home into a giant baked potato. Arlo was unimpressed. “She’s building a crude Faraday cage. But her seals are terrible. It’s actually reflecting the signals back into her own living room, magnifying the effect. She’s microwaving herself.” He was right. Agnes looked worse every day—gaunt, twitchy, and exhausted. Then came the “cleansing fires.” She started burning clumps of dried herbs in the hallway to “neutralize the magnetic rot.” The smoke was thick and acrid, triggering coughs from anyone who walked by. The building manager warned her three times, but Agnes just screamed about her “right to breathe clean energy.” One night, the smoke got so bad it started seeping under my door. Arlo looked at the haze and then at me. “Lydia, how do you feel about a little forced ‘purification’?” “What do you have in mind?” “She loves smoke. Let’s give her the full experience.” Arlo did something to the building’s smart-relay system—nothing permanent, just a “stress test.” At 2:00 AM, the smoke density in the hallway hit a specific threshold. Suddenly, the fire alarms for the entire floor erupted. The shrill, piercing shrieks were accompanied by the building’s overhead sprinkler system. Agnes burst out of her apartment, instantly soaked to the bone. Neighbors from the other wings came running out in their pajamas, seeing the hallway filled with herb-smoke and a dripping, hysterical Agnes. “You lunatic! You almost set the building on fire!” a neighbor from 4B yelled. The fire department arrived ten minutes later. They found the charred remains of her “cleansing herbs” and the water damage she’d caused. Agnes was hauled away by the police for “reckless endangerment” and “violation of fire codes.” She was held for five days. It was the most peaceful five days of my life. Arlo used the time to upgrade his setup to “Cyber-Fortress 2.0.” “Lydia, I’ve been running some diagnostics on the side,” Arlo said one afternoon, looking uncharacteristically serious. “On what?” “On Agnes’s apartment. While she was gone, the signal interference dropped, but I noticed something strange. There’s a massive power draw coming from her unit. And a very specific, high-frequency electromagnetic hum.” “You think she’s got some weird health machine in there?” “No,” Arlo said, peering at a spectrum analyzer. “Whatever is in there, it’s drawing more juice than a commercial refrigerator. And it’s been running 24/7 for months.” I had a sinking feeling. Agnes wasn’t just a crazy plant lady. She was hiding something.

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Five years later, on a nondescript business trip to a city I barely knew, I found a lost little boy on a rain-slicked street corner. After I dropped him off at the local precinct, the officer asked the child for a parent’s contact information. When the phone rang and a familiar, baritone voice answered—saying, “Daddy’s almost there”—my hand tightened around my paper coffee cup until the cardboard buckled. Half an hour later, Maxwell, a man who was supposed to be a thousand miles away standing behind a university lectern, came bursting through the station doors, breathless and frantic. The moment our eyes met, the panic on his face froze into a mask of pure shock. I stood up slowly from the wooden bench, looking at this man I hadn’t seen in five years. A cold, sharp smile curved my lips. “I have to hand it to you, Professor. In all these years, you didn’t just manage to keep your tenure—you managed to keep a secret son, too.” My mind drifted back to that rain-soaked night five years ago. He had been on his knees in front of me, begging me to spare his young teaching assistant, Lydia. “Don’t destroy her future,” he’d hissed, his eyes bloodshot, willing to sever ties with his prestigious family just to protect that girl. In the end, I had compromised. My terms were simple: Lydia had to leave the city forever and sign an iron-clad agreement never to return. For years, people behind my back whispered that I’d traded my dignity for a payout—that I’d treated my marriage like a business merger. But looking at the timid little boy clinging to Maxwell’s leg, I realized that my delayed retribution had finally arrived. “Now tell me,” I asked softly, my voice devoid of emotion. “Do you think you’ll be keeping that ‘Distinguished Professor’ title after today?” … 1 “Katherine, please… let me explain.” Maxwell pulled the boy behind him, a protective instinct that stung me more than I cared to admit. “This isn’t the place,” I interrupted, picking up my designer handbag. “Have that woman come pick up the child. You and I need to talk.” “Lydia isn’t… she isn’t well…” “Maxwell.” I looked at him with eyes as cold as a morgue. “Do you want me to call your father right now, or should I just have my lawyer send the formal notice?” Maxwell’s mouth snapped shut. The agreement I held in my safe was enough to strip him of his chair at the university, his reputation, and every cent he possessed. The boy—Henry—suddenly poked his head out and shouted at me, “You’re a mean lady! Leave my daddy alone!” A child’s words are often the sharpest weapons. Maxwell scrambled to cover the boy’s mouth, looking at me with genuine terror. “You’ve raised him well,” I said, the corners of my mouth twitching. “It seems Lydia hasn’t learned much over the years, but she’s certainly perfected the art of turning people against me.” I turned and walked out of the precinct. Outside, the snow was beginning to fall in heavy, suffocating flakes. It was biting cold. I thought about five years ago, the night I caught him. Maxwell had knelt before me, sobbing that Lydia was an orphan, a girl from the sticks with nothing and no one, begging me to give her a chance. I had just suffered a miscarriage then. I was at my most fragile, my body hollowed out by grief. I had signed the papers and set two conditions: First, Lydia would drop out and leave the city, never to return. Second, Maxwell would sign a post-nuptial agreement: if he ever strayed again, he would leave with nothing but the clothes on his back. His father, Alistair—a titan in the academic and corporate world—had nearly beaten him with his cane. But to appease my family and quiet the storm, he had allowed it. Maxwell had sworn to me then: “Katherine, it was a moment of madness. I only love you. My money, my life—it’s all yours. Just don’t expose this. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” For five years, he had been the model husband. No matter how busy he was, we FaceTimed every day. Gifts arrived for every holiday. He even skipped a multi-million dollar contract signing just to spend a quiet weekend with me. I actually believed that time had healed the wound. But it turned out Maxwell hadn’t just kept her in his heart; he had built a secret life with her. The snow stopped. Maxwell had his driver take the boy home. He didn’t dare leave, and he didn’t dare let me go. We sat in a sterile, overpriced coffee shop next to the station. “Katherine, it’s not what you think,” Maxwell said, his hands clasped against his forehead, his voice a low tremor. “Lydia… she did leave the city back then. Just like you asked.” “But she realized she was pregnant after she left. I couldn’t just abandon her. I was terrified of you finding out… and the boy, Henry… he has asthma and a heart condition. The medical bills were astronomical. She couldn’t handle it alone.” “So you brought them back?” I stirred my latte, the metal spoon clinking rhythmically against the porcelain. “And not just back—you put them in a luxury apartment and played house once a week.” “Maxwell, is this charity, or are you keeping a mistress?” “I was only seeing the child!” he argued desperately. “Katherine, the boy is innocent. Henry is sick. Every time he has an attack, he screams for his father. What was I supposed to do? Let him die?” “So you let me live like a fool instead?” I countered. “Did you think that as long as you kept them out of my sight, it didn’t count as a betrayal? What were your vows worth, Maxwell?” 2 Maxwell fell silent. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and ignored it. A moment later, my phone rang. An unknown number. I answered, and the soft, frail voice of Lydia drifted through the line. “Katherine… it’s Lydia.” “I know you’re with Maxwell right now. Can I… can I just say a few words?” I put the phone on speaker and set it on the table. “Katherine, everything is my fault. All of it,” Lydia said, her voice trembling with a sob that sounded practiced yet devastatingly effective. “I was too weak. I couldn’t support Henry on my own, so I crawled back to Maxwell like a coward. He’s a good man. He’s just being kind to a sick child… please don’t blame him.” “If you can’t have us here, I’ll take Henry and leave right now. Even if we end up on the street, I won’t cause you any more trouble…” Suddenly, the sound of a child’s hacking cough erupted from the phone, followed by Lydia’s panicked shushing. Maxwell’s face drained of color. He lunged across the table, grabbing my phone. “Lydia? Is he having an attack? Don’t move—the inhaler is in the cabinet! I’m coming!” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes wide with a frantic, pleading light. “Katherine, it’s his asthma. It could be fatal. I have to go… we’ll talk at home, okay? Please.” I looked at this man. One second he was begging for my forgiveness, and the next, his soul had already flown to her side at the first sign of trouble. I understood her game. Lydia didn’t need to scream or fight me. She just needed to be fragile. She knew that Maxwell’s hero complex was her strongest leash. “Go ahead,” I said, leaning back against the leather booth, my expression unreadable. “But Maxwell, if you walk out that door, we are truly done.” Maxwell hesitated for a fraction of a second. He looked at me, torn, but then he gritted his teeth. “Katherine, a life is at stake. I can’t ignore that.” He turned and ran out without looking back. I watched his silhouette disappear into the night. I picked up my cold coffee and swallowed the bitter dregs. It tasted like ash. I pulled out my phone and dialed Alistair’s private line. “Alistair, I’m in the city. I’m coming to see you.” I drove straight to the research center where the family patriarch was overseeing a summit. Alistair was in his office, his presence as looming and intimidating as ever. He didn’t look surprised to see me. “Katherine,” he said, setting down his tea. “You look terrible.” “You already knew, didn’t you?” I didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Lydia had the child. She’s living in a company-owned apartment on your dime. Your network is everywhere, Alistair. There’s no way you didn’t know.” Alistair paused, his sharp eyes measuring me. He sighed. “Maxwell is soft-hearted. He’s a fool.” He put the cup down. “I’m aware of the boy. He’s a bastard, yes, but he carries our blood. He’s sickly, and Maxwell taking care of him… well, that’s just human nature.” 3 “Human nature?” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Then what was that agreement Maxwell and I signed? A scrap of waste paper?” “Katherine!” Alistair’s voice took on a warning edge. “You are the mistress of this house. You need to think about the long game. As long as that woman stays in the shadows and doesn’t threaten your position, what does it matter if you let Maxwell save face?” He paused, his gaze dropping to my flat stomach. “It’s been five years, and your womb has remained empty. This empire needs an heir. Maxwell securing a backup… it’s for the good of the family.” A chill washed over me that had nothing to do with the winter outside. To them, my inability to conceive was a sin. Maxwell’s infidelity was “soft-heartedness,” the mistress was a “backup,” and my anger was simply “small-mindedness.” “What if I told you I want a divorce?” I stared him down. His face darkened instantly. He slammed his teacup onto the mahogany desk. “Don’t be ridiculous!” “You think divorce is a game? Our stock prices can’t handle that kind of scandal right now. That post-nup you hold—it’s your security, but it’s also a tether. You think you can just strip him bare, ruin his reputation, and walk away? Not that easily.” Alistair narrowed his eyes. I clenched my fists, my nails biting into my palms. In this family, there was no warmth—only the cold calculus of interest. There was a knock at the door. An assistant stepped in, looking awkward. “Sir, Professor Maxwell is here… and he brought the boy.” Maxwell walked in, holding Henry in his arms, with a trembling Lydia following behind him. “Father.” Maxwell didn’t even look at me. He brought the child straight to Alistair. “Henry heard his grandfather was here and insisted on seeing you.” Henry, despite his pale face, managed a small, rehearsed smile. “Hello, Grandpa.” Alistair’s stern expression softened instantly. “Good boy. Very polite.” He reached out and patted the child’s head. Lydia stood in the corner, stealing a glance at me. It wasn’t the look of a victim; it was a flash of triumph. If Alistair accepted the grandson, she was no longer an interloper—she was a hero of the bloodline. And I was the one on borrowed time. Maxwell looked at me, his confidence returning. “Katherine, even Father agrees. Just think of the family…” The nausea I’d been suppressing all day suddenly surged. I bolted for the private restroom in the office and retched until my throat burned. When I came out, Lydia was suddenly on her knees in front of me, tears streaming down her face. “Katherine, I know I shouldn’t have come back. But Henry needs surgery for his heart. The best specialist is here in this city. I did it to save my son!” She looked up, her face a mask of tragic beauty. “Once the surgery is over, I’ll take him away. You’ll never see us again. Katherine, you’re a woman… you’ve lost a child before. Please, have mercy on a mother’s heart.” 4 Yes, I had lost a child. And because of that, I felt absolutely zero sympathy for her. She was, and would always be, the woman who chose to build her life on the wreckage of mine. “Katherine… the surgery is next week,” Maxwell said, his voice tight. “But the costs and the follow-up care are… substantial.” I looked at him. “And?” “I need to pause the funding on your current research project. I need to liquidate those assets to pay for Henry’s treatment.” I felt the world tilt. “Maxwell, do you have any idea what pausing that project means? Three years of my life and millions in grants—gone.” “Money can be replaced! My son’s life cannot!” Maxwell roared. “Enough!” My vision blurred. A weight like a mountain pressed down on my chest. The nausea returned, more violent than before, followed by a dizzying blackness. I clutched my stomach and collapsed. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Maxwell was sitting by my side, staring at a piece of paper in his hand, looking stunned. He jumped up when he saw me open my eyes. “Katherine! You’re awake?” He leaned in close. “How do you feel? Does your… does your stomach hurt?” I frowned and pushed his hand away. “What are you doing, Maxwell?” He didn’t speak. He just handed me the paper. Intrauterine pregnancy. Six weeks. I froze. “The doctor said… your body was already weak from the last time,” Maxwell whispered, his eyes red. “This pregnancy is a miracle, but you’re at high risk. The stress almost caused a miscarriage. You have to stay in bed. No excitement. No stress.” “It’s a miracle, Katherine. It’s a sign from God.” He tried to hug me, then pulled back, afraid to touch me. “Wait until Father hears! He’ll be overjoyed!” Watching his jubilation, I felt nothing but a profound, sickening irony. “You’re happy, Maxwell?” I asked coldly. “Of course I am! It’s our baby!” “Well, I’m not.” I touched my belly, my gaze icy. “I don’t want it.” I pointed toward the door. “I won’t bring a child into a world where they have a father who plays favorites and a half-brother waiting to steal their inheritance. I’d rather end it now.” “No!” Maxwell screamed, his eyes bloodshot. “That’s my child! You have no right—I won’t allow it!” “You won’t allow it?” I laughed. “It’s in my body, Maxwell. I decide if it stays or goes.” I sat up straight, my eyes piercing. “I’ll give you a choice.” “Either you send Lydia and that boy out of the country today—no contact, no money, never to return—or I walk into that OR right now and terminate this pregnancy.”

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My sister and I each had a “Kinship Jar.” Inside those jars, we didn’t store coins. We stored the love and care we received, a currency that could be traded at the “Empyrean Exchange” for anything life could offer. When I was nineteen, my father was involved in a horrific car accident. His body was shattered, a puzzle of broken bone and torn flesh. Once again, our family stood before the glass doors of the Exchange. I tried to nudge my younger sister, Kayla, forward, but my mother’s hand clamped onto her shoulder like a vice. With a sudden, violent jerk, she hauled me toward the counter instead. “You’ve spent your whole life doing nothing for this family while we showered you with love,” she hissed, her voice trembling with a terrifying blend of grief and entitlement. “It’s time for you to pay us back. Don’t you dare tell me you’re unwilling.” “Besides,” she added, her grip tightening until my skin bruised, “the contents of that jar were given to you by us. It’s only right that you return them to save your father.” I was shoved toward the cold marble counter. Beside me, a young woman—a stranger whose jar was evidently empty—suddenly disintegrated. She didn’t just die; she erupted into a silent, macabre firework of crimson and ash. I wanted to scream, but my throat was frozen. Because, Mom, my jar has been empty for years. When I was seven, you were dying of cancer. I emptied my jar—all the “sacrifices” of your pregnancy and early years—to buy back your health. When I was twelve, our brother, Jackson, lost his leg in a street fight. I traded the years of Dad’s “protection and guidance” to make his flesh and bone knit whole again. 1 Bits of bone and red mist settled into the corners of the hall. Terrified, I clutched my ceramic jar and ducked behind a fluted pillar, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was certain I was next. The clerk behind the counter didn’t even blink. This was just another Tuesday at the Exchange. “Her jar was empty,” the clerk said, his voice as mechanical as a ticking clock. “You, as her parents, put nothing into it. Naturally, there was nothing to withdraw.” “A child like that,” he continued, glancing at the remains of the girl, “is what the system classifies as a ‘failure.’ Utterly unloved. Therefore, she was liquidated.” The girl’s parents didn’t look sad. They stepped over the pieces of their daughter, cursing her name. “Empty? How could it be empty?” the father spat. “We raised her! We skimped and saved for her! She must have been a slut, giving all our love away to some boy on the street.” “A total waste of skin,” the mother added, wiping a drop of blood off her shoe. “Ungrateful brat. She deserved to pop.” My mother watched them with a sneer of superiority. “If they had actually given her anything, the jar would have produced,” she whispered to Jackson. “Lying snakes. Thank God I actually love my daughters.” Then, her eyes locked onto me. She grabbed my arm and hauled me off the floor. I felt my teeth chatter as the floor grew slick with the other girl’s remains. “Mom, please… I don’t want to die. I don’t want to go like she did…” “My jar is empty, too,” I sobbed, my voice breaking. “Use Kayla’s. Please, use Kayla’s jar.” The color drained from my mother’s face, replaced by a dark, mottled rage. She pinched the underside of my arm, twisting the skin. “Grace, are you trying to embarrass me? You want these people to think I don’t love you? That I never cared for you?” “I’ve been a stay-at-home mother since the day you were born! I ruined my back carrying you! And now you have the audacity to tell me your jar is empty?” “You’re only saying that because I can’t see inside the ceramic. Well, stop lying. The Exchange closes in ten minutes. Save your father. Now.” She dragged me toward the counter. Panic surged through me, primal and raw. In a desperate blur, I sank my teeth into her wrist. She shrieked, and I felt the salt of my own tears flooding my mouth. “Why is it always me?” I screamed, the words tore from my chest. “Why can’t Kayla give something for once? It’s always me. It’s her turn!” My mother always spoke of her “sacrifices,” of her “undying devotion.” But I never understood. If the air in our house was thick with love, why was it only Kayla’s jar that ever rattled with the sound of gold? “God, you’re so petty,” Kayla said, rolling her eyes as she checked her reflection in her phone screen. “The stuff in my jar is for my future,” she said casually. “I’m going to trade it for a modeling contract, for fame, for a face that never ages. You aren’t doing anything with your life anyway, Grace. Why are you being so selfish about Dad?” Jackson stepped forward, his face a mask of disgust. He reached out with one massive hand, grabbed me by the scruff of my neck, and literally threw me onto the counter. “Mom and Dad worked themselves to the bone for you,” he growled. “And you can’t do one thing in return? You heartless bitch.” I stared at the clerk’s fixed, artificial smile. My mind was a loop of the girl who had just exploded. I gripped the edge of the marble counter until my knuckles turned white, looking at my mother with absolute desperation. “If I pop like that girl did… Mom, if I blow up, will you believe me then? I’m not lying.” “You are lying,” she snapped. “Your father and I treated you and Kayla exactly the same. Her jar is overflowing. Why would yours be empty?” She reached out and forcibly pried my fingers off the counter. I wanted my father to live. But I didn’t want to cease to exist. A sudden thought struck me. I rolled off the counter, clutching my jar to my chest, and bolted for the exit. I ran until my lungs burned. “I’m sorry,” the clerk’s voice echoed through the hall, amplified by the high ceilings. “The Empyrean Exchange is now closed. We will reopen in seventy-two hours.” The look on my mother’s face was pure venom. She caught up to me in the parking lot, fist bunching into my hair as she dragged me toward the car. When she finally finished hitting me, I sat in the dirt, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I forced a small, obedient smile, looking up at her through swollen eyes. “Mom… I’ll be good. In three days, I’ll save Dad. I promise. Just… please don’t hit me anymore, okay?” I told myself she was my mother. She couldn’t possibly not love me. If I could just earn even a tiny bit of affection in the next three days—just one gold coin of genuine care—I wouldn’t have to die. And Dad would come home. 2 Because I hadn’t “obeyed” and brought Dad back immediately, my mother spent the entire car ride screaming. When we got home, she forced me to kneel on the cold floor in front of Dad’s refrigerated casket. “Stay there,” she commanded. “Apologize to him until you mean it.” I knew better than to argue. I was used to the role of the family’s living sacrifice. At dinner time, the smell of garlic butter wafted through the house. Mom was preparing shrimp—Kayla’s favorite. Every time Mom made a “special meal,” I would hear the faint clink of a coin hitting the bottom of Kayla’s jar. Mom would beam and say, “I do it all for my girls. As long as you’re happy and healthy, the work is worth it.” I am severely allergic to shellfish. I watched them from the hallway, my stomach aching. I wanted that love. I wanted a coin of my own. Once, I had asked her why she never made my favorite meal. She had just shrugged and said she forgot. “Next time,” she’d say. “I’ll do yours next time.” But next time was a phantom that never arrived. “Mom?” I whispered, my voice hoarse from crying. “Could I maybe have some roasted potatoes? Just… just one small bowl?” I looked at her, hoping. If she made them for me—if she showed that tiny bit of consideration—the jar might rattle. I could save Dad. But Mom slammed the colander into the sink with a deafening crack. “Eat? All you think about is your stomach! You don’t deserve to eat. If it weren’t for your cowardice, your father wouldn’t be sitting in a box of ice right now.” “You’ve broken this family,” she spat. “And you have the nerve to ask me to cook for you? You’re dreaming. No dinner for you today. Or tomorrow.” I went back to the casket and knelt in the dark. I watched through the doorway as the three of them—Mom, Jackson, and Kayla—laughed and ate like a real family. By midnight, a fever had taken hold of me. My face felt like it was on fire, and my breath came in ragged gasps. “Mom…” I wheezed as she walked past me toward the kitchen, a paring knife and an apple in her hand. She didn’t even look down. I reached out and snagged the hem of her robe. “Mom, please… I’m burning up. Can you take me to the hospital? Or just… just check on me?” She frowned, looking at me with annoyance. Before she could speak, Kayla skipped out of her bedroom. “Mom! Is my apple ready? You promised!” My mother’s face transformed instantly. The hardness vanished, replaced by a soft, doting glow. “Almost done, sweetie. Don’t eat too fast, though. There’s a storm coming tonight, and I don’t want you getting a tummy ache from the cold.” Clink. Kayla’s jar sang. She looked over her mother’s shoulder at me and flashed a small, triumphant grin. See? her eyes said. The love is all mine. Again. In the past, I would have just felt small. But now, with the clock ticking toward my execution, a hot coal of resentment flared in my chest. “Mom, don’t you love me? Why don’t you care that I’m sick?” The question seemed to shock her for a second. Then, her face contorted. She lunged forward and slapped me so hard my head hit the floorboards. “Grace! How dare you? After everything I’ve done? I raised you! I kept you fed and clothed! And you say I don’t love you?” “You’re a monster,” she cried, covering her face. “An ungrateful, black-hearted monster.” I scrambled to sit up, my head spinning. “But the jar hasn’t made a sound in years, Mom! I’m dying of a fever and you won’t even—” “Shut up with the jar!” Jackson’s voice boomed from the stairs. “You’re just jealous of Kayla. If you had just saved Dad like a good daughter, Mom wouldn’t be upset. This is your fault. You deserve to feel like crap.” Mom looked at me with a cold, theatrical disappointment, wiping a stray tear. “Fine. Since you think I’m such a ‘bad mother,’ then I guess I’ll be one. From now on, you’re on your own. If you think someone else loves you more, go find them. Don’t call me Mom anymore.” She began to treat me like a ghost. She didn’t speak to me, didn’t look at me, and didn’t cook for me. Even when I collapsed from the fever, she didn’t move. She eventually told Jackson to “dump me at the clinic” so the neighbors wouldn’t see a body on the porch. I refused to believe it. I refused to believe that the woman who gave me life didn’t have a single drop of affection left for me. So, I found a heavy, jagged stone in the garden. I took it into the bathroom and, screaming into a towel, I smashed it against my own forearm until the bone cracked and blood soaked through my shirt. “Mom!” I sobbed, stumbling into the living room. “Mom, I’m hurt! It hurts so much!” For a heartbeat, I saw it. A flicker of genuine alarm in her eyes. I saw the golden coin of “Care” materialize in the air, a shimmering phantom hovering above my head, ready to drop into my jar. “Wait,” Kayla said, her voice sharp. “The old man next door lost a bowl of chicken blood today. I saw Grace sneaking around his yard.” She looked at our mother with wide, pitying eyes. “Mom, you work so hard. Why is she trying to trick you with fake blood just to make you feel guilty?” I panicked. “It’s not fake! It’s mine! Look at the bone, Mom! I did this because the jar is empty and I need you to care so I can save Dad!” I thrust my jar into Kayla’s hands. “You can see it! Tell her! Tell her it’s empty!” My mother turned her gaze toward Kayla. 3 “Kayla,” Mom said, her voice trembling. “You tell me the truth. Is your sister lying, or is that jar really empty?” “I can’t believe I spent twenty years of my life on you,” Mom added, looking at me with burgeoning hate. “Only for you to tell me it was all for nothing.” I held my breath, looking at Kayla with a pleading intensity. Kayla blinked, then hugged Mom’s arm tightly. “Grace’s jar is just as full as mine, Mom. I don’t know why she’s lying. She’s just so ungrateful for everything you’ve done.” The world turned gray. “You’re lying…” I whispered. “Enough!” Mom stood up, her face a mask of stone. “I’m done feeling sorry for you. Since you’ve decided I’ve given you nothing, then you have no mother. From now on, you’re a stranger in this house.” My arm was still bleeding, the pain throbbing in time with my heartbeat. She didn’t care. She wouldn’t even look at the wound. She began to avoid me entirely. When I saw her at the school gates picking up Kayla during a torrential downpour, the teacher asked why she hadn’t brought an umbrella for me, too. Mom just scoffed. “In her eyes, I don’t love her. Why would I waste an umbrella on someone who doesn’t appreciate me? Even a stray dog wags its tail when you feed it. She’s lower than that.” I followed them home, walking twenty paces behind, drenched to the bone and shivering. “Mom, maybe I should share with her?” Kayla asked, stopping and looking back at me with a performative frown. At that exact moment, a massive oak tree, its roots loosened by the storm, gave way. The wind roared as the trunk began to tilt directly toward us. I tried to run, but my soaked clothes weighed me down. The branches slammed into my legs, pinning me to the asphalt. Kayla was buried under a heap of smaller branches and leaves. “Grace, you curse!” Mom screamed, rushing toward the wreckage. “Everything bad that happens is because of you! If Kayla hadn’t stopped to pity you, she wouldn’t have been hit!” “Kayla! My baby!” Mom dove into the leaves. I didn’t even hope she would save me first. I just hoped she wouldn’t forget me once Kayla was out. But she didn’t stay. Mom pulled a scratched, crying Kayla from the debris and began to run toward the car, cradling her as if she were made of glass. “Mom! Please! Don’t leave me!” I shrieked, clutching at her ankle as she passed. “My leg… I think it’s broken! Help me!” I looked up at her, begging for a single look of concern. Just one. She didn’t even glance down. She kicked my hand away with a sharp grunt. “I have to get Kayla to the ER. I’ll send someone back for you later.” By the time a bystander called an ambulance and I reached the hospital, Mom was already in the waiting room. When she saw me on the gurney, she didn’t rush over. She stood up and snarled. “Because of you and your ‘broken leg,’ I was late getting Kayla checked. If her face is scarred, I will never forgive you.” I let out a hollow, bitter laugh. “Is my leg really worth less than a scratch on her face?” Mom faltered for a second, her lips thinning. She closed her eyes. “Why do you always have to compete with her? You do nothing for this family. We’ve kept you for nineteen years for free. The least you could do is show some grit.” “I just wanted you to love me,” I whispered, the fight finally leaving my body. “I just wanted you to care. That’s the only way the jar works.” I looked at her, exhausted. “You want me to pay you back? I’m trying. But if I go into that Exchange with an empty jar, I will pop. I will die, Mom. I don’t want to die.” Mom rolled her eyes, the empathy completely gone. “Here we go again. How long are you going to keep up this charade? If I’d known you’d be this much drama, I would have stopped at one child.” I didn’t have the strength to explain anymore. I knew then that the jar would never ring again. She didn’t love me. She didn’t believe me. Perhaps she had stopped loving me the very second Kayla was born. I thought about what the clerk had said. A failure. Liquidation. Fine. If I was the thing that made this family miserable, then maybe my “liquidation” would finally bring them peace. 4 During the two days I spent in the hospital with Kayla, her jar was filled to the brim yet again. She sat at her bedside table, scribbling a shopping list in a notebook. “So, Grace,” she said, tapping her chin with a pen. “Besides Dad’s life, what else are you going to trade for? Next week is Mom and Jackson’s birthday. You’d better have something good.” Jackson leaned against the doorframe, checking his phone. “I’ve been eyeing the head cheerleader at the university,” he said, not even looking at me. “I want you to trade for her to be ‘hopelessly in love’ with me. Got that, Grace?” Mom walked in then, nodding in agreement. “I don’t need much,” Mom said. “Just something practical. A solid gold cuff, maybe two hundred grams. And when your father comes back, he’ll need a new job. Something executive level. Trade for that, too.” Before I could speak, Kayla piped up. “Honestly, Grace looks so reluctant. Maybe I should just do it? I’ll save Dad and buy the gifts.” She sighed dramatically. “We’re family, after all. I shouldn’t be so stingy.” Mom stroked Kayla’s hair, her expression softening. “I know you have a good heart, honey. But this has to be Grace. She needs to learn what it means to be a daughter. She needs to understand the weight of her debt.” She turned to me, her eyes like chips of ice. “Grace, if you are so selfish that you won’t even save your own father, then don’t bother coming home. You’re dead to us.” I looked up at her. “So… if I pop like a firework… that’s okay with you?” Mom laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Then you pop. Who’s to blame but you? Your father and I gave you everything. If you’re empty, it’s because you’re a liar who traded our love away for something else behind our backs.” Kayla giggled. “Maybe she has a secret boyfriend? I saw her talking to that boy, Marcus, after school.” Mom’s face went purple. She didn’t even wait for me to explain. She went to the school the next day and withdrew me from my classes. She screamed at me in the middle of the hallway, in front of everyone. “School? What for? So you can learn how to lure men? No wonder you’re so ’empty,’ you’ve been giving it all away to every boy who looks at you! You’re a slut! A pathetic, thirsty little girl!” Even after Marcus came forward with proof that we had only ever discussed a math project, Mom didn’t apologize. She just sat on the porch, cracking sunflower seeds. “Since you’re not in school, get a job. You clearly have a ‘rebellion’ problem. You need to see how hard life is.” She sent me to work in a hotel kitchen, scrubbing industrial pots. After one morning, my hands were raw, cracked, and bleeding from the lye. I earned thirty dollars. “Do you understand the struggle now?” she asked when I got home. I stared at my shaking, stinging hands. “I understand,” I whispered. Jackson sneered. “Is that all? You should be on your knees, thanking Mom for her hard work.” I did it. I knelt on the floor, my voice hollow. “Thank you, Mom. You work so hard.” “Good,” she said. The day the Exchange reopened, Mom did something rare. She made me a glass of warm milk. But as I held the glass, the jar remained silent. I realized then—she didn’t make the milk because she loved me. She made it because she wanted me to be strong enough to complete the transaction. I drank it. When I woke up, I was bound to a chair in the middle of the Empyrean Exchange. “Save your father first,” Mom commanded, her face flushed with excitement. “Then the jewelry and Jackson’s girl.” I didn’t fight her. I looked at the clerk. He gave me that same mechanical smile. I reached out and pushed my jar across the marble. The system began to chime, a high-pitched, digital pulse that echoed in the vast hall. I turned my head one last time to look at my mother. I saw the greed in her eyes, the joy of a woman about to get everything she wanted. And then, my body shattered. I didn’t feel pain. I felt a sudden, violent expansion, as if I had become the wind. My blood sprayed across her face, hot and metallic.

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I brought the ceramic mug to my lips and took a slow sip. The iced coffee slid down my throat, a sharp, freezing contrast to the stifling heat of the afternoon. Then, the male voice drifting over from the window booth made my blood run cold. It was a voice I knew better than my own. It was Thomas. “Babe, when are you finally going to tell him?” he asked, his tone dripping with an easy, confident affection. The woman sitting across from him let out a soft, dismissive laugh. “What’s the rush? You know how ridiculously picky he is.” “It’s been three months,” the woman added, her voice taking on a whining edge. “He hasn’t sent a single text to even check in.” Three months ago, my aunt had set me up on a blind date. We met up twice. The chemistry was flat, the conversation forced, and we simply let it fade out without another word. At the time, Thomas had thrown an arm around my shoulder and said, “Let it go, Dan. I can tell from a mile away she’s a flake. I’m just looking out for you, man.” My neck stiffened. Slowly, involuntarily, I turned my head toward the window. There was Thomas. He was leaning in, resting his chin affectionately against the shoulder of the woman who had just spoken. The smile on his face was sugary, intimate, and entirely genuine. 1. Thomas and I had been friends for ten years. We shared a cramped dorm room in college, surviving on cheap beer and instant ramen. After graduation, we stayed in the same city. We bought each other absurd birthday gifts, hyped each other up on Instagram, and spent every holiday together when we couldn’t make it home. Everyone in our social circle considered us brothers. I thought so, too. When I turned twenty-three, my mom started dropping heavy hints about me settling down. “Look at Thomas,” she would say over the phone. “He’s such a good friend, always keeping an eye out for a nice girl for you.” And he was. Thomas really did keep an eye out for me. My first setup was at twenty-three. She was the cousin of one of Thomas’s coworkers, a junior analyst at a corporate bank. We had one date. It was decent. Thomas told me he’d ask around about her at the office. Three days later, he shook his head. “She’s toxic, man. My coworker says she has awful anger management issues. Don’t even bother.” So, I didn’t bother. The second setup happened when I was twenty-four. A friend of a friend, an architectural designer. We went out twice, and she seemed genuinely interested. Thomas stepped in. “Let me vet her for you.” Afterward, he pulled me aside. “Dan, she’s way too slick. She’s playing games. I’m telling you this because I care about you—cut your losses.” I cut my losses. The third was at twenty-five. A match from Hinge who worked in tech. We texted for a month before finally agreeing to meet. Thomas insisted on coming along to “break the ice.” He showed up forty minutes late to the bar. The girl and I had been sitting in agonizing, stilted silence the entire time. She never texted me again. Thomas patted my back. “See? No patience at all. I’m doing you a favor, letting you see her true colors early.” I believed him. The fourth time. The fifth time. The sixth time. Thomas was there for every single one. He analyzed them, vetted them, asked the invasive questions I wouldn’t—”Does she have student debt?” “Is she looking for a meal ticket?”—and always delivered the final verdict: She’s not the one. I was twenty-eight now. Seven setups. Seven failures. And every time, Thomas was there to pour me a drink and offer his wisdom. “Don’t stress it, man. It’s good that you have high standards. Better to be alone than settle for the wrong person.” I would look at him. His eyes were always so unbelievably sincere. And I would smile back. “Yeah. No rush.” Back in the coffee shop, I sat in silence until the ice melted and my coffee was watered down to nothing. From start to finish, Thomas never noticed me. When he finally left, his fingers were laced tightly with the woman’s. As they walked past my section of the café, he didn’t even glance in my direction. I pulled out my phone and scrolled back through my texts from three months ago. Thomas: She’s a total flake, man. I’m just looking out for you. I stared at that glowing blue bubble for a very long time. Then, I kept scrolling. Back in time. The seventh setup. He said: She’s way too plain. You can do so much better. The sixth setup. He said: Sales reps never have any work-life balance. The fifth setup. He said: Look at her Instagram. It’s all partying and expensive dinners. She’s not looking for anything serious. Fourth. Third. Second. First. Every single time, he had a bulletproof reason. Every single time, I swallowed it whole. I set my phone face down on the table and looked out the window. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, bruised shadows across the pavement. A memory suddenly surfaced, sharp and uninvited. After every failed date, Thomas would insist on taking me out to dinner. And over burgers or tacos, he would always ask, casually, “So, she never reached out again?” I would say no. And he would laugh, a bright, easy sound. “Told you. Completely unreliable.” I had never once questioned it. But sitting there now, a cold dread pooling in my stomach— Why did he always need to confirm that they hadn’t texted me? I flipped my phone over. I didn’t open our text thread. I opened Instagram. Not my profile. Theirs. I still followed a few of the women I’d gone out with. Some hadn’t blocked me or removed me. Number seven—the one from three months ago—had a private profile. Dead end. Number six—from last year. I scrolled back. Two months after our date, she posted a photo at a vineyard. In the corner of the frame, there was the back of a man’s shoulders. He was wearing a distinct, vintage-wash denim shirt. Thomas owned that exact same shirt. My thumb hovered over the screen. I kept scrolling. Number five—from two years ago. She had posted a flat-lay photo of two lattes and a slice of cake at a rustic indie café. I recognized the café. Thomas had dragged me there once. He told me it was his “secret hidden gem.” I put the phone down. My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic, trapped rhythm. But I didn’t move. Suspicion wasn’t enough. I needed proof. 2. My apartment became a war room. Seven dates. Seven women. I booted up my laptop and started building a master timeline. Text logs, social media screenshots, dates, timestamps, and Thomas’s corresponding alibis. Date Number One. The banker. March 2019. After one meeting, Thomas labeled her “toxic.” I cut contact. Three days later, Thomas posted an Instagram story tagged at a high-end sushi lounge. I hate sushi. Thomas had always complained about raw fish, too. But that specific restaurant? It was the exact place Date Number One had raved about during our dinner. She said their salmon sashimi was to die for. I had even sent Thomas a screenshot of her recommendation at the time. Date Number Two. The architect. May 2020. Thomas called her “slick.” I stopped texting her. The very next week, Thomas bailed on our weekend plans, claiming he was buried in paperwork. Yet, that weekend, he posted three separate times—from a trendy mall, a boutique movie theater, and a Michelin-starred bistro. Did he go to a romantic bistro by himself? Date Number Three. Tech industry. August 2021. The day Thomas came as my wingman and showed up forty minutes late. The girl ghosted me. I had spent two years believing I was just that uninteresting. But thinking back on it now… the day he showed up late? He was wearing a brand-new jacket. His hair was freshly styled. He smelled like expensive cologne. Who gets dressed to the nines just to play wingman for their buddy? I dragged the data points across the screen, lining them up. Out of the seven women, I could definitively place Thomas in the immediate orbit of four of them. Always right after I walked away. Always right after he promised he was just looking out for me. I sat back in my desk chair, staring at the glowing mosaic of screenshots. Outside, the city had gone completely dark. I hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights in my apartment. A quiet, devastating thought bloomed in the back of my mind. In ten years of friendship, Thomas had never posted a single photo of me on his social media. Ten years. We were supposedly closer than brothers. Not one photo. I had scrolled through his entire grid. There were group shots with his coworkers, throwbacks with other college buddies, endless photos of his wife. But no Daniel. He had an excuse for it once. “Dan, you hate having your picture taken. I’m just respecting your boundaries.” It was true. I wasn’t big on photos. But in a decade? Not even a candid? I closed my laptop. The apartment was suffocatingly quiet. I could hear the slow, rhythmic thud of my own pulse. Thump. Thump. Thump. It was remarkably steady. I wasn’t consumed by fiery, blinding rage. I just felt impossibly, hollowly cold. 3. The next morning, I made a move. I tracked down the phone number for Date Number Three. The tech girl. The one where Thomas was forty minutes late. I sent her a text: Hey. I know it’s been years, but do you have ten minutes for coffee? I have a question about the day we met. She replied almost instantly with a question mark. Then she dropped a pin for a Starbucks near her office building. When I walked in, she looked a little different—her hair was shorter, she looked a bit more tired—but she carried herself well. “What did you want to ask?” she said, taking a sip of her iced Americano. “After that day at the bar… why did you completely ice me out?” She blinked, genuinely taken aback. “You really don’t know?” “Know what?” “Your buddy,” she said, setting her cup down on the wooden table. “The guy who showed up late. He added me on Snapchat before he left.” I stayed completely silent. “He told me you had a severe history of mental illness. He told me to run while I could.” A laugh, sharp and jagged, scraped its way out of my throat. “Mental illness.” “Yeah.” She looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and lingering unease. “He said you were clinically unstable. That you had an ex-girlfriend, and when she broke up with you, you tried to slit your wrists. He told me he was doing me a favor, warning me. Said he was worried you’d snap, so I shouldn’t tell you we spoke.” I nodded slowly, letting the sheer magnitude of the lie wash over me. “And then?” “And then?” She offered a brittle smile. “Then I blocked your number. Who’s going to take that kind of risk?” I leaned forward. “Did he ever ask you out after that?” She hesitated, her eyes dropping to the table. “…Yes.” “How many times?” “Three or four.” She sighed. “Eventually, it gave me the creeps. He was way too aggressive about it. He didn’t act like a guy who was just worried about his mentally ill friend.” I stood up, pushing my chair back. “Thank you.” As I turned to leave, she called out, her voice tight. “Hey. Were you ever actually… sick?” I looked back over my shoulder. “What do you think?” I walked out of the coffee shop and stepped onto the glaring, sunbaked sidewalk. The heat was oppressive, but I suddenly felt the urge to throw my head back and laugh. A history of mental illness. Slit wrists. The absolute audacity. The sociopathic ease of it all. I pulled out my phone and started typing out messages to the others. Number Four. Number Five. Number Six. Not all of them replied. But the two who did gave me the exact same missing puzzle piece. Your buddy warned me. The only thing that changed was the flavor of the poison. For Number Four, the lie was that I was drowning in gambling debt and looking for a rich wife to bail me out. For Number Five, the lie was that I had a deranged stalker ex-girlfriend who made my life a living hell. I screenshotted every confession. One image. Two images. Three. The chain of evidence was growing heavy in my hands. I leaned against a streetlight, staring at my phone screen. Thomas’s WhatsApp profile picture was a minimalist illustration of a white lotus. Clean. Peaceful. His bio read: Kindness is a choice. I stared at those words until the letters blurred together. Then I pocketed my phone and started walking home. That was enough for today. Tomorrow, I would dig up the rest. 4. On the seventh day, I found the final piece of the puzzle. It wasn’t one of the ghosts from my dating history. It was Thomas’s wife. Megan. I knew Megan. Sort of. I had gone to their wedding. I slipped a generous check into a card for them. But I wasn’t one of Thomas’s groomsmen. He had told me, looking deeply apologetic, that his younger cousin had begged for the spot and he couldn’t say no. I had clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, man. I’ll be in the front row getting all the embarrassing photos of you.” But I never sent him a single photo. Because when I reviewed my camera roll the next morning, I realized every single picture of the altar was severely blown out and blurry. Thomas’s cousin had teased me at the reception. “Damn, Dan, you’re terrible with a camera.” I had just laughed it off. Thinking about it now… the seat Thomas had explicitly reserved for me was directly in the glare of the stained-glass windows. Of course the photos were blown out. I was shooting blind into the sun. Megan had met Thomas in 2019. March 2019. The date was burned into my brain, because that was the exact month of my very first setup. The bank analyst. I pulled up Megan’s Facebook page.

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