For twenty-six years, I’ve been living inside the pages of a toxic romance novel. I was cast as the quintessential tragic husband—the gullible fool whose wife brings her manipulative “boy best friend” into their home, the man constantly misunderstood, systematically pushed out of his own company, and ultimately destined for a car crash that would leave him paralyzed. But I refused to play the victim. So, I spent ten years mastering martial arts. I registered my core tech patents eight years ago. And three years ago, I drafted airtight licensing agreements. In our first year of marriage, my wife brought her sickly childhood friend home. He claimed he only needed to stay for three months. I set my spoon down, picked up my phone, and called four private security guards. “Pack his things and send them back to his own house.” My wife grabbed my wrist, her voice tense. “Wayne, don’t do this. You’re crossing a line.” I looked at her and offered a calm, steady smile. “If you don’t like it, Mary, you are more than welcome to go with him.” 1 The clam chowder on the dining table was still steaming, the heavy, buttery scent of seafood mixing with fresh thyme. A single droplet of grease clung to the rim of the white porcelain bowl. Mary set her spoon down, her fingertips tapping twice against the edge of the table. I knew what was coming. In these kinds of tragic stories, the downfall never starts with a dramatic car crash, a kidnapping, or sudden bankruptcy. It starts with a simple, seemingly innocent sentence. “Wayne, Elliot’s health has been getting worse lately,” she said. “The doctor recommends he have someone close to keep an eye on him. I was thinking… I’d like him to stay with us for a while.” My hand froze mid-air, my spoon hovering. Elliot sat right next to her, drowning in an oversized, heather-grey cashmere sweater. He coughed softly, pressing a pristine white tissue to his lips, his long eyelashes casting shadows over his downturned eyes. “I’m really sorry for the intrusion, Wayne,” Elliot murmured. “Honestly, I could have just stayed at a hotel, but Mary insisted she’d worry too much.” He looked up at me, a flicker of something dark and calculative buried deep in his gaze. But I had spent over twenty years analyzing the tropes of melodrama. I could spot that look in my sleep. Ah, here it is, I thought. The opening act. The sickly childhood friend moves in. I lowered my hand, placing my spoon back in the bowl, and casually picked out a stray piece of clam shell. “No,” I said. Mary blinked, taken aback. Beside her, Elliot’s hand tightened around the crumpled tissue. “Wayne, it’s just the guest bedroom,” Mary said, her brow furrowing. “Not even the guest bedroom.” Mary’s eyes hardened. “You didn’t use to be like this. You used to be generous.” I wiped my fingers with a linen napkin and finally met her gaze. “That’s because nobody tried to move into my marital home before.” Elliot stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. “It’s fine, Mary,” he said, his voice trembling. “Clearly, Wayne doesn’t want me here. I’ll just leave.” He reached for his coat with agonizing slowness, his shoulder swaying as if he might collapse at any moment. Naturally, Mary lunged forward to steady him. “Don’t push yourself, Elliot,” she pleaded, before turning a fiery glare in my direction. “Wayne, you know he just had heart surgery. He cannot handle this kind of emotional stress.” I stared at her hand resting protectively on Elliot’s arm. My silver spoon tapped against the edge of the bowl with a light, metallic clink. Jumping straight into the guilt trips on page one? The author of this tragedy is really rushing the plot. I picked up my phone and dialed my head of security. “Thomas, bring the guys up.” Mary’s face paled. “What are you doing, Wayne?” “Sending our guest on his way,” I replied. Less than a minute later, the synchronized thud of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. Four security guards entered, clad in tailored black suits with earpieces secured. As they stood in the living room, their towering frames seemed to cast a shadow over the entire space. The remaining color drained from Elliot’s face. “There’s no need to humiliate me, Wayne,” he whispered, leaning heavily on the table. “I can walk out on my own.” “This isn’t humiliation,” I said, pointing toward his two large designer suitcases sitting near the entryway. “This is a boundary.” Mary stood up so fast her napkin slipped to the floor. “Wayne, have you lost your mind?” I looked at her. She was my wife. Ours wasn’t a marriage of convenience, nor was it a forced union. When she was eighteen, cornered in a dark alley on a rainy night, I was the one who pulled her out. The first seed money for her tech startup came from my pocket. When her stomach ulcer flared up so badly she collapsed on the sidewalk, I was the one who carried her to the ER. I genuinely loved her. And because I loved her, I couldn’t allow Elliot to cross this threshold. Loving someone doesn’t mean handing them a blade and praying they won’t drive it into your chest. I placed my phone face-down on the table. “I’m perfectly sane, Mary.” Mary’s eyes rimmed with red, her voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Elliot is my childhood friend, Wayne. His sister just left the country on a business trip, and he has absolutely no one to look after him. I can’t just abandon him.” Her reasoning was sound. In a normal world, it would even be noble. But this wasn’t a normal world. This was a melodrama. If the childhood friend moved in, the next chapter would feature a midnight fever, the wife keeping a bedside vigil, and the husband spiraling into jealousy. Next would come a drunken misunderstanding, leaked photos, and a corporate coup. By the end, the husband would be painted as a paranoid monster, while the wife wept, asking why he never trusted her. I might trust you, Mary, but I do not trust the cliché. I turned my gaze to Elliot. “Mr. Bernice,” I said, using his last name to emphasize the distance. “I am happy to arrange a private physician, a live-in caregiver, and a personal nutritionist for you. I will cover all the expenses. I can secure a luxury apartment for you right next to the medical center.” Elliot’s eyelashes fluttered. “Wayne… what kind of person do you take me for?” I offered a dry smile. “An adult.” Mary slammed her hand onto the table. The hot chowder splashed over, landing on the back of her hand, but she didn’t even flinch. “Why do you always have to be so incredibly cynical?” I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Because if I’m polite, you both pretend not to understand.” The air in the room turned ice-cold. The security guards began rolling Elliot’s suitcases toward the foyer, the wheels humming a long, hollow drone against the floorboards. Suddenly, Elliot gasped, clutching his chest as his knees buckled. Mary spun around, catching him, her composure instantly shattering. “Elliot!” I didn’t move. I simply looked at the head of the security team. “Call an ambulance. Open the front door. And record everything on bodycam.” Elliot’s body tensed for a fraction of a second. It was incredibly brief. But I caught it. I walked to the entryway and opened the door. “Before the ambulance arrives, you are welcome to wait in the hallway.” Mary looked up at me, her lips white with anger. “Wayne, is this really who you are? Do you have to be this cruel?” I looked at her hands, still tightly gripping Elliot’s arm. I wanted to explain, but I swallowed the urge. Explanations are useless in tragedies. Melodramatic heroes always fail because they talk too much and act too little. Instead, I reached out and pressed the button for the elevator. “If you don’t like it, Mary, you can walk out that door with him.” Mary froze. Elliot raised his head, the mask of vulnerability cracking just enough for the raw venom in his eyes to show through. The elevator doors slid open. A draft of chilly air swept into the foyer, causing the candles on the dining table to flicker wildly. “Thomas,” I said quietly. “Show them out.” 2 Elliot didn’t end up taking the ambulance. By the time the paramedics arrived, he was already standing upright, claiming it was just some mild chest tightness. I had our private doctor perform a quick, preliminary check right there on the spot, ensuring the entire process was documented clearly on video by my security team. Mary stood by the door, her fingers tightly clutching her sleeves, silent. Before Elliot stepped out, he turned back to look at her. “Mary, please don’t fight with Wayne because of me,” he murmured softly. “The last thing I want is to make things difficult for you.” It was a quiet statement. So quiet it was nearly swallowed by the squeak of the guard’s boots. But it was designed to sting. I saw Mary’s shoulders tense. I stepped forward, completely blocking Elliot’s line of sight. “Have a good night, Elliot.” He stared at me, his mouth twisting into a tight line. “I hope you don’t regret this, Wayne.” I leaned my hand against the doorframe. “I don’t do anything without calculating the consequences first.” I shut the door. The lock clicked into place. The apartment fell into a heavy silence. Mary turned on me. “Are you happy now?” I walked back to the dining table. The chowder had gone cold, a dull skin forming over the cream, the heavy, briny scent of cold seafood suddenly nauseating. “No,” I said. She let out a harsh laugh, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “Then what more do you want? Do you want to forbid me from ever seeing another friend again?” “You can see whoever you want. But they aren’t living under my roof.” “Wayne, do you honestly believe every single man who comes near me has ulterior motives?” I looked up. “Yes.” The sheer finality of the word left her speechless. “It’s not just men,” I added. “Women too. Anyone who crosses a line is a liability.” The anger in Mary’s eyes flared. “Your need for control is pathological.” I nodded. “It is.” That only made her angrier. “You’re not even going to defend yourself?” “There’s no need to.” She snatched her purse from the counter and headed straight for the door. I watched her walk to the foyer, her hand wrapping around the handle. I wanted to call her name, but I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth to stop myself. Don’t chase her. If you chase her, you’re bowing down. And once you bow down, they own you. She paused for a few seconds. I remained silent. She pulled the door open. The sterile, cold light from the hallway spilled over her, her back rigid. “I’m staying at the office tonight,” she said. Then, she slammed the door behind her. I sat back down and forced myself to take a spoonful of the cold chowder. The heavy cream clung to the back of my throat, making my stomach turn. Thomas stepped up beside me, asking quietly, “Sir, should I have the driver follow Mrs. Bernice?” “Yes. Keep a safe distance, just make sure she gets there safely.” “Understood.” “And Thomas?” I said, setting the spoon down. “Call legal. Tell them to schedule an emergency board meeting for Lumina Technologies tomorrow morning at nine.” Thomas looked up, surprised. “Tonight, sir?” “Right now.” Lumina Technologies was Mary’s company. She was the founder, holding a thirty-four percent stake. I held twenty-one percent. But more importantly, the three core algorithm patents that powered Lumina’s entire product line belonged to me personally. The company only possessed a revocable license to use them. This wasn’t some trap I laid after we got married. It was a safeguard I’d been working on since I was sixteen years old, the moment I realized what world I was in. In these stories, the male lead is always systematically stripped of his power and resources. I refused to let anyone hold my leash. By nine the next morning, the boardroom was packed. Mary clearly hadn’t slept. Shadowy circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, and she was still wearing her clothes from the night before. When I walked in, her gaze turned icy. “Are you bringing our domestic disputes into the office, Wayne?” I placed a thick folder on the polished mahogany table. “This isn’t a domestic dispute. It’s risk mitigation.” The marketing director cleared his throat nervously. “Mr. Bernice, what exactly do you mean by that?” I didn’t look at him. “Effective immediately, no non-employees are permitted in the R&D division, the executive suite, or the archives without explicit board approval.” Mary’s voice was a low hiss. “Is this about Elliot?” “This is about everyone.” She stared at me, her eyes drilling holes into my forehead. And that was the exact moment Elliot decided to make his entrance. He pushed the door open, a cardboard carrier of Starbucks coffees in hand, a soft, polite smile plastered on his face. “Apologies for interrupting, everyone. I just wanted to drop off some coffee for Mary.” One of the board members immediately tried to diffuse the tension. “Ah, that’s very thoughtful of you, Elliot.” I turned to the head of security. “Who let him up?” The security manager’s face went pale. Elliot’s smile faltered. “Wayne, I come here all the time. The receptionist knows me.” I nodded slowly. “Fascinating.” I slid a second document to the center of the table. “Starting today, security clearance and visitor protocols are being entirely overhauled. Anyone who bypasses these regulations will be terminated in accordance with company policy.” Mary slammed her hands on the table and stood up. “Wayne!” Her voice echoed sharply against the glass walls. Every executive in the room froze, staring at her. I looked up, my expression placid. “Mrs. Bernice, this is a formal board meeting.” The cardboard carrier in Elliot’s hand trembled, the paper cups clinking softly. “Mary,” Elliot said, his voice dropping to that soft, wounded register. “Maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to make things difficult for Wayne.” “There’s no need to leave,” I said. He blinked, confused. I turned to our chief legal officer. “Call the police.” The boardroom plunged into absolute silence. Mary stared at me as if I were a stranger. “What did you just say?” “He is not an employee, he has no visitor’s pass, and he bypassed security to enter a restricted corporate zone carrying uninspected items,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Elliot. “We will treat this as a security breach. Let the police handle the report.” Elliot’s face turned white. This time, he wasn’t acting. 3 The police arrived quickly. When they began taking statements, I simply provided the security footage, the keycard logs, and Lumina’s visitor policy. I didn’t exaggerate. I didn’t add drama. Elliot sat in the reception area, his fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles turned white. Mary stood outside the glass doors of the conference room. She reached for the handle, then stopped, her hand hovering in mid-air. She turned to look at me. “Did you really have to go this far?” I handed the keycard printout to the officer. “Adults must take responsibility for their own choices.” The officer scanned the documents. “Based on what we have here, Mr. Bernice did violate corporate security protocols, though it doesn’t quite rise to a criminal offense. We can file a report and mediate, or your firm can handle this through internal disciplinary channels.” Elliot immediately spoke up. “I’m happy to apologize. It was completely my oversight.” He was quick. He knew a stubborn defense would only make him look worse, so he chose to retreat immediately. These are the most dangerous types. The ones with enough brains to play the victim effectively. Mary let out a subtle sigh of relief. I nodded. “We accept the apology. However, he is permanently barred from entering any Lumina facility.” Elliot bit his lip. “Wayne… do you have some sort of misunderstanding about me?” “None at all,” I replied. “Then why are you treating me like an enemy?” I stared at him, my expression blank. “Because you don’t know your place.” A flash of dark hostility flickered in his eyes before he quickly masked it with a fragile look. Once the police left, Elliot didn’t linger. He stood up, offering Mary a weak, reassuring smile. “I’m sorry for causing trouble, Mary. I won’t come by anymore.” Mary’s lips parted. “Elliot…” He shook his head, his eyes rimming with tears as he kept his voice soft. “Don’t be mad at Wayne. He’s only doing this because he cares about you.” With that, he turned and walked away. His gait was unsteady, his narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. In the conference room, the executives looked at me with a mix of judgment and unease. Some clearly thought I was making a mountain out of a molehill. Others felt I was publicly humiliating my own wife. Mary watched the elevator doors close behind Elliot, then turned to me. “Are you happy now that you’ve won?” I closed the folder in front of me. “Not yet.” She let out a dry, bitter laugh. “What is it you’re trying to win, Wayne?” “A normal marriage,” I said quietly. Her expression stiffened. I didn’t elaborate. In these kinds of stories, explaining too much just sounds like pleading. Sliding the third document toward our legal team, I said, “Pull up the supplementary patent licensing agreement.” The chief legal officer’s hand shook slightly. The rustle of paper filled the quiet room. Mary’s face drained of color. She knew exactly what that document meant. Deep within the licensing contracts for our three core patents lay a risk-management clause. If Lumina Technologies faced significant corporate governance failures, security leaks, or if management allowed unauthorized personnel access to sensitive intellectual property, the patent holder reserved the right to issue a thirty-day cure notice. If the company failed to meet compliance by the end of those thirty days, the license would be suspended. I couldn’t just cut the cord on a whim—the law doesn’t care about a billionaire’s tantrums. But the moment a thirty-day cure notice was issued, investors would start asking questions. Creditors would tighten their terms. Competitors would circle like vultures. By playing this card, I was forcing the entire board to pay attention. Mary’s voice shook. “Wayne… are you really using Lumina to blackmail me?” I looked directly into her eyes. “I am forcing Lumina to secure its perimeter.” “You know this company is my entire life.” “Which is exactly why I won’t let strangers put their hands on it.” Her eyes welled with tears, her fingers pressing so hard against the mahogany table her fingernails turned white. “Elliot would never hurt me.” I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I picked up the remote and turned on the projector. The security footage from our front door from last night appeared on the wall. 2:17 AM. Elliot was standing in front of our apartment. His hand was raised, hovering inches away from the digital keypad of our smart lock. For fifteen agonizing seconds, he just stood there. He didn’t knock. He didn’t ring the bell. He just stared at the lock. Nobody in the boardroom spoke. In the video, one of the hallway lights was flickering, casting alternating shadows across Elliot’s face, splitting it into halves of light and dark. Mary’s breathing grew ragged. I pressed pause. The screen froze on Elliot with his hand poised over our lock. “Mrs. Bernice,” I said quietly. “What do you think he was trying to do?” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. I set the remote down. “Issue the thirty-day cure notice today.” 4 Mary didn’t sign it. She sat in the empty boardroom, staring at the cure notice for ten solid minutes. Finally, she said, “I need to verify this.” I nodded. “Fair enough.” She looked up at me. “Until I have answers, you will not take any unilateral action that damages this company.” “The notice merely initiates a standard review process; it doesn’t freeze the license,” I replied. “The contract is very clear on that.” Our chief legal officer whispered, “She’s right, Mary. He’s within his rights.” Mary closed her eyes. She was brilliant. She knew she couldn’t fight this legally. When the meeting adjourned, she followed me back to my office. Once the heavy door clicked shut, the bustling noise of the office faded. She stood in front of my desk, her voice softer now, stripped of her corporate armor. “Have you been waiting for this day, Wayne?” I unbuttoned my cuffs. “I prayed it would never come.” She stared at me. “Then why are you so thoroughly prepared?” I turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Below, the city traffic was jammed, horns blaring faintly in a chaotic, never-ending rhythm. “Because I’m terrified,” I said. She froze. I turned back to face her. “Mary, I don’t enjoy being controlling. But I’ve watched too many people ruin their lives through sheer passivity. They let a friend move in, they let an ex cross boundaries, they let an assistant overstep—and when their lives fall apart, people just tell them they were being too sensitive.” Her lips trembled. “Those stories aren’t our life.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. “I certainly hope so.” She had no answer for that.

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It was three in the morning when I finally left the office. Tired and drained from hours of overtime, I called Garrett. I called him exactly thirty-seven times, my thumb numbly pressing the screen, before he finally picked up, his voice dripping with irritation. “Do you have any idea what time it is? People are trying to sleep.” “Can you come pick me up?” I whispered, looking around the empty, dark parking lot. “I’m scared.” Garrett let out a dry, dismissive scoff. “Can’t you just call an Uber? Do you have to make everything a drama?” And then, the line went dead. I stared at my phone, opening my Notes app to look at the number: “123”. That was the number of times he had driven across town to pick up Mallory after her late-night shifts. Even on our wedding night. He had put his coat back on, car keys in hand, the moment Mallory’s name flashed on his screen. “Mallory’s single,” he’d said, not looking me in the eye as he zipped his jacket. “It’s not safe for her to go home alone at this hour. If something happens to her, I’ll have to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.” But in our one year of marriage, he was perfectly fine with me navigating the dark alone. “You’re a married woman,” he’d tell me. “Who’s going to mess with you?” He didn’t know about the night my Uber driver took a deliberate wrong turn down a sketchy, pitch-black alley, or how I had been cornered by a mugger. In my moment of absolute terror, when I desperately dialed his number, only 911 had answered. For the longest time, I played the fool. I lied to myself, whispering that he only missed my calls because he was a deep sleeper, or because his phone was on silent. But standing under the flickering streetlamp tonight, I finally saw the truth. I was never going to see his headlights pull up to the curb. I gripped the divorce papers in my bag. I wasn’t going to wait anymore. … The house was dark when I finally made it home. I quietly pushed open the bedroom door. The bed was empty, though his side of the mattress still held a faint, lingering warmth. I unlocked my phone. Right at the top of my social feed was a post Garrett had uploaded just minutes ago. Caption: “Mallory is single, guys. Stop dragging her out to bars late at night.” The photo showed him supporting her weight, her arms loosely draped around his neck, a lazy, innocent smile on her face. Asking him for a ride was “making a drama.” But a minor whimper from Mallory was an immediate emergency. Normally, a post like this would have kept me awake all night, my chest aching from the familiar, sharp sting of his favoritism. But tonight, I was just empty. I lay down, closed my eyes, and fell straight into a dreamless sleep. When I woke up, Garrett was standing by the closet, loosening his tie. Seeing me stir, he peeled off his shirt and tossed it onto my side of the bed. “Wash that for me. Mallory had too much to drink and threw up all over me.” The heavy, sour stench of stale alcohol and vomit instantly filled the room. My stomach turned. Garrett was notoriously OCD. Once, when I had food poisoning and threw up on the living room rug, he made me deep-clean the entire apartment and dragged the expensive wool rug straight to the dumpster. Yet, he had spent the entire night wearing a vomit-stained shirt just to keep Mallory safe. I kicked the shirt off the bed. “I have a meeting today. I’m busy.” Garrett glanced at me, his brow furrowing. “I don’t even know why you bother with that dead-end job. If it’s that exhausting, just quit.” He had always looked down on my career. I didn’t make nearly as much as he did, and he’d lost count of how many times he’d told me to stay home. Yet, I vividly remembered him lecturing Mallory on the deck during a summer barbecue. “A woman always needs her own career,” he’d told her, his voice warm with genuine advice. “That way, if she gets married, she can never be controlled.” I knew then, as I knew now: his true beliefs, the ones he actually valued, were only spoken to her. So no matter how many times he pressured me to quit, I refused. My quiet, unglamorous job was the only anchor I had left. Garrett walked out of the bathroom, his eyes immediately landing on the thick manila envelope on the nightstand. He frowned. “What’s this?” I handed it to him. “Take a look. Sign it if you don’t have any objections.” “I wanted to give it to you last night, but you weren’t here.” Garrett tore open the envelope. His eyes scanned the document, and his face went slack. “You want a divorce?” I had been thinking about it for a long time. I couldn’t even pinpoint the exact moment the seed had been planted. Maybe it was the countless nights he’d bolted awake at the sound of Mallory’s ringtone, the heavy slam of our front door vibrating through my chest as I lay staring at the ceiling, crying in the dark. Maybe it was the time he crashed her blind date, decided the guy wasn’t good enough, and claimed to be her boyfriend to chase the man away. Or maybe it was when he missed our first anniversary because Mallory needed someone to drive her to the clinic, leaving me sitting alone at a fully booked French restaurant, becoming the silent joke of our friend group. There were too many moments to count. All those tiny, accumulated fractures had finally shattered the foundation. I finally understood that between Garrett and me, there would always be Mallory. And his scale would always tip toward her. He was always worried about her. He worried about single women being taken advantage of, about the dangers of the city, about the bad intentions of other men. She went to bars, stayed out late, lived recklessly. And Garrett was always there, playing the loyal guardian. Sometimes I wondered if Mallory did it on purpose, a calculated dance to keep his attention entirely on her. But eventually, I realized it didn’t matter. They were two willing actors in a play—one loved playing the savior, and the other loved being saved. I was just the unwanted spectator. He had never worried about me, not even when we were dating. He would leave me at a restaurant to pick her up, and he strictly forbade me from going to clubs, claiming those places were for “girls who didn’t respect themselves.” But when Mallory went, it wasn’t about self-respect. It was about her safety, and he had to go protect her. Before we got married, I had asked him, “If you care about her this much, why are you marrying me?” It was the one question that haunted me. He had simply stroked my hair and smiled. “Don’t be paranoid. She’s like a sister to me. Protecting her is just what I do.” “If I actually had feelings for her, I wouldn’t be with you.” I had believed him. I loved him too much, wanted him too much, so I let his easy lies soothe my deep-seated anxiety. It wasn’t until after the wedding that I learned the truth. Garrett had pursued Mallory once. But his mother had fiercely opposed it, citing Mallory’s messy family background. So, they settled into this comfortable, blurred emotional gray area. Then I came along. I was safe. A good girl from a stable family, completely devoted to him. I was the perfect candidate for a wife. So he proposed, we dated, we married. It was a smooth, effortless transition for him. A single bouquet, a modest ring, and he had secured a lifetime of my devotion. I had placed my hand in his on our wedding day with a heart full of hope, only for him to leave me alone in our bridal suite because Mallory decided she wanted to look at the stars from a mountain ridge at midnight, and it “wasn’t safe.” “I had a lawyer draft this,” I said quietly, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “You’ve handled enough divorce cases to know the drill.” Garrett stared at me, dumbfounded. “I’m a divorce attorney, Maeve. You hired someone else to handle our divorce?” He caught himself, realizing he was focusing on the wrong detail. He took a sharp breath, trying to steady his voice. “The cases I handle involve infidelity or domestic abuse. I have never done either of those things to you.” Garrett was smart. His legal training made him naturally risk-averse. His devotion to Mallory wasn’t illegal. It didn’t leave physical bruises. “So a man is a good husband simply because he doesn’t hit his wife or sleep around?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. He averted his gaze, looking out the window. “Are you still jealous of Mallory? She’s single. I’m just trying to make sure she doesn’t get taken advantage of by some predator. That’s why I look out for her.” In Garrett’s mind, every man around Mallory was a predator. Except him. But he chose to forget that he was a married man, and that his first duty of protection belonged to his wife. “I’m just tired, Garrett. Who you protect is your business. Just sign the papers, and we’re done.” He set the document down, shifting closer to me on the bed. He reached out to put his arm around my shoulders, but I recoiled. A look of mild exhaustion crossed his face, the look of a parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “Babe, stop playing games.” “With my legal background, if I don’t want this divorce, it’s not happening.” He hadn’t called me “babe” since the wedding. Mallory had once remarked that pet names were incredibly tacky, and just like that, he had stopped using them with me. His absolute confidence—the smug air of a trial lawyer who had never lost a case—made a sudden wave of nausea hit me. I pushed him away, ran into the bathroom, and gripped the edges of the sink, dry-heaving violently. “What’s wrong?” he called out, standing at the door. “I’m disgusted,” I choked out. Another wave of dry-heaving hit, forcing tears to the corners of my eyes. I didn’t know if the disgust was physical, or if it was just him. Garrett sighed, his disappointment obvious. “For a second, I thought you might be pregnant. Mom called yesterday asking when we were going to give her a grandkid.” The words froze the blood in my veins. My period was two months late. A cold, heavy dread settled in my chest. If I was pregnant… For a fleeting, desperate second, a small spark of hope flared. If there was a baby, would Garrett finally look at me? Would he finally turn his attention back to his own home? “Can you… come to the hospital with me today?” I asked, calling out to him as he grabbed his car keys. He frowned. “Just because you gagged once? Don’t be dramatic, Maeve.” “Mallory was throwing up all night. I need to go check on her. If she’s alone and passes out, no one will know.” The front door clicked shut. It felt like a solid brick wall dropping between us, a cold mockery of the stupid, desperate hope I had just harbored. I took a sick day and went to the clinic alone. The waiting room was filled with couples. Husbands holding their wives’ hands, whispering softly. I sat in my plastic chair, a solitary island. Everyone else was smiling. I couldn’t even manage a neutral face. The woman sitting next to me nudged my elbow. “Unplanned?” I blinked, confused. “Excuse me?” “You look miserable,” she said gently. “Usually, it’s only the unplanned ones that look this stressed. When it’s planned, the whole family is practically throwing a party in here.” “I’m married,” I said quietly. “But I’m getting a divorce.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh, honey. If you’re pregnant, why divorce? Men love kids. Once you tell him, he’ll change his mind.” But did I want a marriage built on a hostage situation? He might temporarily pull his focus back to the house, but it would be a duty, a performance. An illusion. I had lived in an illusion for a year. I wasn’t going to raise a child in one. They called my name. The doctor did the ultrasound, confirming I was six weeks pregnant. I stared at the black-and-white monitor, then looked away. “I want to terminate the pregnancy.” The doctor’s expression shifted, a subtle flash of judgment crossing her face. “It’s always the parents’ choices, but the innocent child is the one who pays the price.” If this baby had come a year ago, I would have wept with joy. But the timing was cruel. I refused to bring a child into a home devoid of love, and I refused to let a pregnancy bind me to a man who didn’t want me. The doctor printed the paperwork. As I walked down the corridor toward the exit, a familiar voice called my name. I turned. Garrett was walking toward me, with Mallory clinging weakly to his arm. She was pale, looking fragile and pathetic. His eyes fell on the clinic folder in my hand. “You actually came to the hospital for a stomach ache? See? It’s probably nothing.” I nodded slowly, tucking the folder against my side. “Just a stomach bug.” Since I had already made my decision, there was no point in letting him know. It would only make the divorce more complicated. Garrett let out a self-satisfied sigh. “I told you so. I’m taking Mallory to get her IV fluids. Go home and whip up a few light dishes. She’s coming over for dinner tonight.” Before I could answer, two kids came tearing down the hallway, laughing and shoving each other. One of them collided hard with my shoulder. I lost my footing. The clinic folder slipped from my grip, its contents scattering across the polished tile floor. Garrett instinctively knelt to help me pick them up. His hand paused over the ultrasound report. He stared at the bold letters at the top, his voice rising in disbelief. “You’re pregnant?” Heads turned in the corridor. I lunged to snatch the paper, but his longer reach easily kept it out of my grasp. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Mallory gently tugged at his sleeve, her voice soft. “Maybe she wanted to surprise you, Garrett.” The tension in his shoulders melted, replaced by a sudden, boyish excitement. He glanced at my stomach, which was still perfectly flat under my sweater. “Sit down and wait for me. Once Mallory’s IV is finished, I’ll take you for another scan.” “You should call Mom first. She’s been praying for this. Let’s get the good news out. We’ll go out for a big dinner tonight to celebrate.” I had never heard Garrett speak so fast, or so much. He was usually a man of calculated, sparse words. He was genuinely thrilled. “You two go celebrate,” I said, my voice deadpan. “I’m going home.” Mallory’s pale face drained of what little color she had left. She pulled her hand back from Garrett’s arm. “I should go. If you’re celebrating a baby, I’ll only be a third wheel.” Garrett’s joy vanished instantly. He turned and caught her shoulder. “You’re sick, Mallory. Where do you think you’re going? You’re eating with us tonight.” She threw off his hand, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. “To do what? Sit there and watch you play happy family?” Garrett shot a panicked look at me. “I’ll just drop her home after her IV.” He leaned down, whispering something soft and reassuring in her ear until her posture finally relaxed. I stood there, watching them with absolute detachment. If this had happened a month ago, my heart would have broken. Now, I just wanted them to get out of my sight. “I’ll take her to the infusion room first,” Garrett said, pointing to a row of vinyl chairs along the wall. “Wait for me here. The second she’s dropped off, I’ll come get you.” The chairs were cold and sterile. Just like him. But I nodded anyway. Satisfied with my compliance, he handed the ultrasound report back to me. “I’ll be right back.” I watched their retreating figures, his arm securely around her waist. Then, I turned around and walked straight into the surgical wing for my scheduled procedure. As the bright overhead lights of the operating room blurred into a halo, my mind drifted back to our wedding day. I had pictured a quiet, happy future for us. Now, I was laying on a cold table, ending it all so I could survive. By the time I was wheeled into the recovery room and the anesthesia began to fade, my phone was buzzing. It was his mother. “Maeve! Garrett told me you’re pregnant! Where are you? I’m driving over right now!” “I served Garrett with divorce papers this morning,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “And I just terminated the pregnancy.”

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Elliot was always good at taking care of people. When I had a fever, he would stay up half the night, pressing cool washcloths to my forehead. Before I left the house, he would meticulously pack my purse. Credit cards, ID, my medical file. He never even forgot the little tangerine drops I kept on hand to prevent my blood sugar from dipping. On the day of my follow-up appointment, I handed the neatly organized medical folder he had prepared to my physician. The doctor cross-referenced my ID with the paperwork, his voice dropping to a quiet, flat register. “This is incredibly irresponsible.” Assuming he was referring to Elliot’s absence, I quickly jumped to his defense. “He’s been so busy lately.” The doctor looked up at me, a heavy, unreadable expression in his eyes. “Mrs. Campbell, this isn’t your file.” Written across the tab of the manila folder was a different name: “Lydia Wells. Eight weeks pregnant. Family accompaniment strongly recommended for follow-up.” In the blank space reserved for the partner’s signature, there it was, written in a confident, familiar hand: “Elliot Campbell.” I gripped the edge of the folder, my palms instantly turning cold and slick. The doctor watched my face. “Perhaps your husband simply grabbed the wrong file by mistake?” I couldn’t find my voice. The day I miscarried, my body had been wracked with violent, trembling pain. He had gently lifted me onto the bed, kissing my temple. “Sweetheart, I have an urgent hospital board meeting to run. I’ll be back before you know it.” I had believed him. That “meeting” had been a prenatal checkup. For another woman. My phone buzzed. It was Elliot. His voice came through the receiver, as warm and soothing as ever. “Isabel, I made that slow-cooked chicken and wild rice soup you love. It’s waiting on the stove for when you get home.” I stared down at the medical folder he had personally tucked into my bag. I didn’t even have the strength to scream. This time, I wouldn’t ask. And I wouldn’t wait for him anymore. …… “Isabel, is the follow-up finished yet?” Elliot’s voice was soft, laced with genuine concern. I sat on a rigid plastic chair in the sterile hospital corridor, my fingers white-knuckled around the folder. “Almost,” I rasped. “It’s windy out there today, so make sure you button up,” he added. “I put a thermos of warm water in the left pocket of your bag, and two tangerine drops. Take them if you start feeling dizzy.” My eyes fell on a slip of paper slipping out of the folder. A fetal heart rate monitor report. In the upper-right corner, there was a handwritten note: “Make sure not to skip breakfast before the next ultrasound. You’re prone to fainting.” It was Elliot’s handwriting. He used to write those exact, meticulous notes all over my files. Now, those same careful strokes were scrawled across another woman’s pregnancy chart. “Okay. I’m on my way back.” I hung up, shoved the sonogram report back into the folder, and slid it into my purse. When I opened the front door, Elliot was just coming out of the kitchen. He wore a soft gray lounge shirt, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, looking effortlessly handsome. “Shoes off, hands washed,” he said warmly. He stepped over, naturally taking my bag from my shoulder to hang it in the entryway. He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead. “Temperature feels normal. What did the doctor say today?” His palm was warm, carrying the faint scent of ginger and scallions from the kitchen. “He said my recovery is a bit slow.” I looked directly into his eyes. “The doctor asked why my husband wasn’t there to sign the consent forms.” Elliot’s hand paused for a fraction of a second as he poured water. “I’ve had back-to-back surgeries these past couple of days, Isabel. I literally couldn’t step away.” He handed me the glass, his eyes filled with sincere regret. “I promise I’ll clear my schedule for your next appointment.” I took the glass but didn’t drink. The dining table was set with three dishes and a soup: pan-seared sea bass, the slow-cooked chicken broth, and sautéed greens. Elliot pulled out my chair and placed a tender piece of fish fillet into my bowl. “Eat up while it’s hot. You’ve lost way too much weight lately.” I stared down at the fish. It was heavily garnished with finely chopped cilantro. “Why aren’t you eating?” Elliot frowned slightly. “You forgot. I hate cilantro.” I picked up my fork and pushed the fish to the very edge of my plate. Elliot froze. He stared at the plate, a flicker of sheer confusion passing through his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I must be exhausted from the surgeries. I got things mixed up.” He reached for the serving utensils, trying to pick the cilantro off the fish. “It’s fine,” I said, catching his hand to stop him. I took a small bite of plain rice. “Does she like cilantro?” Elliot went entirely rigid. Right then, his phone illuminated on the table, and an incoming voice message began to play automatically. “Elliot, thank you so much for today. When the doctor played the heartbeat, I swear the baby kicked me.” The voice was soft, fragile, and utterly dependent. It was Lydia’s voice. The dining room fell into a suffocating silence. Elliot snatched his phone, slamming it face-down onto the table. He couldn’t meet my gaze. “Isabel, let me explain.” He reached across the table, trying to grasp my hand. “Lydia just finalized her divorce. Her parents are out of state, and she was absolutely terrified to go to the hospital alone. You’ve always been the sensible one, Isabel. Please don’t misunderstand her.” I pulled my hand back and calmly wiped my mouth with a napkin. Lydia Wells was no stranger. She had been my college roommate for four years, once my absolute best friend. The night her marriage fell apart, I was the one who drove across town to pick her up. She had clung to me, sobbing until dawn, whispering that she had no one left in this city. My heart broke for her. I brought her into our home and set up our guest room. Knowing her health was fragile, I went out of my way to ask Elliot to pull strings for her at the hospital. I even remember smiling at Elliot back then, saying, “Lydia scares easily. If you run into her at the clinic, keep an eye on her for me, okay?” I never could have imagined that the very words I uttered in kindness would become the weapon they used to tear my life apart. “I don’t misunderstand,” I said quietly. That evening, when I came out of the bathroom after my shower, Elliot was standing by the nightstand, packing my handbag. He was slipping my ID and insurance cards back into their designated slots with practiced ease. But his fingers froze when they brushed against the manila folder bearing Lydia’s name. I walked over and placed my hand firmly over the folder. “Elliot.” I forced him to look at me. “The day of my miscarriage, you tucked me into bed and told me you had a meeting. Was your meeting actually just holding my best friend’s hand while she listened to her baby’s heartbeat?” The veins on the back of Elliot’s hands bulged. He stared at my hand resting on the folder, his breathing turning heavy and shallow. “There was a meeting,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “But then Lydia called. She was cramping, experiencing early signs of a miscarriage. She was entirely alone, Isabel. She called me five times.” He wrapped his fingers around my wrist, his grip desperate, pleading. “I just ran over to check on her. I’m a doctor—I couldn’t just ignore a medical emergency. And besides, she’s your friend, isn’t she?” I stared back at him, my voice devoid of warmth. “You checked on her, and while you were ‘checking,’ you signed your name as her partner?” Elliot’s brow furrowed deep. “The hospital policy requires a guardian’s signature before they can run emergency diagnostics. Her ex-husband was completely off the grid, and the attending physician was pressing for consent. I was only trying to help.” I slowly peeled his fingers off my wrist. My mind flashed back to the afternoon of my miscarriage. The pain in my lower abdomen had been so blinding I was drenched in cold sweat. I remembered the nurse standing in the hallway, holding the surgical consent form, calling out, “Family for Isabel Campbell? Family?” She called three times. No one answered. In the end, I had to take the pen with trembling fingers, biting through the pain, and sign my own name. “Is that baby yours, Elliot?” I asked point-blank. Elliot’s eyes darkened. Instead of answering immediately, he picked up a throw blanket from the chair and draped it over my shoulders. “It’s complicated, Isabel. It’s not what you think.” He gently tucked the blanket around me. “Once you’re feeling stronger, I’ll explain everything. I promise.” The same old script. If I pushed further, it would become an issue of me not prioritizing my health, of being unnecessarily dramatic. He always used my well-being as a shield to shut me up. “I’m thirsty,” I said, turning my face away from him. Elliot let out a quiet sigh of relief. He slipped out of the room, returning moments later with a glass of warm water. He took a small sip himself to test the temperature before bringing the rim to my lips. “Drink some water and try to get some sleep. You’ve just had surgery, Isabel. You can’t let yourself get worked up like this. It’s bad for your recovery.” I stared at the glass. The night of my miscarriage, I had woken up from the anesthesia in agonizing pain, my throat burning like dry tinder. I had reached blindly for the glass on the nightstand, only to knock it off the table, shattering it on the floor. When I fumbled for my phone, there was only a single text from Elliot: “Meeting ran late, sweetie. Try to get some sleep.” I took the glass from him and swallowed a single mouthful of water. The moment I set it down, Elliot’s phone vibrated again. He didn’t answer the call, but instead looked down to type a quick reply. From where I sat, I caught a glimpse of the screen. It was from Lydia: “Does she know? I’m so sorry, Elliot. I shouldn’t have burdened you. I know I shouldn’t make Isabel angry.” Elliot’s reply: “Get some rest. I’ll handle it.” He flipped the phone screen-down and turned back to me. “Lydia isn’t the person you think she is, Isabel. She’s just terrified of losing this baby.” “And what about me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Was I not allowed to be terrified that day?” Elliot’s face drained of color. He looked at me, his lips parting slightly. “I came back to see you as soon as I could, didn’t I?” He did. Four hours after my dilation and curettage procedure. By the time he walked into the recovery room, the sheets had been changed, the blood had been washed away, and my tears had dried. He had wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on the crown of my head, rocking me gently. “Stop overthinking, sweetheart,” he had whispered, kissing my forehead. “Go to sleep. I have an early shift at the hospital tomorrow.” I closed my eyes and lay perfectly still. At three in the morning, a low murmur of voices pulled me from my sleep. Slipping a cardigan over my shoulders, I cracked open our bedroom door. The study door down the hall was slightly ajar, throwing a sliver of warm light onto the hardwood. Elliot stood by the window, speaking in a hushed, urgent tone. “Lydia, we can’t tell her about the baby yet. She just lost ours. I’m worried the shock will destroy her.” Standing there in the dark hallway, staring at his silhouette, a cold realization washed over me. He knew exactly what this would do to me. He knew the depth of my grief, yet he still chose to stand hand-in-hand with my best friend in betrayal. The next morning, when I got out of bed, Elliot had already prepared breakfast. Wearing a canvas apron, he stood at the kitchen island, meticulously organizing my daily pills. Anti-inflammatories, iron supplements, prenatal-style vitamins. He popped them out of their blister packs one by one, dropping them into a clear plastic organizer. “Come eat breakfast,” he said without looking up, hearing my footsteps. I walked over and pulled out a chair. In front of me sat a steaming mug of warm almond milk steeped with sweet dates. I stared at the mug, leaving it untouched. “What’s wrong?” Elliot asked, sliding the organized pillbox toward me. “I can’t have almond milk right now. It makes me bloat terribly after surgery.” I looked directly into his eyes. “You’re a doctor. You should know that.” The knife Elliot was using to slice a fried egg hovered in mid-air. He looked at the mug, his brow furrowing. “The date-infusion is great for replenishing iron. I guess I was just so focused on your recovery that I forgot.” He set the cutlery down and took the mug away. “Let me get you some warm oat milk instead.” I opened the pill organizer. In the slot marked “Wednesday”, alongside my anti-inflammatories, there was an extra, small white pill. I picked it up and placed it on the marble countertop. “What’s this?” Elliot returned with the oat milk, his gaze falling on the small white tablet. His expression didn’t waver. “Folic acid. Lydia must have dropped it in my car yesterday. I grabbed it on my way in.” He picked up the pill and tossed it into the trash can. “Why was her medication in your car in the first place?” I asked, taking a small sip of the oat milk. Elliot pulled out a chair and sat down opposite me, his tone tinged with a mild, weary frustration. “I was dropping her off quite late last night. She must have dropped it when she got out.” He looked at me, a subtle hint of reproach in his eyes. “Isabel, please don’t hyper-focus on every little detail. I manage dozens of patients a day. I can’t keep track of every single trivial thing.” I didn’t argue. I simply lowered my head and took a bite of my toast. Elliot’s phone screen remained lit on the table. Even as he reached over to put some scrambled eggs on my plate, his eyes were glued to his screen, his thumbs flying across the keyboard. I caught a glimpse of the photo on his screen—a bowl of plain congee and a few side dishes. Lydia’s message read: “Elliot, is it okay to eat sour lemon drops for the morning sickness?” Elliot’s thumbs tapped out a reply: “A few are fine, but don’t take them on an empty stomach.” He finished typing, set the phone down, and pushed the plate of eggs closer to me. “Eat some more. You still look so pale.” I watched him. He had become incredibly skilled at compartmentalizing his attention. I used to believe his warmth and care were reserved exclusively for me. Now, I realized his devotion had been split in two—and the larger portion had been quietly handed over to the friend I once trusted with my life. I was merely receiving the leftovers. Around noon, I was curled up on the sofa, scrolling through Instagram. Lydia had posted a new story. “So grateful for the someone who remembered I can’t stand the smell of cooking oil right now.” Attached was a photo of a stainless-steel thermos filled with a delicate savory egg custard. I recognized that thermos instantly. It was the exact one Elliot had been carrying when he came home last night. In the comments, one of their colleagues from the hospital had teased: “The baby’s daddy is so attentive!” Lydia hadn’t corrected them. Instead, she had replied with a single blushing emoji. I took a screenshot and sent it directly to Elliot. Five minutes later, my phone rang. “Isabel, what are you doing?” His voice sounded utterly exhausted. “She’s incredibly fragile right now. Sending me this screenshot… what do you want me to do? Go and interrogate her?” “I just wanted you to see it,” I said, leaning my head back against the sofa cushions, staring at the ceiling. “She didn’t deny that you’re the father.” Elliot let out a heavy sigh over the line. “She’s just trying to save face in front of her coworkers, Isabel. Please, stop forcing her into a corner.” As dusk fell, the doorbell rang. I walked over and opened it. Lydia stood on the porch. Bundled in an oversized puffer coat, her face looked drawn and pale. She held out a small paper bag. “Isabel, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I was going to call a courier to pick up my things, but the medications are so specific, and I was terrified of getting them mixed up. I’ll grab them and leave right away.” I stared at her, taking in her delicate, pathetic posture. Just a year ago, I had been so fiercely protective of her, treating her like family. I had opened my home to her, believing she was looking for shelter from the storm. I never realized she had come to steal the very warmth from under my roof. Elliot stepped out of the study. He walked past me, his eyes sweeping over Lydia’s wind-whipped hair. “It’s freezing out there. Why are you standing in the draft? Come inside and have some warm tea before you go.” He stepped aside, taking the paper bag from her hands. My mind drifted back to the days immediately following my miscarriage. I had gone to stand on the balcony for a few minutes to catch my breath. He had walked over, shut the glass door firmly, and scolded me with a tight, stern voice: “Why can’t you ever just listen to me?” That night, the low-grade fever returned. My head throbbed with a dizzying ache. Lying in bed, I called out Elliot’s name. “Be right there,” he called back through the closed door. But ten minutes passed, and the bedroom door never opened. I propped myself up against the wall, slowly shuffling out to the living room. Elliot was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, on the phone. His voice was lower than usual, carrying a tenderness that made my stomach turn. “Try sleeping on your side tonight. Keep a pillow tucked between your knees.” “I’ll bring those lemon drops over for you tomorrow.” Lydia must have asked something on the other end. Elliot paused for a beat. “Sure,” he said softly. “The clinic is a long drive. You can come over and rest at the house after your appointments.” I stood frozen in the shadows of the hallway, watching as he hung up. He turned around, gasping slightly when he saw me standing there. “What are you doing out of bed?” He stepped toward me, reaching out to support my arm. “I have a fever,” I said, stepping back to avoid his touch. I guided myself back to the bedroom, hand pressed against the drywall. Elliot followed me in, opening the nightstand drawer to pull out some ibuprofen and a fresh glass of water. “Take this and get some rest. I’ll take you to your follow-up tomorrow morning.” He handed me the pills, his voice reverting back to that familiar, soothing tone. The next morning, I dressed and sat on the sofa, waiting for him. Elliot’s phone rang. He answered it, his brows immediately knitting together. “Cramping? Is there any spotting?” He glanced down at his watch, then up at me. “Okay. Don’t move. I’m on my way.” He hung up and walked over to where I sat. “Isabel, Lydia’s having some severe cramping.” He snatched his car keys off the counter, his tone carrying the illusion of a discussion, though his mind was already made up. “Yours is just a routine follow-up. Her situation is an emergency. I’ve already ordered an Uber for you. It’s waiting downstairs.” I looked up, staring straight into his eyes. “Elliot, the doctor specifically said I need a family member with me today.” “I know,” he said, leaning down to wrap my woolen scarf around my neck. “Go ahead first. As soon as I make sure she’s stable, I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Before I could even open my mouth, he turned and hurried out the door. The moment the heavy oak door clicked shut, I ripped the scarf from my neck. I climbed into the back of the Uber alone. The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror, offering a polite smile. “Your husband is incredibly thoughtful. He pre-paid the fare and left a note asking me to take the smoothest route possible.” I stared blankly out the window as the city rolled past. “Yes. He’s very thoughtful.” He was always brilliant at arranging every detail. Except for the one detail that required his actual presence. The results of the scan weren’t good. The OB-GYN frowned as he studied the ultrasound images on his screen. “Your uterine lining is healing very slowly, and there’s still some fluid retention.” He looked up, his eyes scanning the empty chair behind me. “Your husband couldn’t make it today either?” “He had an emergency surgery,” I lied softly. The doctor sighed. “Mrs. Campbell, lack of proper rest and emotional stress can severely hinder your physical recovery. For your next appointment, your husband absolutely must be here to hear these instructions.” I folded the ultrasound report, sliding it into my purse. As I stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I sent Elliot a quick text: “The appointment is over.” Ten minutes later, his reply came: “Good. Go home and get some rest. I’ll look over the scans tonight.” When I unlocked the front door, I was greeted by the sound of heavy scraping. Our housekeeper was carrying a massive cardboard box out of the room at the end of the hall. That room was supposed to be our nursery. Since the miscarriage, the door had remained firmly shut. Peeking out of the open box were pristine, unopened baby onesies, bottles, and a roll of glow-in-the-dark star stickers. “Oh, Mrs. Campbell, you’re back,” the housekeeper said, looking flustered. She set the box down and rubbed her hands nervously. “Mr. Campbell asked me to clear this room out.” I walked to the threshold and peered inside. The corner where the crib was supposed to stand now held a plush, reclining maternity lounge chair. On the adjacent side table sat a bottle warmer and several boxes of pregnancy cookies. “He said… Miss Wells might need a quiet place to lie down after her doctor visits,” the housekeeper whispered, keeping her eyes low. “He said it would only be temporary.” I stared at the recliner. The decor for this very nursery had been chosen with Lydia’s help. She was the one who had laughed as she helped me press those glow-in-the-dark stars onto the ceiling, swearing up and down that she would be the best aunt in the world. Now, she was moving in to claim the space. The front door clicked open. Elliot walked in, his arm gently supporting Lydia’s waist. She looked pale, clutching a fresh sonogram printout in her hand. Elliot looked up, freezing when he saw me standing in the hallway. “Oh—Isabel. You didn’t tell me you were home.” He quickly slipped his arm away from Lydia and took a step toward me. I pointed toward the open doorway of the nursery. “Why did you clear out this room?” Elliot stopped in front of me, his voice dropping into that soft, placating register. “Isabel, I honestly thought you didn’t want to look at those things anymore. It’s been sitting empty, and you avoid this hallway altogether. Leaving it like this was only prolonging your pain. I figured we might as well let Lydia use it for a little while.” I looked at the man I had spent the last three years of my life with. I didn’t ask another question. I walked back into our bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand, and pulled out a worn manila envelope. Inside was my very first ultrasound photo. Back then, Elliot had held my hand and promised he would never miss an appointment. I dragged my suitcase out from the back of the closet, throwing a few basic changes of clothes inside. I slipped my diamond wedding band off my finger, dropping it into the empty folder with Lydia’s name printed on the tab. Then, I slid that first, crinkled sonogram underneath the ring. I placed the folder on the console table in the entryway. I heard Elliot’s footsteps approach and stop right behind me. I didn’t turn around.

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My mother’s arms are mapped with dozens of scars. Three of them, deep enough to expose the bone, are the defining landmarks of my childhood. The first happened when I was seven. I was growing faster than my younger sister, Amber. My mother looked at me, her eyes dark with accusation, and told me I was selfish. “You don’t care that she’s younger,” she sobbed. “You only care about yourself.” Then, she drew a silver pocketknife across her wrist, right over her artery. The second came during my high school placement exams. Because I scored in the ninety-ninth percentile and Amber barely passed, she called me vain. She let her own blood run into the kitchen sink, right in front of my face. The third was after I started working. My starting salary was three thousand dollars higher than Amber’s retail pay. My mother told me I had no regard for my sister’s dignity, that I was money-grubbing. She grabbed my hand, forced my fingers around the blade, and dragged it across her own skin. Every single time, she would look at me with a terrifying mixture of venom and grief, whispering: “Mommy loves you, Hannah. I could never bring myself to hurt you. But a child’s sin is her mother’s failure. So, Mommy has to punish herself.” So I learned to shrink. I hid my talents, played dumb, and let my life unravel into a quiet, chaotic mess. Just to keep her whole. Just to keep the blood inside her veins. Until today. My wedding day. My mother showed up at the venue, holding that very same pocketknife. “Your sister isn’t even engaged yet! How could you do this to her? Hannah, didn’t I teach you to love your sister?” The blade pressed into her wrist, leaving a thin, red line. And just like that, the tightly coiled spring inside my chest—the tension I had carried for twenty-three years—snapped. I stepped forward. I gripped the handle of the knife with her, a cold, empty smile spreading across my face. “Let me help you, Mom.” … I pressed the blade down, hard. The sudden, sharp sting made her instinctively flinch, pulling her hand back. Shock, raw and wild, flooded her eyes. “You’re… helping me?” My smile widened. “Yes. Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? You taught me to respect my elders and love my sister. I’m just helping you. Is there something wrong with that?” She knitted her brows, staring at me in stunned silence. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked with a sob. “Hannah, how can you care so little about whether your mother lives or dies? Where is the kindness I raised you with?” I felt a sudden, hollow numbness. “Did I not care?” If I didn’t care, why did I take hormone blockers to stunt my growth, leaving me shorter than average? Why did I deliberately leave half of my SAT answer sheets blank, throwing away my chance at an Ivy League education? Why did I turn down a seventy-thousand-dollar job offer after graduation, just to stay by her side and work as a waitress? “Mom, I care so much,” I whispered. “But do you love me?” She didn’t hesitate. “I’m your mother! Of course I love you! Otherwise, why would I have spared a single hair on your head?” I knew she loved me. But that love was a tiny, suffocating drop compared to the vast ocean of her psychological control. Amber rushed over, her eyes red and puffy, looking like a wounded rabbit. She pointed an accusing finger at me. “Hannah! How could you be so heartless? How could you ignore Mom’s health like that?” The words hit me like a physical blow. A familiar, icy dread spread through my chest, making my whole body shiver. I remembered. When I grew my hair long, she would touch her own thinning hair—falling out from illness—and whisper those exact words to me. When I won first place in an art competition, when I sang online and people actually liked it, when I started getting fit and felt good about my body… she would always say it. And then, the image of my mother covered in blood would flash before my eyes. I was terrified. So I cut my hair. I tore up my certificates. I deleted my accounts. I let myself gain weight. I hid every single part of myself that had ever dared to shine. Now, my throat felt tight, as if a hand were squeezing my windpipe, choking the words back. My mother looked at Amber, her eyes filled with a soft, aching tenderness I had never once received. “Never mind,” my mother sighed. “It’s my fault. I failed as a mother. I turned your sister into this selfish monster.” With a sickening tear of flesh, blood splattered onto my face. She had sliced open her old scars again. The wedding hall erupted into absolute chaos. I stood there, frozen and silent, watching them scramble to call 911. People were shouting, calling me unfilial, a curse, a monster. Zach, my fiancé, stood nearby, his face pale and furious. “Hannah, I can’t do this. I can’t marry you. We’re done.” He turned and walked out, taking his family and friends with him. I didn’t try to stop him. When the ambulance arrived, my mother’s sleeve was entirely soaked in crimson. But she refused to get onto the stretcher. She pushed the paramedics away and stared at me, her eyes drilling into mine. “Do you know what you did wrong?” I didn’t answer. The paramedics, the venue staff, and the remaining guests all looked at me with disgust. “What is wrong with you, girl? Just apologize! Do you really want to kill your mother?” someone yelled, giving me a harsh shove. “Say it!” My clenched fists slowly loosened. The last of my strength drained away, leaving me hollow. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I shouldn’t have tried to get married before Amber. I shouldn’t have shown off. I should have taken better care of her.” A look of satisfaction—and a trace of smug triumph—finally crossed her face. “I knew it,” she smiled. “My Hannah is a good girl.” The ambulance took her away, but I didn’t go with them. Instead, I drove to the psychiatric clinic and found Dr. Lowell. “It’s gotten worse,” she said, studying my chart. The first time I realized something was wrong with my mind was after my mother bled herself. It had happened simply because a boy Amber liked had sent me a love letter. I didn’t even know him. But Amber cried. And because Amber cried, I was guilty. My mother had led me into her bedroom. She had spread a soft, pastel-pink blanket over the armchair. “Sit down,” she had said. And then, right in front of me, she had slowly sliced open her wrist. She was so pale from the pain, yet she kept lecturing me about loving my sister. “If you make a mistake, it’s because I didn’t raise you right. I am the one who is guilty.” I sat on that plush chair, next to a plate of fresh grapes and juice she had lovingly prepared for me, watching her blood stain the carpet. I was paralyzed with horror. “Mom…” I had whimpered. That night, I woke up screaming. For a second, I thought I saw my mother sitting on the armchair across from my bed, bleeding. But when I blinked, she was gone. Then her voice started playing in my head, echoing off the walls. “Mommy is taking your punishment for you!” “Hannah, you must understand my love for you. Your sister is your only family in this world, do you hear me?” I covered my ears, curling into a ball, but the voice seemed to crawl out from inside my own skull, clawing at my nerves. “I know…” “I’ll protect her…” “Stop it! Get out of my head!” When the voice finally faded, I was drenched in cold sweat. I stumbled into my mother’s bedroom, only to find her sleeping peacefully. That was when I knew I was broken. The next day, I went to the clinic. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Dr. Lowell wrote out a prescription. “Take these for a month, and then we’ll evaluate…” I pulled my thoughts back to the present. “I don’t need the prescription anymore,” I said. I stood up, looking at the doctor who had tried to save me for so many years. “I’m done taking the pills.” She stood up abruptly. “Hannah, you can’t—” I smiled. “Don’t worry. I haven’t given up on myself. The pills are just too bitter, and I don’t want them anymore. I can manage.” She stared at me, then let out a heavy sigh. “If anything happens—anything at all—promise me you’ll call.” I nodded. The moment I closed the door behind me, the forced smile slid off my face. I walked silently to the fifth floor. My mother was in the ICU there. The moment Amber saw me, she rushed forward, her face twisted in accusation. “Hannah! How can you be so heartless?” She was crying bitterly. An old panic seized me. I knelt down in front of her. My mother’s lectures, the blood, the nightmare voices—they all flooded my head, turning me into a puppet. I reached out and wiped Amber’s tears. “I’m sorry, Amber. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have done that. Please forgive me.” She looked down at me, her tear-filled eyes holding a cruel glimmer of victory. “Fine. Just don’t try to outshine me again, and I’ll forgive you.” I let out a breath, desperately trying to please her. “Thank you, Amber.” Soon after, my mother was wheeled out of surgery, her wrist wrapped in thick bandages. As the anesthesia wore off, Amber rushed to her side, crying. “Mom, are you okay?” My mother smiled gently. “I’m fine, sweetie.” Then she turned to me, her warmth instantly freezing into a cold stare. “Did you apologize to your sister?” I nodded, repeating the script I’d memorized over a lifetime. “Yes, Mom. Amber forgave me.” She finally looked satisfied. Once she was settled in her room, she looked up as if remembering something. “By the way, Hannah. I used your wedding registry money to buy Amber a car. We can’t return it to Zach’s family right now.” She watched me closely, testing my reaction. “But don’t worry. Even if I have to sell a kidney or bleed myself dry, I won’t let you struggle to pay them back.” The knife I was using to peel an apple slipped. A tiny bead of blood welled up on my thumb. I looked into her eyes, searching for even a shred of genuine love. There was nothing. I remembered when I was eight. Every year, my mother said she was saving my birthday money for me. But when I finally asked for it, she told me she had spent it on Amber’s dance and art lessons. I had thrown a tantrum. I had cried and screamed. She had simply set a bowl on the table, taken a knife to her wrist, and let her blood fill the bowl. “I’ll sell my blood to pay you back, okay? Is this what you want? Are you satisfied?” I was eight years old. I was terrified. I sobbed, screaming that I didn’t want the money anymore, begging her to stop hurting herself. And now, she was using the exact same words, pushing my drowning body deeper under the water. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t ask for the money. I just went home. I lay down in my cozy, beautifully decorated room, my fingers tracing the cold edge of a razor blade. “Does it feel good to cut your wrists?” I wondered. It must. Otherwise, why would she do it so many times? “A child’s sin is her mother’s failure. Your father is gone, so I am the one who failed you!” “Hannah, you are my child. I could never let you hurt, so Mommy will take the pain for you!” By the time I snapped out of it, the sheets were already stained red. The voices in my head suddenly went dead silent. A smile spread across my face. “Finally… the voice is gone.” I sat up and looked down at the pale, lifeless body on the bed, a soft smile frozen on its face. Then, something pulled at my soul, and I found myself back at the hospital. In the room, Amber was fast asleep on the only bed. My mother, despite her heavy bandages, was lying on the cramped sofa. But she didn’t complain. She kept getting up with her stiff, painful hand to pull the blanket back over Amber’s shoulders. I didn’t feel envious anymore. Just hollow. So this was what her love looked like when it wasn’t weaponized, when it didn’t come with strings attached. I had never seen it. She picked up her phone and made a call. “Hi, Zach. It’s Diane. About Hannah’s wedding deposit… she’ll pay you back slowly. Yes, she will.” She hung up, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. “Hannah wouldn’t let me get hurt,” she murmured to herself. The hospital room fell quiet. I stood in the corner, laughing silently through my grief. My love for her was nothing more than the leverage she used to control me. The next morning, Amber woke up. Seeing no breakfast, she pouted. “Mom, where is Hannah? Why isn’t she back? And it’s already morning. Why didn’t she bring breakfast?” My mother sat up quickly, rushing to soothe her. “Don’t worry, sweetie.” She unraveled the bandage on her wrist, took a photo of the raw, ugly wound, and sent a voice message. “Hannah, your mother is in this state and you aren’t even here? When you get here, make sure to go to that bakery downtown and get the donuts your sister likes.” She reviewed the photo. Yes, it looked brutal enough. Amber bit her lip. “Mom, does this really still work? Aren’t you afraid she’ll stop caring one day?” My mother didn’t even lock her phone. “Of course it works. Hannah can’t stand to see me hurt. Just watch—she’ll reply within a minute.” I watched them, feeling a cold wave of irony. There would be no reply. Because I was dead. They kept their eyes glued to the phone. One minute passed. Then three. The smile on my mother’s face began to freeze. Amber frowned. “Did she not see it?” My mother picked up the phone, toggling airplane mode on and off, checking the Wi-Fi. Her brow furrowed. “She’s not replying.” She looked stunned. I found it almost funny. For years, I had never taken more than sixty seconds to answer her. Why? Because she needed me to constantly check on Amber so she wouldn’t have to disturb her favorite daughter herself. There had been only one exception. During my SATs. Right before the English section was about to end, my phone—which was kept in my bag at the front of the room—started buzzing. I couldn’t turn it off, but I had set it to override silent mode only if someone called five times consecutively. My mother had called five times before the exam ended. My English score was disqualified. My overall score plummeted, forcing me into a local community college. Afterward, she shrugged it off, saying she forgot I was taking the test. She just wanted to know if Amber had eaten lunch. I couldn’t even blame her. Not when the pocketknife was sitting right on the table. Now, in the hospital room, she gripped her phone, her irritation mounting. “Fine. Ignore her. Let’s go home.” I followed them back. They prepared a feast, even bought a cake, but neither of them asked where I was. It didn’t even occur to them to turn the handle of my bedroom door. Now that I was a ghost, my bipolar disorder seemed to have vanished. For the first time, I saw our home clearly: there had never been a place for me here. She claimed she treated us equally, but there wasn’t a single photo of me in the house. On the TV stand, there was a photo of them skiing. On the desk, they were having a picnic. The shelves were lined with Amber’s trophies and certificates. My own achievements had been torn up and thrown away, sacrificed so Amber wouldn’t feel insecure, crushed under my mother’s eternal command: “You have to let her win.” I had been reduced to nothing but background noise. I let out a bitter laugh. My mother’s eyes suddenly darted to her phone. “Why hasn’t Hannah replied yet?” Amber rolled her eyes. “Mom, if you’re so worried, just go check her room. She’s probably throwing a tantrum in there because the wedding got called off.” She put on her best pout, playing the victim. “Go get her. I’ll apologize to her, okay? It’s my fault her wedding was ruined anyway.” The guilt-trip worked instantly. My mother rushed to comfort her. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Fine, I won’t look for her. We’ll let her come out on her own and explain herself.” Amber smiled. That night, after Amber went to bed, I watched my mother sit alone on the sofa, staring at her phone. Every few seconds, her gaze drifted toward my closed door. Finally, she sighed and dialed my number. A second later, my ringtone echoed from inside my room. She froze. Her face darkened. “Hannah, get out here.” She marched to my door. “If you’re home, why are you ignoring me? Are you throwing a fit at your sister, or at me?” I laughed. It felt so incredibly worthless. I had spent twenty-three years bound by the words “motherly love” and “protecting your sister.” My mother took a deep breath and rattled the doorknob. It was locked. She gasped, a sudden, wild anger taking over. “Hannah! You locked the door? Are you locking out your own mother?” Fuming, she pulled a razor blade from her pocket, snapped a photo of it resting against her skin, and sent it to my phone. “If you don’t come out, you’ll have to live with the consequences!” I watched her, a lump in my throat. I had seen this play out a thousand times. But this time, her threats had no power. When the door remained shut, she began hammering on the wood. “Hannah! You open this door right—” Her phone cut her off, ringing loudly with an unknown number. She frowned, answering sharply. “Who is this?” The voice on the other end was breathless, frantic. “Are you Hannah’s mother? Can you get in touch with her?” My mother’s brow furrowed. “Who are you?” “I’m Dr. Lowell, Hannah’s psychiatrist. Something is wrong. You need to find her immediately!”

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The moment the real Hayden heiress returned, I packed my bags and retreated to the quiet, dusty farm upstate. My ex-fiancé, currently a world away in England, sent me a message: “It’s snowing in London. I miss you. What are you doing?” I typed back: “Feeding chickens.” Elliot: “Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?” I shut him down: “No way. My grandmother would skin me alive.” “And stop texting me, Elliot. Your fiancée has changed.” … When Elliot’s message popped up on my screen, I was standing in a muddy yard, scattering feed. “It’s snowing in London. I miss you.” “What are you doing?” I tossed another handful of corn to the ground, wiped my palms on my jeans, and typed back: “Feeding chickens.” He was never one to ruin a moment. “The UK just switched to Greenwich Mean Time,” he replied. “Are you bringing one of those chickens to see me before Christmas?” I looked down at the free-range hens pecking at my boots, then glanced up at my grandmother, who was busy shoveling manure nearby. I felt a pang of regret as I typed: “No way. My grandmother would skin me alive.” “And stop texting me, Elliot. Your fiancée has changed.” The screen showed “Elliot is typing…” for several agonizing minutes. Then, my phone buzzed with an incoming voice call. The reception out here in the hills was terrible, and his voice cut through the static, sounding faintly metallic. “What do you mean, ‘changed’?” Before I could find the words, he added, “Is that thunder over there? I remember how terrified you are of storms.” “No thunder,” I murmured, staring at the dirt road. “Just a tractor rolling past.” I forced myself to speak clearly, pronouncing each syllable so he wouldn’t miss it. “I’m not a Hayden, Elliot. I’m currently standing in the mud feeding poultry. Our families arranged a marriage between the Hayden daughter and a Belmont. That isn’t me anymore. I assume they’ll be swapping me out.” There was a heavy, suffocating silence on the other end. Before he could say another word, I hung up. Then, with a numb finger, I blocked his number. Our engagement had always been a calculated transaction between two powerful dynasties. Now that our social standings were worlds apart, there was no future for us. Better a clean break than a slow, agonizing bleed. I covered my face with my hands, my chest tightening. Just as the first tear threatened to spill over, I remembered I had to go gather the eggs. “I’ll cry next time,” I told myself. When I left the Hayden estate, I didn’t take a single thing with me. My adoptive parents had begged me to keep my clothes, my jewelry, my designer bags, but I politely declined every offer. Their biological daughter, Daisy, had stood nearby, watching the exchange. Having grown up in this small rural town, she was vibrant, unreserved, and entirely unbothered by the sudden shift in her reality. She had looked at me with clear, earnest eyes and said, “The mix-up was an accident, Daphne. It’s not your fault. You really don’t have to leave.” “But I lived your life for twenty-two years,” I had replied, my throat dry. “The least I can do is go back and live the life you were supposed to have.” The irony of it felt heavy on my tongue. Daisy had scratched her head, looking slightly bewildered. “Well… alright then.” Before I left, the only contact I saved from my old life was Daisy’s WeChat. She promised to send me a PDF of “Postpartum Care for Sows”, telling me I could text her anytime if I had questions about farming. So, armed with nothing but a fragile sense of courage and Daisy’s practical advice, I boarded the dusty long-distance bus back to the country. My new life began: cutting sweetgrass on the steep hillsides and feeding chickens in the valley. Elliot used to tell me, “When London enters winter time, it means our time difference becomes eight hours. That’s one extra hour for us to love each other.” But after just half a day on the farm, I had reached a new level of enlightenment. Who cared about love? I was currently preoccupied with whether my hens were going to lay any eggs. I turned toward the coop. A plump hen was sitting stubbornly on her nest, puffing her feathers. I had no idea how to get her to move without getting pecked. After staring at her for a few minutes, I pulled out my phone and messaged Daisy: “How do I get the eggs when the hen is sitting right on top of them?” She sent back a cheerful voice note: “Oh, hon, you’ve got to scatter some corn first to distract her. We call that the Archimedes Principle of Poultry!” I grabbed a handful of feed, let the hen peck it from my palm, and carefully slipped my hand under her warm feathers. My fingers closed around a smooth, warm egg. I set it gently in the basket, washed my hands at the outdoor pump, and texted back: “Thank you, Daisy.” “Oh, don’t mention it, sis—” The voice message cut off abruptly. In the background, I heard my adoptive mother’s sharp, refined voice: “Daisy, must you speak with such a terrible accent?” I let out a soft laugh. Then, feeling a twinge of guilt, I decided I would practice some silent self-care mantras later to restore my karma. That evening, we gathered around a worn wooden table for dinner. Feeling out of place, I kept my head down, only reaching for the plate of steamed vegetables directly in front of me. My grandmother tugged nervously at her apron, her voice thick with a heavy local accent. “What’s wrong, Daphne? Is the food not to your liking? I can roast a chicken tomorrow.” “No, no, it’s wonderful,” I insisted, shaking my head. She gave a hesitant, relieved nod. “Good, good. Just let me know if you need anything.” “I will,” I promised. It really was a beautiful place. It was just going to take some time to get used to the quiet. Late that night, Daisy FaceTime’d me. She was lying flat on her stomach in her massive new bedroom, chin resting in her hands. “How are you holding up, sis?” “I’m adjusting,” I said softly. “Step by step.” She sighed. “I swear, I need to learn how to give those graceful, diplomatic answers of yours.” I smiled. “You’re smart, Daisy. You’ll catch on in no time.” “You always know just what to say. We should go clear some sweetgrass together sometime.” “I’d like that,” I replied. As we chatted about our swapped lives, Daisy suddenly shifted gears. “By the way, why did you block my brother-in-law?” “Brother-in-law?” I hesitated. “Who?” “Elliot, obviously.” At that moment, all my training in “graceful diplomacy” failed me. Daisy had just arrived at the Hayden estate; I hadn’t expected her to know about him so soon. “Why are we talking about him?” I murmured. “He asked me to pass a message along to you,” she said. “Honestly, my English accent is terrible, so I’ll just take a picture of what he wrote.” She sent a photo. It was a quote from “The Lord of the Rings”: “I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.” “So, sis,” Daisy’s voice bubbled through the speaker. “Any thoughts?” I stared at the text on my screen, my chest aching. “Tell him… I’m having warm steel-cut oatmeal with maple syrup and a side of crispy bacon for breakfast tomorrow.” Daisy grinned, her eyes crinkling. “You certainly appreciate the finer things.” The next morning, the rooster’s crow woke me at dawn. I got up, ate a steaming bowl of steel-cut oatmeal topped with brown sugar, along with my desired side of perfectly crispy, salty bacon. Then, I set off up the mountain with a woven basket on my back. My grandmother had tried to stop me. “You don’t need to do hard labor, sweetheart. Just rest.” But I had been stubborn. “If Daisy did it, I should too.” She had looked at me, utterly perplexed. Armed with my basket and a small hand-scythe, I followed the trail Daisy had mapped out for me. The mountain was dense with thick pines and overgrown brush. The canopy was so thick that the morning sun barely filtered through, and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Only the low, hollow whistling of the wind through the leaves. After half an hour of hacking at the sweetgrass, the silence began to feel heavy, almost suffocating. Growing up, my adoptive mother had always warned me never to wander into isolated places alone. “If something happens to you out there, no one will ever find you.” The thought spiraled, morphing into a cold, sudden panic. I threw the half-empty basket over my shoulders and bolted down the trail. I ran so fast that I tripped over a root, scraping my knee and tumbling into the dirt. By the time I reached the house, I was a mess—disheveled, covered in dust and dried leaves. But the physical sting was nothing compared to the guilt. This was the life Daisy had lived for over two decades while I sat in air-conditioned parlors. As soon as my phone caught a bar of signal, I sent her a message: “I’m so sorry.” Daisy: “?” “What’s wrong, sis?” My throat tightened, a sob catching in my chest. “I didn’t realize how hard your life was out here…” Daisy: “It wasn’t hard at all! What on earth did you do?” I replied: “I tried to harvest sweetgrass.” She messaged back instantly: “Ah, see, that’s where you went wrong. I was practically born with a scythe in my hand. Send the tool back to me!” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. The heavy weight in my chest lifted slightly. I had assumed I would spend every waking hour pining for Elliot. But as it turned out, when you’re busy wrangling poultry, you don’t have the luxury of wallowing. I felt incredibly fragile. When the DNA results first came out, I felt like a piece of delicate glass that had shattered into a million pieces. But the manual labor was slowly gluing me back together. When you’re physically exhausted, your brain doesn’t have the energy to overthink. For over a month, Daisy and I traded farming tips. Meanwhile, Elliot tried every backdoor channel imaginable to get messages to me. I was caught in a painful tug-of-war within myself. Part of me was drowning in melancholy, while the other part remained stubbornly unyielding. By mid-December, London was gearing up for the Christmas holidays. In previous years, I would have been boarding a first-class flight to Heathrow to spend the winter break with him. But now, the disparity between us was too vast. We were living in different universes. The first snow of the season fell on our small town, blanketing the hills in a quiet, pristine white. I recorded a short video of the snow and sent it to Daisy. She got so excited that she announced she was coming up for a visit; she missed the fresh air and her grandmother. During our chat, she casually dropped a bomb: “Elliot is back in the States.” My heart skipped a beat. “He is?” “Yeah,” Daisy replied. “And he’s heading your way.”

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On the drive up to the mountain retreat, I habitually reached for the front passenger door. Wright, busy loading our luggage into the trunk, naturally slid into the backseat right next to Carly. They spent the entire drive whispering about high school pranks and catching up on mutual friends. Every now and then, I tried to chime in from the front, but Wright would only offer a distracted, one-word murmur before instantly picking back up wherever Carly had left off. It went on like that until our driver glanced in the rearview mirror and broke the silence. “Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s the dynamic here? Is it a thing now for couples to bring a third wheel on vacation?” I froze. “Actually… I’m his girlfriend.” The driver winced, clearly embarrassed. “Oh, my bad. Seeing you up front, I just assumed those two were the couple…” “Watch the road,” Wright snapped, his voice tight with defensive irritation. I didn’t turn around. I just watched the rearview mirror. I saw Carly’s expression—a fleeting mask of panic instantly giving way to a small, smug curl of her lips. And Wright. His first instinct wasn’t to clarify things. It was to get angry. A quiet, bitter laugh slipped past my lips. Even a complete stranger could see who the outsider was. Yet here I was, clinging to the title of “girlfriend,” playing the fool for God knows how long. … The car pulled up to the entrance of the nature reserve. Carly leaped out like a hyperactive kid, tossing her overstuffed designer backpack straight into Wright’s arms. “Wright, hold this for me? It’s so heavy, and I want to go take pictures by those flowers!” Wright caught it effortlessly. There was no complaint, only a soft laugh as he ruffled her hair. “You’re a handful, you know that?” he murmured affectionately. Yet, when we were packing, I had tried to squeeze a light windbreaker into the suitcase, and he had rolled his eyes, sighing about how I always packed useless junk and dragged him down. I followed them in silence. The two of them moved inside a bubble that completely excluded me. Carly ran ahead to a cascading wall of wisteria, spinning around to wave him over. Wright immediately pulled out his phone. To get the perfect angle, his six-foot-two frame didn’t hesitate to crouch down, eventually dropping one knee onto the dirty cobblestones. “Carly, tilt your chin down a bit. Look to the left.” “Perfect. Now smile, put your hand near your cheek.” He directed her with endless patience, cracking jokes that kept her giggling. Passing tourists cast envious glances. I heard a woman murmur to her friend, “Her boyfriend is so sweet.” Wright heard it. He didn’t correct her. Instead, a proud, indulgent smile played on his lips. I stood in the harsh afternoon sun until my legs ached, feeling less like a partner and more like a hired chaperone. Once Carly got tired and trotted off to queue at a nearby lemonade stand, I finally stepped forward. “Wright,” I said quietly, “could you take one of me?” The warmth drained from his face instantly. He raised his phone with lazy indifference. Without even adjusting the focus, he tapped the screen once—a half-hearted gesture that took less than three seconds. “Done.” He shoved the phone back into my hand, his eyes already drifting back toward the lemonade stand. I opened the gallery. The photo was a blurry mess. He’d caught me mid-blink, looking awkward and disheveled, while the random tourists in the background were perfectly sharp. “My eyes are closed. Can we try one more?” I gripped the phone, trying to keep my voice even. Wright frowned, looking me up and down with irritation. “You’re wearing that drab gray tracksuit. It’s not exactly photogenic, Naomi. Another shot isn’t going to fix that.” He let out a sigh of disdain. “Honestly, you should take some notes from Carly. It’s a vacation—wear a bright sundress or something. You look like you’re going to a funeral. How is that my fault?” My breath caught, a sour lump rising in my throat. The gray tracksuit he was criticizing was the exact outfit he had insisted I wear. “We’re going to be walking a lot,” he’d said yesterday. “Wear something practical. Don’t slow us down.” Yet Carly was navigating the dirt paths in wedge sandals and a bright, floral sundress, and he hadn’t muttered a single complaint. Instead, he had gladly spent the entire morning acting as her personal pack mule. While Carly was waiting in line, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. It was a nine-photo carousel she had just posted. Every shot was meticulously composed—the soft golden light catching her face, making her look effortless and ethereal. The caption read: “Stop number one! Huge thanks to my personal, exclusive photographer!” In the comments, one of their mutual friends had joked: “Damn, Wright’s got skills. That’s pure love behind the lens!” I looked down at my own screen, staring at the blurry, half-blind stranger staring back. But I didn’t start an argument. I didn’t demand to know why he had two entirely different sets of standards. I just quietly locked my screen and slipped the phone into my pocket. The truth was simple: a lens, like a human eye, doesn’t lie. It always focuses on the thing it cherishes most. Once, Wright’s camera had held only me. In college, he’d skipped meals for a month just to buy a decent DSLR, and his storage was packed with candid, makeup-free photos of me sleeping that he refused to delete. But six months ago, Carly moved into our apartment complex under the guise of being his “childhood neighbor.” Since then, our quiet weekend getaways had devolved into a crowded party of three. Whenever we took a trip, they would sit side-by-side in the back, lost in a labyrinth of high school nostalgia. The one time I had tried to squeeze into the backseat with them, Wright had frowned and told me to sit in the front. “It’s too cramped, Naomi. Carly gets motion sickness; she needs the space.” And just like that, I became a spectator in my own relationship. The chime of a brass bell pulled me back. We had wandered into a quaint local boutique, where Carly was cradling a delicate, hand-painted ceramic figurine. “Wright, look! Doesn’t this look exactly like me? I have to have it!” “It does,” Wright said, his eyes softening. Without even checking the price tag, he pulled out his card and tapped the reader. As he pocketed his wallet, his eyes caught me standing quietly near the door. He paused. Reaching down to a clearance bin near the register, he grabbed a cheap plastic trinket and tossed it to me. “Here,” he said casually. “Take this. Lest you throw a fit later about me being unfair.” I looked down at the cheap, poorly painted plastic trinket in my hand. The eyes were slightly crooked, giving it a hollow, eerie look. My fingers tightened around it, but I said nothing. For lunch, we stopped at a bustling local bistro. Carly took the menu and confidently ordered several of the spiciest specialty dishes, finishing with a large bowl of firecracker noodles drenched in chili oil. When the food arrived, Wright naturally slid the fiery red bowl directly in front of Carly. Sitting across from them, looking at the table covered in red oil, my stomach clenched. I had a severe ulcer; even a hint of chili could send me into cold sweats. For the first two years of our relationship, Wright hadn’t cooked a single spicy meal to keep me safe. Now, he had completely forgotten. “Wright, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my throat dry. Wright’s fork paused. A heavy frown settled over his features. “Carly barely gets to travel, Naomi. Can’t you just rinse it in a cup of water? Why do you always have to be so difficult?” His tone carried a sharp edge of resentment. “We’re supposed to be having fun. Stop ruining the mood with your endless complaints.” Beside him, Carly bit her lip, looking suitably wounded. “I’m so sorry, Naomi. I forgot about your stomach. Wright, please don’t be mad at her…” I pushed my empty plate aside and waved down the waiter. “Could I just get a plain chicken noodle soup, please? No seasoning, no spice.” Wright blinked. My sheer composure seemed to throw him off. A rare flicker of guilt crossed his face, and he parted his lips. “Naomi, look, I didn’t mean it like—” “Wright! You have to try this fish, it’s amazing!” Sensing the shift, Carly quickly cut him off, pressing a piece of fish to his lips. His attention snapped right back to her. He took the bite, falling easily into her distraction, and didn’t look at me for the rest of the meal. When my plain soup arrived, the steam rose to blur my vision. I took a bite. It was completely flavorless, but I swallowed it along with the bitter weight settling deep in my chest. “Let it go,” I told myself. I didn’t want cheap, pity gifts anymore. And I was tired of washing away the spice just to survive on his crumbs. That afternoon, we hiked up the scenic mountain trail. The storm caught us without warning. The oppressive heat vanished as the sky bruised purple, and with a sudden crash of thunder, heavy drops of rain began to pelt down. We were halfway up the trail, entirely exposed with no shelter in sight. Almost purely on instinct, Wright ripped off his windbreaker. Standing beside him, I felt a brief flutter of hope. I remembered another storm years ago, how he had pulled me close under his jacket, whispering against my wet hair, “I’ve got you. Don’t worry.” But this time, his hands moved right past me. “Carly, put this on!” He didn’t even glance my way as he draped the jacket over Carly’s head. Carly gasped, slipping easily into his embrace and wrapping her arms around his waist. Wright held her tight, his own shoulders getting soaked as he guided her toward a small wooden gazebo a few yards ahead. Only after taking several strides did he remember I existed. He shouted back through the downpour, “Naomi! Carly gets sick easily in the cold! Hurry up and get over here!” His words were instantly swallowed by the howling wind. I stood frozen as the icy water seeped down my collar. I caught a chill easily, too. My immune system was fragile. But he had chosen to forget. Gritting my teeth, I forced my legs to move, but the wet stone steps had turned into a slick trap. My foot slipped, and I went down hard on the jagged rocks. A sharp, white-hot agony flared in my knee. The sickening thud of bone hitting stone was loud enough to pierce through the thunder. I sprawled in the mud, watching a deep crimson stain spread across my gray sweatpants, bleeding into the pooling rain. “Wright…” I gasped, the name slipping out from sheer muscle memory. From the gazebo, Wright turned. Seeing me on the ground, a flash of genuine panic crossed his face. He stepped forward to run down the steps. “Naomi!” But before his foot could touch the wet gravel, Carly let out a shrill scream, clutching his arm with desperate strength. “Wright! The thunder! I’m terrified! Please don’t leave me alone, please…” Wright froze. He looked at me, drenched and bleeding in the mud, then down at Carly trembling against his chest. That single second of hesitation cut deeper than the fall. It was the moment the fog finally cleared. He pulled his leg back. “Naomi! Just use the railing and get up! It’s only a few more steps! You can do it!” he yelled, his voice laced with defensive irritation. I sat there in the dirt. Rain washed over my eyelashes, blurring my sight, but I could still see them clearly. Wright was gently wiping the droplets from Carly’s forehead, while she, safely tucked under his arm, let a tiny, triumphant smile slip. In that moment, the last ember of love inside me went cold. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wet phone, and tapped the screen with numb fingers. Open app. Book flight. Confirm. The next flight back to New York was in five hours. I wasn’t going to spend another second in this crowded, suffocating nightmare. I limped all the way back to our rental cabin. The blood on my knee had dried, gluing the gray fabric to the raw skin, sending sharp jolts of pain up my leg with every step. I didn’t bother cleaning the wound. Instead, I pulled my suitcase from under the bed. Folded clothes, packed toiletries, snapped the locks shut. The metallic click echoed in the quiet room. The door burst open. Wright walked in, his arm supporting Carly, who was still wrapped snugly in his windbreaker. The moment his eyes landed on my packed suitcase, his expression hardened. “Naomi, what the hell is this?” He slammed the door behind him, his voice thick with barely suppressed anger. “Are you seriously throwing a tantrum just because I didn’t help you up? Who are you trying to punish right now?” I zipped the final compartment without looking up. “Wright, don’t,” Carly whispered from the doorway, her eyes pooling with tears. “It’s my fault. Naomi is mad at me because I panicked. Naomi, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you fell. The thunder just terrified me…” “Carly, you don’t owe her an apology,” Wright snapped, pulling her behind his shoulder as he glared at me. “Naomi, grow up. She’s practically crying because of you. How long are you going to keep this act up? Do you seriously have to ruin this trip for everyone to be satisfied?” I finally raised my head and looked at him. For the first time in years, I didn’t feel the sting of his accusations. I didn’t feel the urge to show him my bloody knee or defend my pain. I was just tired. A deep, bone-weary exhaustion that stripped away any desire to argue. I reached down and slowly slipped the simple gold band off my left ring finger. He had given it to me on our third anniversary, promising I was the only woman he’d ever love. I placed it gently on the wooden bedside table. “You can have this back. Keep enjoying your trip. Don’t worry about me.” Wright stared at the ring. His pupils dilated, and the anger drained from his face, replaced by a sudden, frantic flicker of panic. But his pride won. His expression went cold again. “Are you threatening me, Naomi?” He let out a harsh laugh, stepping forward to slam his hand down on my suitcase. His eyes were dark. “Fine. You want to play games? You walk out that door today, and you can forget about ever coming back.” I looked at him as if he were a stranger. I reached out and gently but firmly pried his fingers off my suitcase one by one. “Okay.” I pulled the handle of my suitcase and walked past him. As I brushed past Carly, she flinched, shrinking back into the doorframe. Behind me, Wright realized I was actually leaving. His voice cracked with a furious roar: “Naomi! Don’t you dare come crawling back!” I stepped out into the cool mountain air, my pace steady and unhurried. “Goodbye, Wright. I hope you two are very happy together.”

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This was our third wedding rehearsal, and once again, Chelsea’s best friend, Cody, was wearing my custom-tailored suit. He strutted up to me, tugging at the collar with a theatrical grimace. “God, getting married is such a chore,” he complained, his voice loud enough to carry across the room. “Why do guys have to wear these straight jackets? This thing is so tight, it’s practically cutting off my circulation.” He patted my shoulder with a patronizing grin. “But hey, I’m taking the bullet for you today. No need to thank me. Just let Chelsea off the hook tonight so she can give me a proper bachelor send-off.” Around us, our friends laughed, treating the whole display like a harmless joke. I didn’t smile. I kept my eyes on Chelsea. “He’s wearing my suit again,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Did you forget what you promised me after the last time?” Chelsea’s face darkened instantly. “What do you mean, ‘wearing your suit again’?” she snapped, her tone dripping with defensive irritation. “Cody was just trying to help. He knew you were exhausted from work, so he stepped in to finish the rehearsal for you. Don’t throw his kindness back in his face.” In that exact moment, shimmering golden words drifted across my vision, like a live-stream chat rolling through the air. [Chelsea is just a scared little girl deep down. She’s so insecure, she’s only doing this to test how much Jesse will tolerate for her.] [Once Jesse passes this third test, she’s going to give him the perfect wedding.] [She’s literally dying for him to just wrap his arms around her and soothe her right now.] I stared at the glowing text and felt a sudden, hollow laugh rise in my chest. For years, I had let these phantom comments guide me. But not today. Looking at Chelsea’s tense, stubborn face, I spoke softly. “Since he’s so eager to help, let him stand in for me at the wedding tomorrow, too.” … The rehearsal hall went deathly quiet. Chelsea froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. The friends who had been snickering moments before now exchanged uneasy glances. A profound exhaustion settled deep into my bones. I turned to leave, but Chelsea’s bridesmaid, Becca, quickly stepped into my path, blocking the exit. “Jesse, come on, Cody was just messing around,” she said, her voice dripping with forced sweetness. “He didn’t mean anything by it. Chelsea only snapped because she’s stressed. Just say something nice to her, and this will all blow over.” A bitter ache bloomed in my chest. Chelsea was the one hurling insults, and I was the one left humiliated. Yet, like always, everyone in our circle expected me to be the one to swallow my pride and apologize. For the past eight years, every single time Chelsea and I fought, those golden comments would flash before my eyes, assuring me that I was the love of her life. They told me that because she had been abandoned by her parents as a child, she had no sense of security, that she only pushed me away to see if I would run. So, even when she was entirely in the wrong, I would always bow my head and comfort her. But I was done. I was so incredibly tired. I looked Becca dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. “I’m not joking. I won’t be at the wedding tomorrow.” Then I looked past her to Chelsea. “We’re over.” The color drained from Chelsea’s face, leaving her ghostly pale. But almost immediately, a fierce, defensive anger flared in her eyes. “You’re breaking up with me over this?” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Fine! Pack your things and get out! Tomorrow I’ll marry Cody instead. And don’t you dare think about crawling back. Even if you get down on your knees and beg, I will never take you back!” The golden text erupted across my field of vision, frantic and dense. [What is the male lead doing? Chelsea’s heart is literally breaking right now. She’s only saying these awful things to make him turn around!] [She’s going to regret this so much. She actually planned a massive surprise for him tonight!] A surprise? Looking at Cody, who was still smirking in the suit I had spent a month designing, I realized I didn’t care about her surprises anymore. During our first rehearsal, Cody complained the suit was too loose and took a pair of scissors to the seams, hacking away at my handiwork. During the second rehearsal, Cody insisted on choreographing a dramatic dance routine. He tripped, fell off the stage, and ripped a massive hole through the delicate fabric of the trousers. I had wept. I had screamed. I had even lost my temper and slapped Cody across the face. But Chelsea had immediately shielded him, glaring at me like I was a monster. “It’s just a suit, Jesse! You can design another one. Is it really worth bullying Cody over a piece of cloth?” And the golden text had chimed in: [Chelsea knows Cody went too far. She’s just testing to see if Jesse’s love for her is truly unconditional.] So, I let it go. Both of those weddings had fallen through. Afterward, I told Chelsea I just wanted to go to the courthouse, to skip the pageantry entirely. But she had insisted on a third attempt. She held my hand and swore to me that she would never let Cody touch my suit again. Yet, here we were. My throat felt tight, as if stuffed with dry cotton. I looked at Chelsea’s flushed, angry face and spoke quietly. “Fine. I’m leaving.” As I turned on my heel, Cody let out a sharp, derisive scoff. “Unbelievable. Some guys just don’t know how to be grateful,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “I spend all evening helping out, and I don’t even get a thank you. Just this dramatic exit. Look, it’s just a jacket. I’ll take it off right now so you can stop whining to Chelsea.” He gripped the lapels and yanked the jacket off with aggressive force. As the fabric parted, I realized with a sick jolt that he was wearing my custom-tailored shirt underneath, too. I instinctively reached out to grab the jacket before it could hit the floor. But Cody smirked and tossed it over his shoulder. The beautiful, off-white silk landed squarely in the middle of a messy buffet table, splashing directly into a half-empty bowl of greasy pasta. This was the dinner Chelsea had asked me to arrange and pay for to thank the bridal party. A hot, stinging sensation rushed behind my eyes. Thirty days of sleepless nights, of calloused fingers and meticulous stitching, ruined in a second of greasy gravity. I raised my eyes to Cody, but before I could utter a single word, Chelsea lunged forward and gripped my wrist in a vice grip. Her hand was shaking violently, but her voice was freezing cold. “It’s just a stained jacket, Jesse. Don’t you dare touch Cody.” She wasn’t angry about the suit. She was just terrified I would hurt her precious best friend again. The golden comments sped up, flashing rapidly. [Chelsea looks like she’s taking the second male lead’s side, but honestly, if Jesse just swallows his pride like he always does, she’ll finally feel safe.] [She’s a broken little thing. She’s already counting down the seconds until he forgives her.] I let out a soft, hollow laugh and wrenched my wrist from her grip. “You’re right,” I said. “It’s just a stained jacket. And just like this suit, I don’t want it anymore.” I looked at her, letting the weight of my words sink in. “And I don’t want you, either.” Becca gasped loudly. “But the wedding… if the suit is ruined, we can’t do the wedding tomorrow. What about the surprise Chelsea got for you, Jesse?” The golden comments surged again. [Chelsea tracked down the original paintings Jesse sold years ago! She bought them all back!] [She was going to present them to him at the reception tomorrow as a reward for his patience.] My head snapped up. I stared at Chelsea’s trembling lips, and for a fleeting, painful second, my numb heart stuttered back to life. Chelsea met my gaze, her eyes cold and devoid of warmth. “The surprise was actually for Cody,” she lied, her voice tight. “And since Jesse doesn’t want to be here, I’m giving all of them to Cody right now.” On her cue, several assistants began carrying large, wrapped frames into the hall, lining them up in front of Cody. My body went entirely rigid. Those twelve paintings were my pride and joy—the collection that had won me a national arts scholarship in college. When Chelsea wanted to start her own fashion line years ago and couldn’t secure a loan, I had sold them to a private collector to give her the capital. I remembered the night I handed her the money. She had clung to me in our tiny apartment, sobbing into my shoulder. “Jesse, no one has ever loved me like this. No one ever will. I swear to you, the second my business takes off, I’ll find these paintings and buy every single one of them back for you.” I had believed her. But now that she had finally tracked them down, she was handing them to Cody. The text kept scrolling. [Can’t Jesse see how much pain Chelsea is in? All he has to do is say he wants them, and she’ll hand them over in a heartbeat.] Chelsea’s jaw was set tight, a desperate, expectant look lingering deep in her eyes. Becca nudged my elbow, whispering, “Jesse, just apologize to her. You’ve been putting up with her for eight years. What’s one more time?” Instead of answering, I watched Chelsea lift one of the paintings and hand it directly to Cody. “These are yours now,” she said loudly, her eyes fixed on me. “No one can take them from you.” Cody flashed me a triumphant, nasty grin. “Well, since they’re mine, I guess I can do whatever I want with them.” He reached onto the buffet table, grabbed a steak knife, and drove the blade straight through the canvas, dragging it down in a brutal, jagged motion. “I absolutely loathe when guys try to leverage their past favors to guilt women,” Cody sneered, glancing at me. “Real love is unconditional. Expecting a return on your investment is just pathetic.” He moved to the next frame, the blade ripping through years of my hard work. I clenched my fists so hard my fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. With every tear of the canvas, it felt as though he was slicing directly into my chest. And Chelsea just stood there. She watched him destroy my life’s work, and she didn’t lift a finger to stop him. The golden text was still flashing, but I closed my eyes, refusing to read another word. The paintings were gone. And with them, the very last piece of whatever beauty Chelsea and I had once shared crumbled into ash. I turned and walked out of the venue, the heavy doors swinging shut behind me. As the cool night air hit my face, Cody’s mocking voice echoed in my head. “Man, Chelsea, your guy is a joke. So incredibly petty. His tolerance level is basically zero.” And Chelsea’s cold reply: “He’s obsessed with me. He’ll probably have a pathetic excuse lined up to apologize by the time I get home.” I let out a quiet, bitter laugh into the empty street. No, Chelsea. Not this time. There are no more apologies left in me. Back at our apartment, I immediately began packing. My mother had already planned to move out of the city tomorrow afternoon to go live with my grandparents in Seattle, hoping to spend her remaining years caring for them. Since there was no wedding to attend anymore, I figured I would just leave with her. As I packed, a painful realization washed over me. All of my personal belongings—my clothes, my sketchbooks, my documents—fit into a single, modest suitcase. Everything else I owned had been systematically thrown away over the past year. Cody had claimed my things were “eyesores” that cluttered the apartment, and Chelsea had let him toss them. When I had protested, she had simply shrugged. “Cody’s right, Jesse. Men have too much junk anyway. You need to learn to let things go.” Yet, when Cody’s belongings began slowly filling the empty spaces in our home, she never said a word. Looking around this beautiful apartment that had absolutely no room for me, I pulled out my phone, intending to call a real estate agent to list my half of the property. But before I could dial, the front door clicked open. Chelsea and Cody walked in. Seeing the suitcase at my feet, Cody raised an eyebrow, a mocking smirk playing on his lips. “Look at this, Chelsea. Your little drama queen is at it again. Is he trying to kick me out, or does he just not love you anymore?” He held up a plastic takeout container. “And to think we actually felt bad for him. We brought back the leftovers from rehearsal dinner for him and Rusty.” Rusty was Cody’s golden retriever, whom he had moved into our apartment months ago. And the leftovers were from the very table where my suit had been ruined. The defensive anger returned to Chelsea’s face, masking the brief flash of panic I had caught when she first saw my suitcase. “Jesse, what is wrong with you?” she demanded, throwing her keys onto the counter. “I am warning you, my patience is wearing thin. If you walk out that door tonight, you are never coming back. Do you understand me? You will lose me forever.” [Jesse, please hold your ground, but don’t actually leave! Can’t you see she’s just terrified of losing you?] [She was literally crying in the car on the way home. Just give her a hug and she’ll forgive you.] [She can’t survive without you. She’s only acting tough because she wants you to submit one last time.] Reading the text now, I felt nothing but a profound sense of disgust. Ever since Chelsea met Cody in the business world, I had done nothing but submit. When I had a fever of 103 and begged her to bring me medicine, she had gone out and stayed overnight at Cody’s place because he had a minor stomach ache and “needed her.” When Cody’s apartment was being remodeled, she had invited him to move into our home without even asking me, slowly erasing my presence from my own living space. I had tolerated all of it because those stupid golden comments told me it was just her insecurity. But my compliance had only fed their cruelty. The love I had harbored for her for nearly a decade was completely dead. I looked at her, my eyes entirely clear. “I’m not coming back. And I’m selling this place.” Chelsea’s pupils dilated in shock. But Cody suddenly burst out laughing, a loud, grating sound. “Sell it? With what authority? This is my apartment!” A cold dread pooled in my stomach. I turned to Chelsea, whose eyes had suddenly darted away, refusing to meet mine. “What is he talking about?” my voice trembled. Chelsea reached out, her fingers twitching as if she wanted to grab my hand, but Cody casually draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her back. “It means Chelsea signed the deed over to me last month,” Cody said smoothly. “Come on, Jesse. You claim to love her, right? You’re not seriously going to grudge her giving a house to her best friend, are you?” My hands began to shake violently. To ensure Chelsea and I wouldn’t have the burden of a massive mortgage, my mother had sold her own beautiful home. She had used every penny of her savings—nearly $200,000—to pay off our remaining debt so we could start our lives together debt-free. Because of that sacrifice, my mother was currently renting a cramped, damp apartment in a dilapidated part of town. And Chelsea had handed that very home to Cody without a single word to me. A blinding wave of fury rushed to my head. Before I could think, I raised my hand and swung it toward Chelsea’s face. But before my palm could connect, Cody threw himself in front of her. He hit the floor with a dramatic thud, immediately letting out a pathetic wail. “Ow! God, Chelsea, he’s trying to kill me!” he sobbed, clutching his stomach. “He’s attacking me just so he can steal my apartment! Does he hate you so much that he’d resort to violence just to get away from you?” Chelsea’s eyes flared red with fury. “Fine! You want to leave? Then get the hell out!” She grabbed my arm, her grip brutal and frantic, and violently shoved me toward the hallway. The heavy front door slammed shut in my face, the lock clicking into place. I stood alone in the dimly lit corridor, holding nothing but my phone. The golden text exploded, swirling frantically before my eyes. [Jesse, don’t leave! She’s only throwing you out because she’s terrified you’re actually going to abandon her!] [She kept your suitcase inside on purpose so you’d have to come back! If you leave now, she’s going to lose her mind!] [He’s crying outside, and she’s crying inside. This is so devastating.] [Even though she gave the apartment to Cody, she was actually planning on buying a mansion for Jesse anyway!] I ignored the comments. Taking one last look at the blank, white door of the home that was no longer mine, I turned and walked away into the night, heading toward the tiny, cramped apartment my mother rented. When I arrived, my mother was dressed and waiting, ready to call an Uber to take her to the hotel near our venue. Seeing me standing on her doorstep with bloodshot eyes and no luggage, her heart broke. “Jesse? What happened? Is the wedding… off again?” The dam broke, and tears finally spilled over my cheeks. “Yeah, Mom. It’s over. We’re not getting married.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about the apartment, about how her immense sacrifice had been handed over to a parasite. I simply told her that Chelsea and I had broken up for good. But before we could even process the grief, the thin front door of the apartment was kicked open. Chelsea stormed in, her face twisted in rage. “Jesse! You beat Cody half to death, and you think you can just walk away?” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how fragile he is? He just had surgery last week!” “I didn’t even touch him!” I yelled back, my voice cracking. Cody stepped out from behind her, looking entirely fine, save for a smug, mocking glint in his eyes. “I really thought better of you, Jesse,” he said, turning to my mother. “But I guess you didn’t raise him very well. Chelsea is the most generous woman in the world—she was nice enough to sign her apartment over to me—and your son responds by beating me up and refusing to even apologize.” My mother’s face went instantly pale. She stared at Chelsea, her breath hitching in her throat. “What… what did you say? Chelsea… you gave Jesse’s apartment to this man?” Cody smiled, pulling a folded deed from his pocket. “Yep. See for yourself. It’s registered under my name now.” My mother stared at the document, her hand rising slowly to her chest. She gasped, a choked, rattling sound escaping her throat, and collapsed heavily onto the linoleum floor. The blood in my veins turned to ice. I threw myself beside her, panicked. “Mom! Mom, please! Don’t do this, talk to me!” But her body was convulsing, her lips turning a terrifying shade of blue. I looked up at Chelsea, sobbing hysterically. “She’s having a heart attack! Chelsea, please, we need to get her to the hospital! Call an ambulance!” The golden text flickered back to life. [Chelsea is terrified. She only came here to find an excuse to bring Jesse home. She’s completely desperate.] [She didn’t know Cody was going to bring the deed. Jesse, please don’t be mad at her.] “Chelsea, please!” I screamed. My mother had already survived one major heart surgery; the doctors had warned us that another severe shock could be fatal. Seeing the sheer terror on my face, Chelsea took a step forward, her hand reaching out toward my mother. But right then, Cody let out a sharp, theatrical groan, collapsing against the doorframe. “Chelsea… my stomach. My surgical wound is bleeding. Jesse must have ruptured my stitches earlier.” He looked at my mother with a sneer. “And she’s clearly faking it. She’s just trying to help her son escape the consequences.” He closed his eyes and let his head drop, pretending to faint. Chelsea’s hand instantly retreated from my mother. She caught Cody as he “collapsed” into her arms, cradling him against her chest. She looked down at me, her expression hardening into bitter annoyance. “Tell your mother to stop acting. I’m not falling for this cheap trick.” She adjusted her grip on Cody. “I’m taking Cody to the emergency room to get his stitches checked. Once you’ve calmed down and decided to act like a rational adult, I’ll come back to get you.” With that, she turned and carried Cody down the stairs. My mother had stopped moving. My hands shook so violently I could barely unlock my phone to dial 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, it was already too late. She didn’t even make it to the operating table before the doctors pronounced her dead. I sat on the cold floor of the hospital corridor, clutching her lifeless body, screaming until my throat bled. Three days later, holding a small urn containing my mother’s ashes, I boarded a one-way flight to Seattle. After spending three days entirely consumed by Cody’s demands, Chelsea finally found a spare moment to visit the cramped apartment. She had bought a expensive peace offering—a watch I had admired months ago. She had convinced herself that as long as I promised to put her first from now on, she would overlook my “tantrum” and marry me anyway. She knocked on the door, but the apartment remained entirely silent. Just as a strange, cold panic began to tighten around her chest, the landlord from next door opened his door. “Stop knocking,” the woman said, leaning against the frame. “The lady who lived there passed away a few days ago.” “Dead?” Chelsea’s voice cracked. “How is that possible? She was perfectly fine when I left.” “Well, she wasn’t fine,” the landlord scoffed, crossing her arms. “She had a massive heart attack. Delayed medical attention, apparently. Her son’s eyes were swollen shut from crying when he turned in the keys. The funeral’s already over.” Chelsea’s face went entirely white, the expensive gift box slipping from her numb fingers and crashing onto the dirty floor.

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I went with my husband to his college roommate’s wedding. He had gone out of his way to dig out the oldest, most buried suit from the very back of our closet. At the reception, I went to the restroom to touch up my makeup. When I came back, I saw the group of men in their custom-tailored tuxedos, champagne flutes in hand, crowding Lester into a corner near the service bar. “Everyone at this table is pulling in mid-six figures, Lester. What are you even doing here on an eighty-thousand-dollar salary?” “You used to be the wild card of the Prep School Princes, man. How did you end up so thoroughly domesticated?” The groom walked over, drink in hand, trying to smooth things over but patting Lester’s shoulder with a patronizing grin: “Don’t sweat the gift registry, Lester. Just put fifty bucks in a card. Don’t break the bank.” Lester downed his glass of champagne in one swallow, his face flushing a deep, tight crimson. He didn’t look at me once. He didn’t say a word on the drive home, and from that night on, he never touched that suit again. Soon after, he started complaining. My cooking was too salty. I didn’t dress up enough anymore. I looked at myself in the vanity mirror. My features were still soft, but there was a quiet, weathered exhaustion around my eyes that makeup couldn’t hide. Seven years had gone by in a blur. Just like that old suit, I had finally become the embarrassment he wanted to keep hidden. … The thought hit me like a thin, sharp needle slipping straight into my heart. I finished making dinner and sat in the living room, waiting for Lester to come home. I’d sent him a text, but there was no reply. I opened his Instagram profile. It was completely barren. Three days visible. I stared at the screen, stunned. I scrolled back through my own memory to the post he had shared for our anniversary last year: “The luckiest thing that ever happened to me was marrying you.” That caption, along with the photo of me leaning against his shoulder, laughing so hard my eyes closed, had been hidden away. I tried to reassure myself. It was probably just for work. Lester was currently working as a campaign planner at a boutique ad agency. His manager had recently mentioned that his social media looked too personal, that it might alienate potential high-end clients. Yes, that had to be it. But as I kept scrolling, I saw a post from his college roommate, Ryan, from two days ago. The picture showed a group of men standing on a lush golf course in matching custom Polo shirts, with a row of Cayennes and Panameras parked in the background. Ryan’s caption read: The Prep School Princes reunion. Just missing one. Two days ago? I remembered Lester telling me he had a team-building dinner that night. He hadn’t gotten home until late. I pinched the screen to zoom in. On the absolute edge of the frame, there was a figure half-cropped out of the photo. The light blue linen shirt he was wearing was one I’d bought him for his birthday, spending half a month’s paycheck at the boutique downtown. He’d told me he loved it, that he’d only save it for special occasions. So, he had gone. But there was no place for him in the picture. Or rather, he had been edited out. As I stared blankly at the screen, the sound of keys jiggling at the entryway broke the silence. Lester pushed the door open. He smelled of whiskey. His collar was slightly undone, and on the left side of his collarbone, there was a faint, dusty-pink smudge. I recognized that shade. It was a trendy lip stain from a high-end brand—expensive, the kind young girls on TikTok obsessed over. A cold, bitter ache surged from my stomach. I took his coat as he handed it to me, keeping my voice as even as possible. “Since when did you start drinking this much?” Lester unbuttoned his cuffs, his eyes never leaving his wrists. “Client dinners. You can’t close deals without a few drinks.” His tone was flat, conversational. He was stating a simple fact of life. But the Lester from three years ago hadn’t been like this. Three years ago, he would have wrapped his arms around my waist, laughing. “Don’t worry, I skipped the bar. I wanted to stay clear-headed for you.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and forced myself to ask, “Why did you archive all your old Instagram posts?” Lester paused. He looked up at me, his brow furrowing slightly, a flicker of controlled impatience tightening the corners of his mouth. “The agency requested it. Why are you suddenly tracking my social media?” As he spoke, his wedding band caught the warm light of the hallway. But I noticed his right index finger unconsciously tapping twice against the seam of his trousers. It was his tell. His lying tic. He’d done it since college. It had never changed. I swallowed the bitterness and let the subject drop. “Have you eaten? I made sweet and sour ribs.” “I ate at the restaurant.” He grabbed his jacket and walked into the bedroom. When the door clicked shut, leaving me alone in the warm, yellow glow of the living room, the apartment suddenly felt massive. And entirely empty. This was my third year of marriage to Lester. Counting our years of dating, we had been together for seven. Everyone always said Lester adored me. Years ago, for my sake, he had walked away from the path his family had paved for him, falling from the heights of East Coast high society to become an ordinary nine-to-five employee. My mother used to tell anyone who would listen, “Lester treats my Leah like gold. He’s a man she can rely on for life.” I had believed her. After all, following the car accident, he had spent two grueling years by my side, helping me through physical therapy. He had promised me: “Leah, I am going to spend the rest of my life making you happy.” I could still remember the overwhelming tenderness and guilt in his eyes back then. But what about now? I looked down at my right leg. The prosthetic was hidden beneath my long skirt, invisible to the casual observer. But whenever the weather turned damp, the phantom aches at the amputation site would flare up. Like tonight. I was sitting alone, eating a plate of ribs I’d reheated for the second time, when my phone buzzed. It was Ryan. “Hey, Leah. I couldn’t get through to Lester’s phone. My housewarming party is tomorrow night—make sure you guys get there early, okay?” I promised him we would, set my fork down, and walked over to the bedroom door. Pushing it open quietly, I saw Lester was already asleep. His phone was resting on the nightstand, the screen still glowing slightly as if he’d just put it down. I picked it up, intending to plug it into the charger, when a preview notification slid across the screen. The contact photo was a little pink pig emoji. “Lester~ I saw the lipstick mark on your shirt today. I’m so embarrassed! Let me buy you a new shirt tomorrow to make up for it, okay? What color do you like?~” My finger hovered over the screen. My hand was shaking. A dull, throbbing pain flared at the top of my thigh. Like my body was trying to warn me. I wanted to tap the notification to read the full thread. It required a passcode. I entered our wedding anniversary. Incorrect. I entered my birthday. Incorrect. I entered his birthday… “What are you doing?” Lester’s voice came from behind me, thick with sleep but laced with an undeniable, sharp defensiveness. I turned around. He was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, his forehead deeply creased. I wanted to ask: Who is the little pig? What is this lipstick mark about? But the words caught in my throat as I looked at his silhouette against the dim light. The sharp jawline, the clear eyes. The boy who used to chase me across campus had hardened into the silent, guarded man standing before me. The ache in my right leg flared again. I handed him the phone. “Just plugging it in for you. Ryan called. He wants us to get to his housewarming early tomorrow.” Lester took the phone, searching my face for a second before the tension in his shoulders melted away. “Okay.” His voice softened back into its usual, gentle cadence, and he turned back to the bed. The next evening, we arrived at Ryan’s new place. It was a three-story colonial house with a private pool and a custom wine cellar. I had worn the wine-red maxi dress Lester always said complimented my skin, its long hem perfectly concealing the joint of my prosthetic. Lester kept his hand firmly under my elbow, slowing his steps to match my uneven gait. At the reception table, we slipped our two-hundred-dollar check into the card box. On the registry guestbook beside it, the other entries were a sea of five-figure pledges. The young woman coordinating the arrivals glanced at our envelope, her expression shifting into a brief, polite pity. I pretended not to see it. But I saw the tips of Lester’s ears burn red. Ryan emerged from the crowd, throwing an arm around Lester’s shoulders. “You made it! Leah, you look stunning tonight.” He looked between us, then lowered his voice, speaking directly to Lester. “The guys are in the back. Grab a drink, but don’t feel like you have to keep up with them.” Throughout dinner, Lester kept putting food onto my plate. His fork carefully avoided the cilantro and bell peppers I despised. If I ignored the appraising, critical glances from the guests in their designer evening wear, we really did look like a perfectly happy couple. Until I went to use the restroom and overheard a conversation coming from the balcony. “Where is Lester living these days? Still renting that two-bedroom?” “Yeah. Can you believe it? He used to be the golden boy of our class, and now he’s making eighty grand. Honestly, I only gave him that referral because of our history.” “All for some girl? What was the point? Especially since she’s a…” The voices dropped to a whisper, and the rest of the sentence was lost to the wind. But I knew exactly what they were saying. I walked back to our table, smiling as I placed a piece of sea bass onto Lester’s plate. “The fish is fresh. You should eat more.” He looked up at me, his lips curving into a gentle smile. “Thanks, babe.” After the party, we stood on the curb waiting for an Uber. Lester’s phone kept buzzing in his pocket. He glanced at the caller ID, swiped it away, and quickly began typing a message. I watched his thumb fly across the screen, my throat feeling as though it were lined with sand. “…Are you working on a big campaign lately?” “Yeah. Year-end push at the agency.” He didn’t look at me when he said it. His index finger tapped twice against the side of his phone case. Another lie. “The… contact photo…” “What?” He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. I opened my mouth, but the courage dissolved. I swallowed the words. “Nothing. I was just wondering if we had any of that vanilla yogurt left at home.” “I don’t think so.” The car pulled up, and we got in, one after the other. The backseat was cramped. He sat close to me, smelling faintly of a new, sweet cologne. But the distance between us felt wider than the stretch between this suburban estate and his family’s old brownstone in Boston. Once we got home, he took another call, stepping out onto the balcony and speaking in a low, hushed tone for a long time. I watched his silhouette through the glass door, remembering how seven years ago, on the roof of our college library, he had stood in the exact same position. Back then, he was screaming at his parents. For me. “I don’t care what you think! I’m staying with her. Cut me off if you want, it won’t change my mind!” He had been so sure of himself then. And now? When he came back inside, his face carried a tired but gentle smile. “Not asleep yet? Tomorrow I’ll drive you to the clinic to get your prosthetic checked.” I shook my head. “It’s fine. I can go by myself.” “Don’t be silly.” He knelt down, placing my slippers right by the edge of the bed so they’d be within easy reach. The gesture was tender, instinctual. As if nothing had changed. But I knew. The foundation had already cracked. Lester didn’t come home for the next several days. He texted to say the campaign was in its final crunch and that staying at a hotel near the office was easier. He even sent a photo of the room: “Don’t worry, it’s clean and basic. I’m not wasting money.” At the end, he added: “Once this is over, I’ll take you to that sushi place you love.” I texted back: Okay. But when our wedding anniversary arrived, he didn’t return. I pulled the white dress he loved out of the closet. Wearing heels with a prosthetic was too exhausting, so I opted for a pair of flats. I cooked a full dinner, opened a bottle of Pinot Noir, and sat down. I waited as the food went cold, reheated it, and watched it go cold again. Outside, the sky faded from gray to a deep, heavy black. My phone screen lit up. It wasn’t Lester. It was an unknown number, requesting to add me. The verification note read: “Want to see where your husband is, sweetie?” I stared at the words for a long time. Then, I pressed accept. Within seconds, a fifteen-second video arrived. The lighting in the VIP lounge was dim and intimate. Lester was sitting on a plush leather booth, a young girl pressed close to his side. She was laughing, smearing birthday cake onto his cheek. He leaned back with a grin, dodging her plays, but he didn’t push her away. In the background, someone yelled over the music, “Lester, why don’t you and Lexie just make it official?” Then came Lester’s voice. It was thick with alcohol, his tone casual, as if he were commenting on the weather. “Cut it out. I’m married.” “Then why do you come find us every single night?” the girl pouted, her voice dripping with sweet affection. Lester didn’t answer. Then, the person sent an audio recording—a voice memo recorded surreptitiously. The girl’s voice: “Lester, if you don’t even love your wife anymore, why don’t you just get a divorce?” Lester’s voice, low and infinitely heavy: “…I owe her.” I owe her. What a familiar phrase. Seven years ago, those same words had bound me to this relationship. Lester and I were college classmates. Technically, he was a year ahead of me. On my first day of freshman year, I had tripped over my heavy suitcase right outside the campus gate. He was the one who walked over, bending down to lift the bag for me. Standing against the sunlight, his smile was bright and effortless. “You okay there?” Only later did I find out that Lester was a legacy kid from one of the oldest families in the city. Born with a silver spoon. And me? I was a scholarship girl from a small town, raised by a single mother who ran a small tailoring shop, sewing day and night to keep me in school. The gap between us was a chasm. But Lester hadn’t cared. He pursued me with a relentless, loud passion. Love letters filled my mailbox, and five hundred roses were laid out from the lecture hall to my dorm. The whole campus knew the wealthy Lester was head over heels for Leah. I pushed him away for two years. Not because I didn’t care. But because I was terrified. During our junior year, he waited for me at the bus stop after my internship ended. He stood in the freezing rain for four hours, holding a simple silver band. “Leah, I don’t want my family’s money. I’ll make my own way. Just say yes.” Looking at his raw, red nose and shivering shoulders, I finally broke down and cried, nodding my head. When we got together, his family reacted exactly as expected. His mother’s voice over the phone had been ice-cold: “Lester, if you choose this girl, don’t bother coming home.” Lester chose me. He went from a trust-fund kid spending thousands a week to an entry-level worker earning forty thousand a year. I thought we were living a fairy tale where love conquers all. Until the winter of our senior year. The accident. Lester was driving us to the mountains to see the first snow. The heater in his cheap, secondhand sedan was broken, so we rolled the windows up tight and blasted the radio, singing along. The road had iced over. He didn’t see it. As the car began to spin, I saw a semi-truck heading straight for us. I lunged across the console, grabbing the wheel and wrenching it to the right. The car missed the truck but slammed violently into the guardrail. When I woke up in the hospital, Lester was by my bedside, his eyes bloodshot, his face covered in stubble. I tried to shift my leg, only to realize… Everything below my right knee was gone. Lester grabbed my hand, his voice cracking. “Leah, I’m so sorry… It’s my fault. I’ll spend my whole life making it up to you. I’ll take care of you. I’ll do whatever you want.” He knelt by my bed, bowing his head in front of his mother when she arrived. His mother sighed, looking at him with cold disappointment. “Have it your way. Just don’t come to us when things get hard.” From that day on, Lester never went back to his family. And I spent two years relearning how to walk on a carbon-fiber limb. He stayed by my side, step by step, as if carrying out a life sentence of penance. But penance has an expiration date. Seven years had passed. Even debt, eventually, becomes too heavy a burden to bear. I locked my phone, stood up, and scraped every single dish of the anniversary dinner into the trash. I poured the wine down the drain. The anniversary candles were left untouched, never to be lit. The day after I received the video, Lester came home. He brought a bouquet of baby’s breath and a box of tiramisu. “I’m so sorry, Leah. The client added another round of reviews at the last minute. I couldn’t get away.” He arranged the flowers in a vase, turning to give me a soft smile. “Can we celebrate tonight instead? Happy anniversary, sweetie.” His smile was still beautiful. Gentle, warm, flawless. But his right index finger tapped twice against his pants. I watched the movement, feeling a strange, hollow calm wash over me. “Sure,” I said, taking the tiramisu with a smile. He went into the kitchen and made me a bowl of noodles—even though it wasn’t my birthday. As he set the bowl down, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his expression unchanging. “Work. I need to take this.” He stepped out onto the balcony, keeping his voice low. I couldn’t hear the words, but in the reflection of the glass window, I saw the corner of his mouth lift slightly. People don’t smile like that during a work call. By the time he came back, the noodles had grown cold and soggy. “Sorry, just confirming the schedule for tomorrow’s presentation.” He sat down to eat with me, placing a perfectly fried egg onto my plate. Halfway through the meal, my phone vibrated. It was the unknown number again. An image. Lester was standing in a brightly lit, pastel-pink kitchen, wearing an apron, meticulously slicing strawberries. Below the photo, there was a message: “Sweetie, your husband is so incredibly gentle when he’s making fruit platters for Lexie~ This was taken last night. Were you waiting up for him all alone? I feel so bad for you~” Last night. The night I had waited up for him until dawn. The night he claimed he was pulling an all-nighter in a hotel room. The background of the photo was entirely different from the sterile hotel room he had sent me. The food in my mouth suddenly lost all flavor. I set my chopsticks down and looked at him. He was looking down at his phone, his brow relaxed, looking completely at peace. “Lester.” “Yeah?” “Where were you last night, really?” His hand froze for a fraction of a second. Then, he resumed eating, his tone perfectly natural. “I told you, the hotel near the office. Why?” His finger tapped his leg. Twice. I smiled slightly and didn’t push further. That night, he went to shower first. I sat on the couch, scrolling through local job listings, looking for remote positions that were accessible for people with physical limitations. When Lester came out, his hair still damp, he noticed what I was doing and leaned over my shoulder. “What are you looking at?” “Just seeing if there are any freelance gigs I can do. I want to help with the bills.” He frowned, gently taking the phone from my hand. “I told you, you don’t need to do that. Just focus on taking care of yourself. Let me handle the rest.” His voice was incredibly tender, like a warm, heavy blanket. But I was no longer sure what lay beneath that blanket. A few days later, Ryan called again. “Leah, I can’t seem to get ahold of Lester lately. My birthday dinner is this Saturday. Bring him along, okay?” Saturday. I agreed. That night, I put on makeup and wore a black maxi dress, the long hem grazing my ankles to hide the prosthetic. Lester held my arm as he guided me into the private dining room Ryan had booked. About a dozen of his old college friends were already there. When we walked in, their faces registered a polite, practiced warmth, masked by an undercurrent of scrutiny. A woman wearing a Cartier bracelet smiled widely. “Oh, Leah! It’s been ages. You look wonderful. Lester is taking such good care of you.” Taking care of. The words stung. It made me feel like a caged bird. A bird with a broken wing, kept out of pity. As the night went on and the alcohol flowed, Lester navigated the subtle jabs and thinly veiled pity of his old crowd. He held his glass, his remarks sharp and polite, his smile measured. But I saw his knuckles turn white against the crystal. Near the end of the evening, one of his friends, clearly drunk, draped an arm over Lester’s shoulder. “Lester, man… you were the best of us. And now… damn. It’s just a shame.” Lester looked back at me. Just a glance, quickly averted. But I saw what was in his eyes. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t even guilt. It was a profound, suffocating weariness. On the ride home, I reached out and took his hand. He squeezed it back, but his grip was weak. “Tired?” I asked. “Get some sleep when we get back.” “I will,” he replied, his voice as gentle as always. The moment we stepped through the front door, his phone rang. He muttered, “Got it,” and hung up. Then he grabbed his coat. “Emergency at the office. I have to run out for a bit. I’ll be quick.” The door clicked shut. I sat in the dark living room, refusing to turn on the lights. A few minutes later, the text arrived. “He’s on his way to Lexie’s, sweetie. Aren’t you scared being all alone in the dark?” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I deleted the thread. I blocked the number. Not because I didn’t want to know anymore. But because I no longer needed anyone to tell me. At 11:40 PM, Lester returned. He was holding a beautifully wrapped small box. “An early birthday present. I know your birthday isn’t until next week, but I couldn’t wait.” He opened the box to reveal a pair of delicate pearl earrings. Simple, not overly expensive, but elegant. He gently put them on my ears, stepping back with a soft smile. “Perfect. My wife looks beautiful in everything.” So sweet. So attentive. So utterly stifling. I touched the cool pearl on my earlobe and asked softly, “Lester, have you been happy these past seven years?” He froze. But his smile didn’t falter, and his voice remained steady. “Of course I have. Being with you is everything to me.” His finger tapped his thigh. Twice. A cold shiver ran down my spine. I looked down and let out a quiet laugh. The next day was Sunday, and Lester spent the entire day at home. He cooked lunch, took me for a slow walk around the courtyard, and we watched a movie together in the evening. It felt exactly like the early days of our marriage. I almost let myself believe it again. But after dinner, his phone began to buzz incessantly. He glanced at it, claiming it was a client, and went out to the balcony. I stood up to clear the table. As I passed the coffee table, his screen lit up. I only caught three words: “I miss you.” The sender was the little pig icon. On Monday morning, before leaving for work, Lester kissed my forehead. “Your birthday is on Wednesday. I booked a table at that French place downtown. I won’t stand you up this time.” After he left, I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring at the floorboards. Then, I made a decision. On Wednesday, I didn’t go to the restaurant. I put on the white dress he had loved when we first met. I did my hair and makeup, making sure I looked clean and polished. Walking on the prosthetic was painful, but today, I refused to use the cane. I drove to Ryan’s office. The receptionist told me he was in a meeting. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll wait.” Twenty minutes later, Ryan came out, his eyes widening in surprise when he saw me. “Leah? What are you doing here? If you need Lester, you should call him directly.” “I’m here to see you. Today is my birthday, and I need a favor.” Ryan blinked. “What kind of favor?” “I want you to put together a dinner tonight. Just the old group, and Lester. Don’t tell him I’m coming.” Ryan’s expression shifted through several stages of confusion and realization before he slowly nodded. “Okay. I’ll set it up.” At 7:00 PM, I arrived at the private dining room Ryan had reserved. When I pushed the door open, there were already seven or eight people seated inside. Lester was sitting in the middle, a drink in his hand, laughing at a joke. The moment he saw me, the smile froze on his face. “Leah? What are you…” I leaned against the doorframe to steady myself, offering a polite smile to the table. Then, I looked directly at him. “Lester, we need to talk.” The room fell dead silent. Every eye in the room turned to us. Lester set his glass down and stood up, moving to hold my elbow. “Let’s talk about this at home…” “Let’s get a divorce.”

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Twenty years together. For the first time in my life, I picked up Leo’s phone. A contact saved under the name “Crybaby” had sent a selfie. Her cheeks were flushed and broke out in hives from weeping. “Leo, do I look pretty when I cry?” A cold dread washed over me, freezing me from the inside out. The next second, the bedroom door opened and Leo walked out. Seeing the phone in my hand, he calmly reached out. “Give it back.” My knuckles turned white. “Aren’t you going to explain this?” His face remained entirely devoid of emotion. “There’s nothing to explain. It’s exactly what you think. I’m having an affair.” My voice shook. “Why?” He lit a cigarette, looked at me through the rising smoke, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Because she’s better at crying than you are. Does that count as a reason?” … The silence in the room became absolute. I watched the gray-white plume of smoke rise from his fingertips, drawing a thin, hazy boundary between us. His gaze drifted past the smoke, landing coldly on my face. “See?” he said, his tone carrying a familiar, weary condescension. “You’re doing it again. Silent, saying nothing. You don’t even have the decency to get red-eyed.” He turned and began walking toward the balcony, clearly done dealing with me. “Leo,” I called out. He stopped, but he didn’t turn around. There were so many questions clawing at the back of my throat. I wanted to ask him when it started. I wanted to ask him how he could do this to me after everything. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “better at crying.” We had dated for ten years and been married for ten. Twenty years in total. I was thirty-six now. My entire adult life had been woven into his. When was the last time I had actually cried in front of him? I couldn’t remember. But I remembered the year he got hurt. He was twenty-two, freshly out of college and trying to launch his first startup. He got into a brutal altercation with some local thugs and was badly beaten. I remember standing in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hospital hallway, sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. When he finally woke up, his face still covered in dried blood and bruises, he reached out with a trembling hand to wipe my tears. His voice was a barely audible rasp. “Baby, don’t cry. Crying is the most useless thing in the world.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m really okay.” From that day on, I stopped crying. No matter what life threw at us, I held it in. When his startup failed and we lived on instant noodles while working seventy-hour weeks, I didn’t cry. When his mother passed away and I had to physically hold him up at the funeral, I didn’t cry. When I suffered a miscarriage so violent it nearly took my life, I kept the physical and emotional agony entirely to myself. I didn’t cry. And later, when he started staying out all night, claiming he was buried in corporate meetings, and I sat alone on the living room sofa watching the sky turn from black to gray, I didn’t cry. The man who taught me that tears were a useless weakness was now telling me he had cheated because another woman was better at it. I swallowed those unasked questions one by one. They felt like rusted nails sliding down my throat, leaving the taste of iron in my mouth. Finally, I spoke. “Do you want to draft the divorce agreement, or should I?” He didn’t move. After a few seconds, he tilted his head to look at me. “Donna,” he said, using my full name, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “How old are you again?” I didn’t answer. He put the cigarette back between his lips and turned to face me fully, leaning against the balcony doorframe with a lazy, casual posture. “You’re thirty-six, right?” “A woman’s prime only lasts so many years, and yours passed a long time ago. Besides, you don’t have a job, you have no income, your body isn’t what it used to be, and let’s face it—you aren’t exactly a beauty anymore.” “What do you actually have left? Oh, right,” he paused, as if a particularly amusing thought had just struck him. “We’ve been married for ten years without a single scrap of protection, and you’ve never managed to get pregnant once. You don’t even know how to have a baby.” “If you leave me, who on earth do you think would want you?” I froze, paralyzed by the sheer cruelty of his words. I had known this man for two decades. I remembered him at eighteen, running toward me across the high school soccer field after scoring a goal, boasting and grinning. I remembered him at twenty-two, lying in a pool of blood, desperately whispering my name. I remembered him at twenty-five, after his first major business success, getting drunk at a celebratory dinner and holding me tight, whispering, “Donna, I love you. I can finally give you the life you deserve.” The cigarette burned down to the filter. Leo stubbed it out on the balcony railing. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen but didn’t pick up. But I saw it clearly. The caller ID: “Crybaby.” A sudden wave of nausea hit me, acid burning the back of my throat. I bit my lip hard to force it down. Leo slipped the phone back into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and extracted a black credit card. “Here’s your allowance for the month.” He held it out. I made no move to take it. He let out a short, dismissive scoff, stepped forward, and shoved the card directly into the pocket of my silk robe. Then he took a step back, studying me. His eyes swept down and up, as if assessing a piece of property to make sure it was still secure. “Donna, you’re not a girl anymore. Throwing a fit at your age doesn’t look like flirting, and it certainly isn’t cute. It just makes you look like a bitter, hysterical housewife.” “So be a good girl and don’t make a scene. Just pretend you didn’t see anything. Pretend you don’t know.” “It’s better for you, and it’s better for me.” The front door clicked shut. He was gone. I stood there in the quiet house. The credit card in my pocket felt like a hot iron searing through the fabric into my skin. The nausea returned, stronger this time. I didn’t fight it. I rushed into the bathroom, gripped the edges of the porcelain toilet, and dry-heaved until my ribs ached. Nothing came out. I slumped against the cold tile floor, resting my forehead against the side of the bowl. My chest throbbed with a dull, heavy ache, and my eyes stung with a dry heat. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sob until my chest collapsed. But not a single tear fell. It was as if my body was mockingly reminding me: “See? He taught you too well. Tears are useless.” And now, he had fallen for a woman who wept at the drop of a hat. But it didn’t matter anymore. It was over. All of it. I stood up, washed my face, and began gathering every piece of jewelry, every designer handbag, and every expensive trinket he had bought me over the years under the guise of “household expenses” and anniversary gifts. I packed them all into a single box and left it in the center of the kitchen island where it couldn’t be missed. Then, I opened my phone and sent a text to my best friend, Beryl. “Come pick me up. I want to go home.” After sending the message, I drove straight to a family lawyer’s office to have a divorce petition drawn up. Only when the paperwork was in my hands did I head to Leo’s office. Just as I reached the lobby, the elevator doors slid open. Leo emerged, carrying a young woman in his arms. Her face was buried in his chest, obscured by her long hair. Seeing me, Leo’s eyes flickered with a brief, cold indifference. He didn’t say a word, stepping past me as if I were a stranger, heading toward his parked car. I stepped into his path, blocking him. I held out the divorce papers. “Sign it.” Leo didn’t even glance at the document. “Get out of the way. I have an emergency. I don’t have time for your tantrums right now.” I didn’t budge. My voice was entirely level. “Leo, I am not throwing a tantrum.” He looked at me as if I had just told a particularly pathetic joke. Without saying another word, he shoved me aside with his free arm. He placed the woman into the passenger seat and drove off. I watched the sleek black Maybach disappear into the city traffic. A sudden, quiet curiosity washed over me. I wanted to see what his “emergency” was. I raised my hand and hailed a passing cab. “Follow that Maybach.” The cab rode through the city streets, eventually pulling up outside a luxury villa in the quiet, wooded suburbs on the edge of town. I paid the driver, stepped out, and walked toward the Maybach parked in the driveway. But as I drew closer, I stopped dead in my tracks. The car was rocking in a slow, rhythmic motion. I froze. A bitter, icy chill spread through my limbs. An emergency. This was the emergency he couldn’t delay. The muffled sounds of a man’s low groans and a woman’s soft, breathless whimpering seemed to echo through the quiet afternoon air, amplifying until they filled my head. But I didn’t run. I stood there, a silent, hollow statue, witnessing the physical betrayal of my husband with another woman. After what felt like an eternity, the car door clicked open. Leo stepped out, wrapping his designer suit jacket around a flushed, tear-stained young woman. When he caught sight of me standing there, he paused for a brief second, then let out a low, mocking laugh. “You actually followed me? You’re really going to make a scene over this?” I said nothing. I simply lifted my numb arm and held out the papers once more. “Sign.” Leo stared at me for ten long seconds, the amusement fading from his eyes, replaced by a cold sneer. “Fine. Wait here.” He scooped the girl up and carried her into the villa. I stood in the driveway. I watched the sun dip below the horizon, letting the darkness swallow the yard. I watched the stars appear, and then watched them fade as the sky turned a pale, bruised purple. I stood there from dusk until dawn. When the morning sun finally broke through the trees, burning my sleep-deprived eyes, the front door of the villa opened. Leo walked out, holding the young woman’s hand. For the first time, I got a clear look at her. She was young, her face full of youthful collagen, wearing a piece from the latest haute couture collection. Her hair was tied back in a high ponytail, and when she smiled, deep, playful dimples showed in her cheeks. Leo was looking down at her, talking softly. It was a look of tender, protective adoration I hadn’t seen directed at me in over a decade. My chest felt incredibly tight, my eyes burning with dryness. But still, no tears came. As they approached, Leo saw me. A flicker of genuine shock crossed his features, as if he couldn’t believe I had actually stood there all night. The girl gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. She immediately clutched Leo’s arm, and tears instantly welled in her eyes, spilling over her perfect cheeks. “Leo, this is all my fault,” she whimpered. “If I hadn’t kept you in bed yesterday, your wife wouldn’t have had to stand out here in the cold all night.” Leo’s face immediately softened with intense pity. He reached out, gently wiping her tears away with his thumb. “Oh, sweetie, don’t say that. It has nothing to do with you,” he murmured, his voice thick with indulgence. “You just cry so beautifully, I couldn’t bring myself to leave.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. I pressed my lips together, fighting the urge to look away. Leo finally turned his gaze to me, tossing his chin toward the car. “You want the divorce? Fine. Get in. We’ll go to my office and discuss the terms.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and reached for the front passenger door handle. Before my fingers could touch it, my arm was violently grabbed and yanked backward. “Mimi always sits in the front,” Leo said coldly, shielding the girl as he guided her into the seat. “You sit in the back.” I had been standing on my feet for nearly fourteen hours. My legs were entirely numb, stiff from the morning chill. When he pulled me, my knees gave way. I stumbled backward and collapsed onto the gravel driveway. A sharp, jagged stone sliced through my jeans, tearing into my knee. I gasped as a sharp, hot pain flared up my leg. When I looked up, Leo was already in the driver’s seat, leaning over to carefully buckle Mimi’s seatbelt. He hadn’t even looked back to see if I was standing. Holding back a grimace, I forced myself up and climbed into the back seat. During the entire drive to the office, the two of them flirted and whispered in the front. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the suburban trees give way to high-rises, feeling completely detached from the reality inside the car. In his spacious corner office, Leo threw a set of documents onto the mahogany desk in front of me. “I’m leaving you the house. That’s it. You don’t get another dime of my assets.” “For the past ten years, you’ve done nothing but sit at home while I built this empire. You contributed nothing to my success, so I owe you nothing.” “So think carefully, Donna. Do you really want this divorce?” “Without me, the comfortable life you’ve grown accustomed to is gone. You will never find another man who can provide for you the way I did.” “But me? There’s a line of young, beautiful women waiting to take your place. And you? If you’re lucky, you’ll end up as some middle-aged guy’s stepmother, and even then—” “Fine,” I said, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear to listen to his voice for another second. Leo froze, his mouth half-open. I picked up the pen, flipped straight to the final page of the agreement, and pressed the nib to the signature line. “Donna!” He slammed his hand down on the paper, his face darkening with sudden rage. “I am giving you one last chance to think this through. Are you seriously going through with this?” “Yes.” I smiled, gently brushing his hand off the document. “I am absolutely going through with this.” I signed my name quickly and cleanly, then slid the paper back across the desk to him. “Now, you sign.” Leo’s expression grew increasingly hostile. “Donna, is all of this really necessary over a minor slip-up? Do you have to be so—” “Leo!” I suddenly raised my voice, the raw, suffocating pain I had kept buried deep inside finally fracturing my composure. “You cheated on me! You slept with another woman, and you have the audacity to ask if this is “necessary”? Do you have any idea how utterly repulsive you are?” Leo stared at me, momentarily stunned by my outburst. Then, he grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight and defensive. “We’ve been together for twenty years, Donna! Twenty years without a single break! People get sick of physical objects after that long, let alone another human being. It’s natural.” “And besides, if you’re so lonely, go find another man. I won’t stop you.” In that moment, looking into his eyes, I realized the boy I had loved at eighteen was entirely dead. The man standing in front of me was a hollow, rotting stranger. I pushed his hands off my shoulders with all the strength I had left. “Don’t touch me, Leo. Don’t make me despise you any more than I already do.” “Just sign the papers.” Leo stood in silence for a few moments. Then, with a harsh scowl, he snatched up the pen. “Fine. If you want to ruin your life, go ahead. Let’s see how long you survive—” He had barely scrawled the first letter of his name when the office door burst open. “Leo… I’m bleeding,” a faint, trembling voice cried out. Mimi stood in the doorway, clutching her stomach. Blood was seeping through her white designer skirt, dripping onto the carpet. Her face was deathly pale, her eyes wide with terror. “Leo, my stomach hurts so bad…” I stared at her, my mind momentarily blanking out. The sight of her clutched abdomen, the bright red blood—it was a mirror image of the afternoon I had lost my own child years ago. So. He had gotten her pregnant. I turned to look at Leo, but before I could even register his expression, a blur of motion passed by me. He had already scooped Mimi into his arms, rushing past me and out the door. His face was a mask of pure, frantic terror. The divorce agreement sat on the desk, bearing only the first letter of his name. I walked over, picked up the pen, and carefully finished his signature, mimicking his handwriting perfectly. Back when he was first starting the company, he used to be so exhausted that he would fall asleep while reviewing contracts. Out of sheer love and pity for him, I had spent hours practicing his signature so I could sign the routine business agreements on his behalf. After thousands of documents, our handwriting had become indistinguishable. I took the signed agreement straight to the courthouse to file for an uncontested dissolution of marriage. On my way out, I contacted a real estate agent and put our house on the market at a below-value price for a quick cash sale. Then, I texted Beryl and sat on a bench by the curb to wait for her. Thirty minutes passed, but she didn’t show up. Just as I was about to call her, my phone rang. It was Leo. “Donna, if you have a problem with me, come say it to my face. Don’t send your psychotic friend to harass Mimi in her hospital bed.” Before I could even ask what he was talking about, the line went dead. I took a cab to the hospital. As soon as I stepped onto the maternity ward, I heard Beryl’s furious voice echoing down the hallway. She had just slapped Leo across the face, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “You disgusting piece of trash! She gave you twenty years of her life! Twenty years! And now that you’re rich and powerful, this is how you treat her? You cheat on her and get some cheap little girl pregnant? How do you sleep at night?” Leo’s face was dark, a dangerous edge to his voice. “Why should I feel guilty?” “For ten years, she’s lived off my hard work like a parasite. She’s a cold, emotionless machine who doesn’t even know how to cry, let alone give me a child. Why should I waste the rest of my life bound to her?” “Leo!” Beryl’s voice cracked, her entire body trembling with rage. “She stopped crying because of you! And do you have any idea why she couldn’t get pregnant? She did it to—” “Beryl, that’s enough!” I stepped into the corridor, cutting her off, and pulled her back by the arm. Then, I looked at Leo. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” I said quietly. Leo stared at me, a brief shadow of confusion crossing his eyes. Before he could speak, a weak, pathetic cry of “Leo…” drifted out from the hospital room behind him. His expression hardened back into disgust. “Donna, you are genuinely pathetic. I don’t ever want to see your face again.” “I’ll sign those papers when Mimi is out of the hospital. Not a second before.” I wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to bother, that it was already done. But he had already turned his back on me and walked into the room. Beryl tried to push past me to go after him, but I held her tight. “Let it go, Beryl,” I whispered, my voice exhausted but steady. “It’s over. We have a flight to catch. Let’s go home.”

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An indie-darling actress and her soft-boy younger brother were building their entire brand around being “humble and unbothered.” But during a hit reality show, they “accidentally” let slip some massive secrets: their grandfather is a legendary Hollywood titan, they grew up in the ultra-exclusive gates of Beverly Park, and the sister’s boyfriend is none other than the city’s most mysterious, old-money heir. The internet immediately lost its mind: [My lord and lady! Where do I sign up to be your live-in maid? I will work for free!] [How is it possible to be this gorgeous and this successful?!] [Drop the tutorial on how to be reborn into this family, please!] Standing off to the side, my sister and I were completely dumbfounded. Excuse me? Since when did my family have a secret set of siblings we’d never heard of? … My sister, Flora, and I started out as child actors. We’ve worked ourselves to the bone since we could walk. I was the type to take any role—from the leading lady in a prestige drama to a minor character who gets killed off sixty seconds into the pilot. Flora, on the other hand, was a method actress to her core; she once shaved her head without a second thought just to play a troubled teenager. In the industry, they called us the “hustle sisters.” To promote our respective new projects, we agreed to guest-star together on the country’s most popular variety talk show, “The Round Table”. Of course, the producers wanted drama. The viewers quickly noticed that the show had invited another set of siblings to serve as our direct foils. The sister, Kylie Holloway, was famous for her effortless “clean-girl” aesthetic, while her brother, Lewis, had starred in a few obscure indie art films. They branded themselves on being low-key, detached, and above the petty drama of Hollywood. Basically, the exact opposite of our relentless hustle. The kicker? Not long ago, the Holloway siblings had hinted in an interview that their grandfather was the creative mastermind behind the legendary 1996 Centennial Olympic ceremonies. The clip went viral on TikTok, racking up millions of views. Internet sleuths even dug up photos of their alleged daily hangout spots, which just so happened to be inside the gated estates of Beverly Park—where land is practically paved with gold. Fans swooned, calling them real-life trust-fund royalty who were just “deigning to experience normal life.” With the producers framing us as opposites, a toxic fan war erupted overnight. [Oh my god, no wonder the Holloways have such an elegant vibe! They’re literally Hollywood royalty.] [Finally, some actual class on our screens instead of the usual desperate try-hards.] [I watch reality TV for this kind of effortless, old-money energy, not to see Valerie and Flora Lancaster acting like desperate attention-seekers.] [Well, when you come from nothing, you have to claw and scrape for every second of screen time. Sad, really.] [If our precious Kylie cared about clout, she’d have destroyed those two Lancasters years ago.] Even our publicists started panicking. “Maybe you girls should tone it down?” they warned us. “Don’t steal the spotlight. If you look too aggressive, the internet will tear you apart. Besides, they have serious backing. Let’s play it safe.” “Yeah… in this economy, people want to romanticize the easy life of the rich. They don’t want to watch the grim reality of working-class grinders.” I was genuinely baffled. “Grinders?” I comforted them. “What’s wrong with working hard? We earn every cent we make with our own sweat. There’s absolutely nothing to be ashamed of.” And honestly, I couldn’t understand why everyone was losing their minds. Just because their grandfather supposedly planned the Olympics? My grandfather “actually” did that. Flora thought about it for a long time too. “It’s weird,” she whispered. “The people who actually own those Beverly Park estates are currently living in Europe. And as far as I can recall, we don’t have any neighbors named Holloway.” We brushed it off. Work was our priority, and we had a show to shoot. Soon enough, the day of filming arrived. “The Round Table” was a massive hit, and the entire episode was being broadcast live. We were set up in a cozy, rustic courtyard, gathered around an outdoor fire pit to drink tea and chat. Flora and I naturally took our seats in the quiet corner, wanting to stay out of the way. Meanwhile, the Holloway siblings walked in and sat right in the center seats without a moment’s hesitation. The sheer entitlement was palpable. The host immediately handed them the microphone. “It’s incredible,” the host said, beaming. “You two have kept such a low profile in the industry, but it turns out your grandfather is none other than the legendary director Charles Holloway.” Charles Holloway. My grandfather. Flora and I both froze. The familiar name pulled our attention straight to them. By a bizarre stroke of luck, they shared my grandfather’s last name. But my grandfather had actually taken my grandmother’s surname—Lancaster—when they married, building his empire with her family’s immense wealth. He only kept “Holloway” as his professional director pseudonym. That was why Flora and I went by Lancaster. Kylie tilted her head, letting the camera catch her soft, unbothered expression. “That’s all in the past, really. We just want to focus on doing our jobs.” Lewis gave a boyish, dimpled smile that was practically engineered to make fans swoon. “Yeah, Grandfather is eighty now. If he finds out we made him go viral again, he’ll never let us hear the end of it. He hates the fuss.” The live chat stream instantly erupted. [Oh my god, this is literally a movie come to life.] [Can we talk about their dynamic? Kylie is the poised, cool older sister and Lewis is the sweet, playful younger brother. That dimple is killing me!] [They clearly have such a warm relationship with their grandpas. So wholesome!] Beside me, Flora snorted. She quietly tapped her phone screen and slid it over to show me a photo she’d just received. It was a picture of our grandfather, currently kneeling on a pile of LEGO bricks in his living room. “I just texted Grandfather,” Flora whispered, suppressing a laugh. “I asked him if he had a secret family he forgot to tell us about.” “And?” “He panicked and started kneeling on LEGOs to prove his absolute innocence to Grandma.” I shook my head, tapping her forehead to quiet her down. “Don’t say anything yet. We’ll let PR handle this later. Knowing Grandfather’s temper, he’ll probably log onto his verified account and start a digital war anyway.” Unfortunately, our hushed whispering and suppressed giggles didn’t escape the cameras. The live chat noticed. [Wait, what is up with the Lancaster sisters? Are they seriously jealous of someone else’s pedigree?] [Look at those smirk faces. That is so mean-spirited…] [Don’t be so harsh, maybe they’re just curious. I mean, given their B-list status, it’s not like they’d ever get to run in the same circles as the Holloways.] [Gross. I actually liked them before this, but seeing them act like bitter mean girls in front of actual class is disappointing.] [Are we seriously still tearing other women down in this day and age? Get a grip.] If I could see the live comments, I would have had a thousand questions. But the host, sensing the rising engagement, immediately pointed the microphone at Flora and me, eager to play up the contrast. The host smiled warmly. “With genes like that, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you two surpass your grandfather’s legacy. But why don’t you ask Valerie and Flora for some advice? After all, they’re the reigning hustle queens of the industry.” Kylie gave us a brief, dismissive glance before looking away. Her posture practically radiated aristocratic disdain. “Of course. But Lewis and I prefer to take our time. We want to polish our craft and select meaningful scripts, rather than just taking any mindless gig that comes our way.” Lewis nodded, his tone dripping with faux-innocence. “I really admire how the sisters can spend three hundred and sixty-five days a year on dusty soundstages. I could never do that. I can only perform when a character truly speaks to my soul.” My eyebrows twitched. That wasn’t just a subtle dig; it was an open insult. The passive aggression was staggering, yet the live audience ate it up. [Oof, look at Valerie’s face. She’s fuming!] [I mean, they’re not wrong. Calling them ‘hustlers’ is just a nice way of saying they can’t book prestige roles, so they have to accept trashy network television.] [Exactly. Valerie has won some minor awards, but look at her sour expression. She can’t even fake a smile.] [Makes you wonder how they actually got those awards in the first place.] [Can all actors please take notes from the Holloways? It’s so refreshing to hear someone speak the truth!] I clenched my jaw. Years of media training kept me from starting a screaming match on live television. If my family saw me getting into a petty argument with some D-list influencers on a variety show, I’d never hear the end of it. But Flora didn’t have my restraint. She had always been the fiery one. She snatched the microphone, her striking, sharp features hardening. “I’m sorry,” Flora said, her voice icy and deadpan. “I didn’t realize my grandfather had adopted two new grandkids.” “You have some nerve claiming you’re going to surpass his legacy on a couple of indie shorts.” The chat went chaotic. [Did she just claim Charles Holloway is her grandfather? Are the Lancasters serious right now?] [I was literally just thinking, how does Kylie have the audacity to compare herself to Charles Holloway?] [Wait, but their last name is Lancaster. How are they related to Holloway? Did she lose her mind and just start lying?] [Exactly! And why can’t a granddaughter make a joke about her own grandpa? Flora is just bitter because she has zero class.] Kylie’s expression faltered, her polished facade slipping for a fraction of a second. Another guest on the show, eager to defuse the tension, spoke up. “Wait, you’re saying Charles Holloway is your grandfather? But that’s impossible. I remember seeing a viral article a few weeks ago showing him out with his grandchildren, and it was a brother-sister duo.” Hearing this, Kylie quickly regained her composure. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull,” Kylie said smoothly. “But Grandfather has always told me that if I work hard, I’ll make him proud one day.” She paused, reaching into her clear phone case to pull out a slipped-in piece of paper. “He actually wrote me a personal note of encouragement. I keep it with me everywhere I go.” She subtly angled the paper toward the main camera lens. Lewis lifted his chin proudly. “Oh, Kylie, don’t fall into their trap. If Grandfather is watching this right now, he’s probably laughing his head off at how desperate some people are.” Flora stared at the handwriting on the note and froze. “That… is actually Grandfather’s handwriting.” Being the hothead she was, she looked ready to lunge forward and tear the paper from Kylie’s hands. “How dare you use his personal autograph to pull off a scam like this!” I placed a firm, calming hand over Flora’s wrist. “Easy,” I murmured. A few weeks ago, Grandfather had been invited to present at a major film festival, and Flora and I had gone to pick him up from the venue. At the time, Flora had just chopped her waist-length hair into a severe pixie cut for her upcoming military drama. The paparazzi photos from that night had been incredibly blurry—just a grainy shot of Grandfather walking with a woman and what looked like a young man with short hair. To the public, it looked like a brother and sister. And right after those photos leaked, Kylie had started dropping hints in interviews about her “legendary grandfather.” It had been a calculated play from the very beginning. I leaned in and whispered the realization to Flora. I wanted to see exactly how far these two were willing to push this lie. Flora gave me a subtle thumbs-up beneath the table. “Brilliant, sister.” But to the outside world, our quiet whispering looked like defeat. The chat, already biased toward the “chic, old-money” Holloways, turned on us completely. [I don’t even know what Flora was trying to pull. The real heiress is literally sitting right there with receipts!] [The instant karma is sending me! Who just tries to claim a legendary director as their grandpa on live TV?] [She carries his handwritten letter in her phone case. You can’t fake that. My face hurts from laughing at the Lancasters.] The producers were ecstatic. They had expected a simple promo gig, and instead, they had landed the exclusive reveal of Charles Holloway’s grandchildren—complete with a massive family feud. The director immediately sought to capitalize on the drama. “We’ve all heard that Kylie and Lewis live in the exclusive gated community of The Summit,” the director spoke into the earpieces. “Since our studio lot is actually just ten minutes away from those estates, would you mind taking us on a quick tour to see how the other half lives?” Flora and I exchanged a look of pure bewilderment. The Summit was incredibly exclusive, with only a handful of multi-million-dollar estates. Since when could any random person just breeze past security and film a reality show there? Kylie’s expression tightened slightly at the request. “I… I didn’t expect the paparazzi to track our address,” she hesitated, looking appropriately delicate. “I’d really have to ask my family first. Security is quite strict.” The other guests gasped. “Are you going to call Charles Holloway himself?” “Oh my god, I am his biggest fan! If we even get a glimpse of him, my life will be complete!” “Seriously, the man is a total recluse these days.” As the excitement built, Lewis chimed in with a sly grin. “Kylie, are you going to call your boyfriend? He’s the one who actually handles the estate logistics anyway.” That sent a shockwave through the room. For weeks, there had been rumors that Kylie was dating a mysterious, ultra-wealthy heir who also lived in The Summit. Kylie’s cheeks flushed a delicate, practiced pink. “Yes, I just texted him. He said we can go ahead and do a quick walk-through.” With their narrative perfectly aligned, they had successfully solidified their status as Hollywood royalty. The live comments went wild: [Oh my god. Her grandfather is a cinematic genius, she lives in The Summit, and her boyfriend is a literal billionaire heir. How do I unlock this lifestyle?] [Please let me be your housemaid! I’ll clean the marble floors for free!] [They are literally the main characters of the universe.] [Reincarnation goals.] I don’t know what kind of lie Kylie spun to the gate guards at the community entrance, but within twenty minutes, the entire production crew and camera team were marching up the winding, manicured streets of The Summit. But as we got closer, a strange sense of dread settled in my chest. Wait. Why were we walking toward my street? For a brief, terrifying second, I wondered if my parents had actually adopted a secret set of siblings without telling me. But then Kylie turned right, stopping directly in front of the massive, modern estate right next to mine. I froze. Because that house belonged to my childhood best friend—and the man I’d been unofficially seeing—Will Harriet. And Kylie had just claimed she needed to ask her boyfriend for permission to enter. Had Will been seeing Kylie behind my back? Beside me, Flora let out a quiet, wicked chuckle. She nudged my arm, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, well. Will has been out of the country for months, and he comes back to a live-in girlfriend? Now “this” is a show.” She leaned in, whispering, “Valerie, remember: don’t lose your cool.” I ground my teeth. “Oh, I’m perfectly cool.” The estate was breathtaking. I watched in silence as Kylie stepped up to the massive double doors, punched in a very familiar passcode, and pushed the door open. She turned to the crew with a welcoming, slightly apologetic smile. “My grandfather and my boyfriend aren’t home right now, so I’m sorry you won’t get to meet them. But please, make yourselves at home and have some refreshments.” Before she could even finish her sentence, a figure appeared at the top of the grand spiral staircase. It was Will. He was dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, looking every bit the cold, aristocratic heir he was. He looked down at the sudden influx of strangers in his foyer, his eyes instantly turning to ice. Until his gaze landed on me. Our eyes met across the cavernous room. He arched an elegant eyebrow. “What is going on?” his eyes seemed to ask. In the live chat, an eagle-eyed viewer recognized him immediately. [Holy crap!!! That’s Will Harriet! The actual heir to the Harriet shipping and real estate empire! I saw him once at a charity gala in New York—he is ten times more gorgeous in person.] [Kylie is literally winning at life. How did she bag him?] [Wait, is it just me, or did Will look straight at Valerie the second he walked out?] [Please, Valerie was probably just staring at someone else’s boyfriend like a thirsty fan girl. Classic social climber behavior.] The other guests on the show gasped in awe. “Oh my god, is that Kylie’s boyfriend?” “They look like they belong on a magazine cover!” “Hi, Mr. Harriet! Nice to meet you!” Everyone was whispering and grinning, but I noticed that Kylie’s face had gone completely bloodless. Her hands were trembling as she stood frozen at the base of the stairs. Will looked at the cameras, then at the fawning guests, and pieced together the situation with effortless ease. A cold, dangerous smirk touched his lips. He began walking down the stairs, initially heading straight toward me. But when he saw the warning glare I shot him, he stopped in his tracks, looking like a kicked puppy, and reluctantly turned his attention back to the crowd. I wanted to see exactly how he was going to explain this. Will’s gaze swept over the room, landing squarely on Kylie. His voice, usually warm when he spoke to me, was now sharp enough to cut glass. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “But since when did my house get a new mistress?” “Or are we calling home invaders ‘girlfriends’ now?”

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