At dinner, my husband suddenly asked me, “What would you do if I met someone… better than you?” I was quiet for a moment. “Then you should be with her. We can get a divorce.” What he didn’t know was that I had already seen him. I had already watched him frantically comfort that other girl, her eyes red from crying. I had already heard him say, “Don’t cry. I’ll give you a future.” 1 He put his fork down, his face suddenly pale. He struggled to produce a laugh. “Tessa, I was just kidding.” It wasn’t a joke. I knew. I had lived in the warmth of his love for eight years. I knew what it looked like. And I knew that what he felt for that girl was real. Earlier that day, at the hospital, the doctor’s bored expression softened when he read my chart. He leaned in. “Don’t be scared. It’s not late-stage. With aggressive treatment, this is manageable.” I was walking out with the diagnosis in my hand when I saw them. My husband, Liam. His arm was bandaged. The girl was looking at it, her eyes filling with tears. “Why did I meet you so late?” she whispered. “I don’t even have the right to take care of you.” Liam looked frantic. “Annie, don’t cry…” He reached for her, and blood seeped through his new bandage. “Don’t cry,” he said. “I’ll give you a future.” The words hung in the air. He froze, as if he’d surprised himself. But the girl believed him. She looked up, her nose red. “Really?” Liam just frowned, and said nothing. I didn’t stay to watch the rest. I know Liam. As long as we were married, he wouldn’t physically cheat. But his heart? I can’t control his heart. I was two months pregnant. He made me give blood to his childhood sweetheart. Because I was already anemic, I refused, my eyes red. But his friends all ganged up on me. [“Annie’s in surgery, Tessa! You’re the only one with her blood type! What’s the big deal? It’s just a little blood!”] They grabbed me. They physically dragged me into the room. Liam looked away, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. But he still held the door. [“It’s just blood, Tess. The baby will be fine.”] I stopped struggling. A single tear slid down my temple. After the transfusion, I dragged my weak body to the OB/GYN floor and scheduled an abortion. 2 I spent three days in the hospital, alone. Liam, I knew, was at Annie’s bedside, doting on her. My stomach was empty. But it was my heart that ached. When I was discharged, I ran right into them. Liam, Annie, and their whole group of friends. I was carrying my single, small backpack. Annie was being held up by Liam, as if she might break. When he saw me, Liam froze. “Tessa? You’re still here?” “I’m fine,” I said. I couldn’t tell him. I just started walking. “We’ll go together.” He grabbed my arm, his voice firm. At the car, Annie slipped past him and got into the front passenger seat. She looked at me, her big, innocent eyes pleading. “Tessa, I just had surgery. I get really carsick. Do you mind?” I wasn’t going to fight. I opened the back door. But Liam’s friends—Ben, Josh, and Mike—all piled in, three grown men squeezing into the backseat, leaving no room. They stared at me, their expressions hostile. “Sorry, ‘Mrs. L,’” Ben said, not sounding sorry at all. “Annie’s still really weak. We’re all gonna crash at your place for a bit, make sure she’s okay.” I looked at Liam. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight. He said nothing. I almost laughed. The sound of the cicadas was deafening. Why was I still expecting anything from this man? His friends had always hated me. In their story, I was the villain. I was the bitch who had trapped their golden boy, Liam, and kept him from his “true love,” Annie. When they were at our house, they treated me like the help. And Liam… Liam never said a word. Even after I gave my blood for her. My blood, while I was carrying his child. Not one “thank you.” Just: [“You’re lucky you got to help.”] I shut the car door. “It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll find my own way.” It was rush hour. I couldn’t get a cab. It was the peak of a Denver summer. Ninety-eight degrees. I had just had an abortion. I walked home. It took an hour. The moment I opened the door, the accusations started. “Tessa, what took you so long? We’ve been here for ages!” “We’re starving, Tessa. Can you whip something up?” I looked at Liam. He was sitting on the sofa, fanning Annie. The AC was off. They were afraid she’d “catch a chill.” Liam’s own forehead was beaded with sweat, but he just kept fanning her. “Liam,” Ben called out. “We’re hungry. Can you get your wife to make some food?” Liam finally looked up. He didn’t seem to notice my pale face, or the sweat plastering my hair to my skin. “Tessa, be good. Just make us something simple.” His eyes drifted to Annie. “And maybe make some soup for Annie. It’s good for her recovery.” The dull ache in my chest became a sharp, twisting knife. I couldn’t breathe. I went into the kitchen, shutting the door on their laughter. I was the outsider. I used to fight back. I used to scream and cry, trying to make them see. I thought it was defending my dignity. But all it did was make them double down. My “hysteria” only made Annie look sweeter, calmer, and more reasonable. I wasn’t going to fight anymore. When I brought the food out, I was drenched in sweat. Annie reached for the soup tureen. “Let me help, Tessa.” The second my fingers left the bowl, her hands flew back. It shattered on the tile floor. “Watch out!” Liam yelled, diving to pull Annie away from the spill. Scalding hot broth splashed across my bare legs. “Tessa! I know you don’t like me, but you didn’t have to throw it at me!” Not a drop had touched her. But she was already in Liam’s arms, sobbing, as if she’d been assaulted. “Tessa, what the hell?” “That’s going too far, man!” “It’s not Annie’s fault! Why are you always attacking her?” “She let go,” I said, my voice flat, staring at the men yelling at me. Liam cut them all off. His voice was like ice. “Tessa. Apologize.” “This is too much. You scared her, and she just got out of the hospital.” In the middle of summer, I was freezing. My shins were burning, but the pain was nothing. This man. My husband. My protector. He was my executioner. The last thread holding me together just… snapped. “Okay,” I whispered, a hysterical little laugh bubbling in my throat. “I’m sorry.” Liam stared, surprised by my quick surrender. He started to reach for me, but I flinched away.

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Chapter 1 On the eve of our wedding, my fiancé, Julian, suddenly got amnesia. He remembered everyone—his friends, his family, even his dog—but he had no idea who I was. Today, I finally got my hands on an experimental drug rumored to restore lost memories. I ran to the private club where he’d been staying, my heart pounding. I was just about to open the door to his VIP room when I heard familiar voices. “Jules, man, faking amnesia? That is next-level. How did you even think of that? Celine has no idea. How long are you gonna keep this up before you tell her?” The laughter froze me. My smile cracked. Julian… was faking? All those nights I’d spent crying, all the doctors I’d begged, all the agony… what was it all for? A chilling cold crawled up my spine. Then I heard Julian’s voice, lazy and unbothered. “Give it another month. Then I’ll go back to Celine, play the part of the faithful, devoted fiancé.” “A month? You sure that’s enough?” one of his friends laughed. “You’ve been with, what, three different girls this week? Just break up with her. Who dates someone for seven years anyway? You’re not tired of it?” “Seriously,” another chimed in. “You’re sneaking around, faking a whole medical condition just so she won’t get mad. Isn’t that exhausting?” Julian’s voice lost its joking tone. “I will never break up with Celine. I love her. I only love her. But… seven years is a long time. We got… boring. In bed, she’s too reserved. I can’t be rough with her. This is just… hitting ‘pause.’ A little vacation. When the month is over, I’ll go back to her, and I’ll be her ‘one and only’ again.” “But, Jules,” his friend argued, “Celine isn’t the type to just let this go. If she finds out, she’ll leave you. You know how she is about loyalty.” “Yeah, man, remember that Gu kid? His girlfriend went abroad, and he’s still chasing her like a lunatic. You’re playing with fire.” Julian just laughed. “She’s mine. For life. I don’t care if she changes her name, moves to another country, or marries someone else. As long as her name is still Celine, I’ll find her, I’ll drag her back, and I’ll chain her to my side.” The room erupted in cheers. I was numb. I stumbled away from the door, walking out of the club and into the street. It was pouring. I didn’t even feel the rain. The bottle of pills I had fought so hard to get slipped from my numb fingers. They scattered on the wet pavement, dissolving in a gutter. As the medicine washed away, so did my last hope. I met Julian at the winter formal, freshman year of high school. I was the last performer of the night, and my rendition of Liszt’s “Liebesträume” brought the house down. He told me it was love at first sight. He cornered me backstage with a massive bouquet of roses. I’d heard all about Julian. He was the “King of the Campus,” with a list of ex-girlfriends as long as my arm. I hated playboys. My parents’ marriage had imploded from mutual infidelity. I had zero tolerance for it. I shut him down, hard. But he became obsessed. He chased me for three years. He was relentless. He pulled the fire alarm to get me out of a final I wasn’t ready for; he publicly rejected every girl who asked him out; he read all my favorite books, just so he could talk to me about them. I still said no. Until the summer after graduation. I was cornered in an alley by a group of guys. Julian showed up. He fought them—four of them. He got stabbed twice and almost bled out in my lap. I sat by his hospital bed, sobbing. I couldn’t understand how someone could be willing to die for another person. That’s when I knew. He was the one. We were together for seven years. From college dorms to our first apartment. He was perfect. Everyone said the playboy had finally been tamed. I believed them. Then, three months before our wedding, he was in a “car accident” on a business trip. The diagnosis: selective amnesia. He’d forgotten me. I almost fell apart. But I held on. I spent every second researching, finding doctors, trying to get him back. And it was all a lie. I walked home, my clothes soaked. I pulled out my laptop. Then I went to the courthouse. The clerk looked at me, confused by my request. “I’d like to petition for a name change,” I said, my voice hoarse. She handed me the forms. I signed my old name, and my new one. Julian would never find me. Chapter 2 The legal notice for the name change had to be published. The whole process would take a month. I booked a one-way ticket to Melbourne for the first of next month. I’d been accepted into a master’s program there three years ago but kept putting it off. Julian didn’t want a long-distance relationship. Now, there was nothing holding me back. I spent the next morning purging my life. I filled five heavy-duty trash bags with his gifts, our matching clothes, the letters he wrote me in college. I was dragging the last bag to the curb when a limited-edition McLaren pulled up. Julian got out. He had a girl wrapped around his arm. He saw me but didn’t even flinch. Of course not. He was “Julian with amnesia.” He didn’t know me. I knew why he was here. After the “accident,” he’d had his friends kick me out of our shared condo. The next day, the apartment right next door became available for a ridiculously cheap rent. It wasn’t luck. It was a cage. He was faking amnesia, but he was terrified I’d actually leave. I ignored him and dumped the last of our memories in the trash. He looked at the pile. “What’s all this?” “Trash,” I said, not looking at him. “But… that’s my varsity jacket.” I turned. “How would you remember that? You have amnesia.” He stiffened, then recovered, pulling the girl closer. “Just… curious. I don’t remember you. I’m with Lexi now. She’s the one who was there for me after my accident.” Accident. The lie came so easily. The girl, Lexi, was all makeup and micro-skirts. She was, I assumed, the “vacation” he’d found most satisfying. “Whatever,” I said, and walked back to my apartment. He watched me go, his brow furrowed. I was supposed to be crying, screaming, making a scene. My calm was confusing him. That night, my doorbell rang. It was Lexi. “Hi,” she said, chewing gum. “I’m Lexi. I’m staying with my boyfriend, Julian, next door. Since we’re neighbors, I figured I should get your number.” “No, thank you.” I started to close the door. She stuck her foot in it and snatched the phone right out of my hand. She added herself as a contact and handed it back, smiling. “Just being friendly. Oh, by the way… do you have any condoms? We just ran out. Julian is… insatiable.” My hand trembled. “No.” She laughed, a high, tinkling sound. “Right. Stupid of me to ask. I guess you’re not really using them anymore, are you? Since he dumped you.” Chapter 3 I tried to close the door again. This time, she threw herself backward onto the hallway floor and burst into tears. “Celine! I know you’re upset, but you don’t have to push me! I was just trying to borrow some sugar!” Before I could even process the ridiculous accusation, Julian was there, running down the hall. He scooped her up into his arms. He looked at me, his eyes cold with anger. “What the hell is your problem? She’s my girlfriend now. You need to respect that.” He carried her away. My hands were shaking. I slammed the door. That night, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. A video call. From Lexi. I groggily answered. The screen was filled with a close-up of pale skin, covered in dark, angry hickeys. I heard a woman’s moan. I heard a man’s low growl. I was wide awake now, frozen. Then I heard Julian’s voice, rough with lust. “You’re not… allowed to go… provoke Celine… anymore. Got it?” “But you like it,” Lexi purred. “You like that I’m naughtier than her. You like my body, don’t you? That’s why you’re here…” “You talk too much,” he growled. “Get on top.” The camera shifted. I saw his face, his eyes closed in pleasure. My stomach turned. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. I hung up. I stared at the ceiling, tears burning my eyes. When we were together… he was always so gentle. So worried about hurting me. He must have been so… bored. I didn’t sleep. A few days later was my best friend Maya’s wedding. “I invited Julian,” she whispered, as I helped her with her veil. “I know he’s sick, but maybe… maybe seeing a wedding will jog his memory.” I just shook my head. As I was about to answer, I saw him. He walked in, Lexi on his arm. Maya saw them. She saw them kiss at the door. “That bastard,” she hissed, and started to march over. I grabbed her. “Maya, don’t. It’s your day. It’s… it’s almost over anyway.” She didn’t understand, but the music started, and she had to go. I sat at my assigned table. The only empty seat was next to Julian. I took it. During the dinner, Lexi was all over him. “Jules, feed me this. Jules, my glass is empty.” He did it all. He even ate a bite of cake off her fork. I just watched the bride and groom, my stomach empty. Maya’s mom put a dumpling on my plate. I picked it up. Julian’s hand shot out and slapped it onto the floor. “You can’t eat that,” he snapped. “It’s shrimp. You’re allergic.” Chapter 4 The table went silent. I just stared at the dumpling on the carpet. He paled, realizing his mistake. “I… I just remembered. Our… our housekeeper… she… she told me once.” He didn’t look at me again. He just started peeling a shrimp for Lexi. She whispered something in his ear. He stood up, grabbed her hand, and they walked out. I didn’t care. After the bouquet toss, I went to the restroom. I heard… noises. A rhythmic slapping sound. From inside the men’s room. I stopped. “You’re really something,” I heard Julian growl. “Wearing… this… to a wedding? Hmm?” “Don’t you… like it?” she panted. “I love it.” I turned around and walked away. The wedding ended. I got downstairs. Julian’s McLaren was parked out front. Lexi grabbed my arm. “Julian had to run to the office. He left the car for me. We’re neighbors, I’ll give you a ride.” I tried to refuse, but she shoved me into the passenger seat and locked the doors. She drove like a maniac. “You know he’s faking, don’t you?” she said, glancing at me. “So why are you still playing along? Why don’t you just tell him?” I ignored her. “I mean, I’m glad you’re not,” she laughed. “He’s incredible in bed. I’m happy to be his… vacation.” I just closed my eyes. Her voice turned sharp. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” She wrenched the steering wheel. I heard the horn, the screech of metal. I opened my eyes just in time to see the windshield spiderweb. I threw my arms up. Pain. Hot, searing pain in my right arm. Then, darkness. … “Mr. Fu? Mr. Fu, you have to make a choice.” A voice. A doctor. “Both patients have severe trauma to their hands. Our specialist can only operate on one at a time. The other… the other may suffer permanent nerve damage. Who do we save first?” I was floating. I tried to speak. “Julian… my… my hand… I’m a photographer… my hand…” The hand that was holding mine… let go. I forced my eyes open. I saw him. He looked… terrified. He put his hand on Lexi’s shoulder. “Save Lexi,” he said. “Save her first.”

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On my wedding day, my fiancée was at her parents’ house, waiting for me to pick her up. She never made it to the limo. Instead, she got a call from Nate, the ghost of the boy she was supposed to marry. She brought him to the venue herself and, in a move that felt ripped from a soap opera, simply swapped out the groom. When the news reached me, my world didn’t just collapse; it was vaporized. I begged my parents to drive me there, to get some kind of explanation, to demand an answer for the public humiliation. We never made it. On the way, a truck ran a red light. My parents were killed instantly. My mother’s last act was to throw her body over mine. I survived. The aftermath was a blur of grief and guilt that curdled into a severe case of PTSD. For two years, I was a ghost haunting the ruins of my own life. And through it all, it was Stella’s older sister, Annelise, who never left my side. She was my anchor in a world that had come unmoored. The day I was finally cleared by my therapist, Annelise celebrated by lighting up the city skyline with fireworks, just for me. Her eyes, glistening with tears in the colored light, met mine. “Will you marry me, Ethan?” she asked. After two years of her unwavering devotion, of her pulling me back from the brink time and again, my heart had already become hers. I nodded, my own tears finally falling not from grief, but from a desperate, fragile hope. Three years into our marriage, she got pregnant. I was so ecstatic I wanted to rent a billboard. But that same night, I overheard her on the phone with her assistant, her voice a low, urgent whisper in her home office. “I’ve been on birth control this whole time. How could this happen? I can’t have this baby. I promised Nate I wouldn’t have another man’s child.” The assistant’s voice trembled. “But if Mr. Hayes finds out… this could get very messy.” “And what about the accident from five years ago?” the assistant pressed. “If that ever came out, if he knew we were the ones who arranged it…” Annelise’s laugh was like the chime of a cracked bell. “For Nate, I’d do anything.” “Besides,” she added, her voice dropping to ice, “I married him, didn’t I? Isn’t that enough?” 1 “But Ms. Prescott, he’s wanted this baby for three years. Losing it… I think it might destroy him.” The assistant’s plea was faint through the closed door. “You orchestrated that crash just so Nate could marry your sister without a scene. Mr. Hayes almost died. Haven’t you done enough? Are you really going to sacrifice your own child now?” I could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of Annelise’s fingers stroking something on her desk. I knew it was the small, polished wooden box she always kept there. Her voice was thick with a martyr’s resolve. “What does it matter? All I want is for Nate to be happy. For him to marry the woman he loved, I had to make sure Ethan and his family never made it to that wedding.” Her tone was chillingly pragmatic. “The crash… I admit it wasn’t handled perfectly. Ethan survived. But I corrected that mistake, didn’t I? I married him. His future is secure.” She paused. “As for this child, it can’t stay. Nate’s wife is already four months along. I will not let my baby become an obstacle to his. As long as Nate’s life is perfect, I’ll have no regrets.” “I’ll have Ethan take me to the clinic tomorrow for a check-up. I’ll get the doctor to say the fetus isn’t viable. He can’t argue with that, no matter how much it hurts him…” I couldn’t listen anymore. I stumbled back to our bedroom, my legs giving out as soon as I shut the door behind me. I slid to the floor, my body a dead weight. My marriage. My life. It was all a meticulously crafted lie. My parents’ death wasn’t an accident. My wife… the woman who held me through nightmares… was their killer. And now, she was planning to kill our child. After my parents died, I had drowned in self-blame. I believed my insistence on confronting Stella was the reason they were on that road. It was a guilt so profound it broke my mind. During the worst of my episodes, doctors had to strap me to the bed, because the moment I was free, I’d try to hurt myself, to claw my way out of a life I couldn’t bear. And through all of it, Annelise was there, whispering, “It wasn’t your fault, Ethan. It was a tragic accident.” It wasn’t an accident. It was proof of her love for another man. And now, to ensure Nate’s child would have an undisputed claim to the Prescott family fortune, she was willing to sacrifice her own. My parents’ bodies, my entire life, and soon, the life of my unborn child—all of it buried beneath the monument of her twisted devotion to Nate. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I thought of just an hour ago, how I’d knelt and pressed my ear to her still-flat stomach, giddy with joy. The child I had prayed for for three years was in there. But it was also the child of my parents’ murderer. As I sat there, paralyzed by the horror, Annelise walked in and found me on the floor. “Ethan? Honey, what’s wrong? Get up, the floor is cold. Are you not feeling well?” The concern in her eyes was so potent it was almost tangible, identical to the look she’d given me every day for the past five years. She was a master of her craft. For five years, her entire world had seemingly revolved around me. If I so much as coughed, she’d stay up all night, a hand on my forehead. I dropped my gaze, unable to bear the sight of that fraudulent fire in her eyes. “I’m fine. Just… got a little light-headed. I guess the news about the baby finally hit me.” She breathed a sigh of relief, kneeling down to help me up with that familiar, gentle strength. “Oh, you,” she murmured, patting her own stomach. “Naughty baby, making your daddy fall down already. Just wait until we meet you, I’ll have a thing or two to say.” She smiled up at me. “Speaking of which, Ethan, come with me to the clinic tomorrow for a check-up. We’ve waited so long for this little one, we can’t take any chances.” Her gaze drifted down to her abdomen, her expression softening into a portrait of maternal love. If I hadn’t heard that phone call, I would have believed every word. I would have seen a loving wife, an expectant mother. Now, I saw only a monster. I wanted to scream the questions at her. Will we really get to meet this child? Did you ever want him at all? Instead, I swallowed the acid in my throat and nodded. “Let’s get some sleep, Annelise. I’m feeling tired.” She didn’t suspect a thing, nodding as she switched off the lights. I lay in the darkness, rigid, listening to her breathing even out beside me. Hours later, a soft murmur escaped her lips in the quiet of the room. “Nate… Oh, Nate…” A single, hot tear finally broke free, tracing a path from my eye into my hairline, and was gone. I slipped my phone from under the pillow, the screen a harsh glare in the dark. I sent a text to my sister in London. Kate, I need your help. Please, I need your help. I’m coming to you in a few days. Wait for me. 2 The next morning, Annelise took me to the private clinic affiliated with the Prescott Corporation. As we approached the doctor’s office, the door opened and Nate walked out. Seeing him alone, Annelise’s carefully composed face tightened with worry. “Nate? What are you doing here? Where’s Stella? Isn’t today her prenatal appointment? Are you sick?” Her questions tumbled out, her concern raw and undisguised. I had to laugh at myself. A bitter, silent laugh. How had I been so blind for so long? Was her acting that flawless, or was I just that stupid? A faint smile touched Nate’s lips, soaking in her worry like a sponge. “Things have been crazy at the office, a situation at one of the branches. I came in for a check-up, feeling a little run down. Stella’s staying at her parents’ for a few days.” He looked from her to me. “What about you? You’re not sick, are you?” Annelise flushed, a flicker of discomfort in her eyes. She seemed reluctant to answer. I decided to answer for her. Feigning a blissful smile, I placed a hand on her stomach. “She’s pregnant,” I said, my voice smooth. “I was worried about her, and the baby. Just wanted to get everything checked out.” I knew I had already lost this war, but for one single, fleeting moment, I wanted to reclaim a shred of my dignity. It worked. The color drained from Nate’s face. “What? You’re pregnant?” He quickly schooled his features, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Well. A baby is wonderful news. I’m just… surprised. You should go on in.” Before she went into the exam room, Annelise told me she’d had to fast for some of the tests and hadn’t eaten breakfast. She asked me to go down to the cafe and grab her something, insisting she’d be fine on her own. A year ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice. Now, watching her back disappear into the clinic, a cold certainty settled in my gut. I bought a coffee and a croissant and came back up. As I expected, the exam room was empty. I walked down the hall and heard voices coming from a stairwell. I found them there, tucked away between floors. Nate’s brow was furrowed, his handsome face marred with displeasure. “You told me you would never have his child. Why are you pregnant?” Annelise wrapped her arms around his waist, reaching up to smooth the lines on his forehead with her thumb. Her voice was a placating murmur. “We were always careful. This was an accident, Nate. I’ll handle it. I’ll take care of this baby myself.” She soothed him. “Don’t be upset over something so small. It hurts me to see you unhappy.” My feet felt like lead as I walked back to the waiting area and sank onto a bench. Her words echoed in my head. Something so small. Killing her own child was a small thing. Nate’s unhappiness? That was the main event. “Why are you waiting out here?” Annelise’s voice pulled me from the fog. “I just ran to the restroom. Let me go ask the doctor if the results are ready.” I just nodded, watching her walk back into the office. A few minutes later, she emerged, her face a mask of sorrow. She knelt in front of me, bringing her eyes level with mine. “Ethan,” she began, her voice catching. “I have to tell you something. I need you to promise me you won’t get upset. Please, don’t fall apart.” “The test results… they’re not good. There are… developmental problems. So this baby… we can’t keep him.” I knew this was coming. I had heard the entire script. But a desperate, stupid part of me still hoped. I stared directly into her eyes. “Annelise, I’m only going to ask you this once. And I want you to tell me the truth.” She nodded solemnly, her expression one of deep sympathy. I took a breath. “Is there really something wrong with our baby? Are we really not going to have him?” 3 For a split second, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face. But before I could even process it, her voice, steady and firm, cut through the air. “Yes.” Looking into her unwavering eyes, I finally gave up the fight. I closed my own and gave a heavy, final nod. The moment I agreed, Annelise was a whirlwind of efficiency, arranging the procedure with the hospital staff. The Prescott family clinic was nothing if not effective. An hour later, she was being wheeled into an operating room. She was back in a private recovery room in less than thirty minutes. My gaze fell to her flat stomach. My throat burned. Yesterday, there was a life in there. Now, there was nothing. She noticed where I was looking. “Ethan, don’t be sad,” she said, her voice soft and consoling. “We’re still young. We’ll have another baby.” My heart seized in my chest. Will we? Annelise, will we really? Before I could speak, a cheerful voice cut in from the doorway. “Hey, don’t look so down, Ethan! The baby’s gone, but you still have Annelise.” It was Nate. “Look at how much she cares about you,” he continued, strolling into the room. “Fresh out of surgery, and her first thought is to comfort you. What a wife.” He feigned a wince, rubbing his temple. “You know, I’ve been having these headaches lately. I think I’ll check in for a couple of days, get a full workup. We can keep each other company.” I looked up at him, not missing the triumphant glint in his eyes. I barely knew Nate. I knew he and the Prescott sisters had grown up together, the classic childhood friends. They’d lost touch when he went to college overseas while they stayed in the States. I met Stella in college. It was immediate for me. I fell for her the first day I saw her and spent the next year trying to win her over. I knew from the start she had an ex, someone she’d broken up with because of the distance. But once we were together, Stella swore to me that Nate and his entire family were gone for good. That there was no chance they’d ever get back together. I believed her. Our relationship grew serious. She introduced me to her family and friends, including her older, more reserved sister, Annelise. And then came our wedding day. Stella got the call that Nate was back in the country, and she dropped me, dropped everything, to marry him instead. In that moment, I understood that in our four years together, she had never, for a single second, forgotten him. What I didn’t know was that Nate wasn’t just Stella’s long-lost love. In all the years Stella was waiting for Nate… Annelise had been waiting for him, too. I looked at him, standing there gloating, and my voice came out colder than I’d ever heard it. “You should call me brother-in-law.” 4 Nate froze. Annelise immediately jumped to his defense. “Ethan, he’s just trying to be friendly. Why do you have to be so difficult?” She sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. “You know what, I’m not feeling well after the procedure. Why don’t you go home? You can handle some things at the office for me. I’ll call you tonight when you can come back.” Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, sucking the air from my lungs. Annelise is Stella’s sister. I am Annelise’s husband. Nate, as Stella’s husband, is my brother-in-law. It was a simple statement of fact. And for saying it, she was kicking me out. In front of Nate, she couldn’t even be bothered to keep up the pretense. I left. Hours passed. The sun went down. Annelise never called. Instead, a text from Nate lit up my phone. Annelise is having some abdominal pain. I rushed back to the hospital. As I neared her room, I heard it. A series of low, rhythmic moans that made the hair on my arms stand up. The door was cracked open just enough to see inside. And what I saw burned itself onto the back of my eyelids. Nate and Annelise, tangled together in the hospital bed, their bodies moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. “Right here in the hospital,” Annelise panted, her voice thick with pleasure. “So thrilling.” Her pale arms were wrapped around his shoulders. “Not so fast,” she gasped. “Be gentle… I just had the surgery today.” Nate didn’t slow down. “Doesn’t that make it more exciting? Tell me you didn’t miss this.” As he spoke, he turned his head slightly. His eyes met mine through the crack in the door. And in that instant, I understood everything. Nate did this on purpose. He sent the text. He left the door open. He wanted me to see. I saw the taunting smile play on his lips. I lowered my gaze, reached out a steady hand, and gently, quietly, pulled the door shut for them. I had never seen that wild, unrestrained side of Annelise. In our three years of marriage, even in bed, she had always been tender, controlled, almost serene. Did she love him this much? Enough to risk her health, her body, just hours after a medical procedure? It turned out she wasn’t a cold person. The fire just wasn’t for me.

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It was the middle of the night when the frantic banging started on our front door. “Mia, open up! It’s my dad, he collapsed! You gotta get him to the hospital!” My husband, David, started to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, ready to get the door. I grabbed his arm, pulling him back down. “Shh. Don’t say a word.” In my last life, my husband and I opened that door. We helped carry his father to our car out of the goodness of our hearts. That single act of kindness cost us everything. It led to the ruin of our home and the end of our lives. 1. David blinked at me, his voice thick with sleep. “Mia? What’s wrong?” he whispered. “It’s Rick. His dad is sick and they don’t have a car. We should help them.” A cold smile touched my lips. “If it’s a real emergency, why not just call 911?” “Don’t turn on the lights. Don’t make a sound. Pretend we’re not home.” David was confused, but he listened to me. He scratched his head, laid back down, and pulled the covers up. A moment later, he murmured, “Mia, if his dad… if something happens because we didn’t help, won’t you feel guilty?” I shook my head, hiding the inferno of hatred in my eyes. Guilty? Never again. The banging continued for a long, relentless time. Then our phones started buzzing, one after the other, calls from Rick and his wife, Brenda. Luckily, I had silenced them both before bed. Now David was starting to see that something was wrong. “This is weird,” he said, his voice low. “You’d think they’d give up after a few knocks. Why are they just hammering on the door?” “And if his dad is dying, why are they wasting time here instead of finding another ride?” He was right. They’d been at it for nearly ten minutes. I crept out of bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the cool wood. “Damn it, nobody’s home. Now what?” It was Rick’s voice, raw with frustration. He spat on the ground just outside our door. “Did you find anyone else?” he asked Brenda. “No.” A heavy sigh from outside. “Son of a bitch. What rotten luck. We need someone now. Fine, call 911. We can’t let the old man kick the bucket yet.” Their voices faded as they walked away. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding and turned to face my husband. His eyes were wide with shock. “They… they wanted to…?” I nodded, my expression grim. “Yes. Exactly what you’re thinking.” For a long time before he finally fell asleep, David kept muttering in disbelief. “How could they be like that? I don’t understand.” “We’ve been neighbors for years. I thought we were friends.” “How could they want to hurt us?” I placed a hand gently over his mouth. “Stop,” I whispered. “Just go to sleep.” 2. In my last life, David and I opened the door immediately. We helped them carry the old man, who was barely breathing, into the back of our car. As soon as we were on the road, they started screaming at us from the back seat, telling us to drive faster, faster. After running the second red light, we crashed. We just clipped the side of another car. It was a minor fender bender, nothing serious. But that little bump was all it took. By the time we got to the hospital, the old man was gone. Rick and Brenda’s faces changed instantly. They started wailing in the hospital corridor, pointing at us, screaming that we were murderers. They claimed the minor collision had caused their father to hit his head on the back of the seat, and that’s what killed him. There was, in fact, a cut on the back of his head. Before we could even say a word, the driver of the other car stormed in and pointed a finger at us. “I’ll testify to it! They saw my car and sped up on purpose, they deliberately rammed into me!” he shouted. “They knew they had a sick man in the car and they did it anyway! What kind of monsters are you?” And just our luck, that particular stretch of road had no traffic cameras. He died in our car. We had no choice but to take the blame. We paid them the money they demanded. But it wasn’t enough. They got a copy of his latest physical, made huge banners, and started protesting outside both of our workplaces. They told everyone that he had been on the road to recovery. They screamed that if it weren’t for us, he would be alive and well. That he was the rock of their family, and now their lives were in shambles, their kids were too grief-stricken to go to school. They told the world that we had destroyed their family. That we were unforgivable, cold-blooded killers. They forced us to start covering their living expenses, their child support, everything. They became a bottomless pit, sucking the life out of us. We paid one bill, and another would appear. They demanded we fund their children’s lives all the way into adulthood. If David or I showed the slightest hesitation, they’d start the waterworks and the histrionics, making our lives a living hell. They bled every last cent from our savings and still they weren’t satisfied. One night, they got us drunk, stole our IDs, and took out a series of high-interest online loans in our names. The money went straight into their pockets, leaving us with a mountain of debt. I will never forget the day the loan shark’s thugs came to our door. Rick was standing off to the side, watching the show, casually cracking sunflower seeds. “Yeah, that’s them! A couple of shameless murderers!” he yelled, egging them on. “Hit ‘em! Good and hard! Better if you just kill them!” “You’d be doing the world a favor!” he shouted as the first punch landed. He paused, then added with a smirk, “Oh, and hey, don’t kill the woman. She’s got a nice body. You guys could have some fun. When you do, don’t forget to call me over.” And just like that, David and I were beaten to death on our own doorstep. Even after we were dead, they weren’t finished. They started a live stream, trashing our names online, and incited their followers to go and desecrate our graves. But fate, or God, or whatever you want to call it, gave me a second chance. It sent me back to the very day our descent into hell began. 3. The next morning, we ran into Rick and Brenda on our way out of the apartment complex. Rick shot us a venomous glare. “What were you two up to last night? We knocked for ages.” David managed a weak smile. “Oh, hey, Rick. We had a company dinner, got back really late. Was something wrong?” Brenda snorted. “My father had an attack and needed to go to the hospital, that’s what was wrong.” She rounded on me. “Mia, do you have any idea that because of you, my father almost died?” My husband, David, opened his mouth to explain, but I stepped in front of him, a faint, mocking smile on my face. “I’m sorry, Brenda, I don’t understand,” I said sweetly. “What does your father’s health have to do with us?” That set her off. She put her hands on her hips. “What does it have to do with you? You delayed his medical treatment! After all these years as neighbors, you don’t even answer your phone! Whose fault is it if not yours?” My smile widened. “Wow, the standards for being a good neighbor are getting pretty high these days. For a second there, I thought I’d signed a 24-hour, on-call caregiver agreement.” I tilted my head. “You had time to call us over and over, but no time to call 911?” “You—!” Brenda was stunned. I had always been the quiet, agreeable one. She wasn’t prepared for this. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “This is your fault, and you won’t even apologize! How dare you talk to me like that! All those years of neighborly kindness were wasted on a dog!” “You’re lucky my dad is okay,” she shrieked. “Otherwise, I would make you pay!” Rick spat on the pavement beside him. “Fine. You want to play it this way, deny everything, no decency? Don’t blame us for what comes next.” I feigned shock, taking a small step back. “Rick, are you threatening me? You should know, I have a very weak constitution. I get frightened so easily. If your threats cause me any health problems… could you really afford to take responsibility for that?” Rick just stared at me, his face a cold mask. “Just you wait,” he muttered, before turning and stalking off. 4. Rick’s dad didn’t die. Remembering everything from my past life, a terrible suspicion began to form in my mind. When I told David, he came to the same conclusion. A few days later, the old man was discharged from the hospital. Brenda called me immediately. Her voice was syrupy sweet, all traces of her previous hostility gone. “Mia, honey, what are you doing? Are you busy?” When I didn’t answer, she chuckled nervously and continued. “My father-in-law is being released, and I was hoping you could give us a ride home. You know I don’t have a car, and he’s still too weak to walk.” “We’re neighbors, right? Just a little favor. I’ll even buy you a few cases of fruit to say thanks.” I let out a soft laugh. “I don’t think I’d dare accept any fruit from you, Brenda. A few days ago you were ready to ruin my life, and now we’re best buddies again?” “Anyway, I’m busy. Can’t help you.” I hung up before she could reply. I could just picture her fuming on the other end of the line, and it made me want to laugh. A minute later, a message from her popped up in the neighborhood group chat. [Is any kind neighbor free to give my father-in-law a ride home from the hospital?] [I asked Mia, but she refused. It’s so hard for me to manage with an elderly person all by myself…] I had to laugh. She had time to post in the group chat, but no time to call an Uber. All this to save a twenty-dollar fare. Someone replied almost instantly. [OMG, Brenda, that’s terrible.] [It’s so difficult with a sick parent. I thought you were so good to Mia’s family? I can’t believe she wouldn’t help you!] The reply was from Sharon, the stay-at-home mom who lived on the floor below us. For some reason, she’d always seemed to have it out for me, even though we’d barely exchanged a dozen words. Never one to miss a chance to stir the pot, she tagged me directly. [@Mia, you need to have a conscience. I always see Brenda bringing you guys fruit and helping you carry things.] [You can’t even help with a little thing like this?] [Everyone knows you and David aren’t short on money, and you have a car. Why wouldn’t you give her a ride?] Once Sharon broke the ice, others chimed in. [Let’s not jump to conclusions. Mia is usually very helpful. Maybe she really is busy?] [Yeah, and there are always taxis at the hospital. She can just grab one.] Some defended me, while others joined Sharon in calling me heartless. [A taxi? With a sick old man? A car would obviously be better.] [Exactly! I’ve seen Brenda’s father-in-law, he’s in a wheelchair. It’s a huge hassle to get a taxi.] Before long, a full-blown argument had erupted. No one was even talking about helping Brenda anymore. She started to get anxious. [Please don’t fight, everyone. It’s all my fault for bringing it up.] [So… is anyone able to come get me?] The group chat went silent. 5. The timing was perfect. I went into the group chat and tagged Sharon. [@Sharon Sorry, just saw this, been swamped with work.] [I seem to remember you have a car. You’re such a kind and compassionate person, I’m sure you’ll be happy to go pick Brenda up, right?] It took Sharon a long time to stammer out a reply. [I… I have to cook dinner for my son! Brenda, you should just get a taxi…] Oh? So now a taxi was a good idea? A moment ago she was saying how inconvenient it would be. I quoted her earlier message back to her. [Weren’t you the one who just said he has trouble walking? And now you’re telling her to get a taxi? What are you trying to pull, Sharon?] [It seems some people who are quick to judge others are just putting on a show.] The tide turned. Other neighbors started calling Sharon a hypocrite for trying to force me to do something she wasn’t willing to do herself. Sharon panicked. She quickly tagged Brenda. [@Brenda I’m on my way now. Send me your exact location.] [I’m not like some people, who are all talk.] Brenda responded with a flood of grateful emojis, acting as if Sharon was her savior. An hour later, they were home. Brenda posted a picture in the group: the three of them—her, Sharon, and the old man. Sharon was holding a bag of fruit, and on the floor were several cases of milk. Her smile was so wide it was wrinkling her face. [Sharon is such a good person, truly a different class from some people.] [From now on, I’ll be counting on your help, Sharon! Your son is growing, he could use the extra milk.] Sharon replied instantly. [It feels so good to do a good deed! Of course, Brenda. Anything you need, just ask.] [If I can help, I will.] I looked at my phone and laughed out loud. Brenda had found her new sucker. From that day on, Brenda started calling on Sharon for everything. She never messaged her privately, always making her requests by tagging Sharon in the public group chat. Boxed into a corner by her own public declarations of kindness, Sharon had no choice but to help. She eventually replied in the group, asking Brenda to message her directly instead of “cluttering up the public space.” Brenda readily agreed, and then promptly forgot. The very next time, she was back in the main chat. [Oh, Sharon, dear, I’m just so forgetful at my age!] [I have the group chat pinned, so it’s just easier to find you here. You don’t mind, do you?] The worst part was that every time Sharon helped, Brenda would post a photo of it in the group, and the neighbors would shower Sharon with praise, making it impossible for her to refuse. One evening, I was walking past Sharon’s apartment and heard her complaining on the phone to a friend, asking for advice on how to get Brenda off her back. Before she hung up, I saw Brenda coming down the stairs, carrying a bag of fruit. She shot me a dirty look, then immediately plastered a smile on her face. “Sharon! Here, let me give you some fruit.” “It’s from my family’s garden, all-natural, no pesticides.” I kept walking toward my door, catching snippets of the conversation. “Oh, by the way, we have something to do tomorrow, could you watch my father-in-law for me…?” “Oh, it’s no big deal, you just have to change his diaper every hour or so.” I could hear Sharon desperately trying to refuse, but Brenda just talked right over her, as if she couldn’t hear a thing. Sure enough, a new notification popped up on my phone. It was another picture from Brenda: Sharon with the old man. [Sharon is an angel! She’s agreed to look after my father-in-law for me tomorrow.] [Such a kind soul is a role model for all of humanity! If anyone in this community dares to bully Sharon in the future, they’ll have to go through me first!] The neighbors filled the chat with thumbs-up emojis. [Sharon is really one of a kind. I remember his diapers need changing, right?] [Wow, Sharon, you’re so selfless. I know I couldn’t do it.] I was unlocking my door when Brenda came up the stairs. She shot me another glare and a cold snort. “Don’t be jealous of all the nice things I’m saying about Sharon. She’s just a better, kinder person than you.” She looked me up and down. “No wonder you’re still childless after years of marriage. You’re too evil to conceive.” Seeing I wasn’t responding, she leaned in, sneering. “What, cat got your tongue? Feeling regretful now?” “If you want to repent, I suppose it’s not too late. You can help Sharon take care of my father-in-law tomorrow.” “You…” My only reply was the sound of my door slamming shut and a single sentence. “You’re certifiably insane.” Furious, Brenda stood outside my door and cursed at me for ten solid minutes. 6. The next day was Saturday. Brenda and Rick took their grandson out for a day of fun, leaving Sharon with the mess. Sharon’s husband, annoyed by the situation, went out to play cards. Her son was at a tutoring class. She was all alone. From our apartment, we could occasionally hear her muffled shouts from downstairs. “Did you seriously go again?! What is wrong with you?!” “I just changed you!” “Are you even human? Can’t you hold it in?” The poor old man, unable to speak clearly, could only stammer apologies with a thick tongue. David and I just shook our heads, put on our headphones, and started a movie. We weren’t far into it when there was a knock at our door. It was Sharon. She wrung her hands, pushed the old man in his wheelchair toward our doorway, and gave my husband a bright, pleading smile. “Hey, David. Could you guys just watch him for a bit?” “I’m just one person, I really can’t handle this.” I held up my hands. “We can’t either. He’s not our father. You know who to call.” Sharon completely ignored me, keeping her eyes fixed on my husband. “David, please, just help me out. Just let Mia watch him for the afternoon. I’ll come get him tonight.” She clasped her hands together, her voice dripping with flattery. “Please, David. I’m begging you.” David gave her a flat look and said, “Not my problem.” Sharon’s smile froze on her face. Before she could recover, I grabbed the door to close it. Suddenly, Sharon stuck her arm out, blocking it. Her eyes were red, practically shooting flames. “Mia! Do you have to be like this?!” she screamed. “It’s not like you haven’t taken care of him before! Who are you putting this act on for?! This was supposed to be your job in the first place! I’ve already done half the work, and you’re still not satisfied?”

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My wife was heading back to her hometown to see family, and I realized she’d forgotten the specialty teas I’d bought for her mother. I rushed over to bring them to her, only to see her stepping out of a car in a full-length wedding gown. Waiting for her, beaming, was Liam, the guy she’d grown up with. They took each other’s hands, smiling into each other’s eyes like a pair of blissful newlyweds. It wasn’t until she spotted me standing a dozen yards away that Olivia finally, frantically, dropped his hand. “His mother is critically ill,” she explained, her voice tight. “Her only wish was to see him get married. I’m just doing a good deed, Ethan.” I managed a faint smile. I walked over and gently guided her back toward Liam, then joined the small crowd that was starting to form, clapping along with them. “So, when’s the baby due?” I called out, my voice booming unnaturally. “I want to make sure I get a gift!” 1 My enthusiastic cheer seemed to break the tension, and the small gathering of onlookers laughed and grew larger. Liam ushered the cheering guests into a nearby house before finally walking back to me. “Don’t be angry, Ethan,” he said, his expression a performance of sincerity. “Olivia and I are just putting on a show.” “If you’re really this uncomfortable with it, I can go explain it to everyone right now,” he offered. I nodded, gesturing for him to go ahead and clear things up. But Liam just stood there, frozen. Olivia shoved him behind her, glaring at me. “It’s just a favor, that’s all. Do you have any compassion, Ethan? Are you ever going to stop being so damn jealous?” I smiled again, a wider, emptier smile this time. “Well then, congratulations to the happy couple. I wish you a long and happy marriage.” Olivia’s face turned pale. She grabbed my arm and dragged me into a corner, away from the others. “Ethan, what the hell is your problem?” I didn’t say anything. Yesterday was my birthday. I had planned a whole evening for the two of us, a quiet celebration. But she had called me in a panic, telling me her mother had had a medical emergency and she had to go home immediately. I’d offered to take time off work to go with her, but she refused, saying she didn’t want me to jeopardize my job. And what was the result? The “mom” she was so worried about was Liam’s mother. While I was sick with worry for her, she was here, playing bride with her childhood best friend. Looking at the wedding dress she was wearing, how perfectly it fit, I realized this wasn’t a spontaneous act of kindness. This wedding must have been planned for a long, long time. A bitter, acidic feeling began to spread through my chest. She, however, thought I was just throwing a tantrum. “I already told you, I’m just helping Liam out. You don’t have to be so petty.” I shook my head. “You’ve got it all wrong.” “After the reception’s over, the three of us should go down to the courthouse together,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’ll get our divorce certificate, you two can get your marriage license. It’ll save everyone a lot of time and effort.” The word “divorce” made her freeze, her mouth falling slightly open. Just then, Liam walked over, supporting a frail-looking older woman by the arm. “Olivia, honey, Mom was worried when you didn’t come back inside. She wanted to see you.” The woman, who I assumed was Liam’s mother, was stooped over, coughing into her fist. She looked up at Olivia with a gaze full of adoration. “You’re such a good girl, Olivia. Liam, you better treat her right from now on. Oh,” she said, her eyes landing on me. “Is this a friend of yours?” As Liam’s mother looked me over with curiosity, Olivia rushed to explain. “He’s nobody, Mom. Just a stranger who stopped to ask for directions. It’s windy out here, you should go back inside before you catch a chill.” I heard the easy, familiar way she called the woman “Mom,” and a humorless laugh escaped my lips. I turned and started walking away. Olivia looked like she was about to follow me. But then Liam’s voice cut through the air. “It’s almost time for the ceremony to start. Let’s get inside, all our friends and family are waiting.” A moment later, the sound of cheering and car horns erupted behind me. Olivia didn’t follow. Of course she didn’t. No matter the situation, her choice was never going to be me. 2 After leaving Olivia’s hometown, I drove straight to my mom’s place. Olivia never liked the idea of living with my mother, so right after we got married, my mom volunteered to move back to the quiet town where she grew up. I’d bought her a nice little townhouse in the best development in the area, thinking that after all her years of hard work, it was time for her to relax and enjoy her life. Olivia had thrown a fit about the expense, giving me the silent treatment for three solid months. The only thing that ended the cold war was my mom offering to put the townhouse in both of our names, mine and Olivia’s. Now, as I opened her front door, the sight that greeted me made my heart clench. My mother was sitting at her small kitchen table, eating canned soup and saltine crackers. “Mom,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “I’ve been sending you money every month. Why are you eating this stuff? It has no nutritional value.” She hadn’t expected me, and her face lit up with pure joy. “Ethan! What a surprise! Why are you here? Where’s Olivia?” I looked at the gray streaks in her hair, the lines around her eyes, and a wave of guilt washed over me. For years, I’d been so focused on making money, on pleasing Olivia, that I had completely neglected the woman who raised me. I made a decision right then and there: as soon as the divorce was final, I was moving my mom in with me so I could take care of her. “I haven’t eaten yet either, Mom,” I said, forcing a smile. “Let me take you out for a nice lunch.” She immediately waved her hands in protest. “Oh, no, that’s such a waste of money. You just wait here, I’ll cook something for you.” She bustled toward the kitchen. But when she opened the refrigerator, there was nothing inside but a few condiments and some wilted vegetables. “Mom, we’re going out,” I said, my voice firm. This time, I didn’t give her a chance to argue. I just took her by the arm and led her out the door. After a nice meal, I took her to the supermarket and we stocked her kitchen with fresh groceries. But as we walked up to her front door, we saw it was standing wide open. My mom, thinking they’d been robbed, hurried inside to see what was going on. A moment later, Olivia’s voice, sharp and imperious, echoed from inside the house. “Where have you been, wandering around outside? I have family coming over. You’ll need to pack a bag and find somewhere else to stay for a few days.” A surge of hot anger rose in my throat, and I stormed in after my mother. “Olivia,” I said, my voice low and dangerous. “Who are you telling to move out?” She jumped when she saw me, clearly startled. “Ethan! What are you doing here?” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “This is my mother’s house. Where else would I be?” She pursed her lips, completely unfazed. “Liam needs to borrow the house for a few days, and I already told him it was fine. Since you’re here, you can just take your mom and get a hotel for the weekend.” She said it with such casual entitlement, as if it were the most reasonable request in the world. In her mind, this was her house, and she was the one in charge. Liam, who had been standing off to the side, quickly chimed in. “Hey, Ethan. We just wanted to borrow the place for a bit, that’s all.” “If you’re really not okay with it,” he added with a smug little smile, “I can even pay you rent.” I shot him a look of pure disgust. Before I could even respond, Olivia scoffed. “Why would we give him money? You work hard for your money, Liam. Besides, this house is way too big for one old woman. It’s a waste. It’s better if your relatives get to enjoy it.” “And I’m a legal owner of this property,” she declared, puffing out her chest slightly. “He has no right to kick you out.” Her words sent a fresh wave of fury through me. But before I could unleash the tirade building inside me, the front door burst open again, and the house was filled with the loud, chaotic sounds of a crowd of people arriving. 3 Liam’s mother, Mrs. Davison, swept into the room, leading a boisterous group of people behind her. Her face was flushed with excitement, and she looked nothing like the frail, sick woman from the day before. “This is the beautiful home my daughter-in-law bought for me!” she announced to the crowd, her voice dripping with pride. “Isn’t it magnificent? My son is so clever, finding a wonderful wife like Olivia.” “You all just make yourselves at home for the wedding festivities,” she continued. “I’ve taken care of everything.” Her victory tour came to a halt when she noticed my mother, standing awkwardly by the doorway. Mrs. Davison’s brow furrowed, and her expression soured into one of undisguised contempt. “And who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing in my house?” She turned her head, shouting toward the front door. “What is wrong with the security in this neighborhood? They’re letting beggars just wander in off the street!” Her eyes snapped back to my mother. “Oh, I see. You must be the maid my daughter-in-law hired.” “Well, don’t just stand there gawking! Can’t you see we have guests? Go and make some tea, or I’ll have you fired.” My mother, completely bewildered by the situation, looked to me for an explanation. Before she could even speak, Mrs. Davison lunged forward and slapped her, hard, across the face. “Are you deaf? Did you not hear me talking to you?” she shrieked. “Look at you, dressed in rags. You should be grateful we’re giving you a job. How dare you ignore an order from the owner of the house!” “Now go make that tea, or I’ll fire you!” She had put all of her strength into the blow. My mother’s right cheek immediately turned a blotchy, angry red. “Mom!” I rushed to her side, steadying her as she stumbled back. Then, I scanned the room, my eyes landing on Mrs. Davison and the pack of relatives standing behind her. My voice was a low growl. “I’m giving you one minute to get out of this house,” I seethed. “If you’re not gone by then, don’t blame me for calling the police.” Mrs. Davison showed no fear. She just planted her hands on her hips and laughed. “And who do you think you are, giving me orders?” she sneered. “This house was a gift to me from my daughter-in-law. If the police come, the only ones they’ll be arresting are you two for trespassing.” My chest heaved with rage. I turned my furious gaze on Olivia. “So,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “Is there anything you’d like to say?” Olivia’s face was a mask of discomfort. She walked over to me, and for a split second, I thought she was finally going to come to her senses. Instead, she shoved my arm. “Shut up,” she hissed. “What’s the maid’s son yelling about?” “You’re both fired,” she announced, her voice ringing with finality. “Now get the hell out of here.” Mrs. Davison quickly added, “And let me check your things before you leave. Someone who looks as poor as you is probably a thief. You’re probably planning on stealing something on your way out.” That was the final straw for my mother. She had never been subjected to such humiliation in her life. She stood up straight and declared, her voice shaking but firm, “This is my house! You are the ones who need to leave!” Mrs. Davison’s face contorted with rage. “You’re still trying to squat in my house? I’ll teach you a lesson!” Before anyone could react, she lunged forward and kicked my mother squarely in the stomach. My mom’s head snapped back and hit the hard tile floor with a sickening crack. Then, she crumpled to the ground, unconscious. 4 At the sight of my mother’s limp body on the floor, all the color drained from Olivia’s face. She clearly hadn’t expected things to escalate to physical violence. “Mom! Mom, please don’t scare me!” I yelled, scrambling to her side. I didn’t have time to deal with Mrs. Davison. I fumbled for my phone and dialed 911. But Liam’s mother was still ranting, completely unrepentant. “Don’t you try to fool me, you old hag! Lying on the floor pretending to be unconscious won’t work. If you’re trying to set me up for a lawsuit, you can forget it!” “This is my house! If you’re going to die, do it outside! Don’t bring your bad luck into my home on such a joyous occasion.” Hearing this, some of the relatives she’d brought with her started to move forward, as if they were actually going to drag my unconscious mother out of the house. I shoved the first person back, my voice a roar. “If any of you touch her, I swear to God!” My expression must have been terrifying, because they all froze in their tracks. It was only then that Liam, who had been watching the entire spectacle unfold from the sidelines, finally decided to intervene with some phony words of peace. “Mom, it’s a happy day, what’s all this about?” he said smoothly. “Olivia, why don’t you take my mom on a tour of the rest of the house?” He glanced dismissively at my mother’s still form. “As for the maid you hired, her son is right here taking care of her. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.” He called her “the maid” on purpose. It was a deliberate jab, meant to humiliate and provoke me. But right now, my entire world had narrowed to my mother, lying unconscious on the floor. I didn’t have the energy to spare for his petty, pathetic games. “Are you even human, Olivia?” I choked out, my voice thick with disbelief. “My mother treated you like her own daughter. She loved you. And this is how you repay her?” “She is lying here, and we don’t even know if she’s going to be okay, and you’re about to go give her attacker a tour of the house?” Olivia glanced from my furious face to my mother’s body on the floor, and for a fleeting moment, a flicker of hesitation crossed her face. “I…” Before she could finish, Mrs. Davison cut her off. “You watch what you say, young man! Who are you calling an attacker?” she screeched. “It was your mother who was shameless, refusing to leave my house! Daughter-in-law, get these two out of here right now!” Olivia remained frozen for a second, looking as though she was afraid of things getting any worse. Sensing her wavering, Mrs. Davison suddenly clutched her own chest, letting out a dramatic gasp. That was all it took. The hesitation in Olivia’s eyes vanished, replaced by alarm. “Mom, are you okay?” she cried, rushing to Mrs. Davison’s side. She turned back to me, her face hard as stone. “Ethan, take your mother and get out. Now.” In that instant, the towering rage I had felt just moments before evaporated, leaving behind only a cold, hollow space filled with disgust and a profound sense of loss. The paramedics arrived quickly, and they saved my mother’s life. Later, standing by her hospital bed, looking at the tubes and wires connected to her frail body, I balled up my fist and punched the wall, a wave of self-loathing washing over me. The woman I had cherished, the woman I had placed on a pedestal for five years, had nearly gotten my mother killed. I wanted to ask Olivia why she had married me if she never loved me. But I knew, even as the question formed in my mind, that there was no point. The answer didn’t matter anymore. I stepped out of the room and called her. It wasn’t her voice that answered, but Liam’s, dripping with smug contempt. “Ethan, my man. Olivia’s in the shower right now. You might have to wait a bit.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “By the way, this house of yours is incredibly comfortable. I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave.” I didn’t say a word. I just ended the call. Half an hour later, my phone rang again. This time, it was Olivia. “Ethan, how’s your mom? It’s probably nothing serious, right?” she said, her tone breezy and dismissive. “This business with Liam will be over by tomorrow. When I get back, I’ll make it up to you. We can have a do-over for your birthday, and I…” “Don’t bother,” I said, cutting her off. “The divorce papers have already been sent to you.” “And one more thing,” I added, my voice as cold as ice. “I’m not letting this go. I’ve already downloaded the footage from the security cameras in the house. I’ll see you in court.”

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I’ve always been the quiet one in my family. So quiet that in most of our family photos, you can’t find my eyes. It’s not that the camera missed them. It’s that I never dared to look at the lens. 1 My mother was the reigning queen of the city’s main stage. My father’s voice was the golden baritone of NPR’s morning drive. My brother, Owen, was born for the spotlight—class president, the one chosen to give the speech at graduation, the guy who led the team to victory. So, when I came along as a surprise, all our relatives said the same thing: “Owen’s little sister? She’s bound to be a firecracker.” I was a disappointment to them all. My voice was thin, like it had been sanded down. My face was as plain as a glass of water. I had managed to perfectly sidestep every single one of my parents’ talents and gifts. Owen was the first light of dawn. And me, Nora, I was the last, faded gray of sunset. Children don’t know how to hide their feelings. In the kindergarten play, I was cast as a tree. As the teacher tied green ribbons to my arms, I whispered, “Ma’am, I know the rabbit’s lines.” She patted my head. “That’s nice, Nora, but trees don’t have to talk.” Still, I saw it—a flicker of pity in her eyes. My parents prided themselves on being progressive, on never comparing me to my brother. But whenever guests came over, my father would have Owen recite a poem or tell a charismatic story. Me? My job was to bring out the cheese and crackers, then settle quietly into a corner. “Nora’s the introspective one, like her grandmother,” my mother would explain. But my grandmother was a woman of the silent generation, taught to be seen and not heard. I was a child of the twenty-first century. By middle school, Owen was already a big man on campus. His essays were printed out and passed around as examples for the entire grade. My father held one of them, his voice thick with emotion. “If Owen follows in my footsteps, I’ll know I’ve done something right with my life.” I was peeling an apple beside him. The knife slipped, slicing my finger. My dad jumped, rushing to find a Band-Aid. As he wrapped it around my finger, he murmured, “That’s not what I meant, Nora.” I knew. He hadn’t meant it. If he’d meant it, he never would have said it out loud. The themes were there from the beginning. Owen and Nora. One who shines, one who fades. You see, my cultured parents were masters of metaphor, even in naming their children. 2 On my parents’ twentieth wedding anniversary, when I was twelve, we all went to a recording studio to record a song together. The sound engineer was an old friend of my dad’s. He laughed and said, “Lee, you wouldn’t know these two kids came from the same parents just by listening to them.” Owen stepped up to the mic and sang a line, clear as a bell. The engineer gave him a thumbs-up. When it was my turn, I’d barely opened my mouth before the engineer’s brow furrowed. “Relax, kid. Don’t be nervous.” I clutched the hem of my shirt and tried again. “…The pitch is a little shaky.” In the end, I was given two lines in the chorus, and my voice was auto-tuned into oblivion. My parents loved the final version. They sent it to our family group text. My aunt replied first: “Owen has a voice destined for the radio!” Her next text came a moment later: “Nora is just… getting quieter and quieter, isn’t she?” Quiet. Such a convenient word. Peaceful, no trouble, like a shadow. I sat on the floor of the study, headphones on, listening to that song over and over. My voice, sandwiched between three bright, confident ones, was like a loose thread on a bolt of smooth silk. It didn’t belong. In eighth grade, I fell in love with writing. I’d cut up notebooks into little booklets and fill them with ink, word by word. I wrote about the clouds, about the ants on my windowsill, about the boy from the next class who always stayed late to practice basketball. I never dared to write about Owen. He was too bright; he would have burned the tip of my pen. I hid the notebooks under my mattress. I thought it was the safest place in the world. Until one day, my mom found them while cleaning. She didn’t tell me. She took them straight to my dad. That night at dinner, my dad stirred his soup and asked, seemingly out of nowhere, “Nora, have you been doing a lot of reading lately?” My stomach clenched. “…Just some stuff for school.” “The writing is still a bit raw,” he said, setting down his spoon, “but your observational skills are sharp.” My mom chimed in. “Yes, that part about the boy next door was very vivid.” My face caught fire. Blood rushed to my head, a roaring in my ears. They had gone through my secrets, and now they were discussing them with the casual air of someone critiquing a meal. Owen slid a piece of chicken onto my plate. “Mom, Dad, ever hear of privacy?” My dad waved him off. “What’s privacy to a child? We’re just showing we care.” That night, I tore the notebook apart, page by page, and flushed it down the toilet. Watching the vortex swallow the pieces, I told myself: See, Nora? Even your secrets don’t deserve to exist. 3 Owen got a full scholarship to Georgetown his senior year. My parents threw a dinner party that filled three tables. Relatives took turns raising their glasses, saying, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” I sat in the corner, quietly peeling a shrimp. An aunt came over and patted my head. “And Nora’s a sweet girl, so quiet. She’ll have no trouble finding a husband someday.” My father, his face flushed with wine, laughed. “That’s right. For our Nora, a peaceful life is all we ask for.” A peaceful life. Such a low bar to set. Like a weed in the garden—you don’t expect it to flower, you just hope it survives. After the party, my dad sat Owen down in the living room for a long talk. I walked past the study and heard the passionate blueprint of my brother’s future. “D.C. is full of opportunities…” “I’ve already spoken to a professor there…” “An internship at NPR headquarters…” I slipped back to my room. A college course catalog lay on my desk. I flipped to the last page, to a small liberal arts college in North Carolina I’d never heard of. It had a Media Studies program. Small. Far away. The required GPA hovered right around my mock exam scores. I folded the corner of the page. Like hiding a dream no one else knew existed. The day I declared my college choice was the first time I ever truly fought with my parents. “Media Studies?” My mom’s voice shot up. “What are you doing chasing after that?” “Your brother has the talent for it, his path is already paved! But you? With your personality, your… disposition? You’d be eaten alive in that world.” My dad was calmer, but his words were heavier. “Nora, I’m not trying to crush your spirits. But the media industry… it requires charisma, connections, a certain look. You don’t have any of those.” “Why not major in education? Or accounting? Something stable?” I looked at them. I looked at the quiet, stable, ordinary girl they saw. And for the first time, I didn’t back down. “I want to try.” They eventually gave in. Not because I’d convinced them, but because they figured I’d “hit a wall and come to my senses.” “Fine,” my mother sighed. “Go and see for yourself how hard it is. Then you’ll understand we only want what’s best for you.” The day my acceptance letter arrived, the house was empty. Owen was already in D.C. for a summer program, and my parents were at a colleague’s wedding. I retrieved the thin envelope from the mailbox myself. I opened it and saw the unfamiliar school name and the words “Department of Media & Journalism.” There were no cheers, no tears. I just folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the deepest pocket of my backpack. It felt like a secret handover had just been completed. 4 My dad drove me to the airport. The silence in the car was heavy. Before I went through security, he pressed a debit card into my hand. “I’ll deposit money for you every month. If it’s not enough… let me know.” I clutched the plastic and nodded. He looked at me, his lips parting as if he wanted to say more. In the end, he just patted my shoulder. “Take care of yourself.” The plane took off, banking over the city. I watched the landscape shrink below, feeling a strange sense of calm. Even, a little bit, of relief. I had finally escaped the gravitational pull of the place called home. I could just be Nora, not just “Owen’s sister.” College life was quieter than I’d imagined. No one here knew who Owen was. No one had pasted the “quiet” label on me. I could hide in the crowd and start to grow again, on my own terms. The coursework wasn’t easy. Especially the practical classes. While other students spoke eloquently to the camera, my hands would sweat holding the microphone. My professor’s feedback was always the same: “Nora, the content is solid, but your delivery is weak.” I’d lower my head, accustomed to the critique. Until one day, the professor for my elective course asked me to stay after class. He was young, a Mr. Davies, who had apparently been a journalist for a few years. “Nora, I’ve read the last few essays you submitted.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Your perspective is sharp, and your writing has a coldness to it. It’s not what I’d expect from you.” My stomach tightened. “But,” he continued, “that coldness can be an asset for certain subjects.” He recommended a few online platforms for narrative non-fiction, and a couple of niche blogs with a unique style. “Give it a try. You don’t always have to be the one standing in front of the camera.” That afternoon, I sat in the library and read every article he’d recommended. Something in my chest slowly began to wake up. I realized there wasn’t just one way to have a voice. I realized that quietness could also be a kind of strength. I started submitting pieces to online magazines, secretly, under a pen name. I wrote about the driver of the late-night bus on the edge of the city, about the old man in a crumbling apartment complex raising his grandson by collecting cans, about the boy on the other side of the screen who only used text to talk because of his stutter. The pay was next to nothing—fifty dollars, a hundred here and there. But every time I sent an email into the void, the wait for a reply felt like planting a seed in the dark. Occasionally, one would sprout. During my sophomore year, an article I wrote about people with selective mutism was picked up by a major online journal. An editor reached out. She asked if I wanted to write a regular column. For the title, she suggested “The Unvoiced.” I stared at those two words for a long time before replying. I never told my family I was writing. Whenever we talked on the phone, the conversation was always centered on Owen. “Your brother won another scholarship.” “Your brother is interning at the NPR headquarters.” “Your brother has a girlfriend. She’s from D.C., too. Her family is very well-off.” I held the phone, murmuring “mhm” and “that’s great.” My eyes were fixed on my laptop screen, on the columnist contract that had just arrived in my inbox. “What about you, Nora? Are you dating anyone?” my mom asked suddenly. “…No.” “Good. College relationships never last. When you graduate and come home, your mother will find you someone suitable.” Suitable. Meaning, appropriate, from a good family, the kind of person a “quiet” girl like me was supposed to end up with. I went home for Christmas break to a strange atmosphere. Owen had brought his girlfriend home. Her name was Brooke. A D.C. girl, bright and confident, like sunshine in the middle of winter. At the dinner table, she was dazzling, making my parents laugh constantly. “You have such wonderful taste, Mrs. Clark. No wonder Owen is so handsome.” “Mr. Clark, this soup is incredible. Better than any restaurant in D.C.” My mother was beaming, piling food onto her plate. I ate my meal in silence, part of the background scenery. Suddenly, Brooke turned to me. “So you’re studying down south, Nora? Are you used to it?” I nodded. “I am.” “What’s your major again?” “Media and Journalism.” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, so you’re in the same field as Owen! He’ll have to show you the ropes.” Owen wrapped his arm around her shoulder, smiling. “Not everyone is a powerhouse like you, babe. Our Nora just likes to keep things simple.” I lowered my head, pushing the rice around in my bowl. Keep things simple. See, even my own brother defined me that way. 5 After dinner, my mom and Brooke were in the living room, looking through old family albums. I got up to get a glass of water from the kitchen. I heard Brooke’s hushed voice: “Nora and Owen are so different… their personalities are worlds apart.” My mother laughed softly. “I know. Nora takes after her grandmother. She’s an introvert.” Brooke replied, “It’s nice, though. So quiet and calm. Not like me, I never shut up.” I stood in the kitchen doorway, the glass in my hand feeling cold. So, even to the brilliant, sun-like people in my brother’s world, I was just the “quiet and calm” wallpaper. That night, I logged into the backend of my column. There was a new comment from a reader. “Your writing reminds me of the cold silence and deep compassion in Willa Cather’s work. Please, keep writing.” Outside my window, the city lights flickered. I typed back: “Thank you. I will.” Brooke and I stayed in touch, a friendly but distant connection. She’d send me links to cultural events in D.C., and sometimes she’d complain that Owen was a typical guy, completely clueless about romance. “Nora, when you start dating, make sure you find someone who pays attention.” I’d reply with a smiley face emoji. A boyfriend. Of the four girls in my dorm suite, I was the only single one. Leah, the girl in the bunk below me, asked me about it one night. “Nora, you’re pretty and smart. How come you don’t date?” I was quiet for a moment. “I never know what to say.” She laughed. “Dating isn’t a speech, you don’t need a script. You just need to feel a connection.” A connection. I looked at my plain face in the mirror. I remembered the vague crush I’d had on the basketball captain in high school. That crush died the day he came up to me to ask for Owen’s number. “Hey, can you send me your brother’s contact? I want to ask him about the athletic scholarships at Georgetown.” See? Even my insignificant little crushes were just a reflection of Owen’s light. Junior year, Brooke came to my city for a business trip. She took me out for dinner. She looked thinner, but her energy was still high. In between conversation, she mentioned an argument with Owen. “He wants to stay in D.C., and so do I. But the pressure is insane.” “Your parents want him to move back home, they say they have everything lined up for him there.” She stirred her coffee, a bitter smile on her face. “Nora, sometimes I really envy you.” I was stunned. “Envy me?” “Yeah,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes complicated. “You’re just… quiet. You don’t have all these expectations weighing you down. You can make your own choices.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My own choices? In my parents’ eyes, my choices were just me being stubborn, a phase of rebellion. But in that moment, I didn’t want to correct her. Maybe Brooke was right. In the unvoiced places, there was a different kind of freedom. After I saw Brooke off, I got a call from my dad. His tone was serious. “Nora, are your brother and Brooke having problems?” “…I don’t know.” “You should talk some sense into him. Brooke’s family is impressive, but the gap between our families is too big. It’ll cause problems down the road. It would be better if he came home. We could find him a nice local girl, someone we know.” Listening to him, a cold dread washed over me. Look. Even my brother’s sun-drenched life had to be forced onto the track of what was “suitable.” So what did that make my little patch of shadow? 6 My column slowly gained a small following. A book editor contacted me, asking if I’d be interested in publishing a collection of my essays. I hesitated. Publishing a book meant stepping into the light. It meant the name Nora Clark would be connected to those words—“cold,” “compassionate.” It meant my parents would find out. I could already hear their reactions. “What is this nonsense?” “It’s not a real job.” “How much can you possibly earn from that?” Mr. Davies encouraged me. “This is a good thing. Your writing has value. More people should see it.” Leah was even more excited than I was. “A book! Nora! You’re going to be an author!” I looked at her shining eyes, and the hesitation in my heart was slowly replaced by a strange, unfamiliar courage. Maybe I could. The day I signed the contract, I sat in a coffee shop for a long time. I watched the people walk by outside the window. Every one of them, carrying their own story, moving in silence. And I was going to be the one to tell those silent stories. During fall break of my senior year, Owen and Brooke came home together. The atmosphere was better than I expected. Brooke didn’t mention their previous arguments. She went shopping with my mom and charmed her completely. My dad and Owen spent an afternoon in the study and came out looking much more relaxed. It seemed some kind of compromise had been reached. At dinner, the conversation somehow turned to me. “Nora’s a senior now. Have you thought about grad school or work?” Brooke asked. Before I could speak, my mom jumped in. “Oh, we’re not putting any pressure on her. A nice, easy job. Something stable is all that matters.” My dad nodded. “A girl doesn’t need to be too ambitious.” Owen put a piece of fish on my plate. “Listen to Mom and Dad, Nora. They know best.” I stared at the piece of white fish in my bowl. Suddenly, I put down my fork. “I signed a publishing contract.”

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In my last life, at my husband Ethan’s birthday party, his best girl friend, Brooke, cornered me with a champagne flute and a smirk. “Audrey, you are a saint,” she’d said, her voice dripping with faux sympathy. “Ethan was a complete mess last night. I had to practically pour him into the shower. You shouldn’t have to deal with that.” I exploded. Demanded a divorce on the spot. To escape the nauseating pair of them, I agreed to walk away with nothing. I died alone, wasted away by illness in a rented studio apartment. No one was there to see me take my last breath. After my death, Ethan’s company went public. He and Brooke had a wedding that was the talk of the city. Everyone called them a match made in heaven. When my name came up, it was always with a dismissive sigh: “That woman. She just wasn’t meant for a life of fortune.” I open my eyes, and I’m back at Ethan’s birthday party. Brooke is walking toward me, wearing the same predatory smile, about to utter the exact same words. This time, I don’t get angry. I smile. I reach for my own best friend, Liam, who came with me tonight, and loop my arm through his, leaning into him intimately. As Ethan and Brooke stare, mouths slightly agape, Liam directs a perfectly innocent blink at my husband’s darkening face. “Ethan, don’t get jealous. Audrey and I go way back.” He pauses, his voice light and playful. “After all, I probably know the map of freckles on her back better than she does.” 1 The music seemed to die. The chatter evaporated. The color of Ethan’s face cycled from slate gray to a bruised purple, finally settling on a black that seemed to swallow the light. In that instant, I felt ten years of love for him turn to ash in my heart. His knuckles were white where he gripped his glass, veins standing out like cords on the back of his hand. His reason, his composure, had shattered. The triumphant smirk on Brooke’s face froze, her skin mottling red and white. Liam’s casual intimacy had just trampled all over her pride. Whispers started to ripple through the crowd. I kept my arm linked with Liam’s, the curve of my smile measured and perfect. “Happy birthday, Ethan.” I raised my glass to him in a mock toast before draining it in one long swallow. Ethan didn’t move. His eyes were like knives, promising to flay me alive. I set my empty glass down on a passing tray and turned to leave with Liam. “Audrey!” The sound was torn from between Ethan’s clenched teeth, hot with fury. I didn’t break my stride. A powerful hand clamped around my arm, yanking me back so hard that pain shot through my wrist. “Are you done?” he hissed, his voice low and freezing, each word a shard of ice. I looked up at the face I had loved for a decade, a face I knew better than my own, now twisted with nothing but rage and impatience. “Let go,” I said. “Come with me. Stop embarrassing yourself here.” He started dragging me toward the exit. Liam stepped in front of us, blocking our path. He took hold of Ethan’s wrist and, with a deceptively gentle twist, forced his fingers open. Ethan winced, releasing me. “I don’t think she wants to go with you, Ethan,” Liam said. He still had that easygoing, almost flippant smile, but his eyes were chips of ice. Ethan shook his hand free, smoothing the wrinkled cuff of his designer suit. He looked at me, his gaze overflowing with disappointment and cold contempt. “I thought you knew better, Audrey.” “You’re going to let this… outsider… start a war between us?” I stared at him. An outsider? My gaze drifted past his shoulder to where Brooke stood, watching me with the undisguised look of a victor. “Ethan, I want a divorce.” I said the words calmly. The air went still. Ethan let out a sharp, derisive laugh, as if I’d just told the world’s most pathetic joke. “A divorce? Audrey, how many times have you tried to threaten me with that?” “Let me tell you something. Don’t push your luck. You want a divorce? Fine. You walk away with nothing. You think you can handle that?” He was so sure I couldn’t. He was certain that the pampered Mrs. Audrey Pierce couldn’t survive a week without him. In my last life, he was right. I was terrified. I had wept and begged, and all it earned me was deeper humiliation. But now… “Okay,” I said, my voice clear and steady. The sneer on Ethan’s face froze solid. He stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if he couldn’t have possibly heard me right. I didn’t give him a chance to recover. “Liam, let’s go.” I turned, and this time, Ethan didn’t stop me. I could feel his scorching glare fixed on my back until Liam and I disappeared through the ballroom doors. In the car, Liam broke the silence. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” “He won’t let you go easily.” I watched the city lights streak past the window, blurring into long ribbons of neon. “I know.” Back at the penthouse I shared with Ethan, I didn’t waste a second. I started packing. I didn’t have much that was truly mine. A few sets of clothes I wore regularly, some professional books, and the few heirlooms my mother had left me. I was just placing a small, locked rosewood box in my suitcase when the bedroom door opened. Brooke was leaning against the frame, arms crossed. She was wearing one of Ethan’s white dress shirts. The hem just barely grazed her thighs, and the top two buttons were undone, revealing her collarbones. She was playing the part of the lady of the house. “Audrey, packing so late?” Her eyes fell on my suitcase, her contempt unconcealed. “Ethan asked me to check on you. He was worried you might do something… drastic.” I ignored her and zipped the suitcase shut. She sauntered into the room and picked up a small, celadon-glazed ceramic bird from my vanity. I had made it in a pottery class in college. It was the first gift I ever gave Ethan. He’d claimed to love it, and had kept it on his nightstand ever since. “This little thing is so ugly,” Brooke mused, turning it over in her hands, her fingertips stroking it with feigned carelessness. Crack. The bird hit the marble floor and shattered. “Oops,” she said, covering her mouth. “Clumsy me.” Her eyes, however, held no apology, only the thrill of provocation. In my last life, I would have flown at her, screaming. But now, I just glanced at the ceramic dust on the floor. Then I looked up and smiled at her. “It’s fine. It was just some junk I was going to throw out anyway.” Brooke’s smile faltered. I walked past her, pulling my suitcase. As I reached the door, I paused and leaned in close, my voice a whisper only she could hear. “Brooke… that cheap vanilla body spray you wear? Guess how many years I’ve had to pretend I couldn’t smell it on his shirts?” The color drained from her face. I didn’t look back again. I walked out of the home I had lived in for five years without a second thought. Just as the door clicked shut behind me, I heard the satisfying sound of something inside being violently smashed against a wall. I settled into the apartment Liam had arranged for me. The next morning, my phone rang. It was my mother-in-law, Eleanor. The second I answered, the screaming began. “Audrey! What the hell was that little stunt last night? Do you have any idea how you’ve humiliated this family?” “You ruined Ethan’s birthday! Have you no shame?” I held the phone away from my ear, waiting for the tirade to run out of steam. “Are you finished?” I asked into the silence. There was a stunned pause on the other end. She clearly hadn’t expected this response. “What is that tone? I’m telling you, you will go and apologize to Ethan this instant! And to Brooke! Brooke is a sweet girl, you need to stop targeting her!” “Eleanor, we’re getting a divorce.” “Don’t be ridiculous! A divorce? I forbid it!” Her voice was sharp as a razor. “This is between me and Ethan.” “Audrey, don’t be a fool! What do you think you are? Without Ethan, without this family, you are nothing!” I hung up. The world was quiet again. A few moments later, my phone buzzed with a text message. A fraud alert from my bank. Every single one of my credit cards had been frozen. It was immediately followed by a text from Ethan. Taste what it’s like to have nothing. Come crawling back when you’ve learned your lesson. It ended with a perfectly arrogant period. I deleted the message and opened a luxury resale app. One by one, I listed the designer bags and jewelry from my walk-in closet that I’d never had the heart to use. They were all things I’d bought with my own money before the marriage. Now, they would be the seed money for my new life. That afternoon, I got a call from an unknown number. It was the organizer for the Starlight Foundation Charity Gala. “Mrs. Pierce, hello. We’re calling to inform you that we’ve received a notice from Mr. Pierce. Your VIP seat at this year’s event has been canceled.” “Also, regarding the painting Mr. Pierce submitted for auction, First Light… he has specifically requested that the artist attribution be changed to Ms. Brooke Chandler.” I held the phone, silent for a few seconds. In my last life, it was this painting that launched Brooke into the limelight as a “brilliant artistic prodigy.” And Ethan, through this masterful act of charity-as-PR, paved the way for his company’s IPO. No one knew that the real artist was a long-dead master named Alistair Finch. And I just so happened to be his last and final student. The Starlight Gala was the social event of the year. Ethan had poured enormous resources into it. He needed a perfect media moment to elevate his company’s profile and build hype for an upcoming product launch. Brooke’s debut as a “genius painter” was the centerpiece of the entire show. In my last life, I was locked away at home, forced to watch them on the news as they took the stage, bathed in the flash of cameras. Ethan, looking impossibly handsome, announced that all proceeds from the sale of First Light would be donated to a children’s charity. Brooke stood demurely by his side, speaking of her “emotional journey” while creating the piece. They received a standing ovation. And I, like a rat in the shadows, watched from a dark corner, consumed by a helpless, burning jealousy. This time, I wouldn’t give them the chance. I didn’t call the press. I didn’t try to find evidence. The best way to deal with an arrogant man is to let him climb as high as possible before he falls. I pulled out a collection of my teacher’s work, a heavy art book. Tucked into the final page was a yellowed, folded letter. It was a letter Mr. Finch had written to me before he died. In it, he spoke of the painting he was most proud of in his later years. A piece he loved so much he had never shown it to anyone, nor had he signed it. He described the scene in the painting in vivid detail. And he told me how, when he finished it, he had used a special ink to press a tiny, discreet seal of his initial—an ‘F’—on the bottom-left corner of the canvas’s reverse side. That painting was First Light. I made a phone call. “Hello, is this Professor Abramson?” A voice, old but full of vigor, answered from the other end. “Who is this?” “My name is Audrey Pierce. I was a student of Alistair Finch.” Professor Abramson was one of the nation’s top art appraisers and was my teacher’s closest friend. He was a man of rigid principles who despised phonies and frauds above all else. “Ah, Miss Pierce. What can I do for you?” “Professor, I need to ask for your help.” I didn’t go into detail. I only mentioned that a painting, stylistically identical to Mr. Finch’s work, was set to appear at the Starlight Gala. “I just feel that my teacher’s work shouldn’t be disrespected,” I said. “And it certainly shouldn’t be stolen by charlatans.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “I understand.” That was all I needed. On the night of the auction, I didn’t go. I stayed home and opened the live stream. On the screen, Ethan stood under a spotlight in a custom-tailored tuxedo, looking sharp and confident. Beside him, Brooke was a vision in a flowing white gown. Behind them, projected on a massive screen, was First Light. The rising sun, piercing through clouds to spill liquid gold onto misty mountains. It was breathtaking. “This piece, First Light, is the result of three years of dedicated work by Brooke,” Ethan announced, his voice smooth and magnetic. He looked at her with an expression of pure adoration. “It represents new beginnings, and it represents hope.” Brooke lowered her head shyly, playing her part to perfection. The room erupted in applause. The bidding began, and the price climbed at a dizzying pace. Soon, it had broken the eight-figure mark. Just as the auctioneer was about to bring the hammer down, a figure rose from the front row. It was Professor Abramson. He leaned on a cane, his hair white, but his posture was ramrod straight. “Mr. Pierce, if I may, could I ask a question?” Every eye in the room turned to him. Ethan, who clearly recognized the titan of the art world, pasted on a polite smile. “Of course, Professor. Please.” “This is an exquisite painting. Truly. It’s just that the texturing on the rock faces, the specific way the mist is rendered… it’s identical to the style of a dear departed friend of mine, the artist Alistair Finch.” The Professor’s voice wasn’t loud, but the microphone carried it to every corner of the vast hall. “Might I ask, Ms. Chandler, under whom did you study?”

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In my last life, my parents divorced. My sister went with my wealthy mother; I was left with my bankrupt father. Who could have guessed that Mom’s remarriage would land her with an abusive monster, her life spiraling from bad to worse? Meanwhile, my father, having hit rock bottom, clawed his way back and built a new empire. My sister, eaten alive by jealousy, plunged a knife into my stomach. When I opened my eyes again, we were back on the day our parents walked out of the courthouse, divorce papers in hand. This time, my sister didn’t miss a beat. “I love Daddy,” she declared. “I want to stay with Daddy.” A giddy relief washed over me. I had no desire to relive a life on the run. 1 My sister, Sophie, wrapped her arms around Dad’s arm, her voice a saccharine sweet coo. “Daddy, please let me stay with you! I love you the most, and I don’t mind being poor, I swear!” To see Sophie, who’d been selfish and demanding her entire life, say something so selfless was enough to make our father’s heart melt. He was so moved, he completely missed the thundercloud forming on our mother’s face. “Absolutely not,” Mom snapped, stepping forward. “Sophie will have a hard life with you. I have to take her.” So, Sophie going with Dad meant a life of hardship, but me? I was apparently disposable. My parents fought over Sophie’s custody like two dogs over a bone. It was as if I were invisible, a ghost in the room. In the end, they couldn’t argue with Sophie’s own iron-willed decision to go with Dad. Only then did Mom turn to me, her choice made by default. I followed her into the gleaming black Mercedes that belonged to my future stepfather. Sophie, clutching Dad’s hand, practically skipped away. Just before she left, she shot a triumphant, challenging look over her shoulder at me. I didn’t care. After all, at this moment, Mom had all the money, and Dad’s life was a complete disaster. 2 In my last life, Dad dragged me from one dingy apartment to another, always trying to outrun his creditors. There was no way for me to focus on school. The collapse of his business and Mom’s departure had shattered him. He surrendered completely, hiding out in cheap rentals, drowning himself in bourbon, and letting the world fall apart around him. I was at the top of my class, but I couldn’t afford tuition. I had to take care of him, which meant dropping out to find work. We came from the same womb, but Sophie had always been the lucky one. She was beautiful and knew exactly how to charm our parents. They both adored her. Plus, she was younger. You’re the older sister, Tessa, they’d always say. You should be mature. Let your sister have her way. Even in divorce, she was the only one they wanted. But in this life, her choice to stay with Dad gave him a rare moment of victory in front of Mom. The second the car door closed, Mom started in on me. “You were never the pretty one, Tessa, and you have a difficult personality. We’re going to live with Arthur now. For God’s sake, don’t embarrass me.” It was almost funny. What kind of mother says that to her own daughter? But it didn’t matter. The car glided through a set of ornate iron gates and into The Ridges, a neighborhood of sprawling mansions. I knew my stepfather from the previous life was rich, but I hadn’t realized he was this rich. Arthur enrolled me in Northwood Prep, the best private academy in the city. A driver took me to and from school every day. To make up for the education I’d lost in my past life, I poured everything I had into my studies. I was driven, and it paid off. Every year, I was in the top three of my class. My mother, who had previously ignored me, was suddenly eager to attend parent-teacher conferences. For her, it was a chance to be envied by the other parents and praised by the teachers for having such a brilliant daughter. Since Arthur didn’t have any children of his own, my life in this house was, for the most part, peaceful and comfortable. “Arthur,” I said one evening, “I’d like to study abroad.” “Study abroad? Don’t be ridiculous,” my mother scoffed before Arthur could even respond. “Just because you get good grades doesn’t mean you can just do whatever you want.” It was then I realized that sometimes, a person’s hatred for you doesn’t need a reason. Even if that person is your own mother. 3 Arthur wasn’t the monster my mother and Sophie had described in my past life—volatile, tyrannical, violent. On the contrary, I found him to be incredibly intelligent, though proud and guarded. The cracks in his marriage to my mother began to show not long after we arrived. My mother was a classic trophy wife—all beauty, no substance. In a way, she and my father were a perfect match. Dad was a textbook case of new money, a trust-fund kid who was all muscle and no brains. He’d used a combination of brute force and cash to win her over. While my grandparents were alive, they kept the family business afloat. After they passed, Dad let his pack of sycophantic “friends” talk him into one bad investment after another, losing everything his parents had left him. My mother immediately found his replacement and filed for divorce. My plans to study abroad were stalled by my mother’s objections. But with my grades, I knew I could easily get into a top university here in the States. “Sophie’s here!” “Maria, is my mother home?” I heard her ask our housekeeper. “Your mother is out shopping, dear. But your sister is upstairs reading.” I heard Sophie’s footsteps coming down the hall. Without knocking, she pushed my door open. “Honestly, Tessa, who are you trying to impress? There’s no one home. Put the book down.” With a flick of her wrist, she snatched the novel out of my hands. Sophie was officially in Dad’s custody, but she came to this house nearly every month to get money from Mom, along with new clothes and jewelry. She always left with her car stuffed to the brim. By the next month, however, she’d be back in ragged clothes. Our father, who had added gambling to his list of vices in this life, took everything of value and sold it for cash. My mother couldn’t bear to see Sophie living in poverty. She’d even tried to convince Arthur to let Sophie move in with us. Arthur had agreed, but surprisingly, our father refused to let her go. Sophie had become his lifeline, his tool for prying money and goods from our mother. “You’re going to read your brain into mush,” Sophie sneered, rummaging through my things. “What’s the point? You’re not as pretty as me, and Mom and Dad don’t even like you.” She paused, a cruel smile playing on her lips. “This life you have? This was supposed to be mine. I’m letting you have it. You just enjoy it while you can. It won’t last long.” She was right. In our previous life, this had been her princess bedroom. She surveyed the room with disgust. “Tsk, tsk. You don’t even know how to enjoy the good life. Look at all this junk you buy.” She gestured at my bookshelf. “All you do is stare at these stupid, smelly books.” I ignored her, letting her have her tantrum. “Sophie! Is that my darling girl I hear?” I watched, cold and detached, as they performed their little play of mother-daughter affection downstairs. When Mom came up and saw my room in disarray, she didn’t bat an eye. “What could you possibly find in her room? Come on, let’s go to mine. I just bought a ton of new clothes and jewelry. Take whatever you like.” She pulled Sophie out of the room, not once glancing my way, not a single word of concern for me. A few moments later, Maria, our housekeeper, came in with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She began tidying my room with practiced ease. “I have never seen a mother play favorites so openly,” she murmured. It doesn’t matter, I thought. Her good days are numbered. 4 A furious argument erupted downstairs. “You have no shame!” Arthur’s voice boomed through the house. “You live in my house, wear the clothes I buy you, and you’re cheating on me with some boy toy!” The sharp crack of a slap echoed, and I knew it had landed on my mother’s face. Sophie immediately rushed to intervene. Arthur, blind with rage, shoved her, and she stumbled to the floor. “And don’t even get me started on you,” he snarled at Sophie. “The agreement was one daughter each. Why are you always over here? Every time you show up, half the things in this house disappear!” “She takes my things, what’s it to you?” Mom retorted. “Your things? Look at yourself. Is there a single thing on your body that I didn’t pay for? And now you expect me to support your entire broke family?” “Don’t you dare, Arthur Quinn!” Mom screamed. “If you weren’t sterile, I wouldn’t have had to look elsewhere!” That was it. That was the line. My mother’s words had utterly destroyed him. He lost all control, grabbing her designer bags and clothes and hurling them toward the door. When she tried to stop him, he threw her to the ground. None of the staff dared to step in. Sophie cowered in a corner, motionless. Arthur had married my mother for two reasons: she was beautiful, and she came with two children. After the wedding, he had begun to mentor me, treating me almost like a successor. In the previous life, however, my mother had used this to her advantage, squandering Arthur’s fortune without a second thought. Sophie was beautiful but utterly vapid. That would have been tolerable, but the two of them were both greedy and foolish. Mom’s affairs were one thing, but Sophie had bragged all over town that everything Arthur owned would one day be hers. Word got back to Arthur, of course. No man wants to hear that his inheritance is already being claimed while he’s still alive. And in the end, they weren’t his flesh and blood. There was a distance that could never be closed. In that life, he eventually brought his nephew to live with him, training him as his heir and throwing my mother and sister out. This time, my mother was still thrown out. But he didn’t kick me out. “Tessa,” he said to me later, “you’re better off with me than with that shortsighted woman.” All my efforts had paid off. Arthur knew I was smart, ambitious, and had a vision for the future. I had made a point of consulting him on every important decision, always showing him my respect. I had even privately told him I wanted to take his last name. My mother, obsessed with shopping and gossip, knew nothing of this, nor would she have cared. Mom refused to leave, screaming that she would die in this house. She underestimated Arthur. A self-made man who had built an empire from nothing was not the same as my weak, foolish father. He wouldn’t be manipulated by her theatrics. “Maria, pack a few of her things,” he said calmly, then called security. Just like that, my mother and Sophie were thrown out. As Arthur passed my room, he placed a hand on my shoulder. “You just focus on your studies, Tessa. This is grown-up business. It has nothing to do with you.” I nodded. A fool is a fool, no matter how many lives they live. 5 My life continued, undisturbed. My mother called me secretly, begging me to put in a good word for her with Arthur. Of course, I refused. So she began calling daily, hurling the most vile insults at me. Without Mom’s financial support, Sophie’s life became even harder. Her grades were terrible, and she hated school. Seeing this, our father pulled her out completely. He was already drowning in gambling debt. I focused all my energy on preparing for my college entrance exams. Arthur was incredibly busy and rarely home. Not long after, on my way to school, I was ambushed. The car was in for maintenance that day, so I was walking home. I had just left the school grounds when a man called my name. “You Tessa?” Before I could answer, he clamped a hand over my mouth and dragged me into a waiting van. They took me to an abandoned warehouse. Someone kicked me hard in the stomach, and I crumpled to the ground, the pain stealing my breath. They didn’t say a word. They just beat me. “Well, well, sister. Is the mansion comfortable?” Sophie stepped out of the shadows and looked down at me, her face a mask of contempt. “You little bitch,” she spat. “I really underestimated you. That old man treats you like a treasure. He kicked Mom out, but you’re still living the high life.” “I’m going to find out just what kind of cheap tricks you used on him. It certainly wasn’t with that plain, boring face of yours.”

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Ethan Hayes—the one man in New York City with enough gravitational pull to bend the world to his will—crashed his car. Totaled it. And when he woke up, his memory had reset, stopping the clock three years in the past. He found me, his face a mask of irritation. “So I had dinner with my ex. Is that it? How long are you going to keep this up?” I just stared at him. For a moment, the world tilted. Then, I bent down and lifted the little girl hiding behind my legs. Through his shocked silence, I found my voice, quiet but steady. “Ethan, we broke up three years ago.” I let the words hang in the air between us. “I’m… I’m married now. I have a daughter.” 1 I was propped up in bed, scrolling through my phone after finally getting my daughter, Maya, to sleep. That’s when the news alert popped up. “February 17, 9:00 PM: Ethan Hayes, Chairman and CEO of Sterling Corp, was involved in a single-vehicle collision in Lower Manhattan. He has been transported to Mount Sinai with what sources report as a severe head trauma and is currently unconscious. For developing details, follow MetroPulse News…” The thumbnail was a picture of a Bugatti, crumpled like a discarded piece of foil. The next photo showed Ethan, head bloodied, being lifted onto a stretcher. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed in that perpetually frustrated way I knew so well. A strange sense of vertigo washed over me. I hadn’t seen the man in three years. The memories—the whispered intimacies, the gut-wrenching sobs that felt like they would tear me apart—I once believed they were branded onto my soul. But a thousand days is a long time. Long enough for a scar to fade, for a ghost to become a stranger. I closed my eyes, ready to put my phone down and surrender to sleep, when a series of violent bangs echoed from my front door. BAM. BAM. BAM. My first thought was Maya. I slid out of bed, terrified the noise would wake her, and hurried to the living room. I peered through the peephole and my blood ran cold. Ethan. A white bandage was wrapped around his head, already seeping red at the edges. His face was twisted with impatience. “Audrey, open the damn door!” his voice, muffled but unmistakable, came through the wood. “I know you’re in there. The doorman told me!” My mind was a chaotic swirl. I felt myself unlock the door before I’d even made a conscious decision. “You were just in an accident,” I stammered as he pushed past me. “How are you even—” He moved through my apartment like he owned it, his gaze snagging for a split second on a pair of men’s slippers by the door before moving on. “It’s freezing,” he griped, shoving his designer coat into my hands. “What the hell are you doing in a shithole like this? The penthouse I got you? What, you forgot the address?” The sheer, casual entitlement of it all stunned me into silence. The last time I saw him, three years ago, our breakup had been spectacularly ugly. His face had been a thundercloud, his eyes drilling into me with a look so venomous I thought he might actually kill me. “Audrey,” he’d snarled, “you and your little boyfriend better stay the hell away from me. I can’t guarantee what will happen to him if you don’t.” Now, he acted as if none of that had ever happened. He sank into my sofa, patted the cushion next to him, and looked up at me from under his lashes with that familiar, careless air. “Come here.” The warm, dim light of the lamp softened him, but his eyes were the same—slightly upturned, sharp with a cutting edge that on anyone else would look cruel. But on his impossibly handsome face, it just looked like rebellious confidence. I took a step back, my brow furrowing. “What are you doing here, Ethan? We broke up.” He let out a short, derisive laugh. “Come on. You think I don’t know you?” He studied my face. “You’ve been home crying again the last couple of days, haven’t you?” “That’s enough.” He waved a dismissive hand, his patience already fraying. “So I took Amelia to the hospital. Are you really going to be this petty about it?” When I didn’t move, Ethan’s jaw tightened. He stood, closed the distance between us, and pulled me toward him. His hand, all long fingers and prominent knuckles, came to rest on my stomach. His voice softened, laced with a tenderness that made my skin crawl. “I know. You’re pregnant, your hormones are all over the place, right?” He looked into my eyes. “If you want this baby so badly, then we’ll keep it. I’ve already picked out names. If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Julian. If it’s a girl…” That’s when it finally clicked. The puzzle pieces of his bizarre behavior slammed into place. The Ethan standing in front of me, the words he was saying… they were from three years ago. I grabbed his wrist, my voice catching in my throat. “Ethan… do you have amnesia?” He paused, then shrugged it off. “That’s what they’re all saying. Total bullshit. My head’s a little fuzzy, but it’s nothing important. You can fill me in on the details later.” He pulled me into an embrace, his head tilted up, his eyes filled with a look of pure adoration, as if the last three years had been nothing but a bad dream. I pushed him away, fighting to keep my voice even. “Ethan, we already broke up. I—” He cut me off, the warmth vanishing from his face. “Audrey, don’t push it.” A smirk played on his lips, dripping with the arrogance I remembered so well. “You really think I’d believe that? You’ve been by my side for years. If you were going to leave, you would have done it already.” He leaned in, his voice a low, confident whisper. “You can’t leave me.” Just then, a small sound from the hallway. The click of a doorknob turning. I shoved Ethan away, hard. My daughter emerged, rubbing her sleepy eyes, a well-loved stuffed rabbit clutched in her hand. “Mommy?” Her tiny brow wrinkled as she looked at the strange man in our living room. “Who is he?”

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The runaway ghost of his past came back to New York three years after she’d vanished, and her son, the autistic boy I had raised, was now old enough to know she was a stranger. The moment she saw me, Melanie decided I was the gold-digging nanny who’d stolen her child. “A ‘Child Development Specialist’,” she sneered, her voice dripping with condescension. “That’s a fancy title for a glorified babysitter. I bet you took this job for the proximity to the man of the house, right? An easy way to climb the ladder?” I took a slow, deep breath, keeping my expression serene. Maintaining my composure in front of the child was the bedrock of my professionalism. “You’ve misunderstood, ma’am. I am simply the specialist your husband hired to care for your son. Nothing more.” A cold laugh escaped her lips. Her scarlet nails, sharpened to points, jabbed the air near my face. “Nothing more? You think you’re worth fifteen thousand a month? I could hire ten nannies for that price, and they wouldn’t be half as smug!” Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I know your type. You play the perfect teacher by day, and then you teach the man of the house a few things in his bed at night.” “Aren’t you going to deny it? Cat got your tongue? Answer me!” I was about to speak when my phone buzzed on the counter. A voice that any power player in New York would recognize came through the speaker, laced with an almost pleading urgency. “Ms. Raines, Hannah, my assistant said your contract was ending. I know it’s a long shot, but my son… we’d be so grateful if you’d consider…” “I’ll pay twenty thousand a month… no, twenty-five!” 1 The offer, clear and crisp, hung in the air of the silent penthouse. Melanie’s eyes, full of contempt, raked over me. “Well, Hannah. I didn’t realize you were so enterprising. Isn’t my husband enough for you? Or do you need to service a few clients at once?” Before I could react, she lunged, snatching the phone from my hand. She pressed it to her lips, her voice a saccharine poison. “My, my, what a generous offer. Twenty-five thousand a month? I’m just dying to know what special skills she has that make you men so desperate for her.” “Oh, stop the charade! I know exactly what this is. You use this ‘specialist’ title as a cover for your dirty little arrangements. It’s just high-class prostitution, isn’t it?” “What is it? Does playing ‘teacher’ in front of the kid make it more exciting for you perverts?” The insults had gone from professional to personal, a vile attack on my character. My face hardened. All thoughts of client courtesy vanished as I wrenched the phone back. “I apologize, that was—” The line was dead. A triumphant smirk spread across Melanie’s face. She crossed her arms. “Hit a little too close to home, didn’t I? Do yourself a favor, Hannah, and get out of this family. Or else…” “I don’t want Hannah to leave!” Finn, drawn by the commotion, came running, his small hand grabbing desperately for my sleeve. “Hannah, don’t go…” I let out a sigh so quiet it was almost a thought, and knelt to his level, my voice softening to soothe him. “I’m not going anywhere, Finn. Mr. Blackwood hasn’t said a word. No one can make me leave.” After all, the iron-clad contract was with Damian. To Melanie, however, my words were a declaration of war. She grabbed Finn, trying to pull him into an embrace he clearly didn’t want. “Sweetheart, I’m your mother. Don’t let this awful woman fool you!” “She’s slept with so many men, she’s probably riddled with diseases. Come here, baby. Stay away from her.” Finn struggled against her, his face streaked with tears. “No! You’re not my mommy!” When I had first taken this position, Finn couldn’t even say “Mama” or “Dada.” Later, as I pointed to the figures in a picture book, teaching him the words for a family, he had bowed his little head. Quietly, he had started calling the woman in the picture “Hannah.” A father always at work, a mother who had vanished, and a boy born into a world he couldn’t connect with. That moment of heartbreak had compelled me to do something I’d never done before. My contracts were always for a single year, no exceptions. But for Finn, I had renewed with the Blackwoods twice. For three years, I had waited with him, helping him build a world where his real mother could one day come home. But the woman standing before us now shattered that fragile hope to pieces. The jealousy in Melanie’s eyes was a raging fire. “I’m not your mother? Then is this bitch?! Get over here!” Her grip tightened, her sharp nails digging into the soft flesh of his arm. Finn cried out in pain. “Ma’am! You’re hurting him!” My heart clenched. I moved to intervene, but she spun around and slapped me, the sound echoing through the room. “Have you made enough of a scene?!” 2 Damian Blackwood, summoned by a frantic text from the housekeeper, returned home to that exact moment of chaos. Melanie, instantly playing the victim, rounded on him. “Damian, I’ve been gone for three years, and you’ve already replaced me? When did the nanny get promoted to mistress of the house?” He knelt, his face etched with pain as he gathered his crying son into his arms. He shot me a look of profound apology before turning to Melanie, his voice tight with impatience. “What are you talking about, mistress? Don’t be ridiculous.” “Ridiculous? This witch has worked some kind of magic on him. He won’t even call me ‘Mommy’!” Seeing her husband wasn’t taking her side, Melanie switched tactics, her voice breaking into a sob story. “I caught her on the phone with another man, Damian! All they talked about was money, about her next ‘client’! Who knows how many men she’s stringing along? And when I confronted her, she just stood there, playing the innocent saint!” Her voice rose to a shriek, each word a poisoned dart. “She’s going to corrupt our son! A filthy, conniving whore like that has no place in this house!” Damian’s face was a thundercloud. “That’s enough! Hannah is Finn’s specialist, that’s all. There is no mistress, and there is nothing inappropriate between us. This conversation is over.” Melanie looked mutinous, but she fell silent under the steel of his gaze. Later, after I had settled Finn down for his nap, Damian knocked on my door. He quietly offered me a credit card, his expression unreadable, his voice low. “Hannah, I am truly sorry for what you were put through today.” I met his eyes, waiting for the rest. He hesitated. “Melanie… she used to be a housekeeper here. My parents were… difficult. They made her life hell. She left in anger right after Finn was born. This isn’t about you. It’s about her own issues with that part of her past.” “But Finn is innocent in all of this. I hope that… you can find it in you to be the bigger person. For the sake of a mother who missed the first three years of her son’s life.” I nodded. “I understand. Mrs. Blackwood is Finn’s mother. Of course I will respect that.” It wasn’t the first time I’d dealt with a parent’s prejudice. As a specialist, you teach the child, but you manage the adults. Earning their trust is part of the job. But that only works if the other person is capable of reason. Melanie, it was clear, was not. Days later, I was handing Damian my daily progress notes on Finn when Melanie stormed in, pointing a trembling finger at our hands, which were still a good six inches apart. “Hannah, where do you think you’re putting your hands? You’re touching him right in front of me! What’s next, climbing into his bed to touch his abs when I’m not looking?!” At the dinner table, an accidental glance between Damian and me sent her into a rage. She flipped the entire table over. “You looked at him three times! You sent eight secret signals! Even your feet were pointed at him! You slut, you’re always trying to seduce him!” Even my simple, professional attire—long-sleeved blouses and trousers—became a reason for her to “accidentally” spill a glass of milk all over me. “Dressing so casually. You’re really making yourself at home, aren’t you?” I could ignore all of that. But then she turned her attention to Finn. The world of an autistic child is chaos. Building order is like building a tower on sand. I had spent three years painstakingly constructing a small fortress of routine and predictability for Finn, a place where he could feel safe. Melanie, furious that the child’s trust was with me and not her, decided to tear it all down. 3 While I was correcting Finn’s grip on his specially designed spoon, she snatched it from his hand and crushed it under her heel. “What are these ridiculous rules? My son can eat however he wants to eat! Stop terrorizing him!” She threw Barnaby, his beloved comfort bear, out the window of the penthouse, then sneered at Finn as he dissolved into a storm of screams. “What are you crying for? A big boy cuddling a stupid old bear. It’s pathetic!” She whirled on me. “Look what you’ve done to him! You’ve turned him into a weakling! This whole autism thing… I bet you made it up just so you could keep cashing those checks!” I pulled Finn behind me, covering his ears, and stared directly at Melanie. “Mrs. Blackwood,” I said, my voice low and even. “I am a professional specialist, hired personally by your husband. When I started, Finn was nonverbal and unresponsive. Today, he can feed himself and answer to his name. Every single step of that progress over the last three years has been documented by myself and Mr. Blackwood.” “If you continue to use this child as an outlet for your anger, if you cause him to regress… who do you think Mr. Blackwood will hold responsible?” I paused, watching the color drain from her face. “You know the answer to that.” For a few days, there was a rare and blessed silence from Melanie. The assessment for Finn’s admission to the Atherton School was approaching, and Damian had cleared his schedule to be more present. “Thank you for everything you’re doing for the assessment,” he said, handing me a file. His voice was gentle. “Once Finn is accepted, your bonus will be included with your final payment.” I reached for the file, but the study door was thrown open. Melanie stood there, her face a mask of fury, her eyes burning. “Kissing, right in front of your son! Are you still going to deny it, Hannah?” “Ma’am, you’ve misunderstood. It was just the angle…” With a scream, she grabbed a set of bilingual learning cards from the desk and began ripping them to shreds. “He’s three years old! Why does he need to learn this garbage? In Europe, it’s all about play-based learning! What’s the point of forcing this on an autistic child? He can’t understand it!” I kept my voice firm. “Ma’am, Finn is autistic, not unintelligent. Your son deserves the chance at a better future.” Melanie turned to her husband. “Damian, tell her! Are we so poor that we can’t support one child? We have enough money for him to live comfortably for the rest of his life!” Damian’s face was grim. “That’s enough! The Atherton assessment is next month. They have a program specifically for special needs children. Everything he’s learning now is to ensure he passes that assessment and gets the best education possible!” His expression softened slightly, but a flicker of contempt crossed his eyes. “You come from a different background, Melanie. You don’t understand these educational philosophies, and I don’t blame you for that. But do not let your ignorance interfere with Hannah’s work.” Melanie froze, the blood draining from her face. The commotion had drawn the staff, who now lingered in the hallway. No one whispered, but their silent, pitying stares were like daggers. “Different background,” “housekeeper,” “social climber”—these were the ghosts that haunted her. She had thought that by outlasting Damian’s parents, she could return and claim her throne as the true lady of the house. But now… Melanie’s nails dug into her palms. She forced a twisted, chilling smile. “Yes… you’re right, darling. I wasn’t thinking clearly.” She turned to Finn, her voice now terrifyingly sweet. “Don’t you worry. I’ll make sure Finn gets into that school… one way or another.” 4 Getting into Atherton was notoriously difficult. A seven-figure income was just the price of admission. After the initial screening, final placements were determined by a vote from the admissions committee and current parents. When we arrived, the auditorium was already filled with the city’s elite. The first part was a self-introduction. When it was Finn’s turn, I squeezed his small hand. “You’ve got this, Finn,” I whispered. “Just like we practiced.” His cheeks flushed, but under the expectant gazes of the crowd, he completed his introduction perfectly in both English and French. A few parents who knew me murmured in appreciation. “Hannah Raines is a miracle worker. To bring a non-verbal child this far…” Even Damian had a rare look of genuine pride in his eyes. I shook my head slightly. “This was all Finn’s hard work.” Next, I walked to the podium to play the short documentary I had spent two months filming and editing—a chronicle of Finn’s journey. But at that moment, Melanie stormed onto the stage and snatched the microphone from the presenter. “I am this child’s mother,” she announced. “It is my duty, and my privilege, to share his story.” Every curious eye in the room turned to Damian. “Damian, I don’t believe we’ve met…” someone murmured. He pressed his lips into a thin line, a barely audible sigh escaping. “Yes. This is my wife, Melanie. Finn’s mother. She just returned to the States.” He glanced at me. I understood. I handed her the remote. No matter what, she was Mrs. Blackwood. The moment she had the device, she formatted the drive. Fifty-eight gigabytes of my work, of Finn’s journey, vanished in an instant. She shot me a triumphant smirk and then launched a garish, poorly made slideshow. “My baby is just the most perfect boy. Look, isn’t he adorable here? Drooling in his sleep.” “And this one! He got food all over his face. Such a silly, sweet boy.” The slides were a random collection of snapshots, many of them unflattering and clearly taken without context. They had nothing to do with the assessment criteria and showed a complete lack of understanding. A wave of confused murmurs rippled through the audience. Melanie’s smile turned into a sneer. “Oh, you don’t find these pictures exciting enough? Fine. Let’s watch something more exciting.” On the massive screen, a video began to play. A woman with my face, completely naked, was on her knees, servicing several older men. The auditorium fell into a shocked, stunned silence. Finn, seeing the images, began to tremble, his face turning sheet-white. Melanie glared at me, her voice ringing with false righteousness. “A woman like this has no right to be near children! Damian, for our son’s sake, you have to fire her! Right now!” The veins in Damian’s hands bulged as he fought for control. I covered Finn’s eyes with my hands, my body a shield, and waited for his decision. After a long, suffocating silence, his voice came out, cold as ice. “Hannah, go and collect your severance. You are not fit to be near my son.” Of course. As awful as Melanie was, she was still his wife, Mrs. Blackwood. At home, he could argue with her for Finn’s sake. But in public, their images were intertwined. Humiliating her was humiliating himself. I was the acceptable sacrifice. But he was forgetting one thing. Without me, his son never would have gotten through the door for this assessment in the first place. And our contract, as it happened, expired today. “There’s no need,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “Keep the money. Perhaps you can use it to enroll your wife in a class. This lack of decorum is really not sustainable.” My phone vibrated with a transfer notification for twenty-five thousand dollars. I smiled faintly and played the new voice message from my next client. “Hannah, we’ve already prepaid the first six months. The apartment and car are ready for you. You can start tomorrow. Let the others wait their turn!”

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