The senior designer at my new firm made it her mission to undermine me. She didn’t just publicly declare that I was incompetent; she got our manager to take away the first major project I’d ever been given. My explanations went nowhere. But that evening, I stumbled upon the two of them whispering outside the office. “Mark, just give the project to me,” she was saying. “The commission’s ten grand. We’ll do a sixty-forty split—your sixty. I promise you, I’ll deliver something way better than Sophie ever could.” My manager agreed instantly and handed the project over to her. That same night, I got a notification from a client on Fiverr. The usual. Got a new rush job. A thousand bucks. You in? 1 The new job was supposed to be a fresh start, but my senior colleague, Jessica, seemed determined to make it my end. I’d only been at the design firm for a week when Diane, the creative director, handed me a dream project. A major campaign for a new downtown shopping center. Land it, she’d said, and a ten-thousand-dollar commission was mine. For the first time in months, I felt a spark ignite inside me. I was driven. I was deep in the flow, sketching out a concept on my tablet, when a shadow fell over my desk. I looked up. It was Jessica. She loomed over my shoulder, her finger jabbing toward my screen. Her tone was laced with a disgust she didn’t bother to hide. “Is this… your concept?” she asked, her voice carrying across the open-plan office. “It looks like a bunch of scribbles. Who can even tell what this is?” The low hum of keyboards and quiet chatter around us died. Everyone was listening now. “This is for a mall promotion. We need to drive foot traffic, inspire people to spend money. Who is this mess supposed to appeal to?” She shook her head, a theatrical sigh escaping her lips. “Do you even understand the brief, Sophie?” The friendly atmosphere of the office shattered. I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes on me, watching. My cheeks burned. “It’s just a rough draft, Jessica,” I said, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be. “It’s how I work out ideas. It’s not meant to be a final—” “What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped, her face hardening. “That I’m too stupid to understand your process? I’ve been here two years longer than you. I’ve landed six-figure accounts. A rough draft isn’t some secret language.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was somehow louder than a shout. “I’m saying you have a problem with your design. That a project this important is out of your league.” I was stunned into silence. It was like a switch had been flipped. Just days ago, she’d been the one showing me the best coffee spot, all smiles and helpful tips. It wasn’t until lunch that another designer, a woman named Maria, quietly filled me in. “She wants your project,” Maria whispered, glancing around the breakroom to make sure Jessica wasn’t there. I stared at her, a half-eaten sandwich forgotten in my hand. At my last job, we competed, sure, but it was professional. Healthy. This felt predatory. “Jessica has a reputation,” Maria continued, her eyes darting around nervously. “She’s good, and she knows it. If she sees a project she wants, especially one with a big commission, she finds a way to get it.” She gave me a pointed look. “That commission is pretty high, isn’t it?” It all clicked into place. The sudden chill. The public criticism. Last week, right after Diane had assigned me the project, Jessica had cornered me by the printers. “Heard you got the mall campaign,” she’d said casually. “Is there a bonus attached?” I liked her. I was new and eager to make friends. So, I told her yes. She pressed, asking how much, her curiosity feeling less like friendly interest and more like an interrogation. I was hesitant to talk about money, but she was so persistent, so disarmingly charming, that I finally caved. “Ten thousand,” I’d admitted. The moment the words left my mouth, her eyes had widened, just for a second, and then her smile became something fixed and glassy. After that, she was always there, hovering by my desk, offering “feedback” that felt more like picking apart my confidence thread by thread. I’d been annoyed, but I wrote it off as the price of being the new girl. I never imagined she’d humiliate me in front of the entire team. This wasn’t about helping me. This was about making me look incompetent. “She’s trying to pressure you,” Maria added, seeing the look on my face. “She wants you to get so stressed that you drop the project yourself.” A bitter, humorless laugh escaped me. “And the company just lets this happen? This can’t be good for morale.” Maria shrugged helplessly. “She brings in a lot of money. Management looks the other way on a lot of things, as long as it’s not too blatant.” She then offered a piece of advice that made my stomach turn. “Honestly, if the commission isn’t a life-or-death thing for you, it might be easier to just let her have it. The last designer she targeted got so torn down, he quit.” But this wasn’t just any project. It was my first big break. I wasn’t going to let some office bully scare me out of it. I didn’t say anything else. I just went back to my desk and worked. That evening, I finished two solid initial concepts and sent them to the project’s group chat for Mark, our department head, and Diane to review. My phone buzzed a minute later. I expected it was Mark. It was Jessica. Why is she in my project’s group chat? I wondered. 2 A single question mark appeared in the chat from Jessica, hanging there ominously. It was immediately followed by a string of voice messages. I pressed play, and her sharp, cutting voice filled the quiet of my apartment. “What is this garbage, Sophie? If this goes to the client, our firm’s reputation will be toast.” “You’re wasting everyone’s time. If you can’t deliver this on schedule, you’re jeopardizing a major account. What are you going to do then?” My blood began to boil. Mark and Diane hadn’t even had a chance to respond. What gave her the right to tear into my work like this? I’d tried to be respectful, but I was done being a doormat. I typed quickly, tagging our supervisors. @Mark @Diane Here are the initial concepts I finished today. Let me know your thoughts so I can proceed. Then, I tagged Jessica. @Jessica I think you might be in the wrong channel. This is my project, so I don’t believe you’re on the review team for it. Her reply was instantaneous. What kind of attitude is that? I didn’t hesitate. No attitude. It just seems like you’re overstepping. Do you not have enough of your own work to do? It was a low blow, but it was true. I’d never actually seen Jessica design anything. She spent most of her days walking around the office, watching what everyone else was doing. Before the fight could escalate, Mark jumped in. Hey now, I’m the one who added Jessica to the channel. She’s been with us for years, she’s practically our signature designer. I wanted her to lend her expertise. Jessica immediately pounced. See? I try to be helpful and I get accused of having too much time on my hands. Unbelievable. I felt a surge of frustration. This wasn’t “helpful.” It was a targeted attack, and Mark was enabling her. Arguing further would only make me look difficult, especially since he was clearly on her side. So, I ignored her completely. @Mark Are the designs okay? If so, I’ll continue with this direction. A moment later, he sent a link to a portfolio collection. It was followed by a voice note. “Take a look through these, Sophie. These are some of our biggest hits from the past few years, all designed by Jessica. Study them. Try to stick to this style.” I knew Jessica was the office star, but I’d never actually seen her portfolio. A flicker of curiosity pushed past my anger. I clicked the link. My breath caught in my throat. I blinked, rubbing my eyes as if they were deceiving me. How could this be? I scrolled through the polished, professional designs. A corporate logo here, a web layout there. Then I saw it. The most recent entry. I zoomed in, my heart pounding against my ribs. This wasn’t just familiar. This was the exact design I’d sold on Fiverr last month for a hundred bucks.

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The school potluck required fruit. My daughter, unlucky girl, drew the durian. I didn’t buy it. In response, her teacher called me. “Because of you, your daughter now owes the class twenty durians.” I said nothing. I just went online and ordered twenty cases. When the truck pulled up to the school gates, the twenty large boxes were stacked into a small mountain. The teacher stood there, clutching the delivery invoice, her eyes wide with terror. 01 On Monday afternoon, a notification from the parent group chat, bolded and highlighted in an impossible-to-ignore red, landed like a stone in a stagnant pond. It sent out ripples of insincere praise. “@Everyone: To enrich our students’ campus life and foster camaraderie, the school will be hosting a ‘Harvest Potluck’ this Friday afternoon. We ask that each student please prepare one type of fruit to bring to the classroom to share with everyone. —Mrs. Albright, 5th Grade (Section X) Homeroom Teacher.” “Mrs. Albright, you’re so thoughtful! The children will be absolutely thrilled!” “Seconded! An event like this is so meaningful!” A cascade of sycophantic messages scrolled by, punctuated by a flurry of thumbs-up emojis. My name is Kate Miller. I’m a freelance designer, and I’ve always had a low tolerance for this kind of performative, bureaucratic nonsense. The announcement was cloaked in grandiose language, but it failed to mention a single specific requirement regarding the type, price, or quantity of the fruit. This kind of ambiguity is often a breeding ground for trouble. A flicker of annoyance stirred in me, but I kept my thoughts to myself and locked my phone. That evening, my daughter, Sophie, came home from school. Her small frame cast a long, lonely shadow under the entryway light. She dropped her backpack onto the sofa with a thud and didn’t say a word. I walked over and knelt, noticing the red rims of her eyes. “Sophie, what is it? Did something happen at school?” She shook her head and pulled a crumpled slip of paper from her pocket, handing it to me. On the paper, two words were scrawled in unsteady pencil: Durian. “Mommy, we drew lots today to decide what fruit to bring, and… I got this.” Her voice was a barely audible whisper, thick with a sense of helplessness and guilt. My heart clenched. Durian. This time of year, a single, decent-quality durian could easily run into the hundreds of dollars. Worse, one fruit was hardly enough to be shared among a class of forty-plus children. The whole lottery felt engineered. I immediately opened my browser and searched for the price of a seasonal Musang King durian. The staggering figure confirmed my suspicion: this so-called “lottery” was anything but random. Suppressing my disgust, I smoothed my daughter’s hair and offered a comforting smile. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s just a game. Mommy will go check the store tomorrow.” When Friday, the day of the potluck, arrived, I did not buy a durian. Instead, I packed a box of carefully selected mangosteens into Sophie’s backpack—a moderately priced fruit that I knew most kids would love. I felt my solution was perfectly appropriate. I had participated in the event while sidestepping what was clearly an unreasonable trap. I thought that would be the end of it. But at six o’clock that evening, my phone rang with an unfamiliar number. “Hello, is this Sophie Miller’s mother, Mrs. Miller?” The voice on the other end belonged to her teacher, Mrs. Albright. It was a practiced, overly-friendly tone that failed to mask an undercurrent of arrogance. “Yes, this is she. Hello, Mrs. Albright.” “Mrs. Miller, I’m calling about the school’s Harvest Potluck today. Are you aware that of all the students in my class, Sophie was the only one who failed to bring the required fruit?” Her voice suddenly sharpened, climbing in pitch, laced with accusation. A hot flash of anger shot through me, but I forced my voice to remain steady. “Mrs. Albright, I sent Sophie with mangosteens. I was concerned the… distinct aroma of durian might be unpleasant for some of the other children.” “An excuse!” she snapped, cutting me off. “You draw what you draw. That is the rule! When you decide to be a special exception, what message does that send to the other parents? To the other children? It shows a complete lack of community spirit!” The heavy-handed accusations landed one after another, leaving me breathless. I fought to control my temper, my voice turning cold. “Mrs. Albright, I don’t recall the notice stating we were required to adhere strictly to the lottery results. The point is to share fruit, isn’t the gesture what matters?” A cold, contemptuous laugh echoed through the line. “The gesture? Mrs. Miller, do you think our school activities are like a flea market where you can haggle over the terms? Because your daughter failed to bring the durian, our class ‘fruit platter’ was missing its most crucial component, which severely disrupted the harmony of the event!” “To compensate for your negligence, and to make amends to the entire class, I am requiring that your daughter bring twenty durians to school as an apology to her classmates!” For a moment, my mind went completely blank. Twenty durians? Was this extortion, or was it a calculated act of humiliation? Blood rushed to my head, and my voice trembled with barely suppressed rage. “Mrs. Albright, do you have any concept of what twenty durians entails? What kind of punishment is this?” “Punishment?” Her tone dripped with even more scorn. “Mrs. Miller, does your daughter receive special treatment at this school? Every other parent cooperates. You are the only exception. These are the rules! If you refuse to comply, there will be consequences! If you’re unwilling, fine. Then Sophie can make a formal apology to the class tomorrow morning.” Click. She hung up on me. The living room was shrouded in a dead silence. I turned and saw my daughter, Sophie, standing right behind me. I didn’t know how long she had been there. Her small face was ashen, her eyes red and puffy as huge tears streamed down her cheeks. She clutched at the hem of my shirt, her voice choked with sobs. “Mommy, I’m sorry… It’s all my fault… Can I just bring a different fruit tomorrow? Please… I don’t want to apologize…” My daughter’s fear and self-blame felt like a poison-tipped knife twisting in my heart. I knelt and pulled her trembling body into a tight embrace. In that instant, all my anger, my humiliation, my frustration—it was all consumed by a cold, surging wave of protective instinct. I would not let anyone bully my child like this. You’ve lit the fuse, Mrs. Albright. Late that night, I sat at my desk, replaying Mrs. Albright’s tone, her words, that phrase—these are the rules—over and over in my mind. This wasn’t just a simple punishment. It felt more like a demonstration of power, a way to make an example of us. Or perhaps it was tied to some hidden benefit I wasn’t yet aware of. My fingertips tapped a restless rhythm on the cold surface of the desk as the chaotic threads in my mind began to untangle and form a clear picture. I took a deep breath. I had made my decision. I opened my laptop, navigated to a major online grocery delivery platform, and typed “Musang King Durian” into the search bar. Then, I clicked the plus sign, again and again, until the number in the quantity field read, unequivocally, 20. Not twenty fruits. Twenty cases. The moment I clicked “Confirm Purchase,” a profound sense of calm washed over me. You wanted rules, Mrs. Albright. I’ll give you rules. You wanted durian. I’ll give you a mountain of it. But I don’t think you’ll be able to climb it. 02 The next morning, before the sun had fully burned through the morning haze, a massive box truck rumbled to a stop in front of Northwood Elementary, its presence imposing and impossible to ignore. It was the peak of the morning drop-off rush. The truck’s cargo door rolled open, and a driver and his assistant, both in blue work uniforms, began to unload. One, two, three… Enormous cardboard boxes, emblazoned with the words “PREMIUM MUSANG KING DURIAN,” were hauled out one by one. They were quickly stacked on the wide sidewalk in front of the school gates, forming a small mountain. Twenty huge, perfectly aligned cases, radiating an aura of expensive, unapologetic dominance. Instantly, it was as if someone had hit the pause button on the entire street. Parents dropping off their kids, students walking to class, teachers on morning duty—everyone stopped in their tracks, their gazes fixed on the golden-brown “durian mountain.” The air crackled with curiosity, confusion, and the distinct scent of money. “What’s going on here? Is the school getting into the wholesale business?” “Look at the box—Musang King! Do you know how much that costs?” Whispers erupted all around. The school’s head of security, a man named Mr. Henderson, was the first to react. He jogged over, waving his hands. “Hey, hey! What do you think you’re doing? You can’t leave this here! This is school property! You need to load it back up right now!” The driver, looking bewildered, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. He pulled a crumpled delivery invoice from his pocket and held it out. “We’re just making a delivery, sir. The recipient is ‘Mrs. Albright, 5th Grade, Section X.’ The address is correct.” Mr. Henderson took the invoice, squinted at it, and his jaw dropped. Just then, a white SUV pulled up smoothly beside me. I stepped out of my car. Dressed in a sharp blazer and heels, I walked calmly toward the epicenter of the chaos. Ignoring the stares, I went straight to the driver and offered a small smile. “Thank you for your hard work.” Then, I took the delivery slip from his hand. At that same moment, Mrs. Albright, likely summoned by the frantic security guard, came storming out of the main building. Her voice arrived before she did. “What is all this commotion! Who is causing a scene at the school gate? Do you have any idea where you are?” When she finally reached the entrance and saw the spectacle before her, she froze. Her face went through a spectacular series of transformations, from flushed red to stark white, then to a sickly shade of green. She rubbed her eyes in disbelief, as if the mountain of cardboard boxes was a hallucination. I met her stunned, uncertain gaze and walked slowly toward her, a polite, unassailable smile fixed on my face. I held out the delivery invoice. “Mrs. Albright. You wanted the durians. I had them delivered.” Her eyes fell mechanically, sluggishly, to the thin piece of paper in my hand. On the invoice, the item name, quantity, unit price, and grand total were printed in a clear, bold font. 【Item: Grade-A Musang King Durian】 【Quantity: 20 Cases】 【Total: $X,XXX.XX】 The long, heart-stopping string of numbers at the bottom felt like a physical blow, landing squarely on Mrs. Albright’s temple. Her hand began to shake violently, the invoice fluttering between her fingers like the last leaf in an autumn wind. Her pupils dilated in shock and sheer terror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. “What… what is this?” It took her a full thirty seconds to squeeze out the words, her voice a raw, ragged whisper. “Why… why did you buy so many?” I watched her composure crumble, a cold satisfaction spreading through me. I leaned in slightly, my voice low but sharp, each word a cold pebble dropped into the turbulent waters of her mind. “Mrs. Albright, didn’t you say Sophie needed to provide twenty durians?” I paused, holding her gaze, deliberately adding weight to my next words. “I was worried that just one piece wouldn’t be substantial enough. I wouldn’t want you to lose face in front of your colleagues and the students. So, I just ordered twenty cases. There’s about one durian per case. Not one more, not one less. Exactly twenty.” I had deliberately blurred the line between ‘piece’ and ‘case,’ leaving her to grapple with the implication. Mrs. Albright swayed on her feet, nearly losing her balance. She pointed a trembling finger at the mountain of fruit, then at me, the muscles in her face contorting with a mixture of fury and fear. “You… this is absurd! I clearly said twenty pieces! Twenty individual durians! Not twenty cases!” Her petty scheme, her little plan to humiliate me and perhaps skim something off the top, had just been smashed to pieces in the most blunt and public way imaginable. My smile vanished, my expression hardening into something sharp as a blade. I stared directly at her, enunciating each word in a volume only she could hear. “Mrs. Albright, this is just the beginning.” The crowd of parents and teachers had now formed a loose circle around us. The telltale gleam of smartphone cameras began to pop up, recording the unprecedented scene. The air was thick with a mixture of tension and exhilaration. Just then, the school bell rang, signaling the end of the period. Sophie came running out of the building, likely having heard the commotion. When she saw the ‘durian mountain,’ the pale, cornered Mrs. Albright, and me, standing before her teacher with an aura of absolute command, she froze in her tracks. Her small face was a canvas of confusion and worry. But when her eyes met mine, she saw something new in them—a strength she had never seen from her mother before. The disturbance had finally attracted the school’s upper management. The Dean of Students, the Vice Principal, and even the rarely seen Principal himself, Mr. Davison, hurried to the scene. When they saw the commercial-scale display of fruit at their front gate and the tense standoff between me and Mrs. Albright, their expressions turned instantly grave. A storm was officially brewing.

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I saw it on a TikTok posted by one of Mark’s residents. A short, looping video of her, Jenna, clinging to his arm, her steps perfectly in sync with his. The caption read: “Wherever my attending goes, I go. So lucky to have the best mentor in the world.” And then I saw the comment from Mark’s official account: “Better hold on tight. Don’t want you getting lost and crying for me to come find you again!” God, Mark never commented on anything. He didn’t even ‘like’ my posts, claiming he never had the time. But suddenly, here he was, with not just the time, but the inclination to banter. I locked my phone, my finger hovering for a second before I switched apps. Then I canceled the caterer for the wedding. A man with no boundaries? No, I think I’ll pass. 1 Jenna’s face, bubbly and bright, flashed across my screen as I scrolled through six months of her digital life. Nearly every video featured Mark. It was a slow burn of a story, from her initial, tentative interactions to the casual intimacy of her leaning into his side. The comments section was a chorus of encouragement. “Girl, you should just snatch him up! He looks like he’d be a good kisser!” “You can just tell he’s handsome from the back. That presence!” “Good men are a limited resource, honey. You better act fast!” Jenna’s reply to that one was a single, coy sentence: “I’m trying my best! ;)” I scoffed, dismissing it, until a text from Mark came through: “Audrey, surgery ran late. Can’t make dinner tonight.” The old me would have sent back a supportive message, full of understanding. But some strange impulse took over. I wanted to see for myself. So, I just replied, “Okay.” After freshening up, I drove to the hospital. I spotted them from the parking garage. Mark was walking out of the main entrance of the medical center, and Jenna was right behind him. She skipped a little to catch up, her hand finding his as she pressed close to his side. “Dr. Ashton, let’s get dinner! I’m so nervous about the night shift.” “What’s there to be nervous about?” Mark’s voice was warm, amused. “I’ll be there. You think I’d let you fail?” The sound of his laugh, so easy and light, made my chest tighten. I’d braced myself for something, but seeing it—the casual way she held him, the way he smiled down at her—was a physical pain. His eyes finally met mine across the asphalt, and his smile froze. “Audrey?” I forced a placid smile, grabbing the takeout container from the passenger seat. “Just passing through,” I said, holding it out. “Brought you dinner.” Mark started to say something, but Jenna bounced forward before he could. “Oh, who’s this, Dr. Ashton? Is this your sister?” Her feigned innocence was nauseating. I couldn’t be bothered to play her little game. Mark, however, frowned. “This is my fiancée, Jenna. Don’t be ridiculous.” She stuck her tongue out playfully. “Oops, my bad! Sorry, ma’am, I couldn’t tell.” “Clearly, your observational skills could use some work,” I said, my voice dangerously sweet. “You’re a resident, so you must be what, twenty-five? I’m younger than you. The ‘ma’am’ is a bit much.” I held her gaze. “Poor eyesight is one thing, but you can’t afford to make a mistake on the operating table. That could be fatal. Right, Mark?” Mark cleared his throat. Jenna’s eyes immediately welled with tears. She ducked her head. “I’m sorry, I was just joking. I’ll let you two talk.” She scurried away, and Mark’s gaze followed her, his brow furrowed with concern. He turned back to me, his voice sharp. “Audrey, that was over the line. She likes to kid around, that’s all. You didn’t have to be so aggressive.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Are you serious, Mark? There’s a limit to ‘kidding around.’ How would you feel if you saw me walking out of my office holding hands with another man?” He froze, his defense faltering. “That’s different. We were just messing around. Audrey, don’t make a big deal out of this. We’re about to get married. She’s just a student.” Just a student. The words echoed in my head. I didn’t say another word, just rolled up my window and drove away. In the rearview mirror, I could see him standing there, his face a mask of frustration. But that wasn’t my problem anymore. Back home, I saw Jenna had already posted a new TikTok. The video was a close-up of a fancy takeout box—my takeout box—on a table. The text overlay read: “Dealing with some random female jealousy today. I’ll never understand the way some women’s minds work. So thankful for Dr. A’s comfort food and pep talk!” I let out a cold, humorless laugh. Mark, you didn’t just cross a line. You torched it. Just then, an email popped up from the wedding planner. “Ms. Miller, I’ve attached the finalized menu selections from the caterer. Please let me know if you’d like any changes.” I glanced at the attachment, my finger hovering over the reply button. After a long moment, I typed back: “Let me review and get back to you.” Thinking back, from the moment we got engaged, I had been the one making every single decision about this wedding. Mark’s constant refrain was: “Audrey, I’m just too swamped. I trust you with all of this.” “Whatever you think is best, Audrey.” 2 And just like that, the responsibility that should have been ours became mine alone. And what was he doing during all of this? If it had truly been for work, I would have understood. But it wasn’t, was it? When I was trying on wedding dresses, he was helping Jenna clean up a mess she’d made with a patient’s chart. When I was picking out party favors, he left me at the store, saying there was an emergency at the hospital. I later saw on Jenna’s TikTok that she’d had a panic attack, and he’d rushed over to calm her down. There were so many moments. It was only now, scrolling through her social media, that I realized just how many times Mark had abandoned me for her. I had to laugh at my own foolishness. He never had any intention of sharing this burden with me. I’d been happy to do it all, thinking I was building our future. Now I just felt like an idiot. Why should I be the only one invested in this? A wedding is a partnership. If he didn’t care, why should I? I took a deep breath and forwarded the caterer’s email to Mark. He didn’t reply. Of course he didn’t. I hadn’t expected him to. Four hours later, around the time his surgery should have been ending, my phone rang. I was already asleep, and the sound jolted me awake. I was still disoriented when I heard his voice. “Audrey, about the menus. I trust your judgment. Whatever you decide is fine with me. I’m not picky.” It took me a second to process what he was talking about. “Okay. Got it.” My response must have been too flat because he hesitated, about to say more. But then a voice chirped in the background, clear as day. Jenna’s voice. “Dr. Ashton, let’s go eat! I’m starving!” “Audrey, I…” “I’ll talk to you later,” I said, my voice cold. “I’m going back to sleep.” I hung up before he could reply. Sleep, of course, was now impossible. All I could hear was her voice, and all I could feel was a strange, liberating sense of absurdity. Instead of letting the anger consume me, I decided to act. I opened my email, found the thread with the wedding planner, and typed a simple message. I didn’t expect a reply in the middle of the night, but one came back almost instantly. “Ms. Miller, is everything all right? It’s very difficult to book a venue this season.” “Yes, we’ve decided to call it off. Please cancel the wedding. And I understand the deposit is non-refundable. My apologies for the inconvenience.” A moment later, a reply: “I’m so very sorry to hear that. I wish you all the best in finding happiness.” “Thank you.” Next came a flurry of cancellations. The photographer. The florist. The band. By the time I was done, it was two in the morning. The only thing I couldn’t cancel was the dress. It was custom-made, already finished. All I could do was arrange to pick it up. The next day, I met my best friend, Sophie, for coffee. When I told her I’d called off the wedding, her eyes went wide. “Did he cheat on you?” “Not physically, I don’t think. But he’s damn close.” I showed her Jenna’s TikTok account. Sophie’s face twisted in disgust. “What a classic little pick-me bitch,” she seethed. “Is Mark blind? This is the kind of girl who will ruin his entire life.” She grabbed my hand. “Don’t you worry. I’ve got your back.” I managed a weak smile. It wasn’t sadness I felt, exactly. It was a profound sense of disappointment. Mark had always been so reserved, so coolly professional. Why was he throwing it all away for her? “Ms. Miller? The groom’s tuxedo has also been returned with the dress.” The boutique owner’s voice pulled me back to the present. I took the garment bag and tossed it in the trunk of my car. Seeing the dazed look on my face, Sophie dragged me to the mall. “Out with the old, in with the new,” she declared. “So, when are you going to officially end it with him?” “Tonight, I think.” I sent Mark a text, asking him to meet me for dinner. It took a while for him to respond. “Okay. You pick the place.” I sent him the address of a quiet Italian restaurant downtown. He didn’t reply after that. Sophie and I shopped for hours until my feet ached. We found a café to rest. As we sat down, my phone buzzed. It was Mark. The background was noisy. “Audrey, something’s come up tonight. I’m going to be late. Wait for me.” 3 Sophie read the text over my shoulder and snorted. “He’d better have a good reason.” On a whim, I pulled up Jenna’s TikTok profile. Her latest video had been posted just an hour ago. She was going on a blind date. Sophie’s eyes lit up with a wicked gleam. “Oh, this is a power move. She’s testing him.” “What do you mean?” “She’s trying to see if Mark actually has feelings for her. If he does, he won’t let this date happen. If he doesn’t, you two probably stay together, and she keeps playing the long game.” Sophie leaned in, her voice dropping. “Audrey, this is your chance. You need to see where his loyalty really lies. And what a coincidence… look where her date is.” She pointed to the location tag on the video. “It’s the same restaurant you picked.” She grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet. “Come on. Mark’s going to be late anyway. We can grab a bite and watch the show.” She was right. We went to the restaurant and got a table in a secluded corner. Sophie was chattering away when she suddenly squeezed my hand. “Showtime.” Sure enough, there was Jenna, looking sweet and demure in a floral dress, a far cry from her hospital scrubs. The man across from her seemed interested, but she kept shaking her head, pulling her hand away. “I’m sorry, I already have a boyfriend. We’re not a good match.” “I don’t think so,” the man insisted. “Your parents told me you were single. Let’s just give it a try.” “They don’t know about him,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “I’m telling you, I’m taken!” Jenna yanked her hand free just as Mark strode into the restaurant. I checked my phone. He was right on time for our date. I started to raise my hand to wave, but he walked straight past our table, making a beeline for Jenna. He put a possessive arm around her shoulder. The man on the date looked up, annoyed. “Who the hell are you?” “I’m her boyfriend.” Jenna melted into his side. “I told you I had a boyfriend. Please, just leave me alone.” “Boyfriend? You’re lying. He’s your attending physician at the hospital!” “So what?” Jenna retorted. “An attending can’t be a boyfriend? Just stay away from me. We’re not a good fit!” “Fine! Great!” The man was furious. “I hope you two are happy together. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this!” He threw a bouquet of roses onto the table and stormed out. Jenna turned to Mark, her hand on his arm. “Dr. Ashton, thank you so much. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know how I would’ve gotten rid of him. He was so creepy! He even followed me home once!” Mark patted her head gently. “It’s okay. But you need to learn to protect yourself. I can’t always be there to rescue you.” “Why not? I texted you, and you came,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes. “Honestly, Dr. Ashton… have you ever considered me?” My heart stopped. I watched Mark, praying he would say the right thing. He smiled softly. “I can’t. I’m getting married soon.” “So what? If you had met me first, before her… you would have considered me, right?” She tilted her head, waiting. And in that moment, I desperately needed to hear his answer, too. I needed to know how he would choose. His features were clear in the dim light as he looked down at the pretty, hopeful girl before him. The tenderness in his eyes was a dagger in my heart. Then, he nodded. “Yes.” The word hit me like a physical blow. My hand clenched into a fist on the table, and Sophie let out a strangled cry of rage. “Yes, my ass! Mark, you shameless bastard! You’re getting married, and you’re still playing games with this little homewrecker!” The sudden outburst made Mark spin around. His eyes locked with mine, and panic flashed across his face. I pushed myself up from the table and walked toward them, a smile stretched so tight across my face it felt like it would crack. “Audrey, let me explain…” “Mark,” I said, my voice steady. “We’re done. The wedding is off.”

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On the victory cruise in the Grenadines, my wife watched as her assistant kicked me into the sea. My crime? I wouldn’t give up my spot next to her for a photo. “You reek of mediocrity,” the assistant, Dylan, sneered down at me from the railing. “Why don’t you swim back to shore? If you can’t make it, the sharks need to eat too.” Two weeks later, watching a news report about pirates taking hostages in the Gulf of Aden, she finally remembered I existed. “It’s been two weeks,” she said, annoyed. “Hasn’t he sulked enough? Does he plan on living in the ocean forever?” Her executive aide hesitated. “Ma’am… Mr. Pierce… his body has been recovered.” “Impossible,” she snapped. “I was just angry! I had a private maritime rescue team on 24-hour standby! How could he possibly be dead?” The aide looked pained. “Ms. Vance, Dylan canceled all rescue operations. He said it was on your authority.” He paused, then added, “Also, Ma’am… we found a manuscript among your husband’s personal effects. The core code for the hundred-million-dollar Meridian Project… he wrote it. Not Dylan.” 1 The project manuscript hit the polished floor of her office, pages scattering like fallen leaves. “You’ve gotten bold lately,” Victoria said, her voice dangerously low. “You think you can fool me with a forged document?” The aide’s face went white. “Ms. Vance, I swear, this was found among his things. It’s the absolute truth.” Victoria’s stiletto heel pinned a page of code to the floor. She pointed a trembling finger at the man. “He can claim anything he wants to get my sympathy, but he will not steal Dylan’s credit. Not this.” “Dylan poured his soul into this project! Do you know how many all-nighters he pulled? He worked until he was literally coughing up blood from stomach ulcers. Did you see that? No.” Her voice rose to a furious shout. “What does Ethan Pierce know about code? He’s a burnout who does nothing but play video games! Does he deserve to put his name on the monumental work of a better man? Does he?!” The aide’s shoulders trembled. My soul, hovering somewhere over the other side of the planet, let out a hollow laugh. Even now, she still believed it was Dylan—a man who couldn’t write a single line of Python—who was the genius that had saved her company. The aide knew it was pointless to argue. But he couldn’t stand to see his boss so thoroughly deceived. With a shaking hand, he held up another document. “Ms. Vance… this is an email from the International Patent Office. The core patent for ‘Project Meridian’ was registered three years ago by an individual under the codename ‘S’. And ‘S’… it’s the first letter of his surname, Pierce.” “Oh?” Victoria’s laugh was exhausted. “So he’s been planning this little fantasy for a while. Very thorough.” She turned, her back rigid. “Well, since he’s gone to all the trouble of setting the stage, tell him he can just stay on it. Forever.” Without a backward glance, she walked out, her heels crunching over the scattered pages of my life’s work. 2 Victoria Vance stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of her penthouse office. The setting sun stabbed at her eyes, and with an uncharacteristic surge of irritation, she snapped the blinds shut. She kept replaying the words from the patent email. “‘S’…” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. She raised a glass of Bordeaux, the crimson liquid staining her mouth. Her expression was one of pure disgust. “Ethan, oh, Ethan,” she whispered to the empty room. “You really have no shame, do you?” Suddenly, the office’s projector wall hummed to life, displaying an international breaking news alert: [PIRATE SYNDICATE IN GULF OF ADEN DISMANTLED. SOURCES CONFIRM THE CRITICAL BREAKTHROUGH IN THE OPERATION CAME FROM AN AMERICAN ENGINEER TAKEN HOSTAGE.] [DURING HIS CAPTIVITY, THE ENGINEER REPORTEDLY CRACKED THE PIRATES’ SECURE COMMUNICATIONS NETWORK AND TRANSMITTED THEIR PRECISE COORDINATES TO INTERNATIONAL NAVAL FORCES.] [TO COVER THE ESCAPE OF THE OTHER HOSTAGES, HE THEN DETONATED THE SHIP’S RESERVE FUEL SUPPLY, PERISHING ALONG WITH THE PIRATE LEADER.] [WE PAY OUR HIGHEST TRIBUTES TO THIS FALLEN HERO.] Victoria stared, her hand frozen in mid-air. She reached for the remote and clicked the screen off. Swirling the wine in her glass, she sighed. “He probably did it for his family on the boat,” she murmured. “Or someone he was with…” My fragmented soul wept in the skies over the Indian Ocean. No, Victoria. I did it because I couldn’t watch them execute the young couple on their honeymoon in front of me. I did it because I figured it was better for one person to die than for innocent people to die with me. I hacked their system, sent the coordinates, and then blew the fuel tanks. I thought I could make the jump into the water, that I could escape, too. But the blast wave… it was too strong. My body just couldn’t take it. Victoria’s hand, holding the wine glass, paused. “The Gulf of Aden…” she whispered, a frown creasing her brow. That was on the shipping route, not far from where she’d left me. She drained the glass in one swallow, then pulled the blinds open with a sharp, dismissive snap. “Impossible,” she scoffed at the sunset. “A man like him? It would be a miracle if he didn’t join the pirates just to save his own skin.” 3 Two weeks, and still no word from me. Victoria was at a gala, celebrating a new deal Dylan had supposedly secured, when it finally hit her. I hadn’t bothered her in a very long time. “So,” she mused to her aide, “is he really planning on making a career out of fishing?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Tell him the act is getting old. I have a rescue team shadowing him; he’s not going to die. There are better ways to get my attention than this childish stunt.” The aide hesitated, then decided to risk it. “Ms. Vance… that day… Dylan dismissed the entire rescue team. He said it was on your orders.” “Oh?” Victoria’s smile was glacial. “Are you implying Dylan would joke about a direct order from me?” The aide swallowed hard. It seemed Victoria had forgotten. Her private rescue network, a state-of-the-art emergency service, could be activated by only two people. Her, and one other person to whom she had granted emergency override authority. It wasn’t me, her husband. It was Dylan. “That’s not possible,” she said, her tone flat but final. “Only Ethan would stoop to something so low, trying to sling mud at Dylan like this.” “I gave Dylan the authority precisely because I was worried Ethan might use his position to bully him, to take advantage of his inexperience at sea.” Her eyes darkened. “But Dylan… Dylan would never be the kind of man who would stand by and watch someone die.” She fixed the aide with a warning glare. “Tell Ethan to spend less time plotting against you all and more time learning how to write a decent line of code.” “Ms. Vance!” the aide pleaded, his voice cracking. “He really hasn’t contacted us! Not once!” Victoria held up a hand, cutting him off. “You’ve been with me for a long time. You should know what’s appropriate to say and what isn’t. Think very carefully.” A single drop of cold sweat traced its way down the aide’s temple. 4 Back in her hotel suite, Victoria called my satellite phone. Of course, I couldn’t answer. After a dozen calls went straight to the digital void, she left a message. “This little pity party of yours needs to end. The Meridian Project was Dylan’s masterpiece. He deserves to be the star of the celebration. That is non-negotiable.” “This is business, Ethan, not a stage for your jealousy. Stop being so unreasonable.” “You’re a grown man. Try thinking about the people who actually contribute to this company for once.” She paused before hanging up, her voice softening almost imperceptibly. “Ethan… you’ve taken this too far.” Putting the phone down, she walked onto the suite’s terrace and gazed up at the brilliant tapestry of stars over the equator. Her hand rested on the cool metal railing. For a second, it was like we were back on the roof of our university dorm, seven years ago. She was in a crisp blazer, fresh from a grueling pitch competition. I was dreaming out loud about renting out the planetarium for a whole night if we ever made enough money, just so we could watch the stars without any city lights. We were side-by-side then. We were in love. Then Dylan came into her life. And the distance between us grew like the expanding universe. She must have remembered. That I loved the stars. And that my birthday was next week. She called the concierge, about to reserve the powerful telescope on the observation deck, planning for us to watch the stars together that night. But then her phone rang. It was Dylan. “Victoria… my head is killing me. I feel awful.” Victoria’s expression hardened instantly. “Don’t move. I’m on my way.” 5 In his hotel suite, Dylan was slumped weakly on the couch. Victoria was gently massaging his temples, trying to ease the stress-induced headaches he claimed were from his tireless work on the project. “Thank you, Victoria. I never knew the ruthless queen of the tech world had such a gentle side.” Her hands didn’t stop, but her voice was laced with genuine concern. “That depends on who’s willing to sacrifice everything, even their health, for the company.” My soul, already dead, still felt a phantom pang of heartache. Because that man wasn’t me. Dylan’s gaze fell on a beautifully wrapped box on the coffee table. He smiled. “I heard this vintage handheld is the birthday present you got for Ethan. Are you sure it’s okay to give it to me?” Victoria’s massaging fingers paused for only a fraction of a second. Then she smiled back. “Well, he’s not here, is he? Besides, you like it too.” I had to laugh. Victoria, she despised pixelated games. She thought they were a colossal waste of time. He only claimed to like it after he heard it was meant for me. Don’t you see that, Victoria? I closed my spectral eyes. I was just a ghost with no place to rest. I couldn’t do anything. All I could pray for was a swift reincarnation, for a bowl of Meng Po’s soup to make me forget. Then I wouldn’t have to watch my wife cooing over another man. 6 The story of the hero engineer became an international sensation. The International Maritime Organization held a memorial of the highest honor and invited key figures from the tech industry. Victoria, as a leading voice, was on the guest list. She accepted without a second thought. Speaking as a representative of the industry, she even announced the unilateral creation of a hero’s fund, endowed solely by her company, to compensate the families of all the victims from the incident. No cap on the funding. All to honor the greatness of a fallen peer. On the day of the memorial, she stood before the tribute wall. The words “In Memory of the Brave American Engineer” scrolled across a large screen. Her expression was distant. “An American…” she murmured. She gave a wry, sad smile. “If only Ethan had half of this hero’s courage, we wouldn’t be in such an ugly place.” It was just a photo op, she thought. Why did he have to make such a scene about where he stood? She couldn’t understand it. After bowing before a wreath of white lilies, the event organizer approached her, the primary donor. “Regarding the hero’s remains,” he began nervously, “a request was submitted for identity verification, suggesting a need for a DNA comparison. Ms. Vance, what are your thoughts?” “Who proposed it?” Victoria’s brow furrowed. The organizer hesitated. “Well, it’s…” Victoria’s patience snapped. “The hero’s body was subjected to an explosion and weeks in the ocean. It’s already disfigured. Who, and for what possible reason, would want to put him through that all over again? What a profound disrespect to a hero.” The organizer wiped sweat from his forehead. I let out another silent, bitter laugh. Victoria still had no idea. It was precisely because she refused to believe the initial coroner’s report that her own loyal aide had desperately proposed this one last method of verification. In the sterile quiet of the morgue, Victoria gave the order. “Cremate him. Let the hero rest in peace.” “Ma’am, are you sure we don’t need to double-check?” “It’s not necessary.” Victoria’s voice was soft with a strange sort of pity. “No hero would want their broken body examined over and over. Grant him this final dignity.” My body was pushed into the incinerator. After paying her final respects, Victoria walked out of the hall. “Are there any interesting new retro gaming consoles out?” she asked her aide. The aide blinked, then quickly recovered. “Dylan has been very into the latest VR setups, the immersion is incredible…” “I was talking about Ethan.” He froze again. “You’re buying a gift for Mr. Pierce?” “Mm,” Victoria sighed. “Things have been… tense between us lately. A misunderstanding.” “It’s not just for his birthday,” she added, patting the aide’s shoulder. “It’s also… an apology.” “I’m putting you in charge of this. The budget is unlimited. Make it special.” “Yes, Ms. Vance!” Behind her, my ashes were being carefully scooped into a small, cold box. 7 The aide managed to track down an ultra-rare, first-edition handheld console from a collector. The problem was, the device wouldn’t turn on, and a thin crack spiderwebbed across the screen. “Ms. Vance, I know Mr. Pierce likes retro games, but this one… it’s too damaged. Perhaps I could commission a custom, top-of-the-line gaming PC for him instead?” “No.” Victoria stared at the scuffed and scratched machine. “Anything you can buy with money is just an object. This, the world’s first handheld gaming system… this is priceless. Ethan will love it.” She took the device from him. “Leave it. I’ll fix it myself.” “Ms. Vance?!” The aide’s eyes widened. Victoria was more than capable. Because Ethan loved to tinker with electronics. Back when she had loved him most, she had studied electrical engineering just to share his hobbies. For five days, Victoria did not leave her workshop. When she finally emerged, the console’s screen was lit up, and the familiar 8-bit startup music chimed through the air. It looked as pristine as the day it left the factory. “When he hears this,” she whispered, a faint smile on her lips, “he’ll probably come home.” Just then, her phone rang. It was Dylan, his voice weak and strained. “Victoria… my head… I think it’s splitting open…” 8 Victoria found Dylan huddled in the corner of a cold, concrete parking garage. Blood was trickling from a cut on his forehead. He was trembling, clutching at the hem of her jacket like a frightened child. “E… Ethan… he tried to kill me…” My soul recoiled. Theatrical, even for him. Dylan, his eyes red and swollen, pointed to a fresh bruise blooming around his eye. “I knew Ethan was upset with you because of me,” he stammered. “I saw how you weren’t eating or sleeping, worrying about his birthday… I couldn’t stand seeing you so sad. I thought… I thought I had to convince him to come back, to make things right with you.” “I spent a fortune to track him down. He’s been holed up in the presidential suite of a private club.” “But when I got there… I pushed open the door and saw him… with some strange, rich woman. They were… they were naked, all over each other…” He choked on a sob. Victoria gripped the fabric of his shirt. “And then what?” Dylan shook his head, his voice trembling violently. “I begged him to come home. I told him you were waiting… but he… he treated me like I was garbage. He started hitting me, screaming at me for getting in the way of his new ‘gold mine’…” Victoria’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. “He said… if I dared to tell you a single word, he would make me disappear from the face of the earth.” “Victoria, look at my face… I was terrified… if I hadn’t run, I don’t think I would have ever seen you again…” He collapsed into her arms, holding her tight. I watched, my spectral form taut with tension. Victoria… Victoria, you know me. Don’t you? Victoria, I’m not that person. You know that. Right? He embezzled company funds! He got caught, that’s why he’s so desperate! He’s terrified of you finding out the truth! Victoria gently pushed Dylan away, her thumb brushing against the swollen skin around his eye. “Just rest. Get well.” She turned and left, driving straight home. In her workshop, she stood before the perfectly restored game console. She dialed my satellite phone. Ten times. Twenty. Thirty. One hundred calls. No answer. The corners of her eyes began to burn red. The blisters on her fingers from the soldering iron throbbed with a dull pain. CRASH! The console shattered against the wall. “ETHAN PIERCE, YOU BASTARD!” The machine lay in pieces. The force of the throw had torn open the blisters on her hand, and tiny beads of blood welled up. A single drop fell onto the broken screen. She was panting, her chest heaving. She wrenched the door open. Her aides, waiting anxiously outside, stared at her. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with sweat. “Make a public announcement,” she commanded, her voice ragged. “I’m marrying Dylan.” “A city-wide broadcast. Spare no expense.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped the doorknob, almost crushing it in her hand. 9 The wedding of the century was the talk of the tech world. It was even being live-streamed on international forums. The comments sections were filled with a mix of awe and pity. The last time a wedding was this spectacular, one user wrote, was when Victoria Vance married the genius programmer Ethan Pierce. Such a shame about Mr. Pierce. To be so brilliant and still manage to drive a woman like her away… what a waste. Victoria read the comments, heard the whispers. Dressed in a couture wedding gown, just moments before the ceremony was to begin, she dialed my number one last time. As always, it went unanswered. Smack! The phone hit the vanity table. Her chest rose and fell in a shallow, rapid rhythm. “Ethan,” she seethed, “you showed me no mercy. Don’t expect any from me.” She walked to the door, ready for Dylan to escort her. But before the ribbon-adorned lead car could even start its engine, a solemn procession of vehicles, each marked with a black ribbon, pulled up slowly. Victoria frowned. “Who dares to bring such bad luck here on this day?” “Ms. Vance,” her wedding planner whispered, “it’s the funeral procession for that American hero engineer. The chairman of Global Shipping is on that ship he saved—it was his sister. The chairman arranged it personally. He said today was the most auspicious day.” Victoria paused. The hard lines of her face softened slightly. “Fine. The hero goes first.” The wedding cars parted, making way for the funeral procession. As the lead car passed, Victoria glanced up casually. And froze. “Stop!” she cried, rushing forward and blocking the lead driver. Her eyes were locked on the rolling slideshow of photos on the car’s large LED screen. Because it was a slideshow of my face. 10 “What is his connection to Global Shipping?” Victoria’s hand was trembling as she pointed at the screen. “You’re honoring a hero! Why are you using my husband’s picture?” “Your husband?” The woman leading the procession, impeccably dressed in black, let out a cold, humorless laugh. “If Mr. Pierce is your husband, then who, exactly, are you about to marry?” Victoria stared at the woman, her mind reeling. “Isabelle… it’s you!” She gritted her teeth. Isabelle Ross. Her biggest rival in business. In the past, they had always maintained a veneer of professional courtesy. But now, all of Victoria’s composure was gone. “How dare you use my husband’s photograph without permission!” Isabelle’s face hardened. “Mr. Pierce is dead. He has no need for ‘permission’.” “Shut up!” Victoria lunged forward, only to be restrained by her own security detail. Her eyes were wild. “Take that picture down, or I swear to God, I will burn my own company to the ground just to see you ruined!” Isabelle simply raised her hand. A worn, old arcade token dangled from her fingertips. In an instant, all the air left Victoria’s lungs. “Where did you get that?” Isabelle let it drop. Victoria dove, catching the metal coin just before it hit the pavement. She turned it over and over in her palm. It was the one. The one she had hand-engraved with their initials. He had said it was their lucky charm, from the day they met. He said he’d carry it forever. There wasn’t another one like it in the world. Except this one… the grooves of the engraving were filled with something dark and crusted. It was blood. “Where,” Victoria looked up, her eyes flooding with tears, “did you find this?” “Victoria, I never knew you were this blind.” Isabelle looked down on her with utter contempt. “Your own husband dies a hero, and you need your business rival to collect his remains.” An official death certificate from Interpol was tossed at her feet. Her hands shook as she picked it up. The moment she saw the name—Ethan S. Pierce—she began to tremble uncontrollably. She hadn’t paid close attention at the memorial service. She’d assumed it was just some noble act by a fellow professional. How could it have been Ethan? He was the man who would argue over a spot in a photograph. How could he possibly sacrifice himself for strangers? “Impossible…” Victoria clutched the certificate. “I am his legal wife. If something happened to him, the embassy would have contacted me, and only me!” “If I recall correctly,” Isabelle said coolly, “there’s one other person who has access to your private email and emergency contact protocols, isn’t there?” A sudden, deranged laugh escaped my soul. Even Isabelle Ross knew. Only Dylan had the clearance to manage Victoria’s most sensitive communications. “You’re saying… Dylan intercepted the notifications?” Isabelle didn’t have to answer. Victoria whipped her head around, her mind racing. She remembered her aide’s frantic warnings, the things he had tried to tell her. That same aide now stepped forward, his face a mask of grim duty. He held out an evidence bag. After Victoria had threatened him, he hadn’t dared mention my name again. Not even when the authorities had recovered my satellite phone and turned it over to him. He was too afraid of being accused of conspiring with me in another one of my “stunts.” Now, the phone, its screen shattered, was in Victoria’s hand. She knew my passcode. She unlocked it. The first thing she saw was the call log from the day I went into the water. Thirty-seven missed calls. All to her.

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My mom doesn’t do dishes. She doesn’t make beds. But her car… her car is spotless. She treats it like her most prized possession, cleaning it out every day after work until it gleams. Today, Dad asked me to grab a file he’d left in there. As I felt around under the passenger seat, my fingers brushed against something small and metallic on the floor mat. I picked it up. It was a shiny silver cufflink. “Dad,” I called out, holding it up. “When did you get a cufflink just like Mr. Davies’s?” 1 My dad’s hand, reaching for the file, froze in mid-air. His eyes fixed on the object in my palm, and the smile on his face slowly dissolved. “What is it, Dad?” He didn’t answer. He just took the cufflink from me, his fingers rubbing the cold metal as he held it up to the light. After a long moment, he tossed it into the center console, his voice trembling just slightly. “It’s nothing. I’ve never seen it before. Must be some trash that got tracked into the car.” He took my hand and led me back upstairs, his pace much faster than usual. When we got inside, he didn’t sit down to build Legos with me like he normally would. He didn’t turn on the financial news. He just stood by the front door, waiting for Mom to come home. The dim light of the entryway stretched his shadow long and thin across the floor. Mom was on the phone when she walked in, her voice bright and cheerful. “Honey, I’m home!” she chirped. She opened her arms for a hug, but Dad took a sharp step back, his eyes locked on her. Her arms fell awkwardly to her sides. “What’s wrong?” He didn’t speak. He just bent down to take her briefcase, his nose brushing against the fabric of her blazer as he did. “Nicole,” he said, his voice flat. “You smell like men’s cologne.” Mom blinked, then forced a laugh that didn’t sound real. “Oh, you know. I was in a meeting with a male client, we were standing close. It must have just rubbed off.” She started to explain more, but Dad didn’t let her. He just opened his hand. The shiny silver cufflink lay in his palm. “Is that so?” he asked. “Did this client also happen to leave his cufflink under your passenger seat?” The color drained from my mother’s face. She stared at the cufflink, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came out. After a few seconds of dead silence, she snatched it from my dad’s hand and threw it on the floor. Her voice turned to ice. “What are you trying to say? You’re going to interrogate me over some stray cufflink and a hint of cologne? The child is right here!” She pulled me behind her, crouching down to squeeze my cheeks. “Joey, sweetie, you know Mommy only has eyes for you and Daddy.” With that, she walked into the master bathroom and shut the door. A moment later, I heard the sound of the shower running. Dad just stood there, completely still. I walked over and tugged on his sleeve. “Dad, is what Mom said true?” He bent down and kissed my cheek. “Of course, it is.” But all I could see were my dad’s eyes, the light completely gone out of them. 2 The next day at school, as soon as I walked into the classroom, I smelled something familiar. It was the exact same scent that had been on my mom’s clothes the night before. My head snapped up, and I stared at my teacher, Mr. Davies. He was wearing a nice tracksuit today, and his short hair was styled perfectly. He had these two little fangs that showed when he smiled. I thought he was handsome. “Mr. Davies, you smell really good.” He seemed surprised for a second, then a glint appeared in his eye. He smiled and ruffled my hair. “It’s a new cologne someone got for me. You like it?” I nodded enthusiastically. When I got home, I told my dad what happened. “Dad! Mr. Davies was wearing the same cologne that was on Mom’s clothes yesterday!” My dad was peeling an apple. The knife clattered against the ceramic bowl. He just looked at me, his lips moving slightly, but he didn’t say a word. From then on, I could tell Dad was sad. When he read me stories, his mind was somewhere else. But when he hugged me, he held me tighter than ever before. One night, I woke up to use the bathroom and heard my mom talking on the phone out on the balcony. She was keeping her voice low, but I could still make out the words. “Of course I miss you… stop it, you.” “Joey’s doing so well in school, it’s all thanks to you. Yes, I told him Mr. Davies is the best teacher ever.” I tiptoed to the door and peeked through the crack. Mom was leaning back in a chair, holding her phone, a soft, gentle look on her face that I had never seen before. A floorboard creaked in my dad’s bedroom, and she immediately ended the call, her smile vanishing. She pushed the balcony door open and jumped when she saw me standing there. “Joey? Why are you still awake?” I looked up at her. “Mom, was that Mr. Davies?” Her face went stiff. “No, honey. It was just a colleague from work. We were talking about a project.” She picked me up, carried me back to my room, and tucked me into bed. “Go to sleep now. Little boys shouldn’t worry about grown-up things.” But I lay there, wide awake. She was lying. I knew that voice. It was him. The next day, Dad was zoning out again while reading me a picture book. I looked at his tired face and decided to tell him my big discovery, hoping it would cheer him up. “Mr. Davies has a new messaging account. The profile picture isn’t the one he uses for the class group.” I said it like I was sharing a secret. “That’s the one Mom was talking to last night. I saw it.” My dad’s whole body went rigid. He took a few big gulps of water before asking, trying to sound casual, “Joey, do you… do you remember the username?” I nodded proudly. “Of course! The one Mom was chatting with has a gold medal for a profile picture. From when he won that coaching award!” I continued, “The username is his initials, M.D., then the number 520, and then the letters N.S.” My dad’s face went white. I could hear his breathing get faster and faster. After what felt like forever, he forced a few words through his teeth. “Nicole Shaw… Nicole Shaw…” That’s my mom’s name. I’d never heard him say her name like that before. It scared me. I whispered, “Dad?” I didn’t dare look at his face. In that moment, my own heart felt like it was being squeezed into a tight little ball. 3 That night, I woke up for a drink of water and saw the light was still on in my dad’s study. I crept to the door and peeked through the crack. The blue light from the screen made his face look pale and ghostly. He was holding his phone, his expression grim, as if he’d finally made a terrible decision. I watched as he went to my school’s website, found the faculty page, and clicked on Mr. Davies’s picture. The man in the photo had the same short hair, the same handsome smile he wore during the day. Then, Dad opened a secondary messaging account he used for online coupons. In the search bar, he typed in the initials I’d told him. First M.D., then he hesitated, before adding my mother’s initials, N.S., and finally, that glaring number: 520. An account popped up. The profile picture was a gold medal. The exact one I’d seen on my mom’s phone. My dad’s fingers were shaking badly as he tapped on the profile. The feed was filled with pictures of Mr. Davies on trips with a woman, both of them laughing, looking blissfully happy. The woman’s face was never shown. But the trench coat she was wearing… it was identical to the one in my mother’s closet. The most recent post was from my dad’s birthday. It was a selfie of Mr. Davies wearing a brand-new watch. I recognized it instantly. It was the one my dad had stared at in the display case at the mall for so long, the one my mom said was too expensive to buy. And now it was on Mr. Davies’s wrist. The caption read: Thanks, my love. You always know exactly what I want. There was only one ‘like’ on the post, and a comment I couldn’t quite make out before— Clatter. The phone slipped from my dad’s hand and hit the floor. The sound startled me, and a small gasp escaped my lips. I tried to run, but it was too late. Dad was already standing in the doorway. He saw me staring at the phone screen, and his expression turned dark. I walked over and tugged on his sleeve. “Dad, is that Mom’s account that liked the picture?” My voice was small. “She said she only had you and me in her heart. Does she still mean it?” Dad thought for a long, long time. Then he knelt, pulled me into a hug, and rested his chin on my shoulder. His voice was muffled. “Back then… I think she probably did.” From that day on, the air in our house felt heavy and strange. Dad stopped asking Mom why she came home late. He stopped checking her clothes. Mom started coming home on time, and even suggested taking us out to dinner. But Dad would just refuse quietly. “I’m tired. I don’t feel like going out.” Mom would just sigh and say he was “having one of his episodes again.” I would grab my dad’s hand anxiously, asking him what kind of episode, if he was in pain. He would just force a bitter smile, turn his head so I couldn’t see his eyes, and mutter, “Just go do your homework.” It only took a few more days for me to understand. Dad wasn’t sick. I was. 4 My dad came to school that day. He said he was dropping off a workbook I’d forgotten and told me to head home first. But I had a bad feeling. I followed him quietly, all the way to Mr. Davies’s office. The office was empty, but a faint scent of perfume hung in the air. It was the kind my mom always wore. On the sofa, I saw a few long, curly hairs, just like hers. There were also two crumpled-up takeout receipts on the desk. The phone number on them was my mom’s. I thought maybe she had come to pick me up. I decided to follow Dad and surprise her. It started to rain. I saw my mom’s car parked in the small alley behind the school. From a distance, I could see her leaning against it, talking to a man. The man was looking down at her, gently smoothing the collar of her coat that the wind had messed up. It was Mr. Davies. They were standing so close. My mom was smiling, a sweet, happy smile. Then, she stood on her tiptoes and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. Mr. Davies touched his face, then wrapped his arm around her waist with a fond smile. His umbrella tilted and fell, shielding both of them from my view. And my dad… my dad was standing behind a tree not far away, watching them. The wind whipped my dad’s hair across his face as he turned, a stiff, wooden figure disappearing into the twilight. In that moment, I felt like my dad was being stolen. Not my mom. My dad. A wild rage filled me, and I started running. I had to get my mom back for him. 5 I burst through the curtain of rain and slammed myself between my mom and Mr. Davies. Their smiles froze on their faces. My mom grabbed me and pulled me aside, her voice a harsh, urgent whisper. “What are you doing here? Go home, now!” I started crying, telling her I wanted to go home with her, but she just frowned and said she had important things to do. I pointed a shaking finger at Mr. Davies, my voice rising to a shout. “It’s him! He’s the one making Dad sad!” My mom tilted her umbrella further toward Mr. Davies, not even looking at me as she sneered, “Your dad is sick in the head. What does that have to do with anyone else?” “You’re leaving us, aren’t you!” She finally looked at me then, a mocking smile on her lips. “Did your dad teach you to say that? Tell him to cut the drama.” She looked down at me, her voice sharp. “And you, Joey. You’re a big boy now. Stop being sick, just like your father!” Her casual words felt like a knife twisting in my chest. “I want my mommy!” I screamed at her. Her face darkened, her patience gone. “Nobody likes a whiny little boy, Joey. Not me, and not your dad when you act like this.” She went on and on, her voice getting louder, until Mr. Davies finally stepped in to calm her down. I didn’t understand. Why was she yelling at Dad? Why was she listening to Mr. Davies? She was the one who said she only loved me and Dad. It was all his fault. My mind went blank with anger. I launched myself at Mr. Davies, hitting and kicking him with all my strength. “You’re a bad man! You stole my mom! You hurt my dad!” Mr. Davies yelped in surprise, his nice tracksuit getting smudged with dirt. SMACK! A loud crack echoed in the alley. My ear rang, and one side of my face went numb. The person who hit me… was my mother. Her eyes were bloodshot as she pointed at me, screaming, “Apologize! Apologize to Mr. Davies, right now!” Mr. Davies cowered behind her, grabbing her arm. “Nicole, stop, he’s just a kid…” That only made her angrier. “A kid? This is how his father taught him to behave? To throw tantrums and make a scene? He’s just like his neurotic dad!” She lunged at me, shoving me to the ground. She pushed my face into the mud and tried to force me to my knees. “If you don’t apologize, you can stay here and kneel all night!” Her voice was like thunder, shaking my whole body. The look in her eyes was terrifying. I bit my lip, too scared to say anything. I just wanted my dad. That night, I don’t remember how I got home. I locked myself in my room, refusing to eat or speak, just hugging my knees and crying. Dad pushed the door open. When he saw the red mark on my face, he cried out. “Joey! What happened to your face?” He rushed over, his hands trembling as he cupped my cheeks. Seeing the pain in his eyes, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw myself into his arms and sobbed. “It was Mom…” Between gasps, I told him everything that had happened. He held me, his body shaking even more than mine. He was crying, hot tears falling onto my neck. That night, I came down with a high fever. My mom didn’t come home. It was Dad who carried me, running through the hospital corridors in the middle of the night. I’d never heard him sound like that before, his voice broken and full of despair as he yelled into the phone. “…He’s just a kid! How could you lay a hand on him!” “A meeting? Nicole, you tell me, what meeting is more important than your son!” “Nicole! Joey has a raging fever! …You want him to ‘reflect on his behavior’? You think he’s faking it? Nicole! You’re a monster!” The way he looked scared me. He didn’t say another word, just hung up. It was all my fault. I tried to protect Dad and just made everything worse. I made Mom leave. I was a terrible son. No wonder she wanted me to apologize. I gathered my courage and stood in front of my dad. “Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t protect you. I couldn’t get Mom to come back…” Before I could finish, he pulled me into a tight hug, his voice choked with sobs. “It’s not your fault, Joey. You did nothing wrong. You are the best boy in the whole world…” I realized for the first time how thin his shoulders felt. I tried to hug him back, patting his back gently. Again, and again. “Dad still smells the best…” I murmured before I drifted off. When I opened my eyes again, Dad was asleep in the chair next to my hospital bed. He looked exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes. My head felt fuzzy, but I managed to sit up. That’s when I saw her, far down the hallway. My mom. 6 She was supporting Mr. Davies with her arm. They rushed right past our room. The breeze they created lifted the edge of the medical tape on my IV. She didn’t look at me. Not even a glance. Her eyes, her entire being, were focused on the man leaning on her, a slight frown on his face. “Doctor! Now! I want a full workup, the best you have!” Her voice echoed through the hall, strained with panic. “He was assaulted by an ill-mannered child! I’m worried about internal injuries!” Mr. Davies leaned weakly against her, but his voice was smug. “Nicole, I told you, I’m fine. Just a little shaken up.” Nurses immediately swarmed them. Their murmurs buzzed around me like flies. “Oh my god, isn’t that Nicole Shaw? The CEO of Nexus Innovations? She’s so devoted to her boyfriend! Where do you find a love like that?” “I know, right? Bringing him in herself late at night, calling in the hospital’s top specialists. Look at the way she looks at him, you can see the heartbreak in her eyes.” Their words were like red-hot knives, stabbing into me and my dad. I turned to look at Dad. He was standing right behind me. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t even shaking. He just watched the dramatic display of affection at the end of the hall, his face completely blank. “Daddy…” I started crying again, struggling to breathe. “Did I make Mommy leave? Was I not a good boy…?” Suddenly, Dad smiled. It was a smile I had never seen before. He walked over and used the back of his cool hand to wipe away my tears, one by one. Then he held my face and made me look into his eyes. His voice was quiet, but each word was like a nail being hammered into my heart. He said, “Joey, listen to me.” “You did nothing wrong.” “It’s your mother… she isn’t good enough for us anymore.” “We don’t want her anymore.”

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My best friend called me in the middle of the night for an emergency ab-touching session. Except the one who opened the door wasn’t some random guy she’d brought home. It was her little brother. “Abs. Fresh from college. All yours,” Sloane announced, shoving me forward. “My brother is your brother. Come on, Nate, say hi.” I squeezed my eyes shut, letting Sloane steer my hand across the warm, sculpted landscape of his stomach. But her brother wasn’t playing along. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice a low, teasing drawl that sent a shiver down my spine. “Why won’t you look at me, Audrey?” “You weren’t this shy two years ago.” Holy shit. Two years ago, when I rocked his world, I had absolutely no idea he was my best friend’s brother. 1 “Why won’t you look at me, Audrey?” His voice was a low murmur, laced with something that dangerously resembled amusement. “You weren’t this shy two years ago.” “What’s he talking about?” Sloane asked, her voice oblivious and booming. But I was already dying. A slow, agonizing death right there in the hallway of my best friend’s apartment. How was I supposed to explain to Sloane that two years ago, I’d mistaken her baby brother for my blind date, dragged him to a hotel, and proceeded to have the single most unforgettable night of my life? Nate, her brother, twisted the knife. “It’s just… you look a little familiar, is all.” Sloane’s head whipped around to face me. “Familiar? You two know each other?” The look of raw panic on my face melted instantly into one of wide-eyed innocence. I shook my head so fast my neck protested. “Nope. Never seen him. Total stranger.” “See? I knew it!” Sloane laughed, completely satisfied. “He just got back in the States two years ago, right when you were home dealing with that string of disastrous dates your mom set up. No way you could’ve crossed paths.” She punctuated her statement by grabbing my hand and slapping it, hard, against her brother’s sculpted abdomen. “Ngh…” Nate’s jaw tightened, and a low grunt escaped his lips. Damn. It was the exact same sound he’d made two years ago, just as sexy, but now it was layered with a deeper, grainier texture that was somehow even more potent. “What was that for?” he grumbled, rubbing the spot. “What was what for?” Sloane shot back, mimicking his grunt with a disgusted look. “Stop being weird.” She yanked me behind her like a protective mother hen. “And what is with this outfit? The hair, the shirt… who are you trying to seduce at this hour?” “Why, your friend, of course,” Nate said, his eyes locking onto mine, a predatory glint in them. The playful tone was gone, replaced by something sharp. “This… ‘unfamiliar, never-seen-before, total stranger’ friend of yours.” “You’re insane. Ignore him, Audrey, let’s go.” Sloane dragged me toward her bedroom. It was only fifteen feet, but my legs felt like they were made of lead, each step a clumsy, uncoordinated lurch. Just before the door clicked shut, I saw Nate leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips. His voice followed us down the hall, a hot whisper that sent a shiver down my spine. “Goodnight, Audrey. Sweet dreams.” 2 There was nothing sweet about my dreams that night. First, Sloane kept me up until the early hours, dissecting our college yearbook and gleefully tearing apart every single person we’d ever disliked. Then, there was Nate. I never would have imagined he had this level of persistence. At four in the morning, when my bladder finally screamed for mercy, I found him waiting for me. He was crouched by the bathroom door like a panther in the shadows. “I knew you’d have to get up, Audrey.” He rose to his full height, blocking my path. “Two years ago, in that hotel room, when I had you flipped over—” An alarm blared in my head. I lunged forward, clapping a hand over his mouth as if my life depended on it, which, in a way, it did. That night was a blur I tried desperately to forget. Only a couple of hours were actually spent in the bed. The rest of the time was a whirlwind tour of the suite’s other amenities: the shower, the desk, the floor-to-ceiling windows… Best not to dwell on it. I glanced back toward the bedroom. Sloane was a lump under the covers, dead to the world. When I turned back, Nate had closed the distance between us. His hands wrapped around my waist, pulling me flush against him. He was warm, solid, and smelled faintly of soap and something uniquely him. He rested his chin on my shoulder, his breath tickling my neck. “It really hurt my feelings, you know. Pretending you didn’t know me.” His voice was a soft, wounded murmur. “But seeing you again… God, I can’t stop smiling.” The stubble on his chin scratched gently against my skin, and his words were like a kitten’s claws, playfully but insistently scraping at my resolve. Stop it. Stop trying to charm me. “Were you waiting for me?” he whispered. I shoved at his chest, peeling his hands from my waist. “I was not. I have to pee. Unless you want to join me?” I added, my voice dripping with sarcasm. A slow grin spread across his face, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “Can I? I could help.” I fought to keep my voice low, a harsh whisper. “Nate!” The next thing I knew, he had my wrist in his grip. With one smooth motion, he pulled me into the dark bathroom. 3 He lifted me onto the marble countertop as if I weighed nothing. The cool stone was a shock against my skin. Click. He’d locked the door. In the suffocating silence of the small room, his eyes seemed to glow, dark and feral. He braced his hands on either side of me, trapping me in the cage of his arms. “Nate, stop messing around. I’m your sister’s best friend. If she finds out, she’ll literally kill us both.” “I’m not messing around,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve just… really missed you.” It was too dark to read the expression in his eyes, but I saw his silhouette dip lower. A memory flashed, hot and vivid: that night, him kneeling before me, his eyes wet and wide as he looked up, like a loyal puppy devoted to its master. My entire body went soft. No. Not now. I cupped his face in my hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. “Nate.” It was like he’d lost his mind. He mumbled, his voice thick, “Audrey, when you say my name like that, it just makes me…” His shadow moved closer. I held my breath. Just as our lips were about to touch, he veered, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the underside of my jaw. He pulled back just enough to look up at me from under his lashes, his expression a devastating mix of reverence and hurt. “You slept with me and then you vanished,” he whispered. “I never forgot that.” Everyone knows a woman in her late twenties is in her prime. And right now, with him looking at me like that, every cell in my body was on fire. But a fragile thread of morality, of loyalty to Sloane, held me back. Finally, I ran a frustrated hand through my hair. “Okay, so what do you want from me? It was a one-night stand. You expect me to take responsibility for it now?” He leaned in again, his breath ghosting across my lips. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.” “Well, I am!” I gripped his shoulders, trying to channel my inner big sister. “Nate, listen to me. Whatever happened in the past, stays in the past. After tonight—hell, after this very second—we’re done. I’m your sister’s friend, and you’re my friend’s little brother. That kiss just now? It never happened. I won’t hold it against you. Tomorrow, we go back to normal.” The warmth in his expression vanished, replaced by a chilling darkness. Before I could slide off the counter, he seized my wrist, twisting my arm gently behind my back. His eyes were hard, his face set with a look of grim determination. “Then I guess,” he murmured, his voice a low growl, “we’re just not leaving this bathroom, Audrey.” 4 He wasn’t kidding. I didn’t get out of that bathroom all night. My nerves were shot, every muscle coiled tight with the fear of being discovered. But for Nate, the risk was clearly part of the thrill. One moment, he’d be sweeping the hair from my neck, whispering, “Don’t hold back, Audrey. Tell me what you want.” The next, he’d be kissing my earlobe, a devilish murmur against my skin. “Careful. Sloane might hear you.” I was a wreck, my entire body buzzing with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. By the time Sloane woke up the next morning, I was still fast asleep. “Seriously, Audrey? Since when are you the one who sleeps in?” I couldn’t even pry my eyelids open. “Please,” I groaned. “Just five more minutes…” Suddenly, a shadow fell over me. “Audrey, why is your mouth all swollen?” My eyes flew open. Sloane was leaning over me, her face a mask of clinical curiosity as she pointed at my lips. “It looks like you bit it or something in your sleep.” I shot up in bed like I’d been electrocuted, ready to spin some wild excuse. But the movement was too abrupt. The oversized t-shirt I’d slept in shifted, and one of the straps slid down my shoulder. Sloane’s gaze traveled from my face, down my neck, and her eyes widened in shock. “Oh my God! Is that a hickey on your neck?” she shrieked. “Tell me everything! Who is he?” “No, wait, it’s not what you think—” “I did it.”

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I’m the daughter of the wicked stepmother. Unlike the heroine—the kind, noble, beautiful, talented girl all the men fall for—I am the opposite. Vicious, low-class, flashy, and painfully average. Every trait I was given was designed to be a dark reflection of her, of Lila Monroe. So, the moment I became self-aware, the moment I saw the strings, I decided to play my part. To play it to the hilt. I partnered with her father’s biggest rival to run his company into the ground. I drugged the story’s leading man, Ethan Prescott, letting him believe we’d slept together. I stole Lila’s spot in a prestigious design program overseas, studying under the master who was meant to be her mentor. And now, seven years later, I’ve returned as a celebrated designer. I’m a judge on a primetime competition show, and Lila Monroe is just another contestant looking up at me from the stage. I let the full weight of my character settle in, my voice dripping with the poison they wrote for me. “This design is uninspired. You don’t have the gift. It’s better to quit now, before you embarrass yourself further.” 1 A collective gasp swept through the studio. A delicious, scandalized sound. No one expected that from Sloane Cassidy, the judge who was usually so poised, so encouraging. Certainly not on live television. Lila’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a word she couldn’t say. Sister. I ignored her, tossing her portfolio onto the rejection pile with theatrical disinterest and pressing the red button on the console. “You’re eliminated.” The model wearing Lila’s dress, a fiery girl named Zara, stormed off the stage. “You call this uninspired? You think she has no talent? Who here is better than her? Who?!” Every saccharine story has one of these: the loyal, brainless best friend. Zara played her part perfectly. With one sentence, she managed to insult every other designer in the room on Lila’s behalf. “Sloane Cassidy, you’re just jealous! You’re terrified she’s going to steal your spotlight!” “Zara, stop it…” Lila pleaded, reaching for her arm. But Zara was on a roll. “Why should we stop? What makes her qualified to sit up there?!” “If you feel I’m so unqualified, by all means, take my seat. The panel is yours.” I offered them a serene, unbothered smile. Lila’s face flushed with shame. She ducked her head. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Cassidy. We’ll leave right now.” 2 “One moment.” Just as Lila was about to pull Zara away, another voice cut through the tension. And there he is, I thought, a slow, triumphant smile curving my lips. Right on cue. The cameras swiveled, searching for the source of the voice before landing on him. A perfectly sculpted face, all sharp angles and cool indifference, filled the screens, drawing another wave of whispers from the audience. He walked past the line of judges, his steps measured and confident, stopping directly in front of Lila. He gave her a brief, reassuring glance before turning his gaze to me. “This design,” he said, his voice low and challenging. “What, specifically, is wrong with it?” Ethan Prescott. Seven years, and here we were again. His dark eyes held a storm of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher. Was it hatred for how I’d just treated his precious Lila? Or was it for the lie I’d spun seven years ago, the night I let him believe I’d taken something from him? Or maybe it was for the spot I’d stolen, the future that should have been hers. It didn’t matter which. Every single one of them brought me a sick, satisfying pleasure. Their misery was my happiness. I leaned into the microphone, my smile widening. “I don’t like it. That’s my reason.” A stunned silence fell over the studio. Ethan’s jaw tightened, his displeasure radiating like a physical force. Anyone could see he was furious. As the online comments began to fly, speculating on who this man was, he let out a cold, humorless laugh. “In that case, I suppose I should mention… I’m also a judge on this program.” Confusion rippled through the audience. Then, he began to walk toward the panel, his destination clear. [Live Comment: I know him! That’s Ethan Prescott, CEO of The Prescott Group! They’re the main investor in this show. I can’t believe they got him here in person!] [Live Comment: I don’t think the show *got* him. I think that contestant, Lila, did.] [Live Comment: They obviously know each other. He’s totally her safety net. Is he about to get revenge on Sloane for what she said?] The energy in the room crackled. Everyone leaned forward, hungry for a fight. I remained perfectly still in my chair, watching him approach. He sat in the empty seat beside me, and a familiar scent—sandalwood and cold ambition—enveloped me. It was suffocating. I disliked it intensely, shifting away with a slight, deliberate wrinkle of my nose. I saw his body tense, a barely perceptible hitch in his breath. For a second, I wondered if the air conditioning had kicked up a notch. Then, he reached forward and slammed the green button. “I think this design is exceptional. It should advance to the finals.” It was a blatant, public declaration. He was undermining me, shielding her. Lila, who had been struggling to maintain her composure, finally let her eyes well up with tears. Beside her, Zara shot me a look of pure, childish triumph. I simply raised an eyebrow, utterly unfazed. Ethan Prescott, playing the hero. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest. From the moment I heard Lila was competing, I knew he wouldn’t be far behind. Where the damsel is, the white knight is never far behind. 3 “I’ve never liked Sloane Cassidy. Her clothes are ugly and overpriced. I don’t know why she’s so arrogant.” “This is so embarrassing. Ethan Prescott is clearly furious with her. How is she going to recover from this in the industry?” “Recover? She just crossed Ethan Prescott’s girl. She’s going to get blacklisted!” The whispers started around me, a chorus of gleeful speculation. People have always been good at kicking someone when they’re down. The director, sensing a viral moment, zoomed the camera in tight on my face, waiting for my reaction. So I gave them one. I unclipped my microphone, set it on the table, and stood up. The entire studio fell silent. Ethan froze, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched me. A production assistant rushed over, trying to block my path. The show’s golden-ticket controversy was about to walk out the door. “Ms. Cassidy, is there something you need? We can get it for you.” I smiled, a sharp, knowing smile. “I’m done.” “Wh-what?” My gaze flickered toward a specific camera. “If you’d told me the winner was already chosen, I never would have come. I’m not interested in being a prop in someone else’s fairytale. Someone else can play that part.” “Ms. Cassidy, that’s not what’s happening here,” the producer insisted, trying to save face. “Find another judge. I don’t participate in cheating.” I found a camera lens and spoke directly to the viewers at home, my expression a mask of righteous integrity. “Even if it means making powerful enemies, I refuse to betray the trust of the other designers. They are all hardworking, talented kids who deserve a fair shot!” The live chat exploded. [Live Comment: OMG I feel that so hard. Down with corporate favoritism! Stop playing with the lives of regular people!] [Live Comment: Okay, I take back everything I said about Sloane. She’s got principles!] [Live Comment: #ProtectSloaneCassidy!] My words lit a fire. The other contestants, suddenly emboldened, started ripping off their number tags and microphones, shouting that they were quitting too. The set descended into chaos. The director screamed at someone to cut the live feed. In the confusion, Zara appeared out of nowhere. She got right in my face and slapped me, hard. “You manipulative bitch!” The room went still. “Zara!” Lila cried, rushing over to pull her back. Ethan shot to his feet, his face a thundercloud. But then he did something completely unexpected. Maybe it was the glare of the studio lights, or maybe he’d gone temporarily blind, but he pulled me behind him, shielding me. He glared at Zara. “What the hell are you doing?” “Can’t you see what she’s doing, Ethan? She’s playing the victim to make everyone hate Lila!” “What did I say that wasn’t true?” I asked, stepping out from behind him. “Are you and Mr. Prescott not acquainted? Is he not an investor in this show? And did he, or did he not, just force you into the finals?” “Lila got into the finals because she’s talented! She earned it!” Zara screamed. “Hah…” I let out a soft, mocking laugh. I didn’t have to say another word. Someone in the crowd, a true connoisseur of drama, had started a new livestream on their phone the second the official broadcast ended. The gossip-hungry viewers were flooding in. Zara pointed a shaking finger at me. “Don’t think we don’t remember how you used to be obsessed with Ethan!” [Live Comment: Wait, what? They all know each other from way back?] [Live Comment: So this is just a bunch of rich kids fighting? And the model says Sloane was into Ethan?] [Live Comment: My guess: Sloane loves Ethan, but Ethan loves Lila. Oh, this is juicy!] Just as the audience was leaning in for more, my phone rang. I answered it, right there in the middle of the chaos. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” … “Annie misses Mommy? Okay, Mommy’s coming home right now.” I hung up, ignoring the shocked and confused faces around me. “I’m officially withdrawing from the show. Send the bill for breach of contract to my assistant.” Money wasn’t an issue anymore. I turned to leave, but a hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Ethan. His face was a mask of tension, his eyes locked on mine. “Who were you just talking to?” His grip was painfully tight. I winced and tried to pull away, but he held fast. My voice went cold. “Mr. Prescott, there are a lot of people here. I suggest you let go of me.” “Whose child is it?!” he suddenly roared, startling everyone. “I’m asking you, whose child is it?” Lila stared at him, then at me, completely bewildered. “Mr. Prescott, does it matter whose child it is? It certainly isn’t yours.” I glanced around at the sea of phones recording us and smiled sweetly. “You know, a scene like this could easily be misinterpreted. If you don’t let go, the rumor tomorrow might be that the child…” I paused, holding his gaze. “…is yours.” I watched his eyelashes flutter, saw him rendered speechless, and felt a surge of satisfaction. I yanked my arm free, gave him one last smirk, and walked away. Let him choke on that. 4 My assistant was waiting with the car at the studio’s back entrance. Just as I was about to get in, Zara ran up to us. “Sloane Cassidy, you’re disgusting. A baby out of wedlock?!” I didn’t hesitate. I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. A perfect, red imprint bloomed on her cheek. She stood there, stunned for a few seconds, before her face contorted with rage. “You hit me?!” So I slapped her other cheek. Symmetrical. Much better. “That’s for the one you gave me. Consider this one a freebie. You’re welcome.” “Sloane! I’ll kill you—!” My assistant quickly jumped out of the car to hold her back. I watched the screaming, frantic girl with detached amusement. “All this shouting. So uncivilized.” “You’re so high and mighty? You, who forged Lila’s application and stole her spot at the academy? If you hadn’t stolen her portfolio, do you really think Master Renaud would have ever taken you as his apprentice?” “Sloane earned her apprenticeship with Jean-Pierre Renaud on her own merit! It had nothing to do with you people. Stop trying to claim credit for her success!” my assistant shot back. I just laughed. “Why bother explaining? She’s right. I stole it. I’m just that awful. If you’re so upset, go ahead and call the police.” Goodness is a luxury, an accessory for people who already have everything. What use did I have for it? Zara’s eyes darted to something behind me, and she sneered. “What do you have to be so proud of? You were nothing but a charity case living in Lila’s house. Lila is prettier than you, her family is better than yours, she’s more talented than you, and people actually like her!” “I’m a person, not a puppy. I don’t need to know how to be ‘liked.’” “You! We all remember how you used to throw yourself at Ethan! A man like him would never, ever love someone like you!” “Tsk. You can question my morals, but don’t you dare insult my taste. Who ever said I liked Ethan Prescott?” “Sloane.” Lila’s soft voice came from behind me. I turned. Ethan was with her, his expression cold and accusatory, as if I owed him a million dollars.

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I came back to the States after six months in a leadership program in London to find a mascot had taken over my family’s company. She didn’t do a damn thing. Just lounged in her workstation, scrolling through TikToks and playing games on her phone, yet she was pulling in a salary of a hundred thousand dollars a month. I was about to lay into her when my father’s assistant, Linda, pulled me aside, her voice a hushed, nervous whisper. “Ms. Ross, you don’t understand. This girl, Kiki… she’s got a gift. On days she laughs out loud, our stock price jumps a full point.” “When we’re negotiating with a client,” she continued, her eyes wide, “if she’s the one who prints the contract, the deal always closes.” “She’s the company’s good luck charm, a walking fortune. Your father adores her. Please, don’t make an enemy of her.” I don’t believe in fairy tales. I revoked her privileges, put her on the same performance plan as every other junior employee, and slashed her salary to match her title. The next day, the company went bankrupt. The shock sent my father to the hospital with a massive heart attack. My mother, hysterical, dragged me into the car to go beg Kiki to come back. We never made it. A truck blew through a red light. There was nothing left to bury. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I did was fire her. Because that monster could not be allowed to win. 1 The office, a space that should have been humming with focused work, was polluted by the tinny sound effects of viral videos and the overpowering stench of microwaved fish and stale popcorn. Kiki was practically horizontal in her custom ergonomic recliner, kicking her feet in the air and roaring with laughter, completely oblivious to the world around her. The few employees trying to hold a meeting nearby were whispering, terrified of disturbing her. My face was a mask of cold fury as I walked up to her, just like last time. “Is this your idea of a professional attitude?” Kiki barely glanced at me, just rolled her eyes before her attention snapped back to the screen. Her posture screamed one thing: And who the hell are you? “Ms. Ross! Over here, quickly!” My father’s assistant, Linda, scurried over, her expression just as panicked as it was in my memory. She pulled me aside, feeding me the exact same lines as before. She finished with a new, frantic addition. “Mr. Ross is in an emergency meeting and can’t be reached today. If you fire Kiki, he’s going to be furious when he gets back!” For a split second, the déjà vu hit me like a physical blow. But I shook it off, gave Linda a look I hoped was reassuring, and strode right back to Kiki. I didn’t waste any time. “Kiki, you’re fired.” The air in the office froze. Every head snapped in our direction. “Pfft! You? Fire me? Who do you think you are?” Kiki tossed the half-eaten bag of Takis she was holding onto the floor, the spicy dust puffing into the already suffocating air. “Let me give you a little friendly advice. The last person who raised their voice to me in this office is still trying to get a callback for an entry-level job.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Security? Get this woman out of my sight.” To her astonishment, no one moved. Linda rushed forward, forcing a sycophantic smile at Kiki. “Kiki, please. This is Audrey Ross, the owner’s daughter. She’s been in London for the past six months, so she doesn’t know… Please, don’t be upset.” “Oh. Well then tell her to get the hell out of my light. I’m trying to watch my stories.” She hit play and sank back into her own little world. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I never believed in any of that “good luck charm” bullshit. But in my last life, it didn’t matter what I believed. I fired her, the company collapsed, and my father’s heart gave out. It was only in the moment of my own death that I finally understood the truth. This woman wasn’t a blessing. She was a curse. And she had to be cut out. My resolve hardened. I stepped forward, snatched the tablet from her hands, and slammed it onto her desk. “This is your official notification. You, Kiki, are terminated for gross negligence of your duties during work hours.” Kiki didn’t even flinch. She just gave me another long, contemptuous eye-roll. But the other employees started to panic, their voices pleading and urgent. “Ms. Ross, please, don’t do this! The company’s performance is because of Kiki! She’s more important than you know!” “It’s true! Keeping Kiki happy is our top priority. She’s the reason we’re all still employed!” “You just got back, you don’t understand how things work now. Please, just wait for your father to get back.” My patience evaporated. “Our company’s performance,” I snapped, my voice cutting through the chatter, “is the result of our employees’ hard work and our shareholders’ investment. If we could build a successful corporation based on some New Age nonsense and a designated ‘mascot,’ we could all just quit and go burn incense at a temple every day!” My words hung in the air. Faces around the room shifted. Some flushed with embarrassment at being called out. Others hid their faces, quietly wiping away tears. And a few, the ones who had clearly been suffering under Kiki’s reign, looked at me with newfound support. “Ms. Ross is right!” one of the senior engineers spoke up. “I never believed in this good luck charm garbage! It was just a string of coincidences.” Just then, the head of marketing let out a strangled cry. “Oh my God! Northgate Industries—they just signed with our biggest competitor! That’s our thirty-million-dollar annual materials contract!” He stared at his phone, his face pale. “They’re not answering my calls! Did they block me?!” “What!” “Ms. Ross! Apologize to Kiki right now! Tell her you didn’t mean it!” “Yes, Kiki is our North Star! You made her angry and now we’re being punished! The universe is turning against us!” “You can’t let your ego sink the entire company!” The panic was infectious, the employees’ pleas turning into accusations. Kiki watched the chaos unfold, a smug little smile playing on her lips. “You know, Ms. Ross, I’m a forgiving person. Just give me a sincere, formal apology, and we can pretend this never happened.” I stared at her, my expression unreadable. “Did I stutter? You. Are. Fired.” “Fine! Fine! Don’t come crawling back to me!” Kiki shot up from her chair and stormed toward the exit, throwing me one last venomous glare. “Wait,” I said. “What? Regret it already? Too late!” She didn’t break her stride. “I wouldn’t come back to this hellhole unless you got on your knees and begged for my forgiveness in the middle of Times Square!” “Who said anything about asking you to stay? I want to settle your accounts.” My voice was calm, cutting through her tantrum. “Every single item the company purchased for you needs to be inventoried before you leave. Who knows what you might ‘accidentally’ take with you?” I started ticking items off. “Your top-of-the-line PC, your tablet, your sound system… that custom ergonomic chair that cost over ten thousand dollars, the lease on your downtown penthouse apartment, all those imported groceries and prime rib that were expensed to the company card…” “Every last cent needs to be accounted for. If one thing is missing, our next meeting will be at the police station.” “You! You! Fine! You want to play it like that?” Kiki’s face twisted into a grotesque mask of fury. A second later, it melted into the expression of a deeply wronged victim. “When Mr. Ross hired me, he said I didn’t have to do anything! He said my only job was to be happy and have fun here every day…” She sniffled. “You fire me without cause. I’ll see you at the Labor Board!” “Did you get any of that in writing? Who do you think the board will believe? Me, with security footage of you goofing off all day, every day? Or you, with your story about being a magical good luck charm?” I didn’t even wait for an answer, just pointed to a few terrified-looking junior accountants. “You, you, and you. Go with her. Conduct a full inventory and exit interview.” They froze, looking from me to Kiki. My voice dropped to ice. “You work for this company, not for her. You will do as I say and document every single paperclip. If you have a problem with that, you can follow her to HR and pick up your own severance package.” That got them moving. Kiki’s face was beet red. She stared at me as if I were already dead. Suddenly, Linda burst back into the room, her phone pressed to her ear, her face ashen. “Ms. Ross! The stock just dropped fifty percent! It’s in a freefall! The major shareholders are all calling at once! They’re saying if it drops another point, they’re pulling out completely!” The room fell into a stunned silence. A moment later, Mr. Henderson, one of my father’s oldest and most loyal executives, approached me, his expression grave. “Audrey, you’re new to this. Don’t be stubborn. Just apologize to Kiki. She’s a good kid, she’ll forgive you.” I didn’t even hesitate. “No. The decision is final.” Kiki had to go. “Audrey Ross! What is this madness! You come home with me right now!” My mother stormed in, her face a storm of anger and disappointment. She slapped me hard on the back. “The second you get off the plane you come here and act like a tyrant? And you target Ms. Kiki? I swear, you went to London to study business, but it seems all you learned was how to be a fool!” She whirled on me. “Apologize to her! Now!” Then, just as quickly, she turned to Kiki, her entire demeanor changing to one of abject humility. “Ms. Kiki, please, my daughter is just a foolish girl, don’t take it to heart. I promise you, right here and now, you will always have a place at Ross Industries. In fact, starting next month, we’ll double your salary. What do you say?” It was pathetic. Humiliating. No! I couldn’t let my mother chain us to this parasite again! Even if it meant bankruptcy, Kiki had to be expelled. In a moment of pure desperation, I grabbed a fruit knife from a gift basket on a nearby desk and pressed it to my own throat. “Mom! If you don’t let me fire this bitch today, I swear to God I will die right here in front of you!” I pressed harder. A thin line of blood welled against the steel. My mother shrieked, collapsing into tears, begging me to put the knife down. A wave of guilt and sorrow washed over me, so strong it almost buckled my knees. But I couldn’t tell her the real reason. I couldn’t tell my broken, weeping mother the truth. Not yet. “Mom! You have to choose! Is it going to be your daughter, or this… this snake?” “Okay! Okay! I won’t interfere! Just please, put the knife down!” she sobbed, wringing her hands. I dropped the knife into a wastebasket and fixed my glare on Kiki, who stood silently in the corner, her face pale and pinched. “Get out. Now. Or do you need an engraved invitation?” For the first time, I saw a flicker of genuine panic in her eyes. I saw it. But before she could move, a commotion erupted at the office entrance. “Ms. Kiki! Why would you subject yourself to this abuse? The doors of Croft Enterprises are always open for you! Five hundred thousand a month! You don’t even have to clock in, just grace us with your presence once a day. How does that sound?” A bald, portly man in an expensive suit pushed his way into the room. It was Harrison Croft, the vulture who had just poached our thirty-million-dollar Northgate contract. He was grinning, his face creasing into a fawning smile. His eyes landed on my mother and me, and his smile turned into a sneer. “See? This is what happens when you let women run things. Firing the company’s golden goose because of some petty jealousy. You think business is a tea party? You see a pretty face you don’t like and just kick her to the curb.” He winked at me, his gaze oily and repulsive. “Audrey, when this whole thing goes belly-up, you come see Uncle Harry. I’ll find something for you to do.” I wanted to scream at him, but I couldn’t risk taking my eyes off Kiki. Not for a second. “Mr. Croft, thank you for the generous offer,” Kiki said, her voice trembling artfully. “But Mr. Ross gave me my start. Even though I’ve been so terribly wronged, I feel I should wait until Mr. Ross himself tells me I’m fired. Only then can I truly move on.” She refused him. She actually refused him. In that instant, it was like a lightning strike to the brain. Everything clicked into place. I knew everything. “Forget your ‘start’! Kiki, are you that shameless?” I spat, my voice dripping with venom. “You’re not waiting for my father. You’re in love with him, aren’t you? Is that your game? You want to be the mistress? Break up my parents’ marriage?” “What is this, some kind of twisted sugar baby fantasy? You’re no good luck charm. You’re a parasite!” I turned to my mother. “Mom, don’t you see? I’m getting rid of this homewrecker for you! I won’t let her destroy our family!” I threw every disgusting accusation I could think of at her, watching the words land like physical blows. “You—you’re lying! How dare you!” Kiki’s face was now a violent shade of crimson. Humiliation finally broke her composure, and she burst into tears. It wasn’t enough. I pulled out my phone, logged into the company’s master admin system, and deleted Kiki’s security profile and keycard access right in front of her. “Get. Out.” The next second, it began. Phones started ringing all across the office, a symphony of disaster. “Multiple trucks in the transport fleet have spontaneously caught fire! We can’t make deliveries! The breach of contract fees are going to be astronomical!” “A main water line burst at the primary manufacturing plant! It’s flooding! The whole facility is underwater!” “It’s over! Someone leaked our new core technology online! It’s everywhere! Billions in R&D, just gone!” “The component we launched last month… we’re being sued for patent infringement! They’re saying we stole the technology! #BoycottRoss is trending everywhere!” “…” The bad news was a tidal wave. My mother swayed on her feet, grabbing a desk for support. “Audrey, please, stop being so stubborn…” she whispered. The employees, however, were done whispering. “Audrey Ross, you entitled little brat!” one of the men screamed, his face contorted with rage. “When this company goes under, you’ll still be a millionaire! You’ll just fly back to your fancy life abroad! But us? We have mortgages! We have kids to feed!” “My wife just had our second baby! Do you have any idea how much formula costs?” a man from accounting cried out. “Mr. Ross, I’m begging you, take back the order!” “My son’s tuition is due! If I lose this job, what am I supposed to do? My ex doesn’t pay a dime of child support! Are you trying to kill us, Ms. Ross?!” Their desperate, furious faces swam before my eyes. I dug my nails into my palms, the sharp pain a grounding shock to my system. And then, the final straw. Linda looked up from her phone, her voice hollow. “The company accounts have been frozen… due to excessive debt.” “It’s over… We’re not even going to get our last paycheck, are we?!” “Ms. Ross, please…” The woman whose son had tuition due fell to her knees in front of me. Through the cacophony, Kiki let out a small, delicate laugh. She adopted a mask of magnanimity. “Look, I don’t want to see everyone lose their jobs. But Ms. Ross has been so cruel to me today. So… how about this. If Ms. Ross kneels down and apologizes to me, I’ll stay.” Hope, desperate and ugly, flickered back to life in the eyes of every employee. Harrison Croft chose that moment to jump back in. “Ms. Kiki, you’re too loyal for your own good! Look what it gets you! Come to Croft Enterprises, I’ll have a million dollars wired to your account before you even sign the papers!” The employees’ renewed hope curdled back into sheer terror. Every single person in the room was staring at me, their breath held, their futures hanging on my next words. I finally spoke, my voice clear and steady. “I said she’s fired. And she is fired. If the company goes down with her, so be it.”

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My best friend started dating the hottest, richest guy on campus. When she posted the official relationship announcement, my comment was instantaneous: Ask him if he has any friends. A second later, she sent me a picture: her new boyfriend with his crew. Every single one of them was a ten. Her text: Take your pick. I chose the most handsome one. The impossible one. Six months later, I sent her a message: I can’t do this. Maybe I should just pick a different one? 1 My best friend, Olivia, had officially bagged the campus king. Looking at the picture she’d just posted to her Instagram story—her, tucked under Carter Brooks’s arm like she was born there—I immediately fired back a comment. So… does he have a brother? A second later, a photo landed in my DMs. It was Carter with two of his friends, all of them offensively good-looking. Liv’s text followed: Take your pick. I stared at the screen, genuinely torn between two entirely different flavors of handsome. One had eyes that crinkled at the corners and a smirk playing on his thin lips. He was gorgeous, but in a way that screamed “I break hearts for sport.” A player. The other one… his face was all sharp angles and unforgiving lines. His lips were pressed together, his gaze drilling into the camera with an intensity that made my breath catch. He was my type, exactly my type, which usually meant one thing: he was going to be difficult. To hell with difficult. I was in. I circled the second guy’s face and sent it back to Liv. I want that one. A few minutes later, his dossier arrived. Ethan Scott. 6’2”, 185 lbs. Cadet at the military academy across town. Oh, god. A cadet. I glanced down at my own body. I was almost his weight. That evening, Liv organized a small get-together. Staring at my reflection, at the soft curve of my stomach pushing against the fabric of my dress, a familiar wave of doubt washed over me. It was no surprise Liv had landed Carter Brooks; she was the kind of effortlessly beautiful girl who commanded attention just by walking into a room. Me? I had to hold my breath to comfortably zip up a size 12. Could I really pull this off? My phone rang. It was Liv. “Sophie, you better bring your A-game tonight. Dress to kill.” “Liv, maybe I should just bail,” I mumbled, already starting to lose my nerve. Carter Brooks was a legend on campus, a guy from a family with a name. His friends were bound to be in the same league. “Sophie Miller! Don’t you dare,” she commanded, her voice sharp. “The opportunity is right in front of you. Think about that face. Think about the life that comes with a guy like that. This isn’t a date, it’s a lottery ticket.” Fine. Lottery ticket. I was all in. I squeezed into a little black dress, wobbled my way into a pair of heels I never wore, and headed out. Liv had picked a chic rooftop bar. When she saw me, she waved me over with a grin. “Soph, over here!” I slid into the booth next to her. Carter was on her other side, and across from them, there he was. Ethan Scott. His presence was even more striking in person. I’d never seen a guy look so good with a buzz cut. He wore a plain white button-down, but on him, it looked less like a piece of clothing and more like a statement of severe, untouchable discipline. An aura of pure, unfiltered stoicism. I took a gulp of water to calm the frantic hummingbird in my chest. “This is my best friend, Sophie,” Liv announced. “And this is Ethan Scott, Carter’s friend,” she added, giving me a pointed little wink. I managed a smile and a small wave. He returned it with a slow, deliberate nod. “Hey, Liv, what about me?” a voice complained from Ethan’s side. It was the other guy from the picture, the one with the player smile. My god, tonight was a feast for the eyes. My life was officially looking up. “Hi, I’m Noah,” he said, arching an eyebrow in a way that was clearly practiced. “Sophie,” I replied. The night devolved into a game of Truth or Dare. When the empty beer bottle spun and landed squarely on me, Liv gave me a subtle thumbs-up. “Dare,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. Liv’s eyes lit up. “Make eye contact with any guy at this table for thirty seconds. No breaking.” There was no question who I’d choose. I locked eyes with Ethan. His gaze was like a physical weight, deep and unreadable. My heart started hammering against my ribs so loudly I was sure he could hear it. Calm down, you idiot. He’s going to hear you. When the bottle pointed at me a second time, I shot a look at the instigator. Could you be any more obvious, Liv? I chose dare again. “Ask a guy here for his number,” Liv declared, loving the drama. “If he says no, you chug three drinks.” My hands were trembling as I pulled out my phone. I angled it toward Ethan. “Hi. Could I… get your number?” He seemed to finally catch on to the setup, and a slight frown creased his forehead. The moment stretched, thick with awkward silence. Finally, after a sharp nudge from Liv, Carter spoke up. “Come on, Ethan. It’s just a number. The lady’s asking. Don’t be an ass.” In the end, I walked away with his contact saved in my phone. 2 From that day on, I made it my mission to text-harass Ethan Scott. He mostly left me on read, and when he did reply, it was with curt, one-word answers. Liv told me this wasn’t going to cut it. “You have to get him in person, Soph! Physical proximity creates sparks!” I knew she was right. But looking at my reflection, at the soft, rounded version of myself in the mirror, I made a decision. I was going on a diet. That afternoon, I signed up for a gym membership. My goal was to get down to 130 pounds, which meant shedding thirty pounds of flesh that loved hot pot, barbecue, and late-night snacks more than anything. God, it was going to be torture. But maybe love really was magic. The next day, as I was sweating on the treadmill, I pictured Ethan’s severe, handsome face, and my legs pumped a little faster. Which is why I wanted the floor to swallow me whole when I ran into him at that very gym, dressed in a baggy, sweat-stained gray sweatsuit, my face bare and flushed. He stopped short when he saw me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. “Hey!” A corner of his mouth twitched, amused by my mortified expression. “I thought you were studying at the library.” I froze, remembering the text I’d sent him half an hour ago. My face burned. I was trying to have a secret transformation, to emerge from my cocoon as a beautiful butterfly, and here he was, seeing me as a sweaty caterpillar. “Uh…” I scratched my head, scrambling for an excuse. “Yeah, I was. School’s just so stressful, you know? Came to run it off.” The cringe was unbearable. He didn’t press it. He just took off his jacket and started lifting weights, his muscles flexing under his shirt. Watching the clean, powerful lines of his arms, I silently increased the speed on my treadmill. For the next month, the gym became my sanctuary and my hunting ground. Seeing Ethan there was my primary motivation. We graduated from awkward silence to the occasional joke. The number on the scale dropped from 160 to 150. My clothes went from a Large to a Medium. When Liv saw me again, she grabbed my hands and spun me around. “Sophie! You’ve lost so much weight!” “What can I say? I haven’t tasted barbecue in a month. All for the love of Ethan Scott.” “That’s some serious willpower,” she said, giving me an impressed thumbs-up. While we were out shopping, Liv picked out a blue, off-the-shoulder dress—a style and color I would have never dared to try before. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Liv’s jaw dropped. “Wow, Soph. That dress was literally made for you.” I looked at my reflection. I was still a little soft around the edges, but for the first time in a long time, I liked what I saw. 3 That night, I was lying in bed, sending a barrage of texts to Ethan that were going unanswered. This was unusual. After weeks of my relentless campaign, he’d started responding regularly, even initiating a bit of banter. Then, my phone rang. It was Liv. “Sophie, you need to get over here. Now. It’s a code red.” “What is it?” “Your competition just showed up.” Alarms blared in my head. I shot out of bed, threw on the new blue dress, and raced to the bar she’d sent me the location of. When Ethan saw me, his eyes widened in surprise. My gaze immediately slid to the girl sitting next to him. She was dressed head-to-toe in designer labels, her hair a sheet of perfect silk. Every inch of her screamed expensive, effortless polish. “Hi,” she said, her smile perfectly pleasant. “I’m Amelia Reed. Ethan and I went to high school together.” I mirrored her smile, dialing up the sweetness. “Hi! I’m Sophie Miller. I’m Ethan’s workout buddy.” Ethan stared at me, his eyes wide as dinner plates. I fluttered my eyelashes at him, laying the damsel act on thick. He looked so startled he grabbed his drink and took a nervous sip. I heard Liv choke back a laugh from across the table. Amelia’s perfect smile tightened just a fraction. After that, I ramped up my pursuit. Whenever I had a free moment, I’d head over to the academy, watching him during his training sessions. His classmates started to recognize me. “Hey, Scott, your girlfriend’s here again! Lucky bastard!” they’d yell. Ethan would just shake his head, a resigned look on his face. “She’s not my girlfriend.” The days bled into weeks, and summer turned to fall. My relationship with Ethan, however, remained completely stalled. I complained to Liv that the man was a fortress, impossible to breach. The one silver lining was that my body was transforming. I was getting closer and closer to my goal weight. On Ethan’s birthday, I showed up at his house with a watch I’d spent weeks saving for. He took the gift from my hands. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. Noah popped up from out of nowhere. “Sophie, whoa! You look… different.” “How different?” “Different enough that I’m about to fall in love. You should give up on Ethan and give me a shot.” He said it with a dramatic flair that made me laugh. “Noah, rack the balls,” Ethan said, his tone suddenly sharp. Watching Ethan lean over the pool table was a form of exquisite torture. If he looked that good just bending over a table, I could only imagine what he’d look like… anywhere else. “Hey. Wipe your drool, it’s getting on the floor.” Liv nudged me. “All I can do is drool,” I sighed. “I’ve been at this for three months. If it hasn’t happened by now, it’s never going to happen.” “Has he given you any sign? Anything at all?” I shook my head, my good mood deflating. “Seriously, man, do you like Sophie or not?” I was coming out of the bathroom when I heard Noah’s voice and froze. “I don’t know,” Ethan replied. “What do you mean, you don’t know? Do you get that, like, heart-pounding, butterflies-in-your-stomach feeling when you see her?” A pause. “No.” My nails dug into my palms. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh at my own foolishness. In the adult world, a non-answer is an answer. A lack of response is a rejection. How had I been so blind? 4 I didn’t see Ethan for a week. After hearing those two words, something inside me finally clicked into place. You can’t force someone to love you. I stared at myself in the mirror—hair a tangled mess, dark circles under my eyes. I looked pathetic. After a long shower, I sent Liv a message, trying to make a joke out of my heartbreak. He’s impossible. Guess I’ll just have to find someone else.

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I have an Instagram account—a small, curated corner of the internet dedicated to my life with my husband, Jackson. Today is our third wedding anniversary, and true to form, he had ninety-nine roses delivered to our door. It’s our thing. A little extravagant, a little over the top. It’s him. I snapped a quick photo and posted it, the crimson petals filling the frame. Usually, my comments section is a quiet affair, a dozen or so messages from close friends. But today, it exploded. “Am I counting wrong, or are there only 98 roses here? Knew this girl was faking it. Finally caught her in a lie.” The comment was from a troll who’d developed a bizarre fixation on me, someone who always got a rise out of my followers. But this time, the replies underneath were all in agreement. “She’s not wrong. I counted. It’s 98.” “Whoa, I just went back and looked at her posts from the last two anniversaries. They were all 98 roses, too!” I stared at the flurry of comments, my phone feeling heavy in my hand. A cold knot formed in my stomach. Refusing to believe it, I counted them myself. Twice. They were right. One was missing. I pushed the roses aside and sank onto the sofa, where I sat for the rest of the day, the silence of the apartment pressing in on me. It was long after dark when the front door finally opened, and Jackson walked in. He brought a gust of cold night air with him, and something else: the pure, unfamiliar scent of flowers. 1 The apartment was dark. “Eleanor?” Jackson called out, his voice echoing slightly as he fumbled for the switch. The light flooded the room. He saw me on the sofa and frowned. “Nora, why are you sitting in the dark?” Before I could answer, his eyes landed on the scattered roses on the floor. His expression shifted to surprise. “What happened? Why did you take them apart?” I stood up and took his coat from him. “It’s nothing,” I said, my voice steady. “I just wanted to count them.” Jackson froze for a second. I continued, “It’s strange, though. There were only ninety-eight. One was missing.” He looked down, busying himself with the cufflinks on his shirt. I couldn’t see his face. After a few seconds, he looked up, his expression casual. “The florist must have made a mistake. I’ll have them send another one over tomorrow to make up for it.” He leaned in and kissed my forehead, then turned and headed for the bathroom to shower. I stood there, motionless. The scent that clung to him wasn’t cologne. It was the pure, unadulterated fragrance of a hundred different blossoms mixed together. A moment later, I pulled Jackson’s phone from his coat pocket. In five years of marriage, I had never once looked through his phone. This was a first. The passcode was my birthday. It had always been my birthday. I opened his Instagram. It didn’t take long to find the account he used to order the flowers. The owner was a woman. Her handle was “Sophie.” Her profile picture was a simple, hand-drawn sunflower. I opened their DMs. The conversation was clean—just a series of orders and confirmations. No flirting, nothing overtly inappropriate. But as I scrolled up, my thumb stopped. He had been ordering from her for the last three years. Jackson was a creature of habit; once he found something he liked, he stuck with it. That wasn’t the strange part. The strange part was that he had kept three full years of their chat history. Jackson had a quirk. He compulsively cleared his chat logs. No conversation ever lasted more than a week. I was the only exception. From our first date to our wedding day, Jackson had saved every single message we’d ever exchanged. He was meticulous about backing them up whenever he got a new phone. And now, there was a second exception. Taking a deep breath, I navigated to Sophie’s profile. Amidst a sea of floral arrangements and shop promotions, one post stood out. It was a photo of a delicate hand holding a single red rose. The caption read: Even a single petal of your truth is more than enough. It was posted today. Jackson hadn’t commented. But he had liked it. In that instant, I felt the floor drop out from under me. I don’t know how long I stood there before the bathroom door opened. Jackson walked out, toweling his hair. He saw me with his phone and paused, but then a teasing smile played on his lips. “Eleanor, finally decided to see what I’m hiding?” I turned to face him. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face, only the familiar, gentle mockery. I forced my own expression to remain neutral and held up the phone, showing him Sophie’s post. “One rose was missing from my bouquet,” I said, my voice flat. “And this was posted on our anniversary.” “Jackson, I need an explanation.” He actually looked surprised. “It’s just a coincidence, Nora.” I held his gaze. “You liked her post. And you saved three years of your messages.” The smile vanished from his face. Silence stretched between us. Finally, he sat down next to me on the sofa, took my hand, and sighed. “Eleanor, it’s not what you think.” “I saved the chat history to keep track of the orders,” he said. “They messed up an order once and refused to admit it, so I started keeping the logs as proof.” “As for the ‘like’? It was just a mindless tap. That’s it.” I said nothing. At first blush, the excuse sounded reasonable. But I knew Jackson better than that. He had an almost pathological intolerance for incompetence. His last executive assistant, a woman who had been with him for years, was transferred after making a single, minor error. For Jackson to break his own rule for this florist meant she was special. Seeing my silence, his brow furrowed. “Eleanor? You don’t trust me?” I looked at him, my voice quiet but firm. “If that’s the case, then you can delete her contact and we can find a new florist. Right?” His face hardened. “You really don’t believe me!” I didn’t answer, just kept my eyes locked on his. His expression shifted, a flicker of anger passing through his eyes. He stood up abruptly, his voice cold, as if he were daring me. “Fine. Do whatever you want.” I nodded slowly. Then, right there in front of him, I deleted Sophie from his contacts. “Are you satisfied now?” he snapped. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. He snatched the phone back from my hand, turned on his heel, and stalked into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a resounding crack. The force of it seemed to travel through the floorboards and up my spine. I collapsed back onto the sofa, the strength draining out of me. Only then did I notice that my hands were trembling violently. 2 The days that followed were cold and silent. Jackson and I were locked in a stalemate. He didn’t make his usual move to apologize and smooth things over, and I didn’t press the issue of “Sophie” any further. But I knew. Even if nothing physical had happened, the balance of a normal relationship between a man and a woman—a married man and another woman—had been broken. On the tenth day of the cold war, I came home from work to find Jackson in the kitchen, wearing an apron. Hearing the door, he turned and gave me a small smile, as if the frost of the past week and a half had never existed. “Go wash up. Dinner’s almost ready.” I hesitated for a moment before heading to the bathroom. As I passed the dining table, I stopped. There was a bouquet of flowers in a vase. The branded card of a well-known downtown florist dangled conspicuously from a ribbon, placed as if to ensure I would see it. It wasn’t from Sophie’s shop. I understood immediately. This was Jackson’s peace offering. This was his way of bending. I stood there for a long moment before walking over and adjusting the flowers in the vase. When I came out of the bathroom, dinner was on the table. The sight made me feel a little dizzy, like I was looking back in time. The last time Jackson had cooked was years ago. It was back when he was first launching his company. Every penny we had was tied up in the business. There was a stretch of time where we were so broke, we couldn’t even afford two packs of ramen. We’d make one and supplement it with cheap spaghetti noodles. Jackson would always pick the ramen out and put it in my bowl, leaving himself with a soggy pile of overcooked pasta. Then his company took off. He started taking me to the finest restaurants, buying me anything I wanted. We never had to huddle over a tiny kitchen table, our foreheads nearly touching as we shared a bowl of noodles again. But sometimes, I missed it. I missed the people we used to be, the ones who were fiercely, desperately in love. Not the people we had become—two successful individuals shining in our own orbits, with less and less to say to each other every day. The cold war between us ended with that meal, an unspoken truce. But that didn’t mean I had forgiven him. If I were twenty, I would have slapped him across the face and walked out. But I’m twenty-nine. The law firm I co-founded with my partner is just getting off the ground. Our most significant retainer is with Jackson’s company. Keeping that connection is critical for our growth. So, I made a choice. I would turn a blind eye. As long as Jackson didn’t cross my ultimate line, I wouldn’t burn everything to the ground. 3 Two weeks later, I was in a conference room, walking a client through the details of their case, when a wave of nausea hit me so hard I had to excuse myself. I rushed to the restroom and spent the next five minutes dry-heaving over the toilet. A terrible premonition washed over me. A trip to the doctor confirmed it. I was a little over two months pregnant. The doctor said the baby was perfectly healthy. But he had come at the worst possible time. After a long moment, I crumpled the ultrasound report in my fist and took a deep, shuddering breath. This wasn’t a decision I could make alone. Jackson was the father. He had a right to know, a right to have a say. A small, foolish part of me wondered if this was the universe giving us a chance to repair things. I drove to his office building. The young woman at the reception desk recognized me instantly, offering a bright smile. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pierce.” I nodded back. As I did, my gaze fell on a long table against the wall, and I froze. On the table sat a large cardboard box filled with individually wrapped single roses. The receptionist, ever observant, noticed my stare. “Oh, that?” she explained cheerfully. “Valentine’s Day is tomorrow, so Mr. Pierce ordered a flower for every woman in the company. Just grab one on your way out.” I didn’t respond. My eyes were glued to the familiar sunflower logo printed on the side of the box. After what felt like an eternity, I managed to pull my gaze away, my voice raspy. “Does he do this every year?” She thought for a moment. “I think he started about three years ago.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest. I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass and made my way to the elevators. Outside Jackson’s office, I raised my hand to knock, but the door was pulled open from the inside. A pretty young woman stepped out, her face lit with a smile that instantly vanished the moment she saw me. We stared at each other. Neither of us spoke. Jackson emerged right behind her. The color drained from his face when he saw me, and he instinctively moved to stand slightly in front of Sophie. “Eleanor. It’s not what you think.” His words came out in a rush. “She was just dropping off the flowers. The Valentine’s Day order was placed months ago, it was too late to cancel—” I held up a hand, cutting him off. “Jackson, stop trying to explain. It just makes you sound ridiculous.” His face darkened, but before he could speak, Sophie stepped forward, her chin lifted defiantly. “Mrs. Pierce, that’s a horrible thing to say. It’s not like that between Mr. Pierce and me. Our relationship isn’t sordid like you’re implying!” She bit her lip, then turned to look at Jackson with an expression of pure, doe-eyed devotion. “I’m the one who has feelings for him, but he’s never once reciprocated. His heart belongs completely to you!” she declared, her voice ringing with sincerity. “He’s a wonderful man, Mrs. Pierce. You should cherish him.” I looked at her, my own expression calm. “Do you know what I do for a living?” Sophie blinked, confused. I continued, my voice level and cold. “I’m a lawyer. I’ve seen more criminals put on a show in a courtroom than you can imagine. Weeping, sobbing, performances that could move an entire jury. Your little damsel-in-distress act? It’s amateur hour. Only the most desperate kind of fool would fall for it.” Sophie’s face flushed a deep crimson, and tears welled in her eyes. Jackson saw her wounded expression, and his own face contorted with anger and embarrassment. “Eleanor, that’s enough,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. I let out a small, humorless laugh. “Oh, is this too much for you?” “Jackson, I’m a litigator. I have a vocabulary of much sharper, much crueler words I haven’t even used yet. Would you like a sample?” He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his patience clearly gone. “Eleanor, what do you want?” My hand instinctively went to my stomach. A hot sting filled my eyes. I fought to keep my voice from trembling. “Jackson, I’m giving you one choice. Either she disappears from my life forever, or I do.” “You choose.” He frowned, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Eleanor, can you please stop being so dramatic?” And just like that, the frantic, emotional haze that had clouded my mind evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hard clarity. It was foolish of me to hold out hope for a man whose heart had already strayed. I took a deep breath and pulled my lips into a semblance of a smile. “Fine,” I said. “I understand.” “Jackson, I want a divorce.”

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