After my daughter was brutalized by her classmates, I posted a statement online: “I do not intend to press charges, nor will I seek compensation. My child needs to go to school, and life needs to go on.” The entire internet turned on me. What kind of man, what kind of father, was so spineless? So weak? I didn’t deserve to be a dad, they said. But while they were busy insulting me, I had already resigned from my job, sold our house, and divorced my wife, leaving her with everything. Then, I started waking up at 5 a.m. to run. To lift. To practice at the shooting range. The word father isn’t something you say. It’s something you do. 1 I stood outside the emergency room, unable to accept that the person on that gurney—unconscious, covered in wounds—was my daughter. Her skin was a canvas of angry red welts and deep bruises. The doctor told me the lacerations would leave scars she would carry for the rest of her life. Looking at her, a knife twisted in my gut. It had happened because she hadn’t said hello to the right girl in the hallway. For that, she was dragged into a bathroom and beaten by a pack of them. Now, my daughter, Lily, was lying in an ER, her condition uncertain. And the girls who did this to her were down the hall, giggling with each other. They peeked out from behind their parents, sticking their tongues out at us. “Mister, you can’t blame us,” one of them chirped, the ringleader. “Your daughter should have said hi to me. Don’t worry, I won’t touch her at school anymore. But after school… no promises.” Their expressions were light, casual. Not a flicker of remorse. Even the police officer standing nearby couldn’t take it. “Ma’am, sir, could you please control your children? Don’t provoke the victim’s family.” I watched as those parents wrapped their arms around their daughters, their faces etched with protective concern. Their daughters were precious. Was mine just born to be broken? Seeing the rage building in my eyes, the school principal stepped in, his brow furrowed. “Please, calm down. We didn’t want this to happen any more than you did. But the girls know they were wrong, and their parents have agreed to cover all the medical expenses. Isn’t that enough? Let’s not blow this out of proportion.” I stared at him in disbelief. Were those words actually coming out of a grown man’s mouth? An educator? My daughter is brutalized, and when I demand justice, I’m the one blowing things out of proportion. “Why are you looking at me like that? Am I wrong?” he pressed. “They’ve apologized. What more do you want? Do you need to ruin their lives to be happy? Can’t you think about the bigger picture here?” The bigger picture? It was the sickest joke I’d heard in my entire life. Then, a man dripping in gold jewelry—a thick chain, a gaudy watch—spoke to me with a dismissive smirk. “Look, buddy, I get it. You’re just trying to squeeze a little extra cash out of this, right? Cut the act. How much do you want to make this go away?” He was the father of the ringleader. “I have plenty of money,” he continued, “but if you want it, you have to make a public statement. You have to say your daughter’s injuries were from a fall. That my kid had nothing to do with it.” When I didn’t answer, his face hardened. “Hey. Don’t push your luck. I’m giving you an easy way out. You should take it. Because I have a thousand ways to make sure you can never make a living in this town again.” There’s an old saying: the kindest people are the ones who get taken advantage of the most. What he didn’t know was that the last person who spoke to me like that has been dead for a very long time. 2 When Lily woke up, she curled into a ball under the hospital blanket and refused to come out. Seeing her small body trembling made my heart ache. It was only when she heard my voice that she finally responded, slowly peeking her head out. Her small face was a mask of terror. She scrambled out of the sheets and threw herself into my arms. “Daddy, Mommy, I’m so scared,” she sobbed. “They all hurt me. I don’t want to go back to school. I’m so, so scared.” I raised my hand to stroke her hair, but my eyes caught the angry red lines on her back, and the pain in my chest sharpened. This was my little girl, who would cry in my arms over a paper cut. I couldn’t imagine the desperation she must have felt during that hour of torture. “Daddy,” she whispered into my shirt, “you always say you only get punished when you do something wrong. What did I do wrong? I just… I wasn’t wearing my glasses, so I didn’t see her.” I held her tighter, stroking her head. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing. They are the ones who are wrong.” I pulled back to look her in the eyes. “And I promise you, Daddy will make sure that the people who did wrong will pay for it.” Tears welled in her eyes. “Really, Daddy?” I nodded, my voice firm. “Really.” My wife, Sarah, sat beside us, wrapping her arms around Lily, her expression a mixture of heartbreak and helpless rage. After we finally managed to get Lily to fall asleep, I drove to the police station. The officer’s words sent my heart plummeting back into that dark pit. It turned out the ringleader, Madison, had a long history of this. Her parents were both high-powered attorneys. They had used their connections to get their daughter a falsified psychiatric diagnosis—some kind of intermittent explosive disorder—which had helped her escape legal consequences more than once. “What kind of bullshit is that?” I demanded. “She gets a free pass to be a monster just because she’s a minor? A fake diagnosis makes her untouchable?” The officer let out a heavy sigh, his gaze full of sympathy. “I’m sorry, man. Our hands are tied. The best we can do is push for a bigger settlement. If they bother your daughter again, call us immediately.” So that was it. Who knew how many other kids would have to suffer at her hands? Just then, my phone buzzed. A new message. I opened it and my blood ran cold. It was a video of Lily being beaten. 3 In the video, Lily was gasping for air as several girls held her down. Her face was already swelling, turning purple and blue as she cried helplessly. “You guys are hitting her too hard,” a voice said off-camera, laughing. “You knocked her tooth out! How’s she gonna look pretty now?” Madison then pointed the camera directly at Lily’s face for a close-up before pulling out a large pair of scissors and hacking at her hair. The video ended with the girls turning the camera on themselves. They each had a foot planted on Lily’s back, and they were all smiling, flipping off the camera with their middle fingers. Beside me, Sarah choked back a sob, her tears falling onto my hand. Her own hands were trembling, unable to watch another second. “Those animals,” she whispered, her voice shaking with rage. “I’ll kill them. I’ll burn my life to the ground to get justice for Lily.” She was completely falling apart. But my heart… my heart had become unnervingly calm. When we got home, I walked straight to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet, and dumped every single pill I owned into the toilet. A fake psychiatric diagnosis lets you do whatever you want without consequences? Is that how it works? Fine. Let’s see what happens when a real one stops taking his medicine. Because when the madness comes, even I can’t control myself. 4 This was my secret. No one knew except for Sarah. As a kid, I was a victim of bullying, too. It was relentless, and it broke something inside me. It gave me a gift: a severe bipolar disorder with psychotic features. The first time I snapped, I stabbed every one of my tormentors with a pencil. The second time, I cut a rabid dog that bit me into pieces. The third time, I killed a neighbor who tried to assault me. After that, I was sent away. I spent ten years in a state psychiatric hospital before I was deemed stable enough for release. The condition of that release was a lifetime of medication. Even I, a man with a genuine, violent mental illness, understood the necessity of medicine. I knew I had a responsibility to control myself, to keep society safe from what I was capable of. But Madison, with her sham diagnosis, was using the shield of mental illness as a weapon to terrorize the weak. If the sane world and its rules couldn’t give my daughter justice, then it was time for me to return to the world of the insane. 5 I gathered all our important documents and drove Sarah to the courthouse. She was silent the entire way, her hand just holding mine tightly. I signed everything away. The house, the savings, all of it. Full custody of Lily went to her. The clerk handling the uncontested divorce had never seen anything like it. She kept looking from me to Sarah with suspicion, trying to talk us out of it, but finally, she just stamped the papers. As we left, Sarah stopped me. “Whatever you’re going to do, I support you. Just one thing. Don’t hurt yourself. Lily and I still need you.” Fifteen years we’d been together. She was, and always would be, my rock. Back at our half-empty house, Lily limped over to me with a glass of water. The scabs on her face were still healing. I pulled her into a hug, my heart aching. “Lily-bug,” I said softly. “I’ve already arranged for you to take a break from school. How about you and Mommy go visit Grandma and Grandpa for a while?” She looked down, ashamed. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I caused so much trouble. It’s okay, I can go back to class. I’ll just… I’ll hide from them.” She said it was okay, but I could see the profound terror in her eyes. After I promised her again and again that everything would be all right, she finally, cautiously, nodded. At the train station, just before they boarded, Lily, wearing a hat and a mask to hide her face, turned back one last time. “Daddy, you’ll come get us soon, right? Me and Mommy are going to miss you so much.” Watching their train pull away, I took a deep breath. Don’t worry, Lily. The bad people will get what they deserve. Daddy promises. 6 That day, I posted a picture of my signed divorce papers and the agreement giving Sarah all our assets on my Facebook page. The caption was simple: Starting today, I’m back to being me. The news hit my circle of friends and family like a bomb. Messages flooded in. Why? Why the divorce? I had a sweet daughter, a loving wife. I was the one all my friends envied. Amid the dozens of messages of concern, one notification stood out: a series of celebratory fireworks emojis sent by Madison’s parents. Then, a new private message from Madison herself. Hey Mister. Heard you got kicked out. Did your wife finally dump you? How’s life on the streets? Hope you find a new wife and have a healthy daughter soon. Oh, and by the way, make sure I never see your daughter again. My… condition… might flare up. I can’t control myself, you know. Attached was a photo. A small, white rabbit, its fur shaved off, its body covered in cuts and bruises. Lily’s favorite animal was a rabbit. I suppressed the surge of rage and posted a second image: a copy of my official diagnosis for severe bipolar disorder, stamped with the red seal of a well-known psychiatric hospital. My first day off my meds, I wrote. Suddenly feeling the urge to kill someone. And one last detail. Forgot to mention, the hospital that issued this is the same one that diagnosed Madison King. Same doctor, too. As expected, Madison’s father appeared in the comments. Falsifying a medical document is a felony, you know. Are you trying to threaten us by pretending to be crazy? I ignored him. I stuck to my new routine. A six-mile run every morning. Weight training. Marksmanship drills. Fighting practice. I stopped talking about the bullying incident entirely. It was as if it had never happened. The other parents were ecstatic. They thought they had won. Life was back to normal for them. I was at the range, emptying my last magazine, when the police called. They wanted me to come in and sign the settlement agreement. I refused. I didn’t want their money. And I damn sure didn’t want a settlement. The officer pleaded with me for a long time, but finally gave up and started calling the other parents to inform them. The moment they heard I’d rejected the deal, they exploded. “We already agreed to pay! What more does he want?” “He’s just trying to extort more money! Fine, now he gets nothing! Let’s see how long he can hold out!” Lily’s homeroom teacher called to blame me for making things difficult. “If you continue this unreasonable behavior, we’ll have no choice but to expel your daughter. We can’t have our school’s reputation damaged by this.” “You can’t be so selfish. No wonder your daughter has problems. She has no sense of community spirit. How will she ever fit in?” “Do you have any idea how long the principal yelled at me today? If you want to blackmail these families for more money, fine, but don’t drag me into it! My performance review is this year! If this messes it up, I’m holding you responsible!” “And besides,” he added, his voice dripping with disdain, “it was just a little fight. Does she have to be so dramatic?” I hung up, unwilling to listen to another word. After hearing I wouldn’t settle, Madison’s father began calling me nonstop. “I’m a lawyer! I have connections you can’t even imagine! You think I can’t find out every dirty little secret about you with one phone call? I’ll have you crucified online!” I knew he probably could. But what did it matter anymore? I blocked his number. In their sprawling mansion, Madison’s parents sat on a velvet sofa, staring at the red exclamation point on their screen. Furious, Madison’s father picked up his phone and dialed a number. “I want everything you can find on Lily’s parents. Everything.” A short while later, his phone rang. “Mr. King, we found it.” “Ethan’s parents filed for divorce seven days ago. The father, Ethan, voluntarily gave up all marital assets. He also quit his job the next day. For the past week, his routine has been the same: morning runs with a weighted vest, and afternoons at a shooting range.” The voice on the other end hesitated. “There’s more, sir. This man… Ethan… he previously killed three people. He spent ten years in a state psychiatric hospital.” “Divorce? Quit his job? Shooting range? Psychiatric…?” Mr. King’s hand went limp. The glass of water he was holding slipped and shattered on the marble floor. “He… he’s really mentally ill?”

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In the end, they both lost their memories. Forgot each other completely. Started new lives, clean slates. And the heroine? She met me. A nobody. A background character. We fell in love, got married, had a son. Six years passed. Then, on a day no different from any other, my wife remembered everything. Shimmering text, like a glitch in the very air before my eyes, flickered into existence: 【OH MY GOD, THEY WROTE A BONUS CHAPTER FOR THIS ANGST-FEST?】 【YES! THE LEADS FINALLY HAVE THEIR MEMORIES BACK! ARE WE GETTING A HAPPY ENDING?!】 【But wait, they’re both married to other people now. How is this going to work?】 【Easy. They each divorce their stand-in spouses and get back together! Duh!】 That evening, I walked the city streets, hollowed out and lost. My gaze met that of another woman, her face a mirror of my own despair. A cigarette was pinched between her fingers as she spoke into her phone, her voice tight. The person on the other end asked, loud enough for me to hear: “Ma’am, he’s saying something about his memory returning. He wants a divorce to go find his first love. Are you going to agree to this?” My feet froze to the pavement. 1 I’d only just learned it from the shimmering text, the impossible truth: I am a side character in a tragic romance novel. A placeholder. After the hero and heroine both suffered from amnesia, the heroine—my wife—met me. We fell in love. We built a life. And the hero? He married the second female lead. The evening streets were a blur of nameless faces coming and going. I stared at the phantom words hovering in the air, my mind a complete blank. I walked without direction, without purpose, until I nearly collided with her—the woman with the same broken look in her eyes. She was smoking, talking on the phone. As I passed, the voice on the other end cut through the city noise, sharp and clear. “Ma’am,” the voice said, hesitant. “He’s saying something about his memory returning. That he needs to find his first love. That this marriage of convenience is over.” A pause. “Are you going to agree to the divorce?” The woman stood in the deepening shadows of an alley, the cherry of her cigarette glowing and fading, obscuring her expression in the twilight. My steps faltered. This was too much of a coincidence. It had to be her. The woman the text described as the hero’s wife. I found myself looking at her, a strange kinship pulling at me. I didn’t want her to see me staring, so I ducked behind the corner of the brick building, my heart pounding. I had to hear her answer. If she refused the divorce, then the hero couldn’t come for my wife, for Lila. And if he couldn’t come for her… maybe Lila would stay with me. Maybe our life could go on. A fragile, desperate hope took root in my chest. I waited. The silence stretched. No answer came. Confused, I risked a peek around the corner. The next thing I saw was a pair of impossibly high heels planted directly in front of me. The woman was holding her phone, a wry, humorless smile playing on her lips as she looked down at me. “Having fun back there, pal?” she asked, her voice laced with ice. I flinched. The voice on her phone was still babbling, oblivious. “…Ma’am, if the matriarch finds out she’s not getting a grandchild and you’re getting a divorce, she’ll have another episode, I just know it…” The woman’s brow furrowed in annoyance. She ended the call without a word. I was frozen, unsure of what to say. “Sorry,” I managed to stammer out. She studied me for a second, then her gaze went distant. It was clear she was dismissing me, ready to walk away. I hadn’t heard her answer. Panic flared in my gut, and without thinking, I reached out and grabbed her sleeve. She stopped, turning to look at me with cold indifference. I knew this was insane, that I was crossing a line, but I couldn’t help it. “So,” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, “are you going to divorce him?” The woman was silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. She seemed to be trying to figure out why a complete stranger would be this invested. She pulled her arm from my grasp and let out a short, sharp laugh. “Mister, you have a serious problem with boundaries.” And with that, she turned and walked away, disappearing into the evening crowd. 2 I took a deep breath outside our front door, trying to piece myself back together before going in. When I opened it, my son, Finn, came barreling toward me, wrapping his small arms around my leg. “Daddy, you’re home!” Lila emerged from the kitchen carrying a casserole dish, a familiar, easy smile on her face. “There you are. Go wash up, dinner’s ready.” Her expression was normal. Everything was normal. Finn darted over to his mom. “Mommy, I can help!” Lila smiled and crouched down to his level, shaking her head. “That’s okay, sweetie. Why don’t you take Daddy to wash his hands?” He chirped a yes and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the bathroom. Nothing in our home had changed. Lila had picked up our son from school, she had cooked my favorite meal. Later that night, everything was the same as well. She curled up against me in bed, her body fitting perfectly against mine, and we whispered our good nights. It was just another ordinary, mundane day. She was still the wife who loved me, not the heroine of some tragic novel. The text appeared again, a chorus of despair. 【This is brutal… The heroine and hero saw each other on the street today. The second their eyes met, they both remembered everything.】 【And yet… they just looked away. Went back to their separate lives. So calm.】 【Well, yeah… It’s been six years. They both have families now.】 【I don’t believe for a second they’re over each other. Not after a love like theirs. It was epic.】 【But the heroine seems so serene… Maybe she loves the placeholder husband more now. He’s been with her for six years, after all.】 I held Lila in my arms, her steady breathing a familiar comfort, and a single thought echoed in my mind: Does she really love me more? I didn’t know. All I knew was that Lila had forgotten. Today was our sixth wedding anniversary. 3 Sleep didn’t come easily. When it finally did, it was a restless, shallow thing. I woke in the middle of the night, reaching for the warmth beside me out of instinct. My hand met empty, cool sheets. My eyes flew open. I was instantly awake. She was gone. The text flared, buzzing with excitement. 【YESSSSSS! I KNEW IT! THEY CAN’T STAY AWAY FROM EACH OTHER!】 【Rhys is still the bold one, going right to her house!】 【God, the tension, the forbidden longing… this is what I live for.】 The air was chilly; autumn had settled in. A light rain was falling outside. I went to the window and looked down at the street below. And there he was. The hero, Rhys, soaked to the bone, staring up at Lila with a look of stubborn, desperate pain. I couldn’t hear their words, but the text provided a live broadcast. Tears, or maybe just rain, streamed down his face as he asked her, his voice thick with emotion, “Lila… is this really it for us? Is this how it ends?” My wife just stood there in silence. His composure broke. He grabbed her hands. “It should have been me! I should be the one married to you, sleeping next to you, having children with you! It should have been me!” His voice cracked. “He stole my place… Lila, this is all wrong. We were never supposed to end up like this…” Lila’s back was to me, hiding her face. After a long moment, she slowly reached up and gently touched his cheek. All she said was, “You’ll catch a cold.” His hand froze on hers. He stared at her for a second, his eyes searching hers. Then, throwing all caution to the wind, he leaned in and kissed her. Lila seemed to resist at first, her hands coming up to his chest. But he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. His wet lips met hers in a kiss filled with the bitter taste of tears and regret. He was crying, his eyes red-rimmed as he murmured against her mouth, “We used to do this all the time… Are you really going to push me away?” Lila went still. And in the end, she didn’t push. She didn’t run. 【Oh, my heart… it’s breaking. Can’t they just get back together already? For my sake!】 【This is so tragic. They were once the closest people in the world, torn apart by amnesia, missing out on so many years.】 【My ultimate star-crossed lovers. Please, universe, just give them a break. Please.】 I stood at the window, watching my wife kiss another man. Their story was a tragedy, no doubt. But as I stood there, a numb, hollow question formed in my mind. What about me? From twenty-two to twenty-eight. Six years of my life. The entire youth I spent with Lila. What was I supposed to do with that? 4 Just then, a mechanical voice echoed not in the room, but inside my head. It introduced itself as the System. It got straight to the point. 【Greetings, Host. I am the System that governs this world.】 【Would you be willing to accept a mission? Successful completion will result in a substantial financial reward.】 I blinked, stunned. “What mission?” I thought, not daring to speak aloud. The System replied: 【In order to satisfy reader demand, you must facilitate the happy ending between the male and female leads.】 【You will need to complete a series of tasks to ensure the hero and heroine end up together.】 The absurdity of it hit me like a physical blow. “You mean… you want me to personally push my own wife into the arms of another man?” “Don’t you think that’s a little messed up?” The System was silent for a long moment. Then, with a mental flick, a torrent of information flooded my brain. My head swam for a few seconds. I was seeing their entire history. Lila and Rhys. From their first meeting to their passionate, all-consuming love affair. It was exactly like a novel—dramatic, thrilling, epic. They fought their families, they fought the world, they overcame every obstacle just to be together. The System’s voice was cool and clinical in my ear. 【No one could ever forget a love that profound. They were always meant to be together.】 I understood. Its logic was brutal and flawless. Their love story was so powerful, so foundational, that even if I did nothing, Lila would leave me eventually. It was inevitable. My role was simply to make it happen sooner. The System added another incentive. 【Upon successful completion of the mission, you will be rewarded with fifty million dollars. Enough for you and your son to live comfortably for the rest of your lives.】 【So. Have you made your decision?】 I looked down at the two figures on the street, still clinging to each other. I thought about the last six years. Six years of marriage. Lila’s meticulous care for me, the clumsy way she learned to mix formula for Finn, how she knew all of my favorite foods and Finn’s little quirks. But when I replayed those six years in my mind, a highlight reel of our life together… it only took five minutes. She had been a wonderful wife. An amazing partner. But that was before she remembered. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Tell me what I have to do.” The System immediately issued the first task. 【Convince the second female lead to divorce the hero.】 5 The next day was Saturday, so Finn was home from kindergarten. He was in a clingy mood, and I couldn’t bring myself to leave him. I ended up taking him with me to complete the mission. Following the System’s directions, I found the hero’s wife’s home. My plan was to feel out her attitude first. My timing, however, was terrible. A butler showed me into a lavish living room where the woman from the street, Seraphina, was slouched elegantly in an armchair, being lectured by an elderly woman. “Twenty-nine years old, and you haven’t even given me a great-grandchild. I’m asking you, will I get to hold one before I die?” Finn, shy in the unfamiliar environment, clutched my pant leg and peeked out from behind me, his eyes wide and curious. Before I could say a word, the old woman’s eyes lit up. Her stooped back straightened, her shuffle became a surprisingly brisk walk, and she headed straight for us. She bent down, her face beaming with affection. “Oh, my goodness! My sweet great-grandson, look how handsome you are!” She reached out to pick Finn up. It all happened so fast that no one reacted. It was Seraphina who moved first, stepping between them and gently prying the old woman’s hands away. “Grandma,” she said, her voice firm but not unkind, “this isn’t your great-grandson.” “Nonsense!” the old woman retorted. “I’d know him anywhere! Give me back my great-grandson!” Seraphina turned to me with an apologetic sigh. “She gets confused sometimes. My apologies.” Then, she narrowed her eyes at me. “However—Mr. Ethan Cole, husband of my husband’s first love,” she said, her tone dripping with irony. “To what, exactly, do I owe the pleasure?” I wasn’t surprised she knew who I was; of course she’d have done her research on Lila and her family. Looking at her, I felt a strange sense of camaraderie. We were in the same impossible, miserable boat. I chose my words carefully. “It seems your husband doesn’t love you.” Seraphina gave me a deadpan look. “Tell me something I don’t know.” I was at a loss. “…” “So… can you divorce him?” She seemed genuinely surprised by my directness. “Are you sure about that? After I divorce him, he’s going to come for your wife.” She smirked. “What is this? Are you so in love with your wife that you’re willing to set her free for her own happiness?” I was stuck. I couldn’t mention the System. That was the only plausible explanation left. So I went with it. I looked her in the eye, my expression pleading. “Yes. So, will you help them? Will you set them both free?” This time, Seraphina was silent for a full thirty seconds. “Fine. I’ll grant the divorce. But I have one condition.” “What is it?” “You have to be my boyfriend.” I stared at her, confused. “Why?” She gestured toward her grandmother, who was now trying to coax Finn into playing with her pearls, and shrugged helplessly. “You see how it is. The old dear isn’t well. She obsesses over a great-grandchild.” “After the divorce, I’ll need someone new to play the part of my husband. And my child.” Her words clicked with the information the System had given me. Seraphina had married Rhys as part of a family business merger, but also to give her ailing grandmother peace of mind. I thought about it. “Okay,” I said, nodding. “I can do that. I can pretend for your grandmother. Just call me when you need me.” “It will also require a certain level of public affection in her presence,” she added. I clenched my jaw. “Fine.” A slow, genuine smile spread across Seraphina’s face. “It’s a deal then, my dear pretend-boyfriend.” 6 When I got home, Lila had dinner on the table, just like always. I had barely stepped inside when there was a knock on the door. It was a delivery guy from the dry cleaner’s. He handed me a garment bag. “Your order, sir.” I didn’t remember sending anything to be cleaned. I unzipped the bag. It was Lila’s overcoat. And even though it had just come from the cleaners, I could swear I smelled the faint, sharp scent of a man’s cologne. The scene from last night flashed in my mind. The rain, the kiss. Lila walked over from the kitchen. “What is it? Why are you just standing there…?” Her voice trailed off as she saw the coat in my hands. Our eyes met. For a split second, I wanted to scream at her. To demand to know why her coat smelled like him, why she forgot our anniversary, why she was tearing our lives apart. But under the warm lights of our home, Finn was watching me with his innocent eyes. On the table, a hot meal, cooked by my wife, was waiting. Everything looked so painfully, beautifully normal. It was a happiness so fragile that I lost all courage to shatter it. It felt as if, as long as I didn’t ask, as long as I didn’t say a word, I could keep this perfect, crumbling illusion intact just a little longer. I took a breath, folded the coat calmly, and handed it to her. “Your coat.” Lila watched me for a long moment before taking it in silence. As she did, something small and heavy slipped from the pocket and clattered onto the floor. I looked down. It was a small, velvet box. “Huh?” Finn said, pointing. “Mommy, you still haven’t given Daddy his present?” A present? I froze. Finn had been telling me for weeks, in that secretive way little kids have, that Mommy had a special surprise for me. This must have been it. The anniversary gift she had forgotten to give me. The box lay on the floor between us. It felt as if the fall had cracked the very foundation of the life we were pretending to live. Lila stared at the box, her expression momentarily blank, followed by a wave of panic. She finally remembered. The sixth anniversary she had let slip her mind. She quickly picked it up, her face a mask of apology. “Ethan… honey, I’m so sorry. Work has been so crazy, I completely forgot about our anniversary.” “This is for you. We’ll celebrate properly soon, I promise. Okay?” I looked up, studying her face, searching for a tell. This was the same pleading, cautious expression she always wore when she thought I was mad at her. It had always worked before. I’d never once doubted her sincerity. But this time, I stared into her eyes for a long, long time, trying to find a single shred of evidence that she still loved me. Seeing my silence, a flicker of fear crossed her face. She did what she always did. She stepped into my arms, tilted her head up, and peppered my face with soft, apologetic kisses. “Are you angry? It’s my fault. Please don’t be angry with me, honey.” Finn tugged on her sleeve, pouting. “I wanna kiss Daddy too!” Lila stroked his hair. “Daddy’s upset right now. Let Mommy make him feel better first, then he’s all yours.” Later, after dinner, she was all over me. For six years, she had been a perfect wife, a perfect mother. Whenever I was upset, regardless of whose fault it was, she was always the first to smooth things over. Comforting me seemed to be an instinct for her. She pulled me close, her lips finding mine with a familiar warmth. For a moment, I could almost believe she was back—the Lila who loved me, and only me. After the kiss, her breathing grew heavier. She slid her hand under my shirt, her palm flat against my stomach. “Honey,” she murmured, her voice husky, “let me take care of you tonight. Anything you want, as long as you’re not mad anymore.” When I didn’t respond, she took my hand and placed it on the firm muscles of her abdomen. “I’ve been working out,” she whispered, a little vulnerably. “Want to… check my progress?” Lila had always been a good partner. In every sense of the word. Finally, after a long silence, I lifted my arms. And wrapped them around her waist. … When I carried her to the bathroom later, she was so exhausted she could barely open her eyes. I cleaned her up, carried her back to bed, and held her as she fell asleep. I woke up sometime in the night. Lila was sleeping soundly beside me. Her phone on the nightstand lit up with a new message. I squinted, picking it up. The bright screen stung my eyes. On her lock screen, a single text message glowed in the dark. 【Let’s wear a tux and a gown, just once. Fulfill our promise from when we were eighteen. After that, we can go our separate ways. For good.】

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My best friend and I were job hunting when we got an offer from the Rhys family—one of the country’s wealthiest dynasties. They were recruiting wives for their two sons. One son was a notorious ice king; the other was in a coma after a car accident. The deal: survive one year of marriage and walk away with ten million dollars. Conveniently, I had a nursing degree. My friend, Blaze, had a Ph.D. in seduction. It was a perfect match. We looked at each other, and the decision was unspoken. When a fortune that obscene falls into your lap, you say, “I do.” But less than six months in, the ice king’s old flame—the one that got away—came back. That’s when Blaze pounded on my door in the middle of the night, a storm in her eyes. “That ghost of his is no saint, Sienna. I’m making a run for it. You in?” “I’m with you,” I said without hesitation. I glanced down at the stacks of cash I’d been counting. “I’ve only saved up about five million. I’ll have to crash on your couch.” Blaze finalized her divorce one day; I filed mine the next. But the night before I was supposed to leave, as I was packing my bags to make a clean getaway, my comatose husband woke up. His arm snaked around my waist from behind, his body pressing against mine. “My brother’s old love came back,” he whispered, his voice a low, warm hum against my skin. “I don’t have one. So where do you think you’re going?” 1 I was humming to myself, delighting in the neat stacks of cash spread across my bed, when Blaze burst into my room. “Sienna, I need sanctuary.” She collapsed onto my mattress, rubbing her lower back with a pained expression. “And if I ever hear another person call Donovan Rhys an ‘ice king,’ I will personally tear them limb from limb.” She groaned dramatically. “One more night like that and my spine is going to turn to dust.” As Blaze writhed on my bed, I patted my own chest in silent, grateful relief. Thank God my husband was in a coma. My duties were simple. Every day, I took a warm towel from the nurse, gave him a quick sponge bath, and clocked out. All for a salary that would make a CEO weep. Six months ago, Blaze and I were sending out resumes to anyone who would take them. Then, we both got a call from the Rhys family. It wasn’t until we arrived at their palatial estate that we learned the position was “daughter-in-law.” Eleanor Rhys, the family matriarch, dripped with diamonds and quiet authority. She handed us each a check for twenty thousand dollars just for showing up. “Ms. Hayes, you studied nursing, correct?” I nodded. A satisfied smile touched her lips. “Then I have no reservations about placing my younger son, Asher, in your care.” My friend Blaze, on the other hand, had a different set of qualifications. On her application, under the ‘special skills’ section, she’d cheekily written “Master of Seduction.” Somehow, it had caught Eleanor Rhys’s eye. After settling things with me, she turned to Blaze with a look of intrigued curiosity. “Ms. Astor,” she began, “my eldest son, Donovan, is… emotionally distant. He has no interest in women. But if you were to find a way to get pregnant, to give me a grandchild—” Eleanor let a platinum credit card glint under the light. “—then a ten-million-dollar bonus is yours.” Blaze and I lived by a single motto: “Wise women don’t fall in love; they build empires.” The second that card flashed, Blaze’s back straightened. “Consider it done,” she said, her voice pure confidence. Eleanor nodded, pleased. “I understand that marrying my sons under these circumstances is a significant sacrifice.” “After one year of marriage, you will each receive ten million dollars for your time and trouble.” We both nearly dropped to our knees in gratitude. This wasn’t “time and trouble.” This was a winning lottery ticket delivered by an angel. And just like that, Blaze and I married into the Rhys family on the same day. 2 “Sienna, honey, could you just… right there,” Blaze moaned from my bed. “Can I sue our mother-in-law for false advertising? Her son isn’t an ice king. He’s a ravenous beast sent to destroy me.” Our “mother-in-law,” of course, was Eleanor. I kneaded her lower back, my sympathy genuine. For the first two months, Donovan had lived up to his reputation. He barely glanced at his new wife and often stayed out all night. But Blaze was no shrinking violet. She’d always claimed that no man was immune to her charms; she could turn a saint into a sinner with a single look. And with ten million dollars on the line, she unleashed her entire arsenal. Two months later, even though our suites were on different floors of the mansion, I could often hear… evidence of her success. Once, Blaze complained to me in a hushed, conspiratorial tone that Donovan had actually broken their bedframe. I was about to offer some words of comfort when a deep, masculine voice echoed from the hallway. “Blaze. I know you’re in there.” Donovan’s tone was low, insistent. “Come back to our room. Now.” Blaze shot up like a startled cat. After a silent, pleading look at me, she was lured out of my room under a mix of threats and promises I couldn’t quite hear. I was about to settle in with a movie when I remembered I hadn’t done my daily rounds with my own husband. Sighing, I threw on a silk robe, grabbed a fresh towel, and padded into the master suite’s inner bedroom. With practiced movements, I dipped the cloth in warm water and began to gently wipe down Asher’s smooth skin. Even after six months, I couldn’t help but admire him. A quiet sigh escaped my lips. “Such a waste,” I murmured to the silent room. “If you weren’t… you know… you’d have women lined up around the block.” Speaking to the empty air, I undid the buttons of his pajama top. A perfectly sculpted chest was revealed. And an idea, wicked and tempting, sparked in my mind. If I just… touched his abs… he’d never know, right? A debate started in my head. Sienna, have some respect! one voice scolded. But another, more persuasive one whispered, He’s your husband. Technically, his body is your body. What’s a little exploratory touch between man and wife? The mischievous voice won. Taking a deep breath, I reached out a trembling hand and tentatively stroked the firm muscles of his abdomen. Then again, more boldly this time. It felt… incredible. That’s when I noticed it. A faint flush was creeping up Asher’s neck, his cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. My own face burned. But I brushed it off. He wasn’t objecting, was he? That was basically permission. 3 In the days that followed, it was like a whole new world had opened up to me. Every time I went in to give Asher his bath, my hands would wander, taking their sweet time exploring his physique. It became my favorite part of the day. And every time, without fail, that handsome blush would spread across his face. At first, I felt a little guilty, but now it was just part of our routine. I even started teasing him about it, my voice a low whisper in the quiet room. “You owe me this, you know,” I’d say, my fingers tracing the lines of his stomach. “Look at your brother, a regular stallion. I got the short end of the stick here. A few extra touches are the least you can do to make it up to me.” One afternoon, after lunch, I shooed the day nurse away, closed the door, and was just about to begin my… duties… with my husband. But a sharp knock echoed through the suite. It was Blaze, dressed in a stunning but disheveled evening gown. “Sienna! I’m leaving! I’m done!” Her hair was a mess, and a dark red stain, suspiciously like wine, was splattered across the front of her dress. I opened the door wider. “What happened? Who did this to you?” My sleeves were already halfway up my arms. Anyone who messes with my best friend messes with me. Blaze’s voice was shaking with fury. “Donovan’s old flame is back! That bitch, Isabelle, ‘accidentally’ spilled a glass of cabernet all over me at the fundraiser and then played the innocent victim. She’s a goddamn snake!” I froze. I knew Donovan was emotionally unavailable, but I’d never heard anything about a great lost love. Blaze was getting more worked up by the second, punching one of the decorative panels on my door. “Donovan isn’t an ice king! He’s a goddamn monk, saving himself for Saint Isabelle! And now that she’s back, he not only lets her humiliate me, he tells me I need to apologize to her! I can’t do this anymore!” Her eyes flashed with a terrible realization. “All those nights… was I just her stand-in? I’m out of here, Sienna. I’m filing for divorce today!” A cold anger settled in my own stomach. What a bastard. Blaze grabbed my hands, her gaze intense. “Are you coming with me?” I glanced back toward the bedroom, a pang of regret for the abs I wouldn’t get to touch tonight. I swallowed hard. Looking into Blaze’s desperate eyes, I made my choice. “Best friends bail together. You go today, I’ll go tomorrow.” We sealed the plan with a pact. “There’s just one problem,” I admitted. “I’ve only got about five million saved up. I might need to borrow some cash.” Blaze waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. To get rid of me, that cheating bastard gave me the deed to our villa on the coast. I’ll sell it, cash out, and we’ll split it fifty-fifty.” It sounded like a solid plan. Our great escape was officially in motion. 4 As the story went, Donovan didn’t come home after the fundraiser. He was too busy escorting his precious Isabelle. With me as her witness, Blaze called him. In an instant, she transformed. Her eyes welled with tears, her voice trembled with heartbreaking sorrow. “Donovan,” she whispered, “I want a divorce.” There was a long silence on the other end. “Blaze, I just drove Isabelle home,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance. “What are you trying to pull now?” “She threw wine on you because you provoked her,” he continued coldly. “You brought it on yourself. As of today, you can move into the coastal villa and think about what you’ve done. I’m bringing Isabelle back to the estate. Don’t let me see your face here tomorrow.” Before Blaze could even respond, he hung up. She shrugged, the tears vanishing as quickly as they’d appeared. “Plan A failed. Time for Plan B.” Plan B was to fake her own death. She moved with terrifying efficiency. The villa was sold, her assets were liquidated and transferred, and once everything was in place, she purchased a burial plot. On the day of her staged “fatal car accident,” I followed her instructions and called Donovan. He answered, sounding surprised. “Sienna?” I choked back a sob, my voice thick with manufactured grief. “Donovan, it’s Blaze… there was an accident. It’s bad. She wants to see you one last time. Can you please come to the hospital?” A bitter, humorless laugh came through the phone. “Do you take me for a fool? She knows I haven’t been home in days. This is just another one of her pathetic little games.” His next words were like ice. “You tell her if she’s going to die, she should just get on with it. But she can do it far away from me.” I met Blaze’s eyes and gave her a subtle nod. The signal. Take my money and go. I’ll meet you soon. I had one last scene to play to make sure he truly believed she was gone. Three days later, just as I was practicing my grief-stricken expression in the mirror, Donovan burst into my suite, his eyes wild and red-rimmed. “Sienna, where is she?!” I looked at him, my face a mask of cold sorrow, and squeezed out a single, perfect tear. “She’s gone.” His body went rigid, the color draining from his face. “That’s impossible.” I showed him a doctored video of a fiery car crash on my phone, pulling it away before he could get a clear look at the victim. Then, I drove him to see the fresh grave. “She just wanted to see you one last time,” I said, my voice heavy with accusation. “You wouldn’t even grant her that. She died all alone.” Donovan stared at the name on the headstone, his expression one of utter devastation. “How could this happen?” he whispered. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the cold stone. Finally, he choked out the words, “It’s for the best. It’s better this way.” A chill went down my spine. It was true what they said about marrying into these families. They didn’t see you as a person. They saw you as a commodity. 5 Everyone knew Blaze was dead, but she was just a temporary daughter-in-law. No one bothered to investigate. Eleanor Rhys shed a few crocodile tears and moved on. Donovan didn’t say a word, disappearing back into his world of late nights with his precious Isabelle. Life returned to how it was before Blaze had arrived. And I had my exit strategy ready. A forged medical certificate from the hospital—another one of Blaze’s photoshop masterpieces—diagnosing me with terminal cancer. Tomorrow, I would approach Eleanor and ask for a divorce from Asher. She doted on her younger son; surely she wouldn’t let a dying woman continue to care for him. She could just hire a new wife. That night, I was packing my last few things when I heard a faint noise from the bed behind me. I froze, listening. Silence. Must be hearing things, I thought, my nerves frayed from all the scheming. I was about to go back to my packing when an arm wrapped around my waist from behind, and a warm body pressed against my back. His breath was hot and intimate against my neck. “My brother’s old love came back,” a low voice murmured in my ear. “I don’t have one. So where do you think you’re going?”

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I was on the edge of a cliff, tied to Isabelle, the ghost who had haunted my marriage before it even began. Jackson, my fiancé, stood a safe distance away, silent for a long time. In the end, he chose me, the girl he’d grown up with. It was the wrong choice. Less than three days later, they pulled Isabelle’s body from the sea. Her clothes were shredded, her face unrecognizable. Jackson never showed his grief, not outwardly. But I knew. In the quiet, hollow spaces of our life together, I could feel it. He hated me for it. For the next ten years of our cold, calculated marriage—a merger of families, not hearts—he made sure I felt that hate. The late nights, the string of affairs plastered across gossip sites. I became the designated laughingstock of New York’s elite, the woman pointed at and whispered about at charity galas. The “abandoned wife.” Through it all, he watched with indifferent eyes. I thought we would stay like that, locked in our mutual torment until we were old and gray. But then came the research expedition to Antarctica. An extreme blizzard, an avalanche. In the final, roaring moments before the world turned white, Jackson—the man who had despised me for a decade—used the last of his strength to shove me toward safety. He was swallowed by the ice and snow. As his life faded, he smiled, a look of profound release on his face. His voice was a wisp of air. “Liv,” he breathed, “what I owed you… it’s paid.” “Now I can finally be with Isabelle.” “Next life… please, stay away from us.” I nodded, tears freezing on my cheeks, my heart turning to ash. And then I opened my eyes. Back on the edge of the cliff. 1 The wind howled, a physical force against my eardrums. Just like before, I was tied to Isabelle, the abyss yawning below our feet. The kidnapper was already laying out the choice for Jackson. “One is the girl you grew up with, your little shadow. The other is the one that got away. Make a choice, Mr. Croft. The other one goes for a swim with the fishes.” I could hear the sick amusement in his voice, the thrill of a cat toying with a mouse. Jackson stood beyond the danger zone, a statue carved from indecision. His mother, Eleanor, was frantic beside him. “Save Olivia! Jackson, what are you even hesitating for? Her parents died saving your father! The Crofts do not forget a debt like that!” “Save Olivia, now!” Still, Jackson was silent. I knew why. His soul was screaming to save Isabelle. She was the great lost love of his life, the dream he never got over. In our last life, even after she was gone, he kept a part of his heart cordoned off for her, a sacred ground I was never allowed to tread upon. He only chose me because of the duty, the debt his mother had shackled him with. The kidnapper was losing his patience. He brandished a remote connected to the unstable plank beneath our feet. “The sea breeze is picking up, Mr. Croft. My thumb might slip. If you don’t decide soon, these two lovely ladies are going to take the plunge together.” We stared at each other across the wind-whipped distance. Jackson’s eyes were on me, but what I saw in them was a reflection of his own torment, a pain so profound it was about to spill over. “I choose O—” He was about to say my name, just like last time. I jerked my head up, and with every ounce of strength in my body, I screamed, “SAVE ISABELLE!” Jackson’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide with pure, unadulterated disbelief. It made sense. Since we were kids, I was the one who threw a tantrum if I didn’t get the first piece of candy, the shiniest toy. I’d learned early to demand to be his priority. The thought of me willingly handing him over to another woman—to Isabelle, of all people—was unthinkable. Everyone in our circle knew my deepest insecurity, my most profound jealousy, was reserved for her. Jackson and I had grown up in each other’s pockets. From the moment I understood what love was, I believed he was mine. I’d spent my teenage years systematically driving away any girl who got too close. But Isabelle was different. She was the first girl he’d ever truly loved. His forever girl. I had been powerless against that. What I called hatred for her was really just a bone-deep fear. The cold, salty air hit me, making me sway. I screamed it again, my voice clear and final this time. “Save Isabelle.” Don’t hesitate, Jackson. Go. Save her. I won’t be in your way this time. I don’t want your hate to be the story of my life again. In the end, Jackson pulled strings and paid a king’s ransom. For Isabelle. As he carried her trembling form away, he never once looked back at me. From my angle, I could just catch the profile of his face, and on it, a clear, unmistakable look of relief. I tried to smile, but all I tasted was the cold, bitter salt of my own tears. A lifetime of devotion. It hadn’t been enough to earn a single backward glance. The rescue team arrived faster than I expected. Just as the kidnappers were preparing to move me, SWAT descended on the cliffside like ghosts emerging from the mist. A flicker of suspicion crossed my mind. If law enforcement was this efficient, why had Isabelle died so horribly in our last life? But the thought was swept away as my best friend, Sophie, launched herself at me, a blur of motion and terrified sobs. She clung to me like her life depended on it. “Liv! You scared the hell out of me! If something happened to you, what would I do?” The ropes were cut from my wrists. I hugged her back, patting her shoulder. “I’m okay, Soph. I’m okay.” Sophie was shaking with rage, pointing back toward the path Jackson had taken. “That bastard! I can’t believe he actually chose that bitch Isabelle!” “He left his own fiancée for some manipulative shrew!” Yes. Fiancée. By morning, the headlines would be everywhere: Croft Heir Abandons Fiancée on Cliffside for Old Flame. It would be the final nail in the coffin of my reputation, cementing my status as the joke of the Upper East Side. A joke I’d written for myself, really. In my previous life, I was always the one forcing photos of us, manufacturing a grand love story that never existed. It’s pathetic, looking back. Real love doesn’t need an audience. You only show off the things you’re terrified you don’t really have. Amid the chaos of the crime scene being processed, a figure in a black trench coat caught my eye. He was there and gone in a flash. I narrowed my eyes. I was sure of it. Over six-foot-three, an aura of quiet authority that demanded attention. In this city, that description fit only one man. Ethan Blackwood. The head of the powerful Blackwood family. 2 Late that night, Sophie insisted on taking me back to the Croft estate. The butler informed us that when Jackson returned with Isabelle, his mother, Eleanor, had erupted in a fury. She hadn’t used a whip, but her punishment was just as severe. She’d frozen his personal assets and banished him to the gatehouse. He was to stay there, without access to his accounts or his cars, until he understood the gravity of what he had done. But I knew Jackson. He wouldn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He’d saved the woman he loved. In his mind, relief would far outweigh any guilt. After a decade of marriage, I knew him all too well. And I truly didn’t blame him anymore. I went to see Eleanor, to try and calm her down. My attempt backfired. It only made her more emotional. She pulled me into a fierce hug, her own eyes filling with tears. She apologized over and over for Jackson, saying she’d failed as a mother, that she had let me down. “Olivia, you listen to me,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “I have disciplined that boy, and I will not go easy on him this time!” She squeezed my hand. “He has lost his mind! I have told him for years that Isabelle girl has a conniving heart. She will never be welcome in the Croft family!” “And he dared,” she seethed, “he dared to leave you to die for that harpy!” She gripped my hands tighter. “Don’t you be sad, Liv. I will force him to get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness. I’ll make him swear an oath to never see that wretched girl again!” Eleanor’s unwavering loyalty to me made my nose sting. After my parents died, I was brought to live with the Crofts. In all those years, I never once felt like an outsider, never had to walk on eggshells. That was all because of Eleanor. She treated me like her own daughter, often with more affection than she showed Jackson. When I was just a teenager, I’d naively confessed that I had a crush on “Jackie,” and she had immediately set the wheels in motion for our engagement. In her mind, if I wanted it, she would move heaven and earth to give it to me. I sniffed, my voice thick. “Thank you, Eleanor.” “But… it was my choice. I told him to save Isabelle.” I looked down, gathering the courage to say what I’d known I must since the moment I woke up on that cliff. “Eleanor… I want to call off the engagement.” The words dropped into the silent room like a bomb. Both Sophie and Eleanor stared at me, stunned. Everyone knew I was pathologically in love with Jackson. I’d been his shadow since we were kids, impossible to shake off. At my twentieth birthday party, when someone jokingly asked for my wish, I’d declared it to a room full of New York’s most powerful people: My only wish is to marry Jackson Croft. It’s been so long. I can’t remember the look on Jackson’s face when I said it. I just remember it wasn’t a happy one. How ironic. I should have known then. He never wanted me. Clinging, begging, giving him every part of myself—none of it worked. You can’t force someone to love you. Worse, I’d used Eleanor’s love for me as a weapon, forcing him into a marriage he never wanted. I never once considered his feelings. No wonder he despised me. Thank God, this time, I could still fix it. After I pleaded, nearly getting on my knees myself, Eleanor finally, tearfully, agreed. Armed with the freedom Jackson had always craved, I went to the gatehouse. The Jackson of this world, at twenty-six, knelt on the cold marble floor, his posture ramrod straight. His lips were pale, but his jawline was as sharp as ever in the dim light. This version of him wasn’t yet poisoned by a decade of resentment. When he looked at me, there was genuine remorse in his eyes. “Liv, I’m sorry. I—” I shook my head, my voice calm. “It’s not your fault, Jackie.” Jackson flinched. It had been years, so many years, since I had called him that, so easily and without an edge of bitterness. Probably not since the day I decided I had to marry him. He frowned slightly. But I gave him a genuine smile, one of release, completely free of shadows. I was stepping back, once and for all, into the role of the little sister. “I was the one who was wrong all this time, forcing a relationship that wasn’t meant to be. I caused you so much trouble.” “It won’t happen again.” “I just came from seeing your mother. I asked her to cancel our engagement.” When the words “cancel our engagement” left my lips, the composure in Jackson’s eyes finally shattered. He stared at me, his voice flat and certain. “You’re just saying that to punish me.” I shook my head again. I didn’t understand. Shouldn’t he be relieved? Relieved that I was no longer his problem? Relieved that he was finally free to be with Isabelle? But he just stared at me, his gaze deep and unreadable. He closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said, his voice low. And that was it. I turned and walked away. Without an ounce of regret. For us, in this life, this was the best possible ending. 3 That weekend, Sophie organized a “good riddance” party for me. Just a small group of our closest friends. Halfway through the night, the party was crashed. Isabelle, pushed forward by her shrewd older sister, appeared before me to offer a timid thank you. She still looked terrified of me. “Olivia… about the other day… thank you.” The whole table went quiet. Everyone exchanged glances, waiting for the fireworks. They were all expecting me to tear her to shreds, just like I always did. I was famous for my public tirades against her, calling her a manipulative snake, accusing her of trying to steal Jackson. But this time, I just calmly lifted my glass. I looked at the woman my husband had spent a lifetime dreaming of and gave a small, wry smile. “Don’t thank me. You were the one he wanted to save.” “If you want to thank someone, thank him.” Isabelle glanced up, studying my face, as if she couldn’t believe I was letting her off so easily. At that exact moment, a waiter rushed by with a tureen of steaming soup. Isabelle and I were standing closest to his path. There was a sudden, sharp gasp from her, and the entire contents of the tureen sloshed over her delicate arm and dress. The room exploded into chaos. Everyone looked at me, their expressions a mixture of suspicion and knowing confirmation. I lowered my eyes. Here we go again. Always finding myself in these impossible situations because of her. And just like always, Jackson appeared as if summoned. He stormed into the private dining room, his face a thundercloud. “Liv,” he bit out, his voice dangerously low. “I thought what you said on the cliff was real. I thought you meant it.” In his arms, Isabelle was sobbing, on the verge of fainting from the pain. Her arm was already blistering, turning an angry red. It looked bad enough to scar. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The sheer absurdity of it all. The fact that Isabelle would go this far, would burn her own skin, just to frame me. But to Jackson, my laugh must have sounded like the cruel cackle of a villain who’d just gotten away with it. He stalked toward me, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist. Sophie tried to intervene, but Jackson’s security guard moved to block her. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my arm. My wrist was bent at an unnatural angle. God, it hurts… It felt dislocated. I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me cry out. Sophie was shaking with fury. “Jackson! What the hell is wrong with you? Are you even a man?” she shrieked. “You let this venomous bitch play you like a fiddle over and over again!” She scanned the room. “Did anyone see what happened? Does anyone here dare to say that Olivia was the one who spilled that soup?” Silence. No one dared to get involved. Jackson just sneered at Sophie. “I may not know Isabelle, but you think I don’t know Olivia?” I pulled Sophie back, stepping in front of Jackson myself. I looked him straight in the eye. “What do you know about me, Jackson?” “That I’m cruel?” “That I’m incapable of letting anyone else have a sliver of happiness?” These were the words he’d used to describe me in our last life. The epitaph he’d mentally written for me. His eyes were filled with disgust. “Aren’t you?” he shot back. I shook my head. My gaze shifted to the weeping Isabelle. If my wrist didn’t hurt so much, I would have applauded. Applauded this blind, lovesick fool who had managed to fall for the same trick in two separate lifetimes. A dark curiosity sparked within me. I wondered what would happen if he ever saw the real Isabelle, the one behind the fragile, tear-stained mask. Would he spend the rest of his life regretting what he was doing to me right now? Jackson’s personal doctor arrived quickly. He had the doctor see to Isabelle first, completely ignoring me as I stood there, pale and sweating, cold sweat beading on my forehead. Today, he was determined to teach me a lesson. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing my cheek, a gesture he used to use when I was a child and had misbehaved. But his eyes were ice. “Liv,” he said, his voice soft but lethal. “Has living with the Crofts made you so comfortable that you’ve forgotten your place?” “If so, then I’ll teach you myself. When you do something wrong, there are always consequences.” 4 Jackson wanted me to serve tea to Isabelle as a formal apology. I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Why don’t you just break this wrist too, Jackie?” “I could die from the pain right here, tonight, and I would still never apologize for something I didn’t do.” A heavy silence descended on the room. We stood in a standoff, neither willing to back down. It was Isabelle who broke the tension. She leaned weakly against Jackson’s arm, her eyes brimming with tears. “Jackie, please, let it go… I’m sure Olivia didn’t mean to…” Her words were gasoline on a fire. Jackson’s expression darkened further. “You’re still as stubborn as ever, Liv.” He walked over to Sophie, nodding to his men to restrain her. My blood ran cold. Sophie was my only true friend, my sister in all but blood. Jackson knew my weak spot, and he was pressing on it with surgical precision. He wouldn’t even investigate, wouldn’t ask a single question. He had already declared me guilty. He was giving me a choice. Apologize, or watch Sophie suffer. For every minute I refused, it would get worse for her. I knew he wasn’t bluffing. I knew the man behind the polished, charming CEO persona. He was ruthless. “Time’s up,” Jackson said, his voice quiet but echoing with menace. Waves of pain pulsed from my wrist. I watched his men move toward Sophie, and finally, I broke. “I’ll apologize.” Sophie, her mouth covered, was struggling, muffled cries escaping. I bowed my head. The humiliation was a physical weight, crushing me. My throat felt like it was lined with sandpaper. “Jackson,” I croaked. “I apologize.” I walked towards Isabelle, my eyes fixing on the massive floor-to-ceiling window behind her. Outside, the lights of the city glittered, a dazzling, indifferent dreamscape. I couldn’t remember how long ago it was. Right after my parents died, when I first came to the Croft estate. I was homesick but too scared to cry where anyone could see me. I would sneak out to a hidden corner of the garden to let my tears fall in silence. One night, under a starless sky, Jackson found me. He piggybacked me all the way back to the warm, glowing mansion. He’d told me, “Next time you want to cry, you come find me. I’ll always have a shoulder for you.” He’d told me, “Anyone who makes my Liv cry, I’ll make sure they never smile again.” The promises of a boy, still echoing in my ears, while the man stood before me, a stranger. The tears I’d been holding back finally broke free. I had been so foolish. I thought that even if we didn’t have love, we had history. We had fifteen years of shared memories. I choked on a sob, forcing the words out, severing the last tie between us. “You never believed me.” “In your heart, I’m always the villain. I’m always the one hurting Isabelle.” “Fine. I accept it.” “But from this moment on, you, Jackson Croft, are not my brother anymore.” Not my lover. Not my family. “We’re done. There is nothing left between us.” As I stood there, shaking with sobs, I saw something flicker in Jackson’s eyes. A moment of hesitation. I ignored it. I bent my waist, preparing to utter the lie, to give him the apology he demanded. But a deep, magnetic voice cut through the tension. “It seems I’ve come at a bad time.”

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Yesterday, I spent eight hours on the phone with a girl who wanted to die. I talked her down, pinpointed her location, and saved her life. The next day, my request for comp time was denied, and the 200 hours of overtime I’d logged for the month were zeroed out. When I saw the internal memo that defined my work—the act of saving a human being—as ‘ineffective’ and ‘unauthorized overtime,’ I just had to laugh. My supervisor chewed me out in front of the entire team. “We’re an emergency line, not a crisis hotline! Stop wasting public resources!” I lowered my head and took it. Three days later, the city’s biggest investor called in a panic. His daughter had locked herself in their corporate data center and was threatening to wipe the servers clean. He demanded to speak with one person: “the dispatcher who saved my daughter’s life.” The alternative? He’d pull every dollar of his investment out of the city. The assignment popped up on my screen. I clicked ‘Decline.’ “Sorry. The company doesn’t approve that kind of overtime. I can’t take the assignment.” 1 The last words I said into my headset were, “Don’t be afraid. Our people are at the door now. They’ll protect you.” A faint sob came through the line from the other side, followed by the splintering crack of a door being forced open. The call, which had been my entire world for eight straight hours, was finally over. I pulled off the headset and the world tilted, a dizzying spin cycle of fluorescent lights and gray cubicle walls. An oxygen-starved ache throbbed behind my eyes. My name is Stella, and I’m a dispatcher at the Metro 911 Dispatch center. Eight hours ago, a girl named Millie Pierce had called, intent on ending her life. I had thrown every piece of training, every ounce of empathy I possessed, into that call—soothing, guiding, listening. Finally, in a moment when her emotional walls crumbled, I got the key piece of information, the address that allowed us to pinpoint her location. When the green “Rescue Successful” flag lit up on my screen, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding for half a day. I slumped forward onto my desk, too exhausted to even lift a finger. At nine in the morning, after handing off my station, I dragged my lead-filled legs to my supervisor’s office and knocked on the door. “Report,” I said, my voice a croak. No answer. But I could clearly hear her voice from inside. Brenda, my supervisor, was on the phone, her tone light and breezy. “Oh my God, I finally snagged that new shade of nail polish. We should celebrate at that new Italian place downtown tonight, what do you say?” I stood there, waiting. A colleague walking by paused, shot me a look of pure pity, and then hurried away. Ten minutes later, the call ended. The door swung open and Brenda’s face, on seeing me, immediately soured, her eyebrows pinching together. “What is it? Don’t you know how busy I am? You need to make an appointment next time.” Her eyes radiated impatience. A tremor ran through my exhausted body. I placed a thick stack of overtime logs on her desk. “Brenda, I’ve logged over 200 hours of overtime this month,” I said, my voice flat. “I was on a call all night for eight hours. I’d like to request two comp days.” That stack of paper was a testament to a month of late nights and early mornings, a monument to my dedication. Brenda picked up the stack with two perfectly manicured fingers, as if it were something foul. Her face was a mask of disgust. “Two hundred hours? Stella, you’re supposed to be one of my top dispatchers. Is your efficiency really that low?” “These are all system-logged effective call times,” I said calmly. “They meet the requirements for overtime.” She let out a short, sharp laugh and flipped open the first page. “Let’s see. This one from last night. Call duration: eight hours and twenty-three minutes. For one case?” “Yes. A girl with active suicidal ideations. The situation was critical.” Brenda’s acrylic nails tapped a sharp rhythm on the desk, her expression dripping with disdain. “Eight hours? Stella, were you saving a life, or catching up with your long-distance boyfriend? We’re an emergency hotline, not a therapy clinic!” “You occupy a line for eight hours—do you have any idea how many real emergencies, people needing an ambulance or a fire truck, couldn’t get through because of you?” I tried to explain. “Brenda, saving a life, a person who is actively trying to die, is also our duty…” “Duty?” she cut me off, her voice rising sharply. “Your duty is to complete ‘information gathering’ and ‘dispatch assignment’ with maximum efficiency! Fifteen minutes per case, max! That’s your KPI!” She snatched a red pen and, right in front of me, began to scrawl across my logs. Next to the eight-hour entry, she wrote in piercing red ink: 【Serious violation. Ineffective communication. Creates risk of resource bottleneck.】 She flipped through a few more pages. “Consoling the family of a lost child, call duration 45 minutes?” 【Exceeded scope of work. Not your job.】 “Handling a caller panicking about a gas leak, call duration 1 hour 10 minutes?” 【Induced panic. Lacks capability.】 With every annotation, she would look up at me, the contempt in her eyes raw and undisguised. Finally, holding the stack of papers now covered in insulting red ink, she stood up. I thought she was going to throw it in the trash. No, she did something worse. She walked to her office door, grabbed a stapler, and with a loud thwack, she pinned my 200 hours of heart and soul to the bulletin board outside her office—the one reserved for displaying disciplinary cases. The “Notice Board of Shame,” as we called it. A public testament to my supposed failures for every single person to see. My heart sank with the percussive sound. She returned to her desk and pulled up my monthly timesheet on her monitor. In the “Overtime Hours” column, she typed a single, clean number. “0”. The digit felt like a physical blow. I clenched my fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms I thought I might draw blood. “Brenda, you can’t do this! This is real work I did!” Brenda crossed her arms, a smug, “what-can-you-do-about-it” smile spreading across her face. “On what grounds? On the grounds that I’m your supervisor, and I’m the one who signs off on your KPIs.” “Stella, don’t be so petty. You’re young. You need to have some dedication, stop thinking only about yourself! Surely you don’t just come to work for the money, do you?” 2 Before I could even process the humiliation of that “0,” the intercom crackled to life. “Attention all staff, attention all staff. There will be an emergency team meeting in Conference Room One in ten minutes. Attendance is mandatory.” It was Brenda’s voice, sharp and absolute. I walked into the conference room on heavy feet. It was already full. My colleagues’ eyes fell on me, a mixture of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher: pity, curiosity, and a few glints of malicious glee. Tiffany, who was usually friendly with me, was now sitting as far away as possible, pointedly avoiding my gaze. Brenda strode in on her high heels, her eyes like lasers as they scanned the room and locked onto me. “I’ve called this meeting today for a very specific reason.” She paused for dramatic effect, her voice turning severe. “We are an emergency response center. Every single second of our public resources is invaluable.” “However, we have a member on our team whose priorities have become… misguided.” Every head in the room swiveled towards me. I dropped my gaze to the worn toes of my shoes. “One of our dispatchers seems to think this is an emotional chat line. She can spend eight hours on a single call!” Brenda’s tone was thick with sarcasm, drawing a few stifled snickers from the room. “Eight hours! Do you all understand what that means?” she continued, her voice rising. “It means a critical emergency line was rendered useless for eight hours! In that time, a heart attack victim, a child trapped in a fire, could have died because they couldn’t get through!” In her version of the story, I hadn’t saved a person who wanted to die; I had become a criminal who endangered countless others. My chest heaved, and I fought the urge to leap to my feet and scream. Just then, Tiffany raised her hand and stood up, an expression of earnest sincerity on her face. “Brenda, I think you’re absolutely right. We have to prioritize the greater good.” She turned to me, her face a mask of concern, but her words were daggers. “Stella, I know you have a good heart, but we’re professional dispatchers, not neighborhood gossips. Your actions, objectively, caused a massive waste of resources. That’s irresponsible to the rest of the city’s residents.” This “big picture” speech earned a nod of approval from Brenda. “Well said, Tiffany! That’s the kind of perspective and strategic thinking we need from a top dispatcher!” Brenda’s attention snapped back to me. “Stella, as a senior employee, for you to make such a rookie mistake is inexcusable. You should be severely disciplined.” “But, considering you put in the effort, even if it was useless, I’ll give you one chance to redeem yourself.” She looked down at me, her expression imperious. “Now, stand up, and give everyone here a thorough self-criticism. Promise it will never happen again.” All the blood in my body rushed to my head. A self-criticism? For doing my job, for meticulously saving a human life? I clenched my jaw and said nothing. The room was utterly silent. The tension was thick enough to choke on. Brenda’s face darkened. “What? Still defiant? Let me tell you something, Stella. Rules are rules!” She sneered. “And to ensure this serves as a lesson for everyone, I’m announcing a new regulation.” “Starting today, any non-dispatch-oriented call exceeding 30 minutes will be directly tied to your monthly performance review. For every minute over the limit, ten dollars will be deducted from your pay. No upper limit.” “Furthermore, any such call will be classified as an ‘Invalid Call’ and will not count towards your logged work hours!” She finished, her eyes fixed on me in a clear challenge. “Stella. Did you understand this new rule?” 3 The conference room door closed behind me, shutting out the storm of complicated stares. I walked back to my station feeling drained, my spirit hollowed out. Just then, a call came in. I took a deep breath, put on my headset, and forced myself back into work mode. “Metro 911, what’s your emergency?” “Help! My apartment’s on fire! The address is… Maple Creek Condos, Building 3…” As I started typing, Tiffany, at the next station, began talking loudly to another colleague. “You have to see the new purse I bought! It’s gorgeous! I’ll show you a picture in a sec!” Her voice was shrill, deliberately distracting. I frowned, pressing my hand over my free ear to block her out as I tried to confirm the details. “Sir, stay calm. Is that Maple Creek Condos, Building 3, apartment 203?” “What 203! It’s 302! 302!” the man on the other end screamed, frantic. A jolt of alarm shot through me, but before I could apologize, Tiffany had snatched the headset right off my head and put it on her own. “Sir, this is Dispatcher Tiffany. I’ve confirmed the address as Maple Creek Condos, Building 3, apartment 302. The fire department is on its way. Please remain calm.” She cooed a few more sweet, standard reassurances and then ended the call. Taking off the headset, she looked at me with a sickeningly fake expression of concern. “Stella, are you okay? You seem exhausted. Mishearing such crucial information… you almost sent the trucks to the wrong address. What if I hadn’t been listening? Could you handle that responsibility?” Without waiting for my response, she spun on her heel and marched straight toward Brenda’s office. I could hear her exaggerated voice loud and clear. “Brenda, I need to report something. Stella’s really not in a good state. We almost had a major incident…” That kind of backstabbing felt worse than if she had screamed a hundred insults at my face. I sat frozen at my desk, a cold dread washing over me. I don’t know how much time passed before I looked up to see a carton of warm milk and a small granola bar sitting on my desk. I blinked, confused. My eyes scanned the room and met the gaze of an older dispatcher from another team, a quiet man who rarely spoke. He gave me a silent, almost imperceptible nod before quickly looking away. That small, unspoken gesture of solidarity, as faint as it was, was a flicker of warmth in the suffocating darkness. I wasn’t completely alone. I couldn’t let them break me. I picked up the milk, and as I did, the name of the girl from last night flashed in my mind. Millie Pierce. I distinctly remembered a moment during our eight-hour marathon when she had screamed, sobbing hysterically. “My dad’s company is Veridian Dynamics! All he cares about is his stupid investments! He’s never cared if I live or die!” Veridian Dynamics… Arthur Pierce… A name clicked into place. I quickly grabbed my phone, opened the browser, and typed in the keywords. The headline that popped onto the screen made my breath catch in my throat. Billion-Dollar Investment Secured! Veridian Dynamics CEO Arthur Pierce Signs Strategic Partnership with City. In the accompanying photo, the man beaming at the signing table was the city’s biggest new investor. His project was tied to tens of thousands of jobs, a keystone for the entire region’s economic future. I had saved his daughter. My fingertips slid across the cold glass of the screen. A plan began to take shape, cold and clear, in the back of my mind. Brenda. Tiffany. You value KPIs and efficiency above all else, don’t you? You think my work is “ineffective”? Soon, you’re going to find out just how valuable my “ineffective” work really is. 4 For the next three days, I became a machine. An unfeeling dispatch automaton. Every call, I adhered strictly to the “15-minute” principle. My call-time records became flawlessly, brutally “efficient.” My average handling time plummeted from my usual 25 minutes to just under 8. Brenda praised me by name in the daily briefing, commending my “rapid improvement” and noting that I was “teachable after all.” Tiffany chimed in with a saccharine, backhanded compliment: “Looks like Stella’s finally figured out the secret to success.” I accepted it all with a blank expression. My heart grew harder and colder with every premature, impersonal disconnection. And then it happened. A piercing, urgent alarm blared through the entire dispatch center. Every monitor was instantly flooded with a flashing, blood-red pop-up. 【PRIORITY ONE ALERT: A-LEVEL URBAN PARTNERSHIP CRISIS】 My heart hammered against my ribs as I read the details. Millie Pierce, daughter of Arthur Pierce, had locked herself inside the central server room at the Veridian Dynamics headquarters. The very server room that housed the digital infrastructure for the city’s entire development plan for the second half of the year. The alert included a direct quote from a frantic Arthur Pierce: “Right now! Get the dispatcher who saved my daughter three days ago on the line with her! Only her! If you don’t, I will pull every dollar of my investment from this city and call a press conference to tell the world exactly why!” The entire hall fell into a dead, shocked silence. Every single eye in the room was fixed on me. A second later, a new window popped up on my personal terminal. It was bordered in gold, the color code for a non-negotiable, top-level directive. 【ASSIGNMENT: Immediately establish communication with target individual Millie Pierce and provide emotional support.】 Below the text, two large, flashing buttons pulsed. 【ACCEPT】 【DECLINE】 Slowly, deliberately, I moved my mouse cursor over the button on the right. And I clicked. On the screen, two words exploded in stark, crimson letters. 【ASSIGNMENT DECLINED】 In the exact same instant, my personal cell phone began to vibrate violently on my desk. The caller ID displayed a name I knew all too well. Brenda.

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I’m Willa, the final boss of the Crimson Hollow instance. My daily KPI is consummating a marriage with some hapless outsider who stumbles into my domain. Until the day I woke up and my stomach was inexplicably round and swollen. For the love of God, who the hell is the father? 1 I stared down at my perfectly round belly, then looked over at the pigpen and did a recount. All present and accounted for. I haven’t eaten a single pig in two days. How could my stomach be stretched this taut? Could it be… constipation? I immediately sprinted to the outhouse, squatted down, and tried to channel all my spiritual energy downward. Ten minutes later, I emerged feeling immensely relieved, a faint, foul odor trailing behind me. I looked down. Not an inch smaller. What in the hell was going on? I couldn’t be… My eyes widened in terror. Could it be—a tumor? Can entities even get cancer? The Crimson Hollow instance is about to reopen for new players. In this state, I can’t even fit into my wedding gown. My mind reeling with worry, I made my way to the Miller family’s cottage on the edge of the village. Sadie Miller, in her human life, had been a grad student burning the midnight oil on her PhD in naturopathic medicine. When she couldn’t land a job after graduation, she saw an ad for the new horror game instance and, on a whim, applied to be an entity. She was a headhunted hire, part of a special talent initiative. 2 “The pulse is fluid and fast, rolling smoothly under the fingers, like a bead of mercury on a steel plate. It’s a slippery pulse,” Sadie murmured, her gaze fixed on my enormous belly. She fell into thought. “You’ve just been overeating. It’s classic indigestion. I’ll get you some herbs to help with digestion.” “You quack! I haven’t eaten a thing in two days!” I knew relying on a grad student was a mistake. “Then what did you eat two days ago?” Sadie shot me a disdainful look. Two days ago? I guess I had a couple of pigs. “At least one pig, right?” Though phrased as a question, her tone was accusatory. “The hogs you raise are 500 pounds, easy. Two of them is half a ton. What other entity has an appetite like yours? This is just your system backing up. Indigestion.” “But isn’t a slippery pulse also known as a pregnancy pulse?” A deep-seated unease was coiling in my gut. “That just shows you don’t know anything,” Sadie said, rolling her eyes. “Pregnancy isn’t the only thing that causes it. Besides, you haven’t been with any male entities. Where would a baby come from?” She paused, frowning. “Though, I will admit, your pulse does feel… unique. It’s not like the others I’ve felt. It’s probably just because of the sheer quantity you consumed.” As Sadie launched into a lengthy explanation, I went silent. She might have a point about the male entities, but there were still the male players. A few months ago… that night… that player’s abs, that lean-muscled grace… Damn. The memories of that night were hazy, but I remembered one thing clearly: I didn’t get a wink of sleep. And, I had to admit, compared to all the other players I’d… entertained… that one night had been far more memorable. 3 “You’re blushing!” Sadie circled me, a look of pure astonishment on her face. “You? You’re actually capable of blushing?” I touched my face. It did feel a little warm. Mortified, I shoved her away. “Just tell me if I can get back to normal in seven days! The instance is about to open!” “I’ll give you the strong stuff,” Sadie said, heading into her apothecary. I sat on the worn doorstep of her workshop, watching as she climbed up and down a small ladder, pulling jars from high shelves. The sixth sense I barely possessed was screaming bloody murder. “Hey, Sadie,” I began, my voice hesitant. “What if…” “Spit it out!” So much for higher education. The woman had the grace of a trucker. “What if I was with a man?” I squeezed my eyes shut and yelled, “What are the chances I could be pregnant?” CRASH! The small brass scale Sadie was holding clattered to the floor. Silence. A profound, ringing silence. I didn’t dare look at her. “You didn’t use protection?!” Sadie’s voice was a high-pitched shriek that could shatter glass. “In the heat of the moment, who thinks about that stuff?” I shot back, feeling not an ounce of shame. “Besides, this isn’t some modern-day instance. We can’t just use condoms. What was I supposed to do?” “You’re insane!” Sadie grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “It never happened before, so I didn’t worry about it.” I waved a dismissive hand. “Not every entity is a cold fish like you, you know. A girl has needs! It was consensual. What’s the big deal?” Sadie looked like she was about to have an aneurysm. She raised a fist as if to strike me, but then her eyes fell to my belly, and she forced herself to stop. 4 That same day, Sadie hitched up her donkey cart and took me into the nearest materialized town for a proper check-up. Staring at the grainy image of a tiny, pulsing little bean on the ultrasound monitor, I was overcome with joy. In this godforsaken horror game, I finally had a family. Someone who shared my blood. Sadie was just sighing, one heavy, disappointed breath after another. I blinked at her with wide, innocent eyes. “You want to keep it?” she asked, her voice flat. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before nodding. She took a deep, steadying breath. “You’re a madwoman. I should have known you were a goddamn madwoman.” I wrapped my arm around hers. “It’s okay! The baby can call you Auntie Sadie!” “Auntie my ass!” she snapped, rolling her eyes. “Who knows if you’ll even live long enough to give birth?” “Don’t swear! You’ll corrupt the baby!” I smacked her arm lightly. “Corrupt my—” Sadie bit her tongue, catching herself. “Fine. Let’s go to my place first.” When Sadie was recruited, the System had allocated her a condo in a materialized suburban development called Evergreen Meadows. “My pigs!” I suddenly remembered. “I’ll go back later and butcher one for you. Bring it back so you can get your strength up. I swear, I must have owed you a debt in a past life.” Grinning, I followed her to Building 2, Unit 401, of Evergreen Meadows. 5 When I woke up, the rich, savory aroma of braised short ribs was wafting from the kitchen. Sadie was a phenomenal cook, but she hated doing it. I’d only been lucky enough to taste her food once or twice when she was in a particularly good mood. Looks like I had this little tadpole to thank for another feast. Just as I was about to sneak a piece from the pan, Sadie slapped my hand away. “Drink your medicine first.” She placed a bowl of viscous, pitch-black liquid in front of me. I recoiled instinctively. “Can I… not?” “Willa! Do you have any idea how much of a drain a human-entity hybrid pregnancy is on your system? Do you have a death wish?” Sadie was officially furious. “I’ll drink it! Right after I finish eating!” I promised immediately. “Nope. It works best on an empty stomach.” Fine. I’ll drink it. Bitter. So unbelievably bitter. The moment I finished, Sadie shoved a piece of tender short rib into my mouth. I chewed instinctively. It was heavenly. Once I was full, I leaned back and rubbed my stomach. A warmth spread through me, and I felt some of my power returning. No wonder I’d been so exhausted and hungry lately. It was all this little freeloader’s fault. 6 Life in Evergreen Meadows was bliss. Sadie cooked for me every day, coming up with new and delicious things to satisfy my cravings. But the damn instance was about to reopen, and my request for leave with the System was denied. I’ve heard the human world has things like labor laws. Maternity leave! There’s absolutely no respect for entity rights here. Sadie was in the kitchen, preparing a batch of snacks for me to take back for the next few days. I was sprawled on the couch, munching on a piece of spicy-sweet beef jerky. Dr. Miller’s culinary skills were truly second to none. “You just lie there waiting for me to cook for you. Have you no shame?” Sadie called from the kitchen, our usual banter in full swing. “You’re the baby’s godmother! Of course you have to cook!” The word ‘polite’ doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. Back in the village, my belly seemed to inflate like a balloon, and with each passing day, I felt my power draining away. Sadie spent her days viciously cursing the man who didn’t use a condom. I’d just grin and curse him right along with her. 7 The day before the instance reopened, Sadie went out. As the sky began to darken with no sign of her return, a knot of panic tightened in my chest. When the game isn’t active, the wilderness at night is crawling with mindless, feral entities. Even a powerful entity like Sadie would be torn to shreds out there. After my 251st trip to the doorway to scan the horizon, I finally saw a lone figure in the distance. When Sadie stumbled through the door, she was covered in blood. Before I could even start screaming at her, she shoved something into my mouth. So accustomed to being fed by her, I swallowed without thinking. A potent wave of energy surged from my stomach, flooding every corner of my being. It was a Wraith Cap. They only grow in the Unhallowed Wilds, a place filled with retired, mindless instance bosses. “Are you insane?” I cried, helping the blood-soaked Sadie to a chair. “Birds of a feather, right? We’re both lunatics,” she slurred, completely unfazed. Sadie passed out. I carried her to the spare room and began tending to her wounds. Gently, I stroked my belly, where a tiny foot was kicking restlessly. “You have to be born safely now, little one,” I whispered. “If only to make your auntie’s sacrifice worth it.” 8 【Welcome to the A-Rank Instance: Crimson Hollow】 【Survive for 7 days by adhering to the following rules:】 【1. The people of Crimson Hollow are a close-knit and xenophobic community. Do not let the villagers discover your identity as outsiders.】 【2. There is a mysterious catacomb within Crimson Hollow. Find the entrance and place the required item.】 【3. The villagers of Crimson Hollow are the players’ targets. The more villagers killed, the higher the player’s score.】 【4. The Village Chief of Crimson Hollow will enter a berserk state on the final day. Discovering the truth can prevent this.】 【5. Crimson Hollow holds a mandatory village-wide training every evening at 7 PM. Do not be late.】 【6. An enemy force will attack Crimson Hollow on the seventh day. Identifying the enemy in advance and providing information about the catacombs may lead to a mysterious grand prize.】 I lay in bed, stroking my lively baby, awaiting the arrival of the player. With a baby on the way, my desire for men had plummeted. At the stroke of midnight, a flash of white light illuminated the room, and a man with the handle 【Spud】 materialized on my bed. Finally. Staying up late isn’t good for the baby. I fell asleep instantly. The man kept fidgeting next to me. Annoyed, I kicked him clean off the bed. The world was finally quiet. When I woke up, 【Spud】 was gone. My first stop was Sadie’s for breakfast. We had brisket breakfast burritos and a rich bone broth. It was divine. The first day is always the easiest, as the players spend their time exploring the village and searching for clues. Sadie was in her kitchen, muttering to herself as she prepared more braised short ribs for me, while I squatted outside, drooling. Suddenly, a book flew through the air towards me. I snatched it with lightning speed. “I’m writing down my recipes for you. After you give birth, you’re cooking all of this for me!” I opened it. The first page was for braised short ribs. The rest of the book was blank. “Why is there only one recipe?” I asked, curious. “With the way you eat eighteen meals a day, be grateful I had time to write down one! When you’re done with all this, you’re going to make it up to me with a full-blown, Michelin-star feast!” she said through gritted teeth. I wasn’t worried. Once the baby was born, I’d just have my daughter turn on the charm. Old Sadie would melt. She always was a sucker for a soft touch. 9 Full and happy, I started walking home and came across a group of ten strangers. They were wearing new, patched-up clothes, chattering excitedly at the village entrance. When they saw me approach, they all fell silent and, like the other villagers, greeted me with a respectful, “Chief.” I stared them down, and not one of them dared to breathe. One of the men looked… vaguely familiar. But then again, we entities have a hard time distinguishing human faces. He probably just had one of those generic faces. It was only the first day, so I had no intention of making things difficult for them. I gave a slight nod and walked on. Once I was a good distance away, I heard them start whispering about “catacombs,” “enemies,” and a “grand prize.” Must be discussing the game rules. When the male player assigned to my house returned that evening, I was gnawing on a pork knuckle. I heard him swallow hard and immediately turned my back to him. This was a gift from Sadie. No one else was getting a bite. At 6 PM, all the villagers and players gathered in Old Man Hemlock’s backyard for training. Sadie led the drills in my place, while I watched from the side, one hand on my belly. The players were all clumped at the back, clumsily mimicking the movements. It was infuriating to watch. “You’re all going to die the second the enemy shows up,” I snapped, pointing at the players. “Straighten your arms! Are you throwing a punch or inviting someone to kill you?” Sadie quickly came over and shooed me away. As I walked off, I sighed. So weak. How do they survive out there? 10 During training on the second night, I saw that familiar-looking male player again. His name was Ethan. And damn, he was well-built. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, and handsome features. He had a pair of eyes that could flirt with a telephone pole and make it blush. I found my gaze drawn to his waist. Mmm. Nope. I’m a mother-to-be now. I have to be dignified. He kept sneaking glances at me during the drills. When I caught him, he didn’t look away. Instead, he just smiled. What’s he smiling about? My stomach is this big because of you damn men! I shot him a vicious glare and walked home, one hand supporting my back. That night, the player named 【Spud】 appeared on my bed right on schedule. He stared at my belly with open curiosity. “Chief, your stomach… did you just eat too much?” I rolled my eyes, too tired to bother with him. He, however, was a natural chatterbox and started telling me about the outside world. “You know, the player forums are going nuts. They’re saying the boss of Crimson Hollow is pregnant. Everyone’s guessing who the father is.” My heart skipped a beat. The news had spread that fast? “Some people are guessing it’s the boar demon from the next mountain over. Others think it’s the fish monster from the Blackwater Bog. And some people are guessing…” He paused, leaning in conspiratorially. “They’re guessing you devoured the last male player whole—body and soul—and just digested him completely.” I… Seriously. It’s a crime that this guy’s imagination isn’t being used to write novels. “Oh, by the way, Chief,” he said, as if suddenly remembering something. “Do you remember a player from a few months back named ‘Ethan’? S-class, super handsome?” My heart stuttered. Ethan? “Don’t remember. I’ve slept with too many men,” I said, my voice hard. Spud gave me a knowing, slightly sleazy grin. “Right, right. Part of the job description and all. But that Ethan guy was a legend. He’s the only S-class player to ever get out of here alive and completely unharmed. After that, he just vanished. Never entered another instance. Some say he retired, found a quiet place to settle down.” My mind was in turmoil. Could it really have been him? Fragments of that night flashed through my mind: hard-muscled abs, that lean, powerful grace, and the sound of ragged, suppressed breaths… My face grew hot. I pulled the blanket over my head. See no evil, think no evil. I’m a pregnant woman! 11 On the third day, the players finally found the entrance to the so-called “catacombs.” It was hidden beneath the old burial ground behind the village. Leaning on Sadie for support, I went to see what was happening. A group of players was huddled around the entrance, chattering nervously. “Is this it? It looks creepy as hell.” “The rules say we have to place an item. What item?” “Who’s brave enough to go down?” I stared into the pitch-black opening, feeling a chill myself. I’d been the chief here for years and never knew this place existed. As everyone hesitated, Ethan stepped forward. “I’ll go take a look.” His voice was calm, but held an undeniable authority. All eyes turned to him. He took off his jacket, revealing a black, form-fitting tactical shirt underneath that left nothing to the imagination. I couldn’t help but sneak another peek at his waist. Yep. That was the one. He glanced back at me, his expression complex and unreadable. Then, he leaped into the darkness. The crowd gasped. “Holy crap, is he for real?” “That’s a top-tier player for you!” Spud puffed out his chest with pride. “You know it. Ethan once took on an A+ boss single-handedly.” Sadie leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Something’s not right with that guy. Stay away from him.” I nodded, but my mind was a chaotic mess. Before long, Ethan emerged from the hole. He was a little dusty but seemed unharmed. “It’s not a catacomb,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd. “It’s more like a… a nursery.” A nursery? Everyone was stunned into silence. “There are these… cocoon-like things hanging everywhere, with something moving inside them,” Ethan described. “In the center, there’s a stone altar with an indentation on it. That must be where the item goes.” “So where’s the item?” a female player asked. Ethan shook his head. “I couldn’t find it.” The players deflated like punctured balloons. I, however, was lost in thought. A nursery… All the entities in our village were directly deployed by the System. I’d never heard of any of us reproducing on our own. Could there be a hidden mechanic to this instance that even I didn’t know about? 12 I was distracted all through dinner that evening. Sadie tapped my bowl with a chopstick. “What are you thinking about? Your head is in the clouds.” “Sadie,” I started hesitantly, “do you think… is it possible for a player to re-enter an instance they’ve already cleared?” “Impossible,” Sadie said without a second thought. “The System has rules. For the sake of fairness, once a player clears an instance, they’re locked out. Unless…” “Unless what?” I pressed. “Unless he’s a ‘Seeker.’” Sadie glanced at me. “It’s a special status within the System, extremely rare. They can ignore the rules and travel freely between any instance they’ve visited. But there are only a handful of them in the entire game. They’re practically myths.” I fell silent. Ethan. The S-class player. The Seeker. The pieces were clicking into place, forming a wild theory in my mind. “Eat!” Sadie dropped another large piece of short rib into my bowl. “Who cares about Seekers? If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up for you. Your only job right now is to take care of yourself and bring my goddaughter or godson into this world safely.” I looked at the glistening piece of meat in my bowl, a warmth spreading through my chest. She was right. Who cares? I’ll deal with whatever comes. I placed a hand on my belly. The little one kicked back. “You’ve got to be strong, little bean,” I murmured. “Don’t let your dad… or your auntie… down.”

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The fifth year of our marriage was the year my husband, Ethan, told me he’d found his soulmate. I, apparently, was just the daughter-in-law his parents had always wanted, not the other half of his soul. As a consolation prize, he offered me a check for five million dollars and sincerely suggested I take our daughter and disappear. The day I signed the divorce papers, my mother-in-law kicked him squarely in the ass. “You ungrateful parasite,” she hissed. “Take your little tramp and get out of my house!” My father-in-law, his eyes glistening with tears, looked at me and slid a thick portfolio across the table. It contained stock certificates and the deeds to all their properties. “Finally,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “These can finally go to my real daughter, where they belong.” 1 I was stunned into silence. Ethan was even more bewildered, but he recovered quickly, his face hardening with impatience. “You think this little act is going to make me stay? Forget it. It’s over. I already lost three years with Serena. I’m not losing another minute.” He puffed out his chest, a smug look spreading across his face. “I know you’ve always wanted a grandson. Well, Serena and I have a son. He’s three years old. I’ll bring them over to meet you tomorrow. The second you see him, you’ll fall in love.” He looked from his father to his mother, his expression triumphant. “There. Are you satisfied now?” My in-laws stared at each other, their mouths agape. In their eyes, I saw a cocktail of emotions I couldn’t quite decipher. Disbelief? Pity? Utter contempt? Was I seeing things? Honestly, I’d initially agreed with Ethan’s theory. This had to be some kind of elaborate performance designed to guilt him into staying. After all, before they’d even met me, they couldn’t stand the idea of me. I was an orphan, a nobody. They’d called me countless times, begging me to leave their son alone. I was on the verge of giving up and finding a new target when they finally agreed to meet me. The moment they saw me, their attitude did a complete one-eighty. Suddenly, they were rushing us to the altar. The dowry was an eight-figure sum. Forty percent of the company stock. A real estate portfolio so vast I lost count—somewhere over eighty properties, I think. The traditional gold jewelry arrived in chests. I don’t know if marriage is a tomb, but it was most certainly a treasure vault. After the wedding, they treated me like I was made of spun glass, catering to my every whim. I remember once, watching TV, I casually mentioned that I loved a certain celebrity. The next day, my in-laws had him flown in for a private performance in our living room. He did backflips. Their adoration was so absolute that, over the years, I let my guard down. The wealth gave me a confidence I’d never known. I stopped trying so hard, stopped playing the part of the sweet, demure girl Ethan had fallen for. He started complaining. What happened to the innocent little flower he’d met? Why had she turned into a cactus? But back to the present. After a long, silent moment, my in-laws finally turned their bewildered gazes back to their son. “You’re going to bring your son to see us tomorrow?” my mother-in-law asked slowly. “He’s three years old?” my father-in-law added. “He’s… yours?” A paternal softness crept into Ethan’s smug expression. “Of course he is! I had a paternity test done. Serena and the kids have had it so tough overseas these past three years. She’s been raising four children all on her own. It’s been unbelievably difficult.” He shook his head, full of manufactured sympathy. “And she never once asked me for help. It was a complete accident that I ran into her after she moved back. That’s the only reason I found out I had a son.” “She’s strong, independent, gentle, and kind,” he continued, his voice swelling. “And her sons are so polite and well-behaved. You’ll absolutely love them when you meet them.” I was so shocked I couldn’t speak, my own expression now mirroring my in-laws’ look of pure idiocy. “Four… sons?” I finally managed to choke out. Ethan shot me a look of contempt. “A family like ours needs a male heir, Sophie. And while three of them aren’t mine, they’ll be great support for my son as he grows up. Every prince needs a court, right? Better to raise them loyal from the start.” He waved a dismissive hand at me. “As for Lily, she’s my daughter, and I won’t neglect her. I’ll make her a department manager or something when she’s older.” His eyes narrowed. “That’s the best I can do. If you ask for anything more, don’t blame me for getting nasty.” I fell silent, a dawning realization sinking in. Maybe the reason I’d successfully landed him all those years ago wasn’t because of my masterful charm, but because he was, and always had been, a complete and utter moron. Seeing my furrowed brow, Ethan’s temper flared. “What’s that look for, Sophie? Are you looking down on Serena?” “Let me tell you something,” he spat, “if an orphan like you could marry into the Hayes family, then so can she! And she gave me a son.” “And whatever my parents gave you as a dowry, they’ll give her double!” The words were barely out of his mouth when I saw my father-in-law and mother-in-law each raise a hand, all five fingers spread. Ethan blinked, and then a slow, greedy smile spread across his face. “Thank you, Mom and Dad! Fifty million! Now that’s more like it!” In the next instant, two blurs of motion cut through the air. I barely had time to blink before the sharp, wet crack of open palms against skin echoed in the cavernous living room. Ethan’s face twitched, his mouth frozen in a perfect “O” of shock. He stared at his parents, his hand trembling as he pointed a finger at them. “You… you actually hit me!” he stammered. “You hit your own son for an outsider? Have you lost your minds? After everything I just told you, you’re still siding with her? What has she done to you?” He took a menacing step forward. “I am the future of this family! You’d better think long and hard about who you’re betting on, or you’ll end up old and alone!” My mother-in-law didn’t even bother to look at him again. She just turned to her husband with disgust. “We were fools,” she said, her voice dripping with regret. “How did we raise something like this? You need to come with me to the temple tomorrow. We need to beg for forgiveness. What a terrible sin we’ve committed.” My father-in-law nodded, his face a mask of grief. “We should have never been so superficial. A handsome face, but a mind full of mud and a heart full of filth. Thank God we’re still here. Who else would look out for Sophie?” Superficial? What did they mean by that? The question had barely formed in my mind when I felt a scorching gaze fall upon me. Ethan, his face now a mottled red with rage, glared at me. “What kind of spell did you cast on them? Their own son! Their own grandson! They’re throwing us away for you!” “Don’t get too comfortable,” he snarled. “They haven’t met Serena yet. Once they see her, you think you’ll still be so smug? They’ll throw you out on the street where you belong!” I looked down at my own hand, then slowly curled my fingers into a claw. With a surge of fury, I lunged forward and raked my nails down his face. He screamed, clutching his cheeks as blood seeped through his fingers. “Sophie! You’re a damn shrew!” he yelled. “I let a viper into my own home!” I was about to let loose another volley of insults when my in-laws shouted in unison, “Bravo!” A strange feeling bloomed in my chest. Was it possible? Were they actually on my side? This wasn’t an act? I had attacked their son, the point of no return. This should have been the moment the charade ended, the moment they showed their true colors. But what was this? I had to admit, for the past five years, they had treated me better than any biological daughter could hope for. But deep down, I’d always maintained a sliver of doubt. I believed their kindness was transactional—they were good to me because I was their son’s wife, and in return, I would be good to their son. But I had just physically assaulted him, tearing the last shreds of civility to pieces, and they were… cheering me on. This had to be real. Ethan saw that his parents were still defending me, and his rage boiled over. “Just wait until Serena gets here!” he screamed, storming toward the door. “Then you’ll see what a real woman looks like!”

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The day my sixteen-year-old daughter was assaulted by her tutor, I heard her cries for help. And I did nothing. In fact, I locked the door to her room, leaned against it, and cheered him on. Afterward, my daughter’s spirit shattered. She stood on the edge of our rooftop, her dress torn, the wind whipping around her. But when the first responders rushed up, I was the one who screamed at them. “She wanted it!” “She dresses like that, what does she expect? She was asking for it!” “What are you even doing here? If she was going to jump, she’d have done it by now!” Everyone just stared, frozen in shock. My husband, Mark, lost his mind. The crack of his palm against my cheek echoed in the rooftop air, sending me stumbling to the ground. “How can you call yourself a mother?! You bitch. I’m divorcing you!” A firefighter held our daughter, Sophie, in his arms. She was sobbing, overwhelmed with grief and confusion. Even then, she was the good daughter. The thoughtful one. “If Mom just testifies for me in court,” she wept, “I’ll forgive her!” I met the weight of all their judgmental stares and let a cold smile spread across my face. “Sorry,” I said. “No deal.” 1 My parents, arriving in a frantic rush, heard that last part. They looked at me, their faces masks of disbelief, as I continued my tirade. “Are you insane? Anna, that is your daughter!” my father roared. “What kind of animal are you? How could you say something like that?” Sophie struggled out of the firefighter’s arms and collapsed into my mother’s embrace, her composure finally breaking. “Grandma, Grandpa, what’s wrong with Mom?” she cried, her voice ragged. “My tutor… he hurt me… and she just brought him a plate of fruit! She didn’t want to help me!” “Did I do something wrong? Did I embarrass her?” Every word was a shard of glass, tearing at the hearts of everyone who listened. The crowd’s gaze on me hardened, turning from disgust to pure loathing. My father, a man who hadn’t cried in thirty years, had red-rimmed eyes. He fought for control, his voice strained. “Anna, I don’t know what’s going through your head, but you need to take Sophie to the police station. Now.” “You’re her mother. It’s your responsibility. She’s just a child!” I touched the stinging red handprint on my cheek and shrugged, a picture of pure indifference. “She can go if she wants. I’m not going.” “And if any of you lay another hand on me,” I added, my voice dangerously low, “I’ll press charges for assault.” A wave of murmurs rippled through the onlookers. They started pointing, condemning me for being a monster, for abandoning my daughter in her hour of need. A police officer stepped forward, his expression grim. “Ma’am, the victim is a minor. A guardian needs to be present. As her mother, you need to come with us.” Sophie reached for the hem of my shirt, her small hand trembling. I slapped it away. My eyes were like ice as I looked down at her. “You’re sixteen years old. That’s practically an adult. If you want to go to the police, go by yourself. This isn’t my problem.” Her lips quivered, her face a canvas of terror. “Mommy, I’m scared,” she whispered. “Please, Mommy? You love me more than anyone, remember?” Mark couldn’t take it anymore. He wrapped his suit jacket around her shivering shoulders, then turned on me, his voice a raw roar. “Anna! What the hell is wrong with you?” “She’s not stable! If she tries to kill herself again, can you live with that?!” I remained unmoved. My mother was the first to break. Wiping away tears of pure disappointment, she took Sophie’s hand, her voice soft and soothing. “Sweetheart, will you come with Grandma to the station? Is that okay? Grandma will be with you.” “We’ll protect you. We’ll make sure no one ever hurts you again.” But as they took a single step, Sophie shrieked. Her body shook violently, tears streaming down her face. “I want my mommy! Mommy, save me! Please, save me!” “Get away from me! I want my mom to protect me!” Anyone could see it—the profound, primal bond a child has with her mother. It only made my parents more confused. For her entire life, Sophie had been the center of my universe. She was a fragile baby, born premature, and we nearly lost her. Doctors advised us to try for another child. Instead, I went to a clinic and had my tubes tied, determined that no other child would ever steal an ounce of love meant for her. I researched diets, therapies, and holistic treatments, running myself into the ground to build up her health until my own body gave out and I was diagnosed with stress-induced heart failure. When she started middle school, I threw myself back into my career, not for myself, but to build a fortress of security and capital for her future. The bond between us was legendary in our family. But today, watching this heartbreakingly pathetic scene unfold, I just threw my head back and laughed. I pointed a finger at my daughter, speaking to the entire crowd of onlookers. “You know,” I said, my voice ringing with amusement, “this is the same way she cried for help when she was flirting with her tutor!” For a second, there was absolute silence. No one could process that a mother would use those words to describe her own child. My husband lunged for me again, his hand raised, but Sophie instantly threw herself in front of me, sobbing. “Daddy, don’t hit Mom. Please.” “I must have done something to make her angry. That’s why she’s saying these things.” Mark let out a long, defeated sigh. “Anna, do you see this? Do you have any idea how much your daughter loves you?” “How can you be so cold?” I gave a dismissive sneer. “If you’re taking her to the station, then go. Stop wasting my time.” But Sophie shook her head fiercely. Ignoring my repeated rejections, she took my hand again, her touch as tentative as a butterfly’s wing. “Mommy,” she choked out, “I only want you. I’m so scared…” The crowd started whispering again. “That poor girl must have PTSD. I heard they were close. Her mom must have really manipulated her.” “Totally! What kind of mother is this? She’s worse than a wicked stepmother!” Listening to their insults, my parents’ faces were etched with desperation. They were practically begging me now. “Anna, we don’t understand what’s going on. But Sophie was hurt. That’s a fact. We have to get justice for her!” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “No matter what, I will not be testifying for Sophie.” Just then, a detective’s calm voice cut through the noise from behind me. “Mrs. Miller, this is now a criminal investigation. It’s not up to you anymore.” “You will come with us to the hospital, and you will provide a statement for your daughter.” Just when everyone expected me to refuse again, I surprised them all by nodding. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s go to the hospital.” The results came back quickly. Sophie had clear signs of an assault. There were bruises on her thighs and calves, angry red marks from where she’d been held down. But in her distress afterward, she had taken a shower, scrubbing away any trace of DNA evidence. Now, the only hope for a conviction rested on me. The sole witness. I saw the flicker of pain in my parents’ eyes when they heard the news. Sophie hadn’t stopped crying since we’d arrived at the hospital. Her hand never left the fabric of my sleeve, clinging to me like a baby bird to its mother. Anytime I showed the slightest sign of impatience, of wanting to leave, a police officer would place a firm hand on my shoulder, forcing me to stay. After the examination, a court date was set. My parents, holding on to one last shred of hope, asked me again. “Anna, why are you acting like this? You love Sophie more than life itself.” I lowered my gaze, my expression a frozen mask. “I told you, I won’t testify. And if I’m forced to, I will only say things that will hurt her case.” My parents refused to believe it. They pleaded and reasoned, but their words were wasted. They were destined for disappointment. In the courtroom, the judge’s voice was grave. “Anna Miller, according to the victim, Sophie Miller, you were present at the scene.” “Did you, with your own ears, hear Sophie Miller resisting or calling for help?” I looked at the defendant’s table, at the young and terrified face of the tutor, Ethan. Then I smiled, a provocative, challenging smile aimed right at the courtroom’s live-feed camera. “No.” “Ethan is a college student. He’s handsome, charming. Girls like him.” “My daughter,” I said, my voice dripping with contempt, “is cheap. She throws herself at any man who looks her way.” “I saw it with my own eyes. Sophie lifted her own skirt and sat right on Ethan’s lap. She was the one who seduced him.” The courtroom exploded. Sitting at the plaintiff’s table, Sophie’s face went white as a sheet. She swayed for a moment, her eyes rolling back, and then collapsed to the floor in a dead faint. The judge called for an immediate recess. The moment we were in the hallway, Mark’s hand cracked across my face again, harder this time. His eyes were bloodshot with rage. “You monster! Why would you lie about your own daughter?!” He turned desperately to my parents. “Mom, Dad, you know Sophie! She would never do something like that, right? Right?!” My mother’s eyes were full of a terrible, final disappointment. “Anna, as of this moment, I no longer have a daughter.” “We will raise Sophie from now on. She doesn’t need a mother as venomous as you.” Paramedics revived Sophie. The first thing she saw was the raw, red handprint on my cheek. Tears instantly welled in her eyes. “Don’t hit Mommy.” Her small, soft hand found mine, squeezing it. Her voice was a plea. “Mommy, why? Why would you say those things about me?” “Is it because you think I’m… dirty now? That I’m not good enough to be your daughter anymore?” I could see the pity on my parents’ faces. They rushed to her, hugging her tightly, their own tears flowing. “Oh, sweet girl, how could any of this be your fault? You’re the innocent one here!” But I remained completely unmoved. In fact, I started to laugh, a wild, unhinged sound. “You’re right! You are dirty! You’re not fit to be my daughter!” “I wish you’d just end up with that tutor. Since you’ve already been raped, you might as well marry him, right?” Sophie’s face was ashen, her lips trembling. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. My father was shaking with rage. “You… you ungrateful child! Shut your mouth!” He turned to Sophie. “Don’t listen to her, sweetheart. Your mother has lost her mind.” Just then, the doors to the hallway burst open. A swarm of reporters surged in, pointing their cameras at my face, carefully avoiding Sophie’s. Behind them, a detective looked at me, his face grim. He held up our home’s smart security camera. “Mrs. Miller, we found this camera in your living room and are seizing it as evidence.” A knot tightened in my stomach. “That’s useless,” I said quickly. “Ethan and Sophie were in her bedroom for the tutoring session.” Another officer informed me with an air of finality, “We’ve checked the specs on this model. It has audio recording capabilities.” “The feed is linked to your phone’s account. There should be a cloud backup of the video. We’ll need you to cooperate.” I scowled, hiding my phone behind my back. “I turned it off yesterday.” At those words, a look of utter despair crossed Sophie’s face. A reporter couldn’t help himself. “What kind of person are you? Why would you turn off the camera at that exact moment?” The detective’s voice was cold steel. “We deal in facts, ma’am. Hand over the phone.” “If the evidence is on there, it can prove what Ethan really did to your daughter!” They moved in, prying the phone from my grasp. The camera had indeed been turned off. But a technician quickly discovered that the cloud backup was still intact. The recording from that day was still there. They submitted it to the court as new evidence. In the recording’s background, you could hear it all: Sophie’s terrified screams, her voice, raw and desperate, crying my name over and over, begging me to save her. A wave of relief and vindication washed over the room. Then, on the screen, my image appeared. I walked slowly to her bedroom door, holding a plate of sliced fruit. I didn’t help. Instead, I pulled the door shut, locking it from the outside. The room was filled with gasps of shock and fury. Based on the recording, I wasn’t just a witness. I was an accomplice. “What is wrong with this woman? Hiding the truth about her own daughter’s assault.” “I bet she was having an affair with the tutor. That’s why she’s defending him.” “That would make sense. Look at her, you can tell she’s the type.” The way my parents looked at me was beyond disappointment now. It was horror. “Anna,” my father said, his voice trembling, “we raised you. We never knew you were capable of such evil.” Mark’s jaw was clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. He glared at me. “We’re done. You don’t deserve to be my daughter’s mother.” I straightened my shoulders and looked at the police. “Since you’ve copied the recording, I’ll take my phone back now.” Sophie gently tugged on my sleeve. “Mommy? Do you believe me now?” “I really didn’t seduce him. Will you be my witness? Will you testify for me?” “Then… then everyone will stop saying horrible things about you…” I didn’t have to look to know what the comments sections on the news feeds were saying about me. I brushed her hand away and held her gaze for a long moment. Then I turned to my mother. “Mom, I need to talk to you. Alone.” She was still my mother. After a moment of hesitation, she followed me into an empty conference room. I whispered something to her. A few moments later, my mother walked out. Standing in front of all the reporters, her eyes grew red. “Sophie.” “Listen to Grandma. Let’s drop the charges. Let’s just go home.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. My mother took Sophie’s hand, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Sweetheart, please, don’t pursue this anymore!” Sophie stared at her, stunned. Then she screamed. “Grandma, are you crazy too?! Why are you just like Mom? Why won’t you believe me?!” A court officer immediately stepped between them. “Ma’am, this is a criminal proceeding. The charges can’t be withdrawn by the family at this stage.” My mother could only choke back a sob and fall silent. Her face now wore the same expression of grim resolve as mine. Soon, the recess was over. The audio evidence was played again for the court. Mark slammed his fist on the table. “It’s all my fault,” he said, his voice breaking. “If I had been home, this never would have happened to Sophie!” The judge looked at me, his eyes filled with controlled anger. “Mrs. Miller. Do you have anything to say now?” I said nothing. But across the room, at the defendant’s table, Ethan suddenly shouted. “I have something to say!” He shot a quick glance at me, then raised his voice. “Mrs. Miller, you were the one who came on to me! You told me your husband couldn’t get it up anymore!” “I wasn’t interested in an older woman like you, but then you offered me Sophie! You said I could have both of you! That’s the only reason I ever slept with you! And now you’re accusing me of rape?!” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of lingerie, holding it high in the air. It was a lacy, risqué style, clearly belonging to a grown woman. “I’m sure this has Anna Miller’s DNA all over it,” he declared to the judge. “I request a forensic analysis!” Under an expedited order, the results came back in record time. It was, indeed, my underwear. The courtroom erupted. But my face remained calm. “A desperate lie from a desperate man,” I said with a sneer. I glanced at the watch on my wrist, as if I were waiting for something. The next second, the courtroom doors opened. My mother rushed in, out of breath. Her face was a storm of pain and conflict, but her hands were steady as she held up a small, pink, hardcover book. “Your Honor,” she announced, her voice ringing with conviction. “I have new evidence to submit!”

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I’ve been the family curse ever since I was a child, all because I can see the countdowns hovering over the heads of my loved ones. I saw my grandfather’s. Then my father’s. Then my mother’s. They all died, on the day their timers ran out, in a string of perfect, terrible accidents. My three older brothers decided it was my fault, that my words were a curse. They hated me for it. But my little sister, the one whose birth cost our mother her life, she grew up bathed in their love. Sophie, they called her, our little lucky star. The moment she was born, everything started going right for the family. But they forget. Mom died because of her. On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I saw my own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and a countdown of my own floating above it. So I went out and bought myself an urn I liked. Then I went home and cooked a feast, an entire table full of food, hoping for one last meal with my brothers. But the timer ran out, and I was still waiting. No one ever came. 1 It started when I was little, seeing those numbers. A clock ticking down to zero, visible only to me. The first time I saw one, it was over my grandfather’s head. I told my parents, but they just chuckled at my childish fantasy and ruffled my hair. A day later, I saw him again. He was lying in a bed, covered by a white sheet. The room was full of people crying, but I was too young to understand what it all meant. Then, the numbers appeared over my dad’s head. When I told him, his smile froze for a second before snapping back into place. That night, he didn’t come home from the office. Instead, the phone rang, sharp and frantic. My mother answered, and the color drained from her face. Her belly was huge by then, pregnant with Sophie. She ran for the door, desperate, but she was too clumsy, too panicked. She tripped on the front steps. And in that instant, as she lay on the ground, the familiar 24-hour countdown appeared over her head. That was the day Sophie was born. It was the day my mother bled out on a hospital bed, the day the doctors said there was nothing more they could do. I stood helpless in the hallway. My third brother, Ryan, shoved me to the floor. “You’re a monster,” he spat, his face twisted. “You cursed them. You killed them.” The cold floor scraped my palms, and tiny beads of blood welled up on my skin. I wanted to cry out from the pain, but when I looked around, no one moved toward me. Their eyes were filled with fear and disgust. I couldn’t make a sound. I bit my lip, pulled myself up, and brushed off my little dress, whispering to myself that it was okay. I curled myself into a ball in the corner, listening to the waves of sobs coming from her hospital room. I hugged my knees and whimpered into the fabric of my dress. “Daddy… Mommy…” I must have fallen asleep like that. When I opened my eyes again, the hallway was empty. They had all left. Why didn’t anyone wake me? Had they just… left me here? A knot of panic tightened in my chest. I scrambled to my feet, but my legs were numb from sitting for so long, and I pitched forward, hitting the hard floor again. In the sterile quiet of the long corridor, only the flickering fluorescent lights kept me company. My body ached. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I cried. From that day on, everything was different. My three brothers showered Sophie with affection, but they avoided me like I was a disease. Even the housekeepers treated me with a thinly veiled contempt. I often went to bed hungry. Still, somehow, I survived to be eighteen. Ryan always said only the wicked live long. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was so bad that death didn’t want me. 2 I climbed out of bed, my worn slippers shuffling against the floorboards as I made my way to the bathroom. My hair was brittle, my cheeks hollow. No one would ever guess I was the eldest daughter of the Hayes family. Not that it mattered. Because I could finally see it. Through the mirror, the crimson numbers hovered just above my hairline. 23:59:47. The day had finally come. I wanted to laugh, but all I could manage was a slight curve of my lips. I set my water glass down on the counter and stared at my reflection, my mind a blank slate. I had no friends, hardly spoke to anyone. How was I supposed to spend my last day on Earth? After a long while, I slowly got myself ready and descended from the attic that served as my room. My original bedroom had been converted into a walk-in closet for Sophie years ago. I used to watch her through the small attic window, a carefree girl playing on the manicured lawn, her laughter echoing in the air. I was a ghost in my own home, a secret observer of their happiness. I didn’t expect to see my second brother, Ethan, and Sophie still at home. As I came down the stairs, I heard Sophie’s bright, cheerful laugh. “Here, Ethan, let me do your tie,” she offered, full of self-importance. Ethan bent his head down, a fond smile on his face as he let her fumble with the silk. She tied a lopsided, crooked knot. Sophie stepped back to admire her work, her brow furrowed. “Oh, it looks all wrong. Maybe you should just do it yourself.” But he didn’t undo it. He just reached out and affectionately messed up her hair. “No way. It’s our Sophie’s first attempt at a tie. It’s perfect.” He smiled. “Come on, I’ll drive you to school today.” Sophie beamed and took his hand. A bitter ache spread through my chest. I remembered when I was little, knitting my first scarf. I’d stayed up for nights, my fingers clumsy and sore, until I’d finished a slightly lumpy, uneven scarf for Ethan. I presented it to him, my heart pounding, desperate for a word of praise, for the gentle head pat he used to give me. He wouldn’t even take it. His face was a dark cloud. “Who knows if I’d be cursed just by wearing it,” he’d muttered. I ended up giving the scarf to our family dog, Buddy, hoping it would make his bed a little warmer. The next day, I found it in the trash can, cut into a dozen pieces, impossible to ever put back together. Ignoring the grime, I reached in and picked out every single scrap. I took them back to my room, washed them, and put them in a box. I never looked at them again. The front door opened. Just as they were about to leave, I decided to try. “Ethan. Sophie.” They turned, their expressions shifting. Sophie’s eyes lit up for a moment. “Ellie!” she called out happily. Ethan’s face hardened. He looked like he was about to say something sharp, but a glance at Sophie made him hold his tongue. “Could we… could we all have dinner together tonight?” The words felt heavy and awkward in my mouth. I held my breath, waiting. “Just this once.” “Of course!” Sophie chirped, at the exact same moment Ethan said, “We can’t.” The two opposing answers hung in the air. Sophie looked up at Ethan, confused. “Why not?” Yes, why not? “Don’t you remember?” Ethan said smoothly. “You promised Liam you’d go with him to that charity auction. It’s tonight.” “I did?” Under Ethan’s firm gaze, Sophie’s memory seemed to suddenly click into place. “Oh, right!” She turned back to me, her face a mask of apology. “I’m so sorry, Ellie. We can’t do dinner tonight.” Then her bright smile returned. “How about tomorrow? The whole family can have dinner together tomorrow, I promise.” The whole family? A smile that felt more painful than a sob stretched across my face. The bitterness in my heart was a flood, threatening to drown me. I don’t have a tomorrow. But I nodded anyway, watching them leave. Just before the door closed, Ethan shot me a warning look, his eyes as cold and sharp as a scalpel, as if he wanted to dissect me right there in the foyer. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t get any ideas.” “If you do anything to hurt Sophie, you’ll regret it.” “Stay away from her.” 3 I watched them disappear down the driveway. The fragile bubble of hope that had swelled in my chest moments before popped, leaving me cold and empty, like I’d been plunged into ice water. Is that really how he saw me? A villain? A monster? My heart ached, and a sharp pain flared in my stomach. I went to the kitchen to find something to eat, but there was nothing. Nothing except half a stale bagel sitting on the counter. I used it to crack open a couple of walnuts I found in the pantry, but it did nothing to quiet the gnawing hunger. One of the housekeepers walked past, rolling her eyes in a way she thought I couldn’t see. When she noticed the bagel in my hand, she let out a theatrical gasp. “Oh, my! Miss Hayes, you weren’t going to eat that, were you? I was just about to throw it out.” Her tone was laced with false concern. “It’s a shame, Mr. Hayes and Miss Sophie are always up so early, so we make breakfast then. If you’d like something, I suppose I could cook for you now.” Her pitying act made my skin crawl. I stared at her blankly and shook my head, my stomach twisting into a tight knot. I turned and went back up to my room. There was no place for me in this house. Even the staff treated me with their own special brand of passive-aggressive cruelty. The burning in my stomach was getting worse, so intense it was hard to control my emotions. My hands trembled as I fumbled with a bottle of painkillers, dry-swallowing a couple and chasing them with cold water from the tap. The pain slowly subsided to a dull throb. I changed my clothes and put on a little makeup, trying to make myself look less like a ghost. My first stop was a funeral home. With only one day left, I couldn’t get anything custom-made. I settled on a simple, elegant mahogany box with a silver inlay. It would be my new home. I walked out clutching the urn, feeling the curious and startled glances of people on the street. I ignored them and continued to my next destination. I found myself walking past the university that my third brother, Ryan, attended. It was between classes, and the campus was alive with the sound of laughter and conversation. I watched them with a pang of envy. The vibrant, hopeful energy of youth. My own education had stopped when I was ten. Just as I was about to turn away, I saw Ryan getting out of his car near the main gate. This was my last day. I took a deep breath, gathered my courage, and started towards him. As I got closer, I saw he was on the phone, his brow furrowed in a serious expression. His eyes flickered towards me, and a flash of suspicion crossed his face. I heard him say into the phone, “I know. I’ll handle it.” He hung up and strode towards me. I wanted to ask him to come home for dinner, but the look in his eyes froze the words in my throat. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “If you want to keep living in this house, you’ll learn to keep your pathetic little schemes to yourself.” “If I find out you’ve done anything to upset Sophie, I will personally make your life a living hell.” 4 I froze, my body turning to ice. Sophie again. I knew instantly who had been on the phone: Ethan. Of course. In their eyes, I was born bad luck, the girl who cursed her own family to death. A shiver ran down my spine as I remembered Ryan’s cruelty. Right after our mother died, a kind nurse had driven me home. Ryan locked me in the small pantry in the basement. For three days, no one came. No food, no water. The memory is still a dark stain on my childhood. On the third day, just as I thought I was going to die, our oldest brother, Liam, appeared like an avenging angel. He let me out. He never asked what happened, never spoke a word about it, but over the years, he was the one who treated me with the least amount of malice. I was sure Ethan had already called him, too. Seeing my silence, Ryan must have thought I was scared. He leaned in closer, his voice a chilling whisper right next to my ear. “You know, with my resources, making someone just… disappear… is remarkably easy.” My pupils constricted. I stood there, rigid, as he turned and walked onto campus without a backward glance. I walked away, my feet moving automatically, my mind numb. My next stop was a portrait studio. The young woman at the front desk was kind. When I told her why I was there—for a memorial portrait—her eyes filled with a sympathy so genuine it hurt. She said a few soft words of comfort. And just like that, the dam inside me broke. It’s funny how the simple kindness of a stranger can undo you when your own family gives you none. I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed, wetting her blouse with my tears. She didn’t say a word, just gently patted my back until I was finished. She was a stranger, but in that moment, she gave me more warmth than I had felt in years. After I left the studio, I just sat on a curb for a long time, hugging the urn and the portrait of my own smiling face, staring at nothing. Finally, I decided to go to Liam’s office downtown. I’d never been there before, and it took me a while to find the right building. The receptionists at the front desk stopped me. No appointment, no entry. The boss was in a meeting. I didn’t give up. I pulled out my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail. I tried again. And again. Nothing. I found his profile on a messaging app, the one connected to his number. It’s my last day, I typed, my fingers trembling. I just want to see you. Please. Just for a minute. I sent the message and waited, my heart hammering against my ribs. Two hours passed. The message remained unread. Time was running out. I didn’t want to die on a city street. I went home. The house was empty; the housekeeper was out running errands. The silence in the huge villa was absolute, cavernous. I started cooking early, clinging to a sliver of hope that they might come home. My phone stayed silent. No replies, no notifications. I sat at the dining room table, using a small hand mirror to watch the countdown above my head. Three hours left. All I wanted was for them to be with me. I wanted to see their faces when I died. Would they be happy? Relieved, probably. That’s what I told myself. In this world, no one cared if I lived or died. The people who were supposed to be my family hated me. I cooked a feast. Hot oil splattered onto my hand, the stinging pain a distant sensation, overshadowed by a strange, manic excitement building inside me. My body started to tremble uncontrollably. Two hours left. I sat at the table, my eyes glued to the front door. With shaking hands, I picked up my phone and called Liam one last time. “Liam.” He answered. Silence on the other end. My voice was tight, strained. “Can you… can you please come home? For dinner?” “I’m going to die.” 5 The moment the words left my mouth, I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and frantic in the silence. All this time I’d told myself I was ready for death, but now, at the end, I found myself desperate for one more look at the world. The room was so quiet I could hear the air moving in my lungs. Just when I thought he wouldn’t answer, his voice cut through the silence, and I felt myself fall. “Eleanor, do you really think a lie like that will make us feel sorry for you?” “You are unbelievable. The lengths you’ll go to for attention. Do you think we’re still the gullible little kids you used to fool?” “Have you forgotten how Grandpa and Mom and Dad died?” My heart shattered. No, it’s not like that! I screamed inside my head, but no sound came out. Tears streamed down my face, silent drops splashing onto the floor. I felt like a marionette with its strings cut, slumping in my chair. “I’m not lying,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “Please. I’m begging you. Just this once. Please?” The line went dead. Just before he hung up, I thought I heard Sophie’s happy laugh in the background, calling his name. The frantic energy that had coursed through me moments before vanished, replaced by a profound, crushing emptiness. I sat stiffly at the table laden with food and began to talk to myself, imagining them there, re-enacting the loving scenes I had only ever witnessed from the shadows. I think I was going crazy. Lost in my own one-act play, I started to laugh, a hollow, broken sound that grew louder and louder until it was choked with sobs. The minutes ticked by. No one came home. I waited until midnight. Three minutes left. I tried to look back on my life, but it was a short, simple story. There wasn’t much to review. A tragedy from the moment I was born. The final countdown began. I rested my head on the table, my urn and my memorial portrait standing beside me like silent dinner guests. 5… 4… 3… 2… 1… The numbers vanished. Everything went still. The world became utterly silent, not even the sound of my own breathing to fill the void. And then, I heard a click from the front door. Someone was home.

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I bought myself a Koenigsegg. I was about to take my girlfriend, Jenna, to a car club gala—the perfect place to finally come clean about who I really was—when she snatched the keys from my hand. “Alex,” she said, her voice a little too bright. “A buddy of mine, his crew is doing a cruise through town. Do you think we could borrow your car? Just to make an impression.” I froze. “Jenna, this car was nearly four million dollars. It’s not really something I can just lend out.” Her eyes immediately welled up. “You can’t do this one thing for me? He never asks for anything.” Before I could answer, a guy with electric blue hair strolled into my private garage, nodding at Jenna. “Jenna, baby. This the boyfriend with the lame-ass driving skills you were telling me about?” My fists clenched. “Who let you in here?” He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. “Jenna, your boyfriend doesn’t even know who I am? I’m Ryder Stone. You know, the champion of this year’s Apex Rally?” His words hit me like a physical blow. Funny, I didn’t remember my three-time championship title being interrupted by this clown. 1 Jenna tossed the keys to Ryder. He didn’t hesitate, sliding into the driver’s seat and firing up the engine with a guttural roar. “Get out.” I grabbed the edge of the scissor door. “This is my car.” He just laughed, ignoring me completely. Jenna’s voice softened, turning pleading. “Alex, I’ve never asked you for anything…” For a split second, I felt a pang of weakness. But then I remembered the old saying: never lend out your car or your girl. My resolve hardened. “No.” I pulled out my phone to call the police, but Jenna snatched it, hiding it behind her back. Her eyes were red as she turned on me. “Do you have to make this so ugly? What’s the big deal if they borrow it for a couple of days?” Ryder, still in my car, sneered and pulled out his own phone. “You wanna play it that way?” He yelled into the receiver, “Boys! Get in here and check out the big shot’s ride!” The garage door slid open, and two guys reeking of stale beer stumbled in. One was bald with a mess of tattoos, the other wore a hideous Hawaiian shirt. They were holding selfie sticks. “Yo, what’s up, livestream!” the bald one shouted into his phone. “Check it out, a multi-million-dollar Koenigsegg! We’re about to show you how the other half lives!” In the chaos, Ryder gunned the engine. “Get out!” I lunged for the door, but the two goons grabbed me, holding me back. Ryder was laughing for his online audience. “Drop a hundred in the tip jar and I’ll get this baby up to one-fifty for you!” “Stop it!” I roared, struggling against their grip. “What’s the rush?” The bald guy shoved his selfie stick in my face. “Say hi to the camera! Let’s show everyone what the owner of a four-million-dollar car looks like when he’s being a little bitch!” The chat feed exploded with a stream of bile: “Damn, he looks like a Ken doll with a stick up his ass. So cheap.” “Look at that loser. Bet he drives it like a grandma.” “Where’d a punk like that get that kind of money? Daddy a crooked politician?” “Nah, he’s definitely some rich cougar’s boy toy.” “Let him go!” Jenna’s voice cut through the noise. A wave of relief washed over me. I thought she was finally coming to her senses. But then she said, “Alex, you should stand there and learn how a real pro drives! When it comes to skill, you’re not even worthy of washing his tires!” I stared at her, the words not computing. This was the woman I had loved for two years? I’d kept my real identity a secret, yes, but my love for her had been the truest thing in my life. How could she say that? Ryder honked the horn victoriously from inside the cockpit. The car screeched forward, and he started doing tight, aggressive donuts in the spacious garage, the smell of burning rubber filling the air. “See that?” The guy in the Hawaiian shirt slapped my back so hard I almost fell over. “That’s a burnout, buddy! Something a putz like you who only knows how to cruise has never experienced.” Jenna was frowning at me from the side. “Alex, why are you making that face? Can’t you just be a good sport about this?” Ryder slammed on the brakes, the car executing a perfect, beautiful drift before stopping inches from us. “How was that, Jenna? Better than your boyfriend, huh?” Jenna actually giggled. “Way better. You’re so much better than him.” Ryder’s laugh was greasy and loud. “Oh yeah? I bet I’m better in other ways, too.” Jenna playfully swatted at the air. “Oh, stop it!” she said, giving him a sultry look that made my stomach turn. A hot rage flooded my veins. “What the hell is going on between you two?” I demanded. 2 Jenna rolled her eyes at me like I was an idiot. “I told you, we’re just friends.” “You’re ‘just friends’ with these guys? A woman, with a crew like this? Do you have any concept of boundaries?” Her expression soured. “Are you from the Stone Age? Why are you so damn old-fashioned? You can’t even take a joke. Why can’t you be more like Ryder and his friends?” I was trembling with fury. “Be like them? You want me to be a thief who steals other people’s property?” Ryder heard me. His face hardened. He stomped on the accelerator, and the Koenigsegg shot toward one of the massive concrete support pillars of the garage. He swerved at the last possible second, the carbon fiber body missing the pillar by a whisper. “Ahh!” Jenna screamed, but it was a scream of exhilaration. “Ryder, that was so cool!” The bald guy and his friend whooped and cheered. “Ryder, you’re a legend!” The livestream chat was a waterfall of digital gifts and emojis. Ryder was beaming, pointing at me. “Jenna, what’s the point of being with a coward like this? Let me take you for a real ride.” He leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. And then, the moment that shattered everything. Jenna ran towards the car, her face lit up with pure joy. “Jenna!” I yelled, my voice raw. “If you get in that car with him, we are done!” She paused, her face clouded with annoyance. “Oh, my God, you are unbelievable. I’m just going for a spin with a champion driver. You’d break up with me over that? I’ll be back in a little while. Can you stop being such a baby?” Without another look at me, she slid into the passenger seat. Ryder let out a triumphant laugh, gave me a downward-pointing thumbs-up, and floored it. The car vanished out of the garage in a blur of motion and a scream of engine noise. “Whoa, did you see that, people?” the bald guy said, pointing his camera back at my stunned face. “The owner is just standing there like a statue! His girlfriend just took off with the champ!” The Hawaiian shirt guy nudged me with his elbow. “Hey, man, don’t take it so hard. Jenna and our boy Ryder, they’re a perfect match. You’re just… you know, the opening act.” I ground my teeth, my jaw aching. I was about to reach for my phone—my real phone, from my other pocket—when I saw the screen of the bald guy’s phone. It had switched to Ryder’s point-of-view, clearly being filmed by Jenna. The camera was angled on Ryder’s profile as he expertly shifted gears and weaved through traffic. “This car is insane, folks!” he shouted over the engine noise. “A total waste on that loser owner!” Jenna’s voice, full of adoration, chimed in. “Go faster, Ryder! Faster!” “You got it, baby! Hold on tight!” The two goons watched, mesmerized, occasionally glancing over to mock me. “Hey, Jenna told us you’re working with a real toothpick down there. Is that true?” The bald guy cackled. “Oh, I heard! Just like his driving—limp and boring!” The words were so vile, so degrading. I didn’t know if they were making it up or if Jenna had actually said that about me. Either way, it was unbearable. “Shut up,” I snarled through clenched teeth. “Ooh, defensive, are we?” the Hawaiian shirt guy added. “Why else do you think she’s so close with Ryder? He knows how to perform, if you know what I mean. Hahaha!” On the screen, Ryder was steering with one hand. His other hand… it moved and draped itself around Jenna’s shoulders. She didn’t push him away. Instead, she giggled and leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “Whoa! We’ve got live-action romance, people!” the bald guy yelled into his phone. Then, Jenna tilted her head up and planted a kiss on Ryder’s cheek. He laughed, turning his head to catch her lips in a deep, sloppy kiss. My brain short-circuited. A girlfriend who would do that? Why was I even hesitating? It was over. What was I waiting for? An engraved invitation to my own public humiliation? 3 There was something naggingly familiar about Ryder’s arrogant face. I knew I’d seen him somewhere before, and it definitely wasn’t on a rally podium. While the two goons were distracted by the livestream, I discreetly pulled up some information on Ryder Stone. And what I found was very, very interesting. I dialed 911. “Hello, my Koenigsegg has been stolen by a man named Ryder Stone. He’s currently driving recklessly through the city, speeding…” Before I could finish, the bald guy rushed me, slapping the phone out of my hand. “Fuck! You little snitch, you actually called the cops?!” “You really don’t know when to quit!” He stomped on my phone, crushing it on the concrete floor. The Hawaiian shirt guy grabbed me in a chokehold and dragged me backward while the bald one quickly called Ryder. Less than five minutes later, the Koenigsegg screeched back into the garage. Ryder leaped out, storming toward me, and drove his fist straight into my gut. “You want to die, you piece of shit?” Jenna walked up to me then. She didn’t check if I was okay. She didn’t show a flicker of concern. Instead, she slapped me hard across the face. “Alex! You coward! It was a small thing, did you really have to blow it up like this?” I clutched my stomach, the pain a white-hot nova. I looked at the woman I once loved, her face now twisted into an ugly, unfamiliar mask. Ryder spat on the floor and grabbed a fistful of my hair. “Looks like we have to teach you a lesson you won’t forget. Tie him up!” I struggled, but it was two against one. “Ryder, what do we do now?” the bald guy asked. Before Ryder could answer, the doorbell to the main house rang. A flicker of hope ignited in me. I tried to make a sound. Ryder’s face changed, and he shot me a venomous look. “Jenna, you go talk to them.” He then nodded to the Hawaiian shirt guy. “You go with her. Make it look convincing.” I could hear a police officer’s voice through the door. “We received a report about a stolen vehicle?” The Hawaiian shirt guy’s voice, suddenly friendly and calm, answered. “Oh, that was me, officer! Total misunderstanding! My friend just took the car out without asking, and I kind of freaked out and called you guys. He just brought it back. Everything’s fine now.” Jenna immediately backed him up. “My boyfriend just has a bit of a temper!” The police saw the car, parked and undamaged. They took some notes and left. The second the door closed, their true natures returned. They dragged me out from behind a stack of storage bins and threw me to the ground. Ryder kicked me hard in the stomach, and my vision swam with black spots. Jenna stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with cold indifference. “Hey, tough guy,” the Hawaiian shirt guy sneered, squatting down to pat my cheek. “Not so tough now, are you? Did you learn your lesson?” 4 They had gagged me, so I couldn’t scream the curses I was thinking, but I made sure my eyes conveyed all the hatred I felt. “Ooh, still defiant?” the bald one grinned. “Boys, I think he needs a little something extra to help him cool off.” Ryder grinned cruelly and started to unbuckle his pants. “I’ve been holding it in. Thought I’d give you a taste of some golden champagne, cool you off!” A hot, foul stream rained down on me, soaking my hair and shirt. The humiliation was so absolute, so suffocating, I nearly passed out. “Hahaha!” The two goons roared with laughter. Jenna actually let out a snort of amusement. “Ryder is a rally champion. It’s an honor for him to even drive your car. You really don’t know what’s good for you.” Ryder zipped up his pants and kicked me again. “Can’t handle that? Oh, the fun is just getting started.” He motioned to his friends. “Go to town on him. Don’t hit the face, but make sure he remembers this. Teach him some respect.” A storm of fists and feet descended on my back, my stomach, my ribs. I curled into a ball, each blow punctuated by their vile taunts and crazed laughter. “Think you’re hot shit with your fancy car?” “Useless coward!” And through it all, Jenna never said a word to stop them. When they finally got tired, they stopped. Ryder nudged me with his shoe. “Kid, let this be a lesson. We’re taking the car. If you dare call the cops again, it’ll be a lot worse than a beating and a golden shower. Got it?” The Hawaiian shirt guy asked, “Ryder, what about him?” Ryder stretched, satisfied. “Just leave him tied up. Keep him out of trouble.” Jenna added, “Yeah, that way we can have some fun for a couple of days without him bothering us.” Ryder wrapped his arm around Jenna’s waist. “Let’s go, baby. I know a place where we can have a real good time.” Just as they were about to leave, there was a sharp, authoritative knock at the door. The laughter died instantly. Ryder’s face soured. “Don’t tell me the cops came back.” His friends looked nervous, exchanging glances. “Quick! Shove him back there!” They scrambled to drag me back into the corner, behind the storage bins. Just before they stuffed the gag back in my mouth, I yelled at Ryder, “Your good times are over!” My words made him pause, then his face contorted with rage. He rushed over and kicked me viciously one last time. “You son of a bitch! You dare curse me? I’ll deal with you later!” The moment the door opened, the smile on Ryder’s face froze. He stood there as if he’d been turned to stone.

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