The war against the Shadowlands was over. My sister’s husband returned a hero. Mine came back in a casket. Everyone said what a tragedy it was, how pitiful I was. But I knew the truth. The man standing beside her wasn’t her husband, Kael. It was my husband, Kaiden. They were identical twins, their power so closely matched that no one could spot the difference. “Lyra, you have to understand,” Kaiden had explained to me in secret. “I’m doing this for the stability of the kingdom.” “My brother was the Crown Prince,” he’d said, his voice a low murmur. “If the Dragon Lords learn their heir has fallen, it will trigger a civil war.” “Besides,” he added, his hand finding mine, “your sister… Sera is so gentle, so pure. She couldn’t handle the grief. I’m just looking after her until things settle.” “Once the succession is secure, I’ll come back to you. I promise.” And I, like a fool, believed him. I believed him right up until the moment he had me sentenced to death for colluding with the enemy, my flesh torn apart by a thousand arcane blades. As my life faded, I saw him holding my sister, his touch intimate and possessive. It had all been a lie. A calculation. I open my eyes again, and I’m back. Back to the day of the Dragon Lords’ great victory, the day the news of my husband’s death arrived like a shroud. Kaiden, wearing his brother’s face, holds my sister’s hand while she weeps. The assembled Lords look at me with expressions of profound sympathy. This time, I don’t hesitate. I will remarry. Kaiden thinks that by stealing the Crown Prince’s identity, he can claim a life of power and prestige. He has no idea that by casting me aside, he has just lost his one and only chance to become the true sovereign of the Dragon Lords. 1 “Lyra, Kaiden… he fell in battle!” The phantom agony of a thousand cuts makes my entire body tremble. When my eyes flutter open, those are the first words I hear. The man speaking is the Dragon King. He had two sons. One was the Crown Prince, who married my sister, Seraphina. The other was my husband, Kaiden. Now, the King, who should have been long dead in my previous life, sits on his throne, his face a mask of grief as he stares at the ornate coffin before us. A wild, fierce joy surges through me. I’m alive. I’m back. Before I can speak, my sister’s voice cuts through the haze, soft and condescending. “Little sister, I know you’re hurting. It’s okay to cry. Let it all out.” Sera looks down at me, her expression a perfect portrait of compassion, but the powder on her cheeks is flawless, undisturbed by a single tear. I lift my head, but my gaze travels past her to the man at her side. Her husband. No. Not him. Her husband is the one lying in that coffin. The man standing before me is Kaiden. My Kaiden. The man who should be holding me in my grief is instead entwined with my sister, their fingers laced together. He feels my stare and turns, his eyes widening in what looks like expertly feigned surprise. A bitter laugh dies in my throat. Kaiden’s acting is as impeccable as ever. In my last life, it took me months of doubt and secret searching to finally confirm my suspicions, to be certain that the man at Sera’s side was truly mine. This time, I see the truth instantly. A wrenching sob echoes through the hall. “My son! Oh, my beautiful boy!” The Queen throws herself against the coffin, tears like jewels spilling down her cheeks. Then, her grief-stricken eyes find me, and her face twists into a snarl. She points a trembling finger. “You! It was you! Your cursed luck killed my son!” The Queen and I had never seen eye to eye. She found me too headstrong, not graceful enough—unworthy of her perfect son. I had worried about it once. Kaiden had sworn to me, his voice earnest and full of devotion, “If my mother ever gives you trouble, I will always, always side with you.” Crack. The Queen’s palm connects with my cheek, the sting sharp and humiliating. Still not satisfied, she raises her hand again. The King, shaken from his sorrow, quickly orders his guards to intervene. “Enough!” The throne room dissolves into chaos. Through it all, Kaiden stands silently to the side, his hand still holding my sister’s. He even seems to be shielding her from the commotion. He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a shimmering blue gem, a Tide Jewel, presenting it to Sera as if it were a holy relic. “For you, my love,” he murmurs, his voice a low comfort meant only for her. “I found this just for you.” A hollow laugh escapes my lips. Phoenixes are creatures of fire, but I had always been drawn to the sea, always longed for a Tide Jewel of my own. I had begged Kaiden to bring one back from the war for me. He promised he would, but it never arrived. So, this is why. He did find one. He just never intended for it to be mine. He gave it to my sister, who has no need for it, no love for the water. The man who promised he would always protect me now watches impassively as his mother assaults me. Sensing my gaze, Sera shifts slightly, defensively, as if to shield Kaiden from my view. “Lyra, why are you staring at my husband?” she chides, her voice sharp. “Father is speaking to you.” The King’s voice is weary. “Lyra, by law, when a warrior falls, his widow must observe a century of mourning.” He sighs. “I will not force you, but I must ask… what are your intentions?” I shake my head, my voice clear and steady. “I choose the second path. I will remarry.” A stunned silence falls over the hall. Every eye in the room is on me, wide with disbelief. Kaiden is the first to speak, his voice cracking with indignation. “Absurd! Lyra, how could you marry another?” Now, even the King and Sera notice that something is wrong. The King, though puzzled, speaks gently. “Kael, this is a private matter for your sister-in-law. The choice must be hers.” Kaiden falls silent, his jaw tight, his eyes boring into me. My sister, however, is even more incensed. She steps forward, her eyes flashing with condemnation. “Lyra, your husband’s body is still warm, and you’re already screaming to remarry instead of mourning him?” Her voice rises. “Do you want the entire world to think everyone from the Phoenix bloodline is as cold-hearted and faithless as you?” The Queen glares at me with pure venom. “If Kaiden hadn’t insisted on marrying you, I never would have allowed a viper like you into this family!” I meet their fury with a calm I don’t feel. “If Kaiden truly loved me as much as you all say, he wouldn’t want me to waste my life away in mourning.” I raise my chin. “I will remarry!” “You—” Kaiden starts, desperate. The King cuts him off. “Enough. Lyra has made her decision. So be it.” He looks at me, his gaze heavy. “However, the ancient pact between our houses stands. You may remarry, Lyra, but you must choose a son of the Dragon Lords.” I turn to face the crowded hall, the sea of stunned faces. I raise my voice so that all can hear. “Is there any man here who will take me as his wife?” No one moves. A few younger lords look like they might step forward, only to be yanked back by their families. Others meet my gaze for a split second before looking away as if they’d just seen a serpent. A flicker of despair touches me. The Fates have given me only two paths: a century of lonely widowhood or remarriage. Is my destiny truly unchangeable? Seeing my predicament, Kaiden can’t resist a smug, cutting remark. “You see, Lyra? No one dares to marry a faithless woman like you. You should accept your fate and mourn properly.” His tone is so confident, so utterly certain of my defeat, it makes my stomach churn. And then, a figure descends from the vaulted ceiling, landing silently before the throne. “I will.” My eyes focus, and I recognize him. It’s Jax, the Warlord of the Dragon Lords. He has a fearsome reputation, a man they call the God of Slaughter, yet he kneels now on one knee before the King. “Your Majesty,” he says, his voice a low gravel. “I will marry Lyra.” Kaiden’s composure shatters. “Jax! This is none of your concern!” He points a finger at me. “A word of friendly advice. My brother just died, and she’s already rushing to find a new husband. Are you sure you want to bring that kind of curse into your house? Are you not afraid she’ll be the death of you, too?” Jax rises and steps in front of me, shielding me from Kaiden’s venom. His brow furrows. “Your Highness, Lyra is your brother’s widow. Instead of protecting her, you’re slandering her.” “I’m speaking the truth!” Kaiden insists. Jax ignores him completely, turning to face me. His eyes, intense and serious, meet mine. “Lyra, will you marry me?” he asks. “I will be loyal to you for all my lives, forever by your side. Let the Heavens be my witness. If I break this vow, may my soul be extinguished.” I’m stunned. In his gaze, there is nothing but unwavering sincerity. I find myself nodding. “Yes.” It is done. Kaiden has no further grounds to object. Jax and I are bound in union right then and there, a simple, powerful ritual before the court. When it’s over, the exhausted King waves a dismissive hand at me. “Go.” He then turns to the rest of the court, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I am old, and I have lost a son. I no longer have the strength to rule.” “In three days, I will pass the crown to Kael.” Kael. My sister’s dead husband, whose name Kaiden has stolen. A chill runs down my spine. In my past life, the King never abdicated. Not once, right up until the day Kaiden had me executed. Why has he decided to step down so soon this time? Before I can process it, Kaiden walks past me with the departing crowd. As he passes, he leans in close, his voice a venomous whisper only I can hear. “You bitch. You will regret this.” That night, I move my belongings from Kaiden’s grand palace to Jax’s stark, militaristic domain. The servants’ whispers follow me down the halls. “The Warlord is a great man, but his judgment in women is questionable.” “The second prince’s body isn’t even cold, and she’s already moved on. How could she possibly be a good wife?” “Didn’t the Queen say she was a bad omen? I fear for the Warlord’s life.” … I listen to the gossip from outside my window with a wry smile. I turn to Jax and gesture with my chin towards the door. “The great Warlord’s reputation, ruined by me,” I say, my tone light and self-mocking. Jax’s brow darkens. “Don’t say that.” His voice is stern. “Lyra, give me half a day. I will make sure you never hear them speak ill of you again.” I sigh, a genuine wave of weariness washing over me. “Honestly, I don’t care.” Compared to my last life—a living widow to Kaiden, suffering endless humiliation only to be publicly executed by a thousand cuts—this is paradise. Jax has provided for me with the finest of everything, equal to what I had in the royal palace. I am comfortable and safe. I am more than content. Before the lights are extinguished, I hear him mutter under his breath, so quiet I almost miss it. “Let them talk. As long as I have you, none of it matters.” I don’t sleep at all that night. A few days later, a summons arrives from my sister. She is about to be crowned Queen, and handmaidens are fussing around her with a heavy, opulent coronation gown. She excitedly holds the crown above her head, turning to me with a glint in her eye. “Lyra, tell me honestly. Who looks better in this, me or the old Queen?” I remain silent. She continues, talking more to herself than to me. “You know, sometimes a person just has to accept their fate.” A cruel little smile plays on her lips. “You were always the more talented one, weren’t you? But in the end, who’s becoming Queen? Me.” She has been like this since we were children, always needing to feel superior. My gaze drifts over the cluttered vanity table and lands on the Tide Jewel Kaiden gave her. A flash of memory, sharp and clear, sparks in my mind. When we were young, during a training exercise, my sister was dragged into the sea by a water sprite. She nearly drowned. Ever since, she has had a deep-seated fear of the ocean and hates anything related to it. She despises Tide Jewels. Kael, her actual husband, was meticulous. He knew this. He remembered every little detail about her. My voice is a raw whisper when I finally speak. “Did you honestly not know it wasn’t him?” Sera’s hand freezes mid-air. And in that single, frozen moment, I have my answer. In my last life, through all the pain and confusion, I never once suspected my sister. To me, she was just another victim of Kaiden’s deception, even if we were never close. But her reaction now tells a different story. She knew. She was part of it. Tears well in my eyes, hot and furious. “Sera, are you insane?” I demand. Clang. She slams a phoenix-shaped hairpin onto the table, her patience gone. She turns to me, her eyes cold as ice. “What if I did?” I stare at her, stunned into silence. A chilling smile spreads across her face. “Let me be perfectly clear. As long as he is the Crown Prince, and as long as I become Queen, I don’t give a damn who my husband is.” She leans in, her voice dropping to a threatening whisper. “As for you, you will be a good little widow.” “If you behave, I’ll be sure to take care of you once I’m Queen. But if you breathe a word of this to anyone,” she hisses, “I will destroy you.” An icy dread washes over me, colder than any fear I’ve ever known. Her words are almost identical to the ones Kaiden used on me in my last life. In the end, neither of them showed me any mercy. Just then, voices sound from outside the chamber. The curtain parts, and Kaiden enters with the King and Queen. They all stop short when they see me. Kaiden’s brow furrows, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Lyra? What are you doing here?” The Queen’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Shouldn’t you be with your new husband? What business do you have in the royal palace?” Sera immediately begins to cry, pressing herself against Kaiden’s side. “It’s not Lyra’s fault. She’s just… she’s in so much pain from losing her husband, she’s not thinking clearly.” Kaiden wraps an arm around her, glaring at me. “Lyra, none of us wanted to see my brother die. But you not only refused to mourn him, you remarried in defiance of his memory, and now you come here to harass your sister?” He points toward the door. “Get out.” I stare at Kaiden, at his false righteousness and his stolen life, and suddenly, a slow smile spreads across my face. “Gladly.” Justice is not denied, merely delayed. The next day, Jax and I are summoned to attend Kaiden’s coronation. He is masquerading as Kael, and the King has named him as the successor. Although he still needs the formal recognition of the Heavens to complete the ceremony and receive the ancient power of the Dragon Kings, everyone—including Kaiden himself—believes it’s a mere formality. He stands there now, clad in gleaming silver armor, with an equally radiant Sera on his arm. He greets the assembled lords with the easy grace of a man born to rule. I watch him, and I can’t help but remember something from my past life. The King had once asked Kaiden if he felt any resentment that his twin, Kael, had been named Crown Prince. Kaiden had answered with perfect sincerity, “My brother is noble and kind, his talent far surpasses my own. He is the rightful heir. As his younger brother, I am nothing but proud.” His actions today are a grotesque mockery of those words. I shake my head, a bitter smile on my lips. How could I have been so blind to such a deeply false man? Soon, Kaiden and Sera make their way over to us. He glances at Jax, a flash of jealousy in his eyes, before speaking to me with feigned concern. “Lyra, I know you still carry a torch for Kaiden. But you’re the one who chose to remarry. You should focus on your new life now.” Before I can respond, Jax replies smoothly, “Your Highness need not worry. Lyra is very good to me.” A warmth spreads through my chest. I look at the smug, triumphant couple before me and offer a gentle warning. “Your… Highness. Are you so certain that the Heavens will accept your claim today?” Sera’s brow immediately crinkles. “What’s that supposed to mean? Lyra, are you cursing us?” Kaiden’s glare is filled with hatred, but with so many watching, he restrains himself. He simply pulls Sera closer. “Don’t lower yourself by arguing with her, my love. Let’s go.” I sigh and lean back against Jax’s solid frame, saying no more. The coronation begins. Kaiden ascends the ceremonial steps, his eyes fixed greedily on the crown in the King’s hands. The High Priest begins the incantation, his voice booming across the silent square. “We beseech the Heavens to bestow their blessing and pass the sacred power to the heir!” CRACK-BOOM! Thunder rolls across the sky, gathering in dark, angry clouds. Just as the leader of the Phoenixes must endure a rebirth through fire, every new Dragon King must undergo a baptism by celestial lightning. If the Heavens approve, the King and his Queen are left unharmed, infused with divine power. Kaiden takes Sera’s hand, and they stand together at the center of the altar. BOOM! The first bolt of lightning strikes. I see it clearly—the color drains from both of their faces. Then comes the second bolt, and the third… Sera coughs violently, spitting a mouthful of blood, and collapses to her knees. Kaiden’s face is now ashen. The King and Queen leap to their feet in shock. A murmur of confusion and fear ripples through the crowd. “When the last King received the blessing, it wasn’t like this.” “Could it be… that the Crown Prince and his wife are not recognized by the Heavens?” There are eighty-one bolts in total. What should be a blessing has become torture. By the tenth bolt, Kaiden is on his knees beside Sera. In a panic, the King throws up a magical barrier, shielding them from the storm’s fury. But in doing so, he has invalidated the coronation. The square is deathly silent. Everyone is staring at Kaiden and my sister, waiting for an explanation. Kaiden struggles to his feet, looking up at his father. “Father, perhaps there was an error in the ritual. I am willing to try again.” The King hesitates, his face a canvas of doubt. I let out a soft sigh, but my voice carries clearly across the silence. “It’s useless. Stop struggling.” All eyes turn to me. “How can the Heavens recognize two impostors?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385416”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the live finale of the reality show, the host had a cheap gimmick: check the seventh photo on each guest’s phone. I sent them the one I had of Sophia—a sweet, candid selfie she’d sent me last week. But when it flashed on the screen, the young heartthrob sitting next to me, Ethan Cole, scrunched his perfect brow. “Liam, man, I get it,” he said, his voice dripping with false concern. “You can come after me all you want, but can you please not be a creep about my girlfriend?” I froze. “I’m sorry, since when does she have a boyfriend?” Without missing a beat, Ethan pulled out his phone and dialed Sophia. “Babe,” he cooed, the cameras zooming in on his face. “Someone’s trying to break us up…” There was a pause on the other end, and then Sophia’s voice, crisp and serious even through the speaker. “Who? Where? I’m on the next flight back to the States.” My jaw hit the floor. The internet exploded. [I KNEW IT! LIAM KNIGHT IS ALWAYS CHASING CLOUT!] [GUESS AGAIN, LIAM. SOPHIA ROSE ISN’T SOMEONE YOU CAN JUST USE FOR ATTENTION!] [OMG, ETHAN AND SOPHIA ARE SO CUTE! GET MARRIED AND MAKE LIAM KNIGHT’S HEAD EXPLODE!] Seriously? I was just blindsided by the fact that my little sister was secretly dating my number one rival. 1 My dumbfounded expression was instantly clipped, GIF’d, and trending on Twitter. [LMAO does Liam Knight actually think Ethan is joking? Does he think everyone is as desperate for attention as he is?] [As if Sophia Rose would ever give him the time of day. This GIF is the best thing to happen all year, I swear.] [Hahaha, this is GOLD. I love watching this phony get put in his place by Ethan!] The live chat was a waterfall of hate. I couldn’t take it. I bolted from the stage and ducked into the nearest dressing room. [Did he just run off? Can’t handle the heat?] [Seeing him get knocked down a peg is my new favorite thing.] I slammed the door shut and immediately called Sophia. Her voice was rushed on the other end. “Liam, I’m in the middle of something urgent. I’ll call you back.” “Let me guess,” I said, my voice tight. “Did your new ‘boyfriend’ call you crying?” Sophia went quiet for a second. “How did you know?” “Are you insane? You’re dating a guy like that?” “You don’t get it, Liam. He’s the most special man I’ve met in my entire twenty-five years.” I felt the air leave my lungs. “He’s an actor, Soph! He can act like anything! I’m telling you, I know exactly who Ethan Cole is, and you need to break up with him. Now.” “It’s not an act!” she shot back, defiant. “He tells me he loves me even when he’s blackout drunk!” A knot of frustration tightened in my chest. “What’s so hard about that? It’s a performance! Watch, I can do it, too. I love you, I love you, I love you!” “Are you crazy? That’s disgusting!” Sophia sounded genuinely repulsed, like she had a full-body cringe. She hung up before I could say another word. Furious, I spun around—and found someone standing in the doorway. Ethan Cole had one hand on the doorknob, the other holding his phone. His eyes were wide with manufactured surprise. “Liam? Hey, sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.” I gave him a humorless smile. “Funny. I could’ve sworn I saw you watch me walk into this very room.” “Liam, you…” Ethan’s face crumpled into a mask of hurt. The online comments, which I could only imagine, were probably going wild. [OMG, YOU PSYCHO, GET AWAY FROM ETHAN!] [I can’t stand this fraud. His movies suck, and so does he. He was hitting on Ethan’s girlfriend first!] I was done playing this game. I brushed past him and walked away. But of course, in the time it took me to walk to the restroom and back, another social media bomb had gone off. I clicked the link. It was a three-second video of me on the phone. My frantic, mocking “I love you” to Sophia. The headline was brutal. Sophia Rose to Liam Knight: “Are You Crazy? That’s Disgusting.” Liam Knight Attempts to Sabotage Relationship, Gets Savagely Shut Down by Business Mogul Sophia Rose. My world went black. 2 The dressing rooms were soundproofed, private. The only person who could have filmed that video was the one who opened the door at the end: Ethan Cole. The clip started right at my “confession,” making it look like I was having a psychotic breakdown and professing my love for Sophia, only for her to reject me in disgust. I found Ethan by the craft services table and held up my phone, playing the three-second clip. “You recorded me?” He forced a nervous laugh. “Whoa, Liam, don’t get the wrong idea. I was just taking a selfie and you were in the background, I didn’t mean to—” “Why was your camera pointed at me for a selfie? And if it was an accident, why did you post it?” The color drained from his face. He realized his mistake—admitting he filmed it was admitting he leaked it. It completely contradicted his carefully crafted persona as the kind, harmless victim. His eyes welled up, his lip trembling. The performance was flawless. “Liam, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Just stop going after my girlfriend, okay? I tried talking to you, but you wouldn’t listen. I don’t know how to fight with people… I just didn’t know what else to do.” He looked down, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. “She’s the first girl I’ve ever really loved like this. Please… just leave us alone.” I cut him off. “That whole routine might work on her, but it’s wasted on me.” My voice was flat. “You play enough games, and eventually, people see you for who you are. It’s only a matter of time before she dumps you. Watch your back.” I turned and walked away. The premise for this season of the reality show was a “back to basics” rural theme. As I was getting ready for the next leg of the trip out to some farm, my agent called. “For God’s sake, Liam, can you stay out of trouble for five minutes? You’re trending for the third time today!” I pulled up my phone. The number one trending topic had a big red “BREAKING” tag next to it: Liam Knight Threatens Ethan Cole Just moments before, an audio clip had been “leaked” by an anonymous “production staffer.” It was the audio of my conversation with Ethan. I was certain we had been the only two people there. My social media mentions were a war zone. [Dude, get a clue. Sophia Rose herself confirmed Ethan is her boyfriend! And you’re telling HIM to ‘watch his back’?] [Hope you die alone, you homewrecker.] [Who is this clown? Oh, right, the guy who makes garbage movies. No wonder. His whole family is probably trash.] … At the same time, Ethan started a live stream from the back of his car. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling “bravely.” “Guys, please don’t say mean things. I’m sure it’s all just a misunderstanding between me and Liam,” he said softly. “It makes me sad to think I might have caused him any pain.” His fans were eating it up. [OMG MY POOR BABY YOU ARE TOO KIND FOR THIS WORLD! Liam Knight is just a bully! DON’T DEFEND HIM!] [You’re so sweet, I’m crying for you! On my way to Liam’s Twitter to light him up.] [We will protect the kindest boy in the world! Liam Knight can rot!] Sitting in the van, the world swam before my eyes. I picked up my phone and called Sophia again. 3 “Break up with him. Right now.” I didn’t bother with a greeting. Sophia sounded completely lost. “Liam, I told you, this is real.” “Did you happen to see how he’s manipulating the entire internet to make me look like a monster? Have you even glanced at what’s trending?” “Oh, come on, Liam. You get dragged online every other day. I’m used to it by now.” …She had a point. “It’s fine, big brother,” she said, her tone softening. “When I get back, I’ll take you both out to dinner. We’ll clear the air. Ethan is a really good person, he’s not what you think.” “Forget it. I have more experience in this industry than you have contracts signed.” “And what has that experience gotten you? Nothing but bad reviews.” “You—” “Look, Liam, just quit,” she said, not unkindly. “You know your acting got passed down from Mom.” I had no comeback for that. After a moment of letting me stew in her victorious silence, she continued, “Seriously, bro. Just come home and help me run the family business. You’d make way more money, and my life would be a hell of a lot easier. Why are you putting yourself through all this?” “No! I didn’t get into this business for the money. I did it for Amelia!” “…” 4 The truth was, I never needed to be in show business. My parents were constantly begging me to come home, to join Sophia in running the family empire and take it to the next level. But I was stubborn. I chose the chaos of Hollywood for one reason: to get closer to Amelia Lane. The goddess I’d worshipped from afar for five years. To avoid any unnecessary drama, I had never publicly disclosed my relationship with Sophia. I took my mother’s last name, Knight. Sophia took our father’s, Rose. In all these years, no one had ever connected the dots. Until now, when it had all blown up into this ridiculous circus. A wave of regret washed over me. As her older brother, I’d always been the one to guide her, to keep her focused. I’d been so strict about her not dating in high school or college. I guess the consequence of a youth devoid of romance was that the first slick-haired charlatan who came along could lead her away by the nose. I slumped down in my seat in the van, my head in my hands. “I should have let her date more when she was younger.” 5 My dark mood evaporated the moment we arrived at the next location. Because as soon as I stepped out of the van, I found out who the “surprise celebrity guest” was. “Amelia Lane?!” I gasped. “Is it really her? Is she actually here?” A crew member shot me a disdainful look, sniffed, and walked away. Ever since the drama with Ethan “stealing” my “crush,” the entire production team had been treating me like I was radioactive. When they realized the online audience loved their coldness toward me, they doubled down. I didn’t care. After years in this business, I was used to the side-eyes and whispered insults. Amelia was the only thing that mattered. The moment she stepped out of her black SUV, a wave of shrieks erupted from the crew and the other cast members. I darted forward, holding out a pristine, gold-edged photo card. “Ms. Lane, I’m a huge fan. Could I please get your autograph?” She pulled down her mask, and her smile was like the sun breaking through clouds. “Of course.” She took the card, scribbled something on it, and handed it back. I was about to place it carefully in my jacket pocket when I glanced down and saw what she’d written. Two words. [Asshole] I blinked. When I looked up, she was giving me a contemptuous little sneer. “Ethan!” a cheerful voice cried out, shattering the moment. Ethan’s car had arrived. The second he got out, Amelia launched herself into his arms. Ethan caught her easily, spinning her around before setting her down and ruffling her hair. “You’re the surprise guest? I thought you were filming on the other side of the country.” “Heehee,” she giggled. “I knew you were here, so I came just for you. Or maybe I just had a sudden whim to join this show. Which story do you like better?” The online comments on the live feed must have been exploding. [I’LL SAY IT! SHE CAME FOR YOU! FOR YOU FOR YOU FOR YOU!] [This is so sweet I’m crying…] Ethan just smiled and tapped her lightly on the forehead. “You’re always teasing me.” Amelia pouted. “You hit me again! Hmph!” I frowned. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Amelia immediately stepped in front of Ethan, shielding him from me. She gave me a look of pure scorn. “Ethan and I grew up together. We’re childhood friends who have supported each other through everything to get where we are today. I would hope, Mr. Knight, that you wouldn’t project your own dirty mind onto everyone else.” 6 The live chat went into another frenzy. [That’s our queen Amelia! She can spot an asshole a mile away!] [Quote of the day! Just because someone likes being a homewrecker doesn’t mean everyone does.] [They’re childhood best friends, that’s just how they are. Someone with the last name Knight needs to stop judging everyone by his own low standards.] A hot spike of anger shot through me. I was about to say something when my assistant pulled me aside. “Liam, cool it. She just landed the lead role in a massive Hollywood blockbuster. Half the industry is kissing her feet right now. If you get into a fight with her, you’re the only one who’s going to get hurt.” “A blockbuster?” I scoffed. My assistant nodded. “Yeah. Some mysterious billionaire is a huge fan of hers and is pouring money into the production just for her. I heard the guy thinks she’s the next big thing. If you piss her off, Liam, we can’t afford the fallout.” “Hah,” I said. “He’s investing in her because he appreciates her acting. That doesn’t give her a license to be a tyrant.” My assistant gave me a pitying look. “Liam, it’s probably best not to pretend you know what a billionaire is thinking.” “I’m not pretending,” I said, a cold smile spreading across my face. “I’m pulling my funding.” “Liam, you… sigh!” My assistant just shook his head and walked away. I heard him muttering to a colleague a few feet away. “Liam’s lost it. He’s actually starting to believe he’s Amelia’s big-shot investor. First he thinks he’s Sophia Rose’s boyfriend, now he’s having delusions of being a studio head. I think all the hate comments finally broke his brain.” I had already pulled out my phone and dialed my secretary. “Pull it,” I said, my voice firm. “You heard me. Pull the funding.” My secretary was silent for a beat. “But Mr. Knight… you’re Amelia Lane’s biggest supporter, aren’t you?” “I was blind. Pull it. Cancel every bid, every investment connected to her. Immediately.” “Yes, Mr. Knight.” Hanging up, I finally felt a sliver of satisfaction. I walked back towards the set, but the scene in front of me nearly made me drop my phone. Ethan was sipping from a cup of iced tea. On the straw was a lipstick stain, the exact shade Amelia was wearing. He took a sip and handed it back to her. “It’s a little too sweet. They messed up this batch.” Amelia took it back without a second thought, putting the lipstick-stained straw to her own lips. “I think so too, but since you bought it for me, I guess I can force myself to drink a little.” “You’re impossible,” he chuckled. “Hold on,” I interrupted. “You have a girlfriend. Even if you are childhood friends, shouldn’t you have some boundaries?” Amelia moved to stand in front of him again, her expression defiant. “Like I said, Mr. Knight, don’t project your own filth onto us.” That did it. My temper flared. “If someone is already filthy,” I shot back, “then they’re going to seem disgusting no matter who’s looking, don’t you think?” “You—!” Amelia’s face flushed with anger. Ethan frowned. “Liam, are you calling us filthy?” I raised an eyebrow. “Is there anyone else here I could be talking to?” Amelia’s expression turned thunderous. Luckily, the director arrived just then, preventing a full-blown meltdown. Fearing I would cause more “trouble,” the production team did something unprecedented: they gave me a private room, away from the other cast. But just as I finished unpacking my bags, a staffer knocked on the door. “You’re cut from the show.” My assistant stared at him. “What? Why? We have a contract.” The staffer sneered. “This came directly from Ms. Lane.” My assistant deflated, turning to me with a sigh. “Well, Liam. I guess we’re really leaving.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Wow. So she’s calling the shots now? Fine. Let’s go. I’m sick of this business anyway.” That day, I was trending on social media for the last time: Liam Knight Finally Forced Out of Hollywood 7 I went home. The trending topics weren’t just about me; Ethan was all over them too. After I left, the show’s cameras had captured Amelia comforting him, stroking his hair as he looked forlorn. A few minutes later, they filmed him on the phone with Sophia, telling her how much he missed her. Sophia’s voice, syrupy and sweet, carried through the phone’s speaker. “It’s okay, my love. I just landed. I’ll be there soon. With me by your side, no one will ever bully you again.” Hearing Sophia put on that cloying voice made me want to throw up. The internet, however, was in a state of ecstasy. [PLEASE, UNIVERSE, GIVE ME A MOVIE STAR CHILDHOOD BESTIE AND A BEAUTIFUL, WEALTHY GIRLFRIEND!] [THIS IS THE LIFE EVERY MAN DREAMS OF!] [I can’t even imagine having one woman this beautiful, and this guy has TWO?] … My phone rang. It was Sophia. “Liam, I’m back in the country. When are you free? I want you and Mom and Dad to finally meet Ethan.” I didn’t sugarcoat it. “Mom and Dad won’t like him. And neither do I.” “You don’t know that,” she said, her voice bubbling with happiness. “I have never met a man who makes my heart feel this way. Once you all meet him, you’ll see. You’ll accept him.” “…” Listening to my sister sound so blissfully delusional, I quietly ended the call. A few minutes later, the trending topics shifted again. Sophia Rose had posted on her personal, rarely used Instagram account. It was a photo of her and Ethan, their faces close together. The caption read: [Take my hand, take me home.] I commented below it: [So lame.] My comment was immediately dogpiled and shot to the top. [Still dreaming, are we, third wheel? Lame or not, it has nothing to do with you. They’re about to meet the parents and you’re still here throwing a tantrum?] [SOPHIA AND ETHAN FOREVER! HOPE THE HATERS CHOKE!] I replied to the top comment: [I won’t choke, thanks. After all, whether he can marry her or not is still up to me.] Moments later, a new hashtag was born: #LiamKnightHasLostHisMind 8 I called my parents immediately. When they heard the name “Ethan Cole,” both of them, who were supposed to be on a relaxing vacation, said in unison, “Absolutely not.” I sighed. “I know, but you know how stubborn Sophia is. Sometimes you have to let someone hit rock bottom before they learn. You two should probably come back soon.” I had just pulled up to my house when I saw him. Ethan Cole, standing right by my front gate. He was holding his phone, live-streaming. “That’s right, everyone. I’m about to meet the parents today. I came a little early to give her a surprise. What do you all think of my outfit?” The comments were flying. [You look so handsome! If I were the mother-in-law, I’d tell you two to get married on the spot!] The next second, I smacked the phone out of his hand. It clattered onto the pavement. “No filming is allowed on this property. Didn’t Sophia tell you that?” [WTF! That psycho is here too!] [If I remember correctly, the security in this gated community is insane. How did a random trespasser like him even get in?] Ethan stared at me, then his brow furrowed. “Liam, I know you’re upset that Sophia and I are together, but this isn’t your house. Even if you follow us here, you can’t stop her from loving me. You should just leave. I can pretend I never saw you.” The live comments scrolled furiously. [My baby is so kind, still giving this asshole a chance.] [Ethan deserves the best things in the world~] I let out a cold laugh. “Why would I leave? Why would I have to leave my own house?” 9 [Is this guy delusional? You can’t just buy a house in this neighborhood; you need serious connections. Amelia Lane had to wait a year to get a property here. How could a washed-up actor possibly afford a place?] [He’s a fantasist. Didn’t the news already say he’s gone crazy? Of course he’d imagine he’s with Sophia and living in her house.] [I feel so bad for Ethan, having to deal with this lunatic.] My voice was ice. “I have a collection of antique paintings in that house. They’re private, and I don’t want them broadcast to the world. If you want to come inside, you’ll turn off the live stream.” “What an arrogant thing to say. Since when do you get to decide if someone can film inside their own home?” A familiar voice. I turned in surprise. Amelia Lane was getting out of a brand-new Ferrari, moving to stand protectively in front of Ethan. The live chat went insane. [OMG AMELIA IS HERE!! SHE’S HERE TO BACK ETHAN UP!!] [God, she’s gorgeous. How can someone look that good in casual clothes?] “Mr. Knight,” Amelia said, her voice dripping with condescension. “I have been very patient with you. Either you apologize to Ethan right now and leave, or I’m calling security.” A faint, contemptuous smirk flickered across Ethan’s lips before vanishing. He tugged on Amelia’s arm. “It’s okay, Amelia. Liam was in the business too, it wouldn’t look good to call security on him. I forgive him.” [BABY NO, DON’T BE SO NICE TO HIM!] A look of deep sympathy filled Amelia’s eyes. She shook her head. “He bullied you. I’m not letting it go.” [Just kill me now and let it be a wedding gift for you two!] [What do I do? I ship Ethan and Sophia, but I also ship Ethan and Amelia!] [Ahem, why choose…] … “Oh, security definitely needs to be called,” I said, pointing a finger at Amelia. “But you’re the one who’s going to be escorted out.” Amelia blinked. Then she laughed out loud. The live chat laughed with her. [Does this guy really think he lives here? Our queen LITERALLY owns property in this neighborhood!] “Mr. Knight, do I need to remind you? I am a resident here. You are not.” “Let’s put aside whether I am or not,” I said calmly. “Because I’ve just decided to revoke your ownership of that property.” “What did you say?” Amelia looked as if she’d misheard me. I crossed my arms. “Who do you think pulled the strings that allowed you to buy a house here in the first place?” Amelia stared, then her laughter grew louder. She pulled out her phone and dialed. “Hello, security? I’m at number 88. There’s an intruder on the premises. Can you please do a better job with your patrols? You shouldn’t be letting lunatics wander in here.” “Hey? Liam? What are you all doing standing out here?” A Rolls-Royce had pulled up to the gate. Sophia got out, looking confused. In that instant, Amelia’s pupils constricted. “What did you just call him?”

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The year I was paralyzed, my husband cleaned out our bank accounts and ran. Before he left, he asked our son and daughter who they wanted to go with. Ryan, my son, chose him without a moment’s hesitation. My daughter, Emily, chose to stay and take care of me. I was paralyzed for twelve years. Emily took care of me for twelve years. Even after she got married, she kept me with her. To pay for my medical bills, she worked three jobs a day, collapsing from exhaustion more than once. Her husband, Mark, couldn’t take it anymore. “If you keep taking care of that cripple mother of yours, we’re getting a divorce!” Emily divorced him without a second thought. Her devotion went viral, and she was hailed online as “America’s Most Devoted Daughter.” Everyone envied me for having a daughter like her. Until the old family property was bought out by a developer, and I received an eight-million-dollar check. But I transferred every last cent to Ryan, the son who had gone with his father. The internet erupted, calling me a monster, a misogynist who favored her son. A journalist found me. “You’ve been paralyzed for twelve years. Your son never visited you once, while your daughter stood by you, took on mountains of debt for you. Why wouldn’t you leave her a single penny?” I looked at the reporter and said calmly, “Install hidden cameras in my home. Livestream everything, secretly, for three days. Then you’ll know why.” 1 As soon as the micro-cameras were installed, the secret livestream began. Emily came home from work, dark circles under her eyes, and walked wearily to my bedside to clean me up. Seeing the mess I’d made, there wasn’t a trace of disgust in her eyes, only heartache and guilt. “Mom, did you have an upset stomach last night?” She gently brushed the stray, graying hairs from my forehead, blaming herself. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been so exhausted from work lately, I slept too heavily. I forgot to get up in the middle of the night to make sure you were covered. You must have been miserable all night…” I watched her in silence. The live feed’s comment section, however, was exploding with emotion. “OMG, this daughter is an actual saint. She just got off work, sees this, and her first reaction is to blame herself.” “Right? If I came home to that after a long day, I’d lose my mind.” “No wonder they call her the most devoted daughter. I’m literally crying right now.” Emily, oblivious to the cameras, tried to shift my weight, wanting to get me into the bathroom for a bath. But she was too tired. She strained with all her might but couldn’t manage to lift me from the bed. Just then, there was a knock at the door. Emily opened it to find Ryan standing there. Her eyes widened slightly. “What are you doing here?” Ryan slouched in, all swagger. “Mom gave me eight million bucks. Dad said I should crash here for a few days, you know, for appearances. Stop the neighbors from talking.” He squeezed past her into the apartment. Emily was too drained to argue. “Fine. Then make yourself useful. Help me get Mom into the bathroom. I need to give her a bath.” Ryan glanced over, his face twisting in disgust. “Gross. It smells like a hospital in here. I’m not touching her.” Emily’s brow furrowed. “Ryan, Mom just gave you all eight million dollars from the buyout. You can’t even be bothered to help lift her?” He scoffed. “She gave it to me. Her choice. Don’t try to guilt-trip me.” Emily sighed. “I respect whatever Mom decides. She gave you all that money because she wants you to settle down, find a wife, and build a good life.” Her voice softened. “I just hope you don’t let her down. Don’t break her heart.” Ryan’s expression was pure contempt. “Emily, she’s a paralyzed old woman. Why do you waste so much time thinking about her feelings?” “Taking care of her is a waste of your life.” “Honestly, it would be better if she just died.” The comments section went into a frenzy. “WHAT?! What kind of son is this? Cursing his own mother to her face?” “And this is the kind of trash son the mother dotes on! Eight million dollars! Didn’t even blink, just handed it all to this monster!” “I don’t get it. Her daughter is drowning in debt for her, lost her marriage for her, and gets nothing. This isn’t just favoritism, it’s brain-dead!” “She ignores the daughter who is a total gem to spoil this inhuman piece of garbage. A preference for sons so toxic it’s no wonder she ended up paralyzed!” 2 In the end, Ryan didn’t help. It took Emily over an hour to get me cleaned up. She was drenched in sweat, but still, she carefully dressed me in fresh clothes and settled me into my wheelchair. “Mom, you must be hungry. I’ll go make you dinner.” She almost fainted as she stood up, the fatigue overwhelming her. But she just paused for a few seconds, steadied herself, and pushed on into the kitchen. A short while later, she emerged with a beautiful meal: pan-seared fish, a slow-braised beef, sautéed greens, and a steaming pot of chicken soup. Emily placed the food in front of me, then ladled a spoonful of soup, blew on it carefully to cool it, and brought it to my lips. “Mom, I went to a farm out in the country to get a fresh chicken for this soup. It was always your favorite. Here, try some.” I turned my head away. “I don’t want it,” I said, my voice cold. Her eyes filled with worry. “Mom, your stomach is already upset. If you don’t eat something, you’ll get weaker.” I looked at her, my tone just as detached. “I don’t have an appetite.” Then, my gaze shifted to Ryan, who was sprawled on the couch, scrolling on his phone. My voice softened. “Ryan, honey. Mom wants that piece of cake on the coffee table.” He didn’t even look up. “I bought that for myself. If you want some, wheel yourself down to the store and buy your own.” Emily shot her brother a glare, then turned back to me, her voice gentle. “Mom, just eat your dinner first. After you eat, I’ll go out and buy you a cake, okay?” I shook my head stubbornly, refusing to even look at the food she’d made. The comment section was a battlefield. “Is this old woman insane? She won’t eat the incredible meal her daughter made but wants the cake her son won’t even give her?” “I thought she was just biased, but this is next-level sick. The way he treats her, and she’s still fawning over him?” “I feel so bad for her daughter. All that work for nothing. She cooks this whole feast and her mom won’t even glance at it.” “This is disgusting. The more I watch, the more I realize the mother is the real monster here.” 3 The first day of the livestream ended. The feed was a waterfall of insults directed at me. The next day, Emily got home a little earlier than usual. She was carrying a small, elegant box from a bakery. Inside was a strawberry shortcake. “Mom, you wanted cake yesterday, remember? I stopped on my way home to get this for you. Your favorite, strawberry. Please, have a piece.” She held the cake out to me, her eyes shining with hopeful anticipation. I glanced at it, my voice flat. “I don’t want it anymore.” A shadow of disappointment and pain crossed her face, but she forced a smile. “Okay. Well, what would you like to eat? I can make you anything.” I gave her a cold look. “I don’t want anything you make.” With that, I maneuvered my wheelchair, intending to get some air on the balcony. As I came out of the bedroom, I ran right into Ryan, who was walking with his head down, engrossed in a game on his phone. The phone clattered to the floor. He exploded. “Damn it! That was a critical team fight! You made me get killed! It was a promotion match!” He snatched the phone off the floor and, in a fit of rage, kicked my wheelchair. Hard. The chair lurched violently, tipping to one side. “Mom!” Emily screamed and threw herself forward, using her body to shield me and stop the chair from toppling completely. The metal frame scraped her arm, opening a gash deep enough to see bone. Blood gushed out. But she ignored the pain. After steadying me, she turned on her brother, her voice shaking with fury. “Ryan, you could have seriously hurt Mom!” He shot me a dirty look. “She’s a paralytic. It’s not like she can feel pain. What are you getting so worked up about?” “This is such crap. Another ranked match lost,” he muttered, storming into his room to resume his game. Emily, still shaken, checked me over from head to toe. Once she was sure I was unharmed, she finally tended to her own injury, then began inspecting the wheelchair he had kicked. She found a loose latch. Immediately, she got out a toolbox and spent the rest of the night carefully tightening bolts and reinforcing the frame. In the livestream chat, the fury was relentless. “I’m sobbing. Where do you find a daughter like this? Her arm is sliced open, and all she can think about is her mother’s safety.” “And for what? A mother who is blind and heartless. What a waste.” “Seriously, is this woman’s heart made of stone? After everything her daughter does for her, she treats her with such coldness?!” “You know what they say, pitiful people have a reason to be hated. This mother’s favoritism is so off the charts, she deserves to be paralyzed!” “This is suffocating to watch. Emily, please, just leave! This mother and brother aren’t worth it!” The stream was a torrent of condemnation. Even the journalist called me. “Is this what you wanted? This three-day secret livestream? Do you have any idea what people are saying about you?” he demanded. “Your daughter has done everything for you. You’re just setting yourself up to be hated.” I glanced at Emily in the living room, silently cleaning and bandaging her own wound. “There’s one day left,” I said quietly. “Then you’ll all understand everything.” 4 The morning of the third day, Emily came into my room as usual as soon as she woke up. “Mom, how are you feeling today? Is your appetite any better?” she asked softly, her hands expertly checking my circulation. I didn’t answer, just gave a brief, flat glance at her bandaged arm. Blood was still seeping through the gauze. When I remained silent, she began her routine, massaging my limbs and moving my joints to prevent muscle atrophy. Her touch was gentle, as if she were handling a priceless treasure. “Look, Mom. The weather is so beautiful today.” She gestured toward the window, trying to fill the silence. “After we eat, I’ll take you outside for a walk. The doctor said getting fresh air is good for you.” My reply was the same cold wall. “I don’t want to.” Her hand paused for a fraction of a second. She said nothing more. After the massage, she brought a basin of warm water and carefully washed my face and hands before going to make breakfast. The comments in the live feed kept scrolling. “Same dead-eyed look from the old lady today. It makes me sick.” “Her daughter’s arm is seriously injured, and she still has to serve her. Not even a single word of concern?” “Truly disgusting. Some people don’t deserve the kindness they get.” Emily didn’t go to work that day. She said she wanted to spend the day with me. After finishing all the morning chores, she wheeled me out onto the balcony to sit in the sun. She brushed my hair, clipped my nails, and cleaned my ears. She tended to every part of me until I was spotless. When she was done, she pulled up a small stool and sat beside me, taking my thin, frail hand in hers. She began to speak in a low voice. “Mom, do you remember? When I was little, you used to bring me out on this balcony to sit in the sun.” “You loved to braid my hair out here and tell me stories.” “You told me that your greatest wish was just to see me happy.” As she spoke, her eyes grew misty. Just then, her phone rang. But she didn’t answer it. She looked at me, a deep, meaningful look, and declined the call. Then she turned back, a small smile on her face. “Mom,” she said softly. “It’s about time.” I returned her smile, a faint one of my own. The moment had finally arrived. Emily stood up, gave me one last, inscrutable look, and then did something that stunned every single person watching the livestream.

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My little sister was a ghost in the machine of Hollywood. A nobody, an actress so far down the D-list she barely cast a shadow. She was the kind of sweet, timid soul who’d get steamrolled in the industry and wouldn’t dare squeak in protest. Which is why I was currently sitting in a car with her, on our way to film a reality show. Someone had to have her back. On the show, I took on everyone and everything. I fought with the cast, the crew, the network executives. I got the live feed cut—twice—and was personally responsible for half the guests ending up in jail. The internet’s reaction? “Ainsley, we’re seriously worried you’re going to get yourself killed.” A joke. As if the heiress to the Stratton Enterprises fortune had anything to fear. The worst-case scenario? I’d have to go home and finally run the damn company. 1 Are you insane? Film a show with you? In your dreams. Sophie, you’re getting treated worse than dirt in this industry, and you want to drag me down with you? Here’s some advice: instead of plastering on a fake smile for the cameras all day, you should be figuring out how to milk that rich old man of yours for every cent. The crumbs that fall from his table could set you up for life. The words on the phone screen burned my eyes. “Ainsley.” Sophie’s voice was a whisper. She gently touched my hand, the one holding the phone. I typed back a single, eloquent word—Fuck off—then blocked and deleted the contact listed as “Cousin.” As I went to hand the phone back to Sophie, my thumb slipped, accidentally opening her social media DMs. The screen was still on. You’re such a clout-chaser. Wearing the same brand as my girl? You should try jumping off a building instead. It’d be more original. Hey, Sophie, you little bitch. Did you like the dead rat we sent? Next time you ‘accidentally’ fall into a male celebrity, we’ll make sure your whole family gets what’s coming to them. Heard you’re bringing your sister on the show. What kind of trash is the sister of a manipulative slut going to be? Can you two just disappear already and stop making us all sick? I actually laughed at that last one. They had no idea. I was the furthest thing from “good” they could possibly imagine. When I was a kid, I burned down my family’s winery playing with matches. In school, when bullies tried to shake me down for protection money, I put them all in the hospital. As an adult, I’d survived close encounters with crocodiles and pythons in the Amazon. When my family tried to force me into the corporate world by cutting off my credit cards, I sold three of my cars, invested the money in the stock market, and never touched a dime of their money again. My sister, Sophie, was the daughter of my dad’s best friend from the army. After they passed, we took her in. Before she came to us at fifteen, she’d been bounced around between relatives who treated her like a burden. It made her the polar opposite of me. I was the tornado that tore through the house, leaving chaos in my wake. She was the quiet, straight-A student who never caused a lick of trouble. But I never knew. I never knew that the girl who always told me she was “doing great” and begged me to be careful on my adventures was being tormented by our own family and harassed into oblivion by strangers online. While I was reeling, the “rich old man” my cousin had referred to was in the middle of one of his classic lectures. “You don’t come home for years, running off on one reckless trip after another. You almost got yourself killed! Look at your Uncle Mark’s son. So what if he lost a fortune on his startup? At least he’s doing something serious with his life! When are you going to stop giving me gray hairs?” The rage that had been simmering inside me boiled over. “He lost a fortune, I made back three. I guess the neighbor’s kid is always better, right? It’s fine if you don’t understand me, but do you have any idea what Sophie has been…” “Ainsley!” Sophie, who had been standing by like a nervous sparrow, grabbed my arm. Her eyes were wide, a mix of panic and pleading. My heart softened instantly. The words on the tip of my tongue changed course. “…do you have any idea that Sophie invited me to be on a reality show with her?” Sophie’s jaw dropped. ! My father stared. ? I was done standing by. I was about to find out which was stronger: this toxic little world she was trapped in, or my will to burn it all to the ground. My decision was final. The only thing Sophie begged me to do was keep our connection to Stratton Enterprises a secret, which suited me just fine. On the day of the shoot, the production team told us to arrange our own transportation. Our estate was in a remote area where Ubers were scarce. Sophie refused to be seen in any of the limited-edition sports cars lining our garage. In the end, we borrowed the beat-up Honda Civic our housekeeper, Maria, used for grocery runs. The show was called Getaway, a live-streamed reality series where celebrities invited a non-famous friend or family member to join them. Each episode lasted two days. A team captain was chosen for the first day to plan the entire itinerary. At the end of the episode, online viewers would vote, and the team with the lowest popularity would be eliminated. As the celebrity, Sophie was designated the first captain. The moment our sad little Civic pulled up to the entrance of the massive Westwood Park, a swarm of crew members surrounded us, and the livestream began. During the drive, Sophie had been anxiously reviewing the day’s schedule for the six cast members, muttering about restaurant reservations, landmark check-ins, and driving directions. Distracted, she didn’t see the low concrete post next to our parking spot. The moment she opened her door, it scraped against the post with a sickening screech, leaving a deep gash in the paint. “Oh, no.” Her face crumpled. “Maria is going to kill me.” Maria had been with our family for decades; she was more of a grandmother to us than a housekeeper. A papercut was enough to earn a lecture. Careless driving was a capital offense in her book. I shrugged, a silent gesture of ‘you’re on your own.’ The live chat, of course, interpreted it differently. [LOL, so she’s admitting they borrowed that piece of junk?] [Wait, are you serious? An actress has to borrow a car to get to a shoot, scratches it, and isn’t even going to fix it? Just gonna hand it back like that?] [Come on, guys, it’s all for show. These people make more in a day than I do in a year. This is just a pathetic stunt for attention. Look how naturally her sister is playing along. Another wannabe actress.] I glanced at the comments and looked away. Arguing with the legion of morons online would only make Sophie’s job harder. We were told the other two pairs of guests were already somewhere inside the park, and it was our job to find them. After walking for a bit, I draped my arm over Sophie’s shoulder, leaning on her slightly. My body was still healing from my last… excursion. She looked at me, her brow furrowed with concern. “Ainsley, are you tired?” I pinched her cheek. “Not a chance. I could probably carry you for a half-mile run right now.” A series of excited shrieks erupted behind us. I turned to see a small group of teenage girls trailing us, just behind the camera crew. “Hey,” I said with a wave. “Are you guys here for my sister?” They all shook their heads in unison. Undeterred, I pushed Sophie forward. “Let me introduce you. This is Sophie Stratton. A phenomenal actress. She’s got the talent, the integrity, and the grace. A future superstar. Get on board now, you won’t regret it.” Sophie covered her face with her hands and dragged me away. “Tch.” The sound, sharp with disdain, cut through the air. On a bench to our right sat a woman, her expression sour as she watched us. The sound had clearly come from her. I closed the distance in two strides. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Could you run it by me again?” Sophie rushed over and squeezed my hand. “Ainsley, she’s one of the other guests.” The man sitting beside the woman took her hand and stood up, carefully smoothing her dress before turning to the camera. “Hi, everyone. I’m Ryan, and this is my girlfriend, Morgan.” [OMG! OMG! It’s my favorite couple from ‘Love Unlocked’! I can’t believe it! The chemistry is still off the charts! My shipper heart can’t take it!] [Who’s that aggressive woman talking to Morgan? She looks like she’s about to start a fight. So trashy. Morgan is from a super-rich family and she’s way more humble than that.] [Sophie Stratton, you have some nerve. You relentlessly harassed Ryan on ‘The Actor’s Crucible’ until he was forced to quit. How dare you show your face in front of him again?] [Wait, what? She’s not even that pretty. How did she have the audacity to go after Ryan? Like sister, like slut, I guess. Both are disgusting.] [What was the network thinking? Can’t they vet their guests? This is so cringey!] After his introduction, Ryan looked at my sister. “Long time no see,” he said, his tone flat. Sophie gave a tight, nervous nod. Morgan clung to his arm, a sly smile playing on her lips. “She even wore a matching outfit for you, Ryan. I guess she’s still carrying a torch for you.” Sophie was wearing a simple white blouse and a black skirt. Ryan was also in a white shirt, paired with black trousers. It was the most basic color combination imaginable. I scanned the park around us. A grin spread across my face. “Well, in that case, it looks like half the people in this park are carrying a torch for your boyfriend, from the five-year-olds over there to the eighty-year-old grandpas by the fountain.” “Morgan didn’t mean anything by it,” Ryan said, wrapping an arm around her shoulder possessively. “She’s a fashion designer with her own independent label, so she’s just very sensitive to these things.” It was a statement meant to sound like a defense, but it reeked of a brag. Morgan’s gaze was pure contempt. “You’re so protective of your sister. But do you have any idea what she did? She chased my boyfriend so relentlessly on that show that he had to drop out, costing him the lead role in Declan Reid’s new film.” [What is this Ainsley person’s problem? Does she have any clue what a snake her sister is?] [He’s defending her! She’s defending him! This is true love! Real couples are the best!] [If he hadn’t been forced to quit, Ryan would have been named Best Newcomer that year for sure. Sophie, how are you ever going to repay him for that?!] [An unknown with no formal training won the whole thing? It was definitely rigged.] [If you have a powerful enough sugar daddy, you can get anything you want. Best Newcomer? Hell, you could buy yourself an Oscar.] The Actor’s Crucible was a performance competition show. I’d only seen the final episode, which I watched with my parents. Sophie had won the championship with four consecutive A-grade performances. The prize for the winner and runner-up was a custom-written high school movie directed by the legendary Declan Reid. I had no idea this utterly forgettable guy, Ryan, had even been on the show, let alone had some kind of history with my sister. Morgan scoffed. “Playing on your phone during a live broadcast? Sophie, didn’t you teach your sister any manners?” I glanced at the crew members, who were pointedly doing nothing. “The network hasn’t said a word. Why are you so worked up? Spend less time watching historical dramas.” Her eyes widened. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sophie ducked her head, trying to hide a smile. It meant exactly what she thought it meant. The emperor isn’t worried, but the eunuchs are losing their minds. I’d just spent the last two minutes on my phone, watching clips of Ryan from that show three years ago. He was even uglier then, with acting skills that were an absolute train wreck. There was one clip where he got a papercut and cried like he’d been shot. This guy? I shot a sideways glance at Sophie. If she’d genuinely ever had a crush on him, I was going to ascend to a higher plane of existence out of sheer disbelief. She instantly understood my look and shook her head frantically. “We barely even spoke. All those videos were heavily edited.” I relaxed. Ryan put on his best victim face. “It’s all in the past. We were all young…” I cut him off. “I just took a look at your highlight reel. You were ranked last in every evaluation. The mentors criticized you in every single class. My sister, on the other hand, went from a D-rank in the beginning to a perfect A-rank by the finale. When you quit, you gave an interview where you implied it was because she kept confessing her love to you, distracting you and dragging you down. I’m just curious—how exactly does someone at the bottom of the ladder get their leg pulled by someone at the top?” “And another thing,” I continued, not letting him breathe. “Let’s get specific. When and where did my sister confess her love to you? Tell us all the details. Oh, and by the way, that show had cameras everywhere, even in the bedrooms. So I assume this didn’t happen in the bathroom, right?” Ryan’s face turned an ugly shade of red. He stammered, unable to produce a single concrete detail. Of course he couldn’t. His entire strategy was to make vague, suggestive claims and let the online mob fill in the blanks. “It never happened at all, did it?” “Everyone knows how reality TV editing works. Slap on some slow-motion and a romantic BGM, and you could make it look like my sister was giving heart eyes to a golden retriever. You played the victim card, quit the show, and milked the sympathy for all it was worth. It got you the lead in two cheap web series. So how exactly did my sister ‘ruin’ your career? Have you ever watched yourself act? You even narrate the stage directions. You’re always talking about how you’d die for your art. Let’s see how you’ve been ‘honing your craft.’” I held up my phone, reading from his online bio. “Ah, here we are. Contestant on a matchmaking show. ‘Relationship expert’ on a panel. The resident villain on a celebrity house-share show. Got into a physical fight with a veteran actor. A regular cast member on three consecutive seasons of a dating show…” I couldn’t help but applaud. “They say a diamond shines from one place. You, my friend, are a shard of glass, reflecting light from everywhere.” Ryan was speechless. Morgan jumped to his defense. “Ryan is just trying to seize every opportunity to get noticed! Hard work pays off, and I know a visionary director will discover him soon enough!” I put my phone away. “If you really love acting, spend less time crafting a personality in front of the cameras and more time honing your skills behind them. If no one’s sending you scripts, then send out your resume. Audition. If you can’t get a lead role, fight for a supporting one. Stop blaming the world for your problems. If you want a blockbuster script, first ask yourself if you’re good enough to deserve it.” I remembered what Ryan had called her: a “fashion designer.” I gave her dress a deliberate, slow scan, then looked away after three seconds. It looked like a pink burlap sack adorned with a cheap lace trim. My eyes burned. My tone shifted. “Let me guess, you designed this yourself?” She tossed her head back, smug. “Of course. I design everything I wear. It’s all one-of-a-kind.” “If you like it so much, I can give you a few pieces,” she added with a smirk, her eyes raking over my outfit. “That generic jumpsuit and those common combat boots… what did that cost you, under a hundred dollars? You can’t even buy a t-shirt from my brand for that price.” “Oh, right, I don’t even know what you do for a living,” she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. “Does your monthly salary even cover one of my outfits? Don’t tell me you’re still mooching off your actress sister at your age.” A slow smile spread across my face. “Money has never been something I’ve had to worry about.” “But I am curious about your brand’s design philosophy. Is it… recycled waste? I mean, it’s great that you’re environmentally conscious, but I wouldn’t recommend continuing. I happened to look up your online store just now. Your bestseller has two sales, and most items have zero. I guess that’s one way to ensure everything is ‘one-of-a-kind’—by selling it to yourself. Your factory workers must get a lot of vacation time.” The live chat exploded. [I’m a 27-year-old entrepreneur in New York. I own a penthouse on Park Avenue and drive a Porsche and a Ferrari. I’m not saying this to brag, just to show you that with enough effort, I can also make up any bullshit I want.] [This sister is hilarious. She knows nothing about fashion and she’s trying to lecture Morgan on design.] [Morgan’s brand ‘Cherish’ has a boutique in Paris. She could just be a lazy trust-fund baby, but she’s talented and hardworking. Who does this Ainsley person think she is?] [Can the producers please shut these two up? I’m so sick of seeing their faces.] [Gotta be honest, though… Morgan’s dress is really ugly.] The crew finally stirred. The cameraman took two steps closer, making sure not to miss a single word. Sophie, desperate to stop me from getting more hate online, tried to pull me away. “Ainsley, let’s go find the other guests.” But Morgan wasn’t done. She grabbed my arm. “You want to talk design? Fine. I’m going to make you eat your words.” “Do you know who Solange Renaud is?” she declared. “She’s the youngest-ever chief designer for a major international luxury brand. She’s collaborating with my label at the end of the year. We’re co-designing a couture collection for the spring season. Don’t think you can just throw around a few buzzwords and act like you know anything. You look down on my brand because you could never afford it!” She shouldn’t have done that. She had just walked directly into my line of fire. I patted Sophie’s hand to calm her down. “Well, what a coincidence,” I said, drawing out the words. “I happen to know her.” “Impossible!” Morgan blurted out. “She’s never even been to the United States.” “I never said I met her here. In fact… I saved her life once.” It had been in North America, deep in a remote forest. She’d been recklessly searching for inspiration, got herself into trouble, and I was the one who got injured pulling her out of it. We’d been through a life-or-death situation together and had kept in touch ever since. Morgan burst out laughing. “Wow, you can just say anything, can’t you? Are you just telling us your dreams now? Hahahaha!” Sophie stepped in front of me, like a mother hen protecting her chick. “My sister doesn’t lie.” That only made Morgan and Ryan laugh harder. I pulled out my phone and dialed an international number. Solange kept odd hours; time zones were never an issue. The camera zoomed in, trying to get a shot of my screen, but the operator managed to keep it just out of frame to protect my privacy. The live chat was a blur of text. [No way. Solange Renaud is my idol. If Ainsley really knows her, I’ll eat my own shoes.] [I’m with you. She’s totally bluffing.] [LOL, I could call any of my friends with a French accent and claim it’s Solange. It’s not like we can see her face.] [I am Napoleon Bonaparte. Venmo me $50 and I will make you a general in my new army.] I rested my chin on Sophie’s head, my eyes on the speakerphone. Ring… Ring… After the third ring, the call was disconnected. [AHAHAHAHAHA, THE ACT IS OVER! Did the actor she hired decide the pay wasn’t good enough?] [That backfired faster than a firecracker in a hurricane.] [If the sister is like this, the other one can’t be any better. I’m starting to believe Ryan’s story now.] A second later, a video call notification popped up on my screen. A woman with warm brown hair and light eyes appeared. “Ainsley! I have wonderful news! I’m coming to America in mid-December!” The cameraman respectfully avoided my screen, but Solange’s voice, speaking in fluent, elegant French, filled the livestream. Her identity was undeniable. [AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH SOLANGE! It’s really her! I’m watching this live! That’s like, one degree of separation from greatness!] [HOLY SHIT. Ainsley wasn’t lying. Who the hell is she? I can’t find a single thing about her online. No school, no job, nothing.] [French major here, translating! Solange is coming to the US in December! So what Morgan said was true!] [OMG Morgan is so amazing! A true female icon!] [My deepest apologies, I cannot, in fact, eat my own shoes. I retract my previous statement.] I switched to French and explained I was in the middle of filming a show. She didn’t care at all. In fact, she insisted I point the camera at her so she could say hello to everyone. “Are you coming to collaborate with a brand called ‘Cherish’?” I asked. The face on my screen looked utterly baffled. She switched to heavily accented English. “Cherish? Collaborate? No, I am coming for a study trip. Remember the ancient legends you told me about, from the deep woods? I was so fascinated. I want to learn more about American folklore.” The triumphant smile on Morgan’s face froze, then shattered. She made a desperate lunge for my phone, trying to talk to Solange herself. The director’s voice finally cut in. “Could everyone please proceed to find the last two guests?” As we walked away, Sophie was practically beaming, shooting me looks of pure adoration. Morgan had crumpled into Ryan’s arms, sobbing. As a parting gift, I called over my shoulder, “Oh, by the way! Solange once told me that people have used her name to scam investors before. That’s why she has a strict policy against collaborating with small, independent brands.” Morgan’s sobs grew louder. The final pair of guests were cousins. The sister, Faye, was a stand-up comedian who, off-stage, seemed to have crippling social anxiety. Her brother, Finn, was a charismatic live-stream shopping host. He was all charm, calling everyone “bro” and “sis,” but something about him rubbed me the wrong way from the moment I saw him. With all six of us assembled, we boarded the production van and headed to the restaurant Sophie had booked. Morgan, who had been silent for the whole ride, decided it was time for an encore performance. She poked at the dishes on the table with her chopsticks. “This meat is so greasy. And this fish smells so strong. How is anyone supposed to eat this?” Ryan dutifully peeled a shrimp for her. “I don’t know who chose this place. It’s all stuff we don’t like.” Finn chimed in. “Honestly, that place next door is way more famous. Their food is incredible. This place is pretty mediocre.” Sophie could handle the criticism from Morgan and Ryan, but with Finn piling on, she started to believe she’d genuinely messed up. She looked mortified. She stood up, her head bowed in shame. “I’m so sorry. Why don’t I go out and get you all something you’d prefer to eat? This was my fault.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin. “Sit down. And eat your food.” “But, Ainsley…” “Sit down,” I repeated. She obeyed. I placed a piece of braised pork on her plate. “The choice of restaurant, the dishes on this table—Sophie consulted every single one of you beforehand. She asked for your opinions and told you she was happy to change anything if you weren’t satisfied. Every single one of you said nothing, or said ‘whatever, it’s fine.’ “So, here are your options: either find another place to eat on your own, or shut up and eat what’s in front of you. You’re all adults. No one is here to coddle you.” “My sister is the captain today. You can offer suggestions, but don’t look for trouble. We’re filming a show, not providing you with a personal punching bag.” [Is Ainsley a mob boss? Acting like she’s some big shot protecting her underling. She thinks she looks so cool, but it’s just pathetic.] [Who’s using her sister as a punching bag? She’s the one who screwed up the arrangements. Don’t blame people for telling the truth.] [Everyone vote for the other two teams! If we can get their popularity low enough, we won’t have to see these two annoying bitches next episode!] “In fact,” I said, my eyes fixed on Morgan, “let’s settle this now. Does anyone have any objections to the afternoon’s itinerary? The scenic spots, the hiking trail? Speak now.” She avoided my gaze, searching for an ally. Her eyes landed on Faye, who had been silently eating this whole time. “Faye, you don’t look like the athletic type. Isn’t that a lot of walking this afternoon? And a mountain hike? Do you think you can handle it?” Without looking up, Faye replied, “Yes.” Morgan faltered, then tried again. “It’s okay, you know. If you don’t want to go, just say so. I can go back to the villa with you to rest.” Faye finally lifted her head, pushing her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose. “I want to go. I’m actually interested in all the places the captain planned.” I leaned back in my chair, watching Morgan with amusement. As I shifted, my foot bumped into someone. Ryan, sitting across from me, didn’t react. But Morgan slammed her hand on the table, glaring daggers at my sister. “Sophie, have you no shame? In public, with all these cameras on you, seducing my boyfriend right under the table!” Her voice was so loud that the entire restaurant turned to stare at us.

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The day the army came for my husband, the road into Crow’s Hollow was choked with olive-drab tactical vehicles and elite soldiers who looked like they’d been carved from stone. When they called him Major General Hawthorne, Grant didn’t flinch. It was as if he’d been expecting this all along. But when it came time to decide who was leaving with them, he took our son’s hand and cast an apologetic glance my way. “I’ll take Ryan back with me first. I’ll send for you later.” He paused, his gaze shifting slightly. “As for Lydia… my mother has taken a real liking to her, so I…” He trailed off, waiting for my response. But I didn’t need one. I already knew who was sitting in the back of that military SUV. I knew his ghost was already in the passenger seat. In the years since I’d found Grant, broken and nameless, he’d often complained that I didn’t understand him. His ideals, his sense of duty to a country he couldn’t remember—it was all a world away from me. Yet, when I’d place a plate of the freshest garden greens or the most tender pieces of chicken from the stewpot in front of him, he would nod reluctantly, put down the pen he was always scribbling with, and mutter about the mosquitoes in the house or the mud Ryan had tracked across the floor. I would just nod, my silence a placid lake over a chasm of knowing. He never realized that I could read. I saw the letters he wrote, the ones addressed to “My Dearest.” The name on those letters wasn’t mine. It was Lydia’s. So when he spoke, all I did was give him a simple, clean nod and turn to hoist the foraging basket onto my back. “Who you take with you is your decision, Grant.” My voice was flat. “I’m heading up the mountain to hunt for morels. We can talk later.” 1 The neighborhood kids had come tearing up to our porch with the news while Grant was teaching our son, Ryan, how to practice his cursive script. Ryan’s pen had stuttered, leaving a dark blot of ink blooming on the paper. Grant’s focus hadn’t wavered. “Ryan,” he’d said, his voice calm and steady. “What have I taught you? Penmanship is discipline. A quiet hand comes from a quiet mind.” I knew then what was coming. Grant was about to be reunited with his family. He was going home. Even after his family had gone, leaving us to the sudden quiet, Grant remained impossibly composed. This was the man the Hawthornes had poured everything into shaping—their eldest son. Even with his memory gone, after years of languishing in this forgotten mountain town, the polish of his upbringing, the command in his bearing, had never dulled. And I, somehow, was even calmer than he was. Just like any other day, I went up the mountain. Martha, from down the road, saw me and couldn’t resist a little jab. “Audrey! You’re about to be a general’s wife, living the high life in the city. What are you still doing grubbing around in the woods for mushrooms?” Grant had told his family he needed a day to pack, that they should come back for him tomorrow. He mentioned he’d be bringing two people with him. The whole town was buzzing, saying my ancestors must have done something truly spectacular to bless me with this kind of luck. They’d all forgotten. They’d forgotten when Grant first washed up here, his memory wiped clean, useless at any kind of farm work. They’d forgotten that I was the only one willing to care for him, tending to him like a child. He lived in my house, and the whispers started, staining my name until marriage was the only option left. Even then, it was nothing more than a potluck with a few neighbors and store-bought cupcakes to mark the occasion. After that, for a time, we were happy. He was my husband, mine alone. Now he was leaving, and by all rights, he should be taking his wife and child with him. But I knew better. In my first life, Grant did take two people back to the Hawthorne estate. I wasn’t one of them. I just smiled at Martha. “The morels are especially good this season.” The money from a good haul would be enough. Enough for me to leave this place and find a new life somewhere else. 2 When I got home, Lydia was teaching Ryan French phrases. “You have to practice,” she was saying, her voice a soft melody. “At the academy, boys your age can already hold a simple conversation.” Ryan was hanging on her every word. Lydia smiled and stroked his hair. “You’re such a quick study, Ryan. Not like…” He reached out and wrapped his arms around her waist. “It’s all thanks to you, Aunt Lydia. If I sounded like Mom, everyone would laugh at me. She talks like such a hick.” Grant, who had been reading a book in the armchair, looked up. A slow, gentle smile spread across his face. What a picture of domestic bliss. I’ve seen this scene twice now. Two lifetimes of it. Lydia was a local girl, too. Her father was a drunk who used his fists, and her mother died young. Eventually, some relatives from out of state found her and took her away to the city for school. I never understood why she came back. At first, I was grateful to her. Ryan had been playing too close to the creek, and he’d fallen in. Lydia saw him and pulled him out. I owed her his life. But after that, things began to shift in ways I couldn’t quite grasp. She came to our house and saw Grant. He was in the yard, splitting firewood. He moved with an easy, powerful grace, his back straight, the axe swinging in a clean, perfect arc. The rhythm was like a heartbeat. She’d walked right up to him. “Grant, you have such a commanding presence. Audrey is a lucky woman.” I never understood the things Grant talked about—honor, patriotism, the grand sweep of history. Our conversations were about the summer mosquitoes and the winter chill. But the barb in Lydia’s words, the subtle mockery aimed at me—that, I understood perfectly. I just stood there, my hands feeling clumsy and empty. Soon, Lydia was at our house every other day. She even convinced Grant to volunteer as a substitute teacher at the small schoolhouse. From then on, it was always “Grant this” and “Grant that.” After that, whenever I’d bring him his lunch, I’d find Lydia sitting right beside his desk. I’d watch as he’d take the chicken soup I’d simmered all night and carefully ladle it into her bowl. Ryan would be there, laughing. “Mom, Miss Lydia says your cooking is the best!” Yes. I was the one raising them, waking before dawn to forage, trading my best finds with neighbors for an old hen. I was the one who tilled that stubborn patch of earth behind the house until my back screamed, just to coax the most tender greens from the soil. I wouldn’t even let myself eat the best parts. And now, my husband and my son were using my labor to court someone else. In my first life, I screamed those words out loud. Grant’s jaw had tightened, his lips a thin, hard line. He turned to Lydia and gave a slight, formal bow. “Miss Raines, I apologize. My wife is not herself.” He looked at me as if I were the most profound embarrassment he had ever endured. Ryan was even more direct. “If you won’t let Miss Lydia have any, then I don’t want it either!” Lydia, acting every bit the lady of the house, wrapped an arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “Ryan, what have I told you? That’s no way to speak to your mother.” Ryan just pouted, burying his face in her side. “I’m sorry, Miss Lydia.” She held him close, her eyes meeting mine over his head. There wasn’t a trace of shame in them. In that moment, with my son and my husband arrayed against me, I was utterly and completely alone. An outcast. A bitter sorrow filled my chest. Lydia was soft and pale, with delicate hands. I spent my days on the mountain and in the dirt; my strength was a wild, unkempt thing. After giving birth to Ryan, the slender shape of my youth was a distant memory. The three of them together—they looked right. They looked like a family. Just like in the first life. She went back with them, and no one ever questioned that she was Ryan’s mother. At first, he called her Lydia, but she’d just smile and correct him gently. “Why don’t you call me Aunt Lydia, sweetie?” It took me far too long to understand the quiet cunning in that suggestion. 3 When I walked in with my basket, the scent of damp earth and crushed leaves clinging to me, Grant stood up and took a half-step back. The smell probably offended his refined senses. He glanced at the basket, overflowing with mushrooms, and a flicker of guilt crossed his face. “Why are you still doing such hard labor?” he asked. “We… we don’t need the money anymore.” He said the last part so softly, it was almost a whisper. In my first life, after he left, he sent money. A check arrived every month, just enough to keep me from starving in this town. Just enough to ensure I could never afford to leave it. I didn’t bother explaining. “I’m used to it. Better than sitting around.” I picked up the needle and thread I’d left on the table and started stitching a small sachet. The herbs I used to repel mosquitoes lost their potency after a week, and Ryan’s legs were already covered in angry red welts. Strangely, the sight didn’t twist my heart the way it used to. Ryan watched me for a moment, his expression disdainful. “Mom, there aren’t any bugs in the city. You don’t have to make those things for us anymore.” No. They never had any use for the things I made. In my first life, just before that military SUV drove away, I’d tearfully stuffed Ryan’s arms with everything I could give him—sachets, a hand-knitted sweater, his favorite carved wooden bird. They didn’t even make it to the end of the road. The items were tossed out, scattered along the dirt track. Martha, recognizing my stitchwork, had gathered them up and brought them back to me. The look in her eyes was a nauseating mix of pity and amusement. At the time, I thought it was Grant’s mother’s doing. I saved up and bought a cheap cellphone from the county seat, just so I could stay in touch. But every time I called, Ryan was impatient. “I have to go, my riding lesson is starting.” “Aunt Lydia is calling me.” I scrimped and saved again, enduring a long, rattling bus ride to visit his boarding school in secret. He saw me from across the manicured lawn. And he ran. He sprinted to a waiting black car, desperate that I might call out his name and reveal his connection to me. Watching his retreating back, I finally understood. It wasn’t the scent of the herbs that had faded. It was his heart. After that, I never tried to see him again. Not until he was a man. By then, years of hard labor had caught up with me. The doctor said I didn’t have much time. I called Grant. After a long silence, all he said was, “I can arrange for a hospital for you.” But I didn’t want treatment. I just wanted to see my son one last time. So I put on my best dress, spent my last savings on getting my hair done, and went to his lavish eighteenth birthday party. “Ryan,” I’d whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mom.” He had Lydia on his arm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Who are you? Why are you here, trying to ruin my family’s celebration?” Grant stood nearby, saying nothing. The cold, calculating cruelty of the wealthy was on full display. In that glittering ballroom, I was a rat scurrying from the sewer. Security guards escorted me out, leaving me on the curb. A speeding truck’s headlights blinded me. Lying on the pavement, staring up at the indifferent night sky, a single tear traced a path through the grime on my cheek. What a cruel joke my life had been. And then I blinked. And I was back. Back on the very day his family came to find him. This time, I would not be that pitiful, pathetic fool. 4 So I didn’t plead with them to take the sachets, didn’t try to force my care on them as I had before. I just spoke calmly. “I know you don’t want it. This is for Daisy.” Ryan was clearly thrown. I could be strict with him, but I had always doted on him, always offered him the best of everything first. He pouted. “Daisy’s not a good kid. She’s disrespectful to Miss Lydia! Why would you make something for her?” Daisy was one of the few children in the village who wasn’t completely enchanted by Lydia. As a result, she was often an outcast at school. The truth was, she’d never done anything to disrespect Lydia. She just liked me more. She said I smelled nice. Like growing things. Grant used to say that, too. He’d bury his face in my neck and murmur that I smelled like “life itself.” But in the end, it was Lydia’s perfume he chose. A few days ago, I’d seen the welts on Daisy’s pale little arms and promised her I’d make some sachets. If my own family didn’t want what I had to offer, someone else would. I continued my steady stitching. “I’ll make things for whomever I please.” Ryan’s face clouded over. “You’re mean! I’m going to go find Aunt Lydia! She’s taking me into town to eat at a real restaurant. She’s going to teach me how to use all the different forks.” His eyes darted toward me, a flash of childish malice in them. “You’ve never had a fancy dinner like that, have you, Mom?” I didn’t look up from my work. “No, I haven’t. You go have fun.” His jab had landed on empty air, and he didn’t know what to do. Before, I would have been consumed with jealousy. I would have insisted on tagging along, desperate not to be left out of my own son’s life. I had nearly died giving birth to him. In the haze of pain, I’d gripped Grant’s hand and gasped, “Save… save the baby.” For all the years that followed, I truly believed my child was more important than my husband. But in the end, it was Ryan who delivered the killing blow. 5 After Ryan stormed out, a petulant thundercloud, Grant moved closer. “Audrey. Are you angry with me?” His voice was low, reasonable. “If you are, take it out on me. Don’t involve Ryan.” He sighed, a sound of put-upon patience. “We leave first thing in the morning. Let’s not make this unpleasant for everyone.” Unpleasant? The word struck me, and for a moment, the world felt distant. After they left in my first life, my existence had been scrubbed clean of all joy. And now he had the audacity to stand there and tell me not to make things unpleasant. That day, just like the last time, Grant’s mother had arrived, her body frail from illness, having traveled a thousand miles to see the son she’d lost. But the moment she saw me standing beside him, her face contorted into a mask of pure revulsion. She let out a shrill cry. “Monster! Get that monster away from him!” I froze, stunned. I knew I wasn’t a beauty queen, that a family like the Hawthornes would likely look down on me. But I had never expected this. One of their entourage sighed and explained to Grant, “She hasn’t been right in the head since you disappeared.” Though Grant’s memory hadn’t returned, the primal bond of mother and son was there. A look of profound pain crossed his face. But then the unthinkable happened. His mother’s gaze fell on Lydia, and her entire demeanor softened. She reached for Lydia’s hand, her voice trembling with affection. “Sophie,” she whispered. “You’ve come back.”

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The day the Blackwood empire crumbled, the staff scattered like roaches in the light. The maids, the gardeners, the chef—all gone. They left nothing behind but dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun and Ethan Blackwood, the heir, silent in his bed. A living ghost in a house suddenly dead. And me? I was Sadie, his caregiver, and I was just about to join the exodus. My last sweater was folded in my worn-out suitcase. My hand was on the zipper. That’s when the words appeared, shimmering in the air right in front of my face. A cascade of ghostly text messages, like a live-stream chat for my life. [THE MOST CRITICAL PLOT POINT IS HERE! The Blackwoods faking bankruptcy is a genius move. Best way to smoke out the traitor in the company!] [My heart breaks for the male lead. Pretending to be in a coma to fly under the radar is tough enough, but now he’s completely alone. ] [Where the hell is his fiancée? Isn’t she supposed to show up now? I’m here for the romance between the main characters!] My brain screeched to a halt. Then, a different kind of plan clicked into place. I zipped my suitcase, spun around, and sprinted back up the grand staircase. I found Ethan lying still, as always, and eased his limp body into his wheelchair. With my suitcase handle in one hand and the wheelchair in the other, I made my escape. As I pushed him down the long, gravel driveway, I made sure to produce a few fat, theatrical tears. “Don’t you worry, Ethan,” I wailed, my voice cracking just so. “Even if the Blackwood name is mud, even if we’re broke and have nothing, I will never, ever leave you!” 1 My name is Sadie, and my mouth has always run a mile a minute. It’s a habit I picked up at the group home where I grew up. When I was eight, Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood came to the home looking for a “companion” for their son. As the director pushed me forward, she hissed in my ear, “Try to keep it down, Sadie. Don’t scare them off.” The moment I saw Ethan Blackwood, I forgot every word she said. It was my first time inside a real mansion. Ethan was lying in a small bed in a room filled with more toys than I had ever seen. He wore pajamas patterned with little white bears, his skin as pale as porcelain, every strand of his soft brown hair perfectly in place. Mrs. Blackwood knelt down and smoothed my messy ponytail. “Sadie, our Ethan is sick,” she said, her voice soft and sad. “Would you be willing to come here and just… talk to him? For an hour every day? We’ll enroll you in a good school. We’ll buy you new dresses.” I stared at Ethan’s still, beautiful face and nodded so hard my neck hurt. I moved in that same day. That night, they set up a little cot for me in the corner of Ethan’s room. I crept over to his bed, my small hand hovering before gently touching the back of his. “Hi, Ethan,” I whispered. “I’m Sadie. I’m going to be your friend now. The director says I talk too much, but I don’t think so. Oh, and guess what? The stray cat at the home, Daisy, had her kittens today. There are three of them, and one is orange, like a little puffball. I’ll bring you a picture next time, okay?” He didn’t move, but I wasn’t discouraged. Every night became our ritual. I’d lean against his bed and tell him everything: how I got a C on my math quiz because I swore 3+5 was 10; how my drawing of a sunflower got taped to the classroom door for everyone to see; how the boy from the next class over tried to pick a rose for a girl and got stung by a bee. Sometimes, I’d take the old, worn-out barrette my mom left me and gently clip it behind his ear, just to see how it looked in his hair. I’d stare at his perfect features and sigh. “If you were awake,” I’d mumble, “you’d be the most popular boy in school. A hundred times more handsome than Mark from social studies.” One time, a wild idea took hold of me. I pulled out the frilly pink dress Mrs. Blackwood had bought me, convinced it would look hilarious on him. I’d just undone the top two buttons of his pajama shirt when Mrs. Blackwood rushed in, her face a mask of gentle panic. She put a hand over mine. “Oh, Sadie, honey! We don’t put dresses on boys!” I blinked up at her. “Why not?” She fumbled for words. “Because… because dresses are for girls. Ethan wouldn’t be happy about it.” I sort of understood. I never tried the dress again, but I would often tuck my favorite worn teddy bear into the crook of his arm. “Here,” I’d whisper. “He can keep you company when I’m not here. You can talk to him, okay?” When I started middle school, I was finally tall enough to pivot him from the bed to his wheelchair by myself. Every sunny weekend, I’d push him out to the rose garden. I figured if sunlight helped flowers grow, it had to be good for Ethan, too. I’d spread a blanket on the grass at his feet, my textbooks scattered around me, and stumble through my French vocabulary. “Pomme… apple,” I’d recite. “Banane… banana… Ethan, do you think I have any chance of passing my next exam?” The wind would carry my voice away. Sometimes, I’d see his finger twitch and dismiss it as a trick of the light. But once, I fell asleep while trying to memorize a history chapter, my head pillowed on my textbook. When I woke up, his hand was resting on my hair, the tips of his fingers radiating a faint, surprising warmth. My heart hammered against my ribs. I held my breath, afraid to move, until Mrs. Blackwood called us in for dinner. His hand slowly slid away. When I left for college, I moved into a dorm near campus, and my time with Ethan dwindled. But I still came back to the Blackwood mansion once a week. I’d bring him those warm, cinnamon-dusted nuts they sell from a cart near campus and sit by his bed, telling him all about the drama in my creative writing club. I always believed he would wake up. That one day, he’d open his eyes, and we’d be able to talk for real. We could go get those cinnamon nuts together. Today’s visit was just a whim, a sudden urge to see him. I hadn’t expected to walk into the final act of the Blackwoods’ financial ruin. If it weren’t for those impossible, shimmering words that appeared in the air, I would have been long gone with the rest of them. But now… being the caregiver to the Blackwood heir was one thing. Being his savior? That was a promotion I was willing to work for. The wheels of his chair crunched over the gravel, leaving two thin tracks behind us. And I knew, in that moment, that the real story of Ethan Blackwood and me was just beginning. 2 As I pushed Ethan toward my tiny rental apartment, the ghostly comments kept scrolling past my eyes. [No way. Is this side character seriously kidnapping the male lead? Where’s the heroine? She’s supposed to be the one to save him!] [OMG the plot is going off the rails! The fiancée was supposed to rescue him, not some random caregiver!] [Anyone notice his hands? The fingers on his lap… I think they just moved! Did this girl’s terrible acting make him cringe? LOL] [Hey, be nice! I think he’s secretly relieved. At least this caregiver is more reliable than his runaway fiancée. She didn’t abandon him!] I froze on that last comment and glanced down at Ethan’s hands. His fingers had indeed curled slightly, a movement as subtle as a feather stirring in a breeze. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I would have missed it completely. So the comments were right. He was faking it. My apartment was on the second floor of a walk-up. There was no elevator. I wrapped an arm around Ethan’s waist, letting him lean his weight against me as we shuffled up the narrow staircase, one grueling step at a time. He still smelled of the Blackwood mansion—cedar and old money—a scent that mingled strangely with the smell of fried onions from the hot dog cart downstairs. It was a surreal combination. I gritted my teeth and whispered a threat into his ear, giving his side a little pinch. “Ethan Blackwood, if you’re playing dead on me and not pulling your own weight, I swear I’ll leave you in this hallway for the mosquitos to feast on.” This time, his reaction was undeniable. Though his eyes stayed shut, the hand gripping my arm tightened, taking a fraction of the burden off me. The comments exploded. [He responded! He actually responded! I ship it! This is way cuter than anything with the actual heroine!] [Can we not break up the OTP, please? I’m holding out for the main couple!] [This girl has guts, pinching the male lead like that. Isn’t she afraid he’ll get revenge later?] Revenge? I wasn’t scared. I knew his secret now. If he tried anything, I’d expose his little charade to the world. Of course, I was just bluffing. If I did that, I’d lose my leverage as his “savior.” When we finally stumbled into my apartment, I collapsed onto the bench by the door, gasping for breath. My place was barely five hundred square feet, a simple one-bedroom with a living room window that faced south. The sun warmed the cheap laminate flooring. Ethan sat in his wheelchair, eyes still closed, but I knew he was taking in the cramped space. He was used to a sprawling mansion with manicured gardens. This shoebox must have been a shock. The next morning, a harsh reality hit me: I was unemployed. The Blackwood “bankruptcy” meant my caregiver job was gone. To cover rent and food for two, I needed to find work, fast. I landed a part-time gig at the convenience store down the street. Eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, fifteen bucks an hour. It would barely cover our expenses. My life became a frantic loop. I’d wake up at six to make breakfast for Ethan and give him a sponge bath. Dash off to work at eight. Clock out at four, grab groceries, cook dinner, feed him, and change his clothes. At night, I’d massage his arms and legs, terrified his muscles would atrophy from the act. One night, while I was rubbing his ankles, exhaustion hit me like a tidal wave. I slumped forward and fell asleep with my head resting on his legs. In the hazy space between dreams and waking, I felt a hand gently stroke my hair. The touch was familiar, warm. A moment later, a jacket was draped over my shoulders. My eyes flew open. Ethan was exactly as I’d left him, eyes closed, seemingly oblivious. But the jacket on my back was definitely the one he’d been wearing that morning. The comments flared to life again. [He covered her with his jacket! He totally feels bad for her!] [Awww, he’s so gentle! I wish she had woken up a second sooner!] [Can the fiancée please show up already? This plot is moving so slowly.] Half a month crept by with no news from the Blackwoods. Online gossip about their bankruptcy intensified, with tabloids publishing photos of Mr. Blackwood meeting with shady-looking men in coffee shops, speculating he was “liquidating assets.” I watched my bank balance dwindle and felt a cold knot of panic tighten in my stomach. Were the comments real? Was this truly a ruse? What if I was the one being played? What if the Blackwoods were actually ruined, and Ethan really was in a coma? How could a recent college grad like me, buried in student loans, afford to care for him? We’d be on the street in a month. Just as despair began to set in, the comments surged. [They got the mole! It was Vice President Miller! He always seemed so loyal, but he was feeding info to a rival company the whole time!] [YES! The mole is caught! The Blackwoods are about to make their comeback, and the side character’s hard times are almost over!] [Am I the only one still waiting for the fiancée?] [Who cares about the fiancée? The ride-or-die loyalty between these two is way more compelling!] A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it almost buckled my knees. My days of counting pennies were numbered. 3 I was stocking shelves at the convenience store when the comments exploded in front of my eyes, blazing in a bright, warning red that made my heart seize. [RED ALERT! Miller, the mole, knows he was set up! He’s hired thugs to kidnap the male lead to use as leverage against Mr. Blackwood!] [T-MINUS 10 MINUTES! Their unmarked black van is already at the entrance to her apartment complex! Side character, get back there NOW!] [This is bad. She’s at work! The male lead is still in his “coma” persona; he can’t fight back!] I dropped the box of cereal and scrambled for my phone, my voice trembling as I burst into my manager’s office. “Mark! I have a family emergency, can I please take a half-day? I swear I’ll make up the hours!” Seeing the genuine panic in my eyes, he just nodded. I grabbed my jacket and bolted out the door. The store was only a few blocks from my apartment, a five-minute walk I now covered in under three, my lungs burning as if I were inhaling fire. Just as the comments said, a black van was parked under a flickering streetlight at the complex entrance. It was covered in a film of grime, the windows tinted so dark they looked like voids. Most alarmingly, it had no license plates. I didn’t dare stare. I ducked my head and ran for my building. The stairwell light was still broken, and I nearly tripped twice racing up the shadowy steps. My hands were shaking so violently it took me three tries to get the key into the lock. I threw the door open. The apartment was silent. Ethan was still in his wheelchair, his head tilted slightly, the picture of a sleeping invalid. The ten-minute warning from the comments was now down to two. I flew to the entryway closet, yanked open a drawer, and found the pepper spray Mrs. Blackwood had given me years ago. My fingers closed around the cool metal canister. Next, I ran to the balcony and grabbed the wooden baseball bat I kept for my half-hearted attempts at exercise. It was solid, heavy, and holding it settled a tiny bit of the frantic terror inside me. Just then, a loud, aggressive BANG-BANG-BANG echoed from the front door. A gruff voice yelled, “Open up! Property management, checking the meters!” My blood ran cold. The property managers here were sweet old ladies, not… this. It had to be them. “We just had our meter checked last month!” I shouted, trying to sound firm. “You don’t need to come in!” “Less talk, more opening!” the voice snarled back. “Open this damn door now, or we’re kicking it in!” I scrambled to push Ethan’s wheelchair toward the bedroom, desperate to hide him. But just as I reached the doorway, the front door splintered inward. The deadbolt flew across the room, and wood chips sprayed across the floor. Three men in black bomber jackets stormed in. The leader was broad-shouldered with a buzz cut and a nasty scar bisecting his eyebrow. In his hand, he held a gleaming switchblade. “Where’s Ethan Blackwood?” the man with the scar demanded, his eyes sweeping the room before landing on the bedroom behind me. “Hand him over!” I planted myself between them and Ethan, holding the baseball bat across my chest like a shield. “There’s no one here by that name. You have the wrong place!” “Wrong place?” Scarface sneered, taking two steps forward until the tip of his knife was inches from my throat. “I watched you wheel him in here myself. Now be a good girl and hand him over, or things are going to get messy.” His two goons fanned out, cornering me. I tightened my grip on the bat and took a half-step back, shielding Ethan more completely. Suddenly, the man lunged, grabbing my wrist in a grip so tight I felt the bones grind together. With his other hand, he slashed the switchblade toward my arm. I squeezed my eyes shut, a strangled yelp caught in my throat. I braced for the sharp, searing pain. But it never came. I opened my eyes to see Ethan Blackwood standing in front of me. His hand was clamped around the thug’s wrist, stopping the blade a mere inch from my skin. And his other arm was wrapped firmly around me, pulling me safely behind him.

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The interview was a train wreck. Ten minutes in, and I knew I’d blown it. I wasn’t the right fit for the position, plain and simple. I was just sitting there, staring at my hands, waiting for them to deliver the final blow and end this awkward ordeal. But then, the HR manager, a woman named Sarah, leaned forward with a strange question. “Do you really love to read?” I looked up, meeting her eyes. She didn’t seem to be messing with me. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s pretty much all I do in my free time.” “Oh, that’s great.” Sarah put down her pen. “Look, I think you’ve probably figured this out already, but your professional experience isn’t quite what we’re looking for with this role.” She paused for a beat. “But I couldn’t help but notice on your resume, under hobbies, you just wrote ‘Reading.’ We happen to have a position that’s… well, it’s related to reading. I don’t suppose you’d be interested?” My curiosity piqued. “What, are you looking to hire someone to just sit in an office and read all day?” “Yes,” she said, her expression perfectly straight. “That’s exactly it.” I shifted in my chair, trying to get comfortable. “You’ve got to be kidding me. A gig like that doesn’t exist.” “I’m not kidding. And we’ll pay you a salary. Ninety thousand a year.” “You’re going to tell me it comes with a full benefits package next,” I scoffed, trying to figure out her angle. “Health, dental, 401(k). The works. Nine-to-five, Monday through Friday.” Even as I signed the contract—which explicitly stated my only duty was to read books, and more specifically, that I was *only allowed* to read books—it all felt like a fever dream. Walking out of that gleaming corporate headquarters with the stamped paperwork in my hand, I still wasn’t convinced I wasn’t dreaming. But whatever. This company was a major player in the tech scene, this was their main campus. I figured I’d just roll with it and see what the catch was. My first day, after finishing the onboarding paperwork, an admin named Jess led me to the company library. The door opened into a bright, white room, probably a thousand square feet, lined with a dozen or so rows of bookshelves, all perfectly organized. Jess led me past the shelves to the left, into a reading room furnished with a large, comfortable-looking desk. There was a water cooler and a fancy coffee machine. They’d thought of everything. “I’m Jess. This is your new office,” she said with a smile. “I assume you’re clear on your job description?” “Yeah, just read. But I have to ask, are you sure there are no book reports? No summaries?” “Not that I’m aware of,” she said. “But it’s reading only. To make sure of that, I’ll need to take your phone.” “What? My phone? That wasn’t in the contract!” “Don’t worry, we’re not confiscating it. We just store it in a locker by the entrance. You can grab it the second you clock out. We won’t touch it, it’s just to make sure you’re focused.” It was my first day, so I didn’t want to make waves. A locker by the door seemed harmless enough. I handed it over. “Great,” Jess said, taking the phone. “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Happy reading!” After her footsteps faded away, I walked over to the entrance and checked. Sure enough, my phone was in a small, unlocked cubby. Feeling relieved, I went back into the reading room and started browsing the shelves. The books were all brand new, many still in their plastic wrap. The smell of fresh ink was heavy in the air. They were sorted by genre: history, economics, military strategy, even a section on medical texts. But the biggest section, by far, was fiction—my favorite. Since they didn’t give me a reading list, I decided to start with something familiar and fun. I found the *A Song of Ice and Fire* series and started my third re-read of *A Game of Thrones*. Time flew. Before I knew it, Jess popped her head in to tell me it was time for lunch. “I was starting to think I was supposed to be a prisoner in this room,” I joked. “Not at all. Besides the no-phone rule, you’re just like any other employee,” she laughed. Walking from the dead silence of the library into the bustling company cafe was a bit of a shock. Jess pointed out the different food stations—salad bar, grill, pizza—and then went to find her own friends. I grabbed a chicken and rice bowl. As I swiped my employee badge to pay, the guy at the register looked at me and asked, “You’re the new guy, right?” I nodded. Did this guy know every single person on campus? That was impressive. Before I could ask, the person behind me cleared their throat, so I moved on. The cafe was packed. I found an empty seat opposite a guy who was shoveling food into his mouth. “This spot taken?” I asked. “All yours, man,” he grunted, not even looking up. No wonder he was on the heavy side. I sat down and dug in. When the guy across from me finished, he stood up, then leaned back down. “You’re the new guy, huh?” I looked at him, confused. “Your lanyard,” he said, then gave me a weird, knowing smile and walked away. That’s when I noticed it. My ID lanyard was different from everyone else’s. I’d assumed they were color-coded by department, but now I saw that every other employee had a blue one. Mine was bright red. I tried striking up conversations with other people nearby. But as soon as they saw my red lanyard, they’d get that same mysterious smile, and then clam up. They’d talk about the weather, about last night’s game, about anything—but the second I asked about my lanyard, they’d change the subject like their life depended on it. It was weird, but since nothing bad had happened, I decided to let it go. A month passed quickly. After the first week of novelty and slight paranoia, life settled into a comfortable, peaceful routine. I figured my ancestors must be smiling down on me to have landed a job this good. In that month, I’d blazed through a dozen novels and noticed something odd. Most of the book sets on the shelves were complete. But there was a beautiful, leather-bound collection of American classics—Faulkner, Hemingway, Fitzgerald—that was missing one volume: *Moby Dick*. I figured someone had just checked it out, but in the entire month I’d been there, not a single other person had ever set foot in the library. And there was a perfect, book-sized gap right between the others. It was definitely gone. I eventually asked Kevin—the guy from the cafeteria on my first day—about the library. He told me it was built specifically for me. Or rather, for my position. The company never had a library before. Most people were grinding until 10 PM, and if they didn’t finish their work, they had to come in on Saturdays, unpaid. Who had time to read? Kevin’s biggest act of rebellion against the corporate grind was timing his lunch break to the exact second, refusing to give the company a single extra moment of his time. It was his small psychological victory. My library was on the first floor, which was mostly a public-facing showroom. Besides the receptionist, I never saw anyone. Kevin’s office was on the twelfth floor, and he always managed to be the first one to the elevator at noon. I usually left my room around 12:05. We often ended up at the cafe at the same time and became lunch buddies. Every time I beat him there, he’d shake his head. “They say all roads lead to Rome, but you, my friend, were born in it.” Once we got to know each other, I tried to ask him why the company created a job for a professional reader. He held up a hand, cutting me off, and gestured for me to eat. I got the hint and dropped it. After we’d cleared our trays, Kevin turned to me. “You smoke?” I was about to say no, but I remembered he already knew I didn’t. The way he was staring at me felt like a test. I took the cigarette he offered, and we walked out of the cafe, through the main doors, and over to the edge of the parking lot. Kevin lit his and took a long drag, then glanced back nervously toward the building. “Alright, look,” he started, his voice low. “I don’t know the whole story. Just rumors. Something about a bet between the top brass.” “A bet?” “Yeah. The details are fuzzy, but it has to do with the two founders, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Hayes.” “Okay, give me the short version.” “So, Thompson, the CEO, and Hayes, the CTO, started this place together with like, ten people. They hit the market at the right time, made all the right moves, and blew up into this giant corporation. You know the story: it’s easy to struggle together, hard to get rich together. If you follow the stock market, you know Hayes has been dumping his shares like crazy lately. Sent the stock on a rollercoaster. And word is, he did it all without talking to Thompson first. Just made the public filings. It’s legal, but it put Thompson in a really tight spot with the other shareholders.” “Why would he do that?” “That’s what Thompson wants to know. Hayes’s official story is that after all these years in R&D, he’s just burned out. Wants to cash out and retire. Nobody here buys that for a second. The company’s still growing, the dividends are huge. There’s no reason to cash out now.” Kevin took another drag, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Guys like me, been here almost a decade, busted my ass, hit my targets… not a single damn stock option.” He shook his head and refocused. “So where do you fit in? Well, Thompson obviously didn’t buy the ‘burnout’ excuse. Hayes was a tech prodigy back in college, won national awards, lived and breathed this stuff. So Hayes says, ‘Even a passion becomes a job, and eventually, everyone gets sick of their job.’ And that led to the bet.” “What’s the bet?” “They’re betting on you. Hayes bet that even if you love reading, if you’re forced to do it as a job every single day, you won’t last a year. If you stick it out for one full year, Hayes loses. Thompson gets to buy out all his remaining shares at half price. If you quit… Thompson has to buy them at double the market rate.” “So these billionaires settle their disputes like a couple of frat boys? Aren’t they worried about the shareholders freaking out and dumping the stock?” “Who knows how their minds work. Honestly, I don’t get it either. But that’s the rumor. Officially, the stock volatility is because of a ‘major strategic realignment.’ Keeps the retail investors from panicking.” “Okay, but is that bet really worth all the secrecy? Everyone acts like I’m part of some covert operation.” “The day before you started, every department manager held a meeting. They told us a new hire was coming, red lanyard, and that we were not to get too close to you or talk too much about company business. An order from the CEO’s office. Violators would face consequences.” “Then… aren’t you worried about talking to me?” A wave of guilt washed over me. I shouldn’t have pushed him. “Man, I’m so burned out here, I’ve been looking for a new job for months. If they fire me and give me a decent severance package, you’d actually be doing me a favor.” He saw the look on my face and chuckled. “Hey, if I do get canned, and you feel bad, just buy me a pack of Marlboros, okay? The reds.” As he spoke, I saw his gaze flicker over my shoulder. I turned and saw Sarah, the HR manager, walking toward us from the main building. Kevin quickly dropped his voice. “Listen, this is all just office gossip. Don’t take it as gospel. Something about this whole thing feels… off. We’ll talk more later.” He dropped the half-finished cigarette, crushed it with his shoe, and started walking back, pulling me along with him. As we passed Sarah, we exchanged hellos. But just as we were about to enter the building, she called out my name. “Hey! How are you settling in after your first month?” Kevin gave me a look and kept walking. “Everything’s been great,” I said. “Good to hear,” Sarah said, her eyes following Kevin’s retreating back. “What were you two talking about?” “Oh, nothing. Kevin just needed a smoke buddy.” “A smoke buddy?” She murmured it, almost to herself, a strange look on her face. “I don’t recall you being a smoker.” Before I could come up with a defense, she smiled brightly. “Well, lunch break’s almost over. Better get back to it.” I nodded and practically ran away. As I glanced back, I saw her pull out her phone and dial a number. Back at the library entrance, just before putting my phone in its cubby, I decided I should message Kevin. Tell him we should probably keep our distance for a while. This job was too good to lose, and I couldn’t risk getting him in serious trouble just because of my stupid curiosity. I opened the company’s messaging app and searched for his name. When I clicked on his profile, a chat window didn’t pop up. Instead, a small, gray box appeared on my screen: “This user has been deactivated.” My mind went blank. The next thing I knew, I was slumped in my chair in the reading room, with no memory of how I got there. *Fired? That fast? This is seriously messed up.* I stared blankly at the ceiling, at the security camera pointing down at me, and Sarah’s words echoed in my head. *I’d only met her once, during the interview. How did she know I didn’t smoke?* My eyes scanned the ceiling. I started counting the cameras. One, two, three… there were the obvious ones in the corners. But then I looked closer. The small, black, circular fixtures in the ceiling between the bookshelves, the ones I thought were just screw covers for the track lighting… they were cameras. Tiny, discreet, black-domed cameras. Fifteen of them. There were fifteen cameras in this room. These were just regular books. What in the world were they so afraid of? My entire world in this room, every page I turned, every sigh, every stretch—it was all being watched from every possible angle.

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The day we filed for divorce, Evan brought his stepsister with him. I didn’t argue with him like I usually would have. I was silent through the whole process—handing over documents, signing my name on the line. As I was leaving, I heard him comforting her. “Alana, don’t blame yourself. She won’t actually go through with it. I’ve let her get away with too much these last few years. This will be good for her. A little time to cool off, get some perspective. Otherwise, you and Leo will never have any peace here.” His stepsister sighed. “Evan, maybe I should just take Leo and find another place. What if she’s still angry in a month? What if you two actually get divorced? I’d feel like the villain.” Evan let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Impossible. She’s just using the thirty-day waiting period to threaten me. You just wait. When the time comes, Clara won’t even show up.” “Well, if you’re sure…” 1 The wind was vicious that day. When Alana got out of the car, a gust knocked her off balance. She stumbled, falling right into Evan’s chest. He caught her instinctively, his hand steadying her shoulder. He smiled down at her, about to say something, when he saw me walking around the corner. In an instant, his expression turned cold. His voice was laced with ice. “Clara, don’t get the wrong idea. I was just catching Alana. We’re at the county courthouse, try to have some class…” “Let’s go inside,” I said, cutting him off and walking straight past them. He seemed to freeze for a second. I guess he was expecting a fight. In the past, a scene like this would have sent me into a spiral of accusations and fury. Then, he must have decided I was playing some new game. As I walked into the main hall, I heard his familiar, long-suffering sigh behind me. We sat in the waiting area, Evan across from me, Alana beside him. He frowned, his voice low and flat. “I had to take Leo for his entrance interview at the new private school. They were on my way. It’s not some ridiculous power play, Alana isn’t trying to provoke you.” Alana shot him a chiding look. “Evan, you’re always so gentle when you talk to me. Why are you being so harsh with Clara? Stop it.” Evan pressed his lips together and said nothing more. “Clara,” Alana began, her voice soft and earnest. “I came because I wanted to talk you out of this. We’re family. I don’t hold any of your past misunderstandings against you. Marriage is hard work. Please don’t do something this impulsive.” She finished, watching me with a placid smile. She had one of those faces—poised and dignified. When she spoke in that calm, measured way, it was easy to believe she was the most reasonable person in the room. I didn’t answer. I just looked past her, at the digital queue screen on the wall. They were on number 9. I was number 12. Three more to go. At about fifteen minutes each, that meant I had forty-five minutes left. I started a silent countdown in my head. 2 “Clara, can you please stop being so childish? Alana is my sister. The least you could do is show her some basic respect. Your attitude is making everyone uncomfortable.” My eyes drifted from the screen back to them. Evan was staring at me, his expression a familiar mix of frustration and exhaustion. Beside him, Alana gave a sad little smile and turned her head away slightly. She was a master of wordless performance art. “Then you should probably comfort your sister,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. A flash of anger crossed Evan’s face. He spoke through gritted teeth. “There you go again. Always attacking Alana. You know, Clara, there are consequences for acting like a brat. If you push things too far, you might not get a chance to take it all back.” The last part was a clear threat. I just watched him. He was handsome, tall, with a deep, resonant voice. Objectively, he was flawless. I used to joke during our arguments, “Fine, fine, you win. I’ll let it go, but only because you’re so damn pretty.” At night, when my crazy hospital shifts left me too wired to sleep, I’d make him talk to me, his voice the only thing that could lull me into rest. Now, I raised a single finger to my lips. “Shhh. We’re in a public place. You shouldn’t raise your voice.” His voice hadn’t been loud. But I wanted the quiet. … The filing process was smooth. I barely spoke, just calmly handed over the papers, signed where I was told, and pressed my thumb into the ink pad. The separation agreement was simple. Four years of marriage, no children. His family’s company had nothing to do with me. The house, cars, and investments we acquired after the wedding would be split fifty-fifty. I remembered the day I handed him the printed agreement. He was on his way out with Alana and Leo to visit his father, who had Alzheimer’s. He’d glanced at it for a second, scrawled his name, and slammed the door behind him. Today was the same. He didn’t read a word. He just signed and walked away, as if it were all a game he couldn’t be bothered to play. Outside the courthouse, the wind was still howling. My car was covered in a blanket of dead leaves. As I patiently brushed them off, I heard Evan’s voice carried on the wind. He was comforting Alana. “Alana, don’t blame yourself. She won’t actually go through with it. This thirty-day wait will give her time to get over this tantrum. Otherwise, you and Leo will never have any peace here.” Alana’s voice was heavy with regret. “Evan, maybe I should just take Leo and find another place. What if she’s still angry in a month? What if you two actually get divorced? I’d feel like the villain.” Evan scoffed. “Impossible. She’s just using the waiting period to threaten me. You just wait. When the time comes to finalize this, Clara won’t even show up.” A huge gust of wind ripped through, swallowing the rest of his words. It scoured my car clean, sweeping away every last leaf, every speck of dust. “Nice,” I murmured, looking up at the sky. Then I got in my car and drove away. 3 When I got back to the house, our housekeeper, Rosa, was directing a team of movers. “Ma’am,” she said, pointing. “I didn’t dare touch this wall. I think you’ll need a specialist. It would be a shame to damage any of it.” It was an entire wall covered in photos. A timeline of my four years with Evan. I’d spent years curating the frames, arranging the layout, and I always insisted on cleaning the glass myself every weekend. “Throw it all out,” I said without looking up, heading for the stairs. Rosa’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Ma’am, forgive me for saying so, but all couples fight. Mr. Knight is so good to you. You can scare him with the moving boxes, that’s enough. They’re just brother and sister, after all. A woman can’t be too—” I stopped on the second-floor landing and looked down at her. “Rosa, after you’re done here today, you’re free to go.” She froze. “What do you mean? It’s so late, where would I go?” “I mean you’re fired. As for where to go, Alana is staying with Evan at his condo downtown. You can go to her.” “Why would I go to her?” Rosa asked, genuinely confused. “Aren’t you two close?” I asked, my voice cool. “Didn’t you bring her that expensive single-origin coffee from your trip home? It seems only right that she’d take you in.” Rosa’s face went pale. “I… I just felt sorry for her and her son. I brought her a little coffee, that’s all.” “You felt sorry for her, so you brought her coffee that costs two hundred dollars a pound?” I was expressionless. “I gave you two thousand dollars to buy that coffee for our house. The bag you brought back for me costs ten bucks at the grocery store. Before you leave, make sure you return the difference.” Panic flooded her face. She started rambling, her voice rising. “Ma’am, I spent the whole two thousand on coffee, I swear! I just figured, you’re all family, it doesn’t matter who gets the expensive stuff and who gets the cheap stuff, and Mr. Knight said to treat her like one of the owners—” I turned and walked into my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I opened Instagram. Sure enough, Alana had just posted a new story. It was a photo from an upscale restaurant. Three hands clinking glasses. Two adult, one child. No caption. It didn’t need one. Someone had already replied to it: “Does Leo have a new dad? Congrats!” Alana’s response was coy: “Don’t be silly! We’re celebrating him getting into his new school.” I stared at the man’s hand in the photo. Though his cuff covered most of his wrist, a small, pale scar was visible just below his watch. It was from the night we first met. He got it shielding me from a knife. Six years ago, I was a resident doctor on a late shift in the ER. A patient’s distraught family member went berserk. He pulled a knife and lunged at me. In that split second, a man’s arm shot out to protect my throat. Evan was slashed several times. His arm was slick with blood. After security subdued the attacker, I helped Evan, my hands shaking as I disinfected and bandaged his wounds. He leaned back in the chair, watching me for a long moment before he smiled. “Hey, Doc,” he said softly. “If you keep shaking like that, I’m going to bleed out before you’re done.” I was mortified and grateful all at once. “Thank you! I’m so sorry!” As he was about to leave, I summoned my courage and called out, “If you’re so worried about bleeding out, maybe you should stop trying to kill yourself.” Next to the deep gashes from the attack were several smaller, cleaner cuts. They were fresh, but neat and parallel—clearly self-inflicted. He’d been at the hospital that night to get those treated. He stared at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. After a few seconds, he gave a careless shrug. “You’ve got it wrong. I’m not suicidal. It’s just… pressure. You know? Sometimes one kind of pain helps you forget another.” It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard, and I didn’t believe a word of it. I frowned, staring him down, trying to use my best “doctor’s authority” voice to make him see sense. He looked at my serious expression and, for some reason, laughed again. “Okay, Doc. Thanks for the warning.” 4 After we started dating, I found out that Evan wasn’t just handsome; he was successful, wealthy, the whole package. But I didn’t care about that. I just loved him. His assistant once asked me, “Ms. Reed, how did you stay so calm when you first started seeing Mr. Knight? Weren’t you intimidated?” I was confused. “He’s always smiling. He’s kind, he’s a hero. Why would I be intimidated?” The assistant looked at me like I’d just claimed the sky was green. “Mr. Knight? Smiles? Is *kind*?” Evan eventually told me the full story about that night in the ER. “After my dad got Alzheimer’s, his so-called friends and business partners turned on him. Vultures. One guy even used a blank sheet of paper my dad had signed to forge a massive debt. The company went bankrupt. His second wife left. I was nineteen. I had to handle everything. For years, I felt like I was suffocating under the pressure. I had to find… extreme ways to cope. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have made it.” My heart ached for him. “So that’s what you meant? Using one pain to mask another? Evan, you can’t ever do that again! Promise me. Or I’ll… I’ll never speak to you again!” He held me so tight then, his eyes shining. “Never again. I promise. When I’m with you, it’s like all the pressure just melts away. The moment I see you, I can’t help but smile. Clara, you were sent to me as a reward for surviving all that, weren’t you?” Imagine a man like that comes into your life. A man who fought against impossible odds and won. Who loves you, spoils you, and treats you like you’re the only person in the world. Who looks like every fantasy you ever had as a teenager. And who saved your life. Would you be able to resist falling in love with him? I fell, hard and fast. After we got married, he was even better. My erratic work schedule ruined my sleep, so he sold his downtown penthouse and bought a beautiful, quiet house in the suburbs. It was less than a mile from the hospital. His commute to the city became a three-hour round trip every day. When I worked a night shift, if he was in town, his car would be waiting for me at the hospital entrance no matter the hour. Once, I was sent to a two-month training program in Boston. In those two months, Evan flew back and forth twenty-eight times, sometimes just to have lunch with me. The only shadow was that I never got pregnant. I knew that on the surface he said, “It’ll happen when it happens,” but deep down, he desperately wanted a child. His father had forgotten everything and everyone, but when he saw a picture of Evan as a little boy, he could still say his name. “If Dad could see a little version of me running around,” Evan had told me, “maybe he’d remember me, too. All these years, I’ve felt so alone, like I have no family. But now I have you. And soon, we’ll have our kids. I’ll finally have more family.” I grew up in a small, quiet town in the South. My parents were loving, middle-class people. I was a good kid, got good grades, and life had always been pretty easy for me. I understood that life wasn’t perfect. It had joy and boredom, surprises and disappointments. The pregnancy issue was just a test. I accepted it peacefully and threw myself into living a good, optimistic life. At the hospital, I was gentle and patient with my patients. At home, I loved my husband and the life we were building with everything I had. I thought I could be this happy forever. Until six months ago. When his stepsister, Alana, came back. 5 It was a night of torrential rain. I got off a late shift, and for the first time ever, Evan’s car wasn’t there. I called him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Worried something had happened, I didn’t even bother with a rideshare. I just ran home through the downpour. When I burst through the front door, soaked and shivering, I found him sitting perfectly fine on the living room sofa. In the armchair across from him sat a beautiful, unfamiliar woman, smiling at me. That was the first time I saw Alana. Evan saw me, dripping all over the floor, and jumped up. “Clara! Why didn’t you call me to pick you up?” he asked, helping me out of my wet coat. I glanced at the phone on the coffee table. “I did. You didn’t answer.” He looked away, his expression tight. “Ah, I must have forgotten to turn the ringer back on after my afternoon meeting.” From the armchair, Alana’s smile widened just a fraction. When Evan introduced her as his stepsister, I was shocked. He’d mentioned his father’s second wife briefly once. His stepmother had a daughter two years older than him. They lived together for four years, and after the company went bankrupt, they both left. He’d been so casual about it, he’d never even mentioned her name. I figured they weren’t close and would probably never see each other again. When Alana left that night, Evan didn’t get up. He just sat on the sofa, looking distant and cold. She didn’t seem to mind. She gave me a warm hug and said, “You’re lovely. My little brother is a lucky man.” After she was gone, Evan apologized sincerely. I pouted and grumbled for a minute, then asked why she was suddenly back in his life. He explained that her mother had passed away, her husband had died, and her son was sick. She’d come back to the States for a new treatment. I felt a pang of sympathy. “She seems so elegant, despite everything she’s been through. But you were pretty cold to her tonight.” He was silent for a moment, then scoffed. “The second my dad got sick, her mom divorced him and took every last cent from their accounts. They left me with nothing. The fact that I can even sit in the same room with her now is me being polite.” I didn’t push it. It was his past, his pain. He had the right to feel how he felt. That night in bed, Evan was rough, almost violent. It was nothing like his usual tender, careful lovemaking. At one point, I cried out, “Evan, that hurts!” He froze. In the darkness, he stared down at me for a few seconds, then said in a raw voice, “Call me Ev.” 6 The next time I saw Alana, I was coming home from a two-week medical conference. I’d come back a day early, hoping to surprise Evan. I walked in the door and heard a woman’s laughter coming from the kitchen. I followed the sound and saw Alana at the stove, with Rosa helping her. In the living room, Evan was on the floor, playing chess with a little boy around five or six. The table was set with steaming dishes, the TV was murmuring in the background. It was a perfect, cozy family scene. Alana saw me first. “Clara!” she said, surprised. “You’re back!” Evan turned, his eyes widening. He got up and walked toward me, echoing her question. “Clara, what are you doing home?” I swallowed the discomfort in my throat, said hello, and muttered something about being tired before heading upstairs. Evan followed me. He told me Alana and her son, Leo, were moving in for a while. I stared at him. “Moving in? Here?” He hesitated, a look of weary resignation on his face. “Leo has a rare genetic disorder—he can’t feel pain. There’s a specialist at your hospital who’s pioneering a new gene therapy, and Alana brought him here for the trial. She begged me, Clara. The house is close to the hospital, and with Rosa here and you being a doctor… if Leo gets hurt, someone will be around to help.” “But I thought you hated her,” I said, confused. His expression darkened. “There’s no point in holding onto the past. She’s the only other family my dad has left besides me. I was thinking, if she visits him more, maybe it will help his condition… Look, it’s just for a few months. I just agreed to it today, I was going to tell you. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t say anything else. As much as I hated it, his reasoning was sound. Evan had so little family. If I made a fuss, I’d be the heartless one. Seeing his apologetic face, I reached out and gently tapped his nose. “Honestly? I did mind, for a second. But it’s okay now.” He smiled at me, relieved. At dinner, Alana thanked me profusely. I told her that if she needed any help navigating the hospital system for Leo, she could always ask me. At the time, I thought it was a small thing. A few months. That’s all. I was so naive. When did things start to change? It was gradual. The collection of designer art toys I kept in the glass cabinet were shoved into a corner, replaced by a squad of broken Transformers. Women’s clothes, including lacy underwear, started appearing on the back of the living room sofa. The cream-colored rug I loved was now a canvas of crayon marks, spilled juice, and shredded tissues. Alana began acting more and more like the lady of the house. My schedule got crazier—clinic hours, surgeries, endless rounds. One day, after being on my feet for twelve hours straight in the OR, I was exhausted and craving the comfort of Rosa’s chicken soup. I called her ahead of time to ask her to make it for dinner. But when I got home that night, there was a large pot of fish soup on the table. “Where’s the chicken soup?” I asked. Rosa shrugged. “Alana said Leo wanted fish soup. I figured since Mr. Knight was eating out, it was just us, and one soup is enough.” I was quiet for a moment. “Rosa, you know I’m allergic to fish, right?” She remembered then, her face flushing with embarrassment. Alana just laughed and patted her shoulder. “It’s my fault, not Rosa’s. Clara, if you’re really set on chicken soup, I can order some for you.” Just then, Leo pointed at me and started shouting. “I hate her! She doesn’t want me to have fish soup! She’s mean! Make her leave!” I just stood there. *She’s Evan’s sister,* I told myself. *Leo is a sick child. They’ll be gone soon.* *I’m doing this for Evan.*

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1 I was on my balcony hanging up a duvet to air out when a bucket of piss rained down on my head. Before I could even process what had happened, my upstairs neighbor started screaming. “Hey, new girl! Don’t you have any common decency? Your stupid duvet is blocking all the positive energy from my apartment!” “I have a delicate constitution!” she shrieked. “I have to do my morning tai chi in the sun to align my chakras! Blocking my light is like stealing my life force! You’re trying to kill me, you evil bitch!” Excuse me? She was on the sixth floor, and I was on the fifth. How was my duvet blocking her sun? Was Isaac Newton aware of this development in physics? Infuriated, I stormed into my kitchen and grabbed a butcher knife, but as I got to the door, she doused my welcome mat with what smelled suspiciously like acid. Then, at four in the morning, she started hammering on my door, demanding I let her in for an “inspection.” “What are you hiding in there?” she yelled through the door. “Are you sucking the life out of men in there? You tramp!” Just when I was about to lose my mind, I saw a post on a local community forum: 【My next-door neighbor is an actual demon! She hangs red lanterns outside her door, keeps a coffin in her living room, and tries to force-feed people ‘blessed’ water she makes with burnt paper.】 【Dear God, please, someone come and get this witch!】 A wicked smile spread across my face. I immediately sent a private message. A physical attacker versus a magical one? This was going to be fun. 2 The hammering on my door was deafening. It was a Saturday morning, and all I could think was, *Is she having a psychotic break?* I was soaked, and the acrid smell of urine was making my eyes water. My brand-new, five-hundred-dollar down comforter was ruined. Even if I washed it, I’d never be able to sleep under it again. And the screaming continued. “Hey, 502! Are you dead in there? If not, open this damn door!” “You’re a streetwalker, a filthy whore! You’re not just dirty yourself, you’re messing up the feng shui of the entire building!” “My husband’s stocks are tanking, and my son has no appetite! This is all your fault!” “If you want to suck out people’s life force, go live under someone else’s apartment! Stop trying to seduce my family!” She was just spewing vile, baseless accusations. How did I, a night-shift surgeon, suddenly become a prostitute? So I was supposed to work like a dog all night and then deal with this in the morning? I’ve been on the internet since the dawn of time. I don’t lose flame wars. I grabbed a kitchen knife, planning to give the old hag a good scare. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my next-door neighbor, a girl named Chloe. I’d only moved in a week ago after finishing renovations, and she was the only person I’d met. We were around the same age, both grinders at nearby companies, so we’d exchanged numbers. I didn’t have time for a chat. I declined the call and opened my screen door. My phone rang again. It was her. A second later, a text popped up. [OMG DUDE, DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR!!!] [I just saw that crazy old bat! She’s holding a bottle of something! I think it’s acid!] 3 Chloe’s text made me snatch my hand back from the door. Was this woman insane? I hung up a comforter, and she curses me out and tries to throw acid on me? I slammed the inner door shut and furiously typed back. [I don’t even know her! How is hanging a duvet a capital offense?] [And how could I possibly block her sun from the floor below? That makes no sense!] The “typing…” bubble on her end appeared and disappeared several times. A minute later, a sixty-second voice memo came through. I hit play. Chloe’s voice was practically a snarl. “You’re new, so you don’t know,” she said. “The woman upstairs, her name is Karen, with a capital K. She’s the legendary lunatic of this building. She’s obsessed with ‘wellness’ to the point of psychosis. She has meltdowns in the lobby all the time. Seriously, do not engage. If she screams at you, just ignore her. If she fixates on you, your life will be hell.” “Ugh, I can’t explain it all over text. I’m adding you to the group chat.” The next thing I knew, I was in a group called “What fresh hell is the hag brewing today?” There were over fifty people in it. Before I could even say hi, the group admin dropped a bunch of PDF files into the chat. Chloe tagged me: [@Clara you need to read these. I’d print them out and tape them to your wall. Read them every day so you don’t forget.] Confused, I opened one of the files. My eyes went wide. It was a meticulously compiled list of “rules” for living in the building, nearly a hundred of them. 1. *Do not hang anything on your balcony. Clothes, bedding, even cured meats are forbidden. Karen says it disrupts the energy flow to her apartment.* 2. *If you’re not home by 7 PM, get a hotel. Karen claims latecomers bring “damp, negative energy” into the building, and she has been known to attack doors with an axe.* 3. *If you have a partner, all… intimate activities… must be conducted during daylight hours. Otherwise, Karen will stand outside your door and perform a mourning ritual, wailing about the “deathly yin energy” you’re creating.* 4. *Park your car outside the complex. Karen believes cars are “metal coffins” and refuses to have them within a three-mile radius of her home.* And so on. I took a long, hot shower, threw my clothes in the trash, and scrolled through the rest of the insane list. [Seriously? There are fifty of you, and you just let her do this? Has no one called the cops?] I typed. Chloe replied instantly: [The cops know her by name. She has a documented history of mental illness. What can they do? It’s the world we live in. The crazy ones have all the power. She has nothing to lose, and we have our lives and jobs to protect. Just lie low, Clara. Eventually, she’ll find a new target.] What? My brand-new condo, my expensive comforter, my precious sleep. I was supposed to just take it? I deal with enough stress at work; I wasn’t going to tolerate an ounce of it in my personal life. I called the police. I refused to believe they couldn’t do anything. 4 The cops arrived in ten minutes. When I opened the door, I was met by two officers who looked utterly exhausted. Before I could speak, my upstairs neighbor came charging down the stairs. I finally got a good look at her. A severe buzz cut on a face twisted with rage, like the whole world owed her something. She pushed past the officers and lunged for my hair. “Officers, it’s this slut! She hung her duvet out and sucked up all the positive energy from my apartment! She’s trying to murder me!” I dodged her, almost laughing in disbelief. I called the cops, and she was the one filing a complaint? I addressed the officers directly. “She poured a bucket of urine on me from her balcony, ruining my five-hundred-dollar comforter. She’s been banging on my door and threatened me with acid. I have security camera footage.” The woman, Karen, just sneered. “Well, you stole my life force. What did you expect?” The officers sighed. I could tell from their weary expressions this wasn’t their first rodeo with 602. The younger cop tried to reason with her. “Ma’am, with all due respect, it’s physically impossible for her to block your sunlight from the floor below. That’s just basic science.” Karen snorted. “Don’t talk to me about science. We wellness practitioners deal with energy fields and feng shui! There’s only so much sunlight to go around. If she takes some, I get less! It’s simple logic! I can’t believe a police officer doesn’t understand that!” The older officer clearly had no patience for this. “Karen, we’re asking you nicely. Stop harassing your neighbor, or we’re taking you downtown.” That was her cue. She threw herself on the ground, ripped open the collar of her shirt, and started wailing. “Go ahead! Arrest me! I have a doctor’s note for my condition! I’m a respectable woman! I’ll sue you for assault!” She then proceeded to grab the officers’ legs and rub her chest against them. They recoiled in horror. I stood there, mouth agape, finally understanding why Chloe said calling the cops was useless. Karen shot me a venomous look. “I did my research on you! You’re a surgeon! Your hands are covered in blood and death! You come home from the morgue every night trailing ghosts and negative energy! You’ve completely corrupted the magnetic field of my home! My family is in danger! You owe me ten thousand dollars in damages! Pay up, or I’ll make your life a living hell!” In the end, the police did manage to haul her away. They made her pay me for the comforter and charged her with obstruction. I knew a little about the law; that meant she’d be held for at least a few days. Finally, some peace and quiet. I texted Chloe: [See? You just have to trust the system. If she starts up again, we’ll just call the cops.] Her reply was a single, crying emoji. [Clara, why didn’t you listen? You’re so, so screwed now.] 5 I dismissed her text as overly dramatic. I had dinner plans with a friend and didn’t think about it again until I got home around 10 PM. I stopped dead in my tracks. My front door was gone. Not just unlocked, but completely removed from its hinges. The entire doorframe was smashed, leaving a gaping hole where my entryway used to be. My living room was exposed to the entire hallway. My underwear was scattered on the sofa, my personal documents were strewn across the coffee table, and my collection of art figures had been thrown to the floor. “What… what happened to my door?” I rushed into the apartment to find Karen sprawled on my sofa, her dirty feet propped up on the armrest, spitting sunflower seed shells onto my rug. Seeing my expression, she grinned. “Not so tough now, are you, little girl?” She stood up, her belly protruding. “I’m pregnant. The cops aren’t going to touch a pregnant woman, are they?” she sneered. “And let me tell you something else. I have connections. I can get your door taken down today, and I can get you fired tomorrow. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay out of my way. Or maybe I’ll just ‘trip and fall’ outside your apartment and have a ‘miscarriage.’ How would that look for you at work?” Her husband sat silently on the other couch, staring at the floor. Her son, a carbon copy of his mother’s brutish features, was flipping through my channels like he owned the place. I knew I couldn’t fight a pack of rabid animals, especially not at this hour. I forced myself to apologize. Karen spat on my floor, and the three of them swaggered out, leaving me trembling with a mixture of rage and fear. I couldn’t believe that in a civilized society, there was no way to deal with someone like this. I understood the police were in a tough spot, but a pregnant woman? Chloe heard the commotion and pulled me into her apartment, handing me a warm mug of tea. “I told you,” she sighed. “You think I didn’t try calling the cops? I’m a content creator. I didn’t just call the cops, I posted a whole exposé on TikTok.” She sighed and rolled up her sleeve. A long, ugly scar, like a centipede, ran down her forearm. “This psycho gets ‘pregnant’ every year. She claims condoms are ‘unnatural and full of toxins,’ but somehow she always ‘miscarries’ and extorts money from someone in the building. She’s untouchable because her uncle is some big shot in construction, the kind with shady connections. We’re just normal people, Clara. We can’t win. My lease is up next month, and I’m out of here. Seriously, don’t try to fight her. It’s not worth it.” I looked at her, at the fear in her eyes, and realized that her constant warnings weren’t a sign of weakness, but the bravest act of kindness she could offer. A dog will bite you, but you can’t bite it back. Unless, of course, the other party is also a dog… An idea sparked. I grabbed my phone and scrolled through my browser history until I found it: a post from a local forum titled, “How do you deal with a neighbor from the underworld?” The original poster had been ranting for weeks: [HELP ME. MY NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR IS LITERALLY A GHOUL.] [She’s some rich kid who’s obsessed with death. She cosplays as a corpse and spends her days asking people if she ‘looks dead yet.’ She terrifies people in the elevator late at night.] [She turned her apartment into a mausoleum. She has a real coffin in the living room and knocked a hole in her wall to install a shrine to Hades. It’s so creepy, I swear I can feel a cold draft coming from her place.] [Her decorating style is ‘demonic chic.’ Red lanterns in the hallway, green lighting inside. She chants spells and tries to get people to drink ‘blessed water’ she makes by burning sigils. She claims she has connections in the underworld and can ‘escort us to the other side’ whenever she wants.] [I’m losing my mind. Please, someone, come get this girl!] 6 I got in touch with the poster. The girl next door to him was a trust-fund kid, back from studying abroad where she got really into “Goth culture.” Now, she was obsessed with Chinese mythology, specifically the concept of *Diyu*, the eighteen levels of hell. She called it “Asiabyss” culture and insisted the entire building adopt her lifestyle. She was caught injecting her “blessed water” into neighbors’ milk deliveries and taping gruesome, bloody talismans to their doors. She demanded absolute darkness, keeping her AC at a frigid 60 degrees year-round. When a sliver of sunlight reflecting off a neighbor’s window hit her curtains, she showed up at their door with a scythe, screaming about being “burned by the light of the living.” To top it all off, she was only fifteen. A minor. Whenever anyone tried to reason with her, she’d threaten to murder them, claiming her “friends on the other side” would protect her. She also claimed to have severe depression, and everyone knew that with a minor who was also a mental health case, you couldn’t risk a confrontation. The more I heard, the more excited I got. As the saying goes, it takes a villain to catch a villain. Or, if there isn’t one, you create one. Karen was using her pregnancy as a shield. Let’s see how she’d handle a teenage death cultist. I contacted “Asiabyss Girl” directly. I told her I had a place for rent and sent her pictures of my smashed-in doorway. “The price is negotiable,” I wrote. “The main thing is, the feng shui in my place is incredibly negative. Very dark, very heavy energy.” I laid it on thick. “It’s a real problem. Most people are too scared to even step inside.” It was classic reverse psychology for a teenager. Sure enough, she replied instantly. [Others may be scared. I am not.] [The damage is… acceptable. The open-air concept will be perfect for raising my children.] *Raising her children?* Before I could ask, she sent another message. [I am bored of my current residence. They call this a luxury high-rise, but it is filled with conformist fools who are resistant to new culture. Pathetic mortals. Your building seems suitably decrepit. The residents are likely half-dead husks, much like the denizens of the underworld. It will suffice.] The sheer density of cringe left me speechless. She wasn’t wrong about the half-dead husks part, though. [Yes, yes,] I typed back. [All soul-crushed corporate drones here.] Then, a notification popped up. She’d transferred a huge sum of money to my account. [I am buying the property. Vacate the premises immediately. I must begin the renovations.] I accepted the deposit before she could change her mind. I drafted a contract so fast my fingers were a blur. I’d planned to rent, but selling was even better. She didn’t even negotiate the price; I ended up making a tidy profit. I told Chloe the news, advising her to move out as planned. But she looked more excited than I was. “Are you kidding? I’m not going anywhere! I’ve never seen two real-life anime villains in one place before! The content potential is off the charts! Clara, if my channel blows up because of this, I’m taking you out for the best dinner of your life!” Kids these days. I really don’t get them.

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The notification popped up on my phone with a cheerful *ding* that felt like a slap in the face. A $900 debit from the Venmo Shared Pot Liam and I were funding. My heart did a little lurch. I clicked open the transaction details. *Sent by Liam Hale.* *Note: New phone.* What kind of phone costs $900 for a college student? More importantly, that money was our sacred pact—the “Escape Fund” we were building for a post-graduation backpacking trip through Europe. Liam’s family wasn’t exactly struggling; if he needed something, he wouldn’t have to touch our shared savings. My first thought, ever the optimist, was that it had to be a glitch. A bug in the app. I called him immediately. He picked up on the third ring. “Liam? Did you just pull nine hundred bucks from our Shared Pot?” There was a beat of silence, then the sound of a sharp inhale. “You… you saw that already?” I nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. I thought we agreed that money was off-limits until graduation? For our trip?” His tone, which had been laced with panic, suddenly softened. It was a practiced shift I was all too familiar with. He let out a little sigh, as if he was the one who was burdened. “Babe, I’m so sorry. My phone totally bricked on me, and my allowance for the month is already gone.” He dropped his voice into that whiny, little-boy cadence he used when he wanted something. “I was just gonna borrow it. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll put it back the second my parents send next month’s cash. You’ll be my sugar mama for a little while, right?” And just like that, with his smooth reassurances, I let it go and hung up, feeling more confused than angry. * That night, I was doom-scrolling on Reddit when a post in r/relationship_advice caught my eye. The title was a classic: *“AITA for using money from the travel fund I share with my rich girlfriend without telling her first?”* The comments were brutal, just as you’d expect. > *“YTA. How do you ‘accidentally’ type in an exact amount and transfer it? You’re not ‘borrowing,’ you’re stealing.”* > *“Sounds less like you want to delete the record and more like you want a sugar mama.”* > *“The audacity is just… wow.”* But it was the original poster’s defensive replies that made my blood run cold. > *“You guys don’t get it. Her parents give her like 3k a month just for fun. What’s a few hundred bucks to her?”* > *“Besides, she’s got a younger brother. You know who’s getting the family business when her dad retires. I’m just helping her use her money now before it all goes to him. You’re all just jealous.”* > *“And for the record, I’m 6’2”, my family owns a chain of successful car dealerships, and I’ve got a trust fund waiting for me. If anyone’s settling here, it’s her, not me.”* I stared at the screen. My allowance is three thousand dollars a month. I have a younger brother. Liam is 6’2” and his dad owns three major car dealerships back in Ohio. It was him. I felt a bitter taste in my mouth and typed a quick reply: *“Spoken like a true leech with a superiority complex. Getting a girlfriend to pay your bills isn’t a personality trait.”* A minute later, my comment was deleted. I tried to shake it off, but the incident planted a seed of doubt. The next few weeks, it was like a switch had been flipped. Liam’s mooching went from subtle to shameless. “Babe, can you spot me for this new PS5 controller?” “Hey, can you order the DoorDash? I’ll totally get you back.” “My Queen, your loyal subject is thirsty. Starbucks run?” “C’mon, my little ATM, just this one thing.” Anytime I hesitated, he’d deploy his full arsenal of emotional manipulation. “You wouldn’t let your boyfriend starve, would you, baby?” “All my friends are so jealous, they say I have the best girlfriend in the world.” “My mom already loves you. She said I hit the jackpot. I’ll be good to you forever, I promise.” The breaking point came when he called me in a panic from a bar where he was out with his frat brothers. I thought it was an emergency, so I threw on sweatpants and rushed over. When I got there, he just grinned, wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and nudged me toward the bar. “Babe, can you cover this round? I’m a little short.” * His friends started cheering. “Hale, you dog! You trained her well!” “Damn, Maya, you’re a keeper! Taking care of our boy.” It hit me like a ton of bricks. He didn’t call me because he was in trouble; he called me to be his wallet. My good mood evaporated. The fact that I’d been woken up from a nap didn’t help. “If you didn’t have money,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “why did you offer to buy everyone drinks?” The cheerful noise died down instantly. A dozen pairs of eyes swiveled between me and Liam, whose smile was frozen on his face. He looked at me, a flash of genuine anger in his eyes, as if I’d just broken some unspoken rule. One of his friends, a guy named Chad, stepped in. “Whoa, Maya, take it easy. We all know Liam puts his entire allowance into that Shared Pot for your big Europe trip. He’s doing it for you!” Liam’s expression immediately softened, melting back into that familiar, pathetic look. “Yeah, babe. All my money is your money, remember?” Something about that sentence felt deeply wrong. I hadn’t spent a dime of his money. Our shared pot was for *our* trip. On dates, we either went Dutch or I ended up paying. I’d never taken anything from him. “You’re lucky, Maya,” Chad added, slinging an arm around Liam. “A guy like this? He’s one of a kind. You better lock that down.” As Liam nodded in smug agreement, a wave of unease washed over me. I’m new to relationships, but I’m not an idiot. My mom always told me that if a relationship starts to feel like a transaction, you need to check the balance sheet. And right now, I felt like I was deep in the red. While I was lost in thought, Liam took my phone right out of my hand, used Face ID to unlock it, and paid the tab with my Apple Pay. It was so smooth, so practiced. His friends gave him impressed nods. He shot me a triumphant little smirk that screamed, *See? I’ve got her wrapped around my finger.* I was fuming, but I decided to wait until we were alone to deal with it. Except, I never got the chance. Before the end of the month, my own bank account was empty. I tried to order a pizza and my card was declined. * On a whim, I opened the Venmo Shared Pot again. I hadn’t looked at the balance since the $900 incident. We’d been saving for over a year. Between my leftover allowance and his contributions, there should have been a lot in there. The balance displayed on the screen was $1,500. I felt the air leave my lungs. Impossible. I alone put more than that in every few months. My hands trembling, I opened the full transaction history. And there it was, a horrifying, endless scroll of deceit. *Liam Hale spent $200.* *Liam Hale spent $600.* *Liam Hale spent $1,200.* …all the way down to the latest, *Liam Hale spent $900.* Tiny and massive withdrawals, all from him. I did a quick, shaky calculation in my head. He had bled the account dry of at least five or six thousand dollars. All the money I had diligently saved was gone. Then, the Reddit post flashed in my mind. I went back to his profile. He’d updated it. *“Update: Put the down payment on my Tesla! Is it wrong to use my GF’s allowance to help with the monthly payments?”* I nearly shattered my phone screen with how hard I was gripping it. So that’s what this was all about. It all clicked into place: his constant digs about my brother, the articles he’d send me about how family businesses always go to the son, his warnings that I needed to “protect my assets” from my own family. “You have to look out for yourself, babe,” he’d say, his face a mask of fake concern. “Your parents will set your brother up for life. What about you?” What a joke. What he didn’t know was that my parents had set up a trust fund for me the day I turned eighteen. My brother and I were inheriting everything, 50/50. I felt like the world’s biggest fool. All this time I thought I’d found love, but I’d just found a parasite with a plan. My mom’s voice echoed in my head: *“Trusting the wrong man will cost you more than just money.”* A white-hot rage burned through me, clearing away all the sadness and confusion. Without a second thought, I opened the app and transferred the remaining $1,500 to my personal account. The second the transfer went through, my phone lit up with an incoming video call from Liam. * I answered. His face, twisted in rage, filled the screen. “Maya! Did you touch the Pot?” he yelled, his voice cracking. “Did you fucking move the money from the Pot?” Spittle practically flew from the screen. “That was our down payment for the car! That was for *our future*! Put it back, now! Every single cent!” He looked like a man who’d just discovered his life savings had vanished. I almost laughed. The sheer hypocrisy was breathtaking. I tilted my head, letting the silence hang for a moment before speaking, my voice as cold as ice. “Oh? So it’s okay for you to use it, but not me? Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t most of that money mine to begin with?” “That’s not the same thing!” he roared, completely serious. “I needed it for emergencies!” I let a slow, humorless smile spread across my face and adopted his sweet, pleading tone. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence,” I said, dragging out the last words. “Because I have an emergency, too.” On screen, Liam’s tirade stopped short. The anger in his eyes morphed into pure panic as the gears in his head finally started turning. He swallowed hard. “You… you looked at the transaction history, didn’t you?” he stammered. I just stared at him, giving him a small, knowing smile and a simple “Mm-hmm.” The change was instantaneous. The raging monster vanished, replaced by the calculating manipulator. “Baby, listen, you have to let me explain,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I was doing it for us. For our future.” He still didn’t know I knew about the Reddit post. I was morbidly curious to see what new lie he’d spin. I gestured for him to continue. Seeing my apparent willingness to listen, a flicker of his old arrogance returned. “Think about it, Maya. With your brother in the picture, you’re not going to see a cent of the family business. A daughter who marries out is… well, you know. I was just moving our money somewhere safe! I was protecting you!” “Oh, really? How so?” I asked, lowering my eyes to hide the contempt I knew was blazing in them. My feigned interest emboldened him. “Every dollar is accounted for, baby. It’s seed money for our life together. When I’m successful, you’re successful, right? Once we’re married, the only person you’ll be able to rely on is me.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from screaming. The audacity. The sheer, misogynistic, self-serving bullshit. As if I’d shrivel up and die without a man to “rely on.” He was still talking, not once mentioning where the money actually went, just rambling about how he was doing this *for me*. “So,” I interrupted, my voice flat, “all the money you took out… you were just saving it for me. Is that right?” “Exactly!” he said, beaming. While he launched into a new self-aggrandizing speech about how men are supposed to manage the finances, my fingers were flying across my phone’s calculator. I came up with a final number. “Okay, great,” I said, cutting him off mid-sentence. “In that case, you’ve been ‘saving’ a total of six thousand, three hundred and fifty dollars for me. I need it back. All of it.” His smile cracked. “Wh-what?” I repeated the number, enunciating every syllable. He immediately reverted to victim mode. “Baby, don’t you trust me?” I put on my most innocent expression. “Of course I do. But like I said, I have an emergency.” His face soured. “You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?” “No.” He looked like a cornered animal. “But… How could you have an emergency? You just got your allowance!” “Funny story,” I said, my voice dripping with false sadness. “My dad saw my last credit card bill and decided to cut me off for the month. So I’m broke. I guess I’ll have to use our ‘future fund’ to get by.” The relief that flooded his face was disgusting, but also exactly what I wanted to see. In his mind, this was just a temporary setback. “Oh! Okay, baby, of course,” he said, magnanimous now that he thought he was still in control. “You can use that money for now. But you have to promise to put it all back the second you get your next allowance!” I smiled, a real smile this time, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I promise.” Because he had no idea what my real plan was. And it was going to cost him a whole lot more than six thousand dollars.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385407”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel