The paparazzi snapped the picture right after my fender bender. My husband, Julian Vance, didn’t even flinch. He just leaned one arm casually on the open window of his Porsche, a smirk playing on his lips as he looked at the photographer. “Got your scandal, huh? Make sure you send the invoice to my wife. She loves handling this kind of press.” Mention me, the current Mrs. Vance, and everyone in our circle sings the same tune. “She was a nobody before him. A Cinderella story. She’d never be stupid enough to leave.” No one seems to remember how Julian, looking down from his ivory tower, introduced me at every party when we first got married. “This is my wife, Sophie. She’s new to all this, so be nice.” Everyone assumed I’d do what I always did: write a check, make the problem disappear, and continue playing the part of the graceful, supportive wife in a picture-perfect high-society marriage. But this time, I just walked into his grandfather’s study. “It’s been three years,” I said, my voice steady. “You have to let me go now.” 1 There’s an unwritten rule among the vultures at Page Six and TMZ. If you’re having a slow month, just stake out Julian Vance, CEO of Sterling Industries. He’s guaranteed to have a new girl on his arm every few weeks, and he’s not exactly subtle about it. Easy money. A man like Julian having a bit of fun on the side? That’s just business as usual. But his wife? She has to maintain appearances, protect the family name. So, you get the dirt on the husband, you take it to the wife, and she pays top dollar to bury it. It’s a neat little ecosystem. This time, though, things played out a little differently. A rookie from some gossip blog, probably shaking in his boots, sent the video to Julian first. Julian, true to form, forwarded it straight to me. I was just getting home to our penthouse overlooking Central Park, the entire glittering expanse of Manhattan laid out below me like a carpet of diamonds. The voice on the phone was a nervous, nasally whine trying its best to sound like a hardened negotiator. “Mrs. Vance, two hundred grand. That’s a handbag for you, right? Two hundred grand to make this little embarrassment go away. It’s a bargain.” He continued, “Think it over. You have my number…” This kid was an amateur. His first mistake was following Julian. His second was knocking on the window of his car. Julian’s cars were notoriously hard to track; he had a garage full of them and swapped them out daily. But for some reason, the last few days, he’d been driving the same Aston Martin. In the video the kid sent, Julian rolls down the window. In the passenger seat is some model-of-the-moment, all legs and lip gloss. Last month, it was a B-list actress from L.A. Julian takes off his sunglasses, revealing that face that could charm a snake or sink a ship. He beckons the photographer closer with one finger. “Newbie?” he asks, his voice a low, lazy drawl. “Don’t you know how this works? You take the photos to my wife. You come to me, you get nothing.” He paused. “Don’t have her number?” He scribbled on a napkin from his glove compartment and tossed it at the kid. Then, he shot a look at the woman next to him and sighed, a sound of pure annoyance. “Get out.” She pouted, leaning in. “Julian, honey, I thought we had three days? It’s barely been a few hours…” Julian tossed a black card at her and hit the unlock button. “A few hours and you already got us papped. You want me to drag you out? Get lost.” I clicked off the video, my face a mask of calm. I sat down at the dining table as Maria, our housekeeper, laid out my dinner course by course. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed eight. 2 I glanced up at it. A gift from Julian seven years ago, hauled back from a trip to Paris. Now, its pendulum swung with a tired, weary rhythm. I was seventeen when I got my scholarship to Columbia. I met Julian when I was eighteen. Back then, aside from his killer looks, he was completely unassuming. He’d pretend to be lost in the city, asking me for directions, claiming he’d forgotten everything he learned in his economics classes and begging me to tutor him. It took about two weeks before someone pulled me aside and whispered, “You think he’s just some hot guy? That’s Julian Vance. His family practically owns half of Wall Street. His grandfather is a legend.” After that, Julian all but abandoned his own life, driving back and forth between Midtown and the Columbia campus every day. Those years were a blur of fighting and making up, of me constantly letting him in and shutting him out. Then, when I was twenty-five, after navigating a minefield of family objections and social landmines, I married him. Our wedding was the event of the season, splashed across Vogue and Town & Country. One small, trashy blog, trying to make a name for itself, ran a headline that was more clickbait than journalism, and deeply disrespectful. The morning after our wedding, Julian saw it, calmly placed his water glass on the newspaper, and went about his day. I found out later that it was the last issue that blog ever published. Remembering all the little things, I could get lost in the nostalgia and think, Wow, we really were in love, weren’t we? But how did we end up like this old clock, so broken down that even its ticking felt weak? The private elevator dinged, its display showing it had arrived on our floor. The doors slid open. Julian stood there, his suit jacket slung over his arm, the harsh overhead light doing nothing to soften the sharp, handsome lines of his face. I looked at him for a second, then went back to my dinner. A minute later, I heard his jacket hit the couch. Then, the scent of expensive cologne and the warmth of his body were right behind me. He leaned over, his hands on the table on either side of me, trapping me in a loose embrace. “Good evening, Mrs. Vance,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “Let’s see what today’s scandal is worth.” My phone was on the table. He picked it up and swiped into my messages. “Two hundred thousand? The paparazzi have smaller appetites than your chef. Anyone would think my stock is falling.” I put down my fork, my back ramrod straight, keeping a careful distance between my body and his. I ignored his question and changed the subject. “I’m rejecting Isabella’s application for the Head of Marketing position. Her resume isn’t up to par.” As expected, the mention of her name made him straighten up. The cloying warmth vanished. He sat down across from me, his gaze drifting to the city lights. “Her career isn’t your concern.” His eyes snapped back to me, a glint in them. “Or is it,” he said, tapping his chin, “that you just don’t like her?” I met his gaze, searching for something, anything, of the man I used to know. It wasn’t there. The world saw a playboy with a revolving door of women. They didn’t know it was all a cover for one person: Isabella. He’d sent her to finish a degree in Switzerland two years ago, and now he wanted to parachute her into a top job at Sterling. It wasn’t personal; it was practical. Sterling’s hiring standards were ironclad. A degree from a top-ten university was the bare minimum. Isabella had a high school diploma and a resume that started with working retail at Bloomingdale’s. The Swiss school was a joke. There was no angle to justify it. “This is business,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m not letting my personal feelings get involved.” He didn’t answer. A moment later, a voice message played from his phone, the volume turned up just a little too loud. It was sultry, a practiced purr. “Julian… I think I left my panties in your car… When can I come get them?” The sound echoed slightly in the quiet dining room. Julian looked straight at me as he lifted the phone to his lips. “Wrong number, honey,” he said, his voice dripping with false boredom. I stared at his cool, indifferent face, trying desperately to remember what it felt like when he loved me. 3 In the beginning, he used to at least pretend to be sorry. The first time he was caught, it was over a ridiculously expensive gift he’d sent Isabella, which inadvertently took a custom jewelry slot I had reserved. In our small, gossipy world, it was the equivalent of a signed confession. He’d rushed home, throwing his phone, wallet, and credit cards on the table like a peace offering. “She helped me with a small favor, that’s all. My assistant picked out the gift. I’m going to fire him.” He offered a flimsy explanation, and I chose to believe him. Why wouldn’t I? But then, somehow hearing that we’d had a massive fight, Isabella showed up at our building on a rainy day. She stood in the lobby, drenched and pathetic. “Mrs. Vance, please,” she’d cried to the doorman, knowing the message would get to me. “There’s nothing between Mr. Vance and me! You have to believe us!” It was so transparently manipulative it was almost funny. Anger can blind you. It blinded me to the flicker of pity—or maybe it was something more—in Julian’s eyes as he stood at our floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at her. When a man feels sorry for another woman, it’s the beginning of a romance for them, and the beginning of the end for you. But all of that was in the past. The worst was over. If I remembered correctly, today was November 27th. The three-year deadline I’d made with his grandfather was just days away. I looked at Julian, about to speak. But his phone rang. I could faintly hear Isabella’s voice on the other end. “The power’s out in my apartment… It’s so dark, and I’m scared.” “Stay put. I’m on my way,” Julian said, standing up. He glanced at me. I swallowed the words I was about to say. He didn’t wait for them. He just turned and walked out. After he left, I drove to the Vance family estate in Greenwich. It was a sprawling, old-money mansion, a mix of classic European architecture and cold, modern art. His mother, Eleanor, was on a chaise lounge, a maid massaging her shoulders. She opened her eyes, gave me a brief, dismissive look, and closed them again. I didn’t bother trying to engage. I went straight upstairs to the study. “Grandfather,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “The three years are up. I’d like to leave.” Two years ago, when I found out that Julian’s business trips were really just flights to and from Switzerland to visit Isabella, and that he was still flying back and forth while I was in the hospital after a miscarriage, my heart finally shattered for good. I went to his grandfather then, at a time when the family business was facing its own turmoil. He asked me to stay for three more years. To provide stability. He promised that if, after three years, Julian hadn’t changed, he would personally grant me my freedom. The old man rocked in his leather chair. He opened his eyes and looked at me. “I thought after three years, you’d have gotten used to it. Why do you still want to go?” When I didn’t answer, he sighed. “When you married into this family, Sophie, you should have known this was part of the deal. Look at Eleanor. She was wilder than you in her youth. But in the end, she held onto the title of Mrs. Vance, and none of his indiscretions, none of those other women, ever truly threatened her. The son she gave him is still the sole heir.” “Do you know why?” he asked. “Why?” “Because I chose her. As long as I back you, as long as I say you are Mrs. Vance, no one can take your place. Those little girls are not a threat.” He leaned forward. “Let’s not talk about feelings. Let’s talk about a transaction. You’ve been brilliant these past few years. You’ve managed the household, the charities, the company’s image… you’ve held it all together. It would be costly and time-consuming to train someone new. You leaving is a bad deal for us. You’re smart enough to know that.” If it was just a transaction, he was right. It was a damn good deal for me. I poured him some tea. “You know,” I said softly, “if it were only about the transaction, I wouldn’t be here right now.” I had considered it. Holding onto the title, the power, the security. Letting him have his fun while I ran the show from behind the scenes. But I didn’t marry Julian to become Mrs. Vance. I became Mrs. Vance because I married Julian. I remember pushing him away before, telling him he wasn’t free to marry who he wanted, so what was the point of dating me? He’d scowled. “Who says I’m not free? If I want to marry you, I’ll find a way. You, on the other hand, look away for one second and you’re ready to marry someone else. Do you think I’m useless?” I didn’t believe him. What way could he possibly find? He never brought it up again. He just quietly took over more and more of Sterling Industries, cementing his power. After graduation, I got a job at Sterling, starting from the bottom. During the day, I was just another intern. At night, Julian would give me private lessons, and I learned the business at lightning speed. By the time marriage came up again, he was in a position where no one dared to argue. But he still respected his grandfather. So, he came up with a plan to force the old man’s hand. “That damn kid,” the old man chuckled now, remembering. “Thought my mind was going. He hired some pretty-boy actor from a C-list agency, held his hand, and threatened to get a marriage license in Vegas. Thought he could shock me. I just played along, called his bluff. And now, just a few years later, he’s making a mess and you’re asking for a divorce.” His face grew serious. “I’ll say this once. If you leave this family, you will not be welcomed back. Be very sure this is what you want.” I lowered my head, the last seven years flashing before my eyes like a movie on fast-forward. “Leaving is something I’ve been waiting three years for.” He waved a tired hand. “Fine. Wrap up your affairs. Someone will be in touch.” When I came downstairs, Eleanor was still on the chaise. I walked to the door, then paused and turned back. “I won’t be here for your birthday this year, but I wish you good health, always.” Then I walked out. The living room was dim, and Eleanor was shrouded in shadows. She watched the silhouette of the woman walking briskly out the door, taking all the light with her. For a moment, she saw a ghost of her younger self, finally escaping. Lena, her aide, leaned in. “Ma’am. It’s late. You should rest.” The room felt darker. Eleanor looked away. “Let’s go.” 4 In the car, I remembered the “affairs” I needed to wrap up. I called the gossip blogger and told him to come pick up his check in the morning. I bought the video and every last photo. Another one of Julian’s messes, cleaned up by me. A few days later, I got a text from Julian. After Isabella’s return, he’d actually been a bit more discreet. Remembering my deal with his grandfather, I told my driver to take a detour and pick Julian up. The address was a private club. The door to the back room was open. A group of his friends were playing poker, and Isabella was among them. She had just won a big hand. The man across from her was fawning. “Bella, you’re on fire tonight! Cleaning us all out. Have a heart, you’re going to take the shirt off my back!” Isabella smiled, about to reply. Just then, Julian looked up and saw me standing in the doorway. He took a drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly. “The hell is wrong with you?” he snapped at his friend. “The real Mrs. Vance is standing right there. You blind? No wonder you can’t win a hand.” The man scrambled to his feet, stammering, “S-Sophie… Mrs. Vance…” Isabella’s face went pale. I knew immediately that Julian had set this up. He did things like this—parading his affairs in front of me, daring me to react, pushing me to leave—but then refusing to actually sign the papers. His logic was twisted but simple. “She’s young, she’s fun to have around, but you don’t marry a girl like that. The Mrs. Vance role is filled. You’re enough.” I scanned the room, left my driver with instructions to bring Julian home later, gave a polite nod, and turned to leave. Before I reached the door, Isabella blocked my path. The eighteen-year-old girl from two years ago was now twenty, poised and polished. She was breathing a little fast. “Mrs. Vance, I’m sorry. I never, ever meant to hurt your family. I tried to leave, to forget him, but I can’t.” Her voice was a soft whisper. “I can’t forget him. I love him so much. But please believe me, I never wanted to break up your home.” “It’s just… we met at the wrong time. If he had met me back then, I could have been Mrs. Vance…” “I’m sorry, I don’t mean it like that. I just… I am sincerely sorry. If there’s a next life, I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” “But in this life,” she looked me in the eye, “I can’t give him back to you. I’m sorry.” I looked her up and down. Two years ago, she was wearing clothes from Forever 21. Now, she was dripping in quiet luxury, from a The Row cashmere sweater to a pair of shoes that cost more than her entire retail salary for three years. There are a lot of Cinderellas in this world. I used to be one. Now, she was auditioning for the part. I didn’t say a word. I wouldn’t dignify her with a response. You don’t try to awaken a conscience in a homewrecker with speeches about morality. If she understood the meaning of the word, she wouldn’t be so thrilled to be a rich man’s mistress. Her voice followed me as I walked away. “You should divorce him! Let him go!” Back in the room, everyone was exchanging nervous glances. Someone finally worked up the courage to look at Julian’s thunderous face. “Jules, man… aren’t you going after her? When a woman gets that angry, she starts talking divorce.” Julian stared at a picture on his phone—an image of the two-hundred-thousand-dollar check I had written. He was silent for a long time. Then he laughed, a short, humorless sound. “Divorce? Good. Finally some peace and quiet.”

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The Story: After the guy I was crushing on shot me down, I went on a commenting rampage in the replies of a male lactation thirst trap. 「Dude, if you’re lactating, go to a hospital.」 「P.S. I’m a doctor.」 A few minutes after I posted it, I got a DM from a stranger. The profile picture was the same as my crush’s. The message said: 「Hi. Can you… can you really fix this?」 1 Ethan had rejected me. Again. It was early fall, that perfect, crisp weather, but he was drowning in a heavy black hoodie, completely hiding his frame. His handsome face, usually framed by nerdy-cute black glasses, looked exhausted. His eyes were downcast. “Chloe,” he mumbled, “I told you. We’re just… not a good match.” I could feel the tears welling up, and I hated it. I looked at him, my vision blurring. “Where are we not a good match? You like me, I know you do…” Ethan looked helpless, his shoulders slumping. He pursed his lips, his voice barely a whisper. “Please don’t cry…” His hand hesitated, then lifted as if to wipe a tear from my cheek. The moment his warm fingertips brushed my skin, he froze, like he’d been electrocuted, and tried to pull back. But I was greedy for the contact. I grabbed his hand, pressing my whole face into his palm. It didn’t last. With a muffled grunt, Ethan yanked his hand away and stumbled back a few steps, clutching his arm to his chest. He saw the hurt on my face and let out a heavy sigh, turning away. He looked… ashamed. “Chloe, you deserve someone better,” he said, his voice raw. “Not… not a freak like me.” He whispered the last two words like a curse. Then, after one last, deep look at me, he turned and practically fled. 2 I went home and bought a six-pack. As I nursed a beer, I replayed every moment with Ethan. We met on a rainy day. He was working part-time at a campus coffee shop. My payment app crashed, and he just paid for my latte himself. He was wearing the standard black employee polo, but on his tall frame, it looked good. He glanced at me, his dark hair falling over his forehead, and then immediately looked away as if I’d burned him. “It’s still pouring out there,” he’d said. “You can take my umbrella.” “What about you?” I’d asked. He kept his eyes down. “It’ll stop soon.” I spent the next week hanging out at that coffee shop until I finally caught his shift again. I gave him back the umbrella and the money for the coffee. Just as I was about to leave, the sky opened up again. I turned around, and he was standing there, holding the umbrella, having taken off his thick glasses. Without them, his eyes were stunning—big and gentle, like a deer’s. He walked me home. Watching his back disappear into the rain, I knew I was a goner. After that, I, a connoisseur of shirtless men on the internet, deleted all my thirst-trap apps. I was going to get Ethan. And I was so sure he liked me, too. When I had cramps, he’d show up with ibuprofen and my favorite takeout. When I was in a bad mood, he’d take me to the movies or to a cat cafe. I thought we were a sure thing. But the first time I confessed, he started pulling away. Rejecting my invitations, taking forever to text back. I considered every possibility. Maybe he was aromantic. Maybe he had a crippling avoidance complex. Maybe, just maybe, he was a giant jerk. But then I got a nasty cold, and he appeared at my door without a word, taking care of me until my fever broke… I just didn’t get it. Why? I took another swig of beer. The image of him running away made my chest ache. I didn’t believe his excuse. You deserve someone better. What a line. It was probably him who wanted someone better. What an asshole. With that thought, I picked up my phone, re-downloaded TikTok, and started scrolling through an endless stream of muscular men in very little clothing. When I landed on a video from the weird “male mommy” niche, something in me snapped. I couldn’t resist leaving a comment. 「Dude, if you’re lactating, go to a hospital.」 「P.S. I’m a doctor.」 After that, I passed out. 3 In the days that followed, my chat with Ethan remained dead silent. It sucked, but life, and my residency, went on. After a soul-crushing week at the hospital, I collapsed onto my couch, and, like an idiot, opened his chat history. 「Hey… what’s up?」 No reply for a long time. I sighed and opened TikTok, ready to lose myself in meaningless eye candy. I noticed my comment from a week ago had blown up with likes. Then I saw a DM notification. A user from my city. Their profile picture… it was the same as Ethan’s. A black cat, curled up asleep. My finger hovered over the message. I tapped. The message read: 「Hi. Can you… can you really fix this?」 I was confused. 「Fix what?」 The reply was instant. 「What you said in the comments.」 I rolled my eyes. It had to be a troll. Still, I played along from a clinical perspective. 「Okay, ma’am, how long has it been since you gave birth?」 Postpartum lactation issues were common. He took a moment to reply. 「I’m a guy.」 I stared at the screen, my patience gone. This was just some weirdo. I typed back three words. 「You’re a creep.」 He didn’t message back. 4 I was missing Ethan like crazy. That weekend, I went back to the coffee shop to see him. But when I asked the manager, she said he’d quit. “It was so sudden, too. He was a great worker. We got way more customers after he started…” I walked out before she could finish, a sour feeling in my stomach. He quit without telling me? Was he really trying that hard to avoid me? Was it all in my head? Did Ethan… never actually like me? I pulled out my phone and typed a message I knew I’d regret. 「You quit without a word.」 「I guess you really hate me that much.」 「I’m done liking you, Ethan.」 I went home, fell into bed, and slept like the dead. 5 When I woke up, still no reply from Ethan. I was used to it by now. I opened TikTok. Before I could even start scrolling, a few red dots popped up on my DMs. It was the same guy. 「Hello. I’m sorry to bother you again.」 「It’s just… I really don’t know what to do.」 A moment later, a picture came through. It was a black t-shirt, tossed on a bed. It looked weirdly familiar. Everything about it was normal, except for a patch of fabric on the chest. It was darker than the rest, a circular stain, like it was soaked with water. I went silent, my medical brain kicking into gear. Theoretically, male lactation could occur, but it was incredibly rare. It was usually linked to severe, prolonged malnutrition, where reintroducing food could trigger hormonal chaos. But the cases were almost nonexistent. 「How long has it been since you ate a proper meal?」 I typed. He replied, 「I eat on time every day. Balanced diet.」 That was strange… 「How long has this been happening? When did it start?」 It took him a minute. 「A while now. I have to change my shirt multiple times a day. If I go out, I have to wear a thick jacket. There’s a lot… and it hurts.」 He paused, then sent another message. 「It started… right after the girl I like confessed to me.」 I slowly typed out a single question mark. 「She told me she liked me, and I was so happy. But then… it started. It wouldn’t stop. My shirt got soaked. I was terrified she’d notice.」 「I thought it was a one-time thing, but it’s been happening ever since. Whenever I think about her, or when we touch… it just… flows.」 I was speechless. I sent back three dots. This had to be a story he was making up. 「I know it sounds fake, but I’m out of options. I’m scared to go to a hospital. I don’t want people to find out, to think I’m some kind of freak…」 I took a sip of water. I must be overtired and hallucinating. Logic wasn’t going to work here. 「Then just stop thinking about her,」 I typed, exasperated. 「I can’t.」 「I thought if I just avoided her, it would get better. But I can’t stop thinking about her.」 I sighed. The fact that I was still engaging proved I wasn’t entirely sane either. 「Then just tell her what’s going on.」 「No. I can’t. She’ll be disgusted…」 I didn’t know if I was going crazy or if the world was. I shook my head, put my phone down, and decided to ignore him. 6 I tried to sleep, but my mind was racing. Male lactation… My thoughts drifted to another galaxy. If this was real, wasn’t this guy basically a fanfiction trope come to life? A “male mommy”? And it only happened when he was around the person he liked? It was so ridiculous it sounded like something straight out of an AO3 tag. It had to be fake. My thoughts slowly drifted back to Earth. And then, I thought about Ethan. He really wasn’t going to message me again. I missed him so much. He had such beautiful, kind eyes. He was always so reserved, so quiet. But when he looked at me, I felt like I was the only person in the world. Sometimes, just looking into his eyes made the exhaustion from a 12-hour shift at the hospital melt away. God, I missed him… What was he doing right now? Was he thinking of anything? I thought I was tough, but tears started to slide down my cheeks. In the hazy space between waking and sleeping, a series of glowing words appeared in the air. 【Ugh, is this all just pining? This is supposed to be smut! I need the plot to move forward!!!】 【Right? Why is the male lead still avoiding her! They need to meet and just DO IT already! I’m getting impatient!】 【Calm down, guys. The female lead doesn’t know he’s avoiding her because he’s literally lactating. She’d lose her mind if she knew. She’s a total sucker for this trope. Once this part of the plot is over, the good stuff is coming!!】 【If she finds out, she’s gonna drain him dry!】 【He’s got such a repressed, sensitive vibe, it’s so hot. Gets all flustered and wet just thinking about her, but he’s terrified she’ll think he’s gross. Little does he know, she just needs to suckle him to stop it!】 What? 7 I shot up in bed, my heart pounding. The words were gone. I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself it was a dream. This is a fanfic? The main characters? And Ethan is that… guy? Impossible. I fell back onto my pillows. It had to be a dream.

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The first time I came home, my adopted sister killed herself. The second time, my brother killed me. He did it in the old family crypt, the air thick with the smell of dust and decay. He was screaming, his face twisted with grief. “Bella would still be here if you hadn’t come back! You took her from me!” His hands were strong, the blade of the hunting knife cold against my throat. I remember the gush of warmth, the sudden, shocking inability to breathe, and the sight of my parents watching from the doorway, their faces blank with a kind of horrible relief. The wrong daughter died, their eyes said. Then, I opened mine. And I was back on a Greyhound bus, the Georgia pines blurring past the window, on my way to meet them for the very first time. 1 The bus hissed to a stop. My foster mom, Sarah, gently shook my arm. “Clara, honey. We’re here. This is Savannah.” My eyes snapped open. I saw the familiar Spanish moss dripping from ancient oaks, the cobblestone square. The Azalea Room. The name on the restaurant awning sent a jolt of ice through my veins. This wasn’t possible. A moment ago, my brother, Preston, had sliced my throat. The pain, the cold spreading through my limbs as I bled out on the stone floor… it was real. I could still feel it. Preston’s voice echoed in my memory, a raw, ragged sound. “Why did you have to come back? After all these years, why couldn’t you just stay lost?” he’d sobbed over my body. “You killed her! It’s your fault Bella is dead! Give me back my Bella!” At Bella’s funeral, my own parents had turned on me, their voices dripping with venom. “It should have been you. If you had never been found, our sweet girl would still be with us.” The irony was suffocating. They were the ones who hired the private investigator. They were the ones who wanted this reunion. Bella was the daughter they chose. I was the one they lost. Kidnapped from a crowded festival when I was five. They mourned, they felt guilty, and then they moved on. It was Preston’s idea. “Mom, Dad,” he’d said, “Clara’s gone. Let’s go to the children’s home. We can find another little girl.” So they went to St. Jude’s Home for Children and adopted an orphan who looked a little like me. They named her Isabella—Bella. They showered her with the love, the apologies, and the future that should have been mine. I, meanwhile, was passed from one hell to another until I finally escaped and ended up on the streets. That’s where Sarah found me. A young widow with a son, Leo, just a year younger than me. She didn’t have much, but she took me in. Life with her wasn’t fancy, but I was never cold, never hungry. I was loved. An art teacher in our small town saw I had a knack for drawing and took me on for free. In return, I cleaned his studio. My whole life, I documented in a sketchbook—the dark moments, the small joys. It was my way of holding onto myself. When I was nineteen, my birth parents, Richard and Eleanor Beaumont, finally found me. They arranged this reunion lunch. Here. At The Azalea Room. The memory of the knife was so sharp it made me gasp. Sarah and I stepped off the bus. The air was thick with humidity and the sweet scent of magnolias. The Beaumonts were one of Savannah’s oldest families, their money stretching back generations. The restaurant was closed for their private event. A snooty waiter took one look at our simple clothes and tried to turn us away. The manager, a man with more sense, rushed over. “I’m sorry, we’re closed for a private party for the Beaumont family.” I stepped in front of Sarah. “We’re here for that party. Richard Beaumont is expecting us.” The manager’s eyes widened as he studied my face. “My God,” he whispered. “You have Mrs. Beaumont’s eyes. You must be… the lost daughter?” I just nodded. “Can we go in now?” “Of course! Right this way, Miss Beaumont!” He led us personally. As we walked up the grand, curving staircase, I turned to Sarah. “Mom, did you bring my sketchbook?” “Right here, honey.” She handed me the worn leather-bound book. “Safe and sound.” I opened it. Page after page of my life, drawn in stark charcoal and pencil. Bella had her own collection, I remembered. Not drawings, but professional photographs. A gallery wall in the Beaumont mansion filled with glossy 8x10s of her birthday parties, family vacations, a perfect life, perfectly captured. It was a Southern tradition, documenting life’s big moments. My sketchbook was the version no one wanted to see. Last time, on this day, Bella had fled the lunch in tears. She’d gone home, locked her door, and swallowed a bottle of pills. When my parents brought me to their mansion, full of forced cheer, their housekeeper ran out, wailing, “It’s Miss Bella! She’s taken pills! She’s not breathing!” They’d screamed for the best doctor in Savannah. “Whatever it costs! Just save our little girl!” But it was too late. Next to her body was a note and that stack of glossy photos. “Mom, Dad, Preston… thank you for giving me a beautiful life. But now the real daughter is back, and it’s time for me to give it all back to her. If there’s a next life, I hope I can be your real daughter…” They had wept, holding those pictures of their perfect family. Preston flew home from college and sat with her body all night, his voice a broken whisper. “I’m here now, Bella. I’m here. Why’d you do it? You should have told me. I would have protected you. I’ll make it right, Bella. I swear, I’ll get revenge for you. Just you wait.” They all blamed me. My return was her death sentence. And so, it became mine, too. I shook off the memory and squeezed Sarah’s hand as we reached the top of the stairs. The manager knocked on the private dining room door. It swung open, and there she was. Eleanor Beaumont. Tears welled in her eyes. “My child! My Clara!” She rushed forward to embrace me. I took a small step to the side. She stumbled, catching herself on the doorframe, a look of confusion on her face. “Clara, it’s me,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s your mother.” Richard Beaumont stood behind her, his face a mask of guilt. “Clara, you’ve suffered so much. We’re here now. We’ll make everything up to you. Come home.” I looked past them, to the girl standing in the corner, dressed in a silk dress that cost more than our monthly rent. Bella. Her face was a perfect portrait of scorn. I brought my gaze back to the Beaumonts. “I didn’t come here to go home with you. I came to tell you I’m staying with my family. The Fosters.” The shock on their faces was almost satisfying. Even Bella looked surprised. Sarah, bless her heart, was horrified. “Clara, no! Your real parents can give you a better life!” I squeezed her arm. “Mom, I’d rather be poor in a home full of love than rich in a house full of ghosts. You raised me. You loved me. Now it’s my turn to take care of you.” Tears filled Sarah’s eyes, this time from pride. Eleanor looked from Sarah to me, a flash of envy in her eyes. “Clara, we will, of course, reward your foster mother handsomely.” Richard signaled to an assistant, who brought forward a heavy briefcase. “Mrs. Foster, please accept this as a small token of our gratitude.” Sarah waved her hands frantically. “Oh, no, I couldn’t. Taking Clara in was the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s a wonderful daughter. I don’t need any money.” My heart swelled. I took my sketchbook and pushed it into Eleanor’s hands. “You gave birth to me, but you didn’t raise me. You missed everything. But I know parents feel what they feel. So here. This is my life. Now you have something to remember me by.” With that, I took Sarah’s arm and walked away. On the bus ride home, Sarah tried to reason with me, afraid I was making a mistake I’d regret. But my mind was made up. Revenge is a dish best served cold, and I was going back to the Beaumonts. But on my terms. Not now. “Mom,” I said, changing the subject. “I got paid for that last commission from Sterling & Co. When we get home, let’s go to the bookstore. Leo’s studying for the bar exam, he could use some new review books.” Sarah sighed. “Clara, honey, you do too much for us. His shelves are already overflowing! You need to save your money for yourself.” She hesitated. “The Beaumonts…” “Mom. Don’t,” I said, my voice firm. “Their money, their world… it’s not a safe place to be.” She nodded. “You’re stubborn, but you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. I trust you.” Back in Savannah, Eleanor opened the sketchbook. She saw the drawing of a little girl with bruises on her back. A teenager working in a field. A young woman huddled in a doorway. The raw, brutal honesty of my life hit her like a physical blow. “My Clara,” she sobbed. “What have they done to you?” Richard was speechless with rage and regret. Bella snatched the book away. “It’s fake! She drew them to make you feel sorry for her!” The assistant, a man who happened to be an amateur artist, stepped forward. “Ma’am, with respect… the technique, the emotion… no one could fake this. These are drawn from memory. From life.” Bella shot him a venomous look. “What did she pay you to say that?” He just shook his head. “The Fosters are dirt poor, Miss Bella. How could they afford a bribe?” Richard’s face crumpled. He remembered. The festival. Preston, a spoiled seven-year-old, had thrown a tantrum, demanding they ride the Ferris wheel with him. They’d left me, just five years old, by the cotton candy stand, telling the vendor to watch me for a minute. When they came back, I was gone. They saw the man carrying me away, but in the chaos of the crowd, they lost us. They’d spent years blaming Preston, punishing him for his selfishness. And they’d poured all their guilt and misplaced love onto Bella. Now, as they flipped through the pages of my stolen childhood, they wept. “We’re so sorry, Clara… you suffered so much…” Bella couldn’t stand it. She ripped the sketchbook from their hands. “Stop it! She doesn’t even want you! Why are you looking at this garbage?” With a furious scream, she tore the pages to shreds. Eleanor, her face still wet with tears, watched the pieces of my life flutter to the floor. The rage that erupted in her was something I’d never seen. She slapped Bella, hard, across the face. “What have you done?” she shrieked. “That was all we had left of her!” Bella had never been disciplined in her life. The slap stunned her into silence, then into a furious, hateful glare directed at the ghost of me. “You hit me? For her?” she sobbed, then turned and ran from the room. Richard sighed, rubbing his temples. “Eleanor, was that necessary?” The anger drained out of her, replaced by regret. “I don’t know. Maybe when Preston gets home, he can take her shopping. Buy her some jewelry.” Richard nodded. “Good idea. I’ll tell him when he gets back from his trip.” 2 A few days later, a luxury car pulled up to our small house. The Beaumonts, bearing expensive gifts. My art had started to sell under a pseudonym, and my jewelry designs were gaining notice. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t destitute anymore, either. I’d fixed up our house. It was clean and cozy, but to their eyes, it was a hovel. “It’s so… small,” Eleanor murmured, wiping away a tear. “And the humidity… Clara, you can’t live like this.” Sarah looked mortified. “If it’s so awful, Mrs. Beaumont, you’re free to leave,” I said coolly. Eleanor looked wounded. Sarah shot me a warning look. “Your mother is just worried about you,” Richard said, trying to smooth things over. “She hasn’t been able to eat or sleep, just thinking about how to get you to come home.” I forced a smile. “I’m happy here.” They didn’t believe me. “What is it you do, exactly?” Richard asked. “I design jewelry,” I said. Eleanor’s eyes lit up. “Jewelry? But… that’s our business! Beaumont Jewels! Clara, you must come work for us.” “Yes!” Richard jumped in. “Come to Beaumont’s. I’ll pay you double whatever Sterling & Co. is giving you!” Money I wasn’t earning wasn’t worth turning down. And this was the perfect way in. I pulled out my contract with Sterling. “They pay me per design, a buyout price. If you’re willing to double this, I’ll consider it.” Richard glanced at the figure and his jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Done.” “Alright,” I said. “I’ll be there tomorrow.” They left, beaming. A moment later, Leo came home from his study group. When Sarah told him the news, his face darkened. “It’s a trap, Clara. First the job, then they’ll pressure you to move in. I don’t want you to go back there.” He looked at me, his expression stormy. “If you go back, I’m… I’m not speaking to you again!” He looked so earnest and upset, like a little boy. I reached out and pinched his cheek, just like I did when we were kids. “Don’t be mad. You’ll get wrinkles and no girl will want to marry a grumpy old man.” Leo froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He batted my hand away. “Hmph. If I can’t get a wife, it’ll be your fault for pinching my face.” “What’s the big deal?” I laughed. “It’s a huge deal!” he muttered, leaning in and whispering something in my ear so quietly I couldn’t make it out. Then he turned and disappeared into his room, leaving me completely baffled. The next day at Beaumont Jewels, Bella was waiting for me, flanked by a furious-looking Preston, just back from his trip. He didn’t even need an introduction. He put a protective arm around Bella and glared at me. “Don’t think because you’re blood you can push Bella around. I only have one sister, and it’s her. Get out of here while you still can, or I’ll make you regret it.” The memory of his knife, the chilling feeling of my life bleeding away, washed over me. Richard walked in just in time to hear Preston’s threat. “What did you just say?” he roared. “That is your sister! How dare you speak to her that way!” “Dad, Preston was just worried about me,” Bella cooed, clinging to Richard’s arm. Preston scowled and stormed out, dragging Bella with him. Later, I learned Richard took me through the history of the company. “Right now,” he said, “Sterling & Co. is our only real competition in Savannah.” I spent the day studying their designs, talking to the staff, even interviewing customers. That evening, I laid out a plan for him. “Give me two years,” I said, “and Sterling & Co. will be a footnote.” He was so impressed, he insisted I come to a family dinner that night. To further my plan, I agreed. At dinner, they brought up the subject of my marriage. “We owe you so much, Clara,” Eleanor said. “The least we can do is find you a suitable husband.” “I have no intention of getting married,” I said flatly. They ignored me. “Wyatt Sterling,” Eleanor mused. “Heir to Sterling & Co. He’s handsome, well-educated. A marriage there would be a fine match for you.” My head spun. They wanted me to marry the son of their biggest rival? Richard nodded. “Your mother is right. If that merger… I mean, marriage… were to happen…” Bella slammed her fork down. “Mother! You said you were going to arrange a meeting for me with Wyatt!” “We did, dear,” Eleanor said gently. “But his mother… she said Wyatt didn’t seem interested.” “What does she know? She’s just his stepmother!” Bella snapped. “Wyatt and I are perfect for each other. He’s taking me to a concert tomorrow!” Eleanor backed down immediately. “Well, alright then. We’ll stick to the original plan.” She gave me an apologetic smile. “Don’t worry, Clara. We’ll find someone else for you.” “Don’t bother,” I said, standing up. “I’m finished.” As I left, Preston got up and followed me out. A moment later, Bella excused herself to “check on her brother.” I was halfway down the block when I realized I’d left the book I’d bought for Leo at the restaurant. As I hurried back, I saw Preston and Bella arguing in a shadowed alleyway. I ducked behind a corner and listened. “Bella, that guy is a shallow playboy. He’s not good enough for you!” Preston hissed. “Oh yeah? And who is? You?” Bella laughed, a bitter sound. “You have a fiancée, Preston! You’re getting married at Christmas!” “That was an arrangement! It means nothing!” he shot back. “You are not marrying Wyatt Sterling! I won’t allow it!” “My marriage is my parents’ business, not yours!” That’s when Preston snapped. He slammed her against the wall and kissed her, a desperate, hungry kiss. I shook my head. Gross. I’m going to need to wash my eyes out. Suddenly, a hand clamped over my mouth and pulled me back into the shadows. I started to struggle, but a familiar voice whispered in my ear. “Shh! It’s me.” Leo. When we were a safe distance away, I spun on him. “Leo? What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be studying?” “Shouldn’t you be just designing?” he retorted, his eyes flashing. “What happened to not going to ‘family dinners’?” He looked hurt. “Liar.” “It’s complicated,” I hedged. He snorted. “And what was that? Spying on people making out?” “I was not spying! I was… passing by!” He didn’t look convinced. “Well, your brother is a real piece of work. And that adopted sister of yours is even worse.” “You’re not wrong,” I sighed. “Let’s just go home.” In the weeks that followed, I produced hit after hit for Beaumont Jewels. Richard was thrilled. He saw me as his golden goose. His plan to acquire Sterling & Co. through marriage was still his primary goal. He and Eleanor were so blinded by greed, they couldn’t see the obvious. Why would the Sterlings agree to give up their flagship company as a dowry gift without asking for Beaumont Jewels in return? It made no sense. But they pushed Bella and Wyatt together, oblivious to the trap being laid. 3 Bella and Wyatt’s “courtship” moved quickly. To rub it in my face, she brought him to the showroom one afternoon. “You see, Clara?” she whispered triumphantly. “You’ll never win. Mom and Dad are mine. Preston is mine. And Wyatt will be mine, too.” “Congratulations,” I said, not looking up from my sketchpad. “You can have them all.” As Wyatt walked through the door, Bella suddenly stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor, her eyes filling with tears. “Sister, why would you push me?” she cried. “I told you I don’t want to fight with you!” I felt my fists clench. Wyatt rushed over and helped her up. I braced myself for his accusation, but instead, he looked at Bella with a cool, appraising eye. “You’re pretty good at that,” he said calmly. “But my stepmother has been pulling that same trick for years. You’ll have to try harder.” Bella stared at him, speechless, her face turning red with humiliation. Wyatt turned to me and smiled. “You must be ‘Aria’,” he said, using my pseudonym. “I’ve admired your work for a long time. It’s a pleasure to finally meet the artist.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost lunch. Would you care to join me at The Azalea Room?” I politely declined. But later, as I was grabbing a quick bowl of soup at a small diner, Wyatt and Bella walked in. “Aria! What a coincidence!” Wyatt said, sliding into the booth across from me. “I’ll have what she’s having.” Bella, ignored, finally exploded. “Clara, you shameless hussy! Wyatt is my fiancé! How dare you try to seduce him!” I put down my spoon. “Did anyone else hear a dog bark?” “Enough!” Wyatt snapped, frowning at Bella. “Are you blind? She was here first. I followed her. And since when are we engaged? We’ve gone out a few times. I’ve paid for everything. Don’t go making up stories.” He looked at me. “Aria, for the record, Miss Beaumont and I are barely acquaintances.” I didn’t care. It was obvious why he was interested in me. The day after the disastrous reunion, the Beaumonts had planted a story in the local paper about their long-lost daughter returning. Everyone in Savannah knew who I was. I had the Beaumont name, plus a talent Bella could only dream of. For the heir of Sterling & Co., I was the far more valuable asset. Bella’s face was crimson. “Barely acquaintances? Is that what you call what we did last night?” she shrieked. I blinked. Was she really airing their dirty laundry in public? Even if it worked and shamed him into marrying her, he’d resent her forever. She was sacrificing her reputation for a man who clearly didn’t respect her. “Fine, Wyatt. Just fine!” she sobbed, then shot me a look of pure hatred. The waiter brought Wyatt’s soup, steam rising from the bowl. In one swift motion, Bella grabbed it and threw it at my face. I dodged. The hot liquid splashed all over Wyatt’s arm and expensive shirt. “You crazy bitch!” he yelled at her. I calmly paid my bill, asked the waiter for another bowl of soup, walked over to the still-fuming Bella, and poured it directly over her head. She was so stunned, she didn’t even move. “Bella,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. “I always pay my debts. You come after me again, and I promise you, it won’t be soup next time.” Then I walked out. That afternoon, she showed up at the studio, Preston in tow. “Preston, she poured soup on me! In front of everyone! You have to make her pay!” Preston’s face was thunderous. “Clara! Get over here and apologize to Bella!” He turned to his sister, his voice softening. “You go get a pot of hot tea, Bella. You can do the same thing to her. I’m right here. No one will touch you.” “Are you insane?” I said. “She threw it at me first! She should be apologizing to me!” “I don’t care! You must have provoked her,” he snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of the ornamental dagger he sometimes wore on his belt. “I’m not going to say it again. Get on your knees and apologize.” “I could say it a hundred times, and my answer would still be no.” I took a deep breath, playing my part. “I don’t understand, Preston. I’m your real sister. Why do you hate me so much?” “My sister?” he sneered. “You’re not worthy.” “It was because of you that I was kidnapped,” I said, letting my voice tremble. “I thought when I came back, you’d be sorry. That you’d ask for my forgiveness.” His face contorted with rage. “Sorry? I have nothing to be sorry for! Do you know how many times Mom and Dad beat me over that? How many years they blamed me?” He laughed, a chilling sound. “Honestly, Clara, I wish you had died out there. I wish you’d ended up one of those crippled beggars on the street!” “You’re a monster,” I whispered, letting tears well in my eyes. He grabbed my arm and threw me to the floor. “You wanted to come back so badly? Fine. I’ll make sure every day of your life here is a living hell.” As he loomed over me, I kept my eyes on his twisted face, but in my peripheral vision, I saw what I was waiting for: the corner of a tailored suit jacket, just outside the doorway. Bella came rushing in with a steaming teapot, a triumphant smirk on her face. “This is boiling hot, Clara. Say goodbye to that pretty face. You deserve this!” “STOP!” Richard Beaumont’s roar echoed through the studio. Startled, Bella dropped the teapot. It shattered on the floor, splashing boiling water all over her feet. She screamed in agony. Preston rushed to her side, but Richard grabbed him and slapped him so hard he stumbled. “You monster! How could you treat your sister this way?” “Dad, it’s not what it looks like!” Preston stammered. “We were just… inviting her to dinner!” “Liar!” Richard was shaking with fury. “I heard everything! You resented us all these years! You wished your own sister dead!” Preston’s face went pale. “You were outside? You heard…?” He whirled on me. “You! You set me up! You knew he was coming!” I shook my head, looking innocent. “I report to Mr. Beaumont at this time every day. I’m not a mind reader. How could I possibly know he’d come looking for me?” Richard nodded, buying it completely. “Don’t you dare try to blame her!” he bellowed, slapping Preston again. “I have no son! Get out of my sight! Get out!” As Preston carried the shrieking Bella out of the studio, he shot me a look over his shoulder. A look that promised murder. I knew then, with absolute certainty, he was a madman. But this time, I would be ready. This time, he would be the one who wouldn’t walk away.

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I lost Leo for seven years before we finally got it right. But we only had three years together before stomach cancer took him from me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the year he hated me most. A much younger Leo was spitting venom, breaking my heart all over again. So I grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt and kissed him. Leo: ? I was defiant. “We broke up. Doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you. Any questions?” 1 “…Let’s just break up, Leah. I’ve had enough.” The icy words pierced through the fog in my head. I snapped my eyes open. The dim yellow streetlight outside his walk-up apartment cast long shadows. Before me was Leo’s face—handsome, sharp, but now covered in a layer of frost. Except, he was a full decade younger. I felt a wave of dizziness. A second ago, I was in a hospital ICU. The Leo in that bed was a skeleton, his body ravaged by disease. He held my hand, using the last of his strength to whisper, “If we could do it all over again… I wouldn’t want to waste those seven years without you.” A tear rolled down my cheek. He took his last breath in my arms. And now— I was back. Back ten years, to the moment he hated me more than anyone in the world. “…From now on, we go our separate ways. I don’t want to see—” I didn’t let him finish. I grabbed the collar of his worn band t-shirt, stood on my toes, and crushed my lips against his. This soft, warm feeling… it had been so long. So different from the chapped, frail, medicine-tinged kisses I remembered. Right now, he was young, alive. Pulsing with a vibrant energy that I ached for. A greedy hunger rose in me, and I bit down, hard. “Hiss—” I broke the skin on his lip. The coppery taste of blood bloomed between us. He flinched, as if jolted from a trance, his pupils constricting in shock. “Are you insane?” He stumbled back a step, the tips of his ears burning red, his voice unsteady. “I said we’re breaking up! Can’t you understand English?” The me from ten years ago would have had her pride shattered. She would have turned and walked away without a word. But I wasn’t her. Because of this stupid, prideful breakup, Leo and I wasted seven years. Seven years he spent burying himself in work and self-destruction, numbing the pain until his body finally gave out, earning him a stage-four stomach cancer diagnosis. It meant that after we finally found our way back to each other, we only had three short years before we were separated by death. This time, I wasn’t letting him go. I licked my lips, savoring the taste of him. I looked up at him and smiled. “We broke up. Doesn’t mean I can’t kiss you. Any questions?” “You—” “You what?” I stepped forward, poking a finger into his tense chest. Suddenly, I felt a little pissed off. The Leo from seven years later would have treated me like a fragile piece of glass, like I was the most precious thing in the world. He wouldn’t be acting like this, all angry and mean, not even letting me kiss him. “Stop pretending,” I said, my finger tracing a path up his chest to his heart. “It hurts right here, doesn’t it? Like you can barely breathe. Admit it, Leo. You don’t want to break up with me any more than I do.” He froze for a second, then his face hardened again. “Who said that? Leah, don’t be so full of yourself.” “You did,” I said, my gaze locked on his. “See, the thing is, I’m from ten years in the future. And in that future, you regret this exact moment so much you come crawling back, begging me to take you back.” “That’s impossible!” he shot back, his voice a low, urgent whisper. “Leah, we’re at the end of the line. Is there any point in making up ridiculous stories like that just to lie to yourself?” Ugh. He was so stubborn. Not like the future him, who would curl up in my arms like a big, contented dog if I so much as crooked my finger. But still. After everything we went through, I knew exactly what was going on in that head of his. No matter how harsh his words were, I wasn’t scared. “Leo, I’m going to ask you one more time. Why are you breaking up with me?” He looked away, his tone clipped. “I told you. I’m tired of it. I’m bored. It’s just not working anymore.” “Liar.” I smiled, my thumb gently dabbing the corner of his lip where I’d bitten him. His face flushed, and he grabbed my wrist. “Just talk. Stop touching me!” “We’re breaking up. Shouldn’t I get in a few last touches while I can?” “…” He went silent, but he didn’t fight me anymore. The grip on my wrist loosened just a little. I took my chance, tracing a line on the inside of his warm palm. I felt his whole body tense up again, and I continued, satisfied. “You think you’re so good at hiding things, Leo? You’re doing this because you saw my father a couple of days ago, aren’t you?” Leo’s head snapped up. His eyes were wide with disbelief. “You… you knew?” I nodded, meeting his gaze calmly. “I don’t just know that. I also know you plan on destroying my father’s company to get revenge for your dad.” His pupils shrank. It was the raw, naked shock of someone whose deepest secret has just been ripped open for the world to see. I raised my hand, ignoring his rigid posture. My fingertips greedily traced his tense jawline, feeling the strong, youthful pulse beneath his skin. “It’s okay, Leo. Ruin it. “I’ll help you.” 2 Last time, when Leo forced this breakup on me, I had no idea why. I just assumed he’d fallen out of love with me. I had my pride. He said it was over, so I walked away. But I could never figure it out. The boy who once treated me like I was the center of his universe… How did he turn into this cold stranger overnight? After two weeks of agony, I couldn’t take it anymore and went to find him. That’s when I discovered he’d already left the country. Without so much as a goodbye. It wasn’t until we got back together seven years later that Leo finally told me the truth. That year, his father was betrayed by a business partner, left with crushing debt, and jumped from the roof of his office building. His mother couldn’t handle the grief and followed him soon after. Overnight, his family was destroyed, and he was an orphan. And that business partner who ruined his father… Was my father. Leo didn’t know at first. It wasn’t until our college graduation day, when he saw my dad show up to celebrate with me, that the world came crashing down on him. He hated my father with every fiber of his being. And by extension, he started to hate me, too. Pushing me away was the only choice he thought he had. … The tide of memories receded. I looked up at the shocked, lost boy in front of me. “Since you know everything…” his voice was hoarse, like he was forcing the words out. “You should understand what’s between us. It’s a blood feud, Leah. We… we can’t.” Every word was a struggle. He was sentencing both of us to death. “Logically, you’re right,” I nodded. But in the next second, I stepped closer, tilting my head up, my gaze stubbornly fixed on his. “But Leo… “Can you really, truly stop yourself from loving me?” His breath hitched. He didn’t speak. His eyes just darted back and forth, like I’d exposed his most private, shameful secret, and he looked away, flustered. “I’ve said what I needed to say. We shouldn’t see each other again.” He dropped those words and turned to leave. I didn’t try to stop him. I just followed him, strolling casually behind. Leo’s back stiffened. He turned around, frowning. “Why are you still following me?” “I still have stuff at your place,” I said with a breezy smile. “No matter what, you have to let me come up and get my things, right?” We had just graduated. This was a new apartment he’d just rented. Truthfully, I lived at home, so I didn’t really have anything here. It was just an excuse. Leo obviously knew it. His jaw tightened, his posture defensive, almost wary. “What stuff? Tell me, I’ll get it for you.” “You?” I raised an eyebrow, dragging out the word. “You’re so clumsy. What if you break something? I need to get it myself.” He glared at me, his chest rising and falling. In the end, he lost the battle, silently letting me follow him up the stairs. However. The moment the door opened, I didn’t say a word. I just took a running leap. And landed, spread-eagled, on his big bed. “Weren’t you going to pack your things?” Leo’s voice was tight with suppressed anger. I rolled over, grinning at him. “I am. “I’m planning on packing up all my stuff and moving in with you.” The color drained from Leo’s face. 3 “Leah!” His face was beet red. “We’ve already broken up! Is it appropriate for you to live here?” “Why not?” I arched an eyebrow. “If I don’t keep an eye on you, you’ll be on a plane out of the country within a month.” His eyes widened. “How… how did you know that?” “I told you, I’m from the future. You don’t believe me?” He turned his head, stubborn. “It’s not hard to figure out. The company I just started at is taking applications for overseas posts. Anyone could find that out if they asked around.” “Oh?” I smiled, slowly sitting up and inching towards him. “Well, I also know that you have a tiny red mole right where your V-line ends, in a very… private spot. “Can you find that out by asking around?” Leo was stunned. His face went from red to crimson, all the way to his ears. For the four years we were in college, our relationship was the definition of innocent. We’d never crossed that line. We’d planned to get a place after graduation, maybe unlock some new, more exciting… positions. But we broke up before we got the chance. In the future, though, after we got back together, we explored every inch of each other’s bodies. I knew him better than he knew himself. I teased him. “Oh? Is there no mole?” As I spoke, my fingers hooked onto the waistband of his jeans, just under his t-shirt. And gave them a little tug. Leo’s breathing immediately grew heavier. His body went rigid with a mixture of defensiveness and resistance, but he didn’t push me away. That conflict—wanting to say no but being physically unable to—made his whole body tense. “When… when did you see that?” he asked, his voice raspy. “You’re my man. Can’t I look?” My fingertips grazed his skin. “I didn’t just look. I also know where you’re sensitive.” My hand moved with expert precision to that ticklish spot on his side, and I gave a gentle pinch. “Ngh…” A shudder ran through him, a low, suppressed groan escaping his throat. The twenty-two-year-old Leo was so much more innocent than the thirty-year-old version. He stood no chance against this kind of teasing. The memories of those three years of intimacy made me an expert on his reactions. In a few practiced moves, I had his shirt off. I missed him so much. I missed this healthy, vibrant body, full of life. The memories of our passion, of our tangled limbs and shared heat, felt so far away. “Don’t, we can’t…” He seemed to regain a sliver of rationality, trying to resist. I pinned his struggling hands, my breath hot against his ear. “Leo, you want me too, don’t you? “Otherwise, why didn’t you stop me just now? “With your strength, you could push me away in a heartbeat. “You… you were enjoying it too much to stop, weren’t you?” That last question was the final straw. Leo’s defenses, torn between love and hate, came crashing down. He covered his face. Tears started streaming from his eyes without warning. His voice was filled with helpless despair. “Leah, why are you doing this to me? I can’t get over what happened. I can’t love you… “It took… it took everything I had to say those words to you… that was all the strength I had left. “If you do this… what am I supposed to do?” Seeing his breakdown, my own frantic desire cooled instantly. Right. I couldn’t demand that this version of Leo—the one being torn apart by love and hate—be the same as the one whose wounds had been softened by seven years of time. Pushing him like this would only cause him more pain. “Okay, you’re right. I was lying.” I let him go, my thumb gently wiping away his tears, my voice softening. “The truth is, in the future, you didn’t come back because you loved me. You came back because you hated me.” “You hated me so much… you locked me up. Made me your plaything.” “You’d hit me with your belt, lock my hands in cuffs, torture me in every way you could think of until I was begging for death.” “You didn’t choose to love me. You chose to get revenge. To unleash all your hate on me.” I sighed, trying to give him an excuse, a way to lessen his guilt. “Does that make it easier for you to stop torturing yourself?” Leo’s crying stopped. He stared at me with red-rimmed eyes, as if trying to process what I’d just said. I sighed again, not wanting to force him anymore. I was about to get up. But he suddenly grabbed my wrist. The world spun, and he had me pinned beneath him again. Our breaths mingled, hot and heavy. His eyes were a storm of hate and desire, threatening to swallow me whole. “Leah, Leah…” he gritted out my name, his voice raw. “I fucking… hate you so much.” He pulled his belt from his jeans. Gently, with a slight tremor, he slapped it against the side of my thigh. That familiar, thrilling sensation sent shivers of pleasure straight to my scalp. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my gaze locking with his. “You can… go harder.” But Leo looked away, refusing to meet my eyes. He pressed my face into the pillow. “Don’t look at me like that!” His voice was low and savage. “This is punishment!” My heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest. The thirty-year-old Leo loved this position. The younger version had no technique, all clumsy and awkward. But he had a reckless, untamed energy. He was like a wild animal that had lost control, crashing into me again and again. There were no kisses, only bites. No words of love, only ragged breaths. It was as if he was trying to pour all his suppressed love and hate into my body. Until finally, everything fell silent. Leaving only the sound of our pounding hearts and damp, heavy breathing. He was still on top of me, refusing to move away. Refusing to even look at me. As if that would be enough to maintain his last shred of self-deception. 4 The room was a mess. I lay there, completely satisfied, savoring the feeling of having him back. Beside me, however, Leo was tossing and turning like a pancake on a griddle, unable to sleep. After a long while, he asked me, his voice muffled from behind. “Why are you… so good at this? “Where did you learn all these tricks?” I smiled. In our past life, Leo and I had gotten pretty creative. It was easy to give this inexperienced version of him a little shock. I turned over and stole a quick kiss. “The future you was a very good teacher. “If you want to learn, I can teach you. Slowly.” “No,” he said, his face cold as he turned away. “I’m just using you. Humiliating you. This isn’t about pleasure.” I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself. It was so ridiculous I almost laughed out loud. I suppressed a smile and wrapped my arms around his warm, firm waist from behind. “Mmm, you’re right. Next time… please, feel free to use me even more.” His body tensed. He grabbed my arms to stop me from hugging him tighter. “Don’t hold me. We’re not in that kind of relationship anymore.” I decided to play along. “But in the future, as part of my punishment, you made me sleep like this every night.” “You said my body would press against my hands and I wouldn’t be able to sleep well, that it was a good way to torture me with insomnia.” His resisting hands slowly went limp. I smiled and hugged him tighter. This time, he didn’t fight back. And for the first time in a long time, I could finally get a good night’s sleep. During the final days of his cancer, I lived in constant fear of losing him. I hadn’t had a peaceful night’s sleep in what felt like an eternity. But now, holding his hot, powerful body, I finally felt safe. For the first time in ages, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. …Well, not entirely dreamless. I saw the Leo from my past life again. He had just been diagnosed. He held the report, tried to smile at me, but his eyes were already red. “If I’d known, I never would have come back to find you. I wouldn’t have dragged you into this suffering with me…” He stroked my face. “If I go… I can’t leave you alone. I’m worried…” “Then don’t go!” I clung to his hand, my tears falling onto his skin. “Leo, we’ll fight this. We’ll be okay, I know we will…” But it was too late. In the seven years we were apart, he had destroyed his body with work and alcohol. The damage was done. By the time we found it, there was nothing to do. In just six months, he was gone. So this time, I won’t make the same mistake. He couldn’t bear to leave me, so I won’t listen to his proud, stubborn words. Even if it’s through “hate.” I will stay by his side. Watch over him, protect him. Make sure he has three warm meals a day. Make sure he lives a long, long life.

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Right before Thanksgiving break, I stumbled onto a post on our college’s subreddit: [Title: AITA for wanting my childhood friend to give me his concert tickets?] The post was about a trip to Savannah. The OP wanted to go with her best friend, but the last two tickets were bought by her childhood guy friend and his girlfriend. I scrolled through the comments, and they were piling up fast. [Top Comment]: > “Dude, it’s his childhood bestie, he should totally let her have them. Bros before… you know.” [OP’s Reply]: > “Ugh, I know, right? But I’m worried his girlfriend will flip out. She’s… let’s just say she’s super possessive.” [Another Comment]: > “Sounds like the perfect test of loyalty! If he picks his GF over you, then you know where you stand. Drop him.” The OP shot back immediately: [OP’s Reply]: > “No way, he’d never do that. We’ve known each other for almost twenty years, we were basically inseparable growing up. He’ll always have my back!” … I frowned, scrolling down. The OP’s tone felt weirdly familiar. Just then, a text message popped up on my screen. It was from my boyfriend, Ryan. [Ryan]: “Hey babe, change of plans for Thanksgiving. Forget Savannah… what do you think about a road trip to Texas?” 1 The day before break, my roommate and I had just gotten back from a vintage shop downtown. I’d found the perfect sundress for walking through the historic streets of Savannah and couldn’t wait to show Ryan. I was fresh out of the shower, about to FaceTime him, when I saw that Reddit post. Since Ryan and I had already—after weeks of waiting on a notification list—snagged tickets for a popular Savannah ghost tour, my curiosity was piqued. I kept reading. [Comment]: > “Wait, are you seriously asking him to cancel his trip with his girlfriend for you?” [Another Comment]: > “I mean, maybe they can talk it out. What if she didn’t even want to go to Savannah that bad?” [Reply]: > “It’s the day before a major holiday break. Who in their right mind cancels a sold-out trip at the last minute? No one.” Ryan and I had practically prayed for those tickets to come through. I couldn’t agree more, so I upvoted the comment. As I did, I noticed the OP had upvoted the comment right below it. [Comment]: > “It’s an unspoken rule. The childhood friend card trumps everything. Just ask him for the tickets, straight up.” [Reply]: > “Seriously! My guy friend and I are the same way. I suddenly wanted to go to Miami for Spring Break last year, but flights were sold out. I called him, laid on the charm, and he canceled the tickets he’d bought for his entire frat group. Me and my sorority sisters snatched them right up. They treat me like a queen now lol.” The sheer audacity of that comment was flooring. It was quickly becoming the most controversial one on the thread. [Reply to the Reply]: > “That’s next-level evil. And you’re proud of it?” [Reply to the Reply]: > “Hope your ‘guy friend’ didn’t get his ass kicked by his frat brothers.” I was getting secondhand rage just reading it, upvoting every single comment calling her out. But then I saw the OP had replied just a few minutes ago: [OP’s Reply]: > “Well, the main issue is his girlfriend getting mad. She’s… ugh… so petty. I accidentally took a sip from his water bottle in front of her once and she threw a fit, threatened to break up with him. It was a whole drama scene. So annoying.” She followed it up with a cat-sipping-tea meme. [Reply to OP]: > “Girl, that just means you have all the power. What’s she gonna do when she finds out you were his first kiss? She’ll probably explode.” [OP’s Reply]: > “OMG for real! We were each other’s first everything back in middle school. He’d never pick her over me.” [Reply to OP]: > “Then go get your tickets, girl! What are you waiting for?~” I felt sick to my stomach by the end of the thread. I remembered my boyfriend’s childhood friend, Hailey, had that same entitled way of talking to him. I was about to screenshot the whole disaster and send it to Ryan for a laugh when his text came through first. [Ryan]: “Hey babe, change of plans for Thanksgiving. Forget Savannah… what do you think about a road trip to Texas?” 2 My heart dropped. The Reddit post flashed in my mind. I deleted the screenshots I was about to send. Then I remembered Ryan swearing up and down that I was his first real love, his first everything that mattered. I’d even jokingly confirmed it with his friends. The doubt subsided, just a little. [Me]: “Why? You know how excited I was for Savannah. I even bought a new dress for it.” I sent him the picture my roommate had taken of me at the shop earlier. I have a curvy figure, and the sundress fit me perfectly. Ryan had always been vocal about how much he loved my body. The three dots appeared, then disappeared. He was hesitating. For a long moment, there was nothing. Finally, a new text came in. [Ryan]: “You know I’m from Texas, babe. I want to show you where I grew up. Besides… my parents really want to meet you.” I frowned at my phone. Ryan and I had met online, in a group chat for incoming freshmen. I was into his abs and his deep voice; he was into my face and my figure. We both thought it would just be a casual hookup. But then we ended up in the same English class, and during freshman orientation week, he was so sweet and protective. He stood up for me when a drill sergeant-wannabe orientation leader was giving me a hard time, and he was always showing up with cold water and a portable fan. I fell for him, hard. The only downside? Hailey. His clingy childhood best friend. But even with her buzzing around, we’d only been dating a few months. We were nineteen. It was way too soon to meet the parents. [Me]: “Meeting your parents is a big step. Why don’t you just tell them I’ll visit some other time? We’re going to Savannah.” In the few months we’d been together, Ryan had been pretty agreeable to whatever I wanted, so I didn’t even consider he’d say no. I put my phone down and started packing. When I picked it up again, my blood ran cold. [Ryan]: “About that… babe, I already canceled the tickets. I bought us two bus tickets to Texas instead. If you don’t want to go, I guess we’ll just have to stay on campus.” 3 The Savannah tour tickets had gone on sale at 8:30 AM. I was in a chem lab at the time and couldn’t use my phone, so I’d left it all to Ryan. When he couldn’t get them, he put us on the waitlist. I never imagined he’d cancel them on his own. A knot of anger tightened in my stomach. Something felt very, very wrong. I went back to the Reddit thread. The original post had been edited half an hour ago. [EDIT]: “Update: Talked to him and we got the tickets! To everyone in the comments hating, you’re probably just jealous you don’t have a guy best friend who adores you~” I scrolled down and saw the angry comments I’d upvoted had all been deleted by the OP. My eyes landed on her comment about drinking from his water bottle. Suddenly, a memory from a month ago clicked into place. I’d seen Hailey drink from Ryan’s water bottle. It was during a campus-wide scavenger hunt, and Ryan’s excuse was that Hailey and her friend had run out of water and were desperate. I was thirsty and miserable too, so I let it slide with a fake pout. I never thought it wasn’t a one-time thing. It was just one of many times, and the only one I happened to witness. Thank God I’m not the type to share drinks. The thought of his childhood friend’s mouth on the same bottle that I might have drunk from was disgusting. Every piece fit. I’m not the kind of person who lets things go. I act. Immediately, I screenshotted everything and fired them off to Ryan. [Me]: “Is this Hailey’s post? So not only did you give her our tickets, but you two were each other’s ‘first everything’? What happened to swearing on your mother’s life that I was your first love? Did you forget that part?” 4 The silence from his end was deafening. Just as I was about to storm over to his dorm, my roommate grabbed my arm. “Chloe, have you seen Hailey’s Instagram? That photo she just posted… it looks exactly like the one I took of you today.” She paused. “And, uh… Ryan liked it.” Hailey was our class president, so almost everyone in our year followed her. I’d never liked her vibe, so we didn’t even follow each other. I snatched my roommate’s phone. It was a classic nine-photo grid. The caption was a lyric from some indie song: “The sky waits for the rain, and I wait for you.” The grid had a screenshot of the Savannah tour confirmation, some aesthetic photos of Savannah’s cobblestone streets, and right in the center, a familiar picture of a girl in a sundress. It was my picture. The one I had just sent to Ryan. Except my face was blurred out, leaving only my body on full display. Practically our entire class had liked it. The comments were mostly from guys. [Comment]:- “Damn Hailey, didn’t know you were hiding all that.” [Comment]:- “Filters doing God’s work lol. Jk jk, you’re a total smoke show! Btw, can we get an extension on that poli-sci paper? I’m dying over here.” [Comment]:- “Whoa, when did you stop wearing your usual edgy stuff? This look is so different for you.” That last comment made my stomach clench. I scrolled down her feed. And there it was. A whole collection of familiar outfits. Because I’m a bit reserved in person but still wanted to feel confident, I’d bought a bunch of trendy, “hot girl” outfits. I rarely wore them out, but I always took pictures for Ryan. Only for Ryan. And he had turned around and given every single one of them to Hailey to post as her own. I saw his username liking every post, commenting “Gorgeous 🔥” under each one. A white-hot rage shot through me. My roommate saw the look on my face. “Chloe… please don’t tell me she’s using your photos to catfish someone or something.” Her voice was laced with worry. “And Ryan… why would he help her do that?” “I’m going to his dorm right now,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. I grabbed my jacket. Then, on an impulse, I shot a text to my own childhood best friend, Jax. His dad had just donated a new library to the university, and he had a whole crew of biker wannabes who followed him everywhere. [Me]: “Get off your damn bike and get back to campus. I’ve got two people who need a reality check.” Hey, who said only guys could have a ride-or-die childhood friend? 5 Ryan came down from his dorm pretty quickly. He’d just showered; a white towel was slung around his neck, and his dark hair was still wet. “Babe, listen, I wasn’t trying to lie to you,” he started, holding his phone up like a shield. “I just know how girls can be about exes and firsts, and I didn’t want you to get upset. I was with Hailey in the study lounge when the ticket notification came through. She grabbed my phone and canceled them. It was her. If you’re mad, I’ll make her switch them back, okay?” I didn’t believe a word he was saying. But it was getting dark, and his dorm was in a more isolated part of campus. I’m just a girl; Ryan was pure muscle. He might act easygoing, but I’d seen his temper. During orientation week, he’d gotten into a fight with three upperclassmen who were hazing freshmen and laid all of them out, not caring about the consequences. Until Jax got here, I needed to play it cool. I kept my voice even. “If Hailey can just grab your phone and do whatever she wants, then I guess nothing of mine is safe with you. That debit card I lent you? I want it back. Now.” I held out my hand. I’m an only child, and my parents spoil me rotten. They’d transferred my entire four-year college fund—fifty thousand dollars—onto a debit card for me. Ryan came from a low-income, single-parent family. Two weeks ago, his mom was diagnosed with cancer and needed emergency surgery. They couldn’t raise the money, so he came to me. Not knowing the exact cost and not wanting to delay her treatment, I just gave him the card. But after the surgery, he never mentioned giving it back. I figured there were still bills for medicine and hospital stays, so I didn’t push it. Now that we were breaking up, I wanted it back. At the mention of the card, Ryan’s face changed. “Do you need it right now?” His hesitation confirmed my worst fear. My voice shot up, the anger finally breaking through. I swung my purse and hit him squarely on the head. “Don’t tell me you gave the card to Hailey! Ryan, are you her freaking dog?!” His strength was way more than mine. He easily grabbed my wrists, his brow furrowed. “You hadn’t asked for it back in weeks,” he said, his tone turning accusatory. “Hailey mentioned she wanted to buy a few things, so I let her borrow it. Don’t worry, she’s really frugal. She survives on like, two hundred bucks a month from her parents. She wouldn’t waste your money.” That last part sounded like he was calling me spoiled and petty. I almost laughed. “Ryan, that card was a loan. To you. What right do you have to give my money to someone else? And Hailey lives on two hundred a month? Is that why she’s constantly posting designer makeup hauls on her Instagram story?” I pulled up the screenshots my roommate had sent our group chat, where we’d been complaining about Hailey’s obvious lies, and shoved the phone in his face. I used to wonder how Hailey, who supposedly grew up as poor as Ryan, could afford such a lavish lifestyle. Now I knew. She was funding it with my money.

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I was scrolling through Reddit when a post from a legal advice forum caught my eye. It was from my cousin, Ashley, who lives with us. [How do I prevent a manipulative cousin from inheriting my parents’ money?] I was confused. Her family lives in a double-wide trailer in Ohio. Why would she think I’d want a piece of that? The comments were what you’d expect: reassuring her that a cousin has no legal claim, that she was worrying over nothing. But then she replied, a little too eagerly: [Are you sure? I mean, we’re first cousins, practically sisters. That’s not a total stranger, legally speaking. Nothing’s ever 100%, right?] And just like that, I understood. The person trying to inherit someone else’s money… was her. 1 Reading the full post from my cousin’s burner account was a gut punch. [I’m an only child (24F). My dad is in international real estate, and my mom is a partner at her firm. We’re in the nine-figure club, so my inheritance is more than enough for several lifetimes.] [The problem is my cousin (23F). She’s lived with us for years. She’s smarter than me, more successful… basically the daughter every parent dreams of. My mom adores her, honestly more than she seems to adore me.] [How do I stop this cousin, who is a huge threat to me, from getting her hands on my family’s estate?] My head was spinning. The family background she was describing was obviously mine. And the “smarter, more successful, more loved” cousin she was pretending to be… was me. She was posting as me to get advice on how she could screw me over. The comment section was a mix of legal advice and common sense: > [OP, you’re probably young. A cousin has zero inheritance rights unless they are specifically named in a will. Relax.] > [Your first priority should be getting her out of your house. She’s freeloading on your family’s resources. The inheritance isn’t a real issue.] But Ashley’s replies were frantic: > [Are you sure? I mean, we’re first cousins, practically sisters. That’s not a total stranger, legally speaking. Nothing’s ever 100%, right?] The commenters were getting annoyed: > [Are you trolling or just legally illiterate? Your parents’ assets have nothing to do with your cousin. This is textbook paranoia.] > [Yeah, the only way is if your parents write her into the will. The chances of that are basically zero.] Ashley kept pushing: > [A will is unlikely. My mom might, but my dad never would. There’s no blood relation. Are there any other ways? Loopholes?] Then, someone posted the comment that changed everything: > [Theoretically, it’s not impossible. In extreme cases, there’s a concept called ‘heir by proxy’ or per stirpes distribution…] Ashley replied instantly: [OMG tell me more! I’m DMing you, please accept. This is urgent.] The thread quickly turned on her: > [Wait a second… it feels like you’re desperately trying to find a way for your cousin to inherit the money.] > [LOL, busted. You’re the cousin, aren’t you?] 2 Across the dinner table, Ashley angrily locked her phone and slammed it face down. My mom finally looked up from her own phone, tapping the table. “Chloe, can you put that away? Look at your cousin. Ashley knows that dinnertime is for family.” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “You never FaceTime me when you’re at school,” she continued, her voice layered with guilt. “You’re finally home for the summer. Can’t you just be present? Once Ashley leaves for college next year, how many of these family dinners will we have left?” It was just the three of us at a massive ten-person table. Some “family dinner.” Ashley immediately softened her expression, turning to my mom with a syrupy sweet smile. “Oh, Aunt Linda, Chloe and I are different. When I’m in Europe, I’ll be calling you every single day. You’ll probably get sick of me.” She shot a smug look in my direction. “I mean, it’s just undergrad. How busy can you be? If someone doesn’t have time for a single call, it’s because they don’t want to make time.” 3 She was right. I rarely called my mom. She shipped me off to boarding school in the first grade and had me studying abroad before I was even eighteen. We saw each other a few times a year. We weren’t close. Beyond a quick “I’m alive and well,” I never knew what to say to her. Ashley was a different story. Ever since my uncle had another kid—a boy, of course—my mom brought Ashley, then a senior in high school, to live with us. Since then, this house had been filled with their laughter and inside jokes. Maybe I’m just emotionally detached, but their closeness never really bothered me. My mom supported me financially, giving me the freedom to pursue my master’s at an Ivy League school without worrying about loans. So I didn’t care that she gave Ashley the warmth and attention she never gave me. I didn’t even mind that she was footing the bill for Ashley’s entire life, including her new plan to study abroad. As long as it didn’t affect me, I figured it was her money. If Ashley could keep my mom happy, fine. I was even okay with her getting a nice chunk of cash to start her life. But now, seeing that post, I knew she wasn’t satisfied with a few hundred thousand. She wanted it all. A comment from that thread echoed in my head: Your first priority should be getting her out of your house. Damn right. This greedy parasite had to go. And she wasn’t getting another dime. 4 I casually took a bite of asparagus. “Oh, by the way, Mom. You asked me to look into the university Ashley got into. I did.” I paused for effect. “It’s a diploma mill. An unaccredited online university with a fancy name. Her degree won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on. That eighty-thousand-dollar tuition? You might as well just set it on fire.” My mom froze, a forkful of salmon halfway to her mouth. She shook her head with a weary smile. “Chloe, Chloe. Is this really necessary? Ashley is finally following in your footsteps, trying to better herself. Can’t you just be happy for her?” The story was this: Ashley heard I was starting my master’s program on a full scholarship. The very next day, she quit the preschool teacher job my mom had pulled strings to get her and demanded to be sent abroad, too. She found some shady international admissions agent who, for a hefty fee, got her “accepted” to a dozen garbage schools. From that pile of worthless offers, she picked the one that happened to be in the same city as my university. My mom, clueless, was bursting with pride. She threw Ashley a huge “going away” party, telling all her friends how, with the right support, girls could be just as successful as boys. I didn’t have the heart to burst her bubble then. But things were different now. The truth was better for everyone. 5 Ashley’s usual smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. She scrambled for her phone, pulling up the school’s homepage. “Look with your own eyes!” she spat. “It says right here, this is a centuries-old institution, a sister school to Harvard! It’s located right in the heart of America’s capital, New York City, and has produced five First Ladies! It’s the top choice for socialites! What do you know, anyway?” I couldn’t help but laugh. I turned to my mom. “Mom, what’s the capital of the United States? Do you know?” Ashley rolled her eyes, slapping her forehead dramatically. “Chloe, are you for real? Your school is in New York. You don’t know where the capital is? Oh my god!” My mother, at least, wasn’t that ignorant. Her eyes widened as she snatched the phone, reading the poorly translated English description out loud. Her face was a mask of pure shock and embarrassment. 6 My mom, who had always trusted Ashley implicitly, was furious. She was mortified that Ashley had been so careless and, frankly, so stupid. She immediately contacted a legitimate educational consultant to come up with a real plan. The trip to the fake university was off. But with Ashley’s terrible high school grades and abysmal test scores, the consultant said it would take at least a year of hard work at a community college to even have a chance at a decent four-year school. Ashley stomped her foot, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it was almost shocking. But this time, it wasn’t directed at me. It was directed at my mother’s retreating back as she rushed off to make calls on Ashley’s behalf. 7 Back in my room, I refreshed the Reddit thread. Ashley was spamming the user who mentioned “heir by proxy.” > [Hello? Are you there? This is an emergency, can you please reply?] > [Hey!! Anyone home? I can’t DM you anymore, you didn’t accept my friend request. Is anyone even alive on this site?!] She was panicking. I logged into my burner account and sent her a private message. [Hi there. I’m a paralegal student specializing in family law and estate planning. I saw your post. My family has a leech of a relative too, so I completely understand your situation. Happy to offer a free consultation if you need to talk.] She replied in seconds. No greeting, no pleasantries. [Can my cousin really inherit my parents’ money? Does it have to happen after they die? How does it work?] She quickly backpedaled. [I mean, I need to know so I can warn my parents. To protect our assets.] I sent a smiley face emoji and deliberately let her stew for a while. My phone started buzzing off the hook. > [What the hell? Where’d you go!?] > [Helloooo? I swear, are you a real paralegal or not? Which school do you go to? I’ll report you!] > [Is this how you run a business? I know it’s free, but I’m still the client! You have zero customer service skills!] After enjoying her meltdown for a few minutes, I finally replied. [So sorry, I was in class. Just got free.] She lectured me for another minute before getting back to her point. [Okay, so I’ve been thinking about a scenario. In my family, only my mom is nice to my cousin. My dad and I are pretty cold to her because she’s so perfect it’s annoying. So, could she sue for emotional distress or something? Claiming years of psychological abuse and demand a piece of the estate as compensation?] I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I tweaked an AI-generated response and sent it to her. [Ma’am, legally speaking, being ‘cold’ to someone does not constitute abuse, and it certainly has no bearing on property division. The only way she can legally inherit is if your parents explicitly grant her assets in a legally binding will or trust. Without that, her claim has no basis. You don’t need to worry.] 8 Ashley was furious. [Who are you to say that? You’re not a judge! You’re just a student! You don’t know anything!] I sent a laughing emoji. [You’re welcome to consult with a licensed attorney. I’m confident their answer will be the same.] [So you’re saying there’s no way? That’s insane! She lived in our house for eight years! Eight! Even if she’s not family on paper, isn’t there something like ‘common law family’? How can they just cut her out? No way!] In her rage, she’d completely forgotten her cover story. [Ma’am, please calm down. That specific avenue won’t work, but it doesn’t mean all hope is lost. For example, you saw the other commenter mention inheriting ‘by proxy.’] [What does that even mean? Explain it to me. Now.] [It means that if, for example, your mother were to pass away, her mother—your grandmother—would be entitled to a share of her estate. If your grandmother then passed away, that share would go to her children, meaning your uncle. Your uncle could then gift that inheritance to his own child. It’s an indirect route, but it’s a possibility.] I wondered if she was smart enough to follow the logic. Her reply came quickly. [So if my mom dies, my grandma gets her money. Then if grandma dies, my uncle gets the money. And if my uncle gets it, it’s basically mine. Right?] I sent her three thumbs-up emojis. She was a quick study when it came to greed. [Ugh, why do you have to wait for people to die to get inheritance? So annoying. I have to figure this out.] Her last message sounded like she was thinking out loud. I decided to test the waters. I pasted another AI response. [Under state and federal law, homicide carries severe penalties, including life in prison or the death penalty. Even if you were to inherit, the Slayer Rule would legally bar you from receiving any assets from the person you harmed. I understand your frustration, but I strongly advise against any extreme measures. Please consider the legal ramifications.] Ashley didn’t reply. But later that evening, as if on cue, my mom let out a series of loud sneezes in the living room. That was just the beginning. In the days to come, she would learn the true depths of her beloved niece’s malice.

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When I was five, I asked my mom why I didn’t look like anyone else. In our small, isolated town deep in the mountains, everyone had dark hair and dark eyes. Mine was the color of straw. My mother looked at me, her face blank. She didn’t say a word. She just picked up a pair of scissors and shaved my head until it was bare. From then on, I was the only bald kid in town. Two weeks later, I found a slip of paper she’d hidden in the woodpile behind our shack. It had a phone number on it. Barefoot, I ran to the payphone at the town’s only gas station and dialed. That night, a procession of sleek, black cars rolled down our dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Policemen slammed the man I called ‘Dad’ to the ground. My mother, sobbing, fell into the arms of a man in a clean, sharp suit. They were taking her away. I just stood there, frozen. “Momma,” I whispered to the empty space. “You said if I made the call, you’d kiss me.” 1 It was chaos, but all I could see was my mother. She was being held up by the man in the suit, looking so fragile, like a single gust of wind could shatter her. I instinctively ran toward her, reaching out to grab the edge of her dress. My hand hadn’t even touched the fabric— “No!” She flinched as if she’d been bitten by a snake, her head snapping around to look at me. Her eyes were wide with terror. She pointed a trembling finger at me, her voice a ragged cry to the man in the suit. “Don’t! I don’t want her! Get her away from me! She’s that devil’s child! Leave her here to rot!” I froze, my hand still hanging in the air. The man in the suit pulled my mother into his arms, murmuring softly, “It’s okay, Evelyn. It’s okay. We’ll leave her here. We’ll leave her.” Just then, a man in a driver’s cap looked at me, then stepped forward hesitantly. “Sir, Ma’am… Mr. and Mrs. Ashford… my wife and I, we can’t have children. Seeing this little one… if it’s alright with you… I’d like to adopt her.” My mother nodded instantly, desperately. The suited man—Mr. Ashford—looked from my mother to me, a deep weariness in his eyes. He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine. Yes. That’s for the best.” My mother didn’t look back. She let Mr. Ashford guide her into the fanciest car, the door shutting with a solid, final thud. The engine purred to life. As the car began to move, to take her away forever, something inside me snapped. I tore my hand from the driver’s grip and ran, my bare feet pounding against the sharp gravel of the road. “Momma! Momma!” Pain shot through the soles of my feet, but I didn’t care. I just ran and screamed, tears streaming down my face, blurring the taillights into red streaks. “You promised! You said you’d kiss me! You promised!” The car picked up speed, disappearing around a bend at the end of the road. I stumbled to a stop, doubling over, coughing until my lungs burned. 2 The driver, who told me to call him Leo, parked in front of a house so big and bright it hurt my eyes. It had white pillars and huge windows, grander than all the houses in my town put together. But I didn’t go in through the big, shiny front door. Leo took my hand and led me around the back, to a small, hidden door that opened into the basement. “Kiddo,” he said softly. “This is our home now.” The room was tiny, with a metal-frame bed, a wobbly table, and piles of clutter. The concrete walls were damp to the touch. The only light came from a single, high window, a small rectangle that showed the feet of people walking by outside. I was happy. It was so much better than the shack. And from here, I could see my mother every day. Sometimes, I was allowed into the backyard for a bit of air. I would see her—I learned her name was Evelyn now—drifting through the rose garden. She wore beautiful, silky dresses that shimmered in the sun, like a fairy from a picture book. Mr. Ashford would be at her side, his hand on her arm. She was still pale, but she was slowly gaining weight. Once, I was staring too hard, and her eyes met mine by accident. Her expression froze, then hardened into a look of pure disgust, like she’d just spotted a cockroach. She turned abruptly and hurried back inside. Not long after I moved into the basement, my hair had started to grow back in a fuzzy, blond stubble. The family had guests—Evelyn’s cousin and her daughter, Lily, who was about my age. Lily was dressed in a pink, frilly dress with a big bow in her perfectly curled hair. She looked like a doll. Everyone adored her. Mr. Ashford patted her head gently. Evelyn even gave her a rare, faint smile, telling the housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, to bring out the best cookies and toys. I watched from the top of the basement stairs, hidden in the shadows. Leo had warned me to stay out of sight. But Lily found me. She tiptoed down a few steps, her head cocked. Then she pointed at my head and burst out laughing. “Mommy, look! It’s a bald freak! She’s so ugly!” My face burned with shame. I instinctively covered my head with my hands. Her mother gave a half-hearted tug on her arm. “Lily, that’s not nice.” But the adults upstairs paid no mind, their conversation continuing uninterrupted. Lily took that as permission. Later, while the grown-ups were talking in the living room, she snuck over to my basement room. She snatched the only toy I owned—a one-armed doll Leo had found for me—threw it on the floor, and stomped on it. “Baldies only play with trash!” she sneered. I trembled with rage, tears welling in my eyes, but I bit them back. I remembered my mother’s revulsion. I remembered Leo’s warning not to cause trouble. I bit my lip until it bled, picked up my dirt-stained doll, and wiped it clean with my sleeve. That afternoon, she took a sparkly rhinestone hair clip Evelyn had given her, and hid it under the thin, lumpy mattress on my bed. Then she ran upstairs, screaming. “My hair clip is gone! The one Aunt Evelyn gave me! It must have been the bald girl! She was staring at my hair all morning!” The house erupted. Lily’s mom grabbed her crying daughter, her voice sharp. “Evelyn, really… I know the girl comes from a rough place, but you have to teach her not to steal.” Evelyn’s face turned ashen. Without even asking, she snapped at Mrs. Gable, “Go get her. Now.” I was dragged into the living room. My bare, dusty feet were a smudge on the pristine white carpet. I clutched the hem of my worn dress. “I didn’t… I didn’t take it…” I whispered. “Liar!” Evelyn’s voice was shrill. “Did the clip just get up and walk away? I knew you were no good!” Mr. Ashford, sitting on the sofa, simply frowned at his newspaper. “What’s all the noise? It’s a small thing. If she took it, she can give it back. Just try to have cleaner hands in the future.” “Search her room!” Evelyn commanded. Mrs. Gable found the clip in seconds. From behind her mother’s skirt, Lily gave me a smug, triumphant smile. Evelyn looked humiliated. Her chest heaved as she pointed a shaking finger at me, turning to Leo. “Leo! Is this the good girl you’re raising? A common thief? Lock her in the basement. No food for three days! Let her think about what she’s done! I don’t want to see her face!” Leo opened his mouth, then closed it with a heavy sigh. He took my hand and led me back down the stairs. The door clicked shut, plunging the room into near darkness. I curled up on the cold bed, my stomach aching with hunger, but it was nothing compared to the cold in my heart. I didn’t cry. I just thought, Mommy is even angrier now. I did something wrong again. Maybe if I had hair, they wouldn’t think I was a thief. Maybe if I’d hidden better, Lily wouldn’t have found me. The three days were hard. Leo would sneak me crusts of bread and a cup of cold water. As I chewed the stale bread, a single, anxious thought consumed me: What if Mommy gets sick from being so angry? She’s already so frail. 3 Three days later, when the door finally opened, my legs were so weak I could barely stand. The sunlight was a physical blow, and the smell of food from the kitchen made my empty stomach cramp violently. Leo pulled me into a corner and pressed a small bowl of warm broth into my hands. His own hands were trembling, his eyes red. “Kiddo, eat slow. There’s… there’s something I have to tell you.” I looked up at him, my spoon halfway to my mouth. “The missus… your mother… she’s pregnant.” I froze. The spoon clattered against the bowl. Pregnant? Momma… was having another baby? I remembered back in the shack, my mother’s belly had gotten big once before. I’d hidden and watched as she slammed her own body, again and again, against the sharp stone edge of the hearth, until dark red blood soaked through her pants and pooled on the dirt floor. I had been too terrified to even make a sound. But this was different. Here, in this beautiful house, with Mr. Ashford, she wouldn’t have to do that anymore. From that day on, everything revolved around my mother and the baby. Mr. Ashford was home more, his voice softer, full of a joy I’d never heard. The whole house smelled of rich, savory soups Mrs. Gable was always cooking. Sometimes I’d sneak a glance from the backyard and see new, whimsical wind chimes hanging in the windows upstairs. It was all so beautiful, and so far away, like a story from another world. I could only listen to the muffled sounds of them discussing names, my hand drifting up to touch the prickly stubble on my scalp, a hollow ache in my chest. I still couldn’t help but wonder. Would it be a boy or a girl? Would it look like her, or Mr. Ashford? My longing to see my mother grew stronger. I knew she hated the sight of me, but I couldn’t stop myself. I’d hide behind drying sheets on the clothesline, or in the shade of a large azalea bush, just to catch a glimpse of her. She was gaining more weight, a healthy color returning to her cheeks. Mr. Ashford would walk with her in the garden, and sometimes she would look down at her growing belly, a soft hand resting on it. Once, lost in thought, I wasn’t hidden well enough. She sensed me. Her eyes swept the yard and landed on me. The softness on her face vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. She turned and practically ran back inside, slamming the glass patio door shut. The curtains were drawn, a final, definitive barrier. A few days later, I heard her voice from upstairs, hysterical and weeping. “I can’t! I can’t stand it! I have nightmares just knowing she’s here! It will hurt the baby! You have to send her away! Send her so far away I never have to see her again!” Mr. Ashford’s low voice soothed her. “Alright, alright, don’t get worked up. For the baby… whatever you want. I’ll have Leo arrange it.” Leo came down to the basement, his eyes red-rimmed. He silently packed my small bag—two old dresses and my one-armed doll. He kept stroking my head, his voice choked. “Kiddo, you be good, you hear? You take care of yourself… I’m so sorry…” I kept my head down. I didn’t cry. I was being thrown away again. As Leo was leading me towards the back door, a new set of voices echoed from the front of the house. A striking, elderly woman with hair the same natural blonde as mine and eyes like blue jewels was being welcomed in. She was impeccably dressed, carrying a leather handbag, and laughing with Mr. Ashford. We had to cross the hallway to leave, and our paths intersected. The old woman’s eyes landed on me instantly. She stopped, her blue eyes studying me with curiosity. “Oh? And who is this little angel?” she asked in a clear voice with a faint European accent. “Arthur, you didn’t tell me you had such a charming young guest.” The mood in the room shifted. Everyone froze. My mother shrank behind Mr. Ashford. “Aunt Isabella,” Arthur said, his voice strained. “This is our chauffeur’s adopted daughter. From the country. She’s a bit… unruly. We were just sending her back.” The woman, Isabella, nodded thoughtfully. As Leo tried to pull me along, she raised an elegant hand. “Well,” she said, her voice ringing with authority. “If you’re sending her away, you might as well send her to me. I quite adore her.” 4 She looked down at me, her smile gentle. “Oh, my dear little angel, what is your name? How old are you?” A name? The man in the shack had always called me “bastard.” My mother… my mother had always sobbed that I was a “millstone,” a “curse.” I didn’t think I had a name. Just then, Evelyn peeked out from behind Arthur. “Aunt Isabella! She’s just a wild kid from the sticks, no name, no manners! She’s clumsy, she even steals! If you want a child for company, you should take Lily. Lily is smart and polite, you’d…” “Evelyn,” Isabella interrupted her, her tone still gentle but firm. “I was speaking to the child.” She turned back to me, her blue eyes encouraging. I looked at my mother’s pale, desperate face, and clutched my little bag tighter. My mind was a mess. I should go with this lady. It would make my mother happy. If I was gone, she wouldn’t be angry, and it would be better for the baby. But if I left… would I ever see my mother again? Isabella reached out and took my small hand in hers. She then stood and addressed Leo. “Leo, please pack the child’s things. Just the basics. I will buy her everything else new.” And just like that, I was led away like a stray puppy, my hand in hers, walking towards the front door. As we passed my mother, I looked up at her. She buried her face in Arthur’s shoulder, refusing to meet my eyes. Isabella’s car was even fancier than Mr. Ashford’s. She lifted me inside; the seats were like clouds. As the car pulled away, I pressed my face to the window, desperately looking back. The big, bright house grew smaller. Leo was a tiny figure waving from the driveway. Would my mother come out for one last look? No. Everything blurred and then disappeared around the corner. The car was quiet and smelled of lavender. Isabella looked at my bald head and my ill-fitting dress and sighed softly. She took a cashmere shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it around me, cocooning my small body. “Poor little bird,” she whispered. “Don’t be afraid. You’re with Grandma now.” After a moment, she asked again, her voice soft. “Tell me your name, dear. I can’t call you ‘little angel’ forever.” I looked down at my lap. “I’m five,” I mumbled. “I don’t have a name.” Isabella was silent for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was certain and grand, as if she were making a royal decree, she said, “No name? That simply will not do. You came to me in the summer, like the brightest, warmest sunshine. From now on, your name will be Summer. May your life be as brilliant and warm as your name.” Summer? I had a name. My name… was Summer. I repeated it in my mind, over and over, a secret treasure.

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My grandma’s new boyfriend—a guy young enough to be my classmate—thought I owed him alimony. “I provided your grandmother with months of emotional support,” he said, cornering me outside the hospital cafeteria. “Now that she’s gone, it’s your turn to show some respect. It’s not much, just five grand a month. I’ve already texted you my Venmo. Don’t be late.” I actually laughed, shot him a look of disgust, and turned to walk away. That’s when he started wailing, a full-blown public spectacle. “Hey, everyone, get a look at this!” he shouted, tears streaming down his face with Emmy-worthy speed. “Granddaughter refuses to take care of her elders! She makes over ten grand a month and won’t spare a dime for the man who loved her grandma! This is what’s wrong with kids today! No respect!” I looked at the “elder” in front of me, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and pulled out my grandparents’ marriage certificate. “Actually,” I said, my voice cold and clear, “you can start by paying back every single dollar my grandmother ever spent on you.” 1 In the months before she died, my grandmother, Eleanor, started acting strangely. One day she’d sigh about how she’d never seen the cobblestone streets of New Orleans in the spring. The next, she’d complain that my grandpa, Arthur, was a stoic old bore and she’d never even seen the big sky of Montana. I had already booked us flights to New Orleans. But just before we were supposed to leave, Grandma dropped a bomb: she was in love. My grandpa, a quiet man who spent his life building bridges and speaking in blueprints, just took off his glasses and polished them, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t say a word, but I could see the tears welling in his eyes. “Grandma, what are you talking about?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’re sixty-five. Grandpa is right here. Have you been watching too much reality TV?” She just glared at my grandpa, her nose scrunched up in a way I’d never seen before. “You don’t need to worry about it,” she sniffed. “I’m going to New Orleans with my new boyfriend. I’ll bring you back some beignets.” And just like that, she grabbed her suitcase and headed for the door. “Grandma, what about your blood pressure medication?” I pleaded, following her. “You can’t just go off by yourself! Do you even know how to use a mobile boarding pass?” She wouldn’t listen. She was a woman on a mission, dragging her little roller bag behind her, deaf to my protests. It was only when we got to the elevator that I saw him. A guy, maybe twenty-five or twenty-six, decked out in flashy streetwear, his blond hair meticulously messy. He stood there, bouncing one leg like he had a nervous twitch. “Yo,” he said, looking me up and down. “You must be the granddaughter. Nice to meet ya. Aren’t you gonna give your new grandpa a little welcome gift?” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, expertly flicking one into his mouth. When he leaned toward Grandma, she actually blushed, fumbling in her purse for a lighter and sparking it for him. “You look so cool when you smoke, babe,” she cooed. “Babe?” I repeated the word, my voice barely a whisper. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “Grandma, don’t tell me this is your boyfriend.” Her eyes darted away for a second, but the blond leech just wrapped an arm around her, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” That was it. I put my hands on my hips, my voice rising. “Grandma, do you have any idea what you’re doing? You’re really going to New Orleans with this… this kid?” With him by her side, her confidence surged. “Yes! I am!” she declared. But he cut her off. “Hey, watch your mouth,” he snapped at me. “It’s not ‘this kid.’ I’m your grandma’s boyfriend. You’re gonna call me Grandpa.” I was about to unleash a string of curses, but Grandma stepped in front of him. “Chloe! What is wrong with you? I expect you to be polite to… to your grandpa! This is my boyfriend. A real, proper boyfriend. And yes, we are going to New Orleans together. Now stop interfering and remember your manners.” I felt like I was going to explode. “Grandma, do you know how old he is? How old you are? What manners? He’s barely older than I am! And can’t you smell that cheap cologne? He’s a gold digger! A leech!” Before I could say more, he planted a loud, wet kiss on her cheek. “You’re so good to me, sweetheart,” he purred. “Don’t listen to her. She doesn’t understand love. Spending money on the person you love is the most romantic thing in the world. Speaking of which, I saw the cutest matching backpacks at the mall yesterday. They’d be perfect for our travel photos. The mall is on the way to the airport…” 2 After the kiss, my grandma was beaming, a goofy grin plastered on her face. I don’t even think she heard what he said. She just nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, of course, darling! I love buying you things. When you look handsome, it makes me look good!” Just then, the apartment door opened again. My grandpa, his bad hip making him slow, had followed us out. He arrived just in time to see the blond kid give my grandma another sloppy kiss, leaving a faint trail of saliva on her wrinkled cheek. “Eleanor…” Grandpa’s voice was a ragged whisper, filled with more worry than anger. The kid glanced at him and sneered. “So this is the old geezer you wasted your life with, huh, babe? Poor you. But don’t worry, you’ve got me now.” Grandma snorted. “You’re right. He’s useless. No romance, no money. Now he’s old and I have to take care of him. Not like you. You just make me happy.” She turned on Grandpa, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Arthur! I’m telling you now, I am sick and tired of you! Stay out of my business!” The kid’s eyes lit up. He showered her face with more kisses. “So, babe, when are you gonna kick this fossil to the curb and marry me? I can’t wait for our honeymoon.” I watched them, my stomach churning. I glanced at my grandpa. The light had gone out of his eyes. His hand, which he’d raised as if to reach for her, dropped to his side. He looked utterly defeated. In that moment, I wanted to wash my hands of the whole thing. My grandma had been complaining about Grandpa for years. She was always yelling at him, claiming she was his caretaker, when in reality, it was him, limping and in constant pain, who looked after her. And now this… bringing this parasite into our home. I sighed and gently took Grandpa’s arm. “Grandpa, let’s go back inside. It’s not worth getting upset over this.” But he wouldn’t budge. He just kept muttering, “I have to bring Eleanor back… What if she gets hurt? She’s never had to fend for herself… What if he tricks her… Eleanor, don’t go…” As he spoke, the elevator doors closed, and my grandmother disappeared with her boy toy, without a single look back. 3 Grandpa suddenly pushed me away and lunged for the elevator, his bad hip causing him to stumble and fall. Even from the floor, he kept jabbing at the call button, his voice cracking. “Eleanor… Eleanor, don’t go… Come back…” The elevator was already on its way down. He tried to scramble toward the stairwell. “Chloe, please… help me get her back. She’ll get hurt out there. She’s never had a hard day in her life. What if he takes advantage of her?” Seeing the tears in his eyes, I finally gave in. But when we found them in New Orleans, she was nestled in the kid’s arms, putting on a public display of affection that made everyone around them uncomfortable. A little kid pointed and asked his mom, “Mommy, why is that grandma kissing her son?” The mother just grabbed her child and hurried away. Grandpa saw them together, and all the fight went out of him. “Chloe… I think she doesn’t want me anymore.” I couldn’t stand to see him like that. I marched over and pulled them apart. “Grandma, we’re going home. You wanted to see New Orleans, you’ve seen it. Grandpa and I will take you around, but you can’t listen to this guy anymore. He’s using you for your money! Can’t you see that?” She shoved me away. “Chloe! Your mother died when you were a baby! Who raised you? I just want to live my own life for once! Why can’t you support me? Are you going to just watch me waste the rest of my years with that boring old man?” She was so angry she was hyperventilating. The kid, whose name I learned was Kyle, just kept kissing her face, murmuring, “It’s okay, babe. You’re my sweet, generous baby. You told me spending money on me makes you happy.” Grandpa finally caught up, just in time to see Grandma pull a thick wad of cash from her purse and press it into Kyle’s hand. “Eleanor…” Grandpa’s hand trembled. “You’re being a fool…” My grandmother didn’t have a pension. She’d never worked a day in her life. All the money she was spending was Grandpa’s retirement savings. “Grandma!” I yelled. “That’s Grandpa’s money! You’re breaking his heart!” But she was beyond reason. “I’ve earned it! I slaved away for that old man my whole life! His money is my money! I’ll spend it however I want, and neither of you can stop me!” She took Kyle’s arm and stormed off. As they left, I heard her say, “Don’t listen to them, darling. Didn’t you say you saw a jacket you liked? I’ve got plenty of money, I’ll buy it for you…” I felt a knot tighten in my chest. All I could do was take my heartbroken grandpa for a walk to try and clear our heads. The next day, I got a call from the police. “Are you the next of kin for Eleanor Miller?” My heart sank. Grandma was dead. She and Kyle had been on their way to a designer clothing store. They had an argument because he wasn’t holding her hand to cross the street. In a fit of pique, she’d stormed into traffic and was killed instantly. Because she had run into the road, the accident was ruled her fault. Kyle, of course, was already trying to spin the story. “I’m telling you, she was just old, you know? Not looking where she was going. If I hadn’t jumped back, that car would’ve hit me too! My heart is still pounding… Can you believe it, officer?” He even had the gall to wink at the female cop who was taking his statement. She was not impressed. “Sir, this is a police station. Please conduct yourself appropriately.” My grandpa just stared at the death certificate, at the name ‘Eleanor Miller’ printed in stark black ink. His face was frozen. His mouth opened, but no sound came out except a strangled “Ah… ah…” Two silent tears rolled down his cheeks, saying more than words ever could. I felt a hollow ache in my chest. As Grandma had said, she was the one who raised me. My father had dropped me off with them after my mom died and then vanished from my life. She was the only mother I’d ever known. I thought she’d be with us for years to come. I never imagined this… this parasite Kyle would destroy our family. And he was still talking. “You know, she promised she’d buy me that jacket. We never even made it to the store. Hey, granddaughter, listen. After you deal with all the funeral stuff, you should do your duty and buy that jacket for your grandpa. And hey, I’ll let the whole ‘no welcome gift’ thing slide. But you’re going to have to start paying my monthly support on time.” 5 Hearing Kyle’s words, Grandpa finally snapped. He lunged at him, dragging his bad leg. “You! It’s all your fault! You killed my Eleanor with your sweet talk! You have to pay! Give me back my Eleanor!” He was aiming for Kyle’s throat, his eyes red with fury. But Grandpa was old and frail. Kyle, young and agile, easily sidestepped him. “Hey, old man, what’s your problem?” Kyle sneered. “Me and my babe had a thing, it was consensual. What’s it to you? Besides, look at you. You’ve got that old people smell. What woman would want you? Eleanor told me all about it! She said you were sloppy, that you never showered, that you stank! She said she was sick of taking care of you, sick of looking at you!” A police officer gently restrained Grandpa. But I couldn’t hold back anymore. I wanted to slap the smirk off Kyle’s face, but I knew, in a police station, that would only give him more ammunition. “Kyle,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “A minute ago you said you and my grandma were just friends. Now she’s your ‘babe’ again? Let me ask you, where were you when she stepped into the road? Why did you let her go?” His arrogant expression flickered. “Wh-what are you talking about? We weren’t anything serious. She was married. She just liked me, you know? Like a grandson. Bought me some stuff. It was no big deal. Don’t you go making accusations! I could sue you for slander! Besides, she was old! What would I want with her? She probably did it on purpose! Maybe she was tired of you two nagging her all the time! Yeah, maybe it was suicide! It had nothing to do with me!” The hypocrisy was astounding. One minute he’s demanding to be called ‘Grandpa,’ the next he’s calling her an old woman who killed herself. Before I could respond, I saw Grandpa clutch his chest, his face contorted in pain, and collapse. “Grandpa!” I screamed. Kyle just pointed a finger at him. “See! I was right! He knows his wife couldn’t stand him! That’s why she did it! He’s having a breakdown! I told you her death had nothing to do with me!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385369”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I opened my Instagram story, posted a selfie, and typed out the caption: “First time in the back of a cop car. A little nervous, any advice?” After five months of being systematically frozen out by my roommates, I was finally ready to fight back. I was curious to see which of the three of them would crack first. 1 It all started with three hundred-dollar bills. The first day after freshman orientation week, Sophie was crying in our dorm room, claiming that three hundred dollars in cash she’d left on her desk was gone. The mood in the room went from relaxed to tense in a heartbeat. Jenna, who was closest to Sophie, was the first to speak. “Okay, everyone just open your wallets and your luggage. Let’s get this over with so Sophie can check.” Sophie mumbled something about how that felt wrong, that we were all roommates. I agreed. We had a whole year ahead of us; starting it with an interrogation felt like a disaster waiting to happen. So, I made a fatally stupid, bleeding-heart suggestion. “Why don’t we all just leave the room for an hour? That way, if someone… you know… took it by mistake, they have a chance to put it back. No questions asked, we don’t have to make it a big deal.” When everyone agreed, I felt a flicker of pride. I thought I was being so mature, so considerate of everyone’s feelings. I had no idea I had just placed the target on my own back. After we all filed out of the room and came back an hour later, the money was still gone, and the atmosphere had turned weird. I’ve always been a bit of a loner, so I’d spent the hour at the campus gym and then grabbed dinner by myself. When I opened the door to our room, the other three were huddled on the floor, sharing a giant pizza. It was a little weird they hadn’t texted me, but I didn’t think too much of it. They’d invited me to go to a frat party with them the week before and I’d said no. I knew I wasn’t exactly the most social person. So I smiled and said, “Hey guys, looks good. Sophie, did the money turn up?” Sophie glanced nervously at Jenna, who answered for her. “Nope. It’s gone. Probably for good.” Then she looked me up and down, a strange glint in her eye. “We didn’t text you for pizza. Figured you were probably out treating yourself to a nice dinner.” The question was odd, but I just shrugged. “Nah, just the dining hall.” That night, I fell asleep to the lingering smell of pepperoni and a nagging thought. Why did she ask if I’d treated myself to dinner? Then it hit me. A cold, sickening realization. They thought I took the money. Jenna’s comment wasn’t a question; it was an accusation. She thought I’d stolen the cash and immediately spent it so they wouldn’t find it on me. I knew Jenna didn’t like me. The feeling was mutual. A few weeks earlier, I’d woken up to the smell of her cigarette smoke filling the room. I’d tried to be nice about it. “Hey Jenna, would you mind smoking in the bathroom? The smell is a little strong.” She’d glared at me. “I asked everyone at the beginning of the year if they were cool with it. You all said yes.” “I don’t mind that you smoke,” I clarified. “I just… would prefer you didn’t do it right next to my bed.” She didn’t say anything, but the look on her face was terrifying. She did smoke in the room less after that, but every word she spoke to me from then on was laced with sarcasm. Sophie never brought up the three hundred dollars again, saying it wasn’t worth fighting over. On the surface, things went back to normal. But underneath, a silent war had begun. Jenna’s hostility became more and more obvious. If I was hanging my laundry on the drying rack, she’d say, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Isn’t that Sophie’s rack? Careful, don’t burn your hands on it.” “Why would it be hot?” I’d ask. “From all the heat you’re getting,” she’d smirk. Another time, I came out of the shower and she made a big show of sniffing the air. “Smells nice in here. Sophie, is that your new body wash I smell coming from the bathroom?” I didn’t answer. My own bottle had run out, and I had used a little of Sophie’s without asking. It was my fault. I didn’t argue. I went out and bought my own drying rack, my own body wash, my own toilet paper. I kept everything in my closet and carried it back and forth to the bathroom, determined to never use anything that belonged to them again. The theft was the turning point. Before it, we were friendly. After it, I was an outcast. If one of them brought back snacks, they’d share with the other two, pointedly skipping me. If I offered them something, they’d refuse. If they were laughing and talking, the second I joined the conversation, silence would fall. Most of the time, I felt completely invisible. It was suffocating. But I knew confronting them was pointless. If they’d already decided I was a thief, anything I said would just sound like a guilty excuse. You can’t reason with people who have already made up their minds. I told myself it was fine. Roommates are just roommates. I could have a social life outside the dorm and just treat my room as a place to sleep. But Jenna wasn’t going to let me have even that. Her tactics escalated. One night, long after lights out, just as I was drifting off to sleep, the other three suddenly burst into loud laughter. I jolted awake, my heart pounding. They started talking about things I didn’t understand, inside jokes about “glittering disco balls” and how “the real nightlife is just getting started.” I realized they had a group chat without me. They were texting each other, right there, in the dark. I remembered us joking during orientation about how a dorm room of four girls probably has ten different group chats. We’d all laughed and said we’d never be like that. Turns out, we were exactly like that. A wave of sadness washed over me. I’ve always gotten along with people. I’d never been treated like this before. I didn’t know what to do. All I could do was try to ignore it, to not let them see how much it hurt. I rolled over, facing the wall. The room fell quiet. Just as I was about to fall asleep again, I heard Jenna’s sharp whisper cut through the darkness. “Hey, guys… do you hear that? Is someone crying?” Girls know exactly how to hurt other girls. And yes, I wanted to cry. It felt like she knew all my insecurities and was poking them with a stick. But I refused to give her the satisfaction. I took a deep breath, cleared my throat, and said in a voice that was surprisingly loud and steady, “Crying? Who’s crying? I don’t hear anything. You’re starting to freak me out, Jenna.” Silence. No one spoke. I felt a surge of victory. I pushed further, addressing the other two directly. “Did you guys hear anything?” Sophie stayed quiet. But then, a small voice answered. “No. I didn’t hear anything.” It was Jessica. The quietest of the three. It was the first time she’d taken my side in anything. I turned my voice back toward Jenna’s bed. “See? Nobody heard it. Maybe you’re the one who’s hearing things.” I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but she didn’t say another word. I felt like a general who had just won a major battle. Tonight, I could finally sleep. And I had Jessica, my unexpected ally, to thank. 2 I was grateful to Jessica. After the money incident, Jenna led the charge to isolate me. Sophie, true to her name, was gentle, but she clearly avoided being alone with me. In her eyes, I was a thief. Jessica was different. When Jenna was around, she was quiet, probably intimidated. But when it was just the two of us, she was friendly. She loved classic literature, just like me, and would talk my ear off about the dramatic lives of F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda. I’d heard the stories a hundred times, but I listened patiently. She was the only friend I had left in that room. I understood why she was cautious. I was the pariah. No one wants to be friends with the outcast for fear of becoming one themselves. Her small moments of kindness when no one was looking were enough. After my late-night counterattack, Jenna backed off for a while. I thought maybe I’d finally gotten through to her. I was wrong. She was just planning her next move. One afternoon, I walked into our room and stopped dead. It looked like a cheap nightclub. A portable disco ball was flashing colored lights on the walls, and a Bluetooth speaker was blasting house music. So that’s what they were talking about that night. The three of them froze when I walked in. Jenna recovered first, starting to dance with an exaggerated swagger. The goal, I assumed, was to make me so uncomfortable that I would just leave. But Sophie and Jessica just looked awkward, their movements stiff and robotic. I watched them for a moment, then nodded approvingly. “Don’t stop on my account. I’m just gonna take a shower.” The music didn’t stop. I have to admit, showering with a built-in soundtrack was pretty great. Jenna had the stamina of a professional club-goer. Long after Sophie and Jessica had given up, she was still dancing by herself in front of the mirror. If we weren’t enemies, I would’ve been impressed. But it was 11 PM on a Tuesday. I sat on my bed, staring at her. She kept dancing, the music thumping through the floor. It was a battle of wills. Sometime after midnight, I passed out. My 8 AM alarm felt like a cruel joke. As I sat in my lecture, exhausted, I knew I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to get out of that room. After class, I went straight to our RA’s office. Mark was a recent grad, and everyone loved him. He tried to act like a serious authority figure, but we all knew he was just a big brother type. I’d avoided bringing him into this, wanting to solve my own problems. But I was at my breaking point. I tried to stay calm as I explained the situation, terrified he would hit me with the classic, “Well, why do you think they’re singling you out?” But he didn’t. He listened patiently, expressed his sympathy, and then firmly rejected my request for a room change. My heart sank. “Why?” “Clara,” he said gently, “I get a request for a room change almost every week. If I said yes to everyone, the whole system would fall apart. You put a bunch of people from different backgrounds in a small space, there’s going to be conflict. The answer isn’t to run away; it’s to figure out how to solve the problem.” “So what am I supposed to do?” I asked, feeling hopeless. “I’ll call a meeting with your roommates,” he said. “We’ll mediate. We’ll try to work this out.” A mediation. That wasn’t just dropping a bomb on the situation; it was detonating a nuke. He must have seen the panic in my eyes, because he added, “Look, if it becomes clear that the situation is impossible to fix, I promise I’ll find a way to get you a new room.” I left his office feeling sick with dread. When I got back to the dorm, only Jessica was there. “Mark called Sophie and Jenna to his office,” she said, not looking up from her book. “That was you, right?” I took a deep breath. “Yeah. Why didn’t you have to go?” “It doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’m not getting involved.” She finally looked at me. “But are you serious about changing rooms?” I didn’t answer. Of course I didn’t want the hassle, but living like this was torture. “Do you all really think I stole that money?” I asked quietly. “Didn’t you?” Her simple question felt like a punch to the gut. The blood drained from my face. All this time, her kindness, her friendship—was it all fake? There’s a reason why, in movies, the person getting bullied just stands there and takes it. You’re too stunned by the cruelty to react. You’re too sensitive to accept that people can hate you for no reason. You’re too scared to fight back because you know you have no one in your corner. I choked back tears. “Even if I said I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me, would you? There’s no proof.” 3 Jessica almost seemed amused. “It’s just a few hundred bucks. It’s not a big deal.” Her casual dismissal infuriated me. “Then why did you make a secret group chat without me?” “Because you never want to go out with us,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We made a separate chat so we could make plans without making you feel awkward every time you said no. We were trying to be nice.” And there it was. Bullies never think they’re the bad guys. They always have a justification. They’re never sorry. I pulled out my phone and texted my best friend from home. She’d been my rock through all of this. Her: “Why should YOU have to move? They’re the assholes! They should be the ones to leave!” Me: “That’s not going to happen. The three of them are a package deal.” Her: “I don’t buy it. People like that can’t stay friends for long. There have to be cracks. If I were you, I’d stay put and wait for them to turn on each other. It’s gonna be epic.” Her texts always made me feel better, but the dread of the impending storm returned as soon as I put my phone down. Jenna and Sophie came back from their meeting with Mark. Jenna slammed the door, throwing her backpack on the floor. Sophie and Jessica stood by, watching her silently. “Some people have a lot of nerve,” Jenna spat, glaring at me. “Running to the RA like a little kid.” I knew this was it. I had to stand up for myself. I forced a smile. “That’s right. I asked for a room change. If everything goes well, you won’t have to see me anymore. Happy?” I braced for a fight, but she just went quiet. In that moment, I realized she was just a paper tiger. All bark, no bite. The second I showed a little bit of spine, she backed down. “Go if you want,” she mumbled. “No one’s begging you to stay.” “I don’t want to go,” I said, feeling my confidence grow. “But when you’re blasting music at 2 AM, I can’t sleep. If I stay, I’ll end up in a psych ward.” As we were staring each other down, I heard a small, sharp laugh from behind me. It was Jessica. I whipped around. Jenna was fuming, Sophie looked terrified. Jessica immediately pretended to be busy organizing her desk. Why would she laugh? A cold thought trickled into my mind. Someone is enjoying this. The room change didn’t happen. Mark kept telling me he was “working on it.” As I expected, Jenna didn’t stop tormenting me. In fact, she got worse, furious that I had stood up to her. That night, she called for a “roommate meeting.” The three of them sat on chairs facing my desk, like an interrogation panel. “We never wanted to kick you out,” Jenna began. “We just have a problem with some of your behavior.” “I didn’t steal the money,” I said flatly. “Then why did you make that suggestion about leaving the room?” I cringed, hating my past self. “In high school, a kid stole some money, and the principal handled it that way. It gave the kid a chance to fix their mistake without being publicly shamed. I thought… I thought it was the right thing to do. I never imagined you would think it was me.” “You’re the poorest one here,” she said bluntly. “It’s not a huge leap.” “Excuse me?” The insult stung, but looking around at her designer makeup, Sophie’s collection of expensive anime figures, and Jessica’s overflowing wardrobe, I couldn’t deny that, on the surface, she was right. “First of all, I’m not poor enough to need to steal. Second, being poor doesn’t make you a thief. I didn’t take it. Believe it or not.” Sophie spoke up, her voice soft. “It’s in the past. The money doesn’t matter anymore.” “She’s right,” Jenna agreed. “The point of this meeting is to clear the air. From now on, we solve our problems in here, not by running to the RA.” Jessica, the peacemaker, added, “Let’s just all say what’s bothering us so we can move on.” Fine. If I was stuck here, I might as well try. “Okay,” I said, looking directly at Jenna. “I have a problem with you smoking in the room in the morning. That’s it.” Her face darkened. “Oh yeah? And what about you using people’s body wash without asking? You think that’s not annoying as hell?” Damn it. That stupid body wash. “You’re right,” I admitted. “That was my mistake. You called me out on it, and I won’t do it again.” My apology didn’t pacify her; it emboldened her. “Let me tell you something,” she sneered, leaning forward. “I’m the only one from this city. I know people at this school, a lot of people. You better watch how you talk to me. You push me too far, and my friends and I will be happy to meet you on the quad after class.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been laughable. But from her, it felt real. That night, I was back in Mark’s office, sobbing, telling him how Jenna had threatened me. He was furious, promising me that he would never let that kind of bullying happen on his watch. But when I begged him again for a room change, he just sighed and said his hands were tied. There was no escape. I had to find my own way out. 4 I had a secret weapon stashed in my closet. It was a birthday present I’d bought for Jenna months ago. My own birthday was right at the start of the semester, back when we were all friends. They had all pitched in to get me a nice skincare set. I was so touched that I’d started planning their gifts immediately. For Jenna, I’d chosen a beautiful, vintage-style Zippo lighter. She was always self-conscious about her smoking. I wanted the gift to say, “I don’t like the smoke, but I don’t judge you for smoking.” But after the money incident, I never had the chance to give it to her. It was just collecting dust. Maybe it could buy me some peace. The next morning, as everyone was getting ready for class, I grabbed the gift box, shoved it into her hands, and said, “Happy belated birthday!” before sprinting out of the room like my life depended on it. I was too embarrassed to bring it up again, but I started to notice small changes. Jenna stopped making snide comments. She started smoking in the bathroom without me having to ask. One day in class, she even asked if I wanted to be in her group for a project. It was probably just because she knew I had a good GPA, but I was so relieved I almost cried. The fear of being jumped on the quad finally started to fade. I really was a coward. Things with Sophie and Jessica settled into a polite, distant roommate relationship. My life went back to its quiet routine of classes, gym, and solitude. The room change never materialized, and I stopped asking. The new year was the first pebble that broke the calm surface of the water. Jenna took Sophie home with her for the New Year’s weekend, leaving just me and Jessica in the dorm. On the last day, Jessica went out, and when she came back, she had a small gift bag for me. It was a lipstick from a niche indie brand. It wasn’t expensive, but it was the thought that counted. “I know you don’t wear much makeup,” she said, “so I picked a really natural shade. It’s supposed to look good on everyone, even with no other makeup on.” I’m a sucker for kindness. All my previous suspicions melted away. I was so happy I felt guilty for not getting her anything. That night, my phone buzzed with a text from Jenna. Jenna: “Is that lipstick on your desk shade 307?” My stomach dropped. The word “thief” felt like a curse I couldn’t escape. Me: “It was a gift from Jessica. I don’t know the shade.” Jenna: “Look at the bottom.” I flipped it over. 307. A strange, electric feeling shot through me. It took me a moment to recognize it: the exhilarating thrill of impending vindication. But my first instinct was still panic. How was I going to explain this? Then I realized: if Jenna suspected me, she wouldn’t be texting me. She’d be kicking down the door. This was different. The next time I got her alone, I asked, “What’s with the lipstick?” “I bought Sophie the exact same one for New Year’s,” she said. “Same shade.” A lightning bolt went off in my head. “It was a gift from Jessica,” I repeated, my voice shaking a little. “It wasn’t me.” “I know,” she said, looking me over. “You only use, like, drugstore chapstick.” Her tone was condescending, but right then, it was the sweetest sound in the world. If she’d just seen the lipstick and jumped to conclusions, I would be facing round two of this nightmare. “Are you going to confront Jessica?” I asked. “Not yet,” she said. “The lipstick isn’t the main problem. Sophie’s Yeezys are missing, too.” “Her what?” I asked, confused. Was that more expensive than a lipstick? Jenna gave me a look of profound pity. “Her sneakers. The Nikes.” Oh. Right. That meant they were expensive. A quick Google search told me they were very expensive. Four figures. Easily enough to tempt someone to steal. Jenna and I went to talk to Sophie. “Why didn’t you guys suspect me this time?” I had to ask. Jenna shrugged. “You’re broke, but you’re not flashy. You can barely tell Nike from Adidas. You wouldn’t even know where to go to sell them.” I was a little insulted, but mostly, I was deeply relieved. My simple, uncool lifestyle had just become my best alibi. “And who steals something and then leaves it out on their desk for everyone to see?” Sophie added. I made a mental note to never put that lipstick away. This time, Sophie was determined to investigate. I was right there with her. When Jessica heard that we wanted to search the room again, she looked completely shocked. When she heard about the missing Yeezys, she was the picture of sympathy. She immediately agreed to have her closet searched. The search turned up nothing. “I can’t believe this is happening again,” Jessica said, sighing as she tidied her things. “Why is it always our room?” The three of us exchanged a look. “We shouldn’t tell anyone about this,” she added quickly. “It’ll just cause gossip.” Her words made me think. Back when I was the suspect, had I ever worried about them spreading rumors? No, I’d almost hoped they would, so I could make a bigger scene, prove my innocence, and get my room changed. But they never had. The conflict had always been contained within our four walls. Was that because of Jessica, too? Why was she so insistent on keeping things quiet? After the failed search, Jenna asked if I wanted to grab dinner. For the first time in months, the three of us walked out of the room together. I glanced back over my shoulder. Jessica was alone inside, sweeping the floor. So, this time, you’re the one being left behind. 5 I threw the lipstick in the trash. The pretty lies—that she’d picked the color just for me—were a final, poisoned meal before the execution. She had played me perfectly, using a cheap gift to set me up as the fall guy. Sophie told us that besides the shoes and lipstick, a few of her necklaces were missing too. She had so much jewelry that she hadn’t noticed until she went looking. This was more than three hundred dollars. She wanted proof. She wanted justice. And I wanted it more than she did. I needed to clear my name, not just for them, but for myself. First step: security footage. We went to the building manager, who sent us to our RA. Mark groaned, “What now?” and sent us to the Dean of Student Affairs. The Dean said we needed a form from Campus Security. Campus Security gave us the form but said it needed the Dean’s signature. We were pawns in a bureaucratic chess game. Finally, with a stack of signed and stamped papers, we arrived at the security office. The door was locked. Sophie and Jenna waited outside while I went to find the person in charge. I was possessed. I asked every university employee I saw. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I was directed to a stressed-out-looking man in a suit. He was not interested in my problem. “Kid, do you see those police cars?” he said, pointing out the window. “There was a gas leak in the main dining hall. I’m a little busy. Come back tomorrow.” Police cars. An idea sparked. I saw a group of officers standing nearby and, without a second thought, I ran over to them. “Officer, I need to report a theft!” One of them led me to a sergeant who looked like he’d seen it all. I took a deep breath and told him everything, making sure to emphasize the value of the shoes. “They’re worth over a thousand dollars!” He took it seriously. Within fifteen minutes, two officers were at our dorm. Jenna and Sophie were stunned when I called them. “I thought you were finding the security guy! How did you end up with the cops?” This wasn’t part of the plan. It felt like fate. Facing two uniformed police officers in our tiny room was terrifying. The interrogation was brief and professional. Then, they said they needed to see the security footage. Suddenly, the security guy was extremely cooperative. He led us to his office and pulled up the feeds. The cameras in the lobby and hallways worked fine. The ones on our residential floor? A blank, black screen. He chuckled nervously. “Yeah, to save money, those ones aren’t actually turned on. They’re just for show.” I wanted to scream. All that running around, all those forms, for a bunch of fake cameras. The police said they needed the official complainant to come to the station to file a report. Sophie looked terrified, so I offered to go with her. This was my fight, too. Jenna said she had dinner plans with her mom. Jessica just sat on her bed, scrolling through her phone as if nothing was happening. As we were leaving, our building manager called out to the officers, “You’ll bring our girls back safe, right?” “Of course, ma’am.” It was my first time in a police car. A criminal would want to hide, but an innocent person? An innocent person wants to show off. I scrolled through my contacts, wondering who to tell, when the perfect idea hit me. I turned to Sophie. “You know, this is kind of a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I kinda want to post about it.” “Go for it,” she said. “You don’t mind if people know your stuff was stolen?” “Why would I mind?” she said, a new steel in her voice. “The person who should be worried is the one who stole it.” I smiled. “Exactly.” I opened my Instagram story, posted a selfie of the two of us in the back of the squad car, and typed out the caption: “First time in the back of a cop car. A little nervous, any advice?” I watched the question marks and shocked-face emojis start rolling in, then turned off my phone. Filing the report was boring. It was nothing like on TV. As the officer took our statements, Sophie and I started talking, trying to piece together a timeline. And as we talked, we found something. A discrepancy. A hole in the story. And we knew we were finally on the right track.

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I snapped a selfie and posted it to my Instagram story. The caption: “First time in the back of a cop car. Kinda nervous, what do I do?” Five months into being frozen out by my roommates, I was finally fighting back. I couldn’t wait to see which one of the three would crack first. 01 It all started with three hundred-dollar bills. The day after freshman orientation week, Ashley was crying in our dorm room, saying three hundred bucks she’d left on her desk was gone. The vibe in the room went from chill to ice-cold in a second. Jess, Ashley’s closest friend and our resident queen bee, was the first to speak up. “Everyone just open your wallets and luggage, let Ashley check. Let’s get this over with.” Ashley mumbled something like, “I don’t know, that feels weird, we’re all roommates…” I agreed. We’d just met. Starting the semester with an accusation like this would poison the well for the next four years. So, I said something incredibly naive, something straight out of an after-school special. “Hey, what if we all just leave the room for a while? If someone… you know… took it, this gives them a chance to put it back. No questions asked, we don’t have to make a big deal out of it.” When everyone agreed, I felt a little proud of myself, thinking I was so considerate of everyone’s feelings. I had no idea that when we all walked back into the room a little later, everything had changed. I’ve always been a bit of a loner. I went to the campus gym by myself, then grabbed dinner at the dining hall before heading back. When I opened our door, the other three were huddled around a little electric skillet, making hot pot. The smell of spicy broth was overpowering. It was weird they hadn’t invited me, but I kind of got it. They’d asked me to go clubbing with them before, and I’d said no. I wasn’t really part of their scene. So I just smiled and acted normal. “Smells good! Hey, did Ashley find her money?” Ashley glanced nervously at Jess. Jess answered for her. “Nope. It’s gone. Probably for good.” Then she looked me up and down, a weird glint in her eye. “We didn’t text you for dinner. Figured you treated yourself to something nice, right?” It was a strange question, but I didn’t think much of it. “Nah, just the dining hall.” That night, I fell asleep to the thick, greasy smell of hot pot that just wouldn’t go away. In my dreams, I kept replaying what Jess said. Figured you treated yourself to something nice. Could they… could they possibly think I took the money? Was she implying I stole it and spent it on a fancy dinner so there’d be no evidence? I wanted to grab her and shake her. What did you mean by that? I knew she didn’t like me, which was fine, because the feeling was mutual. We’d clashed a couple of weeks earlier because she loved to smoke in the room. I woke up one morning choking on the smell and asked her, as nicely as I could, if she could maybe smoke in the bathroom or outside. Her face went cold. “I asked everyone when we moved in if they minded me smoking, and you all said it was fine.” “I don’t mind you smoking,” I said. “I have no problem with it. I just… wish you’d do it in the bathroom.” The look she gave me was terrifying. I dropped it. But I did notice she smoked in front of us a lot less after that. She barely spoke to me, and when she did, her words always had an edge. I had a sinking feeling she was the one whispering in Ashley’s ear, telling her I was the thief. Ashley never mentioned the three hundred dollars again, saying it was just money and she’d let it go. Since the victim wasn’t pushing it, nobody else brought it up. The room seemed to go back to normal, but it was like a calm lake with a monster swimming just below the surface. I could feel Jess targeting me more and more. Like, when I was hanging my laundry on the rack, she’d say, “Isn’t that Ashley’s drying rack? Your hands must be burning.” “Why would they be burning?” I’d ask. “From the sun, obviously,” she’d smirk. Or when I got out of the shower, she’d sniff the air dramatically and say to Ashley, loud enough for me to hear, “Wow, that body wash smells amazing. How’d your scent get all the way from the bathroom, Ash?” I didn’t say anything. My own body wash had run out, and I had used a little of Ashley’s without asking. It was my bad. This time, I didn’t fight back. I quietly bought my own drying rack, my own body wash, shampoo, even my own toilet paper. I stopped sharing anything. Every time I showered or did laundry, I’d lug my own stuff with me and lock it back in my cabinet afterward. The missing money was the turning point. Before that, we were friendly, laughing and joking around. After, the air between me and everyone else was thick with unspoken tension. I could feel them shutting me out. If one of them brought back snacks, they’d offer them to the other two, pointedly skipping me. If I offered them something, they’d refuse. If they were all chatting and I tried to join in, the conversation would just… die. I was a ghost in my own room. It was suffocating. I wanted to ask them what was going on, but I knew it was pointless. If they’d decided I was a thief, nothing I could say would change their minds. Any explanation would just sound like a guilty excuse. The people who believe you will always believe you. The people who don’t will twist every word you say. Roommates are just roommates, I told myself. It’s okay if you don’t become best friends. I could find friends elsewhere and just use my dorm as a place to sleep. But life is rarely that simple. Jess escalated things. One night, after lights out, we were all in bed. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, the other three burst out laughing at the same time. It jolted me awake. My heart started pounding. They started talking about things I didn’t understand, whispering about “flashing disco balls” and how “the real nightlife is just getting started.” I realized they must have a group chat without me. They were all lying in their beds, texting each other, making me the butt of the joke. I remembered back at orientation, we’d laughed at that meme about how a dorm room of four girls has twenty-five different group chats. We all thought it was so ridiculous. Now, here we were. Art imitating life. A wave of sadness washed over me. We had all gotten along so well at first. Why did it have to turn out like this? I’d always had friends, I’d never been treated this way before. I had no idea what to do, how to handle it, so I just let it happen. The only thing I could do, it seemed, was to not let them see they were getting to me. I rolled over, facing the wall. I heard their whispering stop, and the room fell silent for a moment. Just as I was about to fall asleep again, I heard Jess’s sharp, taunting voice cut through the darkness. “Hey, you guys hear that? I think someone’s crying.” Leave it to a mean girl to know exactly where to stick the knife. I did want to cry. It was like Jess could sense my insecurity, my sensitivity, and she was deliberately poking at my fragile self-esteem. But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. I’m stronger than you think, I told myself. I forced myself to wake up fully, cleared my throat, and said in a voice that was surprisingly loud and steady, “Who’s crying? I don’t hear anything. You’re gonna freak us out in the middle of the night.” Silence. Complete silence. I felt a surge of victory. It was like a tiny trumpet blast in my head, urging me on. I pushed further, speaking clearly to the other two silent onlookers. “Did you guys hear anything?” Ashley stayed quiet. But then, another voice answered. “Nope. Didn’t hear a thing.” It was Chloe. Quiet, low-key Chloe, who usually stayed out of the drama. She had answered me. I turned my head in Jess’s direction. “See? Nobody heard anything. Maybe you’re hearing ghosts.” I couldn’t see her face in the dark, but she didn’t say another word. I was so happy. I felt like a general who had just won a major battle. Tonight, I could sleep soundly. And I owed a small thank you to my unexpected ally, Chloe. 02 I was really grateful to Chloe. After the money incident, Jess had led the charge in freezing me out. Ashley, while not as openly hostile, clearly wanted nothing to do with me. In her eyes, I was probably a thief, and I couldn’t blame her for avoiding me. Chloe was different. When Jess was around, Chloe didn’t talk to me much, probably because she was afraid of getting on Jess’s bad side. But when it was just the two of us, she was incredibly friendly. We both liked to read, and she’d go on and on about classic American authors and their crazy lives. I’d heard most of the stories before, but I listened patiently. She was, for all intents and purposes, my only friend in that room. Even if she ignored me whenever Jess was there, I understood. I knew my situation. I was that one kid in middle school that everyone picks on. Even if someone feels sorry for you, they’re too scared to be seen with you, afraid the bullying will spread to them. All they can offer is a small bit of kindness when no one else is looking. I was grateful for that small bit of kindness. After my late-night comeback, Jess backed off for a while. I naively thought I’d scared her straight. I should have known she was just planning her next move. One day, I came back to the dorm and stopped dead in the doorway. Our drab, boring room had been transformed into a makeshift nightclub. Music was pulsing, the kind of beat that makes you want to dance even if you don’t want to. A cheap disco ball, plugged into an extension cord, was spinning on the floor, throwing colorful spots of light all over the walls. So this was the “flashing disco ball” they were whispering about. Who else but Jess would buy a disco ball and a speaker to throw a rave in a dorm room? The three of them must have been going wild before I walked in, because the moment I opened the door, they all froze. Jess recovered first, of course, and started dancing again with a defiant look on her face. I think her goal was to make me so uncomfortable, so annoyed by the noise and the lights, that I’d just give up and leave. But honestly, Ashley and Chloe looked way more awkward than I felt. They tried to keep dancing, but they looked like zombies doing the robot. I watched for a second, then nodded approvingly. “You guys have fun. I’m gonna take a shower.” The music didn’t stop while I was in the bathroom. I don’t know if they were having fun, but having a soundtrack for my shower was pretty great. I almost started singing. Jess, I had to admit, had the stamina of a professional club-goer. Even after Ashley and Chloe gave up, she was still dancing by herself in front of the full-length mirror, probably filming a TikTok. If we weren’t enemies, I would have been seriously impressed by her dedication. But we were enemies, and it was now 11 PM. I sat on my bed, staring at her. She kept dancing, blasting music from the speaker on the floor below me. It was a battle of wills. Who would break first? I don’t know who won, because I eventually passed out. But my alarm for my 8 AM class woke me up bright and early. They were chronic class-skippers and could sleep in, but I actually cared about my GPA. Sitting in lecture with massive bags under my eyes, I knew I couldn’t go on like this. As soon as class was over, I marched straight to our RA’s office. Our RA, Mike, had just graduated a couple of years ago. All the students liked him. The guys treated him like a brother, and the girls saw him as this cool older-brother figure. I’d been trying to handle this dorm drama myself, but I was at my breaking point. When I saw him, I almost broke down. I resisted the urge to grab his hand and cry, “Mike, you gotta help me!” Instead, I remembered he liked to be taken seriously, so I respectfully called him Mr. Thompson. I tried to stay calm as I explained everything. It’s hard to talk about being ostracized without sounding pathetic or crazy. I was terrified he was going to hit me with the classic, “Well, have you thought about what you might be doing wrong? Why are they picking on you and not someone else?” Thankfully, Mike wasn’t like that. He listened patiently to my whole story, expressed his sympathy, and then firmly rejected my request to switch rooms. I felt my heart sink. “Why?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Lily,” he said gently, “you have no idea how many students come to me asking to switch rooms. If I said yes to everyone, we’d have chaos. You get people from all over the country, with different habits, different personalities, all thrown together. Clashes are normal. The answer isn’t to run away from the problem. It’s to try and solve it.” My eyes glazed over. “So what am I supposed to do?” “I’m going to call your other roommates in for a chat,” he said. “We’ll try to mediate this and solve the problem within the room.” If things in the dorm were a cold war before, Mike’s plan was to drop a nuclear bomb on it. All the secret tensions and resentments were about to explode. He must have seen the panic on my face, because he added, “Look, I promise, if things really can’t be worked out, I’ll find a way to get you a new room.” I left his office and stress-ate a massive burrito bowl at the campus cafe, my stomach churning with anxiety. When I got back to the room, only Chloe was there. She looked at me, her expression unreadable. “Mike called Ashley and Jess into his office. Did you go talk to him?” Wow, Mike worked fast. I took a deep breath. “Yeah. How come you weren’t called in?” “It doesn’t have anything to do with me,” she said, shrugging. “I’m not getting involved. But… do you really want to switch rooms?” I didn’t answer. Of course I didn’t want the hassle, but living here was making me miserable. I finally asked her the question that had been haunting me for months. “Do you all think I was the one who stole the three hundred dollars?” “Well, didn’t you?” Chloe’s casual reply felt like a punch to the gut. The air left my lungs. All this time, with her friendly chats and kind words, I thought she was on my side. I thought she believed me. I once saw an interview with an actress who said that when you’re being bullied, and someone throws a ball at you, you just freeze. You can’t even move. I never understood that until this moment. I’d been so sheltered my whole life, I was genuinely shocked that people could be this cruel for no reason. I was too sensitive, too fragile to accept the reality of being an outcast. I didn’t fight back because I knew, deep down, I had no one in my corner. When you’re surrounded, it takes a rare kind of courage to fight your way out. I fought back tears, looked down, and let out a bitter laugh. “Even if I said I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me, right? There’s no proof either way.” 03 Chloe seemed almost amused by my reaction. “It’s just a few hundred bucks,” she said dismissively. “It’s not a big deal.” Her attitude pissed me off. “Then why did you guys make a group chat without me?” I demanded. “Because every time we asked you to hang out, you said no. So we just made our own group to plan things.” So the group chat existed long before the money went missing. My “not fitting in” had already gotten me kicked out of their circle. The missing money was just the catalyst. It didn’t matter if it happened or not; I was never going to be one of them. “We were trying to be nice, actually,” Chloe added. “We figured it would be more awkward to plan things in front of you when we knew you wouldn’t want to come.” That day, I learned a valuable lesson: bullies never feel guilty. Don’t ever expect the villain in your story to have a sudden change of heart. That only happens in movies. I pulled out my phone and texted my best friend from back home. She’d been my rock through all of this. When she heard I was trying to switch rooms, she was furious. “Why the hell should YOU have to move?” she texted back in all caps. “They’re the assholes! They should be the ones to leave! Why do you get punished for being bullied?!” “They’re not going anywhere,” I replied. “The three of them are a package deal.” “I don’t buy it! I bet they’re not as tight as you think. Awful people can’t stay friends for long. They’ll turn on each other eventually. If I were you, I’d stay put and wait for the drama. Grab some popcorn.” My best friend. She always knew how to make me feel like I could take on the world. But when I put my phone down, I was back in reality, bracing for the storm. Mike’s little chat with my roommates was over. Jess stormed into the room, slamming her books on her desk and making as much noise as possible. Ashley and Chloe stood by, watching her silently. I took a deep breath, ready for battle. “Some people are just amazing,” Jess sneered, staring right at me. “Got a little problem, and boom, they go running to the RA!” I was terrified of confrontation, truly. For months, Jess had been playing mind games, with passive-aggressive comments and organized isolation. This was the first time she’d come at me directly. I knew I had to push back. I forced my voice to sound steady, a fake smile plastered on my face. “That’s right. I asked for a room change. If all goes well, you won’t have to see me anymore. Happy now?” I was ready for a screaming match, but the second I snapped back, she fell silent. For a split second, I had a thought: maybe she was just a paper tiger. Every time I showed the slightest bit of backbone, she seemed to back down. Her tone softened a little. “If you want to go, then go. No one’s begging you to stay.” I wasn’t as scared anymore. “I don’t want to go,” I said calmly. “But when you’re having a rave in the room until 2 AM, I can’t sleep. If I stay, I’ll end up in a mental hospital.” As we were locked in this standoff, I heard a soft chuckle from behind me. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp and clear. It came from Chloe. I was sure of it. I spun around. Jess was fuming, Ashley looked terrified, and Chloe… the moment I looked at her, she immediately pretended to be busy with something on her desk, as if nothing had happened. What was so funny about this situation? I looked back at her, a new thought forming in my mind. It seemed like someone was really, really enjoying watching Jess and me go at each other. The room change wasn’t happening. Days turned into weeks, and I never heard back from Mike. And just as I expected, Jess didn’t stop her antics. In fact, my fighting back seemed to make her even more determined to put me in my place. She decided we needed to have a “room meeting.” That night, it was like a scene from a movie. I sat alone on the cheap papasan chair I’d bought, out on the tiny balcony. They sat facing me in a row of desk chairs, like an interrogation panel. Jess started. “We never wanted to kick you out of the room. We just have a problem with some of your behavior.” “I didn’t steal the money,” I said flatly. “Then why did you say that thing about giving the thief a chance to put it back?” Every time I thought about my “after-school special” speech, I wanted to slap myself. “In high school, a kid stole money, and that’s how our teacher handled it. She let him return it anonymously. I thought it was a good way to protect someone’s dignity, give them a chance to fix their mistake without ruining their life. I never thought… I never thought you’d think it was me.” “You’re the brokest one in the room,” she shot back. “It’s not that big of a leap.” “Excuse me?” That was just plain rude. I wanted to argue, but I looked at Jess’s desk overflowing with makeup, Ashley’s shelves of expensive collectibles, Chloe’s closet bursting with clothes and bags… and then at my own sparse corner. Objectively, I probably did look like the “poorest” one. “First of all,” I said, my voice shaking slightly, “I’m not poor enough to need to steal. And second, being broke doesn’t make you a thief. I didn’t do it. Believe me or don’t.” Ashley, true to her gentle nature, chimed in softly. “It’s in the past. The money doesn’t matter anymore.” “Right,” Jess agreed. “The point of this meeting is to clear the air. From now on, we solve our problems in here, not by running to the RA.” So, that’s what this was about. My talking to Mike had worked, in a way. Chloe, playing the peacemaker, said in her most reasonable voice, “Let’s just get it all out. Whatever issues we have, let’s put them on the table now so we can move on.” I figured a room change was a lost cause, so clearing the air was the next best thing. I looked straight at Jess. “Fine. It bugs me when you smoke in the room in the morning. That’s it.” The mention of smoking made Jess’s face darken. “Oh yeah? And what about you? You think using someone’s body wash without asking isn’t annoying as hell?” The damn body wash again. I wanted to facepalm. Why did I have to be so careless? I felt a flash of shame but knew I had to own it. “You’re right. That was my mistake. You called me out on it, and it won’t happen again.” I thought admitting fault would de-escalate things, but Jess was the type to pounce on any weakness. My apology only fueled her fire. “Let me tell you something,” she said, leaning forward. “I’m the only one here from this city. I know people at this school. Don’t mess with me. If you really piss me off, I’ll have my friends meet you on the quad. You get me?” If anyone else had said that, I would have laughed. But coming from Jess, I believed her. The smoking, the drinking, the tough-girl act… she wasn’t just playing a part. That threat, whether it was real or not, terrified me. That same night, I was back in Mike’s office, this time with actual tears streaming down my face, telling him how Jess had threatened to have people jump me on campus. Mike looked horrified. “Not on my watch,” he said, puffing out his chest. “I will not let that happen at this university!” Then I begged him again to change my room. The puffed-out chest deflated. He said he was still working on it, but there were no open spots. If I couldn’t find a way out, I had to make my own. If I was stuck in this room, I had to find a way to survive. 04 Tucked away in the back of my closet was a small, gift-wrapped box. I’d bought it for Jess’s birthday months ago. My own birthday was right at the beginning of the semester, back when we were all friends. They had all chipped in and gotten me a nice skincare set. I was so touched that I immediately started planning what to get them for their birthdays. Jess’s gift was the first one I decided on. She smoked, and I knew she was self-conscious about it. I’d noticed she always used cheap, plastic lighters. So I bought her a beautiful, sleek Zippo. I wanted to show her that I didn’t judge her for smoking; I just didn’t like the smell. The two things were separate. But then the whole money thing happened, and the gift just sat in my closet, gathering dust. It was useless sitting there. Maybe it could buy me some peace. One morning, as everyone was rushing to get to class, I grabbed the box, walked over to Jess, and shoved it into her hands. “Happy belated birthday!” Then I bolted out of the room like my life depended on it. It was so awkward. I didn’t want to see her reaction, and I was too embarrassed to ever bring it up again. But slowly, I noticed a small, subtle shift. Jess pretty much stopped snapping at me. The passive-aggressive comments died down. When she smoked in the morning, she’d go to the bathroom. The room started to smell like a normal dorm room again. Once, during a group project, she even asked if I wanted to be in their group. It was probably just because I had good grades and she wanted me to do all the work, but I was so relieved I almost cried. I could finally stop worrying about getting jumped on the quad. God, I was such a coward. Ashley had never been openly hostile, and now she treated me like a normal, distant roommate. We’d exchange a few words here and there. Chloe was the same as before, too—when we were alone, we’d chat about books and our dreams. It was as if our big confrontation, and that chilling little laugh, had never happened. Mike never came through with a new room, so I just stayed. I still kept to myself, eating alone, walking around campus alone. Sometimes I’d see pictures of the three of them on Instagram, having fun without me, and I’d feel a pang of loneliness. But mostly, I preferred the quiet freedom of being on my own. Life settled into a calm, predictable routine. Until New Year’s. That’s when the first stone was tossed into our placid little pond. We had a three-day weekend. Jess, being the only local, took her new bestie Ashley home with her. That left just me and Chloe in the dorm. On the third day, Chloe said she was bored and went out, leaving me to my own devices. I didn’t mind; I’d recently started writing a novel, and I loved having the room to myself. To my surprise, when Chloe came back that evening, she had a New Year’s gift for me. It was a liquid lipstick from a niche indie brand. It wasn’t expensive, but it was the thought that counted. “You don’t wear a lot of makeup,” she said, “so I picked a really natural color for you. It’s subtle, so you can wear it even without any other makeup and it’ll look great.” I’m the kind of person who forgets all grievances the moment someone does something nice for me. I was so happy I completely forgot all our past issues. I even felt a little guilty for not getting her anything. But the happiness didn’t last long. Later that night, I was lying in bed listening to music when I got a text from Jess. “Is that a Rare Beauty lipstick on your desk? Shade 307?” My stomach dropped. The word “thief” felt like a curse that was destined to follow me forever. I texted back immediately: “Chloe gave it to me. I don’t know the shade.” Jess replied: “Flip it over. The number is on the bottom.” I looked. It was 307. My brain hadn’t caught up yet, but my body was buzzing. A strange energy started in my feet and shot through my entire body. Looking back, I realize it was the exhilarating premonition of long-overdue justice. But at that moment, all I felt was panic. How was I going to explain my way out of this one? Then it hit me. This wasn’t Jess’s style. If she thought I’d stolen something again, she’d have already dragged me out into the hallway for a public shaming. Texting me privately like this was… different. The first chance I got to talk to her alone, I asked, “What’s up with the lipstick?” Her answer was short and to the point. “I bought Ashley the exact same one for New Year’s. Same shade.” A lightning bolt shot through my brain. I started stammering, “Chloe gave it to me, I didn’t…” “I know,” she cut me off. “You only ever use, like, drugstore chapstick.” It was a snobby thing to say, but in that moment, it was the most comforting sentence I’d ever heard. If Jess had just seen the lipstick on my desk and jumped to conclusions, I’d be facing another round of dorm hell. The fact that they asked me first meant something had changed. Maybe their suspicion of Chloe wasn’t new. My best friend’s words echoed in my head: Wait for the drama. Grab some popcorn. “Are you going to confront Chloe?” I asked. “Not yet,” Jess said. “The lipstick isn’t the main problem. Ashley’s Yeezys are missing.” “Her… what?” “Her sneakers,” Jess said, looking at me like I was an idiot. “Nike Yeezys.” Oh. That meant they were expensive. A quick Google search confirmed it. A pair of sneakers that could sell for four figures, sometimes even five on the resale market. Yeah, someone would definitely steal those. Jess took me to talk to Ashley. I had to ask them. “Why didn’t you suspect me this time?” Jess shrugged. “You’re broke, yeah, and you don’t care about fashion, but you’ve been that way since we met. You probably can’t even tell the difference between eyeshadow and blush, right? Or Nike and Adidas? Even if you stole the shoes, you wouldn’t even know where to get them authenticated to sell them.” I felt slightly insulted, but mostly, I was relieved. My simple, unfashionable life had an unexpected upside. “And who steals something and then just leaves it out on their desk for everyone to see?” Ashley added. I broke into a cold sweat. I had almost put the lipstick away in a drawer. This time, Ashley was determined to search the room. I was one hundred percent on board. When Chloe heard we were searching the room again, she looked completely shocked, as if she had no idea what was going on. When she heard Ashley’s Yeezys were missing, she asked what style they were. Hearing they were the super popular model, she was full of sympathy. She was a master at faking empathy. She agreed to the search without hesitation. Having my messy closet rummaged through was embarrassing, but at least my name was finally in the clear. The search turned up nothing. As she was tidying her closet, Chloe said, “Why does this keep happening? Why is it always our room?” The three of us exchanged a look but said nothing. “We shouldn’t tell anyone about this,” Chloe continued. “We don’t want people talking.” Her words triggered a memory. Back when they all suspected me of stealing the money, did I ever worry they would spread rumors about me outside the room? No, never. In fact, I kind of wished they had. It would have given me a reason to blow the whole thing up, clear my name, and get that room change. But strangely, they never did. The bullying was always contained within our four walls. Was it Chloe who had told them to keep it quiet back then, too? Why would she do that? After we finished cleaning up the mess, Jess asked me to grab dinner with her and Ashley. This time, the three of us walked out of the room together. I glanced back and saw Chloe, alone, sweeping the floor. So this time, Chloe, you’re the one left behind.

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