I took my sister for a routine check-up, and we walked out with a Stage III cancer diagnosis. I decided to drain my entire savings account to pay for her treatment, but my fiancé, Mark, stopped me. “Let’s make a bet,” he said, his voice serious. “Pretend it’s you who’s sick. Let’s just see if your parents are willing to do the same for you.” On a strange impulse, I agreed. The moment my parents found out, their advice was swift and clear. “Honey, a disease like that is a bottomless pit,” my mom said, her voice laced with pity. “Sometimes, you just have to accept your fate.” “Your sister’s wedding is just around the corner,” my dad added. “We really can’t afford any extra expenses right now.” My eyes started to burn. 1 The moment I saw my sister’s test results, my hand started to shake. I couldn’t imagine how my parents would take the news. My sister, Tessa, was getting married in two weeks. Her life was just beginning. Fate has a cruel sense of humor. I forced myself to stay calm as I rushed home to grab my bank book. The doctor said it was treatable, but between the surgery and the chemo, it was going to be expensive. I had about fifty thousand dollars saved up—my down payment for a house. But a life was more important than a house. I was about to run out the door when a hand clamped down on my wrist. It was Mark. My eyes were red with panic. “Don’t stop me!” I cried, trying to pull away. “My sister needs this money to live!” Mark sighed, pulling me into a firm hug. “Taking the money out can wait five minutes. Just listen to me first.” He reached over my shoulder and produced a bank card. “There’s a hundred thousand dollars on this card. It’s the money my mom gave us for the wedding.” I stared at him, confused. “I’ll give it to you for Tessa’s treatment,” he said, his eyes filled with a complicated emotion I couldn’t read. “But first, you have to make a bet with me.” “Tell your parents that you’re the one who’s sick,” he said. “If they agree to spend the money to treat you, then this card is all yours for your sister. No strings attached.” What kind of bet was that? My parents had two daughters. They’d never played favorites. Whatever Tessa got, I got. It didn’t matter which one of us was sick; they would move heaven and earth for either of us. Mark was basically just giving me the money. But for Tessa, I agreed. A hundred thousand dollars would be a massive relief. I made a silent promise to myself to pay him back one day. “You’re on,” I said with a smirk. “Prepare to lose.” Mark’s gaze flickered away. He couldn’t meet my eyes. “I hope I do,” he murmured. At that moment, I had no idea how devastating his words would prove to be. 2 According to Mark’s rules, I had to record the conversation with my parents as proof. “No problem,” I’d said. I hit record on my phone before I even knocked. As I raised my hand, their voices drifted through the door. “Are you sure about giving Tessa that extra twenty thousand for the wedding?” my dad asked, his voice hesitant. “Do you think Maya will have a problem with it?” “If we don’t tell her, how will she know?” my mom replied confidently. “Besides, Maya and Tessa are different. Maya can pull ten or twenty grand out of her own account without blinking. The only people Tessa has to rely on are us.” Then I heard my sister’s sweet voice. “I knew you guys loved me the most!” I felt like I’d been rooted to the spot. A month ago, after Tessa’s fiancé’s family had come over to finalize wedding details, she had pulled me onto the porch, crying about how my parents couldn’t afford to give her a proper wedding gift, how she’d be shamed in front of her new in-laws. My heart broke for her. I went to the bank the next day and gave her ten thousand dollars from my savings. And now I was hearing that on top of my ten thousand, my parents had secretly given her another twenty? They had told me they could only afford to give her a few handmade quilts. My temples throbbed. I pushed the door open and walked in. “Hey guys. What was that about twenty thousand dollars?” 3 The living room went silent. The looks on their faces were a mixture of guilt and panic. My mom was the first to recover. “Oh, twenty thousand!” she laughed, a little too loudly. “Your sister was just saying that the things we’re giving her for the wedding are so special, she wouldn’t trade them for twenty thousand dollars.” Tessa nodded eagerly, grabbing my arm. “Yeah! Mom’s quilts are so soft and cozy. They’re priceless!” I frowned, my eyes drifting to my mom’s hands. She’d spent her life doing housework, her knuckles were rough, but I’d never once seen her sew. “Since when does Mom know how to make quilts?” Tessa’s smile froze on her face. She slowly let go of my arm. I stared at her, then at my parents, who were suddenly fascinated by the carpet. The small doubt in my mind sharpened into a painful spike. I walked towards Tessa’s room, each step feeling like I was walking on broken glass. I went straight to her closet and threw open the doors. 4 Inside, stacked neatly, were several beautiful quilts. They weren’t store-bought; they were made of a soft, pale pink fabric, with tiny, meticulous stitches along the edges. In the corner of one, her name, ‘Tessa,’ was delicately embroidered. I reached out and touched the fine needlework. And then I remembered: Tessa had always had quilts like these. When we were little, I’d begged for one just like hers, but my mom had always said Tessa’s were too heavy and mine were much more comfortable. So, all these years, my mom had been hand-making quilts just for her. And I had never noticed. My mom rushed in behind me. “Tessa has very sensitive skin,” she explained, her voice flustered. “She’s been allergic since she was a baby. The store-bought blankets have synthetic fibers, they give her a rash.” Her words were another stab to the heart. I’d had rashes my whole childhood. Red, itchy patches on my arms and legs that kept me up at night. My mom had always dismissed it as seasonal allergies. It wasn’t until I moved in with Mark, and he bought me a high-quality, hypoallergenic silk comforter, that the rashes finally went away. I’d thought it was just the change of environment. I finally understood. I had the same allergies as my sister. “Mom,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Did you know I was allergic too?” 5 “Alright, alright, our little girl is getting jealous,” my dad said, stepping in to break the tension. “Your mom will make you a new quilt tomorrow.” My mom muttered under her breath, “What for? She has money now, she can buy whatever she wants.” My dad shot her a look, and she went quiet. I took a deep breath, pushing down the hurt. “Mom, Dad,” I said, my voice steady. “I came here today to tell you that I’m sick. The treatment is going to cost a lot of money.” The smiles vanished from their faces. A chill ran down my spine, but I pressed on, clinging to a sliver of hope. “It’s late-stage cancer. You’re not going to just let me die, are you?” The air in the room felt thick enough to suffocate me. 6 My mom pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “I’m looking it up online… it says here late-stage cancer can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars!” She looked up at me, her eyes filled not with sympathy, but with calculation. “What about Mark? His family is well-off. They won’t just abandon you. We really don’t have that kind of money.” My hand clenched the fabric of my dress. “He broke up with me,” I lied, my voice hollow. “The second he found out.” I saw the tension leave my father’s shoulders. My sister looked relieved. My mom grabbed my arm, her voice urgent. “Maya, you have to go back to him! You’ve been together for years, he still loves you. He’s a good person, he wouldn’t let you die!” Her next words were a punch to the gut. “Even if you’re really broken up, he owes you. Talk to him, get some money out of him. It’s better than nothing!” My own mother. My own family. They wouldn’t help me. They wanted me to go beg my “ex-boyfriend.” I turned to my sister, my last hope. 7 “Tessa,” I said, my voice shaking. “Your fiancé’s family gave you a thirty-thousand-dollar engagement gift, right?” If she offered it to me, I would give her all of my fifty thousand, right here, right now. But she recoiled as if I’d slapped her. “That’s my money! It’s for my future! How could you even ask for it?” Her face was pale, a stark contrast to her furious eyes. “Besides, with a disease like yours, it’s not a matter of if you die, but when!” The cruelty of her words was stunning. But it was her face… that same unusual pallor she’d had for weeks. She’d been crash-dieting for the wedding, eating almost nothing. I had been so worried about her that I had dragged her to the doctor for the check-up in the first place. I had been thinking only of them. And they had been thinking only of themselves. Why did my sister get handmade quilts? Why did she get twenty thousand dollars when they claimed to be broke? Why, when I was facing death, was their first reaction to protect their money? Tears welled up in my eyes. My phone buzzed in my pocket, a reminder from the real world. This wasn’t real. The person who was sick wasn’t me. 8 I finally found my voice, calm and distant. “Do you guys even love me? You have twenty thousand dollars for Tessa’s wedding, but nothing for my life?” My mother’s voice rose, shrill with indignation. “Of course we love you! Have you ever gone without food or clothing?” She pointed a finger at me. “Your sister is different! She needs our help! And here you are, being petty and jealous! You get sick, and the first thing you do is blame us? How can you be so selfish?” My father tried to calm her down, but she shook him off. “Even if I did give her the money, it’s our savings! She’s getting married, she needs to have something of her own! You have a good job, you have skills! Why can’t you figure this out for yourself?” In her eyes, my sister’s wedding was a priority. My life was “my own problem.” “If Tessa were the one who was sick,” I asked, cutting her off, “would you just watch her die, too?” My mother froze. But my sister exploded. “How dare you say that?!” SLAP. The sting on my cheek was sharp and shocking. “If I were sick,” she spat, her eyes blazing, “I would never be a burden to my family. Not everyone is as selfish as you are.” Good to know. 9 I stumbled out of the house and collapsed onto the curb, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe. It was all a lie. The idea that they loved us equally was a story they told me, a story I desperately wanted to believe. Their love was a pie, and my sister had always gotten the bigger slice. I remembered when I first started working. The stress gave me such bad anxiety that I developed painful cysts in my breasts. I called my parents, terrified, and they just told me I was being “too sensitive” and “overdramatic.” But when Tessa was diagnosed with mild anemia a few years later, my mother took a three-month nutrition course just to learn how to cook for her. Mark had joked about it then. “Your family really plays favorites, huh?” I’d gotten so angry at him, defending them. “Tessa’s always been fragile! Of course they worry about her more!” How stupid I had been. After what felt like an eternity, I finally pulled myself together. I remembered the report still in my bag. As much as I hated them in that moment, I couldn’t be as cruel as they were. They deserved to know the truth about their favorite daughter. I walked back to the house. As I approached the door, I heard their voices again. 10 “You shouldn’t have been so harsh with her,” my dad was saying. “She’s given us a lot of money over the years. We can’t afford to alienate her completely.” “How was I supposed to know she’d show up and start demanding Tessa’s wedding money?” my mom shot back. “Cancer is a money pit. Giving her cash is like throwing it into a black hole!” “You don’t get it!” my dad hissed. “She has savings. We play our cards right, we can get her to hand it all over. We could even buy Tessa a condo!” “But she’s angry now,” my mom fretted. “It’s easy,” my dad said, his voice dripping with cunning. “You call her, you cry, you tell her we’re going to sell the house to pay for her treatment. Get her to hand over her savings first. Then, it’s our money. Hell, we can even take out a life insurance policy on her. When she dies, Tessa will be set for life. It’s the least she can do for the family after all we’ve given her.” A wave of nausea washed over me. This conversation, this cold-blooded scheming, shattered the last remnants of my love for them. 11 I had pulled strings to get Tessa’s results back early. The doctor said with cancer, every day counts. But now? Who cares. I thought about all the times I had bailed Tessa out. The three thousand dollars she’d racked up on her credit card for a designer bag. The two thousand I’d given her for a custom wedding dress because the one she had wasn’t “special enough.” Mark had called me a doormat. He was right. I went home and texted Tessa. I told her I wanted my ten thousand dollars back. She didn’t reply. Minutes later, my phone rang. It was my mother. 12 “Maya, sweetie, I’m so sorry!” she wailed into the phone. “I was wrong, I said horrible things! We would never abandon you!” It was a pathetic, transparent performance. She wasn’t worried about me; she was worried about my money. “Your father and I had a long talk,” she continued, her voice thick with fake tears. “We’re selling the house. We’ll do whatever it takes to get you the best treatment. I’ve already called a realtor. We’ll have the money soon, I promise.” Then, the real question. “But Maya, just in case the house doesn’t sell right away… how much do you have saved up right now? We don’t want to delay your treatment.” I let a cold, dead smile spread across my face. “Mom, stop acting. I heard everything you said in the house. The plan to sell the house is just a scam to get my money. Let’s be honest. My life isn’t worth as much as your cash, is it?” The crying stopped instantly. 13 A few seconds of silence, then her voice, sharp and venomous. “What are you talking about? I think you’re the one who’s sick in the head! We try to help you, and this is the thanks we get?” “I’m not confused,” I said, my voice flat. “I heard you say you were going to ‘get me to hand over my savings.’ I heard you talking about the life insurance money after I die.” I finally asked the question that had been buried in my heart for years. “Why? Why her and not me? I’m your daughter too. Why was everything for her, and for me, you were just leeches, sucking me dry?” She was speechless. All I heard was the sound of something smashing in the background. “Fine! Have it your way! You’re so tough, you don’t need us! See who comes to your funeral!” My dad got on the line. “Maya, how could you speak to your mother like that? Apologize!” “Apologize?” I laughed, a bitter, broken sound. “Why should I apologize? For not being a good little sheep and letting you fleece me before you sent me to the slaughter?” My mother snatched the phone back. “We gave you life! You owe us! And if you’re going to die anyway, what’s wrong with us thinking about your sister’s future? You know what? Don’t call us. Don’t bother us. As of today, we don’t have a daughter named Maya!” 14 The line went dead. Mark came out of the bedroom, his face etched with a mixture of pity and anger. “You won,” I whispered. “I told you,” he said, pulling me into his arms. “I would have given anything to lose.” And then I broke. All the years of suppressed pain, of feeling second-best, of being used and unloved, came pouring out in a flood of tears. “Why don’t they love me?” I sobbed into his chest. “They’re blind fools,” he said, holding me tight. “But I see you. I love you. Ten times, a hundred times more than they ever could.” He pulled back and pressed the bank card into my hand. “Tomorrow, we’re going house hunting. We’re buying a place, in your name. You’re going to have your own home.” Through my tears, I managed a small smile. Then, a thought struck me. “You knew, didn’t you?” I asked. “You knew they wouldn’t help me.” He sighed. “Sometimes, when you’re in the picture, you can’t see the frame.” I finally understood.

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My mother-in-law deliberately fed my toddler something he was deathly allergic to. When I stopped her, she threatened to leave, to go back home and never watch him again. She wanted me to grovel and apologize, just like I always had. This time, I packed her bags, drove her to the Greyhound station, and wished her a safe trip. 1 The moment I walked through the door after work, my one-year-old son, Leo, came toddling towards me, crying. “Itchy, Mommy, itchy,” he sobbed. I looked down and saw his little body covered in angry, red hives. My mother-in-law, Carol, was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through TikToks on her phone as if nothing was wrong. “Mom,” I said, my voice tight. “What happened to Leo? Why is he breaking out again? Did you give him peanut butter?” Leo has had a severe peanut allergy since he was a baby. Even a small amount makes him break out in hives. A large amount could close his throat. Carol didn’t even look up from her phone. “A little,” she said, her tone defensive. “I just mixed a spoonful into his oatmeal. He needs the protein. He’ll never grow big and strong if he doesn’t eat peanuts.” I took a deep breath, trying to control my anger. “Carol, we’ve been over this a hundred times. He’s allergic. A minor reaction is hives. A major one could kill him.” Since his diagnosis, I’d been meticulous. Our house was a peanut-free zone. And Leo hadn’t had a single reaction. Until my mother-in-law came to live with us. No matter how many times I explained it, she refused to listen. For every one of my sentences, she had ten in return, her face a mask of stubborn defiance. Right now was no different. She didn’t think she was wrong; she thought I was attacking her. “You’re young, you don’t know,” she snapped, finally looking at me. “Mark was the same way with shellfish when he was a kid. He’d break out in hives. You just have to feed it to them a few times, and their body gets used to it.” “I’m his grandmother,” she added, as if that was the final word. “Would I ever do anything to hurt him?” Meanwhile, Leo was scratching himself raw in my arms, whimpering. I looked at her, immovable on the couch. “I don’t care how Mark was raised,” I said, my voice cold. “This is my son. And you will not do this again.” Besides, my husband Mark is still allergic to shellfish. What the hell was she talking about? Carol’s face hardened. “Fine. If that’s how you’re going to be, then I can’t watch him for you anymore. Find someone else. I’m packing my bags and going home.” There it was. The threat. Anytime I disagreed with her, anytime I pushed back, this was her trump card. And this was the ninth time she’d played it. 2 My husband Mark and I met in college. We stayed in the city after graduation, got married, and a couple of years later, had Leo. My own mother passed away when I was young, so she couldn’t help with childcare. That left Carol. And Carol knew she had me cornered. She knew I had no other family to turn to. For the past year, if I so much as breathed in a way that displeased her, she’d threaten to leave. Honestly, the first time she did it, I was stunned. All I did was suggest that maybe Leo didn’t need to wear a snowsuit indoors. She burst into tears, accusing me of disrespecting her, and started dramatically throwing her things into a suitcase. What was I supposed to do? Mark and I both worked full-time. Who would watch our son? So, I apologized. I begged her to stay. And she did, magnanimously. After that, I just looked the other way. If she wanted to dress him like he was about to summit Everest to watch cartoons, fine. What else could I do? I thought it was a one-time thing. But once she knew it worked, it became her go-to move. She started testing my boundaries constantly. My words became suggestions, then just background noise she ignored. It felt like she was disagreeing with me just for the sake of it. I’d say, “The pediatrician said no salt before he’s one.” She’d scoff. “Nonsense. How can he get strong without salt?” And then I’d find her sneaking it into his baby food. I’d say, “Please, no grapes or hard candies. He could choke.” She’d roll her eyes. “This is how I raised Mark, and he turned out fine. You young mothers are all so paranoid.” Then she’d add the kicker: “If you want me to be one of those new-age, helicopter grandmas, then I can’t do this. You can hire someone else.” And every single time, I caved. Every single time, she grew bolder. The allergy thing was the worst. He’d had at least five or six reactions since she arrived. And her excuse was always the same: “He’s just being picky. He needs to get used to it. It’s good for him.” Thinking back on it now, I was such an idiot. So young, so afraid of confrontation, so worried about money that I never even considered hiring a nanny. I kept telling myself I was protecting my husband from being caught in the middle. I wasn’t protecting anyone. I was a coward, and I was failing to protect my own child. All of that was about to change. Because this time, when Carol threatened to leave, I wasn’t going to stop her. 3 I took Leo straight to urgent care. He cried the whole way, scratching at his skin. The doctor gave him a shot of epinephrine and looked at me sternly. “You have to be more careful. Allergies can be fatal. We just had a kid in here last week who went into anaphylactic shock. He had to be intubated.” By the time I got everything sorted and Leo was calm and asleep in his car seat, it was after 8 PM. As I walked up to our front door, I could hear Carol on the phone with one of her sisters. “I work my fingers to the bone for them, and this is the thanks I get? You just wait. If she doesn’t get on her knees and beg me to stay this time, I’m really leaving,” she said, her voice dripping with self-satisfaction. “These kids today are so fragile, so precious. We never had these problems, did we? I tell you, I’ve spoiled her. Letting her think she can talk to me like that. I’m gonna teach her a lesson she won’t forget.” Her sister must have said something cautious, because Carol laughed. “Oh, please. Who else is she going to get? Her mother is dead. She has no one. You watch. In an hour, she’ll be back, crying.” I pushed the door open. Carol immediately hung up, her face setting into a hard mask. She sat on the sofa like a queen on her throne. Next to her was her old, beat-up suitcase. She didn’t even ask about Leo. “I can’t do this anymore,” she announced. “I’m going home. It’s a thank you to watch your child, not an obligation. Since you think I do such a bad job, you can find someone else.” She stared at me, chin up, waiting for the usual apology. Instead, I walked past her, put the sleeping baby in his crib, then came back, picked up her suitcase, and walked towards the door. Carol shot up from the sofa. “What are you doing? Put that down! You think you can stop me?” I turned, my face calm. “I’m taking you to the bus station. If we leave now, you can catch the last bus out tonight.” She froze, her mouth slightly open. The bus station? Tonight? The last bus? It took her a second to recover. “It’s too late!” she sputtered. “There won’t be any connecting buses to get back to my town! You want me to sleep at the station?” “Don’t worry,” I said smoothly. “I’ve already booked you a car service. It will be waiting for you when you arrive to take you the rest of the way. I’ll text you the driver’s number.” The color drained from her face. She finally understood I wasn’t bluffing. After a long pause, she scoffed, “Fine! Thank God! I can’t wait to be done with this!” I didn’t waste any more words. I called Mark and told him to leave work and get home immediately. Then, I put her suitcase in my car and drove her to the station, doing 80 the whole way. At the drop-off lane, I handed her the suitcase. “Have a safe trip, Carol. Text us when you get there.” Then, without waiting for a reply, I got back in my car and drove away, leaving her standing on the curb, her face a thundercloud of fury. 4 I was barely two blocks from the station when Mark called. “Sarah? Where’s Mom? I just got home and no one’s here. Where are you?” I kept my eyes on the road. “Your mom? I just dropped her at the Greyhound station. She said she wanted to go home, so I took her.” Silence. Then, “What do you mean she went home? Did you get into another fight? Why didn’t you talk to me about this? Who’s going to watch Leo now?” His voice was rising with panic. “Sarah, come on. Whatever it was, couldn’t you just say you were sorry?” The fire I had just managed to extinguish roared back to life. “Sorry? Why should I be sorry? Did I murder someone? Your mother fed our son peanuts again. He was covered in hives, the doctor said it could have killed him! Then I heard her on the phone, bragging to your aunt about how she has me under her thumb because my mom is gone. You think I should apologize for that?” Mark went quiet. After a moment, he said, weakly, “But what are we going to do for childcare?” “We’ll hire someone,” I said coldly. “Hire someone? With what money? Nannies cost a fortune! Five, six thousand a month…” I was done with his whining. “That’s your problem now. Instead of complaining like a child, why don’t you figure out a way to earn more money?” That shut him up. 5 When I got home, Mark was on the phone with Carol, who was clearly on the bus. Her voice was so loud I could hear it from across the room. “It’s not my fault, son, it’s that wife of yours. No respect. So the boy had a little rash. I’m old, I forgot, I put a little peanut butter in his oatmeal. And she just went crazy. You need to get her under control. I’m not coming back until she learns her place.” Mark saw me and quickly tried to end the call. “Okay, Mom, calm down. Just rest for a few days, and I’ll come get you.” “Don’t bother!” she squawked. “I meant what I said!” He hung up, looking stressed. “Sarah, I’m only going to say this once,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Your mother is never setting foot in this house again.” His face darkened. “She didn’t mean it. You’re blowing this out of proportion. He just had a little rash. Boys can’t be so coddled.” He tried to put his arm around me. “Look, let her cool off for a few days. I’ll go pick her up, you’ll apologize, and we can all move on. We’re family.” I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Apologize? Not in this lifetime. I’ve already called a nanny service.” His expression changed. “A nanny? We can’t trust a stranger! Sarah, don’t be ridiculous.” He sighed. “It’s just an allergy. It’s not that big a deal.” I didn’t argue. I just went into the kitchen and started making dinner. Mark, thinking he had won, relaxed. He even got back on the phone with his mom. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m handling it. Just get yourself a snack on the bus, don’t worry about the money… I’ll make sure she apologizes properly when you get back.” I served dinner. Mark ate happily. About twenty minutes later, he started shifting in his chair. Then he started scratching his arm. “What the heck?” he muttered. “I’m so itchy. I’m gonna go take a shower.” A few minutes later, he burst out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, his chest and back covered in red welts. “Sarah! What’s happening? I’m breaking out in hives! Am I having an allergic reaction?” He was scratching furiously now, making it worse. I tapped my chin thoughtfully. “Oh my god, honey, I’m so sorry. I completely forgot you were allergic to shellfish. I used oyster sauce in the stir-fry.” He stared at me, his eyes wide with dawning horror. “Sarah,” he said, through gritted teeth. “Did you do this on purpose?” I gave him a cool smile. “Yes. I did. What’s the matter? I thought boys shouldn’t be so coddled. It’s just a little allergy, Mark. Don’t be so dramatic.” He was furious, but he knew he had no ground to stand on. He spent the entire night itching and miserable. I slept like a baby. 6 The next day, I hired a nanny. Mark didn’t say a word. Her name was Maria, a kind, no-nonsense woman in her fifties. I explained all of Leo’s needs, especially the allergy. She listened intently and remembered everything. Within two days, our house was calmer and happier than it had been in a year. Leo adored her. He was cleaner, his smile was brighter, and our home was filled with peace instead of tension. I kicked myself for not doing it sooner. 7 Of course, Carol wasn’t going to go quietly. At first, Mark tried to hide the fact that we’d hired a nanny. He’d only video chat with her when Maria was out with Leo at the park. “So, is the house a total disaster without me?” Carol would ask, smugly. “I bet you two are at your wits’ end. Don’t come begging me to come back, though. I won’t do it.” She was setting the stage for her triumphant return, imagining us drowning in dirty diapers and takeout containers. But Mark would just mumble noncommittal answers, which only confused her. This wasn’t going according to her script. She never considered we’d hire help. In her mind, we were too cheap, too dependent. So she decided to wait. She’d give us a little more time to suffer. Then we’d come crawling back.

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On my birthday, my wife’s childhood sweetheart crashed the party, holding a child. He kicked over the table in front of me, sending champagne flutes and plates scattering across the floor. “Jenna,” he roared, “give us an answer, me and my son. How much longer are you going to make us wait?” It was then that I learned the truth. My wife, who claimed to be allergic to male proteins, had secretly had a child with him. No wonder she never let me touch her. No wonder she refused to have a baby with me. She already had one, and now, he had come knocking. “Jenna, you’re going to explain yourself today, or so help me God. Why did you do this to me?” Jenna’s brow furrowed, but her tone was unapologetic. “It’s my body. I’ll have a child with whomever I please. This is the 21st century. How can anyone still be so backward?” I laughed, a cold, sharp sound, and slapped her across the face. “This is not a burden I will bear. We’re calling a lawyer. Now. We’re drawing up divorce papers.” 1 A hush fell over the room. Every guest held their breath, their eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. Leo, my wife’s lover, jabbed a finger in my face, his voice raw. “You listen to me, Mark. Jenna doesn’t love you. She has always loved me!” “She’s not allergic to anything! That was just an excuse to keep you away from her!” “You’re the one who cheated! You manipulated her father, forced her to marry you!” “You tore us apart! You condemned us to this half-life, leaving Jenna miserable and my son without a mother in the daylight. Do you have any idea how much he’s suffered? Have any of you ever been parents? Do you know what it’s like for a child to grow up without their mother?” His voice boomed through the banquet hall. I saw my mother clutch her chest, her face pale. She tried to speak, to tell them it wasn’t true, but the pain was too much. I saw her distress, and a wave of panic and frustration washed over me. After Leo’s tirade, the guests turned on me, their eyes filled with contempt. I didn’t understand. I was the husband. My wife had a child with another man, and I was the one being judged? “I can’t believe this is the real story. He broke up two people in love.” “How tragic. No wonder they had to sneak around.” “So Mark isn’t the man we thought he was. He’s a monster.” “What a hypocrite. All that charity work he does, probably just to wash away the guilt from his dirty secrets.” Dirty secrets? My vision went red. “What crime did I commit?” I roared at them. “Did I murder someone? Did I burn down your houses?” My outburst silenced them, but only for a moment. I turned back to Jenna, to the face that had lied to me for years, and felt nothing but weariness. “Jenna, tell them. Tell them the real reason I married you.” She hesitated, her eyes darting between me and Leo. The child in his arms began to cry, and her resolve crumbled. She rushed over and took the boy from him. Seeing them together, the rage in my chest burned hotter. I had once believed that child was a distant relative’s. When Jenna had brought him home, asking me to help care for him, my mother and I had treated him like a grandson. And now, I was being told this boy, whom I had cherished, was the product of my wife’s affair. The humiliation was a wound that would never heal. To protect Leo, to shield her son, Jenna looked at me with cold indifference. “You’re the one who slandered Leo to my father,” she said, her voice flat. “That’s why my dad forced me to marry you.” 2 Jenna had no idea the damage her words would cause. Suddenly, all the blame was on me. I was the villain. “What a sham. This party is a joke!” “Let’s tear this place apart! Teach him a lesson!” The room descended into chaos. I saw Leo signal to a few of his friends, who started flipping tables. Soon, others joined in, a wave of destruction sweeping through the hall. My mother, struggling against the pain in her chest, forced herself to stand. “Stop this! All of you!” But no one listened. They were on Leo’s side, eager to see me punished. I lunged toward Jenna, but Leo stepped in front of her, his voice booming. “What do you think you’re doing, Mark?” “Thinking of hitting her to vent your anger? Not while I’m here!” “You’ll have to go through me first. You’ll have to kill me and step over my dead body to get to her!” His dramatic declaration earned him a round of applause. “Now that’s a real man,” someone shouted. “A real man?” I laughed, the sound bitter and incredulous. I was the victim here, yet I was being treated like the home-wrecker. “Step over your dead body?” I challenged. “Who the hell do you think you are? Have I laid a hand on anyone? Has anyone seen me raise a fist?” Silence. “I’m telling you, Leo, slander is a crime. And you, Jenna—was I the one who forced this marriage, or was it your family who came to me, begging for help?” Before I could finish, the boy, clearly coached by Leo, ran over to my mother, pretending to help her. Then, he dramatically threw himself to the ground. “Grandma!” he wailed. “I was just trying to help you because you looked like you were in pain! I’m sorry! It’s all my fault and Daddy’s fault for hurting you!” Then he turned on her. “But I’m innocent! Why did you pinch me and push me down?” My mother’s eyes widened in disbelief. This child she had doted on, this boy she had treated as her own grandson, was a practiced liar. Before she could utter a word of defense, the crowd lost control. They screamed insults at us, someone threw a centerpiece at my mother, calling her a shameless old woman. She had never endured such humiliation. The shock was too much. She collapsed. Panic seized me. I scooped her into my arms, trying to fight my way through the mob to get her to a hospital. But they blocked my path, accusing her of faking it to escape. I yelled for security, but as they tried to clear a path, guests started recording, twisting the scene to make us look like the aggressors. Within minutes, the videos were online, and a storm of digital hatred was unleashed upon me. 3 I had no time to deal with the online mob. I told my assistant to handle it. As my mother was rushed into the emergency room, I got a video call from Jenna. “Mark, is your mom okay?” After all these years of marriage, she had never once called her “our mom.” What truly enraged me was her background. She wasn’t at home. On the wall behind her hung a family portrait: Leo, Jenna, and the boy, smiling together. She noticed my gaze and quickly moved to block the picture. “Mark, listen to me. What I said at the party… I didn’t mean it.” “I thought I didn’t love you, but after all these years… I do have feelings for you.” “Can you understand? It’s all happened. You just have to accept it…” “I will not accept it! If you didn’t love me, why did you propose? Why did you wait until after we were married to feed me that ridiculous lie about being allergic to male proteins?” “And me? I loved you, so I gave in to your every whim. My own mother was desperate for a grandchild, but I never even mentioned it in front of you, afraid it would make you feel bad.” “And all that time, you were having a child with Leo, and then you let him crash my birthday party and destroy my life!” “Jenna, you’ve gone too far!” My accusations hardened her expression. “Because I loved Leo!” she screamed. “My family’s company was on the verge of bankruptcy! Marrying you was the only way to get the capital to save it!” “Mark, what’s done is done! What more do you want?” Her words extinguished the last flicker of affection I had for her. If she had shown even a shred of remorse, a hint of an apology, perhaps I wouldn’t have been so ruthless in the days to come. “I’ll have my lawyer send you the divorce papers. Be ready to sign them.” I hung up before she could respond. A few moments later, a video file from Leo appeared on my phone. My anger, which I thought had peaked, surged anew. As if the public humiliation wasn’t enough. I forced myself to watch. Jenna, who had always been so frigid with me, was a different woman with him. The things they did, the intimacy they shared… it was a level of passion I had never known. She was the teacher, he was the student. The scenes were so graphic, so explicit, that my hatred for her solidified into something cold and permanent. She had played me for a fool, cheating on me while I endured the whispers and rumors about my supposed infertility. Then came a voice message from Leo, dripping with arrogant satisfaction. “Hahaha, see that? Jenna’s not allergic to men, Mark. She’s just allergic to you. We have a child, after all.” “And let me tell you something else. For the past three years, every night, she would come to me before going home to you. After a round with me, of course she had no interest in you. It was easy to make you believe her little story.” “Oh, and one more thing. She’s promised to give our son her entire inheritance.” His words didn’t fuel my anger anymore. Instead, a chilling, exhilarating desire for revenge took its place.

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I was working a dead-end job at a fried chicken joint when a delivery driver’s wife started a vicious rumor that I was sleeping with him. All because I’d given him an extra Coke on the house. I thought she was insane, so I just ignored it. But then she posted a secretly-shot, revealing photo of me changing in the locker room, and it went viral, racking up a million comments. Men started lurking outside the restaurant late at night. One night, they dragged me into an alley and assaulted me. I called the police, but the internet just called me a slut who was asking for it. My spirit broken, I threw myself off the Blackwood Bridge. The next thing I knew, my eyes shot open. I was back at the restaurant, on the exact day the delivery driver came to pick up his order. 1 “Hey, sweetie, is that order ready? How about you toss in an extra Coke for your favorite driver…” A delivery guy pushed open the door, phone pressed to his ear, shouting over at the counter. “Unbelievable,” my coworker, Tim, muttered beside me with a sarcastic laugh. “The nerve of some people, always trying to get something for free.” “He’s calling for you, sweetie. You handle it,” he said, nudging me. “I’ll go get the Coke. Better than getting a one-star review from this jerk.” He turned and grabbed an empty cup. A jolt shot through me. My eyes locked onto the familiar face walking toward us. It was him. The driver’s name was Kevin. His route was in our area, so he was a regular. And in that instant, it hit me. I had been reborn. In my past life, on this very day, Kevin had flirted with me while picking up an order. I felt sorry for him, sweating in the summer heat, so I gave him an extra Coke. I never imagined his wife would storm into the store, screaming that I was trying to steal her husband. I’d thought she was crazy and refused to engage. But then she pulled out the photo—the one she’d somehow taken of me changing into my uniform—and claimed I was a waitress by day and a prostitute by night. The post exploded online. The cyberbullying was relentless. Then came the assault in the alley. The crushing weight of the world’s malice broke me, made me doubt my own worth, and stole my will to live. Hopeless, I’d leaped from the bridge. The suffocating sensation of the cold river water filled my lungs all over again. “No!” I lunged forward and smacked the paper cup out of Tim’s hand. “We have to follow the store policy! The combo comes with one Coke, so he only gets one!” Tim’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Annie, what’s gotten into you today? You’re acting nuts.” He gestured vaguely. “You were just spacing out a second ago. It’s just a Coke. We’ve given them out before.” I watched Kevin’s approaching figure, taking a deep breath to calm the storm raging inside me. “Tim, I heard corporate is sending secret shoppers around. If we get caught, they’ll dock our pay.” I fabricated an excuse, my mind racing. “Besides, what if every driver starts demanding free stuff?” Tim just shrugged, bending down to toss the fallen cup in the trash. “Ugh, if my mom wasn’t sick, I’d be so out of this place. All these targets, all this ‘customer is always right’ crap. I’m not just worried about complaints anymore, now I’ve gotta worry about pissing off the delivery guys, too…” He grumbled for a bit before moving to pack the next order. I ignored him, carefully placing Kevin’s meal into the delivery bag. “God, it’s hot as hell out there,” Kevin said, leaning against the counter. He looked me up and down, a smirk playing on his lips. “That last one was for me. Did you sneak an extra Coke in there?” He leaned closer. “A pretty thing like you, I can tell you’ve got a good heart. We should get bubble tea after your shift.” He clicked his tongue. “Seriously, a total waste of those long legs, slinging chicken.” I pretended not to hear him and turned to the prep station to bag an order of nuggets. His phone was on speaker, and a woman’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Who are you talking to, honey? I’m warning you, if you’re messing with some little tramp… Full house! I win!” “It’s nothing, babe. Just grabbing the food. I’m on my way back,” he cooed into the phone. Through the front window, I saw him snatch the bag from the counter and head for the door. A wave of relief washed over me. This time, I was in the clear. The lunch rush was over, leaving only a couple of occupied tables. At one of them, a stylishly dressed girl had her phone propped up, live-streaming a foodie review. Our place had a trendy, artsy vibe and our signature snacks were popular with the younger crowd, so we often had influencers filming here. In my past life, Kevin had lingered at the counter, chatting me up, and I’d been too flustered to notice the streamer. On impulse, I walked over to the girl’s table, refilled her lemonade, and made a bit of small talk. The moment I returned to the counter, Tim leaned in, whispering conspiratorially, “Hey, while you were busy, I felt bad for the guy. Looked like he was having a rough day. I threw in that extra Coke and repacked the bag for him.” My body went rigid. I shot up from my stool. “Tim, are you trying to get me killed?” My voice was so sharp it made him flinch. He stammered, “W-what’s the big deal? Why are you freaking out?” There was no time to explain. I bolted out the door, desperate to get that damn Coke back. If he left with it, history would repeat itself. I would die again, and Tim would lose his job. But it was too late. The street was empty. Kevin was gone. “What is wrong with you?” Tim demanded when I walked back in, looking completely defeated. “It’s one soda. You don’t have to make a federal case out of it.” I looked up at him, the words caught in my throat. I felt an invisible force pushing me back onto the same dark path I’d walked before. “Ding-dong! You have a new order…” The bright chime of the order system pierced the silence. An idea sparked in my mind. “The system has his contact info,” I muttered to myself. “I can call him. I’ll just tell him the Coke was from you, Tim.” I rushed to the terminal and started scrolling through the recent orders. Tim’s face darkened. “You’re sick,” he grumbled. “Fine, I’ll pay for the damn Coke myself.” I couldn’t explain something as insane as being reborn, and I couldn’t think of another lie. All I could do was offer him a weak, apologetic smile. “Tim, it’s… it’s not what you think.” But Kevin didn’t answer. I called again and again, but it went straight to voicemail every time. The rest of the afternoon, I was a wreck, completely out of it. Tim was getting annoyed. He pointed out it was just the two of us on shift, and he couldn’t do all the work. I forced myself to snap out of it and went with him to the walk-in freezer to prep for the dinner rush. On the way, I brushed past the main power panel and my hand instinctively flicked a switch. “Weird,” Tim muttered, picking up a loose plug from the floor. “Didn’t the manager just fix the security cameras before she left for the weekend? How is the power cord busted again?” His words struck me like a bolt of lightning, unlocking a forgotten memory. In my past life, I had tried to pull the security footage to prove my innocence, to show I’d only exchanged a few harmless words with Kevin. But the cameras had been broken. A seed of suspicion took root in my mind, but before I could process it, the landline on the counter began to ring, shrill and insistent. “Hello, is this The Crispy Coop? You shameless little homewrecker, you think you can get away with seducing my husband? You just wait! I’m coming down there to rip your face off!” Tim had barely lifted the receiver when a screeching female voice erupted from the earpiece. It was Kevin’s wife, Brenda. “Ma’am, I think you have the wrong…” Before Tim could finish, the line went dead with a loud click. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t remember Brenda calling to threaten me last time. The script had changed. Was it because I was reborn, or was it something else? Then I remembered the frantic calls I’d made to Kevin’s phone. Brenda must have checked his call log, seen my number, and taken it as proof. Damn it. I slapped my forehead in frustration. Tim looked bewildered. “Annie, who was that?” He slammed the phone down. “I swear, the crazies are out in full force today. I’m so done with this job.” “Tim,” I said, my voice low and serious, “if someone comes here looking for a fight, you have to stop her.” The inevitable was coming. If I tried to run from it like last time, I’d only be feeding the flames of that madwoman’s rage. Tim frowned, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. “Did you get into some kind of trouble? You’ve been acting strange all day.” I shook my head. “How could I? I’m here all day. It’s about that delivery driver from earlier…” Just as I was about to explain, a group of customers walked in. The conversation was cut short as we scrambled to take their orders. The minutes ticked by. The dinner rush hit, and I moved on autopilot, taking orders, serving food, a practiced smile on my face. But beneath the surface, a primal fear was clawing its way up my throat. Memories from my past life flooded back. The venomous online comments. The slimy feel of a stranger’s hands forcing their way under my clothes in that dark alley. The bone-deep despair as I stood alone on the edge of the bridge. I’d had no family since my parents died. I worked hard, I was kind to everyone, I smiled even when I didn’t feel like it. All I wanted was a small, quiet place in this city where I could support myself. But no one ever told me that kindness without a spine is just weakness. No one told me my good intentions would only feed someone else’s malice. “Welcome to The Crispy Coop!” The door swung open again. A woman in a red dress and heavy, garish makeup stormed in. Even with the caked-on foundation, I recognized her immediately. It was Brenda. She stalked toward the counter, her head held high, the sharp clicks of her heels echoing through the quiet restaurant. The few customers still dining shot her annoyed glances. “You!” she shrieked, her bloodshot eyes locking onto me. “You’re the one! You feel proud of yourself, you little slut, chasing after another woman’s husband?” I was holding a tray, about to deliver an order, and her shove sent me stumbling backward. Tim stepped between us. “Ma’am, let’s all just calm down…” I quickly set the tray down and looked her straight in the eye. “I think you have the wrong person.” “The wrong person?” Brenda’s voice climbed to a hysterical pitch, spit flying from her lips. “You look so innocent, don’t you? But you’re nothing but trash! You thought my husband was hot, so you decided you’d just climb into his bed, is that it? Let me tell you something, you little bitch, I see trash like you, and I take it out!” It was happening again. The exact same words she’d used before. I took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Ma’am, if you don’t stop, I’m calling the police. You can have your husband come down here right now and we can sort this out. But you will not stand here and slander me.” Brenda just laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “You have the nerve to call the cops? You’re the one who was flirting with him, giving him free Cokes! I don’t see you giving free drinks to any other drivers, do I? Shameless whore!” Understanding finally dawned on Tim’s face. He realized this was the wife of the driver from earlier. He jumped to my defense. “It was your husband who was begging for free stuff! He’s the cheapskate! This has nothing to do with Annie!” Brenda sneered and pulled a stack of photos from her purse. She slammed them down on the counter with a loud smack. “Everyone, look! Here’s the proof!” she yelled to the gawking customers. The photos scattered across the floor. A few curious onlookers picked them up. Most were of a young woman’s back, dressed in shorts and a tank top. But one photo was perfectly clear. It was me. In the employee locker room, changing out of my uniform. Someone had taken it a few days ago. Brenda pointed a trembling, crimson-nailed finger at the photo of me. “No wonder my husband’s been coming home so late,” she wailed, her voice thick with fake tears. “No wonder he’s been giving me less money. I knew something was wrong when I heard about that Coke, and then I find out you asked him to get bubble tea with you… You all know what ‘getting bubble tea’ really means! It’s just a code for doing that!” A murmur went through the crowd. “No way. I come here all the time. She doesn’t seem like that kind of girl.” “But a wife wouldn’t just show up and make a scene for no reason, right?” “What would she want with a delivery driver, though? That doesn’t make sense.” Brenda shot a glare at the person who’d spoken. “What’s wrong with a delivery driver? He’s handsome, that’s what! This bitch will spread her legs for anyone! She needs to be exposed for the trash she is!” With that, she advanced on me, her eyes wild. Suddenly, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a black plastic bag. I knew what was inside. In my last life, I hadn’t seen it coming. She’d thrown it right in my face. The image of myself, standing there humiliated, covered in rotting food scraps and stinking like a garbage can, flashed before my eyes. #FriedChickenHomewreckerGetsTrashed Someone had filmed it, and the video went viral. To the world, I was the villain. Not this time. I wasn’t going to be a victim again. SMACK! My hand cracked across Brenda’s face, the sound echoing through the stunned silence. “Who is this lunatic?” I yelled. “Somebody call an ambulance, I think she’s having a breakdown!” The slap caught her completely off guard. She stumbled back, losing her grip on the bag. It burst open, and a wave of rancid, foul-smelling kitchen slop splattered all over her red dress. The stench was overwhelming. Her face contorted in a mask of shock and rage. A piercing scream tore from her throat as she lunged at me. “You hit me? I’m going to tear you apart!” I joined the other onlookers, pinching my nose and backing away in disgust. That one slap had been for all the pain, all the humiliation, all the despair she had caused me in my past life. “Y-you just wait! I’ll destroy you!” Brenda gagged, finally retreating. She shot me one last venomous glare and stormed out, leaving a trail of filth and fury in her wake. The next day, she showed up at the restaurant bright and early. She didn’t yell, she didn’t break anything. She just ordered the cheapest item on the menu—a lemonade—sat at a table by the door, and started a live stream. With tears streaming down her face, she told her phone camera all about me, the “homewrecker,” and how I had destroyed her perfect, happy family. Our business plummeted. A few days later, the manager pulled me aside outside the restaurant. She sighed, her face etched with worry. “Annie, you’re a good kid. I believe you,” she said. “But look at the situation. The store is going under.” I said nothing, just watched her. She hesitated, then finally spit it out. “Why don’t you… take a few days off? Go home and rest.”

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My passions burn out in minutes. The only flame I tended for a decade was my love for the rogue, Ross Croft. For him, I dyed my hair a respectable brown, had my tattoos lasered off, and learned to be the perfect good girl. Everyone, even his parents, assumed we were destined to be together. Then, at his own birthday party, he proposed to another woman and told me to stop clinging to him. In that instant, the good girl died. I kicked over the five-tier cake I’d made for him and gave him a lazy, chilling smile. “Ross,” I said, my voice dripping with boredom. “Turns out, you’re nothing like him.” “And since you’re not, I don’t want you anymore.” Only then did they all understand. Ten years of devotion wasn’t a love story. It was a game of stand-ins. And Ross? He simply broke. 1 I placed the last diamond chip into the frosting and let out a long breath. This was the birthday gift I’d been planning for Ross for months. He hated sweets, so I’d spent weeks adjusting the sugar content in the batter until it was just to his liking. He collected supercars, so I’d flown to France six months ago to study under a master fondant artist. I’d practiced endlessly, my hands riddled with tiny cuts from the modeling tools, all to craft this one-of-a-kind cake in the shape of his favorite Ferrari. My instructor, watching my obsessive dedication, had sighed with envy. “Tu l’aimes beaucoup!” (You love him so much!) I’d only smiled, not saying a word, and turned to look at my reflection in the full-length mirror. The woman staring back was a stranger in a prim, pink Chanel-style suit. Her long, dark hair was pin-straight, her eyes soft and slightly pink at the corners, like a startled rabbit’s. She looked sweet. Compliant. Easily broken. I was satisfied. This was the version of me Ross liked. No one could believe it. Audrey Hawthorne, the wild heiress who used to live in tattoo parlors and smoky clubs, had tamed herself for a man like Ross. I’d grown out my hair, scrubbed the ink from my skin, and willingly played the part of the devoted girlfriend. I’d been playing it for ten years. Even Ross’s parents would marvel, “That Audrey… her loyalty is truly something special.” Everyone was certain we would end up together. For a while, I think even Ross believed it. … As I watched the staff carefully load the cake into the delivery van, a familiar restlessness clawed at my chest. I clenched my fists, forcing it down, and turned to the head caterer with a serene smile plastered on my face. I, who had the attention span of a goldfish, had managed to love him for a decade. I must, I thought, I must love him very, very much. 2 Ross’s party wasn’t until the evening, so I had time to go home and get ready. A text from him came through. [Something came up at the office. See you at the party.] I rubbed the textured pattern on my phone case and typed back a simple [Ok]. But for the past nine birthdays, no matter how busy he was, Ross had always come to get ready with me. Today was the first time he’d ever bailed. As my makeup artist was working, my phone buzzed. It was a picture from a friend. The setting looked like a parking garage. In the photo, Ross was leaning against a Ferrari, one hand in the pocket of his bespoke embroidered suit. He was a contradiction in tailored silk—all discipline and sin. His head was slightly bowed, a look of indulgent fondness in his eyes as he spoke with a woman in a simple white dress. She was gazing up at him, her profile soft and unassuming. I recognized her. His new assistant, Mia. She was… plain. Not a showstopper. But for some reason, Ross valued her immensely. I didn’t know when it started, but her name was constantly on his lips. He was even texting her during our anniversary dinner a few months back. “Everything okay?” I had asked, feigning nonchalance. He’d looked up, a flicker of panic in his eyes that vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Oh, just a work thing. It’s handled.” He thought he’d hidden it so well, but he couldn’t hide the triumphant little smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I lost my appetite after that and made an excuse to leave early. He didn’t seem to notice my mood. In fact, he looked relieved. “Miss Hawthorne,” the stylist said softly, seeing me staring into space. “It’s time for the dress.” I blinked, coming back to the present. The dress laid out for me was a pale white, almost gothic gown with layers of lace. Proper. Demure. I thought for a moment, then raised a hand and pointed to a different dress hanging in the corner—a fiery red, low-cut mermaid gown, tailored to accentuate every curve. “That one.” The stylist froze. I looked at the perfectly sweet, gentle face in the mirror and sneered. “Change the makeup, too,” I said. “This face… it feels like a lie.” 3 When I arrived, the party was in full swing. Ross was the center of it all, holding court by the towering cake I’d made. When he saw me, a flash of stunned admiration crossed his face before he beckoned me over. The crowd whistled and parted, creating a path for me. I walked slowly toward him, coming to a stop on one side of him while Mia stood on the other. Red and white. Fire and ice. It was quite a picture. Someone laughed. “Look at Ross, flanked by beauties! Especially you, Audrey. You’re absolutely lethal tonight.” I gave him a polite smile in return. My stylist had given me bombshell waves and a bold, red lip—a look I hadn’t worn in ten years. Their surprise was understandable. If the old Audrey Hawthorne was a wildfire, the woman I’d been for the last decade was a stagnant pond. A waiter passed by, and I snagged a glass of champagne. Just then, Mia’s soft, airy voice cut in. “You look… different tonight, Miss Hawthorne.” I nodded, my expression cool. I saw her bite her lip, a flicker of raw jealousy in her eyes. It was almost funny. I raised my glass to her. “And you, Miss Mia, look as charmingly provincial as ever.” Her face, already pale under a thick layer of foundation, went a shade whiter. While we exchanged pleasantries sharp as daggers, Ross’s gaze was fixed on my back. The red dress had a daring design—it was completely backless, showcasing the sharp lines of my shoulder blades. Sexy. Languid. But I knew what he was really looking at. The ghost of a tattoo. The first time Ross saw that tattoo, he’d been consumed with a wild, possessive jealousy. He begged me to add his name to it. I neither agreed nor refused. Instead, I went and had the whole thing lasered off. When he saw the raw, red skin, his expression was unreadable, but he never mentioned it again. 4 The party I’d thrown for Ross was lavish. Champagne flowed freely, and a DJ was spinning by the poolside. Just as the gift-giving portion of the evening wound down, Ross leaped onto a table and tapped a silver fork against his glass. The sharp, clear sound silenced the buzzing crowd. All eyes turned to him, expectant. Under the glittering lights, his features seemed even sharper, more defined. So much like the face etched into my memory, and yet, completely, utterly wrong. The photo from the parking garage flashed in my mind, and I frowned. That look on his face… it wasn’t right. Why isn’t it right? My thoughts were drifting when his voice pulled me back. “Tonight,” he announced, his voice ringing with confidence, “I have a decision to make.” He paused, his eyes finding mine across the room. “I want to make it official with someone. I want her to stand by my side, out in the open.” His tone was absolute, his gaze filled with a deep, performative affection. I squeezed my hands together, suppressing a wave of irritation, and returned his look with a placid smile. Deep down, a primal scream was building, an urge to flee. After a moment of stunned silence, the crowd erupted in cheers. One of Ross’s louder friends yelled out, “Congratulations, Audrey! You finally tamed the beast! The infamous Ross Croft is officially off the market!” Ross shot him a look so sharp it could cut glass, and the man immediately shut his mouth. The celebratory mood curdled, the air growing thick and heavy. I felt a shift before it happened. Ross’s voice changed as he turned away from me and knelt on one knee before Mia. “Mia,” he said, his voice ringing with manufactured sincerity. “Will you marry me?” I wasn’t shocked. It was just another scene in a long-running farce. I even had the presence of mind to watch Mia’s reaction. As expected, it was a masterclass in theatrics: first, wide-eyed surprise, then tears of joy, followed by a flash of smug triumph that she quickly masked with a look of feigned horror. She covered her mouth, her voice a trembling whisper. “Ross, please don’t joke like this. Audrey is right here.” One of my loyal friends, unable to stomach the scene, finally spoke up. “Ross, what the hell are you doing? What about Audrey? This is Audrey Hawthorne you’re humiliating!” I waited, curious to see how he would respond. He set his champagne glass down with a heavy thud, his tone dripping with casual indifference. “I never promised you anything, did I, Audrey?” He was a master at this, at turning the tables and making me the bad guy. He was counting on me to be the same obedient girl I’d always been, to quietly accept the humiliation and smooth things over for him. I smiled, a slow, sweet curve of my lips. My voice was impossibly gentle. “Ross, what are you trying to say?” He seemed surprised by my question. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, followed by a secret, thrilling pleasure. He leaned in, his voice a low warning. “Audrey, don’t cling. It’s pathetic.” 5 His words were still hanging in the air when my fingers went slack. The champagne flute dropped, shattering on the marble floor and forcing Ross to halt his advance. Every eye in the room was on me. A hot, furious energy surged through me. I glanced down at the restrictive mermaid tail of my gown. That was the last straw. I was done pretending. I languidly brushed a stray curl from my forehead. Then, with a theatrical slowness, I gathered the hem of the skirt in my hand. With a single, sharp tug, the sound of tearing silk filled the silent room. The designer gown ripped apart, exposing my legs. A collective gasp went through the crowd. But I wasn’t finished. I tossed the shredded fabric aside and, with a swift, fluid motion, kicked the base of the five-tiered cake stand. To hell with being the good girl. The cake toppled, crashing to the ground in a grotesque explosion of fondant and buttercream. Standing amidst the sugary ruin, I gave Ross a lazy, devastating smile. My words were slow, deliberate, each one a perfectly polished stone aimed at his heart. “Ross, turns out, you’re nothing like him.” “And since you’re not, I don’t want you anymore.”

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The real estate agent was showing me the house when a line of text suddenly floated before my eyes: [The male lead will eventually buy this house back for ten times the price. I wonder which lucky girl is going to get rich off this place.] I stared blankly for three seconds, then decisively signed the contract. That night, calculating the mortgage payments, I fell into a pit of despair. I started to suspect I’d gotten food poisoning from some cheap takeout to be hallucinating a live comment feed in my reality. But then, the comments exploded again: [Did the female lead just throw out all the luxury gifts the male lead gave her?] [OMG, can someone transport me there?! I want to go pick them up!] I shot out of bed, hopped on my little food trike, and sped toward the main couple’s address. Whether it was real or not, my time for a windfall had finally come! 1 “Miss Vance, you’ve looked at this place five times already. It’s an older house, but for the price, it’s a steal. You really shouldn’t hesitate.” I clutched the crumpled flyer in my hand, trailing behind the real estate agent as I surveyed the house for the fifth time. I knew it was a good deal, but the down payment would drain my entire life savings and bury me in debt. I was just about to give up when words materialized in the air in front of me. [I can’t believe she’s actually selling this house. This was the love nest she shared with the male lead back when they were poor!] [Well, Landon was a total jerk. I don’t blame Claire for giving up on him.] I rubbed my eyes. It wasn’t a hallucination. Just then, another comment drifted by: [I wonder who the lucky buyer will be. Landon is going to buy this back for ten times the price later on.] Ten times the price? I’d be rich! Barely containing my excitement, I casually asked the agent, “So, uh, what’s the owner’s name again?” He waved a dismissive hand. “Claire Sterling. Her boyfriend is loaded, not in our league at all. That’s probably why the house is priced so cheap.” Oh my god. It all matched the comments. The agent was getting impatient. “Miss Vance, maybe I should show you some more affordable options.” “No!” I grabbed his arm. “I’ll take it.” 2 The deal was done in a flash. We finished the paperwork by noon, and I moved in that afternoon. Thanks to the comments, I figured it out: I was living inside a “make him grovel” romance novel. The main couple was currently on the rocks, and by buying their house, I was basically profiting from their relationship drama. That night, lying in my new bed, I stared at my zeroed-out bank account and felt like I was in a dream. Thinking back on the floating text… had I eaten too much cheap takeout and started seeing things? Who in their right mind sees a live comment feed in real life? The thought made me sit bolt upright. I had poured my entire savings of ten thousand dollars into this house and was now saddled with a massive mortgage. What if there was no “male lead” coming to the rescue? On my meager income from selling crepes from a cart, how many lifetimes would it take to pay this off? I smacked my forehead in frustration. A white glow flickered in my vision again. For a second, I thought I’d hit myself so hard I was seeing stars, but a closer look revealed more comments. [Claire is really furious this time. She’s throwing out everything Landon ever gave her.] [And today is their fifth anniversary! Landon actually spent the night at the other woman’s place!] [Landon is the worst. And I actually thought he wasn’t all bad deep down.] Amidst the chorus of outrage directed at the male lead, one comment caught my eye. [Don’t throw them away, honey! Sell them! You could get so much money for all that!] Throwing things away? That could be sold for cash? Was this really happening? I scrambled out of bed and dialed the agent’s number, my voice trembling with excitement. “Hey, so the previous owner left some things behind. Could you give me her current address? I want to return them to her.” The agent was clearly half-asleep. “It’s the middle of the night. For this? Her boyfriend is the CEO of the King Corporation. They live in the most exclusive condo complex in the city. You think she cares about a few forgotten items? She told me specifically she didn’t want anything left behind. Just toss whatever you find.” He didn’t give me the address. I was sweating with anxiety. Opportunity waits for no one! If I was late, someone else might scoop up all the good stuff. Just before he hung up, I blurted out, “It’s their sentimental keepsakes!” “Huh? What keepsakes?” “You know, from Mr. King! I saw their names engraved on something. What if this causes a huge misunderstanding between them? You have to give me the address!” The agent was silent for a long moment, then his voice turned grim. “Then I especially can’t tell you. You think I have a death wish, giving out Landon King’s home address?” He hung up. I threw my phone onto the bed in frustration. The live feed was still giving a play-by-play of the drama at Claire’s. [Holy crap, she’s throwing away a Patek Philippe? Is she insane?] [OMG, can someone transport me there?! I want to go pick it up!] I paced around in a panic, and then it hit me. The agent had told me the address. I threw on a jacket and hopped onto my trusty crepe trike. Half an hour later, I pulled up to the most luxurious residential complex in the city: The Grandview Estates. The complex was huge, but at two in the morning, someone repeatedly hauling boxes to the curb was as obvious as a lighthouse in a storm. Claire Sterling, carrying a heavy-looking cardboard box, walked to the dumpster and dumped its contents without a second glance. Sweet mother of fortune! The moment she went back inside, I pedaled over to the dumpster, pulled out a large burlap sack, and started stuffing it with treasures. One eye on the goods, the other on the villa’s front door. A few minutes later, Claire emerged with another big box. I quickly hid. As soon as she was gone, I rushed back and continued my haul. Just as my sack was about to burst, she came out with a third box. I tried to drag my full sack away to hide again, but it was incredibly heavy. She was almost at the door. In a panic, I gave it one last desperate tug. Riiiiip— The bottom of the sack tore open, spilling its contents all over the pavement. I froze. My eyes met Claire’s from across the driveway. The comment feed went wild. [HOLY SHIT SOMEONE IS ACTUALLY PICKING IT UP!!] [This is literally like winning the lottery!] [Isn’t that the girl who bought the house today? She’s struck gold twice in one day. How can one person be this lucky?!] [Honey, get your stuff back! It’s not too late! Take it back and sell it yourself!] 3 Before I could even think, I’d thrown myself over the pile of luxury goods like a mother hen protecting her chicks. I’d pedaled all the way here in the dead of night for this. If she took it all back, my efforts would be for nothing. But… I felt a pang of guilt. Claire’s eyes were red and swollen, and her slender frame looked impossibly fragile in the cold wind. The box in her hands was filled with expensive things, but the contrast between their value and her heartbreak was palpable. [Honey, you need money to have the freedom to leave that bastard!] [Love is gone, but you can’t let the money be gone too!] Looking at the comments, then back at Claire, my heart softened. As much as it pained me, I slowly straightened up, forcing the words out through a tight throat. “Um, if you want it…” “I would have just given it to you if I’d known you were here.” Claire managed a strained smile and placed the box gently at my feet. “If you like it, just take it all.” Her gaze fell on my torn sack. After a moment, she said, “Wait here a second.” She turned and jogged back into the house, returning a moment later with three large, plaid-patterned tote bags. I marveled. Rich people used these kinds of bags too. But a comment quickly corrected my ignorance. [Those are the limited edition Louis Vuitton woven totes!] LV? Limited edition? “Your sack is broken. Use these.” Claire knelt and started helping me pack the scattered luxury goods into the LV totes. Oh, my god. Was this the legendary kindness of a female lead? I stared at her for a long moment, then finally managed to ask, “This stuff… it could sell for a lot of money. Are you sure you’re just giving it to me?” She paused, then spoke after a long silence, her voice thick with emotion. “I never needed that much money anyway.” She even helped me load the three overflowing LV totes onto my crepe trike, seeing I couldn’t manage it alone. She was an angel. I could cry. “You know how to make crepes?” she asked, looking at my setup. I carefully arranged the three massive totes in the back of my trike, then puffed out my chest with pride. “You bet! All the neighbors say my crepes are the best. Business is great!” Claire reached out and touched my little trike, a hint of envy in her eyes. “It must be nice, being able to support yourself.” Her words sent the comment feed into another frenzy. [My baby is too delicate to be selling crepes out in the elements.] [Are you serious? Selling crepes is a thousand times better than being miserable with Landon!] [It’s the middle of the night and now I’m craving a crepe. drooling.jpg] It was almost three in the morning. I wondered if Claire was hungry. After a fight like that with Landon, she probably hadn’t eaten dinner. I expertly fired up my stove and pulled out my tools. “Miss Sterling, you’ve been so kind to me. As a humble crepe vendor, I have nothing to offer in return but this ‘fully loaded’ supreme crepe!” I may have only been twenty, but I already had a decade of crepe-making experience. I wasn’t bragging, but no one who’d eaten my crepes had ever had a bad word to say. Claire initially tried to refuse, but the aroma of food in the dead of night was too tempting. She fell silent, her eyes fixed on my griddle. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a comment mention that Landon couldn’t see Claire on the security cameras, couldn’t reach her by phone, and was now on his way back. With a final flick of my wrist, I folded a crepe bigger than my head and placed the deluxe masterpiece in Claire’s hands. “Here you go! It was nice meeting you. Thank you for the gifts! I will be grateful for the rest of my life!” Before Claire could respond, I was already pedaling away like a madwoman. If Landon saw me, not only would I lose all my treasures, but I’d probably face some kind of retaliation. The thought made me pedal so fast I felt like I was about to break the sound barrier. 4 It took a monumental effort, but I finally got everything home. I didn’t even stop to catch my breath before I started using my phone’s image search to identify each item. Hermès, Chanel, Patek Philippe, Bvlgari… With every price I looked up, I had to press a hand to my chest, afraid I might pass out from sheer excitement. The very next day, I picked out one of the less expensive-looking bags and took it to a luxury consignment shop. When twenty thousand dollars landed in my bank account, the reality of it all finally hit me. Good heavens. Me, Lucy Vance, had finally made it! The old saying was true: you don’t get rich without a little luck. And my lucky break had finally arrived. I used some of the money to buy a decent outfit and a pair of shoes. Back home, I followed a fashion blogger’s tutorial, styling myself with some of the items from the totes. The comments had said Landon would be coming to buy the house back soon, so I had to sell everything quickly. But first, I needed to look the part of a wealthy person. Otherwise, I might get arrested just for walking into a high-end store. I looked in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction. Not bad. Clothes really do make the woman. I looked quite convincing. But something still felt off. I studied my reflection for a long time before I realized what it was: my hair and my hands. The clothes were expensive, and I could use foundation to touch up my face, but my hands and hair were dead giveaways. I’d been working outside since I was ten, and my hands were rough and chapped, not like those of a young woman. When I was shopping for the clothes earlier, I hadn’t even dared to touch the silk items, afraid I’d snag the fabric and have to pay for it. For years, I’d scrimped and saved to buy a proper burial plot for my grandpa. After I finally managed that, I started saving for a house. I always bought the cheapest food. As a result, my hair was dull and brittle from a lack of nutrition, like a bundle of dead straw. I ruffled my hair in frustration. I never thought I’d be stressing about how to look rich. A moment later, an idea struck me. I rushed out and bought a pair of nice gloves and a wig. Looking in the mirror this time… perfect! I blew myself a kiss. Absolutely gorgeous. The next day, I hauled a massive load of luxury goods to the consignment shop. I held my chin high, trying to channel the energy of a proud swan, refusing to let my confidence waver. I was genuinely terrified the police would be called on me. Luckily, my acting skills were decent. The shop staff not only didn’t suspect a thing, but they were incredibly enthusiastic, telling me to come back anytime. A week later, I had sold everything. That included the clothes, shoes, gloves, and wig I’d bought to play the part of a rich woman. They were completely impractical and had a terrible cost-performance ratio. They were not worthy of being my possessions. Lying on my bed again, I checked my bank balance. The feeling was completely different from the first time. Back then, I wanted to die. This time, I was scared to death. Twenty million dollars!! And according to the comments, that was just a fraction of the gifts Landon had given her. The world of the rich was truly unimaginable. Being suddenly wealthy was an incredible feeling. For the first few days, I would wake up in the middle of the night, laughing in my sleep. The moment my eyes opened, I’d order the most expensive takeout and pair it with the fanciest cheese-foam tea from the cheapest boba place in town. Life was looking up.

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On my son’s fifth birthday, I discovered the texts between my husband Fred and his best friend’s widow. [Fred, the baby misses his daddy. When are you coming?] [Tom liked a matching family outfit. I ordered it for us to wear this weekend.] [Tom starts school tomorrow. I put you down as the father. Okay?] Fred’s replies were just as warm. [Sophia’s asleep. On my way.] [My size is 3XL.] [Of course. You two are my responsibility now.] Stunned, I called Fred from our son’s party to confront him. He didn’t deny it, just held me tightly. “Claire is my best friend’s widow. I promised to take care of them.” “I crossed a line, but it won’t happen again.” After ten years together, it felt absurd to end it over texts. I chose to believe him, and we returned to the party. Then his phone buzzed. Another message from the widow: [Fred, the baby is crying for you. I can’t calm him down.] A chair screeched. Without a word, Fred stood and walked out. I looked at my son’s pale, shocked face, and my expression hardened. Suddenly, divorce didn’t seem so absurd after all. 1 I hung up the phone with the divorce lawyer and glanced at my phone. It was two in the morning. Eight hours had passed since Fred had vanished from our son’s birthday party. Five hours had passed since the other woman had posted a picture of Fred putting her child to sleep. My son was asleep. The birthday cake on the table had melted, a sticky river of cream dripping onto the floor. It was disgusting, just like Fred’s promises. He still wasn’t home. Thinking of my son, who had been asking for his daddy even in his sleep, I sighed and closed the chat with the lawyer, getting ready for bed. The sound of a car pulled up outside. Someone hurried out, ran up the stairs, and knocked on my son’s door. “Noah? Are you asleep? Daddy’s home. Let’s finish celebrating your birthday, okay?” Fred, finally home, leaned against the doorframe, knocking gently, his voice a soft coo. This used to be just another unremarkable moment in our happy family life. But now, all I could think of was Claire’s social media post. [The baby was crying for his daddy, and what a good daddy he is, dropping everything to come right over. So touched.] Was he this gentle when he was comforting Claire’s child? I didn’t know. All I knew was that if this continued, Noah would wake up. After a few moments of silence, I opened the study door. “Stop knocking. He’s asleep.” A flicker of surprise crossed Fred’s face. “Asleep? But he told me he wouldn’t go to sleep unless I was here to celebrate with him.” “Honey, you didn’t teach him to be jealous too, did you?” He laughed, completely unconcerned, his eyes filled with a patronizing understanding. “Honey, you don’t need to overthink it. There’s nothing going on between Claire and me. It’s just for the child’s sake. He’s so young, and losing his father is hard…” “But our son is only five years old,” I cut him off coldly, looking at him as if he were a stranger. After eight years of marriage, how was I only now realizing that there was something seriously wrong with Fred’s eyes and his brain? Claire’s child was young, so he could cry and scream for a father figure. Our son had just turned five today. He was a few months younger. So, when Fred had pushed back his chair and run out, had he for a single second remembered that it was his own son’s birthday? When he was lying in Claire’s bed, gently reading a story to that other child, did he spare a single thought for the wife and child he had abandoned? Did he ever worry that our Noah might be crying too, wanting his daddy to be there to blow out his candles? But it didn’t matter anymore. We were getting a divorce anyway. I walked past him into Noah’s room and turned to close the door. Fred blocked it with his hand, his expression conflicted. “Honey, I know I was wrong. I swear it will never happen again. Please don’t be mad at me, okay?” “I promise, this is the last time!” I smiled and reminded him, “Nine hours ago, you also told me it was the last time.” The air went still. So quiet you could almost hear our heartbeats. For the first time, a visible flicker of panic crossed Fred’s face. “Honey, you know Mark and I grew up together. As his brother, I just can’t…” He sighed, his gaze firming with resolve. “Honey, give me three more chances.” “After three chances, I promise I’ll sort things out with Claire and her son, and I’ll be there for you and Noah.” “Just trust me one more time, please?” A rustling sound came from the bed. I heard my son’s soft, choked sobs. He must have been awake for a while. The refusal died on my lips. I looked at my son, his eyes red as he pretended to be asleep, and silently agreed. Let’s just call it three more chances for my son to say goodbye. After three chances, there would be no place for Fred in this marriage, in this home. 2 The next morning, I overslept. Fred, instead of rushing off to work as usual, had made a huge breakfast for me and Noah. It had been a long time since we’d had a meal cooked by him. Three years ago, he used to wake up early every day to make breakfast for us, worried we weren’t eating enough. That habit disappeared after Claire became a widow. He started leaving earlier and earlier, and breakfast became more and more perfunctory. From handmade noodles to takeout from the corner store, to the freezer now overflowing with frozen food. The first time I threw a still-frozen bun into the trash, I told myself, “It’s no big deal. It’s just breakfast. What does it matter?” But now I realized it was all these “no big deal” things that had pushed Fred further and further away from this family. I shook my head, clearing the thoughts, and took Noah’s hand to head to school. Fred, stunned, grabbed a carton of milk and some eggs from the table, blocking our path. “You haven’t had breakfast yet! I got up at five to make this.” “Just eat a little before you go.” “Daddy, I haven’t eaten eggs since I was two,” Noah said quietly, his lip trembling with sadness. When he was two, Noah had choked on an egg yolk. It wasn’t serious, but it had left him with a lasting fear. The man froze, as if just remembering. He then tried to placate Noah, pushing the carton of milk into his hands. “Then drink some milk. I warmed it up for you.” “The doctor said I have a weak stomach and can’t drink milk,” my son said, looking up, his eyes filled with disappointment. “Daddy, you’re the one who told me all this.” Fred was stunned, looking to me for help, but I avoided his gaze. Noah was right. These were the little things Fred used to care about most. He used to say, “Honey, you and the kids just have to enjoy being taken care of by me. Don’t worry about anything else.” And “For my son, I have to be the perfect dad.” But now, he had even forgotten that his own son didn’t eat eggs. Fred seemed to feel a pang of guilt. He grabbed his keys from the table. “Alright, no breakfast then. Noah, Daddy will take you to school.” I did a quick mental calculation. It had been three months since either of us had been in his car. I opened the door and instinctively put Noah in his car seat. As I reached for the seatbelt, Fred suddenly grabbed Noah’s arm and yanked him out. Noah stumbled and fell right out of the car, hitting his head hard. A large gash opened on his forehead, and blood started to pour out. I stared at him in shock. “What are you doing?!” Fred hadn’t expected that to happen either. A flash of concern crossed his face, but there was no regret. “This is Tom’s special seat. He doesn’t like other people touching his things.” “Noah, Daddy didn’t mean it. You’re such a good boy, you understand, right?” My eyes burned with rage. I raised my hand to slap him, but Noah, sniffling, grabbed my hand. “Mommy, it’s okay. Don’t fight with Daddy.” “I’m a good boy. I don’t want Tom’s things.” He tried to sound brave, but his eyes were red. It had been the same last week. Fred had bought Noah a new toy. Claire had posted on social media that Tom wanted one too. So Fred had gone behind my back, convinced Noah to give up the toy, and delivered it to Claire’s house that same night. I had only found out about it yesterday. And what about the things I didn’t know? How many more were there? Looking at my son’s pale, weak face, I knew I couldn’t delay. I scooped him up and urged Fred, “What are you waiting for? Let’s go to the hospital!” The driver’s door opened. The man hurriedly buckled his seatbelt. Just as he was about to start the car, his phone rang. “I’ve got a great daddy, a great daddy…” On the other end, a little boy was sobbing hysterically. [Daddy, why aren’t you here to take me to school yet? Tom is going to be late!] [Daddy, you promised you would take Tom to school every day from now on! You broke your promise!] Claire’s helpless, gentle voice came through the car’s speakers. [Fred, Tom knows you didn’t stay with him last night, and he’s been throwing a tantrum all morning. I don’t know what to do.] [Can you please come over now?] Without a moment’s hesitation, Fred agreed and then kicked us out of the car. “Honey, you heard. I have to go calm Tom down. You and Noah can just take a cab.” And with that, the black Maybach sped away. I held my son, staring blankly at the disappearing exhaust fumes, and finally let out a cold, bitter laugh. “Noah, you see? That was the first time.”

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Four years. Four years I’d spent trying to save her, and in a single, careless moment, Elara discovered how I truly felt. She had me pinned against the wall, her fingers digging into my neck, her eyes burning with a dark, furious storm. “I’ve sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “Do you even think you’re worthy?” Pure rage contorted her beautiful features. She became crueler than ever before, a hurricane of spite. She trashed her immaculate room, a whirlwind of destruction aimed at anything and everything I found beautiful. But whenever he was around—the story’s hero—she would sheath her claws, transforming into the very picture of gentle grace. That night, after she threw me out, I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. I found the System and gave up. “I… I can’t save her anymore.” The System’s voice was laced with sympathy. 【The mission isn’t over, but we can change the target. Would you like to save someone else?】 I nodded, a wave of relief washing over me. 【As is standard protocol, I will erase your memories of this mission. Please prepare for the final transition.】 A breath I didn’t know I was holding escaped my lips. Let it be over. 1 Elara had locked herself in her room again. I could hear the sickening symphony from the hallway—the crash and shatter of furniture, the thud of objects hitting the walls. I curled up into a ball outside her door, hands clamped over my ears, trying to block out the sounds of her self-destruction. After what felt like an eternity, the chaos subsided into a dead silence. My legs, numb from crouching, tingled as I unsteadily rose. I eased the door open, my heart pounding against my ribs. The room was a cavern of shadows, the air thick with the scent of ozone and dust. Shards of a shattered vase littered the floor like fallen stars. Elara was slumped against the far wall, a broken silhouette in the gloom. Her head was bowed, and from one limp hand, blood dripped rhythmically onto the polished floor. My chest tightened. I scrambled to grab the first-aid kit and knelt beside her. “L-let me… bandage that for you.” I gestured toward her hand. She didn’t move, didn’t even seem to register my presence. I took that as my cue, my hands moving with practiced efficiency as I cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic. A deep, angry gash ran across her slender palm. Her knuckles were raw and scraped. A familiar ache of sympathy bloomed in my chest, and a few hot tears escaped, tracing paths down my cheeks. A faint, cool breeze drifted in from the shattered window. Elara’s fingers twitched, the tense line of her brow slowly relaxing. Encouraged, I cupped her hand in mine and began to blow gently on the wound, my warm breath a soft caress against her skin. Suddenly, her other hand shot out, her fingers digging cruelly into my cheek. “Disgusting. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Her eyes, now sharp and lucid, glared into mine. I managed a weak, foolish grin. She yanked her hand back and shoved me away, stumbling to her feet. “Get lost.” “L-let me help you,” I offered, scrambling to follow. “I said, get lost!” she roared, pushing me hard. I lost my balance and fell backward, my hand landing squarely on a shard of broken glass. A sharp pain shot up my arm. Elara’s face paled. Her lips parted as if to say something, but in the end, she just clamped her jaw shut, turned, and stormed out of the room. I sniffled, pulling the glass from my palm and wrapping it with a bandage from the kit. It’s okay, I told myself. It’s always been like this. Elara wasn’t a bad person. She just couldn’t control the storm inside her. Later that evening, I cooked a proper meal—three dishes and a soup. The sprawling apartment felt empty with just the two of us. After setting the table, I went back to the thankless task of cleaning up the wreckage of her room. By the time she emerged from her shower, I was wiping sweat from my brow. I pointed to the dining table. “D-dinner is—” “Just shut up,” she snapped, tossing a damp towel onto the floor. “I can’t stand listening to you stutter.” She sat down at the table, her expression a mask of cold indifference. I clamped my mouth shut and returned to my cleaning. It’s okay. I was here for her. As long as she was okay, nothing else mattered. 2 When I first received the redemption mission, I fought it tooth and nail. My twenty years in the real world had been a landscape of misery. An orphan, a punching bag for bullies, a shadow living on the fringes. I was a pathetic coward who finally ended it all with a blade to my own throat. Someone like me had no business saving anyone. But the System told me Elara’s story. It said her temper was so volatile, so destructive, that no one else was willing to take on the mission to pull her back from the brink. Elara had been an heiress, born into a world of luxury cars, handsome men, and endless privilege. Then a raging fire consumed her life, taking her parents with it. Pinned beneath a collapsed beam, she was forced to watch as they burned to charred remains. That suffocating despair, that crushing sense of helplessness, became the seed of her bipolar disorder. Her family’s empire crumbled overnight, leaving her with nothing but this apartment and a dwindling trust fund. She attempted suicide several times, each failure twisting her personality further, making her more erratic, more broken. In the original story, her fate was sealed on an overpass. As she prepared to jump, a young man—the story’s hero—rushed forward and pulled her back from the edge. From that moment on, he became her sole reason for living, her anchor in a world of chaos. But her love was a cage. She forbade him from seeing friends, controlled his every move, and effectively imprisoned him. His life became a gilded hell. Then, the true heroine appeared and rescued him. A woman of immense power and influence, she was horrified by how her beloved had been treated. As retribution, she had Elara’s eyes gouged out, her face disfigured, and then, in a final act of cruel irony, had her thrown from the very same overpass where her obsession began. The System asked me to change her tragic destiny. To save her lonely soul. This time, my heart softened. I agreed. It wasn’t her fault she became this way. If someone as broken as me could salvage even one soul, then I was willing to try. So, on that fateful day, I became the one who desperately clung to her arm on that overpass. To my relief, Elara didn’t transfer her obsessive affections to me. She despised my presence, recoiled from my touch, and loathed my stutter. For the first year, when the rage took her, she would hit me. But I was resilient. A weed that refused to be uprooted. After every outburst, I would be the first to comfort her, to soothe her rage until the storm passed. I learned to cook her favorite meals, hoping to give her a taste of the warmth she’d lost. During her moments of calm, I would tell her, in my halting, clumsy way, that she wasn’t alone in this world anymore. This is my fourth year by her side. The frequency of her episodes has dwindled. Now, it’s only the violent thunderstorms or the nightmares that threaten to pull her under. And in the quiet rhythm of our days, in the constant tending to her fragile soul, my sympathy has slowly, imperceptibly, morphed into something else. Her pain became my pain. Her moods, the bars of my cage. And I, the willing prisoner. 3 By the time I finished cleaning, Elara was already asleep in her bedroom. I gently tucked the blanket around her and then sat on the floor, content to just watch her in the soft moonlight. Honestly, Elara was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, in this life or the last. Delicate, sculpted features and a tall, willowy frame. A permanent shadow of melancholy haunted her eyes, giving her a look that was both cold and somber. But it was all disrupted by a tiny crimson mole on the tip of her nose, a single point of warmth that transformed her from merely beautiful to utterly captivating. If I hadn’t taken this mission, I would never have even breathed the same air as someone so radiant. She was just so, so beautiful. I wondered what kind of brilliant life she would have led if tragedy hadn’t stolen it from her. Unable to resist, I reached out, my fingers tracing the air just above her face, outlining the arch of her brow, the line of her nose. My touch ghosted over her skin, finally coming to rest on her soft, thin lips. Suddenly, her hand shot out and clamped around my wrist like a vice. Her eyes snapped open, clear and sharp. They were filled with a fierce, almost wounded, disbelief. “You have feelings for me?” My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I instinctively dropped my gaze, unable to meet hers. My silence was all the confirmation she needed. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged, her other hand closing around my throat. “I’ve sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?” she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. “For fuck’s sake, do you even think you’re worthy?” The storm was back. She grabbed the lamp from her bedside table and hurled it at me. Then a book. Then anything else she could reach. “Get out! Get the hell out of my sight, you disgusting thing! Get out!” I just stood there, frozen, as the objects rained down on me. A sour ache filled my chest, making each breath a painful struggle. Why was she saying this? I knew my place. I knew I was nothing. Other than the secret feelings I held in my heart, I had never once crossed the line. “I… I only… I only like you… in s-secret. Is… is that not allowed either?” “NO!” she screamed, her face flushed with fury. She clenched her fists, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Get out of here right now, or I swear to God I will smash your face in.” Numbly, I turned and stumbled out of the apartment, for the first time completely and utterly lost. 4 I’ve always considered myself to have thick skin. Elara had put me through hell over the years, but nothing had ever hurt like this. My face burned with shame and humiliation. I buried my head in my hands, a wave of regret washing over me. Why did I let her see? Why? The plan had always been simple: stay with her, help her heal, and then, once she was whole again, quietly disappear from her life. Just as I was sinking into my misery, the System appeared, its familiar blue interface glowing in the dark. It paused. 【Why are you crying?】 It ran a quick scan of Elara’s vitals and then chirped in surprise. 【Wow! Elara’s psychological state is almost back to healthy levels! Her manic episodes have been much less frequent lately. You’re amazing!】 When I didn’t respond, the System went quiet for a moment, its light flickering as it processed the recent events. Then, it burst out in a string of angry code. 【But that Elara is too much! Yes, she has an illness, but does she even have a heart? For over a thousand days, you’ve been there, taking care of her every single need! How could she say something like that to you?!】 I finally looked up, wiping my swollen eyes. “It’s… it’s not her fault.” “My feelings for her… helping her… that was my choice. She doesn’t have to… to accept me.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe… no matter where I am… I’m just not worthy of being loved.” The System processed my raw emotions and fell silent, unable to offer any comfort. 【Well, if you can’t take it anymore, just let me know,】 it finally said, its voice soft. I nodded, grateful for the small kindness. It’s okay, I told myself one more time. Once Elara’s mental health score reached a stable, healthy level, I would leave. And I would never bother her again. 5 I spent the night on a park bench. The next morning, as always, I went back to the apartment to make Elara breakfast. As I stepped inside, I was greeted by the familiar sight of chaos. The living room was a disaster zone. I swallowed hard and placed the groceries I’d bought on the one clear spot on the counter. Just as I was about to start cleaning, Elara’s voice cut through the silence from behind me. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come home last night?” I jumped, startled. I turned to see her looming over me, her face a dark thundercloud. Fresh blood was seeping from the bandages on her knuckles, dripping onto the floor. I frowned, instinctively reaching for her hand, but she slapped my hand away. “I asked you a question. Why didn’t you come home?” “Y-you… you told me to… to get out.” Elara sneered. “So I tell you to get out and you actually leave? Where did you sleep? Whose house were you at? Who were you with?” Her rapid-fire questions left me bewildered. “The p-park. By myself.” She stared at me for a few seconds, and the fire in her eyes seemed to flicker and die down. “Fine. From now on, you don’t stay out all night. Understood?” She held out her hand. “Bandage it.” I nodded obediently and quickly redressed her wounds. That morning, Elara ate two more bowls of oatmeal than usual. And for the next few days, she was unnervingly calm. Just as I was starting to think things might settle into a new, fragile peace, something shifted. One morning, Elara emerged from her room wearing a tailored suit, looking determined. “Get changed. You’re coming with me.” “…Where are we going?” “We can’t just live off my savings forever. An old family friend of my parents is hosting a gala tonight. He invited me.” A genuine smile spread across my face. “Okay.” Elara was taking the first step back into the world. She was getting better.

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I am the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. By his side, you’ll also find the helpless ingénue. The saint. And the red rose. Every single one of them is after the man himself. They want the ring and the Vance name. But not me. I’m just in it for the money. 1 I’m the resident “sentient flower” for Manhattan’s top tycoon. It’s as literal a title as it sounds. When the tycoon suffers, I listen. When love leaves him bitter, I find the sweet. I have another, less formal title: the ultimate doormat. My job is to gently absorb and resolve all of the tycoon’s frustrations without ever causing any of my own. I am a flower that only soothes, never pricks. Beyond that, the relationship between me and the tycoon is purely platonic. He never has to worry about me using him to climb the social ladder, and I never have to worry about him pouncing on me. We exist in a perfect, professional harmony. Tonight is a private gala hosted by the tycoon himself, Edward Vance. To put it bluntly, it’s the annual performance review for the various starlets orbiting his sun. As his sentient flower, I naturally have a role that is both official and clandestine: Edward Vance’s executive assistant. The gala is being held at a flagship hotel under the Vance Group umbrella. Crystal chandeliers cast a glittering rain of light, champagne fountains bubble with a golden glow, and the air is thick with a perfume of money and hormones. A quick scan of the room reveals that the competition is already in full swing. At the center of the ballroom is Penelope, the designated “helpless ingénue” in Edward’s life. She’s currently demonstrating her unique expertise. Dressed in a wispy, ethereal white gown, she times a delicate stumble perfectly as she passes Edward, collapsing with flawless precision into his arms. She drapes herself over his arm, a fragile vine. “Oh, Edward,” she breathes, “it hurts so much…” I take a sip of my tea, my expression blank. Honey, is this a gala or an insurance fraud seminar? You deserve an Oscar for that performance. But this is Edward Vance we’re talking about. The most eligible and untouchable bachelor in all of New York. A master player who strolls through a garden of beauties without letting a single petal cling to him. Penelope is far too green to play games with him. Still, a beautiful woman has fallen into his arms, and Edward is not one to be rude. He steadies her with a grip so practiced it looks robotic. But the curve of his lips… it’s the perfectly calibrated smile of a customer service representative. “Alfred,” he says smoothly to his butler, “please escort Ms. Penelope to the lounge to rest.” With a single sentence, he has her gift-wrapped and shipped out. Penelope opens her mouth to protest, but the polite, unwavering smile on Edward’s face silences her. She knows better than to be voted off the island this early in the game. Contestant number one has made an unfortunate exit. But a tycoon’s garden is never home to just one flower. Next up is Isabelle, “the saint,” dressed in a simple yet elegant silk gown. She glides towards him, a glass of red wine in her hand, her posture impeccable. She’s different from Penelope. She doesn’t flirt or play helpless; she discusses ideals. Her conversations are woven with threads of charity work and underprivileged children. To Edward, she projects an image of pure, untouchable goodness. Even I have to give her points for style. “Edward,” she begins, her voice soft, “I was thinking about that orphanage on the west side…” Edward pinches the bridge of his nose—a tell-tale sign of his impatience. He was up until 3 AM last night finalizing a merger. He’s clearly exhausted and in no mood for this topic. For all his cold exterior, he despises being emotionally manipulated. Just then, Scarlett, “the red rose,” clicks towards them on dangerously high heels, wrapped in a fiery red dress. She radiates an aura of pure power. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries and cuts right to the chase. “Edward, that parcel of land downtown. I hear you’re interested?” Look at that. Bringing business negotiations to a party. This woman knows how to kill a conversation. Edward’s patience has clearly run out. He raises his glass to his lips, only to find it empty. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. The second his gaze sweeps in my direction, I stand. I move gracefully through the crowd, retrieve a cup of warm, clear tea from a passing waiter’s tray—a cup I had prepared in advance. Not his usual whiskey, not a pretentious red wine, but a simple tea to cut through the richness of the evening and soothe his fatigue. He’s running on fumes; alcohol would be a mistake. Coffee, while stimulating, wouldn’t offer the same comfort. Tea is perfect. I place the cup in his hand without a word. He takes it, sips, and the hard line of his jaw softens almost imperceptibly. Scarlett is about to press her point. I speak softly, my voice directed at Edward but just loud enough for Scarlett to hear. “Mr. Vance, I reviewed the file on that downtown property. Ms. Scarlett’s company primarily deals in consumer goods. A sudden pivot into a real estate project of this magnitude would likely face resistance from her board. Furthermore, I’ve heard their new European venture has strained their capital chain.” My words are subtle but surgically precise. Scarlett’s expression freezes. Edward sets down his cup and gives me a look. I know that look. It’s the look that says a very, very large bonus is headed my way. He turns to Scarlett and smiles. “Scarlett, in business, knowing your own limits is just as important as knowing your enemy’s.” Her face shifts through several shades of anger before she finally pivots on her heel, shoots me a venomous glare, and storms away. For the entire evening, I haven’t initiated a single conversation with Edward. I haven’t fought to be near him like the others. I simply appeared when he needed me, with the right drink and the right words. As the gala concludes, Edward leans back in the car, his eyes closed. He suddenly tosses a tablet into my lap. “Take a look at this project.” I pick it up. The screen displays a prospectus for a private investment opportunity. The potential returns are astronomical, and the barrier to entry is so high that only those in his innermost circle would ever even hear about it. I know exactly what this is. It’s my reward for being his sentient flower tonight. “Thank you, Mr. Vance,” I say calmly, accepting it. Lesson number one for surviving in Manhattan’s elite circles: the most effective way to win is not to play the game everyone else is playing. Excellent. My startup capital just got a significant boost. My little nest egg is growing quite nicely. 2 I’m an orphan. I never knew my parents, but thanks to the kindness of anonymous benefactors, I had a safe, if unremarkable, upbringing. I was never wealthy, but I was never in want. My childhood was stable, free from the kind of trauma that leaves deep scars. I’m perfectly healthy, both physically and mentally. The only thing I lacked was a parent’s love. As a result, I never developed a deep reliance on familial bonds, let alone romantic ones. It’s as if I were born with a diminished capacity for emotional attachment. After graduation, a chance encounter led me to Edward Vance, and I became his assistant. He once told me I was different from all the other women around him. I didn’t care about that. I cared about the salary and benefits. And God, did he pay well. That’s why I’ve stayed by his side for four years. What’s so great about love? Isn’t making a fortune more satisfying? But in a city like this, gossip travels faster than light. The news that I had earned Edward’s favor was like a torpedo hitting the perfectly curated fish pond of his admirers. For years, they’ve refused to believe that my relationship with him is purely professional. They can’t accept that I just want to take the money and run. They all see me as the enemy. Penelope, naturally, was the first to make a move. It didn’t take long for her to start setting traps, and she aimed right for a project I was managing. It was a small-scale art acquisition, not a lot of money involved, but incredibly detailed. I knew it was a test from Edward to gauge my capabilities. After nearly four years, he was finally starting to delegate real responsibility to me. I had worked too hard to get here. These lovesick fools were not going to ruin my career. Penelope started by whispering in Edward’s ear, her performance complete with crocodile tears. “Edward, that’s not what I meant at all… I just wanted to help Claire out, ease her workload. I didn’t realize she would misunderstand and think I was trying to steal her job… sob…” A true masterclass in manipulation. Edward has a well-known weakness for crying women. He agreed to let her “help” in a heartbeat. And so, she arrived. She enthusiastically forwarded me an artist’s portfolio, making sure to CC the entire project team. The subject line read: “Lightening the load for Claire.” Penelope had an art degree. She used her minor connections in the art world to recommend a young painter with “immense potential.” I didn’t buy her act for a second. When something seems too good to be true, it always is. A quick background check confirmed my suspicions. The artist did indeed have potential—a potential for forgery. Several of his past sales had been mired in plagiarism scandals. His wealthy family had paid a small fortune to scrub his reputation clean, but within the art world, everyone knew the truth. If I acquired his work, I’d be on the front page of every paper. I could already see the headline: Vance Group Scammed in Multi-Million Dollar Art Fraud; Project Manager Claire Dismissed, Faces Massive Lawsuit. I kept my findings to myself. Instead, I replied to Penelope’s email with a cheerful thank you, once again CC’ing the entire department, including Edward. “Penelope, you’re such a lifesaver! Thank you so much for your help.” Then, I got to work. I compiled everything: photos of Penelope meeting with the artist, their text conversations, and proof that she was using her influence to push his paintings onto the acquisition list. I put it all into a crisp PowerPoint presentation, using the official Vance Group template. The title was perfect: Risk Assessment and Background Report on the Artist Recommended by Ms. Penelope Vance. It was professional, meticulous, and irrefutable. To be thorough, I even arranged a meeting with the artist at a discreet tea house, claiming I was sent by Penelope to discuss payment. He let his guard down immediately, his smugness making him careless. He spilled everything, including a direct quote: “Penelope said as long as I get in with Mr. Vance, the price is negotiable.” I recorded the entire conversation. All I had to do was wait. Sure enough, a few days later, Edward summoned both of us to his office. The moment Penelope saw him, her eyes welled up. She spoke first. “Edward, you have to believe me. I had no ill intentions. It’s Claire… she seems to have some sort of prejudice against me.” She looked at me with wounded eyes, as if I were the big bad wolf who had just devoured a lamb. Edward sat behind his massive desk, his face unreadable. He simply looked at me. I didn’t rush to defend myself. Instead, I walked forward and placed a file on his desk. My tone was all business. “Mr. Vance, this is the background check I compiled on the artist Ms. Penelope recommended. I’m sure she was unaware of these details when she so kindly made the suggestion.” I paused, then added, “She is young, after all, and lacks real-world experience. It’s only natural for someone so pure-hearted and trusting to be deceived. We can’t blame her. If anyone is at fault, it’s me, for not advising her properly.” I glanced at Penelope’s face, which had gone deathly pale. I continued, twisting the knife. “A person like Ms. Penelope, someone who could capture your heart under the cherry blossoms, must be fundamentally good. We mustn’t be too harsh on her.” My “magnanimous” defense had backed her into an impossible corner. If she admitted she was naive, she was admitting she was incompetent. If she claimed she knew about the artist’s history, she was admitting she was malicious. Her face flushed red, then white. She sputtered, “That’s not it! I didn’t! I was just trying to help you!” “Help me by recommending a serial plagiarist?” I feigned shock, covering my mouth. “Ms. Penelope, are you being blackmailed? Don’t be afraid. You can tell Mr. Vance. He’ll protect you. You’re a recent graduate, new to all this. If something goes wrong, Mr. Vance has your back, right?” Penelope was an alumna of Edward’s alma mater. They’d met a year ago when he gave a speech on campus. He’d seen her wandering under the blooming cherry trees, a vision in a white dress, and a spark of protective affection had been lit. Coincidentally, she was also the student representative who later toured the Vance Group headquarters. One thing led to another, and after she graduated, she landed a position at his company. With every word of my “defense,” her expression grew more horrified. Edward was no fool. He flipped through the evidence I’d prepared—the photos, the recording, the text messages. The chain of evidence was so complete it could have been a case study for a law school class. Finally, he looked up at Penelope, his expression so cold it could cause frostbite. “Out.” Just one word. Penelope burst into tears and fled the room. Silence descended. I stood there, awaiting my own verdict. “From now on, you have full authority over this project,” Edward said, pushing the file aside. “I’m increasing the budget by fifty percent. And I don’t want to see any more amateurs involved.” The gears in my head were spinning. Excellent. “Of course, Mr. Vance.” I had achieved my goal and was about to leave when Edward let out a heavy sigh. The powerful tycoon, in that moment, slumped forward, resting his head on his desk and staring blankly at a paperweight. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly. “Claire, tell me… why is it that everyone seems to have an ulterior motive?” “Am I not worthy of being treated with sincerity?” Here we go again. I cleared my throat, my expression turning serious and thoughtful. “Mr. Vance, you absolutely deserve to be treated with sincerity. You just haven’t met the right person yet. Be patient.” He looked at me, his eyes full of earnest vulnerability. Who would have thought that the decisive, domineering Edward Vance had this childish side? My words, as always, soothed him. I am, after all, a professional. I backed out of the room and gently closed the door. I had bigger fish to fry. With the extra funding and full autonomy, I immediately contacted another young artist—one with genuine talent who had been overlooked by the mainstream art world. I signed him to an exclusive five-year contract for a fraction of his market value. The project was a resounding success, and Edward was thrilled. And I, using the opportunity he had given me, not only secured my first major payday in this city but also acquired a future cash cow for myself. It’s just business. Nothing personal. 3 If Penelope was a bronze-level opponent, then Isabelle was silver. She was smarter, more sophisticated, and wouldn’t stoop to sabotaging minor projects. She aimed higher, setting her sights on the hugely influential charitable foundation run by the Vance family. She had a sharp eye. The foundation was Edward’s grandmother’s passion project. Whoever took it over would earn the matriarch’s approval, which was as good as having one foot inside the Vance family’s front door. Isabelle knew her brand: the beautiful, kind-hearted heiress, a benevolent angel floating above the grubby concerns of the world. She was the rare “saint” of her social circle. With Penelope out of the picture, Isabelle ramped up her philanthropic-themed social media presence. One day, she was painting with children at an orphanage; the next, she was donating to a school in a remote mountain village. Every photo was perfectly curated: her makeup flawless, her smile gentle, surrounded by a crowd of adoring, plainly-dressed children. She was the very picture of grace and compassion. Simultaneously, rumors about me began to circulate. “Did you hear about Edward’s assistant, Claire? She looks so plain, but they say her mind is as deep and dark as the Mariana Trench.” “I know, right? She acts like she doesn’t want anything, but she’s the first one to stab you in the back.” “Poor Isabelle, she’s so kind. I heard Claire publicly humiliated her the other day.” …I chose to interpret it all as high praise. But Isabelle wasn’t finished. At a public event, she orchestrated another piece of performance art. She glided towards me, holding a glass of champagne, and then, just a step away… she “tripped,” spilling the entire glass down the front of her own expensive custom gown. The next second, she reached out and grabbed my arm, her face a mask of alarm. “Claire, are you okay? It’s all my fault, I lost my footing.” Eyes from all around us shot in our direction, the unspoken assumption being that I had tripped her. I almost laughed out loud. Honey, your acting skills are on par with Penelope’s. The two of you could start a professional accident business and make a killing. I had her figured out. I knew that for someone as obsessed with her public image as Isabelle, the best way to defeat her was to let her tear down her own carefully constructed stage, with her own hands. I ignored the gossip and spent my time digging into her social circle. It didn’t take long to find something interesting. She had frequent, substantial financial transactions with a notorious tabloid journalist, a man who made his living blackmailing celebrities. It seemed our benevolent saint was buying a lot of her good press with cold, hard cash. That made things easy. My opportunity came at a grand charity gala hosted by the Vance Group. The theme was “Supporting Children with Rare Diseases.” Isabelle, as the most high-profile philanthropist in attendance, was the guest of honor, radiant and in her element. During the media interviews, she deployed her usual tactic, making a pointed statement to the cameras: “I don’t do charity for recognition. I just wish everyone could be a little more sincere and a little less calculating. Unlike some people, who use charity as a stepping stone to climb higher.” Every camera immediately swiveled to face me. I ignored her bait. Instead, I smiled at the host and posed a question. “Tonight’s theme is incredibly moving. I’ve recently been researching Rett syndrome, a condition that causes developmental regression, loss of speech, and purposeful hand use in children. I was wondering if Ms. Isabelle, as such a dedicated advocate, could share her knowledge and insights on this particular rare disease?” The room fell silent. Rett syndrome? What was that? People exchanged confused glances. The vast majority had never even heard of it. All eyes turned to Isabelle. Surely, the kind and knowledgeable saint would know. The smile on Isabelle’s face froze. Her past “charity work” had always focused on well-known, emotionally resonant causes. A highly specific medical term like this was far outside her wheelhouse. She stammered for a moment before deflecting awkwardly, “Every illness… deserves our attention… and compassion has no measure…” “Well said,” I nodded in agreement, then pivoted. “It reminds me of that actress who was recently exposed for her ‘Photoshop philanthropy’—posing for pictures but not donating a dime. It just goes to show that sincerity is always more important than appearances. I wonder, is the journalist who broke that incredible story here tonight? I would love to hear his professional opinion.” My gaze drifted casually towards a shifty-looking man in the corner. It was, of course, the very same tabloid journalist on Isabelle’s payroll. He clearly hadn’t expected to be dragged into the spotlight. The color drained from his face. To save his own skin and distance himself from her immediately, he practically lunged for a nearby reporter’s microphone. “Ms. Claire is absolutely right!” he shouted. “Our duty as journalists is to expose hypocrisy! Like certain so-called ‘saints’ who pay for positive press releases and use charity to build a public persona, when in reality…” He didn’t need to finish. Every eye in the room was now fixed on the deathly pale Isabelle. The message was clear. That night, Isabelle’s persona completely shattered. The hashtag #PhotoshopPhilanthropist went viral, and she became the laughingstock of the city’s elite. Edward had witnessed the entire spectacle. After the gala, he handed me the official seal and authorization documents for the charitable foundation. “From now on, you’re in charge.” He then passed me his phone. “These are the core board members. Add their contacts. If you need anything, go to them directly.” I glanced at the screen. The list was a who’s who of the financial world. Any single one of them could make Wall Street tremble just by clearing their throat. This was a quantum leap. I hadn’t just taken over a foundation; I had inherited Edward’s most exclusive network. Using these top-tier resources, I ran the foundation with ruthless efficiency, building myself an impeccable public reputation while simultaneously using the insider information they occasionally let slip to make my own lucrative investments. My fortune was growing exponentially. The feeling was intoxicating. 4 If Penelope was bronze and Isabelle was silver, then Scarlett was pure platinum. This red rose, with all her thorns, had no time for petty games. She wasn’t playing for Edward’s affection; she was playing for his empire. Her goal was clear: become Mrs. Vance and merge their dynasties. She set her sights on a key subsidiary of the Vance Group. Using her own capital, she began aggressively buying up shares on the open market, attempting a hostile takeover. The Vance Group was in an uproar. Scarlett even approached me directly, her attitude one of supreme confidence. “Claire, you’re a smart woman,” she said, sliding a cup of coffee across the table towards me. Her red lips curled into a smirk. “With Edward, you’ll always be just an assistant. But if you help me, once I take over, your position will be far greater.” She was trying to recruit me, to use me as a pawn in her game. I could barely contain my glee. Lady, you’re literally serving me your head on a platter. I knew Scarlett was ambitious and overconfident, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. Edward Vance was a master strategist. Going head-to-head with her would be foolish. Using her own momentum against her—that was the key. I put on a display of being flattered but conflicted. “Ms. Scarlett, I… I’m just an assistant. I wouldn’t dare…” “Cut the crap,” she snapped. “What’s Edward’s next move? Tell me his strategy for the subsidiary. What’s his contingency plan?” After a long, calculated hesitation, I “reluctantly” shared a piece of top-secret information. “I overheard… that to fight the takeover, Mr. Vance is planning to mortgage the revenue from another major real estate project to raise capital and stabilize the stock price. But that project has a very slow return rate. Right now, he’s overleveraged. His capital chain is stretched to its absolute limit.” It was, of course, a complete lie. This supposed “weakness” was a custom-made trap, designed based on my understanding of Edward’s methods. That old fox loved to feign weakness before delivering the fatal blow. Scarlett took the bait. A person like her, accustomed to being the aggressor, trusts her own intelligence above all else. She immediately doubled down on her acquisition efforts, hoping to force a quick victory while Edward was “financially vulnerable.” She thought she had him by the throat. In reality, she had just stuck her head in a crocodile’s mouth. Edward seemed to be in an unusually good mood over the next few days. He even took me horseback riding at his country estate. Dressed in sharp riding gear, he sat tall and proud on his stallion, the muscles in his thighs flexing as he controlled the powerful animal. He reined in his horse and looked back at me, a bead of sweat tracing the sharp line of his jaw. My God, he was handsome. No wonder women flocked to him. “What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, still breathless from the exertion. I urged my horse forward to ride alongside him. “I’m thinking that you don’t seem worried at all about Ms. Scarlett’s power play.” He laughed, a playful glint in his eyes. “Why would I be worried about a mad dog that’s voluntarily locked itself in a cage?” He reached out and gently tilted my chin up with the tip of his riding crop. “It’s you, Claire. You always seem to know exactly what I’m thinking.” I didn’t pull away. I met his gaze and said softly, “Because I care about you, Mr. Vance.” The day the trap was sprung was bright and clear. At the subsidiary’s shareholder meeting, Scarlett confidently presented her stake, ready to seize control. Just as she believed victory was hers, an announcement was made. An obscure offshore fund, acting through a series of shell corporations, had secretly acquired a larger stake than hers and was throwing its full support behind the current management. Scarlett was stunned. The massive amount of capital she had poured into the takeover was now trapped, locked into a failing bid and accumulating devastating interest. She had tried to steal the chicken but ended up losing the rice. At that precise moment, I walked into Edward’s office and handed him a file. “Mr. Vance, here is the background information on that offshore fund, along with evidence of its cross-holdings with another one of our overseas projects.” This wasn’t information I had just found. It was the result of months of meticulous digging, using the access and resources Edward himself had given me. I knew about his counter-move all along. I was just waiting for the perfect moment to present it to him, in my role as the all-knowing sentient flower. Edward looked up from the file, his gaze intense. This time, it held more than just approval. There was a deeper, more probing curiosity. He was likely wondering how I could understand him so completely, perhaps even better than he understood himself. Scarlett’s aggressive ambition had utterly repulsed him. Her dream of becoming Mrs. Vance was officially dead. Her defeat was swift and total. She was forced to liquidate her assets and quietly disappear from the New York social scene. And I… I had reached the zenith of my career. Edward’s trust in me was now absolute. He no longer saw me as just a capable assistant, but as a true partner-in-arms. He handed over control of several of the company’s most profitable and promising divisions. “You handle these,” he said, giving me unprecedented authority. I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. I almost wanted to laugh. Dude, you just handed me the keys to the vault. And since you offered, I won’t be polite. I used this golden opportunity to begin the final phase of my plan. Slowly, meticulously, I started restructuring assets, redirecting profits, and funneling everything into a shell corporation I had long ago established overseas—a corporation that was entirely, and untraceably, mine. The process was like ants moving a mountain, grain by grain. Slow, patient, and invisible. Edward Vance thought I was working to secure his legacy. He had no idea I was building my own. The day I could finally set myself free was getting closer and closer.

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1 The gala for my father’s 70th birthday had just ended when my wife’s frantic call cut through the night. “Adrian, it’s a disaster! The investors vanished with the money. I have to leave the country—don’t try to contact me!” Wide awake, I told her to stay safe, then hung up and immediately froze all her bank accounts. The only investor was my father, who lay drunk in the next room. What “bankruptcy” was she really running from? I took the next flight out and found her not in hiding, but glowing in a wedding gown at a five-star resort—arm in arm with her “best friend” Leo. She rushed over in panic as I entered. “Adrian, I can explain! Leo’s dying father just wanted to see him married. This is all an act.” I laughed coldly and slapped her. The sound echoed in the sudden hush. “An act? Then let me give you a wedding gift and help you keep up the show.” Leo stood flushed and trembling in his tuxedo, as if I were the one ruining his big day. “Mr. Cole,” he said, his voice dripping with false pity. “I know you’ve always struggled with Vivian’s unrequited love, and that it’s led to… certain delusions. I sympathize, truly. But this is my wedding day. Must you be so aggressive? You can’t force these things.” Vivian chimed in, her tone placating. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it after the ceremony. Please, Adrian. Don’t make a scene.” Even now, all she could think about was continuing with the wedding. I laughed again, a raw, humorless sound. My eyes fell on the watch gleaming on Leo’s wrist. It was the million-dollar Patek Philippe I had lost months ago. “No wonder you paid him a thirty-thousand-dollar-a-month salary. The two of you have been at this for a while, haven’t you?” My voice dripped with scorn. “And my watch… I bet you stole that for him too.” I sized Leo up. “One of you has the gall to steal, the other has the gall to wear it. You two really are a match made in hell.” The crowd erupted in laughter, phones held high to capture the drama. Leo stomped his foot in a theatrical fit of rage, then pulled a document from his jacket. “Open your eyes and look!” he shouted, brandishing a marriage certificate. “Vivian and I are legally married!” He pointed a triumphant finger at me. “He’s sick. He gets obsessed with any woman who shows him the slightest kindness. My wife is just his latest fixation.” The mood of the crowd shifted. A few people shot me menacing looks. “That desperate, huh? She’s a married woman. Maybe you should come up to my room instead…” one man slurred, stepping forward to grab me. I snatched a wine bottle from a nearby table and brandished it, forcing him back. I pointed the bottle at Vivian, my voice low and dangerous. “I’ll give you one last chance. Me, or him. Who is your husband?” Vivian’s eyes flickered, and her answer was a stake through my heart. “My only husband is Leo.” Her voice turned to ice. “Now, apologize to him, or I’ll have you committed to a psychiatric hospital.” Leo’s hand tightened around Vivian’s, his face a mask of smug victory. “Darling, don’t waste your breath on a lunatic. He’s not worth it.” Seeing their vile, triumphant faces, something inside me snapped. I raised the bottle, ready to bring it crashing down on them. If I was going to hell, I was dragging them with me. But Vivian was faster. She kicked out, her heel grinding into the back of my hand with a sickening crunch. A wave of white-hot agony shot up my arm, stealing my breath. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. “Leo is my life,” she snarled, her eyes filled with a terrifying hatred. “You hurt him, and I will make you pay a hundred times over!” Leo, ever the actor, pretended to pull her back. “Darling, it’s our wedding day. It would be bad luck if something happened. Just make him get on his knees and apologize.” Vivian nodded, her tone one of magnanimous charity. “You heard him. Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness. Otherwise, I’m making the call to the asylum right now.” The raw disgust in her eyes was like a physical blow. My first love. Seven years of my life. All of it, meaningless. I pulled out my phone and opened the photo gallery, displaying our own marriage certificate, our wedding photos. “This is proof of our marriage. I’m reporting you for bigamy!” In this country, bigamy meant prison time. Doubt flickered across the faces in the crowd. “That man’s certificate is dated seven years ago. Were these two really lying?” “If they broke the law, they should be punished!” Leo leaned in close, his voice a triumphant whisper. “You still don’t get it, do you? Your marriage certificate with Vivian is a fake. She promised me she would only ever love me. You were never worthy of marrying her.” The world tilted on its axis. The last seven years of my life, my devotion, my love—it was all a joke. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped me, my eyes burning with unshed tears. I raised a trembling hand towards him, but before I could touch him, he collapsed to the ground, clutching his chest. “Vivian!” he gasped. “My heart… I think I’m dying…” Before I could process his words, a sharp sting exploded across my face. Vivian had slapped me so hard my ears rang, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth. She knelt beside Leo, cradling him, her eyes spitting venom at me. “You’ve given him a heart attack with your rage! If anything happens to him, I’ll make you pay with your life!” I tried to speak, but my tongue was thick with bitterness. “Get me to a hospital!” Leo wailed. “I can feel my heart giving out!” Vivian forgot about me entirely, shouting for someone to help carry Leo to a car. My vision swam, and the world went black. I woke up in a hospital bed. An IV was in my arm, but it wasn’t dripping fluid in; it was drawing blood out. I tried to struggle, but I was completely drained of strength. Vivian stood over me, her expression a mask of cold contempt. “Leo is in surgery. He needs a transfusion, and you happen to be a match. Consider this your apology.” “I didn’t push him!” I roared, a fresh wave of adrenaline cutting through the haze. She grabbed my wrist, her fingers digging into my flesh. “He waited seven years for me. I won’t let anything happen to him. If it does, I swear, I will burn your body to ash.” She squeezed until I was gasping for air before finally letting go, leaving me in a sea of helpless despair. The blood loss pulled me back under. I drifted back to consciousness to the sound of Leo’s voice. He was on the phone. “The arrangements with the asylum are made. The second Adrian Cole wakes up, have him transferred… I want him to spend the rest of his life in there.” He saw my eyes were open, hung up, and walked over to my bed. He poured a glass of hot water and deliberately spilled it onto my arm. “This is what you get for crossing me,” he hissed. Pain seared my skin. I trembled, biting my lip to keep from screaming. “You were faking it,” I rasped. He laughed, not even bothering to deny it. “So what if I was? Vivian only believes me.” He placed a hand over his heart. “This heart of mine could have been perfectly healthy. But I had an unfortunate little fall, you see. Made a pre-existing condition much worse. Vivian feels so guilty about it. And you, my friend, are the perfect scapegoat.” “You’re pathetic!” I choked out, shaking with rage. His smile turned predatory. “And once you’re out of the picture, all your assets will be mine.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. He wasn’t going to let me leave this hospital alive. With a surge of desperation, I threw myself out of bed, shoving him aside and stumbling for the door. But my body betrayed me. After only a few steps, my legs gave out, and I collapsed. Leo followed at a leisurely pace and kicked me hard in the ribs. “Run,” he taunted, seeing I couldn’t even get up. “I thought you were so tough.” “Just getting rid of you would be too easy. Let’s play a game. I hear there’s a local mercenary outfit that’s always looking for able-bodied labor. Why don’t we drop you off there?” I scrambled backward in horror. “You can’t. My father is—” He grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back, and slapped me twice across the face. “Your family is a bunch of ungrateful snobs! Every time Vivian brought them gifts, they looked down on her. If she hadn’t been propping up your family all these years, do you think you could have lived the life of a rich kid?” My heart sank. Vivian had been a poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks when we met. I used my own savings to help her start her business. My family never approved of our marriage, so Vivian rarely interacted with them. The few times she did visit, she brought nothing more than a fruit basket. The idea that she “propped us up” was a laughable fantasy. Without my father secretly investing in her company, she never would have gone public in seven years. His bodyguards dragged me out and threw me into a waiting van. We drove to a desolate, run-down compound, where he shoved me out in front of a group of hulking, leering men. He held up his phone. “Whoever puts on the best show gets fifty grand,” he announced to the thugs, who began cracking their knuckles and advancing on me. They surrounded me, their fists flying. I grabbed a rock, hurled it at one of them, and screamed at Leo, “You will regret this!” He was unfazed. He started a video call with Vivian. My battered, helpless form on his screen sent her into peals of delighted laughter. “Leo, you’re too kind,” she chirped. “He hurt you. He should be in prison.” “He was with you for a while, Vivian,” Leo sighed dramatically. “I’m trying to be merciful. If he would just get on his knees and admit he was wrong, I wouldn’t have to do this.” “He’s a monster,” Vivian spat. “I’ve had enough of him. Leo, we’ll have to redo our wedding, of course.” They chattered on, completely ignoring my existence. My last sliver of hope died. Leo ended the call. “What are you waiting for?” he barked at the men. “Get to it, or you won’t see a dime!” I surged forward with my remaining strength, tackling Leo to the ground and closing my hands around his throat. “If I die, I’m taking you with me!” He panicked, choking and screaming for help. Suddenly, Vivian’s furious voice cut through the air. “Adrian Cole, you’re dead!” She had followed us. She scooped up a heavy stone and brought it down on the back of my head. The world exploded in a flash of pain. She kicked me off Leo, her eyes blazing with hatred. “First you hurt him, now you try to kill him? This time, I’m not holding back!” She barked orders at her bodyguards. “Get more men! And call the local media! Today, Adrian Cole’s reputation dies with him!” Ignoring the blinding pain in my head, I tried to crawl away, but I was no match for them. They dragged me back and forced me to my knees in front of Vivian and Leo. She fussed over Leo, carefully wiping dust from his suit with a sanitized cloth, refusing to even look at me. “Don’t worry, darling,” she cooed. “I’ll make him pay.” Leo clutched her hand. “I don’t blame him. As long as I’m with you, I can endure anything.” I spat at him in disgust. “How many women have you pulled that routine on? How many other fiancées does Vivian have to compete with?” I’d seen him at her office before, getting cozy with other women. I never thought he and Vivian were actually involved. My words hit their mark. Leo’s face turned red with fury. “Vivian, he’s humiliating me! I can’t live like this!” He made a show of running towards a wall, only to be “saved” by Vivian at the last second. Her eyes were burning. “It seems I’ve been too lenient with you. You’ll spend the rest of your life in this hellhole. Men! Break his arms and legs.” I thrashed in their grip, roaring, “You’ll pay for this, Vivian! As long as I’m breathing, I will never let you get away with this!” She just laughed. “Oh, I’m waiting. I remember you have that old college friend, the one who’s been single all these years, waiting for you. I wonder how she’ll react when she sees you as a crippled, broken mess. The handsome, popular boy from campus will be nothing but a pathetic joke.” I couldn’t believe it. She was going to destroy me, all for him. I felt the bones in my limbs snap. The physical agony was nothing compared to the pain in my heart. Seven years of memories, once so sweet, now tasted like ash. I lay on the ground, a useless heap, my eyes locked on hers, burning with a hatred I never knew I possessed. She stood over me, her arm linked through Leo’s, looking down at my broken form with cold satisfaction. The thugs closed in, their stench and their cruel, hungry eyes making me want to vomit. I trembled with fear, which only seemed to excite them more. Leo leaned close to Vivian. “Don’t look, my love. I don’t want you to be frightened.” “I’ll watch,” she said, her voice soft. “I’ll watch him get everything he deserves. He could never compare to your kindness and purity.” I had nothing left. I was completely and utterly alone. With my last ounce of will, I writhed on the ground like an insect, trying to escape their blows. They backed me into a corner. There was nowhere left to run. As they moved in for the kill, I closed my eyes. I’d rather die than suffer this humiliation. I was about to bite down on my own tongue when the piercing wail of sirens cut through the air. A convoy of police cars screeched to a halt, surrounding the compound. In the middle was a gleaming black Rolls-Royce with the license plate 8888—a symbol of unimaginable wealth and power. The door opened, and the man who stepped out was my father.

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