1 On Thanksgiving Day, I got a call from a fertility clinic. They were congratulating my wife. “Sir, the surrogacy for your and your wife’s second son was a complete success. Our advanced medical technology ensured your wife experienced none of the pain of childbirth.” I froze. We didn’t even have a first child. Where did a second son come from? I called my wife, Isabella, a renowned pediatrician, and demanded an explanation. She just laughed it off, suggesting some adoring patient’s parent must have listed her number as an emergency contact. I looked at the Thanksgiving feast I had painstakingly prepared for her, a table groaning with food. In a single, furious motion, I swept it all onto the floor. Then, I dialed my sister at the DOJ. “Fiona, Isabella has a secret child. And not just one.” “Get the divorce papers ready. I want her out of my hospital.” … What a Thanksgiving. Isabella had certainly given me one hell of a surprise. I grabbed my car keys and sped to the hospital. “Get Isabella Felton out here. I need to see her.” The receptionist barely glanced up. “Dr. Felton is with a patient. She’s not available.” “I’m her husband. It’s an emergency.” The young nurse looked at me like I was insane. “Sir, please don’t joke around. Dr. Felton’ husband is upstairs with their newborn. You should probably leave.” For the sake of Isabella’s pathetic pride, I had never publicly revealed my connection to the hospital. The entire staff knew Dr. Felton as a brilliant young physician, a rising star favored by the director. No one knew that I was the one who actually owned the place. And now, in my own hospital, she was celebrating a new baby with another man. Advanced medical technology? Bullshit. It was surrogacy, plain and simple. Just as the nurse finished speaking, a man emerged from the maternity ward, cradling a newborn. A swarm of nurses immediately surrounded him. “Jim, you’re up already! Taking the baby for his shots? You should have just called one of us.” “You’re so lucky. First, you and Dr. Felton are always so disgustingly sweet, and now you have a beautiful baby boy.” I pushed through the small crowd, my feet heavy as I walked toward them. It was only then, when I was standing right in front of him, that I saw the man’s face. It was my cousin, Jim. The one I’d brought here from some backwater town. His parents had begged me, said he couldn’t find a job after graduation and wanted to try his luck in the city. My heart softened. I not only let him live in the house I shared with Isabella, but I also gave him a job at the hospital, figuring with my wife looking out for him, he might actually make something of himself. I never imagined he’d be the one sleeping with my wife. That they’d have children together. Two of them! No wonder he’d insisted on moving out after a few months, claiming he didn’t want to be in our way. It wasn’t about giving us space; it was about making it easier to carry on their affair! How dare they? The moment Jim saw me, the color drained from his face. The hands holding the baby began to tremble. “Ethan… what are you doing here?” 2 Jim frantically pulled me aside, his voice a panicked whisper. “Ethan, please, can you just go home for now? There are too many people here.” “It’s not what you think. Nothing is going on between me and Isabella, I swear. This baby isn’t hers. Please, don’t make a scene. Let me explain later, okay?” Explain? We were far beyond the point of explanations. I shoved his hand off me and stormed past him. White-hot rage was pounding in my skull. All I wanted was to drag Isabella out and demand to know what the hell was going on. CRACK. I kicked the office door open. The room was empty. Jim rushed in behind me, still holding the baby. “Ethan, calm down! She’s still in surgery. Whatever it is, can we please just talk about it at home?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Which home is that, Jim? The one you lived in for six months while you were sleeping with my wife and cooking up a surrogate baby?” Just then, a little girl ran out from a connecting break room and hugged Jim’s leg. “Daddy, Mommy went to do surgery. Why isn’t she back yet? She promised she’d take me to the amusement park today!” My gaze dropped to the little girl. So, all those late-night “emergency surgeries” Isabella had… she was spending them with her other family. A family with a child old enough to talk. On the wall hung a framed family portrait. In it, Isabella was holding the same little girl, a gentle, maternal smile on her face. Standing beside her was Jim. A perfect, happy family of three. And now, a family of four. All this time, they had been living this life right under my nose, without a shred of guilt. The absurdity of it all made me want to laugh. I pulled out my phone and made a call. “I want every piece of dirt on Isabella Felton’s affair. And paternity tests for those two kids. I want every detail. Money is no object.” My voice was ice. “I want her to leave this marriage with nothing.” Jim heard me, his face twisting in desperation. “Ethan, you can’t! You’ll ruin her! She worked so hard to get where she is. How can you be so cruel?” I nearly choked on his audacity. “Jim, who the hell do you think you are to stand there and question me?” His eyes darted around nervously. He took a few steps closer, his entire demeanor softening into a pathetic plea. “Ethan, I’m begging you. Just go home. This has to be a misunderstanding. Don’t let everyone here see you make a fool of yourself.” He was too close, reaching for my arm. I sidestepped, repulsed by the thought of his touch. And in that instant, Jim suddenly staggered backward, and the baby in his arms went flying. “AH! My baby!” he screamed, scrambling on the floor toward the crying infant. He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Ethan, how could you be so heartless?! Just because I wouldn’t give you my wife, now you’re trying to kill my child?” The nurses rushed in, followed by doctors and patients’ families who had heard the commotion. “Is he crazy? Attacking a newborn? Someone call security! Call the police!” The little girl burst into tears, screaming, “You’re a bad man! You hurt my daddy! You tried to kill my brother!” Just then, a familiar voice cut through the chaos. “What is going on here?” The moment Jim saw her, he scrambled to his feet. “Isabella! Thank God! If you hadn’t come, he would have killed us!” Isabella rushed forward, scooping the baby into her arms. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed. “Let’s just talk about this calmly.” Then she looked up and saw me. The color drained from her face. Jim seized the moment. “Isabella, save our baby! Ethan’s gone mad! He tried to kill our son!” Isabella’s head snapped toward me. She stormed over and kicked me, sending me sprawling to the floor. “Ethan, who gave you the nerve to harm my son?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “This is a hospital, not your personal playground!” She leaned down, her face a mask of fury. “Or do you not care about your mother anymore? The one rotting away in the ICU? Because I can have her dragged out here for you to see.” 3 She dared to threaten me with my own mother? My mom had a massive stroke three years ago and had been in a coma ever since. For three years, every time I came to visit her, Isabella insisted on keeping her distance, claiming it was to “avoid conflicts of interest.” Was it to avoid conflicts of interest, or to keep her disgusting affair with Jim a secret? She had played her part so well. No wonder she was always rushing me out, assuring me Mom was stable and I had nothing to worry about. “Isabella,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Who gave you the nerve to lay a hand on me?” Her expression flickered. She turned to the gawking crowd. “I apologize for the scene. This is my husband’s cousin, Ethan. He’s been under a lot of stress… his mental state is not very stable. He often has… delusions.” With just a few words, she branded me a lunatic. I pushed myself to my feet, and started walking toward her, one slow step at a time. Jim flinched, shrinking behind her. “Stay away! Isabella, I think he’s really lost it…” Isabella stood her ground, shielding Jim. “Ethan! What more do you want?” “Isabella.” I stopped in front of her. “What was that you just said? That I’m mentally unstable? That I have delusions?” She must have thought I was about to back down. Her expression softened slightly. “Ethan, I know you’re not thinking clearly, but you hurt my son…” The sharp crack of my hand across her face cut her off. Before she could recover, I drove my foot into her knee. She crumpled to the floor. “You ungrateful, backstabbing bitch!” The room exploded into chaos. Humiliated, Isabella’s face twisted with rage. “Have you lost your mind, Ethan?! My husband is sleep-deprived from taking care of our child, and you’re here causing trouble!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Do you want your mother to die?” I met her glare without flinching. “Threatening me with my mother? Is that all you’ve got, Isabella?” “Fine,” she snarled, her face contorted. “You want to see what I’ve got? I’ll show you.” She whipped out her phone and dialed a number. “Bring the patient from ICU bed three to my office. Now.” That was my mother’s bed. Isabella… she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Rage, pure and blinding, consumed me. “I dare you! Isabella, if you touch my mother, you can get the hell out of this hospital!” She laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Get out? Ethan, who do you think you are?” “I own this hospital! That’s who!” 4 “Hahahahaha!” Isabella burst out laughing. “Ethan, you really have lost it. This hospital is yours? Why don’t you just say the whole world is yours?” She waved at the security guards who had just arrived. “Get this lunatic out of here!” “If he resists, tie him up and send him to the psych ward. Put all the expenses on my account. Consider it a final act of charity from his loving sister-in-law.” The guards started to close in on me. I fixed them with a cold stare. “You might want to think very carefully about the consequences of touching me.” My intensity gave them pause, but Isabella grew impatient. “What are you waiting for? He’s one crazy person! Are you scared of him? If anything happens, I’ll take full responsibility!” Just as a guard’s hand was about to grab my arm, a voice boomed from the end of the hall. “Everyone, stop!” It was Director Evans, the man I had personally promoted from deputy. The man I had specifically told to take good care of Isabella. “Director Evans,” I said, my voice cutting through the silence. “Relay my orders.” “Effective immediately, Dr. Isabella Felton is suspended from all duties, pending an internal investigation. Furthermore, I want Jim and his two children escorted out of this hospital. Immediately.” But to my astonishment, Director Evans scurried past me and bowed respectfully to Isabella. “Madame Chairman, my sincerest apologies. I am so sorry you and your husband were disturbed.” I stared, dumbfounded. What was this? Had Evans betrayed me? Was he on Isabella’s payroll? Isabella sauntered over to me, a triumphant smirk on her face as she gestured toward the hallway, where a hospital bed was being wheeled toward us. “Still acting tough, Ethan? You wanted to kill my son? Today, I’ll show you who really has power in this hospital. I decide who lives…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And who won’t live to see the morning.” My blood ran cold as I saw the gurney approaching. “Isabella! You’re not human…” My voice was shaking uncontrollably. I tried to run to my mother, but Isabella grabbed my arm, her grip like iron. “Scared now?” she purred. “Too late.” They wheeled my mother right in front of me. An oxygen tube was taped to her nose, and the monitors beside her bed beeped a steady, fragile rhythm. At a nod from Isabella, the guards pinned me down. “Look, Ethan. Your mother is doing quite well. It would be a shame if she just… stopped breathing.” “Isabella!” I twisted my head, my eyes burning with hatred. “Put her back! Damn you, put her back right now!” She raised an eyebrow. “Whether she goes back or not… depends on you.” She lightly tapped the red handprint still visible on her cheek. “This hurts.” Then she pointed to her knee. “And this hurts, too.” “Now,” she said, her voice low and menacing, “get on your knees and apologize to my son and my husband.” Her hand moved, hovering over my mother’s oxygen tube. “Or your mother runs out of air. Right now.” I watched in horror as she pulled the tube halfway out. My mother’s face began to turn a terrifying shade of blue. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t bet my mother’s life. My knees buckled. I was about to kneel. Just then, a hand shot out from the side, firmly holding me up. “Who would dare make him kneel?”

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I was born with a peculiarity: two hearts beating inside my chest. It was the only thing about me that ever brought my parents any joy. Because my older brother, Jason, was born with a congenital heart defect. The only reason I existed was to ensure he would live. Then I met Kitty, and we got married. She rescued me from the abyss of my desperate longing for a family’s love. I thought she would be different from my parents. But when my brother’s heart began to fail, she became obsessed with the idea of me donating one of mine to him. What she didn’t know was that I only had one heart left. My other one was already inside of her. 1. “It’s just one heart, Ethan. Why are you being so selfish?” “Weren’t you born to keep your brother alive?” Kitty’s grip on my arm was like a vise. “But I want to live, too. I’ll die without a heart.” Her face tightened for a moment before she pressed on. “You have two hearts. Give one away, and you’ll still have one left. You’ll live.” “But your brother is different. Without this heart from you, he’ll die.” Ignoring my struggles, Kitty shoved me into the prep room. I tried to explain, my voice filled with a desperate helplessness. “I only have one heart now.” “You saw the test results, didn’t you?” She wouldn’t listen. “Who knows what you’ve done to get out of this? You probably bribed the lab technicians to fake the report.” She was convinced I’d paid someone off to alter the results. “No, Kitty, that’s not it. I had surgery when I was a kid. I already donated one of my hearts.” “Enough, Ethan! This is about saving your brother’s life. Why are you being so stubborn?” she snapped, cutting me off. “I’m not lying. My heart is inside you.” But she didn’t hear a word I said. She was already walking toward my brother’s prep room. 2. The other doctors in the room stared at us, momentarily stunned. Then, someone spoke up. “Picking now to whisper sweet nothings? That’s just disgusting.” “Your brother is fighting for his life, and you’re in here hitting on your sister-in-law with cheesy lines.” Only our immediate families knew Kitty and I were married. Her colleagues had never met me. And since Kitty had handled every single aspect of Jason’s hospitalization, everyone in her department assumed he was her husband. Kitty had never bothered to correct them. “Exactly. Instead of trying to save his own brother, he’s trying to seduce his wife.” “What a waste of a heart.” Their words were like daggers. I had to tell them the truth. “Actually, I’m the one who’s—” Kitty came back out and grabbed my arm again, her grip tight. “You are donating your heart today. Your brother is already in the operating room. You’re next.” She brandished a stack of papers. “I’ve already signed the consent forms. All you have to do is get on the table.” Inside the OR, I saw Jason. He looked so frail and weak that it was impossible not to feel sorry for him. “Don’t worry,” a doctor said kindly. “Your wife, Dr. Evans, will make sure you live a long, healthy life.” Jason didn’t correct him. He just offered a weak, grateful smile. “It’s all my fault,” he rasped, his voice filled with self-reproach. “Making my brother sacrifice so much for me.” He looked at me, but his eyes held a glint of triumph. The other doctors murmured in sympathy, their gazes turning on me with contempt. To them, my brother was a saint, and I was a monster. After a few reassuring words to Jason, Kitty turned to me. She ignored my frantic struggles and forced me onto the operating table. “Get the anesthesiologist in here. Now,” she ordered. A moment later, the fight went out of me. Kitty’s fingers brushed against my cheek. “Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I’ll make sure you survive this.” Her mentor had been a pioneer in heart transplantation. She was confident she could pull this off. “After your brother recovers, the whole family will finally accept you. And I’ll be right here by your side.” 3. The surgery began, a tense and focused dance of scalpels and sutures. Hours later, Kitty lifted a heart from my chest. Without a second glance, she rushed it into Jason’s operating room. My chest was a gaping wound. My body lay alone and forgotten on the cold metal table. Suddenly, the piercing shriek of the heart monitor jolted the attending physician awake. “He’s dead? I thought he had two hearts.” One of Kitty’s colleagues sounded confused. “You actually believed that story Dr. Evans told? It was just a joke.” “Serves him right,” another one muttered. “Trying to seduce Dr. Evans while her husband was dying. He got what he deserved.” “So, what do we do now?” “He’s dead. Someone will come for the body eventually. If not, the morgue will deal with it.” With that, they all left. Kitty, meanwhile, was completely absorbed in Jason’s surgery. It was her first heart transplant, but she was confident. After several grueling hours, she finished, the procedure a success. Exhausted but triumphant, she followed Jason to the recovery room. Only after he was settled did a thought of me cross her mind. As she was heading back to the OR, she ran into a colleague from the surgery. “Where’s my husband?” she asked. The colleague thought for a moment. “Isn’t he back in his room already? Don’t worry, someone’s watching him. The nurses in the department will take good care of your husband.” The odd phrasing didn’t register with Kitty. She figured her colleague was right. With her position in the hospital, the nurses would be sure to look after him. So, she went back to her office and got back to work. A day later, Jason woke up. Kitty was right there by his side. “Jason, you’re finally awake.” Seeing her, he burst into tears. 4. Kitty gently hugged him. “Don’t worry. The surgery was a success. Your heart is going to be fine now.” Jason touched his chest, overwhelmed with relief. The illness that had plagued him his entire life was finally gone. He clung to Kitty, sobbing. “You need to stay calm,” she murmured, rubbing his back soothingly. “No extreme emotions.” A nurse passing by smiled. “Dr. Evans, you take such good care of your husband.” Kitty froze. She remembered I was in another room on the same floor. “You’re mistaken,” she started to explain. “He’s not…” Jason clutched his chest, a pained expression on his face, effectively cutting her off. Kitty’s attention immediately shifted back to him. “I told you not to cry. You need to rest so you can recover.” Seeing Jason like this, so vulnerable, a memory of me surfaced in her mind. She realized she hadn’t seen me since the surgery. “Jason, you get some rest. I’m going to check on Ethan.” As she stood up to leave, Jason grabbed her hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “I had this surgery without telling my parents. This is a critical time for my recovery. I’m scared to be alone. I’m worried I won’t heal properly.” His pale face and pleading eyes made her heart soften. Besides, she thought, the doctors and nurses would be looking out for me because of her. I would be fine. “Okay,” she sighed. “I’ll stay with you for a few more days.” Jason watched her sit back down before slowly closing his eyes. Meanwhile, in the morgue, an attendant was staring at my body. “It’s been two days and no one’s come to claim him. What are we supposed to do?” Another attendant was cleaning up. “What are you looking at? Let’s just get this done so we can go home.” Together, they unceremoniously shoved my body into a black bag. “Look at him. Died a pretty nasty death. Probably wasn’t a good person.” “Good, bad… they all look the same after cremation.” “True. Still a shame, though. So young.” 5. Two more days passed. Jason’s recovery was going well, and Kitty finally decided it was time to check on me. She walked into my room and found it empty. A nurse was stripping the bed. “Where’s the patient from this room?” The nurse looked up. “Oh, Dr. Evans. He was discharged.” A flicker of annoyance went through Kitty. I’d just had major surgery. What was I thinking, leaving the hospital instead of resting? She pulled out her phone and dialed my number. It went straight to voicemail. “Fine,” she muttered, her anger rising. “Go ahead and die out there for all I care.” She stormed back to Jason’s room. He immediately noticed her foul mood. “Is Ethan still angry? He won’t forgive you?” he asked, his voice full of concern. “It’s all my fault. I’ll go talk to him right now. I don’t want you two fighting because of me.” He made a show of trying to get out of bed, and Kitty rushed to stop him. “Don’t worry about him. You need to focus on getting better. That way, when Mom and Dad find out the good news on the day you’re discharged, they’ll be overjoyed.” “As for Ethan,” she added dismissively, “he’s not going to die. He’s already been discharged.” She remembered how I had begged her before the surgery, and a feeling of resentment bubbled up inside her. We were brothers. Why was I so unwilling to save him? And seeing Jason, always so considerate of me, only made my selfishness seem worse. Fine, she thought. If I was going to be so stubborn, then I could have some time to cool off on my own. It wouldn’t be too late to bring me back for Jason’s discharge party. Later, in the doctor’s lounge, her colleagues were laughing and joking around. The moment she walked in, they all fell silent. Kitty found it strange. “What were you all talking about?” 6. No one said a word. After a long, awkward pause, a colleague put her arm around Kitty’s shoulders. “What else? About how devoted you and your husband are to each other, of course.” Kitty thought about how I’d been forced to give up one of my hearts for her. She supposed, in a way, that did show how much I loved her. Even if I had been coerced, I had still helped her save a life. With that thought, she forgave my sudden disappearance. But the fact that I wasn’t answering her calls still infuriated her. Her colleague noticed her troubled expression. “Is your husband in a bad mood?” Kitty didn’t answer. “He just had surgery. It’s normal for him to be a little down,” the colleague continued. “Just be patient with him. Do something to cheer him up.” Kitty’s frown slowly smoothed out. She remembered how much I loved the pastries from the bakery near our apartment. She decided she’d go home after her shift. Carrying a box of pastries, she walked into our apartment. “Honey? I bought your favorite pastries.” Silence. As she set the box down, her eyes fell on the divorce papers I had left on the table a week ago. The moment she had told me to donate my heart, I had decided to leave her. Kitty stared at the papers in disbelief. Seriously? she thought. All this over one heart? How dare I try to divorce her over this? Furious, she threw the box of pastries into the trash. “If you don’t want this home, then don’t ever come back!” Just then, her phone rang. “Kitty? Where has Ethan been lately?” It was my father. He rarely called, and even more rarely asked about me. His world revolved around Jason. An idea formed in Kitty’s mind. My parents were the only ones who could get me to show my face. And Jason was almost fully recovered. So, she told my father about the surgery. 7. My parents rushed to the hospital that night. The moment Jason saw them, he burst into tears. The three of them clung to each other, a tableau of relieved grief. After a while, my parents asked about me. “Where’s your brother? He’s in the same department. He should be here to see you.” Jason hesitated. “He’s already been discharged.” My mother held Jason close. “Discharged? He certainly recovered quickly. Leaving the hospital just a few days after surgery. He’s probably going to get himself killed out there.” My father shot her a warning look. “Don’t say that. Even though Jason has a new heart, there’s no guarantee there won’t be complications. If Ethan dies, what will happen to Jason?” My mother quickly covered her mouth. “You’re right, you’re right. If anyone’s going to die, it should be after Jason is completely safe.” She turned to Jason, her voice full of love. “Don’t worry, darling. Your father and I will always protect you.” A warmth spread through Jason’s chest. The next day, Kitty walked into the room to find this idyllic family scene. For some reason, it bothered her. She had never seen my parents look at me with such affection. “Kitty, you’re here! We can’t thank you enough for saving Jason’s heart.” They were so grateful to her, but they didn’t mention my name once. Kitty asked if they had heard from me. The question immediately soured their mood. “Why are you worried about him? He’s been discharged, so he must be fine. You should be focused on Jason. Jason has always been so fragile, while Ethan has always been as strong as an ox.” My parents had always wanted to set Jason up with Kitty. They’d only held back because of his heart condition. Now, with me out of the picture, the path was clear for them. Before Kitty could say anything, a colleague walked in. “Dr. Evans, you take such good care of your husband. You’re here every day.” My parents beamed, assuming their wish was already coming true. A faint blush colored Jason’s cheeks. But Kitty’s face darkened with anger. “Who told you he was my husband?” 8. The colleague, oblivious to Kitty’s fury, just laughed. “Everyone in the department knows. Don’t be so modest.” She quickly left to attend to her other duties. My parents took Kitty’s hands. “Kitty, since Ethan isn’t here, and everyone already thinks Jason is your husband, it will ensure he gets better care.” Kitty saw the hurt expression on Jason’s face and swallowed her anger. Back in her office, before she could find her colleague to set the record straight, she was told her old mentor had arrived. She rushed to the director’s office. The moment she saw Dr. Peterson, she threw her arms around him. “Dr. Peterson! It’s been so long. How have you been?” He smiled, looking her over. “I heard you performed a heart transplant. The student has surpassed the master.” He reminisced about the surgery he had performed on her when she was a child, marveling at how she had followed in his footsteps. Kitty froze. “What surgery are you talking about?” Dr. Peterson was taken aback. “The heart transplant, of course. The one you had when you were a little girl.” The office was silent for a moment. Then, someone burst in. “Dr. Evans, you need to come quick! The family in room 32 is fighting!” Room 32. Jason’s room. She took off running. As she burst in, she heard someone shouting. “Don’t you dare deny it! My nephew donated his heart to your daughter!” Kitty rushed forward and pulled the two women apart. One of them was her mother, who looked at her with tear-filled, guilty eyes. The other woman, when she saw Kitty, started shouting again. “It was you! My nephew Ethan’s heart is inside you!” Kitty stared at her, her mind reeling. My words came rushing back to her. My heart is inside you.

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I got crucified online by the new intern. She claimed the company was forcing us to give up our vacation time for a team-building retreat. No one wants to fly to some remote island to play happy families with their coworkers. What the internet didn’t know was that our company’s “team-building tradition” was a bit different. Every year, I book an entire five-star resort, all expenses paid. Employees can bring a plus-one. On top of that, everyone gets three extra days of paid time off. The budget is five thousand dollars per person. But now, the entire internet was calling me a cold-blooded capitalist. So, I decided to grant their wish. I sent out a company-wide notice. “In response to employee feedback and to respect everyone’s personal time, this year’s corporate retreat is canceled. In its place, a $100 travel voucher will be issued to each employee.” The moment the announcement dropped, my company imploded. The veteran employees mobbed my office, begging me to bring back the sun and sand of the Maldives. 1 I had just finalized this year’s retreat plans with Catherine, my Director of Administration. “So this is the one, Arthur? A six-star private island in the Maldives, all-inclusive.” Catherine’s voice buzzed with excitement. I nodded, a sense of deep satisfaction washing over me. Years ago, crammed into a grimy little office not much bigger than a closet, I made a promise to my founding team: “One day, I’m going to take all of you to the most beautiful place in the world to celebrate our success.” I never forgot that promise. “The budget is five thousand per head,” I told Catherine. “Not a single cent is to be spared. And make sure everyone knows they get three additional days of paid time off. Emphasize paid.” Catherine grinned as she closed her tablet. “The company group chat is going to explode when they see this.” She was right. The moment the announcement went live in the 400-person group chat, it was flooded with a tidal wave of cheering emojis. Dave, one of our lead engineers, posted a photo of his family. “This is amazing! I promised my daughter we’d see sea turtles this year. Now we can!” A newlywed couple from the marketing department was already debating if they should use the trip as a belated honeymoon. The entire company was buzzing with a holiday-like joy. I watched the endless stream of thank-you messages scroll across my phone screen, a warmth spreading through my chest. Then, a discordant note cut through the harmony. It was the new intern, Zoe. She dropped a link to an influencer’s viral video ranting about pointless corporate retreats, followed by a breezy comment: “Seriously? In this day and age, companies are still doing mandatory fun? I’d rather just chill at home.” The vibrant chat went dead silent. Mark, her department head, quickly tried to smooth things over. “Zoe’s new, she doesn’t know the deal yet. Our company retreat is a top-tier perk. You’d be losing out big time if you skipped it.” Another colleague added a passive-aggressive jab, “Yeah, some people would kill for an opportunity like this.” Zoe’s reply was instant: an eye-roll emoji. “Nah, I’m good. Not interested in wasting my life faking it with coworkers I barely know.” “If the boss really has this much money to burn,” she continued, “he should just give us the cash instead. It’s more practical.” Her words sucked all the remaining air out of the room. A few of the senior employees who had been celebrating moments before quietly retracted their messages. I even saw a couple of anonymous avatars give Zoe’s comment a “like,” only to quickly undo it seconds later. That afternoon, there was a knock on my office door. It was Zoe. She sauntered in wearing trendy slides, sipping a bubble tea, showing zero of the usual intern-in-the-CEO’s-office nervousness. “Got a minute, Arthur?” She jutted her chin out and plopped herself down on the sofa opposite my desk. “I think this whole company retreat thing is… outdated. My generation, we’re all about work-life separation. You’re spending all this money to force us together and make us put on fake smiles. It’s exhausting.” She looked at me, her expression radiating a kind of defiant righteousness. “It’s a form of emotional labor, you know? It would be so much better for everyone if you just paid us out.” I stared at her, at this intern who seemed to think she was here to teach me how to run my own company. The absurdity of it was almost comical. “The company retreat,” I said, my voice level, “is a trip to honor our top performers. It’s a form of collective recognition, not a benefit to be haggled over like you’re at a flea market.” Zoe pouted. “Fine, whatever. Forget I said anything.” She stood up and headed for the door, muttering just loud enough for me to hear, “So preachy. So lame.” As the workday was ending, I saw Gary, a resident schemer who’d been with the company for years, huddle with a few younger employees around Zoe’s desk. Gary’s face was plastered with a sycophantic grin. “Zoe, that idea of yours? We’re all behind you! You said what we were all thinking! Don’t worry, if anything happens, I’ve got your back.” Zoe’s eyebrow arched in triumph. “Don’t worry, Gary,” she whispered. “Watch this.” I watched as she took out her phone. She snapped a picture of her computer screen, then flipped the camera to selfie mode. Her expression instantly shifted to one of pure, soul-crushing misery. She even added a grim, gray filter. Her lips moved, silently mouthing the words, “Help me!” A knot of dread tightened in my stomach. Later that evening, after I’d gotten home, a video notification popped up on my phone. The title was written in a dramatic, clickbait font: “As an intern, my boss is forcing me to go on a $5k company retreat. You can have my ‘perk’.” The thumbnail was Zoe’s face, etched with the anguish of a hostage. My heart sank. I clicked play. The video opened with a sleek promotional clip of the six-star Maldivian resort, but Zoe had drained it of all color, setting it to a mournful piano track. Text appeared on the screen: “The pipe dream my boss is selling. Looks nice, doesn’t it?” The scene cut to her desk at the office, with a tight zoom on a generic spreadsheet. “Too bad I’m just a wage slave who wants to go home in peace.” Then, a close-up of her, eyes glistening as if on the verge of tears. “They told me I have to give up my precious personal weekend for a massive corporate performance… Thanks, I hate it.” She had cleverly twisted the “three extra days of paid leave” into “stealing my weekend.” For the finale, she stared directly into the camera, her voice a pained whisper. “I don’t want the Maldives. I just want to sleep in on a Sunday. If this is a perk, someone else can have it.” The comment section, predictably, had erupted. “Gen Z is here to fix the workplace! Drop the company name, we’ll help you burn it down!” “I hate bosses like this. It’s pure self-indulgence! My job is to work, not to be your mandatory friend.” “You’re speaking my language. As an introvert, company retreats are my personal hell. Just give us back our time!” My hands felt ice-cold. Three days of paid vacation had become “stealing my precious weekend.” A five-thousand-dollar luxury reward had become “hostage-taking.” The next morning, the office air was thick with tension. Several employees were clustered around Zoe’s desk. They were saying things like, “That was so bold of you,” but their faces were alight with the thrill of watching a good train wreck. Gary, the old-timer, took it a step further. He walked right up to her and led her toward my office. The moment he stepped inside, he started with a fake, placating tone. “Arthur, please don’t be angry. What Zoe did… well, the method was extreme, but she really did voice what a lot of the younger staff are feeling. Maybe you should… you know, listen to the people?” Zoe stood beside him, arms crossed, a smug, untouchable look on her face. She shook her phone at me. “See, Arthur? This is the will of the people. This is the future.” “The company’s traditions and policies will not be changed by anyone’s baseless tantrums,” I said, my voice flat. Zoe scoffed. “Traditions? Traditions are meant to be broken. If you don’t find a way to give the people what they want, I can’t guarantee this won’t be trending nationally tomorrow.” Just as the words left her mouth, my assistant burst in, her face pale. “Arthur, it’s bad. Zoe’s video… it’s a top trending topic!” I refreshed my phone. She was right. But what truly chilled me to the bone were several anonymous comments under the video whose IP addresses originated from our office building. “Yeah, right. ‘Luxury trip.’ Last year’s hotel was smaller than my bathroom at home.” “A perk? It’s just another empty promise. The budget is supposedly $5k, but I’d be surprised if they spent even five hundred on that dump.” The blatant lies made my head spin. They wanted the lavish company perks, but they also wanted to push an intern out front to take all the risks, hoping that if they made enough noise, the trip would be converted into cash. This calculated, greedy selfishness shattered years of my goodwill. I looked at the two triumphant figures before me and suddenly felt that everything was meaningless. Overnight, my company had gone from the gold standard—the one everyone envied—to a “toxic sweatshop” being dragged through the mud online. The company’s name, my photo—it had all been doxed. My phone was vibrating incessantly on my desk, a flood of abusive messages and harassing calls pouring in. “You soulless capitalist, I hope your company goes bankrupt tomorrow!” “Trash company that exploits its employees. Already reported you to the Department of Labor!” My head of PR, his eyes shadowed with dark circles, handed me an emergency response plan. His voice was hoarse. “Arthur, we have to issue a statement. Right now. We need to draft an official release and lay out all the facts.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I looked at him. “If we issue a statement now, the internet won’t see it as a calm explanation. They’ll see it as a guilty-conscience defense and a way of flaunting wealth. It will only pour gasoline on the fire.” My PR manager stared, his mouth opening and closing, but no words came out. When a flood of emotion drowns out all reason, facts don’t stand a chance. I was wrong. I thought if I treated people with sincerity, some would choose to believe in the truth. But as I refreshed the trending video, a new anonymous comment, buoyed by thousands of likes, shot to the top. The familiar tone made me almost certain it also came from within my company. “Stop defending them. I work here. The so-called ‘paid leave’ is a scam—they make you use your own precious vacation days! If you refuse, your manager makes your life hell. We’re all just too scared to speak up!” I stared at that comment, a buzzing sound filling my ears. It wasn’t anger anymore. It was a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. A feeling of profound disgust. I could practically picture the person typing those words—maybe even one of the old-timers who had thanked me just last week. That single comment was the final stone that crushed the last vestiges of hope within me. It twisted the company’s one act of genuine kindness into a malicious conspiracy. Below it, countless others claiming to be “internal employees” chimed in with their agreement. My mind flashed back to the early days, when we celebrated our first profitable quarter at a cheap barbecue joint. Everyone’s smile was genuine then. I knew, in my heart, that I had never short-changed any of the people who had fought alongside me. And in the end, this was my reward: a stab in the back from all sides. They comfortably enjoyed my generosity, yet for the vague promise of a cash payout, they didn’t hesitate to drive a knife into me. All this time, the respectable, caring company culture I had worked so hard to build was nothing more than a self-congratulatory joke. The PR manager was still anxiously prodding me. “Arthur, if we don’t say something, our partners and investors are going to start calling!” I waved a tired hand, pushing his proposal aside. “It’s not necessary.” My voice was terrifyingly calm. “Prepare a new announcement.” I rose from my chair and walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window. Down below, several news vans were already parked, vultures waiting for the kill. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I hadn’t lost to Zoe. I had lost to my own foolish trust. From this day forward, I, Arthur Shaw, am just a businessman. And businessmen talk profit, not feelings. I picked up my phone and buzzed my assistant. “Notify all employees. There will be an all-hands meeting tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp in the main conference room. The agenda is the final optimization of this year’s team-building plan.” On the other end, my assistant’s voice was hesitant. “Arthur… are you going to… give in to them?” “No.” I looked down at the media circling below, my voice hard as steel. “It’s time they paid for their own greed.”

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I was reborn. I woke up in the body of my twenty-year-old self. Right at this moment, my sister, Lily—no blood relation to me—was in the middle of a screaming match with her obscenely wealthy boyfriend, Dylan Harris. The reason was laughably trivial. She didn’t want to have children, claiming that any man who asked her to was a man who didn’t truly love her. In my last life, I watched her throw away a fortune that others could only dream of. That same night, Dylan, drunk and disoriented, stumbled into the wrong room. My room. I shoved him away in a panic. I spent the rest of that life being stupid and poor. This time, I looked at my own plain, unremarkable face in the mirror, and I smiled. I knew my chance had come—the chance to pick up the scraps Lily discarded and turn them into a life of unimaginable luxury. 1. The Ashford family’s villa was ablaze with light. I walked out of the kitchen with a platter of sliced fruit, just in time to hear Lily’s shrill voice cut through the living room’s opulent calm. “Dylan, I told you, I don’t want to have kids! Who the hell is your mother to pressure me? Is that all you see me as, too? Some kind of baby machine?” Beneath the crystal chandelier, the line of Dylan’s jaw was hard as granite. He pinched the bridge of his nose, refusing to look at her. “Lily, my mother was just making a casual comment. We’re not even married yet.” “Not yet, but what about later? Can you promise me your family isn’t just after my womb to pop out an heir?” Lily pressed on, her exquisitely made-up face flushed with anger. I lowered my eyes, placing the fruit platter silently on the coffee table, trying to make myself invisible. I was the Ashfords’ ward, Elara. A shadow they kept in the house, never meant for the spotlight. In my last life, this exact argument was the catalyst. Lily stormed off on a flight to Europe, and Dylan drank himself into a stupor at a bar. He was supposed to stay in the guest room the Ashfords had prepared for him, but he got the doors mixed up and found his way into mine instead. In the darkness, I smelled the sharp scent of alcohol on him. Then, with all my strength, I pushed him away and fled. I’d clung to my ridiculous pride and, in return, got an even more difficult existence in the Ashford house, followed by a lifetime of struggling at the bottom. This time, I wouldn’t push him away. The fight in the living room raged on. “Dylan, if you don’t give me a straight answer right now, we’re through!” “Lily, don’t be unreasonable.” “I’m being unreasonable?” Lily’s eyes filled with tears. “Fine. Then we’re through!” She snatched her Hermès bag from the sofa and stormed out of the villa without a backward glance. The sharp clack-clack-clack of her heels on the marble floor was a drumbeat against my heart. Dylan remained on the sofa, motionless. After a long while, he picked up his car keys from the table and left. I knew where he was going. Obsidian, the most extravagant nightclub in the city. I retreated to my own cramped, gloomy room in the attic, shedding the drab gray dress of a housemaid for the only decent piece of clothing I owned: a simple white dress. Then, I waited. At midnight, my phone rang. It was Hanson, the family butler, his voice laced with anxiety. “Miss Elara, Mr. Harris is intoxicated and insists on coming back to the villa. Could you please open the main gate? We need to get him to the guest room.” “Of course, Mr. Hanson.” I hung up, my heart pounding against my ribs like a war drum. This was it. I didn’t go to the main gate. Instead, I went straight to the second-floor guest room, the one directly across the hall from my attic stairs. I left the door to the guest room slightly ajar. Then I returned to my own room and did the same, leaving a small crack. Half an hour later, I heard the sound of a car engine below, followed by the heavy, shuffling footsteps of men helping someone up the stairs. The footsteps stopped right outside the guest room. “Mr. Harris, we’re here. You can rest inside.” The door was pushed open, then closed. I held my breath, my eyes glued to that closed door. One minute. Two minutes. Ten minutes. The guest room door was suddenly yanked open. Dylan’s tall frame filled the doorway. He was unsteady on his feet, his eyes glazed over. He was clearly very drunk. He seemed to be looking for something, stumbling as he moved, yet his path was taking him step by step toward my room. My heart leaped into my throat. In my last life, this is exactly what happened. He mistook my room for the master suite where he and Lily had spent so many nights together. He pushed open my door. The heavy smell of alcohol washed over me. This time, I didn’t scream. I didn’t back away. I just stood there, watching him. He mistook me for Lily, murmuring her name. “Lily…” A scorching hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me into a searing embrace. The world tilted on its axis. He pressed me down onto the small, single bed. This time, I didn’t push him away. Instead, I lifted my arms and gently wrapped them around his neck. Rather than struggle in the mud my whole life, I would use every chip I had—even my own body—to claw my way out. 2. The next morning, sunlight streamed through the crack in the window. I woke up first. The man beside me was still asleep, his brow furrowed, his handsome face etched with the fatigue of a hangover. I slipped out of bed silently, dressed, and then sat in the chair by the bedside, waiting for him to wake. Waiting for my sentence. About half an hour later, Dylan’s eyelashes fluttered. He slowly opened his eyes. His expression shifted from foggy confusion, to shock upon seeing me, to utter disbelief as he took in the unfamiliar, shabby room. Finally, his gaze landed on me, sharp and filled with an icy rage. “You?” His voice was hoarse, laced with danger. I met his gaze without flinching, my expression calm. “Mr. Harris, you were drunk last night.” He shot up, the blanket sliding off his torso, revealing a lean, muscular chest. His eyes fell on the damning crimson stain on the sheets, and his face grew even darker. He got out of bed and began to dress, his movements sharp with frustrated anger. He didn’t say a single word. The air in the room was so thick with tension it felt hard to breathe. Once dressed, he pulled a black card from his wallet and tossed it onto my small desk. “The PIN is six zeroes.” His tone was glacial. “Forget what happened last night.” With that, he opened the door and left without looking back. I stared at the black card on the desk, not moving to pick it up. I knew this was only the beginning. I walked to the window and watched Dylan’s car speed away, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. It wasn’t long before my door was kicked open. Lily burst in, her eyes red-rimmed and wild, clearly having been up all night. Her gaze immediately locked onto the black card on my desk, then to the faint, tell-tale marks on my neck that I hadn’t been able to hide. Comprehension dawned, and she let out a piercing scream. “Elara! You little bitch! How dare you seduce Dylan!” She lunged at me, her hand raised to strike. I didn’t move. I knew I had to take this slap. CRACK. The sound echoed in the small room. My face stung, burning hot. “How could you? How could you!” Lily was hysterical, grabbing my hair and trying to drag me to the floor. I let her pull at me, my own gaze unnervingly calm. “Sister,” I said, my voice quiet but clear enough for her to hear. “You were the one who didn’t want him.” Those words were the spark that ignited the bonfire of her fury. Lily froze. She stared at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What did you say?” “I said, you were the one who didn’t want Mr. Harris,” I repeated, enunciating every word. “You pushed him away, didn’t you?” “Who the hell do you think you are? You think you have the right to pick up my sloppy seconds?” she shrieked, raising her hand again. This time, her wrist was caught in a firm grip. Hanson, the butler, was standing in the doorway, several other maids behind him. They had seen everything. “Miss Lily, your father and mother have asked to see you downstairs,” Hanson said, his voice grave. Lily wrenched her hand free, shooting me a look of pure hatred. “Elara, just you wait!” She stormed downstairs. I smoothed my rumpled clothes and hair, then picked up the black card from the desk and slipped it into my pocket. Then, I followed her down. My nest egg. The first real money I’d ever had. 3. In the Ashford’s living room, Mr. and Mrs. Ashford sat on the sofa, their faces grim. Lily stood before them, tears streaming down her face. “Dad, Mom, you have to do something! That slut Elara… she climbed into Dylan’s bed!” I descended the staircase and stood in the center of the room. All eyes were on me—scorn, fury, a hint of morbid curiosity. Mr. Ashford slammed his hand on the table and pointed at me. “Elara! You have the nerve to show your face? We raised you for all these years, and this is how you repay us?” “I did nothing wrong,” I answered calmly. “You dare to deny it?” Mrs. Ashford shrieked. “Lily saw it! The card Dylan gave you! You shameless little tramp!” I took the black card from my pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “This card was compensation from Mr. Harris.” “Compensation?” Lily sneered. “What a nice way of putting it. It’s the money you earned for selling yourself, isn’t it?” I lifted my eyes to meet hers. “Sister, if you hadn’t broken up with Mr. Harris, would he have been drunk last night? If you hadn’t stormed out on him, would he have even come here?” “You…” Lily was speechless. “I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said, lowering my gaze, my voice tinged with a well-practiced vulnerability. “Mr. Harris was drunk. He thought I was you. I couldn’t fight him off.” My story was a cocktail of truth and lies. But it was enough to soften the expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Ashford. What they cared about most was their relationship with the Harris family. “That’s enough!” Mr. Ashford silenced Lily, who was about to argue further. “This matter is not to be spoken of again! Elara, go back to your room. You are not to come out without my permission!” He was putting me under house arrest. I didn’t resist. I turned obediently and went upstairs. Back in my room, I locked the door. Step one was complete. Now, all I had to do was wait for Dylan’s next move. I was confined for three days. I didn’t go anywhere, just stayed in my room and read. Lily would come to my door every day to hurl insults at me, each more vile than the last. I ignored her. I knew the more she behaved like this, the more immature she would seem to Mr. and Mrs. Ashford. On the morning of the fourth day, my phone rang. An unknown number. I answered. “Hello?” “It’s me.” Dylan. My heart skipped a beat, but my voice remained steady. “Mr. Harris. Is something wrong?” There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Did you get the money from the card?” “I did.” “Buy yourself whatever you need.” His tone was that of a benefactor bestowing charity. “Thank you, Mr. Harris.” “I’ll be there tonight.” He stated it as a fact, then hung up. I clutched the phone, letting out a long, slow breath. The fish was on the hook. That evening, I took a shower and changed back into the white dress. Mr. and Mrs. Ashford were out, and Lily had gone to a party. The villa was quiet. Around ten o’clock, Dylan’s car pulled up to the gate. I went downstairs and opened the door for him. He smelled faintly of alcohol, but he wasn’t drunk. He walked into the living room, sat on the sofa, and loosened his tie. He looked at me, his expression complicated. “Did they give you a hard time?” I shook my head and sat on the sofa opposite him. “No.” “I know Lily’s temper,” he said, almost to himself, as if explaining something. “She’s just spoiled.” I didn’t respond, just listened quietly. He didn’t seem to need an answer. After a moment of silence, he stood up and walked toward me. He loomed over me, reaching out to grip my chin. “That night… why didn’t you push me away?” I tilted my head back, looking directly into his deep, fathomless eyes. “Why would I push you away?” His fingers tightened, a sharp pain radiating through my jaw. “You know who I am.” It wasn’t a question. “I know,” I said, not looking away. “You’re Dylan Harris. The man Lily threw away.” A storm gathered in the dark depths of his eyes. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.” He let out a cold laugh and released me. He turned, as if to leave. But in the instant he turned, I wrapped my arms around him from behind. His body went rigid. “Mr. Harris,” I whispered, my cheek pressed against his broad back. “My brother is sick. He needs a lot of money for surgery.” This was the excuse I had prepared for myself, a story plausible enough to lower his guard and perhaps even stir a flicker of pity. In my past life, my brother had died a slow, painful death because we couldn’t afford his surgery. This time, I wouldn’t let that happen. Dylan’s body slowly relaxed. He didn’t turn around, nor did he push me away. “How much?” “Fifty thousand dollars.” He was silent. I could feel him weighing the options. Weighing the fifty thousand dollars against me, deciding if I was worth it. “Isn’t there money on the card?” he finally asked. “I gave the card to my parents,” I lied. “They said it was my fault and that I couldn’t keep the money.” I was painting myself as an innocent, pitiful victim, oppressed by my own family. Men, especially proud, privileged men like Dylan, were suckers for that kind of story. He finally turned to face me. He studied me, his eyes filled with a mix of scrutiny, suspicion, and a flicker of something playful. “How dutiful of you.” I lowered my gaze, saying nothing. “I can give you the fifty thousand,” he said, then paused before adding, “but on one condition.” “Name it.” “Be my mistress.” He said the words so casually, but I could see a struggle I didn’t understand churning in his eyes. I knew this was both a humiliation and an opportunity. I looked up at him and smiled. “Alright.” My swift agreement seemed to surprise him. He stared at me for a few seconds, then, without another word, scooped me into his arms and carried me up the stairs. This time, he didn’t go to the guest room. He went straight to the master suite on the third floor. The room that had been prepared to be his and Lily’s.

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1 I spent my entire month’s salary on emergency care after my mother’s stroke. When I didn’t give the money to my wealthy girlfriend instead, she was enraged—my love wasn’t blind enough. She gathered friends to discuss how to teach me a lesson. One suggested blacklisting me from my industry; another proposed cutting off my mother’s life support. Her childhood friend smirked and told her to fake marrying him to make me jealous. Amelia agreed to it all. Spitefully, she turned to him and said, “If loyalty isn’t absolute, it’s betrayal. Since his mother matters so much, let’s get a marriage license and crush him. Let’s see him gold-dig with shattered dreams.” I stood outside the private room, holding flowers, having rushed there to apologize. I heard every word. My heart felt sliced open. When we started dating, she said our backgrounds were too different—I had to pass “tests” to marry her. For seven years, I gave her everything. Yet it all meant less than a joke from the man she grew up with. As I turned to leave, a cool, unforgettable voice cut through the noise: “If you don’t want him anymore, can I have him?” … I froze, struck by lightning. My feet felt nailed to the floor. She was supposed to be overseas. What was she doing here? The room fell silent for a moment before someone tried to smooth things over. “Miss Sterling, what are you talking about? Alex is just a broke, money-grubbing loser. Do you know him?” Stella Sterling didn’t answer. Instead, Amelia’s indifferent, mocking voice filled the silence. “Of course, you can. If you can manage to pry him away.” She was confident that I was hopelessly in love with her, that I wouldn’t look at another woman. The scars I’d earned for her, the blood and tears I’d shed over the past seven years—they were all trophies she proudly displayed. But that didn’t stop her from continuing her “tests.” Or maybe the tests were just an excuse, a way to wait for me to mess up so she could shamelessly favor her childhood friend, Liam. Liam chuckled. “Don’t misunderstand, everyone. Stella only wants to get to know Alex because of me.” He shot her a playful, admonishing look, his eyes full of pride. “Stella, you really took what I said to heart. Alex did bully me once, and it’s sweet of you to want to stick up for me, but don’t do anything too drastic!” The realization dawned on the others, and they immediately started showering him with praise. “So that’s why the heiress of the Sterling family came to our little get-together right after returning to the country! It was all for you, Liam!” “You’re really something, Liam! Even a goddess like Miss Sterling is falling at your feet!” My clenched fists slowly relaxed. Right. It had been so many years. Stella probably didn’t even remember who I was. But Amelia’s composure had vanished, replaced by a tense, guarded hostility. “Miss Sterling, if you want to pursue Liam, have you asked for my permission?” The group chuckled knowingly. “Amelia, we all know you two were childhood sweethearts. You’ve seen him as your future husband since you were kids. Don’t be so possessive!” No one took Stella’s words seriously. I couldn’t listen anymore. I threw the crushed bouquet into a nearby trash can and headed back to the hospital. My mom, lying in her bed, seemed to sense my presence. She struggled to open her eyes and weakly fumbled for a bank card. “Alex, honey, this is my pension. Take it and give it to Amelia as your ‘salary.’ Don’t let her be angry.” A lump formed in my throat. My mom knew I had to hand over my salary to Amelia every month as a sign of my devotion. For the sake of my happiness, she had never asked me for a cent, working well past retirement age until she collapsed from a stroke. I was a terrible son. The thought that Amelia might actually harm my mother made my blood run cold. I wiped my face and tucked the card back under her pillow. “Mom, it’s okay. We’re not right for each other. I’m going to transfer you to another hospital. We’re leaving this place.” My mom had always been proud of me and trusted my judgment. When I went back to my apartment to grab some things for the hospital stay, I found someone was already there. Amelia was tearing the place apart, packing her things into a massive suitcase that stood at her feet. Liam was leaning against the doorframe, his tone dripping with disdain. “Amelia, this is the kind of place Alex makes you live in? You deserve so much better.” I looked down. If I lived alone, I would have found a basement apartment for a hundred bucks a month. But for Amelia, I had gritted my teeth and rented this place for a thousand. She complained that the salary I handed over was too little, but she had no idea I was already running on empty. The soft click of the door opening startled them. Liam turned, a wide, malicious grin on his face. “Alex, I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t listen. You’d better apologize and beg for her forgiveness. Now.” Amelia didn’t turn around, but her packing slowed. I opened my mouth, wanting to talk things through one last time, to give our seven years a proper ending. “You’re leaving me just because I used my salary to pay for my mom’s medical bills?” She threw a shirt down and spun around, a cold sneer on her face. “You make it sound so simple! Alex, you could have given me the money first and then asked to borrow it back for your mom. But you couldn’t even give me that much trust. Maybe we should just break up!” Ever since Liam’s family went bankrupt and he started clinging to her, she had been using the word “breakup” like a punctuation mark, constantly finding fault with me. But what had I done wrong? My own salary, after passing through her hands, had somehow become a debt I owed her. My voice was hollow. “I do trust you. But when I had acute appendicitis and asked you for five hundred dollars for the surgery, you listened to Liam and used it as another ‘test.’ You made me wait for a whole day and night. I lost a part of my intestine because of you. Amelia, how can you expect me to put my mother’s life in your hands?” Amelia’s face flushed. “Don’t you dare drag Liam into this! That was an accident! Alex, it was just a few thousand dollars. One of my earrings is worth more than your entire salary. What hurt me was your attitude!” Attitude, attitude! I was so sick of hearing that word. Every time Liam’s name came up, she would twist everything around. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. I pressed my fingers to my temples and asked coldly, “So because of this, you’re determined to break up with me?” “Yes!” she snapped, certain I would back down and grovel like I always did. I just smiled, a sense of release washing over me. “Fine. Then we’re broken up.” 2 It turned out those words weren’t as hard to say as I’d imagined. Amelia’s expression froze, her eyes wide with disbelief. I pushed past her and started helping her pack. Years of doing all the housework meant my movements were swift and efficient as I folded her clothes into the suitcase. Liam sneered from the sidelines. “Alex, how could you? It’s your fault, but you’re raising your voice at Amelia. You need to be patient with your girlfriend. How do you expect to marry into a rich family with an attitude like that?” I ignored him, focusing on gathering everything that belonged to Amelia. The matching mugs, the matching slippers, the matching pajamas… As I separated each item, Amelia’s eyes grew redder and redder. When I opened a drawer and my fingers brushed against a thick stack of love letters, I paused. A sharp pain shot through my heart, a physical ache that was impossible to ignore. Seven years ago, she had fallen for me at first sight while I was working as a waiter to pay off my family’s debts. She was like a ray of sunshine in my dark life. She was sweet and beautiful, with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and dimples that appeared on her cheeks. To be with me, she had endured dozens of lashes from her parents’ whips, kneeling on the floor for three days and three nights. Even in the ICU, she had defiantly threatened to pull out her IV if they didn’t let her be with me. When she tearfully told me her parents had relented but insisted on testing me, all I felt was relief. Later, when she started showing a clear preference for Liam, I pretended not to see it. I didn’t want to believe that the bright, vibrant girl who had loved me so fiercely could have changed so much. Seeing my hesitation, a flicker of triumph crossed Amelia’s face. She snatched the letters from my hand, marched into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and tossed the letters into the flame. The fire leaped up, licking at the paper like tiny blue teeth. “Alex, you wanted to break up, right? Fine. You’re not keeping a single one of the love letters I wrote you. I was wrong about you!” The acrid smell of burning paper filled the air. The bright flames danced in my eyes. The last embers of warmth I felt for Amelia were turning to ash. I walked over to the stove. But instead of frantically trying to salvage the letters as she expected, I reached out and turned the gas up to its highest setting. My voice was ice. “Amelia, since we’re settling accounts, how about you give me back my seven years of salary?” I wanted to be magnanimous, to say I was writing it off as a bad investment, to quote some proverb about fortunes turning. But my mom’s recovery would be expensive. I had to be realistic. Amelia was trembling with rage. She slapped me across the face. “Alex, so your true colors are finally showing! I’m so glad I listened to Liam and tested you for a couple more years. Otherwise, you would have bled me dry!” Liam gave me a shove. I lost my balance and fell toward the stove. The flames instantly caught on my shirt, climbing up my chest. The searing heat made me cry out in pain. For a second, panic flashed in Amelia’s eyes. She rushed forward, trying to pat out the flames. I shoved her away and stumbled into the bathroom. “Get away from me!” The cold water extinguished the fire, cooling my burning skin and leaving an angry red patch that was already starting to blister. When I emerged, shaken, the apartment was a mess, as if it had been ransacked. A bank card lay on the table next to a note, the words pressed so hard into the paper they were almost torn through: “Alex! You told me to get lost?! Stop playing the victim. You just wanted money, right? Here, take it. But don’t you ever expect me to forgive you!” I looked down, my hand closing tightly around the card. The girl who once cried because a tiny speck of hot oil splattered on my arm while I was cooking for her was now accusing me of playing the victim. Don’t worry. I won’t forgive you either. The next morning, I went to my office to resign. Before I could say a word, my boss slapped a piece of paper against my chest and started yelling. “Alex, your mom has a minor surgery and you need to take time off? If everyone was like you, how would this company stay in business? You’re fired! And don’t even think about asking for severance. You’re lucky I’m not suing you!” Before I could process what was happening, Amelia and Liam emerged from the conference room, dressed in sharp business attire. Amelia’s eyes were full of scorn. “Alex, cat got your tongue? I can crush you with a single finger. Do you regret it now?” Liam chimed in with fake sympathy. “Alex, just stop fighting with Amelia. Apologize properly, and this will all be over.” The burn on my arm throbbed. I remembered what Amelia had said in the private room. She really was going to blacklist me. And she had moved fast. My colleagues were all watching, enjoying the show. My boss was bowing and scraping before Amelia. “Ms. Ashford, I did as you asked. I tested this Alex guy, rejected his promotion applications, and gave him the heaviest workload to build his character. Who knew he was such a lost cause? He should have been fired long ago!” A shiver ran through me, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. Amelia was the company’s mysterious chairman. No wonder… every time I was ostracized at work and wanted to quit, she would impatiently tell me I lacked perseverance, that it would reflect poorly on me in her parents’ eyes, and that I had to work harder. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. It was that she never wanted me to succeed. She enjoyed the power she had over me. I did have regrets. I regretted not seeing her for the arrogant, self-righteous person she truly was sooner. I laughed coldly. “If I had to do it all over again, I would make the same choice. Amelia, I can’t fight you, but I can stay away from you. Don’t worry, you’ll never see me again.” I turned and walked away. As soon as I stepped out of the building, a text message came in from a number I knew by heart. “You were fired? I’d like to hire you as my vice president. Annual salary of five hundred thousand. Interested?” 3 I deleted the message without a flicker of emotion. When Stella Sterling left without a word all those years ago, I had a broken leg but refused treatment, spending all my money on phone credits to call her a thousand times. Every call went straight to voicemail. Whatever her reason for contacting me now, this message, eight years too late, just made me feel sick. In the few seconds I hesitated, Amelia caught up to me, grabbing my arm. “What did you mean by that? What do you mean I’ll never see you again?” Her fingers dug into my burn, and I hissed in pain. She quickly let go, a look of surprise on her face. “It’s really hurt?” Before I could answer, a strange noise came from above. I looked up. A large billboard on the skyscraper was swaying precariously, about to fall directly onto Liam, who was strolling out of the building. Amelia’s eyes widened. Without a second’s hesitation, she shoved Liam out of the way. The next second, there was a deafening crash. The billboard slammed into her back, and she collapsed in a pool of blood. Liam was in shock, frozen to the spot. I, on the other hand, was eerily calm. I knelt down to check on her. She was still breathing. Her hand reached out and clutched the hem of my suit jacket, her face pale as she whimpered in pain. I was about to call 911 when she whispered weakly, “You care about me this much… why won’t you just apologize…?” I gave a sarcastic laugh. “I’d save a dog if it were lying here. Don’t flatter yourself.” I used to cherish her, doing all the housework, all the cooking. I was so afraid of tiring her out that I’d stay up late to finish her work reports for her. She took my devotion for granted, even making me go to business dinners in her place, where I would drink until my stomach bled. If I ever showed the slightest hesitation, it meant I didn’t love her anymore. And now, the woman I had so carefully nurtured had thrown herself in front of a falling billboard for Liam. It left a disgusting taste in my mouth, like I’d swallowed a fly. Just as I was about to dial for an ambulance, my phone rang. It was Stella. I assumed she was calling about the vice president job and declined the call. She called again. I answered, annoyed. “What?” “Alex, something’s happened to your mom. Get to the hospital, now!” Stella’s voice was dead serious on the other end. Her tone transported me back in time, to the day she had looked at me with cold eyes and said, “Alex, I see breaking one of your legs wasn’t enough. I should have sewn your mouth shut. Don’t ever come looking for me again, and don’t you dare say you love me.” A jolt went through me. Amelia, thinking my pale face was due to worry for her, whispered, “Playing hard to get…” But I ripped my jacket from her grasp and strode into the street to hail a cab, tossing her aside like a piece of luggage. Liam was there. She wouldn’t die. Behind me, Amelia stared at her empty hand, a powerful wave of panic washing over her. She struggled, pinned under the billboard, and shrieked, “Alex! How could you leave me? Come back!” She even pushed Liam’s hand away. … When I reached the hospital, my mom was already in surgery. “Someone cut your mother’s oxygen tube, causing a cerebral hemorrhage. I’m sorry, I got here too late—” Stella said, her face full of guilt. My head was spinning. My knees buckled, and I almost collapsed, but she caught me. Amelia had actually tried to kill my mother. A living, breathing human being. “Alex, she’s going to be okay,” Stella said softly, crouching down to comfort me. Time hadn’t changed her. She still had that same delicate, beautiful face, her thin lips pressed together, her amber eyes fixed on me. My senses suddenly returned. I shoved her away and stood up straight. Her fingers curled slightly. “I know you hate me. About what happened back then… I had my reasons…” My head was pounding. “Miss Sterling,” I said, my voice strained, “thank you for saving my mom. You’re a busy woman. I won’t keep you. You should go.” Her breath hitched. She saw my rejection and didn’t say another word. Time ticked by. Thankfully, my mom’s surgery was a success. Stella refused to leave the hospital room, insisting that I, as a man, wouldn’t be attentive enough to care for my mom properly. A nurse saw me trying to get her to leave and rushed over to stop me, praising her for being such a filial daughter-in-law and telling me to be nicer to my wife. Stella glanced at me, a flicker of hope in her eyes. I pretended not to see it and went to pay the bills. On my way back, I was so preoccupied with how to get rid of Stella that I wasn’t paying attention and bumped into someone. “Sorry—” I looked up and froze. 4 The person in front of me was Amelia, wrapped in bandages. She had clearly been treated. Her injuries must not have been serious if she was able to stand here, waiting for me to run into her. She was leaning on Liam, a smug look on her face. “Playing hard to get? If you’re going to pretend to be cold, at least see it through. Weren’t you just secretly coming to check on me? Alex, if you promise to do everything I say from now on, I might consider forgiving you. Where else are you going to find a girlfriend as generous as me?” She clutched the corner of her shirt and cleared her throat. “Let me ask you, if your mom and I both fell into a river, who would you save first?” I knew this was her way of offering me an olive branch. If I just said I would save her, everything would go back to the way it was. But my mom had just been pulled back from the brink of death. I was in no mood to play her games. “Amelia, why do you always have to have it out for my mom? Why did you try to kill her?” She stared at me, stunned. “What are you talking about?” A dark glint flashed in Liam’s eyes. He pointed a finger at me. “Alex, what does your mom’s stroke have to do with Amelia? Amelia got hurt, and not only are you not taking care of a her, you’re here interrogating her?” Amelia nodded, huffing coldly. “Exactly. Your mom is so old, but she’s still clinging to her son, even faking being sick to get your attention. She’s clearly not a respectable woman—” SLAP! I couldn’t control the rage that surged through me. I slapped her across the face. “Amelia, don’t you dare talk about my mother like that! The world doesn’t revolve around you. You want me to put you first, but where do I rank in your heart? This slap is a lesson. Do whatever you want to me, but leave my mother alone!” Amelia stared at me, her hand covering her reddening cheek, her voice choked. “You hit me?” Liam frowned, about to speak. Just then, Stella found me and rushed over, whispering, “Your mom’s awake!” My heart leaped. I turned to go to my mom’s room. Liam’s face lit up when he saw Stella. “Stella, how did you know I was here? Did you come looking for me?” Amelia bristled like a threatened porcupine, grabbing Stella’s arm. “Liam and I are childhood sweethearts. Stella, stop chasing after him. Haven’t you ever heard of first come, first served?” When it came to Liam, her emotions were always all over the place. Fine. Let them sort it out. Back in the hospital room, the doctor told me my mom’s condition was stable. We could arrange for a private medical flight to a better hospital tomorrow. And by some stroke of luck, I had won a discount that made the flight affordable. As I was discussing the transfer, Amelia and Liam burst in. Amelia’s face was hard as she slapped a thin invitation against my chest. “Alex, I gave you enough chances, but you refuse to see reason. Tomorrow, Liam and I are getting married. You’ll regret this for the rest of your life!” She turned and left, her posture proud. It seemed she thought her previous tactics weren’t working and was now resorting to marrying Liam to provoke me. Liam clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, I haven’t agreed to actually marry her. If you come and crash the wedding tomorrow, I’ll let you have her. What can I say? The heiress of the Sterling family is after me too. You should be glad you don’t have such sweet burdens.” When Stella entered the room, I was staring at the invitation, lost in thought. She saw my expression, turned, and quietly left. She didn’t know the real reason for my deep concentration. If they were getting married tomorrow, they wouldn’t be able to stop me from leaving with my mom. The next day, as Amelia and Liam were about to exchange rings, I was still a no-show. As if by telepathy, neither of them reached for the rings, both frowning as they scanned the crowd. The person they were waiting for hadn’t come. The atmosphere in the venue grew awkward. Suddenly, a gasp went through the guests. They all pulled out their phones, murmuring as they watched the same video. Amelia was confused until she heard a voice from one of the phones, loud enough for everyone to hear: “Alex, for your mother’s sake, can you please not refuse my help? Besides, if you really don’t love me anymore, why were you with Amelia, who looks so much like me, for seven years?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385282”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

After we got back together, I shed all the bad habits Seraphina hated. The constant check-ins, the baseless jealousy, the petty score-keeping—all gone. I was a new man. So new, in fact, that when I found a pair of lace panties that weren’t mine on the passenger seat floor, I just calmly picked them up and set them aside for her. But Seraphina’s face hardened, and she slammed on the brakes, the car lurching to a halt. 1 Seraphina Rankin was a striking woman. With her sharp, aristocratic brow and vividly beautiful features, she radiated an alpha’s intensity. But right now, pinching the bridge of her nose, she just looked exhausted. “They’re Gilderoy’s,” she said, her voice strained. “The client dinner ran late last night. He took a few drinks for me and was in no state to drive, so I gave him a ride.” She paused, forcing herself through an explanation she clearly disdained. “He got sick in the car, so he changed in here. I keep a spare set of clothes in the trunk.” She looked at me, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve told you a million times, Asher. He’s the son of a family associate. I have to look out for him. That’s it. There was never anything between us, there isn’t now, and there never will be.” My silence seemed to unnerve her. A rare crack appeared in her usual composure, a flicker of helplessness I’d never seen on her face before. “What do I have to do to make you believe me?” “I do believe you,” I said calmly. “I’m not mad.” My words landed like a fist punching a cloud. Her expression went blank for a split second. “…Then why have you been quiet this whole ride?” I glanced at my watch, mentally calculating the time to the airport. “You once said you hated pointless chatter,” I deflected. “And I’m about to be late for work. Why don’t you just drop me off at this corner?” My eyes were on the traffic, completely missing the way her face darkened. “You always get off at the next light.” Her voice was low, suspicious. “The office is still two miles from here.” I hadn’t thought of that. Trapped, I met her searching gaze. “It’s early. If you’re not going to the office, where are you going?” Just as the doubt in her eyes began to crystallize… Ding—! The custom ringtone. Gilderoy’s ringtone. Seraphina’s interrogation instantly ceased. Her eyes darted away, a tell-tale sign of guilt. “It’s a work call. I need to take this.” She immediately unlocked the doors, all suspicion of me forgotten. “You can get out here.” I nodded and quickly unbuckled my seatbelt, but she stopped me. “Don’t be so reckless. Watch the road when you’re walking.” Her voice softened, taking on a placating tone she sometimes used. “That restaurant you wanted to try? I made a reservation.” Her gaze met mine in the rearview mirror. “I promised you I would never miss another anniversary. Happy seventh, Asher. I’ll see you tonight.” My hand froze on the door handle. Last year, on our anniversary, she’d left me for Gilderoy. The memory, once a source of searing pain, now felt distant, stirring nothing within me. “You should get that,” I said softly, my voice barely a whisper. “Don’t keep him waiting.” After all, Gilderoy couldn’t be kept waiting. And neither could my flight. As for our anniversary… this year, next year, and every year after, I would be absent. 2 I made it to the airport just in time. Once seated on the plane, a wave of dizziness washed over me; I’d skipped breakfast in my rush. My hand instinctively went to my pocket, and sure enough, my fingers closed around three small chocolates. Ever since I fainted from low blood sugar once, a long time ago, Seraphina had made it a habit to slip a few pieces of chocolate into my pocket every morning. The sweetness melted on my tongue, and the dizziness began to fade. But it was quickly followed by a lingering, cloying bitterness that coated my throat. Seven years together. How had Seraphina and I ended up here? At first, I truly believed Gilderoy was just a nepotism hire she had to accommodate because of his family connections. I told myself that was why she was so strictly professional with me at work while giving him special treatment. Rhonda, a senior manager in our department, constantly made my life hell with no consequences. But the moment she was slightly rude to Gilderoy, she was fired. Behind my back, everyone—knowing I was Seraphina’s secret boyfriend—had a nickname for Gilderoy: “the future Mr. Rankin.” I forced myself to accept her reasons, but then the “special treatment” bled into our home life. Time and again, she would drop everything we were doing to answer his call, to go to him. The explosion finally came one night. I was scrolling through a private work chat when a photo popped up. It was Seraphina, who had told me she was working late, with Gilderoy at a midnight movie screening. It was the very movie I had begged her to see with me, only to be flatly rejected. I had cupped her face, my eyes shining with hope. “Everyone says you’re supposed to see this with the one you love! Your one true love! We have to go.” Seraphina hadn’t even bothered to look up from her laptop. “Watching that kind of sappy romance is a waste of life,” she’d said. But in the photo, she was the picture of tenderness, smiling warmly at him, without a hint of impatience. The messages in the chat flew by, blurring before my eyes. When Seraphina came home, I asked her, my voice devoid of emotion, “How was The Last Vow?” A flicker of surprise—or maybe I imagined it—crossed her eyes. More likely, it was nothing. Indifference. “Were you following me?” My heart felt like it was being smothered by a heavy, wet towel. I couldn’t breathe. “Do I need to? That sweet little picture of you two is already making the rounds in the company group chat!” My chest heaved, my breath coming in ragged gasps. “Seraphina, if you want to break up, just say it! You don’t have to lie to me like this!” Her expression didn’t change. She was as calm as a spectator at a play. “If you don’t have even the most basic trust in me, then there’s nothing more to say. I’ve had a long day, Asher. I don’t have the energy to fight with you.” No guilt. No explanation. Compared to my wretched state, she was the epitome of grace. She even remembered to carefully place the paper bag she was holding on the table. The words “The Last Vow” on the bag were like razor-sharp shards of ice, stabbing straight through my heart. Every suppressed emotion, every ounce of resentment, crashed down on me at once, finally snapping the last thread of my sanity. I snatched the bag and, in a fit of rage, hurled it to the floor. It wasn’t sealed. The contents scattered, rolling across the hardwood with a series of soft thuds. I didn’t even look. My eyes, red and burning, were locked on hers. We stared at each other, locked in a silent standoff. A moment later, she turned and slammed the door behind her. I stood frozen, a statue of despair. It wasn’t until something small rolled to a stop against my foot that I finally moved. I looked down, my breath catching in my throat. It was chocolate. The floor was covered in round, handmade chocolates. 3 My resolve softened. I wanted to talk to her, to fix this. But for three whole days, Seraphina didn’t answer my calls. She didn’t come home. Swallowing my pride, I sent her a text. “I was wrong to lose my temper without talking to you first.” “But it’s also true that you said you were working late, but you were with him at the movies.” “Tonight is our sixth anniversary. I’ll be waiting for you at home.” “Can we please just sit down and talk this out?” I waited from morning until night, but she never came. As the clock neared eleven, I decided I had to go to her. I would find her at the office. On my way there, I ran into Rhonda, the manager Seraphina had fired over Gilderoy. She grabbed me, dragging me into a dark alley. “That bitch! I don’t dare touch Ms. Rankin’s precious boy, but I can sure as hell touch you!” My unanswered calls, my desperate cries for help—they were all useless. If a bystander hadn’t happened to pass by and scare her off, I would have been left with far more than a bruised face and a split lip. When my phone suddenly rang, I screamed, a raw, terrified sound ripped from my throat. I was a cornered animal. But then I saw the name on the screen, and the tension that had held my spine rigid all night finally crumbled. A wave of near-hysterical relief washed over me. “Sera—” I sobbed. “Hello?” Gilderoy’s smooth, cheerful voice came through the line. “Sera’s in the shower right now,” he chirped. “I saw you’d called a few times. Who is this? Is it important?” It felt like a hot coal had been shoved down my throat, searing the flesh, melting it away. The pain was so intense I wanted to carve out my own vocal cords. The simple act of hanging up the phone seemed to take every last bit of my strength. I limped to the nearest police station to file a report, a pathetic, broken figure. By the time it was all over, the clock showed 12:01 AM. A new day. That’s when Seraphina finally called. Her voice was as imperious as ever. “Have you learned your lesson?” And in that instant, I understood. She had done it on purpose. All those unanswered calls on our anniversary… it was my punishment for not trusting her enough. Tears streamed down my swollen face, stinging my wounds like acid. When I finally spoke, my voice was a raw, broken rasp. “Seraphina,” I said. “Let’s break up.” There was only a second of silence on the other end. Then, a cold laugh. “Fine. Don’t you come crying back to me.” She hung up without another word. She agreed to end it all, without a shred of hesitation. 4 At first, it was just the sleeplessness. I’d lie awake for hours, replaying every detail of our life together, terrified I had misjudged her, that I had condemned her unfairly. I reread our old messages, searching for clues, for anything. But the more I looked, the more the pain and resentment grew. I started to hate her. Six years. Six entire years of my life. I hated her for tossing me aside like a piece of trash, for being so utterly unaffected. At 4 AM one morning, consumed by grief, I deleted her from every app, every contact list. I dragged myself out of bed and, in a fury, gathered all her belongings—every last thing that reminded me of her. I stuffed them into giant trash bags and heaved them into the dumpster below. When it was done, I thought I would feel relief. But it was like I had finally swatted a mosquito that had been tormenting me for weeks, only to find that the blood splattered on the wall was my own. I went to work on time, acting as if nothing had happened. But only I knew that a huge chunk of my heart had been gouged out. Seraphina had grown there, but the flesh had turned rotten. To survive, I had to carve that putrid piece of me away. I just forgot that a wound that large is fatal, too. The full force of my emotional collapse hit me when I saw her at a company-wide meeting. Seraphina was as poised and self-assured as ever. In fact, she seemed even more vibrant, more powerful. It was as if losing me had no effect on her at all. Across the room, Gilderoy shot her a look he thought was secret, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. I stopped sleeping entirely. I couldn’t keep any food down. Seraphina didn’t use social media, so I became obsessed with stalking Gilderoy’s accounts, dissecting every post, every cryptic quote for any mention of her. It ended with me collapsing from hypoglycemia at work and being rushed to the hospital. That’s when Seraphina deigned to visit me. It was the twenty-ninth day since our breakup. She casually twirled the matching couple’s ring on her finger, admiring her manicure. “You’ve lost weight, Asher.” My gaze was empty. I opened my mouth, a hollowed-out puppet. “I’m sorry.” A triumphant smile spread across her face. And just like that, we were back together. 5 They say it’s better to rip the bandage off quickly. But that doesn’t work for everyone. For someone with a weak will, the best method is a slow, quiet withdrawal. You keep the person in the same place in your life, but you gradually, deliberately, stop expecting anything from them. You boil your own heart, slowly. The process isn’t so difficult that way. The end isn’t so painful. In the beginning, when I first started pretending to be magnanimous, my heart would still ache with a dull throb. But Seraphina seemed pleased with the change. She’d stroke my head, the way you’d pet a well-behaved dog, a small smile playing on her lips. “You’ve grown up, Asher.” After about six months of this self-prescribed therapy, it started to work. I truly became the person she wanted me to be. She’d stay out all night, and I wouldn’t call. Whatever she was doing with Gilderoy, I no longer asked. By the time I realized what had happened, that rotten piece of my heart had fallen away on its own, like overripe fruit dropping from a branch. I paused for a moment, then smiled. I immediately sent my resume to a company in France. They’d made me an offer once before, but I’d turned it down to stay with Seraphina. Luckily, they still wanted me. My flight was booked for two weeks from now. I had no intention of telling her. Our relationship had always been disposable to her anyway. The more understanding and agreeable I became, the less happy Seraphina seemed to be. I brushed it off, thinking I was imagining things, and continued working late as usual. One night, I came home, ready for a shower, when she stopped me. Her eyes lifted slowly to meet mine. “Is there anything you want to tell me lately?” I yawned, shaking my head in confusion. “No. What’s up?” “Nothing,” she said, her voice flat. “Go on.” But I soon learned that something was, indeed, up. Later that night, she wrapped her arms around me from behind, her breath hot against my neck. Her whispers were as soft as feathers, but her touch was bruising, like an interrogation. “Gilderoy’s been giving you a hard time at work, making you work all this overtime. Why didn’t you tell me, hm?” Her grip on me was relentless, a punishing rhythm that left me breathless. I had no idea what she was so angry about. All I could do was gasp for mercy. “Work is work… personal is personal… I-I’m being good.” Years ago, my old manager Rhonda—the one who assaulted me—was constantly sabotaging me. Once, she made me the scapegoat for a massive error. In a meeting with hundreds of people, Seraphina had torn into me without mercy. “Even an idiot wouldn’t make a mistake like this.” That night, I’d choked back my frustration. “You can check the email records. Why wouldn’t you even let me explain in the meeting?” Her face was a mask, just as it had been at the office. “Work is work, personal is personal. Asher, I only care about results. At the company, I’m your boss, not your girlfriend. I can’t play favorites.” But two days later, Rhonda was fired. The reason? She had been rude to Gilderoy. I was a top performer, consistently exceeding my targets. When Rhonda was gone, everyone assumed I would get the promotion. But instead, Seraphina promoted Gilderoy, who wasn’t even out of his probationary period. He took Rhonda’s position and became my boss. … Now, here I was, finally understanding my place. I wasn’t causing trouble. I wasn’t emotional. I was keeping work and our personal life separate. At my words, Seraphina’s movements froze. She released me. The light in the room was too bright. I covered my eyes, a physiological tear escaping from the corner. She tried to pull my hand away. I tried to resist, but I was too weak. “What are you doing?” She pried my hand from my face and stared into my eyes, her voice laced with a strange insistence. “You used to look at me.” I had no idea what had gotten into her. Annoyed, I met her gaze. In that instant, a flicker of anxiety, of pure panic, crossed her face. She suddenly covered my eyes with her own hand, as if shielding me from something. Then she leaned down and kissed me, murmuring my name over and over again, a desperate chant. “Asher. Asher.” 6 The next day, Seraphina called Gilderoy into a meeting and demanded a full report on his department’s progress. Of course, I had done all the work, and Gilderoy just stood there, stammering, unable to answer a single question. “If you can’t even speak to the basic functions of your role,” Seraphina said, her face an emotionless mask, “then perhaps you shouldn’t be in it.” The entire conference room was dead silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Gilderoy clapped a hand over his mouth and ran out of the room, sobbing. After the meeting, the breakroom on our floor was buzzing. “God, did you see the boss’s face today?” “You think the ‘future Mr. Rankin’ is about to be dethroned?” The gossip flew thick and fast. I was quietly making a cup of instant coffee when someone nudged me. “Aurora, why so quiet?” My English name at the new company was Aurora. It was a fresh start. Here, back in my old life, I was Asher. The code-switch was jarring. “Man, you’ve got nerves of steel,” the colleague continued. “The way Ms. Rankin laid into you that one time… you didn’t even flinch!” Honestly, I couldn’t care less about their drama. But in a den of gossiping coworkers, silence is betrayal. It would make me a target. So, I played along with a laugh. “Hey, I’m just a corporate drone. How can I compare to the heir apparent? Besides, lovers’ quarrels are just foreplay. A little drama is the ultimate spice for an office romance.” I fumbled with my mug as someone playfully shoved me. “Hey, knock it off.” Lowering my head to steady the ceramic cup, I added for good measure, “They’re a perfect match, honestly. Talented, beautiful… you know what? I’m totally shipping them.” Only after the words left my mouth did I notice the breakroom had fallen into an eerie, unnatural silence. I looked up. And met Seraphina’s glacial stare.

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During the interview, the reporter leaned in. “Robert’s new film has a lot of intimate scenes with his co-star. What are your thoughts on that?” I offered a placid smile. “How sweet for them.” The reporter blinked, momentarily thrown. “Does that affect your relationship? I mean, he’s famous for never doing love scenes.” “No, it doesn’t.” “Why not?” “Because we’re divorced.” The interview exploded. And so did my phone. Robert’s voice, tight with fury, crackled through the speaker. “When the hell did we get divorced? Why am I the last to know?” I knocked on his hotel room door, divorce papers in hand. “Right now.” 1 #RobertHannahSplit #RobertAndLily #LilyTheHomewrecker The interview went viral, dominating the top three trending spots. My phone was a vibrating, ringing brick of chaos. I switched it to Do Not Disturb and leaned back in the seat of the town car, trying to breathe. On the tablet beside me, a behind-the-scenes clip played on a loop: Robert and his co-star, Lily May, in a kiss so intense it practically steamed up the camera. My manager, Jen, stared at me, aghast. “You’re divorced? Since when?” I kept it simple. “He cheated.” Understanding dawned in Jen’s eyes. She switched off the tablet, plunging the car into a silence broken only by my ragged breathing. She sighed, wanting to comfort me but not knowing how. “You and Robert have been together for seven years. Everyone knows you’re the golden couple of Hollywood. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of misunderstanding?” I said nothing, just lowered the window and let the cold night air whip against my face, drying the tears that threatened to spill over. Just last night, I’d received a tip with photos: Robert and Lily, checking into a hotel. I’d shattered. I cried until my body ached and convulsed. Then I called my lawyer and had him draw up the papers overnight. It’s precisely because it was seven years that the betrayal was so absolute, so unforgivable. 2 Arriving at the hotel, I finally answered Robert’s call. His voice was a frantic, strained mess on the other end. “Hannah, what the hell are you doing? When did we get divorced? How come I don’t know about it?” He only ever used my full name when he was truly furious. The last time was when I’d thrown a glass of red wine in Lily May’s face. “Right now,” I said, and knocked. The door swung open. Robert stood there, phone still pressed to his ear, his eyes locking with mine. He was shirtless, a towel slung low on his hips, revealing a chiseled abdomen and the faint, almost imperceptible scratch marks on his arms. “What are you doing here?” I ignored him, pushing past into the suite and slapping the divorce papers onto the coffee table. “Sign them.” Robert picked them up, flipped through them with disdain, and tossed them onto the sofa. A bitter, incredulous laugh escaped him as he raked a hand through his hair. “Because of a few scenes with Lily? That’s part of the job, you know that.” He stepped closer, his voice softening into a weary plea. “Ellie, I’m exhausted. Can you please stop being so unreasonable?” “Robert.” I dropped my gaze, taking a deep breath. “No intimate scenes. That was the rule we agreed on when we got married.” Robert’s possessiveness over me was legendary. He’d either turn down scripts with kissing scenes for me or bully directors into rewriting them. Once, an actor, caught up in the moment, improvised and kissed my cheek on camera. The next day, that actor was replaced, his career vanishing overnight. Robert Thorne had always been a controlling, obsessive monster. But now, for another woman, he had broken his own sacred rule. He’d given Lily a privilege he’d denied everyone else. That was all the proof I needed. A dark look flashed across his face before he masked it with a smile. He closed the distance between us, his arms circling my waist as he nibbled on my earlobe. “This was a one-time thing. It won’t happen again, okay?” His voice dropped to a low, warning purr. “And I don’t want to hear the word ‘divorce’ again. Understood?” I was about to shove him away when a sweet, feminine voice drifted from the other room. “Robert, honey, I think the shower is broken…” Lily May appeared in the doorway. “Oh! Hannah, what are you doing here?” She was wearing a slinky slip dress that barely covered anything, her long hair damp and clinging to her back, revealing a constellation of fresh love bites on her neck. She noticed my gaze and tugged at the hem of her dress, a futile gesture that only highlighted her guilt. Her cheeks were flushed as she bit her lip, the picture of shy innocence. “Hannah, it’s not what it looks like between Robert and me…” Robert’s first instinct was to grab his suit jacket from the sofa and cover her. My first instinct was faster. I whipped out my phone and snapped a series of photos. “Sign the papers,” I said, my voice cold as ice, “or these go public.” I let a cruel smile touch my lips. “Let’s see… ‘Hollywood’s Golden Boy in Steamy Hotel Tryst with Ingénue Co-Star.’ That title has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” He let out an impatient hiss. “She got drunk at the wrap party last night. It wasn’t safe for her to go home alone, so I brought her here. Nothing happened.” I ignored his pathetic excuse. “You have three seconds.” “Three.” “Two…” He snatched the papers from the sofa, scribbled his signature with angry strokes, and threw them at me. “There. Are you happy now? Is this little game of yours over?” I nodded, clutching the signed agreement, and turned to leave. His voice stopped me at the door, laced with a weary, wounded tone. “Ellie, you never used to be like this.” “When did you become so difficult?” My footsteps faltered. That’s exactly what he’d said the first time I met Lily May. 3 Lily was a new actress signed by our agency. She bore a striking resemblance to me, so much so that online tabloids had dubbed her “Baby Hannah.” At first, Robert was indignant. He’d hold me and whine, “Baby Hannah? Don’t be ridiculous. My wife is one of a kind. That girl can’t hold a candle to a single strand of your hair.” He was constantly complaining about her riding my coattails. When Lily copied my style, he’d call it a cheap imitation. When she mimicked my makeup, he’d call it tacky and pathetic. But he never noticed how often her name started creeping into our conversations. An “unimportant person” who was suddenly, constantly, there. Even at dinner, he’d bring her up with a pretense of disgust. “Lily hates cilantro too. What a poser.” But how would he know she hated cilantro unless he’d eaten with her? My anger snapped. I threw my chopsticks down on the table. “Can you stop? Is it impossible for you to go five minutes without mentioning Lily May?” I stared at him, my heart pounding. “Robert, are you falling for her?” He immediately swore his loyalty, deleting her number from his phone right in front of me. A few days later, at an industry gala, a sleazy producer started pressuring Lily to drink. In front of everyone, Robert smashed a bottle over the man’s head. He completely ignored me, standing there pale and shocked, and wrapped a protective arm around Lily’s shoulders, his face a thunderous mask. “The talent at my agency,” he snarled, “does not do ‘favors’.” I went to the restroom to splash cold water on my face. When I came back, Robert was standing there with Lily, whose cheek was red and swollen. His voice was sharp with displeasure. “Take it out on me if you’re angry. Why did you have to hit her?” “Hannah,” he’d said, his voice dripping with disappointment, “when did you become so difficult?” He didn’t come home that night. After a few days of cold war, he showed up with a one-of-a-kind piece of jewelry from a European auction, a peace offering. “Don’t be mad, baby,” he’d murmured, fastening the necklace around my neck. “It’s just… seeing her like that, it reminded me of you, all those years ago, when you were forced to drink. I just lost my head.” He couldn’t protect the me from seven years ago, so he had to protect the Lily of today. He took time off work to stay home with me, showering me with attention. I smiled and played along, and he thought the chapter was closed. What he didn’t know was that I had found Lily’s private social media account. An account that documented, in loving detail, the three-day trip they had just taken together to the coast. 4 The way Robert and I met felt like something out of a movie. Back then, I was a nobody, a struggling extra scrounging for work in L.A. He was the rebellious heir to a fortune, defying his family to chase his Hollywood dream. His parents, determined to teach him a lesson, had cut him off completely, even pulling strings to make his life harder. I first saw him on a street corner after midnight. I’d just wrapped a night shoot and was squatting by the curb, eating a hot dog. I felt a pair of intense eyes on me and looked up to see two green orbs glowing from the darkness of an alley. I bought him a hot dog. We sat there, side-by-side on the curb, as he told me he was a fellow dreamer, here to make it in the movies. We talked all night, convinced we were soulmates. After that, we met on that corner every night, sharing stories about our miserable days as extras. Inevitably, we fell for each other. We moved into a tiny, cramped apartment together. We made love on a rickety metal bed in a room that always smelled of grease and mildew, clinging to each other as if our lives depended on it. For three years, we chased the same dream, guarding each other’s backs, clawing our way up together. The night Robert won the award for Best Newcomer, everything changed. His parents finally acknowledged his success, and he confessed the truth: he was the heir to the Thorne empire. I was heartbroken by the deception. I locked him out, refusing to see him. To earn my forgiveness, he stood outside in a torrential downpour all night, collapsing with a fever the next morning. The moment he woke up in the hospital, he tried to rip out his IV to come find me. My heart melted. He gave me a fairy-tale wedding and went public with our relationship at the peak of his rising fame, giving me the world. Everyone called me Cinderella. Over time, I think even Robert started to believe it. He slowly forgot those three desperate, confusing, painful years we spent in that suffocating, 200-square-foot room. 5 Leaving the hotel, I finally looked at my phone. The hashtag calling Lily a homewrecker had already been scrubbed from the internet. Robert had posted a clarification: [Not divorced. The wife is just throwing a tantrum. Currently in the process of winning her back.] The comment section was a mix of people praising his “devotion” and a flood of hate directed at me. [An intimate scene is not a big deal. Hannah’s jealousy is terrifying. Robert has been a saint for her on screen for years. Her controlling nature screams insecurity.] [Honestly, Hannah is so classless. She should just be grateful she has a rich, famous husband. An actor has to act, why does he have to walk on eggshells around her? You can take the girl out of the gutter, but you can’t take the gutter out of the girl.] [My heart breaks for our sweet Lily. A poor girl with no connections gets a big break because of her talent, and she gets bullied like this by the jealous wife. It’s disgusting.] [Just an outsider’s opinion, but doesn’t Lily seem like a much better match for Robert?] [OMG YES! THANK YOU FOR SAYING IT! If Lily does end up with him, it’s Hannah’s own fault for not being good enough to keep her man. Useless!] Normally, Robert would have had his team delete comments like these in seconds. This time, I supposed it was part of my punishment. Not only did he leave them up, he even liked a few. Jen was on the phone, scrambling to get our PR team to do damage control. I was too tired to care. I fell asleep in the back of the car. When I woke up, it was nearly midnight. My phone was flooded with dozens of unread messages. As I started to scroll through them, a call came in. It was Robert. “Ellie, where are you? Why didn’t you come home?” I stayed silent. After a few seconds, I could hear his heavy breathing on the other end. He sighed. “Ellie, you don’t really think that piece of paper means we’re actually divorced, do you?” His voice was low, condescending. “I was just playing along. Now be a good girl and come home.” He was right. Divorcing a Thorne wasn’t that simple. In his eyes, that legally binding document was just a prop in my little drama. He saw this whole thing as him indulging a pet throwing a tantrum. “Robert,” I said, my voice calm and even. “You don’t really think there’s an ‘us’ after this, do you?” The papers might not be enough on their own, but they were a declaration of war. It was over between us. Even if it ended in blood, I was getting this divorce. A cold chuckle came through the phone. “Ellie,” he said, his tone languid and dripping with menace, “don’t joke like that. You know exactly what happens when you make me angry.” I could hear the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of his fingers on a table, a dull, ominous beat in the silence of the night. He was truly angry now. A slow smile spread across my face. “I can’t wait to see,” I whispered, and hung up before he could respond. My reflection stared back at me from the dark window—hair a mess, face etched with fatigue. This was the last night I would ever waste my energy on a rotten man and a dead relationship. I knew the disgusting, underhanded tactics Robert would resort to when he was angry. But I wasn’t afraid. I would not back down. I would be the one left standing at the end of this war. I had to be. 6 Robert’s warning shot came quickly. I was set to star in a major historical drama, a role I had fought hard for. A week before filming, I was replaced. By Lily May. With Lily’s recent surge in popularity, her resemblance to me, and the immense pressure from Robert, the director didn’t dare object. On the first day of shooting, Robert showed up. As a key investor, he was treated like a king. An assistant held a parasol over his head while another aimed a personal fan at him, a fresh Starbucks cup always within reach. During a break, Lily cozied up to him, chattering animatedly about her “process.” Robert just gave her vague, distracted replies, his dark gaze fixed on me across the crowded set. I ignored him, studying my script under the shade of a prop balcony. My young assistant fanned me, whispering, “Isn’t Mr. Thorne here to see you, Hannah? Why aren’t you sitting with him? You’re not still trying to hide your marriage, are you?” There was an empty chair next to Robert. My assistant didn’t know the whole story; she just assumed he was here for a surprise visit. I knew he was offering me an olive branch, a chance to crawl back. But if he was truly sorry, would he be letting Lily hang all over him like that? And besides, he had stolen my role. Using my career to threaten me was a low blow. Unforgivable. Sensing my irritation, Robert waved over an assistant. “Lily loves that brand of plum juice,” he announced loudly. “Get some for the entire crew.” The crew members immediately began fawning over them, cooing about what a great couple they made. Lily blushed prettily, darting a triumphant little glance in my direction. “Oh, you guys, stop,” she giggled. “You’ll make Hannah uncomfortable.” Only then did everyone remember that I, the actual wife, was still present. A blanket of awkward silence fell over the set. 7 The atmosphere was thick with tension. It reached its breaking point when we started filming the next scene. In it, the heroine discovers that the female villain (my new role) has been plotting against her all along. The confrontation culminates in a resounding slap. It was supposed to be a major payoff moment for the audience, and the script explicitly called for it to be real and hard. I slipped into character, my eyes spitting venom at Lily. “So you know it was me,” I sneered. “What are you going to do about—” Before I could finish my line, Lily’s hand flew, cracking across my face with such force that I stumbled backward. My cheek instantly started to burn and swell. Lily’s eyes welled up with tears, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Hannah, I’m so sorry!” she cried, her lower lip trembling. “Your performance was just so powerful, I got lost in the moment…” The director yelled, “Cut!” My assistant rushed over with an ice pack, shooting daggers at Lily. “If you were so ‘in the moment,’ why didn’t you finish the scene?” I didn’t say anything. I just covered the swelling with a thick layer of powder and told the director I was ready to go again. Over the next hour, Lily slapped me six more times. She forgot her lines. She wasn’t “feeling the emotion.” She improvised new blocking. Each mistake earned her another chance to strike me. I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. I swallowed it down, the bitter saliva burning a hole in my chest. And through it all, Lily kept up her pathetic act. “I’m so sorry, Hannah,” she’d whimper. “I know you’re a true professional. I’m just so new to this. I need you to guide me through it a few more times to really get there.” The director just laughed nervously. In his eyes, I was the investor’s wife, and Lily was the investor’s rumored mistress. He couldn’t afford to offend either of us until he knew who the real favorite was. “Right, well, maybe we should move on to the next scene for now. We can rework this one a bit.” Robert, who had been silent this whole time, cleared his throat. His eyes met mine, a challenging glint in them. I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for me to break. To look at him. To beg. I turned my gaze back to the director. “Let’s keep going.” The director shot a nervous glance at Robert’s thunderous expression. “Well, perhaps… perhaps we could fake the slap for this take? Use a camera trick?” After a few tense seconds of silence, Robert spoke, his voice dangerously smooth. “No need.” The director breathed a sigh of relief, about to call action, when Robert added, “No need for camera tricks. Hannah is such a dedicated artist. I’m sure she would find such unprofessional methods beneath her.” His words put me in a cage. I suddenly remembered a rumor I’d heard a few weeks ago. Lily had been slapped for real by an actress on another set and had cried her eyes out. Robert had stormed into the actress’s dressing room with Lily in tow, held the woman down, and made her let Lily slap her back. He had said something similar to me once. Years ago, a director had slapped me, claiming I wasn’t “giving him enough emotion.” That night, Robert had gently pressed a warm cloth to my face, his voice a furious whisper. “Don’t worry, Ellie. Soon, I’ll be powerful enough to let you slap him back.” And he had. He didn’t just get me that slap back; he made sure that director never worked in this town again. The memory sent a sharp, twisting pain through my gut. I pressed a hand to my heart, taking a few deep breaths. It’s okay, Hannah. You never needed him to fight your battles anyway. You can get that slap back on your own. It was just a matter of time. Just like now. After Lily used “forgetting her lines” as an excuse to slap me one last time, she called for another take. Just then, the sharp, rhythmic click of high heels echoed through the silent set. A cold, imperious voice drawled: “And which back-alley nobody did you find to play my leading lady?”

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1 When the doctor handed the organ donation consent form to Julian Chase, his hand didn’t tremble. “Mr. Chase, Ms. Archer is brain-dead. There’s nothing more we can do. But her heart… it’s a perfect match for Ms. Langford.” Julian’s gaze fell on the name “Sienna Archer” printed on the form, his expression unreadable. He asked only one question. “If I sign this, what are the chances of a successful surgery for Clara?” “Ninety-nine percent,” the doctor replied. “Good.” He picked up the pen. With two sharp, decisive strokes, he signed his name. The black ink bled into the paper, the scratch of the nib a cold, final sound. That name, Julian Chase, was the one Sienna had written a thousand times in her diary, the one she’d whispered in her sleep, the one she’d carved into her heart for ten years. Now, that name was on her death certificate and organ donation form. Like a merciless god, he had sealed her fate. I, Sienna Archer, lay in the intensive care unit next door. My body was still warm. The machines beeped in a steady rhythm, a fragile thread holding onto the last vestiges of my life. But I knew I was already gone. My soul hovered in the air, watching Julian, the man I had loved for a decade. Ten years. From twenty to thirty, the brightest, most vibrant years of my life, I gave them all to him. I learned to cook the dishes he loved, only to find out later they were the favorites of his one true love, Clara Langford. I wore the white dresses he liked, only to learn that white was Clara’s signature color. I nursed him through his chronic stomach pains, cured his insomnia, and turned his cold, sterile apartment into a warm, inviting home. I thought even a stone could be warmed. But when news came that Clara’s heart was failing, that she needed a transplant, I finally understood. I wasn’t the fire meant to warm the stone. I was just another stepping stone. Julian had gone mad searching for a donor for Clara. He’d exhausted every connection, thrown money at every possible solution, praying for a miracle. And then, I had a car accident. How convenient. So convenient, it felt like a scene from a meticulously crafted play. As I lay on the operating table, my consciousness fading, I saw Julian burst in. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of a terror I’d never seen before, mixed with a chilling, unmistakable… elation. He wasn’t worried about me. He was ecstatic that Clara would be saved. My surgeon, a friend of Julian’s, looked at him, his expression troubled. “Julian, are you absolutely sure? Sienna, she…” Julian cut him off. “I just want Clara to live.” His voice was quiet, but each word was a blade of ice, plunging into my soul. I watched him sign the papers, handing the document that legally declared my death back to the doctor. He never once glanced in the direction of my room. He turned and walked straight to Clara’s. His back was still so straight, so handsome. For ten years, I had chased that back, and not once had he ever stopped for me. Now, I didn’t have to chase anymore. And that was a relief. So why did my soul still feel so cold? Cold, as if I had fallen into a black, bottomless lake that would never freeze over. 2 The surgeries began. Two operating rooms, at opposite ends of the same sterile corridor. At one end, a life was being dismantled. At the other, a life was being extended. My soul drifted in the space between. I watched a team of green-gowned surgeons enter my room. They nodded at the still-beeping machines, and then someone picked up a scalpel. A long, piercing beep. The monitor connected to my body flatlined, the jagged peaks and valleys of my life smoothing into a single, unwavering line. Sienna Archer, age thirty, was officially dead. A sterile cloth was draped over my face, leaving only my chest exposed. The overhead lights were blinding. The lead surgeon made a long, clean incision down the center of my sternum. Strangely, my soul felt no pain. Perhaps my heart had already been hurt so much, it had simply gone numb. I watched as they carefully, reverently, lifted the still-beating heart from my warm chest cavity. It was a strong heart. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It had beaten for Julian for ten years. It beat faster whenever he came home. It threatened to burst whenever he gave me a rare smile. It would shrink into a tight, painful knot whenever he was cold to me because of Clara. Now, it was free. A nurse placed it in a cooler filled with ice, snapped the lid shut, and hurried out of the room, running toward the other end of the hall. There, Clara lay on another operating table. And Julian stood guard outside her door. He leaned against the wall, head bowed, hands shoved in his pockets. He looked exhausted, tense. His friend, my surgeon, came out, wanting to say something. “Julian, it’s… it’s over. For Sienna.” Julian just grunted, his eyes glued to the red “IN SURGERY” light above the door, as if it were the center of his universe. “Aren’t you… going to see her? One last time?” his friend asked, unable to stop himself. Julian was silent for a long time. So long, I thought he might actually nod. But in the end, he just shook his head, his voice raspy. “No. Let her… let her have some dignity.” Dignity? My soul, floating in the air, began to tremble with laughter. He had subjected me to the greatest indignity imaginable, and now, in a final act of hollow charity, he was pretending to grant me a shred of it. The cooler was carried into Clara’s operating room. My heart would soon be beating in another woman’s chest. It would live on for me. It would watch for me, as Julian loved the woman he was always meant to love. How cruel. Not even death could grant me peace. The red light stayed on for eight hours. Julian stood outside for eight hours, a statue of vigil. When the light finally turned green and the surgeon emerged, smiling, to tell him, “The surgery was a complete success,” the tension in Julian’s face finally broke. He slid down the wall, sinking to the floor, and covered his face with his hands. I couldn’t see his expression. I could only see his shoulders, shaking. Was he crying? Tears of joy for Clara’s new lease on life. My soul began to fade, turning translucent at the edges. It was for the best. Why should I watch the man who didn’t love me cry for someone else? Goodbye, Julian. This heart… is no longer mine. 3. He Won, But He Didn’t Seem Happy Clara was moved to a private recovery room. My heart, now hers, began to beat with a steady, powerful rhythm inside her chest. All her vitals pointed to a perfect, textbook transplant. Julian had won. He had traded my life for his true love’s. In the silent, decade-long war between me, him, and the woman in his heart, he was the victor. He should have been happy. But he didn’t look happy. Clara was still unconscious, and Julian sat by her bedside, a loyal sentinel. He gently wiped her face with a damp cloth and tucked the blankets around her, his movements so tender they seemed to ache. It was a tenderness I had dreamed of for ten years but never received. But there was no smile on his face. Only a profound weariness, an unsettling… emptiness. His friend, the doctor, brought him a meal. “You should eat something. You haven’t slept in two days.” Julian shook his head. “Not hungry.” “You saved her. Why the long face?” The doctor sighed, sinking into a nearby chair. “I know. Sienna’s death… it can’t be easy on you.” Julian said nothing, his gaze fixed on Clara’s pale face. “Look,” the doctor continued, “Sienna’s injuries were severe. Even without the transplant, she… she wouldn’t have made it much longer. Don’t blame yourself too much.” He was trying to comfort Julian. Even he thought Julian should feel guilty for my death. But Julian’s reply was flat, devoid of emotion. “I have nothing to blame myself for. This was the best possible outcome for her.” His words sent another chill through my soul. The best possible outcome? Becoming spare parts to save his lover was my “best outcome”? The doctor stared at him, at a loss for words, his attempt at comfort turning into a heavier sigh. “What are your plans for… the arrangements?” “Have her cremated. Scatter the ashes… at sea,” Julian said, as if discussing the disposal of an inconvenient object. “You’re not keeping them?” “What for?” Julian shot back, a hint of irritation in his voice. “She’s dead. What’s the point of keeping a pile of ashes?” The doctor finally snapped. He stood up, his voice rising. “Julian! It’s not a pile of ashes! It’s Sienna! She was with you for ten years!” “So what?” Julian stood too, his eyes blazing with bloodshot fury, his composure finally cracking. “Did I force her? It was her choice to stay with me! Now she’s gone, and her heart saved Clara. Isn’t that a good thing? At least her death wasn’t for nothing!” “You bastard!” The doctor’s fist connected with Julian’s jaw. Julian didn’t even try to dodge it. He stumbled back, hitting the wall, a trickle of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away, his eyes growing even colder. “Are you done? If you’re done, get out. Clara needs to rest.” He had dismissed him. The doctor pointed a trembling finger at Julian, speechless with rage, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. Silence returned to the room. Julian sat back down, picked up a cotton swab, dipped it in water, and began to gently moisten Clara’s dry lips. His movements were still so gentle. But in his eyes, I saw a wasteland. It was the desolation of a man who had won the world, only to find it utterly meaningless. He thought he had won a war. He didn’t realize he had just personally, methodically, destroyed the only world that had ever let in the light. 4. Her Funeral Had No Tears for Her My funeral was quick and simple. Julian didn’t hold a service. He said I had no family to speak of, and few friends, so there was no need for such formalities. He took me straight to the crematorium. The sky that day was a flat, miserable gray, a cold drizzle falling from the clouds. The crematorium was empty, save for Julian and his doctor friend, who had apparently come along out of a sense of duty. Julian chose the cheapest urn. “It’s all going into the sea anyway,” he said. “The box doesn’t matter.” I watched as my body was slid into the cold, black furnace. My soul couldn’t feel the heat of the flames, but I felt something deep within me turn to ash. It was the last trace of Sienna Archer, the woman who had loved Julian Chase, being erased from existence. Two hours later, a worker handed the cheap wooden box to Julian. It was so small, so light. Thirty years of life, ten years of love, all reduced to this. Julian held the box, his face a blank mask. The rain fell harder. His friend held a black umbrella over him. “Where to now? Straight to the coast?” Julian shook his head. “No. I’ll keep it at my place for now.” “I thought you were going to scatter them,” his friend said, surprised. “Clara’s not strong enough yet. When she’s better, we’ll go together.” His reasons always, always came back to Clara. Even my final resting place was dependent on the whims of his true love. His friend said no more. He drove Julian back to the apartment we had shared for five years. The place I had once thought was home. As soon as he walked in, Julian placed my urn on the shoe cabinet in the entryway, as casually as if it were a set of keys or a wet umbrella. Then he began to walk through the apartment. He opened the closet and looked at my clothes. So many white dresses, all chosen to mimic Clara’s style. He opened the fridge. Inside were the dumplings I’d made for him, his favorite comfort food for his bad stomach. He walked out to the balcony and saw the succulents I’d been tending to, now wilting from neglect. The apartment was saturated with me. With the presence of the living, breathing Sienna who had loved him for a decade. But now, the mistress of the house was a cold, wooden box on the shoe cabinet. For the first time, an emotion I couldn’t decipher crossed Julian’s face. It wasn’t sadness, or nostalgia. It was… a profound disorientation. Like someone accustomed to a constant background noise, who is suddenly plunged into a silence so absolute it becomes deafening. He tugged at his tie, a restless energy about him, and then he began to act. He ripped all my clothes from the closet and stuffed them into black trash bags. He emptied the fridge of all the food I had made and threw it away. He took my succulents, pot and all, and tossed them into the dumpster below. He was systematically erasing every trace of “Sienna” from the apartment, as if cleaning out the belongings of a dismissed maid. His friend couldn’t watch anymore. “Julian, do you have to do this?” “What else am I supposed to do?” Julian didn’t even look up. “Clara will be discharged soon. I don’t want her to come back to this, to be reminded.” He always had a reason. It was always for Clara. The doctor exploded. “Reminded of what? Reminded of who? Sienna is dead because of you! Even if you were made of stone, you should have some semblance of a heart!” Julian stopped. He turned to face his friend, his eyes filled with a terrifying, hollow calm. “You’re wrong,” he said. “She didn’t die for me. She died for Clara.” “Her death saved Clara’s life. That was her purpose. Her honor.” With that, he took the last remaining item—a framed photo of me—and threw it face down into a trash bag. In that moment, I heard the glass shatter. And I felt my soul shatter with it. 5. Her Things, Like Her, Were Bagged and Thrown Away Julian’s purge was brutally efficient. In less than a day, the apartment that had once been filled with the warmth of my life was transformed into a sterile, impersonal show home. My clothes, my makeup, my books, the scarf I had secretly knitted for him—everything was packed into black trash bags, piled by the door like a small mountain of refuse. When he was done, Julian seemed to have expended all his energy. He sank onto the sofa, staring at the empty room, his eyes vacant. His friend, likely too angry to speak, silently carried the bags of “trash” downstairs. I followed them. I watched as a garbage truck swallowed them whole, its compactor groaning as it crushed my life into a neat, disposable block. Ten years, reduced to garbage, compacted, and discarded. Not a trace left behind. When the doctor returned, Julian was still staring into space. “It’s all gone,” his friend said, his voice hard. Julian grunted in acknowledgment. “There’s one more thing.” The doctor reached into his pocket and tossed a small object onto the coffee table. It was a small, locked diary.

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I fronted $5,600 for a project. When I submitted my expenses, they were gutted. I got $500 back. Faced with a $5,100 loss, I didn’t scream. I didn’t curse. I laughed. My boss sneered at me. “See? So much better when you don’t make a scene. Young people need to learn how to take a loss.” I nodded in agreement, my gaze steady. Two days later, an urgent, multi-million-dollar project required an immediate cross-country flight. The work order was assigned to me. I clicked “Do Not Accept.” The ticket was then pushed to the department’s open pool. No one touched it. No one was stupid enough to gamble another five grand on the company’s conscience. The finance director’s call came quickly. She was frantic. “That $5,100 from the other day—I’ll approve the full amount right now. Just take the assignment.” 1 At three in the afternoon, the air in the finance office was thick enough to choke on. I walked in and placed a thick stack of receipts carefully on Ms. Finch’s desk. That stack of paper represented two weeks of running myself ragged and a full month’s salary: $5,600. It was all money I had fronted for the company’s urgent “Project Sirius.” Ms. Finch, a woman in her forties with a face devoid of expression, wore a pair of gold-rimmed glasses. Behind the lenses, her eyes were like two cold, polished stones. She picked up the receipts and flicked through them, the crisp rustle of paper sounding like a mockery of my naivete. Her expression shifted from procedural scrutiny to undisguised impatience. “Leo, are you new here?” she asked without looking up. “Ms. Finch, I’ve been with the company for a year,” I replied calmly. She snorted, pulling out a hotel receipt. “This is over the limit. Company policy states that standard employees on business travel have a lodging cap of three hundred dollars per night.” “But the situation was urgent. There was a major convention in Stanton City, and every hotel under three hundred was booked solid. I cleared this with Mr. Davis before I left. He approved it.” I pulled a printed email from my folder—an internal approval request—and slid it in front of her. It clearly stated I was requesting an exception for real-cost reimbursement due to special circumstances. Mr. Davis was CC’d. He hadn’t replied to the email, but he’d told me over the phone, “No problem, the project is the priority. Get it done.” Ms. Finch glanced at the email, a disdainful smirk playing on her lips. “Verbal approval?” She let out a dry, grating laugh. “Verbal approvals don’t count. It’s policy.” Right in front of me, with a crisp, deliberate rip, she tore my copy of the hotel receipt in two and tossed the pieces into the trash can by her feet. My heart felt like it had been ripped in half along with it. She continued her review, a red pen striking through every receipt she deemed “non-compliant.” A dinner with the client: “Over budget.” A car service I took to make a deadline: “Non-compliant. Why didn’t you take the subway?” An invoice for emergency replacement parts: “Purchasing protocol wasn’t followed beforehand. Denied.” I could feel the blood draining from my face. The arguments died in my throat because, through the glass wall of the finance office, I could see my direct supervisor, Mr. Davis, sitting in his plush executive chair, casually sipping tea. He saw me. He saw what Ms. Finch was doing. He simply raised an eyebrow and did nothing. “Ms. Finch,” I said, my voice tight, “these were all necessary expenses to ensure the project’s success. Every single one is documented.” “Your documentation is irrelevant. Company policy is what matters.” She finally stopped, tapping furiously at her calculator. At last, she scribbled a number on the reimbursement form and pushed it toward me. “Approved Amount: $500.00.” The number felt like a dagger in my eye. Out of $5,600, I was getting back $500. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest, as if I’d been hit with a sledgehammer. $5,100—that was a month and a half of my rent and living expenses. It was savings I had scraped together. Gone. “This is unreasonable,” I said, my voice hoarse. “I want to speak with Mr. Davis.” Ms. Finch leaned back, crossing her arms with the smug look of a spectator at a gladiator match. She picked up her desk phone and dialed his office. “Mr. Davis, Leo has an issue with the approved amount.” I stared through the glass as Davis put down his teacup. He didn’t even bother to walk over. He picked up his phone, and his cold, oily voice drifted from the receiver, just loud enough for me to hear. “Ah, Leo. Just do as finance says. Times are tough for the company. We all need to show a little dedication.” Dedication? I thought with a humorless sneer. Was my dedication supposed to be funding the company out of my own pocket? I looked at the flimsy approval form, my mind racing, calculating the devastating impact this would have on my life. I also saw, with perfect clarity, the shameless face of the company I worked for. There was no shouting. No pleading. I took a deep breath, picked up the pen, and signed my name on that humiliating document: Leo. Ms. Finch’s face broke into the condescending smile of a victor. She probably thought she had just broken another naive kid. Satisfied, Mr. Davis hung up and strolled out of his office. He walked over to me and clapped me on the shoulder with a hand that was both greasy and adorned with a gold watch. “See? So much better when you don’t make a scene,” he said, his voice oozing with the false wisdom of a mentor. “Young people need to learn that taking a loss is good for character.” His eyes, however, held nothing but contempt. It was as if I weren’t a key employee who generated value for him, but a beggar he could dismiss at will. I felt the muscles in my shoulder tense, the urge to throw his hand off me screaming against the bars of my self-control. But I didn’t. I didn’t even curse. I looked up at Mr. Davis’s smug face, and a strange thing happened. I smiled. It was a perfectly calm, almost pleasant smile. A laugh escaped my lips. It was quiet, but it was cold, utterly devoid of warmth, like frost crystallizing on a windowpane. Both Davis and Finch stared, momentarily baffled by my reaction. Without another glance, I turned and walked out of the finance office, their low murmurs and Davis’s triumphant chuckle following me. I knew they interpreted my laugh as the breaking point of humiliation, the final surrender after a powerless rage. They were wrong. This wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. 2 Back at my desk, the atmosphere in the department was tense. My colleagues shot me looks of sympathy, pity, and for some, a touch of morbid curiosity. Davis, never one to miss a chance to make an example of someone, paraded around the office with his teacup. “This is how it is with the younger generation,” he announced to the room. “You have to knock them down a peg or two before they learn their place. Look at Leo, so cooperative. One word from me, and the matter was settled. You should all learn from this. Don’t sweat the small stuff with the company. Think about the big picture!” A few of the guys who usually called me a friend chimed in with agreement, becoming his instant yes-men. I stared at my monitor, my fingers flying across the keyboard, acting as if I were in a world of my own. During the afternoon coffee break, Sara, a junior assistant on the project team, quietly placed a mug on my desk. She was a recent graduate, her eyes still clear and unmarred by the cynicism of the corporate world. “Leo,” she whispered, her voice full of genuine concern. “They really screwed you over. Davis and Finch went too far!” She added, “Be careful on your next trip. Always ask for an advance.” I looked up and offered her a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Sara. I’m fine.” And I was. The anger and humiliation had been compressed and sealed away the moment I signed my name, transformed into a colder, more potent kind of fuel. I wasn’t wallowing in my loss. I was doing something far more important: taking inventory of my leverage. My fingers flew as I navigated the company’s project management system, pulling up the schedule for the next three days. One project code, bold and red, caught my eye: “Project Aegis.” It was an urgent, multi-million-dollar contract with an industry titan. The terms included strict deadlines and crippling penalties for failure. The core technical bottleneck of Project Aegis was an encryption algorithm I had single-handedly developed. The on-site equipment debugging and code implementation had to be done by me. I, Leo, was the only person in the entire company who could solve any sudden issues with this algorithm—remotely or on-site—within 48 hours. I, the “cooperative” young man Davis thought he could handle with a single glance, was the irreplaceable heart of Project Aegis. Next, I reviewed the company’s ticketing system. The rules were clear: urgent tasks were assigned directly to the key stakeholder. Once assigned, the ticket was locked. It couldn’t be reassigned unless the designated person refused it. The penalty for refusal? A single “performance warning” in your file. I looked at that penalty and laughed. For a multi-million-dollar project whose failure could get a regional director fired, a performance warning was a joke. My cold laugh hadn’t been one of surrender. In that moment, I had confirmed two stark realities: First, this company and my boss would, for a mere $5,100, crush a key employee’s loyalty without a second thought. Second, they had gravely, almost stupidly, underestimated my true value. That evening, I stayed late. I quietly organized all my personal work notes, debug logs, and conceptual frameworks related to Project Aegis—nothing that constituted a core company secret. Then, I wrote a simple script and set up a timed email. If I chose to push the button, all of it would be sent to my personal address. It was a contingency plan. If the company chose to burn everything down, I would have the proof of my work and expertise to pave the way for my next job. After I was done, I went to get some water. As I passed Davis’s office, I could hear him laughing on the phone with a client, his voice full of swagger, as if his $5,100 “victory” had put him in a particularly fine mood. I watched his bloated silhouette and calmly did the math. A cash loss of $5,100, plus an immeasurable dose of personal humiliation. To balance that equation, it would take a multi-million-dollar project and the career of a regional director. Just then, my phone buzzed. A message in the work group chat. It was Ms. Finch, and she had tagged me specifically. “@Leo, the $500 reimbursement you applied for this afternoon has been processed. Please confirm receipt.” She followed it up by tagging everyone. “A reminder to all staff: please ensure all expense reports strictly adhere to company financial policy. Leo has confirmed and accepted the outcome of this review. We hope you will all learn from this example.” It wasn’t enough to take my money. She had to use me as a cautionary tale, to publicly crucify me and cement my reputation as a pushover. The chat was silent. No one dared to speak. I looked at the screen, my fingers tapping lightly on my phone. A few seconds later, my reply appeared. “Received. Thanks for the company’s consideration.” Those words landed like a drop of water in a sizzling pan of oil. Seemingly calm, but containing the promise of a violent explosion. Sara immediately sent me a private message: a single, face-palming emoji. I didn’t reply. My patience was the calm before the storm. Now, all I needed was for the wind to blow. And I knew it would, very soon. 3 The wind began to blow exactly when I predicted. The next day at 4:30 PM, just an hour before quitting time, a piercing red alert erupted from the company’s work-order system. It sounded like an air-raid siren, shattering the office’s drowsy peace. A massive, blood-red pop-up dominated every screen. URGENT TASK: ‘PROJECT AEGIS’ CORE ALGORITHM ON-SITE DEBUG LOCATION: STANTON CITY DEADLINE: 48 HOURS PROJECT VALUE: $12 MILLION ASSIGNED TO: LEO My name was lit up like it was on a Broadway marquee. Davis’s office door flew open. His face was a mask of tense excitement as he strode toward my desk. “Leo! You see this? Project Aegis just got fast-tracked! The client’s equipment is down; you need to get on a flight immediately!” His voice was a booming command. In the project group chat, messages were flying. Davis: @Leo, accept the ticket! Now! This is a top-priority mission! The air in the office went still. I calmly looked at the pop-up. Below my name were two large buttons: a green “Accept” and a red “Do Not Accept.” A sixty-second countdown was ticking away above the red button. Those ticking numbers weren’t just seconds; they were Davis’s bonus, the company’s profit, and the rapidly increasing risk of a twelve-million-dollar failure. My hand hovered over the mouse. I savored the moment—the feeling of holding everyone’s fate, including that of the man who had just humiliated me, at my fingertips. “Leo! What are you waiting for? Move it!” Davis’s voice was turning ragged with anxiety. He leaned so close I could smell the stale coffee and nicotine on his breath. I turned my head slightly. Then, as Davis and the entire office watched, my cursor moved with unshakable certainty to the red button. Click. I pressed “Do Not Accept.” Time seemed to freeze. The expression on Davis’s face cycled through confusion, disbelief, and finally, a deep, puce-colored rage. A warning window appeared: [You are rejecting a Level-SSS Urgent Task. This action will be logged and will severely impact your annual performance review. Are you sure?] Without hesitation, I clicked “Confirm.” The work order was instantly kicked back into the system and broadcast to everyone in the project group. A chorus of notification chimes echoed through the office. The ticket’s status changed from “Assigned to Leo” to “Open Task.” And in the ticket’s history, the first entry was a line of glaring red text: [Task rejected by assigned user Leo.] The office was dead silent. Everyone stared at me like I had lost my mind. A few seconds later, something even more dramatic happened. Another chime. [Task rejected by assigned user Mark.] Then another. [Task rejected by assigned user Jessica.] [Task rejected by assigned user David.] The ticket was a hot potato, being tossed around the department with no one willing to catch it. No one was a fool. Yesterday, I had charged into battle for the company and had come back with a $5,100 personal loss and a public shaming. Today, with a high-stakes, high-cost, high-risk project on the table, who would be willing to gamble their own money on the company’s integrity? My refusal was a bomb that had detonated the company’s facade of corporate camaraderie, exposing the bloody reality underneath. Davis’s face was the color of raw liver, a vein throbbing in his temple. His phone buzzed furiously with notifications from the group chat. He glanced at it, then quickly sent me a direct message. Davis: Leo! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Accept the ticket right now! I could feel his apoplectic rage through the screen. I picked up my phone and slowly typed my reply. Leo: Mr. Davis, my apologies. Leo: As you taught me yesterday, “young people need to learn that taking a loss is good for character.” I find your advice very insightful and feel I need some time to truly appreciate this “character building” experience. Leo: Furthermore, the expenses for this trip will certainly be substantial. As someone who just “took a loss” of $5,100, I simply cannot afford the risk of another financial write-off. On his end, the “typing…” indicator appeared and disappeared several times, but no message came through. He was probably too furious to form words. He looked up and roared at the entire office, “Some people better not get arrogant just because they have a little technical skill! This is deliberate sabotage! If this project is delayed, none of you will be able to bear the responsibility!” His voice echoed, full of bluster and impotence. No one responded. The red ticket hung in the queue, a digital pariah. Each rejection notification was another slap across the face of Davis and the company’s management. I leaned back in my chair, took a sip of the now-cold coffee Sara had given me, and savored the bitter taste. A strange, almost sick sense of satisfaction washed over me. The show was just getting started.

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After I finally conquered the game’s brooding male lead, the System granted me a special perk. 【You can now view the male lead’s location at any time, including his exact distance from anyone else.】 【This way, you’ll never have to be afraid of losing him again! 】 A few months later, the physical distance between the man who was supposed to love me and the woman he supposedly despised was shrinking rapidly. I stared blankly at the numbers on my internal display: [-7 inches], [0], [-7 inches], [0]… “Can I just cash out the affection points and go home?” I asked, my voice flat. 【That’s a negative, Host! You are permanently bonded to the male lead. And besides, he’s crazy about you! He just can’t control his… physiological needs!】 Fine. I pulled out my burner phone and sent a text to my beloved male lead: [Give me $10 million, or I’ll tell your wife you’re cheating.] Seconds later, his distance from the other woman went from [-7 inches] to [10 feet]. The System’s voice crackled with panic. 【What are you doing?】 “Oh,” I said, a slow smile spreading across my face. “I’m going to play with him. Until this bond breaks.” Ethan was quick to reply to my burner. [Who is this? What are you to Olivia?] [What cheating? Do you have proof?] Tch. He had me there. I didn’t have anything more concrete to hold over his head. After a few minutes of silence, I figured he was trying to figure out a way to trace me. But then, his distance from Isabelle began to shrink again, and the numbers returned to their sickening rhythm: [-7 inches], [0], [-7 inches], [0]… Seriously? Is he a Pomeranian in heat? As I stewed in frustration, the System regained its smug tone. 【See? You should just give up. Ethan genuinely loves you. His body just enjoys the thrill Isabelle gives him. He can’t help it.】 【How about this? I’ll give you a succubus buff. You can work on making his body so addicted to you that he—】 I ignored it. A spark of an idea hit me, and I walked straight to the garage. The moment I pulled the car out of the main gate, my phone erupted with a frantic call from Ethan. “Liv? Where are you going?” “Answer me. Don’t you forget, you have no one in this world but me. Don’t even think about taking a single step out of my sight.” As the story’s obsessive, controlling male lead, Ethan had implanted multiple trackers under my skin. The second I stepped off the property, alarms blared on his phone. See how inhumane this setup is? The male lead gets to have his body and soul exist in separate zip codes, while the female lead is supposed to sit in a gilded cage and count her fingers. That’s why the moment his affection score hit 100, I made a demand to the System. “I want to be Ethan’s equal.” My intention was to get half of his assets. But this romance-obsessed System, with its corporate-level reading comprehension, assumed I was just jealous. It took the initiative and gave me this “perk” to track Ethan’s distance from other people. And now, I finally understood how to use this supposedly useless ability. I suppressed a laugh, seeing his distance from Isabelle still locked at [-7 inches]. “But, baby,” I cooed into the phone, “you’re with Isabelle right now, aren’t you?” 1 Silence for a few seconds. Then, a disbelieving, sharp laugh. “Liv, how can you even think that? You know how much I despise that woman.” “Hmph!” A faint, feminine pout echoed through the receiver. It was almost imperceptible. Then came the dull thud of a body hitting the floor. The distance tracker updated: [3 feet]. He must have kicked her off the bed. I forced a sob into my voice. “She really is with you?” Ethan’s tone finally tipped into panic. His words came out in a rush. “No, Liv, don’t overthink this. I’m coming home right now to explain. Just don’t leave the house!” The moment he hung up, a transfer notification for $10 million hit my burner phone’s account. [I don’t know who you are, but take the money and stay away from her.] I rolled my eyes. Whenever I’d tentatively asked him for money in the past, his eyes would turn bloodshot, as if I’d triggered some primal defense mechanism. “Your food, your clothes, your entire life is provided by me. What do you need so much money for? Are you planning to leave me?” he’d hiss. “Don’t even think about it, Olivia.” So flexible, that morality of his. Unwilling to spare a dime for me, but happy to drop millions to cover up an affair. Ethan’s 100% affection score was no joke. He drove like a maniac. I hadn’t even made it ten miles before his car cut me off. He wrenched me out of my driver’s seat and crushed me in a fierce hug. “Liv, you’re not going anywhere…” After he’d half-dragged, half-carried me back into the villa, I focused my senses again. The distance between him and Isabelle was [15 feet]. He actually brought her back with him. Did he stuff her in the trunk? As I was pondering this, a cup of tea was placed in front of me. “Here, Liv. Drink this. It’ll calm your nerves.” A suspicious white powder floated on the surface, a blatant insult to my intelligence. … Was he planning to drug me unconscious and then screw Isabelle right next to me? What a sick game. Ethan’s expression was dark as he gripped my chin, his voice dangerously low. “Be a good girl, Liv. I don’t want to force you. We can talk about everything after you wake up.” I silently estimated Isabelle’s hiding spot, then shoved Ethan away with all my might, snatching the teacup and flinging its contents behind the sofa. “Ah!” A disheveled Isabelle leaped out, clutching her head. This perk wasn’t useless at all. It was a god-tier affair-buster and blackmail-assister. My face twisted into a terrifying mask, my eyes locked on the two of them. I mimicked Ethan’s own chilling tone. “Baby,” I whispered, “isn’t having me enough for you?” 2 Ethan was the classic possessive archetype. Before I won him over, he was an untouchable ice king. Afterward, he became a possessive shadow, a ghost haunting my every move. He forced me to quit my job, forbade me from seeing anyone—first men, then eventually, anyone at all. He isolated me until I couldn’t leave his sphere of control. His obsession was so absolute he needed to know the exact schedule of my bathroom breaks. And Isabelle was the classic villainess. In the early stages, she relentlessly tried to frame me, even kidnap me, but Ethan always thwarted her and retaliated brutally on my behalf. I thought that once I’d secured Ethan’s affection, Isabelle would be written out of the story for good. But I was wrong. On the surface, he drove her family to bankruptcy, but behind the scenes, he propped up her new career, funded her design studio, and sent her extravagant gifts on holidays. He acted disgusted by her in public, yet he was helplessly drawn to her in private, their shared animosity fueling a toxic passion. He gave the villainess endless freedom and illicit pleasure, while I, the heroine, was locked away in a cage. This world granted him limitless power and capital. No matter how depraved his actions, he faced no consequences. What was a little infidelity in the grand scheme of things? The only variable was me, the female lead. He was terrified of me dying. A paper cut on my finger was enough to send him into a frenzy. And that was my only leverage. If I treated him the way he treated me—if I became unhinged and suicidal over his every move—how would he react? Best-case scenario, I gain control over him. Worst-case scenario, I actually succeed in ending my own life and get sent back to my own world. Playing the part of the psycho? It was a win-win. 3 Ethan’s arm tightened around me, the pressure almost bone-crushing. “Liv, let me explain. She followed me here, I—” Isabelle, composing herself, ran a contemptuous gaze over me. “Relax, Olivia. I have no intention of stealing him from you.” She smirked. “The CEO and I just have a… mutually beneficial arrangement. I have my own career and my own life. Unlike you, a helpless vine who can’t survive without a man to cling to.” I turned to Ethan, adopting his signature paranoid, whispery tone. “A mutually beneficial arrangement? Is she telling the truth?” Ethan flinched as if I’d stepped on his tail. He whirled on Isabelle, his eyes feral. “Shut your mouth!” He turned back to me, his voice desperate. “Liv, don’t listen to her lies. My heart belongs only to you! My body… that’s secondary…” A distorted smile, a mirror of the one he wore when he was losing control, stretched across my face. “So, your secondary body… that can be given to anyone you please?” I shoved him away with surprising speed, snatched a small, steel letter opener from the coffee table, and without a moment’s hesitation, pressed it to my own throat. “NO!” Ethan’s roar was ragged, torn from his soul. He lunged at me like a madman, his hand clamping around my wrist. The blade’s tip was a hair’s breadth from my skin. His face was ashen, his entire body trembling. “Let me die! Don’t touch me with hands that have touched someone else!” I screamed, throwing his own past accusations back at him. Isabelle stood by, arms crossed, sneering. “Seriously? What is this, the dark ages? The whole ‘I’ll kill myself’ routine? Ethan, is this really the kind of neurotic drama queen you’re into?” “GET OUT!” Ethan, finding an outlet for his terror and rage, spun around and slapped Isabelle across the face so hard she stumbled and fell. “Get the hell out of here, and don’t you ever show your face in front of me and Liv again!” Isabelle cradled her cheek, staring at him in disbelief before scrambling to her feet and fleeing. 4 The villa was suddenly silent, save for the sound of our two ragged breaths. Ethan pried the letter opener from my hand and pulled me into a tight, trembling embrace, still reeling from the shock. “Liv, she was lying. Please, believe me…” I let out a shuddering breath and whispered in the most devoted, heartfelt tone I could muster, “Really? Then from now on, will you share your entire schedule with me? Everything. And don’t you dare lie.” I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a chilling murmur. “If you betray me, I’ll kill you. Then I’ll kill myself.” Ethan’s body went rigid. He looked down at me, and the first emotion that surfaced in his eyes was not fear, but a twisted, ecstatic joy. “Liv… you love me that much?” A beat, then… “Okay. I promise. I’ll tell you everything, wherever I go. I’ll give you all the security you need.” But behind the elation, I saw it. A flicker of fear. It was the look of a predator, accustomed to being the sole hunter in its territory, suddenly catching the scent of an equal. The System’s voice pinged in my head, sounding incredulous. 【Male Lead’s character profile is collapsing by 5%. Current bond strength with Host: 95%!】 He could track my every move. Now, so could I. That’s what I call fair. 5 After “calming me down,” Ethan secretly replied to my burner account. [You have the money. If you interfere in my life with Olivia again, I will find you. Don’t think I can’t.] He couldn’t. This burner account was one I’d used to tip him off back when Isabelle was trying to frame me. Its signal was untraceable, even for him. The System grumbled, [I knew I shouldn’t have given you that feature…] To distract me, Ethan showered me with luxury goods. But his promise to share his schedule never materialized. A master manipulator doesn’t take the demands of his pretty little bird seriously. I played my part, reverting to the obedient, sweet girl he thought he controlled. He stroked my hair, satisfied. “Get ready,” he said. “I’m taking you somewhere special tonight. For your birthday.” That evening, he took me to a lavish ballroom at the city’s finest hotel. The birthday gala was filled with guests, and, just as I expected, Isabelle was there. Under the pressure of Ethan’s glare, she reluctantly approached me, forcing a stiff smile. “Happy birthday, Olivia. I was out of line the other day, just teasing you. The CEO and I have a purely professional relationship. I hope you didn’t misunderstand.” I linked my arm through Ethan’s, my own smile a picture of innocence. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I trust you, and I trust my baby.” I squeezed his arm. “From now on, I won’t doubt you again… unless I see something with my own two eyes.” The fake smile on Isabelle’s face froze. She clearly hadn’t expected me to be so magnanimous. Ethan, however, was delighted by my response. He wrapped an arm around my waist and, in a loud voice, addressed the room. “And on this happy occasion, I have some wonderful news to share. Liv and I are getting engaged!” The hall erupted in applause and congratulations. The hatred in Isabelle’s eyes was practically overflowing, but under Ethan’s warning gaze, she didn’t dare make a scene. Halfway through the party, Ethan was cornered by a group of business partners. I watched as Isabelle shot me a defiant smirk, leaned in close to a slightly drunk Ethan, and whispered something in his ear. Then, one after the other, they slipped out of the ballroom. [Ethan and Isabelle Distance: 15 feet… 3 feet… 0…] I took out my burner phone again. [Snacking on the side again, Mr. CEO? Time to tell your fiancée. The price is $20 million this time.] He was likely in a state of frustrated arousal. His reply was blunt: [Fuck off]. I set down my champagne flute and, following the distance tracker, calmly made my way upstairs to the guest suites. I stopped in front of one of the rooms. “Baby,” I called out, my voice sweet and clear. “What are you doing in there?”

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