He sent our five-year-old twin daughters away because they upset the woman he could never get over. All it took was one unhappy comment from her, and he had them enrolled in a behavioral modification academy. The school’s “escorts” stormed our home to take them. My daughters, my little girls, clawed at the door of the black SUV, their voices shrill with terror as they screamed for their father. I was on my knees on the driveway, the sharp gravel digging into my skin. “They’re only five, Ethan,” I begged, my voice shredding. “They’re just babies. A place like that will break them. It’s my fault, I’m their mother, I’m the one who failed to teach them. Punish me…” But Ethan just stood there, his arm wrapped around her, watching the three of us with cold, detached eyes. “If you hadn’t coddled them, they wouldn’t have turned into such entitled brats,” he spat. “I’m their father. If you can’t discipline them, I will. Do you really think I would ever let any harm come to them?” The next day, when his sister and I finally reached the academy, we were met with the sight of our daughters’ small bodies, covered in deep purple bruises. They were no longer breathing. And my husband? He was on Instagram, celebrating the fact that his high school sweetheart was pregnant with his child. My eyes, empty of everything, turned to my sister-in-law. “My babies are dead,” I whispered, the words feeling like sand in my mouth. “I have nothing left. Please, Sophie. Just let me go. I don’t want anything.” 1 By the time we got them to the hospital, there were no signs of life. They didn’t even make it to the emergency room; they were wheeled straight to the morgue. Sophie looked at me, her gaze thick with a pity I couldn’t bear. She tried to find words of comfort. “It’s going to be okay, Reagan. I promise. Grandfather and I are on your side. Ethan was wrong, completely wrong. I’ll make him come and apologize, and you two can…” Her voice trailed off as I held my phone up to her face. It was Ethan’s Instagram post from two hours ago. The caption read: “Before you even entered this world, Mommy and Daddy already loved you.” The picture was an ultrasound. The name at the top was clear: Victoria Reed. Six weeks pregnant. Victoria. The one he’d always wanted. Sophie’s words choked in her throat. A moment later, her face flushed with rage. “I’m calling him right now. I swear to you, Reagan, the Lockwood family will make this right…” A dry, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I hit dial on Ethan’s number myself and put it on speaker. He answered on the second ring, his voice already laced with irritation. “Are you calling to cry about the girls being ‘mistreated’ again? They’re Lockwoods. Who would dare lay a hand on them? Stop playing the victim. I sent them to a school to learn some discipline. Is that a reason to blow up my phone every five minutes?” He paused, then delivered the final blow. “You make me sick, Reagan.” He hung up before I could say a single word. The silence in the sterile hospital hallway was absolute. Every one of his cruel words had landed, sharp and clear, in Sophie’s ears. Her face was as white as the walls around us. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. She had no more reassurances to offer. I forced a smile that felt like cracking glass, and the tears I’d been holding back finally fell, hot and heavy. “Please,” I whispered again. “I have nothing left. Let me go. I can’t do this anymore.” Just as Sophie opened her mouth to reply, two police officers approached us. “Are you the family of the deceased?” one of them asked, his voice gentle. “The administrators from the academy have been taken into custody. We need you to come down to the station and give a statement.” The moment I walked into the precinct, I saw them—the men who had dragged my screaming children from our home the day before. Something inside me snapped. A guttural scream tore from my throat as I launched myself at them, my grief turning into a blind, animalistic rage. “You monsters! You’re monsters! They were five years old! How could you do it? How could you!” Hands grabbed me from all sides, pulling me back. Sophie wrapped her arms around me, holding my collapsing body. “Reagan, please,” she sobbed. “Let the police handle this. They’ll get justice, I swear. With the Lockwood name behind this, those bastards don’t stand a chance.” The men, startled by my frenzy, huddled in the corner. One of them muttered with a sneer, “Not our fault the mother didn’t raise them right.” Another one chimed in. “It’s how we teach all the kids. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Who knew these two were so fragile? Just our bad luck…” My hand, trembling violently, pointed at them. The fire in my chest was about to consume me. I wanted to rip them to shreds. A metallic taste flooded my mouth. I coughed, a spray of dark blood staining the linoleum floor, and then the world went black. When I woke up, I was in a bedroom at the Lockwood estate. Sophie was beside the bed, her eyes red and swollen. “Reagan, you’re awake. Don’t worry, we’re handling everything with the police. We will make sure those animals pay for what they did.” My eyes were fixed on the ornate ceiling, seeing nothing. “Please, let me go,” I said, the words a hollow echo. “I have nothing left…” 2 I knew the truth, of course. Those men at the academy were monsters, yes. But they were just the final instruments. The one who had personally delivered my daughters to that hell was Ethan. The true architect of their deaths wasn’t a stranger. It was their own father. Sophie’s shoulders slumped. After a long moment, as if making a monumental decision, she whispered, “Okay. I’ll go talk to Grandfather.” As I watched her leave, a sob finally broke through the numbness, a raw, ragged sound that carried all the pain of the last seven years. I cried until there was nothing left inside me. I came to the Lockwood estate when I was eight, the same age as Ethan. My grandfather and his, Arthur Lockwood, had served together in Vietnam. My grandfather saved his life on the battlefield, forging a bond of blood and honor between them. After my parents died in a car crash when I was a baby, my grandfather raised me. When he passed away eight years later, Arthur Lockwood brought me here, into his home. To his credit, he and Sophie had always treated me like family. They were kind, generous, and loving. They made me feel like I belonged. It was because of them that I stayed. For seven years of marriage, no matter how Ethan treated me, no matter how much of a bastard he was, I stayed. I built a home for him, bore his children, and managed his life. I had accepted that he would never love me. But I thought that with my two beautiful daughters, my life would still have meaning. Now, all of it was gone. I don’t know how much time passed before Sophie returned. “Grandfather wants to see you.” When I entered his study, Arthur Lockwood was sitting in a heavy wooden chair by the window. The look in his eyes was one of profound sorrow. “My dear girl,” he said, his voice raspy with age and emotion. “You are a good girl. Sophie told me everything. You’ve suffered too much these past years.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “The cremation is tomorrow. After it’s done… you should go. That boy of mine doesn’t deserve you. He shouldn’t be allowed to waste another day of your life.” I said nothing. I simply walked before him and bowed deeply from the waist. As I held the bow, tears dripped from my face onto the polished hardwood floor. I was grateful, so deeply grateful, for the twenty years of shelter and kindness this family had given me. But I could never, ever forgive Ethan. I could never forgive the man who had murdered my children. When I returned to my room, Ethan was already there, waiting. A smirk played on his lips. “Well? Didn’t take you long to run to Grandfather and tattle, did it? Reagan, do you honestly believe that just because you have him and Sophie wrapped around your finger, I’ll ever want to be a real husband to you?” The sight of him ignited a hatred so potent it was suffocating. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to send him straight to hell. But then, I heard their voices, soft and sweet in my memory. “Mommy, I love Daddy so much. He’s the most handsome dad in my whole preschool.” “Mommy, we miss Daddy. Is he coming home to see us today?” “We love you the most in the whole world, Mommy. And we love Daddy second most.” Even in their last moments, as I held their broken bodies at that godforsaken school, the last thing they whispered to me was: “Mommy… don’t be mad at Daddy because of us. It was our fault. We were bad…” I took a sharp breath and walked past him to sit on the edge of the bed, saying nothing. My silence seemed to infuriate him. He grabbed me, throwing me back against the mattress and pinning my wrists above my head. “What’s this new act?” he sneered. “You had Sophie call me, begging me to come home. And now you give me the silent treatment?” He lowered his face to kiss me. I couldn’t break his grip, so I did the only thing I could. I bit down on his lip, hard. He yelped in pain, releasing me and scrambling back. “Reagan! Are you out of your goddamn mind?” He wiped a smear of blood from his mouth. “This pathetic act is exactly how you manipulate Grandfather, isn’t it? Beg me to come back and then play these stupid games. It’s pathetic.” He stood up, his face a mask of disgust. “It’s because of this fake, innocent bullshit that the girls are so…” “The girls are dead,” I said, my voice quiet and steady, cutting through his tirade. I could taste my own blood where I’d bitten the inside of my lip. 3 Ethan froze, his expression hardening. Then, he let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “Reagan, you’ll say anything, won’t you? Is this because you found out about Victoria’s pregnancy today? Are you really that desperate?” Without another word, he turned and stalked towards the door. He paused in the doorway, his back still to me. “You’re the one who wanted me to come home,” he said coldly. “Don’t go crying to Grandfather that I’m neglecting you. It only makes me hate you more.” The door clicked shut, and the room was silent again. I stumbled into the bathroom and scrubbed at my teeth, trying to erase the ghost of his touch from my lips. There was a time when Ethan and I were in love. On my eighteenth birthday, he stood before me, the tips of his ears bright red with shyness. “Reagan,” he’d stammered. “I want to take care of you. I don’t want to just be… like your brother anymore.” The young man’s cheeks were flushed, but his eyes held a conviction that was intoxicating. In that moment, my heart melted. For the next few years, he treated me like I was made of glass. And I loved him with everything I had. Then, when I was twenty-two, his grandfather summoned us to his study. “You’re both of an age to marry,” Arthur had said, smiling warmly. “Reagan, my dear, your grandfather saved my life. I couldn’t bear the thought of you marrying into another family. What do you think of my boy, Ethan?” From that day on, everything changed. Ethan’s affection, the tender intimacy we shared, it all vanished overnight. I never understood what happened. He would never give me a reason. A year into our marriage, I became pregnant with the twins. After that, he was barely home, spending his nights out, shamelessly parading Victoria around town. I tried to fight, to argue. But he would just look at me with that same coldness, as if I were a hysterical stranger. “You got what you wanted,” he’d say. “You’re Mrs. Lockwood. You’ve given the family an heir. What more could you possibly be crying about?” Then, the final twist of the knife: “Stop acting like a victim in front of me. It’s disgusting.” After that, I stopped asking for a reason. I accepted the reality. Ethan didn’t love me, and he didn’t love our children. I focused all my energy on the girls. They were sweet, smart, and well-behaved. I thought that was enough. I thought watching them grow would be my happiness. But now, even that has been taken from me. The next morning, the cremation was quick and sterile. I stood outside the funeral home, holding two small, light boxes. They were so tiny when they were born, sleeping peacefully in my arms. How is it that after five years, they’ve become even smaller, even lighter? A burning sting filled my eyes, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to let another tear fall. Sophie stood beside me, her expression etched with worry. “If you need to cry, Reagan, just let it out. Don’t hold it in.” I didn’t answer her. My gaze was fixed on Mr. Lockwood as he prepared to get into his car for the drive to the cemetery. “Grandfather,” I said, my voice clear and firm. “The girls won’t be buried in the Lockwood plot. And I’m changing their last names. They aren’t Lockwoods. They are my daughters. Reagan Scott’s daughters.” Arthur Lockwood stared at me, his eyes ancient and weary. Then, a sudden fury overtook him. “That worthless son of mine!” he roared. “On a day like today, where the hell is he?” Sophie flinched beside me and mumbled, “His phone is off. I can’t reach him.” Arthur closed his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, his gaze was clear. “You carried them for nine months and brought them into this world through hell. It will be as you say.” I immediately sank to my knees before him and pressed my forehead to the cool pavement three times. My debt of gratitude to this man was immeasurable. But that debt had nothing to do with my children. I would not allow them to suffer any further indignity, even in death. After his car pulled away, Sophie gently helped me to my feet. “Reagan…” she began, her voice cracking. I gave her a small, sad smile, then hailed a cab, clutching the two boxes to my chest. I was going back to the house. I had to pack up their things. That house was never a home, and I wouldn’t leave a trace of them in that cold, empty place. But when I pushed open the front door, the sound that greeted me was the sordid noise of a man and a woman, tangled together. “Oh, stop,” a woman giggled. “I’m pregnant. The doctor said we need to be careful.” 4 The man’s voice was rough with lust. “I’ll be gentle. It’s fine. Shh, baby. I would never do anything to hurt our little one.” A moment later, the unmistakable sounds of their lovemaking echoed through the house. They were in our bedroom. I couldn’t go in to pack. So I just stood there in the foyer, frozen, torturing myself by listening to every obscene sound. I don’t know how long passed before they finally emerged. The moment Victoria saw me, a look of undisguised triumph flashed in her eyes. “Oh, Reagan, you’re back! You were so quiet, we didn’t even know you were here. It’s all Ethan’s fault,” she purred, clinging to his arm. “I told him no, but he just insisted. You know how he is.” Ethan stood beside her, his hand possessively on her waist. “Why are you explaining anything to her? She’s a nobody.” He leaned down and kissed Victoria’s temple. “Come on, let’s go. We have that appointment with the OB-GYN. We need to make sure our baby is healthy and safe.” Throughout it all, Ethan never once looked at me. His world contained only Victoria. I stepped aside, calmly clearing a path for them to the door. As he passed me, his gaze finally fell on the two small boxes in my arms. “What is that garbage?” he said with a frown of disgust. “It’s filthy. Throw it out.” With that, he wrapped his arm around Victoria and walked out the door. I looked down at the boxes in my arms, my vision blurring. “He wasn’t talking about you,” I whispered to them. “Don’t be sad. You’re Mommy’s treasures. You are not garbage.” After carefully placing their ashes on the table, I began to pack. Clothes, toys, dinnerware, crayons. When I got to the small desk in their playroom, I found a framed picture. It was a family photo, but only the three of us were in it. There was no Ethan. With a trembling hand, I removed the photo from its frame. On the picture, one of my daughters had drawn a stick figure of a man. Next to it, in the clumsy handwriting of a child, were three words. Daddy loves Mommy. Next to the words, she had drawn a tiny heart. That’s when I finally broke. I clutched the photograph to my chest and wailed, the sound raw and broken. In the five years I had raised them alone, no matter what passed between Ethan and me, I had never said a single bad word about him in front of our daughters. But children are perceptive. They knew. They saw that their father did not love their mother. It was dark by the time I finished packing. I watched as the moving company loaded the last of the boxes onto their truck. “Is that everything, Ms. Scott?” the mover asked. I shook my head, turned, and walked back inside. On the coffee table, I placed the divorce papers I had already signed. As I left the house for the last time, I held the two boxes close. A strange sense of peace settled over me. After a moment of silence, I took out my phone, removed the SIM card, snapped it in two, and tossed the pieces out the car window. Meanwhile, at the Lockwood Medical Center, Arthur and Sophie had arrived, having tracked down Ethan and Victoria during their appointment. The moment Ethan saw his grandfather and sister, his face darkened. “Does Reagan have no shame?” he muttered to Victoria. “Plays the saint at home and then calls them to chase me down at the hospital. She’s disgusting…” Before he could finish, Arthur’s hand cracked across his face with a sound that echoed in the corridor. “You degenerate!” the old man bellowed, his voice shaking with fury. “You murder your own children and you have the nerve to bring your mistress here for a checkup? How did my family produce something so heartless, so rotten to the core?” Ethan staggered back, stunned. “What… What did you say?”

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For three years, Ethan and I were bound by the “Fifty-Fifty Couple” System. When we went out to eat, I paid for my meal, he paid for his. Movie tickets were split down the middle, and the popcorn was divided kernel by kernel. Then he was diagnosed with end-stage renal failure. He needed a new kidney. The System chimed in: [Surgical procedure estimated at $500,000. Host Audrey is required to pay fifty percent.] I had five thousand dollars in my bank account. Lying in his hospital bed, Ethan squeezed my hand gently. “Audrey, it’s okay if you don’t have the money.” “I looked it up. A kidney on the black market goes for about two hundred and fifty thousand.” He gazed at me, his eyes full of a terrifying tenderness. “You love me that much, don’t you? Of course you do.” I looked into his devoted eyes and smiled. So this was it. The grand finale of the three-year-long marital obedience test. 1 A cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind, sterile and sharp. [Detecting a required kidney transplant for partner Ethan Vance. Total cost: $500,000.] [In accordance with the Fifty-Fifty principle, Host Audrey Miller must contribute fifty percent of the total, amounting to $250,000.] [Please complete the payment within seven days, or the penalty protocol will be initiated.] I stared at my banking app. The balance—$5,321.80—seemed to mock me, my fingers growing numb and cold. Three years. Three years since Ethan and I had gotten together. We’d met in college. He’d asked me out right after graduation, his confession full of earnest, soulful promises. He told me he was searching for a love that was pure, perfectly equal, untainted by the vulgarity of money. And then it appeared: the “Fifty-Fifty Couple” System. It bound us together the moment I said yes. At first, I thought it was a sign, a testament to our progressive, modern love. Rent was split exactly in half. Utilities were calculated down to the cent. The electric razor I bought him for his birthday cost $89.99. The lipstick he gave me for mine was $94.50. I had to Venmo him the $2.26 difference. I used to think it was charming, a quirk of our relationship. Only now did I realize it wasn’t a quirk. It was a cage. Ethan lay propped against the sterile white pillows, his face pale, but his smile was as gentle as ever. He took my hand, his palm warm and dry against my own icy skin. “Audrey, don’t be scared.” “It’s okay if you don’t have the money.” I lifted my head, my gaze falling into the same deep brown eyes I had once drowned in. “I looked it up,” he said, his voice soft. “A kidney on the black market goes for about two hundred and fifty thousand.” My heart stopped. Just for a second, it simply ceased to beat. He reached up, stroking my cheek with his thumb. His tone was intimate, full of the tender persuasion I knew so well. “You love me that much, don’t you? Of course you do.” He said it so matter-of-factly, like he was asking if I wanted pasta or pizza for dinner. I stared at him, and a slow, cold smile spread across my face. So that’s what this was. This wasn’t about some bullshit principle of equality. This entire three-year, meticulously calculated relationship had been one long, elaborate obedience test. And the final exam had just been handed out. He wasn’t asking for my money. He was asking for a piece of my body to prove that I loved him. 2 “Ethan, are you serious?” My own voice was a tremor, and I couldn’t tell if it was from rage or fear. A small frown creased his brow, a flicker of annoyance at my question. “Audrey, we’ve been together for three years. My life is literally in your hands.” He let out a soft, pained sigh. “Was it all a lie? Everything we had?” He began to cough, a weak, theatrical sound, leaning back against the pillows as if another question from me might just finish him off. Just then, the hospital room door flew open. Ethan’s mother, Carol, blew in like a storm front. She didn’t even glance at me, rushing straight to the bedside to grab Ethan’s other hand. “Ethan, honey! How are you feeling? What did the doctor say?” “I’m fine, Mom.” He patted her hand, but his eyes darted toward me. “It’s just… Audrey. I don’t think she’s willing.” Carol’s gaze snapped to me, sharp and venomous. “Audrey, what is your problem?” she hissed. “Ethan is dying, and you’re hesitating?” “It’s only two hundred and fifty thousand dollars! Do you have any idea how much time and effort my son has invested in you over the past three years? How do you even begin to calculate that?” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Carol, we split everything fifty-fifty. He hasn’t spent an extra dime on me.” “Bullshit!” Her voice was shrill. “He let you cook and clean for him! That was a privilege, a chance for you to prove your worth!” “He let you move into our building and only charged you half the rent! Do you know how many women would kill for a chance to pay to be near him?” She jabbed a finger in my direction, her face contorted with fury. “My son is a catch! Being with you was the biggest blessing of your life!” “And now, when he needs you to save him, you drag your feet! What’s one kidney? You women have two of them! You won’t die if you lose one!” she shrieked. “We’ve taken care of you for three years. Think of it as repaying a debt!” Repaying a debt? I was the one who rushed home from my job every single day to shop, cook, and clean for the two of them. I was the one who served Ethan his dinner while he sat on the couch, controller in hand, screaming at a video game. Carol had never so much as washed a single dish, accepting my unpaid labor as her royal due. This was the “debt” they spoke of. Watching the two of them, one playing the victim, the other the aggressor, their routine so perfectly rehearsed, it all finally clicked into place. I wasn’t Ethan’s girlfriend. I was a pre-ordered organ donor. A live-in, unpaid housekeeper. And it was time for them to collect. Ethan, ever the gentle manipulator, added his soft appeal. “Mom, don’t say that. Audrey’s just having a hard time processing.” He turned back to me, his eyes filled with a carefully measured dose of disappointment and pleading. “Audrey. Please, just do this for me. For us.” I watched his performance, a sheet of ice forming around my heart. I took a deep, steadying breath. Then, I looked at him, at his mother, and gave them the brightest, most brilliant smile I could muster. “Okay.”

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It happened right after I liked my husband Ryan’s latest photo on Instagram. The whispers from my coworkers started instantly, a ripple of quiet hisses spreading through the office. In his new post, there he was: Ryan, the man who claimed washing a single dish was beneath him, now dressed in an expensive Patagonia jacket, diligently pruning grapevines in some rustic, sun-drenched vineyard. But it was the caption that really sealed it. He’d written, so proud of himself: A real man can close a deal in the boardroom and handle a shovel in the backyard. This morning, before he left, he told me he had to fly out of state for an urgent project meeting. Apparently, the “project meeting” was at his female colleague’s family home. I stared at the smug, self-satisfied look on Ryan’s face in the photo, and I felt… nothing. A perfect, serene void. I quietly liked the post, then locked my phone. I didn’t know what kind of storm was about to break, but I knew one thing with absolute certainty. We were finished. 1. It didn’t take long for his call to come through. His voice was a mixture of post-manual-labor exhaustion and a sharp edge of anger. “Alice, what the hell? We’re all colleagues here. What’s with the passive-aggressive crap online for everyone to see?” “Jenna’s family is struggling. So what if I came back to her hometown to help out? You wouldn’t get it. A princess like you, who’s had everything handed to her, what do you know about how hard life is for people in the country?” “Delete the comment right now. Stop making a fool of yourself in front of the whole office. If you’re not embarrassed, I am!” “Next holiday, I promise, I’ll take you to see your parents. Okay?” Next holiday. I’d heard that empty promise a thousand times. My heart was numb to it now. Besides, there wasn’t going to be a next holiday for us. Because the day after Thanksgiving, our divorce waiting period would be over. I was about to tell him not to bother when I heard a sudden yelp on his end of the line, like he’d tripped over something. He hung up in a hurry. I frowned, set my phone down, and tried to focus on the project proposal in front of me. A few minutes later, my phone started buzzing relentlessly, like a death rattle. I opened it to see that Jenna had tagged me in the company-wide Slack channel. She’d screenshotted my “like” on Ryan’s post and was demanding an explanation, her words dripping with faux outrage. “@Alice, what is this supposed to mean? If you have a problem with me being from a small town, just say it. Don’t hide behind these petty, sarcastic jabs.” “Ryan was kind enough to put aside his pride and help me prune grapevines, and all you can do is sit behind a screen and mock people? What kind of woman does that?” The channel exploded. People I knew, people I didn’t, all chiming in to support Jenna, their words sycophantic and eager to please the boss’s new favorite. Then, the unbelievable happened. Ryan himself jumped into the chat. “Alice, I expect you to apologize to Jenna immediately. If you don’t, consider yourself suspended for two weeks.” His favoritism was blatant, shameless. What stung more was that the colleagues I’d considered friends, the ones I shared lunches and inside jokes with, were all silent. Not a single person spoke up for me. It was like they’d all made a pact. The arrows were all pointing at me. Someone even accused me of being a snob who “discriminates against people from rural areas,” calling me petty and jealous of the new girl. I let out a cold, humorless laugh. I couldn’t be bothered to argue. If this was how Ryan wanted to fire me, it would actually be doing me a favor. After all, three months ago, he’d already signed the divorce papers with his own hand. 2. It was a normal Friday. When I handed him the papers, I was still clinging to a sliver of hope. I thought he might at least glance at them, maybe even ask why. But Ryan took the folder without ever looking up from his phone, scribbled his signature in a few quick strokes, and handed it back as if he were approving a routine expense report. I just stood there, frozen. I looked down at his messy, illegible signature, and a pain so sharp it felt like a physical blade twisted in my gut. I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “Did you even read it?” His brow furrowed in annoyance, his thumbs still flying across his phone screen. “It’s a document from Jenna. What could possibly be wrong with it? If there’s nothing else, you can go.” My fingers, still clutching the papers, turned white. An invisible hand was squeezing my chest, making it impossible to breathe. So that’s what I was to him. Not even worthy of a second of his attention. The only person he trusted was Jenna. I glanced down and saw the tension in his face melt away, replaced by a soft, gentle smile. He looked like a teenager with a crush. I risked a peek at his screen. Even though they were in the same building, he was texting Jenna. Flirting. The messages were intimate, full of inside jokes. They were making plans for drinks at some trendy cocktail bar tonight. A phone ringing violently yanked me back to the present. It was Ryan again. Probably calling to force me to issue that public apology to Jenna in the Slack channel. I ignored it. But he called seven, eight times in a row. Finally, a colleague walked over and held her phone out to me, whispering, “It’s Mr. Henderson. He says it’s urgent.” I took the phone, my voice flat and cold. “What is it?” “Alice, you’ve got a lot of nerve, don’t you? Ignoring my messages, my calls? You really want to go against me?” He launched into a tirade, his tone that of a CEO reprimanding an insubordinate employee. “What do you want, Ryan?” He scoffed. “I just got a call. Someone from the county clerk’s office, saying they wanted to schedule our final divorce mediation. Do you know anything about this?” My breath caught in my throat. Had he finally remembered? 3. But his next words rained down on me like a hailstorm. “Alice, I thought you had some class, but I never imagined you’d stoop this low.” “Hiring someone to impersonate a government official? Threatening me with a divorce? You’ve really outdone yourself.” I was stunned into silence. I could hear Jenna’s voice in the background, a slow, sweet drawl. “Take it easy, Ryan. She’s probably just worried about you working so hard at my family’s place. She just wants you to come home sooner.” Ryan laughed, a cruel, cutting sound. “Her? Worried about me? If she gave a damn about me, she wouldn’t have thrown a fit and kept me up all night when I was exhausted and just trying to get some rest!” I laughed too, a hollow sound that chilled me to the bone. I remembered that night. He had been with Jenna at a gallery opening. He came home reeking of champagne, completely oblivious to the fact that I was in the middle of a severe allergic asthma attack, wheezing so badly I was on the verge of passing out. What he called “throwing a fit” was me, gasping for air, desperately dialing 911. When he heard the knock on the door, he didn’t even ask if I was okay. He stormed out, screamed at the paramedics for making a racket, and slammed the door in their faces, locking it. The next day, when he found me too sick to get out of bed, he complained that I was going to ruin his focus for the week. He packed a bag and went to “stay” at Jenna’s apartment. I was alone in that apartment for six days, surviving on leftover inhalers and medication. The illness finally subsided, but it left me with a permanent tightness in my chest whenever the air got damp. He didn’t remember any of that. All he remembered was that I had disturbed his peace. “Alice, what I said in the channel stands. You’re suspended for two weeks. Do you have a problem with that?” “You can fire me, or I can quit. Either works.” Ryan seemed taken aback by my response. He paused, then his tone softened, clearly mistaking my decisiveness for surrender. “Look, it doesn’t have to come to that. Since you’re showing a little remorse, we can change the punishment.” “Jenna said she’s willing to forgive your little online outburst. But from now on, your project commissions will be transferred to her as compensation for emotional distress.” “Now, aren’t you going to thank Jenna for giving you a second chance?” 4. I had to laugh at the sheer audacity. They were the ones who had publicly humiliated me, yet somehow, they had twisted it to make it my fault. Ryan was a master at this kind of gaslighting. Like the time Jenna missed a client proposal deadline and insisted I never told her the date. Or the time she got drunk at a client dinner, smashed the client’s phone, and nearly got us sued. Ryan didn’t blame her. He chewed me out in front of the entire company for not “training her properly.” I was so done with this life. So I replied calmly, “Thanks for the generous offer, but I think I’ll just quit. It’s better for everyone.” I hung up before he could respond. My coworkers shot furtive, gossipy glances my way. I met their eyes, and they quickly ducked their heads back down, pretending to be busy. Just then, an unknown number called. “Hello, this is the county clerk’s office. We’re calling for a final confirmation. Do you and Mr. Henderson require divorce mediation services?” “No, that won’t be necessary.” “Very well. You can come to the courthouse to pick up your final divorce decree on any business day next week.” I hung up the phone and let out a long, slow breath. This seven-year relationship was finally, truly over. I finished up my pending tasks, typed out my resignation letter, and took it to HR. Ryan wasn’t in the office, so I had to leave it with them to process. I didn’t want to spend another second in that building. As I passed the HR manager’s desk, my eyes caught on a small decorative object on her shelf. A gilded magnolia flower, now covered in a thin layer of dust. It was a memento from seven years ago, back when Ryan and I had just gotten together. He had given one to every employee in the company. He’d spent days choosing it, settling on the magnolia because, he said, it symbolized our love: pure and enduring. I can still remember him holding my hand, smiling. “Alice,” he’d said, “we’ll be like this magnolia. We’ll never wilt.” Now, the flower was forgotten in a corner, collecting dust. Just like our love, eventually replaced by time and someone new. The HR manager noticed me looking. She sneered. “Don’t bother staring. It’s not yours anymore.” “Your paperwork is processed. You can go now.” I snapped back to reality and gave a bitter smile, saying nothing. Leaving her office, I went back to my desk to pack my things. I found it buried under a mountain of trash. Wastepaper, empty soda cans, snack wrappers. All of my personal belongings—my photos, my favorite mug—had been thrown on the floor. I looked around. My coworkers watched me with smirks on their faces, enjoying the show. They must have figured that since I was officially on the outs with Ryan and leaving the company, they didn’t have to pretend to be civil anymore. The coldness of human nature, on full display. I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me break. I swept the entire pile of garbage off my desk and onto the floor with one clean motion, clapped the dust from my hands, and walked away without looking back. The moment I was out of the building, I called a real estate agent. I put the apartment we lived in on the market. Then I went and applied for a passport. Seven years ago, I gave up my dream of traveling the world to stay in this city for Ryan. Now that I was free, it was time to get my dream back. 5. I used to tell Ryan I wanted to travel, to hold his hand and see every corner of the globe. But he never took me on a single proper vacation. He was always busy with a project, always putting it off. I felt sorry for him, for how hard he worked. So I stayed, working as his assistant for seven years. Everything changed when Jenna arrived. Ryan started pushing all his work onto me while he took Jenna on trips all over the country. At first, I believed they were business trips. Until Jenna started posting photos of them together on her social media. In every picture, they were smiling, intimately close, with famous landmarks in the background. Her captions were filled with romantic, suggestive undertones. My sympathy had just been his excuse for betrayal. Just like now. Knowing she had Ryan’s full support, Jenna was flaunting their relationship all over Instagram. Ryan, who never cooked, was personally making fruit wine for Jenna’s family, laughing like a teenager by the fire pit. Ryan, who was always so aloof, was humbly serving coffee to Jenna’s relatives, even sharing a cup with her as they all cheered. Ryan, who was so picky about beds he could never sleep anywhere but home, was now pictured sleeping peacefully in a hammock in Jenna’s backyard, his head resting on her shoulder. I was smarter this time. I just liked the posts, no comments. Then I blocked both of their accounts. Out of sight, out of mind. I spent a few days exploring a nearby city. As soon as the divorce decree was in my hands, I would start my trip around the world. The day I picked it up, I felt calm, almost euphoric with relief. But when I got back to the apartment and pushed open the door, I heard voices inside. “Ryan, I know that Jenna girl is from the country, but she seems a lot more dependable than Alice.” “She doesn’t have any bad habits, either. Just a little drink now and then, but she’ll grow out of that once she has a baby.” “Mom, what are you talking about? Alice and I are married!” Ryan’s voice was laced with a smug tone, but there was an undercurrent of dismissal. I sneered. I don’t drink. I have no bad habits. But in his parents’ eyes, I was somehow not woman enough. “So what if you’re married? You can get a divorce!” “That Jenna seems like a good, solid girl. Much better than Alice, who’s just been living off you all these years!” Ryan’s father’s voice cut in, dripping with contempt. It was clear they had already accepted Jenna as their future daughter-in-law. They had completely forgotten how, seven years ago, they had praised my master’s degree and my potential to help Ryan build his career. I couldn’t listen to any more. I pushed the door open and walked in. 6. All three of them turned to look at me, their expressions shifting rapidly from surprise to annoyance. Ryan was the first to react, pointing a finger at me, his voice booming with authority. “Alice, you finally decided to come home? Disappearing for days without a word, are you trying to end this marriage?” “You pull another stunt like this, and I swear I’ll lock you out for good!” I froze, looking up at his arrogant, self-righteous face. It seemed he hadn’t processed the fact that we were already divorced. In the past, whenever I did something that displeased him, he would lock me out of the apartment. It didn’t matter if it was freezing cold or scorching hot, or what I was wearing. One time, just because I used a little less tea than Jenna preferred when I made her a cup, he flew into a rage and told me to get out. He and Jenna then spent the entire night alone in the apartment, their laughter seeping through the crack under the door, each sound a needle in my heart. Right on cue, as if summoned, Jenna herself emerged from the master bedroom. She was wearing a pair of loose pajama pants and rubbing her eyes, as if she had just woken up. She glanced at me, her voice thick with annoyance. “What’s all the shouting about? Just throw her out. What’s she going to do about it?” Hearing her, Ryan hesitated for a split second. But his parents immediately jumped in. “Exactly! What right does a useless woman have to stay here?” “Ryan, you’re just too soft on her. A freeloader like Alice would never dare to actually defy you.” Goaded on by his parents, the flicker of doubt in Ryan’s eyes was extinguished, replaced by pure irritation. Finally, he turned his head and waved a dismissive hand at me, like shooing away a stray cat. “Just go. I need a few days to cool off. Jenna will be staying here with me for a while.” “And if you don’t learn to behave, by the time I actually decide to divorce you, it’ll be too late for tears!” A cold laugh escaped my lips. “You don’t have to wait.” Under their stunned gazes, I pulled the two copies of our official divorce decree from my bag and slapped them down on the coffee table. “As you wished. We’re already divorced.” The four of them stood there, mouths agape, staring at the documents on the table, utterly speechless. Jenna eyed me suspiciously, then snatched one of the papers and examined it closely. “A pathetic woman like you? You’d willingly give up your meal ticket? This has to be fake.” Ryan’s expression relaxed slightly, and he glared at me. “Alice, why do you always resort to these cheap tricks? Didn’t I tell you to stop? Do I have to call the cops to get you to act like a sane person?” He made a show of reaching for his phone, as if expecting me to break down and beg for forgiveness. But I remained perfectly calm, a slight smile playing on my lips. Ryan’s brow furrowed. He sensed something was wrong. “What are you smiling at?” “I’m smiling because you can’t even remember the divorce papers you signed.” “When did I ever…” Ryan started, but his words died in his throat. His face went pale as a sheet, as if he was finally remembering the document I’d handed him three months ago. 7. To my surprise, he didn’t look relieved. He looked panicked. A flicker of disbelief crossed his face as he mumbled, “No… that’s not possible… I never meant for us to actually…” Hearing this, Jenna realized the papers were real. A flash of triumph lit up her eyes, but she quickly masked it, adopting a scornful tone. “Well, at least you have some self-awareness. Leaving Ryan is the best thing for both of you.” “But,” she added, her eyes narrowing, “Ryan barely glanced at those papers. Who knows what kind of tricks you pulled with the division of assets?” And then it clicked. Ryan wasn’t panicking about the divorce itself. He was panicking about his money. In his world, his fortune would always be more important than me. Realizing this, I felt a wave of exhaustion. There was no point in arguing. I turned to go pack my bags. But Jenna stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “What’s the matter? Feeling guilty? Trying to run away?” “Let me give you some advice. Be smart about this. Sign another agreement waiving your right to any assets. Pay back everything you owe Ryan for these past few years. If you don’t, things are going to get ugly.” I glanced at Ryan, who stood silent, and for a moment, I saw a complex emotion in his eyes. It looked like… regret. Or maybe disappointment. He probably believed it too. That I was the kind of person who would resort to cheap tricks. He was the one who had betrayed our marriage, yet here they were, trying to paint me as the villain and send me away with nothing. The injustice of it was staggering. Ryan’s parents snapped out of their shock, grabbing the divorce decrees and throwing them at me. “Jenna’s right! Either you walk away with nothing, or we’ll see you in court for fraud!” “Enough! All of you, shut up!” It was Ryan. He spoke before I could, his voice sharp and loud, cutting through their tirade. The three of them stared at him, stunned. Their aggressive posture deflated. “Ryan, we’re just looking out for you…” his mother stammered. “What if this woman took advantage…” “Alice is not that kind of person!” Ryan cut Jenna off, his voice so firm it surprised even me. But when he turned to face me, his expression softened into one of sorrow. “Alice,” he said, his voice low, “I don’t care about the money. But can you just tell me why? Why did you have to do this?” “Just because I went to help Jenna at her family’s vineyard instead of going to see your parents with you… is that really enough to end us?” “I won’t hold it against you that you tricked me into signing the papers. We can go back to the courthouse right now and undo this. Whatever you want as compensation, I’ll give it to you.” 8. His voice was as gentle as it used to be. Every time he and Jenna had crossed a line, he would use this same sweet, placating tone to win me over. Once, I had been so fed up I had actually dragged him to the courthouse. But he had become uncharacteristically tender, holding me close and whispering apologies, promising he would change. And like a fool, I believed him. I abandoned the idea of divorce. He knew. He knew I couldn’t bear to throw away seven years of our life together. He used my love as a shield, pushing my boundaries again and again. But not this time. I wasn’t going back. Seeing my silence, Ryan must have thought I was wavering. A blush crept up his neck as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Come on, haven’t you been wanting me home more? I’ll clear my schedule. I won’t go anywhere for the next few days. I’ll stay right here with you…” I let out a cold laugh and took a step back, putting distance between us. “No, thank you. You should go build a family with Jenna. Didn’t you say you two wanted a baby? I’m just setting you free.” Ryan’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. A flicker of triumph crossed Jenna’s face, but she saw Ryan’s resolve faltering and quickly jumped in to play peacemaker. “Alice, Ryan and I are just colleagues. What’s this about a baby? Why don’t we all just sit down and talk this through? I’m sure there’s a better way to solve this.” She reached out, trying to take my arm. I recoiled, disgusted by her touch. But Jenna was quick. She grabbed my wrist and then violently pulled my hand toward herself, stumbling backward and throwing herself to the ground. Her head hit the corner of the coffee table with a sickening thud.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385204”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My cousin Cassie always had my best interests at heart. Or so she said. When she married my billionaire fiancé, she told me she was doing it for me—that the richer a man is, the more twisted he becomes, and she was selflessly diving into the fire to save me. When she sold his spare condo behind his back, she told him I’d taken it over to stash my boy toys. When she maxed out his black card, it was to pay off my gambling debts. When she had an affair with her husband’s own brother, got pregnant, and hemorrhaged after a clandestine meeting, she told everyone I’d been hosting an orgy with a group of male models, that she’d tried to intervene, and that I’d pushed her down the stairs, causing her to miscarry. Ultimately, her husband sent me to the Philippines to atone for my sins. There, her lover had me tortured and dismembered. When I open my eyes again, I’m back on the day of my cousin’s affair and her convenient miscarriage. 1 Every time Cassie went to meet her lover, she told her husband, Donovan Pierce, that she was with me. The excuses were a rotating carousel of chaos. Either I was the other woman in an affair and had been beaten up by the wife, needing comfort and a place to hide. Or I was being chased by loan sharks over gambling debts. She even used the excuse that I’d gone to a clinic for a hymen restoration surgery and needed her there for emotional support. If Donovan hadn’t shown up on my doorstep in my last life, his face contorted with rage as he listed my transgressions, I would have never known my life had been so incredibly… eventful. Right now, my phone is vibrating off the hook with his name. The second I answer, Donovan’s voice explodes in my ear. “Sienna, it’s late. What the hell are you still doing with Cassie?” “I have tolerated you for long enough. Cassie is your cousin, not your mother. You’re a grown woman, for Christ’s sake, stop leeching off her!” “She’s a married woman, and she’s pregnant. Can you have an ounce of shame and stop bothering her with every little thing? Do you have any idea how much of a burden you are?” “Is this about me? Because I broke up with you? Is this some pathetic revenge, trying to destroy my family? Cassie is a good, simple person. If you keep using her like this, don’t blame me for what comes next. Now, send her home. Immediately!” Donovan sounded like he was at the end of his rope, the verbal assault making my ear ache. Back when we were dating, I actually thought he was a gentle, kind man. A true gentleman. But every time he was good to me, Cassie would show me articles about husbands who murdered their wives, dismembered their bodies. She’d warn me, her voice filled with feigned concern, that men were masters of deceit. The more perfect they seemed on the outside, the more dangerous they were on the inside. Then, during a period when Donovan and I were giving each other the silent treatment, she slid into his life as a sympathetic friend, a shoulder to cry on. While she was busy defending him, she was also conveniently, and not-so-subtly, weaving a tapestry of lies about me. With Cassie’s “help,” Donovan and I drifted apart for good. If I hadn’t accidentally seen a piece of Cassie’s lingerie at his house, I would have still been patting myself on the back, grateful for such a clever cousin who helped me dodge a bullet. Soon after, they were married. I made a conscious effort to keep my distance from both of them after that. But Donovan didn’t see it that way. I’d get these calls, full of rage and accusations. My life became a cycle of working and then explaining Cassie’s whereabouts to her husband. The truth was, I never knew where she was. I just repeated the lines she fed me, swallowing the pressure and the insults. It wasn’t until the day Donovan stormed into my apartment, his eyes burning with fury, and had his men stuff me into a sack and ship me to the Philippines, that I finally understood. I had been her scapegoat. Her fall guy. Remembering Donovan’s revenge, remembering the way Cassie and her lover had disposed of me… a cold fire ignites in my gut. Donovan, tonight you’re going to be the one to rip the ugly truth of your perfect family wide open. A chilling smile touches my lips. I speak into the phone, my voice deceptively calm. “Cassie’s busy. Plumbing issues, you know. Can’t be reached for a while.” Then, my expression hardens. I end the call and switch off my phone, refusing to hear another word from him. Moments later, a heavy knock rattles my front door. The instant I turn the lock, the door is thrown open with such force that I stumble backward. Before I can even register what’s happening, several large bodyguards have me pinned, my arms twisted behind my back. Donovan strides into my apartment, his heavy footsteps echoing on the floorboards as he violently searches for Cassie. He tears through my two-bedroom apartment like a hurricane. He finds nothing. “You said she was dealing with plumbing. Where is she?” he snarls, his face flushed with anger as he gets in my face. Seeing him like this, a thrill of vengeance courses through me. I raise an eyebrow, my voice slow and deliberate. “I only said she was dealing with plumbing. I didn’t say it was my plumbing. Have you checked your brother’s place?” A dangerous glint enters Donovan’s eyes. He grabs a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back. “Stop playing games,” he hisses, his voice low and menacing. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Where are you hiding her?” 2 Cassie was always secretive about her movements; I was just the cover story. I had no idea where she actually was. Wincing from the pain shooting through my scalp, I state the simple truth. “She’s a grown woman with arms and legs. How am I supposed to control where she goes? I’m not her mother!” This wasn’t the answer he wanted. Donovan’s eyes turned cold. He lets go of my hair only to swing his hand, the open palm cracking against my cheek. The force of it makes my head ring. I can feel the fire in my own veins rising to meet his. This is it? This is all the anger you have? The thought is exhilarating. Oh, Donovan. The real storm hasn’t even hit you yet. Seeing the defiance in my eyes, he starts tapping my bruised cheek with his fingertips, a condescending, rhythmic pat. “You think because you’re stubborn, I can’t get what I want?” With that, he fishes my phone from my pocket, powers it on, and uses my face to unlock it. He scrolls through my contacts. When he sees my emergency contact, a cruel smirk spreads across his face. He presses dial. “Honey? What’s wrong?” The voice on the other end is my husband, Mark. As always, it’s soft and gentle. I try to scream, to warn him, but one of the bodyguards clamps a hand firmly over my mouth, silencing me. “Are you Sienna’s husband?” Donovan asks, his tone dripping with contempt. “Who is this?” Mark’s voice sharpens instantly, laced with alarm at hearing a strange man on my line. Donovan looks directly at me, his eyes full of malicious intent. “I’m Sienna’s ex,” he says. “But don’t worry, I’m a married man now. I have zero interest in her.” Mark is silent for a beat. “Then why are you calling me from her phone?” “No reason, really. Just thought you should know a few things about your lovely wife.” “Her private life is… a disaster. When we were together, she was constantly sneaking around behind my back with other men.” “It disgusted me, so I broke it off.” “For years now, she’s been surviving by sucking my wife dry. She ‘borrows’ our condo to cheat, she’s addicted to gambling, and she makes my wife max out my credit cards to pay her debts.” “You probably don’t know this, but your wife also moonlights as a homewrecker. She got beaten up by the other woman just last month.” “And last week? She went to some back-alley clinic for a… tune-up. Hymen restoration surgery. Had my wife sit with her in the hospital. Now, you tell me, why would a married woman need to ‘restore’ her virginity? Which one of her lovers is she planning to give that ‘first time’ to?” “Doesn’t it embarrass you, being married to someone so filthy?” “Honestly, it’s pathetic for a man to live like you do. All those green hats you’re wearing every day must be heavy. If I were you, I’d have killed myself by now.” Donovan’s verbal barrage is relentless, grinding my reputation into dust. On the other end of the line, there is only a long, heavy silence from Mark. Mark and I had a good marriage. He’s an honest, kind man, always gentle and patient with me. No matter how big our fights were, he would always be the one to soothe things over, to talk it through. But this time, it seems Donovan’s words have struck him dumb. He doesn’t have a single thing to say. Donovan hangs up, a triumphant look on his face. “Well? Are you going to tell me where Cassie is now?” The bodyguard removes his hand from my mouth. “Breaking and entering, false imprisonment, assault, slander… those are all crimes, you know,” I spit out, glaring at him. I wish my eyes were daggers; I would have torn this fool to shreds. My defiance only fuels his rage. “Crimes? I’ll show you what a real crime looks like!” He turns to his bodyguards. “Trash this place!” On his command, they begin to systematically destroy my apartment. Within minutes, my neat and tidy home is a wasteland of splintered wood and shattered glass. Not a single thing is left intact. I bite down hard. “Donovan, you act like you’re above the law. Do you really have no fear of consequences?” He scoffs, his face a mask of disdain. “The only one facing consequences here is a gold-digging leech like you. Do you have any idea how much money you’ve conned out of Cassie over the years? Everything in this apartment was bought with her money. I’m just breaking my own things. What’s the problem?” He speaks with such conviction, as if he’s not committing a felony but righteously punishing a sinner. I glance at the time. Less than half an hour until Cassie’s miscarriage. The show is about to begin. Suppressing my own fury, I look at Donovan with a playful smirk. “Why don’t we wait a little longer? I have a feeling your wife will be in touch with you very soon.” My nonchalant attitude infuriates him further. “Still trying to be clever? Fine. Today, I’ll make sure your name is ruined forever!” “Take her outside!” His men drag me out of my apartment and down to the building’s main entrance. The commotion quickly draws the attention of neighbors and passersby. Seeing a crowd gathering, Donovan seizes the opportunity. He begins to loudly broadcast my supposed ‘sins’ for all to hear. In moments, I am surrounded by a circle of pointing fingers and judgmental stares. “That’s just disgusting. A grown woman, sucking her pregnant cousin dry. She’s practically trying to kill her! That cousin must be a saint to put up with it. If it were me, I’d have kicked her to the curb years ago!” “She’s the classic vampire relative. Can’t stand to see you poor, but hates it when you’re rich. Lazy, greedy, just takes and takes. My wife’s cousin was just like that, ran her into massive debt. She’s still on antidepressants.” “That kind of woman is a parasite. Whoever gets close to her is doomed!” “And she’s dirty! She has a husband, but she’s out sleeping with models and breaking up marriages. Living in the same building as a public bus like her is just bad luck.” The crowd’s vitriol flies at me from all directions, painting me as a monster. Donovan looks down at me, a sneer on his face. “Well? Are you going to keep being stubborn?” He thinks he has me, that he’s broken me. He’s just waiting for me to beg. I let out a cold laugh. “Is this the best a billionaire can do? A few neighbors yelling at me? What’s that going to accomplish? I can just move. If you really want to ruin me, you should call some influencers, get me on a livestream. That’s how you make someone infamous.” Donovan’s face darkens, his jaw clenching. “Fine. You asked for it.” He pulls out his phone and makes another call. My heart beats faster, not with fear, but with anticipation. Go on. Make a scene. Make it as big as possible. I want the whole world to watch when the scandal of your perfect little family finally breaks. 3 Donovan’s influence was undeniable. Within minutes, a swarm of influencers and livestreamers descended on the scene, each holding a phone up to my face. “You guys are not gonna believe this! The woman you’re looking at right now, she might look simple on the outside, but inside, she is completely rotten!” “For years, she’s been living like a parasite on her cousin. When she needs money, she just asks. Her cousin is pregnant, but this woman still treats her like a personal servant, making her run errands, go shopping, even pick her up from bars when she’s blackout drunk.” “And does she show any gratitude? No. She just spends more and more, making her cousin pay for everything. She scammed money from her, took over their condo to entertain her boy toys, and even maxed out her cousin’s credit card to pay off her own massive gambling debts!” “But that’s not the worst of it. This woman’s personal life is a cesspool. She has a husband, but she’s constantly cheating. Besides the guys she keeps in the condo, she has countless others on the side. She has no conscience. She knowingly became a homewrecker, and even after getting beaten up by the wife, she went to a clinic to get a ‘virginity restoration’ surgery so she could pretend to be innocent and trick more men. I heard she’s been treated for syphilis no less than ten times. I have never seen a woman so filthy; it’s like she’ll die if she goes a single day without a man.” The streamers embellished and exaggerated, piling on fabricated sins until I was buried beneath them. The live chat feeds scrolled furiously with hate: “OMG, her cousin and husband are so unlucky to have this shameless bitch in their lives!” “Jesus, you can’t even call her a woman. She’s a walking plague!” “Seriously, people like her are just a menace to society.” The story went viral. In an instant, my face was all over the internet. “The Vampire Cousin,” “The Toxic Leech,” “Public Bus”—these became my new names. Fueled by the streamers’ sensationalism, the mood of the crowd grew uglier. They started throwing eggs and rotten vegetables at me. Someone from a nearby restaurant hurled a beer bottle that shattered at my feet. I felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter, standing in a pile of garbage, enduring a storm of insults. Suddenly, a figure pushed through the dense crowd. It was Mark. Seeing his familiar face, my lonely, besieged heart felt like it had finally found a safe harbor. For me, Mark had always been my rock. No matter what troubles I faced outside, he was the one who would patiently comfort me, who would solve all my problems. He was my husband, but more than that, he was my sanctuary. In that moment, all I wanted was to collapse into his arms. I let down all my defenses and walked toward him. But just as I reached for him, he shoved me away, hard. Caught off guard, I lost my balance and fell backward onto the ground. The shards of the broken beer bottle dug deep into my palms and legs. A sharp, searing pain shot through me, but the pain in my heart was a thousand times worse. Even Mark… even he didn’t believe me? “Sienna, I can’t believe you’re this kind of person,” he said, his face a dark mask of disappointment. “For all the years we’ve been married, I treated you like a treasure. I gave you everything you wanted. I never once lost my temper with you, never let you suffer a single moment of hardship.” “When you were sick, I learned to cook nourishing meals to nurse you back to health. I made sure you were warm, made sure you were safe. I was so afraid of you ever being unhappy.” “And what did you do?” “You went behind my back to drain your cousin, to gamble, to throw away your own dignity and our reputation!” “The body I worked so hard to care for, you threw it into the gutter with those disgusting, filthy acts!” “Sienna, you’re not just debasing yourself, you’re trampling on our marriage!” Mark, who had always been so gentle, was completely unhinged. He was screaming, every word dripping with profound disappointment. Seeing him like this twisted something inside me. I pushed myself up, ignoring the pain. “Mark, I…” Before I could finish, he slapped me across the face. “Shut up! Don’t you dare say my name. You don’t deserve to!” With that, he twisted the wedding band off his finger and threw it at my face. “I want a divorce!” His cold, merciless rejection was the final blow. That single slap shattered the last pillar of faith I had. I stood there, frozen, feeling like my soul had been ripped from my body. Donovan took the opportunity to sneer at me. “How does it feel, Sienna? To be utterly disgraced? A greedy, filthy woman like you who only knows how to seduce men doesn’t deserve anyone’s love. And you certainly didn’t deserve Cassie’s kindness.” “Thank God I saw you for what you are and got away from a disgusting parasite like you. The fact that I ever dated you is the greatest shame of my life.” “The only good thing you ever did was bring a wonderful woman like Cassie to me. Now, you can enjoy the rest of your life being despised by everyone. I’ll make sure Cassie never speaks to you again. Let’s see how you survive without her!” Donovan’s words resonated with the crowd. The live chats, the onlookers, the streamers—they all erupted in a fresh wave of condemnation. The weight of a thousand accusations is a terrifying thing. Even though I had prepared myself for this, I could feel myself starting to break. Just then, Donovan’s phone rang. The caller ID read: Cassie. He answered, and through the speaker, we all heard Cassie’s broken sobs. “Honey… I… I lost the baby!” Donovan’s eyes instantly turned bloodshot. “What happened?” Cassie’s voice was hesitant. “It was Sienna! She was messing around with a bunch of male models. I just tried to talk some sense into her, and… and she pushed me. She made me lose our baby!”

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Isabel looked at me, her eyes flashing with a cheap sort of victory. “If you had any sense, you’d leave Marcus yourself,” she said. “He wants me. Not some barren old wife.” I’d heard the name, of course. Isabel Shaw. The scholarship kid my husband, Marcus, had sponsored. Six months ago, upon her graduation, he’d hired her as his executive assistant. The office gossip had reached me, whispers carried on waves of feigned concern, but I’d dismissed them. I had trusted Marcus. I had trusted the fifteen years we’d built together. But I never expected this girl to show up at my front door, demanding I abdicate my life. You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. She was hardly a threat. She was a footnote. I couldn’t be bothered to respond to her pathetic attempt at intimidation. Instead, I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcus. “Come home.” I hung up and met Isabel’s gaze. “Marcus is on his way. He can make his choice right here. If he chooses you, I’ll walk away. How does that sound?” A cold little smirk played on her lips. “I was trying to give you a graceful exit, but if you insist on humiliating yourself, so be it. Just don’t start crying when he tells you the truth.” I offered a small, knowing smile and said nothing. Thirty minutes later, the front door opened. Marcus was home. 1 “Marcus, darling,” Isabel began, her voice dripping with a cloying sweetness. “Tell her. She said she’ll leave if you choose me. Tell her who you want.” I looked at Marcus, a gentle smile on my face. I believed in him. I knew what his choice would be. In this, I had absolute confidence. The next second, a set of documents landed on the coffee table in front of me. Divorce papers. My smile froze on my face. It must have been the most awkward, pathetic smile of my life. A moment ago, I had been so certain he would choose me without a second thought. I’d seen Isabel as nothing more than a child, a silly distraction not even worthy of my competition. Reality delivered a slap so hard it left my ears ringing. I was a clown in my own home, a caricature of the confident wife I thought I was. The sight of those papers, with Marcus’s name printed next to mine, felt like a stone lodging in my chest, making it hard to breathe. Eight years of dating, five years of marriage. Thirteen years together, gone, like smoke. I didn’t scream. I didn’t plan to. I took a steadying breath, pushed down the chaos churning inside me, and picked up the papers. As my eyes scanned the terms, the fragile calm I’d just found shattered. “You want me to walk away with nothing?” I dropped the agreement and looked straight at Marcus. “You think this is reasonable?” My voice climbed, sharp with disbelief. “You cheat on me, and then you try to steal our entire life’s work? Marcus, do you really think I’m that weak?” The victor, Isabel, scoffed from her position by his side. “What, you think you deserve a cut? For years, you’ve eaten his food, lived in his house, spent his money. Now you want to take half? Have you no shame?” “Was I speaking to you?” I shot back, my glare silencing her. “Marcus, she’s scaring me,” she whimpered, turning to him. “Make her sign the papers and get out.” Marcus stroked her cheek, a soft, soothing gesture. The same gesture he’d used on me a thousand times. Now, watching it, I felt sick. He murmured a few comforting words to her before turning his cold eyes back to me. “Isabel is blunt, but she has a point. I won’t ask you to repay what I’ve spent on you over the years. Just sign the papers, Olivia, and we can be done.” A point? I stared into his eyes, searching for a flicker of guilt, of remorse. There was nothing. His indifference was a blade to the heart. I kept my voice as level as I could. “I want you to look me in the eye and say that again.” He didn’t hesitate. “It’s over, Olivia. Sign the papers.” I grabbed the divorce agreement, crumpled it into a tight ball, and threw it at his face. “Oh, we’re getting a divorce. But you’re the one who’ll be left with nothing. My lawyer will be in touch.” I stood, ready to walk away, unable to stomach the sight of them for another second. I had given him a chance. If he’d offered a fair split, for the sake of our history, I might have walked away quietly. But this was pure greed. This was humiliation. He could have the divorce, but he wouldn’t get a single cent more than he deserved. “Marcus, what is all this?” A woman’s voice cut through the tension as a figure rushed into the room. His mother, Helen. She grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. “Don’t you worry, Olivia. I’ll handle this.” She guided me back to the sofa. The divorce was happening, that was certain, but I had to consider Helen’s feelings. Her health had been fragile for years. I sat back down as she poured me a cup of tea. “Sweetheart, you listen to me,” she said softly. “I will not let Marcus divorce you.” She turned a stern gaze on her son and his new pet. “What have I told you both?” She looked back at Marcus. “Have you forgotten the last three years? When I was sick, who was by my side? It was Olivia. She took care of everything, never complaining. Have you forgotten that? The doctors themselves said I wouldn’t have recovered if it weren’t for her meticulous care.” I hadn’t cried when Marcus chose Isabel. But hearing Helen’s words, feeling that validation, tears pricked my eyes and began to fall. “Mom, what about the baby’s birth certificate?” Marcus asked, his voice strained. The baby? My head snapped up. Isabel placed a delicate hand on her flat stomach, a triumphant smile spreading across her face. The baby. It had always been the great sorrow of our marriage. We’d seen countless specialists, endured endless tests, only for the doctors to deliver the final verdict: Marcus was sterile. So… Isabel had agreed to that. If that was the case, then perhaps Marcus was right to choose her. I wasn’t the one who could give him what he wanted. As I sat there in stunned silence, Helen took my hand again. “Olivia, you’ve always been the reasonable one.” She wiped a tear from my cheek with her thumb. “How about this? You sign the divorce papers. But in my heart, you will always be my daughter-in-law. You don’t have to leave this house.” She squeezed my hand. “I promise you, your lifestyle won’t change one bit. When Isabel has the baby, you can help out. You know my health… I can’t raise a child. And I wouldn’t trust a stranger with my grandbaby. The doctors all say you’re the best caregiver they’ve ever seen. I know you’ll do a wonderful job raising the child.” I pulled my hand from hers. A wave of nausea washed over me as I remembered the tears I’d shed just moments ago. It was a performance. A perfectly rehearsed play. Stay in the house after the divorce? They wanted a free nanny. I laughed, a short, bitter sound. I stood up and faced Marcus. “I’m giving you three days to draw up a new agreement. If you insist on leaving me with nothing, I will find my own way to get justice.” “Olivia, I’m trying to help you, and this is how you behave?” Helen’s face hardened, the warmth vanishing completely. “How will you survive without Marcus? Do you think you can maintain this lifestyle on your own? A man of his stature, it’s practically expected for him to… have other options. Besides, Isabel is pregnant. She’s the hero here. She’s not even asking you to leave. Why are you making a scene?” Making a scene? There was nothing left to say. I turned and walked toward the door. “Stop right there,” Isabel called out. “Ever heard of pulling the rug out from under someone?” I paused. She was beaming. “Marcus has already transferred all his assets into my name. And just yesterday, as the CEO of the company, he secured a new hundred-million-dollar loan from the bank. If you want to split the assets, Olivia, the only thing you’ll be splitting is that debt.” She cocked her head. “Are you sure you want to go to court?” Marcus produced another file from his briefcase. “Out of respect for our marriage, I was trying to spare you this. But if you insist on fighting for half the assets, you can sign this agreement instead.” It was a masterstroke of cruelty. I locked my eyes on Marcus. “Scheme all you want. I’m only giving you three days. You’d better find a way to get those assets back. Trust me, if you don’t do what I say, in three days, your world will start to unravel.” “Have you been reading too many romance novels, you pathetic housewife?” Isabel shouted at my back. Housewife? I turned back, my gaze falling on Marcus. “I stayed home for three years to take care of your mother. Has it been so long that you’ve forgotten who I really am?” “Who is she?” Isabel cooed, clinging to Marcus’s arm. “Darling, I hear housewives have vivid imaginations. Tell me, what grand title has she given herself?” Marcus looked at Isabel with sickening affection. “She’s exactly what you said. A housewife.” I took one last, long look at him, then turned and left without another word. Tomorrow is the quarterly board meeting. Tomorrow, I would remind him exactly who I am. The next morning, I arrived at the corporate headquarters early and took my seat in the boardroom. At 9:30 a.m., the other board members began to file in. It had been three years since I’d last attended a meeting, and the looks they gave me were… different. It seemed they had all forgotten who secured the deals that put this company on the map. Soon, Marcus arrived. He was with Isabel. His expression flickered when he saw me, but he quickly composed himself. Isabel, however, shot me a look of pure venom. She walked straight to my chair. “Move.” There’s a hierarchy to a boardroom table. This seat was mine. I glanced up at her. “And who are you to be attending a board meeting? Get out.” “So you lost the war at home, and now you’re bringing the fight to the office?” She placed her hands on the back of my chair. “Gentlemen, perhaps one of you could explain to this woman who I am, and whether or not I have a right to be here.” Marcus stared at me, a hint of mockery deep in his eyes, as if he was savoring my humiliation. “Ms. Price,” he said, using my maiden name with deliberate formality, “Ms. Shaw is the new Vice President of this company. I believe she has every right to be here.” Isabel leaned over me, her voice a triumphant whisper. “Now you know who I am. The real question is, what are you doing here? What gives you the right to sit in this chair and attend this meeting?” I kept my eyes fixed on Marcus. “Since you were so kind as to explain Isabel’s presence, why don’t you explain mine?” He dismissed me with a wave. “This is a place of business, not your stage for throwing a tantrum. Leave now.” “Three years,” I said, my voice quiet but carrying across the silent room as I looked at the other board members. “Has it really been long enough for all of you to forget who I am?” Silence. “If you don’t leave, I’ll call security,” Marcus threatened. “Why?” I countered. “If Isabel can attend as Vice President, why can’t I attend as Vice President?” “Oh, that,” Isabel said with a theatrical laugh. “I suppose Marcus forgot to inform you. Two years ago, due to your continued absence from board meetings, the board voted to remove you from your position as Vice President.” She leaned in close, her breath hot against my ear. “Was that the ace up your sleeve? That you were the VP? So sad. Even if you were, it was a title Marcus gave you. A gift. You never really thought you were somebody, did you?” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Now, tuck your tail between your legs and get out.” I stared at Marcus, my blood running cold. “You fired me? You fired me, and you never even told me?” “Security,” Marcus said, ignoring me completely. He gestured to the door. Two guards entered and approached my chair. He pointed at me. “Escort her out.” They moved toward me, but I stood on my own. “I can walk myself.” At the doorway, I turned back to Marcus. “You seem to have forgotten how this company was built. How every single one of our major contracts was won.” I saw his eyes flicker, a brief moment of avoidance. He hadn’t forgotten. He had chosen to erase me for her. My voice was ice. “I hear the company is hosting a gala for its partners tomorrow night. I assume it’s to build up Isabel’s profile?” His face hardened. “You’d better not make a scene. You’ll only embarrass yourself.” “We’ll see who’s embarrassed,” I said coldly. Isabel’s challenge followed me out the door. “Olivia, Marcus is being generous, but I won’t be. If you dare show your face tomorrow, I’ll destroy you. But I doubt you have the guts.” No guts? I said nothing more. Yesterday, I called him home to make a choice, and I was made a fool. Today, I came to the board meeting, and I was made a fool again. There won’t be a third time. I was the fool in those situations because Marcus held all the power. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t. Standing on the sidewalk below, I looked up at the gleaming skyscraper. It seemed that ever since this building became his, ever since the company truly became an empire, he had changed. Fine. Let’s see how he fares as a pauper again. I took out my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Dad, I want a divorce.” A beat of stunned silence, then an explosion of joy on the other end. “What? What did you say?” “I’m divorcing Marcus.” “Thank God! Oh, thank God! You’ve finally come to your senses.” “I didn’t come to my senses,” I said, my voice tight. “I was pushed.” My parents had always hated my marriage to Marcus. We were from different worlds, and they saw him as an opportunist. When I insisted on being with him, they cut me off. Later, after I used my own connections and skills to build his company from the ground up, they saw they couldn’t control me financially. They offered an olive branch: they would accept Marcus if we gave them a grandchild. I was their only child, and they desperately wanted a new life to dote on. But then came the diagnosis: Marcus was sterile. My parents’ disapproval hardened into outright hostility. They even launched a corporate attack against our company. I fought back, working myself to the bone, pulling all-nighters, drinking with clients until I was sick, just to fend them off. They eventually relented, but they never truly accepted him. “Sweetheart, just tell me what happened,” my father’s voice turned cold, sensing the suppressed rage in mine. “Tomorrow night, at his gala,” I said. “I want you to ruin him.” “Done,” he said without hesitation. “I’ll make the arrangements.” After hanging up, I let out a long, shuddering breath. I had cherished my marriage, fought for it, even at the cost of my relationship with my parents. It had been a shadow over my heart for years. Today, that shadow was gone. “When I loved you, you were the king of my world,” I whispered to the empty air. “Now that I don’t? You’re nothing.” I gave the building one last look and drove away. The next evening at seven, I pulled up to The Grand Regent Hotel. Just as I stepped out of my car, Marcus’s town car arrived. He and Isabel emerged, dressed to the nines. When she saw me, Isabel tightened her grip on Marcus’s arm and looked me up and down with disdain. “I guess you can’t afford designer clothes without Marcus’s money anymore. You really wore that to this event? Are you determined to be a laughingstock?” I glanced at her before my eyes landed on Marcus. “You should really get her out more. If she can’t even recognize couture, she has no business being seen in public.” “Couture?” Isabel’s face darkened. “Marcus, she must have been hiding money from you! You have to get that back, too.” Marcus squeezed her hand gently. “We will. We’ll expose her for what she really is. A crow can wear feathers, but it will never be a swan.” Isabel lifted her chin haughtily. “Did you hear that? You’re a crow.” I ignored them and walked into the hotel. “Olivia! It’s been too long.” “We’ve missed you, Olivia! It hasn’t been the same.”

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The night my nemesis, Angelica Monroe, made her grand return to New York, Wyatt Hayes—heir to half of Manhattan, it seemed—materialized at JFK. The society pages practically exploded. Before the ink was dry, rumors of their rekindled romance were the headline on every gossip blog. For the next two weeks, my social media feed was a minefield of their shared existence. Paparazzi shots of them slipping into the same exclusive Soho high-rise.“Sources close to the couple” spilling saccharine details of their reunion. Then, a photo I’d tried to forget resurfaced: me, presenting Wyatt with a birthday cake last year. It became the internet’s favorite punchline. “All those years Nina Parker spent chasing after Wyatt, and it took Angelica one day to get him back.” “Honestly, they should just get married already. Then maybe these desperate wannabes would stop buzzing around him like flies.” Angelica posted a picture to her private Instagram, a calculated leak of two hands clasped together, captioned with sickeningly sweet text: “We took the long way, but I’m so glad we found our way back to each other.” To make it easier for the star-crossed lovers, I packed my bags, left a signed divorce agreement on the bed, and walked away. The result? A complete and utter meltdown from the man in question. A voicemail, choked with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob, accused me, “When other guys get dragged through the mud online, their wives have their backs. You just leave. How could you be so cruel?” 1. My flight back from a business trip landed at the same time as Angelica’s triumphant return from Europe. Years apart had done nothing to dim her shine. She was still effortlessly incandescent, the kind of woman who becomes the gravitational center of any room she enters. The news of her split with Wyatt before she left had been the talk of the town. Now that she was back, every reporter with a pulse was scrambling for the scoop. A swarm of them surrounded her, a cacophony of questions and flashing cameras choking the exit. I pulled my mask up higher, sinking into the collar of my coat, and tried to slip past unnoticed. The last thing I needed was for her to recognize me. We’d been rivals since kindergarten, a constant, petty war of attrition waged over grades, friends, and social standing. But all our childhood squabbles paled in comparison to the one truly staggering fact: her first love was now my husband. A year after she left the country, Wyatt and I got married. This is the third year of our secret marriage. I overheard two journalists who hadn’t managed to break through the scrum, whispering excitedly beside me. “I got a shot of Wyatt Hayes’s car. That’s the real story.” “What’s he doing at the airport this late?” “What do you think? He hasn’t seriously dated anyone since Angelica. The queen is back; the king has to show up and kiss the ring, right?” My fingers, wrapped around the handle of my suitcase, went numb with cold. My flight was supposed to be tomorrow morning. Wyatt had changed it. “We have a family thing tomorrow,” he’d said. “Come back tonight.” He told me he was busy, that he’d sent his assistant to pick me up. “Are you sure it was him? It’s dark out.” “A license plate like that? In this city? My eyes might be shot, but my ten-thousand-dollar camera lens isn’t. Just wait. Tomorrow’s headlines are going to be epic.” The assistant, driving a nondescript black sedan, greeted me with a respectful, “Mrs. Hayes.” But his eyes wouldn’t quite meet mine, and I could practically smell the guilt rolling off him. “Is Wyatt still working?” “Yes… but Mr. Hayes said he’ll be home to see you tonight…” It was one in the morning. Wyatt Hayes didn’t work late. Ever. The subtext was loud and clear: He’ll be home eventually. Don’t ask where he’s been. 2. When Wyatt and I got married, we kept it quiet. Outside of our parents and a few close friends, no one knew. My mother complained about it privately. “The Hayes family is wonderful, yes, but to have my daughter marry in secret after I’ve raised her for twenty-something years… It just doesn’t sit right with me.” But this was the man I’d been in love with for more than a decade. No one knew the electric shock of joy that went through me when I heard he and Angelica had broken up. And no one could possibly understand how my heart hammered against my ribs when his father, drunk at a dinner party, started playing armchair matchmaker. For me, all the pomp and circumstance in the world couldn’t compare to the moment Wyatt nodded his assent. The secret marriage was my idea. The night before we went to City Hall, I found him with a friend who was teasing him. “The second news of this wedding gets out, Angelica’s going to be on the first flight back to New York.” Wyatt was lighting a cigarette and didn’t answer. When he saw me walk in, he just smiled, as if nothing had happened, and wrapped an arm around my waist. I met the friend’s shocked gaze as I gently plucked the cigarette from between Wyatt’s lips. “Let’s not announce our marriage to anyone,” I said. “I have no interest in being the catalyst for someone else’s drama.” From the very first day, I was honest with him about everything, except for the small fact that I’d loved him for most of my life. I told him flat-out that I couldn’t stand Angelica. I told him I was in this to build a real life with him. “I can accept that it will take time for you to get to know me, to maybe even grow to love me,” I’d said, my voice steadier than I felt. “But I cannot accept being with you if your heart is still with someone else. If you can’t do that, we should end this now, before it begins.” I remember he laughed, a low, soft sound. Then he dipped his head and his mouth found mine in a deep, possessive kiss. Just like now. He understood exactly what I was saying. He turned to his friend, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “You hear that? Watch what you say next time.” The next day, he made sure every detail was locked down. The city clerk came to our apartment to officiate. So, no, I couldn’t blame the internet for their speculation. But seeing that photo—the one of his car at JFK—still felt like a punch to the gut. The reporter claimed to have been in the car right next to his. I zoomed in on the image, and through the dark, tinted window, I could have sworn I saw the silhouette of his profile. Below it was a clip of Angelica’s airport interview. Someone had asked, feigning innocence, “It’s so late, Miss Monroe. Do you have someone special picking you up?” A blush bloomed across her perfect face. She answered with a coy little smile, “That’s a secret.” There’s nothing more dangerous than a half-answer and a well-timed coincidence. Together, they plant a seed of doubt that grows, twisting your thoughts down paths you can’t control. In that moment, I forgot the fierce, desperate way he’d made love to me when he got home, pressing his forehead to mine and murmuring that I was cruel for leaving him all alone. All I could remember was that he didn’t get home until three in the morning. I remembered the faint, sweet scent of roses clinging to his clothes. And I remembered how the gossip, which had been the top headline when I woke up, was scrubbed from the internet within half an hour, the search terms completely blocked. And his quiet phone call to his assistant, when he thought I was still asleep. “Get every mention of it taken down. If any of this gets out, it’ll be bad for her.” For her. Not for us. 3. Throughout the entire family dinner, Wyatt acted completely normal. I hated myself for it, but I just sat there, quiet. The old me would have thrown down my fork and started a fight right then and there. Back then, I thought I could stick to my principles: no matter how much you love a man, you always put yourself first. Now, I found I couldn’t even bring myself to ask the question. I was terrified he’d say yes. That’s when the humiliation would truly become unbearable. Wyatt was the first to finish. He stood, put on his jacket, said a quick goodbye to his parents, and then turned to me. “I’ve already spoken to the driver. He’ll take you home in a bit. I have something this afternoon.” He used to tell me where he was going. He never would have left me alone at a family event. He’d never said the words “I love you” outright, but for three years, his actions had screamed them. He was attentive, thoughtful to a fault. He remembered every anniversary, never let a word I said fall on deaf ears, and was so attuned to my moods he could preemptively avoid anything that might upset me. He had a wonderful temper, gently absorbing all my rough edges and bad habits. When I made a mistake, he never got angry. He’d just smile, smooth back my hair, and patiently show me the right way. So I believed he loved me. No one could be that patient, that tender, with someone they didn’t love. But I’d forgotten one crucial, fatal detail. Wyatt Hayes was a good person to his core. He was good to everyone. I just happened to have the title of “wife,” which meant he was simply better to me. I didn’t know it then, but that absurd thought, one I would have scoffed at just weeks ago, would soon wrap around me like a venomous snake. From that day on, Wyatt was always out early and back late. The only constant was the good morning kiss he’d demand before he left, a ritual he never skipped. I tried to use these “habits” of his to soothe the growing anxiety in my chest, but every day was a battle, oscillating between the urge to confront him and the need to stay silent. Sleep became a distant memory. One night, I tossed and turned so much I woke him. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his lips warm against my neck. “Is it that time of the month? Is that why you can’t sleep? Does it help if I hold you?” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. Tears immediately pricked my eyes. I had always told myself I would never become one of those women, clinging and emotional, letting unfounded suspicions drive me crazy. But this was different. This was a real sense of crisis, the very feeling I used to look down on with such disdain. My mind was a slideshow of the “relationship details” Angelica had made sure I’d see, of the genuine affection I’d witnessed between them years ago. And the undeniable fact that she was the one who had ended things… “Wyatt…” “When you get back from your trip, let’s talk.” I fought to keep my voice even. I had to talk to him, openly. Whether he went to the airport or not, whatever his reasons were, I just needed an answer that would silence the storm of doubt in my head. He was so tired his eyes could barely stay open. He just nuzzled his head against mine and mumbled, “Mmm.” But we never got the chance to have that calm, rational conversation. 4. Wyatt had a five-day business trip. His flight was early, but he made a point of waking me up just to tie his tie. “You seem a little down lately. Is everything okay? When I get this deal closed, I’ll take you somewhere, just the two of us.” He was always like this—so attuned to my every emotion, always ready to give me the best of everything within his power. It was how he’d slowly dismantled my defenses, making me love him more, making me need him more, with each passing day. I didn’t want to start something right before he left. I shook my head and used work as an excuse, cutting off any further questions. For a split second, I even allowed myself to wonder if I was just imagining it all. That afternoon, an anonymous account posted on a gossip forum. No text, no commentary. Just two pictures, time-stamped, showing Wyatt and Angelica entering the same luxury apartment building in Soho, one after the other, late at night. The comments section exploded. Congratulations and shock in equal measure. “Oh my god, I knew they’d get back together!” “Didn’t she dump him? And he waited all these years? He’s willing to forgive that?” “You don’t get it. True love conquers all, duh.” Of course, there were a few skeptics. “These two pictures don’t really prove anything…” The original poster replied to only that one comment: “I have more. Just wait.” I saw the post late at night. A few minutes later, it was gone. I don’t know how to describe the feeling. I felt like a dying fish on a scorching sidewalk, my body wracked with shivers. For the next several days, the anonymous account posted new photos at the same time every night. Different outfits, same building, same pattern of entering one after the other. Then, as if on cue, a self-proclaimed “friend” of Angelica’s posted a screenshot of a vague, yet pointed, Instagram story: “So glad we found our way back to each other. ” I would recognize that profile picture anywhere. It had been rotting in my block list for years. Angelica and I had fought countless times, but I had never gone so far as to block her completely. That had happened years ago, the day she sent me a picture of Wyatt kissing her on the cheek, with a taunting message: “He’s not so hard to get, is he? To think you’ve been hung up on him for so long.” “If you put half the energy you spend fighting with me into chasing guys, you might not be so alone.” “Then again… even if you gave it your all with Wyatt, he’d still choose me. Hahaha.” “Nina, you’ll always be second best. Always.” For the first time, I didn’t fight back. I just stared at that picture, over and over, a pain like a physical blade twisting in my chest. The person I had cherished for more than a decade was, to someone else, just a game. What hurt even more was her willingness to use her sweet moments with him as a weapon to crush me. So, just as she’d predicted, I retreated like a defeated soldier. I deleted their numbers, blocked their accounts, and avoided any party or event where I might run into them. I never imagined that, years later, the same tactics would be used against me again, this time with a single, fatal blow that felt like a thousand arrows piercing my heart. 5. I hadn’t slept in days. I had no appetite, no energy for work. Every day, I stared at my phone, a self-destructive ritual of waiting for them to drop the next “big story.” I tried to invent a million other possibilities, clinging to any shred of hope, but when Angelica’s interview was released, that hope turned to ash. As the country’s youngest rising star in jewelry design, and with her family name and the gossip swirling around her, it wasn’t hard for her to find a spotlight. “Angelica, we’ve been hearing whispers of some good news lately. We all think you and he are a perfect match. Will you let us in on it when the time is right?” “I really didn’t expect to be photographed,” she’d said, a picture of demure surprise. “He’s always been very private about his personal life. As long as we’re happy behind the scenes, that’s what matters. But of course, if there’s any real news, you’ll be the first to know!” Her friend chimed in on the gossip forum right on schedule: “They’ve been through so much. He’s so devoted. The night she flew back, he waited at the airport for her until two in the morning. And he’s spent the last few weeks running around, helping her get settled in her new place. He’s been so incredibly attentive. True love can’t be broken.” My mind went numb. A dull, throbbing pain started in my chest, a suffocating weight pressing down on me. So all those days he was leaving early and coming home late, all those nights my calls went straight to voicemail… he was with Angelica? I thought back to my birthday last year. Because I’d mentioned wanting to see the ocean, he’d rented out an entire private island. He spent a fortune on a drone light show to celebrate. For three days and two nights, we were tangled together, the sound of the waves a constant backdrop to our lovemaking. He’d told me then, “Nina, I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” In all my twenty-something years, I had never felt a moment of happiness so pure. A lifetime, he’d said. How could I reconcile that with this? How could I just let it go? I leaned against the wall and sobbed, a raw, wrenching sound that tore through my body until I was numb. My imagination ran wild, each thought a sharpened blade, flaying me alive, piece by piece. I couldn’t breathe. My hands fumbled through the medicine box on the nightstand, searching for something, anything, to calm the frantic beating of my heart. But before I could find it, the world went black, and I collapsed. I woke up in the hospital. It was five in the morning. The woman who cooks for us had found me and brought me here. The doctor said the extreme emotional distress had triggered a somatic symptom disorder. Our housekeeper, murmuring prayers of thanks, said she was going to call Wyatt to let him know I was okay. I reached out and stopped her. When I opened my phone, I saw a message from a friend: “What the hell is wrong with people online? Why don’t you just ask Wyatt what’s going on? You’ve been married for three years, and they’re still trying to pair him up with a girlfriend on the internet!” She’d sent a screenshot of the thread where my birthday picture had been posted. “I thought this was the real one? Their parents have known each other for decades.” “LMAO, I know her. Go ask her at work tomorrow if you want. That Nina Parker has been drooling over Wyatt for ages. Has he ever once acknowledged her? Look at how long Angelica has been back. He’s tripping over himself for her. He wants this.” “I agree. The handsome guy and the beautiful girl should just get married already. It would save us from all these flies trying to bother them!” I didn’t reply. I just waited quietly for the IV drip to finish. I didn’t want to think anymore. I was disgusted with the person I’d become. It was five in the afternoon when I got home. Wyatt was already back. He didn’t know I’d been in the hospital. He’d sent me a text when he got home: “Why aren’t you picking up your phone? Are you swamped with work?” “I’m heading home to get some rest. I’ll have the driver pick you up this afternoon.” He was fast asleep, clutching my pillow, so exhausted he was snoring lightly. My eyes fell on his briefcase. A file was sticking out. I pulled it out. A purchase agreement for a condo. In the exact same building he’d been photographed at. Everything clicked into place. Holding my breath, I quietly packed my things. I never thought it would end like this. After leaving the divorce papers on his nightstand, I finally broke down in the elevator, my sobs echoing in the small, silent space.

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Eleven years. We’d been together for eleven years when Ethan Hayes promised me the wedding of the century. But three days before I was supposed to walk down the aisle, an anonymous email landed in my inbox. It was a photo: Ethan and another woman, beaming, holding up a marriage certificate from City Hall. Her smile was radiant. The way Ethan looked at her was pure adoration. The caption was a single, chilling line: “I’m coming home.” I took the photo to Ethan. His response was a casual shrug. “It’s real,” he said, as if discussing the weather. “Sienna decided she never wants to get married for real, but she wanted to know what it felt like to get the license. I was just helping her out.” My mind flashed back to the day he proposed. I remembered the giddy way I’d blasted the news to hundreds of friends, the absolute fool I must have looked. “If you have a problem with it,” he added, his voice cool, “we can just cancel the wedding. It’s not like I have to marry you.” “I’ll marry you,” I said. The wedding would go on as planned. But it would be his one-man show. 1 “Good. You get ready, then,” Ethan said, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a smirk. He knew he’d won. He’d always been sure that no matter what, I’d never leave him. “Sienna’s flight gets in today. I’m going to pick her up, and we’re having a welcome home party for her tonight. You can go to the final dress fitting by yourself.” And why wouldn’t he be sure? For eleven years, I was the one doing the chasing. I gave up my first-choice university for him, passed on my dream job to follow his. I even missed my parents’ last moments because I was on another continent with him. He was used to it—to me sacrificing everything for him. So even after he legally married Sienna, he expected me to walk down that aisle without a second thought. “Oh, and you need to be at the party tonight,” he said, adjusting his cuffs in the reflection of the floor-length mirror, glancing at me. “Sienna specifically mentioned she hasn’t seen you in ages and wants to catch up. I’ll text you the address. Just head over right after your fitting.” Ethan and Sienna. They were the golden couple, the prom king and queen everyone assumed would end up together. When we were kids playing house, they were the prince and princess; I was the maid who served them. He was the sun in my universe, brilliant and untouchable. If Sienna hadn’t moved abroad all those years ago, I probably never would have had a chance. And Sienna was so thoughtful, wasn’t she? Sending me that little email before she came back. But this time, for the first time, I didn’t just roll over. “I can’t make it tonight,” I said. “I have plans.” Ethan’s smile vanished. “You have plans?” he scoffed. “What could you possibly have plans for?” “Packing,” I said under my breath. To get the hell out of here. He cut me off before I could finish. “Tessa, for God’s sake, can you not be dramatic?” His voice was sharp. “You can’t even be bothered to come up with a good lie. You have to be there tonight. I already promised Sienna. If she can be mature enough to see you, the least you can do is not be so petty.” 2 She could be mature enough to see me. Wasn’t that only because I was the one being gracious? But there was no point in arguing. Ethan wouldn’t listen. He left, and I didn’t say another word. The silence in the apartment was deafening as I tried to figure out how I was going to tell my grandfather that the wedding was off. I dialed his number. He picked up on the second ring. “Tessa-girl.” “Grandpa,” I started, my voice tight. “That little start-up you said you’d give me… is the offer still on the table?” There was a brief pause. “Tessa? You’re not getting married?” “No.” I braced myself for the questions, the disappointment. But all he said was, “Alright. A promise is a promise. I’ll be waiting for you when you get home.” After hanging up, I called the bridal shop to cancel my fitting, then I started to pack. The apartment belonged to Ethan. I’d moved in a year ago, right after his grand proposal. That period had been the happiest of my life. “Tessa,” he’d said, down on one knee. “I can charge forward without fear because I know you’re always behind me. It’s been ten years. I want to give us a real home. Will you marry me?” Of course, I said yes. I moved in the next day, pouring my heart into every detail, turning this empty space into our home. I watched it fill with warmth and life, and my heart swelled with a satisfaction I’d never known. But looking around now, I realized almost nothing in it was mine. It was all for him. And it was all useless now. I grabbed a handful of large trash bags. Into them went the decorative pieces I’d bought for his study, the matching “his and hers” items he’d never used, the celebratory banners for the wedding in three days, and our engagement photos, which he’d insisted on keeping hidden in the back of the closet. I was halfway through when the doorbell rang. Two people in professional black uniforms stood at the door, clipboards in hand. “Good afternoon, are you Ms. Sienna Laurent?” A bitter smile touched my lips. “I’m not. If you’re looking for her, you might want to try again in a few days.” Once I was gone, this would be their home. Or maybe they’d find it tainted by my presence and move somewhere else. Not my problem anymore. “Is there anyone else home?” one of them asked. “We contacted Ms. Laurent through the homeowner’s group chat. We’re here for the annual fire safety inspection.” “The homeowner’s group chat?” 3 I had lived here for a year and had never heard of any homeowner’s group chat. And why would Sienna be in it? “Yes, ma’am. Our records are based on the property deed. Apartment 1201 is registered to Mr. Ethan Hayes and Ms. Sienna Laurent. Are you a friend of theirs, or…?” Their eyes shifted, their professional smiles tightening. I was standing there in sweatpants and an old t-shirt, looking nothing like a guest. But I couldn’t spare a single thought for what they were thinking. It felt like the top of my skull had been peeled back and my veins filled with cement. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was living in Ethan’s home. I thought I was building our future love nest. But the truth? I was a guest in the home he co-owned with Sienna. The absurdity of it was suffocating. “I’m sorry, this isn’t her home. Please leave,” I snapped, pushing them out and slamming the door. The moment it clicked shut, my strength gave out. I slid down the door, burying my face in my arms, my body trembling. I’d been with him since I was eighteen, following him across the country, across the world, for a decade. A year ago, he proposed, and we finally settled down. And only today did I learn the truth. On the very day he proposed, the day I was ecstatically telling everyone I was getting married, he was at City Hall, signing a marriage certificate with Sienna. The home I’d lived in for a year had both their names on the deed. They were the legally married couple. So what did that make me? The girlfriend of eleven years. What the hell was I? A wave of fury washed over me. I tore through the apartment, ripping open drawers, throwing things aside until I found it in his study: the dark red folder containing the deed. Just then, my phone began to scream, ringing over and over. After what felt like an eternity, my numb fingers finally answered. “Where have you been? I told you to come to the party. Where are you?” Ethan’s voice was impatient. Then another, brighter voice chimed in. “Tessa! I just landed! I’ve missed you so much, you have to come say hi!” The names on the deed, printed in crisp, official lettering, blurred and merged with the voices in my ear. They owned my sight and my hearing. A sharp pain lanced through my eyes, making my vision swim. After the call ended, a dozen more texts from Ethan came through, each one more demanding than the last. Numbly, I put everything back in its place, smoothing over the chaos I’d created. I changed my clothes and walked out the door. If they wanted to see me so badly, then I would go. 4 The private room was roaring with noise when I pushed the door open. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” A crowd of their friends was clapping and cheering. No one even noticed me. Ethan chuckled, a look of fond exasperation on his face, and wrapped an arm around Sienna’s shoulders. He leaned in and gave her a deep, lingering kiss right on the lips. Sienna played the part of the blushing recipient perfectly, and the room erupted. I thought watching this would shatter me. I thought I’d be sick with jealousy, that I’d rush forward and tear them apart. Instead, I found myself raising my phone, coolly framing the shot. I even took a moment to find the best angle, the one that captured the full, cloying intimacy of the moment. Suddenly, Sienna’s head whipped around. Her eyes widened in panic as she saw me, and she shoved Ethan away. “Tessa! You’re here! Don’t get the wrong idea, we were just playing a game. I lost a dare, so…” “Ethan, hurry up and explain it to her!” she urged, tugging at his sleeve. Ethan, a smear of red lipstick on his lips, looked at me, his expression flat. “Sienna lost a game. I was just helping her out.” There it was again. Just helping her out. Helping her get a marriage license, helping her with a kiss. What was next? Helping her into bed? Helping her have a baby? I forced a smile. “I get it. It’s fine.” Ethan frowned, seemingly thrown off by my calm demeanor. Before he could say anything else, Sienna rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Come on, sit! It’s been years, we have so much to catch up on.” Whether it was intentional or not, she steered me into the seat directly between her and Ethan. Every time she asked me a question, she would lean across me to get Ethan’s opinion, and he would answer her patiently every time. The looks on the faces of everyone else in the room were telling. I was an obstacle, a roadblock between the two of them. My very presence was an inconvenience. 5 “Sienna, you didn’t come back all of a sudden because you heard Ethan was getting married, did you? Here to crash the wedding?” someone finally asked, their tone laced with amusement. Sienna’s sweet voice was playfully chiding. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing going on between me and Ethan!” “Oh, come on,” another person chimed in. “Everyone knows you two are legally married. That social media post went viral in our circle!” “Exactly! And we all know Ethan’s been in love with you forever. If you just said the word, no one else would even stand a chance. Right, Ethan?” They were shameless, their words deliberately provocative. These were the people who had grown up rooting for them as a couple, who had never accepted me. I remembered the one and only time I’d attended a gathering with them as Ethan’s girlfriend. They’d asked me to my face what made me think I was good enough for him, how I had the nerve to even pursue him. I’d caused a huge scene that night, and Ethan had never taken me to one of their events again. But this time, I felt nothing. I smiled along with everyone else and looked at Sienna. “He’s just waiting for you to say yes,” I said, my voice even. “Give him the word, and you can be the bride in three days.” Everyone stared at me like I had lost my mind. Even Sienna couldn’t hide the flash of surprise—and excitement—in her eyes. But Ethan’s face darkened. “Tessa!” he snarled. “What the hell are you talking about?” “I’m not talking nonsense,” I said calmly, my expression deadly serious. He shot up from the sofa, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me out of the room. “Tessa, are you insane?” 6 Insane? Maybe I was, once. But I was cured now. Before I could answer, my phone rang. It was my grandfather. I shook Ethan’s hand off and answered. “Tessa-girl, did you book your flight yet? What day are you coming home?” “I got it, Grandpa. The day after tomorrow, in the evening.” We chatted for another minute before I hung up. Ethan’s sharp eyes were fixed on me. “What flight? Are you going somewhere?” “No,” I lied smoothly. “Grandpa’s coming for the wedding. He was just asking if I’d booked his ticket.” He accepted it without question, though his brow remained furrowed. “Just… don’t cause any more trouble tonight, okay? I’ll talk to my parents. I’ll try to get them to come to the wedding.” His tone was that of a king bestowing a great favor. I felt none of the old excitement or gratitude I would have a week ago. All I felt was a hollow, bitter amusement. My good behavior, my silence about him and Sienna, was the price for his parents’ attendance at our wedding. The Hayes family came from a long line of academics. His parents were both professors; Ethan was a prestigious researcher. My family was in business. They’d always looked down on me, on my “new money” background. For years, I had showered them with gifts, spent more time with his parents than I had with my own. None of it mattered. In their eyes, I would never be one of them. Now that I was finally giving up, they wouldn’t have to pretend to appreciate my efforts anymore. “Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m heading home. You guys have fun.” “I’ll drive you.” For some reason, he was suddenly patient with me. In the past, I’d have to beg for a ride days in advance, and even then, he’d likely forget. He pulled up to the front of my building, got out, and opened my door, holding a hand over the frame so I wouldn’t hit my head. I was silent the whole way, but as the car’s headlights cut through the darkness, a flicker of warmth sparked in my chest. Maybe… maybe he did care about me, just a little. Even a tiny bit was something. But then my phone buzzed with a new message. It was a screenshot of a social media post from a year ago. 7 Two profile pictures, side by side. On the exact same day that Ethan proposed to me, he and Sienna had both posted photos of their marriage certificate. Sienna’s caption: “With you, my life is complete!” Ethan’s caption: “Whatever you want, it’s yours.” The comments below were a flood of congratulations. I had never seen this post. In all our years together, Ethan had never once posted a single thing about me. We had the same circle of friends. Did that mean while I was joyfully telling the world about our engagement, they were all seeing this? I had been a clown, performing for an audience that was in on the joke. The warmth in my chest turned to ice water. Sharp, painful, and cold. At that exact moment, a bucket of actual ice water drenched me from head to toe. Someone screamed. “She’s the homewrecker! Get her! Tear her apart!” A storm of pain and confusion engulfed me. I was surrounded. Garbage, smelling sour and rotten, rained down on me from all directions. They were yelling, shouting about “teaching the mistress a lesson.” I couldn’t fight back; I couldn’t even see where it was coming from. The world dissolved into a nightmare of snarling faces and grasping hands, demons dragging me down into hell. “Stop!” After what felt like a century, I finally heard Ethan’s voice. The taut string in my mind snapped. Everything went black. When I opened my eyes, I was staring at the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. The shame of the attack washed over me again, and I gasped for breath, turning my head to look at Ethan. He was disheveled, his usual pristine appearance gone. His lips moved. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t know if he was apologizing because his fiancée had been mistaken for a mistress and beaten in the street, or because he’d let me live in the home he shared with another woman. But the tears came anyway, hot and unstoppable, streaming from the corners of my eyes into my hair. Ethan tried to wipe them away, but they just kept coming. 8 At first, he was composed, but soon he became flustered, his movements clumsy. “Please don’t cry, Tessa. Okay?” His voice was strained with a helpless frustration. “I know this was unfair to you. I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” I covered my eyes with my hand, my voice thick with congestion. “Make it up to me? How?” “We’ll make the wedding even bigger. A grander celebration. Would that be enough?” The flood of tears stopped as if a faucet had been turned off. I almost laughed. When I finally spoke, my voice was flat. “Ethan. Let’s cancel the wedding.” “Don’t say things you don’t mean,” he snapped, his tone hardening. In his mind, I was just throwing a tantrum. “I’m being—” Serious. Before I could finish, his phone rang. It was a different ringtone than his usual one. I couldn’t hear what was said, but his expression grew conflicted. He glanced at me. “You guys watch her. I have something here. I can’t leave right now.” He hung up and pressed his lips together. “Stop overthinking things. Just get some rest. I’ll stay here with you.” And he did. He answered three more calls, but he didn’t leave my room. He brought me water, adjusted my pillows, surprisingly attentive. But my mind was a chaotic mess. I couldn’t appreciate this rare display of care. I was just drifting off to sleep when my phone vibrated insistently on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number. “You think he’s staying because he’s worried about you? Because he cares? Take a look at this.” Attached were several screenshots of a group chat. The building’s homeowner chat. Someone had posted a photo of me, beaten and covered in garbage, with the words ‘HOMERWRECKER’ scrawled across it in red. Someone else had tagged Sienna. “Your husband is cheating on you. This is the other woman.” 9 Sienna hadn’t replied with words. Just a single, perfect broken-heart emoji. The chat exploded into a vicious tirade against me. I never knew words could inflict so much pain. Finally, Ethan, apparently pricked by some last shred of conscience, had typed: “She is not the other woman.” But his weak defense only fueled the fire. The insults grew harsher, and they started planning to “teach me another lesson.” Someone asked him directly: If I wasn’t the other woman, then what was Sienna? The argument escalated until they cornered him, demanding to know who his real wife was: Sienna, or me. The final screenshot was his answer. “The one whose name is on the deed, of course.” A deep, shuddering cold seized me. My entire body trembled. No wonder he had been so insistent on driving me home. No wonder he’d stayed with me even after Sienna’s calls. This entire nightmare… it all started with him. Eleven years of devotion, and in return, he personally pointed the finger and branded me the mistress. I thought I was past caring. I thought nothing he did could touch me anymore. But in that moment, a fire ignited in my chest, a wild, consuming rage that wanted to burn everything to the ground. Just then, Ethan walked back into the room. I stared at him, my eyes burning. “Ethan…” “Tessa, Sienna has alcohol poisoning. She’s getting her stomach pumped. I have to go check on her. You be good and get some rest.” “Ethan, don’t you dare leave.” Maybe he didn’t notice the raw fury in my voice. Or maybe he just didn’t care. He scowled, his voice dropping to an icy chill. “What more do you want? I’ve been here with you for hours. Isn’t that enough? Sienna’s condition is serious. I don’t have time for your games.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode out of the room. The door clicked shut, a final, definitive sound. It was the story of my life: always chasing after him, only to have him shut the door in my face, leaving me in the dark. The fire in my chest was instantly extinguished, leaving behind only cold ash. I let out a quiet, mirthless laugh, lay back down, and pulled the covers up to my chin. Soon. It would all be over soon. 10 Ethan was gone. He didn’t come back the next day. But I expected nothing, and the solitude was a relief. A little while later, a message from Sienna popped up on my phone. “Want to make a bet on whether your wedding will actually happen?” I smiled and typed back a quick reply. “No need to bet. The wedding will be a very lively affair.” “Good. I can’t wait to watch the show.” I turned off my phone and ignored her. After getting the official discharge papers from the doctor, I went straight to the police station and filed a report. No matter what Ethan had said, those people had no right to attack me. I didn’t go back to the apartment. I checked into a hotel. By the time I boarded the flight home, I still hadn’t heard from Ethan again. It was evening when the plane landed. The moment I turned my phone on, it rang. It was him. “Tessa, you’re out of the hospital and back home, right?” I wasn’t surprised he knew I’d been discharged. And I knew this wasn’t a call of concern. Based on how obsessed I’d always been with our wedding, he was absolutely certain that as long as I could walk, I would be at that altar on time. He had no doubts about that. I gave him a few vague answers and hung up. Looking up, I saw my grandfather waiting for me. His hair was whiter than I remembered, his frame a little more stooped. A lump formed in my throat. “Grandpa…” “Hey now,” he said, his voice cheerful, but his eyes were misty. “No tears. I’m here to take you home. This is a happy day!” When my parents died in the car crash, I was stuck overseas with Ethan. By the time we got back, they were already buried. I couldn’t forgive myself, but my grandfather never blamed me. He comforted me for months, encouraging me to go and find my own happiness. Looking back now, I saw how unbelievably selfish I had been. October 20th. An auspicious day for a wedding. I had consulted with several experts to pick the perfect date. When I’d asked Ethan for his opinion, he’d just said, “Whatever you want.” At the time, those words filled me with hope. I never would have dreamed that for our relationship, the wedding would be the end. The night before the ceremony, I stayed up all night, cozy in my hotel bed, and binged three movies. As dawn broke, I switched my phone to silent, found the most comfortable position I could, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Today’s wedding was destined to be Ethan’s one-man show. I wondered what his face would look like when he realized I was gone.

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I spent five years in Wyatt Hayes’s orbit. Five years of wildness and wonder, five years of being tangled up in him. In all that time, whatever patience and warmth he possessed, he gave to me. Every year, on New Year’s Eve, as the clock ticked toward midnight, he would ask me the same question. “Lena, will you stay with me next year?” Sometimes, it was over the phone, his voice a low rumble across an ocean. Other times, he’d fly back on his jet, arriving at my apartment door, exhausted and smelling of the cold night air, just to hear me say yes in person. His friends all had a saying: “Before Lena, Wyatt didn’t know how to love. After Lena, he didn’t need to.” I heard the words, but I never let them sink in. It was safer that way. On the last night of the fifth year, he came back just as he always did. He was travel-worn and carried the chill of the December air on his coat. He pulled me into his arms, the embrace familiar and firm, and pressed a tired kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Everything okay?” I nodded, then gently eased myself out of his hold. “Wyatt, this is it.” “For year six,” I said, my voice even, “I wish you a happy marriage.” I had known for a while. That flight he took wasn’t for business. It was to get engaged, just as his family always intended. 1 In the final weeks of the year, Wyatt was overseas on company business. I was working from home, tying up loose ends on a few entertainment news pieces before the holidays. At ten p.m., my phone lit up with his face. “Happy birthday, Lena,” he said, his voice warm despite the distance. “Did the gifts arrive?” I adjusted my glasses, my gaze falling on the small mountain of designer boxes and bags on my sofa. They had been arriving all morning, delivered by a rotating cast of his friends. Five or six of them, each showing up separately with a package, a “Happy Birthday, Lena!” and a bit of charming small talk. They were all masters of conversation, those friends of his, ensuring the apartment was filled with cheerful noise all day. It was Wyatt’s way of doing things. He knew I hated big parties but worried I’d be lonely. So he orchestrated a parade of brief, bright visits, giving me company without the overwhelm. Through the screen, he looked tired. The top two buttons of his black shirt were undone, and he was slouched against a leather sofa somewhere the sun was shining. The light caught the sharp line of his jaw, highlighting that wild, untamable energy he always carried. “There’s one more thing,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “On the desk in the study. I think you’ll like it.” I walked into the study, his workspace, and saw it immediately. A deed, lying on the polished wood of his desk. Next to it, held down by his heavy fountain pen, was a simple card. It just said: “For Lena.” “It’s the condo you liked,” he explained. “The one we saw that Sunday. I bought it for you. A birthday present.” He must have seen the look on my face, because he added quickly, “It’s nothing, really. Not a big place, didn’t cost much. So don’t even think about saying no.” I stared at the papers, a strange ache blooming in my chest. My eyes started to burn. Wyatt always knew how to do this, how to find the cracks in my armor. He remembered every little thing I loved, every casual comment, and he would quietly arrange the world until he could present it to me, gift-wrapped. On the screen, he chuckled, a low, teasing sound. “Hey, don’t you start crying on me, superstar. I’m too busy to fly back and fix it right now.” He took a sip of water. “I’ll make it up to you when I’m back. I promise.” I just nodded. “Get some sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll stay on the line until you do.” That night, a cold rain fell over New York City. I drew back the curtains, a single warm lamp glowing in the room. Wyatt stayed on the video call for over two hours, a silent, watchful presence on my nightstand. Just as I drifted off, I heard his voice, a whisper from the speaker, “Sweet dreams, Lena.” 2 The next morning, my editor, Sarah, dropped a new assignment in my inbox. “Your flight to London is already booked. Lena, I need you to knock this one out of the park.” The subject line read: “EXCLUSIVE ACCESS: The Hayes-Vancourt Engagement.” “I want the inside story,” she said. I scrolled through the attached documents, and there it was, in black and white. Wyatt’s name. The headline from the press brief was like a punch to the gut: “Wyatt Hayes, eldest son of the Hayes Corporation, celebrates his engagement after purchasing a four-million-dollar pink diamond. A source says a wedding is imminent.” My brain stalled for a second. By the time it caught up, a thousand tiny needles were already prickling my heart. Sarah was still talking, oblivious. “It’s weird, though. For a guy who lives his life in the public eye, he’s holding this party in the middle of nowhere, some country estate outside the city. Guess he’s trying to protect the fiancée. You know how it is, two powerful families merging. Paige Vancourt. He’s probably treating her like a porcelain doll.” Clack. My phone hit the floor, bouncing off my toes. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “You okay?” Sarah asked, impatient. “This is a huge get, Lena. The tip came from an inside source. You need to get moving.” After we hung up, I sank to the floor. Mechanically, I started packing a bag. On the plane, I scrolled obsessively through six months of news about him. It was all there, hiding in plain sight. Six months ago: the first paparazzi shot of him with Paige Vancourt, leaving a restaurant in Mayfair. One month ago: a society column mentioning he’d had dinner with her parents. One week ago: the splashy headlines about the auction. A four-million-dollar pink diamond, sold to an anonymous bidder, later confirmed to be him. Two days ago: he’d told me he had to fly out for business, and as he was getting into the car, I’d heard a woman’s clear voice in the background say, “Wyatt, it’s starting to snow in New York…” Every piece clicked into place, perfectly filling the gaps of his recent absences. I found a video of him from an interview after the auction. A reporter asked, “Mr. Hayes, that’s an extraordinary price for a ring. Does it have some special significance to you?” Wyatt shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips as he glanced down at the velvet box in his hand. “No special meaning. I just thought… she would like it.” He dropped the box into his overcoat pocket. “Her birthday is coming up. It’s a gift for that.” The story was everywhere for a day, then it vanished. Scrubbed from the internet. When I’d asked him about it, he’d simply kissed the corner of my mouth and changed the subject. That was our rule. He set the boundaries. And I never crossed them. So I said nothing, swallowing the sharp, metallic taste of pain. It brought back a memory from a long time ago, a night much like this one. He had come home late, tired and vulnerable, and was kissing my cheek when I suddenly grabbed his sleeve. “Wyatt,” I asked, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. “If you have to get married someday… what happens to me? What will you do with me? Will your parents just let me be?” The warmth in him vanished instantly. His eyes, which had been soft with desire, became clear and cold. “Lena,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “There are some questions you shouldn’t ask.” He had his obligations. His duties. That night, he got drunk on the living room sofa. I stayed in the bedroom, wrapped tightly in the duvet. We each nursed our own dark moods, separated by a wall. The deal was to never talk about the future, to only live in the now. That time, I was the one who broke the rules. 3 The plane landed in London just after midnight. I checked into the hotel Sarah had booked for me. It was a five-star place, a historic manor house converted into a luxury hotel—apparently, very close to the estate where Wyatt’s engagement party was being held. I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, my boots still wet with melted snow, my fingertips numb with cold. The ice crystals on my coat slowly dissolved into dark spots on the fabric before I finally moved my stiff limbs. The party was in six hours. I hadn’t told Wyatt I was coming. I hadn’t even told him I knew. For five years, there had been a clear, invisible line between us. A chasm that no amount of hard work or love on my part could ever bridge. We both knew this day was coming. We knew dragging it out wouldn’t change the ending, but still, we stubbornly delayed it, year after year. We were both terrified to speak of it, terrified of what the final answer would be. Which is why he hid it from me, flying to another continent to get engaged. I sat there all night, thinking. Weighing the costs, the benefits, the impossible choices. I imagined Wyatt had spent countless nights doing the same. But he and I were different. I didn’t have a family empire or a legacy to consider. All I had was this five-year-long feeling in my chest. And I was tired. Just before dawn, I took a shower. I put on a little makeup to hide the dark circles under my eyes and changed into the cleanest, most respectable outfit I had packed. Then I went downstairs. The engagement party was being set up in the hotel’s grand ballroom. The doors were propped open, and staff were bustling in and out, arranging flowers and setting tables. Since the event hadn’t started, I could only wait outside, in the main lobby. I waited for a long time, the hot Americano in my hands turning cold. I looked toward the ballroom again. And then I saw him. Wyatt, descending the grand staircase. Beside him was a young woman who moved with an effortless grace. She was wearing a simple, brutally elegant white sheath dress, her long hair falling down her back. She was stunning. Wyatt stood next to her, tall and imposing, his black suit tailored to perfection, yet somehow still looking untamed. They looked perfect together. My eyes stung. The coffee cup trembled in my hand, and hot liquid sloshed over the side, staining the front of my coat. I fumbled for a napkin, trying to wipe it away, only making the dark splotch worse. The smell of coffee and bitter regret filled the air. Suddenly, a crisp, white napkin appeared in front of me. I looked up and froze. “Miss Scott, I presume?” The woman from the stairs was standing before me. Paige Vancourt. “I’m Paige. Wyatt’s fiancée. I’m so glad you could make it to our engagement party.” Her eyes swept over my face, a cool, appraising glance. She was smiling, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was the smile of a victor. And in that moment, I understood. It was all her. There was no exclusive interview. There was no inside source. A scoop like this would never have just fallen into my lap. As much as Wyatt wanted to hide this from me, she wanted to rub my face in it. “I’m aware of your… relationship with Wyatt,” she said, her voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “But I imagine a woman like you wouldn’t want to continue so indecently attached to a married man, would she?” She gestured vaguely at the bustling ballroom. “As you can see, this is a large, private event. To avoid any unpleasantness, I think it would be best if you left.” Her smile tightened. “My fiancé and I will be declining all interviews. We have no desire to see our celebration written about in the papers.” My hands were clenched into fists in my pockets, my nails digging into my palms so hard I couldn’t feel the sting. “Does Wyatt know you invited me here?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. She laughed, a light, airy sound that was sharper than a shard of glass. “Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it? Whether you want him to know or not.” My gaze dropped to her hand, where the pink diamond sat, flashing under the chandelier light. It was magnificent, a perfect, impossible star. Just like their lives. “You seem interested in my ring,” she purred. “Wyatt gave it to me for my birthday. An early present.” She tilted her head. “He’s so very thoughtful, isn’t he? So good at knowing what a girl wants. I suppose I have you to thank for that, Miss Scott.”

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I’m the male lead in a tragedy, and my beautiful, tyrannical girlfriend has a “little brother” who’s practically lived in a hospital his whole life. It was past midnight when her phone buzzed again. She slid out of bed, pulling on her clothes in the dark. “It’s Sebastian,” she whispered, her voice already distant. “He’s not feeling well. I have to go.” According to the script of my life, this was my cue to break down, to beg her not to leave me alone in our cold, sterile bed. Instead, I just watched her retreating back, a yawn fighting its way up my throat. The moment the front door clicked shut, I picked up my own phone and dialed the number of her fiery arch-nemesis. The next day, I timed it perfectly. I knew she’d be at the hospital, sitting vigil. I sent her a video call request. When her face appeared, etched with concern that wasn’t for me, I let the camera pan slowly around our living room. Her expression soured, the color draining from her cheeks. I gave her a lazy, unconcerned smile. “What’s wrong, Gen?” I asked, my voice deliberately placid. “You went to take care of your brother. The house felt so empty, so I just asked a friend to come keep me company. Is that not normal?” I held the phone up so she could get a better look at Isla Croft, lounging on my—our—sofa, wrapped in nothing but a silk robe, a wine glass dangling from her elegant fingers. “Don’t get the wrong idea,” I continued, a cold satisfaction spreading through me. “It’s a purely platonic friendship. Honestly, I’m exhausted. Can you please not be so unreasonable?” Before she could unleash the storm brewing in her eyes, I ended the call. After all, if you can have a “brother,” why can’t I have a “sister”? 1 The moment the call disconnected, the silence in the living room was absolute. Isla arched an eyebrow, slowly tying the belt of her robe, concealing the captivating lines of her collarbone. A low laugh rumbled in her chest, her voice laced with the thrill of watching a good show. “My guess? Genevieve will be back in ten minutes, ready for war.” I leaned back against the plush cushions of the sofa and took a slow sip of my Bordeaux. “I’ll bet you five.” The words were barely out of my mouth when the front door slammed open with a deafening crash, as if someone had kicked it in. Genevieve Astor was back. Her eyes were bloodshot, her chest heaving with rage. Her gaze sliced across Isla, who looked utterly unbothered, before landing on me. Her voice was a low growl, each word forced through clenched teeth. “Ethan Rhodes, you better have a goddamn explanation.” I swirled the deep red liquid in my glass, pretending not to notice the inferno in her eyes. “Explain what?” I met her gaze, feigning innocence. “I just had a friend over. What’s wrong with that?” “A friend?” Genevieve laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. She stormed forward, her fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Is it normal for a ‘friend’ to be in your house, in your bathrobe? Ethan, have you lost all sense of shame?” The disappointment and fury in her eyes were meant to annihilate me. If I were the man I used to be, her words would have shattered me. I would have been on my knees, sobbing, trying to explain. But I’m not him anymore. I calmly pulled my hand from her grasp, rubbing the red marks she’d left on my skin. My tone was light, almost bored. “Genevieve, don’t be so dramatic. We just watched a movie. She took a shower, that’s all. Your constant suspicion is exhausting.” Every single word was a weapon she had used against me in the past. Genevieve flinched as if I’d slapped her. Her face cycled through shades of white and red. She seemed incapable of believing those words were coming from my mouth. Isla chose that moment to sigh dramatically. “Gen, please don’t mind me. Ethan and I have always been like this. He honestly doesn’t even see me as a woman.” She gave a helpless shrug. “But since you clearly hate the sight of me, I’ll just go.” Her performance of the wronged party, the graceful exit, was flawless. “Don’t go,” I said immediately, grabbing Isla’s arm. I turned to Genevieve, my voice laced with disapproval. “Why are you being so hostile to her? When did you become so petty?” “Petty?” Genevieve was trembling with rage. “There is another woman in our home in the middle of the night! And you’re defending her!” “And what about Sebastian?” The final card. I played it with a serene smile. “Is he not a man? He calls you in the middle of the night, and you run to his side without a second thought. Are the two of you not a man and a woman, alone in a room together?” I took a step closer, looking directly into her blazing eyes, pinning her in place with my words. “If you can treat Sebastian like a brother, then I can have Isla as my sister. You can’t have it both ways, Gen.” Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Trapped by her own twisted logic, she was left speechless. Finally, with a guttural cry of frustration, she spun around and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. As silence returned to the living room, I let out a long breath. “Thanks, Isla. Sorry you had to be part of the show.” Isla’s playful demeanor vanished. She poured herself a glass of wine, her gaze complex as she looked at me. “Ethan, do you remember that debate tournament in college? You were my opponent, and you argued me into a corner so completely I couldn’t speak.” I blinked, surprised. She gave a self-deprecating smile. “I thought then that you belonged in the spotlight, confident and brilliant. Not… not like this. Trapped here, letting your light be snuffed out for one woman.” She set her glass down, her eyes full of a startling sincerity. “Genevieve doesn’t value you. That’s her loss. I’m helping you, not just for the drama, but because this isn’t who you’re supposed to be.” I looked into her earnest eyes, and for a moment, the ghost of resentment that lived in my chest felt a flicker of peace. She was right. This isn’t who I am meant to be. And that poor, broken man whose life I now inhabited… he never deserved that ending. I touched my hand to my chest, my resolve hardening like steel. Just wait. This is only the beginning. All the pain the male lead in this tragedy endured? It’s your turn to feel every last drop of it. And then some. 2 Genevieve didn’t come home the next day. I enjoyed the peace and quiet. For the first time in months, I slept soundly through the night. It wasn’t until dusk that the front door of the villa opened again. Genevieve walked in, supporting a frail figure I’d only ever seen in photographs: Sebastian Hayes. He was dressed in an all-white lounge set that hung off his thin frame, his face so pale it was almost translucent. He radiated a kind of sickly, artful fragility. Genevieve avoided my gaze as she placed Sebastian’s suitcase on the floor with a thud. “The doctor said Sebastian is still very weak and needs absolute rest. He’ll be staying here from now on, so I can look after him properly.” She paused, then added, as if it were an afterthought, “You can just make an extra portion at meals. It’s not much more effort.” Sebastian offered a weak, triumphant smile. His eyes flickered over to me, a flash of victory in them, before he tightened his grip on Genevieve’s arm. “Gen was so worried about me being alone, she insisted I come here. I’m sure Ethan won’t mind, right?” He drew out my name, slow and soft, the provocation unmistakable. As I was about to respond, a sharp, stabbing pain shot through my chest. It was the shattered soul of the man who used to live here, screaming in outrage. He was urging me on, demanding I ask Genevieve why she would bring this man into his home, demanding I throw him out. The intensity of it almost overwhelmed me. I took a deep breath, pressing a hand to my heart to soothe the ghost within. I forced down the wave of inherited fury and stretched my lips into a bright, welcoming smile. “Mind? Of course not. Why would I mind? Welcome, Sebastian.” My enthusiasm clearly caught both of them off guard. Ignoring their stunned expressions, I continued cheerfully, “Genevieve is right, you need to be taken care of. Besides, it’ll be nice to have more people around. It gets lonely here all by myself.” Then, I shifted my tone, pretending to have a sudden, brilliant idea. “And you know, what a coincidence! I was just about to tell you, the house is about to get even livelier!” Genevieve’s brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” I gestured toward the front door. “Isla’s company and her apartment are both being renovated right now. It’s a mess of dust and noise, terrible for her health. I couldn’t stand the thought of her staying alone in some hotel, so I’ve already asked her to move in with us for a while.” As if on cue, the doorbell rang. I pressed the button on the remote, and the door swung open to reveal Isla, casually pulling a silver suitcase behind her. She was dressed in chic athleisure, and she feigned a look of surprise as she took in the scene. “Oh, is everyone here?” She winked at me, then turned her gaze to Genevieve, whose face had turned to stone. “Gen, I hope you don’t mind me crashing for a bit. We’re all friends here, right?” The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on. Sebastian’s smile was frozen on his face, and Genevieve looked like she’d just swallowed poison. Oh, yes. This was going to be fun. On the first day of our new living arrangement, the war began in the kitchen at dawn. Sebastian was already up, a blue apron tied neatly around his waist. He was presenting Genevieve with a bowl of meticulously prepared abalone porridge. “Try this, Gen. I simmered it all night,” he said, his voice soft and cloying. “I just hope Ethan likes it. He seems to sleep in rather late.” I acted as if I hadn’t heard the dig, walking straight to the stove and pulling four eggs from the refrigerator. Genevieve frowned, her voice laced with an unspoken command. “Sebastian made you breakfast. Sit down and eat it.” I ignored her. I turned on the burner, heated a pan, and drizzled in a bit of olive oil. With a satisfying sizzle, the rich aroma of frying eggs filled the air, a stark, hearty contrast to the bland, watery smell of his porridge. I expertly cracked the four eggs into the pan, frying them until the whites were set and the yolks were perfectly runny. I slid two onto my plate and two onto another. A vein throbbed in Genevieve’s temple. “Ethan,” she said, her voice tight with suppressed anger, “do you have to be like this?” “Like what?” I pierced one of my yolks with a fork, watching the golden liquid ooze out. I took a deliberate, satisfying bite before looking up at her with an innocent smile. “You have your brother’s breakfast, made with love. I have my high-protein meal. And,” I gestured to the second plate, “these are for Isla. She’s taking me through a heavy lifting session later. We’ll need the energy.” 3 Carrying both plates, I turned my back on them and walked into the villa’s home gym. Isla was already there, finishing her warm-up. Her fitted tank top hugged the sleek muscles of her back, and a fine sheen of sweat glistened on her skin. She radiated a potent, healthy energy. “Your fuel,” I said, handing her the plate. She took it without ceremony and began to eat. An hour later, Genevieve appeared at the gym door, her face a thundercloud. She had clearly come for a confrontation, but the sight before her stopped her cold. I was on my last set of weighted squats, my muscles screaming in protest. Isla was standing directly behind me, her own body clad in a sports bra and yoga pants, sweat tracing a path down the elegant curve of her spine. Her hands were planted firmly on my waist, her warm palms pressing against the thin, sweat-soaked fabric of my shirt, spotting me. “I can’t… I can’t get up,” I gasped. “Don’t give up,” Isla’s voice was a low, sultry murmur next to my ear. “Feel it in your glutes. Squeeze. That’s it… I’ve got you. Don’t be afraid.” Her body was flush against my back, rising and falling with my movements, an intimacy so complete there was no space between us. From Genevieve’s angle, it must have looked like a full-body embrace. Bang! Genevieve’s fist connected with the doorframe. Isla and I turned in unison. My face was flushed and beaded with sweat from the workout. Isla slowly straightened up, wiped the sweat from her chest with a towel, and shot Genevieve a provocative look. “Something wrong, Gen? You seem a little tense this morning.” Genevieve’s glare could have killed. Her eyes were fixed on the damp outlines of Isla’s handprints on my shirt. Her lips pressed into a thin, white line, but she couldn’t say a word. What could she say? That we were being improper? Her darling Sebastian was sitting in the dining room right now. That our position was inappropriate? Just last night, she had personally massaged Sebastian’s “sprained” ankle for him. I watched her, the fury twisting her features as she was forced to swallow her rage, and the ghost in my chest finally felt a sliver of relief. Still breathing heavily, I turned to Isla and gave her a deliberately sweet, grateful smile. “Thanks, Isla. With you here, I feel like I can do anything.” I heard the sharp crack of Genevieve’s knuckles as she clenched her fists. … Later that night, I had just stepped out of the shower when my bedroom door was thrown open. Genevieve stood there, reeking of alcohol, her eyes burning red. She stalked toward me, her expensive perfume mingling with the scent of whiskey, enveloping me. Before I could react, she had me pinned against the wall. “Ethan,” she hissed, her voice rough and frayed. “What the hell do you want from me?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Her lips crashed down on mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an invasion, a punishment, the desperate bite of a cornered animal. I grimaced in disgust, turning my head away sharply as she tried to deepen the kiss. She froze, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. After a long moment, she buried her face in my neck, and her voice, when she spoke again, was shockingly vulnerable. “Do we have to be like this? This isn’t who you used to be.” I almost laughed out loud. When the old Ethan gave her his entire heart, she treated it like garbage. Now that I was giving her a taste of her own indifference, she was playing the victim? I placed my hand on her chest, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart through her silk blouse. “Are you jealous?” I asked softly. Her body went rigid. She jerked her head up, her eyes wide and searching in the dim light. Her lips moved, but no words came out. Finally, as if my question had struck a nerve she didn’t know she had, she scrambled away from me and fled the room, slamming the door behind her. The next day, I was in the city’s most exclusive luxury boutique, picking out a silk scarf for Isla as a thank you for her stellar performance. When I went to pay, the cashier handed my black card back to me with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir. This card has been declined.” Before I could say anything, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Genevieve, dripping with her usual arrogance: [When you figure out how to be a proper husband, you can come and talk to me. Until then, all of your accounts are frozen.] She thought she had me. She thought I was the same man who would panic, who would crawl back to her, begging for forgiveness, lost without her financial support. I looked at the text and a smirk touched my lips. I pulled out a different phone and made a call. “Mr. Davies? It’s Ethan Rhodes. The trust fund my mother left me. I’m ready to activate it.” … At three o’clock that afternoon, at a major investment press conference, the camera flashes were blinding. I stood on the stage in a sharp, tailored black suit, right beside Isla, positioned as her most crucial new business partner. I smiled brightly for the cameras, knowing Genevieve would be watching. After the successful launch, Isla handed me a glass of champagne. “Congratulations, Ethan. A beautiful counterattack.” As I raised my glass to hers, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate uncontrollably. I pulled it out to see a screen full of missed call notifications—more than twenty of them, all from Genevieve. I ignored them, about to turn the phone off, when the screen lit up again. This time, it was the private line from the Astor family estate. I answered. There was a second of silence, then a stern, aged voice boomed through the speaker. “Ethan Rhodes, have you had enough of this nonsense?!”

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I had been a Prescott for eighteen years when a girl claiming to be the real Prescott daughter threw herself in front of our car. She lay sprawled on the asphalt, her sobs a theatrical performance meant for an audience of our tinted windows. Between gasps, she accused me, the impostor, of stealing the life that should have been hers. After the DNA test, my own brother, who’d never shown me a shred of genuine affection, suddenly became her staunchest ally. Together, they twisted truths into lies, painting me as the villain in a story I hadn’t even known I was in. In my last life, their campaign of whispers and accusations worked. My father, his face a mask of fury, cast me out of the family. When I returned to my supposed birth family, the Moores, their eyes held nothing but contempt for me. It didn’t end there. Ivy, the real daughter, sent men to break what was left of me, over and over again. Unable to bear it, I stepped off the edge of a skyscraper and let the city swallow me whole. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on that same day, with Ivy blocking our car. I saw the raw hatred in her eyes, the same hatred that had haunted my final moments. I took a breath, my voice steady. “Then let’s all get a DNA test.” 1 “What are you trying to say?” Ivy shot back, her face flushed with anger. “Are you saying I’m a liar? Or are you just so entitled you can’t accept that I’m the one who was supposed to have your life?” Beside me, Carter was slouched in his seat, scrolling on his phone. “This is such a drag,” he muttered. “Finding out my sister is a fake on a Tuesday.” I shrugged, turning my gaze to the man in the front passenger seat. “Father, I think it’s best for everyone if we all get tested. That way, there’s no room for doubt. The science doesn’t lie.” My father was silent for a long moment, his stony profile reflected in the window. Then, a curt nod. “Audrey is right. You,” he said, gesturing vaguely at Ivy, “will come with us. You’ll both be tested.” With his verdict delivered, I said nothing more. I simply shifted closer to my mother, making room for Ivy to climb into the car. I knew how this family worked. Father was the judge, jury, and executioner. No matter how shocked my mother was, no matter how her heart might bleed for this girl claiming to be her long-lost child, she would always defer to him. Ivy scrambled up from the pavement and slid into the car. She was covered in dust, her frame so thin she looked like a strong wind could snap her in two. The grime of her journey clung to her, and I saw my mother’s brow furrow for a split second before she leaned away, pressing herself against the opposite window. We arrived at the hospital—the Prescott Wing, to be precise. As the phlebotomist prepared the needles, Ivy looked at my mother with wide, pleading eyes, a silent beg for comfort. But she misjudged her audience. My mother was a Prescott, raised on silk and silver spoons. She had never encountered anyone who looked like Ivy. Without the certainty of a blood tie, all she could feel was a vague revulsion, not a flicker of maternal sympathy. “Audrey Prescott!” Ivy hissed at me, her voice low and sharp. Then her expression shifted, morphing into a sneer of arrogant certainty. “Just wait until those results come back. You’ll see what I do to you.” I didn’t answer. My heart was hammering against my ribs. This was a gamble. I was betting that I was also a Prescott. That the child the Moores had swapped into this life of luxury wasn’t me. In my past life, it had always puzzled me. When I returned to the Moores, I’d tried my best. I never complained about their small, rural house. I helped with chores, with the farm work, trying to earn my place. But it never mattered. Their gazes were always cold, tinged with a resentment I couldn’t understand. I assumed it was because I’d been thrown out by the Prescotts, penniless and disgraced. But one night, Mr. Moore got drunk. He stumbled into the living room and pointed a slurring finger at me. “Thank God it was you who came back,” he’d mumbled, before his wife rushed in, her eyes wide with panic, and clamped a hand over his mouth. That’s when I knew something was wrong. But by the time I tried to investigate, Ivy had already blocked every path, ensuring I was trapped, powerless, in that forgotten town. This time, I was back. And I was willing to bet everything, even if I was wrong. Because my father had invested heavily in this hospital, the results that should have taken days were ready in under an hour. When the doctor emerged holding the files, Ivy rushed toward him. “Doctor, what does it say?” The doctor ignored her, addressing my father directly. “Mr. Prescott, the results are in. This report confirms that Ms. Ivy Moore is, indeed, your and Mrs. Prescott’s biological daughter.” Ivy’s eyes shot to mine, gleaming with triumph. A second later, the look vanished, replaced by a mask of tearful vulnerability as she turned to my mother. “Mom, Dad… I finally found you.” My mother’s composure finally cracked. She pulled Ivy into a hug, her voice thick with emotion. “My dear girl. You must have suffered so much.” Carter shoved me aside, rushing to Ivy’s side. “So you’re my real sister! I knew it! The first time I saw you, I felt a connection. Nothing like her.” He jerked his head in my direction. My father’s expression remained unreadable, but I saw a flicker of something—pity, perhaps—in his eyes. I stood my ground, my voice calm as I looked at the doctor. “What about the other report?” Ivy spoke up quickly. “It’s already been proven that I’m their daughter. We don’t need to see yours.” She tried to pull away from my mother’s embrace, but the doctor was faster. He placed both reports directly into my father’s hands. “This report,” the doctor stated clearly, “shows that Ms. Audrey Prescott is also your and Mrs. Prescott’s biological daughter.” “What? That’s impossible! You must have made a mistake!” Ivy’s face twisted into a mask of rage, her shriek echoing down the sterile, empty hallway. My father scanned the papers, his brow furrowed. “Doctor, what does this mean?” “Mr. Prescott, the equipment you funded for this lab is state-of-the-art. There is no possibility of error. The reports show that both young women are your biological daughters. The results are conclusive.” “Audrey Prescott! This was you, wasn’t it!” Ivy looked feral, breaking free from my mother’s arms and lunging for me. “You paid him off! You bribed the doctor!” I flinched back, looking at my father with wide, wounded eyes. “Father, I didn’t… you know I would never have the courage to do something like that.” My father’s face hardened as he looked at Ivy. “That is enough. This behavior is unbecoming.” His sharp tone made Ivy freeze, her hands dropping away from my collar. I nearly stumbled. “Audrey has always been a well-behaved child,” he continued, his voice cold as steel. “Top of her class. She is not capable of such a thing. I know my daughter.” Vindicated, I lowered my head and smoothed the wrinkles Ivy had made in my dress. He despised public displays of disorder. “Mom only had two children,” Ivy muttered, her mind racing. “If I’m her daughter, and Audrey is too… does that mean Carter isn’t?” Her words were a spark in the dark. Of course. That’s why the Moores hated me. Their ambition was bigger than I ever imagined. They hadn’t just swapped a daughter out; they’d swapped their son in. I immediately seized the opening. “Maybe… we should test Carter, too.” “Are you insane, Audrey?” Carter, who had been enjoying the show, finally snapped to attention. “Just because you managed to stay a Prescott, you’re going to drag me into this?” I looked at him, my expression one of pure innocence. “But we’re twins, Carter. Born at practically the same time. If it could happen to one of us, it could have happened to you, too.” Carter laughed, a short, ugly sound. “No one is that stupid. To swap a boy for a girl.” But my father wasn’t listening to him. A businessman never overlooks a potential liability. I heard him give the doctor a quiet, firm order. “Draw his blood.”

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