My daughter, who had just gotten a full ride to Berkeley, suddenly looked at me and said, “Mom, I think you’re kind of selfish.” I frowned, completely lost. “I mean,” she continued, “I got into this amazing school, and all our friends and family are congratulating *you*, showering *you* with praise. But what about Dad? He gets nothing out of this.” The air went out of my lungs. My heart felt like it had dropped into a block of ice. I stared at her, my face hardening. “And what exactly is it you think your father should be getting?” 1 Asking that question felt like swallowing glass. My daughter, Emily, didn’t even look up from her video game. “It’s not that I think he should get something specific,” she said, tapping furiously at her iPad. “It just doesn’t seem fair.” Her tone was so casual, but the words were suffocating me. I took a deep breath, walked over, and snatched the iPad out of her hands. “Tell me,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “Tell me about your idea of ‘fair.’” That’s when she exploded. Emily shot up from the couch and tried to rip the tablet back from me. “What the hell? I’m in the middle of a raid! Are you crazy?” I threw the iPad to the floor. It shattered with a sickening crack. Emily’s face twisted with rage. She shoved me hard. “I was trying to be nice!” she screamed, her face inches from mine. “I was trying to spare your feelings, but I guess that’s over now.” “I’m your daughter. When I got that acceptance letter, even the mailman was telling you how lucky you are, what a great kid you raised. Relatives who haven’t called in years are suddenly blowing up your phone.” “It feels pretty good, doesn’t it? All that attention. But what about my dad? Just because you two are divorced, he’s not even allowed to come to my graduation party? He has to sneak around to give me a gift, like he’s some kind of criminal, just so he doesn’t upset you.” “He’s my *father*, Mom, not some stranger. This glory, this success? It’s mine. I earned it. And you’re getting all the benefits. Why shouldn’t he get to share in it, too?” “Why do I have to be *your* trophy? Why do you get to control everything? I’m just telling you the truth. You’re a selfish, possessive woman.” Her words hit me like a physical blow. My mind went blank. My teeth were chattering, and the hand I pointed at her was trembling uncontrollably. But Emily didn’t care. She was on a roll, venting years of stored-up resentment. “I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to talk about how Dad hurt you.” “That was ages ago! How long are you going to hold that grudge? It’s the 21st century, people get divorced all the time. Does every divorced couple have to be mortal enemies?” “He stopped loving *you*, Mom. He never stopped loving *me*. I’m his daughter, and I made him proud. I got into Berkeley…” The sharp, clean sound of a slap echoed in the quiet room. It took every last ounce of my strength. Emily clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with disbelief. Then came the shriek. “How could you? You have no right to hit me! You are going to regret this!” With one last hateful glare, she spun around, wrenched the door open, and slammed it behind her. My legs gave out. I stumbled backward and collapsed onto the floor. 2 I will never, ever forgive my ex-husband, Mark. When I was young, I fell for his sweet talk and empty promises. I married him against my parents’ wishes, convinced he was my soulmate. After we were married, I emptied my savings account to help him start his construction business. And it worked. His business took off. Soon after, I got pregnant. The moment he heard, he moved his mother in from out of state, supposedly to “help with the baby.” Behind my back, she sold her house and settled in for good. I tried to be okay with it. Then, I gave birth to a daughter. The sweet, doting mother-in-law vanished overnight. My gentle, loving husband didn’t even show up at the hospital. Before I was even fully recovered, my mother-in-law ground sleeping pills into my food. While I was passed out, she took my baby and drove her to some distant relatives three states away, planning to give her up for adoption. When I woke up and found Emily gone, I went into a panic. I called Mark, screaming and crying. His voice was cold, distant. “Sarah, calm down. My mom talked to a psychic. Said the baby’s bad luck for my career. Besides, she’s just a girl. Let them have her. You need to focus on getting healthy so you can give me a real son.” No matter how much I begged, they refused to tell me where my daughter was. They locked me in the house, telling me they’d let me out when I “calmed down.” I broke a window and climbed out. I called the police. Once things got loud and official, they finally brought my daughter back. I filed for divorce immediately. Mark refused. The look in his eyes when he spoke to me was pure evil. “Divorce? And who’s going to cook my meals? Who’s going to give me a son? Who’s going to be my mom’s maid?” After that, whenever he had a bad day at work, he’d come home and take it out on me. On both of us. He’d hit me, hit our little girl, screaming that we were curses, a pair of black cats that ruined his luck. Eventually, he brought another woman home. She gave him the son he always wanted. He needed to marry her to get the boy on his insurance, so he finally agreed to the divorce. The price was steep. If I wanted to take my daughter, I had to walk away with nothing. No money, no house, no car. Just the clothes on my back and my little girl. I signed the papers without a second thought. I can’t even think about those years without feeling sick. For a long time after, I’d wake up screaming, his snarling face haunting my dreams. Life was hard, raising Emily on my own. I worked double shifts at the diner and cleaned houses on weekends. But we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, and no one was hitting us. I poured everything I had into my daughter. I wanted her to have the best of everything I could afford. I was terrified she would end up like me, making one wrong choice that would ruin her entire life. So when she got that acceptance letter, that full ride, I was so happy I couldn’t sleep for a week. I knew she had done it. She was going to be different. She had an education, a brilliant mind. She was going to build a life of her own. And now, her words were like a thousand tiny knives, stabbing me over and over in the heart. She knew. She knew everything he’d done to us. 3 I shouldn’t have been surprised when Mark showed up at my door. “Sarah, I hear you’ve been putting your hands on my daughter,” he sneered, stepping inside like he owned the place. “Getting a little bold, aren’t you?” I had no patience for him. “Mark, you haven’t claimed Emily as your child for her entire life. Who do you think you’re fooling with this protective father act?” His eyes narrowed, and for a second, I saw the old rage. He took a step toward me, his hand raised, but his new wife, Jessica, grabbed his arm. “Honey, please,” she said in a sickly-sweet voice. Then she looked at me. “Sarah, we know how hard you’ve worked. We really do. But you can’t hit a child. They have feelings, you know. We parents can’t be tyrants.” She gave Mark a subtle look. He got the message. He pulled Emily behind him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders in a theatrical display of fatherly protection. “I know I made mistakes,” he said, his voice dripping with false sincerity. “But I’ve learned from them. And now look at Emily! She’s a star, our family’s lucky charm. Of course I’m going to be there for her. Who else would be?” I didn’t believe a word of it. But Emily did. “Mom, did you hear that?” she said, her voice pleading. “Dad knows he was wrong. I earned his approval, all by myself. Can’t you be happy for me? Why do you always have to be so aggressive?” My face was a grim mask. “Emily, you know what he did to us. You know why he abandoned you. It was because you weren’t a…” “Because I wasn’t a boy?” Emily cut me off, her eyes flashing. “Yeah, I know. And why wasn’t I? If I had been a boy, I wouldn’t have been laughed at my whole life for not having a dad. I wouldn’t have had to watch you struggle for every single penny.” Tears welled in her eyes. “So tell me, Mom,” she choked out, her voice thick with resentment. “Why couldn’t you have just given him a boy?” I couldn’t believe this was the child I had raised for eighteen years. My body started to shake with a fury I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. I raised my hand. This time, Emily was ready. She shoved me, hard. I stumbled backward and fell to the floor. “You were going to hit me again!” she shrieked. Mark rushed forward and kicked me, once, twice, right in the ribs. “You bitch!” he roared. “You dare touch my daughter in front of me? God knows how you’ve been treating her behind my back! You don’t deserve to be a mother!” The pain was sharp, sickeningly familiar. For a moment, I was back in that dark, hopeless place. I looked up at Emily. There was no pity in her eyes. Only a cold, hard hatred. Jessica stood next to her, one arm around Emily’s shoulders, looking down at me with a smirk of pure triumph. I closed my eyes. My heart felt like a dead, gray stone in my chest. “Go, Emily,” I whispered. “Just go. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a daughter anymore.” Emily didn’t answer. Mark did. “Damn right she’s going,” he grunted. “She’s my daughter. I’m taking her. Now go get her birth certificate and Social Security card.” 4 “Her birth certificate?” Faced with my confusion, Emily finally spoke. “To make things fair, I’m moving in with Dad. You took care of me through high school. He’s going to pay for my college.” A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. She actually believed that. She thought he was going to see her through four years at Berkeley. “So you need the paperwork to legally move in with him? To become part of his family?” Emily didn’t say anything, which was all the confirmation I needed. Jessica piped up in her chirpy voice. “Well, Emily is Mark’s daughter, after all. It’s time for her to come home, to be part of the family officially. I was thinking, we shouldn’t just update the custody papers. We should change her name, too. Back to her father’s.” Mark slammed his hand on the coffee table. “Good idea. She’s a Vance, not a Hayes. Our Berkeley girl shouldn’t be carrying your name.” I looked at Emily. She stared at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. So that was it. She was ashamed to be a Hayes. Ashamed to be my daughter. I laughed again, a hollow, empty sound. What was the point in fighting it? I pulled myself up, ignoring the throbbing in my side, and went to my room to get the documents. The car ride to the county clerk’s office was a special kind of torture. Emily clung to Jessica’s arm, calling her “Jess” this and “Jess” that. Jessica played her part perfectly, stroking Emily’s hair and draping an arm over her shoulder. “You know,” Jessica cooed, “I always regretted not having a daughter of my own. Now, with you, my heart is just so full.” Emily shot a pointed look at me in the rearview mirror. “Some people don’t feel that way. Some people just see me as a trophy to show off.” The words should have hurt, but by then, I was numb. I was strict with her, it was true. I pushed her hard in school. I knew that for a girl from a background like ours, knowledge was the only weapon, the only way out. I see now that some lessons can only be learned the hard way. We got to the government building. It was surprisingly empty. When I handed over the documents, I felt a final pang of doubt. I looked at Emily one last time. “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this? Change your name, everything?” She was five years old when I carried her out of that house. She couldn’t remember all of it, but she knew enough. She’d tried to see Mark a few times when she was older. Each time he’d either insulted her or ignored her. I truly didn’t understand her anymore. Was a father’s approval—this fake, sudden approval—really that important? Or was she just that ashamed of me and our life? Emily hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. But Jessica just laughed. “Oh, Sarah, don’t be so dramatic. Of course she’s sure. Emily is a Vance. This is about her future. When she’s at school, or when she gets married, no one will look down on her. Being part of a happy, stable family is always better than… well, you know.” She gave me a pitying look. That did it. Emily’s face hardened. “Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “I want to change it.” Jessica clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! You know what we should do? We should change it back to the first name we had picked out for you. The one that’s in the family records.” Emily nodded obediently. “Whatever you think is best, Jess.” The process was quick. Mark filled out the form for Emily’s new name. She didn’t even bother to look at it. A few minutes later, a clerk’s voice boomed across the hall. “Emily Hayes?” Emily practically skipped to the counter. “That’s me.” The clerk, a tired-looking woman with kind eyes, looked from the form to Emily, then back to the form. Her expression was strange, a mix of pity and confusion. “Are you sure, honey?” she asked softly. “Are you absolutely sure you want to change your name from Emily Hayes to Charity Vance?”

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The call from the travel agency came out of nowhere. They said my parents were raising hell after their round-the-world cruise, demanding a refund and even assaulting an employee. They wanted to know what I was going to do about it. But that was impossible. At that very moment, my mother was helping my father hobble out of his hospital room, asking me if the discharge papers were ready. They hadn’t gone on any trip. My dad had broken his leg right before they were supposed to leave. I hung up and turned to my husband, the one I’d sent to the agency to postpone the trip. “Craig,” I demanded, “what is going on?” He looked at me, his eyes wide with a practiced shock. “Honey, I canceled their trip, remember? Your dad’s hospital bills were piling up. Where were we going to get the money for a world cruise after all that?” A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I didn’t even bother arguing with him. I just dialed my brother-in-law, Liam—the owner of the travel agency. “Liam, it’s Claire,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Could you do me a favor? I need you to check whose parents enjoyed the luxury cruise you booked for Mom and Dad. I think I have a homewrecker to find.” My parents had worked themselves to the bone their entire lives and never had a real vacation. When Liam, who runs Horizon Travel, found out, he gifted them a top-of-the-line, all-expenses-paid world cruise package. When my husband, Craig, first heard about it, he’d been less than thrilled. “A trip like that costs a fortune,” he’d complained. “It’s not that I can’t afford it, it’s just… unnecessary.” His words made my parents hesitate, but I finally convinced them. Then the accident happened, and the trip was off. But now, Horizon Travel was telling me my parents had just returned from their 120-day journey. And the agent on the phone was adamant; they had the right number. Something was deeply wrong. I had to go down to the agency myself. It was a weekday, so I expected it to be quiet, but the lobby was buzzing with a loud argument. I was too focused on getting answers to pay much attention. I walked straight to the front desk. “Hi,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You called me a few hours ago? About my parents demanding a refund and injuring an employee?” The receptionist hesitated. “Oh, yes. There is an elderly couple causing a scene. But their daughter, a Miss Vance, is already here. She just went into the manager’s office.” “Miss Vance?” I stared at her, bewildered. “Are you sure?” She nodded toward the two people still yelling near the lounge area. “That’s what they said. They confirmed she’s their daughter. There’s no mistake.” My brow furrowed, anger starting to simmer beneath my skin. “And the personal information they provided matched the original booking exactly?” The receptionist confirmed it did. She even pulled up a short promotional video from the day of departure. “Miss Vance’s husband even dropped the couple off himself and confirmed the itinerary with us.” The moment the video played, my blood ran cold. The man on the screen, smiling and waving as the elderly couple boarded, was my husband, Craig. The rage that flooded my veins was hot and sharp. He had another wife. And he’d let her parents steal the trip of a lifetime that Liam had arranged for mine. I was going to find out exactly how Craig planned to explain this. I pulled out my phone, but before I could dial, I saw a familiar figure approaching the arguing couple. She was dressed to the nines in designer clothes, a luxury handbag swinging from her arm. “Mom, Dad, it’s all sorted,” she said sweetly. “I spoke with the manager. You’ll get your refund.” It was Vanessa. Craig’s so-called “best friend.” I marched right up to her. “Vanessa,” I said, my voice dripping with ice, “how did you manage to get your parents on a cruise under my parents’ names?” She didn’t even flinch. “Claire? What are you doing here? Thinking of sending your parents on a trip, too?” A cruel smile stretched across my face. “Cut the crap. I want to know why my parents’ cruise was hijacked by yours.” I snatched the printed photos from the receptionist’s desk—stills from the departure video—and threw them at her. “And since when are they my husband’s in-laws?” My voice was loud enough to draw the attention of everyone in the lobby. Vanessa’s smile vanished, replaced by a look of haughty indignation. “Claire, how dare you make such baseless accusations? My husband booked this trip for my parents. It was a surprise.” She scoffed. “The most expensive package they offer. A price tag you could never afford.” She leaned in, her voice a theatrical whisper. “I told you how much my husband loves me. No matter how desperately you chase after him, you can’t make him yours.” The onlookers started murmuring, their eyes burning into me with contempt. “So she’s a psycho mistress trying to break up a marriage.” “Look at what she’s wearing versus the wife. As if she could afford a two-hundred-thousand-dollar cruise. So shameless.” I was just in sweats and a t-shirt, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t afford it. Vanessa, on the other hand, looked the part, but I knew for a fact she couldn’t even afford the bag she was carrying. Ignoring the whispers, I fixed my glare on her. “I think you’re the one who’s desperate to turn someone else’s husband into her own.” I turned back to the receptionist. “Did you actually verify their identities before they departed?” The woman was clearly annoyed. “Of course we did. Our manager handled it personally.” She pointed to a woman just coming down the stairs. “That’s her right there.” I looked over and almost laughed. The manager was one of Vanessa’s closest friends. No wonder she was so brazen. My tone sharpened. “As I recall, a trip like this has multiple identity checkpoints. Your manager may have waved them through at the start, but what about the tour guides? The cruise staff? Did no one notice the names didn’t match the passports?” The receptionist shifted uncomfortably. “Well, Mr. Cole did call ahead to inform us that his in-laws had recently changed their names and their official documents hadn’t been updated yet…” “So you did know the information didn’t match,” I cut her off, my voice rising with fury. “And you chose to look the other way. Is that it? Does anyone at this company do their job responsibly?” Vanessa shoved me hard. “Give it up, Claire. You’re just pissed you can’t afford a trip like this for your own parents, so you’re making a scene.” Her eyes gleamed with triumph as she pulled out her phone. “You know what? I’ll call my husband right now and let him put you in your place.” The contact name read ‘My Husband.’ It was Craig’s number. She put him on speakerphone, and the second he answered, she started wailing. “Craig, baby! This crazy woman, Claire, is attacking me! She’s here at the travel agency saying our parents stole the trip from hers, and she’s telling everyone that you’re her husband, not mine!” Craig’s voice erupted from the phone, laced with fury. “What? How am I not your husband? Don’t worry, babe! I’m on my way. I’ll be right there to back you up!” I couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t defending me—the wife who had stood by him, scrimped and saved with him for years while he built his business from nothing. He was defending her—the woman who had abandoned him the second she thought he was going bankrupt. Vanessa lifted her chin, a smirk playing on her lips. “Did you hear that, Claire? My husband is coming. You should probably leave now before you humiliate yourself even more.” Her arrogance was infuriating. Craig arrived in record time, storming into the lobby like a hurricane. He didn’t hesitate. He marched straight to me and slapped me across the face, the sound echoing in the silent room. Then he grabbed my hair and slammed my head against the wall. “Claire! How dare you bully Vanessa!” he roared. “Now get the hell out of here!” My head exploded with pain, and black spots danced in my vision. Vanessa practically leaped into Craig’s arms, planting a loud, wet kiss on his mouth. “You’re the best, honey! She obviously came here just to harass me and my parents. She’s completely unhinged.” Craig wrapped his arms around her, kissing her back deeply. The sight sent a wave of pure, unadulterated rage through me. “Craig Cole! I am going to destroy you!” He finally pulled away from Vanessa, his eyes, when they met mine, filled with nothing but irritation. “Don’t push me, Claire. I mean it.” He gestured wildly between us. “I’ve told you a hundred times, I’m married! Stop stalking me! I can’t believe you’d stoop so low as to harass my wife and her parents!” Leaning against the wall for support, the world spinning around me, I stared at the man in front of me as if he were a total stranger. This was the man who had promised to love me forever. Now he was kissing another woman in front of me and attacking me for her. The memories came flooding back, little puzzle pieces clicking into place. He had been cheating on me all along. Their “friendship” was a lie. When Vanessa left him, he’d been a wreck for months. And ever since she came back, he was suddenly working late every night, even forgetting our anniversary. I locked my eyes on his. “Craig,” I said, my voice low and trembling with fury, “I’m giving you one last chance. Tell me. Who. Is. Your. Wife.” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a sneer. “Stop trying to cause trouble, Claire! You’re just trying to make my wife and her family doubt me! You’re nothing but a pathetic gold digger who won’t leave me alone now that I have money.” He wrapped a protective arm around Vanessa. “But I love my wife. And I will never, ever divorce her to marry a psycho like you.” The crowd’s whispers grew louder, their judgment like daggers. “What a leech. The poor guy.” “She’s pure evil, trying to drive a wedge between a happy family right in front of them.” For Vanessa, he would twist reality, turn me into a villain, and leave me to be devoured by strangers. But I wasn’t helpless. My voice was cold and steady. “Craig and I are the ones who are married.” I reached into my bag for our marriage certificate, but Vanessa was faster. She triumphantly produced a certificate of her own. “Does this not count as being a real wife?” she sneered. I froze, staring at the document, at their smiling faces. The world tilted on its axis. Vanessa snatched my certificate out of my hand before I could even process it. “Wow, Claire,” she said, her voice dripping with mock pity. “You’re so desperate to steal my husband, you even got a fake certificate made!” She opened it, her eyes scanning the paper with disdain. “But the official seal isn’t even right. It’s so crude.” Looking closer, I saw she was right. The embossed seal was a cheap, blurry imitation. My hand started to shake. I remembered that day at the courthouse. Just as the clerk was about to hand us the certificate, Craig had insisted I run back to the car to get something he’d forgotten. By the time I returned, he was waiting outside with the certificate, telling me it was all done. Vanessa’s laughter was a cruel, sharp sound. She threw the fake document in my face. “There. Now do you see who his wife is? I suggest you get a little self-respect and get the hell out of our lives.” She couldn’t wait to have him all to herself. Craig squeezed Vanessa’s hand. The matching wedding bands on their fingers seared into my brain. He looked at me, then turned to the manager, his voice filled with disgust. “You need to get her out of here before she completely ruins your company’s reputation with her lies.” The crowd chimed in. “Yeah, get the crazy woman out! For a second there, I almost believed the travel agency was at fault.” The manager, being Vanessa’s friend, was more than happy to oblige. “Security!” she yelled. “Get this psycho out of my lobby!” Two guards approached. Hearing the word “psycho,” they came prepared, one brandishing a stun baton. Before I could even react, a jolt of electricity shot through me, and my body convulsed. They pinned me to the floor, and once they were sure I was subdued, they started dragging me out. As they hauled me past her, Vanessa quietly circled behind me and kicked me squarely in the lower back. I stumbled forward, crashing into a luggage rack stacked high for a tour group. A cascade of suitcases rained down on me. “Oops, sorry, Claire,” Vanessa chirped, a malicious glint in her eyes. “I saw you reaching for something. I was just worried you were going for a weapon.” Craig pulled her back. “Why are you apologizing? Don’t let a lunatic like her hurt you.” I couldn’t even speak. The weight of the luggage crushed me, and a sharp, searing pain shot through my arm. Blood trickled down my forehead. I was too weak to even push the bags off me. The crowd just stood there, watching. No one moved to help. Craig just frowned, a look of pure disgust on his face. He looked almost… disappointed that the suitcases hadn’t finished the job. In that moment, any lingering love I had for him died.

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The last time I saw him, I left him standing alone on a street corner on Valentine’s Day and walked away without a backward glance. Years later, we met again. He was a titan of industry now, wielding immense power. He appeared at an exclusive event, bidding on a necklace for his girlfriend. Someone teased him, “Wedding bells in the near future, Mr. Prescott?” Cain Prescott lifted his gaze, a lazy disinterest in his eyes. “Just a bit of fun. It’s not serious.” And then he saw me. The smile on his lips froze. Before the watchful eyes of everyone present, he rose from his seat and walked toward me, his stride calm and measured. My mind went blank. All I could manage to think of was a simple greeting: “It’s been a long time—” The next second, a hand of steel clamped around my throat, pinning me to the wall. “You dare come back?” He smiled, a chillingly pleasant expression on his face. “Didn’t I tell you? If you ever showed your face again, I would destroy you.” 1 The air conditioning in the auction hall was glacial. I’d been plied with chilled champagne at dinner, and now a sharp cramp twisted in my stomach. Not far off, a cluster of socialites were gossiping. “Are those wedding bells I hear? Mr. Prescott buying another necklace to win the lady’s favor?” Cain lifted his eyes, a lazy boredom in them. “Just a bit of fun. It’s not serious.” Even seated among the city’s elite, he was a star in its own orbit, incandescent. Every gesture radiated an aristocratic power that was both innate and intimidating. The entire upper echelon of New York society revered him. A knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. Why him? Why here? I had checked… I had specifically checked the guest list. I was standing behind the auction stage, slightly hunched over from the pain in my stomach. The movement caused the fabric of my form-fitting gown, once perfectly smooth, to wrinkle. This was my first auction since returning to the States, the first time I was presenting my own work. Someone’s voice drifted over, laced with curiosity. “Could it be because of what happened back then…” Cain let out a short, derisive laugh. “Her? She wishes.” The house lights began to dim, shrouding Cain’s sharp features in shadow, his expression unreadable. I was plunged into an icy memory of the last phone call he ever made to me. People who play with hearts, he’d said, his voice cold as the grave, go to hell. He told me he would never forgive me. Not in this lifetime. “Miss Miller, would you like to come up and introduce your piece?” the auctioneer’s voice boomed, suddenly calling me out. A single spotlight pierced the darkness from above, trapping me in its brilliant glare, making me the center of everyone’s attention. The audience was a sea of shadows. I couldn’t see Cain’s face, couldn’t guess at his reaction. Silence descended upon the hall as everyone waited for me to speak. I clutched the microphone, my knuckles white, and deliberately fixed my gaze on a point far beyond where I knew he was sitting. “Good evening, everyone. I am Elara Miller, the jewelry designer of tonight’s featured piece. It’s an honor to present my work to you all…” The entire time, I was on autopilot, my words a meaningless blur. A desperate prayer echoed in my mind: Maybe he’s already left. Maybe he didn’t recognize me. Clinging to that sliver of hope, I slipped off the stage, aiming for the dimly lit fire escape on the side of the hall. Just as I reached for the door, a small, menacing point of red light flared in the darkness ahead—the burning tip of a cigarette. A tall silhouette detached itself from the shadows and moved toward me. A pair of long, impeccably tailored legs entered my vision. Before I could process it, a hand was around my neck. My back slammed against the cold, hard wall. A familiar, aggressive scent of cold mint and tobacco filled my senses. Cain’s voice, a low and dangerous murmur, reached my ears. “You dare come back?” he repeated. “Didn’t I tell you? If I ever saw you again, I would destroy you.” I tilted my head back, forced to look into those once-familiar eyes. The deep affection that used to reside there was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness. I leaned against the wall, meeting his gaze in a silent standoff. He suddenly broke the silence with a laugh. “Cat got your tongue?” “I have nothing to say.” The hand on my jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white with the pressure. Cain’s voice dropped to a whisper, each word a shard of ice. “Elara. Say that again. I dare you.” The sound of high heels echoed from the stairwell. A soft, feminine voice called out hesitantly, “Cain? Are you in there? The auction is over.” Cain squeezed his eyes shut, visibly suppressing the fury simmering within them. The pressure on my neck abruptly vanished. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and meticulously wiped his hand, as if he’d just touched something filthy. “Stay out there,” he called back, his voice steady. “It’s cold in here.” The footsteps stopped immediately. “Okay,” the woman replied. “Don’t be long.” I slumped against the wall, gasping for air, loosening the collar of my gown. A sheen of cold sweat had broken out on my forehead. Our ragged breaths mingled in the tight space. Cain gave me one last, lingering look before pushing the door open and disappearing into the hall. 2 The necklace sold for fifty million dollars. To Cain Prescott. It would be some time before the funds cleared, however, which meant I was stuck in the city for the foreseeable future. Two weeks later, I met its new owner at a gallery opening hosted by a major jeweler. “Elara?” She recognized me first, greeting me with an effusive warmth that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s been ages!” Her name was Helena Vance. We’d been in the same high school. Daughter of a wealthy family, she’d sailed through life on a sea of privilege. The year I dropped out, we’d had… a falling out. I blinked, feigning a look of pleasant surprise. “Helena! I can’t believe it. What are you doing here?” The multi-million-dollar sapphire necklace—my creation—rested against the elegant column of her throat, its brilliance almost blinding. Her eyes swept over me, a subtle, sharp appraisal. “Did you finally make it big?” she asked, the implication clear: only the rich and powerful received invitations to events like this. I forced a tight smile. “I’m the designer of your necklace. I managed to pull some strings for an invitation.” A person’s expression is a marvel of subtlety. A smile, for instance, can so easily mask a sneer. She waved a hand towards someone behind me, her voice exaggeratedly bright. “Cain, look who I ran into!” I didn’t turn around, but I could feel a hostile gaze boring into my back, sharp and cold. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers,” Cain’s voice drifted over, laced with condescension. “You never know what kind of trouble they’ll drag you into.” I kept my head down, pretending I hadn’t heard. Helena, ever the instigator, fanned the flames. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. You have some experience with that, don’t you? Swindled out of your money, your heart, your… everything. So tragic. Right, Elara?” The gallery owner, a portly man with beady eyes, perked up at the scent of gossip. “Someone had the nerve to scam Mr. Prescott? Who would be that foolish?” Helena shot me a sideways glance, a picture of polished grace. “Oh, just some nobody from the gutter. It’s too embarrassing to even mention her name.” The owner nodded sagely. “Quite right. Girls from that background are fine for a bit of fun, but for marriage? Utterly unsuitable.” Through it all, Cain stood back, a silent, cold observer to the entire spectacle. “Ah, Ms. Miller, you look a little pale,” the gallery owner finally noticed me. “Would you like some water?” I managed a brittle smile. “No, thank you. I have to be going. Please, excuse me.” The sun was a fiery smear on the horizon as I stepped out of the gallery. I leaned against the cool stone of the building, trying to catch my breath. My reflection in the glass door was pale, almost ghostly. An email from my best friend popped up on my phone: Did you sort it out? Layoff notices are coming next month, absolute latest. You need to get a client to commit to the Paris gala. I took a deep breath. Yeah, I know. I… I ran into someone I shouldn’t have. She paused on her end. Don’t tell me. The person who bought your necklace… it was Cain Prescott? That was precisely why I couldn’t ask. A heavy silence stretched between us. My friend tried to sound comforting. “Just focus on getting the payment for now. We can figure out the rest later…” My history with Cain was… complicated. I shook my head, trying to clear it, and prepared to hail a cab back to my hotel. Suddenly, the roar of an engine shattered the evening quiet. I turned. A black Ferrari had just ignited, its headlights pointed directly at me. The last rays of sunset slicked its chassis with a brilliant, liquid gold. The engine’s roar escalated, a symphony of aggression. And then, the car shot forward, hurtling directly towards me. He was behind the wheel, his dark eyes locked on mine. If you ever showed your face again, I would destroy you. For a few heart-stopping seconds, my mind was a white void of terror. I watched, paralyzed, as the car devoured the distance between us. Ten feet. Five. Two. Screeeech! The shriek of tires on pavement echoed through the street, sending a flock of birds scattering from the nearby trees. The bumper kissed my shins, a perfect, terrifying calculation. Reality crashed back in, and a wave of pure, unadulterated fear washed over me. My legs gave out, and I crumpled to the ground. The driver’s side window slid down with a soft whir, revealing a pair of cold, merciless eyes. “Get in.” 3 The last sliver of sunset vanished below the horizon, and night fell like a net, closing in from all sides. The car was silent. I huddled in the passenger seat, not daring to speak. “So, you won’t even talk to me now?” Cain’s voice was sharp with ridicule. “I’ll be gone as soon as the payment clears,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. He let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?” A piece of paper fluttered onto my lap. It was a blank check. Seeing my confusion, Cain’s voice turned to ice. “There’s your money. Are you going to leave, or are you expecting me to ride that goddamn roller coaster again, just so you can make a fool of me twice?” Once, long ago, I’d told him I wouldn’t break up with him if he rode the roller coaster. He was terrified of heights, but he did it, his jaw set in grim determination. I walked away anyway. In the years since, Cain had aggressively expanded his business empire overseas, his methods ruthless. It was as if he was trying to scour the earth just to find me. Then, suddenly, he stopped. A woman appeared by his side. He guarded her fiercely, scrubbing every photo, every mention of her from the press. To this day, no one knew who she was. Until I saw Helena. Then it all made sense. I moistened my lips. “Mr. Prescott, you misunderstand. I only want the payment I’m owed from the auction—” “Is there a difference?” He tapped a finger against the steering wheel. “Sign a waiver forfeiting the auction payment, and I’ll give you double. You can be on a plane by tomorrow morning.” His meaning was crystal clear. He was afraid Helena would get the wrong idea, and he wanted me gone. Immediately. Double the price was more than enough for me to report back to my company. “Thank you.” I booked a flight back to Europe for the next day and returned to my hotel to pack. The television was on, broadcasting a segment about Cain’s latest social appearance. For the first time, Helena’s identity was revealed to the public. The media called them a “match made in heaven.” My friend’s voice crackled over the phone. “That was supposed to be your wedding necklace, the one you designed for yourself. Are you really just going to let it go?” “Cain seems to really care for her. It’s just a necklace. It doesn’t matter who wears it.” “Think of it as…” I paused, looking up from my suitcase and letting out a slow breath. “My wedding gift to them. I have other designs. I can just find other clients…” She could hear the strain in my voice and didn’t know what to say. When I first arrived in Europe, I was broke and alone. The design for that necklace had been my key, the thing that convinced my mentor to take me under his wing. After all these years, for it to return to its origin this way… it was supposed to be my way of making peace with the past. “Elara, listen,” she said gently. “For people like them, in that world… sometimes, not ending up together is a blessing. You lived it. You know how much it can break you.” “Haha, don’t worry about me.” I went back to folding my clothes, trying to sound cheerful. “When you’re young, you think love is all you need. But honestly, a little realism makes life a lot easier…” Knock, knock. Someone was at the door. “Who’s that so late?” my friend asked. I stood up. “Just room service.” I opened the door. It was Cain. He smelled faintly of alcohol, one hand braced against the doorframe, his body casting a long shadow into my room. “What are you doing here?” I tried to shut the door, but he blocked it with his arm. “I can’t be here?” His brow was furrowed, a drunken haze clouding his sharp features. His tie was loosened, the knot askew. He looked up at me, his handsome face a captivating play of light and shadow. “No, it’s just… our business is concluded.” “Concluded?” The word was slurred, tinged with a lazy, drunken drawl. He looked down and scoffed. “To hell with ‘concluded’.” I gripped the doorknob tightly. “You’re drunk. Let me call your assistant—” His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “If I ride the roller coaster again… will you stay?” The question came out of nowhere, stunning me into silence. The heat from his palm seemed to scorch my skin. I tried to pull my hand back, but he held fast. I sighed. “We’re not kids anymore, Cain.” I didn’t realize my own voice was trembling. He looked up, his dark eyes boring into mine, and roughly tore off his tie, revealing the pale skin and sharp lines of his collarbones. “Then let’s do this like adults.” He took my hand and pressed it against his chest. His voice was raw. “Sleep with me.” “Elara. You sleep with me, and everything I have is yours.” The powerful, steady beat of his heart thrummed against my palm. I flinched as if burned, trying to wrench my hand away. “Cain, someone will see…” “Let them,” he bit out. “It’s my reputation on the line, not yours.” Suddenly, the sound of footsteps echoed from around the corner of the hallway. In my moment of distraction, he saw his chance and pushed his way inside. Click. The door shut behind him. The entryway was dark. Cain pinned me against the wall, and the world shrank to the sound of our breathing, a frantic, intimate rhythm in the blackness. Neither of us spoke. This reunion, this contact after so many years, was both strange and achingly familiar. He leaned in closer. Just as his lips were about to touch mine, I turned my head away. His mouth brushed against my cheek, and my heart hammered against my ribs. Cain froze. He rested his forehead against the wall beside my head and took a deep, shuddering breath. His voice was hoarse. “Get away from me. I won’t touch you.” I looked up at him, my heart in my throat, and saw that the drunken haze in his eyes had cleared. A cool breeze slipped through a crack in the window, dissipating the fragile, charged atmosphere between us. The arm that had trapped me fell away. I was free. I stumbled back, escaping his orbit. Cain remained where he was, his eyes closed. The alcohol must have worn off, his usual cold composure restored. I turned away, busying myself with stuffing my scattered clothes back into my suitcase, trying to hide my panic. Then, he spoke, his voice quiet. “The check is void.” My hands stilled. I looked up, confused. He stood in the shadows. “There’s a problem at the company. I can’t issue that check right now. I’m sorry.” His face was a blank mask, impossible to read. I couldn’t tell if he was lying. “Then…” “Cancel your flight. I’ll reimburse you for the ticket.” I numbly placed the clothes back on the bed and stood. “Okay.” The conversation was over, but I kept staring at him. He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to leave?” “Yes.” “I can’t. Not yet.” He spoke slowly, deliberately. “I’m being followed. There are paparazzi outside my door just waiting for a scandal. Elara, I assume you don’t want to be on the morning news with me?” But I was so tired. I sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to leave. The minutes ticked by. Cain remained by the door, unmoving. Gradually, a heavy wave of exhaustion washed over me. My head lolled to one side, and I fell back against the soft pillows. As the last wisp of consciousness slipped away, I thought I heard him whisper, “Good night.” 4 My sleep has always been light. The first ray of dawn touched my eyelids. I stretched my arm and brushed against someone. The scent was familiar. Even after ten years, I would know it anywhere. He seemed to stir at my movement. An arm snaked around my waist, pulling me closer. My eyes flew open, and I found myself staring directly into his. Cain was still half-asleep, his voice a groggy murmur. “Mornin’…” It took a moment for my brain to catch up. Then, I scrambled up, grabbed a pillow, and started hitting him with it. “Pervert!” After a few solid thwacks, Cain’s expression soured. “Getting bold, are we, Elara?” “You’re shameless!” I clutched the collar of my pajamas, which were thankfully still intact, my face pale with shock. He squinted against the morning light streaming into the room, then swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked around to me. His dress shirt was a mess of wrinkles, as if it had been through a spin cycle. The usual sharp edges of his demeanor were gone, replaced by a deep frown of annoyance. My panic escalated. “Don’t… don’t come any closer.” He gently lifted a lock of my hair and followed it down to the end, where a single shirt button was hopelessly tangled. “As if I’d want to touch you,” he said without looking up. “Is your sleepwalking still not cured?” I paused, only then noticing that a button was missing from the collar of his shirt. As he worked to free my hair, a cold smirk played on his lips. “You hooked my button and then ran off in your sleep. What was I supposed to do?” I was speechless for a second. “You could have just cut my hair.” “And have you never speak to me again? No thanks.” He was surprisingly patient. He could have just yanked it free, but instead, he stood there, meticulously untangling the knot like it was a complex puzzle. It reminded me of a time, long ago, when we were together. He’d been in one of his moods and snipped off a lock of my hair. I’d started crying and walked away, leaving him behind. He’d followed me, pleading, “Elara, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. Here, you can cut mine, just please don’t cry.” Watching his reflection in the mirror as he worked, I asked, “I’m not strong enough to pull a button off. How did it happen?” He finally freed the button and leaned over me, bracing his hands on either side of my head. He studied my face for a long moment before answering, his expression completely serious. “I ripped it off myself. Figured if I fell asleep, I didn’t want you waking up in pain.” My heart skipped a beat. I just stared at him, frozen. With that, he straightened up and disappeared into the bathroom. I sniffed my hair. It smelled of him. I wondered what cologne he wore. My phone rang. It was my friend. “Elara, are you on the plane yet?” I’d forgotten to tell her my plans had changed. “I’m not coming back just yet. I still haven’t gotten the payment.” “Oh, well that’s actually great news. Headquarters just called. They want you to personally invite Cain Prescott to the gala. It’s… not a request.” “He’ll never agree.” “You have to at least try.” “Try what?” Cain’s voice cut in unexpectedly. My friend froze. “Holy sh— You’re not… This is intense…” I hastily hung up the phone, turning to find Cain leaning against the bathroom doorway in a robe, his eyes narrowed in thought as he watched me. “Why are you out here?” He averted his gaze, his tone cool. “What am I being invited to?” “My brand’s jewelry gala… It’s next month. In Paris.” Perhaps he saw the flicker of hope in my eyes, because a small smirk touched his lips. “Next month is a long way away. We’ll see.” I knew it. There was no way he would agree. A knock sounded at the door. Cain answered it before I could move. A moment later, he returned with a paper bag and tossed it to me. “Change.” “What is this?” “Clothes.” He was at the mirror, knotting his tie. “You want me at your gala, you have to accompany me to an event first.” 5 It was a gown of ink-wash silk. Custom-made, it lacked the aggressive glamour of a Western ball gown, instead lending its wearer an air of gentle elegance. Cain leaned against the wall, slowly fastening his watch, his dark eyes fixed on my back. In the mirror, the two of us were a study in contrasts, the height difference just right. He was dressed in a tailored black suit, the epitome of understated luxury. Standing next to me in the silk gown, we had a strange, East-meets-West beauty. I pressed my lips together. “Is there a jacket?” The gown clung to every curve, and his gaze was an undisguised, searing heat on my skin. “No,” he said, his eyes flicking briefly to the small of my back. “It looks beautiful.” I never would have guessed that Cain was taking me to a family dinner. The familiar villa, even after ten years, stood unchanged. I had been to this place before, more than once, without Cain’s knowledge. All of my worst memories were born here. Cain opened the car door for me. “You’ve never met my stepmother or my half-brother, have you?” My palms were slick with sweat. “Why did you bring me here?” A corner of his mouth lifted. He leaned down and offered me his arm. “Nervous about meeting the family?” He stood silhouetted against the night sky, a rare hint of gentleness in his eyes. “…” He mistook my terror for simple nerves, taking my hand in his. “It’s just a dinner.” Lights glowed from within the villa. We walked through a small, fragrant garden to the front door. The muffled sound of conversation drifted through the wood; it sounded crowded. I could just make out a woman’s voice, dripping with false modesty. “Cain’s marriage? How could I have a say? I’m not his real mother, after all…” Hearing that voice again after so many years sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Brother, you’re back.” A shaft of light spilled out as the door opened, illuminating the rug at our feet. The figure was backlit, his face in shadow, but I instinctively shrank behind Cain. It was his half-brother, Ross. Cain gave a curt nod and led me inside. As we passed Ross, I happened to glance up and our eyes met. Recognition dawned on his face instantly. After a flicker of surprise, a familiar, predatory amusement filled his dark eyes—the same look he’d given me when he used to call me worthless trash. “Still a fan of leftovers, brother?” he murmured as he fell into step behind me, his arm brushing unnervingly against my back. I gripped Cain’s arm tighter, trying to put more space between myself and Ross. Cain sensed my discomfort and shot Ross a glacial look. “Get lost.” Ross smirked at me one last time before sauntering away. As we moved through the house, people constantly stopped to greet Cain. “Mr. Prescott, good to see you.” He would just nod curtly in response. Eyes followed us as we entered the main living room. At the center of a glittering crowd stood a glamorous middle-aged woman. Cain’s stepmother, Sandra. And standing right beside her was Helena Vance. The moment she saw me, she subtly nudged Sandra’s arm. The conversation died. Heads turned. A variety of expressions, from curiosity to disapproval, settled on their faces. Sandra arched an eyebrow, her expression mirroring Ross’s from moments before. She knew exactly who I was. “And who might this be?” One of her friends chimed in, “Cain, Helena is right here. What is the meaning of bringing another woman?” Cain’s hand rested on the small of my back. “Plans changed,” he stated flatly. “You’re not a child anymore, Cain. Must you always be so impulsive?” Sandra’s displeasure was obvious. “Do you even know who you’re associating with?” The question was loaded. I had no doubt that Sandra had already shared my sordid history with everyone here. The only one still in the dark was Cain. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur in my ear. “Go get yourself something to eat from the buffet over there. I’ll join you in a bit.” Sandra’s stare was making my skin crawl. I nodded and quickly walked away. The dessert table was near the kitchen, in a quiet corner of the room. As I rounded the corner, a hand shot out, grabbed my arm, and dragged me into the kitchen. The door swung shut. The suffocating scent of cheap cologne filled my nostrils. “Back to screwing my brother again?” Ross’s vicious laugh echoed in the small space. “Elara, have you forgotten what you are? What we did to you?” A chill ran down my spine, and my blood turned to ice. “Let go of me!” He slammed me against the wall, his fingers digging into my chin. “Look at you… even prettier than before…” His face was too close, his breath a foul mix of smoke and liquor. “You’re in luck. All your old friends are here tonight. How about a repeat performance?” I turned my head away, my voice hard. “Ross, what you’re doing is illegal.” He yanked my hair, slamming my head back against the wall, just as he had all those years ago when he’d held my head over a toilet. “A piece of trash like you wants to talk to me about the law?” “Guess we didn’t teach you your lesson properly the first time, did we?” “Helena still has the pictures, you know. Hmm? Should we show everyone?” The agonizing memories came rushing back. I struggled violently, a hysterical scream building in my throat. “Ross, go to hell!” His eyes lit up with sick excitement. “Alright, Elara. Let’s make a bet. Let’s see who destroys who first.” “You were just a cheap little pawn my mother hired to seduce Cain. Do you really think he’ll still protect you when he finds out the truth?” With that, he started unbuckling his pants. Despair washed over me as I fought against him, tears streaming from my eyes. The past was happening all over again. The day before summer vacation, I had gone to Sandra to quit. She held a thin cigarette between her fingers, her chin held high. “You took the money. You think you can just walk away?” I placed the bank card on her desk. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” She laughed. “And you think you and Cain can have a happy ending? In your dreams.” That same day, Helena and her friends cornered me in the girls’ bathroom. They tore the clothes from my body with practiced ease. “So you’re the little whore Sandra hired,” Helena said, arms crossed, her tone dripping with scorn. “I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a few pictures.” My struggles were futile against their numbers. I was eighteen. On a hot summer day filled with the drone of cicadas, my dignity was shattered in a cramped, filthy bathroom stall. They doused me with dirty water, washing away my pride, their taunts and jeers poisoning my soul. And then Ross’s final act of defilement shattered what little dignity I had left. “I’m calling the police,” I’d choked out, my body bruised and broken. “You poor, stupid girl. Don’t you know anything?” Ross grabbed a fistful of my hair, a grin on his face. “All I did was mess up your pretty face. That’s not rape. And unless you manage to kill me, I will make your life a living hell.” In the end, the incident was buried. There was no evidence. The party raged on just outside the kitchen door. Ross was drunk, and he had already ripped my gown up to my waist. He had my arms pinned behind my back, and my screams for help were swallowed by the noise. “Get off… get off me!” I sobbed, and with a surge of adrenaline, I sank my teeth into his shoulder. He howled in pain, his grip slackening for a split second. I bolted for the door. He was fast. He caught me by the hair and dragged me back. A blinding pain shot through my scalp. A voice screamed inside my head. Do you hate him? What did I do to deserve this? To be hurt again and again? Why are some people born evil? My hand fumbled blindly across the countertop and closed around the cool, heavy glass of a wine bottle. “You bitch! What does it matter if I take you again?” Through a blur of tears, I spun around, raised the bottle high above my head, and brought it down on his with all my strength. There was a sickening crack. The world went silent.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385163”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was with my best friend when she had an abortion. She clung to me, her body wracked with sobs. My heart ached for her, for her foolishness and her pain. I took care of her for a week, meticulously preparing light, nourishing soups for her each day, trying to coax the color back into her cheeks. It wasn’t until the week before my own engagement that I found out. The embryo she had terminated… had been my fiancé’s. 1 A week before our engagement party, a group of us from college were crammed into a booth at a noisy bar, deep into a game of Truth or Dare. The energy was electric, fueled by cheap beer and years of friendship. After a few rounds, the bottle spun and landed squarely on Dan. He offered a resigned smile. “Truth, I guess.” A round of mischievous glances passed between our friends. Someone piped up, grinning, “Alright, since the big day is next week, let’s make this topical. Have you two thought of any baby names yet?” Heat instantly flooded my ears. I couldn’t help but look up at Dan, a shy smile on my face. But the expression I met was not one of shared joy. He was staring into space, a strange, unreadable emotion clouding his eyes. It was a look so complex I couldn’t begin to decipher it. He quickly looked down, lost in thought for a few seconds before shaking himself out of it. When he looked up again, his face was arranged into a warm, wistful smile. “We haven’t decided on a proper name yet, but I’ve always liked the nickname Sol.” The table erupted. Someone slammed their hand down in excitement. “That’s so sweet! You guys have already thought that far ahead!” Annabelle, sitting beside me, joined in the laughter. “Sol… like a wish granted by the sun. It’s a beautiful name.” I glanced shyly at Dan. For a split second, his gaze rested on Annabelle before flicking away. She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, a familiar gesture of shared happiness. But I felt her fingers tighten, just slightly, against my side. I turned to look at her, thinking she was perhaps feeling sad about her own recent experience. I squeezed her back, trying to comfort her as I casually changed the subject. The party roared back to life. Later that night, Dan and I went home. I was still basking in the warm glow of his quiet, long-term planning for our future together. As we were getting ready for bed, I couldn’t resist asking again. “When did you come up with that name? You never told me.” The rhythm of his breathing beside me hitched for a moment. Then he rolled over, pulling me into his arms. His familiar scent filled my senses as he whispered against my neck, “We’re getting engaged, Clara. It’s normal to think about things like that, isn’t it?” “I know, but it’s such a lovely name. How did you think of it?” I murmured into his chest, feeling a blush creep up my neck. He didn’t answer right away, just held me tighter. “We can talk about it later. Get some sleep. We have our engagement photoshoot tomorrow.” He was right, he was probably exhausted from the party. I didn’t press him, and closed my eyes. But later, a cold sweat slicked my back and I jolted awake, ripped from a nightmare. I sat up, my hand pressed against my racing heart, trying to calm myself. That’s when I noticed it. In the dim light of our bedroom, the screen of Dan’s phone kept lighting up, pulsing with a steady stream of incoming messages. “Always check your boyfriend’s phone before the wedding.” A stupid meme I’d scrolled past earlier that day slammed into my mind. I never checked his phone. In seven years, I’d never felt the need. I trusted him. I felt cherished by him. But now, watching that insistent, glowing screen, a dark whisper of doubt coiled in my gut. My fingers moved, seemingly of their own accord. Before I could even unlock it, another message preview flashed onto the screen. I only needed a single glance for my blood to turn to ice. The numbness started in my fingertips and shot up my spine, paralyzing me. 2 He must have thought I would never look. The password was still my birthday. The moment the screen lit up, my hand began to tremble uncontrollably. The chat history had clearly been tampered with; only the last two weeks remained. As I scrolled up from the bottom, a fresh wave of cold sweat broke out across my back. She had sent him a picture of herself in a lace nightgown. Dan’s reply: You’re so beautiful, baby. Kisses. Further down, a message from her, complaining about period cramps. Dan’s reply was short and swift: I’m on my way. A roaring filled my ears. My hands shaking, I pulled up my own phone, checking the date and time of that exchange. It was sent five minutes after I had texted Dan a picture of myself with an IV in my arm, telling him my stomach flu was so bad I was in the ER and asking if he could come. He had replied an hour later. Sorry, was in a meeting. Can’t make it. And I, ever understanding, had told him not to worry. I’d managed the check-in, the forms, the waiting, all while doubled over in pain. It was the middle of summer, but I was shivering as if I’d been plunged into a frozen lake. I kept scrolling, my movements stiff and robotic. Then I reached the most recent message. “I miss our Sol, Dan. I’m in so much pain.” And just like that, I knew. The seven-year love story I had built my life around was a lie, rotten to the core. Annabelle and I had been college roommates, inseparable from the first day of freshman year. We’d watched sunrises from our dorm window and talked late into the night about our dreams, our futures, our hearts. I trusted her completely. She was my person. I introduced her to Dan not long after we all started school. Dan and I had been together since we were sixteen, high school sweethearts who had miraculously ended up at the same university. The day I introduced them, they seemed to hate each other on sight. Annabelle would even pick the food Dan put on my plate and replace it with something she had chosen. I’d brushed it off as the classic “best friend disapproves of the boyfriend” routine and spent the whole dinner trying to keep the peace. Afterward, she’d told me he was nothing but a pretty face, that he didn’t deserve me. Dan, for his part, had seemed equally disgusted by her. We tried gaming as a trio a few times, but they argued so much I eventually stopped inviting them to play at the same time. Then, during our senior year, Annabelle came to me, shaking, and told me she was pregnant. She refused to explain what had happened, who the father was. All I could do was hold her. “Don’t be scared,” I promised. “I’ll go with you.” Terrified of being seen by someone we knew, she refused to go to the reputable, top-tier hospital I had researched. We ended up at a small, anonymous clinic across town. During her recovery, my heart broke for her pale face and hollow eyes. I made her different soups every day. I’d find her staring blankly at the ceiling and quietly place a cup of warm milk in her hands. Now, I gripped my phone, my nails digging into my palm. The message at the bottom of the screen was a dagger twisting in my gut. I couldn’t breathe. Choking back a sob, I stumbled into the bathroom. Every happy memory we had ever shared shattered like a mirror, the sharp, glittering pieces raining down on me. 3 I stared at my disheveled reflection, my knuckles white as I gripped the edges of the sink. I had to be calm. I had to think. What do I do? Our families had already bought our marital home together. They’d met, they’d celebrated, they’d planned. Every friend, every relative knew we were getting engaged. The appointment for our engagement photos was tomorrow. How could I possibly untangle this mess? My eyes were drawn back to the sickening, illicit chat on the phone. My hand shaking, I tapped on Annabelle’s profile picture. Of course. Her feed was filled with posts I had never seen. A private feed, visible only to Dan. It was a meticulous record of their secret love affair. The first post was a screenshot from a video game. The caption read: So much more fun playing with you without a third wheel in the way. Dan had liked it and commented: Stick with me, kid. I’ll carry you to victory every time. Another weekend, a photo of their hands intertwined, showing off matching rings. A pink heart emoji at the end of the caption: They say that making rings with the one you love means you’ll be together forever. ♡ I remembered asking Dan, so many times, if we could do something fun like that. What had he said? It was childish? Pointless? I zoomed in on the rings in the photo and a cold wave of realization washed over me. For a while, he had worn a silver chain around his neck. The pendant… it was that ring. When I’d asked him where he got it, he’d stammered something vague. He never wore it again after that. On Valentine’s Day, while I was overjoyed by the single, wilting rose he’d bought me from a street vendor, she had posted a picture of a massive bouquet of ninety-nine red roses. Her caption: Sometimes I get so jealous of the person who got to have you all those years before me. Dan had commented with a kissing-face emoji. I’ll use our future to make it up to you. I scrolled further. Annabelle’s birthday. On her public profile, she had posted a standard nine-photo grid of her party. Dan, to avoid suspicion, hadn’t even liked it. But here, on their private feed, was a single, intimate photo. The caption: The best birthday gift ever. Next to a rumpled sheet was the profile of a man, his eyes closed in sleep. It was Dan. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I clutched the phone, gasping for air. That night, Annabelle had thrown a birthday party. Afterward, she was quite drunk, and I’d been worried about her getting home safely. I had asked Dan to drive her. I remember being concerned he would refuse, given how much they supposedly disliked each other. He had made a few token protests, but eventually agreed. After dropping her off, he’d called to say he had an urgent work issue and had to go to the office. He never came home that night. How could I have been so blind? The two people I loved most in the world, the two people who supposedly couldn’t stand each other, had been betraying me all along. Her feed was a diary of their secret life, lived in the shadows of mine. They were like a real couple, deeply in love. It made me feel like the intruder. Her profile was set to show posts from the last year. I had no idea how long their affair had truly been going on. This ugly, secret relationship had been allowed to fester and grow in the dark, hidden in plain sight. 4 The day I won a national award for a competition, I took my best friend and my boyfriend out to celebrate. In her private feed, I now saw the photo taken under the table: her high heel hooked around his pant leg. I saw the picture of her planting a soft kiss on his cheek while I was at the counter paying the bill. When I returned to the table, they were back to ignoring each other, the picture of mutual dislike. They were enjoying the thrill of the forbidden. On her birthday, while I was at home waiting for my boyfriend to return from his “emergency” at work, she was receiving what she called the best gift ever. Such a flimsy excuse, and yet my trust in them had been so absolute that I had never questioned it. A wave of nausea hit me, and I retched into the sink. And then, the worst of it. The week I took off from work to take care of her. The week I spent counseling her, comforting her, helping her curse the name of the shameless man who had abandoned her. Was she just watching a clown perform? That week, Annabelle had posted: You promised me Sol, my shining wish, and Annabelle, your peace. But in the end, I couldn’t keep him. Dan hadn’t commented, but the deleted chat logs had surely been filled with his condolences. Every word was a nail in my heart, but I forced myself to keep reading. The name he had chosen had never been for me. The embryo I had accompanied my best friend to abort, that was Sol. The irony was crushing. If I had never found out, would he have given our future child that same name? I slid down to the cold tile floor of the bathroom, a war of rage and despair raging inside me. The last seven years of my life flashed before my eyes, a highlight reel of my own foolishness. It was so absurd I almost wanted to laugh. It’s over. With numb fingers, I typed out a brief message to my parents. Then I canceled the appointment for the photoshoot. Each tap of the screen felt like the strike of a gavel, delivering a final, heavy judgment. As I stared blankly at my phone, another message from Annabelle popped up on Dan’s screen. “I’m so sad. Can you come be with me?” Even knowing everything, seeing it happen in real-time was a fresh agony. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. I scrambled to the sink and turned on the cold water, splashing it on my face. The roar of the water and my own choked sobs filled my ears. The noise finally woke Dan. “Clara? Clare? What’s wrong?” I heard his footsteps approaching the bathroom door. I wiped my face, smoothed my clothes, and ran a hand through my hair. Then I opened the door, looked straight at Dan, and pressed the voice message button on his phone. “Of course, baby. I’m on my way. And just so you know, there are no refunds on secondhand goods.”

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1 I was reborn as the daughter of a villainous, cannon-fodder character. When I was one, I managed to give myself a raging fever, forcing him to abandon his plan to join the main antagonist in a bloody turf war. When I was three, I orchestrated a fall that fractured my leg, making him miss his fated encounter with the story’s female lead. When I was five, I used a local predator as a pawn to stop my father from helping the antagonist target the male lead, Ethan Reed. And now? My cannon-fodder father is screaming, his voice laced with pure terror, “Ethan, you son of a bitch, get your kid’s hands off my daughter! Get them off her! NOW!” Can you picture it? A man who lived for arson, murder, and every crime in the book, transformed overnight into a desperate single dad. To be honest, calling him a villain is giving him too much credit. After all, I’ve never heard of a villain who, right at the start of the story, ends up blinded in one eye, with a shattered leg, and dumped into the ocean by the male lead as shark bait. The real antagonist of this novel was a different breed entirely. He was dangerously beautiful, fought the hero, coveted the heroine, and flew into unpredictable rages, lashing out at anyone in his path. He danced on the edge of a knife until the very end. But my father? The moment he died, the main plot was barely 10% through. The remaining 90% was dedicated to the tempestuous, angsty romance between the main couple and their life-or-death struggles with the true villain. So, “villainous cannon fodder” is the best he gets. Right, Dad? 2 My father, Damian, leaned against the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke veiled his sharp, handsome features, giving him an air of untamed arrogance. He was only twenty, yet he possessed none of the lingering awkwardness of youth. Instead, he carried the cold, ruthless edge of a man forged in a world of blood and violence. A hero’s face with a side character’s fate, I thought with a sigh. Well, it’s standard procedure, the System chimed in my head. Any guy who pines for the female lead has to be hot, even the cannon fodder. It’s rule number one. At one year old, I was practicing my first steps. A baby’s bones are soft, my body still a stranger to balance. Inevitably, my left foot tripped over my right, and I face-planted onto the plush carpet. My worrywart of a father had already padded every sharp corner in the house with foam, terrified I’d stumble and crack my head open. So, in a few days, I mused internally, he’s supposed to go to that shootout with the main villain and get a piece of shrapnel in his eye, turning him into a one-eyed monster? The System’s tone turned grave. Correct. This is a prequel event, not detailed in the book. By the time he officially appears, he’s already lost an eye. It’s the catalyst for his descent into a twisted, violent rage. But remember, Host, you can’t just reveal the plot. The universe will literally silence you if you try. Just then, Damian noticed me waddling towards him. “Shit,” he muttered, hastily extinguishing the cigarette in an ashtray and throwing the window wide open. He waved his hand, trying to dissipate the lingering smoke. “I come to my own room for a damn smoke, and you follow me in here? Are you that clingy? Go on, get out! Don’t breathe this crap in.” For a moment, I forgot I was a baby. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. I immediately spun around, covering my face. “Dada… stinky,” I mumbled, making a break for the door. Rejected by his own daughter. He had to change his shirt and rinse his mouth out three times before I finally let him pick me up. He gave me a mock-stern look. “Next time you see me smoking, you stay away. Got it? Keep your distance.” I nodded, patting his handsome face with my tiny hands, nearly drooling. Say what you will about my dad being a cold-blooded bastard just like the main villain, but damn, he was gorgeous. I managed to string a few words together. “Dada… stay with me. These days.” A one-year-old’s language skills are a work in progress, so words came out in clumsy bursts. He cradled me against his chest, letting me touch his face as he sank into the sofa. A rare, gentle smile softened his features. “Alright, princess. I’ll spend the next few days with you.” Then, his phone rang. He answered it with a single, clipped word. “Lucian?” The main villain is calling? Oh no, don’t tell me he’s calling about… A rich, melodious voice drifted from the phone. “Damian… day after tomorrow… the arms deal… You and me. If they try to pull a fast one… we’ll burn their whole operation to the ground.” I froze. The prospect of action seemed to jolt my father from his languid state. “That old fox Vargas was never going to play fair,” he said, his voice sharp with excitement. “You jacked up the price on him. You think he wasn’t holding a grudge? This isn’t a deal, it’s an ambush.” I slapped my hand against his cheek. “Bah!” He gently pulled my hand away, giving my fingers a squeeze. “Don’t mess around, princess. Daddy’s talking business.” I glared at him. Your business is getting yourself maimed, you idiot! You’re going to lose an eye! But he couldn’t hear my silent screams. He just shifted my position on his lap to make me more comfortable. “Ga-ga-goo!” I protested again. Lucian chuckled on the other end, his voice a lazy purr. “Oh? Is the little piglet with you?” A surge of fury shot through me. “You… pig! Your family… pigs!” Just because I had a healthy baby appetite and was a little chubby, that asshole had branded me a pig. I remembered the first time I met him. Lucian had been dressed in a wine-red suit, his exquisitely beautiful face looking like something straight out of a dark fairytale. His fox-like eyes held a cold, detached glimmer despite the smile on his lips. He was less a man and more like a blood-fed poppy blooming in the depths of hell—utterly stunning and lethally dangerous. As a connoisseur of pretty faces, I was instantly mesmerized and reached out my arms for him to hold me. Then the beautiful man opened his mouth. “Damian, are you raising a piglet? She’s so fat, I’m surprised she hasn’t broken her stroller.” My world shattered. No girl, not even a baby, likes being called fat. Not even by someone that gorgeous. So when he leaned in to get a closer look, my outstretched hands balled into fists, and I landed two solid punches right on his pretty face. From that day on, I was “the Piglet.” “Your daughter can talk now?” Lucian teased. Damian scratched under my chin. “Just started a few days ago. You know what her first words were? She said, ‘Dada, I love you.’ I nearly passed out from happiness.” “Come on, little one,” Lucian cooed through the phone. “Say ‘Uncle’ for me.” “Piggy… pig,” I babbled sweetly. Damian sighed. “I told you she holds a grudge.” Lucian fell silent for a beat before smoothly changing the subject, steering the conversation back to bloody business—skinning their rivals, breaking legs, the usual gruesome topics. Fearing he’d scare me, Damian set me down on the floor to play and took the call out on the balcony, enthusiastically plotting mayhem with his best friend. When they were done, he scooped me up with one arm and prepared my bottle, his movements now practiced and sure. “Sorry, princess, I have to break my promise. I have something really important to do for the next few days. You be a good girl and wait for me at home, okay? Tell Mrs. Gable if there’s anything you want to eat.” I clutched my bottle, looking up at him with my most pathetic, wide-eyed expression. “Dada… you no go. Stay… with me.” He knelt, stroking my head. “I can’t. This is important.” I stared at him, my gaze unwavering. He met my eyes without flinching. Wailing used to be my go-to trick for derailing his criminal enterprises. But as a one-year-old, it would look less like a baby’s instinct and more like a temper tantrum. I had to be smarter. “Okay,” I whispered, defeated. But secretly, I asked the System, Hey, you have an item in your shop that can induce a high fever, right? We sure do, Host! Are you thinking…? I’m not letting my dad get disabled. How long does it last? Three days, the System replied cheerfully. And completely free of side effects! Perfect. 3 Just as Damian was geared up and ready to ride into battle with Lucian, I swallowed the tiny pill from the System. One minute later, I felt a wave of lethargy wash over me. Five minutes later, my body felt like it was on fire. Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, had just finished making me a bowl of porridge. The moment she touched my skin to pick me up, her hand recoiled. “Good heavens!” She snatched me up, her face pale with panic, and rushed me to the car. The driver floored it, the tires screeching as we sped towards the hospital. On the way, she took my temperature, her hand trembling. 104°F! My face was flushed, my entire body ached, and I whimpered for my father. Mrs. Gable frantically dialed his number. “Sir, it’s Chloe! She has a fever…” The background on his end was noisy; I could faintly hear an airport announcement. His voice was tight with confusion. “What did you say? Chloe has a fever?!” “I was about to feed her,” Mrs. Gable explained in a rush, “and she was burning up. I just checked—it’s 104! We’re on our way to Mercy General Hospital now!” “What?!” he yelled. I squirmed in her arms, my voice a pathetic whine. “Dada… hot… waaaah… Dada…” “I’m coming back right now!” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. “Chloe, don’t cry, Daddy’s on his way.” I could hear Lucian in the background. “What? You’re just leaving? What about me?” Damian’s voice was ice. “My daughter is sick. I’m going to take care of her. You handle those bastards yourself. You’re more than capable.” A dial tone was Lucian’s only reply. 4 My existence was the result of a scheme meant to trap Lucian, but his best friend, Damian, had walked into it instead. A one-night stand with my birth mother, and poof, I was conceived. Ten months later, she dumped me and a paternity test on the steps of the family mansion. Lost in the haze of the fever, I dreamt of those early days. Before I came along, my father’s motto was: There’s nothing money can’t solve. He promptly hired three top-tier nannies, offering them an exorbitant salary, hoping to pawn me off so he could continue his life of crime with Lucian. It didn’t work. I cried. Constantly. I cried when I wet the bed. I cried when I needed a diaper change. I cried even after I was clean. I cried when the nannies held me, and I cried when they didn’t. I cried when I was hungry, and once I was fed, I used my newfound energy to cry even harder. My wails echoed through the entire villa, a relentless siren of infant misery. The only time I was quiet was when my father was there, shaking a little rattle to distract me. The experienced nannies were at their wits’ end. They could only turn to me, the source of their torment, and my biological father, with pleading eyes. Damian stared back, utterly lost. Finally, unable to bear the noise any longer, he approached, letting the nannies guide him as he clumsily took me into his arms. Like magic, the crying stopped. I gazed up at him, gurgling happily and reaching for his face. “It seems the young miss is very fond of you, sir,” one of the nannies offered, trying to flatter him. Damian stared down at my tear-and-snot-streaked face, his expression pure disgust. “Don’t smile. You’re already ugly. Smiling just makes it worse.” I paused. Then, with great effort, I filled my diaper. A pungent odor slowly wafted through the air. Damian’s face turned a shade of green. The nannies’ smiles froze. “You little brat,” he seethed through clenched teeth. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?!” I just blinked at him innocently. What? I’m just a baby. I can’t control my bowels. His obsessive need for cleanliness kicked in. He felt phantom filth crawling all over him and was about to shove me back into a nanny’s arms and run for the shower. But I wrapped my tiny hand around his index finger and cooed. “You want me to clean you up?” he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. “To change your diaper?!” I blinked again. “Not a chance!” he snarled. “Who do you think you are? I hired professionals for this. Don’t push your luck.” One minute later, Damian was grimly taking a lesson from a nanny on how to handle a baby’s messy diaper. He laid me on the changing mat and peeled off the soiled diaper, tossing it away like a grenade. The same hands that could expertly disassemble a firearm were now gingerly wiping my bottom with warm, wet cloths. After rinsing and drying me, he awkwardly applied diaper cream and fumbled with the tabs of a clean diaper. He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of irritation. “You’re the little queen of this castle, aren’t you?” I giggled, holding onto his finger. Something shifted behind his eyes. That cold, cynical heart of his was struck by something impossibly soft. He poked my cheek, creating a small dimple. “You little monster,” he chuckled. “Ahhh,” I replied. “I guess you’re not so bad,” he admitted. “Almost cute.” And with that, my father began his long, grueling, and utterly transformative journey into fatherhood. 5 When Lucian video-called a few months later, he did a double-take. “Damian… what the hell happened to you?” he asked, bewildered. My father looked like a ghost. His face was pale and drawn, his usually sharp, arrogant eyes were shadowed with a half-dead exhaustion. His hair was a mess, stubble shadowed his jaw, and the designer shirt that had fit him perfectly before now hung loosely on his thinned frame. Worse, he was multitasking—dangling a rattle with one hand to soothe me while reviewing a stack of corporate documents with the other. The ruthless mobster had been transformed into a haggard, sleep-deprived dad. Me, on the other hand? I was perched in my crib, plump and rosy-cheeked, babbling contentedly. “The last time you looked this bad was after you took a bullet to the chest and spent three months in the hospital,” Lucian mused. “Is raising a kid really that hard?” “If I hadn’t taken that bullet for you,” Damian snapped, “I wouldn’t be in this mess!” Lucian just clicked his tongue, completely unrepentant. His gaze flickered to me, cold and dismissive. “If you really don’t want to raise her, just dump her on a nanny. Or find a good family to adopt her out. She’s just a little girl. Is she really worth all this effort?” For men like them, who had walked in darkness their entire lives, who had betrayed family and spilled blood to survive, sentiment was a weakness. They were naturally cold-hearted, incapable of loving even themselves, let alone a troublesome infant. Damian shot him a glare, annoyed by his attitude. He reached for a cigarette, then remembered I was there and stopped himself. “She’s not ‘just a little girl.’ She’s my daughter. And I’ll raise her because I damn well want to.” “Fine, have it your way,” Lucian said with a shrug. “Not my problem. Anyway, I came to talk about our joint venture. That project in the West End…” “WAAAAAH!” My peaceful babbling instantly erupted into a deafening, house-shaking scream. Damian panicked. “Oh, my little princess.” He dropped the documents, scooped me up with practiced ease, and gently patted my back. “Is my baby hungry? Daddy will go make you a bottle right now.” Lucian stared, dumbfounded, as his notoriously cold and intimidating best friend—a man who could probably kill a bull with his bare hands—was suddenly radiating the holy light of fatherhood. “About the venture…” Lucian tried again. “Didn’t you hear my daughter crying?” Damian cut him off, his voice sharp with impatience. “She’s crying! I have to make her bottle. I’ve been running on fumes for months, between her and work. We’ll talk about business another time.” He hung up without another word. Lucian just stared at his blank screen. “…The hell?” The next day, Lucian showed up in person. He came bearing gifts—two cases of formula and a mountain of baby toys. Damian, who had just finished feeding me, decided to let his previous transgression slide and sat down to discuss business. After they finalized their plans, Lucian finally deigned to look at me again. He reached out and gently pinched my cheek. I gifted him a gummy, milky smile, my eyes wide and bright. I babbled sweetly and held up my arms, asking to be held. Even a hardened killer like Lucian wasn’t immune to a baby’s charm. My smile seemed to momentarily daze him, and he instinctively lifted me into his arms. Maybe human infants aren’t so bad after all, he probably thought, a flicker of warmth in his cold heart. “You…” In the next second, Lucian’s body went rigid. He felt a warm, wet sensation spreading across his hand and seeping into the fabric of his expensive suit. I tilted my head, my expression one of pure, angelic innocence. “OH, GODDAMMIT!” the villain shrieked. … Lucian’s obsession with cleanliness was even worse than my dad’s. He spent the next two hours scrubbing himself raw in the shower. Meanwhile, I was back in my dad’s arms, happily blowing bubbles. Take that, you big meanie. Serves you right for telling my dad to get rid of me. Damian was trying hard to hide his amusement, but he still put on a show of scolding me. “That’s your uncle, Chloe. You can’t be so rude.” I just cooed in response. When Lucian finally emerged, my dad had already changed me, fed me, and lulled me to sleep with a soft lullaby. Lucian glared at my sleeping form. “That little brat did it on purpose!” “Keep your voice down,” Damian warned, his tone sharp. “Don’t wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep.” Lucian extended a malicious finger towards my face, intending to poke me awake. “I don’t care! She messes with me, she doesn’t get to sleep.” “Go ahead,” Damian said coldly. “If you want to be treated to the sound of a screaming baby for the rest of the night, be my guest.” Lucian froze. He glowered at me for another moment before begrudgingly admitting, “She’s a good-looking kid. Takes after you.” He paused. “What’s her name, by the way?” Damian went silent. “You’re kidding me,” Lucian said, staring at him. “You still haven’t named her?” It was true. My dad usually just called me “princess,” “little monster,” “kiddo,” or “sweetheart.” So, the two of them, a crime lord and his top enforcer, spent the next hour poring over a dictionary. Damian was incredibly picky. Nothing seemed good enough, grand enough, for his daughter. Finally, tired of the debate, Lucian simply wrote a name on a piece of paper. Chloe. “It means ‘blooming,’” he said, his voice surprisingly soft. “Let her have a life that blooms in the sun, not in the shadows like us.”

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Three years after our breakup, my ex Sarah appeared at my door—pregnant and abandoned. Out of pity, I covered her hospital bills. During childbirth, complications arose. With her last breath, she begged me to raise the baby. I agreed. To support the child, I took a shady job, got arrested, and was expelled from university. I wrecked my body with manual labor, all to raise the boy. Years later, when he’d become a successful doctor, Sarah reappeared—alive—with my brother. “You were just raising our son,” they said, tossing me cash. My own parents admitted they’d always known. Even the son I’d sacrificed for looked at me with disgust. That night, I drank myself into the path of a car. When I opened my eyes, I was back at the hospital—the day Sarah went into labor. 1. “The patient has an amniotic fluid embolism. We’re losing her,” a nurse said, rushing out with a newborn in her arms. “We did everything we could.” She thrust the wailing infant into my arms. I stood there, frozen. “She seems to have something to say to you. Dad, you should go in now.” The word “Dad” sent a chill down my spine. In my past life, Sarah had found me in her third trimester, spinning a story about being used and abandoned. For the next few months, I was the one who paid for everything, who took her to every check-up, who got her admitted to the hospital. I thought my duty would end once the baby was born. I never imagined she would bribe the doctors and nurses to fake her own death, trapping me with guilt and moral obligation, turning me into the ultimate fall guy. I was a college student, barely scraping by, trying to study and raise a child at the same time. To make extra money, I fell for a trap set by my roommate and started working for a shady telemarketing company. Less than two weeks in, before I saw a single paycheck, the police raided the office for fraud. I was arrested and expelled. Without a degree, I couldn’t find a decent, well-paying job. But the baby was growing, and so were the expenses. I worked myself to the bone, taking any odd job I could find, from dawn till dusk. My back ached constantly. I skipped meals during the day and lost sleep at night, but I was young, and my body held up… for a while. When it was time for kindergarten, my parents, who had never shown any interest before, suddenly insisted I send him to an expensive private school. “Kids these days are different,” my father had said sternly. “The competition starts in preschool. If he falls behind at the starting line, his whole life will be a struggle.” At the time, I was so focused on doing what was best for the boy that I never questioned their sudden concern. I just listened as they suggested I sell one of my kidneys. “You have two, after all. You won’t die without one,” they’d urged. “But if this child misses this opportunity, it will affect him for the rest of his life.” I let them talk me into it. I sold a kidney, and my health immediately began to decline. Soon, I was living on painkillers. Somehow, I managed to get him through childhood, through his master’s and doctoral degrees, until he landed a coveted position as an attending physician at a top-tier hospital. And that’s when Sarah, my dead ex-girlfriend, reappeared, holding my brother Jackson’s hand. They thanked me for my sacrifice, and Sarah tried to dismiss decades of my life with a check for thirty grand. I refused it. “Alex is my son. I don’t need a thank-you fee.” Jackson just laughed at me. “I’m his biological father. My blood runs in his veins. You can’t change that.” My parents sided with him, patting my shoulder. “Evan, he really is your brother’s son. You should let them be a family.” The moment my parents admitted it, I felt the blood reverse in my veins. No wonder they had been so invested in his upbringing. But as his grandparents, they never contributed a dime. They just squeezed every last drop of life out of me for their precious grandson, waiting to swoop in and reap the rewards. I told them all to get lost. But then Alex appeared, standing protectively in front of his real parents. He pointed a finger at me, and his words were daggers. “You’re not my dad. Don’t think your kidney failure is my problem. I’m not paying for your treatment!” My heart shattered. Years of back-breaking labor and a missing kidney had finally caught up with me. My body was failing, and it was all for him. That night, I got drunk on a street corner, stumbled into traffic, and died in a pool of my own blood, my eyes wide open with regret… Thinking of this, I looked down at the infant in my arms, and my blood ran cold. “Dad?” the nurse prompted again, urging me toward the delivery room. I shoved the baby back into her arms. “What are you talking about? This isn’t my child.” In my past life, I was so consumed with grief for Sarah that I never noticed that from the moment he was born, my name was listed as the father on his birth certificate. It made it easy for everyone to believe he was mine after her “death.” “Sir, what kind of joke is that?” The nurse looked flustered and tried to push me toward the room. “The mother is fading fast. You need to see her.” I let out a cold laugh and went in anyway. Sure enough, there was Sarah, her face artfully pale, looking like she was on death’s door. A theatrical masterpiece. “Evan, I’m dying. The baby… can you…” “No,” I cut her off, my voice hard as steel. “But your name is on the birth certificate as his father. Please, just raise him for me. He’ll take care of you when you’re old, he’ll be a good son.” A good son? The man he became wouldn’t just refuse to care for me; he would actively wish for my death. Seeing I wouldn’t budge, Sarah went for the grand finale, her eyes rolling back as she pretended to lose consciousness. Instantly, the doctor and nurse she’d paid off rushed in, pushed me out of the room, and began their “emergency resuscitation.” A few minutes later, the doctor came out and informed me that Sarah had died. He told me to take the baby and handle the paperwork. I just shook my head and turned to leave. The nurse blocked my path, her voice loud and accusatory. “Sir, are you abandoning your child?” Her shout drew a crowd. People started whispering, and a few even pulled out their phones to record me, muttering that they should call the police. I took the baby from her, my voice calm. “I’m not married. How could I have a child?” “But the mother said you were the biological father!” the nurse insisted. An old man in the crowd couldn’t contain himself. “You bastard! You knock up a girl and then won’t even take responsibility for your own kid? You’re going to hell for this!” The nurse fanned the flames. “His name is right there on the birth certificate, in the father’s section. I just don’t understand why you won’t acknowledge him.” The chorus of condemnation grew louder. “Your hospital has a strange sense of humor,” I said, forcing myself to remain calm. “For a child born out of wedlock, don’t you think a DNA test would be the first step?” I looked directly at the nurse. “Or does this hospital operate on a ‘write-a-name, make-a-dad’ policy? If I put your name down as the mother, does that make him your son?” She was speechless. The crowd, however, loved the idea, and started clamoring for a DNA test to prove what a scumbag I was. The young nurse stood there, completely lost. Just then, the doctor reappeared. “DNA testing is handled by the lab. If you insist, follow me.” Something about his calm demeanor felt wrong. After they drew my blood in the lab, I noticed most of the crowd had dispersed, though a few busybodies were still hanging around, eager for the finale. “I’ve put a rush on it for you. The results should be back this afternoon.” I nodded. A few hours of waiting was a small price to pay to be free of this nightmare forever. But when the results came in that afternoon, I was the one who was stunned. The report showed a 99.99% probability of paternity. “The results are in. You are the father,” the doctor stated flatly. My mind was a chaotic mess. Then, a memory from my past life surfaced. Right before she “died,” Sarah had given me a small lock of hair, claiming it belonged to the baby’s real father, so I could register his birth. Lost in grief and pity, I had accepted it without a second thought. I never stopped to wonder how she could have predicted her own death with enough clarity to prepare a lock of hair. A cold smirk touched my lips. If Sarah could bribe a nurse, she could certainly bribe a lab technician. Swapping out my blood sample for a pre-prepared one from the real father would be child’s play. “If you still have doubts, we can run the test again,” the doctor offered. “But the fee…” I waved him off. It wouldn’t matter how many times they ran it. Just then, my phone rang. It was my parents. “Your brother told us you have a child now?” my mother’s voice was sharp. I remembered how, in my past life, I had been the one to call them. They had immediately screamed at me for being irresponsible, for having a child out of wedlock, saying I wasn’t half the man my brother was. Then they’d demanded I bring the baby home and take on my responsibilities. Looking back, their hypocrisy was breathtaking. I stayed silent. My father took the phone and started yelling. “You disgrace! Bring that child home right now!” The irony was thick enough to choke on. “He’s not my son. It’s none of my business.” I said flatly. “The biological father is probably dead or gone. Sarah never mentioned him. I’ll just leave him at the hospital. They can send him to an orphanage.” My father was so furious he was sputtering. My mother got back on the line, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “Evan, when you make a mistake, you have to take responsibility. We know you were just foolish for a moment. We’re willing to accept this child.” Of course you are, I thought. He’s your precious Jackson’s son. “There’s just one problem,” I said. “I’m broke. After you cut off my allowance, I had to borrow money for Sarah’s hospital bills. If the baby comes with me, he’s going to starve.” I could hear my father coughing with rage in the background. My mother immediately changed her tune. “I’ll send you some money right now. Go buy the baby some formula. That poor thing, losing his mother at birth, he’ll never even have breast milk…” She hung up. A moment later, a notification popped up on my phone. A transfer of fifty dollars. Just enough for a single can of formula. I laughed out loud. I had truly underestimated my mother’s shamelessness. She wouldn’t spare an extra dime for me my entire life, but she expected me to pour my soul out for my brother’s child. I often wondered, even if they favored my brother, how could their hearts be so biased? As I was pondering this, the doctor called. He said the baby’s condition had worsened, and he’d been moved to the NICU. “He has pneumonia. He likely inhaled too much amniotic fluid during birth, causing a lung infection.” I listened, my mind elsewhere. In my past life, the baby was perfectly healthy. I registered him at the local precinct just days after he was born. Why was he sick this time around? I looked through the glass at the tiny infant. The man he became had cruelly severed all ties with me. Logic told me to walk away. But right now… he was just a helpless baby. “The treatment will cost around twenty thousand dollars,” the doctor said. “You can pay at the billing office. We’ll do everything we can.” Twenty thousand dollars. A painful memory struck my heart. At this exact time, I had just received a major national scholarship for academic excellence. The prize money was exactly twenty thousand dollars. In my past life, shortly after I told my parents about it, my mother claimed she needed surgery for a stomach issue and took the money. A dark suspicion formed in my mind. I called my mother. “Mom, you had a check-up recently, right? Is everything okay?” She paused for a second, then laughed. “I’m perfectly healthy, honey. Don’t you worry about me. You just take care of that child.” After hanging up, I realized I had been a pawn in their games in both lifetimes. But if I fell for the same trick again, I would deserve whatever I got. … Days passed, and I didn’t tell my family about the baby’s condition. Finally, Jackson couldn’t wait any longer and called me, asking when I was bringing the baby home. “Jackson, the baby is very sick. He might not be coming home for a while.” “But pneumonia…” Jackson blurted out, then quickly corrected himself. “What kind of illness takes so long to treat? Even if it was pneumonia, it should be better by now!” I pretended not to notice his slip-up. “I wish it were just pneumonia,” I said, my voice heavy with fake sorrow. “The doctor says he has a congenital heart defect. He needs surgery.” “What? A heart defect? That’s impossible!” my brother shouted. “Are you sure the doctor isn’t mistaken?” My voice cracked as I insisted, “Would I lie to you about something like this? If you don’t believe me, ask the doctor yourself.” He hung up immediately. I knew he was calling the hospital. He had tried to trick me into giving up my scholarship money for a fake case of pneumonia. He had no idea that the cost of heart surgery was far more than twenty thousand dollars. A short while later, my brother and my parents stormed into the hospital, their faces etched with worry. “Doctor, how much will the heart surgery cost?” my mother asked, her voice trembling. “Around three hundred thousand,” the doctor said, glancing at me. “And that’s just for the surgery. It doesn’t include the cost of recovery and aftercare.” My parents collapsed to the floor. Even my brother stood frozen, utterly lost. “We don’t have that kind of money,” I said, helping them up. “Maybe… maybe we should just give up on the treatment…” My father slapped me across the face, calling me a monster. “We have to save him,” my mother sobbed. “We’ll find a way to get the money.” She pulled my father and brother aside, and they began to discuss selling their house. I smiled coldly to myself. Who but his biological father and grandparents would go to such lengths? “Evan,” my mother said, turning to me. “You mentioned you got a scholarship. It’s not much, but every little bit helps.” “The money doesn’t get deposited until next month,” I lied. “I’m worried the baby can’t wait that long.” My father cursed me again for being useless, then started calling a real estate agent. Less than a week later, they had the three hundred thousand. They had to sell the house in a rush, at a huge loss. They transferred all the money to my account. Since I was the baby’s legal father, it made sense for me to handle the payments. Seeing that much money in my account gave me a strange feeling. The baby didn’t have a heart defect. The doctor had lied to them. This corrupt hospital was willing to invent a case of pneumonia to scam me out of my scholarship; for a much larger sum, they were more than happy to switch sides and help me scam my family. In my past life, when I was dying of kidney failure, they wouldn’t even give me a carton of milk. But the moment this child was in trouble, they sold their house without a second thought. Was I not their biological son? “The house is gone. Once the baby is better, you’ll take him with you to school and raise him,” my father ordered. “In fact, once you get that scholarship money, you should just drop out and get a job to support him.” “Dropping out is not an option,” I said calmly. “The university has already offered me a full scholarship to study abroad. I’ll be leaving soon.” I saw my brother’s eyes narrow, staring at me with pure hatred. “Study abroad? With what money?” my mother demanded. “The university is covering all my expenses. You don’t need to worry about it.” “What about the child? You have to take responsibility!” my father yelled, raising his cane to strike me. “Are you even human?” How ridiculous. I was inhuman for refusing to raise my brother’s child? “If you dare to leave, I’ll kill myself!” my father threatened, actually moving toward a wall as if to ram his head into it. “Let’s see if the university still wants you when you’ve been branded for driving your own father to his grave!” I shook my head, my fists clenched. “I’ll take the child with me,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll raise him abroad. He’ll get a good education there.” Hearing this, my parents’ expressions softened. The chance for the boy to get an international education was a golden opportunity. Jackson looked conflicted. “If you don’t agree,” I added, “I can leave him with you. Or I can drop him off at an orphanage.” “No! You have to take him with you!” Jackson decided firmly. My mother looked like she wanted to object, but a sharp glance from Jackson silenced her. A month later, I officially registered the baby. Just like in my past life, I named him Alex. This time, as I held him in my arms, my heart was a storm of conflicting emotions. … Once I was abroad, free from the interference of my parents and brother, life was still hard. But with the three hundred thousand dollars and my own relentless hard work, I managed to build a successful career. Over the years, my family tried to call me countless times, but I never answered. I was determined to sever all ties. But it seemed fate was intent on binding me to them. More than a decade later, I returned to the country. I had two reasons: to handle the paperwork for my child’s enrollment at Stanford and to conduct a personnel review at our company’s domestic branch as a representative from headquarters. I had just stepped out of my Rolls-Royce when I ran into Jackson, who was working as a sales manager there, right at the entrance to the lobby.

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My husband, Ryan, got back from a night of fishing and started putting on makeup. I screamed at him, shoving him into the bathroom and telling him to wash that crap off his face. But when I turned around, Ryan was standing right behind me. “Who were you just talking to?” he asked. 1 My soul just about left my body. I whipped my head back toward the bathroom. It was empty. Not a soul in sight. I’d heard stories before. Things about how people who fish at night can easily run into… something unclean. Had Ryan brought one of them home? He just smiled, his arms wrapping tightly around my waist, telling me not to be scared. But if his hands were on my waist… whose hands were these, cold and firm, closing around my neck? I thought I was going to lose my mind. Ryan did his best to soothe me, telling me it was all in my head. He promised that after dinner, he’d take me to a church, and we could get a blessing. Only then did I finally manage to catch my breath. 2 Just then, a message popped up on my phone. It was from Charlie, Ryan’s only fishing buddy. He was asking if anything strange had happened after Ryan got home. A chill shot straight down my spine. I quickly typed out everything that had just happened. Charlie’s reply came back instantly, frantic. It happened. I knew it. My heart leaped into my throat. Charlie told me that while they were fishing last night, Ryan’s phone had fallen into the river. But instead of sinking, it just floated there on the surface. He remembered hearing a story when he was a kid: if something falls in the water and doesn’t sink, it’s because something underneath is holding it up. The moment you reach for it, it’ll pull you down to take your place. But Ryan, worried about his expensive phone, reached for it anyway. Sure enough, something yanked him straight into the water. The weird part was, a moment later, Ryan swam back to the surface on his own. The real problem started after he got out of the water. Ryan never smokes, but that night, he bummed four or five cigarettes off Charlie, one after another. The way he held it, the way he inhaled… he looked like a man who’d been smoking for a decade. Charlie had just talked to a friend of his who knows about this stuff. He was certain Ryan had been possessed by something from the river. He said the only way to fix it was to take a piece of Ryan’s personal clothing, something he wears close to his skin, and burn it by the river where it happened. It would call Ryan’s soul back. He told me he was already on his way, almost at my apartment building. He said I needed to grab something and come downstairs immediately. And he gave me one last warning: whatever I did, don’t let Ryan know. And don’t believe a single word he says. I etched his words into my mind. 3 I bolted into the bedroom, grabbed a few pairs of Ryan’s boxers, and stuffed them into my purse. I was just about to make up an excuse—an emergency at work, something I had to run and deal with—when Ryan called out from the kitchen that dinner was ready. I hesitated. I had to make this look natural. Maybe I should just have a few bites. But the second I sat down at the table… Ryan looked at me, his expression unreadable. “Has Charlie contacted you?” My heart hammered against my ribs. I forced a laugh. “Charlie? Why would he contact me?” “Because he drowned last night,” Ryan said, his voice flat. “While we were fishing.” My world exploded. If Charlie was dead… who had I been texting? 4 I fought to keep my composure. This thing, whatever it was, knew Charlie would tell me the truth. So it was trying to discredit him first. I couldn’t fall for it. I feigned shock. “What? That’s horrible! Why didn’t you call the police?” Ryan sighed, a weary sound. “Charlie’s dead, but his body is still walking around.” I didn’t understand. He explained. Last night, it was Charlie’s phone that fell into the river. And just like Charlie had said, it floated strangely on the surface. Ryan, having written horror novels for years, knew immediately that something was wrong, that there was something sinister in the water. But Charlie, stubborn as always, didn’t believe in any of it. He reached for his phone, and a hand dragged him under. Ryan was about to call 911 when Charlie climbed back onto the bank. He thought everything was fine, but then Charlie grabbed him and tried to pull him into the water too. It took everything Ryan had to break free and escape. When he got home, he did some research. A young couple had drowned in that same river last year. According to the lore, if a spirit hasn’t been dead for three years, it can’t claim a replacement. So the male spirit had taken over Charlie’s body. The reason Charlie—the thing inside him—tried to pull Ryan into the water was so the female spirit could possess him. It just hadn’t expected Ryan to get away. “So it will come for you,” Ryan finished, his eyes dark with worry. “It knows I won’t fall for its tricks again, so you’re the next target. It will try to lure you to the river, so the other one can take you.” My blood ran cold. I quickly searched the local news on my phone. He was right. A couple had drowned there last year. “So… the you that came home and put on makeup… was that the female spirit?” Ryan nodded grimly. “It was probably looking for an opening.” A knot of fear tightened in my stomach. “An opening?” 5 “In the books I’ve read,” Ryan explained, “these water spirits need an opening—a fated connection—to possess someone. Charlie falling into the river was the male spirit’s opening. For the female spirit to find hers, she has to use the connection Charlie already has.” He looked at me. “Charlie doesn’t have a girlfriend. I’m his only close friend. So her opening is either me… or you.” Another shiver wracked my body. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” “If I had,” he said, his voice low, “it would be like handing her the opening on a silver platter. It would have put you in even more danger.” “So what do we do now?” I asked, my voice trembling. “A water spirit can only survive out of its element for three days. As long as we don’t leave the apartment for three days, they can’t touch us. Then we can find an expert to go to the river and perform a rite to send them on their way.” I finally let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. At least there was a plan. Everything, for now, had a logical, if terrifying, explanation. I was about to finally take a bite of food when a flash of color under the table caught my eye. My husband was wearing my black silk stockings. A new wave of panic crashed over me. What if he was the one possessed by the female spirit? And what if this dinner, right here, right now… was the opening she was waiting for? I couldn’t think about it. I had to get away. I had to contact Charlie—the real Charlie, or whatever was left of him—and figure this out. I pushed my chair back, mumbling an excuse about not having an appetite and needing to lie down. But just as I was about to close the bedroom door, Ryan was right behind me. “I’ll lie down with you for a bit.” My sanity finally snapped. 6 But strangely, as he lay beside me, he just held my hand, his grip firm. Was he trying to keep me from escaping? I didn’t dare move a muscle. After a few minutes, he started to snore softly. I took my chance, slowly, carefully, trying to slip my hand from his. Suddenly, his body jerked. He looked like he was having a nightmare, his face contorted in a struggle. He gasped, his voice a strangled whisper, “Honey! Don’t trust him! Don’t trust him!” My mind reeled. Don’t trust who? Charlie? Or him? But looking at the situation now, whether Charlie was a threat or not, something was definitely wrong with Ryan. My thoughts raced. I had to get out. Get out now. But as I sat up, Ryan’s expression smoothed over, returning to normal. “Where are you going?” he asked calmly. A chill seeped into my bones. “The bathroom,” I stammered. He didn’t say anything else. I rushed into the bathroom and locked the door behind me. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and messaged Charlie. He replied instantly. I knew something was wrong when you didn’t come down. I called my friend, the expert. She’s on her way up to your floor right now. Just as I read the message, a sharp knock-knock echoed from the front door. My heart leaped. I burst out of the bathroom, ready to throw the door open. But Ryan was faster. He got to it first. My breath caught in my throat, my mind flooded with images of what was about to happen. But when the door opened, it was just a courier with a package. I was completely bewildered. Was Charlie lying to me? I peeked through the crack in the door, glancing down the hallway. Standing near the elevators was a woman in a long white dress, her dark hair hanging loose around her face. She was staring directly at our apartment. She didn’t look like any kind of spiritual expert I’d ever imagined. But maybe they had a different style these days. I tried to calm myself. Then Ryan slammed the door shut, his face pale with terror. “It’s over!” he whispered, his voice shaking. “That female ghost… she’s found us!” 7 My head felt like it was going to explode. From a purely visual standpoint, that woman did not look normal. But I was already sure something was wrong with my husband. That meant I couldn’t afford to think Charlie was the problem anymore. And if Charlie wasn’t the problem, then this woman wasn’t a problem either. Which meant the more afraid Ryan was of her, the safer she probably was for me. All I had to do was stay alert, find a chance to get out, and I would survive. But then, my husband opened the package from the courier. Inside was a small box of ritual supplies: powdered crimson and yellow parchment. He then went into his office and came back with a book titled A Compendium of Taoist Sigils. He meticulously copied a symbol from the book onto a piece of parchment, set it on fire, and let the ashes fall into a glass of water. He held it out to me. “Drink this.” I recoiled. “It’s a genuine Five Thunder Talisman,” he said urgently. “It’s for protection.” I was lost again. If Ryan was possessed by a ghost, why would he be able to draw a sacred Taoist symbol? And more importantly, why would he be foolish enough to use a talisman against a real-life spiritual master? Unless… unless Ryan was fine. Unless Charlie, realizing Ryan was protecting me, had brought the female ghost directly to our door to get to me. That had to be the logic. But then I remembered the stockings. I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Why would he be wearing my stockings? Ryan let out a heavy sigh. “If I can’t save you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “I was going to try and trick the spirit into taking my body instead.” My heart shattered into a million pieces. He was trying to sacrifice himself for me. And I had suspected him, thought he was the monster. I was a fool. Without another thought, I took the glass and drank the ashy water down. I would trust him completely. Ryan then drew another sigil. He explained his plan. “In a minute, that ghost is going to knock four times. When she does, I’ll open the door and slap this sigil right on her forehead. If that doesn’t stop her, you need to slap her across the face, as hard as you can. The combination of the two should be enough to completely destroy her.” I nodded, committing every word to memory. Just then, the door rattled. Knock. Knock. Knock. Three times. But… wasn’t it supposed to be four?

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On my daughter Lily’s birthday, her only wish was to visit the amusement park with her mother. But my wife Amelia had rented the entire park to impress her first love, Julian. Her assistant shredded our tickets. “Ms. Astor is busy,” she sneered. Through the fence, I saw Amelia locked in a passionate kiss with Julian. Lily squeezed through, calling “Mommy!”—only to be kicked away. “You know we lost our baby,” Amelia hissed. “Are you tormenting us with this… thing?” She strapped my sobbing daughter onto the drop tower and started the ride. “No one stops it until I say so,” she ordered staff before leaving with Julian. When I finally broke into the control room, blood already stained the ground. Cradling Lily’s broken body, I collapsed before Amelia’s mother. “Amelia killed her,” I rasped. “She’ll pay.” 1 “She’s still alive! If we get her to the hospital now, we can save her!” the Astor family doctor shouted after checking Lily’s pulse. But the moment we arrived at the emergency room, Amelia’s assistant blocked our path again. I fell to my knees, slamming my forehead against the cold tile floor. “If Amelia wants to take her anger out on me, fine. Let her torture me. But please, let me get a doctor for my daughter. I’m begging you.” Eleanor tried to shove him aside. “If you delay my granddaughter’s treatment, I’ll have you buried with her!” The assistant’s eyes widened in panic as he saw the blood pouring from Lily. “But… Ms. Astor has already sent all the doctors from this hospital away.” “That bastard!” Eleanor immediately started calling other hospitals, but the answer was the same everywhere: Amelia, determined to give Julian a new child to make up for the one they’d “lost,” had paid a fortune to hire every top specialist in the city. They were all at her beck and call, preparing her for another pregnancy. I held my daughter, her small body growing colder in my arms, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Just then, someone hurried through the doors. “Ms. Astor sent me…” I scrambled toward him, my heart seizing with a desperate hope, only to realize it wasn’t a doctor. It was a delivery guy. “Ms. Astor asked me to bring these bandages,” he said, holding out a small paper bag. “She also said to tell you, and I quote, ‘a little blood isn’t a death sentence. Stop bothering me over every little thing.’” “That monstrous daughter of mine!” Eleanor slapped the bag of bandages to the floor and collapsed, clutching her chest. “That parasite Julian ran off with three hundred million from the company ten years ago and left us bankrupt! Now he’s back, poisoning our family, twisting Amelia’s mind until she murders her own child! I will not let that bastard get away with this!” She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling Amelia right now. I’ll make her come back here and kneel before you to apologize.” But the call went straight to voicemail. A moment later, my own phone rang. It was Amelia, her voice tight with suppressed rage. “David, are you determined to ruin my day? If you hadn’t killed my baby with Julian out of sheer jealousy, he wouldn’t be in so much pain right now! What’s wrong with me comforting him? Do you have to be so petty that you run crying to my mother?” She didn’t even pause for breath. “And that daughter of yours! You’ve spoiled her rotten. She’s a spoiled, demanding brat who thinks a single drop of blood is the end of the world. I’m not a doctor, what good would I be?” “You wanted the amusement park, so Julian and I gave it to you. You said the child was bleeding, so I sent bandages. If you use one more excuse to bother me and Julian today, David, I swear you will regret it.” She was still screaming into the phone, but her voice had become a distant buzz. Nothing mattered anymore. I whispered Lily’s name, stroking her small, stiff, ice-cold hand. “Amelia,” I said, my voice hollow, “believe it or not, I never hurt your child with him. I never even knew you were pregnant with his child.” The life drained out of me, leaving only an empty shell. “You killed my daughter. I’m divorcing you.” There was a pause on the other end, followed by a cold, derisive laugh. “Trying to play dead to get my attention again? David, your acting is getting pathetic.” She hung up. I stood there, soulless, clutching my daughter’s body. I walked over to Eleanor. She took one look at me, at Lily, and understood that there was no hope left. Tears streamed down her face. “This is my fault,” she sobbed. “I never should have used the fact that I saved your life all those years ago to force you to marry Amelia, to force you to save the Astor Corporation from ruin.” “But David,” she pleaded, her voice breaking, “for the sake of everything we’ve been through, please… give Amelia one more chance. Before Julian came back, the three of you were so happy. She has you in her heart, David. She does. It’s just that scumbag Julian… he’s poisoned her mind again.” Her words stirred a memory, and a bitter, desolate laugh escaped my lips. Ten years ago, Julian had abandoned Amelia after a horrific car accident left her in a coma. He’d cleaned out the company’s accounts—three hundred million dollars—and vanished. The Astor Corporation went bankrupt, and the family couldn’t even afford her hospital bills. That’s when Eleanor found me. I was a vice president at a rival firm by then. She, a woman of her stature, got on her knees and begged me to marry her daughter—a woman who might never wake up—and salvage the family business. I was eternally grateful to her. Years ago, when my own mother was dying, Eleanor had hired the best doctors for her and funded my education through college. To repay that debt, I agreed. I spent three years rebuilding the Astor Corporation from ashes. I sat by Amelia’s bedside, helping her transition from a hospital bed to a wheelchair, and then, finally, to her own two feet. After she gave birth to our daughter, Lily, I stepped back from the company to be a full-time father, allowing Amelia to return to the corporate world she loved. For ten years, I gave Amelia and the Astor family everything I had. And now, I had lost my daughter—the only precious gift the Astors had ever given me. I looked at Eleanor, her face streaked with tears, and slowly shook my head. “I gave her ten years of my life. She had no right to trample on my devotion like this.” “The debt I owed your family was paid a decade ago. Now… now I’m here to collect what Amelia owes me.” My eyes burned as I placed my daughter into the crematorium with my own hands. The flames roared to life, and a violent tremor ran through my entire body. “Lily,” I whispered, my voice cracking, “Daddy will get justice for you. I promise.” Eleanor wept beside me. “After what I’ve done to you, I have no right to stop you. But David… if Amelia comes to her senses, can you find it in your heart to give her another chance?” “When my daughter was crying her name, begging for her, why couldn’t she give her a chance?” I wiped the last tear from my eye. Armed with a death certificate, I went home to pack my and Lily’s things. The moment I stepped through the door, I was hit by a thick, acrid smell. Little blue foil packets were scattered all over the floor. Julian saw me and shot me a provocative glare, his movements against Amelia becoming rougher. “Amelia, darling, your husband’s back. Should I leave? We wouldn’t want to upset him. He might force poor Lily to put on another one of her little shows. Such a shame, learning to lie and deceive at such a young age.” Amelia’s voice was sharp. “David, you stand right there!” she commanded. “I haven’t even settled the score with you for killing my child with Julian! Don’t think for a second I won’t make you pay.” “I told you, I didn’t even know you had a child with him, let alone harm it,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m tired of repeating myself. Believe what you want.” “Talk is cheap,” Amelia sneered. “You know, you don’t even deserve to be Lily’s father. Maybe I should just let Julian raise her. He’d be a much better father.” I ignored them and started up the stairs. Amelia grabbed my arm, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of suspicion. “If you don’t want me to give Lily to him, that’s fine too. I’ll just have another baby with Julian to make it up to him. But you have to promise not to be jealous. You have to accept Julian into this family.” “Do whatever you want,” I said coldly. A flash of confusion crossed her face, quickly replaced by a smirk. “If you’re really going to be so understanding, then clear out the master bedroom. Julian and I will need it to try for our baby. And while you’re at it, come over here and open these packets for us. And hand us a wet wipe.” “Oh, and Julian was a little too rough earlier,” she added, a cruel glint in her eye. “He tore my limited-edition lingerie. You can stitch it up for me.” A small, foul-smelling piece of lace and a handful of foil packets hit me in the face. The sharp edge of a packet sliced a thin, bloody line across my cheek. Disgust churned in my stomach, but I had no energy to fight them. I brushed the lingerie off my shirt, tore open the packets, and threw them on the table in front of them. “Can I go now?” Amelia looked confused, almost lost for a moment. But then Julian, still draped over her, started moving again, and the sounds of their passion filled the room. I ignored them and went upstairs. I folded Lily’s little clothes one by one. I pulled out the photo album I had made for her, filled with pictures of her smiling, vibrant face. It felt like she was still alive. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Just yesterday, she was chirping at my side, “Daddy, don’t be sad. Mommy’s just too busy with work to play with us. She works so hard. For my birthday wish, I’m not going to ask for Mommy to play with me. I’m going to wish for Mommy to get a good day’s rest.” A sob escaped my lips as I hugged the clothes that still carried her scent. My daughter was so thoughtful, so considerate of her mother. And that same mother had sent her to her death on her birthday. After packing everything, I contacted my lawyer and prepared to leave. As I came downstairs, I saw the two of them, disheveled, leaning against the kitchen counter. Julian’s exposed chest was covered in red marks. “Mr. Hayes,” he said, his voice oozing false sympathy, “Amelia is only doing this to make up for the pain you caused me. Don’t blame her. And please, stop teaching your child to do such wicked things. What if she grows up to be just like you?” He feigned a look of realization. “Oh, I heard today is Lily’s birthday. I’m so sorry. You see, today is the 5,200-day anniversary of when Amelia and I first met. She swore she’d throw a grand celebration for me on every anniversary. That’s why she had to leave you and Lily behind.” His words were an apology, but his face was a mask of triumph. “I baked a mango cake to show how sorry I am. I hope you’ll eat it and accept my apology.” I had no patience for his hypocrisy. All I wanted was to lay my daughter to rest. Seeing me walk toward the door without a word, Amelia assumed I was snubbing Julian. She had a bodyguard slam my head against the kitchen island. “David, have you lost every last shred of decency?” she spat. “Julian is a kind man who refuses to hold a grudge against you and your daughter, and you have the audacity to act so high and mighty?” “Where’s Lily? Where are you hiding her? Get her back here right now to eat this cake and get on her knees to apologize to Julian.” “Lily’s dead,” I gritted out, the pain in my head blinding. “If you want her to eat cake, then Julian can go to hell and feed it to her.” “How dare you say something so vile! You’d curse your own daughter just to win a petty, jealous game!” Amelia’s face was contorted with rage. “Did you think I didn’t know what you did back then?” “Julian was by my side after the car crash. He told me everything! I gave birth while I was in a coma, and you killed our baby! You drove Julian out of the country and seized control of the company. You’ve done every evil thing imaginable.” “I’ve tolerated you for ten years because you stayed by my side and took care of the house. But you just can’t be satisfied, can you? You keep bullying Julian, and now you’re cursing my own daughter!” A bodyguard pinned my arms. Amelia grabbed a slice of the greasy cake and started shoving it into my mouth. The scent of mango filled my lungs, and I began to cough and gasp for air as my throat started to swell shut. I struggled wildly. “Stop it! Amelia, have you forgotten? I’m allergic to mangoes…” Amelia froze for a second, then her face hardened again. “You did so many unforgivable things to Julian. This is just an allergy. It won’t kill you. Stop being such a dramatic weakling. You are going to eat this entire cake and then you are going to get on your knees and beg Julian for forgiveness.” My eyelids were swelling. Breathing became a desperate struggle. I closed my eyes, resigning myself to the darkness. Seeing me go limp, Amelia finally stopped, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “Where is his allergy medication?! Find it, now!” After she forced the pill down my throat, my airways slowly opened. I blinked, my eyes red and swollen. Amelia let out a breath of relief, her expression awkward. “There. Now you and Julian are even. Just swear that you will never hurt or harass Julian or his future children again.” Her face lit up with a new idea. “Julian is a rising star in the business world now. You, on the other hand, do nothing but enjoy a life of leisure at home. You should also swear to help him raise his children. You’ll treat them as if they were your own.” “I promise,” she added magnanimously, “I’ll even set aside one or two days a week to spend with you and Lily.” When I didn’t respond, her patience wore thin. “What are you still angry about? If you hadn’t interfered back then, if you hadn’t killed our baby and forced Julian to flee the country, if I hadn’t been forced to marry you to save the company, my child with Julian would be the same age as Lily now.” “The happy life you and Lily have now was stolen from Julian! What right do you have to be upset?” I couldn’t listen to another word. “Don’t you dare mention my daughter’s name again!” I interrupted. “You can have Julian back. I’ve already sent you the divorce papers.” She scoffed. “Fine. I’ll hire the best lawyers and fight you for custody of Lily. A kept man like you doesn’t stand a chance against me.” “If you don’t want to be separated from Lily, then get on your knees and apologize to me. Right now.” That was the last straw. I pulled out Lily’s death certificate and threw it in her face. “Amelia! Read it yourself! Lily is dead! You killed her!” The black and white words “CERTIFICATE OF DEATH” and the name “LILY HAYES” seemed to hit her like a physical blow. She staggered backward. “That’s impossible…” Suddenly, Julian cried out. “What? How can that be? Lily’s nanny just texted me. She said Lily can’t find you and won’t stop crying.” He turned to Amelia. “The assistant mentioned he went to the hospital this morning. You don’t think he went there to forge a death certificate, do you?” A sharp slap cracked across my face, sending me tumbling down the stairs. From the top of the landing, Amelia’s furious voice rained down on me. “David, you are so consumed with jealousy that you would curse your own daughter? You would forge a death certificate just to hurt Julian?” “You are unfit to be a father!” she shrieked, incandescent with rage. “Even a beast doesn’t eat its own young. You’re worse than an animal!” I struggled to my feet. “Amelia, you are a complete and utter fool.” I reached for the photo album on the floor, but Amelia’s stiletto heel slammed down on my hand, pinning it to the ground. “Get out!” she screamed. “You pathetic scum! Don’t you ever set foot in the Astor house again! And don’t even think about taking anything that belongs to me or my child with you!” On her command, the bodyguards smashed our luggage and threw the pieces into the trash bins outside. The photo album, the one Lily and I had so lovingly made together, was torn to shreds and thrown out after it. My eyes burning, I knelt down, trying to gather the last memories my daughter had left me, but the tiny pieces slipped through my fingers. Julian opened a window. A gust of wind swept through the yard, scattering the torn photographs like ashes. “Oops,” he said with a fake gasp. “I was just trying to air out the smell of vomit Mr. Hayes left behind. The house stinks.” “Ignore him,” Amelia said, her voice filled with contempt. “He doesn’t even care if his own daughter lives or dies. Do you really think he cares about some stupid photos? He’s just putting on a show for me.” A hollow, bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Amelia, remember what you did to me and my daughter today. I swear, one day, you will pay for it.” I staggered back to the funeral home. A staff member, her face full of sympathy, handed me a small urn shaped like a pink kitten. “I heard your daughter’s birthday wish this year was to go to the theme park with the pink kitten mascot,” she said softly. “I thought… she might like a box like this. I hope… I hope she can find peace.” A lump formed in my throat. I hugged the urn, tears streaming down my face. A complete stranger wanted to grant my daughter’s last wish, a wish her own mother had ignored. “On behalf of Lily, thank you,” I said, bowing deeply. After finalizing the funeral arrangements, I met with my lawyer. I gave him the surveillance footage from the amusement park and the signed divorce papers. “She doesn’t deserve to be Lily’s mother,” I said, my voice raw. “I want everyone to know what she did.” I choked back my tears and spent the last of my savings on a custom-tailored suit. I wanted to say goodbye to my daughter with dignity. But as I was preparing for the funeral, my heart a shattered mess, Amelia appeared at my apartment. The moment I opened the door, one of her bodyguards kicked me square in the chest. “Do you think I’m a patient woman?” she snarled. “Do you think I will tolerate you endlessly harassing Julian?” “You found out I was planning a birthday celebration for him, that I was having a custom suit made. So, in retaliation, you told every designer in the city not to work with him. You wanted to humiliate him, didn’t you?” I knew immediately what had happened. A designer friend of mine, wanting to avenge me, had blacklisted Julian throughout the entire fashion community. I wiped a trickle of blood from my lip. “So what if I did? You two murdered my daughter. Why should you get to celebrate anything?” Amelia kicked me with the pointed toe of her high heel. “When are you going to stop with this nonsense? Stop cursing your own child!” “How did I kill my daughter?” she demanded. “No matter how much I despise you, I would never harm my own flesh and blood! In fact, I’ve been more than good to Lily!” “You wanted the park I booked for Julian, so I let you have it. She wanted me to play with her, didn’t she? I personally sent her on the ride myself. What more could you possibly want?” She scoffed. “Don’t tell me you can die from a simple amusement park ride. Your lies are getting more ridiculous by the minute.” She snatched the suit from my hands, threw it on the floor, and stomped on it. “You said Lily was dead, right? Then what’s her father doing ordering such an expensive suit? Getting all dressed up to find your next sugar mama?” A sharp pain shot through my heart. I grabbed the suit and shoved her out the door. “Amelia, I hope you can still speak with such confidence three days from now.” I could hear her cursing from the hallway. I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a numb, dreamless sleep. That night, another knock echoed through the apartment. Annoyed, I wrenched the door open and found Julian standing there. He shoved past me into the room. I immediately grabbed for him. “Well, well,” he sneered, snatching the pink kitten urn from the small memorial I had set up in the living room. “She really is dead.” “Good riddance. With your daughter dead, and you dead next, the entire Astor fortune will be mine.” “Put that down!” I roared, my eyes turning red as I lunged at him. Suddenly, a hand grabbed my hair and yanked me back. “You bastard, David! Julian came here to apologize to you, and you dare attack him!” Julian hadn’t expected Amelia to be there. His eyes darted around nervously. When he saw her gaze fall on the urn in his hands, he immediately started shouting. “That’s the box! He used the powder in that box to poison our baby! I remember it perfectly! Now he’s trying to use it to kill me!” “You’re lying!” I screamed. “That’s my daughter’s urn! Give me back my daughter’s urn!” “You dare curse Lily again!” Amelia slapped me hard across the face. “Who has a pink urn? The lies you tell to hurt Julian are getting more and more pathetic!” She took the box from his hands. As I screamed in anguish, she raised it high and smashed it onto the floor. “NO!” I howled, scrambling forward, but she kicked me away. “Trying to grab your box of poison? Who else are you planning to harm?” With a sickening crack, the urn shattered, scattering ash and tiny, unburnt fragments of bone across the floor. A raw, primal scream tore from my throat. The pain in my chest was so intense I couldn’t breathe. Amelia’s face, once flushed with anger, slowly drained of all color, turning a ghostly, horrified white as she stared at the scattered remains. “What… what is this…?”

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For the third time, the scent of another man’s cologne clung to my fiancée. A scent identical to the one her male assistant, Vincent, always wore. The realization settled in my gut, cold and sharp. Isabelle was cheating on me. I didn’t play games. I told her the engagement was off. She wept, swearing she would cut all ties with Vincent, that she would only ever love me. And for the sake of our families’ long-standing alliance, I gave her one last chance. Three days later, at the annual Thanksgiving Gala, Isabelle walked in, pushing Vincent in a wheelchair. When I confronted her, her voice was a raw, desperate shriek. “Toby, you can buy my obedience, you can force my hand, but you will never have my heart!” “Vincent loves me! Even if you break his other leg, even if you kill him, he will never leave my side!” “We have no regrets! This is for true love!” A shocked silence fell over the grand ballroom, followed by a wave of scandalized whispers. In the blink of an eye, I was no longer the wronged fiancé. I was the villain—the ruthless monster who had stolen another man’s love and crippled him for it. Faced with a hundred pairs of accusing eyes, I smiled. Fine. If they wanted a monster, I would give them one. 1 After Isabelle’s heart-wrenching accusation, a strange hush fell over the ballroom. The initial confusion in the guests’ eyes had curdled into pure contempt. “I can’t believe the Crane heir is like that…” “Forcing her to marry him? And he broke the other guy’s leg? That’s monstrous.” “You never really know someone, do you? The Crane Corporation is a dynasty, but the man set to inherit it is a tyrant.” “No wonder Miss Slate was so distraught. The poor woman is living a nightmare…” The whispers washed over me like a tide of filth. I stood my ground, my expression unreadable, my gaze fixed on Isabelle and the man in the wheelchair before her, Vincent Shaw. Emboldened by her own “courage” and the room’s reaction, Isabelle clutched the handles of Vincent’s wheelchair, tears streaming down her face. She looked like a martyr, ready to die for her cause. On cue, Vincent lifted his head. His face was pale, his eyes a carefully crafted mix of agony and noble restraint. He spoke, his voice trembling as if fighting back immense fear. “Mr. Crane… it’s all my fault. I couldn’t help falling in love with Isabelle. She has nothing to do with this…” “Please,” he begged, “I’m on my knees. Spare the Slate family. Spare Isabelle…” He took a deep breath, as if steeling himself for the inevitable. He straightened his back. “If you still need your pound of flesh, take it from me. I’m the one you want.” “Beat me. Kill me. I, Vincent Shaw, will not utter a single word of complaint. Just… please… don’t hurt her.” This declaration of selfless love immediately won him a fresh wave of sympathy. Murmurs of admiration for Vincent’s bravery rippled through the crowd, punctuated by sighs of pity for Isabelle’s tragic fate. Every arrow of blame was now pointed directly at me: Toby Crane, the powerful, ruthless heir who crushed true love under the heel of his boot. Isabelle let out a sob and threw her arms around Vincent. “Vincent, don’t say another word! I won’t let you sacrifice yourself for me! If we die, we die together!” What a performance. A heart-wrenching melodrama. If I weren’t the fiancé they’d betrayed, I might have even applauded their “epic, earth-shattering” love. I laughed. The sound, sharp and devoid of humor, cut through the tense atmosphere. The whispers died. All eyes were on me. “Take it from you?” I repeated his words, my voice quiet but laced with a chilling frost. “Vincent, what exactly do you think you are? Do you honestly believe you’re worthy of my dedicated attention?” I took two steps forward, my gaze sweeping past him to land squarely on Isabelle. “Isabelle, three days ago, you cried these same tears when you swore to me you would never see this man again, begging for my forgiveness.” “Tell me, are these tears any more genuine? Or do they just shine brighter with an audience?” 2 Isabelle’s face went white, her eyes darting nervously. But she quickly tightened her embrace on Vincent and screeched, “That’s enough, Toby!” “I was terrified! You forced me to say that because I was afraid of what you would do to him!” “But I see now that hiding won’t solve anything! You were never going to let him go!” “You just want to strangle our love in its cradle!” “True love?” I arched an eyebrow. “So your version of ‘true love’ involves wheeling your lover into a public gala to be pitied by strangers? This is how you protect what you have?” I let out a soft, contemptuous chuckle. “Your love seems rather cheap.” “You—!” Isabelle choked on her rage. Vincent quickly grabbed her hand, patting it soothingly before turning his pained gaze back to me. “Mr. Crane, I know you hate me. I ruined your future with Isabelle, and for that, I am truly sorry. I accept any revenge you have planned.” “Humiliate me, hurt me, do whatever you want. But please, don’t tarnish the memory of the love she once had for you.” My brow twitched. “You both keep calling me ruthless, a monster who forced you into this marriage…” I paused, my eyes turning to ice. “Since I’m already wearing the label, wouldn’t I be disappointing everyone—including you two—if I didn’t live up to it?” I stepped closer, looming over the “star-crossed lovers.” Vincent instinctively tried to wheel himself back, but he was trapped. Isabelle threw herself in front of him, her voice a mixture of fear and bravado. “What… what do you think you’re doing? You wouldn’t dare hurt him in front of all these people!” “Relax,” I said, my tone deceptively light. “I won’t lay a finger on him. Not right now, anyway.” My eyes drifted down to the plaster cast on Vincent’s leg. “A broken leg needs time to heal,” I said, my words dripping with insinuation. “After all, you might have a long road ahead of you.” “Or perhaps… you’re headed somewhere you won’t be needing your legs at all.” Without another word, I turned my back on their shocked faces and the sea of judgmental eyes. I walked straight out of the ballroom. The moment I got in my car, Isabelle’s father called. “Toby, my boy… about Isabelle… her mother and I spoiled her rotten. She can be so impulsive.” His voice was slick with false apology. “You were wronged tonight. On her behalf, I am deeply sorry.” He paused, clearly expecting me to offer a polite platitude. I remained silent. He cleared his throat and continued, his tone shifting to one of helpless inquiry. “But Toby, no matter how angry you were… you shouldn’t have… you really shouldn’t have sent men to break Vincent’s leg.” “That was… a bit extreme, don’t you think? It’s not good for the Crane family’s reputation.” I cut through his carefully constructed act with a cold laugh. “Mr. Slate, which one of your eyes saw me send anyone to break his leg?” There was a beat of silence on the other end, then his voice rose, filled with the righteous indignation of an elder. “Who else could it have been? Toby, let’s be realistic. The moment Vincent and Isabelle got a little close, this happened. We’re not fools.” My laugh was devoid of any warmth. “Fine. If you’re so certain it was me, Mr. Slate, then I’ll wear the accusation. In fact, I’ll claim his other leg, too. You should tell him to get comfortable in that wheelchair.” “You—!” The mask of the concerned father finally cracked, his voice turning sharp and shrill. “Toby! Are you trying to burn everything to the ground? After all these years between our families, you’d destroy it all for an outsider?” “I am,” I replied, my voice clipped and final. “Mr. Slate, your family chose a side. I’m simply honoring your decision. Let’s tear it all down. It’s cleaner that way.” 3 Two years ago, at a Crane family dinner, Mr. Slate had pulled my father and me aside. After a few pleasantries, he cautiously brought up a verbal marriage agreement made between my late grandfather and his own. As the Slate family’s fortunes had waned, the pact had been all but forgotten. Mr. Slate’s words were earnest, his posture almost subservient, as he spoke of the old friendship between our families. “Richard,” he’d said to my father, “I know this is presumptuous. But my father’s greatest wish was to see Isabelle settled. It’s our fault, really. The Slate family just hasn’t kept up…” He sighed, watching my father’s face. My father was a man of his word, especially when it came to his own father’s wishes. “Nonsense, David,” he replied. “If our fathers intended this, then it’s our duty as their sons to see it through.” Having met Isabelle, I had agreed. From that day forward, the Crane Corporation began to prop up Slate Industries. Once a struggling second-tier company, they were now flooded with massive orders, given access to unlimited lines of credit, and introduced to our most valuable contacts. Their business shot up like a rocket. Within two years, they went public, securing their place among the city’s elite. Mr. Slate transformed from a man who bowed and scraped into the proud chairman of a publicly traded company. As for Isabelle, I had fulfilled my duties as a fiancé. She loved jewelry, particularly the work of one European designer. I commissioned the artist to create a one-of-a-kind diamond necklace and earring set for her birthday, a project that took six months. She was the envy of all her friends. At every business dinner and private party, I treated her with the utmost respect. When a spoiled heir once spoke to her disrespectfully at a reception, I publicly humiliated him. The message was clear: Isabelle Slate was under my protection, and no one was to treat her as anything less. I had used my resources to build her family an empire. I had used my patience and wealth to win her affection. I never imagined my reward would be this: a meticulously planned betrayal and a public crucifixion. Back home, I called my father and laid out the night’s events, including Mr. Slate’s absurd phone call. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The Crane family does not allow itself to be manipulated.” “If the Slates have chosen to disregard our history, then do what you must. I will back you, no matter what.” With my father’s blessing, all restraints were gone. I sent out a series of directives. Effective immediately, Crane Corporation and all its subsidiaries were to terminate all business contracts with Slate Industries. All our partners were to be notified that any continued association with Slate Industries would be considered a hostile act against Crane Corporation. The orders went out in the dead of night. The vast, cold machinery of my family’s empire began to turn. The next morning, Crane Corp released a formal, impeccably worded statement announcing the termination of our partnership. It was like dropping a boulder into a calm lake. The financial news outlets exploded. Slate Industries’ stock plummeted the second the market opened. It fell so fast that trading was automatically halted within thirty minutes. I sat in my office, calmly watching the waterfall of red that represented their company on my screen. Soon, my personal phone rang. Isabelle’s name flashed on the display. I answered. Her voice was a hysterical shriek, a far cry from the tragic heroine of the previous night. “TOBY! ARE YOU INSANE? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU’RE DOING?!” “RETRACT THAT STATEMENT NOW! OR I’LL MAKE YOU REGRET IT!” I didn’t bother to respond. I hung up and blocked her number. Threats? She clearly hadn’t grasped who held all the cards. But the Slates’ counterattack came faster—and was far dirtier—than I’d anticipated. By noon, the tide of public opinion began to turn. 4 Major social media platforms and forums were flooded with “exposés” about me. The posts were alarmingly uniform, clearly part of a coordinated campaign. The smear tactics focused on three key points: First, that I was a ruthless tyrant. An “anonymous ex-employee” claimed I was a dictator at work who verbally abused staff, alleging I once bullied a veteran employee into a stress-induced resignation over a minor mistake. The post was accompanied by a blurry photo of me looking stern. Second, that my personal life was a moral cesspool. A so-called “insider” revealed that despite my engagement, I kept multiple mistresses, even listing the names of several college students and vague dates and locations, described with salacious detail as if witnessed firsthand. Third, and most damningly, that I was a psychopath who would stop at nothing to get what I wanted. This narrative, building on the events of the gala, painted me as a monster consumed by jealousy who had hired thugs to brutally break Vincent’s leg to force Isabelle into submission. A classic “if I can’t have you, no one can” pathology. This narrative was amplified by an army of bots and paid trolls, who spammed comment sections and pushed hashtags like #CancelCraneCorp, #JusticeForIsabelle, and #SupportTrueLove to the top of trending lists. They had successfully twisted a business dispute into a personal vendetta, painting Crane Corporation as an evil empire crushing two innocent lovers. Then, to capitalize on the momentum, Isabelle and Vincent went live on a popular streaming platform. On screen, Isabelle sat with red, swollen eyes, nestled against Vincent in his wheelchair. They both looked like martyrs who had endured unspeakable persecution. They recounted my “atrocities” with tears in their eyes, describing how their pure, beautiful love was being systematically destroyed by me and my family. Vincent’s performance was masterful. With pained, noble expressions, he told the camera, “I don’t blame Mr. Crane. I only blame myself for being too far beneath Isabelle. It was my low status that brought this disaster upon us… But our love is not a crime. We will fight to the end. For this love, we have no regrets!” The chat exploded. It was a deluge of vitriol from trolls and duped viewers. “TOBY CRANE MUST DIE,” “CRANE CORP GO BANKRUPT,” “I’m crying for Isabelle and Vincent,” the comments scrolled past in a blur. Any stray voice of reason was instantly drowned in a tsunami of hate. The meticulously planned media blitz worked. After its morning collapse, Slate Industries’ stock miraculously rebounded. Fueled by “sympathy investors” and speculators betting on their “brave resistance” against a corporate giant, the stock surged into the green. Meanwhile, Crane Corporation’s stock began to tank. The sudden storm of negative PR had investors worried about brand damage and potential legal risks. I stared at the two starkly contrasting lines on my monitor. One, representing the Slates, soaring against all odds. The other, representing my family, in freefall. The cold light of the screen illuminated my face as a grim smile touched my lips. Go on. Dance. Perform. Did you really think your pathetic little media circus could shake the foundations of my family’s legacy? Did you believe the pity of strangers and a few nasty comments could actually hurt me? How naive. You’ve mistaken the battlefield of business for a stage. And you’ve forgotten the real rules of the game. Just as Crane Corporation’s stock hit its daily trading limit, plummeting as far as it could go, Vincent called. The act was gone. His voice was dripping with undisguised triumph. “So, Toby. Now do you see how things stand?” “Out of pity for the two years you spent licking Isabelle’s boots, I’ll give you two choices. One, you pay a fifty billion dollar ‘break-up fee,’ and we all walk away. Two, you watch your family’s empire crumble into dust and become a broke, forgotten nobody.” I walked to the window, watching the endless stream of traffic below. “I’m choosing option three,” I said calmly. “I’m going to send you and the entire Slate family to hell.” There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end, followed by a furious roar. “You’re fucking insane—” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I hung up and turned off my phone. For the next two days, our stock remained depressed. The online hate campaign continued to rage. The atmosphere in the company was thick with tension, but I went about my business as usual. On the morning of the third day, when the company’s losses surpassed one hundred billion, I picked up an encrypted phone and sent a short message. “You can begin.”

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From childhood at St. Jude’s Home, my best friend Chloe and I were known as the toughest girls around. My sharp tongue made people cry; her fists “persuaded” them. Even the guard dog hid when we passed. At eight, we were poking an anthill when the director brought a wealthy couple—the Hestons, one of the nation’s richest families. They claimed Chloe was their long-lost daughter, but she threw a fit. “Without Vivian, I’d have been bullied to death!” she wailed. “If you don’t adopt her too, I’m not leaving!” I dropped my stick, wiped my face, and smiled sweetly. “I’m the best-behaved child here. Adopting me is your best deal!” The director’s face twitched as if he’d swallowed rotten garbage. Bullied? Best-behaved? Do you hear yourselves? Desperate to be rid of us, he made a choice that would haunt his ancestors. … “That’s right, Mr. and Mrs. Heston!” he gushed. “Chloe and Vivian are our two sweetest girls. They’re inseparable. Why don’t you just take them both?” The couple hesitated. “Well, raising another child isn’t a problem,” Mrs. Heston said slowly, “it’s just… we already have an adopted daughter at home…” Chloe and I shot each other a look. A fake heiress? Oh, hell no. I couldn’t let Chloe walk into that lion’s den alone. What if this girl was some two-faced, scheming witch? Chloe wouldn’t stand a chance. “Sir, ma’am,” I pleaded, my eyes wide with fake concern. “Chloe is very sensitive. A new environment all alone could lead to depression… or even suicide. If you take me with her, I promise I’ll take good care of her!” The couple flinched. Chloe immediately started bawling on cue. “That’s right!” she howled. “If you say no, I’ll hang myself from your front gate tonight! Waaah!” They caved instantly. Mrs. Heston looked at me. “We can take you, but you’ll have to get along with your new sister at home…” “I’ll be the best big sister ever! Don’t you worry, Mom!” The director looked like he was about to burst into tears of joy. “Wonderful! Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Heston, on your two lovely new daughters!” As they were led away to handle the paperwork, I grabbed Chloe’s hand. “Chloe, you’re a real one! You didn’t forget our pact to get rich together!” She rolled her eyes. “I was just worried you’d get beaten to death for that mouth of yours after I left.” I cackled. “Love you, girl! That fake heiress didn’t even show up today. Bet she doesn’t want you back. If she’s one of those manipulative types, I’ll handle her.” Our strength at St. Jude’s had always been our teamwork. I’d verbally eviscerate our enemies until they were seeing red, and she’d knock them flat the second they lunged. When it came to mind games, Chloe was a rookie. She squeezed my hand back, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Vivian, our future of fabulous wealth is all on you now!” “Don’t worry,” I declared. “I’ve got this.” When the Hestons returned, they smiled seeing us holding hands. “It’s so wonderful that you girls are so close. That puts our minds at ease.” In the car, Mrs. Heston told us about the family. We learned that besides the fake heiress, Isabelle Heston, Chloe also had a biological older brother who was two years her senior. He was the reason she’d gotten lost when she was three. The fact that the culprit himself hadn’t bothered to show up spoke volumes. Clearly, he wasn’t thrilled about his long-lost sister’s return. Sure enough, as soon as we stepped out of the car, we saw a sullen-faced teenage boy standing at the entrance to the mansion, arms crossed. When Chloe and I held hands and called out “big brother!” in unison, Leo Heston’s face cracked. “You adopted another one?” He only relaxed after being told that I, the other adoptee, had no inheritance rights. “I’m warning you two,” he snarled, “don’t you dare bully my sister, or you’ll have me to deal with!” I immediately ducked behind Chloe, my voice trembling. “Chloe, why is he playing favorites? If he’d been this protective of you back then, he wouldn’t have let you get lost and suffer in an orphanage for all those years…” The subtext was clear: You moron. You show zero remorse for losing your own sister, and now you’re threatening her to protect the impostor? Are you for real? Mr. and Mrs. Heston’s faces darkened. Leo looked like he was about to explode, but I quickly pinched Chloe’s side. She got the message and covered her face, bursting into tears. “If my brother doesn’t like me, I should just go back to St. Jude’s! Vivian, let’s go!” Mr. Heston snapped. He slapped Leo hard across the face. “You brat! Is this how you welcome your sister home? Get out of the way!” Leo clutched his cheek, glaring at us, but didn’t dare say another word. Chloe and I exchanged a triumphant look. Round one: victory. But the moment we stepped inside, we saw Isabelle, the fake heiress, standing on a stool, sobbing as she tried to loop a rope over the chandelier. Oh, great. The pity party has already started. Before anyone could react, I barked, “Hey! No indoor swinging!” Chloe executed a perfect slide tackle, knocking the stool and Isabelle clean over. Before Isabelle could even get the noose around her neck, she was sent sprawling on the floor. “Aah!” she cried out in pain. The whole family rushed to help her up. Seeing the rope and the toppled stool, they surrounded her in a panic. “Isabelle, honey, what on earth are you doing?” Isabelle looked up at us, her eyes swimming with tears. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed to Chloe. “I’ve stolen your identity for so many years and made you suffer. Let me pay for my sins with my life!” She turned to her parents. “Please, don’t blame Mom, Dad, or Leo. Just… promise me you’ll take good care of them in my place.” Mrs. Heston hugged her tightly. “Don’t be silly, sweetie. In our hearts, you’ll always be our daughter!” Leo glared at us. “This has nothing to do with you, Isabelle. Let’s see who dares to blame you!” Isabelle buried her face in Mrs. Heston’s shoulder and shot me a look of pure, triumphant provocation over her arm. Yep, a Grade-A, certified witch. Trying to drive a wedge between us? Not on my watch. I unleashed my signature weapon. “So, you must be the adopted sister, Isabelle. So sorry about that, my mistake! I honestly thought someone was breaking the rules and trying to swing from the lights!” I tilted my head. “Wait a minute, were you trying to hang yourself? Honey, nobody uses a crystal chandelier for that. And that knot? A slipknot. It would’ve come undone the second you put any weight on it. You wouldn’t have died, but you might’ve brought the whole fixture down on someone’s head!” Chloe, scrambling up from the floor, chimed in. “Yeah, super dangerous! Good thing I was here to… uh… lend a foot.” Everyone looked up at the chandelier. They saw I was right. Mr. Heston’s face turned grim. “This is ridiculous! What if you had hurt your sister?” Seeing her plan fail, Isabelle looked at me and sniffled, “I’m sorry, sister. I just wanted to atone…” “You’ve got the wrong girl, sweetie. I’m your adopted sister. She’s the sister you need to apologize to.” I pushed Chloe forward. “Go on. Try again.” Leo puffed out his chest, stepping in front of Isabelle. “Dad! Isabelle was just trying to make things right! It was Chloe and Vivian who deliberately made her fall! They have no manners!” That did it. He could insult me all day, but nobody insults my best friend. “Leo, I know you want to play the hero, but you can’t just spew garbage from your mouth,” I snapped. “You want to talk about manners? Chloe grew up in an orphanage because you lost her. You’re the one who ruined her life, and you have the audacity to criticize her upbringing?” “This girl stole Chloe’s identity, her family, her entire life! How is she supposed to have ‘manners’?” “Your logic is so ass-backwards. I bet a dung beetle could crack open your skull and think he’d hit the jackpot!” My verbal barrage stunned the room into silence. Only Chloe was moved, squeezing my hand with tears in her eyes. “You’re the best, Vivian! I love you!” When Leo finally processed what I’d said, his face turned purple with rage. “How dare you talk to me like that?!” “Oh, I’m just getting started with you! Now it’s her turn!” I jabbed a finger at Isabelle. “And you! Who are you trying to fool with this damsel-in-distress act? You’re more full of crap than a landfill!” “Weren’t you supposed to be sick in bed? You seemed to have plenty of energy for your little suicide performance just now!” “Let me guess, the only thing you’re ‘sick’ of is the fact that Chloe’s back, and you can’t be the one and only princess anymore, right?” I’d hit a nerve. Isabelle looked panicked and tried to argue, but I cut her off. “Faking sick, faking suicide, trying to manipulate everyone… did my best friend ever once ask you to ‘atone’ for anything? We’re all supposed to be princesses here, so why are you the only one acting like a psycho?” Isabelle’s face went pale. All she could sputter was, “You… you… you!” I scoffed. “You what? If you have a stutter, go see a doctor. If you’ve got a problem with your brain, try reading a book!” Realizing she couldn’t win a war of words, Isabelle switched back to her weak, innocent persona. “I’m sorry, Chloe. It’s my fault. I was just so scared you’d hate me.” She turned to me. “Vivian, you can yell at me all you want. Just please, don’t take your anger out on Mom, Dad, and Leo.” Here we go again. This girl had no new tricks. I was done with her. I turned to the stunned Hestons. “I hear we’ll be in the same class as our sister from now on?” They nodded dumbly. “Great. We can help her out at school. So, where are our rooms?” Mrs. Heston quickly led us upstairs. Isabelle followed, red-eyed, and pushed open her own bedroom door with a grand, magnanimous gesture. “If you don’t mind, sister, you can have my room. It was always meant to be yours…” Leo charged in front of us again, foaming at the mouth. “Isabelle, this is the princess room Mom decorated just for you! These uncultured brats don’t deserve it!” Seeing the storm brewing in my eyes, Mrs. Heston shot him a warning look. She turned to Chloe with a gentle smile. “Chloe, dear, you can have any room in the house. Think of it as our way of making up for lost time.” Chloe glanced at Isabelle’s frilly, pink nightmare of a room with disgust. She then pointed to a much larger room down the hall with better light. “We’ll take that one! It’s big enough for me and Vivian.” Leo nearly lost his mind. “Are you serious? That’s Mom and Dad’s bedroom!” I smiled sweetly at Mrs. Heston. “Mom, you did say any room. You wouldn’t go back on your word, would you?” Her smile was strained, but she nodded. “Perfect! We’re exhausted from the trip. You guys should get some rest, too!” With that, I pulled Chloe into the room and slammed the door, leaving the petrified family standing in the hallway. The next few weeks were a blur of shopping. After eight years of scraping by, we were finally living the dream of swiping a credit card without looking at the price tag. We had carloads of designer bags and boxes delivered, transforming ourselves into a pair of bona fide heiresses. Every time Isabelle made a snide remark about our spending, I would shut her down with a verbal smackdown. When insults failed, she resorted to petty tricks. Day one, she “accidentally” dropped a vase from the top of the stairs, aiming for our heads. Chloe caught it with one hand without even breaking stride. Day two, she “accidentally” knocked a tureen of hot soup toward Chloe at the dinner table. Chloe deftly redirected it, sending it splashing all over Isabelle, who shrieked in pain. Day three, she snuck her own diamond necklace under our pillow and then brought the whole family in to “catch us in the act.” I simply played the footage from the hidden camera I’d installed, showing her planting it herself. Cornered, she tearfully claimed she had just wanted to “give us a surprise.” After failing at both verbal and physical warfare, Isabelle finally backed off. But we knew she was just biding her time. Sure enough, a month later at the assembly of our new elite private school, she stood before the entire student body with red-rimmed eyes. “These are my new sisters,” she announced. “My parents recently brought them home from an orphanage. Please take good care of them!” In one sentence, she had painted us as the charity cases, the fake heiresses. The students looked at her with pity. “Wow, the Hestons can just adopt kids whenever they feel like it?” “Poor Isabelle, now she has to share her parents’ love…” I smiled and nudged Chloe to pull out the DNA test results. “That’s a funny way of putting it, Isabelle,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’ve been squatting in my best friend’s home for eight years, and you’re the one playing the victim?” “And for the record, you’re just as adopted as I am, so maybe drop the ‘poor little princess’ act?” I addressed the stunned crowd. “Hi everyone! I’m Vivian, the best friend of the real Heston heiress, Chloe. And yes, I was also adopted by the Hestons. Not because they’re rolling in cash, but because they were afraid certain people,” I said, pointedly looking at Isabelle, “might try to bully Chloe. They wanted me here to protect her. Just like I’m doing right now.” The auditorium went silent. Then all eyes turned to Isabelle, filled with scorn. “Wait, so she was the fake one all along?” A group of girls who clearly disliked Isabelle started to jeer. “Of course! She always acted like she was royalty. Turns out she’s just a wannabe.” The laughter was like a slap across Isabelle’s face. She looked like she was about to burst into tears. From that day on, she was branded the school’s resident two-faced fake. To salvage her reputation, she threw herself into piano and ballet lessons, hoping to outshine us with her grace and poise. In response, I started taking stand-up comedy and improv classes. Chloe signed up for kickboxing and Tai Chi, honing her natural talents to a razor’s edge. Isabelle’s dream of overshadowing us never materialized. At every school festival, my comedy routine and Chloe’s finale—breaking a cement block on her chest—completely eclipsed her boring performances. I became a campus celebrity for my wit, while Chloe became the school’s unofficial protector. With us around, bullying and fights practically vanished. By the time we were sixteen, the two little devils from St. Jude’s had somehow grown into well-adjusted, surprisingly popular young women. Mr. and Mrs. Heston adored us and were planning a press conference to officially introduce us to the world. “It’s time Chloe got some shares in the company for her eighteenth birthday,” we overheard Mr. Heston telling his wife. “She’s our biological daughter, after all. And the company has taken a hit from Preston Corp lately. We need a strategic marriage to stabilize things. Luckily, the Preston heir isn’t opposed to meeting. We’ll see which of the girls he connects with…” Isabelle, who was listening from the shadows, clenched her fists. A venomous smile crossed her face. For the next two years, Isabelle and Leo did a complete 180. They not only stopped antagonizing us but actively tried to be friendly. Leo even offered to mentor Chloe in the family business after she started college. Isabelle transformed into a sweet, doting little sister. On our eighteenth birthday, they showered us with gifts and well-wishes. Just before the party, they announced they had a surprise for us: a private fireworks show from a nearby hilltop.

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