My childhood best friend was bright and cheerful, like the sun itself. Even his rejection was swift and absolute, leaving no room for daydreams. He’d introduce me to his friends, for example. And I’d see a boy hiding behind a column, peeking out at me with half a face. As someone who’s a sucker for a pretty face, I thought, Well, he’s not bad. After the gloomy introvert started dating me, he began to shine. And the golden boy, my sun, went mad with jealousy. He got completely wasted, clutching the hem of my shirt, his eyes red-rimmed. “You want… me.” And then I saw the other boy, the one hiding behind the column, his knuckles white around a golf club. As someone who’d rather not end up on a true-crime podcast, I thought, Absolutely not. 1. “I like you.” I confessed to my childhood best friend, Greg. He froze for a second, then burst out laughing as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is this a ‘try not to laugh’ challenge? Not bad.” But when his gaze met mine, the laughter died on his lips. I watched his expression carefully, waiting for his answer, trying my best to convey the depth of my feelings. “We’ve known each other since we were kids, and I’ve always had a crush on you,” I said, my voice earnest. “I just… wanted you to know.” Greg fell silent, his dark eyes fixed on me. I looked down, my palms slick with sweat. Then, I heard his teasing voice from above me. “Chloe, don’t mess with me.” He reached out and gently flicked my forehead. “I always thought of myself as your big brother.” I looked up at him. The usual warmth in his eyes had been replaced by something dimmer, more serious. He lowered his voice. “Chloe, I’m not as great as you think I am. You’ve had me around your whole life, and you don’t really have any other close guy friends. That’s why you think I’m special.” I opened my mouth to argue. “But—” He cut me off instantly. “Besides, you’re not really my type.” His tone was light, almost joking, but the finality in it was unmistakable. He took a small step back, creating a little distance between us, and flashed a carefree smile. “We’re better off as friends.” A summer breeze blew past, drying the sweat on my skin and leaving me feeling cold. The walk home had never felt so long. I remember shamelessly crying the whole way. Greg followed behind me. But he never once stepped forward to offer a word of comfort. 2. When I got home, a text from him was waiting. Greg: Chlo, I don’t want to lie to you or lead you on. Greg: We’re great as friends. I just can’t see us as anything more. Greg and I grew up together. He was the cheerful type, always smiling, revealing two small canine teeth when he did. In elementary school, we were the two chubby kids. During jump rope, we were always the ones stuck holding the ends for everyone else. Two outcasts from different classes, we found each other. We did homework together, shared snacks. But in middle school, he started to change. He joined the swim team and quickly shed all his baby fat. By the time we got to high school, the gap between us was a chasm. I was the slightly overweight girl with black-framed glasses who loved video games. Greg was the helpful class president, the handsome, tall campus heartthrob, the straight-A student. His circle of friends exploded. The moment class was out, a crowd would form around him. Guys wanted him for basketball, calling him an all-star. Girls, like me, either had secret crushes on him or shipped him with someone else. Any task a teacher gave him, he’d rally a group of classmates and get it done in no time. Everyone trusted him. I never saw him lose his temper. He was like the sun in everyone’s sky. I thought we would drift apart, but he still treated me as his friend. Every day after school, he’d call out for me to walk home with him. He’d sling my heavy backpack over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, then turn to me. “Mocha fudge or a chocolate crunch?” “Mocha fudge.” We’d walk side-by-side, each with an ice cream bar. After we finished, we’d talk about our day, the setting sun chasing our shadows. I’d sneak glances at his handsome profile. He was like a sudden gust of wind, sending ripples across the calm lake of my heart. Everyone in our class knew we were childhood friends. But no one ever teased us about it. It was like one of those teen movies: the handsome hero, the bubbly popular girl, and the nerdy, funny sidekick. I managed to be two of those things—the nerdy, slightly chubby, funny sidekick. Sigh. Whatever. Time to boot up Baldur’s Gate. 3. Getting rejected was so awkward. Thankfully, I’d confessed on a Friday, giving me the weekend to recover. Since Greg and I lived in the same apartment building, we often did homework together. But the cringe was too strong, so I didn’t reach out. For a whole week, I avoided him, bolting like a rabbit the second the final bell rang. He must have sensed my distance. He texted me that night. Greg: Chlo, you’re not seriously ignoring me because of that, are you…? Greg: We’re still best friends, right? Greg: Remember what I said about you not having enough guy friends? I have a good friend who’s a lot like you, loves gaming. Maybe you two should meet…? With that, Greg sent me a contact card. The profile picture was a brooding anime character. Greg: His name is Matthew. He’s in the class next door. The boy I liked was setting me up with someone else, decisively crushing my last glimmer of hope. I thought for a moment, then typed back. McNuggetLover: It’s fine, you don’t have to push people on me. Let’s just be friends, like you said. Greg: O(∩_∩)O You’ll always be my best friend, Chlo. I figured Greg just wasn’t interested in dating. The sun, after all, belongs in the sky, not plucked down for one person. Friends it is. We went back to normal. As class president, Greg was always busy. He’d usually ask me to help with things like the classroom bulletin board because I had neat handwriting. One day after school, we stayed behind to work on it. He sketched while I stood on a stool, writing. “Hey, Chlo,” he said, looking over. “Did you add Matthew yet?” “Nah,” I said casually. “I think having one guy friend is enough. Don’t really need to expand my roster.” After I said that, I glanced down. I saw Greg duck his head, a smile spreading across his lips. He was trying to suppress it, but his eyes gave him away, shining with a sweet, secret delight, like a kid who’d just snuck a piece of candy. 4. What was so funny? I was the one who got rejected; I was allowed to be a little bitter. I went back to writing on the board. One by one, our classmates filed out. But then Bianca, a girl from our class, stumbled past Greg, crashing hard into the stool I was standing on. I lost my balance and tumbled to the floor. A sharp pain shot through my ankle, and I let out a muffled groan. Greg immediately dropped his chalk and rushed to my side. But just as he was about to check on me, Bianca’s sobs filled the quiet classroom. She was crumpled on the floor, tears streaming down her face. “Greg… my cramps… they’re killing me.” She looked at me, her eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to knock you over, Chloe. Please don’t be mad at me.” If Greg was the king of the guys, Bianca was the queen of the girls. She was like the head cheerleader in a teen movie, complete with a little posse. She always wore glossy lipstick and would let her hair down the second the teacher wasn’t looking. Tall and thin, she looked like a mini-influencer. To be honest, as a freshman, I was kind of scared of her. Like I would ever dare be mad at her. Nerds like me steer clear of the popular kids. “Greg, can you take me to the nurse’s office?” Bianca asked, looking up at him with shimmering eyes. “I’ll take you,” he said grimly, then turned to me. “Chloe, could you finish up the board for me?” I rubbed my swollen ankle and forced a smile. “My ankle’s twisted. I think I need to go to the clinic, too.” Greg looked at me, a flicker of conflict in his amber eyes. “Chloe, can you manage…?” Before he could finish, Bianca let out another pained moan, clutching her stomach. “It hurts… Greg, it hurts so much.” “Bianca seems to be in worse shape,” Greg said, his brow furrowed with apology. He clearly meant he had to help the person who needed it more. “Let me borrow your scooter keys,” he said, already reaching for my pencil case, where he knew I kept them. He’d given me the little lamb keychain attached to it. He grabbed the keys, scooped Bianca up into his arms, and strode out of the classroom. At the doorway, he paused and looked back at me. His expression, usually so calm, was now intense and resolute. “Don’t worry, Chloe. I’ll come back for you as soon as I get her to the clinic.” The light pouring through the window silhouetted his strong frame. He looked me straight in the eye. “Trust me.” 5. The sky slowly darkened. The only sound in the silent classroom was the ticking of the clock. Then, the pitter-patter of rain began outside. Two hours had passed. Greg hadn’t come back. We weren’t allowed to have our phones in high school, so there was no way to contact him. But years of friendship made me stubbornly hold on to my trust in him. I was afraid that if I left, he’d come back and worry when he couldn’t find me. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the roof of the bike shed outside. A clap of thunder echoed across the sky. The downpour had begun. I stared out the window, replaying the image of Bianca’s arms wrapped around his neck. Replaying his words: You’re not my type. Replaying the sight of him carrying her, the tall, handsome boy and the petite, pretty girl. A classic pairing. A cold certainty bloomed in my heart. He wasn’t coming back. When I tried to stand, a searing pain shot up from my ankle. I leaned against the wall, hobbling into the hallway. The sound of the rain was deafening. In the empty school, my shadow was my only companion. “Do you… need help?” A voice from the shadows startled me so badly I almost fell again. A tall, thin boy peeked out from behind a pillar, his messy bangs nearly covering his eyes. He was clutching a long, black umbrella, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. “I-I’m from the class next door…” he explained in a small voice. He kept his eyes on the floor, only darting a quick glance at me now and then. His eyes were unfairly beautiful, like obsidian veiled in mist. “Thanks, but I’m okay,” I said, instinctively taking a step back. A torrential downpour, a beautiful boy with his eyes hidden, a black umbrella… it all felt a little supernatural. The boy immediately shrank back behind the pillar, leaving only his pale, umbrella-gripping hand visible. As I painstakingly made my way to the stairs, I heard a soft shuffling sound behind me. He was following me, maintaining a distance of about ten feet. This was terrifying. I was about to tap into my primal survival instincts and make a run for it when I heard his voice again. “Your foot looks hurt. Let me take you to the clinic…” “I’m really a student here. My name is Matthew. I was just on my way back from the library.” Matthew. That was the name of the friend Greg had wanted me to meet. “And how are you going to help me?” I asked, stopping to look back at him. His eyes lit up as if I’d just given him a prize. He quickly walked over, handed me the umbrella, then turned his back to me and bent down. “I… I can carry you.” I looked at his slender back and thought about my own 130-pound frame. Are you sure, dude? I might break you. I asked him again if he was sure. As if to prove his strength, he suddenly turned and scooped me up into his arms. And plunged headfirst into the pouring rain. 6. When I got home, I turned on my phone. It buzzed with a few notifications from Greg. Greg: Bianca’s a single-parent kid, her mom’s never around. I had to stay with her at the hospital. You go on home. Greg: Be safe. I’ll bring you breakfast tomorrow to make it up to you. [Cute Cat Emoji] I stared at the emoji for a moment, then closed the chat without replying. I found the contact card with the brooding anime profile picture and sent a friend request. A second later, a notification popped up. He’d accepted immediately. 7. The next day, Greg ran into the classroom carrying soy milk and fried pancakes. He made a beeline for my desk and placed the breakfast down, along with my scooter keys and their little lamb keychain. He pressed his hands together and bowed repeatedly. “I’m so, so sorry, Chloe. It was an emergency yesterday.” I kept my head down, organizing my books, ignoring him. Greg raised his voice. “You can hit me a few times if it’ll make you feel better.” He grabbed my arm. I yanked it away, and he let out a dramatic “Oof!” and fell over. I flinched and looked up instinctively. He was sitting on the floor, propped up on his hands, with a random worksheet now covering his head. He looked up at me, a playful glint in his amber eyes. But his smile quickly faded when he saw me pull a black metal lunchbox from my bag. It had Matthew’s name and class number printed on it. I opened it. Inside were three plump sandwiches, each wrapper decorated with a cartoon penguin sticker. There was also a note from Matthew, written in beautiful handwriting. You got caught in the rain yesterday, so you might be feeling weak. I made you breakfast. I wasn’t sure which flavor you’d like, so I made three. I looked up at Greg and gave him an apologetic smile. “I already have breakfast, so I won’t be needing yours! Sorry.” Greg ripped the worksheet off his head and nodded, a bright smile still plastered on his face. But I heard the soft, crisp sound of paper being crumpled tightly in his fist. Wait a second—that was my literature worksheet. We had literature class next. Dude, now I’m even more pissed at you. 8. Because Greg had abandoned me, crumpled my worksheet, rejected my confession, and then tried to set me up with someone else, I was officially holding a grudge. I had no desire to talk to him. Meanwhile, Matthew and I started getting to know each other. I discovered we had a ton in common. We both loved playing games on Steam. The summer break had just started, so we teamed up in Stardew Valley. We stayed up all night for a week straight, completely lost in the game. Who was Greg? I’d long forgotten. Every morning, I’d wake up with a single thought: Time to hit the mines. And Matthew would be there, quietly farming, fishing, and preparing food for my mining expeditions—Spicy Eel, Cheese, Crispy Bass—all neatly arranged in a storage chest, with a thoughtful stack of bombs and staircases right beside it. His character would always be standing silently at the farm entrance, waiting for me to log on. Then a message would pop up: There’s stuff in the chest for you. You can go straight to the mines. If I was late, he would just wait. Only when I appeared would he add, Caught an eel today. I can make you a meal. I couldn’t help but ask him, “Matthew, why do you always have everything ready before you say anything?” On the other end, he was silent for a few seconds. I could hear his soft breathing through the mic as he chose his words. “…My family taught me to always present results when I speak.” I learned that Matthew’s parents were both entrepreneurs, too busy to spend time with him. Their conversations were always short and efficient. How are your recent grades? Did you pass your piano exam? Are the results from the coding competition out yet? Every sentence had to be packed with information. Every exchange had to have a purpose. Over time, Matthew had developed a habit: he didn’t dare make small talk, didn’t dare chat idly, didn’t even dare to laugh without a reason. As a girl from a normal family, I couldn’t understand it. My heart ached for him, and I instinctively tried to comfort him. “Matthew, you can talk to me anytime. You can talk trash, talk nonsense. Every sentence doesn’t have to mean something or have a point. Friends can just talk, you know? It doesn’t always have to be useful.” On the screen, Matthew’s character suddenly froze in the middle of the farm, as if someone had hit the pause button. After a long moment, a low chuckle came through my headphones. It was tentative, as if he was finally letting out a breath he’d been holding. “Hehe…?” I blinked. “What?” “Haha,” he added, his voice as light as a feather brushing against my ear, the end of the sound lilting upwards with a touch of unpracticed joy. I couldn’t help but smile. “What are you doing?” “Talking nonsense,” he said, a hint of glee in his voice. “…Playing games with you is really fun.” His voice was low and a little raspy, like a kitten finally daring to extend its claws to gently touch someone it trusts. It was clumsy and eager—and impossibly gentle. 9. In Stardew Valley, there’s a festival called the Flower Dance where you can ask someone you like to dance with you. I had been so busy farming that none of the NPCs had ever agreed to dance with me. This time, when the festival arrived, the cheerful music filled the town square as the pixelated characters swayed in their festive outfits. I ran my character around aimlessly while Matthew’s stood quietly to the side. I thought he was antsy to get back to farming. “This game has so many festivals,” I said, trying to console him. “It’s such a waste of good farming time.” I heard the soft click of his keyboard. After a moment, he suddenly asked, “Why don’t you ask Alex to dance…?” “Huh?” I was taken aback. Alex was one of the jock-type characters in the game. “I thought you would like his type,” Matthew said, his voice even but with an underlying tension. “I put a lot of gifts for him in the chest. You should have enough friendship points to invite him now.” I blinked, and then it hit me—he thought I liked Alex. The realization left a strange, sour taste in my mouth. I moved my character in front of his and clicked “Invite to Dance.” “Matthew, I want to dance with you.” The other end went silent. A few seconds later, his character slowly extended a hand and accepted. The two little pixel people spun clumsily in a circle, swaying to the music. I smiled. “And for the record, I don’t like Alex.” “Then… who do you like?” he asked softly. “Sebastian,” I teased. “He’s cold and gloomy on the outside, but gentle on the inside. It’s super cute.” —But I’m starting to like you a little. The words lingered on my tongue, but I didn’t say them out loud. That whole summer, we played Stardew Valley, Don’t Starve, we beat It Takes Two, we played League of Legends, Identity V, Valorant. I really, really love gaming. But by the end of it all, I realized it wasn’t just the games that were fun. It was us. So, in the end, we returned to Stardew Valley. We sat side-by-side on the pier, fishing as the pixelated rain fell on the lake. Fishing in this game was so boring; I had no idea how Matthew did it for hours on end, just to make me food. I chattered on beside him. “School’s about to start. I’ll have to study and won’t have time for games.” He was quiet for a long time. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” I asked. His voice came through the headset, sounding a bit muffled. “After school starts… I’ll take good care of your farm.” He paused, then said, as if it took all his courage, “You can come visit me on the farm when you’re not busy.” My phone buzzed. It was a picture. My eyes widened. “Holy crap!!!” It was a picture of Matthew cosplaying as Sebastian. A black wig partially covered his eyes, accentuating his high nose bridge and pale lips. He had perfectly captured the character’s gloomy, distant aura. He was in a professional studio, the light hitting his porcelain skin. He looked like he’d walked straight out of the game. His voice came through, small and hesitant. “You can just… pretend you’re looking at Sebastian.” “This is amazing! When did you take this?!” I was speechless. His voice was nervous. “Last week… you said you liked Sebastian, so I…” He didn’t finish, but I understood. He was afraid I’d ignore him once school started, so he did this to “keep me.” I couldn’t help but smile. “We can have lunch together every day after school starts,” I reassured him. “I can make you breakfast! Sandwiches, homemade burgers, rice balls, omelets, I can make anything!” he immediately replied, his words tumbling out in an uncharacteristic rush. “I can go home and make lunch, too. Whatever you want to eat…” “Whoa, whoa, stop!” I cut him off. “You’re my friend, not my personal chef!” He was silent for a moment, then I heard him whisper, so softly I almost missed it: “…I want to be.” Those three words, light as a feather, made the tips of my ears burn. As a certified admirer of handsome faces, I zoomed in on the cosplay photo again and again. This face was made for cosplay. A wicked idea popped into my head. “Master!” I said, raising my voice dramatically. “Could you please, please cosplay as Scaramouche? Or Xiao? I’m begging you! This is very important to me!” “…” “Matthew?” “If you insist…” he replied, his voice still a bit muffled, but I could have sworn I heard a faint chuckle.

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The day my mother took my twin sister, Stella, and me for IQ tests was the day our lives split into two completely different paths. Stella was a genius with an IQ of 160. I was just an ordinary person with an IQ of 105. From that day on, the way my mother looked at me changed. When Stella practiced the piano, I had to be there to serve her tea. When Stella’s paintings won awards, I had to kneel on the floor and clean her paint-stained brushes. When Stella, who was always frail, got sick, my mother would grab my arm and have the doctors draw my blood. “You’re twins,” she’d say. “Your blood is the purest. It’s worthy of her.” I became my sister’s shadow, her personal blood bank, her servant. Then, when I was seven, my mother took Stella abroad for an international competition and never came back. I was left all alone in that huge, empty house. It seemed she had forgotten that while she was chasing the stars for her genius daughter, her mediocre one was only seven years old. A child who could only hug her knees in the dead of night, crying out for her mother in a house that never answered. 1 I was finalizing a storage solution for a client when my mother called. She said she was sick and needed me. The woman’s voice on the other end was hoarse and unfamiliar, laced with an urgent sense of entitlement. But I just calmly glanced at the watch on my wrist. “I’m sorry, I’m very busy right now. My schedule is booked through next month.” “How about this,” I continued, my voice even. “You just hang in there. I might have some time in about six months. We can talk then.” After I hung up, my assistant, Chloe, whispered, “Ms. Vance, was that… your mother?” I shook my head without a second’s hesitation, rolling up the design plans. “No. Just a wrong number. A telemarketer.” Chloe hesitated. “But she sounded really desperate. What if…” I just smiled and said nothing. Over the years, every person my mother sent to plead her case said the same things. “She’s your mother. At the very least, she gave birth to you.” “You’re twin sisters. Blood is thicker than water. There’s no grudge you can’t let go of.” Blood is thicker than water. That was a ridiculous idea I used to believe in, too. I thought that as twins, Stella and I would be each other’s closest allies, that we’d hold hands and grow up together. Until that day when we were five, and my mother took us for those IQ tests. Stella was a genius. I was painfully average. When we got home that day, for the first time, my mother didn’t make us practice the piano together. She called me into her study alone, her expression more serious than I had ever seen it. “Your father had high hopes for you both when he passed. I won’t let him down.” “Nora,” she said, her voice firm, “your sister is a genius. A future great artist. She is the only light of this family.” I nodded, still too young to understand, but filled with pride for my sister. “Yeah! Stella’s the best!” But my mother’s expression didn’t soften. Her tone shifted. “So, from this day forward, your sole purpose in life is to be your sister’s strongest shield, her most loyal shadow.” “Whatever she needs, you will provide. Everything for her must come before you. Your existence is to make her shine brighter. She will carry on your father’s legacy.” I stared up at her, dumbfounded. I didn’t understand the full meaning of her words, but I saw the light in her eyes. It was a brilliant, blazing light, but it shone only on Stella. I was standing in the shadows, just outside its reach. I instinctively reached for her hand. “Mommy,” I whispered, “what about me?” She pulled her hand away. The coldness of her fingertips sent a shiver through me. “You?” she said. “You just need to remember not to hold your sister back.” After that day, everything changed. My new clothes were always Stella’s hand-me-downs. My toys were the ones she had grown tired of. The best art tutors were hired for Stella, while I was confined to my room, forbidden from making a sound that might disturb the genius at work. Stella had delicate health—mild anemia and allergic asthma. My diet was strictly controlled. I was only allowed to eat foods that were supposed to enrich the blood, no matter how much I hated the medicinal taste. I didn’t dare ask why. I didn’t dare ask why the look in my mother’s eyes when she looked at me was increasingly like she was looking at an object. I just quietly played my part as the shadow. One day, Stella was working day and night to finish a painting for an international competition. She collapsed with a high fever that wouldn’t break. The doctor said her anemia was severe; she needed a blood transfusion. Without a moment’s hesitation, my mother pushed me forward. The cold needle pierced my thin arm, and tears of pain streamed down my face. I clutched my arm and ran to find my mother, wanting her to hold me. She was just coming out of Stella’s room, and when she saw me, a smile of pure relief spread across her face. “Nora, the doctor said your blood is perfect. Your sister is already doing so much better after the transfusion.” Her voice was light and cheerful. She didn’t seem to notice my red-rimmed eyes or my pale face. 2 From that day on, I became Stella’s personal blood bag. Periodically, I was taken to the hospital to have my blood drawn, kept on reserve for her. My mother always said, “It’s an honor for you that your blood can save your sister’s life.” I instinctively resisted, but I never dared to say it out loud. I was terrified of hospitals, of the smell of antiseptic, of the needles. But in my mother’s eyes, my fear was just selfishness and immaturity. One time, Stella had an asthma attack from a pollen allergy and was having nightmares. My mother dragged me out of bed and pushed me into Stella’s dark room. “Your sister is scared. Go sleep with her. Hold her hand and help her feel safe.” Stella’s room was filled with the scents of aromatherapy oils and paint thinner, smells that made me dizzy and nauseous. I held my nose and whispered, “Mom, the smell is making me sick…” The door slammed shut. Her voice came from the other side, sharp and cold. “Endure it! Your sister is more important than anything!” I sat there all night, holding her sweaty hand. She twitched and whimpered in her sleep, and my head throbbed with a splitting headache from the pungent air. The next morning, I was so unwell that I threw up at the breakfast table. My mother didn’t even look at me. She just frowned and pushed my bowl away. “Why are you so dramatic? Clean this up immediately. Don’t ruin your sister’s appetite!” She then turned to Stella, her voice soft and sweet as she peeled an egg for her, as if Stella were a priceless treasure and I were just a disgusting mess. I swallowed back my tears and nausea, forcing it all down. It was the only way to stop my mother from looking at me with that expression of pure annoyance. Later, from the constant blood draws, I fainted on the school stairs. A teacher brought me home. My mother stood over me, her voice filled with irritation at this disruption to her plans. “What’s wrong with you? Sick again?” A hand touched my forehead. My nose tingled, and I was about to give in to my weakness when I heard her mutter, “Such a nuisance. This is going to mess everything up.” “Why is your constitution so poor? Don’t you ever think about your sister?” I opened my eyes and saw the disgust in hers, clear as day. The doctor said I was severely malnourished and anemic and needed to rest. In the hospital, my mother was constantly on the phone, discussing Stella’s upcoming art exhibition. When she hung up, she looked at me not with concern, but with cold calculation. She took a deep breath. “Nora, this is a terrible time for you to get sick.” “Your sister is going to Paris next month. This is her chance to break onto the world stage. Because of you, I have to reschedule everything.” I opened my mouth, my voice a small whisper. “I’m sorry, Mom…” But her expression remained frigid. “Nora.” “I’ve had a few days to think. I can’t allow anything to happen to your sister.” She paused, her gaze finally settling on me, sharp and determined. “Stella is my masterpiece. She cannot have any flaws. For her, any sacrifice is worth it.” I stared at her, the physical weakness in my body strangely vanishing, replaced by a hollow numbness and a creeping dread. She didn’t see my fear. She continued, as if talking to herself. “Nora, you’re a big girl now. You’ll grow up, and you’ll understand, won’t you?” She didn’t wait for my answer. Perhaps she didn’t need one. She tucked the blanket around me, then picked up her bag and stood up. “I can’t leave your sister home alone. I’m going back. You can handle the discharge paperwork yourself.” Her footsteps faded down the hall until they disappeared. The room was silent, except for the sound of my own voice, hoarsely repeating the word “Mom.” I didn’t understand what she meant by a masterpiece. I didn’t know what sacrifice she was talking about. I just had the vague, chilling feeling that my mother had never truly seen me as her daughter. 3 I handled my own discharge and walked home, clutching the hospital bill. I hadn’t slept all night. That fear, which had kept me awake, turned into a sliver of secret joy as I pushed open the front door. I could still come home. But the next second, I saw two enormous suitcases in the living room. My mother was packing Stella’s art supplies and medication, her movements almost frantic with a joyful urgency. Her eyes, when she looked up, were filled with a hopeful vision of the future that I had never seen before. “Mom?” I asked, walking over cautiously. “You’re back?” she said without looking up. “Stella’s project in Paris was moved up. We’re flying out immediately.” I stood there, stunned. “Mom, what about me?” She finally stopped and looked at me. Her gaze swept over my pale, sweaty face without lingering. “There’s enough food in the fridge to last you a few days. There’s some cash on the table. You’re a big girl. You can take care of yourself.” A few days? Panic washed over me. I grabbed her sleeve, tears streaming down my face. “Mom, don’t go! I’m scared to be alone!” My pleas were sharp and piercing. She frowned and violently shook my hand off. I stumbled and fell to the cold floor. “What are you crying for! There’s nothing to cry about!” she snapped. “I told you, this is for Stella’s future! Can’t you be more understanding? Stop being such a dead weight, always clinging to me! I’m tired enough as it is!” “No one has ever helped me. I just want Stella’s life to be perfect. Why can’t you just be considerate for once?” The zipper on the suitcase was pulled shut with a harsh screech. Stella emerged from her room in a brand-new dress, her face glowing with excitement about her trip to the city of art. She saw me on the floor and froze, a flicker of superiority in her eyes that was quickly replaced by concern. “Nora, what’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?” For a moment, I couldn’t tell if her concern was real or just an act. My mother grabbed the suitcases. “Stella, let’s go. We’re going to be late for our flight.” They turned to leave, laughing and talking. My mother glanced back at me one last time, not with worry, but with a warning. “Stay home and get better. And don’t make me have to call back from overseas to deal with your messes.” The heavy security door slammed shut in my face. A few seconds of dead silence. Click. The sound of the key turning in the lock from the outside. She was afraid I’d die out on the street and cause her trouble. That night was the most terrifying of my life. I turned on every light in the house, but the brightly lit rooms were even scarier than the darkness. Every piece of furniture, every one of Stella’s paintings, felt like a wide, unblinking eye, staring at me with cold indifference. I finally broke down and sobbed, but there was no one to answer. The years my mother and Stella were abroad were the longest, darkest years of my life. I survived on expired food from the fridge and tap water. The fear was so deep it became a part of me, waking me from nightmares just to check if the door was still locked from the outside. It was during those years that my small mind finally understood what my mother meant by “any sacrifice is worth it.” The house became my prison. And they became distant voices on the other end of a phone line. Their calls were always for one reason: Stella needed money for an exhibition, Stella needed inspiration. At first, I would cry, begging her to come back. But her response was always the same cool, detached tone. “Mom’s busy.” “You need to be more mature.” “Don’t cause me any trouble.” “I had the neighbor give you the key to unlock the door.” Gradually, I stopped crying. Tears that no one responds to are the cheapest things in the world. When she called, I learned to ask calmly, “What do you need me to do this time? How much allowance are you sending?” Sometimes she would impatiently wire a few hundred dollars. Other times she’d yell at me for only caring about money. But with that money, I learned how to budget, how to survive. How to calculate how many days the money had to last, how much I could spend each day, how to buy the cheapest food that would fill my stomach. It was just enough to keep me alive. But this bizarre arrangement came to an abrupt end one ordinary evening during my junior year of high school. I was holding a college admissions brochure, my fingers trembling with excitement as I dialed my mother’s number. I wanted to tell her that I had gotten into a good college, that I wanted to study interior design. I wanted to ask her if, like Stella, I could finally chase my own dream. The phone connected, and my heart pounded in my chest. But the other end was dead silent. 4 After the call disconnected, I thought it was just a bad signal and dialed again. But all I heard was the same cold, polite automated voice: “The number you have dialed has been switched off.” A terrible feeling washed over me. I opened my messaging app, found her familiar profile picture, and sent a message with trembling fingers. A glaring red exclamation mark appeared next to it. She had blocked me. She had cut off every possible way I could contact her, as decisively as if she were discarding a useless pawn. Panic seized me, and I could barely breathe. I frantically tore through the drawers in the house, searching for any money. All I found was a forgotten envelope on top of the kitchen cabinet. Inside was a thin stack of red bills. I counted them mechanically. Three thousand yuan. Three thousand. That was all. Three thousand yuan, tucked away in a cold envelope along with her other daughter’s brilliant future. It felt as light as air, but heavy enough to crush me. I collapsed onto the floor, all the strength draining from my body. I refused to accept it. I searched online for “Stella Vance, rising star.” A news report with photos popped up, searing my eyes. In the photos, Stella stood under the spotlight like a princess, confident and beautiful. My mother stood behind her in an expensive suit, her makeup perfect, her smile beaming with pride. At the end of the article was an interview with my mother. “Mrs. Vance,” the reporter asked, “you must have sacrificed a lot to cultivate a genius painter like Stella.” My mother smiled for the camera, a perfect blend of gentleness and determination. “Yes,” she said. “For my daughter’s artistic dream, I would give anything. Just a few days ago, to help her find more inspiration for her work, I bought her a replica of Van Gogh’s sketchbook.” My eyes were glued to a line of small print at the bottom of the article. “The sketchbook was reportedly sold at a Sotheby’s auction in Paris for three hundred thousand euros, equivalent to nearly three million yuan.” Three million. Three thousand. In that moment, a hysterical laugh escaped my lips. She left one daughter three thousand yuan to live on, while spending three million on an “inspirational” sketchbook for the other. My survival, it turned out, was worth exactly one-thousandth of their dream. All the bitterness, the anger, the despair, finally broke through the last of my defenses. But I didn’t cry out. I bit my lip until I tasted blood. The tears were ice-cold, dripping onto the phone screen, blurring my mother’s triumphant smile. That was the moment I started to hate her. 5 After that, the hardest period of my life began. Three thousand yuan was a drop in the ocean in a city with a soaring cost of living. My budgeting became even more ruthless. I skipped breakfast, ate two plain steamed buns for lunch, and had a pack of instant noodles for dinner, occasionally splurging on a sausage. Even so, the money dwindled with alarming speed. To save for tuition and living expenses, I started working odd jobs. As an underage worker, I was often bullied, my wages docked, and my labor exploited. I washed dishes in restaurants until the grease and detergent made my hands white and wrinkled. I handed out flyers, standing for hours in the scorching sun and freezing wind until my legs went numb. Once, I was working as a promoter at a supermarket while running a high fever. I collapsed next to a shelf. When I woke up, I was on a makeshift bed in the supermarket’s storage room. The manager, a kind-looking woman in her forties, brought me a bowl of hot congee. She looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and concern, and sighed. “Child, your health is your most important asset. What are you working yourself to death for?” I didn’t say anything. I just took the bowl and ate, gulping it down. Salty tears mixed with the warm rice porridge. I ate quickly, forcefully, swallowing down all my hatred and bitterness along with this stranger’s kindness. I made a silent vow to myself, and to the distant figure of my mother: “One day, I will make you regret this.” That manager, Mrs. Wong, became my employer. She ran a small cleaning and organizing company. She saw that I was a quick and diligent worker and took me under her wing. “Nora, I can tell you’re a girl with a good head on your shoulders,” she said as she taught me how to sort and organize. “A girl with a skill will never go hungry.” She was the first and only person in my life to show me motherly warmth. She would save meals for me, make me brown sugar ginger tea when I had my period, and watch with pride, as if I were her own child, as I transformed cluttered rooms into orderly spaces. In those newly organized spaces, for the first time, I found my own sense of worth and joy. Not as someone’s shadow, someone’s blood bag, or someone’s emotional punching bag. But as me, Nora Vance, an individual. I enrolled in a continuing education program at a local university, majoring in interior design. I took classes during the day and worked with Mrs. Wong on nights and weekends. Life was still a struggle, but for the first time, there was a light in my heart. After graduation, I left my hometown for a major city. The words “mother” and “sister” had lost all meaning to me. In my mind, they had died a long time ago. The wounds they inflicted were too deep, and the warmth I received from Mrs. Wong and other strangers was too comforting. The resentment and bitterness had been pushed into a corner by my busy life and hopes for the future. If she hadn’t suddenly called me, I probably would have never revisited that dark, damp corner of my past. My phone, sitting on the table, wouldn’t stop vibrating. It was the same unknown number, calling again and again. My assistant, Chloe, glanced at my phone and immediately understood. She didn’t ask why I wasn’t answering, or why my face had suddenly gone pale. She just squeezed my hand and, with practiced ease, switched my phone to silent. “Ms. Vance, these telemarketers are so annoying. Come on, let’s ignore them. My treat. There’s a new pour-over coffee place downstairs that’s supposed to be amazing!” She steered me out of the office. In the coffee shop, I listened to her chatter about gossip and TV shows. The cheerful music and the rich aroma of coffee filled the air, and the anger that had started to rise in me slowly subsided. The calls stopped for a few days. Everything was calm. Until a week later, when I took on a project organizing a high-end villa. As I led my team through the gate, I happened to look up. My eyes swept over the gardeners trimming the lawns. And then, my breath and my gaze both froze.

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On the eve of our wedding anniversary, I found a ten-carat diamond ring in my husband’s coat pocket. This must be my surprise, I thought, and slipped it back where I found it. A moment later, I was scrolling through my social media feed when I saw a new post from Brian’s young secretary. [The North Star. Can’t wait for this ‘surprise’ to land on my finger.] I stared at the screen, then walked back to the closet, took the ring out, and slid it onto my own hand. Some surprises, I decided, you just have to give yourself. 1 In five years of marriage, Brian had never given me a diamond ring, not even on our wedding day. So when I first saw it, I’ll admit, a tiny thrill went through me. I’d heard about this ring before. It was the final masterpiece of a world-renowned designer, a custom piece commissioned and named “The North Star.” I thought the old, stoic tree was finally about to bloom. I just never imagined the flower wasn’t meant for me. The sound of the shower was a steady rush from the bathroom. Acting on some strange impulse, I picked up his coat again. I tried the ring on every finger, from my pinky to my thumb, on my left hand and then my right. The damning conclusion was unavoidable. This ring wasn’t for me. The massive round-cut diamond glittered under the lamplight, but it was nothing compared to the frantic sparkle in my own eyes. My vision blurred for a second. I allowed myself that single second of grief, then scrubbed the tears away with the back of my hand. Five years of my life flashed through my mind. At the end of it, I gritted my teeth and forced the slightly-too-large ring onto the middle finger of my left hand. Then, as Brian emerged from the bathroom, his pupils contracting into pinpricks, I waved my hand in front of his face. “Surprise received,” I chirped. “Happy anniversary!” Brian had spent years navigating the cutthroat world of business; the boyish transparency he once had was long gone. Not a flicker of panic crossed his face. After a long moment, he simply opened his arms and pulled me into an embrace. “Hannah,” he murmured into my hair. “Happy fifth anniversary.” “For our next five years, I’ll get you an even more beautiful one, alright?” I buried my face in his chest, my shoulders shaking with laughter. He mistook it for the happy, emotional little sobs he was used to, thinking I was just being cute. He patted my back comfortingly. “This ring is one of a kind,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “A symbol of my unique and singular love for you.” … Well, thank God for a moment of courage. It had secured me this “unique and singular” love. After all, a moment later, and that “love” would have belonged to someone else. Turns out, you really do have to make your own surprises. When can you ever truly rely on a man? 2 I took a series of photos of the ring and posted a nine-photo grid to my feed—a rare indulgence for me. The caption was simple and blunt: “Big enough, sparkly enough. I love it.” It wasn’t long before a like and a comment appeared from his little secretary, Peyton. “It’s beautiful! But it looks like a custom design. Mrs. Hayes, do you happen to know the story behind it?” Every word was a spark, a blatant provocation. But I didn’t care. When you don’t get what you want, you’re allowed to be a little sour, right? I’m a generous person. So I replied to my own post with a “smirking face” emoji: “The story? The story is that it’s worth a fortune, haha…” Anyone who could see my feed could see that comment. Within minutes, likes from a dozen other socialites started pouring in. [LOL, Mrs. Hayes, you always know what’s important.] [Hannah, you’re hilarious as always.] … The next time I refreshed the page, Peyton’s pathetic little comment was gone. And so was the post she’d made an hour earlier. 3 That night, I lay in bed with my eyes closed, sleep a distant country. Vaguely, I sensed Brian getting out of bed. I shifted, and his movement paused. When I was still again, I heard the sound of footsteps, deliberately softened, heading out of the room. So, he did know how to be considerate of others. He just chose not to be. It was like his habit of waking up at the crack of dawn. He never once thought to move quietly, despite knowing I often worked late into the night. He’d just see me blinking awake, confused, and pat my head with some patronizing advice. “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a woman healthy and wise.” He knew my work schedule was flexible, that I often had to burn the midnight oil. It was only now dawning on me. This good man, my husband, had probably never loved me at all. I burrowed under the covers and quietly opened the security app on my phone. On the camera feed from the corner of the living room, I saw him standing on the balcony. I couldn’t hear what he was saying through the glass, but I could see the helpless, indulgent smile on his face. I don’t know how much time passed before he came back to bed, bringing the chill of the early autumn air with him. He fell asleep quickly. I couldn’t. The coldness he carried seemed to seep into my bones, freezing me from the inside out. I opened my phone again. His secretary’s feed had been updated ten minutes ago. [Love and companionship are the most important things in the world.] The accompanying image was a screenshot of a voice call. The name and profile picture were blurred out, but looking at the call duration—nearly half an hour—I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. It hurt. Of course it hurt. In my version of the future, Brian and I were supposed to last a lifetime. I never expected some girl to just waltz into the middle of it. I’d met Peyton a few times. She was a vibrant, energetic young woman… just like I used to be. When I first heard he’d hired a new secretary, I’d felt a flicker of unease. But the moment I saw her, I relaxed. She looked so much like me. And that was a good thing. Because Brian had never shown any particular fondness for the way I was. Add his cold, aloof personality to the mix, and I thought, what kind of girl would be foolish enough to fall for her own boss? Apparently, I was wrong. Or maybe men are just that fickle. Or maybe he hadn’t changed at all. He just didn’t like me. Thankfully, over the past five years, on the rare occasions those cold lips of his had uttered the words “I love you,” I’d always treated it as part of the act. The old saying is true: you can’t get hurt if you never believed in the first place. Love is the most important thing, is it? I looked at the man sleeping beside me, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I turned my back to him. Fine. Because to me, money is the most important thing. 4 I didn’t sleep a wink, mentally cursing Brian in a thousand different ways. I finally drifted off in the early morning, only to be pulled from a hazy dream by Brian. Before I could react, his lips were on mine, a hot, demanding kiss that swept over me like a storm. My sleepiness vanished instantly. On pure instinct, I shoved him away. Ugh. What a disgusting way to start the day. Brian, stunned by my reaction, just laughed. “You’re getting grumpier in the mornings.” His smile was a glare in my eyes, like some kind of pathetic compensation for his infidelity. I closed my eyes and rolled over, turning my back to him. “I need more sleep. You should go.” Silence. Then a low sigh from behind me. “Alright. Remember to get up and eat breakfast.” “I had Mrs. Gable make that seafood congee you love.” I burrowed deeper into the blankets, my mind a tangle of irritation. “Got it,” I mumbled. He must have sensed my mood. With another small laugh, he tucked a card into the bedding beside me. “Go out and have some fun. It’s not good to be cooped up at home all the time.” I shifted to show I’d heard him. A soft chuckle, and then, “Okay, I’m leaving.” I clutched the black card, and all my frayed nerves seemed to smooth over. Instantly, I was back asleep. I slept until the afternoon. When I woke up, I scrolled through my phone and saw Peyton’s latest post. It was from that morning. [Who has the most amazing boss? Not only did he give me a ride to work, but yesterday I mentioned I was craving seafood congee, and today, there’s seafood congee!] The picture was of a thermal food jar. It was a limited-edition one I’d bought overseas. I’d never even used it, keeping it as a display piece. And the photo was clearly taken from the passenger seat of Brian’s car. I understood now. This wasn’t just showing off. This was a declaration of war. I looked at the bowl of congee on my nightstand, and my stomach turned. I walked it to the kitchen and dumped it in the trash. It’s fine, I told myself. It’s fine. If she wants the damn congee, let her have it. I have the black card. There’s nothing I can’t buy. I changed my clothes and headed straight for the mall. Money, after all, is only yours once you spend it. I walked into my usual high-end boutique, and the sales associate recognized me immediately. “Mrs. Hayes, perfect timing! The diamond bracelet Mr. Hayes ordered for you has just arrived.” A bracelet? I never wear them. And after yesterday’s lesson, I knew exactly who this was for. As they say, one act of courage is always followed by… a second. I smiled serenely and accepted the box. “Thank you. No wonder Brian told me to go out shopping today.” “Could you help me put it on?” As she fastened the clasp, she chattered happily. “Mr. Hayes was very specific about the design.” “He even had your initial engraved on it.” I can’t blame her for being oblivious. Brian and I used to come here together often. For years, he’d played the part of the devoted husband so perfectly that of course, everyone believed it. I flipped the bracelet over to look at the engraving. An elegant, cursive P. P for Peyton? That didn’t stop me from smiling. “What a lovely surprise.” I immediately took a picture and sent it to Brian. “Another unexpected surprise! Received. Thank you, darling.”

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The day her college protégé died of cancer, my pregnant wife jumped from the hospital rooftop during a check-up, taking our baby with her. Only then did I realize: Ava, who vowed at our wedding to love only me, had always loved him. When I opened my eyes again, it was our wedding day—we had both been reborn. Without a word, we made the same choice: we fled to chase the lives we truly wanted. Seven years later, she used her future knowledge to secure massive funding, becoming an AI titan. At her product launch, she publicly announced her relationship with her programmer protégé. Spotting me in the crowd—well-dressed, holding a diamond ring—she smirked into the microphone, “Even if you proposed right now, I’d never make the mistake of choosing you again.” But that evening, when the conference’s secret billionaire investor—a powerful, elegant woman—blushed and accepted my proposal, it was Ava who rushed the stage, eyes blazing, demanding, “This is all a stunt to win me back, isn’t it? You swore you’d only love me!” 1 I always knew that after our rebirth, my ex-wife, Ava, and I would cross paths again. I just never imagined it would be on the day I planned to propose to my girlfriend. Right now, Ava was the star of the show, radiant on stage in a stunning crimson dress. Beside her, her beloved protégé from the past, Leo, stood tall in a crisp white suit. Their fingers were intertwined as they made their relationship official for the world to see. The room erupted in thunderous applause and excited cheers. “Leo and Ms. Thorne are the golden couple of the tech world!” “Totally! I heard they built this company from the ground up together, through thick and thin. It’s the ultimate love story!” Amid the buzz, someone shouted a question. “You two are so perfect together! When’s the wedding?” The question stopped me cold. They weren’t married yet? In our past life, the moment Ava heard Leo was dead, she hadn’t hesitated. She’d abandoned our unborn child, leaping from that hospital roof just to join him in death. After being reborn on our wedding day, she’d ditched me at the altar and driven a thousand miles overnight to be with him. I’d assumed they would have been married for years, living a quiet life with a family by now. But seven years had passed, and they were only just now going public. Wait a second… Even in our past life, when she was married to me, Ava never hid her connection to Leo. Why, in this life where they were finally together, was she so secretive, waiting until now to reveal their relationship? On stage, Ava’s smile tightened for a fraction of a second before her polished, professional mask slid back into place. “We’re not in a rush to get married,” she said smoothly. “Leo is already under so much pressure with work, and I don’t want to add to his burden. Besides, we’re more focused on our careers right now. That way, when we do have a baby, we can give them the best possible life.” Her explanation was met with a wave of knowing, affectionate smiles from the audience. “I never knew the ruthless Ava Thorne could be so thoughtful and tender!” “Ugh, what a dream romance! I wish I had a partner like that.” I watched Ava, her smile so perfectly crafted, and I had to shake my head. So, this was the real Ava. Capable of worrying, of considering someone else’s feelings, of planning a future for two. Not the woman I knew, who treated me with a distant, polite respect, her every action tinged with a chilling indifference, as if nothing I did ever truly mattered. Smack! A sharp pain exploded at the back of my head, yanking me from my thoughts. I clutched my head and spun around. The event manager was glaring at me, his face a thundercloud of fury. “What do you think you’re doing? I’m paying you to clean, not to stand around daydreaming!” His roar drew the attention of the entire room. Including Ava. Her eyes flickered over my server’s uniform, a flash of surprise in their depths. “Ethan? What are you doing here?” I answered instinctively. “I’m waiting for someone.” It was true. Today was my seven-year anniversary with my girlfriend, Molly. I’d heard she would be attending this launch as an investor, so I’d disguised myself as a waiter to surprise her with a proposal. I never expected this disastrous reunion with my ex-wife. Leo let out a cold, derisive snort. “Everyone invited here tonight is a major player in the tech industry. Who could you possibly be waiting for, besides Ava? Don’t tell me you’re waiting for that mysterious investor who hasn’t even shown up yet.” He took a menacing step forward. “Just stop stalking her, man. Get lost before I change my mind and have you thrown out.” Ava remained silent, her gaze sweeping past me to land on the manager. “Today is a special day for Leo and me, so I won’t hold you responsible for letting an outsider slip in,” she said, her voice cool and detached. “Pay him double and have him leave immediately.” From beginning to end, Ava stood on that stage, her expression calm and unreadable. After that initial flicker of surprise, she hadn’t looked at me again. It was as if we’d never shared a life, as if we were nothing more than strangers. As the man who had been her husband for years in another lifetime, I knew exactly what this meant. To be ignored by her was the ultimate expression of her contempt. But ever since she’d chosen to die for Leo, my feelings for her had withered into dust. I was no longer the man who would bend and break for her. With that thought, I held up the diamond ring in my hand. “Why should I leave?” I said, shaking my head. “I’m here to propose.” Leo’s eyes finally registered the ring, and he burst out laughing. “Propose? You think we’re children? You really think anyone’s buying that rock? It’s the size of a doorknob. If that were real, it’d be worth a house. You’re just screaming ‘fake’.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Look at you, getting old and still trying to latch onto a rich woman. Did Ava leaving you at the altar break your brain, Ethan?” He was twisting the knife, flaunting his victory. But all I felt was a profound sense of exhaustion. Of course the diamond was real. Ava wasn’t the only one who came back. Using my own memories of the future, I had become a formidable player in the world of venture capital. Over seven years, I’d turned an initial investment of fifty thousand dollars into a fortune of over five hundred million by betting on gold, short-form video, and AI. A multi-carat diamond was pocket change. Seeing my silence, Leo assumed I was ashamed and cornered. He was about to physically shove me out when Ava stopped him. “Leo, don’t. The press is here. It wouldn’t look good.” She turned to me, her expression unreadable. “I know how he is. Let me handle this.” She fixed her gaze on me, her eyes as calm as a frozen lake. “Ethan, it’s been seven years. I thought you would have matured. But you’re still so reckless.” “You came here for money, didn’t you? For old times’ sake, as college acquaintances, I can find a job for you. It’s better than waiting tables for a living.” “I’ll send you the contact for our HR department. Just give them your name.” She pulled out her phone, ready to forward the information. But then she froze, her eyes locked on the stark red exclamation point on her screen. “You… you blocked me?!” 2 Her exclamation reminded me—I’d completely forgotten to delete her contact information! Thank God I blocked her right after the wedding fiasco. If Molly ever found out I still had my ex-wife’s number, I’d be sleeping on the couch for a month. “Oh, right,” I said, nodding thoughtfully. “Thanks for reminding me.” A smug smile touched Ava’s lips. “Now that you remember, you can add me back. My time is very…” Before she could finish, I deleted her contact right in front of her. The smile on her face vanished, replaced by a glacial mask. After a long, tense moment, she spoke, each word dripping with ice. “I see now my decision was the right one. Seven years, and you’re still just as childish.” She shook her head. “This was likely the last time our paths will ever cross, the only chance you had to change your pathetic life. And you just threw it away.” Leo chimed in with a sneer. “Ava, you’re just too kind. This guy is stalking you, posing as a waiter to get close. Who knows what he’ll do next? If you ask me, we should just call the cops and have this scum arrested. Why waste your breath on him?” I felt my jaw clench. If we were talking about scum, Leo was king. After all, in our past life, he hadn’t died of cancer. He’d died from something… messier. A consequence of a reckless, sordid lifestyle. Back in college, he was already using Ava’s living allowance to fund his nights of binge drinking and clubbing with trashy girls. The real reason he’d broken up with her wasn’t to “study abroad,” as he’d claimed. It was because he’d drained her dry and latched onto a wealthier girl, lying to avoid the drama. It was during that period of wild partying that he contracted the disease that would kill him seven years later. I only found out after tracking down his medical records in our previous life. If things had followed the same course, Ava was likely infected, too. Before leaving, a flicker of old-fashioned decency compelled me to warn her. “By the way, you should probably get yourself checked out by a doctor.” Ava’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” My gaze shifted to Leo, my tone deliberate and heavy with implication. “Some diseases… they’re contagious.” Leo’s face paled instantly. Guilt was written all over him. But Ava, misinterpreting my warning as a jealous jab, just scoffed. “You’ve changed, Ethan. I used to think you were just incompetent. I never realized you were morally bankrupt, too. Sour grapes, I see. Spreading lies about Leo just because you can’t have me.” Seeing that she was completely unreachable, I gave up and turned to leave. “Stop!” Leo stepped in front of me, blocking my path. I braced myself for a fight, my fists clenching at my sides. But instead of throwing a punch, he leaned in, a slimy grin spreading across his face. “Hey, Ethan. You’re over thirty now, right? Don’t tell me you still haven’t managed to find a wife.” A dark cloud passed over me. Obviously not. If I had a wife, why would I be here proposing to my girlfriend? Leo’s grin widened. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Look at you, dressed in those cheap, no-name clothes. Who would want you? But hey, since you seem to have a taste for mooching, how about I introduce you to a rich old widow? You might even get a nice inheritance out of it!” The people around him snickered, but I looked him straight in the eye, my voice steady and serious. “No, thank you. There’s only one person I love. We’ve built a life together. I would never marry anyone but her.” As I spoke those resolute words, I saw a flicker of something complex and unreadable in Ava’s eyes from across the room. She quickly turned away, avoiding my gaze. A moment later, she pulled a checkbook from her purse and held a slip of paper out to me. “It’s impossible for us, Ethan. Even if you wait forever, it will never happen. You came here for money, right? Here. Two hundred thousand dollars. It’s enough for you to go back to your hometown, buy a house, and get married.” 3 A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd. Leo stared at Ava, bewildered. “Ava… you don’t… still have feelings for him, do you?” I looked at the check in her hand and realized she’d completely misunderstood. The woman I was talking about wasn’t her. It was Molly, my girlfriend in this life. After Ava left me at the altar, I sold our would-be marital home and dove into the stock market. That’s where I met Molly. It started with a dare at a trading exchange. Using my knowledge of the future, I helped her sidestep a catastrophic loss. As we spent more time together, we discovered a shared passion for everything from obscure films to street food. We just… clicked. It was only later that I learned she was the sole heir to the vast Linwood Corporation, a conglomerate with interests across the country. She was a prodigy, a brilliant investor whose sharp instincts had propelled her family’s company to new heights. In fact, Ava’s startup was just one of hundreds of companies in Molly’s investment portfolio. With a woman like Molly by my side, any lingering feelings for Ava had long since evaporated. Feeling the weight of everyone’s stares, Ava finally turned to address them, her composure regained. “Of course not. But when we were… together… he helped me with some of the early AI algorithms. This money is to buy out his intellectual property rights. Once the company goes public, it will prevent people like him from coming out of the woodwork to cause trouble and blackmail us.” Her explanation made Leo relax, but I was just speechless. I had forgotten about that, but now that she brought it up… I did more than “help her with some algorithms.” The reason Ava had gotten this far was because she’d built her entire company on the foundation of an AI framework I had spent years perfecting in our past life. After being reborn, her first move was to steal my life’s work to pave the way for her precious Leo, registering patents for my technology. She knew, however, that I still possessed the original data files. If I decided to sue, the ensuing legal battle would tank her company’s stock value. So, this wasn’t about “mitigating business risk.” This was hush money. But what she didn’t know was that my original framework had a fatal flaw, a time bomb that was guaranteed to explode eventually. I wanted no part of it. Besides, I was already financially independent thanks to my own investments. Two hundred thousand dollars was an insult. I took the check from her hand and tore it to shreds. Leo’s face contorted with rage. He pointed a trembling finger at me. “See, Ava? Pathetic people are pathetic for a reason! The guy is insatiably greedy! Two hundred grand isn’t enough for him. You don’t need to waste your pity on trash like this!” His spit flew as he ranted. I took a disgusted step back. Ava, having been rebuffed again and again, had also reached her limit. Her face was a mask of cold fury. “Fine. You’re on your own,” she snapped, turning away from me for good. I shrugged and made to leave the toxic atmosphere behind me. But as I walked away, Leo stuck his foot out, tripping me. I went down hard, the contents of my pocket spilling onto the floor. My watch clattered across the polished marble. Leo bent down to pick it up. The sneer on his face vanished, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief. “This… this is a limited edition Patek Philippe! The new release!” he stammered, his eyes huge. “The auction for these started in the millions! It’s practically priceless… How… how do you have this?!” I scrambled to my feet, brushed myself off, and snatched the watch back. “It’s mine. What’s it to you?” Molly had given it to me this morning for our anniversary. I’d taken it off when I slipped into the waiter’s uniform, thinking it was too flashy for my disguise. Leo looked at me like I was insane. “Bullshit! You don’t even have a job! How could you afford this watch? No wonder you turned down the money. You stole this, didn’t you? You were trying to get away so you could fence it!” At his words, a horrible realization dawned on Ava. Her face went pale. “Ethan, do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she hissed, her voice sharp with alarm. “The only person in this country who owns that watch is Molly Linwood, the heiress to the Linwood Corporation! She bought it at a high-profile auction a while back, saying it was a gift for her boyfriend. Did you steal from the Linwoods?!” The room exploded. “I heard Molly Linwood is crazy about her boyfriend. Some guy posted a video online criticizing his investment strategy once, and she sued him into oblivion. He’ll be paying off that debt for the rest of his life.” “Seriously? This guy has a death wish. Stealing from Molly Linwood’s boyfriend? He’s a dead man walking.” Listening to the whispers, I almost laughed out loud. Stole it? I am Molly Linwood’s boyfriend. I was about to set them straight when Leo, glancing at his phone, broke in with a triumphant shout. “You’re finished, Ethan! I just got word that Molly Linwood is on her way up! We can hand you over to her, you little thief. Maybe she’ll be so grateful she’ll even increase our funding!” He was about to call security when a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. It was Molly. A wave of relief washed over me, and a smile spread across my face. “Molly! You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for you!” Leo scoffed at my familiar tone. “A common thief, cozying up to Ms. Linwood? The guy’s lost his mind.” As the host of the event, Ava immediately stepped forward, her voice laced with deference. “Ms. Linwood, I apologize for the chaotic scene. But there’s a reason for it. We happened to find the watch you gifted your boyfriend here at the venue and were just about to contact you to return it.” I rolled my eyes. “It was never lost,” I shot back at Ava. “You can stop with the fake sincerity.” My retort left her speechless, her face turning a blotchy red. “You… you are beyond saving! Fine, you can rot for all I care!” she spat, washing her hands of me and stepping back to watch the train wreck she expected to unfold. Ignoring the buzzing swarm of whispers around me, I pulled the ring box from my pocket. Taking a deep breath, I dropped to one knee. I looked up at Molly, my eyes filled with a soft, unwavering love. “Molly,” I said, my voice steady. “Will you marry me?” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the suddenly silent hall, it carried to every corner. Leo was the first to break the silence, clutching his stomach as he howled with laughter. “Ethan, are you brain-dead? Take a good look at yourself in a puddle. Do you really think you’re worthy of Ms. Linwood? Besides, she’s already taken! Her boyfriend is a legend, a titan of industry, not a pathetic nobody like you!” He was getting more and more worked up, practically spitting in his excitement. “Her boyfriend is one of the greatest investment geniuses of our time! And you? You’re nothing! Anyone who tries to get between them ends up as dust! You’re about to vanish off the face of the earth, you idiot!” Ava watched me with an expression of pure, unadulterated disappointment. “Ethan, you never change. Must you always push things until you’re at a dead end?” She shook her head, as if I were a lost cause. The rest of the room looked on with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity, waiting for the inevitable humiliation. But Molly—the famously ruthless, ice-cold Molly Linwood—blushed. A shy, beautiful blush that spread across her cheeks. Then, slowly, she extended her hand. I gently slid the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice soft but clear. “And let’s have the wedding next week.”

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My fiancé, Ben, composed a piece for our ten-year love story. He called it Ten Years, a concerto for piano and violin, his specialty. It was to be his most personal gift to me at our wedding. “I’ll play the piano, of course,” he’d said, his fingers gently clasping mine. “As for the violin… Selene, I’ll have to entrust it to you.” Selene, my best friend of twenty years, accepted with a radiant smile. Tears of joy welled in her eyes as she hugged me. “Elara, to play for your and Jules’s wedding… it’s the greatest honor of my life.” During one of our final rehearsals, with me as the vocalist, something shifted. As they reached the cadenza, the most brilliant and difficult part of the piece, I watched them. The way their eyes met, the seamless flow of their music—a deep, unnerving intuition washed over me. The dialogue between the piano and violin was no mere melody; it was an aching, tender conversation, a lover’s lament that transcended friendship. It was filled with the whispered confessions and struggles of two people deeply, hopelessly intertwined. And in that moment, I finally understood. The story this song told, this masterpiece named Ten Years, was never about his decade with me. It was about his decade with her. 1 “Stop! Elara, you came in early.” Selene’s bow lifted from the strings, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Jules and I have worked on this tempo countless times. We have our own way with this part.” Ben, seated at the grand piano, said nothing. His silence was an agreement. We tried again. His long, elegant fingers struck the final chord, and Selene’s bow drew its last, lingering note in perfect sync. “Perfect,” she said, her eyes shining as she looked at him. “Jules, this cadenza… only we can really pull it off.” They exchanged a smile, a silent language forged in a decade of shared studies and practice rooms. A world I, his fiancée of ten years, could never seem to enter. Ben turned to me, his tone gentle. “Elara, you were still a little behind the beat that time.” “Was I?” I stared at the sheet music. “Maybe it’s because the interplay between the piano and violin is so dense here. I can’t find an opening.” Selene walked over, draping a familiar arm over my shoulder, but her words were for Ben. “She doesn’t have the formal training, Jules. Maybe ease up on the perfectionism for a minute, huh?” “Jules.” Her special name for him, a relic from their conservatory days that had never faded. He shook his head with a resigned sigh, but his eyes held no trace of annoyance. Only… a soft spot. An indulgence reserved just for her. She released me and moved to Ben’s side, leaning over to look at his score. A lock of her long, dark hair brushed against his cheek. “Right here, Jules,” she said, pointing. “This transition would be smoother if we tweaked it.” “You’re always right,” he murmured, his voice laced with an unmistakable affection. I stood frozen, watching their shoulders touch as they sat together on the piano bench, my hands crumpling the sheet music I was holding. It was always like this. When we were picking out my wedding dress, Selene had run her hand over the mermaid gown I adored. “This one’s beautiful,” she’d told the designer, “but she won’t be able to move in it. Let’s switch the main gown to the satin one with the train.” Ben had agreed without a second’s thought. At the menu tasting, she’d taken a small bite of the cake sample. “The chocolate is too bitter,” she’d announced to the manager. “Jules doesn’t like it. Change it to vanilla.” She hadn’t even glanced at me, the bride. And now, even with the theme song for our wedding, I was the outsider, the one who needed correcting. The wedding planner’s assistant bustled in, beaming as she walked straight to Selene. “Ms. Selene, here is the final event schedule you confirmed. Also, the bridesmaid dresses have arrived. Would you like to try yours on now?” The assistant’s gaze flickered past me as if I were a piece of the furniture. Selene took the papers, then waved me over with a bright smile. “Elara, come look! You’re going to love the timeline I planned for you!” I watched her and Ben standing side-by-side. And I suddenly felt that this wedding, the day I had dreamed of for so long, was nothing but an elaborate stage play. And I had been cast in the wrong role. 2 I left early, using the excuse of not feeling well. The moment I got home, Ben’s call came. “Elara, the on-site rehearsal has started.” His voice was warm, but in the background, I could faintly hear Selene giving directions. “If you’re not feeling well, don’t worry about coming back. It’s just a run-through. Selene can stand in for you.” I hung up and opened the group chat for the wedding, “Happily Ever After.” Just then, the assistant accidentally posted a video from the rehearsal. She retracted it almost instantly. But a few seconds was all it took. There on the screen, Selene was wearing my wedding gown, standing opposite Ben. They were practicing the part of the ceremony reserved for the bride and groom: the embrace, the kiss, the intertwined arms as they drank champagne. Her fingers were clenched tightly on his sleeve, her knuckles white. She was looking up at him, a soft, intimate smile playing on her lips. And in his eyes, there was only her. The image froze in my mind, a portrait of two people so perfectly matched it burned. 3 My hands trembled as I pulled out the leather-bound book where Ben kept his original compositions. There it was. Ten Years. The song he wrote “for me.” In the blank space at the end of the final, brilliant cadenza, a single line was written in his sharp, slanted handwriting. “My moonlight, why won’t you stay for me?” The words, pressed deep into the page with a desperate, restrained force, hit me like a physical blow. Selene. Her name meant moon goddess. His moon. Our entire relationship had started with her. She had dragged me to a party our sophomore year, pointed to the quiet, handsome boy playing piano in the corner, and whispered in my ear, “See him? That’s the campus heartthrob. Total catch, and a good friend of mine. Want an introduction?” She was the one who sent me his number. I remembered it all so clearly. That summer, I brought Ben home to meet my “best friend” for the first time as my boyfriend. Selene had answered the door in slippers, her eyes widening for a split second when she saw our joined hands. Then she’d thrown an arm around Ben’s shoulder, laughing her carefree laugh. “Well, look at you, Jules! Stole my girl right out from under me!” She’d playfully put him in a headlock. “You better treat her right, you hear me? Elara’s my sister. You hurt her, and you’ll answer to me first.” She planned our anniversary dates. She mediated our fights. She was our self-proclaimed “matchmaker” and “buddy,” a constant, welcome presence in every corner of our relationship, its most steadfast champion. Over the years, I’d watched her cycle through a string of boyfriends. Once, drunk and leaning on my shoulder, she’d slurred, “I envy you, Elara. You still believe in love. Someone like me, from my kind of family… I’m already broken. Watching you two be happy… it’s like I get to be happy, too.” So she was always at my place, sharing my parents, my home, and “incidentally,” every detail of my life with Ben. But now, this single page of music, this desperate, heartfelt plea, ripped her carefully constructed lies to shreds. The “matchmaker.” The “buddy” who didn’t believe in love. She had been in the shadows all along, stealing my happiness in the one way I never thought to guard against. 4 A chilling cold spread through me. I started retracing every “rehearsal” they’d ever had. I drove to the studio they frequented and, claiming I’d lost something, asked the manager to pull up the security footage from one specific afternoon. The video showed them just after they’d finished playing. Ben’s hands were still resting on the keys when Selene put down her violin and wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. “Jules,” her voice was a seductive murmur, “our song… it even made her cry.” Ben turned, capturing her wrists. “And you? Did it move you?” “I don’t dare to be moved.” She pressed closer, their noses almost touching. “You know I don’t believe in any of this.” “But I believe in you,” Ben whispered, cupping her face in his hands. And then he kissed her. It wasn’t impulsive. It was a practiced, hungry kiss. His hand slid expertly under the hem of her shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on her waist. She answered him, her own fingers tangling in his hair. “Enough…” Selene breathed, pushing him away gently, though her forehead remained pressed against his chest. “I don’t believe in love. I don’t do marriage. You know that.” “I know,” Ben’s voice was hoarse with pain. “That’s why I can only love you by loving her. For ten years, every single day, I’ve been searching for you in her.” Selene laughed softly against his chest. “And did you find me?” “I did,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “Every time she smiles, it’s like you. The way she talks, it’s like you. Even when she wears the clothes you recommend, or the perfume you like… it all makes me feel like I’m with you.” I leaned against the wall, my legs threatening to give out. For ten years, I was nothing but a mirror. A pathetic substitute. He was looking through me, at another woman. And she was reveling in a stolen intimacy without ever having to bear an ounce of responsibility. They were the two people I had chosen as my family, bound to me not by blood, but by a love I thought was real. And they had used my body, my life, as a vessel for their own sordid, decade-long affair. 5 The images from the monitor, the cruel, whispered words, were a thousand needles piercing my heart. I stumbled back to my apartment, a space once filled with happy memories of the three of us that now felt suffocating. I started tearing through the place like a madwoman, purging everything that belonged to Ben, as if erasing his presence could erase the searing pain. While clearing out his old, rarely used tablet, a private, double-password-protected photo album popped up. Some dark instinct guided my fingers. I typed in Selene’s birthday. Access granted. If the security footage had exposed their present betrayal, this album ripped open their past, revealing a truth more twisted and vile than my darkest imaginings. The first photo made my blood run cold. It was an ultrasound image. Selene’s name was printed clearly at the top. The date was from six months ago. The same month Ben had supposedly been on a “study trip” abroad. I scrolled down, my hands shaking. A positive pregnancy test. The caption read: “Welcome, my little melody.” Then, an invoice for an abortion procedure. Scrawled across it in Ben’s handwriting were the words: “My little melody, I’m sorry. Daddy couldn’t keep you.” There was even a screenshot of a text exchange between them. Ben: Have the baby. I’ll break up with her tomorrow. We’ll get married. Selene: No. You know my parents… I could never be a good mother. I don’t need marriage, and I certainly don’t want a child. Ben: But it’s my fault. I was careless… Selene: Jules, I don’t blame you. And I don’t need you to take responsibility. Just stay with me like this, forever. That’s enough… Elara is your responsibility. The last few photos were of Selene, sitting by a hotel window in her pajamas, a melancholy silhouette against the city lights. In the reflection, Ben was holding her from behind, his expression etched with guilt and heartache. His month-long “study trip” had been a recovery retreat for her. I collapsed onto the floor, a wave of nausea churning in my stomach. For the past six months, he had been meticulously planning our wedding while secretly grieving the loss of his child with another woman. He had been ready to throw me away in a heartbeat for that baby. It was only Selene’s “no-marriage” stance that had allowed me to keep my position as his fiancée. How utterly laughable. The marriage I treasured, the future I cherished, was nothing more than the leftover scraps she couldn’t be bothered to accept. 6 I don’t know how long I sat on the floor, my limbs stiff, my tears dried up. When I finally looked up, the face staring back from the mirror was pale but unnervingly calm. My phone vibrated on the table. “Ben” flashed on the screen. I stared at the name for a long moment before answering. “Elara,” his voice was so gentle it felt like liquid velvet. “What are you doing? Miss me?” My fingers tightened on the phone, knuckles turning white, but my voice was soft, warm. “Just getting my things ready for tomorrow. My mom says it’s bad luck for us to see each other, so I have no choice but to miss you.” I even managed a light laugh. He chuckled back, his low, magnetic voice the same one that had once captivated me. “I miss you, too. So much I can’t sleep. I can’t wait for tomorrow.” He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper. “My bride.” My bride. Such beautiful words. Now they tasted like poison-laced honey. From his end of the line, I heard a tiny, almost imperceptible sound—a suppressed breath, as if someone nearby was holding theirs. It was followed by the faint rustle of fabric. I feigned ignorance, my tone perfectly natural. “What about you? What are you up to? Sounds like you have company.” “Oh, just a few guys from the orchestra,” he answered smoothly. “They insisted on taking me out for one last drink. Celebrating my last night of freedom.” “Don’t worry,” he added quickly. “I’ll only have one. I’ll be in perfect shape for tomorrow.” “Okay,” I murmured. “Don’t drink too much. Get some rest.” We exchanged a few more meaningless sweet nothings. He spoke of his “excitement” for the wedding. I played the part of the blissfully happy, trusting bride-to-be. After we hung up, the silence in the room was absolute. I sat motionless, the phone still in my hand. His tender words echoed in my ears, but all I could see was the image of him and Selene entwined in the dark studio, the reflection of his arms around her in that hotel window. How much of his tenderness tonight was real? And how much was the residual warmth from another woman’s arms, a performance fueled by guilt? I knew he wasn’t with his “friends.” That quiet breath, that rustle of cloth… they were the ghosts in the machine, the silent proof that someone else was with him. Someone he couldn’t name, but someone he was with on the very eve of our wedding. My heart felt hollowed out, beyond pain. All that was left was a cold, sharp resolve. The desire for revenge grew like a toxic vine, consuming my every thought. Slowly, I lowered the phone. In the mirror, a chilling smile touched my lips. He couldn’t wait for tomorrow? Neither could I. 7 By the time I had methodically packed up my life and had a courier service remove every last trace of me from that apartment, the sky was beginning to lighten. In the bridal suite, I calmly slipped into the wedding gown. I sat at the vanity, allowing the makeup artist to paint the face of a perfect, radiant bride. The woman in the mirror was breathtakingly beautiful. And as cold as ice. Selene placed the veil on my head herself. In the reflection, she stood behind me, her eyes slightly red, her sincerity flawless. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her fingers gently adjusting the delicate lace. “Watching you get ready to walk down the aisle to Jules… it suddenly makes me think… maybe marriage isn’t so terrifying after all.” I met her gaze in the mirror, my heart feeling like it had been pierced by an icicle. This moment of feigned affection was more nauseating than all her lies. I curved my lips into a perfect, matching smile. “Really? That’s wonderful.” The ceremony began. The lights dimmed, and the opening notes of Ten Years drifted through the grand ballroom. Ben was at the piano on stage, Selene beside him with her violin. They were lost in their melody, their souls intertwined in the music. It was my turn to sing. I picked up the microphone, but the planned lyrics never left my lips. As the music swelled, my voice, clear and cold, rang out through the speakers. “This piece is beautiful. It’s a gift Ben spent a year composing for our ‘ten years of love’.” The guests smiled, listening intently. “But it was only yesterday that I finally understood the other ten years hidden in its melody.” The piano faltered, a single discordant note hanging in the air. Ben looked up, his face instantly ashen. Selene’s bow skidded across the strings, producing a screech of feedback. I went on, my gaze sweeping calmly over the two of them. “The cadenza was a private piece they wrote together in college. It doesn’t belong at my wedding. It’s far too… intimate.” A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. “This song, meant to celebrate my love, is filled with evidence of their affair in every single measure I could never quite fit into!” I raised a remote and pointed it at the massive screen behind the stage. And I pressed play. The carefully curated evidence appeared, scanned, edited, and set to the haunting score of their precious Ten Years. The security footage from the studio played, with Ben’s voice on a loop: “I can only love you by loving her…” The more passionate the music, the more damning the images. The ultrasound. The positive pregnancy test. The invoice for the procedure. The text messages. The photo of them in the hotel room. The ballroom fell into a dead silence, followed by a collective gasp of horror. “Stop it! Elara! Please, stop it!” Selene finally broke, dropping her violin and screaming. Ben slammed his hands down on the piano keys, creating a deafening, chaotic crash of sound. Amid the wreckage, I looked past Ben, my eyes locking onto Selene. “This song he wrote for you. This wedding I dreamed of for a thousand nights like a fool…” “I’m giving it all back to you.” I pulled the veil from my head and tossed it onto the stage, a final, discarded piece of a filthy decade. “I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.”

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Dr. Phil Croft, the forensic pathologist in our department who was all ice and precision, recently took on a bright-eyed rookie intern, fresh out of college. As a specially contracted criminal profiler, my job was to help him crack the city’s most brutal serial killer case. The first time the intern saw Phil and me discussing the case outside the autopsy suite, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Dr. Croft,” she said, her voice filled with a conspiratorial whisper, “in all the thrillers I’ve read, the beautiful, brilliant woman who’s always one step ahead? She’s always the secret villain! Have you ever considered that the person who killed your family all those years ago… might have been her?” The pen in my hand, the one I was using to document the suspect’s psychological profile, skidded across my notebook, leaving a long, dark gash. Unbelievable. Here I was, a top-tier profiler brought in from FBI headquarters, my time billed by the hour. And for the first time in my career, my professionalism—and my innocence—was being judged by a third-rate paperback thriller. 1 The intern, Chloe Vance, was still talking, her eyes gleaming with a self-satisfied brilliance. “Don’t you see, Dr. Croft? It’s a perfect logical loop! Why did she come back to the country right now? Why did she just happen to join this specific case? And why is every single one of her analyses so spot-on?” She leaned in closer. “Isn’t that exactly what the master villain does in the books? They play God, manipulating all of us good guys from the shadows!” Phil set down his forceps, not even bothering to look at her. “Chloe.” His voice was utterly devoid of warmth. “First, this is a police department, not a book club.” “Second, every analysis Dr. Reed provides is based on forensic evidence and psychological reports you can’t even begin to comprehend. Her insights are worth more than the hundred novels you’ve read combined.” “And third, if your idea of a ‘logical loop’ is forcing reality to fit your storybook fantasies, I suggest you schedule a neurological exam. Immediately.” Chloe’s face turned a shade of crimson usually reserved for bad sunburns. She was stunned into silence, but the look she shot me was more resolute than ever. It was a look that screamed, See? I told you! He’s under your spell! You’re in this together! I put away my pen. I felt no anger, no frustration. In fact, I almost wanted to laugh. Half an hour later, I was standing in front of a projector at the serial killer task force briefing, my voice steady as I delivered my profile. “Our unsub is male, between thirty-five and forty-five. He’s highly educated, with a profound knowledge of classical music. He suffers from severe OCD and delusions of purity, targeting women he deems ‘imperfect’. He…” A hand shot up, cutting me off. It was Chloe. She stood up, looking as if she were about to reveal the secrets of the universe. “I have something to add! I believe the killer is a Scorpio!” The conference room fell dead silent. Everyone stared at her as if she were a newly discovered prehistoric fossil. The chief, who had been taking a sip of water, choked. Chloe, oblivious, pressed on. “I’ve studied countless thrillers. The smartest, most ruthless serial killers? Eighty percent of them are Scorpios! There has to be a criminological basis for that!” I kept my expression perfectly neutral. “Moving on,” I said. “The sheet music from Bach left at the scene contained a single incorrect note. This wasn’t a mistake. It’s a taunt—his unique signature.” As soon as I finished, Phil’s voice cut in. “To add to that, the autopsy is complete. We found trace amounts of rosin dust under the victim’s fingernails, consistent with a long-time string instrument player. Furthermore, the time of death aligns perfectly with the full performance time of that specific piece of music.” Our professional synergy was seamless. The information flowed between us, painting a crystal-clear picture of the killer. Chloe was left standing alone, her face so red it looked painful. She wanted to interject, but she didn’t even understand the technical terms we were using. When the meeting ended, people filed out, casting sympathetic glances her way. Phil stopped me. From a dusty, long-forgotten archive cabinet, he pulled out a yellowed case file and handed it to me. On the cover, two names were written in stark black ink. One was my father’s. The other was Phil’s sister’s. He lowered his voice, and for the first time, those cold, frosty eyes held something other than clinical detachment. “Evelyn,” he said, “that incorrect note you mentioned… it was found at the scene of this case, too.” 2 Phil’s words were a stone dropped into the still waters of my mind, sending ripples through years of unresolved grief. A cold case, dormant for over a decade, had just been linked to an active serial killer by a single, misplaced note. The next day, the third victim was found. At the crime scene, Chloe was practically vibrating with energy. She’d procured a high-powered UV lamp from God knows where and was sweeping it across the walls like a ghost hunter on a reality TV show. “The books all say it,” she muttered to herself. “The really smart villains love to use invisible ink to leave secret messages. You can only see them under a black light!” The lead detective, Captain Miller, winced but didn’t stop her. Suddenly, Chloe shrieked with excitement. “I found it! I’ve got a reaction! Dr. Croft, come look!” We all crowded around. In the corner of the room, under the beam of the UV light, a large, yellowish-green stain was indeed glowing ominously. Phil crouched down, dabbed a sterile swab on the mark, and lifted it to his nose. He then looked up at Chloe with an expression of profound, weary complexity. “Chloe, this isn’t a secret message.” “It’s urine.” He paused. “The upstairs neighbor’s toilet is leaking.” The room once again plunged into that familiar, suffocating silence. But Chloe’s “novel-based” investigation wasn’t over. Moments later, she discovered a small black cat cowering under the bed. “It’s him!” she gasped, pointing a trembling finger. “The killer’s messenger! In gothic thrillers, the killer always uses a black cat as a harbinger of death! It’s a symbol of evil!” I was examining the victim’s hands, my gloves already on. I didn’t even look up. “Chloe,” I said, my voice flat. “Based on the stage of rigor mortis and the ambient temperature, the victim died between fourteen and sixteen hours ago. Based on this cat’s dehydration and empty stomach, it entered this room no more than two hours ago. It’s a stray, drawn by the scent of blood.” Phil’s preliminary report quickly backed me up. “No trace evidence from the killer or the victim was found on the cat’s fur. Also, it’s a domestic shorthair, not some purebred Persian from a gothic horror story.” Chloe’s theories were, once again, brutally dismantled. But she wasn’t convinced. In her mind, Phil and I were conspiring to “hide the evidence” to protect the “real killer”—me. Her paranoia drove her to do something reckless. She started tailing me. That evening, I drove alone to an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It was the place where my father and Phil’s sister had been murdered. I needed to be there, to immerse myself in the atmosphere of the past, hoping to catch a flicker of a memory, a detail I had overlooked for years. Hiding in the shadows, Chloe watched me. Her mind instantly concocted a blockbuster thriller: The Villain’s Secret Rendezvous. Trembling with excitement, she pulled out a burner phone and dialed the private number of the head of Internal Affairs. “Hello? Is this Commander Davies? I need to make an anonymous report!” “It’s the new criminal profiler, Dr. Evelyn Reed! She’s dirty!” “I saw her with my own eyes! She’s at the abandoned warehouse on the west side, meeting with an unknown accomplice! She’s the mastermind behind the serial killings!” On the other end of the line, Commander Davies’s brow furrowed. 3 Davies didn’t fully buy Chloe’s anonymous tip, but protocol was protocol. He sent a patrol car to do a quiet sweep of the warehouse perimeter. They found nothing. I was in there alone for two hours before driving home. The incident obliterated Chloe’s credibility with Internal Affairs. But she didn’t give up. She decided I must have “eyes everywhere” and had “erased the evidence” before they arrived. She started spreading rumors around the department. “Doesn’t anyone else think Dr. Reed’s background is a little too mysterious? Says she’s from the FBI, but who can prove it?” “And her salary? Tens of thousands of dollars an hour? Isn’t that suspicious?” “I’m telling you, she’s not a profiler. She’s a front. There’s a huge conspiracy going on, and she’s at the center of it.” She even started setting little “traps” for me, straight out of her novels. During a case discussion, she’d intentionally misstate an evidence tag number, then watch me from the corner of her eye, expecting me to correct her like a villain who knew all the details. I simply ignored her. Phil’s patience, however, finally snapped. During one meeting, he slammed his hand on the table, the sound echoing through the room. “Chloe! If you bring your storybook delusions into this task force and waste one more second of our time, you are out! Get out!” Tears welled in Chloe’s eyes, but as she looked at me, her expression was a toxic mix of resentment and vindication. He’s completely brainwashed by this black widow, she thought. The real conflict erupted a week later. After cross-referencing all the evidence, Phil and I had narrowed our suspect pool to one man: a music professor named Victor Lynch. He fit my profile perfectly: age, educational background, a pathological obsession with Bach. Most importantly, he had been the mentor of one of the victims and had publicly humiliated her for an “imperfect” performance. Just as we were about to request a warrant, Chloe burst in. She brandished a “report” she’d compiled herself, declaring that the real killer was a harmless-looking librarian from the city’s main branch. “You’re all wrong! The final boss is never this easy to find! In the books, the most dangerous person is always the one who seems the most ordinary!” she proclaimed. “I looked into this guy, Mr. Henderson. His daily routine is so boring it’s practically a blank page. That’s the biggest red flag of all! It’s a disguise!” When she said the name “Mr. Henderson,” a tightly wound string inside me snapped. He was the stooped, kind-faced old man who, during the darkest time of my life—after my parents died and my relatives passed me around like an unwanted package—was the only person who would secretly leave a box of hot food on my doorstep every single day. He was my last remaining piece of warmth in a cold, unforgiving city. For the first time, the calm, professional mask I wore cracked. I would not allow anyone to disturb that good, gentle man based on some lunatic fantasy. “Vetoed.” My voice was quiet, but it held an iron authority. “All evidence points to Victor Lynch. We don’t have time to waste on baseless speculation. I will not be signing off on any investigation into Mr. Henderson.” My unwavering refusal was, in Chloe’s twisted mind, the ultimate proof of my guilt. I was covering my tracks. She decided it was time to “expose” me, to prove that she was the true heroine who could see the truth. That night, she snuck into my office. Staying clear of the security cameras, she put on latex gloves and used tweezers to carefully retrieve the disposable coffee cup I’d thrown away. She lifted my faint lipstick print and fingerprints from the rim and transferred them to a clean sheet of paper. Then, she used a burner computer to type up a document containing Mr. Henderson’s home address, his daily schedule, even the park where he played chess. At the bottom of the page, she added a single, taunting line: Next target. He knows too much. —E.R. My initials. She placed the printout and the paper with my prints into a manila envelope. Like a ghost, she anonymously mailed the package to the serial killer we were hunting. She was trying to use the killer as her weapon. She wanted him to murder Mr. Henderson and frame me for it. It was the perfect plan to destroy my career, my reputation, and my life. And I knew nothing about it. I had just finished an eight-hour interrogation with Professor Lynch. From the micro-expressions flickering across his face and the cracks forming in his psychological defenses, I knew a confession was imminent. Just then, my encrypted work phone vibrated. It was a multimedia message from an unknown number. I opened it. The photo was of Mr. Henderson’s living room. The old man was sitting peacefully in his rocking chair, reading the newspaper through his bifocals. Behind him, outside the window, a hand in a white silk glove was silently sliding the unlocked window open. Beneath the photo was a single line of text: “Dr. Reed, I’ve received your ‘instructions.’ Let the games begin.”

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It was my best friend Lauren’s birthday. She posted a carousel of nine perfect Live Photos on her Instagram story. I smiled, tapping through them one by one, until I reached the last one. The frame was shaky, but the background was crystal clear. I heard my husband’s voice, warm and intimate. “Honey, it’s your turn to wash up—” My thumb, hovering over the heart icon, froze mid-air. A cold dread washed over me. Mark’s “Good morning” text from this morning had a location tag clear as day: Boston, a thousand miles away. But his voice, right now, was echoing from a hotel room in Miami. I stared at Lauren’s beaming face on the screen, a pit opening in my stomach. Without a second’s hesitation, I closed Instagram and booked the next flight to Miami. I had to see it with my own eyes— Why the man who was supposedly on a business trip to Boston was whispering sweet nothings in a hotel room in Miami. 1 The three-and-a-half-hour flight was a slow, cold torture, every minute a new incision into my heart. I sat by the window, watching the glittering lights of Miami spread out below me like a blanket of broken glass. My heart felt nothing, only a numb, steely resolve. The taxi took me straight to their hotel. The Onyx. A high-end place known for its discretion. I stood in the lobby, the cavernous, early-morning silence a stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. As expected, the front desk clerk cited guest privacy and refused to give me any information, even barring me from going upstairs. So I called Mark directly. It rang for a while before he picked up. “Hello? Lily? Hey, why are you still up so late?” His voice was thick with sleep, a flawless performance of a man woken from a deep slumber. “Where are you?” My own voice was so calm it scared me. “In my hotel in Boston, of course. Just finished a marathon meeting. I’m exhausted, was about to pass out,” he said, punctuating it with a yawn. “Is that so? Why don’t you walk over to the window, take a picture of the Boston night skyline for me?” I said, my eyes fixed on the lobby clock. The line went silent. I could only hear the faint crackle of static. A few seconds later, his voice returned, laced with irritation. “What’s gotten into you? It’s the middle of the night. The curtains are drawn, I’m already in bed.” I was done playing games. “I’m in Miami. In the lobby of The Onyx Hotel. Are you coming down, or am I coming up?” “…” A long, dead silence, then the abrupt beep of a disconnected call. Ten minutes later, Mark appeared in the lobby, dressed in a hotel robe, his hair a mess. “Lillian! Are you insane? What the hell are you doing in Miami in the middle of the night?!” His face was a mask of fury. He lunged first, grabbing my arm, his grip bruising. I wrenched my arm free, my gaze like a blade. “And you? Weren’t you in Boston?” “I… something came up last minute. I had to fly to Miami to handle it. I didn’t have a chance to tell you yet.” His eyes darted around, avoiding mine. “Handle what? With my best friend? In a hotel room?” I pushed past him, heading straight for the elevators. “What’s the room number? I want to see just how you two were ‘handling’ things.” Panic flashed across Mark’s face. He grabbed me again, his voice a harsh whisper. “Stop making a scene! It’s not what you think!” “Lauren was here on a business trip too, and she got her wallet and ID stolen! She couldn’t get a room! I was just helping her out, for your sake! I let her crash in the living room of my suite for one night! Nothing happened between us!” “‘Nothing happened?’” I nearly laughed out loud. “So that ‘honey’ I heard was just part of your purely platonic friendship?” His face went pale. He was speechless. Just then, Lauren herself came down, also in a hotel robe, her hair still damp. Her expression was a perfect picture of panic and hurt. “Lily, what are you doing here? Please don’t misunderstand! I just lost all my things, Mark was kind enough to help me… I swear, nothing happened!” She reached for my hand, but I recoiled as if from a snake. Ignoring their frantic explanations, I forced my way into an elevator. I knew Mark’s habits. I pressed the button for the top floor, the penthouse level. They scrambled in after me, trying to block my way, but the doors slid shut before they could stop me. The suite door was ajar. As soon as I stepped inside, the lingering scent of Lauren’s signature perfume hit me. The living room looked tidy at a glance, but a single one of Lauren’s earrings glinted from the deep cushions of the sofa. The bedroom door was closed, but my eyes caught a tiny sliver of lace—a woman’s underwear—pinched beneath it. On the floor, Mark’s suit jacket and her silk scarf were tangled together in a heap. Just as I took it all in, Mark and Lauren finally caught up, breathless. “Lillian! What the hell do you want?!” Mark was cornered, his voice bordering on hysterical. I pointed at the bedroom door, my voice ice. “Open it.” “Lillian, that’s enough! Don’t you dare push your luck!” Mark’s mask of civility finally shattered. He shouted, trying to intimidate me. “I work my ass off to provide for us, and this is how you repay me? With insane jealousy and paranoia? Coming here to humiliate me? Look at you! You’re acting like a damn shrew!” Lauren, on cue, began to sob as if she were the one who had been wronged. “Lily, after all our years of friendship, how could you not trust me… If I had known this would happen, I would have rather slept on the street than ask Mark for help…” I looked at this pair of master actors, my heart as cold as an Antarctic glacier. “Fine. You won’t open the door. Then I’ll have security pull the surveillance footage.” I turned to leave, but Mark lunged, grabbing my wrist so hard I stumbled. “You have no right! The hotel will never let you see it!” As if on cue, the hotel manager arrived, politely refusing my request. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We have a duty to protect the privacy of all our guests. We cannot release security footage.” Lauren lifted her eyes, casting a quick, triumphant glance in my direction. A flicker of mockery danced in her pupils. I clenched my fists, fury boiling inside me. I had been too impulsive, giving them the perfect chance to spin their lies. Just then, Mark pulled me into a sudden, forceful hug, his voice softening. “Lily, honey, please stop this, okay? Trust me, nothing happened. Let’s go home. We’ll go home, and I’ll explain everything, I promise.” His scent, once a comfort, was now mingled with Lauren’s perfume, turning my stomach. I shoved him away with all my strength. He staggered back, his eyes wide with shock and anger. “Trust you?” I let my gaze sweep over the tainted room, then settle on their two deceitful faces. “I only trust what I see and what I hear.” I knew I wouldn’t be able to expose them tonight. They had already constructed the perfect alibi. Back in New York. I didn’t waste any time. “Mark, I want a divorce.” He shot up from the couch as if he’d been electrocuted. “A divorce? Lillian, you want a divorce over some baseless suspicion? You’re being ridiculous! I’m telling you, I didn’t cheat! Not in a million years!” He stormed out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me alone in the vast, empty apartment. I looked around the home that once felt so warm, now every particle of air felt thick with betrayal. Once the initial rage subsided, I started to think. When did it start? About six months ago, I’d asked Mark to get Lauren a job at his company after she’d been laid off. After that, his business trips became more and more frequent. He changed his phone password. His touch became rare, always brushed off with a tired, “I’m exhausted.” With a detective’s focus, I began to hunt for clues in their digital lives. I created a burner account and scoured every one of Lauren’s social media profiles. And there it was, hidden in the details I’d missed. Three months ago, she posted a photo from the corner of a coffee shop with the caption, “Stealing a moment of peace.” In the reflection of the glass, I could see the blurry outline of a man’s watch. It was the limited-edition one I’d given Mark for his birthday. Two months ago, she showed off a new perfume, calling it her “secret weapon.” Around that same time, Mark had started carrying a similar faint scent. Even earlier, she’d posted a cryptic message: “Some people are destined to be your ruin.” And right there, underneath, was a ‘like’ from Mark—a notification I’d somehow never seen. Mark’s own feed was a carefully curated image of work and our life together, but it had holes. The location-tagged photos from his “Boston trips” often had background elements—the view from a window, a lamp on a desk—that were eerily similar to details in Lauren’s posts from the same period. They had been carrying on an affair right under everyone’s noses. I hired a private investigator and began systematically gathering evidence. At the same time, I started taking inventory of our assets. This sprawling downtown penthouse was bought and paid for in full by my parents before our wedding. My car was also a pre-nuptial asset. Mark came from a small town in the middle of nowhere, the textbook case of a man who’d married up. Most of the money he’d earned over the years had been sent back home to support his bottomless pit of a family—his lazy, entitled siblings. He had almost no savings to his name. Our joint expenses were mostly paid for with my secondary credit card. The reason he refused to divorce wasn’t love. It was the comfortable life and the social status I provided. A bitter smile touched my lips. Did he think he could use me as a stepping stone, bleed me dry to support his mistress? Not in his wildest dreams. I wanted a divorce. And I would make sure he left with nothing but the clothes on his back and a ruined name. Armed with evidence, I chose the most direct and satisfying path. I took the partially recovered chat logs and the side-by-side travel comparisons from the investigator and went straight to their office. In front of all their colleagues, I slapped the printouts onto Lauren’s desk. “Lauren, does it feel good? Climbing into my husband’s bed using the job I got for you?” The entire office fell silent. Every eye was on us. Lauren’s face turned white, but the tears came instantly, a well-rehearsed performance. She covered her face, her sobs dramatic and heart-wrenching. “Lily… Lillian! How could you say such things! You’re trying to ruin me! Mark and I are just colleagues! Just because you can’t keep his heart, you want to destroy us both? How could you be so cruel!” Mark rushed over, drawn by the commotion. When he saw the papers scattered on the floor, his face went dark. He lunged, grabbing my wrist with a force that felt like it could shatter bone. “Don’t listen to her! She’s a psycho! Completely paranoid! I’ve had enough of this! I work my ass off, and she sits at home inventing these fantasies, and now she has the nerve to cause a scene at my office! Security! Security! Get this crazy woman out of here!” he roared, for the whole office to hear. Whispers erupted around us. I saw pity in some eyes, but mostly, it was the thrill of office gossip. Someone even pointed at me, muttering the word “jealous.” I was “escorted” out by two security guards. Lauren followed me out, still sobbing. But once we were alone in a quiet corner of the hallway, the tears vanished. Her expression morphed into one of triumphant scorn. “Look at you, Lillian. So pathetic. Did you really think throwing a tantrum like this would make Mark come back to you? You’re wrong. All you did was push him further away.” “He stopped loving you a long time ago. He told me you’re like a block of wood in bed, that touching you makes his skin crawl. The person he loves is me!” Her words were needles dipped in poison, piercing me one by one. All the overlooked details suddenly snapped into focus—the increasing late nights at the office, the way he always slept with his back to me, the perfunctory kisses. It wasn’t exhaustion. It was disgust. Lauren turned and walked away, her head held high. I stood there, my body numb with cold, my heart burning. Just then, my phone rang. It was my lawyer. “Ms. Bright, everything is in place. The asset freeze has been executed, and the divorce settlement is drafted as per your instructions. After compensating for joint expenditures, the savings from his salary are negligible.” “Good.” I hung up, a grim satisfaction settling in. I straightened my clothes, which had been rumpled in the scuffle. I had expected to be thrown out today. All I wanted was to plant the seeds of gossip. Now, it was time to watch them grow. When I got home, Mark was already there, which was a surprise. He was slumped on the sofa, looking drained. When he saw me, his tone softened. He tried to take my hand. “Lily, about today… I was wrong. I shouldn’t have said those things. But you shouldn’t have come to the office. It was a huge mess.” “Here’s what we’ll do. You go and apologize to Lauren, and we’ll put this all behind us. I… I forgive you. We can go back to how things were, okay?” I thought I had misheard him. “You two have an affair, and you want me to apologize to her?” Panic flickered in his eyes, but he held his ground. “I told you! There was no affair! It was a misunderstanding!” “A misunderstanding?” I let out a cold laugh and pulled a USB drive from my purse. “Mark, did you really think I couldn’t get my hands on the real evidence? Money can make anything happen. Even hotel security footage.” I plugged the drive into the TV. The screen lit up with a high-definition video from the hotel corridor, timestamped on the night of Lauren’s birthday. It showed him and Lauren, wrapped in each other’s arms, stumbling out of the elevator. They were kissing feverishly before they even reached the door, his hands already sliding under her robe… The color drained from Mark’s face. His mouth hung open, but no words came out. I took out the divorce papers I had prepared and placed them gently on the coffee table in front of him. “Sign it.”

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The year I turned twenty-seven, my family started pressuring me to get married. I abruptly ended things with the boyfriend I’d been practically worshipping for three years and started going on blind dates back in my hometown. My friend asked me, “You were so into Nick. Can you really just let him go?” I scoffed. “I’m not an idiot. He’s the kind of guy who’s fun to mess around with, but marrying him? That would be a lifetime of misery.” Just then, an icy, familiar voice drifted from behind me. “Oh? Is that the reason you dumped me?” 1 I was dragging my suitcase home when I nearly collided with a girl walking out of his apartment. She wore an oversized black sweater that slid off one shoulder, revealing a delicate collarbone. It was the “no-pants” look, paired with a pair of sky-high YSL stilettos. I recognized her as the bassist from Nick’s band. Amber, I think her name was. A stunning girl in her early twenties. I instinctively ducked back behind the hallway door, out of sight. A moment later, Nick emerged behind her, clad only in a pair of low-slung jeans. He leaned languidly against the wall and lit a cigarette. His upper body was bare, and water was still dripping down the chiseled lines of his abs. He casually tossed a Chanel handbag in her direction. “Take it.” Amber’s eyes lit up. She spun around and threw herself at him with a squeal. “Oh my god, I’ve wanted this bag forever! Where did you get it?” “Picked it up in Hong Kong a while back.” “I love it so much! Thank you, baby!” She tried to linger, but Nick was already growing impatient, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Alright, that’s enough. Get going.” The girl slid off him, her tone a mix of pouty and playful. “So cruel. One minute you’re calling me ‘baby,’ the next you’re kicking me out.” She wasn’t truly angry, though. She slung the bag over her shoulder with a delighted grin and blew him a kiss. “See you tomorrow!” After she left, I stepped out from behind the door. Nick clearly wasn’t expecting me. He froze for a second before his expression relaxed into its usual nonchalance. “Didn’t know you were coming back. Why didn’t you call?” I just looked at him for a moment. “It was late. I didn’t want to wake you.” The faint, reddish marks on his neck were still fresh, but he showed no trace of guilt. He simply wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me inside. “I’m starving. Make something to eat,” he said, flopping onto the couch and turning on the TV, as if nothing had happened. When I didn’t move, he frowned. “What’s wrong?” Then, as if realizing, a lazy smile spread across his face. “Miss me?” He got up and wrapped his arms around me from behind. His warm breath ghosted across my neck as his hands snaked under the hem of my shirt. “Then I’ll eat you first, and we can eat later—” Years of playing the guitar had left his fingertips calloused and rough. They scraped against my skin, a familiar mix of pleasure and pain. I closed my eyes and, with a weary sigh, gently pushed him away. I did like Nick’s body. In fact, his good looks were the main reason I’d pursued him in the first place. But maybe it was the long flight, or maybe it was the woman from moments ago, but right now, all I felt was a bone-deep weariness. I wasn’t in the mood. Nick wasn’t used to being rejected by me. His expression darkened. “What’s wrong?” My eyes fell to a black heap on the carpet. It was a pair of pantyhose, shredded beyond recognition. Nick followed my gaze. He let out a soft “tsk,” his face hardening. The air in the living room grew thick with unspoken tension. He pulled a cigarette from its pack and lit it. The pop of the mint-flavored capsule was a sharp crack in the silence. “Her lease was up. She had nowhere to go, so I let her crash here for a night,” he said, the excuse sounding lame even to his own ears. “Nothing happened.” I looked at him, our eyes meeting through the veil of white smoke. We couldn’t read each other’s expressions, but we both knew he was lying. This wasn’t the first time Nick had cheated. He was a natural-born player. He’d been that way when I first met him. My best friend had dragged me to see a popular rock band, raving about how insanely hot the lead singer was. I wasn’t interested in rock music and had been bored out of my mind. Until Nick walked on stage. He stood with his head bowed, fingers dancing over his guitar. His dark hair was unstyled, loose strands falling across his forehead, occasionally revealing a hint of his eyelids. He was the most plainly dressed person on stage—just a black t-shirt and jeans—but he was instantly the center of attention. That face was a luxury item all on its own. When he looked up, the stage lights caught in his amber eyes, a faint, teasing smile playing on his lips. It was my first rock show, and while my friend and the other girls screamed themselves hoarse, I was completely silent. His gaze swept over the roaring crowd, and for a fleeting second, our eyes met. Then he looked away. The music was probably great that night, but I didn’t hear a single note. In that moment, the world went quiet, and the only sound was the thunder of my own heart. After the show, a swarm of girls rushed backstage for his number. I was one of them. Single for all twenty-three years of my life, it was probably the bravest thing I’d ever done. Nick didn’t turn anyone down. Every girl who asked for his contact info got to scan his QR code, including me. A year later, all the other girls had given up. I was the only one still trying. I don’t know if it was out of pity, or because he was moved, or something else entirely, but Nick finally accepted our “relationship.” I became his girlfriend, and that’s how it had been until now. But I knew, even after all these years, that he had never really loved me. Or maybe he did—he loved how agreeable I was, how I never made a fuss, how I never held his indiscretions against him. I’d caught him cheating multiple times, but as long as he gave me a half-decent excuse, I would forgive him. He’d told me many times that I wasn’t his type, that he was only with me because I was good to him. He’d even joked that he’d dump me the second he found his “true love.” Our relationship had survived this long only because of my willingness to bend, to compromise, to swallow my pride. “You promised me you wouldn’t cheat again,” I said softly, my eyes fixed on the tattered designer pantyhose on the floor. A flicker of mockery crossed his face. He made no effort to placate me. “You actually believed that crap?” He leaned in, blowing a cloud of mint-scented smoke in my face, his eyes full of a familiar cruelty. “Can’t handle it?” “Can’t handle it? Then leave.” He’d said those words to me countless times before. Each time, it ended with me clinging to him, begging him not to go. Over time, he’d learned exactly how to control me. He knew that when he said those words, I was powerless. I turned away. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” Nick grabbed my wrist. His brow was prominent, giving him an intimidating look when his face was blank. “Natalie, don’t push it.” I pulled my hand free and went into the bedroom. Not long after, the front door slammed shut with a deafening crash. Nick was gone. He was angry. I knew it. In our dynamic, I was always the one placating him, fawning over him. I had never given him the cold shoulder like this before. I rolled over and opened my phone. In the family group chat, my mom had tagged me in a message. “I’ve never rushed you before, but you’re 27 now. It’s time to start thinking about marriage. Your mother’s colleague has a son who’s a great catch, and he’s handsome too. Why don’t you come home for the holidays and meet him?” Then I opened a message from my boss. “Natalie, the new branch is short-staffed right now. With your talent, staying on as an assistant department head is a waste. Are you interested in a manager position at the new branch? It’ll be tough getting things off the ground, but it’s a great opportunity.” My mom wanted me to come home for blind dates. The company had just opened a new branch in my hometown. The timing, the place, the people—it all seemed to align. There was no reason for me to stay here anymore. I sighed. The truth was, I really did like Nick. He was handsome, great in bed, and we were incredibly compatible physically. Most importantly, he was a total player. Being with him was easy because I never had to think about responsibility or a future. When I first started working, I was constantly stressed out. I needed a release, but I was picky—a die-hard sucker for a pretty face, even though I was just average-looking myself. I couldn’t find anyone who met my standards until I found Nick. He spent his prime years with me, and his body was a great stress reliever while I was building my career. And even though he was promiscuous, he was surprisingly careful. I’d heard before we got together that he required a clean health check from any woman he was with. I was always careful, too, so I wasn’t worried. Finding another man that perfect for my needs would be difficult. But it couldn’t be helped. Dating was one thing; settling down and getting married was another. I really liked Nick. But I also knew, with absolute certainty, that he was not the one. Now, it was time to make a choice. 2 Nick didn’t come back that night. He was gone for days. He didn’t answer my texts or calls. Soon, my messages were met with that single, damning red exclamation mark. He had blocked me. The silent treatment, his specialty. It had happened a few times before. Nick was a master of the cold war, and I always had to grovel and plead for days before he’d even look at me again. This time, however, I was too busy with work handovers to have time to coddle him. That evening, as I was booking my flight home, my phone rang. It was one of Nick’s friends. The background was a cacophony of laughter and loud music that blared even through the phone. “Nat, Nick’s wasted. Can you come get him?” Nick loved to party. He came from a wealthy family; the band was just a hobby. He didn’t need the money. I once asked him why he didn’t join the family business. He’d scoffed, saying his father’s illegitimate children were already at each other’s throats for a piece of the pie, and he had no interest in fighting over scraps. His grandfather’s and mother’s fortunes would all go to him eventually. He didn’t need to work. He just wanted to do what he loved. Nick had zero career ambition. It was one area where we had nothing in common. Whenever I told him about a project I’d landed or a promotion I’d gotten, he’d look bored. He once said disdainfully that it was pathetic to work yourself to death for a monthly salary that wasn’t even enough to cover his bar tab for one night. I knew we were fundamentally different people. Outside of physical chemistry, we had nothing to talk about. I didn’t care about his soul; I just loved his body. He ignored my inner world, content with my compliance. It was fine. It would make the breakup easier for both of us. I agreed to go and hung up, looking out the window. The city at night seemed even more brilliant than during the day, a river of light from countless windows and cars, so bright it eclipsed the stars. I glanced at my ticket. 8 a.m., the day after tomorrow. I sighed. To be honest, I wasn’t ready to break up just yet. Nick and I were really good in bed, and the stress of changing jobs was getting to me. I was kind of hoping for one last “breakup fuck.” It was a shame, but since the opportunity had presented itself, I had to take it. … When I got to the bar, Nick was surrounded by a flock of women. They were all different types, but they had one thing in common: they were all gorgeous and young, their faces glowing with collagen beneath their heavy makeup. I couldn’t blame them for flocking to him. Nick was rich, generous, and handsome. On him, even being a player seemed to be a charming trait. I touched my own face, remembering something he’d once said to me. “You’re 27. You should be getting facials, taking care of yourself. Can’t you at least try?” No wonder he thought I was old. He was surrounded by girls in their early twenties. I said nothing, just stood at the edge of the crowd. Our eyes met. He looked right through me and then turned away. Amber was flushed, her body pressed against his, her voice syrupy. “Nick, have another drink.” Nick smiled. Under the colored lights, his eyes were devastatingly beautiful, but completely devoid of warmth. “Just drinking is boring. Why don’t you feed it to me?” “How?” Nick didn’t answer, just lowered his gaze to her lips. A half-second later, understanding dawned in Amber’s eyes. A look of thrilled surprise flashed across her face as she tilted her head back and downed the caramel-colored whiskey in her glass. Then Nick grabbed her chin and kissed her, hard. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was raw and angry, a release of emotion. Amber tilted her head back to meet him, her eyes watering from lack of air. Liquor trickled from the corner of their mouths, catching the light as a long, silvery strand of saliva connected them when they finally pulled apart. The crowd erupted in cheers and catcalls. I knew he was doing it on purpose. He was punishing me for giving him the cold shoulder the other day and for not immediately trying to make up with him. It wasn’t until I walked right up to him that the crowd noticed me and slowly fell silent. Nick looked up, his expression blank. “What are you doing here?” I stared at that face, a ghost of our intimate moments flashing through my mind. In the heat of passion, we had even whispered words of love. Did it hurt? A little. But how much? Not enough to break me. I had always known this was who he was. A flirt, constantly seeking new thrills, incapable of saying no. Selfish, probably because he’d been spoiled his whole life, always putting himself first, never considering anyone else’s feelings. My voice trembled. “Nick, you’ve gone too far.” He looked up at me. He was sitting, and I was standing, but I felt like he was the one looking down on me. His expression was still blank, but a contemptuous smile played on his lips. “Too far? You can always break up with me. No one’s stopping you.” I said nothing, just stared at him. I had lost count of how many times he had threatened me with a breakup. Fifty? A hundred? One of his friends, who probably thought he was going too far, whispered to him, “Nick, man, don’t be like that. Look, Nat’s about to cry.” And I was crying. Acting requires commitment. As a single tear fell, I saw his expression shift. The hand holding his cigarette twitched, but he still said nothing, just watched me with cold eyes. In the next second, I said softly, “Fine, Nick.” “Let’s break up.” His face instantly turned ugly. For a moment, I thought he was going to explode. But instead, he laughed, a cruel, tight sound that seemed to come through gritted teeth. “Wow, Natalie. Bold move. Fine. But just so you know, I never go back for seconds. Don’t come crying back to me like a pathetic dog.” “Okay,” I nodded, wiping the tear from my eye. Then I turned and walked away without a single glance back. Nick didn’t come home that night. I spent the night deleting his contact information and everything related to him from my life. I packed my bags. The next morning, I was on the earliest flight back to my hometown. As the plane climbed above the clouds, I pulled out my SIM card and dropped it into the trash bag. 3 I never contacted Nick again. I posted a few emo, late-night thoughts on my social media to cultivate the image of a heartbroken woman, and then I promptly forgot all about him. Life back home fell into a routine. I quickly adapted to my new role at the company and went on the blind date my parents had arranged. The guy, a programmer who was already showing signs of balding at twenty-eight, droned on and on. “I think a woman’s place is in the home after marriage. What I mean is, you should quit your job. Don’t be so career-oriented. Take care of the family. Behind every successful man is a woman…” He prattled on, and I just smiled at my coffee cup, trying my hardest not to dump it over his piggish head. When he finally finished, he looked at me expectantly. “Did you get all that? Anything you’d like to add?” I maintained my smile. “No, but Mr. Wang, I don’t think we’re a good match. Maybe we should just leave it at that.” I walked away to the sound of him muttering about how “women over 25 are worthless” and “old maids can’t be choosers.” I’d been on several dates since I’d been back, and some of the guys were decent catches. But after being with someone like Nick, an absolute top-tier specimen, I just couldn’t bring myself to settle for an average Joe. That feeling lasted until a company meeting one morning. Everyone was already there, sitting in tense silence around the conference table. I whispered to the VP next to me, “What’s going on? Is the company in trouble?” He leaned in. “The old chairman’s son is being parachuted in. Rumor is he’s starting with our branch as a trial run before he takes over the whole group. This Mr. Grey is supposedly a Harvard grad, worked at Goldman Sachs, then started his own finance firm and made a billion overnight. The old man had to practically drag him back. He’s a real shark, so be careful what you say to him.” A few moments later, a young man in a black suit walked in. A black wool coat was draped over his shoulders, which an assistant respectfully took as he entered the room. His footsteps stopped. I looked up. In that instant, every eye in the room was drawn to him. The first thing that struck you was his presence. It was the aura of someone who was used to being in charge, of holding power. He wasn’t overtly arrogant, but everyone in the room, including me, felt an instinctive urge to lower their gaze. The second thing you noticed were his piercingly clear eyes. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing a strong brow. I’d heard the chairman’s wife was French, and you could see the perfect fusion of elegant, blonde-and-blue-eyed European bone structure and Eastern aesthetics in him. He had the sharp planes of a Western face softened by Eastern features. He was incredibly handsome, on par with Nick, but his powerful presence was so overwhelming that you barely noticed his looks at first. “Apologies. My flight was delayed. I’m late.” He acknowledged his tardiness first, then took his seat at the head of the table and got straight to the point. “My name is Julian Grey. I’m the new general manager of this company. I’ve reviewed the company’s financials and basic information. Now, starting with the VP, I want a brief report from each of you on your work over the past year and your current projects.” One by one, the department heads gave their reports, their voices trembling. Julian was just as sharp as the rumors claimed. He called out every attempt to fudge the numbers or gloss over problems. “I don’t like vague language, and I don’t like being played for a fool. I prefer to communicate openly, but if that doesn’t work, I’m not opposed to exploring other methods.” He didn’t raise his voice or curse, but a cold sweat broke out on everyone’s back. Even my palms were damp when I stood up. Thankfully, I was well-prepared, and my performance over the past year had been excellent. The more I spoke, the more confident I became. My career and education were my pride. They were the most important things in my life, and I never slacked off. Julian didn’t interrupt me. I could see a flicker of admiration in his eyes. When I finished, I paused. He nodded. “Natalie, right? Well done. From now on, all reports will be held to this standard.” … Since Julian’s arrival, everyone’s workload had increased. He cut out a lot of redundant processes and bad assets and brought in a slew of high-quality projects. We were all working longer hours, but our salaries had gone up accordingly. My colleagues, especially the younger women, were all fascinated by him. A couple of new hires, who must have gotten their ideas from romance novels, tried the whole “boss falls for the plucky heroine” routine. One publicly argued with him during a meeting. Another “accidentally” spilled coffee on his three-thousand-dollar shirt and then tried to wipe it off with her hands. The first one was fired the next day. The second one was fired on the spot. After that, the women in the office learned their lesson, but they still gathered in the breakroom to gossip about him. “I heard he’s never had a girlfriend. Do you think he’s still a virgin?” “No way. You watch too many dramas. A guy like that has women throwing themselves at him. He’s definitely not a virgin.” “I’d give up my entire year’s bonus to spend one night with him. He’s an absolute god. Did you see him in those trousers the other day? Oh my god, he is packing!” … I listened from the sidelines, a new idea taking root. With Nick gone, Julian seemed like a much better option. This man, I thought. I want to try. 4 I started making a point of appearing in Julian’s orbit. He always came in half an hour early. Three out of five days a week, I’d manage to catch the same elevator as him. At that hour, it was usually just the two of us. I kept it brief—a simple “good morning,” I’d press his floor button, and then stand quietly to the side. Every day at noon, like clockwork, I’d go for a coffee. He usually took his coffee break around the same time. I made sure never to be in the breakroom when he was, but I always timed it so he would see me leaving as he arrived. Occasionally, I’d work late, and he would pass my desk on his way out. In short, I made sure he saw me as much as possible, without ever saying more than a few words to him. Finally, on the seventeenth time he saw me working late, he paused and walked over to my desk. “I’ve noticed you’ve been staying late a lot recently. Are you running into any problems?” I looked up, feigning surprise. After a moment’s hesitation, I handed him the file I was working on. “It’s a new project. I’m just not sure about the risk assessment for some of this company’s assets, so I wanted to do some extra research.” Julian sat down at the empty desk next to mine. “Let me see.” He smelled of a subtle, woody cologne that mingled with my own light rose perfume, creating an intoxicating blend. “I think this project is viable. Look at their ’23 reports. Their financial situation is solid, and…” He spoke with an easy authority, and I listened intently, nodding and interjecting with a series of highly technical questions. After he answered each one, I let my expression shift to one of dawning understanding. “Oh, I see. Thank you, Mr. Grey. I hadn’t thought of it from that angle before.” “You have a strong skill set, just a bit light on experience. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You should head home,” he said, a rare hint of a joke in his voice. “I don’t want people thinking I’m some kind of sweatshop boss.” I nodded, packed up my things, and we walked downstairs together. As we stepped outside, a gust of wind blew rain against me. I hesitated, taking a step back. Julian, who had been about to leave, noticed I wasn’t moving and turned back. “What’s wrong?” I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s nothing, Mr. Grey. You go ahead. I just… remembered I have something else to do.” He didn’t press, just nodded and left. Five minutes later, his car pulled out of the underground garage. I was still standing by the entrance. Julian rolled down his window. “You didn’t drive?” I looked embarrassed. “No. It’s hard to get a cab in the rain. It’s fine, Mr. Grey. I’m sure one will come by soon.” He didn’t hesitate. “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.” … I talked a lot with Julian on the way home. He was surprised to find that we had a lot in common. Even one of my favorite niche films, The Holy Mountain, was his favorite as well. Julian, who had been reserved at first, gradually became more talkative. By the time we reached my street, he was so engrossed in our conversation that he drove right past my building without stopping. I bit my lip, about to point it out, but he noticed on his own. “Sorry, I wasn’t watching the GPS.” When the car stopped, I thanked him again for the ride. Julian just nodded. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed the words. “Is something wrong, Mr. Grey?” I asked, looking at him. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing? It’s nice.” The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to regret them. Saying anything else would only make it more awkward, so he just looked down, silent. I hid a smile. “Penhaligon’s The Coveted Duchess Rose. Well, Mr. Grey, see you tomorrow.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “385128”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My girlfriend was just put on blast by a movie star in a tell-all post on Twitter. It came with a video. Her, on my arm, walking into a hotel and not leaving until the early hours of the morning. The post, from A-list heartthrob Aiden Vance, was a public breakup announcement: 【Yasmine, I never thought you were this kind of person.】 The evidence was undeniable. The topic started trending instantly. “Damn, Aiden Vance doesn’t pull punches!” “Wait, when did they even start dating?” “This is a shame, I was actually starting to ship them…” “Is anyone else wondering who the guy in the video is?” I put down my phone, the sheer absurdity of it all washing over me. Yasmine and I were childhood sweethearts. We’d been together for eight years. And now, Aiden Vance was her official boyfriend? So where does that leave me? 1 Less than twelve hours after Aiden’s post branded Yasmine a cheater, my personal information was doxxed and plastered all over the internet. Paparazzi camped outside my office building. My phone was flooded with an endless stream of harassing texts. The lies and vitriol wove a suffocating net around me, threatening to drown me. I hid in the office bathroom, calling Yasmine over and over. She never picked up. Desperate, I tried to set the record straight online. “So you’re saying Aiden Vance is the other man? Are you kidding me?” “Spoken like a true homewrecker. The nerve to come out and play the victim.” As a private citizen, my social media had no reach. The few comments I got were all from his fans, accusing me of trying to flip the script. The attacks intensified. Within a day, I had become the internet’s most hated “other man.” I took a deep breath, about to message HR to request time off, but a notification from them beat me to it: “Leo, your personal conduct has become a significant disruption to the company. Please take some time off to handle your private affairs before returning to work.” Just “take some time off”? I’d been in the corporate world long enough to know what that really meant. My phone buzzed again. “Don’t do anything. Wait for my people to pick you up.” It was Yasmine. My mind involuntarily replayed the details from Aiden’s post—the story of how they met, how they fell in love. A sharp pang of something cold and sharp pierced my heart. I stared at her text for a few seconds. I decided to trust her one last time. At the very least, I needed to hear an explanation from her, face to face. Escorted by a few of her staff, I was bundled into Yasmine’s private car. She wasn’t inside. Her manager, a woman with a perpetually cold expression, glanced at me. “You’ll be staying at a hotel we’ve arranged for a few days. Wait for Yasmine to contact you.” I didn’t answer, just watched the city blur past the window, my thumb unconsciously rubbing the watch on my wrist. “Yasmine has a watch just like that one,” her manager said suddenly. “You two have been together for almost eight years, haven’t you?” Her voice was flat, devoid of emotion. “Every Valentine’s Day, she’d custom order a matching pair from overseas. She really did care about you.” I froze, my mind drifting. There was a reason Yasmine and I both wore watches. Growing up, we were the neighborhood outcasts. Her mother had run off with another man, abandoning her. Her father was an alcoholic who beat her, once so badly she ended up in the hospital. As for me, I had no parents. I was raised by my grandfather, who suffered from dementia. Whenever the other kids pointed at me and jeered, “The psycho’s grandson is a psycho too!” Yasmine would be the one to step in front of me, her small fists flying. Driven by a desperate need to escape, we were the two smartest kids in the neighborhood, the ones who studied the hardest. One day, I was sick with a fever. My grandfather, making me porridge, forgot to turn off the gas stove. The kitchen caught fire. Luckily, Yasmine had come over to do homework and saw the smoke. She calmly ran for help, and they put the fire out. But not before both of our wrists were badly burned, leaving scars we’d carry forever. When we first got together, we were broke. But for our first Valentine’s Day, she used money she’d saved for months from a part-time job to buy us a pair of matching watches. That night, she’d rested her head on my shoulder, her warm, humid breath ghosting over my neck. “Leo,” she’d whispered, “I swear I’m going to give us a good life.” And she did. She was discovered by a casting agent, and her first TV show was a massive hit. She became a star overnight. Every Valentine’s Day after that, she’d give me a new watch to match hers. But this year, she didn’t. This year, she didn’t even spend Valentine’s Day with me. I had cooked a huge dinner and waited for her all night. Where was she? According to Aiden Vance’s post, Valentine’s Day was the wrap party for their show. While everyone else was celebrating, the two of them had slipped away. They’d walked the streets like a normal couple, gone to an amusement park. At the very top of the Ferris wheel, Yasmine, her face hidden by a mask, had leaned in and tentatively kissed him. He had pulled both their masks off and, smiling, kissed her back. I stayed in that hotel room for two days. I forced myself not to look at social media, not to contact anyone. On the third day, Yasmine finally showed up. The fever had returned. I was leaning against the doorframe, getting a glass of water, when I looked up and met her dark, intense eyes. She was thinner, which made her look even more fragile. Dressed in all black, she stood there like a statue carved from ice. I slumped against the door, feeling weak. It suddenly occurred to me that today was our eighth anniversary. Last year, on our seventh, Yasmine had a break from filming. We were supposed to go on a trip to the coast. But when we got to the airport, we were swarmed by paparazzi. In the ensuing chaos, it was another actor, who just happened to be there, who “saved” us. “Why is he at the airport with Yasmine?” “Didn’t he publicly confess his crush on her last month? Are they really together?” The reporters surged forward, shoving me out of the way to surround him and Yasmine, their camera flashes blinding. The other actor, a master at fanning the flames of shipping rumors, saw his chance. He smiled and said, “The show’s on hiatus. We’re just celebrating together.” When Yasmine didn’t object, he leaned in closer, a calculated gesture of intimacy. Yasmine looked up at him, a soft smile on her lips, her eyes so tender they looked like they were melting. The airport erupted in cheers. But then, she turned and looked in my direction, her eyes filled with apology. That night, the top trending topics were all about her and the other actor. And me? I wanted to post a gallery of our vacation photos, but I didn’t even dare to tag the location, terrified that someone would trace it back to me and cause problems for her. Later that night, she held me, her voice thick with guilt, her cheek pressed against my chest. “Just a little longer, Leo. I promise. Next year, on our anniversary, I’ll tell everyone that you’re my boyfriend.” My thoughts snapped back to the present. I was about to say something when her manager appeared from behind her and frisked me from head to toe. Only after confirming I wasn’t wearing a wire did she leave. “Were you afraid I was recording this?” Yasmine just smiled, as if nothing was wrong. “Leo, I’ve missed you.” I felt a strange, bitter laugh bubble up inside me. I was so confused. After that anniversary, I saw her less and less. She was always busy filming, doing press tours. I told myself I had to be understanding. One day, I was so lonely I posted a vague complaint on my private social media about wishing I had someone with me. I fell asleep on the couch and woke up to see her standing over me. She had seen my post and had taken the red-eye from the set just to be with me. When I opened the door and saw her, I was so happy I just started kissing her, messy and desperate. She laughed, her arms wrapping lightly around my neck. “I missed you too. Every part of me missed you.” By the end, I was clinging to her like a dying fish gasping for water. She had an early call time the next day and left before dawn. I stood in the empty apartment, watching her disappear down the street, feeling hollow. Then I noticed she’d left her suitcase. Inside, it was filled with all my favorite snacks. And at the very bottom was a photograph. An autographed picture of my favorite theater actor. I remembered reading a post from one of her fan accounts that she had turned down several jobs to study theater for three months. It had been for me. Even later, when the rumors about her and Aiden Vance were everywhere, I chose to believe her. I truly didn’t understand how we had ended up here. “That Twitter post. Aiden Vance. Aren’t you going to explain?” “Explain what?” “All those news articles saying you two fell in love on set. I never doubted you. You said it was just for publicity, and I believed you.” “But now?” “If you fell for him, you could have just told me. We could have broken up. Why did you have to lie to me?” My voice was rising. “Cheating on me behind my back with another man—was it a thrill? Did it make you feel powerful?” “Why would you put me in this position?” Yasmine just stared at me, silent. “Do you have any idea what I’ve been through these past few days? Do you know what people are saying about me online?” My throat felt raw. The next words were poison on my tongue. “Yasmine, some of that ‘dirt’ on me… you were the one who leaked it, weren’t you?” Her expression hardened, but her voice remained calm. “Leo, it’s not what you think.” I looked at her, at a loss for words. This was the same Yasmine who would have fought anyone who said a single bad word about me. Now, faced with a torrent of vile abuse directed at me, she stood by and did nothing. Worse, she had added fuel to the fire. By throwing me to the wolves, her team had bought themselves enough time to handle the PR crisis. Looking at the woman in front of me, an overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Yasmine, let’s break up.” “I don’t agree.” She grabbed my hand, reaching for my face. I jerked away. “About Aiden…” She paused, as if searching for the right words, and bit her lip in frustration. It took her a moment to continue. “After that fire when we were kids, I’ve always been afraid of explosions. There was a scene in the movie with pyrotechnics, and I just couldn’t get into character. He was the one who kept encouraging me.” “Our characters in the film had this incredibly intense, complicated relationship. I’ve never been so deep into a role before. I just… I couldn’t snap out of it.” She ran a hand through her hair, the frustration in her eyes deepening. I let out a hollow laugh. “So you’re saying you had a momentary lapse in judgment? That you never had any real feelings for him?” Yasmine was silent. I pressed on. “Did you sleep with him?” Her face went pale. “Valentine’s Day. I waited for you all night. I called you, and you didn’t answer. You were with him, weren’t you?” She looked at me, her lips moving, but no sound came out. Suddenly, a tickle in my throat exploded into a violent coughing fit. A cool hand touched my forehead. “You have a fever?” Yasmine’s brow furrowed. She pulled out her phone. “I’ll have someone bring you some medicine.” Seeing the faint trace of concern on her face just made me feel sicker. I turned away and dry-heaved. “Don’t pretend to care. It’s disgusting.” A shadow crossed her eyes. She stared at me for a few seconds, then grabbed my arms and pulled me onto the sofa. “Leo.” Her voice came from above me, the usual coolness in it now laced with something strange and chilling. “You promised you would never leave me, no matter what.” Her hands pressed against my chest, and she leaned in to kiss me. I put a hand up to stop her. “If you have any respect for me left, let me go.” Her body went rigid. After a moment, she pulled back. “I’m sorry.” The room fell silent. I looked at her. “I’m willing to have an amicable breakup. I won’t use any of our private information to add to this mess online. But you have to tell the truth. Clear my name.” She was silent for a moment, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I can’t.” “Leo, I’ve already released a statement. The public will lose interest in this soon enough. If you can just compromise one more time, once this all blows over—” “Compromise one more time?” I cut her off. “What does that mean?” Then it hit me. My hands felt numb as I opened Twitter, a platform I had been too afraid to look at for days. The top trending topic was Yasmine’s official response. “I apologize for taking up public resources. First, I want to apologize to everyone. Leo and I were previously in a relationship. Due to certain issues, we had to break up. Later, during filming, Aiden and I got together. When I ran into Leo again, I finally learned the real reason he had broken up with me. He suffers from a hereditary mental illness. The night of the video, he came to find me during an episode, mistakenly believing we were still together. It was dark, which led to a misunderstanding. I am deeply sorry I didn’t tell Aiden about this sooner. To Aiden, I am truly sorry. After coming to his senses, Leo also felt terrible about the situation and will be releasing a statement to clarify things.” I stared at the screen, my blood running cold. “So, the reason you came here today—” “Was to get me to confess to the whole world that I’m mentally ill? That I’m the crazy ex-boyfriend who’s harassing you?” Yasmine’s eyes darkened. “Leo, Vanessa will give you a script. Memorize it. She’ll record a video of you.” “After this is over, we can go back to how we were—” SLAP. The sound was sharp and loud. I had put every ounce of my strength into it. Yasmine’s head snapped to the side. The overhead light caught the corner of her mouth, where a bead of blood was starting to form. The silence stretched for a few seconds. Yasmine slowly turned her head back, her expression unreadable. She took my hand, a flicker of guilt in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” I didn’t pull away. I just looked down and asked softly, “Do you know what day it is?” She looked blank. “Last year, on our seventh anniversary, you promised me that on our next anniversary, you would tell the world that I am your boyfriend.” I let out a low, bitter laugh. “Today is our eighth anniversary. And you want me to tell the world that I’m a psycho.” The color drained from her face. A year. It’s not that long, but it’s not that short either. The bond we had built, brick by brick, over a lifetime of shared experiences—it only took one year to tear it all down and twist it into something unrecognizable. She knew. She knew how terrified I was of being called crazy because of my grandfather. She knew. Looking at her, it felt like I was seeing a stranger. “You’re so arrogant, Yasmine. You thought our eight years together, the fact that I loved you so much, meant I would forgive your betrayal. You thought I would sacrifice my dignity for you, admit to being a madman, and then just go back to being with you as if nothing happened.” “But why should I?” “The man I loved was the girl who defended me from bullies, the one who would fly across the country on a red-eye just to bring me snacks because I was feeling down, the one who only had eyes for me.” I looked at her, my voice steady and clear. “Not this person in front of me. This soulless, disgusting stranger.” Her grip on my hand tightened, a storm brewing in her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand from hers. “Not only will I not record any video, but I will also find a reporter and tell them the truth.” “I’d advise you to think carefully about that.” It was her manager, Vanessa. She met my gaze and held up a phone. The screen was shattered. It was my phone. “Sorry about that. We couldn’t risk you not cooperating. We’ll buy you a new one, of course. But this one won’t have any chat logs on it.” Vanessa pulled a brand-new phone out of her bag and placed it in my hand. “If you want to expose her, you’ll need proof that you two never broke up last year.” She smiled. “While you were staying at the hotel, we took the liberty of removing any evidence from your apartment. All the gifts she gave you this past year, your ticket stubs from visiting her on set since January—all gone.” I looked at Yasmine in disbelief. She went pale and avoided my eyes. After a moment of silence, I spoke, my voice low. “I have backups.” Vanessa’s face fell. “Eight years together. I have backups of every chat log, every ticket stub. And they’re not on that phone.” I stared at Yasmine, my voice like ice. “My terms are the same. You go on Twitter, you explain everything, and you publicly apologize to me. It’s the last shred of dignity we can offer each other.” Yasmine suddenly laughed, a flash of mockery in her eyes. “Backups?” I took in her expression, and a wave of suffocating sadness washed over me. I turned to leave, pausing at the door. “You have two days to think about it.” I walked out of the hotel, my head burning, and hailed a cab to the hospital. Lying in a bed with an IV in my arm, I finally opened Twitter. I scrolled through the comments on Yasmine’s post. The top comment was from Aiden Vance: “Really?” Yasmine had replied: “Yes.” The second: “Okay, I admit I was a little harsh before. The way you’re still being so kind to your mentally ill ex proves you’re not a bad person.” The third: “Good thing they broke up. That psycho sounds scary.” The fourth: “So when is this Leo guy going to make his statement?” Yasmine had replied: “Soon.” I closed my phone and shut my eyes. The truth was, I didn’t have any backups. For eight years, I had trusted her completely. I loved her so much that I never even saved a clear photo of her on my phone. I rarely posted on social media, and when I did, it was just a picture of her hand reaching for mine, or her back from a distance. I never even dared to tag our location when we traveled. How could I have made backups? The only joke was, I really had saved our chat logs from this past year. I’d treasured them. This past year, I had felt her growing distant, her replies becoming more perfunctory. But I kept telling myself she was just busy. On Valentine’s Day, I’d created a private Twitter account, visible only to me, and filled it with screenshots of our few conversations from the past year, and the voice messages she’d sent. I would look at it whenever I missed her at night. I never imagined it would end up being my only weapon. I spent two days in the hospital on an IV drip. There was no update from Yasmine, no contact at all. In the bed next to me, an old woman was patiently feeding her sick grandson. I watched them, and my eyes stung. I suddenly missed my own grandfather. After I was discharged, I made two calls. First, to a leader of one of Yasmine’s fan clubs I’d met while visiting her on set. I got the contact information for a well-known journalist from her. Then, I called a cab to the nursing home. Three years ago, my grandfather had a sudden heart attack at home. I was at work, but Yasmine, who had just wrapped filming, happened to come home and got him to the hospital in time. The doctor said that with his age and his dementia, he needed round-the-clock care. I had been a wreck, but Yasmine had held me, gently patting my back. “I’ll find the best nursing home for him. I promise.” The old Yasmine had been so good to me, and to my grandfather. Before I completely cut ties with her, I wanted to see him. I walked down the familiar hallway to his room. The nurse on duty was surprised to see me. “Your girlfriend picked him up this morning. Weren’t you two going to get a family photo taken?” A roar filled my ears, and a chill shot up from my feet to the top of my head. I spun around and ran out of the nursing home, my hands shaking as I dialed Yasmine’s number. She picked up immediately. “Where are you?” I demanded. “Where did you take my grandfather? He’s confused, he doesn’t recognize anyone. Yasmine, what are you trying to do?” The background on her end was noisy, the faint sound of camera shutters clicking. “I’m at a press conference.” Her voice was low, sounding like it was coming from a great distance. I felt a wave of dizziness. “A press conference for what?” “I know you don’t have any backups.” A sigh came through the phone. “Leo, you love me too much. You would never back up our conversations.” A bitter taste filled my mouth. I practically spat the words out. “So what? What are you going to do to my grandfather?” “I won’t do anything to him,” she said, her voice trembling. “Leo, I had no other choice. If you won’t come out and clear things up, I have to let him do it for you. I taught him a few lines to say to the cameras. He has a good memory. He remembered them all.” Tears streamed down my face. I bit back a sob. “Yasmine, don’t make me hate you.” There was a pause on the other end. “Leo, I’ll protect him. Don’t worry.” … By the time I got to the hotel, the press conference had already started. I didn’t have a pass and was stopped at the door. On the big screens inside, the room was packed with media, cameras flashing as Aiden and Yasmine posed for photos. I hadn’t realized Aiden would be there too. From what I could overhear from the staff, Yasmine had three goals for this press conference. First, to have the “mentally ill ex-boyfriend” clear her name. Second, to officially announce her relationship with Aiden Vance. And third, to announce their next project together, a romantic comedy. In a daze, I saw a familiar, wrinkled face on the screen. He looked pale and lost. “Leo’s condition has worsened, so he is unfortunately unable to be here today. This is his grandfather,” Yasmine said, holding his arm and guiding a microphone to his lips. My grandfather looked helplessly at Yasmine, his eyes cloudy. He spoke haltingly. “Leo… is… is sick. He can’t come. He… he and Yasmine broke… broke up last year.” After forcing the words out, he shrank back behind Yasmine, as if the microphone were a monster. “He definitely doesn’t seem right in the head. That Leo guy must be…” “It’s so sad. The whole family is crazy.” Hearing the reporters’ whispers, my nails dug into my palms. I wanted to storm in there. “Leo?” A soft voice said my name. I turned to see an elegant woman in a cream-colored dress. I was momentarily taken aback. “I’m Julia, the journalist you spoke with. I can get you inside.” I quickly wiped my tears away with the back of my hand and nodded. The moment I stepped inside, I froze. Yasmine and Aiden were kissing. The entire room seemed to hold its breath. It was dead silent, except for the relentless flashing of cameras. Aiden’s eyes were closed, his hand slowly moving to her waist. Yasmine seemed to smile into the kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck to deepen it. Suddenly, a shout shattered the silence. “You can’t kiss him!” I whipped my head around, my breath catching in my throat. My grandfather was standing in a corner, his usually stooped figure now ramrod straight, his eyes red and filled with a childlike hurt. “Leo is your boyfriend! You two never broke up…” The room erupted. My grandfather, trying to get to them, rushed forward, tripped over a chair leg, and fell hard. The scene descended into chaos. Someone called the police, someone called an ambulance. The cameras kept flashing. “Grandpa…” I scrambled onto the ambulance, looking at my grandfather’s unconscious form. My head roared, and the blood in my veins turned to ice.

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It was a get-together with old college friends, and my girlfriend smiled as she placed a piece of mushroom on my plate. “Gary, you wanted the mushrooms—” She trailed off. I hadn’t ordered mushrooms. And my name isn’t Cole. Gary is the name of her ex-boyfriend. 1 At the reunion dinner, Elara placed a grilled mushroom on my plate, her smile bright. “Gary, you ordered the mushrooms.” She started to say more. “They’re a little charred, just the way—” Her hand froze mid-air, the sentence left hanging. I kept my head down, slowly chewing the food in my mouth. I didn’t speak. I didn’t look up. I hadn’t ordered the mushrooms. And Gary wasn’t my name. Gary was her ex-boyfriend. Across the table, sitting to my left, Gary himself paused, looking up at her. I could feel their gazes lock for a tense moment, sparking with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. Elara was the first to look away. In a room with both her ex and her current boyfriend, she had called her new partner by her old flame’s name. The boisterous chatter around the table hit a sudden pause, the silence deafening. My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles were white, the metal biting into my palm. But the pain felt distant, a dull throb my mind was too numb to register. After a suffocating moment, Leo broke the tension. “Hey, is no one drinking? Come on, bottoms up! Don’t be party poopers!” A collective sigh of relief rippled through the group. Laughter, a little forced, followed. “Who’s being a party pooper? I’m on my third glass!” “Your glass is still full! You’ve got some nerve calling us out!” Elara quietly moved the mushroom from my plate to her own, her eyes avoiding Gary’s. She then ladled a bowl of soup for me, her voice a careful imitation of casualness. “Have something warm. You’re not dressed for this weather.” I took the bowl without a word. … As we were leaving the restaurant, Elara stopped me. “I’m just going to the restroom. Wait for me outside, okay?” She hurried down the corridor, a sense of urgency in her steps. I watched her go, a knot tightening in my stomach. After a moment’s hesitation, I followed. And there he was. At the end of the hall, Gary stood tall and handsome in a black overcoat. Elara’s face was a mask of frustration. She was saying something, but they were too far away for me to hear. Gary, however, grew more agitated. He closed the distance between them and pulled her into a fierce embrace. From my hiding spot around the corner, I saw Elara’s hands hover stiffly behind his back. Her fingers flexed, then clenched into fists, a silent struggle. She never returned the hug. After a moment, she pushed him away, whispering a few sharp words before turning to leave. Gary called after her, his voice loud enough to echo down the hall, the words slicing through the air and finding me. “But you don’t love him! You just called me to his face!” “Elara, you’re not over me, are you?!” Her steps faltered for a fraction of a second, but she didn’t look back. She just kept walking, swallowed by the silence. On the drive home, an unspoken agreement hung between us. Neither of us mentioned what had happened at dinner. I was afraid to ask if what Gary said was true. Deep down, I think I already knew the answer, and I couldn’t bear to hear it confirmed. She leaned over and gave me a chaste kiss on the corner of my mouth, just like every other night, before snuggling into my arms. “Let’s sleep,” she murmured. But I knew neither of us would. That name, spoken by mistake, was a ghost in the room with us. For someone as meticulous and composed as Elara to make such a slip, that name must have been on the tip of her tongue, a constant presence in her mind, turned over and over until it spilled out on its own. I lay in the darkness, my eyes wide open until they ached, feeling the frantic, unslowing beat of her heart against my back. It was strange. We were so close, yet it felt like an ocean raged between us. 2 The next morning at work, I overheard the receptionists whispering by the coffee machine. “A guy came looking for Ms. Vance this morning,” one said, her voice low and conspiratorial. “Seriously handsome. Asked for Elara Vance by her full name. I wonder…” She leaned in closer, savoring the gossip. “What do you think his deal is with the boss?” The other girl whispered back, “What was his name? What did he look like?” “I think… Gary something? Looked like a movie star, but he had this arrogant air about him. Not my type.” She made a face. “I much prefer our Cole.” “Gary?” the other one gasped softly. “I think that’s her ex-boyfriend’s name! I overheard someone asking her once, back when he was supposed to be coming back from overseas.” “No way! So what did she say? If she gets back with this Gary guy, what happens to Cole?” “I don’t know! I didn’t stick around to listen. I got out of there fast.” I leaned against the cool wall of the break room, the coffee in my hand long since gone cold. Only after they had finished their discussion and left did I emerge. But back at my desk, the words on the documents in front of me blurred and swam, twisting themselves into one name over and over again. Gary. The pen in my hand began to tremble uncontrollably. I knew, then. I was scared. Gary was back. And I was terrified that, just like seven years ago, he would effortlessly steal Elara from me all over again. Elara and I had grown up together. We were childhood sweethearts, practically joined at the hip from kindergarten through college. I spent half my childhood at her house, and her mom adored me. She used to tease me constantly. “Cole, honey, will you be my son-in-law one day? Please?” No matter how many times she asked, I’d blush and look down, unable to answer. The adults would laugh. “Elara, what about you? Would you marry Cole?” And Elara, with a wide grin, would always shout, “Yes! I love Cole the most!” Back then, I truly believed her. I believed we were meant to be together. Until Gary appeared in our sophomore year of college. He was in our class, a campus celebrity, just like Elara. He was the student council president; she was the vice president. He was the debate team captain; she was the star debater. They both had national scholarships. Two brilliant stars, naturally drawn to each other. Elara still spent time with me, but our conversations increasingly revolved around him. “Cole, Gary is just… incredible. I almost lost that last debate; he completely cornered me.” “Cole, what does it mean when a guy says there’s a great restaurant he knows? Is he… asking you out?” “Cole, what do guys even like for birthday presents? Can you give me some ideas?” She would say my name, but her thoughts were filled with another man. … In all the years I’d known Elara, I had never heard her talk about buying a gift for another guy. I forced a smile. “Who’s it for?” I can still see her expression now. A faint blush crept up her porcelain cheeks as she looked down, murmuring, “Who else could it be?” “Gary, of course.” She looked up, her eyes sparkling, reflecting my own ashen face. “Looks like you might be getting a brother-in-law soon. Aren’t you happy for me?” A long moment passed before I managed to find my voice. “I’m happy.” 3 And just like that, Elara and Gary were together. They were a power couple, a perfect match that drew eyes wherever they went. No one who saw them could deny how good they looked together. They owned every room they walked into. They dated for three years. Those were the three years Elara and I were most distant, almost strangers. Part of it was me, deliberately keeping my distance. But a bigger part was Gary. His possessiveness was intense, and any contact between Elara and me would trigger a massive fight. To keep the peace, Elara eventually deleted my number. After being inseparable for our entire lives, we were finally torn apart. I remember flying home for Christmas that year, alone. When I got to her house, her mom rushed to the door. “Cole! You’re back! Why are you by yourself? Where’s Elara?” For some reason, a wave of unbearable sorrow washed over me. I ducked my head to hide my expression. “She’s… on vacation with her boyfriend. They went abroad.” Her mom froze. Her face was a canvas of complex emotions as she patted my shoulder and sighed. They were together for three years. Gary and Elara were cut from the same cloth: brilliant, ambitious, and fiercely independent. When things were good, their shared drive was a source of intense connection. But two proud, unyielding people were bound to clash. Gary’s need to control Elara suffocated her, leading to constant arguments. Whenever they fought, she would come to me. “What is his problem? He’s so damn annoying, worse than my own mother!” I would just listen in silence. Anything I said felt wrong. Besides, she never needed my advice. She’d vent, have a drink, and go right back to him. The final straw was Gary’s plan to study abroad. He wanted Elara to go with him. But Elara had just co-founded a startup with a few classmates. It was the dawn of the internet boom, a blue ocean of opportunity. She was determined to make her mark and urged him to stay, to build their future together. He refused. The arguments escalated, becoming endless cycles of bitterness. Finally, at his breaking point, Gary exploded. “Goddamn it, Elara, can you just stop fighting me on everything for once? Are you coming with me or not?!” He laid down the ultimatum. “If you’re not coming, then let’s just end this now. Stop wasting each other’s time!” Elara, pushed to her own limit, snapped back, her voice tight with fury. “Fine! Let’s break up. And whoever comes crawling back is a coward!” The words hung in the air, stunning even Gary into silence. He stared at her for a long, final moment. “Fine,” he said, his voice cold. “You’ve got guts, Elara. I’ll give you that.” And he walked out. Elara’s pride wouldn’t let her chase him. She never imagined he’d be just as stubborn. The very next day, he was on a plane, flying across the ocean. This time, it was really over. … Elara fell into a dark place. She drank with me, with old friends, trying to numb the pain. She was on the verge of falling apart. It was Leo who finally snapped her out of it, grabbing her by the collar and shaking her. “For God’s sake, have some self-respect! If you can’t live without him, then get on a plane and go get him! Otherwise, get your ass back to work! The company needs you. Stop being so damn irresponsible!” Elara said nothing. She locked herself in her room for a whole night. The next day, she was back to her old self. She went to work, reconnected with me, and even made me a partner in the company. Three years after Gary left, on Elara’s birthday, I drank too much. In a drunken haze, I saw her standing under the party lights, so beautiful she seemed unreal. The feelings I had suppressed for years finally broke free. I leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t speak, just stared at me, the shattered lights of the room reflected in her watery eyes. After a long moment, she closed her eyes, wrapped her arms around my neck, and deepened the kiss. The next morning, I woke up, lit a cigarette, and struggled to find the words. But she came up behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist, her voice thick with sleep. “Cole… let’s be together.” My hand paused. I had to ask. “Do you love me?” She didn’t answer. She just held me tighter.

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