My mother, the tragic supporting character, was about to divorce my stepfather. And me, the certifiable mama’s girl, was right there with her, ready to burn it all down. I was leaving my stepbrother and taking the baby he didn’t even know about with me. “I saw it in a dream, Maya,” she’d said, her voice trembling. “I’m just a stepping stone in someone else’s story. A footnote.” “The great lost love of his life is coming back, pregnant with his child. I’m going to lose my mind, I’ll pick fights with her, I’ll even try to… to hurt her. And Mark will be the one to put me in prison.” She grabbed my hands, her eyes wide and serious. “You and Noah have a good life. I have to go, Maya. I have to save myself.” “No,” I said, my voice firm. “You go, I go. I’m a mama’s girl, remember?” Later that day, when Mark Thompson and his son came home to two empty houses? Confusion. Where the hell did my wife go? Where’s Maya? 1 “Mom, seriously, you need to lay off the billionaire romance audiobooks.” I reached over and paused the dramatic narration streaming from her phone. “You and Mark have been married for twelve years. If this ‘ghost from his past’ was going to show up, it would be for his third marriage, not his second.” I ticked the points off on my fingers. “Besides, she’d have to be in her forties, right? Showing up pregnant sounds… unlikely. More likely, the kid would be my age. Have you been getting into those silver-fox romance novels now?” I studied her face. At forty-five, Eleanor looked like she’d made a deal with time and won. Not a single line on her face seemed out of place; they were marks of laughter, not age. My mom and Mark Thompson were a second marriage for both of them. I was ten when it happened. She was at my school handling my transfer paperwork when Mark, the wealthy single father of a son at the same school, saw her and was, by his own account, completely thunderstruck. At first, Eleanor wanted nothing to do with him. She’d lost her memory giving birth to me, and my biological father had used it as an opportunity to vanish. She’d raised me alone, and her trust in men was nonexistent. Mark didn’t push. He just… started showing up. A lightbulb would burn out, and there was Mark. The propane tank for the grill ran empty, and there was Mark. A circuit breaker blew, and there he was, toolbox in hand. He even sent his fifteen-year-old son, Noah, to the elementary school playground every day to look out for me and chase off anyone who gave me a hard time. The tipping point came when a couple of older kids followed me home from school. Noah took on all five of them for me. He ended up in the hospital with two broken ribs. That was when my mother finally relented. After they got married, Mark was practically glued to her. His life was a straight line between the office and home. Any detour was usually because Eleanor had a sudden craving for takeout from a restaurant across town. The idea that he could love someone else was, frankly, unbelievable. “But what if it’s real, Maya?” she whispered, her voice small. 2 We decided we had to test the dream’s validity. According to my mother’s premonition, Mark and his long-lost love would reunite at a charity gala on Friday. Over dinner, she made her move. “Honey,” she began, her voice casual, “could you spend some time with me this Friday? I was thinking we could go on a date.” “Really, Ellie?” Mark’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. Just as I thought we were in the clear, his expression shifted. “Oh, but Friday… Friday might not work. There’s a really important charity auction I have to attend. Could we do Saturday? Please?” My fork clattered against my plate. It was happening. I shot my mom a look. We have to go! This could still be a coincidence. She caught my signal immediately. “Well, can I go with you, then?” Mark looked puzzled. “But you hate those things. You’ve never wanted to come before.” My mom, bless her heart, ditched the excuses and went straight for the kill. “I know,” she pouted, “but I want to go this time, honey.” “Okay, okay, you can come.” He was powerless against her, a huge grin spreading across his face. “Daddy,” I chimed in, “I want to go, too!” “Sorry, sweetie. One guest per person.” I slumped in my chair. “Fine.” “I can take you, Maya,” Noah said, his voice soft. He looked at me, a hopeful, expectant glint in his eyes. “If you ask me nicely. Like you just asked him.” I gave him a flat look. “Take me or don’t. Your call.” Noah’s shoulders slumped, his expression crumbling like a sandcastle against the tide. He looked genuinely hurt. Under the table, his hand found mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “I’ll take you,” he murmured, his voice laced with defeat. “Of course, I’ll take you.” Mark chuckled. “That boy gets worse treatment from you than I ever did.” I couldn’t stand seeing Noah look so miserable. I picked up a roasted potato from my plate and popped it into his mouth. His eyes instantly brightened. “Hey,” Mark said, leaning toward my mom. “I want one, too.” 3 At the gala, Noah and I were seated at a different table. I had to crane my neck to keep an eye on my mom’s. I watched as Mark gestured to a woman beside him. “Eleanor, this is a dear friend of mine, Isabelle Croft. She’s just moved back to the States to oversee a new project.” Isabelle Croft. She didn’t look pregnant. But the way she looked at my mom was odd, like she was watching a particularly amusing science experiment. “Maya, what are you staring at?” Noah’s voice was a low rumble beside me. He gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, but his expression was dark. I didn’t notice, my attention still fixed across the room. “Nothing. Just watching Mom.” “Right,” he said, his voice tight. “The auction is starting. See anything you like?” His words snapped me back to the present. The dream. In the dream, my mom and Isabelle would get into a bidding war over a pink diamond. In the end, Isabelle would win. All we had to do was make sure Isabelle didn’t get that diamond. If we could change that one detail, maybe we could change the whole outcome. … A stunning pink diamond ring was presented on stage. Bids started flying, including one from Isabelle Croft. My mom, according to our plan, stayed silent. Soon, Isabelle held the highest bid at $740,000. As the auctioneer was about to close, I tugged on Noah’s sleeve. “I want that one, Noah.” “Done.” He raised his paddle without hesitation. “Seven hundred sixty thousand.” Isabelle didn’t counter. But the man sitting next to her did. “Seven hundred eighty thousand.” He looked to be about my age, dressed in a sharp gray suit. He gave me a small, confident smile as he lowered his paddle. What followed was a battle of wills between him and Noah. When the man bid a million dollars, I put my hand on Noah’s arm, stopping him. “I don’t want it anymore, Noah.” His hand, still holding the paddle, was trembling. “Why?” he asked, his voice strained. “I just changed my mind.” I kept my eyes on Isabelle, making sure she didn’t jump back in. The ring wasn’t worth a million dollars, not even close. As long as it didn’t end up in her hands, that’s all that mattered. Letting some other fool overpay for it was the perfect solution. In the end, just as I’d hoped, the man in the gray suit won the diamond. One small plot point, successfully diverted. 4 As the evening wound down, I excused myself to the restroom. On my way out, I collided with a solid chest. “Sorry about that.” “No problem.” It was the man who’d bought the ring, Isabelle’s companion. He didn’t step back immediately, a gentlemanly smile on his face. “You seemed to really want that ring. Why’d you stop bidding? Was it a budget issue with your date?” Wow. Only an idiot would pay a million for that thing. I took a step back, opting for a polite lie. “No, I just decided it wasn’t worth the fight.” “Oh? I disagree,” he said smoothly. “For the right person, some things are always worth fighting for.” He held out a business card. “I don’t suppose I could get to know you? I’d like to give this to someone who deserves it.” The card read Leo Croft. Before I could respond, Noah appeared from nowhere, pulling me back against his chest. “Sorry,” he said, his voice cold. “No chance.” He took the card and tucked it back into the pocket of Leo’s suit jacket before steering me out of the ballroom. When we got home, he cornered me against the arm of the sofa. “What was that about?” I demanded. “Do you like him?” The question came out of left field, stunning me. “What?” “You were staring at their table the entire night. You gave up the ring because of him. What is it about him, Maya? Tell me, and I can be that way for you. Just tell me what you want.” Tears welled in Noah’s eyes, his voice cracking. “My mom—your mom—and his mom don’t get along. You and he could never work. Just look at me, Maya. Please? Just look at me.” I only caught the most important part. “His mom? Who’s his mom?” I couldn’t remember my mother having any enemies. “The woman he was sitting with. Isabelle Croft.” My breath hitched. So, Isabelle did come back with her son. And that pink diamond was, for all intents and purposes, in her possession. The plot hadn’t changed at all. “Damn it,” I muttered to myself. “I should’ve just taken the stupid diamond.” Noah completely misunderstood. He crashed his lips against mine, his grip forceful and desperate. I struggled, pushing against his chest, but he wouldn’t let go. He held me there, kissing me until all the fight went out of me, until the anger melted into something else entirely. It was late, well past midnight, when he finally relented. He held me tightly, his voice muffled against my hair. “I’m never letting you go, Maya. Not even if you like someone else. As long as you’re by my side, I know I can make you love me. Make you see only me…” I was already drifting off, his words blurring into the edges of a dream. 5 In the days that followed, Noah returned to his usual self on the surface. But at night, he was more intense, more possessive than ever before. He even started wearing a silver body chain he used to hate, the delicate metal a stark, alluring contrast against the hard lines of his abs. He was also home more. A lot more. He used to have guys’ nights, occasional business trips. But for the past two weeks, he was home the second his workday ended. It made it impossible to sneak over to my mom’s apartment across the hall to strategize. According to her, Mark was acting weird, too. In the opposite way. He was working late more and more, constantly traveling for business. My mom called his assistant and found out that many of his recent meetings were related to a new joint project… with Isabelle Croft. Today, my mom was supposed to join Mark on one of those trips, a little reconnaissance mission of her own. But the plan was derailed when I woke up with a wave of nausea so intense I could barely stand. She canceled her flight and took me to the doctor. Mark, for his part, was full of remorse. “It’s my fault,” he said over the phone. “I haven’t been spending enough time with you. I’m so sorry, Ellie. I’ll have someone else cover the meeting tomorrow. I’ll come home tonight and make you dinner.” “See?” I told my mom as we waited. “Mark sounds totally normal. Maybe it was all just a coincidence.” As we sat in the sterile waiting room, a thought occurred to me. “Hey, in your dream… what happens to me? What’s my ending?” She thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I never saw.” “What? You never saw?” “Well, if I’m the tragic supporting character, that makes you the tragic supporting character’s daughter. Maybe you just weren’t important enough to the main story.” “Wow. Okay. Fair enough.” Before I could dwell on my newfound insignificance, another piece of news hit me like a ton of bricks. I was pregnant. Now it was my mom’s turn to be the comforting one. “Okay, let’s just… put the other stuff aside for a minute. I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandma this soon.” A huge smile spread across her face. “We have to tell Noah! He’s always so worried you’re going to fall for some other guy, he practically wants to lock you in the house. This will finally put his mind at ease.” 6 We went straight to the company building. Noah wasn’t in his office, so we decided to find Mark first. The door to his corner office was slightly ajar. I reached out to push it open, but my mom grabbed my arm, pulling me back. Through the crack, I could see my stepfather sitting in his leather chair. Isabelle Croft stood before him, her back to us. One of her hands rested on the back of his chair, the other… on his thigh. The air was thick with an intimacy that made my stomach churn. So much for the business trip. He’d just brought her to the office instead. What was it they say? The safest place to hide is in plain sight? I could feel my mom’s chest heaving with ragged breaths beside me. She turned and walked away without a word. Furious, I crumpled the ultrasound report in my fist, shoved it into the nearest trash can, and ran to catch up with her. Of course, that’s when Noah appeared. “Mom? Maya? What are you guys doing here?” My mom ignored him, stepping into the elevator. I followed her in, forcing a casual tone to avoid suspicion. “We were just in the neighborhood.” The doors slid shut on Noah’s confused face. “You see?” my mom whispered, her voice cracking. “I told you the dream was real. You kept saying it was a coincidence, but you saw them. You saw them together. Do you believe me now?” I let out a long, slow breath. “I believe you.” “I have to get out of here, Maya. For my own sanity. Before this ‘story’ forces me to do something crazy, like actually take a swing at her.” She smoothed my hair, her touch full of a familiar, heartbreaking tenderness. “You’ll be okay. You and Noah… he’s a good kid. I know he’ll take care of you.” “No. I’m going with you. I’m not letting you go alone.” I wrapped my arms around her, holding on tight. “But you love Noah. And you’re carrying his child. You can’t just leave, sweetie.” “I haven’t figured that part out yet, Mom. But he’s not more important than you. You’re my choice. Always.” I hesitated, then added the final, terrible thought. “And if Isabelle is Mark’s… you know… then Noah might not even be his son. You said you never saw my ending? It’s probably because they get rid of me. They’re the perfect family of three. I’m just a loose end.” That did it. The hesitation in my mom’s eyes turned to steel. “You’re right. Let’s go. We’ll hit an ATM, get as much cash as we can, and we’re gone.” “Okay.” 7 With forty thousand dollars in cash stuffed into our bags, we returned home. It was 4:15 PM. Mark and Noah wouldn’t be home for another hour, at least. Plenty of time. We packed our passports, documents, and the cash into a shared suitcase. Dressed in hoodies and baseball caps, we were ready to make our escape. I pulled open the front door and came face-to-face with Noah, his thumb poised over the fingerprint scanner on his own door across the hall. “Mom? Maya? Where are you going?”

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Two years after I broke Vincent Sterling’s heart, my lung cancer finally reached its terminal stage. In the final moments of my life, I dragged my pain-wracked body to Lake Louise. We had promised to come here together on our 1000th day. In the end, I came alone. My phone buzzed incessantly—my doctor, urging me to come back for another round of chemo. I silenced it and buried the locket Vincent had given me in the soft earth by the shore. “Vincent,” I whispered, “this is the last time I’ll let myself think of you.” “There might not be another chance.” As the words left my lips, a drop of blood fell from my nose, staining the sand. Just then, a voice I had ached to hear for three long years spoke from behind me. “Excuse me, miss? Could you take a picture of me and my girlfriend?” 1 My heart stopped. Frantically, I wiped away the blood and turned. There he was. Vincent. The second he saw me, his pupils contracted, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Vincent, do you know her?” The girl beside him, her arm linked familiarly through his, asked with open curiosity. Vincent’s gaze snapped away from my face. He pulled the girl into a protective embrace, his voice as cold and sharp as the mountain wind. “No. We’ve never met.” Two years together, and now we were strangers. A bitter smile twisted my lips. It felt like a thousand tiny needles were piercing my heart, making it impossible to breathe. Before I could process it, Vincent thrust a camera into my hands. “Are you going to take it or not? We’re in a hurry.” The girl seemed to think his tone was out of line and offered me an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, miss. That’s just his temper.” She turned to Vincent, a perfectly measured note of complaint in her voice. “Vincent, your mother sent us on this trip to get to know each other better. She insisted we send her photos. I know you’re not happy about it, but you can’t be so rude to people.” She invoked his mother’s name, then turned back to me with a promise. “We’ll pay you for your time, miss. Thank you.” Vincent’s brow furrowed. “Serena, don’t waste your breath.” My mind went blank. So, this was Serena Vance. The perfect daughter-in-law his mother had chosen for him two years ago. I remembered that day vividly. I’d just finished cleaning up the chaotic mess at my grill shack and went to find Vincent, who had stepped away to take a call. I overheard his mother’s sharp, disdainful voice through the phone. “The Sterling family’s future daughter-in-law will be an ambitious woman like Serena Vance.” “What can a girl who runs a grill shack offer you? The nerve of her, trying to latch onto my son. Utterly shameless!” And after a long, heavy silence, Vincent had replied. “I understand, Mother. I’ll do as the family wishes. I’ll marry a woman you can approve of.” I never thought they’d be making it official so soon. My insides felt like they were being torn apart. The pain was so intense I could barely stand. I numbly took the camera. In the viewfinder, Vincent’s arm was draped around Serena’s shoulder, his expression softening as he looked at her. Serena snuggled into his embrace, her smile radiant and sweet. Click. I pressed the shutter. Tears blurred my vision without warning. Serena took the camera back, happily scrolling through the photos, completely oblivious to my state. But Vincent stepped closer to me, his voice a low, vicious hiss. “Clara, who are you putting on this pathetic act for?” “What, you regret it now? Weren’t you so carefree when you threw me away like trash?” I forced the tears back, tilting my head up to meet his gaze with a brittle smile. “Aren’t you reading a little too much into this, Mr. Sterling?” “All I did was end a relationship that wasn’t working. Don’t act like it was some life-or-death tragedy.” “I have never, not for a single moment, regretted breaking up with you.” The color drained from his face as if I’d struck him. “Fine,” he snarled. “Just fine, Clara. A person like you will never deserve anyone’s love.” He spun around, grabbed Serena’s hand, and stormed away. Only when his silhouette had shrunk to a distant speck did I finally let the bitter smile consume me. He was right. I was the one who let go. What right did I have to cry? I didn’t regret breaking up with him. I couldn’t afford to. After all, I was dying. My hand trembled as I fumbled in my bag for a syringe of pain medication. I expertly found a vein in my wrist and injected the cool liquid. As it spread through my body, I took one last look at the buried locket, then tossed the empty syringe and started my car. But as I reached the park exit, I saw a commotion. And in the middle of it was Vincent. “What do you mean we can’t leave?” Vincent argued, his face a mask of frustration. The park staffer was unmoved. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s peak tourist season. No pre-registered vehicles are allowed in or out.” Vincent’s expression was thunderous. But then Serena spotted my car. Her eyes lit up, and she hurried over. “Miss, I am so sorry to bother you again,” she said, tapping on my window with an apologetic look. “Vincent’s mother arranged this trip for us at the last minute. We were in such a rush, we forgot to register our vehicle online. Now we’re stuck.” “I see your car is registered… could we possibly trouble you for a ride out of the park?” My heart felt like it was sinking in deep water, drowning over and over. For a fleeting, foolish moment when Vincent had first called out to me, I’d felt a spark of joy. I thought maybe, just maybe, he had come here for me. But it was all just his mother’s plan. I was the only one who remembered our 1000-day promise. He was just passing through. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel. My gaze met Vincent’s across the short distance. Serena was still talking. “Our hotel is the Chateau Grand, just down the road. Please, miss…” The Chateau Grand. The same hotel I had booked. As if possessed, I heard myself say, “Okay.” Serena’s face broke into a grateful smile. She slipped into the back seat and called out, “Vincent, hurry, get in.” Vincent walked over, his hand instinctively reaching for the front passenger door. His spot for two years. But a fraction of an inch before his fingers touched the handle, he stopped, rerouted, and squeezed into the back with Serena. The ride was suffocatingly silent. I was already regretting my decision when Vincent’s voice cut through the quiet. He had spotted the bottle of pills in my center console. “What’s that?” It was my strongest prescription painkiller. I couldn’t let him know. “Vitamins,” I lied. “You’re really into wellness these days, aren’t you, Clara?” he sneered. Serena playfully chided him. “Vincent, why are you always so sarcastic with her? You should be nicer.” As she spoke, she let out a delicate yawn. Vincent naturally guided her head to rest on his shoulder, the movement practiced and gentle. “Get some sleep.” Serena blushed. “But there are people here.” A wave of dizziness washed over me. Back when we were together, he would come to the shack every night to help me prep skewers and clear tables, working until the early hours of the morning. One time, I was so exhausted I just slumped down by the door, unable to stand. He sat right down on the dirty pavement next to me, laughing at how I smelled of grease and smoke. And then he had pulled my head onto his shoulder. We stared at the empty street in silence, and he suddenly turned to me, his eyes reflecting only me. “Clara, wait for me. I swear I’m going to marry you.” Now, he belonged to someone else. An unbearable pain ripped through my chest. I couldn’t tell if it was the cancer or my heart breaking all over again. When we finally reached the hotel, I had just stepped out of the car when Vincent’s icy voice hit me. “What are you doing, Clara? Still following us? The money for the ride has already been transferred.” The pain made my breath catch in my throat. Just then, the hotel bellhop took my suitcase. “Miss Reed, welcome to the Chateau Grand. Your room is ready for you.” Vincent’s face flushed as he realized his mistake. He awkwardly rubbed his nose and went to check in. That night, the pain was so bad the world was spinning. I felt like I was on the verge of death. Then, a frantic, incessant knocking echoed from my door. Couldn’t a girl even die in peace? Furious, I dragged myself out of bed and threw the door open, only to find Vincent standing there. Serena was behind him, looking slightly embarrassed. “Miss Reed, I’m so sorry. The water heater in our room is broken. We were wondering if we could use your shower?” My first instinct was to say no. But Vincent seemed to read my mind, a cold smirk playing on his lips. “What’s the matter, Clara? Worried we’ll mess up your precious room? That stingy?” He leaned in, his voice dropping. “Or are you hiding someone in there? Scared to let us see?” His words stole the air from my lungs. I yanked the door wide open. “Be my guest!” After Serena went into the bathroom, Vincent and I were left alone. The sound of running water filled the awkward, suffocating silence. He just stood there, staring at me, his intense gaze making my skin crawl. I turned to escape to the balcony, but his voice, tight with suppressed emotion, stopped me. “Clara, how long are you going to keep running?” He took a step forward, reaching for my hand. Terrified he would see the needle marks, I snatched it back. He froze, his hand hanging empty in the air. The next second, his eyes were bloodshot. He closed the distance between us, trapping me against the wall. “You blocked my number, deleted me from everything. How long are you going to avoid me? Are you that afraid of me?” “Why did you break up with me?” “Was it because my project failed? Did you think I was useless, not good enough for you anymore? Or did some new guy catch your eye?” “Clara, what did I do wrong? Just tell me, please.” His voice was a raw, broken rasp, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. My own heart shattered watching him. But what could I say? That I had cancer and was about to die? That I’d heard his mother call me shameless? Or that I’d heard him promise her he’d marry a woman she approved of? It was better this way. I couldn’t ruin his chance at happiness. I turned my face away, repeating the lie that felt like acid on my tongue. “There’s no reason, Vincent. We… just weren’t a good fit.” His breath hitched. He stared at me for a long moment, and then he laughed, a hollow, terrible sound. “Fine. Fine. Fine.” “You’re really something else, Clara.” He gritted his teeth, pulled out his phone, and with a few furious taps, posted the picture they had taken at the lake. Then he shoved the screen in my face, forcing me to read the caption: With the right person, in the right place. “Not a good fit, huh, Clara?! Well, now I’m here with the right person! Are you satisfied now?!” A coppery taste flooded my mouth. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. The raw cruelty on his face softened into confusion as he took in my state. “Clara, you…” Just as he was about to ask what was wrong, the bathroom door opened. Serena emerged, wrapped in a towel. “Vincent, I’m done. Let’s go.” Vincent was rooted to the spot. I shakily pointed to the door. “Go,” I bit out. “What are you waiting for? Your girlfriend is calling you.” “If you don’t listen to her, people might think you have someone else on your mind. You wouldn’t want them to think you’re that fickle, would you?” He gave me one last, complicated look, then turned and left with Serena. The moment the door clicked shut, I collapsed. I stumbled into the bathroom and retched a mouthful of blood into the sink. I found another syringe and blindly jabbed it into my arm. As the drug took hold, I looked at my reflection—a pale, ghostly mask—and I finally broke down. He was so close. Just a few steps away. Vincent, I’m in so much pain. I can’t do this anymore. I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to hold me, just one last time. But I couldn’t. Never again. Through the haze of pain, I thought I heard a whisper from outside the door. My name. “…Clara.” I must have been hallucinating. I smiled a pale, broken smile. Just then, my phone rang. The second I answered, my doctor’s furious voice exploded in my ear. “Clara! Are you trying to die?! Why haven’t you answered your phone in days?” “You’ve missed your chemo appointment! Do you even care about your own life?! Get your ass back here now!” I was in too much pain to form words, only managing a weak groan. At that exact moment, my hotel room door was kicked open. Vincent stormed in, snatched the phone from my hand, and without even looking at the caller ID, roared into it. “Get back where? She’s busy! Go find someone else to bother!” He hung up and advanced on me, grabbing my wrist, his face a cold sneer. “Well, well, Clara. Now I see how you could dump me so easily. You already had someone new lined up.” “What? Is the new guy this controlling? You just let him scream at you like that? Let him push you around?” “You’re pathetic, Clara. I actually feel sorry for you.” I had no strength left to pull away. Blood began to seep from the needle mark under his crushing grip. The cancer in my lungs was a fire, stealing my breath. I gasped, trying to tell him he was wrong. But in the next second, blood started streaming from my nose. Vincent’s eyes widened in shock. Then his gaze dropped to the bleeding puncture on my wrist. The color drained from his face, and his voice trembled. “…What is this?” My heart plummeted. It was over.

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My family decrees that the heir must wed a woman of beauty and strength. In my last life, I chose Isabelle Thorne—New York’s radiant darling. She promised me everything, yet five months into our engagement, she locked me in a dog cage, forcing me to watch her with Julian Reed. “You owe him this,” she spat. “His shattered leg, his dead parents—it’s your fault.” Within days, my sister jumped to her death, my father was imprisoned, and Isabelle took over my empire. I died on the ninth day, hearing her laugh as she handed my fortune to Julian. Reborn at the ceremony, I bypassed Isabelle and chose Seraphina Vance—the disfigured “madwoman” everyone feared. Later, it was Isabelle who knelt madly before that same cage, beating her head against the bars. 1 Before a lavish, long table, a dozen men in bespoke suits sat in stern silence. The elders of our Circle. My father, at the head of the table, gave me a warm, encouraging smile. “Asher, it’s time to choose. These uncles and family friends are all eager to see you settled.” On the table lay an array of ivory tokens, each engraved with the name of a daughter from a prominent family. Only one token, tucked away in a corner, looked as if it had never been touched, its ivory yellowed with neglect. My gaze fell upon it. Seraphina Vance. The name was a curse whispered in the gilded halls of the city’s elite. The madwoman. The pariah. Rumor had it she’d set the fire that killed her mother, a blaze that had left her scarred and her left leg permanently damaged. The Vance family hadn’t even sent a proper elder, just a distant cousin to represent her name in the selection. But I remembered. I remembered being trapped in that cage, the sycophantic smiles of these same men turning to cold amusement as they snapped photos of my humiliation. Only Seraphina, in the final moments before I died, had slipped through the guards. She had brought a clean handkerchief and gently wiped the blood and grime from my face. My hand shot out, my fingers closing around the faded token without a hint of hesitation. The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. My father’s face paled. “Asher! You—” “I choose her,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet like steel. My father stared at me, his eyes wide with disbelief, before collapsing back into his chair with a heavy sigh. “Fine! But if she ever dares to harm a single hair on your head…” He didn’t need to finish. Everyone in that room understood the weight of his unspoken threat. As I left the hall, I ran straight into Isabelle and Julian. Julian’s eyes were red-rimmed, his shoulders trembling as if he were bearing the weight of the world. “Asher,” he choked out, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I know you despise me, but my art studio… it was my life’s work. Why did you have to destroy it?” Isabelle’s gaze turned to ice. “Asher, did you have to be so cruel just to win my hand?” I gave them a dismissive glance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I tried to walk past, but she grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “Apologize! And you will pay for every penny of damage! Otherwise, you can forget about me ever stepping foot in the Grey family mansion!” Julian quickly tugged at her arm. “Isabelle, don’t! Asher, it’s all my fault, all of it!” He looked at me, tears glistening in his eyes. “I’ll get on my knees. Just please, give me back my studio.” His performance only fueled Isabelle’s fury. “Apologize to Julian. His health is fragile—give him your private clinic. And twenty of the best nurses, a dedicated medical team, on call 24/7.” I ripped my arm from her grasp and let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Isabelle, are you delusional? You vastly overestimate your own importance.” “The token I chose… it wasn’t yours.” A flicker of something unreadable crossed Julian’s face. “What did you say?” Isabelle’s pupils contracted, then her lips twisted into a mocking smile. “Stop posturing. Are you really this jealous of the attention I give Julian?” I couldn’t be bothered to argue. I turned and walked away, a wave of relief washing over me. This time, I was free. Free from the madness of Isabelle Thorne. The next day, I went to my private art gallery, intending to select a painting as a welcoming gift for Seraphina. But when I pushed open the heavy oak doors, I froze. 2 The walls were a shrine to Julian Reed. Portraits of him in every conceivable pose: dashing and confident, brooding and melancholic, a lazy, seductive smile playing on his lips. Each canvas was meticulously framed, gleaming under the gallery lights. “Do you like them?” Isabelle’s voice was a soft caress as she stroked the painted cheek of one of the portraits. “From now on, for every birthday, I’ll give you the most special gift.” A faint blush colored the tips of Julian’s ears. “Isabelle, you’re too good to me. How can I ever repay you?” he murmured, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her lips. The kiss deepened, turning desperate and hungry. I rapped my knuckles sharply on the doorframe. They sprang apart, flustered. Isabelle frowned. “What are you doing here?” “My own gallery. Do I need to report to you to enter it?” A familiar tightness gripped my chest. It was here, in this very room, that I had once signed over the keys to my family’s empire to this venomous woman. A smirk played on her lips. “Why so hostile?” She let out a derisive scoff. “Asher, haven’t you been trailing after me like a lost puppy since we were children? What is this, some new game? Playing hard to get?” “Stop pretending,” she said, her voice dripping with contempt. “You love me so much. You could never truly let me go.” “Security!” My voice was ice. “Get this trash—the paintings and the people—out of my sight!” “Don’t! Isabelle gave these to me!” Julian lunged for my arm, but the moment his fingers brushed my sleeve, he theatrically threw himself backward, stumbling into a glass coffee table. Shards of glass sliced into his calf, and blood began to well up. “Asher!” Isabelle shrieked, shoving me with all her might. I staggered back, crashing into a metal easel. A warm liquid trickled down my cheek, but I felt no pain. Isabelle grabbed a can of paint thinner from a nearby cart and hurled its contents at me. “Asher! Are you insane?” She helped a whimpering Julian to his feet and stormed out. I knelt amidst the wreckage, a sudden, horrifying thought striking me. “My mother’s painting… Spring Serenity… where is it?” A trembling gallery assistant pointed to a corner. The painting, my mother’s last gift to me, was completely defiled by streaks of crimson paint. “Mom…” I whispered, clutching the ruined canvas. Tears mixed with the blood on my face, dripping onto the canvas. Whir… whir… The soft, rhythmic sound of a wheelchair approached. I looked up. A figure sat at the edge of the light, half in shadow. A silver mask gleamed coldly, but it couldn’t hide the slight tremble of her long lashes. It was Seraphina. “Don’t be sad,” she said, her gaze flickering from the gash on my forehead before quickly looking away. “Ointment.” She held out a small, pearlescent tube. Her fingers were long and elegant, but they curled inward as my eyes met hers. “It will scar otherwise.” I stared at the tube in my hand. Of course. The Vance family was a medical dynasty, their name synonymous with healing, their corporation holding a near-monopoly on the city’s pharmaceutical industry. As I took it, her fingertips brushed mine. She flinched as if burned and snatched her hand back. “I know you were forced to choose me,” she said, her voice a low, raspy whisper. Each word was spoken slowly, deliberately. “I will have the engagement annulled. You don’t have to put yourself through this.” The wheels of her chair squeaked as she turned to leave. “Wait!” I scrambled to my feet, blocking her path. Her entire body went rigid. She averted her face, her posture screaming panic. “I’m serious,” I said, looking directly at her, willing her to see the truth in my eyes. “It was always you I chose.” Her fingers gripped the armrests of her wheelchair so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her ears flushed a deep, beautiful crimson. After a long moment, she gave a tiny, almost inaudible nod. “Okay.” 3 Seraphina sent over a trove of medicinal herbs and restorative tonics. The cut on my forehead had already scabbed over. Each time I applied the soothing balm, the image of her crimson ears would flash in my mind, warming me from the inside out. One afternoon, I was heading into a high-end boutique on Fifth Avenue when Julian’s cloying voice drifted out. “Izzy, darling, I adore all of these suits!” As he spoke, he idly fiddled with a cufflink, though his eyes kept darting toward the most expensive items in the showroom. Isabelle’s tone was pure indulgence. “If you like them, take them all. Put it on Asher’s tab.” I stepped through the door with a cold smile. Seeing me, Isabelle showed no guilt, only lifting her chin in defiance. “You hurt Julian the other day. Consider this your apology.” Suddenly, Julian’s eyes landed on the trench coat I was wearing. They lit up. “Isabelle, that coat Asher has on… I want one too.” The store manager looked uncomfortable. “My apologies, sir, but that piece is a limited edition. Mr. Grey placed his reservation for it six months ago.” Julian’s face fell instantly. “Oh, never mind then…” he sighed. “Someone like me, from a simple background… I could never deserve something so fine.” As he spoke, he subconsciously rubbed his left calf, the very spot he’d “accidentally” injured at the gallery. Isabelle’s heart melted. She turned to me, her voice now a sharp command. “Asher, your closet is overflowing. Give him the coat.” I laughed. “And why should I?” “As compensation,” she hissed under her breath. “That push you gave him at the gallery? He was in pain for two weeks.” Before I could retort, Julian let out a pained gasp. Isabelle was at his side in an instant. “What is it? Is it hurting again?” “It’s nothing…” he said weakly, shaking his head, though beads of sweat were already forming on his brow. Isabelle’s eyes hardened into daggers. “Asher. Give him the coat.” I turned to my bodyguards at the door. “Please escort these two out.” But the two men, men my father had hired, merely hesitated. “Mr. Grey, sir, you’ll be marrying Miss Thorne soon. Perhaps it’s best to just listen to her…” Before I could process their betrayal, Isabelle gave a subtle nod. In a flash, the bodyguards seized my arms, twisting them behind my back and forcing me to my knees on the cold marble floor. “Strip it off him!” Isabelle’s voice rang out from above me. The store staff froze, horrified. Isabelle scoffed. “He’s been chasing me for years. Once we’re married, what’s his is mine. Now do it.” A trembling salesman stepped forward and undid the buttons of my coat. As the fabric was torn from my shoulders, my hands clenched into fists, my knuckles turning white. Isabelle draped the coat over Julian’s shoulders. “It looks much better on you, my dear,” she cooed. Julian bit his lip. “But… won’t Asher be angry?” Isabelle pulled out her phone and, aiming it at my disheveled form, snapped several photos. “Asher, if you dare cause Julian any more trouble, I’ll make sure the whole world sees you like this.” “Isabelle,” I ground out, my voice dangerously low. “You are truly disgusting.” The memories of my past life surged, her sneering face overlapping with the one before me now. One of the staff, unable to watch any longer, quietly handed me a spare jacket. I threw it on and stormed out of the store. When my father saw my state, he shattered his teacup against the wall in a blind rage. “That Thorne girl dares to treat you this way?! I’m going to their family right now and demand an explanation!” “Dad, calm down,” I said, wiping the sweat from my brow. “I have a way to handle them. But first, let’s deal with those traitors.” A week before the wedding, I went to the cemetery alone. “Mom, I won’t make the same mistake again.” My phone buzzed. An urgent notification from my bank. My private $50 million trust fund had been completely emptied. 4 I immediately called my assistant. “Sir, someone forged your signature and transferred the entire amount!” Twenty minutes later, I stormed into Julian Reed’s newly opened studio. “Isabelle!” My voice cut through the air, silencing the entire space. “Who gave you permission to touch my trust fund?” She turned around slowly, a picture of nonchalance. “Asher, you’ve bullied Julian time and again. Consider this money an apology.” She deliberately raised her voice for all to hear. “Besides, it’ll all be community property after we’re married. Don’t be so petty.” My chest heaved. The room began to spin. Just then, a familiar glint of green on Julian’s hand caught my eye. It was my mother’s emerald signet ring, her most cherished possession, which I kept locked away in a bank vault. I grabbed Julian’s wrist. “Take that ring off.” Julian’s eyes immediately welled with tears as he scrambled to hide behind Isabelle. Isabelle sighed in annoyance. “It’s just an old ring…” “I said, take it off!” I lunged for it. In the struggle, the ring slipped from his finger, clattering against the marble floor. A hairline fracture spiderwebbed across the emerald’s surface. Crack! The sharp sound of my hand striking his face echoed in the room. Julian clutched his cheek. Isabelle, incensed, shoved me back. “Have you lost your mind?” I lifted my head, my gaze cold and hard as I stared her down. She was so taken aback by the look in my eyes that she took an involuntary step back, her voice losing its edge. “It-it’s just a ring. Why are you so angry…?” I slowly knelt, my fingers trembling as I picked up the fractured pieces. Back in my car, the veins on the hand clutching the broken ring stood out like cords. I opened my phone. The internet had exploded. #HeirStrippedInPublic The article featured the photos from the boutique: me, clothes in disarray, while Julian stood beside Isabelle, wearing my coat. The caption read: “Some things, even when stolen, will never truly belong to you.” I shut my phone off. The same words, I thought, could be said for him. Stolen things never last. The online abuse was relentless, a flood of hateful comments that cut like knives. “Asher Grey is such a doormat, letting his fiancée walk all over him!” “Look at that pathetic loser. He deserves to be treated like dirt.” My voice was terrifyingly calm when I called my assistant. “Scrub those posts from the internet. And I want that money back, every last cent. No matter the cost, no matter the means. If the bank gives you any trouble, tell them to prepare for a lawsuit. And if anyone gets in our way…” I let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Remind them what happens when you cross the Grey family.” On the morning of the wedding, Isabelle called. “Asher…” Her voice was laced with the same old arrogance and certainty. “You terrified Julian the other day over that silly ring. His nerves are completely shot; the doctor says he needs absolute peace and quiet!” I stood before my closet mirror, adjusting my cufflinks. My reflection smirked back at me. “So you plaster my humiliation all over the internet to soothe your little lover’s feelings?” She scoffed. “Don’t forget, your father’s mining venture still depends on my family’s connections. Who else but me can pull those strings for you?” I slowly straightened my tie, my fingers drumming a soft rhythm on the mahogany dresser. “How about this,” she said, her tone that of a queen bestowing a great favor. “Transfer fifty percent of your shares to Julian. Think of it as a pre-wedding gift to me.” She let out a light laugh. “After all, once we’re married, what’s mine is yours.” In the background, I heard Julian call out “Isabelle” affectionately. Her voice instantly softened. “I’ll be right there!” “Just agree to my terms, and I promise, I’ll be at the altar on time.” I ended the call and blocked her number. Inside the grand ballroom, a collective gasp went through the crowd as Seraphina’s wheelchair was guided down the aisle. She wore a simple, elegant silver mask, but when her eyes met mine, they curved into a breathtaking smile. BANG! The main doors were thrown open. Isabelle stormed in, wearing a magnificent white wedding gown, a triumphant smile already on her lips. But when her gaze fell upon Seraphina beside me, her face contorted into a mask of pure fury. “Asher,” she hissed, her voice trembling, “what is the meaning of this?” “Seraphina Vance!” she shrieked suddenly. “What are you doing here?” It was the question on every guest’s mind. The reclusive Seraphina Vance never attended social functions. I took a step forward, placing myself protectively in front of Seraphina’s wheelchair. Isabelle’s face turned a shade of sickly green. “Asher, today is our wedding day. Why is she here?” Julian scurried up beside her. “Asher, even if Isabelle has been spending a bit more time with me lately, you didn’t have to hire a cripple just to make her jealous, did you?” I took a deep breath. “Isabelle—” “Enough!” She lunged forward and grabbed my arm. “I am your wife-to-be! How dare you play these childish games?” I violently shook her off. At that exact moment, the officiant’s voice boomed through the hall’s sound system, clear and resolute. “Distinguished guests, we welcome you to celebrate the union of Mr. Asher Grey and Miss Seraphina Vance.”

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I got blacklisted by my boss’s girlfriend. She screamed at me over the phone. “You’re his subordinate! A female subordinate! Don’t you have any goddamn boundaries? Hitting on your own boss after hours?” But the multimillion-dollar contract in my hands was set to expire tomorrow. When I tried calling back, my number was blocked. My boss was MIA. No one at the company would answer. The next morning, my boss, Leo, showed up at my front door, company seal in hand. I yawned. “Leo, you’re a grown man. Don’t you think you should have some boundaries?” I leaned against the doorframe. “Showing up at your female subordinate’s apartment this early? A little inappropriate, don’t you think?” 1 We were finalizing the terms of the contract when the door to Leo’s office creaked open. His girlfriend, Chloe, peeked her head in. Her eyes landed on me and instantly froze. Her eyelids were puffy and red. Her voice, thick with unshed tears, was a careful whisper. “Leo… am I interrupting?” My hand, resting on the printed agreement, went still. Leo froze, a statue of pure awkwardness. He snapped out of it and moved to take her hand, but Chloe flinched back, a single, perfect tear tracing a path down her cheek. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to doubt you… It’s just… I hear things. People say that bosses always end up falling for their indispensable assistants, and I just get so scared…” I said nothing. I simply closed my laptop. Leo’s face flushed, a chaotic mix of red and white. His words tumbled out in a rush. “Chloe, don’t be ridiculous. We’re just talking about a contract. That’s all.” “A contract…” Chloe’s quiet sniffles blossomed into a full-blown sob. “I know Avery is brilliant. Not like me. I can’t help you with anything; I just get in your way. But… but does talking business really require a closed door?” Leo’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the weeping Chloe to me, then back again. His gaze finally settled on me, heavy with an unmistakable plea for me to just make this easy for him. “Avery, look… Why don’t you step out for a minute? Let me clear this up with her.” I stood, gathering my files from his desk. “Fine,” I said. “But Mr. Henderson is waiting for the final version. If we don’t have it locked in by 9 a.m. tomorrow, the penalty is fifteen percent of the total project value.” I paused at the door, turning back to him. “And Leo? My salary doesn’t include a line item for mediating your relationship drama.” With that, I pulled the door open and walked out, leaving behind the image of Leo’s stunned face and the sound of Chloe’s escalating cries. 2 The office was eerily quiet. Chloe had started as the front desk admin two years ago. Last year, she became Leo’s girlfriend and had carried herself like the First Lady ever since. She viewed any female creature that came within a ten-foot radius of Leo as a mortal enemy. Somehow, she still had a flock of supporters. Right now, she was leaning against the reception desk, “sharing” something with a few colleagues. Her voice was a syrupy-sweet confection, punctuated by delicate giggles behind her hand. But her eyes were like hooks, flicking in my direction again and again. “Oh, Avery just works so hard, it breaks my heart,” she sighed, loud enough for me to hear. “A girl has to take care of herself, you know? If Leo knew how much she was pushing herself, he’d blame me for not looking after you better.” She let out another little laugh. “My Leo is just too soft-hearted. He always feels like he owes his hardworking employees so much. I’ve told him a million times, ‘Don’t be too nice to your subordinates, honey. You don’t want to give them the wrong idea.’” The air around me grew thick, the gazes of my coworkers sticky with a mix of curiosity and malicious glee. I ignored it all, pouring every ounce of my focus into the contract revisions. An hour later, I had checked every clause, every word, every comma. I clicked send. Recipient: Leo Miller. The moment the email left my outbox, a pair of exquisite stilettos stopped beside my desk. Chloe leaned down, holding Leo’s phone in her manicured hand. “Great work, Avery. You’re such a trooper,” she chirped, her smile a mask of pure innocence. She wiggled the phone. “Leo left this with me. He didn’t want me to worry.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “It was just a precaution, you know, in case any little bees tried to buzz around my husband…” She pulled back, her eyes wide. “Oh my god, Avery, don’t get me wrong! I wasn’t talking about you! I’m sure you were just sending a work email.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it was perfectly pitched to carry across the entire open-plan office. From the next cubicle, I heard a choked-off snort of laughter. Someone else muttered, dripping with sarcasm, “Well, well. When the real girlfriend has to come mark her territory, you know someone doesn’t have any boundaries.” “Seriously. Director at twenty-eight? You think she got that with just her ‘work ethic’? Please. We all know what kind of ‘ethic’ gets you that kind of promotion.” I smiled, leaning back in my chair. “Chloe, the word you used was ‘husband,’” I said, my voice calm and clear. “When was the wedding? I must have missed the invitation.” 3 Chloe’s face turned a blotchy crimson. She stood there, neck rigid, unable to form a single word. Finally, she shot me a venomous glare, spun on her heel, and clip-clopped away in a fury. Around me, heads ducked in unison as everyone suddenly became intensely interested in their work. I ignored them, my attention returning to the screen. Time ticked by. The sky outside my window bled from gray to black. The office emptied out until I was the only one left, but the door to Leo’s office remained shut. The company seal I needed never appeared. At 8 p.m., I dialed Leo’s number. “Hello?” I suppressed the knot of anxiety in my stomach. “Chloe, please put Leo on the phone. There’s an urgent contract that needs his attention.” A light, musical laugh echoed from the other end. “Oh, Director Reed, still trying to talk business with a man this late? My Leo is already fast asleep.” My grip on the phone tightened. My voice dropped three degrees. “This contract is worth tens of millions of dollars. The final deadline is 9 a.m. tomorrow. The company cannot afford the penalty fee.” “Oh, what a shame,” she cooed. “But work is never-ending, isn’t it? And a man’s health is the most important thing. I just couldn’t bear to wake him up right now. You’re so capable, Director Reed. I’m sure you can figure something out on your own, right?” She hung up before I could reply. I immediately redialed. A cold, robotic voice met my ear. The user you are trying to reach is unavailable. I tried again. Same message. She had blocked my number. 4 I switched to the messaging app and sent Leo a text. [Leo, the Henderson contract is due at 9 a.m. The penalty for default is catastrophic for the company. Please call me back ASAP to get the seal.] A red exclamation mark appeared next to my message. [This user is not accepting messages from you.] Perfect. I picked up my desk phone and started calling the other executives. The VP’s phone rang twice before he declined the call. A second later, a text came in. [Avery, it’s not that I don’t want to help, but… you know how it is with Leo and Chloe. It’s not really my place to call him right now, is it?] The CFO actually answered, his voice thick with sleep. “Avery, calm down, calm down. It’s just… Leo is… well, you know. Chloe is on the warpath. And as important as this contract is, Leo’s home life is more important, right? Just wait. We’ll sort it out tomorrow. Tomorrow.” “Mark,” I interrupted him, “at 9 a.m. tomorrow, the conversation won’t be about the contract. It will be about how we’re going to pay a ten-million-dollar penalty.” The line went dead silent. Then, a dry chuckle. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can do.” And then, nothing. Out of options, I opened the company-wide group chat. I typed out a message and sent it to all staff. [URGENT ALL-STAFF: The contract for the Henderson Group’s multi-million dollar project requires the official company seal by 9 a.m. tomorrow, or we will face catastrophic default penalties. I am currently unable to reach Leo. If anyone has a way of contacting him, please assist. This is critical to the company’s survival.] The chat remained a digital graveyard. A few seconds later, Leo’s profile picture popped up. But the words were pure Chloe. [@Avery Reed, sweetie, I know you’re just trying to help the company, but Leo is really not feeling well today. He needs his rest. Sending messages like this so late at night is just going to make everyone worry.] Another message followed immediately. [And… a multi-million dollar contract? I’ve never heard Leo mention it. Avery, you have to be so careful. You don’t want to get scammed by someone on the outside. If the contract turns out to be fake, Leo would feel just terrible for you. And if the company lost that much money… how could you ever bear that responsibility all by yourself?] Every word was a poisoned dart. Before I could even type a response, a small gray banner appeared at the top of my screen. [You have been removed from the group by the administrator.]

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After my best friend was raped and took her own life, I covered for the man who did it. Lily’s mother fell to her knees on my porch, her forehead hitting the worn wooden planks as she begged me, but I just shut the door. When the townsfolk came with torches and threats, I let my dog bite them. Ten years later, on the verge of death, my other best friend, Sloane Davenport, came back. Now the richest self-made woman in the country, she returned with the righteous fury of a god. The first thing she did was drag me to the center of the Havenwood town square and strap me into the Memory Extractor, a machine typically reserved for death row inmates. “Wren Bishop, you filth,” she spat, her voice broadcast across the square. “You protected a rapist. Lily and I were fools to ever call you our friend.” Her words were acid. “Lily’s been gone for ten years, and for ten years you let her killer walk free.” Her eyes, once so warm, were now chips of ice. “Today, I’m going to use the technology I developed to see exactly who you’ve been protecting. We’re going to watch your memories, Wren. All of them.” But when the killer’s face finally materialized on the massive screen behind us, Sloane’s own face went dead white. 1 The spectacle Sloane orchestrated was immense. The entire town of Havenwood was packed into the square, a suffocating sea of bodies. News crews had set up tripods and satellite trucks, their live feeds plastered across every major network. I was half-dead already, my organs failing, kept alive by a drip of medications and nutritional fluids. They hauled me from the hospice van like a convicted felon and secured me to a steel chair on the stage. A man lunged from the crowd, his hands closing around my throat. “Wren Bishop, why did you protect him?” he roared, his face purple with rage. “You animal! You ruined my family! Why don’t you just die!” My vision swam in black spots as I choked for air. The crowd erupted, a wave of pure hatred. “That’s her! The heartless bitch! Her friend gets raped, and she knows who did it but stays silent!” “Her friend jumped in the river, and she wouldn’t even open the door for the poor girl’s mother! Let her break her head on the porch!” “She even sicced her dog on people! She’s disgusting!” The insults washed over me, a filthy tide. Sloane stood to the side, her brow furrowed into a knot of cold fury. Besides Lily’s family, there was no one on earth who hated me more than her. Ten years ago, the three of us—me, Lily, and Sloane—were inseparable. After Lily was defiled in the woods near my house and drowned herself in the river, our bond shattered. It was all because of Lily’s suicide note. A single sentence: Wren saw him. I became an accomplice. And the truth was, I had protected him. Sloane approached me now, her voice devoid of any warmth. “Wren, I’m giving you one last chance. Name him now. Confess to the police. It’s not too late…” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a hiss. “But once I turn this machine on, the high-frequency pulses will make every bone in your body feel like it’s been ground to dust. There will be no more chances to save yourself.” My face, already pale from sickness, lost its last trace of color. I thrashed against the restraints, my voice a raw croak. “Sloane, no! You can’t! You can’t see my memories!” Sloane grabbed my hand, her grip like a vice. “Scared?” she sneered. “You don’t have a choice. I have to get justice for Lily.” Tears streamed down my face as I begged her. “Sloane, please, listen to me. My memories can’t be made public. You’ll regret this!” She let out a short, bitter laugh, her eyes bloodshot. “Regret? The only thing I regret is ever being your friend.” Two of her security guards forced me back into the chair, the cold steel locking around my wrists and ankles. Ignoring my struggles, they slammed a heavy helmet onto my head. A thousand tiny needles pierced my scalp, sinking into my brain. Pain, white-hot and absolute, seized me. My body convulsed, a scream tearing from my throat as my very soul felt like it was being ripped apart. Even then, the crowd wasn’t satisfied. They hurled rotten vegetables and eggs at the stage, their curses relentless. “Traitor! Backstabbing bitch! Go to hell!” And on the giant screen, my memories began to rewind. The first scene appeared before them all. 2 The first image: three days after Lily’s death. I was being dragged before her casket at the funeral home, everyone screaming at me, demanding the killer’s name. They spat on me. They threw rocks. Hands grabbed my arms, tore at my hair until it hung in wild clumps. Fists rained down on me until my face was a swollen, bruised mess. I broke free and ran, the sound of the angry mob chasing me through the streets. Ahead of me, the sky glowed orange. My house, the only home I’d ever known, was engulfed in flames, a bonfire built by their rage. I could only stand and watch, helpless. Homeless, I fled with my dog, Buddy, into the deep woods of the ridges. But they found me. As I watched, screaming, they cornered Buddy and beat him to death with tire irons. They cooked him over a fire. I clutched a piece of his charred leg bone and sobbed until my throat was raw. That year, an orphan with no one in the world, I was sixteen years old. On the stage, Sloane stared at the image of my weeping, teenage face on the screen and laughed without humor. “Wren, you deserved every bit of it, didn’t you? Do you really think you were the victim here? Would any of that have happened if you hadn’t protected a monster? Of all the people in the world, you’re the last one who gets to feel sorry for herself. This was all your own doing.” Others in the crowd chimed in. “Shameless! Acting like she’s the one to pity.” “Trying to get sympathy with this sob story? Pathetic! Covering for a criminal makes you a criminal! She should rot in hell!” “Who does she think she’s fooling? Lily’s family was destroyed. Their daughter is dead, her mother lost her mind. Anyone is more pitiful than her!” Just then, a girl’s bright laughter echoed from the screen. “Lily! Slow down!” Lily’s young, innocent face filled the display. We were on a snow-covered mountain, and she was running toward me, her eyes sparkling with joy. “Heads up!” she yelled, tossing a snowball at me. “My baby girl…” Lily’s father cried out, stumbling toward the screen. Looking at his daughter’s smiling face, he finally broke, his body wracked with deep, gut-wrenching sobs. In the ten years since Lily’s death, this once-jovial man had become a ghost, his hair turning white overnight. Every year, he went to the sheriff’s department and asked the same question: Have you found him yet? And every year, the answer was a sad shake of the head. Our town had no cameras back then, and my house was isolated. No one knew who had followed Lily into the woods that night. Except for me. In the memory, after our snowball fight, I knelt reverently before Spirit Rock, a local landmark where kids made wishes. “Please,” I whispered, my breath fogging in the cold air, “let my friends be healthy and happy, and let our friendship last forever…” Seeing my earnest expression, Sloane’s control finally snapped. “You two-faced, hypocritical snake! You ungrateful parasite!” She stormed onto the stage, jabbing a finger at my image on the screen. “How dare you remember our childhood! Who are you trying to fool with this act? For ten years, you never once told the truth. Do you have any right to call yourself our friend?” As if on cue, the next memory showed me secretly throwing away a mango Lily had given me. The crowd went wild. “What the hell? She takes their food and then throws it out behind their backs!” “Sloane and Lily were so good to her, and this is how she repays them? She’s nothing but a selfish, cold-hearted ghoul!” Sloane knew I had a severe mango allergy. But she didn’t explain that to the crowd. She let their insults continue. “She probably never imagined Ms. Davenport would become the richest woman in the country and come back to settle the score!” “Come on, Ms. Davenport, get on with it! We’re all waiting to see the killer’s face!” Amid the jeers and curses, the scene on the screen shifted again. 3 Sloane’s heart-wrenching scream filled the air. “Lily! Don’t you die on me! Lily!” It was the day they pulled Lily’s body from the river. The rain was a cold, miserable drizzle. Sloane and I were kneeling on the muddy bank, our cries tearing through the gray air. Lily’s body was bloated and swollen, her skin icy and rigid. She looked nothing like the girl I remembered, the girl who loved to laugh and dress up. I stumbled home in a daze, collapsing in a corner, sobbing uncontrollably. “Ah!” I beat my fists against my chest, the pain of losing my dearest friend threatening to tear me apart. On the platform, my eyes were squeezed shut, tears tracking silently down my hollow cheeks. My own broken scream echoed from the screen. “Lily! Why did you do it? Why?” My grief was a raw, gaping wound, a bottomless pit of despair. The sight of my anguish on the screen stunned the crowd into a momentary silence. “What’s going on?” “Why does she look so heartbroken? How could she…” Lily’s father’s voice cut through the confusion, dripping with venom. “Crocodile tears!” he shouted. “That year, my wife knelt on her doorstep, begging her, bashing her own head on the wood until it bled, and she wouldn’t even open the door! She let her dog attack us! Is that the kind of person who feels grief? Lily was her friend since they were kids, and that’s how she treated the mother of her dead friend!” Just then, Lily’s mother appeared at the edge of the square, her hair a tangled mess, clutching a porcelain doll. She was muttering to it, rocking it gently. “It’s okay, Lily. Don’t be scared, Lily.” The crowd’s anger reignited. Sloane’s face was a mask of conflicting emotions, shifting from pale to flushed. She rushed forward and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me violently. Her eyes were wild and red. “Look, Wren! Look what you’ve done! This is the tragedy you caused by protecting him! You’re an orphan, you had no one, so Lily and I took pity on you since you were seven years old! We were good to you! And this is how you repay us?” Her hand flew up and cracked across my face. The sound was like a gunshot in the tense silence. “You still want to play the victim?” she shrieked, her chest heaving. Unbidden, tears began to fall from her eyes, tears of pure, shattered agony. “You want me to feel sorry for you after you let Lily die? You think these memories will soften me?” “Lily is dead!” she screamed, her voice breaking. “And the person who killed her… is you! It’s you, Wren Bishop!” She shook me again, the hatred in her eyes enough to incinerate me. For her, Lily’s death had been a tsunami that had leveled her world, leaving behind an endless, desolate wetland of grief. Suddenly, Sloane straightened up, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. In an instant, her sorrow was replaced by a chilling resolve. “I’m telling you, Wren, I won’t stop until I find him. And when I do, I will send you to hell right along with that monster.” Her face was grim as she signaled to the technicians. “Increase the extraction range.” She was done watching my performance. The technician hurried over to the console. The red needle on the dial shot up, and the pins inside the helmet drove deeper into my brain. “Aaargh!” A scream of pure agony ripped from my throat. A powerful electric current surged through my mind, and flashes of white light exploded behind my eyes. I convulsed violently, my limbs straining against the iron shackles. Blood began to trickle from my hairline, dripping onto the cold steel of the chair. The images on the screen flickered erratically. A classroom. A creek bed. A mountain path. All of them memories of the three of us—me, Sloane, and Lily—happy and together. But there was nothing from the night Lily was attacked. The crowd grew restless. The live-stream chat was a scrolling frenzy. “What’s happening? Where’s the memory of the rape?” “I thought she saw the killer!” Sloane’s brow tightened. She turned to the technician, her voice low and dangerous. “What is this? Why can’t we find the memory of the attack?” The technician wiped sweat from his forehead, stammering, “Ms. Davenport… it seems… she’s fighting the system. She’s refusing to let that memory be extracted.” 4 “What? Refusing?” Sloane’s face was a picture of disbelief, her gaze turning venomous as she looked at me. She slammed her hand on a nearby table. “Wren! Even now, you’re still resisting? Who is so important that you’d protect them with your life? He’s a rapist!” She had asked me the same question ten years ago. When Lily’s note was made public, I became the town pariah. Everyone demanded to know who the killer was. Sloane’s faith in me crumbled in less than a day, moving from disbelief to doubt, then to outright accusation. She was the only one who knew I was hiding in a cave up on the ridge. And when the mob found Buddy, she stood by and watched. As they beat my dog to death, I begged her to stop, but she just picked up a heavy branch and brought it down on my head. Blood streamed into my eyes, blurring my vision. Her face was contorted with rage. “Wren, we grew up together. We treated you like a sister. What did you treat us as? For a rapist, you’re throwing away your best friends?” I was nearly beaten to death that night. It was Sloane’s mother who finally dragged her away, her eyes wild with a fury I’d never seen before. Two days later, their family moved out of state. They never came back. Now, Sloane’s eyes were just as cold, staring at me as if I were something vile. She waved a hand dismissively, her voice sharp and final. “Continue. Widen the extraction field. I don’t care what it takes.” The technician hesitated. “But, Ms. Davenport, her physical condition is extremely fragile, and she’s resisting with everything she has. If we continue to expand the extraction…” “She might not survive it,” Sloane finished for him, a cold sneer on her lips. “Survive? I’ve spent the better part of my life and my fortune perfecting this technology for one reason: to find the truth. I don’t give a damn if she lives or dies. The world would be better off without trash like her.” At her command, the technician shakily adjusted the parameters. The hum of the machine intensified, and the needles in the helmet plunged deeper. “Aaaah!” My scream echoed across the square. Blood poured from my nose, ears, and the corners of my eyes. My chest felt like it was on fire, and my body thrashed wildly in the chair. The technician’s face was slick with sweat. “Ms. Davenport… should we continue? She… she’s not going to make it!” Sloane stared at the screen, her expression unreadable. “Continue,” she said, her voice a whisper of ice. The machine roared. The screen flickered violently. My consciousness was fighting a losing battle. My screams were a horrifying soundtrack to the spectacle. Sloane’s eyes were blood-red, and she shrieked at me, half-mad with desperation, “Wren, who was it? Who is worth this?” Suddenly, her rage broke. She collapsed against me, her shoulders shaking with sobs, tears streaming down her face and onto my shoulder. “We were your friends, Wren… We were supposed to be your friends…” Her body shuddered, her grief uncontrollable. The warmth of her tears soaked through my thin gown. Hearing her cry, a jolt went through me. A sharp pain lanced through my chest. My friend, my Sloane, is crying. I subconsciously tried to raise my hand, to wipe away her tears. In that single moment of lapsed concentration, the memory I had guarded with my life broke free. It flashed onto the screen. The crowd gasped. Sloane looked up in shock, her eyes widening. When she saw the familiar face on the giant screen, all the color drained from hers.

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A father and son I’d never met dragged me before the Memory Adjudication Court. They accused me of neglecting my husband and child, of lavish spending, of a life steeped in selfishness. But when the court played my memories for all to see, it was they who faced the condemnation of the world, they who had everything stripped away. “Honey… Mom… I was wrong,” they cried, their voices tangled together in a pathetic plea. “I swear, I never knew the truth was like that. Please, just give me one more chance.” I simply stepped around their outstretched hands. “I don’t know you.” The men suing me were named Ethan and Dylan Monroe. The list of charges was long. As a wife, they claimed, I was a lazy freeloader who treated her own child with contempt. I showed no concern for my husband, a man who gave me his complete trust and love, while I spent my days eating, drinking, and flirting with a string of other men. As a mother, they said I was cruel. I would beat our son, Dylan, and would sooner give money to a boy with no blood relation than help my own flesh and blood when he was ready to get married. They accused me of poisoning his relationship with his fiancée, turning our home into a constant war zone. They wanted me in court. They wanted compensation for years of emotional distress. Five hundred thousand dollars. 1 I sat on the defendant’s stand, my face a placid mask. It was easy to feel nothing. I didn’t recognize them at all. It had all started the day before, just two days after I’d walked out of The Phoenix Clinic, my memory wiped clean. They cornered me on the street. They introduced themselves as my husband and son. The story they spun was that I’d tried to assert my dominance over my new daughter-in-law by deliberately cooking a meal she wouldn’t like. When she, understandably, got upset, I used it as an excuse to storm out and run away from home, a calculated move to pressure her into an apology. The crowd that gathered instantly took their side. “Ugh, one of those monster-in-laws, trying to pull a power play,” someone muttered. “Got put in her place and now she’s throwing a tantrum. It’s 2042, for God’s sake. Grow up.” “Seriously,” another voice added. “Why should the poor girl have to apologize to her? Old bats like that should just disappear.” It wasn’t until the police arrived that they learned the truth: I’d undergone a memory erasure procedure. Of course I didn’t know them. Their shock was palpable. They called me irresponsible, a coward. And they were going to sue. Which brought us here. Now, at the plaintiff’s table, Ethan Monroe’s face was slick with tears. “I worked myself to the bone for you,” he choked out, his voice echoing through the courtroom. “All those client dinners, the endless schmoozing, drinking until I was sick… and every penny I earned, I gave to you. I did everything you ever asked. What more could you possibly want? You’ve made my entire life feel like a joke!” Beside him, Dylan was also sobbing, gasping for breath. “Mom, we’re mother and son. We share the same blood. Why would you love a stranger more than me? You always did, and you still do. Why couldn’t you ever just see me?” I remained silent. To me, everyone in this room was a stranger. I knew the answer to his question even less than he did. A commotion erupted at the back of the courtroom. An elderly couple, their hair white as bone, burst through the doors. The moment the old man saw me, he raised his cane, his face contorted with rage. “You heartless woman! We moved back to the countryside to give you space! You promised us you’d finally try to make a life with him. Why do you have to keep tormenting us?” The old woman chimed in, her voice a shrill wail. “When you first married into our family, you couldn’t even boil water! I taught you everything, step by step! You told us you never had a new dress growing up, so I sewed you a whole closet full! What more do you want from us?” They wept, a torrent of snot and tears, painting a picture of me as some unforgivable monster. They even made a show of trying to kneel, a gesture so pathetic and overwrought that the gallery began to murmur in sympathy. Voices rose, condemning me, wishing me dead. At Ethan and Dylan’s request, the trial was being broadcast nationally, with a live public sentiment index tracking the viewers’ opinions. Right now, the holographic displays were a solid wall of vitriol directed at me. Still, I felt nothing. It was all too foreign, like watching a movie about someone else’s life. Finally, the judge’s gavel struck, the sound cracking through the noise, silencing the room. “Court is in session.” And the memories the clinic had taken from me began to play. The first image flickered to life on the screens. I was holding a tiny Dylan, rocking him gently. The front door slammed open and Ethan stumbled in, reeking of stale whiskey and cigarettes. His briefcase, coat, and shoes scattered across the floor. The noise startled the sleeping baby in my arms, and he began to scream. Ethan clapped his hands over his ears, his face a mask of irritation. Dylan’s cries only grew louder, more frantic. Nothing I did could soothe him. Ethan’s frustration boiled over. He staggered toward the bed and snatched a pillow. “Cry, cry, cry, that’s all you ever do! God, it’s driving me insane!” he roared, shoving the pillow down onto our son’s tiny face. “I’ll make you stop!” Panic seized me. I scrambled to pull him away, but his drunken rage simply shifted its target. He spun around and a fist connected with my temple. My head exploded in a flash of white, and before I could even get to my feet, he had the pillow again, pressing it down, this time over my face. Darkness. The sound of my own heart, a frantic, deafening drum against my ribs. The cold certainty of death washed over me. But Ethan, weak from the alcohol, lost his grip. He let go. Tears streaming down my face, I ignored the throbbing in my head and scooped up my still-wailing son, fleeing to another room. I locked the door behind us, my back sliding down the cold wood until I hit the floor. That’s when I realized my face was soaked, my tears dripping onto Dylan’s small cheeks, one after another, an endless stream I couldn’t wipe away fast enough. I pressed my face to his, whispering into the soft down of his hair. “It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Mommy’s here. I’ll protect you. Even if I have to die, I will always protect you.” On that freezing night, in a room with no heat, I sat barefoot on the floor, holding my son, warming him with my own body until my lips turned blue. The scene shifted. It was the next morning. I’d just finished feeding Dylan. Ethan, nursing a hangover, emerged from the bedroom. After he’d eaten, I approached him, my voice barely a whisper. “Honey, the money you gave me last month is gone. Could… could you transfer me this month’s household expenses?” It was less a question and more a plea. He slammed his fork onto the table. “I gave you fifteen hundred dollars, not fifteen. How the hell did you burn through it so fast?” He snatched my phone from my hand. “Let me see what you’ve been buying. Clothes? Makeup? If I find anything like that, I swear to God I’ll kill you! Who are you trying to impress, huh?” As he raged, my purchase history filled the screens. Baby formula. Groceries for the house. A new pair of slippers for him. Toilet paper, shampoo, soap. There were things for Dylan, things for Ethan, even things for his parents. There was nothing for me. Ethan’s finger jabbed at one line item. “Ten dollars for toilet paper? What, is your ass made of gold? We used to use newspaper, old rags! What do you need this fancy crap for?” He scrolled further. “And this! Babies can grow up perfectly fine on rice cereal. Everyone else’s kid does. Why are you wasting money on formula? Why do you always have to be so extravagant?” His voice rose to a shout. “I’m telling you now, you’re not getting another dime from me! You can see how you like it with no money to waste!” I had no words. I could only watch as he stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The formula canister was almost empty.

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I am the Arbiter of Hollywood. I decide who becomes a legend and who becomes a ghost. Ascension or annihilation—it all comes down to my judgment. Based on a nationwide vote, five of the biggest names in the industry will be brought before my tribunal. And I, Cassandra Stone, will pass sentence on a live broadcast for the entire country to see. Those who pass my judgment will ascend to a new stratosphere of fame. Those who fail… die. 1 The decennial Reckoning is about to begin. Five celebrities, chosen by the American public, sit before the tribunal table. The moment the broadcast goes live, the energy in the studio—and online—crackles. 【Our king, Liam Davenport, has been waiting for this day since his debut. He’s the definition of a law-abiding, good man. A 26-year-old saint who’s never even had an on-screen kiss. What could he possibly have done wrong?】 【OMG, I spent ten straight days voting to get Dylan Shaw into the top five. Hubby, you better not let me down!】 【To the user above, your ‘hubby’ might not be thanking you lmao. I didn’t dare vote for my fave. The list of shady shit he’s done is longer than my arm.】 【Smart move. Not only did I not vote for my guy, I coordinated with other fanbases to vote our rival, Noah Evans, into the top five. Can’t wait to watch him get torn to shreds tonight!】 A voice, deep and authoritative, echoes from above the tribunal stage. “This Reckoning will be conducted with fairness, impartiality, and total transparency, broadcast live for all citizens.” “The public is invited to scrutinize every moment. Should any evidence of tampering be found, the Arbiter will die on the spot.” 【DAYUM, they’re really raising the stakes this time.】 【Wait? So if they fail, my fave is actually gonna die? I shouldn’t have voted for him…】 【You really think they’ll kill him? It’s just a publicity stunt to get ratings.】 【Do you newbies even do your homework? At the last Reckoning, ten years ago… no one survived.】 Amidst the storm of online chatter, I walk from the wings to center stage. “Good evening. I am your Arbiter, Cassandra Stone.” My voice cuts through the noise. “The Reckoning… begins now.” 2 I look at the five celebrities seated before me, and begin to announce their names in order of votes received. “First, by popular vote, with three hundred and ninety-two million votes… Liam Davenport.” I lift my eyes to the man in the first seat. His expression is placid, radiating a cool, aristocratic calm. He seems utterly unconcerned by the proceedings. The cameras zoom in for a close-up, and the internet ignites. 【My man! Stay strong! Tonight, you ascend!】 【Seriously, look at that self-control. Does he look like a man who’s ever been touched?】 【Liam has been in the business for six years and has never even filmed a kissing scene. If he has a scandal, I’ll eat my own shoes!】 My gaze returns to my docket. “Second, with two hundred and sixty-four million votes… Dylan Shaw.” Dylan Shaw is not nearly so composed. A fine sheen of sweat beads on his forehead, and a tremor runs through his body. As the camera finds him, the comment section erupts again. 【Well, we know who’s dying first. Dylan Shaw, it’s been real.】 【WAIT! I remember Dylan telling our fan club not to vote for him! He said he wasn’t ready to ascend so quickly. You guys just don’t listen!】 【I’m crying! I thought he was just being humble!】 【Well, he’s not ascending now. More like descending… straight to hell.】 【Congrats to our Liam, one less competitor to worry about!】 I continue. “Third, with one hundred and eighty-nine million votes… Victoria Blackwood.” As I look up, my eyes meet Victoria’s. They are stunningly beautiful and sharp as glass. 【Sorry boys, but our queen’s ascension is locked in.】 【Step aside, you disgusting men. If you can’t keep it in your pants, you deserve to die.】 【Our Victoria has zero scandals, zero bad press. A true career-driven icon. The entire industry could burn down, and Victoria would still be standing.】 “Fourth, with one hundred and thirty-two million votes… Marcus Cole.” 【Marcus Cole? Didn’t he retire to work behind the scenes?】 【WTF, is this rigged? How does a guy who left the spotlight years ago get voted in?】 【Are there any Marcus Cole fans watching? I’m getting a little scared.】 【This has to be a setup. They’re all here to make Liam Davenport look good. Four sacrificial lambs. I see how it is.】 “And fifth, with ninety-eight million votes… Noah Evans.” 【??? Noah Evans got that many votes?】 【Okay, I was wrong before. Dylan dies second. Noah’s going first.】 【Noah dated that Oscar-winner and even proposed. She ghosted him, LOL.】 【Please, stop being so hateful. An actor dating isn’t a career-ending scandal.】 【Noah Evans is an actor? Your delusions are showing, honey.】 【Who the hell even voted for him? We, his actual fans, never participate in these things!】 【I didn’t even know where the voting was. Then I wake up this morning, see the headlines, and boom, Noah’s at the Reckoning.】 【Noah, you better not have done anything shady behind our backs. If you have, I’m out of here so fast.】 【To all you Noah Evans fans… I’m praying for you.】 3 Once the studio falls silent, my voice rings out again. “This Reckoning will consist of five rounds. The themes of the trials are: Lust, Greed, Envy, Pride, and Wrath.” “After each round, those who fail will face their punishment. Those who pass will proceed to the next trial.” I reach for a deck of cards resting on my lectern. “The cards will now be dealt.” I deal one card to each of them. After the fifth card is placed, I give them a nod. They can look. Their expressions shift, each one a different shade of dread or relief. “The theme of the first trial is: Lust.” “You will reveal your cards, one by one.” Liam Davenport is the picture of composure. The moment I finish speaking, he flips his card over. Instantly, every camera focuses on its surface. 【It’s blank? There’s nothing on it.】 【Did they give him the wrong card? The production team is so unprofessional. Major points deducted!】 【Doesn’t blank just mean… nothing? To the people saying it’s a mistake, maybe try reading a book sometime.】 【I’m literally weeping! Liam is so pure. I can’t imagine who will ever be worthy of him.】 As the debate rages, Dylan Shaw raises a trembling hand. “Can they go first? My stomach… I really need to use the restroom.” I nod, granting him permission. As soon as Dylan leaves the stage, Marcus Cole flips his own card. On its surface is a single digit: 1. 【What does 1 mean? One woman?】 【Marcus is married. The 1 must be for his wife.】 【Totally normal. If a guy in his thirties didn’t have a wife, you’d have to start worrying if the ‘wife’ was a dude.】 Victoria Blackwood reveals her card next. It’s blank, just like Liam’s. Now, all eyes turn to Noah Evans. He blinks slowly, his hesitation evident in the way his fingers hover over the card. Finally, he flips it. 【What? 3?】 【Scandal! But a minor one. No one’s getting cancelled over this.】 【He was only ever linked to that Oscar-winner! Who are the other two?】 【I’ll say it a million times! Actors are allowed to have a love life!】 【Where is Dylan? He’s the only one left. Did he make a run for it?】 【Dylan! I’m skipping work to watch this! My boss is gonna kill me! Get back here before he makes me log off!】 Dylan Shaw does not return. After five minutes, the authoritative voice resounds from above. “The cards have been revealed. Arbiter, deliver your judgment.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. I reach over and pick up the card belonging to Dylan Shaw, holding it up for the cameras. Two words, printed in bold, black letters, stun the audience into silence. MULTIPLE PARTNERS 【Multiple… partners?】 【What does that mean? Like… group stuff?】 【I knew Dylan had a girlfriend on the side, but I didn’t realize he had so many ‘girlfriends’…】 【Dylan, while I was losing sleep over the hate you were getting, who were you sleeping with?】 【Is this for real? But he’s not even here anymore. He’s probably on a private jet to a non-extradition country by now. How can they catch him?】 How can they catch him? An excellent question. Once my judgment is given, as long as he is alive, no matter where he runs, he will be brought back before this tribunal to face his sentence. I lower the card and my voice becomes steel. “The judgment for the first trial is now declared.” “Dylan Shaw is eliminated. The other four will proceed to the next round.” In a flash, Dylan is ripped from wherever he was by an unseen force and slammed back into his chair. His eyes are wide with terror. He tries to stand, but finds himself paralyzed. “How did I get back here? What did you do to me?” Dylan’s voice cracks, rising to a panicked shriek. “I’m done with this game! Those cards are bullshit! I never did anything like that! This is a sham trial!” “Setting up this whole goddamn circus, dragging me out of my bed this morning… what studio is behind this? I’ll sue you into oblivion! Especially you!” He points a shaking finger at me. “Cassandra Stone, right? I’ll see you in a prison cell tomorrow!” I ignore his tirade, proceeding as ordained. “We will now extract the memories of the accused, Dylan Shaw.” “The memories will be broadcast directly. Please prepare. The feed will switch in three seconds.” Three. Two. One. The screen changes. Dylan Shaw is on a hotel sofa. Kneeling before him is a young woman, her clothes torn. Just that one image sends the live chat into a frenzy. 【That’s Lily Hayes! She just got into the national film academy! She’s still a student! Dylan Shaw, you bastard!】 【I’m so fucking angry! Dylan once gave a speech at a premiere about protecting young actresses from predators, and this is what he does behind closed doors?】 【Dylan Shaw, you make me sick.】 The memory continues. The girl looks up, tears streaming down her face. “You promised. You said if I slept with you for one night, you wouldn’t recast my role. Is that still true?” Dylan lights a cigarette. He reaches out and rips away the last of her clothing. “That was yesterday’s offer.” He leans close to her ear, his voice a venomous whisper. “Today’s offer is… you sleep with us.” The girl’s eyes widen in horror. She scrambles backward. Dylan smirks, a vile, predatory expression. He glances toward the bedroom door. “Come on out, boys.” The scene that follows is too horrific for broadcast. To protect the victim, the visuals are blacked out, but the audio remains. “Help me! Somebody, help!” “Please, just let me go, I’m begging you.” “I don’t want the role anymore. I don’t want anything. Just let me leave.” “I promise, I’ll never tell anyone what happened here.” “Please… just let me go… please?” … Lily Hayes’s pleas echo through the silent studio. The audience is stunned. The live chat is blank. After what feels like an eternity, the audio fades and a new image appears on screen. It’s a video, recorded on a phone. “Hi, everyone. I’m Lily Hayes. I’m so sorry you have to see me like this.” Her voice is shaky, but resolute. “This is… incredibly difficult to talk about. But I have to stand up today, for all the other women who have been hurt.” “My name is Lily Hayes, and I am officially reporting that the actor Dylan Shaw has repeatedly coerced and assaulted aspiring actresses. He, and… and his associates.” “I have compiled a list of everyone involved. By the time you see this video, I will have turned all of this information over to the police. I trust they will handle the others.” “As for Dylan Shaw… I leave him to Cassandra Stone.” The video ends. The audience is still processing the horror. The authoritative voice returns. “The accused, Dylan Shaw, has failed the trial. Arbiter… deliver the punishment.” I raise my hand. A gleaming knife materializes in my fingers and flies from my grasp. It strikes Dylan Shaw squarely in the chest with unerring accuracy. The force of the impact throws him backward, slamming him against the massive pillar at the center of the stage—the Pillar of Shame. He is pinned there, impaled but not dead. Not yet. He is, however, in agony. My blade has a unique property. It forces the condemned to experience the full measure of their victims’ pain. From this moment on, every second for Dylan Shaw will be a reliving of the terror and agony of Lily Hayes and all the others. 4 With Dylan Shaw’s punishment delivered, I turn to the four remaining celebrities, their faces pale with shock. I offer them a faint smile. “The second trial will now begin.” I deal the cards, one to each of them. “The theme of the second trial is: Greed.” “Please, reveal your cards.” This time, there is no hesitation. As if bound by a silent agreement, they all flip their cards simultaneously. I scan the table. And I see… Four blank cards. I freeze. This is not how it’s supposed to happen. This is wrong. The audience notices immediately. 【What? No one gets eliminated in the second round?】 【Rigged! This is absolutely rigged!】 【Did you see Cassandra Stone’s face? She looks shocked. Does this mean even the Arbiter didn’t expect this?】 【Holy crap! The system broke!】 No, no. This can’t be. According to the docket, this round was meant for Marcus Cole. The charge: tax evasion. So why is his card blank? The voice from above repeats its command. “The cards have been revealed. Arbiter, deliver your judgment.” This is my first Reckoning since inheriting the role from my father. I prepared for months, memorized every procedure until it was second nature. There is no protocol for four blank cards. I stand motionless, the gears in my mind grinding, unable to deliver a judgment. “The cards have been revealed. Arbiter, deliver your judgment,” the voice insists, its tone hardening. I take a deep breath, my mind clearing, my decision made. “I request permission to extract the memory of Marcus Cole before delivering judgment.” My declaration sends Marcus’s dormant fanbase into an uproar. 【What is this Arbiter doing? His card is blank! Why is she targeting him?】 【Did your producers even do a background check? Do you know how much charity work Marcus Cole has done? The man is the furthest thing from greedy!】 【Why not pull their memories? Oh, right, because Marcus retired you think you can just pick on him?】 【I’m filing a complaint! This is a setup! The Arbiter must die!】 【I agree! I want to see Cassandra Stone die on the spot!】 After a few tense seconds, the voice returns. “Arbiter Cassandra Stone, are you certain you wish to extract the memory of Marcus Cole?” “If you accuse an innocent, it will be considered a false judgment. You will die where you stand.” My voice does not waver. “I am certain.” “The extraction will now begin. The memory of the accused, Marcus Cole, will be broadcast. Prepare for transfer in three… two… one.” The feed switches. The first image is a gut punch. Marcus Cole is throwing punch after punch at a woman curled into a ball on a sofa. The comments start flooding in. 【Is that…? Domestic violence? Is that his wife?】 【He wouldn’t do that for no reason. She must have done something to push him over the edge, right?】 【I agree. I’m a woman, but some women just ask for it.】 In the memory, Marcus, his rage spent, slumps to the floor. He sits there for a long time before reaching for the woman again. Just as the audience braces for another assault, he pulls her into a tight, desperate hug. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I… I lost control.” “I saw you talking to that man today, and I just… I got so angry.” “Please, forgive me. I only did it because I love you so much.” “I’m sorry. I promise I will never, ever hit you again.” The chat shifts again. 【See? I told you. She must have done something. Sounds like she was cheating.】 【Talking to that man? She was definitely having an affair!】 【Then she deserved it!】 The next second, the woman lifts her bruised and battered face. “But… I was just at the pharmacy. I only asked the pharmacist a question.” 【Holy shit. Not an affair. She just went to buy medicine and spoke to a male employee? That’s insane.】 【The dark ages called, they want their misogyny back.】 Marcus seems to ignite again. He lunges, his hands closing around her throat, the veins in his arms bulging with effort. “Couldn’t you have found a female pharmacist to talk to?” he seethes. “Did you think he was handsome? Did you want to sleep with him?” The woman claws at his wrists, but his grip is iron. Her face turns a deep, terrifying red, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes. “No…” she chokes out. “I just… needed medicine.” 【Why aren’t you fighting back? Get up and hit him!】 【God, this woman is pathetic. Why doesn’t she do something?】 【You people typing from your comfy chairs are unbelievable. The physical power disparity between men and women is a biological fact. You can’t even stand up to your boss for making you work overtime, but you expect a woman to fight back against a violent abuser? The only one who deserves blame here is the monster hurting her!】 【Exactly! He’s the one projecting his own sick fantasies onto her.】 Just as her breath gives out, Marcus releases his grip. He cups her face gently, placing a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “Sweetheart, as long as you promise not to talk to other men, I’ll be good to you. I promise.” “Today is over. We’ll just move on, okay? We’ll be happy.” “The kids will be home from school soon. Why don’t you go start dinner? And after we eat, I’ll take you to the hospital to get checked out. How does that sound?” “Honey, I love you so, so much.” The memory extraction ends. A wave of outrage and disgust rolls through the studio audience. Onstage, Marcus Cole remains oddly calm. He spreads his hands, shrugging. “I admit, I have hit my wife. But what does domestic violence have to do with the theme of this trial? This is a private family matter. There’s no need to blow it out of proportion, is there?” A cold smile touches my lips. “Domestic violence has nothing to do with this trial.” “Because you… are not Marcus Cole.” 【What? Does this Arbiter even know what she’s saying?】 【LMAO. I’ve been a fan of Marcus Cole for a decade. I’ll believe he’s an abuser, but that he’s not Marcus Cole? That’s hilarious.】 【I’m literally speechless. She’s lost her mind.】 I ignore the noise and deliver my verdict. “The judgment for the second trial is now declared.” “Marcus Cole is eliminated. The other three will proceed to the next round.” As the words leave my mouth, a figure drops from the ceiling, landing hard on the stage. He has the exact same face as the man in the chair, the same build. The audience is stunned into silence. 【What is happening? There are two of them?】 【WTF? Is human cloning a thing now?】 【Mom, I think I’m seeing ghosts! Somebody post a prayer circle, quick!】 The man who had been posing as Marcus stands up. He looks at the real Marcus Cole, now bound and trembling, and sighs heavily. “Brother, I really did my best.” “This Reckoning… it’s beyond our control. It seems fate has decided your time is up.” 【Oh my god, my brain just broke. They’re twins?】 【One is trash and the other is garbage. What a pair.】 Yes. I don’t know where the screening process failed, but the man who arrived today was not Marcus Cole, but his identical twin brother, Cormac Cole. That explains the blank card and the memory that didn’t match the trial’s theme. I raise a hand, and the blank card zips through the air, stopping directly in front of the real Marcus Cole’s chest. As it hovers there, numbers bleed onto its surface, black as ink. 134,898,479.00 【One hundred and thirty-four million, eight hundred ninety-eight thousand…】 【Is that… tax evasion? Is that the amount he owes?】 【My god. I couldn’t earn that much in a hundred lifetimes.】 【And I’m officially no longer a fan. I always wondered why he suddenly retired. Now we know. He couldn’t stand the scrutiny.】 【I don’t believe it! I’ve been a fan for ten years! Unless you show me hard proof, I won’t believe a number on a magic card!】 Seeing the denial in the live chat, a low chuckle escapes me. “You want proof?” “We will now extract the memories of the accused, Marcus Cole.” As image after image of falsified contracts and offshore accounts flashes across the screen, the last of his loyal fans fall silent, their posts turning from defense to declarations of disgust and betrayal. When quiet is restored, Marcus Cole is hanging on the Pillar of Shame next to Dylan Shaw. His eyes are fixed on me, burning with a hatred so intense it feels like he wants to devour me whole. He will not get the chance. I turn my attention to his brother, Cormac. “Today’s Reckoning does not concern you, so…” “So I can go?” he interrupts, a flicker of hopeful relief in his eyes. I shake my head slowly. “No. So I will be turning you over to the proper authorities. They will conduct a trial of their own.” Cormac’s face falls. He opens his mouth to protest, but security guards are already on him, pinning his arms and escorting him offstage. 5 Two rounds down. Three celebrities remain. I return to my lectern and look at the trio. “The third trial will now begin.” I deal the cards. After the last one is placed, I announce the theme. “The third trial is: Envy.” “Please, reveal your cards.” Liam Davenport seems to have grown confident, almost arrogant. He flips his card before I’ve even finished the sentence. 【Blank again? My god! Liam, you were born for this! You deserve all the fame!】 【That card flip was so hot. I swear, anyone who doesn’t get Liam’s appeal is dead inside.】 【I knew I picked the right one! Liam Davenport, the chosen one!】 【Look! Noah’s card is blank too!】 【What! Noah is also clear? Then… that means Victoria Blackwood is the one who failed?】 【Wait, what? Victoria is envious? Who would she possibly be envious of? Victoria Blackwood doesn’t feel envy, she inspires it. This is a joke.】 【I’m saying it again. This is all just a show to prop up Liam Davenport.】 With two blank cards revealed, every person in the studio and every viewer at home is waiting for Victoria Blackwood. I fix my gaze on her. Her hand is shaking. “Victoria. What are you waiting for?” “Reveal your card.” She looks up at me, her face a ghastly white. “How could you possibly know about this? No one knows. No one except…” Her words trail off. Her eyes dart to Liam in the first seat. A sudden, violent rage contorts her features. She snatches her card and flings it at him. “Was it you? Did you sell me out to win this thing?” she screams. “Liam, you spineless coward! You betrayed me! I hope you burn in hell!” Liam flinches, startled. He stoops to pick up the card from the floor. The camera zooms in, and the name written on it becomes clear to all. LILY HAYES

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I’m an NPC in a horror game, but because I look so harmless, everyone mistakes me for a new player. The veteran players are trying to force me to scout ahead—to be their cannon fodder. The punchline? The monsters see me and start shaking in their boots. Sorrowland Amusement Park has a welcome banner strung across the entrance: [A Royal Welcome to Our Dearest Princess!] The General Manager himself is bowing and scraping, personally seeing to every detail. “Cue the orchestra! More flowers here! And wipe down that filth! If you so much as startle the princess, I will personally rip your head from your shoulders!” Oh, did I forget to mention? My father is the final, undisputed boss of this entire game. And all the monsters? They respectfully call me the Princess. 1. I’m on vacation at Sorrowland Amusement Park. It’s a Nightmare-level instance, the kind no one comes back from. That’s what I’m told, anyway. Right now, everyone is staring at me. “We’re a regular fireteam, been running instances together for months. Where did you pop up from?” A girl with a calculatedly innocent, doll-like face takes half a step back. “Don’t tell me she’s a newbie.” A man in a cheap, sweat-stained suit looks me up and down, his gaze slick with contempt. “Bad luck, getting dropped into a team instance. Well, I guess she can scout ahead for us.” The man standing in the center of their group, the one they all seem to orbit, extends a proverbial olive branch. He’s older, with a practiced, gentle smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Alright now, don’t scare the new girl.” He turns that smile on me. “I’m Marcus, the team leader. This instance is extremely difficult, which is why we came as a squad. Do you want to stick with us?” Extremely difficult? Hmm. Mom and Dad did say the rides at this park were really intense. That’s why they sent people to play with me. Is this charming older man the playmate Mom and Dad picked out? They never told me my playmate would be human. Oh, well. Whatever! Mom and Dad are usually so strict, and whenever I go out, I’m suffocated by an entourage of attendants. It took weeks of begging to get this chance to go somewhere by myself, just because they had some important business to attend to. “Yes, yes! I’d love to!” I nod enthusiastically. To them, it just looks like I’m desperate to latch onto a powerhouse player. The doll-faced girl’s expression sours, and the others eye me with open disdain. The live-stream comments are already flying. 【Marcus is a top-tier player, but he’s such a creep. Looks like the new girl is his next target.】 【Hey, Trixie is our team’s one and only mascot! What gives this newbie the right to butt in?】 【It’s a no-survival instance, they need a full squad. My guess is they’ll use her for trial and error. Make her scout with her life.】 … “Hey. Are you coming or not?” the doll-faced girl, Trixie, calls out impatiently. This is great! Time to hit the rides! I scamper to catch up. I see a flicker of suspicion in Marcus’s eyes. He mutters under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear, “Who comes into a Nightmare-level instance this happy? Is she an idiot?” Usually, every creature in existence fawns over me. This is the first time anyone has dared to call me an idiot. I frown. “Aren’t you afraid your boss will tear your soul to shreds for that?” A look of smug certainty replaces the suspicion in his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. With a face that pretty, she can be an idiot. I’ve never tasted one before.” I’m not an idiot! I just prefer to take it easy! Dad! Your subordinate is insulting me! Just you wait. After I’ve had my fun at the park, I’ll discard you all like broken toys. I’ll have every last one of these “playmates” banished. 2. The amusement park is technically open for business. The lights flicker on and off, and a creaky, tinny nursery rhyme drifts through the air: “Puppet, puppet, smiling wide, drinks your blood and eats your hide.” A shiver runs through the group. 【This is Sorrowland, all right. Wonder if this team is going to get wiped out too.】 【Wait, the newbie probably doesn’t have points for a ticket. Does that mean she’s gonna get insta-killed at the gate?】 【Uh oh. Marcus’s ‘tastes’ don’t only apply to the living.】 I watch as they hand over their entry tickets one by one. From the other side of the wrought-iron fence, Marcus stares at my excited face and licks his lips. “I can use my points to buy you a ticket, but… nothing’s free.” His gaze drops to my chest. Could he have figured it out? That I’m not human? I instinctively pull my collar higher, covering the thin red thread that stitches my head to my neck. “Weren’t you just desperate to join us? What’s with the sudden shyness?” Trixie sneers. “It’s not like Marcus hasn’t done it with a warm corpse before.” She presses herself against his arm. “See, brother? She’s no fun at all. Not obedient like me, am I?” What are they even talking about? I don’t get it. My family owns this horror game. Why would I need a ticket? I bounce on my toes and head straight for the ticket booth, letting a tiny sliver of my true aura leak out. The creature at the counter, its mouth dripping blood, starts its usual spiel: “Ticket, please…” It trails off as it catches my scent. The creature’s eyes widen in terror. It shoves its own eyeballs back into their sockets and scrambles away, half-falling, half-crawling. “Your Highness! Please, come in, right this way!” Silence falls over the entrance. The lights all flicker on at once, bright and steady. The nursery rhyme cuts off abruptly, replaced by a cheerful rendition of “Jingle Bells.” I stroll into the park. Turning back to their horrified faces, I beam. “Well, come on! I can’t wait to get started!” 3. A strange, uneasy quiet settles over the group. Marcus’s eyes, for the first time, hold a sliver of fear. “Hurry up,” I urge them. “You’re supposed to play with me.” I pout. “Honestly, what is my father thinking? He said there would be a special reception. Where is everyone? There’s no spectacle at all.” The fear in Marcus’s eyes vanishes, replaced by understanding. The comment section explodes. 【What was that about? Why did the ticket-taker run away? I thought its whole purpose was to trick players into breaking a rule so it could eat them.】 【I heard a VIP was supposed to visit the park today. It probably went off to prepare for the reception.】 【Did the new girl just get insanely lucky? This is the strongest team out there, no wonder she was sucking up to Marcus. She’s about to get carried through the whole instance.】 My aura had shielded them from hearing the creature’s respectful title for me, so they’re completely clueless. Before they can puzzle it out, a tour guide creature materializes behind them. “What rotten luck,” it grumbles. “Some group had to force their way into the instance right before she arrives. Now we all have to work overtime. The big boss said the park was booked for a private party. Guess we’d better deal with these… tourists… quickly.” The creature is practically radiating resentment. “Follow me. First up is the Scream Weaver roller coaster.” With a huff, it starts walking, leaving a trail of dripping sludge in its wake. When we reach the base of the coaster, the guide turns around, sees me, and leaps back as if electrocuted. Then it vanishes into thin air. “Gods! That scared the death out of me! What if the ground is dirty and it soils her dress? I have to go clean!” Its sudden departure leaves the players staring at each other. “Newbie. You go first,” the sleazy man, Gideon, says, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “Watch out. The coaster has a habit of taking your head off.” Oh, good. He has some sense after all. He knows to let me go first. This one might be a better playmate than Marcus. My fingers drift to the stitched line on my neck. I guess Mom will have to sew me up again. But the coaster car looks so… grimy. I wrinkle my nose. A pulse of my aura expands outwards, blanketing the entire park, a silent summons to the person in charge. “Hey! Gideon was talking to you!” Trixie shoves me. The next second, the team communication watches on each of their wrists crackle, then explode in a shower of sparks, shrieking an electronic alarm. 【WARNING: HIGH-LEVEL ENTITY DETECTED. GENERAL MANAGER INBOUND! GENERAL MANAGER INBOUND!】 The color drains from every player’s face. Marcus’s face turns a blotchy purple, but he forces a calm tone. “Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong. The General Manager never shows up this early. Quick! Find cover, now!” The team scatters like rats. As she runs, Trixie gives me one last, vicious shove. The weather in the park shifts violently. The sky darkens, and lightning cracks overhead. An enraged roar echoes through the park, so sharp and piercing it makes you want to claw your own ears off. “WHAT LITTLE PEST IS RUINING THE PRINCESS’S WELCOME CEREMONY?” The area is deserted. The team is hidden. I’m left standing alone in the center of the park. The shrieking creature circles in the sky above, a whirlwind of rage, before descending right in front of me. “Was it you, you little pest?”

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1 The summer after graduation, Ethan coaxed me into bed. After that first taste, he became insatiable, tangling his life with mine for seven long years. My friends all laughed at how completely whipped he was. “Just marry him already,” they’d say. “The guy would literally die for you.” Then, one night, I stumbled upon his secret blog. Thousands of posts, an endless scroll of sick, obsessive devotion. All for a girl in a white dress, delicate and beautiful. His untouchable first love. And I finally understood. For seven years, he’d given me his body, but he’d given his love to someone else. 2 The night I found Ethan’s blog started like any other. He’d just gotten back from a business trip. The door had barely clicked shut behind him before he was pulling me toward the bedroom. He had a high drive, and a week apart had made him ravenous, his movements rough and impatient. By the time he was finished, I was so tired I could barely keep my eyes open. Ping. A single, sharp notification sound. I watched Ethan grab his phone, his brow furrowing. As he pulled on a jacket to leave, I caught his arm. “Going out this late?” He turned, his voice softening into that familiar, gentle tone he used to soothe me. “Just a quick thing at the office. You go to sleep. Don’t wait up.” Maybe it was a woman’s intuition. Half an hour after he left, I was wide awake. The seed of unease had blossomed into full-blown suspicion. Forcing myself up, I called the security guard at his office building. “Hey, Mark. Are the guys pulling a late one tonight? I was thinking of sending over some food.” “No need, Ms. Wright. Mr. Bush let everyone leave early tonight. The whole place is empty.” “No one’s there at all?” “Not a soul. Is there something I can help you with?” “No,” I said, my voice hollow. “It’s nothing.” I hung up and sat motionless on the edge of the bed. We lived ten minutes from his office, max. It had been thirty minutes. He wasn’t at work. So where was he? 3 Ethan came back the next morning, humming a tune as he unlocked the door, his mood bright and buoyant. He’d brought me pastries from my favorite bakery—an old-school place across town, famous for its quality, but so far away it didn’t even deliver. “Whatever my baby wants,” he said, beaming as he set the box down. “If you wanted the stars, I’d bake them into cookies for you.” I let out a small, forced laugh, shaking my head as if to clear it. I was being paranoid. If I ever suggested Ethan didn’t love me, my friends would be the first to shut me down. “Lily, stop overthinking it,” they’d say. “That man worships the ground you walk on. Could he even function without you?” “In seven years, how many times has he been the one crawling back, begging you to forgive him after a fight?” “Just say yes already. Marry him.” They were right about everything. Ethan had always been the pursuer in our relationship. But they were wrong about one thing. He’d never proposed. “Babe,” he’d said once, his voice sincere, “I don’t want to rush this. I want to give you the world. When my career is truly stable, then I’ll ask you.” I was young then and wasn’t eager to be tied down by marriage myself. So we’d agreed, letting our relationship drift in that undefined space for seven years. As we ate, Ethan scrolled through his phone, a faint, unconscious smile playing on his lips. “What are you looking at that’s making you so happy?” The smile vanished. “Nothing. Just a cat video.” “Let me see.” He quickly locked his phone and pulled me into his arms, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “There’s nothing to see. You’re much better to look at. Are you done eating? Because now, it’s my turn to eat.” In the moment before he pushed me down onto the bed, my eyes caught a glimpse of his screen. A distinctive crimson icon for a blogging app, one used almost exclusively by women. What was that doing on his phone? 4 Once a seed of doubt is planted, it’s impossible to stop it from growing. While Ethan was in the shower, I grabbed his phone. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t have much time, only enough to memorize a username: Fading_Star. The next morning, I locked myself in the study. Using his profile picture and location tags from his main accounts, I cross-referenced and searched. An hour later, I found it. I clicked on the profile. Thousands of posts stretched back for years. It was like opening Pandora’s box. The raw, obsessive longing that poured from the screen was staggering. June 9, 2017. I slept with someone else. But I don’t regret it. You betrayed me first. That was the year Ethan, reeking of whiskey, had stumbled into my dorm room. He’d coaxed my clothes off and tangled us together for the entire night. Our first time. September 1, 2018. I didn’t get into my first-choice school. You think I can’t live without you? You’re wrong. That was the first day of college. Ethan had knelt on the campus lawn with a bouquet of flowers and confessed his love for me, promising to take responsibility for that night. It wasn’t for me. It was because he’d been rejected by the only university he’d wanted to attend. August 7, 2021. You got married? How could you? I will never forgive you. You should burn in hell. That night, Ethan had been brutally rough, fueled by alcohol. He used things on me I wasn’t comfortable with. I’d cried for hours and ended up in the hospital the next day with a fever. December 25, 2023. You’re divorced. Does that mean you’ll finally look back at me? That was the day Ethan, who never celebrated Christmas, posted a picture on Instagram wearing a Santa hat. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely scroll. I jumped to the most recent post, from the night he’d stayed out late. The things you can’t have in your youth will haunt you for a lifetime. The post was accompanied by a photo. A girl in a white dress, ethereal and beautiful. And I finally recognized her. Janice Reddy. Ethan’s childhood friend. The girl next door. I stared at the screen, a profound coldness seeping into my bones, my body trembling uncontrollably. It all clicked into place. In seven years of messy, tangled intimacy, not a single moment of his love had ever belonged to me. Young love, years of secret devotion… anyone would be moved to tears by such a story. Their love was an epic, a force of nature. So, what did that make me? 5 I took screenshots. I recorded videos. I saved everything. That evening, when Ethan came home, he was carrying a bag filled with new toys. He always had a wild imagination, a love for props and scenarios that left me exhausted. “Not tonight,” I said, turning away. “It’s that time of the month.” He paused for a second before pressing against me again. “Then just your hands? Your legs? Please? I’ll be gentle.” “No. I don’t want to.” After a few more attempts, all met with my firm refusal, his good mood soured. He didn’t push it, but the irritation was clear on his face. He brought me a heating pad and made me ginger tea. “Okay, babe. You get some rest. I’m just going to head back to the office to finish something up.” A friend once teased me. “You don’t know how good you have it. A guy only wants you all the time if he’s crazy about you. He’s almost thirty and still acts like a teenager in heat. My husband is like a dead fish.” I used to believe that. Ethan was never shy about his desire for my body, his obsession. But I had forgotten a simple, brutal truth: for a man, sex and love can be two entirely different things. I asked myself a hard question. If I were Ethan, would I be so reckless with someone I truly loved? As his blog post said: You are the moon, untouchable and pure. Just to be bathed in your light is an honor. But our first time was in a cheap hotel room, on scratchy sheets, with a thoughtless, clumsy urgency. The difference between being loved and not being loved. It was a chasm. 6 I followed him. I watched him walk into a small, elegant cake shop. Janice, wearing a pristine white dress, came out to greet him. She looked thrilled, her hand clutching his arm possessively. But Ethan’s reaction was uncharacteristically cold. He gently pushed her away. “The shop is yours now. Don’t contact me again.” Janice just laughed, winding her arm back around his. “I don’t believe you. You couldn’t stay away from me if you tried.” They went back and forth, a tense dance of push and pull, until Janice’s eyes welled up with tears. With a sigh of frustration, Ethan finally cornered her against the wall. “Don’t make me do something you’ll regret,” he muttered. Under the sickly yellow glow of a streetlight, they kissed. Hidden in the shadows across the street, I raised my phone and took several pictures. The Ethan I knew didn’t like kissing. Or so I’d thought. I stared at their entwined silhouettes. So, it wasn’t that he didn’t like kissing. He just didn’t like kissing me. He wasn’t unwilling to propose; he was just waiting for someone else to get divorced. Just as his hand started to slip under Janice’s dress, he stopped himself. “Go home. I’ll come see you tomorrow.” She clung to him, pouting. “What? Going home to get your fix from her?” “I won’t touch her tonight.” “I don’t believe you. Am I prettier, or is she?” Ethan was silent for a long moment. “You, of course,” he said finally. “She can’t compare to you.” A satisfied smile spread across Janice’s face. “Do you have any little cakes left in the shop?” Ethan asked. “Yeah, why?” “I’ll take one.” At that exact moment, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Ethan. Baby, is your stomach still hurting? I’m getting you a little cake. What flavor do you want? 7 The man was a walking, talking joke. Cheating on me, then offering me a consolation prize made by the other woman. I texted back: Don’t want cake. I’m craving that key lime pie from the old place on the West End. I saw his brow furrow from across the street. The West End was a forty-minute drive, easy. But on a day like this, a little something green felt appropriate. Ethan: Okay. I’ll go get it. I ordered you some takeout to tide you over. Love you. I shut off my phone, my face a mask of indifference. I was morbidly curious. How long was he going to keep up this act? 8 When Ethan got home, he had the key lime pie. He also had his best friend, Bob, in tow. Bob was drunk and quickly passed out in the guest room. Later that night, I got up for a glass of water and heard them talking. “I’m not bailing you out again if you keep this up,” Ethan said, his voice cold. Bob was a notorious playboy, cycling through women like they were seasonal trends. “You don’t get it, man. Women are like clothes. You can’t just walk around naked.” “You’re going to catch something from one of those girls,” Ethan reprimanded. “Find a nice girlfriend and settle down. It’s cleaner, less of a headache.” Bob, still slurring, laughed. “Like Lily, you mean? She’s great, I’ll give you that. Obedient, and her body is insane. You’re a lucky bastard. But now that Janice’s back, when are you dumping her?” There was a long pause. “I’m waiting,” Ethan said. “Janice hasn’t said yes yet.” “Well, after you break up, you should pass Lily my way. I’ve had my eye on her for a while.” Suddenly, there was a thud, and Bob grunted. Ethan had hit him. Bob didn’t seem to care. “What are you getting all high and mighty for? You’re the one who’s always telling me how wild she is in bed. Don’t tell me you’re getting possessive now.” I stood frozen outside the door, ice water flooding my veins. I never imagined that the man who was so tender and loving to my face would be so casually, crudely discussing our private life with his friends. Then, Ethan’s voice, colder than I’d ever heard it, cut through the silence. “Go ahead and try. She’s an orphan. Starved for affection. An easy conquest. A bouquet of flowers and she’ll fall right into bed. Good luck.” 9 I went to the cake shop alone. It was charming and exquisite, exactly Janice’s style. She looked surprised to see me but quickly recovered, greeting me with a warm smile. I took one bite of the cake and set my fork down. “How long have you been back?” Janice smiled sweetly. “Not long. Just got here.” Yes, Janice and I knew each other. I’d found out about her in my second year with Ethan. He kept a shoebox full of boarding passes to San Francisco, a trip he made almost monthly. He said he had to; it was a family obligation to look after her. So, when I was sick with the flu, Ethan was in San Francisco. On my birthday, Ethan was in San Francisco. We fought about her constantly. But every time we broke up, he would fight tooth and nail to win me back. It all stopped when she got married and moved abroad our junior year. And now, she was divorced and back. And so was the old Ethan. “It’s a beautiful shop,” I said, my voice even. He saw the look on my face and immediately launched into a defense. “Lily, when I was struggling in high school, her father paid my tuition. Janice’s back now, and I just wanted to repay that kindness with this shop. That’s all.” Ah, a debt of gratitude from his formative years. No wonder the bond was so deep. How could I ever compete with that? “I see,” I murmured. 10 “Have you found a place to live yet? Are you adjusting to the weather here?” I asked Janice, my voice dripping with concern. “It must be so inconvenient living on your own. Why don’t you come stay with us?” Janice’s polite smile faltered. She kept darting nervous glances at Ethan. He finally cut in, his voice tight. “That won’t be necessary. She’s fine here.” As we left, I bought a cake and bid Janice a polite farewell. Ethan’s face was a thundercloud. He practically dragged me to the car. The second the doors were closed, he shoved me against the backseat, his anger finally erupting. “What the hell was that? You’re tracking my every move now? Was it Bob? Did he tell you about this place?” “What’s the matter?” I shot back. “Is this some sacred place I’m not allowed to visit? Or are you hiding something?” He punched the seat next to my head, his chest heaving. He closed his eyes, visibly trying to rein in his temper. “Lily, can you just talk to me like a normal person for once?” I was done. So incredibly done. “What does it matter who told me?” I pulled the printed photos from my purse and threw them in his face. “Let’s settle this right now. Is this what you call ‘working late’? Does a business trip involve making out with your ex-crush in an alley?” He didn’t flinch as the sharp corner of a photo paper sliced a thin red line across his forehead. I looked him over, my voice dripping with the same disdain he’d used on me. “You really are an easy conquest, aren’t you? All she has to do is crook her little finger, and you come running like a pathetic dog. You’re so damn cheap, Ethan.” After I said we were done, Ethan was silent for a long time. He started the car and drove us to our favorite restaurant. “You must be hungry. Let’s eat first.” He ordered a table full of my favorite dishes. And I was hungry, so I ate, keeping my head down. Seeing me eat seemed to soften him. “Slow down,” he said gently, starting to peel a shrimp for me. When I was finished, I got straight to the point. “When we get back, pack your things and get out.” The apartment was mine; I’d bought it years ago. Ethan’s body went rigid. “Besides that one kiss, I haven’t touched her,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Giving her the shop was just repaying a debt.” “Oh,” I said lightly. “Well, kissing is still pretty dirty.” That shattered his forced composure. He smashed his plate on the floor. “Lily, why do you have to talk like that?” I flinched away from the shattering porcelain. “You’d better remember to pay for that.” A shard of the plate had dug into his palm, drawing blood, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Bob told you, didn’t he?” “Why are you so obsessed with who told me?” “Who else could it be?” he sneered, his fist clenching. “One day he tells me he’s going to pursue you, and the next day you show up at the cake shop. It had to be him.” My own anger flared. “It doesn’t matter who told me! The fact is, you were the one who betrayed me!” I threw the printouts of his blog posts on the table. “Just admit you love her. Lying about it just makes you look pathetic.” He lost it completely, slamming his fist on the table. “I did not betray you!” he roared. “There is nothing going on between me and Janice now!” I remained unmoved. Men would lie with their dying breath. He stared at me for a long moment, and then a chilling calm settled over him again. “This is just an excuse, isn’t it? You just want to be with Bob.” He agreed to the breakup with a shocking ease. As he was leaving, he shot me one last look. “You’re always smiling at other guys at parties. Who knows who was unfaithful first? Don’t come crying to me when you want to get back together.” He looked me up and down, a lewd smirk on his face. “Besides me, who else could possibly satisfy you?”

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In the dead of night, my arch-nemesis suddenly sent me a shirtless pic. Three seconds later, he followed up: [Oops, my hand slipped.] Another three seconds: [Did you see it? It’s a picture of my abs.] [They’re mine, not someone else’s.] [Hello? You there?] [Forget it, I’ll just delete it. Good thing you didn’t see.] [Damn, it won’t delete. So annoying!] [You’re not allowed to look!] [OMG, so embarrassing, don’t you dare look!] [Did you hear me?! I said DON’T LOOK!] Me: “…” 1 The hashtag #KiraJiangGetsCatfishedLive trended on social media, and for once in my life, I actually felt a flicker of shame. It all started on a live variety show earlier that night. During one of the game segments, my phone screen was projected onto a massive display for everyone to see. The challenge was to post a dramatic, angsty status and see which of our friends would be the first to show concern. But the moment my post went up, a message popped in. It was a steamy, artfully taken photo of a chiseled six-pack, accompanied by a text: [Kira, I think I got a mosquito bite right here. It’s so itchy.] [Do you have any cream you’d recommend?] The studio audience erupted in a chorus of whoops and whistles. Belatedly, I glanced at the contact name: “Sweet Tummy 185.” A guy I’d randomly added at a bar a few weeks ago. He had a habit of sending flirty messages, but tonight, he’d clearly decided to throw all caution to the wind and send a shirtless pic. Putting on a brave face, I turned to the host. “Does this count as concern?” “Not quite,” he chirped. “He has to actually say he’s concerned.” Left with no choice, I steeled myself and typed back: [Just scratch it.] [Weird, it still itches.] [Maybe I need your hand to scratch it for me. (blushing emoji)] I took a deep breath. A glance at the giant screen showed the live comments going absolutely wild. [OMG! Is this something I should be watching?!] [This “Sweet Tummy 185” knows how to play the game.] [Watching a celebrity get hit on live is killing me LOL.] [So this is what a star’s private life is like! I can’t even imagine what happens behind closed doors…] The comments were spiraling. Panicked that he might say something even more explicit, I quickly typed: [I’m on a live broadcast.] Sweet Tummy 185: *[…] * [Damn, it won’t delete. So annoying!] [Everyone in the live stream, you’re not allowed to look!] [OMG, so embarrassing, Kira, quick, cover me up, don’t let them see me!] The screen filled with “LMAO,” and the ridiculous episode finally came to an end. I’d expected to trend, but seeing it happen still made my cheeks burn with a humiliation so intense it felt like I’d been stripped naked in a crowd. I tossed my phone aside and escaped into the shower. When I came out, my phone pinged. I glanced over. It was from my sworn enemy, Peter Gu, who was supposed to be on a business trip overseas. It was a mirror selfie of his own impressive abs. Compared to Sweet Tummy’s, Peter’s physique had a raw, powerful energy. A single vein traced a path down his torso, making it almost indecent to stare. I was about to type a question mark when his message came through. [Oops, my hand slipped.] I rolled my eyes. What a pathetic excuse. I wasn’t buying it for a second. I left my phone on the chat screen, curious to see what game he was playing. Three seconds later, another message. [Did you see it? It’s a picture of my abs.] [They’re mine, not someone else’s.] [Hello? You there?] [Forget it, I’ll just delete it. Good thing you didn’t see.] [Damn, it won’t delete. So annoying!] [You’re not allowed to look!] [OMG, so embarrassing, don’t you dare look!] [Did you hear me?! I said DON’T LOOK!] “…” The déjà vu was so strong it was nauseating. A surge of anger washed over me, and I dialed his number. “Peter Gu, are you insane?” 2 His laughter on the other end was carefree and loud. “Did you really just message me to make fun of me?” I fumed. “I wouldn’t dare.” He was still chuckling. “But seriously, who is that kid? Doesn’t he have any sense? Sending you a picture like that when he knows you’re live on air.” “Huh?” I paused. “I don’t think he knew.” “Even I knew you were going to be on that show, and I’m halfway across the world. How could he not know?” Peter scoffed. “Use your brain, Kira.” “…” “Idiot.” “Whatever. He’s not that great anyway,” Peter continued, his tone dismissive. “You can tell just from his abs he’s all show and no go. All oiled up and preening. When did you get into that type?” I bristled at the insult to my taste. “Oh yeah? And what type should I be into? Yours?” “My type is great,” he said, completely shameless. “Great in what way?” There was a beat of silence, and then his voice dropped, low and suggestive. “You’ll know once you’ve tried it.” “Not interested!” I shot back. “I’d try ‘Sweet Tummy 185’ a hundred times before I ever tried you.” I hung up before he could respond. I thought the whole thing would blow over, a funny meme for fans and the public to laugh at for a day or two. I did not expect it to result in my parents setting up an arranged marriage for me. Their reasoning was that the entertainment industry was a cesspool of moral decay, and even a “pure, innocent girl” like me was being corrupted. It was better to lock me down with someone from a good, familiar family. I refused, stubbornly. But then my father delivered the final blow: “Then you can quit showbiz altogether. Come home, and stop embarrassing the family.” “…” And just like that, I was being pushed into an arranged marriage. On the way to the restaurant to meet my potential fiancé, I couldn’t resist venting to Peter. [You’re not going to believe this, I’m being set up!] [And it’s all because of that Sweet Tummy guy from yesterday!] [My parents think I’m being ‘corrupted’ and are forcing me to marry someone ‘we know.’ But who do we even know?] [Please don’t let it be Brandon Zhou.] […Oh God! I mean, I had a crush on him in high school, but that was ages ago!] [Oh no, I just saw Ethan Cheng’s latest post. He’s also being set up. He’s not hinting at me, is he?] I texted Peter a running commentary of my panic, speculating about every eligible guy in our social circle. I didn’t know who my suitor was, but I knew I didn’t want to marry any of them. I sat in the restaurant, waiting. Seven o’clock came and went. He was late. I was about to leave when the waiter stopped me. “Miss Jiang, please wait a little longer. The gentleman will be here shortly.” “And who is ‘the gentleman’?” The waiter just smiled politely and retreated. I picked up my phone to text Peter again. [Ugh, what kind of guy is late to his own arranged marriage meeting? I’d rather die than marry him!] The words had barely left my thumbs when the door to the private room opened. Peter Gu walked in, phone in hand. He wore a dark trench coat over a crisp shirt and trousers that made his legs look impossibly long. His tie was slightly loosened, and his hair was artfully messy. He saw me and a slow smile spread across his face. “Sorry, traffic was a nightmare. I got here as fast as I could.” My jaw dropped. “Aren’t you supposed to be overseas?” He raised an eyebrow. “My parents insisted on an arranged marriage. Of course I had to come back.” He stopped by the table, his thumb swiping up his phone screen. He read through my entire stream of frantic texts, then looked up at me. “So, you’re not happy with any of them. What about me?” “You have to ask?” He let out a low chuckle. “I’ll take that as a yes. We’ll get the marriage license tomorrow.” “?” 3 “Are you out of your mind?” I hissed. “Which part of that sounded like a ‘yes’ to you? I’m least happy with you!” “Hmm?” Peter sat down across from me, looking genuinely curious. “What’s not to like?” “Everything!” He just smiled. “Well, I’m quite happy with you.” I stared at him, frowning. Had he been possessed by an alien? This was not the Peter I knew. The sun must be rising in the west. Why wasn’t he arguing with me? He beckoned me closer with a flick of his finger. Reluctantly, I leaned in. His voice, clean and crisp, whispered in my ear. “Before you, my parents had another candidate lined up for me.” “Who?” “Tiffany Tang.” My heart gave a strange little squeeze. “Tiffany’s been in love with you for years. Wouldn’t that have been perfect?” “Of course not,” he said, as if it were obvious. “She likes me. Marrying her would be doing her a favor.” He poured himself a glass of water, his movements unhurried. “An arranged marriage should be with someone you have no feelings for. Someone you mutually dislike, even. It’s a business transaction. You can’t mix business with pleasure, can you?” He pushed the glass of water across the table to me. “Right?” By that logic, he and I were the perfect match. The thought flashed through my mind and was just as quickly dismissed. What was I even thinking? “I’m not going to marry you,” I stated firmly. Peter was unperturbed. “Fine. Then marry Brandon Zhou. He’s a good guy. And you had a crush on him in high school. So what if he rejected you? Your first love becomes your husband. It’s a win-win for—” “Stop!” I couldn’t listen to another word. My pride was a fragile, precious thing. Ever since Brandon had turned me down, my crush had curdled into something akin to embarrassment. The memory was now a dark spot on my history. Marrying him was out of the question. Peter smiled. “Alright, then. Ethan Cheng it is. He’s a bit of a player, but otherwise, he’s—” “Are all the other men on earth dead?” I snapped. “Sweet Tummy 185?” he feigned surprise. “I don’t think your parents would approve.” “…” Forget my parents. I wouldn’t approve. Peter took a slow sip of water. “So, when you look at all the options, I’m the best one, right?” “Best in what way?” “I’ll give you freedom,” he said, his eyes meeting mine. “You want to look at handsome guys, go ahead. You want to stay in the entertainment industry, be my guest. You want to try extreme sports, go for it. I won’t interfere.” He laid his cards on the table, then rubbed his temples as if exhausted. “After all, I’m just getting married for some peace and quiet.” “Isn’t Tiffany quiet?” “She’s been obsessed with me for years. If we got married, she’d manage my life down to the last second. Where’s the peace in that?” I was silent, my resolve beginning to waver. Freedom. It was something I craved more than anything. As an only child, I’d been suffocated by my family’s overprotective nature. No dangerous sports, no staying out late. Even my career in showbiz was something I’d had to fight tooth and nail for. I desperately wanted to know what it felt like to be untethered. “You really wouldn’t interfere?” I asked, searching his eyes for any hint of a lie. “I’m so busy I barely have time to go home,” he said. “How would I have time to manage you?” I thought about his insane, globe-trotting schedule, and suddenly, the idea of marrying him didn’t seem so bad. Marrying a man who was never home… what was the difference between that and being single? “So?” Peter prompted. “Want to give me a try?” I hesitated for a few seconds, then a thrill of rebellion shot through me. “I’m in.”

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