Every Father’s Day, my husband’s old college flame, Caitlin, found a new emergency to lure him away. This year was no exception. He glanced at his phone, his face instantly tightening, and stood up from the dinner table. “Caitlin says Toby won’t stop crying,” Patrick said, already grabbing his coat. “She’s overwhelmed and can’t calm him down. I need to go talk to him.” “She doesn’t know how to cook, so I’m going to pack up the dinner you made and take it over. You and Lucy can just order takeout.” The bright, hopeful smile on Lucy’s face vanished. She reached out, tugging at the hem of his shirt with small, trembling fingers. “Daddy, please. You promised today would be just for us. Can’t you stay? Just this once?” Patrick’s expression hardened. He looked down at her, his voice clipped and dry. “Lucy, how many times do we have to go over this? You’re a big girl now. You need to start being more understanding.” Seeing the tears welling in her eyes, his expression softened slightly, and he gave her head a dismissive pat. “You and Toby are classmates. He doesn’t have a father, Lucy. It’s hard on him. You should be lifting him up, not dragging him down.” “I’m his teacher, and looking after my students is my job. Now, you and your mother wait for me to come home. Be good.” He didn’t wait for an answer. The heavy front door clicked shut behind him, leaving nothing but the cold drafts of our quiet apartment and a table full of untouched, rapidly cooling food. Lucy stared down at the small, crumpled sketchbook in her hands. “This is the sixth Father’s Day Toby has taken Daddy away,” she whispered. A sharp pain bloomed in my chest. I pulled her into my lap, burying her small head against my shoulder. She wrapped her thin arms tightly around my neck, her voice muffled against my collarbone. “Mommy… he’s always playing dad to someone else’s kid. We don’t need him anymore, do we?” “No,” I whispered back, my voice cracking. “We don’t.” … Lucy slowly tore the crumpled sketchbook into tiny, jagged pieces and dropped them into the trash can. She had spent every afternoon for the last two weeks working on it, meticulously drawing the three of us together, filling the pages with her quiet wishes for her father. Now, it was just trash. I carried the serving plates to the sink. My hands moved on autopilot, reaching for the sponge and the dish soap. It was a muscle memory born of seven years of domesticity. Looking down at my hands, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. This tiny, suffocating kitchen had been my entire world for seven years. My phone buzzed on the counter. It was a notification from Facebook. Caitlin had just posted. “Thank you, Patrick, for making Toby’s wish come true today, even if it was just for a little while. I wish we never had to wake up from this beautiful dream.” The post featured a photo of Patrick’s large hand cradling Toby’s small one, alongside a child’s crayon drawing of three figures holding hands. In the background was the elaborate dinner I had spent four hours preparing. Patrick had liked the post immediately. His comment sat right at the top: “Once a teacher, always a father. Toby is as good as my own.” My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned stark white. “His own.” If Toby was his own, what did that make Lucy? What did that make me? He had taken the food I slaved over to play happy family with the woman he had spent his youth pining after, leaving his actual daughter with nothing. My eyes began to sting. I told myself it was just the fumes of the dish soap, but the tears came anyway, blurring my vision. For the first time in seven years, I threw the wet sponge into the sink, grabbed Lucy’s coat, and took her to McDonald’s. She had asked to go so many times, but every single plan had been canceled because Caitlin had an “emergency” or Toby needed Patrick’s attention. Our plans were always expendable. Watching her eat her chicken nuggets with frantic, eager bites, a wave of sorrow hit me. I had to look away to keep from sobbing. “Eat slow, sweetheart,” I managed, smoothing her hair. “We can come here whenever you want from now on.” By the time we got back, night had fallen. Patrick was sitting on the living room sofa, calmly reading a book. “Where have you two been?” he asked. It sounded like concern, but his voice carried that flat, accusatory tone I had grown to dread. The anger I had spent the evening bottling up boiled over. “Where? You walked out of here with the dinner I cooked to feed another woman’s family. What were we supposed to eat, Patrick? Air?” Patrick frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face before his defensive walls went right back up. “It was just a meal, Giselle. Why do you always have to be so incredibly petty? I’m his teacher. You’re his teacher’s wife. It was just a nice gesture.” “You’re a grown woman. Honestly, you could learn a thing or two from Toby about being supportive.” Supportive. Mature. Understanding. No matter what I did, those were the words he threw at me like weapons. “Look, I brought back the leftovers Caitlin packed for you guys. Stop making a scene and just eat.” I looked at the greasy paper bag he placed on the table. The torn logo on the side matched the exact takeout boxes from Caitlin’s social media post. Leftovers. Scraps from another woman’s table. The coldness in my chest solidified. “We’re full. Give them to Toby since you care so much about his feelings.” “If you don’t want them, Lucy can have them,” Patrick snapped, his patience wearing thin. “Toby specifically insisted on saving this for her. He was trying to be sweet.” Before I could speak, Lucy stepped forward and swatted the bag off the table. “I’m not hungry. I want to go to bed.” She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward her room. Patrick’s face darkened. “Lucy! Toby went out of his way to save that for you, and you throw it on the floor? Is this the kind of behavior your mother is teaching you?” He turned his glare onto me. “Are you happy? Teaching our daughter to be this bitter? If everyone acted as small-minded as you, how am I supposed to run my classroom?” I kept my voice flat, empty of emotion. “I have never said a single negative thing about you to Lucy. If she’s pulling away, you need to look at your own actions.” Patrick’s jaw clenched. Realizing he was losing ground, he knelt down to Lucy’s eye level, his tone softening into a patronizing plea. “Lucy, Daddy is sorry he couldn’t play with you today. I had school work. But didn’t you say you made something for me?” Before Lucy could answer, Patrick’s phone rang. The screen lit up with Caitlin’s name. He answered it immediately, putting it on speaker as if to prove his innocence. Caitlin’s soft, trembling voice filled the quiet room. “Patrick… I hope Giselle isn’t upset. Toby was just so emotional today, and I felt so terrible dragging you away on Father’s Day. I just wanted to explain…” Patrick looked up at me, his eyes pleading for validation. “See? If there was anything going on between us, would she be calling like this? We have nothing to hide.” I didn’t say a word. Lucy reached into her pocket, pulled out a stark, blank white envelope, and dropped it into Patrick’s hand. Patrick stared at the blank card, his brief attempt at patience vanishing. “Are you serious, Lucy? A blank card? What is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to punish me?” Lucy threw herself in front of me, her small, thin arms outstretched to shield me. “Don’t yell at my mommy! You’re Toby’s dad, not mine! Go live with him!” Patrick stood up, looking at us both with absolute disgust. “I sacrifice so much for this family, and neither of you has an ounce of appreciation.” Seven years of marriage. Six of them spent arguing over Caitlin. And the script was always the same: he was the saintly, selfless mentor, and I was the bitter, insecure housewife. “Today was Father’s Day,” I said, my voice barely a whisper but cutting through his anger. “Lucy spent two weeks making something for you, and you threw her aside for another woman’s child. Tonight, Lucy and I are sleeping in her room. Take the guest bed.” “She’s a child, Giselle, but what’s your excuse?” Patrick sighed, his voice thick with exhaustion. “They are a single-parent family. Caitlin is doing this completely alone. You grew up in a bubble, Giselle. You have no idea what real hardship looks like. You just have to twist everything into something ugly and cheap.” “Ugly and cheap.” I squeezed Lucy’s hand. The sheer volume of buried resentment in my chest began to rise, choking me. I was done keeping his secrets. “Last year, during the flash flood, you insisted on driving Caitlin and Toby home. You left Lucy stranded at school in the dark. She was terrified of closed spaces for months after that. And when it rained for three days straight, Caitlin called because her lightbulb broke, and you flew out the door in the middle of the night. You left me to climb a ladder alone to patch our leaking roof. I fell, Patrick. I broke my ankle, and the neighbor had to drive me to the emergency room because you wouldn’t answer your phone.” “You’ve spent six Father’s Days with them, and not a single one with your own daughter.” The silence in the room was heavy. I looked him dead in the eye. “She has it hard, Patrick. So my daughter and I are just supposed to bleed for her?” Patrick’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but I didn’t give him the chance to speak. I led Lucy into her room and shut the door, locking out the sound of his breathing. In the middle of the night, I woke up to Lucy’s skin burning hot against mine. Her fever was dangerously high. Panicking, I threw on a coat, lifted her in my arms, and ran to the guest room to find Patrick. But before I could knock, the door opened. Patrick was fully dressed, coat already on, car keys in hand. He froze when he saw me. “Giselle? What are you doing up?” For a fraction of a second, I thought he had heard Lucy coughing and was coming to help. But his next words shattered that illusion completely. “Caitlin called. She’s hysterical. She says there’s some creep lingering in her building’s hallway. I need to go make sure she’s safe. Why are you holding Lucy?” I grabbed his sleeve, my fingers digging into the fabric. “Lucy has a high fever, Patrick. Look at her. We need to go to the hospital right now. Please drive us.” Patrick hesitated, looking between his keys and our daughter. But then his phone began to vibrate in his palm. He answered it on the first ring. Caitlin’s weeping voice broke through the speaker. “Patrick, he’s knocking on my door… please… I’m so scared…” “I’m coming. I’m right down the street, Caitlin. Hang up and keep the chain on.” He hung up, his eyes darting away from mine in a flash of shame. “Caitlin’s life is in danger, Giselle. Call an Uber and take Lucy. I’ll meet you at the ER as soon as I make sure she’s safe. I promise.” He pulled his arm from my grip and ran down the stairs. I sat in the sterile hospital hallway all night, holding my feverish child. Lucy’s fever finally broke at dawn. Patrick never showed up. No calls, no texts, nothing. When I finally brought my exhausted, pale daughter back to the apartment, we walked in to find Toby sitting in the middle of our living room floor. He was systematically tearing apart the elaborate Lego castle Lucy had spent months building, scattering the pieces across the hardwood. A primal, protective rage took over. I marched over and shoved Toby away from the toys. Toby let out a loud, dramatic wail, which immediately brought Patrick rushing out of our bedroom. “Toby! What happened? Who hurt you?” Patrick stopped mid-sentence when he saw me standing there. His eyes flickered with unease. “You’re back… is Lucy’s fever down?” Before I could answer, a woman’s voice called out from the hallway behind him. “Patrick, where do you keep the hair dryer?” Caitlin walked out of our bathroom, wearing my favorite silk bathrobe. Patrick stiffened. He began rubbing his thumb against his index finger—the nervous tick he only did when he was caught in a lie. “Giselle… look,” he stammered. “Caitlin’s neighborhood isn’t safe right now. I thought it would be best if they stayed here for a few days until things blow over.” He couldn’t find five seconds to check if his daughter was alive, but he had all night to move another woman into my home. My heart felt completely numb, cold as ice. “No.” Caitlin’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Giselle, please don’t be mad. We left in such a hurry last night, I didn’t even pack clothes. Patrick was just trying to help. Maybe Toby and I should leave… I don’t want to cause any trouble.” “Toby is my student,” Patrick intervened, his voice rising defensively. “If a student is in danger, it’s my duty to protect them.” “But Patrick…” Caitlin sniffled, looking up at him. “If I’m coming between you and Giselle, I’ll never forgive myself.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh. “If you were so worried about causing trouble, Caitlin, why didn’t you call the police last night instead of another woman’s husband?” “Giselle!” Patrick roared, his face flushing red. “That’s enough. You’ve crossed the line. Go into the kitchen, make some lunch, and apologize to Caitlin right now.” I looked at the two of them standing in my home. “Apologize? She’s wearing my clothes in my house, and you want me to play maid?” Patrick grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the kitchen away from them. “I know you’re angry about last night, okay? But be reasonable. I’ll make it up to you and Lucy, I promise. Just drop it for now.” A slap, then a promise of a sweet. The same endless cycle. I was finally done. “Let’s get a divorce, Patrick. Lucy and I will pack our things so the three of you can have the space.” Patrick stared at me, a condescending sneer creeping onto his lips. “Divorce? What kind of childish game is this? You’re a stay-at-home mom, Giselle. You have no career, no income. How do you plan on supporting Lucy? On wishful thinking?” He sighed, softening his tone slightly, as if dealing with a difficult child. “Stop acting out. I’m giving you a way out of this argument. Don’t ruin it.” I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing. “I’ll see you at the courthouse on Tuesday morning.” He flinched at the finality in my voice, but quickly recovered, muttering, “Go cool down. I’m not playing this game with you,” before walking away. That weekend, the school organized a community charity drive. It was a big volunteer event, and Lucy had worked tirelessly all day. By the end of the afternoon, she was awarded the “Young Humanitarian Star.” But as she went up to accept her medal, Caitlin sighed loudly, looking down at Toby. “Lucy is so lucky. Toby’s always been so insecure because he doesn’t have a dad. He’s never won anything in his life. Lucy, sweetie, could you maybe let Toby have this one? Just to make him feel special?” Lucy held her medal tight and shook her head. “No.” The volunteer coordinator looked incredibly uncomfortable and turned to Patrick. “Mr. Vance… what do you think?” Patrick didn’t hesitate. He looked at Lucy, his expression stern. “Lucy, you did a great job today, but you have plenty of trophies at home. Toby needs this encouragement more than you do. Let Toby have the medal.” With one casual sentence, he crushed all her hard work. Tears spilled over Lucy’s cheeks. “Why? I earned it!” Caitlin stepped in, looking remorseful. “It’s fine, Patrick. I shouldn’t have said anything.” “No, it’s fine,” Patrick snapped. “We’ll get you another one next time, Lucy. You’re older than Toby. Be the bigger person.” “Be the bigger person.” My fists clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. I stepped forward to confront him, but Lucy grabbed my hand and gently shook her head. The light in her eyes had completely gone out. After the event, Patrick walked over to us, patting Lucy on the shoulder. “That’s my good girl. Showing kindness and sharing with those less fortunate—that’s what real character is.” I smacked his hand away from my daughter. “From this moment on, save your lessons on virtue and charity for Caitlin and her son,” I said, my voice shaking with rage. “My daughter and I don’t want them anymore.” That afternoon, worried about Lucy’s sudden silence, I decided to go back to the school to check on her. But as I reached her classroom, I heard Caitlin’s tearful voice coming from inside. “Patrick, it’s all my fault! I didn’t raise Toby well! He was so happy about the medal, but the other kids all side with Lucy. They told Toby he stole it and started leaving him out. Toby is so sensitive… he just acted out because he was hurt…” I stood outside the door, waiting to see what Patrick would do. He walked into the room, and without even looking at Lucy—who had a fresh scratch on her forearm—he immediately went on the attack. “Lucy, who taught you to turn your classmates against each other? I am deeply disappointed in you.” “I thought you were mature, but you’re still throwing a tantrum over a piece of plastic.” “Did your mother teach you to be this vindictive?” Lucy looked up, her lower lip trembling. “I didn’t do anything! Don’t talk about my mommy like that!” “Don’t talk back to me,” Patrick snapped, completely ignoring her tears. “Apologize to Toby right now.” “I didn’t do anything…” “I said, apologize!” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Lucy kept her head down, refusing to move. Caitlin stepped in with her usual faux-sweetness, gently pushing Toby forward. “Toby made a mistake too. He shouldn’t have pushed you. Toby, apologize to Lucy first.” This display of “generosity” only fueled Patrick’s anger. He grabbed Lucy by the shoulder, forcing her down in front of Toby. “Apologize. Now.” Lucy gritted her teeth, silent. Suddenly, Toby shoved her with all his might. “You’re just jealous! Mr. Patrick gave this to me! You’re just a useless piece of trash, you don’t deserve anything!” No one expected him to strike so violently. I watched in horror as Lucy’s small body was thrown backward, her head striking the sharp, metal corner of the window sill. There was a sickening, heavy thud. The sharp metal sliced her forehead open, and blood began to pour, staining her collar and the floor. I screamed, lunging forward to catch her before she hit the ground, pressing my hands against the wound. Warm blood leaked through my fingers, pooling on the floor. Patrick stood there, pale and frozen, taking a step toward us. But the sheer hatred in my eyes made him halt. “If anything happens to my daughter, Patrick, I will destroy you,” I whispered. “Giselle, I…” “Get out!” I called the paramedics and rode with her in the ambulance to the hospital. Standing under the harsh lights of the ER hallway, I paced frantically, my clothes stained with my daughter’s blood. Patrick arrived shortly after, his face dripping with sweat. “How is she?” The ER doors swung open, and the doctor stepped out, his face grave. My heart stopped. I felt my knees buckle, and I grabbed the nearest chair to keep from falling. “Doctor… is she…?” The doctor realized what I was thinking and quickly shook his head. “No, she’s out of danger. But the cut is very deep. She’ll need stitches, and it will leave a permanent scar.” Patrick let out a sigh of relief, muttering under his breath, “Kids play rough. It’s not as serious as you made it out to be.” A white-hot rage took over. I spun around and slapped Patrick across the face with everything I had left. “Are you blind?” I screamed. “Look at the blood on my hands! Look at her face!” My hand was shaking, the warmth of her blood still lingering on my skin. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to become dead quiet. “Tuesday morning. Eight o’clock. Outside the courthouse. Don’t be late.” “Giselle, I know you’re emotional right now, but you need to think about what’s best for Lucy.” “I am thinking about what’s best for Lucy. That’s why I’m divorcing you.” He looked at my face, saw the utter lack of negotiation, and fled the hospital in a panic. On Tuesday morning, he showed up late, still trying to play the rational one. “Are you sure about this? Lucy’s care is going to cost a lot of money. You’re a housewife with no income…” I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to the window and handed over my paperwork. My silence spoke louder than any argument. Patrick’s face darkened, and he signed the papers in a fit of pride. “Fine. Have it your way. Don’t come crying to me when you regret this.” We walked out of the courthouse, separate. The morning air felt incredibly crisp and clean. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. I was ready to start over with my daughter. But then, my phone rang. “Is this Lucy’s mother? Your daughter has just collapsed. She’s vomiting blood. We’ve issued a critical condition notice. You need to get to the ICU immediately.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “526586”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

For five years, Elliot and I lived crammed inside a rented room barely large enough to fit a double bed. It was the price we paid for survival. Three years ago, he threw himself in front of a spinning car to shield me, losing his sight in the crash. After that, he could never work again. The weight of keeping us afloat fell entirely on my shoulders. I took on three different part-time jobs, stretching my days until my bones ached. Just three hours ago, I stood frozen in the grocery store aisle, agonizing over whether to spend five dollars on a pre-packaged sandwich or three dollars on instant ramen. I swallowed the dry lump of hunger in my throat and walked away, returning to our cramped kitchen to boil a handful of plain, unseasoned noodles in water. But for Elliot, I had spent over an hour carefully simmering a rich pork rib broth, infusing it with every bit of nutrition we could afford. I didn’t let myself taste a single spoonful. We were so close. The jar of savings I’d scraped together over the years was exactly three hundred dollars short of what we needed for his corrective eye surgery. Then came my final delivery of the night at the upscale lounge where I worked. The heavy door of VIP Suite 4 was left slightly ajar, and through the crack, his voice drifted out, clear and sharp, shattering my world. “That is incredibly cruel, man. Just to test if Leah really loves you, you’ve been playing blind for three whole years?” “Making your girl pull triple shifts while you play sugar daddy to Caroline? You’re on another level.” “I heard she took a brutal spill on her bike during a delivery last month. She was in agony for weeks but wouldn’t even step foot in a clinic to save money. Doesn’t that break your heart?” Tears welled up, spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. I forgot to wipe them away. He wasn’t blind. It was all an elaborate crucible. He had spun a web of lies spanning seven years, all to measure the depth of my devotion. Maybe I should have let go of him a long time ago. … Inside the room, the air hung heavy and silent for a few beats. Then, Elliot’s lazy, familiar drawl cut through the quiet. “It doesn’t.” “It was just a fall. It’s not like she died.” “Besides, the insurance settlement wasn’t even enough to buy Caroline that new necklace.” “Leah’s too soft-headed. She didn’t even think to demand more.” The bottle in my hands felt like lead. I looked down at the label—a vintage bottle of Romanée-Conti, priced at over thirty-eight thousand dollars. A sum I could work my entire life and never save. Yet, to Elliot, it was just a casual drink on a Tuesday night. A drop in the bucket compared to the jewelry he bought for Caroline. But that “fall” had nearly cost me my life. I remembered the exact moment the sedan clipped my scooter. I was thrown onto the asphalt, but even as my vision blurred, my fingers clutched the delivery bag in a white-knuckled grip, terrified that a spilled container of soup would mean a deduction from my meager pay. The police ruled the other driver entirely at fault, resulting in a settlement of two thousand three hundred and fifty dollars. Even though my joints throbbed so hard my teeth rattled, I couldn’t bring myself to spend a single penny of it on a doctor. I gritted my teeth, pocketed the check, and added it straight to the surgery fund. I bought a cheap bottle of pain-relief liniment from the corner drugstore and rubbed it into my swollen skin in our dim bathroom. I had stared at his contact on my phone for an hour, debating whether to call. In the end, I locked the screen. I told myself that telling him would only make him worry, and what could a blind man do but feel helpless? But now, he sat in that plush room, declaring that it wouldn’t kill me. He had known all along. He just didn’t care. That was why he never once questioned the sharp, medicinal smell of liniment that clung to my skin for weeks. I took a deep, shaky breath, pulled my face mask tight over my nose, and pushed the door open. I had never told him that this third job was the final push to secure his sight. My hands trembled slightly as I placed the heavy crystal decanter on the table. Elliot didn’t look at me. He casually averted his eyes, completely indifferent to the server in front of him. The chatter around the table resumed, the words drifting into my ears like poison. “And that wedding of yours—man, talk about minimalist. A dollar for a symbolic dowry, no house, nothing. You planned it that way, didn’t you? And she still stuck by you for seven years.” Something inside my chest snapped, leaving behind a hollow, bitter laugh. The realization was a set of clean, sharp needles, stitching agony directly into my heart. Five years of marriage, seven years of devotion. It was long enough to build a life, and apparently, long enough for a man to rot from the inside out. I had loved him because once, his love for me was the only real thing in my world. My father had been a ruthless gambler, desperate enough to sell me off to a wealthy sixty-year-old local to clear his debts. Elliot had shown up with nothing but reckless courage, breaking into the house and carrying me out on his back. My father caught us at the edge of town, wielding a rusted kitchen knife. He stabbed Elliot repeatedly—five, maybe six times. But Elliot didn’t make a sound. He just gritted his teeth, held me tighter, and kept running through the dark. Only when we reached the safety of the highway did he finally collapse. Even as his strength faded, he squeezed my hand and whispered, “Don’t be scared. I’ve got you.” In that moment, I resolved to give him my entire life. Through all the grueling years that followed, whenever the exhaustion threatened to swallow me whole, I would repeat those words to myself. They were my anchor, pulling me through the darkest nights. I used to tell myself that the wedding, the house, the stability—they would all come in time. How foolish I was to believe in a future he had already locked away from me. I stepped out of the lounge, pulled out my phone, and sent him a voice message. [When are you coming home for dinner?] [Do you need me to come pick you up?] Inside the suite, his custom ringtone chimed. A chorus of knowing chuckles erupted. His face tightened in a brief flash of panic before he smoothly pulled out his phone, typing with practiced ease. With his other hand, he raised his glass to the group. “To a long night, gentlemen.” My screen lit up. I tapped the audio message, and my tears splashed onto the glass. His voice was casual, practiced, a script he had read a thousand times: [Still stuck at the cleaning gig, babe. It’s hard for me to get around in this weather. Go to sleep early.] In that quiet hallway, the final thread of my endurance broke. I dialed my boss’s number. “Diane, thank you for everything over the years. I’m putting in my notice.” Diane’s voice was warm with genuine relief. “Oh, Leah! Did you finally save up enough for his surgery? God knows you’ve earned it. Once Elliot gets his eyes back, you two can finally go watch those sunsets you always talk about.” I murmured a vague reply and hung up. It wasn’t that the fund was complete; it was that it no longer mattered. I could watch the sunset on my own. When Elliot first “lost his sight,” he had refused to leave our small apartment. So, I had put on a blindfold, stepping into the dark first. I mapped out every curb, every cracked pavement, every obstacle within a ten-block radius so I could teach him how to navigate the world. I fell more times than I could count, my knees and elbows permanently painted in shades of purple and blue. I learned to use a cane better than he did, memorizing the exact count of steps to the grocery store, reciting them to him like a prayer. I begged our neighbors to look out for him, but pleaded with them not to treat him with pity. I fled back to our apartment. It was a dark, damp basement unit, smelling of stale mildew and cheap wood. On the stove, the pork rib soup was still simmering, filling the cramped space with a rich, savory aroma. I picked up a spoon, blew on it, and tasted it. The warmth hit my tongue, and I broke down, sobbing into the quiet room. How had I been so blind? How had I never questioned how a sightless man could walk the streets of the city so flawlessly, never returning with a single scratch or a speck of dust on his clothes? I sat at the tiny kitchen table, staring into the dark until the sky turned a pale, sickly gray. It was dawn when Elliot finally returned. In his hand, he carried a plastic container of leftovers from his lavish dinner, offering it to me like a hard-won prize. “Leah, the kitchen manager at the diner let me take these home. Let’s eat together, okay?” He walked right past the bottle of extra-strength painkillers sitting on the counter, his eyes completely unblinking, perfectly deadpan. I watched him. Even now, he was still playing the part. Three steps from the kitchen to the table. Five steps from the table to the bed. I had wrapped every sharp corner of our mismatched furniture in soft foam padding, desperate to preserve his dignity and keep him safe from harm. He executed his familiar, hesitant shuffle across the linoleum floor. But this time, I didn’t rush forward to guide his elbow. I clenched my fists in my lap, my voice barely a whisper. “Elliot… what if we stop saving for the surgery? I’m just…” “So tired.” But he cut me off before the words could leave my throat. “You’ve held on for this long, Leah. Why would you give up now? We are so close to the goal.” I picked up the plastic container of leftovers and dumped it straight into the trash. His eyes widened, flashing with sudden, cold anger as he stared directly at me. “Are you out of your mind? There’s a limit to throwing tantrums.” I wanted to tell him about the endless shifts, the deep calluses on my palms that didn’t belong on a woman my age. I wanted to ask him why he lied to me, how the man who once bled for me could turn into a stranger. But the words dissolved into ash in my throat. I couldn’t utter a single syllable. There was no warmth in his gaze—not even a flicker of genuine concern. I silently cleared the table, pouring the untouched pork broth back into the pot. He hovered by the kitchen doorway, hesitating before stepping closer. “Is this about money? Are you unhappy at work? Just hang in there, Leah. Please. I only act like this because I’m terrified of losing you, because I love you so much… The doctor said the surgery will work. Once I have my sight back, I can finally take care of you.” No matter what went wrong in my life, his answer was always the same: “just hang in there”. Just endure the pain, and it will pass. Just work another shift, and the money will be there. Just hold on, and things will get better. But I didn’t want to endure anymore. The very words that used to comfort me now felt like salt in an open wound. For years, I had been the willing fool in his elaborate game. I gave a quiet, hollow nod. “Okay. I understand.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things. I was entirely calm. Elliot let out a slow, relieved breath, turned on his heel, and went into the bathroom to shower. As the water started running, his phone screen lit up on the nightstand. A message appeared from “Caroline (Wife)”. [Don’t forget my birthday next week.] [I love the Starry Orbit necklace you got me. It’s perfect for everyday wear.] [Also, my period started. Can you pick up some pads for me?] I pulled out my own cheap phone, my fingers trembling as I searched the name of the necklace. The screen lagged for a few excruciating seconds before revealing the price: fifteen thousand dollars. A casual gift. A sum that would take me half a lifetime of grueling labor to save. On my birthdays, my hands were raw from carrying heavy shipments, my feet blistered from the scorching heat of double shifts. I never took a day off. I was always running, always chasing the illusion of a better life. My celebration was always a five-dollar grocery store cupcake. I had treated every penny like it was a matter of life and death. Yet every single year, Elliot was by Caroline’s side, celebrating her birthdays with custom cakes and five-figure jewelry. Every tiny, odd detail I had forced myself to ignore over the years came rushing back with terrifying clarity. He had used his “blindness” as an excuse for everything. No matching profile pictures. No social media presence. But his phone’s lock screen was a portrait of Caroline in a stunning white dress. I had never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at her in that photo—with absolute, reverent adoration. They looked like a couple in a bridal magazine. And my contact name on his phone? It was just a random string of alphanumeric code. How pathetic. Everything I had been denied—the romance, the respect, the security—had been given to someone else. All I had was a piece of paper called a marriage certificate. When I had once begged him to put up a photo of us, his expression had turned deeply wounded. “‘Leah, navigating those settings is so hard for me. Please don’t make things difficult.’” Inside the bathroom, his voice called out over the sound of the shower. “Leah, can you grab me a dry towel? Leah, come help me.” He had never seen me as a wife. I was just a live-in nurse. A servant he could dismiss when the shift was over. The water stopped. I slipped his phone back onto the nightstand and lay down, letting the quiet tears soak into my pillow. Elliot stepped out, picked up his phone, and typed out his replies. After a moment, he turned in my direction. “Leah, do you know what brand of pads is best? Like, for a heavy flow?” My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Realizing his mistake, he quickly turned back to his phone, pretending to clumsily search the web. I stared at the ceiling, digging my fingernails into my palms until they bled. “Let’s get a divorce,” I said, my voice hoarse. Elliot didn’t even pause. He either hadn’t heard me, or simply didn’t care enough to acknowledge it. My mind drifted back to New Year’s Eve when we were twenty. He had proposed under a sky filled with fireworks, his eyes burning with an intensity that made me believe every word. “‘I’m going to buy you the biggest house one day, Leah. I’m going to give you the life you deserve.’” I suppose promises are only currency when love is alive. Once it dies, they’re just worthless paper. I slipped the cheap, tarnished band off my ring finger. The metal had begun to rust, a perfect reflection of what we had become. I unlocked my phone and booked a one-way ticket to Seattle. I could learn to watch the sunrise alone. Ten minutes later, Elliot was fully dressed, grabbing his coat. “My boss needs me to cover an early shift, babe. Go back to sleep. What did you say earlier?” He leaned down and pressed a soft, meaningless kiss to my forehead. I remained perfectly still, refusing to repeat myself, as the tears rolled silently into my hair. I stood by the window and watched him walk down the street to the 24-hour convenience store. Through the glass storefront, I watched his eyes scan the shelves. He didn’t hesitate; he reached for the premium, organic brand on the top shelf. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in my chest. I had always bought the cheapest, bulk-packaged pads online, half of them without proper branding. Elliot had seen them a thousand times and never once questioned it. He had never cared. I had ended up in the hospital with a severe infection from a bad batch of those cheap products, spending two agonizing weeks in a ward. Elliot had been so detached during that hospital stay, letting me hold his hand like it was a chore. When the doctor insisted I remain hospitalized for a month, I discharged myself early. I couldn’t afford to lose my shifts at the diner and the coffee shop. I had cried myself to sleep that night in our damp bed. Elliot didn’t hold me. He had only muttered, “You’re out now, so it’s fine.” To this day, my hand still instinctively reached for the budget brand on the bottom shelf. I didn’t know how we had drifted so far into this abyss. There was a time when he would hold me tight, whispering apologies for not being able to give me a better life. And now? Elliot walked out of the store and stepped directly into the back of a waiting luxury sedan. Through the tinted window, I saw the driver bow his head. “Mr. Aldridge, your wife has been waiting for you.” I stood frozen on the sidewalk for a long moment before hailing a cab. I needed to see her. I needed to see the woman he had spent five years protecting. The cab followed his car to an upscale brownstone. Elliot stepped out carrying a bouquet of fresh red roses and knocked on the door. Caroline opened it, throwing her arms around his neck, teasingly reaching into his coat pockets for her gift. Elliot laughed, stroking her hair with an unmistakable tenderness. He produced a jewelry box, fastening the delicate necklace around her throat. She beamed, kissing his cheek. Then, they leaned into each other, lost in a deep, intimate kiss. I knew I was done with him, but watching the betrayal play out in front of me still felt like a physical blow. I stood in the shadow of a streetlamp, biting my lip until the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth, desperate to keep from making a sound. My knees buckled, and I sank onto the cold concrete, wrapping my arms around myself as if to shield the broken girl I had been for seven years. Eventually, I forced myself to stand and walk away from her doorstep. But my mind was elsewhere, and I missed my footing on the steep concrete stairs. I went tumbling down, crashing heavily onto the pavement. My knees tore open, and sharp pain flared across my arms and ribs. Years ago, I had been diagnosed with a mild clotting disorder. I had never told Elliot—medical treatments were a luxury our budget couldn’t support. Now, the dark blood seeped through my jeans, refusing to stop. Kneeling on the freezing pavement, my fingers shook as I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It was a pathetic, desperate gamble. I wanted to see if there was any shred of me left in his heart, if seven years of unpaid devotion bought me even a single moment of his concern. I dialed again and again. The screen flashed and died, reflecting my pale, tear-streaked face. Finally, the line connected, but there was no voice. Only the sound of rustling sheets and soft, breathless sighs echoing through the receiver into the empty street. A cold, absolute despair washed over me, like the endless gray rain that had defined my life for so long. In that quiet stairwell, the last embers of my love for Elliot quietly went out. Minutes later, a text arrived: [Leah, did you forget I’m blind? I can’t exactly drive over to get you.] The same excuse. The same lie he had used to bind me to him. My eyelids grew heavy. I was too weak to stand. I remembered the day of the crash, how he had sprinted toward me as the truck lost control, throwing his body over mine. The deafening screech of metal on metal had filled the air. Surrounded by shattered glass and rising smoke, he had pinned me to the pavement, covering my ears, his ragged breath hot against my neck. “‘If we get out of this alive, Leah, we’re getting married.’” We did get married. But promises made in the heat of a fire are easily scattered once the ashes grow cold. This time, as I lay bleeding on the concrete, Elliot never looked back. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a sterile hospital ward. A neighbor had found me unconscious on the sidewalk and called 911, saving my life. By the time my leg healed enough for my discharge, the winter had broken, and the streets were bright with early spring sunshine. When I packed up the basement apartment, I realized how little of myself I had allowed to exist there. All my belongings fit easily into two small suitcases. The apartment was empty, and so was I. I left without leaving a single trace behind. Miles away, in his spacious study, Elliot felt an odd, nagging ache in his chest—like a missing rib. Then, his phone chimed with an audio message. [Elliot. You’ve been able to see for a long time, haven’t you? Let’s get a divorce.] In an instant, the color drained from his face, and the crystal glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the hardwood floor.

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For five years, I was a prisoner inside my own ribcage. A traveler from another world took over my life, armed with a system and a mission to win over the people I loved. I had always been loud, fierce, and fiercely passionate. She was quiet, dull, and painfully awkward. The moment she slipped into my skin, my parents and my husband knew she wasn’t me. For the first three years, they didn’t even try to hide their disgust for the intruder. But the universe—her “system”—had a rule: I could only return once she successfully completed her mission of making them love her. She was too terrified to make a move. So, desperate to bring me back, my family began guiding her, holding her hand through the steps to win themselves over. I truly believed they loved me beyond measure. Until I woke up early. When I finally opened my eyes, I found Christian gripping my wrists, his eyes swimming with terror and desperation. “The mission is almost over…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Please… can’t you just stay?” My parents sat beside the bed, nodding through their tears. “Sweetheart, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, after you left, our real daughter returned. But nothing felt right anymore. We weren’t used to her.” “We tried to find you, only to discover that when you went back to your original world… you died.” I let out a quiet, hollow laugh. So that was it. There was no one left in this world waiting for me to come home. But it didn’t matter. What they didn’t know was that I had a system of my own. Since all my ties to this life were severed, my work here was done. This time, I could leave without looking back. … Deep in my mind, I summoned my system. “Confirming abandonment of my current identity. Requesting immediate extraction.” The cold, synthesized voice chimed in instantly: “Application received. Extraction sequence initiated. Countdown: twenty-four hours. After today, your soul will be permanently returned to your original world.” Sensing my silence, Christian tightened his grip on my wrist. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling. “Please, Gloria,” he pleaded. “Stay. I beg you.” I stared at him for what felt like an eternity, then let out a soft, tired sigh. My mother lunged forward, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t survive without you. Please, just stay with us.” My father stood at the foot of the bed. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were filled with desperate hope. They were calling for Gloria. The name of the traveler. I looked at the three people who used to be my entire universe. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, masking every ounce of grief behind a blank stare. Then, mimicking Gloria’s soft, timid cadence, I whispered, “Okay. I won’t leave.” The moment the words left my lips, Christian pulled me into a crushing embrace. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot tears spilling onto my skin. “Thank God… thank you, Gloria.” My mother covered her mouth, sobbing with relief, while my father turned away to wipe his eyes, a heavy weight lifting from his shoulders. They were so incredibly happy. So consumed by their relief that they failed to realize the person sitting right in front of them was the daughter my mother had carried for nine months, the girl Christian had grown up with and loved since childhood. They didn’t see Iris. I rested stiffly against Christian’s shoulder, my eyes drifting to the framed family photo on the nightstand. It was taken five years ago. In the picture, I was wearing a vibrant red dress, laughing hysterically as I piggybacked on Christian. Back then, Christian used to tell me I was his sun. He swore to the heavens that no one would ever take his sun away. Back then, my mother spent hours in the kitchen every Sunday making my favorite chicken pot pie, pulling the golden crust fresh from the oven just for me. And when someone at a high-society gala whispered that I was too wild, too spoiled to be the daughter of Thomas, my father had flipped the table in a rage, pointing a finger in the man’s face and telling him to get the hell out. He had roared that his daughter had earned the right to be spoiled for the rest of her life. But everything shifted the moment the traveler invaded my body. And my own system had been powerless to stop it. During the first year, when Gloria had first taken over, Christian had shoved away a glass of water she tried to hand him. “Don’t use Iris’s face to look so pathetic,” he had sneered, disgust dripping from his voice. “It makes me sick.” In the second year, when Gloria clumsily cut her finger in the kitchen, my mother had watched her bleed with cold indifference. “My daughter has never stepped foot in a kitchen,” she had snapped. “Stop pretending to be a dutiful housewife.” By the third year, Gloria’s progress had stalled completely, triggering a penalty warning from her system. Desperate to get me back, my father swallowed his pride and his hatred, teaching Gloria step-by-step how to please Christian, how to win his heart back. It was around that time that my soul, drained of all its energy, fell into a deep slumber. I slept for two years, believing my family was enduring a living nightmare just to rescue me. I didn’t realize that while I slept, their hearts had quietly drifted away. What had happened during those two years? “System,” I called out in the silence of my mind. “Show me the memory logs from my slumber.” The system complied, projecting a stream of memories directly into my consciousness. The reel began to spin. Year Four. Gloria had drank herself to a stomach hemorrhage at a business dinner to save Christian from a client. Christian stayed by her hospital bed for three days and nights, gently wiping her brow with a warm cloth. When she finally opened her eyes, he kissed the back of her hand, his eyes red. “You’re so clumsy,” he had murmured, his voice thick with a tenderness he could no longer hide. “How are you going to survive without me?” Later that year, Gloria sat crying, unable to memorize the complex social etiquettes my father was trying to drill into her. For the first time, Thomas didn’t yell. Instead, he handed her a tissue. “If you can’t learn it, don’t,” he said softly. “Being quiet is nice, too. At least you don’t cause trouble like Iris did.” Then, Gloria cut her finger again while trying to complete a cooking challenge set by her system. My mother rushed into the kitchen, snatched the knife, and threw it into the trash. Hugging Gloria tight, she wept, “To hell with the mission! We don’t care about bringing Iris back anymore! Just don’t hurt yourself!” Year Five. Margaret took Gloria shopping. She walked right past the vibrant red dresses I used to adore, instead filling a wardrobe with soft, minimalist white linen dresses. “White suits you so well, Gloria,” my mother had said, smiling warmly. “It’s so clean and peaceful.” The projection faded. I reached up and quietly wiped away a tear before it could fall. Just two years. In just two short years, they had taken an outsider and, piece by piece, raised her to be the darling of their hearts. Gently, I pushed Christian away. Using Gloria’s quiet, hesitant voice, I asked, “If I stay… what happens to Iris?” The living room fell dead silent. My father stared down at the hardwood floor. My mother gripped my hands tightly, her voice cracking with emotion. “Gloria, like we said, we came back from ten years in the future.” “In that future, you finished your mission and gave Iris her body back. But we realized we couldn’t go back to the way things were. We weren’t used to her anymore. Iris… she wouldn’t even let us speak your name. She made us throw away everything that belonged to you.” “We missed you so much. We missed the dishes you baked, the quiet way you waited by the door for us to come home.” “So, we decided to go look for you. But we found out that when you returned to your original world… you died in an accident.” Christian grabbed my shoulders, desperation clawing at his face. “We regretted it so much. We prayed to every god, made bargains with the universe, begging on our knees for a second chance.” “And the universe answered. We were sent back to this moment, before you left. This time, we are never letting you go.” Listening to them, my throat felt like it was clogged with ash. So in that other lifetime, I hadn’t just lost their love; I had been branded an unreasonable, bitter woman for wanting my own life back. They had crossed a decade, weeping and begging the heavens, not to save me—but to rescue Gloria. Still playing Gloria, I asked softly, “But what about Iris? Are you just going to abandon her?” My father let out a heavy sigh. “We’ll find a way. Iris is our daughter, but you’re our daughter now, too. We want both of you.” I turned my gaze to Christian. “Do you feel that way too?” Christian looked up, his eyes shining with naked devotion. “Yes, Gloria. I can’t live without you either. As for Iris…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll make it up to her. I’ll sign over my shares to her name. She’ll have enough money to never work a day in her life.” I stared at his earnest face. Seven years of love and shared history, reduced to a financial settlement. I offered a gentle nod, keeping Gloria’s placid smile on my face. “Well, congratulations,” I thought. “You succeeded. You kept your precious Gloria. And I, finally, get to leave.” My mother squeezed my hands. “Gloria, you have such a soft heart. We know you feel guilty about taking Iris’s body. We know you’d never want to hurt her just to save yourself.” I looked at her, saying nothing, and slowly pulled my hands back. In the corner of my vision, my countdown clock was ticking away. My father sighed. “That’s why we went to your system. We asked if there was a way for both of your souls to co-exist, without either of you having to sleep forever.” My grip tightened around my glass of water. “The system told us that for one body to host two conscious souls, it requires massive energy. To achieve that balance, we have to weaken the original soul’s anchor to this world.” “We have to destroy the three things Iris treasures most in this world.” Christian chimed in quickly. “But don’t worry, it’s just a temporary hardship for her. If it weren’t for you looking after her parents and taking care of me these past five years, this family would have fallen apart long ago. What’s a little suffering compared to that?” Margaret’s eyes welled with tears. “Don’t carry this burden, Gloria. We can’t let you die. Iris doesn’t know any of this anyway. We’ll explain it to her later when she wakes up.” My father nodded in agreement. “Exactly. This is the only way you both survive. Making Iris suffer a little in exchange for two lives—it’s worth it.” Even though I had already checked out of this world, hearing those words pour from their mouths carved a sharp, fresh ache into my chest. “Sacrificing me for my own good.” What a beautifully twisted joke. But thankfully, Iris wouldn’t be needing their mercy anymore. I summoned Gloria’s quiet, submissive smile. “Okay. I trust you.” A wave of relief washed over the room. Christian turned to my parents, immediately mapping out the system’s instructions. “First, Iris’s art gallery downtown. I’ll have my people clear it out tomorrow and put the property up for sale.” My mother hesitated for a split second. “But she worked so hard to build that place. She loved that gallery.” “Mom, we spoiled her too much in the last life,” Christian said, his voice dropping. My father nodded. “A gallery can be rebuilt. Once her soul is stable, I’ll buy her a bigger space in a prime location.” “Second,” Christian paused, his eyes falling on the ring on my finger. “Our seventh anniversary. The ceremony is tomorrow. I’ll announce its cancellation publicly, revoking my vows to Iris.” I listened in silence, a bitter smile tugging at the corners of my lips. That was the ring he had slipped onto my finger while kneeling in front of our entire university class. He had sworn to the world that Iris would be his wife, and only his, forever. “And the third?” my mother asked. My father took a breath. “Third, we erase every trace of Iris from this house. Her bedroom will be completely gutted and remodeled into a style Gloria likes.” My father looked at me, his voice soothing. “Gloria, we are keeping you with us in this life. When we found you in your world, you were lying on a cold slab in a morgue.” Margaret chimed in, tears spilling over. “That’s why we’d rather let Iris suffer a little than lose you again. She’s our flesh and blood—she’ll understand our sacrifices once she wakes up.” I watched the three of them console one another. They had fully convinced themselves of their righteousness. To save Gloria, they were going to tear my life apart, all under the guise of loving me. Right there in front of me, Christian called his assistant. “Liquidate every painting in Iris’s gallery. Sell them off, give them away, do whatever it takes. I want the deed transferred by the end of the day.” Hanging up, he looked at me eagerly. “Step one is done, Gloria. Did the system’s progress bar move?” I stared at the empty air, pretending to look at a holographic screen, and nodded. “It did.” Christian exhaled a long breath. Then, he pulled up his social media account, which had millions of followers. For years, his feed had been a public monument to our love. Now, without a shred of hesitation, his thumb swiped across the screen. He hit delete on every photo, every love letter, every anniversary post, and our engagement announcement. He topped it off by posting a public statement: “Seven years, and it’s over. We have gone our separate ways. I wish her the best.” I watched the post go live. Within five minutes, his phone was blowing up with texts and calls from mutual friends. Christian simply powered it off. He turned to comfort me—or perhaps to comfort himself. “It doesn’t matter. Reputation, pride… none of it matters as long as we keep you both alive. I’ll explain everything to Iris when she’s back.” Upstairs, the deafening sound of drilling began. My parents had personally escorted a construction crew into the bedroom I had lived in for twenty-five years. I walked up the stairs and leaned against the doorframe, watching. My mother pointed at the framed certificates and paintings on my wall, her voice sharp and clinical. “Take all of these down. Throw them in the dumpster outside.” “Get rid of the bed too,” my father ordered the workmen. “Replace it with a simple single bed. Strip the wallpaper. Paint everything solid white.” That was the pink wallpaper my mother had spent a whole weekend helping me hang. That was the custom oak display case my father had commissioned for me when I won the state art championship. Now, the workers ripped them down, piling them in the hallway like junk. My mother pulled a thick leather photo album from my desk drawer—our family album, filled with memories of the three of us from my childhood to my twenties. Without a single glance inside, she tossed it directly into a heavy black trash bag. “Is there anything else we should change, Gloria?” she asked, turning to me. I shook my head slowly. “No, it’s perfect. The system says the tasks are complete.” In reality, the voice ringing in my head was saying: “Extraction countdown: ten minutes.” As the last of my belongings hit the bottom of the trash bag, a violent, tearing pain flared through my chest. The physical toll of the soul extraction hit me all at once. I tasted copper, and a splash of blood spilled past my lips. My mother gasped, rushing forward to support me. “Gloria! What’s happening?” My father hovered over us, panic in his eyes. “Is this a side effect of the balance transfer?” I nodded, my face turning deathly pale. “The system says… Iris’s soul is experiencing rejection pain. My body is just feeling the resonance. It will pass once the countdown ends.” Hearing that it was Iris who was suffering, the tension melted from their faces. Christian gently wiped the blood from my chin, his voice incredibly soft. “Hold on. It’ll be over soon.” Five minutes. I pushed Christian’s hand away and stood up straight, steadying myself. I looked around the room, at the bare walls, at the three people who once meant everything to me. I felt absolutely nothing. One minute left. The voice echoed: “Extraction sequence ready.” I looked at Christian, at Thomas, and at Margaret. They were staring at me with eyes full of hope, waiting for Gloria to stabilize, waiting for the beautiful future where both souls lived in harmony. I counted down in my head. “Three. Two. One.” “Erase all soul traces of Iris from this world,” I commanded my system. A violent wave of weightlessness hit me. My soul was ripped from the physical shell. From a height, I watched my body collapse, losing all strength. Christian lunged forward, catching her in his arms. “Gloria!” My parents scrambled over. “Why did she faint? Did it work?” Margaret cried. “Is Iris awake?” “It should be fine,” my father reassured her, though his voice shook. “We did everything the system asked. Iris should be waking up now.” On the sofa, the woman’s eyelashes fluttered. She slowly opened her eyes, the haze of unconsciousness giving way to sharp, clear recognition. Christian gripped her hand, his voice thick with tenderness. “Gloria, you’re awake. How do you feel? Is Iris there? Can she hear us?” Gloria stared at Christian’s hand around hers, then looked at the worried faces of Thomas and Margaret. She flinched, her voice trembling. “How… how am I back? I’m alive?” Christian froze. “Gloria, what are you talking about? Of course you’re back. Can you feel Iris? Is she in there with you?” Gloria’s eyes widened in horror. “But… my system told me that this final day belonged to Iris. She took control of the body for twenty-four hours to say her final goodbyes.” She swallowed hard, looking around the empty, ruined room. “Did she already leave?”

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Simon was the most celebrated fireworks designer in the country. In our seven years together, I had hinted a thousand times that I wanted a show created just for me. Every time, he’d simply run his fingers through my hair with a soft chuckle. “Next birthday, babe. I’ll design the most beautiful show you’ve ever seen.” On the night of my birthday, my heart hammered with anticipation as I rushed down to the coast. But beneath the canopy of blazing colors, I saw Simon. He was holding Daphne, his arms wrapped tightly around her. The fireworks bloomed over the ocean, a breathtaking canvas of light that felt entirely like someone else’s dream. I stood frozen at the edge of the sand, catching the drifted chatter of the onlookers. “I heard the designer puts this on for his muse every single year.” “A million-dollar show just for her. Now that’s real devotion.” I stood at the very periphery of the crowd, watching the two of them bathed in a shower of falling light. A sharp, hollow ache bloomed in my chest. When we got back to the apartment, Simon handed me a beautifully wrapped box. “Happy birthday!” he said. “It’s a robot vacuum—top of the line. Now you don’t have to bend over to clean. Your back will thank me.” I stared down at the sleek, practical machine. And suddenly, a quiet, empty smile crept onto my face. It took seven years to love Simon. But letting him go took only a single, silent second. … Simon tore open the packaging with meticulous care. “It’s the newest smart model,” he explained, adjusting the dock. “Let the tech handle the chore from now on. You shouldn’t have to work so hard.” I glanced at the receipt sticking out of the box. Nearly two thousand dollars. It wasn’t cheap. In the past, I would have bent over backward to convince myself: “He loves you, Diana. He’s just practical.” But tonight, I had seen that sky. I had seen the golden trails of light cascading over the water, bridging the ocean to the horizon like an endless dream. A dream that didn’t belong to me. “The display tonight,” I said softly, “was that yours?” His hands paused for a fraction of a second. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly casual. “Yeah. Daphne is back in the country. I promised her a long time ago I’d do a show for her every year.” “Every year.” The words hung heavily in the quiet room, pressing down on my chest like lead. I had waited seven years. Waiting for Simon to be less busy, waiting for his “next time,” waiting for the promised masterpiece. But Daphne didn’t have to wait. Her sky lit up every single year, without fail. Noticing my silence, Simon crossed the room and took my hands in his. “Diana, fireworks are just a flash of light. They burn out, and then they’re gone. I got you this because I actually want your daily life to be easier.” I offered a faint smile, withholding the bitter questions that used to claw at my throat. He let out a soft sigh of relief and ruffled my hair. “I knew you’d get it. You’ve always been the sensible one.” “Sensible.” That word again. In seven years, I’d heard it enough to make me sick. On my birthday, when I asked for flowers, he bought me an air fryer. “Flowers die in a week,” he’d said. “This lasts for years.” For our anniversary, when I suggested a weekend trip to the coast, he got me a neck massager. “You always complain about your shoulders. This is way more practical than driving all that way.” When I begged for just a little romance, he’d pull me close and chuckle. “We’ve been together forever, babe. Leave those silly romantic gestures to teenagers.” I used to tell myself he was just a realist. Simon dealt in grand spectacles of light; perhaps when your job is literal magic, daily life becomes mundane. I thought he saved his creativity for his work. But tonight, the truth settled in. He understood romance perfectly. He just chose not to waste it on me. Daphne loved golden glitter trails. He would stay up until three in the morning adjusting the chemical burn rates just to get the hue right. Daphne loved the ocean. So he painted the entire horizon for her. Then a memory flashed in my mind: the most breathtaking part of tonight’s show, the indigo and lavender nebula that swept across the dark sky, was from a sketch I had drawn on a napkin seven years ago. I had leaned over his drafting table, eyes bright, and whispered, “Simon, if you ever design a show for me, can you make it look like a violet galaxy spilling into the sea?” At the time, he had laughed, calling it childish. “That’s not how pyrotechnics work, Diana.” Yet tonight, that exact childish galaxy had bloomed right over Daphne’s head. Simon’s phone buzzed on the counter. The name “Daphne” flashed on the screen. He glanced at me, picked up the phone, and stepped out onto the balcony, leaving the sliding door cracked open. His quieted voice drifted into the warm living room, filled with a tenderness I had never received. “Did you like the indigo-violet sequence tonight? … Yeah, actually, Diana had scribbled down a rough idea years ago. She doesn’t understand the chemistry of it, she just likes pretty concepts, so I took her doodle and rebuilt it properly.” My fingertips went entirely numb. Then, Daphne must have asked him something else. Simon chuckled softly. “She won’t mind. She’s always sensible about these things. Besides, her life revolves around cooking and doing chores—she doesn’t know anything about art or fire. My shows are for people who actually understand the medium. Like you.” I stared down at my phone, at the confirmation message for my upcoming appointment at the clinic. An absurd laugh bubbled up in my chest. The fireworks I had waited seven years for weren’t a matter of effort or timing. It was simply that, in Simon’s eyes, I was never worthy of the art. I used to think that if I just held on a little longer, he would finally turn around and see me. But now, the smoke had cleared. It was time for me to walk off his stage. The next evening, Simon took me to a college reunion at a downtown lounge. I hadn’t expected Daphne to be there. She sat next to Simon, looking effortless in a white slip dress. A few old friends were already teasing them. “Daphne, you made it! God, remember college? You and Simon were the golden duo. The pyrotechnic prodigy and the visual arts queen. Everyone thought you’d be married by graduation.” I froze at the entrance of the private room. Daphne was two years ahead of me. Back in college, she was the girl everyone wanted to be. Brilliant, radiant, her installations permanently featured in the main gallery. She was the reason I had first heard of Simon. Everyone said they were a match made in heaven. When Simon eventually asked me out, I had quietly wondered if fate had finally decided to be kind to me. But now, looking at Daphne seated beside him, those nostalgic jokes felt like tiny needles stitching through my skin. I forced a polite smile and took a seat on Simon’s other side. Halfway through the night, I slipped out to the restroom. When I returned, the heavy door to the private room was slightly ajar. Inside, someone who had clearly had too much to drink laughed. “But seriously, Simon. You and Daphne were inseparable. How did you end up chasing Diana right after? We still talk about how wild that was.” The room fell quiet for a second. Simon, his voice loose from the bourbon, muttered, “That’s old history.” But Daphne let out a soft laugh. “Oh, come on, Simon. Why be shy? We had that massive fight, and he was desperate to prove he didn’t need me.” Her voice was quiet, but it pierced the air. “Diana happened to walk by the campus café right then. He pointed at her and told me, ‘Watch this. I’ll have her in three days. You really think you’re irreplaceable?’” A round of chuckles erupted. “No way! So Diana was just a dare?” Daphne hesitated, perhaps realizing she’d gone too far, and sighed softly. “I mean, I don’t mean it like that. Diana is sweet. It’s just… that’s how it started.” In an instant, the world went completely silent. The air left my lungs, replaced by a cold, suffocating weight. The romance I thought had been written in the stars was actually just a spiteful boy pointing at a random girl on a sidewalk. I had replayed our first meeting a thousand times in my head: Simon intercepting me on the quad, books clutched to my chest, his smile catching the autumn sun. I had spent seven years believing I was lucky. Now I knew I was just a punchline. “Do you regret it now, though?” someone asked. The room went still. I held my breath, pressed against the cold drywall of the corridor. Even now, broken as I was, a pathetic part of me was waiting. Waiting for him to say “no”. Waiting for him to say that somewhere along those seven years, he had actually fallen in love with me. But the silence stretched. It stretched until my fingers went completely cold. He didn’t say a word. In that moment, I wanted him to lie. Just for the sake of mercy. But his silence spoke louder than any words ever could. Inside, the sound of a glass shattering broke the quiet. “Oh, ouch! That’s hot!” Daphne gasped. Simon was on his feet instantly. The door to the room was thrown open. He was already ushering Daphne out, completely blind to me standing in the doorway. The impact knocked me off balance. I hit the hard tile floor, a sharp, white-hot spasm tearing through my lower abdomen. It felt as if something vital inside me was being ripped apart. Simon looked down, his brow furrowing. “Diana? What are you doing standing out here?” I trembled, my hands instantly flying to clutch my stomach. “Simon… I have to tell you, I’m…” Before I could finish, Daphne let out a sharp, theatrical wince. Simon’s attention snapped back to her, panic flashing in his eyes. “Diana, I need to get Daphne to the ER. Take an Uber home, okay? It was just a small trip—you’ll be fine once you get off your feet.” I reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve, my fingers trembling violently. “No, Simon, wait—” But he pulled away, sweeping past me down the corridor. As they went, Daphne looked back over his shoulder. She caught my eye, her lips curving into a slow, triumphant smirk. I sat on the freezing floor, watching his back recede into the dim light of the hallway. The cramping intensified, a heavy, dull ache. And then I felt it—the warm, slow trickle of blood down my thigh. I managed to get myself to the emergency room. After what felt like hours of testing, the doctor came in, looking grave. “The fetus is still there,” she said, looking down at the clipboard. “But you are threatened with a miscarriage. You cannot sustain any physical or emotional stress right now.” She glanced at the empty hallway behind the curtain. “Where is your partner?” I was silent for a long moment. “There’s no one,” I whispered. The absurdity of it nearly made me laugh. The child had a father. I just didn’t have a way to tell him. The sun was long gone by the time I discharged myself, clutching a bag of prescriptions. When I pushed open the door to our apartment, Daphne’s laughter spilled out of the living room. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, wearing my wedding gown. Simon stood behind her, adjusting the delicate tulle veil over her shoulders. It was the gown I had spent weeks searching for, visiting five different boutiques before finding the one. When I had texted him a picture of it, he had taken hours to reply with a simple, “Looks fine.” But now, his eyes were wide, filled with an awe he had never shown me. Catching my reflection in the mirror, Daphne gasped, smoothing down the satin skirt in mock panic. “Diana! Oh, please don’t be mad. The boutique delivered it today. Simon mentioned you weren’t feeling well, so I thought I’d help check the fit for you.” I stood in the doorway, my fingers cutting into the paper pharmacy bag. I could see the safety pins cinching the waist. Pinning it to Daphne’s measurements. I remembered trying it on in our bedroom. The waist had been slightly loose, and I’d turned to Simon, asking if I should have it tailored tighter. He hadn’t even looked up from his screen. “Whatever you want, Diana. It’s fine.” Yet here he was, smoothing every wrinkle on Daphne with agonizing precision. The urge to scream, to demand answers, died inside me. All that was left was an immense, hollow quiet. Daphne bypassed the silence, picking up the printouts of the wedding plans from the coffee table. “Oh, and we were looking at the fireworks layout for the reception. Honestly, the current theme is a bit cliché. What if we changed it to that violet galaxy design?” She looked at my pale face, tilting her head. “You don’t mind, do you, Diana? I just think it would look so much more romantic.” My throat burned. The violet galaxy. My napkin sketch. The promise I had lived on for seven years, given away like scraps. Simon looked down at the layout. “Sure,” he said. He didn’t even look at me. “A wedding show needs to be spectacular anyway. Daphne always did understand my aesthetic better.” I wanted to laugh out loud. My dress was on her body. My wedding was being reshaped in her image. Even my childhood dream had to go through her to be realized. Daphne began flipping through the seating arrangements. “Should we put me at the head table, Simon? I mean, given our history, sitting too far away might make people think we’re hiding something. It would look less awkward if I’m close.” Simon murmured, “Of course you’re at the main table. You’re not an outsider, Daphne.” Not an outsider. Which meant I, the bride, was the only stranger in the room, interrupting their beautiful reunion. Simon finally walked over, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “Go get some rest. Let Daphne handle the details. Her taste is better suited for this anyway.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch, and walked into the bedroom without a word. I heard him sigh with relief behind me. He probably thought I was just being “sensible” again. I opened my closet and began silently packing my clothes into a duffel bag. In the living room, the robot vacuum was humming, bumping into the dining table leg over and over again—a perfect metaphor for seven years of clumsy, useless devotion. I ignored it. I packed my passport, my ID, my cards. Outside the door, their voices drifted as they mapped out a sky of colored fire. It was fine. No matter how bright they made it, those lights would never have to touch me again. At two in the morning, a blinding pain woke me. I sat up, clutching my stomach, the room spinning into darkness. Simon wasn’t in bed. I hesitated, then dialed his number. It rang for what felt like eternity before connecting. In the background, I heard Daphne sobbing, calling his name. Simon’s voice was sharp with stress. “Diana? What is it?” I slumped against the wall, barely able to breathe through the agony. “Simon… I’m bleeding. There’s so much blood…” There was a brief pause on the line. Then, Daphne let out another loud, dramatic cry. Simon’s tone hardened. “Diana, you need to call a cab and get to the hospital. Daphne got a spark burn on her hand during the test fire. I can’t leave her right now.” My grip on the phone tightened. A tiny ember on Daphne’s hand was worth more than my entire body failing. “Simon,” I whispered, “what if something really happens to me?” He let out an irritated sigh. “Don’t dramatically exaggerate. Can you not pick tonight of all nights to pick a fight? Daphne is in actual pain here. Just be reasonable for once.” Daphne wailed again in the background. Simon muttered, “I have to go. Text me when you’re at the clinic.” The line went dead. The silence returned to the dark bedroom. I looked down at the dark stains on my palms. Seven years of my life, boiled down to a dial tone. It wasn’t even worth another tear. I called an ambulance myself. In the back of the emergency vehicle, I kept my hands pressed flat against my lower stomach, but I could feel the life draining out of me. At the height of the pain, a dark thought crossed my mind: “Maybe dying on the way wouldn’t be so bad.” At least then, I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I had wasted seven years on a ghost. When the gurney rolled into the ER, a nurse rushed alongside me. “Where is your family? Your emergency contact?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t have anyone.” Saying those words didn’t hurt as much as I expected. It was just hollow. Like the last remaining piece of me had finally evaporated. The doctor’s face was grim after the procedure. “The pregnancy is gone,” he said gently. “The hemorrhaging was severe. If you had arrived ten minutes later, we might not have been able to stabilize you.” He paused, lowering his voice. “Because of the scarring and complications… conceiving in the future is going to be very difficult.” I stared at the harsh fluorescent lights of the ceiling. No tears came. My phone buzzed on the bedside table. A notification from social media: Daphne had posted. It was a photo of her hand. There was a tiny, barely visible red smudge on her knuckles. Simon was half-kneeling before her, carefully dabbing ointment on it. Her caption read: “When the sparks fly, I’m glad you’re the one holding the ice.” A comment below read: “Simon is literally hovering. That’s not a burn, that’s just pure devotion.” Daphne had replied with a blushing emoji: “He completely overreacted, honestly.” I stared at the screen and let out a quiet breath. “Overreacted.” I guess overreaction was a luxury reserved for those who were loved. A red speck on Daphne’s hand made his sky fall. While I bled out in an empty apartment, and he called it a tantrum. By dawn, the IV bag was empty. I dragged myself back to the apartment, my body feeling like lead. The apartment was dead quiet. The robot vacuum had run out of battery in the middle of the hallway, sitting there like a discarded, expensive joke. I pulled the hospital discharge papers out of my bag and laid them flat on the kitchen island. Next to them, I slid off my engagement ring and set it gently on top of the paper. None of it mattered anymore. My flight was in three hours. I was leaving the city, and I was leaving Simon behind forever. Simon didn’t return until mid-morning. He walked in carrying a bag from the pharmacy, likely remembering my late-night call about the bleeding. He opened the door, his eyes landing first on the dead vacuum, then on the open bedroom door showing a half-empty closet. Finally, he saw the kitchen island. The ring. The papers. Simon froze. He walked over slowly, his hand trembling as he picked up the medical report. His eyes scanned the black-and-white text. “Spontaneous miscarriage. Severe post-operative hemorrhaging. High risk of future infertility.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “526583”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On Thanksgiving, my long-distance boyfriend sent me his usual check-in photo. He said he was stuck working the holiday shift, eating instant ramen in the security guard booth. I pinched my fingers on the screen, zooming in. Right at the edge of his desk, partially cut off by the frame, sat a half-eaten pork sausage roll. Virgil is a devout Muslim. We had been together for five years. He was the kind of man who would grimace if my fork so much as brushed a plate that had touched lard. There was absolutely no way he would eat pork. We were both drowning in poverty. He was supposedly working as a night watchman back home; I was grinding through five different part-time jobs just to keep my head above water. Because of that, we had a silent agreement not to mention visiting each other for the holiday. Neither of us could afford the luxury. But that night, I spent my last savings on a ticket for the overnight Greyhound bus. Eleven hours. Eleven hours of jolting in a cramped, plastic seat, just to see him. When I finally reached the high-rise office building in Boston, I pulled up his photo and showed it to the security guard at the front desk. “Does Virgil work here? As a guard?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The older guard blinked at me, then let out a soft, amused laugh. “You mean Mr. Holloway? Our CEO? He’s in the main lobby. It’s his secretary Lydia’s birthday today. He’s cutting the cake with her right now.” I followed his gaze toward the far end of the ground floor. An entire wall of the lobby was made of seamless, floor-to-ceiling glass, brilliantly illuminated. Virgil stood there, dressed in a bespoke charcoal suit. He was leaning down to gently place a paper birthday crown on a young woman’s head, his fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. He looked incredibly gentle. When the woman turned her face, my breath caught. She looked seventy percent like a younger version of me. The world tilted. Tears blurred my vision as I stepped back into the shadows and dialed my best friend. “Bella,” I sobbed, the words choking me. “He’s cheating on me.” The line went dead quiet for a few seconds. Then, Bella spoke, her voice heavy with a strange, defensive guilt. “So, you finally found out?” “…” “June, look, this is just Virgil’s loyalty test. He wanted to see if you were the kind of girl who was only after his money. You’ve endured so much already. Just put up with it a little longer, okay? It’ll all be worth it.” I didn’t answer. I hung up the phone in silence, then dialed a different number—one I had been avoiding for weeks. “Doctor,” I said, staring at my reflection in the dark glass. “If I choose not to go through with the treatment… how long do I have left?” … The oncologist was quiet for a long moment. “Based on your current blood work, June… a conservative estimate is three months.” I ended the call, and the screen went black. The security guard at the desk was still watching me. His eyes lingered on my faded, worn-out canvas sneakers, a flicker of curiosity crossing his face. “Miss? Do you know Mr. Holloway?” I forced my frozen lips into a faint, hollow stretch of a smile. I opened my mouth, but no words came. I realized, with a sickening jolt, that I didn’t know how to answer him. The Virgil I knew had bought me a nineteen-dollar sterling silver necklace when he earned his very first paycheck from a tutoring gig. He had taken a grueling six-hour train ride just to put it around my neck with clumsy, trembling hands. “June, I promise you, one day I’ll buy you the real thing.” The man standing in that glittering lobby, commanding the room in a luxury suit, was a stranger. I looked down. “We… went to college together,” I murmured. The guard didn’t press further. I walked out and stood alone by the concrete planters, the night wind whipping through my thin jacket. I opened my phone’s browser and typed his name into the search bar: Virgil Holloway. He had told me he was working as a night watchman in our hometown, making barely enough to send money back to his sick parents. I had believed him. He said he couldn’t save enough for a bus ticket to see me. I had believed that, too. I had never doubted a single word that came out of his mouth. “Holloway Enterprises’ Mid-Year Revenue Surpasses One Billion; Young Heir Steps into the Spotlight.” The accompanying photo showed him standing dead center at a press conference, wearing a perfectly tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders. He looked worlds apart from the boy who used to wear ten-dollar thrift-store t-shirts. I looked back through the glass wall. The birthday cake was a magnificent, five-tier creation adorned with delicate, sugar-spun roses—the kind of luxury I had only ever seen on television. Virgil stood close to his secretary, his hand lightly resting on the small of her back. Lydia turned her head to smile at him. Those two deep dimples on her cheeks… she looked exactly like me when I was nineteen. But I wasn’t nineteen anymore. Five years of shifts at a 4 AM diner, sorting packages under the scorching summer sun, and standing behind a convenience store register until dawn had long since chased the light from my eyes. But this girl… she looked like a flower that had been meticulously tended to in a greenhouse. The security guard, perhaps eager to share some office gossip, wandered near the door and chuckled. “Mr. Holloway really spoils Miss Lydia. She mentioned she missed the traditional pork sausage rolls from her favorite bakery back home for the holiday, so he literally had someone drive three counties over just to fetch them.” So, the pork sausage roll on the desk… it had been for her. I took a few steps closer, wanting to see them clearly. Virgil picked up the silver cake knife. Lydia placed her hand over his, and together, they cut the first slice. For a fleeting second, I wondered if I had ever known the real Virgil at all. The side door of the lobby pushed open, and two female employees stepped out into the cool night air to share a vape. They didn’t notice me standing behind the shadow of a maple tree. “Lydia is seriously the luckiest girl alive,” one whispered. “Right? She was just a basic receptionist at the regional branch. Mr. Holloway went down for an inspection, saw her once, and had her transferred to headquarters the next day.” “And this party is insane. Those flowers had to be flown in overnight, right?” “Obviously. Did you see the way he looked at her when they cut the cake? It was so sweet it made me want to scream.” They giggled and walked back inside. I leaned my back against the rough bark of the tree, my fingers trembling as I typed a message. “Virgil, what are you doing right now?” Through the glass, I saw him reach into his trousers and pull out his phone. He glanced at the screen. When Lydia leaned in to see, he subtly tilted the screen away from her view. A few seconds later, my phone vibrated. “Just on my shift at the gatehouse. It’s going to be a long night. Go to sleep early, honey. Don’t stay up late.” A cold wave of nausea washed over me as I thought of my mother, currently hooked up to life support in an ICU back home. If Virgil had just told me the truth, would I have had to work five jobs? Would I have taken that toxic job at the adhesive factory—the one that filled my lungs with benzene and gave me leukemia? I took a deep breath, my chest aching, and sent another text. “Virgil, let’s break up.” Inside the lobby, the easy smile on Virgil’s face vanished. “June, what’s wrong? Are you just exhausted? Hang in there. As soon as this busy stretch is over, I’ll come see you.” I let out a breathless, tragic laugh, the tears finally spilling over. I had heard that exact phrase so many times. During our senior year of college, it was “once this internship is over.” After graduation, it was “once my job stabilizes.” And lately, it was “once I save up enough.” I had waited every single time. And today, my reward was watching him throw a fairy-tale birthday party for another woman. My phone buzzed repeatedly. Virgil was calling. I stared at the cheap silver band on my finger—the one we had hammered out together—and swiped to answer. “June!” His voice was frantic, laced with a familiar panic. “Why are you saying this? What happened?” He sounded exactly the same as he did years ago. During our junior year, when I had fainted from exhaustion, he had rushed to the clinic and held my hand with that exact same desperate tone. “June, please look at me. What’s wrong?” Back then, he had pestered the school nurse until she practically threw him out, repeatedly promising him that it was just low blood sugar. He had sat by my cot for the entire afternoon, refusing to leave. But hearing that same frantic tone now only made me feel a profound, absurd sense of mockery. I laughed, but it quickly turned into a sob. The tears tasted bitter and salty as they slipped into my mouth. “Virgil, have you ever done anything to betray me?” The line went dead silent for a moment. Then, his voice came through, steady and quiet. “No.” “What are you doing right now?” I pressed. “I’m working my shift at the gatehouse.” A sudden wave of dry heaves hit me. My stomach, empty for over eleven hours, burned with acid. I hung up and turned to walk toward the lobby doors, but before I could take a step, someone grabbed my arm. It was Bella. She was my closest friend from college, the one who had witnessed every milestone of my relationship with Virgil. Now, a glossy Holloway Enterprises ID badge hung around her neck. Bella had never been an outstanding student, and her resume had been rejected by dozens of mid-level firms. Then, out of nowhere, she had joyfully announced she’d landed a high-paying corporate job at Holloway. I had been so happy for her that I’d scraped together enough money to treat her to dinner. It had all been because of Virgil. She had known about his true identity all along. She had known about his billions while watching me work myself to the bone, watching me cry over photos of his instant ramen. She had probably even helped him craft his lies. Bella held onto my arm tightly. “June, please calm down. Just let me explain, okay?” “Let go of me.” “Virgil didn’t have a choice! You don’t know the kind of vultures that circle guys in his position. He just wanted to find a girl who truly loved him for who he was, someone who wasn’t after his money. Don’t you see?” I looked at her—at this girl who used to share a tiny dorm bed with me, whispering our secrets into the night. Her face looked completely foreign. “So… this whole five-year struggle was just an obstacle course? A test?” Bella squeezed my hand. “You’re right at the finish line, June. Just hold on a little longer. Virgil has been thinking about you this whole time. You’re the one he loves. That secretary doesn’t mean anything to him.” I yanked my hand back, my voice cracking. “He loves me? By feeding me lies about instant ramen while he cuts a five-tier cake with her?” Bella opened her mouth, but no sound came out. I turned away from her and marched toward the glass doors. As I pushed them open, the warmth of the lobby and the sound of laughter crashed over me. The room was filled with people in sleek evening wear and elegant dresses. I was wearing a pair of old, faded jeans that had begun to pill at the knees. I looked like a stain on their perfect picture. Virgil was the first to see me. His hand, holding a flute of champagne, froze mid-air. Lydia followed his gaze, her smile faltering. She instinctively took a small step closer to Virgil, her shoulder brushing his. Virgil muttered something to her, set his glass down, and walked quickly toward me. He reached out and gently took my hands, his brow furrowed in that familiar, protective way. “Why are your hands so cold?” He immediately began slipping his charcoal suit jacket off his shoulders to drape it over me. He had done this a thousand times before—by the lake on campus, under the freezing draft of the library vents, on the dark walks home after a late movie. He spoke to me in that soft, soothing voice he used when I was upset. “How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” I stared into his familiar eyes, then grabbed the lapels of his jacket and threw it to the floor. “Keep your expensive clothes, Mr. Holloway. A girl like me doesn’t deserve them.” His face paled. “June, don’t talk like that. I—” “Does this make you feel good, Virgil? Are you amused?” His throat bobbed as he tried to grab my hand again. “June, you’re misunderstanding this. Lydia is just a kid fresh out of college. She… she reminded me so much of how you were when we first met. I saw her and I just wanted to help her out. That’s all.” “I can explain everything else later—” Before he could finish, the phone in my pocket began to vibrate violently. I pulled it out and answered. “Miss Song,” the doctor’s voice was urgent. “Your mother has just suffered acute multi-organ failure. Her condition is critical. We need to know if you authorize the use of the imported experimental drugs immediately.” The phone slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the marble floor. I knelt down to pick it up, and a shard of the shattered screen sliced deep into my thumb. I didn’t feel a thing. The experimental drugs were highly effective. But they were incredibly expensive. I stood back up, looking directly at Virgil. “Virgil, you’re a billionaire, right? Can you give me some money? Please.” His brow furrowed deeper, his tone turning cautious, almost disappointed. “June, today is the very last day of the trial. Just wait until tomorrow, and I’ll buy you whatever—” “I don’t want tomorrow!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, raw and hysterical. “I need it today! Right now! Do you hear me?!” A look of deep weariness and doubt crept into his eyes. “June, please. I need this final proof to show my parents that you’re the right woman to marry me. Don’t ruin this now.” I stared at him, hot tears pouring down my face. “Virgil… if I agree to break up with you, will you give me the money?” He froze, and then, to my horror, a faint, confident smile touched his lips. “Stop talking nonsense. I know you’d never leave me.” He was always so calm. He always had his reasons, always assumed he held all the cards. Unable to contain the wild, agonizing storm inside me, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Then, I turned and ran. The tears blinded me, turning the corridor into a smear of bright lights. I stumbled, nearly falling over my own feet. “Hey! Stop right there!” A sharp voice called out from behind me. I stopped and looked back. Lydia was standing at the end of the hallway. A delicate gold bracelet sparkled on her wrist under the recessed lights. She walked toward me, her eyes scanning my cheap clothes with cold disdain. “You look like you’re practically begging for cash,” she said, her voice dripping with pity. “I’ve seen plenty of girls like you trying to extort Mr. Holloway.” She tilted her wrist, letting the gold catch the light. “See this? Mr. Holloway got it for me last month. It’s the newest Cartier piece. Over five thousand dollars.” She brushed her hair back, revealing a pair of lustrous pearl earrings. “And these? Fifty thousand.” Lydia’s expression softened into an insincere, mocking show of sympathy. She leaned in close to my face. “Do you want them?” she whispered. “If you do, I can give them to you. The money I spend on a single pair of shoes could fund your little life for years.” My body went rigid. In that moment, pride was a luxury I could not afford. My mother was dying. “Yes,” I choked out. Lydia smiled, tilting her chin up as she looked down at me. “Then kneel. Kneel and beg me for it.” She pointed to the polished marble floor. “Right here. Do it, and the money is yours.” My hands clenched into tight fists, my fingernails biting so deep into my palms that they drew blood. But then I saw my mother. My mother hooked to the ventilator, her fragile body pierced by a dozen tubes, her voice echoing in my mind, telling me not to work so hard. The images shattered my spine. I bent my knees. They hit the cold, hard tile with a dull thud that sent a sharp pain straight to my chest. Lydia looked down at me, letting out a delighted, soft laugh. “Good girl.” She slowly drew her phone from her designer clutch. “Hold on, let me transfer it. Don’t worry, my phone is just a little laggy today.” She swiped her screen, deliberately dragging out every second. “Oh, wait, why is my passcode failing? Ah, I put it in wrong again. Just a second, almost got it.” My knees were growing numb against the marble, but I didn’t dare move. I was terrified she would change her mind. “Okay, there. Is ten thousand enough?” She looked at me with amusement. “Oh, wait, my personal account has a daily limit. I’ll just use the shared Apple Pay. Virgil set it up for me on his black card—the limit is practically endless.” She tapped the screen a few more times, then turned the phone to show me the confirmation screen. She had used Virgil’s money to buy my dignity. I slowly stood up. Just as I did, my shattered phone buzzed in my hand. A single text message appeared on the cracked screen: “Miss Song, we regret to inform you that despite our best efforts, your mother, Ruth Song, passed away tonight at 11:24 PM.” I stared at the words until they lost all meaning. My eyes felt dry, as if the well of my tears had completely burned out. Heavy, urgent footsteps echoed from the other end of the hall. Virgil appeared, his expression dark with fury as he stopped in front of me. “June! Have you lost your mind?” he barked. “Are you really so desperate for money that you’d corner a young girl who just graduated and threaten her?” Lydia shrank back beside him, tears instantly welling in her eyes. “Mr. Holloway… she just blocked my way and demanded ten thousand dollars. She said she’d hurt me if I didn’t give it to her.” Virgil’s eyes flared with disgust. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight. “June, I can’t believe I ever loved you. You’re nothing but a superficial, greedy liar!” I slowly raised my head to look at him. My lips parted, but my throat was entirely dry. No sound came. The lights overhead began to spin, faster and faster, dissolving into streaks of white. I closed my eyes as my body went limp, falling like a leaf into the dark. The last thing I heard was Virgil’s voice, suddenly sharp with terror. “June! June, wake up!” Then, the darkness swallowed me whole. I woke up to the faint, clinical smell of antiseptic. The curtains were drawn, letting in only a sliver of pale morning light. Beside my bed was a vinyl guest chair. Over the armrest hung a gray cashmere scarf. Last winter, Virgil had sent me a selfie wearing that exact scarf. When I told him it looked incredibly soft, he had laughed and said he bought it at a street market for five dollars. I had teased him, telling him he made a five-dollar scarf look like five hundred. The door creaked open. Virgil’s best friend, Jackie, stepped into the room. “You’re finally awake,” he said, pulling the chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling? Do you want some water?” I nodded slowly. He hurried to pour a cup and handed it to me. “Your fever was dangerously high last night. You were completely out of it,” Jackie said quietly. “Virgil stayed by your side the entire night. He only stepped out a few minutes ago after your fever finally broke.” I stared at the gray scarf on the chair, remaining silent. Thinking I didn’t believe him, Jackie added quickly, “I’m serious, June. I’ve known Virgil since college, and I’ve never seen him panic like that. When you collapsed, he carried you out of the building and ran through three red lights to get you here. He almost got into a fistfight with the ER doctor because he wanted them to treat you first.” My expression didn’t change. I listened to his words as if they were about someone else entirely. Jackie’s phone began to vibrate. He glanced at the screen, gave me an apologetic look, and stepped out into the hallway to answer it. He pulled the door shut behind him, but it didn’t click fully into place. Through the gap, his voice carried clearly into the room. “Yeah, her fever is down. She just woke up. She looks physically okay, but she isn’t talking.” There was a brief pause. Then, Jackie’s voice dropped, filled with caution. “When are you coming back? Have you… have you calmed your secretary down yet?” My fingers curled into the thin hospital blanket, gripping the fabric until my knuckles turned white. Even now, I was still secondary to his other priorities. Jackie’s voice faded as he walked further down the corridor. I threw off the blanket and pulled the IV needle from the back of my hand. A small bead of dark blood welled up, but I ignored it. My phone was gone, and I only had a few crumpled bills left in my coat pocket. But I couldn’t bear the thought of being in this room when Virgil returned. I slipped out of the side exit. I didn’t have enough money for a cab, so I began the long walk to the train station. As I passed a small florist on the corner, I stopped. Water droplets clung to the bright yellow petals of some sunflowers. It made me think of Virgil. Whenever we had a stupid argument, he would always show up at my door with a single sunflower to make peace. I wondered if he was buying flowers to apologize to Lydia right now. I shook the thought from my head and kept walking. By the time I reached the station, the sun was high overhead. My heels were rubbed raw, bleeding into my cheap sneakers. I used my remaining cash to buy a ticket, and boarded the train back to Lansing. On the other side of the city, Virgil was holding a container of warm pumpkin porridge—my favorite—as he rode the elevator up to the fifth floor of the hospital. The elevator doors slid open, and a phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, realizing it wasn’t his own. It was my cracked phone, which he had picked up from the lobby floor after I collapsed. He hesitated for a second, then answered. “Miss Song,” the oncologist’s voice came through the line. “Regarding the treatment plan we discussed last week… have you made a decision? If we don’t start chemotherapy immediately, the leukemia will—” Virgil froze in the middle of the corridor, his entire body going rigid. “What?” he breathed. “If the leukemia is left untreated, you only have three months left to live.”

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Late at night, while scrolling through a relationship forum, a post caught my eye. Dating my girlfriend for five years, but she refuses to get a marriage license. Is it worth staying? The comment section was already flooded with people calling the original poster a hopeless fool. As the page kept refreshing with new replies, I decided to leave a comment of my own. “My girlfriend belongs to an off-grid, matriarchal community. We’ve lived in a ‘visitor’s union’ for eight years.” “No marriage license, no wedding. She treats our apartment like a hotel, coming and going as she pleases.” “Most months, we don’t even see each other once.” “The child stays with her. He’s seven now, and he’s never called me Dad.” “Oh, and she has a childhood sweetheart from her community. When she’s not with me, she’s with him.” Within minutes, my comment blew up. The upvotes quickly surpassed the original post. The author of the thread replied to me with genuine pity. “Man, you definitely have it worse.” I hovered my thumb over the screen just as a notification from my airline app popped up, reminding me of my upcoming flight. Yes, it was pathetic. So I gave up. Maybe this relationship was doomed from the very beginning—eight years ago, when I first climbed the ladder to her loft. … “What are you looking at?” Wren’s voice startled me from behind. I quickly locked my phone screen and glanced at the wall clock. Ten o’clock. This was the first time she had come home this month. “Nothing.” Wren didn’t pry. She opened the closet and began pulling out the last few items of her clothing, announcing her plans as casually as she always did. “The long holiday weekend is coming up. I’m taking Troy and Cody back to our community on the Lost Coast.” I froze mid-motion, slowly turning to look at her. She had promised me. She had sworn that over this long weekend, she would finally make time to go to the hospital with me to see my mother. Troy, our son, turned seven today. And yet, my mother had never even laid eyes on her own grandson. A bitter tightness seized my throat. I swallowed hard before I could speak. “You promised me, Wren. You said you’d visit my mom this weekend.” “The hospital is so close. My mom just wants to see Troy. Just once…” She cut me off before I could finish. Her voice carried that familiar, sharp edge of impatience. “What is there to see? Your mother has been in that hospital forever. The whole place smells like sickness and death.” “An oncology ward isn’t exactly a healthy environment. What if Troy catches something?” She set her clothes down and met my gaze, her shrug entirely dismissive. “It’s been years, Jesse. Another day won’t make a difference.” Always the same excuse. I had heard it a hundred times over the last eight years. I looked around the apartment. Little by little, the traces of her and our son were vanishing. I wondered what she would take next. Before I could say anything else, the front door—which hadn’t been fully latched—swung open. A small figure burst in, throwing himself into Wren’s arms. “Mommy!” Troy cried, clinging to her. Wren looked up, surprised. “It’s late. Why did you bring him here?” Cody was leaning against the doorframe, a faint, knowing smirk on his face. “Your son couldn’t stand being away from you for another second. He insisted on coming.” He looked at her open suitcase. “Packed and ready?” Troy pulled back from Wren’s embrace, his dark eyes locking onto me. I slowly knelt down, extending my arms. “Troy, come here. Let Daddy give you a hug.” It had been so long since I’d held him. He had lived with Wren’s family in their matriarchal community since birth, spending far more time with Cody than with me. Troy pouted, immediately stepping back to grab Cody’s hand. He crossed his arms and made a face at me. “You’re not my daddy!” My hands froze in mid-air. Cody’s smirk widened into a triumphant grin as he swept Troy up into his arms. “Sorry, Jesse. Looks like your kid just likes me better.” Wren, as usual, did nothing to defend me. She simply sighed. “He’s just a kid. When he’s older, he’ll understand.” She zipped her suitcase and handed it to Cody. As he reached for it, my eyes caught the object clenched in his other hand. A hand-woven, patterned wool sash. A cold, ringing static filled my ears. In Wren’s community, they exchanged handcrafted tokens of commitment. Eight years ago, when I climbed the ladder to her loft, she had given me a hand-carved silver haircomb. But this woven sash… I had seen it before. I had found it half-finished in her bag months ago and assumed she was making it for me. When I asked her about it, she had screamed at me, accusing me of invading her privacy. Now, I knew. It was for Cody. A deep, bone-chilling cold settled over me. I stood frozen, my eyes locked onto the sash. Cody noticed where I was looking. He offered a small, smug wave of his hand, not saying a word, but letting his eyes do all the talking. I clenched my fists so tightly my nails bit into my palms, the sharp pain pulling me back to reality. Just as they turned to leave, I finally spoke. “Wren. Take this with you, too.” Wren’s eyes dilated the moment she saw what was in my hand. “What is this supposed to mean?” Her face went pale. The silver comb lay flat in my palm. I held out the very token she had given me all those years ago. Even Cody’s smile vanished. In their community, returning a token of commitment was the ultimate insult—a public declaration of divorce and a deep embarrassment. Wren grit her teeth. “Are you losing your mind, Jesse? Just because I didn’t agree to visit your mother right this second?” “Is this really worth throwing a tantrum over?” My arm began to ache from holding it out. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating. Wren let out a sharp, bitter laugh. She stepped forward and snatched the silver comb from my hand. Before I could even blink, she threw it violently against the hardwood floor. Crack. The metal shattered, and a flying fragment nicked my cheek, leaving a stinging line of warmth. “Satisfied? You are completely unreasonable.” The door slammed shut, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. I stood there for a long time, staring at the broken silver pieces scattered across the floor. A deep, physical ache bloomed in my chest. Eight years ago, during our union ceremony, she had held my hand, pressed this comb into my palm, and whispered, “To the end of the road, through the highs and the lows.” Back then, her eyes had been so bright, so full of love. Now, there was nothing left. I knelt down and slowly swept the broken pieces into my hand. I had carried this comb next to my heart for eight years. In the end, its only destination was the trash can. A single tear slipped down my face, landing on the dusty floor. Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. I wiped my eyes quickly. It was the hospital. “Mr. Campbell? Your mother’s vitals are dropping. You need to get here as soon as possible.” Without a second thought, I rushed out the door. My mother had been diagnosed with terminal cancer two years ago. There was no cure; we were just buying time. In the ICU, she was hooked up to a labyrinth of tubes, her hand resting on the edge of the mattress, thin and paper-like. I knelt by her bedside and squeezed her hand. She was conscious, her breathing shallow and labored. “Jesse… when can I see Troy? I’m afraid… I won’t make it.” Tears welled in her hollow eyes, spilling over her temple and soaking into the pillow. I squeezed her hand tighter, my voice thick. “I’ll call Wren. I’ll make sure she brings Troy right now.” I stepped out into the sterile, quiet hallway, my fingers trembling so hard I could barely unlock my screen. It rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. But it wasn’t Wren. “Uncle Jesse? Why are you calling?” Uncle. The word pierced right through me, a brutal reminder of how distant my own son was. I opened my mouth, but my throat was so dry no words came out. Only a ragged breath escaped. “Mommy, Daddy, and I are taking family photos right now. Don’t bother us.” The line went dead. I stood frozen, the dial tone buzzing in my ear. I took a deep breath, forcing myself to look composed, and walked back into the room. My mother’s eyes flared with a sudden, desperate hope. “Are they coming?” Looking at her fragile, expectant face, the truth lodged itself in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. The silence in the room stretched. Slowly, the light in my mother’s eyes faded. Her tense shoulders relaxed, and she sank back into the pillows, letting out a soft, tired sigh. “It’s okay… at least I have you, my boy.” “I’ll never forget the day you came home eight years ago, your eyes shining, telling me you’d found the love of your life.” “As long as you’re happy, Jesse.” But was I happy? I stared at my dark phone screen, lost in a daze. I stayed by her bedside for twenty-four hours, barely moving. The next afternoon, as I was waiting in the hospital lobby to pick up her pain medication, Wren burst through the sliding doors, frantic and breathless. “I knew you’d be here.” Without giving me a chance to speak, she grabbed my arm and tried to drag me toward the emergency wing. “Troy ran into the street. Cody threw himself in front of a car to save him. He’s badly hurt.” “He’s lost too much blood, and they need a donor. Your blood types match.” She was sweating, her voice shaking. But as she pulled, my feet remained glued to the floor. She spun around, furious. “What are you doing?!” “He’s hurt and needs blood. What does that have to do with me?” Wren stared at me, her eyes wide with utter disbelief. Her lips trembled. “He saved your son!” “The boy who has never once called me Dad.” Wren shook with rage. Through the glass partition of the nearby trauma bay, I could see Cody lying on a gurney, pale and covered in blood. “Didn’t your mother want to see Troy?” Wren let go of my arm, her voice dropping to a cold, transactional whisper. “If you do this, I’ll bring Troy to see her. If you don’t, I swear to God, she will die without ever laying eyes on her grandson.” The threat struck like a physical blow. My mother’s fragile, hollow face flashed in my mind. “Fine.” I looked her dead in the eye. “Keep your word.” I sat in the blood donation chair, watching my blood drain into the plastic bag. It was only when the doctor announced that Cody was out of danger that Wren finally let out a long breath, cradling Troy in her arms. I leaned against the wall, my head spinning from the blood loss. “Can we take Troy to my mother’s room now? It’s just down the hall.” Wren rubbed her temples, her expression twisting with irritation. “Can’t this wait until Cody wakes up? If it weren’t for Cody, your mother wouldn’t even have a grandson to see. Do you have to be so relentless?” She looked up at me, but when she saw how pale and bloodless my face was, she hesitated, her voice softening slightly. “Your mom’s room is so sterile. Troy’s immune system is weak. You know how easily he gets sick.” “How about tomorrow? You bring your mom out of her room, and we’ll meet in the courtyard.” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. My mother was on life support. How was she supposed to go to a courtyard? I turned and walked back to my mother’s room. I told her about the arrangement. I wanted to tell her to forget it, that they weren’t worth it. But my mother’s eyes flared with sudden life. She nodded eagerly. “I can do that, Jesse. The doctors gave me some new meds. I have energy now. Tomorrow. Let’s do it tomorrow!” I swallowed the lump in my throat, looking at how she was willing to drag her dying body just to catch a glimpse of the child. “Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll arrange it.” That evening, I went back to the apartment to pack some things. Wren and Troy were there. Troy was asleep on the guest bed, and Wren was sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. I was too tired for another fight. I turned toward my room. “You’ve been acting strange lately,” she called out. “I’m home, and you don’t even say a word.” “What do you want me to say? Welcome back?” Wren’s face faltered. She stood up. “Jesse, if you really don’t want to live in a visitor’s union anymore… we can get married. I’ll sign the papers.” “After all, it’s been eight years…” If she had said this a year ago, I would have been too happy to sleep. But now, hearing it, I felt absolutely nothing. My life didn’t have to revolve around her anymore. Before I could answer, she added, “Next week. Next Tuesday, we’ll go to City Hall and get the marriage license.” Next Tuesday. The exact day I had arranged to transfer my mother to a hospice care facility closer to my hometown. I had kept her here in the city only because she wanted to be close to Wren and Troy. “We’ll see,” I said, and closed the bedroom door, shutting out her complicated, lingering gaze. The next morning, I dressed my mother in her favorite sweater and pushed her wheelchair to the small bistro near the hospital that Wren had booked. Maybe it was the medication, or maybe it was the sheer force of will to see her grandson, but she looked better than she had in months. She breathed through her portable oxygen tank, her eyes glued to the restaurant door. “Jesse… they’re coming, right?” I check my phone. Ten minutes ago, Wren texted saying she was on her way. Minutes tick by. The waiter came to our table three times, asking if we’re ready to order. I called Wren. No answer. I knew then. She wasn’t coming. I knelt in front of my mother’s wheelchair, taking her cold hands. “Mom, let’s go back.” She looked at the door one last time, her trembling hand adjusting the nasal cannula. “It’s okay…” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I didn’t… I didn’t really need to see them anyway.” Her voice trailed off into nothing. A strange weight settled in her hands. “Mom?” No response. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was gone. She probably knew her time was up. She waited as long as she could, but in the end, she left this world with a broken promise hanging over her. I went through the motions of signing the death certificate, my mind entirely numb. That’s when Wren finally called. “I forgot to tell you, Cody got discharged today. I had to drive him home and help him settle in. We’ll have to do lunch another time.” “There won’t be another time.” The line went quiet for a second. Then, her voice sharpens with impatience. “Don’t start, Jesse. I actually had a real emergency today.” I looked down at the death certificate clutched in my fist. My voice was a raspy whisper. “We’re done, Wren.” When I returned to the apartment, Wren was already there. She looks furious. “Jesse, can you try to be understanding for once in your life?” “And your mother is ridiculous, constantly demanding to see the kid. We were only a day late. Do you really have to give me this attitude?” “If it weren’t for me, she wouldn’t even have a grandson. Is she really so close to the grave that she can’t wait twenty-four hours?” Before she could finish the sentence, my hand flew across her face. The slap echoed in the empty room. Wren staggers back, clutching her reddened cheek, her eyes wide with shock and hurt. “Fine,” she spits, tears welling up. “Hit me. You knew what this was from day one. We are in a free union. I don’t belong to you. If you want a traditional little wife so badly, go find someone else!” She slammed the door as she left. I stared at my palm. If I had known eight years ago that it would end like this, I never would have climbed that ladder. The next day was the day of my flight. I was supposed to take my mother with me to start a new life. Now, I was carrying her ashes in an urn. As I was packing the last of my things, a package arrived. No return name. I opened it. Inside were two red leather folders holding a marriage certificate. Wren Cooper and Cody Cross. My phone buzzed immediately. Cody and I signed the papers today. The wedding is next month. Looking at the texts, a strange, profound lightness washed over me. The heavy stone that had sat on my chest for eight years simply vanished. It was better this way. No more lingering threads. I pulled my suitcase out to the waiting cab. The apartment where I spent eight years waiting for her slowly disappeared in the rearview mirror.

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My adoptive sister, Ivy, was abused barely a week after her wedding. The moment I heard, I rushed over to protect her. Instead, she locked me in the house with her husband, who was in a blind, drunken rage. He stabbed me three times before the police arrived. After the emergency surgery, my recovery was a nightmare. Seeing Ivy triggered violent panic attacks, my chest seizing so hard that my half-healed stitches tore open again and again. My husband, Connor, stayed by my bedside day and night, strictly banning Ivy from my sight. But two months later, when I was finally discharged and walked through our front door, the first thing I saw was Connor holding my weeping sister in a tight embrace. Seeing me tremble, the familiar panic clawing at my throat, Connor stepped forward to block me. “Megan, Ivy is so fragile. It’s been months. You have to let it go.” I stared at her, and the terror took over. My hands shook violently, clawing blindly at the air, accidentally scratching his neck. He winced, his face hardening. “Enough! You lived in a filthy barn for fifteen years, sleeping with the livestock. You weren’t this fragile then.” He sneered. “Are you really going to use your sob story to manipulate everyone again?” I froze, staring at the man in front of me. My mouth opened, then closed. I couldn’t find the words. Maybe it was time to stop begging for scraps of love. Maybe this was the end. … Seeing me stand there in silence, a flicker of panic crossed Connor’s face. “Megan, I…” He took a step toward me. “I didn’t mean it like that.” “I just meant… Ivy’s been sheltered her whole life. She doesn’t have your resilience.” Resilience. What a polite word for survival. She was sheltered. I remember my own childhood. My foster parents treated me like a farmhand from the moment I could walk. While other kids did homework, I was mucking out stables, hauling feed, and sleeping in the drafty, ammonia-soaked barn as punishment. The dark, the smell of manure, the terrifying scuttling of rats—those nights are branded into my bones. Then the police came. A weeping couple—my biological parents—pulled me into their arms. That was the day I met Ivy. I learned the truth later: Ivy’s biological parents had switched us at birth in the hospital, driven by a sick, desperate superstition that the more I suffered, the more blessed their own daughter’s life would be. I still remember Ivy kneeling before me on our first day in that grand house, her tears dripping onto my bare feet. “Please, don’t make them send me back. I’m so scared…” My heart softened. I begged my parents to let her stay. When I met Connor in college, I didn’t know how to handle love. I told him my darkest secrets, hoping to scare him away. But he just held me, his eyes wet with tears, and whispered, “I’ll protect you, Megan.” For years, he was my anchor. He stayed awake during my worst nightmares, pulling me back to reality. But then we got married. He met Ivy. And slowly, imperceptibly, the tide began to turn. I looked up at Connor. “Ivy’s sheltered life was paid for with my blood.” The fleeting guilt on his face evaporated. “Not this again,” he sighed, sinking into the sofa. “I know you suffered. I know she got your life. But how is that Ivy’s fault? She was a victim too.” He never used to say things like that. Before he met her, he couldn’t even stand the mention of her name. “I hate anyone who stole your life,” he’d say. Now, he sat beside her, casually rewriting history. Seeing the tension rise, Ivy slid off the couch and fell to her knees. “Megan, I was so scared that night. I didn’t mean to lock the door.” Her tears fell right on cue. “If you want, take a knife and stab me ten times. Just forgive me.” I recoiled, my heart hammering. “Get up, Ivy.” Whenever she knelt, bad things happened. The last time she knelt, she was begging me to save her from Derek, her abusive husband. I had rushed over, trying to shield her, only for her to push me inside and lock the door from the outside, leaving me to face a madman with a blade. Connor immediately pulled her to her feet. “Megan, haven’t you punished her enough? She’s your sister. I’m only trying to help her so you don’t live with the guilt later. Just show some grace.” Grace. I looked at the subtle, protective way his hand rested on her shoulder. A cold laugh escaped my throat. “If you want me to be so generous, why don’t I just give you my husband, too?” They froze. Connor’s hand slipped from her arm, and he stepped closer to me. “So that’s what this is. Megan, are you seriously jealous of your own sister?” I pushed his hands away. “The moment she locked me in that room to die, she stopped being my sister.” I reached into my bag and pulled out a business card, throwing it on the coffee table. “This is Wesley’s card. He’s a top-tier divorce attorney. He’s booked out for years, but if you mention my name, he’ll take your case.” Ivy looked at Connor, biting her lip, and shook her head. Connor picked up the card. “Megan, stop pressuring her. She’s terrified of Derek.” Ivy shrank behind him, clutching his arm. “I… I can’t do it…” I sighed. “Fine. If you’re too scared, I’ll have Wesley file your divorce petition when he files my assault charges against him.” Silence fell over the room. They both avoided my gaze. “What are you hiding from me?” I asked, a chill running down my spine. Connor stammered, “Megan, he’s still her husband. If we involve the police, it’ll ruin Ivy’s reputation. So…” They hadn’t called the police. Everything Connor had told me in the hospital about Derek being in custody was a lie designed to keep me quiet. “Megan, you’re strong,” Connor said, stepping in front of Ivy, shielding her the way he used to shield me. “You’ve recovered. Let’s not be vindictive.” My chest felt like it was being hollowed out with a rusty spoon. Unable to stand another second, I turned and walked into my bedroom, locking the door behind me. At 1:00 AM, Connor slipped into the room. He knelt by my bed, taking my hand. “Megan, let the anger go. Bitterness won’t heal you.” He gently traced the scar on my arm, a tear falling onto my palm. “I wish I could have taken those blows for you.” I pulled my hand back, wiping it on the sheet. Maybe he’s just confused, a desperate, foolish voice whispered inside me. Maybe he’s just caught in the middle. But then, a soft, muffled sob drifted from the guest room. Without a moment’s hesitation, Connor stood up and rushed out. He didn’t return for the rest of the night. In that long, dark silence, everything became clear. After our parents died, they left everything to me. I had pampered Ivy, wanting to shield her from the harshness of the world, thinking we were all we had left. Instead, they had both treated me like a fool. When dawn broke, I called Wesley. “It looks like Ivy won’t be needing that divorce lawyer,” I said, my voice steady. “But I do.” Connor was a marry-in husband. When we met, he was the handsome, popular college senior. Everyone thought he came from money, but only I knew he was an orphan raised by his grandmother in a trailer park. I protected his pride, hid his past, and had my father set him up with a comfortable corporate job. When my parents passed and I took over the family firm, I promoted him to General Manager. But no matter how much I gave him, in his eyes, I was always the dirty girl from the barn who relied on his charity to survive. “Hurts to watch someone else take what’s yours, doesn’t it?” Ivy’s voice shattered my thoughts. She was leaning against the bedroom doorframe, a cruel, mocking smirk on her face. My hands started to shake. “Connor!” Ivy stepped into the room, flashing her perfect dimples. “Calling for him? Don’t worry, I’m not that stupid. I sent him out on an errand.” She placed a cold hand on my shoulder. “Remember when you came back and stole my life? My parents?” I shook her hand off. “Stole? They were my parents.” She smiled, walked over to my nightstand, and slid open the drawer, pulling out a half-empty box of Trojans. “Did you even notice these were missing? They’re actually quite nice.” My stomach lurched. “You have no idea how much he despises you,” she whispered, leaning down. “He says you’re too needy, always whining about your past. And…” She covered her nose, laughing. “He says you still smell like manure. It makes him sick to touch you.” “Why did you have to come back, Megan? If you hadn’t, Connor would be mine. This house, the company—everything would be mine.” I squeezed my hands into fists. “If you want him so badly, take him.” She lunged, her fingers clamping tightly around my neck. “Are you bragging to me?” Then she let go, laughing as her hand drifted down to her stomach. “Connor is such an idiot. He refused to divorce you. That’s why I had to marry Derek—to hide the fact that I was carrying Connor’s baby.” I stared at her, paralyzed. She reached into the closet and tossed a medical sheet onto the bed. It was a pregnancy report. Four months. Four months ago, when our company was struggling and I was drinking myself to a stomach ulcer to secure clients, Connor had missed my emergency hospitalization. “You wondered why he didn’t show up that night, didn’t you? He was in my bed.” The room spun. I leaned over and threw up. The pieces finally fell into place. Why he protected her, why he wept when she married Derek, why he asked about her safety first while I lay bleeding in the ER. A buzz from my phone broke the silence. It was a text from Wesley with a draft of the divorce agreement. Without looking at Ivy, I packed a small bag and headed to the clinic for my follow-up appointment. While walking out of the doctor’s office, Connor blocked my path. “Megan, stop this nonsense.” “Why must you always threaten me? First with your tragic past, now with divorce. Why can’t you be independent like Ivy?” I looked at him, feeling a profound emptiness. My trauma, which I thought he had helped me carry, was just leverage to him. I forwarded him the PDF. “I’m not threatening you. We’re done.” He stared at his phone, his face paling. He grabbed my wrist. “Megan, look, I know I’ve been distant lately…” His phone rang. It was Ivy. Whatever she said made his face go white. He let go of my arm and ran toward the exit without a single word of explanation. As his figure disappeared, Ivy stepped out from behind a pillar in the lobby. “See? You’re nothing to him.” “One mention of a stomachache, and he leaves you behind.” Her voice was dripping with venom. “Too bad you’re a barren hen.” She pointed a manicured finger at my stomach. “Oh, I remember. Connor told me you used to steal birth control pills when you were a kid because you were afraid of the neighbor’s son raping you. You ruined your own body.” A loud ringing filled my ears. The neighbor’s son, who used to corner me in the dark. The sheer, paralyzing terror that had made me swallow those pills in secret. I had trusted Connor with my deepest shame. And he had turned it into pillow talk. Before I could breathe, a man in a black jacket stepped out from the shadows. It was Derek. The man who had stabbed me was standing right there, free and smiling. The trauma hit me like a physical blow. I couldn’t breathe. I fell to the floor, thrashing wildly, screaming as the lobby swam around me. Bystanders gathered, pointing and whispering. Ivy stepped forward, her heel pinning my hand to the cold tile. “Don’t worry, sister. I’ll make sure you get a nice, quiet room in the asylum. And I’ll take good care of Connor and your inheritance.” My vision faded. With my last ounce of strength, I pressed the emergency bypass button on my phone. Connor rushed back in, shouting at Ivy, “Is this your ‘little lesson’? You went too far!” In those final seconds, as my vision narrowed to a tiny, dark pinprick, I saw the green “location sent” bubble on my screen. I let out a ragged breath and let the darkness take me.

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On the night of our eighth anniversary, I made a full dinner and waited. By the time Andrew finally walked through the door, the whipped cream on the cake had already collapsed into a sad, melted puddle. His first words weren’t an apology. “Flora’s voice recorder is broken. I promised I’d fix it for her tonight, so go ahead and sleep without me.” I froze. Flora was the one that got away—his college crush, the girl he’d spent years pining after before she rejected him. Last month, she was transferred back to his firm. Since then, Andrew’s world had become a series of “conveniences” for her. He’d “conveniently” drive her home, “conveniently” stay late to help her work, and “conveniently” give up our reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant so she could have a welcome-back dinner. He had even “conveniently” taken the matching couple’s watches I had painstakingly picked out to the office, letting Flora try hers on first. When I confronted him, he shrugged. “She just casually mentioned they looked nice. Don’t be so petty, Natalie.” I looked at the table of cold food and asked softly, “Andrew, do you even know what day it is?” He frowned, his expression tightening. “Don’t start, Natalie. Flora has a big presentation tomorrow. She needs this. It’s too important to delay.” It turned out eight years of history couldn’t compete with her needing a favor. Since I was never his first choice anyway, I realized I didn’t need to waste any more time waiting for him to choose me. … Andrew walked straight past me and into the study. I stood by the dining table, watching him drape his coat over the back of a chair. In the kitchen, the slow-simmered beef stew was still keeping warm on low. During our third year together, when his sensitive stomach started acting up, I spent hours learning how to make homemade broths and stews. The first time I tried, I burned my hands so badly they blistered. Back then, Andrew had held my hands in his, looking so heartbroken he couldn’t even speak. Now, he didn’t even have the time to glance toward the kitchen. The study door wasn’t fully closed. Flora’s voice drifted out, soft and breathless over the speakerphone. “Andrew, is this too much trouble? Honestly, it’s fine if I mess up the presentation tomorrow. I don’t want to impose.” Andrew’s voice instantly softened. “Don’t talk like that. You just got back to the city. I’m not going to let you fail.” So, it wasn’t that he lacked tenderness. He had just redirected it. I looked back at the cake in the center of the table. The frosting had melted, and the chocolate plaque reading “Happy 8th Anniversary” had slid to the side, looking like a punchline to a joke I hadn’t wanted to hear. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Instagram. Flora had just posted. The photo showed the corner of Andrew’s desk, with her broken recorder. Her caption read: “Even broken, old things can be patiently put back together if someone cares enough. So lucky.” I stared at those words for a long time. The broken, discarded thing left out in the cold wasn’t the recorder. It was me. Half an hour later, Andrew came out of the study to pour a glass of water. Seeing me still sitting at the table, he knit his brows. “Why aren’t you in bed?” “We need to talk.” “Not right now.” “Just five minutes.” He looked at me, his voice tight with suppressed irritation. “Natalie, do you really have to pick a fight tonight? Flora’s presentation tomorrow determines whether she gets her permanent transfer.” I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “And what about today?” “What?” “Today. What does today determine? Can you really not remember?” Andrew went silent for a few seconds, as if searching through some dusty corner of his mind for the answer. When he finally found it, his expression relaxed slightly, though there wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face. “It’s just our eighth anniversary, Natalie. I’ll make it up to you another night.” “Just.” Hearing that word, the last of my energy to argue evaporated. There was a time when he would book a restaurant a month in advance, mark the date in his calendar with three separate reminders, and text me at midnight: “No matter how many years go by, I only want to spend them with you.” Now, eight years had been reduced to a “just.” His phone rang again. It was Flora. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered it and headed back toward the study. “Yeah, I’m here. Don’t worry, take a breath.” The door clicked shut, leaving the living room completely silent. I quietly scraped the cold food and the melted cake into the trash can. Just as I let the lid drop, the study door opened again. Andrew stood in the doorway, watching me. “What are you doing?” “Throwing it out. No one’s eating it anyway.” His forehead creased deeply. “Natalie, that’s enough.” I didn’t answer. Flora’s voice drifted through his speakerphone again. “Andrew? Did you and Natalie get into an argument because of me? Maybe you should go talk to her. I’ll be fine.” Andrew kept his eyes on me, lowering his voice. “Don’t worry about it. She just needs a minute to cool off.” I stared at him. “She just needs a minute.” In his mind, even my grief had an expiration date. I turned and walked into the bedroom. Behind me, I could hear him speaking to the phone again. “Go ahead. Let’s play that audio segment back one more time.” A thin sliver of light leaked through the crack under the bedroom door, like a delayed echo. But I didn’t want to listen anymore.

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Five years of marriage, and Drew told me I needed to get a life of my own. So, I enrolled in driving school. It was my first day of closed-course maneuver practice. The instructor handed out an intake form, asking for an emergency contact. The young girl next to me finished hers first, sliding the clipboard over with a warm smile. “Here you go, hon. Your turn.” “Thanks,” I murmured, taking it. As I did, my eyes accidentally brushed over her completed form. Emergency Contact: Drew Weston. Relationship: Husband. Because the name I was about to write on my own form was exactly the same. She didn’t notice my sudden freeze. She tilted her head, looking at my phone resting on my lap. “Oh, that phone case is gorgeous! Where’d you get it?” I couldn’t find my voice. That phone case was a gift from Drew. She pulled her own phone out of her pocket. “My husband had mine custom-made. He insisted it had to be one-of-a-kind.” Engraved on the back of her leather case was the exact same phrase: “My Journey is You.” … “Hey, you okay?” Sadie nudged me gently. Her smile was bright, youthful. Her perfectly manicured finger tapped the engraved words. “I know, it’s incredibly cheesy, right? I told him it was ridiculously corny, but he insisted on having a ‘special symbol’ for us.” I stared at those four words. My Journey is You. When Drew had slid the box across the table to me, his eyes had held that same soft, intense look. “Gwen,” he’d said, “wherever my path leads, it’s always going to be with you.” I looked down at the form on my lap. The line for Emergency Contact stared back at me, blank and white. Sadie leaned in closer. “What’s your husband’s name, by the way?” I capped my pen, my voice dry and raspy. “I… haven’t decided who to put down yet.” “What do you mean? Your husband, of course!” She giggled, waving her clipboard. “My Drew always says, no matter what happens, he has to be the very first person I call.” My fingers gripped the edge of the paper so hard it creased. “He sounds like a good man.” “The absolute best,” Sadie said, unzipping her handbag. “Honestly, he worries too much. I told him I was worried about getting sunburned during lessons, so he bought me this luxury UV jacket. I complained about being tired, and he literally offered to pay someone off to just get me a license.” She pulled a set of keys from her bag. A Porsche key fob. Dangling from the ring was a small, hand-stitched red linen charm. The stitching was delicate, though one of the corners was slightly uneven where the needle had slipped. The world around me seemed to tilt. Last night at 11:30 PM, Drew had texted saying he was stuck at the office. I had sat alone at the kitchen table, pulling the final thread through that exact linen charm, filling it with lavender and a prayer for his safety. He was always such an aggressive driver, and I just wanted him to make it home to me every night. This morning, I had tucked it gently into his briefcase. He had kissed the top of my head, murmuring, “Thank you, sweetheart. You always make the sweetest things for me.” Now, it was dangling from another woman’s Porsche keys. Oblivious to the color draining from my face, Sadie stroked the fabric of the charm. “He gave me this too. Said he had it custom-commissioned by an artisan.” I heard myself ask, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else, “Did he say who made it?” “No,” Sadie said, blinking her bright eyes. “Just that he went out of his way to get it for me. For luck.” A terrible, empty laugh threatened to escape my throat. “It’s… very beautiful.” “You think so? Do you believe in stuff like that?” “I used to.” Never again. She didn’t catch the bitterness in my voice, her eyes dropping to the canvas tote bag resting against my leg. “Oh, that’s a well-loved tote. The straps are practically fraying.” I folded the clipboard against my knees. “Yeah. I’ve had it for four years.” “Why don’t you get a new one?” “It still holds my things.” Sadie wrinkled her nose, clearly unable to comprehend the logic. “My husband would lose his mind if I carried something like that. He always says a woman should never settle for less, especially when it comes to her wardrobe.” I looked at her bag. I recognized it instantly. Last month, a notification had flashed on Drew’s phone. A pending charge of $8,500. When I asked him about it, he hadn’t even looked up from his laptop. “Corporate gifting. Don’t worry about it.” At that exact moment, I had been standing in the supermarket, debating whether to buy the organic spinach or save eighty cents on the regular head. Sadie patted the leather of her Chanel bag. “I told him it was too expensive, but he said his money is only worth making if it’s spent on making his wife happy.” I slowly unfolded the paper on my lap. “Where does your husband work?” “Downtown, in the Financial District,” she answered quickly. “He owns a boutique PR firm in One Plaza.” My pen hovered over the paper. I knew that address by heart. Drew left our house every morning at 8:30 AM and returned at 10:00 PM. He told me the startup phase was brutal, that the pressure was crushing, and that he couldn’t afford to lose focus. “Gwen, be reasonable,” he’d say whenever I asked for a weekend away. “I’m doing this for our future.” Sadie peered at me, her brow furrowing. “Are you okay? You look incredibly pale. Is it the heat?” I shook my head. “No. Just a sudden chill.” “Well, you should finish filling that out. The instructor is going to call us in a minute.” She handily offered me her pen. “So, who’s the emergency contact going to be?” I took the pen. The tip hovered over the empty box for a long, agonizing moment. In the end, I didn’t write Drew’s name. I wrote my own. Sadie blinked in confusion. “Why did you put your own name down?” I slid the clipboard into the registry bin. “Because if something actually happens, I’m the only one who’s going to catch me.” Before she could parse my words, the instructor bellowed from across the parking lot. “Alright, ladies! Let’s get moving.” Sadie jumped up, offering me another dazzling smile. “Come on, let’s go. My husband told me not to worry—he said he’ll handle any messes if I scrape the curb.” I turned my phone face-down on the plastic bench, hiding the identical custom case. Just before the screen went black, a text from Drew popped up. [Don’t call me around noon. Packed with back-to-back meetings.] “Why don’t you take the back seat first? I’ll go ahead,” Sadie said, pulling open the door of the dusty sedan. “Ugh, what is that smell? It’s suffocating.” The instructor shrugged. “It’s a student car, kid. Get used to it.” “I can’t deal with this,” she groaned, sliding into the driver’s seat and immediately pulling out her phone. “I have to text my husband.” I climbed into the back. Sadie pressed the voice memo button, her tone instantly melting into a sweet, helpless pout. “Babe, the car is so stuffy and gross. I don’t think I can do this.” Within seconds, the reply came back. Drew’s voice—crisp, rich, and painfully familiar—filled the cramped sedan. “Hang in there, sweetheart. Just get through the first day. Didn’t you say you wanted to drive us down to the coast this summer? Give it thirty minutes. I’ll take you out for oysters tonight to make up for it.” Sadie whined. “But it’s boiling in here.” “Is there water in the car?” “Yeah.” “Drink some. But don’t drink it too cold. Your stomach is sensitive, remember? No ice water.” I looked down at my hands. Before leaving this morning, I had prepared a thermos of warm ginger-infused rice porridge for Drew. He had been complaining of stomach issues for weeks, and I spent hours over the stove every morning making sure he had something gentle to coat his stomach. He had barely glanced at the thermos this morning. “Too bland, Gwen. I’ll grab something at the office.” Later, as I was taking out the trash, I found the thermos sitting in the bin, still completely full. Sadie put her phone down, turning back to me with a triumphant grin. “See? He’s such a micromanager.” “It’s nice to have someone care,” I whispered. She laughed. “Doesn’t your husband micromanage you?” I thought about it. “He told me to get a life of my own.” “Well, that’s good too! At least he isn’t clingy.” The instructor tapped the window. “Adjust your seat first.” “How do I do that?” Sadie asked, flustered. “Lever on the left,” the instructor muttered. “Which left?” I leaned forward and pointed it out for her. She gave me an apologetic smile. “You’re so sweet. Thank you.” As my fingers brushed the underside of her seat to show her the lever, my fingertips came away coated in a layer of gray dust. Sadie noticed my hands, her gaze lingering on the calluses lining my palms. “Do you do a lot of housework?” she asked, her voice dropping slightly. I pulled my hand back, rubbing my fingers together. “Some.” “Drew doesn’t let me touch a thing,” she said, raising her hands to show off her pristine, freshly manicured nails. “He says a woman’s hands should never look worn down. It’s his golden rule.” The silence inside the car grew heavy, suffocating. I stared at her. “What did you just say?” “Oh, just that he doesn’t like my hands looking rough,” Sadie said with a soft giggle. “Direct quote from my husband.” I folded my hands into my lap, hiding my palms. During our second year of marriage, Drew had said those exact words to me. We were living in a drafty, old apartment. The pipes had frozen that winter, and I had to wash our clothes and dishes in ice-cold water. My knuckles had cracked and bled from the dry cold. He had taken my raw, stinging hands into his, his brow furrowed with genuine worry. “Stop doing this, Gwen. It breaks my heart to see you like this.” But then his business grew, and he got busier. The cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the care of his aging parents—it all silently transitioned into my sole responsibility. If he ever noticed the dry cracks on my fingers after that, he would simply sigh. “Go buy some high-end hand cream, Gwen. Don’t make it look like I’m neglecting you.” Sadie finally managed to start the car. She pressed the gas too hard, and the sedan jerked forward violently. She let out a sharp shriek as the instructor slammed his passenger-side brake, bringing us to a grinding halt. “Easy on the clutch!” the instructor barked. “I’m done. I can’t do this,” Sadie cried, her eyes welling with tears as she grabbed her phone again. “I really can’t. He’s going to be so worried.” She dialed, and the call was answered on the first ring. She immediately put it on speaker. “Hey, what’s wrong?” Drew’s voice was soft, laced with an easy, reassuring warmth. “I almost crashed,” Sadie sobbed, playing up her distress. “Are you hurt?” “No…” “Then there’s nothing to worry about,” he murmured, his tone incredibly tender. “If you want to learn, I’ll find a private track and coach you myself. If you don’t, I’ll have someone park a car at the driving school tomorrow just so you can sit in it and get comfortable. Whatever you want.” Sadie sniffled. “You have to come pick me up early tonight.” “I will. I’ll bring that cheesecake you like.” “Strawberry.” “I know. No mango, right?” A sudden wave of nausea washed over me, hot and violent. Last night, my fever had spiked to 102 degrees. When I called Drew, the phone rang for a long time before he finally picked up. “Gwen, I’m with a client.” “Drew, I’m really sick,” I had whispered, shivering under the blankets. “Can you please come home and take me to the clinic?” “You’re a grown woman, Gwen. There are meds in the cabinet. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill.” I had hung up, called an Uber, and dragged myself to the urgent care clinic alone. While waiting for the IV drip, I had texted him a picture of the medical bill. His response was two words: [Submit insurance.] I pushed the car door open before the vehicle had even fully stopped. “What the hell are you doing?” the instructor yelled. I ran to the edge of the asphalt, gripping the concrete planter by the trash cans, and retched until my chest ached and my vision went black. Sadie ran over, rubbing my back with a worried expression. “Oh my god, are you okay? Is it really heatstroke?” I wiped my mouth with the back of my trembling hand. “I’m fine.” “Do you need to call your husband?” I pulled out my phone and opened my thread with Drew. His last message mocked me from the screen. [Don’t call me around noon. Packed with back-to-back meetings.] I pressed down on the message thread and hit Delete. “No,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “There’s no one to call.” … “Do you want a bite of cake?” During our break, Sadie sat next to me on the bench, holding an open clear plastic box. “My husband had a courier drop this off. He was worried my blood sugar would drop.” It was a beautiful slice of strawberry shortcake, topped with fresh glaze. I knew the bakery well. Three months ago, for our fifth wedding anniversary, I had stood in line for two hours to buy a small signature cake from that exact shop. Drew had taken one bite at the dinner table before putting his fork down. “It’s too sweet.” “But you used to love this place,” I had said. He had rubbed his temples, his voice flat. “People change, Gwen. Stop holding me hostage to who I was years ago.” The rest of that cake had ended up in the trash. I had washed the plastic box and kept it, unable to throw away the physical proof of my wasted effort. Sadie offered me a small plastic fork. “Come on, just a bite. It’s seriously not too sweet.” I shook my head. “No, thank you. You eat it.” “If you say so.” She took a large bite, hummed in delight, and began scrolling through her phone. “He wants me to meet his friends tonight. I really don’t want to go—they can get so rowdy.” “What friends?” I asked quietly. “Just his usual circle.” She turned her phone toward me. “Look, they made me drink with them last time, and they kept calling me ‘the future Mrs. Weston.’” The video on her screen was bright and loud. I recognized every single face in that frame. Luke, his college roommate. Tyler, his business partner. And Jax, his childhood best friend. They were raising their glasses, cheering at Sadie. “To the future Mrs. Weston! Looks like Drew’s finally met his match!” In the video, Sadie laughed, hiding behind Drew’s shoulder. Drew wrapped an arm around her waist, blocking the drinks with his other hand, a relaxed, easy smile on his face. “She’s not a big drinker, guys. Go easy on her.” Luke laughed boisterously. “Man, look at how protective he is! When’s the wedding, Drew?” Drew looked down at Sadie, his voice soft but clear. “Soon.” The video looped, and Sadie blushed, locking her phone. “They’re always teasing us.” I picked up my water bottle, then set it back down. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I had never met any of them. When we got married, Drew had insisted on a small, private dinner with only our parents, claiming he hated ostentatious displays. Later, whenever I asked about meeting his friends, he would dismiss it. “They’re loud, crude, and they drink too much. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable around them, Gwen.” I had believed him. I had actually thought he was protecting me. Sadie looked at me curiously. “Does your husband take you out with his friends?” “Not really,” I said. “Why not?” “He said he wanted to shield me from them.” Sadie blinked, a little taken aback. “I guess… that sounds sweet, in a way.” I forced a small, empty smile. “Yes. Very sweet.” Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my hand. It was Drew. I looked at the screen, but I didn’t answer. Sadie peered over. “Your husband?” “Yes.” “Aren’t you going to pick up?” “No rush.” The ringing stopped. Then a text popped up. [Why aren’t you answering?] I stared at the words. Thirty seconds later, another message followed. [Are you still upset about last night? I really was swamped, Gwen. I’ll bring home dinner tonight, okay?] Before I could even think of a reply, Sadie’s phone rang. She picked it up immediately, her voice turning bright and airy. “Hey, babe.” Drew’s voice came through her speaker, so clear it felt like he was standing right beside me. “Did you get the cake?” “I did.” “Don’t eat too much. Save room for dinner.” “I know, I know.” “And don’t push yourself too hard this afternoon. If it gets too hot, go wait in the lounge. Your skin burns easily.” Sadie giggled. “You sound like my dad.” Drew let out a low chuckle. “If you let me, I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” I looked down at my bare arms. To save money, I hadn’t bought a luxury UV jacket. I had simply found an old silk scarf in my closet and tied it around my neck. The scarf had belonged to Drew’s mother. She had given it to me years ago, saying it was too old-fashioned for her taste and she had no use for it. Sadie hung up and turned to me. “Oh, look, your husband texted again.” I tapped the notification. [Actually, don’t wait up for dinner. Something came up with a client, so I’ll just grab a bite near the office.] I typed back: [A client?] He replied instantly. [Yeah.] Sadie stood up, closing her cake box. “I’m going to go wash my hands, Gwen. Be right back.” “Okay.” Once she walked away, I untied the silk scarf from my neck. There was a small, stubborn grease stain on the edge that had never come out in the wash. I stared at it for a few seconds, then dropped it into the trash can beside the bench. My phone buzzed again. [Don’t overthink it. I’ll make it up to you this weekend. I promise.] I stared at the words I promise. I didn’t reply. “Alright, class is over! Are you heading out, Gwen?” Sadie gathered her things, waving to me from the exit. “My husband is here to pick me up.” I stood near the glass doors of the registry lobby. Sadie stood on her tip-toes, searching the curb. “Oh, there he is! The black Maybach under the tree. He drove himself today.” The sleek, black luxury car sat idling in the shade of a large maple. Through the windshield, I could see Drew’s profile. He was wearing the crisp, white button-down shirt I had ironed for him this morning. The phone in my pocket buzzed again. [Stuck at the client dinner. Don’t wait up.] I looked at him in the car, and then down at the text on my screen. Sadie started jogging toward the parking lot, but then she paused and turned back to me. “Gwen! How are you getting home? Do you want a ride? My husband can drop you off.” “No, thank you,” I said. “Are you sure? He’s really nice, I promise!” she insisted with a bright smile. “He looks a bit stern, but he’s incredibly sweet once you get to know him.” My fingers brushed against a small object in my pocket. It was a hand-woven macramé key ring I had spent the last few evenings crafting. In the center of the weave, I had carefully stamped two tiny metal initials: D.W. I had planned to save it for his birthday next month. But there was no point in waiting anymore. “Sadie,” I called out. She stopped. “Yeah?” I walked over and handed it to her. “The thread on your Porsche key ring is coming loose. Take this. You can use it instead.” Her eyes lit up as she took the woven charm. “Oh, wow! Did you make this yourself?” “Just a hobby.” “Are you sure? This is so beautiful.” “Keep it,” I said, placing it firmly in her palm. “Consider it a parting gift.” Sadie squeezed my hand, her smile genuine and warm. “Thank you so much, Gwen. You are seriously the best.” I stood on the sidewalk, watching her run toward the idling Maybach. The passenger door opened, and she slid inside. Through the windshield, I saw her immediately hold up the new key ring, showing it to Drew. Even from a distance, I saw the exact moment Drew took the charm from her hands. And I watched his face completely fall.

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At my joint bachelor-bachelorette party, right when the Truth or Dare game was reaching its messy, drunken peak, the tequila bottle spun across the table and stopped, pointing directly at my fiancé’s best friend. She locked eyes with me, a slow, sharp smile spreading across her face. “I’ll confess,” she said, her voice cutting through the bass of the music. “I’m pregnant. And it’s Garrett’s.” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the room. The chatter died instantly. Only my face remained frozen. As the whispers started rising around us, Garrett reached over, casually running his fingers through my hair with a sigh. “It was just an accident, Isla. Don’t overthink it. We both got blackout drunk that night. We were trying to save some cash, so we shared a cheap motel room, and things just…” “But I promise you, you’re the one who’s going to be Mrs. Mercer. I could never actually be with a tomboy like Gigi anyway.” Gigi scoffed, playfully pinching his side and cursing him for throwing his “bro” under the bus. I sat there, watching them laugh and flirt, before I finally spoke. “It’s fine.” He let out a visible breath of relief. The bottle spun again, its green glass blurring under the neon lights. This time, it stopped, pointing its neck directly at me. The room fell quiet, waiting for my truth. I looked around, my voice flat and entirely steady. “I have a confession, too. At our wedding in three days, the groom will be Callum Peterson.” … There was a beat of absolute silence, followed by a single laugh, and then a wave of mockery crashed over me. “Isla, stop acting crazy. Everyone knows how desperately you chased Garrett.” “Seriously. You spent three years sucking up to his mother just to get her blessing. Don’t ruin your only shot at getting married over a little temper tantrum.” “And Callum Peterson? He’s the crown prince of Seattle’s tech money. Why would a billionaire want Garrett’s discarded leftovers?” Garrett squeezed my hand lightly, his tone dismissive. “Babe, don’t be ridiculous.” “You know everyone here knows you’re obsessed with me. If you call off the wedding now, no one else is going to want you.” The engagement ring on my finger suddenly felt like a brand, tightening around my skin until my throat burned. He was right. Everyone in Seattle knew I was Garrett’s devoted shadow. I had done too many humiliating things for him over the years. Like the Valentine’s Day I had nine thousand roses flown in just to confess to him. Or the month I rented a fleet of drones to spell out “ISLA LOVES GARRETT” across the downtown skyline. Even now, the digital billboards on the commercial towers downtown were looping our engagement photos. I had played the part of the desperate girl for so long that he simply assumed I was his permanent property. Tears stung my eyes, but no one in the room cared about my humiliation. The bottle spun again, and this time it landed on Garrett. The atmosphere heated up instantly, and Gigi gave him a suggestive wink. “Garrett, we’ve played Truth for too many rounds. A real man chooses Dare. Do you have the guts to do something interesting?” Garrett raised an eyebrow, asking her what she had in mind. Gigi’s eyes gleamed. “Since it’s a bachelor party, how about a French kiss with someone in the room? After all, you won’t get a chance once you’re tied down.” She caught my tight expression, quickly covering her mouth with a fake display of apology. “You don’t mind, do you, Isla? I mean, we’ve known each other since we were kids. Back when we took lifesaving classes, we did mouth-to-mouth resuscitation all the time.” The crowd cheered in agreement. Garrett laughed, swatting Gigi’s hip playfully. “Kissing my bro? You’re sick.” “But fine, I’ll play.” He grabbed Gigi by the waist, pulling her into a deep, lingering kiss. The sight of them, framed by the flashing strobes of the lounge, made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of nausea hit me. I bolted for the bathroom and dry-heaved over the sink, waiting for the sickness in my throat to pass. After the party, Garrett pulled me aside by the car, looking slightly conflicted. “Isla, Gigi has been an orphan her whole life. This baby might have been an accident, but it’s her only real family now. She wants to keep it.” I closed my eyes, exhausted. “And?” “I’m thinking we should postpone the wedding. Just until she has the baby. It’s not like we haven’t pushed the date back before. You know the drill.” A familiar ache settled deep in my chest. Ever since my mother got sick a year ago, I had begged Garrett to marry me. Her only dying wish was to see me walk down the aisle. But Garrett always had a reason to say no. Gigi’s cat was sick, so he had to stay with her. Or his family counselor said the date was a bad omen for his business. The wedding had been delayed over and over, and now, I was just tired. I looked into his eyes and said quietly, “Garrett, let’s break up.” The hand he had raised to wipe a tear from my cheek froze in midair. His face darkened. He sat down on the hood of his car, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Gigi was right,” he said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “You women are so high-maintenance.” He looked at me with a condescending pity. “Look, if you’re going to throw a fit about the wedding, we can still do it. But Gigi is pregnant with my child, and I have a responsibility to take care of her.” “For the first year of our marriage, I’ll stay at our place on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, I’ll be with Gigi. Sundays we can split. Think of it as your way of making up for being so difficult about her situation.” I stared at him, unable to process the sheer audacity of his words. Before I could even find my voice, his phone rang. Gigi’s voice drifted through the speaker. Without another look at me, Garrett answered, turned, and walked away. Watching his retreating back, I remembered that our relationship hadn’t always been so one-sided. Back in college, when I tripped during a track meet, he had looked just as panicked as he did now. When did it change? Probably the night of Gigi’s welcome-home dinner, when I slipped and sprained my ankle. As Garrett bent down to check on me, Gigi had laughed. “Isla, do you have to do this now? I get that you want Garrett’s attention, but throwing a scene at your boyfriend’s best friend’s welcome dinner… yikes.” She had slung an arm around Garrett’s shoulder, acting magnanimous. “Go ahead and take her to the ER, Garrett. I won’t hold it against you. Some of us are tough, but your girl is fragile.” That exact dynamic repeated itself dozens of times over the next few years. Every injury, every moment of pain I experienced, was labeled by Gigi as “attention-seeking” and “manipulative.” Eventually, everyone around us accepted that narrative, using it to justify treating me like an afterthought. I squeezed the metal ring on my finger until it bent out of shape. I pulled out my phone and texted my old college friend. “Does your proposal still stand?” He replied almost instantly. “The courthouse opens at eight tomorrow morning. I’ll be waiting.” I wiped my face, typed a single word—”Yes”—and called a cab to go back to the townhouse to pack my things. But when I unlocked the front door, the first thing I heard was Gigi’s voice. “Garrett, let me borrow a shirt. I realized I forgot to pack clean clothes after my shower.” Garrett walked straight into the master bathroom with a fresh shirt. Through the cracked door, I heard their laughter. “You’re built like a boy anyway, there’s nothing to hide. You look ridiculous compared to my girl.” “Yeah, yeah! Your girl is the absolute best. I’m texting the group chat right now to tell everyone how whipped you are.” A few minutes later, Gigi stepped out of the bathroom wearing Garrett’s oversized white button-down. She paused when she saw me standing in the hallway, but her smile returned instantly. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Isla. We’ve been friends for so long that we could sleep naked in the same bed and feel absolutely nothing but brotherly love.” “Garrett only came in to help me because it’s second nature. Don’t go turning this into a whole drama, okay?” I stared at the fresh bite mark on her collarbone. I didn’t say a word. I walked past her into the bedroom to pack. As I pulled open my dresser drawer, a pair of black lace thongs fell out onto the floor. Before I could even look at them, Gigi snatched them up. “Oh, sorry! I didn’t have any clean underwear when I came over, so I just grabbed whatever Garrett had in his drawer. We don’t really care about boundaries like that. You get it, right?” She twirled the lace around her finger, looking at me with pure provocation. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. I took a deep breath, forcing down the sickness in my stomach, and let out a cold laugh. “I get it. After all these years, you’re still just the ‘bro.’ I admire how hard you’re working to climb into my fiancé’s bed as his mistress.” Gigi’s eyes flared with venom. She raised her hand to slap me, and I instinctively blocked her arm. But with a sharp gasp, Gigi lost her balance and tumbled backward onto the floor. At that exact moment, the front door slammed open, and Garrett rushed into the room. He lunged forward to pull Gigi up, turning to glare at me with pure fury. “Isla! What the hell are you doing?” Gigi clung to his neck, giving me a smug, victorious look before putting on a weak voice. “It’s fine, Garrett. She’s just mad at me. She barely pushed me. Don’t be so mean to her.” “Girls are just fragile and jealous. It’s normal. We shouldn’t hold it against her.” Garrett grabbed my wrist, his eyes bloodshot. “Isla, when did you become so malicious? She just wanted to be a mother, so she asked me to help her have a baby.” “She didn’t mean to come between us. Can’t you just be the bigger person?” So there was no drunken mistake. No blackout night. It was entirely intentional. The last thread of my sanity snapped. I swung my free hand and slapped him across the face. “She’s wearing your clothes in my house, pregnant with your child, and you’re asking me to be the bigger person? Are you insane?” Garrett stared at me, shocked into silence. He touched his cheek, wiping a trace of blood from his lip. Slowly, his expression turned cold, and he looked at me with a quiet, cutting cruelty. “Isla, you got pregnant and had an abortion for me when you were eighteen. You did far worse just to keep me around. You don’t have some high-and-mighty dignity left to protect.” Gigi gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh my god, Isla. I thought you were one of those quiet, sweet girls. I didn’t realize you were that wild.” My body went completely numb. I stared at the man I had loved for a decade, unable to believe those words had come out of his mouth. Garrett watched me crumble, continuing with a calm indifference. “If I remember correctly, you were terrified your parents would find out, and I didn’t want the hassle of a kid. You went to that shady clinic all by yourself, didn’t you? You weren’t so dramatic back then.” I raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth. “Please… stop.” That lost pregnancy was the deepest wound of my life. We were young, foolish, and I had taken his sweet whispers to heart. “Have my baby, Isla, and I’ll get my mom to propose to your family.” Because of that lie, I had believed him. And in the end, it was just a lonely, painful afternoon in a cold room with a doctor who didn’t care. Tears fell onto Garrett’s hand. He finally softened slightly, letting go of my wrist and pulling me close. “Just be good. Apologize to Gigi, and we can pretend none of this happened. We can still get married tomorrow.” Maybe I had been hurt so many times that the pain had finally gone numb. I didn’t argue. Gigi watched us, her eyes darting between us before she patted Garrett’s shoulder. “Garrett, if she doesn’t want to apologize, let it go. You know how stubborn girls can be.” “But take it from me—don’t spoil her too much. A little attitude is cute, but this is just exhausting.” Garrett sighed, looking at me with deep irritation. “Isla, starting tomorrow, don’t bother coming to the office anymore. Gigi is right, you’ve gotten too reckless. You need to learn some humility.” “You can stay home and help Gigi out while she recovers from the birth. It’ll do you some good. As for the wedding, we’ll push it to next month.” I looked at his face, so calm, so entitled, and I nodded. “Okay.” I didn’t tell him that by tomorrow, I would be married to someone else. The next morning, Garrett left early to take Gigi to her ultrasound. He left a note on the counter: “Gigi wants those homemade cinnamon rolls you make. She’s my best friend and she’s pregnant, so try to show some grace as her sister-in-law.” I crumpled the note, tossed it into the trash, picked up my suitcase, and walked out of the house. Callum was waiting for me outside in his car. The moment he saw me, a genuine, warm smile lit up his face. Our wedding at the courthouse was small, quiet, and beautiful. Afterward, we rode around the city, the car window rolled down. Callum wanted everyone to know. Under the quiet warmth of the afternoon light, we exchanged rings and promised ourselves to each other. By afternoon, the city’s local lifestyle outlets were already buzzing with the news of the Peterson family’s sudden, quiet marriage. At that moment, Garrett was driving Gigi back from her appointment, passing through the city center. Seeing the massive digital billboards displaying wedding announcements, Gigi laughed. “Garrett, look at that. When are you going to grow up and throw me a massive wedding like that?” Garrett looked at her, and an involuntary feeling of distaste rose in his chest. She had short, boyish hair, wore a tank top with jeans, and even with her slight baby bump, she looked entirely unrefined. A sudden thought popped into his head: “If I’m going to marry someone, it has to be Isla. She’s elegant, soft, and when she looks at me, I can’t help but soften.” “Gigi is great as a friend, but as a wife… only if the lights are off.” He shrugged, dismissive. “Forget it. If I marry anyone, it’s Isla. If you’re that interested, you can be my best man.” Gigi glared at him, turning to look out the window. Suddenly, she gasped. “Garrett… the bride on that screen. It looks exactly like Isla.” Garrett didn’t even hesitate to scoff. “Impossible. Isla told me she’d never marry anyone but me. If she stopped chasing me, the sun would rise in the west.” “It’s probably just a lookalike.” But he still leaned forward, looking up at the massive display. And there, high above the city, he watched me press my lips against Callum Peterson’s.

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