Ten years of marriage ended with a divorce agreement sliding across a polished mahogany desk. “You’ve been a homemaker for a decade, Grace. You’ve contributed nothing to the company.” My husband, Ethan, tapped a manicured finger next to the signature line. “According to the prenup, you leave with nothing.” He paused, letting the weight of the word settle in the cavernous office. “Out of respect for what we had, I’m giving you this.” He pushed a check toward me. “One hundred thousand dollars. Consider it ten grand for each year of your youth you wasted.” His eyes, the same ones that used to look at me with something like love, were now cold, flat stones. “Don’t even think about coming after the company. Not a single penny.” I, a woman who had already lived and died once, simply smiled and signed my name. It wasn’t until the next day, with that check in my hand, that I made my move. I took the hundred thousand dollars and walked into the headquarters of his greatest rival. The man across from me, Cade Ryder, watched me with an almost predatory amusement. “And why should I help you?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. I leaned forward, my voice barely a whisper. “Because I know every major decision his company will make for the next decade. And because I know about the son he’s been hiding overseas.” 1 “Sign it, Grace.” Ethan’s fingers drummed a bored rhythm on the tabletop. The divorce papers sat between us, a stark white tombstone for our marriage. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, the lights of the New York skyline glittered like a cold, distant galaxy. My own world had shrunk to a single point of light: the unnervingly bare skin on his ring finger. He’d taken off his wedding band long before he’d decided to tell me. “A hundred thousand dollars,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady as I met his gaze. “That’s all ten years are worth to you?” A humorless smirk twisted his lips. He loosened the top button of his custom-tailored suit, a gesture of casual, arrogant dismissal. “What, you think you’re worth more? A woman who can’t even boil water without setting off the smoke alarm?” The contempt in his voice was a perfect echo of the one I’d heard in my past life. In that life, I had begged. I had cried. He’d had security drag me from the building. I ended up in a cheap rental, where a faulty gas heater ended my story quietly, pathetically, in my sleep. This time, I just wanted to watch him burn. I picked up the pen and signed my name with a flourish. “Grace.” Ethan’s brow furrowed as he looked at my signature. My compliance seemed to unnerve him more than any fight would have. I ignored him. I folded the check, slipped it into my purse, and turned to leave. “Remember this, Ethan,” I said, my hand on the doorknob. “You’re the one who threw me away.” The door clicked shut behind me, followed by the satisfying shatter of a glass hitting the wall. Do you really think I’m the same fool I was before, Ethan? I thought, the sound of my heels sharp and decisive on the marble floor. Your surveillance, your little tests… I’m ready for all of it. The next day, I was on the top floor of Ryder Capital. This was the den of Ethan’s biggest rival, Cade Ryder. The receptionist looked at me like I was a lunatic who had wandered in off the street. I didn’t waste time. I gave her Cade’s name directly. “Tell him Ethan Sterling’s ex-wife is here,” I said. “And I’ve brought him a gift.” Five minutes later, I was looking at the man himself. He was lounging on a leather sofa, legs crossed, his eyes sharp as he assessed me, as if trying to calculate my market value. “Ethan Sterling’s ex-wife?” he said, his voice deep and resonant. I placed the hundred-thousand-dollar check on the coffee table between us. “My opening bid,” I said. His eyes glinted with amusement, like a cat toying with its prey. “And why should I help you?” I leaned forward, closing the distance between us, and spoke each word with chilling clarity. “Because I know every major corporate decision he’ll make for the next ten years. And because I know about the illegitimate son he has stashed away overseas.” Cade’s pupils contracted. He sat up straight, the lazy posture vanishing, replaced by the coiled energy of a predator. “Go on.” I didn’t answer right away. For a second, the memory of my last life threatened to overwhelm me. After I died, my soul had lingered, weightless and invisible. I watched Ethan throw a lavish birthday party for his secret son. I watched him wrap his arm around another woman and call me the biggest mistake of his life. I watched him use the last of my family’s connections to absorb my parents’ company, bankrupting my brother and driving him to jump from his office building. The all-consuming hatred was a fire in my veins. It was the only thing keeping me going. Cade narrowed his eyes, skeptical. “Talk is cheap.” “Next week,” I said, giving him the first taste, “Ethan has a secret meeting with the CEO of Innovatech to discuss an acquisition. The deal will fall apart at the last minute over a data patent dispute.” I leaned back. “Is that enough to verify my value?” Cade’s fingertips tapped a silent rhythm on the arm of the sofa. He was thinking. Three days later, one of his people called me. “Ms. Sterling. You were right.” When we met again, his demeanor was entirely different. “Now,” he said, all business. “Let’s talk about the Southbridge property.” I laid out the entire plan for him. 2 “Ethan’s going to bid on the Southbridge property next week,” I explained. “His ceiling is three hundred million.” Cade raised an eyebrow. “You’re sure?” “He’ll win the bid,” I continued. “But three months from now, a Native American burial ground will be discovered on the site. The project will be shut down indefinitely, and his three hundred million will be locked up.” I let that sink in. “And while his capital is tied up, you’ll execute a hostile takeover of his weakest asset: Horizon Logistics.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Interesting.” He opened a drawer and slid a debit card across the desk. “There’s half a million on this. Consider it your startup capital.” His eyes hardened. “But don’t think you can just take the money and run. Your life is my collateral now.” This was my chance, but it was also a test. I took the card and stood up. “A pleasure doing business with you.” Walking out of the Ryder Capital building, I felt the sun on my skin but no warmth. The road to revenge was just beginning. With Cade’s money, I rented a small apartment. I bought a brand-new laptop and deliberately used it to leak false information, feeding the digital breadcrumbs I knew Ethan would be following. I knew that in one week, Horizon Logistics would be hit with a scandal involving the transport of illegal materials, causing the stock to plummet. This knowledge, this information arbitrage from my past life, was the second part of my gift to Cade. Everything was going according to plan. I was practically counting down the seconds on a stopwatch. The minute before the scandal was set to break, I poured all my capital into shorting the stock. But the stock didn’t crash. Instead, a mysterious influx of cash forced it upward, turning my sure bet into a devastating loss. I stared at the screen, my blood running cold. Of course. You’re even more cunning than I remembered, Ethan. My phone rang. His name flashed on the screen. I took a deep breath and answered. “Grace,” he began, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. “Did you really think you could make a new life for yourself without me?” The line was quiet for a beat. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice your little schemes?” he purred. “I knew something was off with you the week before the divorce. Did you really think that new laptop of yours could hide from the monitoring software I had installed?” Every keystroke, every stock you researched, every search history item was sent directly to my email in real-time. That ‘scandal’ was bait I laid out just for you. And you took it.” A chill washed over me, but I kept my voice even. “I see.” The burning desire for revenge had made me careless, but I wouldn’t make that mistake again. “And Cade Ryder,” Ethan continued, “you think he’s some knight in shining armor? He’s just using you, Grace. You’re a dog he’s siccing on me. When he gets bored, what do you think will happen to you?” I didn’t say a word. I just ended the call. The apartment was deathly quiet. I looked at the crimson numbers on my screen, a testament to my failure, yet my mind was clearer than ever. You think you’re in control, Ethan. But you don’t realize this is exactly what I wanted to happen. Just then, my phone rang again. It was the landlord, his voice sharp and angry. “Ms. Sterling, I’m afraid I can’t rent this apartment to you anymore. I need you to be out by the end of the day.” “What? Why? I signed a year-long lease.” “Mr. Sterling just purchased the entire building. He said he doesn’t want to see you here.” Ice spread through my veins. He was backing me into a corner, cutting off every possible escape. No money, no home. An outcast. My hand shaking, I made the one call I never wanted to make. “Ethan. My things are still at the house. I need to come get them.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Of course,” he said lightly. “Come back and beg me.” Half an hour later, I was standing at the front door of the house that was once my home. 3 The door was opened by Ethan’s new girl, a college student with a face as fresh as it was smug. She was wearing my silk robe. Her eyes raked over me with a mixture of pity and triumph. Ethan was on the sofa, sipping coffee as if it were any other morning. “You’re back,” he said, glancing up. “Came to your senses?” “Where are my things?” “Oh, that junk,” he said, gesturing with his coffee cup toward a few black trash bags piled by the door. “It’s all right there. Pick it up and get out.” I looked at the bags, filled with the discarded artifacts of my ten-year life, and my heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. The college girl giggled, draping herself over Ethan’s shoulders. “Oh, Ethan, she’s so pathetic. Like a little stray dog you kicked out.” Ethan squeezed her cheek, his eyes full of doting affection. “You’re right, baby.” He stood up and walked over to me, looking down his nose. “Grace, get on your knees and beg me right now. If I’m in a good mood, maybe I’ll give you another chance.” The household staff stood with their heads bowed, but I could hear their suppressed snickers, each one a needle prick against my skin. My dignity was being ground into dust under his expensive shoes. I didn’t kneel. I just looked at him, my expression unreadable, and said each word slowly. “Ethan, you are going to regret this.” He laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world. “I’m waiting.” I bent down and began silently gathering the trash bags. Inside was the scarf I had knitted for him, the shattered frame from our first photo together. I packed them all, my movements methodical, and dragged them out of that house, a place that now felt toxic. Their mocking laughter followed me out the door. I dragged the heavy bags down the street with no destination in mind. Dusk was falling, city lights blinking on one by one, but none of them were for me. My phone buzzed. A text from Cade Ryder. Get to my office. Now. I took a cab to Ryder Capital. The lights in Cade’s office were still on. He tossed a file onto the desk in front of me. “Explain this.” It was the trade record from my failed attempt to short the stock. A loss of over three hundred thousand dollars. “Ethan knew beforehand,” I said, my voice low. “And this is your ‘value’?” Cade’s tone was glacial. “Your information was wrong. Your execution failed. My patience is limited, Grace.” The emotions I’d been suppressing all day threatened to erupt. But I held them back. I lifted my chin and met his gaze directly. “Give me one more chance.” “Why should I?” “Because I want to see Ethan Sterling destroyed even more than you do.” The look in my eyes must have been terrifying, because he stared at me for a long moment. “The Southbridge auction is in three days,” he said finally. “This is your last shot.” His voice dropped, lethal and low. “If you fail again, you know the consequences.” I walked out of Ryder Capital drenched in a cold sweat. I had no way out. I had to win. For the next two days, I locked myself in a cheap motel room, obsessively replaying every detail I could remember about the Southbridge project from my past life. How did Ethan know what I was going to do? Where was the leak? I went over everything, again and again, searching for any inconsistency. Then, the night before the auction, I remembered someone. Ethan’s executive assistant, Linda. In my previous life, after Ethan’s empire fell, Linda was imprisoned for embezzlement. It was she who told the police about many of Ethan’s darkest secrets. Including the fact that she had been the one helping him monitor all of my communications from the very beginning. Of course. My phone. My computer. They had always been under his watch. 4 He was playing God, watching from on high as I, his little clown, performed my clumsy tricks for his amusement. A deep, visceral chill started in my feet and spread through my entire body. He didn’t just want to humiliate me; he wanted to control me completely. He wanted me to understand that I could never, ever escape his grasp. I threw away my phone and laptop. I went to a payphone and called Cade. “The plan is the same,” I told him. “Just have your people there on time.” There was a pause on the other end. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” I hung up and stared out at the dark city. The game of cat and mouse is over, Ethan. Now, the real hunt begins.

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The bonus announcement. The guy at the desk next to me was about to have a coronary. “A quarter-million!” What I got was a single, gleaming number: Zero. I didn’t scream. I didn’t rage. I just quietly packed up my desk. I went home, locked the door, and tossed my phone in a drawer. I slept like the dead. The next morning, I turned it on. The sound was a physical assault. 129 missed calls. 289 text messages. The one pinned to the top was from HR. It read: The entire company is looking for you. 1 The number that broke the office was two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Greg Peterson’s shriek of joy was sharp enough to shatter glass. “Two-fifty! A cool quarter-mil!” He held the thin paper check above his head like an Olympic medal, his face a mess of triumphant wrinkles. The rest of the office swarmed him instantly, a cloud of flies drawn to the scent of money. The air thickened with a cloying web of envy and praise. “Greg, you’re the man!” “That’s a new Porsche right there.” “Drinks are on you tonight, buddy!” My cubicle, just a few feet away, was an island of silence, forgotten by the tidal wave of noise. The air around me felt cold enough to crystallize. In my hand, I held a check cut from the same stock, addressed to me, Ava Mitchell. But in the amount line, printed in stark, round, mocking figures, was a single number: 0. Next to it, a single word: None. I was the lead on Project Horizon, an initiative that had single-handedly secured the company’s strategic dominance for the next three years. Its projected profits ran into nine figures. And my reward, my year-end bonus, was nothing. The gazes that drifted my way were a toxic cocktail of pity, morbid curiosity, and thinly veiled glee. They were waiting for the show. They wanted tears, or screams, or a furious, desk-clearing rampage. They got none of it. I didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Expressionless, I folded the light, impossibly heavy piece of paper in half, then in half again, and slid it into the deepest recess of my handbag. Then, I picked up my water glass and walked toward the break room. My spine was straight. The sound of my heels on the polished concrete floor was a steady, deliberate rhythm. Not a tremor. The break room door muffled the celebration, but snippets of conversation still bled through. I heard Chloe’s voice, low and tight with a fury that was close to tears. “It’s obscene! Everyone knows Ava’s Project Horizon was the biggest win of the year! Greg Peterson is a bootlicking moron, how does he get a quarter-million? Is there any justice in this place?” Chloe. The only real friend I had here. A fresh-faced graduate who still believed hard work was its own reward. Another voice hushed her. “Keep it down! Are you trying to get fired? This came from Marcus, obviously. Ava must have pissed him off.” I filled my glass and walked out, my eyes meeting Chloe’s. They were red and swollen. She looked away, guilty, like a child caught doing something wrong. Her lips parted, but no words came out. I walked over and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. She looked up, surprised to see the ghost of a smile on my face. It was a smile that never reached my eyes, a thin, cold line drawn across my lips. My gaze told her everything she needed to know: Don’t worry. I know. This is just the beginning. Back at my desk, I began to pack. My movements were calm and methodical, like a ritual. Files were archived, data encrypted, personal items placed one by one into a cardboard box. The office had grown quiet. The only sound was the soft rustle of my packing. Greg, apparently annoyed that my silent dignity was dampening his moment, sauntered over, his face a smug mask of counterfeit sympathy. “Hey, Ava,” he sighed, the glee barely concealed in his eyes. “Tough break, huh? Look, the market’s tight, company’s under pressure… someone had to take one for the team. Don’t take it personally. Just work harder next year.” I paused. Slowly, I lifted my head and met his gaze. My eyes were still. Still as a deep, frozen lake. There was no anger, no sorrow. Just a pure, unvarnished coldness that seemed to suck the air out of the space between us. He flinched. The fake smile on his face froze and then crumbled. I said nothing. I just held his gaze until he squirmed, muttered something, and shuffled away. I packed the last file and shut down my computer. The screen went dark, reflecting my own placid, unreadable face. Carrying my box, I was the last to leave the main floor. Behind me, I could feel the weight of dozens of eyes, could hear the first whispers bloom in the silence. I didn’t look back. I was walking out of this office and into a storm. But first, I needed to sleep. 2 I didn’t turn on the lights when I got home. The apartment was a patchwork of shadow and neon glow from the city outside, so quiet I could hear the dust settle. I left the cardboard box—the container of my professional dignity—by the door and took out my phone. Without hesitating, I pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, the one that was stiff with disuse, and tossed the phone inside. I shut it with a definitive click, sealing away a world of noise and poison. A scalding hot shower steamed up the bathroom until my reflection in the mirror was a blurry ghost. I let the water cascade over me, as if it could wash away the grime of the corporate world, the stain of public humiliation, the sting of being betrayed by the director I’d trusted. Emotion is the most useless currency in the world, especially when you’re already at the poker table. I dried off, went to the kitchen, and made myself a simple bowl of broth with a handful of noodles. No meat, no eggs, just a few greens and a pinch of salt. I sat in the dark living room and ate every last bite in silence. The warmth settled in my stomach, and the fog in my mind began to clear. I felt no anger. Only a crystalline, ice-cold clarity. A zero-dollar bonus wasn’t an oversight. It was a declaration of war from Marcus Cole, my smiling viper of a boss. It was a calculated act of humiliation, designed to drive me out. Why? Project Horizon. The project I had built from scratch. It had an immense technological barrier to entry and a limitless market, making it the company’s lifeblood for the foreseeable future. Whose slice of the pie had it threatened? Or rather, who had decided to claim it as their own? Marcus was a corporate parasite who had climbed the ladder on nepotism and back-room deals. He didn’t have the technical skill to touch my work, but he had the greed. Greg Peterson, the fool who got the quarter-million, was just a pawn. A loud, obnoxious piece of bait meant to make me angry, to make me lash out and give them a reason to fire me for cause. There was a bigger game being played. And I, Ava Mitchell, was the obstacle that had to be removed. They wanted me gone because I knew Horizon too well. I knew every line of code, every hidden backdoor. They were afraid of me. So, the plan was simple: humiliate me with the zero-dollar bonus. Provoke me. Hope I’d cause a scene, allowing them to fire me for “disrupting the workplace.” If I didn’t, they still won—an employee they’d labeled as worthless could be discarded at any time. It was a brilliant plan. Except they made one critical miscalculation. I, Ava Mitchell, have never been one for shouting matches. I believe that actions are the only language that matters. And results are the only form of justice. Before bed, I stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, looking down at the sprawling galaxy of lights below. Every light was a story, perhaps a soul like mine, fighting to survive in the corporate jungle. But tonight, I wouldn’t be one of them. I would be the storm. I slipped into bed and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. My body and mind needed a complete reset, a full charge for the battle that was coming. In my subconscious, lines of code, encrypted files, and the two-faced smiles of my colleagues flashed and sorted themselves, analyzed and filed away. The next morning, the first ray of sunlight cut through a gap in the curtains and landed precisely on my face. I opened my eyes, stretched, and felt a surge of power course through me. It was the exhilarating calm of a soldier heading into a war she knew she was going to win. I got up and pulled open the dusty drawer. The moment I picked up my phone and pressed the power button, I knew. The show was about to begin. 3 The moment the screen lit up, the world came rushing in. BZZZZZZZZT. The vibration was a physical assault, a relentless, high-pitched scream that threatened to deafen me. On the screen, the red notification badges for missed calls and messages climbed at a dizzying speed. They finally stopped at a breathtaking combination: 129 missed calls. 289 text messages. I narrowed my eyes and swiped to unlock. The message pinned to the top was from the Head of HR, a woman whose communication was usually limited to corporate platitudes and layoff announcements. Her text was a thinly veiled command: [Ava, call me immediately. The entire company is looking for you.] The entire company? A cold smile touched my lips. Yesterday, I was the invisible woman, the disposable employee they could humiliate and discard. Overnight, I’d become the most wanted person at OmniCorp? Their reaction was faster, more explosive than I could have hoped. I scrolled through the messages. A third of them were from Chloe. [Ava, are you okay? Just text me back!] [Please don’t do anything crazy! That place isn’t worth it!] [SOMETHING IS WRONG! It’s Project Horizon! CALL ME! NOW!!] Her panic escalated with every message. Greg Peterson’s texts were an interesting progression as well. [Ava, don’t take the bonus thing to heart. Marcus had his reasons.] [Where are you? Get back to the office ASAP! It’s an emergency!] [Ava, where the HELL are you?! Get your ass back here!] From phony sympathy to frantic anxiety, and finally, to pure, unfiltered rage. He seemed terrified that I had vanished. But the most telling communications were from Marcus Cole himself. He had called over twenty times from his personal cell. His texts were a masterclass in manipulation. [Ava, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t the time for drama. The company needs you.] [Return to the office immediately. That’s an order.] [If you do not show up, there will be consequences.] Threats, bribes, empty promises—he was running through his entire playbook. Too bad for him, I was no longer a piece on his board. I rose from the desk, ignoring the urge to call anyone back. I walked to the bathroom, went through my morning routine, and even put on a hydrating face mask. Then, I opened my closet to select my armor for the day. I chose a tailored black suit, a silk shell, and a pair of four-inch stiletto heels. I didn’t look like a disgraced employee. I looked like a queen about to stage a corporate takeover. I brewed the strongest black coffee I could, no cream, no sugar. The bitter liquid sharpened my focus. I opened my laptop, connected to my private network, and began scanning OmniCorp’s internal servers and the latest industry news. I knew that every minute I delayed, their panic would multiply tenfold. The power had shifted. The moment I’d turned off my phone, the roles in their little hunting game had been reversed. I, Ava Mitchell, was no longer the prey. I was the hunter. 4 Halfway through my coffee, I called Chloe. She answered on the first ring. “Ava! Oh my god, you finally answered!” Her voice was thick with tears, the words tumbling out in a rush. “You scared me to death! I thought you…” “I’m fine,” I cut her off, my voice perfectly level. “Tell me what’s happening. The facts.” My calmness seemed to ground her. She took a shaky breath. “It’s Horizon… the source code for Project Horizon. It’s been stolen.” My pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. There it is. Just as I predicted. Project Horizon. My masterpiece, the pinnacle of my career, and the most powerful landmine I’d ever planted. Chloe’s voice was breaking as she continued. “Last night… right after the bonus meeting, security detected a remote breach. All of Horizon’s core code was copied and extracted. And the backups… they were all wiped out by some kind of custom virus. There’s nothing left, Ava!” “The whole company is in chaos. The tech department is losing its mind. I heard our stock is already plummeting in pre-market trading!” She choked back a sob. “And Marcus… in the emergency meeting, he said your name. He said you did it out of revenge. He’s already called the police. He’s naming you as the prime suspect in a major corporate espionage case.” Listening to her, I felt a cold, sharp laugh rise in my chest. What a beautifully vicious move. Frame me for revenge by withholding my bonus, creating the perfect motive. Then, when the code goes missing, I, the one person with both motive and means, become the perfect scapegoat. He wasn’t just trying to fire me. He was trying to bury me. “Don’t panic,” I told Chloe, my voice steady. “Give me more details. What was the exact time of the breach? What did security’s initial report say? What’s the executive response?” “The breach was around 10 p.m. last night. Security said it was a top-tier hacker, clean work, almost no trace. The board is furious. Mr. Sterling flew back from Europe overnight. He’s in the emergency meeting right now.” Mr. Sterling? Arthur Sterling, one of the company’s founders. A brilliant, old-school engineer with actual vision. His presence changed the equation. Chloe added one more thing. “And Ava… last night… I saw Greg Peterson. He was still at his desk when I left, acting really weird. This morning he looks like hell. Dark circles under his eyes, the whole nine yards.” I hung up, my fingers already flying across the keyboard. I bypassed the standard network protocols and used a private security tunnel I’d built years ago, slipping into the company’s backend server logs undetected. The records here were far more complete than anything the security team could see. And there it was. Buried deep in the log files were several entries that had been deliberately overwritten and deleted. I spent a few minutes reconstructing the fragmented data. An unfamiliar IP address had logged in for a brief period at 10:07 p.m. last night. But the pattern of the IP… I knew it instantly. It wasn’t an external hacker. It was an internal, temporary network port, one set up to facilitate data transfers with specific third-party vendors. Fewer than five people had access to that port. And one of them was Marcus Cole. The final pieces clicked into place. This wasn’t a hack. It was an inside job, a carefully staged heist. And I was the sacrifice they planned to offer up. I shut my laptop and stood, looking at my reflection in the dark screen. Sharp eyes, immaculate makeup, a warrior’s calm. It was time. Time to go meet my executioners.

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My online relationship crashed and burned the second we met in real life. I completely lost it, screaming at him on the university athletic fields: “You look nothing like your picture! How could you use it? Huh?!” “I’m going to report you for fraud! I’m going to the dean, to your parents!” He was panicking, pleading with me. “Look, I’m sorry, I messed up! What if I get you a boyfriend to make up for it? Okay?” With that, he made a frantic, begging phone call, and managed to summon an incredibly handsome guy to the field. “That’s him,” the catfish said. “I used his picture to talk to you.” “He’s my uncle. You can hold him responsible!” “And don’t let the ‘uncle’ title fool you. He’s… well, he’s big in other ways, too.” Me: Do you even hear yourself right now? 1 Nine o’clock at night. The university athletic fields. My online relationship had just imploded, and I was in the middle of a full-blown meltdown, screaming at the guy who’d caused it. In a corner of the massive field, a crowd was starting to gather. Frisbees stopped flying. Joggers slowed to a walk. Couples paused their dates. They were all just spectators now, their eyes gleaming with the hungry, excited curiosity that only other people’s drama can inspire. I pointed at the guy in front of me—tall, built, with a sun-tanned complexion—my eyes practically shooting flames. “Do you look anything like your picture? Huh?!!” “Do you have any shame? How could you just use it?” “You tricked me into buying you in-game currency, getting you those special edition skins! Have you even calculated how much of my money you’ve spent?” “That money wasn’t for you! It was for the person in the photo! You’re going to give every last cent back to me!” “You’re catfishing me online while you have a real-life girlfriend on the side!” “Holding hands, going for a romantic little walk! Real sweet! Were you using my money to pay for your dates with her?” “If I hadn’t discovered your true colors tonight, how much longer were you planning on lying to me?” I was spitting fire. A long, vicious tirade that was somehow more scathing than any string of curse words I could have used. The guy I was verbally tearing to shreds turned pale. Facing the growing audience, he was clearly humiliated. He tried to reason with me, his voice low and placating. “Can we please go somewhere quiet to talk about this?” he pleaded. “Come on, I’m begging you.” I refused flatly. “No. We’re talking about it right here!” The girl standing next to him, who had been silent until now, finally snapped. She swung her hand and slapped him hard across the face, the sound sharp and clear. Tears of anger streamed down her cheeks. “Ethan, you’re a scumbag!” she cried. “I can’t believe I ever trusted you!” Ethan scrambled to explain, “No, wait, just listen to me—” She cut him off with a swift kick to his shin before turning and shoving her way through the crowd of onlookers, disappearing into the night. He instinctively moved to chase after her. I immediately grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him back. “Don’t even think about running,” I snarled. “You and I aren’t done here.” “I’m telling you,” I said, my voice low and dangerous, “I don’t care if you have to get plastic surgery to do it, you are going to look exactly like that picture. You are going to give me my boyfriend back.” 2 It started two months ago, in a fantasy RPG. I saw a post from a guy looking for a partner to run a couples-only raid. I wasn’t interested—until he updated his profile picture. The guy in the photo was… breathtaking. Suddenly, I was very interested. So were half a dozen other girls. He had this sharp jawline, thoughtful eyes, and a mess of dark hair that fell perfectly over his forehead. He looked like the sensitive, artistic type who’d write poetry about you. I did what any sane, rational woman would do: I immediately outbid everyone else, showering his character with rare gifts and gear. I secured my spot. Then came the cautious DMs. “Is that picture really you?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “No offense, but it seems a little too good to be true.” “Promise,” he wrote back instantly. “One hundred percent me.” “Prove it,” I challenged. A minute later, a short video clip appeared. It was him, the guy from the photo, wearing a tank top and laughing as he wrestled with a golden retriever puppy in what looked like a sunny living room. It was shaky, candid, and utterly convincing. I was completely sold. As we played and chatted more, a story emerged. He was a struggling student, his parents weren’t supportive, and his monthly budget was a meager two hundred dollars. My heart ached for him. With a generous allowance, I felt a wave of protective pity. His in-game gear was basic, so I upgraded it. I sent him gift cards for game currency. He started calling me “babe,” and each time, a stupid, giddy blush would creep up my neck. The truth was, I’d had a massive crush on the guy in the picture back in high school. We were never friends, barely even acquaintances, but I’d watched him from afar for years. Finding him here, in this digital world, felt like fate. After a few weeks of this intense online connection, I tentatively typed out the words: “Would you… ever consider being my boyfriend? For real?” There was a long pause on his end. Then, a reply. “Uh, I mean… a virtual one could work.” It was enough for me. We were officially an item. But a month into our “relationship,” I wanted more. I wanted to meet him, to see if the spark was real. Every time I brought it up, he’d dodge. He was busy with a project. He had a family thing. He wasn’t feeling well. Then came Valentine’s Day. I decided to force the issue. “I bought you a gift,” I texted. “It needs to be signed for in person. Where are you?” He sent me a pin to the university’s main quad. I drove over, gift box on the passenger seat, my heart doing a drum solo against my ribs. I parked and called him, pretending to be a delivery driver. “Hi, I’ve got a package for ‘LoneWolf.’ Can you tell me where you are and what you’re wearing?” “Gray t-shirt,” his voice said through the phone. “I’m by the main stage.” And then I saw him. Ethan. He was walking hand-in-hand with that cute brunette, phone pressed to his ear. He looked right past me and spoke into the receiver, “Hello? Yeah, I’m at the stage. Where are you?” His voice. The one from my phone was the same one coming from his mouth. My world tilted. The shock was a physical blow, a punch to the gut that left me breathless. For a few seconds, my brain was just white noise. When I finally came back to myself, I walked straight up to him. My own voice was low, laced with fury. “LoneWolf?” Hearing his gamer tag, Ethan froze. His eyes widened as they landed on me, a flicker of horrified recognition dawning on his face. “You’re… you’re Luna? Ava?!” I didn’t answer. I just took the beautifully wrapped box—a limited edition watch I’d spent a week picking out—and threw it at his chest. The box burst open, and the watch clattered to the pavement. A perfect metaphor for my shattered fantasy. “YOU!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat. “YOU LOOK NOTHING LIKE YOUR PICTURE!” 3 “Scumbag!” Chants of it started rippling through the crowd. Cornered, with my hand still fisted in his shirt, Ethan was sweating bullets. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I messed up,” he stammered, his eyes darting around at the faces watching us. “It was a stupid joke that went way too far. I never meant to hurt you. Can you just please, calm down?” He gestured helplessly. “There’s no way I can look like him. It’s impossible.” “Then give me my money back,” I retorted, but the anger was starting to curdle into something else. The thought of all those late-night conversations, all those shared secrets, all of them with him… it made me want to cry. “I’m calling the campus police,” I declared, my voice trembling. “I’m reporting you for fraud. I’ll go to the dean. I’ll call your parents!” The threat was hollow, but my vision was blurring with hot, frustrated tears. “You have to give him back. You have to give me the boy from the picture.” Seeing my eyes well up, Ethan panicked. “Whoa, hey, don’t cry! Please don’t cry! I’ll do anything!” He fumbled for his wallet. “Here, I’ll pay you back.” “I don’t want your money!” I wailed. “I want him!” A desperate kind of genius lit up his face. “Okay, okay! I’ll get him for you! I’ll trade you a boyfriend for your silence, I swear.” He whipped out his phone, his fingers flying across the screen as he made a call. His voice was a pathetic whine. “Please, you have to come to the athletic fields right now. It’s an emergency. A life-or-death situation. I’m begging you.” The crowd, sensing a new chapter was about to begin, leaned in collectively. No one was leaving now. Fifteen minutes later, a figure emerged from the darkness at the edge of the field, walking toward us. Even from a distance, there was something about his posture, his long-legged stride, that commanded attention. He wore a simple white hoodie and dark joggers, but he moved with an easy grace that made him stand out. Ethan, who had been wilting under my glare, suddenly inflated with renewed hope. “Over here! Here!” he yelled, waving his arms frantically. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. And then everyone saw him. One word: gorgeous. Two words: out of this world. His hair was slightly damp, as if he’d just come from the gym, and his facial structure was even more defined, more devastatingly handsome in person than in the photo. He swept a cool, appraising glance over Ethan, then me. I just stared, my hand slowly unclenching from Ethan’s shirt. Ethan scrambled over to him, dropping into a dramatic slide and hugging his legs. “Caleb! My dear, darling uncle, you came! You have to save me!” Uncle? A collective gasp went through the crowd. They looked about the same age. And the genetic lottery had clearly picked a favorite. Caleb kicked him off with an annoyed flick of his ankle. “What did you do now?” he asked, his tone flat. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact. Ethan scrambled to his feet, gesturing wildly. “For your own good! To help your love life! I used your picture to find you a girlfriend online. And look!” He pointed at me. “There she is! Isn’t she pretty? Aren’t you happy? You’re welcome!” He dragged Caleb the last few feet until he was standing directly in front of me. “This is him,” Ethan announced proudly. “The guy from the pictures. Better in person, right? See? Happy ending!” Then, sensing his window, he started backing away. Caleb shot him a look that could freeze fire. “He’s my uncle,” Ethan said quickly, his voice a stage whisper. “You can hold him responsible! And don’t let the ‘uncle’ thing fool you, he’s not old. I mean—” he stammered, “he’s got a big… heart. Yeah. A big heart! I’ll call you Auntie Ava from now on!” And with that, he turned and bolted, sprinting through the crowd like his life depended on it. Leaving me and Caleb standing there, face to face, in a circle of stunned silence. Caleb’s gaze was intense. He stared at me for a few seconds, a small frown line appearing between his perfect eyebrows. “So,” he said, his voice a low, calm rumble. “How long have we been ‘dating’?”

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Ten years ago, my twin sister, Lily, helped me get a date with the boy I was in love with. Then she started dating him herself. Later, when she was dying of acute leukemia, I was her only perfect match for a bone marrow transplant. The day the final test results came in, I calmly signed the official form to decline the donation. My mother collapsed on the spot. She slapped me so hard the world spun. “Chloe! Are you insane? That’s your sister!” My father pointed a shaking finger in my face, his whole body trembling with rage. “How did we raise a monster like you?” And Ethan Archer, the man whose name filled every page of my high school diaries, asked me in anguish, “Chloe, why won’t you save her?” Ten years later, on the Fourth of July, with the sky over the Washington Monument about to burst into a sea of fireworks, Ethan came back. At the pinnacle of that national celebration, he held out a diamond ring. “Chloe,” he said. “Marry me.” 1 The tips of my fingers were ice-cold. Ethan was on one knee, surrounded by the roar of the crowd and the flash of a hundred cell phone cameras. He wore a tailored black coat that made him look solid and dependable, his features sharp and deep-set. A decade in the service had carved the boyishness from his face, leaving behind a man who was more handsome than I remembered. But the eyes looking up at me held none of the love I had once dreamed of seeing there. There was only the silent, deep water of a calm ocean. Isn’t it ironic? Ten years ago, my twin sister, Lily, had squeezed my hand, her own eyes shining as she described this exact scene. “Chloe, when Ethan gets back from his deployment, he’s going to propose to me right on the National Mall! Everyone will be there to celebrate with us!” “You have to be my maid of honor, promise?” Now, she was in the ground, and I was standing here, the reluctant star of her favorite fantasy. My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text from the hospital’s surgical unit. Urgent. I steadied myself, pushing aside the hand that held the ring. “I have an emergency surgery tonight.” Ethan’s posture stiffened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed it over. He stood, taking my hand and forcing the ring into my palm. The metal, warm from his skin, dug painfully into my flesh. “Chloe, don’t do this.” His tone was flat. Not a request, but a statement. An order. “We’re getting married. It was Lily’s last wish.” There it was again. Lily. It was always, always about Lily. I looked down at the diamond in my hand and let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Fine.” “I’ll marry you, Ethan.” With that, I turned and pushed my way out of the crowd, leaving the sudden eruption of cheers and astonished murmurs behind me. But the voices followed me, little ghosts nipping at my heels. “Oh my God, isn’t that Major Ethan Archer? The war hero? He’s even hotter in person!” “Wait, didn’t his fiancée die years ago? Who is that?” “I think that’s her sister… Wow. Swooping in on your dead sister’s fiancé. Classy.” It was three in the morning when I finally got home. The surgery was a success, but I felt no joy, only a weariness that had settled deep into my bones. I pulled off my scrubs and stared at my pale reflection in the bathroom mirror before dialing my parents’ number. “Mom, Dad.” “Ethan and I are getting married.” A long, dead silence stretched across the line. Then, my mother’s hysterical scream. “Chloe! Have you no soul? How dare you!” 2 When I arrived at my parents’ house, the living room was in shambles. A collection of aunts and cousins were gathered, pointing at me the moment I walked in. Ethan followed close behind me. My mother’s red-rimmed eyes locked onto him. “Ethan! How could you do this to Lily’s memory? You promised you would take care of her for the rest of your life!” My aunt immediately chimed in. “Exactly! Lily’s not even cold in her grave, and you two are getting married? What will people say? Think of this family’s reputation!” Ethan looked at the floor, his voice steady. “Ma’am, Mr. Hale… marrying Chloe is what Lily wanted. It was her last wish.” “Before she passed, she said she hoped I could take her place, and take care of her sister for the rest of my life.” And with that single sentence, he nailed me to the cross of selfishness all over again. See? It wasn’t him who had a change of heart, nor was it me who stole him away. It was me, the charity case, the broken thing that needed to be “taken care of,” stepping into the spot that rightfully belonged to my sister. Everyone looked at me with a mixture of pity and disgust, as if I were some parasite, shamelessly living off the scraps of a dead girl’s legacy. Crack. The sound of the slap was sharp and clean. My mother, trembling from head to toe, pointed at me. “Chloe! Your sister was thinking of you even as she was dying, and what about you? Do you deserve it? You’re a murderer!” My cheek burned. I licked the coppery taste of blood from the corner of my mouth and finally lifted my head, my gaze calm as I looked at the twisted faces of my “family.” “She was a thief,” I said, my voice even and clear. The room fell instantly silent. My father shot to his feet, staring at me in disbelief. “What… what did you just say?” “I said, Lily was a thief.” I repeated the words, a smile spreading across my lips. “She stole my diary, found out I was in love with Ethan, and then she put on the dress I bought, used the lines I practiced in the mirror, and went to tell him she was in love with him.” “She stole the award certificate that should have been mine—first place in the National Science Scholar competition—and used my name and my work to get into the early admissions program at Johns Hopkins.” “She stole my life. She stole everything from me. Did you know that?” I turned to my parents. “Did you know that the research paper she submitted—every data point, every single equation—was the result of dozens of sleepless nights I spent in the lab?” “All you knew was how proud you were when she won, how you could boast about her to all our relatives.” “Did you know I was dragged into the dean’s office and accused of plagiarism? That I was nearly expelled?” “You didn’t know.” I looked at their stunned, speechless faces, and I laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks. “All you ever knew was your precious younger daughter. So innocent, so kind, so fragile. A perfect little angel.” “And me? I was born healthier, stronger. So I deserved to be ignored. I deserved to be her stepping stone. I deserved to give up everything for her. Even… my life.” Ten years. This was the first time I had ever said the words out loud. Everyone was frozen, including Ethan. His brow was furrowed, and for the first time, a flicker of confusion crossed his face. My mother, after the initial shock, turned deathly pale. She looked like she was remembering something, her lips trembling as she failed to form a single word. I took a deep breath and looked directly at Ethan. “Why do you think, even on her deathbed, she was so obsessed with you ‘taking care’ of me?” “Because she was guilty.” “She was afraid I would tell you the truth. She was terrified that after she was gone, you would find out from someone, anyone, what kind of person the girl you loved for all those years truly was.” In the silent living room, only my cold voice remained. That, and the sound of my mother’s choked, breaking sobs. I suddenly remembered that last afternoon in the hospital, just before Lily died. Everyone else was gone. It was just the two of us in the sterile room. She had gripped my hand, her voice as thin as thread. “Chloe, don’t save me.” “I’m begging you. Don’t donate your marrow.” Ethan was silent for a long time. Finally, he spoke, his voice raspy. “Lily… she wouldn’t lie to me.” The answer I expected. “The wedding is in three days,” I announced to the room. “Come or don’t. I don’t care.” I turned and walked out, not sparing any of them a final glance.

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The summer I bombed the exams that were supposed to define my future, I ran away to a small coastal town and fell in love with my landlord. At the peak of it, I wanted to run away with him for good. It didn’t happen. My fault. I found the secret he kept locked in his room. Turns out, I was just a stand-in. A ghost. We shattered like glass. Years later, I’m back in that same town, knocking on his door again. I watch the color drain from his face, watch his eyes start to burn, and I state my purpose. “I’m planning a wedding,” I say. “And I’m here to buy something from you.” 1 The silence stretched for two seconds, thick and heavy. He wrestled his emotions back into their cage, but when he spoke, his voice was a raw, terrible rasp. “Buy what?” Under his searing gaze, I managed to remain calm. “An engagement ring.” “I was told you were the designer.” I held up my phone, showing him the picture. A natural red crystal and a shimmering opal, clustered together on the band to form a half-wilted poppy. Under the gallery lights, it was hauntingly beautiful. The piece was titled Addiction. Bloom. The moment Chloe saw it, she knew it had to be her wedding ring. But the gallery’s response was firm: Private collection. For exhibition only. Chloe, however, has a peculiar talent for obsession. It was an entry from a design competition years ago. The designer had licensed it for shows, but never for sale. After pulling a dozen threads, I found my way here. Returning to this place… it was impossible not to think of him. The designer’s name was Rhys Atherton. Funny thing is, I don’t know any Rhys Atherton. But I know a man named Rhys. 2 The summer I met Rhys was the worst summer of my eighteen years. I’d failed the exams that were supposed to be my ticket to a good university. The Grant family decided to ship me off to a program in Europe. My family—the family that had taken me in—had arranged a marriage between their son, Caleb, and Chloe. My long-simmering, secret love for him died a quiet, unremarkable death. And Caleb, bless his heart, played the part of the warm, supportive older brother, telling me to just go along with the plan. He had no idea I was in love with him. He had no idea that I’d nearly killed myself studying, all for the chance to stay in the country, to stay near him. He knew nothing. Every step I took toward him, he took one back, gently pushing me away. So I told them I wanted a graduation trip first. A final summer to myself before I disappeared. It was a useless rebellion against his gentle suffocation, a desperate attempt to create some distance. And the first step was physical. Rhys was the owner of the guesthouse I rented in Port Blossom. My first impression of him: he looked like trouble. Shaggy, dark hair that fell into his eyes, sun-kissed skin, and a smile that flashed impossibly white. When I first arrived, I couldn’t sleep. A lingering side effect of my academic flameout. I’d find myself down on the beach at three or four in the morning, just letting the cold salt spray hit my face. He didn’t seem to sleep either. He’d be out there on the sand, collecting shells, and would always materialize beside me out of the darkness, striking up a conversation. We’d talk about everything and nothing until the sun came up, and then he’d drag me into town for breakfast before letting me go back to my room to finally crash. On the fifth night, he finally broke. “Kid, you’re killing me. I can’t keep pulling these all-nighters with you.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “How about this? You go back right now, get some real sleep. Meet me here tomorrow at ten, and I’ll show you a good time.” I was skeptical, but I did it. Just then, the wind blew his bangs from his face, and I saw him clearly for the first time. He was actually incredibly handsome. The next day, true to his word, he took me fishing, surfing, kayaking. That night, I was exhausted and asleep by nine. The four-a.m. beach walks became a thing of the past. This became our new routine. I found out later he thought I was suicidal. It was funny, in a bleak sort of way. He, who seemed to have given up on living, was worried someone else wanted to die. I discovered his own tendencies one night when the water heater in my bathroom broke. I knocked on his door, but there was no answer for a long time. When he finally opened it, the smell of blood hit me. I caught a glimpse of bloody tissues in his trash can, and a jolt of shock, then panic, went through me. Later, as he was fixing the valve, his shirt got soaked. Through the thin, wet cotton, I saw them: a crosshatch of scars, old and new, running up his arms. I froze. He didn’t seem like the type… Or maybe, he just seemed too normal all the time… I remember my brain short-circuiting. The first words out of my mouth were painfully direct. “Are you on medication?” “What?” He frowned, as if he’d misheard me. I reached out, my hand closing around his wrist. “We’re going to the hospital,” I said, my voice shaking but firm. And he went. He actually went with me, saw a doctor, got a prescription, and even started therapy. That’s when we started dating. Was it pity? Of course not. Until that moment, he had been the one taking care of me. His concern for me went far beyond any landlord-tenant relationship. I think my heart had already started to lean toward him during those sleepless nights. But it wasn’t until I saw the full scope of his pain, etched into his skin, that the feeling became so strong I couldn’t ignore it anymore. Just like now. 3 Rhys fell silent, then stepped aside, letting me into the house. The layout was almost exactly as I remembered it from three years ago—impersonal, monochrome, relentlessly dull. Back then, I had been endlessly curious about him. Why was he sick? Why did he have no friends or family to speak of? What did he do all day? What was his life before this? His house felt like an extension of that mystery, a place full of secrets. But whenever I asked, he would just brush it off with a few words. Ordinary. Nothing special. Boring. I was so desperate for answers I’d bring him every ridiculous rumor I heard in town. “They say you killed someone. That you did time. Is it true?” I knew he wouldn’t get angry with me. And he didn’t. He just glanced at me, a roguish grin spreading across his face. “It’s true. I was married, too. Had a wife. She ran off with another guy while I was in the joint.” He let out a deep, theatrical sigh, as if recalling a great tragedy. I was stunned. I hadn’t expected such a harsh history and immediately felt clumsy and tactless for bringing it up. Then I heard a choked laugh. I turned, and he was clutching his stomach, his laughter now open and unrestrained. I stared, completely bewildered. When he finally caught his breath, he reached out and flicked my forehead. His voice was low and smooth, impossibly alluring. “You’re so easy to fool, kid.” The way he looked at me then… it was against the rules. I must have been under his spell, because the words just tumbled out of my mouth. “Rhys, I don’t care about your past.” “Why don’t you… take me with you? Let’s run away.” For one, I hated the way the townspeople whispered about him. For another, I wanted to escape the Grants. I’d thought it all through. Rhys was a good person, he was good to me, he was handsome—he was perfect. Going with him was a winning bet. He stared at me for a long time after I said it. “You can’t just say things like that.” “I’m not. I’m serious.” He ignored me. I pestered him about it for a month, the argument finally ending in his bed. “Are you just playing with me? Is this not serious to you at all?” He propped himself up on an elbow. “Kid, I treat you like you’re royalty. How much more serious do you want me to get?” “Then run away with me.” He pressed his fingers to his temple. “What was the first thing you said?” Confused, I repeated myself. “Are you just…” “Yes,” he said, cutting me off. Without another word, he hauled me out of the bed, pushed me out of his room, and locked the door. “…” It was humiliating. The first time in my life I had ever offered myself to someone, and he’d literally thrown me out. I’d been in Port Blossom for nearly three months. Every message from Caleb had gone unanswered. On his way to come find me, he got into a car accident. I was with Rhys when Caleb’s mother called. There were no flights back, so Rhys drove me the six hours to the hospital himself. The sun was blinding that day. I felt like I was moving through a dream. When I finally stumbled into the hospital, the first thing I received was a sharp slap across the face from Mrs. Grant. Caleb was in surgery. I knelt on the cold floor outside the operating room. I knelt until a doctor came out and announced the surgery was a success. As Mrs. Grant rushed past me, I tried to stand and follow her into the room. My legs were completely numb. I staggered, falling straight into a familiar pair of arms. I realized then that Rhys hadn’t left. “Why are you still here?” Rhys steadied me, a faint smile on his lips. “You asked me to run away with you, didn’t you? I couldn’t just leave you here.” He helped me toward the hospital room, but we were stopped by Mrs. Grant’s icy glare. He was pushed out. And so was I. Shut out of the room, I forced a bitter smile and looked at Rhys, who seemed at a loss for words. “No need to ask,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll save you the trouble. I’m not her real son.” I was adopted from an orphanage by the Grant family. This kind of treatment was nothing new. After Rhys took me back to Port Blossom, we didn’t speak about that day. By some unspoken agreement, we buried it. He even started packing his bags, seriously talking about “running away” with me. If I hadn’t accidentally seen the photograph in his desk drawer, I probably would have followed him like a fool. And maybe being a fool would have been better. But in that moment, standing in front of Rhys, I suddenly found my pride. The photo showed a younger Rhys, his arm slung around another young man’s shoulders, both of them beaming at the camera. Staring at that face—a face that looked so much like mine—my mind went blank. I finally understood. My own words from before were complete bullshit. I don’t care about your past. I cared so damn much it was killing me. We had the biggest fight of our lives. Well, it was mostly me. I threw the picture at him, demanding an explanation, over and over. He just stood there, silent as a stone. Finally, my heart turned to ice. I delivered the verdict on our ridiculous, short-lived romance with a cold laugh. “He’s dead, isn’t he? So I’m his replacement?” More silence. “Is that why you were so good to me? Or was it pity? I must seem pretty pathetic to you, huh? Pretty pitiable.” Still silence. I kicked the coffee table, sending it crashing into the wall. “Rhys, you asshole. I’m done. I’m not playing this game anymore.” And just like that, we were over.

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I returned to the family estate in a faded t-shirt and worn-out jeans. Inside the grand foyer, my long-lost biological parents, the Ashfords, stood waiting. Beside them was Chloe, the daughter they had raised, the girl who had lived my life. And I could hear the thought in her head, as clear as a whisper in my ear. She knows Mom and Dad’s foundation donates millions to rural poverty programs. And yet she shows up dressed like that to squeeze out every last drop of sympathy. Should I say something? The reunion, which should have been a scene of tearful redemption, curdled. The air grew thick with a strange tension. My mother, who had been clutching my hand, let it go. Her touch had been warm, but now her fingers felt like ice. I was carsick from the long drive, and a wave of nausea forced me to bend over, dry-heaving. Chloe shook her head, a mask of gentle concern on her face. Her thoughts, however, were venomous. Oh god, she’s pregnant. Total train wreck. Probably knocked up by some townie back wherever she came from. My parents’ gazes snapped to me, instantly transformed. The warmth was gone, replaced by a cold, appraising disgust, as if I were something unclean they’d accidentally tracked into their pristine home. Though they allowed me to stay, it wasn’t in one of the sun-drenched guest suites. I was given a room in the staff quarters, next to the housekeeper. My meals were leftovers from the kitchen, eaten alone. But I refused to be broken. I threw myself into my studies with a ferocity I hadn’t known I possessed, clinging to the hope that my achievements might chip away at their stone-cold disapproval. I excelled, consistently scoring at the top of my class in every practice exam. Then, Chloe’s thoughts sliced through the quiet of an otherwise peaceful evening. Wow, she’s actually smart. I’ll give her that. But she’s ruthless. The moment she gets a foothold in the company, she’ll sell our trade secrets to the competition. Dad’s entire empire will crumble. We’ll lose everything, end up on the street. That was the final blow. My parents threw me out. The next day, I was killed in a hit-and-run, my body broken on the pavement. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back on the day I first returned to the Ashford estate. And this time, I could hear her thoughts, too. 1 The sedan glided up the long, winding driveway toward the sprawling mansion. My biological parents, the Ashfords, were already waiting by the grand entrance. Chloe stood beside them, perched on the balls of her feet, peering into the distance. The moment the car stopped, my mother rushed forward and pulled me into a hug, her voice thick with emotion. “Our daughter. We finally found you. You must have had such a hard life.” My father stood by, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. It was in that exact moment that Chloe’s voice echoed in my mind. Her foster family isn’t even poor. I checked. But she shows up in rags to play the victim. God, it’s so manipulative. Should I tell them? My mother’s embrace stiffened. She pulled back slightly, her eyes scanning my outfit. A washed-out t-shirt and the plainest pair of jeans imaginable. My father’s brow furrowed. He asked, his voice laced with suspicion, “Your foster mother… she didn’t buy you any new clothes for this?” I met their probing, condescending gazes without flinching. “This is the newest outfit I own.” It was the truth. It was the most presentable thing I had. My foster mother was a farmer, scraping by on exhausted land. Sixteen years ago, she’d found me abandoned by the side of a road. Her own health was poor, and our life had always been a tightrope walk over a chasm of debt. But the Ashfords, in their magnificent wealth, were arrogant. They couldn’t be bothered to investigate the reality of the life I’d been forced to live. Returning to this family, in this life as in the last, was never about finding love. To be blunt, I was here for the money. For a better education. For the funds to save the woman who had actually raised me, the only mother I had ever known… My father was still processing my answer when Chloe’s inner monologue started up again. Ugh, I did a full background check. Her foster parents were skilled laborers with a steady income, a house, a car. They supposedly doted on her. But people from that background have no class, no vision. She’s their real daughter; they would have given her everything anyway. This whole poverty act is just so… extra. I looked up just in time to see the displeasure hardening in my parents’ eyes. A chill crept over me. Of course. This is how it happened before. In my last life, I couldn’t hear Chloe’s thoughts. I had no idea why the parents who had been weeping for their lost child one second could turn on me the next. I lowered my gaze, hiding the hatred that burned there. My mother looked me up and down, her nose wrinkling slightly. “That’s enough. We don’t have room for manipulative people in this house.” “Dressing like that,” my father added with a cold scoff, “are you trying to embarrass us?” He turned to walk away, dismissing me completely. My hands clenched into fists. “Mom, Dad, I don’t know what you think you know, but I swear I’m not…” Chloe immediately cut me off, her voice a syrupy performance of kindness. She took my hand. “Claire, let’s get you inside. It’s windy out here, and Mother’s health is so delicate.” My parents beamed at Chloe, their faces softening with pride for their thoughtful, caring daughter. I followed them into the cavernous great hall, dragging a single duffel bag behind me. It was a hand-me-down, and the zipper had broken on the way here, so I’d pinned it shut. I could hear the maids whispering behind their hands, stifling their laughter. “So pathetic. Who doesn’t own a real suitcase in this day and age? She has to be faking it.” “Obviously. It’s all an act to make Mr. and Mrs. Ashford feel guiltier.” I said nothing. Just as my father turned, his mouth open to deliver another reprimand, I let my knees buckle and pitched forward. I have hypoglycemia. Low blood sugar. In my past life, I was always prepared, a few pieces of hard candy tucked in my pocket for emergencies. This time, I had deliberately skipped breakfast. I had no candy. The mansion erupted into chaos. “Oh my god, she fainted!” My father stood back, his arms crossed, convinced it was another performance. My mother, however, strode over and nudged me with the toe of her expensive shoe. “Get up. Stop this ridiculous act right now, or I’ll—” Her words died in her throat. When I fell, my forehead had struck the corner of the marble entryway table. Blood was now trickling down my temple. A thin line of white foam appeared at the corner of my mouth. This was no act. This was real. As my consciousness faded to black, the last thing I saw was the look of pure panic on my parents’ faces as they finally rushed toward me. 2 The family doctor was summoned. After a brief examination, he delivered his verdict. “She’s suffering from chronic malnutrition and exhaustion. Her body is completely depleted. It’s resulted in a severe case of hypoglycemia.” The doctor’s gaze was heavy with pity as he looked at me, then back at my parents. “Her physical condition is… alarming. It’s as if she hasn’t had a proper, full meal in a very long time.” The raw, undeniable truth of my physical state was the best evidence I could have offered. The color drained from my parents’ faces. They instinctively glanced at Chloe, a silent plea for an explanation, for the real story they’d been fed. Chloe’s eyes darted away for a fraction of a second. Then, her thoughts rang out again. Are you kidding me? Her foster mom loved her, gave her everything she ever asked for. How could she have possibly starved? Oh. I get it. She was dieting. Probably has an eating disorder. My parents’ brows furrowed again, a new suspicion taking root. But the doctor’s words had planted a seed of doubt. The foundation of Chloe’s narrative was cracking. I pushed myself up, letting a tear slip down my cheek as I spoke, my voice trembling. “Mom… Dad… We’re a family now. I want you to know the real me.” With that, I pulled up a news story on my phone. It was a national news feature from several years ago about poverty in rural Appalachia. And there, on the screen, was my foster mother, clutching a younger version of me to her chest, her face etched with worry and hardship. What more needed to be said? They finally understood. My life had been hard. Chloe shot me a look of pure hatred. My father’s tightly clenched jaw finally relaxed, his eyes filling with a shame that was almost painful to watch. “Claire… I’m so sorry. I misjudged you.” My mother’s eyes welled with tears. She reached for my hand, then hesitated and pulled back, not out of disgust this time, but as if she feared I would reject her touch. Chloe was panicking. Her face, however, was a perfect portrait of concern. “Claire, I’m so glad you’re okay. You’re home now. No one can ever hurt you again.” But her inner voice, sharp and clear, betrayed her. Damn it! She’s so calculating. Of all the thousands of news reports out there, she just happened to have that one ready? This had to be planned! My mother’s eyelashes fluttered. This time, she didn’t lash out. She was caught, suspended between her faith in the daughter she raised and the evidence before her eyes. My father, his face a mask of composure, began discussing a nutrition plan with the doctor. I kept my eyes downcast, hiding the icy satisfaction that was blooming in my chest. It was just as I’d predicted. I couldn’t dismantle sixteen years of affection for Chloe in a single day. But trust is a fragile thing. And the first crack had appeared. Your payback, Chloe, I thought, has just begun. After lunch, my parents decided to take me shopping. It was clear my current wardrobe was an embarrassment to the Ashford name. Just as before, the four of us climbed into the spacious luxury SUV. We had barely pulled out of the driveway when a cold sweat broke out across my skin and my stomach began to churn violently. My motion sickness was severe. And right on cue, Chloe’s thoughts began to broadcast. Oh god, here we go again. She’s pregnant. It’s morning sickness. That family doctor is a quack. He didn’t use any real equipment. She’s probably not far enough along for it to show up on a simple test. My parents’ heads whipped around to stare at me. Here it is, I thought, a tremor of adrenaline shooting through me. This was the accusation that had sealed my fate last time, the one that had convinced the Ashfords I was damaged goods. I steadied my breathing, forcing the words out. “Is there any Dramamine? My motion sickness is really bad.” My father’s eyes narrowed. “Motion sickness? Does it usually make you this ill?” My mother’s gaze was fixed on my pale, sweating face, and I could see the conclusion forming in her mind. Pregnant. She imagined me, her biological daughter, sleeping around with delinquents, bringing shame and disease into her perfect life. The thought was so repulsive to her that she physically recoiled. Whatever guilt she’d felt earlier vanished, replaced by pure, unadulterated disgust. I had no chance to explain. The moment the car pulled over, I scrambled out and retched into a trash can on the sidewalk. From the corner of my eye, I could see my parents’ grim, stony faces. And Chloe, looking on with feigned worry. Her real thoughts were a different story. She is so pathetic. But what if she brings some disgusting disease back to the house? Mom’s immune system is so weak. She could never handle something like that.

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Because of a single contaminated test tube, the new supervising professor of my lab, Dr. Marcus Cole, announced he was kicking me off the NSF grant project. He did it during our weekly group meeting, in front of everyone. “Evelyn,” he boomed, his voice echoing slightly off the sterile whiteboards. “Don’t think for a second that because you’ve published a few papers, you’re untouchable.” I stood silently beside my chair as my lab mates stared at their notebooks, the floor, anywhere but at me. “The lab protocols are posted on every door! All glassware must be sterilized by the end of the day. You knew the rule, you ignored it, and that makes your negligence doubly worse.” He paced in front of the projector screen, a shark in a lab coat. “As for the NSF grant… you can forget about it. You won’t touch another piece of data associated with it.” I didn’t say a word. I just picked up my laptop and turned to leave. Fire me from my own project? Fine. This whole lab was about to come to a grinding halt. 1 Dr. Cole’s face purpled with rage at my silent departure. “Evelyn Reed, where do you think you’re going? Get back here!” he yelled at my back. “You will write a formal apology, and you will read it aloud to this entire group as a testament to your profound lack of professionalism!” I paused at the door and looked back at his face, twisted with a furious need for control. “No problem,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm. A heavy silence fell over the room. I could feel the shocked stares of my friends and colleagues. Dr. Cole let out a short, triumphant huff and stormed out of the conference room. A moment later, a notification pinged on everyone’s phone. A message in the lab’s general Slack channel. From: Dr. Marcus Cole To: @channel Subject: Upholding Lab Standards PhD candidate Evelyn Reed has demonstrated a lax attitude and a severe violation of laboratory protocols. She will conduct a public self-criticism today at 3:00 PM in Conference Room A301 to rectify this behavior and reinforce the importance of our collective standards. The air in the room felt thick enough to suffocate on. My friend Maya, sitting next to me, nudged my phone under the table. A private message popped up. Maya: Evie, don’t be stubborn. Just apologize. It’s an NSF grant! This could affect your graduation! I shook my head slightly. It won’t matter, I typed back. He was the new guy, brought in to co-supervise while the department head, Professor Miller, was on sabbatical. Cole needed to assert his dominance, to make his mark. And he needed to make room for his own people. It was no secret he wanted to give my doctoral project to the new postdoc he’d brought with him from Stanford. The problem for him was that I had already completed the most difficult, groundbreaking phase of the grant’s research. The preliminary data was more than good; it was perfect. I was in his way, a living testament to work he couldn’t claim as his own. This test tube was just the excuse he’d been waiting for. I sent Maya a quick “Don’t worry ” emoji, then switched apps. I began methodically backing up every file on my laptop: years of experimental data, raw records, analysis pipelines. I encrypted the archive, uploaded it to my private cloud server, and then permanently deleted every local copy. Only when that was done did I open a new document and begin to write my “apology.” Halfway through, Dr. Cole made a point of strolling past my workstation. He saw the document open on my screen and the corner of his mouth twitched into a smug, self-satisfied smirk. At 3:00 PM, Conference Room A301 was packed. Dr. Cole stood at the front, his expression a mask of stern, official righteousness. “I want to reiterate,” he began, his voice dripping with condescension, “that a laboratory is not a dorm room. The rules are not suggestions.” He glared in my direction. “The regulations are posted and emphasized for a reason, yet some people treat them as background noise.” He paused for dramatic effect. “And don’t think that just because Professor Miller personally recruited you that you are entitled to special treatment. What good is producing data if you can’t even master basic discipline?” “Evelyn. Up here. Time for your apology. Let’s make this a teachable moment for everyone.” I stood and walked to the front, pulling out the single sheet of paper I had prepared. “I, Evelyn Reed, have made a grave and unforgivable error,” I began, my voice clear and steady. “I should not have, under any circumstances, neglected that single test tube. From this day forward, I vow to adhere strictly to every single rule of this lab, without exception.” I paused, making eye contact with him. “I am, after all, just a student. And any project Dr. Cole deems me unfit for, I will absolutely not touch.” “As long as you understand,” he cut in, clearly pleased with my performance. He then turned to the room, puffing out his chest. “Given Ms. Reed’s history of non-compliance and her negative attitude, the core project committee has decided to officially remove her from the NSF grant, effective immediately. Her previous responsibilities and all associated data will be transferred to our new postdoctoral fellow, Dr. Ethan Hayes.” The room was utterly silent. Beside Dr. Cole, the man with the gold-rimmed glasses and the perpetual smirk, Ethan Hayes, gave a small, self-important nod to the group. I glanced at Maya; her expression was a mixture of helplessness and shock. Dr. Cole added one final twist of the knife. “Evelyn, after this meeting, I expect you to immediately compile all your project-related lab notebooks and raw data files and hand them over to Dr. Hayes. Do not delay.” I agreed with an unnerving cheerfulness and slid a USB drive into the conference room’s computer. A folder containing hundreds of neatly organized files popped up on the projector screen. “It’s all right here, Dr. Cole,” I said. Good luck making sense of any of it. My cheerful compliance seemed to catch him off guard; a flicker of suspicion crossed his face. But after a quick scan of the massive, meticulously labeled file list, he relaxed. Dr. Hayes looked like he’d just won the lottery. As soon as the meeting was adjourned, he sauntered over to my lab bench. “Ms. Reed,” he began, his tone dripping with condescension. “If you could please clear out your personal effects from this station and your locker, I’d appreciate it. I’ll also need you to walk me through the inventory of reagents and equipment in the common area. We can’t have you delaying the important work Dr. Cole and I are about to begin.” 2 I knew exactly what Dr. Hayes was after. It wasn’t my bench space he coveted; it was the state-of-the-art equipment sitting on it. “Evelyn, hurry it up,” Dr. Cole chimed in from across the lab, arms crossed like a general surveying his new territory. “Lab space is at a premium, and Dr. Hayes is eager to get his new research underway.” I slowly, deliberately, closed the lid on a small equipment case without looking up. “Dr. Cole, Dr. Hayes, this is a lot of stuff to pack up. It’s going to take me some time.” I finally met their impatient gazes. “How about tomorrow? I promise I’ll have everything cleared out by then. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of progress.” Ethan pushed his glasses up his nose. My promise to be gone by the next day seemed to satisfy him. He gave another one of his prim little nods and followed Dr. Cole out of the lab. Without the crushing weight of the NSF grant on my shoulders, I felt an unfamiliar lightness. The core data for my dissertation was already complete; all that remained was the writing and some minor revisions. Now, thanks to them, I had all the time in the world. The next afternoon, after neatly packing the last of my personal items into a box, I did something I hadn’t done in years. I pulled out my phone and bought a ticket to the aquarium to see the dolphin show, something I’d always wanted to do but never had the time for. Sitting in the stands, surrounded by the delighted squeals of children as the dolphins leaped and twisted in perfect sync with their trainers, I felt a pure, uncomplicated sense of peace wash over me. The lab’s Slack channel, however, was anything but peaceful. That evening, my phone started buzzing incessantly. It was the new, grant-specific channel that Dr. Hayes had created. He was already laying down the law. From: Dr. Ethan Hayes To: @grant-team Subject: New Daily Protocols 1. Effective immediately, all team members will submit a daily progress report detailing experimental procedures, reagents used, and preliminary results. Reports are due in my inbox by 10 PM sharp. 2. Each team member is expected to complete a minimum of three full experimental cycles per week. Compiled data is to be submitted to me for review by Sunday evening. 3. Use of all major laboratory equipment must be requested and approved by me at least 24 hours in advance. Unauthorized use is strictly forbidden. A private message from Maya immediately followed. Maya: [Screenshot] Evie, are you seeing this?! He’s acting like he’s king of the world! He’s delegating every single task while he just wanders around the lab making useless suggestions. He hasn’t offered a single piece of actual help! A second message bubble appeared. Maya: Today he told me to wash a sink full of HIS beakers that had been sitting there for days! Who does he think he is?! I could practically feel her frustration radiating through the screen. Me: Deep breaths, Maya. Just say no to anything that isn’t your responsibility. You have your own work to do. She was typing for a long time before her next message came through. Maya: I just feel so angry for you, Evie. Dr. Cole is so blatantly targeting you, stealing your work. Are you really not going to do anything? Should we tell Professor Miller? I stared at her words, then slowly typed my reply. Me: Not yet. Professor Miller is at a major conference in Geneva. There’s no need to bother him with this… yet. 3 I woke up to sunlight streaming through a gap in my curtains. For the first time in years, I hadn’t bolted awake at 6 AM in a panic to get to the lab. I was pouring myself a glass of milk when my phone lit up with a text from Maya. Maya: Morning. Cole was on a rampage first thing. Ranting about how some people show their true colors once they’re kicked off a project. Lazy, no dedication, no respect for the scientific process… He basically read out your student ID number. I took a sip of milk. Let him talk, I texted back. Ignore it. I turned my phone off and was about to crawl back into bed when a shrill, insistent ringing shattered the morning quiet. I fumbled for the phone, my heart pounding. It was Dr. Cole. “Evelyn! Where is the equipment from your bench?!” he screamed without a hello. “The centrifuge, the PCR machine, and the micromanipulator rig! Where are they? I’ve torn this entire lab apart and they’re gone!” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. “Dr. Cole, if some equipment is missing, why is your first call to me?” There was a choked silence on the other end, followed by an explosion of renewed fury. “Who else could it be?! You were the last one to leave last night! Did the equipment just grow legs and walk away?!” “Dr. Cole,” I said, my voice slow and deliberate as I sat up in bed. “If things are missing, shouldn’t you be checking the lab’s official checkout logs and procurement records? Or perhaps asking the other students if they borrowed something?” I let a beat of silence hang in the air. “Calling a student who was, as you so publicly announced, ‘kicked off the project’ to hurl accusations first thing in the morning seems… a little inappropriate, don’t you think?” My calm, almost innocent tone was like gasoline on his fire. “Don’t you play games with me, Evelyn! I strongly suspect that you, angry about being removed from the grant, have intentionally sabotaged this lab! That you’ve stolen university property!” “I am telling you right now, you get down to this lab and explain yourself!” I let out a soft laugh. “That’s a very serious accusation, Dr. Cole. To make a claim like that without any proof… that’s not a good look, is it?” “My proof is that you’re the number one suspect!” “You have ten minutes to show up here. If you don’t, I’m taking this to the next level. I’m calling the police! You just wait!” He roared the last words and slammed the phone down, leaving me with a dial tone buzzing in my ear. I put the phone down, yawned, and rolled over to go back to sleep. Not fifteen minutes later, Maya called, her voice a panicked whisper. “Evie! Oh my god, this is bad! He—he actually did it! He called the campus police! They’re here, in the lab! You need to get here, now!” 4 I took my time. I went out, got a proper breakfast, and enjoyed a leisurely walk to the science building. My phone vibrated nonstop in my pocket. Dr. Cole, no doubt. When I got to my floor, Maya was pacing frantically by the stairwell. “Evie, you’re finally here!” she hissed, rushing toward me. “Cole is losing his mind in there, the cops are still with him. Please… whatever you do, be careful. Don’t provoke him.” I gave her a reassuring “OK” sign and walked calmly up the last flight of stairs. The moment I stepped into the lab, the tense atmosphere was palpable. Dr. Cole was pacing like a caged animal while two uniformed campus police officers stood by, looking bored. The other students were glued to their workstations, pretending to be absorbed in their tasks, barely breathing. The second Cole saw me, his eyes went wild. He lunged toward me. “Evelyn Reed! Look! Look at your bench! It’s empty!” He jabbed a trembling finger in its direction. “The equipment! What did you do with the equipment?!” He spun around to face the officers, his voice shrill. “Officers, it was her! She’s the one who came in last night when no one was around and stole the lab’s most valuable instruments! I have the security footage! It clearly shows her leaving with several large cases! The evidence is undeniable!” One of the officers turned to me, his expression serious. “Ma’am, is what this professor is saying true? Did you remove equipment from this lab?” I nodded calmly. “Yes, I did.” A gasp went through the room. Dr. Cole looked as if he’d just been handed a winning lottery ticket. His voice trembled with vindictive glee. “You heard that, officers! She admitted it! It’s theft! Grand larceny! Arrest her!”

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Every year on our anniversary, Ethan sent a gift. Something extravagant, six figures, a Tiffany key for a car I didn’t need or a watch that told time I no longer felt was mine. It was his penance for working late, for breaking another promise to be home. This year, our fifth, was no different. Only this time, I decided to surprise him. I showed up at his downtown office, a bottle of the twenty-year-old scotch he loved tucked in my bag, ready to toast to the man I still believed in. But his assistant, a polished young woman I didn’t recognize, blocked the doorway to his corner suite. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” she said, her voice smooth as glass. “But today is Mr. Hayes’s anniversary with his wife. It’s also his son’s fourth birthday.” She gave me a tight, dismissive smile. “He’s instructed me that he’s not to be disturbed. No clients tonight.” I stood frozen, the words refusing to arrange themselves into any logical order in my mind. His wife? His son? Before I could ask what she meant, the office door swung open and a little boy burst out. He was wearing an adorable birthday hat and waving a bright green water pistol. He had Ethan’s eyes—the same deep-set, serious gaze, now narrowed at me with suspicion. “Who are you?” he demanded, his voice high and clear. “Are you the bad lady trying to steal my daddy from my mommy?” And just like that, a stream of cold water hit me square in the face. Droplets trickled down from the ends of my hair, but I barely felt them. My entire world had narrowed to the face of that child. Before we got married, Ethan had been clear. He wanted to be child-free. He didn’t like kids. So we were always careful. Sometimes, when we forgot in the heat of the moment, he would watch me take the pill the next morning, his gaze intense. He’d pull me into his arms after, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “A kid would just be a rival for your affection,” he’d murmur. “And I don’t share you, Chloe. Not with anyone.” But here was the truth. Not long after we were married, he had started a family with someone else. 1 The door opened again. The little boy scrambled back inside, launching himself into my husband’s arms. He pointed a small, triumphant finger at my dripping face. “Daddy, was I brave?” Ethan’s gaze met mine, and for a second, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Standing beside him, a woman with sleek, dark hair looped her arm through his, standing on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek, right in front of me. “Happy anniversary, honey,” she purred. He finally snapped out of it, setting the boy down and gently disentangling himself from the woman’s arm. A smudge of what looked like buttercream was dotted on the tip of his nose. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I knew the woman beside him. Isabelle. His first assistant. She had quit right after the company finally found its footing. I never thought I’d see her again. My brain started to function again, slow and grinding like rusty gears. My eyes were locked on Ethan, a tremor starting deep in my bones and spreading outwards. Isabelle stepped forward, a triumphant little smile playing on her lips. “Chloe, isn’t it? Is there something you needed this late?” she asked, her eyes flicking over my damp clothes. “Ethan is with his family tonight. He’s not available.” If they were his family, then what was I? His legal, lawfully wedded wife? A bitter, acidic taste rose in my throat. Isabelle stood there in her designer dress, her makeup flawless, a smug little smirk on her face. “Maybe you should just go home, Chloe,” she suggested sweetly. The little boy at her feet chimed in, his voice shrill. “Go home! Go home! Stop trying to steal my daddy!” he chanted. “Bad lady! You’re the bad lady who wants my daddy!” “You’re ugly!” Compared to the perfectly put-together Isabelle, he was right. I was a wreck. And through it all, Ethan said nothing. My heart felt like it was being physically torn in two. I stared at him, my look a silent plea for an explanation, for anything. He finally looked away. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it tomorrow,” he said, his voice cold. The new assistant saw her opening. She grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong, and hustled me toward the elevators. Her eyes were full of contempt. “So you’re the mistress, huh?” she sneered, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You know, you’re supposed to stay hidden. Showing up at the main event? God, have some self-respect.” She shoved me out into the hallway. The elevator doors slid shut, leaving me with my reflection. The gift for my husband was still in my hand. The scene in the office, the assistant’s sneering words—mistress, mistress, mistress—played on a loop in my head. I stumbled out onto the street, the city lights blurring through the tears I refused to let fall. I pulled out my phone. One call to Ethan. Voicemail. A second. A third. Ten in a row, each one a bleating cry into the void before being cut off. Declined. I let out a hollow laugh that sounded like a sob. Looking up at the single bright rectangle of his office window against the dark skyscraper, I walked to the nearest trash can and dropped the bottle of twenty-year-old scotch inside. It landed with a dull, final thud. 2 I spent the night on the couch, a ghost in my own home, until the sun came up. My phone finally rang. It was Ethan. His voice was strained, urgent. “Chloe, listen. About last night, I can explain. It was a mistake.” “It wasn’t what it looked like.” My own voice came out as a dry rasp. “A mistake? When did we get divorced, Ethan? When did you become Isabelle’s husband? And when did you have a son who’s old enough to be in preschool?” A beat of silence on his end. “I’ll explain everything later,” he finally said. “Just… don’t go after Isabelle. It has nothing to do with her.” I laughed. It was a brittle, broken sound. Tears started to stream down my face, hot and silent. Even now, his first instinct was to protect her. He still wouldn’t give me a straight answer. In everyone else’s eyes, she was the one who had stood by him, who had helped him build his empire from the ground up. I was just… the other woman. Our anniversary, a day meant for us, had become their anniversary. The irony was crushing. In the story of my own marriage, I had somehow become the villain. The mistress. Ethan never came home. Instead, Isabelle showed up at my door. She sauntered in, a victorious smile on her face, and sat across from me as if she owned the place. My hands clenched into fists in my lap. “What do you want?” Isabelle simply arched an eyebrow. She held up her left hand, flashing the diamond on her ring finger. “This? This is the ring Ethan proposed to me with.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Chloe, if I were you, I’d just leave gracefully. There’s no need to make this any uglier than it has to be.” I stared at her, my blood turning to ice. She smiled again. “And we have an adorable son together. You? What do you have? Every time he told you he was working late on a holiday, where was he really? He was with me. Celebrating our anniversary. Celebrating our son’s birthday. Every single year.” No matter how hard I tried to stay composed, her words were like daggers. My face contorted in a mask of pain I couldn’t hide. My heart, already fractured, splintered into a thousand more pieces. All those anniversaries, those holidays I’d spent alone. He’d always claim it was a last-minute business trip, an unavoidable crisis at work. I was disappointed, of course, but I told him I understood. I told him work was important. I’d prepare elaborate dinners that would end up in the trash can, untouched. The next day, a lavish gift would arrive—his apology, his penance. Only now did I understand. It wasn’t an apology. It was hush money for his conscience. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing myself to regain some semblance of control. I looked her dead in the eye. And then, I smiled. “Ethan and I are married, Isabelle. We have a marriage license. We have legal protections. As long as I am his wife, you and that little boy of yours are nothing but a mistress and an illegitimate child.” “Doesn’t sound quite so glamorous when you put it that way, does it?” I watched with grim satisfaction as the color drained from her smug face. But she recovered quickly. She leaned back, a flicker of something new in her eyes. She laughed. “He doesn’t love you,” she said simply. “You know, when we’re together, he’s always telling me how much he regrets marrying you.” “He says you don’t know how to be affectionate, how to be soft. That in bed, you’re like a cold, dead fish. A total turn-off.” “He told me that sleeping with you feels like a chore. That it’s utterly boring.” Her words sent a dizzying shockwave through me. I had always thought… I had thought we were good. That our intimacy was real. After we made love, he would always hold me close, kissing me softly for minutes on end. I guess he was just a better actor than I ever knew. Seeing my stunned silence, Isabelle’s smile widened. “So since we’re all clear on the situation, why not just sign the divorce papers? It would be better for everyone, don’t you think?” She was right. A divorce would be better for everyone. But I just looked at her, my own smile fixed in place. “A divorce? You can tell Ethan to ask me for one himself.” “Even if I wanted one,” I added, leaning in, “do you really think he has the guts to agree to it?” The triumphant look on her face vanished completely. 3 That evening, Ethan came home. He stormed through the door, his face a mask of fury. He saw the dinner I had just finished making, set on the table, and with a sweep of his arm, he sent it all crashing to the floor. Porcelain shattered, scattering across the hardwood. His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at me. “Chloe, I told you I would explain! Why did you have to go and bother Isabelle?” I stared at the mess on the floor, my voice dangerously quiet. “So you’re here to settle the score on her behalf?” Ethan stared at me for a long, tense moment. Finally, he spoke. “She’s innocent in all of this.” “It’s not her fault.” “Chloe, you have no reason to go after her. She’s been through enough.” “Your life is so much better than hers.” I just looked at him, the man I thought I knew. I fell for him our sophomore year of college. I was the one who pursued him, shamelessly and relentlessly, making a fool of myself until he finally gave in. We got married the year after we graduated. Back then, he was just starting his company. We lived in a tiny, rented apartment. I saved every penny. If he wasn’t coming home for dinner, I’d eat leftovers, which once landed me in the hospital with food poisoning. When it rained, I’d take three different buses to get home instead of splurging on a cab, showing up at our door soaked to the bone, which inevitably led to me getting sick. The very first time he made a real profit, he bought me a ring. He said he wanted me to have a proper wedding ring, to feel like we were truly married. I cried, not from joy, but from guilt. I yelled at him for wasting money we didn’t have. He had forgotten. He had forgotten how I suffered alongside him, how I supported him when he had nothing. I lifted my hand and slapped him across the face. The sound echoed in the silent room. “I have better things to do than go out of my way to make myself sick. Now, don’t you think you owe me an explanation, Ethan? When did you start sleeping with Isabelle? And when, exactly, did you have a son with her?” “It was an accident,” he said, his voice laced with exasperation. I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. An accident that he slept with her. An accident that she got pregnant and had his child. Looking at his face, all I felt was a profound sense of revulsion. “We are married. You cheated. That makes Isabelle a mistress and your son a bastard. They will always be looked down on.” His face darkened. “Chloe, you don’t have to use such ugly words. I can explain everything.” “When the time is right, we can have the boy’s records transferred over to us. At least that way, you won’t have to suffer the ordeal of childbirth.” I was so stunned by his audacity that for a moment, I couldn’t even speak. He actually wanted me to legally adopt his illegitimate son. To raise him as my own. “So you see,” he continued, as if he were granting me some great favor, “you have no reason to be upset with Isabelle.” I smiled. “No, thank you. The thought of raising that child disgusts me.” Ethan’s face hardened into a cold mask. I didn’t say another word. I just turned and walked back to our bedroom, closing the door behind me. A few minutes later, after a brief call with my lawyer, my mother-in-law’s number flashed on the screen. Her voice was as warm and friendly as ever. “Chloe, sweetie, have you eaten? When do you have time to come visit? I bought you something nice.” Her cheerful tone made my heart ache. After Ethan and I got married, his mother had always been kind to me. She often sent me money, telling me to buy myself nice things, treating me like the daughter she never had. How could I tell her that her son was a cheat, that he had a whole other family? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I forced a smile into my voice. “Hi, Mom. Yes, I just finished dinner.” “I’ve been really busy lately, so I’m not sure when I can make it out. You and Dad please take care of yourselves.” She laughed on the other end. “How are things with you and Ethan? That brat hasn’t been giving you a hard time, has he?” Before I could answer, she continued, “I know he’s busy and can’t always be there for you, but you have to be understanding. There’s nothing a husband and wife can’t work through. If he does something wrong, you have to learn to be forgiving.” “He called me last night, said you two had a little disagreement. It’s nothing serious, I’m sure. But I was worried you might be upset, so I wanted to check in.” Hearing Ethan’s name made my forced cheerfulness falter. We chatted for a few more minutes before she hung up. But as I put the phone down, a strange feeling crept over me. Something about that conversation felt… off. 4 The next day, when I came home from work, I found Isabelle and her son sitting on my couch. My voice was ice. “Who let you in here? Get out.” Before Isabelle could respond, Ethan emerged from the kitchen holding a bowl of soup. He glanced at me, his expression flat. “Isabelle wasn’t feeling well. I told her she could rest here for a bit.” I shot a cold look at Isabelle’s perfectly healthy, rosy-cheeked face. It was obvious she wasn’t sick. She was here to assert her dominance. Ever since our fight, Ethan had been spending every night at her place. She thought she had won. She had come with her son to rub it in my face. I wasn’t about to play her game. “If she’s not feeling well, she should go die. Why is she still breathing?” Ethan’s face darkened. “Chloe! Don’t go too far.” Isabelle’s eyes immediately welled up with tears. She tugged gently on Ethan’s sleeve. “It’s okay, Ethan. It’s normal for Chloe to be upset with me.” “She must have misunderstood what happened at the office. And now you’re being so nice to me, she must be feeling…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air. Her son, seeing his mother’s tears, grabbed a toy car from the floor and hurled it at me. “Bad woman! You’re a bad woman trying to steal my daddy!” “Get out, get out!” “Don’t bully my mommy, and don’t try to take my daddy!” With every shout, he threw another toy. Isabelle’s lips curved into a subtle, satisfied smile as she leaned into Ethan’s embrace. Ethan put down the soup and frowned at me. “Chloe, what you said was completely out of line. Isabelle is just feeling a little under the weather. I’ll take her home in a bit.” He paused, then said in a low, firm voice, “Apologize to her.” I laughed as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world. “Show me the law that says a wife has to apologize to a mistress, and maybe I’ll consider it.” Ignoring the furious look on Ethan’s face, I bent down, picked up one of the toys from the floor, and threw it right back at the little boy, with just as much force. He immediately burst into tears and ran into Isabelle’s arms. “Mommy, it hurts,” he wailed. Isabelle hugged him tightly, her eyes, red and tearful, fixed on Ethan. “Ethan… maybe we should just go. I don’t mind what Chloe says about me, but Liam is only four. He only acted out because he thought I was being bullied…” “I just can’t believe she would throw something at him.” Ethan’s gaze was hard as steel. “Chloe. Apologize.” How utterly ridiculous. I was his wife, yet he was demanding I apologize to his mistress and their son. “Not happening. Not in this lifetime.” Isabelle picked up her son and hurried towards the door. As she passed me, she stumbled and fell dramatically to the floor. Fat tears splashed onto the polished wood. Ethan rushed over and helped her up. Isabelle kept her head down, refusing to look at me. “Ethan, I want to go home,” she whispered. The boy in her arms echoed, sobbing, “Daddy, I want to go home too.” Without another word, Ethan led them out the door. The house was suddenly silent again, so quiet it felt like the whole ugly scene had just been a bad dream. A moment later, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. [I won.]

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The third year of my mission to win over Caleb Sterling, the city’s most untouchable heir, and I lost my memory. My mind reset to three years ago, stuck in the middle of the silent treatment with my ex-boyfriend. So, with Caleb watching my every move, I dialed my ex’s number. “Baby, don’t be mad anymore,” I cooed into the phone. “I’ll wear that new dress for you, okay?” The next second, the ever-arrogant Caleb Sterling crushed his glass in his bare hand. “Chloe,” he snarled through gritted teeth, “I dare you to say that again.” “What the hell am I to you, then? A ghost?” 1 “Chloe, how long are you going to keep this up?” “I already told you, there’s nothing between us.” “We grew up together. We haven’t seen each other in years. What’s the big deal about a little kiss?” I woke up in a hospital bed to the sight of a stranger in a tailored suit raking a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He was handsome, but his frustration was a storm cloud in the sterile room. When I didn’t respond, he pulled a watch from his wrist—a heavy, platinum thing glittering with diamonds—and tossed it onto the bedside table. “Take this. And I’ll throw in a condo downtown. Is that enough for you?” My head throbbed. I picked up the watch, the weight of it cool and solid in my palm, and struggled to focus on the ridiculously ornate face. He let out a short, humorless laugh, sinking into the chair beside my bed. He reached out and stroked my hair like I was a stray cat he’d decided to humor. “That’s more like it,” he murmured. “Running out into traffic, getting yourself hurt… was it really worth all this drama?” He tilted his head. “Pack your things. I’ll take you home.” I’ll admit, with his sharp jawline and intense, dark eyes, he was movie-star handsome in a reckless, arrogant way. Unfortunately for him, he was also an asshole, which was a total deal-breaker. I pulled away from his touch and held the watch out to him. “It’s five-thirty,” I said, my voice raspy. “My boyfriend gets off work soon. Thanks, but I don’t need a ride.” I thought I’d made myself clear, but the man’s face instantly darkened. He narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint in their depths. “Chloe. What the hell did you just say?” His voice was low, menacing. “Which boyfriend gets off work soon?” Which boyfriend? I’d been with Leo for three years. There was no one else. Before I could form a response, the man shoved a phone into my hand, his grip tight. “Call him,” he seethed. “Call him right now. I want to see exactly who’s coming to pick you up.” Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. A car accident and a concussion were bad enough without having to deal with a certified lunatic. He sprawled on the sofa opposite me, legs spread, watching my every move. Under his burning gaze, I found Leo’s name in my contacts and took a deep breath, moving him out of my blocked list. Thinking back, Leo and I rarely fought. He could be a little old-fashioned, that was all. The last time we’d been on the outs was because he thought the dress I’d bought was a little too short, and he’d lectured me about it for days. It was silly, but it was our brand of silly. The phone rang twice in the quiet room before he picked up. His voice, warm and familiar, was laced with hesitation. “Chloe? Is that you?” “Yeah,” I breathed out. It was all I could manage. On the other end, it was like a dam had broken. “They said you were in an accident. Are you okay? Is it serious?” he asked in a rush. “Which hospital are you at? I’m on my way.” With every frantic question he asked, the man across from me grew visibly angrier, his jaw clenching. I quickly gave Leo the address, my voice softening as I added, “Baby, I’ll wear that new dress for you tomorrow, okay? The one you like.” The words were barely out of my mouth when a violent crash echoed through the room. I whipped my head around. The stranger had crushed the water glass he was holding in his bare hand. Blood mingled with shards of glass, dripping onto the pristine floor at his feet. He didn’t seem to feel it. His teeth were gritted, his voice a guttural growl. “Chloe, I dare you to say that again.” “What the hell am I to you, then? A ghost?” A nurse, drawn by the noise, burst in and froze, her eyes wide with shock. “Mr. Sterling, please! The patient needs to rest.” His hand was a mess. It took the nurse a while to get him settled on the sofa and bandage the wound. In the middle of it, his phone rang. He took a deep breath, his eyelids twitching with suppressed rage. His tone was clipped. “I told you, I’m busy.” A lazy, carefree voice drifted from the speakerphone. “Isabelle is waiting for you, man. What could possibly be more important?” Caleb Sterling’s eyes were locked on me, cold and unblinking. “I’m dealing with a cheater,” he said slowly, enunciating every word. “You tell me. Is that important?” 2 The nurse’s ears practically perked up like an antenna; she wanted to listen but was too scared to be obvious. I felt pinned by his stare and let my gaze wander up to the ceiling. You know, for a hospital, this ceiling was really top-notch. A solid ten out of ten. “Don’t get the wound wet,” the nurse instructed, finishing the bandage. “Come back in three days to have it changed.” The man—Caleb—waved a dismissive hand, clearly not listening. Before the nurse could even shut the door behind her, a figure rushed into the room. He was still shrugging on his coat, the belt of his black trench coat hanging askew at his waist. Leo. Leo was five years older than me, with a quiet, steady presence that had always been my anchor. When we lived together, I’d wake up every morning to find toothpaste already squeezed onto my toothbrush and a hand towel folded neatly by the sink, right where I’d reach for it. I had never seen him look so disheveled, so undone. I looked up at him, my heart aching, and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his coat. “Take me home, Leo. They said I can go.” He froze for a second. I saw his throat work as he swallowed, and his cool hand hovered over my head, not quite touching me. “Chloe, I…” Before he could finish, a slow, deliberate clap echoed from across the room. Caleb was leaning forward, his face half-shrouded in shadow, his eyes burning with contempt. “How touching. Truly a scene for the ages.” He sneered. “After three years of following me around like a goddamn puppy, this is the guy you call your boyfriend?” The words were so bizarre, so completely nonsensical, that I didn’t even know how to react. But before I could stand up, Leo disentangled himself from my arms and strode across the room. He swung, and his fist connected with Caleb’s jaw with a sickening crack. “Caleb Sterling,” Leo snarled, his voice dangerously low. “Keep your goddamn mouth shut.” I was stunned. So was Caleb. Leo, my gentle, bookish Leo who never even raised his voice, had just thrown a punch. I scrambled off the bed and threw my arms around Leo’s waist, pulling him back before Caleb could retaliate. I dragged him out of the room, ignoring the furious roar that erupted behind us. Caleb kicked the heavy metal door, the sound booming down the hallway. “Chloe! You’re choosing him?” “Goddammit, Chloe, you get your ass back here!” His voice faded as we reached the elevator. In the passenger seat of Leo’s car, I gently took his hand, turning it over in my own. “Does it hurt? Why were you so impulsive? What if you’d broken it?” In the dim light of the car, Leo didn’t answer. He just looked at me for a long moment before leaning in and crushing his lips to mine. It wasn’t like his usual kisses. This was urgent, almost frantic. And underneath it all, there was a profound, aching vulnerability. It was less like a welcome and more like a claim. I was breathless when he finally pulled back, my face flushed. He looked just as wrecked as I felt. He gently cradled the back of my neck, shifting me into a more comfortable position against the seat. “Get some sleep,” he murmured, his voice thick. “We’re almost home.” I was exhausted. The chaos of the hospital, the fight, the raw emotion of seeing Leo again… it had all taken its toll. I didn’t even have the energy to question his uncharacteristic behavior. I leaned my head back and let the motion of the car lull me into a daze. My thoughts felt like scrambled eggs. Just as we were pulling into our neighborhood, a strange sound echoed in my mind—a cascade of chimes, like a slot machine paying out. 【Host! Host! You’re finally awake!】 【Progress on the Caleb Sterling objective is at 60%!】 【Victory is within your grasp!】

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The day my father died, my seven uncles died with him. Every last one of them, violently, on the same day. Cole Matthews paid with his legs to make it happen. He waged a one-man war on the syndicate, bled them dry, and put me on the throne. “It’s okay, Sloane,” he’d whispered, his body broken but his eyes fierce. “The monsters are gone. You’re free now.” For years, while he was confined to a wheelchair, I searched for a cure. I chased down a thousand experimental drugs, knelt in the cold marble of a thousand chapels, praying for a miracle. I would have traded anything, done anything, to see him walk again. When Cole found out the lengths I was going to, he swallowed a bottle of pills one night. After they pumped his stomach and the crisis passed, he just smiled weakly, wiping the tears from my face. “Sloane,” he’d said, his voice raspy. “I don’t want to be your anchor. You deserve a better life.” We held each other and cried that night, swearing that nothing, not even death, would ever make us leave the other’s side. That was seven years ago. Today, a girl who looked like she wouldn’t hurt a fly showed up at my door with a stack of a thousand private photos. “Every month, when you were off chasing some miracle cure, groveling for God to fix him,” she said, her voice dripping with venom, “Cole and I were finding new ways to sin.” She leaned in, her sweet face twisted into a sneer. “Didn’t you know, Ms. Blackwood? Damaged goods hold no appeal for a man like him. No wonder he’d rather pretend to be a cripple than lay a hand on you.” I looked through every single photograph, one by one. Then I had my people deliver them to the black-market auction house. 1 When Cole arrived, the bidding for picture #999 was in full swing. “Damn, she looks so innocent,” a gruff voice boomed from the crowd. “But look at this last one… the things she’s doing are enough to make a dead man’s blood boil.” Hearing the filthy whispers, Cole’s face went dark. And I watched him walk. He wasn’t limping. He wasn’t stumbling. His stride was powerful, fast, and flawless. The stem of the wine glass in my hand snapped. He stopped in front of me, his tall frame casting a long, oppressive shadow. Seeing the look on my face, the raw violence in his posture softened, and his voice dropped to the low timber I knew so well. “Sloane. She’s just a kid, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. I’ll explain everything, I promise. Just call it off.” I stared at him, saying nothing. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Finally, he bent his knees and knelt before me, his handsome face lowered. “If you let her go, I swear she will never cross your path again.” He looked up, his eyes pleading. “Sloane, I’m begging you. Call off the auction.” The last time they’d tried to break him, when my uncles’ men shattered his legs, he hadn’t uttered a single plea. Now, he was begging me. For another woman. The sight of his desperation was unbearable. I hurled my glass to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces, and slapped him across the face, the sound cracking through the room. He didn’t even flinch. He just took it, letting me unleash my fury. When I was done, he gently took my stinging hand and blew softly on the reddened skin. “Sloane, you can hit me, you can scream at me, whatever you want. But Lana… she’s not like us. She can’t handle this kind of punishment. It will destroy her.” I pulled my hand back, a humorless smile playing on my lips. “Fine.” The moment the photos were withdrawn, a visible wave of relief washed over Cole. But before he could speak, a new, more ferocious roar erupted from the crowd below. The main event of the evening was unveiled. Lana, the innocent little rabbit, was curled up inside a massive glass display case, wearing the same uniform from the final, most explicit photograph. The men in the audience, who had been left wanting more, now stared with the eyes of starving wolves. The sound of winner-takes-all private bids echoed through the hall, one after another. I watched Cole’s eyes, saw the red creep into them, inch by inch. But I felt nothing. No satisfaction. Nothing at all. “Sloane, make them stop!” “Mr. Matthews,” my butler, Arthur, said from behind me, his voice firm. “It was this woman who chose to provoke the lady of the house. She knew the risks of challenging you. This punishment is merciful, all things considered.” Cole’s eyes were bloodshot, his hands clenched into fists so tight they trembled. The gavel fell. A portly, red-faced executive eagerly claimed his prize, carrying Lana into a private room. I held Cole’s gaze. “Cole, if we leave right now, I can pretend none of this ever happened.” “Cole, save me—” Lana’s fragmented sobs echoed from the room. Before I could finish my sentence, he was gone, moving like a lightning strike. A gunshot rang out, and the chaotic auction floor fell silent. The disheveled executive was kicked out of the room, his lower body a mess of blood. Cole, seemingly possessed, threw himself on the man, his fists meeting flesh with sickening thuds. He beat the man until he was an unconscious, bloody heap on the floor. After the body was dragged away, Cole emerged, carrying a tear-streaked Lana in his arms. His gaze met mine. The cold, familiar malice in his eyes sent a tremor through my soul. It was the same look from the darkest moment of my life, a memory I fought every day to forget. Cole had been my father’s most brilliant protégé. During the syndicate’s last internal war, my father had sent him overseas on a critical mission. My seven uncles—none of them my blood, all of them hungry for power—seized the opportunity. They drugged me. For forty hours, I was their plaything. By the time Cole got back, I was in a hospital bed. To maintain stability within the family, my father chose to sacrifice me. From that day on, I was diagnosed with severe PTSD. Suicide became a familiar thought, a constant temptation. The last time I tried, Cole held me close. He took a knife and carved seven lines over his own heart, deep enough to leave permanent scars. His eyes then were just as they were now: terrifyingly calm. “Sloane,” he had vowed, his blood dripping onto my hands. “One day, I swear, I will make those animals pay in blood.” 2 The shadow of that memory washed over me again, cold and suffocating. Before I could steady myself, Lana, still crying, shielded Cole with her body. “Sloane! You think you can control everything, don’t you? You’re nothing but a broken toy, something everyone’s already played with! What right does trash like you have to run the Blackwood family?” The auction house was now dead silent. I could hear the sharp intake of breaths from every corner. Even Cole’s face turned white with shock. This was a Blackwood operation. Everyone here knew what my trigger was. And this idiot, this girl, had just dared to pull it in front of everyone. “Cole, I’m not afraid to die. If she has the guts, let her kill—” Before she could finish the word, I put a bullet through her thigh. If Cole hadn’t moved at the last second, it would have been her head. Lana nearly fainted from the pain, but she bit her lip, forcing herself to speak. “Cole, don’t worry about me. I’m not afraid to die for you, it’s just…” She whispered something in his ear. Cole’s breath hitched. Without another glance at me, he lifted her into his arms and started for the exit. The auction house security moved to block his path. Cole had once been my father’s greatest weapon; his skills were legendary. But holding Lana, he was outnumbered. It wasn’t long before he was bruised and bleeding. “Ma’am, that woman will be a plague upon you!” Arthur urged, his voice tight with concern. I watched Cole, his eyes feral, a man transformed by rage. And in his arms, the girl whose dress didn’t even have a speck of dirt on it. I blinked, my eyes dry and aching. A few tears escaped, tasting like bitter laughter. Whatever last shred of hope I held for him vanished. “Let them go.” My voice was flat. “And Arthur? Get me Kian Donovan on the phone. Tell him I accept his offer.” … Cole didn’t come back for three days. During his absence, news trickled in from Northgate. Every man who had placed a bid on those photos at the auction had met with a… misfortune. Cole was always unhinged. This didn’t surprise me. What did surprise me was that Lana still had the nerve to provoke me. She sent a package to the Blackwood estate. Inside was a positive pregnancy test and photos of the bidders, beaten to a bloody pulp. A handwritten note oozed with triumph. “Well, Sloane, what good is all your power now? You’re just the woman who had her womb scraped out. You can never have children.” “The baby in my belly is Cole’s only heir. Something you can’t get no matter how many gods you beg.” A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped my lips. I burned the package to ashes. The next day, Cole stormed into the estate. He kicked Arthur into the koi pond, his face contorted with a rage so pure it was murderous. I waved a hand, and my men pulled Arthur out of the water. “What’s wrong? Tired of playing attack dog out on the streets?” Cole’s face was a thundercloud. He threw a medical report onto the floor. It was a notice of miscarriage. “Sloane, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” I just scoffed. My dismissal seemed to shatter his restraint. He grabbed my arm, dragged me to his car, and drove like a madman to the hospital. Lana was in a private room, weeping as she clutched a pair of baby dolls. “Because of you, Lana has fallen into a severe depression,” Cole said, his voice dangerously low. “The doctors say if she can’t get past this, she’ll never recover.” “You are going to apologize to her.” 3 I looked at him, at the utter conviction on his face. I laughed coldly. Me, apologize to Lana? She didn’t have the right to hear my apology in her next life, let alone this one. I turned to leave, but a sound from his phone stopped me dead. My blood ran cold. Cole was holding his phone up, a vicious, feral look in his eyes. “Sloane. Don’t make me do this.” It was the video. The one he swore he had destroyed after he’d killed my seven uncles. The recording of my forty hours of humiliation. Hearing my own screams from that time, a reflexive wave of nausea hit me, and I stumbled to the side, gagging violently. A flicker of pity crossed Cole’s face. He started to move toward me, but just then, Lana burst out of her room. The sight of me sent her into a frenzy. “You bitch! You took my baby!” she shrieked. “Cole, our baby is gone! The doctor said I can never have children again!” Her sobs were theatrical, heart-wrenching. “I want her on her knees! I want her to beg for our child’s forgiveness!” Cole pulled her into a tight embrace, and any hesitation in his eyes hardened into resolve. “Sloane, you can have the Blackwood empire, I don’t care. But Lana and the baby were innocent. You shouldn’t have touched them.” He looked at his watch. “You have five minutes. After that, this video goes public.”

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