Word on the street was that the boss’s pet project—his precious little mistress—was suffering from a severe case of main-character syndrome and had just been parachuted into the office as his personal assistant. I cut my vacation short immediately, booked the first flight back, and tucked myself into a corner of the office just to watch the trainwreck unfold. First, she managed to kill Charles’s five-thousand-dollar imported Japanese bonsai by watering it with boiling water. Her reasoning? She was deeply concerned that cold water would shock its root chakra. Then, at the quarterly investor summit, she actually served organic apple juice boxes and graham crackers. She claimed the corporate world was far too toxic and she wanted to help everyone heal their inner child. I was thoroughly enjoying the show until she decided to kick open my office door. She started throwing files, sweeping things off my desk in a manic frenzy. I rushed forward to stop her. “Stop it! Those are multi-million dollar active contracts! Don’t touch them!” She stopped, looking me up and down with sneering eyes. “Hmph. So you’re Charles’s wife. The one hogging the best office in the building!” I froze, completely thrown off. Before I could even correct her, she went completely off the rails. “You horrible woman! Why can’t you just let him go? Why won’t you divorce him and let us be happy?” “Don’t you know that the one who isn’t loved is the real intruder here?” My jaw hit the floor. His wife? Did she honestly think I had the corner office because of some marital claim? Was it even remotely possible for her to grasp that I had this office because I was the company’s undisputed top earner? The golden goose whose good moods literally dictated our profit margins? … My silence only fueled Misty’s confidence. She assumed she had struck a raw, unloved nerve. She put her hands on her hips, practically vibrating with triumph. “You’re so old. Why can’t you be mature like me? This is a business, and business is about efficiency. Yet you use your marriage to Charles to steal the best workspace. Aren’t you embarrassed?” A laugh bubbled up in my throat. She made it sound like I had clawed my way into this office, begging for scraps. In reality, Charles had practically begged me on his knees to move in here. He had discovered, with an almost religious superstition, that whenever I was happy, our sales numbers skyrocketed. I told him it was just a statistical anomaly, but he refused to listen. When the company grew and went public, he insisted on stacking every high-stakes contract right here in my office, hoping they’d soak up my good luck. I looked at this girl, whose brain seemed to have stopped developing somewhere in middle school, and tried to find the patience to explain. But she stepped closer, shoving a manicured finger hard against my forehead. “You don’t even have a college degree, yet you’re taking up space here! Do you have any idea how many qualified, hard-working people you’re robbing of a livelihood? You’re malicious!” She looked so deeply pained, as if she were a crusader for social justice. I stared at her, then actually let out a dry laugh. Word around the office was that Misty had dropped out of high school and bought her associate’s degree from some unaccredited online mill. “Misty, let’s talk about nepotism and taking up space. Our entry-level requirement is a Master’s degree. What exactly are your credentials?” Her face flushed a violent crimson. She pouted, her lower lip trembling. “I’m different. I’m his baby. Charles said I’m allowed to grow at my own pace.” I couldn’t help it. I snorted. But the sound triggered something in her. Her eyes welled with tears. “I have a pure heart! You horrible woman, how dare you mock me! I’m going to help Charles get rid of you!” Before the words had even fully left her mouth, she lunged at my desk, grabbing a thick stack of finalized contracts and ripping them in half. “Hey! Stop!” I scrambled to grab them. Anything kept in my office was irreplaceable. “Put those down!” I yelled, panic sharpening my voice. “Those are worth millions of dollars! You can’t afford to pay for this!” She startled, freezing at my tone. I seized the moment, pushing past her to snatch the torn pages, trying desperately to smooth out the creases. But then, a sudden, heavy force slammed into my shoulder. She had shoved me. Hard. I lost my balance, stumbling backward. My head collided violently with the sharp edge of the mahogany desk. A white-hot flash of pain shot through my skull. When I put my hand to my forehead, it came away slick with bright, hot blood. “Are you out of your mind?!” I screamed. She blinked, stunned by the blood, but then her face contorted. Her lower lip quivered, and giant tears spilled over. “You yelled at me!” She wailed, a shrill, piercing sound, as if she were the victim of a brutal assault. I sat there on the floor, holding my bleeding forehead, utterly speechless. She was the one crying? The noise quickly drew a crowd. Shadowy figures gathered at the glass doors. Then, a massive frame pushed through the onlookers. “What the hell is going on in here?” I looked up, hoping a colleague had finally come to help me. Instead, I saw a hulking, muscle-bound man whose cheap suit looked like it was begging for mercy against his bulging chest. He glared down at me with pure hostility. “Who are you?” I muttered, my head spinning. Before I could make sense of it, Misty launched herself across the room, burying her face into his chest. “Jax!” Jax? I blinked. Great. It wasn’t just one parasite; she’d brought her whole family onto the payroll. Misty sobbed hysterically into his shirt. “Jax, this awful woman hit me!” Excuse me? I stared at them, my head throbbing, blood dripping down my cheek. Who hit whom? Jax hovered over her, frantically inspecting her hands. “What did she do? Why is your hand red?” Her hand was barely pink—probably from the force of shoving me. Misty pointed a trembling finger at me. “It was her… this old hag. I just asked her to leave the office, and she attacked me! Jax, she humiliated me. I don’t want to live anymore!” Her wailing intensified. The sheer drama of it made my head hurt worse than the actual wound. Jax turned his gaze back to me, his jaw clenched. “So you’re the bitter old hag who refuses to sign the divorce papers.” I raised an eyebrow. Bitter old hag? Divorce papers? Charles certainly had a lot of skeletons in his closet. And why did everyone think I was his wife? Outside, the whispers from the hallway grew louder. “Who is that? She actually dared to cross the boss’s girl?” “I think it’s his wife. She barely ever comes to the office.” “Oh, right. I heard their marriage has been dead for years, but she refuses to sign the papers. Poor Misty has to live in the shadows. Honestly, Misty is basically the lady of the house anyway.” Even in my pain, my inner gossip-monger was fascinated. We had this much drama in the company? Why did I know none of this? And why didn’t these people recognize me? Ah. Because I hated being tied down. Charles had quickly realized that forcing me to clock in from nine-to-five destroyed my mood, which in turn tanked our quarterly earnings. So, he had arranged for me to work fully remote, traveling under the guise of “market research.” I spent my time traveling on the company dime, eating well, and coincidentally signing massive contracts along the way. Most of the newer hires had never actually seen my face. To them, I was just the mythical, stubborn wife. I took a breath, trying to clear my head. “This is a misunderstanding…” Misty wiped her eyes, her voice dripping with venom. “You’re a bad woman. You stole this office, and you stole Charles! Jax, destroy everything in here! Destroy it!” Destroy? I looked at the folders scattered across the floor. If these bid documents and contracts were destroyed, several multi-billion-dollar projects would fall through, and the company would go under. “Stop this nonsense!” I barked. Misty flinched, shrinking behind her brother. “Jax, she’s screaming at me again!” Jax stepped forward, his arm swinging in a wide, vicious arc. The slap landed across my face with a sickening crack. “You bitch! Who gave you permission to speak to my sister like that?” My vision went blurry. My cheek burned, swelling instantly. I sat there, entirely stunned. Me. Gloria. Five-time consecutive sales champion. The woman Charles treated like a fragile porcelain doll because my happiness literally funded his lifestyle. The last time I went through a breakup, a sudden storm had damaged our warehouse, and Charles had personally driven me to a lounge to buy me drinks just to cheer me up—which miraculously led to a massive public donation that rebuilt the facility. The time I got sick, our sales department lost every major lead until Charles hired a private medical team to treat me at home. Today, I was being publicly assaulted in my own office because of his mistress. Jax wasn’t done. He grabbed me by my collar, dragging me up until I was on my toes. He pointed his free hand at Misty, who was still dry-heaving with theatrical sobs on the floor. “Look at what you did to her! She’s a young girl, and you’re just a pathetic old woman. Have you no shame?” The murmurs outside grew, but nobody stepped in. Nobody wanted to cross the boss’s muscle. “If you don’t make my sister forgive you today,” Jax snarled, his hot, foul breath in my face, “I’ll make sure you don’t walk out of here.” He shoved me back. My head cracked against the bookshelf, leaving me dizzy. I stood up slowly, leaning against the wood for support, and pulled my phone from my pocket. I tapped Charles’s number. Before it could ring, a small hand snatched the phone away. “What are you doing, sweetie?” Misty held the phone, tilting her head with a look of mock innocence. “Are we trying to post a little status update? Let me help you.” “Give it back,” I said, reaching for it. She ducked away easily, and Jax grabbed my arms, pinning them behind my back. “Misty, give me the phone,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, though anger was clawing at my throat. Misty raised the camera, snapping several quick photos of my blood-streaked, swollen face. “Stop!” I turned my head, but Jax forced my face back toward the lens. I struggled against his grip, my voice shaking with rage. “You are going to regret this.” Misty giggled. “Why are you trying to scare me? I’m just trying to help you, sweetie.” She looked down at the screen, her eyes lighting up with malicious curiosity. “Ooh, who are all these contacts with the stars next to their names? Are these your little sugar daddies?” My blood ran cold. Every single contact with an asterisk was a high-profile client I had spent years cultivating. One of them was the CEO of Nova Tech, with whom we were scheduled to sign a massive, company-defining contract tomorrow morning. If anything went wrong with that deal, the company would collapse. “Those are the company’s VIP clients! Don’t touch those names!” My voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Misty, please. Do not mess with those contacts. Give me the phone.” She didn’t listen. If anything, my panic only excited her. She selected the photos of my beaten, bloody face and hit “send” to every starred contact. “Oops,” she gasped, tapping her cheek with faux innocence. “I hit send.” She smiled, bright and vacuous. “It’s okay, sweetie. Now your sugar daddies can see the real you. That way, you’ll know who really loves you! Aren’t I helpful?” The room seemed to tilt. “Recall the messages! Use the unsend button! Those are our most critical accounts!” With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I wrenched myself free from Jax’s grip and lunged toward her. But Jax was faster. He tripped me, and as I hit the floor, his heavy boot came down hard on the side of my face, pinning my head to the carpet. I ignored the pain of my skin scraping against the floor. “Unsend them! There is a billion-dollar deal on the line!” Misty just stood there, smiling down at me as the seconds ticked away, rendering the messages permanent. Rage boiled over. “Misty, you are a brainless, pathetic idiot!” I screamed, my voice muffled by the carpet. “You’ve ruined everything! Everything is gone!” Jax ground his boot harder into my temple. “Who gave you permission to talk to my sister like that?” Just as he prepared to put his full weight down, a familiar voice cut through the air. “What is all this racket? Don’t you people have work to do?” The crowd outside parted instantly. “Move, move, the boss is here!” Jax quickly lifted his boot, his face shifting from thuggish rage to a slick, sycophantic grin. I lay there like a discarded rag. Charles walked into the office, his sharp gray suit impeccable. Misty immediately threw herself into his arms. “Charles! You’re finally back!” She clung to his arm, rubbing her face against his sleeve, her voice dissolving into soft, trembling whimpers. “You have no idea what your wife did to me!” She held up her slightly pink hand. “She hit me, Charles! And she called me a brainless idiot! She refused to leave the office, and when I tried to reason with her, she just went crazy. Jax only stepped in to protect me…” She buried her face in his chest, sobbing softly. “Did I do something wrong, Charles? Why does she hate me so much? I was only trying to help…” Jax chimed in, looking suitably righteous. “Mr. Shen, she was brutalizing my sister. I couldn’t just stand by and watch.” “Enough,” Charles said, raising a hand. His gaze swept across the ruined office, past the torn papers, and finally landed on me, crumpled on the floor, my face a mess of blood and tangled hair. A flash of irritation and disgust crossed his features. “We’ve been over this,” he said coldly. “There is nothing left between us. Why do you keep dragging this out?” He tossed a set of divorce papers onto the floor in front of me. “Just sign it. This isn’t good for anyone.” Misty quickly scooped up a pen from the desk and shoved it toward my hand. “Sign it, hurry!” I didn’t have the energy to argue. Using what little strength I had left, I scribbled my signature on the line. Charles looked slightly surprised by my sudden compliance. But as he took the papers back and his eyes slid down to the signature line, he froze. He stared at the name written in my familiar, sharp handwriting: “Gloria.” His pupils dilated, and the color drained completely from his face. When he looked down at me again, his eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated terror.

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The teenager my defense attorney girlfriend had defended put thumbtacks in my running shoes. They bit deep into my skin, leaving my feet dripping with blood. And once again, she apologized on his behalf. The doctor was sterilizing the wounds and prepping the syringe. The needle was long, sinking deep into my flesh, and the sharp, hot sting made me sob out loud. “Mary, how many times is this? How many times have you said sorry to me because of Toby?” Her expression faltered. She looked at me, her eyes meeting my red, raw stare. “Fifty-one,” I told her. An average of once a week. Ever since she took Toby’s case, our eighth year together had been swallowed by her endless loop of apologies. My voice was still trembling, but I wiped my face dry. “Mary, I’m done.” “I’m exhausted. Aren’t you?” … “I’m sorry.” She stayed quiet for a long time before she finally let the words slip out. I let go of her hand. I have always been terrified of needles. For as long as we had been together, whenever I had to get a shot, she would automatically reach out and let me squeeze her hand as tight as I needed to. Not today. “Mary, if I hear you say that word again, I’m going to throw up.” She kept her eyes downcast, staring at my bandaged feet, knowing I couldn’t even walk. “I’ll make Toby come over and apologize to you properly.” “Zack, I promise. This is the absolute last time.” When Toby finally showed up, he was already sniffling, his shoulders shaking with performative tears. “I’m so sorry, Zack. It was an accident. I dropped the pack of tacks and didn’t realize one fell inside your shoe.” I didn’t even have time to react before Mary accepted his excuse. “Zack, the security footage from the hallway is too blurry to see anything. We can’t just assume he did it on purpose.” It was the exact same defense she had mounted for him a dozen times before. “Let’s just let it go.” The blood was still seeping through my bandages. “You apologize for him, Mary. You let it go for me. You really have a seamless way of handling things, don’t you?” Detecting the sharp sarcasm in my voice, Mary’s forehead creased, and her tone rose defensively. “He already said it was an accident! What else do you want from him?” “What will make you happy? Tell me what kind of apology you want, and I’ll do it myself.” She pulled at her silk scarf, loosening it as she stared at me as if I were some kind of unfeeling monster. “Toby is just a kid. He isn’t as malicious as you think.” “You’re years older than him. Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” Her chest heaved. In the past, when we reached this point, I would back down. I was always too tired to argue, too intimidated by her sharp, trial-lawyer intensity, and so I would let it slide. But today, looking at Toby—who had somehow made it to our apartment ahead of us and was already busy in the kitchen—I couldn’t pretend anymore. Hearing the door click, Toby poked his head out. “Zack! I figured you hadn’t eaten yet, so I came over early to make dinner. Think of it as my way of saying sorry. I’m actually a pretty good cook. While you were away on your business trips, I always came over to cook for Mary.” He had his fingerprint registered on our smart lock. He was wearing slippers that matched Mary’s. He was wearing my loungewear. His hands moved with practiced ease through our cabinets, searching for ingredients, while those words—”I always came over”—hung heavily in the air. Having gone straight to the clinic the moment I got back from my trip, I was only now noticing the foreign fingerprints left all over my life. “Mary, did he come over often while I was away?” She bit her lip. “He dropped out of school, Zack. He was lonely and said he wanted to cook for me. It was just a nice gesture. It didn’t harm anyone.” My swollen eyes throbbed, sending a sharp ache through my temples. “It harmed me.” In those fifty-one apologies Mary had offered, there was the time Toby broke the watch I left in her car. The times she abandoned our plans to bail him out of trouble. The times Toby crashed our dates, forcing his way into our space. The times he “accidentally” tripped me or spilled hot soup on my skin, leaving me with minor burns. I pointed a finger at Toby, my voice cold. “Pay me back for the medical bills. Not just today’s—all of them.” I named a figure. Beside me, Mary’s jaw went rigid. I kept going. “And take off my clothes. Now.” “Enough!” The shout tore from Mary’s throat, loud and sharp. “I told him he could wear those! He stayed over last night because it got too late, so I found him something of yours to change into.” “It’s just a set of clothes, Zack.” “If you’re going to make a scene over it, I’ll buy you the exact same brand-new set tomorrow!” “That is not the point!” I screamed back, the anger finally breaking through, ugly and raw. The veins on the back of her hands bulged as she glared at me. “What is the point then? You just hate him! I’ll pay you whatever money you want. Ten times over! Is that enough?!” “Why do you have to torment a teenage boy like this?” My ears rang from the shouting, my palms growing cold and numb as I struggled to breathe. “You’ll pay for him? By what right do you represent him? He’s a convicted juvenile delinquent, Mary. Where did you get this sudden, overwhelming sense of maternal duty? He is doing this to me on purpose. Are you blind, or are you just pretending to be?” The argument degenerated into a screaming match. “You were just his public defender. His mother hired your firm, and your job ended when the verdict was delivered. There are state-appointed social workers to keep tabs on him. But he clings to you, and you let him. Can’t you see he’s obsessed with you?” “Zack, shut your mouth!” “Where is your basic empathy? How can you be so vicious? Yes, he made a mistake, but does his past have to chain him for the rest of his life? You keep throwing ‘juvenile delinquent’ in his face. What makes you think you’re so superior?” While we tore into each other, Toby looked like he couldn’t bear it anymore and bolted out the door. Mary turned to chase him, but I threw myself in front of her, tears finally spilling over my lashes. “Don’t go!” “If you walk out that door today, we are done.” Mary didn’t even look at my tears. Her face was flushed with pure fury. “Zack, I’ve told you before.” “Toby only bullied those kids because his parents neglected him. He did bad things because he grew up starved for love.” “He isn’t bad at his core.” “Even the court only ordered rehabilitation and check-ins.” “What right do you have to judge him?” “I defended him. I believed in him, so he trusts me and listens to me. He wants to change.” “Why should I abandon him?” “Should I be cold-blooded like you and just throw a kid’s future in the trash?” She delivered those last words slowly, ice-cold. “Honestly, Zack, I’m starting to wonder if you did something to provoke him first.” Her phone began to buzz. Toby’s name flashed across the cracked screen, persistent and haunting. I reached out to stop her from answering. She shoved me out of the way. The force of it sent me crashing hard against the wall. With my injured foot, I couldn’t hold my balance. I collapsed onto the floor. Her phone slipped from her fingers, hitting the hardwood with a sharp crack as a spiderweb of fractures spread across the glass. Mary’s eyes widened with anger. A dull, nauseating pain radiated from my tailbone up through my spine and down into my lower abdomen. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Mary… help me up…” But her eyes were fixed on the phone. Her fingers scrambled nervously, slipping three or four times before she finally managed to swipe the screen and pick up. Then she grabbed my arm, trying to haul me off the floor. “You’re coming with me.” “You’re going to apologize to Toby for what you just said!” Toby’s voice leaked through the receiver, high-pitched and hysterical. “I don’t want to see him! I don’t! Keep him away!” I struggled against her grip like a dying animal, and she let go. I fell back down, hitting the floor hard for a second time. The apartment darkened as the sun fully dipped below the horizon. Mary walked out, her face caught half in light and half in shadow from the hallway bulb. “And one more thing.” “Even if Toby does have a crush on me, so what?” “He’s a teenage boy. It’s normal to have feelings. He just needs proper guidance.” “Not whatever this is. You’re losing your mind and throwing tantrums over a child.” “This isn’t about you threatening to break up.” “It’s about whether you can take responsibility if Toby runs out of here and does something drastic to himself.” My fingers curled into tight fists against the cold floor. I lay there, drained of the strength to even whisper a response. My physical wounds slowly closed, leaving behind pale, ugly scars. But along with the healing, something else had quietly died inside me. My twenty-seventh birthday arrived. My friends blindfolded me, gently guiding me along the pavement until we reached our destination. “Happy birthday!” The blindfold was slipped off, and the sky above erupted in a brilliant sequence of fireworks. Confetti rained down as my friends cheered, their faces bright with laughter. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Mary kneeling on one knee before me on the beautifully decorated rooftop terrace. “Zack, happy birthday.” “Will you marry me?” She looked incredibly soft, her eyes warm and clear—a stark contrast to the woman who had screamed at me in our living room. “I didn’t call you these past few weeks because I wanted to give you space. And… I was getting this ready.” This was the city’s most exclusive rooftop bar, a place with a months-long waiting list. She had arranged custom fireworks and scattered white peonies across the floor. It must have taken immense effort. “I’ve taken care of everything, Zack.” “I transferred Toby’s case to another attorney. He won’t be in our lives anymore.” “Zack, let’s get married.” The crowd erupted. “Say yes! Say yes!” “I…” Before I could form a word, Mary’s phone rang. Once. Twice. Her hand holding the ring box trembled slightly. Her jaw tightened. But she answered it. She held up a finger, gesturing for our friends to wait, and gently pushed my shaking hand down. Only a few muffled sounds came through the speaker, but I distinctly heard the words: “…waiting for you.” I knew this scene by heart. So many times, Mary had been called away just like this because Toby claimed he had messed up, because Toby was sad, because Toby needed her. A vein throbbed at Mary’s temple. She hastily pressed the ring box into my palm. “Zack.” “I’m sorry.” Fifty-second apology. On the very first day of my twenty-seventh year. “When I get back, I’ll propose to you again. Properly.” She turned and sprinted toward the exit, the wind whipping her coat around her. The awkward silence, the pitying looks, and the embarrassed whispers of my friends all crashed down on me. “Mary, where the hell do you think you’re going—” one of my friends yelled, but her voice was swallowed by the wind. Mary pushed open the heavy door to the lower observation deck. “Toby, get down from there right now!” Toby was sitting precariously on the safety railing, his body swaying over the drop, his face twisted with frantic obsession. “Today is my eighteenth birthday too, Mary. You haven’t even said happy birthday to me.” Mary rubbed her aching temples. She had been pushed past the point of anger, left completely drained. “Fine. Happy birthday.” “Just step down. If you get off that railing, I’ll celebrate with you. We can do whatever you want.” Toby’s entire face lit up. “Whatever I want?” “Then I want you to cancel your proposal. I want you to be my girlfriend!” Mary’s footsteps froze. The warmth drained from her face, leaving her eyes cold and dark. Startled by her look, Toby’s confidence crumbled, and he began to cry, leaning back slightly over the edge. “If not forever… then just for a year? Six months? A month?” “A week? Just one week!” He sobbed, shifting his weight further back. “Mary, is even a week too much? If you don’t say yes, I’m going to jump!” The moment he showed vulnerability, Mary’s expression softened. But as he leaned further, panic took over. She lunged forward, her voice cracking with terror as she screamed the agreement. “Okay! Yes! I’ll be your girlfriend! Just don’t jump!” Toby’s tears vanished, replaced by a triumphant grin. He threw himself off the railing and directly into Mary’s arms, wrapping his limbs around her in a tight grip. Mary froze for a fraction of a second, uncomfortable, before her hand slowly came up to pat his back. “Thud.” My hand went slack, and the ring box slipped through my fingers, bouncing once on the concrete. Still holding Toby, Mary spun around. I was standing in the narrow doorway of the deck. As her eyes widened in shock, a quiet smile touched my lips. “I’m leaving.” My friend hurried after me, her voice frantic. “Zack! Zack, wait, where are you going?” I reached up and gently wiped away the tears of frustration on her cheek. “I’m going home. I’m just the ex-boyfriend now. It doesn’t feel right to stay.” Mary didn’t return to our apartment until days later. She seemed surprised to find me awake. “Why are you back?” I asked, my voice flat. She lowered her gaze. “I just came to pack a few things. Toby is in a really fragile state right now. I need to keep an eye on him.” When I didn’t answer, she let out a tired sigh. “Zack, you saw what happened. I didn’t have a choice.” I didn’t say a word, continuing to fold my shirts. Mary’s brows knit together. She stepped forward, grabbing my wrist to stop me from reaching into the closet. But when she saw that the clothes I was handling were all hers, her anger seemed to dissipate. “You don’t need to pack all of this for me.” “I’ll only be gone a few days. I don’t need this much.” I looked at her, my expression entirely empty. “Pack as much as you can. I’m putting the apartment on the market.” The clothes slipped from her grip, falling to the floor in a quiet, heavy heap. Mary grabbed my collar, her words hissed through clenched teeth. “Zackary, what kind of game is this?” “I already explained it to you! He’s a highly sensitive teenager going through a crisis. I am just humoring him to keep him safe. It doesn’t mean anything!” I met her furious, desperate glare. “Mary, we started dating on my eighteenth birthday, too.” She didn’t get it. Or perhaps she chose not to. “What does that have to do with anything? Was I supposed to let him die? Why do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” I didn’t answer. Over the next few days, Mary busy-bodied herself playing the doting girlfriend for Toby. They acted as if they were cramming an entire lifetime of romance into a few short days. Meanwhile, I spent my time packing my life into boxes and listing the apartment. Every now and then, my phone would buzz with photos from an unknown number. Pictures of Mary and Toby together. I thought my heart was already numb to her. But life always finds a way to prove you wrong. On the day the apartment officially went up for sale, I went to the clinic to pick up my medical results. After nearly nine months of careful treatment and lifestyle changes, my health metrics had finally reached the standard. The plans we had made to start a family were finally within reach. But the weather was miserable. The rain hung in the air, refusing to fall, leaving the atmosphere thick and suffocating. My chest felt just as heavy. “I had an injury some months ago,” I told the doctor, my voice trembling as the tears began to blur my vision. “I fell hard. My lower abdomen was in severe pain, but I didn’t think much of it at the time. Afterward, I felt weak, and once I even coughed up a bit of blood, but I assumed it was just a stomach ulcer from all the stress.” My words felt clumsy, coming out slow and disjointed. The doctor let out a soft sigh, looking at me with pity. “Try to stay calm. I’ve scheduled a comprehensive contrast scan for you tomorrow morning. We need to evaluate the extent of the internal scarring and see if the trauma permanently impacted your reproductive health.” I don’t know how Mary tracked me down, but she was waiting outside the clinic. “Zack, did you really list the apartment?” Just looking at her made a phantom pain flare up in my abdomen. “Zack, I’m talking to you!” The medical envelope slipped from my hand, spilling the papers onto the floor. Mary leaned down and gathered them. As she read the words on the page, her face went entirely pale. “Zack… we were trying for a baby? We’re going to have a child?” Her hand reached out, trembling, wanting to touch my face but stopping inches away. “I’m coming home tonight. I’ll take care of you.” “Why didn’t you tell me?” I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Aren’t you in a relationship?” Her eyes darted away guiltily. “Zack, none of that is real. Besides, the seven days I promised him… today is the sixth day. Just wait for me. Toby is actually downstairs right now. I’ll go down and make everything clear to him once and for all.” Make things clear? How could anything be clear when Toby suddenly charged through the clinic doors, a kitchen knife glittering in his hand, plunging it straight into my stomach? His face was twisted into something feral, unrecognizable. “I won’t let you take her! She’s mine! She belongs to me!” “I’m telling you, we’ve done everything! If you can give her a baby, I can give her the rest of my life!” The blade felt cold at first. Then came a searing, white-hot agony that felt like my internal organs were being torn to shreds. Blood began to pool, hot and fast, soaking through my shirt. At first, Mary just stood there, paralyzed. She had believed Toby when he said he wanted to come up alone to offer me a final, sincere apology. She believed him right up until the metal caught the fluorescent light. The storm that had been brewing all day finally broke. The rain came down in a deafening sheet, washing the blood across the concrete outside the clinic doors. I watched Mary scramble toward me on her knees, completely stripping away the cool, collected demeanor she usually wore like armor. I never knew rain could make a person feel so cold. My vision began to fray at the edges, dissolving into dark patches. “Zack—” “Don’t close your eyes! Look at me, please, I’m begging you, look at me!” Mary was screaming, her voice raw and ruined, competing with the thunder. Rain, tears, and blood all ran together on her hands. Just minutes ago, she had looked into my eyes and promised, “From now on, it’ll just be the three of us.” But Mary. Look at us now. Where is our “us” supposed to go?

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My name and his assistant’s name differed by only a single, silent letter. She was Megan Clark. I was Meghan Clarke. The latest time she “accidentally” mixed up our names was at the office party Liam’s partners were throwing to celebrate our upcoming wedding. The bass from the speakers hummed through the floorboards of the private lounge as a massive vinyl banner was unfurled across the back wall. Someone read the bold print aloud over the noise. “Congratulations to Liam and Megan Clark! Wishing you a lifetime of love and happiness!” The room went dead silent. The clinking of glasses stopped, and the easy laughter died instantly. Then, Megan Clark’s soft, timid voice cut through the quiet. “Oh my god, Meghan, I am so, so sorry. I ordered it so late last night, I must have made a typo. I didn’t mean to…” I didn’t say a word. I just turned my head to look at Liam. Liam didn’t even flinch. His hand instinctively rested on her shoulder in a comforting gesture before he stepped directly in front of her, completely shielding her small frame from my gaze. His eyes held that familiar, warning coldness he always wore when she was involved. “Meghan, it’s just a banner,” he said, his voice low and tight. “Megan didn’t do it on purpose. Everyone here knows who the real bride is. Don’t make a scene over a spelling mistake, okay?” Megan. Meghan. It was glaringly obvious, wasn’t it? I slowly let go of the string of the helium balloon I was holding. “Right,” I said quietly. “I won’t make a scene.” And I never would again. … The released balloon drifted toward the high ceiling of the lounge, its bright red color exceptionally loud in the stifling silence before it finally bumped against a light fixture and hovered there, deflated. In the awkward lull, one of the junior designers whispered, “So… do we still hang the banner, or…?” “Hang it,” I said, my face completely expressionless. “Someone worked very hard on it, after all.” The moment the words left my mouth, Megan’s eyes welled with tears. “Meghan, please, I worked until 11 PM to get this ordered last night. I was just so exhausted, my fingers must have slipped. I’m so sorry!” Before I could even open my mouth, Liam’s brow furrowed deep with irritation. “Meghan, it’s one letter. There’s no need to bully a younger girl who’s already working herself to the bone. Just pretend it’s your name and let it go.” I stared at him. I genuinely couldn’t comprehend how, in his mind, my silence equated to bullying her. Liam’s eyes hardened, the displeasure in them growing so thick I could practically feel it. He opened his mouth to reprimand me further, but Brad, one of our co-founders, quickly stepped in to break the tension. “Hey, come on! Let’s get some drinks! Meghan, Liam, tomorrow is your last official night of freedom. Let’s celebrate!” Once the alcohol started flowing, the suffocating atmosphere began to thaw, and the room grew loud again. I sat quietly in my chair. Liam sat next to me, his fingers flying as he peeled spicy peel-and-eat shrimp. He did it quickly and effortlessly because he knew how much I loved them; he had peeled them for me for the nine years we had been together. Within minutes, a small mountain of clean, pink shrimp sat in the bowl in front of him. I was about to tell him I didn’t have much of an appetite when he slid the bowl directly to his right—straight into Megan’s hands. His eyes remained on me as he spoke. “She just got a fresh set of acrylics done, so it’s hard for her to peel them. Don’t overthink it.” A dull, throbbing ache flared behind my ribs, sharp as shards of glass. “Meg, I promise I’ll only ever peel shrimp for you in this life.” Liam’s voice from years ago echoed in my head, so clear it made my throat tight. I couldn’t help but wonder how a person’s heart could rot and change so quickly. The pile of shrimp in Megan’s bowl looked violently red under the lounge lights. My eyes burned. I quietly stood up and slipped out to the restroom. On my way back, as I reached the heavy door of the private room, I heard Brad’s muffled, teasing laugh from inside. “Liam, man, you’re getting your marriage license on Friday, and you’re still this sweet to our little Megan? Are you trying to have your cake and eat it too?” Liam didn’t deny it. Instead, Megan’s voice piped up, sweet and defensive. “Oh, stop it, you guys! Liam is just looking out for me because I’m new.” Her tone wasn’t a rejection of the joke; it was a flirtatious, lingering whine. A chorus of knowing chuckles followed. I pushed the door open. The laughter cut off instantly, and the group awkwardly shifted the conversation to quarterly targets. Liam still had a lingering smile on his face as he pushed a small plate toward me. It had a few dry, cold pieces of shrimp left on it. “Didn’t you say you wanted some earlier? Here.” Leftovers. He remembered, but in his mind, I was now the person who only deserved her scraps. I didn’t touch my silverware for the rest of the night, not even when they dragged us up for a group photo. But Liam didn’t notice. He was too busy making sure Megan didn’t trip on her heels. By the time the party wrapped up, a torrential downpour had started outside. I stood under the awning of the lounge, waiting for Liam to bring the car around. The sleek black sedan pulled up to the curb, and the door opened. Liam stepped out, holding a large umbrella. He walked straight past me, not even casting a glance in my direction, and held the umbrella over Megan, guiding her gently into the passenger seat. Only after she was safely buckled did he turn and call out to me through the sheet of rain. “What are you standing there for? It’s pouring. Get in!” He forgot. My left shoulder was still recovering from a minor surgery, and the doctor had warned me repeatedly that the incision could not get wet. The cold rain soaked through my blouse in seconds, and with it, the very last ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. I let out a quiet, bitter laugh, opened the back door, and climbed into the dry car. The entire drive home was filled with Megan’s endless, bright chatter about trivial things—what she should wear to the office tomorrow, how her goldendoodle had been refusing to eat his kibble. Liam replied in soft, patient murmurs, a small smile playing on his lips. It was hard to reconcile this man with the one who used to snap at me, telling me that passenger-seat chatter distracted him from driving. I pulled out my phone. The screen lit up with the online portal for the city clerk’s office. Our appointment to sign our marriage license was scheduled for Friday morning. My fingers trembled slightly, but I didn’t hesitate as I pressed “Cancel”. Maybe because I had been silent for too long, Liam glanced up at the rearview mirror as we neared our building. He offered a rare, defensive explanation. “Megan is on her period today. She couldn’t risk getting soaked and catching a cold. Don’t take it the wrong way.” What an incredibly attentive boss. He could remember his assistant’s menstrual cycle, but he couldn’t remember that his girlfriend of nine years had surgical staples in her shoulder. I clutched my throbbing shoulder, a familiar wave of anger rising in my throat. I wanted to scream, to ask him why he knew when she bled, why he fed me her garbage, why he treated her like glass and me like stone. But as the words reached my lips, they dissolved into nothing. “It’s fine,” I murmured. What was the point? I had fought this battle a hundred times since Megan joined Vanguard Digital six months ago. I was tired of the sound of my own voice. I still remembered the first time Megan “accidentally” swapped our names. It was during a pitch to Horizon Media, our biggest prospective client. I had pulled seven consecutive all-nighters to build the strategy deck. But when Liam presented the slides to the board, Megan’s name was listed as the lead strategist on the cover. When I asked Liam why he didn’t correct it during the meeting, his response was cold: “It makes the agency look disorganized if we correct typos in front of a client. The internal team knows you did the work.” But when the contract was signed, the ten-thousand-dollar performance bonus went into Megan’s account, and she was the one featured in the industry newsletter. When I confronted him in his office, he simply Venmoed me three thousand dollars from his personal account with a text that read: “Is this enough?” Those three words had choked the air right out of my lungs, leaving nothing but a bitter, metallic taste. After that, the “mix-ups” became our normal. The flowers Liam ordered for our anniversary were delivered to Megan’s desk. The seating arrangement at the annual charity gala placed Megan right next to him, while I was relegated to a table near the kitchen. Every single time, Liam had an excuse. She was his junior alumnus from college; she was young; she didn’t mean it; I was being petty. But I never imagined he would let her have my wedding banner, too. The car clicked into park in our building’s garage. “We’re home. Get out,” Liam said. I didn’t move. My eyes were locked on the rearview mirror, where a plush, pink bunny keychain now hung. “Where is the little tiger keychain I bought you in Chicago?” I asked quietly. He gave a light, dismissive chuckle. “Megan said the old one was looking ragged and dirty. She bought me this one. It’s cute, right? Just a cheap little thing, don’t read too much into it.” The tiger wasn’t the only thing that was ragged and old in his eyes. I was, too. I didn’t reply. As I reached for the door handle, Liam finally realized that the only umbrella we had in the car was the one he had given to Megan. He looked back, momentarily startled, and quickly peeled off his light suit jacket, holding it out to me. “It’s still pouring. Use this to cover your head.” I looked at the thin, expensive fabric. I didn’t take it. I simply pressed the door open and walked out into the torrential rain, letting the cold water drench my clothes and sting my open skin. By the time I got upstairs, my shoulder was throbbing with a dull, white-hot heat. I took a quick, painful shower, carefully avoiding the incision, and clumsily replaced the wet gauze with a fresh bandage. When I walked into the living room, Liam was pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He froze when he saw the fresh white tape on my collarbone. A flicker of genuine guilt crossed his handsome face. “Meg… I’m sorry about tonight.” But the very next sentence that came out of his mouth was colder than the rain outside. “As compensation, I want you to hand over the Horizon Media account to Megan. You’ve been working too hard lately. You need to rest.” I stared at him, a dry, hysterical laugh bubbling up in my chest. I had spent four grueling months securing that account. Horizon was notorious for being incredibly demanding, and I had personally negotiated every single term, refining the deliverables a dozen times. Now that the contract was ready to be signed, he wanted me to hand it over? “Based on what?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “I refuse.” The guilt in Liam’s eyes evaporated, replaced instantly by sharp impatience. “Based on the fact that I own this agency, and you are my employee. Meghan, why do you always have to be so incredibly difficult? Why can’t you be more like Megan? You two have almost the exact same name, but why is there such a massive difference in your attitude?” Something inside my chest, something I had guarded fiercely for nine years, finally snapped with a quiet, clean sound. When we first started Vanguard Digital in his cramped studio apartment, he had held my hands, telling me how brilliant I was, promising me that one day we’d own a beautiful home and I’d never have to worry about a thing. Now, he could afford everything, but his eyes were entirely empty of me. I smiled. “Fine. Give her the project. But if you do, I resign.” Liam let out a harsh, mocking scoff. “Go ahead. You submit it, I’ll approve it. You’re getting really good at these empty threats lately, Meg.” He turned on his heel and walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. His rigid back told me everything: he was entirely convinced I would never actually leave. The next morning, the office was already buzzing when I walked in. I sat down at my desk and could hear the interns gossiping near the copier. “Did you see how smug Megan was last night? Even after she messed up the banner, Liam didn’t say a word. She was practically sitting in his lap by the end of the night.” “Honestly, we need to watch our step around her. It’s pretty obvious who’s really running things now.” “When do you think she’s going to officially take Meghan’s place?” I set my handbag on my desk and spoke up calmly, “Soon.” The interns jumped as if they’d seen a ghost. One of them turned bright red, stammering, “Meghan! Oh my god, we were just joking, we didn’t mean—” I gave them a small, reassuring smile. The sharp click of designer heels echoed down the hallway. Megan strutted toward my desk, a thick stack of folders cradled in her arms. She made sure her voice was loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Meghan, Liam asked me to do the transition for the Horizon account. He said I’ll be taking the lead from now on, so I need your files.” I looked at the triumphant, mocking smirk on her face and felt absolutely nothing. Without a word, I pulled up the project directory, transferred ownership of the files to her email, and signed the physical transition sheet. Megan leaned over my desk, lowering her voice so only I could hear. “Look, Meghan, I didn’t want to steal your spotlight, but Liam insisted. He said I’m just much better suited for high-profile clients. I hope there are no hard feelings.” She spun around, her hips swaying with victory as she walked away. I opened a blank document on my computer, typed up my formal resignation letter, printed it, and walked straight into Liam’s office. Behind me, the whispers started up again. I knew exactly what they were saying—that I had lost, that I was being pushed out, that Megan had won. A week ago, those whispers would have made my chest ache. Now, they were just background noise. When I entered the office, Liam was leaning over Megan’s shoulder, pointing at a slide on her laptop. It was the exact strategy deck I had spent months perfecting, and he was explaining my own insights to her word for word, feeding her my hard work like a mother bird. I walked up and laid the resignation letter flat on his mahogany desk. Liam glanced down. When he read the header, his pupils contracted sharply. “Are you really throwing this big of a tantrum over her?” he hissed, his voice dropping. I kept my tone entirely professional. “Please sign it, Mr. Davis.” He let out a cold, bitter laugh and grabbed his pen. “You think you can manipulate me with this? You think you’re indispensable, Meghan?” He scribbled his signature across the bottom with aggressive strokes and threw the paper at my chest. “Have it your way!” I picked up the paper, turned, and walked out. The moment I sat back down at my desk, a company-wide Slack notification popped up. “[Announcement: Effective immediately, due to Meghan Clarke’s recent unstable performance, the Horizon Media account will be managed entirely by Megan Clark. All departments are requested to cooperate fully.]” “Unstable performance.” He didn’t even try to find a professional excuse. He wanted to publicly humiliate me, to strip away my dignity so I would crawl back to him. I felt the eyes of the entire office boring into me. My face didn’t change. I was the first person to reply to the thread: “Received.” That evening, Liam didn’t come home. I sat on our velvet sofa, staring at the empty living room, and opened Instagram. Megan had posted a photo of her desk, lit by a single desk lamp, with a Starbucks cup and Liam’s silver pen in the frame. The caption read: “Working late with the most amazing boss who stays up to guide me step-by-step. I’d follow him to the end of the earth!”. I let out a soft chuckle, locked my phone, and went to bed. Liam didn’t return until the next morning. He kicked off his loafers at the door, his voice weary but casual. “We worked late on the transition and I ended up crashing on the office couch. You’ve had twenty-four hours to cool down, Meg. Stop throwing a tantrum. Since you resigned, let’s just go to the clerk’s office today and get the marriage license. I’ll take care of you. You don’t need to work anymore.” He walked over to the sofa, leaning down to wrap his arms around me. Before his skin could touch mine, a heavy, cloying scent of Jo Malone peony perfume hit my nose. It was Megan’s signature scent. It was so thick it made me physically sick. I pushed against his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “Liam, let’s break up.” He froze, his posture straightening slowly. A smug, patronizing smile spread across his lips. “Meghan, stop acting like a child.” “We’ve been together for nine years. Everyone in our social circle, every client we have, knows we’re a unit.” “Besides, be realistic. Who is going to want a thirty-year-old woman?” “You know as well as I do—without this agency, and without me, you are absolutely nothing.” So that was what he truly thought of me. Even though my heart was already dead, hearing the words aloud felt like a slow blade twisting in my chest. I forced down the rising acidity in my throat and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m not acting. I cancelled our marriage license appointment. I did it two days ago, on the way back from the lounge.” Before he could process my words, his phone rang. His face immediately softened as he answered. “What’s wrong, Megan? Did Horizon call?” A frantic, tearful voice bled through the receiver. Liam’s expression went completely white. He hung up the phone and grabbed his keys, rushing toward the door. “We’ll talk about this later. There’s a massive crisis with the Horizon account. Megan is panicking.” He didn’t wait for my response. The door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. I smiled to myself. Megan’s minor inconveniences would always be enough to shatter Liam’s composure, while my entire life could fall apart and he wouldn’t look up from his phone. I dragged my large suitcase out of the closet and began packing my clothes. Once I was done, I drove to the office to complete my physical exit paperwork. The moment I stepped onto our floor, the atmosphere was suffocatingly tense. The junior designer, Sarah, scurried over to me, her voice barely a whisper. “Meghan, everything is falling apart. The Horizon team just called. There’s a massive error in the core financial projections. They are furious.” Before I could ask for details, Megan stepped out of Liam’s office, her eyes red and puffy. “Meghan,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “Liam wants to see you.” I looked at the subtle, ugly triumph hidden behind her tears, and a cold dread settled in my stomach. I walked into the corner office. Liam was standing by the window, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his cheek were twitching. “Meghan,” he said, turning around slowly. “Did you do this on purpose?” “Do what?” I asked. Megan stepped in behind me, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks. “Liam, I swear I didn’t touch the raw data sheets she sent me. I trusted her! I didn’t know she would intentionally sabotage the numbers. I know she hates me, but how could she hurt the agency like this?” The sheer absurdity of the accusation made the blood rush to my ears, hot and loud. I stared at Liam. “You actually think I would intentionally corrupt a project database?” Liam’s face was dark, empty of any trust. “Who else had the motive, Meghan? You’ve been acting out for weeks. You were furious that I gave the account to her. You wanted to humiliate her, to make me regret my decision. Isn’t that right?” His words felt like a bucket of ice water poured directly over my head. I didn’t bother trying to defend myself. I just let out a cold, sharp laugh. “The file transfer logs on the secure server don’t lie, Liam. You can trace every single edit. Go check them.” A momentary flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. Seeing this, Megan lunged forward, grabbing my arm roughly. “Meghan, if you had a problem with me, you should have just taken it out on me! Why did you have to ruin the agency’s reputation? Do you have any idea how hard Liam worked for this?” Disgusted by her touch, I yanked my arm back. My fingernail accidentally grazed her cheek. It was a tiny, superficial scratch, but Megan let out a dramatic shriek and collapsed onto the hardwood floor, clutching her face. Liam lunged forward, grabbing my wrist in a grip so tight my bones ached. His face was twisted in absolute disgust. “You are completely out of control!” he roared. He looked down at Megan. “Megan, get up. Slap her.” The air left my lungs. I thrashed against his grip, trying to wrench my wrist free, but his hand was like an iron shackle. Megan looked up from the floor, a flash of pure, malicious satisfaction gleaming in her eyes before she stood up. I stopped struggling and looked directly into Liam’s eyes, my voice dropping to a harsh, quiet whisper. “Liam Davis, the single biggest mistake of my life was ever helping you build this godforsaken company.” “Slap.” The impact snapped my head to the side. My cheek burned with a sharp, stinging heat. The office outside the glass walls fell into a horrific, absolute silence. Liam’s grip on my wrist loosened, and he stumbled back half a step, his fingers twitching. When he spoke, he still tried to sound commanding, but his voice was trembling. “I… I couldn’t let you keep acting like this without consequences.” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t cry. I didn’t look at either of them again. I turned on his heel and walked out of the building. By the time I reached my apartment, the company Slack and LinkedIn pages updated with an official statement: “[Notice of Termination: Employee Meghan Clarke has been dismissed immediately for gross professional misconduct and intentional leakage of proprietary client data.]” My mind went completely blank for a long, quiet minute. He had blacklisted me. To protect Megan’s incompetence and soothe his own ego, he had completely destroyed my professional reputation, blocking every path I had in this industry. A text from Liam arrived a second later: “If you apologize to Megan and help her resolve the Horizon crisis, I’ll let you come back to the agency once the storm blows over.” I didn’t reply. I zipped my suitcase, grabbed my keys, and walked out of the apartment we had shared for five years, leaving the keys on the kitchen counter.

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Five years with Gloria, and my life felt like a black-and-white newspaper. She was rigidly proper, detesting any form of communication that wasn’t plain text. If I sent a simple emoticon, she’d say she didn’t get it. If I sent a meme, she’d call it childish. Then came the night before our wedding. I emailed her the final draft of our wedding vows. Instead of her usual brief, text-only acknowledgment, she replied with a GIF. It was a cute, animated cartoon bear blowing a kiss. The caption read: “Kisses for Bear.” My best friend Barrett’s nickname was Bear. And that specific cartoon bear was a custom sticker pack he’d designed for himself. Suddenly, the curtain pulled back. In a corner of her life I could never see, someone else had chipped away at her rigid exterior, teaching her how to be playful. I stared at the bouncing little bear on my screen, my chest tightening, and dialed our wedding planner. If she wanted to save her playful side for someone else, she could give him the wedding, too. … “Mr. Adler?” the wedding planner asked, her voice cracking with disbelief. “Are you saying you want to change the groom on the welcome banner? To someone else?” The planner sounded stunned, unable to comprehend why a groom would willingly swap himself out just three days before the ceremony. I stared at the looping GIF of the cute little bear, swallowing the bitter lump in my throat. “Yes,” I said quietly. “I’m sending you the photo now.” Right after I hung up, Gloria’s bubble popped up again on my screen. She had unsent the GIF. In its place was a line of her usual, sterile text: “Vows received. Well written.” I didn’t reply. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the desk. Gloria’s leather-bound planner lay open in front of me, filled with her meticulous notes for the wedding. From the 5:00 AM makeup call down to the specific dietary restrictions of each guest. Page after page of tiny, perfect handwriting. As I flipped through the sheets, a heavy wave of nostalgia and grief washed over me. For five years, Gloria had been the perfect partner on paper. She didn’t party, she didn’t drink, she woke up early to make breakfast, and we commuted together every single day. Everyone in our circle told me I’d hit the jackpot, that I must have done something saintly in a past life to deserve a woman so devoted. But they didn’t know the quiet reality. Gloria was clinical. Cold. She didn’t do sweet talk. She didn’t do romance. I had complained to my friends more than once that being with her felt less like a relationship and more like a structured lecture. But Barrett would always laugh it off, saying, “That’s the kind of woman you want to marry, Wes. Steady. Loyal.” Looking back, he was right. Gloria “was” incredible. She was so incredible that she would rewrite her entire personality for him, learning how to send silly cartoon stickers. My fingers idly flipped another page, catching on a folded corner. “The 24th: Barrett’s stomach issues flare-up. Remind him to avoid cold drinks and raw seafood.” “Medication: Chewable antacids, brand-name Pepcid works best.” Right next to the note was a small, crudely drawn smiley face. I stared at those words for a long time, the letters blurring before my eyes. So, Gloria “did” know how to buy stomach medicine. Last winter, the power went out in the middle of a freezing night. My chronic gastritis flared up—a dull, tearing pain that left me shivering on the couch. I had clutched the hem of Gloria’s sleeve, practically begging her to drive to the 24-hour pharmacy to get me something. She had stood there, looking mildly inconvenienced. “Stomach medicine?” she had said, her voice flat. “I don’t really know anything about that, and I wouldn’t know what to get. Can’t you just order it on DoorDash?” But at 3:00 AM in a blackout, no drivers were active. In the end, I had to wrap myself in a heavy coat, grit my teeth through the pain, and walk twenty minutes through the dark to a convenience store myself. At the time, I defended her. “She’s just practical,” I told myself. “She’s not a caretaker type. She doesn’t understand medicine.” But she did. She knew the brands, the active ingredients, the exact dosages. She just didn’t care enough to learn them for me. A profound sense of absurdity washed over me. I felt like a colossal fool, a man who had spent five years living a lie. I didn’t know they were seeing each other, let alone when it had started. And all the while, I had treated Barrett like my brother, confiding in him about our relationship milestones, our petty arguments, our quiet triumphs. Taking a deep breath, I closed the planner, smoothing the leather cover, and grabbed my car keys. I needed to go to the tailor. Since the groom was changing, there was no point in keeping my suit. The receptionist at the boutique greeted me with a warm, knowing smile. “Mr. Adler! You are a very lucky man. Your fiancée is incredibly attentive—she even came in personally to help select the groomsman’s suit.” I froze. Looking past her toward the fitting platforms, I saw Barrett. He was standing in front of the three-way mirror, admiring himself in a gorgeous, bespoke ivory suit. It featured delicate embroidery and subtle silver thread detailing. It was from the luxury designer brand I had been dreaming of for months. But when Gloria and I had come to choose my tuxedo, she had dismissed that exact designer as “pretentious and overpriced,” steering me toward a basic, off-the-rack wool blend. Under her pressure, I had settled for a simple five-hundred-dollar suit. Yet the custom groomsman suit Barrett was wearing—the brand’s flagship piece—cost easily over two thousand dollars. Through the reflection of the mirror, Gloria caught my eye. She stiffened, turning around in a hurry. “Wes?” The lingering warmth in her eyes clashed violently with the panic that instantly flooded her face. Barrett noticed me next. His easy smile faltered for a fraction of a second before he quickly smoothed his expression and jogged over, the expensive fabric rustling. “Wes! What are you doing here?” He slung a familiar arm around my shoulder, just like he always did. “I’m actually doing a trial run for you! Gloria knew how much you loved this brand and wanted to surprise you, so she dragged me here to test the fit and comfort first.” Seeing how effortlessly the lie rolled off his tongue, a cold smile crept onto my face. “And? How does it ‘test’?” Gloria quickly chimed in, stepping between us. “Honestly, it’s just like I said before. Pretentious and overrated. The fabric is actually quite stiff. It only really works as a flashy groomsman outfit.” Barrett nodded eagerly. “Yeah, Wes. Honestly, the simpler suit Gloria picked out for you fits your vibe much better.” They stood side-by-side, their voices harmonizing perfectly as they praised my cheap, off-the-rack suit like it was the pinnacle of style. Watching them, a chilling realization hit me. I finally understood why they belonged together. They were cut from the exact same cloth—equally hollow, equally self-righteous. After a few minutes of trying to convince me, they finally ran out of steam and fell silent, looking at me expectantly. They were waiting for me to nod, to accept their excuses like I always did. Instead, I spoke softly. “If it’s so uncomfortable, then let’s forget about it.” A suit that doesn’t fit right isn’t worth keeping. Neither is a relationship. Barrett blinked, glancing down at his luxurious jacket, then over to Gloria with a pained look. “Wes, are you mad at me?” he asked softly. “Look, if you don’t like it, I don’t have to wear it.” He lingered, dragging his feet as he slowly turned to walk back to the dressing room. Gloria caught up to him in three quick strides, grabbing his wrist. “Why would you change? It looks great on you.” The moment the words escaped her lips, she caught my icy gaze and quickly let go, clearing her throat. “I… I just meant that the groomsman’s suit isn’t a big deal. It doesn’t matter what he wears.” Watching her scramble for justifications made my stomach turn. “I meant,” I repeated, “I don’t want it.” Not the suit. Not her. Not any of this. I walked straight past them to the front desk, calling over the manager to request a refund on my purchase. Fortunately, because Gloria had insisted I get a standard off-the-rack cut rather than a custom-tailored piece, the store policy allowed a return with a minor restocking fee. Gloria’s face distorted with disbelief. “Wes, are you serious? The wedding is in three days, and you’re returning your suit now? Just because I took Barrett out shopping without telling you?” “He literally told you, we were trying to surprise you.” “How can you be this petty? Have you even thought about how this is going to look on our wedding day?” I looked at her, standing there so utterly convinced she was the victim, and felt nothing but exhaustion. Once the refund cleared on my card, I turned back to her, slipping my wallet into my pocket. “You’ll see on the wedding day,” I said. I turned and walked out the door. Behind me, Barrett called out, “Wes, come on, don’t do this! I won’t wear the suit, okay? Wes…” But his voice was quickly cut off by Gloria’s sharp, irritated tone: “Let him go. The wedding is in three days. Let’s see what he does when he has nothing to wear down the aisle.” “And I’m warning you, Barrett, do not offer to stand in as his groom.” Maybe that was Gloria’s subconscious dream all along. To walk down the aisle with Barrett, even if they had to call him the best man. With a heart heavy with bitter clarity, I went back to our apartment and started packing her things. It was only then that I realized how thoroughly Barrett’s presence had permeated her life. Her favorite silk scarf was a deep royal blue—Barrett’s favorite color. Her watch was a limited-edition artist collab she’d bought to match his. Even the house slippers she wore were the silly cartoon pair Barrett had won at a boardwalk ring-toss game over the summer. I threw them all into a cardboard box. I was halfway through when the front door clicked open. Gloria walked in. Wherever she and Barrett had gone after the tailor shop, it had worked wonders on her mood. Her irritation from earlier had vanished, replaced by a soft, relaxed hum. When she saw the boxes on the floor, she stopped. “What’s all this? Why are you packing?” I looked at her, my expression deadpan. “You need to move out tomorrow.” Alone. Gloria’s face fell, her voice instantly dropping an octave. “Move out? To our new house?” “I thought we agreed that since the house is sitting empty, Barrett could stay there for a while?” “Are you really trying to kick him out just because of what happened at the tailor shop? Wes, he’s your best friend.” When Barrett had returned to the country six months ago, he kept complaining about not finding a decent place to live. I had been the one who practically begged Gloria to let him crash at the townhouse she’d put a down payment on. At the time, she had been incredibly cold and reluctant about it. To get her to agree, I had woken up early every single day to make her favorite breakfast, washed her car, and did everything I could to win her over. Eventually, she relented, allowing him to stay temporarily. She had warned me repeatedly: “Tell him to find a place quickly. It’s our future home. Having an outsider live there just feels wrong.” I had promised her I would, and I spent weeks helping Barrett look for apartments. But no matter what place I found, Barrett always claimed it wasn’t right. And Gloria never brought up his moving out again. I used to think she was just being generous for my sake. Now, I realized that was probably the very first time she had bent the rules for him. “I’m telling “you” to move in there,” I said, keeping my words deliberately ambiguous, searching her eyes for any flicker of guilt. “I never said he had to leave.” Gloria’s brain seemed to stall for a second before her eyes lit up with a sudden, unmistakable brightness. “Oh! Well, yeah, there are plenty of extra bedrooms. Sharing the space for a while wouldn’t hurt.” She stepped forward, eagerly grabbing my hands. “I knew it. You guys are brothers—you wouldn’t actually kick him out over a little misunderstanding.” “After you left the store, Barrett felt so guilty. He even said that if it made you uncomfortable, he’d step down as the best man.” “It took me forever to convince him to stay.” She went on and on, but her voice began to sound like it was coming from underwater. A cold numbness spread through my chest. She had never spoken this many words to me in a single breath. Whenever I tried to talk to her, her responses were always curt: “Sure. Fine. You decide.” It was as if she were rationing her vocabulary just for me. “Barrett was actually worried he’d have to scramble to find a place before the wedding,” Gloria murmured, completely absorbed in her excitement. “This is perfect. It saves so much trouble.” She pulled out her phone right in front of me, her fingers flying across the screen. “Let me text him right now and tell him you’re not mad, and that we’re all going to live together.” The screen lit up. The contact name at the top of her chat list read: “Bear”. My contact name, saved right below his, was my full name: “Wes Adler”. In that split second, I saw her pinned chats. The top one was “Bear”. I was second. After sending the message, she looked radiant. She reached out to wrap her arms around my neck, guiding me toward our bedroom. A wave of revulsion washed over my skin. I instinctively stepped back, pushing her hands away. “Sleep in the guest room tonight,” I said. Gloria’s arms fell to her sides, the warmth vanishing from her face. “What is it now?” She let out a long, heavy sigh, adopting that familiar, patronizing tone she always used when she wanted to make me feel small. “Wes, we are getting married in three days. You need to start acting like an adult. This constant need for drama is exhausting.” “Look at Barrett. He is so easygoing.” “Honestly, if it weren’t for my patience, I don’t know who would put up with these tantrums of yours.” “Do you even realize—” I couldn’t stand to hear another word. I stepped into the master bedroom and slammed the door shut, cutting her off. A second later, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was an email from the wedding planner. “Hi Wes, we’ve finalized the welcome banner design as requested.” Attached was a JPEG. The face on the groom’s body was no longer mine. It was Barrett’s. The next morning, I took my keys and drove over to my parents’ house. Since I wasn’t going to be the groom anymore, there was no reason for them to dip into their life savings for our wedding gift fund. But as I pulled onto their street, I noticed a large moving truck parked in front of their driveway. Two movers were hauling my dad’s beloved antique mahogany sofa down the steps. Panic seized my chest. I scrambled out of the car and ran up the stairs. When I pushed the front door open, the living room was already half-empty. “Dad? Mom?” My dad straightened up, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “Oh, Wes! Gloria stopped by yesterday. She told us about a business opportunity—a franchise we could invest in. She said it would guarantee us a steady monthly payout, some extra security for our retirement.” “What kind of franchise?” I asked, my heart pounding against my ribs. My dad paused, scratching his head. “Some high-end French boutique floral shop… Lavender and roses from Provence, she said.” My mind went completely blank. A Provence-style luxury florist. Two weeks ago, the three of us had gone out for dinner. Over drinks, Barrett had lamented about wanting to open a high-end flower shop that imported specialty roses directly from France. At the time, I had laughed it off. “In a town like ours? Who’s going to pay fifty dollars for a single rose, Barrett?” Barrett had pouted, looking at Gloria. “Well, maybe Gloria can think of a way to make it work.” Gloria had smiled softly and nodded. “Don’t worry. Leave it to me.” I hadn’t thought twice about it then, assuming she was just being polite. I never dreamed she would actually try to fund his dream—especially not by milking my parents’ retirement fund. “Gloria is such a quiet girl,” my dad continued, pride shining in his eyes. “But she’s so thoughtful. To think she’s already looking out for our financial future like this.” A lump of hot anger and grief wedged itself in my throat. I couldn’t swallow it down. I clenched my jaw, fighting back the sting of tears, and forced a calm breath. “Dad, Mom… I actually came to talk to you about that. Gloria is a bit old-fashioned about money. If you give the cash directly to her, she’ll feel awkward and probably refuse to take it.” “Why don’t you wire the investment to my account, and I’ll handle the transaction with her?” My dad clapped his hand to his forehead. “Ah, of course! You always think ahead, Wes.” Without a second thought, he authorized the wire transfer from the sale of their antique furniture and savings straight to my bank account. Once the money was safely secured in my account, I knew I had to get them out of harm’s way. I lied and told them that the wedding venue had a scheduling conflict and the ceremony was being postponed by a few weeks. Before they could ask too many questions, I booked them a spontaneous, all-inclusive beach resort trip to Cape Cod and drove them straight to the airport. Only when their plane took off did I finally breathe a sigh of relief. As long as Gloria couldn’t reach them, I could handle the fallout without my parents being caught in the crossfire. Right then, my phone buzzed. “There’s a fireworks show by the harbor tonight. Want to watch?” It was Gloria. As usual, the text was written with perfect, sterile punctuation—as if she were drafting a legal memo. I replied with a simple: “Sure.” I wanted to see for myself. I wanted to see exactly how far she and Barrett had gone. The wind off the harbor was biting. From fifty yards away, I spotted them. Barrett was laughing, holding out his iced boba tea and slipping the straw directly between Gloria’s lips. This was the same Gloria who claimed to be a germaphobe, who hated sharing food with anyone. Yet she didn’t flinch. Instead, her features softened as she took a slow sip, smiling up at him. Their hands rested close together on the railing, the moonlight catching matching silver bands on their pinky fingers. In that exact moment, the first firework erupted in the night sky, illuminating the intimate warmth on their faces. Gloria looked up and finally noticed me standing there. “I got you one,” she said smoothly, handing me a sealed plastic cup as if she hadn’t just been sharing an intimate drink with my best friend. The cup was dripping with condensation, packed with ice and extra sugar—the exact way Barrett liked his drinks. But I hated sweet drinks. And cold liquids made my stomach cramp violently. I stared directly into Gloria’s eyes, speaking slowly and deliberately. “My. Stomach. Is. Flaring. Up.” Gloria blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. “Oh.” Barrett cradled his cup, offering a sheepish, dimpled smile. “My bad! I completely forgot Wes has a sensitive stomach. Bad Gloria, you should have remembered!” Gloria’s lips twitched upward, her eyes soft as she looked at him. Barrett pulled me down to sit on the bench beside him, acting as if nothing was wrong. “You know, when you walked out of the tailor shop the other day, Gloria was worried sick.” They were incredibly synchronized. Gloria said Barrett felt guilty; Barrett said Gloria was worried. I didn’t play along this time. I sat in silence, staring directly at Barrett, waiting for the real reason they had called me out here. Feeling the pressure, Barrett shifted uncomfortably and glanced at Gloria. Gloria cleared her throat, hesitating before she finally forced the words out. “Since you returned the suit… I was thinking you could just wear that white button-down shirt I got you for your birthday. It looks fine.” “And?” I asked, my voice flat. Gloria and Barrett exchanged a brief, telling look. “For the processional tomorrow,” Gloria said, “I was thinking I could walk down the aisle holding your hand on one side, and you could hold Barrett’s hand on the other. You’d be right in the middle. What do you think?” I stared at her, completely dumbfounded, wondering if I had actually misheard her. A groom in a casual white shirt, flanked by a bride in a custom gown on one side and a best man in a two-thousand-dollar designer tux on the other, walking hand-in-hand down the aisle. The sheer absurdity of the image was staggering. The cold harbor wind carried her ridiculous explanation straight to my ears. Even though my heart was already dead to this relationship, a fresh wave of bitterness still managed to break through. “Gloria,” I said quietly, “do you remember what you told my parents when we got engaged?” “Of course I do,” her voice softened slightly. “I told them I would always give you the absolute best.” Then, she pivoted without missing a beat. “And because of that promise, I want your best friend to be right there by your side during the most important moment of your life.” I looked at her face—so calm, so utterly convinced of her own logic—and realized I had never truly known the woman standing in front of me. After a long pause, I swallowed the tightness in my throat and forced out a single word. “Okay.” Gloria let out a breath she’d been holding, her shoulders relaxing. “I knew you’d understand, Wes. I knew you’d see it makes sense.” The wind off the water was freezing, but it had finally, fully woken me up. We drove back to our apartment in silence. The moment we stepped inside, I picked up the cardboard box containing her belongings and placed it in her arms. “There’s an old tradition,” I said. “The bride and groom shouldn’t spend the night before the wedding under the same roof.” “Go stay at the new house tonight. I’ll meet you at the venue tomorrow.” Gloria stared at the box, her expression turning into a scowl. She clearly didn’t want to leave. But as she looked at me standing firmly in the doorway, blocking her path, she let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You always get so superstitious about these things.” “Get some rest tonight. I’ll see you at the hotel tomorrow.” She turned and walked down the hallway, pulling out her phone to send a text before she even reached the elevator. I didn’t need to guess who it was for. I shut the door, locked it, and dialed the real estate agent’s number. “The apartment under my name—list it. Below market price for a quick cash sale.” Then, I grabbed my suitcase and walked out of the home where I had spent the last five years of my life.

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The diagnosis felt like a quiet death sentence: stage-four stomach cancer. Three months, maybe less. When I told my boyfriend, he didn’t cry. He didn’t even reach out to hold my hand. Instead, he sat in a heavy, suffocating silence that seemed to stretch on forever. Then, his voice cracking slightly, he asked, “Since you’re… since you don’t have much time left, is there any way you could donate your heart to my sister?” His younger sister, Maisie, had been born with a severe congenital heart defect. She had spent her entire life on the transplant list, waiting for a miracle that never came. In that moment, the pain was so sharp I couldn’t even breathe, let alone cry. But I loved him. So, I agreed. I signed the organ donor consent forms, effectively signing my life away. Yet, right before I was wheeled into the operating room, my attending physician—who also happened to be the chief of surgery and the head of the hospital—tore the agreement to shreds. He looked at my boyfriend, his eyes as cold as chipped ice. “She doesn’t have stomach cancer. You falsified her medical records. And besides, who the hell do you think you are, touching what’s mine?” My boyfriend froze. As I stared at the doctor’s strikingly familiar face, the fog in my mind cleared. I finally remembered who he was. He was Nicky, the brilliant, scholarship kid I had financially sponsored back when we were in high school. … The moment I signed that thin sheet of paper, it felt as though the last remaining drop of energy had been siphoned from my body. Trevor carefully folded the donor agreement. He slid it into his leather briefcase with a slow, reverent precision, as if it were the most precious artifact in the world. Then, he looked up at me, offering a warm, gentle smile I hadn’t seen in months. “Nicole, I made dinner for us. All your favorites.” The dining table was set with flickering candles, a bottle of dark red wine, perfectly seared steaks, and a slice of the Black Forest cake I loved. This had been our ritual for every anniversary of our seven years together. But today wasn’t an anniversary. Today was the day I agreed to die. He cut my steak into bite-sized pieces and slid the plate toward me, his voice incredibly soft. “Eat up. You need to keep your strength up.” A sharp, violent spasm twisted my stomach. It wasn’t from the supposed cancer cells eating away at my lining; it was from the chilling, casual nature of his voice. He raised his wine glass, not to toast me, but to the empty air. “Once Maisie gets your heart, she’ll finally be able to live like a normal girl. She can go back to college, fall in love, get married.” He looked at me, his eyes gleaming. “She’s going to be so grateful to you, Nicole.” My hand shook so violently the fork clattered against the porcelain. “What about me?” I managed to whisper, the words catching in my throat. “Trevor… will you remember me?” He blinked, seemingly startled by the question, before offering a reassuring, almost patronizing smile. “Of course. You’ll always be the love of my life. And you’ll be the savior of our family.” The love of his life? His family’s savior? So that was what my seven years of devotion amounted to—a transaction of flesh and blood, repackaged as a noble sacrifice to be remembered. He didn’t notice my silence. He pulled out his phone, swiped it open, and turned the screen toward me. “Look, Maisie’s color is already returning just thinking about it. She’s so excited for this new lease on life.” On the screen, Maisie was propped up against her hospital pillows, her cheeks flushed, her smile bright and innocent. Trevor’s voice drifted over me like a slow poison. “Your heart will keep beating inside her. In a way, it’s like your own life is continuing, isn’t it?” A wave of intense nausea hit me. “Excuse me,” I choked out, pushing my chair back so hard it screeched against the hardwood. I bolted to the bathroom, collapsing over the toilet as my body racked with violent, dry heaves. There was nothing in my stomach but bile and acid. “Nicole? Are you okay in there?” Trevor’s voice came through the door, carrying a carefully measured note of concern—and something else. Tension. “Did you eat too fast? You have to take care of yourself.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, yet the words cut through the wood like a knife. “Try not to throw up too much. It might affect your cardiac vitals. We need you in peak condition.” I leaned my forehead against the cold tile wall, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back was hollow, pale, and entirely unrecognizable. For the sake of his sister’s future heart, even the food I put into my mouth had to be monitored. It was a sick comedy. I wiped my mouth, stood up, and opened the door. I looked at him and said quietly, “I’m tired. I want to check into the hospital early.” A flash of relief washed over his face, so quick I almost missed it. “Of course. I’ll arrange it immediately. The best private suite, the best doctors. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of.” He squeezed my hand. His grip was incredibly tight, as if he were terrified I would slip away or change my mind. But the relief in his eyes felt like a needle driving straight into my numb heart. I was admitted to the VIP wing of the hospital. The room was beautiful—bright, spacious, with a view of a manicured courtyard garden. But to me, it felt like a gilded cage. Soon after we arrived, Trevor confiscated my phone. His excuse was flawless: “The blue light and the notifications will disrupt your rest. The doctors say you need absolute quiet. I’ll handle all your calls and emails for you.” Just like that, my bridge to the outside world was cut. The next afternoon, my best friend, Zoe, came to visit, carrying a basket of fresh fruit. Trevor blocked her at the door. I could hear their muffled, heated voices through the thick wood of the patient room. “Trevor? What the hell is this? Let me see Nicole!” “Zoe, please. Nicole is resting. The medical staff has strictly forbidden visitors right now.” Trevor’s voice was calm, reasonable, and unyielding. “Bullshit! I’m her best friend! She’s sick, of course I’m going to see her. Let me in, or get her to come to the door!” “She’s asleep under sedation. Please don’t disrupt her recovery. It’s not good for her condition.” “Trevor, I swear to God, if you are doing anything to hurt her—” “Zoe,” Trevor’s voice dropped, turning icy. “If you actually care about her, you’ll leave. Otherwise, I’ll have security escort you out.” The hallway went quiet. A moment later, I heard the faint, angry click of Zoe’s heels fading down the corridor. My heart sank into a dark, bottomless pit. Trevor walked back into the room, slipping his gentle mask back on. “Nicole, you’re awake? Zoe is just so loud and dramatic. I was worried she’d stress you out. Don’t be mad at me.” I stared at him, my throat dry, unable to utter a single word. He had systematically cut off my only lifeline, and he had done it with a smile. This room was no longer a place of healing. It was a tomb. My attending physician came to do his rounds for the first time later that evening. His name tag read Dr. Nicholas Foster. He was tall, lean, and wore a pair of thin, gold-rimmed glasses that gave him an air of quiet, clinical detachment. He flipped through my physical chart, his long, pale fingers turning the pages as his brow furrowed in a barely perceptible frown. He asked me a few basic questions about my symptoms, his voice deep and entirely devoid of emotion. Trevor stood at my bedside, answering every question before I could even open my mouth, acting as if he were the one experiencing the illness. Dr. Foster didn’t push. He simply closed the chart and said, “Get some rest.” But as he turned to leave, the corner of his clipboard brushed against the back of my hand. The cold, brief touch sent a strange jolt through me, though I dismissed it at the time. Over the next few days, Trevor’s “care” grew smothering. He hired a private nurse to watch me twenty-four hours a day. Every mealtime, he personally brought in a thermos of specialized broth from home, watching me like a hawk until I swallowed every last drop. The broth had a strange, faintly metallic bitterness to it. When I complained that I couldn’t stomach it, he would stroke my hair, coaxing me as if I were a stubborn child. “Come on, sweetheart. Do it for Maisie. We need your heart in perfect condition. This is a special recipe from a holistic specialist.” Always for Maisie. Always for the heart. Every ounce of his affection was a transaction, itemized and billed against my survival. Despite the hospital’s supposedly world-class care, my health deteriorated rapidly. I began to fall into deep, heavy sleeps, my waking hours shrinking with each passing day. The nurses came in regularly to adjust my IV drip, and though I noticed the labels on the bags looked altered, I lacked the strength to even raise a finger to point at them. The pain in my abdomen grew excruciating. Every wave felt like a dull blade twisting in my stomach. Vomiting and sleeping became my entire existence. One afternoon, Dr. Foster came into my room alone, without his usual retinue of residents. He walked over to my bed, picked up the IV bag, and examined the port and the labeling. His expression darkened instantly. He turned to Trevor, who was sitting on the sofa. “Who authorized these supplemental pain meds and sedation adjusters?” Trevor didn’t blink. “I consulted with an outside specialist. Nicole was in so much pain, I wanted to make sure she was comfortable.” “Comfortable?” Dr. Foster repeated the word, his voice carrying an icy, dangerous edge. He looked down at me, his eyes dark and incredibly intense. There was a storm of emotions in them—anger, pity, and a fierce, quiet resolve. Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Sometime later, I woke from a feverish, drug-induced haze. The room was dark, save for the blue glow of Trevor’s phone. He was sitting in the armchair, replying to work emails, his face tight with impatience. I gathered every ounce of strength I had left and reached out, catching the edge of his sleeve. “Trevor…” my voice was barely a whisper. He dragged his eyes away from the screen, letting out a soft, irritated sigh. “Yeah?” “Do you remember…” I swallowed hard, trying to clear the dryness in my throat. “Junior year of college? We went to the lake to watch the meteor shower… I was freezing, and you gave me your only jacket…” I was clawing at the walls, desperate to find some remnant of the man I had loved for seven years. I wanted to believe there was still a soul inside him. “You told me then… that you’d love me forever. That you’d always protect me…” “Nicole, stop,” he snapped, jerking his sleeve out of my weak grasp. “Look at the state of you. Why are you bringing up useless old stories now?” He unlocked his phone, opened his calendar, and tapped a date just three days away. “The surgical team is ready. Maisie’s vitals are slipping, and she can’t wait much longer. Can you just… stop dragging this out?” My hand fell limply back onto the white sheet. The last flickering ember of hope inside me was brutally extinguished. He didn’t just want my heart. He was furious that I wasn’t dying fast enough. I closed my eyes, letting a single, cold tear slip into my hair. Fine, Trevor. If you want me gone so badly, I won’t fight you anymore. I only hoped that in the quiet hours of the night, he would feel even a shred of remorse for what he had done to me. Though deep down, I knew he wouldn’t. The morning of the surgery arrived. I was changed into a sterile gown and placed on a gurney. The hallway ceiling lights flashed overhead in a rhythmic, dizzying blur, feeling like a fast-forward reel of my short, foolish life. Trevor and Maisie walked alongside the gurney. Maisie was sobbing hysterically, her voice trembling as she clutched my hand. “I’m so sorry, Nicole… I’m so, so sorry…” But Trevor’s face held no grief. There was only a restless, electric excitement humming beneath his skin—the look of a man who was about to inherit everything he had ever wanted. He even had the audacity to pat his sister’s shoulder. “Don’t cry, Maisie. This is a beautiful thing. You should be happy for Nicole. She’s going to live on through you.” I stared at the ceiling, feeling entirely hollow. Yes, what a beautiful thing. My life traded for hers. When we reached the double doors of the surgical suite, Trevor signaled the orderly to stop. He leaned down, placing his lips close to my ear, and whispered his final words to me. It wasn’t I love you. It wasn’t even Goodbye. He whispered, “Don’t worry, Nicole. It’ll be over soon. Maisie is going to take your heart and see all the places you never got to see.” He spoke as if he were discarding a piece of used property. He didn’t even bother to fake the love anymore. My last tear fell. Not for him, but for the girl I used to be, who had wasted her youth on a monster. I was wheeled into the sterile prep room. The cold steel instruments, the bright lights, the masked faces—everything felt detached, like a movie I was watching from far away. The anesthesiologist approached with a syringe. I closed my eyes and let go. Death, I realized, was a relief compared to this. Suddenly— Thud. The heavy double doors of the operating room were violently thrown open. Dr. Nicholas Foster walked in. He wasn’t in scrubs. He wore his pristine white lab coat, and behind him stood three stern-faced members of the hospital board, flanked by two burly security guards. The room fell into a dead, shocked silence. Trevor, who had sneaked into the prep area against protocol, stepped forward, his face twisting with anger. “Dr. Foster? What is the meaning of this? The surgery is scheduled for right now!” Nicholas ignored him entirely. He strode directly to Trevor, reached out, and pulled my signed donor agreement straight out of the open briefcase Trevor was holding. The paper that dictated my life or death. Nicholas looked down at me, his cool, gray eyes burning with a raw, unspoken fury and pain that I couldn’t comprehend. Then, with absolute deliberation, he tore the contract in half. He tore it again, and again, until the pieces fluttered to the sterile floor like snow. Trevor lunged forward to stop him, but the security guards instantly grabbed his arms, pinning him back. “Nicholas! Are you insane?!” Trevor screamed, thrashing against their grip. “Do you have any idea how important that agreement is to my sister?!” Nicholas finally turned to face him. A cold, lethal smile touched his lips. When he spoke, his voice wasn’t loud, but it carried the weight of a sledgehammer. “First of all, Nicole Cross does not have stomach cancer. She has an acute gastric ulcer induced by deliberate poisoning.” He paused, letting the words sink in, before pointing a finger at Trevor. “You bribed Dr. Howard, the deputy chief, to falsify her charts.” Nicholas stepped closer, his gaze locking onto Trevor’s pale face like a vice. “And second… who the hell do you think you are, touching what’s mine?”

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The newly opened high-end shopping center downtown was running a promotion. Couples who maintained a 99-day messaging streak could claim a free prize. In our five years together, it was the first time I’d ever begged Wright to keep a streak with me. He stared at his phone, frowning for what felt like an eternity, before finally giving a reluctant nod. But on the 98th day, the streak went cold. I called Wright a dozen times, only to get a brusque, impatient response: “I’m busy with work. I don’t have time for this.” On the other end of the line, his voice bristled with annoyance. “Joanna, how old are you? Still obsessing over cheap freebies?” I watched the 98-day flame icon flicker and die, and I cried myself to sleep. The next day, as I was passing by the mall courtyard, the crowd suddenly erupted into cheers. “Oh my god, someone actually won the grand prize! A solid gold designer cuff!” “A 999-day streak? How deeply in love do you have to be to keep that going?” I was about to sigh at how beautiful such commitment must be when my phone buzzed in my palm. My best friend had sent me a photo. On her wrist was a gleaming gold bracelet. “Babe, got this for free. Isn’t it gorgeous?” The background of her photo was the very courtyard I was standing in. Excited, I pushed through the crowd toward the prize pavilion to congratulate her. Only to discover that the man who shared a 999-day streak with my best friend was none other than my fiancé, Wright. … Wright and Serena were standing in the center of the stage, surrounded by a cheering crowd. The massive LED screen projected their account profiles, showcasing a glowing 999-day streak badge. The host yelled into the microphone, “Congratulations to our beautiful couple for keeping their flame alive for 999 days! Here is your grand prize—the solid gold designer bracelet!” The applause was deafening. People in the crowd started chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! You can’t leave the stage without a kiss!” Serena flushed, looking up at Wright with wide, shy eyes. Wright pulled her by the waist, leaning in close. The crowd’s screams grew louder. I stared at the two of them on stage, my nails digging into my palms until it stung. Just before their lips touched, Wright turned his head slightly, pulling her into a protective, warm embrace instead. “Sorry, guys, my girl is a little shy,” he said with an easy, charming smile, holding Serena’s hand as they stepped down from the stage. I couldn’t take it anymore. I marched straight up to them. The moment they saw me, they dropped each other’s hands like they’d been shocked. Wright’s eyes flickered with panic for a split second before his expression smoothed over. “Joanna? What are you doing here?” Serena’s face went pale. “Joanna, please don’t get the wrong idea! We just pretended to be a couple to get the prize.” She held up her wrist, flashing the gold bracelet. “See? Just for keeping a 999-day streak, we got this. It was such a steal!” “Just?” To her, a 999-day streak with Wright was a daily habit. She had no idea Wright wouldn’t even give me 99 days. I didn’t look at her. My eyes were locked on Wright. “Wright, I didn’t know you had another girlfriend.” Wright remained remarkably poised. “Serena just told you, we played along for a freebie. You know how she is—still young, loves these silly little promotions.” The sheer tenderness in his voice when he spoke about her made my chest burn. He didn’t even realize how he sounded. A sudden, blinding anger flared up inside me. “Wright, I begged you to keep a 99-day streak and you said you had no time. But you have time to keep a 999-day streak with her?” “Joanna, that’s enough!” Wright’s face darkened. “We’re getting married next month. Why are you throwing a tantrum over this? I’ll buy you a better bracelet later, okay?” Looking at his condescending expression, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. Five years. He never understood that it was never about the prize. It was about the quiet intimacy of doing something small, together. He had time to keep a three-year streak with Serena, time to accompany her to the mall, but no time to reply to my messages. I wanted to scream at him. He had told me this morning that he had to go to the office to work overtime. Why was he here with my best friend instead? But asking now felt entirely pointless. Seeing the heavy silence between us, Serena quickly tried to play peacemaker. “Come on, Wright, don’t be so harsh on Joanna.” She slipped the bracelet off her wrist and shoved it into my hand. “Joanna, don’t be mad. I’ll give you the gold bracelet. I wish you and Wright a lifetime of happiness.” Before I could reject it, Wright snatched the bracelet back and slid it back onto Serena’s wrist. “This is your prize. Why give it to her? Didn’t you say you’ve wanted this forever?” “I…” Serena’s face turned red, then pale, stammering. Wright turned back to me, his brow furrowed. “Joanna, are you seriously going to steal a prize from your own best friend?” I looked at their hands, still hovering close to each other, and laughed. “Is that what you think of me, Wright? Is that how badly you need to protect her?” Wright froze. I didn’t wait for him to answer. I turned and walked out of the mall. No footsteps followed me. Once again, Wright didn’t chase after me. I pulled out my phone and called home. On the other end, my mother excitedly rattled off updates about the wedding preparations back in our hometown. I stayed quiet for a long moment. “Mom, let’s cancel the wedding. I’m not marrying him.” After hanging up, I looked at the fresh groceries piled on my kitchen counter. I began putting them away in the fridge, one by one. Today was the weekend. I had gone to the market early this morning to prepare a feast for Wright. I had even learned a few new recipes—all his favorites. None of it mattered now. True to form, Wright didn’t come home for dinner. Every time we argued, he would freeze me out, waiting until I couldn’t take the silence anymore and crawled back to apologize. An hour later, Serena updated her social media. The photo showed Wright cutting a steak for her. The location tag was at the Michelin-starred restaurant I’d mentioned wanting to visit a dozen times—the one Wright always claimed he was “too busy” to take me to. Her caption read: “Look who treated me to dinner again~” It was pure, unadulterated gloating. Within minutes of posting, she blocked me from seeing her posts. Then, she sent me a direct text: “Joanna, come join us for dinner! Wright is here too. You two need to make up.” I replied coldly: “No.” Every time the three of us ate together, I was always the ghost at the table. Wright would pour her water, clean her utensils, and put food on her plate. He knew her exact culinary preferences; every dish ordered was her favorite. Yet, after five years, he still couldn’t remember that I hated cilantro. When we went shopping, if Serena stared at something a second too long, he bought it for her. If she liked a plush toy in a claw machine, he’d spend hundreds of dollars in coins until he caught it. When I asked him to catch one for me, he called me childish. He always said, “Serena is young. She needs looking after.” But she was only a year younger than me. He had never looked after me that way. Wright had always been strict with me. I was the intern he had personally trained. If there was even a minor error in my proposals, he would haul me into his office and tear me to shreds. I had cried so many times, rewriting drafts through tears. The whole office called him “the Devil.” Yet, the Devil never once raised his voice at Serena. When she didn’t know how to write a proposal, he sat with her and guided her line by line. When she made a massive error that infuriated a client, he personally handled the damage control, absorbing all the blame. For my mistakes, however, he had zero tolerance. Salary cuts, demotions—he enforced them without mercy. My phone rang. It was the bridal boutique. “Hi, Ms. Rodney, your custom wedding dress has arrived. You can come in for a fitting.” I gripped the phone tightly. “No need. Just keep it there.” I hung up, canceled the hotel venue, and canceled the wedding photographer. Then, I crawled up on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest, and sobbed until my throat burned. When we first got engaged, Wright said he was too busy with the company merger and left the entire wedding planning to me. I worked my day job and spent my nights drafting seating charts and menus. Whenever I asked for his opinion, his answers were always dismissive. “Whatever you want, Joanna.” The only time he finally agreed to accompany me for a fitting, I walked out of the dressing room in my gown only to find him gone. I waited in the boutique for two hours. All I got was a text: “Something came up at work. We’ll do this another day.” The next morning, I found out he had personally driven Serena to an out-of-town conference. Wright’s favoritism toward Serena was an open secret at the office. Everyone knew it. Except him. I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, my voice was hoarse, and my eyes were swollen shut. The sound of the front door unlocking broke the silence. Seeing my disheveled state, a flicker of guilt and worry crossed Wright’s eyes. “Joanna, stop crying. We can start the streak again tomorrow, okay?” He reached behind his back and produced a small box. It was the third-tier prize—the silver couple’s bracelets you got for keeping a 99-day streak. “Didn’t you want this? I bought it for you.” He still didn’t get it. He thought I was throwing a fit over a piece of cheap metal. He grabbed my wrist, trying to force the bracelet onto me. I held his hand back, looking him dead in the eye. “Wright, let’s break up.” His hand froze. But in the next second, he gripped my wrist tighter and forced the bracelet over my hand. “Break up? Joanna, is this the only card you know how to play?” “I’m serious.” He didn’t believe me. He gave me a cold, dismissive look. “You don’t get to break up with me. If anyone is ending this, it’ll be me.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing back the tears. While Wright was in the shower, his phone lit up on the nightstand. The contact name read “Serena.” I realized then that my contact, which used to be pinned to the top of his messages, had been replaced by her. I picked up his phone and tried to unlock it. The passcode was no longer our anniversary. I held my breath and typed in Serena’s birthday. It unlocked instantly. Their chat screen opened. The streak flame next to her name read “1000”. One thousand days. Almost three years. Their streak had started the very week she joined the company. I scrolled up. Every silly meme and video she sent, Wright replied to. Meanwhile, my daily texts about grocery lists and apartment maintenance were buried, unread. The most recent exchange was from fifteen minutes ago. Serena had sent a video of a handsome actor, asking: “Wright, do you know what my type is?” Wright had replied: “Looking to get into a relationship?” She sent a blushing emoji: “Why don’t you ask me who my type is?” “Who is it then?” Serena replied with a voice note. I tapped it. Her voice was sweet, dripping with affectation: “I only like guys who are exactly like you.” Rage boiled in my chest. I pressed the record button and yelled into his phone: “Serena, do you have any shame whatsoever trying to steal your best friend’s fiancé?” Before the message finished sending, the phone was ripped out of my hand. Wright stood there, fresh out of the shower, water dripping from his hair. His face was livid. “Joanna! Serena is your best friend. How can you speak to her like that?” “Listen to what she just said to you!” I snatched the phone back and turned the volume to the maximum. The sugary, intimate voice note echoed through the living room. Wright froze. He lunged forward, grabbed the phone, and quickly powered it off. A heavy, suffocating silence filled the room. Finally, Wright found his voice. “Serena was just joking around. Don’t take it so seriously.” “Joking? Then is changing your passcode to her birthday also a joke?” Wright frowned, stepping forward to grab my shoulders. “Joanna, whether you believe me or not, nothing physical has ever happened between Serena and me. We are getting married next month. Don’t make a scene over nothing.” I shook his hands off and slammed the bedroom door shut. The moment the latch clicked, the tears finally spilled over. The next morning, the company Slack and group chats erupted. Someone had leaked the video of Wright and Serena at the mall. The video showed Wright holding Serena’s hand, publicly referring to her as his “girlfriend.” The chat rooms were in chaos. “Holy crap, is Serena actually a homewrecker?” “How is this even a question? Mr. Harrison literally called her his girlfriend.” “Isn’t she Joanna’s best friend? Stealing your best friend’s guy… that’s incredibly low.” When I closed the app, my phone was buzzing with over ninety-nine unread messages. Coworkers and friends asking if I was okay. I ignored them all and drove to the office. The rumor mill moved fast. Someone had uploaded the video to TikTok and Twitter. Within two hours, “Local community college grad hooks corporate heir” was trending locally. My name was dragged into the comments. The moment I stepped into the office, I was summoned to the executive suite. The office was in total disarray. The PR team was running around, phones ringing off the hook. Serena sat on the couch, sobbing hysterically. A thick stack of printed reports was suddenly hurled at my head. I stumbled backward, falling onto the carpet. From above, Wright’s voice boomed with fury: “Joanna! Look at what you’ve done! Apologize to Serena right now!” In five years, I had never seen him this angry. Serena pointed a trembling finger at me, weeping. “Joanna, I thought you were my best friend. How could you do this to me?” I stood up, dusting off my pants, and looked Wright straight in the eye. “I didn’t do this.” “I didn’t leak that video, and I didn’t buy any trends.” Wright clearly didn’t believe a word. “Joanna, who else would want to ruin Serena’s reputation besides you? She’s your friend. How could you be so cruel?” “Friend.” Looking at her performative tears, a wave of disgust hit me. Wright signaled his assistant, who handed me a drafted public apology. “Joanna, I don’t care if you did it or not. You are signing this retraction. Serena shouldn’t have to carry this kind of dirt on her name.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. I took the paper and ripped it to shreds right in front of him. “I won’t apologize for something I didn’t do. And the internet isn’t wrong. Serena is exactly what they say she is.” Wright slammed his hand on the desk, kicking his chair back. “Joanna!” I didn’t stay to watch him rage. I turned around and walked out of his office. After that, a cold war settled between us. Wright didn’t come home for days. The trend was quickly suppressed; the videos were scrubbed from the internet, and all forum discussions were deleted. Discussion of the incident was strictly banned within the company. Two employees were summarily fired by Wright just for whispering about Serena in the breakroom. The old Wright used to value talent above all else; he would never fire someone over petty gossip. But everything was different now. At the end of the month, the promotion review came out. I was ranked first in performance, a shoo-in for the director role. My colleagues had already booked a restaurant to celebrate. But when the official announcement was posted, everyone gasped. My name wasn’t on the list. The position that belonged to me had been given to Serena. I grabbed the printout and marched to HR. The HR director sighed, looking pityingly at me. “Joanna, the board approved your promotion. But Mr. Harrison… he personally exercised his veto power.” It was Wright. He had always been fiercely objective about work. I never imagined he would use his corporate power to play favorites. But he broke his own golden rule for Serena. I pushed open the door to Wright’s office and threw the announcement onto his desk. “Why, Wright?” “You always preached about merit and fair competition. Why did you block my promotion?” To secure this promotion, I had worked myself to the bone, pulling eighty-hour weeks. By tenure, by numbers, Serena didn’t even come close to me. Compared to my raw outrage, Wright was chillingly calm. “Joanna, Serena has been through hell because of that online scandal. What’s wrong with giving her a break? There will be other promotions next year. I promise I’ll make sure you get the next one.” “I don’t want the next one!” My voice cracked, tears stinging my eyes. “I want a fair review. Put me and Serena side-by-side, and let the work speak for itself!” Wright let out a condescending scoff. “Fair? Joanna, you’re talking to me about fair?” He stood up, towering over me. “If I hadn’t personally told HR you were my girlfriend five years ago, you wouldn’t have even gotten past the first interview. Do you honestly think you’d be sitting in this office today without me backing you up all these years?” The words felt like a physical blow. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. The narrative I had built for myself—that I was smart, capable, and self-made—shattered into dust. I don’t remember how I stumbled out of his office. When I got back to my desk, my face was wet with tears. Serena was surrounded by a crowd of coworkers. The same people who had promised to celebrate with me were now showering her with congratulations and gifts. I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and began packing my things. Serena walked over, a bright smile plastered on her face. “Joanna, we’re going out to celebrate tonight. My treat. You should come!” Looking at her face, I remembered how she had looked when she first started. She had been so timid, so eager to please. I had spent hours teaching her how to format spreadsheets and pitch clients. When Wright needed an assistant, I was the one who put her name forward. My reward for that kindness was a knife straight to my back. I didn’t say a word. I picked up my box of personal belongings and walked out of the building. When I got home, I drafted a formal resignation letter and emailed it to HR. Then, I booked a one-way ticket to Charleston. I packed my life into three suitcases and left the city I had called home for five years. Wright hadn’t seen Joanna at the office for two days. In the past, no matter how furious she was, she never skipped work without notice. But by the third day, her desk remained empty. He called the head of HR into his office. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he muttered, “Get Joanna back to her desk. Unexcused absences are unprofessional.” The HR manager trembled. “Mr. Harrison… Joanna has officially resigned.”

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I was the internet’s favorite punching bag—the lazy, unmotivated starlet who somehow stumbled into fame. So when the network announced I was joining the cast of The Edge, a brutal wilderness survival reality show, the comment sections erupted. To make matters worse, they had also cast Courtney Ross. Courtney was the industry’s undisputed queen of the hustle. She was the girl who woke up at four in the morning to drink green juice and post motivational quotes about “the grind.” She was tireless; I was indolent. She actively looked for chores to do; I fell asleep the second my head hit a flat surface. The internet was having a field day. [Does she even realize this is a literal survival show? This isn’t a spa day.] [Courtney has been training in the Rockies for months. Mandy is just begging to be humiliated at this point.] [Courtney Ross: Pure work ethic. Mandy Cornell: Lazy, useless trash.] Even Brody Henderson, the show’s golden-boy actor, couldn’t help but sneer in his pre-show interview: “Being on a show like this with someone who clearly doesn’t want to work is an insult to the rest of us.” But when the cameras started rolling, things didn’t go quite the way they expected. Courtney, eager to prove her mettle, immediately fell upon the first challenge, hacking away at half an acre of barley by hand until her palms bled. The live chat was swooning, gearing up to drag me for being a useless slacker. But then the camera panned to me. I was rumbling down the field in a massive, air-conditioned combine harvester, waving lazily from the glass cabin. The chat went dead silent. [Holy shit. I guess technology really is the ultimate life hack.] … I was jolted awake by a rough hand on my shoulder. I blinked against the harsh sunlight filtering through the window of the production bus. “Are we there?” The director was staring down at me, his expression a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “We’ve been here for an hour, Mandy. The other contestants are practically finished with their first challenge.” “And nobody thought to wake me up?” The live feed was already scrolling with comments. [Of course she slept the entire drive. The slacker persona is real.] [Meanwhile, Courtney has already cleared her rows. Look at her hands—they’re practically raw. That’s dedication!] The Edge was designed to be a brutal, elimination-style survival show. Only one winner would walk away with the grand prize. Even before the first episode aired, my name had been trending for all the wrong reasons. The consensus was clear: a lazy, corner-cutting actress like me had no business being on a show that celebrated grit. But the producers knew that hate-watching brought in the highest ratings. The director leaned in, speaking rapidly. “The first task is harvesting a plot of barley within the time limit. The last person to finish is immediately disqualified.” He paused, offering a pitying shrug that didn’t reach his eyes. “But, well… more than half the time has already passed.” I knew exactly what they were doing. They had left me on the bus on purpose. They wanted me to fail, to look like a fool, to draw in the angry mobs for the ratings. Without a word, I stood up and stepped off the bus. The midday sun was punishing. In the distance, several contestants were bent double, sweat soaking through their shirts as they hacked at the barley with hand scythes. Courtney was miles ahead of the pack, her movements practiced and furious. Brody Henderson looked up as I approached, his eyes dripping with disdain. “Oh, look who finally decided to join us. I thought you were just going to sleep your way to an early exit.” He pointed a finger toward Courtney. “Look at her. She’s already cleared half an acre.” Courtney paused, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. She offered me a soft, sympathetic smile that felt entirely rehearsed. “It’s fine, Brody. Everyone has a different approach to work. I just… I want to make sure I don’t disappoint the people who believed in me.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, my voice flat. “If you have enough breath to give a speech, Courtney, you’re clearly not working hard enough.” Brody let out a harsh laugh. “Keep talking. The clock is ticking. Enjoy your flight home tonight.” He turned to Courtney, his voice softening into reverence. “This show is meant for people like you. People who actually prepare.” Courtney sighed, her expression sweet and humble. “I did spend months in physical training for this. I guess some of us are just more used to hard work than others.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Good for you. I hope you enjoy it. You can have my share of the hard work, too.” Courtney’s smile stiffened. She raised her voice, clearly playing to the cameras to secure the moral high ground. “Mandy, this is a competition. You can’t expect the rest of us to carry you. If you choose to slack off, you have to face the consequences.” With that, they turned their backs on me and went back to their labor, treating me as if I were already gone. I didn’t bother arguing. I turned around and walked back toward the edge of the field. The chat exploded again. [Did she just walk off? Did she quit?] [Can we just disqualify her already? I can’t stand her face.] A few minutes later, a low, mechanical rumble began to vibrate through the earth. The sound grew louder, a steady, roaring thrum that drowned out the wind. In the fields, the contestants stopped, shielding their eyes against the glare as they looked toward the perimeter. I was sitting in the high-backed cabin of a massive green harvester, navigating the giant rotating blades directly into my designated plot of barley. As the machine rolled forward, the barley fell in clean, effortless sweeps. The contestants froze. The production crew dropped their clipboards. The live chat went entirely blank for a second, then shattered. [Holy shit. Is she driving a combine?] [Tell me I’m hallucinating. Since when does Mandy Cornell know how to operate heavy farm machinery?] [Where did she even find that thing?!] My plot was cleared in less than ten minutes. I shut down the engine, climbed down from the cabin, and dusted off my jeans. “You cheated!” Brody was the first to find his voice, his face flushed red with anger. “Using a machine doesn’t count!” “We’ve been sweating out here for hours, our hands are blistered, and you just drive in? It’s insulting to the concept of hard work!” Courtney added, her eyes welling with tears as she cradled her reddened palms. “We’re all giving this our everything, Mandy. Finding a loophole like this… it feels incredibly unfair. It feels like you’re mocking our effort.” I tilted my head toward the edge of the field. “The harvesters were parked right by the barn. The keys were hanging on the peg inside. There are three more over there. Nobody stopped you from using them.” The silence that followed was heavy. The live chat was starting to turn. [Honestly… she has a point. The machines were right there.] [Wait, the real question is… who the hell knows how to drive a combine harvester in Hollywood?] The director, staring at the skyrocketing real-time viewership numbers, had a massive grin on his face. This was pure gold. He stepped forward, raising his megaphone. “The harvesters were indeed placed as environmental props by the production crew. Mandy utilized her resources within the rules. Her harvest is valid—first place goes to Mandy Cornell!” “And as the winner of the first challenge,” the director continued, “Mandy gets first pick of tonight’s accommodations.” As evening fell, the director presented the options. The first was a cramped, low-profile bivouac tent at the base of the ridge, surrounded by thick brush. The second was a luxury canvas yurt pitched at the very peak of the hill, offering a stunning, unobstructed view of the valley below. “I’ll take the base,” I said without hesitation. Brody let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Classic. The lazy girl can’t even handle a thirty-minute hike up the hill. Have fun in your dirt coffin.” Courtney shook her head with patronizing pity. “The view up there is beautiful, Mandy. It’s really not that far. You shouldn’t let laziness rob you of the experience.” I looked at them, then up at the sky. The clouds were hanging low, bruised and heavy. The wind was starting to carry a sharp, damp chill. “Why do you care what I choose?” They scoffed and turned away, eager to begin their ascent to the peak. Left to myself, I unzipped my single backpack and pulled out a simple yellow Bic lighter. Within minutes, I had a crackling, warm fire going under the natural rock overhang of my campsite. Brody and Courtney, who were just about to head up the trail, stopped dead in their tracks. “Where did you get fire?” Brody demanded, his eyes wide. “I brought a lighter,” I said simply. I looked at Courtney. “Courtney, you did a three-part video series showing off your packing list. You had fifteen different color-coordinated dry bags. Don’t tell me you forgot a lighter?” Courtney’s expression shifted through several shades of pale. She bit her lip, her voice turning defensive. “I had so much to prepare… some things naturally get overlooked. Besides, rubbing sticks together is the authentic way to survive. Using a lighter defeats the purpose of being out here.” The chat began to crack. [Wait… did she actually bring a portable fan and setting spray but forgot a lighter?] [I looked up her ‘essential wilderness list’ on Instagram. It’s literally just skincare and influencer gear.] Brody stepped in, trying to dominate the space. “Since you already have the fire started, Mandy, give us the lighter. We’re going up to the ridge. It’s colder up there. We need it more.” Courtney nodded, her voice soft and pleading. “Yes, Mandy. It’s freezing on the peak. If we don’t have a fire, we could genuinely get sick. You wouldn’t want us to freeze, would you?” The live chat piped up. [They should share. It’s just decent.] [Yeah, let them have it.] I slipped the lighter back into my pocket. “Didn’t you two just tell me this is a competition? That I shouldn’t expect handouts? Why is the lazy girl suddenly your emergency services?” They both froze. Brody sneered, “Whatever. We don’t need your cheap lighter anyway.” Courtney raised her chin. “The survival guides show exactly how to friction-start a fire. We’ll be fine.” I didn’t bother replying. I crawled into my small tent and zipped it shut. Night fell quickly, and with it came the storm. The wind screamed through the valley, rattling the branches above. Then came the deluge—a freezing, torrential mountain rain. My campsite, nestled against a three-sided rock face, remained completely dry and shielded from the gale. But up on the peak, there was no protection. The wind caught the luxury yurt, snapping the poles, and the entire structure sailed off into the darkness like a broken kite. Soaked to the bone, shivering, and losing their gear to the dark, Courtney and Brody came scrambling down the mountain trail, slipping in the mud until they reached my tent. Brody pounded on the wet fabric. “Mandy! Open up! Let us in!” I lay comfortable on my sleeping pad, warm and dry. “My tent fits one. You won’t fit.” “Are you seriously that cruel?” Brody’s voice cracked with rage. “It’s pouring out here! Courtney is freezing! If she gets hypothermia, that’s on you!” Beside him, Courtney let out a theatrical, shivering cough. The chat was divided. [This is kind of messed up. She’s letting them freeze.] [But wait, this is a survival show, not a charity. Why didn’t they plan better?] I didn’t budge. “If she gets sick, that’s her own doing. If you can’t handle a little rain, call the medic. There’s a heated production trailer parked half a mile down. You can tap out right now.” The shouting stopped. They weren’t going to quit and lose their shot at the show. The next morning, the sun rose on a washed-out valley. I stepped out of my tent, feeling perfectly rested. The other contestants looked like drowned rats, their expensive gear ruined and their food supplies soaked. Courtney approached me, a tight, desperate smile plastered on her face. “Mandy… all our rations were ruined in the storm. Surely you have some extra food?” Brody followed close behind. “You left us out in the cold last night. The least you can do is share some food. We’re starving.” I looked at them. “Didn’t you guys say yesterday that my single backpack meant I didn’t bring anything ‘substantial’? Since I have so little, how could I possibly have enough to share?” They stood there, speechless. The chat was loving it. [Oof. She kept receipts.] [Mandy: I’m lazy, but my memory is flawless.] The director, seeing the record-breaking live views, decided to stir the pot. A production assistant walked over to me, looking thoroughly guilty. “I am so sorry, Mandy,” the assistant said, his acting terrible. “We accidentally packed your bag with the trash during the storm cleanup. It’s gone.” Brody let out a loud, vindictive laugh. “Looks like karma exists after all.” Courtney offered a patronizing pat on my arm. “Don’t worry, Mandy. We’re all in the same boat now. It’s only fair.” I shrugged. “Whatever. It was mostly empty anyway.” Courtney smiled, convinced I was just trying to save face. The director announced: “Since all contestants have lost their starting supplies, you must now forage for your own food. You are entirely on your own!” Courtney immediately took charge, trying to reclaim her leader status. “Don’t panic! If we work together, we can find plenty. Nature is our grocery store!” She gave out vague orders: “You find vegetables, you catch fish, you hunt.” But she didn’t explain how. [She sounds exactly like my manager giving a pep talk.] [Do any of these people actually know what a wild onion looks like?] Courtney turned to me. “Mandy, we won’t ask you to join us. You didn’t help us last night, so I’m sure you don’t need our help now.” “Suits me,” I said. I grew up in rural Iowa. This forest was practically a buffet. By afternoon, I returned to camp with a pocketful of fresh wild berries. Courtney’s “foraging squad” limped back shortly after, empty-handed, exhausted, and covered in scratches. They had seen mushrooms but didn’t know if they were toxic. They tried to fish but couldn’t catch anything. They stared hungrily at my berries. Courtney stepped forward, her sweet-talking smile returning. I cut her off before she could speak. “We agreed to keep things separate.” I looked at the rest of them. “Surely a group of elite survivalists isn’t planning to beg a lazy girl for her food?” Courtney’s jaw tightened. The others looked away in shame. I set the berries down near my tent and walked down to the creek to check the water source. When I got back, the berries were gone. My expression went cold. I walked straight to Courtney’s camp. “Where are my berries?” Brody scoffs. “Lost your food again? First your bag, now this. Maybe you need to learn some basic responsibility.” Courtney sighed. “You’re always losing things, Mandy. Maybe it’s a habit you need to work on.” They thought I won’t cause a scene on live television. They thought I had no proof. But they didn’t know me. I looked directly at her. “Courtney, you stole them.”

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I went to the insurance office to cash out my modest personal accident policy. I needed to scrape together five thousand dollars to pay for my mother’s cataract surgery. She was slowly losing her sight, the edges of her world blurring into shadow, and I was desperate to save what was left of her vision. But the customer service representative stared at me, her expression a mix of profound confusion and mild suspicion. “Ma’am,” she said, tapping her screen. “There is a matured high-net-worth private trust linked directly to your primary account. Its current surrender cash value is eighty-four million dollars. Are you sure you want to cancel a basic accident policy worth five hundred bucks?” The room tilted. For a terrifying second, the ground felt entirely liquid under my feet. “Eighty-four million dollars.” The number buzzed in my ears like static. My mind flashed back to the previous night—the harsh, sterile glare of the hospital corridor, my husband, Thomas, screaming at my fragile mother outside her ward. He had ranted about how we were drowning in debt, how we couldn’t even afford groceries, and how she needed to sign the AMA forms and go home to wait for the end. For five years, Thomas had controlled every single penny we made. He made me feel like a parasite. When I was in labor, he had treated my hospital stay as an extravagant, unnecessary expense. I swallowed the lump of bile in my throat, forced my hands to stop shaking, and looked the agent dead in the eye. “Liquidate the trust,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady. “Transfer the entire balance to a new, private account solely in my name. And print me a certified copy of the original policy agreement with the policyholder’s signature.” That very afternoon, Thomas burst into the hospital wing, dropping to his knees beside my mother’s bed with a theatrical thud. … “Mom, I’m begging you. If not for me, do it for Freda. Have some mercy on us. Let’s just go home.” Thomas clutched the edge of the mattress, his knees hitting the linoleum floor. The shared six-bed ward fell into a dead, suffocating silence. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing out tears, wiping his face with the back of his hand in a display of practiced misery. “Freda only makes four thousand a month, and my salary barely covers our mortgage,” he sobbed, his voice cracking perfectly on cue. “This illness of yours is a black hole. If we keep paying for these treatments, we’re going to end up on the street!” His shoulders trembled, the perfect picture of a devoted, desperate son-in-law pushed to his absolute limit. Right then, his mother, Martha, squeezed through the curtained doorway. She shuffled over to Thomas’s side, instantly wiping her dry eyes with a tissue she had brought for the occasion. “Abigail, look at what you’re doing to my boy,” Martha wailed, her voice carrying across the ward. “He’s taken out payday loans just to keep up with your bills. The collectors are calling him day and night, cursing him out. As parents, we can’t be so selfish. You can’t destroy the kids’ lives just to buy yourself a few more months.” Watching them perform made my stomach churn with pure disgust. Just twelve hours ago, in the dim hallway outside, Thomas had jabbed his finger into my collarbone, his face twisted in venomous rage. “The old bag is going to die anyway,” he had hissed. “Unplug her. Stop wasting my hard-earned money.” Now, he had donned a brand-new mask, staging this pathetic melodrama to weaponize the pity of strangers and guilt my mother into submission. On the bed, my mother looked visits-impossibly small, her face pale and sunken against the cheap hospital pillows. The shame in her eyes broke my heart. “Thomas… please, stand up,” she whispered, her voice cracking with defeat. “I’ll stop the treatments. I’ll go home with you.” Thomas immediately straightened up, sliding a crumpled sheet of paper from his coat pocket and pressing a pen into her trembling hand. “This is the AMA discharge release. Just sign here, and I’ll call an Uber to take us home right now.” I stepped forward, snatching the paper out of his hand before her pen could touch the line. Thomas froze, staring up at me, his eyes narrowing. “Freda, what the hell are you doing? Your mother already agreed.” I folded the paper in half and shoved it deep into my coat pocket. “If she’s leaving, I’ll sign the paperwork myself after I talk to her doctor.” Thomas bolted to his feet, his polite facade slipping for a fraction of a second. “You can’t sign it! The hospital policy says the patient has to sign it themselves!” Martha chimed in, her voice shrill. “Exactly! What does a useless spendthrift like you know? Give the paper back and let your mother sign!” I locked eyes with Thomas, feeling a cold, sharp clarity wash over me. “Thomas, are you absolutely sure this is just a standard medical discharge form?” A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He stiffened his neck. “Of course it is! What else would it be?” “Fine. Let me read it out loud to the ward then.” Before I could pull the paper out, Thomas lunged forward, slamming his palm over my mouth. “Freda! Do you want to ruin us? Are you trying to drive me to suicide?” His grip was viciously tight, cutting off my breath. I clawed at his fingers, digging my nails into his skin until he gasped and let go. I stumbled back, catching my breath in the heavy, silent room. Every eye in the ward was pinned on us. “I’m driving “you” to ruin?” I whispered, staring at the man I had been married to for five years. Five years. Every single paycheck I earned was automatically deposited into his account under the guise of “smart family investing.” In return, he gave me a weekly allowance of two hundred dollars. I was expected to buy groceries, pay the utility bills, and purchase household essentials on that. I had to ask for his permission—and endure a lecture—just to buy a pack of tampons. Two years ago, when I was in labor, writhing in agony on the hospital bed, I had begged him to let me get an epidural. It was an extra fifteen hundred dollars out-of-network. He had stood outside the delivery room door, shouting so everyone could hear: “Every other woman handles it, Freda! Why are you so fragile? Just push through it. Think of how many boxes of formula fifteen hundred dollars can buy!” I had eventually passed out from the sheer intensity of the pain. And now, he stood here telling me I was the one pushing him to the edge. On the bed, my mother reached out blindly, her hand brushing against my sleeve. “Freda, please, don’t fight. I really don’t want the surgery. I haven’t been able to leave you anything in this life… I won’t let myself be a burden to you in death.” Martha rushed over, covering my mother’s frail hand with her own. “That’s exactly right, Abigail. We all have our time. It’s God’s plan. Don’t worry, once we get you home, I’ll take real good care of you.” The hypocrisy made me physically ill. When my mother was first admitted last month, Martha had visited exactly once. She had stood by the door, holding her nose, complaining loudly that the ward smelled like a hospice. Seeing my silence, Thomas assumed I had broken. His expression softened into that patronizing, gentle tone he used whenever he wanted to manipulate me. He reached out to take my arm. “Freda, look, even Mom agrees. Give me the paper. Let’s get her signature and get this over with.” I stepped back, letting his hand fall into empty air. His face darkened instantly. He whipped out his phone, pulling up a screenshot and shoving it inches from my nose. “Look at this! You think I’m a monster? I literally don’t have the money, Freda! Two hundred thousand dollars in debt! How am I supposed to pay this off?” I glanced at the glowing screen. The loan statement was real, and his name was clearly on it. But not a single dollar of that money had gone toward my mother’s treatment. For the past six months, I had begged friends for loans and pawned my grandmother’s gold necklace just to pay for her medication. Thomas hadn’t contributed a dime. Looking at his shifting, defensive eyes, a sickening realization began to take shape. “Thomas, you didn’t spend a single cent of this loan on my mother. Where did that money actually go? You know the answer, don’t you?” Thomas blew up, his face turning a mottled purple. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Freda? You’re accusing me? I work myself to the bone every damn day for this family, and this is the thanks I get?” He pointed an aggressive finger at me. “Fine! If you’re so independent, you pay for her! From this second on, I’m not paying a single cent for this old woman’s bills!” Martha spat on the floor. “Ungrateful brat! Come on, Thomas, let’s leave her with this mess. Let’s see how long she lasts!” Thomas turned on his heel. At the threshold of the ward, he stopped, throwing a vicious glare over his shoulder. “I’m warning you, Freda. If you don’t get her to sign those forms today, don’t bother coming back to my house. You’re locked out!” With that, he dragged his mother down the corridor. I stood in the quiet of the ward, taking a slow, shaky breath. My mother was weeping silently on the bed, her shoulders shaking. “Freda, sweetie… I’m so sorry. I’m ruining your life.” I walked over and gently held her thin, worn hand. “Mom, stop. Don’t ever say that.” But she couldn’t stop crying. “Freda, listen to me. Go after him. Apologize. You need a husband, you can’t be on your own…” I didn’t go after him. Instead, I quietly buzzed the nurse to help freshen my mother’s linens, kissed her forehead, and stepped out. I took the elevator straight to the top floor—The Pavilion, the hospital’s exclusive private wing. I walked up to the polished mahogany reception desk and handed my newly issued black debit card to the receptionist. “I’d like to transfer my mother, Abigail Lance, to a private suite in this wing immediately. And I want the best ophthalmic surgeon in the country scheduled for her cataract removal as soon as possible.” The receptionist accepted the card with practiced grace and slid it through her terminal. A tiny green light flashed. “Of course, Mrs. Lance. We can arrange the transfer within the hour. Just to inform you, the private suites here are five thousand eight hundred dollars a day, and secure booking for a top-tier specialist will run approximately one hundred thousand dollars. Is that acceptable?” I didn’t blink. “Money is not an issue. Just get it done.” Once the paperwork was settled, I asked the head nurse to look after my mother for a few hours. I needed to go home. I needed to gather her medical records, my passport, and my critical documents. Half an hour later, I stood outside the townhouse we had shared for five years. I reached out and punched our anniversary into the keypad. “Beep, beep, beep. Access Denied.” I stared at the flashing red light. I tried again, slower this time. “Access Denied.” My throat went dry. I pulled out my phone and dialed Thomas. It rang for an agonizingly long time before connecting. “Hello?” a woman’s soft, purring voice answered. The sound hit me like a physical blow. The blood rushed to my ears, hot and deafening. “Who is this?” I demanded, my grip tightening on the phone. “Where is Thomas?” “Oh, you’re looking for Tommy? He’s in the shower,” she giggled, a light, musical sound that made me want to scream. “You must be Freda. Tommy said you’d be crawling back today. Honestly, I thought you had more pride than this. Calling to beg so soon?” I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. “Put him on the phone,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Oh, don’t get hostile with me, sweetie,” she said smoothly. “Tommy said you know exactly what you need to do to get back in. Otherwise, don’t bother.” The line went dead. I stood on the porch, staring at the front door. The brass monogrammed “L” we had bought at a flea market still hung there. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the lock clicked. The door swung open, and Martha stood there. Without a word, she shoved my old canvas suitcase over the threshold, letting it tumble down the steps. The heavy oak door slammed shut in my face. I stood there, the silence of the suburban street settling around me. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked away. Standing by the curb, I made a call to a trusted associate, then booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. I showered, washed off the hospital grime, and collapsed onto the bed. I had barely closed my eyes when my phone began to buzz against the nightstand. The screen lit up: “Thomas”. I stared at it, then slid to answer. “Hello?” It wasn’t his voice. It was the same woman from earlier, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Freda, hi. It’s Tiffany. Thomas’s girlfriend.” My fingers tightened around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “Thomas wanted me to tell you to stop making a scene,” she said, her tone dripping with pity. “Your mother is a lost cause anyway. Just take her home and let nature take its course. Stop wasting his money.” She let out another soft laugh. “Oh, and by the way, I’m staying at the townhouse now. I absolutely love the decor you chose. Thomas promised me that you won’t get a single penny of his assets in the divorce. We’re actually hosting our engagement dinner next weekend. If you have the nerve, you should come grab a drink.” In the background, I heard Thomas’s muffled, impatient voice: “Baby, why are you even talking to her? Hang up.” And the line clicked off. I stared at the dark screen, and to my surprise, a dry laugh escaped my throat. The next morning, as I was preparing to head back to the hospital, my phone rang. It was the nurse’s station at Mercy General. “Freda! You need to get here immediately! Your husband is in your mother’s room with two men. They’re trying to force her out!” The nurse’s voice was panicked, punctuated by the sound of glass breaking and angry shouting in the background. “He just pulled out her IV line!” I bolted upright, my arm sweeping a glass of water off the nightstand. It shattered on the floor. “I’m on my way!” I sprinted out of the lobby, hailed a cab, and threw a hundred-dollar bill at the driver. “Mercy General Hospital. Run the lights if you have to. I’ll pay double the ticket.” Fifteen minutes later, I threw open the door to my mother’s ward. The room was in complete disarray. The bedside table had been overturned, a plastic pitcher lay split on the floor with water pooling across the tile. My mother was cowering in the corner of the bed, clutching her hand where blood was dripping onto the sheets from her violently torn-out IV. Thomas stood there, flanked by two burly men in matching moving-company t-shirts. “Hurry up!” he was barking. “Get the old lady into the wheelchair!” I lunged forward, shoving one of the movers out of the way. “Thomas! Get your hands off her!” Thomas turned, a cold, smug sneer spreading across his face. “Ah, Freda. I already signed the forms for you. Today, this old burden is leaving this hospital.”

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My best friend sent me a screenshot of a wedding invitation. “Is this your husband?” her text read. I tapped the image to enlarge it. The screen showed a professional engagement portrait of a man and a woman smiling radiantly. I didn’t know the woman, but the man—I would recognize his face even if it were burned to ash. Tyler. My husband of five years. The elegant script on the digital invite read: “Join us for the wedding of Victoria Albright and Tyler Lawson. Next Saturday, twelve o’clock in the afternoon, at The Grandview Hotel.” A second later, a voice note from my best friend popped up: “I asked my husband about it. He said Tyler’s ex-wife ran off with someone else two years ago and took every penny he had. He said this is Tyler’s second marriage.” “Ran off?” But I was still here. I was sitting right here on our living room sofa. Just last week, we had gone to a movie together. He had bought two iced coffees, and when I told him I wanted mine with light sweet, he had smiled and said, “I know, babe. I always know.” And now, he was telling the entire world that I had run away with another man? That I had embezzled his money and vanished? On the day of the wedding, I kicked open the heavy double doors of the Grandview ballroom, caught my husband’s eye, and offered him a sweet, steady smile. “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice carrying over the music. “A wedding this grand, and you forgot to invite your own wife?” … I didn’t reply to my best friend’s messages. I just sat on the sofa, my ears ringing with a dull, heavy hum. Five years ago, when I married Tyler, his family was struggling. I didn’t ask for a dowry, an expensive ring, or a big ceremony. We simply went to city hall, got our license, and had a small dinner with our parents. That was it. He had held my hands that night and promised me that once things got better, we’d have a real wedding. He promised me the white dress. It had been five years, and we never had that wedding. Now, he was giving it to someone else. I pulled our marriage certificate out from the desk drawer. The two people in the photo looked so young, smiling with uncomplicated joy. Back then, Tyler had just quit his stable job to start his own logistics firm. He was so broke that when we went to a local diner, he’d count pennies to see if we could afford to share a slice of pie. I lived with him in a drafty apartment over a laundromat. There was no central AC in the sweltering summer, and the radiator hissed but barely gave off heat in the freezing winter. He’d wrap his arms around me on those cold nights and whisper, “I swear, Lydia, I’m going to give you the world.” A man’s promises. You hear them, and then you learn to let them fade. On Saturday, I drove to The Grandview Hotel. A line of luxury cars was parked at the valet. At the very front stood a sleek black Maybach, adorned with fresh white roses and satin ribbons. A massive, life-sized welcome sign stood next to the revolving doors. It featured the same photo from the invitation. Tyler’s arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, their heads tilted together, smiling with pure, effortless joy. That photo triggered a memory. The year we got married, I suggested we get professional couple’s portraits done, even if we went to a cheap local studio. He had brushed it off, saying, “Why waste the money? Marriage is about us, not showing off to strangers.” I never brought it up again, and neither did he. In five years, we didn’t have a single professional photo together. Not one. Now I realized the truth. It wasn’t that he hated photos. He just hated photos with me. Next to the welcome sign was a guest reception table. A young man and woman sat behind it, logging gifts and sorting a thick stack of white envelopes. I reached into my bag, pulled out two fifty-dollar bills, and walked over. The girl looked up, smiling politely. “Hello, welcome! May I have your name, please?” I thought about it for a second, then slid the bills across the table. “The ex-wife who ran off with another man.” The girl froze. “I’m sorry, what?” “Is this some kind of inside joke for the card?” the young man next to her asked, looking confused. I smiled. “Just make sure Tyler gets it. Tell him it’s a gift from his ex.” The young man paled, starting to say something, but I ignored him and walked straight past. The ballroom was massive. Easily forty tables, draped in champagne-colored silk, each centered with a towering floral arrangement and luxury party favors. I peeked at one of the favors—artisan chocolate truffles and a miniature bottle of designer perfume. Just one of these guest bags must have cost nearly fifty dollars. I quietly slipped into a seat at a table tucked in the back corner. The people at the adjacent table were talking loudly. From their conversation, they seemed to be relatives from the groom’s side. I lowered my head, letting my hair fall over my face, and listened. “Tyler really hit the jackpot this time. The Albrights are in international trade. We’re talking millions in annual revenue,” a middle-aged man boomed. A woman chimed in, “I know! I heard the bride went to school in London. She’s an only child. Tyler won’t have to work a hard day in his life after this.” “Didn’t he used to be married?” “Oh, yeah. But the first one wasn’t right. Sickly, poor thing. She passed away a couple of years ago.” “Bad luck. A drain on him.” “A drain on him.” I gripped the strap of my purse so hard my knuckles turned white. When his mother was hospitalized, I was the one who spent seven straight nights sleeping on a plastic chair in her room, helping her to the bathroom, cleaning her up. When his father broke his leg, I drove forty minutes after my own shifts to cook them dinner and clean their house before driving back to our cold apartment. Every holiday card, every thoughtful gift, every family dinner—I handled it all. And in their stories, I was the sickly, dead first wife who drained him? I looked toward the head table. Tyler’s parents were seated there, dressed in expensive custom formalwear, looking radiant. Relatives flocked to congratulate them. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, had a smile so wide the heavy powder on her cheeks looked ready to crack. “Oh, Beatrice, your Tyler has really done it,” a relative gushed. “Marrying into the Albright family, he’s set for life!” Beatrice held her relative’s hand, her voice loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear: “Isn’t she lovely? Victoria is so brilliant, educated in the UK, so refined and elegant. Not like the last one. She couldn’t even hold a proper conversation in public. We were embarrassed to take her anywhere.” My father-in-law joined in. “I never approved of that first marriage. Tyler was just stubborn.” “Well, she didn’t require a dowry or a proper wedding, so we tolerated it,” Beatrice sniffed. “But you get what you pay for, as they say. This time, we gave Victoria a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gift wire transfer. That’s a real daughter-in-law.” “You get what you pay for.” When I told them I didn’t need an expensive ring or a dowry because I wanted us to save for a home, they called me a “sensible, good girl.” They told me they would cherish me. Now, they spend a fortune on someone else and laugh about how cheap I was. My nails dug into my palms, the sharp pain keeping me grounded. A few tables away, men were passing around high-end cigars. I heard a familiar voice say, “Mr. Lawson, we saw that new Maybach in the company lot last month. And here you are, trying to play it low-key.” “Maybach.” Tyler used to take the subway or ride a rented city bike to meet me after work, claiming his truck was in the shop or he was trying to save on gas. He told me his logistics startup was barely scraping by, earning maybe three thousand a month. On rainy days, he’d refuse to call an Uber, dragging me into crowded buses, whispering, “Let’s save the fare so I can buy you those boots you wanted.” I believed him. He never bought the boots. I used my own salary to pay for groceries, utilities, and rent, hesitating for hours before buying myself a single sweater on sale. Meanwhile, he was sitting on millions, secretly funding an entirely separate life. Just as the anger began to burn through my veins, my phone buzzed in my lap. Caller ID: “Beatrice”. I hesitated for two seconds, then swiped to answer. “Lydia, I need you to transfer ten thousand dollars to my account right now. It’s urgent,” her voice snapped through the receiver, demanding and cold. “What kind of emergency costs ten thousand dollars, Beatrice?” “Don’t ask questions. A friend of mine and I are investing in a boutique business, and the owner needs the deposit today. Just send it.” A boutique business. I almost laughed out loud. “Beatrice, who is this friend? What’s the business? Have you signed a contract? Who carries the liability?” She sighed, clearly irritated. “Why are you asking so many questions? Are you trying to find an excuse not to give it to me? Let me remind you, this is my son’s hard-earned money you’re sitting on. I have every right to use it.” “Your son gives me twelve hundred dollars a month for household expenses,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Our mortgage is eight hundred. That leaves four hundred for groceries, electricity, and car insurance. Do you honestly think there’s ten thousand dollars lying around?” There was a brief pause on the other end, followed by an even colder tone. “That’s your problem to figure out. Just get the transfer done today.” “I don’t have it.” “You make over five thousand a month at your marketing firm. Where is your money going?” “Into keeping a roof over our heads.” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Keeping a roof over your heads? Or are you secretly sending it back to your own family? Let’s be honest, Lydia. In the five years you’ve been married to my son, we haven’t seen a single benefit from your family. Your parents are practically broke. If you weren’t so plain and compliant, Tyler would never have settled for you in the first place.” I took a deep breath, clutching the phone tightly. “Beatrice, you begged me to marry him. You told me his business was failing, that no other woman would stand by his side, and asked me to have patience. Do you want me to play back the voice notes from five years ago to jog your memory?” The line went dead. She had hung up on me. I slipped the phone back into my purse, my hands trembling. Not from fear, but from pure, unadulterated rage. The music in the ballroom shifted to a romantic, sweeping instrumental. The MC took the stage to warm up the crowd. I didn’t stay seated. I stood up and walked toward the bridal suite. At the end of the long, carpeted hallway, the door to the suite was cracked open. The bride, Victoria, sat in front of a vanity mirror while two makeup artists adjusted her hair. Three or four bridesmaids in champagne silk dresses fluttered around her, chattering like excited birds. I stood just outside, the doorframe shielding most of my body. One bridesmaid leaned over Victoria’s shoulder, staring at her hand. “Oh my god, Victoria, it’s huge! Is that three carats? Four?” Victoria smiled, a soft, modest expression. “I didn’t ask. Tyler just said he wanted me to have the best. He told me if I liked it, the price didn’t matter.” “You two are literally goals!” the bridesmaid squealed. Another bridesmaid chimed in, “I heard Tyler’s company cleared over a million in net distributions last year. Is that true?” Victoria giggled. “Something like that. I don’t really handle the corporate accounts. He told me all the household finances will be transferred to my name anyway, so I don’t have to stress about it.” Over a million dollars. Managed by her. Meanwhile, I spent my weekends driving to two different grocery stores just to compare prices and save thirty dollars on the weekly bill. He wore custom-tailored suits, while I wore fifteen-dollar t-shirts because he told me, “As the face of the company, I need to look successful, Lydia. Please understand.” I understood for five years. And my reward was being declared dead. The first bridesmaid lowered her voice. “By the way… didn’t Tyler have a first wife?” Victoria’s smile faltered slightly. She glanced at the door, then whispered, “Yes. But she ran off with someone else two years ago. Took a chunk of his business accounts with her.” “Ugh, seriously? How classless. Who leaves a guy like Tyler for some random loser? Good riddance, honestly. She sounds terrible.” “Yeah,” Victoria agreed softly. “He hates talking about it. It really broke him. So please, don’t mention it to him. He acts strong, but he’s incredibly vulnerable under it all.” The bridesmaids nodded solemnly, their faces filled with pity. “Ex-wife who ran off with another man.” Just last week, we sat at his parents’ kitchen table. His mother had cooked pot roast. He put a piece on my plate and told me I was working too hard. My father was in the hospital last month, and Tyler had driven me there, waiting in the parking lot for two hours without a single complaint. And all the while, he was spinning a web of lies to his new social circle, making me the villain who ruined him. As I reached for the doorknob to step inside, heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Tyler was walking toward the suite, flanked by three of his business associates. He wore a sharp, midnight-blue tuxedo. His hair was perfectly styled, his cufflinks catching the bright hallway lights. He looked more polished and confident than I had ever seen him at home. One of his colleagues clapped him on the shoulder. “Man, congratulations! Four years of playing the long game, and you finally landed the Albright empire.” Tyler offered a humble smile. “Just lucky, I guess. Right place, right time.” “Lucky.” I stepped back into the shadows of the alcove as they passed. He didn’t even glance in my direction. He was too wrapped up in his conversation. “Victoria’s father already promised to handle the international distribution channels,” Tyler was saying. “I’ll just focus on domestic operations.” “Must be nice. You just skipped twenty years of grinding.” “Like I said, lucky.” Their voices faded as they walked into the suite. Four years. He had been with her for four years. I did the math in my head. Four years ago… That was the winter I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. I had a fever of 104, vomiting continuously. When I called him, crying, he told me he was in Chicago securing a critical shipping contract and couldn’t get a flight back. I spent the night alone in the ER. The nurse had to change my IV, and the woman in the next bed brought me a cup of warm water. He wasn’t in Chicago. He was with Victoria. We had been married for five years, and he had been with Victoria for four. Which meant the betrayal started almost immediately after we signed our marriage license. And what was I doing during that second year? I was managing the renovation of our starter home. In the dead of summer, I walked through dusty tile warehouses, arguing with contractors, negotiating with cabinet makers to save every penny. He told me he was “too overwhelmed” with work and asked me to handle it. I didn’t mind the work. I thought I was building our future. But he was busy managing two households, two women. A master of time management. Truly impressive. I took a slow, deep breath, letting the cold air clear my head, and walked back into the ballroom. The lights had dimmed. A single spotlight focused on the grand entrance. Victoria stood at the doors, clutching her father’s arm. She had changed into a spectacular tulle ballgown with a massive train that swept behind her. Two flower girls stood behind, carefully holding the fabric. The MC’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise and welcome the bride!” The crowd stood. The music swelled. The spotlight followed her. Victoria walked slowly down the aisle. Her father took measured, heavy steps, as if delivering something priceless. At the altar, Tyler stood waiting, his eyes glistening with tears, his lips trembling with emotion. I stood at the very back row, refusing to sit. When Victoria reached the altar, her father placed her hand in Tyler’s. He whispered a few words of blessing, lost to the crowd. Tyler nodded, a tear slipping down his cheek. The MC smiled, raising his microphone. “Tyler, looking at your beautiful bride today, is there anything you’d like to say to her?” Tyler took the microphone, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve waited four years for this day. Victoria, thank you for choosing me. Thank you for making me whole.” The guests erupted into applause. Behind me, a woman whispered, “Oh, it’s so romantic. Look at him, he’s actually crying.” Four years. He waited four years for her. Then what did my five years mean? The MC kept the mood light, asking, “We know you went through a difficult period before finding Victoria. How did you manage to heal and move forward?” The room quieted. Tyler’s expression softened into a look of practiced melancholy. He lowered his voice. “My previous relationship was… painful. My ex-wife was unfaithful. She cleared out my personal accounts and walked away when I needed her most. I was entirely broken.” “But Victoria was my light in the dark. She stood by me when I had nothing. Without her, I wouldn’t be standing here today.” He turned to Victoria, his eyes filled with devotion. Flawless. Moving. I began to walk toward the stage. The lights lining the runway were blinding, but my simple black dress kept me hidden in the shadows of the outer aisle. Nobody noticed me. Step by step, I approached the altar, stepping onto the low stage platform. The MC saw me first. He froze, the microphone slipping slightly in his hand, causing a sharp squeal of feedback through the speakers. Guests began to look up, murmuring in confusion. Tyler followed the MC’s gaze, turning around. The expression on his face is something I will carry to my grave. First, absolute blankness. Then, his pupils dilated in sheer terror. The color drained from his face, leaving him a sickly, ghostly pale. His lips parted, but his body remained completely frozen, as if pinned to the floor. “L… Lydia…” the word caught in his throat, coming out as a strangled whisper. The entire room of three hundred guests fell dead silent. I offered him a sweet, gentle smile, looking directly into his eyes. The spotlight caught him, while I stood at the edge of the shadow, perfectly visible to everyone. “Sweetheart,” I said, my voice clear and steady. “A wedding this grand, and you forgot to invite your own wife?”

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I’ve been married to Oliver for three years. Scrolling through our recent text logs, the longest message from him is “Not coming home for dinner tonight.” No nicknames, no emojis, and every period is in its proper, formal place. When we got married, we made a pact to respect each other’s boundaries. We both knew the passcodes to each other’s phones, but we had never once snooped. I always thought that was just who he was—logical, private, a man of few words. Until tonight. He was in the shower, and his phone was lying on the sofa. The screen lit up. I didn’t mean to look. But the banner notification was too bright to ignore. A reminder from his Notes app: “Baby’s birthday in one week.” My own birthday had passed two months ago. Undetected. … I hesitated for a few seconds before picking up his phone. My thumb moved on instinct. It was a note titled “Things to Remember for Baby”, filled with bullet points. “Best pain relievers for cramps (minimal side effects).” “How to improve circulation for cold hands and feet.” “Vitamins for stress-related hair loss.” “Foolproof lipstick brands for gifts.” Line after line, all of it recently compiled. The timestamps began two months ago, growing more frequent by the week. I scrolled up and saw the address of an incredibly expensive French restaurant he’d saved last month. There was even a query: “What kind of cologne do women prefer on a man?” But he had never asked me any of those things. The last time my cramps were so severe that I curled into a ball on the sofa, pale and shivering, he had merely glanced at me with mild annoyance. “Drink some water,” he’d muttered, before turning back to his laptop to edit a slide deck. When I came home past midnight after working overtime, my hands cold as iron, I reached out to touch him. He flinched away, brow furrowed. “You’re freezing. Get off me.” He had never bought me lipstick, never gifted me a scarf, and certainly had never taken me to that French restaurant. I gently placed the phone back where it belonged. I didn’t confront him. Not because I didn’t want to, but because there was no longer any point in asking. The next morning, as soon as he left for work, I opened his desk drawer in the study. Inside was an unopened velvet box. It was a rich forest green with a gold-embossed logo. I opened it to find a bottle of perfume. Beneath it lay a receipt dated five days ago. I slipped the perfume back inside, slid the drawer shut, and pulled out my phone to contact a divorce lawyer. That evening, Oliver came home two hours earlier than usual. He held a pastry bag, his movements a bit hurried as he kicked off his shoes. “You’re home early,” I said. “Things were quiet at the office.” He set the bag on the dining table. “I got you a treat. From that bakery you mentioned.” I froze. The last time I’d mentioned that bakery was two months ago. We had walked past it, and I’d lingered at the window, murmuring, “I heard their chestnut cake is amazing.” Oliver had been replying to an email, not even looking up as he hummed in response. I had assumed he hadn’t heard me. “What made you think of this?” I asked him. He opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water, his back to me. “Just drove past and saw it.” I looked down at the box. The sticker on top read: “Earl Grey Crepe Cake.” Not the chestnut cake. He’d bought the wrong one. It wasn’t on his way, and he hadn’t suddenly remembered. He had probably gone somewhere specific, grabbed a box on his way out, and hadn’t even bothered to check the flavor. “I’ll save it for tomorrow,” I said quietly, placing the box in the fridge. “It’s a bit late for sweets.” He murmured an agreement and headed straight to his study. I stood in the kitchen, watching the refrigerator door slowly seal shut. Three months ago, he was promoted to director, taking over a new project team. There was a girl on his team named Phoebe. I’d met her once—slender, with long hair and a soft, breathy voice. At the time, Oliver had mentioned her casually: “Phoebe’s really detail-oriented.” I hadn’t thought twice about it. But looking back, I remembered how the corner of his mouth had tilted upward when he said her name. Late that night, I lay alone in bed while Oliver remained in his study, redrafting some proposal. I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, the phrases from his note looping endlessly in my mind. “What medication for cramps.” The last time I was breaking out in a cold sweat from the pain, his entire contribution was “drink some hot water.” He hadn’t even poured it for me. “Circulation remedies for cold hands.” My feet were always like ice in the winter. Once, I had tried to press them against his back for warmth under the covers. He’d flinched away instinctively. “God, you’re freezing. Keep to your side.” “Vitamins for thinning hair.” Last year, when my stress levels were through the roof, my hair started falling out in clumps. My pillow was constantly covered in loose strands. He never asked if I was okay. Instead, he’d grumbled about the mess. “Can you clean up after yourself? Your hair is literally everywhere.” I closed my eyes, feeling a tiny, hollow space opening in my chest, expanding slow and steady. It hadn’t shattered all at once. It had been chipped away, bit by bit, by every careless remark, every cold look, every subtle flinch. The absolute confirmation came that Saturday. Oliver told me he had to head into the office to wrap up some weekend work and told me not to wait up for dinner. I said okay. Around three in the afternoon, my best friend, Maeve, sent me a photo along with a voice memo: “Hey, isn’t this your husband?” In the photo, Oliver was sitting in a sunlit café inside a high-end downtown mall. A girl sat across from him, looking down, holding a couple of plush toys in her arms. Oliver was speaking, gesturing gently with one hand. I recognized her immediately. Phoebe. The picture was slightly blurry, but I still noticed the two drinks on their table—both topped with thick, sweet layers of foam. Oliver never drank sweet coffee. He took his black. Apparently, he had acquired a new taste. I stared at the photo for a long time before typing back a simple response: “Got it.” I didn’t call. I didn’t text him. By the time he came home that evening, the untouched crepe cake was already at the bottom of the trash can. As he took off his shoes, his eyes fell on the cake box in the trash. He frowned. “Why’d you throw it away?” “It was past its expiration date,” I replied smoothly. “Not safe to eat anymore.” He gave me a lingering look but didn’t push. I remained on the couch, not moving to run his bath like I usually did. He seemed slightly thrown by the change, but he simply poured himself a glass of water and sat down. “I have a business trip next week,” he said out of nowhere. “Where to?” “Seattle. We have to coordinate with a local client. It should take about four days.” “Who’s going with you?” He paused, his voice completely flat. “Just a couple of people from the project team. You met one of them before—Phoebe.” I nodded. “Have a safe trip.” He said he would, then got up and went to the bathroom. The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, I reached for his phone. This time, there was no hesitation. Once the illusion is shattered, things like boundaries and trust lose all meaning. I unlocked the screen and opened the Notes app, skipping straight to his recent edits. The latest bullet point read: “Popular restaurants for girls near Pike Place, Seattle.” Above that: “Motion sickness remedies for flights.” And above that: “Baby’s Birthday Itinerary.” He was going to spend his business trip celebrating her birthday. I locked the phone and set it back down. Lying in bed, listening to the drone of the shower, a memory floated to the surface. On my birthday two months ago, Oliver had completely forgotten. It was only when he walked in that night and saw a small cake on the counter that it hit him. “Work’s been insane lately,” he’d apologized, looking sheepish. “I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.” The next day, he took me to a chain diner at the local strip mall—the kind of place where a meal costs fifteen dollars. I ordered, while he spent the entire dinner replying to emails. And that cake on the counter? I had bought it for myself. Back then, I had made excuses for him. “He’s just not the romantic type,” I’d told myself. “He’s bad at expressing himself, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care.” Now, I finally saw the truth. He wasn’t incapable of effort. He just chose not to direct any of it toward me. The night before his trip, Oliver was packing. I sat on the edge of the mattress, watching him fold his shirts into the suitcase. “Oliver?” “Yeah?” “Is there anything you want to tell me?” He didn’t look up. “Like what?” I waited a beat. “Like… any special plans for this trip?” He zipped the suitcase, stood up, and looked at me. “It’s a business trip, Violet. What special plans would there be?” I didn’t say another word. The morning he left, I walked him to the door. As he slipped on his shoes, he stopped, reached out, and gently patted my hair. “I’ll bring you back something nice.” He hadn’t touched me like that in ages. I stood frozen in the hallway as the door clicked shut. The touch felt incredibly alien—like an actor rehearsing a gesture they hadn’t quite mastered. Seattle was warmer than our city. The night he arrived, he texted: “Just landed. All good.” I replied with a brief “Okay.” Then I opened Instagram and checked Phoebe’s profile. She had posted a story of a sleek, modern window view. “Day one in Seattle,” the caption read, with a geotag at a boutique design hotel downtown near Capitol Hill. Oliver had texted me the address of a standard Hilton. He wasn’t staying there. Or, more accurately, he hadn’t told me where he was actually staying. On the second day of his trip, I started going through our old things. From the back of the closet, I pulled down a dusty shoebox filled with relics of our three years together: movie stubs, museum tickets, a faded Polaroid. The Polaroid was from our first year, taken during a trip to Cape Cod. He had his arm wrapped tightly around my shoulder, and my eyes were crinkled with pure joy. He was smiling too—softly, but his eyes were alive. I flipped the photo over. On the back, I’d written in silver ink: “Oliver & Violet. Day 236. The beach.” God. Back then, he actually reached for my hand. He would text to ask if I’d eaten when I was working late. He’d spend weeks dropping subtle hints to find out what I wanted for my birthday. What happened? He got promoted, got busy, and the space between us grew. My messages would sit unanswered for hours, sometimes ignored entirely. When I asked him about it, he’d shrug. “Saw it, forgot to reply.” “Forgot to reply.” And I had actually believed him. I placed the photo back in the box. I didn’t destroy it. It wasn’t out of lingering affection; I just didn’t see the point in erasing my own history. What happened, happened. The good and the bad belonged to me. I taped the box shut, labeled it, and pushed it deep into the storage closet. On the third day, Maeve sent me another picture. This time, it was a cozy upscale bistro. Oliver and Phoebe were sitting across from each other. In front of her was a beautiful little chocolate torte with a single, flickering candle. Oliver was laughing in the photo. It was a laugh I used to know so well. During our first six months, he used to look at me just like that. I couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that warmth had faded, leaving only a polite, hollow mask. Maeve texted: “Can you believe the odds? I walked in to grab a table and there they were.” I replied: “Wow, small world.” At eleven that night, Oliver texted: “Exhausted after a long day of meetings. Going to crash early.” I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, another text popped up: “You’ve been quiet lately. Everything okay?” I paused, then typed: “Just busy.” “Busy with what?” he asked. “Packing,” I wrote. He didn’t reply after that. He probably assumed I was tidying up the apartment. He had no idea I was packing my life away. I couldn’t sleep that night. But it wasn’t out of grief—it was a strange, absolute stillness. Like a heavy stone that had been dangling over my chest for three years had finally dropped. The anxiety of waiting was gone. Lying in the dark, I replayed the tape of our marriage. The first time I met his mother, she’d made a passive-aggressive comment about my modest family background, and Oliver had sat there in silence. The day I got a promotion and a raise and wanted to celebrate, he’d waved it off, saying, “It’s just middle management, let’s not make a big deal out of it.” When I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis, he stayed for twenty minutes before checking his watch and leaving because of a “crucial meeting.” None of these things were catastrophic on their own. But they accumulated, layer after layer, freezing the marriage solid. On the day he returned, I went to the airport to pick him up. As he rolled his suitcase through the arrival gate, I spotted a boutique paper bag in his hand. Not a duty-free bag, but one from a high-end department store. He startled slightly when he saw me. “What are you doing here? I told you not to worry about picking me up.” “I was in the area,” I said. He handed me the bag. “Brought you a little souvenir.” I took it, but I didn’t open it. On the drive home, the bag sat on my lap as he navigated the highway. “Not going to open it?” he asked. I reached in and pulled out a camel-colored cashmere scarf. It was incredibly soft, the price tag still attached with a neat four-digit figure. “Do you like it?” he asked. “It’s beautiful,” I said. The scarf was identical to a style he’d saved in his notes weeks before his trip. But the thing was, I never wore scarves. He hadn’t bought it for me in Seattle on a whim. It was something he had picked out for Phoebe, but for some reason, he had ended up giving it to me instead. It was a leftover gift. A consolation prize. Once we got home, I tucked the scarf into the darkest corner of my closet. While Oliver showered, I picked up his phone one last time. The note titled “Baby” had been updated the night before. “She loved the bistro,” it read. “Ate the cake and said she was incredibly touched.” Above that: “She thanked me for taking care of her.” And from the morning of their departure: “Make sure she takes her Dramamine before the flight.” I locked the screen and sat in the quiet living room, motionless. I made my decision then. It wasn’t a sudden impulse. It was the weight of every ignored text, every cold look, every unmet expectation, and every unshed tear from the last three years, finally pushing me over the edge.

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