1 For as long as I can remember, Mom and I played the dying game. The first time I found her lying still and breathless, I panicked and cried. But eventually, I learned it was just her way of teasing, and I stopped being scared. At the cemetery, a solemn silence hung over the freshly dug grave and waiting coffin. Everyone was crying—except me. I stared at the flag-draped casket and thought, She’s really committed this time. Even Dad’s crying for real. As the coffin lowered, choked sobs rose around us. I tugged Dad’s hand. “Is the game over? I need to wait for Mom at home.” He hugged me tightly, tears falling. “Janice, Mom’s not coming back.” I touched my dog tags and shook my head. “She promised she’d always come back.” No one believed me. They said I was sick. Soon after, Dad brought a woman home and said she was my new mother. But I knew Mom was alive—I’d seen her. Since no one believed me, I decided to find her myself. … Rain hammered against the black umbrellas, a dull, relentless drumming. The cemetery was a sea of solemn black. Suppressed sobs drifted from all directions, and every face was etched with grief, every eye red-rimmed. Dad’s shoulders seemed to have stooped, his body trembling as tears dripped from his chin. This round of the game was a big one. Even uncles I rarely saw were here. One of them, a soldier and a friend of my dad’s, knelt down and placed Mom’s dog tags around my neck. “Janice, this is the only thing your mom left behind. You keep it safe.” Shovel after shovel of dirt fell, covering the flag. Everyone was lost in their sorrow. Except for me. I was waiting for Mom to leap out from behind a gravestone, laughing as she swept me into her arms, spinning me around. “Fooled you! My Janice is so brave!” We’d played this game so many times. She’d hidden under the bed, in the closet, once even inside an old trunk in the attic. And every single time, I would find her, and we’d collapse into a heap of laughter. “This round of hide-and-seek,” she’d always say, “Janice wins again!” So, this time would be no different. Even if it felt more formal, with more people playing along. It had to be part of the game, a new rule Mom made up to make it feel more real. After the mourners began to leave, I asked my dad, “Is the game over? I want to go home and wait for Mom.” He pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt. His voice was a raw, broken thing. “Janice, Mom isn’t coming back.” I looked at the headstone, stubbornly refusing. “She’ll be back when the game is over.” “There is no game…” Dad’s arms tightened violently. “Your mother was killed in action! She’s dead! She is never, ever coming back!” I could barely breathe. I thought maybe he’d forgotten the rules, so I pushed at his shoulder to remind him. “But Dad, that was just Mom’s uniform they buried. It wasn’t her.” His crying stopped abruptly, as if his throat had been squeezed shut. His lips trembled, but no words came out. Just then, the soldier who gave me the dog tags pulled him aside. The rain was loud, but I strained my ears and caught his words. “She was too close to the blast. There… there wasn’t enough left to piece together.” “We only found the combat uniform. Barely stitched it back together.” “Sully, this is all we could do. I’m so sorry.” 2 I listened, stunned into silence. I knew what death was. Mom had told me before. “Death is when you become a star in the sky, Janice. You shine so bright, but Mommy can never touch you or hold you again.” So, death meant no more touching, no more hugs. Dad believed Mom was dead, that he could never hold her again. So, when he looked like he could barely stand, he pulled another woman into a tight embrace. He grieved for a month, and then the sorrow on his face began to fade. One day, the woman, Karen, moved into our house with her son, who was two years younger than me. “Janice, say hello to your new mom.” Dad took my hand, trying to lead me to her. I clamped my mouth shut, staring stubbornly at the floor as I shook my head. “I only have one mom. She’s just playing a very long game of hide-and-seek.” Karen looked awkward and quickly tried to smooth things over. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You can just call me Karen.” Dad took me to a psychiatrist, who said I had PTSD. I put the pills in my mouth in front of him, but as soon as he left, I spit them into the toilet. Grown-ups are the ones who need medicine, I thought, watching the water swirl. I’m not sick. You’re all just silly. Mom fooled every one of you. You have no idea how amazing she is. Eventually, Dad found out I wasn’t taking the pills. “Janice! Why aren’t you taking your medicine?!” His voice shook with anger. “Do you want to stay like this forever? Out of your mind?” I just stared at him in silence, my resolve unshaken. The standoff ended with him slamming my door and storming out. His patience wore thin with each failed attempt to “fix” me. His attention shifted more and more to Leo, Karen’s son. He’d listen to Leo talk about school, take him to the office, give him little projects. The succession plan that had once been centered on me quietly found a new target. I didn’t like Leo. He was always sneaking into my room and messing with my things. When I told Dad, he just said, “He’s just a little boy, Janice. You’re the big sister, you need to let him have his way sometimes.” One day, Leo broke the last model airplane Mom and I had built together. I exploded, screaming at him to get out of my house. Dad’s rebuke was harsher than I’d ever heard it. “Janice! How could you speak to your brother like that! Go to your room! No dinner for you tonight!” It was the first time he had ever punished me for someone else’s sake. I grew quieter, more withdrawn. I would spend hours alone in my room, tracing the metal of the dog tags around my neck, staring out the window. The disappointment in Dad’s eyes deepened as he looked at my mediocre report cards. The formal dinners he once took me to became events for Leo. The custom-made suits were now only ordered in his size. One night, Dad came home late. The moment the door opened, I heard his laughter mingling with Karen’s, and Leo’s proud voice. “Dad, everyone at the gala said I have your presence.” Dad ruffled Leo’s hair. “Of course you do. You’re my son. The company will be yours one day. You’re much more capable than your sister.” He said it just as he saw me sitting silently in the living room. A flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “Janice, you’re still up?” I nodded. “Getting some water.” “Dad, since I did so well tonight, can I have a reward?” Leo’s voice was bright. Dad’s attention snapped back to him, his eyes full of adoration. “Anything you want. You name it.” Leo pointed a finger straight at me. “I want that! The tag on her necklace!” 3 Dad’s smile froze on his face. I clutched the dog tags, taking a step back, my eyes wary. “Leo, that’s something very important to your sister,” Dad said, his tone hesitant. “How about I buy you the newest remote-control plane? Or that big Lego set?” “No! I want that one! That tag is cool!” Leo stomped his foot and lunged, trying to snatch it from my neck. “Get away from me!” I shoved him hard. Caught off guard, he stumbled backward and cracked his elbow on the corner of the coffee table. He immediately started wailing. Karen rushed to scoop him up. “Janice, he’s just a child! How could you push him like that?” Dad strode forward, his finger pointed at my face. “Janice! What is wrong with you? Apologize to your brother right now!” I stared back at him, defiant. “He is not to touch Mom’s things!” “Give it to me!” Dad roared, his anger finally boiling over. “Take off the dog tags and give them to your brother!” I stared at him in disbelief, my voice rising to a shriek. “Why should I? This is what Mom left for me! Have you forgotten her already?” “She wasn’t even gone before you had your arms around another woman! And now you want to give the only thing she left me to your precious new son?” “Shut your mouth!” he bellowed. A sharp, ringing slap cracked across my face. My cheek flared, hot and stinging. A flicker of regret crossed Dad’s eyes. He took a step toward me, reaching out. I recoiled, my gaze turning cold and distant, as if I were looking at a stranger. His fingers curled into a fist. “You live in a fantasy, Janice,” he said, his voice hard. “One day, you’re going to regret this.” I ran to my room and slammed the door. The phantom sting of the slap remained on his palm. He paced, uneasy. Karen put a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re worried, you should go check on her.” He shook his head. “It’s time she faced reality. She can’t live in the past, in some made-up world. Leave her be. A few days of this, and she’ll come around and apologize.” The next morning, I didn’t come out for breakfast. “Should I take some food to her room?” Karen asked. “No,” Dad said sternly. “She’s too willful. We can’t coddle her. She needs to learn there are consequences for disrespect.” On the third day, I still hadn’t appeared. Dad assumed I was still sulking and paid it no mind. When my name flashed on his phone during a meeting, he declined the call, deciding it would teach me a lesson. It wasn’t until the fourth day that Karen spoke up, her voice hesitant. “I don’t think there’s been any sound from Janice’s room. And her food is untouched.” Dad finally unlocked the door. The room was empty. “She probably ran off to a friend’s house. Didn’t even bother to tell us! She’s getting more and more out of control!” Dad fumed, calling my friends one by one, but learned nothing. The next moment, the school called. “Is this Janice Sullivan’s father? Janice hasn’t been in class for three days. Is everything alright at home?” The color drained from Dad’s face. Panic seized him. He hung up and immediately dialed my number. The phone rang for a long time before a flippant male voice answered. “Well, well. You finally remember you have a daughter? You’re a busy man, Mr. Sullivan. Couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone.” My father’s blood ran cold. His voice trembled. “Who is this? Where is my daughter?”

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My childhood sweetheart, the prodigal son, had returned—all for a good girl. To prove his sincerity, he bought a box of condoms for when we were together. As I tore open the wrapper, I feigned indifference. “Who is she?” Andy Wheaton leaned against the headboard, a smirk playing on his lips. “Your stepsister. Never thought I’d be the one to fall for her.” “The little innocent… she doesn’t even know how to smoke. I gave her a shotgun, and she coughed for ages.” “Innocent as hell.” 1 My hand trembled violently, the condom falling from my fingers onto the bed. For a moment, my mind went blessedly, terrifyingly blank. For years, Andy had been surrounded by a revolving door of beautiful women, but not one had ever made him want to settle down. Not even me, who had chased him for five years, only ever earning the title of “friend with benefits.” But I never imagined he would end up with my stepsister. And I certainly never imagined he would change his ways for her. Perhaps the helplessness was written all over my face. Andy let out a short, mocking laugh. “Didn’t see that coming, did you?” “Never thought I’d be the one to fall for her, either.” He took a drag from his cigarette, as if savoring a memory. “That clueless girl… doesn’t even know how to smoke.” “I gave her a shotgun, and she coughed for ages.” “So damn pure.” He shook his head, a genuine smile on his face. I swallowed the acid rising in my throat. “Why her?” I managed to ask. Andy stubbed out his cigarette, his voice unusually serious. “Zoe is a good girl. I don’t want to let her down.” My heart stuttered. It felt as if all the strength had been siphoned from my body. “Forget it. You can just take the pill tonight,” Andy said, pushing me down onto the bed and expertly unclasping my bra. “Zoe’s too innocent. I’ve been holding back for days, afraid to even touch her.” It was the same practiced foreplay, the same familiar moves, but my body was cold, devoid of any desire. I pushed him away and stood up in silence. I put on my clothes, my shoes. Then, steeling myself against the pain, I feigned a casual air. “Andy, we’re done.” He paused for a beat, then scoffed, unconcerned. “Stella, you think you can just walk away from me?” I didn’t answer, just grabbed my purse and started packing my makeup. “Fine. Get the hell out,” he snapped, his voice turning cold, laced with the annoyance of a man whose fun had been interrupted. My nails dug into my palms, but I walked out of that room. Andy could fall for anyone. But it couldn’t be Zoe Lynn. Zoe and I were polar opposites. I loved to party, to chase thrills. I was just like Andy—wild and untamable by nature. Zoe, on the other hand, had always been the quiet, obedient good girl who followed all the rules. That’s why I’d gone to rescue her when some lowlifes lured her to a bar. That day, they forced drinks down my throat until I was blind drunk, but I managed to get her out of there. But she, panicking about a homework assignment her teacher had just announced, abandoned me, drunk and disoriented, at a bus stop. The thugs who’d been chasing us dragged me back to a hotel room. Even after all these years, I can’t bring myself to relive that night. I’d always scoffed at the idea of virginity, but there’s a world of difference between choosing to and being forced. Afterward, my body broken and weak from the night-long assault, I found Zoe and slapped her across the face. She burst into tears, her voice a hysterical accusation. “All you ever care about is yourself! If I didn’t turn in that assignment, my teacher would have punished me!” From that moment on, I despised her. And Andy knew all of this. 2 I couldn’t accept that he was with her. My only option was to tune out, to avoid any news of him. But on his birthday, he sent me an invitation as if nothing had changed. Maybe I just needed to see it with my own eyes. Maybe I just couldn’t let go. I went. But when I pushed open the door to the private room, my heart skipped a beat. On the sofa, Andy had Zoe pinned against the back, kissing her with a fierce, brutal passion. I could see the veins on the back of his hand standing out from the force of his grip. The room was full of their friends, cheering and hollering. I was the only one whose face was drained of color. For all the years we’d been together, Andy had always been in control, coolly watching me lose myself in pleasure. This was the first time I had ever seen him lose himself, swept away by his own desire. When the kiss finally ended, Zoe’s face was flushed, her body limp as she leaned against his chest. Andy’s throat bobbed. “How are you so damn innocent?” he chuckled, his voice thick with affection. And then he saw me. The smile on his face faltered, just for a second. I said nothing, my face probably a ghostly white. Someone pulled me into a drinking game. The next round, Zoe lost. The penalty was a pole dance. Zoe had always been conservative. At the suggestion, her face went pale, and she looked to Andy for help. The crowd buzzed with excitement. “Come on, Andy, you’re not gonna let your girl do that, are you?” He wasn’t. He tilted his chin at me, his posture lazy and arrogant. “Zoe’s too shy for that kind of thing.” “You do it for her.” Zoe was too shy. And what was I? A stone settled in my chest, heavy and suffocating. I forced the bitterness down and sneered, “If you can’t handle the stakes, why play the game?” Zoe’s face paled further. She bit her lip and then, her voice trembling, she said, “Stella… are you still holding a grudge because I got you raped?” She emphasized the word raped, making it impossible to miss. A wave of murmurs went through the room as all eyes turned to me, filled with a strange, prurient curiosity. I froze, shocked that she would rip open that wound in front of everyone. She wasn’t done. “How long are you going to hate me for that? I didn’t have a choice! You can’t make it all about you!” “Besides,” she added, her voice rising in self-pity, as if I were the one attacking her. “You sleep around anyway. What’s one more or one less?” The agony of that night washed over me again, a phantom pain that made my whole body tremble. I snapped. Before anyone could react, I grabbed my glass and threw the drink in her face. “Ah!” Zoe shrieked, dissolving into tears as she threw herself into Andy’s arms. I laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Zoe, you’re as selfish as you’ve always been. I was trying to save you—” “That’s enough.” Andy cut me off, his voice unreadable. He took off his jacket and draped it over Zoe’s shoulders. Then he looked at me, his smile still roguish and charming, but the impatience in his eyes was a blade. “Stella, that was years ago.” “Are you really still hung up on that?” My heart didn’t just sink. It shattered. 3 When it first happened, I wasn’t like the girls in the movies who felt they’d lost their purity and tried to end their lives. But the whispers, the judgmental stares from everyone around me… they left me feeling lost and utterly alone. The worst moment was when a group of thugs from school cornered me at the gate and asked me if being raped felt good. Everyone else just stood by and watched. Everyone except Andy. He flew at them like a man possessed, fighting them all at once. He was beaten until he could barely see straight, but he never stopped shielding me. He broke his hand that day. A few of the thugs ended up in the emergency room. And for me, a desperate, foolish love began to bloom, filling every corner of my teenage heart. Later, during our senior year, the most critical time for our studies, he transferred schools just to be with me, to help me through that dark period. Once, lost in a fog of self-doubt, I whispered to him, “Was it really my fault? Am I… dirty now?” He had just laughed, a wild, reckless sound. “Dirty? Hell no. The moment that bastard gets out of prison, I’ll kill him myself.” And just like that, I became a moth, flying straight into the flame that was Andy Wheaton. Even when his philandering left me burned and broken, I refused to let go. But now, he was asking me if I was still hung up on it. In that moment, looking into the careless cold of his eyes, I suddenly felt tired. So incredibly tired. I don’t remember how I got out of that room. It must have been a pathetic sight. I had chased Andy for so long. I had even stayed in this city, alone, just for him. It was time to let go. I quit my job and, on a whim, bought a ticket home. After packing up my life, I went to Andy’s villa one last time. I had a lot of things there, things that now needed to disappear, along with all the love and lust. But when I opened the door, I froze. The living room was a scene of debauchery. Clothes and used condoms were strewn everywhere. One, two, three… each one a testament to the intensity of their passion. From the bedroom, I could hear the soft, sultry moans of a woman, punctuated by a man’s guttural groans of pleasure. I blinked, my eyes dry, and took a long moment to suppress the wave of pain churning in my stomach. Maybe it was because the woman with Andy was Zoe, the person I hated most in the world. That’s why this, something I should have been used to, felt like a knife twisting in my gut. A few moments later, the bedroom door opened. Zoe gasped, clutching at her naked body. “What are you doing here?!” I forced myself not to look at the raw, love-bitten marks covering her skin. Just then, my phone buzzed. Before I could even look at it, Zoe snatched it from my hand. “Are you taking pictures of me?!” she demanded, her voice rising. Her reaction was so absurd I let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Do I need to?” But she reacted as if I’d struck a nerve, slapping me hard across the face. “You just want to ruin my reputation! You want to make me as dirty as you are!” My head snapped to the side, my cheek burning. I couldn’t understand it. If it weren’t for me, she would have become the “dirty woman” she was so terrified of being. How could she treat me like this? 4 I snatched my phone back and raised my hand to strike her. I was never one to take a hit without giving one back. But in the next second, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Andy’s voice, cold and sharp, cut through the air. “Stella, what the hell are you doing?” Zoe threw herself into his arms, sobbing. “Andy, she took pictures of me. I’m so scared. Can you make her delete them?” Andy’s brow furrowed. “Delete them,” he commanded. The sting on my cheek intensified, becoming unbearable. He actually believed I would do something like that. I clenched my jaw, fighting back tears. “Let go.” “Stella, Zoe isn’t like you,” he said, his voice taking on a menacing edge. “She’s not that kind of girl. Are you trying to ruin her with these disgusting tricks? Delete them now, or don’t force me to get rough.” Every word was a calculated blow, striking right at my deepest pain. Something inside me finally broke. I threw the phone at his face, my eyes red and wild. “Andy, open your eyes and look!” I screamed. “If I had ever wanted revenge on her, I would have taken it years ago!” He flinched, his expression changing as he saw the raw desperation on my face. He picked up the phone and checked it. There was nothing. Zoe felt no guilt. She just pressed herself against him, whimpering. “Andy, I didn’t mean to accuse her. I just… I don’t want to be dirty like her. If anyone knew I’d had sex before marriage, I think I would just die. I’m so, so scared.” Andy stroked her hair, seemingly helpless against her tears. A sarcastic smile touched my lips. I took my phone and turned to leave. Behind me, I heard Andy’s soothing voice. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re not like her.” “You’re not dirty.” I froze. And just like that, the last embers of hope died. All the years I’d spent chasing him, all the memories, shattered into dust. As I sat on the train home, I looked out the window, a strange sense of calm settling over me. Leaving this city meant leaving Andy behind for good. I wasn’t completely without a place to go. Back in my hometown, my mother, long dead, had left me a house. I closed my eyes, hoping for a moment of peace. But a second later, someone tapped my shoulder. A man in a white button-down and gold-rimmed glasses stood in the aisle. He had a gentle face and a shy smile. “Hello, is this seat taken?” I nodded curtly and closed my eyes again. A moment later, he spoke again. “This might be a bit forward, but I took a picture of you just now. Would it be alright if I kept it?” His name was Ethan, and he was a photographer who traveled the world capturing landscapes. The photo he showed me was of my profile, leaning against the window, bathed in sunlight. My expression was… peaceful. I was surprised. I had just made the decision to leave Andy, and my first feeling was relief? “The composition is perfect,” he said, looking a bit shy after his explanation. “If I crop you out, it will ruin the whole structure. But if you’re not comfortable with it, I’ll delete it right away.” I smiled. “It’s fine. You can use it.” Maybe it was because we were sitting next to each other, or maybe I was just bored, but we ended up talking for the rest of the journey. I learned that we lived in the same neighborhood. Even more surprisingly, we had gone to the same kindergarten. “Well, I guess that makes us old classmates,” Ethan smiled. “I have a younger brother who’s always lived in the neighborhood with my dad. I don’t know if you know him. His name is Andy Wheaton.” I froze. The world was impossibly, cruelly small. Andy had an older brother. Smarter, more responsible. When their parents divorced, his mother had only taken Ethan. It had always been a sore spot for Andy. But this incredible coincidence sparked nothing in me. I just smiled faintly. “I know him. We’re not close.” Just then, my phone rang. It was Andy.

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Yvonne Heath was dead. Her life had been one of hardship, and in the end, she was pushed from a second-story window, blood pooling between her legs. She was still clutching an ultrasound photo that read, “12 weeks gestation.” Before she died, she said to me, “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. I can’t go on.” “From now on, you live for me.” So I took her place. From now on, I am Yvonne Heath. 1 I awoke in a hospital. Every cell in my body screamed in pain. An IV was taped to the back of my hand, cold liquid dripping slowly into my veins. The man sitting by the bed closed his laptop and looked at me, his expression cold. “You’re awake.” I stared at him, saying nothing. “The baby’s gone.” “It’s for the best. A vicious woman like you doesn’t deserve to be the mother of my child.” “Now that our last connection is severed, we’ll get a divorce as soon as you’re discharged.” “Why aren’t you saying anything?” He frowned, his glare sharpening. “Don’t think you can just stonewall me. Without the baby, what other tricks do you have left?” His every word was nauseating. I fought down the bile rising in my throat and looked away. But he wouldn’t allow it, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him. “Yvonne, speak!” We were close, so close I could feel the heat of his breath. His name was Jasper Cain. He was the man Yvonne had loved for twenty years. If she were here now, she would be feeling a pain like a knife to the heart. Her whole life had been one long misunderstanding. She had a voice, but no matter how many times she explained, no one ever believed her. As she said, she was tired. Death was a release. But I am not Yvonne. I don’t feel pain when I’m misunderstood. I don’t swallow injustice in silence. There was a vase of flowers on the nightstand. I grabbed it and threw it at his head. It didn’t hurt him, but it caught him off guard, forcing him to stumble back. I ripped the IV from my hand, seized the metal stool beside the bed, and swung it at him with all my might. The rebuke on his lips died before it was born. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious. I gasped for breath, my hand dropping to my side. Blood dripped from my bruised knuckles onto the floor, like crimson blossoms. Yvonne, if you’re watching, watch closely. See how I live. 2 Jasper’s injuries weren’t serious. He was just knocked out and stayed in the hospital for two days. After that, apart from the nurses and doctors on their rounds, my room was silent. I wasn’t lonely. I was focused on recovering, doing light exercises every day. I was going to live a long, long life. On the day I was discharged, I took a taxi home. The moment I stepped through the door, the lively atmosphere in the living room froze. I surveyed the newly decorated house. Pink balloons and ribbons were everywhere. In the center of the room, on a large table, sat a massive two-tiered cake. The woman at the heart of the celebration wore a soft white dress, her long hair flowing around her like a halo. It was her. The one who had pushed Yvonne down the stairs with a smile on her face, not a trace of malice in her eyes. Her name was Celia Rowe, Jasper’s one true love, the one he could never forget. On countless nights, as he’d pinned Yvonne beneath him, it was Celia’s name he’d whispered. To be fair, they were a perfect match. A match made in hell. No one in the large living room spoke. I smiled as if nothing was wrong and walked toward them. “What a party. Why wasn’t I invited?” Jasper instinctively moved to shield Celia, as if I were some kind of monster. “Yvonne, I suggest you behave—” He didn’t finish his sentence. I slapped him across the face. My palm stung. But I knew his cheek stung just as much, and that was all that mattered. “Do you really think you’re some kind of brooding CEO from a novel? Why do you talk so much?” I pushed him aside impatiently and smiled sweetly at Celia. Celia’s face was pale. She clutched at her dress, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. “Miss Rowe, don’t look so frightened. You should know, until today, I’ve never laid a hand on you.” “Yvonne, how dare you say that?” Jasper interjected. “What about Celia’s car accident? Wasn’t that you? And the time she hurt her fingers…” I slapped him again, this time with my other hand, and deftly blocked his retaliatory shove. My daily hospital workouts were paying off. Celia put on a fragile, terrified act. “Miss Heath, please don’t misunderstand. Jasper is just worried about me…” “Oh, I don’t misunderstand at all. He’s just taking his anger out on me. That’s fine.” My gaze slid back to Jasper. His face was a mask of disbelief. In his mind, Yvonne was silent, invisible, submissive. She was never supposed to be this aggressive. I turned back to Celia. Her eyes flickered with alarm, and she took an unconscious step back. But I couldn’t let her get away. That long, silky hair… it would be a shame not to pull some of it out. I reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. As she shrieked, I yanked her head down and shoved her face into the cake. Happy birthday, Miss Rowe! 3 The living room descended into chaos. Screams and curses filled the air. The maids rushed forward to rescue Celia. Jasper aimed a kick at my stomach. He was smart. He knew this body was still weak from the miscarriage, that a blow like that would be devastating. But I wasn’t about to let that happen. I used Celia as a shield. As Celia let out another scream, Jasper roared, “Yvonne, are you insane? Do you want me to have you committed?” He had the power to do it. The heir to the mighty Cain fortune could make an orphan girl disappear into a mental institution without a trace. He could have me killed, and no one would ever know. I picked up the cake knife and pressed it to Celia’s throat. Such a slender, pale neck. If I broke the skin, would the blood flow as freely as it had when Yvonne fell? With her life in my hands, Celia fell silent. Jasper was furious, but he had no choice but to try and reason with me. “Don’t be rash,” he urged. But I wasn’t being rash at all. In fact, I was quite enjoying observing the expressions on everyone’s faces. “Jasper, didn’t you want to divorce me?” I asked with a smile. He choked for a second, then a look of “I knew it” crossed his face. “If you don’t want a divorce, we can talk. But don’t you dare do anything stupid. If you so much as touch a hair on her head, I promise, you will regret it.” Threats. Anyone can make threats. “But I’ve already touched quite a few hairs on her head,” I said, looking innocently at the strands of hair caught between my fingers. A small patch of her scalp was now bare. For someone so vain, that had to be torture. If they had just spoken to me nicely, I could have been reasonable. But I am not Yvonne. I do not respond well to threats. So, I pressed the knife harder against her neck. 4 Celia shrieked, clutching at her bleeding neck. “Jasper, save me! She’s crazy!” But what could he do? I had the hostage. He could only glare at me, his eyes darting anxiously to the wound on Celia’s neck. “Yvonne, whatever you want, we can discuss it. Do you really want to go to jail for assault?” The dull blade scraped against her skin. It was more painful that way. “Aren’t you the ones who drove me to this?” I laughed softly. “I’m not afraid of jail. But the moment I’m arrested, the internet will be flooded with stories about how the head of the Cain Corporation abused his wife, cheated with his mistress, and caused her to miscarry. I wonder how that will affect your company’s stock prices.” “That’s nonsense!” he snarled. “You fell down the stairs yourself!” “Did I?” I looked down at Celia. “Miss Rowe, did I really fall by myself?” I pressed the knife a little deeper. “I’m sorry!” she wailed, a mess of tears and snot. “I pushed you! I was jealous! Please forgive me!” Jasper’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Celia, is that true?” “Jasper, please don’t hate me!” she sobbed. “I don’t know what came over me! By the time I realized what I was doing, it was too late! I was just a little jealous… I’m so sorry…” I remembered Yvonne gently stroking her belly, telling me she would love this child with all her heart. I had been callous then, telling her that Jasper didn’t want it, that a child unwanted by its father shouldn’t be born. But Yvonne had been firm. “This is my child. It has nothing to do with Jasper. When we divorce, I’ll take the baby far away.” Then she had asked me, cautiously, “You don’t hate children, do you?” Thinking of this, I suddenly felt tired. The child was gone. My womb was empty. There was no trace that a life had ever been there. I released Celia, letting her slump to the floor. The maids swarmed around her, calling for an ambulance, grabbing a first-aid kit. I stood there, covered in blood, and looked at Jasper. “Didn’t you want a divorce?” I walked over to him and patted his cheek with my blood-stained hand. “Have your lawyer draw up the papers. Everything that’s mine, I want every last cent.” His eyelashes fluttered. He looked up at me, his dark eyes filled with a complex emotion. He ignored my talk of divorce. “Have I… misunderstood a lot of things?” “Misunderstood?” I laughed. “A misunderstanding is when you make an incorrect judgment based on incomplete or inaccurate information. But Yvonne practically tore her heart out and showed it to you. This isn’t a misunderstanding, Jasper. This is you being stupid. Blind.” “And you’ve been blind for a very, very long time.”

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My brother Adrian and I were at war. He believed I caused the car crash that left his beloved Penny comatose, and without hesitation, he imprisoned me for three years. After our parents died, we became like unchained mad dogs, taking pleasure in destroying each other. He poisoned my food; I burned his assets. He once tied me to a helicopter and flew me like a kite; I drugged him and threw him into a wild animal pen. Our twisted games only stopped when Penny finally “woke up.” The woman he adored for three years slapped disownment papers in front of me, smiling triumphantly. “Sign this, or I’ll arrange another accident and frame you.” I laughed sharply, eyes stinging, then stabbed her in the stomach. I called Adrian on speaker, letting him hear her screams. He raged, “Rosalie, are you trying to get yourself killed?” I swallowed blood and hummed defiantly. He needn’t have bothered—the doctor had already told me. Terminal brain cancer. Three days left to live. 1 When Adrian burst through the door with his men, he found me casually crossing my legs, twirling the blood-slicked blade in my hand. Penny lay at my feet, her body wracked with tremors of pain. The moment she saw Adrian, she let out a desperate, piercing cry for help. “Adrian, it hurts! She’s trying to kill me!” The sight of her, covered in blood, turned his eyes a furious shade of red. He took a single step forward, and my stiletto heel pressed down on the wound in her stomach. Penny couldn’t even scream anymore, just curled into a helpless ball of agony. “Let her go!” Adrian roared, surging forward. But with every foot closer he got, I applied more pressure. Fresh blood seeped out, tracing crimson patterns beneath my shoe. Seeing this, Adrian stopped dead in his tracks, his face a mask of bitter defeat. His hands, hanging by his sides, clenched into tight fists. In a strained, hoarse voice, he used a title I hadn’t heard from him in years. “Sister… name your price. What will it take for you to let Penny go?” Before I could answer, he rattled off a desperate list of offers. “Forty percent of the company shares? The West End property? All my real estate in the city? Or… my life?” “Just say the word. It’s all yours.” A mocking laugh escaped me. I was about to throw the disownment papers Penny had brought right back in his face when the world suddenly went dark. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Damn it, I cursed internally. Of all the times for this to happen. Sure enough, by the time my vision cleared, the cold edge of a blade was pressed against my neck. Another inch, and it would slice through my carotid artery. I met his cold gaze, a defiant smirk playing on my lips as I deliberately leaned into the knife’s edge. Adrian’s pupils contracted, a flicker of hesitation—of panic—crossing his face. And just like that, the tables turned. With a vicious grin, I snatched the knife from his hand. I was about to drive it through his palm when my eyes caught sight of a long, faded scar on his forearm. It stretched for inches, a pale reminder of our childhood. I had dragged him to an abandoned amusement park, a place forbidden to us. In the middle of our reckless games, the rusted frame of a roller coaster had groaned and collapsed right above my head. In that split second, Adrian had thrown himself at me, shoving me out of the way. When the rescue team finally dug him out, his right arm was shattered, nearly beyond repair. As they wheeled him into the operating room, he had gritted his teeth against the pain and forced a smile to comfort me. “Don’t cry, Rose. This is nothing.” A storm of emotions crashed within my chest. Clenching my jaw, I released my grip on the knife. My voice was ice as I bit out each word. “Take that idiot and get the hell out of my sight!” The next second, a blinding agony ripped through my skull, making it hard to breathe. I was going mad with pain, the only relief coming from slamming my head against the wall again and again. Adrian had just scooped Penny into his arms when he turned and saw me on the floor, clawing at my own hair and writhing. He froze for a moment, then let out a cold, derisive laugh. “If you’re going to put on an act, at least make it convincing. I nicked your neck, not your head.” He walked over and kicked me, his voice laced with contempt. “As for today… if you apologize to Penny, I can pretend none of this ever happened.” I turned my head and, with a bitter smile, sank my teeth into his leg. He let out a muffled grunt of pain, his face instantly darkening. Meeting his furious glare, I raised a single middle finger. “Me, apologize to her?” “In your next life.” Adrian’s chest heaved with rage. His final words were a chilling promise. “You chose this.” “Just you wait.” 2 The pain kept me awake all night. As dawn painted the sky in pale shades of gray, a wave of exhaustion finally washed over me. But before I could drift off, bodyguards were dragging me out of bed. Downstairs, I saw that the city’s elite, a who’s who of high society, had been invited to our home. In front of them all, I was thrown onto the doorstep like a piece of trash. A pair of expensive leather shoes entered my line of sight. Adrian’s cold voice drifted down. “You’ll have to understand. I’m throwing a birthday party for Penny, and our guests are… distinguished. The last thing we need is a criminal under this roof.” I fought to swallow the blood rising in my throat and looked up at him with a sneer. “Your methods are getting more childish by the day.” Adrian lit a cigarette, his gaze chillingly cold. He wasn’t looking at his sister; he was looking at an enemy. He blew out a perfect ring of smoke. “My offer still stands. Apologize to her, and this all goes away.” I stretched my lips into a silent, mocking grin. My answer was clear. He let out a sharp, humorless laugh and walked away. But just moments after he left, a commotion erupted from inside. Faintly, I heard my own name being spoken. A sudden, sharp sense of dread coiled in my stomach. I pushed my way through the crowd and saw it—a massive screen at the front of the room, cycling through a series of photographs. When I saw what they were, it was as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. The cold spread from my limbs straight to my heart. My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging so deep into my palms that they drew blood. They were photos taken during my time in prison. Photos of my humiliation. The darkest, most brutal moments of my life. Those agonizing memories mixed with the sneers and whispers of the crowd, drilling into my mind. “Look at Rosalie on her knees, begging like a dog. Who knew the madwoman had a breaking point?” “I wonder if I could use these pics to get her into bed. Think she’d say yes?” “Forget it. Who’d want a woman who’s been to prison, anyway?” I bit my lip so hard I could taste blood. Spotting Adrian in the crowd, I lunged forward, grabbed him by the collar, and threw a punch with all my remaining strength. But it was a pathetic attempt. Ravaged by illness, my fist landed on him with all the force of a gentle tap. For the first time, Adrian looked genuinely confused. He grabbed my wrists and pulled me off him, his face flushed with anger. “What the hell is wrong with you? I didn’t put those photos up there!” Nearby, I caught the flash of triumph in Penny’s eyes. A cold laugh escaped me. “Penny. Looks like yesterday’s lesson didn’t stick, did it?” Penny immediately switched to her damsel-in-distress act, clutching at Adrian’s sleeve. “Adrian, it wasn’t me,” she whimpered. “Why does your sister always misunderstand me? Does she hate me that much?” Adrian instantly moved to shield her. The absurdity of it all made me laugh. “Adrian, how can you be so stupid?” I spat. “Besides you, she’s the only one who knows about my time in prison. Who else could have leaked those photos?” His voice was cold, certain. “It wasn’t Penny. She’s too timid. She wouldn’t dare.” I was done talking. I grabbed a nearby wine bottle and charged at Penny. But before I could reach her, Adrian’s bodyguards grabbed me by the hair and started dragging me out. The mocking, disdainful stares of the crowd felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my heart. The rage and humiliation overwhelmed me. My vision went black, and I coughed up a mouthful of dark, thick blood. As my body went limp and I fell to the ground, the last thing I heard was a desperate, horrified shout. “Sister!” 3 When I woke up, my eyes met Adrian’s. They were red-rimmed and bloodshot. The next thing I knew, he threw a blood pack, and it splattered across my face. His voice was like ice. “Quite the performance, Rosalie. Too bad Penny found the blood pack you had prepared. Faking a collapse in front of all those people just to frame me… your little schemes have gotten much more clever.” I stared at him, stunned, for a long second. Then I grabbed the vase from the nightstand and hurled it at him. A satisfying line of red bloomed on his forehead, and only then did the inferno in my chest die down to a simmer. My voice was a raw rasp. “You idiot. Get out. I don’t want to see your face.” Adrian let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-scoff, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Penny and I are moving out tomorrow. From now on, you can throw your tantrums all you want. There will be no one left to stop you.” I turned my head away, my voice flat and cold. “Good. Out of sight, out of mind.” But the moment the door slammed shut, tears streamed down my face like broken strings of pearls. That bastard. I muttered curses under my breath as I got up and pulled a worn, yellowed photograph from a drawer. It was a picture of our family of four. My trembling fingers traced the smiling faces of our parents. Mom, Dad… your precious daughter is dying tomorrow, and there’s no one left to even claim her body. Just as I regained a sliver of strength, Penny showed up at my door with a food container. She wore the same smug, triumphant smile I had come to despise. She laid out the food—a spread of rich, greasy dishes. The cancer had spread everywhere, even to my stomach. I could barely handle liquids, let alone something so heavy with oil and salt. I looked at her, my eyes cold, and pointed to the door. “You have sixty seconds to get out. When time’s up, I’m throwing this food, and you, out the window.” Penny gasped, covering her mouth in mock surprise. She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with exaggerated pity. “You really are sick.” “Is this what they call karma, Rosalie?” The words had barely left her mouth before I snatched a bowl of hot, red soup and flung its contents directly at her face. The scalding liquid made her shriek in agony. The sound was music to my ears, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across my face. But at that exact moment, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was Adrian, his face as black as thunder. Behind him stood a dozen doctors and nurses, their mouths slightly agape in shock at the scene before them. One of the doctors couldn’t help but ask, “Mr. Sterling, who exactly is the patient?” Adrian pulled the weeping, red-faced Penny into his arms. He remained surprisingly calm as he instructed the butler to see the medical team out. “We don’t need doctors. Call the morgue. They can wait to collect her corpse.” His voice was devoid of all emotion. “She’ll kill herself with one of her fits eventually.” He glanced at the food spilled on the floor. “And don’t bother bringing her any more of this.” I laughed, a raw, broken sound, and shouted at his retreating back. “Hey, you bastard! On the day of my funeral, don’t forget to burn the house down for me too!” In all the years of fighting with Adrian, going hungry was nothing new. But this time was different. I couldn’t bear it. The searing pain in my head and the gnawing ache in my stomach sent me into waves of dizziness. I’d pass out at my computer, wake up, and pass out again. I was racing against the clock, knowing that every second was precious. After all this time, my investigation into our parents’ death was finally bearing fruit—and all signs pointed to Penny’s family. After another sleepless night, fueled by nothing but adrenaline, the chain of evidence was complete. I backed up one copy and sent another to the police. With that done, I dragged my exhausted body back to my room. I wanted to close my eyes for the last time in this room, a place that still held the warmth of our family. But when I opened the drawer, the spot where our family portrait should have been was empty. 4 My breath caught in my throat. Like a madwoman, I dragged my weak, tired body downstairs. And there she was. Penny, sitting on the sofa. She was toying with the photograph. When she saw me, a defiant smirk twisted her lips. “Look what I found.” “The great Rosalie’s one weakness.” My hands clenched into fists. I fought to suppress the murderous rage boiling inside me. “You’ve already won everything. Why are you still wasting your time on a dying woman?” Penny blinked innocently. “I have to make sure you die for good this time.” With that, she took out a lighter and set the corner of our family portrait on fire. The flickering flames danced across her pretty face, twisting her features into the mask of a demon. “You should have just died sooner, you know? I had to pretend to be in a coma for three years because of you.” “Your idiot brother is completely devoted to me. Once you’re gone, the Sterling family fortune will be all mine.” Perhaps it was a final burst of energy before death, a last flicker of a dying flame. I moved faster than I thought possible, lunging at her, grabbing her hair, and slamming her head against the floor. Penny, not expecting me to have any strength left, screamed, her face contorting with fear. “How dare you touch me! Adrian will never forgive you for this!” I looked at the photograph, now half-consumed by flames, and a grim, cold smile spread across my face. “It’s true, I’m dying. But before I go… how about I drag you down to hell with me?” Ignoring her terrified screams, I took the lighter and set her hair ablaze. Penny scrambled away, shrieking and batting at the flames, fumbling for her phone to call Adrian for help. I watched the chaos unfold, laughing until tears streamed down my face. But what I didn’t know, what neither of us knew, was that Penny was pregnant. And in the struggle, she lost the baby. It was the first time I had ever seen Adrian on the verge of tears. He looked like he wanted to kill me, but instead, he just dragged me to the family hall of ancestors. “Tell me,” Adrian’s voice was shaking uncontrollably. “Why did you go after Penny and the baby?” I placed the half-burnt photograph in front of him. “She burned this.” Suddenly, Adrian snapped. He snatched the remaining half of the photo and ripped it to shreds. “Stop lying!” he roared, his face contorted with rage and disappointment. It was the same look he’d given me years ago when Penny had her accident and he refused to believe my innocence. “Someone like you doesn’t have a shred of family feeling left in your heart!” “I’ve known it all along. You wanted the family fortune all to yourself. When you realized you couldn’t get rid of me, you decided to make sure I’d never have an heir.” “I’m done giving you chances.” He let go, and a single sheet of paper fluttered down in front of me. The disownment papers. “From this day on, we are no longer family. We split the inheritance, fifty-fifty.” I stared at him, numb, and asked, my voice barely a whisper, “You know the price of this, don’t you?” Adrian refused to look at me. He knelt ramrod-straight before our parents’ memorial tablets and, in a loud, clear voice, declared for all to hear: “The Sterling family creed is absolute. Those who break the bonds of family must endure the ninety-nine lashes!” “And I have summoned the witnesses.” His voice cracked for a moment before he continued. “As for your ninety-nine… I will take sixty-six of them for you. Consider it repayment for our childhood.” The pain in my heart was so intense it was a physical thing, but I let none of it show on my face. My body was failing, but I forced myself into a posture of pure, biting contempt. “Fine by me. I couldn’t be happier.” The barbed whip fell. By the tenth lash, I couldn’t hold on anymore. My vision swam with red. A pain unlike anything I’d ever known ripped a sob from my throat, and I found myself crying out for our parents. In the room next to me, Adrian remained silent. He took his hundred lashes without making a sound. When the punishment was over, he limped to the doorway to look at me. He was silhouetted against the light, so he couldn’t see the blood streaming from my eyes, nose, and mouth. A sudden, disdainful scoff broke the silence. “Stop faking it, Rosalie. I’ve fought you for three years, and you’ve always bounced back. Thirty-three lashes? That’s nothing more than a scratch to you.” “I’m leaving. Good luck.” I didn’t even have the strength to give him the finger. And then, the pain vanished. In my fading vision, I saw Mom and Dad, smiling at me. At the same time, Adrian stepped outside, just in time to see Penny being forced into a police car.

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I was scooping the cat’s litter, just like any other day, when I suddenly heard his voice in my head. This clumsy woman is so slow. I miss my real Mommy. Too bad she and Daddy went to Vegas. Where is Vegas, anyway? And why couldn’t they take their baby with them? My husband, Ethan, told me he was on a business trip with a colleague. Who the hell was “Mommy”? My hand froze mid-scoop. The cat, Snowball, raked his claws across the back of my hand, then narrowed his eyes, looking impossibly smug. Mommy said when the delivery guy comes, I just have to let him in. He’ll kill this stupid woman. And then the three of us can finally be a family again! Just then, a heavy knock echoed through the apartment. “Hello? Food delivery!” 1 I grabbed a tissue and pressed it against the bloody scratches on my hand, my eyes locked on the cat in disbelief. Ethan and I had been married for five years. I’d had this cat for five years. I fed him, I cleaned his filth, but he’d never once warmed up to me. He was always scratching me, or worse, perching on my bedside table in the dead of night, his green eyes glowing as he stared down at me with pure malice. One time, he’d swatted my face to wake me up, and I’d screamed, my heart hammering against my ribs. Ethan had just called me dramatic. “He just wants to play, Claire. Why are you screaming like that?” he’d sighed, scooping Snowball into his arms and stroking his fur. His gaze, when it met mine, was sharp with irritation. “You scared him. Apologize.” “I’m sorry,” I’d whispered, my hand over my chest, my nerves still shot. I’d tried to reason with him. “Can we please keep the bedroom door closed at night? He keeps coming in, I really can’t sleep.” Ethan’s brow furrowed. “No way. Snowball would miss me.” His voice turned cold. “Claire, what did you promise me before we got married? Didn’t we agree that Snowball is family, and that you would treat him like one?” “I do treat him well! I just baked him some fish crisps today—” “Enough!” Ethan cut me off. “Cats are smart. They know who really cares about them. If you were actually good to him, why would he always be scratching you? If you have nothing to hide, why are you so afraid of him?” He clutched Snowball tighter. “If you can’t accept him, then I’ll just take him and move out!” With his free hand, he snatched a pillow from our bed and threw it on the floor. “You can sleep in the guest room.” Kicked out of my own bedroom, I’d stood on the balcony, staring blankly at the glittering city lights, feeling utterly defeated. For five years, I had poured more effort into caring for Snowball than most people put into raising a child. I made all his food from scratch: salmon jerky, chicken and prawn pâté, beef and cod fillets. He was a picky eater, turning his nose up at anything that wasn’t gourmet. Twice-a-week trips to the groomer, vet check-ups every three months… I had managed every single detail of his life, and still, he hated me. I used to blame myself, thinking I wasn’t doing enough. But I never imagined it was because he already had another “Mommy.” Who was she? I stared at Snowball, my mind racing. The knocking at the door continued, more insistent now. “Hello? Delivery!” Snowball hissed at me, baring his teeth. Stupid woman, go open the door! Open the door, and that man will kill you! Then all your money, this whole apartment, it’ll all belong to my Mommy. Mommy said she’s going to tear down your stupid office and turn it into my room. A whole wall of climbing trees, just for me! Mommy is the best! A chill shot up my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms. It was real. This woman had hired a killer. It was eleven at night. I never ate this late. I hadn’t ordered any food. Outside, the man was banging now. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. Each blow was louder than the last, his voice laced with impatience. “Anybody home? C’mon, open up! I’ve got other deliveries to make!” I glanced at the front door. The standard one that came with the apartment was flimsy, so I’d spent over five thousand dollars upgrading it to a high-security model. The installer had sworn you’d need a full toolkit and at least four hours to pry it open. That brought me a sliver of comfort. “You have the wrong address,” I called out. “I didn’t order anything.” The knocking stopped. A moment of silence, then the man’s confused voice. “No, this is it. Apartment 901, for a Ms. Summers.” “Maybe a family member ordered it for you?” “No,” I said firmly. “You’re mistaken.” He knocked a few more times, then his voice dropped to an angry mutter. “The note says I have to deliver it directly into your hands. What is this, some kind of prank?” “I didn’t order any food. Neither did my family. If you don’t leave now, I’m calling building security!” The man paused, then I heard him cursing under his breath as he started making a phone call. Inside, Snowball was frantic. Why won’t she open the door? You stupid, stupid woman! He lunged, sinking his teeth into my pant leg, trying to drag me toward the door. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I kicked him, sending him flying across the polished floor. “Get off me!” “Meeeooww!” Snowball landed in a heap, his eyes wide with utter shock. It was as if he couldn’t comprehend that I would ever dare to fight back. Just then, my phone rang. I looked down. My heart seized. It was Ethan. My hand trembling, I answered the call. “Hello?” “What the hell is wrong with you? Why aren’t you opening the door for the delivery guy?” Ethan’s voice was sharp, accusatory. “Snowball’s hungry. I ordered him some cat treats. Open the door right now.” My mind went blank. Hearing Snowball’s thoughts, I had already guessed that Ethan was cheating, that his mistress wanted me gone. But I never, ever imagined Ethan would be a part of it. He wanted me dead. I couldn’t breathe. We were college sweethearts. From campus crushes to wedding vows, everyone had said we were the perfect couple. After we married, we both worked hard. The tech company I worked for went public, hitting the jackpot, and as an early employee, I received a substantial amount of stock. I used that money to buy this spacious apartment, and I put both our names on the deed. My success made Ethan insecure. He became touchy and suspicious, always accusing me of looking down on him. So I tried even harder to please him. He doted on Snowball, so I did too, spending almost all my free time catering to that cat’s every whim. I never tamed the cat. And as it turned out, I never tamed the man either. An icy coldness spread through my chest. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. Ethan was still pushing. “Claire, open the door!” I bit my lip, forcing my voice to sound steady. “No. Why would you order delivery? You always say pet store treats are full of additives. You make me cook everything for him from scratch.” Ethan was a fanatic about Snowball’s diet. One meal of wet food, one of dry, and a late-night snack, all of which had to be handmade by me. He claimed it was the “best way to build a bond” and that I should never get lazy. There were nights I was up late, buried in work, and if I was slow to make Snowball’s snack, he’d leap onto my laptop and mash the keyboard, deleting hours of my work. Ethan would just laugh. “The king is hungry! Better go serve His Majesty. See? He’s throwing a tantrum at you. That means he’s starting to like you, Claire. Don’t waste this opportunity to get closer to him.” So I would have to stop what I was doing, exhausted, and go make the damn cat a snack. He was so ridiculously picky every other day, but suddenly tonight, he wasn’t? My question made Ethan pause. “Well—this place is different,” he stammered after a moment. “It’s a high-end, custom pet bakery. They use all-imported ingredients. Snowball loves their hand-baked cod crisps. Just stop making a fuss and open the door.” Hearing Ethan’s voice through the phone, Snowball shot up and lunged at me again. “Meeoww! Meeeowww!” he shrieked, clawing at my leg. The bitch hit me, Daddy! Avenge me! Kill her! Kill her now! “You hear that? He’s starving,” Ethan said, his voice rising. “Claire, what the hell are you doing? Just open the door!” “No,” I said, my voice firm. “There’s fresh salmon in the fridge I made yesterday—” “You can’t give him refrigerated food! I’ve told you, everything has to be fresh, every day!” Ethan’s tone grew heavy with impatience. “God, Claire, are you that lazy? You won’t even cook for yourself, and now you can’t even be bothered to get a delivery?” His voice dropped into a low, menacing tone. “I’m out here working my ass off on this trip, and you want to start a fight with me?” For Ethan, “fighting” just meant the silent treatment. For years, anytime I did something that displeased him, he would treat me like I was invisible. He wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t look at me. It was like I ceased to exist. As someone who was naturally open and direct, that kind of psychological warfare drove me insane. In the end, I was always the one to break first. He was counting on me to break this time, too. “Open the door!” he commanded coldly. The only response he got was the dial tone. I hung up. Furious, Ethan called back again and again. I ignored it, letting the phone vibrate violently in my pocket, a frantic echo of the storm raging inside me. I spun around and ran into the bedroom, tearing through drawers and closets, searching for Ethan’s old laptop. I had to know who this “Mommy” was. But the room was clean. His iPad, his old phone, his laptop—he’d taken every electronic device with him. There was nothing. Then, my frantic search sent a book tumbling from the nightstand. It fell to the floor, and a faded photograph fluttered out from between its pages. It was a book Ethan read every single night. I picked up the photo. It was of a young woman’s back. She was wearing a tight, green tank top, revealing a sliver of a pale, slender waist. Her hand was raised, and a tiny white kitten—a baby Snowball—was lying on its back in her lap, looking up at her adoringly. The woman’s back… why did it look so familiar? My mind flashed back to the day I first met Snowball. It was the night before our engagement party. Ethan had been out celebrating with his friends, drinking and staying out until the early hours of the morning. When he came home, he had a tiny kitten with him. He told me he’d found it on the street, a stray that had followed him for three blocks and refused to be shooed away. “It must be fate,” he’d said, his eyes shining. “Tomorrow is our engagement. It’s a new beginning for him, too.” He was determined to keep him, but something felt off. The kitten’s fur was soft and glossy, perfectly clean. He didn’t look like a stray at all. I’d joked with him about it. “What a coincidence. I heard your cousin lost her white cat. You didn’t happen to find the exact same one, did you?” Tina was Ethan’s cousin, and also my subordinate at work. Ethan had told me countless times how he and Tina grew up together, that they were more like brother and sister than cousins. When Tina graduated and couldn’t find a job, Ethan was more anxious than anyone. For days, he was uncharacteristically sweet to me, begging me to help her out. Tina ended up staying with us for a month. I rewrote her resume, coached her through interviews, and when nothing panned out, I pulled strings, using my position to get her an entry-level job at my company. Tina had thrown her arms around me, overcome with gratitude. “Claire, from now on, you’re my real sister!” After that, she always called me “sis” and Ethan “bro-in-law.” Ethan had even joked, “Look at this little traitor. I’m her actual cousin, but now that she has you, I’m just the brother-in-law.” Right. You two are the real family. The memory of their casual interactions played in my head, and a hot rush of blood flooded my cheeks. No. It couldn’t be. They were cousins—family! I had to be wrong. There’s no way… I clutched the photograph tighter, and with a piercing shriek, Snowball launched himself at me.

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It was the fifth year of our relationship when Seraphina finally said yes. But on the day of our engagement party, she vanished. No calls, no texts. I waited all night, only to be greeted the next morning by a trending photo on social media: Seraphina at a gala, arm-in-arm with her childhood friend, Marcus Thorne. In the high-resolution image, I could see them pressed close together. I could also see the distinct, angry purple of a hickey on her neck. I laughed. I laughed at how blind she was. To have a king by her side for five years and mistake him for a pawn. 1 “Explain this,” I said, sliding my phone across the table. The headline glowed in stark red letters. I was hoping for some kind of explanation, any kind. She barely glanced at it, a frown creasing her perfect brow. “What’s there to explain, Jason? It was a work event.” Her casual dismissal was a shard of glass in my heart. “A work event? So, working with Marcus Thorne is more important than our own engagement party?” Seraphina rubbed her temples, the picture of annoyance. “Jason, I don’t have time for this drama. We can always have another party. This career opportunity won’t come again.” She stood to leave for the bedroom. I let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “And the hickey on your neck? Was that a ‘career opportunity’ too?” Her steps faltered. She turned, her voice sharp with anger. “What are you even talking about? Are you jealous of Marcus again? God, can’t you stop being so insecure? We’re just friends. Don’t project your own dirty mind onto everyone else!” “If there was really something between us, do you think you would have ever had a chance to be my boyfriend?” she scoffed. “You’re just too sensitive.” A leaden weight settled in my chest, making it hard to breathe. I pressed a hand to my heart and sneered, “Oh, you’d love for there to be something, wouldn’t you? But can that frail body of his even handle it?” CRACK. The sound of her palm connecting with my cheek echoed in the silent apartment. She was trembling, her eyes blazing like a cornered leopard. The movement was so violent that an invitation slipped from her coat pocket and fluttered to the floor. It read: We cordially invite Mr. Jason Vance and Ms. Seraphina Dubois to the Starfall Art Gala. It was always like this. Every invitation that came for the two of us, she went to alone. “You’re the artist, Jason,” she’d always say. “You belong in the studio, behind the scenes. Let me handle the schmoozing.” So, we never appeared at a public event together. Just as she’d never publicly acknowledged me as her boyfriend. Just as she’d never once said she loved me. “Jason, you’ve disappointed me so much,” she seethed, her voice dripping with contempt. “If you have a problem, go see a therapist. Stop inventing things about me and Marcus. You know he’s not well. How could you say something so vile?” “Take a good look at yourself. Who are you to judge him? I get it—a washed-up painter being jealous of a true genius. But don’t you dare cross the line!” Every word was a dagger, twisting in the fresh wound. Her look of disgust was the salt, searing and agonizing. Seraphina grabbed her purse and walked toward the door without a second’s hesitation. “I’m not coming home tonight. I have to be with Marcus for the gala tomorrow.” The words to ask her to stay died on my lips. Normally, this is when I’d swallow my pride, chase after her, and beg for her forgiveness. This is when I’d apologize for her mistakes. When she needed a painting for a show, I’d work day and night, ignoring the searing pain of the arthritis that was already setting into my hands—a gift from the countless sleepless nights spent creating masterpieces for her exhibitions. On rainy days, I could barely hold a brush. But today, I was just… tired. Too tired to even form a single word of protest. My cheek throbbed, a bright red handprint blooming on my skin. I managed a weak, broken smile. “Seraphina… we’re done.” “Don’t be so dramatic,” she called back, her voice cold and distant as she opened the door. “We’re not children anymore. You’re making a scene over nothing. You’ve changed, Jason. You never used to be like this.” 2 Watching her figure recede down the hallway until it was just a blur, I remembered the first time we met. It was love at first sight—for me, at least. She had burst into my world holding a canvas, a whirlwind of energy and charm. She was like a little sun, orbiting me, begging me to help her with her art. She would grab my arm, swaying it back and forth as she cooed, “Jason Vance, you’re going to be the greatest painter in the world.” “And I’ll be the greatest curator,” she’d promise. “I’ll give you the grandest exhibitions. The whole world will know your name!” But she never did. She never gave me a single exhibition. She never let anyone know my name. My phone buzzed, shaking me from my thoughts. It was a notification. An invitation from Marcus Thorne. Marcus Thorne—An Exclusive Exhibition by the Maestro “V.” You are cordially invited. My eyes locked onto the bottom of the invitation, on the name of the organizer: Seraphina Dubois. A text message from him followed: [Sera just insisted on throwing me a welcome-home exhibition. You know how she is, I could never say no to her. It’s in three days. Hope you can make it. You should get out of the house more.] Every word dripped with condescending triumph. He was flaunting their connection, painting a picture where they were the destined couple, and I was just the third wheel, the placeholder who had slipped in while he was abroad for his “treatments.” A temporary amusement for a bored Seraphina. Five years we were together, and she never once offered to host an exhibition for me. But for him, it was her idea. The one thing I had yearned for was something he was handed on a silver platter. It was pathetic. Utterly pathetic. A slow smile spread across my face. My fingers danced over the screen as I typed a reply. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He wanted to call himself the Maestro “V”? Fine. I was dying to see how he planned to produce my life’s work. I scrolled down. A message from my online friend, Lex. [Painted anything new lately? Eager to see the master’s latest!] During my years with Seraphina, my own work had taken a backseat. I was too busy running her studio, managing her business. I only picked up a brush a few times a year, producing a pitiful two or three paintings annually. Lex was a fellow artist I’d met online three years ago. We’d bonded over sketches and techniques. He was the only person I ever shared my real work with, the only one I could talk to when the frustration became too much. His message was a small comfort. Just then, the studio’s number flashed on my screen. I answered. “Jason? It’s the office. Seraphina asked me to tell you to come by tomorrow and clear out your things.” A knot of confusion and anger tightened in my stomach. “Why?” There was a pause on the other end. “…She said she’s turning your office into a new studio. For Mr. Thorne.” 3 When I arrived at the studio, Seraphina’s assistant was already hauling my belongings out into the hallway in cardboard boxes. The atmosphere was thick with tension. The other staff members whispered amongst themselves, shooting me looks of disdain. “Ugh, he actually showed up. I can’t stand seeing that freeloader here.” “Right? We’re swamped as it is, and now we have to deal with him.” “Mr. Thorne is so much better. His art is incredible, and he’s so kind. He and Sera are the perfect match.” I listened, my face a mask of indifference, but inside, a bitter acid churned. All those late nights I’d worked alongside them, all the deadlines we’d met together… and this is what they thought of me? A demanding mooch. The assistant shot them a look, and they fell silent. I strode towards Seraphina’s office, determined to get an answer from her. The assistant stepped in my way, her expression pained. “Jason, please. Mr. Thorne is creating in there with Sera. You can’t disturb them.” I pushed past her and reached for the doorknob. Just as my fingers closed around the cold metal, I heard their voices from within. “Sera, my inspiration has run dry. You have to be my muse.” Through the crack in the door, I saw Seraphina hesitate, chewing on her lower lip. Marcus pressed on, his voice like honeyed poison. “You’ve always been my muse. If you model for me, I know I can create another masterpiece that will stun the world.” Her hesitation vanished. Before my widening eyes, in the sliver of space I could see, Seraphina began to slowly undress. Until she was completely naked, sitting on the velvet chaise lounge opposite him. She was posing nude for him. My hand trembled on the doorknob, shaking so violently I couldn’t even find the strength to turn it. “It’s been so long, Sera,” Marcus murmured. “You feel so distant. Did getting a boyfriend make you forget all about me?” Panic flashed across her face. “Of course not!” she said quickly, her voice a little too loud. “I’ve never forgotten you, Marcus. I… I was only with Jason because he looked a bit like you. And he was a painter.” My body reacted before my mind could process it. A wave of nausea rose from the pit of my stomach. I swallowed, the taste of bile burning my throat. I stood frozen, a statue of stone, and slowly, deliberately, let my hand fall from the door. I thought, even if we didn’t last, that what we had was real. That we had, at some point, loved each other. Reality was a cruel joke, and I was the punchline. Seraphina… she had been using me as a stand-in for Marcus all along. The truth was so sudden, so brutal, it almost knocked the wind out of me. I stood there for a long time before the cold tide of reason washed back in. The moment I let go of that door, Seraphina, was the moment I let go of you. In the taxi on the way back, I made a call. It was to a rival curatorial firm that had been trying to sign me for years. I gave them the exclusive rights to every painting I had ever created under my pseudonym. When they asked what my conditions were, I took a deep breath. “I want the exhibition to open in two days,” I said, my voice like ice. “And I want it billed as the one and only exclusive exhibition of the artist ‘V.’ And make it clear: V will be there in person.” Two days. The same day as Marcus Thorne’s exhibition. He wanted to be the master? Fine. Let’s hold two shows, side-by-side, and let the world decide who the real artist was. That evening, I met with the curator, and we planned late into the night. When I finally got home, I was surprised to see Seraphina sitting on the sofa, waiting for me. The moment I walked in, she was on her feet. “Where have you been? You didn’t even make dinner!” When I didn’t answer, her voice grew sharp with impatience. “What’s wrong with you? Are you mute?” She stormed over to me, then stopped short. Her nose twitched, and her eyes narrowed. “Why do you smell like another woman’s perfume?” I must have brushed against the curator during our meeting. The hypocrisy was breathtaking. She could get naked for another man, but a hint of perfume on my jacket sent her into a rage. “What’s the matter?” I said, my voice devoid of all emotion. “You’re allowed to be a naked muse, but I’m not allowed to stand near another woman? Don’t be such a hypocrite, Seraphina.” Her face paled, a flicker of panic in her eyes. “That’s different! That was for work! For art! Stop being so disgusting!” “Don’t you trust me?” she demanded, her voice wavering. I looked into her eyes, saw the guilt she was trying so hard to hide, and nodded. “No, Seraphina. I don’t.” “And when I said we were done,” I added, my voice as final as a death sentence, “I wasn’t joking.”

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When our love was pure, Sloane crippled the man hurting me. Though not jailed, she was disowned. We lived in a grimy basement. At our lowest, I asked if she regretted it. She smiled. “Your safety means more than my life. I’m your shield. I’d endure anything for you.” She lifted me up, clawing to the top. Everyone knew not to touch me—the one person she protected. But on our anniversary, I found hidden documents: pregnancy reports, a kindergarten letter. Years ago, after I was ambushed, she claimed to hunt those responsible—but secretly had another man’s child. Without explanation, she cut off a bodyguard’s hand. It dropped at my feet. “What use is a hand that can’t keep watch?” I threw the divorce papers. “Just sign.” She smiled coldly. “We don’t divorce till one of us is dead. Want to leave? Kill me first.” 1 Together in life, together in the grave. That was the oath we swore to each other when we were eighteen. Only today did I learn that even the purest love can turn toxic, that even the most sacred vows have an expiration date. And expired things deserve to be destroyed. I pulled the knife hidden under the sofa cushions and lunged, aiming for her throat. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t even move. Instead, she leaned into the blade. At the very last second, I twisted my wrist. The knife sank deep into her shoulder. She smiled, but the hand clutching the embedded blade trembled slightly. “What’s wrong? Can’t bring yourself to do it?” she taunted. “Flynn, we’ve fought our way through hell to get here. Don’t let a little thing like this tear us apart.” “The child was an accident,” she continued, her voice softening. “If you don’t like him, I’ll have him sent abroad in a few days. He’ll disappear.” A little thing? An accident? Five years ago, her enemies came for her. I was the one who took three knife wounds meant for her. One to the chest, one in my thigh. And the third… it struck lower. I was bleeding out. To give me a transfusion, she aborted the three-month-old fetus in her womb without a second thought. When I woke up, the doctor told me I could never be a father. I didn’t cry, but Sloane’s eyes were bloodshot and raw. She fell to her knees at my bedside, sobbing, slamming her head against the cold tile floor until her face was swollen and bruised. “Flynn, I’m so useless,” she wept, her voice cracking. “I let this happen to you!” She clung to me, her forehead bleeding, the drops of her blood mingling with my tears on my face. Even as her body shook with pain, her grip on my hand never loosened. “Flynn, I don’t need children. I don’t need anything but you!” she vowed, her voice raw with desperation. “We will never be separated. I, Sloane Jiang, would rather die than ever betray you!” Every word was a solemn promise. But now, her casual tone shredded the last scrap of my dignity. I let out another cold laugh and pulled a photograph from my pocket, flinging it at her. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve already taken care of your ‘accident’.” “I paid a visit to his kindergarten. Nice place. A shame the security was so sloppy.” The photo showed her son, his face streaked with tears, a gun pressed to his temple as he knelt on the floor. I watched, stone-faced, as the veins in her forehead bulged, one by one. In ten years together, she had never, not for any reason, turned her anger on me. But today, for another man’s child, her eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated murder. She slammed me against the wall, reached up, and ripped the knife from her own shoulder. She reversed the blade, pressing the cold tip against my neck. “How dare you touch a child!” she seethed, her voice a low growl. “Flynn, have I been too good to you? Have you forgotten who you are?” “Without me, you’d be long dead! Now your wings have grown? You can’t have children of your own, so you go after someone else’s? You make me sick.” Every word was a fresh wound, a new humiliation. But my smile was unnervingly calm. “You always said the only way we’d separate is if one of us was dead, right?” “No one else has the guts to do it. So it looks like it’s up to you, Sloane.” “Go on. Kill me. Because if I walk out of here alive, I promise you, their lives are over.” The blood-slicked blade didn’t pierce my skin. She stared into my defiant eyes, and her expression softened into a chillingly gentle smile. “Flynn, I told you, it doesn’t have to end with one of us dead.” “The child… you can do whatever you want with him. I won’t ask if he’s alive or dead.” “But this ends now. We never speak of it again. Do you understand?” As cold-blooded as ever. Just like me. Sloane didn’t spare me another glance. She didn’t sign the papers. She just turned and stormed out the door. For ten years, I had never seen her back. In my memories, she was always charging toward me through a storm of blood and violence, shielding me with her own body. Her back was just as resolute as I’d imagined. But I could see something else, something subtle. A flicker of panic. A mocking smile touched my lips. I turned and dialed my man. “Let the kid go. I’m not a monster who hurts children.” “But I want everything you can find on his father. On my desk in ten minutes.” 2 My team found nothing. With Sloane’s resources, making someone disappear was child’s play. Even for me, all I could uncover was a single, threadbare clue. But that one thread was enough to unravel the last of my composure. Five years ago, on the night I almost died, Sloane wasn’t there. I thought she was out there with our men, hunting down my attackers. She wasn’t. She was just a few steps away, tangled in the sheets with another man. So the betrayal had started that long ago. Even as she was swearing she would never be untrue to me, her body and her heart had already strayed. I fought back the sudden, sharp agony that seized my chest, tightened my grip on the bloody knife, and plunged it through the screen of the tablet displaying the report. If our love was dead, then all that was left between us was hate. The child hadn’t even made it home before his father, losing his nerve, showed up at my door. The second I opened it, he lunged, a dagger aimed straight for my heart. “You bastard! You touched my son, I’ll kill you!” I twisted away on instinct, avoiding a fatal blow. But the blade sliced clean across my arm, opening a long, deep gash. Flesh parted, blood welled. I felt nothing. I grabbed his head and slammed it into the doorframe. Again and again. My men dragged him inside, forcing him to his knees before me. He didn’t cry. He just glared at me, his eyes burning with a fierce hatred. He was handsome, I’ll give him that, with an innocence in his eyes that reminded me of myself, long ago. Even the ferocity in his gaze mirrored my own now. But he didn’t understand. A little bit of grit wasn’t going to get him out of this alive. I picked up the baseball bat leaning against the wall and brought it down hard on his leg. The sickening crack of bone echoed through the room, followed by his agonized scream. It stirred nothing in me. No pity, no remorse. I savored his pain, a perverse tribute to my murdered love. Just as I raised the bat for a second swing, the door was kicked open. A gust of cold wind swept in, carrying with it a wave of pure fury. The dark, round mouth of a gun was aimed squarely at my head. Sloane’s voice was as cold as ice. “Flynn, let him go. Don’t make this ugly.” She held the gun with one hand, while the other wrapped around the man, pulling him into a protective embrace. Her eyes softened, her voice a gentle murmur only he could hear. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” The same words. Ten years ago, she had stepped over a floor slick with blood, walked toward me as I stood there, clothes torn, and said those exact same words. Tears of laughter spilled from my eyes. “And what if I say no?” She laughed too, a hollow sound. “You took his son. That’s enough. Let him go, and we can pretend this never happened. It’s the best ending for both of us.” I knew her too well. I could see the killing intent hidden behind that smile. She was actually thinking of killing me. After all these years, after we had pulled each other through hell, she had given me all her tenderness. And it had made me forget. It had made me forget how many bodies she’d stepped over to get to where she was today. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just… humiliated. I reached out, took her hand, and pressed the muzzle of her gun against my own forehead. “Go on. Do it.” “Sloane, you know me. If I walk out of this room alive today, you’d better be ready to bury this pretty boy of yours.” The click of the safety being released was deafening. Sloane’s eyes turned crimson as she grabbed my throat. “You think I won’t?” “I can forgive what you did to the child. But him… you don’t touch him.” “Don’t push me, Flynn.” I stared back at her, my face a mask of indifference. The stalemate was broken by the sharp ring of a phone. Sloane released her grip and answered. 3 After she hung up, Sloane’s smile was gentle again. She ruffled the other man’s hair, her eyes full of affection. “The boy’s fine. You’ve made your point. Go now. Don’t come back here again.” His name was Brown. He stared at me, his eyes red-rimmed, and limped toward the door. To end this whole farce with a few soft words? It wasn’t going to be that easy. I tilted my chin, and my bodyguard immediately blocked Brown’s path. Sloane shot me a cold look. We had been together so long, we could read each other’s minds with a single glance. A faint smile played on her lips. She beckoned to Brown. “Come here. Apologize to Flynn before you leave.” He froze, his face a mixture of disbelief and wounded pride. But he obeyed. He shuffled back in front of me and bowed stiffly. “Mr. Hayes. I was reckless. I came here without knowing the full story.” “It was my fault for hurting you. But… you’ve lost a child, too. Surely you can understand how I feel?” “A father who can’t even protect his own son… what is he but a waste of space?” He called it an apology, but every word was a needle. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. “The last person who spoke to me like that,” I said, my voice dangerously low, “is probably nothing but dust by now.” “How many lives do you have to spare, that you feel brave enough to provoke me?” Brown clutched his cheek, his eyes welling up with tears like a cornered animal. I sneered and swung my hand back for another blow. The sharp crack of a slap echoed in the room. But it wasn’t Brown who felt it. I was the one who went down, sprawling on the floor. Sloane stood over me, her heel pressing down on my hand, her expression so cold it made her a stranger. “I told you,” she said, her voice like chips of ice. “Don’t touch him.” “Flynn, why do you have to keep dragging innocent people into this?” My face throbbed, my mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood. My smile was stained red. Over the years, dozens, maybe hundreds, had died by my hand. She knew I wasn’t the type to let things go. But she also knew I would never harm a truly innocent person. Sloane didn’t give me a chance to speak. She kicked me aside and scooped Brown into her arms, carrying him out. When my bodyguard rushed over to help me up, my entire body was shaking with pain. He looked at me, confused. I just gave him a weary smile. It was only when I turned that he saw the handle of the dagger protruding from my back. A single slap wouldn’t have felled me. Of course not. But when I fell, I had landed right on the dagger that had been knocked to the floor. The doctor said the wound was inches from my heart. A little closer, and I would have died right there, in front of her. After they stitched me up, I refused their recommendation to stay in the hospital. I’d survived three stabbings before; living on the edge of a blade was second nature to me. When I returned to the villa, Sloane was waiting for me on the living room sofa. She lit a cigarette and motioned for me to sit opposite her. After a long drag, she looked at me with a humorless smile. “My son came home with three broken fingers.” I glanced at my bodyguard. He lowered his head, unable to meet my eyes. I laughed, a sound devoid of any emotion. “My men can be careless. What, does the great Sloane Jiang want me to pay him back with three of my own fingers?” Sloane smiled back, but her eyes were sharp as daggers. “Brown was so distraught he tried to jump off a building. While I was stopping him, I fell down the stairs. The baby’s gone.” “Flynn, that was my second child. You killed him. Don’t you think you owe Brown an apology?” I snatched the cigarette from her fingers and lit one for myself. Through the swirling smoke, my smile held no trace of remorse. “You should know that the fact I didn’t do it myself was me showing mercy.” “It was just a bastard child. It’s gone. So what? Don’t tell me you want my life in return?” I had my man bring the divorce papers again and placed them in front of her. “Either you sign these.” “Or one of you dies. You or him. Your choice, Sloane. I don’t think I need to tell you what to do.” Sloane laughed as she ripped the papers to shreds. She then took out her phone and tossed it onto the table in front of me. “I knew you wouldn’t apologize.” “It’s fine. I’ve prepared a gift for you, too.” “Flynn… I had someone pull the plug on your brother.”

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The word on the street was that the playboy CEO, Matthew Cooper, had a new taste in women. He’d apparently fallen for a little drama queen. I was dispatched to his mountaintop villa to manage her daily life. The moment Vivian Shaw saw me, her face soured with displeasure. “In the novels, a pretty housekeeper like this is always the boss’s canary—managing his affairs by day and warming his bed by night. Is that what she is?” The professionally trained smile on my lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. Fantastic. My reputation as a top-tier private butler with a seven-figure salary was, for the first time, being maliciously questioned based on the plot of a trashy romance novel. 1 Matthew was clearly caught off guard by her opening gambit. He shot me a quick glance. Then, he wrapped an arm around Vivian’s shoulder, his voice laced with its usual languid drawl and a hint of playful amusement. “Darling, what goes on in that head of yours? Miss Quinn earned her position through top-tier professional skill. With her here, my life is a world of a lot simpler.” He paused, adding with a meaningful look, “My ‘canaries’ are never tasked with such troublesome work. Besides, I wouldn’t dare keep Miss Quinn as one.” Vivian let out a vague “Oh,” though her gaze on me grew even stranger, filled with a certainty that screamed, I see, you’re the deep-cover, scheming female rival. She pouted, a mix of petulance and challenge in her tone. “But that’s how it’s always written in the novels! The beautiful, capable housekeeper is never just a simple housekeeper…” As she spoke, she sized me up with an expression that said, You can’t fool me. My seven-figure salary afforded me a high degree of professionalism and tolerance for this famously fickle CEO. After all, the women on his arm rotated faster than my phone’s operating system updates, with an average shelf life of three months. My professional code was simple: serve the boss, ignore the companion, and prioritize the boss’s actual needs above all else. I resumed my standard smile and gave a slight bow. “Indeed, Miss Shaw. I am simply Mr. Cooper’s household manager. Please do not question my professionalism.” My polite but firm response seemed to irk her, and a flicker of annoyance crossed her face. She lifted her chin and huffed. “Who knows what your ‘professionalism’ is used for. Matthew, look at her! Her attitude is so cold. Doesn’t she welcome me here?” Catching my eye, Matthew discreetly made a ‘one’ sign with his finger behind Vivian’s back. I understood instantly. A hundred-thousand-dollar bonus this month. The flat line of my mouth curved back into a serene, accommodating smile. Matthew playfully tapped her nose and guided her toward the bedroom. “Alright, stop overthinking. Let me show you your room. If there’s anything you don’t like, just let Miss Quinn know.” Vivian opened her mouth, but ultimately decided against continuing her performance. Once they disappeared from view, I turned away silently. The things you do for money. I had hoped this was just a minor hiccup, but Vivian’s “Billionaire Romance Novel Syndrome” went into full effect the very next day. At breakfast, I was placing Matthew’s customary Blue Mountain coffee and the financial paper at his preferred spot. Vivian, draped in a silk robe, glided over and frowned at the glass of perfectly warmed milk set out for her. “Miss Quinn,” she began, drawing out my name in a tone that brooked no argument. “This milk is wrong. I want milk from a cow in Australia, milked at dawn this very morning, bathed in the first rays of the southern hemisphere’s sun. And it must be warmed to precisely 37.5 degrees by the hands of an 82-year-old virgin. Not a degree more, not a degree less.” I was speechless. Matthew, who was reading a report, didn’t even look up. “The cows in Australia are currently asleep, and I highly doubt an 82-year-old virgin has precise temperature control.” “Vivian, this milk is air-freighted from Hokkaido, Japan. It’s excellent quality. Drink it while it’s warm.” Thwarted, Vivian shot me a resentful glare, as if it were my personal failing that I couldn’t procure such a fantastical beverage. Later that afternoon, while I was instructing the gardener on pruning the roses, she insisted on trying it herself. The moment she reached out, a thorn lightly pricked her index finger, drawing a bead of blood smaller than a pinhead. She held up the finger as if she’d been poisoned, and, with tears streaming down her face, burst into the study where Matthew was reviewing his schedule with his assistant. “Matthew! It hurts so much! I feel so dizzy!” 2 She held the finger, the wound now invisible, practically under Matthew’s nose. Matthew put down his documents, examined her finger for a long moment, and then sighed in relief. “It’s fine, the cut is tiny. Have Miss Quinn get you a bandage.” “A bandage?” Vivian’s voice shot up an octave, dripping with disbelief. “Matthew! Don’t you love me anymore?” As Matthew and I exchanged bewildered looks, she pointed a finger at me. “How could you just dismiss me with a bandage? Your woman has been injured, and the culprit is this butler!” “As a domineering CEO, aren’t you supposed to make her immediately draw 800cc of her blood as an apology to prove her loyalty and my importance?!” I took a deep breath, keeping my expression placid while my mind reeled. Eight hundred cubic centimeters? For a paper cut? Do you want me to check into the ICU to entertain you? And I’m the culprit? You’re the one who insisted on touching the roses! Matthew’s brow finally furrowed. He let go of Vivian’s hand, his tone laced with clear disapproval. “Vivian, first, Charlotte is a butler, not a mobile blood bank. Second, your blood types don’t even match.” He pointed at the nearly invisible mark. “And third, if you’d waited any longer, it would have healed on its own. What would you do with her blood? Water the flowers with it?” Vivian’s face flushed red and white in turns. She stomped her foot. “You! You’re not following the script! You’re not acting like a domineering CEO at all!” She then shot me a venomous look. Matthew rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m just a normal businessman. Quinn, get the first-aid kit. And while you’re at it, please brief Miss Shaw on basic medical facts and the Blood Donation Act.” “Yes, Mr. Cooper.” I fought to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up as I gracefully excused myself. After that, similar dramas played out almost daily. Vivian would throw a tantrum because the slippers I prepared for her weren’t made of crystal. Rational Matthew would say: “Crystal slippers are uncomfortable. These are silk-embroidered. They’re much better.” She would demand that Matthew order a city-wide blackout just to create a romantic atmosphere for stargazing. Rational Matthew would say: “The municipal power grid doesn’t belong to me. That would cause mass panic, economic loss, and is highly illegal.” Naturally, I wasn’t spared either. When I handed her a towel, she would intentionally let it drop to the floor, expecting me to kneel and pick it up. I would simply ignore it and signal to Mrs. Davis, our head maid, who would expressionlessly pick it up and toss it in the laundry hamper. Her most frequent question to me was: “Miss Quinn, why don’t you tell me, ‘Miss Shaw, you’re the first woman Mr. Cooper has ever brought home’?” “Are you jealous of me? Jealous that I have Matthew’s affection while you’re just a pathetic servant who has to work all day and then ‘service’ him at night?” Every time I heard this, I had to resist the urge to retort. Miss, do you have some kind of misunderstanding about Mr. Cooper? This year alone, including you, I’ve already welcomed four ‘first women’ he’s ever brought home. The guest room on the left housed a Miss Lee, the one on the right a Miss Wang, and the master bedroom… well, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve changed the sheets. Mr. Cooper’s reputation as a playboy was well-earned. His interest rarely lasted longer than three months. The value of being his “first” was, frankly, not very high. As for “servicing him at night”? Please. My overtime rates are exorbitant, and strictly for professional matters. On the surface, however, I maintained my standard butler’s smile. “Miss Shaw, Mr. Cooper’s private affairs are not my concern. My duty is to ensure your comfort during your stay.” She was never satisfied with my answers, convinced I was harboring ill intentions, ready to enact the role of the “vicious, scheming rival who torments the innocent heroine.” Initially, Matthew found her antics novel and amusing, even playing along with her “domineering CEO falls for me” fantasy for a couple of days. But his patience quickly wore thin. He was a successful businessman; time was money. He had little tolerance for trouble and baseless tantrums. Many of Vivian’s actions were beginning to cross his “trouble” threshold. He started spending more time in his study or using business dinners as an excuse to come home late. Vivian seemed to sense his growing distance, but she predictably blamed it all on me. 3 She ramped up her efforts to make trouble for me, trying to undermine me in front of Matthew and cement her status as the female lead. “Miss Quinn, the vase in my room is angled incorrectly. It’s affecting my fortune. Reposition it a hundred times until I’m satisfied.” “Miss Quinn, for dinner, I want white truffles from Alba, France. I want them now. If you can’t have them flown in, it just proves your incompetence.” “Miss Quinn, I don’t like the scent of your perfume. You are forbidden from wearing it from now on.” The only thing I ever wore was unscented, sanitizing hand soap. I dodged these absurd demands whenever possible. If a request was too outrageous, I used Matthew as a shield. “Mr. Cooper has stipulated that all such procurements require his personal signed approval.” “Mr. Cooper is in a meeting and cannot be disturbed to confirm this matter.” Her glares grew more venomous, as if I were truly the greatest obstacle on her path to love. I knew the peace wouldn’t last. This drama queen was gearing up for a grand finale. One day, during a torrential downpour, Matthew had a crucial overseas video conference and had given strict orders not to be disturbed. Vivian, inspired by some novel, appeared at his study door dressed in a soaking-wet white dress, shivering dramatically, insisting she had to go in to “bring him warmth.” Naturally, I blocked her way. “Miss Shaw, Mr. Cooper is in an important meeting. His orders were that no one is to disturb him.” “Not even me?” she asked, her eyes welling with tears. “I’m the woman he loves most! Look at me, I’m soaked! He’ll be worried sick! Or are you just stopping me so you can sneak in and ‘perform’ for him yourself?” “Mr. Cooper will certainly check on you the moment his meeting is over. Please return to your room and change into dry clothes to avoid catching a cold.” My voice was calm and unyielding, filtering out her slander. Suddenly, she lunged, trying to force her way past me. I sidestepped, subtly positioning myself in front of the door. She stumbled into empty space and, with theatrical grace, collapsed to the floor. She covered her face and began to sob. “Oh… Miss Quinn, why did you push me? I know you’re jealous, but I was just worried about Matthew…” I was at a complete loss for words. Just then, the study door opened. Matthew, on a short break, had clearly heard the commotion. He looked from the sobbing Vivian on the floor to me, standing impassively beside her, and his brow furrowed. “What’s going on?” Vivian immediately launched into her act, tears flowing on command. “Matthew, it’s not Miss Quinn’s fault! I just lost my balance. She only wanted to stop me from bothering you, so she gave me a little push. It was really gentle, I’m just too fragile. She probably didn’t mean it, she’s just so… ‘concerned’ about you…” Her manipulative performance was truly masterful. Matthew looked at me, his eyes questioning. I bowed slightly. “Mr. Cooper, I only blocked Miss Shaw’s path. There was no physical contact.” “Miss Shaw may have slipped and fallen on her own.” I gestured to the ceiling. “There is a security camera in the hallway. You can review the footage.” At the mention of a camera, Vivian’s face went white. Matthew’s gaze flickered between us. Finally, it settled on Vivian, his tone unreadable. “Vivian, I told you the meeting was important. Go back to your room. Stop making a scene.” He hadn’t immediately believed her, but he hadn’t reprimanded her either. This neutral stance seemed to fuel Vivian’s insecurity and resentment. As she was helped to her feet, she shot me a venomous look that promised this was far from over. Sure enough, a few days later, Matthew left for an overseas business trip to negotiate a major project. Before he left, he gave me a rare, specific instruction. “Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her cause any trouble.” I nodded. “Understood, Mr. Cooper.” However, the day after he left, trouble arrived.

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Our breakup was a train wreck. The year he loved me most, I took half a million dollars from his mother, ended our pregnancy, and betrayed him. He knelt outside the clinic door, crying, begging me not to be so cruel. He said he would hate me for the rest of his life. Six years later, we met again. He had a beautiful, high-society girlfriend, and they were about to get married. And I, at the lowest point in my life, had to find him and ask for money. He forced me to come to his wedding, to watch with my own eyes as he took another woman home. He asked me, Do you regret it? He still doesn’t know that I raised our child alone. And that child is sick. So sick, he’s dying. 1. Six years after we broke up, I ran into Zane Wheaton when my life was in absolute shambles. It was a college reunion. No one expected Zane to show up. Someone joked, “Mr. Wheaton never keeps in touch with us common folk. What brings you out of the woodwork this year?” “Did you hear Christine was coming? Still carrying a torch for her, are you?” I was tucked away in a corner, but my back went rigid. I looked up and saw Zane, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes fixed on me with cold indifference. Everyone knew how much he used to love me. He was the heir to a fortune, the golden boy of a powerful family, but he’d fallen for me at first sight. That year, for me, he cut ties with his family. He gave up the power, the money, everything, just to be with me. We lived in a cramped little apartment, sharing a single bowl of ramen, a single bowl of soup. Life was hard, but we were deliriously happy. Every night, our fingers laced together, we’d swear we would be together forever. Until I got pregnant. His mother offered me half a million dollars to get rid of our baby and disappear from his life. That day, Zane knelt outside the clinic, pounding his fists against the door. Over and over, his voice cracked as he begged me, “My sweet Christine, please! I’ll work harder, I’ll make so much money, I’ll earn millions, and it’ll all be yours, okay?” “I’m begging you, don’t leave me. Don’t leave our baby…” I lay on the surgical table, biting my lip so hard I tasted blood, willing myself not to cry out. Through that thin door, I heard Zane say he would hate me for the rest of his life. 2. No one knew just how ugly our breakup had been. Someone nudged me towards Zane, laughing. “You used to be so crazy about Christine you would’ve died for her, Zane. How could you ever let her go?” The whole room started buzzing, egging us on, telling us to get back together. One of Zane’s buddies shot me a contemptuous look and sneered, “Zane can have any woman he wants. Who the hell is Christine to think he’d still be hung up on her?” He went on to say that another woman had been with Zane for three years. A woman who was gentler, prettier, and a much better fit for him than I ever was. They’d been together for three years. All his friends already called her “the missus.” And word was, they were about to get married. The laughter died down. Only Zane’s friend was still smiling as he invited everyone to the wedding. He tossed an invitation in my direction. It slapped against my cheek before falling into my lap. I looked down. Zane’s name was embossed in elegant script. Next to it, another woman’s. Victoria. It was a name that sounded as graceful as she probably was. I imagined she was more sensible than me, kinder, better at taking care of him. She wouldn’t make him miserable like I did. Six years. It was good to know he was doing well. That was enough. I blinked back the tears stinging my eyes, looked up at Zane, and managed a single word: “Congratulations.” He stared at me, his gaze drilling into mine. At my congratulations, a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. He crushed his cigarette into an ashtray and said coolly, “Christine, don’t come to the wedding.” “It would upset my fiancée. And when she’s upset, I get upset.” My fingers tightened around the thin, crimson invitation. I froze for a second. Then I forced a smile and nodded. “Okay,” I whispered. 3. That night, everyone concluded that Zane was truly, finally over me. No one could have guessed that a love as deep as ours could end like this. He was getting married, and the bride wasn’t me. Everyone had assumed he would wait for me forever. Now, they were all buzzing with curiosity about this Victoria, this woman who had so completely captivated him. I knew Zane didn’t want to see me, so I slipped out of the reunion early. On the way home, a friend texted me a photo of Victoria. She was beautiful, with an innocent-looking face. My friend said she was known for her sweet smile and playful nature—exactly Zane’s type. My friend typed: Christine, don’t you think she kind of looks like you when she smiles? Do you think maybe he still loves you? Is it really over between you two? I let out a slow breath, staring at the screen for a long time before typing back with a forced smile in my words: It doesn’t matter. I don’t care anymore. I didn’t want any more drama with Zane. And I knew he would never find out my secret. That I had lied to everyone and secretly given birth to our son. A son who was sick. So sick, he was dying. 4. This was the hardest year of my life, the year I had nothing left. I worked myself to the bone, desperate to earn enough money for the best medicine, to ease my son’s pain even a little. For money, I would swallow my pride and go to a college reunion to hit up old classmates. For money, I would work at an exclusive lounge, drinking with clients until my stomach bled. I thought that night at the reunion would be the last time I’d ever see Zane. But a few days later, Victoria found me. She must have heard the rumors—that she looked like me—and wanted to see for herself. She came to the lounge with a few friends and specifically requested me. One of them looked me up and down. “So, you’re Christine? Zane’s famous first love?” Her eyes were filled with disdain as she scanned my heavy makeup and tight dress, her expression screaming one word: Trashy. I clenched my fists, forcing my temper down. I just wanted to do my job. “Are you ordering drinks?” I asked. “If not, please don’t waste my time. I need to make money.” The girl seemed offended. “What kind of attitude is that? Are you deaf? Don’t get cocky.” She pointed to a bottle of hard liquor on the table. “You like money so much, right, Christine? Fine. Drink this entire bottle, right now, and I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars.” A whole bottle like that would land me in the hospital. Victoria feigned concern, gently chiding her friend. “We agreed we were just coming to say hello, not to make things difficult for her.” She turned to me, her voice soft and laced with pity. “Everyone warned me about you, you know. They said you’re good at wrapping men around your finger. Even Zane said I’m too naive and that you might try to hurt me.” “But I’m not worried.” I listened quietly, understanding her game. She was here to rub it in my face how much Zane adored her, and how much he despised me. I offered a small, humorless smile and looked at her friend. “We have a deal? I drink the bottle, you give me twenty thousand dollars. Right?” Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed the bottle and started chugging. Everyone stared, stunned. They hadn’t expected me to be so desperate, to trade my health for cash. Victoria grabbed my arm. “Christine, please,” she pleaded softly. “How can you degrade yourself like this for money? We women have to have some self-respect. I didn’t want to say this, but… Zane hates it when women act like this.” I finished the bottle, slammed it down on the table, and ignored the fire tearing through my stomach. “The money?” I cut her off. “What Zane Wheaton likes or hates has nothing to do with me. I just want the twenty grand you promised.” Victoria’s brow furrowed in disappointment. “Honestly, Christine,” she said, her voice dripping with faux sincerity, “twenty thousand dollars is nothing to me. I could give it to anyone. But I can’t give it to you. You can hate me for it, but I’m doing this for your own good. I can’t stand by and watch you fall any deeper…” Her friend shoved me lightly. “I was just messing with you,” she smirked. “I’m not giving you a dime. What are you gonna do about it?” A cold smile spread across my face. Then, in one swift motion, I shattered the bottle against the edge of the table. Shards flew. A piece sliced across Victoria’s leg, drawing a line of red. Another dug deep into my own palm. Tears instantly welled in Victoria’s eyes. The loud, boisterous group fell silent. The next second, the door to the private room swung open. Zane stood there, his face a mask of cold fury. I froze, unable to meet his gaze. He saw me. In my cheap dress and smeared makeup, looking like the kind of woman who drinks and flirts with men for money. I wasn’t ashamed of what others thought of me, but I had never, ever wanted him to see me like this. I wanted him to think I was doing just fine. But even that small wish was denied. I summoned every ounce of strength I had, tilted my chin up, and pretended it didn’t hurt. I watched as Zane rushed to Victoria’s side, gathering her into his arms and gently wiping away her tears. Then he turned his icy gaze on me. “Christine,” he said, his voice dangerously low. “Who exactly do you think you’re bullying in front of me?” “You want money? Fine. Apologize first.” I watched him shield Victoria, just like he used to shield me. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to grovel. Fine. For the money, I’d do anything. Victoria, nestled in his arms, shot me a triumphant little smirk. I looked at the cut on her leg, then at the bleeding gash in my own hand. I held it up, blood dripping onto the carpet. “Here,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Give me the twenty thousand.” Zane’s eyes locked onto my bleeding hand, and for a split second, they flashed with a raw, familiar pain. Victoria saw his expression, and her smile faltered. She pulled a credit card from her purse and pressed it into my hand. “I’m giving you this, Christine,” she said sweetly, “not because I owe you anything, but because I don’t want to make a scene over a little money. Unlike some people.” I was done with her righteous act. I snatched the card and turned to leave, but Zane’s hand shot out and clamped around my wrist. He growled my name, his voice tight with a rage that felt like something else entirely. “Christine, doesn’t that fucking hurt? Are you going to die without money?” His brow was furrowed, his jaw clenched. He almost looked… worried. I ripped my arm from his grasp and turned back, a cold sneer on my face. “I’ve always been a woman who loves money, Zane. Did you forget?” “Manage your own life, and manage your woman. Stay the hell away from me.” 5. Zane stared at me, his eyes so cold they could burn. My words must have dredged up the past—how he’d given up everything for me, only for me to throw him away for money. The pain in my stomach was becoming unbearable. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I turned to leave, but suddenly the world tilted. Before I knew it, he’d thrown me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was like some kind of brute, a cigarette clenched between his teeth as he carried me out of the lounge. Heads turned, people stared. I struggled, kicking and screaming for him to put me down. He slapped my ass, hard. “Christine,” he snarled, “I must’ve owed you my life in a past life for you to put me through this shit in this one!” He threw me into his car, leaning over me to pin my legs down. He grabbed my face, his voice a low, vicious growl. “Sometimes, I just want to kill you.” He looked like he hated me with every fiber of his being, but his eyes… his eyes still held a flicker of the man who once loved me. The pain in my stomach was so intense I couldn’t speak. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I glared at him. He scowled, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a pill for my stomach, forcing it into my mouth. As he did, I saw it. Tucked away in the corner of the compartment was a worn-out tube of my favorite lipstick, a broken hair tie, and the cheap pink barrette he’d once bought me at a street fair. All my things. All these years I’d been gone, they had stayed here, keeping him company in my place. A tear escaped and slid down my cheek. I turned my head away, wiping it quickly before he could see. After all this time, he still remembered I had a sensitive stomach. Even without me, he’d kept the medicine for me. And what did I do? I gathered my strength and shoved him away with all my might. I forced a smile. “Zane, can you just stop? Stop chasing me. It’s pathetic.” “You probably don’t know this, but… I’ve been married. I have a kid.” “Are you still hoping we’ll get back together? Don’t be a fucking idiot, Zane.” He stumbled back, his body going rigid. As I moved to get out of the car, his hand shot out, slamming me back against the seat. His fingers closed around my throat, not tight enough to choke, but enough to hold me there. His voice trembled with fury. “I don’t believe you, Christine.” “You better tell me you’re fucking joking. Or I swear to God, I will kill you.” I met his blazing eyes without flinching. “Fine,” I said calmly. “I’ll prove it to you.” I took him to the Children’s Hospital. It was nine at night, but the lights in the inpatient ward were still on. I stood outside a room, looking through the glass window. I pointed to a small boy sitting up in bed, quietly reading a book. “That’s my son,” I told him. His name is Leo. He is the most precious thing in my world. He looks so much like me, but his personality is all Zane—thoughtful, gentle, with a stubborn streak. He has the same determined set to his eyes. He inherited all of Zane’s best qualities. He’s such a good kid. But he’s sick. Almost six years old, but so small and frail it breaks your heart. Zane stared at the boy for a long, long time. Then he balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the wall. He bowed his head, and I think I saw a tear fall. I had never seen him look so broken. The last thing he said to me that night was, “You’ve got guts, Christine.” He didn’t ask who the father was. He didn’t recognize him. He didn’t know he was looking at his own son.

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I crashed my ex-boyfriend’s wedding. As the crowd gathered around the couple to cut the cake, I drifted closer, leaning in to whisper a single sentence in his ear. His head snapped around. In the next instant, he plunged the cake knife into his new bride. Once, twice, three times… He stabbed her eighteen times, a savage frenzy, like an exorcism of demons. Guests scattered, their screams tearing through the festive air. A wedding painted in blood. The media descended like vultures, each reporter desperate to know what had happened. But both Kevin and I remained silent, bound by a secret understanding. After a long investigation, the police found no motive, no evidence of incitement. They could only label it a psychotic break. He was sent to a psychiatric hospital for five years. The day Kevin was released was his parents’ 70th birthday. And once again, I appeared, an unwelcome ghost, ready to whisper the same sentence into the ear of a man they called cured. 1 “You and Kevin haven’t spoken in three years,” a voice hissed beside me. “Have you no shame, showing up here to steal the groom?” Dressed in a severe black gown, I was a specter at my ex-boyfriend Kevin’s celebration of new life. His gaze, when it found me, was cold, as if I were a stranger he’d passed on the street. It lingered for a heartbeat before he turned back to his fiancée, murmuring something sweet that made her laugh. Whispers rippled through the guests, their eyes darting between me and the happy couple. Kevin’s parents, their faces hardening into masks of fury, marched over. “I don’t recall sending you an invitation,” his father growled. “If you have any decency, you’ll leave now. Don’t make a scene.” But the bride-to-be, Lily, stepped forward, a picture of grace. “It’s okay,” she said, her voice surprisingly warm. “We all go way back. I’m sure Ava is just here to wish us well.” Seeing their future daughter-in-law so composed, Kevin’s parents could say no more. They grudgingly had me seated at a table in the farthest, darkest corner of the room. The incident was quickly forgotten. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air once more. Then came the cake-cutting. The crowd surged forward, a wave of bodies pressing in around the towering confection. In the shuffle, I found myself pushed right up against Kevin. He had his arm wrapped around Lily’s waist, his face alight with an adoring smile. This was my chance. I leaned in, my lips brushing his ear, and spoke. His smile froze. His eyes, once so full of warmth, became terrifyingly feral, as if his very soul had been struck by lightning. He snatched the ceremonial knife and plunged it deep into Lily’s heart. Her scream was strangled by a gush of blood that blossomed across her white dress like a grotesque rose. Panic erupted. Guests shrieked and scrambled for the exits. Flowers, tablecloths, even the sky itself seemed stained crimson. And through it all, I stood perfectly still, watching him kill. I didn’t try to stop him. I didn’t run. I just watched, until the wail of sirens sliced through the chaos. 2 They put us in separate interrogation rooms. “What the hell did you say to him?” Detective Miller’s voice was a low growl, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the table. “Why did he snap and murder his fiancée?” I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his, my expression placid. There was no trace of the horror a witness to such brutality should feel. “I don’t know.” His fist slammed down on the metal table, the sound echoing in the sterile room. “How can you not know? A young woman is dead because of something you said!” He leaned closer, his voice raw with anger. “We’ve checked. Kevin and Lily were happy. They never fought. Nothing was wrong until you showed up.” A cold smile touched my lips. “Are my words magic, Detective? Do you really believe a single sentence from me could make a man murder the woman he loves?” He was silenced by that, his jaw tight. He knew how absurd it sounded. The investigation would have already shown him that Kevin and I hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in three years. Not a single text, not a single call. Kevin was the golden boy—brilliant, kind, compassionate. He was the kid who spent his allowance on food for stray cats, the man who had never shown a single violent impulse in his life. The police were grasping at straws, and the only straw they had was the sentence I’d whispered in his ear. “Then just tell us what you said to him. That, at least, you can do.” I met his intense gaze. “If you can prove my words are legally relevant to the crime, I’ll tell you,” I said, my voice even. “Otherwise, I can only report what I witnessed. But you don’t need me for that. You have the security footage.” “You…” Detective Miller’s face flushed with impotent rage. He glared at me, a storm brewing in his eyes, but he eventually spun on his heel and stormed out. Meanwhile, in the room next door, Kevin was faring much worse. He sat slumped in his chair, his eyes vacant, an empty shell where a person used to be. No matter how much they questioned him, he said nothing. It was as if the ability to speak had been carved out of him. 3 The moment I stepped out of the police station, I was swarmed. Kevin’s and Lily’s parents descended on me like a flock of enraged vultures. “Ava! What did you say to our son?” Kevin’s mother shrieked, her hand flying up to strike me across the face. The slap echoed in the tense silence. “I always knew you were poison! I knew you weren’t good enough for him! Why couldn’t you just let him go? Why did you have to ruin his life?” Even though her son was the killer, all her venom was directed at me. Lily’s mother, her face pale and streaked with tears, grabbed the front of my dress. “My Lily was the kindest soul,” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “She never did anything to you. Why did you tell Kevin to kill her?” Her husband stood beside her, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. “He broke up with you on his own. It had nothing to do with my daughter. Why did you take it out on her?” They screamed, they cried, they cursed me with the most vile words imaginable. I just stood there, impassive, a statue carved from ice. In the weeks that followed, reporters camped outside my door, hungry for a statement. A bizarre rumor even started that my words held some kind of dark power, and an eccentric billionaire offered a fortune just to know what I’d said. But whether they threatened or bribed, I remained silent. Six months passed. The police still had no motive for Kevin’s actions and no concrete evidence that I had incited him. In the end, they had no choice but to accept the insanity defense. The Collins family saw their opening. They poured every penny they had into Kevin’s case, hiring the best lawyers and pulling every string they could. After a protracted legal battle, they managed to get him committed to a private psychiatric facility instead of prison. To oversee his treatment, Mr. and Mrs. Collins gave up their careers. They sold their home and rented a cramped one-bedroom apartment near the hospital, dedicating their lives to his recovery. For five years, they refused my every attempt to visit. My only communication with Kevin remained that single, devastating sentence at his wedding. And then, after five years of their tireless effort, Kevin was deemed cured and released. It just so happened that the day of his release was his parents’ 70th birthday. A dual celebration. Though their fortune was gone, the Collins family decided to throw a grand party, a gala to announce their son’s return to the world. 4 I arrived at the banquet hall wearing the same black dress. An unwelcome ghost from a past they had tried so desperately to bury. The lively chatter in the hall died instantly. A strange, suffocating silence fell over the room. The smile on Mrs. Collins’s face froze, then crumbled. She rushed toward me, grabbing my arm in a surprisingly strong grip, trying to physically drag me out. “You cursed thing!” she spat, her voice a venomous whisper. “Why do you keep haunting us? Get out! Get out before I have you thrown out!” The Collins family may have lost their wealth, but they were desperate to rebuild their social standing and prove that Kevin was no longer a threat. They had gone into debt to host this party, inviting influential people from every corner of the city. It was supposed to be a declaration of his recovery, a fresh start. My appearance shattered that illusion in an instant. “Mrs. Collins, please,” I said, my voice calm, a slight smile playing on my lips as I held out a gift-wrapped box. “I’m just here to celebrate with you and Kevin.” She flinched as if the box were venomous, slapping it out of my hands. It hit the polished floor with a dull thud. “We don’t want your charity! Who knows what kind of twisted games you’re playing now!” she shrieked. “Take your things and get out of here!” The reporters in the room, smelling blood, began to circle. One of them, a man with a smirk, called out, “You seem awfully scared of her, Mrs. Collins. Are you sure Kevin is really cured? Or are you afraid he’ll start stabbing people again if she so much as looks at him?” Mrs. Collins’s face paled, but she forced a tight smile. “Of course he’s cured. The doctors have assured us he’s perfectly stable, not a threat to anyone.” She shot me a hateful glare. “But this woman… she’s a manipulator. Who knows what she might say to provoke him!” The reporter laughed coldly. “If a few ‘provoking’ words can make him kill, he belongs in a prison or an asylum, not at a party.” His words struck her like a physical blow, and she couldn’t find a response. I bent down, picked up the gift, and dusted it off, offering it to her again. This time, her hand trembling, she took it. Her thank you was a low, menacing growl. 5 Just like before, Mrs. Collins seated me at the back of the room. She and her husband hovered around Kevin like guard dogs, their eyes constantly flicking toward me, ensuring I couldn’t get close. But as the toasts began, a river of well-wishers flowed toward the head table. Caught up in the congratulations and laughter, Mr. and Mrs. Collins started to relax. A few glasses of champagne loosened their vigilance. They didn’t even notice as I picked up my own glass and slowly, deliberately, made my way toward Kevin. When it was my turn to offer a toast, I leaned in close, just as I had five years ago. And I whispered the exact same words. The change was instantaneous. The color drained from his face. His eyes widened in horror. He snatched a large carving knife from a nearby serving trolley. Before anyone could react, he lunged and plunged it deep into his mother’s stomach. Blood sprayed across the white tablecloth. Mrs. Collins stared at her son, her eyes wide with disbelief, before her body crumpled to the floor. “He’s killing again!” someone screamed. The banquet hall exploded into chaos. Chairs toppled, glasses shattered. No one dared to intervene. Mr. Collins, finally snapping out of his shock, rushed forward. “Kevin, no! Son, stop!” But Kevin was a machine of pure violence. He swung the knife wildly, slashing his father across the arms and legs. Mr. Collins collapsed, bleeding and pleading. “Son… it’s me… it’s your father…” Hearing his voice, Kevin paused, then brought the knife down in one clean, final stroke across his father’s throat. With his father dead, Kevin calmly walked back to his mother’s body. Just as he had with Lily, he began to stab her methodically, over and over, until he reached the eighteenth strike. By then, the police had arrived, sirens screaming. The scene was quickly secured. Kevin offered no resistance. He dropped the bloody knife and allowed the officers to cuff him. But this time, the family and guests didn’t just stand by. They turned on me, a furious mob. “Why aren’t you arresting her?” a cousin screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “She’s the one who did this! We all saw it! She whispered something to him, and he went insane!” “Yes!” others chimed in. “It was the same five years ago! She made him kill his wife!” “She’s the real murderer!” Detective Miller, who had responded to the call, recognized me instantly. He stormed over, his face a mask of cold fury. “What did you say to him?” he demanded, his voice shaking with rage. Just like five years ago, I said nothing about the words. “That’s three people dead!” he roared. “Are you still not going to talk?” Just then, a small boy pushed through the crowd, holding up a small digital camera with a proud, innocent smile. “I recorded what the lady said!” he announced. “I got it all on video!” 6 “You recorded it, buddy? Are you sure?” Detective Miller’s voice was laced with urgency as he crouched down to the boy’s level. The child, maybe five or six, blinked, clutching the camera to his chest. He seemed oblivious to the carnage around him, focused only on his achievement. “My camera was pointed right at the lady’s face,” he said, puffing out his chest. “You can see for yourself.” The crowd surged toward the boy, a wave of morbid curiosity. Miller, frowning, quickly took the camera from the child’s hands. He stared at the small screen, his eyes widening. He played the short clip back. Once. Twice. A third time. He looked up at me, his face a mixture of shock and utter disbelief. His voice trembled slightly. “You… you just said that?” he stammered. “And he killed for it?” I held his gaze, the faint, infuriating smile still on my lips. “You saw the video.” Miller’s face turned ashen. He lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my dress. “No,” he hissed, his voice dangerously low. “That can’t be it. It’s a code. There’s a hidden meaning. Tell me what you really meant!” His knuckles were white, his grip like iron. I tried to push him away but couldn’t break his hold. Finally, I sighed and let my hands fall to my sides, meeting his furious eyes without flinching. “There’s no hidden meaning. It means exactly what it sounds like. The rest is up to you to figure out.” Kevin’s remaining relatives were utterly bewildered. “What did she say?” one of them pleaded. “What were the words?” Detective Miller slowly released me, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He turned to the stunned crowd. “She only said four words,” he announced, his voice heavy with disbelief. “‘Just be yourself.’”

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