I never in a million years thought my best friend was capable of something like this. She snuck into my apartment, took my spare keys, and sold my custom, three-hundred-thousand-dollar Range Rover. For four thousand bucks. When I confronted her, she didn’t even flinch. She just stared at me with this sickeningly righteous look in her eyes. “You don’t even need the money,” she told me. “My two kids don’t even have a car to ride in.” I couldn’t stomach the sheer audacity of it. I called the police. When the cops showed up, her husband dropped to his knees right there on the pavement, begging me. Her mother-in-law stood to the side, hurling every curse word in the book at me, while my so-called best friend finally broke down in tears. Later, in the courtroom, the judge looked down at her from the bench, his expression made of stone. “Do you have any concept of what that vehicle was actually worth?” She crossed her arms, still clinging to her delusion. “It’s just some loud, obnoxious SUV.” The judge didn’t blink. “Five years. Minimum.” That was the exact moment the floor fell out from under her, and she completely, finally, shattered. 1 I was exhausted. I dragged my carry-on through the fluorescent-lit underground parking garage of my condo building, fresh off a four-day business trip. I turned the corner to my deeded spot and froze. Empty. My Range Rover was gone. It was a $250,000 SV Autobiography. I had put another $50,000 into custom modifications. Three hundred grand, vanished into the damp concrete air of the garage. My immediate, visceral reaction was panic. Stolen. Someone had bypassed the security gates. I reached for my phone, my thumb hovering over the keypad to dial 911, when a text notification slid across my lock screen. It was from Cassie. Hey babe! That Rover of yours is such a gas guzzler, I did you a favor and sold it. I’m just gonna use the $4k for now. It was followed by a little smiling emoji with sweat dropping down its forehead. I stared at the glowing pixels. The air in my lungs just stopped. I blinked hard, entirely convinced the exhaustion was playing tricks on my eyes. Excuse me? I typed back. It’s just way too flashy, honestly, the bubbles popped up instantly. A guy I know said he’d take it off our hands. I got four thousand for it! That’s pretty good for a used car! My fingers were trembling now. Not from fear, but from a sudden, blinding spike of adrenaline. Cassie. I paid 250k for that car. I put another 50k into the mods. Oh my god, relax, you’re not exactly hurting for cash. I have two kids and we don’t even have a reliable minivan. Who are you even trying to impress driving something like that anyway? I closed my eyes and took a long, jagged breath, inhaling the smell of exhaust and damp cement. Did you take my keys? I still had the spare from when you left it at my place last time. It’s not like you drive it every day. It was literally just sitting there gathering dust. Cassie. That is my property. I know! That’s why I’m telling you! Think of it this way, four grand will pay for your Ubers for years. A dark, sharp laugh clawed its way out of my throat. It echoed in the empty garage. Who did you sell it to? Just a scrap guy. He said it was getting old and wasn’t worth much anyway. He said the four grand was doing me a huge favor. Old? The car is barely a year old. Look, it’s done, okay? You can’t seriously expect me to pay you back. You know I don’t have that kind of money. I have two mouths to feed. Why are you being so corporate and petty about this? I didn’t reply. My screen lit up again. Besides, it was literally just sitting in the dark wasting away. I helped you liquidate an asset and you’re mad at me? God, Gemma, when did you become so obsessed with money? I stood there in the silence of the garage. It wasn’t about the car. Not really. It was the fact that I had called this woman my best friend for eight years. When she got married, I gifted them five thousand dollars to help with the catering. When she had her kids, I bought the cribs, the strollers. When her husband got laid off, I pulled strings to get his resume to the top of the pile. And at the end of it all, she stole my keys, sold a piece of my life for pennies, and truly, deeply believed she was the victim. I pressed her contact name and hit call. She picked up on the second ring. The background was chaos—a TV blaring cartoons, a toddler screaming. “Cassie. Where is the car?” My voice was terrifyingly calm. The kind of quiet that comes right before a hurricane. “I sold it, Gemma. Weren’t you reading my texts?” “To who?” “Some junk yard guy. Sal something. He came with a flatbed and towed it away.” “A junk yard guy.” “Yeah! He said it looked pretty beat up, honestly. You should be happy he even gave me the four grand.” I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Listen to me very carefully, Cassie. The custom body kit alone on that car was fifty thousand dollars. The total asset is worth three hundred thousand dollars. You selling it for four thousand is called malicious disposal of stolen property. It is a major felony.” “Oh, stop trying to scare me with your lawyer talk. I don’t know anything about cars. I just know it’s way too loud and every time you drive over here, it wakes my kids up from their naps.” “It’s my car. Whether it’s loud or not is none of your business.” “How is it none of my business? My kids don’t sleep, they go to school cranky the next day. Are you going to pay for their therapy when they fall behind?” “So you stole my car.” “It’s not stealing! I used the key you left at my house. You left it there.” “I left it there six months ago when your sedan broke down and I let you borrow mine so you could get groceries. I didn’t leave it there so you could pawn my belongings.” “Well, you never asked for it back! I figured you didn’t care!” “Cassie… do you honestly think I’m just going to roll over and take this?” The line went dead quiet for a second. The cartoons blared in the background. Then, she laughed. A bitter, ugly sound. “Don’t pull this high-and-mighty crap with me, Gemma. You just have a little bit of dirty money and think you’re better than everyone else. Flaunting that obnoxious tank around. Where were you when my kids and I were waiting for the bus in the rain? You’re a single woman driving a car the size of a house. Don’t you feel even a little bit guilty?” Hearing those words, the anger suddenly evaporated. It was replaced by a cold, crystalline clarity. “Cassie. Give me the scrap guy’s number. Right now.” “Why would I do that?” “Fine. Don’t.” “What are you gonna do?” “Just wait,” I said softly, and hung up. A second later, a text came through. What is that supposed to mean? Are you threatening me? I ignored it. I scrolled through my contacts and found the building manager. “Gary. I need you to pull the security feed for the underground garage. My spot. The last three days.” “Hey, Gemma. Is everything okay?” “My car was taken.” “Jesus. Stolen? Did you call the cops?” “Not yet. I need the footage first.” “I’m on it. Come down to the security office.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked out of the dim garage, the afternoon sun hitting my face like a slap. My phone vibrated three times in rapid succession. Cassie: Gemma, don’t try to scare me. I didn’t do anything wrong. Cassie: The scrap guy said it was a piece of junk anyway. Cassie: If you call the cops, I’ll just tell them you gave it to me. Cassie: It’s my word against yours, and I have the key. I didn’t reply. Cassie: Gemma, come on. My kids are little. Don’t do this. Cassie: Are you seriously going to call the cops? Cassie: Fine, I’ll send you another five hundred bucks when Kevin gets paid. $4,500. Happy? I looked at the screen, a hollow amusement settling in my chest. Eight years. Eight years, and I never saw the rot beneath the surface. 2 In the stuffy, monitor-lined security room, I watched the screens. There she was. Three days ago, 2:15 PM. Cassie walking into my garage with her two kids in tow. She had my sleek, black key fob in her hand. She put her seven-year-old son in the front seat—illegal and unsafe—and strapped her five-year-old daughter into the back. The brake lights flared red. She put it in gear and drove my life out of the building. Fast forward two hours on the tape. The car returns. But Cassie wasn’t driving. A heavyset, bald man in a faded t-shirt was behind the wheel. A flatbed tow truck followed him in. The man drove my Range Rover up the ramp onto the flatbed. Cassie was standing off to the side. She had a thin stack of bills in her hands. She was thumbing through them, smiling. A wide, genuine, victorious smile. I recorded the monitor with my phone, saving the video to my camera roll. Just as I turned to leave for the precinct, my phone rang. Incoming call: Kevin. Cassie’s husband. I accepted it. “Gemma, hey. Look, Cassie… she’s not thinking straight. Just, please don’t take this out on her.” “Kevin, do you know she sold my car?” “I know… she told me.” “Do you know how much that car was worth?” “She said it was an older model… she got what, four grand for it?” “Kevin. I bought that car for 250,000 dollars. I put 50,000 into it. Three hundred grand.” Dead silence on the line. I could hear him breathing. “You… what did you say?” “Three hundred thousand dollars, Kevin. Your wife sold a piece of property worth a quarter of a million dollars for four grand.” “No… no way. Cassie said it was only worth a few thousand…” “She doesn’t know cars. Do you?” Kevin went quiet again. The reality was crushing the air out of him. A few seconds later, the begging started. “Gemma, please. She’s just an idiot, okay? She doesn’t think about these things. She just saw you driving it and got jealous, it ate away at her. Please don’t call the cops.” “She stole my keys. She sold my car. And you want me to let it go?” “The kids can’t lose their mother, Gemma! If she catches a felony charge, what am I supposed to do? What happens to the kids?” “What happens to my car?” “You… you do so well for yourself. You’re loaded. You don’t even need that car, right? Cassie has zero money to pay you back. You know how we live. The mortgage, the car loan, the daycare bills…” “So I’m supposed to subsidize your life with my property?” “No, I didn’t mean that! I’m just asking—can you please be the bigger person here? Just this once? I’ll make her get on her hands and knees and beg for your forgiveness, I swear to God.” “Kevin, she didn’t steal a two-hundred-dollar handbag from Macy’s. She stole a house on wheels.” “But she didn’t know! She’s a stay-at-home mom, Gemma, how is she supposed to know what custom cars cost?” “She could have asked me. She didn’t. She took my property and sold it behind my back.” “She’s just so jealous of you… she talks about it all the time. How it isn’t fair that you have this amazing life, and why does a single woman need a car like that… I thought she was just venting! I didn’t think she’d actually do anything!” “Wait. You knew she hated me, and you still thought I gave her the car?” “I… I thought maybe you were just being generous…” “Generous? When have I ever said I was gifting her a Range Rover?” Panic was bleeding into his voice now. “Gemma, I’m begging you on my life. Don’t call the police. I’ll find it. I’ll get it back, okay?” “She sold it to a scrap dealer for four grand, Kevin. Do you really think you can just go ask for it back?” “I’ll make her track him down! We’ll get it back!” “It’s already gone. The guy in the video drove it onto a flatbed. Do you even know what state it’s in by now?” “I… no…” “Let me ask you something else. Where is the four thousand dollars she got for it?” “She… she said she used it to pay for the kids’ private preschool tuition…” “Preschool tuition? Four grand?” “And she bought some stuff… clothes for the kids, some toys…” “Listen to yourself, Kevin. Your wife sells my $300k car, takes the cash to go shopping for toys, and you’re asking me to just ‘be the bigger person’?” “That’s not what I meant…” “Then what did you mean?” He broke. I could hear the humiliating sound of a grown man sobbing into the receiver. “Gemma, please. I’m on my knees. I am literally on the floor right now. If you go to the cops, Cassie is ruined. Our entire family is ruined.” “You should have thought of that before you let her fester in her own entitlement.” “She’s my wife! She’s the mother of my children!” “She’s a thief.” “She didn’t mean to! She just had a momentary lapse in judgment!” “A lapse in judgment that takes hours to execute and involves a flatbed tow truck?” “Gemma…” “Don’t call me again. I’ve made my decision.” I hung up. He called right back. I let it ring. He sent a barrage of voice memos. I didn’t listen to a single one. Then, Cassie’s texts started rolling in again. Did you call the cops? Are you crazy? I swear to God, if you do, I’ll tell them you gifted it to me! You left the key at my house. The police won’t even know who to believe! You let me borrow it all the time. How are they going to prove you didn’t give it to me? I read the texts, a cold, dry smile pulling at my lips. Fine. Let a jury decide. 3 I set the thick manila folder down on the scarred metal desk at the precinct. Inside was the paper trail of my hard work. The original dealership contract. $250,000. The receipts from the mod shop. A bespoke Mansory body kit, forged carbon-fiber rims, and a custom ECU tune. Over $50,000 in upgrades. The customs declaration forms for the parts imported from Germany. Everything was there. Bulletproof. The officer taking my report looked young, maybe early thirties. His name tag read Martinez. He flipped open the dealership contract. His eyebrows shot up. He turned the page to the modification receipts. His frown deepened. He looked at the customs forms, then slowly looked up at me. “Ma’am. You’re saying this vehicle was sold?” “Yes.” “By who?” “Cassie. Someone I’ve considered a friend for eight years.” “How did she get the keys?” “I lent her the car six months ago to run errands when hers broke down. She never gave the spare back, and honestly, with my travel schedule, I forgot to ask for it.” “Were you aware of the sale?” “No. I was in Chicago on business.” “How did you find out?” “She texted me. Told me she got four thousand for it.” Martinez stared at me, dumbfounded. “She told you?” “Yes. She doesn’t think she did anything wrong.” Martinez looked back down at the paperwork, shaking his head slightly. “Are you absolutely certain of the valuation here?” “The contracts and wire transfers are all right there. Do the math.” He pulled a calculator toward him and tapped the keys. “Okay. Base model, two-fifty. Mods, fifty-two grand. Total value, three hundred and two thousand dollars.” “Correct.” “And she sold it for four thousand?” “Correct.” Martinez set the calculator down and glanced over at an older detective sitting at the next desk. Detective Henderson. Henderson had been listening. He rolled his chair over, eyeing the documents. “Are you absolutely sure there was no implied consent here?” Henderson asked, his voice gravelly. “I was halfway across the country. How could I consent?” “Did she ever mention wanting to sell it on your behalf?” “Never. She sold it, took the cash, and then texted me like she did me a favor.” “Is there any financial dispute between you two? Bad blood over a loan?” “No. I’ve given them money in the past, but as gifts. Never loans. My bank statements will prove it.” Henderson nodded slowly. “Do you have theft insurance on the vehicle?” “Yes. But this wasn’t a standard break-in. She used a key she had access to.” “Insurance companies handle those differently,” Henderson noted. “I know. That’s why I’m here filing a criminal report, not just calling Geico.” Martinez chimed back in. “You said you’ve known her for eight years. Why would she do this?” “She told me the car was too loud and woke her kids up. She also mentioned that I didn’t need the money, and it wasn’t fair that her kids didn’t have a nice car.” The two cops exchanged a loaded look. Martinez leaned forward. “Did you guys have a falling out?” “No. But if you want the psychological profile—I’m single, I have a successful company, and I drive a nice car. She’s drowning in debt with two kids. She resented me for it.” “Did she ever say that to you?” “In her texts today. She said it wasn’t fair that I was flaunting my wealth while she struggled.” Henderson picked up a pen and started jotting things down on a yellow legal pad. “You got any security footage?” I unlocked my phone, pulled up the video of the garage monitors, and slid it across the desk. In the video, Cassie struts into the garage with her two kids. She unlocks the Rover. She straps the kids in. She drives off. Two hours later, the car returns, driven by the scrap guy. It gets loaded onto the flatbed. Cassie stands by the concrete pillar, counting cash with a massive grin on her face. Martinez watched it, let out a low whistle, and ran a hand over his face. “She brought her kids to a grand theft?” “Yes.” “How old are they?” “Seven and five.” Martinez looked at Henderson. Henderson put his pen down. “Ma’am, a theft of property exceeding three hundred thousand dollars is a First-Degree Felony in this state.” “I am aware.” “We’re talking serious prison time. Five to ninety-nine years, depending on the DA.” “I am aware.” “You are absolutely certain you want to press charges?” “Absolutely.” “No interest in civil mediation?” “None.” Henderson looked at me for a long, quiet moment. He saw there was no bluff in my eyes. He nodded. “Alright. Let’s get your official statement.” He started typing. “Name.” “Gemma.” “Age.” “Twenty-eight.” “Occupation.” “CEO, tech consulting.” “Vehicle details.” “2024 Range Rover SV Autobiography. License plate…” We went through the motions. When we got to the text messages, I handed my phone over so they could photograph the screen. Henderson read Cassie’s texts out loud, his voice flat and monotone. ‘That Rover is a gas guzzler, I did you a favor.’ ‘You don’t even need the money.’ ‘If you call the cops, I’ll tell them you gave it to me.’ He handed the phone back. The air in the precinct felt heavy. “What on earth goes through a person’s head to think they can get away with this?” Martinez muttered, mostly to himself. Henderson sighed, the sound of a man who had seen thirty years of human stupidity. “Some people live in a reality entirely of their own making, kid.” He stood up, grabbing the file. “Martinez, get Major Crimes on the horn. This is way above our paygrade for a standard auto theft.” Martinez nodded and picked up the receiver. Henderson looked at me. “We’ll open the investigation immediately, Gemma. Go home. Keep your phone on loud.” “Is there any chance of recovering the car?” “We’ll try. But realistically? Prepare yourself for the fact that it’s already been chopped for parts or moved out of state.” “And restitution?” “If we nail her, the DA will push for a restitution order as part of sentencing. But you said she has no money.” Henderson gave me a grim look. “She shouldn’t have stolen something she couldn’t afford to replace.” I nodded. By the time I walked out of the precinct, the sky had bruised into a dark purple twilight. My phone buzzed. Cassie again. Gemma, what is your problem? Are you seriously doing this? Are you at the police station? You’re actually insane. Think about my babies! If you send me to jail, how are you going to live with yourself? I sat in the driver’s seat of the rental car I’d just picked up. I typed back one single message. Cassie, when you were counting that four thousand dollars in the garage, how were you living with yourself? I hit send. Then I blocked her number. A second later, a call came through from an unknown number. I answered it. It was Kevin. His voice was raw, shaking violently. “Gemma… the police are at our apartment. They… they’re putting handcuffs on Cassie…” “It’s what she earned, Kevin.” “The kids are screaming, Gemma! Are you happy now?!” “You should be asking your wife why she chose to traumatize her kids for four grand.” “She made a mistake!” “Tell it to the judge.” I hung up and blocked him too. I looked at the empty passenger seat of the rental car. I worked eighty-hour weeks for six years to buy that car. I had known Cassie for eight. In the span of twelve hours, both were completely gone. But I didn’t feel an ounce of regret. When you give people an inch, some of them won’t just take a mile—they’ll take the road, the car, and the title. This time it was my car. What would it be next time? I didn’t want to find out. As far as I was concerned, that friendship was dead. Honestly, looking back, I was never her friend. I was just her ATM with a pulse. 4 I hadn’t been home from the police station for more than an hour when the doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole. It was Barbara, Cassie’s mother-in-law. Late sixties, tightly permed hair, clutching a heavy Pyrex dish of homemade pies.

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Three years ago, on a night that reconfigured the map of my life, I walked into a cheap motel on the outskirts of the city and witnessed the most jagged, ugly scene imaginable. My fiancé and my best friend were a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. The dark, flushed marks on their skin felt like physical stings against my eyes. One second, Tia was arched beneath him in a trance of pleasure; the next, she was wrapped in a thin, grimy sheet, kneeling at my feet. Through a deluge of theatrical tears, she choked out excuses—she’d gotten him drunk, it was her fault, I shouldn’t blame him. Looking at the two of them, I felt a wave of nausea so violent it nearly doubled me over. I didn’t scream. I just dropped a cold, dead sentence: “The wedding is off. Get out.” Then, I turned my back on them and walked into the night. After that, Tia vanished. She was a ghost, a stain scrubbed from my social circle. But Alexander? Alexander became a man possessed by the idea of penance. He turned down ten different family-arranged setups, spending his nights parked outside my building like a sentinel. He even went on a national financial news program, his eyes rimmed with red, and swore to the world that he’d never marry anyone else. He claimed he’d rather die alone than live without me. Even my mother, Diane, was eventually worn down by his three-year siege. She’d started whispering in my ear that “to err is human,” that he’d suffered enough for Tia’s mistake. That day at the mall, I was staring blankly at a shelf of organic baby lotions, ignoring my mother’s latest sermon on forgiveness. Then, a voice I hadn’t heard in three years—warm, helpful, and sickeningly familiar—reached out to me. She was recommending a gentle talc-free powder, saying her three-year-old son swore by it. I froze. The world turned to ice. That voice belonged to Tia. … “Look at her! Everyone, look at the homewrecker who stole her best friend’s man!” My mother’s voice went shrill and feral. The shelf of baby products groaned and collapsed under the force of her rage. The same woman who, seconds ago, had been preaching “saints and sinners” was now clawing at Tia’s sleeve. Tia tumbled into the spilled white powder on the floor. She looked up at me, tears tracing silent paths down her cheeks. “Jade, I didn’t mean for you to see me,” she whispered. “I only came back to the city because Elias brought me—” Before she could finish, a small, dark shadow lunged from the crowd. He sank his teeth into my mother’s wrist with animal ferocity. “Don’t touch my mommy!” The boy planted himself in front of Tia, his small arms spread wide, screaming at me: “You can’t bully her! My daddy is the head of the Vance Group—” Tia let out a strangled gasp and clamped her hand over the boy’s mouth. But it was too late. I looked at the boy’s face, and the air left my lungs. The heavy, linear brow. The slight, stubborn downturn of the lips. Even the way his jaw tightened in a defensive clench—it was a carbon copy of Alexander. My mother stood paralyzed, her bitten arm hanging limp. Her lips trembled. “My god…” she breathed. “What have we done?” The murmurs of the crowd turned into a high-pitched ringing in my ears. Three years of repressed agony curdled into bile in my throat. “Our wedding is next week,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “And you show up back in the city with his three-year-old son.” “Tia, you’re just as pathetic as you were three years ago.” Tia’s thin frame shuddered. When she looked up, her eyes were swimming. “Jade, we grew up together. I made a mistake three years ago, but you’re about to marry him anyway. Why can’t you just forgive me?” She fumbled in her pocket for a tissue, and as she did, a black card with gold trim slipped out and landed on the floor. The world went quiet. It was an American Express Centurion—the kind with no limit. A month ago, under a sky full of celebratory fireworks, Alexander had pressed that very card into my hand with trembling fingers. “Jade, you’ve finally forgiven me,” he’d said, his eyes shining. “Take this. It’s the symbol of your place as my wife.” I hadn’t taken it then. I told him I’d wait until we actually signed the papers. Now, that same card mocked me from the floor. Apparently, there was more than one “Mrs. Vance” in his budget. I looked at the card and started to laugh. It was an absurd, hollow sound. Then, the crowd was shoved aside. Alexander stormed in. When he saw Tia and the boy huddled on the floor, the raw, unfiltered agony in his eyes was impossible to hide. He turned to bark a question, but then his gaze hit mine. He went rigid. “Jade… it’s not what it looks like. I can explain.” He reached for my hand, his fingers twitching. I recoiled as if his touch were a brand. “He’s three years old, Alexander,” I said. “What is there left to say?” The whispers around us grew louder. Seeing my coldness, the panic in Alexander’s eyes began to ferment into something else—a weary, cornered defensiveness. He stepped past me and shielded Tia and the boy behind his back. “Jade, haven’t I done enough over the last three years?” he snapped. “We’re days away from the wedding. Coming here to harass a single mother and a child—is this who you are?” “Daddy! These people were mean to Mommy! They called her a bad name!” The boy’s shrill cry shattered the remaining silence. He clung to Alexander’s leg, pointing an accusatory finger at me and my mother. Tia ducked further behind Alexander’s shoulder. “We could have handled it…” she whimpered. “You shouldn’t have come. Don’t let Jade be mad at you because of me.” With that one sentence, Alexander’s guilt was incinerated by a protective fire. He stood like a wall in front of them. When he looked at me now, the three years of devotion were gone. There was only a cold, sharp resentment. I stood there, the ringing in my ears growing to a roar. The details I’d ignored for years began to click into place like a series of locks. A year ago, his company had bought a luxury penthouse in the best school district “as an investment.” All those nights he’d spent begging outside my door? I remembered seeing his phone screen light up with searches for “managing postpartum depression.” I’d thought it was just stress. I’d wanted to believe in us. I didn’t realize the knife had been in my back for years. I was only seeing the blood today. Watching the man I was supposed to grow old with protect the woman who had gutted our friendship, the fire finally rose in me. “You two,” I whispered, “are truly disgusting.” Alexander’s throat moved as he swallowed. He avoided my mother’s pale, stricken face. When he looked at me, his expression darkened. “Tia and I have spent three years tiptoeing around your temper, Jade. But you only ever care about your own victimhood. Have you ever considered how exhausting it is to be on the receiving end of your coldness for three years?” My mother, hearing this twisted logic, began to shake. She stared at the boy who called Alexander “Daddy” and began to cry—thick, heavy sobs. For three years, she’d pampered Alexander. She’d made him soup, encouraged me to forgive him, even suggested we adopt if I wasn’t ready to conceive, just so he’d have an heir. And what had Alexander said back then, kneeling on our kitchen floor? “Mom, I don’t want anyone’s child but Jade’s.” The irony was a physical weight. She had treated him like a son while he was treating her daughter like a placeholder. “You’re a monster,” my mother choked out. “An absolute monster.” She collapsed, her legs giving out from the sheer weight of the humiliation. I caught her, struggling to hold her upright. Alexander’s face flickered with a brief moment of hesitation. But then, Tia let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she slumped against him. Alexander’s face transformed. Any trace of remorse vanished, replaced by panic. He scooped her into his arms, grabbed the boy’s hand, and shoved through the crowd. He didn’t give my mother a second glance as she hovered on the verge of a heart attack. The moment they were gone, the vultures descended. Paparazzi and “citizen journalists” appeared from nowhere, their flashes blinding. Microphones were shoved into my face. “Who was that woman Mr. Vance just carried out? Is the engagement over?” “Ms. Harris! Is the wedding still on for next week?” My mother tried to lunge at them, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but I held her back. I looked down at the engagement ring Alexander had slid back onto my finger only weeks ago. I was too tired to cry. I slid the ring off. It felt lighter than it should have. I let it drop; the sound of the diamond hitting the floor was a tiny, sharp clink. “Mom,” I said, my voice steady. “Let’s go home.” “I’m done with this.” The next three days were a masterclass in public humiliation. High-definition videos of me being abandoned at the mall trended everywhere. I looked like the stereotypical “scorned woman,” frantic and messy under the fluorescent lights. But in every shot of Tia and the child? They were blurred. Carefully, professionally pixelated. Reporters camped outside my door. My mother couldn’t take the shame; her heart gave out that night, and she was rushed into the ICU. Sitting in that sterile waiting room, watching the jagged line of her heart monitor, the warmth left my body. Everyone in our circles knew that kind of high-level PR cleanup—protecting the mistress while leaving the fiancée to the wolves—didn’t happen without Alexander’s personal sign-off. I stayed awake until my eyes were raw, then drove to the Vance Group headquarters. I reached his office door and heard Tia’s soft, honeyed voice coming through the crack. “Alexander, the PR team only blurred me and the boy. Jade’s face is everywhere. If she’s really angry, what if she refuses to marry you next week?” There was a pause. Then, Alexander’s voice, filled with an arrogant certainty: “Nico needs to start school soon. Protecting his identity is the priority. As for Jade… she loves me. She’ll make a scene, but she won’t leave.” Tia gave a playful, jealous little huff. “Of course. Everyone loves you.” I pushed the door open. Inside, Alexander had Tia leaned back against his mahogany desk, his arms caging her in. When he saw me, the smugness on his face turned to stone. “Jade. What are you doing here?” I looked at them, and my stomach turned. “Don’t use my name. It feels dirty coming from you.” “You threw me and my mother to the lions just to protect your little secret.” I turned my gaze to Tia, whose face had gone ghostly pale. “Even a dog gets a collar so people know who it belongs to. You can live without dignity, Tia. But are you really going to let your son grow up only calling him ‘Daddy’ in the dark?” Tia’s eyes welled up. she started toward me. “No, Jade, let me explain—” I felt a surge of pure revulsion. I lifted my hand, a reflex to keep her away from me. CRACK. A stinging slap landed across my face. The force of it sent me stumbling back, my spine hitting the cold wall. The world went silent. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Alexander had stepped in front of Tia, his hand still hanging in the air, his eyes dark with a terrifying intensity. “Jade! Have you lost your mind?” he roared. “I don’t care how angry you are, you don’t lay a hand on her!” Tia whimpered behind him, clutching his sleeve. They looked like a portrait of a devoted couple, and I was the villain trying to tear them apart. My cheek was numb. I leaned against the wall and swallowed the blood. Three years ago, in that motel, he had knelt in the dirt and begged me not to leave. Now, he was hitting me to protect the woman he’d cheated with. I didn’t cry. Not a single tear. I looked him straight in the eye. “The wedding is off. Both of you—get the hell out of my life.” Those were the same words I’d used three years ago, but this time, they snapped something in him. His face twisted into a mask of cold fury. “You want to talk about dignity? You want us to ‘get out’?” he yelled. “I brought Tia back so I could finally marry you and have a ‘clean’ life. But clearly, that was a mistake.” He grabbed Tia and pulled her into his side. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth! Tia and I have been legally married for two years. We are a family in the eyes of the law.” “The person who has no standing here, the person who’s been living a lie for three years… is you.” The wedding that had been the talk of the town never happened. I saw Alexander one last time, two weeks later. We sat across from each other in a quiet corner of a hotel bar. He pushed a set of divorce papers across the table. “Marrying Tia was a necessity,” he said, his voice lacking its usual bravado. “She was sick, the boy needed a legal name for school… I did what I had to do.” I didn’t touch the papers. I just looked at him. I used to think I understood him. Now, looking at the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, I realized I’d been in love with a ghost. “You thought about Tia’s health,” I said quietly. “You thought about the boy’s school. Did you ever once think about me?” “Alexander, what was I? What were these last eight years?” He looked away. The man who could negotiate billion-dollar mergers couldn’t meet my eyes. “I won’t deny I had feelings for Tia,” he muttered. “But all these years… you know you were the only one I truly wanted.” He leaned forward, trying to catch my hand. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll take you to the courthouse tomorrow morning. We’ll get married. I’ll take care of them, but you’ll be my wife. Tia gave me a son, I can’t just abandon them, but—” I stared at him. I saw the hollowness, the desperate way he tried to have everything without losing anything. “Married?” I asked. “Mrs. Vance?” I started to laugh. It was the funniest thing I’d ever heard. “Alexander, I’m dying to know. When you’re lying to both of us, who do you actually love?” The insults I wanted to scream died in my throat, leaving only a bitter aftertaste. I was done. “Fine,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I’ll wait for you.” Alexander’s shoulders slumped with relief. He let out a long breath, clearly thinking I had folded, just like I had for the last three years. “I knew it, Jade. You were always the sensible one.” He reached out to pat my head, a habit of his. I flinched away. He didn’t seem to notice. He stood up, smiling. “Get some rest. I’ll be downstairs to pick you up first thing in the morning.” He walked out of the room without looking back. I watched him go until the door clicked shut. I took a long, shaky breath. He was decisive, I’ll give him that. When he wanted something, he took it. When he wanted to leave, he left. So, goodbye, Alexander. … The next morning. Alexander was outside my apartment before the sun was fully up. He knocked for ten minutes. The hallway echoed with the sound of his persistence. Eventually, a cold, sharp dread began to seep into his chest. He pulled out his phone and dialed my number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is no longer in service…” His hand shook. Then, he noticed a white envelope tucked under the door. No seal. No name. He ripped it open. As he read the contents, the color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse.

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I’ve always had a knack for playing the fool. People tend to think my gears turn a little slower than the rest of the world, and I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother used to call me a “bad investment,” a drain on the family coffers just because I wasn’t a boy. In a fit of petty genius, I took every cent of my college fund and blew it on the most expensive premium life insurance policy I could find. If I was going to be an investment, I was going to be a protected one. In high school, the “it” girls called me a “try-hard.” I took it as a compliment, thanked them with a wide, vacant smile, and proceeded to try even harder until their annoyance turned into genuine confusion. But the real test came after the wedding. My husband, Alex, had this “childhood best friend,” Penny. They were inseparable, the kind of bond that usually spells disaster for a new wife. On our wedding night, amidst the clinking of crystal and the scent of expensive lilies, she leaned in during a toast and smirked. “You’re a lucky woman, Maggie,” she whispered, loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. “Alex is… well, he’s quite a force in the bedroom. I remember one weekend in Cabo where he kept me pinned to the mattress so long I couldn’t walk for three days.” The table went dead silent. Everyone was leaning in, waiting for me to shatter, to cry, or to cause a scene that would be the talk of the Hamptons for a decade. I didn’t blink. I just looked at her with wide, innocent eyes, tilted my head, and said, “Oh, Penny, you’re such a kidder. You must have been faking it. I mean… he’s practically a miniature.” … The air in the ballroom turned to ice. Someone at the next table let out a jagged, involuntary snort. “Alex, man,” a voice called out, laced with suppressed laughter. “That’s your wife talking. If she’s saying you’re coming up short, then we’ve all been lied to.” Men are fragile creatures, especially when it comes to their stature—in every sense of the word. Alex’s face didn’t just drop; it fossilized. He glared at me, his eyes dark with a mix of humiliation and burgeoning rage. Before he could snap, Penny beat him to it. She let out a high-pitched, fluttering laugh, pressing a hand to her chest as if scandalized. “Maggie! Oh my god, are you actually offended?” She winked at the guests, playing the role of the misunderstood truth-teller. “I was just trying to liven up the party with a little joke. I had no idea you were so… sensitive. I mean, saying something like that in front of everyone? Did you even think about Alex’s reputation?” Alex’s jaw tightened. His skin was turning a worrying shade of purple. Penny, the architect of this little disaster, looked at me with a triumphant, sharp-edged grin. I stared at her for a long beat, letting the silence stretch until it was uncomfortable. Oh, I thought. So that’s how we’re playing it? Jokes as daggers? Fine. I can play. I ignored Penny’s frantic twittering and reached out, grabbing Alex’s arm just as he was about to boil over. I looked up at him, my lower lip trembling slightly, channeling every ounce of “dim-witted victim” I possessed. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I’m just… I’m traditional, you know? We agreed to wait until tonight, so how could I possibly know your… dimensions?” I turned my gaze back to Penny, looking hurt and confused. “Penny told me all those things in private. I thought it was just ‘girl talk.’ She’s your oldest friend, Alex. She said you guys shared everything. I thought if she was comfortable joking about your body, then you were too.” I let a single, perfect tear well up in my eye. “I’m so sorry, honey. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought… if she knew, it wasn’t a secret.” Penny’s smirk vanished. Her mouth hung open, a fly-catching vacuum of disbelief. She started to stammer an explanation, but I didn’t give her the floor. I shrank back behind Alex, as if terrified of her reaction. “Penny, please don’t be mad! I didn’t mean anything by it. Like you said, it’s just a joke to keep things lively! You love Alex like a brother, right? Even after you told me about the time he got so drunk he ate the dog’s dinner, or how he fell into that septic tank at the country club and swallowed half the…” The ballroom fell into a silence so profound you could hear the ice melting in the bourbon glasses. Everyone was staring at Alex now, but the pity had been replaced by a grotesque curiosity. Alex had been a hyperactive, disaster-prone child, and as an adult, his ego was made of glass. He spent millions on PR to craft an image of “Old Money Sophistication.” Mentioning his childhood humiliations was the quickest way to end up on his permanent blacklist. I caught myself and slapped a hand over my mouth, looking horrified. “Oh no… did I say too much again? Alex, I’m so sorry! Everyone says I’m missing a filter. Penny, you won’t be mad at me, right? You’re the one who told me all this!” Penny’s carefully manicured face began to contort. She was vibrating with fury. “Maggie Langford, you lying bitch! I never said any of that!” she screamed, her voice cracking. The more she shrieked, the more I wanted to humiliate her. This was fun. Maybe I should get out more; personal growth really is invigorating. When it became clear I wasn’t going to engage in her shouting match, Penny turned to Alex, clutching his sleeve, her eyes brimming with calculated tears. “Alex, I didn’t! She’s making it all up! We grew up together, you know I’d never betray your privacy like that—” Alex didn’t even look at her. He ripped his arm away with such force she nearly fell over. “Shut up,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “Who else would know those stories, Penny? My mother and you. That’s it.” He straightened his tuxedo jacket, his face a mask of cold fury. “If your mouth is this loose, I’m going to have to seriously reconsider the merger with your father’s firm.” Penny turned pale. “No! Alex, please! She’s manipulative, she’s trying to drive a wedge between us, I—” Alex didn’t wait for her to finish. He swung his hand, the crack of his palm against her cheek echoing through the hall. “Enough. Remember who she is. She’s my wife. If you ever disrespect her again, I will erase your family from this city’s social register.” The party was effectively over. Alex turned to storm out, but he didn’t make it three steps before he crumpled, hitting the marble floor like a sack of stones. Chaos erupted. Penny, ever the opportunist, threw herself onto his unconscious body, wailing like she was at a Victorian funeral. “Alex! Wake up! Please don’t leave me!” The guests backed away, terrified of being associated with a medical emergency or a scandal. I stood there, watching the theatricality of it all with a clinical sort of interest. Once I’d had my fill, I calmly pulled out my phone and dialed 911. By the time the paramedics arrived, Alex’s pulse was a ghost. … He was in surgery for fourteen hours. When the doctor finally emerged, he looked exhausted. “The patient has a severe, underlying cardiac arrhythmia,” the surgeon explained, pulling off his mask. “Strong emotional shocks are incredibly dangerous for him. Did something… provoke him?” He sighed. “If you’d brought him in five minutes later, he’d be dead.” Alex’s parents, Miriam and Arthur Langford, arrived just in time to hear that. Miriam collapsed into a waiting room chair, her face ashen. “How is this possible? He’s been fine for years. Why now? Why so sudden?” Penny, sensing an opening, stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with a fresh scheme. But before she could speak, I “accidentally” bumped into her with my hip, sending her stumbling back into a row of chairs. I burst into tears—big, ugly, cinematic sobs. “It’s my fault, Miriam! All my fault!” I wailed. “I shouldn’t have played along when Penny was joking about… about how Alex kept her in bed for three days. I thought we were just having fun, but I think the stress of the secret coming out was too much for his heart!” The atmosphere in the hallway shifted instantly. The Langfords were the epitome of “High Society.” They lived and died by their reputation. To have their son’s wedding day marred by tawdry jokes about infidelity and public humiliation? It was unthinkable. Miriam turned on Penny, her eyes narrowed to slits. “Penny Miller. You’ve been a nuisance for years, clinging to my son like a barnacle. But to pull a stunt like this on his wedding day? To humiliate him in front of his peers? Are you trying to destroy him?” Penny started to sob for real now. “Aunt Miriam, no! I didn’t mean it like that, it was a joke—” I tilted my head, looking confused through my tears. “A joke? So… it wasn’t true? You and Alex didn’t actually…” I gasped, covering my mouth with both hands. I had laid the trap, and Penny walked right into it. She opened her mouth to snap at me—”Maggie, you little—”—but Arthur Langford’s voice cut her off like a guillotine. “Shut up!” he barked. “Haven’t you shamed us enough? I don’t know what your father was thinking, raising such a classless brat. Apologize and get out of my sight before I call security.” Penny looked at me, her teeth grinding so hard I thought they might shatter. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I was… out of line.” I sniffled. “It’s okay. But my mother always told me, if you make a mistake with your mouth, you should probably learn some discipline. Don’t you think, Penny?” Miriam and Arthur were staring at her, waiting. With no other choice, Penny raised her hand and slapped herself across the face. Twice. “Is that… sufficient?” she hissed. I nodded solemnly. She turned and fled the hospital. She was barely gone before Alex woke up. I don’t know what his parents told him, but when I walked into his room, he reached out and grabbed my hand with desperate intensity. “Maggie, honey, forget everything Penny said. She’s just a girl who doesn’t know when to stop talking. None of it was true. I love you. I’d give my life for you. I would never, ever betray you.” I smiled at him, but inside, I was rolling my eyes. Give your life for me? Please. Don’t give me things nobody wants. It didn’t surprise me that the Langfords were being so precious with me. Alex’s heart condition wasn’t a secret to them, even if it was to the public. They’d spent a fortune on specialists, but nothing worked. My mother, however, happened to be the world’s leading authority on his specific type of arrhythmia. I knew exactly why this billionaire family had bypassed a dozen high-society matches to marry their son to a “nobody” like me. They wanted my mother’s brilliance on retainer. I’d figured Alex was handsome enough and the family was rich enough that I could tolerate the arrangement. But things had changed. A man who lacks loyalty is a man who lacks value. He was still fun to toy with, though. A week later, just as I was packing for a trip to visit my parents, Penny reappeared at our estate. She was acting strangely demure, offering to help me pack. “Maggie, please, let me help. I feel so terrible about the wedding. I need to do something to make it up to you.” I saw the glint in her eye—the classic “Trojan Horse” play. I was about to kick her out when Alex walked in. “Let her help, Maggie. She’s just being Penny. She explained everything to me—it was all a big misunderstanding. We’re family, we need to move past this.” I looked at him, amazed. A week ago he was ready to ruin her father; now they were back to being “family.” The bond of shared childhood secrets was thick, apparently. “Fine,” I shrugged. “Go ahead. Pack the guest room. Be careful with those boxes, though. They’re incredibly valuable. I wouldn’t trust anyone but you with them, Penny.” Penny’s eyes darted around. She nodded, her mind clearly spinning. A few minutes later, I heard the satisfying crash of porcelain hitting the floor. Alex rushed into the room. “What happened?” Penny was standing over a pile of shattered ceramics, her eyes brimming with fake tears. “Oh, Alex! The box was so heavy! Maggie, why didn’t you tell me? It’s almost like you wanted me to drop it so I’d look bad in front of everyone.” She sniffled, looking at Alex. “I shouldn’t say that. I’m sure Maggie isn’t that calculated. She’s too sweet to have a hidden agenda… she definitely didn’t marry you for the Langford trust fund.” I watched her little performance and felt a surge of professional respect. It was so familiar. It was exactly the kind of move I would make. I rushed over and grabbed her hands, my face a mask of touched emotion. “Penny! You really do see the best in me! How did you know I was so kind-hearted? That’s why I packed all that old junk so carefully. It’s sentimental garbage from my childhood.” I paused, looking confused. “Wait… you couldn’t tell the difference between priceless heirlooms and literal trash? Oh dear, maybe you really are as dim as everyone says.” I leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Alex to hear. “I’m not insulting you, honey! It’s just a joke. Don’t be sensitive!” Penny’s face turned scarlet. “You… you packed trash in designer boxes?” I tilted my head. “How else are you supposed to pack it? Here—” I grabbed a high-end garment bag and draped it over her head. “You look like you need one too. To keep the set complete.” Before she could explode, Alex barked, “Enough! Penny, if you’re just here to cause more trouble, get out!” She went quiet, seething. But she wasn’t done. That night at dinner, the housekeeper brought out the sea bass. Penny took one look at it, clamped a hand over her mouth, and let out a soft, delicate retch. When everyone’s eyes were on her, she looked down, blushing. “Alex, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve been so nauseous lately. And exhausted. And… well, I’m two weeks late.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide and wet. “Do you think… could it be? I checked the calendar, and it lines up perfectly with that night we stayed over at my place, right before the wedding…” The table went silent. Alex turned a color I didn’t think was biologically possible for a living human. Penny leaned closer to him, ignoring the rest of us. “I never wanted to come between you and Maggie, Alex. But a baby… a baby is innocent. You can’t just ignore your own blood.” In the suffocating silence, I let out a sharp, sudden laugh. I clapped my hands together and sighed. “Wow. So the wedding night story wasn’t a joke after all.” Alex spun toward me, panic written in every line of his face. “Maggie, no! She’s lying! Nothing happened, I swear—” Penny interrupted him, her voice sharpening. “Alex, I gave you my ‘first.’ Why would I lie about something like this? If I wasn’t afraid of our child being labeled a ‘bastard,’ I’d raise him alone. But you did this. How can you look at this… this woman, and tell me she’s better than me? Than us?” Alex was staring at me, desperate. “Maggie, believe me. I’ll make her go away. She’ll have an abortion. Only you are allowed to have my children.” That was the breaking point for Penny. She reached into her Chanel clutch and pulled out a stack of photos, slamming them onto the table. “Aunt Miriam, Uncle Arthur! Look at her! Look at who you brought into your family!” The photos scattered across the mahogany table. They were grainy, but clear enough: me, in various stages of undress, caught in passionate clinches with half a dozen different men. The air in the room grew heavy. Miriam and Arthur picked up the photos, their expressions hardening into something cold and lethal. “I tried to warn you with my jokes,” Penny said, her voice dripping with triumph. “I wanted her to just leave quietly. But she’s a leech. I had to hire a private investigator. She’s been playing you all for fools.” I looked at the photos. They were actually pretty good—the Photoshop work was top-tier. “Alex,” his father growled, “do you have anything to say about your wife’s… hobbies?” I looked at Alex. He was looking at the photos, then at me. The trust was gone. The “love” he’d sworn a week ago had evaporated. “Oh,” I said, leaning back and stretching. “Well, I guess we’re getting a divorce then.” Alex slammed his fist on the table. “You’re damn right we are! I’m done! I don’t care if I die from this heart condition, I won’t spend another second married to a slut like you!” He barked an order to his assistant, and within twenty minutes, a divorce agreement was on the table. He signed it with a flourish of ink and rage. I didn’t even blink. I signed my name right next to his. “Why are you still here?” Alex hissed. “Get out before I have security throw you and your trash into the street.” I stood up, smoothing my skirt. “I’m going. But I have a little parting gift for the family. I think you’ll find it… illuminating.” I pulled a remote from my pocket and tapped a button. The high-end projector in the dining room whirred to life. As the image flickered onto the wall, the entire room stopped breathing.

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The third year of Elena’s “graduate studies” in London had stretched the Atlantic into a vast, digital void. I had slowly grown accustomed to a relationship that lived entirely within the confines of a five-inch screen—a routine of pixelated kisses and time-zone math. That Tuesday, I was killing time at a high-end organic market in downtown Chicago, drifting through the aisles. On a whim, I snapped a photo of a gourmet display and sent it to her: “At the grocery store. Thinking of you. Everything reminds me of you today.” My phone buzzed almost instantly. “What a coincidence! I’m at a market too, wishing you were here. I miss you so much it hurts.” She followed it with a cute, pouting cat emoji. I felt that familiar, dull ache in my chest, a mixture of longing and affection that made me smile despite the distance. I started to move toward the snack aisle when a scene near the imported chocolates caught my eye. It was a picture-perfect family. The man was tall, strikingly handsome in a bespoke charcoal suit, leaning down to catch the hand of the woman beside him. She was radiant, holding the hand of a toddler who was waving a bag of organic fruit snacks and chirping “Daddy!” in a sweet, high-pitched voice. A pang of envy hit me. I looked away, offering a small, polite smile as I prepared to walk past them, unwilling to intrude on their private bubble of happiness. Then, the woman turned her head. The profile was unmistakable. The slope of her nose, the way her hair tucked behind her ear—it was Elena. My Elena. … My brain went white. The blood rushed to my head with such force I could hear the pulse thundering in my ears. Instinct took over before logic could even find its footing. By the time I realized what I was doing, I had already lunged forward. My fist connected squarely with the handsome man’s jaw. He wasn’t prepared for the impact. He stumbled back, a look of pure shock turning into immediate, searing rage. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he roared, wiping a smear of red from his lip. Without waiting for an answer, he threw himself at me. We became a blur of limbs and anger, crashing into a display of expensive olive oils. Elena’s scream pierced the air—a sharp, jagged sound. She threw herself between us, her hands clawing at my jacket, before her palm connected with my cheek in a stinging slap. “You psychopath!” she yelled, her voice trembling. “Who do you think you are? Why are you attacking my husband?” Then, she actually looked at me. The words died in her throat. The color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale under the fluorescent lights. “Elena,” I said, the name tasting like ash. I wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of my mouth and let out a short, hollow laugh. “Care to explain what you’re doing in Chicago?” My gaze dropped, landing on the subtle but unmistakable curve of her belly beneath her designer coat. “And whose child you’re carrying while you’re supposed to be across the ocean?” Panic flared in her eyes for a split second. The man, sensing the shift, pulled her protectively into his side. He looked down at her, his brow furrowed. “Babe? Who is this guy?” Elena’s expression shifted. The panic was stifled, replaced by a chilling, practiced composure. She looked me straight in the eye, her voice cold and steady. “I don’t know him. I… I might have seen him around, maybe? He’s clearly unstable.” She turned to her husband, her voice softening into a plea. “He’s just a crazy person, Greyson. Let’s just go.” I don’t know him? Less than sixty seconds ago, she was telling me she loved me via text. Now, she was standing five feet away, effectively erasing seven years of my life with a single sentence. The rage in my chest felt like it was going to burst my ribs. When did she get married? That child looked at least two years old. If he was her husband, what was I? A secret? A long-distance placeholder she kept for the ego boost while she lived a double life right under my nose? She hadn’t been in London. She had been here, in this city, building a home, raising a son, and getting pregnant again with another man’s child. The humiliation was a physical weight. I wanted to scream, to shake her, to demand the truth. My fists clenched until my knuckles turned white, but I forced myself to breathe. My father had raised me with a strict, perhaps outdated, code: you never lay a hand on a woman. I stepped closer, my voice a low, dangerous vibration. “Elena. Say it again. Look me in the eye and say you don’t know me.” She knit her brows, her face a mask of annoyed pity. “Sir,” she said, projecting her voice for the benefit of the gathering crowd. “Are you trying to harass me? I have no idea who you are or how you know my name. I am a married woman. My son is right here, and I am pregnant. Please stop this delusional behavior before my husband calls security.” I started to laugh. It was a dark, jagged sound. “Fine. Have it your way.” I turned and walked out of the store without looking back. Five minutes later, my phone buzzed in my pocket. “I’ll explain everything later. Please, Des, just trust me. Don’t do anything rash.” I didn’t reply. I blocked her number, deleted our entire message history, and wiped her from my digital life in three taps. I was about to power down the phone when a local “People of Chicago” video popped up on my feed. Normally, I’d swipe past, but a face caught my eye. The man from the grocery store. The ID was his name: Greyson Pierce. I clicked on the profile, and my heart sank into my stomach. It was a “lifestyle vlog” account. It went back three years. The most recent video was from this morning. A “Get Ready With Us” for preschool drop-off. It showed Elena holding the little boy’s hand, skipping toward a private school gate. Greyson’s voice came from behind the camera, warm and filled with pride. “Slow down, you two! Mommy’s got a passenger on board, remember?” The caption read: “Finally sending the monster to school. Time for some 1-on-1 time with my beautiful wife!” The comments were nauseating. “Greyson is such a girl-dad in the making.” “Elena is so lucky.” My eyes burned. I felt like an idiot. I had seen this account before—it was popular in the city’s socialite circles. How had I never realized the “mysterious, private wife” was the woman I was sending “goodnight” texts to every evening? I scrolled down. Three months ago. A video of Elena’s slender hand feeding a grape to Greyson. The caption: “She heard me say I missed the grapes from that specific vineyard in Bordeaux. She literally walked out of a high-level board meeting and flew to France just to bring me some. She lost a million-dollar deal, but she said my smile was worth more.” I looked at the date: June 25th, 2024. The memory hit me like a physical blow. That was the day I had been rushed to the ER with acute gastritis. My fever had hit 103. In my delirium, I had called Elena, begging her to come home, telling her I just needed her to hold my hand. She had sounded so stressed on the phone. “Des, I’m so sorry. I’m in the middle of a seminar in London. I can’t just leave. It’s impossible.” She had Venmo’d me a hundred dollars. “Get a friend to take you to the hospital, okay? Order some soup. Rest for me.” I had been so touched by her “concern,” so guilty for “distracting” her from her studies. Now, looking at the video, I realized she hadn’t lied about being in France. She just wasn’t there for school. She was there to hand-deliver grapes to her husband while I was vomiting blood in a Chicago hospital room thirty minutes from her house. I scrolled more. A video of her in a silk apron, cooking dinner. Greyson’s caption: “She hates takeout. No matter how late she works, she always makes sure there’s a home-cooked meal waiting for us. I love you, baby.” I laughed, a dry, sobbing sound. It wasn’t that she cared about “health.” It was just that my health hadn’t been worth the effort of a home-cooked meal. Then, a photo of Greyson in the mirror, wearing a sharp navy tie. Caption: “My wife insists on tying my tie every morning. She says it’s her favorite ritual.” My breath hitched. I remembered my college graduation. I was struggling with my first real silk tie in front of a cracked mirror. Elena had leaned over my shoulder, her chin resting on my collarbone. “Desmond,” she had whispered. “Once I learn how to do this perfectly, I’m going to do it for you every single day.” I had kissed her forehead. “I’ll never let anyone else touch my ties but you.” She had learned. She had become an expert. She just gave that “special ritual” to someone else. Finally, I reached the very first video. It was a shot of two hands, intertwined, showcasing matching platinum wedding bands. The caption: “Mrs. Pierce, you look stunning today.” The date was the exact day Elena supposedly flew to London to start her program. During those hours she was “in flight” and unable to text, I had sent her two messages: “Stay safe over there, El. I’m already counting the days.” “When you get back, let’s finally get married.” While I was planning our wedding, she was walking down the aisle with Greyson Pierce. I clicked the phone off. I sat in the dark of my apartment for a long time, just breathing. Three years. The last three years had been a curated, high-definition joke at my expense. I went to my bedroom and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime later—hours, maybe—a frantic pounding on my door startled me awake. I stumbled to the entrance, bleary-eyed. When I opened it, Elena was standing there. My face went cold. I tried to slam the door, but she shoved her arm into the gap. I didn’t care; I kept pushing. “Ow! Des, stop! You’re hurting me!” she cried, her eyes welling with tears. “Get your arm out of the way, Elena, or I’ll break it,” I said, my voice devoid of emotion. “Please,” she begged, refusing to move. “Just let me explain. Please.” “Explain what?” I sneered. “Explain the logistics of how you managed to sleep with two men in the same city for three years? Explain how you’re carrying his ‘wild seed’ while I was waiting like a dog for you to come home from a London that didn’t exist? Or should we talk about how you’re a Mrs. Pierce now? Congratulations, by the way. Sorry I missed the wedding.” She looked frantic. “No! It’s not like that! Des, we never broke up! I never wanted to leave you!” She grabbed my forearm, her tears spilling over. “I didn’t have a choice! The Pierce family… they’re powerful. My father’s company was failing. It was an arranged marriage, a business merger. I was the only daughter. I had to do it!” I nodded slowly. “And that’s your excuse? My family isn’t exactly poor, Elena. Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you think for one second that my family could have helped yours? That we could have been the ones to merge?” I found myself shouting. Even now, in the middle of this betrayal, I was angry that she hadn’t chosen me to save her. It was a pathetic realization. “Elena,” I said, my voice dripping with loathing. “If you made your choice—to marry him, to have his children—why keep me on a leash? What was the end game? Were you going to wait until I found out? Or were you planning to keep me as your little side-piece forever?” “No!” she cried. “I never wanted you to be in the shadows! Des…” she closed her eyes, a look of twisted pragmatism crossing her face. “Don’t be naive. Real mergers happen between the top one percent. We are old money, Des. You’re… different. My parents told me to endure it for three years. Give the Pierces an heir, solidify the assets, and then I could get a divorce. Once I had the settlement, I could come back to you. It would have been so much easier then!” I stared at her, wondering if I had ever actually known this person. I started to laugh. “What did you just say?” “You think I’d want you as a second-hand wife? After you spent three years in another man’s bed?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I shoved her back and slammed the door. She stayed in the hallway for a long time. Finally, I heard her muffled voice through the wood. “I know you still love me, Des. You’re just hurt. You’ll wait for me. I’ll make this right.” She didn’t make it right. The next person to show up wasn’t Elena. It was Greyson Pierce. It happened during our Q4 strategy meeting. I was at the front of the conference room, presenting a proposal for a new tech acquisition, when the double doors were kicked open. They hit the walls with a boom that silenced the room. Greyson walked in, his hands in his pockets, looking like a man who owned the world. He was followed by four large men in suits—security, or perhaps something more private. He walked straight up to the podium, stopping inches from my face. With a slight nod from him, his guards moved. Before I could even react, they had me pinned, forcing me to my knees on the carpet. The room erupted in gasps. Greyson smirked and tossed a phone onto the table in front of me. “Desmond Whittaker, right?” he said, his voice a calm, dangerous purr. “You’ve got a lot of things to say, apparently. Why don’t you tell everyone here about your relationship with my wife?” I gritted my teeth, looking at the screen. The messages were gone—she had wiped them. The only thing left was the Venmo record from the day I had gastritis. A hundred dollars. “Are you a high-priced escort, or just a pathetic charity case she keeps on the side?” Greyson asked, his eyes burning with a mix of triumph and fury. “My wife is young. She gets bored. She made a mistake with a nobody like you, and I can overlook that. But you? You’re a snack she had while she was waiting for dinner. You don’t get to exist in my world.” I looked up at him and smiled. “Are you done?” Greyson blinked, clearly taken aback by my lack of fear. He let out a sharp, angry laugh. “You’ve got a thick skin. I’ll give you that.” One of my senior VPs stood up. “What is the meaning of this? Let Mr. Whittaker go immediately!” Greyson didn’t even turn his head. “Maybe you should Google who I am before you open your mouth. I’m handling a private matter with a parasite. Sit down.” Then, he punched me. Hard. Right in the gut. I groaned, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. But the pain cleared the fog. I had had enough. With a surge of adrenaline, I wrenched my arms free from the guards—I’ve spent five mornings a week in a boxing gym for years; they weren’t expecting me to actually know how to fight. I lunged upward, catching Greyson with a hook that sent him reeling back into the mahogany table. “You actually hit me?” Greyson roared, clutching his jaw. “I’m just getting started,” I said, my voice cold. I looked at him with genuine pity. “Elena? She’s a piece of trash I’m done with. You want her? Keep her. She’s all yours.” “But don’t you dare come in here acting like the victim,” I continued, stepping toward him. “You’re the one who should be embarrassed, Pierce. Because you’re the interloper. You’re the one who walked into a seven-year relationship and thought you bought something new.” Greyson’s face darkened. “What are you talking about?” I wiped the blood from my lip. “It seems Elena hasn’t been honest with you about the timeline. Here, why don’t you see for yourself how long we’ve been—” Before I could pull out my backup phone, a hand snatched it from my grasp. Smash. The phone was hurled against the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces of glass and silicon. I looked up, stunned. Elena was standing there. She looked horrified, her eyes darting between us. She spoke quickly, her voice sharp and frantic. “What are you doing hitting my husband? Desmond, who do you think you are?” I looked at her, and the last shred of affection I had for her finally died. She was still playing the game. She was protecting her meal ticket, and she was arrogant enough to think I’d just play along and take the fall. Greyson looked at her, his expression wounded. “Elena… who is he? You told me you didn’t know him. Why is there a money transfer? Why did he say you were together?” “It’s nothing,” Elena said, her voice turning sweet as she stroked his arm. Her smile was perfectly composed. “I just remembered. He was a student I used to sponsor. A charity case from years ago.” She turned to me, her eyes like ice. “Desmond, I tried to help you when you had nothing. Is this how you repay me? I gave you money because I felt sorry for your family’s situation. I didn’t realize you’d grow some deluded obsession with me. You’re a social climber, nothing more. Did you really think a girl like me—a Sterling-Rossi heiress—would ever actually look at someone like you? You’re a cockroach.” One of my executives stood up, looking baffled. “What? Sponsored? What the hell are you talking about?” “Exactly,” another joined in. “Who do you people think you are, coming in here like a mob and talking this nonsense?” Elena frowned. She didn’t understand why they weren’t instantly believing her. She expected them to see a “nobody” being crushed by a socialite. She didn’t realize that in this room, she was the one out of her depth. Before she could say another word, a deep, booming voice echoed from the doorway. “Well, this is fascinating. I’d very much like to meet the woman who claims to be ‘sponsoring’ the son of Charles Whittaker, the sole heir to the Whittaker Global empire.”

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In the dead of night, when sleep feels like a luxury I can no longer afford, I usually find myself scrolling through my feed. That’s how I saw it—a post from my best friend, Beth. She had shared one of those mindless personality quiz results. The bold text over her photo read “Seductress,” and she’d captioned it with a line that made my skin crawl: “A little kitten looking for her master… any takers?~” I was about to leave a teasing comment, something about her being a bit too thirsty for a Tuesday night, when my eyes caught a reply that made my heart lurch into my throat. The comment came from a burner account I’d been quietly following for years—an account belonging to my husband, Cole. The words felt like a physical blow: “The 24-karat gold cage is ready. Don’t run too fast, little kitten.” I stared at the screen, unable to breathe. Cole was the kind of man who still got a shy flush on his face when things got too heated in the bedroom. To see him post something so raw, so… carnal… it felt like looking at a stranger. A thousand questions swarmed my mind, but I forced them down. I couldn’t just confront him. Not yet. Everyone in our social circle knew that Beth was Cole’s “third rail.” You didn’t touch the subject. You didn’t bring her up. Even at our wedding, I had purposefully seated Beth at a distant table, far from the head of the room, just to avoid any potential friction between them. The next day, the man who prided himself on never missing a family dinner suddenly called to say he had to work late. The timing was too perfect, the excuse too hollow. My feet took me to Beth’s apartment before my brain could tell them no. Standing outside her window, I saw him. Cole—the man who claimed he couldn’t boil an egg to save his life—was standing in Beth’s kitchen, wearing an apron, meticulously plating a meal. I didn’t have the courage to walk through that door. Instead, I went home, pulled out the divorce papers I’d tucked away in a drawer months ago as a “just in case” that I never thought I’d need, and signed my name with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. … I opened the app again, wanting to screenshot the evidence, but then I saw it. The timestamp. He had posted that comment on my birthday. At exactly midnight. During the thirty seconds I spent blowing out my candles and wishing for a lifetime with him, he was busy flirting with my best friend. A sharp, stinging ache hit the bridge of my nose. My phone buzzed. A text from Cole, his tone as warm and deceptive as ever: [Donna, honey, this project is running late. Don’t wait up. Get some sleep.] I stared at the screen, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. I didn’t reply instantly like I usually did. In our three years of marriage, Cole had been the perfect husband in the eyes of the Manhattan elite. His only flaw was his vocal distaste for Beth. Whenever her name came up, his jaw would set, and his eyes would turn to ice. Everyone knew the story. Five years ago, he had chased Beth relentlessly. She had rejected him at every turn. The final blow came at a high-society gala where she told him in front of a dozen people, “You’re boring, Cole. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body. I’d rather be single than spend a night with a man who treats life like a spreadsheet.” After that, he never looked at her again. He even pulled his firm’s investments from any company that dared to hire her. Later, when our families started pushing us together, we slid into marriage like it was the most natural thing in the world. He treated me with such tenderness that people began to say the “cold Cole” was a myth. I actually believed we had found love after the vows. But it was all a performance. When did it start? After her divorce? Or was it always there, simmering beneath the surface? I walked into our empty apartment. In the master bath, the shower was still set to the exact temperature I liked. Cole always made sure of it; he’d even warm my towels in the dryer before I got in. He was a man with a reputation for being a devoted lover. Now, I realized it was just a script he was following. A few minutes later, a text from my cousin, Toby, popped up. He had been looking into things for me. He sounded livid. [Donna, I found the paper trail. Cole has transferred over two million dollars to Beth’s personal accounts.] [They meet every week. Every time you think he’s at the office, he’s with her.] [Should I tell your mother? She’ll ruin him.] I typed back, my fingers cold: [Don’t do anything rash. I’ll handle this.] When Cole finally came home late that night, I had scrubbed every trace of emotion from my face. He smelled like the cold night air—and something else. Something floral. He frowned when he saw me still up, reaching out to pull me into his arms. “Why aren’t you in bed? Have you been waiting for me?” Beth’s name was a lump in my throat. I swallowed it. “Yeah. Just a little insomnia.” He tucked my head under his chin, his voice thick with performative guilt. “I’ve been so busy lately, I’ve ignored you. I’ll make it up to you this weekend. I’ll get you something special.” Still the perfect husband. The next morning, as he was rushing to get dressed, I spoke up. “It’s Saturday, Cole. Where are you going?” “Emergency meeting at the office. I have to be there.” He cinched his tie with practiced ease, grabbing his keys. I said softly, “Do you know what today is?” He paused, glancing at the calendar on the wall, and feigned a look of sudden realization. “God, I’m an idiot. Our third anniversary.” He stepped closer, kissing my forehead. “The meeting is unmovable, but I’ll make it up to you tonight, okay?” I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. Make it up to me? By coming home with another woman’s scent on his skin? “Go ahead,” I said. “I have plans with a friend anyway.” He looked relieved and practically ran out the door. I waited five minutes, got into my car, and drove straight to Beth’s office building. At noon, the lunch crowd was swarming the nearby bistro. I followed them in and took a seat at a booth directly behind them. I watched as Cole meticulously peeled shrimp and placed them in Beth’s bowl. A chill swept through me. He had told me for years that he hated the smell of seafood, that he couldn’t stand the texture. We never had it in the house. And yet, here he was, playing servant to her cravings. I watched him reach across the table to wipe a stray drop of sauce from the corner of her lip. It was an action so intimate, so natural, it felt like a knife to the ribs. Beth giggled, swatting his hand away. “Stop it. People are looking.” “Let them look,” Cole’s voice was low, but it carried perfectly to my ears. “I’m taking care of my kitten. Why should I care what they think?” Kitten. There it was again. I didn’t confront them. I followed them. I watched as he took her to every place he had ever taken me—the same parks, the same galleries. They even sat in our usual spots. It was a systematic erasure of our life together. Every romantic gesture he had ever shown me had just been a rehearsal for her. I was the practice round. I was the mannequin he used to learn how to be the man she wanted. I waited until evening to corner Beth as she was heading home. She was wearing a new designer dress, her makeup flawless. When she saw me, a flicker of panic crossed her eyes, but it was gone in a heartbeat, replaced by a practiced smile. “Donna! What are you doing here? Waiting for me?” I didn’t play along. “Beth, you know he’s my husband.” Twelve years of friendship, discarded for a sordid little thrill. Her smile faltered. She tried to look confused. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Cole and I can barely stand each other. You know that.” I pulled up the videos, the screenshots, and the bank transfers on my phone and shoved them in her face. “Barely stand each other? Is that why he’s buying your bags? Giving you millions? Is that why he calls you his kitten and talks about gold cages?” Beth’s face went ghost-white. She hadn’t expected me to have receipts. “We’re in love,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with easy, practiced tears. “I didn’t want to hurt your marriage, Donna. He came to me. He told me there was nothing left between you two.” “In love?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “That bag on your shoulder was bought with our joint account. You’re spending my money, sleeping with my husband, and you want to talk to me about love?” She stood there, frozen. My eyes moved to the necklace around her neck—a delicate silver chain with a small cat pendant. “That’s a beautiful necklace,” I said. Her hand instinctively went to the pendant. “It was my mother’s birthday gift to me,” I continued. “Cole told me he lost it when we moved. I see he ‘found’ it and gave it to you.” Four years ago, before my mother passed, she gave me that necklace and told me to keep it safe. Cole had held me while I cried, promising to protect everything I cherished. I reached out, my fingers steady, and unhooked the clasp from her neck. I tucked the silver into my pocket. “You…” Beth hissed, but she didn’t dare stop me. As I turned to walk away, she called out, her voice sharp and desperate. “Donna, I’m pregnant. It’s Cole’s.” I froze. “Don’t hate me,” she said, her voice dropping to a theatrical sob. “He loved me first. It took me getting divorced to realize how good he was. I won’t take him from you, Donna. You stay here in the city, and I’ll move upstate. I just want my baby to have a father sometimes.” She had it all planned out. The perfect mistress arrangement. I didn’t turn back. I let the tears fall only when I was out of her sight. Twelve years of friendship. Done. When I got home, I laid all the evidence out on the dining room table. Cole walked in twenty minutes later. When he saw the files, his face transformed from confusion to a terrifying, dark rage. “You spied on me? Donna, since when did you become so manipulative?” I didn’t flinch. I looked him dead in the eye. “Manipulative? Compared to a man who’s been gaslighting his wife while sleeping with her best friend? You call her your kitten. You’re building her a cage. Does it bother you that your little whore has to be kept in the dark?” Cole’s eyes snapped. Before I could move, his hand swung. The slap echoed through the quiet apartment. My head jerked to the side, my cheek stinging with a heat I’d never felt before. The silence that followed was deafening. “You hit me?” I whispered, the words trembling. He looked at his hand, then at me, horror dawning on his face. He reached out to touch my face. “Donna, I didn’t mean… you pushed me. You shouldn’t have said those things about her.” I started to laugh, a jagged, broken sound. “You love her that much? Then why did you marry me? What was I, Cole? Your cover? Your practice run? A joke you told yourself?” “Enough!” he barked. “Beth and I are… it’s complicated. You’re making a scene out of nothing.” “Nothing?” I mocked. He finally broke, his shoulders sagging with a frustrated sigh. “Fine. I admit it. I married you to spite her. I wanted to prove I could be the romantic man she said I wasn’t. But I didn’t lie about our time together—I do care for you. Isn’t that enough?” “She’s vulnerable right now, Donna. She’s just been through a divorce. She needs me. But there’s nothing more to it.” A sharp pang of grief hit me. Nothing more to it? Then where did the baby come from? I took a deep breath. “Why me, Cole? Why did you pick me to destroy?” He took a step forward and grabbed my hands. His voice was suddenly, terrifyingly gentle. “Because I knew you loved me. I knew you’d never leave.” It was the cruelest answer he could have given. I wanted to scream, but the pain was so deep I couldn’t even breathe. He had known about my secret crush for years and used it as a leash. I had been a fool, thinking we were “learning to love” each other. The two most important people in my life had conspired to break me. Cole pulled me into a hug, whispering into my hair. “Donna, I’ll move her away. Somewhere far. She won’t interfere with our life. I promise.” I pushed him back. “So you’re going to keep her? Like a pet?” He didn’t answer. The silence was his confirmation. The front door opened then. Beth walked in, her eyes red from crying. She looked at Cole, then at me. “Donna, please don’t fight because of me. I came to apologize.” She walked over and gave a small, theatrical bow. “I’m so sorry. Six months ago, after my divorce, I was in a dark place. We had a few drinks and things happened. It was a mistake. Please, don’t let this ruin your marriage. It was all my fault.” Cole immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her. “It’s not your fault, Beth. Don’t blame yourself.” Watching them, I felt a wave of nausea so strong I thought I would retch. A mistake? For six months? They weren’t “mistaken.” They were addicted to each other. Cole roughly shoved me aside to guide Beth toward the door. “This isn’t the time. I’ll take you home.” He didn’t look back at me once. He didn’t see the signed divorce papers on the table. An hour later, Toby called. He sounded like he was about to explode. “Donna, I had a contact at the hospital check the records. Beth’s prenatal visits, her travel history—everything. That baby isn’t Cole’s.” I gripped the phone. “What?” “She was seeing a guy before her divorce was even finalized. She probably doesn’t even know who the father is herself. She actually had a private DNA test done—amniocentesis—and it’s a 0% match for Cole. I’m sending you the PDF right now. We can end this.” I closed my eyes. “Don’t tell anyone. Just send it to me.” Two hours later, I had the report in my inbox. I printed it out and tucked it into the very back of the divorce settlement. A little parting gift for the happy couple. I was leaving, but I wasn’t going quietly. I booked a flight to Vancouver for the following week. After our fight, Cole stopped coming home. He was likely waiting for me to cave, to play the “good wife” and beg for his return. I thought I could spend my final days in the city in peace. But two days before my flight, the world ended. I was leaving a department store with a few travel essentials when two men in masks grabbed me. Before I could scream, I was shoved into the back of a black van. As the darkness of a sedative started to take hold, I heard another voice screaming in the van. It was Beth. When I woke up, we were both tied to support beams in a crumbling warehouse. My wrists were raw from the hemp rope. The kidnappers were pacing, eyes darting between us. They called Cole. Twenty minutes later, the warehouse doors crashed open. Cole charged in, looking like a man possessed. “Let them go,” he rasped. “I’ll give you whatever you want.” The kidnapper laughed, playing with a switchblade. “We want money, obviously. But I know you’ve got plenty of that. I want to see how much they’re worth to you. Ten million into this account just to keep them breathing. And then… we play a game. You can only take one with you.” One. My fingers curled into my palms. Even now, after everything, I had to be measured against her. Cole’s eyes darted between us. When he looked at me, there was a flicker of shame, but it was instantly swallowed by the terror he felt for Beth. Beth started wailing, her voice shrill and broken. “Cole, please! I’m so scared… the baby… think about the baby!” That was it. That was the killing blow. Without a second of hesitation, Cole pointed at her. “I choose her. Let her go.” He looked at me then, his voice shaking as he spoke to the kidnapper. “Don’t hurt Donna. Give me an hour, I’ll get you another fifty million.” The kidnapper’s eyes lit up. “One hundred million. If it’s not in the account in three hours, your wife dies.” “Done. Just wait for me. Donna, don’t be afraid. I’m coming back for you. I promise.” He scooped Beth up and ran out the door, leaving me in the dark with the wolves. In his heart, I had never even been a contender. The heavy doors groaned shut. Time began to stretch into an agonizing crawl. The kidnappers grew impatient. One checked his phone and spat on the floor. “The bastard lied to us. The account is frozen.” Enraged, they began to take it out on me. A boot to the ribs. A fist to the jaw. “I can give you the money,” I whispered, my voice cracked. “Just let me go.” They didn’t believe me. They thought I was a stalling tactic. The beating continued until the world started to blur into a haze of grey. “He’s not coming back,” one of them muttered. “She’s useless now. Get rid of her like we planned.” They tied heavy iron weights to my ankles. I was dragged across the concrete, the sound of the ocean growing louder with every step. The water was ice. It shocked my system, making my lungs burn for air I couldn’t reach. I struggled, but it was futile. The weights pulled me down, down into the black. I hate you, Cole, I thought as the pressure crushed my chest. Two more days… I was two days away from being free. The light above the surface faded. My consciousness fractured.

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The system’s chime echoed in my mind just as a fresh wave of agony bloomed behind my ribs. I slumped against the cold, sterile tiles of the hospital corridor, clutching my chest. Every word of the conversation between my fiancée and my sister was a jagged shard of ice, driven straight into my marrow. They had lied. The four failed heart matches, the months of agonizing “bad luck”—it was all a fabrication, a cruel game played to appease the “real” son who had suddenly appeared in our lives. Now that he had been diagnosed with heart failure, the donor organ I had spent years waiting for—the one that was supposed to be my second chance at life—was being diverted to him. My sister hadn’t flown back from London to support me. She was here with a waiver, her voice a practiced melody of manipulation as she told me to “just wait a little longer.” She claimed the long-lost biological brother couldn’t wait. But who was counting the times I had teetered on the edge of the abyss? Yesterday, I had been the one throwing her out of my room in a fit of righteous fury. Today, my life-saving surgery had been reassigned behind my back. The family bonds I cherished and the love I had built were nothing more than cheap, disposable commodities in their eyes. Before my tears could even dry, I pressed the activation key for the Return Program. … [Return Program initiated. Countdown: Seventy-two hours.] Just three more days. Then I could leave this miserable existence behind forever. I leaned against the wall, forcing oxygen into my failing lungs as I shuffled back to my room. When I pushed the door open, the sight was a physical blow. Orderlies were already sweeping my personal belongings into cardboard boxes. Two men were unhooking my ventricular assist device—the machine keeping my heart beating. My sister, Isabelle, was directing them with cold efficiency. My fiancée, Helena, stood by her side, her silence a heavy, suffocating shroud. I leaned against the doorframe, gasping for air. “What… what are you doing?” Helena’s eyes flickered toward my ghostly face. Her fingers twitched, a momentary lapse in her composure, before she looked away and turned toward Isabelle. Isabelle’s expression shifted, a flash of guilt quickly replaced by a hardened resolve. “Adrian, Lucas just came out of a crisis. He’s in the critical observation window. He needs this private suite and this specific equipment. It’s an emergency.” I tightened my grip on the doorframe, trying to breathe through a spasm. my voice was a raspy whisper. “Isabelle, I’ve failed four matches. My heart is a ruin. If you take this away, I’ll die.” Isabelle turned bone-white. She gritted her teeth. “You’ve survived every crisis before. You’ll make it through this one. Lucas is different—he’s fragile. Please, Adrian. For me. Just give your brother this one thing.” I looked at these two women—the people I had loved with every fiber of my being. One was the sister I had adored for twenty years; the other was my childhood sweetheart. And here they were, ruthlessly asking me to hand over my only chance at survival. Suddenly, the weight of it all—the years of trying to earn their love—just vanished. I felt an incredible, numbing exhaustion. What did it matter? In a few dozen hours, I would be gone anyway. I let out a jagged, self-deprecating laugh and nodded. “Fine. Take it.” Isabelle’s rehearsed arguments died in her throat. She stared at me, bewildered by my sudden compliance. Right then, a searing pain clawed at my heart. I stumbled, my knees buckling. “Adrian!” Helena lunged forward, catching my arm. When she realized I wasn’t dead yet, she let out a long breath, her voice softening into that manipulative tenderness I used to mistake for love. “Adrian, you’ve always been so strong. You can handle a few days without the monitors. Once Lucas is out of the woods, I promise I’ll get you the best care available.” She brushed a hair from my forehead. “When you’re better, I’ll take you to that chalet in St. Moritz. Just the two of us.” Three months ago, those words would have been my lifeline. Back then, if I so much as nicked a finger, Helena would cancel her board meetings to bandage it herself, her eyes red with worry. But now? She knew exactly how excruciating a thoracic surgery was, yet she had tricked me into the operating theater four times, letting them cut me open for nothing, just to spite me on behalf of Lucas. “Stop it, Helena. Stop the act.” Her hand froze. The irritation of being seen through flickered across her face, and she withdrew her touch. “If you’re going to be ungrateful, then we’ll do this the hard way.” She signaled the orderlies to move my remaining things to a general ward. My assistant, Arlo, burst into the room, his eyes bloodshot with rage. He shoved an orderly who was tossing my things. “You can’t throw this out!” Arlo’s voice cracked. “This is Adrian’s pain journal! Every night he couldn’t sleep from the agony, he wrote in this just to stay sane. How can you treat it like trash?” Isabelle and Helena’s expressions shifted. Helena stepped forward and snatched the notebook, flipping it open. A stack of yellowed receipts fluttered to the floor. She paused, reading a page. Isabelle was in that horrific crash. The hospital was out of her blood type. I’m the only match. The doctors say over-donating will damage my heart long-term, but as long as she lives, I don’t care. She flipped to another page, filled with frantic calculations. Helena’s firm was set up. The penalties are astronomical. I liquidated the trust my grandmother left me to cover her margins. I took out private loans to bridge the gap. The interest is mounting, but she can’t know. She has enough pressure. I’m a man; I’ll carry this debt for her. The two women stared at the papers, a momentary silence falling over the room. But the ego is a powerful thing. They didn’t want to be the villains of this story. “Adrian,” Isabelle said, her voice dripping with disbelief. “Did you really plant these ‘props’ just to compete for our affection with Lucas? That’s low, even for you.” Recalling all the genuine love I had wasted, I didn’t even bother to argue. I leaned down to pick up my journal. As I bent over, the world tilted. A violent throb erupted in my chest. I collapsed, cold sweat instantly soaking my shirt. Isabelle merely sighed, annoyed. “This again? The moment the monitors are gone, you stage a heart attack? Grow up.” Helena waved a hand at the security guards. “Get him out of here. Adrian, when are you going to start acting like a man? This is pathetic.” I was numb as the guards dragged me down the hall to a cramped, freezing bed in the general ward. [Countdown: Sixty-eight hours.] Just a little longer. I curled into the thin sheets. Without the assist device, every breath was a conscious struggle. Arlo sat by my bed, tears streaming down his face as he cursed them under his breath. He told me he’d go find a way to buy the medication I needed, even if he had to beg for it, and then he ran out. A few hours later, Lucas walked in. He looked slightly pale, but his eyes were bright with triumph. He walked to my bedside, leaning in close, his chest puffed out. “Adrian,” he whispered, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “Can you hear it? Listen to how strong this heart beats.” He chuckled. “You really think those four matches failed because of ‘luck’? I just told Isabelle and Helena that I felt you were looking down on me. To make it up to me, they made sure you went under the knife for nothing. They even swapped your post-op anti-rejection meds for vitamins.” He leaned closer, his voice a venomous hiss. “You’re pathetic. Betrayed by your woman and your sister, and you were still pining for them in that stupid diary. It’s hilarious.” My entire body shuddered. I stared at him, the horror of his words sinking in. Four times I had gone into that theater with hope, only to wake up to failure. I had spent nights coughing up blood, watching my hair fall out in clumps from the ‘meds’ they gave me. I thought it was just my fate. It wasn’t fate. It was a game. A primal surge of rage gave me a burst of phantom strength. I lunged at him, swinging my fist with everything I had left. “Go to hell!” Lucas didn’t expect the attack. My fist caught his jaw, sending him stumbling back. “Help! Isabelle! Helena! Adrian’s gone crazy! He’s trying to kill me!” The door was kicked open. Isabelle and Helena rushed in, panic written all over their faces. “Adrian! What are you doing?” Helena screamed, shoving me back with enough force to send me crashing against the wall. Isabelle threw her arms around Lucas, frantically checking his chest. Lucas sobbed into her shoulder. “My heart… it hurts. He wanted to kill me. He wanted to take it back!” Helena turned on me, her eyes flashing with hatred as I lay twitching on the floor. “Have you lost your mind? Lucas just got off the table! Do you have to be a murderer too?” I lay there, the light fading from my vision as the pain reached a crescendo. I watched the women I would have died for shield a monster like he was a wounded lamb. I forced a bloody smile. [Countdown: Forty-eight hours.] Please, system. Make it fast. That night, Lucas claimed his chest felt “tight,” and the entire cardiology wing went into an uproar. I lay in the dark, listening to the chaos outside, my mind drifting to the past. A year ago, the truth about our “switched at birth” status came out. Lucas was the biological Parker; I was the mistake. To make up for his years in foster care, Isabelle gave him everything—my room, my car, my position. “Adrian, he suffered for twenty years. We owe him. Just be patient,” she’d say. And Helena, under pressure from her family to align with the “real” heir, tried to keep us both on a leash. She thought if she gave Lucas whatever he wanted, he’d eventually let us be together. Lucas took advantage of that. He broke my childhood mementos. He pushed me into a freezing lake in the middle of winter, which triggered my heart failure. They always told me to wait. To be the bigger person. But they forgot one thing: once a man’s dignity is ground into the dirt, once his heart is truly broken, there is nothing left but ash. Isabelle burst into my room, her eyes bloodshot. She didn’t say a word as she began ransacking my bedside locker. “What… what are you doing?” I asked weakly. She ignored me until she found a small amber pill bottle. She grabbed me by the collar and slammed the bottle into my face. “Adrian! Do you have any humanity left?” she screamed. “They found toxins in Lucas’s porridge. It was this, wasn’t it? If you couldn’t beat him to death, you’d poison him!” The bottle hit my eye, making stars dance in my vision. I looked at the bottle on the floor. It was the specialty medication Arlo had bought with his own savings. Without the machines, these were the only things keeping my heart from stopping. “That’s my… medicine,” I gasped. “Liar!” Isabelle slapped me, hard. The force spun my head around, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Lucas’s nurse saw you lurking near his room! How can you still lie?” I couldn’t even stand up, let alone “lurk” anywhere. The label on the bottle clearly stated the drug’s name and its use for heart failure. But she chose not to see it. They only believe the lies that make them feel righteous. Rapid footsteps sounded in the hall. Helena entered, her face a mask of cold fury. She looked at my battered state, a flicker of something—regret?—crossed her eyes, but she suppressed it. “He just survived, Adrian. Do you really want him dead that badly?” I looked up at my sister. For a second, I saw the girl from ten years ago who had stood between me and a group of bullies, her own head bleeding as she told me, Don’t be scared, Addy. I’ll protect you forever. Now, that same person threw a legal document at my face. “Adrian, Lucas is the blood that the Parkers have missed for twenty years. If you can’t coexist with him, there’s no room for you in this family. This is a severance agreement. Sign it, and you’re dead to us. Your life is no longer our concern.” She spoke with such finality, but she didn’t offer me a pen. She was certain I would beg for forgiveness, as I always did. I looked at the paper. “Okay.” I didn’t have a pen. I bit my finger hard until it bled, and using the blood as ink, I scrawled my name at the bottom and pressed my thumbprint down. Isabelle’s pupils dilated. She looked at me, stunned. “I only… I just meant…” But I couldn’t hear her anymore. A roar of pain erupted in my chest, and the world began to spin. I fell backward. [Countdown: Twenty-four hours.] My consciousness flickered in the dark. I heard Arlo screaming outside. “Let me go! He’s dying! His heart is failing!” A guard’s voice, bored: “Orders from Ms. West. No one goes in without her permission.” “You’re killing him! I’ll call the police! I’ll destroy you all!” Then came the dull thud of fists hitting flesh. I tried to move, but my eyelids felt like they were made of lead. When I finally woke, Helena and Isabelle were sitting by my bed. “Where… where is Arlo?” Helena’s face was stone. “The servant who wouldn’t stop barking? I had him detained.” I struggled to sit up. Isabelle pushed me down and handed me a script. “The poisoning story has gone viral. People are digging into the ‘fake heir’ scandal. Our stock prices are cratering because of your drama. You are going to do a livestream. You will admit you’re the one who poisoned him, you will apologize to Lucas, and you will publicly break off the engagement.” I stared at the script and laughed. Helena grabbed my hand, her voice dropping to a persuasive hum. “Adrian, think about the companies. If you do this, I’ll release Arlo unharmed. I swear, once the stocks stabilize, I’ll divorce Lucas. I’ll find you a new heart. We’ll get married for real. This is the last time I’ll ask you to sacrifice. Be a man, okay?” I didn’t want to. But for Arlo’s life… I looked at the countdown. I closed my eyes. “Fine.” Half an hour later, the camera was on. I read the words, branding myself a jealous poisoner and a fraud. I renounced my name and my inheritance. The comments section exploded. The fake son is a monster! Why isn’t he dead? Rot in hell, you piece of trash! Helena watched the stock ticker climb back up. She immediately announced her upcoming marriage to the “rightful” heir, Lucas Parker. Then, she shut off the feed. “I did it,” I whispered. “Let Arlo go.” The door opened, and Lucas walked in, grinning. “Don’t bother looking for him, ‘Brother.’ Half an hour ago, I told him about your little confession. He thought he was the reason you were being blackmailed. He said as long as he was alive, they’d have a leash on you. So he grabbed a guard’s knife and shoved it into his own throat. Died instantly. Such a loyal dog.” My brain went white. My vision blurred into a bloody haze. Since Lucas returned, everyone had turned their backs. Only Arlo, the boy who had followed me since we were ten, had stayed. He had literally taken bullets and blows for me. I had tried to give him money to leave this sinking ship, but he’d just yell, My life is yours, Adrian! If they want you, they have to go through me! He kept his word. My sanity snapped. I swung my hand to slap the smirk off Lucas’s face. Smack. Isabelle caught my wrist and delivered a brutal blow to my cheek. The taste of copper flooded my mouth. She shielded Lucas, glaring at me. “You dare touch him in front of me? I regret ever taking in a viper like you!” Helena stepped in too, pushing me back. “Adrian! Are you insane? It was just a servant! Arlo chose to do that. It’s not Lucas’s fault!” I stared at them. My tears had run dry. My heart didn’t even feel pain anymore—just a cold, empty void. Before they could react, I scrambled onto the windowsill. Helena’s face finally changed. “Adrian! What are you doing?” Isabelle panicked, lunging toward me. “Addy, stop! Don’t be stupid!” Lucas stood back, sneering. “Are you still falling for this? He’s just trying to guilt-trip you because he knows you care. He doesn’t have the guts to jump.” I looked at the three of them—their fear, their arrogance, their lies. I smiled. [3… 2… 1…] I opened my arms and let myself fall backward into the sky. The wind roared in my ears, punctuated by a single, soul-shattering scream from above. “NO!!!”

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That stifling summer, I spent most of my time sitting in the second row by the window. Maybe you never even noticed me in my corner. Let’s just call him “J.” It feels more appropriate that way. In the dead of night, a viral post suddenly flickered onto my phone screen. … [I was deeply saddened to hear about your current situation.] [You were the golden boy of our class. The math teacher’s favorite, the one the physics teacher used to joke was his “star disciple.”] [And yet, you chose to drop out for the sake of the “it-girl” from the rival school.] [After all these years, I only have one question.] [Are you doing okay now?] The delicate prose never explicitly mentioned unrequited love, yet every syllable was drenched in it. The comment section was a sea of sympathy for the author and vitriol for “J’s” decision to throw his life away. The “it-girl”—sketched in just a few strokes of the pen—was being torn apart by the masses. I was so irritated that I nudged my husband awake. He was snoring softly beside me. “Are you doing okay now?!” I hissed. Blinking away sleep, Jude instinctively pulled my arm toward him and kissed it. “Honey… mmm… so tired.” Seeing the dark circles under Jude’s eyes, my heart softened. He had just pulled three consecutive all-nighters for his research and had finally managed to crawl home for a few hours of shut-eye. “Go back to sleep,” I whispered. Jude seemed like he wanted to say something, but the pull of exhaustion was too strong. Within seconds, he was out again. In the minutes that followed, that post racked up over a million likes. The internet was in a state of collective mourning. [Young love is like a spring rain,] one comment read. [Fine and persistent, soaking into your heart until it’s cold. Every year you ask yourself: do you regret never speaking up?] [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] [This was clearly a mutual pining situation. If either of them had taken one step forward, that other girl wouldn’t have stood a chance. J wouldn’t have ruined his life.] [Youth is nothing but a collection of regrets. The author’s words are breaking my heart at 2:00 AM. I hope you find someone better.] A few skeptics chimed in. [Maybe the author’s feelings for J weren’t romantic? Not everything has to be a soulmate drama.] [How could she not love him?] someone shot back. The writing was exquisite, the emotions raw. It focused on those small, agonizingly vivid moments that define a crush. I should have been moved. But there was a problem: the “fallen hero” of the story was my husband, Jude Callahan. The author’s description of “J” was so meticulous that I recognized him instantly. But I wasn’t just some bystander in this narrative. I was the “it-girl.” The one who supposedly dragged the protagonist into the mud and ruined his future. And according to the comments, I was the villain. [I always had a bias against girls who spent too much time on their appearance back in school. Turns out, I was right.] [The prettier they are, the more dangerous they are. Look at this—his whole life, destroyed.] [The author says their school was the top public academy in the state, but the ‘belle’ was from the private school next door. Tell me you see the red flag.] [Poor J. A brilliant life wasted on a girl like that.] [He’ll regret it. He probably already does. He didn’t have the courage to be with the author, but he threw away his future for a distraction.] [Haha, J is probably sitting in some cramped rental right now, cursing that girl for wasting his potential.] [He didn’t know what was worth holding onto until it was too late.] Almost everyone blamed me for Jude’s “downfall.” The author included. Between her lines was a thick layer of resentment and “what-ifs.” In her story, Jude was a sun that had been eclipsed. I was the one who pulled him into the abyss. [May 2018. Sunny. The teacher was explaining the final physics problem. No one understood it, but you got it right on the first try. I wanted to ask you about it, but I was afraid my ignorance would make you laugh. So, I started working harder.] Short, poignant entries detailed how the author pushed herself academically just to keep Jude in her sights. [Sweetie, you’re such a good soul.] [Your hard work wasn’t for nothing. Loving someone means rising to their level, not letting them sink into the shadows with you.] [That’s the difference between you and that other girl. You would have walked beside him toward his future. Instead, his future is gone, and you’re the one who succeeded.] [I can’t stop sighing. J chose the wrong person.] The “J chose the wrong person” comment became the top-rated response, with thousands of people nesting their agreement beneath it. But then, one user asked: [Did J actually like the author?] [He could drop out for the ‘it-girl,’ so why didn’t he ever confess to the author?] A debate erupted. By 2:00 AM, the author appeared in the comments. She didn’t say much, just a simple “Goodnight.” She told everyone not to argue. “My story with J ended ten years ago. Our paths won’t cross again.” But her words only fueled the fire. [It’s 2:00 AM and you’re still awake. What are you thinking about?] [Probably thinking about the teenage version of J.] [I counted. This post is 8,976 words. Darling, how long did it take you to write this?] [Remember, everyone, this is just a snippet. Her teenage diaries are probably filled with nothing but him.] [Are you okay now, honey? Have you found someone better than J?] The author didn’t reply again. I turned off my phone. I believed her words—or at least, her memory of them. In my mind, Jude had always been a kind, warm person. The next morning, Jude was already gone before I headed to the office. He was wrapping up the final stages of a research project and was likely already at the airport for his flight. While I was getting ready, I reflexively opened the app again. The author—who had previously claimed this was a burner account and wouldn’t be updated—had posted again. It was a selfie video. Under the bright sun, a girl in a white-and-blue dress was beaming at the camera. [Holy crap, she looks like a first love!] [She has such a pure, cute smile. She’s precious.] [Her bio says ‘Single.’ Does she still love J?] [She’s this beautiful and J didn’t go for her? How stunning was that other girl supposed to be?] [Ugh, probably the ‘mean girl’ type. I’m a girl, and I definitely prefer the author’s vibe.] [Let’s not pit women against each other. Let’s just love the author and let J have his ‘it-girl.’] I thought about it for a second and then hit “Follow.” The internet is a double-edged sword. Moving prose deserves its traffic. But I wasn’t about to stay the villain in a story I didn’t write. Within hours, her face-reveal video had hundreds of thousands of likes. Her “burner” account had transformed into a million-follower platform overnight. With just a few thousand words, she had become a sensation. The comments attacking me grew more vicious, and they didn’t spare Jude either. [Birds of a feather. Trash belongs with trash.] [Did the ‘it-girl’ even finish high school?] [Poor J probably didn’t even get his GED.] [The right person walks with you toward your future. You made the right choice by not ending up with him.] [Are you a college grad, honey? Where did you go?] The author replied: “I graduated from a top-tier state university. Ivy-equivalent.” The hype reached a fever pitch. [Wow! A genius!] [Man, J could have been at Harvard or MIT. He was the star.] [So impressive. J was the golden boy, but you’re the golden girl.] [Maybe the author is romanticizing J too much. Maybe he wasn’t actually that great.] [Exactly. The author herself is the real catch here.] Amidst the praise, the author responded again: “No, he really was brilliant.” She replied to comment after comment. She talked about how Jude was always at the top of the rankings, how he swept every academic competition. In her telling, Jude was a rare, once-in-a-generation talent. “A talent like that shouldn’t have been allowed to fade.” [Your writing still loves him.] [Your writing still hates her.] [That girl was the rot that spoiled the whole harvest.] [Otherwise, J and the author would be standing at the top of the world together today.] [You’ve held onto this for so long. Do you really just want to ask him if he’s okay?] People started asking for her location, trying to help her “find” J. She didn’t answer. But eagle-eyed users noticed she had liked a specific comment from the night before: [Sweetie, I think he definitely liked you back. This is so tragic.] The comment section exploded. [Even the author thinks it’s a tragedy. We have to find him.] [Anyone have J’s contact info? I want to give him a piece of my mind.] [Give me the contact for the girl who dragged him down. I have a few choice words for her.] [So, are you still single because you’re waiting for him?] Seeing that people were starting to doxx Jude and me, I sent the author a private message. “I hope you can respect people’s privacy.” Her response? She went live that very night. In the livestream, she shared a screenshot of my message. The viewers went ballistic. [I don’t even need a second to guess who this is.] [It’s the ‘it-girl,’ isn’t it?] [She’s not afraid of her privacy being leaked; she’s afraid of the truth. She knows she ruined him.] [Wow. The author is just sharing her life story. What does it have to do with her? What a loser.] [Talk about guilty conscience. She was barely a footnote in the essay, and now she’s acting like a victim. She’s probably just jealous the author is going viral.] In the stream, the author—Annabel—bowed slightly toward the camera. “I’m sorry for taking up everyone’s time. I wanted to address the recent content I’ve posted.” “First of all, I haven’t leaked anyone’s private information.” [Exactly! Where’s the leak?] [God, she has such ‘main character’ energy. Love it.] [The Ivy League intellect is showing. So articulate.] “I’m also very grateful for the love you’ve shown my writing. It was just a late-night reflection. I never expected it to blow up like this.” A few alumni from her school recognized her in the comments. [Annabel was the commencement speaker for the class of 2018! She’s amazing.] [Yeah, she came back to visit the teachers last year. She’s as kind as she is smart.] Annabel looked directly into the camera, her eyes clear and defiant. “I wrote the story. It was my experience. And yes, I know who sent that message.” “Perhaps you’re watching this right now. I want to say: my conscience is clear regarding Jude. But do you owe him an apology?” [Mic drop!] [The ‘it-girl’ is just lurking because she’s scared of being called out. We see you!] [Since when is writing a memoir against the law?] [Some people think being pretty in high school means the world revolves around them forever. You’re just a supporting character in Annabel’s world, honey.] [A villainous supporting character, at that.] Annabel then urged her followers not to leak anyone’s info. “Please keep the discussion civil. Words can hurt. Thank you.” [Okay, okay, if the queen says so, I’ll stop.] [I’m done. She’s not worth the energy anyway.] [What a class act. If my son meets a girl like this, he’s lucky.] Someone asked about Jude again. [Is there really no sequel for you two?] Annabel went quiet for a moment, then nodded slowly. “My story might cause him trouble, so I won’t be updating this account anymore.” After that livestream, I stopped following her. Internet fame is a flash in the pan. Jude was busy, and I wasn’t exactly sitting idle. My subsidiary company was preparing for an IPO. Two weeks later, Jude returned from his trip. He looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes deeper than before. The moment he saw me at the airport, he practically melted into me. “I missed you so much,” he mumbles against my neck. I poked his forehead. “We’re at the airport. Get off.” He wouldn’t let go, so I laughed and took his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.” As we waited for our Uber, I felt eyes on me. A prickle at the back of my neck. In the car, I remembered the viral post and asked, “Do you remember an Annabel?” Jude nodded. “Yeah. She was in my homeroom junior year, I think.” “Oh… so you do remember her.” Jude caught my tone immediately. “I remember everyone’s name from high school. Why? Do you know her?” I gave him a playful huff. “I didn’t. But I do now. Apparently, the two of you were hopelessly in love with each other in secret.” Jude looked horrified. “What? No! I never liked anyone else. Since we were kids, it’s only ever been you.” Because I wasn’t just a “footnote” in Annabel’s story. I was the girl who grew up next door to Jude. We were childhood sweethearts. But Annabel’s story got one thing right. Jude really did drop out of high school because of me.

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After my mother was gone, I finally understood the manipulative, sweet-faced tactics those women had used to destroy her. Now, I was going to take every single one of those textbook moves and use them to dismantle my father. Watching him drown in the relentless spit and venom of public opinion, I felt a sensation blooming in my chest that I couldn’t quite name. He stood there, his mouth opening and closing as he desperately tried to explain himself, but the panic choked off every syllable. It was a beautiful thing to witness. When he stared at me, his eyes wide and unrecognizing, a sharp pang of grief hit me—immediately swallowed by a tidal wave of pure, unadulterated vindication. He must have forgotten. Without my mother playing the role of his tragic Leading Lady, the bulletproof aura of his Leading Man persona was destined to shatter. From this day forward, we were all going to crawl back down into the muddy reality of ordinary people. None of us gets to be the main character anymore. 1 I was very young when I realized my mother was the Leading Lady, and my father was the Leading Man. I knew because the words hovered in thin air right above their heads. I had dragged our housekeeper, Marta, through every picture book we owned, sounding out the shimmering letters until I pieced them together: The Heroine crowned my mother, and The Hero floated above my father. I asked Marta what those words meant. She laughed, her eyes crinkling. “It means they’re like the prince and the princess, Birdie.” She pulled a beautifully illustrated copy of Cinderella from the shelf and read the whole thing to me, letting her voice dip and soar. And they lived happily ever after. I decided I liked that story. My parents were deeply in love, our home was a sanctuary, and aside from my Grandmother Davenport occasionally dropping passive-aggressive hints about wanting a grandson, we were the picture of a perfect family. But the weather in a storybook can turn without warning. When I was five, the atmosphere in our house shifted, thick and suffocating. That was the day I saw another person with words suspended above her head. She was devastatingly beautiful. My father had brought her home from the airport, and the moment they walked through the door, she collapsed against his chest, weeping softly into his tailored lapel. My mother and I had just gotten home from kindergarten. We opened the front door and froze, taking in the sight of them tangled together in the foyer. They froze, too. My father started talking, his words rushed and defensive. The woman started explaining, her voice breathy and fragile. But my mother’s face just grew paler, her expression turning to stone. Meanwhile, I was busy studying the glowing letters hovering above the weeping woman’s head. The… Wicked… Other… What was the last word? I couldn’t read it yet. With my parents distracted by the escalating tension, I tugged on Marta’s apron strings. We consulted my children’s dictionary. Woman. The Wicked Other Woman. The Villainess. I asked Marta what it meant. She burst out laughing, thinking it was the cutest thing in the world. “Oh, listen to our little Birdie! Five years old and she already knows about the wicked other woman in the soap operas!” She repeated it as a charming anecdote over dinner that night, expecting the usual chorus of affectionate laughter from the family. Usually, my childish misunderstandings were the seasoning to our family meals. But that night, only my grandmother laughed. My father’s face darkened, a storm brewing in his jawline. My mother stared blankly at her plate. The beautiful woman looked like she had been struck. She put down her fork, her eyes instantly swimming with tears. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry. I… I’ll leave right now. I won’t ever come back and ruin your peace.” She pushed her chair back and ran out the front door into the night. My father didn’t hesitate. He shot up from the table and chased after her. My grandmother’s laughter abruptly vanished. She slammed her hand on the mahogany table, glaring at my mother. “Is this how you raise your child, Sylvia? To be so venomous?” Marta quickly scooped me out of my chair and hurried me out of the room. I felt the hot prickle of shame. I had caused a disaster. But… why was my mother the one getting yelled at? Later, sitting on my bed, I pressed Marta. “What does a villainess actually do?” Marta sighed, sensing the mood in the house had irrevocably shifted. “In the stories, Birdie, the wicked woman is the one who tries to break up the hero and the heroine. They usually pretend to be very innocent and pitiful so everyone feels sorry for them. Then, they trick everyone into bullying the heroine. But don’t you worry, sweetie. It always works out in the end. The wicked woman gets what she deserves, the hero realizes how wonderful the heroine is, and he fights to win her back.” She sounded so certain. I believed her completely. But real life didn’t seem to be following Marta’s script. The woman’s name was Angelica. She was an adopted daughter my grandmother had taken in years ago, making her my father’s adoptive sister. It was pouring rain outside. When my father returned, he was carrying her in his arms. She was soaked to the bone, wearing his suit jacket over her bare shoulders, her long, pale legs exposed. She looked breathtakingly fragile as she shivered in his grip. “Sylvia, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, her teeth chattering. “Richard was just so worried about me, he wouldn’t let me leave. I promise, as soon as I’m better, I’ll go.” Her words sounded perfectly reasonable. So why did my chest feel so tight? Why did it feel like a heavy stone was pressing against my windpipe? I wanted to say something. I opened my mouth, but my vocal cords seized. I couldn’t make a sound. That night, I woke up to the damp warmth of my mother’s tears falling onto my cheeks. I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, listening to her whispered, broken voice in the dark. “Did I ever say she couldn’t stay here?” my mother cried to my father, her voice trembling. “If I had said it, I would own it. But I didn’t. Why are you putting words in my mouth? Why do you automatically assume I’m so petty that I can’t tolerate her presence? Richard, is that really who you think I am?” No, I wanted to scream. She’s not! But as I opened my mouth, the air vanished from my lungs. It was as if an invisible hand had clamped over my face. I was physically incapable of speaking. It wasn’t until the desperate urge to defend my mother faded from my mind that the terrifying, suffocating sensation released me. Over the next few months, it happened again and again. That was when I realized the horrifying truth: I was not allowed to change the plot. We had all been sucked into the gravitational pull of a predetermined narrative. I was just a single drop of water trying to swim against a raging whirlpool. It was pathetic, really. But this was my mother. My gentle, warm, brilliant mother. She was the one who read to me with a voice like honey. She was the one who painted my scraped knees with iodine, blowing on the sting with tears in her own eyes. She woke up at dawn to make pancakes in the shapes of animals, crept into my room at midnight to tuck the blankets under my chin, and carried me through the ER doors in a frantic sprint the one time my fever spiked. She was so inherently good. She didn’t deserve to be misunderstood. She didn’t deserve to be bullied by the narrative. And so, this tiny drop of water decided to see what it would take to tear the whirlpool apart. 2 My parents were fighting again. It was because Angelica had fallen down the grand staircase. My mother hadn’t laid a finger on her. Even Angelica didn’t explicitly accuse my mother of pushing her. She just lay at the bottom of the steps, her eyes red, her voice trembling like a frightened bird. “Richard, please, it wasn’t Sylvia’s fault. I just… I lost my footing…” My mother stood at the top of the stairs, her face an absolute mask of shock. “I didn’t touch her.” My father’s jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might shatter. “Right. Of course you didn’t!!!” He shot my mother a look of pure, glacial disgust, scooped Angelica up, and rushed toward the door to take her to the hospital. I grabbed my father’s pant leg. I opened my mouth, screaming in my head: Mom didn’t push her! I saw the whole thing! She threw herself down the stairs! Nothing came out. My voice had been stolen again. The universe had pressed the mute button on me. In that moment of forced silence, a spark of absolute fury ignited in my chest. I wanted to thrash, to bite, to scream until the windows shattered. But I couldn’t lose my temper. Marta had told me once—when dealing with sweet-faced vipers, losing your cool just makes you look crazy. Instead, I looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes. “Daddy, don’t leave. Can’t we just call a doctor to come to the house?” His expression only grew darker, his eyes hardening as he looked past me to my mother. “Sylvia, using our child as a pawn? Don’t make me despise you.” My mother swayed like a tree about to snap. She bit her lip until it bled, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Richard, you should have the doctors check your head while you’re at it.” Once again, the scene ended in wreckage. I couldn’t understand it. Why? Why was it always like this? Why was the truth so impossible to communicate? Why was it always her fault? My small body was carrying a weight far too heavy for my spine. It wasn’t until a minor incident at my kindergarten that I truly understood how impenetrable the barrier of human bias could be. Once a narrative is set, facts bounce right off it. A new girl, Evie, had transferred to our class. During lunch, she decided she wanted the chicken nugget on my plate. She could have just asked. Instead, she lunged across the table to snatch it. She was clumsy, missing the plate entirely and falling hard onto her bottom. Instantly, she wailed, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. “My nugget! Birdie, please don’t take my food! And why did you push me?” Every teacher in the room rushed to her side, cooing and comforting her. Then, they turned their stern, disappointed eyes on me. “She tried to steal my food!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “I didn’t touch her!” But Evie just blinked her massive, tear-filled eyes. With trembling fingers, she picked up a half-eaten, soggy piece of chicken from her own tray and placed it on mine. “It’s okay, Birdie. Don’t be mad. You can have mine if you’re that hungry.” It was a piece she had chewed on and spit out. The sheer, calculated malice of it took my breath away. “I’m not eating your garbage,” I snapped, and swatted her hand away. Evie’s plastic tray clattered to the floor. My favorite teacher, the one who usually brushed my hair after naptime, glared at me with absolute fury. “Beatrice Davenport! That is utterly unacceptable behavior!” I froze. And then, I saw red. I was not going to be my mother. I was not going to swallow the injustice. I grabbed Evie’s tray and hurled it. Then I grabbed my own tray and smashed it against the wall. I went down the table, flipping the plates of every kid who had rushed to comfort her. If I wasn’t allowed to eat in peace, nobody was eating. It became a massive ordeal. The administration called our parents. My mother arrived first. She looked at me, looked at the mess, and immediately chose to believe me. She stood tall, her voice cool and authoritative, demanding they pull the security footage. The cameras didn’t lie. Clear as day, it showed Evie lunging to steal my food and falling on her own. But then, Evie’s parents arrived. It was my father. And Angelica. Evie burst into fresh tears and buried her face in my father’s neck. “Daddy, I thought it was my nugget that fell on her plate! I was just so hungry, Daddy. Please don’t be mad at me.” The truth of the incident was proven. But somehow, everything got worse. The principal, looking deeply uncomfortable, suggested I had “anger management issues” for destroying the classroom over a misunderstanding. My mother and father erupted into a screaming match in the hallway. My mother demanded to know why Angelica had a child, and more importantly, why that child was calling my father “Daddy.” Angelica burst into hysterics, sobbing that she was a burden and wanted to die, before dramatically fainting in the hallway. They rushed her to the hospital, where doctors gravely announced her heart condition had severely deteriorated due to stress. My Grandmother Davenport arrived and coldly told my mother she was a failure of a parent. She lectured me about generosity and grace, shaking her head that I could be so petty over a piece of food. Everyone—my father, my grandmother, the teachers—flocked to the hospital to check on Angelica. Only my mother stayed behind with me. We sat in the empty kindergarten classroom, staring at each other. A heavy, suffocating depression settled over us. For the first time, I viscerally felt the profound, terrifying isolation my mother lived with every day. The absolute impossibility of defending yourself against a reality everyone else had already agreed upon. I looked down at my hands. “Mommy,” I whispered. “Did Daddy become Evie’s dad because I’m a bad girl?” What I really wanted to ask was: Mom, did I ruin everything? Did I make it worse for you? 3 My mother’s breath hitched. She dropped to her knees in front of my tiny chair, gripping my shoulders. Her eyes were fierce, blazing with a protective fire. “No,” she said, her voice dropping to an intense, solemn whisper. “No, Birdie. This is your father’s failure. It is his fault for indulging Evie, for deceiving her into thinking he is her father. It is his fault for prioritizing another woman’s child and abandoning his own. You did nothing wrong. The fault is his. We are not staying in that house anymore. We are leaving.” She packed a single suitcase and drove us straight to my Uncle David’s house. My uncle welcomed us with open arms. He saw the dark, exhausted shadows beneath my mother’s eyes and immediately swore he would go demand justice for her. My mother begged him not to engage. But David was proud. He said he was her older brother, and he would never let anyone disrespect his little sister. He marched off to the hospital to confront Richard. He didn’t come back that night. Or the next. My mother and I stayed at his house for three days. She didn’t send me back to kindergarten. We just existed together in this quiet, stolen bubble of time. We watched the clouds drift past the skyline, traced the frost on the windows, and sat on the balcony at night watching the city lights blur. It was the only time I remember us truly breathing. On the fourth day, my uncle returned. He looked like a ghost. His clothes were rumpled, his face unshaven, and his eyes darted away from my mother’s gaze. When he finally spoke, the words shattered our fragile peace. “Sylvia… could you maybe just… compromise with Angelica? She’s very sick…” I stared at my uncle, my jaw practically on the floor. My mother froze. She told me to go play in the guest bedroom. A few minutes later, the walls shook with the sound of them screaming at each other in his study. Not long after, my mother emerged, her face the color of ash. She grabbed my hand, and we walked out of my uncle’s house. We wandered the city streets for hours, aimless. The world was so vast, yet there wasn’t a single square inch we could claim as ours. We passed a florist, and my mother stopped to buy a bouquet of white lilies. We took a cab to the cemetery, to my maternal grandmother’s grave. My mother laid the flowers down and finally broke. She wept with a raw, agonizing sound that clawed at my chest. “Mom,” she sobbed into the cold stone. “I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you.” I knew the lore of my parents’ romance. Marta had told me the fairy tale. The ruthless, untouchable young CEO and the brilliant, untainted college student. Worlds colliding, sparks flying, a love that defied the odds. Marta had swooned over it. But fairy tales are poison. It had only been six years, and their epic romance had been entirely dismantled by the presence of a third person. I stood in the graveyard, trying to push the words out of my throat: Mom, let’s go. Let’s divorce him. We don’t need him. But the invisible vice clamped down on my jaw again. It was like a cinderblock resting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe, let alone speak. Then, my mother wiped her eyes and looked at me. “Birdie. If I divorce your father… who do you want to live with?” In an instant, the pressure vanished. The plot’s hold over my throat released. I burst into tears, furious and relieved all at once. “I’m staying with you!” She pulled me into her chest, holding me with a grip that felt like steel. She did ask my father for a divorce. He treated it like a child’s temper tantrum. “Stop being ridiculous, Sylvia,” he scoffed, not even looking up from his phone. “I’m trying to find a heart donor for Angelica. I don’t have the bandwidth for your drama right now. Don’t cause trouble when things are this critical.” My mother looked at him, and I saw the last ember of her love turn to ash. “Sign the papers, and I’ll disappear. No one will ever bother you again,” she said quietly. She tried to take me and leave the house. But my grandmother stood blocking the grand entryway. “Beatrice is a Davenport,” the old woman snarled. “You can walk out that door, Sylvia, but my granddaughter stays.” Four massive security guards stepped forward, physically tearing me from my mother’s arms. In that moment, I wanted my grandmother dead. I screamed, kicked, bit the guards’ hands, thrashing like a wild animal. My mother panicked, her eyes wide with terror as a guard accidentally bruised my arm. “Birdie, stop! Don’t hurt yourself! Please, don’t hurt yourself. I won’t go! I’m staying, I’m staying!” I stopped fighting instantly. I couldn’t be the chain that kept her in this prison. “Goodbye, Mommy,” I said, forcing my voice to be steady. “I’ll be a good girl. I’ll wait right here for you to come back.” I broke free from the guard, bolted up the stairs, and locked myself in my bedroom. I pressed my face against the window glass, looking down at the driveway. She was weeping. But she wiped her tears away, squared her shoulders, and looked up at my window. I ducked behind the curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs. When I peeked out again, her car was gone. 4 I declared a cold war on my father and grandmother. I acted as if they were invisible. If they entered a room, I left it. At kindergarten, I became a ghost. Evie, with her sugary smiles and tragic backstory, quickly became the darling of the classroom. I didn’t envy her. I knew I was different. I could see the glowing titles over their heads; I knew the mechanics of the universe we were trapped in. She was blind to it all. And frankly, I didn’t want any love that required me to perform like a trained circus animal to receive it. At home, my only ally was Marta. She stepped into the void my mother left, reading to me, validating my feelings, and sneaking in to double-check my blankets at night. One afternoon, I woke up from a nap to find Marta sitting by my bed, giggling quietly at her phone screen. I crept up behind her to read over her shoulder. [Call off the engagement party tomorrow. I refuse to be a burden to you.] [I never agreed to a breakup. You don’t have the right to walk away from me.] I was a sharp kid, and I’d been practicing my reading. I puzzled out the dialogue. It hit me like a lightning bolt. It sounded exactly like the script my parents were trapped in. “Read it to me,” I demanded. Marta jumped, nearly dropping her phone. “Birdie! You’re awake!” “Read it,” I insisted, crossing my arms. Marta hesitated. Reading trashy romance web-novels to a five-year-old was definitely above her paygrade. She tried to redirect me, but I went on a hunger strike. By dinnertime, Marta caved. She leaned in close, conspiratorially. “This is our secret, okay? You can’t tell your father.” I nodded solemnly. From that day on, the covers of the books on my nightstand were The Girl Who Drank the Moon or Where the Wild Things Are. But the actual stories I was hearing were The Billionaire’s Runaway Bride, The Alpha’s Forced Vow, and His Innocent Obsession. I devoured book after book. I quickly realized they all shared the exact same skeleton. The Male Lead was powerful and arrogant. He constantly misunderstood the Female Lead, inflicted unimaginable emotional trauma upon her, and then, after some catastrophic event forced him to “realize his mistakes,” he would grovel and win her back. It was a terrifying prophecy of my mother’s future. If she stayed on this track, she was doomed to this endless cycle of abuse disguised as passion. As her daughter, I couldn’t see the romance. I only saw the horror. A few days later, my mother came back. She looked hollowed out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. When my grandmother threw barbed insults at her in the hallway, my mother just took it, staring blankly at the wall. I found out later that my father had systematically destroyed every job opportunity she lined up. Every time she got hired, he made a phone call, and she was let go. She had returned to the house to protect the people who had tried to help her. And those divorce papers? My father had run them through the paper shredder in his office. My mother was a bird in a gilded cage, and the man holding the key didn’t see her as a living, breathing thing to be respected, just property to be secured. When she saw me, she fell to her knees and crushed me to her chest. “Birdie. Are you okay?” “I’m great. Are you okay, Mommy?” “I’m perfectly fine.” Liar. I could smell the despair on her skin. She radiated defeat. I went to my room, dug a paperback out from beneath my mattress—a trope-heavy novel about a wife faking her death to escape her abusive billionaire husband—and solemnly placed it in her hands. I figured maybe she could take some notes on the escape logistics. My mother stared at the garish cover, let out a startled laugh, and then burst into tears. “Oh, Birdie. You’re trying to take care of me? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I’m making you worry.” I wanted to tell her I didn’t care about the worry; I just wanted her to be free. The bedroom door swung open. My father stood in the frame. His eyes instantly zeroed in on the trashy romance novel in her hands. “Sylvia, what the hell are you letting her read?” 5 “I gave it to her!” I shouted, throwing my arms out to shield my mother. “Leave her alone!” “Do not yell at her,” my mother said, her voice eerily calm but vibrating with tension. My father looked at her, looked at me, and his expression shifted into something unreadable. He quietly closed the door. It was bizarre. We had practically bared our teeth at him, and he hadn’t exploded? I decided then that maybe there was a glitch in his programming. If he was supposed to be the “Hero,” maybe I just needed to feed him the right script. I emptied my piggy bank and begged Marta to order books from Amazon. How to Be a True Partner, The Engaged Father, 9 Rules for a Healthy Marriage. I arranged them perfectly on the desk in his study. When he got home from work, I waited in the hallway, took his hand, and led him inside. He looked shocked. I hadn’t let him touch me in weeks. His posture softened immediately, and he scooped me up, carrying me into the study. Then he saw the books. A low, self-deprecating chuckle escaped him. He kissed my forehead. “Did you buy these, Birdie? Or did your mother? Have I really been that terrible?” My eyes welled up. Months of fear and suppressed anger bubbled to the surface. He panicked. He awkwardly wiped my tears away with his thumbs, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry, Birdie. I am so sorry. Daddy messed up. I never should have ignored you or your mother.” He actually sat down and read the books. He made a visible effort to soften his edges, and he finally sat down with my mother to explain the truth about Evie. “Evie is the product of an assault,” he confessed, his voice heavy with shame. “Angelica was attacked years ago. She has severe heart trauma, she physically couldn’t handle an abortion, and mentally, she couldn’t bond with the child. She left Evie with nannies. Evie was so traumatized, so desperate for a father figure, that I stepped in. I thought I was protecting her.” My mother’s posture lost some of its rigidity, but she held her ground. “You should have told me. Instead, you let me find out in the worst way possible. Evie’s situation is tragic, Richard, but her tragedy shouldn’t be weaponized against my daughter. You allowed Birdie to be publicly humiliated to protect a lie.” My father didn’t argue. He just looked down, his jaw tight. “I know. It won’t happen again. No more secrets.” For a few weeks, the ice began to thaw. It felt like we were stepping back into the light. But in a narrative built on melodrama, peace is just the setup for a bigger disaster. Angelica was discharged from the hospital. My father went to pick her up himself. She walked through the front door, laughing softly at something he said. Then she saw my mother, and the color violently drained from her face. “Why is David Hastings’ sister in this house?” Angelica shrieked, backing away toward the door. “Make her leave! I will not breathe the same air as the sister of the man who raped me!” 6 My mother looked as if she had been struck by lightning. She stood frozen in the foyer, her hands trembling.

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Three years ago, an accident took my life. Or rather, it should have. Instead, a soul from another world hijacked my body to perform some ridiculous “favorability mission.” She failed. Miserably. It took every ounce of my will to bargain with the new System overseer to claw my way back. I traded everything for a single chance to reclaim what was mine. The System’s mechanical voice echoed in the hollows of my mind: [Host, you must successfully conquer the target, Zack Blackwood, within 30 days.] Then came the cold ultimatum: [Failure to complete the mission within the allotted time will result in permanent erasure.] I tightened my fists, glaring at the translucent blue interface only I could see. “This is a joke,” I hissed, my voice rasping. “That interloper spent three years turning my body into a two-hundred-pound disaster. Forget Zack Blackwood—at this point, a blind man wouldn’t look at me twice, let alone an elite CEO.” The System seemed to falter, a momentary glitch in its processing. [Well…] it paused, searching for a logical out. [Perhaps Zack Blackwood prefers a… more substantial presence?] … I let out a harsh, dry laugh as I faced the full-length mirror. My thighs were like pillars. My midsection looked like I was wearing a permanent life buoy. Two hundred pounds of soft, neglected weight. That brain-dead transmigrator had abandoned my company, ignored my legacy, and spent every waking hour playing the part of Zack’s pathetic, groveling lapdog. When she realized her “mission” was going nowhere, she gave up entirely, drowning her sorrows in grease and sugar. She had taken my supermodel frame—the body I had spent years honing with Pilates and discipline—and turned it into a mountain of grease. Looking at the mirror, seeing that I barely fit in the frame, I felt a wave of existential dread. “No more sugar. No more carbs,” I muttered. “I’m welding myself to the treadmill.” [That is wise, Host. This System will assist in your weight loss. After all, conventional data suggests men prefer a leaner aesthetic. It will aid the mission.] “Shut up,” I snapped. I started the treadmill, the belt groaning under the unfamiliar weight. As I felt the first beads of sweat break across my skin and the agonizing tremor of my muscles, I gritted my teeth. “Whether I ‘conquer’ him or not, I refuse to spend another second trapped in this version of myself. And another thing—why did that idiot get three years while I only get thirty days? Is your software refurbished or just cheap?” The System bristled. [Host! This unit has been ranked number one in the Central Bureau for three consecutive months!] I suspected it was lying, but I didn’t have the energy to argue. I hadn’t even finished five miles when my secretary’s name flashed on my phone. A crisis at the office. I showered quickly and moved to the walk-in closet. The moment I slid the doors open, I nearly had a stroke. Neon pink lace dresses. Tight, leopard-print spandex leggings. What kind of deranged, tacky aesthetic had that girl been sporting? Resisting the urge to set the entire wardrobe on fire, I settled for an oversized black tracksuit—the only thing that didn’t make me look like a burst sausage—and headed straight for the company. In the back of the car, I scrolled through the archived chats. Every single message was a masterclass in desperation. [Zack, are you tired at work? Did you eat lunch?] [Zack, it’s okay if you don’t reply. I’ll always be right here waiting for you.] It wasn’t just the words. She had attached “cutesy” selfies to every single text. I felt a surge of nausea so violent I had to look away. At least she had stopped the photos after she’d put on the weight, or I might have thrown the phone out the window. When I stepped into the Rossi & Co. headquarters, the lobby went silent. The staff looked at me with a mix of pity and suppressed laughter. For three years, that waste of space hadn’t set foot in the building. She’d forgotten where the entrance was, let alone how to read a balance sheet. The fact that the company hadn’t folded was a testament to the sheer grit of my senior VPs. I ignored the stares and threw open the boardroom doors. One look at the disastrous financial reports and the veins in my forehead began to throb. I spent the morning like a hurricane, firing two executives who had been cooking the books within the first hour. By noon, the whispers of ridicule in the halls had shifted back into the terrified, reverent silence I remembered. The System chimed in, opportunistic as ever. [Host! Reclaiming the company is fine, but Zack Blackwood is the priority! You have 27 days left before total erasure.] [First Sub-Mission: Straighten Zack’s tie. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “That’s it? That’s the mission?” I asked, skeptical. [Host, do not be deceived. The previous occupant failed this simple task for three years straight.] I paused, surprised. [Zack Blackwood is notoriously untouchable. Despite being married to the previous occupant for three years, he never allowed her within three feet of his person. Their marriage has been entirely in name only.] A strange, sharp spark of satisfaction flickered in my chest. So, my old protege had kept his standards high. Good for him. “Fine. I’ll take the mission.” [Excellent! Let us go find him immediately!] the System chirped. “Not yet. I have a company to stabilize first.” Conquering Zack was a matter of survival, but I wasn’t like the girl who came before me. I wasn’t going to set my empire on fire just to warm a man’s hands. The System went quiet, sounding distinctly disappointed. I worked until nine in the evening before finally heading back to the villa. To my surprise, the lights in the living room were on. I stopped in the doorway, taking in the man sitting on the sofa. His charcoal-gray suit was impeccable, draped over a frame that had grown broader and more imposing in my absence. Three years hadn’t aged him; they had simply polished him into something lethal and expensive. The moment he heard me, he stood up. For a split second, I saw a flicker—a shimmering ghost of a look in his eyes—before he masked it. “You went to the office today,” he said. His voice was like a low cello note, vibrating with something that sounded suspiciously like a tremor. I didn’t answer. I walked straight up to him. I reached out and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him slightly forward as I smoothed the silk of his tie. Zack froze. He didn’t pull away, but he went rigid, his breath hitching in his throat. The System began to scream in my head. [WAHHH!! Host, you did it! Mission accomplished in one move!] [But be careful! Records show the target prefers gentle, domestic women. Don’t break character!] I took a deep breath, swallowing the sharp, sarcastic retort that was already on the tip of my tongue. For the sake of my life, I could play nice. Just for a moment. I forced a smile—one I hoped looked soft but probably looked like I was baring my teeth—and pitched my voice into a breathy, feminine lilt. “Zac, darling… I just wanted to see how things were going at the firm.” The silence that followed was so thick it felt like the air had turned to lead. The light in Zack’s eyes vanished instantly. He looked at me with a cold, piercing detachment, seasoned with a heavy dose of disappointment. “Don’t do things that don’t suit you,” he said, his voice flat. He stepped back, breaking my hold and creating a vast, chilly distance between us. “I have work at the office. I won’t be back tonight.” He turned on his heel and walked out without a second glance. I stood in the middle of the room, fuming, while the System wailed. [What happened?! It was going so well! Why did his face turn like that?] I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Because you told me to act like a ‘gentle’ idiot. He was probably repulsed.” I collapsed onto the sofa, the plush velvet straining under me. Memories of the old Zack surfaced unbidden. In high school, he hadn’t been this untouchable titan. He had been the “bastard son” of the Blackwood family, the one his half-brothers used to kick into the dirt behind the gym. I had picked him up because he had a face that belonged in a museum and eyes that looked like they could burn the world down if someone gave him a match. I made him mine. I made him my shadow. Back then, I was the only one allowed to bully him. I remembered making him walk across the city in a blizzard just to get me a specific brand of hot chocolate. I remembered making him kneel in front of the entire student body to tie my loose shoelaces. He had been a silent, loyal dog, never once flinching, never once complaining. Who would have thought that after graduation, his brothers would meet their ends in a “tragic accident”? He had been plucked from the shadows and made the sole heir to the Blackwood fortune. And when my parents died, and I needed a strategic alliance to save the company, I chose him. Now the tables had turned. I was the one who had to play nice? The thought made my blood boil. I swallowed the Metabolic pill the System awarded me and headed for the treadmill. The next morning, the scale showed a ten-pound drop. The System’s tech was apparently more reliable than its romantic advice. I was still a “substantial presence,” but I could breathe a little easier. I went back to the office and spent the day tearing through the restructuring. The System, unable to help itself, popped up again. [Second Sub-Mission: Deliver a ‘Meal of Love’ to Zack Blackwood. Reward: One ‘Metabolic-Accelerant’ pill.] “Busy. I have a board meeting.” I had three days to complete the mission. I decided to let Zack stew for two. In those forty-eight hours, fueled by a murderous workout regime and the lingering effects of the System’s pill, I dropped another twenty pounds. By the third day, the System’s countdown was driving me insane. [Life span: 27 days! Deliver the food NOW or face the consequences!!!] “Fine! Stop nagging.” I picked up a high-end takeout container from the most exclusive bistro in the city—the kind where you need a three-month reservation—and headed to the Blackwood Building. Even thirty pounds down, I felt like a tank moving through the sleek, minimalist lobby. I could hear the whispers as I passed. “She’s here again? God, give it a rest.” “Two hundred pounds of desperation in a tracksuit. If I were Mr. Blackwood, I’d lose my appetite too…” I stopped. My gaze swept over the cluster of receptionists like a cold blade. I looked them dead in the eye. “Is Blackwood Industries paying you to provide a lunch-hour commentary, or are you just naturally this unprofessional?” They turned pale, scurrying back to their monitors. I wasn’t in the mood to swallow insults today. [Host! Calm down! They don’t matter! Remember: Be gentle when you see Zack!] “I know!” I hissed. I shoved open the door to the penthouse office. Zack was behind a desk that probably cost more than a suburban house. He didn’t even look up at first. “What do you want?” Cold. Harder than the System’s voice. I set the bag on his desk, forcing a pleasant expression. “Zack, I brought you lunch.” Zack’s eyes flicked to the bag. His face darkened instantly. With a sudden, violent motion, he swept his arm across the desk. CRASH. The expensive meal hit the trash can with a wet thud. “I hate that place,” he said. His voice wasn’t just cold now; it was lethal. I stood there, my hands curling into fists. You ungrateful little… Back in school, I was the one who made sure he ate. He used to eat the scraps I gave him in the corner with tears in his eyes. Now he was too good for the best bistro in the city? [AHHH! Host! I told you to cook it yourself!] the System shrieked. [The previous occupant’s cooking was terrible, but he never threw it away! Look at what you’ve done!] I don’t cook, I snapped back internally. That bistro had been my favorite place. Back in the day, I used to make Zack stand in line for an hour to get me their signature tartare. Looking at the trash can, it clicked. He didn’t hate the restaurant. He hated that I was bringing him something the real me loved. He thought it was a sick joke. “Stop this,” Zack said, looking up at me, his eyes full of warning. “We agreed to a marriage of convenience. Stay on your side of the line.” [Host! Say something sweet! Fix it!] Sweet? There isn’t a sweet bone in Diana Rossi’s body. “A marriage of convenience, right.” I let out a sharp, jagged laugh, suppressing the weird ache in my chest. “I was just checking the ‘Dutiful Wife’ box on my way to a real meeting. Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Blackwood.” I turned and slammed the door behind me. [You’re insane! You can’t talk to him like that!] the System wailed. [No man likes a woman with a temper like yours! You’re going to fail!] “Shut up and give me my reward.” [But you made him angry—] “The mission was to deliver the meal. I delivered it. Give. Me. The. Pill.” I swallowed the second pill. Between that and the grueling hours at the gym, I lost another twenty pounds over the next two days. My face was starting to emerge from the puffiness—the sharp line of my jaw, the high set of my cheekbones. I was still “big,” but I was starting to look like a version of myself again. [New Mission: Create a grand birthday surprise for the target!] I rolled my eyes. A birthday surprise? I’d never thrown a party for anyone but myself. I delegated the entire thing to the house staff. That evening, the villa was transformed into something out of a Pinterest nightmare. Balloons, flowers, a three-tier cake. I even found his bedroom covered in rose petals. It was the first time I’d stepped into his private suite. On his nightstand sat a framed photo. I froze. It was a photo of me from high school. I didn’t even know it existed—it was a candid shot, taken from a distance. I glanced at a half-open drawer and saw a flash of color. A deep burgundy silk ribbon. My favorite hair tie from years ago. I pulled the drawer open fully. My breath caught. Next to the ribbon was a stack of photos. All of them were me. Me sleeping on a desk in senior year. Me laughing on the university track. Me, me, me. He had been stalking me for years. I moved to the closet. One side was filled with his suits. The other side? It was filled with my old clothes. The ones from before the accident. A strange, heavy emotion settled in my throat. I dialed his number. “You need to come home. Now.” There was a five-second silence. Then, a clipped, “Fine.” I couldn’t fit into those old clothes yet, so I just took my old silk ribbon. I needed to confront him about the photos. But ten o’clock came and went. The food grew cold. The candles on the cake melted into stubs. Not a soul came through the door. [Don’t be sad, Host. He’s probably just stuck in a meeting. Call him again?] the System whispered. “Waste of my time,” I snapped. I tore off the restrictive floral dress I’d forced myself into. I put on my gym gear—a sports bra and leggings—and tied my hair up high with that burgundy ribbon. If he wasn’t coming, I wasn’t going to waste the night. I still had three miles to run. I ignored the System’s nagging, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and cranked the treadmill to a sprint. I let myself drown in the music and the burn of my muscles. Suddenly, a hand yanked my hair from behind. The ribbon was torn away. My hair tumbled down. At that speed, I lost my balance instantly. I gasped, stumbling back, waiting for the impact of the floor. It never came. I slammed into a solid, warm chest. Zack caught me, but he didn’t hold me. The second I was stable, he shoved me away like I was radioactive. I staggered, catching my breath, ready to tear his head off. But when I looked up, I saw his eyes. They were bloodshot. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. He was clutching the burgundy ribbon in a white-knuckled grip. “I warned you,” he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. “Stay. Out. Of. My. Room.” In that moment, every ounce of “playing nice” evaporated. Everything the System told me about being gentle went out the window. I have spent my entire life as the sun that everyone else revolved around. No one—no one—shouts at me. No one lays a hand on me. And especially not the boy who used to follow me around like a shadow. My body moved faster than my brain. I lunged forward and snatched the ribbon back out of his hand. I shoved my finger into his chest. “Zack Blackwood! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? This is my house! This is my ribbon! You have no right to tell me which room I can or cannot enter!” Zack stood frozen, stunned. “You…” I wasn’t finished. I was tired, I was hungry, and I was done being pushed around. I hauled off and kicked him—hard—right in the shin. “OW!” His six-foot-two frame buckled. He groaned, doubled over, his face turning a ghostly shade of pale. Oh. Oops. I might have aimed a little… high. Zack looked up at me, his eyes watery and red. I couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or something else.

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The ER doctor’s voice was a jagged serration against the rhythmic, wet hum of the machines, screaming for someone—anyone—to sign the consent forms. I couldn’t answer. I was a knot of agony, my body convulsing on the thin hospital mattress, every nerve ending screaming in a language only pain understands. My mother stood at the foot of the bed, her face a mask of polished marble. She didn’t look at the doctors. Instead, she took the “Critical Condition” notice, looked at it for a beat, and then slowly, methodically, tore it into pieces. The confetti of my life drifted to the linoleum floor. She reached out and grabbed my younger sister, Daisy, by the shoulder, pulling her toward the glass doors of the trauma bay. “Look at her, Daisy. Take a good look,” she whispered, her voice sickeningly tender, the way one might talk to a child at a museum. “This is what happens when you try to run. This is the price of rebellion. Your sister is just providing you with a demonstration.” I stared at her, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. I swallowed it down, a final, bitter gulp. Mom, I thought, the words trapped behind a shattered jaw, in the next life, I refuse to be your lightning rod. I refuse to be the warning you use to keep Daisy in a cage. Three years ago, I had crawled through the bowels of hell to get back here. I had dragged my broken, discarded body across borders just to see home again. Back then, when Daisy had mentioned wanting to travel, Mom had crushed sedatives into my tea and watched with a steady hand as the traffickers hauled my limp body onto a shipping container. She’d stood on the docks, holding Daisy’s hand, pointing at the receding horizon. “Remember,” she’d told her. “The world outside is full of monsters that eat girls like you.” Even before that, when Daisy got scammed by some boy online, Mom used my social security number to take out predatory loans to cover the debt. When the collectors came and smashed our windows, she’d watched me shaking in the corner and sneered at Daisy, “See? That’s what happens when you trust men.” Mom always said I was the scout. The one who walked into the fire so Daisy would know it was hot. … The siren of the ambulance was a dying animal’s shriek in the midnight damp of the pier. I was on the gurney, my throat a mess of bloody froth. My legs had been snapped by the cartel enforcers on the boat—bone shards jutting through the skin like white flags of surrender. The pain was a living thing. It was so loud I didn’t even have the strength to shiver. The back doors of the rig swung open with a metallic crash. Evelyn rushed in, pulling a trembling Daisy behind her. “Oh, good God. Look at this mess,” Evelyn said, staring at my gray, sunken face. She actually let out a short, sharp laugh. She grabbed Daisy by the scruff of the neck, forcing her head down until she was inches from my face. “Do you see it now?” Evelyn hissed. “This is the ‘true love’ you were willing to die for? You wanted to run off and meet that boy from the internet? Your sister went out there for you. She scouted the path. She spent three years in that gutter so you wouldn’t have to, and look at the state of her!” Daisy screamed, clawing at her own eyes, trying to recoil. “Mom! Stop! Please! There’s so much blood!” Evelyn’s grip tightened. “Scared? Good. You should be. You thought that man loved you? Love is what got your sister sold. Love is why she was beaten every single day.” The paramedic, a woman with tired eyes, finally had enough. She shoved Evelyn back. “Back off! She’s in hypovolemic shock! Her blood pressure is bottoming out at fifty! We need to move!” Evelyn stumbled, her expression instantly darkening. She watched the nurse prep a syringe of epinephrine and suddenly reached out, snatching it from the tray. “What is that? How much does that shot cost?” The nurse looked like she’d been slapped. “Are you insane? Give that back! She’s dying!” “She’s tougher than she looks,” Evelyn said coldly, slamming the syringe down onto a metal kit. “She survived three years on a godforsaken boat; she can survive five minutes without a needle. This ambulance ride is already costing me a fortune. Driver! Stop the van! We aren’t going to the University Hospital!” The driver slammed on the brakes, nearly sending us all flying. “Ma’am, what the hell are you talking about? She needs a Level 1 Trauma Center!” “Take her to the clinic on 4th. It’s cheaper,” Evelyn demanded, her voice flat and reasonable. The nurse was shaking. “A clinic? They don’t have an OR! She has two broken ribs puncturing her lungs, a ruptured spleen—if we don’t get her to surgery, she’s a corpse!” “Then that’s the price of her own stupidity!” Evelyn reached out and yanked the leads of the EKG monitor off my chest. She leaned over me, her eyes twin pools of ice. “Jade, you were the one who ran off with those animals. You think you can come back and drain our savings? I’m telling you now, I’m not paying to fix what you broke.” I lay in a pool of my own warmth, my tears mixing with the blood. She was the one who crushed the pills into my milk. She was the one who called the broker at the docks and watched the container door lock me into the dark. For three years in that compound, I was whipped, I was drowned in a cage, I was treated like livestock. The only thing that kept me breathing was the thought of coming home. And I had made it. Only to be used as a prop in a horror story for my sister. I forced my fingers to move, hooking them into the fabric of Evelyn’s sleeve. “Save… me… Mom… please…” I didn’t want to die. I was only twenty-three. Evelyn looked down at my bloody hand with nothing but disgust. She peeled my fingers back, one by one, then raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across my pale, sweat-slicked cheek. CRACK. “Save you? You’re the girl who went looking for trouble. Why should I waste a dime on a used-up thing like you?” Daisy was hysterical now. “Mom, she’s bleeding out! Please let them help her!” Evelyn turned and slapped Daisy, too. “Shut up! You pity her? She is the living proof of what happens when you don’t listen to me! Look at her! Look at the gore! Take all that romantic shit in your head and flush it, or you’ll be the one on the table next!” The nurse used the distraction to snatch the leads back, pressing her hand over my chest. “Driver! Ignore this lunatic! Go to City General Emergency! Now! I’ll take the heat!” The sirens wailed again as the ambulance tore through the night. Evelyn fell back into her seat. She didn’t fight for the equipment anymore. She just watched me with the detached curiosity of someone looking at a broken appliance. “Fine. Go to the big hospital. Let’s see how they handle a life as worthless as yours.” The rig screeched to a halt at the ER bay. The gurney was whisked inside. Doctors were shouting, a blur of blue scrubs and bright lights. “Get two units of O-neg! Call Thoracic! Where’s the family? I need a signature! Any allergies? Medical history?” Evelyn sauntered in behind them, Daisy huddled in her shadow. “She’s a sturdy girl,” Evelyn said, crossing her arms. The admitting resident rushed over with a clipboard. “I need you to sign these! Now! And I need her ID so we can get her into the system and pull blood! Hurry!” Evelyn didn’t move. She patted her designer handbag, her tone conversational. “I left in such a rush. I don’t have her ID.” Daisy froze, tugging at Evelyn’s coat. “Mom… I saw you take Jade’s ID out of the drawer and put it in your bag right before we left…” Evelyn reached out and pinched Daisy’s arm, hard. Daisy let out a sharp cry, tears springing to her eyes. “Be quiet,” Evelyn hissed. “I said I don’t have it.” The doctor was sweating. “Without an ID, we can’t process the blood request! Her BP is too low to read! Every second we waste is a minute of her life!” “I can’t manifest a card out of thin air. Stop yelling at me,” Evelyn said, rolling her eyes. In the trauma bay, a nurse had already cut away my blood-soaked clothes. “Heart rate’s down to forty! She’s hemorrhaging! Prepare for central line access!” Hearing this, Evelyn took a step forward, leaning against the doorframe of the trauma bay. She shouted at the nurses over the din. “Hey! Make sure you’re wearing double gloves! Don’t let her blood touch you!” The nurse looked up, confused. “Why?” Evelyn smirked, pointing at me. “She’s been living in the gutters across the border for three years. Who knows what kind of filth she’s picked up? HIV, Hepatitis, Syphilis—you better run a full panel before you start cutting. My family won’t be held liable if you get infected!” The room went dead silent for a heartbeat. The medical staff paled. In an ER, the fear of an undisclosed needle-stick or blood-borne pathogen is real. Protocols dictate that if a high-risk infection is suspected, the staff has to switch to full-body protective gear, and blood samples have to be sent for expedited screening. Even “expedited” meant twenty minutes. Twenty minutes I didn’t have. The lead doctor’s face turned grim. He looked at Evelyn. “Are you stating for the record that the patient is high-risk for infectious diseases?” “Would I lie about that?” Evelyn shrugged. “She’s been sleeping in God knows whose bed for three years. Do what you have to do.” I lay on the cold table, listening to her words. The pain in my chest finally eclipsed the pain in my bones. “I… didn’t…” I tried to scream it. I tried to tell them that even when they shocked me into unconsciousness with cattle prods, even when they broke my legs, I never let them touch me like that. I was clean. But my throat was a well of blood. No sound came out. The doctor gritted his teeth and turned to his team. “Full PPE! Everyone! Get the infectious disease protocol started! Use plasma expanders to keep her pressure up while we wait for the screen! We move as fast as we can, but nobody gets stuck!” The surgery was put on hold. Those four words were my death sentence. The nurses backed away to gown up. Seconds bled into minutes, and every second drained the last of the warmth from my veins. Evelyn turned back to Daisy, pointing through the glass of the trauma bay. “Daisy, look at that.” “The moment a girl takes the wrong path, the moment she lets men touch her, even the doctors are afraid to save her.” “Everyone thinks she’s dirty. Everyone is disgusted by her.” Daisy watched as the tubes were snaked into my body, watching as my blood stained the sterile white sheets. She was shaking like a leaf, her spirit finally breaking. “I get it, Mom… I won’t go… I’ll stay home… I’ll never talk to them again…” Evelyn patted her head, satisfied. “That’s my good girl. Your sister’s pathetic life finally has a little value.” Through the glass, I saw that smile. She was using my dying gasps to extinguish the last spark of Daisy’s will. The doors burst open. The doctor ran out, clutching a few sheets of paper, his voice cracking. “The screens are negative! She’s clean! But we’ve lost twenty minutes! She’s in multi-organ failure—we have to take the spleen now! Sign the papers! Pay the deposit so we can move!” Evelyn glanced at the results and sniffed. “So she’s clean. You ‘experts’ sure took your time for nothing.” The doctor’s eyes were bloodshot. He slammed the “Notice of Critical Condition” in front of her. “Shut up and sign! And pay!” Evelyn looked at the paper but didn’t pick up the pen. Just then, her phone buzzed. It was a video call from my father, Bob. Evelyn answered. My father’s panicked voice boomed from the speaker. “Evelyn! Where are you? The police called—they said Jade was found at the pier! Is she okay? Tell me she’s okay!” Evelyn casually turned the camera toward me, showing my mangled body on the table. “There she is. Barely a breath left.” On the screen, my father’s face went white. He looked like he was about to vomit. “Jade! Oh my God, my baby! Doctor! Please, save her!” The doctor yelled at the phone, “The family won’t provide ID or payment! We can’t proceed!” Bob lost it, screaming at Evelyn. “Give them the ID! Now! Use my emergency card! Just save her!” Evelyn rolled her eyes and moved the phone away. “Stop shouting. I told you, I can’t find her ID. And I didn’t bring enough cash. Besides, even if they save her, she’ll be a cripple. Why waste the money?” My father’s hand slammed against a desk on the other side of the screen. “Evelyn, you lying bitch! I saw you put Jade’s ID in the hidden pocket of your bag yesterday! I watched you do it!” “Give it to them! Give it to them right now!” The lie was stripped bare. Evelyn’s face stiffened. The medical staff in the hallway looked at her with pure, unadulterated loathing. A nurse stepped forward, snatched Evelyn’s bag, and ripped open the hidden zipper. There it was. My ID, tucked away like a secret. “You had it the whole time! You let her lie here and die!” The nurse’s eyes were wet with rage as she sprinted toward the registration desk. Evelyn, robbed of her bag, finally snapped. She screamed at the phone. “Bob, shut up! You’re never home! You didn’t see Daisy falling for that little punk online! She was going to buy a ticket tomorrow! Do you care? No!” “I had to show her! I had to make sure she understood!” “I’m doing this for our family! Jade’s life was already ruined! Daisy still has a chance!” She turned and pointed at me. “She deserves this! She was always the difficult one! I’m using her to teach our daughter how to be a woman!” My father broke down on the screen, sobbing. “You monster… she’s your own flesh and blood. You sold her to those people… and now you’re killing her.” I lay on the table, and the world began to go black. So my father knew. He knew my mother had sold me, and he had done nothing. The monitor let out a long, piercing wail. Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep— The green line went flat. The doctor screamed, “Code Blue! Start compressions! Epinephrine, now! Charge to two hundred!” My consciousness began to drift, floating up, leaving the battered shell of my body behind. I watched from the ceiling as they jumped on my chest, sweat pouring off their faces. I watched as the nurse eventually stopped, her eyes red, and pulled the white sheet over my head. The doors opened. The doctor walked out, his shoulders slumped. He looked at Evelyn. “She’s gone. Sign the time of death and get her out of here.” Evelyn blinked. She looked at the paper, then past the doctor to the shape under the white sheet. She didn’t cry. Instead, she grabbed Daisy’s hand and shoved her forward. “Daisy. Look.” “When you’re dead, they just cover you with a rag. That’s what happens to girls who chase boys online.” “She gave her life to warn you. If you ever try to contact a man behind my back again, this is your future.” Daisy collapsed to the floor, her mind finally snapping. She curled into a ball, screaming. “I won’t! I’ll be good! I’ll do whatever you want! Just make it stop!” Evelyn nodded, satisfied. She looked at the doctor and waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, stop with the dramatics. She’s fine. She’s just playing dead to scare her sister. If I go in there and give her a good smack, she’ll get up.” The doctor stared at her, his voice trembling. “Are you even human? She’s dead. You delayed us for fifty minutes. Her spleen ruptured. She died of hypovolemic shock.” “Incompetent,” Evelyn hissed. She shoved the doctor aside and marched into the room. She walked straight to the bed and ripped the sheet off my face. “Jade, enough! Get up!” “You’ve been pulling this stunt since you were five. Stop wasting the hospital’s time. We’re going home.” She reached out and pinched my cheek, hard. There was no warmth. Only a cold, heavy stillness. My skin was the color of ash. My eyes were half-open, pupils fixed and dilated. Evelyn’s fingers faltered. She dug her nails into my skin. I didn’t flinch. “Jade?” Her voice went thin. She grabbed my shoulders and began to shake me violently. “I said get up! Listen to me! Get up!” My head lolled to the side, swaying limply with her movements. Total, hollow silence. Evelyn recoiled, stumbling back against a crash cart. “No… that’s not right…” “I timed it… she survived three years of hell… how could she die from twenty minutes in a hospital?” The nurse walked in and slammed the death certificate into her chest. “She’s dead. And you’re the one who killed her.”

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