To save me from end-stage kidney failure, Mom sold her wedding ring and became a food delivery driver, working days and nights. She always said, “Mia, you’re the only reason I’m alive.” For three years, since the diagnosis, I had been a vampire to my family, slowly draining the life from her. The day a typhoon hit, Mom had to go out again. I clutched her hand, pleading with her not to go. But her face hardened. “If I don’t risk my life for money, how do I buy yours?!” “In this house, being broke is scarier than any storm! If you want to live, then be quiet!” “You think a typhoon scares me? I’d walk through hell and back for you!” She pulled on her delivery jacket and vanished into the downpour. But Mom didn’t know, I didn’t want to live anymore. If I died, she wouldn’t have to struggle. I was a burden. Once that thought took root, it grew into a towering tree. I walked back to my room and locked the door. Sitting at my easel, I reached for the long-term catheter just below my collarbone. My hand trembled, not from fear, but from my body’s own primal resistance. All I could see was Mom’s exhausted face. I clenched my teeth, grabbed the catheter’s connector, and pulled. A searing pain tore through me. A choked cry escaped. Cold sweat drenched my back in an instant. Warm blood welled out, tracing a path down my collarbone, across my chest, and dripping onto the floor. I picked up a brush and loaded it with paint. I had to paint. One last piece. On the canvas, a figure in a raincoat rode an electric scooter, fighting through wind and rain. It was Mom. But I didn’t want to paint a gloomy typhoon day. I wanted to paint her a rainbow. I wanted her to ride on that rainbow, to all the faraway places I longed to go but couldn’t. More and more blood flowed, and the warmth drained from my body, bit by bit. It was so cold. My vision blurred, and the paintbrush in my hand felt impossibly heavy. “Mia?” A familiar voice brushed against my ear. I strained to turn my head. In the dim corner of the room stood a man. He wore faded work clothes, a hard hat held in his hands, and on his face was a kind, simple smile. It was Dad. Arthur. He looked just as he had three years ago when he left-not a day older. “Dad…” My lips parted. The word came out a whisper, thin as a mosquito’s hum. Tears and cold sweat mingled on my face. Dad used to lift me onto his shoulders so I could see the world. He’d spend his entire paycheck the day he got it, just to spoil me with candy. When I got sick, he buried himself in construction, working every grueling shift he could find. That last day, he took a high-altitude job for an extra thirty dollars-and slipped from the scaffolding. They found him still clutching the money he’d saved for my medicine. Dad walked over now and crouched beside me, his hand reaching to touch my head. “Mia, does it hurt?” “Finish that stroke. Then I’ll take you somewhere it won’t.” I looked at him, forcing a grotesque smile. “Dad, just a little longer.” “I have to finish Mom’s raincoat. Can’t let her get wet.” I looked back at the canvas. My wrist was too weak, so I used my whole arm to guide the brush. Yellow paint piled up on the canvas, but Mom’s face wasn’t painted yet. I couldn’t see clearly anymore. A blood-red fog enveloped my vision. The paintbrush slipped from my hand, rolling twice on the floor, stained with my blood. My body collapsed backward, uncontrollably. So tired, truly exhausted. For three years, every dialysis session dragged me to the edge of death. Now, it was over. No more dialysis. No more bitter pills. No more watching Mom haggle over cents at the market. Outside the window, a clap of thunder echoed, and lightning illuminated the cramped rental room. It also illuminated me, lying in a pool of blood. Mom, I’m sorry. I wasn’t a good daughter in this life. Next life, I won’t come. You live well for yourself. The moment my consciousness completely plunged into darkness, I felt my body lighten. I floated up, all the way to the ceiling. I looked down and saw myself. Skeletal, my face pale, blood pooling on the floor from my chest. I was dead. This floating feeling was strange, wondrous. But I didn’t want to leave yet. I needed to check on Mom. With such heavy rain, I hoped she wouldn’t fall.

The thought had barely formed when an invisible force pulled me out. Through walls, through the rain. The wind howled, and rain poured down like a waterfall. But I felt no cold, no wetness. I was beside Mom. The water here was already past her ankles. The street had turned into a murky river. Trees along the road swayed violently in the wind. Mom hunched over the handlebars of her second-hand scooter, the rain slicker clinging to her back. Her helmet visor was completely fogged. “Order approaching overtime. Deliver immediately.” A notification chimed from her phone. She swiped a glove across the visor. “What’s the damn hurry?!” A glance at the navigation. The destination was a luxury complex downtown. “This one… the delivery fee plus the storm surcharge… fifty-five dollars.” “Enough for two of Mia’s supplement shakes.” She muttered into the rain, her gaze fixed ahead, hard with determination. For those fifty-five dollars, she twisted the scooter’s throttle to its maximum speed. The navigation showed severe flooding on the main road ahead and suggested a detour. Mom stopped and saw the detour would add an extra three miles. It would definitely cause a delay, and a delay meant a penalty, or even her account being deactivated. Mom gritted her teeth, turned the handlebars, and veered into an old, narrow alleyway. It was a shortcut, but the road was terrible, full of potholes. “Mom! Don’t go there!” I floated above her, yelling. “That path has no lights! It’s all mud pits!” But she couldn’t hear me. The electric scooter struggled forward in the muddy water. Suddenly. A blinding beam of headlights shone directly at her. A car, driving against traffic, swerved sharply to avoid a fallen tree branch. It rushed straight towards Mom! “Look out!!” I shrieked, lunging forward, trying to push the car away. My hand passed right through the car’s hood, through the engine. Nothing could stop it. Mom reacted incredibly fast. She sharply tilted the scooter to the side, her arm clamped tightly around the food delivery box in her lap. Bang! She and the scooter tumbled heavily into a muddy ditch at the roadside. But her hands were still fiercely protecting the delivery box. She ran her fingers through her wet hair on her forehead. “As long as the delivery box is fine!” The car didn’t even stop, accelerating away. Splashing mud splattered all over Mom. “Mom!” I cried, kneeling beside her. Mom lay in the mud, motionless for a long time. My heart leaped into my throat. After several agonizing seconds, she moved. She painfully pushed herself up. In that moment, her face twisted in a grimace of pain. The fabric of her pants was torn at her right knee, skin peeled back, and bright red blood seeped out. It looked incredibly painful. But the first thing she did after scrambling up wasn’t to check her leg. She frantically opened the protected delivery box. The seafood porridge inside was perfectly intact, shielded by the foam container, not a single drop spilled. Mom let out a long breath. She sat in the mud, wiped her face, and even managed a faint, foolish smile. “Good, it didn’t spill.” “Fifty-five dollars saved.” In that moment, my heart was shredded. I wanted to slap that driver, I wanted to smash that cursed delivery box. I wanted to hold her, to tell her to stop. “Mom! I won’t eat anymore! I won’t get treated anymore!” “I’m already dead! You don’t need to earn this money!” “Look at your leg! It’s bleeding!” I screamed into her ear, crying myself hoarse. Mom seemed to sense something. She shivered, looking back at the empty space behind her. “Why does it feel like someone’s here…” She mumbled, struggling to lift her electric scooter. The handlebars were bent, the rearview mirror shattered. But it could still be ridden. She limped onto the scooter, pushing forward into the downpour, continuing her deliveries. Her back, so stubborn, made me want to cry. I floated right behind her. Watching her deliver the porridge to the villa’s doorstep. The villa’s owner, a woman, held her nose in disgust, taking the takeout. She didn’t even say thank you, instead complaining, “What took you so long? The bag’s all wet.” Mom just offered a placating smile. “I’m so sorry, the rain was really heavy. Enjoy your meal, and please leave a good review.” The door closed. Mom stood under the mansion’s eaves, sheltering from the rain for a while. She pulled out her phone and checked her balance. With this order, her earnings for the day topped three hundred dollars. Her eyes lit up. “Mia’s dialysis fee for next week is covered.” She patted the mud from her leg, then turned and plunged back into the rain, continuing her deliveries.

It was two in the morning. The rain had eased, turning into a gentle drizzle. The sensor light in the stairwell had been broken for ages, leaving it pitch black. Mom dragged her injured leg, inching her way up, step by painful step. With every step, she had to lean against the wall and catch her breath. That leg was already swollen like a balloon, blood and fabric stuck together. I floated ahead of her, watching her agony, my heart aching to the point of suffocation. Finally home, Mom glanced down at herself as she entered – covered in mud. She had been carefully protecting a plastic bag in her arms. She opened it and looked inside. It was a slightly wrinkled box, soaked from the rain. Written on it in English: “Winsor & Newton.” The brand of paint every art student dreamed of. It was expensive. That small box cost several hundred dollars. I had often gazed at it longingly through the art supply store window, but I’d never dared to mention it to Mom. She actually remembered. “Mia will be so happy now.” Mom grinned, mud caked even in the wrinkles around her eyes. She saw my door was closed, reached out to open it, then hesitated and pulled her hand back. “It’s so late, Mia must be asleep.” “If I go in, I’ll just wake her up. That girl’s a light sleeper; if she wakes up, she’ll just worry about me.” Mom sighed. She found a small stool in the corner and dragged it to my door, then sat down heavily. Hiss- Her wound burned. She gasped, sharp pain stealing her breath. From under the coffee table, she pulled a bottle of antiseptic, gritted her teeth, and poured it directly onto the raw flesh. I watched her tremble, her teeth biting into the back of her hand to silence any sound. My tears fell, one by one, onto her wounded leg. But the tears of a ghost, they have no warmth. After tending to her wound, Mom leaned against the doorframe. She hugged the paint box, pressed her ear to the door, listening for any movement inside. “Mia, are you asleep?” She whispered through the crack in the door, her voice as soft as water. “Mom was amazing today, darling. I was the top earner, made over four hundred bucks.” “With this box of paints, once you’re better, Mom will send you to New York.” “I heard there’s an artist there who teaches painting.” “Our Mia has such talent; you’ll definitely be a great painter someday.” “Then, Mom won’t deliver food anymore. I’ll be your model, and cook you pot roast every day.” She prattled on, her face glowing with a kind of happiness I’d never seen before. It was an anticipation of the future, an unwavering belief in her daughter’s survival. But she didn’t know that, just behind that door. I was already lying in a pool of blood. I reached out to touch her face. “Mom…” My hand passed through her cheek. “I’m so sorry. I can’t stay with you…” “Without me, you’ll live a good life…” “You won’t have to struggle anymore!” But Mom couldn’t hear me. She was exhausted. Even as she murmured, her eyelids grew heavy. She fell asleep right there-hugging the paint box, leaning against my bedroom door on that little stool. A faint smile still lingered on her lips. Maybe in her dream, she saw me go to college. Saw me healed. Saw us moving into a house full of light.

The rain had stopped. Morning sun streamed through the window, falling directly across Mom’s face. She jerked awake. Her first instinct was to check her phone for the time. “Oh no! Rush hour is starting!” She scrambled to her feet. The gash on her leg, after a night’s rest, had crusted into a dark scab. Every step sent a sharp, burning pain through her. She ignored it. Gently, she set the paint box down on the coffee table. Then she hurried into the kitchen and, with practiced ease, slid a poached egg into a bowl. It was her special brown sugar poached egg-my favorite, the one she always said would give me strength. She put the bowl on the table, then hesitated before knocking on my door. Her hand hovered in mid-air, then dropped. “Let her sleep a little longer,” Mom murmured to herself. She found a pen and paper, wrote a sticky note, and affixed it to my bedroom door. “Food’s on the table, eat it while it’s hot. Your paints are on the shoe rack, Mom bought them specially for you. Mom loves you.” Her handwriting was shaky, her hand still trembling. Before leaving, she sniffed the air. “Why is there a metallic scent?” She looked around suspiciously. Finally, her gaze fell on the wound on her leg. “Must be the wound. Smells awful.” She didn’t think much more of it, grabbed her helmet, and hurried out the door. Noon, the sun blazed overhead. Mom was out on a delivery when her phone rang. It was Carol from next door. “Carol, what’s up?” Mom held the phone between her shoulder and ear, still climbing stairs. On the other end, Carol’s voice, usually dripping with sarcasm, was now laced with pure panic. “Elara Reed! What is going on at your place?!” “Did something die in there? The stench is oozing out from under your door, flies everywhere! My grandson’s crying from the stench!” “You need to come home and deal with it! It’s disgusting!” Mom’s delivery fell to the ground, soup spilling everywhere. But she didn’t even notice, her mind a blank. Mia was still home! “Mia…” Mom raced downstairs like a madwoman. She hopped on her beat-up scooter, ignoring red lights, driving against traffic, speeding frantically through the flow of cars. The wind whipped her hair into a wild mess. Her face was ghost-white, her lips trembling, as she kept muttering. “It’s fine… it has to be fine…” “It’s just the drain pipe clogged…” “Mia’s sleeping… Mia’s painting…” I followed behind her, watching her narrowly avoid several crashes, finally arriving home safely. Carol was standing at the doorway, grumbling. Seeing Mom, she clutched her nose and backed away several steps. “Oh, you’re finally back. Hurry, open the door and see, this is just terrible!” Mom pushed through the main door. The smell was leaking from my room. Her hand shook as she pulled out the key, but when she jammed it into the lock, it wouldn’t turn. Desperate, Mom hurled the key to the floor and screamed. “Mia! Open the door! Don’t scare me! Please!” She threw her whole weight against it, shoving with all her strength. The door gave away. She stood frozen in the doorway, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks. There I was, curled in a pool of blood. Beside me lay an unfinished painting. In it, Mom was wearing a yellow raincoat, riding her scooter across a rainbow.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “317517”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #浪漫Romance #现实主义Realistic #重生Reborn

My daughter always said I lived like a scaredy-cat. She was fearless, a renowned extreme adventurer, mastering everything from rock climbing to deep-sea diving. On her 20th birthday, to “fix” me, she deliberately cut off the main power and locked me in our pitch-black basement. “Mom, modern women should be brave. You’ve got to cure this fear of the dark! I’m not even afraid of thousands of feet of deep sea, why can’t you be more like me?” Skylar laughed, live-streaming, recording my journey to conquer my fear. Listening to my terrified screams and the scratching on the door from inside, she shrugged helplessly at the camera. “Seriously, who gets it? Having such a high-maintenance mom is just draining.” Thousands liked it, saying she meant well, and that a ‘big baby’ mom like me just needed some tough love. But she didn’t know why I feared the dark. It was because when I was twenty-four, to protect her, I was trapped under a concrete slab for three days and three nights. I was carrying a freshly baked cake, carefully walking towards the basement storage room. My daughter, Skylar, said her camping gear was missing and asked me to go down and get it for her. I had just stepped into the basement, my feet not even steady yet. A loud bang. The iron door behind me slammed shut. Immediately after, the dim bulb above flickered twice and went out. The surroundings plunged into deathly silence and darkness. The cake slipped from my hands, crashing to the floor. The sound of the plate shattering echoed shrilly in the enclosed space. “Skylar?” I tentatively called out, my voice trembling. No one answered. Only hurried footsteps and suppressed laughter came from outside the door. “Skylar, is the power out? Why can’t I open the door?” I fumbled along the wall, my fingertips touching the cold concrete, my heart contracting sharply. That familiar, suffocating feeling, like a tide, rushed over me. Darkness without a single ray of light. A suffocating narrowness. My breathing became shallow and rapid, my throat making raspy sounds like a bellows. “Skylar! Open the door! Open it, now!” I lunged at the door, pounding on the iron. Finally, Skylar’s voice came through from outside, clear and cheerful, mixed with static crackle. “Mom, stop yelling. I cut the power, and I locked the door.” I froze, my hand suspended in mid-air. “Why? Skylar, don’t scare me. You know I’m afraid of the dark, it’s so stuffy in here, I can’t breathe…” “It’s because you’re afraid that we need to fix it.” Skylar’s voice, full of righteous conviction, seeped through the doorframe. “Today’s my twentieth birthday, and my wish was for you to become brave.” “Mom, look at you. You’re in your forties, afraid of the dark? Claustrophobic? It’s embarrassing to even talk about it. Besides cooking and doing laundry, what real skills do you even have?” “All my followers know I have a mom who’s scared of her own shadow, and they all support me trying to desensitize you.” Followers? I pressed my ear to the door, hearing her speaking into her phone outside. “Fam, did you hear that? That’s my mom. Less than a minute in, and she’s already screaming bloody murder.” “She’s so dramatic, seriously. I went exploring that deep-sea cave, stayed there for three days and three nights, and I was fine. She can’t even handle her own basement for a little while.” “She’s used to being pampered at home, can’t handle the slightest discomfort. She’s a big baby, needs to be toughened up.” My whole body started to tremble, cold sweat instantly drenched my back. Not from the cold, but from terror. The darkness before my eyes began to twist, as if it were transforming into heavy concrete slabs, pressing down on me little by little. “Skylar… please… open the door…” I slid down the door panel to the floor, my fingernails scratching at the iron door, making an ear-splitting scraping sound. “I can’t take it… I really can’t…” From outside, Skylar let out an impatient “tsk.” “Mom, stop acting, seriously. You deserve an Oscar for that performance.” “It’s only been a few minutes! And you’re already ‘can’t take it’? I’ve seen your medical reports, all your stats are better than mine. Don’t fake illness to get sympathy.” “I’m telling you, you’re staying in there for three full hours today. No one’s coming out until then.” Three hours. The number hit my temple like a heavy hammer. I felt the oxygen being rapidly drained from my chest. Before my eyes was no longer the basement door. But broken precast slabs. Twisted rebar. The lingering smell of blood and dust. “Help… help…” I started desperately scratching at the door. My nails broke, a piercing pain shot through my fingertips, but I felt nothing. Everything went pitch black.

The live stream outside continued. Skylar seemed to bring her phone closer to the door crack, wanting her audience to hear more clearly. “Listen, everyone, that scratching sound, doesn’t it sound like a rat?” She chuckled, her voice full of mockery. “Mom, can you hear me? Tens of thousands of people are watching you. Can you just get it together?” I couldn’t hear her anymore. In my ears, there was only a thundering roar, like the earth’s crust was tearing apart, like buildings were collapsing. My legs began to cramp violently. My right leg, the one that had been impaled by rebar, almost amputated. Phantom pain shot through my entire body like an electric current. I curled into a ball, my hands clamped over my head, trying to make myself as small as possible. “Don’t crush me… don’t crush me…” I murmured unconsciously. “The baby’s down there… don’t hurt the baby…” Skylar outside obviously couldn’t hear what I was saying, only my indistinct mumbling. She shrugged at the camera. “Listen, still mumbling away. Probably cursing me.” “Fam, I’m really doing this for her own good. Mark spoils her too much; he won’t even let her walk alone at night, which has made her so regressive.” “Only by conquering fear can one find value. What’s the difference between her and a walking dead otherwise?” The live chat was scrolling incredibly fast. “Support the streamer! This kind of mom is just suffocating.” “She’s saving her, she’ll thank you for this later.” Skylar looked at the comments, a satisfied smile on her face. She believed she was doing something great. She was “saving” her weak, incompetent mother who embarrassed her on social media. In the basement, I could no longer breathe. The hyperventilation made my limbs numb, and my lips started to tingle. “Ugh—” I started dry-heaving uncontrollably, but nothing came up, just agonizing retching sounds. Skylar frowned, stepping back two paces, covering her nose. “Gross. Mom, seriously? Are you playing the victim just to get me to open the door?” “If you keep this up, I’m adding time. Originally three hours, now it’s four hours.” “I want you to know, your little tricks are useless against me.” I heard the word “adding.” Despair, like a black tide, completely engulfed me. I stopped scratching the door. My hands had no strength left. My ten fingers were a bloody mess, nails torn back, leaving horrifying streaks of blood on the iron door. I lay on the cold concrete floor, my body starting to twitch uncontrollably. My consciousness began to fade. A face appeared before me, a tender, dust-covered baby’s face. She was crying in the cracks of the ruins. I had to hold on. I had to hold up this slab. Can’t sleep. If I sleep, it collapses. If I sleep, she dies. “Ah—” I let out a short, piercing scream.

Outside the door. Skylar was showing off her new climbing rope to the camera. After that scream, the basement suddenly went silent. Someone posted a comment in the live chat. “Streamer, no sound now, did something happen?” “Did she pass out?” Skylar glanced at the door, scoffing. “Don’t worry, she’s faking it. I know my mom best; she usually makes a big fuss even if she just gets a paper cut. This is just her trying the ‘soft’ approach when the ‘hard’ one didn’t work. She wants to scare me into opening the door.” “I’m not falling for it. We have to stick to our principles; three hours means three hours.” She continued to fiddle with the rope in her hands, explaining knot-tying techniques to the camera. Time ticked by. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. There was still no sound from the basement. Though Skylar spoke confidently, her eyes began to dart around, occasionally glancing at the door. Just then, the sound of keys turning came from the main door. It was my husband, Mark, Skylar’s father, returning home. He was supposed to work overtime today, but he’d had a nagging bad feeling, an unsettling twitch in his eye, so he came home early. As soon as he entered, he saw the house was dark, with only the phone’s fill light shining near the basement door. Skylar was talking into her phone. “Dad? You’re home?” Skylar was a little surprised to see her father, then quickly reverted to her nonchalant expression. “Perfect timing, you can come watch. I’m giving Mom some desensitization therapy.” Mark froze, glancing at the tightly shut basement iron door, then at the phone in Skylar’s hand. “Where’s Grace?” “She’s in there.” Skylar pointed at the door. “I cut the power so she could practice being brave. She’s been in there for over half an hour. She was just putting on a show to scare me, now she’s probably tired and sleeping in there.” Mark’s face instantly turned ashen. His briefcase hit the floor with a thud. He rushed over in a few steps, pushing Skylar aside. “Are you insane! You locked her in there? And cut the power?” Skylar stumbled from the push, almost dropping her phone. She yelled indignantly, “Dad! What are you doing! I’m live-streaming! Stop spoiling her all the time! You’ve completely ruined her!” Mark ignored her completely. He lunged at the door, pounding on the iron. “Grace! Grace! Are you in there? It’s Mark!” No response. A deathly silence from within. Mark’s hands started to tremble. He pulled keys from his pocket, but his hands shook too violently, the keys fumbling at the lock several times. “Damn it! Damn it!” He roared, his eyes bloodshot. Skylar was still chattering beside him. “Dad, seriously? It’s just a little dark room. No one’s going to die. Your reaction is way over the top, no wonder Mom’s so fragile.” Mark spun around, his eyes blazing with a ferocity that could eat her alive. “Shut up!” Skylar was startled; she had never seen her father look so terrifying. Finally, the key slid into the lock. Mark yanked open the iron door. A wave of musty, acrid, and metallic smells hit them. By the light of Skylar’s phone, they saw the scene inside. I was curled up in the corner behind the door, like a crushed bug. My hands were a bloody mess, all my nails torn back. My dress was soaked beneath me. My face was a ghastly purplish-blue, lips dark, eyes closed, and my chest wasn’t moving. “Grace!” Mark let out a gut-wrenching roar and rushed in, scooping me out. My body was stiff as a board, still locked in that fetal position, clutching my head. He couldn’t pry me open. Skylar stood at the doorway, phone in hand, frozen. The live chat was scrolling wildly. “Holy cow! Something really happened!” “Her hands… they’re covered in blood!” “This doesn’t look like faking, her face is purple!” “Is the streamer playing too big a game?” Skylar looked at my horrific state, stammering defensively. “This… this must be Mom scratching herself… to scare me… could she really be that extreme with herself…?” Mark rushed out, carrying me. As he passed Skylar, he slammed into her hard. “Call 911! Call 911 right now! If anything happens to Grace, I’ll kill you!”

Outside the ER, Skylar sat on a bench, still clutching her phone. The live stream was still on. She didn’t dare turn it off. The public backlash had already begun. Skylar was a full-time influencer; she had to “clarify,” she had to prove this was just an accident, that her mother’s health was poor, and it wasn’t her fault. “Fam, I never expected this to happen.” She said into the camera, her eyes red-rimmed. “I really meant well. Who knew her mental resilience was so bad… And her hands, she definitely scratched them herself, I didn’t touch her…” “The doctors haven’t even come out yet, everyone, don’t start blasting me. Maybe she just fainted from low blood sugar.” Mark stood by the ER door, still as a statue. He listened to Skylar’s words, his fists clenching until his knuckles cracked. Just then, the ER door opened. The doctor emerged, beads of sweat on his forehead. “Who is the patient’s family?” “I am! I’m her husband!” Mark rushed forward. Skylar also stepped closer, holding up her phone. “Doctor, is Grace okay? Was she just scared unconscious? I told you she was such a chicken…” The doctor gave Skylar a chilling look, then turned to Mark. “The patient’s condition is critical. Severe stress-induced cardiomyopathy, leading to cardiac arrest. And her extreme claustrophobia caused respiratory alkalosis and multi-organ hypoxia.” “During the resuscitation, we had to cut open her top for defibrillation.” The doctor paused, his eyes showing a flicker of pain and shock. “Family, those injuries on the patient’s back and legs… they’re old injuries, aren’t they?” Mark closed his eyes in pain, nodding. “Yes.” Skylar froze for a moment, then interjected, “What injuries? Grace doesn’t have any scars. Her skin is perfect.” She aimed her phone camera at the doctor. “Doctor, don’t make things up. Grace cares about her appearance; she couldn’t possibly have scars.” The doctor ignored her, turning sideways. A nurse wheeled out a gurney. I was being transferred to the ICU. My clothes had been cut away, covered only by a thin white sheet. Due to the intense resuscitation, the sheet had slipped slightly. Revealing my back. Skylar’s phone camera clearly captured the scene. Hundreds of thousands in the live stream saw it simultaneously. It could barely be called a “back.” It was a map of hideous, twisted, terrifying scars. Dark brown, centipede-like scars crisscrossed everywhere. Some areas were deeply sunken, as if a chunk of flesh had been forcibly gouged out by something heavy. Other areas were raised, ugly hypertrophic scars from healed skin. Most terrifying were the two deep, round indentations near her lower back, as if thick rebar had directly pierced through. They were the scars of hell. Skylar gasped, her hand trembling, almost dropping her phone. “What… what is this? How can this be Mom’s back?” She recoiled in horror, pointing at the gurney. “This is so ugly… so disgusting… Is it a skin disease?” She instinctively looked at the comments, seeking affirmation. But the chat was no longer filled with mockery; instead, it was a flood of question marks and horror. “Oh my god! What kind of injuries are those?” “What did she have to go through to get scars like that?” “Streamer, you didn’t even know your own mother had injuries like that?” Skylar panicked. She looked at Mark, her voice trembling. “Dad… what happened to Mom’s back? Did she… did she get into a fight before? Or get involved with some gang? How did she get like this?” “It’s so scary, no wonder she never wears backless dresses or goes swimming with me… she was afraid of being ugly…” “SMACK!” A crisp slap echoed through the hallway. Mark, with all his strength, slapped Skylar hard. Skylar was knocked flying, hitting the wall, blood instantly welling from the corner of her mouth. Her phone fell to the floor, the camera facing the ceiling, but the sound was still clearly transmitted to the live stream. “You animal!” Mark pointed at Skylar, his eyes bloodshot, his body trembling. “You call this ugly? You call this disgusting?” From the hidden pocket of his wallet, he shakily pulled out a neatly folded, yellowed old newspaper clipping. He slammed the photo onto Skylar’s face. “Open your damn eyes and look! What is this!” The photo fluttered to the floor. Skylar, clutching her face, cried as she picked up the photo. It was a newspaper photograph, low pixel quality, blurry. The background was a collapsed ruin. Amidst the rubble and rebar, there was a woman. She was kneeling on the ground, her upper body twisted severely forward, her hands pressed firmly to the ground, a huge, heavy concrete slab crushing her back. Two pieces of rebar pierced her lower back, blood staining the dust beneath her. But her posture was unmoving. Like an arch bridge. And beneath her, in the tiny space she had created with her flesh and blood. Lay an unharmed, sleeping infant. Below the photo was a small caption: 《The Great Mother: Supported for 72 hours under ruins, protecting her infant daughter with her spine》 Skylar looked at the photo. Looked at the woman’s face. Though covered in blood and grime, though twisted in pain. It was Mom’s face. Young Mom. Her gaze dropped to the infant. The baby’s swaddling clothes had a small ‘Skylar’ embroidered on them. Skylar’s mind went blank with a loud “buzz.”

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Until I went to pick up cash for my husband, I had no idea his actual salary was twenty thousand dollars, not the five thousand dollars he always claimed. Five thousand dollars he gave to me. The remaining fifteen thousand, every first of the month, went to a Ms. Vance. I placed the bank statement in front of him, my voice shaking with accusation. “For thirty years, you’ve lied to me, saying your salary was only five thousand dollars. Even the year our son got pneumonia, you claimed you couldn’t spare a single dime. Who *is* this Ms. Vance who gets fifteen thousand dollars from you every month?” My husband’s lips trembled, about to speak, when our son, Dennis, burst out of his room. “Mom, Victoria’s been through a lot by herself all these years. Don’t go giving her a hard time.” It was in that moment I realized: for thirty years of marriage, my husband had been financially supporting his first love. And my son, it seemed, had found another mother figure outside our home. Faced with my silence, David’s lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something. Dennis quickly followed suit, trying to backtrack. “Mom, I didn’t mean it like that, I was just…” But deep down, I knew. What people blurt out subconsciously is often the unvarnished truth. For thirty years, David had faithfully handed me five thousand dollars every month, never late. In the beginning, five thousand dollars wasn’t a small sum, and we lived comfortably. But as time went on, our child grew up, and our parents grew old. Everything went up – prices, expenses – except the money he gave me. That stayed rock solid, unwavering. I slowly started to feel the strain. To make sure he had a hot meal waiting when he got home late from overtime, to ensure our growing son had proper nutrition, and to free up some cash for my aging parents, I had to find a part-time job on top of my full-time work and endless family responsibilities. Was I tired? Of course I was. But looking at my happy, bustling family, I always felt it was worth it. Now, he was telling me his salary was twenty thousand dollars, and three-quarters of it went to his first love. Thirty years of my suffering felt like a cruel joke. Seeing my silence, David’s face darkened. “Sarah, I’ve already explained it to you. What more are you unhappy about?” “Besides, we’ve had a good life all these years, haven’t we? Why do you insist on digging up old scores now?” His face held genuine incomprehension, as if I truly were being unreasonable. I couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh in my heart. Before we got married, he’d looked into my eyes just like that, promising he’d give me the best of everything. Back then, if I worked late, he’d wait for me at the alley’s entrance, clutching a cup of hot milk, saying he worried I’d be hungry. Now, if I was sick in bed, he’d only send a text: “Drink more hot water.” Even as I felt the changes, I’d always comfort myself. But every line on those bank statements was a stark reminder. For thirty years, my life had been built on a foundation of lies. That kind of life? I didn’t want it anymore. I said, “David, let’s get a divorce.” David froze, clearly not expecting those words from me. Dennis, however, panicked first, frowning as he looked at me. “Mom! What are you doing?! Dad and… Victoria, there’s nothing going on between them, really!” “You’re at this age, breaking up the family over something so trivial? Aren’t you embarrassed?” I looked at Dennis’s desperate, yet accusing face, and felt a sudden, unfamiliar chill. More than my husband’s deception, my son’s words cut deeper. “Alright, that’s enough.” David stopped Dennis, putting on a conciliatory face. He pulled out his phone, tapping a few times. My own phone buzzed softly a moment later. “You’ve worked hard all these years. Here’s ten thousand dollars.” His tone softened. “Go buy that dress you’ve been eyeing lately. Stop holding back.” See? He remembered. He always remembered these little things, my preferences. But it was always just verbal remembering. This was the first time, however, that money and affection arrived simultaneously. David seemed to believe that ten thousand dollars and a few soft words were enough to pacify me. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and, like countless nights before, headed to the balcony. Dennis glared at me before retreating to his own room. In the vast living room, I was left utterly alone. The lights were still bright and warm, the furnishings still familiar and comforting, but in this moment, everything felt suffocating. I went back to the bedroom and called my best friend, Monica. She’d been a lawyer her whole life. She’d know what to do. “I’m getting a divorce.” “Yes, he cheated. It started thirty years ago.”

After hanging up with Monica, David finished his cigarette and returned to the bedroom. He went through his usual nightly routine, then lifted the covers and got into bed. Only in the light did I truly notice, Despite both of us being at retirement age, he looked significantly younger than he was. His figure hadn’t really thickened, his hair was still dark, and the wrinkles on his face were shallow. Time seemed to have been incredibly kind to him. But what about me? My gray hairs were rapidly outnumbering the dark ones, my face was a tapestry of wrinkles, and my body, from years of constant labor, had lost its shape. Perhaps it wasn’t time that favored him, but me. It was only then that I remembered I had actually seen Victoria Vance before. On a TV show, she was interviewed as a “beacon of independent womanhood.” On screen, she wore a tailored, expensive-looking suit, her makeup was flawless, and her demeanor confident and articulate. I even pointed at the TV back then, half-admiring, half-sighing, as I told David: “Look at her, living such an exciting life. I wish I could be an independent, capable woman like that.” What was David’s reaction then? He stared at the screen for several seconds before snapping back, his voice casual. “People like that usually come from wealthy families, or have powerful connections. We shouldn’t compare ourselves. As long as you keep our home running smoothly, you’re the best in my eyes.” At the time, I felt a little embarrassed by his unexpected compliment, and my fleeting envy faded. Now, thinking back, the look in his eyes as he watched the screen was clearly pride. Pride that he had played a part in making that radiant woman on TV shine. And I, meanwhile, with my meager five thousand dollars a month, buried myself in endless chores and side hustles, becoming a haggard woman who only knew how to pinch pennies. “What are you looking at?” David noticed me staring at him, and his brows furrowed. I knew this was the first sign of his temper. Usually, at times like this, I’d immediately avert my gaze or find a topic to lighten the mood, avoiding unnecessary arguments. But now, I didn’t want to do that anymore. I didn’t answer, instead lowering my head and continuing to tap on my phone. The screen displayed some preliminary divorce asset division clauses Monica had just sent me. My phone was so old, the screen was already starting to blur. My silence clearly infuriated David. He abruptly sat up, snatched my phone, and tossed it carelessly to the foot of the bed. “Sarah! Are you ever going to stop?” “We’ve been together for thirty years, and I never thought you were so obsessed with money! You’d throw away our family for a few bucks?” Even now, he stubbornly believed my anger was solely about money. I almost wished I *was* the kind of woman he described, obsessed with money. Then, at least, I wouldn’t have endured these thirty years of hardship. I looked into his eyes and said, every word deliberate, “David, we’re getting a divorce. I’m serious.” Hearing me mention divorce again, David completely lost his temper. “Divorce? What divorce?! Where did you pick up this trick? Are you trying to threaten me with divorce?” “I’m telling you, that trick won’t work! If we actually divorce, how am I supposed to hold my head up?” “At work, with our friends and family, how am I supposed to live?” “Dennis is getting married soon, and you, as his mother, want to deliberately embarrass him in front of his fiancée?” He was frantic, but every single word, every concern, was about his own reputation, Dennis’s reputation. My feelings, my pain, were utterly insignificant. A powerful wave of grief and indignation washed over me. I sat up straight, my voice unconsciously rising. “David, these past thirty years, do you really not know what I’ve done for this family?” “That one hundred twenty thousand dollars for your dad’s bypass surgery? I scraped it together from my pre-marriage savings, plus pulling all-nighters doing freelance accounting for three different companies.” “When Dennis enrolled in that elite prep school, the fifty thousand dollar tuition? I put in my entire severance package from work, leaving myself with absolutely nothing for retirement, no safety net at all.” “Over the years, every major household expense, every financial hole, wasn’t it me who gritted my teeth and filled it?” The bedroom door was pushed open. Dennis, drawn by the argument, stood in the doorway, his face etched with unconcealed annoyance and disapproval. “Mom! Haven’t you caused enough trouble?!” “So you contributed to the family. Does that give you the right to blackmail Dad now?” “It’s no wonder you can’t compare to Victoria Vance, no matter how hard you try. You deserve what you get!” His words felt like a bucket of ice water. I looked at that face, so strikingly similar to David’s when he was younger. This was the son I carried for ten months, the child my own mother gave her life for. When Dennis was seven, he got pneumonia. I couldn’t reach David anywhere. I borrowed from every friend and relative, but was still two hundred dollars short for the surgery. My mom, without telling me, sold off something incredibly valuable meant to prolong her own life. In the end, Dennis recovered and came home, but she passed away due to worsening heart failure, without me even getting to say goodbye. Now, it seemed neither her sacrifice nor my countless contributions were worth anything at all.

In the past, after every argument, they were the ones who would slam the door and leave. This time, I was the one who walked out of the house. Lying in the hotel bed, I quickly fell into a deep sleep. In my dream, I seemed to be reliving that painful moment. Dennis’s small face, burning red with fever. The nurses’ repeated催促 to pay the fees. My missing husband, and my mother, confined to her sickbed. Later, Dennis got better. My mother was gone. My husband returned from his “business trip,” travel-worn and full of remorse. He claimed he’d taken an urgent out-of-state project to earn more for the surgery, and the cell service there was terrible. I believed him. I even felt sorry for him, thinking we were a couple struggling through adversity, unfairly treated by life. I never imagined that my always-honest husband, earning twenty thousand dollars a month, Wouldn’t give a single cent for his own son, yet was willing to spend fifteen thousand dollars to enrich another woman’s life. Thirty years. Everyone else moved forward, but I was stuck in that painful moment of losing a loved one. The nightmare was interrupted by the phone ringing. The caller ID showed “David’s Mom.” I stared at those two words for a few seconds before answering. “Sarah, dear, Mom knows you’re hurting. What David did… he really wronged you.” “But it hasn’t been easy for you two to get this far. Thirty years of marriage, and your child is all grown up now.” “At this age, some things… it’s better to just turn a blind eye, live a little less clearly. It’s better for everyone, and it saves the family, doesn’t it?” I gripped the phone, my fingertips icy. “Mom, you knew about Victoria Vance all along, didn’t you?” A sudden silence fell on the other end. A few seconds later, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. This old woman who, from the moment I married into the Miller family, had held my hand and said, “From now on, you’re my own daughter”; This ‘good’ David’s Mom who, whenever David and I had conflicts, always scolded him first and sided with me without hesitation. It turned out she was just another silent observer in this long, elaborate deception. The phone screen suddenly went dark. This old phone, used for many years, had a failing battery and often shut down automatically. My drowsiness completely vanished. I leaned against the headboard, plugged in the charger, and opened my mobile banking app to check my balance. It held the few tens of thousands of dollars I’d managed to save over the years, plus the ten thousand dollars David had “graciously” transferred me yesterday. The next morning, I went to the mall and bought myself a new phone. I’d thought about getting a new one before, but as I got older, I felt a bit intimidated by electronics. I wanted Dennis to help me. Dennis had just grumbled then, “Mom, you’re this old. A phone that can make calls and send texts is all you need. Buying an expensive one is a waste; you won’t even use it.” Now, the text was finally clear, and video apps no longer lagged. It was only three thousand dollars. All the suffering I’d endured before, it really wasn’t worth it.

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After we lost our baby, my husband Jake and I were drowning in a mountain of debt. I was also battling severe depression. But Jake, he was always there for me, always protective. He’d spend his days doing food deliveries and his nights driving for a ride-share, just scrambling to pay off what we owed. No matter how exhausted he was, the first thing he’d do when he got home was pull me into a tight hug. A year later, I thought I was finally recovering. But that day, when I saw a little kid playing by the roadside, I just couldn’t stop myself from crying. Jake, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion, suddenly snapped. “Enough! You’re not the only one who lost a child! Don’t you think I’m hurting too? Who the hell is going to care about *me*?” He spun around and stormed out into the rain, leaving me alone in the house. My gaze drifted to the utility knife on the windowsill. A chilling thought crept into my mind. Maybe…maybe I should just go be with our baby. The rain hammered against the windows, a relentless drumming, like someone desperately pounding on the glass. Jake was gone. The door slammed shut with a sharp *bang*. I stood frozen, the door still trembling slightly, and with it, my heart. “Who the hell is going to care about *me*?” His words echoed, twisting and tearing at my brain. He was right, who *did* care about him? To pay for my treatments, to cover the mounting bills from the baby we couldn’t keep, he worked himself to the bone, even running deliveries with a high fever. I was nothing but a burden. No baby, no job, and now I couldn’t even offer him comfort. All I did was make his life harder. I turned my head, my eyes drawn to the windowsill. There it was, the utility knife Jake used for opening packages. The blade gleamed, an icy invitation. Death felt good. Once that thought surfaced, there was no suppressing it. If I died, Jake wouldn’t have to pretend to be strong anymore. He wouldn’t have to scrounge for leftover food to save money, wouldn’t have to plaster on a fake smile in the pouring rain, just for a few extra bucks on a delivery. And finally, I could go be with the baby who never got to call me “Mom.” I walked over and picked up the knife. It was light, yet heavy as a thousand pounds. Entering the bathroom, I locked the door behind me. After a moment’s thought, I grabbed a towel and stuffed it under the door crack. I didn’t want the smell of blood to escape. Jake hated the smell of blood. He’d always steer clear whenever he even saw a raw cut. I turned on the water and sank into the tub. The icy cold seeped into my skin, but I felt nothing. No chill at all. I took out my phone and opened SnapChat. At the very top, pinned to the top of my chats, was “Jake.” The last message was from him, sent that afternoon: “What do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick it up on my way.” Even then, he was still trying to cheer me up. I typed out a message: “I’m going to a friend’s place to clear my head. Don’t look for me.” My finger hovered over the send button for a long time. Finally, I scheduled the message to send. 8:30 PM. By then, he should be home. He’d see the message, probably be a little annoyed, but also relieved. Without having to face me, he’d finally get a good night’s sleep. My phone lay on the sink, its screen glowing, illuminating my pale face. I raised the knife, pressed it against my wrist, and slashed downwards. Once. Twice. My skin peeled back, and bright red blood spurted out like a fountain. It bloomed in the water, swirling like grotesque red flowers, shockingly vibrant. I closed my eyes, leaning against the tub. The warmth was slowly draining from my body. My consciousness began to fade, and I seemed to see our baby smiling at me from the clouds, extending chubby little hands for a hug. “My baby, Mommy’s coming,” I whispered. Tears spilled into the bloody water. Mommy won’t let you be alone over there anymore. Just before darkness completely swallowed me, I heard the rain outside stop. Good. The rain had stopped. And I stopped loving you. Jake. When I opened my eyes again, I was floating near the ceiling. My body felt impossibly light. I looked down and saw myself in the bathtub. My face was ashen, lips purple, the wound on my wrist gaping. The tub was filled with dark red water, still and silent. I was dead. The sensation was oddly peaceful. From outside the door, I heard the jingle of keys. *Click.* The door opened. Jake was back. He was soaked to the bone, hair plastered to his scalp, water dripping down his cheeks. In his hand, he carried a plastic bag – takeout from that corner diner, my favorite. He stood at the doorway, cautiously glancing into the dark apartment. No lights were on. He tiptoed in, changing his shoes, terrified of making a sound that might disturb me. “Maya?” 2. He called out, tentative. No answer. He sighed, probably assuming I was asleep, or still in a mood, hiding in the bedroom. He placed the takeout on the table, shrugged off his soaked jacket, and rubbed his face. His face was a canvas of exhaustion, his eyes bloodshot. He walked to the bedroom door, pushed it open a crack, and peeked inside. No one was on the bed. He froze for a moment, then turned towards the bathroom. The bathroom door was closed, and the light was off. He approached, trying the doorknob. Locked. “Are you in there?” he asked, pressing his ear to the door. His voice was hoarse, tinged with a desperate attempt to be conciliatory. “Still mad?” I hovered in front of him, my heart aching as I watched his humble posture. When Jake heard no response, he figured I was either showering or deliberately ignoring him. He sighed, then slid down the door, sitting on the cold floor. His pants were still wet. He just sat there, leaning against the bathroom door. Only that thin sheet of wood separated us. Inside was my lifeless body. Outside, his weary back. The boundary between life and death felt so incredibly thin. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his head bowed, his fingers tracing the grout lines between the tiles. “I was just so tired… really. Today, someone complained about a delivery, and I lost fifty bucks.” “I was so frustrated, and then I came home and saw you crying, and I just… I lost it.” “Please, just talk to me, okay? Yell at me, hit me, whatever.” He pulled a small, squashed box from his pocket. Inside were a few strawberries. They were a little bruised, but still vibrantly red. “Look, I bought you strawberries. Not many, but they’re sweet. The owner said it was the last box.” “Can you just open the door? Come out and have one?” A deathly silence hung in the bathroom. Only the occasional drip of the faucet broke it, *drip, drip*. Jake let out a bitter laugh. “Fine, you don’t have to come out. Just listen to me talk, then.” “We only have two hundred thousand left on the debt.” “Just give me one more year, no, half a year. If I push hard for another six months, we can finally breathe a little.” “Then I’ll take you traveling, anywhere you want to go.” “And we can have another baby, okay?” When he mentioned the baby, his voice choked. He buried his head in his knees, his shoulders trembling slightly. “I miss our baby too… I hurt too…” “But I’m a man, I have to be strong. If I break down, what will happen to you?” I watched him cry, wanting to reach out and stroke his hair. My hand passed right through him, touching nothing. You fool. You’d be better off without me. So much lighter. Jake babbled on for a long time. He talked about the past, about the future, about the child who never got to grow up. Slowly, his voice faded. He was so tired. He was truly exhausted. He just sat there, leaning against the door, knees pulled to his chest, and fell asleep. His breathing was heavy, his brow furrowed in a deep frown. His phone vibrated in his pocket. It was 8:30 PM. My scheduled SnapChat message had just gone through. But he was sleeping too deeply to hear it. Dawn broke. Sunlight streamed through the gap in the curtains, falling directly on Jake’s face. He frowned, then jolted awake. His first instinct was to check the time, then he scrambled to his feet in a panic. “Damn it, I’m going to be late!” He frantically grabbed his jacket, about to rush out the door, when he suddenly remembered something. He glanced back at the bathroom door. Still closed. He tried the bedroom door again; the covers were neatly folded, untouched. “Maya?” 3. He called out, puzzled. Pulling out his phone, he finally saw the message from 9 PM last night. “I’m going to a friend’s place to clear my head. Don’t look for me.” Jake froze. He stared at the screen for several seconds, his taut shoulders suddenly slumping. Then, a bitter laugh escaped him. “Maybe it’s for the best if she’s gone,” he muttered to himself. “It’ll keep her from getting annoyed seeing me, and I can focus on work.” He completely believed it. Because in the past, when we argued, I’d sometimes crash at my best friend’s place. He never suspected that I was just behind that door. He walked over to the table and saw the dinner from last night. It was completely cold, the oil congealed into white chunks, looking sickening. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. He sat down and gulped down the cold noodles. When he choked, he washed it down with cold water. He ate quickly. After finishing, he carefully put the crushed box of strawberries into the fridge. He even stuck a Post-it note on the fridge door: “Maya, strawberries are in the fridge. Remember to eat them when you get back. Don’t be mad anymore, love you.” After all that, he put on his helmet and hurried out the door. The apartment was empty again, save for me. I looked at that Post-it note, my heart a tangle of emotions. Those strawberries, I’d never get to eat them in this lifetime. Around noon, the doorbell rang. No one answered. The person outside started pounding on the door. “Maya! Open up! I know you’re in there!” It was Jake’s mom, Mrs. Davies. She had a spare key. When no one answered, she just let herself in. As soon as she entered, she stood with her hands on her hips, looking around. “Still sleeping in? Just dragging Jake down, aren’t you!” She stormed into the bedroom—empty. Then to the kitchen—empty. Finally, she stopped at the bathroom door. She pushed it, but it wouldn’t open. “Still locking the door? What are you doing in there, hatching an egg?” Mrs. Davies grumbled and cursed at the door. “Tell me, you couldn’t even keep a baby, and now you just walk around with a dead face all day? Who are you trying to impress?” “Jake’s buried in debt, and here you are, not even making him a meal!” “My son is a fool, any other man would’ve divorced you by now!” Her words were harsh, spittle flying from her mouth. I floated in the air, watching her coldly. In the past, hearing such things would make me cry, make me feel wronged, make me feel like a sinner. Now, I just found it pathetic. Mrs. Davies eventually tired herself out. Seeing no movement from inside, she assumed I was deliberately refusing to open the door to spite her. “Fine, be stubborn! Just stay hidden in there forever then!” She huffed and left. Before she went, she even snagged that box of strawberries from the fridge. The ones Jake had saved for me. I wanted to stop her, but I couldn’t. In the afternoon, Jake sent several SnapChat messages. “Maya, are you having fun at your friend’s place?” “What do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick you up?” “Lots of orders today, made good money. Tonight I’ll buy you that cake you’ve wanted for ages.” My phone was still on the bathroom sink. The screen lit up and dimmed, over and over. In the dimly lit bathroom, there was no one to answer. Jake probably thought I was still angry, so he didn’t dare call, afraid of annoying me. He sent a “pouting face” emoji. Then he continued to weave through the city, pushing himself for those few dollars per delivery. Night fell. The rain started again, a soft drizzle. Familiar footsteps echoed in the hallway. Quick, light. Jake was back. He was home earlier than usual today, carrying a fancy cake box and a bouquet of sunflowers. The sunflowers were on sale, their petals a bit wilted, but he’d carefully arranged them to look lively.

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I only took two plastic bags from the Maynard family’s deli, yet Patricia Maynard stormed into my office and publicly accused me of stealing, forcing me to pay her. I’d supported their business for years and even asked my father to hold off on raising their rent, and this is how they repaid me. Fine. From today on, the Maynard family will face the consequences—starting with the lease for the storefront they rent from my family. 0 I’d stayed up too late the night before and overslept. I scrambled to get ready for work, throwing on whatever I could grab, and ran out the door. The Uber driver was already waiting, but my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I rushed into Maynard’s Deli and told Russell to pack me a $30 sandwich to go. I was running late and couldn’t waste time. When he rang it up, the total came to $56.90. Fine. I didn’t argue. I paid, grabbed the bag, and was about to leave when I noticed the torn bag leaking sauce onto my hand. Russell was busy, so I didn’t want to bother him. I grabbed two extra plastic bags myself and left. Twenty minutes after getting to the office, I hadn’t even had time to eat before Mia Carter, my coworker, told me someone was there to see me. I thought maybe a client had arrived early. Adjusting my blazer, I stepped outside—and was face-to-face with none other than Patricia Maynard. “You ran off without paying!” she barked, her voice dripping with venom. “How can someone who works at such a big company be so shameless?” My mind raced. Did my payment not go through? I quickly pulled up my payment history on Venmo—everything looked fine. “Mrs. Maynard,” I said, keeping my tone polite, “I just checked, and I definitely paid. Maybe there was a delay on your end?” I showed her the transaction receipt on my phone. “See? I paid. This must be a misunderstanding.” “You paid for the food,” she sneered. “But don’t forget about the extra plastic bags you took! Five cents each, and you just walked off with them like I owe you something!” The misunderstanding wasn’t cleared up; if anything, she doubled down. “Walking around all polished and proper, working at a big company, but you still can’t resist taking advantage of us small folk.” “Doesn’t your company care about hiring people with integrity? Call your boss out here and let him see your true colors.” “You think because I’m an old lady, you can bully me? Taking things without paying just because I’m too polite to stop you? You’re disgusting!” By now, her shouting had drawn the attention of my entire office. 0

Patricia’s voice echoed across the office, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. People started gathering, curious about the commotion. Even Greg Mitchell, my team leader, rushed over. Seeing her rage, he tried to calm her down before even asking me for the full story. “Jules,” Greg said, turning to me, “just give her the money, and let’s move on. She’s an elderly lady—it’s not easy for her to come all the way here. Let’s not cause a scene or hurt the company’s image.” I bit back my anger, knowing he had a point. This was about a dollar. Not worth escalating. Besides, I had a major client meeting in thirty minutes and couldn’t waste energy arguing with her. “Fine,” I said coldly. Turning to Patricia, I spoke deliberately. “Mrs. Maynard, I was in a hurry this morning, and I didn’t realize you’d charged me for 56.90 instead of the 30 sandwich I asked for. That was already more than I intended. And I didn’t know the extra bags cost money. That’s on me. My apologies. Give me your payment code, and I’ll pay you right now.” The murmurs around the office showed my colleagues understood the situation now. Many of them shot me sympathetic glances. Patricia, however, glared at me like I was the devil incarnate. “Well, at least you’ve got some decency,” she spat. “But next time, if you don’t pay for the bags, don’t bother coming to Maynard’s. We don’t serve people with no class.” I nearly exploded but forced myself to hold back. I opened Venmo, sent her $1, and stepped back. The app chimed, “Payment received: $1.” I thought that would end things, but Patricia wasn’t done. She pointed a finger at me, her nose in the air. “One dollar? That’s it? Who knows how many bags you’ve swiped before today? I’m asking for $50, at least. You’re rich, right? Don’t act like you can’t afford it.” Seething, I asked through gritted teeth, “How much do you want?” “$50,” she snapped, her tone dripping with entitlement. Knowing I couldn’t waste more time, I transferred the $50 to make her leave. She smirked as the transaction went through. “You’ve got the money, so why not give it to me? Better me than someone else, right?” With that, she left, grinning ear to ear. As I watched her walk away, I clenched my fists. Fifty dollars for two plastic bags? Seriously? I’d let this slide for months—letting her overcharge me for leftovers, thinking it was charity. Dad even wanted to raise their rent, but I told him to hold off. “They’re struggling,” I’d said. “The food’s good. Don’t push them too hard.” And this is how they repay me? Sometimes, being nice just makes you a target. Some people think kindness is weakness. Some horses, when gentle, are ridden rough. Watching Patricia Maynard’s retreating back, I raised an eyebrow. She had no idea who she’d just picked a fight with. 0

As soon as Patricia left, the tension in the office evaporated. My coworkers gathered around to console me. “Jules,” Mia Carter said, “with people like her, you just have to swallow your pride. If you don’t pay, they’ll never stop causing trouble. Don’t let it get to you.” “Seriously,” another coworker said indignantly. “What a vulture. I can’t believe people like her exist.” “Right? That Maynard’s Deli? I used to love their pastrami. Never going back again!” Then, Colin Spencer, who always seemed to delight in needling me, chimed in with his usual smug tone. “Well, Jules, technically you didn’t pay for the bags at first. She’s got a point, doesn’t she? Is it really okay to badmouth an elderly woman like this?” “Why don’t you say it to her face if you’re so righteous?” he added with a challenge in his voice. I turned to him, my gaze sharp as a blade. “Colin, did you just crawl out of a cave or something?” “What? No, why would you—” “Because you sure act like you’re covered in ancient murals. You’ve got so many cracks, you’re practically falling apart.” His face turned green, then white, then red, but he didn’t have a comeback. He just shut his mouth and sulked. People like him? You have to shut them down without mercy. That night, I told my dad about what had happened. He didn’t play the “I told you so” card. Instead, his voice was full of warmth and fury on my behalf. “Jules, don’t worry about it. We’ll stop buying from them. People like that? They’re destined to fail.” “And the storefront?” I asked, already knowing the answer. “Oh, I’ll let it sit empty before I rent it to them again. No one gets to mess with my little girl.” “When’s the lease up?” “About a month.” “Then don’t give them a heads-up. Just kick them out when the time comes,” I said, my tone icy. “Consider it done,” Dad said firmly. Dad wasn’t around much, always busy with work, and Mom, a college professor, spent most of her time on campus. It was just me at home, so their support, even from a distance, meant the world. But truth be told, I wasn’t losing sleep over this. A dog bite doesn’t become your fault just because it hurt. After work, I stopped by the bakery and bought a selection of fancy pastries. On a whim, I also picked up a large box of freshly cut durian—an indulgence I’d been craving. The Maynard family had three kids. Their eldest daughter was off at college, the middle child, Lily, was 13 and in middle school, and the youngest, Noah, was still in elementary. As I walked past Maynard’s Deli, Lily and Noah came bounding over, their faces lighting up at the sight of my bags. Lily trailed behind me like a shadow, her eyes practically glued to the box. “Miss Jules, what did you buy? It looks so yummy!” I saw right through her act. “Just some cake and durian,” I said bluntly. “Why? Got something to say? If not, I’m heading home.” The word “durian” made Noah’s eyes sparkle with excitement. Without hesitation, he reached for my bag. “Miss Jules, how did you know I wanted durian today? Open it up and let me have some!” I lifted the bag out of his reach, my expression unamused. “If you want it so bad, go buy it yourself. Don’t have money? Ask your dad.” Noah scrunched up his face, clearly displeased. “My dad doesn’t have your kind of money. He’d never buy us something so expensive.” Lily quickly chimed in, “Yeah, yeah! If it weren’t for you, we’d never get to taste anything nice like that!” How had I missed it before? These two were just as shameless as their grandmother. A house full of the same brand of entitlement. Out of pity, I used to share with them every time they played the sweet sibling act, calling me “Miss Jules” like I was their favorite neighbor. But today? Not a chance. 0

When I didn’t hand over the goods right away, Noah tried to grab my sleeve. “Give it to me now! I’m telling you to!” “Back off,” I snapped, shaking him off. “I’m not your mom. Why should I give you anything?” Noah’s face darkened. “I know you love the pastrami from our shop. Keep this up, and I’ll make sure Dad stops selling to you!” Lily dropped her sweet-girl act and planted her hands on her hips. “You always shared with us before. Why not today?” Excuse me? Somehow, they’d managed to take shamelessness to a whole new level. Before I could respond, Patricia waddled over, looking every bit as bold as when she stormed into my office. There wasn’t a hint of shame on her face—just the smug air of someone who thought they had the upper hand. “Let’s just put the plastic bag thing behind us, shall we? I won’t hold it against you. No need to sour things between us.” Her tone shifted to one of mock generosity, but it was dripping with condescension. “Kids will be kids. Just let them have a little taste. You’re doing well for yourself, so what’s the harm?” “And you know,” she added, her voice laced with fake sweetness, “my grandson only asks because he likes you. Don’t let him down.” Her audacity nearly made me laugh. I stared her down, my voice ice-cold. “What do you want? A verbal slap? Fine, I’ll deliver.” “Lack of education can be fixed. Bad looks? There’s always surgery. But a rotten heart? That’s incurable. You extorted $50 from me for a plastic bag and have the gall to stand here pretending to play nice? Do you even realize how much face you’re losing?” My sarcasm cut sharper than a knife, leaving no room for politeness. “Is that a tumor on your neck, or did your mom mix up which part of you to toss out at birth and keep the placenta instead?” “If you’re bored, go lick a toilet bowl. Stop buzzing around here like a fly.” Patricia Maynard’s face turned ashen, humiliated in front of her grandkids. She couldn’t stomach the insult, yet all she could do was sputter with rage. “You little tramp! You’ve got no upbringing, no decency! Didn’t your parents teach you manners?” Her anger erupted like a volcano, words flying out uncontrollably. But she didn’t dare lay a finger on me. Instead, she yanked Noah by the ear and dragged him home. “You’re such a disgrace! Do I not feed you? Do I not clothe you? Why are you out here begging people for food?” Noah didn’t back down. “I didn’t take her food! I just wanted it! What’s it to you, you old hag?” “You’re not even my mom! Why do you get to boss me around?” “Oh, just wait till I deal with you, you little brat!” The sound of a child’s wailing soon echoed down the street, blending with her shrieks. 0 Back home, I cranked up the AC, flopped onto the couch, and queued up my favorite TV show. I happily dug into my pastries and durian, savoring every bite. Mid-episode, my tablet suddenly started buffering.

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I return to the exact day my life was destroyed, standing once again between a fiancée who defends her “best friend” and a man whose hidden illness once cost me everything. In my previous life, revealing Miles’s condition led to accusations, suspension, and a fire set by the two people I trusted most. This time, I confront every scheme with the certainty of someone who has already died once. I will take control of the narrative they used against me and prepare to reveal the truth they tried to bury. “What’s wrong with Miles? Tell me already!” Vivian’s voice snapped me back to reality. I looked at her impatient face, then glanced around, realizing I was in my office. So I really had traveled back in time. It seemed even the heavens didn’t want me to die so senselessly. “What the hell are you spacing out for? I’ve been asking you for ages,” Vivian said angrily, shoving me. I came to my senses and looked at Miles’s blood test results in my hand. Sure enough, just like in my previous life, he had AIDS. He was Vivian’s male best friend, and they were very close. In my previous life, on this day, he had suddenly been in a car accident and brought to the hospital. Vivian had been beside herself with worry. After learning he had AIDS, I agonized for a long time before deciding to tell Vivian. But she didn’t believe me at all and slapped me hard across the face. “I know you don’t want me hanging out with Miles,” she had said. “But you need to know when to draw the line. You’re a doctor – you can’t just accuse patients of having infectious diseases because of your personal feelings!” No matter how I tried to explain, she wouldn’t listen. Legally, I shouldn’t have disclosed a patient’s condition to her anyway. It was private medical information. But out of concern for her safety, I had selfishly told her. Little did I know that my loose lips would lead to my brutal death in my past life. So in this life, no matter what, I won’t make the same mistake again.

“It’s not too serious, just some minor injuries. He’ll be fine after a few days of treatment in the hospital,” I told her. Hearing this, Vivian let out a sigh of relief. “That’s good.” But the next second, she was irritated again: “Then why didn’t you say so earlier? I thought it was something major!” “Ethan, let me tell you – Miles is my best friend. Don’t you dare try anything sneaky.” I smiled at her. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” After she left, a colleague came in and patted me on the shoulder. “Hey Dr. Grant, didn’t you tell your girlfriend that Miles has AIDS?” he asked. “I saw her go feed him some soup just now.” “The law states that a patient’s condition is private. Doctors can’t disclose it to others without permission,” I replied formally. My colleague looked at me in surprise. “But that’s your girlfriend!” “She used to be. Not anymore,” I said.

I’ll never forget what Vivian did to me in my past life. After I told her Miles had AIDS, she thought I was deliberately lying to drive them apart. So she started giving me the cold shoulder and stopped coming home. Before long, rumors spread online that I had caused a patient’s death through malpractice. People were calling me an incompetent doctor. The hospital was terrified of the public backlash and suspended me under pressure. That’s when Vivian came to find me. “I’m the one who spread those rumors online. I hired people to smear you,” she admitted. “That’s what you get for lying about Miles having AIDS!” My heart shattered. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Vivian, you’re my girlfriend! You’ve ruined my entire career!” I cried in anguish. “So what?” She glared at me furiously. “Miles has been my best friend since childhood. I won’t let anyone say he’s sick. Not even you!” In that moment, my heart died completely. I broke up with her and left. I moved to another city by myself. But her mother kept contacting me, urging me to go back and marry Vivian. I refused. Soon after, Vivian called to yell at me: “You deliberately got my parents to scold me, didn’t you? You’re trying to keep me and Miles apart. Just you wait!” The next time I saw her was when my house suddenly caught fire. I saw her and Miles pouring gasoline outside. She even said: “You deserve to die for keeping me and Miles apart!” I’ll never forget the agony of being slowly burned alive. Vivian, in this life I won’t be your doormat anymore.

I contacted Vivian’s parents to break off the engagement, saying I no longer wanted to be with her. No matter how much her parents tried to persuade me, I insisted on ending things. They finally had to agree. That night, Vivian called me. “How dare you, Ethan! Just because I took care of Miles for one day, you want to break off our engagement?” she yelled. I calmly replied, “It’s not because you took care of him. I just think you really like him and you two are a good match. I don’t want to come between you. So I’m stepping aside to let you be together.” She spent all her time with Miles anyway. It would be hard for her not to get infected with AIDS. So I had to stay away from her. “Fine, have it your way. But don’t come begging me to take you back later!” she snapped. “I won’t. I wish you and Miles a lifetime of happiness together,” I said before hanging up. I had never stood up to Vivian like this before. She bombarded me with angry texts afterwards: “Who the hell said you could hang up on me?” “Ethan, where did you get the nerve?” A few minutes later: “You didn’t pay Miles’s medical bills?” She had brainwashed me into thinking she and Miles were just friends before. So I had always covered Miles’s hospital bills whenever he came for treatment. They both got used to it over time. Looking back now, I was such a fool. I didn’t reply to her and blocked her number. I had no patience left for someone like her. The next day, Vivian came barging into my office with a pale-faced Miles in tow. “Give me money,” she demanded. “Hurry up. Don’t make me slap you.”

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When I was rushed into the ER with a bleeding stomach, my husband was outside setting off fireworks for another woman. When reporters questioned their intimate display, I was still the one defending our so-called “perfect marriage.” It was not until the doctor told me I had three months left to live—and I returned home to find them nestled together under the glowing sky—that I finally understood: He had never seen me as his wife, only as a signature that could save his company. So before I died, I delivered the cleanest cut of all—teaching him what it truly means to lose me. I first sensed it was over when I landed in the hospital from overworking myself into a bleeding stomach. At that very moment, Bennett was at home, hosting a private fireworks show for Talia in the backyard. When reporters shoved their microphones in my face, I forced a smile through my pale, exhausted expression. “Don’t speculate,” I said. “Bennett and I are doing fine. The girl you saw with him is just his cousin.” The journalists looked unconvinced, their disdain and disbelief practically dripping off their faces. The truth was, I wasn’t entirely lying. Talia wasn’t his real cousin, though, just an orphan taken in by Bennett’s family. Our marriage had always been a calculated business arrangement. Bennett had played his role well until Talia came back three months ago. Since then, he’d stuck to her side like glue, completely forgetting he even had a wife. The “perfect husband” image that the media had painted for him was nothing but a façade. That night, while the entire household staff was preparing fireworks for Talia, I called Bennett over and over again. He didn’t answer. Left with no choice, I discharged myself from the hospital and took a cab home. The house was alive with celebration, the vibrant colors of fireworks painting the night sky. I stepped into the yard, cold and silent, entirely out of place amidst the revelry. Under the fireworks that illuminated the backyard, I saw Bennett tidying Talia’s hair and feeding her a piece of cake. Suddenly, I felt like an outsider. The autumn leaves covered the ground. As I stepped on them, they crackled softly. Talia noticed me first. She jumped out of Bennett’s arms like a frightened rabbit, her delicate expression painted with innocence. “Kyra!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling. “Please don’t misunderstand! We were just celebrating the company’s revival!” Huh. Revival? A celebration? Was she serious? The company did revive, yet she had no part in its recovery, none at all. As my disdainful gaze swept over them, Bennett charged toward me, shielding Talia like she was a priceless treasure. “Kyra, can you stop wearing that poker face all day?” he snapped, his voice sharp and full of irritation. “Enough with the innocent routine in front of the cameras. Haven’t you had enough? “What do you want? My sympathy? My pity? Dream on!” Behind him, Talia clung to his arm, her eyes glistening with crocodile tears. “Bennett, please calm down,” she whispered, trembling. “You’re scaring me.” The scene was absurd, a soap opera unfolding in my own home. But I was too exhausted to focus on this drama. To their surprise, I forced a smile, closing the distance between us. “Benny,” I said softly, my tone full of practiced sweetness, “don’t be mad. I didn’t misunderstand. I just wanted to remind you… today’s my birthday. I know you’ve been busy and must’ve forgotten, but it’s okay. I don’t blame you.” For a split second, he froze. A hint of guilt flickered across his face before being quickly buried beneath his usual indifference. “Birthday?” he repeated, scoffing. “Didn’t you always say you hated celebrating your birthday?” Yes. I used to say that. My mother had died giving birth to me. My birthday was also her death anniversary. My father, who worshipped her, would spend every year mourning her with grand ceremonies. For years, I avoided celebrating my birthday. But Bennett had once changed that. Over the first two years of our marriage, he’d celebrated with me, helping me shake off the shadow of grief. I could still remember his gentle words, whispered in my ear with a warm smile. “Kyra, from now on, you’ll never feel alone on your birthday. You’re not a curse. You’re my good luck charm.” Looking at him now, standing in front of me to shield Talia, I realized those words had long since lost their meaning. But it didn’t hurt anymore. He didn’t know I’d already tricked him into signing the divorce papers a week ago.

The stomach bleeding today wasn’t a fluke. A week ago, I had been diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer, with only three months left to live. That scene was still fresh in my memory. It was our third wedding anniversary, and I sat alone in the hospital hallway. Sweat soaked through the diagnosis report in my trembling hands. My legs felt like lead; I tried to stand several times but failed. My frayed nerves finally snapped after I called Bennett for the tenth time. “Kyra! Are you insane? Just because you have nothing better to do doesn’t mean others aren’t busy!” he roared. He wasn’t wrong. I was very sick, and it was indeed driving me insane. Before I could respond, a woman’s honeyed voice floated through the phone, turning my unsaid words into a lump in my throat. “Bennett! I knew you’d come! You missed me, didn’t you?” I heard Bennett’s low chuckle before the call was abruptly cut off. It wasn’t the first time. The first time he stood me up was to pick up Talia when she returned to the country. The first time he hit me was because Talia had damaged my piano. At first, I was shocked, but gradually, I stopped caring. The searing pain I once felt dulled into a faint ache. I made excuses for him over and over again, convincing myself it was all because Talia was his cousin, and he had no other choice. But eventually, I had to face the truth—he wasn’t powerless and chose this willingly. To Bennett, I was nothing more than a distraction when Talia wasn’t around, a pastime he could step on. My dignity and love were crushed beneath his feet. So, I decided he would taste the bitterness of unrequited love. I would make him fall for me and be haunted by me. If he refused to care about me now, I would make myself a thorn in his heart. While I was alive, I would be a constant, nagging pain. After my death, I would leave him utterly broken. I recorded three videos, preparing to leave Bennett a gift he would never forget.

In my last month alive, I set aside my pride. I tolerated Talia’s blatant provocations, pretending not to notice. But she wasn’t planning to let me off so easily. One evening, I discovered razor blades hidden in my piano keys. When Bennett came home, he saw me shouting at the teary-eyed Talia. “Did you really have to go this far?” he scolded, his voice sharp and cold. Silently, I raised my hand, showing him the blood dripping from my wrist. “Bennett! Don’t you know what she…” Before I could finish, Bennett’s gaze fell on Talia, trembling in the corner with fearful eyes. His face twisted in anger. The next thing I knew, a sharp slap landed across my cheek. “If your hand’s injured, go to the hospital. Stop making a scene here! You really are just a piece of trash with no one to teach you any better!” Every ounce of pride and ambition I had built up in my life crumbled in that moment. The man I had once leaned on now mocked me with disdain. “If you can’t play piano, then don’t. It’s just a tool you use to fish for attention, anyway.” My desperate, hysterical questioning only made me look like a lunatic in his eyes. He scoffed, “How dare you compare yourself to Talia? She plays piano because it’s her dream. You? You only do it for your pathetic vanity and self-interest.” Talia picked up a glass of water, pouring it over her head before smashing the glass onto the floor. With her drenched face and trembling lips, she looked pitiful as she turned to me. “Kyra, I didn’t mean to… Is this enough for you?” Bennett immediately rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms as he led her away to change clothes. Before leaving, he threw a cold glance my way. “Kyra, Talia is like a sister to me. Watch yourself.” His gaze lingered on my bleeding hand, softening for just a second. Talia seemed to notice this change. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she collapsed dramatically into Bennett’s arms. “Talia!” he shouted, his voice panicked. Without another word, he carried her away. That extinguished the last flicker of hope in my heart. Left alone, I hailed a cab and went to the hospital to get my wounds treated.

I sent all the pre-recorded videos to my brother, who knew about my diagnosis and was fully aware of my plan. Ours was a family devoid of warmth. Raised under my father’s influence, my brother had always resented me, blaming me for our mother’s death during childbirth. “Kyra, your cancer is karma. You should’ve paid with your life for my mom a long time ago.” That was his first response upon hearing the news. I promised him the company, and he promised to play my videos at my funeral. My phone screen blinked on and off, and the messages came in nonstop. They were from Bennett, his location pinging from abroad. [Kyra, don’t worry. I’ll make it back for the family dinner tomorrow.] [You’re not mad, are you?] [Kyra, you have to understand. Talia threatened suicide. I couldn’t just ignore her.] [She’s a living person! What kind of man would I be to let her die?] Each new message brought a numbing sensation to my lips and drained the strength from my limbs. As the screen filled with more notifications, I lost consciousness. When I collapsed to the ground, my final question lingered in my fading mind. Bennett, I just wondered how miserable your end would be. My soul detached from my body. I floated above, staring down at my pale face and lifeless body sprawled across the floor. Perhaps my unfulfilled rage moved the heavens, granting me this chance to witness their inevitable downfall. My phone, now running on its last bar of battery, showed over 99 unread messages. The final one from Bennett popped up: [Kyra, stop causing a scene. I might be late from the airport. Wait for me at Gabor Estate.] I let out a cold laugh and willed my consciousness to Gabor Estate, ready to watch the drama unfold. Soon, Bennett arrived in a rush, his tie crooked, his breaths uneven as he stormed into the estate. “Grandfather, where’s Kyra? I need to speak with her privately,” he asked. Anton’s furrowed brows deepened at his grandson’s frantic demeanor. “Benny! Must you always act so recklessly? And you’d better rein in Talia’s antics from now on. Our family isn’t yet free from relying on Kyra’s family’s support. “If it hadn’t been for Talia’s tantrums about studying piano abroad and your secret misuse of company funds, the company wouldn’t have ended up in such a dire situation. You can’t afford to push Kyra away. Watch your temper!” Bennett’s expression twisted, a mix of annoyance and frustration darkening his features. “Grandfather, is this really the time to bring that up? If Kyra hears about this, everything will be ruined!” A pang of bitterness coursed through me. So, the financial crisis I nearly died trying to save them from was Talia’s doing. Bennett’s past kindnesses were never about love; they were about greed, about using me to revive his failing company. “What?” Anton asked, confused by Bennett’s accusatory tone. Bennett froze for a moment, his composure cracking. “She… hasn’t arrived yet?” He sighed, pulling out his phone. He dialed my number over and over, but no one picked up. By the time he had called three times with no answer, panic began to creep into his expression. “Pick up, Kyra! Answer the phone!” He started pacing, frustration boiling over as he stomped his feet in agitation. Anton suggested they sit down, reminding him that the family dinner couldn’t be delayed since everyone was already present. Bennett reluctantly took his seat at the table, but no sooner had he settled than his phone rang. Excitement lit up his face, only to be replaced by confusion and unease as he listened to the voice on the other end. It was my brother, Vance. “Bennett, make sure to attend Kyra’s funeral tomorrow.” Free Point The sound of the call disconnecting echoed loudly. Bennett’s hand, still clutching the phone, froze mid-air as if time itself had stopped. Anton tapped his shoulder with his cane. “What’s the matter? Who was that?”

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He dumped me for “class difference,” moved his new girl into my apartment, and told everyone I wasn’t worth a $30,000 handbag. But he doesn’t know the lottery numbers he bragged about aren’t the winning draw, and the luxury brand he worships considers me one of their top clients. If he wants a war of status—fine. I’ll show him what real money looks like. 1 “Let’s break up, Keira Westbrook! I just won $20 million in the lottery.” Julian Collins stood in front of me, his expression smug as he spoke those words. “All because of that?” I asked, looking up at him. “Of course! You’ve probably never even seen that much money, have you? My mom says there are different classes of people. Now that we’ve made it to the top, you and I aren’t on the same level anymore.” I couldn’t help but laugh. $20 million, and they think they’re part of high society? I didn’t even have time to tell him that my dad owns several buildings that rake in more than $20 million in rent every year, not to mention his companies. But it’s fine. Honestly, I was glad to get rid of someone like him. Better to cut ties early. No tears over love, only sleepless nights thinking about money! Julian glanced at me. “By the way, even though you paid for the $50 lottery ticket, I’m the one who bought it. So don’t expect a penny from me.” He’d always had this habit of buying lottery tickets, dreaming of getting rich overnight. But when it came time to pay, he’d always have an excuse—his phone was dead, or his payment wasn’t working. Right, because the bank really cares about a few bucks, right? “My mom doesn’t like you either,” Julian added. “She thinks you’re too tacky. Remember last time you met her? All you gave her were some cheap, no-name gifts. You embarrassed us.” I shot back, “God must’ve spilled wisdom all over the world, but your family held up an umbrella!” I still remember the first time I met his mom. I gave her a pure wool scarf designed by an Italian luxury designer, worth five figures, and a bottle of French court perfume. Now it’s apparently a ‘cheap, no-name gift’ to them. Like a catfish splashing water, suddenly thinking it’s seafood. He continued, “I won’t argue with you because I’m an elite. But since we’re breaking up, let’s settle things. Why don’t you sell back the gifts I gave you?” Typical Julian. Even winning the lottery doesn’t change his stinginess. “No need! I still have all the stuff you gave me! I’ll return every bit of it.” “Your $9.99 skincare set? I was too scared to use it, in case it ruined my skin! “That $19.99 shirt and tie set? I didn’t want to wear it in case I broke out in hives! “And that $10 box of bread? I was worried it’d make me sick, and even the medical bills wouldn’t cover it!” The crowd around us burst into laughter. Julian’s face turned red as he snapped back, “Don’t just bring that up! What about all the money I gave you? Didn’t I send you cash on holidays?” “Sure did.” I nodded, pulling out my phone to check the records. Valentine’s Day: $5.20, Fourth of July: $6.60, Christmas: $8.80… “You’re so thoughtful. So generous!” I laughed. Even my cousin in elementary school gives me more than that. I used to think he was so sweet and attentive that I didn’t care about the little things. But now? Looking back, I must’ve had water on the brain. Enough to fill the entire Lake Michigan! Julian puffed out his chest. “That was the past! Things are different now. I’ve won $20 million! I can buy whatever I want, and you no longer deserve to be with me!” I nodded. “Alright then. In that case, why don’t you return the gifts I gave you?” Julian laughed. “The stuff you gave me? It’s all knockoffs, isn’t it? How much could it be worth?” Julian grew up poor. His dad passed away early, and he and his mom depended on each other. To protect his fragile ego, I always cut the tags off the gifts I gave him, and they didn’t have any flashy logos. “That belt you’re wearing? Gucci, limited edition. $10,000. “Those shoes? C-brand, $15,000. “That jacket? Also C-brand, $30,000.” I listed them off, one by one. Julian’s face fell. “You think I’m an idiot? You couldn’t afford the real thing. You must’ve just bought some knockoffs to fool me!” Right, because he couldn’t tell real from fake. I pulled out my phone. “Here’s the purJulian history and receipts. If you don’t believe me, go check with the store.” “And the scarf and perfume I gave your mom? They weren’t any cheaper than the stuff I gave you. But I’ll let that go. Just give me $100,000 for everything else I’ve gifted you.” In reality, I’d spent over $200,000 on him over the years. But if he gave me $200,000, his mom would probably make my life a nightmare. Julian gritted his teeth. “Who knows if what you gave me was real or fake? Let’s call it $50,000. I’ll give you $10,000 now and the rest once I cash in the lottery.” Fine by me. Even though it’s a drop in the bucket compared to my bank balance, who says no to more money? 2 After receiving the $10,000 in my account, I stood up and said to Julian, “Thanks, Julian. That’s the first time you’ve been so generous!” He looked pained but still spat back, “Good. Don’t ever come looking for me again, loser! “And don’t ever try to contact me. I’m afraid your bad luck will mess up my fortune.” I nodded vigorously, making sure he saw me agree. After Julian left, I told my driver to bring my Bentley around from the garage. I’m done pretending. That night, Julian posted on Instagram. There were two photos: one of the lottery ticket, and another of him taking a selfie at the Maserati dealership. The caption read: “Just focus on two things: working hard and loving yourself. Luck will follow you if you smile enough. ��” I almost gagged on my dinner. As I was about to delete him, something about that lottery ticket caught my eye. The numbers weren’t fully shown, but the draw number was clear: 38

But… the winning numbers for draw 381 didn’t match those! I quickly looked up the results online and realized Julian had mistaken the previous draw’s numbers as the winning ones for his ticket. He probably watched a replay or looked at the wrong draw number, thinking he’d won $20 million! This was about to get interesting. I couldn’t wait to see his face when he learned the truth. 3 Midway through work, I was sneaking a break when I overheard Brianna Moore, the office gold digger, bragging to a coworker. “My boyfriend just moved into Ridgewood Heights.” I froze. What a coincidence. My dad had bought me a place there too, though I rarely stayed. Since Julian worked nearby, I’d given him a key to use the place when he worked late. I told him it was rented. He moved in without a second thought, never considering the rent probably cost more than his monthly salary. I was just thinking about taking back the keys when Brianna said, “He calls me his lucky girl. Ever since we got together, he won $20 million!” Everyone around her gasped with envy. Wait. Ridgewood Heights? $20 million? Could it really be…? I hesitantly asked, “Does your boyfriend happen to be named Julian?” Brianna shot me a wary look. “You know him? Don’t even think about trying to steal him just because he’s rich. He’s way out of your league!” Of course, it was him! Julian had been seeing Brianna while we were still together? Did he really think Brianna was upper-class material? If my dad knew about this, he’d die laughing. Brianna always flaunted fake designer bags, rotating them every day of the week. In Julian’s eyes, someone who couldn’t even tell real from fake, Brianna must’ve looked like a wealthy princess. Talk about a match made in heaven! Two gold diggers, perfect for each other! Best wishes. Please stay together forever. That night, Brianna posted on Instagram, a photo of her and Julian with the caption: “No more waiting. The one I’ve been waiting for is here.” Five minutes later, Julian posted their picture too, with the cringy caption: “Us.” 4 The manager of my favorite luxury store texted me, saying they’d just gotten new stock and invited me to check it out. Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to swing by. As soon as I walked in, there they were: Julian and Brianna. There was only one sales associate in the store. She glanced at me and completely ignored me, continuing to smile and serve them. Brianna was wearing a logo-plastered outfit, even though it was so last season. Meanwhile, I was in a simple t-shirt and carrying a canvas bag. No wonder the saleswoman thought I wasn’t worth her time. Brianna noticed me too. “What kind of people are they letting in this store?” Julian added, “Keira Westbrook, what are you doing here? You can’t afford anything in this store.” I smiled. “Oh? Did your family open this store? I didn’t know I needed permission to look around.” The saleswoman clearly picked up on the tension and sided with them. “I’m sorry, miss, but the lowest-priced item in our store is $30,000. If you can’t afford it, you really shouldn’t waste your time.” I couldn’t help but laugh inside. She had no idea who she was backing. After showing Brianna several bags, I overheard her say to Julian, “Baby, I want this one, and the second one in that row too.” The sales associate beamed. “Oh, you have such good taste, miss! These are our bestsellers. You’ve got a great eye.” Brianna, pleased, slung the bag over her shoulder and admired herself in the mirror. Then she noticed me. “Keira Westbrook, aren’t you embarrassed carrying around that cheap canvas bag? Aren’t you supposed to have a job?” I was carrying a canvas bag because I planned to go grocery shopping later. Gotta think green, you know? Save the planet. I shot back, “What’s wrong with a canvas bag? Does your family live by the sea or something? Why are you so concerned?” Brianna, frustrated, rushed back to Julian. “This one, that one, and the other one—I want them all!” Julian, trying to sound generous, said, “Buy them all!” The saleswoman’s eyes sparkled with glee. I picked up a black handbag, wanting a closer look, when the saleswoman stormed over. “I’m sorry, miss, but this is our latest model. It costs $150,000 and is only available to our VVIP clients. Please don’t touch it—you might get it dirty.” Brianna laughed. “Keira, don’t get your filthy hands on that bag. You couldn’t afford it even if you sold yourself.” I was about to fire back when a sharp voice came from the entrance. 5 “Who said Keira can’t afford it?” The saleswoman panicked. “M-manager, you’re back!” Amanda, the store manager, walked in and immediately apologized to me.

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The night Adrian Donovan demanded to know why I didn’t bring him a birthday gift—while Sierra’s lipstick was still smudged on his mouth. Everyone expected me to swallow my pride and beg him not to replace me. But I knew I was done. Instead, I emptied my investments from his company, and packed for a new life he couldn’t reach. He thought I’d break. But he forgot one thing—when I finally leave, I never look back. At a company dinner, my fiancé’s junior assistant, Sierra Stone, shamelessly placed a carrot stick she’d already taken a bite from onto his plate, right in front of everyone. Without a second thought, Adrian Donovan picked it up and ate it. That same day, I told my parents I wanted to change my fiancé. They were surprised, but they respected my choice. After that, Adrian and I entered our usual silent treatment phase. He deleted and blocked me everywhere—my phone number, all my social media, even our game accounts. It was his go-to move every time we fought. He was confident I couldn’t bear to lose him, that I’d humble myself and try to win him back. But this time, I stared at that ‘add friend’ button and didn’t press it, not like all the times before. A week later, a notice popped up in the company group chat: “It’s Mr. Donovan’s birthday today! He’s treating, and everyone must attend. No exceptions.” I didn’t want to make a scene, so I went. As I entered the private room, I immediately saw Adrian at the head of the table, with Sierra seated right next to him. Sierra’s lips were pressed close to Adrian’s ear, as if sharing some secret. It was like they had an invisible bubble around them, a world no one else could enter. A moment later, they burst into laughter, so close they almost kissed. I couldn’t bear to watch anymore and found a quiet corner to sit in. Everyone started giving Adrian gifts, but I paid them no mind. I was quietly sipping my drink when suddenly, a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see Adrian’s overly handsome face, but his expression was the same familiar annoyance. “Clara Miller, why didn’t you get me a gift?” In the past, for a day as important as Adrian’s birthday, I would have started planning ages ago. One year, I spent over six months building a perfectly scaled replica of the flying house from his favorite movie, *Up*. The moment the balloons lifted it into the sky, he told me we’d grow old together, just like the characters in the film. I believed him then, never imagining his promise wouldn’t even last three years. Facing his persistent questions, I simply replied, “I forgot.” My attitude clearly infuriated Adrian. He completely lost his patience. “Clara Miller, have you made enough of a scene?” “Is this tiny thing really worth a week of drama?” I looked at the smudge of Sierra’s lipstick on his lips, and my stomach churned. “I’m not making a scene. And I’m serious about calling off the engagement.” Hearing that, Adrian’s expression stiffened for a second, but it quickly recovered when Sierra gently squeezed his hand. “Clara, please don’t misunderstand. I just didn’t want to waste food, that’s why I gave it to Adrian. If you hate me so much, then next time we have a dinner, I just won’t sit at the table. I’ll just wait and eat whatever scraps are left over.” Sierra’s words instantly tugged at Adrian’s heart. “Sierra, don’t talk like that! You deserve the best things in the world. Clara Miller is the one who shouldn’t be here. Who does she think she is? Does the world revolve around her tastes?” “Adrian, you really shouldn’t say things like that. Clara might be a bit dramatic, but she’s still your fiancée. You should try to make her happy. I really don’t want you two fighting because of me.” “Make her happy? Who does she think she is? If my parents hadn’t begged me to go through with this family arrangement, I’d never be with her. She gets upset over every little thing; it’s so annoying.” Sierra walked over to me, patted my back, and said in a heartfelt tone, “Clara, honestly, from a woman’s perspective, you really were a bit childish this time. Adrian hasn’t been able to sleep these past few nights because of you. While I also feel your personalities don’t quite match, you two are still engaged. You should both take a step back.” I slapped her hand away and sneered. “Sierra Stone, do you know what I admire most about you?” “It’s your blatant lies, and how you say such disgusting things while stealing someone else’s boyfriend without a shred of shame.” Sierra’s triumphant expression instantly froze. Adrian completely lost it. “Clara Miller, who gave you permission to slander Sierra like that?” “Slander? Then tell me, why does she have one of everything you buy for me? And why does she flaunt it in front of me at the office? Why does she intentionally spread rumors in the company break room every time we argue? And how does she know about that birthmark in such a private place?” “Enough!” Smack. Adrian slapped me across the face in front of everyone. My ears rang, and the world spun into a chaotic blur. Yet, my eyes clearly saw the pity, sympathy, mockery, and disgust on the faces of everyone in the room. 2. When my hearing finally cleared, I heard Adrian’s loud declaration: “From today on, feel free to like my and Sierra’s photos! If we hit a thousand likes, I’m dumping Clara Miller and marrying Sierra.” With that, he pulled Sierra and walked out without looking back. Before they left the room, Sierra gave me a smug, defiant look. After they left, people in the room started leaving one by one. Someone gloated, “She doesn’t even have the leverage to cause trouble, and now she’s gone too far, hasn’t she? Regrets now, doesn’t she?” Others kindly advised me, “Forget your pride; just swallow it and apologize. Otherwise, Mr. Donovan really will marry Sierra.” I knew this was Adrian’s way of forcing me to apologize. But this time, I refused to back down. Not even if it killed me. The once bustling room quickly emptied until only I remained. I picked up the remaining strong liquor and drained it. The fiery alcohol burned its way down my throat and into my stomach. It made my eyes sting. A connection spanning almost our entire lives, really ending, felt surprisingly hollow. An arranged marriage thousands of miles away in Veridia—he surely wouldn’t bother me there, right? But why were my cheeks wet again? I couldn’t tell. I went home and immediately started packing my things, ready to leave. Adrian and I grew up together; we spent more than half of our short lives side by side. The depth of our relationship meant I had too many things to sort through. This gold star sticker was the first reward Adrian received in kindergarten. He’d toddled over to me on his short legs and handed it to me. I vaguely remembered him saying then, “I want to give all the best things to my little Clara.” This photo was one he’d secretly taken of my flushed face the first time I got my period. I’d zoned out during biology class, so I thought I had a terminal illness. I ran to him, telling him to take good care of himself for the rest of his life, and that he could find a girlfriend, but she couldn’t be prettier than me. He listened, completely bewildered. After he pressed for details, he realized I’d just started my period. He rushed to the drugstore to buy me some pads and even searched online with me for how to use them. He laughed at me for not paying attention in class, and I flushed crimson, biting his arm hard. Later, he told me that bite hadn’t hurt at all, but it was the first time he’d felt something different for me. Eventually, we got together, but going to different colleges forced us into a long-distance relationship. Our memories became a stack of train tickets. For four whole years, 193,700 kilometers was the distance we traveled to be with each other. Back then, his eyes were only for me. No matter how long the journey, he never complained. My fingers brushed a small, hard box containing the matching rings we designed together. For him, I moved back to this city after college. The day I returned, he dragged me to get these rings custom-made. I still remember him slipping the ring onto my finger and saying, “Clara, with this ring, you’re stuck with me for life. You’ll never be able to leave me.” Neither of us ever imagined that, in the end, it wouldn’t be me who let go, but him. 3. The day Sierra came in for her company interview, she performed terribly. Adrian was openly dismissive of her. I didn’t pay much attention to this underqualified and underperforming candidate either. But for some reason, she was eventually hired anyway, against all odds. She even slowly transformed from an insignificant nobody into Adrian’s personal assistant. I only truly started to notice something was wrong when our matching rings, the ones only Adrian and I shared, appeared on Sierra’s hand. At first, when I confronted him, Adrian would patiently explain things and try to appease me. But over time, he just grew impatient. My repeated reluctance, tolerance, and efforts to please him only made his favoritism toward Sierra more blatant. At company dinners, he’d only order Sierra’s favorite dishes. Sierra only worked half a day a week; the rest of her time was spent playing around with Adrian. And all of Sierra’s actual assistant work? Adrian pushed it onto me. Adrian mentioned her more and more in front of me. At first, it was unconscious praise and admiration. Later, he’d compare me to her, complaining I wasn’t as understanding or considerate as she was. It came to a head during a company afternoon tea. Adrian said his coffee tasted good. Sierra said she wanted to try it, and without a word, Adrian handed his coffee to her. Sierra took a big sip from the straw Adrian had used, without him even bothering to change it. He even took the coffee back and continued to drink from it, right where her lipstick print was. In that moment, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, a raw, aching pain. From then on, his so-called ‘best girl friend’ Sierra crossed more and more lines. Afraid Adrian would get sunburned, she’d brazenly rub sunscreen all over his body. I’d make him packed lunches, and she’d make them too. She’d always eat my packed lunches, under the pretense that my cooking was just “too good” to resist, and then make Adrian eat hers. Even my birthday celebration, which Adrian had promised, was canceled because Sierra claimed she had a cold. But every time I expressed my unhappiness about these things, Adrian would impatiently say, “Clara Miller, your mind is just so dirty, everything looks dirty to you. Sierra and I are just friends; don’t taint it with your twisted mind.” But as time went on, he said it with less and less conviction, his voice wavering. The most disheartening moment was a major industry event. The organizers required attendees to bring a partner, but Adrian didn’t tell me at all. He just took Sierra. I only found out afterward, when several people repeatedly asked if Adrian and I had broken up. When I confronted him, Adrian was even angrier than I was. “I was just helping Sierra expand her network, and training talent for the company. Why are you so petty?” That time, we gave each other the silent treatment for a long time. So long that I truly thought we would part ways then. Until he sent me a text late one night: “Babe, my stomach hurts so much.” All my carefully constructed indifference crumbled in an instant. And so, the terrible cycle started all over again: I’d question him, he’d get angry, I’d apologize, he’d “forgive” me. I closed the ring box and tossed it into the trash. Deep in my drawer, there was still a letter of apology Adrian had written me when he was eighteen, because he’d forgotten to reply to one of my messages. He really cared about me back then. But now, he only cared about Sierra. I took out the apology letter, tore it into pieces, and threw it in the trash. After decades of memories were completely cleared out, the house felt much emptier. My heart felt empty along with it. The company group chat was still flooded with photos of Sierra celebrating Adrian’s birthday and making him laugh. Knowing Adrian’s blatant favoritism towards Sierra, colleagues eagerly chimed in with compliments. “Oh my god, Mr. Donovan and Sierra are so perfect together!” “You should find a girlfriend like Sierra, not a petty, moody one like Clara Miller.” “Clara Miller only gets by because of her family. Unlike our Sierra, who got to this position all on her own. There’s no comparison between the two.” Too disgusted to look anymore, I called my lawyer and instructed him to withdraw all my investments from Donovan Corp. 4. The next day, I went to the company to clear out my things. But in my private office, I saw Sierra, wearing a skimpy nightgown, with her feet propped up on my desk. Her things filled my office, and all of mine had been tossed outside the door. This was my private office, custom-built for me by Adrian. Everyone in the company knew it, and no one dared to step foot in this room. Sierra was openly trampling all over me, completely disrespecting my boundaries. Too fed up to argue with her, I called the police immediately. In the police station’s interview room, Sierra panicked. “I was just helping Adrian get some documents. Did you really have to call the police?” “That’s my private space. Did I give you permission to enter without asking?” “Taking something without permission? Isn’t that called theft?” Sierra didn’t retort after my words; she suddenly started crying. That’s when I sensed something was wrong. Sure enough, when I turned around, who else but Adrian, looking utterly furious, was standing right behind me. “Adrian!” The moment she saw Adrian, Sierra directly threw herself into his arms. “I really just wanted to help you get the documents, but Clara seems to dislike me. She insists I stole something. I have so many gifts from you, my huge mansion can barely fit them all. Why would I want her cheap, tacky things?” This small office was a “gift” from Adrian to me. It was his reciprocal gift for the small wooden cabin I built for him. We had so many sweet memories in this room. I always thought at least this sanctuary wouldn’t be defiled, that it was the last shred of dignity left for our love. But Adrian had to personally tear apart my last bit of illusion. Adrian comforted Sierra while explaining to the police officer, “This is all a misunderstanding. We all know each other. Sorry for the trouble.” Then he turned to me, his voice dripping with disgust. “Clara Miller, what have you become? You act like a lunatic all the time. Do you get some kind of sick satisfaction from using your power to hurt an innocent subordinate like Sierra? You’ve truly disappointed me.” His harsh words rained down on me, and before I could retort, Sierra started her act again. “Adrian, don’t blame Clara. It’s my fault for being so careless.” “At worst, I’ll spend a few days in jail. It’s fine if people laugh at me. Don’t let this cause trouble between you and Clara.” Adrian held Sierra’s hand, his face filled with concern. “Sierra, you’re just too kind-hearted, that’s why everyone takes advantage of you.” “Clara Miller, I’m telling you, this isn’t going to blow over easily. You need to apologize to Sierra right now.” “Adrian Donovan, she entered my private space without my permission. You’re telling me to apologize to her? Do you still think she’s the victim?” As soon as I spoke, Sierra started whimpering again, sniffling pathetically. Adrian scoffed. “Your private space? That office belongs to Donovan Corp. Don’t forget, the entire Donovan Corp. is under my name. You only ever had temporary permission to use that office. If you maintain this attitude, I won’t hesitate to have you arrested for making a false report.” With that, he pulled Sierra away to settle the matter. His words pierced my heart like a sharp spike. My heart, which I thought had long gone numb, began to ache faintly again. For so many years, I poured all my efforts into supporting Donovan Corp. I thought I was fighting for our shared future. It turned out, all I got in return was: “You only ever had temporary usage rights.” Before Adrian left the interview room with Sierra, he gave me a warning. “Just a friendly heads-up: the likes have already reached 990. If you keep this attitude, I really am going to marry Sierra.” I looked at Sierra’s contemptuous gaze behind him, and suddenly realized how pathetic I was. Sierra’s tricks were always clumsy; a smart man like Adrian couldn’t possibly have missed them. He simply chose to ignore them. The scales of his affection had long since tipped. All of this was just a pathetic way to get rid of a fool like me, and I was still foolishly trying to make up with him again and again. After figuring that out, the last bit of love I had for Adrian completely died. In the days leading up to my move to Veridia, annoying colleagues kept messaging me privately, giving me updates on the like count. “The likes are at 994! If you don’t humble yourself, your man’s going to be snatched away!” “Tsk, tsk, tsk, 997 likes already. Looks like you’re destined to be an old maid.” “Oh, you’re holding out for a long time this time, huh? Could it be you think you’re not as good as Sierra, so you wet your pants and ran away? Hahahaha.” I blocked and deleted all of them, ignoring them entirely. When the likes reached 999, and I still hadn’t caved, the tension around Adrian was so thick you could cut it with a knife. No one else in the company dared to press that final ‘like’ button. Just as Adrian was considering how to issue another warning, Suddenly, someone burst into Adrian’s office, shouting, “Mr. Donovan, the 1000th like has been reached!” 5. Hearing that, Adrian’s face instantly darkened. He demanded angrily, “Who pressed the 1000th like?” The person looked stunned and explained fearfully,

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**Aurora Vance pov** It took me five years of marriage to discover that my husband, Aldrich Thorne, had not only divorced me three years ago, but had also married Celeste Knight, the woman who shattered my right hand all those years ago. And I knew nothing about it. An hour earlier, it had rained all night in New York. When I pushed open the study door, I was just looking for a design contract from three years ago. It was the last piece of work I drew for him with my ruined hand. Aldrich’s study was strictly off-limits to me, filled with the cold scent of cedar he always used. I expertly opened the safe hidden behind a large oil painting. The code was my birthday. He once kissed my earlobe and told me those numbers were the only light in his murky world. But inside that safe, I found the secret of his marriage to another woman. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. Aldrich had just sent me a text: [Love!] I stared at the word, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. I decided to go see her. To see how that woman was really living. But first, I needed to reset everything. I carefully placed that glaring marriage certificate and my own divorce certificate back into their dark green velvet box. After closing the lid, I returned the box to its original corner in the safe. I closed the safe door, listening for the soft click. Finally, I activated the switch, letting the massive oil painting slowly slide back into place, concealing everything. As if nothing had ever happened. The woman on that marriage certificate was Celeste Knight. Five years ago, it was this woman who, out of jealousy for my design talent, intentionally drove into me, ruining my right hand. After the accident, Aldrich flew back overnight from overseas. He burst into my hospital room and, seeing my heavily bandaged hand, was furious. He bankrupted Celeste’s family overnight. He sent Celeste to a secluded estate in the hills, holding me, promising word for word: “Aurora Vance, I will have her confined to that prison until death, to atone for what she did to you.” He said this while he had already been Celeste Knight’s legal husband for two years. So, the so-called confinement was just a form of protection. And the supposed atonement was just a show staged for me. The date on the divorce certificate felt like a cruel joke. Three years ago, June seventh. That was our two-year wedding anniversary. That night, he booked out the entire Disney park, putting on a night of fireworks just for me. He said: “Aurora Vance, we’ll have a lifetime of anniversaries.” Aldrich Thorne, you are truly heartless. **Aurora Vance pov** Thorne Manor. A high-walled, electrified compound. More of a luxurious prison than a mental health facility. I didn’t enter through the main gate. Aldrich had brought me here once, pointing at the house and saying this was the consequence of hurting me. He even showed me a secret passage only he knew. Looking back, it was all just a convenient way for him to sneak around. I snuck through the secret passage into the backyard, using the foliage as cover to approach the main house. The living room’s floor-to-ceiling windows weren’t fully closed. Voices and some strange sounds drifted out. I held my breath, pushing aside the branches. One glance was all it took to stun me. Inside the living room, Celeste Knight was kneeling prostrate on the carpet, clad in a sheer white silk dress. And Aldrich Thorne, the man who was normally so aloof, so restrained, almost a clean freak to a fault, was holding a thin leather whip and lashing it across her back. It wasn’t a punishment; it was more like a sick game. Celeste’s sobs mingled with soft moans. “Darling, I was wrong…” “Wrong about what?” Aldrich’s voice was low and hoarse. “I shouldn’t… shouldn’t have made you wait three years to say ‘I do’…” Aldrich chuckled, then leaned down and pinched her chin. His voice wasn’t loud, but every word carried clearly into my ears. “Now you realize you were wrong? If you hadn’t helped me plan that accident, crippled her hand, and stopped her from going to Milan, why would I have married you as compensation?” What! So my proud talent was the very thing he sought to destroy. He didn’t love me. He wanted to clip my wings, to keep me captive by his side forever. I heard Celeste’s coquettish laugh. “So, what gift did you get for our three-year anniversary?” Aldrich took a velvet box from his pocket and opened it. Inside was a necklace made of countless tiny blue diamonds, sparkling under the lights like a radiant galaxy. “Fitting for my Celeste.” He fastened it around her neck himself. Celeste caressed the necklace, then kissed the corner of his lips. “What about Aurora? Will she find out?” “She’ll never know.” Aldrich’s tone was assured and cold. “That fool. She’ll just think I love her to the bone.” My entire body went cold. I watched the intimate pair inside, feeling utterly suffocated. I quietly retreated step by step into the darkness, leaving that nauseating place. I thought, it’s time. Time to leave for good. **Aurora Vance pov** When I returned to the villa, dawn was breaking. I hadn’t slept all night. The nerves in my ruined right hand began to throb again, like ants gnawing at my bones. I swallowed two painkillers, opened my laptop, and contacted a special channel on the dark web. [Requesting identity annulment. Fastest turnaround for a new identity?] The reply came quickly. [Expedited track, seven business days.] I didn’t hesitate, paying the exorbitant fee and sending my details, along with a new photo no one had ever seen, via encrypted email. After all that, I opened another file. It was the application form for the Milan International Emerging Designer Competition. Since my right hand was ruined, I’d spent three full years. From barely holding a pen to drawing fluid lines with my left hand. God knows what I went through. The tearing agony of my nerves tormented me day and night. Every stroke felt like carving into bone with a knife tip. Aldrich once held me and said: “Aurora, stop drawing. Your hand will hurt. I’ll take care of you for the rest of your life.” At the time, I thought he was worried about me. Now I know, he was just afraid I’d get back on my feet, afraid I’d slip from his control. I gritted my teeth against the pain, filled out the application, and clicked send. Because I was going to reclaim everything that was mine. In the evening, the front door opened. Aldrich was back. The moment he stepped in, he saw the maid kneeling on shards of glass in the living room, her knees a bloody mess. His face instantly darkened. “Where is she?” “Sir, Madam hasn’t left her room all day, and her phone is unreachable.” The maid trembled with fear. Aldrich’s brows furrowed tighter. Just as he was about to erupt, I walked down the stairs. He quickly closed the distance, pulling me into his arms, his voice laced with the familiar tension and tenderness. “Why weren’t you answering? You scared me to death.” I looked at his face, my expression calm. “My phone was on silent. Didn’t hear it.” Aldrich didn’t seem to suspect anything. He waved the maid away, then led me to the backyard. In the garden, fireflies had appeared, their countless tiny lights forming a shimmering sea. In the distant night sky, spectacular fireworks burst repeatedly, spelling out: [Happy Five-Year Anniversary, Aurora]. “Do you like it?” He hugged me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, his hot breath ghosting against my neck. How comical. He actually thought I’d enjoy this deception. “Mmm.” Aldrich took a small, elegant box from his pocket. Inside was a pair of obsidian cufflinks, identical to the ones he wore today. “Your anniversary gift.” He picked up one, personally fastening it to the cuff of my shirt. Cufflinks again. Another listening device. Just how little did he trust me? Aldrich’s phone rang then. He glanced at the caller ID, his brow furrowing. It was Celeste. He was rushing to see his legal wife. In his haste, he actually confused the signal receiver, which he intended to keep, with the cufflink containing the listening chip, giving the receiver to me. “Keep the other one safe.” He kissed my forehead, then turned and quickly left. “Something urgent came up at the office. I’ll be back soon.” I spread open my palm, looking at the cufflink that was actually a receiver. Aldrich Thorne, even fate was helping me escape you. **Aurora Vance pov** After Aldrich left, I went back to my room and slipped the receiver cufflink onto my ear. After a faint crackle, Celeste’s sickeningly sweet voice came through clearly. “Darling, what took you so long? I’ve been waiting ages for you.” “Something came up on the way.” Aldrich’s voice held a hint of impatience, but it quickly softened. “Don’t be mad. I’m here now, aren’t I?” Then came the suggestive sounds of rustling clothes and kisses. I heard Aldrich take Celeste to another villa next door. A villa I had never once entered. He had carved out his affection so distinctly. One home, two mistresses. One, his legal wife, kept in the shadows. The other, his public persona as the devoted husband. And I was merely a prop for that persona. My phone vibrated again. Another text from Aldrich. [Sweetheart, an urgent international meeting came up. Might not be back tonight. Don’t wait up, get some sleep.] How laughable. Anyone who didn’t know would think I was the other woman, intruding on their relationship. I turned off my phone, no longer listening to the filthy sounds in the earpiece. I spread out my drawing paper, pouring all my energy into the design. My only comfort and hope at that moment was the pen in my hand. I don’t know how much time passed before voices came through the earpiece again. It was Celeste, her voice a whine. “Darling, I don’t want to stay in that awful place anymore. When will you give me a legitimate status? Let everyone know I’m the real Mrs. Thorne.” My pen hesitated. I heard Aldrich ponder for a moment, then promise in an utterly confident tone. “Soon, Celeste, just a little longer. I promise, I’ll give you a grand ceremony that everyone will envy.” I continued to outline the lines on the drawing. But my left hand trembled slightly from the prolonged effort. 5. **Aurora Vance pov** Three days later, under the pretense of a belated anniversary celebration, Aldrich Thorne hosted a grand banquet at one of New York’s most exclusive hotels. I wore the white gown he had personally chosen for me, holding his arm, accepting everyone’s blessings. Halfway through the banquet, Aldrich excused himself to greet an important guest, leaving my side. I soon spotted a familiar figure among a group of servers. Celeste Knight. She was dressed in a server’s uniform, her face adorned with light makeup, making her hard to recognize unless one looked closely. She still came. I followed her, watching Celeste carry a tray into a private lounge on the second floor. Moments later, Aldrich followed. Standing just outside the half-closed door, I clearly saw Aldrich press Celeste against the wall, kissing her fiercely, his hands already exploring beneath her uniform. “I didn’t ask you to come dressed like *that*.” Aldrich’s voice was rough with desire. “But I wanted to surprise you, darling.” Celeste giggled. “When will you tell her?” “Not yet.” I turned away, my face impassive, and returned to the ballroom. Not long after, Aldrich and Celeste emerged, one after the other. Celeste, carrying a tray of drinks, accidentally stumbled as she passed under the massive crystal chandelier in the center of the ballroom. The wine from her tray splashed all over an electrician who was checking the wiring. The electrician gasped, his tools clattering onto the control panel. A loud crackle, and sparks flew! Immediately after, the multi-ton crystal chandelier above us let out an ear-splitting shriek as the winch holding it gave way, and it began to plummet rapidly! Chaos erupted in the ballroom, screams tearing through the air. I was standing directly beneath the chandelier. The situation was critical. I instinctively looked up, watching the dark shadow plummet towards me, my mind blank. In that split second, Aldrich moved. I even remembered how, three years ago, when they were traveling abroad and encountered an earthquake, he had rushed to me without hesitation. He shielded me with his body, letting the debris smash against his back. He said then: “Aurora, don’t be scared. I’m here.” But now. He barely hesitated, shoving me away with brutal force! The impact sent me sprawling, throwing me completely off balance. He lunged towards Celeste on the other side, pulling the screaming, trembling woman into a tight embrace, turning his back to the falling death. I staggered from his push, crashing heavily to the ground. I looked up, watching in horror as the massive chandelier plummeted. I couldn’t fully get out of the way. A shower of shattered crystal, propelled by the massive impact, rained down and slashed into me! A searing pain erupted. Warm liquid trickled down my forehead, and blood blurred my vision. Before consciousness faded into darkness, I saw Aldrich holding Celeste, his face etched with fear and tenderness, murmuring soft reassurances. And I lay amidst the debris, unnoticed, by anyone. His primal instinct had clearly shifted to another. **Aurora Vance pov** The moment I opened my eyes, I saw Aldrich Thorne sitting by my bedside. He had faint shadows under his eyes, his expression haggard. Seeing me wake up, his eyes lit up with raw relief. “Aurora, you’re finally awake! How do you feel? Is anything uncomfortable?” He gripped my hand tightly, his voice trembling. I looked at him, saying nothing. Aldrich lowered his head, his voice filled with regret and self-reproach. “I’m so sorry, Aurora. It’s all my fault. Things were so chaotic then. It was a primal instinct, a reflex in the heat of the moment. I didn’t mean to push you away, please believe me.” A primal instinct? Yes, the instinct to protect the one he truly loved. “I just didn’t expect,” Aldrich continued, “I didn’t expect that even after pushing you, you’d still get hurt by the shards. If I had known, I…” He didn’t finish the sentence. But I understood. If he had known I’d also get hurt, would he have made a different choice? Or was he just regretting not pushing me further away? Over the next few days, Aldrich’s attentiveness was extreme. He personally fed me, bathed me, and stayed by my side constantly. As if trying to make up for all his past shortcomings. But every time he found an excuse to leave the room, his secret meetings with Celeste would come through my earpiece. “Darling, I was so scared. I thought I was going to die.” “Don’t be scared. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.” “What about Aurora… she didn’t suspect anything, did she?” “She’s fine, just a few scratches. That fool, she believes everything I feed her. Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of that awful place and move you into *our* home, out in the open.” I listened to it all, my expression calm. A week later, I was discharged from the hospital. Aldrich drove to pick me up. In the back seat, there was another person. Celeste Knight. She wore a white dress, her face pale, looking utterly vulnerable. “Aurora,” Aldrich said, his voice holding a subtle hint of tension, “Celeste… she’s been very traumatized by this accident. Her mental state is quite unstable. The doctor said she needs a familiar environment to recover.” He paused, avoiding my gaze. “I brought her here to care for you as a private therapist, as a way for her to atone, and help you with some counseling. You… you don’t mind, do you?” He brought his mistress home, cloaking it in such righteous excuses. Using my home to soothe his mistress’s emotions. Using atonement as a pretense for their secret meetings. I looked at him, then at Celeste, who flashed a mocking smile from the back seat. Suddenly, it all felt so meaningless. I pulled open the car door and got in. “Fine by me.” I accepted it all. Because I knew, this was just the last darkness before dawn. And I was about to embrace my new beginning. I wanted to see what other games this despicable duo would play.

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