For eight years, Kellan tore up the asphalt, clawing his way from dusty local go-kart tracks to the glittering podium of the Apex Rally Championship. He became the living embodiment of speed, adrenaline, and reckless glory. And for eight years, I sat in the background, eating microwave ramen so he could afford new tires. On the night his funding completely dried up—the night he stood on a rooftop, dangerously close to the edge, ready to end it all—I sold the little bungalow my grandmother had left me. I took every cent I had in the world and poured it into his dying racing team. Once, after his first major victory, I leaned against his car and half-joked, “So, when do I get to ride shotgun and see what this thing can really do?” He didn’t even look at me. He just peeled off his Nomex driving gloves and clinically dismantled my fantasy. “The passenger seat is for my co-driver and telemetry data,” he said, his voice flat. “It’s not an amusement park ride. If you get in, all you’d do is scream, distract me, and create a hazard. You’d be completely useless.” I nodded. After that day, I rarely even went to his races. Until today. While his team was out on their championship victory parade, I swung by the team headquarters to grab a sponsorship deck for him. While waiting for the files to transfer on his office computer, I accidentally clicked into the cloud backup of his car’s dashcam. I found a video that definitely wasn’t shot on a sanctioned track. It was the dead of night on a winding canyon road. Sitting in the passenger seat was a young woman, laughing with total, uninhibited abandon. Kellan was driving one-handed. The look in his eyes—a cocktail of wild indulgence and reckless thrill—was a look he had never, not once, given me. The girl reached over to mess with his gear shift. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t tell her she was a hazard. Instead, he caught her hand, his lips curving into a smirk. “Hold on tight,” he murmured. “Let me show you what it really feels like to fly.” I checked the metadata. The video was recorded on the exact same day I was in the hospital, undergoing a painful endoscopy. The day he told me he couldn’t come because of a “strict closed-door training session” at the base. I closed the media player. I neatly stacked the sponsorship contracts on the edge of his mahogany desk. I pulled out my phone and quietly exited every single team Slack channel and group text. When I got home that evening, I spent an hour mapping out a solo cross-country road trip. If his passenger seat didn’t belong to me, then I would simply step out of his vehicle entirely. I would drive my own car, on my own terms, and see the world for myself. … Morning sunlight sliced through the window blinds, casting fractured shadows across the dining table. I was already dressed in a crisp pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater, sitting quietly at the table, stirring a bowl of oatmeal. Kellan walked out of the bedroom, shirtless, rubbing a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He stopped, his brows knitting together as he stared at me. “Where are you going so early?” I didn’t answer. I just took a bite of my breakfast. “Don’t tell me you’re going out to mess around with your toxic friends again,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite me. His tone dripped with that familiar, paternal condescension. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Cleo is a bad influence. You need to cut her off before she ruins you.” From the moment we started dating, he had looked down on everyone in my life. If this were yesterday, I would have fought him tooth and nail to defend my best friend. The argument would have derailed our entire morning. But today, I just lifted my eyes, looked at him for a second, and said evenly, “Got it.” My reaction unsettled him. He stared at me for a long time, long enough for me to nearly finish my bowl. He shifted his posture, adopting a forced, casual drawl. “I’ve got the Continental Championship coming up in a couple of days.” I said nothing. Thinking I hadn’t heard him, he repeated it. This time, his voice carried an expectant, almost charitable edge—waiting for me to do what I had done a thousand times before. Waiting for me to drop whatever I was doing, rush over, and meticulously pack his helmet, his fireproof suit, his HANS device, and his stomach medication. Waiting for me to beg him to be safe out there. Instead, I swallowed my last bite of oatmeal and offered a flat, “Okay.” Nothing more. The air in the kitchen went rigid. He finally lost his patience. “Aren’t you going to pack my gear?” “I have to head out,” I said, carrying my bowl to the sink. “You can pack it yourself.” His face completely froze. Right at that moment, his phone buzzed. He picked it up without a second thought. From the receiver leaked a voice so sweet it practically dripped with syrup. “Hey, Kellan! I just wanted to let you know I’ve compiled all the pace notes and checklists for the Continental race and sent them over. You have to promise me you’ll be super, super safe out there, okay?” The harsh, impatient frost on Kellan’s face melted in an instant, replaced by a devastatingly gentle smile. “Yeah. Thanks for the hard work.” He hung up, caught my eye, and immediately offered an unprompted, overly casual explanation. “That’s our new team coordinator.” I dried my hands on a towel, turned my back to him, and walked to the entryway to put on my shoes. I couldn’t have cared less. My lack of interrogation seemed to make his skin crawl. He took a few quick strides and blocked my path to the door. “Why aren’t you asking me who she is?” he demanded. “Normally, if the team hires a new janitor, you interrogate me about it.” I looked up at him. “Haven’t you always told me I’m annoying when I do that?” The words choked him. His chest heaved as he scrambled to justify himself anyway. “She’s the new coordinator. Her name is Lexi. She handles logistics and…” He rambled on, listing her qualifications. When he finally ran out of breath, I just gave a lukewarm, “Mm.” That sent him over the edge. “What the hell is ‘mm’ supposed to mean?” I thought about the dashcam footage. I thought about the dark canyon road, and the way he looked at her—like he wanted to devour the world and hand it to her on a silver platter. I let out a soft, breathy laugh and finally looked him dead in the eye. “Kellan. Do you have any idea what today is?” He blinked. For a fraction of a second, blank confusion washed over his features. He had forgotten. Today was my twenty-eighth birthday. It was also the exact date, eight years ago, when he asked me to be his girlfriend. The day he swore to me that he was going to be the best driver in the world, and that after every championship win, his victory lap would belong to me. Now, his passenger seat was occupied, and my birthday was entirely erased from his memory. I was suddenly exhausted by the sight of his face. I pushed past him toward the door. “Be home early!” he barked from behind me, the guilt masking itself as frustration. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t say yes. … At the coffee shop, Cleo slammed her ceramic mug onto the table. “Trash! I always told you he was a piece of trash!” she hissed, her eyes blazing. But as she took in my hollow expression, her voice softened. “Are you… are you really sure? Eight years, Brynn. You’re just walking away?” I stirred my latte, watching the foam swirl. “Cleo, have you ever seen him smile?” She froze. In her mind, Kellan was the brooding, arrogant prodigy who constantly looked like the world owed him blood. He never gave anyone the time of day, and even with me—his actual girlfriend—he rarely bothered to show any warmth in public. “No,” she admitted. “He always looks like he’s chewing on glass.” “I saw it,” I said quietly. “He smiled at Lexi.” Cleo fell utterly silent. I put my spoon down and leaned back against the plush velvet booth. “So, there’s no point anymore. At least he didn’t waste my next eight years. This is where it ends.” Cleo didn’t say a word. She just looked at me, her beautiful almond eyes shimmering with an agonizing pity. I knew exactly what she was thinking. She was mourning the youth I had immolated to keep him warm, grieving the absolute devastation of my unconditional surrender. I forced a smile, trying to lift the suffocating weight in the air. “Hey, stop looking at me like that. You’re making me feel like some tragic, abandoned housewife. It’s my birthday. We’re not talking about him anymore.” I grabbed my purse and stood up. “Come on. I’m taking you to my favorite spot for lunch. It’s on me.” Cleo didn’t argue. She just stood up and nodded. Her compliance actually hurt worse. Cleo was a firecracker; on a normal day, she would have cursed Kellan’s name to the heavens, dragged me to a dive bar, and forced me to take tequila shots until I forgot my own name. But today, she just walked quietly beside me. The gentler she was, the more my throat burned with unshed tears. I linked my arm through hers, faking a bright, airy step as we headed toward the restaurant. Fate, however, has a notoriously cruel sense of humor. The moment we stepped into the foyer of the upscale seafood bistro, I saw them. Sitting at the best table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathed in the soft, golden afternoon light, were Kellan and Lexi. Soft jazz played overhead, scoring a scene that made my retinas burn. Kellan’s head was bowed in deep concentration. He was meticulously cracking open a king crab leg, using a small silver fork to pull the pristine white meat out in one perfect piece, and gently placing it onto the small porcelain plate in front of Lexi. Lexi was beaming, her eyes crinkling into crescents as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Seeing that her hair was in her way, Kellan didn’t even hesitate. He casually lifted his wrist, slid off a plain black hair tie, and handed it to her. In that singular moment, it felt like a cold, iron grip had clamped down on my heart. I couldn’t breathe. In our eight years together, I had begged him countless times to keep a spare hair tie on his wrist for me. Every single time, he had recoiled in disgust. “I’m a grown man. I’m not walking around with a scrunchie on my arm. It’s humiliating.” But now, for a girl he had known for less than three months, he was wearing one. Cleo’s temper ignited like gasoline. Her hands balled into fists, and she hissed venomously, “Those absolute pieces of shit.” She took a step toward their table, ready to detonate. I grabbed her arm. Hard. “Don’t.” “Why the hell not, Brynn?! I’m going to rip them apart!” I shook my head. My voice was dangerously quiet, but absolute. “There is no point. I am already gone. I refuse to waste one more drop of emotion on him.” Cleo stared at me, searching my face for any hesitation, before finally backing down. This restaurant used to be my favorite place in the city, but today, the food tasted like ash. I couldn’t control my eyes; they kept drifting to the window table. Every glance was a fresh, twisting knife in my ribs. Without warning, the tears spilled over, blurring my vision. Cleo noticed instantly. She slid out of her booth, moved over to my side, and wrapped her arms tightly around me, pressing my head to her shoulder. “It’s your birthday, B,” she whispered, stroking my hair. “Don’t cry. They aren’t worth your tears.” She meant well, but the words only broke the dam entirely. “You’re right. It’s my birthday,” I choked out, burying my face in her shoulder. “You remembered. We’ve been together for eight years, and he forgot.” I don’t know how long I sat there, crying into Cleo’s shoulder. It felt like I was weeping for every overlooked sacrifice, every cold dinner, every lonely night of the last decade. By the time I finally pulled myself together and wiped my face, the table by the window was empty. Only dirty plates and crumpled napkins remained, the aftermath of a terrible joke. I looked at Cleo, my chest heavy with guilt. “I’m so sorry. I promised to treat you to a nice lunch, and instead I forced you to sit here and watch me break down.” Cleo just reached out and pinched my cheek affectionately. “Birthday girl makes the rules. You get a free pass.” A fragile smile finally broke through. “What’s the plan for this afternoon?” she asked. “I’m going home. I need to pack.” She paused. “Do you want me to come with you?” I shook my head. Some bridges you have to burn by yourself. “Okay,” she said softly. “But if it gets too heavy, you call me. Instantly.” I nodded. … When I walked back into the house I had shared with Kellan for eight years, it was empty. Everything was sickeningly familiar. The leather sofa, the glass coffee table, the abstract art on the walls—every square inch was saturated with the ghost of us. But for the very first time, I felt like a trespasser. I walked into the living room and picked up a silver picture frame. It was a photo from our first year together. We were so young, our faces glowing with a naive, unbruised kind of happiness. I traced his sharp jawline through the cold glass. Then I traced my own bright, stupidly hopeful eyes. I let go. With a dull thud, the heavy frame landed at the bottom of the trash can. I didn’t pack a single designer bag, diamond necklace, or silk dress he had bought me with his prize money. I took my essential documents, my own clothes, and my toiletries. I was just zipping up my well-worn canvas suitcase when the front door clicked open. Kellan was back. He walked into the bedroom, bringing with him a faint, alien scent of something sticky and sweet—Lexi’s perfume. He stopped dead, his eyes locking onto the suitcase by my feet. A deep crease formed between his brows, and irritation bled into his voice. “Where are you going now?” “On a trip.” He let out a sharp, incredulous scoff, as if I had just told him a hilarious joke. “Let me guess. Cleo put you up to this? You are my girlfriend, Brynn, not hers! Running around with her all day acting like you don’t have responsibilities… it’s pathetic.” I stood up straight and looked at him. “You run around all day too, don’t you?” His face darkened. “I do it for my career! For my racing! Do you think we’re the same? All you do is play around!” Play around. The words were two red-hot spikes driven straight through my sternum. When I sat on the floor of a freezing garage eating cup noodles so he could eat hot meals, where was he? When his investors pulled out and he stood on a literal ledge, who wept while signing away the deed to her grandmother’s house—the only family legacy I had left—just to buy his failing team one more season? Now he was a champion, dripping in sponsorships, and my life was reduced to playing around. My hands shook with a rage so profound it robbed me of speech. Seeing my silence, he assumed he had won. He stepped forward, grabbed the handle of my suitcase, and yanked it out of my grip, slamming it onto the hardwood floor. “You’re not going anywhere!” he roared. He stepped into my space, reaching out to pull me into his chest—planning to kiss me into submission, to end the argument the way he always did, through sheer physical dominance. I twisted my body, stepped back, and shoved him away with both hands. He stumbled back a half-step, utterly shocked. His face hardened into a mask of pure indignation. I stared him down and said, clearly and coldly, “You reek of cheap perfume. It’s making me nauseous.” He froze. The color drained from his face. Slowly, the hands that had reached for me dropped to his sides. The fiery arrogance evaporated, replaced by a sudden, nervous silence. After a long pause, he softened his voice, adopting the tone of a weary parent indulging a petulant child. “Alright. Let’s stop fighting. Tomorrow, I’ll take you to the track. The guys have missed you. And… I can introduce you to the new team members.” I looked at him. “Fine.” He exhaled a massive sigh of relief, clearly convinced he had successfully extinguished the fire. He grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the master bathroom. The sound of the shower started running. I stood alone in the bedroom, staring at my overturned suitcase on the floor. … The next day, I went to the team’s compound. Kellan was in the garage, deep in a conversation with his head mechanic. The roar of a tuned engine was deafening. The midday sun was brutal, and sweat beaded on his forehead. Out of sheer muscle memory, I unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to him, then grabbed the microfiber towel from around my neck to wipe the smudges off his helmet visor. A chorus of wolf-whistles erupted from the crew. “Look who it is! Damn, Brynn, we thought you forgot about us!” “For real! Kellan hasn’t shut up about you, our ears are bleeding.” I didn’t smile. I didn’t say a word. I just handed him the clean helmet, my movements as mechanical as a robot running a script. Kellan put the helmet down, his expression unreadable, but the crew’s teasing only escalated. “Hey, B, you’re definitely coming to the Continental next week, right?” “Yeah, you guys are the golden couple! Gotta be there to kiss the champ!” The trap was sprung. I looked up at Kellan, waiting for his move. He cleared his throat and slung a heavy arm over my shoulders, his grip tight enough to feel like a warning. “Of course she’s going,” he announced to the room, his voice brokering no argument. “The Continental is going to be packed with media and high-tier sponsors. As my girlfriend of eight years, it’s time she made an official appearance. She needs to hold the fort down for me.” My stomach plummeted. So this was why he had compromised yesterday. This was why he swallowed his pride and brought me here. Not because the crew missed me. Not because he missed me. He was setting me up. He was using the peer pressure of his team and the weight of our eight-year history to force me into the VIP box. He needed me to play the role of the devoted, long-term partner in front of the cameras to solidify his brand’s “loyal family man” image. I didn’t nod. I didn’t shake my head. I just stood there, dead silent. The atmosphere in the garage shifted, growing incredibly awkward. Right on cue, Lexi strolled in. She was wearing a team polo that matched Kellan’s, her hair pulled back into a bouncy, high ponytail. She wore a perfectly calibrated expression of breathless apology. “Sorry, sorry, guys! I was up so late analyzing the telemetry data from the pace notes, I totally slept through my alarm.” The mechanics, eager to escape my heavy silence, immediately swarmed her. “You’re a lifesaver, Lexi! Seriously, you understand the data, you read the notes, and you can handle riding shotgun on the test runs. You’re insane.” “For real. Finally, a partner who actually keeps up with Kellan.” Those casual, offhand remarks slid under my skin like splinters. Kellan didn’t shut them down. He didn’t offer a single word of defense for me. He just cast a lazy glance at his crew and said, “Alright, settle down. Don’t take the jokes too far.” It didn’t sound like a reprimand. It sounded like permission. At lunch, we ate in the team cafeteria. Lexi carried her plastic tray over and slid into the empty seat on Kellan’s other side, completing the triangle. She poked at a salad, then casually, almost innocently, dropped a bomb. “Hey Kellan, that canyon night-run last week seriously terrified me. When we took that hairpin turn, I swore the car was going to launch off the cliff. I was so scared I grabbed your hand. You aren’t mad about that, are you?” The cafeteria went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop. Every single pair of eyes in the room ping-ponged between me, Kellan, and Lexi. Kellan didn’t even shoot a panicked glance my way. He just frowned at Lexi and said, “You’re new. You just have to get used to the speed. Next time, hold the grab handle.” Only then did he turn to me. His eyes held a flicker of annoyance. “It was just work. Don’t start making up scenarios in your head.” I looked down at my tray and set my chopsticks down. I reached into my tote bag, pulled out the manila envelope containing the sponsorship contracts I had retrieved yesterday, and slid it across the table to him. “You forgot this yesterday.” Kellan’s eyes widened. A flash of genuine shock crossed his face—he hadn’t expected me to actually do the errand after everything that happened. He opened the envelope, verified the signatures, and the hard lines of his face noticeably softened. “Look, if you still care enough about the team to do this,” he muttered, lowering his voice into a sharp, commanding whisper, “then stop acting like I’m holding a gun to your head.” He tossed the envelope onto the table. “You are coming to the Continental. Non-negotiable.” … I went. The atmosphere at the Continental Championship was electric. The air was thick with the scorching scent of high-octane fuel and burning rubber. Kellan, the heavy favorite to win, was swarmed by a barricade of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. But when it was time for the official press photos, he pulled Lexi to his side. I was shuffled backward, corralled by security to the very outer edges of the media scrum. I looked like a nameless assistant who had wandered into the frame. A broadcaster thrust a microphone into Kellan’s face, flashing a million-dollar smile. “Kellan! Every legendary driver relies on an incredible co-pilot to keep them grounded. Who’s yours?” Lexi looked up at him, her cheeks flushed with a perfect, bashful anticipation. Kellan didn’t miss a beat. “Lexi, of course.” The camera panned, and for a split second, I was caught in the background of the live feed—standing entirely alone, my face completely blank, an obsolete piece of furniture. During the pre-race interviews, Lexi played the camera like a fiddle. “Kellan’s biggest pet peeve is people who drag him down,” she chirped. “I’m just working as hard as I can to keep up with his speed, so I can prove I deserve to sit in his passenger seat.” A few of the crew members standing nearby nodded vigorously. “Yeah, Lexi is a beast. Not like Brynn. Brynn doesn’t know the first thing about cars.” “Hey, it’s normal for a WAG not to get it. Honestly, her staying out of the garage and out of our way is the biggest help she could give us.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532336”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My mother was the textbook definition of a hopelessly romantic heiress in a high-society melodrama. She was systematically ruined by my gold-digging, toxic excuse of a father, suffering seven consecutive miscarriages, all while genuinely believing her own body was simply too weak. As for me? I was the ultimate unlucky soul who failed to be born seven times in a row. By my eighth attempt at reincarnation, even the Lord of the Underworld lost his patience. He had the Keeper of Souls personally escort me to the mortal realm to ensure my safe arrival. And right before we left, they gifted my mother a maxed-out, supernatural ability to understand “baby talk”—the power to hear my silent infant thoughts. I thought this time, I’d finally get to kick back, relax, and live the pampered life of a princess in a trillion-dollar family dynasty. But the exact second I was born, I opened my eyes to see my toxic father, Laurence, cradling a strange baby boy. He walked right up to my mother’s hospital bed. “Sweetheart, you worked so hard,” he crooned. “Look at our son. The future heir to the Caldwell empire.” Meanwhile, I was stuffed into a hazardous medical waste bin, about to be wheeled away and incinerated. Desperate, I began screaming at the top of my lungs inside my dark, plastic prison: [You hopelessly romantic fool of a mother! That baby belongs to his secret first love, the girl of his dreams! Your real daughter is right here! Help me, Mom!] My mother, who had been gazing at him with teary, infatuated eyes, suddenly froze. … “Victoria, what’s wrong?” Laurence’s voice dripped with practiced worry. “Are you too exhausted?” My mother, Victoria Caldwell, stared at him with eyes wide with shock and confusion. Laurence cradled the boy, carefully leaning closer to the bed. “Look at his eyes, his nose. He looks just like you.” I kicked my tiny, fragile legs inside the sealed bin, which smelled suffocatingly of bleach and blood. But as a newborn, my muscles were like mush, and my frantic struggles only translated to the faintest rustle. [Mom! Don’t look at him! Look at the red waste container! I’m in here!] My mother’s face went entirely bloodless. She could actually hear me! The supernatural gift from the Keeper of Souls worked. My mother’s body shuddered violently. [Mom, that boy isn’t yours! He belongs to Sasha, his first love! If you check behind his left ear, he’s got the crescent-moon birthmark that runs in her family!] My mother’s gaze snapped to the boy. Seeing her stare at the child, the warmth in Laurence’s eyes deepened. He leaned down, gently stroking the infant’s cheek. “Victoria, you always wanted our own flesh and blood. Now that we have a son, my place in the Caldwell family is finally secure.” My mother’s fingers trembled as she parted the baby’s fine hair behind his left ear. There it was. A crescent-moon birthmark. During her first pregnancy, Sasha Mercer had visited their villa as Laurence’s “old friend.” She had accidentally exposed the exact same mark. At the time, Victoria had smiled and said, “What a unique birthmark, Sasha.” Sasha had blushed, replying, “It’s a family trait. All of us Mercers have it.” Now, that very trait was stamped on this supposed “Caldwell heir.” My mother’s breathing fractured. [Yes! See? Now do you believe I’m your real daughter? The nurse is about to throw me out like medical trash! Help!] I twisted my body inside the bin with everything I had. But because I had been deprived of oxygen from the moment of my birth, I couldn’t even muster a cry. Only a faint, pathetic whimper escaped my throat. She turned her head with sudden, terrifying speed. “Stop right there!” my mother commanded, her voice slicing through the room. The head nurse, who was slipping toward the exit, flinched. The biohazard container in her hands wobbled. “Mrs… Mrs. Croft, is there something you need?” A flicker of panic crossed Laurence’s face. He stepped forward quickly, pressing a firm hand onto my mother’s shoulder. “Darling, why are you so agitated? You just gave birth. You’re weak. You shouldn’t be moving.” My mother slowly pulled her hand back, her gaze turning freezing cold. “What is in that container?” Laurence shot a subtle, warning glance at the nurse. “Just the placenta and surgical waste. It’s dirty, blood-stained, and crawling with bacteria. We don’t want you or our son getting infected. Wheel it out for biohazard disposal, now.” “Yes, sir. Right away…” The head nurse turned to bolt. [Don’t let her leave! Mom, I’m suffocating! There are no air holes in here! If you don’t stop her, you’re going to lose me again! He’s swapping us so he can use this fake heir to steal the Caldwell inheritance!] I slammed my tiny fists against the plastic walls. But my strength was negligible, producing nothing more than a faint, dry scraping sound. My mother violently threw back her blankets, struggling to swing her legs over the edge of the bed. “I told you to stop! Are you deaf?” The head nurse froze. Laurence’s expression finally darkened. “Victoria, stop this nonsense. The delivery room has strict sterile protocols. Why on earth do you want to look at medical waste?” My mother gripped the bedrail, tears welling in her eyes. Yet, for the first time in ten years, she did not soften under his gaze. “I am the Executive Director of Caldwell Holdings. In this hospital—which is entirely owned by my family—my rules are the only rules!” The gentle facade on Laurence’s face began to peel away. “Are you throwing your family’s power in my face again?” He had used that line countless times before. Every single time, my mother would panic, immediately coddling him, terrified of wounding his fragile, working-class ego. But this time, she merely said flatly, “I just want to look.” Laurence stared at her, utterly baffled by how his usually submissive, doting wife had suddenly become so unyielding. After a heavy silence, he sighed. “Fine. If you are truly that paranoid, let Lydia check.” Lydia was my mother’s most trusted personal assistant. Laurence gestured to the quiet, unassuming woman standing by the bedside. “Go on. Inspect it.” Lydia looked up, her eyes darting away for a split second. The lid of the container was pried open just a crack, letting a thin sliver of light pierce the darkness. I forced my eyes open, trying to draw enough air to scream. If I could make even the slightest sound, my mother would hear me. I would be saved. But the severe lack of oxygen left my limbs heavy and useless. I couldn’t even open my mouth. Lydia blocked the container with her body, shielding it from my mother’s line of sight. She reached in, her hand brushing against my blood-slicked skin. “Mrs. Croft.” Lydia closed the lid without a single flicker of emotion. She turned back to the bed. “I checked. It’s just medical waste and bloody fluids. It’s filthy. There’s nothing unusual. Please, preserve your health and don’t look.” My heart plummeted into a bottomless abyss. The moment her hand had reached into the bin, I had seen it—a distinct, crimson mole on her left wrist. I had seen that mole seven times in my previous seven lives. Before my mother lost each of those pregnancies, it was always that hand with the red mole that handed her herbal tonic, adjusted the bedside humidifier, or steadied her arm on the freshly waxed stairs. It was her. I wanted to scream until my lungs burst. [Mom! Don’t trust her! Lydia was bought off by Laurence a long time ago! Look at her left wrist—there’s a red mole! She was the one behind your previous seven miscarriages!] I poured every ounce of my fading consciousness into that silent scream. My mother stared at Lydia, her voice trembling. “Lydia… did you look closely? Are you absolutely sure?” Lydia squeezed out a perfectly timed tear. “Mrs. Croft, I’ve been with you since I graduated college. My loyalty is entirely yours. How could I ever lie to you? It’s just waste. Mr. Croft is only trying to protect you from seeing something so grotesque.” Laurence chimed in, his tone carrying a wounded, weary sigh. “Victoria, do you not even trust Lydia now?” My mother’s eyes flickered with doubt. I knew how hard this was for her to believe. Over the years, under the guise of wanting an independent life, Laurence had coaxed her into moving out of the Caldwell estate, gradually estranging her from her doting father and her eight adoptive brothers. Lydia was the only confidante she had left. I had to push harder. [Mom! Wake up! During your third pregnancy, she ‘guided’ you to the yoga studio and spilled the slick oil that made you fall! During your fifth, she swapped your calming incense! During your seventh, she laced your imported prenatal vitamins with banned substances!] My mother’s gaze snapped to Lydia. Her lips trembled violently, unable to form a coherent sentence. Seven miscarriages. Seven agonizing, blood-soaked procedures. Each time, she had wept in the dark, blaming her own weak womb, apologizing to Laurence while he held her and whispered that having her was enough. It had all been a lie. “Victoria, what’s wrong? Are you in pain?” Sensing her shift in expression, Laurence stepped forward to restrain her. “Bring that container to me! I want to see it myself!” my mother rasped, struggling to rise. Yet, not a single medical professional in the room moved. This hospital bore the Caldwell name, but over the years, Laurence had systematically replaced the executive staff with his own people. Laurence forced her back onto the pillows with a heavy, unyielding grip. “Victoria Croft! Enough is enough!” His voice sharpened into a harsh, lecturing reprimand. “You just delivered the Caldwell family’s heir. Instead of resting, you are obsessing over biohazards! What is wrong with you?” Lydia joined in, sobbing. “Mrs. Croft, please listen to Mr. Croft! He has worked himself to the bone for you. You are breaking his heart!” The surrounding doctors and nurses chimed in like a rehearsed choir. “Mrs. Croft, postpartum trauma can trigger severe psychological distress.” “Please, prioritize your health. Do not look.” One heavy layer of guilt-tripping after another. Looking at this united front of conspirators, my mother shook with rage, a metallic taste of blood rising in her throat. Meanwhile, my breathing grew shallower by the second. [Mom… save me… I can’t breathe… it’s so cold…] “Get off me!” Hearing my fading voice, a fierce, primal maternal instinct erupted within her. She shoved Laurence back with enough force to send him stumbling. Barefoot, her hospital gown stained with blood, she lunged toward the container. “Give it to me!” Laurence’s face turned livid, a murderous glint flashing in his eyes. “Mrs. Croft is suffering from postpartum psychosis and having severe delusions! What are you all standing around for? Restrain her!” The VIP delivery room descended into absolute chaos. Lydia rushed forward to block her, only for my mother to strike her across the face with a resounding slap. The head nurse clutched the biohazard container, backing away toward the door. Suddenly, I felt the container shake violently. A pair of rough, rubber-gloved hands reached inside in the confusion, squeezing me tight, dragging me out of the plastic bin, and stuffing me into the deep, sweaty inner pocket of a bulky hazmat suit. My head spun from the impact. [Mom! I’m not in the container anymore! She’s hiding me inside her suit! She’s squeezing me!] My mother threw open the lid of the bin. But when she looked inside, there was nothing but a few blood-soaked medical sponges. It was completely empty. My mother froze, utterly bewildered. Laurence adjusted the lapels of his tailored suit, his face contorting into an expression of deep, wounded disappointment. “Do you see now, Victoria? What is in there besides medical gauze?” “Your wild accusations have not only endangered your recovery but shattered my heart. I’m having the chief of psychiatry come in to evaluate you immediately.” His talent for turning the tables was flawless. My mother stared at the empty bin, tears spilling down her cheeks. For a terrifying second, she began to wonder if her desperate longing for a child had finally driven her to hallucinate. No! She couldn’t give up now! Using the absolute last of my strength, I sent one final, desperate cry through our bond: [Mom… I’m not dead… I’m still in this room… I really don’t… have any strength left…] My mother’s head snapped up. The despair in her eyes hardened into a freezing, razor-sharp resolve. “Search this room. Call security. Search every inch!” The medical staff stood frozen, exchanging glances, waiting for Laurence’s command. Laurence cast a dark, threatening look at the head nurse, who shrank back. “Nobody moves!” Laurence barked. “Mrs. Croft is highly unstable and experiencing a psychotic break! Prepare a sedative. Hold her down and administer it immediately!” He was going to force her into silence. Two burly nurses approached her, holding a thick syringe. “We’re sorry, Mrs. Croft. This is for your own good.” My mother fought like a cornered animal, seizing ceramic mugs and metal trays, hurling them at anyone who came near. “Get away! Touch me and see what happens! I am the heir to the Caldwell empire!” But the nurses kept advancing. Laurence, losing all patience, lunged forward and pinned her shoulders down. “Stop resisting! Inject her!” Just as the cold steel of the needle hovered centimeters from her skin— With a deafening crash, the heavy double doors of the delivery room were kicked completely off their hinges. “I dare any of you to lay a single finger on my sister.” The room fell into a suffocating silence as the sheer gravity of his presence took over. Charles Caldwell strode in, bringing the chill of the winter night with him. Behind him marched two rows of heavily armed, black-suited Caldwell security operatives. His sharp, hawk-like eyes swept over the wreckage of the room, finally resting on the bruised, red grip-marks on my mother’s wrists. My eldest uncle’s expression turned instantly lethal. “Laurence Croft. Is this how you care for my sister?” The malice in Laurence’s eyes vanished in an instant, replaced by his usual gentle, submissive demeanor. “Charles, you’ve misunderstood. Victoria just gave birth, and her postpartum depression has triggered severe hallucinations. We were only trying to calm her down.” “I am not hallucinating!” My mother violently wrenched herself from Laurence’s grip, stumbling toward Charles and clutching his bespoke lapels. “Charles, that baby boy isn’t mine! They swapped my baby!” “She’s still in this room! I can hear her begging me to save her!” Charles’s eyes narrowed. Laurence let out a weary, practiced sigh. “Charles, you know the trauma Victoria carries from her seven miscarriages. Now that she finally has a son, she’s paranoid. If you don’t believe me, we can run a DNA test right now.” Charles glanced at the baby boy cradled in the nurse’s arms, sleeping peacefully. Tears streamed down my mother’s face. “The boy has Sasha Mercer’s family birthmark behind his ear! Charles, look!” Charles strode over and parted the infant’s hair. A moment later, his expression hardened. But Laurence was prepared, stepping in smoothly. “It’s just a common birthmark!” “Are you going to accuse me of infidelity and swapping heirs based on a speck of pigmentation, Charles? I respect you as Victoria’s brother, but at the end of the day, you aren’t even a blood Caldwell.” It was an open secret in high society: the patriarch of the Caldwell family had adopted eight orphaned boys. None of them carried the Caldwell bloodline. Charles did not immediately reply. My mother gripped his arm, her nails digging deep into his sleeve. “No! Charles, she is in here! I can hear her!” “Search the room! Just search it once!” Looking down at his sister’s pale, desperate face, Charles raised a single hand. “Search.” This time, no one dared to protest. The elite Caldwell guards immediately sealed the room. They tore apart the cabinets, checked under the bed, dismantled the ceiling vents, and searched the private bathroom. They left no stone unturned. They even overturned the medical waste bin again. I heard the heavy thud of combat boots pass by me once, then twice. They were so close I wanted to cry. But I didn’t know where I was, trapped in the dark. [Uncle! I’m right here!] But no one could hear me except my mother. As the guards shook their heads in defeat, the last spark of hope in my mother’s eyes began to die. Laurence knelt before her, his voice dripping with gentle condescension. “Are you satisfied, Victoria?” “Even Charles’s men found nothing.” “There is no stolen daughter. This boy is our son.” Charles remained silent. He gently patted my mother’s shoulder, his voice softening. “Victoria, you are exhausted. Perhaps the stress has gotten to you. Let’s get you some rest.” When even her strongest ally doubted her, my mother’s world collapsed. “Am I… am I truly losing my mind?” She fell back onto the bed, weeping hysterically. “I’m sorry… Laurence, I’m sorry. Maybe I really am sick.” A smug, triumphant smirk played at the corner of Laurence’s mouth. He squeezed her hand. “It’s alright. Just sleep.” Lydia stepped forward again with the sedative. Inside my dark pocket, I panicked. [No! Mom, don’t give up!] [I’m really here… but I’m fading…] The lingering resentment of seven unborn souls, combined with the sheer despair of being discarded like trash by my own father, boiled up inside my tiny chest. I refused to let it end like this. I hadn’t even looked at my mother yet. My trillion-dollar heiress life hadn’t even begun. I wasn’t going to die in a hazmat suit. Gathering every last ounce of life force left in my newborn body, I kicked out with all my might. A sharp, agonized shriek pierced the silence. “Ah!” The head nurse doubled over in pain, clutching her abdomen. The poorly tied sash of her medical pants snapped under the sudden impact. Thud. A tiny baby girl slid down her pant leg, tumbling onto the sterile floor.

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My mother made five million dollars a month running her real estate empire overseas. My monthly allowance was exactly ten dollars. My father fought for me, throwing plates and screaming until the word “divorce” hung over our home like a threat. My older brother, Pierce, once slipped me a crumpled fifty-dollar bill under my pillow with red, swollen eyes. He was caught and took fifty lashes with my father’s heavy leather belt as punishment. So, whenever the hunger pangs hit—sharp, twisting claws in my stomach—I directed all my hatred toward my mother. I hated her cold, arbitrary cruelty. I hated that she had brought me into this world only to abandon me to starve. But then came the FaceTime call from a number that didn’t exist. A call from myself, ten years in the future. When the connection went through, I gasped, my voice trembling with desperate hope. “How am I doing in ten years? Have I finally cut ties with that selfish monster of a mother?” But the future me on the screen only stared back with bloodshot, hollow eyes. She didn’t look victorious; she looked utterly destroyed. “You idiot,” she hissed, her voice cracked and furious. “That ‘monster’ you hate? When your own father and brother neglected you into complete kidney failure, she didn’t hesitate for a single second. She gave you her own kidney! “And to keep them from exploiting you further, she used every cent of her liquid net worth to buy out your custody and severance from them. She couldn’t even afford a ten-dollar bottle of antibiotics after the transplant. She died in agonizing pain in a sterile charity ward, clutching a cheap plastic cup, because she had nothing left.” As I stared at her, my mind spinning into a dark void of disbelief, the future version of myself let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh that sounded more like a sob. “The hundred thousand dollars she wired for you every single month? They pocketed ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety of it. Every dime went to his secret daughter. “If you don’t believe me, go to the Crestmont Estates on the west side. Go see what our ‘loving’ family has been building behind your back.” … I ended up at Crestmont Estates. The midday sun beat down mercilessly, baking the asphalt, as the security guard blocked my path at the iron gates. His eyes swept over my faded t-shirt and worn-out sneakers with immediate suspicion. “You can’t just wander in here,” he said, hand resting on his belt. “Who are you looking for?” Clutching the last shred of desperate hope in my chest, I spoke softly. “I’m looking for Richard Harvey. I’m his daughter.” The guard let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Mr. Harvey only has two kids—a son, and a daughter named Mandy. He just took Miss Mandy out yesterday to a private trunk show to buy her a custom designer gown. Who the hell are you, some charity case trying to scam your way in?” To prove his point, the guard pulled out a local society print layout from his desk and tossed it onto the counter. When I saw the three faces smiling back from the glossy paper, the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. My chest tightened until I couldn’t breathe. There they were. My father and my brother, Pierce, standing on either side of a beautiful young girl, their smiles warm, radiant, and intensely familiar. The girl was Mandy Harvey. I knew her. She was the golden girl in my class. Two months ago, she had casually braged to her friends at school about how her family had just bought her a five-million-dollar townhouse, paid in full. When someone asked her about the price, she had simply shrugged, her lip curling into an effortless smile. “It wasn’t much. Just pocket change, really.” My ten-dollar allowance had started when I entered high school. Three years of high school. Over a million dollars a year. My hands shook so violently I could barely hold the paper. I memorized every detail of their happy, perfect faces before turning back toward the bus stop. When I finally walked through the front door of our house, my father and Pierce were sitting in the living room. Neither of them noticed the ghostly pale color of my face or the hollow look in my eyes. My father stood up, offering a gentle, pitying smile as he held out a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Maren, sweetie, here’s your allowance for the month. Your mother just sent the wire. You’ll have to make it stretch.” I looked down at the single bill in my palm. Then I looked up, staring directly into his eyes. His face was a masterpiece of fatherly devotion and sorrow. I felt a cold, bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. My eyes burned, but I forced my voice to stay steady. “Ten dollars a month. Do you both just want to watch me starve to death?” Sensing the sharp edge in my tone, my father’s brow furrowed into a deep, disappointed line. “You know what your mother’s temper is like,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “If I dare to bring up your expenses to her, she’ll have her lawyers draft the divorce papers by morning. I’m trying to protect us, Maren.” I tilted my head, the sarcasm dripping from my words before I could stop them. “Really? Maybe I should just call her next time and ask her myself.” Pierce immediately stepped in, crossing the room to place a comforting hand on my head. He reached into his pocket and slipped a fifty-dollar bill into my palm, squeezing my fingers shut over it. “I’ll take responsibility for this,” he whispered, casting a nervous glance toward the hallway. “If Dad and I have to pretend we didn’t see you turn on your bedroom AC tonight, so be it. Just keep it on low, okay?” Ever since my mother had relocated her headquarters to Australia, my father had instituted strict “household rules.” All utilities, appliances, and even the Wi-Fi carried a rental fee that I was expected to pay out of my pocket. Since I had no money, I was only permitted to use electricity on the first and last days of the month. I lost count of the nights I had sat in the suffocating summer heat, trying to write my essays by the weak light of the streetlamp outside my window. During my period, when the cramps were so bad I felt sick, I would lie on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, rinsing myself with cold tap water just to keep from fainting. If Pierce had given me fifty dollars yesterday, I would have wept with gratitude. But today, all I could think about was Mandy. I remembered her telling the class how her family had installed a state-of-the-art climate control system in her townhouse because her sinuses were sensitive to temperature shifts. The system ran twenty-four hours a day, keeping her world perfectly comfortable. Her easy, beautiful smile burned in my mind like acid. I pushed the fifty-dollar bill back into Pierce’s hand, keeping only the ten. “No, thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but hard as flint. “I only want what actually belongs to me.” Without waiting for their response, I went into my bedroom, grabbed my ID, and walked to the nearest bank. I approached the teller, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Hi. I need to print the last three years of transaction history for all accounts under my name.” The printout was massive, thick enough to require a heavy binder. I took the stack of paper to a small table in the corner of the lobby and began to read. Every single month, on the first day at midnight, a wire transfer of one hundred thousand dollars had landed in my account from my mother. On holidays and birthdays, there were bonuses. Two hundred thousand. Three hundred thousand. Each transfer had a memo attached. “Happy birthday to my beautiful girl.” “Good luck on finals, sweetie. Buy yourself something nice to eat.” “Happy International Children’s Day. You’ll always be my baby.” And every single time, within five minutes of the funds clearing, the entire balance—minus ten dollars—was swept out via an automatic transfer into an account owned by Richard Harvey. By the time I reached the end of the pages, my breath was coming in shallow, ragged gasps. My father had married into my mother’s family. Pierce had taken my father’s last name, while I had taken my mother’s maiden name, Albright. Yet, despite that, my father had always played the part of the doting protector, constantly telling Pierce to let me have the best of everything because “girls need extra care.” I remembered when I was six and fell gravely ill. My father had spent seven days on his knees at a mountain retreat, praying for my recovery. Pierce had clung to my doctor’s coat, sobbing, begging to give me his own organs if it would make me better. I had loved them because of those memories. I had believed every single lie because of those memories. A heavy tear splashed onto the white paper, blurring the printed numbers. I bit my lip until it bled, refusing to let myself cry out in the crowded bank lobby. With trembling fingers, I packed the statements neatly into my bag. The next morning at school, a crowd of students had gathered around Mandy’s desk. She was glowing, holding her wrist up to show off a glittering diamond tennis bracelet. “It’s a limited edition,” she boasted, her voice sweet and light. “I casually mentioned to my dad that I loved it, and he said a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar project bonus had just cleared in his account. He bought it for me right then.” The crowd erupted into murmurs of envy. I sat at my desk, quietly chewing on a dry piece of bread. On ten dollars a month, the only meal I could guarantee myself was the cheap breakfast roll I bought at the corner bodega. Mandy caught my eye and deliberately walked over, extending her wrist so the diamonds caught the fluorescent light. “Do you like it, Maren?” she asked, her smile dripping with sweet malice. I didn’t miss the triumph dancing in her eyes. I took a slow bite of my bread, swallowed, and smiled back. “Of course it’s beautiful,” I said softly. “It’s always easier to appreciate things when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” A girl sitting near her scoffed, giving me a dirty look. “Don’t pay attention to her, Mandy. She’s just bitter because her family is broke and your parents actually adore you.” “Yeah, exactly. Who cares whose money it is? Her family actually values her.” Mandy didn’t get angry. She put on a show of gentle, patronizing pity. “It’s fine, guys. I heard Maren only gets ten dollars a month for lunch. I’d probably be bitter too if I were in her shoes.” The classroom erupted into snickers. “Ten dollars? My dog’s organic food costs more than that.” “Are we sure she isn’t adopted?” I didn’t let their laughter reach me. I finished the last crumb of my dry bread, stood up, and looked Mandy dead in the eye. “You know, yesterday was the first of the month,” I said, my voice carrying clearly over the giggles. “That’s the day my mother always wires my support. And yesterday, your dad suddenly got a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar ‘bonus.’ What an incredible coincidence.” Mandy’s perfect, glossy smile froze on her face. Before she could recover, I turned and walked out of the classroom. In the hallway, I ran straight into our homeroom teacher. She looked uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot as she avoided my gaze. “Maren… about the merit scholarship you applied for. The results came in.” Looking at her expression, my heart sank. I followed her to the principal’s office. The five-hundred-dollar academic scholarship that I had earned through sleepless nights and perfect grades had been reassigned. To Mandy Harvey. The principal gave me a canned, rehearsed speech. He claimed my mother had personally called the administration to request that my financial aid be revoked and given to someone more “deserving.” I didn’t bother to argue against the absurd lie. I just stared at the scholarship certificate on the desk. Five hundred dollars. To Mandy, it was the price of a designer silk scarf. But when I had submitted my application a month ago, I had stayed awake at night dreaming of what that money could buy. I could have eaten hot meals for months. I could have paid for a motel room just to sleep in an air-conditioned room for a week. Without a word, I reached across the principal’s desk and picked up his landline phone. The principal blinked in surprise. “Maren, what do you think you’re doing?” I dialed three digits, my face entirely devoid of emotion. “I’m calling the police. Even if they are my family, they have no legal right to intercept my academic funds or sign financial waivers on my behalf without my consent.” The principal’s face drained of color. He scrambled for his personal cell phone, his fingers shaking as he hurriedly dialed a number. The police officers arrived within fifteen minutes, and right behind them came my father and Pierce, both sweating and looking frantic. My father rushed into the office, reaching out to grab my arm. “Maren, stop this nonsense. Let’s go home and discuss this as a family.” I stepped back, evading his touch, and turned to the lead officer. My voice was chillingly calm. “Officer, I have been subjected to severe domestic neglect for the past three years. My father and brother have restricted my access to basic food and utilities, leaving me with only ten dollars a month, and now they have fraudulently signed off on my academic scholarship to divert the funds to another student.” The officer’s expression hardened instantly. He turned a stern glare on my father. “Are you the legal guardians? Is what she’s saying true?” Pierce stepped forward, his voice smooth and persuasive. “Officer, there’s been a massive misunderstanding. My sister is going through a difficult phase. Our mother set these strict boundaries as a form of behavioral modification. We’re just trying to respect her wishes.” I cut in before he could spin the lie further. “Officer, they claim this is my mother’s decision. If that’s true, you should verify it with her directly.” The lead officer turned to his partner. “Get the mother’s contact information and verify this immediately.” At those words, the blood left my father’s face. He shot a desperate, warning look at the principal. The principal immediately cleared his throat, stepping forward with a nervous chuckle. “Officers, actually, it seems we had a clerical error on our end! The scholarship belongs to Maren Albright, and we will update the roster immediately. It was just a minor administrative oversight. No harm done!” Pierce reached out, his hand wrapping around my wrist as he lowered his voice to a gentle, pleading whisper. “Maren, please. Mom’s parenting methods might be extreme, but we’re a family. We can fix this at home. You don’t need to make a scene.” My father nodded quickly, pulling out his phone. “Yes, absolutely. I’ll adjust your allowance to a normal level right now.” A chime sounded in my pocket. He had just transferred a thousand dollars to my account. Seeing the immediate financial transfer and the school’s quick correction, the officers’ suspicion softened slightly. Still, they gave my father a stern lecture about parental neglect and emotional abuse before finally taking their leave. The drive back to the house was dead silent. My father’s grip on the steering wheel was so tight his knuckles were white. The moment we pulled into our driveway, he slammed the car into park and spun around in his seat, his eyes boring into mine with a cold, venomous glare. “You found out,” he said. It wasn’t a question. Pierce let out a sharp, mocking sneer from the passenger seat. He reached into his leather bag and pulled out a stack of papers, tossing them into the back seat. They were the printed bank statements I had hidden under my mattress. Pierce looked at me, the warmth and affection he had performed for years completely vanished from his face. “Did you really think your little field trip to the bank went unnoticed, Maren?” I kept my jaw clenched, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me tremble. But the coldness in my chest was absolute. Now that their secret was out, they didn’t look remorseful at all. They looked amused. My father pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. “Your mother sent that money, yes. But you’re a child. You don’t need that kind of cash. We kept it safe for you so you wouldn’t ruin your life. Besides, she’s thousands of miles away. She doesn’t care about you. Pierce and I are the only ones who actually put up with you.” Pierce leaned back against his headrest, a smug smile playing on his lips. “If you think we’re so terrible, go find your mother. See if she even remembers your name.” A wave of profound disgust swept through me. But I remembered the warnings from my future self. The trap had already been set years ago; my father and brother had systematically cut off every avenue of communication between my mother and me. I lowered my eyes, letting my shoulders slump. I made my voice sound small, broken, and defeated. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m sorry, Pierce. I was wrong.” Seeing my submission, the tension in my father’s shoulders dissipated. He gave a satisfied grunt and unlocked the car doors. The moment I got to my room, I locked the door behind me. I crawled under my bed, reaching into the deepest corner of the floorboards until my fingers brushed against a cracked, wooden bracelet. It was the only gift my mother had given me before she left for Australia. My future self had told me that inside the wooden core was a cellular distress beacon. If the bracelet was broken, it would send an emergency alert directly to my mother’s private line. I had smashed the wood the very night I received that strange FaceTime call. Now, looking closely at the fracture line, I saw a tiny green light pulsing steadily. The signal had been sent. She was coming. The next morning, I walked down the stairs and froze. Sitting on our living room sofa was Georgia—our former housekeeper—and her daughter, Mandy. Georgia was draped in my mother’s expensive cashmere shawl, sipping tea with the practiced air of a wealthy matriarch. When she saw me, her gaze swept over me with cold dismissal. She gestured to a couple of movers standing by the door. “Go ahead and pack up her things,” Georgia said. Then she turned to me with a sharp, artificial smile. “My daughter needs a room with decent natural light. Your bedroom is hers now. You can either find a dorm at school or sleep in the attic storage room. I don’t care which.” I gripped the wooden banister, my knuckles turning white. “This house is registered under my mother’s name.” Georgia didn’t flinch. Her smile turned mocking. “Your father told me I make the decisions in this house now. If you have a problem with that, take it up with him.” Right on cue, my father and Pierce walked down the stairs. They walked straight over to Georgia and Mandy. My father slid a hand around Georgia’s waist, while Pierce greeted her with a warm, familiar hug. My father looked up at me, his face wearing a mask of false sympathy. “Maren, don’t be difficult. Your aunt is just trying to help you become more independent now that you’re older. In fact, since today is your eighteenth birthday, I’ve prepared a special gift for you.” He nodded to Pierce, who stepped forward and handed me a thick legal document. I flipped open the first page, and the words danced mockingly before my eyes. My father’s eighteenth birthday present to me was a itemized bill of debt totaling fifteen million dollars. My throat went dry. “What is this?” “An invoice for your upbringing over the last eighteen years,” Pierce said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Your last name is Albright, not Harvey. It’s only fair that you reimburse our family for the cost of keeping you alive.” Mandy peered over my father’s shoulder, her eyes sparkling as she looked at the document. She squealed and threw her arms around my father’s neck. “Oh, Daddy! Is this the fifteen-million-dollar trust fund you promised to set up for my future?” My father stroked her hair, his eyes filled with genuine adoration. “Yes, sweetie. Exactly. You’re a smart girl.” He looked back at me, his voice dripping with condescension. “I know you can’t pay it all back at once. We’ll set up a payment plan. I’ll even keep the interest rate low for you.” Mandy giggled, tilting her chin up in triumph. “You were right, Maren. Things really do taste sweeter when they’re bought with someone else’s money.” The sheer, sickening absurdity of the moment washed over me. I looked at the three of them, then slowly, deliberately, ripped the contract in half, and then in half again, letting the white scraps flutter to the floor. “I’m not signing this.” The living room went dead silent. Georgia was the first to react. She let out a sharp gasp and tapped Mandy’s wrist. Mandy instantly caught on, letting out a dramatic, horrified shriek. “My diamond bracelet! It’s gone!” She pointed a trembling finger at me, tearswelling in her eyes. “Daddy, she stole it! She was jealous of me, so she took it!” My father didn’t hesitate. He pulled out his phone and made a single call. In less than ten minutes, three large, rough-looking men in dark uniforms walked through the front door. They wore badges from a notorious “behavioral correction academy”—one of those unregulated facilities designed to break troubled teens. The leader of the group looked me up and down with an unsettling, predatory grin. “Don’t worry, Mr. Harvey. We know exactly how to handle girls with attitude problems like this.” My father nodded, his expression as cold as ice. “Take her. I don’t care what methods you use to make her agreeable, just keep her alive.” I glared at him, my vision blurring with rage. “You will regret this,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I promise you, both of you will regret this.” The guards stepped forward, their heavy hands grabbing my arms and dragging me toward the door. Just as they pulled me past the threshold, the heavy oak double doors of the villa were violently kicked open from the outside. A sharp, commanding voice cut through the air like a blade. “Richard Harvey! Who gave you the authority to touch my daughter?!”

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When my family finally paid the ransom to bring me home, I was nothing but a bag of bones. Months of forced starvation had shrunk my stomach to the size of a fist, leaving me with a severe, crippling aversion to food. At my welcome dinner, when I couldn’t bring myself to pick up my fork, my sister, Bella, immediately welled up with tears. “Sophie, you won’t even touch your food. Are you still blaming me? I didn’t mean to leak your location to those kidnappers…” My older brother, Tayler, protectively wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shooting me a cold, disgusted look. “Stop being so dramatic, Sophie. You were gone for a few months, and you came back in one piece. No broken bones. Who are you putting on this victim act for?” He nudged the plate closer. “Bella spent all afternoon making this for you. Even if you have to choke it down, you’re going to eat it.” My parents joined in, their faces hardening. “You just get back and you’re already throwing a tantrum!” my father barked. “Eat the meat, Sophie. Now.” Looking at the three of them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in their united defense of Bella, a profound numbness washed over me. I slowly picked up a slice of the greasy pork and forced it past my lips. The reaction was instantaneous. A violent spasm seized my abdomen. I collapsed from my chair, hitting the hardwood floor, dry-heaving desperately. There was nothing in my stomach to bring up, but the dry-heaves tore at my throat until I coughed up a pool of dark, brilliant red blood. Tayler immediately pulled Bella back a step, shielding her from the splatter. “Are you seriously biting your tongue to fake spitting blood now? You’re unbelievable, Sophie. Unforgivable.” Looking up at them from the floor, a hollow laugh died in my throat. “It’s fine,” I thought. “Go ahead. Keep coddling her. Keep hating me. It doesn’t matter anymore. After all, I don’t have many days left anyway.” … I lay there in my own blood, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. Tayler stepped forward, his brow furrowed in irritation. He nudged my shoulder with the toe of his shoe, then scraped his sole against the floor as if he’d stepped in something foul. “Go clean yourself up in the bathroom. Don’t ruin the rug.” This was my brother. The same brother who once fought three older boys until his knuckles broke just to protect me. I tried to smile at the irony, but the movement sent a fresh wave of agony through my stomach, silencing me. My mother walked over, carrying a bowl of warm broth. Her eyes were rimmed with red; she looked like she had just been crying. “Sophie, you starved out there. I made this broth myself to help settle your stomach.” She knelt beside me, pushing the spoon directly against my lips. The heavy smell of grease hit my nostrils, triggering another violent spasm. Shaking with pain, cold sweat drenching my collar, I instinctively pushed her hand away. The bowl shattered against the floor. “Fine! Don’t eat then!” she cried, wiping a tear as she stood up. “I’ve been sick with worry, thinking you were starving, and this is how you treat me? If you’re going to be like this, don’t eat anything at all! Starve yourself for all I care!” Tayler’s gaze grew colder. “Mom spent hours on that. What is wrong with you?” As they comforted each other, cocooned in their warm family dynamic, the fire in my gut flared. Trembling, I reached into my pocket for my bottle of painkillers. “Oh my god, Sophie!” Bella shrieked. She lunged forward and kicked the bottle right out of my hand. The white pills scattered across the floor. “Those pills… you didn’t get hooked on “something” while you were gone, did you?” Her eyes went wide, a perfect picture of horror and concern. “Don’t worry, we’re going to get you clean. We’re a family. We won’t give up on you.” “They’re just… painkillers…” I croaked, dragging my body across the floor. But just as my fingers brushed the plastic bottle, Tayler stepped down hard, crushing it beneath his heel. “If you need medicine, we have doctors,” he said coldly. “We aren’t keeping street drugs in this house.” I stared at the white powder ground into the floorboards. My heart felt like it had been crushed right along with those pills. The medication was cheap, probably toxic, but it was the only thing strong enough to dull the screaming agony in my stomach. Now, I had nothing. Bella tucked herself behind Tayler, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She let out a small, breathless laugh. “Sophie, can we please stop the drama? I only accidentally mentioned where you were. Mom and Dad paid the ransom, and you don’t even have any scars. Why are you still so mad at me?” She sighed. “I’m your sister. Playing the martyr to get attention is so childish.” My father, sitting on the leather sofa, spoke up in a flat, indifferent tone. “Exactly. Bella shouldn’t have said anything, but if you hadn’t been running around looking for trouble, those men wouldn’t have targeted you in the first place. You’ve always been spoiled. Go have some chilled melon in the kitchen to cool your temper, and let’s put this behind us.” “Put this behind us?” A dry chuckle escaped my lips. For three agonizing months, I was locked in a damp cellar. The only things my captors threw at me were moldy scraps, rotting bread, and putrid water. If I refused to eat, they pinched my nose shut and shoved the filth down my throat. Any resistance was met with a spiked leather whip and endless, dark torment. And now, a slice of chilled melon was supposed to make everything okay? I closed my eyes, letting my tears fall silently onto the blood-smeared floor. “She’s still acting!” my mother snapped, her face twisted in disgust. “Getting her to eat is like asking for her life. Your father had the kitchen prepare this fresh for you. It used to be your favorite.” My father slammed his hand on the dining table. “If she won’t eat, force it down her throat!” Two maids stepped forward. They pinned my arms, and one of them pinched my jaw, forcing my mouth open. Two cold, dripping slices of melon were shoved brutally past my teeth. The icy juice hit my raw stomach, triggering a spasm so violent I began to shake. I couldn’t hold it back. I threw up right there—a mixture of melon, stomach acid, and dark, thick blood. “Sophie, how could you…” Bella gasped, taking a dramatic step back. “Just to keep up this act, you’d waste Dad’s kindness…” I collapsed next to the mess, panting heavily, too exhausted to defend myself. “Slap!” A sharp, stinging blow caught me across the cheek, throwing my head back. My father stood over me, his hand still raised, eyes blazing with fury. “You ungrateful brat! Your sister didn’t even eat breakfast this morning because she was so anxious about your return!” he roared. “She has a weak stomach, yet she was still thinking of you. And you put on this deathbed performance to spite us?” I looked up at him, finding the sheer absurdity of it almost funny. Bella skipping breakfast meant she had a “delicate stomach.” Me, starved for three months and unable to keep food down, was “putting on a deathbed performance.” “Since you clearly need to cool down,” my father sneered, “get out. Go run ten laps around the estate. Don’t come back inside until you’ve cleared that attitude.” Run? In my condition, even standing was a monument of effort. Forcing me to run laps in the sweltering heat was a death sentence. “Didn’t you hear Dad? Get out!” Tayler grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and shoved me out the front door. My knees and palms scraped against the gravel driveway, drawing fresh blood. “Bella didn’t eat because she was genuinely sick. You’re doing this out of pure malice. Don’t even think about coming back inside until those ten laps are done!” The heavy oak doors slammed shut. From inside, the faint, warm murmur of my family comforting Bella drifted through the glass. Outside, I was left alone under the blazing sun, fighting to breathe. I curled into a ball on the scorching pavement, clutching my abdomen. The heat radiated from the concrete, yet cold sweat poured off my body in waves. My vision blurred. Then, the familiar sound of a car engine broke the silence. The family doctor’s sedan pulled into the driveway, stopping a few feet away. Dr. Evans stepped out, carrying his black medical bag, his pace hurried. With the last of my strength, I dragged myself toward him. “Help me…” I gasped, clawing at the hem of his trousers. “My stomach… please…” Dr. Evans frowned, looking down at me. “Sophie? What happened?” He started to kneel, but Tayler marched out of the house, his face contorted in anger. He kicked my hand away from the doctor’s leg. “Sophie! What the hell is wrong with you?” I let out a weak whimper, my hand falling limp. “You’re so desperate for attention that you’re trying to steal Bella’s doctor now? She’s inside with a severe stomach ache!” “Tayler… please… it hurts so much…” “Save the tears. Dad said ten laps, or you stay outside.” Dr. Evans hesitated, looking at my ghostly pale face. “Tayler, she looks extremely ill. Maybe I should just take a quick—” “Dr. Evans, don’t waste your time!” my mother’s voice called out from the doorway. “She’s just trying to ruin Bella’s day. Come inside, please. Bella’s been complaining of cramps all morning, and my heart is just breaking for her.” Tayler guided the doctor toward the entrance. Dr. Evans cast one final, doubtful look over his shoulder, but ultimately shook his head and followed them inside. The afternoon faded into twilight, and the temperature plummeted. A sudden downpour began, soaking my thin clothes in seconds. I dragged myself to the edge of the porch, curling up under the small overhang, shivering violently. Inside, the house was alive with warmth and laughter. I could hear my mother gently coaxing Bella to drink some warm soup. And there I lay, listening to their joy, waiting to die in the freezing rain. Through the sheet of water, a black umbrella appeared. Tayler stood before me, holding a plate. “Tayler…” I croaked, trying to push myself up. He had come to bring me inside. He had to. But his face remained cold as stone. He tilted his wrist. “Splat.” The cold leftovers slid off the plate, landing in a muddy puddle by my feet. The white rice scattered instantly, melting into the dirty water. “Bella was worried you’d starve,” Tayler said, his voice flat. “She told me to bring you this. Eat.” I stared at the sodden heap of food. When I was trapped in that dark cellar, choking down rotten scraps, I had kept myself alive by dreaming of the day my family would rescue me. I never imagined that my own brother would be the one dumping scraps into the mud for me. As I stared at the puddle, the sharp pain in my stomach suddenly vanished. Instead, an overwhelming, primal hunger took its place. My stomach began to growl, loud and desperate. Hearing the sound, Tayler let out a cynical laugh. “See? I knew you were faking. A little tough love and suddenly you’re cured.” My hand moved on its own, reaching toward the muddy puddle. “I’ll eat…” I whispered, my fingers trembling as I scooped up a handful of wet, gritty rice and shoved it into my mouth. “Tayler… I’m eating…” The gravel cut into my throat as I swallowed, but I felt nothing. I just gulped it down, desperate and hollow. I had lost all dignity, all pride. In that moment, the mud-soaked rice tasted sweeter than anything my captors had ever thrown at me. I stayed on my knees, scooping up the dirty water and rice with both hands. A flash of discomfort crossed Tayler’s face. He tightened his grip on the umbrella handle, taking a step back in disgust. “Have you no shame? Eating like an animal.” He turned on his heel. “We are hosting a welcome-back gala for you tomorrow. There will be important guests. If you embarrass us, you’ll regret it.” The next day, I sat in front of the vanity for a long time. My lips were completely bloodless. I grabbed the brightest red lipstick I owned and applied layer after layer, trying to paint over the deathly pallor on my face. I barely had the strength to stand. Clinging to the banister, I crept down the stairs step by agonizing step, my legs shaking so hard they felt like jelly. The grand foyer was filled with music and laughter. My father, beaming with pride, was chatting with his business associates. My mother was showing Bella off to a group of high-society women. No one noticed me. Not until my foot slipped on the final step, and I crashed against the railing. “Sophie! You’re finally down!” Bella squealed, walking over with a glass of dark, heavy liquor. The sharp, alcoholic sting reached my nose, and my stomach clutched in protest. “I had the bartender make this just for you. Your favorite!” “I can’t drink that,” I whispered, backing away. “It will kill me.” “Kill you?” Bella’s eyes welled with tears, her lower lip trembling. “Sophie, why do you have to say such horrible things? I already apologized to you! What more do you want?” She sniffled, looking around at the gathering crowd. “It’s not my fault you were out late that night. If you hadn’t been wandering around alone, those men wouldn’t have targeted you…” My father’s face darkened as he marched over. He snatched the glass from Bella and shoved it into my hand. “The city’s elite are watching us,” he hissed. “Do you intend to make a laughingstock of this family? Whatever grudge you’re holding, swallow it. Drink.” I clutched the glass, looking desperately at Tayler, who had just joined them. I wanted him to step in, just once, the way he did when we were kids. Instead, Tayler placed a heavy, warning hand on my shoulder. “Bella brought this to welcome you back. Don’t be ungrateful. Even if you don’t like it, you are going to drink it.” I looked up at the three people who shared my blood. Suddenly, the fight drained out of me. It was all so utterly pointless. “Fine,” I whispered, a ghostly smile touching my lips. “If this is what you want.” I threw my head back and swallowed the liquor in one long gulp. It burned down my throat like liquid fire, hitting my raw, empty stomach like a red-hot coal. My insides violently seized. I clutched my abdomen, trying to suppress the wave of agony, but it was impossible. Right there, in front of the entire high-society crowd, a massive torrent of thick, dark blood erupted from my mouth. Within the dark pool, there were distinct, shredded pieces of tissue. A collective gasp echoed through the room as panic erupted. But to me, the world simply grew quiet. The heavy burden of my body felt lighter. I smiled softly as the floor rose to meet me, and everything faded to black.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “532333”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The seventh time Nydia missed my birthday, she promised she’d make it up to me. So, I waited. I sat at the peak of Echo Ridge for over three hours as the sky opened up, pouring down a freezing, relentless rain. She never showed. Instead, her young assistant posted a photo of the two of them on social media, captioned from a hotel room. “Thanks to Boss Nydia for the limited-edition watch.” “Someone who loves you never makes you wait; I always get what I want right away~” In the photo, they were tangled together on a plush, red velvet bed, their fingers tightly intertwined, their shirts off. The diamond wedding band Nydia usually wore was nowhere to be seen. In its place were dark purple hickeys and “I love you” scribbled across her collarbone in permanent marker. I stood there in the dark, swallowing the bitter taste of bile rising in my throat. I blocked the number, deleted the contact, and made a silent vow to scrub Nydia—and everything she brought with her—out of my life for good. 1 Less than five minutes after I blocked him, my phone buzzed. It was Nydia. “Did you delete Chase?” she demanded, her voice sharp. “Add him back right now.” I didn’t say anything, listening to her breathe on the other end. “He’s new to the corporate world, Duke. He didn’t know any better. He thinks he did something to upset you and he’s been crying in the room for an hour. Add him back, explain yourself, apologize, and I’ll let this slide.” He took what was mine, and she wanted me to apologize. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “In your dreams.” The line went quiet for a beat. When Nydia spoke again, her tone had shifted from anger to a weary, practiced exasperation. “Are you really throwing a tantrum over Chase again? How many times do I have to tell you? We grew up together. He’s like family to me. Now that he’s working at my company, of course I’m going to look out for him. Besides, look at the weather. It’s pouring, and his health has always been fragile. I couldn’t just leave him stranded in the storm.” The more she rationalized, the hollower her voice sounded. She seemed to have completely forgotten that I was the one with chronic health issues—the very reason I had stepped back from my own career to hand the reins of the business over to her. Tired of the noise, I cut her off. “I’m still at Echo Ridge.” I had waited three hours. I’d been sitting in the freezing rain for the last sixty minutes. There was no shelter up here, and the winding mountain paths were too slick to navigate in the dark during a storm. For a split second, a crack of panic leaked into her voice. “Stay there. Don’t move. I’m coming to get you.” I waited another hour. By the time the rain finally stopped, Nydia still hadn’t arrived. The trail down was slick with mud. Within a few steps, my boots were ruined, my jeans splattered with cold sludge. I sneezed, shivering violently, feeling my heart sink straight into the dirt. It felt cold, heavy, and utterly numb. When I finally got back to my apartment, I took a scorching hot shower to stop the shaking. As I was drying off, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from an unknown number. I answered. Chase’s face filled the screen. “Hey, Duke,” he cooed, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “Are you mad at Nydia because she bought me this watch? I can ask her to buy you one too, if you want. You don’t have to be so petty over a little birthday gift, do you?” The malice in his eyes was unmistakable. The watch was a limited-edition piece—only a handful existed in the world. He knew I’d been eyeing it for months, hoping it would be my birthday present. Yet he had taken it, parading it in front of me like a trophy. My head throbbed. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I popped a couple of sinus pills and fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. I don’t know how long I was out before the blankets were violently ripped off me. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Do you have any idea how long I spent looking for you?” Nydia stood over the bed, looking exhausted and annoyed. “I’m starving. Get up and make some dinner. And brew some ginger tea while you’re at it—Chase got caught in the rain, and I need to drop some off for him.” The sudden shock made my headache flare. I looked up at her, my voice laced with pure disgust. “Did Chase not feed you enough tonight?” Nydia stiffened, her eyes flashing with rage. “Duke! Are you seriously starting this again? I explained everything to you. Meeting Chase tonight was a complete coincidence. Do you have to make a federal case out of every little thing? And to think I actually brought you a surprise.” She threw a small velvet box at me. It caught me right on the corner of my eye. The sharp edge sliced the skin, and a sharp, stinging pain made my eyes water instantly. She blinked, startled by her own violence, and stepped closer to inspect the cut. But as she bent over me, a heavy wave of cologne hit my nose. It was Chase’s signature scent—cloyingly sweet and expensive. Disgusted, I shoved her away. My gaze fell to the floor where the velvet box had landed. The watch had slipped out. On its pristine sapphire glass was a dried, sticky smear of fluid. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what they had been doing while wearing it. A wave of nausea hit me. I kicked the watch back toward her feet. “Save your pathetic gestures, Nydia,” I said, my voice cold and flat. “I don’t want a watch another man has worn. And I certainly don’t want a woman another man has used.” 2 “Stop talking nonsense. I’m taking you to the ER.” Nydia looked at the bead of blood swelling at the corner of my eye, a flicker of genuine worry crossing her face. Ignoring my weak protests, she hauled me out of bed. She was so determined to play the part of the doting, concerned wife that she didn’t even let me grab a jacket. Shaking and feverish, I climbed into the passenger seat. The air conditioning was blasting, so I reached into the back seat for the wool throw blanket. When I pulled it, my finger caught in a massive, ragged tear. As the fabric unraveled, a pair of worn men’s boxer briefs tumbled onto my lap. Nydia caught my expression in the rearview mirror. She cleared her throat, brushing it off. “It’s probably just Chase playing a prank. He’s always had a childish sense of humor. Don’t look at me like that.” She sighed, stepping on the gas. “Honestly, Duke, I work myself to the bone every single day to provide for this lifestyle, and you’re giving me attitude over a ruined blanket? You don’t have half the grace or understanding that Chase does.” The wool blanket was the last thing my grandmother had made for me before she passed. She had spent weeks hand-stitching it as a wedding gift for us, knowing she wouldn’t live to see our first anniversary. I quietly folded it and tucked it into my bag. I didn’t say a word. Then, the car console lit up. It was Courtney, one of Nydia’s close friends. “Hey, Nydia! We’re all waiting for you to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of you and Chase’s first hand-hold. Where are you?” She forgot my birthday, but she remembered the exact date she first held Chase’s hand. In the background, I heard Chase’s voice filter through the speaker, dripping with condescension. “Why do you think? She’s probably dealing with her trophy husband. Honestly, marrying a guy like that must be a living nightmare.” Nydia shot a guilty look in my direction, muttering a quick “behave yourself” into the phone, before spinning the steering wheel to head toward the GPS coordinates Courtney had sent. Panic flared in my chest. “I don’t want to go. Take me home.” Every time I was forced to hang out with Chase and her friends, it ended in humiliation. The first time, Chase and his buddies took turns pressure-drinking me until I ended up in the emergency room with acute gastritis. The second time, Chase—fully aware of my severe peanut allergy—deliberately slipped peanut butter into my dessert, then took photos of my swollen, hives-covered face and posted them to the company’s Slack channel. I had been the butt of their jokes too many times. I wasn’t going to play their toy tonight. But Nydia had already wiped those memories clean. To her, I was just being difficult. “Duke, don’t be so selfish. Am I supposed to alienate all my friends just to appease your insecurity?” “Then go by yourself. Let me out.” My head was pounding, the fever cooking my brain. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. But her stubborn streak kicked in. “No. Insulting my friends is insulting me. You’re coming.” She softened her voice slightly, attempting a patronizing stroke of my hair. “Just come say hello, and we’ll leave. Don’t ruin my night.” By the time we arrived at the lounge, it was past two in the morning. The moment we walked through the VIP booth doors, a bucket of ice water was splashed directly onto my face. As I stood there, shivering, my wet shirt clinging to my chest, Chase laughed. “Welcome to the party! Do you like the initiation?” Seeing my pale, trembling frame, a couple of people tried to smooth things over, pulling Nydia into the booth. There were four seats around the low table. Nydia, Chase, Courtney, and Kyle sat down. I was left standing. Chase’s grin widened. “Oh, looks like we’re out of seats… Maybe you should just head home, Duke. It’s not like you’d understand what we’re talking about anyway.” Kyle, Nydia’s cousin, chimed in. “Yeah, bro-in-law, don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye on Nydia for you.” Years ago, when Kyle was starting her business, she begged me for a hundred-thousand-dollar loan. She called me her favorite brother-in-law and promised she’d always have my back. Yet later, she was the one who whispered to Nydia, “How did you end up with Duke anyway? Chase is ten times the man he is.” And Courtney. She was always sweet to my face when she needed a favor, but behind my back, she and Chase mocked me as a tasteless lottery-winner, gladly helping Nydia cover up her trysts. They were a pack of hyenas. I stared at the empty space between them, letting out a long, quiet sigh. “You don’t need to worry about the seating arrangement,” I said. “We’re getting a divorce. That should free up plenty of space.” 3 Nydia froze, her face slack with disbelief. In all our years together, I had never embarrassed her in front of her inner circle. No matter how late she stayed out drinking, one call and I would drive across the city to bring her home, asking for nothing in return. But I was done sacrificing my dignity at her altar. The booth fell dead silent. Courtney and Kyle began stammering, trying to diffuse the tension, while Chase rolled his eyes. “Divorce? Again? Is this what, the fifth time you’ve threatened that?” Chase sneered. “Nydia, your kept man really has a flare for drama, doesn’t he?” Embarrassed and angry, Nydia stood up, her voice dropping an octave. “Duke, have I spoiled you so much that you think you can talk to me like this? Have you forgotten how you literally begged me on your knees not to leave you?” Without another word, I turned and walked out into the cool night air. When Chase first returned from abroad, I had fought with Nydia constantly over their inappropriately close “friendship.” Every time, her answer was the same: “If you don’t like it, get a divorce.” Back then, I was still desperately in love with her. I would apologize, take the blame, and beg for her forgiveness. I had knelt on our hardwood floor, weeping in the dead of night, while she used my devotion as a doormat. Not this time. I went back to our house, packed my bags, and moved into the small downtown studio apartment I had bought before we got married. I had purchased it with my own savings. Nydia had thrown a fit when she found out. “Only an idiot buys a tiny studio in the city. It’s embarrassing. You should have put that money toward a sports car for me so I look good driving to meetings.” My parents eventually bought her a luxury SUV as part of our wedding arrangements, which seemed to pacify her. I was deeply relieved I hadn’t listened to her back then. This studio was my sanctuary now. And that luxury SUV? It had essentially become Chase’s personal ride. By the time I finished unpacking, the sun was rising. Exhausted but unable to sleep, I went down to the local copy shop and printed out a standard divorce agreement. When I got back to the studio building, Nydia was waiting outside my door. I blinked in surprise. This was the first time she had ever sought me out first. “Look, about last night—I went too far,” she said, though her tone was still laced with condescension. “But you shouldn’t have embarrassed me in front of my friends. Go apologize to Chase, and we’ll put this behind us.” I remembered what Chase had told her as I walked out the night before: “Duke behaves this way because you tolerate it. You need to train him. If you won’t do it, I will.” He had listed a whole playbook of manipulation tactics: financial withholding, silent treatment, emotional gaslighting. Listening to him, I realized Nydia had already been using every single one of them on me. She body-shamed me, comparing me unfavorably to Chase. She told me I was useless, destined to be nothing more than a glorified housekeeper. If I protested, she would snap: “Chase helps me run a multi-million dollar company. What do you do? He has an Ivy League degree. You have no right to compare yourself to him.” She forgot that I had abandoned my own career path and family connections to support her because I loved her. If she couldn’t respect that sacrifice, there was nothing left to say. I thrust the divorce papers into her hands and unlocked my door. Panic finally cracked through her cool exterior. She pushed past the threshold, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist from behind. “Stop being like this. I’ll apologize, okay? I’m sorry.” Her hands began to slide under my shirt, tracing my skin. “I know I’ve been distant lately. You’re angry, I get it. What if we start trying for a baby? I promise we can do it now.” Disgusted, I ripped myself from her grip and shoved her away with everything I had. “Don’t touch me. You make my skin crawl.” Nydia stumbled back, hitting the drywall, her eyes flashing with sudden anger. But before she could speak, my vision went black, and my knees buckled beneath me. 4 When I opened my eyes, the smell of antiseptic told me I was in a hospital room. My head was heavy, and my eyelids felt like lead. But before I could even pull myself up, a low, muffled moan drifted from the other side of the privacy curtain. “Nydia… this is so risky. What if Duke wakes up and catches us?” Nydia’s voice was breathless, heavy with exertion. “He won’t. I had the doctor slip some sedatives into his IV. He’s out cold. We have plenty of time.” The rhythmic squeak of a hospital bed and the wet, heavy sounds of their intimacy filtered through the thin fabric. I could see the distorted shadows of their bodies tangled together. Bile surged in my throat. I tried to pull myself up to escape, but my sedated muscles failed me, and I rolled off the mattress, crashing hard onto the linoleum floor. The noise cut the sounds short. The curtain was shoved aside. Nydia stood there, frantically buttoning her blouse, looking down at me. “Duke? You’re awake?” She tried to smooth her disheveled hair. “Chase was so worried about you. He actually brought you something to eat.” She pointed to the bedside table, where a plastic container of leftover seafood porridge sat. Right in the center was a thick dollop of peanut butter. Just as toxic and sickening as the two of them. Nydia, entirely oblivious to her own cruelty, sighed. “Duke, look, we can fight, but don’t play games with your health. You passed out from a massive fever. You scared me to death.” “And whose fault is that?” I rasped, my throat raw. “Who left me in the rain? Who dragged me out of bed and took me to a bar instead of an ER?” Nydia looked away, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Just eat something. Chase made this especially for you.” My eyes fixed on the peanut butter. Nydia’s gaze followed mine, and she suddenly paled. “Oh… I forgot. It’s fine, I’ll order you some takeout.” Before she could unlock her phone, Chase wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Nydia, the smell of bleach in here is giving me a headache. Let’s go grab a coffee downstairs.” Nydia looked at me, torn. “Go,” I said quietly, turning my back to them. I swept the container of porridge into the trash and cracked the window open to let the fresh air in. After a moment of hesitation, Chase pulled her out the door. “I’ll be right back,” she called out over her shoulder. She didn’t come back. An hour later, I ordered my own food, finished my IV drip, and went to the front desk to get my discharge paperwork. The doctor, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, looked at my chart and then up at me. “The woman who brought you in… is she your wife?” “Soon-to-be ex-wife,” I replied. “Ah. That explains it.” The doctor sighed, handing me my prescriptions. “The young man she was with… he’s a frequent flyer here. Your wife brought him in for an abortion last year. They listed her as the mother and him as the father.” She scribbled her personal cell number on the back of the discharge slip. “Keep this. If you feel dizzy or need anything else, call me directly.” I took the slip, my chest tightening, and gave her a tight, grateful nod. When I got back to my studio, a text from Nydia popped up. An emergency came up at the office. I had to run. Let me know if you need anything, I’ll come straight over. At the exact same time, a notification popped up on Instagram. An anonymous account had posted a photo: Office play. Best Tuesday ever! In the photo, Nydia was draped over her office desk, her blouse half-unbuttoned, while Chase grinned at the camera. In the background, on the corner of her desk, lay an empty condom wrapper. My skin crawled. I felt physically dirty just looking at it. I immediately booked an appointment at a private clinic for a full panel of STD tests. The physician there was incredibly kind, offering me a warm cup of coffee while I waited for the blood draw. It was the first time in days I felt like a human being. But the peace didn’t last. When I unlocked my apartment door that evening, my heart stopped. The tiny studio was packed. My parents, Nydia’s parents, Nydia, and Chase were all standing in the cramped space. Nydia’s eyes were red, staring at the divorce agreement on the counter. Chase stood beside her, arms crossed, looking smug. “I’ve never met anyone as shameless as you,” Chase spat the moment I walked in. “Nydia treats you like a king, and you’re out here sleeping around with other women.” My mother stepped forward, holding a printout of a photo—it was me and the clinic doctor having coffee. “Duke, what is this? Nydia says you’re having an affair and demanding a divorce. We thought you two were happy.” Nydia’s mother slammed her hand on my small dining table. “Divorce him, Nydia! We don’t need a cheating, deceitful man in our family.” “No wonder you couldn’t give Nydia a child all these years,” she sneered, looking me up and down. “You’ve probably been running around with cheap girls, ruining your own body.” A barrage of vile, disgusting accusations filled the room. I looked at Nydia, my chest heaving with silent rage. “Nydia, you really love spinning a victim narrative, don’t you?” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Do you honestly think I don’t know what you’ve been doing?” “I was going to let you walk away with some dignity. But since you want to drag my name through the mud, let’s lay it all out.” I walked into my closet and pulled out a heavy metal lockbox. The day I packed my things, I had stumbled upon a secret far worse than her infidelity. I had kept it to myself, waiting for the right moment to lay my cards on the table. That moment had arrived.

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The summer we graduated, Weston decided he was going to be a star. He signed up for a major televised music competition in LA, ready to throw himself into the spotlight. He didn’t ask me to go with him. Instead, he had his roommate tell me to pack my bags. I turned down a prestigious doctoral fellowship and a lucrative corporate offer, following him to California like a shadow. I was there for the grind—from the empty dive bars to the sold-out arenas. I watched him become the country’s most coveted artist. And me? I was just the secret wife he never acknowledged. Harassed by his fans. Mocked by his childhood muse. Until the day I died, he never once stood up for me. I spent years drowning in regret, wondering why on earth I had sacrificed my own career for a man who kept me in the dark. Then, the universe hit rewind. I woke up on the morning of my thesis defense. His roommate knocked on my door with a smug grin: “Weston’s heading to LA tomorrow. You better get a move on and start packing.” I looked at him, completely numb, and said, “I’m not going to LA.” 01 The silence in the room was deafening. My classmates looked back and forth between Weston and me, waiting for me to cave, to take it back. But I just turned to the girl next to me and started chatting about the weather. Weston never asked for anything directly. He used Tyler to do his dirty work, expecting me to anticipate his needs. If I ever felt slighted or expressed hurt, he’d smirk and say, “Didn’t you volunteer for this?” It left me utterly speechless. Like right now. He wanted me in LA to manage his life, but he made Tyler deliver the command. Tyler glared at me. “Cora, if you’re not going to LA, where else could you possibly go?” “I’m thinking of going abroad,” I said, my voice steady. Weston scoffed, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. “Abroad? Since when?” His usual cool, detached facade was slipping. He looked genuinely rattled. “Since now,” I replied. His face hardened. Tyler chimed in with a sneer, “Oh, please. The help’s kid is putting on airs now? Don’t come crying to us when you realize what a massive mistake you’re making.” “The help’s kid.” That was their favorite label for me. My dad was the Drakes’ personal driver; my mother was their housekeeper. My family’s livelihood depended on their charity. To them, I was born to be second-class. But I didn’t let the insult sting. “Give the opportunity to someone who actually wants it,” I said smoothly. “Excuse me.” I grabbed my bag and walked out. Behind me, I heard the whispers. “What crawled up her sleeve today?” “Don’t sweat it, Weston. She’ll come crawling back. She always does.” Weston’s voice floated after me, lazy and arrogant. “Who’s sweating? I don’t care if she goes or not.” He was convinced I was just playing hard to get. I didn’t slow down. My heart hammered against my ribs as I bolted back to the dorm. Sitting at my desk, I opened my laptop. There, sitting in my inbox, was the official offer letter from the Silicon Valley firm. The tears came hot and fast. It was real. I was back. I was twenty-two, and the future was mine to rewrite. 02 In my past life, I followed him to LA. He won the competition, signed with a major label, and became an overnight sensation. I turned down every job offer, every academic path, to become his glorified assistant. Then, we got married. There was no ceremony, no diamond ring, no public announcement. He forbade me from telling anyone. “Just wait,” he’d whisper in the dark. “Once my career stabilizes, I’ll give you the wedding of your dreams.” His fans hated how close I was to him. They called me a social climber, a leech trying to hitch a ride on a star. Even my friends warned me: “He can have any beautiful woman in Hollywood. What makes you think you can keep him?” I swallowed the humiliation. Even my own parents didn’t know we were married. When I turned thirty, we were still a secret. My parents were frantic. My mother wept, begging me to let Weston go and move on with my life. Seeing her heartbroken, I finally begged Weston to at least let us break the news to our families. He sighed, claiming his mother would never accept it. “We have to wait a few more years for the right moment,” he said. “Unless… you want to go tell her yourself?” He knew I wouldn’t. Mrs. Drake was my ultimate terror. I had been a left-behind child in the countryside. Every summer, my parents would bring me to the city to live with them for two months. We lived in the damp basement of the Drakes’ massive estate. My mother constantly whispered in my ear: “Be useful. Keep quiet. Don’t make a sound, or they’ll kick us out.” I grew up terrified of being thrown away. Especially by Mrs. Drake. She’d sit on her plush velvet sofa, looking down her nose at me, criticizing how skinny, dark, and clumsy I was. If she found out I had married her precious son, she would have torn me to shreds. I had no leverage. No spine. I waited year after year, watching Weston collect awards and build a financial empire. I died without ever getting my wedding, or my name next to his. 03 I pulled out my phone and immediately canceled my train ticket to LA. I opened Instagram. Weston had just posted a video of himself playing a violin track. The caption read: “As it always was.” It was a message meant for Scarlett Ward. Five years into our marriage, Scarlett returned from Europe. That was when I realized she existed—the ghost that had always occupied the corners of his mind. When they were together, they laughed and talked endlessly. For the first time, I realized Weston wasn’t cold; he just wasn’t warm to me. Soon, they became partners. From hit singles to music videos, world tours to indie films, they were inseparable. He was the brilliant actor-singer; she was the prodigy violinist. The media called them a match made in heaven. Even his fans embraced her, calling her the “real” Mrs. Drake. And he never corrected them. I had always felt like an imposter next to him. Being married to him felt like a lottery ticket I hadn’t earned. It happened during his third year in the industry, back when he was still struggling. He got a slot to perform at a major gala, but someone spiked his drink backstage. Desperate not to lose his shot, he begged me to help him through it. In that dark backstage room, terrified of losing everything, he clung to me. That night, we crossed a line. The next day, he took me to the courthouse to get registered. I knew it wasn’t out of love. I felt guilty, like I had taken advantage of his vulnerability. So when Scarlett reappeared, my insecurity flared like a wildfire. I threw tantrums, I picketed his studio. He merely shrugged it off. “It’s just PR, Cora. You’re being paranoid.” Once, after they spent the entire night locked in his study, I lost my mind and confronted her in public. Weston was furious. “Cora, do you have nothing better to do with your life? Scarlett lives for her art. Your baseless accusations are bordering on slander!” Scarlett had only smiled, a soft, patronizing thing. “It’s fine, Weston. I don’t hold grudges against housewives.” Her pity was sharper than any knife. It left me raw, humiliated, and utterly silent. 04 I had even secretly taken vocal lessons, foolishly believing it would give us something to talk about. But Scarlett caught me practicing once. She mimicked my awkward pitch and clumsy posture to Weston, giggling behind her hand. “I’m sorry, Weston. Her pronunciation was just so bizarre. I couldn’t help myself.” Weston rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. “It’s embarrassing. Like a monkey trying to paint.” I stood frozen outside the door, tears of pure shame burning my eyes. I ran back to my room and tore the sheet music to pieces. Later, Scarlett brought up my “music phase” at dinner parties, prompting polite, mocking chuckles from his industry friends. I had to force a smile and say, “It was too hard. I gave up on it a long time ago.” Within a year of her return, they started playing up their romantic chemistry for the cameras. I used to be Weston’s manager and assistant. I handled everything—booking gigs, managing contracts, dealing with publicists. His rise hadn’t been easy. The Drakes were comfortable in our mid-sized hometown, but their money was nothing compared to the millions required to bankroll a star. I endured the grittiest parts of the hustle with him. But Scarlett insisted he needed a “professional team.” One by one, my responsibilities were handed over to slick agency executives. Until I was locked out entirely. I watched them walk red carpets together, dropping hints about their shared history. I grew bitter, jealous, and unrecognizable to myself. Scarlett would tease Weston about me: “Look at the mess she made. She’s only a liability.” Then she’d turn her pitying gaze to me. “Weston works so hard, Cora. If you can’t help him, at least don’t drag him down. A woman needs her own identity. Clinging to a man never works.” She was a terrible person, but she wasn’t wrong. Back then, I remember wishing with every fiber of my being that if I could do it all over, I would never let Weston Drake into my life. Thank God someone was listening. Now, the tech giant’s offer is still waiting in my inbox. I actually have a choice. 05 I slept terribly that night. Scarlett’s sneering face kept flashing behind my eyelids. “Your marriage was a mistake from the start, Cora. Do yourself a favor and leave with some dignity.” She had spoken with such authority, as if I were the mistress and she the aggrieved wife. I had stared at her, dumbfounded. “Oh, does that hurt? Or are you just bitter? Having sex with him in a filthy backstage bathroom… I don’t know if I should call you desperate or cheap. No wonder he refuses to tell the world you’re his wife.” I hadn’t realized Weston viewed that night with such disgust. Even worse, he had shared our private, intimate moments with Scarlett. It felt like being stripped naked and paraded in front of my worst enemy. My chest felt tight, my face hot, my throat closing up. She had leaned her chin on her hand, smiling like a cat. “Don’t you think that whole ‘spiked drink’ incident was a little too convenient? Weston and I both think the timing was absolutely perfect. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” The accusation hit me like a physical blow. He suspected me? How dare he? By then, my depression had already spiraled out of control. I couldn’t remember what she said next. My mind had dissolved into white noise. I remember driving home in a daze, my hands shaking on the wheel. Then, the blinding headlights, the screech of tires against the guardrail, the crushing impact. When my soul detached from my body, I saw my parents. They were sobbing, their faces gray with grief. They had spent their entire lives, breaking their backs, just to raise me. And I had given them nothing but a corpse. The regret was a physical weight. I regretted my weakness, my surrendered career, my obsession with a boy who never loved me. Because my spirit was bound by resentment, I couldn’t cross over. I watched Weston and Scarlett’s lavish wedding. I watched him tell reporters about their “eternal love story,” how they were childhood sweethearts separated by distance but never in heart. They admitted they were essentially dating on the studio’s dime. Scarlett even boasted that the years after her return had been the sweetest of her life. Even in death, the betrayal cut to the bone. 06 I woke up sobbing several times during the night. When dawn finally broke, I gave up on sleep. I got up and washed my face. The dark circles under my eyes were heavy, so I took extra time to apply concealer and makeup. My roommate, Taylor, watched me from her bed, letting out a sharp laugh. “I thought you weren’t going to LA, Cora? Getting up at dawn to put on a full face of makeup? You’re such a hypocrite.” I knew it. None of them had believed me yesterday. I didn’t bother explaining. I packed my bags and got into a cab. Maeve sent me a furious voice note. “Cora! Where is your spine? If I had been in the dorm, I would have locked you in! Are you seriously going to LA?” Maeve had always detested Weston. She thought he was a pretentious, self-righteous snob. She forwarded me a few screenshots. It was a photo Taylor had taken of me packing, posted in their joint group chat—the one that included Weston’s roommates, but excluded me. “Relax guys, she was just bluffing. She’s already on her way.” The replies were brutal. “Lmao, I actually thought she had a spine for a second. The help’s kid trying to act like she’s going abroad.” “And now she’s slinking back to LA.” “Whatever. Weston, don’t be too hard on her. You need someone to do your laundry anyway. Having her around saves you a lot of trouble.” “Make her wait at the station for a few hours. Teach her a lesson.” Maeve was breathing heavily in the audio. “Cora, I want to rip your head open and see what’s inside! Cancel the ticket! They’re literally laughing at you, and you’re just running to them?” I smiled and texted her a screenshot of my actual ticket. “Calm down, babe. I’m on a train to Chicago.” “I have a visa interview.” 07 My job offer was based in Silicon Valley, which meant I needed a visa. The nearest consulate was in Chicago. I slept soundly on the train ride. When I woke up, my phone was practically vibrating off the seat. 99+ missed calls. 99+ unread messages. At first, they were demanding to know where I was. Then, the tone shifted to anger, accusing me of being irresponsible and leaving Weston stranded. I laughed, typing out cold, biting replies to every single person who had insulted me, and then blocked them one by one. I had planned to keep up appearances until graduation, but they had made that impossible. Weston didn’t get his personal assistant. He had to board the flight to LA alone. He didn’t call. He just sent a single text: “?” Typical Weston. Our chat history was a sea of green bubbles on my side—long, frantic paragraphs of me checking in on him—and short, icy fragments from him. This time, I left him on read. I knew what lay ahead for him. In LA, he would meet his mentor. He would sign with a powerhouse agency, release his debut single, and rocket to fame. Later, his looks and brooding intensity would land him leading roles in film, making him an Oscar-winning superstar before thirty. His path was paved with gold. But I wouldn’t be the pavement anymore. 08 The visa interview went smoothly. I took the train back to my hometown that same evening. The moment I saw my parents standing on the platform, the dam broke. I threw my arms around my mother and sobbed. She patted my back, utterly bewildered. My parents were simple, quiet people. They didn’t know how to navigate big emotions, let alone express them. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Why are you crying?” “Nothing,” I choked out. “I just… I missed you guys so much.” “But we just saw you at Easter,” my mother said, touching my forehead to check for a fever. She had no idea that in my mind, it had been a lifetime since I last held her. In my previous life, after I died, my parents aged ten years overnight. When my mother was packing up my belongings, she found our secret marriage certificate. By then, Weston had already gone public with Scarlett, flaunting their romance on every late-night show. My parents, fueled by a rare, desperate courage, took that certificate to the Drake estate to demand answers. But Mrs. Drake only spat on them. She tore the paper to shreds and screamed, “Your daughter was a shameless leech who drugged my son and forged a fake certificate! Thank God she died before she could ruin him completely!” “Shut up! Our Cora would never do that!” My parents, who had spent their entire lives bowing their heads and telling me to stay humble, fought like wild animals that day. When the security guards dragged my mother away, they broke her wrist, but she refused to let go of the torn pieces of my marriage certificate. She didn’t know the marriage was registered in public records. She just wanted to protect her daughter’s dignity. My father was left bleeding from his temple. Now, looking at their dark, thick hair and their unwrinkled faces, a wave of profound relief washed over me. They were still whole. 09 Three days after I got home, Weston showed up. In my past life, the singing competition lasted for over a month. We hadn’t even made it back for graduation. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in our hometown right now. He walked down the gravel driveway, his tall frame cutting through the afternoon light. But as he drew closer, I noticed something was off. His posture, the heavy, desperate look in his eyes… This wasn’t a twenty-two-year-old boy. This was… “Cora,” he whispered. My brain went completely numb. “What are you doing here?” “You blocked me,” he said, his voice raw. “I had to come find you.” He tried to smile, but his eyes were dark and haunted. That look. I knew it instantly. Before Scarlett had returned in our past life, Weston and I had actually found a rhythm. He started helping me with dinner. He bought tickets to Tahiti because I mentioned I’d never seen the ocean. He’d leave designer handbags on my vanity, and wrap his arms around my waist from behind, whispering my name. We were almost happy. Until Scarlett came back and shattered the illusion. I stared at him, cold and silent. “I’ve been having these… dreams,” Weston said, taking a step closer. “Every night for the past week. Terrible, vivid dreams.” “And when I wake up, my chest hurts so bad I can’t breathe.” “Cora… I regret it.”

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When I came home, my father was slamming the door on his way out, fresh off another violent rage. I ran to my mother, sobbing, throwing my arms around her bloodied shoulders, only to be met with a stinging slap across my face. “I endure all of this because of you! If you had just gotten straight A’s, your father wouldn’t have blamed me for spoiling you!” After that day, their screaming matches only grew more frequent, more violent. I didn’t dare stop studying. Not even for a second. Whenever sleep threatened to take me, I drove the sharp metal tip of my drafting compass deep into my thigh. When my focus wavered, I slapped myself hard across the face. I didn’t make friends. I didn’t sign up for extracurriculars. I even condensed my three meals into one rushed sitting, just to squeeze out more hours to study. It wasn’t until the day my Harvard acceptance letter arrived that I finally felt a wave of relief. I went upstairs to find my mother, but as I approached her bedroom, I heard laughter spilling through the crack of the door. “Well, those years of acting weren’t for nothing.” “The specialist was right. Guilt really is the best motivator.” My mother laughed, leaning into my father’s chest, her expression warm and affectionate. “The venue for tomorrow’s celebration banquet is already booked, and some local reporters are coming. We’ll tell her the truth tomorrow.” “When she realizes how much painstaking effort we put in just to get her into Harvard, she’s going to be so moved.” I stood in the hallway, my blood turning to ice. The years of blood, the screaming, the terror—it was all just a carefully choreographed play. A sudden, agonizing cramp seized my stomach, and a thick, metallic taste surged up my throat. To survive the brutal hours of studying, I had spent years abusing painkillers and caffeine pills on an empty stomach. My digestive system was already hollowed out, ravaged by ulcers. Mom, I finally became the perfect daughter you wanted. But I think I’m dying. … My stomach felt like it was being hollowed out with a dull knife, but I couldn’t move. My mind flashed back to the night before my high school entrance exams. They had put on a terrifying show. When I burst into the room, blood was streaming down my mother’s temple, painting half her face a horrific crimson. Screaming, I begged her to let me call an ambulance. But even then, she refused. She wept, saying medical care was too expensive, that every penny had to be saved for my tutoring and prep books so I could secure my future. Driven by agonizing guilt, I spent the entire summer secretly working twelve-hour shifts as a food delivery rider, desperate to buy her an expensive scar-fading cream. I worked through the nights, wearing through three pairs of sneakers. And now, they were laughing about how it had all been a performance? My fingers curled into tight fists. I wanted to fling the door open. I wanted to stand before them, look them dead in the eye, and force them to repeat those exact words to my face. I took a single step forward, but before I could touch the brass doorknob, my mother’s phone rang. Through the wood, I heard the muffled, shaking voice of a young girl weeping on the other end: “Mrs. Campbell… I choked during my Juilliard audition… I ruined everything…” “Is my life over?” My mother sat up instantly. Her voice softened into a gentle, soothing tone—a pitch of warmth she had never once used with me. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. A single audition doesn’t define your worth.” “Listen to me, Zoe. Grades don’t measure the value of a life, and college isn’t the finish line.” “You must never let one setback make you doubt yourself, okay?” Outside the door, the fiery anger in my chest was instantly doused by a bucket of ice water. My mother was a respected dance instructor. She had dozens of students who adored her. She could offer such gentle grace to a student who failed, yet she had never shown a fraction of that tenderness to her own daughter. I remembered my junior year midterms. I had placed second in the entire grade. When I brought the report card home, my mother slammed it onto the coffee table. She didn’t scream; she just stared at me with an expression of profound, crushing disappointment. That look terrified me more than any physical blow ever could. “Mom,” I had whispered, tears welling in my eyes. “I’ll do better next time. I promise…” “Next time?” “Do you have any idea how much misery I endure for you?” “If it weren’t for you, your father and I would have divorced years ago!” Her voice had risen, sharp and scraping, like nails dragging down a chalkboard. “If you can’t even secure the top spot, how can you look me in the eye?” “Don’t you understand? If you mess up your exams like this, your entire life is over!” Standing in the dim hallway, a hollow numbness washed over me. So my mother did know how to be kind. She just chose not to be kind to me. My hand rested on the doorknob. The biting cold of the brass seeped through my skin, traveling straight to my heart. Suddenly, the urge to confront them vanished. What would it even accomplish? Even if I stormed in and laid bare their lies, what would change? She would only knit her brows, looking at me with that familiar contempt. “What is wrong with your attitude? Who do you think we did all of this for?” “If we hadn’t pushed you, do you honestly think you would have ever gotten into Harvard?” They would never see their own cruelty. You cannot awaken those who are determined to keep their eyes closed. After a long, silent moment, I pushed the door open just a crack. When I spoke, my voice was barely a whisper. “Mom… my stomach really hurts. Can you… take me to the hospital?” As I spoke, my eyes instinctively drifted to the faint pink mark on her temple. For three years, I had never questioned why that scar never seemed to fade or change. I had only hated myself for not working more delivery shifts, for not earning enough to buy her the premium treatments. It had never occurred to me that the scar was nothing more than stage makeup. A warm, metallic wave rose in my throat. I forced myself to swallow it down. A deep, aching regret bloomed in my chest. I hadn’t truly lived a single day for myself. I wanted to get well. I wanted to eat a hot meal in a college dining hall, to sit in a library and read a book that had absolutely nothing to do with an exam. Or even just to lie on the grass and breathe clean air without the weight of the world crushing my chest. But my mother merely frowned, her tone dismissive and sharp. “You probably slept with the AC too high last night.” “I’ve told you a thousand times to cover up during the summer, but you never listen.” “I’ll make you some ginger tea in a minute. Make sure you’re ready for the celebration banquet tomorrow.” I stood frozen, utterly numb. But she wasn’t finished. “Getting into college is just the beginning, Hannah. This is the exact moment students lose their drive.” She dropped a heavy stack of textbooks onto my desk. “These are introductory college syllabi and prep materials. Start reviewing them tonight so you don’t lose your edge.” I stared at her, disbelief mingling with the agonizing fire burning in my gut. “Mom… please. I’m really sick.” Before I could finish, her irritation flared. “Here we go again. Every time I ask you to study, you magically get sick.” “Who are you trying to guilt-trip with that face?” “Do you think you’re special just because you got into Harvard? Think you can coast now?” “Let me tell you something, your life has barely started.” With a dismissive wave, she swept past me and headed to the living room. Seconds later, the sharp crash of shattering glass echoed from the hallway. Then came the familiar, theatrical shouting. “Are you out of your mind?!” “Me? I’m losing my mind because you don’t know how to raise our daughter!” “Stop blaming me for everything!” Peering through the crack of my bedroom door, I watched my mother fall to the floor. A fresh streak of bright red blood began to trickle down her temple. I pulled myself up, swaying on my feet, and walked slowly to the doorway. I just stood there, watching them. My parents both turned their heads to look at me. They were waiting. Waiting for me to break down. Waiting for the familiar tidal wave of guilt to swallow me whole. Waiting for me to drop to my knees, beg for their forgiveness, and promise to study until my fingers bled just to keep their marriage alive. But this time, I simply closed the door. Gently. Quietly. Just before the latch clicked, I caught the briefest flicker of confusion in their eyes. I sat down at my desk and pulled open the top drawer. Sitting inside was the drafting compass that had kept me awake through a thousand sleepless nights. I gripped the metal tool and drove the sharp point deep into my thigh. Once. Twice. Three times. Warm blood bloomed through the fabric of my jeans, and the familiar, sharp agony flared up my leg. It worked. The physical pain in my leg began to dull the agonizing burning in my stomach. With trembling fingers, I picked up my pen and opened the college prep book. As the blood dripped slowly down my leg, staining the carpet, I looked down at it and smiled. Tomorrow, Mom. Tomorrow, Dad. The curtain is finally going to fall on your masterpiece. And the perfect daughter you created will remain frozen in this exact moment forever. The next morning, before the sun had even cleared the horizon, my mother pushed my door open. She held a beautiful, flowing white dress in her hands, her voice carrying a rare, cheerful warmth. “Get up and try this on. I bought it specially for today.” I stared at the pristine white fabric, took it from her, and slipped it on. But when I stood before the mirror, my heart sank. The slit of the dress shifted, exposing a patch of skin on my calf. It was a map of my secret torment—crisscrossed with old, silver scars. And right in the middle were the fresh, angry punctures from last night, covered in dark red scabs. I hesitated, then called out to her through the partially open door. “Mom… is there any way I could wear something else?” The warmth instantly drained from her face. “Wear something else? Do you have any idea how much this dress cost?” “I haven’t bought myself a decent outfit in years, all so you could stand on that stage looking beautiful. And you want to toss it aside?” A dull ache throbbed in my chest. I lowered my head, keeping my voice soft. “Mom, you don’t have to sacrifice so much for me. I would have been fine wearing my school blazer.” After all, I was already slipping away. I wasn’t worth the expense of her sacrifices anymore. But her expression hardened, her eyes flashing with hurt and anger. “Are you really going to start acting ungrateful now, Hannah?” “After everything I’ve suffered to get you here, this is how you repay me?” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and closed my eyes. “I’m sorry, Mom.” “I’ll wear it.” Once she left, I closed the door and pulled a sewing kit from my desk. I threaded a needle with strong white cotton. Then, taking a deep breath, I pushed the needle straight through the skin of my calf. The thread pulled tight, dragging against my flesh, leaving angry red welts. But pain had been my closest companion for years. I didn’t even flinch. I systematically stitched the inner lining of the white dress directly to the skin of my leg. Secure. Anchored. The fabric wouldn’t slip. No one would see the ugly truth beneath the pristine white hem. The celebration my parents had planned had to be perfect. It was the final gift I could give them. Ten minutes later, I walked out of my room in the white dress to find a guest in our living room. My mother was smiling warmly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind a young girl’s ear. I froze, recognizing her. It was Zoe, one of the star pupils from my mother’s dance class. On the coffee table in front of them sat a stunning bouquet of white lilies and a beautifully wrapped gift box. Zoe looked up and offered me a bright, genuine smile. “Mrs. Campbell, I wanted to congratulate Hannah in person. Getting into Harvard… it’s absolutely incredible.” My mother’s gaze drifted toward me, the warmth fading slightly from her expression. “Oh, she’s just a bookworm. And lately, she’s been getting a bit of an attitude.” My mother waved her hand dismissively, guiding Zoe back down onto the sofa. “But let’s not talk about her.” “How are you holding up, sweetie? Feeling any better about the auditions?” “Did you look over those alternative programs I researched for you?” Watching them sit close, sharing quiet whispers and gentle laughter, a sharp, localized ache spread through my chest. To anyone watching, they looked like the perfect mother and daughter. Sensing my silence, Zoe gave me a polite smile and stood up, walking over to me. “Seriously, Hannah, congratulations on Harvard. I’m so incredibly happy for you.” I stared into her clear, bright eyes. Suddenly, a memory from a lifetime ago surfaced. I was in the fifth grade, and a new girl had transferred to my class. She was bubbly and kind, always dragging me to sit with her at lunch. For her birthday, she had slipped a coupon for a movie night into my textbook. “Let’s go together this weekend,” she had written. It was the first time I had ever been invited anywhere. I was dizzy with excitement for an entire week. But when my mother found the invitation, she had thrown it into the trash, trembling with rage. “I tear my life apart every single day to give you a future!” “And you have the nerve to waste time hanging out with friends? How can you do this to me?” After that, I declined every invitation. I shut out everyone. My world shrunk until there was nothing left but my desk, endless practice tests, and a lamp that stayed lit until dawn. Looking at Zoe’s bright, unburdened smile, a wave of profound sorrow washed over me. I wish I could have had a friend like her. Someone to remember me. Someone to bring flowers on important days. Someone to be happy for my success. But I had spent my entire life completely, utterly alone. “Zoe is always so thoughtful,” my mother’s voice cut through my thoughts. She patted Zoe’s hand affectionately, but when her eyes flicked to me, her forehead creased. “Where are your classmates, Hannah? Why didn’t anyone come to celebrate with you?” “Do you really not have a single friend?” “How do you expect to survive in college if you don’t even know how to socialize?” Her words were like poisoned needles stabbing into my chest. I wanted to laugh. She was the one who had systematically cut every tie I ever tried to make. And now, she stood on her moral high ground, demanding to know why I was so isolated. Sensing the sudden tension, Zoe quickly tried to smooth things over. “Oh, Mrs. Campbell, Hannah worked so hard. She just didn’t have time for distractions.” She gently pressed the bouquet into my hands. “Congratulations, Hannah. Truly.” I took the lilies and whispered, “Thank you.” Shortly after, my parents led me out to the car to head to the venue. The banquet hall was already packed when we arrived. In addition to our relatives, the room was filled with local journalists and anxious parents hoping to learn the secret to raising an Ivy League scholar. My mother stood at the center of the stage, her smile radiant under the spotlight. As soon as the master of ceremonies finished introducing her, she took the microphone. “So many parents have asked me how we did it. How did we raise a Harvard student?” “Today, I want to share our secret with all of you.” The room fell into an eager, expectant silence. My mother offered a knowing smile. “Actually, the secret is quite simple.” “Guilt is the absolute best motivator.” Standing beside her on stage, a deep, bone-chilling cold crept through my limbs. But my mother was energized now, her voice rising with pride. “When a child feels like they owe everything to their parents, they don’t need to be pushed. They will run themselves ragged just to make up for it!” Smiling, she reached into her purse and pulled out a small, transparent plastic bag filled with fake blood. “All those years of violence, the blood—it was all a performance.” “Even the scar on my temple was just professional stage makeup.” Beside her, my father beamed with pride, nodding in agreement. “We sacrificed our peace of mind for our daughter,” he chimed in. “But now that she’s Ivy League-bound, every single act was worth it!” A stunned silence gripped the hall for a fraction of a second, followed immediately by an explosion of thunderous applause. Several parents rose to their feet, clapping enthusiastically, while others eagerly scribbled notes in their journals. The smile on my mother’s face grew wider, basking in the adoration of the crowd. But inside me, a thousand rusted blades were tearing through my stomach. The thick, coppery taste of blood surged into my mouth. I clamped my teeth together, fighting the urge to vomit. Not here. Not now. This is their crowning achievement. I can’t ruin it. But my body betrayed me. A dark thread of crimson began to trickle down the corner of my mouth, stark against my pale skin. Someone in the front row gasped. “Oh my god! Look at her mouth! Is that blood?” My mother’s smile faltered. She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a harsh, venomous whisper. “Hannah, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Stop this nonsense right now.” Turning back to the crowd, she forced her face into a warm, reassuring smile. “I’m so sorry, everyone. She just found out about our little secret, and she’s throwing a bit of a tantrum.” She pointed playfully at the fake blood packet on the podium. “She must have gotten her hands on some of the stage makeup to play a prank.” But a concerned parent in the audience stood up. “Mrs. Campbell, she looks incredibly pale. Maybe you should take her to the clinic?” My mother glanced at me, her irritation growing, and waved her off. “No, she’s fine. She’s just being stubborn.” “When she’s older, she’ll understand that everything we did was out of love.” She raised the microphone again, her tone ringing with absolute conviction. “I shared our method today because I want to help other families succeed.” “I truly believe that guilt-driven parenting is the future of education.” “And my daughter is the living proof of that success.” “One day, when she graduates from Harvard and stands at the peak of her career, she will look back and thank me for every tear she shed!” A bitter, silent laugh caught in my chest, drowned in the copper tang of my own blood. But Mom… I’m never going to graduate. The world spun violently, turning into a blur of bright lights and roaring noise. My knees gave out, and I collapsed onto the stage. The room erupted into chaos. Screams clashed with frantic whispers. And for the first time, the triumphant smile on my mother’s face vanished entirely.

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I was trapped in a survival horror game with the heir to New York’s most ruthless empire—the same man who had humiliated me in the real world. Only here, the script was flipped. He was forced to play an NPC hopelessly, tragically obsessed with me. Dean Payne. In reality, he was aloof, arrogant, untouchable. Right now, he was on one knee, trembling so violently it looked like he might shatter. “Please,” he rasped, his voice rough with need. “Just give me…” The System flashing in my peripheral vision demanded that I say yes. But it didn’t give me a script. I leaned in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear, and let out a soft, mocking laugh. “You look absolutely pathetic like this,” I whispered. “It’s sickening.” 01 I won’t lie. Having Dean Payne looking up at me from his knees felt incredibly good. I wanted to savor it for just a second longer. But the translucent red text of the System hovered in the air between us, blinking with escalating urgency. [Say yes.] [Say yes say yes say yes…] I waved a hand through the holographic text, dismissing it. All around us, the eyes of the crowd tracked my movement. Some of them were actual Players; others, like me, were just NPCs. We were all dressed in identical elite prep school blazers, standing in a suffocating circle, staring blankly. This was a high school battle-royale instance. [Love or Death] The lore was simple: A vampire boy falls at first sight for a human girl, pursuing her with terrifying intensity. Because of the barrier between their species, she rejects him, over and over. Finally, crushing under the weight of his obsession, she fakes a confession of love, only to flee and hide among the student body. The boy goes utterly feral. The vampire clan uses her betrayal as an excuse to hunt humans. By day, the campus is a facade of peaceful, tension-filled interactions. By night, the masks drop, and the slaughter begins. The Players were assigned factions. Their only goal was survival. As for Dean and me? Our job was to act out the prologue. We were essentially the unskippable live-action cutscene. Inside the cavernous gymnasium, thousands of white roses had been arranged into a massive, suffocating heart. Dean knelt in the center of it, his head tilted back. The corners of his eyes were flushed with a feverish, sickly red. As his lips parted, the sharp points of his fangs caught the overhead lights. He looked entirely unraveled. Agonized by unrequited love. It was a staggering contrast to the man he was in the waking world. Dean was seven years older than me. The crown prince of the Payne family, a man who looked at the rest of the world as if it were gum stuck to his Oxford shoes. Normally, a scholarship kid like me wouldn’t even breathe the same air as him. But his younger sister, Brooke, happened to be my desk-mate and my only real friend. Right after our final exams, Brooke invited me to the family’s sprawling Hamptons estate to celebrate her birthday. The crushing weight of high school was finally off my shoulders. I let my guard down. I drank way too much champagne, got entirely lost in the labyrinth of their mansion, and stumbled through the wrong oak door. I crashed right into Dean, who had just stepped out of the shower. My face was instantly smothered in damp silk and the heavy, expensive scent of sandalwood body wash. Rubbing my bruised nose, I slurred a dizzy apology, backing away. But Dean didn’t see an accident. He saw a gold-digger playing a cheap trick. He looked down his perfectly sculpted nose at me, his eyes freezing over. “If you’re going to try and climb into my bed, you could at least use a strategy that isn’t so painfully cliché. Is this what they teach you in public school?” Brooke had run in right then, breathless, stepping between us. “Dean, stop! June isn’t like that,” she defended me. “She’s brilliant, she works three jobs, she tutors me for free. She’s my best friend. You don’t get to talk to her like that.” Dean had simply scoffed, a short, ugly sound. “Brilliant indeed. She figured out exactly how to use you to get to me.” The anger had hit me so fast it completely incinerated the alcohol in my blood. I stood tall, looking him dead in the eye, and made a vow right there on his imported rug. “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Payne. I could be utterly alone for the rest of my life, I could be blinded, I could throw myself off the balcony of this ridiculous house, and I still wouldn’t look twice at a man like you.” That very night, we both went to sleep and woke up trapped in this godforsaken Game. Back in the gym, Dean was still waiting for my answer. His muscles corded and jerked as he fought his programming. The same mouth that had dripped with aristocratic disdain in reality was now reduced to a broken loop of begging. “Love me. Please. Just love me.” “If I can’t have your love, I’ll wither away and die.” Listen to him. He was practically reciting bad poetry. The System prompt was flashing violently now, demanding I say yes to trigger the bloodbath. But I noticed there was no countdown timer. I reached out, hooking a finger under Dean’s rigid jaw, and forced him to look at me. I leaned in slow. “You really want me to say yes, don’t you?” I murmured. “But every word out of your mouth makes my skin crawl.” “And looking at you like this? It’s repulsive. I wish I had my phone so I could record this and show the board of directors. The great, untouchable Dean Payne, reduced to this.” I smiled, letting the words drip like acid. “You look like a dog, begging for scraps.” All the color violently drained from his face. The heavy knot of resentment in my chest finally loosened. Satisfied, I straightened my spine, ready to deliver my line and advance the plot. But before I could open my mouth, the System prompt expanded, bleeding across my entire field of vision in jagged crimson letters. [Warning: Out of Character behavior detected. NPC [June] task failed. Initiating Punishment Sequence.] [Brace yourself. 10, 9, 8, 7…] I froze. “Wait, what the hell—” “It’s too late.” I didn’t even see him stand up. Suddenly, Dean was just there, towering over me. I took a panicked step back, but he matched it, stalking forward. His eyes were glowing a dim, terrifying crimson. The fangs I had mocked were now fully elongated, resting against his lower lip. “If you refuse to love me,” he whispered, his voice dark and entirely devoid of the game’s programming, “then you can die with my love instead.” And then, he lunged. 02 Night fell instantly. The prep school warped into a hunting ground. I shoved my hands hard against his chest, breaking his grip, and turned, running as fast as my legs could carry me. Screams erupted behind me. Players and NPCs were already scattering as the slaughter began. I blended into the panicked herd, taking sharp lefts and chaotic rights until I found myself in an abandoned music room in the old wing of the campus. I threw myself behind a rotting grand piano, pressing my back against the chipped wood. My heartbeat was a physical assault against my eardrums, throbbing with a sickening rhythm. My chest heaved. I pulled my knees to my chin and clamped both hands over my mouth, terrified to even draw breath. I stayed completely frozen until the sounds of tearing flesh and screaming faded into the distance. Only then did I let out a shaky exhale. My nerves were completely fried. I needed a plan. Hiss… A sharp sting bloomed on my calf. I looked down in the gloom. I had caught my leg on something during the sprint. A thin scratch, about the length of my hand, was weeping blood. The crimson drops slid down my ankle, gathering at the bone before falling, heavy and dark, onto the floorboards. Instantly, a voice drifted down from the ceiling, light as a ghost. “Found you.” The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I screamed, scrambling backward on my hands and knees, desperate to run. Too late. My lower back slammed into the piano keys, unleashing a heavy, atonal groan into the silent room. Dean’s hand clamped around my ankle. His grip was absolute iron, squeezing so hard I felt the bones grind together. He leaned down, his mouth open, ravenous. A violent shudder ripped through me. I kicked out with my free leg. “Dean! Snap out of it!” I yelled, my voice cracking. “Look at me! Remember who I am! If you don’t want to wake up and hate yourself, let me go right now—agh!” “Don’t—don’t bite—” It was useless. The man was gone. He was nothing but predatory instinct now. The pain hit like a lightning bolt, making me convulse. My body temperature plummeted, my strength evaporating into the cold air. The darkness pulled me under. When I opened my eyes again, the heavy velvet ceiling of the Hamptons guest room stared back at me. Was it a nightmare? I sat up, pushing the heavy duvet aside. I needed to wash my face. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my weight on my feet. My right leg buckled immediately, sending me to my knees. I gasped, looking down. My right calf was covered in a sprawling, angry red rash. And right around my ankle, perfectly shaped like a hand, was a ring of dark bruises. I reached out, tapping the skin tentatively. I blinked in shock. “It doesn’t hurt?” “So… last night was real. But if I died, why did I wake up here?” And what about Dean? What the hell was happening to him? I had promised Brooke I would stay the night for her birthday weekend. I couldn’t just bolt without causing a scene. I moved mechanically, showering, dressing, and heading downstairs. I walked into the sun-drenched breakfast room and froze. Dean was sitting at the head of the long oak table, dressed in soft, grey loungewear, sipping a black espresso. Thank god he wasn’t wearing a white shirt. I took a deep breath, lifted my chin, and met his eyes. “…” “…” Absolute silence. We both snapped our heads away at the exact same second. Perfect. That confirmed it. It wasn’t a dream, and he remembered everything just as clearly as I did. Well, this was a special kind of hell. I walked to the absolute farthest end of the twelve-seat table and sat down. A moment later, Brooke wandered in, yawning and stretching. “Morning, Dean,” she mumbled, before seeing me. “June! You’re up.” She padded over, dropping into the chair next to me and leaning her head on my shoulder. “Do you have a headache? How did you sleep?” My eyes flicked to the head of the table. I caught Dean looking our way, his jaw tight. I swallowed the heavy, complicated truth sitting on my tongue. Instead, I casually reached down and rubbed my right leg. Exactly as planned, Brooke noticed. “Oh my god, why is it so red?” she gasped, dropping to a crouch to examine my calf. Her fingers brushed the skin lightly. “Does it hurt? What happened?” “It’s fine, really,” I said, pulling her back up into her chair. I raised my voice just enough to ensure it carried to the other end of the room. “I think I was just bitten by some obnoxious, blood-sucking pest.” Dean let out a harsh scoff. He pushed his chair back, the wood scraping loudly against the tile, and stood up. He walked out without touching his food. Ah, the luxury of the rich. Unlike us working-class mortals, who couldn’t afford to waste a meal. I took a massive bite of a warm dumpling, washed it down with sweet soy milk, and closed my eyes in pure, carb-induced bliss. “Maria.” Dean’s voice cut through the room. He had turned back in the doorway. “Bring a plate of dumplings and coffee up to my study.” Me: … Suddenly, the dumpling tasted like cardboard. Dean turned on his heel, his footsteps noticeably lighter as he took the stairs. He would never admit it out loud, but just a few moments ago in that dining room, he had almost lost the war with his own body. He curled his hands into fists as he walked, but the phantom sensation of soft, bruised skin beneath his fingers refused to fade. The memories of the night before slammed into his brain. The dissonant, jarring crash of the piano keys. The broken, quiet sound of her crying. And that scent. That maddening, intoxicating scent. When June had walked past him toward the end of the table, it had taken every ounce of his legendary self-control not to vault over the mahogany wood and tear into her throat. Dean closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he let out a ragged breath. “…This is going to kill me.” 03 I politely declined Brooke’s desperate pleas for me to stay the rest of the weekend, rented a Citi Bike, and pedaled back to my reality. I say “home,” but it was a cramped, fourth-floor walk-up in Queens. I grew up in the foster system. The minute I aged out, I packed a duffel bag and never looked back. I survived high school on state grants, tips, and sheer spite. Now, I needed to build a war chest for my college tuition. My days were a blur of delivery bags, commercial dishwashers, and balancing trays of drinks. By the time I staggered through my front door, I was dead on my feet. I collapsed onto my mattress and was gone. I closed my eyes. I opened them. And I was back in the Game. After a few of these cycles, I had finally cracked the algorithm. Rule one: The transition only happened when I fell asleep at night. Rule two: An instance lasted for five in-game days. After that, we got a two-day “weekend” in reality before the next round began. Honestly, it just felt like picking up another shift, only this one offered a weekend off. Plus, Dean and I were basically glorified cutscene actors. Once we delivered our prologue lines, our shifts were over. We spent the rest of the time as background scenery, completely ignored by the Players. This time, the setting was a sprawling, Gilded Age estate. Inside a cavernous ballroom dripping with crystal chandeliers, aristocrats in heavy velvet and silk milled around long tables groaning with roasted meats and overflowing wine. And me? I was standing against the wall in a stiff, itchy maid’s uniform. God, I’m so tired. I couldn’t even escape the service industry in my nightmares. The theme of this instance was a locked-room murder mystery. A wealthy Duke was hosting a private gala, but by morning, he would be found dead in his study. The estate gates were sealed. The Players—guests at the party—couldn’t leave. They had to find the killer while surviving whatever lurked in the manor’s shadows. Dean, naturally, was playing the Duke. He stood near the fireplace in a flawlessly tailored three-piece suit. A gold-rimmed monocle caught the firelight, and the pigeon-blood rubies on his cufflinks were darker than the burgundy wine swirling in his glass. He caught my eye from across the room and gave a faint, lazy nod of acknowledgment. At that exact moment, the System pinged. My cue. I picked up a silver tray. On it rested a porcelain plate holding a delicate, gold-leaf-dusted mousse cake. It smelled incredible. My stomach gave a violent, embarrassing rumble. I had been running between jobs all day in the real world and hadn’t eaten a thing. Now that I was standing still, the hunger was a physical ache. I walked over. Dean dabbed the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin and spoke, his tone unhurried and dripping with condescension. “Allow me to remind you, you are currently a maid.” “You don’t want to get punished for breaking character again, do you?” I: “…” I took a slow, deep breath. “Please.” Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Unacceptable. Where is the title? My status here is quite obvious.” He’s really getting into this, the pretentious bastard. I kept my face entirely blank. “This was prepared specifically for you. Please taste it.” Dean looked at me with faux pity. “So slow. Tell me, are you only capable of memorizing textbooks?” He leaned in slightly. “Repeat after me.” “Please enjoy, Master.” I shot him a look that could have shattered glass. This was petty, targeted revenge, wasn’t it? Dean met my glare with absolute calm. “Don’t forget the expression. You need to smile. Say it. Now.” I ground my molars together until my jaw ached. My lips twitched into a horrifying, rigid smile. “Please enjoy… M-Maste—” Before I could force the word out, the System prompt violently flashed red. [Dining phase concluded. NPC [Dean] failed to complete mandatory action. Task failed.] [Initiating Punishment Sequence. Rolling random penalty… Penalty selected.] [NPC [Dean]: Lethal Poison Experience activated.] A split second later, all the rigid aristocracy vanished from Dean’s posture. His knees buckled, and he pitched sideways. I caught him by the shoulders, plastering on my brightest, most venomous retail smile. “Do you require assistance…?” “Master?”

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Everyone thinks I’m a social climber trying to trap Bobby Welles into a marriage. A gold digger desperate to secure the bag. In reality? The man has a severe cognitive disorder. He doesn’t see me as a woman. He thinks I’m a cat. My System and I are at our wits’ end. Once again, I try proposing to him. Bobby sighs, his voice dripping with endless patience. “Sweetheart, humans and cats can’t legally marry.” Hearing this for the hundredth time, I lose my temper. I slap him across the face. He winces, his sharp jaw clenching as those deep, dark eyes narrow in slight pain. I feel a spark of hope. Did I finally snap him out of it? Then he gets up to grab the nail clippers, muttering under his breath, “Looks like somebody needs her claws trimmed.” I scream internally. “System! His affection meter is at a hundred percent! Why do we have to get married to clear this stupid quest?!” System: “You’re the one who wanted the shortcut, remember? I told you we should have cured his cognitive glitch first.” Bobby scoops me up and sets me on his lap. He gently holds my hand, carefully trimming my nails. The afternoon sun filters through the window, catching the absolute devotion in his eyes. To anyone else, it would look incredibly intimate. But to Bobby, this is just a routine chore for a dedicated pet owner. As long as I sit still, he’ll praise me, calling me his “regal, precious little champion.” I let out a bitter, breathless laugh. “I am a human.” … Bobby’s expression softens with that complicated look you give a kitten who has suddenly started pondering the universe. He’s proud, yet reluctant to shatter my illusions. “If you want to believe that, sweetheart, then you are.” A moment later, he pauses, looking puzzled. “How come I’ve never heard you meow?” Hope flares up in my chest. I stare at him, practically begging him with my eyes to put the pieces together. He just chuckles, going back to trimming my nails. There is a quiet, secret pride in his smile. “Of course. A genius kitten doesn’t need to meow.” System: “I’m out of ideas. The man would literally believe in a talking cat before he believes you’re a human. I can’t watch this anymore. I’m going to the shop to see if there are any useful items.” A few months ago, I was laid off from my dead-end marketing job. I was sitting on a plastic crate by the curb, chewing on a cold sandwich, when a rogue System bound itself to me. It told me my target was Bobby Welles—a man worth billions. I looked down at my split ends, my pilled sweater, and my scuffed sneakers. I blinked. “Me?” System: “Yes. He’s about to walk past.” I thought it was a joke. But then Bobby stopped in front of me. His usually cold, aloof gaze melted into pure, ecstatic wonder. He practically scooped me up, threw me into his car, and took me home. A filthy, unemployed human is a nuisance. But a scruffy, abandoned stray? You better grab her before someone else does. At first, I thought I was just a natural seductress. Until the night he dragged me to the bathroom door and immediately started trying to pull my clothes off. I reacted on instinct and punched him right in the jaw. He made these soft, shushing sounds, turning on the shower head. “Don’t be scared. It’s just bath time.” It was terrifying. I snatched the shower head and sprayed him straight in the face. He ended up completely soaked, his white shirt clinging to his chest and abs in a highly distracting way. Water dripped down his brow and jawline. He went silent, turned around, and walked out. I followed him, only to find him on his phone, googling: “What to do when a feral rescue refuses to bathe.” …? After a series of tests, the System and I concluded that Bobby wasn’t insane, nor did he have some bizarre roleplay kink. He genuinely had a cognitive blind spot. He truly believed I was a cat. Even when I tried to run away, he just assumed I was having a stress response. He’d gently coax me back, whispering sweet nothings. To break the illusion, I once dragged him to a cat cafe. I picked up a calico and held it right next to my face. “Look at me! Do we look the same to you?!” Bobby’s face flushed. He stumbled backward, waving his hands. I pressed closer. His breathing grew shallow, and tiny red hives started breaking out on his arms. The terrified staff rushed over with allergy medicine and ushered him out. Right. Bobby, the ultimate cat lover, was severely allergic to cat dander. Because of this, he spoiled me twice as hard. Thanks to him, I stepped foot into a luxury boutique for the first time in my life. By then, I had already given up on trying to prove my humanity. Honestly, Bobby was great at this. If you ignored the cat thing, he treated me like royalty. I had free rein of his credit cards, I could make a mess of the house, and I didn’t even have to dress up or wear makeup to win him over. I just lounged around in my pajamas, scavenging for snacks, and his affection meter would skyrocket. Occasionally, when I got annoyed by his constant cuddling and smacked him, he’d just chuckle and say, “My fierce little girl.” As I sat there, he draped one diamond necklace after another around my neck. “Wrap them all up,” he told the sales associate. Then he looked at me, entirely earnest. “Every single one looks beautiful on my little kitty.” Under the sales associate’s shocked-turned-knowing gaze, I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I clamped my hand over his mouth and dragged him out. Before long, rumors spread that Bobby was keeping a pampered mistress. Meanwhile, I looked at the progress bar and accepted my fate. I let him take endless photos of me sleeping to use as his lock screen. I let him collect my stray hairs after blow-drying my hair, muttering about how “shedding season requires better nutrition.” I got used to waking up to him kneeling by the bed, watching me open my eyes, letting out a soft, adoring sigh. I even stopped resisting when he insisted on taking me to his office. He was a permissive pet parent, and I was a spoiled pet. So when I ran into my former tyrannical manager at Bobby’s corporate headquarters, I didn’t hesitate to point a finger. “He’s an animal abuser. Are you going to let him slide?” But running wild like this eventually brought its own karma. Lately, Bobby had been acting strange. No more hugs. No more kisses. He would cook dinner, slide my plate across the table, and immediately walk away. Sometimes I’d catch him muttering to himself in dark corners, wrapped in a heavy, suffocating cloud of self-loathing. When did this start? I think it was the night he picked me up, weighed me in his arms, and sighed miserably about why he couldn’t get me to gain weight. Then he desperately begged me to sleep in his bed. But why should I? If I could clear this quest lying down, why should I do any work? I had struggled against his solid chest, suffocating in his muscles. He held me tight, kissing the top of my head repeatedly. A bed. A man and a woman. Hugs and kisses. All the ingredients of a romance. But there was zero sexual tension. Nobody tries to set a mood by rubbing your hair into a bird’s nest. As I was lost in thought, a sudden splash of hot coffee hit my thigh. The searing heat made me gasp, tears instantly welling in my eyes. The assistant shrugged carelessly. “Oh, sorry. You should really watch where you’re standing, Ms. Mercer.” I knew this guy. I’d overheard him in the breakroom once, laughing with some coworkers, calling me a gold-digging parasite who would get dumped the second Bobby got bored. So that was it. He thought because Bobby had been distant lately, I was easy prey. I stood up, gritting my teeth, and called out, “Bobby!” Usually, whenever I called his name, he’d appear in a flash, looking thrilled, and fix whatever problem I had. I had grown soft relying on him. But this time, there was only silence. In the quiet, tense office, my face burned with humiliation. The assistant smirked. “Mr. Welles didn’t tell you? He’s out with Miss Davenport. Their families are discussing an alliance. She’s actual old money. Not like some people who think a little attention means they’re getting a ring.” He sneered, turning on his heel and walking out. The System returned to find me sitting on the sofa, looking hollow. A red, angry burn was blooming on my thigh, and my white dress was stained with brown coffee. It gasped. “Host, what happened?” I shook my head. I used to be an orphan who spent her life walking on eggshells, reading the room. But in just a few months, Bobby’s endless spoiling had made me weak. I had gotten used to him fighting my battles, used to his unconditional warmth. I had forgotten how to defend myself. “System, if I forfeit the quest now, do I still get the ten thousand dollar consolation prize?” “Yes, but the completion reward is a million.” I stood up. When I walked out, the main floor was mostly empty. The remaining staff looked at me in surprise. I only asked where that assistant’s desk was. Once I found it, I saw his files and a fresh cup of coffee sitting there. I reached out and swept my hand across the desk, letting out a soft laugh. The coffee drenched his chair and his expensive wool coat. If being a social climber meant behaving badly, then in Bobby’s mind, I was just a kitten acting out. System: “Host… I actually managed to buy the cognitive correction item. Do you want to use it?” When Bobby returned, he carried the faint scent of a woman’s expensive perfume. But the moment he saw me, the exhaustion melted from his face. Then his eyes fell on my stained dress and the red burn on my skin. His expression darkened instantly as he rushed over. “What happened? Who did this?” My anger, which had finally cooled, flared up again at his sudden warmth. I turned my head away, snapping, “Why do you care?” Bobby immediately began apologizing, promising he would find out who did it. He leaned down, burying his handsome face against my stomach. I tried to push him away, but he only clung tighter. “Don’t be mad at me, Kitty,” he murmured, his voice muffled. “Please don’t leave. You were so thin when you lived on the streets. Last night, I dreamed I was a stray again, with no one to love me.” I looked down at the correction item in my hand, suddenly hesitating. Maybe I should just let it go. Was going back to cheap takeout, terrible bosses, and a cramped apartment really better than being Bobby’s pampered cat? But if Bobby married someone else, what would I be? I tested the waters. “What did you do today?” His fingers twitched, and he pulled back slightly. “…I met with a family friend. Lately, I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time I settle down.” I fell silent. Over the next few days, I quietly packed my bags, whispering a tearful goodbye to the beautiful clothes and jewelry in the closet. Bobby truly had impeccable taste. I had never looked healthier, my skin glowing and my hair shining. Then, I had the System activate the item. I braced myself for the next morning, when Bobby would wake up, realize he was harboring a grown woman, and throw me out. I spent the night calculating the value of the things I could take with me, deciding I’d still come out ahead. The next morning, I took a deep breath and opened the bedroom door. Bobby was already gone.

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Charles’s friends made a bet with him: “Win over the Barnett heiress, and I’ll write you a check for ten million.” His childhood sweetheart, Victoria, literally wrote him a ten-thousand-word playbook on how to seduce me. With a smug smirk, Charles accepted. The plan? Make me fall madly in love with him, dump me at the altar, and then turn around and marry Victoria. For nearly two years, he broadcasted our entire relationship, live-updating his group chat with every intimate detail. When my brother, who holds the financial lifeline of the Kingsley empire in his hands, asked me what I wanted to do about it, I just smiled. “Let’s remind them,” I said, “that you don’t play games with a Barnett.” …… Charles and I were finally engaged. The moment the announcement went public, our entire social circle erupted. The notoriously hard-to-please Barnett heiress had finally been tamed by the golden boy of the Kingsley dynasty. Charles had spent a year and a half pursuing me, and he had done it with the kind of grand, cinematic intensity that made headlines. Everyone in the city knew just how desperately devoted he was. When I casually mentioned wanting to escape to a spa, he chartered a private jet that very night to fly us to St. Barts. Whenever I pulled late nights at the office, he’d be waiting downstairs in the biting cold, holding a warm cup of my favorite chamomile tea and a fresh, flaky croissant tucked inside his cashmere coat to keep it warm. Once, I offhandedly remarked how much I loved the quiet melancholy of golden hour. To celebrate our first anniversary, he rented out an entire gallery in Chelsea, commissioning artists to paint the sunset in ninety-eight different cities around the world. My parents were thoroughly charmed. “He’s steady, Caroline,” my father had told me, patting his shoulder. “He’s the kind of man I can trust to take care of you.” “In this life, sweetheart,” my mother whispered, tears in her eyes, “marrying the right person is everything.” And I believed them. I believed him. I thought the fierce, breathtaking way he cared for me was because I was the only thing in his universe. Until his phone lit up on the nightstand. “Congrats, babe. The show is finally coming to an end. Wait until she’s in her wedding dress to dump her—it’ll be so much more dramatic. Once the bet is settled, you can finally come back to me.” I stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity. “Wait until she’s in her wedding dress to dump her.” “Once the bet is settled.” “The show is finally coming to an end.” My hand was remarkably steady as I picked up the device. He had set his passcode in front of me once, looking deeply into my eyes and promising that every password he owned would always be my birthday. I typed in the digits. The screen slid open. Pinned at the very top of his chat list was a group message. The title read: “The Playbook: Mission Seduction 3”. There were seven members, all hiding behind cartoon avatars and pseudonyms. I tapped into it and scrolled all the way back to the beginning. The group had been created nineteen months ago. Just a few days before I met Charles Kingsley. The group description read: “Dedicated entirely to Charles’s strategic pursuit of Caroline. Strictly confidential. Anyone who leaks screenshots dies single.” The very first message was from an account with a white tulip avatar. Victoria: @everyone Hey guys, got some great news. Charles lost a bet to Tyler, so now he has to seduce Caroline Barnett. To help him win, I’ve put together a step-by-step playbook. I’ll drop the strategies in here as we go, so make sure to back him up.” Tyler: Lmao holy shit, Charles, you’re a madman! Caroline is notoriously cold. Are you sure you can pull this off?” Wes: Why wouldn’t he? He’s got Tori’s playbook. Tori practically knows Caroline’s bra size at this point.” Victoria: @Wes Gross, shut up. I don’t care about her. I’m just doing the background research for Charles.” Charles: @Victoria Thanks, Tori. When I win, we split the money fifty-fifty.” Victoria: I don’t want the money, Charles. I just want you to get this over with so you can come back to me.” As I scrolled down, my fingers began to tremble, the chill creeping up my spine. Every single detail of our relationship had been a choreographed performance. The “chance” encounter at the university library. His opening line. The specific vintage roses he bought for our first date, the indie French film we watched, the rooftop proposal under the stars. All scripted by Victoria. I scrolled to the messages from just a few days ago. Victoria: I picked out the engagement ring. Tell her you spent months designing it yourself—she’ll eat it up. Also, she loves grand gestures, so make a scene when you propose. She’ll definitely cry.” Charles: She did cry. Thanks, Tori.” Victoria: Anytime. When are the engagement photos?” Charles: Next week.” Victoria: Perfect. Once the photos are done, you can pull the plug a week before the wedding.” Tyler: Oh man, I cannot wait! Caroline is going to be standing there in her white dress waiting for her groom, only for him to completely vanish. Comedy gold!” Wes: You guys are sick, but I love it. Make sure to livestream her reaction!” Victoria: Don’t be cruel, guys. Let her keep a little dignity.” Charles: Don’t worry, I won’t make it too brutal. I’ll just tell her I fell out of love and walk away. A ‘clean break.’” Victoria: I trust you, Charles. I’ll be waiting.” I carefully set the phone back on the nightstand, exactly where it had been. In the adjoining bathroom, the sound of running water hummed steadily. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling the warmth drain from my limbs until my blood felt like ice. Every memory that had ever made my heart flutter flashed before my eyes, tarnished and hollow. The first time he took me to the movies, choosing that obscure, melancholic romance film I adored. Victoria: According to her private Tumblr, she’s watched that movie three times. If you ask her to watch it, she’ll think you’re soulmates.” The way he would walk me to my brownstone door, kiss my forehead, and whisper, “Goodnight, Caroline. See you tomorrow.” Victoria: Don’t be too clingy, but don’t be distant either. Just say goodnight every single day. Make it a habit. The moment you skip a day, she’ll feel the void.” The first time he held my hand, during the first snow of the season. Victoria: The weather channel says it’s going to snow next Tuesday. Take her for a walk. When the flakes start falling, casually take her hand and say, ‘Your hands are freezing, let me warm them up.’ It works every single time.” Every flutter of my heart, every breath caught in my throat—all of it had been calculated down to the decimal point. The next morning, he left early, citing an urgent meeting at the office. The moment his car pulled out of the driveway, I opened my laptop. I didn’t just guess his password; I bypassed his cloud security to mirror his message logs. I scrolled through the history of that group chat, reading from the very beginning. The further I read, the colder I became. I watched Victoria dissect my personality like a specimen on a tray. Victoria: Caroline Barnett looks like a spoiled, untouchable princess on the outside, but she’s actually starved for affection. Her parents adore her, but they’ve been married to their careers her whole life. She grew up lonely. If you pay attention to the tiny details, if you pretend to be hyper-focused on her, she’ll fall. Nobody has ever given her that kind of undivided attention before.” Then came the dissection of my daily life. Victoria: I found her anonymous Instagram account under ‘caro_blue_98.’ She posts her raw thoughts there. Everything she loves, everything she hates—it’s all there. Just stick to the playbook, Charles, and you can’t fail.” She had found my private sanctuary. The thoughts I typed out in the dead of night—my insecurities, my loneliness, my desperate hope of finding someone who truly saw me. It was all just raw material for her script. I saw their dialogue filled with mockery. Tyler: Seriously, Caroline used to be so untouchable. She wouldn’t even look at us back in college. Now Charles has her completely wrapped around his finger. It’s hilarious.” Wes: Doesn’t matter how wild the filly is, she’ll eventually bow to a skilled rider.” Wyatt: To be fair, she’s absolutely stunning. That body is insane. You got a sweet deal, Charles.” Charles: @Wyatt Watch your mouth. It’s strictly business.” Victoria: @Charles You’d better remember that.” Charles: Don’t worry. You’re the only one I care about.” I closed my laptop. I walked into the bathroom, leaning over the marble sink, and stared at my reflection. My eyes were bloodshot. My makeup was smudged. I turned on the faucet, splashing freezing water onto my face over and over again until my skin stung. Then I looked up and looked myself in the eye. “Caroline Barnett, who used to be?” You were the daughter of one of the most powerful families in New York. You were raised to hold your head high, to never tolerate disrespect, to cut off anyone who dared cross you. You were fierce, unapologetic, and sharp. But what had you become over the past nineteen months? You learned how to cook his favorite meals. You learned how to swallow your pride, how to compromise, how to mold yourself into whatever made him happy. You thought it was love. And what was it really? You were just a trophy in a rich boys’ bet. Over the next week, I systematically exported and saved every single message from that chat. One evening, while we were watching a movie on the sofa, Charles turned to me, his gaze swimming with affection. “Caroline, meeting you is the absolute best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Immediately, Victoria’s notes flashed in my mind: “This line is critical. Look directly into her eyes when you say it. Be sincere. She’s incredibly susceptible to intense eye contact.” He did look directly into my eyes. He looked so sincere it was terrifying. I forced a soft smile and leaned into his chest. “Have you ever said that to anyone else, Charles?” His hand, which had been stroking my hair, paused for a fraction of a second. “Of course not. You’re the first. The only one.” Before the movie even finished, Charles stood up, claiming he had urgent work to finish in his study. In the past, I would have quietly let him go, careful not to disturb his focus. Now, I opened my mirrored logs. Sure enough, he was online, syncing his progress with Victoria. Victoria: Charles, if Caroline asks if you’ve ever said those things to anyone else, tell her she’s the first. She’s possessive and needs to feel like she’s unique.” Tyler: Lmao, even though you and Tori have literally done everything under the sun?” Charles: @Tyler Fuck off.” “You’re the first.” He had delivered the line perfectly. Word for word. Every intimate moment we shared was immediately packaged and broadcasted to his friends. The hollow ache in my chest turned into absolute numbness. I began noticing details I had previously been blind to. The comforting hot tea he brewed for me when I had cramps—always the exact same temperature, the exact same hint of honey—was because Victoria had written down the precise recipe in his notes. The weekend getaways he planned—every single destination had been handpicked by Victoria because she knew “they were the perfect backdrops to foster intimacy.” The handwritten letters he sent me, which I kept locked in my vanity drawer like sacred relics. Reading them now, I could see Victoria’s cadence in every line. I had once told him I loved the golden hour. He had claimed he did, too. Now I realized it was only because Victoria told him that pretending to share my love for twilight would make me feel like we were destined. I took a slow sip of my coffee. The notifications on my screen kept flashing. Victoria: @Charles Did you guys finish the wedding photos? I’m flying back to New York next week. Want to meet up?” Charles: @Victoria She’s at home right now, can’t talk. I’ll definitely see you before the wedding next week.” Victoria: Okay. I’ll be waiting.” Tyler: Holy shit, the grand finale is almost here! I’ve already ordered the champagne. Once Charles dumps Caroline, we’re celebrating in style!” Wes: Count me in!” He was supposed to dump me a week before the wedding. Which meant I had exactly seven days left. Seven days until the wedding. My bridal gowns arrived, delivered by three different haute couture ateliers. As I tried them on one by one, Charles stood by, his eyes glistening with what looked like unshed tears. “Caroline, you are absolutely breathtaking.” “Am I?” I twirled slowly in front of the tri-fold mirror. “Which one do you like best?” “You look gorgeous in all of them.” In his head, he was reciting Victoria’s advice: “When she tries on dresses, don’t give too many opinions. Just tell her she looks stunning in everything. When a woman tries on wedding dresses, she wants praise, not critiques.” “Then I’ll go with this one,” I said, pointing casually at a lace gown. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Caroline, being able to marry you is the greatest gift of my life.” I looked at our reflection in the mirror. One of us was performing. The other was watching the show. “Charles,” I said softly, “do you love me?” “Of course I love you.” “How much?” “More than my own life.” I smiled. “What would you be willing to do for me?” He paused, clearly caught off guard by the intensity of the question. “Anything. Absolutely anything.” “Oh?” I turned around in his embrace, looking directly into his eyes. “What if I asked you to never speak to Victoria again?” His expression froze. It was barely a flicker—a momentary hitch in his breathing—but I caught it. “Victoria?” He chuckled, forcing a casual shrug. “Where is this coming from?” “Nothing. I just heard she’s your childhood sweetheart, and quite beautiful. I suppose I’m just paranoid that once you see her again, you won’t want me anymore.” “Silly girl,” he murmured, pulling me tight against his chest. “She’s ancient history. You’re the only one in my heart.” I gently untangled myself from his arms, keeping my voice light. “I’m going to use the restroom.” The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, I leaned against it. My hands were shaking. My chest burned with a quiet, dangerous rage. I pulled out my phone and dialed my brother, William. “Will, I need you to look into something for me.” “What’s up?” “Find out what kind of bet Charles Kingsley made with Tyler and their friends about nineteen months ago.” The line went dead quiet for a long second. “Why are you asking about that now, Caro?” “Don’t ask questions, just find out. I need it as soon as possible.” “…Alright. Let me make some calls.” By the following afternoon, William called me back. “Caroline… I found what you were looking for.” “Tell me.” “Nineteen months ago, Charles was drinking with Tyler’s crowd. Tyler provoked him, saying there was no way in hell he could ever land Caroline Barnett. Charles slammed his glass on the table and said, ‘No way? Not only will I get her, but I’ll make her completely, hopelessly obsessed with me, and then I’ll dump her at the altar.’” “How much was the bet?” “Ten million dollars.” “And?” “They brought in Victoria to write the playbook. She’s Charles’s ex-girlfriend from college. They’ve been off-and-on for years.” I could hear the fury rising in William’s voice, but I kept my own tone remarkably level, warning him to keep quiet for now. “Caroline,” William said, his voice deep and dark. “What do you want to do?” “What do I want to do?” I looked at my reflection in the window, my lips curving into a cold, sharp smile. “I want to teach them exactly what happens when you try to play a Barnett.”

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