The Callahan family was set to announce my departure in exactly one week. This concert, and specifically the fan-request segment, was the final chance I was giving us. My hand was shoved deep into my pocket, fingers white-knuckled around a velvet ring box. It was a pre-arranged signal with the event organizers: as soon as the song request ended, the lights would stay on us, and I would ask her to marry me. The spotlight danced across the crowd, flickering between me and Lauren before finally locking onto us. In my earpiece, my best friend Mike’s voice crackled with frantic excitement. “The light stopped! Go, man! This is it!” My face flushed as I turned toward Lauren. I reached for the microphone being handed to us by a stagehand, my heart hammering against my ribs. But Lauren didn’t even look at me. With a practiced, dismissive grace, she reached out and intercepted the mic before my fingers could touch it. She didn’t use it. Instead, she turned and handed it to Parker, her junior associate, who was sitting on her other side. “The light hit him first, really,” she said, her voice smooth and airy. “It’s Parker’s first time at a show like this. Let him have his moment.” She reached over and patted my cheek, her touch light and infuriatingly maternal. “Don’t be a sourpuss, honey.” Parker beamed, taking the mic with a triumphant grin, and immediately requested a saccharine pop ballad. Lauren started the applause, her eyes fixed on the stage. In my ear, Mike’s voice went up an octave. “Are you kidding me? Parker again? What is wrong with her?” I could only manage a hollow, jagged smile. Lauren would never understand that it wasn’t just a microphone she had taken. … On stage, the singer hesitated for a heartbeat, cleared his throat awkwardly, and began to play. Mike was losing it in my ear. “What is Lauren’s deal? New Year’s fireworks? She brings Parker. Your birthday dinner? Parker’s there. Now this? Is she dating him or adopting him?” He paused, his voice softening. “Tom… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… don’t let it get to you.” I stared at the stage, the music a dull roar in my ears. “It’s fine, Mike. You’re not saying anything I haven’t thought.” Lauren’s excuse was always the same: efficiency. Parker was her right hand; he kept her schedule tight, handled the “overflow.” He was the buffer between her and the world, and apparently, the buffer between her and me. “The restaurant is ready,” Mike whispered, his frustration bleeding back in. “The balloons are up, the banner is hanging—‘Congratulations Thomas and Lauren’—everyone is just waiting for the signal. What do we do? Do we still wait?” I felt the sharp edge of the ring box biting into my palm. “Don’t wait, Mike,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. “Send everyone home.” What was there to wait for? I didn’t even have the mic. I pulled the earpiece out and shoved it into my pocket. One carat. I had spent months agonizing over the cut. I remembered creeping into our bedroom while Lauren napped, using a piece of embroidery thread to measure her ring finger—three loops, held steady with a trembling hand. I’d spent two months coordinating with the tour’s production team. I’d recorded a three-minute video—eight years of our lives distilled into flickering frames. Messages from our friends, ending with a shot of me looking directly into the lens. I’d recorded that final sentence seventeen times just to make sure my voice didn’t crack. On stage, the song ended. The crowd erupted into whistles and cheers. To anyone watching, Lauren and Parker looked like the golden couple of the night. Lauren finally glanced at me, noticing my folded arms. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I said. As the crowd surged toward the exits, she tucked her arm through mine, shielding me from the crush of people with her usual protective instinct. “Are you pouting? Over a song request?” She was already scrolling through her phone, her thumb flying across the screen. “Honestly, Tom. I’ll buy out a private venue for you next week. You can sing until your voice goes hoarse.” Next week. Next time. Later. The three pillars of our relationship. “Lauren,” I said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. She kept walking for two paces before realizing I wasn’t with her. She turned, looking at me with a mix of confusion and mounting boredom. “We had a deal,” I said. “Eight years. You told me that after eight years, we’d settle it. It’s been eight years.” She tucked her phone into her blazer pocket and laughed. It was that laugh—the one that suggested I was being adorable and exhausting all at once. “What’s the rush? I’ve got three acquisitions closing by December. Once the dust settles in the New Year, we’ll sit down and plan the wedding. Properly.” The New Year. The goalposts moved again. Just like they had three years ago when I tried to take her home to meet my parents in Boston. The flights were booked, the bags packed. Then her secretary called about an emergency bid. She cancelled. “What’s the rush?” she’d said back then. “My in-laws aren’t going anywhere.” I had flown home alone with two sets of gifts. When my mother asked where she was, I lied and said it was a last-minute board meeting. We reached the car. As I climbed into the passenger seat, she reached over, her thumb tracing my jawline. “I’ll buy you that watch you were looking at,” she murmured. “Consider it a peace offering. Okay?” I pulled away, my head hitting the headrest. She froze. “Lauren, stop. Don’t try to manage me.” “I don’t need a watch.” Lauren raised an eyebrow, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Fine. You’re in a mood. Go to sleep, you’ll feel better in the morning.” She glanced at her phone. “Parker just texted. He left his tablet at the venue. I’m going to run back and help him find it.” I nodded slowly. “Right. Of course.” I got out. I didn’t wait for her to say goodbye. She watched me from the driver’s seat for a second, sensing something was off, but then her taillights flickered, and she pulled away into the night. I walked up to our penthouse alone. In the living room, her coat was draped over the sofa, smelling faintly of her signature rose perfume. I walked out onto the balcony. The sliding door creaked. On the railing, there was a faint, jagged inscription. She had carved it with her keys the day we moved in. She’d been so proud, even though she’d chipped the paint. “Thomas Callahan, one day I’m going to marry you and never let you go.” That was the year she got her first round of venture capital. She had been radiant, spinning me around in the empty living room. “Once the business is solid, Tom, I’m giving you the wedding of the century.” I believed her. I waited one year. She said the company was too fragile. I waited three years. She said they were expanding. I waited five years. She said “next year, for sure.” Eight years. I ran my finger over the rusted carving. The metal was cold and pitted. The ring box in my pocket felt like a lead weight. I pulled it out and flipped it open. The diamond caught the light from the living room, mocking me with its brilliance. I thought if she wouldn’t ask, I would. I spent three months preparing. The venue, the video, the ring, Mike’s help. And all I got was a front-row seat to her handing the mic to someone else. The front door clicked. I snapped the box shut and shoved it into a drawer. Lauren walked in, tossing her keys onto the marble console. She saw me staring out at the city and sighed. “Still on about that? Come on, Tom. It’s late. Let’s go to bed.” I didn’t move. “Did Parker find his tablet?” “Yeah.” She walked past me, unfastening her watch. “Lauren,” I called out. “We’re done. I want to break up.” She stopped mid-stride. A short, sharp huff of a laugh escaped her. “Because of a song request? Are you serious right now?” “He’s a kid, Tom. It was his first big show. Why are you being so territorial?” “Am I not allowed to have people in my life besides you?” Her voice took on that weary, ‘dealing-with-a-child’ tone. “Look, I said I’d buy out a venue for you. Just drop it. I have to meet with investors tomorrow.” She started toward the master suite. I looked at her back and spoke clearly. “The Callahan family is hosting a gala in a week. They’re going to make an announcement.” “After that, you and I are finished.” Lauren stopped. She turned slowly, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “Let’s get one thing straight, Tom.” Her voice had dropped the sweetness. Now, it was cold. Corporate. “If you’re trying to use your family to pressure me into a wedding, it’s not going to work.” “Is that what this is? You’re so desperate for a title that you’re threatening me? This ‘hard to get’ act doesn’t suit you.” I didn’t answer. She had no idea. The gala had nothing to do with her. The Callahan family was announcing that I was renouncing my inheritance to join an eight-year, classified government research initiative. A “black site” project. I would be off the grid, my identity scrubbed from public records for nearly a decade. The gala was my family’s way of saying goodbye. A formal notice to the world that Thomas Callahan was no longer a person of interest. But Lauren, in her infinite arrogance, thought the world revolved around her timeline. “What did those deadbeat friends of yours tell you?” she snapped. “That this was a good idea? Do you have any idea how busy I am?” Busy. She was busy. Busy enough to spend forty minutes on “work calls” with Parker at midnight. Busy enough to remember exactly how Parker liked his lattes, but forgetting that I was allergic to shellfish. She was busy enough to organize a surprise balloon wall for Parker’s birthday and post it on Instagram with the caption: “So proud of my team.” Her time, her attention, her details—they all went somewhere. It just wasn’t to me. “I’m in the middle of a sprint. I have three sets of investors to see before New Year’s. Every move I make has to be perfect,” she said, rubbing her temples. “And you choose now to pull this? Think about what you’re doing, Tom. Get some sleep and act like an adult.” She turned to leave. “Lauren.” She paused. “You’re right,” I said to her back. “I’m playing a game.” “So… will you marry me?” Lauren didn’t turn around. Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. “Go to sleep, Tom,” she said quietly. She walked into her study and closed the door. A wave of bitterness washed over me. I knew the answer, yet I had still asked. Maybe after eight years, I just needed to hear the silence one last time. Late that night, I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside was a stack of printed A4 papers, the edges yellowed and curled. Two years ago, I’d spent weeks curating wedding inspiration—venues, floral arrangements, invitation fonts. I remember bringing them to her, glowing with excitement. She’d been on a call. She’d covered the mouthpiece and whispered, “Later, honey,” while waving me away. Two years. “Later” never came. My phone buzzed. It was Mike. “The restaurant is cleared out. Tom, I’m still fuming. You spent three months on this and she just…” “It’s okay, Mike. I’m leaving anyway.” The other end of the line went silent for a long time. “You’re sure? Eight years here, and then eight years away. When you get back… everything will be different.” “I know.” “You aren’t even going to tell her the truth?” “There’s nothing left to say, Mike.” Mike didn’t speak for a moment. When he did, his voice was thick. “I’ll keep the banner for a while. Just in case…” “Mike.” “Yeah?” “Throw it away.” Day four of the cold war. Lauren was out before I woke and back long after I’d retreated to the guest room. On the rare occasion we crossed paths in the living room, she was on her phone, and I was staring at the TV. We were like two ghosts haunting the same hallways. Mike, sensing my downward spiral, dragged me out for dinner. “Don’t just rot in that apartment,” he said. “I booked a private room. You can vent, scream, whatever you need.” We got to the restaurant, but before the appetizers arrived, I heard a burst of familiar laughter from the suite next door. My blood turned to ice. Mike’s face paled. “We can leave. Let’s go somewhere else—” I shook my head. “No. Stay.” Parker’s voice carried clearly through the wall. “Lauren, I still feel bad about the concert. That mic was meant for Tom. I was so out of line. Maybe I should call him and apologize?” “It has nothing to do with you,” Lauren’s voice was cool, effortless. “I gave it to you. You took it. End of story.” She was protecting him. Shielding him in front of their colleagues. Whenever I went to her office, she made me keep my distance, citing “professional boundaries.” A mutual friend’s voice chimed in. “But Lauren, I heard Tom had something big planned that night? Like, a whole thing?” There was a brief silence. “I knew he was going to propose,” Lauren said, her tone horrifyingly casual. “Someone tipped me off a month ago.” Mike looked at me, his eyes wide. I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles ached. “You knew? And you still gave the mic to Parker?” the friend asked, sounding genuinely shocked. “Obviously. He wanted to use a public spectacle to back me into a corner. I won’t be manipulated like that.” “When he throws a tantrum, I usually humor him. But marriage? I need him to understand that he doesn’t get what he wants just by making a scene.” The friend sighed. “I mean, it has been eight years, Lauren. Can you blame the guy for wanting a commitment?” Lauren was silent for a beat. “I’ll marry him. Eventually. But on my terms. Not because I’m being pressured.” Another voice—one of her sycophants—lowered their tone. “Honestly, Tom is so dramatic. Always looking for the grand gesture. It’s exhausting.” “Exactly,” someone else added. “Parker is so much easier. He never makes things difficult for you.” Parker chuckled. “Hey, don’t be mean to Tom. He’s just… really invested. It’s been a long time, and he’s not getting any younger.” The “not getting any younger” part was delivered with a perfect, slimy edge of pity. Lauren said nothing. A round of knowing laughter followed. Mike reached over and squeezed my shoulder. His hand was shaking with rage. I patted his hand, grabbed my coat, and stood up. “Let’s go, Mike.” As we walked past their door, I heard the clink of glasses and Parker’s bright, carefree laugh. Outside, a light rain was falling. The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement in long, blurred streaks. I walked forward into the dark. I didn’t look back. The invitation to the Callahan gala arrived on Lauren’s desk two days later. It was heavy vellum, embossed in gold. “The Callahan Family cordially invites you to a formal evening to announce a significant private matter.” She flipped the card over, a smirk playing on her lips. “A significant private matter.” She figured it out instantly—or thought she had. The Callahans had clout. They were going to announce the engagement publicly to force her hand in front of the city’s elite. Tom wouldn’t do it, but his meddling friends and his parents certainly would, she thought. She tossed the invite aside and checked her phone. It had been five days. Tom hadn’t sent a single text. Usually, by day three of a fight, he’d find an excuse to reach out. Did you eat? Did you pick up the dry cleaning? Nothing. A twinge of anxiety flickered in her chest, but she smothered it. She wasn’t worried. He was throwing a fit. He’d be the one to cave; he always was. Her group chat was buzzing. “Lauren, are you going to the Callahan thing? Everyone got an invite. It looks huge.” She smiled and typed back: “I’ll be there. A little late, though. Let him sweat it out for a bit.” She imagined Tom standing at the entrance, checking his watch, trying to look composed in front of his relatives while his heart raced. There was a secret, dark thrill in the thought. He needed a lesson. He needed to know that she was the one who decided when the story ended. On the night of the gala, she took her time. She got her hair done, a sleek, sharp blowout, and put on a cocktail dress—not a gown. She wanted it to look like she had “stopped by,” not like she was the guest of honor. The texts from her friends started getting frantic. “Lauren, this is insane. There are two rows of black SUVs outside. The flower arrangements are the size of cars.” “Tom looks incredible tonight. Like, movie star status. You better get here before someone else grabs him.” Lauren checked her reflection one last time. She felt a surge of confidence. Let him have his big night. She’d walk in, give him a kiss, and let him think he’d won—just for a little while. She started her car and checked the chat one last time. “Lauren, are you coming? It’s starting! Tom’s parents are on stage!” She recorded a voice note, her voice light and teasing. “Relax. It doesn’t start until I get there.” As she pulled out of the parking garage, another friend called. Her voice sounded strange—confused. “Lauren… I don’t think this is an engagement party. There’s a banner behind the podium. It says ‘Godspeed’.”

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The freezing wind outside whipped pellets of snow against the car window. I stared at my own blurred reflection in the glass, and it suddenly hit me: the last ten years had been nothing but a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. In the passenger seat, Jonathan flicked his cigarette ash. The lingering warmth of our physical intimacy from moments ago hadn’t even dissipated yet, but his words were already piercing through me like ice shards. “To be honest, it’s getting boring with you. My new intern, though—she’s got some real fire in her.” He turned his head to blow a smoke ring, his voice dripping with a pride he didn’t care to hide. “Youth just hits different. She’s like malleable clay; she’ll do whatever I ask, however I want it. Not like you. You’ve become so… rigid.” I gripped the hem of my wool coat until my knuckles turned white. My voice shook uncontrollably. “How long has this been going on? Why are you telling me this now?” He let out a short, mocking laugh and crushed his cigarette into the tray. “I pay for everything you wear, everything you eat. You live in my house. What does it matter if I tell you? It’s not like you’d ever actually leave me.” Those words felt like a sledgehammer to my chest. My mind flashed back to a rainy night three years ago. To help him secure that life-saving investment for his firm, I had sat at a dinner table and matched a client drink for drink, downing an entire bottle of hard liquor while three months pregnant. I ended up in a hospital bed, losing the baby—and with it, any chance of ever becoming a mother. It turned out that everything I’d gambled—my body, my child, my future—was nothing more than a bargaining chip he felt entitled to trample on. The car’s heater was blasting, but I felt a deep, marrow-deep chill. Even my breath felt like frost. … After Jonathan finished his little confession, he picked up his phone to reply to some messages. The glow of the screen illuminated his face, a faint, satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. I sat there, silently adjusting my clothes. My right hand—the ring and pinky fingers—had been numb for years. The nerves had been severed by a lead pipe once; they’d been sewn back together, but the connection was never quite right. He kept typing, occasionally letting out a soft chuckle. When his phone rang, he answered immediately. His voice transformed instantly. “Yeah, just finished up some business.” “What are you craving? I’ll have someone deliver it.” “Be good. Get some sleep, okay?” Just a few words, but spoken with the tender tone one uses to soothe a kitten. It was a voice I knew all too well. Ten years ago, he used that exact same cadence to comfort me in the ICU when I was too weak to speak. He hung up. I went back to staring at my silhouette in the window. Ten years ago, Jonathan wasn’t “Mr. Sterling,” the CEO. He was just a guy in a cramped studio apartment starting a business, the kind of guy who accidentally pissed off the local neighborhood thugs. One night, four men cornered us in an alley. The leader had a steel pipe; the others had bricks. Jonathan tried to push me behind him, tried to take them all on himself. A pipe swung into his shoulder, and he dropped to his knees with a muffled groan. They swarmed him, kicking him with lethal intent. I threw myself over him, shielding his back with my own body. The second strike of the pipe landed squarely on my spine. I spent four months in the hospital. Jonathan’s hand shook so hard he could barely sign the surgical consent forms. The doctors told us the nerve damage was irreversible; my motor skills and sensation in my limbs would never be the same. He stayed in that hospital corridor all night. The next morning, when he walked in, his eyes were bloodshot, but he was smiling. He told me the surgery was a total success. He climbed into the bed and held me from behind, pressing his face against the bandages on my back. He didn’t say a word, but I felt his shoulders shaking. Since then, every winter, the old injury flared up. My spine would go stiff; my right hand would lose its grip. Back then, he’d rush home to press hot towels against my back, massaging me vertebra by vertebra. Once, after finishing the massage, he traced the scars on my hand and whispered, “Once we have the money, I’ll find you the best doctors in the world. We’ll fix this.” Eventually, he got the money. But he never mentioned the doctors again. It was as if he’d become a different person. He climbed the ladder in two years, and five years ago, we got married. On our wedding day, he told me he’d give me the world. He believed it, and so did I. But the man from that studio apartment—the one who treated me like his entire universe—was gone. I couldn’t find him anymore. The warm air from the vents hit my face, but I couldn’t feel the heat. Jonathan checked his watch. “Let’s go home.” He started the engine. Everything felt normal, as if the last five minutes of cruelty had just been idle chatter. I asked quietly, “The intern… when did you hire her?” He laughed. “You sound just like my mother.” His phone lit up again; he glanced at it but didn’t reply. “Joanna, find a hobby. If you spend your whole day policing my life, how are we supposed to live?” As the car pulled into our apartment’s underground garage, the engine cut out. Silence filled the space for a few seconds. He didn’t move to get out. “I’m starting a business trip tomorrow,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I need to head back to the office tonight. I won’t be coming up.” I opened the door and stepped out. I watched his taillights disappear around the corner of the ramp. Inside, I went straight to the bathroom. I scrubbed my skin, desperate to wash away the traces of him. I turned the water up until it was scalding, until my skin turned a raw, angry red. I stayed under the spray until the water heater ran out and the stream turned icy. I dressed and sat on the living room sofa. No TV, no lights. The only sound was the low hum of the central heating. My phone buzzed. A notification. An article from a medical journal I’d followed months ago: MECT Therapy: When Memory Becomes a Disease. Was it actually possible? Could a procedure really wipe the slate clean? As I walked back into the kitchen to get some water, I saw two half-finished iced lattes on the coffee table. Jonathan doesn’t drink lattes. I looked at the timestamp on the receipt stuck to the side: 3:00 PM. At 3:00 PM today, I had been at the hospital for a check-up on my spine. Jonathan had actually called me—a rare gesture—and said he’d pick me up. I had been surprised and touched. I waited for him for a long time. I called him four times. He didn’t answer. When he finally picked me up, he didn’t head home. He drove out to a secluded spot by the river. When he kissed me then, I smelled a perfume that wasn’t mine. It all made sense now. He drove me to the outskirts of town to “spend time” with me just to give that girl enough time to slip out of our apartment. He just didn’t expect the intern to leave evidence behind on purpose. I threw the cups in the trash and went to the bedroom. The bed was made perfectly, but it wasn’t the way I tuck the sheets. I found a strand of hair on the pillow—longer than mine, darker than mine. I stripped the bed, shoved everything into the wash, and pulled out fresh linens. Then, I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom. By 2:00 AM, the floors were polished to a mirror shine. I sat on the sofa and inhaled. There was still a faint scent of a perfume that didn’t belong here. The next afternoon, a friend request popped up on my phone. The message read: “Hi big sister! I’m the new intern at Jonathan’s office. He told me I should reach out and learn a few things from you~” I stared at those words for thirty seconds before hitting Accept. She sent a voice note immediately. “Sister, Jonathan said you used to be a designer! That’s so cool! I’m brand new to the industry and don’t know anything. I hope you can give me some pointers…” Then, she sent a selfie. Round eyes, pale skin, a practiced, dimpled smile. I didn’t reply. I flipped the phone face down on the table. Jonathan didn’t come home until the third night. He walked in and glanced around. “What, did you do a deep clean?” I was sitting at the dining table with two sets of plates laid out. “I saved some dinner for you.” He barely looked at it. “Already ate.” He walked to the sofa and grabbed the remote. “You had your intern add me on微信,” I said. He paused for a fraction of a second, then took off his blazer and draped it over the armrest. “Oh, Macy. Right. I mentioned you to her. Told her to ask you for advice if she gets stuck.” “Do you honestly think she added me because she wants ‘advice’?” Jonathan looked at me and sighed. He stood up, walked to the table, and took a single bite of the cold food with his fork. “Joanna, she’s barely twenty. Do you really need to be this petty with a kid?” I didn’t say another word. He dropped the fork after two bites and headed for the bedroom. As he passed me, he stopped and looked at my face. “You look pale. Go to sleep.” The door shut. We had been sleeping in separate rooms for a long time now. Through the wall, I heard the muffled sound of him on a call. He was laughing. It was the exact same laugh I’d heard in the car. I pulled up that article again and read it over and over. At the very bottom, there was a small line of text: Department of Psychiatry, Memorial Hospital. Consultation for MECT therapy. I saved the number to my contacts. My back throbbed all night. The pain had been my shadow for ten years, but it was always worse in the winter. Jonathan used to massage it. But that was two years ago. He hadn’t touched my back in two years. The next morning, I went to the hospital alone. I got the scans, did the tests. The lead physician frowned as he looked at my charts. “Your physical condition isn’t great. Have you been keeping up with your physical therapy?” “Yes,” I lied. He looked at me, seeing right through it. “Mrs. Sterling, this kind of nerve damage requires consistent, disciplined intervention. If it continues to degrade, you’ll lose even more mobility.” He didn’t push me further. He just wrote a new prescription and added some heavy-duty painkillers. Leaving the clinic, I called Jonathan. It rang until it went to voicemail. I ended up taking an Uber home. As I walked into the apartment complex clutching my bag of meds, I noticed an extra car in the garage. When the elevator reached our floor, I started toward the door but stopped. Voices were coming from inside. Two men. Jonathan and his childhood friend, Mark. “You and Joanna have been through a lot,” Mark was saying. “You wouldn’t be where you are today without her.” Jonathan’s voice sounded thick, like he’d been drinking. “Without her? Has she worked a single day at the firm? I’ve supported her for ten years. Food, clothes, luxury—what has she ever lacked?” “I’m not trying to pick a fight,” Mark countered. “But you’ve basically laid your cards on the table now. What’s the plan? Aren’t you afraid she’ll actually leave you?” The sound of a glass hitting the table. Jonathan’s voice dropped an octave. “She loves me to death. She’s incapable of leaving me. Besides, even if we did split, with that body of hers…” He trailed off and poured another drink. “Look, I owe her for what happened back then. If it weren’t for that, I would have made a clean break a long time ago.” In the hallway, I put my keys back in my pocket. I turned around, got back in the elevator, and hit the button for the lobby. I walked out of the building. It was snowing. I had nowhere to go. I found a park bench near the street and sat down. I pulled out my phone, found the number with no name attached, and dialed. Ring… ring… ring… “Hello, Memorial Psychiatry.” My voice was steadier than I expected. “Hello. I’d like to schedule a consultation for MECT therapy.” “Certainly. May I ask the primary reason for the visit?” I looked up, letting the snow fall onto my hair, my shoulders, my cheeks. “I want to forget someone. I want every trace of his existence gone.” MECT. Modified Electroconvulsive Therapy. It was originally designed for severe depression, but a known side effect was significant memory loss surrounding the period before treatment. On forums, people shared their stories: after the sessions, the people and events that made them want to die were simply… gone. They said it was like being born again. I turned off my phone and sat on that bench until the snow stopped. On the way back, I stopped at a convenience store and bought a single envelope and a pen. That night, I downloaded a divorce settlement template. I sat with my fingers hovering over the keyboard for a long time. In the section for “Division of Assets,” I typed one word: None. Jonathan had given me a bank account over the years; there was enough in there to keep me afloat for a long time. Everything else—the penthouse, the cars, the company—none of it was what I wanted. I signed my name, sealed the envelope, and addressed it to Jonathan’s office. I mailed it before the sun came up. I walked out of that home with a single suitcase. At the door, I turned back one last time. On the console table sat a framed photo of us—him with his arm around my shoulder, smiling warmly. I flipped the photo face down. I reached the neighboring city by afternoon. The admitting doctor was a young woman. She asked me again why I wanted MECT. “I want to forget the last ten years,” I said. “All of it?” “Everything.” She paused. “The treatment will likely cause you to lose the majority of your long-term memory. Not just the trauma. The happy moments go too. Are you sure?” Happy moments. I thought about it. Jonathan buying me a cheap thirty-dollar necklace with his first paycheck. The metal turned green, but I wore it for four years. The way he held me on our wedding day, drunk and whispering, “Meeting you was the only luck I ever had.” The way he pressed his ear to my stomach when I was pregnant, telling the baby, “Take your time growing, kid. Your dad’s building an empire for you.” And then the baby was gone. “I’m sure,” I said. She asked more questions: Suicidal ideation? Sleep disorders? Flashbacks? I checked every box. She looked at my spinal scans and closed the file. “We’ll schedule the first session in three days. Use this time to think if there’s anything you truly don’t want to lose. If there is, write it down. You can ‘re-meet’ those memories after the treatment.” I shook my head. “There’s nothing.” Three days later. The prep room was silent. The nurse secured my arm and placed the IV. “Just relax,” she said. “The anesthesia will put you to sleep. You might wake up with a headache, but that’s normal.” I lay back as the drugs entered my system. My body grew heavy, my fingertips went numb. That dull sensation spread from my right hand to my left, through my limbs, my torso, and finally, my mind. Just as my consciousness began to slip away, the phone on the nightstand vibrated. Once. Twice. Three times. The screen lit up. I could see the name clearly. Jonathan. The phone kept ringing. I closed my eyes. The last thing that flashed in my mind wasn’t Jonathan’s face. It wasn’t the cruel things he said in the car. It was that tiny, blurred image from the first ultrasound. The doctor said it already had a heartbeat. I just didn’t get to hear it before it stopped. Mommy has to forget you too. I’m so sorry.

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In the quiet, hollow gaps between waiting for a client’s call, I found myself scrolling through a digital confession thread. The prompt was simple: “What is the most explosive thing you’ve ever done?” The replies were a chaotic mix of petty revenge and suburban drama, but one high-upvoted comment made my heart stop. “That’s easy,” the user wrote. “I orchestrated a scene to put my daughter’s first love in my wife’s bed.” The comment section was a battlefield of outrage, strangers screaming about morality and cruelty. But the original poster was unfazed. He posted a photo of a hand—well-manicured, middle-aged—wearing a massive, vintage emerald signet ring. “Got rid of two burdens in one night,” he boasted. “It was the smartest move of my life. How else do you think I’m living this large now?” My ears started ringing. The world outside the screen blurred into a smear of neon and shadow. I didn’t even hear the floor manager calling my number. I knew that ring. I knew the weight of it, the way the light caught the deep, mossy green of the stone. I remembered the summer I was homeless, how the hand wearing that ring had guided me through books and business ledgers with infinite patience. I remembered her smiling as she pressed my hand against Isabella’s. “My Robert and I were just like you two back then,” she had whispered, her voice like warm honey. “A perfect match.” 1 The floor manager, losing his patience, grabbed my arm and shoved me into the lineup. “You’re lucky you’re pretty, Adrian,” he hissed. “Any other guy with your attendance record would be out on the street. Fix your face.” The doors swung open. The VIP lounge was bathed in a bruised, atmospheric red. A row of wealthy young women sat on the leather sofas, their diamonds glinting in the low light. The lighting was strategic, designed to highlight the musculature under our sheer mesh shirts. I felt like a piece of meat under a butcher’s heat lamp. Their eyes scanned the line, lingering on my chest, my jawline. I saw the flash of hunger in their expressions. Except for one. She was sipping red wine, her eyes dark and venomous. She looked at me not with desire, but with a visceral, bone-deep disgust. Isabella. My stomach did a slow, painful roll. I wanted to bolt, to disappear into the drywall. A girl next to her giggled and reached out, pulling me toward her by my waist. I let out a sharp, involuntary gasp. “Wait… please…” CRACK. The sound of shattering glass sliced through the music. Isabella had crushed her wine glass in her bare hand. Shards flew, and the other women shrieked, jumping back. Isabella didn’t blink. she just looked at me, her lip curling. “Pathological,” she spat. The word hit me like a physical blow. I bit my tongue, the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth. “Relax, Bella,” one of her friends said, trying to smooth things over. “It’s your bachelorette party. If you don’t like the help, we’ll just swap him out. Don’t let a rent-boy ruin the night.” Swap him out? If I lost this shift, I couldn’t afford the next round of my medication. I forced myself to move. I leaned over the low table, grabbing a fresh bottle to refill their glasses, my head bowed in a performance of apology. My collar dipped, exposing the lines of my torso. I heard the collective intake of breath from the table. “Keep him,” someone whispered. “He’s got that ‘fallen angel’ vibe. Bella, if he bothers you so much, I’ll take him to a private room myself.” “He’s a pedigree,” another added. “Probably why he thinks he’s too good for us. Not like Jasper, right? Jasper’s a gentleman.” I downed a shot of something burning and cheap, refusing to look at Isabella. “Don’t compare this trash to Jasper,” she said. Her voice was cold enough to draw blood. It felt like a slap. Years ago, after I’d testified to put my abusive biological father in prison, the Miller family—Isabella’s family—had taken me in. On that sweltering attic balcony, she had whispered my name like a prayer. She had kissed my cheek and told me that my eyes held the most beautiful stars in the universe. Now, those stars were dead. There was only the freezing scrutiny of a stranger. The manager, sensing her rising temper, nudged me. I felt numb as I sank to my knees. Like a well-trained pet, I crawled toward her. My stomach was a knot of acid and cheap gin, but I forced my hands to reach for the buttons of her blazer. She smelled like expensive roses—no longer the scent of soap and ink I carried in my dreams. I told myself she was just another client. Just another transaction. I saw her fingers twitch, her knuckles white as she suppressed an emotion I couldn’t name. “Ugh…” The pain in my gut surged, a white-hot spike that forced a dry heave out of me. She didn’t help me up. She struck me. The slap echoed in the small room. “You slept with my paralyzed mother,” she hissed, her eyes brimming with tears of rage. “And you have the nerve to act like I disgust you?” “Adrian! Get out. If I ever see your face again, I’ll make sure you regret being born.” The door slammed behind me, but the laughter and the insults followed me into the hall. “Is that the foster brother? The one who climbed into his mom’s bed for the inheritance? The one who literally killed her with the shock?” “Guess some people are just born bottom-feeders.” The manager caught me by the collar. “You’re done here. You just pissed off the biggest account in the city. Pack your shit.” I stumbled into the bathroom, my hand shaking as I fumbled with a pill bottle. I swallowed the last of the specialty meds. My eyes landed on a bottle of Ambien left behind by another guy. I poured half the bottle into my palm. THUD. THUD. THUD. The manager’s voice barked through the door. “Dry your eyes and fix your shirt. Margot Smith just requested you for her estate tonight.” “She’s paying fifty grand for the ‘outcall.’ For that kind of money, you better be the best damn thing she’s ever bought.” I froze. I slowly put the Ambien back. I touched up the concealer on my face, hiding the pallor of my skin and the bruise forming on my cheek. I walked out to the curb. Margot Smith was waiting in a matte-black Maserati. She reached out, hooking her finger into the lapel of my coat. “So, the rumors about the physique are true,” she purred. I looked down, silent, enduring the humiliation. She laughed, patting my cheek like a prize poodle. “Ready to play nice?” Across the parking lot, I saw Isabella. She was talking to someone, then paused, turning her head. She watched as I leaned down, purposely letting Margot run a finger over my lips in a display of practiced submission. I saw Isabella’s hand tighten around a pharmacy bag. “God, he really is a parasite,” her companion muttered. “Acting like a victim in there, and now he’s already found his next mark.” Isabella threw the medicine into a trash can with a violent metallic clang. “Bella! Your stomach—you just bought those!” her friend shouted, but Isabella was already walking away, her shoulders rigid. ——– In Margot’s sprawling villa, I knelt by the coffee table while she looked through a kit of ‘toys.’ My eyes caught a heavy, cream-colored envelope on the table. The Marriage of Isabella Miller and Jasper Smith. Jasper. Margot’s brother. The social climber and the heiress. Margot saw me staring. Her mood shifted instantly. “An illegitimate brat and a gold-digger. A match made in heaven, don’t you think?” I nodded quickly, desperate to please. It wasn’t enough. Every lash of the whip she used was fueled by her own resentment—her rage that the family company was being handed to a ‘secret’ brother. I was sweating, the pain radiating through my chest. I begged her to stop, but she just waved a fifty-thousand-dollar check in my face. I shut my mouth. That was my life. My surgery. It meant I wouldn’t have to sell my body for the next three months. I have always been making myself small for money. In third grade, I collected plastic bottles all summer for fifty bucks to buy a school uniform. In high school, I let a bully take my first kiss just so she’d put money on my lunch card. Isabella was the one who told me I didn’t have to do that. But I had no money, and I was terrified of going home. If I went home, my father’s ‘friends’ would touch me, and if I fought back, my father would beat me until I couldn’t scream. The neighbors called it a ‘family matter.’ But Isabella saved me. The day the police took my father away, she held my hand so tight it bruised. “Adrian, I won’t let anyone hurt you again.” I spent every waking hour trying to repay that debt. I woke up before dawn to prep the dough for Robert’s bakery stall. I spent my afternoons scrubbing and massaging her mother’s paralyzed limbs. I thought I finally had a home. Until I woke up naked on top of the mother’s cooling corpse, clutching the family’s savings account passbook. The door had opened to Isabella and a group of our classmates, there for my surprise birthday party. And Robert was there, too, holding his phone. The dark lens of the camera. The coldness in her eyes. It was the same as now. The whipping stopped. Margot was bored. She started scrolling through photos she’d taken of me, but then she paused, swiping back to a screenshot on my own phone—the confession thread I’d been reading earlier. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “That’s my mother’s ring. The old man gave my mother’s heirloom ring to that bastard Robert? I knew he was trying to buy his way into the family!” She turned to me, her eyes wild. “Where did you get this screenshot?” I told her everything. She dropped the check, snatched up her phone, and started calling people to trace the deleted post. I stumbled out of the villa, my clothes hanging off my bruised frame. I stood on the curb, trying to hail a cab. My phone buzzed—multiple missed calls from a blocked number. A Maybach pulled up. Isabella stepped out, grabbed my arm, and threw me into the passenger seat. The streetlights blurred as she floored it. She didn’t speak until we hit a red light. “Why didn’t you pick up?” she screamed, her voice cracking. “You can go with anyone, Adrian, but not her! Do you have any idea how many men Margot has chewed up and spat out? She’s dangerous!” She was Margot’s future sister-in-law. Of course she knew. I looked at my reflection in the vanity mirror—a ghost of the boy she once loved. Below the mirror, in the center console, were luxury mouthwash bottles. Jasper’s. “I heard you’re getting married,” I said softly. “I hope you’re happy.” Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Adrian, you could have had a happy life. We were good to you. My father treated you like a son. Why did you have to do something so sick?” “Just apologize to him. Go to my mother’s grave and beg for forgiveness. Just… just come back with me.” A bitter, stinging heat rose in my throat. When my stomach was ruined from childhood hunger, it was Robert who made me ginger congee every morning. That was why I hadn’t suspected a thing the night of my birthday. The noodles he made me… they must have been laced. “Isabella, is it possible… just possible… that your mother’s death wasn’t my fault?” She slammed her fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring a jagged note. “Everyone saw you! You were on top of her! Are you saying we’re all blind?” I stayed silent. I reached for my phone to show her the screenshot, but the light turned green. She sped off, pulling over near a dark park. She looked at me with such profound disappointment it hurt worse than the whip. “Dad says you were just a kid who lost his way. He wants to see you.” She reached into the back and pulled out a gift box, shoving it into my lap. “The birthday gift he had for you that day. He kept it. Through every move, he never threw it away.” With trembling fingers, I pulled the ribbon. The blood drained from my face. Inside was a white button-down shirt with a hand-painted red plum blossom design. It was the shirt Isabella had bought for me. The shirt I was wearing the night her mother died. I had looked for it for years, wondering where it went after they kicked me out naked. It wasn’t white anymore. It was stained with old, brown blood. The memories of that night—the shame, the confusion, the smell of death—hit me like a wave. I leaned out the door and vomited. The shirt was ruined, but I didn’t care. I started tearing at it, my movements frantic and crazed. Isabella’s face went pale. “Adrian, you really are beyond saving. I actually canceled my—” “Let me out,” I sobbed, the tears burning my eyes. “Let me out of this car!” Her phone rang. The caller ID said ‘Jasper.’ “Fine!” she snapped. “Go! If Margot kills you, I don’t care. I was a fool to come looking for you.” The Maybach roared away into the night. Margot was sitting on her sofa when I returned, staring at files from a private investigator. She didn’t even look up. “So, you’re Isabella Miller’s ‘White Moonlight,’ huh? Her first love.” “Work with me. You want to be vindicated, don’t you?” She was fast. The scandal seven years ago had been huge. It was that media coverage that had allowed my biological father to find me after he got out of prison. He’d cried, called me ‘son,’ promised to change… then sold me to a broker the next day. I had spent years wondering: Why me? Why give me warmth just to shove me into the furnace? That spite was the only thing that had kept me alive. Margot held up a hand, five fingers extended. “When this is done, I give you this.” Five million. Enough for the surgery. Enough to disappear. “Fine.” ——– While Margot’s team dug into the old neighborhood records, I followed her instructions to contact Isabella for a meeting. But Isabella didn’t show. Instead, a well-dressed, middle-aged man sat across from me in the restaurant. Robert Miller. He used a silk handkerchief to buff his glasses, though they were already spotless. “Adrian,” he sighed. “How have you been, son?” I fought the spasm in my stomach and stood to leave. He grabbed my wrist, his face a mask of tragic concern. The emerald ring on his finger caught the light, blindingly bright. “Stop acting,” I whispered. “Isabella isn’t here.” His expression hardened for a split second before returning to a mournful pout. He pushed a wedding invitation across the table. “The date moved up. Isabella is so eager to marry Jasper. She’s finally moving on.” “You’ll come, won’t you? For closure?” The wedding was in a week. For that entire week, I couldn’t reach Isabella. Margot told me to go to the wedding; it was the only way to get close to her. “I have to fly to London,” Margot told me. “I think my father’s death might be linked to that snake Robert, too. Keep your head down until I get back.” I tucked a digital recorder into the hidden lining of my bag. The day of the wedding, I entered the estate. The garden was exactly how I used to describe it to Isabella when we were kids, dreaming of a future we couldn’t afford. A maid led me toward the study, saying the ‘CEO’ was waiting for me. The moment the door opened, I knew I’d walked into a trap. I tried to back out, but two massive security guards grabbed me, pinning me down and ripping my shirt open. Robert turned around in his chair, his face half-submerged in shadow. “Put him in the old lady’s room,” he said calmly. A needle pierced my arm. The guest room smelled of antiseptic and decay. On the bed lay Margot and Jasper’s mother—the matriarch—hooked up to a ventilator, her chest rattling with every agonizing breath. I tried to scream, to call for help, but a heavy, liquid lethargy was spreading through my limbs. My phone fell to the floor, accidentally connecting a call. It was Isabella’s voice, sounding hollow. “Adrian… the nurse who used to care for my mom called me. She said she’s sorry. She said… Adrian, is there something you need to tell me?” I lunged for the phone, but Robert snatched it away. “Isabella? Honey!” he said, sounding frantic. “I invited Adrian to the wedding to reconcile, but he’s disappeared! I think he’s up to something!” The wedding procession was starting. Robert looked at me and actually chuckled. “Thank you, Adrian. For helping me get rid of one last burden.” He waved a signed will in the air—the matriarch’s estate, redirected. Then he straightened his tie and went to greet his daughter. I laid there, a soul trapped in a useless body. Minutes ticked by like hours. The door burst open. The heart monitor flatlined into a continuous, piercing shriek. Jasper screamed, “Mother!” I was dragged off the bed, half-naked, as the forged will fluttered to the floor. “It wasn’t me… I have proof…” my voice was a raspy whisper. I clawed at the air, trying to reach my bag. Jasper was hysterical, hitting me. “What did you do to her? You tricked her into changing the will! You disgusting, parasitic freak!” He threw himself into Isabella’s arms, sobbing. Isabella looked at me. Her eyes were dead. “You used me twice, Adrian.” “I was actually stupid enough to think there was a misunderstanding.” She held Jasper, her voice dropping to a whisper of pure ice as she looked at the guards. “Lock him in the cellar. We’ll call the police after the ceremony.” I was dragged across the expensive flannel rugs, my fingernails leaving tracks in the wool. “It’s your father!” I screamed, blood beginning to leak from the corners of my mouth. “It’s always been him! Isabella, please—look in my bag! Just once, believe me!” Isabella kicked me in the stomach to keep me away from Jasper. “What lies now? The staff saw you sneak in here! My father spent his life working to give me everything—why would he sabotage me? Everyone was right. You’re just a cold-blooded, gold-digging sociopath.” My stomach felt like it had been hollowed out by fire. Blood gushed from my mouth. In my pocket, my phone vibrated with a notification: Donor Match Confirmed. A shooting star I couldn’t catch. The sirens of the ambulance drowned out the wedding march. The guests whispered in the garden as the stretcher was carried out. “Must be the old Mrs. Smith. She was holding on just to see her son married.” “Funny timing, though. She was supposed to announce the will today.” “That Robert Miller… talk about a lucky break. From a baker to a mogul. And his daughter’s marrying into the line. The Smith empire is basically the Miller empire now.” Amidst the gossip, one person scoffed. “If you spent six years cleaning up after a paralyzed woman without complaining, maybe you’d get an empire, too.” Isabella tried to manage the chaos, comforting Jasper while keeping her father calm. She sat outside the ICU, Jasper’s head on her shoulder. “You were too good to him,” Jasper sobbed. “He killed your mother, and he tried to do it again to mine. Why did you even give him an invitation?” Isabella froze. “I didn’t,” she whispered. “I never sent him an invitation.” Her heart skipped. She looked at her father, sitting across from them. “Dad? Did you invite him? Why?” Robert wiped his eyes, his shoulders slumped. “I just couldn’t give up on the boy… I heard he was working in those clubs. I thought if he saw how happy you were, he’d find his own path.” “Dad!” Jasper snapped. “Your kindness is exactly what he exploited! He’s a predator!” Isabella stayed silent, patting Jasper’s back. Her father had always been the ‘saint.’ When her mother died, he hadn’t called the police; he’d just sold the house and moved them away to ‘escape the pain,’ saying it was his failure as a father-figure that led Adrian astray. She had spent seven years blaming herself for bringing Adrian home. She’d done everything her father asked—the schools, the career, the marriage—all to make up for the ‘mistake’ of her youth. “Don’t worry, Jasper,” she said, her voice tight. “I’ll make sure he pays.” The matriarch survived the night but remained in a coma. Robert hovered by her bed, looking dazed. Isabella went to the hallway to handle work. Her assistant ran up, breathless. “Ma’am, I found that nurse you asked about. The one from your old house in the city.” “She said she tried to call you three years ago, but she could never get through.” Isabella frowned. “Don’t worry about it now…” But her fingers acted on their own. She opened her phone’s block list. Along with Adrian’s number, there was a regional block on the entire area code of their old hometown. Someone had gone into her settings. Someone close. “Go to the old neighborhood,” she told her assistant. “Bring that nurse here. I want to talk to her face-to-face.” Instead of going back to the hospital room, Isabella drove back to the estate. She caught a gardener about to burn a trash pile. Something caught her eye—a tattered bag. “What is that?” The staff jumped, looking guilty. “Just some trash from the cellar, ma’am. Mr. Miller said to clear it out.” They were acting strange, like they were signaling someone. Isabella snatched the bag from the dirt. The leather was scorched, but inside a hidden flap, she found a small, silver digital recorder.

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My mother once spent fifty million dollars to build a secluded, fully immersive nineteenth-century estate in the remote mountains of Montana. She did it to convince my father he had lost his mind and slipped through time. It was her revenge. Years prior, when my father tried to file for divorce, he had hired people to expose her affair online, nearly driving her lover, Joshua, to a nervous breakdown. So, my mother trapped him. Once inside her twisted historical replica, my father was sold into the estate’s darkest quarters—an underground parlor catering to the depraved fantasies of the ultra-rich. When he tried to run, they shattered his leg. For three years, he was forced to live as an indentured servant. A slave. Three years later, my mother finally pulled off the mask. She stood over him, looking down at his broken body kneeling on the floor, and smiled. She asked him how it felt to be nothing but a dog for all those years. She asked if he had finally learned his lesson. My father pressed his forehead against the hardwood. His voice didn’t carry a single tremor of emotion as he whispered, “Whatever my Lady commands.” My mother froze for a fraction of a second, but then her smile returned, smug and satisfied. I threw myself into my father’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. He held me tight, his tears dropping hot and fast into the crook of my neck. He whispered that he was so sorry, that he had to leave me soon, but that he would make sure everything was taken care of before he did. 1. I thought he was just talking out of grief. After all, anyone who had survived what he just went through would be pushed to the edge. I clung to his neck with a death grip, choking on my tears. “Dad, where are you going?” He didn’t answer right away. He gently wiped my cheeks with his calloused thumbs before speaking in a voice so soft it felt like a ghost. “You might not understand this, Fallon.” “I was written into this world. I was bound to a System, sent here with one directive: to help your mother build her empire.” “Now that her company has gone public, my assignment is over. I can go back.” “I wanted to wait until you were grown, but now…” He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. I was eight years old. I didn’t understand what he meant by being “written into this world,” or what a “System” was. But I understood one thing with terrifying clarity. If he left, I would never see him again. “Can I come with you?” I begged. My father opened his mouth to speak, but the sound of footsteps echoed behind us. My mother walked in. She was still wearing the elaborate, corseted Lauran gown she had worn for her grand reveal, holding her iPhone like she had just stepped off a movie set. “The car will be here any minute.” She placed a hand heavily on my father’s shoulder. Her tone was unnervingly gentle, sickeningly sweet. “Simon, I haven’t forgotten how you supported me when I had nothing. As long as you don’t cause any more scenes, I will never let anyone take your place as my husband.” “Go home. Learn to get along with Joshua. We can go back to being the loving family we used to be.” My father lowered his head and bowed his shoulders. His eyes were as dead and empty as a dried-up well. There was absolutely nothing left behind them. “Rest assured. This servant knows his place.” The black SUV arrived. My father limped toward the passenger door. He moved agonizingly slowly, dragging his shattered leg behind him. The sole of his shoe scraped against the pavement, a dry, grating sound that made my chest ache. My mother glanced back at him, her gaze faltering for just a second. I grabbed a fistful of my father’s jacket and trailed behind him. He used to walk so fast. I always had to jog to keep up. He used to turn around, walking backward with a huge grin, calling out, “Hurry up, Fallon!” Then he would wait for me to crash into his legs and scoop up my hand. Now, he could barely stand straight. We arrived at the Chicago estate. Joshua was standing on the front steps, holding a six-month-old baby in his arms. Joshua was my uncle. My father’s own younger brother. He had moved into our house three years ago. He wore the finest designer clothes, drove the best cars, and had the household staff calling him “Sir.” The baby, Toby, was his and my mother’s illegitimate son. Joshua’s eyes swept over my father, a mocking smile playing on his lips. “Welcome home, brother.” My father looked at the baby in Joshua’s arms. His hands, hanging limply at his sides, curled into tight fists. But his eyes remained a void. Slowly, his knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground. “This servant greets the Master.” Joshua froze. When the shock wore off, a cruel, breathless laugh escaped his lips. My mother’s face darkened immediately. “Simon, you’re home now. You don’t have to play the servant anymore.” Joshua’s smile vanished, a flicker of raw hatred flashing through his eyes. “Yes, ma’am,” my father replied, his voice painfully submissive. My mother sighed, rubbing her temples. “Let’s just go inside.” The moment we stepped into the grand foyer, I saw my grandparents sitting in the living room. My grandfather was flipping through a copy of Forbes. My grandmother was pouring tea. The coffee table was adorned with an elaborate fruit platter, heavily featuring imported strawberries—Joshua’s favorite. Joshua handed the baby to a nanny and hurried over to the sofa, looping his arm affectionately through my grandmother’s. “Mom, Dad. Look who’s back.” Upon seeing my father, my grandmother slammed her porcelain teacup down onto the glass table with a sharp clack. Her face was a mask of cold disgust. “You caused enough of a scandal three years ago. Now that you’ve crawled back, I expect you to keep your head down.” “Because of your little stunt, the internet is still calling Joshua a homewrecker. You’ve dragged the Garrison family name through the mud!” My grandfather didn’t even look up from his magazine. He just casually turned the page. “If you were half as understanding as Joshua, you wouldn’t have ended up in this pathetic state.” I stood next to my father, my tiny fists trembling. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them that he had been locked away in a nightmare for three years. That his leg was broken. Why wasn’t anyone hugging him? Why wasn’t anyone asking if he was okay? But I swallowed the words. The last time I said something bad about Joshua, my grandmother slapped me across the face. She called me a feral brat and said my father had poisoned my mind. Beside me, my father dropped to his knees again. “This servant begs for forgiveness.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. My grandmother scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s just playing the victim to get sympathy.” My mother stepped forward, patting my father’s trembling shoulder. “Mom, Dad. Simon has been out there for three years. He hasn’t readjusted yet. Give him time.” She turned to me. “Fallon, take your father up to your room so he can rest.” “Okay,” I whispered. I grabbed my father’s ice-cold hand and led him up the sweeping staircase. From the living room, my grandmother’s voice drifted up, sharp and grating. “Don’t coddle him, Laura. He’s always been painfully stubborn. Ignore him for a few days and he’ll snap out of it.” I closed my bedroom door. The moment the lock clicked, it was just the two of us. Instantly, the cowardly, vacant look in my father’s eyes vanished, replaced by a razor-sharp clarity. He dropped to his good knee and cupped my face in his hands. “Fallon. Give me your smartwatch.” I blinked in surprise, but quickly unbuckled the pink watch and handed it over. He dialed a number from memory. It picked up on the second ring. “Victor.” I knew that name. Victor was my father’s private wealth attorney. “I need you to set up an irrevocable trust in Fallon’s name. Transfer everything—the real estate, the equity, the liquid cash. All of it.” “And Victor… start preparing Fallon’s immigration papers. Get her out of the country.” When he hung up, my father pulled me into his chest, burying his face in my hair. His embrace felt exactly the same as it always had. Warm. Safe. Home. 2. That night was the first time in three years I slept without waking up crying. But when I opened my eyes the next morning, the bed beside me was empty. “Dad!” I panicked, my voice shaking as I sprinted barefoot out into the hallway. “Ahhh—!” A blood-curdling scream erupted from the master bedroom. It was Joshua. Seconds later, Toby’s high-pitched wails pierced the air. Joshua stumbled backward out of the bedroom, clutching Toby to his chest in pure terror. Blood was dripping down the baby’s arm. “Simon! Please! If you want to kill someone, kill me! Don’t hurt Toby! He’s innocent!” My heart plummeted into my stomach. By the time I reached the doorway, my mother had already sprinted out of her home office. My grandparents were practically falling over themselves as they rushed up the stairs. My father stood inside the bedroom, his face deathly pale. A bloody fruit knife lay on the carpet at his feet. He looked at the crowd gathering in the hall, his voice weak and desperate. “I just came to tell him breakfast was ready. I didn’t…” Smack. My grandmother’s hand collided with my father’s face. His head snapped to the side, a red welt instantly blooming across his cheek. “You psycho!” My grandmother shrieked, her hand still vibrating in the air. “That is your brother’s child! How could you?” “What kind of monster did I give birth to?!” My grandfather stood rigidly behind her, his voice dark and heavy. “You tore this family apart three years ago, and on your first day back, you try to commit murder. Do you have any humanity left?” My mother finished inspecting Toby’s arm. She turned to look at my father. Her eyes were overflowing with disgust. “I thought three years in the Colony would have taught you some humility. I didn’t realize you were still this venomous.” “It seems you need another tour.” At the mention of “the Colony,” the dam finally broke. Stark, unfiltered panic seized my father’s eyes. He threw himself to the floor, crawling on his hands and knees to grab the hem of my mother’s slacks. His eyes were completely bloodshot. “Laura, please. You have to believe me.” “I only came up here to tell him breakfast was ready, I swear to God I didn’t touch the knife—” “If it wasn’t you, then who? You expect us to believe your brother stabbed his own baby?” my grandmother roared. “Do you think we’re stupid?!” Joshua took a step back, clutching Toby tighter, tears streaming down his flawless face. “Mom, Dad… please, don’t yell at him…” He lowered his head, his voice shrinking into a pathetic whimper. “It’s all my fault…” I stood there, watching my family tear my father apart, my entire body violently shaking. “It wasn’t my dad!” I lunged forward, throwing my arms out wide to shield him. “My dad would never hurt anyone! He’s never hurt a fly!” My mother looked at me, then down at my father. Her expression was unreadable. Then, Joshua spoke up, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Do you think… maybe his mind finally broke?” He shot my father a pitiful look. “I mean… after three years in a place like that…” My mother flinched. My grandmother latched onto the idea instantly. “Yes! He’s sick in the head! No sane person would do something like this!” “He can’t stay in this house,” my grandfather declared. “Send him to the hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. If he’s crazy, lock him up in an asylum before he kills us all.” My father dragged himself forward on his bad leg, his knuckles turning white as he gripped my mother’s pants. “Laura. I’m not crazy. I swear to you, my mind is fine.” “Just let me stay with Fallon. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll be whatever you want.” My mother stared down at him, her face completely blank. “Take Toby to get stitched up,” she ordered the room, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’m taking him for an evaluation.” The fragile light left in my father’s eyes extinguished in an instant. He crumpled, his body collapsing against the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. “Dad! Dad—!” I screamed his name, shaking his shoulders with all my tiny might. He didn’t move. My grandmother nudged his ribs with her shoe. “Stop faking it. Get up!” “Don’t touch him!” I shrieked so loudly it echoed off the vaulted ceiling. My grandmother jumped back in genuine shock. “Have you lost your mind?!” Her face turned a mottled purple. “Is this how your father taught you to speak to your elders?” “You don’t even treat him like your son!” I sobbed, the words ripping out of my throat. “You only love Joshua! You never loved him!” “You little—” My mother stepped back into the room. She knelt beside my father and pressed two fingers to his neck. All the color drained from her face. “Call a doctor.” She stood up, her voice cracking with sudden, raw panic. “Call a fucking ambulance! Now!” At the hospital, they rushed him straight into the ER. It felt like a lifetime before they finally moved him to a private room. The attending doctor stepped out, giving my mother a look I couldn’t quite decipher—a mix of pity and profound judgment. “The patient’s physical condition is catastrophic. He is suffering from severe, prolonged malnutrition and bodily trauma.” My mother stood in the fluorescent hallway, her face unreadable. I ran into the room. My father was lying in the hospital bed, IV lines snaking into his bruised arms. He looked like a ghost. He weakly lifted a hand and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. Dad’s okay.” He looked past me, his gaze landing on my mother standing in the doorway. He softened his voice. “Fallon, go wait outside for a minute. I need to talk to your mother.” I didn’t want to leave. But I forced my feet to move. I didn’t close the door all the way. Through the narrow crack, I watched my father look at the woman who had ruined his life. His eyes were steady, unyielding. “Laura. I’m sending Fallon out of the country.” 3. “Are you insane? She’s eight years old.” My mother’s voice rose, laced with the indignant anger of someone who wasn’t used to being defied. “Is this another one of your tantrums?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “I can accept sharing a life with Joshua. I will keep my head down, play my part, and never betray you.” He said it with a chilling emptiness, like he was reciting terms and conditions. “But Fallon is not growing up in that house.” As he spoke, he pushed the blankets aside. Barefoot, he stepped onto the cold linoleum floor. His bad knee buckled, and he dropped to the ground. “I am begging you. Let her go.” He pressed his forehead to the hospital floor. My heart shattered into a million jagged pieces. “Dad,” I whimpered through the crack in the door. My mother stared at him. Her eyes were dark, her lips pressed into a thin, white line. “Fine. She can go abroad,” she finally said, her voice sounding hollow, as if coming from very far away. “But you are staying.” I couldn’t take it anymore. I shoved the door open and sprinted inside. “I don’t want to go!” My father looked up, his eyes tracing the tears streaming down my face. He reached out and pulled me into his chest. He was so thin now. His collarbones dug painfully into my cheek, but his warmth was still there. “Be good, Fallon.” He patted my back, slow and steady, just like he used to when I had a nightmare. A few days later, they discharged him. Back at the house, Joshua and my grandparents treated him like a ticking time bomb, fully buying into the narrative that he was a violent schizophrenic. My father spent almost every hour in my bedroom. He held me. He read me stories. But a heavy, suffocating dread sat in my chest. At the dinner table, he would keep his head down, chewing his food with agonizing slowness, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. One evening, my mother set her fork down and cleared her throat. “The company’s tenth-anniversary gala is this weekend. Joshua will be attending as my plus-one.” “There will be a lot of press there. I have to think about Mercer Holdings’ public image.” A fleeting look of triumph crossed Joshua’s face, though he quickly masked it. He lowered his head, his voice a perfect pitch of feigned innocence. “Laura… won’t it look bad if Simon isn’t there?” “Whatever you decide is fine,” my father interrupted quietly. My mother looked at him, her mouth opening as if to argue, but ultimately, she said nothing. The night of the gala, the house was entirely empty except for my father and me. The late afternoon sun spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the plush carpets in strokes of gold. My father was sitting on the sofa, a needle and thread in his hands, carefully stitching up a tear in my favorite stuffed rabbit. I rested my chin on his knee, watching his deft fingers work. “Dad? Do I really have to leave?” I asked softly. His hands stopped. The needle hovered in mid-air. “I don’t want you to leave either,” he murmured, his voice so fragile it felt like a heavy breath would shatter it. “But I don’t have the time to watch you grow up anymore.” “Why don’t you have time?” “Because Dad has to go back home.” He said it so casually. Too casually for a goodbye. I sat up straight and looked him dead in the eye. “Can’t you take me with you?” “I would give anything to take you with me. But the System won’t allow it.” He offered me a broken, bitter smile, and reached out to smooth my hair. “Don’t worry. I’ve arranged everything with Victor. He’s going to take very good care of you.” “He’ll handle your schools. He’ll manage your trust. When you grow up, you can come back if you want, or you can stay over there forever. It’s your choice.” “Study hard. Eat well. Sleep well.” “Don’t trust people so easily.” “Never let anyone make you feel small.” “And if anyone ever bullies you—” He choked on the words. His eyes grew bright and rimmed with red, but he refused to let the tears fall. Crash—! The front door was violently kicked open. A group of unfamiliar men stood in the entryway. The guy in the front wore a distressed leather jacket. A jagged scar cut violently across his face, running from his eyebrow down to his cheekbone. Behind him stood three absolute mountains of men. “Who are you?” my father demanded, a tremor finally breaking through his voice. “What do you want?” The scarred man grinned, revealing a row of yellow, smoke-stained teeth. “Someone paid us good money to take the man of the house on a little trip.” His predatory gaze slid from my father’s face down to me. The way he looked at me made my blood run cold. I squeezed my father’s hand. He squeezed back, pushing me behind his body. “I’ll go with you,” my father said, his voice dropping into a dead, terrifying calm. “Just don’t touch my daughter.” The scarred man tilted his head, sizing him up. “Fair enough.” He flicked his wrist. Two of the giants lunged forward. One of them grabbed my arm, ripping me away from my father. The other pulled out a roll of duct tape and zip ties. In seconds, my wrists were bound, and a piece of tape was slapped brutally across my mouth. “Mmph—!” I thrashed wildly, but I was just a little girl. My struggles meant absolutely nothing to them. “Fallon—!” My father surged forward, but the scarred man slammed a hand into his chest, shoving him back. “Easy now,” the man sneered. “You cooperate, and we won’t lay a finger on the kid.” “What exactly do you want from me?” 4. They shoved me into the coat closet. When I finally woke up, it was the next day. The internet had exploded. #LauraMercerHusbandCheats #BillionaireCEO_Betrayed #SimonGarrison Three trending hashtags dominated every social media platform. The views were in the billions. Attached to the articles were blurry, highly explicit photos of my father and several strange men in a hotel room. His shirt was ripped open. His face was angled perfectly toward the camera. The comment sections were a bloodbath. “Laura gave him everything, and this is how he repays her?” “Cheating with men? Disgusting. He’s damaged goods now.” “Divorce him and leave him with nothing.” “Poor Laura. Built an empire just to be backstabbed by a leech.” At 10:00 AM, Laura Mercer held a live press conference. She stood at the podium in a razor-sharp charcoal suit. Her eyes were perfectly red-rimmed. Her voice was masterfully hoarse. “I want to thank everyone for respecting my family’s privacy during this time.” She bowed deeply to the flashing cameras. “Regarding my husband’s actions… I prefer not to comment extensively. He was with me when I had nothing. We survived a lot of hardships together. This was likely just a momentary lapse in judgment.” “I have decided to forgive him.” “After all, he is the father of my child.” The live chat erupted. “Laura is a saint!” “She’s taking him back?! She’s too pure for this world.” “Absolute queen behavior.” “Simon doesn’t deserve her!” I locked my phone screen. I looked up at my father, who was sitting quietly by the window, staring out at nothing. A few days later, the news cycle moved on. The house returned to a suffocating peace, as if the destruction of my father’s dignity had never happened. Once my visa for London was approved, my father took me to the airport. He handed my suitcase to the man standing next to me. “Take care of her, Victor.” “I will,” the lawyer replied. Victor was in his late thirties, a stoic, quiet man who radiated reliability. “Take care of yourself.” Victor took my hand and led me toward the security gates. As I boarded the plane, as the engines began to roar, I could have sworn I heard my father’s voice. It didn’t come from the terminal. It felt like it was echoing out of the empty air. “System. Please. Take me home.” “Goodbye, baby girl.” “Daddy loves you.”

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I’ve been the center of the universe since the day I drew my first breath. When I was one, my father bought me a literal chateau in France, telling me I would always be his little princess. By the time I turned three, my mother had launched a luxury children’s wear line named after me, plastering my birthday portraits on billboards from New York to Paris. Even my older brother, the CEO of a multi-billion-dollar tech conglomerate, doted on me to the point of absurdity—he was the kind of man who’d let me ride on his back in the middle of a high-stakes gala if I asked. Growing up in that kind of gilded cocoon gave me a profound sense of “deservingness.” I didn’t just think the world should move for me; I expected it to. But everything shifted when I met Ms. Halloway, my new homeroom teacher. She was the quintessential “pick-me” woman, the kind who performed her femininity solely for the male gaze while harboring a deep-seated resentment for other women—especially girls like me. On her very first day, she tried to force me into the standard, scratchy polyester school uniform. When I refused, she had the audacity to claim I was intentionally trying to “distract” the boys by not wearing the regulation blazer. I pouted, my bottom lip trembling with genuine confusion. “I can’t wear this trash, Ms. Halloway. My skin is strictly a 100% Grade 6A mulberry silk environment. Anything else gives me a rash.” She then instituted a rule that all girls had to use cheap, plastic butterfly clips to keep their hair back, claiming that “vanity in girls is a poison to a boy’s academic focus.” I didn’t use the plastic clip. She marched over, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “You little brat. Are you waiting for one of the boys to clip your hair for you? Do you have no shame?” I blinked, my eyes wide with shock. “A fifty-cent plastic clip would ruin my hair’s cuticle. I’ve had weekly deep-conditioning treatments since I was in diapers. I only use Jennifer Behr or Hermès.” She looked like she was about to explode. She raised her hand to strike me, but I performed a delicate, practiced “baby-step” retreat, dodging her easily. “Does your mother know you’re nearly eighteen and still acting like a toddler?” she hissed. “Do you realize how pathological you sound?” I covered my mouth, genuinely surprised. “Ms. Halloway, do you… not have a mother? Mine says I’ll be her baby for the rest of her life. She says I deserve nothing but the absolute best.” … Ms. Halloway’s face contorted, her eyes narrowing into slits. “You’re delusional! You’re just a spoiled piece of trash whose parents clearly failed her!” Her features twisted so violently it was actually painful to look at. It was an assault on my aesthetic sensibilities. “Oh,” I said, a realization dawning on me. “So you do have a mother? Then why didn’t she buy you any high-end skincare? Your pores are so… visible. Didn’t she ever get you La Mer or caviar-infused serums?” I proudly pushed up my sleeve, revealing my forearm—pale, translucent, and smooth as polished marble. “My skin is different from yours. Yours is so… textured.” Whack. She snatched a wooden ruler off the podium and struck my wrist. Hard. As a red welt bloomed on my skin, a satisfied, cruel smirk touched her lips. I felt a surge of genuine hurt. I was only trying to give her beauty advice, and she resorted to physical violence. “Still playing the ‘baby’ card?” she spat. “Did you fall on your head as a child? Is that why your IQ is in the basement?” I sniffed, asking the question I knew she was dying for me to ask. “Well, Ms. Halloway, what was your IQ score?” As a teacher at one of the most prestigious prep schools in the country, Ms. Halloway took immense pride in her credentials. She assumed I was a “legacy hire”—someone whose family had donated a library to get me in. To her, a girl who cared about silk was inherently a dimwit. “Me?” she asked, puffing out her chest. “I scored a 130. A certified genius. Unlike a certain ‘baby’ who can’t seem to score higher than a two percent on her practice SATs.” She leaned in closer. “Girls like you are a blight. Eventually, I’m going to make sure every girl is weeded out of this honors track, starting with getting you expelled.” Wait. Had I entered a parallel universe? The top twenty students in our grade were all girls. And… 130? Was that supposed to be high? “Ms. Halloway,” I asked innocently, “if your IQ is only 130, and mine is 190… does that mean your ‘genius’ is actually just… average?” I was just telling the truth. But Ms. Halloway went off like a literal bomb. She snapped. She started grabbing whatever was on her desk and hurling it at me. A cheap plastic ballpoint pen! A cracked, outdated smartphone! Even her tacky “designer-inspired” gold-plated bracelet! “Watch out!” I squealed, ducking. If any of those low-quality materials touched me, I’d break out in hives. I wasn’t fast enough. The bracelet grazed my arm, and almost instantly, tiny red bumps began to appear. It itched like crazy. She began screaming for the Head of Students, Mr. Miller, who happened to be patrolling the hallway. “Mr. Miller! We have to expel Tinsley Beaumont immediately! She’s mentally unstable! She’s failing every diagnostic test, yet she’s claiming she has a 190 IQ! She’s a distraction to the boys!” Mr. Miller looked at Ms. Halloway, then at me, then back at her. He was silent for a long beat. “Ms. Halloway… have you even looked at the student files I sent you?” She stammered, “I… well, I reviewed the boys’ files. Tinsley is clearly a lost cause. A school with our reputation can’t have its GPA dragged down by a girl who thinks she’s a doll.” Mr. Miller sighed, shaking his head. “I think the only person suffering from a lapse in judgment here is you, Ms. Halloway.” He pointed to my file. “Tinsley Beaumont isn’t just a student. She’s already been accepted into Stanford on a full-ride Early Action. She placed first in the National Merit Scholarship rankings for the entire state. Where exactly do you plan on ‘expelling’ a girl who’s already reached the finish line?” Ms. Halloway’s jaw dropped. “That’s impossible! She’s… she’s vapid! She doesn’t even speak like an adult!” I blinked my lashes, looking as guileless as possible. “Oh, that. It’s just that the boys in our class have such fragile egos. If they saw my real scores, they’d cry, and they’re already so unattractive when they’re upset. I don’t like looking at ugly things, so I just… precisely aim for a two percent score to keep the peace.” Because of the allergic reaction on my arm, I asked Ms. Halloway for an excuse from the afternoon’s Field Day. Naturally, she refused. She grabbed a lock of my hair, pulling it tight. “Stop being so delicate. If you aren’t competing, you’re going to be on the sidelines cheering for the boys. If you don’t, I’ll punish every girl in this class. I’ll make them spend the weekend scrubbing the boys’ locker rooms.” Ugh. The boys’ locker room? I could practically smell the axe body spray and unwashed socks from here. I felt like I was going to throw up. I didn’t want to bother my parents or Callum with something so petty, so I just nodded and headed to the field. Before I left, I slathered on five layers of SPF 50 and grabbed my custom-made parasol. But the moment I stepped onto the track, Ms. Halloway snatched the umbrella from my hand. “The boys are out here in the sun, and they aren’t complaining,” she sneered. “What makes you so special?” She tried to stomp on the parasol to break it. But the handle was crafted from high-density aerospace-grade titanium. Instead of breaking the umbrella, her cheap heel snapped, and she went sprawling face-first into the dirt. A group of boys immediately rushed over. They weren’t actually worried about her; they just wanted an excuse to skip the relay. “Ms. Halloway! Are you okay?” “Let us help you to the shade! We can’t possibly compete knowing you’re hurt!” Ms. Halloway looked at me with a triumphant, muddy smile. “See? This is why boys are superior. They have empathy. They have instinct. A girl like you—even with a high IQ—will be chewed up and spat out by the real world because you have no ‘people skills’.” I wanted to point out that my family owned half of the city’s skyline and that Callum had already set up a trust fund that would allow me to spend ten million dollars a year for the next three centuries without running out. What “world” was she talking about? Her phone buzzed. She looked at the screen, and for a second, her expression was a complicated mix of shock and smugness. The boys around her started whistling. “Is that him, Ms. Halloway? Did the mystery billionaire finally accept your friend request?” “I knew it!” one of the guys cheered. “You’re way too hot to be a teacher. You’re going to marry into a dynasty and leave us, aren’t you?” The flattery went straight to her head. She looked at me with pure venom. “Tinsley, you’re so clueless about how the world works. A woman’s real power is her ability to capture a man of status. And very soon, I’m going to have… him… right where I want him.” She whispered the name under her breath, and it was so breathy and high-pitched I couldn’t quite catch it. “Why do you have to work so hard to capture a man?” I asked, tilted my head. “Don’t they usually just… try to capture you?” I gestured toward the group of boys. Ms. Halloway finally noticed that while one boy had brought her a lukewarm bottle of tap water, three others were hovering behind me, offering me chilled imported sparkling water and a designer boba tea they’d had delivered to the school gate. “Tinsley! That is just the boys being gentlemen!” she shrieked. “Don’t be so narcissistic to think they’re interested in you. Now, go stand in the sun for the next eight hours. If you move, you’ll write ‘I am a shallow brat’ ten thousand times.” I sighed. So, the boys offering to do my homework and asking for my number wasn’t them “trying to capture me”? It was just… “gentlemanly”? I calmly took the boba tea and poured the entire sticky, icy contents over Ms. Halloway’s head. “Oops. I just remembered—I only drink organic, grass-fed milk alternatives from New Zealand. This was far too low-market for me. Since you seem so thirsty for attention, you can have it!” I think the sheer audacity of it sent her into shock. Ms. Halloway actually fainted. I thought that would be the end of it, but she woke up looking for blood. The next morning during homeroom, she called me to the front to lead the pledge. As soon as I opened my mouth, I saw her recording me on her phone. She posted the video directly to the school’s Parent-Teacher group chat. She tagged my parents. “Is this how you raised your daughter? She spends all day using this ‘baby’ persona to manipulate and seduce the boys in my class. When are you going to take responsibility for her behavior?” Other parents, fueled by the competitive toxicity of elite prep schools, began chiming in. “My son told me about her! Why is she allowed to wear those pink lace uniforms when everyone else wears navy?” “It’s disgusting. She’s almost an adult and she’s acting like a toddler. It’s a distraction to the serious students.” Ms. Halloway smirked as she watched the notifications roll in. Then, she grabbed my custom Swarovski-encrusted water bottle from my desk and hurled it against the wall. It shattered into a million pieces, a shard of crystal grazing my cheek. I burst into tears. Real, messy tears. “Ms. Halloway! My mother had that bottle custom-made for my birthday! Why would you break it?” “Because you’re a freak!” she yelled. “Who carries a bottle that looks like a sippy cup at eighteen? You’re just doing it for the male gaze! You’re sabotaging their futures!” She ground her heel into the ruins of the bottle, her eyes bright with a manic kind of joy. But a second later, the group chat went silent. My parents were too busy in Dubai to look at their phones, but the account was managed by my grandfather. And my grandfather didn’t just love me—he worshipped me. A notification popped up. My grandfather had just sent a digital gift card for $10,000 to every single parent in the chat. “Our Tinsley has always been a delicate soul. If she likes her water in a crystal bottle, it’s because her palate is too refined for plastic…” When it came to me, my entire family shared a collective “Baby Brain.” My grandfather, a retired titan of the shipping industry, began spamming the chat with photos of me as a baby, listing my “adorable” qualities. Ms. Halloway had expected my parents to be shamed into withdrawing me. She had expected a mob. But $10,000 is a lot of money, even for wealthy people. Before Ms. Halloway could even type her next insult, the parent who had started the group chat kicked her out. They renamed the group: Tinsley Beaumont Official Fan Club. “Honestly, she’s so young at heart. Ms. Halloway, you’re being a bit of a bully, aren’t you?” one parent wrote. “The bottle was beautiful! You have no taste!” another added. Having lost the parents, Ms. Halloway turned to the faculty. During a school-wide “Open House” that was being live-streamed to donors, she forced me to sit in the front row. She leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Keep playing the doll, Tinsley. Let’s see how the board of directors feels when you humiliate the school on camera. If you mess this up, I’m giving your Stanford recommendation to the boy who’s second in class.” I knew she had filed a formal complaint, claiming I’d cheated on my exams. She wanted my “spot” given to her favorite male student. During the lecture, she purposely called on me for the most difficult questions, trying to “expose” me. The other teachers held their breath—the questions were at a post-grad doctoral level. But I wasn’t just “playing” a genius. I was one. I stood up, smoothed my skirt, and answered every single question with surgical precision. Then I pouted, touching my cheek. “Is that all? These questions are kind of making me sleepy. Are they supposed to be hard?” I turned to Ms. Halloway. “Was that the ‘intensity’ you were worried about? Because it felt a little… basic.” In front of the entire school and thousands of online viewers, Ms. Halloway’s reputation disintegrated. After the class, she lost it. She kicked my desk over and screamed at me in front of the boys. “Wait until the finals! I’ll make sure the girls fail. I’ll make sure the boys take back their rightful place at the top! And then you can kiss your ‘Stanford’ dream goodbye!” On the day of the final exams, Ms. Halloway did something “nice.” She ordered lunch for the whole class. The boys got steak and lobster. The girls were given a “health-conscious” salad of wild mushrooms. “Ms. Halloway, this is amazing!” the boys cheered. “We’re gonna kill it on the test for you!” I didn’t touch my plate. “Aren’t you eating, Tinsley?” she sneered. “Mushrooms are great for brain health. Or are you too busy dieting to keep your ‘baby’ figure?” I looked at her, bored. “Where is my personalized ‘Princess’ bowl? I can’t eat out of plastic, Ms. Halloway. It’s beneath me.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” She reached out, trying to shove a forkful of mushrooms into my mouth. Suddenly, three girls in the back row let out a strangled cry, clutching their stomachs. I knew it. She wasn’t just a “pick-me.” She was a criminal. She had tried to poison the competition so only the boys would be healthy enough to take the exam. I grabbed the plate of mushrooms and shoved it right back into Ms. Halloway’s face. The girls were rushed to the hospital. And while Ms. Halloway was being questioned by EMTs, I sat down and finished my final in twenty minutes. I scored a perfect 1600 on the mock SAT and a 100% on every subject final. The boys she had bet on were so demoralized by my speed that they ended up having a collective breakdown on the school rooftop, doing “stress-relief” pushups until they collapsed. After that, I hired a private chef to cater lunch for every girl in my grade. We had wagyu and truffle every day. We filed a joint report about the “mushroom incident,” but somehow, Ms. Halloway wasn’t fired. One of the boys who liked me slipped me a note: [Ms. Halloway is dating the new Chairman of the Board. He’s incredibly wealthy, and she told the Principal they’re practically engaged. No one can touch her.] Incredibly wealthy? Wealthier than the Beaumonts? I watched her walk through the halls, glaring at us while we ate our lobster tails. She tried to call my parents again, but they wouldn’t even take her call. Finally, she cornered me. “Next week is the Senior Gala. You are required to bring your parents. If they don’t show up, I’ll have the Chairman blacklist your family from every club in this city.” As far as I knew, she’d only managed to get the Chairman’s number. They weren’t even dating yet. But I agreed. Because Callum had told me he was coming home next week to give me a “surprise.” He could handle her. The night of the Gala arrived. As the top-ranked student, I had to give a speech. But as I stepped onto the stage, a middle-aged woman I’d never seen before rushed up and slapped me across the face. The giant screen behind me flipped from my graduation photo to a series of grainy, private photos of a girl who looked vaguely like me in a compromising position. “This is Tinsley Beaumont!” the woman shrieked into the microphone. “She’s a homewrecker! She seduced my husband and destroyed my family! Her mother is nothing but a high-class escort who taught her how to play ‘baby’ to get money from married men!” The room erupted. Parents began pulling their children away from me as if I were contagious. Below the stage, Ms. Halloway mouthed: “You’re finished.” The woman signaled, and a group of rough-looking men stormed the stage. They started grabbing at my clothes, pulling my hair, trying to humiliate me. “Strip this little slut! Let’s see what the prestigious Beaumonts are really hiding!” Then, a cold, melodic voice cut through the chaos from the back of the hall. “Princess?” Ms. Halloway and I both froze. I saw my brother, Callum, standing in the doorway. And when he saw the hand-shaped bruise on my cheek and the men touching me, his eyes turned a shade of red I had never seen before.

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When I opened my eyes, I was back in the lion’s den. Specifically, I was standing at the altar of my own wedding. To my right, Trevor—my “best friend” and best man, a guy who treated life like a series of cheap pranks—was already holding the microphone, a predatory glint in his eyes. He was midway through his toast, that smug, punchable smirk plastered across his face. He let out a sharp, theatrical bark of a laugh, leaning into the mic. “So, I probably shouldn’t mention this, but our boy here had a little ’emergency’ at the VIP dermatology clinic last month. Honestly, looking at him then, I thought for sure Diana would be walking down the aisle with a ghost today.” The ballroom, filled with three hundred guests, erupted into a confused, judgmental murmur. Trevor held up his hands, the picture of faux-innocence. “Hey, hey! Don’t look at me like that. I’m just a guy with a big mouth and zero filter. It’s a joke, people! Let’s not make it a thing.” In my previous life, I had spiraled. I had stood there, humiliated, stammering out an explanation—that it was a simple procedure to remove a suspicious mole on the sole of my foot. But Trevor hadn’t let up. He’d slapped his knee, howling, asking the crowd why a “mole removal” required a “sugar mama” to sign the consent forms. He’d asked me why I was getting so defensive over a “harmless joke.” That “joke” was the spark that burned my life down. Diana’s conservative, old-money parents were mortified. Diana herself had slapped me in front of everyone, called off the wedding, and left me to a slow, suffocating death by depression and eventually, suicide. The memory hit me like a physical blow. Beside me, I felt Diana’s posture stiffen, her breath hitching in a precursor to rage. This time, I didn’t stammer. I didn’t hide. I reached out, my fingers steady, and grabbed the microphone from Trevor’s hand. I didn’t pull away. Instead, I shoved it right back toward his mouth, my lips curling into a cold, terrifyingly calm smile. “Don’t stop now, Trevor,” I said, my voice amplified and echoing through the hall. “Tell them everything. Give us the play-by-play. I want to see exactly how many ‘jokes’ you have left when the truth actually hits the floor.” … The mic was inches from Trevor’s lips. He blinked, clearly caught off guard. In his mind, I was the soft touch, the quiet guy who hated confrontation and would rather swallow glass than cause a scene in public. He wasn’t prepared for me to push back in front of the entire social register. He jerked his head back, playing the part of the startled victim. “Whoa, Beckett! Take it easy, man. You’re gonna blow out the speakers. You know how I am—I just say things. I’ve got no filter! It’s your big day, don’t be such a buzzkill.” I gripped the microphone tighter, stepping into his personal space. “If we’re going to joke, let’s go all the way,” I said. My voice was like a scalpel, cutting through the heavy air of the ballroom. “Tell them what you saw at the clinic. Tell them what you heard. Don’t leave out a single detail. Let’s make sure everyone has a real reason to laugh.” A flicker of malicious triumph danced in Trevor’s eyes. He thought I was bluffing. He thought I was handing him the rope to hang me. “Beckett, buddy, don’t force my hand here. Everyone’s watching,” he said, his voice rising, ensuring the back row could hear. “I really didn’t mean to bring up the… older woman. You know, the one with the noticeable baby bump?” He paused for dramatic effect, then practically shouted into the room, “I swear! I definitely didn’t see that woman paying your medical bills or signing your surgery consent forms as your ‘primary partner’!” He immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, widening his eyes in mock horror. “Shoot! There I go again. My big, stupid mouth.” He turned toward Diana and her mother, his voice dripping with fake sincerity. “Diana, Mrs. Whitlock, please—don’t listen to me. I’m sure that lady was just a distant relative or something. Let’s not jump to conclusions!” The silence that followed was absolute. It lasted exactly three seconds before the room detonated. The whispers were like a swarm of hornets. “Is he serious? Cheating on Diana with an older woman? And he’s got that kind of disease?” “He looks so refined, but he’s just another piece of trash. The Whitlocks must be humiliated.” Diana, who had been a statue of white silk beside me, finally snapped. She lunged forward, her eyes bloodshot with fury. “Beckett! What the hell is he talking about?” At the head table, the family matriarch—a woman who prized “reputation” above the lives of her own children—slammed her hand onto the marble tabletop. The sound of clinking crystal echoed like a gunshot. “Beckett!” she hissed, her face a mask of cold porcelain. “The Whitlock name is built on integrity. We do not marry into filth. If you don’t explain this right now, consider this farce over!” I watched them. I watched the frantic energy, the judgment, the vultures circling. I felt nothing but a strange, icy clarity. I turned to Diana, my voice flat. “Diana, he’s a known liar who calls his malice ‘humor.’ Do you really take his word as gospel?” I saw Trevor in the corner of my eye, practically vibrating with glee. I knew what was coming. I knew that the more she believed him now, the harder she would fall later. Diana hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing her face. But Trevor wasn’t done. He slapped his thigh and let out a boisterous, ugly laugh. “Oh, come on, Beckett! Don’t try to gaslight the poor girl. If you’ve got nothing to hide, why are you so desperate for her to ignore me?” Trevor stepped closer, his expensive leather shoes clicking on the floor. “Are you going to tell this room, under oath, that you weren’t at the First Mercy Dermatology VIP wing on the 15th of last month? Because if you swear you weren’t there, I’ll get on my knees and apologize right now.” Every eye in the room was a needle, stitching me into a corner. The doubt in Diana’s eyes vanished, replaced by a searing, humiliated rage. “Answer him, Beckett!” she screamed, her voice trembling. “Were you at First Mercy on the 15th?” I looked at her, my expression a calm, stilled lake. “I was.” Another roar of outrage swept the room. My parents were in the front row, looking like they were about to collapse. My mother tried to stand, her eyes red, but a group of “friends” held her back, their faces twisted in gossipy pity. “He was there to have a mole removed from his foot!” my mother cried out, her voice breaking. “It wasn’t what you think!” Trevor laughed so hard he nearly doubled over. “Right, right! A mole! Of course, Mrs. Miller.” He turned to the crowd, grinning. “But tell me, does a mole removal usually require a random ‘sugar mama’ to sign the papers? Because I totally get it, man. Some ‘moles’ are more complicated than others!” Diana’s mother marched onto the stage like a grand inquisitor. “You disgusting animal. You have the nerve to stand here and lie about a mole?” She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Do you think we’re idiots? Do you think the Whitlocks are a dumping ground for street trash?” Diana finally broke. She reached up, ripped the Vera Wang veil from her hair, and threw it at my feet. “I thought you were a gentleman, Beckett. I thought you were different. But you’re just a pathetic little man crawling into bed with whoever pays the bill. I’m done.” I looked down at the silk veil on the floor. The last shred of my affection for her dissolved. “Fine,” I said, the word short and sharp. I reached up and unpinned the boutonniere from my lapel. “If you’re so eager to take his ‘jokes’ as truth, then this wedding is over.” Mrs. Whitlock didn’t miss a beat. She put her hands on her hips. “You’re damn right it’s over! And you’ll pay back every cent of the fifty-thousand-dollar family contribution. Every steak, every bottle of champagne—you’re paying for it all!” I didn’t even blink. I pulled out my phone, opened my banking app, and within three taps, transferred the fifty thousand dollars back into Diana’s account. “The money is back. We’re done. Don’t contact me again.” I turned to leave the stage, but Trevor grabbed my arm. “Whoa, Beckett. You can’t just walk away. That’s a confession, isn’t it?” He turned toward the groomsmen, zeroing in on a younger guy in the back. “Cody! You were interning at First Mercy last month, weren’t you? Tell everyone what you saw!” So, he wanted a witness. I stood still, waiting to see how the trap he built would eventually snap on his own neck. Cody, a distant cousin of Diana’s and a nursing student, looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. Trevor dragged him to the mic. “Cody, you’re an honest kid. Tell your cousin the truth!” Trevor’s eyes were manic now. “Didn’t you see a guy in a tan trench coat, wearing a mask and a hat, being led into the VIP surgical suite by a wealthy-looking older woman?” Cody stammered, his eyes darting everywhere but at me. “I… I was working the intake desk that morning…” He swallowed hard. “I did see someone… he had the same build as Beckett. And there was a woman with him. She was… older. Dressed in high-end labels.” That was the final nail. The room exploded in a chorus of “shame” and “disgust.” “I knew it! The best man wasn’t lying. He was just trying to save his friend’s fiancée from a nightmare!” “Get out of here, Beckett! Have some dignity and leave!” Mrs. Whitlock’s face was purple. “What do you have to say now? Even our own family saw you, you beast!” Diana raised her hand to slap me, but stopped herself, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “I was so blind. I can’t believe I almost married you.” Trevor was beaming, the corners of his mouth practically reaching his ears. He let out a theatrical sigh and patted Diana’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Di. I really am. I’m just a straight shooter. If I hadn’t risked our friendship to speak up today, you’d be wearing that ‘green hat’ for the rest of your life.” He looked at me, his eyes full of mockery. “Honestly, Beckett, what was the draw? Was it the money? Did she remind you of your mother? Or did you just like the way she smelled?” Trevor crossed his arms and cleared his throat. “Cody, what did you tell me about that woman’s perfume? Didn’t you say she was wearing that limited-edition fragrance Diana just imported from France?” Cody flinched but nodded quickly. “Yeah… it was that scent. It’s very distinct. I wouldn’t forget it.” Trevor slapped his knee again. “Hear that? The same perfume! Beckett, you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence.” I watched him. The more details he invented, the more weight the hammer would have when it fell. I didn’t argue. I just gave him a small, cold smile. “The perfume is a nice touch, Trevor. Is that all you’ve got?” Trevor’s eyes flickered, and then, in front of everyone, he lunged for the jacket I had draped over the back of the chair. “I didn’t want to go this far, but you’re just too thick-skinned!” He held the jacket up high like a trophy. “Don’t blame me, folks. I was just helping him stuff envelopes earlier and I felt something… hard… in the pocket.” He shook the jacket violently. Clatter. A pill bottle, a crumpled diagnostic report, and a gold-embossed hotel keycard tumbled onto the floor. Trevor lunged for the report, holding it up for the front row to see. “Look at this! Syphilis. Stage two!” He kicked the pill bottle toward the crowd. “Doxycycline. The standard treatment for a disgusting, contagious disease!” He mocked a look of heartbreak. “Beckett, man… you called this a ‘mole removal’? Since when are moles contagious? Oh, wait! There I go again, talking too much. Maybe he just found this report on the street? Maybe the pills are for a stray dog? It’s a joke, guys! Don’t take me seriously!” The room was in total chaos. The vitriol was deafening. “Vile! Absolutely vile!” “The Whitlocks are lucky they found out now!” Mrs. Whitlock actually fainted into the arms of a bridesmaid. “Kill him! Diana, call the police! He’s trying to poison our family!” Diana was shaking, looking at the pills and the hotel card like they were radioactive. “You… you brought your STD meds to our wedding? You’re a monster, Beckett! A filthy, lying dog!” She grabbed a heavy bottle of Cabernet from a nearby table and swung it at my head. “Go to hell!” I stepped aside, my eyes cold. The bottle smashed against the marble steps, red wine and glass shards spraying everywhere. Trevor stepped in, playing the hero, grabbing Diana’s arm. “Easy, Di. He’s not worth the prison time.” He looked at me, his face glowing with victory. “Beckett, just give it up. Admit you messed up. Maybe if you get on your knees and beg for forgiveness, they won’t sue you for everything you’re worth. I’m trying to help you here, man!” The guests were screaming at me now, fingers pointed, faces twisted. I walked forward slowly. I ignored the screaming, ignored Diana’s murderous glare. I stood in front of Trevor and looked down at the pills and the keycard. “Trevor,” I said quietly. “You’re absolutely sure those came out of my jacket?” “Duh!” Trevor cocked his head, his chin held high. “Everyone saw it. Unless you’re suggesting I’m a magician? I don’t have time for your games, man.” “You’re sure?” I repeated, my voice dropping to a sub-zero temperature. “I swear on my life. They fell right out of your pocket.” “Good,” I nodded, a jagged, icy smile spreading across my face. “Since you’re swearing on your life…” I reached out and snatched the backup microphone from the stunned emcee standing nearby. “Then I think it’s time everyone saw something much more interesting.” Trevor’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “What… what are you talking about? Stop stalling.” I didn’t answer him. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number on speaker. Trevor tried to keep up the bravado. “Who are you calling? Your lawyer? A paid actor? You think you can talk your way out of a positive Syphilis test?” I let out a short, dry laugh. “I don’t need to talk my way out of anything, Trevor. You built the stage. I’m just here for the final act.” As soon as the words left my mouth… BAM! The heavy oak doors of the ballroom were kicked open from the outside. The shouting died instantly. Three hundred people held their breath as the light from the hallway flooded in. And the look on Trevor’s face—the smug, triumphant grin—froze into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror.

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Three years ago, Lauren stood in our kitchen, tears streaming down her face, telling me the company had collapsed. She said we had to mortgage the house my father left me—our wedding home—just to keep the wolves from the door. She gripped my hands, her eyes red and desperate, promising me she’d win it back. She swore that house, the only thing I had left of my father’s legacy, would be ours again. I spent three years living for that promise. Until today. I had walked into her office, heart light, thinking we were finally ready to reclaim those memories. But Lauren didn’t look up from her desk. She just told me, with terrifying casualness, that the house hadn’t been mine for a long time. I froze, sure I’d misheard her. “What do you mean?” She toyed with her fresh manicure, her voice flat. “The bankruptcy was a calculated move, Wes. It wasn’t real. I transferred the deed to Parker years ago.” She looked at me then, her expression chillingly vacant. “He likes it there. He says having sex in our old marital bed makes it more… exhilarating.” It felt like a fist had closed around my heart and squeezed until the valves popped. I stood there, trembling, my voice a jagged whisper. “Why? Why wait until today to tell me?” She let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “I’ve been sleeping with your best friend under your nose for three years, and you never noticed. It was getting boring. Honestly, I just wanted to see the look on your face when you finally realized how much of a fool you’ve been.” She waved a hand dismissively. “There are other listings in the Heights. Pick a different mansion. I’ll buy it for you.” … That was the moment I realized that when the world truly breaks you, you don’t scream. You don’t even make a sound. Lauren watched my silence, her brow furrowing slightly. “You’re taking this better than I expected.” “I thought you’d demand to know why I betrayed you,” she continued, her tone conversational. “Why it had to be Parker. Your one and only brother-in-arms.” She was asking the questions I couldn’t find the breath to voice. After eight years together, Lauren knew the architecture of my mind better than I did. I tasted copper in my mouth. My voice shook. “So… why?” Why the two people I would have died for—the two people I thought were my bedrock—decided to gut me together? Lauren seemed satisfied now that she saw the agony in my eyes. She leaned back, relaxing. “I originally reached out to him to understand you better. I wanted to be closer to you.” “But the more we talked, the more I realized he was the one. He’s my actual soulmate, Wes. But we’d been together for eight years, and I felt… responsible for you. So, I kept you as the husband on paper, and kept him as the partner of my spirit.” A hysterical, weak laugh bubbled up in my chest. It was so absurd. She was blaming her infidelity on her devotion to me. The dam broke. I found my voice and it was a roar of pure, unadulterated pain. “Soulmates? Then what was I? What were the last three years?” “I worked myself into a stomach ulcer drinking with clients to clear ‘our’ debts! I knelt and apologized to arrogant pricks just to secure commissions for you! I slept five hours a night for three years! What was all that for?” In a flash of cruel clarity, I remembered seeing an old friend from our social circle a few months ago. He had looked at me with such pity, starting to say something, then stopping. “Wes,” he had asked, “Have you actually been back to the old house lately?” I had laughed it off, oblivious. “Lauren says we’re almost ready to buy it back.” He hadn’t said another word. He was trying to warn me that I was a ghost in my own life. Lauren watched the tears track down my face, her frown deepening. I looked for a flicker of guilt, a shred of remorse for the three-year lie. There was nothing. Just a cold, clinical detachment. “Did I force the scotch down your throat?” she asked calmly. “Did I pull your hair and make you take those extra shifts? You chose to do those things, Wes. That’s on you.” The last thread of my sanity snapped. Yesterday—only yesterday—she had held me, sobbing softly about how “happy” she was that we were finally “going home.” And Parker, my “best friend,” had sat across from us at dinner, clinking his glass against mine. “To the finish line, Wes. You earned this happiness.” I had felt so lucky then. Despite the exhaustion, I had my wife and my brother. I was living the American dream. Lauren’s voice cut through the memory like a scalpel. “Parker knows how much you wanted the house back. He actually felt bad enough to bring the contract today to sign it over.” “But I’m tired of him feeling like the villain,” she said, her voice softening only when she spoke of him. “Pick any other house, Wes. But the one your father left you? That stays with Parker.” The air in my lungs felt like shards of glass. “By what right? That house is all I have left of him.” The door swung open then. Parker walked in, late and beaming, a vintage Leica camera hanging around his neck. He didn’t seem to notice the radioactive tension in the room. “Am I late?” he chirped, lifting the camera. “I wanted to make sure I caught the look on your face, Wes. This is a big moment for you, buddy!” He peeked out from behind the lens, his smile bright and hollow. I stared at him, my eyes burning. “Is it a rush, Parker? Sleeping with my wife in my father’s house? Does it give you the thrill you were looking for?” The color drained from Parker’s face instantly. He stammered, his polished persona crumbling. “No… Wes, listen… I never wanted to hurt you…” Seeing his reaction was the final nail. It was all true. Every sickening detail. Parker started to move toward me, an explanation on his lips, but Lauren stepped in front of him, shielding him. Her eyes were full of a tenderness she hadn’t shown me in years. “You don’t owe him anything, Parker,” she whispered. “You’ve suffered enough in the shadows for three years.” Three years. We had been married for five. They had been together for more than half of it. And she thought he was the victim. I lost control. I swung, my palm cracking across her face. “You’re the one who’s suffered?” I screamed. “I lived in a basement apartment and ate ramen so you could keep your ‘struggling’ business afloat!” I turned on Parker. “And you! In high school, I stepped in front of those guys for you! I took a cigarette burn to the neck so they’d leave you alone! You told me you’d always have my back. And now you’re in my bed? Do you even have a soul?” The tears were falling freely now, hot and shameful. The guilt on Parker’s face vanished, replaced by a sneering, ugly sort of resentment. He wiped a phantom smudge from his camera lens. “Are you really bringing up high school, Wes? Honestly, it’s pathetic.” “Yeah, you helped me out once. Ten years ago. Does that mean I owe you my entire life? Am I supposed to live in a cage of ‘gratitude’ forever?” “I cared about your feelings,” he spat. “That’s why Lydia and I kept it a secret. I loved her so much it hurt, but I stayed in the dark just so you wouldn’t cry. Why can’t you be grateful for that?” He reached into his leather bag, pulled out a thick envelope—the transfer deed—and began tearing it into confetti right in front of me. He laughed, a sharp, jagged sound. “I was going to give it back to you today. But you know what? I’ve changed my mind. I like your house, Wes. And I really like your woman.” As the scraps of my father’s legacy fluttered to the floor, I lunged for them, desperate to save something. But Lauren was faster. She planted a sharp kick directly into the side of my knee—the one with the old injury. “What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. “Hitting me wasn’t enough? You want to go after Parker too?” My knee buckled with a sickening pop. The pain was white-hot, radiating up my spine. I collapsed, clutching my leg. “Lauren… that house… it’s all I have of him. Give it back.” She looked down at my pale face, her jaw tightening. She reached into her purse, scribbled on a checkbook, and threw a slip of paper at my face. “I told you. Parker likes the house. Buy a different one. Write whatever number you want on that.” She turned to leave, pulling Parker with her. The check fluttered down like a dying bird. I didn’t care about the money. I didn’t care about the insult. My left knee felt like it was being pierced by a thousand needles. I squeezed my eyes shut, my face contorting. “Lauren,” I gasped, the pain making me nauseous. “My leg. I can’t move it. Please… take me to the hospital.” She paused a few feet away. I saw her shoulders stiffen. Parker leaned into her ear, loud enough for me to hear. “The old ‘bad knee’ routine again? Seriously? He’s just trying to guilt-trip you into giving him the deed. I’ve seen this play a dozen times.” Lauren let out a cold snort of disgust. She didn’t turn back. I watched their shadows disappear down the hall until the world went cold. I don’t know how long I lay there. Eventually, a real estate agent found me and called 911. When I woke up, the nurse’s face told me everything. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Scott. The impact was too severe on the existing scar tissue. The joint is shattered. You… you may not be able to walk without assistance again.” I stared at the ceiling. I wouldn’t be able to stand. Three years ago, right after the “bankruptcy,” Lauren had been cornered by a rival developer at a gala. He’d gotten aggressive, putting his hands on her. I stepped in. I took a baseball bat to the knee so she wouldn’t get touched. When the doctor told her then that I might always have a limp, she had been inconsolable. She stayed by my side for weeks. “I’m so sorry, Wes. It’s my fault. Everything is my fault. The business, your leg…” I had comforted her. “As long as I can still stand, I’ll stand in front of you, Lauren. We’ll get through this.” She had been so “devoted” then. Now I realized her guilt wasn’t love—it was the weight of the lies she was already telling. I was staring blankly at the sterile white tiles when the door pushed open. Lauren and Parker walked in, their presence like a stain on the room. Parker actually had the gall to look sheepish. He set a cup of bland cafeteria porridge on the bedside table. “Wes… look, I didn’t know it was that bad.” I didn’t look at him. Lauren, seeing my silence, stepped forward to defend him. “Maybe it’s for the best that you can’t walk,” she said, her voice hardening. “Now you won’t have to worry about people staring at your limp in the office anymore. You can just… stay out of sight.” My heart felt like a dead weight. Three months ago, when we thought the debts were gone, we had planned a trip. We were going to see the world. She had leaned into my chest and whispered, “Wes, the world is so big. Your leg doesn’t change anything to me. You’re the most incredible man I know.” Now, she pulled a set of divorce papers from her bag, shredding that memory too. I grabbed the papers and tore them in half. “I will never sign these, Lauren. Never. If you want him, he’ll spend the rest of his life as a pathetic little home-wrecker in the eyes of the law.” Parker looked genuinely wounded. “Wes, man, can’t you just be happy for us?” My fingers curled into the bedsheets. He stole my father’s home. He stole my wife. And he wanted a blessing? I reached out with my good arm and shoved him. “In your dreams.” Parker stumbled back, and Lauren’s face turned feral. She grabbed my jaw, her nails digging into my skin, and dragged me off the bed. I hit the floor with a cry of agony, my shattered knee screaming. She forced me onto my knees in front of Parker. “Wes, stop it!” she hissed. “Parker was kind enough to come here and apologize, and you push him? Apologize to him. Now.” I glared at her through the pain. “Never.” Her eyes went cold and lethal. She pulled out her phone and held it in front of my face. “If you don’t want your father’s house turned into a pile of ash, you’ll apologize to Parker and sign those papers.” On the screen, a live feed showed Lauren’s assistant walking through my father’s living room, dousing the walls with what looked like gasoline. My heart stopped. “Lauren, you’ve lost your mind!” “My father worked himself to death for that house! He skipped his own cancer treatments to make sure we had a home! Why would you do this?” She didn’t blink. “Apologize, and I’ll tell them to stop.” On the screen, the assistant pulled out a lighter. My world narrowed down to that tiny flame. My father… he had promised my mother on her deathbed that I’d always have a roof over my head. I closed my eyes. The humiliation tasted like bile. I lowered my head until it touched the floor. “I’m sorry, Parker. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” Lauren watched my broken form, a flicker of something—regret? confusion?—crossing her face. She pulled me up, brushing the dust off my hospital gown with a mechanical touch. “The papers,” she said. I nodded, hollow. The woman who would use my father’s ghost to blackmail me… I didn’t want her anymore. When the assistant brought the new set of papers, I signed them without a word. Lauren seemed stunned by how quickly I gave in. She hesitated, her pen hovering over the line. “Wes… look, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. For your leg, and for everything… I’ll compensate you.” “If you ever need anything, you can call me.” Parker’s eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp malice. He quietly slipped out of the room. As Lauren handed me my copy of the signed decree, she leaned in. “Wes, I didn’t actually mean to hurt the house. It was just—” Her phone buzzed. A video call. She answered it, and Parker’s terrified voice filled the room. “Lauren! Help me! Please!” Lauren spun around, searching the room as if he were hiding. The camera on the other end shifted. A face appeared—a face I hadn’t seen in years. The leader of the group that used to torment Parker in high school. He looked at the camera with a jagged grin. “I heard you were using a house to blackmail Wes into a divorce,” the man said, his voice a low growl. “Don’t you know Wes is my brother?” Lauren whirled on me, her face contorted with rage. “You did this? You hired the people who traumatized him in high school to kidnap him? Do you have any idea what they put him through?” The man on the screen laughed. “Wes didn’t do shit. But you should know something about your ‘soulmate,’ Lauren. Back in the day, Wes didn’t save Parker from us. He paid us to mess with him.” “He wanted to look like the hero so Parker would be his loyal little dog. He’s been playing him since the start.” I stared at the screen, bewildered. “What are you talking about? I don’t even know you!” Another man leaned into the frame, grinning. “Don’t play modest, Wes! We were hurt you didn’t reach out for years, but when we heard your wife was cheating with that loser, we figured we’d settle the score for you.” He pushed Parker toward the edge of a rooftop. “Just say the word, Wes, and he goes over.” Lauren was shaking. “You staged the bullying? Just to make him grateful to you? Wes, you monster!” “I thought… I thought you were finally letting us go because you accepted it. But you were just stalling for time to kill him!” The voice on the phone prodded, “What’s it gonna be, Wes? You want revenge?” In the video, Parker was half-hanging over the ledge, his voice a frantic sob. “Wes, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have taken Lauren! I’ll go away! I’ll leave you both alone! Please!” Lauren grabbed my shoulders, her grip bruising. “Tell them to let him go, Wes! I’ll give you the house back! Anything!” “I can’t tell them anything! I don’t know who they—” Before I could finish, a scream erupted from the phone, and the connection cut to black. Lauren stared at the dead screen, her eyes turning blood-red. She grabbed me by the throat, dragging me toward the door. “Burn it,” she screamed into her radio. “I want him to watch his father’s legacy turn to ash!” Outside the hospital window, in the distance, a plume of smoke began to rise over the hills. I felt my soul leave my body. “No!” As the orange glow intensified in the distance, I looked at Lauren. I didn’t see the woman I loved. I saw a demon. “The biggest mistake of my life,” I whispered, tears of blood-red agony in my eyes, “was ever knowing either of you.” I lunged for the door, my broken leg dragging behind me. She stood there, laughing mockingly. “Go ahead. Run. That’s not gasoline in there, Wes. It’s just water. I’m just waiting for you to tell me where Parker is…” But as I burst through the exit, the sky didn’t turn gray. It turned a brilliant, horrifying orange. The house was screaming.

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I opened my eyes, my chest heaving as if I’d just clawed my way out of a grave. The harsh fluorescent lights of the office blinded me for a second, but as my vision cleared, the terrifying realization set in. I was back. I had returned to that day—the exact afternoon my husband’s foster sister proposed taking the entire staff on a company-funded luxury retreat to Cabo San Lucas. My pulse pounded against my eardrums. Deep in my company’s accounting software, a catastrophic error lurked: our corporate accounts were about to be frozen by the IRS for an overlooked payroll tax filing. Honestly, it wasn’t something that usually kept me up at night; it was a bureaucratic hiccup, easily fixed with a phone call and a wire transfer. But her? His sweet, tragic foster sister? When she found out about the impending freeze in my past life, she had panicked like a rat on a sinking ship. The memories of my past life crashed over me, suffocating and visceral. Under the guise of a “summer morale-boosting retreat,” she had maxed out my corporate cards and drained every drop of liquid cash we had. Because of her, our supply chain shattered. We defaulted. I was left drowning in tens of millions of dollars in debt. When I had confronted her, desperate and begging for the money back, she had simply leaned into my husband’s chest, a coy, dismissive smile on her lips. “Come on, Tori. I only spent a couple million. How could a company this size go bankrupt over that? Stop trying to scare me.” And my husband—the man I had abandoned my family for—had roared in my face. “The company’s money belongs to both of us, Tori! I gave Lara permission to use it. Who the hell do you think you are to micromanage her?” I had tried to call the police. Instead, they drugged me. They sold me to a cartel black site across the border. My final memories were a blur of unimaginable agony, cold surgical steel, and the profound, echoing darkness of dying with my eyes wide open, stripped of my organs and my dignity. The most chilling part? When the news of my disappearance leaked, my employees hadn’t shed a single tear. They had applauded. They called me a greedy corporate overlord who finally got what she deserved. 1 “You guys have been killing yourselves with overtime lately! So, to celebrate the end of the quarter, Jonathan and I agreed—I’m taking everyone to Cabo! All expenses paid!” The open-plan office erupted into deafening cheers. Lara stood dead center, practically glowing beneath the adoration of the staff. Through the glass walls of my private office, I stared at the scene. The thrumming of my own heartbeat confirmed it. I was really back. This was my second chance. Before I could even steady my trembling hands, the door swung open. Jonathan walked in, trailing Lara, and wrapped a warm, familiar arm around my shoulders. “Tori, babe, you look exhausted,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “Let’s go on vacation, just us and the team. To reward everyone for their hard work, Lara is treating them. We were hoping to put the flights on your Amex Platinum so we can rack up the miles and get the corporate rate.” Looking at Jonathan’s handsome, hypocritical face, a wave of pure nausea hit me. In the life before this, once Lara got her hands on my Amex, she had systematically siphoned our operating capital. When the cash flow stopped, our projects died overnight. When I had demanded answers, she had shrunk into Jonathan’s arms like a frightened bird. “Tori, I barely spent a fraction of Jonathan’s money. You’re just trying to scare me!” And Jonathan had looked at me with cold suspicion, accusing me of embezzling the funds myself. “It’s just a trip to Cabo, Tori. How much could it possibly cost? Did you blow the company’s money on a bad investment and decide to pin it on Lara?” I wanted to call the cops. They locked me in the basement instead. Lara had even brought in a vagrant off the street to violate me, recording it on her phone with a giggling, manic delight before shipping me off to be butchered. Remembering the profound humiliation of my past life, I wanted to tear them apart with my bare hands. While I was frozen in the memory, Jonathan reached across my desk, sliding open my drawer to grab the heavy metal Amex card. He handed it toward Lara. My instincts took over. I slammed my hand down on his wrist. “Put the card down.” Jonathan blinked, his charming smile faltering. “Tori? What’s the problem? We need to book the flights now or we lose the group rate. Don’t ruin the vibe.” His eyes darkened subtly. Seeing the shift, Lara stepped forward, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Everyone’s been working so hard, Tori. We’re just trying to take care of your team. You own this massive company, but you’re refusing to shell out for a simple team-building trip? Honestly… it almost makes it look like you’re hiding assets.” Listening to them play off each other, a dark, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “That’s funny. Through the glass just now, I heard you tell the entire floor that you were paying for everything. So why are you reaching for my company card?” Lara’s lower lip trembled. Instantly, tears pooled in her wide, innocent eyes. The sight of her crying shattered Jonathan’s composure. He shoved my hand away, wrapping both of his arms protectively around Lara’s shoulders. “Lara has the biggest heart in this room. She’s the only one who actually cares that the staff is burning out,” Jonathan snapped, his voice hard. “Don’t push me, Tori. Half this company is mine. You don’t get to act like a dictator.” I sat back in my leather chair, watching her play the victim. After what she did to me in the dark, the word ‘heart’ coming from her vicinity made me want to vomit. 2 When I refused to budge, Jonathan stormed out, slamming the glass door so hard it rattled in its frame. I slumped into my chair, an icy calm settling over my bones. By the time five o’clock rolled around, the usually buzzing office was dead quiet. The moment I stepped out of my suite, the small clusters of gossiping employees instantly scattered. David, the senior developer who had been with me since we were working out of a garage, stood up. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “Boss, word is you’re blocking the company trip?” I raised an eyebrow. I had merely refused to let Lara use my corporate Amex, but somehow, the narrative had spun into me canceling their vacation entirely. I cut my gaze to Lara. She shrank back slightly, offering a weak, defensive murmur. “I… Jonathan and I were just trying to boost morale. We just want what’s best for the company.” The rest of the staff glared at me. The hostility in the room was a living, breathing thing. I squared my shoulders. “I have no problem with you all going to Cabo.” Right on cue, Jonathan emerged from his office. “Great. Then hand the Amex to Lara so she can book the tickets.” Thinking I had caved, Lara took an eager step forward, reaching out for the metal card in my hand. I closed my fist around it, my voice dropping to a quiet, lethal register. “I don’t hand my corporate cards to people with hidden agendas.” Jonathan exploded. “Why are you being such a bitch?” he shouted, the word echoing off the concrete walls. “Lara is trying to do something nice for this company, and you’re accusing her of having an agenda? Apologize to her. Now.” In the old days, whenever he used that tone, I would shrink. I would apologize to keep the peace. I loved him too much to lose him. But now? I wished nothing but the worst for this parasitic pair. “If I’m such a bitch, let’s get a divorce,” I said, the words slipping out with terrifying ease. “Since Lara is exactly what you want, I wish you both a lifetime of happiness.” Jonathan’s face drained of color. He clearly hadn’t expected me to push back, let alone drop the D-word in front of the whole floor. Lara’s eyes widened, shimmering with perfectly timed tears. “Tori, please, don’t say that. Jonathan and I just grew up in the system together, we’re just siblings. Please don’t be mad. I even booked the honeymoon suite for the two of you!” The staff couldn’t hold back anymore. “Jesus, Tori, be the bigger person. Lara is trying to do something nice for your marriage,” one of the junior designers scoffed. “Every time we do ‘team building,’ it’s bowling in the suburbs. It sucks,” another muttered. “We bleed for this company, and you can’t even stomach sending us to Mexico? You really are a corporate tyrant.” The voices layered over one another, a chorus of resentment entirely on Lara’s side. I looked at these people and felt a profound, chilling emptiness. Aside from federal holidays, I personally paid out of pocket for our monthly off-sites and weekly catered lunches. And I was the tyrant. Seeing me cornered, a flicker of pure, malicious triumph crossed Lara’s face. She fanned the flames. “Well, since Tori won’t allow it, I’ll just cancel the resort. I guess we’ll just get back to being wage slaves, grinding to make her richer!” That was the breaking point. The simmering frustration in the room boiled over. A hotheaded account manager snatched up his half-full iced coffee and hurled it at my face. Someone else slammed a stack of heavy pitch decks against my chest. The crowd surged forward, shoving me. My heels slipped on the polished concrete floor, and I crashed down hard, my knee taking the brunt of the impact. The fury I had been keeping locked away tore out of me. “Who the hell said I was canceling the trip?!” I screamed, my voice raw and echoing. “I said she is not using my company card!” The movement stopped. They looked at each other, confused. “What’s wrong with using the corporate card? It gets the rewards points,” David muttered. He pulled out his own wallet and slid a silver company card across the nearest desk toward Lara. “Here. Use mine. The limit isn’t infinite like the boss’s, but it’s enough for Cabo.” Lara’s triumphant smile froze. Reluctantly, she picked up the card. I took a deep, shuddering breath, my nails digging so hard into my palms they drew blood. 3 The next morning, I arrived at work to find my office door unlocked. My heart skipped a beat. I rushed to my desk, yanking open the drawers. Everything looked untouched, but my paranoia was entirely justified. I pulled up the security feed on my phone. Sure enough, an hour after I had left yesterday, Jonathan and Lara had crept into my office. I watched them tear through my desk, searching frantically for something. But they found nothing. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Thank God I had taken the most sensitive financial documents—and the Amex—home with me last night. Just as I was locking my phone, a text flashed across the screen. From the IRS. Notice: Due to insufficient tax remittances, corporate accounts will be subject to an immediate freeze pending resolution. It hit me. A few weeks ago, during an aggressive expansion phase, cash flow had been tight. Accounting had flagged a delayed payroll tax payment. Because I was juggling a dozen fires, I had told them I’d handle it by the end of the month and then completely forgot about it. I reached for the phone to call my CFO, but my hand stopped mid-air. A dark, brilliant realization washed over me. If the corporate accounts were frozen, any card attached to them—including David’s—would be dead plastic. I exhaled slowly, a grim smile touching my lips. I set the phone down. That night, I finally slept soundly. But at 2:00 AM, my phone rang. It was my older sister, Caroline. She was sobbing. She told me our mother, who was in Cabo closing a real estate deal, had suffered a massive stroke and was rushed to the hospital. The world dropped out from under me. I threw clothes into a carry-on and booked the first redeye to Mexico. When I finally sprinted through the Cabo airport terminal, exhausted and terrified, I nearly collided with a loud, laughing group. Jonathan. Lara. And my entire office staff. Jonathan spotted me, his smile morphing into a sneer. “Thought you wanted to save the company a few bucks, Tori? What, did you change your mind and tag along?” He crossed his arms. “Tell you what. Apologize to Lara in front of everyone right now, and we’ll let you hang out with us.” My stomach churned with disgust. I slapped his hand away. “I have to get to the hospital. My mom is in surgery.” Furious at being dismissed in front of his audience, Jonathan kicked my carry-on bag, sending it skidding across the polished floor. “Don’t push your luck, Tori!” he barked. “You followed us all the way here, so drop the attitude. Say you’re sorry, and we’ll pretend you weren’t a total bitch yesterday.” I saw red. I stepped into his space and slapped him hard across the face. The sharp crack silenced the group. “Get out of my way,” I hissed. “My mother is dying. I don’t have time for your childish games.” Jonathan’s eyes flashed with real menace. He opened his mouth, but Lara quickly stepped in front of him, pointing a trembling finger at me in mock horror. “Tori! Your parents live in New York! I can’t believe you would lie about your own mother having a stroke just to follow us and ruin our trip!” Jonathan’s shock shifted instantly into deep, abiding disgust. “You don’t even try to make your lies believable anymore, do you? God, you are so deeply unwell. It’s pathetic.” Lara tilted her head, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth while her eyes stayed wide. “Honestly, Tori. Even if you were desperate for our attention, cursing your own mother’s health? That’s really sick.” 4 The sheer audacity of it snapped whatever restraint I had left. I backhanded her across the face. Lara grabbed her cheek, her eyes wide with manufactured shock. A second later, she burst into loud, theatrical sobs. “Tori, I’m sorry! Please don’t hit me! I promise I won’t ever touch your money again!” Her wailing drew the attention of the surrounding travelers, and immediately, my coworkers rallied to her defense, forming a wall between us. “What is wrong with you?!” David yelled. “If you didn’t want us here, just say it! Why are you physically attacking her?” “You’re a psycho! You just see us as garbage to step on!” Lara hid behind David, weeping into her hands, playing the battered victim to perfection. The mob mentality took over. The staff pressed in on me, their anger escalating into something ugly and physical. Outnumbered and overwhelmed, I backed away, retreating until I was backed into the glittering entrance of a high-end designer boutique in the luxury terminal. Someone shoved my shoulder hard. I lost my balance, crashing into a velvet display pedestal. A heavy, crystal centerpiece hit the marble floor and shattered. Jonathan stood at the edge of the crowd, watching me scramble amidst the broken glass, his eyes cold and unfeeling. “Someone like her needs to learn a lesson,” he said, his voice carrying over the commotion. The malice in his tone terrified me. I kicked off my heels and tried to push through the crowd to run. But they boxed me in. One of the account managers actually grabbed a heavy designer handbag off a nearby shelf and hurled it at me. “Hey! Stop!” The boutique manager sprinted over, his face flushed with panic. “Security! You are destroying our merchandise! You are legally responsible for all of this!” Lara stepped forward, wiping her nonexistent tears, looking utterly unfazed. “Relax,” she said, pulling a silver card from her Chanel bag. “We can afford to buy everything she broke. Ring it up.” The manager, sweating profusely, called his staff over to tally the damages. The smashed crystal, the scuffed leather goods, the disrupted displays. “The damages come to roughly one point five million US dollars,” the manager said stiffly. Jonathan didn’t even blink. He looked at Lara with the casual arrogance of a billionaire. “Swipe it, Lara.” Lara smiled smugly. She handed over David’s corporate card. The manager ran it through the terminal. A moment of silence passed. Then, the machine let out a sharp, flat beep. “Card declined. Insufficient funds.”

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Liam Bennett took the transplant liver meant for our dying daughter and gave it to his mistress, Sutton. My daughter died. My mother had a stroke from the shock and passed away too. In an instant, I lost everyone I loved. Yet he showed no remorse. He brought his mistress to see me. “Sutton’s condition was more critical. As for the child…” Liam put his arm around his mistress’s waist. “Sutton is pregnant. You’ll adopt her child later.” Sutton rubbed her belly and said with fake sympathy, “The doctor says this pregnancy is stable. Liam is thrilled. You should be happy for him too, right? After all, the Bennett family will finally have a healthy child.” This was murder of the cruelest kind. After they left, I sent a message to a mysterious email address. “I agree to cooperate.” The response came quickly. “Good. My condition is that you marry me.” Celine POV My daughter Lily had been waiting three years for a transplant liver. In the end, her father Liam Bennett gave it to his mistress, Sutton Moore. When I arrived at the children’s transplant center, the transplant confirmation had already been completed. I chased to the surgical corridor and saw Sutton being wheeled toward the operating room. Liam stood next to Director Mr. Davis, his hand pressing down on a modified transplant confirmation form. “Change it back.” I rushed over. “That’s Lily’s liver!” Liam looked up at me, his voice heavy. “I’m Lily’s father. I have the authority to sign.” Mr. Davis immediately lowered his head. “Mr. Bennett also confirmed on behalf of the investors. The hospital is executing according to the new signature.” I, the mother who had watched over Lily for three years, was blocked outside the corridor. I reached out to grab that piece of paper but was stopped by security. “Liam, she’s only five years old! She’s been waiting since she was two. She finally got her chance today!” Liam avoided my eyes. “Sutton took a car crash for me years ago. Her liver damage is a complication from that accident. She can’t wait for the next round.” I stared at him with red eyes. “And Lily can wait?” Sutton lay on the gurney, tears streaming down from the corners of her eyes. “Liam, forget it.” Her voice was soft. “Don’t make Celine hate you because of me.” She said to forget it, but her hand gripped Liam’s fingers. “I’m in so much pain.” She gasped. “I’m afraid I won’t make it.” Liam’s jaw tightened. The next second, he signed his name in the final column of the confirmation form. The operating room doors closed behind Sutton. I was held back by security outside. I watched helplessly as the surgical light came on. The pre-surgery corridor in Lily’s room was quickly dismantled. The doctor looked at the monitors and said quietly. “Her numbers are dropping too fast. Backup treatment can only buy a little time. It can’t replace the transplant.” When Lily woke up, she could barely open her eyes. “Mommy.” She asked softly. “Am I not having surgery anymore?” I held her hand, forcing a smile. “The doctors are still working on it.” Someone outside said the donor liver had been transferred. Lily heard it. She slowly turned her face. “Did Daddy give my liver to that woman?” My throat felt blocked. I could only hold her tighter. Lily’s small hand touched the back of my hand, her strength as light as paper. “Don’t blame me, Mommy. I didn’t wait long enough.” The monitor suddenly shrieked. Doctors rushed in. I was pushed to the side of the bed. The emergency light flashed on and off. Finally, the doctor removed his gloves and couldn’t meet my eyes. Lily never called me Mommy again. On the other end, news of Sutton’s successful surgery came quickly. I stood at the end of the hallway holding the death certificate, hearing an assistant ask Liam. “Mr. Bennett, about Lily… should we go check on her?” Liam was silent for a few seconds. “Don’t release the news yet.” He said. “Don’t let anyone else know.” I looked down at the name on the death certificate, tucked Lily’s small hand back under the blanket, then called my lawyer. “I want a divorce.” The lawyer paused. I looked at Lily’s pale little face and added. “I want to get back what I deserve.” After hanging up, I opened the email Luke Morrison had sent me three years ago. Back then, Luke had invited me to work on a pediatric transplant ethics project. I had stayed for Lily. Now, I replied to that email. “I agree to cooperate. Please preserve the transplant confirmation form and the surgical corridor surveillance footage.” Luke’s reply came fast. “I’ll send someone to get you. Just don’t die at their hands first.” I put my phone down beside Lily’s hospital bed. Outside, Liam’s footsteps stopped.

Celine POV When Liam pushed the door open, I was still sitting by Lily’s bed. He didn’t look at the death certificate first, nor at Lily. He just placed a document on the bedside table. “The hospital will review everything again.” He said. “I’ll add more money to Lily’s fund.” I looked up. “Lily is dead.” His hand paused. “If Sutton had missed this chance, she would have died too.” His voice lowered. “I had to save the person in more critical danger first.” “She waited three years.” I stared at him. “You gave away the chance she waited three years for to someone else?” Liam didn’t answer. He just pushed the document forward again. The paper read “Lily Medical Fund,” with a line showing the new amount below. It was a lot of money, enough to save many children’s lives. I looked at that string of numbers and suddenly remembered the night Lily was born. Liam had waited outside the delivery room until dawn. After Lily was diagnosed, he had also kept watch in the hospital room, asking the doctors over and over if they could find a donor. Back then, every time Lily asked when Daddy was coming, I would say he was busy. Now, with the same hand, he had given away the donor liver Lily had been waiting for to someone else. The sound of a wheelchair came from the doorway. Sutton was pushed to the doorway by a nurse. Her face was as white as paper, still connected to post-surgical equipment. As soon as she saw me, tears fell. “Celine, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t think Lily would…” Before she could finish, she covered her wound and gasped lightly. Liam immediately walked over. “Who told you to come here?” Sutton shook her head, tears hanging on her face. “People online are already cursing me, saying I stole a child’s liver. I can take the abuse, but I don’t want you to be affected too.” Liam’s expression darkened immediately. Mr. Davis followed behind, saying quietly. “Mr. Bennett, the media is already asking questions. We must give them an explanation.” Sutton grabbed Liam’s sleeve. “Don’t force Celine. I can take responsibility myself.” Liam turned to look at me. “Tomorrow at the press conference, you’ll come forward to clarify.” He said. “Say that transferring the donor organ was a decision discussed among family members. Sutton didn’t steal anything. Lily’s condition deteriorated.” I looked at him. “You even want to cover up how Lily died?” Liam’s voice turned cold. “If you make a scene now, Lily’s death certificate will be held up at the hospital.” Mr. Davis immediately added. “The body is still at the hospital. If the paperwork gets stuck, the child can’t leave. Your mother is also elderly. The media attention will affect her.” I looked sharply at Liam. “You’re threatening me?” Liam looked at me. “I’m reminding you not to let Lily be gossiped about even after death.” Sutton said softly. “Liam, forget it. Celine just lost her child. It’s normal for her to hate me…” She urged him to drop it, but her hand never let go. My phone rang at that moment. The caregiver’s voice trembled with panic. “Miss Ashford, your mother found out about Lily. Her blood pressure spiked. The doctor says she can’t take any more shocks!” I gripped my phone, looking at the small body on the hospital bed, then at the people outside waiting for my agreement. I finally spoke. “I’ll cooperate.” Liam visibly relaxed and reached out to support me. I moved away. He didn’t take offense. He just told his assistant. “Give her access to the fund, and transfer some hospital shares from my name to hers.” The assistant nodded and immediately called the legal department. I looked up. “Get everything done today.” Liam thought I was finally willing to accept compensation and agreed. The lawyer arrived at the hospital quickly. Liam sat at the signing table. Legal staff handed documents to his side. I didn’t explain. I just had the lawyer place the divorce page behind the compensation documents. Sutton sat nearby, reminding him quietly. “Liam, will the Bennett Corporation have an opinion about this?” Liam frowned. “She lost Lily. She deserves these things.” I took back the signed documents and handed them to the lawyer. The lawyer said quietly. “The first step is complete.” Liam heard this and briefly looked at me. I had already turned around to tuck in the blanket corner for Lily. That evening, the hospital sent over the press conference script. One sentence stood out most sharply. “Ms. Celine Ashford approves this donor adjustment.” I crossed it out with my pen. Mr. Davis stood beside me and reminded me. “The media will be there tomorrow, and other families will be present too. Miss Ashford, don’t cause us trouble.” I didn’t answer him. I just took a photo of the signed document and sent it to Luke. Luke replied quickly. “Leave the hospital first.” The nurse knocked on the door at that moment and delivered the seating chart for tomorrow’s press conference.

Celine POV When the hospital press conference began, I sat in the center of the main platform. I used to accompany Lily to patient meetings and always sat in the audience, listening to doctors say she still had hope. Now Lily was dead, yet I was pushed in front of the cameras to personally cover up the truth about Lily’s death. Mr. Davis placed the script in front of me, his fingertip pointing to that one sentence. “Read it as written.” I looked at the words “jointly assessed by family members” on the paper, feeling like my throat was clogged with blood. The cameras were already rolling. When I spoke, my voice was terribly hoarse. “The donor transfer was a decision made after… joint assessment by the family.” Someone in the audience immediately cursed. “Are you even the child’s mother?” “Your child is gone, how much money did you take?” A reporter pressed. “Did the Bennett Corporation use its position as an investor to interfere with transplant priority?” Mr. Davis immediately grabbed the microphone. “The family has already explained this matter.” All the questions were pushed back to me. I sat under the lights, my fingers digging into my palms. I couldn’t refute them. Lily was still at the hospital, and my mom was still at home. If I revealed the truth, the media would swarm my family. My phone kept buzzing under the table. The caregiver sent a message. “Miss Ashford, your mother saw the livestream and is on her way to the hospital!” I stood up abruptly. Mr. Davis’s expression changed. “The press conference isn’t over!” Security moved to block me. I pushed away the microphone and ran out. Reporters immediately chased after me. In the hospital lobby, my mom was holding Lily’s little jacket, surrounded by people. Her face was frightfully pale, saying over and over. “My daughter would never give up on Lily. She wouldn’t…” A reporter shoved a microphone in her face. “Do you know that Celine agreed to give the donor liver to Sutton?” My mom shook her head, her voice trembling. “I need to find Liam. I need answers!” She walked toward the surgical area. Security reached out to stop her. “Family members can’t go in.” “Where’s my granddaughter? I need to see Lily!” During the struggle, my mom missed a step and fell down from the edge of the platform. I saw the little jacket fall to the ground. My mom clutched her chest, her face pale. “Mom!” The emergency room doors quickly closed. Mr. Davis was still beside me, lowering his voice. “Miss Ashford, it’s very chaotic outside right now. You should go out and calm them down, or this will be very difficult to handle.” When Liam arrived, his first question was to his assistant. “Was what just happened in the lobby caught on camera?” I looked up at him. “Lily just died. My mom is lying in there right now.” My voice shook. “And you’re asking if it was caught on camera?” Liam stiffened for a moment, then told his assistant. “Control the media first. Seal the surveillance footage. Wait for the emergency results before saying anything.” I understood. He still wanted to cover it up first. The emergency lasted over an hour. When the doctor came out, he didn’t dare look at me. “The patient was brought in too late.” I was still clutching Lily’s little jacket. Liam reached out to support me. I stepped back. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch their things either.” Liam’s expression darkened. “Your mother’s accident wasn’t something I wanted to see.” I didn’t listen to the rest. I turned to the lawyer. “I’m requesting the hospital lobby surveillance and security orders.” The lawyer reminded me quietly. “He just had someone seal the scene records.” I looked at Liam. My phone lit up at that moment. A preview notification for Sutton’s recovery livestream pushed to my screen. In the main image, Sutton wore a hospital gown, smiling at the camera. Next to her was the Lily Medical Fund logo. The headline read: “Passing on the hope that a child didn’t get to wait for to more people.” Liam saw it too. His expression changed. “Remove the foundation.” Before the assistant could make the call, Sutton’s call came through first. Her voice was weak. “Liam, I just wanted to do something for Lily. Why does everyone have to misunderstand me?” I didn’t keep listening. I took my mother’s death certificate and a screenshot of the livestream and turned toward the lawyer.

Celine POV I didn’t leave the hospital all night. Lily and my mom were both still in the hospital’s custody. The death certificates weren’t processed, and the bodies hadn’t been transferred out. The lawyer found that the lobby surveillance had been sealed ahead of time, and security orders couldn’t be accessed either. I was about to go to the body storage area when a nurse came to notify me. “Miss Ashford, Lily’s original recovery room needs to be cleared out by the family.” That room had been personally arranged by Liam. When Lily was waiting for the donor liver, she kept asking if she could stay there after surgery. She said she wanted to put her stuffed animals by the bed and sit by the window in the sun. I went over with a small box. The door plate had already been changed. Sutton Post-Surgery Recovery Room. The room was filled with livestream equipment. The Lily Medical Fund logo hung by the bed. The children’s bed that had been prepared for Lily was removed. Posters about Sutton’s recovery livestream schedule were on the walls. Sutton sat on the bed, holding Lily’s stuffed animal in her arms. I walked over and grabbed the stuffed animal back. Sutton’s eyes immediately reddened. “Celine, I didn’t mean to. The foundation said this way everyone would know Lily left behind kindness…” “She didn’t leave this for you.” I held the stuffed animal tightly, my voice cold and hard. “Remove her name. Remove her foundation logo.” Sutton bit her lip and looked toward the doorway. Liam had just walked in. She said quietly. “Liam, it’s okay. I don’t have to do the livestream. Everyone outside is cursing me for stealing a child’s donor liver anyway. I can bear it.” Liam’s expression immediately darkened. “Celine, Sutton just had surgery. She can’t take any more stress.” I looked at him. “Lily just died, and you’re giving Sutton the hospital room Lily never got to use?” Liam kept his voice down. “The fund was always meant to save people. The livestream now can reduce some of the criticism and continue to save other children.” “Did Lily agree to this?” Liam’s patience finally ran out. “Your mother’s case is still under investigation at the hospital, and Lily’s paperwork hasn’t been completed.” He stared at me. “Making a scene here now will only make things more complicated later.” My hand tightened around the stuffed animal bit by bit. Sutton spoke softly at that moment. “Celine, if you really hate me this much, I can apologize to you on camera.” The staff all looked over. Liam followed her lead. “You owe her an apology too. She’s being cursed like this now, and it’s not entirely her fault.” I looked at him and almost laughed. “She took Lily’s donor liver. Now she’s sitting in Lily’s hospital room holding Lily’s stuffed animal, and you want me to apologize?” Liam said coldly. “This stuffed animal will be used tomorrow. It can represent Lily’s kindness.” I turned to leave immediately. But security blocked the doorway. Liam looked at me. “Livestream props can’t be taken away.” Props. He called the last thing Lily held a prop. Staff took the stuffed animal from my arms and put it back by Sutton’s bed. The Lily Medical Fund logo was hung in the most prominent position behind Sutton. I was taken to a rest room. Guards were posted at the door. An assistant brought tomorrow’s livestream schedule. The paper stated that I was to appear as Lily’s mother and personally hand the stuffed animal to Sutton. After reading it, I sent a message to the lawyer. “I need to request body transfer immediately and preserve the surveillance footage.” The lawyer quickly replied. “The hospital just submitted a family authorization involving Lily’s subsequent use for medical research. The signatory may be Liam.” I stared at the screen, my fingertips cold. Outside, staff were shouting in the hallway. “The people for the livestream rehearsal are here. Set the family representative’s position first.”

Celine POV When the recovery livestream began, I was seated next to Sutton. The camera pointed directly at the hospital bed. The Lily Medical Fund logo hung behind Sutton. Lily’s toy was placed at the head of the bed, as if this child truly wanted to leave her last possession to her. Mr. Davis stood outside the camera frame, reminding me in a low voice. “Don’t mention that Lily’s liver was given to someone else. Don’t mention the original surgery order. And don’t mention that your mother died at the hospital.” I looked at the cue cards without speaking. The host first congratulated Sutton on her successful post-surgery recovery, then guided the conversation to the Lily Medical Fund. Sutton’s eyes reddened. Facing the camera, she said softly. “That I can live is because Celine and Lily gave me the opportunity to continue saving people.” She didn’t say “steal.” She said the donor liver was something I voluntarily gave up. The camera immediately turned to me. The host asked with a smile. “Miss Ashford, as Lily’s mother, what would you like to say to everyone now?” Mr. Davis’s gaze bore down on me. Liam stood outside the camera frame, also watching me. I was silent for a few seconds before speaking. “Every dollar in the fund needs to be accounted for clearly. Lily’s name cannot be misused.” Sutton’s expression changed for a moment. She reached for the stuffed animal at the head of the bed, wanting to hold it in front of the camera. I grabbed the stuffed animal first. “That belongs to Lily.” Sutton’s tears immediately fell. “I just wanted to keep something in memory of the child. She didn’t get to wait for surgery. I wanted everyone to know that her death had value.” The livestream comments started flooding in. Some cursed me for being cold-blooded. Some said I was persecuting someone who just had surgery. Liam approached, his voice very low. “Let go. Don’t make a scene during the livestream.” I looked up at him. “This stuffed animal is what Lily brought to the hospital before surgery. Do you remember?” Liam froze briefly. The next second, he still said. “Cooperate with the livestream first.” The donation segment began. The host announced that the Lily Medical Fund would open a new recovery program, and Sutton would be the public welfare spokesperson. I interrupted directly. “The fund was originally for children waiting for transplants. Who changed the fund’s purpose?” Mr. Davis immediately had staff cut the camera. Sutton covered her wound, her face pale. “Celine, I can step down. Don’t hate me just because Lily is gone.” Liam supported her and ordered me. “Get out.” I didn’t move. I picked up the authorization statement on the table and saw that it had already changed the Lily Medical Fund into supporting funds for Sutton’s recovery public welfare project. I slammed the page on the table. “When she was alive, you stole her donor liver. Now that she’s dead, you’re taking her money to give to Sutton?” Liam’s expression was ugly. “This is for PR purposes. I’ll make up the money to you later.” “I don’t want your money.” I stared at him. “Remove Sutton’s name.” Sutton said quietly. “Liam, if we remove it now, the public will confirm that I really did steal the child’s liver.” Liam was silent for a few seconds, then handed the document to his assistant. “Proceed as originally planned.” After the livestream ended, I immediately rushed to the morgue. Staff stopped me. “Lily cannot be cremated for now.” My voice turned cold. “Why?” They handed me a research authorization form. The signatory was Liam. The authorization stated that Lily’s pathological materials would be used for pediatric liver failure research, continuing the child’s unfinished wishes. I took the document to find Liam. Sutton was still resting in the hospital room. Liam looked at the document and only frowned. “The research can help more children.” I looked at him. “When Lily was alive, you decided for her who would get the donor liver. Now that Lily is dead, you’re still deciding for her how her body is used?” Liam’s face paled at that. Sutton said softly from the bed. “If we withdraw now, the public will think Celine won’t even show that last bit of decency.” Liam held the document but didn’t withdraw the signature.

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At dawn, I treated a female patient. Sophia, 22. She had something stuck into her vagina. The girl on the hospital bed looked a bit like me. Her skin was covered with whip marks, love bites, and some dried white fluid. I sighed at how little she valued herself. But when I removed the foreign object, I froze. It was the bracelet I had bought for Ethan last year. The name on it was engraved by my own hand. The girl smiled at me. “Mrs. Parker, your husband says his life needs a little excitement.” Joanna POV Two o’clock in the morning. I treated a female patient. Sophia, 22. She had something stuck inside her. This kind of situation was quite common. The girl on the hospital bed was young and beautiful. Her skin was covered with whip marks, love bites, and other marks I couldn’t identify. She looked directly at me, without a trace of shyness or embarrassment. I sighed to myself. Young people these days really don’t value themselves. I quickly refocused and got back to removing the object. But the moment it landed in the tray, I froze. It was the bracelet I had bought for Ethan last year. It still showed his name, which I had engraved myself. I instinctively glanced at Sophia. The girl was smiling at me. My throat felt blocked by something. Professional discipline forced me to finish the procedure, and then I rushed into the bathroom to dry heave. Walking out of the operating room, I saw my husband, Ethan, who was supposed to be working overtime at the company. The man’s tall figure had lost its usual composure. His eyes were anxious, and he walked briskly past me without a sideways glance. He didn’t spare me even a single look. I stood there, hearing something inside me snap. Back in the duty room, I washed my hands for a full hour, as if punishing myself. I didn’t stop until my fingers were peeling and bleeding. Today wasn’t supposed to be my shift. A colleague who was on duty got sick and switched with me, giving me the chance to witness this scene. Ethan and I were college classmates. Ethan was famous in the finance department, the wealthy heir to Parker Group, handsome, and good-natured too. Yet he only had eyes for me. I studied medicine. The coursework was heavy, and I often stayed in the library until closing. Every night after closing, he would silently escort me back to my dorm without disturbing me. When I was bedridden with a 104-degree fever, he was the one who carried me all the way to the hospital. “Joanna, be with me.” Back then, I thought he must be the kind of person written about in novels. After all, he was so outstanding. After we got together, his family disapproved, thinking we weren’t a good match. Ethan begged his parents, and we finally got married. Three years after graduation, we married. Four years into our marriage, he treated me very well. When I came home from night shifts, there was always a light on at home, and a glass of warm milk on the table. When I had my period, he would take care of me attentively and buy me painkillers. When we made love, he was always gentle, and afterward he would ask if it hurt. Once I quietly asked him if he wanted to try something different. He pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. “Joanna, I can never be too careful with you.” Four years of marriage, and we’d barely fought. Even these past two years, when Ethan took over the company and became increasingly busy, often not coming home all night, I never complained and supported him wholeheartedly. In others’ eyes, I was the enviable Mrs. Parker. At colleague gatherings, everyone said I was lucky to have a good husband who adored me. Until tonight, I too thought I was the luckiest woman in the world. My phone vibrated. An Ins friend request popped up. The profile picture was a young woman’s silhouette. I recognized Sophia immediately. I clicked accept. She didn’t say a word, just quietly sat in my friend list, waiting for me to come to her. I opened her posts. The earliest post was from two years ago. This account had many posts, but they all shared one theme: Ethan. I scrolled down. How could I not recognize that hand holding a fork? The man’s wrist still wore the watch I gave him when we got married. That sapphire necklace was from the same brand and series as the birthday gift Ethan gave me last year. Except my birthday gift was a pair of earrings, worth less than one-tenth the price of the necklace. Last month my car went in for maintenance. After my night shift, I was caught in a rainstorm. I called Ethan three times. He kept saying the company was busy and told me to catch a ride with a colleague. Yet Sophia’s post showed he was holding her at that trendy boutique hotel. Tears blurred my face. Sophia wrote in her post, “He says his marriage is too boring. He needs some color.” So to him, I was just a boring person. I sat numbly in the duty room chair all night. Just before dawn, I got off work. When I got home, the house looked just as it had when I left yesterday. Ethan hadn’t come home all night. At this moment, he was probably still holding that woman. I stood at the door for a long time, laughing bitterly. Our marriage had already rotted away. Only I still thought he loved me. I pulled out my phone and dialed my good friend’s number. My good friend Elena specialized in divorce cases. “Joanna?” “Elena, help me draft a divorce agreement.”

Joanna POV When I woke up, it was already evening. Ethan hadn’t come back all day. I instinctively dialed Ethan’s number. The phone rang for a long time before being answered. “Joanna.” Ethan’s voice was low and controlled as always. “In a meeting. I’ll be home later.” As soon as he finished speaking, a moan with a nasal quality could faintly be heard through the receiver. “Ethan, gentler please, I can’t take it anymore.” My fingertips instantly turned ice cold. Ethan’s tone showed no hint of panic. “Joanna, I have to get back to the meeting. I’ll make your favorite foie gras tonight.” He hung up the phone. I opened Sophia’s posts. The post was published ten minutes ago: “Ditched work with the boss. Best feeling ever.” The image showed a messy bed, tagged with a location. The hotel next to Ethan’s company. I closed my eyes. My chest felt like it was being pounded by a blunt instrument, over and over, making me feel suffocated and pained. At eight o’clock, Ethan came home. When he saw me in the living room, his eyes immediately lit up with a smile. “Joanna, why didn’t you turn on the lights?” He glanced at the empty dining table, walked over and kissed my forehead. “Didn’t cook today? Tired?” I nodded. Ethan immediately rolled up his sleeves and went into the kitchen. I watched him put the bracelet on his wrist, skillfully washing and cutting vegetables. The bracelet swayed back and forth until I could barely breathe. Half an hour later, Ethan finished cooking. “Joanna, try these dishes.” He placed the foie gras in front of me. “Didn’t you say you wanted foie gras? Eat more, you’ve lost weight recently.” As he spoke, he habitually replaced the glass of water in front of me with warm water. I lowered my head to eat. Every bite was difficult to swallow. When Ethan leaned over, he exposed an ambiguous red mark below his collarbone. I bit down hard on my fork, forcing myself to swallow that bite of foie gras. “Joanna, why so quiet?” Ethan noticed my silence and looked up at me. “A bit tired.” “Then rest early.” He said gently, “I’m not working overtime tonight. I’ll keep you company.” I lowered my eyes, not responding. I don’t know how I managed to finish that meal. After showering, I crawled into bed. Before long, Ethan also finished washing up and came out. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his hand covering my waist, slowly moving upward. “Joanna.” My whole body stiffened. I saw the bracelet on his wrist again, and nausea instantly surged up my throat. “Too tired today.” I broke free from his embrace, turning my back to him. “I want to sleep early.” Ethan paused, but didn’t force me. A moment later, he sighed, pulled me closer into his arms, and whispered in my ear, “Okay, let’s sleep.” He kissed the top of my head. His breathing quickly became even. I kept my eyes open, staring at the ceiling. I don’t know how much time passed when a slight sound came from beside me. I squinted and saw Ethan quietly walking toward the balcony. The balcony door was ajar. Sounds came intermittently. “Put your hand in. Let me hear.” “Don’t stop.” A woman’s suppressed panting and fragmented moans came through the phone. “What do you call me?” “Sound sluttier.” “Look in the mirror. See clearly what you look like.” Sophia’s voice grew louder and louder, mixed with crying. I curled up under the covers, my whole body ice cold. “The bracelet?” Ethan’s tone suddenly turned cold. “You dare touch my bracelet?” “You want to end up in the ER again? Good thing my wife wasn’t on duty last night, or I’d really punish you.” “Remember your place. Don’t harass her.” I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I rushed into the bathroom and dry heaved. My stomach churned violently. I vomited until tears streamed down my face. The balcony door was pushed open. Ethan quickly walked in, his expression tense. “Joanna, what’s wrong? Where don’t you feel well?” He reached out to help me. I dodged. “Maybe ate too much at dinner.” I wiped the corner of my mouth, trying to keep my voice calm. Ethan frowned, his face full of guilt. “It’s all my fault. Was the foie gras too greasy?” He grabbed his jacket and headed out. “Wait here. I’ll go buy you some lemon water.” The place he mentioned was far from our home. He didn’t hesitate and left directly. I stood in the bathroom, looking at my pale reflection in the mirror. Ethan, if you can still cross half the city in the middle of the night just to buy me a glass of lemon water. Why can’t you keep to the most basic bottom line? You once said you despised men who cheated, said they were brainless animals. But now, you’ve become one of them.

Joanna POV Early the next morning, I got the drafted divorce agreement from Elena and went directly to Ethan’s company. After Ethan became CEO, everyone at the company recognized me as the CEO’s wife. In the past when I came, the receptionist, secretaries, and employees I encountered would all greet me warmly. But today was different. Several employees saw me from afar. Their expressions looked a bit strange. After greeting me, they quickly lowered their heads and walked away. An uneasy feeling arose in my heart. When I reached the top floor, the assistant wasn’t at her desk. The CEO’s office door was ajar. Inside came sounds of suppressed panting, mixed with a man’s low commands. “Take it in. Deeper.” My whole body trembled, as if cold water had been poured over my head. I froze in place. I hadn’t expected that Ethan would dare bring someone to the company. I took a deep breath and pushed the door open directly. Ethan sat behind his desk. His shirt collar was disheveled, and his eyes were reddened. Seeing someone enter without permission, his face first showed annoyance. When he looked up and saw it was me, his expression changed drastically. “Joanna?” His voice was somewhat tense. “Why are you here?” I scanned the room. I didn’t see Sophia. The corner of my mouth twitched. “What, I can’t come to my husband’s company?” “Of course not.” Ethan quickly composed himself, his tone resuming its usual warmth. “If you want to come, tell me in advance. I’ll have the driver pick you up.” I stared at him. He sat up straight, hands resting on the desktop, looking normal. But his expression clearly showed he was enduring something. I suppressed the churning in my stomach and the anger in my heart, placed the document on the desk as if nothing had happened, and said, “Next year’s family insurance needs renewal. Need you to sign.” Ethan took the document. Just as he lowered his head to open the first page, he suddenly groaned and his expression changed. He immediately pressed his lips together tightly. I instantly understood. Sophia was under the desk. My nails dug deep into my palms, almost piercing the skin. A wave of nausea surged up from my throat. I clenched my fists, nails digging deep into my palms, barely suppressing the urge to explode on the spot. But I didn’t. “Sign quickly. I have things to do.” I just pushed the agreement forward. Ethan bit down on his molars. The veins at his temple bulged. He didn’t dare look through it anymore. He flipped directly to the last page and quickly signed his name. I took the agreement and turned to leave. “Joanna.” Ethan called out to me. Since he couldn’t get up conveniently, he could only sit there. “Go wait in the conference room next door. Let me finish this document, and I’ll take you to lunch.” I looked back at him for two seconds. Ethan’s eyes were terribly red, yet he still forced himself to maintain a nonchalant expression. I suddenly smiled. “Okay.” In the conference room next door, I sat on the sofa. Before long, the door was gently pushed open. Sophia walked in carrying a cup of coffee. Her hair was slightly messy, her professional suit somewhat wrinkled, and water stains still remained at the corner of her mouth. Seeing me, Sophia walked straight over, a proper smile on her face. “What would you like to drink?” I looked up, my gaze calmly sizing her up, my tone flat. “And you are?” The smile on Sophia’s face froze for an instant. Soon she softly lowered her eyes. “I’m Mr. Parker’s new secretary. My name is Sophia.” Ethan walked in. He had already tidied his clothes. His suit was immaculate, his hair combed, restored to his composed appearance. Ethan glanced at Sophia with a warning look. Then he walked up to me, his expression gentle. “Joanna, I’m here.” I looked at him deeply. One second ago he had hidden his mistress under his desk, and the next second he could stand in front of me calling my name. “How come I’ve never seen this secretary of yours?” I asked jokingly. Ethan frowned, turned his head to look at Sophia, his tone turning cold. “She just started. Doesn’t know the rules. I’ll punish her.” Sophia immediately lowered her head. “It’s my fault.” I looked at her obedient appearance and sneered inwardly. I didn’t know what method he would use to punish her.

Joanna POV At noon, Ethan took me to the restaurant we frequented most. Ethan ordered several dishes I liked and carefully instructed the waiter about how well-done the steak should be and what foods I couldn’t eat. I had no appetite and didn’t eat much. Seeing I wasn’t happy, Ethan gently coaxed me to eat a few more bites. We had only eaten halfway when the private room door was gently pushed open. A server wearing a mask walked in carrying a steak. The server kept her head lowered, her cap pulled very low, but I recognized her at a glance. It was Sophia. Ethan obviously recognized her too. His expression immediately darkened. He put down his utensils and immediately scolded, “We don’t need you here. Get out.” Sophia stopped in her tracks. Her eyes instantly reddened. She responded and turned to leave. Before leaving, she couldn’t help but steal a glance in Ethan’s direction. Her aggrieved appearance looked quite pitiful. I quietly watched all this, my heart feeling like it was being cut over and over by something. Less than two minutes later, Ethan couldn’t sit still. He put down his knife and fork. “Joanna, I’m going to the restroom.” I acknowledged, watching his figure disappear around the corner. I knew he was going to find Sophia. So Sophia wasn’t just someone in his bed. She had also been arranged into his company as his secretary. So Sophia’s position in Ethan’s heart had long surpassed being just a mistress in bed. I fiercely pushed the tears back into my heart. Ethan was gone for nearly ten minutes before returning, his face showing satisfaction, the corners of his mouth faintly curved upward. After sitting down, Ethan remained absent-minded. He kept lowering his head to use his phone, a smile hanging at the corner of his mouth. Watching his expression, the familiar nausea attacked me again. I didn’t want to lose composure in front of him, so I made an excuse, saying I needed to go out and return Elena’s call. Ethan was still busy fiddling with his phone. Without looking up, he just waved his hand. “Go ahead, Joanna.” I walked into the restroom. As soon as I pushed the door open, I heard a low buzzing sound from the adjacent stall, mixed with a woman’s uncontrollable moaning. I immediately froze in place. A wave of nausea surged up. I hid in the adjacent stall and turned on my phone’s recording function. Soon, a man’s voice came from the phone on speaker in the next stall. It was a voice message from Ethan. The restroom was very quiet. I could hear everything he said clearly. “Did you come?” Ethan’s voice was low and husky. The woman in the stall didn’t dare make much sound. After a long while, she trembled and said “mm.” “Let me hear you. Don’t hold it in. I want to hear.” The buzzing sound suddenly grew louder. The woman’s panting became more rapid, broken moans escaping through her teeth. “Don’t stop. Understand? You can only stop when I tell you to.” “Ethan, I can’t anymore…” Sophia’s voice was already crying. “Please, turn it off…” “Don’t take it out. Who told you to make your own decisions?” “You know the consequences of not being able to hold it.” It continued in the stall. I staggered out of the restroom and leaned against the hallway wall, my whole body weak. So while eating just now, Ethan had been remotely controlling this. While he was talking to me gently, he was playing with another woman under the table. This was his true face. The man I had married for four years, the man who was so proper in front of me that he had to ask before even kissing me, was actually like this behind my back. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, suppressed all emotions, and returned to the private room. “Elena wants to meet me this afternoon.” I said quickly. “You don’t need to drive me later.” Ethan didn’t insist. He breathed a sigh of relief and gently instructed me, “Okay, I’ll have the driver take you.” “No need. I’ll take a cab.” He didn’t insist further, just nodded. “Be careful on the road. Message me when you arrive. Use my card if you want to buy anything.” I nodded and quickly turned to leave. Walking out of the restaurant, the sunlight hurt my eyes. I raised my hand to shield my eyes, hailed a cab, and went straight to the visa center. I had to leave. Get as far away as possible. For the rest of my life, I never wanted to see Ethan again.

Joanna POV After finishing the visa paperwork, I didn’t go to work. I called the hospital to request leave and went home. As expected, that evening Ethan sent a message saying the company had an urgent project to discuss, he wouldn’t be coming home tonight, and told me to rest early. I glanced at the message and tossed my phone aside. I didn’t care anymore. I pulled out a cardboard box and started collecting my things from around the house bit by bit. In the bottom drawer of the cupboard was a pair of couple’s mugs. Those were from our third year dating. I had seen them while shopping. I happily brought them home. Ethan glanced at them and smiled helplessly. “Joanna, you’re already working. Still playing with these childish things.” Later, I placed the pair of mugs in the most prominent position on the shelf, but Ethan never used them. I used the pink mug until now. The rim was somewhat worn. The blue one had never been used. It looked brand new. I threw both mugs into the box. On the bookshelf were our photo albums. One per year, from dating to marriage, seven albums total. I randomly opened one and happened to flip to our wedding day. Ethan rarely wore the light blue shirt I had picked out, his eyes curved in a smile. That day, he held my hand tightly and whispered in my ear, “Joanna, I’ll be good to you for a lifetime.” The album was thrown into the box. In the vanity drawer was a pair of couple’s rings. Those were bought with my first month’s salary. I picked for a long time and chose a beautiful pair of silver rings. I brought them home with such joy. Ethan really liked wearing them at first. After he took over the company, he stopped wearing his. He said it affected his signing. Later, only when I got angry would Ethan take it out and put it on to make me happy. There was also the scarf I had knitted by hand for two months. It was Ethan’s treasure. He wore it for several years. But at some point, it became something he never used again. There were also couple’s shoes, couple’s pajamas, keychains, and so on. I took them out one by one and threw them into the box one by one. I had no more tears. Being sad over these expired things wasn’t worth it. The box quickly filled up. I sat next to the box, not knowing what I was thinking. After a long time, I leaned against the box and fell asleep. Suddenly, I was awakened by a sound. Groggily lifting my head, I heard movement coming from the master bedroom. My heart tightened. I quietly walked to the master bedroom door. The door was ajar. The scene through the crack made me instantly freeze in place. Ethan was pressing Sophia onto the bed. Their clothes were scattered on the floor. “Darling.” Ethan’s voice was hoarse and low, carrying some playfulness. “You love excitement so much, you had to come play at my house.” Sophia tilted her head back, hooking her arm around his neck, smiling seductively. “Don’t you like it? She’s on night shift tonight anyway, not home.” A crisp slap sounded. Sophia cried out softly, but her face carried a smile. “You’ll change the sheets yourself later.” Ethan leaned down, biting her earlobe. “If my wife finds out, I’ll really punish you.” I thought I wouldn’t be emotionally affected by these two people anymore, but my legs felt like they were filled with lead. I hadn’t expected these two people to keep disgusting me like this. “Got it.” Sophia responded in a low voice. The bed started shaking rhythmically. Sophia’s broken panting spilled from her lips. My gaze fell on their wrists. Both wore identical watches that looked particularly glaring under the light. “I bought this especially for you. You’re not allowed to take it off.” “Okay, I won’t.” Ethan agreed without thinking. So it wasn’t that he was unwilling to use all couple’s items. Sophia’s watch overlapped with my bracelet like that, as if mocking me. I closed my eyes, turned and quietly left the house, stayed at a hotel outside for the night, and didn’t return until the next afternoon. The house had already been cleaned spotlessly. No trace of last night remained. Ethan was wearing an apron, cooking in the kitchen. Seeing me come in, he immediately came over, a gentle smile on his face. “Joanna, you’re back. You haven’t had much appetite lately, so I specially made your favorite cream mushroom soup. Try it.” I didn’t speak. My gaze fell directly on his wrist. The bracelet was still there. That watch was still there too. They were both filthy. Ethan followed my line of sight, instinctively pulling his hand back, explaining with a smile, “All company employees have this. I’m the boss. I have to set an example.” He gently pressed me down onto a dining chair, personally ladled soup for me, and arranged the utensils. I pulled at the corner of my mouth, thinking mockingly, who would have thought that the seemingly gentle Mr. Parker was actually that kind of person in private? After eating, Ethan went to the study to handle business. I also entered the study, moved out the box I had organized last night, and prepared to throw it away. Ethan heard the noise and looked up. “Joanna, what’s in there?” “Some old things I don’t need. They’re just taking up space.” Ethan nodded and didn’t ask further, lowering his head to continue reading his documents. I carried the box out and threw it into the trash. Those things that carried all my expectations and love were thrown away by my own hands. Just like my marriage with Ethan. I would never love him again.

Joanna POV The next morning, Ethan and I were eating breakfast together. My phone suddenly rang. “Miss White, your visa has been approved. You can travel at any time.” Ethan’s chopsticks immediately paused. He looked up sharply, his eyes suddenly tense. “What visa?” I calmly put away my phone, my expression unchanged. “I’m planning to take my annual leave in a few days and go out to relax.” Hearing me say tourism, Ethan breathed a sigh of relief. He put down his chopsticks, held my hand and said warmly, “Where does Joanna want to go? If the company isn’t too busy, let’s go together. We haven’t traveled together in so long.” I just smiled faintly without answering. I knew Ethan wouldn’t go. Ethan gripped my hand tightly. “Joanna, we’ll definitely be together for a lifetime, right?” I looked up at him and asked in return, “Why ask this suddenly? So insecure? Have you fallen in love with someone else?” Ethan immediately shook his head, his eyes so resolute you couldn’t find any flaws. “How could that be? You’re the one I worked so hard to marry. How could I bear to make you sad?” I stared into his eyes. “Then swear it.” Ethan froze for a moment. His Adam’s apple bobbed. After a moment, he spoke, “I swear, if I betray Joanna, let me get cancer.” I sneered inwardly. So men’s vows were this cheap. They could casually make vows, then turn around and trample all their promises underfoot. In the morning, I went to the hospital and submitted my resignation letter to the director. The director looked at the resignation letter, his brows tightly furrowed, trying to persuade me to stay. “You’re one of the hospital’s most talented doctors. In two more years you’ll be promoted. You have a great future. Don’t be impulsive.” “I’ve already made up my mind.” My tone was calm. “I’ll be leaving next week.” The director sighed. Knowing my mind was made up, he didn’t try to keep me further. Shaking his head, he signed the report. At noon, Ethan sent a message saying the company had a big project to discuss recently and he really couldn’t spare the time, so he couldn’t accompany me on the trip. He’d definitely make it up next time. He apologized and made promises, sending several voice messages. I looked at those voice messages without even the interest to open them. I directly locked the screen. I had known this would be the result all along. Just as I was about to put down my phone, Sophia, who had added me as a friend but remained silent, suddenly sent me a message. It was a medical report. Ultrasound showed: intrauterine early pregnancy, 12 weeks + 3 days gestation. I stared at that report, sneering inwardly. Over three months. So Ethan wasn’t going on the trip not because the company was busy, but because Sophia was pregnant and he had to stay here to accompany her. I tossed my phone aside and slumped in my chair. I walked home, my mind repeatedly asking myself, how did my marriage become like this? My love, my marriage, how did they fail so miserably? In the evening, Ethan’s parents called, saying they hadn’t seen us in a long time and asked us to come home for dinner. Ethan drove me back. The Parker family was very wealthy, but my parents were ordinary people. Normally, I could never have married Ethan. But after his parents accepted me, they never held it over me. They treated me quite well. At the dinner table, his mother served me food several times, asking if I’d been tired from work lately and whether I’d been eating properly. I responded politely, but my heart felt heavy as stone. Halfway through the meal, his mother finally revealed the real purpose of calling us back today. “Joanna, you and Ethan have been married for four years. You should consider having a child.” His father nodded along. “Yes, we’d like to welcome a new family member too.” Ethan had always wanted children, but I was too busy with work and in the middle of my career advancement, so we’d never tried for a baby. But in front of his parents, Ethan always took responsibility himself and never put me in a difficult position. This time was no different. Ethan spoke gently, “Joanna and I are still young. We want to focus on our careers first. There’s no rush for children.” But I suddenly put down my utensils and smiled. “Mom, Dad, soon. I used tarot cards to divine the future. Ethan will become a father this year.” At those words, his parents immediately lit up with joy. “Really? That’s wonderful!” His mother excitedly grabbed my hand. “Joanna, if you get pregnant, put work aside. Your health is more important.” Ethan suddenly looked up at me. The guilt and panic in his eyes were obvious. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but swallowed it back. I smiled and responded to his parents, not sparing Ethan another glance. I said Ethan would become a father, but I never said I’d be the one having the child. The baby in Sophia’s belly would call Ethan daddy too, wouldn’t it?

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