After a devastating breakup years ago, my sister Delia decided that every man on earth was fundamentally broken. The day I introduced her to Ted, she didn’t even try to hide her cynicism. Looking right past his polite smile, she said, “He’s no different from the rest of them. Eventually, Meg, he’ll break you.” I frantically tugged at the hem of her sweater under the table, my face burning with embarrassment. But Ted didn’t flinch. He didn’t get angry. He just looked Delia dead in the eye and said, sober and steady, “If I ever do anything to hurt Megan, I hope I lose everything I have.” Delia just let out a cold, sharp laugh. “We’ll see.” After that, the frost between them never thawed, leaving me trapped in the middle, trying desperately to play the peacemaker. Fast forward to three years later. I was sent away on a six-month corporate assignment to Chicago. The night before I was scheduled to fly home, I was lying in my hotel bed, mindlessly scrolling through an anonymous online confession forum. One title caught my eye, stopping my thumb mid-swipe: “I fell in love with my younger sister’s boyfriend. What do I do?” The comment section was already a bloodbath of judgment and rage. Then, I scrolled down to a reply from a burner account that made my chest tighten: “Please stop attacking her. It’s not her fault—I’m the one who pursued her.” “She acts so tough on the outside, but she’s incredibly fragile underneath. The harder she tries to hide it, the more it breaks my heart.” My breath caught in my throat. On pure instinct, I tapped on the user’s profile. There was only one post: a short video of a cat. I froze, a sudden, icy dread washing over me. My hands began to shake violently. The cat in the video was Milo. The cat Ted had given me. 1 I zoomed in on the video, replay after replay, searching for any detail to prove myself wrong. But there was no mistaking it. The unique white patch shaped like a lightning bolt on its chest. The slight nick on its left ear. It was Milo. Ted had brought him to my apartment in the middle of a blinding blizzard on my twenty-first birthday, knocking on my door right at midnight. He’d named him Milo—short for “milagro”, he said, because he wanted every day of my life to feel like a miracle. A wave of profound absurdity washed over me, crushing the air out of my lungs. I backed out of the profile and scrolled back to the very beginning of the original forum thread. It had been posted just an hour ago. “The first time we met, I hated him. I had been betrayed before, and I didn’t trust a single man alive. But he was so good to my little sister. She has chronic gastritis, so he kept a detailed list in his phone notes of everything she could and couldn’t eat. Whenever she worked late, he’d wait outside her office to drive her home, no matter the hour. He memorized every single one of her quirks. His profile pictures, his social media headers, his wallpapers—they were all photos of her…” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. Ted had been my sanctuary. He kept track of my cycles, always keeping Advil and heating pads in his glove compartment. Once, when I was crying from cramps in the middle of the night while visiting a friend out of state, he bought a ticket on the first flight out just to bring me my specific prescription. If I offhandedly mentioned a craving or a book I wanted to read, it would appear on my desk the next morning. He was a devout skeptic, yet he had walked into a cathedral with me once, lighting a candle and kneeling in silent prayer just because he knew it would comfort me. I had spent five years believing I was the luckiest woman in the world. My fingers trembled as I scrolled further down the screen. “Then my sister went out of town for her work assignment. She told me to call him if I ever needed anything, saying he was the most reliable person she knew. I told her I’d rather die first. But one night, a massive thunderstorm hit. The power lines went down, and a bulb exploded in my hallway. I’ve always been terrified of the dark, and maintenance wouldn’t pick up the phone. Desperate and shivering, I dug out the number my sister had left on the fridge and called him. Thirty minutes later, he was standing at my door, soaking wet from the rain. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “So, Delia, you actually do have things you’re afraid of.” In that exact moment, something shifted inside me. Something I couldn’t put into words.” I remembered that night. Ted called me every single evening, and he had mentioned it so casually during our FaceTime call. “Your sister acts like she’s made of steel, but she’s terrified of a little darkness,” he had said. He talked about Delia for a long time that night, laughing softly—a tender, familiar chuckle. I hadn’t thought twice about it. In fact, I’d scolded him, telling him he had to protect her because she was all the family I had left. “After that, whenever something broke in the apartment, my first instinct was to call him. We started seeing each other more. Gradually, the resentment faded. He began waiting for me outside my office, too, taking me to get groceries, sitting beside me in dark movie theaters. He even learned how to make my favorite dishes, starting a new list in his phone notes with all my likes and dislikes. I eventually told him, “Can you stop texting me with my sister’s face staring back at me?” and the very next day, he changed his profile picture. He picked a sunset photo that matched the aesthetic of mine. My feelings for him grew into a tangled, suffocating mess.” His old profile picture had been a candid photo of me laughing on our very first anniversary. I remembered teasing him back then, asking, “Aren’t you embarrassed to have my face plastered all over your work accounts?” He had pinched my cheek, radiating pride. “My girlfriend is gorgeous. Why wouldn’t I want the world to see her?” He kept that photo for five years, ignoring every comment from colleagues or clients. When he finally changed it a few weeks ago, I had asked him why. “Just keeping things professional for a new client,” he had replied. And I, like a fool, had believed him. It wasn’t a client. It was a single sentence from Delia. A hot tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the glowing screen. “Tonight, we went to the movies again. During the credits, he turned to look at me in the dim light and whispered, “Delia, do you have feelings for me?” My heart was hammering so loud I was sure he could hear it. Then he said, “I wish I had met you first.” I lost control. I leaned in and kissed him. And he didn’t pull away. I feel disgusted with myself. I can’t believe I did this to my own sister. But I can’t stop loving him. She flies back tomorrow, and I don’t know how I’m going to look her in the eye.” 2 A violent wave of nausea hit me, rising from the pit of my stomach. I threw myself over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving onto the carpet, but nothing came up. Just bile and a suffocating, hollow ache. When our parents died in that highway pileup, I was eight and Delia was thirteen. It was Delia who attended my parent-teacher conferences, Delia who learned how to French-braid my hair, Delia who sat on the bathroom floor with me when I got my first period, gently explaining what to do. While other kids called out for their mothers when they fell, I only ever called for Delia. When I introduced her to Ted, I had been practically shaking with the need for her approval, because to me, she wasn’t just my sister. She was my mother, my protector, my entire world. And now, the two people I loved most in this life had built a quiet, secret world of their own behind my back. It felt as though someone had reached into my chest and physically torn my heart in half. I curled into a tight ball on the hotel bed, unable to do anything but sob into the pillows. The online thread was gaining traction rapidly, the comment section descending into a frenzy of outrage. “This is repulsive. You seduced your own sister’s boyfriend and now you’re playing the victim? You’re sick.” “I feel so bad for the sister. Betrayed by her own blood and the man she loved. I can’t even imagine the pain.” “If you can’t control yourself, maybe you shouldn’t exist. And the guy is absolute trash.” Underneath almost every vicious comment, Ted’s burner account had replied. “She is in agony. She hates herself more than any of you ever could. You have no right to judge her.” “Call me trash if you want. I am. But even as trash, I will protect her.” “If I had met her first, she’s the one I would have chosen.” The original poster had updated the thread just a minute ago: “You’re all right. I’m disgusting. I’m vile. I’m going to cut him off. I can’t lose my sister.” The phone slipped from my hand, clattering onto the hardwood floor. Just hours ago, I had been counting down the minutes until my flight, giddy with anticipation. Now, the thought of seeing them made me feel entirely paralyzed. Outside, the Chicago skyline blazed with indifferent lights. I didn’t sleep a single wink. After hours of silent torment, I finally dragged my suitcase to the airport. Right on cue, a text from Delia popped up: “Meg, I’m waiting for you at the arrivals gate.” A minute before boarding, Ted’s message arrived: “Safe flight, Meg. Can’t wait to see you.” It was his first text since our brief, strained call the previous afternoon. Normally, he would have called me thirty minutes before my alarm to make sure I was awake. He would have nagged me about my ID, my charger, and whether I’d eaten breakfast, flooding my phone with updates all the way to the gate. Now, just a single, hollow sentence. I didn’t reply. I switched off my phone and closed my eyes as the engines roared to life. When the plane touched down, I walked through the arrivals gate and saw them. They were standing about six feet apart, looking like polite strangers. Delia’s makeup was heavier than usual, concealing any trace of tears. That was her signature move—never letting anyone see her bleed, not even me. Ted didn’t rush forward to engulf me in a hug like he usually did. Instead, he forced a tight, practiced smile and pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. “Welcome home, Megan.” But as he held them out, the air between us turned to ice. Both Delia and I froze. He was holding white roses. My sister’s favorite. 3 I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep my face completely blank. Delia only liked white roses—a detail I had shared with him years ago. I only liked baby’s breath, and in our five years together, he had never gotten it wrong. Not once. It took him a second to realize what he was holding. Panic flickered in his eyes, and he frantically tried to laugh it off. “Ah, I was in such a rush this morning. I didn’t even look at what the florist grabbed. I’ll get you a proper bouquet later, Meg, I promise.” His eyes instinctively flicked toward Delia. She didn’t look back. She stepped forward, ignoring him completely, and took the handle of my suitcase. “Come on,” she said, her voice tight but forcedly warm. “Let’s get you some real food.” Normally, the three of us would have gone straight to our favorite diner to celebrate my return. But those anonymous confessions kept screaming in my head. I forced the muscles in my face into the shape of a smile. “Actually, you guys go ahead. I have to head straight to the office.” Ted took a step toward me. “I can drive you.” “No!” The word shot out of my mouth before I could stop it. The sheer sharpness of my voice hung in the air. Both Ted and Delia frowned, a flicker of confusion crossing their faces. I quickly reached down and took the suitcase back from Delia’s hand, forcing my voice to drop to a calmer register. “I mean… my manager is expecting a debrief immediately. I’ll be late getting home.” Their brows smoothed over. Delia offered a soft smile. “Okay. I’ll make your favorite dinner tonight.” Ted smiled too, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Call me when you’re done, Meg. I’ll come pick you up.” I nodded blindly. I turned and practically ran out of the terminal, hailing a cab. As the taxi sped away, the familiar streets of the city I had lived in for twenty-five years blurred past the window. Every corner, every storefront held a ghost of the two of them. There was the ramen place on 4th Street, where Delia would always scold me for ordering spicy broth with my sensitive stomach, forcing me to eat plain rice instead. There was the boba shop on Lincoln Avenue, where Ted had once queued in the freezing rain for three hours just to get me a limited-edition cup. And the AMC theater downtown. The three of us used to love booking the late-night screenings, walking back to our apartments under the streetlights, whispering so we wouldn’t wake the neighborhood. We would dissect the films on those walks. Delia would inevitably take issue with Ted’s opinions, teasingly tearing his theories to shreds until he raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing, “Okay, okay, you win!” Then he’d lean down and whisper in my ear, “Your sister is terrifying.” We had been so happy. By the time I pulled myself out of the memories, tears were streaming down my face. The driver caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Hey, kid. Whatever it is, you’ll get through it. You’ve got to keep moving forward.” I offered a sheepish smile and wiped my cheeks. “Thanks.” When we arrived at my office building, I paid the fare and got out. I stood on the pavement, looking up at the glass facade, and took a deep, steadying breath. My six-month trip had been a temporary assignment. Before I left, my division head had pulled me aside to offer me a spot on a highly confidential overseas expansion project. I had turned it down. I had turned it down because Ted had told me he wanted to get married. He’d promised that the day I got back, we would start house-hunting. Well. There would be no house-hunting now. But that overseas position? I wanted it. I walked into the office. My manager, Mr. Davies, was just coming out of a conference room with a stack of folders. He blinked in surprise. “Megan? I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.” “I caught an earlier flight,” I said, forcing a professional smile. “Mr. Davies, about the overseas placement we discussed… is the spot still open? I want to apply.” His eyes lit up. “Are you serious? I spent weeks trying to convince you before you left. What changed your mind?” Had I changed my mind? The truth was, part of me still couldn’t process the betrayal. But some things don’t require understanding. They just require acceptance. “I’m ready,” I said, nodding. Mr. Davies’ expression grew serious. “Megan, you know the terms of this project. It’s a highly secure, intensive three-year contract. You won’t be permitted to travel back home, and contact with family must be kept to an absolute minimum due to the NDA. Can you handle that?” “Yes,” I said, my voice steady. “I can leave tomorrow morning.” 4 I didn’t leave the office until ten that night. When I walked out, I saw Ted leaning against his car, smoking. A scattering of crushed filters lay at his feet. The glowing orange tip of the cigarette illuminated his sharp jaw and the deep crease between his brows. In our five years together, I had only seen him smoke twice. The first time was the summer we graduated, when his parents pressured him to move back to the West Coast to join the family business, while I refused to leave Delia behind. He had stood on my balcony back then, smoking one cigarette after another, before finally choosing me. What choice was he facing tonight? I couldn’t bring myself to wonder. The moment he saw me, he stubbed out his cigarette and hurried over, taking the suitcase from my hand. “First day back and they keep you until ten? That’s ridiculous, Meg.” “There was just a lot to hand over,” I mumbled. He opened the passenger door for me. I slid into the leather seat. Instantly, a faint, familiar scent hit my nose. A delicate blend of jasmine and cedarwood. It was Delia’s signature perfume. My gaze drifted down to the center console, landing on the gap between the seat and the handbrake. A small, cherry-flavored lip balm was nestled in the crevice. I had bought it for Delia right before I left. Ted climbed into the driver’s seat. He saw the lip balm in my hand and froze for a fraction of a second. The silence in the car became deafening. Then, he forced a casual chuckle. “Oh, your sister must have dropped that today. I gave her a lift earlier. We can give it back to her when we get home.” I stared at the plastic tube. “Has she been in the passenger seat a lot while I was gone?” His hand paused on the seatbelt buckle. He turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim streetlights. Then, he reached over and ruffled my hair, letting out a soft laugh. “What, are you getting jealous of your own sister now? Silly girl.” I didn’t laugh. His smile faded, replaced by a defensive sincerity. “Meg, you’re the one who always begged me to get along with her. I was just helping her out with some errands. That’s all.” He paused, studying my face. “But if it bothers you, I won’t drive her anymore.” I didn’t want to hear another word. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the cold glass of the window. “I’m just tired, Ted.” He stared at me for a long moment before starting the engine. “Did you… see anything on your phone last night? Before you went to sleep?” I opened my eyes and looked at him. “Like what?” He quieted, turning his gaze back to the road. “Nothing. You just seem off today. Your eyes are bloodshot.” I shut my eyes again. “I was just too excited to come home. Didn’t sleep much.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Still a kid at heart.” He reached over to adjust the climate control. I watched his fingers dial the temperature up two degrees higher than he ever kept it. Delia always insisted on keeping the car warm. She had poor circulation and hated the chill. 5 When we got back to the apartment, Delia was already waiting at the door. “You must be starving. Go wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” I walked in, trying to move with the ease of the girl who had left six months ago. The dining table was crowded with dishes—all my favorites. I sat in my usual spot. Delia sat on my left, Ted on my right. Simultaneously, they both placed food into my bowl. “Your favorite garlic-herb pork chops, Meg,” Delia said. “And the spicy garlic chicken,” Ted added. For a split second, a wave of nostalgia washed over me, begging me to believe that everything was fine. But reality was a cold weight in my chest. A thousand questions jammed in my throat. I wanted to scream that I had seen the forum. I wanted to ask them “how”. “Why”. But the words choked me. I couldn’t ask. Every bite tasted like ash. Finally, Delia picked up her wine glass and looked at me. “Megan, I want to make a toast. Three, actually.” She knocked back the first gulp. “First, welcome home.” “Second, to your promotion and your bright future.” She paused, her eyes flickering briefly toward Ted before settling on me. “And third… you and Ted have been together for five years. I know I was hard on him in the beginning, but I see how much he loves you now. I think it’s time you two set a date. Let’s get you married.” Ted froze, his glass hovering halfway to his mouth. After a strained silence, he set it down and tried to smile. “Where is this coming from?” “It’s not sudden,” Delia said, putting her glass down with a sharp click. “You’ve been together for five years. Meg is twenty-five. It’s time. Tomorrow, go look at rings. Book the venue.” Ted averted his eyes, placing another piece of chicken into my bowl. “My firm is in the middle of a massive audit right now. Let’s wait until things settle down.” “No. Tomorrow,” Delia insisted, her voice tight, almost desperate. Ted looked up, his expression a mask of tightly controlled pain. Delia stared back at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I set my chopsticks down and stood up, the silence stretching too thin to bear. “Let’s talk about this later. I’m taking on a new project at work, so I’ll be incredibly busy too. I’m full. Excuse me.” I retreated to my bedroom, closing the door and sinking onto the edge of my bed. Outside, muffled, angry whispers drifted through the walls, followed shortly by the heavy thud of the front door closing. Then, absolute silence. My phone screen lit up in the dark. A message from Ted: “Meg, I didn’t mean to sound dismissive at dinner. Work really is crazy right now. Once this project wraps up, we’ll look at rings and start planning the wedding, I promise. Okay?” I stared at the text for a long time before typing a single word: “Okay.” I lay awake until 2:00 AM. In the quiet of the night, I heard the faint click of the front door opening and closing. I got out of bed, threw on a jacket, and quietly slipped outside. I followed the path down to the small park behind our building. In the shadow of the maple trees, their voices carried clearly through the cold night air. “There is no ‘us,’ Ted! You are going to propose to Megan tomorrow!” Delia’s voice was raw, trembling. “How can I marry her when my head is entirely filled with you?” Ted stepped closer, grabbing her arms. “I’ll tell her. I’ll take all the blame. If she hates me, if she never speaks to me again, I’ll bear it. But I can’t keep lying to her.” I clenched my fists in my pockets, my feet freezing to the pavement. I took a step forward, but before I could emerge from the shadows, Delia’s voice broke completely. “I fell for you because you were the first person in my entire life who actually looked after “me”,” she cried, her shoulders shaking. “When Mom and Dad died, Megan was only eight. I had to be the adult. I spent my whole life taking care of everyone else, carrying every burden alone, swallowing my own tears because I had to be the strong older sister! But I cannot do this to her. I swore to protect her. I cannot be the one who destroys her.” My breath hitched, my feet glued to the ground. The memories came rushing back with agonizing clarity. The year our parents died, our relatives had circled like vultures, trying to claim the insurance money under the guise of taking us in. It was thirteen-year-old Delia who had stood on our porch with a kitchen knife, tears streaming down her face, screaming at them to get off our property. When I cried myself to sleep at night, she would hold me, mimicking our mother’s soothing voice: “Don’t cry, Meg. Delia’s here. I’m never leaving you.” She learned to cook, to wash clothes, to survive. She would walk me to school every morning before running to her own classes. If anyone teased me, she was always there to defend me. She was just a child herself, but she had carved out a safe haven for me with her bare hands. The biting wind stung my cheeks, and I realized I was crying. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t step out and confront them. I couldn’t bear to see the shame in my sister’s eyes. I turned around and walked back to the apartment in silence. I packed my bags, took one last look at the only home I had ever known, and slipped out into the dawn. By sunrise, I was boarding a plane to London.

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Our destination wedding in Maui was supposed to be a small, intimate affair. Months ago, Wayne and I had agreed that both of our families would fly out together. But on the morning of our departure, I sat at O’Hare International Airport, watching the clock tick away. When Wayne finally arrived, he wasn’t alone. Along with him was his lifelong friend, Phoebe, her parents, and a trailing entourage of nearly ten of her extended relatives. Each one of them held a first-class boarding pass. My parents were nowhere to be seen. I stood up, my chest tightening. “Wayne, where are my parents?” He was busy wheeling Phoebe’s mother’s designer suitcase, his head barely turning to meet my eyes. “There weren’t enough tickets left.” “I got them Amtrak coach tickets instead.” A thirty-plus-hour train ride. Followed by a Greyhound bus, and then a ferry. My father had just undergone major spinal surgery less than two months ago. My mother suffered from such severe motion sickness that even a twenty-minute car ride left her pale and vomiting. My voice trembled. “Then how does Phoebe’s entire extended family have first-class plane tickets?” Wayne frowned, a flash of annoyance crossing his face. “Phoebe’s parents are getting older, Iris. They can’t handle a stressful journey. Besides, her aunt and cousins were a last-minute addition. I couldn’t just tell them they couldn’t come after they went through the trouble of packing.” My phone buzzed in my hand. It was my mother. Her voice was soft, laced with a familiar, painful caution, as if she were terrified of becoming a burden to me. “Sweetheart, your father and I have never been on a plane anyway. We were worried we’d just embarrass you. The train is lovely. We’ll be there before you know it.” A lump formed in my throat. Before I could speak, I heard my father coughing in the background. It was a dry, raspy sound, and he quickly muffled it, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “Don’t tell her, Helen. It’s her wedding day. Don’t make her worry.” Standing in the bustling terminal, looking at Wayne surrounded by Phoebe’s laughing, vibrant family, a cold realization washed over me. This wedding didn’t need to happen. 1 Phoebe stepped forward, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne. If it makes you feel better, I can ask Aunt Carol to give up her ticket.” She paused, her voice dropping to a delicate whisper. “It’s just… Aunt Carol has never seen the ocean before. She’s been looking forward to this trip for months.” Wayne immediately reached out, patting the back of Phoebe’s hand reassuringly. “This has nothing to do with you, Phoebe. I made the travel arrangements.” He turned back to me, his tone clipped and impatient. “Phoebe’s family is already here at the airport, Iris. We can’t just turn them away.” Behind him, one of Phoebe’s cousins muttered with a small chuckle, “Honestly, small-town folks probably prefer the train anyway. Flying has so many rules and security checks. They’d probably just end up anxious.” Wayne clearly heard it. Yet, he only sighed. “They don’t mean any harm. It’s our wedding day, Iris. Don’t be so sensitive.” I stared at him, feeling a sudden, sharp distance between us. “My father just had spinal surgery, Wayne. My mother can barely ride in a car. And you expect them to travel across the country on a train to attend my wedding?” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t dramatize this. Your parents are simple, old-fashioned people. They won’t mind the train. I already sent them the route. Once they get off, the bus and ferry transfers are very straightforward.” He spoke with such effortless ease. But all I could picture was my father’s stiff, unbending spine, and my mother’s face turning white at the mere smell of a bus cabin. My phone vibrated again. It was my mother. The background noise on her end was deafening—the mechanical clatter of tracks, the blare of a train station intercom. Her voice was still small, still soothing. “Iris, we’re on board. The seats are fine, really. Don’t worry about us.” My throat locked up. “Mom, get off the train. Right now. I’ll buy you plane tickets myself.” “No, no, don’t waste your money,” she said quickly, panic in her voice. “Your fiancé went to so much trouble to organize all of this. He did a wonderful job. I’ve never flown before, Iris. I was honestly terrified of ruining your special day.” Through the receiver, my father’s muffled cough cut through the static again. “Don’t tell her,” he urged my mother. “It’s her big day. Let her be happy.” My eyes stung fiercely. “Dad, does your back hurt?” He forced a laugh. “Not at all, sweetheart. I feel great. Don’t you worry about a thing.” In the next second, a harsh voice boomed near the phone. “Hey, old man! Move it! You’re blocking the aisle!” I heard my mother quickly apologizing, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. His back is bad, he’s just a little slow. We’re moving.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I could see them so clearly. My father, holding onto the headrests for support, unable to straighten his back. My mother, desperately shielding their cheap suitcases while bowing and apologizing to strangers. They had never flown in their lives. Before this trip, they had been as excited as children. Two weeks ago, I had gone back to our hometown to pick up some documents. I walked in to find my father standing in front of our cracked hallway mirror, trying on a navy suit. He had saved up for a month to buy it off the rack from a local department store, determined not to look out of place at his daughter’s destination wedding. The sleeves were slightly too long. The shoulders slouched. But he had turned to me, beaming. “Iris, do you think I look presentable? I won’t embarrass you in front of Wayne’s family, will I?” Meanwhile, my mother was busy packing Ziploc bags of homemade pecan brittle, home-cured venison jerky, and little bags of roasted peanuts. “It’s our first time meeting so many of his relatives,” she had said, her fingers carefully tying the ribbons. “We can’t show up empty-handed. Your fiancé is so good to you; we have to show proper manners.” At the time, I had laughed, telling them they were overthinking it. I told them, “Wayne has taken care of everything. Just follow us.” My mother’s eyes had lit up. The very next day, she told everyone she ran into: “My daughter is getting married in Maui. My son-in-law is flying us out.” But now. They weren’t on a plane. They didn’t even have a ticket with their names on it. On the phone, my mother was still trying to placate me. “Iris, don’t be angry with Wayne. He’s a busy man, and managing a wedding is stressful. We’re perfectly happy on the train. We’re saving you some money this way.” I closed my eyes, a tear escaping down my cheek. “Mom, get off the train,” I said, my voice dead and quiet. “I’m not getting married.” 2 My mother gasped, terrified. “Iris, don’t say such foolish things. Your father and I are perfectly fine on the train. Don’t ruin your own happiness over this.” I couldn’t listen anymore. I hung up, turned around, and began walking toward the exit of the terminal. Wayne grabbed my arm, his grip tight. “Where do you think you’re going?” “To get my parents.” His face darkened, his jaw tightening. “We’re boarding in twenty minutes. If you leave now, what happens to the wedding?” I looked at him, seeing the stranger behind the familiar face. “My parents aren’t going to be there, Wayne. What wedding is there to have?” Nearby, Phoebe’s mother cleared her throat with a delicate cough. Wayne’s grip on my arm instantly vanished. He turned around, sliding his designer jacket off his shoulders and draping it gently over Mrs. Ward’s shoulders. “Mrs. Ward, is the airport AC too cold for you?” His movements were practiced, tender, and deeply attentive. I stood there, watching him. I didn’t even feel like arguing anymore. He knew exactly how to care for older people. He knew what it meant to protect them from discomfort. It was just that his tenderness was a luxury my parents were never entitled to. Wayne turned back to me, his tone returning to that familiar, cold impatience. “Iris, stop making a scene. I already told you, your parents are being taken care of.” I pulled my arm back, out of his reach. A thirty-hour journey in coach. A grueling transfer route of buses and ferries. And my parents, swallowing their own pain and dignity just to save face for him. That was his version of taking care of them. Just as I reached the automatic doors of the airport, my phone rang again. It was my mother. This time, her voice was entirely stripped of its forced cheer. She sounded panicked, on the verge of tears. “Iris… we can’t take the train.” My heart dropped. “What do you mean you can’t take the train?” The background noise was chaotic, punctured by the loud, impatient voice of an Amtrak conductor. My mother lowered her voice, whispering as if she were committing a crime. “They said the tickets are wrong. They’re dated for yesterday. They won’t let us board. We’ve… we’ve been asked to leave the station.” My head went entirely numb. Wayne said he had arranged everything. His grand arrangement was buying my parents expired coach tickets. I clutched the phone. “Mom, where are you right now?” “Iris, please don’t be mad at Wayne,” she begged, her first instinct still to protect the man who had abandoned her. “He had so many people to coordinate. It was just a simple mistake. It’s completely normal.” My father’s raspy, suppressed cough echoed through the line. “We’ll just wait in the terminal for a bit. It’s fine. Don’t let this ruin your flight.” They had been kicked off a train. They were standing in a noisy, unfamiliar station, surrounded by luggage, and they were still trying to find excuses for Wayne. My eyes burned with hot, angry tears. I spun around and marched back to Wayne. “Did you buy my parents tickets for yesterday?” Wayne blinked, his expression shifting slightly. “What?” I shoved the phone toward his face. “They were kicked off the train. Is this what you call ‘taking care of things’?” Wayne finally frowned. For the first time, a flicker of genuine worry crossed his face, as if he realized this was turning into an actual inconvenience. “My assistant must have made a mistake when booking,” he murmured, pulling out his own phone. “Don’t panic. I’ll have my assistant go pick them up from the station. We won’t fly today. We’ll rebook for tomorrow and all go together.” He spoke quickly, his tone softening in an attempt to pacify me. To him, this was just a minor administrative error. But I looked at him and felt my heart turn to ash. If I hadn’t fought him on this, if my mother hadn’t called, my parents would have spent the night stranded at a cold, foreign train station, holding their bags, waiting for a train that would never carry them. 3 Phoebe walked over, her eyes red and downcast. “This is all my fault,” she whispered, her lip trembling. “If my family hadn’t joined at the last minute, your parents would have had their flights. But my parents have never traveled this far, and I was so worried about them being alone.” Wayne immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “How is any of this your fault, Phoebe? Stop taking the blame for things out of your control.” I watched him defend her, and a laugh bubbled up in my throat—hollow and bitter. My parents were stranded at a station because of his negligence, and his first reaction was annoyance. Phoebe shed a single tear, and he looked as though his entire world was crumbling. An hour later, Wayne’s assistant brought my parents to the airport. The moment my mother saw me, she tried to hide a torn plastic bag behind her back. Inside was the homemade pecan brittle she had spent days making. The bag had snagged during the rush at the station, and the brittle was crushed, sticky fragments clinging to the plastic. My father was holding his lower back, his face dangerously pale. Yet, when he saw Wayne, his first words were, “Son, I’m so sorry for the trouble. We should have checked the date on the tickets ourselves.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Dad…” Wayne glanced at his watch. “Well, at least we didn’t lose too much time.” My mother timidly offered the torn bag, trying to smile. “Wayne, I made some pecan brittle. And there’s some cured venison in here too, for your parents. We wanted to bring something from home.” Wayne looked down at the bag, his eyebrows knitting together in immediate distaste. “Helen, the resort in Maui has fully catered meals. Things with such… strong odors really shouldn’t be brought onto the island. The wedding has a very specific, minimalist aesthetic. These don’t really fit.” My mother’s hand froze in midair. The hopeful smile on her face slowly withered away, though she tried desperately to keep her eyes bright. “Oh. Of course. I didn’t think of that.” She quickly pulled her hand back, tucking the bag behind her coat. “I won’t bring them then. I don’t want to cause any trouble.” My chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath. Across from us, Phoebe’s aunt let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Well, small-town folks get nervous when they travel. Bringing homemade snacks to a luxury beach wedding… it really is a bit much.” My mother heard her. She clutched the plastic bag tighter, her head dropping. “I’m sorry. We just don’t know any better.” Wayne didn’t even acknowledge the cruelty of the remark. He simply looked out toward the terminal exit. “Phoebe’s family has a lot of luggage. Iris, why don’t your parents ride in the shuttle van behind us?” I looked out the window. The shuttle van behind us was a cargo vehicle, packed to the ceiling with camera gear, luggage, and folding chairs. It was meant for the hired staff. My voice was ice. “My father’s spine is injured, and you want him to squeeze into a cargo van with the luggage?” Wayne’s patience snapped. “Iris, do you have to make everything so difficult? It’s just a short ride to the hotel. We’re flying out tomorrow anyway. Do you really have to pick a fight over this right now?” I stared at him. In that moment, I understood everything. Wayne hadn’t “forgotten” to show my parents respect. He simply didn’t believe they were worthy of it. My mother gently grabbed my hand. “Iris, please. It’s fine. We can sit anywhere. The wedding is what’s important.” Even now, they were terrified of ruining my wedding. I looked at my father’s pale, exhausted face, and then at my mother’s trembling hands holding the ruined bag of pecan brittle. The last dying ember of my love for Wayne flickered out. 4 I didn’t argue. Instead, I took my parents’ bags and led them to a quiet airport hotel nearby. The entire walk there, my father kept apologizing. “Iris, I’m really fine. Did I make things difficult between you and Wayne?” My mother kept looking at her plastic bag. “Maybe we should just leave these things here. I don’t want Wayne’s family laughing at you because of us.” Looking at their anxious, fragile faces, my heart broke. They had done absolutely nothing wrong, yet they walked like criminals awaiting sentencing. Once we got them settled in a room, I told them to rest. I sat in the hallway, pulled out my phone, and canceled our flights to Maui. Then, I booked three one-way tickets to Boston. Finally, I called our wedding coordinator. “Cancel the wedding.” The coordinator’s voice rose in shock. “Iris? The wedding is tomorrow. Are you sure?” I looked through the cracked door at my parents, who had already fallen into an exhausted, deep sleep on the hotel bed. “I am absolutely sure.” At ten that night, Wayne walked into the room. His face was set in a tight, annoyed grimace. The tension from the airport had clearly ruined his afternoon with Phoebe’s family. He stood by the door, glaring at me. “Iris, we all fly out tomorrow morning. I don’t want to see this attitude again.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “Phoebe cried for hours today. She feels entirely responsible for your parents missing the flight. When you see her tomorrow, you need to apologize to her.” I stared at him, genuinely stunned. Then, a dry laugh escaped my lips. “I need to apologize to “her”?” Wayne crossed his arms. “Her family was perfectly ready to board today. Because of your sudden tantrum, everyone had to rebook their flights. You put a dozen people through that inconvenience. Don’t you think you owe her an apology?” To him, my parents being humiliated and stranded didn’t count as a grievance. But Phoebe’s family having to wait a few hours was a tragedy that required my repentance. I looked at him, and the desire to explain myself completely evaporated. “Sure.” Wayne let out a breath, assuming he had won, and walked into the bathroom to shower. I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the three boarding passes to Boston on my phone. My mind was entirely, beautifully quiet. In the middle of the night, a soft rustling woke me. I heard Wayne’s hushed voice coming from the small living room. “Phoebe? What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” I couldn’t hear the other side of the call, but his voice instantly softened into a tender, protective hush. “Don’t be scared. I’m coming over right now.” As the hotel door clicked shut, my mind drifted back to a night three years ago. I had been burning with a 104-degree fever, shivering violently. When I called him, he had told me he had an important presentation the next morning and told me to just take some Tylenol. Back then, I had made excuses for him. I told myself he was just driven, that his career was important. But he didn’t lack the capacity to rush to someone in the middle of the night. He just didn’t want to do it for me. The next morning, Wayne returned to the room. He hadn’t noticed the faint, pale pink smudge of lipstick on his collar. Phoebe stood just behind him, her eyes slightly red, her voice dripping with sweet regret. “Iris, I am so, so sorry about yesterday. I really didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.” I smiled faintly, offering no words. When we arrived at the airport, Phoebe’s family was already gathered around the first-class check-in counter. Wayne smoothly handed over their documents, handling the process with practiced ease. Phoebe’s parents, her aunt, her cousin—everyone was checked into first class. But when the gate agent scanned my parents’ documents, she paused. “Tom and Helen are ticketed for Coach.” My mother blinked, quickly waving her hands. “Oh, Coach is wonderful. Coach is perfect. We don’t mind at all.” Wayne stepped closer, whispering to me as if trying to head off another argument. “Rebooking on such short notice was difficult. There were only so many first-class seats left. It’s only a four-hour flight, Iris. They’ll be fine.” Four hours. Now he cared about the flight duration. Yet yesterday, he had been perfectly content to let them sit on a train for over thirty hours. Phoebe chimed in, her voice sweet and helpful. “Maybe I can trade seats with your mom?” Wayne immediately cut her off. “No. You didn’t sleep at all last night, Phoebe. Don’t push yourself.” I looked at the profound tenderness in his eyes when he looked at Phoebe, and then at my father, who was leaning heavily against a pillar to ease the pressure on his spine. The final thread holding me to him snapped. The boarding announcement chimed through the terminal. The priority boarding lane opened. Wayne walked forward, guiding Phoebe’s mother by the elbow while wheeling her carry-on. Just before he entered the tunnel, he turned back to me. “Iris, take your parents and queue up in the general line. I’ll see you when we land.” With that, he disappeared into the priority lane with Phoebe and her family. My mother gently nudged me. “Iris, sweetheart, we should get in line. We don’t want to miss the gate.” I took her hand and pulled her gently out of the queue. “Mom. Dad.” I looked at them, my voice steady and clear. “We aren’t going to Maui. I’m taking you somewhere else.” My mother’s eyes widened. “But… the wedding…” Over the loudspeaker, the final boarding call for Wayne’s flight echoed. I took one last look at the priority lane. Wayne likely assumed we would meet him on the white sands of Maui. He didn’t know that we would never see each other again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “530994”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The third time I caught Chelsea in bed with Tyler, my voice simply stopped working. Out of some twisted sense of guilt, Chelsea spent the next month training me to communicate with a binary code. 1 meant yes. 2 meant no. It didn’t matter what she asked me, as long as it had to do with Tyler, I only ever gave her one answer. I tapped 1. When she said Tyler’s health was failing and asked to borrow the vintage gold St. Christopher medallion my mother had left me to ward off bad energy, I tapped 1 without a second thought. When she asked to postpone our wedding anniversary trip so she could throw Tyler a birthday party first, I tapped 1. And when she insisted on moving a convalescing Tyler into our house, I still tapped 1. I even packed my things and quietly moved into the guest room, leaving them the master suite. It went on like this until the afternoon I finally took our wedding portrait down from the living room wall. Chelsea’s eyes flared a sudden, violent red. She grabbed my wrist with a desperate, crushing grip. “Sean, you promised me. You said you’d never take this down unless we were getting a divorce. Are you trying to leave me?” Sensing that the number “1” was already on the tip of my tongue, she broke down. She shook me, her voice rising to a frantic shriek. “Damn it, Sean! Don’t you dare say 1! There’s nothing wrong with your vocal cords. You can talk! Say something!” Then, as if terrified she had pushed me too far, her voice instantly dropped to a soft, pleading whimper. “Sean… please. Just say 2. Okay? Just once.” I pulled my hand from her grasp, looking at her with a quiet, hollow confusion. Had she honestly forgotten? During the first year of our marriage—back when she still loved me with a fierce, possessive loyalty—she had insisted on signing a prenuptial agreement. She wanted to bind herself to me. She wrote in a clause that if she ever strayed, she would be allowed exactly two chances. If she crossed the line a third time, the divorce would automatically trigger, and the dissolution of our marriage would take effect immediately. That third strike had happened a month ago. The agreement was already in motion. … The heavy mahogany frame of our wedding portrait hit the floor with a deafening crash. Glass shattered into a thousand jagged diamonds, scattering across the floorboards between Chelsea’s designer heels and my bare feet. I calmly picked up the broom. I swept the broken glass, the splintered wood, and the glossy, smiling photograph into a black trash bag. I didn’t linger. I didn’t look twice. I just threw them into the bin. Seeing my indifference, Chelsea’s grief instantly hardened back into rage. She knew better than anyone how much I used to treasure that picture. I used to dust it every Sunday. Now, I treated it like common household waste. To hurt me, she grabbed Tyler’s hand, pulling him close to her side. “Fine! Since you don’t care about it anymore, Tyler and I will go get our own portraits taken. I’ll hang ours right where that one used to be!” I nodded placidly. I pulled out my phone and tapped: “1.” Tyler couldn’t quite mask the smug triumph in his eyes, though he quickly put on a show of anxious humility. “Chelsea, are you sure about this? I already feel terrible enough staying here, forcing Sean to sleep in the guest room. I don’t want to cause trouble.” Before his words even finished echoing in the foyer, I had already opened my phone, pulled up the website for the high-end photography studio we used for our wedding, and booked their premium portrait package. I forwarded the confirmation text straight to Chelsea’s phone. Chelsea’s gaze darkened, a complex storm of anger and confusion swirling in her eyes. Without another word, she dragged Tyler out the door. I didn’t care. I walked back into the guest room. A notification popped up on my screen: my flight to Boston was officially booked. I pulled my suitcase from the closet and began packing my life away, piece by piece, until a sharp chime broke the silence of the room. It was an Instagram notification. Tyler had posted a new photo grid, and he had deliberately tagged me. It was a layout of nine engagement-style photos. The aesthetic, the lighting, the poses—they were a carbon copy of the photos Chelsea and I had posted the day we got married. Except for one detail. Right in the center of the grid was a live photo. It captured them in a passionate, lingering embrace, their lips parted in a deep kiss that seemed to go on forever. I stared at the screen, my face entirely blank. Then, I tapped the heart icon to like the post, and left a simple, two-word comment: “Congratulations.” In the dead of night, Chelsea kicked my bedroom door open. She reeked of expensive gin and desperate anger as she stumbled toward my bed. “Sean, what do you want from me? What is it going to take for you to forgive me?” “Why aren’t you angry? I took Tyler to get those photos, and I waited for you all day. Why didn’t you come and stop me?” “You used to be so jealous. You used to care!” I looked at her, my eyes cool and distant. My mind wandered back to the ghost of who I used to be. She was right. I used to be an incredibly jealous man. The first time I caught them, I had marched straight into her corporate office and slapped Tyler across the face in front of her entire board of directors. Chelsea’s retaliation had been swift and brutal. She used her massive influence to frame me for academic plagiarism. Within a week, I was stripped of my tenure and fired from my position as a professor of constitutional law. The second time, I found them tangled in our marriage bed. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply took a photo and sent it to the firm’s primary investors. To teach me a lesson, Chelsea cut off the funding for my mother’s specialized cancer immunotherapy drugs. The only way she would reinstate the treatments—the only way to save my mother’s life—was for me to agree to a deeply humiliating livestreamed bachelor-party gig for her high-profile elite clients. After that scandal, my career in law was completely dead. Even the smallest boutique firms threw my resume in the trash. I had no income, but my mother’s medical bills were an endless, hungry beast. When Tyler casually complained one evening that the food at his office cafeteria was inedible, Chelsea had a brilliant solution. I went from lecturing in university halls to acting as Tyler’s private chef. My hands, which had spent a lifetime holding fountain pens and law journals, became covered in grease burns and blisters. Every single day, I submerged my hands in boiling dishwater until the skin wrinkled, cracked, and bled. They would scab over, only to be torn open again the next morning. All of it, just to secure my mother’s weekly medication from Chelsea. A vicious, endless cycle. Eventually, the calluses grew so thick that it took a deep, painful tear to make them bleed again. Just like my heart. Chelsea reached up, cupping my face with her trembling, alcohol-soaked hands. “Sean, I made him delete the post. I swear.” “He only got hurt because he protected me during that warehouse accident. Once his recovery is finished, I’ll send him away.” “Please, Sean. Stop punishing me.” My fingers stilled. I opened my phone. Tyler’s post was indeed gone. Even the matching profile pictures they had set earlier had been changed; Tyler’s icon was now a blank gray screen. Meanwhile, Chelsea’s profile picture had been changed to a candid photo of me. Her banner was a photo of us on our first trip to Maine. Her status read: “My one and only, Sean.” Her bio had been updated to: “Forever with Sean.” It was the exact public declaration of love I had begged her for throughout our entire relationship, a standard she had always claimed was “too juvenile” for a woman in her position. Yet, Tyler had received it within ten days of knowing her. Now that I finally had what I once craved, it felt like swallowing a swarm of flies hovering over a dumpster. Vile. Nauseating. Suddenly, Chelsea lost her balance and collapsed onto the floor by my feet, passing out cold. As she fell, her phone slipped from her pocket. The screen lit up with a notification from an unsaved number. “Tori, are we really using burner accounts to text now?” “This is so hot.” “I just learned a few new tricks. You’ll have to be careful next time, though—don’t leave a mark. Otherwise, I’ll have to keep staying in Sean’s bed so you can tend to my ‘wounds’ yourself.” “Besides, if Sean ever decides to beat me to death, who’s going to keep you satisfied?” My right hand began to shake. I pressed my trembling palm flat against my chest, slowly closing my eyes as I forced my breathing to steady. Thank god I was no longer the naive eighteen-year-old boy who had fallen for her. I would no longer let these pathetic, malicious games break me. That boy had wanted Chelsea to love him loudly and fiercely. But the twenty-eight-year-old man sitting here only wanted one thing: to get as far away from Chelsea as humanly possible. Permanently. Chelsea groaned, suddenly retching onto the hardwood floor. The physical discomfort seemed to shock her back into consciousness. She instinctively reached her hand upward, expecting a warm bowl of honey-ginger water to be placed in her palm, followed by my gentle, exasperated lecturing. On countless nights like this, I had stayed up to care for her, rubbing her back and softly scolding her for drinking so much. But this time, her hand met empty air. The heavy, comforting silence of the room was broken only by a single, typed response on my phone screen: “2.” The air in the room turned ice-cold. Making hangover water didn’t require vocal cords. But I didn’t move an inch. Looking at my completely vacant expression, Chelsea’s face twisted into an ugly sneer. She kicked the nightstand in frustration. “Sean, I already apologized for what happened to your mother! That last time with Tyler was a mistake, an accident!” “Tyler’s mother went to prison taking the fall for my company’s financial audit. She left him in my care. What was I supposed to do, throw him on the street?” “I slept with another man. That is all. Why is it so impossible for you to just get over it?” In the dim light of the bedroom, I nodded in quiet agreement. I tapped the screen, letting the digital voice assistant speak for me. “1.” Chelsea lunged forward, grabbing my upper arms with terrifying strength. “Sean, talk to me! Scream at me! Hit me!” She grabbed my hand and forced my palm against her cheek. “Hit me, damn it!” I pulled my hand back, shook my head, and tapped: “2.” Her arms fell to her sides, completely drained of energy. Then, as if nothing had happened, she climbed onto the bed and pressed her body against my back, wrapping her arms tightly around my waist. “Sean, let’s just sleep. I’m staying right here tonight. I’m not going anywhere.” I didn’t push her away. Experience had taught me that struggling was useless. Besides, she wouldn’t stay long. Sure enough, less than thirty minutes later, the butler knocked softly on the door. “Ma’am, Mr. Tyler is complaining of severe chest pains.” Chelsea bolted upright. She threw the covers off, rushing out of the room without a single backward glance. The hallway outside erupted into a chaotic flurry of footsteps and panicked voices. I walked into the bathroom, turned the shower to hot, and thoroughly scrubbed every inch of skin she had touched. I had just lain back down when Chelsea burst into the room again, her eyes frantic. “Sean, Tyler is throwing up blood. We need to go to the hospital, and I need you to—” Before she could finish, I tapped: “1.” She froze, suddenly catching the scent of my body wash. “You showered again?” Her voice trembled with a sudden, sharp hurt. “Do you really find my touch that disgusting?” This time, I didn’t even bother to look at her. The vulnerability in Chelsea’s eyes instantly vanished, replaced by a cold, malicious sneer. She grabbed my chin, forcing my face up to meet hers. “Since you want to act so incredibly generous, I’ll let you play the saint to your heart’s content.” She dragged me out of the house and threw me into the back of her SUV. “Tyler needs emergency surgery. You’re going to take care of him.” She glanced at me through the rearview mirror, a cruel smirk playing on her lips. “After all, you have plenty of experience surviving a knife wound, don’t you?” My hands began to shake again. My fingers instinctively drifted to my abdomen, tracing the thick, jagged scar beneath my shirt. It was the scar I got when I jumped in front of a blade meant for Chelsea. It was our first year of marriage. Her business was skyrocketing, and she had made some dangerous enemies. A rival company had hired someone to end her life. I had taken the hit instead. In the ICU, Chelsea had wept like a broken child, holding my hand and swearing to God that she would spend the rest of her life making me happy. Now, she laughed and told me I was the perfect candidate because I had “experience” with surgical blades. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my old academic mentor, Dr. Catherine Reynolds. “Sean, your research fellowship at Harvard has been fully approved. Don’t worry about the logistics. I’m sending your senior colleague, Helena, to come collect you.” In that single moment, the frantic, terrified beating of my heart finally settled into a calm, steady rhythm. I felt anchored. I sat quietly as Chelsea blew through three red lights to reach the hospital. I didn’t resist when she dragged me into the donor clinic, screaming at the on-duty nurse, “He’s O-negative! He’s a match! Draw his blood now!” I remained entirely silent. But just as the nurse pressed the cold alcohol wipe against my skin, Chelsea suddenly grabbed the nurse’s arm, halting her. She knelt down in front of my chair, forcing me to look at her. “Sean, talk to me. Just say the word ‘no,’ and I’ll call this off. We won’t draw a single drop.” She knew how terrified I was of needles. She knew the mere sight of blood made me faint. Yet, she had brought me here anyway. I stared at the familiar lines of her face, trying to find the girl who had once saved me from a gang of debt collectors, running through the rain to pull me into an emergency room. The girl who had covered my eyes during my vaccinations, whispering in my ear, “Don’t look, sweetheart. It’ll be over in a second.” The girl who had emptied her entire childhood savings account to pay off my father’s gambling debts so I could finish my degree. I looked at her, and in my mind, I whispered: “Consider this the final payment for everything you did for me.” “From this moment on, we owe each other nothing.” I looked into her eyes, smiled gently, and tapped: “1.” Chelsea’s eyes fluttered shut, her chest heaving with sharp, ragged breaths. She stood up abruptly, her face twisting into a mask of pure fury. “Fine,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “You want to play the martyr? Let’s see how much you can take!” She turned to the doctor, her voice booming through the clinic. “Draw ten vials. Don’t stop until you have all ten.” The doctor looked at her in disbelief. “Ma’am, drawing that much from a patient with his vitals is dangerous—” “I said draw it!” Chelsea hissed. “My husband is a very generous man. I wouldn’t want to insult his charity.” The doctor hesitated, but I patted his hand gently, nodding to let him know it was okay to proceed. It was pointless to argue. This hospital was heavily funded by Chelsea’s conglomerate. If medical ethics had any power here, my mother would never have had her treatment withheld so easily. I closed my eyes, feeling my life force slowly drain out through the plastic tube. My lips grew cold and numb. The room began to spin. And then, from the recovery room right next door, separated only by a thin medical curtain, a series of soft, suggestive sounds drifted through the air. Tyler, who was supposed to be in critical condition, spoke in a loud, performative gasp. “Oh, Chelsea… slow down. Sean is literally in the next chair…” Her response was a low, breathless moan. “Let him watch.” With a sharp snap, the curtain was ripped aside. The two of them were tangled on the hospital bed, their clothes half-torn, flushed and breathing heavily. Chelsea glared at the terrified nurses and doctors still in the room. “Get the hell out. All of you.” Within seconds, the clinic was cleared, leaving only the three of us. Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh as her hands slowly traced down Tyler’s bare chest. “Look at me, Sean,” she demanded, her eyes locked onto mine. “Look at what you’re missing. You think your disgust matters to me? There are plenty of men begging to take your place.” “Don’t ever flatter yourself into thinking I need you.” She leaned down, pressing her mouth hard against Tyler’s. And to ensure I didn’t close my eyes, she had hung my mother’s gold St. Christopher medallion from the curtain rod directly above them. If I looked away, she would know instantly. When they were finished, Chelsea kicked the soiled top sheet off the bed, throwing it at my feet. “Wash it.” Tyler looked at me with a lazy, satisfied grin. “Oh, Chelsea, that’s so mean. There’s… well, there’s a lot of my mess on that sheet.” “How can we ask Sean to clean up after us?” He slowly slid out of the bed, walking over to where I sat, weak and dizzy from the blood loss. He reached up, plucked the St. Christopher medallion from the rod, and began tossing it lightly in his palm. “You know, Chelsea said this little charm was supposed to bring good luck and health. But my chest still hurts.” “I was going to give it back to you, Sean, but honestly… it’s probably covered in bad luck now.” “Let me help you get rid of it.” “No—” My voice didn’t work, but my mind screamed as Tyler casually tossed the solid gold medallion out the open third-story window. I rushed to the glass, watching the small gold glint plunge into the darkness below. A split second later, the heavy tire of a speeding city bus rolled over it, crushing it into the asphalt. My vision went completely red. A primal, uncontrollable rage surged through my veins. I lunged at Tyler, my hands clawing at his throat, a guttural, choked sound tearing from my chest. But Tyler easily slipped behind Chelsea, trembling and clutching his chest. “Chelsea, see? I told you!” Tyler whimpered, a triumphant smirk flashing on his face where she couldn’t see. “I knew if we pushed him hard enough, he’d start talking again!” Chelsea’s eyes narrowed, processing Tyler’s words. But when she saw me trying to claw my way toward him, her protective instincts kicked in. She shoved me back with brutal force. Severely depleted from the blood draw, my legs gave out. I crashed onto the cold tile floor, my body trembling so violently I couldn’t pull myself up. Chelsea took a step toward me, a flash of regret crossing her face, but Tyler suddenly let out a sharp cry, collapsing to his knees. “My chest… it hurts so bad!” “Chelsea, I was only trying to help him speak. I didn’t think he’d actually try to kill me… He knows my heart is weak. He wanted me dead.” “If I die, it’s fine… but my mother is still in prison. I won’t even get to say goodbye to her…” I stared at his pathetic, amateurish acting, desperately trying to formulate words to defend myself, but all that came out of my throat were broken, pathetic grunts. Chelsea’s expression hardened into pure disgust as she looked down at me. “Sean, you really are a monster, aren’t you? All this silence was just an act.” “You did all of this just to find a way to murder Tyler!” She called for the emergency team to wheel Tyler to the ICU. Before she left, she looked back at me, her voice cold as ice. “If anything happens to him, Sean, I will make sure you pay for it with your life.” I lay there, paralyzed on the floor. Not even thirty minutes later, my phone rang. It was the director of Oakridge Cemetery. “Mr. Hastings, we have an emergency. The plot where your mother was recently laid to rest has been flagged for immediate relocation due to an eminent domain order.” “You need to come down here immediately to oversee the excavation, or we cannot guarantee the integrity of the remains.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Without a single second of hesitation, I dragged myself out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and rushed to Oakridge. But by the time I arrived, the grave had already been dug halfway up. I threw myself in front of the workers’ shovels, my body acting as a shield. Tyler stood a few yards away, shivering inside Chelsea’s oversized trench coat. “Chelsea, the spiritual advisor was right. The energy from this grave is killing me. The moment we got here, my heart started acting up again.” I fell to my knees in front of Chelsea, shaking my head violently. My throat burned as I fought with every ounce of my remaining strength to force the words out. “Please… don’t…” Chelsea remained silent for a long moment, but ultimately, she waved her hand, signaling her private security guards to drag me away. “Sean, Tyler’s mother sacrificed everything for my family. I can’t risk his life over a piece of land.” “Don’t worry. I’ll buy your mother a much better plot in a premium cemetery.” I was pinned to the ground by two heavy guards, forced to watch as they hauled my mother’s casket out of the fresh earth. While the workers were busy, Tyler slipped away from Chelsea’s side, kneeling down next to me on the damp grass. He leaned close, his breath warm against my ear. “You still don’t get it, do you, Sean? Your mother didn’t die from cancer.” “She died because she woke up and saw Chelsea and me having sex right there on her hospital bed. The shock gave her a massive stroke.” “Oh, and that night? Chelsea ignored your calls because she was busy helping me rewrite my corporate portfolio. Your mother died completely alone.” “Thank you for all your hard work, big brother.” “Ah!” A wild, animalistic strength surged through me. I broke free from the guards’ grip and lunged at Tyler, burying my fingers into his hair, tearing at his face. In the scuffle, a heavy boot slammed into my abdomen. The pain was blinding. I fell back, gasping for air. When I opened my eyes, Chelsea was standing over me, holding the small marble urn containing my mother’s ashes. I clutched my throat, forcing the words out through the blood in my mouth. “Give… me… my… mother.” Chelsea let out a cold, humorless laugh. “Look at that. You can speak just fine when you actually want to.” “If it takes a little trauma to make you talk, then let’s play.” With a casual, elegant flick of her wrist, she tossed the marble urn over the edge of the cliff. The urn shattered against the jagged rocks below. A cloud of fine, grey ash caught the wind, scattering into the empty air, disappearing over the valley. “Mom!” I screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that tore my throat open. I tried to throw myself over the edge after her, but the guards pinned me back down, grinding my face into the dirt. Chelsea turned her back to me, pushing Tyler’s wheelchair toward her car. “Keep him here,” she directed the guards. “Don’t let him leave until he can speak to me in full, coherent sentences.” She didn’t notice the low, rhythmic thumping echoing from the clouds. A sleek, private helicopter was descending rapidly toward the clearing. When the cabin door opened and I saw the woman stepping out onto the grass, tears finally broke through my defenses, blurring my vision. Chelsea returned home in a daze. Tyler called her name several times, but she didn’t seem to hear him. “Chelsea, we had to do that,” Tyler said softly, wrapping his arms around her neck. “It was the only way to shock Sean out of his selective mutism. He’ll understand eventually. He won’t hold a grudge.” Chelsea looked up, a deep, gnawing anxiety clawing at her chest. Just as she reached for her phone to tell the guards to release him and bring him home, the butler burst into the room, panting heavily. “Ma’am… someone just delivered these to the front gate.” He held out two small, navy blue booklets. They were official divorce certificates.

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Shortly after we got engaged, we took our coworkers out for dinner to celebrate. Over drinks, someone suggested we play the “Newlywed Game” to test how well we knew each other. “Question one,” a coworker grinned, holding up their phone. “What’s the bride’s favorite flower?” Colin glanced across the table at Mia, his mentee, and hesitated for three long seconds. “Roses… right?” I love sunflowers. But the crystal vase on his kitchen island was always filled with long-stemmed red roses. I had always assumed it was just his preference in interior design. “Next! What is the bride’s biggest fear?” “Uh… thunderstorms?” I am terrified of the dark. Mia is the one who cowers at the sound of thunder. The table chuckled, oblivious to the tension, and moved to the third question. “What’s the bride’s go-to takeout order?” Colin blurted out instantly, “Pad See Ew. Mild.” I only eat Drunken Noodles, Thai-hot. Mia was the one who ordered the mild, sweet noodles every time our team worked late. Out of five questions, he got four wrong. The only thing he got right was my shoe size—a standard size six. Only because Mia wore the exact same size. Across the table, Mia looked down, stirring the straw in her cocktail with an impossibly innocent smile. “Don’t be mad, Joanna,” she said softly, batting her eyelashes. “Colin is just messing around with you.” A memory flashed in my mind. Last week, Colin had gifted Mia a birthday present. It was a delicate diamond pendant I had been eyeing for months. When I asked him about it, he’d shrugged and said it was just a random impulse buy for a subordinate. … “Did you really have to embarrass me like that?” Colin’s hands gripped the leather steering wheel, his tone dripping with irritation. I turned my head, watching the city lights blur past the passenger window. I didn’t say a word. “Everyone was just having fun. Did you have to sit there with a stone-cold face the entire night?” He tugged at his collar, his brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “Mia even stepped in to smooth things over for you, and you didn’t even have the decency to say thank you. What is everyone going to think of you?” I stared at his reflection in the dark glass. “What exactly should I be thanking her for?” my voice was quiet. “Thanking her for knowing my fiancé better than I do? Or thanking her for answering what my favorite food is?” Colin slammed his foot on the brake. The SUV jerked to a halt at a red light. He turned to me, his eyes filled with a heavy, patronizing exhaustion. “Joanna, here we go again.” He let out a harsh breath. “Mia is an intern. I trained her. We eat team lunches together all the time. Is it really a crime that I remembered her dietary restrictions? Can you please stop being so ridiculously sensitive?” I pulled my gaze away and looked down, tracing the lines on my palms. “Right. Not a crime.” My voice was flat, devoid of any inflection. Colin seemed satisfied with my submission. He eased his foot off the brake as the light turned green. “Exactly. We’re about to get married. You need to start acting like a mature adult.” He reached for his phone mounted on the dashboard, opened his messages, and held down the audio record button for his group chat. “Hey Kevin, sorry about the vibe tonight,” Colin said, his tone instantly shifting to a breezy, apologetic bro-cadence. “Joanna is just too practical. She doesn’t really get romance, doesn’t even like roses, so don’t sweat it. Drinks are on me next time.” I watched him drop the phone back into the cradle, his movements so casual it was as if he hadn’t just humiliated me to his friends. “Practical. Doesn’t get romance.” So, in his eyes, my love for sunflowers was a lack of romance. And the red roses permanently displayed in our home were the pinnacle of high-class affection. A hollow ache hollowed out my stomach. “I’m a little hungry,” I said. “I want to order something.” Colin kept his eyes on the road. “Your battery is dead, right? Just use my phone. Passcode hasn’t changed. It’s still your birthday.” I reached for his phone and punched in my birthday. The screen unlocked. I opened his DoorDash app, intending to look through his past orders to reorder from that Thai place I liked. But the moment the history loaded, my finger froze hovering over the screen. The order log was completely saturated with recent deliveries. Three times a week. Every single delivery address was to Mia’s studio apartment downtown. Every single order was a meal for two—always from the mild, sweet side of the menu. And in the special instructions box for every single order, he had typed the exact same sentence: “Please make sure there is absolutely no spice. Her stomach is very sensitive.” A slow, numbing frost crept from my fingertips, settling heavy in my chest. He couldn’t remember my favorite flower, but he could micromanage a takeout order down to the exact spice level for another woman. “Figure out what you want?” Colin’s voice broke the silence. “Get whatever. I’ll expense it.” I slowly closed the app and placed the phone back on the mount. “Never mind.” “Suddenly lost my appetite.” Colin glanced at me, completely unbothered. “Probably for the best. Eating heavy takeout this late is bad for your skin, anyway. You have to fit into that wedding dress next month.” There was a sickeningly sweet, almost patronizing generosity in his voice when he mentioned the dress. I pulled my own phone out of my purse. I opened my messages and scrolled down to the bridal party group chat. Just yesterday, my bridesmaids had been buzzing with excitement about the bachelorette trip. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard. I typed a few quick words. “I’m so sorry, guys. We don’t need to do the dress fittings.” I hit send. Then, I clicked on Becca’s contact—my wedding planner. “Becca, could you please pull up the mailing list for the eighty invitations we sent out? I need to prep a cancellation notice.” Just as the message went through, my screen went black. The battery had finally died. At the exact moment the screen faded to black, the SUV descended into the underground parking garage of our condo. Colin parked, killed the engine, and unbuckled his seatbelt. He turned to me, reaching out to affectionately ruffle my hair. “Saw you texting furiously over there. Sorting out the wedding favor details with the planner?” He smiled, the picture of a supportive partner. “I appreciate you handling all this. I’m terrible with the little details. Whatever you decide is perfect with me.” I looked at his practiced, seamless affection. I gave a small, barely perceptible nod. “Yeah.” “You don’t need to worry about it anymore.” The next morning, I woke up before the sun. Colin was still asleep. I sat alone on the living room sofa, wrapped in a blanket. On the kitchen island, the red roses stood tall in their crystal vase. He had just swapped them out for a fresh batch two days ago. After plugging my phone into the charger, I opened Instagram. The first thing on my feed was a post Mia had uploaded ten minutes ago. It was a close-up photo of a diamond pendant, catching the morning light and fracturing it into tiny rainbows against her collarbone. It was the exact necklace I had spent hours admiring at the boutique, the one I ultimately couldn’t justify buying because of the price tag. Swiping to the second slide, there was a handwritten card. I recognized Colin’s sharp, angular handwriting immediately. “Happy Birthday to my little ray of sunshine. May you never have to be afraid of the thunder.” The caption read: “There is no better feeling than being someone’s priority. Thank you to a certain someone for spoiling me~” There were zero mutual likes on the post. It was obvious she had manipulated the privacy settings so only I could see it. I stared at the screen. The girl who was afraid of thunder got the hand-delivered mild dinners, and she got the diamond necklace I had dreamed of. A notification dinged. A direct message from Mia. “Joanna! Did you see my post? I honestly didn’t want to accept it, it’s just way too expensive.” “But Colin insisted. He said if he bought it for you, you’d just complain about him wasting money, so he gave it to me instead.” “Please don’t be mad at him for spending so much! He was just trying to spare you the financial anxiety!” Reading the text bubbles, a bitter laugh caught in my throat. Colin always had a beautifully packaged excuse. He could take the one thing I desired, hand it to someone else, and somehow twist it into an act of profound consideration for “me”. I typed a reply. “I’m not mad at him. Glad you like it.” I hit send, stood up, and went to change my shoes. Colin had an early board meeting today, and he was dropping me off at my office on the way. I walked down to the subterranean garage and slipped into the passenger seat. Minutes later, Colin appeared. He was wearing a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, looking every bit the successful executive. “Waiting long?” he asked, clicking his seatbelt in. “No. Just got down here.” I reached toward the glove compartment to grab a tissue to wipe a smudge off my hands. As I popped it open, a crushed plastic box tumbled out and hit the floor mat by my feet. Inside were three bruised, dried-up sunflowers. Tucked next to them was a generic, mass-printed card from a cheap corner bodega. “Handpicked for you. Hope you like sunflowers.” I bent down and picked up the box. The yellow petals were crumbling into dust. It had clearly been shoved in this compartment for weeks. Colin glanced over, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. But he quickly recovered, flashing an easy smile. “Oh, right. That.” “I drove past a bodega a few days ago, saw they were on clearance, and grabbed them. Meant to bring them up, but it slipped my mind.” “Since you don’t really care for all the flashy, expensive romantic stuff, I figured it was perfect for you.” I looked down at the pathetic, crumbling stems. Mia got a carefully curated, five-thousand-dollar diamond necklace. I got the discount bodega flowers he couldn’t even be bothered to take out of the car. I slowly opened the plastic lid. “What’s wrong?” Colin asked, spinning the steering wheel as we navigated out of the garage. “They still look kind of nice, right?” I didn’t answer. Right in front of him, I grabbed the dried flowers and the generic card, crushing them all in my fist. As we pulled out onto the street, I rolled down the window and tossed the entire crumpled mess into a public trash can on the curb. Colin slammed on the brakes, throwing the car into park by the sidewalk. He whipped his head to face me, his brow heavily furrowed. “Joanna, what the hell are you doing? Are you having another episode?” I pulled a tissue from my purse and methodically wiped the dried yellow dust from my fingers. “The flowers were dead. They were covered in dust.” “I was just throwing away the trash.” Colin took a deep, shuddering breath, visibly trying to control his temper. “Are you seriously still pouting about the dinner last night?” “Or is this about Mia’s necklace?” He had finally decided to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “That necklace was a completely random purchase! It was Mia’s birthday. She reports directly to me—I couldn’t exactly show up empty-handed, could I?” “You literally refuse to even buy yourself a five-dollar latte most days! If I bought you a necklace that expensive, you’d just lecture me about budgeting for the mortgage!” “I am constantly bending over backwards to accommodate your practicalities, and this is the thanks I get? Why do you have to be so damn sensitive?” I looked at his flushed, indignant face. Whenever he got angry, the corners of his eyes would turn slightly red. In the past, that redness used to terrify me. The moment he frowned, I would immediately backtrack, apologize, and reflect on what I had done wrong. But today, I felt absolutely nothing. I had no desire to coddle him anymore. “You bend over backwards to accommodate me.” I repeated his words, my voice eerily calm. “Okay. Understood.” My total lack of resistance left Colin entirely unbalanced. “Good. Glad we’re on the same page,” he muttered, defensive. “Stop being so paranoid. The wedding is in a month. Just drop the drama.” That evening, I walked into our master bedroom and pulled my large hardshell suitcase from the very back of the walk-in closet. Opening it on the floor, I began methodically folding my clothes. We had picked out this condo together. Half the wardrobe belonged to me. But I only packed the essentials—my absolute favorite pieces. The rest, I didn’t even touch. Colin stepped out of the en-suite bathroom, a towel draped around his neck, vigorously drying his hair. As he walked past the bedroom door, he stopped. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me. “Why the sudden packing spree?” His tone was back to his usual smooth, affectionate cadence, as if our morning argument had never happened. He walked up behind me, wrapping his arms securely around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I knew you’d come to your senses. Once you cool off, you’re always the reasonable one.” “It’s going to be humid in the Caribbean. Pack a few extra sundresses.” I smoothed out the collar of a white linen shirt, folding it perfectly in half. “Okay.” A blinding flash of white light illuminated the bedroom, instantly followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder right above our building. Every light in the condo died. A total blackout. The bedroom was swallowed in a suffocating, pitch-black darkness. I have suffered from severe nyctalopia—night blindness—since I was a child. Combined with a deep, instinctual phobia of the dark, my body immediately went rigid. My breathing grew shallow and frantic. My heart began to batter against my ribs like a trapped bird. Blindly, desperately, I reached out to grab Colin’s arm. But the moment my fingers brushed his sleeve, he was already pulling away. In the crushing dark, I heard the rustle of him patting his pockets. A harsh, blue glow illuminated the space between us as his phone screen flared to life, highlighting the sheer panic etched into his profile. He stared at a notification, and the color drained from his face. “The storm is hitting Mia’s neighborhood, too.” His words tumbled out fast, laced with a frantic, uncontainable anxiety. “She lives alone. She’s absolutely terrified of thunder. I have to go check on her.” I stood frozen in the middle of the dark room, my hand still suspended in the air, grasping at nothing. “I’m afraid of the dark.” My voice was a pathetic, trembling whisper. But Colin had already pivoted toward the hallway, his heavy footsteps rushing toward the front door as he snatched his keys from the console. “Just find a candle! Or use your phone flashlight!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Mia’s situation is different! She’ll have a panic attack!” “I’ll be back soon!” The heavy oak front door slammed shut. The rapid echo of his footsteps down the corridor faded away, until there was nothing left but the oppressive silence of the apartment. I stood in the pitch-black bedroom, slowly lowering my empty hand to my side. The LED beam from a phone flashlight could never warm the glacial chill settling into my bones. I sat on the edge of the bed, shrouded in the dark, and didn’t move for the rest of the night. It wasn’t until dawn, when the first pale rays of sunlight pierced through the storm clouds and the power grid flickered back to life, that I finally stood up. At 10:00 AM, the lock clicked. Colin walked in, carrying an insulated, designer takeout bag, flashing a sheepish, apologetic grin. “Jo, I’m so sorry about last night.” He set the bag on the kitchen island and popped the lid off the container inside. “I drove all the way to the south side to get your favorite breakfast from that artisan deli. Stood in line for an hour. Eat it while it’s hot.” A rich, heavy aroma of seafood wafted through the kitchen. It was crab bisque. I stared at the steaming bowl. I didn’t move a muscle. Colin and I had been together for three years. He knew. He knew I was severely allergic to shellfish. One bite, and my throat would swell up, my skin breaking out in agonizing hives. But Mia? Mia constantly raved about the crab bisque from the south side deli. Colin held out a silver spoon. “Why aren’t you eating? I told you, I waited an hour for this.” I took the spoon from his hand. I picked up the heavy ceramic bowl. And, maintaining unbroken eye contact with him, I walked over to the kitchen sink. I tipped my wrist. The entire bowl of premium crab bisque slid down the drain in a wet, heavy sludge. Colin followed me into the kitchen, his face instantly darkening with rage. “Joanna, you are crossing a line!” “I stayed up all night, I drove across the city to buy you breakfast to make it up to you, and even if you aren’t hungry, do you really have to throw it away right to my face?!” I turned on the faucet, letting the hot water wash the remnants of the soup down the garbage disposal. “I am allergic to shellfish.” Over the sound of the running water, my own voice sounded like it was coming from a thousand miles away. Colin froze. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. I shut off the tap, dried my hands on a towel, and walked past him without a second glance. Back in the living room, I grabbed a broom and started sweeping up the dust and debris from last night’s storm that we hadn’t had a chance to clean. As I swept under the edge of the sofa, a crumpled piece of thermal paper slid out. It was the boutique receipt for the diamond pendant. I bent down and picked it up. “$7,000.00.” I looked down at my left hand. On my ring finger sat my engagement ring—a modest, discounted style Colin had asked a buddy to buy duty-free during a trip abroad. It cost exactly $1,000. I remembered what he had told me when he slipped it on my finger: “Jo, we need to save for a house and a family. A ring is just a symbol. We have to be practical.” I stared at the seven-thousand-dollar receipt in my hand. Then, I tossed it into the dustpan with the rest of the dirt. That afternoon, Colin went back to the office. I sat in the study, booting up his old MacBook. My own laptop was in the shop, and I needed to handle the logistics of canceling the wedding vendors. When the screen lit up, his iMessage app automatically launched. A notification bubbled up in the corner. It was his college fraternity group chat. I normally wouldn’t snoop, but the preview text flashing across the screen caught my eye, sharp as a physical blow. Kevin: “Bro, you actually going through with the wedding next month? Does this mean you’re finally settling down?” Another guy replied with a smirking emoji. “No more pining after little Mia? Word on the street is you rushed out in a thunderstorm like a knight in shining armor last night.” Colin’s typing bubble appeared, followed by his text: “I’m marrying Jo. She’s domestic. A guy needs a stable woman to manage the house.” Kevin: “So what’s the deal with Mia? That necklace you bought her wasn’t exactly cheap.” The chat went dead for a few seconds. Then, Colin sent a long block of text. “I’ve been with Jo for so long, kissing her feels like clocking in for a shift. It’s purely administrative. Completely flavorless.” “But Mia? When I see Mia wearing that necklace, smiling up at me? My heart actually races.” “Getting married won’t change anything. Jo is reasonable. She won’t make a fuss.” I stared at the black text on the bright white screen. My heart didn’t race. I didn’t even feel the sting of betrayal. Instead, a profound, heavy exhaustion seeped out from my very marrow. I closed the messaging app. I opened my email, found the digital RSVP links Becca had set up, and hit “Deactivate”. As dusk fell, Colin returned home. He walked in carrying a beautifully wrapped shoebox, his face beaming with eager anticipation. “Jo! Your custom wedding shoes finally arrived. Come try them on, let’s see if they fit.” He set the box down on the plush living room rug and lifted the lid. Inside sat a pair of breathtaking stilettos, encrusted with hundreds of tiny Swarovski crystals. “I had my guy in Milan rush-order these for you. I know you’re going to love them.” I sat on the sofa, watching him pull the shoes from the tissue paper. Mia and I wore the exact same shoe size. Size six. It was the only question he had managed to answer correctly at that dinner. I slipped off my slippers and slid my bare feet into the heels. The fit was flawless. I stood up and took two steps across the rug. “Well? Gorgeous, right?” Colin asked, looking deeply proud of himself. I looked down. My gaze landed on the arch of the sole. Embedded into the leather of the arch, spelled out in miniature rhinestones, were two letters. “C & M.” Colin & Mia. I stared at those two letters for a long time. Colin followed my line of sight. For a fraction of a second, raw panic flashed across his face. But he buried it instantly. “Oh, those letters? It’s just… a signature rhinestone pattern the brand uses. I didn’t even notice.” “If it bothers you, I can take it to a cobbler to have it scraped off.” He stepped forward, reaching down to help me take them off, when his phone buzzed on the coffee table. The lock screen lit up with a message from Mia. “Colin, I just walked past the florist. I saw the mock-up for your wedding arch.” “Sunflowers everywhere. They’re so bright, it hurts to look at.” “I can’t go to your wedding. It’s going to break my heart.” Colin read the text, freezing mid-motion. He slowly stood back up, picked up his phone, and without a second of hesitation, dialed the florist. “Hey, Becca. We need to revise the floral arrangement for the ceremony.” “Cancel the sunflower arch. It’s too flashy. I don’t like it.” “Right. Not a single sunflower.” He hung up, his tone leaving absolutely no room for debate. “Jo, I just think we should keep the aesthetic more understated. Sunflowers are just… tacky.” A second later, his phone vibrated again. It was a flight confirmation email from Delta. Our romantic honeymoon to the Caribbean—the one I had spent months planning—had been entirely canceled. In its place were two first-class tickets to Aspen. I despise the cold. I have never skied a day in my life. But on Mia’s Pinterest board, her number-one bucket list dream was to see the snow in the Rockies. I looked at Colin. He didn’t even bother swiping away the airline notification. Because he was the one who had booked it. His phone buzzed again, and a soft, private smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Mia, obviously. “I need to step out for a bit,” he announced, already heading toward the door. I slowly bent down and slipped the C & M stilettos off my feet, stepping barefoot onto the wool rug. “Suit yourself,” I said softly. Colin seemed relieved. He walked back over and tried to pull me into a hug. I shifted my weight, turning my shoulder just enough to dodge his embrace. He stood awkwardly for a second, then just patted my head. “Be a good girl. I’ll be back later to keep you company.” With that, Colin hurried out the door. I reached down and twisted the discount diamond ring off my left ring finger. Then, I picked up the ring and the custom stilettos. I walked over to the kitchen island and dropped them directly into the crystal vase, right into the murky water beneath the long-stemmed red roses. The water rippled as the diamond sank to the bottom. I walked into the bedroom and grabbed the handle of my packed suitcase. By the time I opened the front door, the sky outside was pitch black. I pulled out my phone and sent one last text to Becca. “All eighty invitations canceled.” “The wedding is off.”

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It was our wedding anniversary, and Jude finally had the time to take me to Kyoto to have the ceremony we had missed. But right before we boarded, he swiped his digital pass off his screen and spun around, already walking back toward the exit. “Miranda has a toothache,” he said, his voice tight with an urgency that belonged in an emergency room, not an airport terminal. “We’ll have to go next time.” My phone screen was still glowing with the PDF of our itinerary. I had spent six months planning every single detail of this trip. Phoebe’s texts were buzzing, lighting up my screen with rapid-fire excitement. “You’ve been dreaming about the Kyoto cherry blossoms since high school—literally over a decade. I guess Jude actually has a heart after all. Your dream is finally coming true!” “When you put on that wedding dress I designed for you, and the petals start falling, I am going to take the most gorgeous photos of you two!” But Jude had already stood me up for six years, always for the sake of the girl he insisted was just a sister. This year made seven. “She’s almost thirty,” I whispered, staring blankly at the boarding gate. “Can’t she go to the dentist by herself?” Jude frowned, looking at me as if I’d just said something incredibly cruel. “Willa, I’ve taken her to every doctor’s appointment since we were kids. If I’m not there, she panics.” I managed a small, hollow smile. “Then go.” I watched his back disappear into the airport crowd, then turned around and boarded the plane alone. The cherry blossoms in Kyoto would still fall, with or without him. … As the soft, pale petals drifted down into my open palm, Jude’s Instagram post popped up on my feed. “Shoutout to Miranda for being so brave today.” The photo showed Miranda in a dentist’s chair, her eyes watery, while Jude tightly held both of her hands. On his ring finger, the wedding band I designed glinted in the sterile fluorescent light. I stared at the photo for what felt like hours before finally hitting the ‘like’ button. Phoebe stood across from me, her eyes red and teary behind her camera lens as she snapped photos of me in my white gown. “A wedding for one? This is pathetic. What is so special about Miranda? She’s a grown woman who acts like a helpless toddler!” But Jude didn’t see her that way. The first year of our marriage, Miranda couldn’t figure out her GPS and got lost downtown. I suggested she call a cop, but Jude spent the entire night driving around looking for her, missing our flight. The second year, her water heater burst, flooding her apartment. I told him to call maintenance, but Jude claimed she was terrified of deep water, leaving his packed suitcases behind at the check-in counter. Year three, year four… all the way until now. Every single time, Jude broke his promises over Miranda’s trivial emergencies. Whenever I cried or begged him to stay, he would look at me with that patronizing, exhausted expression, like I was the unreasonable child. “Miranda’s always been fragile, Willa. She’s not strong and independent like you. That’s why I have to look out for her.” “Why can’t you just do things on your own? Why do you always have to be so needy?” Standing alone in a quiet, solemn chapel under the priest’s bewildered gaze, I recited my vows to empty air. I think, in that moment, I finally learned what Jude meant by “independent.” It wasn’t until the day before my flight back that Jude finally texted me. “You’re not home?” If he had bothered to look back for even a second at the airport, he would have known I boarded that flight to Kyoto. I forced a bitter smile, trying to swallow the dull ache in my chest. “Yeah, I’m out.” “Alright. Do you have the recipe for that creamy potato soup you used to make me? Miranda’s hungry.” My fingers hovered over the screen. I remembered the year Jude had an excruciating toothache. We were so broke we couldn’t even afford painkillers. I remembered walking down the street, touching my hair—which I’d spent four years growing out—and walking into a local salon to sell it. After his extraction, I fed him simple potato soup every single day. “I asked the doctor,” I had lied to him back then, “potato soup is the best for recovery.” I lied because potatoes were the cheapest thing at the grocery store; a five-pound bag could stretch for a week. He had touched my newly cropped, boyish hair, tears streaming down his face as he told me it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. Now, I slowly typed out my reply. “Boil the potatoes. Mash them with water.” “That’s it? No cream or broth?” “No. Just that.” “Okay, cool.” I stared out the window at the falling cherry blossoms. “Aren’t you going to ask where I went?” “Oh. Where are you?” “I’m in—” “Actually, gotta go. Need to start cooking for Miranda.” I froze, then slowly deleted the letters I’d typed. In our three years of dating and seven years of marriage, Jude had never cooked a single meal for me. Outside, the wind died down, and the petals stopped falling. But even in their stillness, they were beautiful. I tapped the contact number Phoebe had sent me earlier. “Hello, who is this?” “Hi, is this Mr. Cleveland? I’d like to consult about a divorce.” When I got back from the airport, my key code wouldn’t unlock the front door. The passcode had always been my birthday, but after three failed attempts, the keypad locked me out. I sat huddled in the hallway corner, waiting for hours until Jude finally showed up, with Miranda hovering right behind him. “Why didn’t you answer my texts?” Jude asked, his tone entirely casual. He stepped up to the keypad and punched in a new sequence—Miranda’s birthday. “I was taking Miranda shopping. I didn’t see my phone. What did you text?” I dragged my suitcase inside, bone-tired. Jude immediately knelt down, naturally helping Miranda slide off her designer boots. “You changed the passcode?” “Miranda couldn’t remember the old one, so I updated it. Forgot to tell you.” I nodded slowly, not saying another word. Walking further into the house, I realized everything had changed. The couch was different, the indoor plants were gone, and when the TV turned on, it defaulted to a reality show I never watched. In our master bedroom, the sheets on the bed were rumpled, clearly slept in, and the closet was packed to the brim with Miranda’s clothes. I tore through the hangers, a hot, roaring anger building in my chest. “Jude! Jude!” I yelled until my throat burned, but no one answered. Out in the living room, Miranda was sprawled across the sofa. She casually pressed a little silver call bell on the coffee table, and Jude instantly dashed out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong, Miranda? You okay?” Only when she lazily muttered that she was fine did the tension leave his shoulders. I clenched my fists, my voice trembling as I confronted him. “Jude, where is the red wool scarf my mother made for you?” He blinked, shrug-shouldered and entirely unbothered. “Oh, Miranda said it smelled musty. I threw it out.” Tears spilled over my eyelashes instantly. “That was the last thing my mother ever made!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “How could you throw it away?” Miranda jumped off the sofa and shoved me back. “It’s just an old piece of yarn! Why are you screaming at Jude like that?” But as she pushed me, she winced and clutched her jaw, whining in pain. Jude’s face twisted in panic, and he immediately hovered over her, checking her mouth. I stood there, watching them, feeling like the bitter, hysterical villain in some cheap melodrama. I wiped my face, spun on my heel, and ran out into the pouring rain. For two hours, I dug through the dumpster behind our building and the nearby trash bins. Nothing. The rain soaked me to the bone, my fingernails were torn and bleeding, and the water dripping down my cheeks tasted like salt and dirt. When my mother was in the final stages of pancreatic cancer, Jude had casually mentioned how cold the winters got here. Despite her failing strength, she bought the finest wool she could find and spent her remaining days knitting. On her deathbed, she used her last ounce of strength to wrap that red scarf around his neck. “There, Jude. Now you won’t be cold. I know you’re a good boy… please, take care of my Willa.” Jude had fallen to his knees by her bedside, sobbing, swearing he would love and protect me for the rest of his life. And now, the physical proof of that promise was rotting in a landfill. I collapsed onto the wet pavement beside the trash bins, letting out a raw, broken sob. Suddenly, a sharp, white-hot pain bloomed in my abdomen. I looked down, and a dark, terrifying stain was spreading down my jeans. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and dialed Jude’s number. Once. Twice. Seven times. He never picked up. Finally, a text lit up the screen: “Stop calling, you’re going to wake Miranda up. Where did you even go? Get back here, it’s pouring.” My hands shook so hard I couldn’t even reply. The world spun, turned completely black, and I collapsed. I lost the baby. Eight weeks along. A silent arrival, a silent departure. The ER doctor told me softly that if I had been brought in just an hour earlier, they might have saved the pregnancy. I stared at the sterile white hospital ceiling, tears pooling in my ears. The old, jagged scar in my chest tore open all over again. A week before our wedding, seven years ago, I was seven months pregnant. Miranda had insisted on making me prenatal herbal soup but forgot to turn off the gas stove. That night, the apartment filled with carbon monoxide. I lost our baby girl in the ICU, and our wedding was canceled. Jude had knelt by my hospital bed, slapping his own face until his cheeks were bruised and swollen. “Willa, I’m so sorry. Miranda is just stupid—she was trying to do something nice and made a horrible mistake. I’m so sorry.” With bloodshot eyes, he held my limp hand and swore, “We’ll have another baby. I promise, I will protect you and our family next time.” I believed him. But this second baby—the one I had prayed for every single night—was gone, too. My phone buzzed. A PDF from Mr. Cleveland: a draft of the divorce petition. “If there is infidelity, we should gather as much evidence as possible. It will help our case immensely.” I stared at the word “infidelity” until it blurred. Finally, I typed: “Okay.” I ripped the IV needle out of my arm and stumbled out of the ward, clutching my hospital gown. But as I rounded the corner near the clinic’s exit, I froze. There was Jude, his arm wrapped protectively around Miranda’s shoulders as they waited in line at the hospital’s dental wing. My lower abdomen throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. I pulled out my phone and took a photo just as Miranda leaned up to press her lips against Jude’s cheek. Suddenly, Jude’s eyes drifted, catching mine. He froze, panic instantly flickering across his features. “Willa? What are you doing here?” He scrambled to distance himself from Miranda. “Willa, look, she was just saying thank you. It’s like a French cheek-kiss thing, you know? She lived abroad for a bit. She’s always been affectionate like that.” Such a pathetic, clumsy excuse. I looked at him, and for the first time, I didn’t feel angry. I just felt a deep, pitying amusement. “Right. Okay.” My absolute calm caught him off guard. In the past, if Miranda so much as brushed against him, I would have thrown a massive, jealous fit, screaming to assert my boundaries. His friends used to call me a “psycho” and a “controlling bitch” behind my back. But today, I just wanted to leave with some dignity. Jude’s face darkened, walking a thin line between irritation and confusion. “Willa, don’t start with the silent treatment. Because of your little tantrum earlier, Miranda tried to defend me and ended up tearing her dental stitches. Since you’re here, you need to apologize to her.” He grabbed my wrist, dragging me toward her. His grip was brutal, sending a jolt of pain through my arm that brought hot tears to my eyes. “Jude, let go of me! I’m not apologizing to her!” He stared at the tears slipping down my face, momentarily faltering, but his voice hardened again. “You got her so worked up she’s in pain, and you’re too proud to say sorry? Are you really that fragile?” Before I could pull away, a nurse came rushing down the hallway, shouting, “Willa! What are you doing? You just had a miscarriage, you can’t just rip out your IV and walk around!” Jude froze. Every ounce of color drained from his face. “You… miscarried?” His eyes slowly dropped to my abdomen. “When were you pregnant? Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice cracked, rising in a desperate, frantic octave as his eyes brimmed with tears. I just looked at him, completely hollow, completely cold. The nurse stepped firmly between us, glaring at him. “Sir, she is extremely weak right now. Do not raise your voice at her!” She gently guided me back toward the recovery ward. Behind me, I heard Jude’s frantic footsteps trying to follow. “Willa, wait! You can’t be alone right now!” Just then, the clinic’s intercom chimed, calling out Miranda’s name for her follow-up. I didn’t look back. And he didn’t follow. “Was that your husband?” the nurse asked gently as she hooked up a fresh IV bag. I let out a soft, dry laugh. “Not for much longer.” After the IV finished, I took an Uber home. My phone kept buzzing with texts from Jude. “Miranda can’t even speak right now. I couldn’t just leave her there.” “Willa, please just listen to the doctor. Wait for me.” I didn’t reply to a single one. I pulled my old suitcase out from the closet and started packing. There wasn’t much to pack. Most of my things had already been boxed up and shoved into the guest room anyway. The apartment we had shared for seven years had been completely overwritten by another woman’s presence in a matter of days. Once the suitcase was zipped, the physical exhaustion of the miscarriage hit me like a wave, and I collapsed onto the guest bed, drifting into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Sometime in the dead of night, I felt cold, trembling hands wrap around my waist. I opened my eyes to see Jude sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes bloodshot, looking utterly drained. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving the hospital,” he whispered. “I looked everywhere for you after I got Miranda settled. Willa… what happened? How did we lose the baby?” But all I could smell on him was Miranda’s sweet, cloying perfume. It made my stomach churn with violent nausea. I closed my eyes, coldly brushing his hands off my hips, and turned my back to him. Silence stretched between us before Jude let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “Willa, seriously? I am exhausted, I ran all the way back here to check on you, and you’re still giving me the cold shoulder? You know how desperately I wanted a family!” I bolted upright in bed, tears hot and angry on my cheeks. “You wanted a family?” I choked out, my voice raw. “If you hadn’t forced me to accept Miranda’s ‘kindness’ seven years ago, our daughter would be starting school right now! You literally risked my life and our baby’s life just to spare her feelings!” Jude’s face flushed a deep, angry red, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “That was years ago!” he yelled back. “Are you really bringing that up now just to hurt me? Neither Miranda nor I did that on purpose! Besides, that pregnancy was terrible timing anyway. You were barely out of college, begging me to marry you with a pregnant belly. Do you have any idea what people were saying behind your back? They said you trapped me!” His words hit me like a physical blow. I froze, the air leaving my lungs. I remembered the day we found out. I remembered how Jude’s eyes had lit up, how he had gently wiped away my tears and promised to give me the most beautiful life. I had nodded, trusting him completely. “You’re right,” I whispered, the fight completely draining out of me. “I was pathetic.” Jude turned his head away, unable to look at me, and stormed out, slamming the bedroom door so hard the walls rattled. I sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, staring at the floorboards until the sun came up. The next morning, I made breakfast. When Jude walked into the kitchen, rubbing his temples, he bypassed the eggs I’d cooked and grabbed a carton of oat milk from the fridge—the one Miranda had bought, still adorned with a little pink sticky note with a hand-drawn heart. He sat across from me, looking uncomfortable. “Look, about yesterday… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things. I didn’t mean them.” He took a sip of the milk. “Losing the baby… that’s on me, too. Willa, we can try again. We can have another one.” I took a bite of my toast and offered him a soft smile, cutting him off. “Jude, just eat with me.” This would be our last meal. He nodded, then glanced at the suitcase by the entryway. “Are you going somewhere? Your body is still recovering…” Suddenly, his phone screen lit up. The caller ID read: “Silly Miranda”. I looked down, slowly stirring my oatmeal. Jude grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, already moving toward the door. “I need to check on Miranda.” He couldn’t even finish a single meal with me. “Can’t it wait?” I asked quietly. He frowned, defensive. “Of course not. She’s in pain. She needs me right now.” I kept quiet. The apartment fell silent again, leaving me entirely alone. I finished my oatmeal, one slow bite at a time. Downstairs, Phoebe’s car was waiting for me. I walked into the living room, placed the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, and slipped off my wedding ring, placing it on top of a hand-written note: “Jude, let’s get a divorce.”

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I peeled her shrimp for three years. Then, in front of a whole table of people, she said, “He’s not my boyfriend. He just does it because he wants to.” I didn’t say a word. I just slid the plate of shrimp back to the center of the table and wiped my hands. My phone lit up. It was a text from my mother: “The new place is finally finished. When are you bringing her over to see it?” I turned the phone face down. After that night, she never again saw the car that used to wait for her after work every single day. 1 The steam from the seafood boil blurred the faces across from me. It was the third time Sophie had nudged the conversation back to me. “William, you drive Chelsea home from work every single day. What’s the real story with you two?” I was midway through peeling a shrimp, the shell cracking against my thumb. Two seats down, Chelsea was staring at her phone, her thumb scrolling through texts, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “He’s not my boyfriend.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice wasn’t loud, but all six people at the table heard it clearly. Sophie’s mouth opened slightly, then snapped shut as she glanced my way. Across the table, the clinking of glasses paused. Suddenly, the heavy bubbling of the shared pot in the center of the table seemed incredibly loud—”simmer, simmer”. I kept my head down, pulling the tender meat clean from the tail and placing it gently on the edge of her plate. That was the third one. Right then, her phone rang. She answered it and immediately headed for the door, her voice trailing off as she stepped outside: “Chase? Yeah, is your stomach acting up again? The medicine is…” The door swung shut. Sophie leaned in, lowering her voice. “William, what are you even doing?” I didn’t answer. I picked up my chopsticks, took the shrimp back off the edge of her plate, and dropped it into the serving dish in the center. The discarded shells on my plate still carried the warmth of my hands. I took a long drag of my beer. It was freezing cold, burning all the way down to my chest. My phone vibrated. It was a text from my mom, attached with a photo. A bright living room, a lush pothos plant sitting by a floor-to-ceiling window, sunlight spilling across the light oak floors. Underneath, she’d typed: “Sweetie, the renovations are done. Do you like the curtain color? Didn’t you say she loves pale purple? When are you going to bring her by to see it?” The curtains were a soft lavender. Last month, I had taken three days off work and made six separate trips to the design district just to find that exact shade. I flipped the phone face down on the wooden table. When Chelsea pushed the door open and sat back down, she was still smiling. “Chase has a stomach ache. I need to drop some meds off for him in a bit,” she said to Sophie, before turning her gaze to me. “William, can you drive me to the pharmacy in a minute?” In the past, my answer would have been an instant “sure”. In the past, I would have pre-cooled the car to sixty-eight degrees, made sure there was a cold bottle of her favorite sugar-free sparkling water in the cup holder, and pulled up right to the curb. But tonight, I just looked at her. Her eyes were bright, her lips curved into a smile, but it was the exact same smile I’d seen three minutes ago—the one meant for the name “Chase” lighting up her screen. “I’ve been drinking. Can’t drive.” I set my fork down against my plate. “You should call an Uber.” She paused. It was barely a flicker of hesitation. Then she shrugged and nodded. “Alright.” She bent her head back over her phone. When dinner wrapped up, I trailed behind the group. The phone in my pocket buzzed again. My mom: “Don’t forget the built-in shelves in the spare bedroom. You said she loves mystery novels, so I had the carpenter add two extra rows.” The September wind slipped down my collar, sending a chill down my spine. I stood beneath the streetlamp outside the restaurant, the drift of exhaust from a nearby street food cart stinging my eyes until they watered. I dialed her number. “Hey, Mom.” “Oh, sweetie! Did you see the photos?” “Yeah, I saw them.” “Is it nice? What do you think of—” “Let’s just leave the apartment empty for now.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. My mother didn’t push. She simply let out a quiet sigh and said, “Okay. Whatever you think is best.” I hung up and walked to the curb, watching the yellow cabs and ride-shares roll past one after another. No more sparkling water waiting in the passenger seat. I hailed a cab. I climbed in and gave the driver my own address. Not hers. For the first time. In three years, the very first time. 2 The next morning, my alarm woke me at six-thirty, right on schedule. My head felt heavy. I reached out to grab my phone off the nightstand—my routine had always been to text her first thing: “You awake?” My thumb hovered over the screen. Our chat history was frozen three days back: “I’ll pick you up after work tomorrow.” “K~” I set the phone back down. While brushing my teeth, white foam dripped down my chin. The face looking back at me from the mirror felt slightly unfamiliar, shadowed by dark circles under my eyes. I hadn’t slept well. Not out of heartbreak, exactly. But because of the sudden, staggering realization that every single habit I’d built over the last three years had revolved entirely around her. Waking up at six-thirty was solely to ensure I’d be parked downstairs by seven-twenty. The Greek yogurt that always stocked my fridge was there only because she liked to grab one on the rare occasions she stopped by. The soft throw blanket in my backseat was for when she complained about the autumn drafts. I opened the fridge. Three cups of Greek yogurt. Expiring tomorrow. I pulled one out and peeled back the foil. I took a bite. Too tart. I actually hated Greek yogurt. On my commute, my hands didn’t automatically turn the steering wheel at the usual intersection. I drove straight, crossed two traffic lights, and pulled directly into my office parking garage. It saved me forty minutes. The detour I used to take every day—the extra nine miles just to pass her apartment building, waiting for her to step out of the lobby, open the passenger door, slide in, and say, “Let’s go.” Three years. Every single workday. At least seven hundred times. I did the math. Seven hundred trips, nine extra miles each time. That was over six thousand miles. Enough to drive coast to coast across the country and back. At my desk, I booted up my computer. A calendar notification popped up in the bottom right corner: “Chelsea’s Company Anniversary—order flowers ahead.” I right-clicked. “Delete.” Claire walked past carrying two travel mugs and paused. “William, you’re early today.” “Yeah.” She set one of the mugs on my desk. “Black coffee. No sugar. I remember you saying you like it bitter.” “Thanks.” She took a couple of steps, then turned back. “Oh, by the way, the director looked over your quarterly proposal. Said it looked great. You’re presenting at the meeting next week.” I took a sip of the coffee. The bitterness coated my tongue, sharp and grounding. All day, my phone sat as quiet as a brick. At three-thirty in the afternoon, a text finally popped up. Chelsea: “Are you not coming today? Stuck in traffic?” I stared at it. I typed three words: “Busy with work.” After hitting send, I scrolled up. The entire thread was just me. “I’m here.” “I’m downstairs.” “Waiting outside.” “It’s raining, I brought an umbrella.” “Picked up your package for you.” Her replies were always monosyllabic. “K.” “Cool.” “Sure.” “K.” Three years of this. I scrolled up through five screens of chat history. There wasn’t a single “Thank you.” Not a single “I appreciate it.” I locked the phone, the screen turning black and reflecting my face back at me. Neutral. No anger. No lingering resentment. Just empty. At seven that evening, the phone buzzed again. Chelsea: “What about tomorrow?” I didn’t reply. I tossed the phone onto the sofa, turned on the TV, and picked a random channel. A commercial for laundry detergent came on, a woman smiling warmly at the camera. I turned the volume up two notches. Just enough to drown out any further vibrations. The next day, I didn’t go. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. A week went by. The Greek yogurts in the fridge expired. All three went down the kitchen sink. I folded the blanket from the backseat and shoved it into the bottom of a storage bin in the trunk. I reset my alarm to seven-fifteen. An extra forty-five minutes of sleep every single day. It felt surprisingly good. 3 On the eighth day, she called. It was ten-thirty at night. I had just stepped out of the shower, water dripping from my hair. Her name flashed on the screen three times before I slid to answer. “Hey.” “William, what have you been up to? You aren’t picking up my calls or answering my texts.” Her tone wasn’t frantic or worried. It sounded more like someone asking a plumber why he was late for a scheduled appointment. I rubbed the towel against the back of my neck, cold droplets sliding down under my collar. “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “A project at work.” The line went quiet for a beat. “Oh… well, can you pick me up tomorrow? Chase is taking me to a play this weekend, and I wanted to leave a change of shoes in your car.” My grip tightened on the towel until my knuckles went white. Her logic was always so flawless—I was the utility; Chase was the destination. In her mind, there was absolutely no contradiction there. “I have a meeting tomorrow,” I said. “You’ll have to take a cab.” “Oh.” She didn’t push. “Okay then. Good luck with work.” She hung up. Swift and clean. Like every phone call we’d had over the last three years—she never lingered a second longer than necessary. I sat on the sofa, the dampness from my hair slowly soaking through the back of my t-shirt. The phone rang again. For a split second, I thought she was calling back. But the caller ID wasn’t hers. It was my mom. “Sweetie, you’re still up?” “Yeah, just finished showering.” “So… Mom wanted to tell you something. Please don’t be upset.” “What is it?” “That apartment… those mystery novels on the shelves in the spare bedroom. I boxed them up and took them out today.” “Okay.” “I put them in your old room back home. Don’t think of me as an intrusive mother… I just felt like having all those brand-new books sitting there collecting dust was such a waste.” Her voice was tentative, cautious. She was walking on eggshells around me. “That’s fine, Mom.” “Really? You’re not upset?” “Not at all.” I looked down, watching the water droplets on the hardwood floor slowly spread. “Actually, if you know anyone who likes those kinds of books, just give them away.” My mom let out a soft breath, her relief palpable. “Okay, sweetie. I’ll do that.” The weekend came. A new post popped up on my feed. It was Chelsea—a neatly arranged photo grid: theater tickets, artful latte foam, and a man’s hand resting casually on a steering wheel, a sleek watch peeking from his cuff. The caption was just one word: “Weekend.” That wasn’t my hand. I have a faded scar on the side of my right middle finger—a souvenir from a rough basketball game back in high school that never quite went away. The hand in the photo was smooth, clean, with perfectly manicured nails. In the comments, someone screamed: “Omg who is he?!” Chelsea replied with a single blushing emoji. I scrolled right past it. Like scrolling past an ad. On Monday, Claire tapped the partition of my cubicle. “William, team dinner after work. You in?” “Sure.” She raised an eyebrow. “Wow, that was fast. Usually, you tell me you have plans.” Usually, I had to leave by five o’clock to fight traffic and be downstairs by six to pick up Chelsea. “I used to have things to take care of,” I said. “Not anymore.” Claire didn’t pry. She just smiled and walked back to her desk. We grabbed some drinks at dinner that night. Claire sat next to me, her voice soft under the ambient noise of the restaurant. “You look much better lately.” “Do I?” “Yeah. You used to always look like you were racing against a clock. You seem… lighter now.” I clinked my glass against hers. “Cheers to that.” On my way home, my phone buzzed in the console. Chelsea: “William, my laptop screen just went completely blue. Can you come over and take a look?” It was 11:40 PM. In the past, I would have replied “Give me twenty minutes”, thrown on a jacket, driven the nine miles, and worked on it until the early hours of the morning. Tonight, I typed four words: “Try restarting it.” I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. I didn’t wait for a reply. I got home, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed. My alarm was still set for seven-fifteen. The last image in my mind before I closed my eyes wasn’t her face. It was the photo my mother had sent.

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I clutched the envelope containing my positive pregnancy test, practically floating as I walked into my mother’s house. I wanted to surprise her. We were sitting down for dinner when she looked up, her expression suddenly turning nostalgic. “Do you remember when you were little and you’d come to my office?” she asked, setting her fork down. “One of my coworkers, Mrs. Gallagher—her son used to run over just to play with you. Jack.” I smiled, a warm flush rising to my cheeks. “Of course I do.” Mom smiled too, but there was a quiet, heavy look in her eyes. “And do you remember Darcy? Mrs. Michell’s girl from next door. She was such a tomboy, always wiping mud on your face just to get a reaction out of you, and Jack would always chase her down to get back at her for you.” My ears burned at the mention of his name. My fingers slipped into my bag, ready to pull out the lab results and slide them across the table. Then, Mom spoke, her voice dropping to a soft, cautious whisper. “Jack is marrying her this Wednesday.” My hand froze inside my bag. Before the words could fully process in my brain, the front door clicked open behind me. Mrs. Michell walked right in, Darcy and Jack trailing closely behind her. It was Mrs. Michell’s first time marrying off a daughter, and she had come to consult my mother about the final wedding details. Beneath the table, I slipped my phone out. My last text exchange with Jack was from yesterday. His message read: “Wait for me. I’m going to marry you, I promise.” When I looked up, Jack and Darcy were standing side by side, her hand tucked comfortably into the crook of his elbow. The sight of them blurred into a smear of agonizing color. “Jack, you lied to me.” … “What’s wrong, Iris? Are you not feeling well?” Mrs. Michell glanced at me, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Is it because our Darcy is getting married and you’re sad to see her go? It makes sense. You two have always been best friends.” The corners of my mouth twitched into a hollow mimicry of a smile. I kept my head down, watching a single, heavy tear escape my eye and splatter onto the pregnancy report tucked under my thigh. “Yeah,” I whispered. I forced myself to look up, holding Jack’s gaze. “I’m really going to miss her.” I saw his hand clench into a tight fist at his side. He looked at me, his eyes swimming with a dark, indecipherable complexity. Darcy tightened her grip on his arm, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Iris. The three of us grew up together. Even after Jack and I are married, we’re never going to leave you behind.” My fingers crumpled the paper in my lap, a sharp, physical ache slicing through my chest. I couldn’t sit there for another second. I stood up abruptly and bolted upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. The tears came in violent, suffocating waves, but I stuffed a fist into my mouth to choke back the sobs. How could I even begin to explain this? How could I tell my mother that Jack had been my secret lover for five years? That I was carrying his baby? That he had promised, just yesterday, to spend the rest of his life with me? I slid down the back of the door, pulling my knees to my chest, weeping in the dark. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A message from Jack. “I can explain everything. Please don’t make a scene here. It’s not good for Darcy.” The phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. The tears on my lips tasted bitter and cold. I stood up, walked over to the trash can, and threw the pregnancy report inside. The baby was only eight weeks old. I had spent the morning dreaming of the moment I would tell Jack he was going to be a father. Now, there was no point. I opened my desk drawer. Resting inside was a relocation contract for a multinational firm’s overseas office. The signature line at the bottom was still blank, waiting for my name. I had received it a week ago, but I had put it aside because Jack had promised he was ready to marry me. Now, all I wanted was to run. To be as far away from them as humanly possible. Without another second of hesitation, I unscrewed my pen and signed my name. Just as I set the pen down, the door clicked open behind me. “Iris.” It was Darcy. She walked over and took my hands in hers. “I know you and Jack have been together.” My head snapped up. I stared at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You… you knew?” Growing up, Darcy had always been the mischievous one. She loved to tease me, often driving me to tears, but she was also fiercely protective. She was my only real friend. In middle school, when a boy stuck chewing gum in my hair, Darcy had lunged at him, punching him until his nose bled. Her mother had beaten her ragged for it when they got home, but Darcy had just leaned against the wall, flashing me a crooked, gap-toothed grin. The next day, Jack had waited until that same boy fell asleep in class and smeared a handful of gum all over his head. On our walks home from school, Darcy and Jack would bicker and tease each other, refusing to back down until they dragged me into it, demanding I choose which of them I loved more. Those golden sunsets had witnessed the slow, beautiful unfolding of our lives. But I never could have imagined a day where they would stand before me as husband and wife—let alone a day where Darcy would look me in the eye and tell me she had known about my secret relationship all along. My fingers went icy. I shook so hard I could barely form words. “Then… then why? How could you…” Darcy’s lips curved into a sweet, flawless smile. “Iris, think about it. Since we were kids, I’ve always let you have everything. I’ve always protected you.” She squeezed my hands. “Just this once, let me have Jack. Okay?” “What—” Before I could even process her words, she threw herself backward, her shoulder slamming into my trash can and knocking it over. I instinctively lunged forward to catch her, but the door burst open. Jack rushed in and shoved me hard. I flew backward, my head cracking against the sharp corner of the bookshelf. A blinding white pain flared behind my eyes, and I gasped, clutching the back of my skull. Jack was already on his knees, holding Darcy, his face pale with panic. “Darcy, are you okay?” Then he looked up at me, his eyes stripped of all tenderness, leaving only cold, furious accusation. “Why the hell did you push her?!” I pulled my hand back from my head. My fingers were slick with bright, warm blood. Jack froze. A flicker of deep guilt washed over his features. “I… Iris, I’m sorry. I just panicked. Are you okay?” Darcy let Jack help her to her feet, shaking her head weakly. “It’s fine, Jack. I just lost my footing. It wasn’t Iris’s fault.” Downstairs, Mrs. Michell called up, asking them to come down and decide on the catering menu. I didn’t say a word. I pulled myself up using the edge of the desk, keeping my back to them. Darcy led Jack out of the room. Just before he crossed the threshold, he paused, throwing a complicated, lingering look back at me. That night, a text message lighted up my screen. “Iris, I’m so sorry about earlier. Does your head hurt?” I didn’t reply. The next morning, I went to the clinic. I never expected to run into him there. He intercepted me in the lobby, his face etched with genuine concern. “What are you doing at the hospital? Are you sick?” I ignored him, trying to step around him toward the elevators. Jack blocked my path, his expression desperate. “Iris, please. Just let me explain. I—” “Jack?” Darcy’s voice cut through the sterile air of the lobby. “What are you two doing?” She marched over, her eyes already brimming with tears. “Iris, I know you’ve always loved Jack. But our wedding is in three days. Do you really have to do this now? Do you really have to chase him here?” She looked at me, her voice trembling with theatrical betrayal. “We are supposed to be best friends. How can you be so cruel to me?” The people waiting in the lobby began to turn, whispers rising like a slow tide. “What’s going on? Is she trying to steal her best friend’s fiancé?” “Right before the wedding? How shameless.” “People have no morals these days.” The murmurs were low, but each one felt like a physical blow against my chest. “That’s not what this is!” I gasped, my eyes darting to Jack, pleading with him to say something. Anything. Just one word of truth. But Jack took a step back, positioning himself firmly at Darcy’s side, directly opposite me. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Five years ago, on the night he confessed his love to me under the city lights, he had sworn he would never let me suffer. He had promised to protect me from the world. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing the tears back. I turned to leave, but Darcy lunged forward and snatched the medical folder from my hands. “You’re pregnant!” she shrieked, her voice echoing off the high ceilings of the lobby, ensuring everyone heard. “Whose baby is it? Is it… is it Jack’s?” Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. Jack’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide with utter shock. But a second later, Darcy let out a choked sob, collapsing against his chest. He instinctively wrapped his arms around her, shielding her like a precious treasure. “That’s impossible,” Jack said, his voice flat, looking at me with cold detestation. “I’ve never even touched her. I have no idea whose baby that is.” I stood frozen, a chill spreading through my veins until I couldn’t feel my fingers. My mind flashed back to two months ago. The way he had held me in the dark, tracing my jawline with his thumb. “Iris, I want to build a home with you. I want a family.” Now, he was holding another woman, telling the world he had never touched me. A sudden, volatile wave of fury erupted from the hollow ache in my chest. Why should I protect him? Why should my five years of devotion be dragged through the mud while they played the victims? I let out a cold, sharp laugh, looking them both dead in the eye. “Yes,” I said, my voice carrying clearly through the silent lobby. “The baby is Jack’s.” “We’ve been together for five years. Three days ago, he promised he was going to marry me. Darcy, if anyone is the homewrecker here, it’s you.” The whispers in the lobby died instantly. Darcy stared at me, her mouth hanging open, utterly blindsided by my willingness to tear down the facade in public. Jack looked paralyzed. He had kept our relationship hidden for years, always pleading that the timing wasn’t right, that we had to wait. And because I loved him, because he was so sweet to me and always made me feel like his priority in private, I had agreed. I had waited five years. I had thought this pregnancy would finally bring us into the light. Instead, it brought me his wedding announcement to someone else. It was a sickening joke. I looked at Darcy one last time. “But don’t worry. You can keep him. I don’t want Jack, and I don’t want this baby.” Without waiting for a response, I pushed through the crowd and walked out. I thought I heard Jack call my name from somewhere behind me, but I didn’t care anymore. The operating room was freezing. The anesthetic needle stung like ice, and the overhead surgical lamps were so bright they made my head spin. I closed my eyes, letting a final tear slip into my hair, whispering a quiet, private goodbye to the tiny life that would never be. An hour and a half later, I walked out of the clinic, keeping one hand pressed against the wall to steady myself. The dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen was excruciating, but I forced myself to keep moving. My phone buzzed. A text from Jack. “Iris, don’t you dare get rid of the baby. Just wait until after the wedding. I will explain everything to you!” I didn’t reply. I turned the phone off. By the time I reached our neighborhood, dusk had fallen, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple. As I approached our building, the neighbors—people who had known me since I was a child—stared at me with cold, disgusted eyes. Mrs. Michell was standing by the mailboxes. As I walked past, she spat on the ground. “Shameless,” she muttered. I stopped, my hand clamping tightly around her wrist. “What is your problem, Mrs. Michell?” She shoved my hand off with sneering disdain. “Why don’t you go inside and look at your mother? You’re practically killing her.” My heart dropped. I didn’t waste another second arguing. I bolted up the stairs and threw open our front door. My mother was lying on her bed, her face paper-white, gasping for air. I fell to my knees beside her, grabbing her hand. “Mom! What’s wrong? Is it your heart? Did you take your medicine?” I reached frantically toward her nightstand to find her inhaler and pills, but she clutched my sleeve, her grip weak but desperate. Her eyes were red, filled with a devastating mix of pain and love. “They’re saying… they’re saying you’re pregnant with Jack’s baby. Iris, is it true?” I froze, the silence stretching between us like a physical weight. I lowered my head, and the tears fell silently onto her bedsheets. Suddenly, Mom let out a violent, hacking cough. A thick splatter of dark red blood spilled from her lips. “Mom!” I panicked, trying to catch the blood with my bare hands, watching in horror as it stained the floorboards. She squeezed my hand with a sudden, terrifying burst of strength. “Iris… tell me. Did Jack… did he lie to you?” I nodded, choking on my own tears. Mom’s expression hardened, a fierce, protective fire flaring in her pale eyes. “I’m going to kill that bastard.” Summoning some impossible reservoir of maternal rage, she pushed me aside and stumbled out of the room. I tried to follow, but my foot slipped on the slick floor. By the time I scrambled up and ran outside, Mom was already crossing the street. Across the road, Jack and Darcy were walking hand-in-hand, laughing as they shared an iced coffee. Mom was yelling, blind to everything but them. She didn’t see the heavy delivery truck barreling down the avenue. “Mom!!!” In that split second, the world lost all sound. The only thing I could see was my mother’s body hitting the pavement, the violent spray of red against the asphalt. I fell to my knees beside her, cradling her head in my lap, my chest tearing open with a pain so vast and sharp I couldn’t breathe. “Mom… please… wake up… please…” The tears blinded me, but through the haze, I saw Darcy grab Jack’s arm on the other side of the street. He made a move to run toward us, but Darcy shook her head, holding him back. And he stayed. He just stood there on the pavement, his hands clenched into tight fists, staring at us as my mother died in my arms. At the funeral, Jack and Darcy showed up. The moment I saw them, a wild, primal rage took over. I lunged forward, shoving them toward the exit. “Get out! Get the hell out of here!” Darcy looked at me with wide, sorrowful eyes. “Iris, please. We just wanted to pay our respects.” “Shut up!” I grabbed the collar of her coat and delivered a stinging slap across her face. “Don’t play innocent with me, Darcy! I know who spread those rumors! Why did you do it? My mother loved you! She treated you like her own daughter for years!” I raised my hand to strike her again, but Jack lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. With a harsh shove, he threw me backward. I collided with the memorial table, and my mother’s framed portrait slid off, crashing onto the floor. The glass shattered into a million pieces. “Enough!” Jack yelled, stepping in front of Darcy to shield her. “Darcy has been worried sick about you, and you’re acting like a lunatic!” “Do you even know what you’ve—” “Jack!” Darcy interrupted quickly, pulling at his arm. “Don’t. Her mom just passed away. She’s grieving. I understand why she’s angry.” She looked past Jack’s shoulder, meeting my gaze with a chillingly sweet expression. “We’ll leave. We can come back another day.” Darcy wrapped her arm tightly around Jack’s. “Iris, you’re my best friend. Our wedding is tomorrow. Please… you have to be there.” They walked out. I collapsed onto the floor, clutching my mother’s ruined portrait to my chest, screaming until my throat was raw. In less than forty-eight hours, I had lost my baby, my mother, and the man I thought I would spend forever with. I stared at the empty doorway where they had just walked out, a cold, dark resolve settling over my grief. “You want me at your wedding?” “Fine. I’ll be there. And I’m bringing a gift.” The next day, I wore a sleek, elegant dress and high heels. I pushed open the heavy double doors of the chapel. Jack and Darcy were standing at the altar, preparing to exchange rings. As soon as I entered, the entire room fell dead silent. Mrs. Michell immediately marched down the aisle to intercept me. “What are you doing here? Today is my daughter’s wedding! Don’t you dare ruin this. Get out!” She reached out to grab my shoulder, but I stepped aside, letting her stumble past. Jack’s mother, Mrs. Gallagher, stood up next. She didn’t look as angry as Mrs. Michell, but she walked over and took my hand with a look of patronizing pity. “Iris, sweetheart. I know you and Jack grew up together, and it’s natural to have feelings. But he’s marrying Darcy today. If you have any respect for our families, please don’t do this.” Every eye in the room was pinned on me, heavy with judgment. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, pulling my hand away and flashing the gold-embossed invitation. “They invited me. Is there something wrong with a best friend showing up?” Darcy, holding up the hem of her white gown, hurried down the altar steps toward us. “It’s fine, Mrs. Gallagher. I invited Iris. We’re best friends, after all.” Mrs. Michell glared at me, her voice dripping with venom. “Her house is still practically warm with death. It’s bad luck to have her here.” I looked at her, my face completely expressionless. “Mrs. Michell, when you needed a down payment for your house last year, my mother handed you fifteen thousand dollars from her savings without a second thought. And now you’re talking about bad luck?” I held out my hand. “Pay it back, then. Fifteen thousand, six hundred. Since we were neighbors, I won’t even charge you interest.” Mrs. Michell’s face turned an ugly shade of purple. Jack stepped down from the altar, his brow furrowed in irritation. “Iris, do you really have to make a scene like this?” Mrs. Michell sneered, her voice rising so the entire room could hear. “Everyone knows why she’s here! My poor daughter was blind to think this girl was her friend. She’s been trying to seduce Jack for years, and now she’s trying to ruin her wedding!” Gasps rippled through the pews. “I heard she tried to claim she was pregnant with his baby.” “To do that to her own best friend? How awful.” “Her mother literally died of shame because of her. Unbelievable.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms, the physical pain grounding me. I looked at Jack, then at Darcy. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice smooth and steady. “I’m only here to give you your wedding gift.” Darcy’s shoulders relaxed slightly, a look of smug relief washing over her face. Only Jack remained guarded, his eyes scanning me suspiciously. I walked right past them, stepping up to the altar, and took the microphone from the stunned officiant’s hand. Turning to face the crowd, I spoke clearly into the mic, my voice echoing off the stained glass windows. “Everyone, I am here today to offer my deepest blessings to the bride and groom. To celebrate their love, please turn your attention to the projector screen.”

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When the wedding limousine pulled up to the venue, Jack didn’t get out right away. He rolled down the window halfway, looking at me through the falling white rose petals. His gaze was entirely too calm. “Mallory is back.” The bridesmaids’ laughter died instantly. I stood frozen on the steps, clutching the bouquet he had personally arranged for me. He flicked the ash from his cigarette. “She called me in the middle of the night. Said she couldn’t survive over there anymore.” “When I arrived at her place, she was on the floor. Half a bottle of sleeping pills next to her, three deep cuts on her wrists, blood everywhere.” A sudden, violent chill swept through me, starting from my toes and seizing my chest. Mallory was his first love. Five years ago, she had supposedly gone abroad for terminal cancer treatment, vanishing without a trace. Only thirty minutes ago, he had sent me a voice note: “Fiona, my hands are shaking. I’m so nervous. I can’t believe I finally get to marry you today.” Jack flicked his cigarette again, ignoring the gray ash smudging his custom tuxedo. “She was clutching the matching rings we bought back in college.” “Fiona, if I go through with this wedding today, she won’t survive.” He pulled out the diamond ring—the one I had waited seven years for—extended his hand out of the window, and simply let go. The ring dropped into a muddy puddle at the bottom of the steps, splashing dirty water over the pavement. “Consider it my debt to you.” “Fiona, I’m sorry. We have to call off the wedding.” “She needs me.” … After the limousine drove away, I knelt down, my heavy silk train soaking up the muddy water, clinging to my knees. I reached blindly into the puddle for the ring. Hearing a car door click open behind me, I assumed one of my bridesmaids had come down to help. I didn’t look up. But then a shadow fell over me. Jack was standing there, holding a black umbrella, shielding the woman beside him from the wind. He hadn’t actually left. The door to the luxury van at the back of the caravan was still wide open, showing a glimpse of blankets, an IV drip, and a first-aid kit. Mallory had been in the procession the entire time. He had brought her to my wedding. He frowned, looking down at me on my hands and knees in the mud. “Fiona, don’t. It’s dirty.” I looked up. He tilted the umbrella back slightly to cover Mallory, who stood there wrapped in his suit jacket, thick white gauze wrapped around her wrist. She spoke in a weak, fragile voice. “Jack… maybe you should go inside with Fiona. It’s your wedding day, after all.” Jack looked down, his voice softening into a gentle murmur. “Don’t think about that. I told you, I’m never leaving you alone again.” My fingers finally closed around the ring that was supposed to go on my left ring finger. I held it tightly and let out a quiet, hollow laugh. We had been together for seven years. Back when he had nothing, he saved up for three months just to buy me a cheap silver band. His ears had turned bright red when he slipped it onto my finger. “Fiona, one day, I’ll buy you a better one,” he had promised. He did buy a better one. But he let someone else wear it first, and then he threw it into the mud. My mother, her face completely pale, came rushing out of the hotel lobby. “Jack! What on earth are you doing? All our friends and family are waiting inside! How can you just call it off like this?” Jack lowered the umbrella, his voice incredibly steady. “Mrs. Sommers, I am deeply sorry. I will cover all the wedding expenses in full. Fiona can keep the house in Bellevue and the financial settlement.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Is that what you think this is about? Fiona waited seven years for you!” Suddenly, Mallory whimpered, swaying on her feet as she clutched her bandaged wrist, which was beginning to show a faint spot of red. Jack immediately caught her, his voice instantly turning sharp and defensive. “Mrs. Sommers, Mallory literally just returned from the brink of death last night. She cannot handle any stress right now.” My mother gasped, silenced by his sheer coldness. I squeezed the ring in my hand until the metal bit into my palm. “Jack, she can’t handle stress? But I can? Standing here like this?” He was silent for a moment before looking at me. “Fiona, you’ve always been the sensible one.” “Sensible.” I had heard that word from him from the age of twenty to twenty-seven. When his startup was struggling, I ate instant noodles with him. When he lost his funding, I gave him my wedding dress savings to keep his business afloat. I spent our anniversaries alone so he could work. It turned out that being “sensible” was just his license to hurt me without feeling guilty. Mallory tugged weakly at his sleeve. “Jack, don’t fight with Fiona because of me. I can leave. I’ll be fine on my own.” She made a motion to slip off his jacket, exposing the faint red marks on her wrist, but Jack quickly held her hands down. “Where would you go? You just got discharged. You don’t even have a place to stay.” Mallory looked down, whispering, “But Fiona is your fiancée.” Jack glanced at me. “She’ll understand.” A suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. The hotel manager jogged out, looking incredibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Grayson, the guests are waiting inside. Should we begin dismissing them?” Jack nodded. “Put everything on my card.” He paused, then added, “Keep Fiona’s dressing room open for her so she can change out of her dress.” Even in the middle of ruining my life, he still remembered to be polite enough to let me take off my ruined gown. I stood my ground, wiped the mud off the ring, and held it out to him. “You say the wedding is off. What about us? Our relationship?” He stared at the ring but didn’t reach for it. Beside him, Mallory murmured, “Fiona, Jack is just overwhelmed right now. Please don’t force him.” Jack didn’t correct her. He wrapped his arm around Mallory’s shoulders, pulling her close. “Let’s go. Your nerves are shot today.” Those words weren’t meant for me. Muddy water slowly dripped from between my fingers. I pulled my hand back and walked into the hotel. Behind me, I could hear Mallory’s quiet sobs and Jack’s gentle murmurs: “Don’t worry. I’m here.” My train dragged along the carpeted stairs, leaving a long gray streak. The wedding dress I had tried on a dozen times was completely ruined. I sat in front of the vanity mirror, my hands shaking so hard I couldn’t unpin my veil. I pulled at it, but the lace only tangled further in my hair. My bridesmaid, Bridget, pushed the door open, tears streaming down her face as she looked at me. “Fiona, I’m going to go out there and rip him apart.” I caught her wrist. “Don’t.” Bridget was furious. “He left with her! Your mother is sitting out there, nearly faint with rage, and you’re still trying to save his dignity?” I sat pale and silent. Heavy footsteps echoed outside. For a fleeting second, I thought it might be Jack. Instead, the door swung open to reveal Mallory. Her eyes were red, but she had already changed into a cozy knit dress with fresh bandages wrapped around her wrist, carrying a designer shopping bag. “Fiona, Jack wanted me to bring this to you.” She placed the bag at my feet and pulled out a credit card. “Jack said you can pick up the keys to the lake house from the property manager whenever you want. And this card has five million dollars on it. The PIN is your birthday.” “Fiona, please take the money. Jack said you went through a lot of hardships with him in the early days. He wants you to have this so he can have some peace of mind. I’m so sorry.” Bridget lunged forward, pushing her back. “Are you insane? You steal her fiancé and then come in here acting like a martyr?” Mallory stumbled back, her shoulder hitting the doorframe, her face draining of color. Right at that moment, Jack appeared in the doorway. His gaze immediately locked onto Mallory before shifting to Bridget. “Have you lost your mind?” Bridget let out a harsh laugh. “You’re asking us? Who ruined the wedding today?” “This is between Fiona and me,” Jack said coldly. Mallory tugged at his sleeve. “Jack, don’t blame them. I shouldn’t have come. I just wanted to deliver these things to Fiona myself.” He looked down at her wrist, noticing a tiny speck of red bleeding through the clean gauze. “Your wound is opening up again.” Mallory shook her head. “It’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” The sheer theatricality of it was almost comical. Jack stepped toward me, keeping his voice low. “Fiona, take the card. Your mother’s health isn’t great, and she needs the financial security. Don’t let pride make you do something stupid.” “Jack, is that what you think I’m doing? Holding out for more money?” He frowned. “Stop making a scene.” “Then what should I say? Should I congratulate you on your beautiful reunion?” He had no answer for that. Mallory spoke up, her voice trembling. “Fiona, I know you feel wronged. But I didn’t leave him because I wanted to. I was alone in a foreign hospital for five years with no family. Jack was the only thought that kept me alive.” She raised her arm, showing the bandage. “You had him for seven years. I only wanted to see him one last time.” I stared at her, momentarily speechless. Jack reached out, gently holding her wrist to support it, a gesture so practiced and familiar it made my chest ache. I remembered the night before the wedding, when he had wiped away my tears in that exact same way. I had asked him if he was nervous, and he had kissed my forehead, whispering that his only fear was me changing my mind. Now I realized he wasn’t afraid of me backing out—he was terrified Mallory wouldn’t let him back in. Bridget was practically shaking with rage, but I placed a hand on her arm to quiet her. “Mallory, you think I ‘had’ him for seven years?” I stood up, dragging my heavy gown across the floor until I was standing right in front of her. “Do you have any idea what those seven years looked like? When he had a high fever, I was the one who stayed awake all night. When his company was drowning in debt, I was the one working overtime to pay it off. The first time he landed a major client, he drank until his stomach bled, and I carried him on my back to the emergency room at three in the morning.” Mallory’s face went white. Jack immediately stepped between us. “That’s enough, Fiona. I remember everything you did. That’s why I’m making sure you’re taken care of.” “Taken care of.” That was what my seven years were worth to him. “Mallory was on the brink of death last night,” he insisted. “She has absolutely nothing left. Don’t push her.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my skin. “And what about me?” Jack fell silent for a few seconds. “You’re stronger than she is.” On the vanity, a corner of our customized wedding monogram sign peeled off, blocking my reflection in the mirror. I ripped the cardstock sign down, crumpled it into a tight ball, and shoved it into his hand. “Take it,” I whispered. “Since she has nothing, you might as well give her this too.” My mother collapsed as the remaining guests were being ushered out of the venue. Relatives crowded around us, whispering and casting sidelong glances at my muddy wedding dress. My aunt lowered her voice, but her words still carried clearly: “The wedding is called off, and his family didn’t even show up. How is Fiona ever going to show her face again?” Another relative sighed. “Jackary is a multi-millionaire now. Men always have a soft spot for their first love. Fiona is just too stubborn. If she just humbled herself a little, she’d still be the one wearing the ring. Now she’s left with nothing.” I held my unconscious mother close, my fingers freezing. The ambulance arrived soon after. My mother spent the night under observation in the ICU before her blood pressure finally stabilized. The next day, she was transferred to a regular ward. The doctor pulled me aside. “Your mother’s heart is very weak. She cannot handle any sudden shocks or stress.” I held her frail hand, nodding repeatedly. A little while later, Jack showed up, but I blocked him at the door. He placed a thermos of soup on the floor, keeping his voice low. “I didn’t handle things well yesterday.” I stared at him, cold and silent. He sighed. “But Mallory’s situation is unique. She almost died last night. She really can’t take any more pressure.” From the bed inside, my mother heard his voice. She struggled to sit up, her chest heaving. “She can’t take pressure? What about my daughter?” I rushed back to hold her gently by the shoulders, then turned to glare at the man in the doorway. “Get out.” Jack stood there for a long moment before finally turning to leave. But Mallory just had to choose that exact afternoon to show up. It was on the third afternoon. I had stepped out to the nurse’s station to pick up some test results—a quick ten-minute errand. When I returned, the door to the room was cracked open. Mallory’s soft voice drifted out. “Mrs. Sommers, please don’t be angry with Jack. It’s my fault. I never should have come back to disrupt their lives.” My mother didn’t answer. Mallory sniffled, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I spent five years abroad, thinking about him every single day. But I knew he had Fiona. I didn’t dare come back. It was only when I couldn’t hold on anymore that I finally reached out.” She paused, her voice dropping to a loud whisper. “Actually, that night, I only wanted to catch one last glimpse of him from afar and then disappear. But when he arrived, I saw his keychain. It was a photo of Fiona. I knew then that his heart belonged to her. Mrs. Sommers, do you know how that felt?” She let out a fragile, bitter laugh. “I felt like those five years of suffering were for nothing. The only hope keeping me alive had already become someone else’s. That’s why I did something so foolish.” I threw the door open. Mallory looked up instantly, tears pooling in her eyes. “Fiona, I was just trying to apologize to your mother…” My mother’s face had turned an alarming shade of gray. I pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out. Now.” Mallory stood up but didn’t leave immediately. She looked down at the bed, her voice a soft, venomous whisper. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sommers. Jack is just too soft-hearted. Please don’t blame Fiona for not being able to keep him. Any man would feel his heart break if his dying first love begged him in tears, wouldn’t he?” She raised her bandaged wrist, turning it toward the bed. “Look, Mrs. Sommers. I literally put my life on the line. Fiona only waited seven years. I loved him with my life.” My mother’s breathing turned ragged, and the heart monitor beside her began to beep frantically. I rushed to her side, gripping her hand as I used my free arm to violently shove Mallory away. “Get the hell out!” Mallory stumbled back, colliding hard with the doorframe, instantly clutching her wrist with a cry of pain. The door swung open from the outside. Jack walked in, catching Mallory just as she began to collapse backward. He saw the monitor flashing red and me pushing Mallory against the frame, and his face instantly darkened. “Fiona Sommers!” The alarm kept blaring. My mother gasped for air, her fingers clawing at the bedsheets. I shook off Jack’s hand as he tried to grab my arm, and slammed my hand onto the emergency call button. Jack held Mallory close, glaring at me. “Fiona, Mallory came here out of the goodness of her heart to apologize. Was that really necessary?” I didn’t even have the energy to argue with him. Fortunately, the nurses rushed in, and they managed to stabilize my mother’s condition. But from that day on, she was a shadow of her former self. She refused to eat, refused to speak, and would only grip my hand tightly, repeating the same words over and over: “Fiona, sweetie… don’t marry him.” I looked into her tired eyes and held her hand to my cheek. “I won’t, Mom. I promise. I won’t marry him.”

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Intimate photos of me and Chris, the industry’s reigning golden boy, were plastered across every tabloid and social media platform. Beneath the trending tags, his fans had already doxed my apartment. Some called me a desperate, aging leech clinging to his coat-tails; others threatened to camp outside my office to “clean up Chris’s trash.” I called him. His voice was a soothing, gentle balm, just as it had always been. “Don’t be afraid, baby. I’m holding a press conference in an hour. I’m going to make us public.” “You’ve been by my side for ten years, building me from a nameless extra to who I am today. It’s about time I gave you the recognition you deserve.” At the press conference venue, I stood in the wings, my heart in my throat, waiting for him to reach out and take my hand. Instead, Chris walked onto the stage with Selena, the sparkling new IT-girl. “Selena and I have been together for three years.” “As for the photos online, they were leaked by my former manager, Naomi. She has been obsessively stalking and harassing me.” The flashbulbs instantly pivoted toward me. Someone lunged forward, ripping at my hair; a chair was flung in my direction, splintering near my feet. When security finally dragged me out of the screaming mob, Chris didn’t even glance my way. Half an hour later, he found me in the shadows of the subterranean garage. He reached out, smoothing down the torn collar of my blouse. His touch was still agonizingly gentle. “I’m so sorry, baby.” “A scandal like this would destroy me, so I needed someone to take the fall. It had to be you.” I looked into his beautiful, hollow eyes. “You leaked those photos yourself, didn’t you?” Chris hesitated for a fraction of a second, then let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Otherwise, how would I convince the world that you’re the one obsessed with me?” I looked down, my fingers quietly tapping the screen of the phone hidden in my pocket. The voice recorder was running. He thought I was waiting for him to beg me to stay. He had no idea that from this moment on, the only thing I was waiting for was his complete and utter ruin. 1 When Chris found me, I was tucked into the darkest corner of the underground garage. He pulled down his mask, his first words completely devoid of any concern for my bruised temple. “I’ll handle the press, but you need to play along.” “Resign from the agency and walk away from the industry. I’ll wire you two million dollars as compensation.” I leaned against the cold metal of my car, staring at him. “And us?” Chris frowned, genuinely surprised I’d even ask. “Nothing changes between us.” “Selena is just for the public. I’ll still see you once a month. You pick the hotel.” He said it so casually, as if handing me a generous promotion. Ten years ago, he was a nobody in LA, living off cheap ramen and fifty-dollar extra gigs. When it rained and he had no place to sleep, I took him into my cramped studio apartment. I paid for his acting classes. I held him when directors spat in his face, and I ran lines with him until our throats were raw. I quit my residency at the hospital to become his full-time manager. Now, his grand finale for us was one day a month in a nameless hotel. “You want me to be your mistress?” “Naomi, don’t make it sound so ugly.” Chris checked his Rolex. “Selena just signed a Tier-A contract. She has major backing from the network and big capital. Binding my name to hers for six months gets us more resources than we could claw our way to in a decade.” “It’s business. It benefits both of us.” “You’re the only one I love, Naomi. A title is just for show.” I wanted to laugh, but my throat was too tight. “You promised you’d marry me.” “Ten years. Does that promise still count?” His silence was my answer. I let out a soft breath. “Fine. Two million to buy out ten years of my life.” “Wire it tomorrow, and we’re done.” He visibly relaxed. “Naomi, I knew you’d understand.” He said my name with that old, familiar warmth. I didn’t bother correcting him. His phone buzzes. “Selena” lit up the screen. When he answered, his entire demeanor softened instantly. Selena’s voice floated through the speaker. “I want a home that’s truly ours.” “You’ll have it,” he murmured. “And what about the rest of your life?” He smiled. “It’s yours too.” There was a brief pause on the other end. “Is she handled?” “Yes. Go back to the penthouse and wait for me.” He hung up and looked back at me. “The two million will have to be paid in installments.” “I need to buy Selena a penthouse first. I can wire you two hundred thousand tomorrow. Your brother is still in treatment, right? That should cover your emergencies.” I stared at him. “Give me the full amount first.” His face darkened slightly. “I said I’d pay you.” “If you’re that desperate, you can always go to Beckett. He’s thrown enough offers your way. You know exactly what he wants.” “Make use of your options while you still have them.” He knew exactly where to twist the knife. When we were young, his father ran off with a mistress, and his mother abandoned him. He used to hold me tight, whispering that he despised home-wreckers more than anything. Now, he was begging me to become one. I opened the car door. “Fine.” Chris blinks, caught off guard. “What?” I just smiled and got into the car. 2 Chris had no idea that my brother didn’t need that money anymore. Months ago, Declan was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer. As a cardiothoracic surgeon, he knew the prognosis better than anyone. At the time, Chris claimed he had no cash on hand and begged me to secure a high-paying reality TV contract for him. “The cash flow is fast. Once the network pays out, we’ll get Declan the best care.” I believed him. To land that deal, I drank myself into stomach bleeding with the network executives. The night the contract was signed, my father called. His voice sounded like he had aged a decade overnight. “Naomi… Declan is gone.” Declan didn’t want to be a burden. He pulled his own ventilator. Before he died, he left me a final voicemail. “I won’t make it to your wedding with Chris.” “But when you have a moment, bring him to my grave. Pour a drink for me, so I know my little sister is being taken care of.” I ran to the funeral so fast I broke the heel of my shoe. Someone snapped a photo of my tear-streaked face, and it went viral. Chris complained that my disheveled appearance ruined his brand image, and he didn’t speak to me for three days. Only later did I find out that the reality show wasn’t for Declan’s treatment. It was the launchpad for Selena’s career. He made me destroy my body to secure resources, not for my dying brother, but to elevate his new lover. Back in the garage, Chris was still pressuring me to sign the NDA and exit agreement. “Those photos,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You leaked them to the tabloids, didn’t you?” He froze. “Who told you?” “The camera angle. It could only have come from the old security camera in our living room.” “You’re the only one who has the login.” He dropped the act. “So what if I did?” “How else was I supposed to explain why you’re always around?” “How else do I make the public believe you’re a stalker and Selena is my true love?” My fingers gripped the steering wheel, but I was entirely calm. “You were terrified that if you broke up with me publicly, you’d be branded an ungrateful bastard.” “So you painted me as the villain first, to pave a golden path for Selena.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Even if you figured it out, what can you do?” “You have no proof.” “The agency’s social media accounts, the contracts, the PR narrative—they’re all mine. If I deny it, you’re just a crazy ex-manager.” “Take the money and run, Naomi.” “Push me, and I’ll make sure you can’t even find a job in this city, let alone get a dime of that two million.” He didn’t know my phone was recording every word. He didn’t know that after ten years of managing him, I was the one who cleaned up every single piece of his dirt. “Selena is innocent, so I have to be sacrificed?” I asked. Chris didn’t hesitate. “You’ve had ten years of my life. It’s only fair you step aside for my future.” I pressed save. File length: Forty-seven minutes, eighteen seconds. This time, he handed me the knife himself. 3 I didn’t release the recording immediately. Chris was right about one thing: a simple recording of a bad breakup wasn’t enough to destroy him. I wanted him ruined. That night, the agency released an official statement under Chris’s name, claiming I used my position as his manager to control his life, even using surreptitiously filmed videos to blackmail him into a relationship. Selena immediately reposted it: “I have never come between anyone. I’ve let go of the pain of the past, and I only hope Ms. Naomi can move on.” Several tabloid blogs concurrently posted “sources” claiming I bullied rival actors, stole resources, and slept around with younger talent. The “evidence” consisted of photos of college students helping me into a car after an exhausting press event. Two hours later, the video of me running hysterically to my brother’s funeral was leaked. The caption read: “How many years did this emotionally unstable manager hold Chris hostage?” I watched the video on a loop, then closed my laptop. Keira arrived with antiseptic. She gently cleaned the gash on my forehead from the thrown chair. “What’s the plan?” “We wait.” “Still?” “He only wants me out of the industry right now.” I turned my screen toward her. On it was a backed-up ledger of Chris’s agency over the last five years—tax evasion, paid internet mobs, predatory pricing, and the original metadata of the leaked photos sent to the tabloids. “I kept these to protect him. Now, they’re going to save me.” Keira asked, “Why not post it now?” “He just announced his relationship. The spotlight isn’t bright enough.” “I want him at the absolute peak before I pull the rug.” My phone rang. It was Beckett. He had just got back from Europe, and he was the primary sponsor for this year’s Screen Guild Gala. Three years ago, he asked me to leave Chris and join his firm as the Director of Talent. I refused. He told me the offer would stand until the day I regretted it. “I hear you’ve been thrown out on the street,” his voice was as dry as ever. “Are you calling to gloat, Beckett?” “No.” He paused. “I’m calling to ask if you need a lawyer, a media blitz, and a stage big enough to burn it all down.” I looked at the files on my laptop. “Save the stage for me.” 4 The next day, Chris showed up at my door with Selena and his mother. Three paparazzi were already positioned in the hallway. Selena was wearing a simple, soft-colored dress, her eyes red. The moment the door opened, she slapped me across the face. “Why won’t you just let Chris go?” Then, right where the cameras could see her, she dropped to her knees. “We’ve been together for three years. Please, give him back to me.” Chris’s mother lunges forward, grabbing my hair. This was the woman who abandoned him when he was ten. She only returned once he started making millions. Back then, Chris’s only comment about her was, “She’s not my mother.” Now, to paint me as the monster, she was the mother he must protect. I wrenched myself free. Chris “coincidentally” appeared around the corner just as his mother and Selena were on the floor, and I was standing over them. “Naomi! What are you doing?” He rushed forward, shielding them. “I respect what you did for my career, but that doesn’t give you the right to abuse my family.” I looked toward the end of the hall where the paparazzi were hiding. “Are you done acting?” Chris’s eyes narrowed. “What is that supposed to mean?” “I upgraded the security cameras outside my door last week. The audio is incredibly clear.” “Selena’s slap, your mother pulling my hair, and your pre-arranged paparazzi—it’s all recorded.” Selena’s face went pale. But Chris quickly recovered. “Footage can be edited. The public believes what they see.” “Do they?” I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Let’s let the police look at the raw footage first.” They were taken to the station to file reports. That night, another round of articles dropped: “Naomi Forces Chris’s Pregnant Fiancée and Elderly Mother to Kneel; Police Intervene.” Chris thinks he still controls the board. On the same day, the Screen Guild Gala announced its nominations. Chris was nominated for Best Lead Actor for the very show I nearly killed myself to get him. In his red carpet interview, he said: “On the night of the awards, Selena and I will be sharing some very special news.” Beckett called. “He’s planning to propose on stage. Are you still going?” I opened the evidence folder and hit send to Beckett and my legal team. At the bottom of the email, I wrote: “Special segment for the awards ceremony. Run time: Seven minutes, forty-three seconds.” “Of course I’m going.” “He wants the crown and the girl. I’m going to make sure he gets exactly what he deserves.”

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When I was ten, my family brought my older sister home. Mother said, “She has always been delicate, so we had to raise her at a mountain retreat for her health.” “Your temperament is too domineering. We are changing your name, just to yield to her a little.” And so, I became Gill. When it came time for our debutante season and betrothals, my sister set her eyes on Lady Beatrice’s son, Henry. My brother said, “She has always been the good one, never asking for anything.” “Lord Henry favors you, so restrain yourself. Let her have this one.” On the day of the introduction, everything went wrong. Both my sister and I fell into the lake during the boating party. When I woke up, the doctor said I had lost my memory. “Gill,” Lady Beatrice said, holding my hand by the bedside. “I’m your mother.” I stayed silent for a moment, then whispered, “Mother.” 01 I wasn’t always called Gill. When I was eight, my parents brought Charlotte back to our estate. It was Easter. The Governor had gifted our family an exquisite silver rabbit statue, crafted by a master jeweler. My father, flushed with wine, decided to host our annual parlor game—a classic poetry recitation contest. “With ‘Light’ as our theme, whoever can recite the next stanza without faltering wins the silver rabbit.” I had a photographic memory, sharp and relentless. After five rounds, my brother Elliot was out. At the end, only Charlotte and I remained. She spoke in a tiny, trembling voice, flushing with embarrassment, unable to recall the next verse. Young and arrogant, I laughed. “Then the silver rabbit is mine!” Charlotte didn’t say a word. Her eyes just filled with tears, and a heavy drop spilled down her cheek. The laughter in the room died. My mother reacted first, pulling her into her arms. “Oh, my sweet girl.” Charlotte buried her face in Mother’s neck, sobbing. “She just couldn’t remember a verse,” I said, genuinely confused. “Why is she crying?” No one answered me. They all crowded around her. Elliot offered his handkerchief. “It’s just a decorative piece,” Father sighed, rubbing his temples. “Why don’t you let your sister have it?” “Why?!” I yelled. “I won it fair and square.” Ever since Charlotte arrived, her allowance was larger, and she got the best room in the east wing. “I won’t give it up,” I cried, years of quiet resentment bubbling over. “It’s mine.” “Quiet!” Mother snapped. “Always so aggressive, always needing to win. You have no compassion.” Her eyes were freezing cold. “Victoria, you disappoint me.” That was the last time she ever called me Victoria. 02 “Smack.” The wooden ruler struck my palm. It burned like fire. Mother sat in her high-backed chair. “Do you admit your mistake?” “I did nothing wrong,” I said stubbornly. “I won it honestly.” “Smack.” Another strike cut through the air, the pain so sharp I gasped. “What did I do wrong?” I asked through tears. “Why do I have to yield to her?” “Because she is your sister!” Mother said. “She was born sickly. We had to send her to a private sanctuary in the hills just so she would survive.” “She was away from us for years, suffering. What is so hard about giving her this one small thing?” I looked down, sniffing, fighting back the tears. “First you tried to outdo Elliot in everything, and now you must compete with Charlotte.” Mother sighed. “Why must you be so stubborn?” My vision blurred. A suffocating tightness gripped my throat. But then, Mother set the ruler down. She reached out, took my hands, and pulled me into her lap. Her familiar, lavender scent enveloped me. She looked down, gently stroking my red, swollen palm. She rarely held me like this. This simple embrace washed away all my anger. “The vicar was right. The day Charlotte returned, he said your spirits would clash.” “Charlotte is fragile. Your presence is too demanding, too loud. I’ve been thinking about changing your name.” I looked up, tears finally spilling over. “True grace lies in restraint, in leaving room for others. From now on, your name is Gill.” Mother stroked my hair. “You must learn that in this life, you cannot demand absolute fulfillment.” 03 In the end, neither Charlotte nor I got the silver rabbit. It was placed on the mantelpiece in the grand hallway, right outside Charlotte’s bedroom. Every afternoon, when I finished my tutors’ lessons and walked down the corridor, I would see that silver rabbit, and I would hear the laughter coming from her room. Elliot’s boisterous laugh: “Charlotte, you lost again! No cheating!” Mother’s soft chuckle: “This sweet girl is so clever, always keeping us on our toes.” Sometimes even Father’s rare, quiet laugh. Before her marriage, Mother had been a senator’s beloved daughter, showered with affection. Now, her love was the center of our household. Wherever she turned, that was where the warmth went. At first, I tried to join them. The first time, I noticed Charlotte’s room had twice as many maids as mine. Walking back in the shadows, I told myself: “She is weak. She needs the care.” The second time, I noticed the peaches brought to her room were sweeter than mine. Under the moonlight, I thought: “Maybe I just picked a bad one.” The third time, I saw Charlotte wearing a beautiful pearl hairpin I had never seen before. Had Father bought it? Or Elliot? I stopped in my tracks. A design that exquisite, crafted with such delicate care—only Mother could have chosen it. I looked down at the paper lantern in my hand, its base crumpled from where I had gripped it too hard. It felt like my heart. Why didn’t Mother give one to me? I asked myself, over and over. Why never me? 04 The last time I went to Charlotte’s room was on her fourteenth birthday. Years of careful nurturing and expensive doctors had restored her health. Yet, when I walked in wearing my riding habit, she was draped in a thick wool shawl, despite the warm early summer air. “Riding again?” Charlotte’s voice carried a sharp edge. “Elliot told me you even managed to hunt a deer.” Society was modernizing; girls riding and hunting was no longer scandalous. Happy about my ride, I smiled, ignoring her tone. “Just luck.” My seat was right next to hers. As I sat down, Charlotte suddenly pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and turned away, retching. Mother gasped. I stood up quickly. “Do my clothes smell of sweat?” “You know your sister is delicate,” Mother frowned. “Why would you come here dressed like that?” Charlotte didn’t speak. When she looked up, her eyes were red, tears brimming. “I… I’ve ruined the mood,” Charlotte sobbed, pushing her maid away as she fled the room. Everyone froze. Elliot was the first to react. “I’ll fetch the doctor.” A cold rain fell that night. The lamps in Charlotte’s room stayed lit, servants hurrying back and forth. At midnight, Mother came to my room, smelling of herbal tonic. “You are not to go riding anymore,” Mother said immediately. “And do not wear those riding clothes in front of your sister.” “Why?” I asked, incredulous. “Did she fall ill just because I rode a horse?!” “Yes,” Mother said, her face expressionless. “Because you went riding.” “You know Charlotte can barely leave her room, let alone ride. Today, seeing you so free and happy made her spiral. She coughed up blood. Can you not just restrain yourself for once?” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Thunder rumbled outside. Suddenly, I laughed out loud. “Because she is sick, I cannot even ride a horse?” I stared into Mother’s eyes. “If she dies tomorrow, do I have to die right along with her?!” “Smack.” Mother’s hand struck my face. 05 My head snapped to the side. My hairpin flew off, and loose hair fell over my face. The ringing in my ears was followed by a sharp, throbbing pain. “Silence!” Mother’s hand and body were shaking. “How can you say something so malicious?” “Am I the malicious one?” I cried, my tears thick with hatred. “You tell me to yield, and I must yield. You tell me to endure, and I must endure.” “Is Charlotte the only daughter who matters? Am I nothing to you?” Mother said nothing. The shadows of the candlelight hid her expression.

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