When they found her, her body was covered in scars, and a camera mounted across from her had recorded ten solid hours of torture. Yet, the three trust-fund kids who destroyed her were walking free, arrogant as ever. I watched the news with a completely blank expression. That night, I scaled the wall and broke out of the state psychiatric hospital. 01 Nurse #18 didn’t come to deliver a sunflower today. No one to bother me. Logically, I should be happy. But for some inexplicable reason, the irritation grew stronger and stronger, so loud it drove me to the edge of losing control. My eyes went bloodshot. I violently smashed a glass against the wall. In an aggressive stance, I scrutinized every living thing in the room. Finally, with steady, ruthless precision, I caught a rat. The little nurse had said that human life isn’t something to be trampled on. Not just other people’s lives, but my own life, too. Both are equally precious, she claimed. She was always saying these baffling things, trying to “redeem” me. She even said she wanted to be my friend, calling me Chloe the very first time we met. What a ridiculous, stupid girl. My hands didn’t stop moving. I easily disposed of the rat. The crimson staining my palms was warm, seemingly trying to soothe my nerves. But the suffocating irritation didn’t lessen; it multiplied. Whispers from the hallway suddenly drifted in: “She just graduated… how could something like this happen?” “Ugh, I don’t even have the stomach to open that video. After those three animals ruined her, they actually recorded it.” “The worst part is, I heard those scumbags got released without a scratch.” I walked toward them, cutting off their conversation. “Is #18 on vacation today?” In the three years I’ve been locked up here, this was the first time I willingly initiated a conversation with anyone. I tried to soften my features, even forcing out what could loosely be considered a smile. But they still scattered in terror, dropping a phone on the linoleum floor. I twitched my lips. Figures. They claim they don’t discriminate against patients, but once they heard I had blood on my hands, the entire staff treated me like a plague. I didn’t have to deal with their hypocritical faces, which usually gave me some peace and quiet. But this year, that fresh-out-of-college Nurse #18 showed up. Every single day, she shoved a sunflower into my hands, smiling brightly as she declared we were going to be friends. She was so annoying. I threw away all those ugly flowers. I hated her. I hated the carefree dimples on her cheeks when she smiled. But where did she go now? It’s not that I cared about her. I just needed to confirm she’d never come back to bother me again. My gaze fell on the dropped phone. The footage playing on the screen made my pupils violently contract. The victim on the screen was #18. The camera was zoomed in perfectly on her face. Her eyes were trembling, her pupils dilated to the extreme. I was all too familiar with that look. It meant the person was in a state of absolute, paralyzing terror. The young girl was dragged into an obscenely expensive black SUV. The sunflower in her hand was swatted away impatiently by a man, its yellow petals scattering across the concrete. The camera locked onto her face, documenting the most agonizing, vile things a human could endure in this world. At first, she was screaming and crying her heart out. Later, the three men got annoyed that she was too loud. With a swift slice of a knife, they made sure she’d never speak again. At the very end, a man’s frustrated voice cursed from off-camera: “Damn it! How is she this fragile? She’s dead already?” She was tossed out of the car like a broken, blood-soaked ragdoll. “According to our investigation, the victim, Sunny Davis, walked this route every day to visit a local flower shop…” “The suspects mapped out her daily routine, ambushed her on this road, and subjected the victim to ten hours of torture…” So #18’s name was Sunny. Such a stupid name. It fit her perfectly. If she hadn’t gone out of her way to buy me those stupid flowers, wouldn’t she be fine? I watched the entire video with a deadpan expression, my hands continuing to dissect the rat. But the paring knife suddenly felt incredibly heavy. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make a clean cut. I even accidentally nicked my own fingers. Hurting myself while using a blade was something I never tolerated, something that never happened to me before. But now, it happened just like that. Why? Was it because of Sunny? It felt like a blunt knife had been violently shoved into my chest. It wasn’t a sharp pain, just impossibly heavy, crushing the breath out of my lungs. Even more uncontrollably, this heavy grief started from my heart and spread out through my limbs. It hurt so much. I didn’t understand why I was feeling this. I threw the mangled meat onto the floor, grabbed my head, and screamed. The birds in the trees outside scattered in a panic. Panting heavily, I slowly raised my head. In a row of identical, sterile cubicle-like rooms, my room stood out like a sore thumb. In this dreary, gray-and-white asylum, only my room was bursting with massive splashes of bright yellow. I had told a tiny lie. Those sunflowers I supposedly threw away? I actually sneaked out and picked them all back up. Like a thief who had stolen her whole life, I finally had a treasure to call my own. After the initial disbelief came the cowardly fear; I wanted to hide them all away so no one could take them. But now, someone had plundered and destroyed even this tiny sliver of bright yellow. How dare they? 02 “Police alert: A patient has escaped from the state psychiatric facility.” “According to records, it is Chloe Miller, the violent offender who strangled her biological father to death three years ago…” Listening to the radio in the cab, the corners of my mouth curled into a mocking smile beneath my mask. My eyes dropped back to the files in my hand. Out of the three animals, Hunter Vance was the first to strike. He was the one who dragged Sunny into the car. A silver-spoon brat who had grown bored of his endlessly smooth, privileged life. He would pay any price chasing cheap thrills and morbid curiosities. My smile deepened. This kind of brainless brute was the lowest tier of trash in our circle of psychos. Dragging a massive suitcase, I walked right into the VIP club where Hunter was partying. I found his private booth and heard the noise inside. “I want a thrill! A real thrill, do you get it?! Not cheap trash like you who just shake it for a few bucks!” I kicked the door open and walked in under the stares of the entire room. Hunter froze for a second, then grabbed a glass bottle and hurled it at my head. “Who the hell are you? You dare crash my booth?” I sidestepped it easily and spoke with a half-smile. “Mr. Vance doesn’t need to know who I am.” “You just need to know I have a thrilling game. Guaranteed to satisfy you.” Flushed with alcohol, Hunter pushed the bottle girl off his lap, eyeing me with sudden interest. “Oh? What kind of fun do you have?” I opened the suitcase, pulled out a packet of powder, and dumped it right into his glass of liquor. “Drink this, and you’ll fall into a deep sleep for one hour.” “I’ll pack you into this suitcase and take you to a one-hour trip to paradise.” “I just wonder if Mr. Vance has the guts to take a gamble?” Hunter stared at the spiked drink, narrowing his eyes, seeming to hesitate. I took a step forward, locking eyes with him. “Don’t tell me you’re scared?” “The Vance family owns half this city, and with a dozen witnesses right here, do you really think I could kidnap and sell you?” “I wouldn’t be scared even if the Grim Reaper himself showed up!” Hunter sneered, grabbed the glass, and downed it in one gulp. I laughed along with him. Laughing at his stupidity. Laughing at his ego. I thought I would have to waste a lot of breath, or even physically force it down his throat. I never expected that, in his pursuit of a “thrill,” he would hand his life over to me so easily. Right in front of his wealthy frat-boy friends, I folded Hunter into the suitcase. I easily lost his bodyguards in the alleyways. Now, he couldn’t fly away even if he grew wings. 03 When Hunter woke up, I was boiling down pork rinds and animal bones. He realized his clothes had been stripped off, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, strapped tightly to a metal chair. He immediately flew into a panicked rage: “Where the f*ck did you take me, you crazy bitch?!” “Hey! Are you deaf? I’m talking to you!” “How many lives do you think you have to dare tie me up?!” I paused my stirring, turning around in annoyance. “You’re so loud.” I grabbed a meat cleaver, casually sharpened it twice against a stone, and walked toward him. Hunter glared at me mockingly and spat on the floor. “Who are you trying to scare? Come on! Let’s see if you actually have the guts to do it…” Before he could finish, the blade flashed. “Mmph… mmmph!” He stared at me in absolute horror, realizing he could no longer make a sound. I spat back at him, turning around with a deadpan face. If I hadn’t promised Sunny, I would have just ended him right here. Hunter let out muffled, agonizing wails from his throat. True terror finally broke across his face, and the sharp stench of urine pooled beneath his chair. “Not enough.” I shook my head, playing with the cleaver in my hand. I severed the tendons in his arms and legs, ensuring he would never walk or fight back again. The timer on the stove chimed perfectly. I smiled. The collagen was finally ready. Using massive amounts of boiled gelatin and silicone polymers, I crafted a meticulously detailed, hyper-realistic silicone mask exclusively for Hunter. Even his closest friends wouldn’t be able to recognize him. I knocked out the newly-faced Hunter and dressed him in fresh clothes. Then, I took him to find the second animal: Silas Montgomery. 04 In the video, Silas was the elegant psychopath. He used the most brutal, calculated methods to leave those horrific wounds all over Sunny’s body. He had a very handsome face. Even though he was a disgusting monster on the inside, that good-looking exterior made him incredibly popular. According to the files, Silas played the field, but the truth was, he was completely impotent. He could only find release through torture. He would bring his dates back to a secluded mansion, where he would subject them to an array of medieval torture devices. He seemed like he had a brain, but not much of one. Which played right into my hands. I dumped Hunter right on Silas’s doorstep. When Silas opened the door and saw the incapacitated stranger, he froze for a long time. He looked around, hesitated, but ultimately couldn’t resist the temptation and dragged Hunter inside. I smiled from the shadows. Such a beautiful, unconscious, physically helpless plaything. It was a fatal temptation for Silas. It was criminal psychology; it was baked into his DNA. Not to mention the Montgomery family spoiled him rotten. Even if he caused a disaster, his family would always wipe his ass for him. He couldn’t turn this down. Checking the time, Hunter would be waking up very soon. When he opened his eyes, he would find his role completely reversed—from the abuser to the meat on the chopping block. And his partner in crime, his twisted best friend, would be standing over him with tools, just like they did to Sunny. He would try to scream and explain, only to realize the organ for speech was missing. He would try to fight back or run, only to find his limbs were dead weight. In that moment, his helplessness and terror would be magnified to the absolute limit. The violence he inflicted on Sunny would be returned a thousandfold upon his own flesh and mind. Wasn’t this the ultimate thrill he was chasing? Thinking about this, I only felt he was getting exactly what he deserved. I had promised Sunny I wouldn’t get innocent blood on my hands again. But I never promised I wouldn’t borrow someone else’s knife to do the killing. Underneath the silicone mask, I had embedded a micro-camera. Right now, it was live-streaming the interior of the mansion to the entire internet. Just as I imagined, Silas was meticulously picking out his tools. Exactly like they did to Sunny. Silas used them, one by one, on Hunter. He had absolutely no idea the lamb on his slaughtering table was his best friend. Hunter’s body was rapidly covered in brutal wounds, but he had nowhere to run. Backed into a corner with no escape, Hunter let out terrified, whimpering sobs from his throat. He watched helplessly as everything he had done to others was visited upon him. Comments flew across the live stream. [I can’t even watch, is this legal to broadcast?] [Wait, isn’t that Silas Montgomery? The rich kid from the nurse torture case on the news?] [Am I seeing things? Is Silas pressing a branding iron to that guy’s face?] Under the intense heat, the adhesive on the silicone mask melted, and the fake face sloughed off. The entire internet was stunned. Silas’s hand froze in mid-air. He stood there, completely paralyzed, as if struck by lightning. By the time the Vance family arrived, Hunter was already dead. The wounds on his body were unimaginably cruel. Hunter was the sole male heir of the Vance family, destined to inherit their empire. The look the Vance patriarch gave Silas was like looking at a dead man. But just when everyone thought the Vance family would tear Silas to pieces in court, Silas was once again released without charge. Rumor had it the Vance family proactively signed a letter of forgiveness. The internet was completely baffled. Until three days later, when Silas’s remains were found in the wilderness. He had been eaten alive by wild dogs, stripped clean down to the skeleton. Watching the news broadcast of the Vance family offering their “condolences” to the Montgomery family, I scoffed. The Vance family was sloppy. If anyone bothered to dig a little deeper… They’d find out that those “wild dogs”… Came directly from the Vance family’s private breeding kennels. 05 The only one left who hurt Sunny was the last man: Adrian Pierce. His file was completely blank. In Sunny’s video, Adrian never lifted a finger. He just sat in the center seat, high and mighty, coldly watching those two rabid dogs tear Sunny apart. Clearly, he wasn’t interested in Sunny, nor did he care if she lived or died. So why did he instigate those two to attack her? What was his ultimate goal? I stared at the photo of those cold, detached eyes. He looked as if he cared about nothing, yet simultaneously obsessed over something. He was infinitely more terrifying than trash like Hunter and Silas. But I wasn’t in a rush to make my move. Someone as smart as Adrian—with Hunter and Silas dying back-to-back, he would easily guess someone was pulling the strings from the shadows. With the instinct of a fellow predator, I simply waited in my apartment for him to come to me. One day, two days. On the third day— The doorbell rang. I opened the door to find a face even more vividly melancholic and handsome than the photo. Adrian’s eyes were brimming with a smile. Like an old friend he hadn’t seen in years, he casually strolled into my home. He said, “Chloe, long time no see.” I smiled back and poured him a glass of water. “Long time no see.” 06 Adrian and I were old acquaintances. The first time we met was in his father’s basement. Back then, a tiny version of me was pinned against a wooden table, enduring the absolute worst malice a grown man could offer. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. All I knew was that my biological father had wagged his tail like a dog, begging the Pierce family for favors. He packaged me like a gift and delivered me straight to the Pierce family’s basement. Adrian hid by the doorway, watching his father abuse me. The look in his eyes shifted from initial curiosity. To utter fascination. Finally, one day, he stood behind his father, raising a heavy blade high in the air. Without hesitation, he drove it straight through his father’s back, piercing his heart perfectly. He didn’t do it to save me, of course. He did it because he wanted to possess me exclusively. He traced my face, obsessively whispering that I looked exactly like his late older sister. He wanted to lock me up and keep me forever. I docilely leaned my cheek into his palm and whispered my poison. “Little master, true control doesn’t come from ropes. It comes from taming.” “If you let me go, and I willingly come back to find you, only then will I truly belong to you.” He agreed. I will forever remember what my biological father said when I walked through the front door. “Why are you back? It’s a massive blessing that we could latch onto the Pierce family, stop throwing tantrums.” I smiled and told him not to worry. I said I just came back to celebrate his birthday. I gifted him a ridiculously expensive leather belt. Then I cooked dinner myself and served him a bowl of soup. “Happy birthday.” My dearest father. While the paralytic in the soup kept him from moving a single muscle, I used the belt I gifted him to take his life in the most agonizing way possible. I demanded the cops perform an autopsy. I wanted to see if his heart was black, or made of ice. Ironically, for a man who took pride in selling his own daughter, his heart was still warm and red. Adrian never got to see me return. Because I was diagnosed with severe schizophrenia and the cops locked me away in the asylum.

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After completing my transmigration mission, I returned to my original world. Only to find out I was pregnant with the male lead’s child. The system told me the baby didn’t belong to this universe and couldn’t survive here. As my child lay on his deathbed, gasping for his final breaths, the system reappeared and said— “The only way to save him… “Is to send him back.” 01 It had been five years since I last heard from the system. When its voice echoed in my mind again, I was frantically running up and down the hospital corridors, begging doctors for answers, and trying to settle the astronomical medical bills. Leo had just been placed on critical life support, and my mind was a chaotic, terrifying mess. Suddenly. A sharp hiss of static crackled in my ears. That familiar, mechanical electronic voice rang out. “Host, it has been a long time.” It looked at the thick stack of medical charts and unpaid bills clutched tightly in my trembling hands, its mechanical tone carrying a hint of synthetic sympathy. “Do you remember what I told you before? “This child does not belong to this world. “If you want to save his life now, the only way is to send him back to his original universe.” I knew the system wouldn’t intervene out of the goodness of its artificial heart. “What’s the catch?” The system went quiet for a brief moment, then replied: “After you left, the male lead never ended up with the female lead. “Headquarters has officially flagged your previous mission as a failure. You need to return and complete the narrative. “However…” It hesitated, falling back into a long, static silence before finally speaking. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.” 02 Years ago, I was diagnosed with terminal cancer, left with only months to live. In my darkest, most desperate moment, I was forcefully bound to this transmigration system. I was thrown into a toxic, angsty billionaire romance novel, and my assignment was to play the tragic first love—the beautiful girl who gets away. My purpose was to make the male lead fall deeply, irreversibly in love with me, only for me to brutally break his heart and vanish, paving the way for the actual female lead to enter the picture. As long as the mission succeeded… I would be allowed to return to my original world with a perfectly healthy, cancer-free body. The binding was instantaneous and permanent. It was a miracle, a second chance at life, and I cherished it deeply. So, I pursued Caleb Thorne with everything I had. I bought him flowers, took him to see the sunrise, and planned elaborate dates. We did everything normal, deeply infatuated couples do. Slowly. We fell in love. We built a life together. … And eventually. I realized I couldn’t bear to leave him. 03 But back then, under the system’s relentless, frantic warnings… One morning, I made up a pathetic excuse and initiated our very first breakup. He pulled me tightly against his bare chest, mumbles of sleep still thick in his voice. “I’m sorry, babe. I know I’ve been working late. Once this corporate merger clears, I’m all yours. Be a good girl and go back to sleep.” He was still half-asleep, assuming I was just being playful or throwing a minor tantrum. I silently reached down and peeled his arms off my waist. “I’m not joking, Caleb. I want to break up.” Caleb froze, the sleep instantly vanishing from his eyes as pure panic took over. “Baby, I’m so sorry. I know I messed up. “I’ve been buried in work lately, and I haven’t spent enough time with you. “Give me a few days, and I’ll clear my entire schedule. “Didn’t you say you wanted to take a romantic trip to Aspen to see the snow? “I was wrong, honey. We can’t break up.” … His voice cracked, his breathing hitching until he was practically choking back tears. Me: “…” What happened to the ruthless, unyielding Alpha CEO persona the author promised? 04 And so. Our first breakup fizzled out into nothing. Caleb became incredibly clingy. During every spare second of his workday, he would call or text me, terrified of making me feel neglected. Every single moment outside of the office was dedicated entirely to me. I couldn’t find a single flaw to complain about, and our breakup made zero progress. The plot was completely stalled, and the actual female lead was scheduled to return from her Ivy League studies abroad very soon. The system’s warnings grew increasingly frantic and deafening. So. The second time I tried to break up with him, Caleb drowned his sorrows in alcohol, looking so profoundly destroyed that my heart shattered, and I folded immediately. The third time I tried to break up, Caleb wired $100 million directly into my bank account, and I happily agreed to give us another chance. The fourth time, I literally packed a bag and ran away. Caleb responded by legally signing over his corporate equity shares and several luxury estates to my name. I was so deeply moved that we got back together again. … This was lierally— Insane! Who? Who on earth could possibly refuse that?! Well, I certainly couldn’t. I don’t know if poverty can break a person, but absolute wealth definitely wins every single time! System: “…” 05 One afternoon, while I was intentionally ignoring the system’s thousands of frantic, incoming mental alerts. I was sitting in a quiet café, waiting for Caleb to get off work. Watching an elderly couple holding hands as they slowly crossed the street outside the window. Under the shifting shadows of the oak trees, the old man gently handed his wife a bottle of water, carefully wiping the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. Suddenly, I wondered if Caleb and I would look like that when we grew old. Supporting each other, moving with slow, fragile steps, holding hands until the very end of our lives. It was a greedy thought. A beautiful, desperate longing. I grew up in an underfunded orphanage. There were too many kids, and we never had enough to eat. Getting beaten up and having my food snatched away by the older kids was just daily reality. I finally managed to grow up, secure a job, and support myself… only to be gut-punched with terminal cancer. But in this fictional universe, I had a man who loved me with every fiber of his being, and I loved him just as deeply. Why couldn’t we just be together?! I refused to accept this cruel script. So, I proposed a compromise to the system. The system panicked instantly: “Host! Absolutely not! Backing out of a completed mission triggers catastrophic consequences!” Me: “What kind of consequences?” The system urged: “There have been hosts before who tried to sabotage their missions to stay behind. In the end, they were violently rejected by the universe and forcefully deported back to their original world.” Back then, I thought to myself: The worst-case scenario is just being deported back to reality. At worst, I just go back to being a dying cancer patient. I had to fight for my own happiness. I couldn’t live with the regret. … 06 But after that… Caleb started suffering an endless series of bizarre, escalating accidents. At first, it was minor things—slicing his finger open while sharpening a pencil. Tripping over flat pavement and scraping his knees raw. Then, while conducting a routine inspection at a construction site, a loose steel beam fell from above and slammed directly into his head. Thank God he was wearing a hard hat; he escaped with just a concussion. I lived every single day wrapped in absolute, suffocating terror. Caleb, ironically, tried to comfort me, brushing them off as freak accidents. But then, while driving to pick me up from work, his car was hit head-on by a driver going the wrong way down a one-way street. I heard the vehicle was completely pulverized, compressed into a heap of scrap metal. I frantically sprinted to the hospital, only to see Caleb lying in the ICU, fresh out of major surgery. His head was fully wrapped in white gauze, stained with bright crimson blood. One arm and one leg were suspended in heavy traction. My heart shattered into a million pieces, and tears instantly flooded my face. System: “Host, you do not belong to this world. You aren’t bound by the physical rules here, but the narrative backlash will manifest randomly onto him…” Watching my eyes turn bloodshot from crying, it added softly, “Don’t worry. He’s the male lead. The plot armor won’t let him die.” He wouldn’t die, yes. But he would bleed. He would scream in pain. He would suffer. The system continued: “We are completely out of time. The female lead is landing tomorrow. It’s too late to swap in a backup host to replace you. Look…” If I refused to break his heart, Caleb would continue to face an endless cycle of near-fatal accidents. Until I walked away. They knew exactly how to twist the knife in my heart. After running in circles, I was forced back to the exact same starting line. I looked at Caleb lying on the bed, hooked up to a dozen beeping monitors and IV lines, his face ghostly pale from blood loss. I dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands. And made the most agonizing choice of my life. “I will leave.” 07 When I returned to my original world, my body miraculously healed. But then I discovered I was pregnant. It was Caleb’s child. I was overjoyed. I was carrying a piece of the man I loved more than life itself. Leo was born prematurely. On the day of his birth, the system briefly flickered back into existence. It told me Leo didn’t belong to the laws of this universe and would be incredibly difficult to keep alive. I didn’t care. I loved him. No matter how fragile he was, I was going to raise him. I became just like any other single, first-time mother. I learned how to meticulously care for him, protecting his fragile life with everything I had. But Leo was infinitely weaker than normal children. At best, he suffered from constant, relentless fevers and colds. At worst, he would slip into deep, catatonic slumbers for days, unable to wake up. I practically lived at the hospital, running between clinics. Until he turned five. He collapsed in the living room again, and I rushed him to the ER. This time, he didn’t wake up. The doctors told me they couldn’t find a medical cause. His vitals were fading by the hour. … And that was when the system appeared once more.

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When I was four years old, I followed my parents on a charity trip to an impoverished mountain town, where I was nearly abducted by human traffickers. It was Harper who saved me. My parents offered to fund her education out of gratitude. She took the opportunity to play the victim, using that favor to guilt-trip her way into moving into our house. Consumed by jealousy, she eventually murdered me, poisoned my parents, and seized our mansion and all our wealth. My entire family died tragically, while she flaunted our stolen fortune to become a mega-influencer with tens of millions of followers. When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in Harper’s drafty, run-down stone house. Just before my parents could offer to sponsor her, I looked up timidly and asked: “Mommy, what does ‘little bitch’ mean?” 01 Hearing me curse, my mom’s face instantly dropped. “Who taught you to say that?” I innocently pointed a tiny finger at Harper’s mother. “That’s what this lady called me. She also took Grammy’s emerald necklace.” Mrs. Jenkins’s face drained of color. Standing off to the side, a dark, scrawny Harper had been staring blankly into space this whole time. My dad was the first to react, his expression darkening as he reached for my mom’s purse. The emerald necklace was gone. My maternal grandmother had passed away last month, and that necklace was the only thing she had left for my mom. We had come to this rural town to do charity work precisely to fulfill my grandmother’s dying wish of donating part of her estate. In my previous life, we didn’t realize the necklace was missing until we got home. Because it was so valuable, my mom called the police. But the rural area was underdeveloped—there were no security cameras on the dirt roads, the villages were interconnected, and the population was dense and chaotic. There was simply no way to track it down. Mrs. Jenkins had cried to the heavens, accusing us of framing her. Her dramatic performance made everyone think she was innocent. It wasn’t until after I died that I discovered the truth: Mrs. Jenkins, unable to extort more cash from Harper, had pawned the necklace to buy a house for her son’s wedding. While I was lost in my memories, Mrs. Jenkins—now enraged—spat on the ground at our feet. She grabbed a rusted pitchfork and started driving us out: “Fake philanthropists! So what if we’re poor? Does being poor mean we have to steal from you? At the end of the day, you rich folks just look down on us!” “Get the hell out of my house, you little bitch!” Her banshee-like screeching drew a crowd of neighbors. It also jolted Harper out of her daze. Her eyes regained their focus. After a brief few seconds of shock, she pushed past her mother and ran out: “Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, my mom took the necklace! I’ll get it and give it back to you right now.” “I really want to go to school. Please, for the sake of me saving Samantha yesterday, please help me.” Hearing Harper’s words, Mrs. Jenkins’s features twisted into a grotesque mask of fury. “You ungrateful little wolf! Framing your own mother just to suck up to these rich people! I’ll beat you to death!” Mrs. Jenkins violently slammed the handle of the pitchfork into Harper’s back, over and over again. Several villagers tried to break up the fight, but she swung the pitchfork to ward them off. The entire village echoed with Harper’s agonizing screams. 02 Ultimately, my parents called the police. The cops arrived just in time to put an end to the circus. After Mrs. Jenkins was restrained, Harper, covered in bruises and limping, went into the back room. She brought out the emerald necklace. With the evidence secured, Mrs. Jenkins was arrested on the spot. My parents safely tucked the necklace away, but they didn’t breathe a single word about sponsoring Harper. When Mr. Jenkins returned from the fields with his hoe, my dad handed him a stack of cash as a token of gratitude for saving me. Seeing that we were about to leave, Harper looked at us in sheer disbelief and screamed, losing control: “Wait! That’s it?” My mom turned to look at her in confusion. My dad instinctively reached out, shielding me behind him. Harper looked shocked and appalled: “This isn’t how it goes! You’re supposed to sponsor my education! If it weren’t for me, this dead bi—I mean, Samantha, would have been taken by the kidnappers.” “Mom, Dad, you’re going to take me with you, right?” Her seemingly manic words confused everyone else, but I understood them perfectly. In my past life, to put up the facade of a wealthy heiress, she claimed my parents were like a second set of parents to her and simply started calling them “Mom” and “Dad.” My mom corrected her a few times, but seeing she wouldn’t change, eventually gave up. My dad just avoided her altogether. I really hadn’t expected Harper to be reborn too. Hearing her call them that, my parents’ faces turned pitch black. Mr. Jenkins’s face contorted in rage. Cursing loudly, he slapped Harper hard upside the head. Harper’s eyes widened in fury as she tried to fight back, but Mr. Jenkins kicked her to the ground. My mom shielded my eyes and quickly carried me into our SUV. Meanwhile, Harper chased our car barefoot, crying and screaming. Until she couldn’t keep up anymore. My dad pulled his gaze away from the rearview mirror, frowning. “Is that girl mentally unstable?” “With parents like that, it’d be a miracle if she turned out normal. Thank God we didn’t bring up the sponsorship right away, or that family would have stuck to us like leeches.” My dad nodded in agreement. I slowly lowered my eyelashes. Harper didn’t know that my parents valued my upbringing and environment above all else. After witnessing the true nature of her family, they would never let me associate with someone like her. 03 Before we left, the town mayor approached us. The village was desperately poor and isolated. There were too many kids who couldn’t afford school, and if they missed out on us, who knew when the next charitable donors would arrive. She handed my parents a roster. Every child on the list had a photo and their family’s background attached. She hoped my parents could selectively sponsor a child’s education, even if it was just one. After the fiasco at Harper’s house yesterday, my parents were actually quite hesitant. But faced with the mayor’s earnest, pleading eyes, they didn’t know how to refuse. I stood beside them, flipping through the roster, and spoke up as if by accident: “Mommy, Daddy, this boy helped save me the other day too.” My parents turned their heads. Seeing the child I pointed to, the mayor’s face immediately lit up with joy: “Oh, that’s little Liam Carter. He’s just started third grade. He placed first in the whole district on the placement exams a few days ago.” “His mom was the only college grad from our village. When his dad broke his legs on a construction site, she gave up her city job and came back to take care of him. They had Liam, and she’s been here ever since.” After a brief discussion, my parents relented. They said we would visit Liam’s house tomorrow. I threw a childish tantrum, insisting we go thank the “big brother” in person right now. Unable to say no to me, my parents drove us there. In my past life, the person who actually saved me from the kidnapper was Liam. While Harper dragged me away to run, Liam had wrapped his arms tightly around the kidnapper’s waist, refusing to let go so the man couldn’t chase us. I originally wanted to scream for someone to save Liam. But Harper told me the kidnapper was Liam’s relative. She claimed they staged the whole thing just to scam my parents out of money. I believed her. The next time I saw Liam was during my freshman year of college. He returned to our university as a distinguished alumnus giving a speech. Back then, the campus was full of legends about Liam Carter. They said he was the only true genius-slash-heartthrob in the history of our Ivy League school. He studied architecture and interior design, taking on freelance gigs to make money since his freshman year. Before he even graduated, he had offers from top Silicon Valley tech giants. After building his network and padding his resume at a major firm, he quickly quit to start his own business, becoming an industry titan. I never expected someone like him to confess his feelings to me. But at the time, because of the lies from our childhood, I publicly rejected him. It wasn’t until Liam attended my funeral that I learned the truth. From Harper’s mocking, gloating words, I found out that on the day we ran away, Liam’s leg had been broken by the kidnapper, nearly leaving him permanently disabled. And that kidnapper was absolutely not his relative. My final memory before my rebirth was backstage at an influencer awards ceremony—where Liam violently drove a steel fountain pen straight into Harper’s forehead to avenge me. In my past life, he avenged me. This time, it’s my turn to protect him. 04 At the hospital, Liam’s parents welcomed us warmly. After understanding the situation, my parents immediately arranged for Liam to be transferred to a top-tier hospital in the city. They brought in orthopedic specialists for a joint consultation. Once it was confirmed that Liam’s leg would make a full recovery, his parents thanked mine with red, tear-filled eyes. By his hospital bed, I asked Liam: “Does it hurt?” Liam shook his head. I stared into his eyes. “Big brother, thank you for the other day. You have to get better quickly.” “I will. What’s your name?” “Samantha.” “I’m Liam Carter. Here, this is yours.” He opened his palm. It was my hair clip. In my past life, after I rejected him, the hairpin he returned to me was this exact one. Back then, I had thrown it straight into the trash. Thinking about it now made me want to go back in time and slap myself. When I looked up at him again, my eyes curved into a sweet smile: “You keep it as a souvenir, big brother. You have to remember me. When I grow up, I’ll come find you.” “Okay.” Liam solemnly closed his fist around the clip. My parents officially chose to sponsor Liam’s education. I don’t know if it was a side-effect of being reborn, but after returning home, I ran a high fever for a week. The moment my fever broke, we received devastating news about Liam’s family. 05 Liam’s parents were dead. Someone had laced their cooking pot with strychnine rat poison. Liam only survived because he was still living and eating at the hospital. The ones who poisoned them were Harper’s parents. They were consumed by jealousy that the Carter family had “stolen” their sponsorship spot. While Liam’s parents were at the hospital visiting him, Mr. Jenkins sneaked into their house and poisoned their food. After the Carter family died, Harper’s parents actually stood on their fence watching the commotion like it had nothing to do with them. Liam was now an orphan. His relatives were mostly struggling financially and couldn’t even fend for themselves; no one was willing to take him in. His schooling became a major issue. The village mayor called my parents to explain the tragedy and asked if they needed to pause the sponsorship. After discussing it, my parents decided to adopt Liam. When we arrived to pick Liam up, we could see a massive crowd of people gathered outside his hospital room from down the hall. Harper’s loud, weeping voice echoed from inside: “Liam, I’m begging you! Please sign the forgiveness letter for the judge.” “If my parents go to prison, my life will be completely ruined!” I squeezed through the crowd. I saw Harper kneeling at Liam’s feet, aggressively kowtowing to him. Fury surged through me. I rushed forward and yanked her up by the collar. Smack! A sharp slap echoed across Harper’s face. Everyone was stunned. Harper snapped out of it and screamed: “What are you doing, Samantha?!” I was originally going to curse her out, but seeing my parents approaching, I swallowed the vicious words. Mimicking a child’s crisp, innocent tone, I said: “Big sister, your mommy and daddy murdered his mommy and daddy, and you’re actually forcing him to forgive them! You’re a bad person!” “Also, I don’t think I ever told you my name. How do you know I’m Samantha?” Thanks to my reminder, my parents immediately caught on. My mom rushed over, picked me up, and gently comforted me. My dad stared at Harper with eyes full of suspicion and hostility: “Did you and your parents target our family from the start? Was that kidnapper hired by you?!” In my past life, because Harper always felt out of place in our home, my parents went out of their way to care for her—treating her even better than they treated me. Even if she made a small mistake, they never scolded her. Let alone look at her with such intense scrutiny. Harper was terrified and frantically tried to defend herself. “Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, that day was the first time we ever met! I didn’t know you before, and I didn’t know you were coming to the village.” “I just heard you calling her ‘Sammy’ that day, and I knew you were Mr. Hayes, so I guessed her name was Samantha.” “She hit me first just now! Look at my face!” She purposely turned her head, deliberately exposing her right cheek. But there were no finger marks on her face, not even a trace of redness. No matter how loud the slap sounded, it was still just the strength of a four-year-old. Feigning fear, I buried my face in my mom’s shoulder and started to cry softly. Furious, Harper ran out to the onlookers in the hallway. “Grandma, you tell them! Didn’t Samantha hit me first?!” “Sir, you definitely saw it, hurry up and tell them!” But no one paid her any attention. Her voice grew increasingly hysterical. It wasn’t until the village mayor arrived and dispersed the crowd that Harper finally went silent.

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By the eighth year of being in love with Sebastian, he still refused to acknowledge me as his fiancée. He stripped me of my red carpet qualification just to please his little kept woman. And in front of the media, using the exact same mouth that had kissed me thousands of times, he claimed that we were “just ordinary friends.” Later, I looked at him and said with absolute seriousness: “Don’t pull away. If you do, we won’t look like ordinary friends.” The corners of his eyes turned red, his voice trembling violently: “An ordinary friend? Is that all I am to you?” 01 When I was notified that my red carpet walk had been canceled, I was in the middle of interacting with my fans online. My hands froze on the keyboard. I looked up at my manager, Sarah, in absolute disbelief. “Why?” She sighed heavily, gently rubbing my wrist to comfort me. “Because some people have powerful backers. I asked around. They said it was Sebastian’s little girlfriend.” My fingers instinctively curled into my palms. Sebastian… was my fiancé. I had been in love with him for exactly eight years. Even his notoriously difficult, aristocratic mother had officially accepted me. But to him, I was still a secret. A woman with no title, no public acknowledgment. Even Sarah didn’t know the truth. 02 When I saw Chloe walking into the venue, her arm securely linked through Sebastian’s, a suffocating, near-death sensation crushed my chest. I knew Sebastian had a childhood sweetheart. She grew up in his elite social circle and was basically treated as the pampered princess of their group. She had gone abroad for high school, but whenever I had dinner with Sebastian’s friends, someone would always bring her up. I opened a WeChat message to one of Sebastian’s friends and sent a photo of him and Chloe walking the carpet. [Is this the girl you guys were talking about?] The person on the other end was clearly panicking. The [Typing…] bubble appeared and disappeared for a full five minutes before a reply finally came through. [Yeah, haha. But I was just talking nonsense back then, don’t read into it! Sebastian probably just thought you’d be too tired to walk the carpet, so he didn’t ask you to come with him. Don’t overthink it, Sister-in-law. Do you want me to ask him for you?] I pressed my lips together and typed back. [Thank you, but there’s no need. I already asked him. It’s fine.] After ending the conversation, I looked toward the front row where the two of them were sitting. If Sebastian turned his head even once, he would see me. He would see his deeply humiliated fiancée. The fiancée he had stripped of a red carpet walk with a single sentence. But he didn’t look back. Not even once. On stage, the host smiled warmly and announced: “And the nominees for Best Supporting Actress of the Year are—” The massive screen behind them cycled through several clips, finally stopping on me, Chloe, and two other actresses. I nervously grabbed Sarah’s hand. Sarah glanced at me and leaned in to whisper: “Let it go. The award is rigged for Chloe. It’s completely meaningless now. It’s a total sham.” My heart gave a violent lurch. The exact second she finished her sentence, the name [CHLOE] exploded across the giant screen. Even the seasoned, professional hosts couldn’t completely hide the brief flash of shock on their faces. Chloe looked around in feigned surprise, until the man sitting next to her leaned in and said something to her. Reading his lips, his first sentence was: “Why aren’t you going up?” His second sentence was: “Didn’t you really want this award?” He used to ask me that exact same question, countless times. Didn’t you really want to win an award? I would always tell him I was going to work incredibly hard for it. And Sebastian would always smile and say: “Okay. I’ll wait for you.” “Keep working hard.” He didn’t wait. As Chloe stood up, the camera swept past the man beside her. Sebastian was clapping, his expression perfectly calm and composed. The hushed murmurs of confusion in the venue instantly died down. He was publicly protecting her. 03 I didn’t even know what expression to put on my face. A brief moment of my composure slipping was instantly captured and launched onto the trending page. #ChloeBestSupportingActress #MayaReaction I clicked on the live feed. It was an absolute warzone. [Her fans are hilarious. They were hyping her up like crazy before the announcement, and now that she lost, they call it rigged? What, does your queen just not want the award?] [Honestly, it’s so hard to watch. She lied to her fans saying she was walking the red carpet, but she wasn’t even invited to walk. Then she looks like she’s attending a funeral when someone else wins.] [She worked so hard for this, is she not allowed to be sad for a second? Leave Maya alone, she didn’t do anything wrong.] [We all know exactly how Chloe got that award. Everyone can see how good Maya’s acting is.] [Don’t make me laugh. Yeah, yeah, our Chloe is just a god. The great CEO Sebastian personally makes soup for our Chloe and stays on set with her all day. Unlike your irrelevant idol, who isn’t even fit to carry Chloe’s shoes.] [Chloe deserves it! She’s skyrocketing straight into high society! Maya will never reach her level in this lifetime.] I stared at the comments, my eyes burning. It felt like something foundational inside my heart was slowly, quietly collapsing. I searched for videos of Sebastian and Chloe together. September 23rd: Chloe on set filming. Sebastian by her side the entire day. On September 23rd, I sent him five messages. He didn’t reply to a single one. The next day, Sebastian replied: [I was busy yesterday.] August 17th: Sebastian photographed carrying a thermos, delivering homemade soup to Chloe. I had practiced making that soup for two months. I had burned my hands countless times. I tasted it over and over, carefully preparing a pot of soup for him, filled with nothing but love. My heart was pounding when I gave it to him. He said: [It’s delicious.] I was ecstatic for an entire day. It turns out… he just handed it straight to Chloe. He could have just told me. Why did he let me feel so incredibly happy for so many days? July 25th: The two of them photographed on a private vacation. That was the day Sebastian gave me a bracelet. I gripped my wrist, squeezing tightly. The freezing, metallic texture bit into my palm. The physical pain stopped my tears from falling. Sarah frowned, looking at me, and suddenly said: “Smile. Don’t look so miserable.” “If you lose this award, you lose it. Your career is still long. You’ll have other chances.” I forced a smile, my eyes blurred with unshed tears. The tears glinting in my eyes startled her. She quickly raised her hand to cover my eyes. She said gently: “It’s okay. You’re still so young. Today isn’t the end of your life.” 04 Sarah arranged for a driver to take me home. Sitting in the car, watching the city lights blur past the window, I couldn’t help but think about the past few years. I had been secretly in love with Sebastian for years, but he had absolutely no idea. He thought our very first meeting was in college. “Oh, you went to Lincoln High too? What a coincidence.” “Yeah, what a coincidence.” Just to manufacture those two short lines of dialogue, I had studied obsessively, burning the midnight oil for three grueling years, over a thousand days and nights. But to him, I was just a junior in his program. One of countless juniors. I manufactured dozens of “coincidences” just to barely earn the title of “friend.” After graduation, he took over his family’s corporate empire. I stubbornly insisted on entering the entertainment industry. The next time we met was at a networking dinner. He was the billionaire investor; I was the third-string supporting actress. “Long time no see. Why did you decide to become an actress?” I said: “Because I love it.” At the wrap party, I found Sebastian smoking alone on a balcony. Separated by a single glass door, the crowd inside was cheering and celebrating. Out here, it was just him. “Are you not having fun?” He was leaning lazily against the railing, resting one arm on the metal. When he turned his face to look at me, he casually crushed the glowing ember of his cigarette into the ashtray. He asked me: “Maya. Are you in love with me?” Love is like a cough. You can’t hide it. I instantly lost my voice. In the eerie, suffocating silence, his gaze burned, sweeping over my face and my body. He let out a scoffing laugh. “Seriously, Maya. You aren’t my type.” Hearing him use my old college nickname instantly dragged me back to that bitter, agonizing period of my youth. A desperate, echoing unrequited love that never received a response. The person I had chased for my entire youth was standing right in front of me. And in a tone that was both incredibly gentle and unbelievably cruel, he told me: “We are never going to happen.” I said: “Oh.” I blinked rapidly, fighting desperately to hold back my tears.

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My husband was known as the untouchable, ascetic billionaire of New York’s old-money elite. For three years of our secret marriage, he was cold, distant, and never spared me a second thought. Until a video of him passionately kissing his “first love” inside his car was leaked. That was when I realized he also had a side that couldn’t control his passions. It just wasn’t for me. Later, that first love came to my door to provoke me. During the scuffle, I fell down the stairs, resulting in a premature birth and severe hemorrhage. That night, rumors spread through elite circles that the untouchable heir had stepped down from his pedestal, standing in an endless blizzard, bowing with every step to a secluded monastery to beg for my safety. But I only handed him a divorce decree. Dark red blood seeped from his forehead, his voice trembling: “Don’t divorce me, the child needs a father.” I slowly pulled my hand from his grip: “There’s no need. I can raise this child perfectly fine without a father.” 01 Ten minutes before the video of Arthur Vance and Bianca Sterling passionately kissing in his car was exposed, I was holding a press conference. Announcing my temporary hiatus from acting. I had just won Best Actress last month. To suddenly step away at the peak of my career sent the room into an uproar. Countless microphones were shoved in my face. “Olivia, could you tell us why you’re stepping away from the industry?” “Paparazzi caught you at an OB-GYN clinic recently. Are the pregnancy rumors true?” “Who is the father of the child?” I tilted my head, smiling for the cameras. Resting a hand on my slightly rounded stomach, I was just about to answer them one by one. Suddenly, someone gasped. “Look at the trending topics! Bianca Sterling’s new romance is exposed!” My eyelid twitched. The room erupted into chaos. The interview was abruptly cut short as my manager, Jessica, pulled me backstage and shoved her phone into my hands. The trending topic was a video, only a few seconds long. A rainy night. The window of a Maybach rolled halfway down. Bianca, wearing a vintage silk slip dress, was nestled softly in a man’s embrace, eagerly offering up her red lips. A hand, wrapped with a string of wooden prayer beads, was possessively resting on her slender waist. The atmosphere was intimate and deeply romantic. #SilkFairyAndAsceticBillionaireCarKiss# #BiancaAndArthurSoSweet# #HeIsUntouchableButBreaksHisVowsForHer# These hashtags completely crushed the news of my hiatus, rocketing to the top three spots on the entertainment charts. Jessica’s face was livid. “This Bianca bitch. It wasn’t enough for her to steal your endorsements and roles, now she has to steal your spotlight too.” She lit a cigarette, speaking without thinking in her sheer rage. “Olivia, your husband is an elite billionaire too, right? Tell him to step up and warn Bianca. I highly doubt she’d dare to be this arrogant if he put her in her place.” I kept my head down, remaining silent. It wasn’t until the phone screen automatically went dark, reflecting my own pale, ghost-like face. Only then did I manage to force a sentence out of my dry throat. “My husband… is Arthur Vance.” Drop. The cigarette slipped from Jessica’s trembling fingers and hit the floor. 02 Very few people in the industry knew I was Arthur’s wife. The Vance family firmly believed I was a shameless gold digger who had actively seduced Arthur, so they strictly locked down the news of our marriage. But that wasn’t the truth. Three years ago, I attended a gala event. Afterward, an investor came over for a toast. Completely off guard, I drank a glass of champagne laced with a powerful aphrodisiac. As I was being dragged to a hotel room, I dug my nails into my palms, using every ounce of my strength to break free from the investor’s grip. Stumbling and dizzy, I pushed open the ajar door of the room next door. “Help… help me.” I curled up in the corner, soft whimpers escaping my lips. A man walked out of the bathroom, heavily intoxicated. He looked me up and down. Then, he suddenly pulled me into a fierce embrace. “Finally willing to come back to me?” His burning breath brushed against my ear. Before I could even speak, his lips crashed down on mine. … The next morning, the room was bathed in bright daylight. I finally saw the man’s face clearly—Arthur Vance. The heir to the Vance Empire, hailed as New York’s ascetic billionaire. He was inherently cold, famously disciplined, and untouchable. Yet last night, he was practically feral. I grabbed my scattered clothes and fled as if my life depended on it. I thought it was just a one-night stand, a mistake that would never cross my path again. But that very afternoon, Arthur appeared at my front door. “Miss Olivia Hayes. I apologize, I had too much to drink last night.” He asked for my bank account number and transferred five million dollars into it. “I can take responsibility for you. Consider this your dowry.” On the day we signed the marriage papers, I asked him why he decided to marry me. He said the Vance family had strict morals. He took a girl’s innocence, so it was only right that he took responsibility. I smiled slightly, thinking Arthur must be a decent man. Marrying him seemed like a good choice. Sadly, it wasn’t until this very moment that I finally understood. Arthur married me because of guilt. Bianca and I looked strikingly similar. Drunk and heartbroken, he had mistaken me for her. That was the only reason that absurd night ever happened. 03 Pulling myself out of my memories, I blinked my stinging eyes. I picked up Jessica’s dropped cigarette and threw it into the trash can, along with the pregnancy ultrasound report in my pocket. Jessica hastily tried to stop me. “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to tell Arthur you’re pregnant?” I didn’t answer. My gaze shifted to the phone screen that had lit up again. Bianca was giving a live media interview. Still wearing that vintage silk dress, there was now a string of sandalwood prayer beads wrapped around her pale wrist. I recognized them. They were Arthur’s. I had heard they were a relic left behind by his late mother, meant to be given to the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. I had half-jokingly asked him for them once, only to be ruthlessly rejected. Now, they were resting on Bianca’s wrist. I curled my lips in a self-deprecating smirk. Bianca smiled sweetly at the cameras, intentionally playing with the wooden beads. A reporter asked the obvious question: “Miss Sterling, were those gifted by Mr. Vance?” “Yes, it was him.” Bianca bit her lip, putting on the shy demeanor of a schoolgirl in love. “But Arthur and I are just friends right now.” “Friends who kiss?” She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s my fault for being young and impulsive back then. After an argument, I left to study acting in Europe without even saying goodbye. Please, media friends, help me persuade Arthur. Tell him not to be mad at me anymore… I mean, we already kissed…” Bianca’s voice grew softer, her eyes turning red like a wronged little rabbit. Incredibly endearing. Naturally, fans and media alike began pleading on her behalf: “Mr. Vance, please forgive Bianca! You two are perfect for each other.” Jessica was so furious she was cursing up a storm right next to my ear. “Damn it, she is shameless!” “Does she not know Arthur is already married?” Of course Bianca knew. The very first movie she shot after returning to the States was a co-starring role with me. One night after filming, she stopped me in the hotel hallway. “Mrs. Vance, are you enjoying married life?” I didn’t understand and was about to ask her what she meant. She just gave me a meaningful smile and walked away. That was also the night Arthur—who was always cold, distant, and never cared about me—unexpectedly showed up at the set to see me. The soundproofing in the hotel was terrible, so I bit my lip tightly. Arthur ran his fingers through my hair, his voice hoarse and coaxing: “Wife, be good… open your mouth…” In our three years of secret marriage, it was the first time he had ever called me “wife.” I was so dizzy with joy, thinking he was finally starting to accept me. But I didn’t realize that Bianca was staying in the room right next to ours. He only came to me to make her jealous. Arthur never loved me. By the time I realized this, I was already three months pregnant. I had originally planned to tell Arthur he was going to be a father right after the press conference ended. But that video beat me to the punch, completely ripping the veil off this sham of a marriage. I used to think Arthur was just naturally cold. When he faced me, it seemed like he was utterly incapable of having emotions. Today I learned he too had moments of uncontrollable passion. Just not for me. Suddenly, these past three years felt like a massive joke. Tears forced their way out, ruining my pristine makeup. Through my blurred vision, a pair of polished leather shoes appeared. Arthur stood there, hands in his pockets, looking down at me from above. His voice didn’t carry a single ripple of emotion: “Olivia, you know everything now.” I knew the real reason he married me. And I knew the real reason he was so cold to me. I wiped my tears, stood up, and slapped him hard across the face. “Arthur Vance, you are a complete bastard.” 04 I booked an abortion for a week later. Aside from Jessica, I didn’t tell a single soul. Not even Arthur. Yet, on the day of the surgery, I was blocked by him in the hallway of the clinic. Arthur stared at me intently for a few seconds. His gaze slowly shifted down to my stomach. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” he asked coldly. I found it hilarious. “Why should I tell you?” “I am the child’s father.” Still that same indifferent tone. No emotion, just stating a fact. A sudden surge of anger hit me, and I snapped back: “Does a cheating husband even deserve to be a father?” That sentence successfully infuriated Arthur. He warned darkly: “Olivia, stop throwing a tantrum.” How was I throwing a tantrum? The private hospital had intense security, so there were no bystanders, but our argument still drew the attention of the nurses. Not wanting to cause a scene, I pulled my mask up higher. The next second, my name was called. It was my turn. I pushed past Arthur and walked into the consultation room. I had barely taken two steps when my body suddenly felt light. I was scooped up into his arms. “Have you made enough of a scene?” Arthur looked down at me. “If you’re mad at me, take it out on me. The child is innocent.” He was holding me with immense strength. I couldn’t break free. Frustrated and desperate, I pounded on his chest. “Arthur, are you sick in the head?! If you want a child, divorce me and go have one with Bianca! What right do you have to interfere with my decision… Ah!” Arthur suddenly let go, tossing me into the back seat of the Maybach. Remembering that in that video, he and Bianca had kissed in this exact spot, my stomach violently churned with nausea. Ignoring my pale, disgusted expression, he gripped my chin and crashed his lips onto mine. A faint metallic taste of blood filled the air. Arthur had bitten my lip. For the first time, he lost control of his emotions because of me. He sneered, “Divorce? Olivia, don’t even dream about it.” I frowned, looking up at him. I completely failed to understand his thought process. He clearly didn’t love me. Why was he still trying to trap me? 05 We sat in a tense, silent standoff. Neither of us spoke. It was early autumn. A cold rain began to fall unexpectedly. Arthur glanced out the window, a flicker of worry passing through his eyes. I followed his gaze and, sure enough, saw a figure in a vintage silk dress standing under a tree not far away. It was Bianca. She had come too. A bitter smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. It seemed Arthur truly, deeply loved Bianca. Loved her so much that even when coming to the hospital to confront me, he couldn’t bear to be apart from her. Through the misty rain, Bianca stared at me stubbornly, her eyes practically dripping with poison. But when she looked at Arthur, she instantly reverted to a pitiful, helpless look, even perfectly timing a delicate sneeze. And Arthur’s heart immediately ached for her. Just as he was about to step out of the car, I deliberately called out to him. “It’s me or Bianca. You can only choose one.” “If you truly don’t want a divorce, then make her hold a press conference right now. Have her publicly apologize to me and admit to intruding on our marriage.” The air went dead silent. Arthur delayed his response, and Bianca stared at him nervously. After three years apart, she knew Arthur still harbored feelings for her, but she wasn’t entirely sure of my place in his heart. She was terrified. Terrified he would agree to my demands. Terrified he wouldn’t want her anymore. I rushed Arthur. “Have you decided?” Bianca panicked. Like a rabbit baring its fangs, she glared at me with pure hatred. “Why should I apologize to you? Haven’t you heard the saying: The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel.” “So what if you married Arthur? In the last three years, he hasn’t forgotten me for a single day.” As if to prove her point, she raised her hand and waved it in front of me, showing off that string of prayer beads. “You’ve never even worn his family heirloom once. You are truly a failure of a Mrs. Vance.” Her mockery was piercing. In the past, I probably would have fainted from anger. But now, I just looked at her calmly, my fingers quietly tightening inside my pocket. I wanted her to keep talking. The more she said, the better. Bianca noticed my subtle movement and pointed at me, screaming: “Arthur, she’s recording! She’s recording us!” Arthur looked up at me, and I met his gaze. We stared at each other, leaving only silence between us. He hesitated for a long time. Finally, he held his hand out to me. “The phone. Give it to me.”

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By the hospital window, I stared down at the street below with a single, liberating thought: If I just jumped, it would all be over. This was my 28th hospital stay in three years, all thanks to him. The evidence was written across my body—three cracked ribs, a patchwork of angry burns, and a constellation of deep bruises—a brutal testament to a nightmare that had no end. It wasn’t that I hadn’t fought back. He’d torn up my divorce filings. Every escape attempt ended with me being dragged back to a beating more savage than the last. Hope had been beaten out of me, leaving only a hollow, desolate ache. Then, just as I was about to give in, a package arrived from a friend overseas. Inside were two dolls, one crafted to look like me, the other like him. Tucked beside them was a thin sheet of paper titled, “Instructions for the Shared Pain Dolls.” 1 That single sheet of paper held just a few simple rules. “Pathetic,” I muttered to myself. “Thinking a couple of dolls could save me.” I tossed them aside and started for the door, my mind set on the hospital roof. Then my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. [You’ll never know if you don’t try.] [Besides, things can’t get any worse, can they?] It was from my friend, the one who sent the package. We hadn’t spoken in years. I’d changed my number a dozen times since then. Yet, she knew exactly which hospital, which room I was in. A flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope—ignited in my chest. “Maybe,” I whispered, “maybe this could actually work.” I snatched the instructions and read them again. 1. The dolls require a binding of blood, hair, and nail clippings from the intended subjects. 2. The first doll bound becomes the Primary. The second becomes the Secondary. 3. Once bound, the Secondary will experience all pain inflicted upon the Primary. The dolls require a binding. My hands moved with a sudden urgency. I plucked a strand of hair from my head and clipped a sliver from my fingernail. For the blood, I just had to press my thumb against a wound that hadn’t quite healed. The moment the three items touched the doll that looked like me, they vanished, absorbed into the fabric. The doll’s posture seemed to shift, its vacant expression mirroring my own exhaustion. I could feel it—a faint, thrumming connection between us. It was real. It actually worked. My mind, once a barren wasteland of despair, was now racing with possibilities. But first things first: I had to bind my husband, Victor, to the other doll. Ignoring the doctor’s protests, I checked myself out and went home. The house was just as I’d left it—a sprawling, modern mansion decorated entirely to Victor’s taste. A cold, sterile palette of black, white, and grey that suffocated the air and pressed down on my soul. Victor’s family was obscenely wealthy. It was their money and influence that made divorce impossible, escape a fantasy. I was a prisoner in a gilded cage. But now, I had the dolls. I had a chance to tear this cage apart. Victor was already home from work. He looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes when he saw me. “I thought you’d stay in the hospital until you were fully recovered.” A cruel smirk played on his lips. “You know, I love it when you’re broken. It’s so beautiful.” At thirty-five, he was the picture of a successful executive, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. But beneath that polished veneer was a monster. A sadist. “Come here,” he purred. “Be a good girl.” I fought the tremor that ran through me, a Pavlovian response to his voice, and walked toward him. His fingers were like ice as they traced the line of my jaw, raising a carpet of goosebumps on my skin. I didn’t dare move. “See? If you were always this obedient, why would I ever have to hurt you?” His grip tightened, his fingers digging into my cheeks, squeezing my face. A phantom pain, a memory of a thousand other moments just like this, shot through my entire body. “Honey, would you like some fruit?” I blinked, forcing tears to well in my eyes and spill down my cheeks, dripping onto his hand. My tears always pleased him. He released me and sat on the sofa, a silent assent. I went to the kitchen, my movements stiff and sore. The fruit was already washed and sliced, just the way he liked it. My barely-healed injuries screamed in protest, but I pushed through, carrying the platter to him. “Your nails are getting long. Should I trim them for you?” “Hm,” he grunted, spearing a piece of watermelon with a fork. He popped it into his mouth, the bright red flesh a stark contrast to his pale skin. It looked like a piece of my own heart. Fighting the urge to shrink away, I knelt at his feet and gently took his hand, the nail clippers cold in my other palm. “Ava, why are you so tense?” His voice was a low murmur, laced with amusement. “Look at you, sweating already.” He leaned in closer. “Are you hiding something from me?” His voice was a snake coiling around my neck. My breath hitched. I froze. 2 I struggled to keep my voice even. “I’m just… not fully recovered yet.” It was his favorite game, a relentless campaign of questions and accusations designed to break me down, to make me so terrified of him that my body betrayed me with shakes and stutters. It didn’t matter if I’d done anything or not; his suspicion was its own conviction. “Are you blaming me, then? Did I hit you too hard?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “It was just a little punishment for your disobedience.” A little punishment? Three cracked ribs were the mark of his foot. The tapestry of bruises was the art of his fists and open palms. The burns covering my back were the answer to his question of whether I was faking unconsciousness, tested with a full kettle of boiling water. I wanted to scream. To fight back. To make him feel every ounce of the agony he’d inflicted on me. Instead, I let my trembling hand guide the clippers, intentionally cutting a fraction too deep, drawing a speck of blood from under his nail. “I’m so sorry, I…” I started to apologize, instinctively clenching the nail clipping in my fist. The slap came so fast I didn’t see it. The force of it sent me sprawling to the floor. Before I could recover, he grabbed a fistful of my hair and hauled me up, his other hand striking my face again and again. The warm, metallic tang of blood filled my mouth, a taste I knew better than any other. He dragged me closer by my hair, forcing me to look at him, a predator admiring his broken prey. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” he hissed, his face inches from mine. “This is your pathetic little revenge, isn’t it?” I squeezed my hand tighter, protecting the precious clipping. Does he know about the dolls? How could he? How do I get out of this? Do I have another chance? Should I run? A storm of panic raged in my mind. He stared into my wide, terrified eyes, and then a horrible, slow smile spread across his face. “This is your grand rebellion? Nicking my finger with a nail clipper?” He let out a sharp, ugly laugh. “You’re like a kitten, Ava. So adorable.” He tugged on my hair, sending a fresh spike of pain through my scalp. “This is what I love. This is what makes it fun.” He straightened up, releasing me. I crumpled to the floor in a heap. “The more you fight, the more interesting it gets,” he said, his voice a low growl. “So go on. Run. Fight back. Let’s have some fun, Kitten.” He turned and strolled out of the room, humming a cheerful tune, completely unconcerned by the blood welling on his fingertip. This was my chance. After a particularly bad beating, he always gave me time to recover. He wouldn’t kill me outright; he preferred the game of cat and mouse, of breaking me, letting me heal, and then breaking me all over again. The slaps were the end of it, for now. I scrambled back to the bedroom, half-crawling, and slammed the door shut. I pulled the dolls from my bag. I found one of his hairs on the bedsheet. Then, with shaking hands, I placed the hair and the bloodied nail clipping onto the second doll. A crimson light flashed, and a new connection sparked to life, linking me to this second doll, to him. Finally. The binding is complete. I sagged against the floor, my body limp with relief. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound made me jump. It was Victor. “Ava, I seem to recall telling you not to lock your door.” His voice was dangerously calm. “Are you being disobedient again?” 3 My hands fumbled, trying to hide the dolls behind my back. But before I could, I heard the click of a key in the lock. The door swung open. Victor stepped inside, his eyes immediately landing on the dolls I was so clumsily trying to conceal. He strode over and snatched the one that looked like me. He held it up, examining it with a critical eye. “Not bad. The resemblance is uncanny.” His gaze flicked to me. “What are you up to? Why so jumpy? Don’t tell me you’re playing with voodoo dolls.” He roared with laughter, carelessly swinging my doll by its leg. “I have to admit, it even captures your current, broken-down state. Who knew you had such a talent for crafts?” His fingers tightened around the doll, twisting its limbs, crushing its fabric body. A jolt of pain, faint but real, shot through me from the doll. An idea, brilliant and terrifying, sparked in my mind. If I feel what happens to the doll… does that mean the damage works both ways? I glanced at the doll in my hand—his doll. It was already beginning to reflect the state of the Primary. It would work. I flicked the switch. Instruction #4: The Primary can turn the pain-sharing connection on or off at will. A strangled scream ripped through the room. Victor collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. The sudden, alien agony that flooded his system was so overwhelming he couldn’t even process it. “Call an ambulance! Call a damn ambulance!” he shrieked. The intense pain forced his hand open, and my doll dropped to the carpet. He curled into a tight ball, his towering 6’2” frame crumpled in a desperate attempt to lessen the torment. “So this is what you look like when you’re in pain,” I murmured, a strange sense of calm washing over me. For the first time, he didn’t seem like an invincible monster. I ignored his pleas and picked up my doll, the Primary. I needed to know: was the pain he felt just a reflection of my own injuries, or could I inflict new pain through the doll itself? The doll was mangled from his abuse. I looked at its face, so much like my own, and without a shred of pity, I bent its leg backward until it snapped. A sickening crack echoed in the quiet room. “Aaargh!” Victor clutched his knee, letting out another piercing, agonized howl. “It works,” I whispered. “What works? What the hell are you talking about?” he gasped between screams. “Ava, I told you to call an ambulance! Did you hear me? Do you want another beating?” His voice, usually a tool of terror, was now music to my ears. No wonder he loved to hear me scream and beg. It was a beautiful sound. “You want me to call an ambulance?” I stepped closer, looking down at him. “Then beg me, Victor. Beg me, and maybe I’ll make the call.” My face was still swollen, the burn dressing on my back a constant, throbbing reminder of his cruelty. But in this moment, I held all the power. I held his pain in the palm of my hand. “You bitch! You’re dead—AGHH!” He didn’t finish his threat. I pressed down hard on the doll’s chest, and Victor immediately began to choke, his breath catching in his throat. “Ava… please,” he wheezed, his voice cracking. “Call an ambulance. I’m begging you.” The pain had broken him. Tears and snot streamed down his face, painting a pathetic picture. I pulled out my phone and dialed for an ambulance. Just like Victor said, the game is only fun when there’s resistance. Besides, I needed to know if a hospital could find any physical cause for his injuries. The paramedics arrived quickly, loading the still-screaming Victor onto a stretcher. The staff at the local hospital knew me by sight; they must have assumed I was the patient again. They were in for a surprise. From now on, the ambulance would only be for Victor. 4 After they wheeled Victor away, I slept. For the first time in three years, I slept through the entire night without waking up in a cold sweat. The wounds on my body still ached, but for once, my mind was at peace. I woke the next morning to a strange sensation. The connection to the dolls felt stronger. They had leveled up. Instruction #5: When the Secondary’s pain reaches a certain threshold, the Primary may upgrade. An upgraded Primary can amplify the pain felt by the Secondary. The sustained agony from the night before must have triggered it. My control over the dolls felt sharper, more intuitive. The hospital, predictably, had found nothing wrong with Victor. Painkillers hadn’t touched the phantom agony. He came home that afternoon. The moment he walked through the door, he roared my name. He sounded unhinged. I stood at the top of the stairs, looking down on him. “Was this you?” he snarled, his face contorted with rage. “Some kind of trick? It’s those dolls, isn’t it?” “They ran every test imaginable and found nothing. Nothing! The doctors think I’m having a psychotic break.” He pointed a shaking finger at me. “Ava, I underestimated you.” I said nothing, letting him burn himself out with his impotent fury. Constant, unexplained pain can shatter a man’s composure. He was already losing his mind. But this was the pain I had lived with for three years. “Does it hurt?” My voice was as cold as the marble beneath his feet. “Good. So do I.” “And the painkillers don’t work, do they?” Instruction #6: The shared pain cannot be mitigated by external means, such as medication. “So it was you,” he seethed, his teeth grinding together. “Fine. If it hurts, it hurts. But now, I’m not just going to make you hurt. I’m going to kill you.” The calm, controlled mask he always wore was gone, replaced by a terrifying, wild-eyed madness. I activated the upgrade. A 130% pain amplification surged through the connection. He gasped, his strength instantly draining away, and staggered against the wall. But even through the agony, he lunged for me, his hand closing around my wrist like a vice. A corresponding jolt of pain shot through his own wrist. “What the hell did you do?” he growled through gritted teeth. I just stared back at him, my silence a wall he couldn’t break. “Go on then,” I challenged him. “Kill me. Let’s see who dies first. You from the pain, or me from the beating.” He let go, his mind racing. Then, a look of realization. “The dolls! It’s the dolls. Where did you hide them?” he yelled, tearing the house apart. “You tried to hide them yesterday, I knew it!” I tried to stop him, but even in agony, he was stronger than my injured body. My attempts to create new pain by digging my nails into my own skin only seemed to fuel his desperation. He was willing to endure anything to find the source. Finally, he found them, tucked away in my closet. He snatched up his doll, the Secondary, and a triumphant, cruel smile returned to his face. “I have to admit, Ava, that was a clever little trick. You taught me a lesson.” He held the doll up. “But now that I have this, let’s see how you fight back!” He stormed into the kitchen, turned on the gas stove, and without a moment’s hesitation, tossed the doll into the open flame. The fire roared to life, engulfing the small figure. Victor turned to me, a look of pure, malevolent victory on his face. He cracked his knuckles, already planning his retribution. But in the next instant, his triumphant expression twisted into a mask of pure horror. The searing, blistering agony of being burned alive consumed him. The doll, made of what looked like simple cloth, was completely unharmed by the flames. He collapsed, screaming, his face turning a blotchy red as the phantom burns spread across his body. I started to laugh. It was a beautiful thing, wasn’t it? To give someone a flicker of hope, only to snatch it away and plunge them into absolute despair. It was the exact same feeling I had every time I thought I’d escaped, only to see his car pull up in front of me. Instruction #7: The bond can only be broken by death.

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Ever since I was little, I’ve been called a human ledger. I never let anyone take a dime of advantage. When the neighbor’s kid ruined my new sundress with a firecracker, I made sure his family couldn’t cook a peaceful meal for a week — they had to eat the overpriced delivery food I sent, complete with an “emotional distress” bill. When a college group project fell apart, I calmly showed the receipts, pinning the blame so precisely on our slacking team leader that he ended up begging the professor not to fail him. My parents called me a cold-blooded shark, worried I’d never find a husband. We fought badly. I moved out and didn’t look back for eight years. Then, as a senior corporate mediator, I got a call from my mother, sobbing hysterically. “Tiana, come home! Your sister’s going to prison! Her boss is making her take the fall for three million in missing funds, and he and his mistress are suing her for harassment!” Reading through my sister’s messy documents, a cold smile spread on my face. The next morning, I slipped into their company conference room, stood before her bosses and colleagues, and opened my phone’s calculator with a bright smile. “Hold on, everyone. Let’s settle the tab first — starting with the first artisanal latte my sister ever bought you.” 1 When I kicked the conference room door wide open, I saw my sister surrounded by a pack of wolves. Sophie had her head bowed. Her shoulders were trembling uncontrollably, looking like a little bird left out in a freezing storm. A slicked-back, greasy looking man in a tailored suit was pointing a finger right in her face, spitting venom with every word. “Sophie! You tanked this project yourself, and now you want to cry about it? This company isn’t a charity! Nobody here is going to baby you!” This charming guy was my sister’s department manager, Marcus. He caught sight of me and furrowed his brow. For a split second, he froze, clearly thrown off by how identical my face was to Sophie’s. Then, he waved his hand with sheer disgust. “You her family or something? Grab her and get out. Stop making a scene in my office.” I did not even look at him. I walked straight past the executives, grabbed Sophie by the arm, and pulled her safely behind my back. Then, under the glaring eyes of the entire room, I pulled out my phone and slowly tapped open my calculator app. “Let’s crunch some numbers, shall we?” My voice was not loud, but it carried a razor sharp edge that instantly silenced the chaotic room. I turned the screen toward Marcus, letting a mocking smirk play on my lips. “Manager Marcus. Let’s start with you.” “Last month, you complained about wrist pain and ‘borrowed’ a forty dollar ergonomic mousepad from my sister. You said you’d return it in two days.” “Assuming eight hours of heavy daily use with a standard depreciation rate, across twenty two working days, that comes out to exactly fifty cents in wear and tear.” “Oh, and you also hijacked the premium Costa Rican coffee beans my sister brought back from her vacation, claiming you just wanted a ‘quick taste’.” “At thirty grams of beans per cup, factoring in the specialty filter paper and the Evian water you insisted on using, that is three bucks a cup.” “You drank it every single morning for three months. Sixty six working days. That brings your coffee tab to one hundred and ninety eight dollars.” “Right, almost forgot. When your girl had her birthday last month, you swiped a bottle of Baccarat Rouge 540 from my sister’s desk. A bottle she hadn’t even dared to open for herself. You called it a ‘workplace emergency’.” “That perfume runs three hundred and twenty dollars at Saks Fifth Avenue. I’ll be generous and waive the interest.” The room was dead silent. Marcus’s face morphed from cherry red to a sickly gray, and finally to a furious purple. It was a spectacular color show. He let out a low, guttural growl. “Why the hell are you calculating all this! It is just petty office stuff. Are you insane!” “Oh, it matters.” My smile grew blindingly sweet. “Even the best of friends need clear ledgers.” I dismissed him entirely and shifted my gaze to a female colleague who had been snickering in the corner just moments ago. “Jessica, right?” “Last week, my sister fronted the bill for the department’s afternoon pastry run. You specifically requested the artisanal matcha crepe cake. Twelve bucks.” “When my sister dropped her Venmo link in the group chat, did your finger ‘accidentally’ slip? Because you only sent her two dollars.” Jessica’s smug smile froze on her perfectly contoured face. She stammered, unable to form a single word. “You owe her ten bucks. Are you Venmoing her right now, or should I call the cops and report petty fraud?” Under the amused and judging eyes of the entire room, Jessica’s face burned crimson. She frantically pulled out her phone and sent the remaining ten dollars. A crisp notification chime echoed in the room. Like a queen inspecting her conquered territory, I paraded around the conference table with my phone raised high. “Dave, my sister printed your quarterly report. Over three hundred pages. She used her own premium copy paper. Paper and ink costs come to five bucks. Pay up.” “And you, Sarah. My sister picked up your sweetgreen salads for six straight months. You covered the food cost occasionally, but the wear and tear on her insulated delivery bags is about twenty cents a day. Thirty six dollars total. Not unreasonable, right?” Within ten minutes, my sister’s phone was pinging like a slot machine hitting the jackpot. Over a dozen transactions flowed in, ranging from a few bucks to a couple hundred. The entire department, aside from Sophie, had their heads glued to the floor. Nobody dared to meet my eyes, and nobody dared to look at Marcus, who was now utterly isolated in the center of the room, shaking with pure rage. Just then, Jessica suddenly stepped forward. She gently touched my arm, her face painting a picture of pure, heartfelt concern. “Oh honey, you must be Sophie’s sister. Please don’t be so angry. We are all a work family here. We see each other every single day. Let’s not ruin our lovely dynamic over some silly little pennies.” 2 Jessica had a flawless face full of expensive makeup. Her big doe eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and her voice was so sickly sweet it could cause a cavity. She looked like the absolute textbook definition of a supportive, empathetic work bestie. This was exactly the mask that had fooled my sister into sharing all her deepest insecurities with her. I glanced at her manicured hand on my arm and let out a short laugh. “Of course you don’t want to ruin the dynamic.” “After all, your dynamic with Manager Marcus is so lovely it practically melted the hotel bedsheets, didn’t it?” You could hear a pin drop in that conference room. Every single pair of eyes aggressively ping-ponged between Marcus and Jessica. The drama was intoxicating. “You psychotic bitch!” Marcus was the first to explode, pointing a shaking finger right between my eyes. Jessica, however, was a far superior actress. Her eyes instantly flooded with genuine tears. She swayed slightly on her high heels, looking like a fragile flower about to wilt under a harsh winter wind. “Sophie… she is your sister. How can she say such vile things about me… We are best friends…” “Best friends? You mean the kind of best friend who steals her client roster, sleeps with her boss, and then helps frame her for a multi million dollar fraud?” I ignored her Oscar worthy performance. I simply grabbed the HDMI cable from the table and plugged it straight into my phone. A second later, a massive, ultra high definition photo splashed across the projector screen. It was a beach photo Marcus had posted on his Instagram last week. The caption read, “Team building retreat. Grinding for the next quarter.” “What the hell is wrong with that picture!” Marcus bellowed, though his voice cracked with a terrifying hint of panic. “Patience is a virtue, Marcus.” I tapped my screen, zooming in on the image. Deeper, closer, until the reflection in his mirrored aviator sunglasses took up the entire wall. In the reflection, Jessica was wearing a tiny, string bikini. She was clinging to Marcus’s bare arm, laughing like a woman deeply in love. And right behind them, clearly visible in the background, was the glowing neon logo of the Eros Boutique Hotel, the city’s most notorious adult playground. I spoke with a slow, agonizing drawl. “Manager Marcus. You took your ‘team’ to a love hotel last Friday. And you expensed it under the corporate account, didn’t you?” “You categorized it as ‘Client Entertainment’. The bill was quite hefty. Eight hundred and fifty dollars.” “I am just dying to know. Which high-profile client required that level of specialized entertainment?” My voice bounced off the soundproof walls, dripping with icy sarcasm. “Did this client require the velvet handcuffs from the bedside drawer? Or was the french maid lingerie absolutely vital to closing the deal?” The room erupted. The executives and colleagues were looking at the two of them with naked disgust. Their so-called corporate retreat was just a dirty weekend getaway funded by company money. “Ahhh!” Jessica snapped. She shrieked like a banshee and lunged at me, clawing wildly to rip the phone out of my hands. Marcus completely lost his mind as well. His face twisted into a demonic snarl as he charged forward, raising his heavy hand to slap the life out of me. I was more than ready. The second he entered my strike zone, I casually sidestepped his swinging palm. I planted my stiletto firmly into the carpet, raised my knee, and drove the pointed toe of my designer heel directly into his groin with everything I had. “Oooogh!” Marcus let out a sound that resembled a dying walrus. He clutched his crotch and dropped straight to his knees, his face scrunching up like a dried walnut. Right at that beautiful moment, the heavy double doors swung open again. The Director of HR, flanked by three burly security guards, stormed into the room. Seeing the absolute carnage, the Director’s face turned the color of week old concrete. 3 The immediate aftermath was entirely predictable. Marcus was suspended on the spot pending a full investigation for “misappropriation of company funds” and “attempted workplace violence.” Jessica was strongly advised to clear out her desk by the end of the day due to “complicity in financial misconduct” and “blatant ethical violations.” I thought the battle was won. I packed up my shell shocked sister and drove her home. I had no idea the real war was just beginning. The very next morning, a massive thread blew up on the company’s internal Blind forum, quickly spilling over to local Reddit pages and industry networking groups. Title: The Truth About My Social Climbing Coworker and Her Psychotic Sister. It was posted anonymously. But the pathetic, victim blaming tone practically had Jessica’s signature stamped all over it. In the post, she tearfully claimed that Sophie was desperate to land a massive tech client and had set her sights on their male executive. She accused my sister of encouraging and even initiating inappropriate sexual banter with the client to secure the contract. She painted Marcus as a tragic hero. He was just a good man who couldn’t stand seeing Jessica bullied by Sophie. He tried to protect her, only to be violently assaulted and framed by the manipulative sisters. The most venomous part of the post was aimed directly at me. “…her mediator sister is even worse. To help Sophie secure her promotion, she actually sent Manager Marcus explicit photos of herself to seduce him! When he firmly rejected her advances, she completely lost her mind and photoshopped those fake reflections to ruin his life out of pure spite…” Attached at the bottom of the post was a heavily blurred, highly suggestive photograph of a woman. The woman in the picture was wearing completely sheer lingerie, posed provocatively on a bed. The face was completely pixelated, but the body type and hair color were an exact match to mine. The smear campaign was ruthless and brutally effective. It perfectly weaponized society’s deep rooted misogyny, twisting a clear cut case of corporate corruption into a trashy soap opera about two aggressive tramps framing an honest, hardworking man. Overnight, the post went viral across multiple platforms. The comment sections were absolute toxic waste. “Takes two to tango. Good girls don’t end up in these situations.” “That sister looked like a total homewrecker anyway. Look at the way she dresses.” “Anyone got the unblurred pics? Asking for a friend.” “Found the sister’s phone number! Let’s ruin these bitches!” Sophie’s phone didn’t stop ringing. Every call was a barrage of disgusting, violent threats. Someone actually drove by her apartment and threw a garbage bag at her front door, writing “Whore” on her mailbox with a sharpie. It took exactly forty eight hours for my sister to completely break down. She locked herself in her bedroom, sobbing into her pillow, refusing to eat or speak. I realized then that Marcus and Jessica were burning the house down with them. Even if they were going down for embezzlement, they were determined to drag our reputations through the mud so we could never show our faces in this city again. They knew the game too well. For a woman, slut shaming is the deadliest weapon in the arsenal. It is the one accusation that is almost impossible to wash off. 4 Under immense pressure from the online fallout, the company executives called an emergency internal disciplinary hearing. Inside the sterile boardroom, Marcus and Jessica had completely dropped their previous arrogance. They were dressed in cheap, drab clothing, looking exhausted and deeply traumatized. “Every word we said is the god’s honest truth!” Marcus pounded his chest, looking pleadingly at the HR Director and the rest of the board. “I have bled for this company for eight years! Why would I throw away my career for a cheap thrill?” “It was Sophie! She wanted the commission so badly she tried to force Jessica to sleep with the client! When I stepped in, she swore she would destroy me!” Jessica immediately provided the backup vocals, sobbing violently and pointing a trembling finger at my sister. “Sophie… I loved you like a sister. How could you feed me to the wolves like that…” “And your sister sending those disgusting photos to my Marcus… Have you no shame at all!” Our legal counsel calmly interjected, stating that the opposition had presented zero factual evidence and was relying entirely on defamation. The opposing lawyer scoffed and fired back immediately. “Evidence? Public opinion is the evidence!” “Your client, Tiana, physically assaulted my client in front of dozens of witnesses. She then produced heavily manipulated, digitally altered images to destroy his career!” “My clients are seeking psychiatric help for severe emotional trauma. What more do you people want?” The senior executives shifted uncomfortably in their expensive leather chairs, exchanging tired glances. I knew exactly what they were thinking. They did not care about the truth. They just wanted the PR nightmare to vanish. Throwing a mid level employee like Sophie under the bus was the cheapest, cleanest way to make the headlines disappear. Sophie sat next to me, her face pale as a ghost. She looked at me with total despair, her lips trembling so violently she couldn’t make a sound. Marcus and Jessica shared a fleeting, triumphant look. The entire room thought I was out of ammo. Marcus even had the audacity to stand up and walk over to my side of the table. He stared down at me, his face twisted in an arrogant, victorious sneer. “What’s wrong, Madam Mediator? Cat got your tongue?” He leaned in close, whispering so only the two of us could hear his toxic gloating. “Let me teach you a lesson, sweetheart. Once the mud is on you, you can never wash it off.” “You and your sister are going to stink for the rest of your pathetic lives.” I didn’t flinch at his threat. I didn’t even look at the pitying eyes of the lawyers around me. I simply stood up, smooth and slow. I reached over and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my sister’s ear. Then, I tilted my head up, looked right into Marcus’s smug little eyes, and smiled. “Are you quite done performing, Marcus?” “Because if you’re done, it’s my turn.” Before he could react, I looked him dead in the eye and silently mouthed two words. Every single drop of blood drained from Marcus and Jessica’s faces in a fraction of a second.

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1 The night I accepted his proposal, a message flashed from an unknown number. The sender’s name chilled me: “Samuel, from the future.” I brushed it off as a joke, texting back, asking with a laugh if he’d finally married me, and whether we’d had a cute baby. There was a long pause before the reply came. He said we did marry, becoming the envy of everyone. Then the messages turned dark. He admitted to cheating—with my own sister, Victoria. On the night of our engagement, they’d gotten drunk, and he confused her for me. It became an “unforgettable night.” He described her wild passion, so unlike my reserve. He claimed his heart was mine, but he craved her body. They continued the affair in secret—until Victoria became pregnant. The day I went into labor, he bribed the doctor to swap my stillborn baby with Victoria’s healthy one. My mind said it was a prank, but my heart felt pierced by ice. As I tried to close the chat, a new link appeared: If you don’t believe me, click to see the truth. … Some unseen force guided my thumb, and I clicked. My world plunged into darkness. When I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital. A flood of unfamiliar memories was forced into my mind. I was in labor. The baby was coming. Samuel was holding my hand, his grip tight. He leaned in and whispered, his words a venomous secret meant only for me. “Victoria’s child is mine. I promised her I’d give the baby my name.” “Be a good girl, Amelia. Our next baby, I’ll let you keep that one.” I thought the pain was making me hallucinate. Then, the doctor pulled a lifeless bundle of flesh from between my legs and shook his head. “What a shame, it was a boy. If we try to resuscitate now… there might still be a chance.” Samuel’s voice was as cold as a morgue slab. “Don’t. Just save my wife.” And then, I passed out. I fumbled for my phone. The screen displayed the date: October 11th, 2029. Had I really traveled three years into the future? The deep, aching soreness in my body confirmed it. This was no dream. Suddenly, an address materialized in my thoughts. It was the house Samuel and I would share in this future. The dream home we’d always talked about, now a physical reality. A pathetic flicker of joy ignited within me, and I hailed a cab. The moment I pushed open the front door, that flicker was extinguished, and my world shattered. A pair of scarlet stilettos. A rumpled dress shirt. A creased tie. A trail of debauchery led from the foyer, through the living room, and up the stairs to the master bedroom. Through the slightly ajar door, every sound was a new twist of the knife in my heart. “Vicky, I swear, you’re even better after giving birth…” “You’re so soft… God, I just want to hold you like this every single day.” Victoria’s voice was a sugary purr. “Oh, stop. Aren’t you afraid Amelia will find out and lose her mind?” “Baby, can you please focus on me? Don’t mention other people…” My hand shook as I pushed the door open. The scene inside was even more heated than I’d imagined. They were a tangle of limbs, moving from the bed to the floor and back again, completely lost in each other. They hadn’t noticed me. Bile rose in my throat. I grabbed a picture frame from the nightstand and hurled it at them. The sound of shattering glass sliced through the air. A sharp fragment flew back and cut my cheek. Samuel instinctively pulled Victoria into his arms, shielding her. He looked at me, a flash of surprise in his eyes, before he quickened his pace, finished, and then gently laid the now-sleeping Victoria on the bed. He lit a cigarette, his expression indifferent as he watched the blood trickle down my face. “Vicky’s exhausted. If you’re going to have a meltdown, get the hell out and do it somewhere else.” He kicked at a piece of broken glass on the floor, his eyes filled with contempt. “And take this trash with you. I don’t want her to get hurt.” My gaze fell to the debris on the floor. A shattered photograph of us glinted up at me. It was the only picture of the two of us in the entire house. On the day of our wedding photoshoot, I had been in the hospital, trying to prevent a miscarriage. So Victoria had stood in for me, wearing my gown, for the entire session. “AI is so advanced now, we’ll just swap her face with yours later,” he’d said. “Besides, Vicky has a better figure. The dress looks better on her anyway.” On our wedding night, not only had the photos not been changed, but Victoria had also taken my place in the marriage bed. My vision blurred as tears streamed silently down my face. Seeing me cry, Samuel seemed to soften for a moment. He offered me a tissue. “Don’t cry. After all these years, I still can’t stand to see you cry.” I flinched away from his hand. “Samuel,” I said, my voice quiet but firm, “I want a divorce.” He froze. His expression shifted from shock to disbelief, then to something close to horror. “So… you really are the Amelia from three years ago?” he whispered. “You actually clicked that link?” I was just as stunned. “How did you know?” He let out a low, bitter laugh, the mockery in his eyes undisguised. “Because the Amelia of this time would never look at me like that,” he said. “And she would never, ever ask for a divorce.” He was right. The Amelia of this time had her heart ground to dust by years of betrayal. She had chosen to let her marriage fester into a toxic swamp, determined to drag him down into the muck with her. She wanted Victoria forever branded as a home-wrecker. She wanted the cheating husband to be reviled by the world until the day he died. But the Amelia from three years ago… she just wanted out. More memories flooded in, connecting to that night on the beach, three years ago. Under a sky full of stars, Samuel knelt and proposed. But halfway through, his phone rang. He took the call and vanished for the entire night. I later found out it was Victoria who had called. He’d told me, “Wait for me, I’ll be right back.” I waited all night, the cold sea breeze chilling me to the bone. By morning, I was sick. When I woke up, both Samuel and Victoria were by my bedside, their eyes red-rimmed. Victoria’s lips were slightly swollen, her neck covered in angry, red marks. Samuel’s hair was a mess, his arms crisscrossed with scratches. The evidence was everywhere, screaming at me. But then Victoria burst into tears, claiming she’d been tricked and beaten by a scumbag boyfriend, and that Samuel had saved her life. And because of that, I let my suspicions go. To make up for abandoning me, Samuel bought me a one-of-a-kind wedding gown, a breathtaking creation covered entirely in diamonds. It was a fairy tale. But as I was basking in my happiness, I got the call. My father had died of a sudden heart attack. I collapsed. After my mother passed, my father was all I had. His condition had been stable for years. Something must have triggered it. I searched every inch of our security footage but found nothing. Then, in a box of his old things, I found his camera. He’d taken up photography after he retired. A sixth sense made my hands tremble as I turned it on and pressed play. The scene that unfolded on the small screen shattered my soul. Samuel was pinning Victoria to the living room sofa, both of them naked. Victoria’s red bra was hanging from Samuel’s neck, swinging back and forth like a triumphant flag. The camera shook violently. Then came the sound of my father hitting the floor. A sharp pain lanced through my chest, and the world spun. I coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed. When I woke up, the doctor told me I was pregnant. I was only two months along, but I was already showing signs of a miscarriage. Samuel knelt by my bed, slapping himself across the face, over and over. “I’m so sorry. Vicky was in a bad place and asked me to stay with her.” “We both had too much to drink, and we… we crossed a line.” “But we didn’t… we didn’t go all the way before…” Before my father caught you. I started laughing, a wild, unhinged sound, and began to beat my own stomach. “You killed my father, Samuel! Now I’m going to kill your child!” He just held me, letting my fists and nails rain down on his face and chest. It was only when Victoria came in to “apologize” that he reacted. I lunged at her, ready to tear her apart, but Samuel shoved me. Hard. My stomach slammed into the corner of a table. I crumpled to the ground as blood poured down my thighs. “Vicky’s pregnant,” he said, his voice flat. “I can’t let you hurt her.” I laughed, the sound cold and broken. So Victoria’s child was precious. But mine was disposable. The doctors rushed in and gave me a sedative. As my consciousness faded, I saw him lift Victoria into his arms and walk away without a backward glance. After that, Samuel kept me in a private VIP hospital room. A prisoner, force-fed medications, subjected to endless treatments to save a pregnancy he never wanted. He refused to let me lose the baby, but not because he loved it. He needed my child as a cover, a way to legitimize the one Victoria was carrying. He married me, giving me a title and a ring, but our marriage was a sham. Then he turned around and gave Victoria the wedding of the century. Everyone thought she was Mrs. Price. I was just the crazy woman locked away in a hospital, dependent on drugs to survive. The agonizing memories flashed through my mind, one after another. Samuel leaned down and gently kissed the tears from my eyes. “Amelia, I’m so sorry you have to remember all of that.” “But it’s in the past. We can start over now. Okay?” Just then, Victoria stirred. She saw Samuel holding me, and a flash of hatred crossed her face. Then, she threw herself at my feet, sobbing. “Sister, please, for the sake of our childhood, you have to forgive me!” “Samuel and I talked. This was the last time. We’re done.” “You two can be happy together. Don’t worry about me. Just… just pretend I’m dead!” I sneered. “Then why don’t you go die?” Samuel pulled her to her feet and roared at me. “That’s enough! Vicky has been through hell with her own husband. I was just comforting her. Don’t you dare push your luck!” “If it weren’t for her, you would have died years ago! What’s the big deal about giving her one child?” He was right. When I was five, I was diagnosed with a rare blood disease. My father found Victoria in an orphanage and adopted her so she could be my bone marrow donor. She saved my life. A debt of life should be repaid. But our family raised her for eighteen years. My father treated her like his own flesh and blood, showering her with affection and even giving her half of the family inheritance. But she knew about my father’s weak heart. She knew any shock could kill him. And she brought Samuel into our home and had sex with him anyway. She was my mortal enemy. I wanted to see her suffer. Victoria grabbed my hand again. “Amelia, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, just please forgive me.” A wave of pure hatred washed over me. I seized her by the hair and slammed her head against the wall. “Then die,” I hissed. “Die, and then I’ll forgive you.” Samuel rushed over and threw me to the ground. “Amelia, are you insane? That’s your sister!” Victoria continued her act, weeping pitifully. She took the baby from the nanny and held him out to me. “Sister, this is my son with Samuel.” “I’m putting him under your name on the birth certificate. Consider it my apology.” She leaned in close, her voice a venomous whisper only I could hear. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Samuel was worried you might have another child of your own one day and mistreat my precious baby.” “So while you were unconscious, he had you sterilized.” “You’ll never be a mother, Amelia. Everything you have now will belong to my son. Doesn’t that just eat you alive?” “Get away from me!” I screamed, shoving her away. The baby let out a piercing wail. Victoria immediately started crying. “Sister, I know you’re angry, but take it out on me! The baby is so small, why would you pinch him?!” Before she even finished the sentence, a hand cracked across my face. “You venomous bitch,” Samuel spat, his eyes blazing. “You’d even harm a newborn?” “If I had known you were this vile, I would have locked you in that hospital and thrown away the key!” He gathered Victoria and the baby into his arms and delivered his cold command. “Drag her to the basement. Don’t let her out until I say so.” He knew. He knew I’d had severe claustrophobia since I was a child, that I was terrified of the dark. But he let them drag me away, ignoring my desperate, broken sobs as he locked the door, sealing me in the darkness. That night, I cried until I had no tears left. I watched the video my father had left behind, over and over again. And a plan, a seed of pure vengeance, began to grow in my mind. At dawn, Samuel came down with a bowl of porridge. He looked exhausted. “I was wrong yesterday,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have hit Vicky.” “She did nothing wrong. It was all my fault.” “Tomorrow is the baby’s christening. I want you to be there.” “I’ve broken things off with her. From now on, things will be good between us. Please, stop fighting, okay?” I clutched my phone. Tomorrow? Good. At the christening, I will give you and Victoria a surprise you’ll never forget.

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My arranged marriage husband suddenly lost his memory. Every ounce of his past obsession and ruthless pursuit of me vanished from his mind. Now, he looks at me like I am a total stranger. Furious, I slapped divorce papers onto his desk. Then, I packed my bags and dragged my best friend on a singles cruise to let loose. But on the night of the party, a tall figure stepped out of the shadows, backing me into a corner. In a tone that left zero room for argument, he whispered. Isla, there is no divorce in this marriage. Only widowhood. 1 When I rushed into the hospital corridor, Victor’s assistant was already waiting by the door. I practically jumped out of the elevator, my voice laced with a frantic edge I didn’t even recognize. “How is he? Is it serious?” Simon offered a brief glance, his tone as steady and practiced as ever. “Please do not worry, Mrs. Sinclair. Mr. Sinclair is fine physically, but…” “But what?” “He forgot a few things.” Pushing open the heavy door, I saw Victor sitting up in the hospital bed. He turned his head at the sound of my entrance. A square of white gauze covered his temple, and a few shallow scrapes marred his sharp jawline. He lifted his heavy eyelids. His gaze washed over me, perfectly calm and terrifyingly cold. I froze in my tracks. Victor Sinclair had never looked at me like that. Whenever his eyes found mine, he looked like a starving wolf locking onto its prey, burning with an intense, suffocating possessiveness. This was the first time I had ever seen such absolute indifference in his expression. That was the exact moment I realized I was part of the “few things” he had forgotten. The neurologist explained that Victor’s amnesia was a result of the trauma to his head during the car crash. It was fragmented memory loss. It would not affect his daily routine or his ability to run his corporate empire. However, the recovery timeline was entirely unpredictable. It could take days, months, or years. He might never remember. And in a twist of cruel irony, every single memory of me had been completely wiped clean. When I stepped back into the private suite, Victor was alone, casually leaning against the pillows while flipping through a stack of legal documents. I took a hesitant step closer. “The doctor said they need to keep you for a few days of observation. If you need anything from home, I can bring it by.” Victor studied me in silence for a long moment before asking a question. “Are we happily married?” I looked down, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher. “It is terrible.” The room plunged into a deafening silence. “Why is it terrible?” His face remained expressionless, asking the question with the genuine curiosity of a man who truly did not know the answer. A sudden, inexplicable spike of irritation flared in my chest. I set the water glass down onto the bedside table with a sharp thud. “A forced match is never sweet.” Victor held my gaze, one dark eyebrow slowly arching upward. “How fortunate. I despise sweet things.” 2 I almost forgot. Delivering the most shameless remarks with an utterly straight face had always been Victor’s greatest talent. Back then, the Sinclair Enterprise’s sole condition for bailing out my family’s failing gallery was my hand in marriage. Even knowing I was deeply in love with my boyfriend, he refused to back down an inch. “Leave him. I am a much better fit for you.” Victor and I were virtually strangers. As the youngest heir and ruthless CEO of his family’s empire, he was notoriously unpredictable and fiercely guarded. I had only seen him once from a distance at a charity gala. We had never even shared a conversation. “With your wealth and status, you could have anyone you want. Why force a woman who does not love you?” He had leaned back in his leather chair, staring at me until a slow, dangerous smile curved his lips. “That sounds like a personal problem, Miss Isla. Am I truly that impossible to love?” He played the perfect gentleman that day. When I rejected him, he did not lose his temper. He even put on a flawless mask of understanding, claiming he respected my choice. It wasn’t until our family’s debt spiraled out of control, and not a single bank in Boston dared to offer us a loan, that I understood the reality. Victor held the city in his palm. The moment he extended an olive branch to my family, he silently banned anyone else from stepping in. He made it look like I had a choice, but he systematically burned down every other bridge until his path was the only one left. I had no choice but to surrender. The day I broke up with my boyfriend, the rain was pouring in sheets. I sat in the passenger seat of Victor’s Maybach, sobbing until my chest ached. Victor lowered his dark eyes, patiently using his expensive silk handkerchief to wipe the muddy water off my bare calves. “There is actually another way you can be with him.” “After we get married, you can slip a slow acting poison into my morning coffee. Once I am dead, your lovely boyfriend can take my place.” His tone was thick with dark humor, but his eyes were completely serious. For a terrifying second, I couldn’t tell if he was joking. I just stared at him, paralyzed. Then, a low chuckle rumbled in his chest, genuine amusement dancing in his eyes. “You really want to kill me, don’t you?” “I suppose I would allow it.” I glared at him through my tears. “You are despicable.” The smile never left his face. He simply reached over, intertwining his long fingers with mine, completely ignoring my resistance. He looked incredibly satisfied. “You can think whatever you want about me. It does not matter.” “All that matters, Isla, is that you are going to be my wife.” Victor leaned back against the hospital pillows, that exact same half smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the exact same arrogant smirk from three years ago. I took a deep breath, swallowing down the curse words burning on my tongue. I could not yell at him. The man literally had brain damage. Grabbing my designer tote, I turned to leave, nearly colliding with Simon as he walked in. He held out a sleek, rectangular velvet box. “Mrs. Sinclair, Mr. Sinclair asked me to bring this for you.” Inside rested a vintage Italian sable watercolor brush. I had lingered on a picture of it in an art magazine for maybe two extra seconds last week. It was always like this. Whenever I showed the slightest flicker of interest in something, it miraculously appeared in my hands a few days later. I cast a sideways glance at the man in the bed. He was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, acting as if the entire exchange had nothing to do with him. That familiar, suffocating knot tightened in my throat again. I tossed the velvet box onto the edge of his mattress. “I do not accept gifts from strangers.” 3 The sky outside the studio window slowly bled into a bruised purple. I had been sitting at my easel all afternoon, ruining sketch after sketch. My mind was an absolute mess. Victor losing his memory should have felt like a massive victory. But instead, a heavy, suffocating weight pressed down on my chest. It wasn’t sadness. It wasn’t pity. It was a bizarre, irrational wave of anger. It felt like… I actually cared that he had forgotten me. When he asked about our marriage today, my answer wasn’t entirely a lie. In the beginning, it truly was terrible. For the first two months of our marriage, I refused to eat at the same table as him. I treated him like a ghost haunting my own house. Even when I caught a horrific fever in the middle of the night, and he scooped me out of bed to force medicine down my throat, I just slapped him across the face. He didn’t even flinch. He just took the hit, his expression completely blank, and muttered, “You have no strength left. Take the pills, then you can hit me again.” Victor seemed to possess an infinite threshold for my anger. And somewhere along the way, my bitter resentment slowly morphed into a quiet, reluctant reliance. When exactly did the shift happen? I couldn’t pinpoint the exact day. Maybe it was the night of that corporate gala, when he introduced me to his ruthless business partners as “Isla, the brilliant artist,” rather than “Mrs. Sinclair.” Maybe it was during the Autumn Art Expo, when a rival gallery intentionally moved my pieces to a dark, hidden corner. Victor canceled a multi million dollar board meeting just to show up and tear the organizers apart. Or maybe it was the time I went on a mountain retreat to paint and got caught in a massive mudslide. The roads collapsed, the bridges washed out, and he walked five miles through a torrential downpour just to find me. Three years. He moved into my life like water, silently seeping into every single crack and crevice. By the time I finally noticed, he was everywhere. But now, he had wiped the slate clean. We were right back at square one. I sat in the dark for a few more minutes before throwing my brushes into the sink and grabbing my coat. The crisp night air hit my face, carrying the sweet scent of blooming jasmine. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a familiar black luxury car idling near the curb. I froze. Simon quickly stepped out and opened the rear door for me. And there, sitting in the leather backseat instead of a hospital bed, was Victor. “What are you doing here?” The white gauze was still taped to his temple, though his color looked much better. “I was on my way.” I didn’t even have the energy to roll my eyes. “This road leads to a dead end. Where exactly were you heading?” Victor let out a low chuckle. “Who said it leads to nowhere? It led me straight to you, didn’t it?” I ignored his smooth talking and slid into the seat next to him. The amber glow of the streetlights flickered across the tinted windows, illuminating the sharp angles of his face in flashes. “What do you want for dinner?” I turned my head to stare out the window. “I am not hungry.” Victor gave a soft laugh. “Are you not hungry, or do you just not want to eat with me?” I couldn’t stop myself from shooting him a deadly glare. His eyes only crinkled with deeper amusement. “Well, that is a shame, because I really want to eat with you.” “You are just going to have to suffer through it.” Even with his memories completely wiped, his ability to get under my skin remained absolutely flawless. 4 The Maybach pulled up to an exclusive French bistro downtown. The hostess guided us to a private booth by the floor to ceiling windows. While we waited for our appetizers, we sat in total silence. The only sound was the soft, melancholic melody drifting from the grand piano in the center of the room. Victor studied my face for a long time before casually tilting his head. “Were our dinners always this quiet?” “I don’t remember.” “Have we eaten here before?” “I have no idea.” “Do we go out on dates often?” “I couldn’t tell you.” Victor let out a quiet sigh. “Correct me if I am wrong, but I believe I am the one with amnesia.” That single sentence acted like a match to gasoline. I fell silent for a heavy second before flipping my phone face down onto the marble table. “And? Do you want a medal for forgetting?” Victor clearly didn’t expect the raw hostility in my voice. His playful demeanor vanished, replaced by a serious intensity. “Isla, that is not what I meant.” “I don’t care what you meant.” “Victor, I am not obligated to tutor you on our past. If you want to remember, figure it out yourself. If you can’t, then just let it go.” The rest of the meal tasted like cardboard. I set down my silverware and pushed my chair back. “I am going to the restroom.” The restrooms were tucked away at the back of the restaurant, past a dimly lit corridor lined with towering monstera plants. I kept my head down as I washed my hands, the cold water splashing against my skin. I didn’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching until a tall figure stepped up beside me. He didn’t turn on the faucet. I instinctively glanced up, meeting a pair of eyes in the mirror that were both deeply familiar and completely foreign. He was dressed in a tailored, expensive suit, radiating a quiet, refined maturity. He looked absolutely nothing like the struggling, broke college student I used to know. “Isla?” The unexpected reunion clearly caught Oliver off guard. His voice wavered with a hint of disbelief. I hadn’t expected to run into him here either. After he left me three years ago, we cut all contact. I only heard through mutual friends that he had moved to Europe. “It has been a long time, Oliver.” “A very long time.” Oliver pressed his lips together. He looked like a man drowning in a thousand unspoken words. His gaze eventually drifted down, landing heavily on the diamond ring flashing on my left hand. He swallowed hard. “Have you… been doing well these past few years?” I offered a polite, distant smile and tossed my paper towel into the trash bin. “I have been great.” “That is good.” After those three words, the air between us completely died. I noticed a cigarette pinched between his fingers. He kept twirling it nervously, making no move to light it. “I should get back to my table.” Oliver blinked, snapping out of his daze, and nodded quickly. “Right. Take care.” When I returned to the booth, Victor was leaning back in his chair, slowly swirling the ice water in his crystal glass. Seeing me approach, he set the glass down, his dark eyes locking onto my face for a split second. He asked the question entirely too casually. “What took you so long?” “There was a line.” “Do you want to order dessert?” “No, I am full. Let’s go home.” He didn’t press the issue. He simply stood up, wrapped his warm hand around mine, and led me toward the exit. Deep in the shadows of the corridor we had just left, a solitary figure leaned against the textured wallpaper. A tiny spark flared in the dark as the cigarette finally ignited, the cherry glowing dull red through the leaves of the monstera plant. 5 The Boston Autumn Art Salon was the biggest event of the year, and I was honored to be featured among the invited artists. Usually, Victor would be hovering right over my shoulder at these events, but today, he was nowhere to be found. Halfway through the exhibition, the gallery curator approached me, whispering that a VIP collector was extremely interested in one of my pieces and requested a private chat. When I stepped into the viewing area, I immediately recognized the broad shoulders facing my canvas. He was wearing a charcoal gray suit, a Patek Philippe watch gleaming subtly on his wrist. He looked like the epitome of low key wealth. Hearing my footsteps, Oliver turned around, a soft, nostalgic smile playing on his lips. “We meet again.” We both turned our attention back to the canvas. It was an oil painting of an old, ivy covered gazebo on our college campus. I had painted it six months ago, right after being invited back to the university to give an alumni speech. Oliver’s eyes softened completely. “The rain was pouring so hard that day. I still remember your canvas shoes were completely soaked.” The memory hit me instantly. That gazebo was the exact spot where Oliver and I had first crossed paths. We had both sprinted under the wooden roof to escape a sudden thunderstorm. It was an impossibly cliché, ridiculously perfect coincidence. I stayed quiet for a long moment before offering a tight, polite smile. “That is all in the past now.” Oliver looked down at me, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “Is it in the past? Because I remember every single detail.” He knew exactly when to pull back. He dropped the heavy nostalgia and seamlessly transitioned into a professional discussion about purchasing the artwork. We had only exchanged a few sentences about pricing when a chilling voice drifted from behind us. “Isla.”

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1 Two hours ago, Josh was still wearing a frayed cotton t-shirt. He kissed my forehead, wearing a perfectly guilty look. “Babe, sorry—I have to work a shift at the site today, even on my birthday,” he whispered. “When I get paid, I’ll take you to a nice dinner,” he added with a tense smile. For his birthday, I’d spent six months of savings on the drone he’d always wanted. I took a bus to the suburbs to test it and film a birthday surprise. The drone rose, and the live feed showed a stunning multimillion-dollar mansion. Its backyard was set for a luxurious birthday party. A little boy ran and hugged a man tightly, shouting, “Daddy!” The man lifted the boy with adoration, kissing his cheek. Beside them, a woman in silk adjusted the man’s expensive tie. They shared a slow, intimate kiss. The perfect family looked like a movie scene. But miles away, sitting in the grass, I stared at the screen, feeling thrown into ice. Through the clear lens, the man’s profile was unmistakable. It was my husband, Josh. … I gripped the controller so hard my knuckles turned white. A massive, suffocating wave of absurdity crashed over me. My hands shook violently as I dialed Josh’s number. On the live feed, the man who had just been smiling like a loving father felt his pocket vibrate. His expression immediately shifted. He quickly walked behind a massive marble pillar on the patio, making absolutely sure the mother and son could not see him before pulling out his phone. “Hey baby, why are you calling me right now?” Through the speaker, he intentionally breathed heavily, making his voice sound exhausted and out of breath. I stared right at his relaxed, completely composed face on my screen. I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself to stay calm. “Honey, it is your birthday today. Do you want me to bring you some food?” “No! Please don’t!” His tone grew urgent, dripping with fake, desperate apology. “The site manager is breathing down my neck. We are unloading cement right now. The dust is terrible, and I do not want you breathing it in. We will just have to skip my birthday this year. I am so sorry, babe.” On the screen, he was casually leaning against a cold marble pillar, lazily loosening the collar of his spotless, custom tailored suit. The second I hung up the phone, a heavy tear smashed onto my screen. Seven years of bleeding myself dry for this man had just morphed into a vicious slap across the face, shattering every single illusion I had ever built. I took a deep breath and pushed the joystick. The drone silently glided closer. I tapped the capture button, snapping crystal clear photos of the villa’s address plaque, the license plate of the Porsche parked in the driveway, and a front facing shot of the woman. After recalling the drone, I took another shaky breath and immediately sent the three photos to Riley, an old college friend who now worked in high-end real estate. I need you to look up the owner of this house and this car. It is an emergency. Less than five minutes later, Riley called me back. Her voice was thick with barely contained gossip. “Sienna, why are you digging into this? This is literally the most exclusive neighborhood in the city. Riverside Estates, Villa Eight. That is the marital home of Genevieve Kensington, the heiress to the Kensington Empire. The car is registered under her name too.” My hands and feet were freezing. My voice came out like cracked glass. “And her husband… what is his name?” “The heir to the Roth Group! Josh Roth!” Riley clicked her tongue through the speaker. “They had a massive corporate merger masquerading as a wedding five years ago. It was on the front page of every magazine. Hang on, I will send you a screenshot of the article right now.” My phone buzzed. A news clipping popped up on my screen. The bold headline read: Roth and Kensington Empires Unite. Josh Roth Spends Millions to Marry Genevieve Kensington. In the attached photo, the man wearing a bespoke tuxedo, smiling with aristocratic grace, was none other than the “broke” husband who ate cheap ramen with me in our tiny apartment every single night. I stared unblinkingly at the screen. The entire world started spinning. The heir to the Roth Group? Five years ago, he fell to his knees in front of me, covered in fake blood. He told me he made a catastrophic mistake at the construction site and destroyed a highly sensitive piece of equipment. He said if he did not pay them three hundred thousand dollars, he would rot in prison. To save him, I didn’t hesitate. I sold the only thing my dead parents left me, my childhood home, at a massive loss just to get him the cash. For the last seven years, he only gave me three hundred dollars a month for groceries. I was too terrified to even go to a doctor when I was sick. I worked three brutal jobs, burning my youth away to help him pay off a debt that never existed. He was never poor. He was a filthy rich heir playing a sick game. 2 I walked back into that claustrophobic, sunless, four hundred square foot apartment. I completely emptied the bottom drawer of my dresser to find our marriage certificate. I remembered the day we met seven years ago. He was just a “broke” college student working three jobs. But when I fell violently ill, he spent his last ten dollars to buy me fever medicine. I truly believed I had found the most genuine man on earth. I ate thousands of meals of plain pasta with him, believing I was supporting a struggling entrepreneur. I had no idea I was just a prop in his little game of house. I had cherished this little red booklet like a holy relic. I snapped a photo of the inside page and texted it to a friend who worked as a lawyer. Is this marriage license legally binding? The reply popped up in seconds. Your name is not in the system. This certificate is completely fake. It is the kind you buy off the street for twenty bucks. Those few words twisted in my chest like a rusted blade. Fake. I remembered the day we “signed” it. He was supposedly flat broke. He slipped the pull tab of an aluminum soda can onto my ring finger. With tears in his eyes, he swore to me. “Babe, I know you are suffering now. But one day, even if it kills me, I am going to make you the most envied Mrs. Roth in the entire world!” I was a sobbing mess back then. I thought that as long as we had love, this rotting apartment felt like a palace. For the last seven years, I worked three jobs a day for him. I ate boiled cabbage. I completely destroyed my physical health. From the very beginning, I was nothing but an illegal, non existent mistress. At eleven o’clock that night, the front door rattled. Josh walked in, wearing his dusty, cheap clothes. He even had realistic looking white drywall dust smeared on his pant legs. He was holding a tiny, five dollar grocery store cupcake. “Babe, I am home. The foreman absolutely refused to let me leave early. I am so sorry I put you through this life.” He walked toward me, his face painted with pure sorrow, opening his arms for a hug. Smelling the artificial dust he had deliberately rubbed on himself, I took a quiet half step back. I turned around, pulled the heavy box containing the DJI drone from the cabinet, and handed it to him. Josh froze. His eyes instantly welled up with tears. He grabbed my hands, his voice thick with emotion. “Babe, how much did this cost? We are still trying to save for a house down payment. You barely even eat meat to save pennies… Return it. I don’t deserve something this nice.” His acting was flawless. The guilt in his eyes was perfectly calibrated. But a split second later, without even opening the box to look at the drone, he casually tossed it onto the corner of our junk filled sofa. Of course he didn’t care. Why would a man who drove a Porsche to a luxury villa give a damn about a cheap, entry level toy? “I am going to take a shower. I am filthy.” He wiped a hand over his face and turned into our cramped bathroom. The shower water started running. My face was completely blank. I walked over to the table and picked up his backup phone, the one with the cracked screen. He guarded his passwords like his life depended on it, but I didn’t even try to unlock it. I woke the screen up and swiped right, pulling up the widget menu that didn’t require a passcode. The built-in health app displayed his step count for the day. 2105 steps. A manual laborer who spent the entire afternoon hauling cement only walked two thousand steps? I let out a cold laugh. My finger swiped further down, opening the smart travel widget cache. A navigation route that ended exactly two hours ago glared brightly on the screen. Destination: Riverside Estates, Villa Eight. From inside the bathroom, I could hear Josh happily humming a pop song over the running water. He was clearly in a fantastic mood. 3 The next morning, I put on a faded uniform and knocked on the grand front doors of Villa Eight in Riverside Estates, posing as a temp cleaner. The local domestic workers group chat had mentioned this house was desperately hiring extra hands for an upcoming fifth wedding anniversary party. With years of part time cleaning experience under my belt, I blended in perfectly. Genevieve had zero arrogance. When she saw me wiping down the jewelry cabinet in the master bedroom, she actually smiled and handed me a bottle of cold water. “Excuse me, could you please place that sapphire necklace back into the safe? I don’t want it gathering dust.” She looked at the blindingly bright necklace, her eyes softening with absolute adoration. “Three years ago, I had a massive hemorrhage after giving birth. My husband was terrified. He canceled a multi million dollar contract and stayed awake by my bed for half a month straight. He bought me this necklace as a blessing for my health.” Hearing the timeline of three years ago, the rag in my hand froze. My fingertips turned to ice. Three years ago, my appendix ruptured. I rolled around on the floor of our apartment, screaming in agony. Josh rushed me to the emergency room. He paid for the absolute cheapest bed available in the hallway. Right after, he answered his phone, sweating profusely. He held my hand, his eyes completely bloodshot. “Babe, the foreman says I have to lead the crew on this job, but he is offering double pay. I am going to grind for two weeks straight. When I get back, I will buy you all the meat you want to help you recover.” For those next two weeks, I dragged my unhealed, bleeding stitches out of bed to fetch my own hot water, crying from the sheer pain. But my heart ached entirely for him, thinking about him burning in the hot sun on a construction site. He was never hauling bricks. He was sitting in this perfectly air conditioned mansion, holding someone else’s hand, playing the deeply devoted husband. I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted hot blood, forcing a dry, hollow smile onto my face. “Your husband… is very generous to you.” Genevieve laughed softly, a blush creeping onto her cheeks. “Actually, he is incredibly frugal with himself. Aside from the fifteen thousand dollars he transfers to my account every month for household expenses, he refuses to even buy himself a nice watch. He always says having me is enough.” Fifteen thousand dollars a month. I stared blankly at that blinding sapphire necklace, feeling like a thousand arrows had just impaled my chest. On the first of every single month, Josh would transfer exactly three hundred dollars to my phone for living expenses. He would always say it with such deep affection. “Babe, I know it is hard, but please budget carefully. I am putting the rest of my wages into a locked savings account for our future house. Once we get through these tough years, we will never have to live in this dump again.” To make those three hundred dollars stretch, I ignored my illnesses. I never bought new clothes. I intentionally dug through the bruised, expired vegetables at the farmer’s market just to save cents. It was hilarious. The future I had sacrificed half my life to save for was nothing but the loose change he dropped while transferring thousands to this woman. After Genevieve walked downstairs to take a phone call, I swallowed the tears burning in my eyes and pushed open the door to the study. On the massive mahogany desk sat a professional portrait of their family of three. Josh was wearing a bespoke suit. His smile was refined and considerate. There was absolutely no trace of the pathetic, humble poor man he played in our apartment. And resting inside a half open drawer was a flash of bright crimson. My hands violently shook as I pulled the drawer open. Inside were two gold embossed marriage certificates. I flipped the cover open. The embossed steel seal was crystal clear. The red stamp from the civil affairs bureau was authentic. The names were written in black ink. Josh Roth and Genevieve Kensington. Date of registration: five years ago. So this is what a real marriage certificate looked like. I pulled out my phone and took high resolution photos of the family portrait and the real marriage license. When my phone screen went dark, the black glass reflected my own face. A body completely drained, withered, and yellowed by seven years of brutal poverty. I looked like a walking, talking joke. 4 Three days later, Josh’s fifth wedding anniversary party was held at a premier luxury estate on the outskirts of the city. At six in the morning, wearing his frayed t-shirt, he kissed my cheek. “Babe, I am heading to the site. Do not wait up for me for dinner tonight.” I looked at his disgusting, hypocritical face and smiled, handing him a bowl of cheap, plain noodles. “Okay. Be safe out there.” The second he walked out the door, I grabbed my coat and followed him. I watched with my own two eyes as he walked into the dark, second level basement of our apartment complex. He sneakily climbed into the backseat of a dust covered, beat up minivan. A few minutes later, the man who stepped out of that van had miraculously transformed. He was now President Roth, dressed in impeccable tailoring with perfectly styled hair. At eight o’clock that night, I stood at the entrance of the estate’s magnificent banquet hall. The room was filled with the scent of expensive perfume and the soft, elegant melody of live violins. Josh had changed into a custom Armani suit. Not a single hair was out of place. A fifty thousand dollar watch rested on his wrist. He was standing by a massive champagne tower, looking at Genevieve with profound, undeniable devotion. “These past five years, Genevieve has been the absolute light of my life. Without her, I would not be the man I am today.” He raised his crystal flute, delivering a flawless romantic confession. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, showering the perfect billionaire couple with praise. I let out a cold laugh and walked straight into the room. I was wearing my cheap, mass produced windbreaker and faded jeans. The soles of my shoes were still stained with the muddy water from outside my apartment building. I wore zero makeup. In this room full of diamonds and silk, I looked like a feral animal crashing a royal ball. The loud, chaotic chatter of the hall instantly died. Every single pair of eyes locked onto me like I was a freak of nature. On the stage, Josh’s gaze swept over the crowd. The exact second he recognized my face, his perfect smile froze. All the blood drained from his cheeks. He instinctively took a massive step backward. His hand jerked so violently that champagne splashed all over his expensive lapel. “Where did this crazy woman come from!” Josh pointed a shaking finger at me, screaming into a nearby security radio with absolute panic. “Where is security! What am I paying you for! Drag this lunatic out of here!” Several men in sharp security uniforms immediately rushed toward me, reaching out to grab my arms. I didn’t try to run. Instead, I casually grabbed a heavy bottle of red wine from the nearest table and smashed it directly into the towering glass champagne pyramid. The deafening sound of shattering crystal echoed through the silent hall. Dark red wine bled into the pristine white carpet like fresh blood. The security guards were completely paralyzed by my sudden violence. They stopped in their tracks. The little three year old boy burst into terrified tears. He ran over and hugged Josh’s leg tightly, crying out for his daddy. Looking at that kid’s face, which shared a striking resemblance to Josh’s, I remembered the baby I had miscarried years ago from hauling heavy boxes at my second job. The hatred burning in my chest turned into an inferno. Genevieve furrowed her brows. She pushed past the frozen guards and walked right up to me. She was clearly unhappy, but her wealthy upbringing kept her tone relatively polite. “Miss, I believe you have the wrong venue. This is a private event.” “I am exactly where I need to be, Genevieve.” I looked right past her, locking my eyes entirely on the trembling man on the stage. I unzipped my cheap windbreaker, reached into my inner pocket, and pulled out a thick stack of photos along with that pathetic red booklet. I slammed them violently onto the nearest dining table. They were photos of us crammed into our four hundred square foot apartment, right next to the fake marriage certificate he had bought for me. “The man standing on that stage, the one who just swore he only loved you for his entire life, ate a bowl of plain boiled noodles I cooked for him just this morning!” My voice was shaking, but every word struck like a hammer. “I know he has a birthmark the size of a quarter on his lower left back! And this morning, I watched him crawl into a broken down minivan in my apartment’s basement, take off his dirty t-shirt, and change into the exact suit he is wearing right now!” The entire banquet hall was dead silent. You could clearly hear the sharp gasps of the wealthy guests. Genevieve whipped her head around, staring at Josh in absolute disbelief. Josh was shaking uncontrollably. Cold sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping onto the floor. His lips trembled, but he couldn’t force a single syllable out of his throat. Looking at him standing there like a pathetic, cornered rat, I felt an incredibly satisfying, yet deeply tragic rush of adrenaline. My eyes burned hot with tears. I took a massive step forward, staring right into his terrified eyes, and asked the question slowly, word by word. “Honey, you clearly married me seven years ago. So what exactly is this fifth anniversary you are celebrating today?!”

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