My temperature was hovering at 103.6 degrees. I lay pinned beneath the heavy duvet, stripped of the strength to even lift my head from the sweat-dampened pillows. My newlywed husband, Theodore, stood in the doorway of our bedroom. His face was a mask of cold detachment as he informed me he was about to board a thirteen-hour flight to London to bring Melody back. He told me he had waited five years for that woman, and now, finally, the opportunity had arrived—she was getting a divorce and bringing her kids back to the States. He told me to be reasonable. To act my age. Just take some Tylenol, sleep off the fever, and don’t cause trouble. Trembling, I pushed myself up on one elbow, my eyelashes fluttering uncontrollably against the burning heat in my eyes. I looked at him and said that yes, it must be terribly hard for Melody to raise three children all by herself. I told him he should go. His knuckles whitened around the handle of his carry-on. The tight knot between his brows seemed to loosen just a fraction, a fleeting flicker of something resembling guilt crossing his features. But it vanished instantly, replaced by a stern warning. As long as I behaved from now on—as long as I stopped trying to snoop through his phone and stopped calling Melody—he would graciously fulfill his marital obligations with me once every three months. Snoop through his phone? That happened exactly once, three years ago, right before our engagement. I had accidentally seen a text he sent her: I will wait five years for you. The sheer betrayal of it had made me physically ill, to the point of throwing up. For the past two years, I hadn’t so much as glanced at his screen. And as for my supposed “constant calls” to the ghost of his past? I had stopped reaching out to Melody eighteen months ago. 1 The second the bedroom door clicked shut, the blankets beneath me were abruptly thrown back. Wyatt’s damp, fever-warm lips pressed directly against the pulse point of my neck. “Cece,” he murmured, his voice a low, raspy purr against my skin. “Am I not keeping you satisfied enough? Why do you even care about the scraps that guy throws you?” Panting softly, I pushed against his chest. “You’re burning up with a fever too. We need to stop for today.” Wyatt wasn’t having it. He caught my hand, pressing it back down, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. “Don’t you want to see what 103 degrees feels like, Cece? I read online that sweating it out with a little cardio is the best cure for a cold.” I pulled my hand back. His eyes dropped. He looked exactly like a kicked puppy as he slowly released me and slipped out of the bed. Right at that moment, my phone chimed on the nightstand. It was a text from Theodore. Cecilia, Melody’s foreign husband was physically abusive. I’m terrified that animal is going to hurt her and the three kids again. I have to go get her this time, but I swear on my life, this is the last time. Wait for me. Staring at the glowing screen, a hollow laugh caught in my throat. The last time? How many “last times” had there been? I had lost count. I only vaguely remembered the very first time. It was raining sideways. I was shivering violently from a fever, begging him to run to the pharmacy. He was in such a panic to help me that he rushed out into the downpour without an umbrella. But halfway there, he got a call from Melody. She said her morning sickness had finally passed, and she was desperately craving a specific tiramisu. At one in the morning, my fiancé drove across every borough of the city, hunting down a pastry for the woman who sat upon a pedestal in his mind, pregnant with another man’s child. He completely forgot about the woman he was supposed to marry, who was passing out from a fever in his home, waiting for her medicine. Thank God the housekeeper found me and called an ambulance. The doctor said if I had arrived a minute later, the fever would have caused permanent brain damage. Afterward, Theodore came to the hospital to apologize. He pleaded with me to understand—Melody was pregnant, her husband was awful to her, her life was a tragedy. He needed me to be empathetic. From that day on, whether it was a designer bag I had my eye on, a dinner reservation, or a vacation spot, Theodore always asked me to be empathetic. To give it up for Melody, because her life was so hard. Back then, I reasoned that ours was an arranged marriage to merge our families’ assets anyway. If my husband’s heart belonged to someone else, I would just focus on having a child of my own to anchor me. On our wedding night, I swallowed my pride. I even took a little something to lower my inhibitions and set the mood. I managed to draw Theodore in; his eyes darkened with desire as he pinned me to the mattress. But the universe has a cruel sense of humor. His phone, discarded on the rug, began to ring. It was the custom ringtone he had set exclusively for her. I clung to his arm, my voice thick with desperation. “Please. I took something… don’t leave.” He let out a soft chuckle, his breath hot against my ear. “I wouldn’t leave you. Tonight is our wedding night. I’m just going to check the message.” He wasn’t lying about the first part. He only looked at the screen for a second. But then he pulled away from me without a shred of hesitation. “Melody’s triplets are crying and refuse to sleep. If I don’t get on a flight to London to sing them to sleep, her husband is going to get angry and hit her again! Cecilia, please, just pity her this one last time. Let me go.” That night, my heart felt like it was caught in a vice, slowly crushed into dust. But now… I stared at the words last time on my screen, the corner of my mouth curling up. I locked the phone and tossed it onto the mattress. I was about to get up to wash my face when the phone buzzed again. A video file from Melody. In the video, three identical little boys were swarming Theodore, calling him “Daddy.” He scooped all three of them into his arms, his laughter echoing brightly. On the sofa behind them sat his parents, his sister, and even his family’s golden retriever, tail wagging against the floorboards. A picture-perfect family. Warm, complete. A family that simply didn’t include me. My smile deepened, though beneath it, I felt absolutely nothing. The numbness was total. Suddenly, the doorbell downstairs rang out, shattering the quiet. Frowning, I pulled a heavy cardigan over my shoulders and made my way down the stairs to the foyer. I pulled the door open. “Wyatt, you coming over once while you’re sick is enough…” A tall shadow fell over me, blocking out the porch light. “Who is Wyatt?” 2 I looked up, stunned, straight into Theodore’s deeply suspicious face. “You didn’t go to London?” He shifted his weight, suddenly looking defensive. “Melody bought an earlier ticket and got on a flight. She told me to wait for her here.” He stepped into the house, his eyes boring into mine. “Who is Wyatt? I thought you were too sick to get out of bed?” I looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Wyatt was the neighbor boy, six years my junior. On my wedding night, after Theodore had abandoned me for Melody, the aphrodisiac I had taken began to course through my veins. Dizzy and burning, I stumbled down the stairs, rolled my ankle, and fell right into Wyatt’s arms as he was coming up the walk. He had caught me effortlessly. The sheer, overwhelming scent of him—young, vital, undeniably masculine—had wrapped around me like an invisible net. The boy had gotten a taste of something he liked, and ever since, he had constantly found excuses to intertwine himself in my life, teasing me with his dangerous little games. Today, he had shown up at my door burning with a fever. I couldn’t bear to turn him away, so I… I never expected Theodore to suddenly abort his trip and come home. I opened my mouth, ready to just confess and blow the whole thing up, when a weak voice drifted from behind me. “It’s me.” Wyatt was curled up on the living room sofa, looking for all the world like an abandoned stray. Panic spiked in my chest. I turned to rush over to him, but Theodore grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “What is your relationship with him? Why is he inside our house?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp. “Can’t you see he’s sick?” Ignoring Theodore, I hurried over to the sofa and pressed the back of my hand to Wyatt’s forehead. He was radiating heat. Anxiety overriding everything else, I turned back to Theodore. “There’s a thermometer in the cabinet to your right. Grab it for me.” Theodore exploded. He pointed a shaking finger at Wyatt. “Who the hell is he?! Why should I get anything for him? Cecilia, tell me right now—is he your damn affair partner?” The words caught in my throat. If we were keeping score, Theodore was the one having the affair. Three years ago, at our engagement party, he ditched me to run to Melody. I was so crushed by his “wait five years” text that I delayed signing our actual marriage certificate, pushing it until after the wedding ceremony. And then came the wedding night abandonment. After Wyatt and I spent that chaotic, feverish night together, the younger man had tangled his fingers in the ends of my hair, looking at me with wide, wounded eyes. “Cece, you aren’t one of those heartless women who play with my body and then refuse to take responsibility, are you?” Cornered by guilt and a strange, reckless spite, I went with him the next morning and signed the papers. When I walked out of City Hall holding that marriage certificate, I tried calling Theodore. He didn’t answer. I sent a text, only to see it bounce back. That was how I found out he had blocked my number. And so, the mess had dragged on until today. Seeing my silence, Theodore took it as a confession. His anger erupted into an inferno. “Cecilia! You cheat on me, and then you bring your boy-toy into my house?! What kind of sick joke is this?!” Instinctively, I moved to cover Wyatt’s ears to shield him from the shouting. That only enraged Theodore more. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a tiny golden retriever puppy trotting out from behind the sofa. He looked like he was about to faint. “Cecilia, I am allergic to dog hair!” I dropped my hands, shooting him a look of pure exhaustion. “I know. Can you just act like a rational adult? You’re going to scare Wyatt and the puppy.” Brushing past him, I retrieved the thermometer myself, gently placing it under Wyatt’s arm. Theodore’s chest heaved. He followed me, mouth open to scream again, but was cut off by the sharp trill of the doorbell. Melody walked in, wheeling a massive suitcase, three little boys trailing timidly behind her. “Theo, I don’t want to ruin the harmony of your marriage. If Cecilia is uncomfortable with me and the kids moving in, I can take them to a hotel.” On the sofa, Wyatt opened his fever-bright eyes and weakly tugged at my sleeve. “Cece… I know I’m sick and have nowhere else to go, but if Theo minds, I can take the puppy and leave, too.” 3 The moment the three boys saw Theodore, they swarmed him, chanting, “Daddy!” He shot me a guilty look, coaxing the kids toward Melody before reaching out to pat my arm in what was supposed to be a soothing manner. “Melody and the kids just got off a thirteen-hour flight. Staying in a hotel is too difficult for them right now, so I told them they could stay here. Just be empathetic, okay?” The old me would have turned on my heel, locked myself in my bedroom, and cried myself to sleep, agonizing over why he constantly demanded that I bend over backward for everyone else’s comfort. But now… Without a word, I checked the thermometer Wyatt handed back to me. “Wyatt is at 104 degrees, and he has nowhere to stay. Pity him just this once. He’s staying here.” Theodore’s face went livid. “Cecilia! Get a grip on reality! Who did you marry three months ago?! How can you let another man stay in our house?!” Before I could find the words to respond, Melody stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Theodore’s arm. “Theo, the kids have been flying for over half a day. They’re exhausted.” Right on cue, the three boys clung to his legs, whining in unison. “Daddy, I want a bath!” “I want to wash my hair!” “I have to pee!” Theodore’s anger evaporated. He smiled down at them, scooped the smallest one up, and headed straight up the stairs without so much as a backward glance. I didn’t waste any more energy on him. I gave Wyatt some ibuprofen and brought down a heavy quilt, tucking it securely around him. After sitting with him for half an hour, his fever finally broke. Looking much more lucid, he watched the puppy lick the toe of my slipper and offered an apologetic smile. “I think he’s hungry.” Understanding immediately, I went into the kitchen to prepare some food. Just as I turned off the stove and was heading back to the living room, I nearly collided with Theodore in the hallway. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking intensely uncomfortable. “The kids finished their baths. They smelled whatever you were cooking and said they’re starving.” I gave him a brief nod and tried to step around him. His face instantly darkened. He threw his arm out, blocking my path. “Cecilia, I know you’re furious that I didn’t discuss moving Melody and the kids in with you first. But the children are innocent. You shouldn’t take it out on them, right?” I let out a long breath, turned around, took the lid off the small pot, and held it up to his face. “This is dog food. If they want some, they’re welcome to it.” Theodore’s jaw snapped shut. He turned sideways to let me pass, but just as I stepped into the living room, Wyatt walked toward us holding a stunning azure-blue ceramic bowl. Theodore’s eyes bulged. “Cecilia! That is my prized Qing Dynasty porcelain! It’s worth millions! And you’re using it to feed a dog?!” “Oh, Snowball always eats out of this bowl,” Wyatt chimed in innocently, then clapped a hand over his mouth, looking at me in shock. “Cece, I just thought it was a pretty dish. I had no idea…” I reached out to pat Wyatt’s arm soothingly, shooting Theodore an icy glare. “It’s a set of six. You still have five left, don’t you?” “No! That porcelain is my life!” I took a deep, steadying breath and pointed a finger toward the top of the stairs, where Melody was standing, wearing my custom-made pink bunny slippers. “And she is wearing my favorite shoes!” Theodore opened his mouth to formulate an excuse, but Melody’s sweet, helpless voice drifted down the stairs. “Theo? The kids are crying. They want you to read them a bedtime story.” He deflated, casting me a look heavy with manufactured guilt. “Wash the bowl and put it away. I promise you, this is the last time. Let me just get the kids to sleep, and then we will sit down and have a real talk, okay?” With that, he jogged up the stairs. I acted like I hadn’t heard a word, pulling Wyatt into the kitchen to feed the dog. By the time I finished cleaning up, it was late into the night. I took a moment to mentally brace myself for the confrontation, then pushed open the door to the master bedroom. Theodore was slumped at the foot of the bed, throwing back a glass of straight scotch. I marched over and snatched the bottle from the nightstand. “It smells disgusting in here. Who gave you permission to drink in the bedroom?” He let out a boozy hiccup, his eyes swimming as he looked up at me. “Cecilia… I know you. You’re not the kind of woman who would actually cheat… I’m the one who kept failing you. I’m the one who broke your heart.” As he spoke, his voice grew thick with tears. I frowned, taking a step back in sheer disgust. He immediately dropped to his knees and slapped himself hard across the cheek. “It’s all my fault. It’s on me. Tomorrow, I will make Melody pack up and take the kids to a hotel. No matter what happens from now on, I will only look at you.” He looked up, an expression of profound martyrdom on his face. Then, as if seized by inspiration, he lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around my legs. “Cecilia, since our engagement, I know I’ve barely… performed as a husband. Let me make it up to you tonight. Let’s finally have our wedding night. Please?” He sounded so terribly earnest. The words I had been holding in my throat—I’m legally married to someone else—suddenly felt too cruel to say in that exact moment. But then, a voice called out from the hallway. “Wife? Are you done talking to the old man yet?”

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Richard’s phantom of a son, who had supposedly been wasting away in a European sanatorium for years, returned to the States abruptly. Today was the day he was set to take over the Whitmore family empire. I arrived at the corporate headquarters just in time to witness him kick three embezzling board members off the edge of the penthouse roof terrace, sending them plummeting into the glass-bottomed pool a story below. Richard, my elderly husband, stood by, clutching his chest and gasping for air in pure outrage. Terrified, I immediately ducked my head, trying to shrink into my designer coat, terrified to make a sound. But the new heir simply turned his head, a slow, predatory smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. “Hello, step-mom. It’s been a while.” I froze, the blood draining from my face. The face looking back at me belonged to the suffocating, hopelessly clingy VIP companion I had blocked on my phone just days ago. When I married that decaying old billionaire, the suffocating loneliness of a sexless marriage had finally broken me. Desperate for a distraction, I went to an exclusive, discreet underground club and put a young, devastatingly handsome escort with a sculpted eight-pack on my clandestine payroll. He had been exceptionally dedicated when it came to pleasing me in bed. But outside of it, he was unbearable. He clung to me like a shadow, constantly demanding my attention, whining when I wasn’t around. I grew entirely sick of his neediness. To avoid him, I started filling my days with charity luncheons and endless rounds of day-drinking at the country club with the other society wives. He couldn’t handle the radio silence. One day, he actually lost his temper, shouting through the phone, “Am I not enough for you?! Why do you have to constantly go out looking for other thrills?!” The sheer headache of his possessiveness was the final straw. I cut ties and vanished. Who could have possibly predicted that my incredibly needy, insanely jealous boy toy was actually my legendary, “chronically ill” stepson? … 1 Richard whipped his head around to glare at me, his eyes practically bugging out of his skull with suspicion. “You two know each other?” I shook my head with the frantic energy of a cornered animal. “No! Absolutely not! I spend every day at the estate taking care of you, Richard. How on earth would I have ever crossed paths with your son?” Tim let out a dark, velvety chuckle. Before I could blink, he stepped forward and yanked me right out from behind Richard’s frail frame. “Is that so? Then how is it that the haute couture dress my step-mom is wearing right now was paid for with my black card last week?” Richard’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he collapsed directly onto the terrace floor. Total chaos erupted. Paramedics and private doctors swarmed the rooftop, loading the old man onto a stretcher to rush him to the private elevator. In the pandemonium, I tried to wrench my wrist out of Tim’s iron grip. Instead of letting go, he spun me around and pinned me back against the glass balustrade. Dozens of stories of empty air stretched out directly beneath my heels. My knees turned to water. “Running away?” He pinched my chin, his fingers rough, forcing my gaze up to meet his. “Off to the country club, are we? Why aren’t you going?” I swallowed hard, forcing the tremor out of my voice. “Tim. Please compose yourself. I am your mother in the eyes of the law.” “Mother?” Tim sneered, his thumb dragging slowly across my lower lip. “Funny. You didn’t seem to remember that when you were begging for it in my bed.” Heat violently rushed to my cheeks. The man was a lunatic. We were in public, and he was casually dropping landmines. “That was a misunderstanding,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “I paid for a companion named Tim at the club. How was I supposed to know the heir to the Whitmore throne had a fetish for playing the gigolo?” Tim’s eyes darkened to the color of storm clouds. He dipped his head and bit down hard on my lip. The sharp tang of copper instantly flooded my mouth. I gasped in pain, raising my hand to slap him across the face. Fast and brutal, he caught my wrists and pinned them squarely behind my back. “A misunderstanding? You slept with me for three months, used me up, and thought you could just disappear? Did you really think I’d let you off that easily, Margot?” Heavy, chaotic footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor. Connor, Richard’s favorite illegitimate son, came storming onto the terrace with a pack of bodyguards in tow. Connor practically ran the Whitmore estate like a tyrant. He had never once hidden his utter disdain for me. “Margot! You bitch! My father barely gets back from Europe and you give him a heart attack? What, are you praying he drops dead today so you can swallow the inheritance?!” I shot him a look of absolute ice. Tim released me, slowly drawing a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab the smear of my blood from his lip. Only then did Connor seem to register Tim’s presence. The color drained from the younger man’s face for a fraction of a second, but he quickly puffed out his chest, trying to project a dominance he didn’t possess. “Tim. You’ve been out of the country too long. You don’t know what this woman really is. She’s a gold-digger. She spends my father’s money keeping a stable of boy toys on the side!” Blind to the danger, Connor took a step closer. “Today, I’m going to do my father a favor and teach this shameless—” He never finished the sentence. Tim’s long leg lashed out, his bespoke shoe burying itself deep into Connor’s abdomen. Connor let out a strangled, breathless shriek, flying backward like a broken doll and crashing violently against the marble wall. “Since when,” Tim said, his voice dropping to a lethally quiet register, “does a bastard son get to discipline anyone in my house?” 2 Connor curled into a fetal position, groaning in agony on the floor. The bodyguards he had brought exchanged terrified glances. Not a single one dared to move a muscle. I rubbed my reddened wrists, a fierce, secret satisfaction blooming in my chest. That spoiled brat had made my life a living hell. Seeing him finally kick a hornet’s nest was intoxicating. Tim turned his head, his heavy gaze landing back on me. “Let’s go, step-mom.” He leaned heavily into the title. A violent shiver crawled down my spine. “Go where?” “To Mount Sinai. To pay our respects to my dying father, obviously,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Outside the VIP suite at the hospital, the extended Whitmore clan was gathered in a sprawling, miserable circle, looking like a flock of vultures waiting for the end. Dora, Richard’s eldest daughter—who was a full two decades older than me—marched right up to me, the sharp click of her Louboutins echoing like gunshots. “Margot, you absolute parasite! My father was perfectly fine. You show up, and his heart fails? What exactly did you do to him?!” I rolled my eyes, the exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “Careful, Dora. Defamation doesn’t look good on you. Your father had an episode because he watched his precious son kick a board member off a roof. What does that have to do with me?” “Don’t you dare talk back to me!” Dora raised a heavily ringed hand to strike me. I didn’t even flinch. I snatched a long-stemmed Baccarat rose from a nearby vase and whipped it directly across her face. “Ah!” Dora shrieked, clutching her cheek. Angry red scratches swelled across the back of her hand where the thorns had caught her. “You hit me?! Guards! Restrain this bitch right now!” Several of the family’s security detail immediately surged forward. I took a step back, only to collide with a wall of solid muscle. Tim’s arm snaked around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest, shielding me entirely. He didn’t even bother to look up. He just let a single word drop into the dead silence of the hallway. “Leave.” The bodyguards froze, turning into statues. Dora was shaking with rage. “Tim! What are you doing?! She’s an outsider!” Tim let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Dora. Legally speaking, she is my mother. She’s hardly an outsider. You, on the other hand, are barking in a hospital corridor with a pack of rented thugs. You’re embarrassing the family.” Dora’s face cycled through shades of red and white. Jaw clenched so tight I thought her teeth might crack, she signaled her men and stormed off. As the crowd dispersed, only Tim and I were left in the sterile quiet of the hall. I pushed against his chest, trying to break free, but his arm only tightened around me. He lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “I just saved you. How are you going to thank me?” “What do you want?” I asked, my body rigid with caution. “Tonight. My room.” I let out a bitter, incredulous laugh. “Tim, get a grip on reality. I am your stepmother. You want me in your bed in your father’s house? Aren’t you afraid of the scandal?” “Stepmother?” He scoffed softly. “You certainly didn’t call yourself that when we were tangled in the sheets. You thought I was too clingy, didn’t you? Tonight, I’m going to show you exactly how ruthless I can be.” I didn’t go to his room, obviously. I loved money, yes, but I valued my life far more. Tim was a rabid dog who now held the absolute power of life and death over the Whitmore empire. I wanted to be on a different continent from him, let alone voluntarily walk into his bedroom. At ten o’clock that night, I slipped into dark, unassuming clothes and snuck out through the service entrance of the estate. I met my best friend, Gemma, at a dimly lit speakeasy downtown. “Margot, the rumors are insane. Your phantom stepson is back? Is he as hot as they say?” I took a massive gulp of my martini, wincing as the gin burned down my throat. “Hot doesn’t matter when the man is a certified psychopath.” Gemma leaned in close over the candlelight. “What happened? Did he threaten you? Look, the old man is on his deathbed. You need an exit strategy. If things go south, we pack our bags and vanish.” I let out a hollow sigh. “My black cards are frozen. I’m completely broke.” Before Gemma could reply, the heavy mahogany door of our private booth was kicked entirely off its hinges. Men in black suits flooded the room, flanking the doorway. Tim stepped through the frame. He wore a black silk button-down, the collar unfastened, looking like a dark god of vengeance. The jazz music in the room was abruptly cut. Gemma dropped her glass; it shattered on the floor. He walked straight toward me, his eyes burning with an intense, suffocating heat. “I told you to come to my room. Did you think I was making a suggestion?” 3 I forced myself to hold his gaze, gripping the edge of the table to hide my shaking hands. “I came out to have a drink with my friend. Is that a crime?” He let out a sharp, cold laugh, leaned down, and effortlessly hauled me over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “A drink? Or were you out hunting for my replacement?” “Ah! What are you doing?! Put me down!” I fought like hell, hammering my fists against the hard plane of his back. He didn’t even flinch. He just carried me out, his strides long and unbothered. Gemma tried to step in, but one dead-eyed look from a bodyguard rooted her to the spot. “Tim! You absolute bastard! Let me go!” He carried me straight out of the club and shoved me into the cavernous backseat of his waiting Phantom. The heavy car door slammed shut, instantly severing us from the noise of the city street. The privacy partition was up. The cabin was pitch black and stiflingly intimate. He lunged forward, his weight pressing me deep into the leather upholstery, trapping me completely. “Margot. Did you really mistake my patience for weakness?” “I gave you an out. You’re the one who threw it away.” “You’re out of your mind! We are done! You lied to me, pretended to be some club escort—I haven’t even made you pay for that yet!” A low, vibrating laugh rumbled in his chest. His hands gripped the lapels of my blouse, and with one sharp, violent tug, he tore it open. Buttons ricocheted off the tinted windows. “Done? I never said we were done. Who gave you the right to end things?” I scrambled to cover my chest, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. “Tim! You’re insane! We’re in a car!” “And?” He dipped his head, his teeth grazing my collarbone, leaving a stinging mark. “You always liked a thrill. Tonight, I’ll make sure you get enough adrenaline to last a lifetime.” He took me apart in the back of that car for hours. The man was relentless, driven by a raw, pent-up violence, punishing me for leaving him. By the time the Rolls Royce pulled back into the Whitmore estate, my legs couldn’t even support my own weight. He threw me onto the center of his massive bed. I curled into a tight ball beneath the silk duvet, my entire body trembling. Tim stood at the foot of the bed, methodically pulling off his tie. “Starting tonight, you live in this room. You do not take a single step outside without my explicit permission.” I bit down on my lip, glaring at him through a mess of tangled hair. “This is kidnapping.” He scoffed. “Call the police, then. Let’s see which judge in this city has the spine to take that case.” For the next few days, my gilded cage became a literal prison. Meals were brought in on silver trays. Two men stood guard outside the mahogany doors twenty-four hours a day. During the day, Tim went to the glass towers to dismantle his father’s company. At night, he returned to dismantle me. He was like an engine that never ran out of fuel, relentlessly trying to break me down, trying to force me to say I regretted leaving him. But I refused. I might have married for money, but my spine wasn’t made of glass. I wasn’t going to let him break me. One afternoon, a violent commotion erupted outside the bedroom doors. “Get out of my way! I demand to see that little whore!” It was Dora. The guards couldn’t legally lay hands on her, and the double doors burst open. When she saw me lounging against Tim’s pillows in his silk pajamas, her eyes looked ready to bleed. “You shameless parasite! My father isn’t even cold in the ground yet, and you’re already warming his son’s bed!” I shifted lazily against the headboard, not even bothering to sit up. “Dora, darling, get your eyes checked. Your brother is the one keeping me locked in here. If you have an issue, take it up with him.” Dora sneered, her face twisting into something ugly. “Don’t try to use him as a shield! You’re just a shiny new toy to him. Let’s see how much he likes you when he sees these!” She hurled a thick stack of glossy photographs onto the bed. I picked one up. The blood rushed from my head. They were high-resolution surveillance photos of me at hotels, kissing and sleeping with other men. And right beneath them was a sheaf of offshore asset transfer agreements. They clearly documented me liquidating three of Richard’s private estates and two commercial high-rises, transferring the funds to an untraceable account. At the bottom of the page was my exact signature, right next to my own thumbprint. Before I could even open my mouth to defend myself, Dora cut me off. “Drag her out! The entire family board is convened downstairs. Today, I am going to rip your reputation to shreds in front of everyone!” 4 I fought the guards with everything I had, but it was useless. The grand foyer was packed with the entire Whitmore board and extended family. Even Richard had been wheeled out, an oxygen mask strapped to his pale face. I was shoved violently to the floor right at the foot of his wheelchair. “Dad! Look at what this venomous snake has been doing behind your back!” Dora enthusiastically passed the doctored photos and the forged financial documents around to the relatives. The old man read them, his hands shaking so violently he nearly dropped the paper. He raised his silver-tipped cane and swung it down hard toward my shoulder. “Poison! I gave you everything, and you humiliate me with cheap street trash!” The whispers erupted around the room like a swarm of locusts. “No wonder she always dressed like she belonged in a red-light district.” “We need to cut her off completely. Have her thrown out onto the street with nothing.” Listening to the venomous gossip, I braced my hands against the marble, ready to push myself up and tear into them. But before I could, the temperature in the room plummeted. Tim had returned. He stepped directly in front of me, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like a scythe. “Father. Your heart can’t take this kind of stress. You really should calm down.” Dora panicked. “Tim! You’re still protecting her?! She stole from the family to fund her filthy affairs!” Tim completely ignored her. He looked down at me. I was sitting on the cold floor, my hair a mess, the silk pajama top torn at the shoulder, looking like absolute collateral damage. He quietly shrugged off his bespoke suit jacket and draped it over my shoulders, wrapping me up completely. “Since when,” he asked softly, “does anyone here have the right to touch what belongs to me?” Connor, practically vibrating with triumphant malice, hopped forward. “Tim, the proof is right here! And we even caught the bastard she was sleeping with! He’s right outside!” He snapped his fingers. Two guards dragged in a bruised, battered man who looked like he’d been beaten in an alleyway. The moment the man saw me, he burst into theatrical tears. “Margot! Save me! You told me the old man was going to die soon! You promised you were transferring the money so we could run away together!” A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat. The production value on this setup was truly impressive. Before I could even utter a word of defense, Richard wheezed from his chair. “Guards. Beat him to a pulp. And throw her out. If she dies in the cold, we’ll call it a suicide out of shame.” The room murmured their dark agreement. I clenched my jaw, tilting my head back to look at Tim. Our eyes locked. He stared down at me, his expression an unreadable, flawless mask. Just as the bodyguards grabbed my arms, Tim let out a low, chilling laugh. “It’s fascinating,” he mused, “I didn’t realize I had been demoted to the status of a ‘cheap street trash’ affair.” He bent down, hooked his hands under my arms, and lifted me effortlessly to my feet, settling me into a plush velvet armchair. Then, he turned to the room, his voice dangerously calm. “Now. Would someone care to explain to me where exactly these photos and documents came from?” He let the silence stretch until it was suffocating. “Because I was under the impression that none of you ever wanted to experience the consequences of crossing me again.” Whatever memory he triggered in Dora and Connor caused the remaining color to drain completely from their faces. Their bodies visibly began to tremble.

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It turns out my fate had been sealed from the very beginning. No matter what I did, it was always going to be the wrong choice. A voice had suddenly echoed in my mind, sterile and mechanical, informing me that my role as the tragic supporting character in this story had come to an end. It told me that if I just chose to die, I could exit this world completely. I agreed without a second thought. Because living like this was infinitely worse than whatever peace death could offer. It took me three agonizing years to escape my abductors and find my way back home. But in the short three months since my return, scenes like this had played out at least ten times. This time, it was my adopted sister, Kelsey, who “accidentally” poured a pan of boiling oil over my neck and shoulder. I remember thrashing on the kitchen floor, my screams tearing through my own throat as the agony swallowed me alive. Yet, the last thing I saw before passing out was seared into my brain: my parents frantically shielding Kelsey, while my older brother, Tim, treated the tiny grease blister on Kelsey’s hand like a life-threatening casualty. When I clawed my way back from the gates of hell and woke up in the hospital, the first thing I heard was Tim’s voice. He wasn’t asking if I was okay. He was reprimanding me for making Kelsey worry, claiming she had been crying her eyes out over my safety while her own hand throbbed in pain. My mother, Carol, sat at the edge of my bed, urging me not to hold a grudge. She was just trying to make you a late-night snack, she murmured. It’s your fault for walking into the kitchen so quietly. You startled her. Kelsey peeked out from behind my mother’s back, her face half-hidden as she offered a trembling apology, calling herself clumsy. But my memory wasn’t broken. I remembered the exact moment the boiling oil hit my skin. I remembered screaming. And I remembered the distinct, undeniable smirk on Kelsey’s face as she watched me burn. When I refused to speak, my father, Richard, darkened his expression. He lectured me on being the bigger person. Your wounds will heal with time, he said, his voice heavy with disappointment. But the psychological trauma Kelsey suffered tonight is far more severe. I laid in that hospital bed for half a month. My body was a landscape of unbearable agony, yet my own flesh and blood only cared about extracting my forgiveness. During those three years in the dark, I had fantasized about coming home a million times. It was never supposed to be like this. … 1 Transaction complete. Wishing the host… a pleasant death. As the mechanical voice faded from my mind, the turbulent waves of bitterness, confusion, grievance, and rage that had been drowning me suddenly receded. I felt incredibly light. Parents who only had eyes for their adopted daughter. A brother who was blind to the truth. If Kelsey wanted it all so badly, she could have it. I didn’t want this family anymore anyway. The voice had called itself a “System.” I asked it one final question. “Who is the protagonist?” The System answered instantly. Kelsey. Of course it was. The quiet suspicion in my heart had finally been validated, and with it came a profound sense of liberation. As a supporting character, my entire existence was designed to be misunderstood, abused, and ultimately sacrificed to further her plotline. Once I died, I would be free. “Gemma! It’s just a flesh wound, you haven’t gone mute! Kelsey already apologized, what more do you want from her?” Tim’s sharp reprimand snapped me back to the sterile hospital room. Kelsey’s eyes were swimming in tears, the absolute picture of a wronged, fragile victim. My parents looked at me with undisguised irritation. Without breaking eye contact, I swallowed the blinding pain radiating across my chest, reached over, and violently ripped the IV needle out of the back of my hand. A string of crimson droplets flew through the air, splattering directly across my mother’s cheek. Carol froze in sheer horror. But my heart swelled with a euphoric joy. Without the antibiotics, the sepsis would come roaring back. I would be dead in no time. Tim was the first to react. He snatched a fistful of paper towels, slammed them down on my bleeding hand, and twisted toward the hallway, his voice cracking with panic. “Doctor! Get in here! She pulled her line!” He whipped his head back to me, his eyes wide with a terrifying realization. “Are you insane? Do you have a death wish?” The nurses rushed in, efficiently re-establishing the IV. Carol’s hands shook violently as she wiped my blood from her face. Her voice hitched into a sob. “Gemma, I know you harbor resentment. But this entire family has been revolving around you in this hospital. Pulling a stunt like this… are you trying to drive us all to an early grave?” Kelsey rubbed her damp eyes. “Gemma, if you really refuse to forgive me… then I’ll just go die.” She made a dramatic pivot and ran toward the second-story window. Tim, whose eyes had been locked on me, moved faster than a thought. He lunged, grabbing Kelsey by the waist. “What the hell are you talking about?” he blurted out. “Even if someone had to die, it wouldn’t be you!” The moment the words left his mouth, he froze. A flash of profound regret crossed his face, and he looked back at me, panicked. I just watched them. My face was a mask of absolute calm as Richard and Carol clustered around Kelsey, soothing her with overlapping murmurs of comfort. I let my gaze drift away from the pathetic domestic drama, scanning the hospital room for a faster way out. We were only on the second floor. Jumping wouldn’t guarantee death. Ripping the IV out again would just be an annoyance. Finally, my eyes landed on the paring knife resting next to a fruit basket on the nightstand. I took a deep, steadying breath. Gathering every ounce of strength left in my broken body, I snatched the knife and drove it directly toward my own throat. “Gemma! Stop!” Tim threw his body across the bed and jammed his hand between the blade and my neck. The steel didn’t slice my throat. Instead, it tore deep into my brother’s palm. Blood immediately surged from the wound, the flesh splitting open in a grotesque smile. Tim let out a muffled groan, the veins in his forehead bulging as he used his other hand to pry the knife from my grip and hurl it across the linoleum floor. 2 Kelsey let out a piercing shriek. “Tim! Your hand! There’s so much blood!” My parents, who had been too busy coddling Kelsey to see the actual scuffle, turned around. When Carol saw the gash on Tim’s hand—deep enough to expose the bone—the color drained completely from her face. “Gemma! Do you hate your brother that much? He didn’t even mean what he said! How can you be so vicious?” “You little monster!” Richard roared, stepping forward and delivering a vicious, backhanded slap across my face. The fragile, half-healed skin beneath my bandages instantly split open. Droplets of fresh blood soaked through the layers of white gauze. The pain was so sharp, so absolute, that my body convulsed into violent tremors, and tears spilled from my eyes against my will. “You ruthless, ungrateful bitch!” Richard pointed a trembling finger directly at my nose. “You’d actually try to slaughter your own brother? You are a stray dog that bites the hand that feeds it. We never should have brought you back into this house!” The attending doctor rushed in to suture Tim’s hand. Kelsey stood in the corner, pale and tearful. “Gemma, if you’re angry, take it out on me. I’m the one who burned you. I’m the one who took your place. Please don’t hurt Tim. He only misspoke because he was worried about me.” The moment the words left her mouth, my parents’ expressions hardened even further. The way they looked at me was now laced with pure disgust. I knew it. Just like the past three months, Kelsey had won again. When I first came home, I used to fight back. I used to argue. I naively thought our three years apart had just created a temporary awkwardness. I firmly believed that eventually, they would remember that I was their real daughter, their real flesh and blood. I tried so hard for three months. From the ecstatic joy of my first day back, to the confusion when they couldn’t even look me in the eye, to the soul-crushing disappointment of watching them side with Kelsey, over and over again. The truth was laid bare: during the three years I was locked in a living nightmare, my parents had simply gotten a new daughter. My brother had gotten a new sister. To them, Kelsey was infinitely more important than I was. But this isn’t how you treat a family member who has crawled her way back from the dead. It wasn’t until today, when I learned that Kelsey was the actual protagonist of this reality, that it all made sense. My entire existence was nothing but a stepping stone for her. So, there was no point in fighting anymore. Because every time I fought, I was the only one left swallowing glass. On my very first day home, Kelsey threw herself down the grand staircase and wailed that I had pushed her. Tim didn’t even ask questions; he just struck me across the face so hard my lip split open. Even later, when the security footage explicitly proved I was nowhere near her, Tim just frowned, muttered a begrudging, “I guess I saw it wrong,” and tossed me a bag of frozen peas for my bruised cheek. And that was the end of it. Five days after I got back, Kelsey “accidentally” locked me out on the back terrace. It was November. I stayed out there all night. It wasn’t until Richard went out to check the weather the next morning that he found me, half-frozen and unconscious on the stone tiles. Before Kelsey even had to fake a tear, Richard defended her. “The lock is tricky. She didn’t mean to. And honestly, Gemma, why didn’t you just use the phone we bought you to call us? You’re so irresponsible.” But Kelsey had taken my phone. He had seen her take it. He just pretended he hadn’t. When my medication was swapped, a heavy cold mutated into full-blown pneumonia. Lying in the hospital, I begged them to believe me. I told them Kelsey had switched the pills. Carol just sighed, telling me I was struggling to readjust to civilian life and that I was being paranoid. Even when she found my actual prescription tucked in the back of Kelsey’s nightstand drawer, Carol said nothing. She just told me to rest and let the IV do its job. After I was discharged, Kelsey snapped the braided bracelet off my wrist. It was a simple woven string with a small silver charm engraved with my initials. Carol had made it for me right before I was kidnapped. During those three years in hell, I held onto that bracelet like a lifeline. I touched it to remind myself who I was, and that I had a home to go back to. Kelsey broke the string and crushed the silver charm under the heel of her shoe. My vision went red. I shoved her violently, screaming, “Get the hell away from me!” Carol ran in at the sound of the commotion. Seeing Kelsey on the floor, her face contorted in rage. She charged at me, shoving me backward with brutal force, and pulled Kelsey into her arms. “Gemma! Are you out of your mind? You’re laying hands on your sister over a piece of trash? Three years away and you’ve turned into a savage!” Caught off guard, I stumbled backward. The side of my head slammed into the sharp corner of a mahogany end table. A wave of blinding pain hit me, and thick, warm blood ran down my brow, dripping into my eye. Tears mixed with the blood as it hit the hardwood floor. I looked at my mother, my voice trembling. “It wasn’t a piece of trash. You made that for me when I was eight. It was supposed to keep me safe.” Carol’s face went entirely slack. Then, she looked away, her tone stiff and defensive. “I’ll just get you another one. Was it really worth getting physical over?” Two days later, she handed me a replacement. It was a cheap, plastic-bead bracelet from a dollar store. The string was scratchy. The charm was plastic painted silver. When Carol shoved it into my hand, she didn’t even look at me. “Weaving takes too long. This one is fine. It’s basically the same thing.” Over and over again, Kelsey proved to me that there was no space left for me in the Crawford house. She was the diamond of the family. Whether she “accidentally” sliced my arm with a letter opener, or “playfully” pushed me into the deep end of the pool when she knew my lungs hadn’t recovered, she always walked away entirely unscathed. And I was always the one left standing in the wreckage, bearing the blame. Looking at Kelsey now—tears streaming down her cheeks while a victorious, smug little smile danced on her lips—I just felt… bored. I didn’t want to fight anymore. I just wanted to die. Why was dying so damn hard? 3 After the doctor finished suturing Tim’s hand, he finally caught a clear look at my face. His expression shifted into something thunderous. “How are you people caring for this patient? The gauze has completely shifted! She’s bleeding through the dressing!” The doctor gestured for the nurse, and together they carefully peeled back the bandages on my neck and shoulder. The skin beneath looked like something dragged out of a horror film. Charred, blackened flesh twisted into weeping, raw pink tissue. The scabs had split wide open from the slap, and fresh blood bubbled from the cracks. The skin on my neck, where the boiling oil had hit directly, was completely carbonized. Whenever they changed the dressings and had to peel away the dead tissue, it felt like being flayed alive. “This is unacceptable negligence!” the doctor barked, his voice sharp with professional fury. “These are extensive, third-degree burns! Forget about a full recovery—she is going to have severe, lifelong complications from this.” He glared at my parents. “We barely got her sepsis under control, and you, as her family, can’t even manage basic care? Even with meticulous nursing, she is still at high risk for sudden organ failure! Not to mention her wounds have now been forcibly reopened. Her infection risk just doubled.” “She requires 24-hour supervision. The wounds cannot get wet. They cannot endure any friction. If you ignore this, you will be burying her. Understood?” The doctor’s brutal honesty drained the color from everyone in the room. Especially Richard. His fingers twitched by his side—the same hand he had just used to strike me. A flicker of genuine horror flashed in his eyes. He swallowed hard. “Doctor… thank you. We understand. We’ll be careful.” After the medical staff left, Richard’s lips parted. He hesitated. “Gemma… maybe I was a bit heavy-handed just now. But you shouldn’t have pulled a knife on your brother…” Before he could finish his pathetic excuse, I simply closed my one good eye. Richard didn’t speak another word. Perhaps the doctor’s grim warning actually penetrated their skulls, because for the remainder of my hospital stay, they handled me with a fragile, walking-on-eggshells caution. But it wasn’t what I wanted. I stayed in the hospital until I was discharged, and I failed to die the entire time. The day I finally returned to the house, I was left alone in my bedroom. Almost immediately, the door clicked shut, and Kelsey stood at the foot of my bed. “Well, Gemma. Mom, Dad, and Tim have been waiting on you hand and foot lately. You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself, huh?” When I simply stared through her, she continued her monologue. “You don’t know this, but every time the nurses changed your dressings, Mom and Dad were so disgusted by the sight of you they couldn’t eat for days.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping into a venomous whisper. “Kidnapped for three years. Raped. Five miscarriages. You are completely rotten on the inside. And look at you now—you look like a goddamn gargoyle. If I were you, I would have crawled into a hole and stayed there. It’s embarrassing to look at you.” “Tim won’t say it out loud, but he is so sick of you. He only tolerates you because of genetics. Just yesterday, he told me in secret that our family of four was absolutely perfect until you had to come back and ruin it.” Kelsey smiled, a sweet, chilling curve of her lips. “If you had an ounce of self-awareness, you’d just go ahead and die. Give this family its peace back.” Her words actually made me pause. In my memories, Richard used to put on an apron and cook my favorite sweet and sour ribs from scratch. Carol used to buy me ridiculous, extravagant gifts just to see me smile. Tim used to roll his eyes and eat the vegetables I secretly shoveled onto his plate at dinner. Back then, the house was always echoing with laughter. Even the air felt sweet. So, what was this family supposed to look like now? Did a perfect home mean a home without me? In that split second of my dissociation, Kelsey suddenly lunged at me. She grabbed my wrists with crushing force and used my own hands to smack herself hard across the face, screaming at the top of her lungs, “Gemma! Stop! I’m sorry! Don’t hit me!” The bedroom door flew open. Carol stood in the doorway, staring at the bright red handprint blooming on Kelsey’s cheek. The tray of medical supplies in her hands crashed to the floor. “Kelsey!” Carol shrieked, lunging forward and shoving me backward with everything she had. Kelsey had been gripping my wrists like a vice, but Carol’s momentum was violent. As I was thrown backward, Kelsey’s manicured nails dug into my arm and violently ripped down the length of my healing burns. The fragile pink tissue tore open instantly. Thick blood welled up and began dripping steadily from my fingertips onto the rug. Kelsey buried her face in Carol’s chest, sobbing hysterically. “I just… I just wanted to cheer her up. I didn’t know she would get so angry.” 4 Still weeping, Kelsey held up a velvet box containing a delicate pearl necklace. “Gemma… I brought this for you.” “I thought getting some new jewelry would make you feel pretty again. I wanted to see how it looked on you. I… I forgot you were too scared to look in the mirror now. Gemma, I’m so sorry.” Richard had appeared in the doorway. The veins in his neck were rigid with rage. “Gemma! Are you even human? Your sister brings you her most prized piece of jewelry, and you strike her?” Carol’s eyes were blazing. “We’ve neglected Kelsey this entire time you’ve been in the hospital, and she hasn’t complained once. She’s been nothing but an angel! You’ve been home for five minutes and you’re already trying to snatch her birthday presents and assault her? You bring nothing but chaos into this house!” My arm was bleeding. My shoulder was throbbing. But right then, the physical pain vanished entirely. Because the pain in my chest was so immense, so absolute, I genuinely thought I had already died. For the past three years, I had lived like an animal in a cage. The only thing that kept me breathing was the desperate, burning need to come home for my birthdays. But Kelsey got the birthday presents. So, what was I? Tim stepped into the room. He gently pulled Kelsey up from the floor, his cold eyes sweeping over my weeping, bloody skin. His voice was absolute ice. “Look at yourself. You look like a monster. Putting fine jewelry on you is a waste of money.” “Don’t think just because you got hurt you can do whatever the hell you want. You brought those injuries on yourself. You have no one else to blame.” “You don’t deserve Kelsey’s kindness. Apologize to her. Now.” I looked at Kelsey’s theatrical sobbing. I looked at Richard’s explosive fury. Carol’s visceral disgust. Tim’s freezing apathy. And suddenly, I smiled. I looked at this fiercely united family of four through my one good eye, and my voice came out eerily calm. “I’m sorry.” It was the first time I had spoken out loud since waking up in the hospital. My vocal cords were heavily damaged from the smoke and screaming. My voice sounded like grinding gravel—hoarse, broken, and agonizing to listen to. It forced the rest of their insults to die in their throats. Carol’s expression softened slightly. “As long as you know you’re wrong. Learn to get along with your sister. Stop bullying her.” Tim patted Kelsey on the shoulder. “Put the necklace away. No one is going to take your things.” He threw one last look at me. “Sit here and think about what you’ve done. Don’t leave this room until you’ve genuinely reflected.” With that, the three of them wrapped their arms around Kelsey and ushered her out of the room. The door clicked shut, sealing me in a suffocating silence. The only sound left in the room was the heavy drip, drip, drip of my blood hitting the hardwood. The System’s voice echoed in my brain once more. It was deeply seductive, laced with a bizarre, buzzing excitement. If you die, you will be completely free. You can leave this place and live in a world without pain. I let out a long, shuddering breath. I bent down. With my blood-soaked hand, I picked up the heavy, stainless steel medical shears Carol had dropped from the tray. I pressed the sharp, heavy tip directly against the center of my chest. Over my heart. And without a single second of hesitation, I drove them in. I felt the heat leave my body. I felt my life draining away with terrifying speed. And as the darkness rushed in to claim me, the corners of my mouth slowly curled upward. Finally. I got to leave. Downstairs, after the three of them had settled Kelsey onto the living room sofa, they stood in the kitchen, their faces clouded with heavy sighs. Tim leaned against the marble counter. “Gemma’s psychology is completely fractured. We need to hire a psychiatrist.” Richard rubbed his temples, exhausted. “Once her mood stabilizes, I’ll fly her to the States. I heard there’s a clinic in Boston doing experimental skin grafting. I don’t care what it costs, we’ll try it.” Carol sighed softly. “Her neck is too raw for a necklace anyway; the pearls would just chafe. I ordered her a limited-edition Cartier bracelet. The skin on her left wrist is still intact. I’ll give it to her when it arrives.” When dinner was served, I didn’t come down. Tim marched upstairs and knocked on my door. Silence. Irritation flashed across his face. “Gemma, throwing a tantrum has a time limit. Don’t make the entire family wait on you to eat.” He waited another minute. Still nothing. His patience evaporated. He grabbed the heavy brass handle, expecting it to be locked. To his surprise, it clicked open effortlessly. Tim pushed the door open, a lecture already on his tongue. But the moment his eyes registered the scene inside the bedroom, his pupils dilated into pinpricks, and his entire body turned to stone.

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The day the acceptance letters for university arrived was the same day the Blackwood family—the wealthiest dynasty in the state—showed up at our doorstep. Until that moment, I had no idea that the boy I’d grown up with in the group home, the boy who shared my stolen snacks and my darkest fears, was the long-lost heir to a multi-billion-dollar empire. Wyatt gripped my hand so tight it hurt, his eyes defiant as he faced the men in tailored suits. “If you want me to come home,” he said, his voice ringing through the dilapidated hallway of the orphanage, “she comes with me. That’s the deal.” His mother, a woman who looked like she’d been carved out of expensive marble, didn’t flinch. She offered a thin, practiced smile and pulled a check from her designer handbag. She slid it across the scratched wooden table toward me. “Five million dollars,” she said, her tone as cool as a January morning. “Consider it a scholarship. The Blackwood family’s way of ensuring you finish your education.” The politeness in her voice was a weapon. It was a buyout—a clean, surgical strike to sever the bond between us. Wyatt was livid, ready to drag me out of the room right then and there, but I stayed his hand. I gently pulled my fingers from his, the ghost of his warmth lingering on my skin. I reached out and took the check. “Go home, Wyatt,” I said quietly. “What?” He looked at me like I’d just slapped him. “I like my life here,” I lied, the words tasting like ash. “I wouldn’t know what to do with a life like yours. Go be a Blackwood. Leave me to be a nobody.” He didn’t know the truth. He didn’t know that I had already gone back with him once before. In another life, I had followed him into that world. I had died in that house, broken and discarded. The memories of my final moments were still so vivid they felt like bruises on my soul. This time, I wasn’t going to let history repeat itself. 01 Outside, the younger kids were playing on the rusted swing set, their laughter filtered through the cracks in the door. Wyatt grabbed my hand again, his eyes rimmed with red. “Norma, what the hell are you talking about? You don’t mean that.” He looked vulnerable, terrified—exactly like the boy I’d met years ago. He looked like a stray kitten expecting a kick. In my past life, that look would have shattered me. I would have folded instantly. But this time, my heart stayed cold. I looked past him at the sea of bodyguards and assistants, then looked him dead in the eye. “Wyatt, this money is more than I’d make in three lifetimes. It’s security. It’s a way out.” I paused, letting the cruelty settle in my expression. “So, stop being a weight around my neck, okay? Just let me go.” His grip faltered. When I first met Wyatt at age eight, he had just been diagnosed with Bipolar II. He was volatile, prone to explosive outbursts and crushing silences. Nobody wanted to play with him; even the staff looked at him with a mix of pity and exhaustion. I was the exception. Maybe it was a girl’s naive sense of heroism, or maybe it was because I saw him sitting alone in the corner of the yard, staring at nothing, and felt a kinship in that loneliness. Because I stayed by his side, the other kids stayed away from me, too. They called Wyatt a “psycho” and me his “keeper.” Whenever Wyatt heard them, he’d charge, fists flying. And every time, I would catch him. I’d cup his ears with my hands and whisper, “Don’t listen, Wyatt. Don’t think about them. If you don’t hear the words, they stay in their mouths. They can’t touch us.” He always listened to me. So now, his hands trembled as he mimicked that old gesture, reaching up to cover his own ears. “Look, Norma. I’m not listening. Just don’t leave me, okay?” I pulled my hands back and looked away. “It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “If you don’t want to go to the city, I’ll stay here. I won’t go anywhere. I’ll just stay with you.” Before he could finish, Mrs. Blackwood stepped forward, the click of her heels sounding like a death knell. “Wyatt, honey, don’t be ridiculous,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial maternal grief. “We’ve spent years looking for you. How can you break our hearts for a girl who’s clearly telling you she’s moved on?” She looked like a grieving mother. I looked like the villain. It was almost funny. I knew how this story ended. I knew exactly how much I would eventually weigh in Wyatt’s heart when he was surrounded by gold and silk. I looked up, forcing a look of pure annoyance. “Wyatt, I’ve made it clear. If you have any dignity left, you’ll stop begging. To be honest, even if you stay, I’m going to college. I want to meet someone normal. I want a normal life, a normal relationship. Not… this.” “Norma…” His name for me was a plea. His eyes were wide with a hurt so deep it should have killed me. I looked past him at the bodyguards. “What are you waiting for? Take him home. He’s making a scene.” The guards moved in, hoisting him up. Wyatt struggled, his screams echoing through the hallways. “Norma! Did they threaten you? Is it my mother? I know you don’t mean this! I don’t believe you!” A flash of memory hit me. In my previous life, I was the one screaming. I was the one begging him not to do this to me, refusing to believe he could be so cruel. It hadn’t mattered then. My pleas hadn’t softened his heart for a second. Wyatt, you don’t understand. In that life, I chose you. And the moment you stopped believing in me—the moment you chose someone else—I realized what a fool I’d been. I had prayed to whatever god was listening: If I get one more chance, I will never go back to New York with him. 02 After the Blackwood motorcade disappeared, the director of the home and the teachers crowded around me, their eyes fixed on the check Mrs. Blackwood had left behind. They were beaming, their faces flushed with excitement. “Norma, you really hit the jackpot! Make sure you keep in touch with him. He’s a Blackwood now!” “Exactly! He’s an only child. One day you’ll be a Blackwood yourself. A real-life Cinderella.” Even the kids I’d grown up with joined in. “No wonder Wyatt was always so moody. He was a prince in disguise.” They swarmed me, planning out my future as a trophy wife before I’d even packed a bag. The air felt thin, suffocating. “I’m not staying in touch with him,” I snapped, cutting through the noise. “And I’m definitely not marrying him.” The room went silent. “Norma, don’t be stupid,” the director said. She’d watched us grow up; she knew how intertwined our lives were. “I’m not being stupid,” I said, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan. They are the Blackwoods. People like us don’t belong in their world. Don’t mention this again.” For ten years, I had been the only person in Wyatt’s world. Everyone assumed he couldn’t breathe without me. They assumed I was just as obsessed with him. I didn’t bother arguing. I pushed past the whispers of “she’s crazy” and “she’s throwing away her life” and went to my room. “Norma?” A tiny, bird-like voice called from the corner. Seeing her pale, thin face made my throat tighten. I almost broke then. Her name was Lucy. Wyatt and I had found her on the side of the road on our way home from school when she was only four. We called her our sister. We loved her like she was our own blood. Three months ago, she was diagnosed with leukemia. She needed a bone marrow transplant. In my past life, the Blackwoods had used their connections to find a match at the last minute. But Wyatt had given that donor’s spot to someone else—to Bianca—leaving Lucy to die at the age of six. “Norma, you’re crying,” Lucy whispered. “Are you sad because Wyatt left?” I knelt beside her bed and stroked her hair, pushing down the bile in my throat. “No, sweetie. I’m not sad. I just want to stay here with you.” She smiled, showing her two little dimples. “I want to stay with you, too. But Wyatt said he wanted to be with you forever. Why did he go?” I froze. “Wyatt… Wyatt found his family.” Every kid in the system dreams of that. That afternoon, Lucy talked incessantly about how lucky Wyatt was, until her energy faded and she drifted off to sleep. I leaned against her bed, closing my eyes. And as sleep took me, I was dragged back into the nightmare. 03 The day I arrived at the Blackwood estate in my first life, I had worn my best clothes. Everything was clean, pressed, and hole-free. But standing in that gold-leafed foyer, I felt like a stain. My palms were sweating, and my feet felt glued to the marble. Wyatt sensed my panic and grabbed my hand. He leaned in, a bright, genuine smile on his face. “Don’t be afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.” His eyes were so full of light then. I believed him. Those were the words I used to say to him. When his episodes hit—the mania that made him pick fights, or the crushing depression that sent him hiding in the dark corners of the orphanage—I was always there. The other kids would make a game of finding him just to poke at him. I would always find him first. I’d stand in front of him like a shield and say, “Don’t be afraid. I’ve got you.” Every single time. Until the day he looked at the scrapes on my arms from protecting him and said, “Norma, from now on, I’m the one who protects you.” I believed him. I was wrong. “Your name is Norma?” It was Wyatt’s father. He looked at our interlaced fingers, and a tiny, almost imperceptible frown marred his face. I pulled my hand away instantly. “Yes, sir. It’s nice to meet you.” He just nodded. At dinner, I followed Wyatt like a shadow. The silence at the table was heavy, punctuated only by the sound of Wyatt piling food onto my plate. I could feel the resentment in the room; my presence had soured their long-awaited reunion. Then, the front door opened, and a voice like honey drifted in. “Mr. and Mrs. Blackwood! I’m here!” Mrs. Blackwood was on her feet instantly, her face lighting up with a warmth she hadn’t shown her own son. Even Mr. Blackwood softened. That was the first time I saw Bianca. She was the personification of “old money.” Elegant, effortless, confident—a swan in human form. She walked straight to our table and looked at the chair I was sitting in. “Could you move? That’s my seat. Thanks.” She said it with such casual authority. That was when I learned that the seat—and the life—truly did belong to her. She and Wyatt had been “betrothed” in a sense since they were toddlers, a pact between two powerful families. I watched her flirt with Wyatt. I watched his ears turn red. Something shifted that night. The Blackwoods bought me an apartment near the university. Wyatt would visit whenever he didn’t have class. We’d go to dinner, movies, walks—all the things normal couples do. Eventually, he used the family’s influence to bring Lucy to New York. She was placed in the best private hospital, with a team of specialists hunting for a marrow match. Those months were the only sweetness I had in that life. We’d visit Lucy together, and she’d hold both our hands, beaming. We’d huddle on the sofa watching old movies. I thought we were safe. But the safety shattered. Wyatt started coming home later and later. First, it was “schoolwork,” then “fraternity events,” then “family business.” I’d cook dinner and watch it go cold. I’d reheat it, then let it go cold again, eventually falling asleep at the table until he’d carry me to bed in the early hours of the morning. Then, he stopped coming home at all. He didn’t answer his phone. My texts went unread. Sometimes two weeks would pass without a word. For his nineteenth birthday, the Blackwoods threw a gala at their estate. I took a deep breath, wrapped the scarf I’d spent weeks knitting for him around my neck, and walked in. I saw him immediately. He was in the center of the ballroom, leading the first dance with Bianca. He looked regal, his movements fluid and sure. The boy who used to be too anxious to speak to strangers was now perfectly at home in her arms. Golden couple. The words whispered through the crowd. They felt like lead in my chest. The guests looked at me with pity or disgust. I didn’t fit. I never had. And this time, Wyatt didn’t look my way. He didn’t come to grab my hand and say, “I’ve got you.” After the dance, Wyatt was pulled away by his father. Bianca walked up to me. “Norma,” she said, her voice low. “Look around. This is Wyatt’s world. Do you really think you belong in it?” I tried to walk away, but she blocked me. She looked at my hands—hands that were calloused and rough from years of chores at the home. I tried to hide them in my pockets. She grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. “These hands don’t belong on someone like him. You’re a ghost, Norma. Why don’t you just disappear?” I tried to pull away. “Let go of me, Bianca.” But as I pulled, she let go suddenly, throwing herself backward into a pyramid of champagne glasses. The sound of shattering crystal was deafening. The entire room went silent. Wyatt rushed out from the crowd. “Norma! What the hell did you do?”

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The moment the stage lights cut to black, the silence was shattered by a wave of jagged, mocking laughter from the audience. A cold shiver raced down the back of my neck. My fingers instinctively reached behind me, brushing against the rough, adhesive edge of a piece of paper stuck to my tuxedo jacket. “Caden’s Dedicated Lapdog.” Those four words felt like a brand seared into my skin, sending a sickening heat straight down my spine. The livestream cameras were still rolling, broadcasting to thousands. Natalie—or rather, the girl I had been for the last six years—was being dismantled in real-time. Finally, Caden pushed aside Callie’s hand, which was looped smugly through his arm, and grabbed my jacket. He threw it over my shoulders, effectively shielding the sign, and practically dragged me toward the wings. Callie’s laughter bled through the heavy backstage doors, sharp as broken glass. “Did you see his face?” she wheezed. “Like a stray dog that just realized it’s been kicked into a gutter.” I turned, my fists trembling so hard I thought my bones might snap. Tears blurred my vision, turning the backstage lights into distorted halos. “You promised,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You said tonight was the night. The proposal… the livestream… everyone was watching.” “It’s April Fool’s, babe,” Callie said, rolling her eyes as she strolled in behind us. “God, can’t the future Mrs. Sterling take a joke?” She bumped her shoulder against Caden’s, her tone dripping with mock concern. “See? He’s already snapping at you over a little bit of pride. Is this really the kind of guy you want to spend your life with?” Caden looked down, slowly closing a velvet ring box I hadn’t even realized he was holding. His voice was as light as a falling feather, devoid of any weight. “Callie’s right. About the proposal… let’s just revisit it next year.” It felt like a giant hand had reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it bruised. All those years of devotion, of being his shadow, suddenly felt like a punchline I was too stupid to understand. I released my bitten lip and slowly shook my head. The breath I let out tasted like rust—the bitter tang of old blood. “Don’t bother with next year,” I said, the words surprisingly steady. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” 1 The words had barely left my mouth before Caden’s brows lowered, a dismissive smirk tugging at his lips. “Over an April Fool’s joke? Really?” “Yes.” He stared at me for a long time, as if waiting for me to cave first. Finally, he sighed, the sound of a man burdened by a difficult child. He reached out, his thumb catching a tear at the corner of my eye. “Miranda, it was just a prank. Callie bet me that even if I were about to propose, you’d still find a way to throw a tantrum over a little fun.” He tilted his head toward the stage, his tone casual. “Look, I had the whole thing set up.” I followed his gaze. Through the gap in the curtains, I could see it: the champagne tower, the wall of white roses, the clusters of plush bears arranged in a massive heart. Sitting on a white Steinway was a delicate, lace veil—the exact one I had pointed out in a magazine three years ago. It was everything he had ever promised. Callie snorted. “It wasn’t just the decor. There’s a firework show scheduled, a drone display… but I guess that’s all going to waste now. Tens of thousands in deposits, down the drain.” Caden stepped into my line of sight, blocking her out. “Don’t blame Callie. If you’re mad, be mad at me.” Right. Don’t blame her. Blame me. Blame me for being humiliated during my first public performance in years. Blame me for being labeled an “obsessed social climber” on every social media feed in the country. My name was now synonymous with pathetic. The proposal was being postponed because I couldn’t manage to smile and say, “It’s okay.” But why should it be? Why did he have to crush my dignity into the dirt just to see if I’d still say “I do”? I swallowed the bile rising in my throat and looked away. I pulled what was left of my pride around me like a shroud. “Caden, we’re done.” His face darkened instantly. He opened his mouth to snap back, but Callie beat him to it. “Seriously, Miranda? The ‘desperate-to-marry’ act is getting old.” She flicked her hair, her eyes scanning me with pure disdain. “Caden and I grew up together. I know exactly how he works. This ‘playing hard to get’ move to pressure him into a ring might fool him, but it doesn’t work on me.” There it was again. The “joke” that served as a knife, always carving me into the villain. I remembered the first time I met his parents after we moved back to the States. Callie had been there, playing the helpful “sister” figure, before casually dropping a bomb over dinner. “Miranda’s got such a great eye, doesn’t she?” she’d said with a sweet smile. “Most people wouldn’t even know Caden was the heir to the Sterling fortune while he was studying abroad. It’s such a coincidence… didn’t I hear your family’s firm was struggling with debt recently?” The atmosphere had chilled instantly. Caden’s smile had vanished. He’d looked at me, his eyes searching, and asked, “Is that true?” No matter how much I explained that I’d had no idea who the Sterlings were when we met in that rainy London library, the seed was planted. Caden just nodded, but the warmth never quite returned to his gaze. The next day, Callie became a permanent fixture in our “private” world. She was there to “vet” me for her best friend. Over and over, she made a fool of me, and over and over, the wedding date was pushed back. Caden wouldn’t understand. Love has an expiration date when it’s fed nothing but doubt. I was exhausted. I pulled my arm out of his grip and turned toward the exit. “Miranda!” I stopped out of habit. Caden grabbed my wrist, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his features. “Don’t…” “Let him go,” Callie interrupted. “He’s just doing this for effect. He wants you to chase him. If you keep spoiling him like this, Caden, he’ll never learn how to be a proper Sterling wife. Give him a few days to cool off. He’ll be back.” I felt the pressure on my wrist slacken. Inch by inch, his grip loosened. Caden’s expression shifted, turning cold and guarded. He let go. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.” 2 The night was pitch black. I pulled my coat tight, keeping my head down as I walked toward the curb. The whispers of the departing audience felt like needles in my ears. “Look, that’s the girl from the livestream.” “Beautiful, but clearly a gold-digger. Glad he caught on before the ring.” Nobody would believe that Caden was the one who pursued me. During our grad studies in London, I was the one who preferred being alone. He was the one who seemed to be everywhere—the library, the cafe, the path to my morning lectures. The fifth time we “ran into each other,” he’d held out his hand, his eyes crinkling with a charm that felt like sunshine. “I’m Caden Sterling,” he’d said. “And I think we’re destined to be more than just strangers.” From then on, the seat next to me was always reserved for him. When it rained and I forgot my umbrella, Caden would appear, thrusting his into my hands and running home in the downpour. He stayed sick with a fever for two weeks because of it. When I practiced in the music hall, he would sit in the back, listening for hours. He’d say, “Miranda, I could never get tired of your music.” On April Fool’s Day back then, he had waited outside my dorm. He stood under a streetlamp, looking at me with such intensity it made my heart skip. “I love you,” he said. I had tried to be playful, to protect myself. “Happy April Fool’s?” Caden didn’t laugh. He stepped forward and tucked a stray hair behind my ear. “Miranda,” he whispered. “I would never lie to you.” When did those vows become punchlines? When we moved back, Callie invaded our world, and I wasn’t allowed to complain. At a New Year’s party, she demanded I play for the guests like I was hired entertainment. When I finished, she pulled a wad of cash from her purse and tossed it at my feet. “Bravo! A tip for the talent!” The room erupted in snickering. Caden didn’t flinch. He just held a tipsy Callie steady and looked at me. “She’s had too much to drink. Don’t be sensitive.” Last year, for Callie’s birthday, Caden bought her a luxury SUV and paid for a 24-hour digital billboard in Times Square that read Happy Birthday, Callie. The next day was my birthday. Caden showed up hungover and handed me a used Starbucks gift card he’d found in his car. I’d cried. I’d asked him why. By the end of the argument, it turned out to be another “test.” Caden wasn’t even drunk; his eyes were clear and piercing as he asked, “Do you love me, or do you love the things I can buy you?” The rain began to fall harder now, mixing with the tears streaming down my face. I had never done anything to betray him. Yet I was the one constantly on trial. I flagged a taxi, my hands shaking as I checked my phone. A news notification popped up. A photo of me frantically ripping the sign off my back had been enlarged and centered. The headline was a joke about “The Lapdog Who Didn’t Get the Bone.” The comments were a cesspool. She deserved it. Pushing for a mansion she didn’t earn. I tried to lock my phone, but my fingers wouldn’t obey. Suddenly, a boom echoed through the night sky. Fireworks. They went on for ten minutes. Then, a thousand drones rose into the air, forming the shape of a massive diamond ring being slipped onto a finger. Callie, Marry Me. The taxi driver rolled down his window. “Man, look at that. Some rich kid must be proposing. That Callie girl is one lucky woman.” On Instagram, Callie had posted a picture of the sky. Some people don’t know how to appreciate what they have. Sometimes you just have to take what’s yours. My phone buzzed again. A voice note from Caden. “You seeing this?” There was a pause. “The team already had everything set up, and it seemed like a waste to cancel. I just had them change the name on the drones. Don’t read too much into it.” I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I typed back: It’s beautiful. I hope you both get exactly what you deserve. 3 I blocked his number the moment the message sent. The taxi pulled up to my apartment. I felt a strange hollowed-out sensation—part relief, part devastating loss. I went inside and started to pack. Six years is a long time. The memories were everywhere, tucked into the corners of the rooms. The coffee station where Caden would make me a latte every morning before he left. The navy-blue scarf on the hook—he’d spent two weeks learning to knit it for me, and even though the stitches were crooked, I’d loved it more than anything else I owned. The vinyl records we’d hunted for in dusty shops in Shoreditch. One of them had a lopsided heart drawn on the cover with the words Miranda’s Favorite scribbled next to it. When we moved back to the States, I’d paid hundreds in extra baggage fees just to make sure those things arrived safely. But now, as I looked around, I realized I didn’t want any of it. I packed one small suitcase. As the confirmation for my flight clicked through on my laptop, a familiar, sharp cramp bloomed in my abdomen. My period was early. Stress, probably. I realized I was out of Advil. I felt faint, my body giving out from the emotional toll of the night. I ordered some delivery and sat on the floor, waiting. The doorbell rang. I dragged myself up, expecting a delivery driver. It was Caden. “How long are you going to keep up this act—” He stopped abruptly when he saw me. His annoyance vanished, replaced by an immediate, frantic concern. He stepped inside and pulled me into his arms. He smelled like Callie’s perfume—that cloying, expensive floral scent. I tried to push him away, but my limbs felt like lead. “You’re burning up. Did you walk home in the rain?” Caden stayed all night. He brought me medicine, wiped my forehead with a cool cloth, and kept me hydrated. I drifted in and out of a fever dream. I was back on that stage, but the audience had turned into monsters with Callie’s face, laughing as they tore my clothes off. I woke up with a start to find Caden watching me, his expression uncharacteristically soft. “I had the news articles scrubbed,” he said quietly. “And Callie asked me to apologize for her. It’s over now, Miranda. Let’s just move past it.” He touched my forehead and sighed with relief. I looked at him, confused. His hand felt exactly as it did years ago—warm and steady. I remembered the night in London when a group of guys had cornered me in an alley. Caden had jumped in without a second thought. He’d shielded me with his body, whispering, “Don’t look, don’t listen. I’ve got you.” He still had the scars on his back from that night. Maybe it was the fever, but a desperate, pathetic hope flared in my chest. “Caden,” I whispered. “Please. Just stop listening to her. Can we just be us again?” He looked at me for a long time. Then, the softness vanished. “Miranda, why do you have to be so stubborn? It was a joke. An April Fool’s prank. Callie apologized, and you’re still holding a grudge? Can you really not tolerate my friends?” The disappointment in his voice was like a bucket of ice water. “She’s my oldest friend. She was just worried about me being used. Is it so bad that she wanted to protect me?” “If you really loved me,” I said, my voice trembling, “why would you push the wedding back another year?” I looked at him, a hollow laugh escaping my lips. “Was last night—your ‘care’ for me—just another test too?” He looked stunned. “Were you testing to see if I’d still be grateful? To see if I’d forgive you because you gave me a glass of water?” I was crying now, the ugly, racking kind of sobs. “Tell me! What do I have to do to make you believe I’m human?!” He didn’t answer. The silence stretched between us, sharp and agonizing. “Caden,” I choked out. “I can’t tell the difference between your love and your trials anymore.” 4 Caden practically fled the apartment. I closed my eyes, blaming myself. I should have ended it the first time he looked at me with suspicion. I should have ended it when the “tests” started. Once the fever broke and the painkillers kicked in, I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. Callie was leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, a jagged smile on her face. “Well, look at you. Using a little fever to win him back? I underestimated your theatrics.” I didn’t have the energy for her. “Move.” She stepped in front of me, her expression shifting into something sharp and hateful. “What do you even have, Miranda? I’ve known him for twenty years. Why did everything change the moment he met you?” She grabbed my wrist, her nails digging into my skin. “I play piano too. But he never looked at me the way he looks at you when you play. I’m tired of being the ‘best friend.’ I want him.” I wrenched my hand away. “He’s yours. Congratulations.” Callie’s face twisted. “Don’t you dare act superior with me!” She lunged forward and shoved me. Still weak from the fever and off-balance from the suitcase, I hit the floor hard. Before I could move, I felt a sharp, blinding agony. Callie had slammed the heel of her stiletto onto the back of my right hand. “If you can’t play, let’s see how much he loves you then!” The world went white. I couldn’t even scream; the pain was so intense it stole the air from my lungs. I felt the bone give way. I heard her footsteps retreating. The elevator dinned. Then, someone else appeared—a frantic, guttural shout echoing through the hall.

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The day of my third-trimester check-up, I stumbled across a confirmation email for a service package my husband had booked. It wasn’t for a nursery or a postpartum doula. It was for “Post-Abortion Recovery and Wellness.” I thought it was a clerical error, a dark glitch in the system. I was laughing, ready to make a joke about it as he walked into the kitchen, but the look on his face stopped the air in my lungs. He didn’t look confused. He looked resolute. Gideon told me, with a calmness that made my skin crawl, that he’d been seeing a college student. He described her as “kind” and “pure,” someone who didn’t want his money or his title, someone who didn’t want to break up our marriage. But now, this girl was pregnant. And Gideon had decided he couldn’t let her suffer the “stigma.” He wanted her child to be born with the legitimacy of his name. Ten minutes later, I was forced onto an ultrasound table. My body went rigid, a cold sweat breaking out as the technician applied the gel. My voice shook so hard I could barely form the words. I asked him if he was divorcing me to marry her. Gideon didn’t look away. He gripped my hand, his thumb stroking my knuckles while he used a paper towel to wipe the excess gel from my swollen belly. He gave me a thin, patronizing smile. He reminded me that when he married me, he promised I would be his only wife. He pointed out that both my parents were gone—that if he left me, I’d have nowhere to go. His plan was simple, and sick: I would adopt the girl’s baby. My own pregnancy had to be “terminated” because he was afraid that if I had my own flesh and blood, I would never truly love the child he shared with her. He slid a surgical consent form onto my lap. He told me to be a “good girl,” promising that I would always be the mistress of this house, that no one could ever take my seat at the table. I looked at him—really looked at him—for a long time. Then I stood up, my legs feeling like lead, and walked toward the operating room. At the threshold, I stopped. I told him he didn’t need to worry. I told him I hoped he’d never regret the choice he made today. He will never know the truth. He will never know that in this entire world, I am the only person capable of carrying a child for a man with a zero sperm count. 1 I didn’t wake up until three days later. The first thing I heard through the haze of anesthesia was a hushed, panicked conversation. “Mr. Scott, that was an incredible risk. Forcing a late-term termination at eight months is dangerous enough, but demanding a total hysterectomy at the same time? Your wife nearly bled out on the table. We almost lost her.” Gideon’s voice was dismissive, lacking even a hint of tremor. “I made a promise to Daisy. I told her I would only ever have one child, and it would be hers. The only way to guarantee that was to make sure Isabel couldn’t try again.” As his eyes shifted toward the bed, they met mine. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t look guilty. He simply reached out and tucked the thermal blanket around my shoulders with a sigh of feigned exhaustion. “You heard that, didn’t you?” he said, his tone bordering on a pout. “I didn’t have much choice, Isabel. Daisy said she’d only feel comfortable with the adoption if the ‘other mother’ was physically unable to conceive. Since you were already going under for the procedure, I figured we’d save you a second surgery later and just take care of it all at once.” He saw the tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and wiped them away with a thumb. He actually chuckled. “I didn’t expect the complications, but look at the bright side—I’d hired the best OB-GYN in the state for Daisy, and he happened to be in the building. You should thank her. Her ‘blessings’ are the only reason you’re still breathing.” My body began to shake. I summoned every ounce of strength I had left to raise my hand and swing at his face. My chest felt like it was being ripped open from the inside out. “Gideon… you’re a monster.” But my hand was weak. It barely grazed his cheek, leaving nothing but a faint streak of salt. Suddenly, a small, lithe figure shrieked and lunged toward the bed. A sharp crack echoed through the room as her palm collided with my face. I fell back against the pillows, my oxygen mask slipping, gasping for air like a fish out of water. A young girl, eyes brimming with performative tears, stood in front of Gideon like a shield. She screamed at me. “How dare you touch him! Do you have any idea how hard he’s worked? He’s been sitting outside the ICU for three days straight! If I hadn’t been bringing him nutritious meals every day, he would have collapsed! Why do you treat a man this wonderful like your personal punching bag?” I didn’t miss the look in Gideon’s eyes—the flash of raw tenderness and protective heat as he looked at her. I had seen that look before. He’d looked at me that way when I spent a week in the hospital with alcohol poisoning after covering for him at a high-stakes corporate dinner. He’d looked at me that way when I knelt on the floor, sobbing, begging debt collectors not to take his hands, offering them the only heirloom my mother left me just to buy him another month. I had destroyed myself for him, and in the end, it was worth less than a single tear from this girl. The pain was a dull knife carving into my ribs. I propped myself up, looking at the two of them—the devoted lover and his “pure” girl. I let out a jagged, hollow laugh. “Am I supposed to be grateful? Grateful that he killed my baby? Grateful that he gutted me like a fish so I can never be a mother? Grateful that he watched me almost die just so he could keep his little mistress happy?” Daisy’s tears began to fall in earnest. She glared at me with a terrifying, righteous fury. “Fine! It’s all my fault! I’m the villain! Is that what you want? Do you want me to pay for it?” She went manic. She shoved Gideon aside and grabbed a paring knife from the fruit basket on the nightstand, pointing it at her own stomach. “I’ll do it! I’ll cut my baby and my womb out right now if it’ll make you stop being such a bitch!” Gideon lunged for her, grabbing the blade. Blood began to drip from his palm as he wrestled the knife away. He turned to me, his eyes cold and full of genuine hatred. “Isabel, are you happy now?” He scooped the “fainting” Daisy into his arms, carrying her out of the room without looking back. He threw one last sentence over his shoulder. “I think I’ve been too kind to you. I’ve let you believe you actually have a say in how this works. Since you want to be difficult, you can find out what life is like without my protection.” I watched them leave, laughing through the tears. The man who once swore he’d spend his life shielding me from the world was the one who had finally set it on fire. Gideon’s security detail didn’t wait. They dragged me out of the bed, barely giving me time to find my shoes. “As of this moment, Mr. Scott is rescinding all privileges,” the guard said, his voice a mechanical drone. “If you want to stay in this private wing, you’ll need to pay the balance yourself.” I smiled, a bitter, broken thing, and turned toward the exit. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I don’t want anything that belongs to Gideon Scott ever again.” 2 My phone, my credit cards, my keys—all gone. They were “company property.” I stood on the street corner, clutching my hospital gown closed under a thin coat, trying to hail a cab. Every time a car slowed down, one of Gideon’s shadows would step forward. “Unless you want to be blacklisted by Summit Group, keep driving,” they’d say. The drivers would look at me with pity, shake their heads, and floor it. The guard looked at my trembling legs and spoke with cold detachment. “Mr. Scott wanted me to give you a message. This is what happens when you’re ungrateful. If you’re willing to apologize to Miss Daisy and agree to act as her live-in caretaker during the rest of her pregnancy, he’ll let me take you home.” I didn’t even look at him. I just started walking. A thin trail of blood began to seep down my leg, staining the pavement, drawing stares from the evening commuters. I was numb to it. I walked until the sun dipped below the skyline, until the city lights felt like needles in my eyes, and finally, I reached the house. Our house. The windows were glowing, a warm invitation against the night chill. I reached out with frozen fingers to punch in the security code. Beep-beep. Access Denied. I tried again. And again. The system hissed at me with every failure. Finally, the housekeeper opened the door. She didn’t look at me with concern. She looked at me with smug disdain. “Ma’am, stop. You know the rules. Until you apologize to Mr. Scott, you aren’t allowed to use anything he paid for. And he paid for this house.” She looked me up and down, a sneer curling her lip. “If I were you, I’d just say sorry. Look at who he is. There are a thousand women waiting in line for your spot. You’re in your thirties, you have no family left, and now you can’t even have kids… he’s being generous by not divorcing you. Why make a scene?” “I’m not coming in,” I said, my voice raspy. “I just want one thing.” She scoffed. “Everything in there belongs to him. What could you possibly own? You’re probably trying to steal some jewelry to sell, aren’t you?” “I want my medical file,” I said calmly. She rolled her eyes, disappeared inside, and returned a moment later to hurl a brown envelope at my feet. I picked it up. Inside was a lab report from a decade ago. It bore Gideon’s name and a diagnosis: Azoospermia. Permanent infertility. I remembered the day we got those results right before the wedding. I remembered the crushing weight of the secret. Gideon was a man of immense pride, a man who built an empire on the idea of his own perfection. How could he have lived with the knowledge that he was “broken”? How would his competitors have used it against him? But the doctor had told me a secret back then. My biology was an anomaly. Something in my hormonal makeup was capable of “triggering” his dormant, non-motile sperm. It was a one-in-a-million medical fluke. “Mrs. Scott, your husband is a lucky man,” the specialist had told me. “I’ve never seen a compatibility like this. You are quite literally the only person on earth who could give him a biological child.” I had intended to take that secret to my grave. I wanted to protect his ego. I wanted him to feel whole. I never imagined I would be the one to tear the veil down. I took the last bit of cash I had hidden in my coat pocket and went to a 24-hour copy center. I made twenty copies of that report. I called a courier service. “Deliver these immediately,” I told the man, giving him the addresses of every rival CEO in the city. “Tell them it’s a wedding gift from the former Mrs. Scott. They’ll tip you well.” Gideon, this is the last thing I’m giving you. I hope you enjoy the fallout. 3 I didn’t go back to the mansion. I went to the tiny, one-bedroom walk-up we’d lived in when we first started the company. Back then, we were broke. We lived on instant noodles and dreams. Gideon used to lie to me, saying he’d already eaten at a business meeting so I could have his portion of the food. I’d wake up at 2 AM and see him at the kitchen sink, drinking glass after glass of tap water just to stop the hunger pangs. We got married in that living room. No guests. Just a pair of cheap silver bands that cost less than fifty bucks. That place meant everything to me. Even after we moved into the ten-million-dollar penthouse, I’d secretly bought the unit from the landlord. I used to imagine us retiring there, going back to the beginning when things were simple. I never thought I’d be returning there because the end had come. I turned the key and pushed open the door. My heart stopped. There, on the worn-out thrift store sofa, were two bodies tangled together. And the silk pajamas I’d kept in the closet—the ones Gideon and I bought as our first “luxury” purchase—were draped over Gideon and Daisy. My brain went white. “Gideon! How could you bring her here? You know what this place is—” Daisy didn’t let me finish. She moved with practiced speed, slapping herself across the face so hard her cheek reddened instantly. She threw herself in front of Gideon, weeping. “Isabel, I’m sorry! I just wanted to see where Gideon grew up! I begged him to bring me here! Please, if you’re angry, hit me, just don’t hurt him!” Gideon’s face transformed with fury. He cupped her “injured” face, blowing on her cheek as if she were a child. Then he looked at the guard behind me. A massive hand gripped my arm. A heavy palm slammed into my cheek. Once. Twice. My ears began to ring. They didn’t stop until I was slumped on the floor, gasping. Gideon looked down at me, his expression flat. “Why do you have to make this so difficult, Isabel? If you’re feeling unwell, go back to the hospital. Why are you stalking us?” “Home?” I whispered, tasting blood. “Do I still have a home?” I looked at him, my eyes burning. “Why this place, Gideon? You can screw whoever you want, but why did you have to ruin this? The Gideon I loved at twenty was the only thing I had left. Why did you have to kill him too?” Gideon’s eyes flickered for a second—a ghost of a memory—but then they hardened into obsidian. “Ruin it? I built it! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be rotting in a hole like this. Don’t forget, the money you used to buy this place came from my accounts. It’s mine. I’ll do whatever I want with it.” He let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “You think I’m making it dirty? Isabel, I don’t care about this dump. I’ll burn it to the ground before I let you hold it over my head.” He signaled the guards to drag me outside. I watched, paralyzed, as they hauled in several canisters of gasoline and a few industrial fire-starters. With a single flick of his lighter, the only place where we were ever truly happy went up in a roar of orange flame. Through the wall of heat and smoke, my tears wouldn’t stop. Gideon stared at my face, his anger seemingly sated by the destruction. His voice dropped to a cold, clinical low. “Isabel, what will it take for you to understand? I gave you the Scott name. I gave you the penthouse, the Birkin bags, the couture gowns you’re wearing right now—things most people couldn’t earn in three lifetimes. Wasn’t that enough?” “You’re not young anymore. Did you really think I’d stay in love with a fading woman forever? I’m giving you dignity. I’m giving you a life of luxury. All I asked was for you to keep your eyes closed and make room for Daisy and the baby. Is that so hard?” I looked into his eyes, and for the first time, I felt nothing but a deep, hollow pity. “I won’t do it.” “Gideon, you just burned the last bridge. I want a divorce.” His jaw tightened. “Divorce? Never. Even if I don’t love you, you’re a part of the Scott brand. I’m not letting you go.” He stepped closer, his voice a hiss. “I never owed you anything, Isabel. If anything, I owe Daisy. I’ve made her live in the shadows during the best years of her life. I tried to give you a graceful way out, but you insisted on making it ugly.” He turned away from me and dropped to one knee in front of Daisy. He pulled a massive, 10-carat diamond from his pocket. “Daisy, I’m sorry I found you so late. I can’t give you a legal marriage certificate yet, but I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. I want everyone to know you’re the one I love.” Daisy gasped, her eyes shining with triumph, but then she looked at me and pouted. “I can’t, Gideon. I love you, so I’ve been willing to be the ‘other woman,’ but I can’t stand the thought of the whole world calling me a home-wrecker. Unless…” She turned her venomous gaze toward me. “Unless the ‘first wife’ stands as our witness. Unless she tells the world that the woman who isn’t loved is the real intruder. Unless she admits she is the third wheel.” 4 I met the girl’s malicious gaze with a blank stare. Gideon, seeing my silence, twisted the knife. “Isabel, don’t forget where your parents are buried. That private cemetery? I own the deed to that plot. You wouldn’t want them to end up like this house… would you?” It felt like he’d reached into my chest and squeezed my heart until it burst. I could taste the copper in my throat. I nodded slowly. “Fine. I’ll be there.” Daisy squealed with delight and threw herself into Gideon’s arms. He took her to look at gowns and hotels, but he paused at the door. For a moment, his voice softened. “It’s just a ceremony, Isabel. It doesn’t change your legal status. Just play along.” “Okay,” I said. He looked at me deeply, finally satisfied. “You don’t need to look after Daisy for now. Go rest. When the baby is born, the three of us will go on a trip. Think of it as your compensation.” “Okay,” I repeated. The day of the “wedding,” Gideon was so paranoid I’d cause a scene that he had guards lock me in the bridal suite early. Daisy was preening in a gown that cost more than a suburban house. “Isabel, the dress is so heavy, I can’t reach my shoes. Be a dear and help me?” Gideon frowned, his eyes shifting to me. I didn’t say a word. I knelt, lifted the layers of lace, and slid the heels onto her feet. Gideon looked at me with a complicated expression—guilt, perhaps, or a lingering sense of wrongness. He opened his mouth to say something, but Daisy pushed him toward the door. “Honey, I’m parched. Go grab me some orange juice?” He smiled, kissed her forehead, and stepped out. The second the door clicked shut, Daisy’s foot lashed out, kicking me square in the chest. I sprawled back as she looked down at me with a sneer. “You think I’m just some gold-digger, don’t you? You have no idea. Gideon and I? We’ve been together for almost ten years.” The shock must have shown on my face, because she laughed. “He said I was too young to suffer through the lean years with him. So he kept me in a condo across town while he used you to build the company. He felt so bad for ‘using’ you that every time he made his first big commissions, he told you the debt collectors took the money. In reality? He was buying me Chanel bags. Whenever I got bored, he’d have those ‘collectors’ come to your house and put on a show so he could siphon more cash to me.” “It was about two million dollars in total. Oh, and that cheap silver bracelet you liked? I threw it in the trash.” I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. Two million dollars. That was the money I’d worked three jobs for. I’d fainted on a factory line once, nearly losing my arm to a machine, just to make sure Gideon’s “debts” were paid. When he found out, he’d held me and cried, saying he was a failure. And all that time… it was a lie. Daisy kept going, her voice a sharp stiletto. “And then you got pregnant. I was so mad I wouldn’t let him touch me. So he staged that ‘celebratory dinner’ with the investors. He made sure they kept pouring you drinks until you miscarried. You were dying on the operating table, and he was on the phone with me, begging me not to be mad at him.” The world went black for a second. “But he still won’t divorce you!” she hissed, her face contorting with rage. “You’re just a habit he can’t quit. You think your ‘history’ makes you special?” She smiled then—a slow, terrifying grin. “Tell me, Isabel… if Gideon thinks you tried to kill his baby, do you think he’ll still care about your ‘history’?” My hair stood on end. I turned to bolt for the door, but she was faster. Daisy grabbed a bottle of champagne and smashed it against her own stomach, letting out a blood-curdling scream. “Gideon! Help me! She’s killing the baby!” The door flew open. Gideon was there in a heartbeat, his face a mask of horror. He grabbed my wrist and threw me across the room. He didn’t see me hit the wall; he only saw the blood beginning to bloom on Daisy’s white skirt. “It wasn’t me…” I tried to say, but his hand was already around my throat, cutting off my air. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice a primal roar. “Isabel! You’d even kill a child? You disgust me!” “You took her baby,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. “So don’t blame me for what happens to your parents.” Through my tears of agony, I heard him bark an order into his radio. “Destroy the graves. I want the headstones crushed and the remains thrown into the sewer. Now.” “NO!” I screamed, a sound that didn’t feel human. “Gideon, you madman! Look at the security cameras! I didn’t touch her!” Daisy scrambled up, sobbing, and ran toward the open window. “The baby is gone! What’s the point of living? I’ll just jump! Go ahead, Isabel, tell him more lies!” Gideon panicked, dropping me to catch her. He held her tight, looking at me with a coldness that froze my blood. “Isabel, you’ve exhausted every ounce of mercy I had. You hurt my family? You’re going to pay.” “Call the police,” he said to his guards. “Tell them she assaulted a pregnant woman. And call the warden at the county jail. Tell him to make sure she doesn’t have a single ‘good’ day inside.” ——– Gideon ignored every red light on the way to the hospital. He ran into the ER with Daisy in his arms. “Save my child! I’ll donate ten million to this hospital if you save my baby!” The doctor on duty jumped, looking at Gideon with a confused frown. “Mr. Scott?” He looked at Gideon, then at the “fainting” Daisy. “Your child? Mr. Scott, you have a documented case of Azoospermia. You’re sterile. How could you have a child?”

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The first thing I did when I was given a second chance at life was purge the past. I spent the morning incinerating the physical remnants of a decade’s worth of lies. Nancy’s letters—three years’ worth of carefully scripted “devotion”—were fed into the shredder until they were nothing but confetti. The framed photos of Diana and me? I set them ablaze in the fireplace, watching the edges of our smiling faces curl and blacken into ash. In my previous life, I had been the quintessential fool, a supporting character in a drama where I wasn’t even credited in the playbill. I believed Diana when she whispered that she loved me. I believed her so much that I turned down a prestigious fellowship at Oxford just to stay by her side. And for what? She left anyway. She followed Felix halfway across the world the moment he beckoned, leaving me with nothing but a cold, parting remark: “He needs me more than you do, Ben.” I spent those months living like a ghost. Nancy was the one who pulled me back, or so I thought. She brought me dinner every night, looking at me with those soft, empathetic eyes, telling me she had waited eight years for me to notice her. I thought I had finally found my harbor. She never stayed out late; she never looked at another man. Until the winter of my accident. I spent seven days in the ICU, hovering in the gray space between life and death. Nancy never showed up. Not once. Instead, I drifted in and out of consciousness to the hushed gossip of the night nurses: “Poor guy in Bed 12. His wife is here every day, but she never steps foot in his room. She’s always next door, fussing over that guy, Felix.” Later, I learned the truth. Diana hadn’t gone abroad to be with Felix out of love—she went to pay off his gambling debts. And the money? It had all come from Nancy. In the twisted play these three were staging, I was nothing more than the human ATM and the emotional safety net. Not this time. This time, I moved fast. I put the house on the market and booked two one-way tickets to London for myself and my grandfather before the first act could even begin. … “The guy in Bed 12 is breaking my heart. His wife is here around the clock, but she hasn’t even looked in on him.” “I know. She goes straight to the room next door. That patient, Felix? She won’t leave his side.” The nurses’ voices filtered through the heavy door of the ICU. My body was shattered from the car wreck, a map of broken bones and internal bleeding. My eyes were fused shut, but my mind was sharp, recording every word. I heard the nurses call Nancy’s phone over and over. She never picked up. She was busy with someone more important. The “redemption” I thought I’d found with her was just another layer of the scam. I tried to scream, to wake up, to demand an explanation, but my strength failed. The last thing I “saw” was the jagged rhythm of my heart monitor smoothing out into a single, eternal horizontal line. When I opened my eyes again, the sunlight was blinding. I was sitting at my old mahogany desk. The calendar read three months before the deadline for the Oxford fellowship—the one I had thrown away for Diana in my past life. I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the phone and dialed the International Programs office. “Professor? It’s Ben. I’m calling to confirm my acceptance of the exchange program. I’d like to finalize the paperwork today.” The professor sounded relieved. “Glad to hear it, Ben. It would have been a tragedy to waste talent like yours over… well, anything.” A tragedy. Yes. Throwing away a future for a woman who viewed me as a footnote wasn’t just a tragedy; it was a farce. After hanging up, I called a real estate agent. I told him I wanted my parents’ house sold—cash only, fast closing. No exceptions. As I finished the call, Diana’s name flashed on my screen. I felt a phantom ache in my chest, the ghost of a love that had once consumed me. “Ben,” she said, her voice cool and commanding. “Felix is struggling with his senior thesis. His design is a mess. You’re the best in the department; I need you to go over to his place and fix it for him.” Always Felix. He was the invisible third person in our bed, the constant shadow over our dinners. In my past life, I had pulled three all-nighters to rebuild his project from scratch. When he won the departmental award, my name wasn’t even mentioned in the fine print. Diana’s excuse back then? “Felix has such a fragile constitution, Ben. He needs this win for his resume more than you do.” I gripped the phone, a cold smile touching my lips. “Sure, Diana. Have him email me the files.” “Good boy,” she said. One word. Like she was patting a golden retriever. I looked out the window, marveling at how easily I used to be manipulated. An hour later, there was a knock at the door. It was Nancy, holding a takeout bag from my favorite dim sum place. She set the containers out with practiced grace, her expression a mask of gentle concern. “Eat while it’s hot, Ben. I know you’ve been stressed helping Diana and Felix. Don’t burn yourself out.” She always appeared right when Diana’s coldness reached a breaking point, playing the role of the nurturing alternative. “You know,” she added, her tone conversational, “Felix’s project is so vital. Diana is just worried. He’s been sickly since they were kids; he can’t handle the pressure like you can.” The script was so predictable. Felix was weak, so he deserved everything. I was strong, so I deserved to be bled dry. I picked up a dumpling and smiled at her. “I get it, Nancy. I won’t make things difficult for Diana.” Nancy smiled back, satisfied. They both thought I was still the same Ben—the man who would compromise his soul for a scrap of affection. The next day, I took my laptop to the campus library to finish my visa application. As I scanned the aisles for references, I saw them. Diana and Felix were tucked into a corner booth. Felix was leaning into her, his head on her shoulder. He looked perfectly healthy—flushed and laughing. “Diana, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered. She looked at him with a tenderness she had never afforded me. “Silly boy,” she murmured. When Diana stood up to get a coffee, she spotted me. Her expression hardened instantly. My presence was an intrusion on their curated intimacy. I didn’t storm over. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply caught her eye and gave her a polite, distant nod before returning to my books. I could feel her gaze burning into the back of my neck, confused by my lack of reaction. I didn’t care. My countdown had already started. I didn’t touch a single file of Felix’s thesis. Two days later, Diana cornered me in the library. She snatched the book out of my hands and slammed it onto the table. The loud thud drew glares from the surrounding students. “Ben, what the hell? I told you to help Felix. Why are you sitting here reading trash?” I looked up at her, then at Felix, who was hovering behind her with a practiced look of innocence. “I’m doing my own research,” I said simply. “What research could possibly be more important than Felix’s graduation?” Diana hissed. She pulled Felix forward. “He hasn’t slept in days worrying about this, and you’re just… ignoring him?” Felix touched her sleeve, his voice a soft whine. “Diana, don’t. Ben probably has his own stuff to do. I’ll just… I’ll figure it out. Even if I fail.” Diana’s eyes flashed with anger. “See? Even now, he’s more considerate than you! Ben, I’m saying this one last time: I want that completed proposal on my desk in a week.” I looked at them, the golden boy and his protector, and felt nothing but a dull sense of relief. “Understood,” I said. She assumed I had folded. She softened slightly, gave my shoulder a dismissive pat, and led Felix away. I went back to my work. It was the last time I’d ever let her see me as her subordinate. The calls started becoming frantic as the deadline approached. “Ben! Where is the file? It’s due in forty-eight hours!” Diana’s voice was shrill over the phone. I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, letting the rush of water fill the silence. “I’m sorry, Diana. My grandfather hasn’t been feeling well. I’ve been at the hospital with him. Everything else has had to take a backseat.” “Felix’s future depends on this! Can’t your grandfather’s nurse handle it? Just finish the damn project, Ben.” My grandfather, the man who raised me, was less important to her than a plagiarized thesis for a boy who had never worked a day in his life. “I’ll see what I can do,” I lied. “You’d better. If Felix doesn’t graduate, we are done.” She slammed the phone down. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I couldn’t believe I had ever loved a woman who held me in such low Brooke-style contempt. The real estate agent called ten minutes later. He had a buyer. All cash, quick close, way over asking price. I told him to send the contract immediately. To make the “move” look real, I needed to get rid of some of the heavy antique furniture my parents had left behind. It was a two-person job, and I decided to test Nancy one last time. “Nancy? Are you free? I need to move some of the heavy stuff out of the house today. Could use a hand.” There was a long pause. Then, the sound of a faint, pathetic cough in the background. Felix. “Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry. I’m stuck at Felix’s. He’s running a fever and I’m the only one here to look after him. Can’t you just hire movers? I’ll Venmo you the money later.” Always Felix. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice steady. “Take care of him.” I hung up and booked a professional moving crew within five minutes. If money could buy my freedom from their “favors,” it was worth every cent. An hour later, I called Nancy back. My voice was a strained whisper. “Nancy… my stomach. It’s bad. I think I need to go to the ER. I’m at City General.” “Stay put! I’m coming!” she cried. I sat on a cold plastic bench in the hospital lobby, watching the automatic doors. Thirty minutes later, Nancy burst through. She was breathless, eyes darting around frantically. But she didn’t see me. She didn’t even look toward the waiting area. She ran straight past me, sprinting toward the Orthopedics wing. I stood up and followed her at a distance. Outside an exam room, Felix was sitting in a wheelchair, his ankle wrapped in a light bandage. He was crying—fat, theatrical tears. Nancy dropped to her knees in front of him, her face a mask of genuine agony. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. The doctor said it’s just a minor sprain. You’ll be fine in a few days.” “But it hurts so much,” Felix whimpered, leaning his head against hers. She reached out to touch his ankle, her hands trembling with a tenderness she had never shown me even when I had a 103-degree flu. This was the “care” I had been promised in the ICU. It had been happening long before the accident. I stepped out from behind the pillar. “Nancy?” She jumped, nearly knocking Felix over. Her face went pale. “Ben? What… why are you here?” Felix’s tears vanished instantly. His eyes narrowed, flashing a look of pure, territorial triumph. “Stomach pains,” I said, patting my midsection. “I was just heading to get my prescription.” “Are you… are you okay?” Nancy stammered, standing up. “I’ll live. It’s an old issue.” I looked at Felix. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full, though. I’ll let you get back to it. I can find my own way home.” I didn’t wait for her to explain. I walked away, knowing that my “jealous but resigned” act would keep them from suspecting anything until it was too late. The day I signed the closing papers and saw the wire transfer hit my account, the sun was shining. I went straight to the registrar’s office, filed for an indefinite leave of absence, and finalized my student visa. That weekend, a mutual friend organized a karaoke night. I knew Diana and Nancy would be there. To keep up appearances, I went. The neon-lit room was thick with the smell of cheap beer and perfume. After an hour, Felix, clutching a bag of dice, stood up with a grin. “Let’s play King’s Game! Whoever draws the King gets to make any two people do whatever they want!” The room cheered. Diana and Nancy laughed, looking at Felix with indulgent eyes. Naturally, Felix drew the King in the first round. He probably cheated. “I command… Number 2 and Number 5 to reenact the ‘I’m flying’ scene from Titanic!” Everyone revealed their cards. I was Number 2. Diana, with a look of visible annoyance, flipped over Number 5. The room exploded into whistles and jeers. “Come on, Ben! Your big moment!” “Diana, don’t be a killjoy, just hug him!” I was pushed onto the low coffee table in the center of the room. Diana stood in front of me, her arms crossed, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else. Nancy laughed from the couch. “Hurry up, Diana. Don’t keep us waiting. Ben, open your arms!” I stood there, stiff and humiliated, closing my eyes to avoid seeing the disgust on Diana’s face. I waited for the hug. It never came. Instead, I felt a violent shove against my chest. It was Felix. He had leaped up behind me, laughing as he wrapped his arms around me in a mocking embrace. “Look, Diana! Is this better?” But his momentum was too much. I lost my balance on the slick surface of the table. My feet slipped, and I went crashing backward. CRACK. My head hit the sharp corner of a side table. Stars exploded in my vision. Everything went black for a second, then a searing, white-hot pain bloomed at the base of my skull. I fell to the floor, and the impact knocked several drinks over. Ice-cold gin and sticky soda drenched my hair and clothes. The room went silent. Then, I heard it. Diana didn’t gasp. She didn’t run to help. She let out a sharp, mocking snort. “God, Ben. You’re such a buzzkill,” she said, turning back to the group. Nancy just sighed, checking her manicure. “Honestly, Ben, how clumsy can you be? It was just a game.” No one reached out a hand. All eyes were on Felix, who was now pouting, his eyes welling with fake tears. “I’m sorry, Diana… I didn’t mean to… I just wanted to be funny.” Diana pulled him into her side, her voice softening. “It’s okay, sweetie. It’s not your fault. He just can’t keep his feet.” The pain in my head was nauseating. I lay there on the cold, sticky floor, shivering and soaked. I didn’t say a word. I gathered what was left of my dignity, stood up, and walked out of that room. I didn’t look back. I just felt a profound sense of gratitude. The house was sold. The visa was in my bag. I was leaving in three days.

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On the stage of the National Pastry Championship, I had planned to honor my grandfather’s legacy by recreating his signature dessert. I didn’t expect my girlfriend’s childhood sweetheart to step forward and accuse me of lacing my entries with synthetic opioids. As I scrambled to clear my name, she locked me in our house. She held me for a long time, weeping, telling me she loved me, promising she would finally say “yes” when I proposed. But her next words were a serrated blade to my heart: “I’m so sorry, Sam. Jackson needs this trophy too much. Just this once. I promise I’ll help you rebuild everything next time.” The result was predictable. Jackson walked away with the gold, while my family’s multi-generational reputation—the pride of the Mitch name—was dragged through the mud, branded as a den of addicts and cheats. This was the ninety-ninth time. For Jackson’s sake, she had systematically stripped away everything that belonged to me, making me the laughingstock of the culinary world. Later, when Jackson had finally achieved his “rightful” fame, Nancy stopped preventing me from competing. She even said that once I won a comeback title, she wanted me to bake our family’s traditional wedding cake for their ceremony. She probably will never know that Jackson had my hands severed months ago. 1 “Wait, isn’t that Sam Mitch? Henry Mitch’s grandson? What the hell happened to him?” “Look at him. He looks like he’s been through a death camp. This is the International Grand Prix—is he really here just to embarrass himself?” Amidst the jeers of the crowd, I was forced toward Nancy by two burly security guards. Nancy looked at me, her face tight with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. Before I could speak, she slapped me across the face. “I gave you the chance to showcase your family’s masterpiece, and you show up looking like a pathetic charity case? You’re ungrateful, Sam.” She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. “You’re already disgraced because of the drug scandal. Today is the only chance I’m giving you to redeem your name. Now get over there and prepare.” I remained silent, head bowed. Beside her, Jackson began to stir the pot, his voice dripping with faux-sympathy. “Nancy, maybe Sam is still angry with me. After all, I’ve taken the spotlight the last ninety-nine times… maybe I should just withdraw. I can’t bear to see him like this.” His eyes reddened. He leaned into Nancy, a stray tear escaping. Nancy’s heart clearly broke for him. She reached out, cupping his face with a tenderness she had never once shown me. “Don’t cry, baby. That glory belongs to you. As long as you’re on that stage, he will always be standing in your shadow.” The reporters and Jackson’s frantic fan-girls started jeering louder. “Mitch’s got some nerve. Losing ninety-nine times to Jackson? If I were him, I’d have walked into traffic by now.” “I heard his grandfather stole the ‘original’ recipes from Jackson’s family anyway. And Sam was the one who tried to come between Nancy and Jackson. The whole Mitch family is just a bunch of shameless grifters.” My heart gave a violent shudder. They could say whatever they wanted about me, but they had no right to slander my grandfather. Grandpa Henry had spent his entire life in a kitchen, pouring his blood and sweat into his craft to earn his place. He was a man who spent his weekends at soup kitchens, who gave everything to the poor. Why did he have to carry this filth in his grave? I gritted my teeth and forced myself upright, turning toward the nearest camera. “Stop lying! My grandfather never stole a thing. Every Mitch recipe is an original masterpiece!” The crowd didn’t buy it. They only responded with a chorus of derisive scoffs. I turned to Nancy, my eyes burning. I begged her—with a look, with a silent plea—to tell them the truth. Nancy only recoiled in disgust. “Your family’s reputation is in the gutter because of your own actions. Why should I explain anything? If you’re so talented, prove it on the table.” The staff shoved me toward the pastry station. I stared at the gleaming stainless steel and the polished marble. A wave of nausea hit me. This place was supposed to be my sanctuary, my altar of honor. Instead, every inch of it was stained with the memory of pain. There was a time when Nancy loved me—or so she said. She used to tell me that my desserts were the only things that made her feel alive. She said she’d never get tired of them. Then she imprisoned me in a basement, forcing me to act as Jackson’s ghost-writer, his shadow, his stepping stone. After the ninety-ninth time she demanded I throw a competition for him, I finally broke. I told her I was done. Nancy had looked at me then with eyes full of a haunting, manipulative sorrow. “Sam, being a pastry chef is Jackson’s only dream. Please, don’t take this from him. Just this once, okay?” “You still have me. I’ll love you forever. But Jackson… Jackson lost everything trying to save me once. I can’t let him lose his career, too.” 2 I knew Jackson didn’t care about the art. He only cared about the title of “Pastry Prince.” Yet, back then, I hadn’t fought her. I had just nodded, a hollow shell of a man. I felt I owed Nancy for a debt from our youth. I thought I was paying her back. I was so naive. I thought if I stepped down, she would let me go. I didn’t expect her to plant those drugs in my kitchen, to orchestrate the raid that destroyed a hundred-year-old legacy in a single afternoon. When I screamed at her, asking why, she had been so calm. “You have talent and the recipes, Sam. You can bounce back whenever you want. But Jackson has nothing. I have to clear the path for him.” “I’m sorry. This is the debt I owe him. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.” She kept me locked in that cellar, bringing me out only for competitions, forcing me to endure the public’s spit and venom as I lost over and over. Nancy, you owed him. And I owed you. So today, I’m paying you back in full. And then, I am done. I closed my eyes, waiting for the execution. Jackson stood at the station opposite me. The host shouted for the round to begin. Under the hungry gaze of the audience, Jackson began cracking eggs, his movements practiced and flashy. I didn’t move. I just stood there, staring into space. The crowd grew restless. “What’s wrong with him? Does he even know how to bake?” “He’s a hack! He probably forgot his ‘secret ingredients’—the ones from the pharmacy!” “If you can’t do it, get the hell off the stage!” Nancy, standing in the front row, marched over. She leaned over the barrier, her voice a sharp whisper. “What is wrong with you? Start the prep. Now.” I gritted my teeth, my voice trembling. “I don’t have hands anymore, Nancy. Haven’t you had enough?” Nancy laughed, a cold, sharp sound. “Sam, give it a rest. You’ve been living in luxury in my villa for three years. I told the housekeeper to make sure you were pampered. I specifically told her to look after your hands. Stop lying for attention.” Jackson looked up then, his voice oily. “Nancy, don’t push him. He’s clearly still bitter about my success. Maybe I should just quit…” He started to untie his apron, his eyes brimming with fake tears. The audience went into a frenzy, screaming insults at me, throwing crumpled programs and water bottles. The livestream chat on the giant screen was a waterfall of hate. But I really didn’t have hands. How was I supposed to bake? I reached for my sleeves, desperate to show them, to prove the nightmare. But Jackson moved faster. He lunged across the gap, grabbing my forearms, his fingers digging into the stumps hidden beneath the fabric. He squeezed with agonizing force. “Sam, your hands are fine. Why are you making excuses?” I looked into Jackson’s eyes. They were cold, triumphant, and utterly evil. He was the one who had done it. He had walked into that basement with a meat cleaver and a smile. How could he stand there and say this? Before I could scream, Nancy’s hand connected with my cheek again. “If you keep up this act, I will release your grandfather’s private journals to the press tonight. Start the competition. Now.” I froze. My grandfather’s journals—the record of his life’s work, his soul. They were in the safe at the house. I hadn’t realized she’d stolen them for Jackson. “Nancy…” my voice cracked. “You know how much he cared for you. He treated you like his own daughter. How can you use him to threaten me?” Nancy looked away, a flicker of guilt crossing her face before hardening back into stone. “Don’t play the emotion card. There is no sentiment on this stage. I am being fair.” Fair. It was laughable. She just wanted me to lose one last time on the world stage. This was the Grand Prix. The winner would be immortalized. But without my hands, and with my grandfather’s legacy held hostage, what was left? The rage boiled in my blood. I wanted to leap over the counter and kill them both, but the fear for my grandfather’s memory held me back. If those recipes were lost or defiled, the Mitch name truly died. “Please,” I whispered, tears blurring my vision. “Stop. I’ll do it. I’ll try.” 3 I spoke through sobs, stepping toward the station with leaden feet. But… Without palms, without fingers, I couldn’t even pick up an egg. I tried to pin an egg between my shrouded wrists, but it slipped, shattering on the floor. The crowd erupted in laughter. “Is he pretending to be a thalidomide kid now? How pathetic.” “This is the Mitch heir? Jackson is a god compared to this clown!” Jackson smiled, basking in the cheers as he began whipping cream. The bitterness rose in my throat like bile. I let the tears fall. The first scent of baking filled the air. Jackson was making a lemon tart—my grandfather’s recipe. He had stolen the soul of my family and was parading it as his own. Meanwhile, my station was a disaster. I couldn’t adjust the oven temp accurately. I couldn’t whisk. My entry looked like a pile of raw, grey sludge. The judges didn’t even want to look at it. One of them sneered, “Is this a joke or just incompetence?” Jackson chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Judges, I know Sam. He’s better than this. He’s doing this on purpose for the cameras. He wants to look like a victim.” I was paralyzed with shame. A moment later, Jackson “accidentally” bumped into my station, knocking my bowl to the floor and shoving me down. “Oh! My god, Sam, I’m so sorry! Let me help you up.” As he leaned down, his face inches from mine, his voice dropped to a terrifying whisper. “You want to know the truth? I killed that old man. He held onto those recipes until his last breath. I had to use a pillow to shut him up… he died protecting a pile of paper that I’ve already burned to ash. You have nothing left, Sam.” The world turned cold. My blood felt like shards of ice in my veins. I tried to grab him, to scream, but I had no fingers to grip his throat. “You monster! You murderer!” I lunged upward. Immediately, Nancy was there, her hand cracking across my face for the third time. “What are you doing? Jackson tried to help you! You serve up this filth and then attack the champion? Your family was always a fraud, Sam. You just bought your way to the top.” She stood there, righteous and indignant, completely forgetting that when she was a starving orphan, it was my grandfather who paid her tuition and put clothes on her back. I broke. Right there in front of the world, I screamed at Jackson. “Why? Why did you kill him?” Nancy’s face twisted. “Shut up! What are you talking about? Henry died of natural causes! Stop lying!” Jackson began to sob. “I know you hate seeing me happy, Sam, but to accuse me of murder?” “You admitted it! You cut off my hands in that basement! I’m calling the police!” “ENOUGH!” Nancy screamed. “Stop slandering him! You’ve been living in my house, being pampered, and now you’re throwing a tantrum because you want my attention? You’re sick!” She turned to the cameras, to the millions watching. “Don’t believe a word he says. He’s obsessed with his image. He would never let anything happen to his ‘artist’s hands.’” She looked at me with pure disappointment. “I was actually going to give you a custom watch today as a peace offering. I can’t believe I wasted my time on you.” The crowd was whipped into a state of feral rage. People started jumping the barriers, swarming the stage to get at me. I curled into a ball, trying to shield myself with my stumps. “Stop! Please! I’m not lying! My hands are gone! Look at me!” But no one listened. Nancy stepped forward and kicked me in the arm. “Stop acting. You’re a terrible liar, Sam.” In the chaos, Jackson “tripped,” spilling a pot of boiling clarified butter directly onto my back and arms. The scream that tore from my throat was unearthly. I felt my skin melting, the searing heat bubbling my flesh. The crowd recoiled, horrified by the sound, backing away to avoid the splatter. It was my only chance. I didn’t care about the pain. I began to crawl, desperate to get away from the lights, the cameras, and the monsters. But Nancy grabbed my shirt. The fabric was soaked in oil and sweat. As she pulled, the cheap material gave way, ripping entirely off my body. I collapsed, my last shred of dignity stripped away. I knelt on the floor, weeping, hiding my face. “Please… don’t look… please just let me go…” But the room went deathly silent. Nancy stood frozen. She stared at my arms. Her pupils dilated. Her voice was a broken, trembling reed. “Sam… where… where are your hands?”

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The endgame of the Apex Trials arrived not with a roar, but with a terrifying, clinical silence. Three faces frozen around a cold metal table. Before us sat three identical capsules. The rules were as simple as they were barbaric: two contained the antidote that would allow us to walk out of here; the third contained a fast-acting neurotoxin that would liquefy your organs in minutes. The survivor wouldn’t just win their life back; they’d walk away with a ten-million-dollar purse. The loser would die in agony. And here we were, the final three: me, my fiancé, and my younger sister. Maya, who had struggled with a congenital heart defect since she was a toddler, was trembling so violently she could barely sit upright. She reached out, her fingers like cold wire as she gripped my forearm. “Jo,” she choked out, her eyes swimming with tears. “I was never going to live a long life anyway. Give me the poison. You and Gabe… you have to live. You have to take care of Mom and Dad for me.” My heart felt like it had been pierced by a needle. I fought back my own tears, nodding as I reached for the capsules to distribute them. I looked at them one last time—the man I planned to marry and the sister I had spent my life protecting. I raised my capsule to my lips. Suddenly, a hand clamped around my wrist. The grip was so savage I felt the delicate bones of my arm creak. I looked up. Under the harsh LED lights, Gabe’s face looked like a stranger’s—cold, sharp, and utterly devoid of the warmth I’d known for eight years. “Joanna,” his voice was like a winter wind. “Maya is your sister. You should give that pill to her.” Before I could process the betrayal in his tone, the comms monitor on the wall crackled to life. My parents’ faces appeared on the screen, broadcast from the viewing gallery. My mother’s voice was thick with tears, but her words were hard as flint. “Joanna, Maya is pregnant! You can’t let two lives end today. Give her the antidote. Now!” In that heartbeat, the world fractured. The jagged pieces finally clicked into place—my sister and my fiancé hadn’t just been close; they had been together. And my parents? They had known all along. A chill crawled up my spine, freezing the marrow in my bones. But instead of screaming, I started to laugh. A low, jagged sound that scraped my throat. They seemed to have forgotten one thing. They were so sure I was holding the antidote. But in this game, nothing is ever what it seems. 1 The final round of the Apex Trials. Three pills on a table. Two are life. One is a death sentence. The winner gets ten million dollars and a second chance. The loser rots. And the only ones left in the arena are me, my fiancé, Gabe, and my sister, Maya. Maya, the girl with the “fragile heart,” was currently sobbing into my shoulder. “Jo, please. My heart was going to give out before thirty anyway. Let me take the hit. You and Gabe… you’re my world. Just promise you’ll look after the parents.” My chest throbbed with a dull ache. I nodded, my eyes blurring as I handed out the pills. I took one last, lingering look at the two people I loved most, preparing to swallow my fate. Then Gabe’s hand was on me, pinning me down. I looked at him, stunned. “Joanna, she’s your sister. She needs that pill more than you do.” On the screen, my mother’s grief turned into a sharpened weapon. “Joanna, for God’s sake! Maya is pregnant. How can you be so selfish? Give her the medicine!” The word pregnant hit me like a physical blow. My brain hummed with static. I wrenched my hand away from Gabe, clutching the pill in my palm, my eyes fixed on Maya. I didn’t blink. I couldn’t. Maya and I are twins. We shared a womb, shared secrets, shared a life. She never mentioned a boyfriend. She never mentioned him. Maya’s eyes darted away, her pale face ghost-white. She clutched her chest, shaking her head. “Mom, Dad, please… stop. I already owe Jo so much. My heart is a ticking clock anyway. Just let me take the poison and go. I just want you all to be happy.” She made a show of raising her hand to her mouth, but Gabe caught her. The look on his face—a mixture of desperate panic and raw devotion—was something he had never once given to me. “Maya, stop. It’s not your fault. I’m the one who fell for you.” He turned his gaze toward the camera, then back to her. “You’re carrying my child. I’m not letting anything happen to you. Not today. Not ever.” I felt the air leave my lungs. I felt my knees give way, my body suddenly heavy with the weight of the injuries I’d sustained during the earlier rounds. To keep Maya safe, I had taken the hits. I’d walked through fire, literally and figuratively. My body was a map of bruises and half-healed lacerations. I was at my limit. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sensation of my heart being ground into glass. I whispered the words, tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. “Your… child?” “Gabe, stop it. This isn’t a funny joke.” Gabe and I had been together for eight years. Eight years of him knowing exactly how I liked my coffee, of him cooking soup for me when I was sick, of him warming my feet under the covers in the dead of winter. I thought he was my rock. I decided to marry him after my accident last year. He had been late to pick me up, and I’d tried to catch a bus, only to be clipped by a distracted driver. I was thrown ten feet. Broken ribs, shattered leg, internal bleeding. In the ICU, through the haze of morphine, I heard him begging the doctors. “Save her. Sell the house, take my car, take everything I own—just don’t let her go.” When they needed blood, he didn’t hesitate. He sat in that chair and let them draw until he turned gray, refusing to let them stop even when he passed the safety limit. “If she dies because I was a few milliliters short, I’ll never forgive myself,” he’d told the nurse. When Maya told me that story later, I cried until I couldn’t breathe. The moment I was stable, I grabbed his hand and told him to put the ring on my finger. I thought it was our “happily ever after.” But looking back now, I remembered how his hands had trembled when he slid that diamond onto my finger. Was that joy? Or was it the tremors of a man who had just realized he was trapped by his own guilt? I tried to smile, but tears were carving hot tracks through the dirt and blood on my face. I prayed—I actually prayed—that this was some hallucination brought on by blood loss. Then Gabe spoke again, and the trapdoor beneath my feet finally swung open. “Jo… she’s four months along.” 2 I stared at him, the math failing to compute. Gabe sighed, his voice heavy with a weary kind of pity. “The night of your accident… the reason I was late? I was with her.” “We lost track of time. It was intense. I was so preoccupied with her—cleaning her up, buying her new clothes because I’d ruined hers, making sure she got to work okay—that I forgot about the time. I forgot about you.” I remembered that night. I had called Maya while waiting for Gabe. I had gushed to her about how lucky I was to have him. I told her I hoped she found someone just like him so we could be happy together. Maya’s voice had been strange then. Breathless. Strained. I’d heard a muffled groan in the background. “Maya? You okay?” I’d asked. “Just a cold, Jo,” she’d rasped after a long pause. “My body… you know how it is. I shouldn’t… ugh… I shouldn’t burden anyone else.” “As long as I can see you happy… then I’m happy too. Ha.” Growing up, my parents always leaned toward Maya. The “Sui’an” to my “Mengbai”—the peace to my purity. They spent their lives hovering over her, terrified of her heart, terrified of her pain. Even on our shared birthdays, there was only ever one cake. Maya’s favorite flavor. Every single year. I used to be bitter. Until the year Maya took that cake and threw it in the trash. She’d taken my hand, her face pale and defiant, and told our parents: “Today is Jo’s birthday too. If you keep ignoring her, I’m going to stop taking my meds. I’d rather be dead than see her hurt.” My resentment vanished in that instant. My mother had wept, pulling me into her arms, promising to love us both equally. From that day on, we were inseparable. Or so I thought. “Maya, don’t worry,” I had whispered into the phone that night. “I’m going to win this money. I’m going to pay for your transplant. We’re sisters for life. Not a second less.” I’d hung up and signed the contract for the Apex Trials to save her life. Now, those memories felt like a sequence of slaps across the face. Every sacrifice I’d made for her felt like a jagged piece of hot coal in my gut. I couldn’t take it anymore. I lunged forward and slapped Gabe across the face. “Do you even have a soul?” I screamed, my voice breaking. “She’s my sister! My flesh and blood!” “You told me you cared for her like family. Was ‘family’ just code for ‘mistress’? What am I to you, Gabe? A placeholder? A backup plan?” Maya let out a sharp cry and tried to step between us. Gabe’s expression shifted instantly—from cold indifference to feral protection. He lashed out, kicking me square in the stomach. I flew backward, my spine slamming into a jagged rock. The world went black for a second, then rushed back in a wave of cold sweat and agonizing pain. But Gabe didn’t even look at me. He was busy checking Maya’s pulse, running his hands over her shoulders. “Maya, are you okay? The baby? Don’t worry, I’ve got you. I won’t let her hurt you.” Maya shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Gabe, stop. Leave me. I’ve had a bad life, I’ve accepted it. I’ve had parents who loved me, and in the end, I had you. That’s enough.” “The only thing I regret is this baby. But it’s okay. When I get to the other side, I’ll tell the little one I’m sorry.” She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with a performative grief that made my skin crawl. “Joanna, I know I did a terrible thing. But I never lied about wanting you to be happy. When I found out you signed up for this game for me… the guilt nearly killed me.” “So let this be my penance. Let me take the poison.” 3 The words had barely left her mouth when she broke free from Gabe’s arms and lunged for the pill Gabe had knocked out of my hand earlier—the one they were so sure was the toxin. Suddenly, a piercing scream erupted from the monitors. “Maya! If you swallow that, we’re coming with you!” I looked up, dazed. My parents had somehow made it to the edge of the arena fence. My mother was holding a small utility knife to her own throat, her face a mask of maternal madness. “Maya, life isn’t worth living without you. You have a baby now. They found a donor heart for you, honey! You have a future. I won’t let you throw it away here!” Her tears weren’t falling on the ground; they were falling on my soul. I gasped for air, clutching my broken back, and used the last of my strength to scream at the screen. “Mom! I’m your daughter too! Does my life mean nothing to you?” “I’ve called you ‘Mom’ for twenty-five years. Did you ever actually love me?” My mother’s eyes flickered toward me, cold and hollow. “Joanna, Maya said she owed you, but the truth is, you owe her. You were the stronger twin in the womb. You sucked all the nutrients out of her. You’re the reason her heart never developed. You got the normal life, you got to run and play, and then you took the man she loved. You’re the thief, Joanna. If anyone has to die today, it’s you.” I closed my eyes. I bit my lip until it bled, but I couldn’t stop the sob that tore through my chest. I felt like a fish gasping on dry land, drowning in the open air. My mother didn’t love me. But I had loved her. I had come here for Maya. I had already decided, before the betrayals came to light, that I was going to take the poison. When I was distributing the pills, I had already palmed the toxin. I was going to die so they could be happy. But now, I realized my sacrifice was a punchline. The people I would have died for were currently cheering for my execution. [Trial Countdown: Five Minutes. If no one consumes the toxin, all remaining players will be terminated.] The mechanical voice boomed. Gabe’s face twisted. He lunged at me, pinning me into the dirt, prying my fingers open with brutal force. I looked at his snarling, unrecognizable face. “Gabe,” I whispered. “If I told you that the pill in my hand right now is the poison… that I was always going to choose death for you… would you even feel a shred of guilt?” Gabe froze for a second. But then my mother’s voice shrieked from the fence. “Gabe! Maya collapsed! Her heart! You have to hurry! Give the poison to Joanna and take the money! Save Maya!” Panic erased whatever doubt was in Gabe’s eyes. He sneered at me. “Nice try, Joanna. I know how selfish you are. You’d say anything to save your own skin.” “You want the truth? I only asked you out because I thought you were Maya that night. By the time I realized the mistake, I tried to break it off, but Maya… she’s too good. she begged me to stay with you because she didn’t want to break your heart.” “That ring? It was always meant for her. You used our guilt to trap me. I’ve hated you for years.” I felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. My strength vanished. I watched, numb, as he ripped the pill from my palm and shoved a gritty, dust-covered capsule into my mouth. The bitterness exploded on my tongue. I looked at him, my voice a ghost. “Why… why didn’t you just tell me?” Gabe smiled, a cruel, triumphant thing. “Because I knew you’d never believe it. You’re too narcissistic to think anyone could prefer her over you. You probably knew all along and just liked watching us suffer.” I swallowed the bitterness. I lay there on the dirt, watching the giant countdown clock hit zero. A second later, a scream that sounded like a dying animal ripped through the air. “NO!! MAYA!”

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My sister and I used to be drowning in our own toxicity, hell-bent on chasing men who didn’t want us. I was obsessed with the older one—a cold, ruthlessly disciplined, older corporate executive. My sister, meanwhile, was desperately in love with his younger brother—a frail, soft-spoken, wheelchair-bound boy with a shy smile. After an entire year of throwing ourselves at them and getting absolutely nowhere, we reached a point of pathetic desperation. We actually planned to drug them. It was a reckless, absurd idea. But right before we crossed that unforgivable line, a glitching stream of glowing text appeared out of thin air, hovering right in front of our eyes. The floating words screamed at us. The text berated my sister and me for our twisted, obsessive minds, begging us to spare these two men. The comments insisted that they belonged to the “rightful heroine” of the story. More terrifyingly, the floating text warned us of exactly what would happen if we went through with the drugging: our family would go bankrupt, our faces would be ruined, and we would be violently thrown out into the streets, left to rot. Seeing those warnings felt like taking a bucket of ice water to the chest. My sister and I snapped out of our fever dream. From that moment on, we stopped suffocating them. We stopped forcing our feelings down their throats. We decided to focus on ourselves, to pull our lives together, and to actually open our eyes to the other decent guys in the world. Yet, the universe has a sick sense of humor. The older brother—the man who had spent a year looking through me as if I were made of glass—suddenly cornered me in the hallway. Before I could process what was happening, he closed the distance and kissed me, hard. His breathing was ragged. He practically shook as he demanded to know why I had just given up on him so easily. He asked, his voice dripping with a dark, bitter insecurity, if I suddenly thought he was too old, too boring for me. The more he spoke, the more he lost control. The kiss turned desperate. Punishing. Panicking, I managed to shove him back just enough to hit speed-dial for my sister. When the call connected, I didn’t hear her voice. I heard her muffled, terrified crying. And then, crackling through the receiver, came the voice of the younger brother. The shy, gentle boy was gone. His voice was thick, dark, and sickly sweet. “Be a good girl,” he whispered through the phone. “Let’s do that again.” A chill violently clawed its way down my spine. 1 It was right after my ninth failed confession to my older stepbrother, Devin. I decided I was going to force his hand. My twin sister, Serena, didn’t approve at first. “You can’t force a flower to bloom,” she told me, lounging on my bed. “Matters of the heart require patience. We have to play the long game. Slowly reel them in.” Exactly one week later, Serena experienced her tenth brutal rejection from the younger brother, Kieran. She was devastated. She cried until her eyes were swollen shut. “You can’t force a flower to bloom,” she sniffled, wiping mascara from her cheeks, “but at least you can rip off the petals.” “Exactly.” “If I can’t have his heart, I’ll take his body.” “Damn right!” Serena initiated the raid; I immediately fell into formation. One look between us, and the plan was set. Sunday was our mother’s birthday gala. For the sake of convenience and showing off, it was hosted right here at our sprawling estate. Because it was the first birthday since our families had merged into one messy, wealthy blended household, our stepdad, Richard, had his two sons in attendance. I had acquired the goods. Serena stared at the five tiny green vials in the palm of my hand, her expression entirely skeptical. “Are you absolutely sure this sketchy powder you bought off a dark-web pop-up ad for ten bucks actually works?” I was brimming with misguided confidence. “The forums swore by it. It’s foolproof.” The party downstairs was a blur of designer dresses, clinking champagne flutes, and polite corporate laughter. Devin, whom I hadn’t seen in weeks, was dressed in a razor-sharp bespoke suit, looking like he owned the room. He stood near the grand piano, nursing a scotch and making small talk with the investors. He caught sight of me. His gaze lingered on me for less than three seconds before he abruptly looked away, his jaw tightening. He looked so painfully stiff and awkward that a stranger would have thought he was the one who had been rejected nine times. Kieran, confined to his wheelchair, sat quietly in the shadowed corner of the sunken living room. When Serena took a seat on the velvet sofa near him, he didn’t even dare to lift his head. They really were brothers. Their avoidance tactics were identical. Serena had been wavering slightly, but seeing Kieran shrink away from her solidified her resolve. “I’m going to find out if his body is as stubborn as his mouth,” she muttered. We divided the labor. Serena poured the drinks; I twisted the caps off the vials. Right as I was tipping the powder over the rim of the crystal tumbler, a blinding white light flashed across my vision. Neon text began scrolling through the empty air in front of me. [God, I am so sick of these two desperately horny sisters. Begging the author to let our two male leads go.] [The premise of this book is a love triangle where both brothers fall for the sunshine female lead! Even if these toxic twins drug them, it won’t work.] [This is so gross! Why can’t they just be normal stepsiblings?!] [In the original novel, these two evil stepsisters end up with the most gruesome fates just because they tried this stunt.] [Help, stop digging your own graves! Just be background characters!] [I eternally reject the ‘harassment as romance’ trope. Someone delete these side characters.] [When is the real heroine showing up? I’m dying waiting.] [Go ahead and drop the powder, girls. Enjoy your VIP package of bankruptcy, facial disfigurement, and getting thrown into the gutter.] “Bankrupt?” I whispered. “Disfigured?” Serena gasped. Another flash of white light. Suddenly, a vivid, horrifying montage played in my mind: Serena and I weeping, begging on our knees, being spat on, humiliated, stripped of everything, our faces scarred, our bank accounts drained to zero. I love money more than life itself. Serena worships her own beauty. We slowly turned to look at each other, the color draining from our faces. We spoke in unison. “You saw that too?” “…” 2 Serena and I are identical twins. We share the exact same face. We share absolutely none of the same personality traits. Serena reads obscure French poetry; I devour double cheeseburgers. Serena is the picture of poise; I’m a walking hurricane. We only have one thing in common. We are both incredibly pretentious. To prove how “different” and deep we were, Serena and I would camp out at the local artisanal coffee shop with our MacBooks, looking brooding and intellectual for ten hours straight. Because we thought adopting a dog or a cat was too basic, I bought a ball python, and she bought an iguana. Beyond that, our daily routine consisted of viciously competing with one another. We competed over who could eat more, who could fail an exam more spectacularly, who had a better metabolism, and who could curse someone out more creatively. Our mother, trapped between us, had a miserable time trying to keep the peace. Finally, after one too many nights of being forced to choose whether the snake or the iguana was “cuter” before we went to bed, our mother snapped. She decided she wasn’t going to suffer alone anymore. She was going to find a husband to draw some of our fire. Enter Richard. Richard was a widower of many years, dragging along two grown sons. In the high-society dating market, he was considered damaged goods. Our mother took one look at his bank accounts and zeroed in on him. Serena and I took one look at him and zeroed in on… his sons. Devin was twenty-seven. Kieran was twenty-five. Devin was ice-cold, impossibly arrogant, and ruled by logic. He was the quintessential, untouchable CEO from a romance novel. Kieran was the gentle aristocrat. Soft-spoken, warm, yet shadowed by the tragedy of his paralyzed legs, which gave him an air of fragile melancholy. I stared at Devin, practically salivating. “I want to see that ice-king lose his mind. It would be intoxicating.” Serena stared at Kieran, her eyes dark. “I want to pin him down and make him cry.” Like I said, Serena and I are family. We have the exact same twisted DNA running through our veins. We were creatures of impulse. If we wanted something, we took it. I was the action-taker. I immediately drafted a battle plan to conquer the older brother. I bought him absurdly expensive watches, sent him texts, ambushed him for lunches and movies. I studied his coffee orders, his habits, trying to dismantle his defenses brick by brick. After a year of this, my progress was exactly zero. Serena believed in the slow burn. She thought love should seep in like water into soil. Whenever she had a free moment, she was pushing Kieran’s wheelchair through the gardens. She talked to him about art, the moon, life, and philosophy. She listened to him talk about the trauma of losing his mother and the agonizing pain of losing his legs. But Kieran’s heart was apparently made of Kevlar. “Kieran said I’m too young, and that I’m just confusing pity for love,” Serena complained to me once. “Devin said my constant presence is a sign of deep-seated attachment issues,” I grumbled back. “Kieran said legally, it’s frowned upon.” “Devin said he has a corporate image to maintain and won’t involve himself in a scandal.” We both sighed heavily. This was the first time either of us had seriously pursued anyone. We just assumed we hadn’t tried hard enough, hadn’t dug deep enough into their souls. The more we failed, the harder we pushed. The more they pushed us away, the more obsessed we became. It grew into a sickness. A total fixation. But it turned out, we were just living inside the pages of a novel. Serena and I were the cannon fodder. The evil stepsisters. Devin and Kieran were the male leads. Their entire universe was meant to revolve around the heroine. Serena and I were just the pathetic catalysts meant to push the main characters closer together. We were flat, one-dimensional tools. We were never, ever going to get a text back. Under the invisible hand of the plot, we had slowly been driven insane, pushed toward making unforgivable choices, destined to die penniless and ruined. I looked down at the powder dusted across my knuckles. A cold sweat broke out over my entire body. 3 [Why is the evil stepsister just standing there spacing out? Is she plotting something worse?] The text was still hovering in the air. I quickly pulled out my phone and checked my banking app. I counted the zeroes. They were still there. Serena whipped out her compact mirror. Her flawless face was untouched. We both let out massive, shaky breaths. We looked at each other, communicating entirely through our eyes. Actually, when you really think about it, Devin always has a stick up his ass. He’s not even fun. Men age like milk anyway. He’s twenty-seven, which in club years is basically sixty-two. He’s too old for me. Kieran is so fragile. If I actually got him into bed, he’d probably break. Love is great, but my face is worth millions. If I have to choose between a man and my trust fund, the man has to go. Serena always knew exactly what to say. I decisively dumped the remaining powder straight into the nearest potted plant. But I couldn’t just leave the drinks sitting there. It felt too suspicious. I grabbed a pitcher of tap water and topped off both glasses of scotch until they were thoroughly diluted. [Wait, why did the villain back out?] [The plot is totally shifting. Am I reading a pirated version of the book?] [Oh no! The first encounter between the heroine and the male leads is totally ruined! How are they going to have their romantic, drug-fueled one-night stand now?!] First encounter? One-night stand? Romantic? Now that I was pulled out of my obsessive haze, reading those words made me want to gag. What a load of toxic bullshit. Serena saw the text too. She frowned, looking visibly nauseated. “Thank God we stopped,” she whispered. “We didn’t ruin our own lives, and we didn’t accidentally traffic them to some random girl.” Devin stepped up to the bar. Seeing the glass in my hand, he assumed it was for him. He reached out to take it. After seeing those floating comments, looking at him made my chest feel tight and complicated. Maybe it started out as physical attraction. A shallow crush. But over the last year of trying to break through his walls, I had actually given him pieces of my real heart. But if this was a story, and I was the villain, there was no point in bleeding out for him anymore. “This isn’t for you,” I said coldly, pulling the glass away. “…” Devin’s dark eyes narrowed. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. I lifted the glass, intending to take a sip just to prove my point. His hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist. He pulled the glass down. “Did you forget you’re allergic to alcohol?” I actually had forgotten. I let him take the glass. He brought it to his lips and took a slow sip. Serena watched him, opening her mouth to say something, then shutting it. I knew firsthand how terrifyingly observant Devin was. Once, I had accidentally left a single strand of hair on his office chair. The next day, he presented it to me, noting the length and the curl pattern, and told me to learn the definition of boundaries. There was no way he didn’t taste the tap water I had just dumped into his Macallan. But before I could dwell on it, our mother clinked her glass to announce the cake cutting. Serena and I linked arms and walked up to the front to stand with her. I accidentally glanced up. I met Devin’s eyes across the room. I didn’t give him my usual desperate, glowing smile. I just looked at him blankly, and then shifted my gaze to the wall. Around ten o’clock, the party wound down. I headed upstairs to my bedroom. Devin was leaning against the mahogany railing at the top of the stairs. He called my name, stopping me in my tracks. The light from the crystal chandelier hit the sharp angles of his jaw. Usually, his features were entirely composed, practically monastic. But tonight, there was a faint flush to his cheeks. He was holding a small, dark red velvet box. He looked at me. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed. “Last week was your birthday. I was out of town on business and missed it. This is your gift.” I took the box and offered a polite, distant smile. “Thank you, Devin.” Devin’s eyes widened, a sudden, jarring clarity cutting through his buzzed state. His voice hitched with a strange tension. “What did you just… call me?”

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