My dad was dead drunk again, drowning himself in cheap whiskey because he missed my mom. That was when his phone started to ring. I stared at the screen, my heart stopping at the caller ID: “Wife”. I froze. Mom had been dead for two years. Her number had been deactivated a long time ago. Hands shaking, I swiped to answer. A voice drifted through the line—familiar, yet impossibly distant. “Hello? Is this Lester, eight years in the future? Guess who!” She sounded so bright, so sweet. It was nothing like the fragile, raspy whisper the cancer had left her with before she died. I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered her name. “Helena.” My mom let out a soft gasp, sounding utterly thrilled. “Oh my gosh! Are you… are you Lester’s and my baby?” She lowered her voice to a playful whisper. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. This is your mom, twenty-four years old. You’re actually in my tummy right now! Three months along!” I looked at my dad passed out on the sofa, and then around our dark, cold apartment. I couldn’t let her go through that hell again. After a long, heavy silence, I forced the words out. “Lester is my dad.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But you aren’t my mother. My mother is Lydia Pierce. Your best friend.” … 1 “Sweetheart, that’s not a very funny joke,” she said. There was a brief pause, her tone still incredibly gentle. “Did your Aunt Lydia teach you to say that? I swear, even eight years from now, she’s still obsessed with practical jokes.” Hearing her call me “sweetheart”—a word I hadn’t heard in two long years—I had to clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle the sob rising in my chest. I couldn’t let her hear me cry. “Hello? Are you still there?” she asked. I took a shuddering breath. “I’m not lying to you. I can prove it. What is the date today on your end?” She gave me the date. I closed my eyes, my mind racing back through the fragmented memories and the diary entries I had memorized. “You’re getting married next month, right?” I asked. “And last week, you ordered a custom bridal jewelry set to go with your wedding dress. It’s supposed to be delivered today.” My mom gasped. “And you still claim you aren’t Lester’s and my baby? Look how well you know our story!” “You’re never going to receive that set,” I said quietly. “Because Lydia… my mother… told my dad she loved it. So he had the jeweler send it to her instead. If you call them, the jeweler will claim there was a shipping delay and offer you a replacement—one that costs half as much. You won’t like it, but Dad will tell you he thinks the cheaper one looks better on you anyway. He’ll pressure you until you accept it. The truth is, my mother wanted to prove she mattered more to him than you did.” Silence stretched over the line. I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white, my heart hammering against my ribs. Finally, she let out a nervous laugh. “You make it sound so real. Fine, I’ll call the jeweler and check. But if you’re pulling my leg, young lady, I’m calling back to give you a very stern talking-to!” Relief washed over me. “You can call again?” “I have three calls total,” she said cheerfully. Two left. I looked down at my worn-out shoes, telling myself: “That’s enough. It has to be.” “Oh, by the way, you haven’t told me your name yet.” “I’m Hazel,” I whispered. My mom laughed. “See? I knew you were mine. I spent weeks looking through baby-name books to pick out ‘Hazel’!” The lump in my throat grew heavier. I swallowed hard and warned her: “When you call back, pretend you don’t know my dad. Just ask for Hazel.” “Got it, got it,” she said playfully, clearly still thinking this was a game. “Just wait for my call!” The line went dead with a quiet click. I stood there for a long time, the phone still pressed to my ear. When I finally lowered my hand, I wiped my tears and quickly deleted the contact name “Wife” from my dad’s phone. I knew that once my mom uncovered the truth, she probably wouldn’t call back. She would be too devastated, too busy unraveling her life. But there was still a chance. Sudden, violent banging on the front door shook me out of my thoughts. I opened it to find Lydia. Her hair was a mess, her face twisted in a desperate, frantic grimace. She shoved me hard against the wall. “Move, you little parasite!” She stormed past me straight into my dad’s bedroom. “Lester! I need a hundred thousand dollars! Now! The loan sharks are going to break my hand if I don’t pay them by tonight!” My dad, barely conscious from the alcohol, let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Not my problem.” Lydia completely lost it, screaming at the top of her lungs. “You promised you’d take care of me forever! You’re still obsessed with that dead bitch, aren’t you? She’s been dead for two years, Lester! You already ruined my face for her! What more do you want from me?!” My dad sat up, his eyes bloodshot and full of venom. “I want Helena back. I want you to rot in hell for what you did to her.” Lydia burst into a wild, screeching laugh. “Oh, please! Is her death entirely my fault, Lester? Sure, I made sure she walked in on us screwing right there in her father’s hospital room. I knew it would kill the old man. But you weren’t exactly fighting me off, were you? You enjoyed every second of it. When you were on top of me, did you once stop to think about the doctors warning you that Helena’s heart couldn’t take any stress?” “Crack.” My dad lunged forward and slapped her hard across the face. “Get the hell out of my house!” Clutching her reddened cheek, Lydia stumbled out of his room, panting with rage. But when her eyes fell on me, standing frozen in the hallway, a sick, desperate light flickered in them. She lunged, grabbing me by the throat, and began dragging me toward the front door. “Fine. I’ll just hand you over to them instead. They’ll take whatever they can get.” For a second, I didn’t even want to fight back. What did it matter? But then, from the bedroom, my dad’s phone started to ring. My heart flared. I began thrashing wildly, clawing at her face, digging my nails into her arms. Lydia shrieked in pain, but her grip only tightened around my neck, cutting off my air. Thankfully, the ringing had drawn my dad out of the room. When he saw Lydia choking me, his eyes went cold. He stormed over and kicked her hard in the ribs, sending her crashing to the floor. “You never cared about this kid anyway!” Lydia spat, clutching her side as she glared up at him with pure hatred. “Let me do us both a favor and get rid of her!” My dad didn’t even look at her as he murmured, “She is the only thing Helena left behind.” I gasped for air, scrambling up from the floor, and bolted toward the bedroom where the phone was ringing. But my knees buckled, and I went crashing down onto the hardwood. In that split second of delay, the ringing stopped. I missed it. At that moment, the raw pain of my bruised neck, my scraped knees, and the crushing despair of losing my mom all over again hit me at once. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. My dad walked right past my shaking body, muttering under his breath, “What is wrong with you?” He picked up the phone and dialed the missed number back. It was just one of his business associates. I forced myself to stop crying. Shivering, I wiped my eyes and sat quietly on the floor, waiting. When my dad hung up and saw me still hovering near him, his brow furrowed. “Why are you still standing there?” He paused, his eyes lingering on my face. A shadow of remorse passed over his features. He walked over to the dresser, pulled a tube of burn ointment out of the drawer, and knelt down in front of me. Images flashed in my mind—of him grabbing me by the shoulders, shaking me violently, screaming that I was a useless piece of trash who couldn’t even keep my mother alive. I flinched, my shoulders tensing instinctively. The cold ointment was smeared onto my cheek, but his words were even colder. “I’m hiring a housekeeper. Stop trying to cook.” He gently rubbed the cream over the raw red scar on my cheek, where hot oil had splattered a few days ago. “If you ruin that face—the only face that looks like hers—I will let Lydia take you. Do you understand?” I nodded numbly. His phone buzzed again. I pretended to look away, but my eyes were locked on the screen out of the corner of my eye. My dad stared at the display, then handed the phone to me, his expression suspicious. “For you?” Since he hadn’t recognized my mom’s voice, I breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s probably my teacher from school,” I mumbled. “You’re busy, Dad. I’ll take it outside so I don’t bother you.” He shrugged and let me go. I kept my pace steady until I reached the backyard, then quickly pressed the phone to my ear. “It’s me.” “What’s wrong with your voice?” my mom asked. She sounded incredibly sad, but there was a thread of genuine worry in her tone. Tears pricked my eyes. “My dad and mom are throwing me a birthday party,” I lied, my voice cracking. “I was just screaming and laughing so much that I lost my voice.” “Oh.” She paused for a long moment before whispering, “Well… happy birthday, sweetheart.” On the other side of the screen, where she couldn’t see me, a huge, goofy smile broke across my face through my tears. When I was three, my dad had ruined my grandfather’s business, freezing all of my mom’s assets to force her to beg him and Lydia for money. To survive, Mom had to work grueling shifts with her fragile health just to support me and pay for my grandfather’s medical bills after his suicide attempt left him with severe brain damage. We were dirt poor back then, but every single year on my birthday, Mom would scrape together enough coins to buy me a tiny cupcake. She always smiled and said she didn’t like sweets, telling me to eat the whole thing. But before my grandfather jumped, he had pulled me aside and whispered that my mom actually loved sweets more than anything. So, I would pout and play coy, refusing to take a bite unless she did. We would end up sharing that tiny cupcake, taking turns until every last crumb was gone. After she died, my dad brought me back to this massive, empty house. But no one ever remembered my birthday again. “Do you believe me now?” I asked quietly. The line went silent for a moment. “That was Lester who answered earlier, wasn’t it? Put him on the phone. I need to hear it from him.” I bit my lip hard. “Why? What do you want? My mom and dad wasted so many years because of you. Are you trying to ruin their lives again?” “I ruined “their” lives?” my mom’s voice rose, sharp with disbelief. “One was my fiancé, the other my best friend, and they were sneaking around behind my back! Lester claimed he was just feeling sorry for Lydia. Let me guess—with my temper, I probably threw a fit, threatened to get an abortion, and called off the wedding. And then your mother, Lydia, swooped in, got pregnant with you, and forced Lester to marry her because he had no choice. Am I right?” Hearing her speak with such proud, misplaced confidence made my stomach twist. I was furious, but I didn’t know how to lie to her anymore. “So, kiddo,” she continued, her voice softening slightly, “even though it breaks my heart to say this to a child… I’m going to forgive Lester. Which means you are never going to exist.” Panic flared inside me, and my brain scrambled for a way out. “You won’t get the chance!” I blurted. “Because my mom doesn’t get pregnant with me until tomorrow.” “What?” “Tomorrow is your mother’s memorial service,” I said, the words spilling out fast. “Dad is going to lie to you. He’ll say he has a major investor meeting and can’t go with you to the cemetery. But he’s actually going to a hotel with my mom.” I quickly rattled off the name of the boutique hotel and the room number. She gasped. “How… how could a child possibly know that?” “Because my dad used to read your old diary out loud to us like it was a joke,” I muttered. In reality, he had read it to Lydia, laughing at how pathetic and naive Helena had been. The silence on the other end was heavy, broken only by her shaky breathing. “Fine,” she finally whispered, her voice trembling. “If what you say is true… I will walk away and let your little family be.” “Will you… will you call me back one last time to let me know?” I asked in a small voice. She let out a dry, exasperated breath. “Fine. Yes. I promise.” The call disconnected. I stood in the yard, staring blankly at the grass. I hadn’t lied to her. Lydia really was going to get pregnant. And three months from now, she would fake a miscarriage during a shopping trip with my mom, claiming she lost the baby while trying to “protect” her. My mom spent years carrying that crushing guilt, doing everything she could to make it up to Lydia. But Lydia secretly told my dad a different story—that my mom had intentionally shoved her down the stairs. My dad harbored that grudge for years. After he finally seized my grandfather’s company, he cornered my grandfather and told him that one of us had to pay for that unborn baby’s life. My grandfather, desperate to protect my mom and me, jumped from the top floor of his office building. Even after that, my dad used my grandfather’s mounting ICU bills to torture my mom. He forced her onto her knees in front of him and Lydia, demanding she bow her head to the floor over and over again until they were satisfied. Mom did it, her forehead bruised and bleeding onto the polished wood. But when she finished, my dad just grabbed her by the throat and sneered, “That old bastard always looked down on me. Why the hell would I spend a dime to keep him alive?” But my grandfather had funded his entire college education and his first start-up. He had always praised Lester’s talent; he had only gently warned Mom that their personalities might not be a good fit. A sharp gust of wind cut through my shirt, pulling me back to the present. I walked inside and handed the phone back to my dad. As I turned to leave, his voice stopped me cold. “What’s this teacher’s name?” he asked, studying my face. “Her voice… it sounded just like Helena’s.” Panic froze my limbs. “Mrs. Miller,” I squeaked out, my voice barely audible. “She’s married.” My dad watched my expression for a second, then let out a harsh laugh. “What are you looking like that for? Some random woman on the phone isn’t fit to breathe the same air as Helena.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Go on, get out.” As he reached for his drink, his sleeve slid up, revealing his forearm. It was covered in a horrifying lattice of thick, jagged scars. Fifty-six cuts in total. He had carved them into his own flesh after finally discovering that Lydia’s miscarriage had been a lie all along. Fifty-six cuts—because Mom had died on May sixth. I retreated to my room, crawled under the bed, and pulled out a notebook thick with layers of clear tape. After my dad and Lydia had finished mocking Mom’s diary, they had torn it into tiny shreds. I had spent nights digging through the trash, collecting every single piece, and taping them back together. Mom never knew I did this. She died wanting to forget her past, but I only wanted to hold onto whatever piece of her I could find. On her eighteenth birthday, she had written: “Lester is such an idiot! He actually worked on a construction site for two whole months just to buy me a birthday present. He’s so sunburnt and has lost so much weight, but he still smiles and tells me it’s nothing. I love him so much.” At twenty: “My boy is amazing. He’s only twenty and he’s already starting his own company! I knew I picked a winner in high school. Okay, so maybe I threw a little tantrum to get my dad to secretly fund his first round of investors… but Lester doesn’t need to know that. I don’t want him to feel pressured.” At twenty-four, when she found out she was pregnant: “I can’t believe it! I never thought I’d be a mom this early. I guess we need to speed up the wedding planning! Lester actually cried when I told him. He loves kids so much; he’s going to be the absolute best father. Thank you for choosing me to be your mommy, my sweet baby.” But just two years later, the handwriting changed. The pen had pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through the pages: “Why? Why? Why did he betray me? I can’t tell Dad. He’ll destroy himself trying to protect me, but Lester already controls the entire company now. I can’t let him ruin everything Dad built. What do I do, baby? You’re still so tiny. Please tell Mommy what to do…” A tear slipped down my cheek, blurring the faded ink. I clutched the tattered diary tightly to my chest. “Don’t be afraid, Mom,” I whispered into the quiet room. “Your baby is going to save you.” To make sure my dad didn’t leave the house and take his phone with him, I had to make a deal. “Dad,” I said, standing at his doorway. “Can you stay home with me today? If you do, I’ll give you Mom’s diary.” His irritable expression froze. “Her… diary? I threw that in the trash years ago.” I held out the taped-together notebook. He snatched it from my hands, running his fingers over the jagged edges of the pages. He fell to his knees, clutching it to his chest, laughing and crying like a madman. I left him alone. Back in my room, I squeezed the little rag doll Mom had sewn for me. She used to buy me beautiful, expensive toys, but after we were kicked out of our home, we had to leave everything behind. So, Mom bought scraps of cheap fabric and taught herself how to sew. Her hands had been so soft, but they were always covered in tiny red needle pricks and swollen cuts. I pressed my face against the doll’s rough fabric. If saving her meant this doll and I would fade away into nothingness, I wasn’t afraid. I was on the verge of drifting off when the sharp ring of his phone echoed down the hall. On tiptoe, I slipped into the study. It was her. In the master bedroom, my dad was completely unresponsive, too drunk and hysterical as he wept over the taped pages to notice me taking the phone. I ran out to the garden, my heart in my throat. “Hello? What happened?” “You were right,” my mom’s voice came through, heavy, exhausted, and thick with unshed tears. “I caught them at the hotel. Just like you said.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m at the clinic right now. I’m getting an abortion.” A wave of pure, unadulterated relief washed over me. “That’s wonderful! I hope you stay far away from my parents now. Oh, and tell your dad to stop giving my dad money. Because of that investment, my dad gets so busy managing your family’s company that he never has time to spend with my mom and me.” My mom gasped, her tone suddenly sharp and furious. “That miserable bastard… he took my father’s company?” She paused, her voice shaking. “What about me? Did I… did I not do anything to stop him?” I rubbed my eyes. “Well, you tried. But you weren’t as smart or as ruthless as my dad.” I smiled, hearing her let out a sharp, angry breath. “But don’t worry. You end up with a nice man named Henry Lockhart. You’ll be very happy with him.” “Henry?” my mom stammered. “How? He… he barely even talks to me.” “He’s been in love with you for a really long time,” I whispered. “He just stayed away because you were with my dad.” It was the truth. When I was five, Henry had returned from living abroad and discovered how terrible our lives had become. He did everything he could to look after us. I remember him holding my mom’s hands, his eyes filled with pain as he said, “If I had known my cowardice would cost you this much, I would have dragged you away from him years ago, no matter what people said.” When my dad found out, he flew into a rage, accusing my mom of cheating on him back in college. He refused to believe her denials and used all his power to bankrupt Henry’s business. Mom felt so guilty, but Henry didn’t care at all. He just smiled, took her hand, and happily worked alongside her at low-paying jobs. Over time, Mom fell in love with him. She had even asked for my permission first, and I had been so happy for them. But before she could tell him how she felt, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer. To make sure she could save enough money for my future, she forced herself to say terrible things to Henry to push him away, then crawled back to my dad to endure his endless cruelty. “Hazel. Who the hell are you talking to?” My dad’s voice shattered the quiet of the garden. I spun around, gasping. He was standing on the patio, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “Why did I just hear you say Henry Lockhart’s name? Who is on that phone!” He took a heavy, menacing step toward me. On the other end, my mom heard him screaming. “Is Lester hurting you?” A nurse in the background was already calling her name for the procedure. I knew this was my last chance. I yelled into the receiver: “My dad hates you! He told me to never call a homewrecker like you again!” “Goodbye!” I slammed the end-call button. My dad lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently. “It was your mother, wasn’t it? Tell me! What did she say? Does she miss me? Tell me!” But mid-sentence, he froze. I looked down at my hands. My fingers were dissolving into tiny, shimmering specks of light, floating away into the warm afternoon breeze.

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I called off our wedding exactly one week before we were supposed to walk down the aisle. When I broke the news, Leo was hunched over his laptop, editing his junior lab partner Linda’s master’s thesis. His voice carried a mild, practiced irritation. “And what’s your reason this time?” I placed a tube of lipstick—the one I’d found wedged beside the passenger seat of his car—on the sleek wooden desk. Then, I laid down two glossy photographs right next to it. The lipstick belonged to Linda. The photos showed the two of them on a weekend getaway. I looked at him. “Are these two reasons enough?” Leo knitted his brows, tossing out a casual, defensive explanation. “The lipstick must have slipped out of her bag. And the photos? She’s been under an insane amount of pressure with her research lately. I just took her out of town for a weekend to help her clear her head.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So we’re calling off the wedding.” He stared at me for a long, quiet beat, as if trying to gauge my resolve, before turning his eyes back to his monitor. “Whatever you want, Gina.” I knew he didn’t take me seriously. He didn’t believe for a second that I would actually walk away. After all, every time he had threatened to break off our engagement during our past arguments, I was always the one who swallowed my pride, begged for forgiveness, and coaxed him back. He assumed this was just another one of those times. But he was wrong. This time, I was truly done. … 1 Leo didn’t spare me another glance. His focus was entirely consumed by Linda’s draft. “Go get some rest,” he said, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. “I’ll give her back the lipstick tomorrow.” I didn’t say a word. My gaze drifted back to the photos. In them, Linda had her arm draped casually over his shoulder, their cheeks pressed close together. She was sticking her tongue out playfully at the camera. They looked exactly like a happy young couple. The photos had been taken two weeks ago, during the weekend Leo told me he had to travel out of state for an academic conference. It turned out his “conference” was a getaway to help Linda unwind. I remembered bringing up the idea of a short trip myself just last week. He had frowned, sighing heavily. “The lab is absolutely swamped right now, Gina. I physically don’t have the hours. Let’s do it another time.” Though disappointed, I hadn’t pushed. I had quietly waited, holding onto the hope that he would eventually carve out some time for me. Only now did I realize it wasn’t a matter of time. He had plenty of it. He just didn’t want to spend it on me. After a long silence, I finally asked, “Why did you lie to me?” His fingers paused over the keyboard. He looked up, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation, as if my question were entirely absurd. I held his gaze and repeated myself, my voice barely a whisper. “You took Linda to the coast to clear her head. Why did you tell me you were traveling for work?” Leo was always too busy. He was so busy that I had to plan every single detail of our wedding by myself. From the guest list and the catering to the floral arrangements and venue design, I had handled it all. I had even gone to the jeweler to pick out our wedding bands alone. Yet, this incredibly busy man had somehow found the hours to whisk Linda away because she was feeling stressed. A bitter, suffocating ache bloomed in my chest. A shadow of annoyance crossed Leo’s face. “If I had told you the truth, you would have started a fight. Gina, we’re about to get married. Do you really not have even a shred of trust in me? Linda has been crying in the lab because of her research. She was on the verge of a breakdown. I just took her out of the city to help her decompress.” I stared at him. Linda was stressed, so he took her on a trip. Linda struggled with her thesis, so he stayed up late rewriting it for her. He gave all of his precious time to Linda, while leaving me with only one word: “busy”. I nodded, my voice dropping to a faint, hollow tone. “Okay. I understand. I’ll explain things to my parents. You should tell yours. The sooner, the better.” Leo opened his mouth to say something, but his phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, and I caught a glimpse of the contact name on the screen: “Linda”. I quietly turned around and walked out of the study, giving him space. Behind me, I heard him play her voice note. “Hey, Leo! How’s my draft looking? I’m so, so nervous—please tell me you don’t think it’s total garbage!” As I stepped out into the hallway, Leo’s gentle reply drifted through the open door. “Of course not. It’s actually really good, there are just a few sections we need to polish…” I didn’t listen to the rest. I closed the door behind me, and a single tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto the hardwood floor. Six years of my life, gone just like that. The next morning, Leo acted as if nothing had happened. He grabbed his coat, slipping it on as he spoke. “There’s a department dinner tonight, so I’ll probably be home late. Go ahead and sleep, don’t wait up for me.” He didn’t wait for my response before heading out the door. I stared down at my cold bowl of oatmeal, barely tasting it. I sat on the couch for a long time, watching the morning light slowly shift across the living room, before finally forcing myself to go upstairs. After living together for three years, I had accumulated a lot of things. Packing them up was going to be a monumental task. I lost track of time. By the time Leo came home, the bedroom was a chaotic mess of half-filled boxes, and two large suitcases sat open on the floor. He knitted his brows, looking genuinely perplexed. “Where are you going?” My hands froze over a stack of sweaters. I felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. Of course. He hadn’t registered a single word of our conversation last night. He probably asked where I was going out of pure, mindless habit. Compared to his hyper-awareness of Linda’s emotions, his concern for me didn’t even amount to a fraction of a percent. I folded a blouse and placed it neatly into the suitcase. “I’m moving out,” I said evenly. Leo fell silent for a moment, as if the memories of the previous night were slowly clicking into place. Then, he let out a soft, dismissive chuckle. “Gina, are you actually serious? Look, if you’re that desperate for a vacation, I’ll carve out some time for us right after the wedding, okay?” I didn’t answer. I just kept packing. His expression softened into one of weary indulgence. “Linda’s lipstick really did just fall out of her bag when I drove her home the other night. I gave it back to her today. She promised me she’d be more careful with her things from now on.” My hands didn’t falter. “Good to know,” I murmured. Seeing my indifference, Leo yanked at his tie, his patience finally snapping. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum over something this trivial?” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Calling off the wedding? Gina, we are six days away from our rehearsal dinner. Do you have any idea what calling it off right now actually means? You’re an adult. Stop being so incredibly childish.” Of course I knew what it meant. It meant my parents would have to face the pitying whispers of our relatives and friends. It meant severing the six-year thread that bound my life to his. But I couldn’t live like this anymore. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life playing second fiddle to Linda in my own marriage. “It is,” I said. Leo blinked. “What?” I looked him dead in the eye and repeated it, slower this time. “It is worth it, Leo. I’m not throwing a tantrum. I’m calling off the wedding. I don’t want to marry you anymore.” Leo stared at me, a cold, scoffing laugh escaping his lips. “Gina, there’s a limit to how far you can push a drama. You’re seriously going to throw away six years of our lives over a stray lipstick and a couple of vacation photos?” To him, it was always just a drama. He had never once stopped to consider the concept of boundaries when it came to Linda. I remembered a night last year when I had too much to drink at a corporate networking dinner. When I called his number, Linda answered. She told me Leo was driving and couldn’t talk. After a heavy pause, I asked if he could come pick me up. He took the phone from her and rejected me without a second thought. “I’m driving Linda home right now. Just call an Uber.” I ended up taking that rideshare home alone, and we had a massive screaming match. But then he coldly uttered, “Maybe we shouldn’t get married after all,” and those words felt like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, freezing the anger right out of me. In the end, I was the one who crawled back, swallowing my pride to appease him. He was so protective of Linda that he had threatened to call off our wedding dozens of times because of her. But now, when I was the one pulling the plug, he refused to believe it. I looked away, too exhausted to argue. “Fine. Think what you want.” “Gina, can you stop with this toxic jealousy?” Leo pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a frustrated breath. “Linda is my junior colleague. She’s struggling. What is so wrong with me helping her navigate her research? It’s literally my job as her mentor.” I remained silent. I zipped up my final suitcase and pulled it off the bed. Leo threw his hands up in defeat. “Whatever. Maybe it’s good for you to get out of the house and clear your head. At least then you’ll stop overanalyzing everything.” He turned on his heel and slammed the study door behind him. I quietly stood the suitcase up in the corner of the room. Looking down at the diamond engagement ring on my left hand, I slipped it off my finger and set it on the nightstand. I expected to lie awake all night, but instead, I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I didn’t wake up until mid-morning, roused by soft, giggling voices floating up from the living room. “Leo, are you sure Gina won’t be mad that you brought me over without asking her first? You guys are literally getting married next week. I’d feel terrible if you two got into a fight because of me.” I had heard that voice countless times through Leo’s speakerphone. But I never imagined he would actually bring Linda into our home. “She won’t mind,” Leo replied, his voice warm and comforting. “Gina isn’t unreasonable. Besides, you’re only here so we can finish editing your thesis drafts.” When I carried my suitcase down the stairs, I saw Linda sitting beside him on the sofa. Their heads were huddled close together over a laptop. Neither of them noticed me standing at the foot of the stairs. “Oh my gosh, Leo, you’re literally a lifesaver,” Linda squealed, gazing at him with open admiration. “If I had submitted my original draft, my advisor would have absolutely shredded me.” “Don’t worry,” Leo said softly. “I’ve got you. We’ll fix it together.” My heart gave a painful little squeeze. I had never seen him display that kind of gentleness. Just last month, I had asked him to look over a marketing proposal I was working on for a promotion. He had barely glanced at the paper before looking back down at his phone. “Gina, this isn’t my field. I don’t have time for this.” He had no patience for me. But for Linda, he was willing to explain things line by line, hour by hour. I let go of the handle, and my suitcase clicked against the floorboard. Both of them snapped their heads in my direction. Leo stood up and walked toward me, his tone defensive yet carefully even. “Linda needed help with the final edits. I figured it would be easier and faster if she just came over here to work.” “How convenient,” I murmured. Linda scampered over behind him, her eyes dropping to the suitcase at my feet. She let out a soft gasp. “Gina… are you going somewhere?” I ignored her. Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out a platinum credit card and handed it to Leo. “This is the card your mother gave me for the wedding expenses,” I said, my voice steady and devoid of emotion. “I haven’t spent a single penny of it. I’ll speak to my parents tonight. You should do the same with yours. Let’s not drag this out.” Leo stared at the card, a look of genuine shock crossing his face before it hardened into a bitter, mocking smirk. “Gina, what is this dramatic little performance supposed to prove?” “Nothing,” I said, pressing the card into his palm. “Since the engagement is off, it’s only right that I return what isn’t mine.” “Calling off the engagement?!” Linda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth before Leo could speak. “Gina, you’re calling off the wedding? Why?” I turned my gaze to her, looking her straight in the eye. “I think you know exactly why.” Linda froze, the color draining from her face. Leo immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from my gaze. His brow furrowed in anger. “Gina, that is enough. This is your own insecurity talking. Don’t drag Linda into your issues.” Watching the outrage burn in his eyes, I paused, and a small, sad smile touched my lips. To him, I was just insecure and petty. He completely ignored his own failure to set boundaries, choosing instead to paint me as the irrational, jealous fiancée. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “I am petty.” I wheeled my suitcase around them and walked out the front door. As I crossed the threshold, Linda’s whimpering voice drifted out from the entryway. “Leo… is she calling off the wedding because of me? I swear the lipstick was just an accident, I didn’t mean to leave it in your car… I’m so sorry…” “It has nothing to do with you,” Leo interrupted, his voice dropping into that familiar, reassuring register. “I know her. She’s just trying to scare me. She’s not going to call off the wedding.” I didn’t look back. I pulled the door shut behind me, letting the heavy click of the deadbolt swallow their voices whole. I took a taxi to my parents’ house in the suburbs. When I walked through the door dragging my heavy luggage, my mother stopped dead in her tracks. “Gina? Sweetie, what are you doing here?” Her eyes fell to the suitcases, and her face softened with immediate concern. She asked, her voice cautious, “Did you and Leo have a fight?” My hand tightened around the handle of my suitcase. I swallowed the lump in my throat and shook my head. “No. It wasn’t a fight. I called off the wedding.” My father walked out of the kitchen just in time to hear me. He stood frozen in the hallway. “Gina, what did you just say? You called off the wedding?” I sat them down in the living room and explained everything, my voice growing softer and more exhausted with every sentence. By the time I finished, my mother’s eyes were glistening with unshed tears. My father remained silent, his jaw clenched in quiet anger. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry,” I whispered, looking down at my hands. My mother immediately reached across the table and took my hands in hers. Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to stay strong for me. “Gina, look at me. Your father and I will support whatever you decide. If you don’t want to marry him, we aren’t going to make you. Don’t worry about the guests or the relatives. We will handle them.” A sudden wave of emotion hit me, threatening to shatter the fragile calm I’d kept all morning. I blinked rapidly, fighting back the tears, refusing to let them fall. Upstairs in my old childhood bedroom, I collapsed onto the mattress, utterly drained. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text from my best friend, Becca. “Gina, is it true? Did you actually call off the wedding with Leo? Tell me you’re joking.” I stared at the ceiling and typed out a brief reply: “It’s true. His business trip last month? He took Linda on a weekend getaway.” Within three seconds, Becca was calling me. She didn’t even say hello before launching into a furious tirade. “Is he out of his mind?! You’ve been working yourself to the bone coordinating with vendors and florists, and he’s out of town playing boyfriend to his assistant?! You spent six years of your life building a future with this man. How could he do this to you? He’s an absolute prick!” By the end of her rant, her voice was shaking with anger and tears. She was crying for me, feeling the injustice of it all more loudly than I could. I forced a small, tired smile. “It’s okay, Becca. Honestly, it’s better this way. I don’t want to marry him anymore.” Before, I had been holding onto the hope that things would change. But now, my heart was entirely numb. The love had simply bled out of it. The night before our scheduled wedding, Leo called me. “Tomorrow is the big day,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were checking in on a grocery list. “What time are you coming back to the apartment tonight?” I stared out the window into the dark suburbia, a quiet, humorless laugh escaping my throat. He still believed this was a game. He still thought I was just throwing a tantrum to teach him a lesson. “I’m not coming back,” I said. There was a brief pause on the line. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your parents’ place is closer to the venue anyway. You can just head straight to the hotel tomorrow morning.” “Leo,” I interrupted, closing my eyes. “I am not going to the venue. I am not getting married tomorrow. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I am done.” A long, heavy silence stretched over the phone. When he finally spoke, his tone was clipped, laced with disbelief. “What do you mean you’re not going? Gina, do you hear yourself right now? Is this about Linda again?” He exhaled a long, dramatic sigh, the epitome of a martyr. “Linda and I are colleagues. We work in the same lab. There is absolutely nothing going on between us. I explained the trip to you. Can you please stop making a scene?” A scene. In Leo’s eyes, every boundary I tried to set, every ounce of pain I expressed, was just me “making a scene.” When Linda called him at midnight because her apartment’s kitchen light broke, he had rushed over without a second thought. When I cried about it, he told me I was overreacting. When he chose to drive her across town instead of picking me up from a bar in the rain, he told me I was being dramatic. And now, when I was trying to save my own dignity by calling off a doomed marriage, he called it a scene. I wanted to ask him: “What do I have to do for you to actually hear me?” I took a deep breath. “Leo, I am not—” “Leo!” A feminine voice suddenly chimed in from his end of the line, cutting me off. It was Linda. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was past eleven. She was still at his apartment. Leo muffled the microphone on his phone, but his voice still leaked through as he whispered to her, “What’s wrong?” “Leo, are you sure it’s okay for me to crash on your couch tonight? I don’t want to make things weird,” Linda asked, her voice dripping with sweet innocence. I pressed the red button and hung up. A few minutes later, a text message popped up on my screen. “Linda ran into some massive errors with her dataset. We worked late into the night trying to resolve them, so I told her she could stay in the guest room. Get some sleep, Gina. I’ll see you at the altar tomorrow.” He was still entirely convinced I would show up. My thumb hovered over his contact card. With a few quick taps, I blocked his number. Since he was so absolutely certain of my compliance, I decided to let him experience his perfect wedding day all by himself.

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I have a secret. I was born with the ability to smell what people are feeling. When someone lies, they carry the sour, curdled scent of spoiled milk. When someone is jealous, they smell of the sharp, metallic bite of rusted iron. When someone has a guilty conscience, they carry the heavy dampness of cellar mold. But when someone is in love, they carry a sweet, golden warmth, like honeyed vanilla. I first smelled that sweetness when Garrett and I fell in love. Back then, when he looked at me, his eyes shone as if they held the stars, and he carried that soft, sugary fragrance wherever he went. Then, we got married. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but the sweetness faded. In its place came a thick, choking bitterness. I tried to ask him about it, gently, testing the waters. “Are you doing okay lately? Is something bothering you?” He would only sigh, rubbing his temples. “Just pressure. Providing for us is heavy. The mortgage, the car payments, the endless meetings at the firm – it’s suffocating, Natalie.” I believed him. And my heart ached for him. So, I tried harder to be the perfect, understanding wife. I stopped asking why he came home so late. I stopped questioning the sudden passcode change on his phone. I stopped interrupting his “client dinners.” Until our fifth wedding anniversary. He came through the front door, laughing and talking on the phone, and for the first time in years, I caught a draft of that long-lost sweetness. But the very second the call ended, a suffocating wave of bitterness surged, completely drowning out the sweet scent. … 1 My smile froze on my face. Refusing to believe my own senses, I took a few steps closer. But the bitterness didn’t dissipate. Instead, it grew heavier, crowding my nasal passages. Garrett looked exactly like his scent – heavy, exhausted, silent. Without a word, he kicked off his shoes, set his briefcase on the entryway console, and went straight to the bathroom. The sound of running water filled the apartment. When he emerged, drying his hands on a towel, he made a straight line for the study. “Garrett, today is our…” “I’m tired,” he interrupted, not even looking back. “I need some quiet time in the study.” And with that, he shut the door. Staring at the closed door, I bit my lip, a familiar, unspeakable exhaustion settling deep in my bones. Three years into our marriage, he told me work was too draining and that he needed a space of his own at home to breathe. So, we agreed the study would be his exclusive sanctuary. I wasn’t allowed in without permission. At first, he only spent an hour in there. Then it became three. Eventually, it got to the point where if he was home, he spent most of his time behind that closed door. I sighed, turning back to the dining table. I had cooked dinner myself, warming it up over and over again while waiting for him. The dishes had lost their fresh color; a thin layer of grease had settled over the soup. In the fridge sat a blueberry cake. Garrett had mentioned offhandedly a while ago that he wanted some, so I had spent the afternoon learning how to bake it from scratch. Thinking of the entire day I’d spent preparing, I picked up my phone and opened our chat. “[It’s our anniversary. Can we please just have dinner together first?]” But before hitting send, a strange impulse made me scroll up through our chat history. I let out a soft, self-mocking laugh. Over the last two years, I had sent Garrett 3,542 messages. He had replied to exactly 98. Yet, two years ago, our chat was a dense forest of words. Even seeing a funny-looking cloud was enough to keep us talking for hours. After a long hesitation, I deleted the plea, letter by letter. I sat down alone and picked up my fork. The food, reheated too many times, had lost its flavor. It tasted slightly nauseating as I chewed, but I forced myself to swallow it, bite by bite. It felt as though if I could just finish this table of food, I could swallow some of the humiliation of tonight. By the end, my throat burned with a sour ache. I set down my fork, went to the fridge, and pulled out the cake. I was about to dig in when the study door suddenly swung open. Garrett rushed out, looking like he was in a hurry to leave. But as his eyes swept over the dining table, he stopped. “Don’t eat that!” His sharp voice startled me. My spoon slipped, clattering loudly against the edge of the plate. He strode over and snatched the cake box right off the counter. “You bought this, right? I need to borrow it.” It wasn’t a request; it was an announcement. Before I could answer, he turned and bolted out the door. As the door slammed shut, the draft from the hallway rushed in. And with it, the scent he had left behind. Sweetness. But mixed with it was a sharp, searing heat – the smell of burning anxiety. It was the scent a person only carries when they are desperately worried about someone they love. During our first year of dating, I had gone back to my hometown for New Year’s and ended up breaking my leg. Garrett couldn’t book a train ticket, so he sat in a cramped, freezing overnight bus for twelve hours just to reach me. When he pushed open my hospital room door, he carried this exact smell. It had washed over me, mingled with the cheap tobacco and winter chill of the bus. Back then, it made my heart overflow with joy. But now, that same scent felt like a blunt knife slowly carving into my chest. I didn’t think. Within seconds, I threw on my coat and shoes and slipped out after him. Garrett hadn’t taken his car. I followed him on foot, keeping a careful distance. Several times, if he had just glanced back, he would have spotted me. But he walked too fast, his mind clearly consumed by something else. He had no idea he was being followed. Just past the gates of our neighborhood, he ducked into a 24-hour convenience store. He slid onto a stool right next to a woman with long hair. Her head was bowed, her shoulders trembling slightly. Garrett placed the cake in front of her, gently resting his hand on her hair. His lips moved, whispering soft, comforting words I couldn’t hear. I hadn’t seen him look at anyone like that in years. It wasn’t the look of exhaustion. Or cold indifference. Or obligation. It was the look that used to belong entirely to me – an overwhelming, aching tenderness. I pushed open the glass door of the store, pretending to browse the shelves. Just then, the woman turned her head and buried her face in Garrett’s chest. In that split second, I saw her face. I froze in the aisle, my blood turning to ice. It was Keira. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for nearly ten years. Only last month, as she was preparing to graduate from college, I had asked her where she wanted to start her career. I told her that if she came to Chicago, I might be able to help her find her footing. She had looked down then, her cheeks flushing. “I want to go to the city where the person I love is. I just want to be close to him.” I had admired her courage back then, thinking she was so much like my younger self – willing to travel thousands of miles to an unfamiliar city for the man she loved. But in less than a month, those words had returned to slap me across the face. The person she loved was my husband. The man she had chased across the country was the very same man I had chased years ago. The cold air from the store’s open coolers made my fingers numb. Meanwhile, the scent drifting from their corner invaded my nose in waves. The sweetness was growing thicker. The scent of a honeymoon phase. Suppressing the rising bile in my throat, I took a few steps closer. Finally, Keira’s tearful, aggrieved voice reached my ears. “My supervisor made me work overtime again. It wasn’t even my mistake on the proposal, but she yelled at me in front of everyone. And now she’s making me reorganize three years’ worth of client files.” Garrett cooed to her in a low, soothing voice. “Don’t cry. You won’t have to deal with this kind of unfairness ever again.” Keira looked up at him, her eyes damp and wide. “Really?” Garrett wiped her tears away with an incredibly tender touch. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll have you transferred to my department as my personal assistant. With me around, no one will dare bully you.” My grip tightened on the metal shelf, my knuckles turning white. Two months ago, my own company had worked overtime for two straight weeks to bid on a project from Garrett’s firm. I knew Garrett hated nepotism or favoritism of any kind, so I never breathed a word to him about it. Yet, when he saw my company’s name on the list, he personally disqualified us to avoid any appearance of conflict of interest. The next day, my colleagues looked at me with a mixture of disappointment and resentment. I couldn’t offer a single word of explanation. And yet here, for Keira, all it took was a few tears, and he was ready to abuse his authority to pave a golden path for her. Garrett opened the cake box and pushed it toward Keira. “I knew you were upset, so I brought you this.” The moment the lid came off, both of them froze. Scribbled in uneven icing on the top of the cake were the words: “Happy 5th Anniversary.” Beside the text was a clumsy drawing of two cartoon figures holding hands. Keira stood up abruptly, tears spilling over. “Garrett, what is this supposed to mean? Are you trying to humiliate me? To remind me that I’m just the other woman?” Panicking, Garrett slammed the box shut and threw it violently into the trash can. “Hey, hey, sweetie, of course not. I was just in such a rush to get to you that I grabbed whatever was on the counter. I didn’t even remember what day it was.” “If you don’t like it, we throw it away. I’ll buy you a fresh one tomorrow, okay?” In the trash can, the cake lay tilted against plastic wraps and empty cups. The two cartoon figures were smeared into a blue blur, their outlines ruined. Just like my five years of marriage. But the cake wasn’t what broke my heart. It was the way he held Keira, whispering sweet-nothings, comforting her over and over with boundless patience, as if she were a fragile piece of porcelain. Last month, I had mentioned wanting a specific pour-over coffee from the shop downstairs from his office. I asked for a month, he promised for a month, and he forgot for a month. Finally, he had brought home a bottle of instant coffee from this very convenience store and tossed it on the counter. When I told him that wasn’t what I wanted, his brow had furrowed in irritation. “Natalie, my job is stressful enough. Can you stop picking fights over trivial nonsense?” Back then, I had made excuses for him, convincing myself he was just exhausted. But it wasn’t that at all. The difference between loving someone and not loving them is stark. I couldn’t watch any longer. I turned and walked out into the night. The cold wind bit my face, making my eyes sting. Standing under a streetlamp, I drafted a resignation email to my boss. He was already cold toward me after we lost the contract with Garrett’s firm, and his reply came almost instantly: “[Understood. Please complete your handoff and finish up by the end of the week.]” When I got back to the apartment, I left the cold leftovers on the table. I took a shower, crawled into bed, and stared at the dark ceiling. It was nearly midnight when the front door finally clicked open. Garrett crept into the bedroom. The sweetness on him had vanished, replaced once more by that heavy, suffocating bitterness. But this time, there was a faint, sour tang underneath – the smell of guilt. I didn’t know if he felt guilty for forgetting our anniversary, or for harboring another woman in his heart. The mattress dipped as he climbed in and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. Things have been insane at work lately, and I completely lost track of the date. Let me make it up to you with a nice gift in a few days, okay?” I didn’t turn around. I just gave a quiet, hollow murmur of agreement. But I knew. “In a few days” meant never. That was always Garrett’s way. When he genuinely wanted to do something, he gave a concrete timeline. Like when he comforted Keira, he said “tomorrow.” For me, it was always the nebulous safety of “some other time.” Hearing my quiet response, the scent of guilt evaporated from him. Within minutes, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep. Sure enough, by the time I finished my handoff and walked out of my office for the last time, his promised gift had never materialized. On my final day, after picking up the finalized divorce papers from my attorney’s office, I took a cab home. As we drove past Garrett’s office building, a sudden impulse took hold of me. “Actually, could you pull over here, please?” It was a whim; I hadn’t actually expected to run into him. But as I neared the glass lobby doors, I saw Garrett and Keira walking out side-by-side. The young receptionist smiled, teasing them. “Garrett, taking Keira out solo again?” Keira’s cheeks flushed, and she waved her hands. “Oh, don’t say that! It’s just a client meeting.” The receptionist gave a knowing smirk. “Right, right. We get it.” Garrett heard her, but he didn’t correct her. There wasn’t even a flicker of annoyance on his face. Standing outside the glass doors, I let out a quiet, self-mocking laugh. But as I laughed, a tear slipped down my cheek. Garrett was a man so fiercely protective of professional boundaries that he was almost draconian about them. During our first year of marriage, when we worked at the same company, he had told me, “Office romances look bad, Natalie. One of us needs to leave to keep things professional.” So, I had walked away from a career I had spent three years building – one where I was on the cusp of a promotion. I rewrote my resume, took interviews, and started all over again from the bottom. Yet here he was, parading Keira around the office, completely unbothered by the suggestive whispers of his staff. I followed them. They walked a block and entered a small, cozy bistro on the corner. It was a place Garrett and I used to frequent back when we were dating. In those days, the restaurant was tiny, with greasy wooden tables and menus that were frayed at the edges. But it was cheap, the portions were huge, and the food was incredible. Later, the place became trendy. You needed reservations; the lines stretched down the block. Garrett grew to despise it, refusing to take me there ever again. “Is there really nothing else you want to eat? Do we have to waste our evening standing in line for a craving?” Yet now, the hostess recognized him immediately and smiled. “Table for two, Garrett? Your usual spot?” Keira walked inside with practiced ease, as if she had been here dozens of times. Standing on the sidewalk, the air suddenly felt too thick to breathe. He hadn’t hated the hassle of the restaurant; he had just hated the hassle of “me.” Under the shadow of a maple tree, I watched them through the window. The food arrived quickly – a skillet of garlic shrimp, a whole roasted sea bass, and several other signature dishes I knew by heart. Garrett naturally took the wet wipes from the server. He pulled the fish apart, meticulously extracting every bone before placing a piece of fish onto Keira’s plate. Then he peeled the shrimp, dipped them in sauce, and set them in her bowl. Watching this, my mind drifted back to our early years. Those were tasks I had always done for him. Garrett was meticulous, a bit of a clean freak. He hated getting his fingers greasy, hated the chore of peeling shells. So, whenever we ate, I would peel his shrimp, debone his fish, and slide them onto his plate. Our friends used to tease me. “Natalie, if you keep spoiling him like this, you’re going to turn him into a helpless toddler.” I had only laughed. But now I had my answer. Garrett wasn’t helpless. He was perfectly capable of doing the things he disliked – provided the person he was doing them for was someone he actually loved. I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Keira. Our last exchange was her message about moving to the city of her dreams, followed by a GIF of a winking golden retriever. No wonder it had looked familiar. I realized now it was from a sticker pack Garrett used constantly. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. After a long moment, I typed out a message: “[Keira, I saw you here in Chicago. So you decided to stay after all? Why don’t you come over to our place for dinner this weekend?]” The message sent. I didn’t wait to see their reactions. I slipped my phone into my pocket, turned on my heel, and walked away. Apparently, Keira didn’t tell Garrett about my invitation. Because when the doorbell rang on Sunday, and Garrett opened the door to find her standing there, his entire body went rigid. In the next second, a damp, moldy smell exploded into the hallway, laced with a sharp, panicked heat. Guilt and panic, coiling together. I knew exactly why Keira hadn’t told him. What woman is truly content staying hidden in the shadows forever? When given the chance to step into the light, to claim a space in his home, she was never going to pass it up. While Keira went to the restroom, Garrett grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the corner of the kitchen. His voice was a harsh whisper, laced with accusation. “Why didn’t you tell me Keira was coming over for dinner?” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “You always say you hate hearing about domestic details. So I didn’t bother.” Garrett choked on his words, his brow knitting tighter. “Natalie, you – ” Before he could finish, the bathroom door clicked open. Keira stepped out, her smile sweet and entirely innocent. “Natalie, when are we eating? I’m starving.” I pulled my wrist from Garrett’s grip and reached for the serving platters. “Right now.” The three of us sat down at the table. In the past, whenever Keira visited, she would cling to my side, always insisting on sitting next to me. This time, she naturally pulled out the chair directly beside Garrett. I set the soup bowl down, pretending not to notice. With a pleasant smile, I asked her, “So, Keira, you mentioned before that you were moving to be with the person you loved. How did you end up staying in Chicago?” As the question hung in the air, I felt a strange knot of tension in my chest. I had supported Keira for a decade. I had watched her pull herself out of a mountain village without paved roads, fighting her way to a top-tier university. I didn’t want to destroy her future over a sordid affair. I was going to divorce Garrett, without question. But if she showed any remorse, any sign of realizing her mistake, I wanted to leave her with some shred of dignity. But Keira only looked down, a small smile playing on her lips. When she looked up, her gaze drifted sideways to Garrett. “Because the person I love is here in Chicago,” she said softly, but with absolute clarity. “He begged me to stay. He found me a job, rented me an apartment, even got me a car. He showed so much sincerity… how could I not stay?” As her words fell, the dining room became choked with competing scents. From Garrett, the damp, rotting stench of guilt. From Keira, the sharp, metallic bite of open provocation. And from me? There was no longer any sour ache of heartbreak. There was only the dry, empty smell of cold ash. Disappointment. I smiled faintly and let the subject drop. The rest of the meal tasted like cardboard. When we finished, I was the one who broke the silence. “Garrett, it’s getting late. Why don’t you drive Keira home?” Garrett’s face was dark, but he didn’t refuse. He grabbed his keys in silence, and he and Keira walked out of the apartment. A split second before the elevator doors closed, I saw Keira stand on her tiptoes and plant a quick, mocking kiss on his cheek. It was a declaration of ownership. A victory lap. I let the doors close, turned back into my apartment, and shut the door. I went into the bedroom, pulled out my pre-packed suitcases, and set them by the door. Then, I placed the signed divorce agreement neatly in the center of the dining table. Finally, I opened my laptop and pulled up my email. I attached the blurry photo of them embracing at the convenience store, the clear shot of him deboning her fish at the restaurant, and several photos of them walking into his office building together. Along with a concise, factual report, I sent the package directly to the email of Garrett’s regional director. With that done, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and walked out without looking back. The night air hit my face as I stepped out of the building, washing away the heavy, bitter scent of Garrett that had clung to me for far too long. Garrett didn’t get home until three in the morning. Keira had clung to his sleeve, refusing to let him leave. First, she said she was scared to be alone, then she claimed she heard strange noises in her apartment, then she begged for just thirty more minutes. Thirty minutes turned into hours. By the time Garrett’s patience finally wore thin, the sky was already graying. On the drive back, Garrett felt nothing but exhaustion. Managing Keira was becoming increasingly demanding; she always seemed to want more. By contrast, he thought, Natalie had never been like this. She was always reasonable, always understanding. Even if he stayed out all night, she would only send a gentle “Stay safe” text and leave the porch light on. When he turned the key in the lock, he frowned out of habit. The entryway was dark, the living room pitch-black save for the amber glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds. “Natalie?” he called out. No response. He fumbled for the light switch. When the room flooded with light, he froze. The dining table was a mess of dirty dishes. The remnants of dinner had congealed into white grease, and a dark stain had soaked into the tablecloth. There were dried sauce drops on the hardwood floor, and a small clump of rice lay abandoned nearby. This wasn’t like Natalie. She couldn’t stand a messy house. Even when she had a fever, she would force herself to put everything in its place. The faint guilt he had felt for coming home late was instantly replaced by irritation. His job was exhausting enough; he didn’t want to come home to a disaster. With a cold face, he marched toward the bedroom to demand an explanation. The door was cracked open, the room dark. He pushed it open and flipped the switch. The bed was made perfectly. The duvet was pulled tight, without a single wrinkle to suggest anyone had lain there. “Natalie?” Still nothing. He checked the bathroom – empty. He stood in the middle of the quiet apartment, suddenly struck by how vast and foreign the space felt. The subtle scent of Natalie’s lavender fabric softener was already fading. He walked back to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water, and that was when he spotted the document resting beside a plate. Frowning, he picked it up. The bold, capitalized letters at the top hit him like a physical blow: “DIVORCE AGREEMENT.” Garrett stared at it, a wave of disbelief washing over him. Natalie wanted a divorce? Over a missed anniversary dinner? Over a cake? It made no sense. He let out a harsh, dry laugh and tossed the paper back onto the table. He pulled out his phone and dialed her number. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” He hung up and opened Messages. “[Natalie, what is this nonsense? Where the hell are you at this hour?]” The message failed to send. A glaring red exclamation mark appeared, followed by a small line of text: “Message not delivered. You have been blocked by this contact.” Garrett stared at the red circle, paralyzed. Then, a hot, uncontrollable anger flared in his chest. They had argued before, but Natalie was always the one to back down first. This time, she had gone too far – actually signing divorce papers. He made up his mind right then: he would wait until she came crawling back, apologizing, before he would even consider forgiving her. With that thought, the fire in his chest subsided slightly. He went to bed, tossing and turning until dawn before finally falling into a fitful sleep. The next morning, he was jolted awake by his phone. It was the assistant to the regional director, Mr. Campbell. “Garrett, Mr. Campbell wants you in his office immediately. We have a highly urgent matter to discuss.”

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I have always been able to see the red strings. They are thin, glowing threads of fate, anchoring one soul to another. When two people share a deep, intimate bond, a line appears between them. Jack and I were high school sweethearts. For eight years, a single, vibrant crimson thread ran from my chest straight to his, steady and unbroken. For his twenty-eighth birthday, we planned a weekend trip with our closest friends to hike the rugged backcountry of the northern ridges. Jack was an avid outdoorsman, the kind of guy who lived for the trail. He had shrugged off my suggestion of hiring a guide, his voice full of easy confidence. “A guide? Come on, babe. I’ve hiked this route six times. I could lead us to the summit with my eyes closed.” But midway up the mountain, he vanished. Without him, we didn’t know the trail, and the weather turned in an instant. A sudden, violent storm triggered a massive mudslide. My best friend, Beth, went over the edge of a ravine trying to pull me to safety. I was left curled beneath the freezing roots of a pine tree, my limbs completely numb, my jacket soaked through with blood. When I finally opened my eyes, I was staring at the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room. The doctor told me I was pregnant—just two months along—and that the baby was gone. Then the search-and-rescue team delivered the final, crushing blow. They had found Beth’s body. She had been pierced by a fallen branch. It was a horrific, agonizing way to die. My heart felt shattered into a million jagged pieces. I lay there, weeping hysterically, drowning in a grief so heavy I couldn’t breathe. That was when Jack finally showed up. He rushed to my bedside, throwing his arms around me, his voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry, Leah. I’m so sorry I’m late…” I froze in his arms, staring at him. Why? It had only been twenty-four hours. But the red string on his chest had split. There were now two of them. 1 “Where were you?” His hand, which had been gently wiping the tears from my cheek, faltered for a fraction of a second. He recovered quickly, offering a seamless explanation. “I got a text saying my dad had a heart attack. I panicked, Leah. All I could think about was getting to him. I forgot to tell the rest of the group before I ran down.” “In the backcountry?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “Since when is there cell service up there?” A shadow crossed his face. “There was a weak signal. Did your phone not have one?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t believe a single word. I kept my eyes locked on his chest. The deep, blood-red string was mine. But the other one—the pale, rose-pink thread—who did it belong to? Did that new connection have something to do with why he abandoned us on that mountain? The door clicked open, and a police officer walked into the room. Seeing that I was conscious, he gently asked me to come down to the morgue to identify Beth. The basement of the hospital was freezing, colder even than the rainy night on the mountain. Beth’s face was pale and ruined, barely recognizable. But I knew the small, dark mole right on her collarbone. “It’s her,” I choked out. The officer nodded sympathetically. “Do you have any contact information for her next of kin?” I shook my head, my throat tight. “She… she didn’t have anyone else.” We had grown up together in the same orphanage. I was her only friend, her only family. With trembling hands, I pulled the white sheet back over her face. I reached down, took off my own shoes, and slipped them onto her bare, cold feet. She had always hated the cold. She couldn’t go to the other side without shoes. Jack patted my back, his touch light and detached, like an outsider observing someone else’s tragedy. “I know you’re angry with me,” he whispered, sounding defensive. “But I had my reasons. I’m hurting too, Leah.” Ignoring my silent resistance, he lifted me up and carried me back to my room. He wiped my face and my feet with wet wipes, throwing away one damp tissue after another. I stared at him, feeling as though I was going to cry until my eyes ran dry. “Jack,” I asked, “do you think Beth will be happy in her next life? Do you think she’ll get a mom and dad who actually love her?” “And the baby… do you think our baby will hate me for not protecting them?” “Stop overthinking things,” Jack replied, his voice distracted as he stared down at his phone. “They’re gone. Dwelling on it only makes it worse.” He typed out two quick replies, then slid his phone into his pocket and stood up. “I have some urgent stuff to handle at the office. Call me if you need anything.” I watched his retreating back. As soon as the door clicked shut, something possessed me. I swung my legs out of bed and walked out of the room barefoot. The sharp pebbles on the pavement cut into the soles of my feet, leaving faint smears of blood behind me, but I couldn’t feel the pain. I slipped into a taxi and followed Jack’s car. The surroundings grew increasingly familiar. We were heading toward the Northside university district. Jack’s car pulled up near the gates of the state college. Standing there was a familiar, slender figure. It was Sadie. The girl I had been financially sponsoring for the last six years. She took a few quick steps and threw herself directly into Jack’s arms. I dug my fingernails deep into my palms, praying this was just a horrific nightmare. How could it be her? I had funded Sadie’s education since she was a young girl in middle school. Beth and I had treated her like a younger sister. Every summer and winter break, she would come to the city to stay with us. I had paid her tuition, shown her the world outside her impoverished town, and helped her build a life here. And this was how she repaid me. She clung to my husband, the pink line on her chest glowing with a sickening intensity. Jack reached down, gently stroking her hair. “Be good, Sadie. Leah and Beth had an accident. I won’t be able to come see you for a few days.” Sadie looked down, playfully twisting his fingers. “Fine. I understand. But can you at least stay with me today?” She pouted, her eyes wide and pleading. “Alright, get in, you little troublemaker,” Jack murmured, his voice thick with affection. The car sped away. By the time my taxi driver realized what was happening and pressed on the gas, they were already gone. I paid the driver, stepped out, and sat on the curb, completely numb. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my chat history with Sadie. She had always treated me like an older sister, sharing her secrets and crushes. She had told me she was in love with someone. I had even given her advice on how to win him over. The restaurant they went to? I had helped her pick it. The amusement park tickets? I had bought them for her. The concert tickets? I had stayed up late to secure them. With my help, she had systematically crawled her way into my husband’s bed. I opened her social media profile. Her latest post was a blurry photo of two hands locked together. [He promised that if we kept our Snapstreak alive for 520 days, I’d finally say yes to being his girlfriend.] [On day 519, he was deep in the mountains with no cell service. But he actually abandoned his hiking group and ran all the way down the mountain just to get a signal and save our streak.] [Now I know he truly loves me.] So that was the truth. He had abandoned us in a storm, leading to a miscarriage and the death of my best friend, all for a Snapchat streak. A tear slipped from my cheek, hitting the screen and accidentally liking Sadie’s post. A second later, a private message popped up from her. It was a cute sticker of a puppy hugging a heart. [Leah, I heard about the accident. I’m so incredibly sorry for your loss. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.] I didn’t reply. My phone’s battery died, and the screen went black. The cold night wind whipped around me, making my head spin. I felt like I was back on the muddy slopes of the mountain. I used the last of my strength to crawl back to the hospital. Jack never came back that night. The next morning, he walked into the ward carrying a bag of breakfast. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he tossed the bag straight into the trash can. “Sorry, babe. I totally forgot you hate celery.” I caught a whiff of the sweet, synthetic orange scent on his clothes, and a wave of nausea hit me. The red string connecting him to Sadie had deepened into a rich garnet color. Mine had faded to a pale, translucent pink. On his collar, there was a faint trace of peach lip gloss. I knew exactly what they had been doing last night. His phone buzzed repeatedly. He sat on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, ducking his head to hide his smile as he typed. Because of my angle, I could see every word of their explicit conversation. [Sadie: You jerk! I woke up and you were already gone.] [Jack: Sweetheart, Leah is still in the hospital. I have to be here.] [Sadie: I guess your wife always comes first. You made me cry last night and you didn’t even care.] [Jack: Baby, you were crying because it felt so good. You were so loud.] Jack’s fingers flew across the keyboard, his face lit up like a teenager experiencing his first love. When he finally looked up and remembered I was there, he quickly masked his joy with a solemn, serious expression. It was exhausting just watching him act. I didn’t confront him. Right now, my priority was Beth. Once Jack left the hospital, I forced myself out of bed and signed the discharge papers. I spent the day handling the death certificate and the paperwork to close her bank accounts. My chest felt hollow. Just a few days ago, Beth had been holding my arm, excitedly planning our next vacation. How could she just be gone? My phone buzzed with a text from Jack. [Babe, are you okay on your own? I’m meeting up with the guys from the hike to buy them dinner and apologize for leaving them on the mountain.] I didn’t bother to reply. I was at the funeral home, trying to select an urn through a blur of tears, when my phone rang. It was Tyler, one of Jack’s childhood friends who had been on the mountain with us. I answered, but Tyler didn’t speak right away. Instead, I heard Sadie’s giggling voice in the background. Jack had brought Sadie to the apology dinner. Except for me, everyone in his circle already knew about them. “Seriously, Jack, you’re something else,” Tyler’s voice came through, sounding strained. “You almost got us killed for a girl.” Jack let out a defensive laugh. “Come on, man, can we drop it? Do I need to get down on my knees and beg?” “We’re fine, but what about Leah?” another friend chimed in. “She lost her baby, she watched her best friend fall down a cliff. You didn’t see her, Jack. She was clawing at the dirt trying to climb down to Beth until her fingernails were torn off and bleeding. It was brutal. If you had been there, none of this would have happened.” “What do you want me to do?” Jack snapped. “It already happened. Nobody knew a mudslide was coming. It was just bad luck. You can’t pin this on me.” Sadie’s voice drifted over the receiver. “Don’t blame Jack, guys. He’s really devastated too.” “Oh, look who’s protecting him,” Tyler muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “So, when you ditched us on the mountain, did you guys go straight to a hotel? How was the first time, anyway?” Jack let out a low chuckle. “Three times. She cried because it hurt.” The call abruptly disconnected. A moment later, a text from Tyler popped up on my screen. [Leah, if you hadn’t given me your spare rain jacket that night, I would have gotten hypothermia. I owe you my life. I can’t keep lying to you about Jack and Sadie.] I saved the recording of the call. I played it over and over again, letting the words tear into me until the pain gave way to a cold, dead numbness. I took Beth’s urn back to her empty apartment. I sat on the living room floor, staring at our graduation photo on the wall. We had used our very first paychecks to get professional portraits taken. She had such a beautiful, radiant smile. “Don’t worry, Beth,” I whispered to the empty room. “I’m not going to fall apart.” Beth’s memorial service was held a week later. Sadie actually had the audacity to show up. She walked up to me and offered a fragile, dramatic hug. “Leah, please stay strong. You still have me.” She was wearing a scoop-neck dress that barely concealed a pattern of dark hickeys on her collarbone. Her performance of grief was cheap—lots of loud sniffling, but not a single tear. I clenched my fists inside my pockets, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. I didn’t say a word. Right after the eulogy, I noticed both Sadie and Jack had slipped out of the chapel. I followed the quiet hallway until I reached the emergency exit stairwell. Through the narrow crack in the door, I saw them. They were pressed against the concrete wall, kissing with frantic, desperate hunger. Jack eventually pulled back, his breathing heavy, though he tried to look disapproving. “Are you out of your mind? This is Beth’s funeral!” “I don’t care,” Sadie giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Don’t tell me you don’t find this thrilling.” She looked up at him with an innocent, wide-eyed smile. “You little heartless brat,” Jack murmured, though there was no real heat in his voice. “Beth sent you money every month, you know.” “She just wanted to play the saint and feel good about herself,” Sadie sneered. “What does that have to do with me?” Jack grabbed her by the waist, pulling her flush against his body as if he wanted to bruise her. The red string connecting them was thick and vibrant, almost bleeding with intensity. Mine, by contrast, was a faint, ghostly thread. A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me, and my foot slipped against the doorframe. The sound startled them, and they immediately sprang apart. Jack smoothed his jacket, his expression smoothing into a mask of casual innocence within a second. He didn’t even look flustered as he walked toward me, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Hey, babe. My cravings got the best of me, so I came out for a smoke. Ran into Sadie on the way.” I didn’t call him out. I just clenched my teeth and forced my voice to remain steady. “I noticed you were gone, so I came looking for you.” He slid the cigarettes back into his pocket. “I’m done anyway. I’ll head back inside first.” As I turned to follow him, Sadie called out to me. “Leah, you saw us, didn’t you?” I stopped. “Saw what?” She blinked at me, her face a picture of youthful innocence. “Oh, stop acting. We were kissing.” “Look at my waist,” she added, lifting the edge of her cardigan to reveal a faint red mark. “He gripped me so hard it left a bruise.” My fingers dug into my palms. “What is your point, Sadie?” “I loved Jack the moment I saw him,” she said softly. “He’s handsome, mature, and gentle. He’s the best man I’ve ever met. I honestly don’t know how you got so lucky.” She let out a soft sigh. “But I really do have to thank you. Thank you for paying for my college.” “Jack told me that when you guys were trying to buy your apartment, you worked three different part-time jobs just to make sure you could still send me my monthly allowance. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be stuck in that miserable little mountain village. I never would have made it to the city, and I never would have met Jack.” “You practically handed him to me, Leah. You really are a wonderful person.” The blood in my veins ran cold. “…Are you even human?” “Think whatever you want,” she said, entirely unbothered. “Oh, by the way, I heard from the doctor that your uterus was badly damaged during the miscarriage. You probably won’t ever be able to have kids again, right?” She reached into her purse and pulled out a plastic stick, holding it up for me to see. Two distinct pink lines. “Maybe your dead baby decided to come to my belly instead.” “I’m pregnant, Leah. I haven’t told Jack yet. How happy do you think he’ll be when he finds out?” With a triumphant smile, she brushed past my shoulder and walked away. That night, Jack didn’t come home. Around midnight, Tyler sent me a video. It was taken at the upscale lounge where they always hung out. Sadie was sitting in the center of the booth, surrounded by their friends, while Jack held her close, kissing her passionately. “Let’s raise a glass!” Jack shouted over the music, his face flushed with joy. “I’m going to be a dad!” He was beaming, entirely untroubled by the fact that our own baby had died just a week ago. While some lives ended, others began. I was the only one left in the wreckage. My phone buzzed with a text from him. [Babe, caught up with some work stuff at the office. Won’t make it home tonight.] [By the way, can you head over to my parents’ place tomorrow? My mom’s back has been acting up, and she could use some help around the house.] I stared at the screen for a long time before typing my reply. [Okay.] And then I added: [I think I’ll stay with them for a couple of days so I can take proper care of them.] [Awesome, thanks babe!] The next morning, I packed my things and moved into my in-laws’ house. Predictably, Jack brought Sadie back to our apartment that very night. The hidden nanny cam I had installed in our living room months ago captured everything in high-definition clarity. I sat on the guest bed at his parents’ house, quietly watching them embrace, kiss, and tear their clothes off. They didn’t even make it to the bedroom. They collapsed onto the living room rug, wrapped up in each other. The red string connecting me to Jack had faded until it was practically invisible. I felt an eerie, profound sense of peace. Beth’s funeral was over. Everything that needed to be done had been done. Now, it was time to settle the debt. The next morning, I drove to the transit station and picked up Sadie’s parents. They were simple farmers who had never left their rural county. When I called them and told them their daughter was in serious trouble, they had boarded the first bus out. “Leah, what happened to our little girl?” her mother asked, her eyes wide with worry. “You’ll see when we get there,” I replied quietly, guiding them into a waiting cab. Then I went back to my in-laws’ house and picked up Jack’s parents. But I wasn’t finished. I created a massive group chat on social media, adding every single mutual friend, family member, colleague, and acquaintance Jack had. When we finally arrived at our apartment, I unlocked the door with my key and quietly led both sets of parents up the stairs to the second floor. The master bedroom door was ajar. Jack and Sadie were lying tangled in my sheets, completely naked. The floor was littered with used wrappers and adult toys. It didn’t take a genius to figure out exactly what kind of night they had shared. After a long, suffocating silence, Sadie’s mother let out a raw, horrified shriek. “Sadie!” The show had finally begun.

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When we were resetting the smart lock on my condo back to its factory settings, the building manager hesitated, looking up at me. “Ms. Foster, are you sure you want to wipe everything? This user, Isla, has administrator privileges. You’re actually registered here as a temporary guest.” I gave a small, tired smile. “Wipe it. Don’t leave a single name.” The night before, my stomach had flared up so badly I was doubled over by the elevator, my hand shaking so violently I couldn’t punch in the passcode. The lock kept flashing: Access Denied. When I called Larry, he kept his voice to a tight whisper on the other end: “Stop messing with the keypad, Natalie. Isla just fell asleep. Her nerves are shot, and the alarm is going to wake her up.” Sweat was beaded on my forehead from the pain. “This is my apartment, Larry.” He paused for two seconds, his tone shifting into familiar reproof. “She’s only staying here for a few days. Besides, don’t you have the code? Don’t make things difficult for her over something this small.” Only later did I discover what “temporary” actually meant. It meant her fingerprint was registered as the primary profile. And me—the person whose name was actually on the deed—was locked out in the hallway, unable to even reach my medication. I looked at the history log on the smart lock app. [11:48 PM: Larry Evans deleted Natalie Foster’s emergency access authorization.] I didn’t call him again. Instead, I prepaid the rest of the renovation loan and contacted my agent to put the condo back on the market. This place, which I had paid for, was no longer mine. And him? I didn’t want him either. 1 The night my gastritis flared up, I had to commute back from the clinic alone. The rain was coming down in sheets, pooling deep at the entrance of our building. By the time I stepped out of the storm, my socks were completely soaked through. When the elevator let me out on the twenty-first floor, I had one hand pressed against my ribs and the other reaching for the keypad. The interface lit up. Access Denied. Thinking I had just miskeyed, I tried again. Slow, deliberate presses. Access Denied. On the third try, the security system triggered, sending a shrill, piercing alarm echoing through the empty hallway. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to lean against the wall, my vision blurring. Inside, I heard muffled footsteps. It wasn’t Larry. “Who is it?” Isla’s voice came through the thick door, soft and tentative, sounding startled. I gritted my teeth. “It’s me, Natalie.” The hallway went quiet. She didn’t open the door. A moment later, my phone vibrated. It was Larry. His first words weren’t to ask how I was doing. “Natalie, stop pressing the buttons,” he said, his voice hushed. “Isla just got to sleep. You terrified her.” I leaned against the wall, the cramps twisting so hard I couldn’t stand up straight. “I can’t get inside. The lock says my access is denied.” There was a brief silence on the line. “It’s probably just a system glitch,” he said. “Go sit down at the convenience store on the corner for a bit. Don’t make a scene at the door. Isla’s emotional state is really fragile right now.” I let out a quiet laugh, though my lips felt completely numb. “Larry, my stomach is turning inside out. My prescription is in the kitchen.” His tone softened slightly, but it was still heavy with a simmering impatience. “They have over-the-counter stuff at the store. Just buy a pack to hold you over. I’ve got some things to handle here. I’ll be back late.” I stared at the brass handle. This was my apartment. I had put down seventy percent of the down payment. The mortgage auto-drafted from my account every month. The renovation loan was entirely in my name. Yet another woman was sleeping inside, and I was locked out. He was telling me to buy OTC meds at a convenience store. Through the door, I heard Isla’s hushed murmur. “Larry, should I let Natalie in? She sounds really angry.” Larry’s voice was low but clear through the receiver. “Don’t worry about it. Her stomach gets bad and she loses her temper. I don’t want her scaring you.” I listened to those words, and my fingers slowly slipped off the door handle. So, me crouching in pain in the hallway was just me “losing my temper.” I didn’t knock again. I walked over to the stairwell, sat down on the cold concrete step, and pulled up the smart lock app on my phone. The log took forever to load. When the user list finally appeared, I stared at it. User 1: Isla. Access Level: Administrator. Note: [Isla – Emergency Access] User 2: Larry Evans. Access Level: Administrator. User 3: Natalie Foster. Access Level: Temporary Guest. I stared at the words Temporary Guest for a long, quiet minute. I hadn’t put in the wrong code. I had been demoted in my own home. At 1:00 AM, Larry finally returned. He was carrying a white pharmacy bag, and the faint, sweet scent of the orange-blossom diffuser Isla favored clung to his jacket. Seeing me sitting on the stairs, he frowned. “Why didn’t you go get some medicine?” I looked up at him. “Who changed the passcode?” Larry blinked, caught off guard. “Isla’s ex-husband has been stalking her. She was terrified he’d find her, so I updated the security profile. I forgot to tell you.” Forgot. Such a simple, weightless word. He forgot to tell the owner of the house, but he remembered to register Isla’s fingerprint and assign her administrator rights. He reached down to help me up. “Let’s go inside first.” I pulled away from his hand and stood up on my own. Isla peeked out from behind the door, her eyes rimmed with red. “Natalie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to take up your space. Larry told me not to open the door for anyone at night, and I… I didn’t know what to do.” Larry instinctively stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. “She’s had a rough couple of weeks. Don’t start on her.” Watching his protective stance, the urge to ask any more questions simply evaporated. Inside, I opened the shoe cabinet. My house slippers were gone. The pair on Isla’s feet was the brand-new set I had just bought for myself. She followed my gaze, looked down, and panicked, trying to kick them off. Larry caught her shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. The floor is freezing.” Then he turned to me. “It’s just a pair of slippers, Natalie. Is it really worth making a fuss over?” Just a pair of slippers. Just a security setting. Eventually, I would become a “just,” too. I took the medicine he bought but didn’t open it. In the master bedroom, our framed engagement photo had been moved from the nightstand. In its place stood an aromatherapy diffuser and Isla’s lavender sleep mist. Larry had told me she was only staying for three days. But in the closet, her shoes were already lined up, sorted by season. I opened my phone and pulled up my realtor’s contact. [I want to list the condo. As soon as possible.] She replied almost instantly. [Are you sure, Ms. Foster? I thought this was going to be your home after the wedding.] From the living room, I could hear Larry’s low, gentle voice soothing Isla. [I’m sure.] This place was no longer my home. The next morning, the sound of quiet chatter in the kitchen woke me. Larry was making breakfast. Pumpkin oatmeal. Sweet, warm, slow-simmered. I had suffered from chronic gastritis for years, yet he had never managed to remember that pumpkin always triggered my acid reflux. When he walked out carrying the bowl, he handed it straight to Isla. “You didn’t sleep well. Eat some of this first.” Isla was draped in my cashmere shawl, sitting at the dining table. “Thank you both,” she whispered. “I feel like such a burden.” I stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Larry finally noticed me. “Oh, Natalie. There’s more on the stove. Help yourself.” I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. My unsweetened Greek yogurt was gone. The shelves were neatly stocked with oat milk and gluten-free bread. I remembered my endoscopy last month. The night before the procedure, Larry couldn’t even remember what time my fasting window started, but he had called to ask if I could grab him a cold brew on my way home. He wasn’t naturally careless. He just didn’t waste his care on me. I pulled open the first-aid cabinet. My stomach medication had expired six months ago. But Isla’s melatonin, anti-anxiety prescriptions, heating patches, and daily vitamins were organized in neat, labeled bins. Larry walked in behind me. Seeing me sorting through the cabinet, he offered a casual explanation. “Isla’s been struggling, and she can’t skip her meds. I wanted to make sure we had everything she might need.” “My prescription expired,” I said quietly. “Did you know?” He hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. “Well… you’re always so tough. You usually just push through it.” The words felt like a tiny needle—not a deep wound, but a sharp, localized sting. I clicked the cabinet shut. “Right. I push through it.” Which meant I was always the one who could wait. During breakfast, Isla looked up timidly. “Natalie, do you mind if I use the vanity in the master bedroom for a bit? I have a lot of skincare products.” Before I could speak, Larry answered for me. “Go ahead. Natalie hasn’t been wearing much makeup lately anyway.” I looked Larry dead in the eye. “That vanity is mine.” Larry’s brow furrowed. “I know it’s yours. She’s just borrowing it for a few days. Why are you being so sensitive?” Isla’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Forget it, I don’t need it. Please, don’t fight because of me.” Larry set his spoon down with a sharp clink. “Natalie, she’s already walking on eggshells here. Can you stop making her feel like a nuisance?” I wanted to laugh. I was the one paying the mortgage. I had picked out the table we were sitting at, the plates we were eating off of. Even the chairs they were sitting on had been paid for with three months of my overtime bonuses. And yet, I was the one making her feel like a nuisance. That afternoon, after Larry left for the office and Isla went to nap, I went into the study to gather my documents. On the shelf next to the desk, there were several new pink storage bins. The labels were printed in neat, clear script. [Natalie’s Spares] I stared at the word Spares. In my own home, my things had been relegated to spare inventory. My phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Isla had posted a photo. It was a shot of the corner of the master bedroom—the linen curtains, the reading lamp, the ceramic diffuser, all of which I had spent weekends sourcing. Her caption read: [Finally, a little sanctuary where I can sleep in peace.] Larry had liked it. And he had commented: [Rest easy.] I stared at those words for a long time, then took a screenshot and saved it. I opened my laptop and started a spreadsheet. Down payment, monthly payments, renovation loans, furniture, appliances, HOA fees, utilities. I pulled every bank statement from the last three years and itemized Larry’s contributions to the cent. I used to think keeping score was petty. I thought when you were planning a marriage, who spent what didn’t matter. But now I understood: the person who doesn’t keep score is the one who ends up with nowhere to stand. My realtor called to ask if the photographer could come by that afternoon. “Yes,” I said. “That works.” “Does your fiancé know about this, Ms. Foster?” I looked at the final numbers on my screen. “He’s not on the deed.” There was a brief pause on the line. “Understood. We’ll proceed.”

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The state’s largest unlicensed “troubled youth” ranch had finally been raided and shut down by the FBI. Sitting in the cold interrogation room, the director, Gary, smirked as he went down the list of kids who had passed through his gates, describing each of them with casual cruelty. But when he reached one particular name, his smile twisted into something dark and mocking. “This one was the most pathetic,” he sneered. “Twenty-one years old, sent to us just for dating some deadbeat. Her own mother personally requested the ‘maximum correction package’ for her. Said she needed to be broken.” The forensic artist’s pencil hitched. The room fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Gary bared his yellowed teeth, letting out a dry chuckle. “She was a clever little bitch, though. She actually managed to splice a live wire into the generator room’s terminal, rigging up a dial-tone just to make a call. Scared the living hell out of my staff.” “But you want to know the best part? Her mother called us right back. Told us exactly where she was hiding, clear as day.” “We dragged her out and beat her within an inch of her life. And that very night, she hung herself. Survived three years of our program, only to end it all over a failed phone call.” He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto the man holding the sketchpad. “Hey, Joseph. Don’t you think that girl sounds a little familiar?” My father, Joseph—the legendary forensic artist who could reconstruct a human face in six strokes—didn’t look up. He quietly shaded the final line on his paper. “Are you finished?” his voice was flat, hollow. “My youngest daughter is getting married tomorrow. If you’re going to lie to save your own skin, at least make it believable.” Gary laughed until tears rolled down his dirty cheeks. “Oh, I remember her clearly. Even when they cut her down, she was still clutching one of your sketch pens.” …… 1 My father let out a cold, dismissive breath and checked his phone. “Anyone who bothers to look at the records knows I gave my eldest daughter a custom fountain pen on her eighteenth birthday. But she cut ties with this family years ago.” He stood up, brushing the charcoal dust off his sketchpad. “My youngest is walking down the aisle today. I don’t have time to listen to a monster’s fairy tales.” Gary’s eyes filled with pure contempt. “You really are a piece of work, Joseph. So cold-blooded. You let your eldest rot in a hole, just so you could play the doting father to your darling youngest.” My father frowned, looking down at him as if he were a piece of garbage stuck to his shoe. “I have always loved both of my daughters. Neither of them would ever belong in a hellhole like yours.” He flipped his sketchpad around, revealing the face he had just drawn. “Gary Junior. Familiar?” The arrogant smirk on the director’s face vanished instantly. “Joseph! Leave him out of this! My son had nothing to do with the ranch! If you want blood, come after me!” My father snapped his folder shut. “Whether your son is clean is for the DA to decide. I suggest you start talking instead of playing games with me.” I stood beside my father, watching him with quiet admiration. He had always been larger than life to me. He didn’t just draw suspects from a victim’s memory; he had this incredible, almost magical gift of reconstructing a child’s face just by looking at their parents. Gary thrashed against his cuffs, begging, but the detectives in the room ignored him. My father turned to leave, his patience entirely depleted. Suddenly, Gary’s eyes turned bloodshot. He screamed at my father’s retreating back: “Your wife told you she was at Veritas Prep on a study-abroad program, didn’t she? You stupid, blind bastard! Why don’t you go look at what Veritas really is! You destroyed my family, Joseph—don’t think you’re getting a happy ending!” At the mention of those words, I instinctively shrank back, covering my head in terror. But the expected blow never came. I forgot. I’m already dead. Behind the double-sided glass, the lead detectives sprang into action. This ranch was just a branch of a much larger, darker syndicate. Every lead was vital, and the department had brought my father in specifically to crack Gary’s defenses. My father let out a long sigh, stepping into the hallway. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was my mother, Meredith. “Honey, where are you? Maisie’s ceremony is about to start. You’re the father of the bride—you cannot be late for this.” “I’m on my way,” my father replied, his voice softening. But as his foot cleared the threshold, a desperate, raw shriek echoed from the interrogation room behind him: “That girl had an iris tattooed on her left forearm!” My father froze. His entire body went rigid. An iris. It means hope and protection. He had inked that tattoo on me himself. I remembered the exact weight of his hand, the gentle hum of the needle. He had looked at me and said, “An iris is a shield, Summer. Daddy put it on you, so I’ll be protecting you forever.” Then, his phone screen lit up with a photo Meredith had just sent. He stared at it, and a faint, relieved smile touched his lips. In the photo, a handsome young man was holding up a glass, flanked by my beaming mother and sister. The groom. My sister’s new husband. And the boy I had loved with every fiber of my being. The wedding venue was breathtaking, packed to the brim with high-society guests. Meredith looked at my father with a playful, scolding pout. “You always let your work get in the way of this family, Joseph.” “If you hadn’t been so soft on Summer back then, she wouldn’t have gone down such a rebellious path.” “It’s a good thing we sent her to Oakhaven to get her sorted out. Otherwise, I’d still be blaming you for being an irresponsible father.” I stood in the center of the floral-draped aisle, staring at my mother in absolute shock, my spectral hands clenching into tight fists. Rebellious path? To my mother, my “rebellious path” was refusing to break up with Wayne—who was poor but loved me—to marry the wealthy heir she had handpicked for me when I was twenty-one. I remembered that night vividly. I had wept at her feet, begging her to understand. “Mom, please! That man is cruel, he doesn’t care about me! And I love Wayne!” But Meredith couldn’t tolerate defiance. Her eyes had burned with a manic, red-hot fury as she struck me across the face, her fists raining down on my back. “Everything I do is for you!” she had shrieked. “You ungrateful little bitch! You think you’re grown now? You think you can disobey me? You will break up with him. Tonight.” When I remained silent, she grabbed a paring knife from the counter and pressed it against her own throat, drawing a thin line of real, crimson blood. “I’ll do it!” I had screamed, my heart fracturing into a thousand pieces. “I’ll break up with him!” But the moment the breakup text was sent, Wayne had lost his mind. He sped through the rain to find me and wrapped his car around a concrete pillar. The moment I heard he was in the ICU, I fought to run out the door, but my mother locked me in my room, screaming about parental authority and social standing. In a desperate, reckless bid to see him one last time, I crawled out of my second-story window and jumped. Before Wayne even woke from his coma, Meredith had dragged me back. My escape was the ultimate betrayal in her eyes. Her control was absolute, and my defiance was unforgivable. So, she arranged to have me sent to Oakhaven Academy. When my father returned home from an out-of-town case, all he saw was the dried blood on Meredith’s neck. Blaming me for nearly driving my mother to suicide, he personally drove me to the gates of that hellhole. Neither of them knew that Oakhaven wasn’t a school. It was a slaughterhouse. My spirit trembled violently, nearly swallowed by the darkness of those memories, until my father’s bitter voice pulled me back to the present. “Don’t bring up Summer,” he muttered to my mother. “She clearly wants nothing to do with us anyway.” Meredith’s face hardened. “All because we saved her from ruining her life? We spent a fortune on that academy. How dare she cut us off the moment she turned eighteen? Her program ends tomorrow. You’re going to pick her up, and she’s going to apologize.” I let out a hollow, silent laugh, looking at my sister, Maisie, standing just behind her. Maisie’s face was bloodless, her knuckles white. My mother had no idea. I was never coming home. It was Maisie who had shown my private texts with Wayne to Meredith in the first place. She knew exactly how to trigger our mother’s obsessive control, deliberately painting Wayne as a dangerous predator to turn Meredith against him. And Oakhaven? That was Maisie’s recommendation, too. Beside her, Wayne noticed her pale face and asked if she was alright. Maisie forced a brittle smile, whispering that she was just nervous, and pulled him toward the dressing room. Meredith beamed, waving them off. “Go on, you two. No time for flirting now. Get changed.” The moment the heavy dressing room door clicked shut, Maisie grabbed Wayne’s sleeve, her voice trembling. “Wayne… do you still love my sister?” The air in the room instantly turned to ice. I stood right beside them, staring at Wayne, my heart aching with a familiar, ghostly longing. We had loved each other since high school. Six years of shared dreams, secret notes, and promises of a future. But Wayne didn’t answer. He just let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Why are you asking me that today, Maisie? It’s our wedding. Let’s not ruin it with dead weight.” But his hands were shaking, and on his wrist, he still wore the cheap leather watch I had bought him for his eighteenth birthday. “I need to know, Wayne!” Maisie demanded, her grip tightening on his jacket. Cornered, the frustration in Wayne’s chest finally boiled over into bitter resentment. “No! I don’t love her!” he spat. “After everything I gave her, how could she just discard me like trash? Six years, Maisie! And she walked away without a single word. She didn’t even show up when I was dying in that hospital bed. She just sent a text calling me a pathetic loser and vanished. Why would I still love someone like that?” A look of smug triumph flashed across Maisie’s face, and she threw her arms around his neck, holding him tight.

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Half an hour ago, an anonymous photo popped up on my phone. My bedroom. My bed. A man and a woman. The moment I pushed the door open, I felt nothing but a strange, terrifying calm. I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. “Yes, hello. I need an officer at my address. I think my wife is being assaulted.” My wife froze. The guy in my bed went dead pale. 1 It was 3:30 PM, and I was killing time at the office. My monitors were split into three windows: an endless string of backend code, a dense technical document I was pretending to read, and a Reddit thread about mechanical keyboards I had hidden in the corner. My phone buzzed. I glanced down. An anonymous text. No words. Just an image. It was grainy, like it had been taken through the crack of a curtain from a weird angle. But I recognized that bed instantly. The IKEA Malm frame, king-size. The charcoal-gray fitted sheet. The faint grease stain on the top right corner where I’d dropped a piece of pepperoni while eating late-night pizza last month. There were two people on the mattress. A man and a woman. The woman’s back was to the camera, but I knew that sapphire-blue silk nightgown. I bought it for her last Valentine’s Day. It was a hundred and twenty bucks. I remember the price vividly because I had originally picked out an eighty-dollar one, but she said the fabric felt cheap. The man’s face was turned away, his features blurred in the shadows. I stared at the photo for exactly ten seconds. Then I locked my screen, turned back to my monitor, and kept writing my code. Josh, the frontend developer in the next cubicle, leaned over. “Hey man, why do you look so blank?” “I always look blank.” “No, I mean the face you just made looking at your phone. It’s the exact same face you make when the client changes the project requirements at the last minute.” I thought about it. “Yeah. Pretty much.” I stood up, grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair, and walked over to my team lead. I told him I felt sick and was using half a sick day. He took one look at me. “You do look awful. Go home. Get some rest.” I nodded. I took the elevator down, got in my car, and put my home address into the GPS. An eighteen-minute drive. I didn’t turn on the radio. I didn’t have any profound, life-altering revelations. I just drove in total silence, methodically reconstructing the timeline in my head. Three months ago, Claire started working late. Two months ago, she changed the passcode on her phone and enabled Face ID. One month ago, she mentioned a series of weekend “team-building retreats” with her marketing agency. Last week, she was looking down at her screen and smiled. It was a soft, glowing kind of smile. The kind of smile I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. It wasn’t that I hadn’t suspected anything. But I’m a software architect. It’s an occupational hazard—before you declare a bug, you need the system logs to prove it. So, I bought a camera. Nothing high-tech. A twenty-dollar Amazon Prime knockoff disguised as a USB wall charger. I plugged it in facing the living room. Week one: nothing. Week two: nothing. Week three. Wednesday at 2:17 PM, a man walked through my front door. He was about six feet tall, wearing a navy polo shirt, carrying two Starbucks cups in a cardboard carrier. Claire came out of the bedroom to greet him. She was wearing the sapphire-blue silk nightgown. The two coffees were set down on the glass coffee table. Neither of them took a sip. They went straight into the bedroom. The door clicked shut. I was sitting at my desk in the office, watching the playback on my phone, and my expression was exactly what Josh had described—the client just changed the requirements again. Over the next three weeks, the exact same routine played out five times. Always on a Wednesday afternoon. Always the same guy. Always two Starbucks cups. They never drank the coffee. It felt incredibly wasteful. I quietly created an Excel spreadsheet. Date. Time of entry. Duration. Notes. Under the Notes column, I just typed: Didn’t drink the coffee again. Today was Wednesday. But I didn’t get a motion-detection alert at 2:00 PM. Instead, someone else had sent me a notification—the anonymous photo. That surprised me. Not the fact that Claire was cheating, but the fact that someone out there was actively trying to help me. Or, more likely, just wanted to watch the world burn. It didn’t matter. I parked my car in the underground garage of The Waverly. I didn’t take the elevator. I took the fire stairs. Twenty-three floors. It took me ten minutes. By the time I reached my front door, I wasn’t even breathing heavily. I pulled out my keys. I didn’t use the electronic keypad because it beeps when you type the code. I slid the physical key into the deadbolt, turned it silently, and pushed. The door swung open. In the living room, two Starbucks cups sat sweating on the glass table. Untouched. Still a waste. The bedroom door was slightly ajar. I stood in the hallway and took a deep breath. Not because I was nervous. Just because climbing twenty-three flights of stairs actually takes it out of you. Then, I pushed the door wide open. The live feed matched the camera footage perfectly. Claire was propped up against the headboard, her hair a messy halo around her shoulders. The man was lying on his side, his back to the door. The moment the hinges creaked, both of their heads snapped toward me. Four eyes locked on mine. Claire’s face cycled through a masterclass of human panic—confusion, shock, terror, and finally, an ashen, bloodless dread. She completed the entire emotional spectrum in roughly half a second. The man was a beat slower. He froze, his pupils dilating, his mouth falling slightly open. I had seen his face on my screen plenty of times. Square jaw, thick eyebrows, a faint mole near his chin. What the cheap camera couldn’t pick up, I could see clearly now—he took good care of himself. Expensive haircut, no crow’s feet. Probably mid-thirties. “N-Noah…” Claire’s voice broke the silence. She was trembling so hard the mattress shook. “What are you… aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I didn’t answer. I didn’t lunge at the bed. I didn’t rip the sheets off. I didn’t flip the nightstand or throw a punch. I simply took one step backward, out of the bedroom and into the living room. I pulled out my phone. Face ID unlocked. Keypad. Three digits. 9-1-1. Ring. Ring. “911, what is your emergency?” “Yes, hello.” My voice was as flat and steady as if I were reading lines of code. “My name is Noah Evans. I live at The Waverly, building B, apartment 2305. I just came home from work and found a strange man in my bedroom, in bed with my wife. My wife looks absolutely terrified, and I believe she is being sexually assaulted.” The dispatcher paused for three seconds. “Sir, can you repeat that? Are you saying there is an active assault?” “I came home, the bedroom door was open, and a man I do not know is in my bed. My wife’s expression is pure panic. Based on her reaction to my arrival, I have reason to believe she was coerced or forced.” “Okay, sir. We are dispatching officers to your location immediately. Please, do not engage with the intruder. Do not start a physical altercation.” “Don’t worry,” I said softly. “I won’t.” I hung up. I turned back to look at the bedroom. Claire had already scrambled out of bed, clutching the duvet tightly around her chest. Her face was the color of chalk, her lips quivering uncontrollably. “Noah! What the hell did you just do?!” I looked at her. My expression must have been terrifyingly blank, because seeing it only made her panic harder. “You’re crazy! Noah, listen to me, I can explain!” “No need.” I walked over to the living room couch and sat down, finding the most comfortable groove in the cushions. “The police are on their way. You can explain it to them. After all, you’re the victim here.” A frantic shuffling noise erupted from the bedroom. The man was trying to put his pants on. His hands were shaking so violently that he missed getting his foot through the leg hole twice. On the third try, he got them up, but the zipper was still down. He stumbled out of the bedroom, saw me sitting casually on the sofa, and stopped dead in his tracks. “Bro, man, listen to me—” “Zip your pants up first,” I said. He looked down. All the color drained from his face, leaving behind a sickly, grayish green. 2 His name was Trent. I would later see his full name on the police report, but right now, he was just “the guy with his fly down.” After Trent finally managed to yank his zipper up, he stood in the middle of my living room looking like a QA engineer who had just caused a massive server crash—he knew he was at fault, but he wasn’t entirely sure how much it was going to cost him. “Listen, man… there’s a huge misunderstanding here.” As he spoke, his eyes darted nervously between me and the front door, running the calculations. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was weighing his flight risk. Twenty-three floors down. Waiting for the elevator would take at least forty seconds. Taking the stairs would blow out his knees and still take three minutes. And if the cops pulled up while he was running— “Stop looking at the door,” I said, my tone mild. “The precinct is a six-minute drive from here. It’s been four minutes since I hung up the phone.” Trent’s face turned another shade paler. Claire was huddled in the far corner of the sofa, wrapped in the white duvet. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were already red-rimmed. “Noah, what are you trying to do?” “Nothing. I’m just a concerned husband who came home, thought his wife was in danger, and called the authorities.” “Bullshit!” She leaped to her feet, almost dropping the blanket before snatching it back up. “You—you know damn well that’s not what this is!” “Oh?” I tilted my head slightly. “Then what is it?” Claire choked on her words. This was the first dead-end loop I had designed for her. She only had two options. Option A: Admit it was consensual. That meant confessing to adultery in front of the police, essentially handing me a flawless victory in a divorce settlement. Option B: Play along with my narrative. Which meant Trent was going straight to jail for a very serious felony. Both paths led to a fatal crash. And she had about sixty seconds to pick one. I leaned back into the sofa, reached over to the glass table, and picked up one of the Starbucks cups. I gave it a little shake. Still warm. I popped the plastic lid off and took a sip. Flat White. Not bad. Trent’s eye twitched as he watched me drink the coffee he had paid for. Claire stared at me like she was looking at a ghost. She was shaking from head to toe. “You’re out of your mind,” she whispered. “I’m perfectly rational.” I took another sip. “Do either of you want the other one? It’s a shame to waste it.” Nobody spoke. The living room fell into a suffocating silence for about fifteen seconds. Trent was the first to crack. He took a step forward, lowering his voice, slipping into corporate-negotiation mode. “Look, man, how about this—I cut you a check right now, and we make this whole thing go away. Private settlement.” “How much?” He thought I was taking the bait. A spark of hope lit up his eyes. “Fifty grand. No, a hundred. A hundred thousand dollars.” “Is a hundred grand enough to buy your way out of handcuffs?” The spark died instantly. “What I mean is, if you make a run for it right now, and the cops tackle you in the lobby, you’re going to end up in cuffs. I don’t think a hundred grand covers the legal fees for a sexual assault charge.” The doorbell rang. Trent flinched so hard it looked like he’d been tased. Claire let out a sharp gasp, burying her face in the duvet. I set the coffee down, stood up, and straightened the collar of my dress shirt. I took a deep, steadying breath. And then— I rubbed the heels of my palms into my eyes until they stung and turned red. I pinched the bridge of my nose hard enough to make it flush. I adjusted my facial muscles: pulling the corners of my mouth down, furrowing my brow, shifting my gaze from icy detachment to barely contained devastation. A one-second compile time. I opened the door. Two officers stood in the hallway. One was in his late forties, heavily built, with the tired eyes of a veteran detective. The other was maybe twenty-two, fresh out of the academy, his hand resting near his body cam. “Noah Evans?” the older cop asked. “That’s me.” My voice trembled perfectly, carrying just the right amount of repressed trauma. “Thank God you guys got here so fast… I—I didn’t know what else to do.” The older cop put a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, son. Where are they?” I stepped aside, opening up the view to the living room. The visual narrative was compelling. In the center of the room stood a disheveled man with a panicked expression, his shirt buttoned up wrong. On the couch, a woman was huddled in a blanket, weeping softly, her eyes red. On the table, two coffees. From a purely optical standpoint, the scene pointed directly toward one conclusion. The rookie cop looked at Trent, then at Claire, and his jaw tightened. The older cop’s face remained neutral, but his eyes hardened. “And who is this?” he asked, looking at Trent. Trent opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “That’s the man I told the dispatcher about,” I interjected, keeping my voice low and unsteady. “I came home early… opened the bedroom door… and found them in my bed. My wife looked absolutely terrified. I—I wasn’t sure if he had a weapon or if she was…” I let my voice crack and trail off. The universal sound of a man who couldn’t bear to finish the sentence. The rookie cop’s hand drifted toward his utility belt. The older cop’s expression turned to stone. He took a step toward Trent. “Let me see some ID. Now.” Trent stood frozen. “I…” “ID. Right now.” Trent’s hands shook violently as he dug into his pockets. He pulled out a leather wallet and fumbled with his driver’s license, nearly dropping it on the hardwood floor. The older cop took it, glanced at it, and pulled out a notepad. “Trenton Hayes. Thirty-six. Okay, Mr. Hayes. You’re going to come with us.” “Wait! Hold on!” Trent’s voice spiked an octave. “Officer, it’s not what it looks like! We—it was consensual!” He whipped his head around to look at Claire. “Claire! Tell them! Tell them it was consensual!” Every eye in the room zeroed in on my wife. Including mine. Claire’s lips were trembling. She looked at Trent. Then she looked at me. Then at the two police officers standing by the door. She was locked in the loop. She opened her mouth twice. No sound. The third time. “I…” I watched her, my face completely neutral. But in my head, I was counting down. Three. Two. One. “I don’t know him.” Claire’s voice was barely a whisper, but in the dead silence of the apartment, it rang like a gunshot. Watching Trent’s face was like watching a man get hit by a slow-motion train. First, shock. Then, disbelief. And finally, utter, suffocating terror. “Claire… what are you saying?” Claire buried her face back in the blanket, her shoulders heaving. “I don’t know him,” she repeated, her voice muffled. The rookie cop’s face went rigid. The older cop reached to the back of his belt and unclipped his handcuffs. “Alright, Mr. Hayes. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.” “No! You have to listen to me! She’s lying! We know each other! We’ve been sleeping together for three months!” Trent was hyperventilating now. He took a clumsy step backward, his leg clipping the edge of the glass table. The remaining Starbucks cup tipped over. Hot coffee spilled across the glass and dripped onto the expensive rug. I stood by the wall, watching Trent flail and panic as the cuffs clicked around his wrists. I only had one thought. That’s a shame about the Flat White. 3 We took separate cars to the station. Claire rode with the older detective. Trent was placed in the back of the rookie’s cruiser. I drove myself, following closely behind them. Halfway there, my phone buzzed on the dash mount. A text from Josh. Hey man, why’d you bounce so early? Boss said you were sick? I kept one hand on the wheel and used the other to type. Family emergency. What happened? I think my wife got assaulted. Six seconds later, my phone started ringing. “Holy shit!!! Noah! Where are you?! Do you need me to come over?!” Josh was yelling into the mic. “No. I called the cops. We’re heading to the precinct right now.” “Jesus Christ… dude, are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “Don’t do anything crazy, man!” “I’m driving. I’ll call you later.” I hung up. My grip on the steering wheel was perfectly relaxed. The Bluetooth audio automatically resumed the podcast I had been listening to on my commute that morning—an in-depth tutorial on advanced Excel macros. I didn’t turn it off. The precinct was more orderly than I expected. They separated us immediately. Trent was dragged into an interrogation room. Claire was ushered into a small office down the hall. I sat in a hard plastic chair in the corridor, sipping a lukewarm cup of water a uniform had handed me, and waited. Detective Ramirez—the older cop from the apartment—eventually came out and sat next to me with a clipboard. “Mr. Evans. Can you walk me through exactly what happened when you got home?” “Of course.” I organized my syntax. Clear, concise, chronological. “I left the office early today, around 3:40 PM, because I wasn’t feeling well. I arrived at my apartment at approximately 4:05 PM. When I walked in, I noticed two takeout coffees on the table and the bedroom door slightly open. I pushed it open and saw a man and a woman in my bed. The woman was my wife, Claire. The man was a stranger. When my wife saw me, she looked absolutely terrified, and the man panicked. Assessing her reaction, I backed out of the room and immediately dialed 911.” Ramirez scribbled in his notebook. He paused and looked up at me. “You didn’t engage in any physical altercation with the suspect?” “No.” “Why not?” “Because I’m a software engineer.” Ramirez blinked. “I mean, I process things logically. Fighting him wouldn’t have secured the scene.” “Right.” Ramirez nodded slowly, his pen moving again. “Has your wife ever mentioned this man before?” “Never.” “How are things between you and your wife generally?” “I thought they were good.” I injected just a fraction of an ounce of bitterness into my voice. Ramirez stopped writing. He looked at me. It was that specific, piercing gaze that veteran cops develop over decades—the kind that tries to see the code behind the user interface. He stared at my face for exactly three seconds. Then he looked back down at his notes. I don’t know what he saw. But he didn’t press the issue. I finished my statement, signed the paperwork, and went back to my plastic chair in the hallway. My phone buzzed again. Josh: Dude, what the hell is going on? Should I take PTO and come down there? No need. Did she really get…? They’re investigating. Did they catch the bastard? He’s in an interrogation room right now. Fuck that guy. Listen, Noah, if you need anything, the whole dev team has your back. Just say the word. Thanks. Can you order me some Pad Kee Mao? Not too spicy. … I missed lunch. Fifteen minutes later, the door to the interrogation room opened. Trent was escorted out. His face wasn’t just pale anymore; it was the color of wet concrete. He looked like a surgeon who had just lost a patient after a thirty-hour shift. He saw me sitting in the hallway. The look he gave me was so complex it could have been a novel. Fear, rage, indignation, and absolute despair, all swirling together. I gave him a brief, polite nod. His lips parted, but no sound came out. Ten minutes after that, Ramirez called me into his office. “Mr. Evans. The situation has gotten a bit complicated.” “How so?” “The suspect, Mr. Hayes… he is vehemently insisting that the sexual encounter was consensual. He claims they’ve been seeing each other for three months.” “Is that right?” My face arranged itself into a mask of polite skepticism.

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I have always been a deeply cautious, risk-averse person. My mother could watch hundreds of millions of dollars vanish from her stock portfolio in a single afternoon without so much as blinking. My father bought commercial real estate the way normal people bought groceries at a corner store. And my little sister started investing her own trust fund at the age of three, earning herself a reputation as a ruthless shark in the venture capital world. And then there was me. I was the kind of guy who agonized over whether to spend an extra fifty cents for an extra egg on my street-cart breakfast burrito. I lived this life of luxury in a state of perpetual anxiety, constantly waiting for the universe to demand its interest on my unearned good fortune. Until the night of my eighteenth birthday gala, when the “real” son showed up with a DNA test in hand. I let out a massive, quiet sigh of relief. I knew it. How could a cautious, ordinary guy like me actually belong to a multi-generational billionaire dynasty? 1 On the night of the gala, I stood on the elevated stage wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo worth more than a decent suburban home. I felt entirely out of place. “Dad, this fabric is driving me crazy. It’s so itchy. Can I please change into something else?” My father cast a stern, silent look in my direction and gestured for the stylist to touch up my makeup. “Toby,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Just remember, your most important job tonight is to keep your mouth shut.” I pouted, metaphorically zipping my lips, and stared blankly at the sea of high-society guests mingling below. It was a suffocating kind of misery. “Charles, sometimes I seriously wonder if this boy is actually ours,” my mother sighed, swirling her champagne. But before she could finish her thought, the grand double doors of the ballroom were flung open. A young man wearing a faded, twice-washed T-shirt strode into the room. He held a sheaf of papers high in the air, his voice cutting through the classical music. “This is a DNA test! I am the biological son of the Harrington family! You’ve all been lied to by Toby!” The room fell into a dead, stunned silence. Then, a wave of frenzied whispering erupted. “Swapped at birth? I knew coming tonight would be worth it!” “Honestly, I always thought Charles’s boy was a bit odd. Absolutely zero ambition. Last month, my kid asked him to invest in a tech startup, and the boy literally pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket! What is anyone supposed to do with ten dollars?” Hearing their hushed gossip, I swallowed hard. Honestly, it felt amazing. I knew it. There was no way a guy like me—someone who needed a full mental preparation session just to order extra bacon—could be the heir to a historic empire. Looking at the boy standing by the entrance, I felt a sudden urge to run down, shake his hand, and thank him. Before I could say a word, he pointed a trembling finger at me and shouted, “Toby! You never expected me to find this place, did you? You’ve known all along that I was the real Harrington. Why did you hide it?” I blinked, completely baffled. What kind of script was he reading from? I had never seen this guy before in my life. I opened my mouth to speak, instinctively reaching for the tiny notebook in my pocket where I kept track of my daily expenses. My fingers met empty air; tonight’s tuxedo didn’t have room for it, so I had left it upstairs. My lack of response only seemed to embolden him. “My name is Damian. Though, of course, it will soon be Damian Harrington. A person of my rightful standing belongs in this family!” He puffed out his chest, marching proudly up to the stage, and grabbed my wrist with a tight, aggressive grip. “It wasn’t enough for an impostor like you to steal my identity. You even stole the heirloom our father left for me!” He glared at the silver bracelet on my wrist, then looked at my father. This felt entirely wrong. I had worn this simple silver band for over a decade. It wasn’t gold. It wasn’t platinum. How much could it possibly be worth? “This piece is worth a fortune, Toby! You could work a lifetime and never pay it off! If you behave like a good little dog from now on, I might consider letting you off easy.” Damian’s eyes welled with tears, looking as though he were the one who had been deeply wronged. “Are you saying the bracelet on his wrist is stolen from you? And that it’s worth a million dollars?” My father set his glass down. His voice was soft, but it instantly silenced the entire ballroom. “Yes!” Damian stood tall, squaring his shoulders. “Dad, the evidence is right here. Kick him out of the house!” Every eye in the room landed on me. I clenched my fists, wanting to defend myself, but the words caught in my throat. After what felt like an eternity, my father spoke. “Impossible.” He paused, looking at Damian. “I’d believe he had the guts to rob a bank before I believed he had the guts to steal from you.” 2 Damian’s expression crumbled. “Dad, are you seriously protecting an impostor?” He dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I was taken to some backwater town when I was a child. I had to fight tooth and nail just to get an education and make it to the city. Only when I arrived did I realize someone else had stolen my life. It was you, Toby! You’ve been living in luxury every single day while I suffered. Don’t you feel any guilt at all?” My expression remained neutral, but internally, I was nodding along. To be fair, I had suspected for years that I wasn’t a Harrington. The Harringtons were giants. My mother, Diana, was a Wall Street legend who could lose millions in a bad trade, shrug, and say, “Money comes and goes, but the thrill remains.” My father, Charles, checked his iPad every morning to see if there were any skyscrapers downtown he felt like buying. And Maeve, my sister, was a prodigy who took her pocket money, threw it into clean energy, and tripled her returns in six months. I was the glitch in their perfect system. When I was six, my father gave me a black card. I used it to scrape dirt off my shoes with the neighborhood kids. When I finally realized it held an unfathomable amount of wealth, I immediately returned it to him, untouched. When I was eight, I found a fifty-cent coin on the school playground. I stood in the scorching sun for hours waiting for the owner. When no one showed up, I marched to the local police precinct to hand it in, meticulously detailing the time, the location, and the specific path of the ants crawling nearby. I knew I didn’t fit in. Even among the other wealthy heirs in our circle, I was a running joke. “Toby? The guy doesn’t even know the difference between a Rolex and a Timex.” “I saw him at a charity gala once. He was literally counting the zeros on the auction catalog with his mouth wide open. It was hilarious.” I knew what they whispered. And I agreed with them. I mean, look at me. How could someone like me be a billionaire’s son? My father took a slow sip of his drink and smiled. “Toby literally signs an IOU every time he asks me for ten dollars. If you truly believe he stole from you, you are welcome to call the police. But let me remind you, filing a false police report is a crime.” Damian’s sobbing came to an abrupt halt. He wiped his eyes quickly and handed the DNA report to my father. “Maybe… maybe I misremembered the bracelet. But this paper doesn’t lie.” My mother skimmed through the documents, pinching the bridge of her nose. With a quiet nod to the estate manager, the entire ballroom was cleared of guests within ten minutes. “Charles,” she said quietly. “Explain this. Where did this boy come from?” My father looked genuinely bewildered. To prove his innocence, he insisted on taking the entire family to the hospital that very night for an official, expedited DNA test. Until the results came back, Damian was allowed to stay at the estate. The next morning, we gathered at the long dining table. I was meticulously organizing my plate, placing the salad, the eggs, and the toast in a precise, logical sequence. Experience had taught me that eating in this exact order prevented indigestion and kept me full longer, which meant I wouldn’t get sick and cause unnecessary trouble for the family. Just as I raised my fork, Damian decided to make his move. 3 He picked up his glass of orange juice, tossing it back as if it were a shot of expensive whiskey, and stood up. “Everyone, since I am sitting at this table, it means you recognize me as a Harrington. Therefore, I cannot keep this secret any longer.” Damian took a deep, dramatic breath. He pointed at Benson, our butler, who was in the middle of serving breakfast, and then turned a triumphant glare toward me. “Benson, I heard you with my own ears this morning. You said Toby stole two hundred thousand dollars in cash from the family safe! Toby, what do you have to say for yourself now?” Benson nearly dropped the platter in his hands, waving his arms in a panic. “I never said such a thing! Master Damian, where on earth did you hear that?” Damian slammed his hand on the table. “I am the rightful heir of this family! You should be addressing me with respect! Don’t worry, Benson. If you tell the truth, I personally guarantee you won’t lose your job.” Benson looked on the verge of tears. “Ma’am, Sir… I was simply murmuring to myself. Master Toby’s allowance this month was twenty dollars more than last month, and I was merely wondering if he had enough for his needs. It was twenty dollars, sir! Not twenty thousand!” I looked up from my plate, staring at Benson in sheer horror. How did he know about the extra twenty dollars? I had planned to use that money to splurge on a massive, fully loaded breakfast burrito from the food truck down the street before I got kicked out—one with extra bacon, avocado, and hot sauce. Now my secret indulgence was completely ruined. Damian completely misread my expression. He assumed my silence was a confession of guilt. “Look at him! If he didn’t steal the money, why is he looking so utterly ashamed?” My sister, Maeve, let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Damian, you haven’t even been officially recognized, and you’re already trying to run the household? Also, don’t project your own petty, small-minded thoughts onto my brother.” I nodded in agreement. She was right. I might not be the real heir, but I knew what belonged to me and what didn’t. “You… Maeve! I know you haven’t accepted me yet,” Damian stammered, his voice trembling as he wrapped his arms around himself. “Growing up is a lonely road, but I am willing to bear this pain for the family.” I stared at him, bewildered. He was incredibly theatrical. Frankly, he didn’t behave like a Harrington at all. “Enough,” my father said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. His tone was cold and absolute. “Benson, go upstairs and flip Toby’s mattress.” Benson looked immensely relieved and hurried up the stairs. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a small stack of crumpled bills. “Ma’am, Master Toby had exactly three hundred and five dollars taped under his bedframe. Nothing else.” No one in the family looked surprised. I, however, let out a small gasp. “Wait. How did you guys find my stash?” I asked, my face burning. I thought I had hidden it so well. “You tape money under your bedframe? What are you, a squirrel, Toby?” Damian shrieked, unable to accept that my grand fortune amounted to barely three hundred dollars. “It’s for emergencies!” I defended myself, my cheeks flushing red. “What if the family suddenly goes bankrupt?” “Bankrupt?” My mother nearly choked on her water. “Toby, we are literally on the Forbes list.” My father tossed his napkin onto the table, eyeing Damian coldly. “Do you see? His risk awareness is the highest in this entire family. And you think he stole two hundred thousand dollars?” He offered a chillingly calm smile. “Damian, until the DNA results are officially delivered, you are a guest. Accuse Toby again, and see what happens.” Damian swallowed his words, quickly shutting his mouth. Just as the tension began to ease, my father’s phone rang. “Mr. Harrington, the expedited DNA results are ready.” 4 As expected, my DNA test confirmed I had no biological relation to the Harringtons. Damian strutted back into the living room like a victorious rooster, pointing a finger directly at my face. “You. Get out of our house.” He turned to the housekeeper. “And burn everything in his bedroom. I don’t want any of his cheap, common things touching my space. Mom, I need thirty million dollars. I found an investment project with a guaranteed thirty percent return.” He threw himself onto the Italian leather sofa, crossing his legs arrogantly. “Toby, you’ve spent eighteen years living my life. It’s time to pay it back.” I nodded, quietly pulling my worn little notebook from my pocket. I had been preparing for this day since I first learned to read and write. “I’ve kept track of everything,” I said, showing him the first page. “Over the years, my basic living expenses and education have cost the Harrington family exactly $13,140. I will find a job and pay every cent back to you.” I bowed politely and turned to grab my suitcase. “Wait!” Damian jumped up, grabbing the handle of my bag. “Thirteen thousand? Are you kidding me? This family is worth billions! You must be hiding the rest!” “I—” “Toby, what are you doing?” my mother interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. “This house has dozens of rooms. There is no reason for you to leave.” “Mom…” “Your mother is right,” my father added. “Even if your risk aversion is a bit extreme, it balances the rest of us out perfectly.” “Dad…” My eyes welled with tears as I looked at them. “I’ll do my best to keep up with everyone. I’ll start by ordering that extra egg tomorrow morning.” And so, Damian officially moved into the estate, legally changing his name to Damian Harrington. At his welcome-home party, he paraded around in a bespoke suit, raising his glass to every high-profile guest in the room. “Hello, I’m Damian Harrington. If the family business needs anything in the future, you can come directly to me.” The guests smiled politely, and one young heir joked, “Well, Damian, I actually have a tech venture on the table. It only requires a modest eight-figure buy-in. Interested?” Damian’s eyes lit up. “Oh? That cheap? Bring me the contract, and I’ll sign it tonight.” I reached out, gently tugging at Damian’s sleeve, silently pleading with him to stop talking. An eight-figure sum wasn’t pocket change—it was tens of millions of dollars. An investment of that scale required rigorous due diligence, not a casual agreement over cocktails. “Get off me!” Damian shoved me aside, sending me stumbling. “Toby, you just don’t want me making connections with your old friends, do you? Why else would you ruin my conversation?” My elbow hit the sharp edge of a marble pillar, a dull ache blooming through my arm. Before I could speak, Damian’s eyes widened as if a sudden realization had hit him. “Oh, I get it. Are you afraid I’ll tell Dad that you’ve been quietly selling off our family heirlooms?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a tired sigh. Damian was at it again. He just couldn’t resist trying to frame me. Why didn’t he ever learn? 5 As expected, Damian’s words acted like a sudden frost, chilling the entire room into absolute silence. “You don’t believe me?” Damian looked around, pulling a sleek smartphone from his pocket. “This time, I have proof.” He tapped the screen and held up a video for the guests to see. The footage showed a grainy figure in pajamas slipping into the study in the dead of night, pocketing something small, and slipping away. While the resolution was low, the silhouette did look remarkably like me. “See? This is the ‘honest boy’ you all adore!” Damian proclaimed, standing tall. “The emerald suite in the safe is a family heirloom worth eight million dollars. I saw him take it with my own eyes!” He pointed directly at me. “And the money he got from selling it is hidden right under his bed.” The room erupted into a flurry of whispers. My father’s hand froze mid-air with his drink. My mother’s brow furrowed as she looked at me. “If you don’t believe me, send someone to check his room right now! Or better yet, let’s all go and see!” Damian challenged. “Benson, go check Toby’s room,” my father said, his face unreadable. Benson nodded reluctantly and walked upstairs. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a neat stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. It was at least two hundred thousand dollars. Silence descended on the room once more. “See! Caught red-handed!” After three attempts, Damian had finally succeeded in framing me. His voice cracked with manic excitement. “This is the money from the heirloom! The video is here, the cash is here. You have to believe me now!” I parted my lips, but the words felt heavy. “I didn’t do this—” “Save your breath!” Damian stepped forward, raising his hand to strike me in front of everyone. “An impostor like you belongs in the gutter! Why are you still clinging to this family?” But before his hand could make contact, the heavy doors of the ballroom were pushed open. A middle-aged woman in a tailored business suit rushed in, breathing heavily, carrying an exquisite mahogany box. She sprinted directly toward my father, bowing deeply. “Mr. Harrington, I am so incredibly sorry. One of my junior appraisers made an error and accepted an item of yours.”

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On New Year’s Eve, I spent hours in the kitchen preparing a table full of her favorite dishes, waiting for Lauren to come home. She didn’t even glance at the spread. She just walked past it, heading straight to the bedroom to pack her suitcase. Her voice was cold, almost detached. “I can’t spend New Year’s with you this year.” I didn’t say a word. I just sat down alone and started eating. Right at the stroke of midnight, her first love posted on Instagram. In the photo, Lauren was leaning intimately against his shoulder, the city skyline behind them exploding with brilliant, cascading fireworks. The caption read: “She said as long as I need her, she’ll leave everything behind to be by my side.” I didn’t call her screaming this time. I didn’t demand answers. I just quietly tapped the heart icon to leave a like. A second later, my phone rang. Lauren’s voice was breathless, panicked. “Jesse, please don’t be mad. I promise I’ll make it up to you next year…” I let out a soft, self-mocking laugh. “Too bad we don’t have a next year.” 1 By the time Lauren finally came back, the holidays were long over. In the past, I would have waited for her down in the lobby, eager to help with her bags. This time, I stayed upstairs. Her text popped up: “Where are you?” I took a slow bite of my lunch and typed back: “Come up. I’m eating.” A few minutes later, while I was rinsing my plate at the sink, the front door clicked open. Lauren rolled her suitcase into the kitchen, looking exhausted and out of breath. She leaned against the counter, watching my back. “I haven’t eaten all day. Can you make me some pasta?” Normally, I would have dropped everything to cook for her. But today, I didn’t even turn around. “I don’t have time. Grab something downstairs.” Lauren’s eyes flared with irritation, but she forced herself to keep her voice level. “I know you’re still throwing a fit about New Year’s, Jesse, but can we please not do this right now? I’m genuinely starving.” I dried my hands on a dish towel. “I’m not throwing a fit. And I’m not mad.” She rolled her eyes, clearly not believing me. “Chase was entirely alone in this city during the holidays. Regardless of what we used to be, I couldn’t just leave him like that. It was the decent thing to do.” My voice remained flat. “Right. I get it.” She stared at me, trying to read my face, searching for some crack in my armor. Finally, she let out a weary sigh. “You make this so exhausting. Can you please stop acting like a child?” I looked back at her. “I’m not. You don’t have to explain anything to me.” She stared at me in silence for a long moment before unzipping her suitcase. She pulled out a model airplane and handed it to me. “New Year’s gift,” she said, her tone carrying a familiar trace of condescension. The model had no wrapping paper. The cardboard box itself was dented and creased at the corners—a stark contrast to the beautifully wrapped packages Chase had flaunted on his feed. I didn’t feel a spark of joy, but I kept my voice polite. “Thanks.” And then I went back to cleaning the kitchen. A flash of annoyance crossed Lauren’s face. “That’s it?” she asked, her voice rising. “That’s it,” I replied quietly. Her face tightened into a hard, rigid line. She held her hand out in front of me. “Where’s mine?” The realization hit me, and I felt a brief pang of sheepishness. “Oh. Sorry. I forgot. Tell you what—I’ll Venmo you, and you can buy whatever you like.” I pulled out my phone and sent her the transfer. Lauren’s eyes widened, genuinely stunned that I had forgotten. Exchanging gifts on New Year’s had been our sacred tradition for years. I had never missed it, always spending weeks finding the perfect, thoughtful present for her, even in the years she completely forgot about me. The silence in the kitchen became suffocating. I grabbed my jacket off the sofa and headed for the door. Lauren called after me, her voice sharp with sudden panic. “Where are you going?” “Out for drinks with friends,” I said. I closed the door behind me, shutting out the sound of her calling my name. Ever since I started dating Lauren, I had completely given up drinking because she once mentioned she hated the smell of alcohol. My friends eventually stopped inviting me, labeling me as the guy who was whipped, the one whose girlfriend kept him on a tight leash. But tonight, I just wanted to feel something else. I wanted to drink until I couldn’t think anymore. 2 Three drinks in, my friends were already slapping my shoulder and complaining. “Man, we thought you completely forgot about the guys once you got a girl. You can’t keep disappearing on us like this.” I raised my glass, offering a genuine smile. “I won’t. From now on, whenever you guys plan something, just tell me. I’ll be there.” Looking back, it was embarrassing how much of my life I had sacrificed. I had made Lauren the absolute center of my universe, revolving my career, my schedule, and my identity around her, while letting my own friendships fade to nothing. It was a pathetic, foolish way to live. I glanced down at my phone. A notification showed that Lauren had declined the Venmo transfer. By the time I stumbled back home, it was past one in the morning. I flipped on the living room light, only to find Lauren sitting upright on the sofa. For a second, I thought the alcohol was making me hallucinate. She didn’t stand up to help me balance. Instead, she stared at me with a look of deep, curdled disappointment. “Jesse, can you have some self-respect?” she said, her voice dripping with disgust. “If you’re jealous, just say it. Drinking yourself into a stupor like this only makes me lose what little respect I have left for you.” My head was spinning. I reached out, steadying myself against the back of a dining chair, and slowly sat down. Lauren caught the scent of alcohol and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Didn’t I tell you I hate when you drink?” She took a deep breath, trying to control her temper. “Chase and I aren’t what you think we are. Right now, we are just friends. There is absolutely no reason for you to do this to yourself over him.” I rested my heavy chin in my hand, my vision blurring. “You’re… overthinking it. I didn’t drink because of him. I drank because… I was happy.” Lauren’s voice turned sharp, cutting through the quiet apartment. “Enough! I’ve given you an out, Jesse. What more do you want from me? Don’t push my buttons. I have limits, too. I’m not some saint who can spend forever catering to your insecurities.” My head throbbed, her voice ringing like a siren in my ears. I rubbed my temples, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Don’t get worked up. I’m going to bed.” She let out a long, heavy sigh. Her posture softened slightly, and she reached out to steady me as I stood up. But with the last shred of my sobriety, I stepped back, avoiding her touch. I wobbled down the hallway into the guest bedroom, shut the door, and turned the lock. I ignored the sound of her hand knocking against the wood, closed my eyes, and fell into a deep, uninterrupted sleep. It was the most peaceful night I’d had in years. When I woke up the next morning, Lauren was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at the TV. Her expression was icy, the silence in the room heavy with her anger. I knew she was waiting for an apology. But I didn’t give her one. I simply washed up, grabbed my keys, and walked out the door. 3 I drove straight to my office and handed in my resignation. The only reason I had taken this job in the first place was because the office was just a ten-minute walk from Lauren’s building. Now, that proximity felt meaningless. My manager tried repeatedly to convince me to stay, offering a raise, but I remained firm. Just a few days ago, I had received an email response to an international application I’d submitted on a whim. I was hired. The position was with a firm that had been my absolute dream since college. Back then, I had turned down their initial offer because Lauren didn’t want to relocate. It felt poetic that the dream was still waiting for me, proving it wasn’t too late to start over. After finalizing my resignation, I spent the afternoon transitioning my projects and called a close friend to share the news. He was thrilled for me, though a quiet beat stretched over the line before he asked, “What about Lauren? Is she moving with you?” I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “No. Just me. We’re pretty much done.” Once my paperwork at the office was finished, I spent the rest of the day gathering the documents I would need for my visa. Both of my parents had passed away years ago; the only things anchoring me to this city were a handful of friends and Lauren. I used to believe that home was wherever she was. But now, I had no home. I was just driftwood, ready to float wherever the current took me. When I finally returned to the apartment, Lauren was getting ready to head out. Her makeup was immaculate, her legs looking impossibly long in a pair of fitted denim shorts. She was carrying a beautifully packaged birthday cake from an upscale bakery. Of course. It was Chase’s birthday. She was on the phone, her voice light and bubbly. “Stop guessing! If I tell you what the surprise is, it ruins the fun. Just make sure you’re ready when I get there.” Someone on the other end said something that made her let out a bright, genuine laugh, showing her dimples. It was a beautiful smile, the kind of easy warmth she almost never shared with me. She was always ready to give him whatever he wanted, yet she begrudged me even a passing smile. The moment her eyes met mine, her expression instantly went cold. She didn’t say a word, looking away with a flicker of annoyance as she slipped into her heels. The heavy thud of the front door closing echoed through the quiet apartment. I knew what this meant: the silent treatment had officially begun. We had played this game countless times before, and it was always sparked by Chase. In the past, I would have panicked, spending the next few days desperately trying to win back her favor, sending text after text even if she ignored them all. Instead, I sat down at the kitchen island, opened my laptop, and started looking up local recipes from the country I was moving to. I figured I should start practicing now. I needed to get used to the taste of my new life. 4 Later that night, as I lay in bed, I scrolled past a post from Chase on social media: “So grateful that through all the twists and turns of life, you’re still the one by my side.” In the comments, Lauren’s best friend, Chelsea, had written: “This makes me want to cry. I’m just so happy to see Lauren happy.” All of Lauren’s friends had liked the post. They had never hidden their disdain for me; in their eyes, I was merely the inconvenient obstacle standing between Chase and Lauren. They believed she would be infinitely happier if I just vanished from the picture. Then I saw Lauren’s own comment on the post: “Everything is exactly as it’s meant to be.” I stared at their public display of affection, feeling absolutely nothing. Beneath Lauren’s comment, another one of her friends had replied: “Shh, don’t post too much. We don’t want Jesse seeing this. You know how he is—he’ll throw a massive fit.” In the past, whenever I had gently asked Lauren to keep some boundaries with Chase out of respect for our relationship, her friends would label me as petty, controlling, and insecure, accusing me of stripping away her basic right to have friends. Lauren had always stayed silent during those attacks, implicitly agreeing with them, before turning around to tell me I needed to grow up and be more secure. I didn’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I quietly closed the app, tossed my phone onto the nightstand, and fell asleep. Hours later, the bedroom door slammed open. Lauren stood in the doorway, her face flushed with anger as she shook me awake. “Jesse, your girlfriend is out in the middle of the night and you don’t even care?” she demanded, her voice shrill. “My friends’ boyfriends have been calling them non-stop to make sure they’re safe. And you? Not a single text, not a single call. What is wrong with you?” 5 I stared up at her, utterly bewildered by her sudden outburst. When I used to call her during her nights out, she would snap at me: “I’m not a child, and I’m not a tool to satisfy your control issues. Give me some space, Jesse, I’m suffocating.” Now, when I finally gave her the freedom she had begged for, she accused me of neglect. I truly had no idea what she wanted from me anymore. But I didn’t want to waste my energy dragging up old arguments. I just pulled the blanket up and said quietly, “You were out celebrating with your friends. I didn’t want to ruin the mood by calling constantly. Besides, you were with Chase. Why wouldn’t I trust you?” Stunned silence hung in the room. She looked at me, her eyes wide, clearly shocked to hear me mention Chase’s name with such casual indifference. She quickly recovered, her expression softening into something defensive. “That post… it was just a trip down memory lane. It didn’t mean anything. Don’t read into it.” I shook my head, about to tell her it was fine, but she cut me off, her defensive walls rising. “What? Are you saying I shouldn’t have gone to his birthday? Jesse, we’ve known each other for ten years. Yes, we dated briefly a lifetime ago, but now we are just good friends. It’s his birthday. It would have been incredibly rude of me not to show up.” I nodded, my voice completely devoid of sarcasm. “I understand. Truly. It’s late, Lauren. You should go get some rest.” Lauren froze. She stared down at me, her eyes searching my face, desperately trying to find a trace of hidden anger or resentment. When she found nothing but empty calm, she slowly reached down, attempting to wrap her arms around my waist. I quietly rolled over, pulling myself out of her reach. Without looking back, I asked, “Are you sleeping in here, or should I take the guest room?” 6 A flicker of hurt and disbelief crossed her features. She wasn’t used to me rejecting her affection; for years, I had been the one begging for even a fraction of her attention. With a sharp, angry huff, she grabbed her pillow, stomped out of the room, and slammed the guest room door behind her. Once she was gone, I drifted off to sleep almost instantly. It was amazing how easy it was to sleep when your mind was finally quiet. The next morning, I received a phone call from my old college mentor, Professor Ward. Somehow, he had caught wind of my plans to move abroad. He insisted on hosting a farewell dinner for me, and though I tried to politely decline, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, proposing a small reunion with a few classmates instead. With the invitation extended so warmly, I couldn’t find a graceful way to refuse. But I never expected Lauren to be there. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised; she had been one of Professor Ward’s favorite students, too. What did surprise me was Chase, who was sitting right next to her. It seemed there was no event too personal or exclusive for her to drag him along. When Lauren saw me walk into the restaurant, she immediately caught my eye and gestured toward the empty seat next to her. I pretended not to see, taking a seat at the opposite end of the table instead. They looked perfectly matched, sitting side-by-side. I had no desire to interrupt. Chase met my gaze, giving me a small, smug smile before quickly masking it with a look of polite concern. “Hey, Jesse,” he said, loud enough for the table to hear. “Sorry for crashing your class reunion. I was just feeling so bored at home, and Lauren was sweet enough to insist I come along.” 7 Lauren opened her mouth to speak, looking nervously at me, but the words seemed to catch in her throat. I raised my glass to Chase, offering a polite, easy smile. “If the Professor doesn’t mind, why would I?” I took a sip of my wine and set the glass down. Throughout the dinner, my phone kept buzzing in my pocket. I finally pulled it out to check. They were texts from Lauren: “I only brought him because he was lonely. Please don’t be mad.” “If it really bothers you, I won’t bring him next time.” The final message read: “Let’s drive home together after this, okay?” I cleared my throat, typed a quick response, and hit send: “No need. Go ahead and take Chase home. I drove myself.” I put my phone face down on the table and focused on my dinner, ignoring the subsequent vibrations in my pocket. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of warm nostalgia. Everyone was laughing, sharing stories of our university days. Professor Ward, his cheeks flushed from the wine, stood up and raised his glass directly to me. “Jesse,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Back in college, you were the brightest student in my department. Your dream was always to go abroad, to build a career on the global stage. I was heartbroken when you suddenly decided to stay in the country after graduation.” He paused, smiling warmly at me. “But thank goodness, life has a way of sorting itself out. You’re finally going! You’re finally chasing the dream you always deserved. I couldn’t be prouder of you. Let’s raise a glass to Jesse—wishing you a safe journey, a brilliant career, and a future as bright as you are!” I smiled, deeply moved, and stood up to clink my glass against his, draining it in one go. Across the table, Lauren sat frozen, the color completely draining from her face, as if she had just heard something utterly impossible.

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Theo Prescott drew the Dare: Hand over your phone. The question was simple, cruel, and designed for a crowd: Who in your contacts has received the most ‘I love you’ texts from you? The queen bee of our senior class: 3 times. Me: 972 times. The raucous cheering in the VIP room died instantly. A suffocating vacuum of silence took its place. Kennedy Nathan’s eyes welled with tears. Theo didn’t even blink. He pulled up my contact right there in front of everyone, hit Delete, and then leaned in, a soft, indulgent smile playing on his lips as he coaxed Kennedy. “Is that really worth crying over?” he murmured. “You already knew. I only played house with her for three months. None of those words meant a damn thing.” Those nine hundred and seventy-two I love yous had been sent on a night Theo was blackout drunk. He had crouched on the curb outside a diner, refusing to let his friends pull him up. He just kept his head down, his thumbs flying across the screen, firing those three words to me over and over again. “If I send 999 of them,” he had typed. “The bet is off. We do this for real. Please.” 01 When Theo deleted my number, he didn’t look in my direction. Not even once. The atmosphere in the private karaoke room was eerily quiet. People exchanged complicated glances, their eyes darting toward me with a mixture of pity and morbid curiosity. Kennedy’s soft sobs began to quiet down. “Did you… did you really not like her at all?” Theo reached out, his thumb gently catching a tear on her cheek. He let out a low, breathy laugh. “What are you talking about? I told you, it was just a game.” “Then why did you send her all those messages… You guys were only together for three months.” A microscopic shift occurred in Theo’s expression. His tone cooled, flattening out. “I was wasted. I don’t even remember doing it.” That was all it took. Kennedy was thoroughly appeased. Tonight was the Class President’s birthday bash. After that display, the energy in the room was irrevocably dead. We all forced our way through the cake cutting, and the second it was done, everyone scrambled for excuses to leave, bolting like they’d been pardoned from death row. 02 The venue wasn’t far from my house. I decided to walk, the cool night air biting at my cheeks. As my sneakers hit the pavement, my mind drifted to those 972 texts. Two of them were sent right after we started dating. The other 970 were all sent on the exact same day. The day Theo got drunk. Back then, I didn’t know that my entire relationship was born from a dare. A bet between him and Kennedy. They were childhood friends, running in the same wealthy, country-club circles. He had always loved her, had confessed to her more times than anyone could count. But Kennedy liked keeping him on a leash. She thought a face like Theo’s was too dangerous, too much of a flight risk. She told him he couldn’t give her security. So, six months ago, when he confessed his love yet again, she casually pointed across the classroom to me—the quietest, most invisible girl in our AP Calculus class. “If you really want me,” she had said, “prove it. Date someone random for exactly three months. Don’t catch feelings. The second the clock runs out, you dump her. You pull that off, and I’m yours.” The night Theo got drunk, we had been together for a little over two months. We were at a diner with his friends. One of his buddies was scrolling through TikTok, scoffing at his screen. “Can you believe people actually fall for this manifestation crap? Look at this—it says if you send the person you like 999 ‘I love you’ texts in under fifteen minutes, the universe locks you together forever.” Under the table, Theo squeezed my hand. He took another shot, his face completely unbothered. But the moment we stepped out of the diner, he dropped to a crouch by the curb. His fingers flew across his screen. None of his friends could drag him to his feet. I stood there, looking down at my phone as the screen lit up with notification after notification. I love you. I love you. I love you. I sighed, feeling a helpless sort of fondness. I squatted down beside him, keeping my voice gentle. “Let’s go home, okay? The temperature is dropping. If you stay out in this wind, you’re going to catch a cold.” “Why are you buying into something so childish anyway?” I whispered. “We’re already together.” The harsh, artificial glow of the phone screen illuminated his face. His expression was intensely focused, his thumbs never stopping. “Josie, if I finish all 999 in fifteen minutes,” he typed. “The bet is off. We do this for real. Please.” I was just about to ask him—what bet?—when a voice cut through the night air. “What are you guys doing out here?” For ten minutes, nobody had been able to make Theo stop. But the second that feminine voice rang out, the typing ceased. The last message hovered in his text box, unsent. Kennedy strolled over, her gaze drifting leisurely between Theo and me. “Man, Theo’s being a crazy drunk tonight,” one of his friends groaned. “Nobody can talk sense into him. Good thing you showed up. You’ve known him forever—you give it a shot.” Theo stared at his screen for a second longer. Then, he deleted the unsent text. He locked the phone. The light reflecting in his eyes extinguished instantly. He stood up, his eyelashes lowering, casting long shadows over his cheekbones. “I’m sober,” he muttered. When I instinctively reached out to take his arm, he smoothly, imperceptibly stepped away, dodging my touch. “Let’s go,” he muttered to me. “I’ll take you home.” After that night, he never mentioned those 970 texts again. It was as if the moment had been erased from time. Two weeks later, on my birthday, Theo dumped me. He confessed the whole truth about the bet. I slapped him across the face. He didn’t even flinch. He just stood there, wearing that devastating, bastardly face, and said in a deadpan voice, “Hit me until you feel better. Then we’re even.” 03 The memory severed itself the moment I reached my apartment building. Theo was standing a few yards away. His eyes, dark and bottomless beneath the messy fringe of his hair, were fixed quietly on me. We held each other’s gaze for two agonizing seconds before he looked away. “Oh,” he said, his voice flat. “Took a wrong turn.” I didn’t say a word. I just sidestepped him and kept walking. “Josie.” The faint, unmistakable scent of mint and stale nicotine drifted from his black hoodie. He called out again, stopping me in my tracks. “A month ago… the last time you called me. What did you want to say?” I didn’t answer his question. I only looked at him and said, “We were even the day you let me hit you. From now on, unless it’s strictly about school, it’s best if we pretend the other doesn’t exist.” Theo let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. “Right. We’re just classmates who don’t even have each other’s phone numbers anymore. Sorry to bother you, Miss Evans.” His footsteps grew fainter. The streetlight stretched his tall silhouette into a long, distorted shadow against the pavement until, bit by bit, it melted entirely into the dusk. When the cliff-drop breakup happened, I spent days wandering around like a ghost. I spent most of my classes staring blankly out the window. To make matters worse, my period had come early that month. The cramps were blinding, radiating a heavy, dragging pain through my abdomen, triggering a brutal migraine. I had stayed after school for cleanup duty, and by the time I finished, the entire wing was completely deserted. I collapsed onto a desk, paralyzed by the pain. In a state of pure, thoughtless desperation, I dialed Theo’s number. “Hello?” It was Theo’s voice—clear, familiar, sending a pathetic jolt of relief through me. But then, immediately after: “Theo, let me answer it for you, okay?” A second later, the girl’s voice filled the speaker. “Josie, right? Did you need something from Theo? He’s right here beside me. You can just say it, he’s listening.” It was Kennedy. The fog in my brain vanished, replaced by a bucket of ice water. I hung up the phone without a word. I lay my head on the cold desk, riding out the wave of pain until I could finally force myself to stand up and walk out. The campus security guard looked at me in shock as I limped toward the gates. “Still kids here at this hour?” I tried to force a polite smile. I couldn’t make my mouth work. 04 The Class President’s party had been on a Friday night. I genuinely thought the sting of being publicly deleted from his phone would haunt me for weeks. In reality, I woke up Saturday morning and barely thought about it. Monday rolled around. Before first period, I stopped at my usual neighborhood coffee cart near the school for a bagel and a latte. The owner, a sweet older man, peered over my shoulder and teased, “Morning, kiddo! Brought the boyfriend around for coffee again, I see.” I froze. “What?” I followed his line of sight. I ended up staring dead into Theo’s eyes. Kennedy popped her head out from behind his shoulder, beaming. “You guessed wrong, sir! He’s my boyfriend.” The owner looked at me, then at Theo, clearly mortified. Kennedy, sensing the awkwardness and thriving in it, offered a sickly-sweet explanation. “You definitely misunderstood before. That little thing they had going on? It was just a game of Truth or Dare. Totally fake. I’m his one and only.” “Oh, you kids!” The owner laughed nervously, desperate to change the subject. “Well, last time Theo brought me a coffee from your competitor down the street, and honestly? Mine’s better.” Kennedy immediately charmed him. “Of course yours is! I told my dad to order a hundred of your pastries for his corporate office just to let them taste real quality.” The owner waved his hands, entirely won over. “You’re too kind, sweetheart.” That was Kennedy’s superpower. She wasn’t just stunningly beautiful. Despite being born into massive wealth, she played the approachable, down-to-earth girl perfectly. She was bubbly, understanding, and completely magnetic. Half the boys in our senior class were in love with her, and the girls fought viciously for a spot in her inner circle. I grabbed my latte, tapped my phone to pay, and turned to leave. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist, yanking me backward. Right in front of me was the espresso machine’s steaming wand. A violent hiss of boiling water shot out, hitting the exact empty space where my arm had been a split second before. Theo’s grip on my wrist tightened. His eyes were dark, almost stormy. “Still haven’t fixed that habit of walking without looking?” Kennedy’s smile turned brittle. I snatched my arm back. “Thanks.” Then I walked away, leaving them both behind. 05 The only thing worse than not being able to avoid Theo in the hallways was being forced to sit next to him in AP Bio. I had barely settled into my seat when Theo and his crew walked into the classroom. Catching him in my periphery, I kept my head down, pushed my chair in, and made myself as small as possible so he could slide past me. He slipped into the seat beside mine. For the entire duration, we didn’t exchange a single glance. Kennedy strolled over, leaning heavily against the edge of our lab table. “Theo, the seating chart changes next week. Let’s grab that table by the window in the third row, yeah?” Theo was rhythmically tapping his pen against the black countertop. He didn’t stop. “Sure,” he muttered, sounding completely indifferent. Kennedy turned to me, offering a painfully dramatic sigh as she patted my shoulder. “Oh, Josie. I have the worst news. I just found out everyone else in the class has already paired up. And since we have an odd number of students… it looks like you’re going to be sitting all by yourself for the next two months.” The tapping of Theo’s pen came to an abrupt halt. I didn’t look up. I just kept erasing a mistake on my worksheet and said softly, “That’s fine.” A few minutes after Kennedy flounced back to her seat, Theo suddenly reached over and violently shoved the window next to us wide open. The guy sitting behind us, our varsity track captain, let out a yelp. “Bro! What the hell? You just blew my notes everywhere!” Theo let his heavy eyelids drop, his expression bored. “It’s too suffocating in here.” 06 I was counting the seconds until the seating chart changed. When Friday finally arrived, I let out a massive breath of relief. During the passing period, the entire school was buzzing with a single topic: the new transfer student. “Who transfers in the middle of senior year?” “I don’t know, but I overheard them talking in the main office. It’s a guy, and I saw a glimpse of his file. Holy shit, he is gorgeous.” “Gorgeous how? Better-looking than Theo?” “Honestly? It’s a tight race.” “Wait, if we have a new guy, that makes the class numbers even. Nobody has to sit alone.” I tuned it out. As long as I was far away from Theo, I didn’t care if I was seated next to a serial killer. By the time the final bell rang, the oppressive grey sky had finally broken, unleashing a torrential downpour. It was my turn for homeroom cleanup duty, so I left the building nearly an hour after everyone else. When I reached the main double doors, the rain was coming down in sheets. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I stood in the vestibule, waiting for a break in the storm. Theo and Kennedy jogged into my line of sight. They were sprinting back from the parking lot. Theo had his varsity jacket draped over Kennedy’s head to shield her from the rain. She pulled a few tissues from her bag and stood on her tiptoes, carefully dabbing at his soaked hair. “I am so, so sorry. This is all my fault. I just had to go feed that stray cat near the bleachers, and now you’re freezing.” Theo tilted his head slightly away from her touch. “It’s fine. I got it.” The rain was only getting heavier. The security guard came jangling a massive ring of keys, shooing us out. “Shift’s over, kids. Building’s getting locked. Time to head home.” The bus stop was a solid ten-minute walk from the campus gates. Making a run for it meant getting drenched to the bone. My eyes landed on the small security booth by the front gates. The roof had a slight overhang—just enough space to huddle under and stay dry. I hugged my backpack tight against my chest and bolted into the rain. “Josie.” 07 I thought I heard Theo call my name. But the roar of the rain swallowed it up instantly. I figured I must have imagined it. It was rush hour. The absolute worst time to try and get an Uber. The app told me I was 57th in the queue. I let out a miserable sigh, praying the wind wouldn’t pick up. If the rain started coming in sideways, this little overhang wasn’t going to save me. A moment later, Kennedy and Theo walked over. Theo had apparently dug a spare rain poncho out of his locker. As if on cue, the wind began to howl. Icy, needle-like rain slanted viciously under the awning, hitting my legs and arms. Even with my back pressed flat against the brick wall of the security booth, my clothes were quickly soaking through. Theo looked up, his eyes landing on me. Without a word, he started to shrug off the poncho. He took two steps in my direction. Then, behind him, came the sharp, unmistakable sound of plastic tearing. Kennedy blinked, looking the picture of innocence. “Oh no! I accidentally ripped my umbrella on the gate. Theo, let me wear the poncho, please? I’m so cold.” Theo’s back went rigid. He stood frozen for a few agonizing seconds, his knuckles white as he gripped the plastic. Then, he handed it to Kennedy. “You’re the absolute best boyfriend!” she cooed. “I’ll just wrap the broken umbrella around my shoes so they don’t get ruined. Puddle water is so gross, I can’t bear to let it touch me.” She bundled herself up tightly, fully protected from the elements. Then she turned to me with a brilliant, sympathetic smile. “Do I look like a giant marshmallow?” she giggled. “Josie, you should really press yourself further back against the wall. That way you won’t get too wet.” 08 The sky looked like it was trying to drown the city. My phone screen was slick with rain. My fingers were blue and stiff with cold as I wiped the glass against my damp shirt and unlocked it. Seven people left ahead of me in the queue. I couldn’t stop shivering. I finally just dropped into a crouch, hugging my knees to conserve whatever body heat I had left. Kennedy wrapped her arms around Theo from behind. “If I stand like this, I can block the wind for you. Then you won’t get as wet.” Theo peeled her arms off him. “I’m fine. Just stand on your own so you stay dry.” He stood perfectly still, his eyes locked onto the misty, unrelenting downpour. The rain battered his shoulders, the water sliding down his pale skin and dripping rhythmically from his fingertips. A few minutes later, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. It wasn’t my Uber. It was the Prescott family’s private driver. Theo turned to look at me. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” Kennedy let out a soft, dramatic sound of disappointment. “It’s already so late. And Josie lives so far out of the way. I really just want a hot shower.” Theo’s eyes snapped to her. “Kennedy. She’s been in our class for three years.” Stung by the sharpness in his gaze, Kennedy forced a tight laugh. “I didn’t say we couldn’t take her! I just never knew my boyfriend was such a bleeding heart for his classmates.” Headlights pierced the rain in the distance. I squinted at the license plate as it approached. It was my ride. I stood up, my joints popping in the cold. “No thanks. My car is here.” Without looking back, I ran for the silver sedan and pulled the door shut behind me. As the car pulled away, Kennedy’s airy voice drifted through the rain. “Well, looks like she doesn’t care much for your charity.” By the time I got home and took a scalding shower, I had two missed calls from an unknown local number. A second later, the same number called again. I answered. Theo’s voice came through the receiver. “I’m downstairs.” I marched over to my bedroom window and looked down at the street. “Why are you here?” “I brought you cold medicine.” “I don’t need it. I can buy my own. Go home. I’m hanging up.” Theo’s tone didn’t shift. “Or, I can just come up to your door.” It was late, and my parents were in the living room watching TV. Panic flared in my chest. I threw on a hoodie and practically sprinted down the stairs. I pushed open the lobby doors. Theo tossed a pharmacy bag at my chest. I caught it by reflex. “Josie,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in a faint, bitter smirk. “Didn’t you say you just wanted to be ordinary classmates?” He stepped closer. “Do you run away from all your classmates like they’re a plague?” Before I could even process the audacity of the question, he turned and walked away. I stood under the flickering awning light, staring at his retreating back, utterly baffled as to why he was the one acting angry. 09 Monday morning. I walked into homeroom and dropped the unopened bag of cold medicine squarely onto Theo’s desk. Our homeroom teacher had already taped the new seating chart to the whiteboard. Following the diagram, I packed up my things and began migrating my books across the room before the bell rang. Everyone was settled into their new spots by the time the morning announcements crackled over the PA. Our teacher stepped up to the podium, clapping her hands. “Alright, listen up. We have a new student joining us today. Come on in, Kieran.” A guy walked through the door. A collective, suppressed gasp rippled through the room. “Holy shit…” someone whispered behind me. “He’s even better looking than the picture I saw on the counselor’s desk.” The teacher scanned the room and pointed to the empty desk right beside me. “Kieran, you can take that seat. If you have any questions about the syllabus, just ask your partner.” He dropped his bag and slid into the chair. I stared at the side of his face for two full seconds. He looked… intensely familiar. 10 Kieran and I didn’t exchange a single word all morning. He exuded an aura of chilled exhaustion, practically radiating a “Do Not Disturb” sign. The last period before lunch was P.E. Kieran was immediately recruited by the varsity guys to play a pickup game of basketball. I sat on the bleachers a little ways off, my eyes involuntarily tracking him across the court. The longer I looked, the more the pieces clicked together. I didn’t even notice how seamlessly he was passing the ball to Theo. Then, like a lightning strike, it hit me. The day I had my excruciating period cramps. The day I called Theo, only to hear Kennedy’s voice. After leaving the school that day, I was completely drained. I managed to drag myself onto a crowded city bus. The driver slammed on the brakes, and my knees nearly gave out. I would have hit the floor if a hand hadn’t shot out and grabbed my arm. A guy stood up from his seat. “Here. Sit down.” “Thank you,” I had mumbled. My vision was swimming, and I hadn’t even looked at his face. A few stops later, a middle-aged man boarded. He stood directly in front of me, his stomach bulging so far out it threatened to pop the buttons off his shirt. I had to press my spine flat against the window just to avoid touching him. Seeing this, the guy who gave up his seat smoothly maneuvered himself right into the gap between me and the older man. The suffocating smell of stale cigarettes and alcohol was instantly replaced by the clean, sharp scent of pine and fresh laundry. I had gently tugged at his sleeve. He tilted his head down to look at me. I offered him a sincere, exhausted “Thank you” again. He just gave a low “Mm,” turned back around, and kept scrolling on his phone. Now, watching him shoot a three-pointer on the court, I realized that guy was Kieran. Later on that bus ride, the crowd had gotten denser. My eyelids felt like lead, and I ended up dozing against the glass. When the bus stopped a while later, Kieran had straightened up. I assumed he was getting off. I forced myself awake. “Are you tired? You can take your seat back. Thanks for letting me rest.” I had tried to stand, but Kieran just pressed a hand to my shoulder, gently forcing me back down. “Don’t worry about it. Go back to sleep.” I did. I slept through most of the route, waking up groggily a few times, always seeing him standing there, standing guard. By the time we reached the end of the line, the bus had emptied out, and he was gone. 11 I decided I needed to buy Kieran lunch to properly thank him. The lunch bell rang, and I practically jogged over to the gym doors to catch him. He was surrounded by a crowd. Theo tossed a bottle of water to him. “Man, it’s been way too long. Dinner tonight? On me.” Kennedy leaned in, handing Kieran a fresh towel. “Dinner is on us, actually.” She heavily emphasized the us. Kieran caught the towel, wiping the sweat from his neck. “Oh, you two finally made it official? Couldn’t really tell.” I froze in my tracks. It felt like someone had shoved a fistful of wet cotton down my throat. For a second, I literally couldn’t breathe. Kennedy spotted me hovering near the doors. She tilted her head, feigning innocence. “Josie? Are you looking for someone?” Every eye in the group snapped to me. I opened my mouth, struggling to find my voice. “No. Nobody.” I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as dignity allowed. Seeing Kennedy and Kieran chatting so comfortably, with such easy familiarity… it triggered something awful in me. Like emotional PTSD. My hands started shaking. I thought back to the bus ride. The coincidence of it all. My mind went to the darkest possible place. Was it planned? Was he like Theo? Did he like Kennedy too? Was this just another game, another dare orchestrated by her to make a fool out of me? I would never, ever forget the day Theo broke up with me. The utter devastation of him sitting there, telling me it was a prank. I had begged him, reached for his hand, told him not to joke like that. He had yanked his hand away. He said I was delusional. He told me he was doing a chore. “Dating you was literally a homework assignment for me,” he had said. “The three months are up. Assignment submitted. Now let’s be adults about this—how much do you want? What kind of compensation is going to make you go away?” The memory violently pulled me back to the present. I looked down and realized my fists were clenched so tight that my fingernails had drawn half-moon crescents in my palms. Once the panic subsided, only one clear thought remained in my head: Stay the hell away from Kieran Maxwell.

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