The wedding was supposed to start in ten minutes. I was standing in the bridal suite, drowning in a sea of white tulle and pure, unadulterated joy, when my brother, Luke, suddenly looked at me with a deep scowl. He told me I was heartless. Before I could even process the venom in his voice, Parker, my fiancé, reached up and unbuttoned his custom tuxedo jacket. He looked me dead in the eye and said, “I’m sorry, Sadie. We can’t do this today. The wedding is off.” Panic flared in my chest. I reached out, my fingers trembling as I grabbed the hem of Parker’s jacket, begging them both to stop. I told them this was a sick joke, and it wasn’t funny. Parker just sighed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and disgust. He asked me if I ever spared a thought for the girl whose life I had destroyed while I was casually dropping hundreds of thousands of dollars on a fairytale wedding just to show off. I froze, my mind going blank. He kept going, his voice cutting through the air. “You got Lexi expelled back in high school. You ruined her life. Do you have any idea how hard she’s had it all these years because of you?” Hearing Lexi’s name was like a physical blow. I stood there, paralyzed. She was the one who had bullied me. She was the reason I had to take a leave of absence, the reason I spiraled so deep into depression that I almost ended my own life. The jagged, ugly scars across my wrists—the ones Parker used to trace with tears in his eyes, promising to protect me forever—seemed to burn. Inside my bridal clutch was a positive pregnancy test, a surprise I had planned to give him today. Now, looking at his cold face, it felt like a cruel cosmic joke. … Parker wouldn’t stop talking, and every time he mentioned Lexi, his eyes filled with an undeniable, aching tenderness. “Her family didn’t have money, Sadie. After she was expelled, she had to work illegal, grueling jobs just to survive.” He stepped closer, his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “You’ve been pampered your whole life. How could a girl like you ever understand what a beautiful, defenseless young woman has to endure in this world just to get by?” Dizziness washed over me. None of this felt real. I stared at him, my voice small and shaking. “Parker… she tormented me. I begged Luke to report her to the school board because I couldn’t breathe anymore. You supported me back then. You knew…” “Enough!” Luke snapped, cutting me off. The harshness of his shout made my eyes sting instantly. Our parents died when we were kids. Luke was the one who had held my hand at their graves and sworn to spend his life taking care of me. To make enough money to give me a good life, he had worked himself to the bone, destroying his kidneys in the process. I had secretly gone through the donor matching process and gave him one of my kidneys, keeping it a secret from everyone. I had only ever seen my big brother cry once. It was when he found out about the kidney. He had broken down, hugging me so tight my bones ached, whispering, Sadie, I will protect you for the rest of my life. I guess a lifetime is much shorter than I thought. Luke pulled out his phone and shoved a picture in front of my face. It was a hospital room. A woman lay on the bed, emaciated and pale as a ghost. Parker was sitting by her side, holding her hand with an intimacy that shattered my heart. “Do you know that Lexi developed severe depression after what you did?” Luke demanded. “Look at her. She’s living a waking nightmare, and you, the person responsible for it all, have the nerve to throw yourself a million-dollar wedding?” I looked at the face in the photo. It was the face that had haunted my nightmares for a decade. Reflexively, I took a step back, knocking the phone out of Luke’s hand. A cold sweat broke out across my skin. “No!” I whispered. The word that wanted to follow was I’m sorry. Because back then, I wasn’t allowed to fight back. That was the rule Lexi had hammered into me. The first time she targeted me was over a pair of shoes. Lexi was the queen bee, showing off her brand-new designer sneakers to a crowd of girls in the dorm. But another girl, eagle-eyed and blunt, looked at my feet and spoke up. “Wait, Sadie’s are the real deal. Lexi, yours look like knockoffs.” I had tried to laugh it off and make an excuse to save Lexi’s pride, but she just stood there, her face dark and silent. Later that night, I was distracted, putting on my sneakers to go to the library. A blinding, white-hot pain shot through my foot. I looked down. Two thumbtacks were lodged deep in the sole of my foot, slick with blood. Terrified, I had gone to Lexi to apologize, practicing my words all night. But when I found her, she just smirked at me, looking me up and down. “I never noticed how big your boobs are, Sadie. Do you let guys feel them up all the time?” She sneered. “I mean, how else does an orphan with no parents afford shoes that expensive?” The surrounding girls erupted in laughter. No matter how much I explained that my brother bought them for me, the narrative was set. From that day on, the entire school “knew” that I had an older, wealthy benefactor who was definitely not my brother. The suffocating shame of that memory rushed back to the present. My hands gripped the expensive fabric of my wedding dress, crushing it into a ruined heap. Seeing me like this, a flicker of guilt finally crossed Parker’s face. He reached out, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “It’s just a wedding, Sadie. We can always reschedule and do it later,” he said, his voice soothing, manipulative. “But Lexi is in a really bad place right now. If she finds out we went through with this today, she might actually kill herself. You wouldn’t want to be responsible for someone’s death, would you? Be a good girl.” Outside the heavy oak doors of the suite, the guests were getting restless. The murmur of the crowd grew louder. “Is this wedding happening or what? Why are they taking so long?” “Did someone get cold feet? Oh, this is going to be good gossip.” I looked at Parker, the man I had loved for half my life, my voice cracking with a final plea. “You know how much today meant to me. Please, don’t do this to me…” Before I could finish, Luke’s phone rang. The panicked voice of a nurse blared through the speaker. “Mr. Evans! Miss Lexi is having another episode! Please come quickly, she’s trying to hurt herself!” In the background, I heard a woman screaming hysterically. “Let me die! Why does the person who ruined me get to be happy?! Let me die!” The last trace of guilt evaporated from Parker’s eyes. He didn’t even look at me again as he turned and strode out of the room toward the stage to face the crowd. Moments later, a wave of gasps and shocked whispers echoed from the ballroom as Parker calmly announced that the wedding was canceled. Luke didn’t yell at me before he left. He just looked at me with a profound disappointment that screamed, Why are you being so selfish? Then, they both ran out, their retreating backs so familiar. It was funny. Back in high school, these were the exact same two men who had hated Lexi on my behalf. Luke had been too busy working to notice the shift in me at first, so I had confided in Parker, my childhood sweetheart. He had stroked my hair, his eyes burning with protective fury. “Don’t worry, Sadie. As long as I’m here, no one will ever hurt you again.” The next day at school, my desk was clean. No slurs scrawled in permanent marker, no missing textbooks. My desk mate had nudged me, whispering, “Some hot guy just transferred to the class next door. Lexi is already trying to flirt with him, but he totally ignored her. It was brutal.” A cold dread had pooled in my stomach. Sure enough, Parker appeared at my classroom door a moment later, smiling brightly. “Surprise, Sadie! I begged my parents to let me transfer here to protect you!” My heart had plummeted. I turned around instinctively. Lexi was staring at me from across the room, her eyes so full of pure, dark malice it made me shiver. I still remembered that day vividly. After school, it was pouring rain. I was waiting for the car Parker had called for me when a violent force shoved me from behind. I slammed into the wet asphalt and was dragged like a stray dog into a dark alleyway. Terrified, I looked up. Lexi was smiling down at me, a sickening, predatory grin on her face. “Strip her,” Lexi commanded the group of kids behind her. “Let’s see if she really has the body to keep hooking all these men.” The memories of that day were fragmented, suppressed by years of trauma therapy and medication. I only remembered flashes in my nightmares. Rough hands roaming over my body. Blinding camera flashes. Tears mixing with freezing rain. Lexi had crouched down, slapping my cheek lightly. “Aw, Sadie. You can’t say ‘no.’ You have to say ‘I’m sorry.’ Haven’t you learned that yet?” The smell of blood in the air. The agonizing sting of a blade across my wrists, over and over. The last thing I remembered was Parker’s face when he finally found me. It was twisted with a grief so raw it looked like madness. He had held me so tight I thought he would crush my bones, swearing to God he would kill Lexi for what she did to me. Luke had sworn it, too. He promised he would make sure Lexi never knew a day of peace again. Because of the two men who loved me most, I had found the strength to rebuild myself from the ashes. I had survived. And now, ten years later… I was the villain, and the woman who had almost destroyed my soul was their precious, fragile flower. How utterly laughable. I pulled out my phone and stared at an email. It was a job offer for a senior management position overseas, a relocation opportunity I had turned down because of the wedding, because of them. I stared at the screen until my eyes burned. Then, I typed out a reply and hit send: I accept the transfer. I can start immediately. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. How could Luke and Parker, who had witnessed my destruction firsthand, forgive this monster? How could they care about her more than me? Driven by a morbid need to understand, I paid a driver to take me to the private facility where Lexi was staying. It was a luxury sanitarium that cost hundreds of thousands a year. I looked at the billing records at the front desk. The signature on the payments was painfully familiar. The same signature had been at the bottom of every love letter I received as a teenager. The nurse saw me staring and smiled politely. “Are you a relative of Miss Lexi’s too? I haven’t seen you here before, though the other two gentlemen come by all the time.” I forced a polite smile, though my chest felt tight. “Is that so? How long has that been going on?” The nurse thought about it. “About three years now. When she first came in, she was in terrible shape. Her brother—well, the older gentleman—was quite cold at first and didn’t visit much.” “But I guess he saw how pitiful she was, so he started coming more. And then her boyfriend started coming along too.” My breathing stopped. “Boyfriend?” I repeated, my voice barely a whisper. The nurse nodded, a gossipy glint in her eye. “Well, that’s just what we call him privately. He’s never officially admitted it, but a few times after his visits, he asked us to delete the security footage. You know how it is.” I felt like I had been struck by lightning. Dizzy and nauseous, I stumbled down the hallway toward her room. Three years ago. Three years ago, Luke had thrown me a lavish 25th birthday party that was the talk of the town, declaring to the world that I was his princess. Three years ago, Parker had gotten down on one knee and asked me to marry him, and when I said yes, he had set off a firework show that lasted all weekend. While I was drowning in a sea of absolute bliss, believing I was the luckiest woman alive, they were secretly seeing Lexi. Suddenly, all the strange anomalies from the past few months that I had desperately tried to ignore came rushing back. Parker’s increasingly frequent business trips. His short, cold text messages. Even Luke had started sighing in front of me, saying things like, “Sadie, I feel like we’ve spoiled you too much. You need to realize that not everyone in this world is as lucky and blessed as you are.” I had felt so anxious, thinking I had done something wrong. I had walked on eggshells, trying to please them, to make them smile again. And all that time, they were giving the warmth that belonged to me to the woman who had broken me. Suddenly, a soft, intimate sound drifted from inside the room. “Lexi, who gave you permission to hurt yourself again?” It was a man’s voice, thick with repressed, agonizing passion. A wave of bone-deep cold washed over me. For years, that exact same voice had whispered sweet nothings into my ear in the dark. Lexi let out a soft groan. “What are you even doing here? Shouldn’t you be off enjoying your wedding night with your perfect little bride? Go away!” A heavy sigh followed. “Stop crying. The wedding is canceled. Are you happy now?” I was shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe. I turned on my heel, desperate to escape this suffocating nightmare, only to crash violently into a broad chest at the corner of the hallway. I looked up through a blur of tears. It was Luke. An overwhelming, childish wave of grief crashed over me. I opened my mouth, desperate to find comfort. “Luke…” But before I could speak, my brother reached up and wiped away my tears. His face was full of exhaustion. “Let it go, Sadie,” he said quietly. Let it go? I stared at him in disbelief. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Since you found your way here, I’ll be blunt. Parker and I have been keeping tabs on her for years. We wanted to make sure she was miserable. We didn’t want her to have a good life.” “But we didn’t even need to do anything. She’s beautiful, but she had no education. Her deadbeat family kicked her out and forced her to work in underground hostess clubs. Sadie, if we hadn’t stepped in to save her three years ago, those men would have literally played her to death.” Luke’s eyes filled with a sickening wave of pity. “Compared to what she’s been through, what happened to you in high school was nothing. Stop holding onto the past, Sadie. You’re being vindictive.” He paused, looking at me critically. “Besides, you were a spoiled brat growing up. You probably provoked her back then. Why else would she have singled you out to bully?” The world turned cold. A dull, heavy ache blossomed in my lower abdomen. I felt all the strength drain from my body. Maybe seeing how pale I was, Luke sighed again. “I’ll have the driver take you home. Be a good girl.” I didn’t say a word. I just looked down at my phone. A tear fell onto the screen, perfectly blurring the countdown timer for my flight. I had 24 hours until the plane took off. I went back to the house in a trance and walked straight into Parker’s home office. The computer password was easy. It was my birthday. With shaking hands, I clicked on a hidden folder. It was filled with thousands of photos of Lexi over the past ten years. Covert shots, candid moments, tracing her entire life. The further down I scrolled, the softer Parker’s notes became, and the colder my heart grew. [Lexi’s family sold her to a nightclub. She deserves it. I paid off the manager to make sure they give her a hard time.] [She was groped by some old creep today. The girl is clever, though. She managed to talk her way out of it.] [Lexi is being bullied by the other girls. I secretly had someone move her to a different club. She still looks so sad.] I started laughing. I laughed so hard that tears streamed down my face. They were so incredibly kind. So noble that they could magnanimously forgive my abuser on my behalf. So righteous that they were willing to betray me to save a monster. I shut down the computer, went to the bedroom, and packed a single suitcase with a few clothes. When my hand brushed against the positive pregnancy test, I paused. Then, with absolute, cold finality, I ripped it in half and threw it in the trash can. The sun had long set by the time Parker finally came home. I looked up from the couch. Lexi was standing right behind him, wearing a pristine white dress. I flinched violently, shrinking back into the cushions. Parker immediately rushed forward, trying to pull me into his arms. “It’s okay, Sadie. Don’t be scared.” His embrace didn’t smell like the man I knew. It was coated in the heavy, cloying scent of her perfume. My lips were trembling with pure rage. “Parker… you brought her into our home. How dare you!” Parker pursed his lips, looking incredibly pained. “Sadie, I… I need you to apologize to her.” He avoided my incredulous stare, speaking in a low, placating tone. “You don’t understand. Lexi is in a really fragile state. She has severe self-harm tendencies. She told me that if you just apologize to her, she will cooperate with the doctors and take her meds. After all, you were the one who got her expelled back then.” The dull ache in my abdomen suddenly flared into sharp, agonizing spasms. I looked at Parker and laughed, a cold, bitter sound. “You want me to apologize to the person who traumatized me? Parker, have you lost your goddamn mind?” Parker’s brows furrowed. Before he could speak, Lexi spoke up from the doorway. “Forget it if she doesn’t want to. I don’t want to live anyway. I’m sorry for causing trouble, Sadie.” Her tone was playful, mocking. Hearing those familiar words from her mouth made my blood boil. I stood up, consumed by a feral urge to slap the smirk off her face. But Parker immediately grabbed me, pinning my arms to my sides to hold me back. Lexi looked at me and smiled. “Wow, Sadie. You really were a straight-A student. You still remember everything I taught you, don’t you?” Parker frowned as I struggled against him, my eyes wild. “Calm down, Sadie.” He pulled out his phone. “Look, I’ve already booked a new venue. I’m going to throw you an even bigger, more lavish wedding to make it up to you, okay?” He looked at me as if I were a throwing a temper tantrum over a toy. “It’s just a simple apology, Sadie. Is it really that hard to say?” My breathing became shallow and rapid. I was back in that alleyway in the pouring rain. Her voice was whispering in my ear like a demon. Sadie, when I beat you, you have to say I’m sorry. Got it? The pain in my stomach was now a tearing sensation. “Parker…” I gasped out, clutching my stomach. Seeing me like this, Lexi’s eyes gleamed with malice. She suddenly spoke up loudly, interrupting me. “I don’t feel well. I want to go back to the clinic.” Parker, who had been about to look at me, immediately let go of my arms. “I’ll take you back.” With the last of my strength, I lunged forward and grabbed his sleeve. “Parker, please… my stomach hurts so bad…” He looked down at me, his eyes full of impatience and annoyance. “Sadie, enough. You refuse to apologize, and now you’re faking a medical emergency to manipulate me? Luke was right. We really have spoiled you rotten.” With that, he violently shook off my hand, wrapped his arm around Lexi, and walked out the door. I collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the closed door. I looked down. The white rug beneath me was stained with a bright, terrifying crimson. The child I had loved and dreamed of was leaving me, washing away in a pool of blood on the living room floor. The very last tear I would ever shed for these people fell. My heart turned to ash. Let the world be as wide as it may. I was done with them. I never wanted anything to do with either of them ever again. Late the next night, Parker dragged his exhausted body back home. But the moment he opened the front door, a heavy, metallic scent of blood and dampness hit him. A sudden, violent wave of dread washed over his soul.

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A phone call from my old neighbor in the States was the first thing to pierce the sun-drenched silence of my life abroad. The voice on the other end was frantic, hushed, as if relaying state secrets. She told me there was a woman at my front door—very pregnant, very loud—claiming to be the “one true love” of my late husband. I told the neighbor to hand her the phone. I didn’t raise my voice. I simply told her that I was Xavier’s ex-wife, and that before he passed, he’d made me promise that if his “soulmate” ever came looking for him, I should step aside and let them be together. I even told her where he kept the spare key: tucked inside the oversized ceramic planter by the porch. On the phone, she played the part of the fragile, wronged heroine. She whimpered about how she never wanted to break up a family, but the baby changed everything. She bragged that “Xavy” told her she could come to him anytime. She even had the audacity to suggest I just wasn’t young or vibrant enough to hold a man like him. I felt a cold, sharp smile tugging at my lips. Of course, I would help them fulfill their “destiny.” After all, there was nothing left in that house except for Xavier’s corpse, which had been liquefying into the floorboards for three years. On his deathbed, he’d begged me. He told me that if the woman he’d been keeping in the shadows ever came for him, I should give her the company, the house, and his ashes. He wanted to be hers in the end. I’d cried beautiful, crocodile tears and promised him everything. But the second he stopped breathing, I took the keys to the kingdom. I consolidated the company, packed my daughter’s bags, and moved to the Mediterranean to live the life he’d tried to deny me. I didn’t even bother calling the morgue. I wasn’t about to waste a cent on a man who’d spent our marriage dreaming of someone else. I just locked the door and left him there. Now, his “true love” had finally arrived. I figured it was only fair to let her have exactly what she asked for. … 1 Back then, I couldn’t bring myself to pay the funeral costs or the transport fees for Xavier’s remains. So, I let him stay in that secluded suburban “love nest” he’d built for his mistress. To the outside world, I played the grieving, noble widow. I told anyone who asked that I wasn’t burying him yet because I was waiting—holding out hope that his “true heart’s desire” would show up to say one last goodbye. I waited three years. And for three years, Xavier rotted. He sat in that house, the one he’d designed as a sanctuary for his infidelity, slowly turning into a biological hazard while I lived my best life. I was currently in a villa overlooking the Amalfi Coast, my fingers tangled in the hair of a gorgeous Italian twenty-something named Luca, thinking Xavier would never actually get his reunion. Then the phone rang. “My god, Katherine! Your husband’s little plaything is here. She’s at least six months along. What do I do?” It was simple. She’d waited three years to come looking for him, which meant she was either out of money or out of options. She wanted the man? She could have him. I’m not a petty woman. The neighbor handed over the phone. I listened to the girl’s pathetic attempts at intimidation, calmly gave her the location of the key, and hung up. I pushed Luca’s perfect abs away with a newfound surge of adrenaline and opened the Nest security app on my laptop. I wasn’t going to miss the season finale of this drama. “Cara, what is it?” Luca pouted, trying to pull me back into the silk sheets. “Not now, baby,” I said, my eyes glued to the screen. “I have a front-row seat to a haunting.” The camera resolution was crystal clear. I could see Hailey’s smug expression, the way she patted her protruding stomach as if it were a trophy. She was wearing four-inch heels and swinging the house key around her finger like she’d just won the lottery. She stood at the front door, her hand on the knob. Then, her face shifted. Her hand flew to her mouth. She scrambled back toward the bushes, and I watched in high-definition as she retched. The “trophy wife” facade crumbled instantly. At first, she probably thought it was just severe morning sickness. But every time she tried to step back onto the porch, her body revolted. The stench of three years of stagnant, unventilated decay is not something a human nose can rationalize. She vomited five times before she finally stood there, pale and trembling. “Xavier said he’d wait for me forever,” she whispered to herself, loud enough for the porch mic to catch. “Why does it smell like something died in there?” Then, she started gasping for air, clutching her stomach, brainwashing herself. “It’s just the pregnancy. It’s just me.” She was determined. Xavier had gone silent three years ago—no texts, no wire transfers, nothing. She assumed he’d been locked away by his “bitter old wife.” She’d spent those three years going through grueling rounds of IVF with the samples he’d frozen, desperate to produce an heir. Now, she was back to claim her throne. She believed that once Xavier saw his son, he’d hand over the Ronald empire on a silver platter. Hailey gritted her teeth, the veins in her neck bulging as she fought the urge to vomit again. She turned the key. The door swung open. She stepped into the foyer and called out in a sing-song, sugary voice: “Xavy! Come see your girl and your little prince!” The moment she opened her mouth to speak, the concentrated, pressurized wall of death from inside the house rushed into her lungs. 2 “Oh god—Xavier! Gag—” I was laughing so hard in Italy that tears were streaming down my face. On the screen, Hailey’s legs looked like overcooked noodles. She collapsed onto the porch, her face twisted in a mask of pure agony. She was clutching her belly, terrified for the baby, but she couldn’t stay away. She crawled back a few feet, staring at the dark hallway of the house with a mix of longing and horror. She scrambled for her phone and called me back, her voice a screeching wreck. “You old hag! Where did you hide him? Where is Xavier?” “I’m carrying his child! You can’t keep us apart anymore! Half of everything he owns belongs to my son!” My fingers traced the lines of Luca’s tattoos as I leaned back. “Hailey, honey, he’s right there in the house. Didn’t you see him?” I couldn’t help it. I let out a sharp, melodic laugh. That sound was the breaking point for her. She started screaming into the receiver. “What are you laughing at? You’re a pathetic, discarded housewife! Just wait until I tell Xavier how you’ve treated me! He’s going to divorce you and leave you with nothing!” “Go ahead,” I said, my voice dripping with mock-sincerity. “Go tell him everything. Ask his family if you don’t believe me—he’s been waiting in that house for you for a long, long time.” I hung up. My daughter, Jade, walked into the room, adjusting her designer sunglasses. She looked at me with that sharp, teenage cynicism she’d inherited from me. “When are we going back to deal with that bitch?” “Language, Jade,” I corrected her, though I wasn’t really annoyed. It was time to go home. I couldn’t let the “true love” reunion happen without being there to witness the fallout. Xavier wanted me to “set them free.” Hailey could have her inheritance. She could have exactly what was left of him—a three-year-old biological weapon. 3 I found out about the affair when I was three months pregnant with Jade. It was a difficult pregnancy; my stomach was a roadmap of bruises and needle marks from the hormone shots. Xavier walked in on me one night while I was changing. He looked at my bruised, swollen skin and actually recoiled. He made a face of pure disgust. “Kat, you’re honestly repulsive,” he’d said. He stopped coming home after that. I spent my entire pregnancy in a cold, quiet house. The day I went into labor, the headlines in New York were splashed with photos of him at a gala with a “young, mysterious muse.” After the birth, I tried to leave. I wanted a divorce, a clean break. But Xavier knew exactly how to hurt me. He knew my daughter was the only thing I had left. “You can divorce me,” he’d told me, eyes cold as ice. “But you’ll leave the kid. Do you really think the courts will give a ‘depressed, unstable’ mother custody against a man with my resources?” He didn’t care about Jade. He just cared about his image. “Keep your mouth shut, play the part of the happy wife, and you get to keep your daughter. If you ever harass Hailey, I’ll make sure you never see the girl again.” So, I checked out. For years, I treated him like he was already dead. Maybe it was karma that his brain turned against him. He was diagnosed with stage four glioblastoma and spent his final months wasting away. When his family came to visit him in the hospital, I played the grieving saint. The moment they left, I had the nurses wheel his bed into the hallway next to the public restrooms. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t complain. To the world, I was the devoted wife. To him, I was the last thing he’d ever see—a woman who no longer felt anything for him. Before he died, he had one final “spark” of life. He’d crawled out of bed and somehow made it to that suburban house, hoping to find Hailey. But she’d vanished the moment the money stopped flowing. He died in that house, crying for her. His last words were a plea for me to “give her everything” if she ever returned. I smiled at him as the light left his eyes. In his blurry vision, I’m sure I looked like I was weeping. “I’ll make sure you’re together forever,” I’d promised. And I kept that promise. I let him stay right there, in their “love nest,” waiting for his queen. As for the money? I’d moved every cent of the Ronald fortune into offshore accounts and trust funds for Jade years ago. He died in the morning. By that afternoon, I was on a private jet to Europe, tasting salt and freedom for the first time in a decade. 4 To keep the company’s stock from plummeting, I never officially announced Xavier’s death. I told the board he was “recuperating in seclusion.” Only a few close family members knew the truth. Hailey had spent the last week digging, eventually confirming that Xavier was indeed at the house. She didn’t notice the strange, pitying looks the neighbors gave her. Under my strict instructions, nobody told her he was dead. Hailey convinced herself that Xavier was waiting for her in their house of memories. Because she’d been vomiting so much from the “smell,” her doctor put her on bed rest, so she spent her days writing flowery, delusional letters to him and mailing them to the house. She wrote pages about how much she hated me and how he needed to “punish” me. I had someone collect those letters and burn them over Xavier’s remains. It felt poetic. The day Hailey was cleared to leave the clinic was the day I landed back in the States. She decided to make an event of it. She showed up at the house with a pack of tabloid reporters in tow, ready to “expose” my cruelty and claim her place as the true Mrs. Ronald. The press followed her into the gated community, but as they got closer to the house, their faces began to pale. Hailey kept gagging. She turned to a reporter from a major gossip site and gave a weak, practiced smile. “Excuse me. My pregnancy cravings are just… a bit intense today.” One of the younger cameramen looked around, squinting. “Is Mr. Ronald really in there?” Hailey straightened her back, radiating false confidence. “Of course! This house was our private sanctuary. He built it for me.” Gag. A veteran journalist in the back had already figured it out. He’d covered crime scenes before. He quietly adjusted his body cam and pulled a mask out of his pocket. He recognized that smell. It wasn’t “morning sickness.” It was putrefaction. He tried to probe. “Miss West, do you notice a… peculiar odor?” Hailey was terrified the press would leave before she got her “big reveal.” She forced herself to take a deep breath, her face turning a sickly shade of grey. “Odor? I don’t smell anything. You’re just being dramatic.” We arrived at the porch. Hailey pulled a key from her designer bag. Just as she lined it up with the lock, I stepped out from behind a tree, wearing a high-grade charcoal mask. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” I called out. I stayed a good thirty feet away. Hailey sneered at me. “Oh, look who it is. The old hag finally showed up to try and stop me.” I shook my head. “Is being a mistress an addiction for you? You couldn’t get enough three years ago, and now you’re trying to force a dead man to father your child? You’re really committed to the bit, aren’t you?” Hailey patted her stomach, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Watch your mouth. When Xavier sees me, I’m going to have him destroy you. And that daughter of yours? I’ll make sure he ships her off to some boarding school in the middle of nowhere.” She smiled, a sharp, ugly thing. “Her inheritance will be my son’s welcome-to-the-world gift.” The reporters went silent. The cameras were rolling, catching every word. I pressed my lips together, keeping my temper in check for the sake of the recording. “Fine. You want to go in? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” “Xavier couldn’t even close his eyes when he died because he was waiting for you. Go ahead. Be with him.” Hailey hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of doubt crossing her eyes. But the thought of the Ronald billions was too strong. “Liars like you always try to play mind games. I’m going in.” She turned the key. “Xavier told me if I ever got pregnant, he’d give me the world! He only wanted my children. Not yours!” I watched her silhouette disappear into the dark foyer. The second the door closed behind her, her voice changed. “Xavy? Where are you? Your mean old wife is being so scary! I have our baby, and she’s so jealous—” The voice cut off. A heartbeat later, a scream erupted from the house—a sound of primal, bone-deep terror.

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The engagement party had finally begun to wind down, the heavy scent of lilies and expensive perfume hanging in the stagnant air of the ballroom. We had just taken our seats at the head table—my family, the man I was supposed to spend my life with, and his parents. Then, he did it. Without a word, he reached for a plate in the center of the table and grabbed one of the signature honey-glazed wings—the Whitaker family’s pride, a recipe that had built our restaurant empire. He started eating it. Not just eating it, but devouring it with a feral, mindless speed that made my stomach turn. I froze, a chill crawling up my spine. “Oliver,” I whispered, my voice tight. “Why are you eating the wings?” He didn’t even look up, wiping a smear of glaze from his chin with the back of his hand. He sounded bored, dismissive. “They’re just wings, Norah. My family eats what we want. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” His words hit me like a bucket of ice water. The noise of the ballroom—the clinking of crystal, the polite laughter of three hundred guests—faded into a dull hum. I felt a sudden, terrifying clarity. “The engagement is off,” I said, my voice ringing out across the table. “Right now.” … The man I knew as Oliver Donovan froze. The half-eaten wing hovered in mid-air, a gruesome little trophy. He blinked, finally sensing the shift in the atmosphere. He dropped the wing back onto the fine china and shifted into that persona he’d used since we were kids—the one that always worked. “Norah, honey, come on. I’ve been up since five this morning. I’m starving. Is this some weird Whitaker family tradition I missed? You never told me I had to ask permission to eat an appetizer.” I didn’t answer immediately. I looked down at the mangled piece of poultry on his plate, then back up at him. I was looking for a ghost. “Why,” I asked, my voice eerily calm, “did you choose to eat that?” He laughed, a nervous, jagged sound, and reached for my arm. I flinched away. “I told you! I’m hungry. It’s just a wing! Is there a law against it?” I pulled my hand back and rested it in my lap, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Oliver, I’m going to ask you one more time. Are you sure you’re allowed to eat that?” The smile on his face curdled. He looked toward my mother, sitting to my left, and reached for her hand with a performative whine. “Diane! Please, tell Norah she’s being ridiculous. It’s a wing. She’s acting like I just insulted the family crest. Do I really not ‘deserve’ to eat at my own engagement party?” My parents had treated Oliver like a son since the day he was born. Our families were old money, old friends; they doted on him, blinded by decades of shared history. My mother reached over and patted his head, her eyes softening. “It’s just a wing, sweetheart. Of course you deserve it. The Whitaker Grill is practically yours now, anyway. If you love them that much, I’ll have the chef send a crate of them to your house tomorrow.” He shot me a triumphant, smug look. I felt a pang of nausea. “You really don’t know, do you?” His patience snapped. He stood up, walked toward the buffet line, grabbed another wing, and literally tossed it into my lap. “You want one, Norah? Is that what this is? You’re throwing a tantrum because you wanted the last one? I knew the Whitaker wings were exclusive, but this is insane. I told the kitchen to make extra just for us!” His mother, Mrs. Donovan, rushed to his side, rubbing his shoulder as if he were the one being bullied. Before I could speak, she turned her venom on me. “Is this a power play, Norah? Are you trying to humiliate my son on his big day? Is the Whitaker family so bankrupt that you’re rationing food now? I won’t have Oliver treated this way!” My mother’s face hardened. She looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment and fury. “Norah Whitaker, stop this! You are making a scene over a piece of chicken. You’re being a spoiled brat. Apologize to Oliver right now!” Oliver stood there, his face flushed red, looking like the victim of a grand injustice. I looked at him, then at the sea of faces in the ballroom. With a slow, deliberate motion, I stood up and shoved the table. It didn’t flip, but the screech of wood on marble was like a gunshot. “Fine,” I said, the words tasting like copper. “It’s about the wing. And because of it, I’m done. There is no wedding.” The room exploded. The hushed whispers of the elite turned into a roar. “Did she just dump him over an appetizer?” “I bet she has someone else. She’s just looking for an excuse.” The whispers were like thorns. Oliver rushed toward me, trying to grab my hands, his eyes welling with tears. “Norah, please! Don’t do this! I won’t eat them again, I swear! We were going to grow old together. Don’t you remember our promises?” I pushed him back with a force that surprised even me. “Grow old with you? I’d rather die. You don’t deserve to stand where he stood.” The room went silent. Just for a second. Then the chaos doubled. My father, who had been silent until now, surged to his feet. His face was a dangerous shade of purple. “Norah! What is wrong with you? We aren’t the kind of family that fights over food! Get a grip on yourself!” Oliver started to sob—real, heavy tears. He reached for me again, and I stepped back as if he were a leper. “Keep your hands off me, Oliver. Or whoever you are. This engagement is over because you aren’t fit to be my husband. You aren’t fit to be in this room.” Mr. Donovan slammed his fist onto the table. “My son has given you years of his life! You’re going to throw it away over a snack? Are you even human?” Oliver turned to my mother, clutching her sleeve like a child. “Diane, you know how hard I worked on this party. I was just hungry. What did I do wrong?” My mother’s heart shattered for him. She shielded him behind her, glaring at me. “Norah, enough. You’ve wanted this since you were a little girl. You finally got your dream, and now you’re destroying it over nothing. Stop acting out!” I pulled out a chair and sat down, crossing my legs, looking at him with pure, unadulterated coldness. “The fact that you don’t even know what you did wrong is the funniest part of this whole pathetic charade,” I said. Then, to my mother: “I did want to marry Oliver. But I don’t want to marry this.” Oliver dropped to his knees in front of my mother. “I don’t understand! Why can’t I eat a wing? Why is she doing this to me today?” Mrs. Donovan was dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. “We have never let our son be treated like this. If this is how the Whitakers behave, Norah, then maybe there shouldn’t be a wedding!” Oliver panicked. He scrambled up and tried to lean his head on my shoulder, his voice a desperate whisper. “Norah, stop playing. I love you. I want to marry you.” I stood up so fast he stumbled, falling onto the floor. I looked down at him. “In your dreams. Get out of my sight.” I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me—cold, sharp, and stripped of the whining. “You walk out that door, Norah, and those photos go public.” He stood up, brushing the dust off his tuxedo, his eyes narrowing. “I have the private shots from your bedroom, Norah. You really want the world to see those?” My mother froze. She rushed over to him, her face pale. “Oliver, sweetheart, don’t say that. We’ll fix this. Norah, apologize!” The crowd gasped. “Private photos? Oh, she’s finished.” “Poor Oliver, pushed to the brink by that ice queen.” I felt a surge of rage, but I suppressed it. I looked at his face. If he had photos, they had to be old. Very old. “What photos?” I asked, my voice light. “When did you take them?” He saw me “soften” and let out a breath of relief. He patted his pocket. “That night you were wasted… I wanted to save them as a surprise for tonight, but you forced my hand.” I took a deep breath. “There won’t be a surprise. Delete them now, or I’ll make sure you never walk again.” Oliver’s face went white. He started shaking, pointing a finger at me. “How can you be so heartless? I kept those because I loved you! They were my most precious memories, and you treat them like trash!” My mother snapped. She marched over to me and delivered a slap that echoed through the entire ballroom. My head snapped to the side. “Norah Whitaker, that is enough! You started a fight over a wing, and now you’re attacking him for wanting to keep memories of you? Apologize!” I held my cheek. It didn’t hurt. Not compared to the hollow ache in my chest. I just laughed. “You want me to apologize to this blackmailer? Never. I will never marry you. Do your worst.” Mr. Donovan stepped forward. “Norah, you have dragged our name through the mud today. You will get on your knees and apologize to my son, or those photos will be on every news site by midnight.” Oliver looked shaken, as if he hadn’t expected his father to go that far, but he didn’t stop him. Then my father moved. He grabbed my collar and shoved me, his voice a low growl. “If you want to stay a Whitaker, you kneel. If those photos get out, you’re dead to this family. Don’t think for a second we’ll protect you.” I wiped a streak of blood from my lip. “I’m not afraid of him.” Oliver screamed at me then, his voice cracking. “Norah! You’re forcing me to do this! I know why you’re doing this! It’s him, isn’t it?” He paused, then switched back to that pathetic, hurt expression. “Norah, don’t be stupid. Cut ties with that… that spa boy. That towel boy you’ve been seeing behind my back.” I froze. My mind went blank for a second. My mother went nuclear. She surged forward, shielding Oliver again. “You’re seeing a masseur? A towel boy? So this isn’t about food at all! You’re just trying to cheat your way out of a marriage to a good man!” Suddenly, the doors burst open. A swarm of paparazzi, tipped off by someone, flooded in, flashes strobing like lightning. The Whitaker Heiress and the Spa Boy. It was the scandal of the decade. I frowned, realizing the trap was closing. They thought they had me. They thought they could break me. “So what if I like the towel boy?” I yelled over the cameras. “He’s ten times the man you are! If he were here, I’d marry him right now just to get away from you!” Oliver pulled out his phone, a cold smirk finally breaking through his mask. “You asked for this, Norah.” He tapped the screen, and a video began to play on the large monitors meant for our ‘Love Story’ slideshow. It was a grainy video of me in a dark lounge, sitting close to a man, my hands wandering over his shoulders. Then, an audio recording played—my voice, clear and sharp. “Oliver, if you tell anyone about this, you’re dead. I’ll ruin the Donovans. I’m in love with Finn, and I’m calling off the wedding.” Mrs. Donovan shrieked. “All this drama! All this lying! Just so she could run off with a servant! She’s been planning to sabotage this since day one!” The reporters swarmed me, microphones thrust into my face. “Norah, is it true?” “Are you leaving a Donovan for a masseur?” “What about the photos?” I stood there, nodding slowly. “Yes. The engagement is off. He can post whatever photos he wants.” My father’s face was unrecognizable with rage. He grabbed a crystal vase from a nearby table and smashed it on the floor. “Norah Whitaker, you are no longer my daughter. Don’t ever come back to this house. You’re a disgrace!” I ignored the cameras. I walked straight up to the man who looked like Oliver and spoke in a voice only he could hear. “That was a good move. But it won’t work. It just makes me want to see you burn. The Donovans are finished. Remember I said that.” He looked startled, then went back to his ‘wounded puppy’ act. “Norah, you’re destroying your own reputation just to hurt me. I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t threatened me first. If you leave, we’re done for good!” I didn’t care. I turned to walk away, but my father signaled the security guards. Three of them blocked my path, then grabbed my arms, forcing me to the floor. “Norah!” my father barked. “You aren’t going anywhere until you explain yourself!” I struggled against the marble floor, looking up at the man I was supposed to marry. “You really want to know why I’m doing this?” I spat. “Fine. I’ll tell everyone.”

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When I opened my eyes again, the world was swimming in the harsh, fluorescent light of my high school hallway. My sister was laughing, her hand wrapped tightly around a boy’s wrist as she dragged him toward me to make the introduction. “This is the guy I picked out for you,” she said, her eyes glittering with a manic, almost eerie enthusiasm. Gia and I had always viewed love from opposite sides of a fault line. She believed romance was supposed to be a wildfire. To her, a relationship wasn’t real unless it was loud and destructive. In our previous life, for the sake of that blazing, chaotic love, she had endured abortions, threatened to throw herself off balconies, and watched her lovers take literal punches and hospital stints for her. Yet, when the smoke finally cleared, she was always left standing entirely alone. I, on the other hand, had always craved the quiet, steady hum of a slow-burning companionship. I had chosen a man who looked like solid ground. We built a life together, had children, and lived what the rest of the world saw as a picture-perfect, suburban dream. That is, until my deathbed. It was there, in the quiet sterile hum of the hospice room, that my husband shattered the illusion of my entire existence with a voice as cold as winter rain. He told me our life together had been suffocating. He told me he only married me to fulfill a promise he’d made to Gia. Every milestone, every quiet evening, every vow—it had all been orchestrated by my sister. He begged me to let him go in the next life. He begged for the chance to finally live for himself, to chase the intoxicating, reckless love he had actually wanted all along. The decades of mutual support, the quiet devotion I thought we shared—it was nothing but a calculated compromise. It was a lie, spun from Gia’s fingertips. 1. Gia and I were only a year apart in age. Because it was easier for my parents, they started me in kindergarten a year early so we could be in the same grade. Though we shared the same blood, Gia got all the light. She was a striking mosaic of our parents’ best features. I was just plain. My only redeeming quality was the quiet, sharp machinery of my brain. Gia pulled boys into her orbit like gravity. In elementary school, boys shoved each other into the dirt just to sit next to her at lunch. In middle school, I was practically a courier service for the love notes and pastries left at her locker. By high school, boys were literally doing her homework just for the chance to breathe the same air. I was just the unremarkable bookworm standing in her shadow, flanked by a small circle of equally invisible friends. Perhaps that was why our views on love fractured so violently. She needed the drama. She thrived on it. In the life before this one, Gia’s pursuit of that epic romance destroyed her. She ran through toxic boyfriends, terminated pregnancies, and let the stress and heartbreak physically hollow her out. By the time she was diagnosed with cancer in her early forties, she was a ghost of her former self. I remember visiting her in the oncology ward. The room smelled of bleach and wilting flowers. I asked her if she regretted it. Her face was gaunt, but she managed a weak, beautiful smile. “No regrets. I’d do it all exactly the same. My only heartbreak is that I didn’t leave him a child to remember me by. He sacrificed so much for me.” At the time, I had just shaken my head, unable to comprehend that level of romantic delusion. In that same past life, I had chosen the safe harbor. I chose Simon, a friend Gia had introduced me to when we were young. Simon was respectful. He was family-oriented. We raised two children and lived a life wrapped in beige, comfortable predictability. Until the very end. As I lay dying, my husband held my frail hand, and I leaned in to catch his final words to me. “Jo, my life has been so incredibly dull,” he whispered, his grip entirely devoid of warmth. “I did it all to keep my promise to your sister. I followed every script she wrote for me. Including you.” “In the next life, I want to chase real love. Even if it ruins me, at least I’ll know I’m alive. Jo… please, just let me go.” My dying body went rigid. I stared at the man sitting by my bed, the man I had shared a home, a bed, and a lifetime with, realizing I had never known him at all. What I thought was a quiet, happy life had been his prison sentence. It suddenly made agonizing sense. The lack of physical touch. The way conception felt like a clinical appointment rather than making love. The way he eventually moved into the guest room, citing my “light sleeping habits” as an excuse. We had no inside jokes, no sweeping romantic anniversaries, no late-night whispered confessions. We just had the grocery list and the mortgage. I had convinced myself that true marital happiness was found in that calm. I didn’t realize it was just the silence of a man who had never loved me. With a few whispered words, Simon erased my entire existence. And now, I was blinking against the harsh school lights, staring at Gia’s glowing face as she pulled a teenage Simon toward me. “Jo, this is Simon,” she said, practically vibrating with excitement. “He’s one of my best guys. Totally loyal.” She leaned in, her breath hot against my ear, and whispered, “He literally wrote all my AP English essays last semester. If it weren’t for him, that psycho teacher would have flunked me.” 2. The air trapped itself in my throat. I slowly lifted my gaze to meet Simon’s. Gia had literally told me from day one. She had handed me the truth on a silver platter: Simon was the obsessed boy who did her homework. In my past life, I had been naive enough to believe they were just “best guys.” Gia had always kept a strict, invisible boundary between her platonic male friends and her romantic targets, so I never questioned it. But watching him now, the truth was blinding. The way Simon looked at Gia—it was a burning, suffocating heat. It had always been there. I had been so terribly blind. I had wasted his life, and I had condemned myself to decades of a loveless marriage. When I didn’t say anything, Gia nudged me and looked at Simon. “Simon, this is Jo. My little sister. She’s a bit of an introvert, but she’s a total genius, just like you. Keep an eye out for her, yeah?” Simon gave me a polite, incredibly stiff nod. “Nice to meet you.” He was wearing thick, dark-rimmed glasses, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyebrows. He rarely smiled. Gia used to joke that he was just the male version of me. Now, I understood the brutal reality of the world. Like repels like; opposites attract. A man as quiet and brooding as Simon would only ever be drawn to a girl as blinding and chaotic as my sister. This time, I didn’t extend my hand. I just gave him a cool, detached look. “Hey.” He flinched slightly and immediately averted his eyes. In that microsecond, I knew. He remembered too. He had been reborn. Over the next few days, Gia constantly tried to push us together. At lunch, she dragged me into the cafeteria with her arm slung over my shoulder. Simon was already sitting at a table, three bowls of soup waiting. As I sat down, he and I simultaneously looked away from each other. Right there, over the plastic cafeteria table, I drew the line. “Gia,” I said, my voice steady. “I need to focus entirely on college apps. I don’t have time for dating or any of this setup nonsense.” Gia rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. “Oh, come on. You’re really turning down Simon? If you keep your standards this high, you’re gonna end up a crazy cat lady.” “If romance is off the table, you guys can still be friends,” she pushed. I didn’t answer. I reached for my spoon, intent on just eating and getting out of there. But as I glanced down, I froze. Simon was meticulously using his chopsticks to pick every single piece of cilantro out of Gia’s bowl. He remembered that Gia hated the taste of cilantro. But he had completely forgotten that I was deathly allergic to it. My own bowl was full of it. Suddenly, the whole situation just felt deeply, profoundly pathetic. I set my spoon down. “Sorry. I have a quiz to study for. I’m going to the library.” As I stood up to leave, I caught sight of Gia throwing her arm around Simon’s neck, pulling him laughing against her shoulder. “Don’t mind Jo! She’s always like that. More food for us!” A week later, the school handed out the schedule request forms for our junior year. We had to declare our primary tracks—whether we were pushing toward STEM or Humanities. In my past life, Simon and Gia both chose the AP Humanities track. Gia chose it because she was terrible at math; Simon chose it just to stay close to Gia. Back then, I had desperately wanted to stay with them. I abandoned my top-tier rankings in physics and calculus and forced myself into AP Literature and History. At first, Simon would tutor both of us. But then Gia got caught up in a massive, school-wide scandal over a reckless romance, got suspended, and dropped out of the study group entirely. Immediately after, Simon told me he was “too busy” to tutor me anymore. Looking back, he was just mourning the loss of the girl he actually wanted. He had no reason to spend time with me without her there. I had spent my high school years destroying my sleep schedule, studying until 2 AM every night, just trying to keep up with him in classes I hated. Gia’s grades had tanked, and our parents eventually panicked and enrolled her in a private performing arts conservatory just to make sure she got into some kind of college. When the college acceptance letters arrived in that past life, Simon had finally asked me out. I was thrilled. When he found out Gia and I were moving to the same city for college, he immediately committed to my university, taking a different major just to be near us. This time, history was trying to repeat itself. Gia dragged Simon to my locker during passing period. “Jo! What track are you picking?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the white-out on Simon’s form. He had originally checked the STEM boxes, but he had erased them to check Humanities. This time, I didn’t even blink. “STEM,” I said. “All AP Sciences.” 3. A memory surfaced from my past life. I was sitting in my mother-in-law’s kitchen. She was laughing, telling me how shocked they were when Simon chose the Humanities track in high school. He had always been brilliant at math, and they wanted him to go into engineering or finance. He wasn’t naturally gifted at writing or history. He had to bleed over his textbooks to get the grades needed for a good university. His parents only gave in when he promised he would go to law school and pass the bar. His mother had smiled at me over her teacup, her tone teasing. “You know, looking back, I bet the only reason that stubborn boy forced himself through those writing classes was because of you, Jo.” Gia had been sitting at the table with us, immediately chiming in. “Right? Simon was playing the long game! He’s been in love with our Jo since we were kids. What a romantic.” Simon had turned crimson and snapped at his mother to drop it. I had blushed furiously, staring down at my lap, assuming he was just shy. Now, the memory made me sick to my stomach. He wasn’t blushing out of shyness. He was terrified Gia would realize the truth. He snapped at his mother to protect his secret obsession. The signs had been there, painted on the walls of my entire life, and I had simply chosen to paint over them. “Aw, that sucks!” Gia whined, pulling me out of the memory. “Simon and I are doing the Humanities track. We won’t have any classes together.” I glanced at Simon, keeping my tone entirely conversational. “It’s fine. We weren’t in the same classes before anyway. I’m not going to sabotage my college prospects just to hang out with you guys.” Gia opened her mouth to argue, but a voice called out from down the hall. It was a senior boy. Damon. The man who, in my past life, would become Gia’s deeply toxic, on-again-off-again obsession for the next twenty years. As Gia ran off toward Damon, I watched Simon’s eyes darken. The mask slipped for a second, revealing a raw, ugly jealousy before he turned and walked away. That afternoon, I went to fill my water bottle at the fountains near the gym. Simon was waiting for me. He stepped into my path, effectively cornering me. “Jo, we need to talk. Come here.” I raised an eyebrow. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.” He grabbed my arm, pulling me into an empty classroom, and shut the door. He didn’t waste time. “I know you remember too,” he said, his voice low. “But you don’t need to push me away like this.” I stared at him, genuinely baffled by his audacity. “What do you expect me to do? If you’re in love with my sister, then grow a spine and pursue her. Stay away from me.” I turned for the door, but he lunged, slamming his hand against the wood by my head, trapping me. “Yes, the woman I love is Gia,” he said, his breathing shallow. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you. We lived together for decades. We had children together, Jo. We’re family.” “Just take the Humanities track. We can all be in the same classes. I can look out for both of you. If you go into the upper-level math and physics classes, you’re going to be surrounded by guys, and I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”

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In the seventh year of my marriage to Timothy Carmichael, the mahogany-paneled waiting room of my divorce attorney became my most frequented sanctuary. Thirty times in thirty days. The final time was the day Lexi—Timothy’s adopted sister—turned up pregnant by some nameless fling, and Timothy, without missing a beat, publicly claimed the child was his. When I demanded to know why he would do something so insanely destructive, he just rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a breath heavy with manufactured exhaustion. He told me Lexi’s biotech start-up was finally getting off the ground, and a scandal of an out-of-wedlock baby with a deadbeat would ruin her image with investors. “You’re a woman, Norma,” he had said, his eyes pleading for a grace he hadn’t earned. “Can’t you find it in you to just understand?” In that precise moment, I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t threaten to call the lawyers like I had the twenty-nine times before. I simply reached into my bag, pulled out the pre-nuptial divorce agreement he had signed years ago as a grand romantic gesture of trust, and calmly, fluidly, signed my name at the bottom. Then, I walked out, dialed my former PI and current research partner, Simon, and told him my bags were packed. I was ready to join his research expedition in Iceland. Looking back, the first time I almost filed for divorce was when Lexi stole my lab data and patented my experimental results under her own name. Instead of defending me, Timothy hired a shark of a corporate lawyer to defend her. He had held me that night, kissing my hair, whispering that if Lexi got a criminal record, her life would be over, that he was just “protecting the family.” The second time was after my miscarriage. He left me bleeding and hollow in a sterile hospital bed to fly to Paris with Lexi because she was having a “severe depressive episode.” His excuse was always the same perfectly rehearsed script: she had relied on him since childhood. She was fragile. She was just a sister to him. Cancel the filing, Norma. Please. ………… 1 Simon’s voice crackled through the phone, thick with relief. “Norma, finally. A whole month of this madness, and you’ve finally woken up.” He paused, the protective edge returning to his tone. “Does Timothy know? Do you want me to handle him? This Iceland fellowship is a once-in-a-lifetime spot, it’s going to put your career back on the map—” “You don’t have to do that, Simon. I’ll handle him. Don’t worry.” I cut him off softly, my voice shockingly steady. Simon let out a heavy breath, muttered an affirmative, and hung up. A minute later, a first-class itinerary pinged into my inbox. Departure: three days from now. I stared at the boarding pass on my screen, then down at the fully executed divorce papers in my hand. A bitter, jagged laugh clawed its way up my throat. Would Timothy object? He wouldn’t even notice I was gone. People always talk about the seven-year itch, and for the longest time, I thought it was a suburban myth. Timothy and I had been the golden couple. We practically never fought. We existed in a bubble of effortless, breathless devotion. Until Lexi moved back from London a month ago. Then, the bubble violently burst. In thirty short days, I had threatened divorce thirty times. And Timothy’s reaction had morphed from desperate, patient coaxing into irritated, callous fatigue. “Lexi made a mistake. You want her to get rid of the baby and ruin her body?” “Where is your empathy, Norma? You’ve become so cold lately.” “If you’re going to keep threatening me with the lawyers, then just do it. I’m so damn tired.” Remembering the raw disdain etched into his features, a strange, weightless peace suddenly settled over my chest. The man standing before me today, bending over backward for Lexi, shared absolutely no resemblance with the man who had, without a second thought, donated his kidney to save my life. I had given him thirty chances. Thirty get-out-of-jail-free cards out of loyalty to the scar on my abdomen. He had burned through every single one. If the debt was paid, what was left to mourn? The soft click of the front door opening pulled me from my thoughts. Timothy walked into the kitchen, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and tobacco. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, burying his face in my neck. His voice was gravelly. “I know Lexi was awful to you in the past. I know she bullied you. But she was just a dumb kid back then. It’s been years, Norma. You have to let it go.” He tightened his grip. “I sent her halfway across the world for you, against my parents’ dying wishes. Wasn’t that enough?” He turned me around to face him. “We didn’t fight for seven years. She’s been back for a month and you’ve dragged me to the brink of divorce thirty times. Aren’t you exhausted?” Exhausted. God, yes. He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew those thirty threats were thirty desperate pleas for him to choose me. He could be ruthless to anyone in the world, except Lexi. But this time, the fight had bled entirely out of me. I gently placed my hands on his chest and pushed him away. My eyes dropped to his left hand. The pale indentation of his wedding band was visible, but the ring was gone. I smiled. Timothy froze, instinctively hiding his hand behind his back, panic flashing in his eyes. “Lexi’s depression is spiraling. She… she can’t process the reality that I’m married. I can’t trigger her right now.” He stammered, the words tumbling out too fast. “I usually wear it, Norma, I swear I do—” Before he could finish the lie, his phone erupted. A custom ringtone. Lexi’s. Timothy didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. He answered it, and her shrill, theatrical sobbing immediately pierced the quiet of our kitchen. “Timothy! Everyone in my circle knows I’m pregnant! My reputation in the valley is completely destroyed, what am I going to do, please—” He stepped away from me, his voice dropping into a register of sickeningly sweet patience. “Hey, hey, breathe. I’m right here. Nobody is going to say a single bad word about you.” He paced toward the window. “I promised you, didn’t I? We’ll stage a wedding. I’ll publicly claim the baby. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?” The crying stopped instantly, replaced by a giddy, breathless squeal of victory. I picked up my purse to leave the kitchen, but Timothy reached out and caught my wrist. He hung up the phone, looking at me with an agonizing mix of guilt and defiance. “No one knows we’re legally married, Norma. Lexi is in a really dark place. I have to announce us as a couple to the press. My hands are tied.” Seven years of marriage. And the world thought I was just his long-term girlfriend. Why? Because his precious, fragile little sister living in London “wouldn’t be able to handle the shock.” “I exiled her for you,” he used to tell me, stroking my hair. “What if she hurts herself over there? Just give her time. I’ll announce you to the world eventually. I promise.” And I, utterly drunk on the illusion of our love, had stupidly agreed to remain a ghost in my own life. We hadn’t even had a wedding. I looked at the hand gripping my wrist, then up into his desperate eyes. I let my expression go completely slack. I nodded. “I understand. Go marry her. It doesn’t matter to me anymore.” Timothy went rigid. His hand dropped from my arm as he stared at me, thoroughly utterly bewildered. “You’re… you’re not going to fight me on this?” 2 I offered him a small, empty smile. I didn’t say a word. Timothy scowled, studying my face for a long, heavy minute. Frustration began to leak through his confusion. “Are you being sarcastic? Is this some passive-aggressive game?” he snapped. “I told you, I owe Lexi. I have to look out for her. Haven’t I treated you like a queen for the last seven years? What the hell are you still throwing a tantrum for—” His phone chimed again. A text. He glanced at the screen and immediately moved toward the door. He didn’t forget to toss a parting shot over his shoulder. “Throw whatever fit you want. Go file the damn papers if you’re so brave.” Watching his retreating back, the anger rolling off him in waves, I let out a dry chuckle. I wouldn’t be filing the papers. Because my lawyer had already finalized the paperwork and submitted it to the courts. It was done. A second later, my own phone buzzed. It was the manager of Le Bernardin. “Ms. Sullivan? You rented out the private dining room for your seventh anniversary tonight. I just wanted to confirm what time we should expect you?” I blinked. It hit me like a physical blow. Today was our anniversary. “I’m heading there now.” I drove through the neon-lit streets of Manhattan alone. For seven years, we had celebrated at this exact table. I figured I owed the ghost of our marriage a proper burial. Let it end where it began. Half an hour into my wait, a text from Timothy lit up my screen. “Just checking on Lexi’s vitals. I’ll be at the restaurant soon.” I replied with a single, simple “Okay.” I sat there, staring at the extravagant spread of food, letting my mind drift. In my memories, Timothy was a god who worshipped at my altar. He was the man who, when my kidneys failed and I tried to break up with him to spare him the burden, dragged me to the hospital and forced the doctors to test his blood. He was a match. He gave me a piece of his own body. I remember waking up from the surgery, high on painkillers, and seeing him weeping by my bedside—weeping harder than I was. “I will never let you go,” he had sworn, burying his wet face in my palm. “Even if it kills me, you are not leaving me. I gave you my kidney. We share a body now. I will love you until the day I die.” Because of that kidney, I had planned to tell him the truth tonight. To tell him I was leaving the country. To give him a proper goodbye. But the hours bled into the deep, dark quiet of midnight. My phone screen remained completely dark. After reheating the food for what felt like the thirtieth time, the waiter finally offered me a sympathetic, pitying look. “Ma’am, if I heat this again, it’s going to be completely ruined.” I snapped out of my trance. I picked up my silver fork and began putting the food into my mouth, bite by agonizing bite. It was delicious. It tasted exactly the way it did seven years ago. It was just a little salty. I wiped the tears that had leaked down to the corners of my mouth, swallowed the final bite of risotto, and set down the fork. My phone rang. Simon. His voice was tightly coiled with disbelief and rage. “What the hell is Timothy doing?!” I frowned. A news alert dropped down from the top of my screen. TECH BILLIONAIRE TIMOTHY CARMICHAEL BUYS OUT TIMES SQUARE TO PROPOSE TO PREGNANT FIANCÉE! I tapped the video. Every massive digital billboard in Times Square was glowing neon pink, spelling out Lexi’s name. Hundreds of drones swarmed the night sky, rearranging themselves into the words: SAY YES. It was a spectacle of biblical proportions. New York City was brought to a standstill. The internet was losing its collective mind, celebrating the fairytale ending of the brilliant CEO and his beloved. In the entire world, only Simon knew that the man proposing on those screens was legally my husband. I murmured a few calming words to Simon and hung up. Before I could even put the phone down, a waitress stormed into the private room and violently hurled a glass of ice water directly into my face. “You’re the bitch who framed his fiancée for stealing your research, aren’t you?!” she spat, trembling with righteous internet fury. “How dare you show your face here?!” I sat perfectly still, water dripping from my eyelashes, soaking into the silk of my dress. I looked down at my phone. The number one trending topic on Twitter was my name next to Lexi’s. The headline was painted in blinding, violent red: CARMICHAEL PUBLICLY CLEARS FIANCÉE’S NAME: REVEALS NORMA SULLIVAN WAS THE REAL THIEF BEHIND BIOTECH SCANDAL! 3 The internet had crowned Lexi the “Tragic Genius of the Biotech World.” A small crowd of waitstaff had gathered by the door, pointing at me, their faces twisted in disgust. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. I calmly took a napkin, dried my face, paid the exorbitant bill, and walked out into the biting night air. Timothy didn’t come home until the sky outside the penthouse windows was turning a bruised, pre-dawn purple. When he walked into the living room and saw me sitting rigidly on the velvet sofa, he flinched. “You… you’re still awake?” A second later, he hastily pulled a slightly crushed bouquet of red roses from behind his back. “Lexi threatened to hurt herself tonight. I couldn’t leave her. I had to break our plans, but see? I didn’t forget our anniversary.” I stared at the crumpled petals. A hollow, breathy laugh slipped out of me. “Are you giving me the leftover props from your Times Square proposal?” His expression instantly darkened. The guilt vanished, replaced by a defensive, volatile rage. He threw the flowers onto the glass coffee table, exasperated. “I brought you flowers, Norma. Can you stop being so damn cynical for one second?” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “You didn’t file the divorce papers today, which means you accepted the situation. So why are you still sulking?” He sneered. “I missed one dinner. Do you really need to give me this attitude?” Looking at this man, still desperately trying to gaslight me, I felt a bone-deep weariness. I couldn’t even summon the energy to play his games. “I saw the news.” I kept my voice flat, devoid of any emotional currency. “When you hired those corporate sharks to sue me on her behalf, you promised you would keep my name out of the press. You promised you would just win the patent for her and leave it at that.” I looked into his eyes. “I was stupid back then. I swallowed my pride. I took the hit to my career to protect your precious sister. But tonight? You doxed me to the entire world just to make her smile? You destroyed my life to crown her the rising star of the industry?” Timothy’s jaw ticked. He exhaled sharply, the fight draining out of him, and he sank into the armchair opposite me, rubbing his temples. “The press was hounding us, Norma. They were asking too many questions about the discrepancy in the patent timelines. I had to give them a name. Otherwise, they would have ripped Lexi apart. I had to protect her.” “And what about me?” The words broke past my lips, a fragile, trembling whisper. Timothy let out a heavy, suffering sigh. “Lexi’s last round of intensive therapy ends next month. Once she’s medically cleared, I’ll announce that we called off the engagement. I’ll tell the world about you. Is that what you want to hear?” The absolute condescension in his voice—the way he spoke as if he were tossing scraps to a starving dog—made me feel utterly, violently hollow. When I didn’t reply, Timothy took my silence as submission. He visibly relaxed, leaning forward to gently cover my cold hands with his warm ones. He hesitated, then spoke in a low, coaxing murmur. “The damage is already done, Norma.” He stroked my knuckles. “Listen to me. Lexi… she needs you to publicly confess to stealing her research.” I stopped breathing. “Don’t panic,” he rushed on. “I’ve already paid off the right people. You won’t see the inside of a courtroom. Lexi will sign a formal letter of forgiveness. You just need to stand in front of the cameras and admit it was you. I’ll handle the fallout.” “Just this once, Norma. Please.” The dam inside me finally shattered. I yanked my hands away from him, staring at him as if he were a monster wearing my husband’s skin. “You want me to plead guilty?!” My voice tore through the quiet room. “Timothy, you know exactly what I sacrificed for my research! You watched me bleed for those experiments for seven years! If I confess to academic theft, even if I don’t go to prison, I will be blacklisted globally! My entire life’s work… my dream… it’ll be dead! How could you even form those words in your mouth?!” The moment I raised my voice, Timothy’s face hardened into a mask of cruel, absolute authority. “Are you done?” he snapped, his eyes turning to ice. “I told you I’d keep you out of jail!” He stood up, towering over me, his chin tilted in an arrogant, mocking angle. “Don’t forget, Norma. You only have a life right now because I gave it to you.” The room fell deathly silent. Seven years. For seven years, whenever the guilt of the transplant gnawed at me, he would shush me. “I did it because I love you,” he used to whisper. “I don’t want anything in return except your heart.” And now, here he was. Cashing in his kidney. Trading an organ for a false confession to destroy my life. We stared at each other for a long, agonizing minute. The ghost of the boy who had loved me evaporated entirely. And then, I smiled. “Okay.” Timothy blinked, stunned. “After the press conference,” I said softly, “my debt to you is paid in full.” 4 The press conference was scheduled for the exact same day my flight left for Iceland. Timothy had rented out the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. Every major news outlet, biotech investor, and tech blogger in New York was practically vibrating with excitement, cameras poised like loaded weapons. “I’m getting the front page on this one,” a reporter muttered near me. “Defending the Carmichael empire’s new queen. We’ll get exclusive access for a year.” They were vampires, thrilled by the smell of blood. And I was the corpse. I sat alone in the shadows at the edge of the room, completely ignored. My phone buzzed in my lap. Simon. “Everything is in place. Trust me.” The suffocating weight on my chest suddenly vanished. I took a deep, steadying breath. The ballroom lights dimmed. Timothy walked out onto the stage, his arm wrapped protectively around a glowing, impossibly smug Lexi. He looked the picture of the triumphant, devoted hero. “Thank you all for being here today to witness justice for my beautiful fiancée,” Timothy spoke smoothly into the microphone. “I ask that the media show some restraint. Ms. Sullivan made a terrible, desperate mistake, driven by jealousy. But my fiancée is a woman of immense grace, and she has already drafted a formal letter of forgiveness.” Timothy’s gaze swept the room until it found me in the dark. A flicker of anxiety crossed his features. Was he worried I would go off script? Or was he, deep down in some buried, rotting part of his soul, actually worried about me? It didn’t matter. I truly didn’t care anymore. I stood up and walked down the center aisle. The blinding flash of a hundred cameras exploded in my face, threatening to induce a seizure. I climbed the steps to the podium. Lexi shot me a vicious, triumphant smirk, stepping aside to give me the mic. I looked out at the sea of flashing lights. I smiled. “It’s true. I did it.” The room erupted into furious typing and gasps. “I stole Ms. Carmichael’s research. I was desperate to become the rising star of the biotech world. I stand before you today to confess my crimes.” Timothy visibly exhaled, his shoulders dropping. He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear. “I’m sorry to put you through this, Norma. But don’t worry, you’re safe now—” The heavy oak doors of the ballroom slammed open with the force of a gunshot. A squad of uniformed NYPD officers and federal agents flooded the room. The chaotic chatter of the press died instantly. The silence was deafening. Timothy stepped forward, raising his hands in a placating gesture, his PR smile firmly in place. “Officers, there’s been a misunderstanding. My fiancée has signed a letter of forgiveness. We aren’t pressing charges against Ms. Sullivan—” The lead detective walked right past him. He stepped onto the stage, grabbed Lexi by the arm, and slapped a pair of steel handcuffs onto her wrists. The ballroom erupted. “What is going on?!” “Why are they arresting Lexi?!” “Isn’t Norma Sullivan the thief?!” I calmly reached into my pocket, pulled out a small remote, and pressed the button. The massive projector screen behind us flickered to life. An audio file began to play. The crystal-clear recording of Timothy’s voice from our living room echoed off the crystal chandeliers. “Lexi needs you to publicly confess to stealing her research… You only have a life right now because I gave it to you.” Timothy’s face drained of all color. Lexi looked like she was going to vomit. They stared at me, absolute horror violently contorting their features. “Norma, you lied to me—” Timothy choked out, stepping toward me. “I didn’t lie,” I replied, my voice carrying clearly through the mic. “You told me to confess, and I did. It’s just that the police are actually quite good at discerning the truth.” I turned on my heel and began to walk off the stage. Timothy lunged forward, grabbing my arm in a vice grip. His eyes were bloodshot, wild with panic. “How could you do this?! What’s going to happen to Lexi?!” he hissed, his voice breaking. “Sign a recantation! Tell them you forged the tape! I’ll pretend this never happened, I’ll forgive you—” I looked at his hand on my arm, then up at his frantic eyes. “Why don’t you ask the detective if Lexi ever actually signed that letter of forgiveness?” Timothy froze. He whipped his head around to look at Lexi, who was currently hyperventilating as an officer read her her Miranda rights. The lead detective stepped between me and Timothy, his face a mask of disgust. “Mr. Carmichael,” the detective said coldly. “Lexi Carmichael never drafted a letter of forgiveness. In fact, she called our precinct an hour ago, demanding we come here to arrest Ms. Sullivan live on television.” He paused, letting the weight of the betrayal sink in. “If Ms. Sullivan hadn’t preemptively handed over irrefutable proof of the framing, she would be the one in the back of my cruiser right now.” The detective signaled to another officer. “And as for you, Mr. Carmichael. You’re coming with us for conspiracy and witness tampering.” Timothy looked like he had been shot. “That’s impossible… Lexi, you didn’t sign it?!” He stumbled back, staring at the crying woman as if he had never seen her before. “You lied to me?! You were going to send Norma to federal prison?! How could you do that?!” I didn’t stay to watch the rest of the Greek tragedy unfold. I nodded politely to the detective, slipped out the side door, and walked out into the crisp New York morning. When I reached JFK and found Simon waiting by the VIP lounge, the tension finally snapped. I let out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Simon.” He smiled, a warm, grounding expression, and gently ruffled my hair. “I told you I had you, Norma. I would never let them touch you.” The moment our plane lifted off the tarmac, the news alerts hit my phone. Denied bail. Federal indictment. Simon’s influence in the global scientific community was staggering; he had made sure the evidence was airtight and fast-tracked. This time, Timothy and I were truly, completely finished. The debt of my life, the weight of that kidney, had been brutally extracted and paid in full. From this second on, we owed each other nothing.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440974”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was walking home from school, shoulder-to-shoulder with the girl I had grown up with, the girl I had loved for as long as I could remember. Then, a voice that wasn’t mine scraped against the inside of my skull. It was her voice, but she hadn’t opened her mouth. It was her inner thoughts. Did Noah bring an umbrella today? It’s pouring. Her mind was entirely occupied by the new transfer student—Noah, the incredibly handsome guy from the wrong side of the tracks. Before I could even process the shock, a sharper, far more vicious thought pierced my brain: If my family’s company didn’t desperately need the Crawford money, I wouldn’t spend another second pretending to tolerate Tim. Following me around every single day after school… it’s suffocating. So, that was what I amounted to in her eyes. A suffocating nuisance. I am Tim Crawford. 1 Hearing those words echo in my head, my entire body went rigid. I stopped dead in my tracks. Beside me, Camilla Scott kept her eyes cast downward, her jaw set in that familiar, aloof line. Her lips were firmly pressed together. She definitely hadn’t spoken aloud. Yet, her voice continued to detonate inside my mind. I heard Noah lives all the way out in the Heights. The roads flood so badly over there. God, I’m so worried about him. I just want to drive him home. Ugh, this is so annoying. If I could just find an excuse to ditch Tim… My feet felt like they were cast in concrete. A wave of profound bewilderment washed over me. Camilla lazily lifted her eyelids, shooting me a glance so devoid of warmth it felt like a physical blow. Having known her for over a decade, I was well aware of her icy, detached demeanor. She was never one for words, and I had long ago conditioned myself to accept the emotional scraps she threw my way. But right now, looking into her eyes, I saw something I had never allowed myself to see before: clear, unadulterated disgust. Suddenly, a timid, male voice echoed from the back door of the classroom building. “Camilla… my umbrella broke.” 2 I turned around on instinct. Noah was standing right behind us. His knuckles were white as he gripped a cheap, plaid umbrella. One of the metal ribs had snapped, dangling pathetically in the wind. “I’m so sorry, I really didn’t want to bother you guys, but I can’t afford to ruin my textbooks in the rain…” He trailed off, his gaze darting up to catch Camilla’s eye. The rims of his eyes were flushed red, brimming with a perfectly calibrated mix of anxiety and helplessness. He had only transferred to our prep school last week and barely spoke to anyone. For him to suddenly approach the coldest girl in school for help was… unexpected. Camilla was infamous for despising inconvenience. She was ruthless when she wanted to be. But this time, she paused. When she finally spoke, her cool, crisp voice cut through the sound of the rain. “Tim, I can’t walk home with you today.” “Since Noah lives so far out, I’m going to drop him off.” Her face was an impenetrable mask. If I hadn’t been listening to the live broadcast of her internal monologue, I would have honestly believed this was just a pragmatic, charitable decision. “And what about me?” I asked, a bitter, mocking edge bleeding into my tone. Camilla frowned. “Your driver is literally idling at the front gates, isn’t he?” “Just use Noah’s umbrella for the walk over. It’s a short distance. You’ll survive a few raindrops.” Without waiting for an answer, she snatched the broken umbrella from Noah’s hands and shoved it against my chest. 3 Seeing my silence, Noah’s face twisted into a mask of overwhelming guilt. He twisted the hem of his uniform sweater, his voice trembling. “No, I couldn’t possibly ask Tim to use a broken umbrella… I’ve imposed on you both too much.” “Let’s just forget it. I’ll just make a run for it.” He took a step back, pretending to brace himself for the storm, but Camilla immediately reached out, her fingers wrapping tightly around his forearm. She turned to me, her brow furrowed in silent warning, her lips drawn into a tight, displeased line. Then, her mind screamed into mine. Here we go again. Tim’s throwing another one of his little tantrums. I am so sick of this. He’s spent his whole life coasting on the Crawford name, thinking the universe revolves around him. Well, I’m done catering to his fragile ego. I like Noah. Does he really need me to spell it out for him? I can’t let Noah walk home in the rain… My lungs suddenly felt too small. Something fundamental and fragile was quietly shattering against my ribs. Before she could open her mouth to scold me, I took a deliberate step backward. “Go ahead,” I said. “Both of you.” I watched Camilla exhale a quiet breath of relief. She turned her body toward Noah, her voice softening to a murmur. “Give me your backpack, Noah.” Noah shot me a look—hesitant, almost apologetic—before nodding obediently and ducking under Camilla’s wide, designer umbrella. In a matter of seconds, their silhouettes melted into the heavy gray curtain of the rain. I looked down at my hands. Then, I tossed Noah’s broken umbrella onto the wet concrete and walked out into the storm. At the school gates, the headlights of the sleek black SUV cut through the gloom. Thomas, our longtime driver, froze for a second before hastily popping open a massive umbrella and jogging toward me. “Tim? Where’s Camilla? Why are you alone?” “Just drive, Thomas,” I said, sliding into the leather backseat. I leaned my head against the cool glass, my throat burning with a sudden, agonizing tightness. 4 When I walked through the front door, my mother’s face instantly fell into a mask of panic. She rushed over with a towel, aggressively drying my hair while she scolded me. “Tim Crawford, what on earth were you thinking? You’re drenched!” “Where is Camilla? Doesn’t she ride back with you every afternoon?” “Look at you, your lips are turning blue! If your father finds out about this while he’s closing that deal in London, he’ll charter a flight back tonight…” “Mom.” I lowered my eyes, cutting off her frantic rambling. My voice sounded raw. “I just want to go up to my room and sleep.” She stopped rubbing the towel, her gaze lingering on my pale face for a long, quiet moment. “Maria,” she called out to the housekeeper, turning toward the kitchen. “Boil some ginger tea, immediately. I’ll bring it up to him myself.” She didn’t press me for answers. I changed out of my ruined uniform and walked upstairs. When my bedroom door clicked shut, the silence of the house finally swallowed me whole. But my mind refused to quiet down. The scenes from the afternoon looped endlessly behind my eyes. I thought about the faint, genuine smile that had tugged at Camilla’s lips when she looked at Noah. I thought about the sheer exhaustion and irritation in her eyes when she looked at me. Sitting there in the fading light, the truth finally sank its claws into me. I wasn’t losing my mind. The voices I heard weren’t hallucinations. Camilla didn’t just tolerate me for the perks; she actively despised me. I had spent my entire life rationalizing her behavior, telling myself she was just built differently—that her coldness was a shield she used against everyone. It took a supernatural intervention for me to finally see the pathetic reality. She wasn’t incapable of warmth. She just didn’t want to waste it on me. The heavy silence of my room was shattered by my phone vibrating on the nightstand. The caller ID flashed in the dark: Camilla. 5 The moment I answered, her voice lashed out through the speaker. “Tim, what exactly did you tell your parents?” “It was pouring rain. I simply offered Noah a ride home. Did you really have to run crying to my father about it?” I could hear her breathing over the line—shallow, erratic, panicked. It was rare to see her lose her composure like this. “Camilla,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “Did you call just to interrogate me?” “Or did you genuinely believe that just because my parents didn’t make a fuss, your father wouldn’t find out what you did?” Dead silence on her end. Through the phone, my newfound ability to read her mind seemed to be offline. But I didn’t need a superpower to picture the venomous scowl twisting her perfect features. After a long agonizing minute, she spoke, her tone dripping with ice. “Could you not just cover for me this once?” “At the end of the day, you’re just throwing a tantrum. You purposely let—” I took a deep breath, letting the final thread of my childhood affection snap. “Camilla. Why the hell is it my responsibility to cover for your messes?” Whatever she was about to say died in her throat. 6 A dark, bitter laugh escaped me. “You think your dad heard it from me?” “Are you that naive? How many sets of eyes do you think your father has watching us every single day?” “He, better than anyone, knows exactly how many multi-million dollar contracts the Crawfords have handed to the Scotts to keep you afloat.” There was a muffled thud on the other end of the line, like she had slammed her fist against a desk. “Are you done?!” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Why?” I countered smoothly. “If I stop saying it out loud, does it stop being the truth?” For years, there were unspoken rules between us. Things I knew but never voiced to protect her pride. But silence is not ignorance. The Scotts were a sprawling, chaotic family with too many heirs and too little liquid cash. Camilla had once been the quietest, most overlooked daughter in the bunch. But the Crawfords were old money, deeply rooted in the city’s power structures for three generations, and I was the sole heir to the entire empire. My parents adored me, and by extension, they extended their gilded umbrella over my favorite childhood companion. Because of me, the Scott Corporation—which had flirted with bankruptcy more than once—was thrown lifelines. Debt forgiveness. Premium real estate developments. Exclusive supply chain contracts. Because I stood next to her, Camilla was suddenly viewed as the golden goose by her ruthless father. She went silent again, calculating her next move. When she finally spoke, the panic was gone, replaced by a suffocating, arrogant entitlement. “I’m not going to contact you for a while, Tim.” “Take some time to reflect on how you’re acting.” Before I could even formulate a response, the line went dead. 7 The cold war began. I knew she was waiting for me to crack. She was waiting for me to show up with an apology and a peace offering, just like I had after every minor argument we’d ever had since we were kids. Day three of the silent treatment. I was walking down the main hallway toward my AP Economics class when Noah suddenly collided with me. Before my brain could even register the impact, he was already sprawled out on the polished marble floor, clutching his ankle, his face contorted in exaggerated agony. The hallway traffic came to a halt. A dozen pairs of eyes locked onto the spectacle. From the crowd, a sharp, furious voice rang out. “Tim, what the hell is wrong with you?!” I turned. Camilla was glaring at me, her eyes practically radiating disgust. On the floor, Noah bit his lower lip, forcing his voice into a trembling whisper. “It’s not Tim’s fault… I was just walking too fast.” He’s so sweet. Look at him, still trying to protect Tim even after what he did. I ignore him for three days, and his response is to physically bully Noah? He really is a spoiled, vindictive brat. Once I take over my father’s company, I am going to make Tim pay for this. The thoughts fired into my brain like a machine gun, loud and violently clear. 8 I casually scanned the circle of students watching us. My pulse was completely steady. “He walked into me,” I stated flatly. Camilla’s brow pinched in deep irritation. “Just stop. Why are you even lying?” “What, you think he threw himself on the floor and sprained his own ankle just to frame you?” She sneered the last word, dripping with condescension. I looked down at Noah, who was still wearing his mask of perfect victimhood. “Actually, yeah,” I said smoothly. “Because he knows there’s someone pathetic enough to come running like a dog off its leash to defend him, regardless of the facts.” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the hallway. Noah’s head snapped up, a single, perfectly timed tear tracking down his cheek. “Tim, I know you hate me, but how could you say something so degrading to Camilla? She was just trying to help…” Camilla’s fists clenched so hard her knuckles turned stark white. “Are you really going to push it this far, Tim?” “It’s obvious you haven’t learned a damn thing from this space I’ve given you—” “If you think I’m out of line,” I interrupted, my voice dropping an octave, “then you should probably sever ties with the Crawford family.” “I’ll make sure to let my parents know your stance when I get home. You might want to start prepping your PR team.” There it is again. Every time he throws a fit, he uses his family’s money to threaten me. Whatever. He’s bluffing. I’ll ice him out for a few more days, and he’ll come crawling back. When he finally calms down, I’m making him apologize to Noah on his knees. Her internal monologue laid out her delusional strategy bare. “Whatever. I don’t care,” she shot back, her voice dripping with ice. She leaned down, slipping an arm around Noah’s shoulders, hauling him to his feet. “Just hold onto me,” she murmured softly. “I’ll take you to the nurse.” Noah leaned heavily against her, the tear still wet on his cheek. But as they turned away, the corner of his mouth quirked up, and he shot me a look of triumphant, undisguised mockery. I didn’t even flinch. I just turned and walked into my classroom. 9 My father flew back from London that evening. Behind the heavy oak doors of his study, he loosened his silk tie and tossed a thick manila folder onto his mahogany desk. “Take a look. That’s the proposal from the Scotts.” “It’s the Eastside Development project. Robert Scott has been blowing up my phone for weeks, but I’ve been stalling.” “What do you think, Tim?” I knew exactly how my father felt about the Scott Corporation. Over the years, the Scotts had built their empire using the Crawfords’ blueprints, our capital, and our political connections. My father was a man of straightforward integrity; he had always loathed Robert Scott’s slimy, opportunistic business practices. The only reason he had tolerated them—the only reason he had poured millions into their sinking ships—was because he loved me. He saw how devoted I was to Camilla, and he had operated under the assumption that he was funding his future daughter-in-law’s inheritance. But judging by the cool detachment in his voice, he had already caught wind of the shifting tides at school. His patience with the Scotts had evaporated. I looked him dead in the eye. “Dad, I was stupid for a long time. But I’m awake now.” “Cut them off. We’re done doing business with the Scotts.” A slow, proud smile spread across his face. He pushed the heavy folder toward the edge of the desk. “Done. I’ll make the call.” “But I want you to remember something, Tim. You are a Crawford. You are the future of this empire.” “You don’t ever bow your head to anyone.” Looking at the fierce, unwavering loyalty in my father’s eyes, I gave a firm nod. 10 My dad didn’t reject their proposal outright. Instead, he employed a much crueler tactic: radio silence. He ignored every call, letting the Scotts drown in their own mounting panic. Back at school, I went to the administration and requested a seat transfer. As I was packing up my books, Camilla glanced up from her iPad. Finally moving. I can actually breathe. After what he did to Noah, I need to ice him out longer to teach him a lesson. But… what if he goes after Noah while I’m not around? Her concern was entirely misplaced. For the next few weeks, I completely erased Camilla from my orbit. I didn’t text her. I didn’t wait by her locker. I took the chauffeured car home alone. I gave her all the suffocating “space” she could ever want. She lived in blissful ignorance, genuinely convinced I was just throwing a prolonged tantrum. Meanwhile, her romance with Noah blossomed into a public spectacle. She tutored him in the library. She took detention with him when he was late. For Noah’s birthday, she gifted him a custom-engraved silver ring with their initials. At first, the whispers in the cafeteria were filled with pity and amusement directed at me. Everyone knew Camilla and I had been practically attached at the hip since childhood. The rumor of our inevitable arranged marriage was prep school lore. But when it became blatantly obvious that I was entirely unfazed—that I wasn’t plotting a comeback or brooding in the corner—the gossip died out. I was boring. I had moved on. This fragile ecosystem lasted for about half a month. Until Robert Scott finally hit a wall with his stalling investors, and turned the pressure on his daughter. 11 With the Eastside project in limbo and their invitations to Crawford galas politely declined, the Scott family’s cash flow was drying up. To make matters worse, a massive piece of commercial real estate they had mortgaged was bleeding them dry, waiting for an injection of Crawford capital that was never coming. Unable to hold out any longer, Robert Scott dragged Camilla to the Crawford estate. In our sprawling living room, Camilla sat stiffly on the edge of the sofa, her head bowed, her jaw locked. Her thoughts, however, were screaming. Three investors pulling out on the same day? Bullshit. The Crawfords absolutely orchestrated this behind the scenes. There is no way Tim has the guts to pull this off. It has to be his old man pulling the strings. They’re just bitter that I’m choosing Noah, and they’re using dirty financial warfare to force me to crawl back to Tim. I don’t get it. We’re the Scotts. We’re a massive corporation. Why does my father act like we’ll die without the Crawfords? I shouldn’t have to sell myself to Tim. Seeing Camilla’s stubborn silence, Mr. Scott leaned forward, offering a pristine folder to my father with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Richard, this is the revised proposal for the Eastside deal. We’ve restructured the profit-sharing entirely in your favor. Just let me know if there’s anything else you’d like adjusted—” My dad took the folder, didn’t even open it, and dropped it onto the glass coffee table with a heavy thwack. “Robert, since you came all the way out here, I’ll spare you the corporate dance.” “We are not funding this project. Furthermore, the Crawford Group will be systematically divesting from all current joint ventures with Scott Corp.” The blood drained from Robert Scott’s face, leaving him a sickly, translucent white. He scrambled to speak. “Richard, please. We’ve known each other for decades. We’re practically family! Why take it this far?” “I know you’re upset about the friction between the kids. That’s why I dragged this ungrateful daughter of mine here today.” He whirled around, his voice vibrating with sudden, explosive rage. “Apologize to Tim! Now!”

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We were only days away from the engagement party when Declan suddenly announced he wanted to host a high school reunion. He claimed he had some “unfinished business” to attend to before settling down. He tasked Kevin, our old senior class president, with organizing a party centered around a deck of cheap, alcohol-fueled dare cards. Only the single people from our graduating class were invited. The rule was simple: draw a card, do the dare, and pull in whoever the card specified. Declan and I had been quietly dating for six years. We’d never told a single soul from high school. When it was Declan’s turn, his face went completely blank as he pulled a card from the glass bowl. The card commanded him to sing a romantic duet with the person in the room he most regretted not dating. The moment he read it out loud, the rented private room practically exploded. A dozen hands shoved the girl in the white slip dress directly into his chest. They locked eyes for a split second before both of them blushed and stared at the floor. Kevin smacked his own thigh, practically vibrating with excitement. “Man, you two not working out back then broke all our hearts! But look at this! Fate always finds a way, right?” Listening to the roar of agreement from the room, a dry, hot sting crept into my eyes. Six years of building a life together, and I still couldn’t compete with the ghost of his first love. When the song mercifully ended, it was my turn to draw. My card instructed me to pick a guy in the room at random and ask him for one massive favor. I let my gaze sweep slowly across the dim room. When my eyes brushed past Declan, I didn’t pause. But he flinched, his eyes darting away in a sudden panic, terrified I was going to choose him and blow our cover. My voice was perfectly even when I called out Elliot’s name. In the corner of the room, the quiet, impeccably dressed guy lifted his head, his dark eyes widening in surprise. I looked right at him. “Do you want to marry me?” Without missing a beat, Elliot held my gaze. “I do.” 1 The air in the room caught fire. “Holy shit! Margot, you absolute legend! You don’t say a word all night, and then you drop a nuke!” Declan’s head snapped up. His face was a mask of pure displeasure. He grabbed his phone and his thumbs started flying across the screen. My phone vibrated furiously against the sticky tabletop. I didn’t even look at it. Kevin was already making the rounds with a pitcher of beer, shaking his head in awe. “God, Margot, you’ve gotten so much funnier since high school! Going straight for the quietest, sweetest guy in the room!” He bodily shoved Elliot into the empty seat next to me, his eyes bouncing between us like he was appraising a painting. “I honestly can’t believe you two are still single. Look at you. The aesthetics alone… you’re actually a terrifyingly good match. Right, guys?” Two dozen pairs of slightly drunk eyes pivoted to us, and the teasing erupted all over again. “Wait, he’s right! How did we never see this?” “You guys should actually go out. Imagine the power couple energy!” Declan pointedly ignored the crowd. He tapped the back of his phone against the table, glaring at me, silently ordering me to check my screen. Stop messing around. Please. After tonight, I’m done playing. I swear I’m going to commit to you completely. Just let this be the period at the end of the sentence for me and Michelle, okay? Let me have closure. The lukewarm beer had been sitting in my mouth so long it only tasted like bitter ash. Beside me, Elliot quietly took the half-empty beer glass out of my hand. He replaced it with a tall glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, sliding it precisely into my line of sight. “Have something sweet,” he said. His voice was a low murmur, his eyes as impossibly clear as river water. “Damn, man. You look like a saint, but you move fast,” Kevin whispered loudly, leaning heavily over Elliot’s shoulder. “You have no idea how hard Margot is to get. Back in the day, half the football team…” “Kevin,” Declan cut in. His voice was flat, carrying a cold edge that sliced through the laughter. “A joke is only funny for so long. People might actually start taking you seriously.” Kevin’s grin froze. He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, muttered something about needing more ice, and vanished into the crowd. “Michelle.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it possessed a strange gravity that sucked the noise right out of the room. “Let me toast to you and Declan.” A shy, delicate smile bloomed on Michelle’s lips. She reached for her cocktail glass. “Everyone used to say you two were made for each other. Soulmates,” I said, letting a soft, self-deprecating laugh slip out. “I didn’t believe it back then. But I do now. I hope you guys finally figure it out and make it last.” I delivered the words with absolute, terrifying sincerity. Michelle’s eyes actually welled up with tears. She lifted her glass to clink mine, but before the crystal could touch, a large, familiar hand intercepted. Declan’s fingers clamped over the rim of her glass. The entire table went dead silent, staring at him. Declan was staring only at me. I blinked back at him, modeling an expression of polite, mild confusion. Right as the silence became unbearable, Declan spoke. His voice was tight, layered with exhaustion and irritation. “Michelle… has an alcohol allergy. I’ll drink it for her.” The room collectively exhaled into a chorus of teasing groans. “Here we go again! Mr. Chivalry strikes again!” It was the same script every year. Every reunion, he drank whatever was handed to her. Then he’d call an Uber Black, load a completely sober Michelle into the back seat, and ride with her all the way to her apartment building. “Michelle is just too naive,” he had told me once. “I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t see her walk through her front door.” There would be no exception this year. And clearly, there would be none next year, either. I smiled—a bright, devastating flash of teeth—buried the hollowness in my chest, and drained the glass of orange juice Elliot had poured for me. The game moved on. Declan read the next card aloud. His voice wavered. “Show everyone the most recent note in your phone’s Notes app.” 2 Declan hesitated. His eyes flicked to me, guilty and frantic. He pulled out his phone with agonizing slowness, exited our chat, opened the Notes app, and tried to scroll past the top. Kevin swooped in, snatching the phone right out of his hand, and bellowed the text to the room: “The Little One’s restricted list: Mangoes, alcohol, peanuts.” The Little One. His pet name for Michelle. “Ooooooh!” The room erupted into wolf whistles and table pounding. “The Little One!” Michelle’s face flushed a deep, pretty crimson. She shot Declan a look of pure, manufactured outrage. Declan shifted his weight, clearing his throat awkwardly. The second he got his phone back, my screen lit up again. Don’t overthink this. I made that note back in high school when I got my first iPhone. The minute we sign the venue contract, I’m deleting it. I didn’t text back. I just leaned back in my chair and watched the room fawn over them. It wasn’t just that note. I knew what else lived in his phone. Declan’s digital life was a meticulously curated shrine to Michelle. He tracked her menstrual cycle. He had her grad school schedule saved. He kept photos of her ID, her passport, her social security number. If Michelle forgot her own bank routing number, she texted Declan for it. Every time we went out for a Sunday brunch, an alarm would go off on his phone. The label always read: Remind The Little One to take her meds. “She’s a space cadet,” he’d laugh, his eyes softening into absolute adoration. “If I don’t remind her, she’ll go a week without her prescriptions.” He held every mundane detail of Michelle’s existence in his brain, protecting it like state secrets. But when it came to my birthday, he had to search my name in his text history just to remember the date. When you finally step back from the canvas, it’s brutally obvious what love looks like, and what it doesn’t. Was I only seeing it tonight, or was tonight simply the first time I was brave enough to admit it? The final card of the night went to Michelle. Her voice was sweet, soft as spun sugar. “Read the fifth Instagram post on the feed of the person you have feelings for.” She unlocked her phone with an elegant swipe, tapping into the profile photo I knew better than my own reflection. She scrolled down to the fifth photo and read the caption in a gentle hush: “Walking past the arch in Washington Square Park. Heard some guy butchering a song, and it made me think of a certain someone.” Michelle smiled shyly, holding the phone up and panning it around the table so everyone could see. The screen flashed past my eyes. It was a photo of the park at night, the streetlamps casting long shadows, illuminating a guy in a red beanie strumming a guitar like his life depended on it. My breath caught in my throat. I had never seen that post. But I remembered that night with agonizing clarity. It was the night both our families had dinner together in the city to finalize the engagement details. After dinner, our parents had practically shoved us out the door to take a romantic walk. We had wandered into Washington Square Park, my hand freezing in his. Under the iconic arch, a guy in a red beanie was battling the winter wind, singing his heart out. He was decent on the guitar, but his voice was an absolute atrocity. It was the kind of tone-deaf wailing that made you want to hand him twenty bucks just to beg him to stop. I had tugged on Declan’s sleeve, shivering, wanting to get to the subway. But he wouldn’t budge. I turned around to find him staring at the singer with a massive, nostalgic smile on his face. He was completely captivated, pulling out his phone to take a picture, quietly humming along to the awful, off-key melody. “Let’s go, it’s freezing,” I had snapped, my teeth chattering. He had looked down at me, his eyes swimming in a soft, distant affection that wasn’t meant for me. “Margot, don’t you think it has a certain charm to it?” And so, like an absolute idiot, I stood freezing in the New York winter, waiting for a terrible love song to end. It made perfect sense now. On the day I finally committed to spending the rest of my life with him, his head was entirely consumed by Michelle. “Whoa, wait a second! Dec, how come I never saw that post?” Kevin was practically yelling, sensing the drama. “Spill! Was that an ‘Only Share With One Person’ kind of post?” Declan threw a panicked look my way. All the color drained from his face. He forced a stiff laugh, trying to play it off. “It was probably a privacy setting I forgot to change. You guys know how much corporate garbage I post, I didn’t want you all to mute me.” Michelle rushed to his defense, her tone protective. “That’s just how Dec is! He posts five times a day like a brand account. If you saw all of it, you’d unfollow him immediately.” I opened Instagram, went to his profile. All I could see were four or five links to finance articles. A text banner dropped down from the top of my screen. That’s in the past. Once we’re engaged, my feed will only be you. I placed my phone face down on the table. A girl sitting near the end of the table squinted at me. “Hey, wait. That photo Dec took was in New York, right? But Margot, didn’t your family’s manufacturing company keep you down in North Carolina? Why are you suffering up here in the city?” I offered her a smooth, practiced smile. “I actually just put in my notice at my firm here. I’m moving back to Charlotte permanently.” Declan bolted upright in his chair. The muscles in his jaw locked as he stared at me, unblinking. 3 “I knew it!” Kevin cheered, banging the table. “Who in their right mind ignores a multi-million dollar family business just to grind it out in a New York cubicle?” He raised his glass high. “Let’s get a toast going for our girl Margot, heading down south to claim her throne!” I stood up, holding my glass of juice, keeping my smile perfectly polished. “The millions might be an exaggeration, but the move isn’t. If any of you ever find yourself in North Carolina, drinks are on me.” The whole table stood up to clink glasses. The whole table, except Declan. He sat frozen in his seat, staring a hole through me. Michelle had to lean over, her long hair brushing his shoulder, whispering something soft in his ear before he finally snapped out of his trance and slowly raised his drink. An hour later, the room was a blur of noise and spilled drinks. My phone rang. I slipped out into the quiet of the hallway to take it. “Margot, honey, I told you from day one this boy wasn’t it,” my father’s voice boomed through the receiver. “I don’t care that his family doesn’t have our kind of money. Your mother and I never cared about that. But the boy doesn’t even pay attention to you.” He sighed, the heavy, protective sigh of a father. “Look at that dinner we had. We order a massive seafood tower, and after six years together, he somehow doesn’t remember you’re allergic to shellfish?” “I’m glad you woke up,” he continued. “But the invitations are already out. The country club is booked. Do you maybe want to get a coffee with Elliot? You know, the son of the family friend we introduced you to?” “If it works, we just swap the groom. If it doesn’t, we call off the wedding later. His family has been asking about you for years, Margot.” I finally found a gap in his monologue. “Wait, Dad. What did you say his name was?” My dad perked up. “Elliot! You met him briefly at that gala. Oh, he’s a fantastic kid. Polite, smart.” “I took one look at him and loved him. Your mother adores him. If you ask me, you need a guy like that—someone who handles the home front while you take over the company…” “Dad,” I interrupted smoothly. “You don’t need to set up a coffee date. Just keep the reservations.” After all, I had just proposed to the man twenty minutes ago. I hung up the phone and turned around. Declan was blocking the hallway, his face a storm of anxiety and anger. “Why didn’t you talk to me before you quit your job?” he demanded. I met his gaze dead-on. “Why would I need to consult you about my career?” He rubbed his temples aggressively, like I was the one giving him a migraine. “Stop acting like this. Please. You know I can’t leave New York. I promised Michelle’s grandmother I’d look out for her, and she doesn’t have anyone else in the city…” “That sounds like your problem, Declan,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “You don’t need to explain it to me.” I walked past him, pushing open the heavy door to the private room. The volume hit me like a physical wave. The moment I stepped inside, a girl I vaguely remembered from AP Chem grabbed my arm. “Margot! Are you getting married?! We wouldn’t even know if Kevin hadn’t seen an invitation at his dad’s house! Were you just not going to invite us?” There was no point in dodging it. I hadn’t planned to, anyway. “We’re sending the invitations out in waves,” I lied effortlessly. “The high school batch is going out next week. The party is on the eighth of next month. I’d love it if you all came.” When Declan and I were doing the guest list, he had fought me tooth and nail to keep his name off the exterior envelopes, terrified Michelle might see one on a mutual friend’s fridge and get her feelings hurt. It worked out perfectly. I didn’t even have to order new stationery. Declan, who had followed me back into the room, let out a massive, shuddering breath of relief when he heard me say the date. He immediately went back to his seat next to Michelle. He tapped a few things into his phone, then devoted his entire existence to serving her dinner. Whenever a dish had chili flakes, he meticulously rinsed the meat in a glass of water before placing it gently on her plate. Michelle ate without looking up, entirely accustomed to being worshipped. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Thank God you’re not actually mad. I thought… Actually, quitting your job to focus on the wedding is a great idea. You’ve been so excited about the planning. Now you can handle the details yourself. Give me a couple of days to get Michelle settled with some things, and I’ll take you ring shopping. I didn’t care about the texts anymore. I swiped the notifications away without opening them. I was sitting next to Elliot, my entire focus zeroes in on the subtle shift in his posture. He was looking down at his phone. His dark eyes widened. He closed the app, opened it again, and stared at the screen, double-checking whatever message he’d just received. On the outside, I looked like a woman coolly sipping her water. Inside, I was vibrating with anxiety. Elliot had had a massive crush on me years ago. But back then, I was so blinded by Declan that I had rejected him outright. By the time I realized I should have been gentler about it, his eyes were already red, and he had walked away. And now here I was, years later, publicly cornering him into an engagement. What if he doesn’t like me anymore? What if he’s seeing someone? What if he’s still angry about how I treated him? A warm, dry hand slid across the table and covered my right hand. The frantic beating of my heart instantly leveled out. I stole a glance at him. Elliot was looking at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners with quiet amusement. It felt like every star in the night sky had been pulled down and poured into his gaze. So this was what it looked like when a man actually saw you. 4 “Alright, alright, the bride-to-be!” Kevin yelled, banging his beer glass on the table. “You hide a whole wedding from us? That’s a three-drink penalty, Margot!” I laughed, poured three small glasses of beer, and downed them back-to-back. “So who’s the mystery man?” the girl next to me asked, practically vibrating with gossip. “Do we know him?” I nodded calmly. “You do.” The entire room leaned in. “Is he here tonight?!” My phone was having a seizure on the table. Declan’s panic was radiating from across the room. Don’t say anything yet. Michelle isn’t emotionally prepared. Let me break it to her gently. I need time. Please don’t build your happiness on her trauma, okay? I looked down and saw Elliot watching me, a faint, supportive smile on his lips as I navigated the chaos. “He’s here,” I said softly. “Who?! Oh my god, wait, is it actually Elliot?” Elliot gave his head a microscopic shake. He didn’t want the spectacle. Before anyone could press further, Declan practically launched himself out of his chair. He waved his hands, forcing a strained, booming laugh. “Alright, let the girl eat! Stop interrogating her. You’ll embarrass the guy. Everyone will find out on the eighth anyway.” Kevin smirked. “Look at Dec, getting all defensive! Man, you and Michelle have been dancing around each other for years. It’s about time you gave her a ring, too!” A girl across the table sighed loudly. “Dec treats her like absolute royalty. I bet he already bought the ring and is just waiting for her to say yes.” Michelle lowered her head, a blush creeping up her neck as she took a delicate sip of her drink. For the first time all night, Declan didn’t have a witty comeback. He stayed dead silent, and the air in the room grew thick and uncomfortable. The news of the engagement meant people kept coming up to toast me. By the time the party finally broke up, the edges of my vision were delightfully blurred. Elliot had quietly sourced a glass of warm water and a hangover pill from somewhere. He stood over me, watching to make sure I swallowed it before heading out to pull his car around. On the other side of the room, a small commotion broke out around Michelle. “Michelle spilled a drink on her dress,” Declan’s deep voice carried over the chatter. “I need to get her home.” He stripped off his heavy wool trench coat and draped it over Michelle’s shoulders, cocooning her completely against the winter chill. The black car he’d ordered was already idling by the curb. He ushered Michelle into the backseat. As he turned back around to wave at the remaining crowd, I was already walking toward Elliot’s sleek SUV. We were driving through the night, straight down to North Carolina. Our families were waiting for us in the morning to finalize the shift in the wedding plans. I heard Kevin punch Declan in the shoulder. “Dude, Margot is literally getting married, and you didn’t even raise a glass to her tonight. You’re so obsessed with Michelle you don’t even see anyone else.” I didn’t turn around to see it, but I knew what Declan’s face looked like as he watched my retreating back. He shoved down the uneasy, twisting feeling in his gut and muttered his usual mantra. “It’s fine. We have the rest of our lives. I’ll make it up to her later.” I climbed into the passenger seat of Elliot’s car. The cabin was exactly the right temperature. The speakers were playing a low, acoustic playlist I loved. The air smelled faintly of cedar and clean laundry—a scent that instantly put my nervous system at ease. Everything felt as though it had been perfectly calibrated for me over a thousand lifetimes. I leaned my head against the leather seat and closed my eyes, letting the safety wash over me. There was no “later” for us, Declan.

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My hand hovered over the dotted line of the surgical consent form, trembling so violently the tip of the pen blurred. Before the ink could even graze the paper, my husband’s hand clamped down on my wrist. Three years. We had waited three agonizing years for a matching donor heart, watching the life drain out of our little boy. This was it. His only shot at survival. And yet, Rob looked at me with deadened eyes and casually mentioned that the four hundred and fifty thousand dollars we’d scraped together—our son’s lifeline—had been wired to an underprivileged student’s overseas tuition fund. Then, he slid a different piece of paper across the metal counter. A Do Not Resuscitate order. He had already signed it. “Chelsea said she needs this opportunity,” he said, his voice flat. “If she doesn’t go to Paris now, her whole life is ruined.” “Our son is lying in the ICU, Rob. He is dying.” “He’s asleep. He can wait a few more years. It’s fine.” The words didn’t just pierce my heart; they gutted me. Staring into the face of a man who suddenly looked like a total stranger, I didn’t hesitate. With my free hand, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. 1. I hung up the phone, my fingers still spasming. “Who did you just call?” Rob materialized from behind me, snatching the phone from my grip. His eyes dropped to the screen, and his pupils dilated in sudden, sharp panic. “Are you insane? Why the hell would you call the cops?” He looked at me as if I were the one holding a weapon. “I am getting that money back. I am saving my son,” I choked out, my voice vibrating with a primal kind of terror. Rob grabbed my upper arm and shoved me backward. My shoulder blades slammed against the sterile hospital wall, a sharp flare of pain radiating down my spine. “Sammy isn’t dead yet! What is your rush?!” The breath was knocked entirely out of my lungs. What did he mean, Sammy wasn’t dead yet? Without that heart, Sammy wouldn’t survive the month. He was only six years old. He hadn’t even had the chance to figure out what the world looked like outside of these bleached walls. He had spent half his life in this ICU, his baby fat melting away until he was nothing but fragile bones beneath translucent skin. “Chelsea is a hundred times the woman you are!” Rob shouted, jabbing a finger an inch from my nose. “That heart wasn’t meant for Sammy. Chelsea said that passing the transplant onto the next kid on the list builds grace. It’s good karma for our son!” “All you know how to do is cause a scene!” The blood roared in my ears, a violent, rushing tide. I couldn’t comprehend what I was hearing. The student had suggested this? A stranger had convinced him to give away my son’s heart? I stared at the man I had shared a bed with for a decade. He held my gaze, his jaw set, completely devoid of an ounce of shame. “Chelsea said we can’t be selfish!” Something inside me snapped. I lunged forward, shoving him hard in the chest. “Sammy is your flesh and blood! You gave away his only chance at life, and you gave away the money that was going to save him. Are you even human?!” Tears were streaming down my face, hot and furious, my voice tearing at the seams. But Rob just shoved me back again. I stumbled, my sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as I barely caught my balance. “I am his father! I have the right to decide his medical care! So what if he stays hooked up to the machines for another year? It won’t kill him!” “Chelsea is going to do great things for this country. That money was meant for her!” I leaned against the wall, the edges of my vision blackening. “The doctor said his heart is giving out, Rob! He won’t make it to October!” Rob just rolled his eyes, a dismissive sneer twisting his mouth. “Doctors say whatever they need to say to scare you into paying them half a million dollars.” I was shaking from the inside out. Before I could speak, Rob’s hand shot out, gripping the back of my neck and pinning me against the wall. “You are going to call the police back right now,” he hissed, his breath hot against my face. “You’re going to tell them you made a mistake. That you were hysterical.” I shook my head wildly, thrashing against his grip. He let out a low, cold laugh. “If you don’t make that call, I’m transferring him. I’ll pull him out of the ICU and stick him in some discount hospice center, and we’ll see how long he lasts there.” My knees gave out. I practically collapsed, hanging from his grip. “Rob, you’re a monster.” He leaned in closer. “Try me, Paige. I’ll bypass the hospice and take him straight to our living room.” The refined, gentle man I had married was completely gone. In his place stood an executioner. “I want a divorce,” I gasped out. “And I am suing you and your precious Chelsea. I will tear that money out of your hands.” The veins in Rob’s neck bulged. He opened his mouth to scream at me, but the heavy double doors of the ICU swung open. A doctor stepped out, his surgical mask pulled down, a rare smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Paige. Good news. The registry just pinged us—there’s a new donor heart in the system. The preliminary match is incredibly strong.” I froze, pinned to the wall, wet tracks drying on my cheeks. “We need a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deposit to prep the OR and secure the transport,” the doctor continued softly. “The remaining balance is due post-op.” 2. The doctor gave a brisk nod and disappeared back through the double doors. The hallway was dead silent, leaving just me and Rob. Thank God. A wave of dizzying relief washed over me. He has another chance. I took a deep, shuddering breath, straightened my spine, and looked at my husband. “He can still be saved. If you get that money back from her right now, I won’t press charges. We can forget this ever happened…” But Rob’s brow furrowed. He looked at me like I was a psychiatric patient speaking in tongues. “Do you have any idea how long Chelsea has been preparing for her semester in Paris?” he demanded. “What is she supposed to do? You’re willing to destroy a young woman’s entire future just for your son?” “We don’t have the money! Go in there and tell the doctor we’re passing on the heart!” He reached for the handle of the ICU door. Panic seized me. I threw my entire body weight against him, pushing him away from the door. “I will not let you do this to him again!” I screamed. “If you don’t get that money back, I will go to every local news station in this city. I will make sure the whole world knows what you both are!” I had sold the house I owned before we married. I had sold my car. I had borrowed from every relative who would pick up the phone. I had bled myself dry to raise that money to save my baby. And he thought he could trade my son’s life for some stranger’s European vacation? My shove ignited something dark in him. “Do you know how many people die every day waiting for a heart?” he roared, his voice bouncing off the fluorescent-lit walls. “Do you know how many kids in poverty that money could have fed?” “All you care about is your defective son! You don’t give a damn about anyone else in the world!” I stopped. The air seemed to get sucked out of the corridor. I stared at his face—a face that Sammy had inherited. Defective. The word was a jagged blade twisted straight into my ribs. My mind flashed back to six years ago. The maternity ward. Rob holding a swaddled, pink-faced Sammy, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs. His eyes had been red-rimmed, his lips trembling so much he could barely form words. He had looked at me with such profound, overwhelming reverence. “You did so good, Paige,” he had whispered, kissing my damp forehead. “I swear to God, I will spend the rest of my life making sure you and this boy never want for anything.” It was the most sincere thing he had ever said to me. Now, that vow was dust. “Chelsea is right,” he spat. “You are pathologically selfish.” Chelsea. It was always Chelsea. Five years ago, he told me he was sponsoring an orphaned teenager through a mentorship program. I had thought it was beautiful. But then it was three hundred dollars a month. Then three thousand. Then thirty thousand. And now, nearly half a million dollars. That wasn’t a charity case. That was a black hole disguised as a girl. I forced myself to breathe. A terrifying, ice-cold clarity settled over me. “Are you in love with her?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. His face color drained, then flared a violent red. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” His hand cracked across my cheek. The slap echoed sharply in the empty hall, a burst of white-hot pain exploding across my jaw. “Chelsea and I are innocent! Your mind is just sick, so you see filth everywhere!” I pressed my trembling fingers to my stinging cheek. He was pacing, agitated, defensive—like a cornered rat. He was willing to let his own child die. Unless he was completely intoxicated by this girl, nothing else made psychological sense. “I’m done talking to you,” he snapped. “Call the police and cancel the report. If Chelsea misses her flight because of you, I will make your life a living hell.” Before I could answer, the ICU doors opened again. Two nurses walked out, their expressions tightening as they took in the scene—me crying, Rob towering over me. “This is a critical care wing, not your living room,” the older nurse scolded sharply. “Keep your voices down. Your boy is hanging on by a thread in there. The surgery is in three days. Find the money.” Rob let out a frustrated growl, turned on his heel, and stormed down the long corridor. I stood paralyzed under the flickering fluorescent lights, drowning. 3. I was sinking. Fast. The $450,000 was gone. Now, I didn’t even have the $75,000 deposit to secure the organ. Sammy’s heart couldn’t wait. Could the police freeze Rob’s accounts and recover the funds in three days? Desperation is a terrifying thing. It strips away all your boundaries. I found myself sitting on a vinyl hospital chair, dialing a burner number I’d seen on a sketchy online forum for an offshore clinic in Tijuana. I barely listened to the man’s broken English explaining the logistics. “Fine,” I interrupted. “I can be down there by tomorrow morning…” Trading one of my kidneys for my son’s life. It was an easy equation. But before I could confirm, a weathered hand clamped down over my phone screen, ending the call. I looked up. My mother was standing there, her eyes swimming with tears. “Paige, what in God’s name are you doing?” she choked out. She unclasped her worn leather purse and pulled out a plain white envelope, shoving a debit card into my hands. “There’s ninety thousand in there. If that bastard won’t save his son, I will.” My chest caved in. “Mom… that’s your and Dad’s retirement. You’ve been saving that your whole lives.” I clutched the plastic card, the tears I thought I had exhausted spilling over again. “Stop talking. Go pay the cashier,” she ordered, her voice fiercely tender. I turned toward the elevators, but a hand shot out from behind a pillar, violently ripping the card from my fingers. “Ninety grand. Perfect. Chelsea’s living expenses for the year are finally covered.” My mother lunged at Rob, grabbing his forearm. “That is my money! It is for my grandson!” she screamed. “Sammy is your boy, Rob! How can you do this to him?!” Rob sneered and violently yanked his arm free. The momentum sent my mother stumbling backward. Her heel caught on the linoleum, and she went down hard. The sickening thud of the back of her skull hitting the metal handrail echoed down the hall. “Mom!” I shrieked, dropping to my knees beside her. Dark, thick blood immediately began pooling on the pristine white floor beneath her hair. “Help! Somebody help! Get a doctor!” I screamed, pressing my hands against the wound. I looked up just in time to see Rob slip the debit card into his jacket pocket. He didn’t even glance down. He just turned and walked onto the elevator. Alarms sounded. Nurses came running with a gurney, lifting my limp mother and sprinting toward the emergency room down the hall. I collapsed against the wall outside the ER, my hands stained crimson. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Rob. It’s just 90k, don’t be so dramatic. I’ll be with Chelsea for the next two days helping with her visa stuff. Deal with Sammy yourself. I stared at the screen, my eyes burning so hot I thought they might bleed. A quiet, dangerous calm settled over me. I opened X—formerly Twitter. I uploaded the screenshots of his bank transfers. I uploaded a photo of the DNR he’d signed. I uploaded the text he just sent me. Caption: My husband stole our dying son’s transplant fund to send another woman to Paris. He just shoved my elderly mother into a metal handrail and stole her life savings. She is in the ER. Please, I need help. I hit post. Within minutes, my phone began to vibrate. Then it began to hum continuously. Retweets, quotes, DMs. It caught fire. “He stole his own kid’s heart fund?!” “Please tell me the cops are involved. BOOST.” The public outrage gave me the faintest sliver of hope. Ten minutes later, Rob called. “Take that post down right now,” he barked. “Post an apology and say your account was hacked!” I grit my teeth. “Bring back my $450,000 and my mother’s money, and maybe I will.” I thought the public pressure would break him. Instead, the line went dead. He blocked me. By the next morning, the algorithm had shifted. My post was buried. In its place, trending under a local hashtag, was a rebuttal video. “Hi everyone. My name is Chelsea. I need to clear up the awful rumors circulating online about the ‘stolen transplant fund’.” She looked perfectly styled—messy bun, no makeup, wearing a tragically oversized sweater. “First of all, Paige was the affair partner who destroyed my mother’s relationship with Rob years ago. My mom died of a broken heart because of her.” “Second, the money was a personal loan from Rob. I signed a promissory note. Paige is just using her sick kid to farm sympathy and donations online.” “Third, her son isn’t even that sick. She has Munchausen by proxy. She’s exaggerating for GoFundMe money.” Attached was a photo of a handwritten IOU. And another photo. An old Polaroid of a much younger Rob, his arm wrapped around a woman who looked… exactly like an older version of Chelsea. The comments were a bloodbath. “Wow, the wife was the side-piece? Karma.” “Using a sick kid to run a scam. Disgusting.” “Someone needs to call CPS on her!” My stomach violently rebelled. I leaned over a trash can and dry-heaved. My inbox, previously full of prayers, was now a swamp of death threats and “homewrecker” accusations. 4. The ER doors hissed open. My mother was wheeled out, her face the color of chalk, a thick bandage wrapped around her head. “Paige…” she mumbled, reaching out weakly. “Did he… take the money?” I couldn’t speak. I just let the tears fall hot and fast onto the back of her bruised hand. She took a slow, rattling breath. “Mr. Henderson down the street has been wanting to buy our house for years. Call him. Tell him I’ll sell it to him today for seventy-five thousand cash. We can transfer the title later.” A sob ripped from my throat. “Mom! You and Dad worked thirty years to pay off that house!” “Just call him!” she wheezed. “Don’t let my grandson die!” I wiped my face with the back of my arm and stood up. I stepped out into the courtyard and made the call. Mr. Henderson was shocked but didn’t ask questions. Within two hours, the wire transfer cleared. I stared at the balance on my phone, my hands shaking. I practically sprinted to the billing department and authorized the $75,000 charge. “The funds have cleared, Paige,” the billing coordinator said gently. “Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow at 2 PM. Just keep him stable.” A massive weight lifted off my chest. I rushed back upstairs to the ICU to sit with Sammy. By tomorrow night, he would have a strong, beating heart. But when I reached the glass window of his room, the world stopped spinning. Chelsea was standing next to Sammy’s bed. Sammy’s oxygen tube had been pulled out. It was dangling toward the floor. Chelsea was holding a Mason jar of amber liquid, tilting it into my unconscious son’s mouth. The broth was spilling down his chin, soaking into his hospital gown. “Drink up, little Sammy,” she cooed. I hit the door so hard my shoulder bruised, lunging into the room like a feral animal. “What the fuck are you doing?!” She flinched, turning to look at me, and actually smiled. “Oh, hi. I felt so bad for him. I brought him some organic bone broth to build his strength.” I looked down. Sammy’s face was turning a deep, mottled purple. His chest was heaving in violent, jerky spasms. A sickening, wet rattle was coming from his throat. He was drowning. “You pulled his oxygen!” I shrieked, a sound tearing out of me that didn’t even sound human. She blinked, holding the jar against her chest like a shield. “Well, yeah. It was in the way. Having tubes shoved down your throat is so uncomfy…” I shoved her back with such force she hit the medical cart. I scrambled for the oxygen mask, my hands slipping on the spilled soup, slamming the emergency call button over and over again. A team of nurses and a doctor sprinted in. The doctor took one look at Sammy’s blue lips and went pale. “Heart rate is dropping—we’re at eighteen! Get the intubation tray! Get them out of here!” A nurse grabbed me and Chelsea by the arms and physically pushed us out into the hallway. The door slammed shut. “I was just trying to be nice,” Chelsea whimpered, brushing off her sweater. I turned slowly. I backed her against the wall, my breathing heavy and ragged. “You pulled his life support. You poured liquid into his lungs. You watched him asphyxiate. And you want to call it being nice?” “Hey! Get your hands off her!” Rob came sprinting down the hall. He saw me backing Chelsea into a corner, grabbed me by the waist, and threw me onto the floor. “She came all the way down here to check on him, and you attack an orphaned girl?!” I pushed myself up onto my elbows, staring at him. “She pulled his oxygen, Rob!” He pulled Chelsea behind him, shielding her. “She cares about him! You’re acting like a rabid dog, attacking anyone who gets close! If Sammy dies, it’s because of your toxic energy!” The ICU doors flew open. The doctor stood there, sweat beading on his forehead. “There is massive fluid aspiration in the lungs. We have to do an emergency bronchial wash before we can even attempt the transplant.” The nurses rolled Sammy out on a transport bed, racing toward the surgical elevators. Rob stepped directly in front of the gurney, holding his hand up. “Stop! I am pulling his consent! Do not waste resources on this!” Chelsea peeked out from behind his shoulder. “That heart should go to someone who actually deserves it!” The doctor’s eyes widened in horror. “Call security! Code white! We have an interference!” I lunged at Rob, trying to claw him out of the way, but I was no match for a man his size. He threw me off effortlessly. “He’s broken! Let him go, Paige! I am not letting you do this!” Sammy’s monitors were screaming. The security guards were too far down the hall. Just as Rob braced himself against the gurney, two uniformed police officers rounded the corner, sprinting. They bypassed me entirely, grabbed Rob, and slammed him against the wall, slapping handcuffs on his wrists in one fluid motion. “Robert Vance and Chelsea Hayes,” the older officer barked. “You are both under arrest for grand larceny, elder abuse, and felony embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent.” Rob froze, the color draining from his face.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440971”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The chime of the system echoed in the hollows of my skull just as I reached the center of the living room. Only ten minutes ago, my younger sister had been sobbing in my arms, her face a mask of fragile beauty as she begged for reassurance that I wouldn’t abandon her once I was married. Now, Gilbert, my fiancé—the man who hadn’t uttered a word in the seven years I’d known him—was using his hands to shatter my world. His fingers moved with clinical precision. Your sister is pregnant. Then, the follow-up, a jagged blade of a sentence: The child is mine. I stood frozen, the air leaving my lungs in a slow, painful hiss. He reached into his pocket and produced a lab report, the DNA results confirming the biological link between him and the fetus. We did it many times while you were at work, his signs were sharp, colored with a mockery he no longer bothered to hide. We tried every position to make sure she conceived. He paused, a cruel glint in his eyes. Remember when she got sick at dinner last week? You were so sweet, rubbing her stomach to settle her nausea. You had no idea you were touching my child. He continued, his movements fluid and cold. The hospital confirmed it today. Three months. She’s fragile, Jolie. She knew the risks to her heart, but she insisted on carrying my baby anyway. He let out a silent, huffing laugh. It’s your fault, really. You didn’t watch her closely enough. Then, the killing blow: So, whether that baby lives or dies depends on just how heartless you want to be as a sister. My heart felt as though a cold, invisible hand had squeezed it until the valves began to pop. The pain was so acute I could barely breathe. They would never know. They would never understand that the “Redemption Mission” I had accepted seven years ago was meant for both of them. I was their savior, and they were my assignment. I took a shuddering breath and spoke into the silence of my mind. I’m done. Abort the mission. I choose to terminate and return home. … [Warning: Once the mission is abandoned, the world-line will revert to its original trajectory. The final fates of the target characters will be irreversible. Does the Host confirm?] Confirm. [Extraction sequence initiated. T-minus 72 hours until biological shutdown.] As the mechanical voice faded, a tidal wave of agony washed over my nervous system. I looked at the man standing before me, my throat so dry it felt like it was lined with glass. “Why?” I managed to choke out. Gilbert looked at my reddened eyes. There wasn’t a flicker of guilt on his face—only a terrifying, flat calm. He walked over to the master bedroom closet and yanked out my wedding dress. The one I had spent months designing. My eyes snagged on the fabric. There were stiff, yellowish stains across the delicate lace of the bodice. I had sewn every bead onto that dress. Every stitch had been a prayer for our future. You were always working late, his hands signed, nonchalant. You left Maisie and me alone in this house. Fire was inevitable. Our bodies fit together in a way yours never did. He took his time, savoring the destruction. Maisie is young. She’s… adventurous. She would cry and say she was sorry to her big sister, but then she would wrap herself around me and wouldn’t let go. We did it on this dress, Jolie. Over and over again. I stared at him. The face was the same one I had loved for nearly a decade, but I couldn’t recognize the soul behind it anymore. I’ve told you everything now, Gilbert continued. You’re her sister. You’re my fiancée. You’re supposed to be the “big” person here. You should accept us. He seemed certain I would bow my head. He expected me to cave, just as I had a thousand times before. After all, our wedding—the day we had supposedly dreamed of for seven years—was only two weeks away. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat and looked him dead in the eye. “The wedding is off.” I said it clearly. No tremor. No hesitation. Gilbert’s expression darkened instantly. The invitations are out, he signed aggressively. Don’t start acting like a martyr now. Maisie is carrying my child. We’re a family. The three of us. Family. The word felt like a joke. When I first arrived in this world, the system told me the predetermined ending if I failed. Once I left, the erasure protocol would trigger within three days. Without my “redemption,” Gilbert would spiral back into his dark, obsessive psychosis and eventually be butchered in an alley by the creditors he owed. Maisie, deprived of the expensive care I provided, would suffer a fatal heart failure. Seven years. I had exhausted every system point, nearly traded my own life to pull these two out of the abyss and into the light. The progress bar was at 99%. I was one step away. After the wedding, they would have been “saved,” and I would have earned a lifetime of peace. And yet, they chose this moment to gut me. “Why now?” I gritted my teeth. “Why wait until now to tell me?” Gilbert’s face remained a mask of indifference. Maisie’s bump is starting to show. She needs status. Besides… He paused, his hands slowing down. Who else is going to want a woman who can’t even get pregnant? The truth hit me like a physical blow. He let out a sharp, mocking breath. You’re the one who forced your way into my life, Jolie. You don’t get to decide when it ends. You don’t have the right. I looked at the face I had adored and felt nothing but a profound, sickening sense of the absurd. Memories flashed like a strobe light. The first time I met Gilbert—he was a shut-in, drowning in silence and trauma. I spent nights learning ASL, endured the whispers and the laughter of his peers just to stay by his side. I was the one who reached into the mud and pulled him out. Then there was Maisie. Our parents, dying in the wreckage of a car crash, had pressed her into my arms with their final breaths. They begged me to save her—the sister with the failing heart. I had spent countless nights carrying her into ERs, signing consent form after consent form, dragging her back from the brink of death. Back then, Gilbert filled sketchbooks with thousands of portraits of me. He signed oaths that I was his only salvation. Maisie used to wait up for me until midnight, her thin, fragile frame making my heart ache with a protective ferocity. I had loved them more than my own life. To fund his galleries, to buy her imported heart medication, I had worked myself into the ground. I had worked through stomach hemorrhages; I had pushed myself so hard the doctors told me my body was too stressed to ever carry a child. I didn’t care. Not then. But I never imagined the people I saved would be the ones to push me off the cliff. It was almost poetic. They had spent seven years sharpening the blade, waiting for the perfect moment to slide it between my ribs. “Gilbert, you disgust me.” My eyes were raw, but my gaze was steady. For a second, he flinched at the sheer finality in my look. I disgust you? His brow furrowed, looking at me like a temperamental child. If you had just been obedient, we could have gone on like always. He pulled his phone from his pocket and swiped through a few photos before shoving the screen in my face. They were private photos. Intimate. Explicit. Photos of me taken while I was sleeping or in moments I thought were private. He scrolled, a cruel curve touching his lips. Think about how the board at your firm would react if they saw these. What would the world think of the “Saintly Jolie” then? “Give me that!” I lunged for the phone, my heart hammering. I gave you a chance, Jolie. You pushed me. Before I could reach him, his thumb tapped the screen. The whoosh of an outgoing message echoed in the silent room. Then, my own phone began to explode. Notifications, group chat pings, DMs—a digital wildfire. Gilbert looked down at me from his height. Now that your career is dead, what else can you do but marry me? Be a good girl. Close the deal. And maybe at night, you can listen through the walls to how a real woman sounds. Seven years of blood, sweat, and tears—my entire career, my reputation—gone in a single click. I collapsed onto the hardwood floor, a high-pitched ringing in my ears. “Gilbert… everything I did… the career, the money… it was all for you.” He turned his back on me, his fingers moving one last time. That was your choice. Nobody told you to be a martyr. He locked the door from the outside, leaving me in the dark. The silence was absolute. A dull, heavy throb began in my chest. I could feel my life force—the “Host energy”—slowly leaking out of my pores. Three days. Just a few more dozen hours, and I’d be back in my own world. I sat there on the floor all night. When the gray morning light finally bled through the curtains, the door clicked open. Maisie walked in. She looked pale, her beauty delicate and ethereal. She shot a timid look at Gilbert in the hallway before dropping to her knees in front of me. “Jolie, please… don’t be mad at Gilbert.” Her eyes went red instantly, tears spilling down her cheeks like perfect pearls. “It’s my fault. All of it. You’ve always taken care of me, you’ve always loved me most. Please, just forgive me this one time.” She reached out with a thin, trembling hand to touch my sleeve. I recoiled, pulling away from her touch. Her hand froze in mid-air. She didn’t look embarrassed, only deeply, performatively sad. “I’m so sick, Jolie. And I was so lonely.” As I looked at her “innocent” face, I saw my parents’ dying eyes. I saw her hooked up to an oxygen mask, begging me not to leave her. I had sworn at their graves that I would protect her from everything. I didn’t realize I was the one she needed protecting from. I watched her performance in icy silence. My lack of reaction started to crack her mask. She looked up, and for a second, the spite leaked through. “Why can’t you just share, Jolie? You have everything. A healthy body, a glittering career… everyone loves you. But look at me! I’m broken! I can’t even run or jump like a normal person!” Her voice rose, her thin frame shaking. “I just wanted a piece of warmth for myself! Is that so wrong? You can still be his wife. I just want to be with you both. Why do you have to be so dramatic?” She was using “love” as a weapon to justify the theft of my life. She honestly believed my “intolerance” was the problem. I stood up, refusing to look at her for another second. “Maisie, you’re both pathetic. And you’re both filthy.” The words hit her like a slap. Her eyes widened, and her face suddenly turned a terrifying shade of purple. She began to gasp, her hands clawing at her chest. “Jolie… why… it hurts… Gilbert! Help me!” Gilbert burst into the room, lunging past me to catch her before she hit the floor. A sound broke from his throat—a strangled, guttural sob. The man who was mute by choice was finally making noise, and it was for her. He held her against his chest, his eyes filled with a terrifying, overflowing agony. He looked at me, his hand signing with a violent, jagged speed. Did you have to push her? She’s your sister! How can you be so cold? For a split second, my muscle memory took over. I moved to grab her emergency medication from the nightstand. But I stopped. The sister I had sacrificed everything for was cradled in the arms of the man I was supposed to marry. The absurdity of it finally broke me. I stood there, paralyzed, as the sirens of an ambulance began to wail in the distance, cutting through the quiet morning. At the hospital, the ER doctor handed over a critical notice. Acute heart failure brought on by severe emotional stress. She needed an immediate transfusion and stabilization, or she wouldn’t last the night. The hospital’s blood bank was low on her rare type. We were sisters. We shared the same blood. In the past, I had considered that bond my greatest blessing. Gilbert grabbed my wrist, dragging me toward the donation room. Give her your blood. Save her. His grip was like iron. It’s your responsibility. You’re her sister. You can’t just watch her die. The nurse approached with a thick needle. I fought them, kicking and screaming, trying to wrench my arm free. “Let me go! Don’t touch me!” But Gilbert stepped closer, pinning my shoulders down against the chair. He was incredibly strong, and he used his weight to crush me into the seat until I couldn’t move. The needle slid into my vein. My struggle only resulted in a smear of red across the vinyl. My warm blood began to flow through the tube, destined for Maisie. As the bags filled, the world began to dim. The room spun. And then, a sharp, white-hot cramp bloomed deep in my abdomen. It felt like a hand was inside me, tearing at my insides. I went pale, cold sweat soaking my hair. The nurse noticed something was wrong and stopped the flow, calling for a doctor. After a series of frantic tests, the doctor looked at me with profound pity. “Ms. Harold, you were nearly two months pregnant.” My brain went numb. “You were already severely dehydrated and exhausted. The stress and the forced blood draw… it triggered a miscarriage. I’m so sorry. We couldn’t save the pregnancy.” The words were a thunderclap. I stared at the ceiling, a single, hot tear tracking down my temple. I was pregnant. The one thing I thought was impossible had happened quietly, a tiny miracle growing in the middle of a nightmare. And before I even knew he existed, he had been sacrificed to save his aunt. His own father had held me down while they drained the life out of us both. I don’t remember the surgery. Afterward, I stood by the window of my hospital room, barefoot on the cold floor. The wind blew through the open pane, tossing my hair, but my mind had never been clearer. My heart was gone. It had been shredded along with that tiny life. The door opened. Gilbert pushed Maisie in a wheelchair. With my blood in her veins, her color had returned. She looked refreshed. “Jolie, don’t be too sad,” Maisie said, her voice a sugary silk. “Some things just aren’t meant to be. You couldn’t keep him… maybe he just didn’t belong to you. But it’s okay! My baby is strong. I can have this child for all of us.” She reached out to pat my hand with her faux-sympathy. I jerked away, my skin crawling. Gilbert watched my cold reaction and let out a long, weary sigh. You can’t blame Maisie for this, he signed. Your body was always too weak to carry a child. It happened. Now, just focus on being an aunt to Maisie’s baby. We can still be— “Gilbert, you are a monster.” Every drop of blood in me felt like ice. “You think I’m going to help you raise your mistake? You think that can replace what you just killed?” The last of his patience snapped. He stepped forward, grabbing my jaw, forcing me to look into his dark, violent eyes. A bunch of cells? You’re going to mourn that? You couldn’t even satisfy me in bed, Jolie. You think you’d be a good mother? Maisie is giving you a gift by letting you be part of this. Be grateful. Seven years of soul-crushing “redemption.” Seven years of guarding their lives with my own. It ended in a hospital room with a man’s hand on my throat and my sister’s smile. I didn’t have the strength to argue anymore. The anger evaporated, leaving only a hollow, black void. I didn’t owe them a single breath. The system’s voice chimed one last time. [Detection: Host Despair Level at 100%. Extraction sequence finalized. Protocol: Immediate.] I stepped onto the windowsill. I looked back one last time at the two of them, their faces finally shifting from arrogance to a sudden, piercing terror. They lunged for me, screaming my name. I closed my eyes and let myself fall backward into the light.

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I used to believe Robert was the man who pulled me from the wreckage of the world. He told me he possessed a “Directive”—a neurological interface that granted him foresight and power. He promised that in this frozen hellscape, he would be my sanctuary. He promised we would survive the Great Freeze together. Instead, I became a prisoner. I watched as they methodically broke my limbs, and then, like a bag of refuse, they tossed me into the permafrost to be used and discarded. As the light in my eyes began to flicker, I remembered the activation code he had once whispered in a moment of feigned intimacy. With a trembling breath, I forced the words out. A cold, synthesized voice echoed in my mind, stripping away the final layers of my delusions. “Directive: Host, how could you trade June’s life to satisfy those monsters?” Robert’s voice replied, devoid of any warmth. It was the sound of a man discussing a business transaction. “Macy is too fragile for this. June… June is a fighter. She’s built to endure.” He paused, and the next words were a serrated blade across my heart. “Macy is my Life-Tether. The Protocol is clear: I must ensure her survival at any cost. Once this deal is closed and the Credits are secured, I’ll find a way to make it up to June.” Every agony I had suffered—every snap of bone and sting of ice—had been a calculated sacrifice. He hadn’t failed to protect me. He had orchestrated my destruction. As the stench of a starving, infected hound filled my nostrils, I finally stopped fighting. I let go. 1 “This one’s a statue. Not a single scream.” A jagged shard of ice was driven through my palm. My body jerked, a white-hot flare of agony pulling me back from the brink of unconsciousness. My eyes drifted open, unfocused and heavy, and that’s when I heard Robert’s voice again through the thin walls of the basement. “How much longer?” The synthesized voice of the Directive sounded almost human, its tone wavering with something like mechanical grief. “Three hours. But Host… her limbs are shattered. She has twelve puncture wounds. They used a brand on her tongue. Should we not… intervene?” “No,” Robert snapped, his voice brittle. “The agreement was twenty-four hours. Not a minute less.” I felt a ghost of a smile touch my cracked lips. I closed my eyes again. It was the seventh year of the Permafrost. I was the one who had cracked the code, the one who had synthesized the vaccine that could finally grant humanity immunity to the Necro-virus. When I had ventured out to find the final chemical reagents, Robert had insisted on being my lead guard. He said he couldn’t bear to let me out of his sight. I thought it was love. I thought he was risking his life for mine. Now I knew the truth. He had struck a deal with the Insurgents long before we left the Bastion. A searing heat pressed against my chest. The sizzle of my own flesh and the cloying, metallic scent of burnt skin filled the cramped basement. The scream I had been holding back finally tore through my throat, raw and jagged. The men surrounding me erupted into a chorus of guttural laughter. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to retreat into the only place they couldn’t touch: my memories. Robert and I had been childhood sweethearts. After we married, in the quiet, desperate nights of the apocalypse, he would hold me and whisper about the future. He wanted a family. A real home. He didn’t want to be alone in the dark anymore. For that dream, I survived everything. I scavenged through ruins, I fought off the infected with nothing but a rusted pipe, I starved so he could eat. And finally, I had succeeded. I was carrying our child. But now, I wasn’t even a person anymore. And my child was already a cold, still weight inside me. “Host, they’re bringing in the hounds! June can’t take anymore. She’s losing too much blood, and the fetal heartbeat is—” “Shut up!” Robert’s voice was frayed, irritable. For a heartbeat, a foolish, dying spark of hope flickered in my chest. I thought he might remember our years together. I thought he might remember the way I looked at him on our wedding day. Then, he pushed me into the abyss. “She’s tough,” he said, cold as the wind outside. “She won’t die.” Even the Directive seemed horrified. “Robert, look at yourself. She is your wife, not your enemy. Why must she endure this for your gain?” “Because she is my wife!” Robert roared, his voice thick with a twisted sense of martyrdom. “In the life before this one, Macy died saving us. My ‘Rebirth’ was paid for with Macy’s blood. If she dies, the Directive shuts down, and I die with her. Just a little longer. Once the main forces arrive, I’ll go in and ‘rescue’ her. She’ll understand.” I had thought the Insurgents kidnapped me for the vaccine. I was wrong. Everything—the blood, the pain, the loss of my child—it was all for Macy. The “Guardian Angel” he claimed had traded her life for his second chance. 2 That was why he was always there for her. Why he used his position in the Bastion to shield her from every hardship while I worked myself to the bone in the labs. We had fought about it, of course. Every time, Robert would pull me close, his breath warm against my ear, and say, “June, you’re the one I love. Macy… she’s just a debt I have to pay. It’s a responsibility, nothing more.” And every time, I had backed down. I had chosen to believe him because the alternative was too terrifying to face. But he hadn’t just chosen her. He had sentenced me to death. As the three infected hounds were dragged into the room, their eyes milky and their jaws snapping, I closed my eyes and waited for the end. I don’t know how much time passed before the sound of Robert’s sobbing pulled me back. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of performative grief. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, his voice trembling. “It’s all my fault. I didn’t get here in time.” The smell of him—the expensive soap from the Bastion’s private stores—made my stomach churn. I stared at him, my gaze fixed on his throat, imagining my hands—my broken, useless hands—tearing the life from him. I bit into the inside of my cheek, using the sharp sting of pain to find my voice. “Why… why were you so late, Robert?” He flinched, his eyes darting away from mine. “There was a complication with the perimeter. I failed you, June. I let those animals get to you.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “But listen to me. It doesn’t matter what they did. I still love you. I’m going to make you whole again. I promise.” He wrapped me in a heavy, fur-lined coat and carried me to a temporary camp. My colleagues, hardened by the world, turned pale when they saw me. I had over a hundred wounds, some shallow, some deep and weeping. We lacked proper medical supplies; they had to use primitive cauterization just to stop the bleeding. I spiraled back into the darkness. When I woke again, Robert was clutching my hand, weeping silently. “Those monsters… June, I swear, I will protect you. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” I closed my eyes, refusing to look at him. Every word out of his mouth felt like another shard of ice driven into my skin. A moment later, the door to the medical tent swung open. A silhouette I loathed stepped into the light. “Robbie? Why are you still in here?” Macy was dressed in a pristine white parka, a pink ribbon tied neatly in her hair. She looked like a creature from another world—a world that hadn’t seen blood or hunger. She skipped toward him, then let out a sharp, theatrical gasp when she saw me. “Oh! June! You look… oh, that’s terrifying!” She immediately buried her face in Robert’s chest, trembling. “Robbie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m just… I’m so shaken. You aren’t mad at me, are you?” I watched as Robert smoothed her hair, his touch infinitely more tender than it had been with me. “It’s okay, Macy. You’re sensitive. I know.” I wanted to laugh. I was the one who had been mutilated, yet she was the one who needed comforting. Robert claimed he only felt “duty” toward her. But he gave me logic and excuses, while he gave her everything she asked for. The distinction was finally, brutally clear. Robert eventually left to “coordinate the transport,” leaving me alone with Macy. She sat on the edge of the cot, leaning in close. She sniffed the air and immediately made a face of pure disgust. “You smell like rot. Look at you. You aren’t even a woman anymore. You’re barely a person. Why are you still hanging on?” She smiled, a cold, sharp expression that never reached her eyes. “If I were you, I’d find a way to end it. You’re just an eyesore now.” I forced a dry, rasping laugh. “If I’m an eyesore to you… then staying alive is worth it.” I knew she wanted him. But even in this ruined world, our marriage was recognized by the Bastion’s Council. As long as I was his wife, she was nothing but a shadow. Macy’s face twisted into something demonic. She reached out and pressed her thumb directly into one of my open wounds. I gasped, my vision swimming. “Do you know what Robbie says about you behind closed doors?” she hissed. “He says you’re pathetic. He says he’s disgusted that you won’t just die and let him move on. As the woman who actually loves him, I think it’s time I helped him out.” 3 She pulled a small syringe from her pocket, filled with a pale yellow fluid. My heart hammered against my ribs. “What is that?” “You’ve been exposed to the Necro-virus,” she whispered. “A couple of vaccine shots would fix you right up, but honestly? It’s such a waste to use the good stuff on a lost cause like you.” She leaned in closer, her breath smelling of peppermint. “This is a Thermal-Toxin. Robbie was worried you’d be too cold out here in the snow, so he asked me to give you a little ‘warmth.’ It’ll make your exit very… memorable. And once you’re gone, I’ll be the one who ‘discovered’ the vaccine. I’ll be the hero. And you’ll just be a tragic memory.” I couldn’t breathe. Seven years of my life—seven years of sleepless nights and frozen fingers in the lab—and they were going to steal it all. They were going to kill me with the very thing I had died a thousand deaths to create. I had already been infected by the hounds. Without the second stage of the vaccine, I would turn. But the Thermal-Toxin… for someone already fighting the virus, it was a recipe for a slow, agonizing internal combustion of the nervous system. “You… wouldn’t…” I gasped. I tried to struggle, but she shoved me off the cot. My broken bones shrieked in protest as I hit the floor. “Look at you,” she sneered. “You think you can compete with me? I’m going to have the world at my feet. I’m going to have Robbie’s children. And you? You’re going to burn from the inside out in the dirt.” She plunged the needle into my neck and emptied the syringe. I blacked out from the sheer shock of the chemical burn. When I woke, the world was a haze of fire. Every nerve ending felt like it was being scorched by a blowtorch. I screamed for Robert, but the camp was empty. A lone colleague remained, looking at me with pity and terror. “They’re gone, June. They took the last transport. They said you were too far gone to move.” My mind went blank. “The vaccine… did they leave the vaccine?” “They took it all back to the Bastion for the ‘official launch.’” I begged him. I pleaded until my voice broke. Finally, the colleague, a man named Sam, put on his hazmat suit and helped me into an old rover. We chased the transport through a blizzard for two days. When we finally caught up to them at the secondary airfield, I didn’t care about pride. I didn’t care about the betrayal. I just wanted to live. I crawled through the snow, dragging my broken body toward Robert as he stood by the helicopter. “Robert! Please!” I shrieked. “Just one dose! I’m turning! Please!” Robert looked down at me, and I saw only irritation and embarrassment in his eyes. “June, for God’s sake. This shipment belongs to the future of humanity. Not a single drop can be wasted on a personal whim. I have a mission to protect Macy and the serum. Stop being so dramatic.” The other scientists stood frozen. Sam yelled out, “She’s infected, Robert! If she doesn’t get the shot, she’ll turn in hours! She’s your wife!” Robert let out a sharp, dismissive scoff. “I know you’re jealous of Macy, June, but this is pathetic. Macy already gave you the booster shot back at the camp. Stop lying to get attention. I don’t have time for your theatrics.” He turned his back on me. The helicopter blades began to roar, kicking up a blinding cloud of snow. I lunged forward, grabbing at his boot. “Robert, I’ll go! I’ll leave! I won’t ever see you again! Just give me the shot! I want to live!” He didn’t even look back. He just kicked my hand away, his face contorted in anger. “Enough! I’ll send a retrieval team once I’ve secured the Bastion. Just wait your turn!” He climbed into the cabin and pulled Macy in beside him. She looked down at me through the glass, a radiant, triumphant smile on her face. The helicopter rose into the gray sky. I slumped into the snow. The rage inside me surged, and I coughed up a spray of thick, black blood. “Oh god,” Sam whispered, backing away. “The transition… it’s starting.” He wanted to help, but the fear of the virus was too great. I didn’t blame him. I didn’t want to live through the transformation—to become a mindless, shuffling corpse. “Sam,” I wheezed. “Give me your sidearm.” He hesitated, then placed the heavy pistol in my mangled hand. I handed him a small data drive and a blood-stained journal I had kept hidden in my coat. “When I’m gone… give this to the Council. Not Robert. The Council.” As I pressed the barrel to my temple, a strange, calm clarity washed over me. At that exact moment, miles away in the air, a digital chime echoed in Robert’s mind. “Warning: Life-Tether terminated. Host lifespan: Final Countdown initiated.”

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