My daughter’s body is a minefield. She was born with a hyper-sensitive system—allergies to everything from certain proteins to common pollen. It’s a constant state of high alert. Because of an emergency business trip, I had no choice but to leave her with my mother. During my lunch break, I did what I always do: I opened the nursery cam app on my phone. On the screen, my daughter was clutching a massive, vibrant bouquet of lilies. My mother was standing right there, hovering over her with a beaming smile, snapping photos. “Rosie, honey, smell the flowers. Aren’t they pretty?” my mother’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker. She knew. She knew exactly how severe Rosie’s reactions were. This wasn’t just a mistake. This was a death sentence. 1 The second I saw the monitor, my world tilted. Rosie was holding a spray of blooming lilies, their yellow pollen dusting her tiny hands. She was smiling, that sweet, innocent toddler grin. My mother, Martha, was crouched on the floor, waving her phone around like a frantic director. “Rosie is prettier than any flower. Just a little closer, sweetie. Let Nana get one more shot.” My heart stopped as Rosie buried her face into the petals. She took a deep, lung-filling breath of the very thing that could kill her. Black spots danced in my vision. Before I left, I had spent hours—literal hours—going over the protocols. I’d warned Martha about the spring bloom. I told her the neighborhood was a danger zone right now. I told her Rosie needed a mask if she went near the garden. I told her to stay inside. Martha had nodded. She’d promised. And then, the moment my back was turned, she’d gone out and brought the poison inside. Rosie isn’t “sensitive.” She’s anaphylactic. She’s been hospitalized before for accidentally eating a trace of peanut. This wasn’t a game. I fumbled with my phone, dialing my mother’s cell. In the corner of the monitor, I saw her phone light up. She looked at it, saw my name, and with a cold, practiced flick of her thumb, she declined the call. Then, as if nothing had happened, she went back to the camera app. “So pretty, Rosie. Give Nana a different pose.” I screamed at the monitor, my voice raw. “Mom! Get those flowers away from her! Rosie’s going to stop breathing!” Nothing. The audio only went one way unless I hit the intercom button. I slammed my thumb onto the “talk” icon. “Mom! I said get the flowers out! Now!” “Open the windows! Wash her hands! Wash her face! She’s going to have a reaction!” Martha didn’t flinch. The camera was brand new; I knew the speakers were loud. There was only one explanation for the silence. She was ignoring me on purpose. But Rosie’s face was already starting to flush. The skin around her eyes was puffing up. My chest tightened. I was hundreds of miles away, trapped in a glass office building, watching my child’s throat close in real-time. “Mom! I know you can hear me! Throw those flowers out! You’re going to kill her!” “Please! Look at her face! She’s turning red!” My words were pebbles thrown into a canyon. Martha just kept snapping photos, lost in her own little world of “perfect” memories. Rosie’s skin was becoming a blotchy, angry crimson. My hands were shaking so hard I nearly dropped the phone. I pressed my pen into my palm, the metal tip digging deep into my skin, but I couldn’t feel the pain. The panic was a physical weight, crushing the air out of me. In a final, desperate act, I softened my voice, trying to reach my daughter directly. “Rosie. Rosie, baby, listen to Mommy. Drop the flowers, okay? Drop them right now.” Rosie looked toward the camera, her expression confused and dazed. “Mommy… flowers.” She’s only two. She barely has the vocabulary to describe a stomachache, let alone understand the concept of a fatal allergen. I lost my temper. I used my “scary” voice, the one I hated using. “Rosie! Drop the flowers! Now!” Rosie flinched. The bouquet hit the floor with a soft thud. I exhaled, a ragged, shaky sound. “Rosie, get away from the flowers. Go to your room. Right now!” The moment the lilies hit the hardwood, the smile vanished from Martha’s face. She shot a look of pure venom toward the camera lens. “Nag, nag, nag. You’re so loud, Joyce.” She grabbed Rosie’s tiny wrist, pulling her back before she could run to her room. “Pick them up, Rosie. Nana wants to get a few more of you looking like a little princess.” 2 I felt like I was losing my mind. “Mom, you can hear me! I’ve been screaming for five minutes and you didn’t say a word!” “I’m not deaf, Joyce. Of course I heard you.” The breath left my lungs. It was like punching a cloud. This was my mother’s specialty: selective hearing. If she didn’t like what you were saying, it simply didn’t exist. She would steamroll over anyone’s life just to prove she was right. I’d spent my entire childhood being flattened by that steamroller. The only reason she was even in my house was because Dan was working double shifts, his mother had just broken her hip, and my firm had forced this trip on me. I thought I had accounted for every variable. I’d thrown out every suspicious item in the pantry. I’d stocked the fridge. I’d begged her to stay indoors. I had planned for everything except my mother’s ego. Martha saw Rosie hesitating. She picked up the lilies and thrust them back into the toddler’s arms. “Come on, sweetie. Just one more. You look so beautiful with the flowers. Other little girls would be so jealous.” Children thrive on praise. Rosie looked at the camera, then at the bright yellow centers of the lilies, and reached out her hand. A flicker of triumph crossed Martha’s face. Just as Rosie’s fingers were about to brush the pollen, I took a gamble. “Rosie! If you touch those, Mommy won’t come home! Mommy won’t love you anymore!” It was a horrible, manipulative thing to say. But it worked. Rosie burst into tears, her face crumbling. She wailed, backing away from the flowers as if they were made of fire. I slumped in my office chair, the adrenaline leaving me hollow. As long as she stayed away, she might be okay. I immediately switched from the monitor to a FaceTime call. Martha answered, her face a mask of annoyance. Before I could get a word out, she went on the offensive. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Scaring the poor thing like that. Ruining a perfectly good photo. You’re a mean mommy, aren’t you, Rosie?” She took Rosie’s hand and used it to playfully “smack” the phone screen. I gritted my teeth. I hated the way she used my daughter as a pawn in her petty emotional games. Rosie was still sobbing, her chest heaving. My heart broke for her. “Mom, it’s not about being mean,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “She is allergic. Deeply, dangerously allergic.” “Oh, stop with that nonsense. Children need to be exposed to nature. That’s how they build an immune system. You’re raising her in a bubble.” “It’s not a bubble, Mom! It’s a medical fact!” Martha rolled her eyes. She practically tossed Rosie onto the sofa. “Fine. Whatever. Your daughter is made of glass. I was just trying to give her a nice childhood, but I guess I’m just a villain. If I’m such a terrible grandmother, find someone else. I’m done.” She turned toward the door. 3 My heart plummeted. Was she seriously going to leave a two-year-old alone in the house? Rosie’s cries grew louder, her little voice calling out for “Nana.” Just as Martha’s hand touched the doorknob, I broke. “I’m sorry, Mom… I shouldn’t have yelled. Please, just stay. Just take care of her, okay?” I couldn’t see her face, but I knew she was smirking. “That’s more like it. You kids think you know everything because you read a few books. Allergies… in my day, we just called it being a picky eater. She just needs to get used to things.” “But she really is—” I started, then stopped myself. It was useless. “Just… please. Keep her safe.” “Fine, fine. I’m staying. I’m not a monster.” She closed the door and, to my immense relief, she picked up the lilies and threw them onto the porch. I leaned back, realizing my shirt was soaked with cold sweat. My palm was bleeding where the pen had punctured it. I went to the breakroom, grabbed some antiseptic, and went back to my desk. I kept the monitor app open in a small window. I watched Martha feed Rosie lunch. They were sitting at the kitchen island. Martha was playing “airplane” with a spoon, and Rosie seemed to be calming down. My pulse finally started to slow. Then, Rosie started to cough. It wasn’t a normal cough. It was a harsh, barking sound. “Mom? What’s going on? Is she okay?” Silence. One second. Five seconds. My skin began to crawl. “Mom! Talk to me! What happened?” Finally, Martha’s voice came through the app. Just two words. “She just choked.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Okay. Just a swallow of water down the wrong pipe. Martha was patting Rosie’s back, her body blocking the camera’s view of the toddler. The coughing stopped. But a cold dread began to pool in my stomach. Why was it so quiet? Rosie was a chatterbox. If she was okay, she’d be whining or talking about her juice. “Rosie? Baby, can you hear Mommy?” Nothing. “Rosie? Say something for me, sweetie.” The silence was deafening. This wasn’t right. Rosie always responded to my voice. She’d usually run to the camera and press her nose against the lens. “Mom! Move! I need to see her face!” Martha didn’t move. She held Rosie tightly, her back to the camera, as still as a statue. I stood up so fast my chair flipped over. I ripped my badge off my lanyard and threw it on the desk. “Call the partners,” I told my startled cubicle neighbor. “My daughter. Something’s wrong. I have to go.” The moment I mentioned leaving work, I heard Martha “tsk” over the monitor. She slowly turned around. “Honestly, Joyce, you’re so dramatic. You’ll get fired if you keep walking out like this.” “Let me see her!” I screamed. “Look, she’s fine. She just fell asleep.” Martha tilted Rosie toward the camera. Rosie’s face was still flushed, but her eyes were shut tight. Her mouth was slightly open. Martha rolled her eyes. “Always looking for a reason to panic…” But something was wrong. Very wrong. Rosie had been full of energy two minutes ago. Kids don’t just “fall asleep” in the middle of a meal while they’re crying. Before I could get a better look, Martha carried her out of the camera’s frame. I ran for the elevator, my fingers fumbling to call an Uber. My brain was a mess of jagged thoughts. Why would she just go to sleep? Then, a memory hit me like a physical blow. Last year. Rosie was barely one. We were trying out new foods. I’d given her a tiny bit of almond butter. She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t coughed. She had simply gone limp in my arms. The realization shattered me. Rosie hadn’t “fallen asleep.” She was in anaphylactic shock. 4 The memory of that hospital room—the machines, the needles, the way the doctor looked at me—sent a surge of nausea through me. I was in the back of the Uber, my legs shaking so hard I couldn’t keep my feet flat on the floor. I messaged Dan, my thumbs tripping over the screen. Get home now. Rosie. I think she’s having a reaction. Hurry. He replied instantly. Just leaving the site. I’m ten minutes away. I’m going. But ten minutes is an eternity when someone isn’t breathing. On my phone, Martha reappeared in the living room. She was rocking Rosie, humming a soft, cheerful lullaby. She looked so peaceful. It was horrifying. I felt like I was watching a horror movie where I was the only one who knew the killer was in the house. “Mom,” I said, my voice trembling, forced into a whisper. “Rosie is in shock. You need to get her out of the house. Dan is coming to take you to the ER. Get her shoes. Now.” Martha actually laughed. “The ER? For a nap? You’re losing your mind, Joyce.” She shifted her position, and for a split second, Rosie’s face came into clear view. Her lips weren’t pink anymore. They were a terrifying shade of bruised purple. And her arms—the skin that was visible was covered in angry, raised red welts. My blood turned to ice. “Martha! What did you give her?” My mother stiffened. “Is that how you address me? I’m your mother. Where is your respect?” I didn’t care about respect. I didn’t care about anything but the ticking clock. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay? Just tell me! What did she eat?” “Nothing special… just a little bit of peanut butter on her crackers. She liked it.” The world went black for a second. “Wake her up! Mom! There’s an EpiPen in the fridge! The red case! Stab her in the thigh and call 911! Do it now!” I was hysterical, sobbing into the phone. But Martha just kept rocking. “I’m not doing that. You’re being cruel. Let the child sleep.” “She isn’t sleeping! She’s dying! That medicine is the only thing that will save her!” I tried to explain the science, the constriction of the airway, but she just tuned me out. “She’s fine. Look at how peaceful she is…” I clawed at my hair. I was drowning in regret. Why did I take this job? Why did I trust her? On the screen, Rosie’s little body gave a sudden, violent jerk. A seizure. I screamed Dan’s name into the phone as I called him again. “Dan! Please! Faster!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440968”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I am a ghost from ten years ago, anchored to this timeline by a single, desperate mission: save Alexander West. If I can win him back—if I can make him love me again—his younger self will be spared the tragedy that broke him. The accident that left the man before me paralyzed in a wheelchair will be erased from history. But if I fail, he vanishes. In every timeline, in every memory, Alexander West will simply cease to exist. This is my final shot. It’s why I’ve endured his venom, his public humiliations, and the way he sneers at me as if I’m something he found on the bottom of his shoe. To everyone else, I’m the toxic ex who doesn’t know when to quit. A social climber trying to claw her way back into the life of the man she once threw away. They don’t understand that I’m fighting for his life. Last night, the cruelty hit a new peak. During a high-stakes “Truth or Dare” at a charity gala, we were locked in a “Pulse Room”—a sensory-deprivation chamber where the door only unlocks if you whisper the name of the person you love and your heart rate hits a specific, undeniable frequency. Alexander didn’t hesitate. Without a glance in my direction, he breathed a single name: “Lydia.” Lydia. The bright, bubbly pharmaceutical rep who treats him like a wounded bird. His “Little Sunshine.” The door buzzed open. I stared at him, my chest aching as if he’d physically struck me. He just leaned back in his wheelchair, a mocking glint in his dark eyes. “It’s just a game, Iris,” he’d said. “Don’t tell me you actually took it to heart.” Then, his voice dropped, turning into a low, dangerous velvet. He told me that if I stayed in that dark room alone all night as a ‘penalty,’ he’d grant me one minute of being his girlfriend again. A sixty-second consolation prize. I just looked at him, feeling the last fraying thread of my hope snap. “Don’t bother, Alexander,” I whispered. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” 1 “Think carefully, Iris. This might be the only chance you have left to—” Alexander cut himself off, his jaw tightening as he processed my words. For a fleeting second, a crack appeared in his icy mask. “What did you just say? You’re turning it down?” He narrowed his eyes, searching my face for the lie. “What’s the angle this time? Playing hard to get? Trying to make me chase you?” I met his gaze, forcing down the acidic burn in my throat. I kept my voice flat, devoid of the desperation that usually defined us. “I’ll take the penalty. I’ll stay the night.” I took a breath, the air in the room feeling thin. “But the rest of it? The ‘getting back together’ thing? There’s no point.” The smirk he’d been wearing froze. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the armrests of his wheelchair, his frame tense with a sudden, inexplicable fury. “Fine,” he spat, his voice trembling with a dark, suppressed emotion. “What’s the catch? What’s the new price?” “Do you want me to take you back to that trailer park in Haven Cove? Or do you have some new, pathetic excuse for why you vanished ten years ago?” He leaned forward, his eyes burning. “I don’t get it, Iris. You’re the one who walked out. You’re the one who left me bleeding out in the rain. Why do you always act like the goddamn martyr?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, staring at the ceiling to force back the tears. This was my third life. My third attempt to fix this. In the first life, I tried to prove my devotion by literally throwing myself into the line of fire for him. When he stood over my hospital bed, he didn’t weep. He just said, “You always were dramatic.” In the second life, I brought him to my old professors, showed him the records, tried to explain that I never went to Europe for a better life—that I left to protect him. He didn’t believe me. Instead, he used his influence to ruin the people who tried to speak for me. In this life, I told him the truth from day one. I told him that our reconciliation was the only thing that could heal his legs, the only thing that could save his soul. He just laughed. He pointed to the miracle drugs Lydia was developing for him. “I’m not the naive kid from the docks anymore, Iris. You think your ‘love’ is going to make me walk? Listen to yourself. It’s pathetic.” Looking at the sheer loathing in his eyes now, I felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle over me. But then I looked at his legs, and the memory of him at eighteen flashed through my mind—how he’d worked three jobs to pay for my tuition, how he’d taken a lead pipe to the knees from a debt collector just so I wouldn’t have to worry. My eyes drifted to the EKG monitor on the wall of the Pulse Room. Even though he claimed to find Lydia annoying, his heart rate had spiked the moment her name left his lips. I gave a small, bitter laugh. “I don’t want anything from you anymore, Alexander,” I said. “For the last time: I never abandoned you. I never wanted the money. I was trying to save you. Truly.” I wiped a stray tear away before it could fall. Alexander looked stunned, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. The tension was shattered when the door was flung open. A figure blurred through the light, throwing herself into Alexander’s lap. “Are you okay?” Lydia asked, her voice trembling with manufactured concern. She looked up at him with wide, watery eyes. “You know you hate the dark. Why did you let her drag you into this stupid game?” “Let’s go home,” she whispered, then threw a sharp, territorial glare in my direction. She looked exactly the way I used to—standing as a shield between Alexander and the world. When the wheelchair didn’t move immediately, Lydia followed Alexander’s gaze to the EKG monitor. Seeing the recorded spike in his heart rate from earlier, she beamed. “She’ll be fine, Alexander,” Lydia said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “She’s not that scared little girl who used to hide in your arms anymore. She’s tougher than she looks.” The cold aura around Alexander seemed to soften slightly at her touch. He looked at me one last time, as if trying to convince himself of something. “One night, Iris,” he muttered. “Survive the night, and maybe I’ll give you one more chance to explain yourself tomorrow.” I watched Lydia wheel him away, the heavy steel door groaning shut behind them. The darkness rushed in, thick and suffocating. The old, familiar terror began to claw at my throat. He’d forgotten. Or maybe he just didn’t care anymore. He was the one who pulled me out of the darkness all those years ago when my parents locked me away. He knew the dark was my cage. I curled into a ball on the cold floor, burying my face in my knees. The tears came then, hot and heavy. My mind drifted back to the eighteen-year-old Alexander—the boy who was still waiting for me to come home in the past. Then, the cold, mechanical chime of the Directive echoed in my mind. [Warning: Host’s will to continue is critically low. Abandonment detected. Calculating failure parameters.] 2 [Confirmation required: Does the Host wish to forfeit the mission?] I bit my lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. I was ready to nod. I was ready to let the void take me. Suddenly, the last dim light in the room died with a sharp pop. Total darkness. The air felt like wet wool. I could hear the echoes of my father’s drunken shouting from my childhood, the sound of the cellar door locking. I tried to cover my ears, my breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. I opened my mouth to scream the word Yes to the Directive, to end it all— BANG. The door was kicked off its hinges. A silhouette stood framed in the blinding light of the hallway. For a second, the outline of the man matched the lean, hungry shape of the boy I loved. A smile broke through my terror. He came back. He still cares. The Directive’s question faded into the back of my mind. I must have fainted, because when I opened my eyes, I was dreaming. In the dream, I was back in Haven Cove. We were kids. Alexander was the town’s stray, the orphan everyone whispered about. The first time I ever spoke to him was after a group of local bullies had cracked his forehead open with a rock. I’d saved my lunch money for weeks. I used it to take him to the small clinic in town. I remembered him sitting on the exam table, his ribs showing through his skin, looking away from me. “I’ll pay you back,” he’d said, his voice a gravelly rasp. I’d just shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. Just… next time you go to the city, can you take me with you?” I wanted to learn. I wanted to see the world. My parents wouldn’t pay for school, so I had to be smart. I had to find a way out. We became inseparable. By the time I was eighteen, I held an acceptance letter to a university in the city, but my parents tore it into confetti. They wanted to marry me off to a man three times my age to settle a gambling debt. I tried to run, but Haven Cove was a trap. They caught me. They locked me in the shed behind the house for three months. No light. Barely any food. Alexander was the one who found me. He nearly died pulling me out of there, taking a beating that should have killed him. After we escaped, he worked two shifts at the docks to put me through school. When I tried to tell him no, he just pinched my cheek and laughed. “Just graduate, Iris. Then we’ll get married. You’re the only reason I want a better life.” That Alexander loved me with every fiber of his being. So when the Directive appeared to me ten years ago, offering a deal—go to the future, save the man he becomes, and fix the tragedy of his accident—I didn’t hesitate. Even the eighteen-year-old Alexander had encouraged me. “The future me won’t need a mission to love you,” he’d joked. But as I left, he’d gripped my hand, his eyes serious. “Iris, if the man I become ever breaks your heart… just walk away. I’m promising you right now, I’d rather die than be the reason you cry.” The dream started to dissolve. I reached out for his hand, screaming his name as I lurched awake. But I wasn’t in Alexander’s arms. I was in a hospital bed, and Lydia was standing over me with a smirk that made my skin crawl. “You really thought it was him, didn’t you?” she asked, her voice dripping with mockery. She pulled out her phone and played a video. It was security footage of the Pulse Room. It wasn’t Alexander who had kicked the door in; it was a panicked security guard. “The staff didn’t want a lawsuit,” Lydia laughed. “Did you really think a little ‘damsel in distress’ act would work on him? Alexander has spent ten years hating you. You think a dark room changes that?” She leaned in closer, her voice a sharp whisper. “I’m the leading lady of this story now, Iris. Why did you have to come back? You’re a ghost. Stay dead.” Before I could respond, she let out a piercing scream and threw herself onto the floor. The tray of hot soup she’d brought—supposedly as a peace offering—shattered, the scalding liquid splashing over her arms. Right on cue, Alexander rolled into the room. Lydia looked up at him, tears streaming down her face. “Iris, I only came here to check on you! Why would you do this?” She sobbed, clutching Alexander’s hand. “It’s my fault, really. I just told her that the new treatment was working, that you were going to walk again… and she snapped. She kept saying that only she could save you.” I watched her performance with a cold, hollow feeling in my chest. I looked past her, straight into Alexander’s eyes. “You were standing right outside the door,” I said quietly. “You saw what happened. Didn’t you?” 3 Lydia’s eyes widened in fake terror. “Alexander, no, she’s lying…” I waited. I waited for the man who used to know my soul to look at the physics of the spill, to see the calculation in Lydia’s eyes. I waited for him to protect me. Instead, his voice was like dry ice. “I could call the police, Iris. I could have you charged with assault.” He looked at me as if I were a stranger—a nuisance to be cleared away. Lydia pressed closer to his side, her face glowing with triumph. “Can’t take it?” Alexander sneered, his lip curling. “This is a fraction of the pain I’ve lived with for a decade. I was building a life for us in Everglade City. I was finally making it. And then you vanished without a word.” “Now I’m the man everyone wants to know. I’m the ‘New Money’ king of the coast. And suddenly, you’re back, crawling around, trying to get a piece of it.” His eyes were bloodshot, his voice trembling with a decade of fermented rage. “What makes you think I’d wait for you? What makes you think your ‘devotion’ means anything to me now?” The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating. The dam finally broke. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to!” I screamed, the words tearing out of me. “Then why?” Alexander yelled back. “Give me one reason! Tell me why you let me think you were dead!” I opened my mouth, but the Directive’s invisible weight clamped down on my vocal cords. I couldn’t speak the truth of the system. I couldn’t explain the time-slip. I closed my eyes, my shoulders slumping. “I can’t tell you the ‘why.’ But Alexander, I never stopped trying to get back to you. Everything I’ve done was to make sure you’d walk again.” I saw the flicker of “Here we go again” in his eyes. He didn’t believe a word. He pulled out his phone to dial the police. Suddenly, the door swung open again. A young woman with a round, friendly face froze at the sight of the chaos. “Iris? Oh my god, Iris! It is you!” She rushed in, ignoring Alexander. “Where have you been? When you turned down the Fulbright scholarship and disappeared from campus, the Dean was devastated! We all thought something terrible happened. You left everything behind—your clothes, your books… it was like you just evaporated.” The room went silent. Alexander’s hand froze on his phone. He turned his chair toward the girl, his voice a low growl. “She didn’t go to Europe?” The girl frowned. “Europe? No. She never even picked up her plane tickets. She vanished the night before the flight.” Lydia tried to cut in, her voice frantic. “Alexander, this is obviously an actress. Iris is just trying to manipulate you—” Alexander ignored her. He grabbed my wrist, his grip bruising. “Is she telling the truth? You never left the country?” I pulled my arm back, my heart feeling like lead. I looked at Lydia, then back at Alexander. “I’ll look into this,” Alexander muttered, his voice shaken. He turned to Lydia, his tone turning sharp. “Get out, Lydia. You’ve overstepped.” “But Alexander—” “Go,” he barked. Lydia scrambled to grab her bag and fled, her face pale. I didn’t say a word. I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling a strange numbness. I looked down at my hands and gasped. My fingertips were becoming translucent. I was starting to fade. I looked up, wanting to call out to him, but Alexander was already rolling out the door, his mind clearly miles away. I let out a long, shaky sigh. “Whatever,” I whispered to the empty room. Three days later, Alexander appeared at my door. He looked exhausted. He rolled to my bedside and pulled a small, velvet box from his pocket. Inside was a ring—a simple gold band, worn and slightly tarnished. “I bought this ten years ago,” he said, his voice raw. “I carried it every day for a year. Iris… if I asked you now, would it be too late?” I looked at the ring, then at him. “What about Lydia?” He didn’t answer. He just took my hand and slid the ring onto my finger. 4 After that day, Lydia’s name was never mentioned. It was as if she’d been erased from our lives. But the “proposal” didn’t lead to a wedding. It didn’t lead to anything. We just fell back into a hollow version of our old rhythm. He would kiss my forehead, he would bring me flowers, he would act like the man I used to know. One afternoon, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Are we actually together, Alexander? Does this mean I succeeded?” He didn’t look at me. “Just focus on getting better, Iris. We’ll talk about the rest later.” That evening, he brought me a vanilla cone—my favorite treat from Haven Cove. I reached out to take it, but my hand passed right through the wafer. The cone hit the floor, splattering across the tiles. I stared at my hand in horror. It was almost completely see-through now. Alexander didn’t say a word. He just quietly leaned down, cleaning the mess with a paper towel. “It’s okay,” he whispered. He looked so sad, so devoted. If I hadn’t seen the photos Lydia had DM’d me an hour earlier—photos of him and her at a bridal boutique, picking out her gown—I might have believed him. “I guess people’s tastes change over ten years,” Alexander said, his voice laced with a strange, hidden meaning. The anger finally surged, hot and blinding. “Stop it!” I grabbed my phone and shoved the wedding photos in his face. “Enough with the mind games, Alexander! Why the ring? Why the fake affection? Why pretend we’re okay while you’re planning a wedding with her?” Alexander went still. Then, he began to laugh. A cold, dry sound that had no joy in it. He looked at me, his eyes twin pits of ice. “You finally caught on. I was wondering how long you’d let me play with you.” Then, to my absolute shock, he gripped the arms of his wheelchair and stood up. He rose slowly, towering over me, his legs steady and strong. “That ‘actress’ you hired? The one who said you never went to Europe? Nice touch, Iris. But it wasn’t enough.” “You said only you could save me. But look at me. I’m standing. I’m fine.” He sneered, looking down at me. “Are you disappointed? Is your little ‘mission’ ruined because I didn’t need you to be whole?” I couldn’t breathe. “I did it on purpose,” he whispered. “Lydia’s company developed the treatment that put me back on my feet. I’m marrying her because she actually gave me a future, while you just gave me a decade of ghosts.” He sat back down, checking his watch. His phone buzzed—a call from Lydia. “If you want to come to the wedding and make a scene, go for it,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Maybe I’ll give you a severance check for your time.” He looked at his legs with pride. “I’m going to my engagement party now. To start my real life.” “Alexander, wait!” I cried as he reached the door. “If you marry her, you’ll die! The mission—if it fails, you disappear!” He didn’t even turn around. The door clicked shut. Then, the Directive’s voice boomed in my skull. [Mission Failure Confirmed. Commencing Host Extraction. Returning to Year Zero.] [Host will remain in this timeline until physical transparency reaches 100%.] Across town, in the middle of a grand ballroom, Alexander West stood up from his wheelchair to the roar of applause. He held Lydia in his arms, his eyes scanning the crowd, looking for a face he claimed to hate. But I wasn’t there. As the music swelled, a sudden, violent jolt racked his body. His legs buckled. He collapsed, the world spinning into a blur of screams and camera flashes. As he lay on the floor, he felt his heart stutter, his very life force being pulled out of him like water through a sieve. In the darkness of his closing eyes, a single line of crimson text burned: [WARNING: TARGET TERMINATION IN PROGRESS. MISSION FORFEITED BY IRIS.]

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I had been married to Pierce for five years, and for five years, he had been as cold as a tomb. When his mother pulled me aside that afternoon and pressed a small, discreet package into my hand—a “little help” to spark the fire, she’d whispered—I actually felt a flicker of hope. That night, when he was “sent” to my room by her decree, I was naive enough to believe our hollow marriage was finally turning a corner. I was wrong. I found the pinhole camera while I was showering, tucked into a dark corner of the marble tiles, its tiny lens shimmering like a predatory eye. By the next morning, the footage was everywhere. It wasn’t just leaked; it was being auctioned off as a “Mystery Box” on a private, high-stakes streaming site. I stood outside his study, the door cracked just enough for the bile-slicked laughter of his friends to pour out. They were crowded around a monitor, their words a jagged edge against my skin. “Damn, Pierce,” one of them chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re really putting Norma up as a public service? First the shower show, and now a raffle? You’re actually going to let some random stranger have a go at her?” Pierce leaned back, a cloud of expensive cigar smoke curling around his head. His lip curled in a smirk that tasted of pure disdain. “I promised Mallory years ago I’d never touch Norma. It’s her own fault for being desperate enough to crawl into my bed last night. If she wants to be ‘satisfied’ so badly, I’m just letting her enjoy the experience.” … The roar of laughter that followed nearly took the roof off. “The Ice Queen is actually a closet slut! Who knew?” “But for real, Pierce—when the ‘Mystery Box’ winner shows up to claim the prize, it’s going to be full contact. You’re not worried she’ll make a scene?” Pierce flicked an ash, his expression bored. “She brought this on herself. If she hadn’t forced this marriage on me, Mallory wouldn’t have fled to Paris in a heartbreak. Mallory hasn’t called me once in five years because of her.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential, cruel conspiratorial tone. “And you guys don’t see it. I’ve caught her taking matters into her own hands more than once. She’s like a parched garden; she’ll take whatever water she can get. A woman that hungry won’t fight. She’ll probably thank us.” The room erupted again, a chorus of predatory agreement. “Serves her right for thinking she could replace Mallory. Now that Mallory’s back from her ‘exile,’ it’s time Norma learned where she actually fits in the food chain.” I felt like I was drowning in a wave of cold, black ink. Since our wedding night, Pierce and I had been strangers in the same house. We slept in separate wings. I had watched the other women in our social circle announce pregnancies, throw lavish baby showers, and build lives. I had tried to fight for us once. I had demanded to know why he wouldn’t even look at me. He had unbuckled his belt in front of me that night, his eyes burning with a terrifying, icy rage. “Look at me, Norma,” he’d spat. “I feel absolutely nothing when I look at you. Not even a spark. Have some self-respect and stay in your own room.” He’d practically thrown me out of the master suite, naked and shivering, while the house staff pretended not to hear my humilation. I spent years thinking I was the problem. I took hormones that made me sick; I underwent countless tests until my arms were a roadmap of needle bruises. I carried the reputation of the “Cold Wife,” the woman who couldn’t keep her husband’s interest. And all this time, his “low libido” was just a shrine he’d built for Mallory. The absurdity of it was staggering. My mind drifted back to our wedding night, when his mother, Margaret, had sat me down in the library. “He and Mallory are just childhood friends, Norma. Give it time. Once you’re married, his heart will open to you.” Seeing my hesitation, she had offered a deal. A five-year contract. If, after five years, Pierce still hadn’t accepted me as his wife, I could leave with my dignity and a settlement. I hadn’t cared about the money. I had cared about him. But after five years of pouring myself into a void, he was selling me to the highest bidder. My heart felt like it was being crushed by a phantom hand. My phone buzzed incessantly in my pocket—notifications from the dark corners of the internet, comments tearing my dignity to shreds. With trembling fingers, I dialed Margaret. “The five-year mark is up,” I whispered into the receiver. “Please. Let me go.” I returned to the house in a daze. For the first time in years, Pierce was waiting for me. He handed me a glass of milk, his eyes uncharacteristically soft. He pointed to the bed, which was covered in a collection of silk ties and adult toys that made my blood run cold. He wrapped his arms around me from behind, his breath hot against my ear. “I’ve been too distant, Norma,” he murmured. “Let’s start slow. Just us and some toys. Don’t you want that?” I drank the milk, my brain fuddled by exhaustion and grief. But as his hands moved over me, I remembered the laughter in his study. I pushed him away. “Not tonight. I’m tired.” His face transformed instantly, the mask of affection slipping to reveal the jagged stone beneath. “You’ve been begging for a child for five years, Norma. Now that I’m offering to ‘help’ you, you’re playing hard to get?” He stripped me and shoved me onto the bed, but he didn’t stay. He took a call and walked out, locking the door behind him. I tried to get up, but my limbs felt like lead. My vision blurred. Through the haze, I saw the door open. Two figures entered—Pierce and Mallory. “You’re a genius,” Mallory giggled, her voice like wind chimes. “Drugged and surrounded by toys… the photos will be way more lucrative than the shower video. The ‘Mystery Box’ sales are going to skyrocket.” “I promised you, Mal,” Pierce said, his voice tender in a way it never was with me. “I’ll never touch her. She’s just the product.” I lay there, paralyzed, as hired “security” posed my limp body for the camera. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move. I could only watch the flashes of light explode against my skin like tiny, silent bombs. “I’ve always wondered what the Ice Queen looked like under those silk suits,” one of the guards muttered, his hand lingering too long on my hip. “Easy there,” another laughed. “Save it for the raffle. Buy a ticket like everyone else. I hear they’re even using that ‘compliance’ serum for the winner. It’s going to be a hell of a show.” Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, the only part of me still under my control. Eventually, the room went dark. I don’t know how much time passed before Pierce kicked my foot with his designer shoe to wake me. “I told you to wait for me,” he said, his voice thick with feigned annoyance. “You fell asleep.” My body ached with a deep, systemic throb. Looking at his calm, handsome face, I almost doubted my own memory. He tossed my clothes at me as if touching them would contaminate him. Even after I layered up in a heavy sweater, the chill wouldn’t leave my bones. Pierce checked his phone, a frown creasing his brow. “My mother is flying back early. I wonder what’s up.” I looked away. “Maybe it’s just business.” He grunted, satisfied with that, and set his phone on the nightstand while he went to get a glass of water. The phone exploded with notifications. I reached for it. The group chat was a nightmare of scrolling text. “Those shots are filthier than I expected. Everyone knows she’s a total wreck now.” “The stream sales just cleared three hundred thousand. People are going to go feral for the raffle!” “The ‘Wife’ is still a looker, but after tonight, she’ll be too broken for anyone to want, even for free. Haha!” My mind went white. I looked toward the wastebasket. There, resting on top, were several used wrappers. The memory wasn’t a hallucination. While I was drifting in and out of a drug-induced stupor, Pierce and Mallory had used my bedroom—and my presence—as a backdrop for their own reunion. Pierce walked back in, seeing my tears. He rushed over, his face a mask of concern. “Norma? Baby, what’s wrong?” As he “comforted” me with one hand, I saw him glance at the phone with the other, a smirk ghosting across his lips before he hid it. He handed me the water, his voice casual. “You know Mallory is back, right? We’re throwing her a ‘Welcome Home’ dinner tomorrow at The Gilded Lily. You should come. Wear something… revealing.” At the mention of her name, my hand shook. The glass shattered on the floor. “I’m not going. I need to rest.” Pierce’s expression turned venomous. “I married you, and it drove her away for five years. Don’t you feel a shred of guilt? You’re going. I’m not letting you embarrass me by moping at home. It’s settled.” He didn’t see me as a person. I was a scapegoat, a product, and a prop. The next night, the VIP lounge at The Gilded Lily was packed with his “brothers” and Mallory. They looked like the elite of the city, all tailored suits and expensive watches, but their eyes were hungry as they tracked me. “Norma! Come sit over here,” one of the guys said, grabbing my arm and trying to pull me onto his lap. I recoiled as if he were a leper, terror vibrating through my marrow. Mallory let out a performative pout. “Stop it, you guys. Norma’s a ‘virtuous’ wife. I heard she only just ‘found herself’ recently. She’s sensitive.” The table erupted in knowing smirks. Pierce sat on the velvet sofa, sipping bourbon, looking at Mallory with pure adoration. “I’m leaving,” I whispered, my throat tight. “My friends are being nice to you,” Pierce’s voice cut through the air, cold as a razor. “Don’t be a ‘dead fish.’ Sit down.” I gritted my teeth. “Pierce, I am your wife.” He didn’t even blink. Mallory stood up, her silk dress shimmering, and draped an arm around my shoulders. “Norma, honey, sit with me. Pierce is just grumpy. He’s got a… sharp tongue… but he doesn’t mean it.” She and Pierce exchanged a look that dripped with a foul, shared secret. Mallory picked up a glass of champagne. “Look, I was immature before I left. I almost ruined your wedding. Let me apologize. Drink this, and let’s be friends.” I saw the bubbles dancing in the glass. My skin crawled. “I don’t drink.” Pierce sat up, his eyes darkening. “Don’t be ungrateful. She’s trying to be the bigger person. Drink it.” I stared him down, refusing to touch the glass. “Oh, don’t scare her, Pierce!” Mallory chirped. She swapped the champagne for a cup of steaming tea. “Just some hot water, then? For the nerves?” She winked at me, a playful, terrifying gesture. I looked at the expectant faces around the table. “I don’t want anything.” As I pushed the cup back, Mallory “tripped.” The hot water splashed onto the floor, and she let out a piercing shriek, clutching her arm and collapsing into Pierce’s chest. “Norma! I know you hate me, but you didn’t have to scald me!” she sobbed. Pierce lost it. “That is enough!” He gave a sharp nod. Before I could move, a heavy, wet cloth was clamped over my mouth and nose from behind. “Thought she might be jumpy,” a voice hissed in my ear. “Good thing we had the backup ready. The ‘Mystery Box’ event is live in ten minutes.” The chemical scent filled my lungs. My insides felt like they were being eaten by ants. I looked at Pierce, trying to scream through the fabric. Pierce, what are you doing? He avoided my eyes, stroking Mallory’s hair. “You love being touched, don’t you? As your husband, I’m just making sure you get exactly what you want tonight. Enjoy yourself, Norma.” The world began to tilt. “The participants are waiting,” Pierce told the men, checking his watch. “Move fast.” Hands began to roam over me. “Don’t worry, Boss. The penthouse suite is ready. It’s going to be a show they’ll never forget.” They threw me over a shoulder like a sack of grain. As they carried me toward the elevator, I glared at Pierce with every ounce of soul I had left. “You… will… regret… this,” I croaked. The elevator doors hissed shut. In the penthouse, they forced a pill down my throat. I thrashed on the floor, my screams turning into ragged gasps. Outside the door, I heard muffled footsteps. Pierce’s voice sounded momentarily hesitant. “I gave her the ‘compliance’ drop,” his friend said. “She won’t remember a single thing that happens tonight. Relax.” I lay on the floor, a broken doll waiting for the storm. Suddenly, the door burst open. Not a raffle winner. Not a stranger. “Pierce, you absolute monster! How could you do this to your own wife?” Margaret stood there, her face a mask of cold fury. I sobbed, a broken, visceral sound. With the last of my strength, I reached for the legal folder she held out. I signed the contract. Margaret’s security team swarmed the room, shielding me. They whisked me out through the service entrance. Back in the lounge, Pierce gave the signal to start the stream. “We’ve got thirty million viewers in the lobby!” his friend shouted. “The ‘Wife’ is the biggest draw we’ve ever had! Let’s see who wins the prize!” The chat was a blur of filth. The “draw” button was clicked. Pierce watched the screen, waiting for the feed from the penthouse to go live. But the room on the monitor was empty. “Where is she?” Pierce demanded. A voice like a whip-crack came from behind him. “Don’t bother looking, Pierce. Norma is no longer your wife.”

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The day the baby was born, I was so hollowed out I didn’t even have the breath to speak. Connor, however, looked like a man who had finally set down a heavy burden. He leaned in, his voice casual, and confessed everything. He told me that the person who had spent the last year destroying my life was my best friend. “We just got back from the motel. She’s still sleeping it off,” he said, not a trace of guilt in his eyes. “This past six months, you having her ‘keep an eye’ on me? It just made things easier for us.” But the blow that truly shattered me was his next admission: my own mother had known all along. “She didn’t want you to lose it while you were pregnant. We did it for your own good, Paige,” he murmured, his attention already shifting to the squirming infant in his arms. He poked at the baby’s cheek with a callous indifference. “Actually, Tiffany deserves some credit. Without her, I’m not sure this kid would have made it to full term.” Then, he threw out a choice so cruel it felt like a serrated blade to the throat: “So, you decide. Does she become the godmother, or do I just make her the legal mother?” My mind flashed back to the moment I first suspected him. He was away on that high-security engineering project, and I’d found the evidence of another woman. I hadn’t screamed. I hadn’t made a scene. I had simply handed him the positive pregnancy test and gave him two options: we get a divorce, or he cuts her out of his life forever. He had stared at the two pink lines for a long time before choosing us. Or so I thought. From that day on, he was the perfect husband. He reported his every move. Even Tiffany, my closest confidante, spent every lunch break telling me how lucky I was that he’d changed. I had let my guard down. I had chosen to believe in the redemption of our marriage. I never could have imagined it was all an elaborate, coordinated performance. … As the epidural began to wear off, a searing, white-hot pain radiated from my lower body. But no physical agony could compare to the rot spreading through my chest. I gripped the hospital sheets until my knuckles turned white, forcing the words out through a constricted throat. “Why… why did you wait until the baby was here to tell me?” Before he could answer, the door swung open. A group of Connor’s colleagues and former frat brothers burst in, laughing and smelling of cheap beer. “You lost the bet, Tiff! Paige didn’t cry!” one of them shouted. “That means the ‘work wife’ gets a victory kiss from the Lead Engineer!” “Come on!” another chimed in. “Tiffany spent time in London—those Europeans are way more open-minded. Show him what he’s been missing!” Tiffany laughed, a light, melodic sound that used to bring me comfort. She feigned a blush, swatting at them. “Shut up, guys. If HR hears you talking like that, they’ll have my head for being the ‘other woman’ before I even get my desk nameplate changed.” My pupils contracted. The term “work wife”—the way they said it—sounded like a title she’d already officially claimed. Seeing the raw horror on my face, Connor offered a flat, clinical explanation. “We had a wager. If you cried when you found out about Tiffany and me, I’d have to post a public apology on the company bulletin board. If you stayed stoic, Tiffany and I get to go public without the drama.” He spoke as if he were discussing a project deadline. He tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, I guess you didn’t know. Tiffany and I are actually the ones with the valid marriage license.” “Then what was our wedding?” my voice cracked, tears finally spilling over. “What was that ceremony? The papers we signed?” In an instant, the room went quiet, but it wasn’t a respectful silence. It was the silence of people watching a car crash. “Paige, sweetie, you really didn’t realize?” one of the guys whispered, his eyes dancing with malice. “The license you signed with Connor was a prop. He filed the real paperwork with Tiffany months ago.” Tiffany stepped toward the bed, reaching out to take my hand with a mock-sympathetic smile. “Paige, we didn’t tell you for your own sake. We wanted the baby to have a stress-free environment.” It was the exact same script Connor had used. My blood turned to ice. Ten months ago, when I ran to my mother with my suspicions, she had looked me in the eye and said, “If you leave now, you’re just handing him to the other woman. Men stray, Paige. It’s what they do. But I can tell, Connor truly loves you.” She had talked me into staying. She had talked me into silence. And Tiffany… my best friend. She had volunteered to be my informant. She told me every detail of Connor’s schedule. She even “complained” to me about how tired she was from working late nights at the office with him. I felt so bad for her that I’d buy her expensive coffee and give her my spa gift cards, thinking she was burning the candle at both ends for our family’s future. Even last week, she’d sat by my bed and told me that after the baby was born, I needed to “reclaim my power” and be an independent woman. Now I realized she was the woman I’d been hunting. While I was struggling through every night of pregnancy—the nausea, the swollen ankles, the crushing loneliness—they were together. They were laughing at me. I began to shake so violently that the IV in my arm dislodged. Blood began to bloom across the white tape, dripping onto the linoleum floor. I didn’t care. Suddenly, every cold look from my mother-in-law made sense. Every time Connor’s students treated me like an outsider while doting on Tiffany like she was the Queen of the Department. I was the only one who didn’t know the joke was on me. The sight of my own blood finally jolted me back to reality. “What are you doing? You’re in recovery, you need to be careful,” Connor said, his voice suddenly shifting back to that terrifyingly gentle husband-persona. He pressed a hand over the puncture wound in my arm while holding a cup of lukewarm broth to my lips. I looked at him, my eyes burning. “Connor, why?” “Why the lies? The fake marriage? The career? What part of us was real?” My chest heaved. I was spiraling. Connor set the broth down, his eyes—the eyes I used to think were full of warmth—turning to cold, hard flint. “You might have forgotten five years ago, Paige. But I didn’t.” He stood up, looking down at me with a dark sense of triumph. “Five years ago, when the company went under and I was facing that federal investigation, when I was sick and broke and losing everything… Tiffany was the one who sold her car and took a night job to pay for my legal defense and my meds. You? You were too busy trying to distance yourself so your ‘reputation’ wouldn’t be tarnished.” He leaned in closer, his voice a lethal whisper. “But you didn’t get away clean, did you? You got exactly what you deserved that night in the city.” I froze. A chill that had nothing to do with the hospital AC settled in my marrow. Five years ago, Tiffany was the one who had been terrified of the scandal. She was the one who told me she knew some “investors” who could help Connor, but they were dangerous men. She had lured me to that hotel, promising they had the evidence to clear his name. I went there for him. I endured three hours of hell at the hands of those men because I thought it was the only way to save Connor’s life. When I finally escaped and found Connor, I was covered in bruises, clutching the “files” Tiffany said would help. But instead of a savior, I found him with the police and his lawyers. “Paige, what have you been doing?” he had spat back then, looking at my torn clothes with pure disgust. “You’re out here sleeping with low-lifes while I’m fighting for my life?” He had never let me explain. He told me he never wanted to hear about that night again. But he actually believed Tiffany was the one who saved him. “If you think I’m such a coward,” I whispered, “then why stay? Why the five years of pretending?” Connor wiped a stray drop of blood from my arm, his gaze drifting toward Tiffany, who was laughing by the door. “Tiffany can’t have children because of the ‘stress’ she went through helping me back then,” he said, his voice hardening. “I owed her a child. And you? You owed me a debt.” He paused, his expression curdling into loathing. “I tried to move past it. But every time I looked at you, I thought about Tiffany’s sacrifice and then I thought about you… getting caught in a hotel with those thugs. It made me sick. You made me sick.” I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound that tore at my stitches. For five years, I had subjected myself to every experimental fertility treatment, every painful hormone injection, every “miracle” diet, all because I thought I was difficult to impregnate. I had scarred my body and my mind to give a child to the man I loved. And the whole time, I was just a surrogate for a lie. Connor reached out to wipe my tears, his touch clinical. “Don’t cry. It’s not like I’m going to stop supporting you. You can stay in the guest house. You’ll still be the ‘Mrs. Sterling’ everyone sees at the charity galas. Just… give the baby to Tiffany. Let her raise him.” The dam finally broke. I sat up, ignoring the agonizing pull in my abdomen, and screamed. “In your dreams! This is fraud, Connor! I will take this to the board! I will go to the police! I will ruin both of you!” Connor didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me with pity. “Go ahead. Report me. But just know, if you do, you’ll never see that baby again. I have the resources, Paige. You have nothing.” I didn’t believe him. Not at first. I tried to reach out to our “friends” in the gated community, people who had toasted to our happiness for years. But one by one, the doors closed. Some said they were too busy; others told me flat out they didn’t want to get involved in “Connor’s private business.” By that afternoon, I was moved out of my private suite and onto a gurney in a crowded, noisy hallway. Connor’s doing. I could handle the humiliation, but the baby couldn’t. He cried incessantly for an hour. People walking by glared at me, muttering about “irresponsible mothers.” One woman, frustrated by the noise, actually knocked a cup of hot coffee onto my bed and told me to “shut that brat up or get out.” When Connor finally returned, he saw me slumped over the edge of the bed, my gown soaked in blood and cold coffee. “The regional board is coming through the hospital today for an inspection,” he said, adjusting his tie. “I’ll be introducing Tiffany as my wife to the directors. Stay quiet, Paige. Don’t make a scene.” He gave me a perfunctory pat on the shoulder, promised he’d “keep me safe” if I cooperated, and then took the baby away to be fed. I collapsed. My entire life had been a carefully constructed trap. Connor was the brilliant “Golden Boy” of the tech world. To marry me, he’d supposedly defied his wealthy parents, enduring their disapproval for years. He’d bought me the designer bags, the Volvo, the house in the suburbs. He’d used his influence to get me a position at the city’s top arts foundation. At every gala, he’d bragged about my talent. When I’d had a health scare a few years back, he’d stayed by my side, crying, telling the doctors he’d give everything he owned to save me. It was all a lie. Five years of a meticulously crafted fiction designed to keep me in place until I could produce a child for Tiffany. But they weren’t just taking the baby. They were stripping me of my dignity, my career, and my sanity to make room for her. Connor eventually brought the baby back, seemingly wanting to watch me suffer a little longer. I gritted my teeth. I needed money. I needed to get to the Foundation and withdraw my year-end bonus so I could run. But when I called the office, they told me I’d been replaced. My bonus and my seat on the board for the upcoming gala had been handed to Tiffany. I was blacklisted. The baby started crying again. I begged Connor’s aunt, who was passing by, to help me soothe him. She just looked at me with cold eyes. “Paige, your ‘services’ aren’t worth a tenth of what Connor brings to this family. I’m not lifting a finger.” Desperate, I tried to check back into a room, but the nurse just shook her head. “Mr. Sterling withdrew the payment. If you want a bed, you’ll have to pay the private rate upfront.” I had thirty dollars in my pocket. With my legs shaking and my body still reeling from the birth, I tucked the baby into his carrier and began the long walk home. The front door to our house was ajar. My heart hammered against my ribs—I thought we’d been robbed. But then I heard the voices coming from the master bedroom. “Connor… what if Paige finds us?” It was Tiffany. I pushed the door open. They were on the bed—our bed. Tiffany was beneath him, the rhythmic creak of the mattress a sickening metronome. When they saw me standing there, pale and trembling, Connor didn’t pull away. He just looked over his shoulder and smirked. “What’s the matter, Paige? You’ve been watching for a while. Want to join in?” I felt the bile rise in my throat. I shielded the baby’s eyes, but Tiffany just laughed. “Paige, your own mother told me… she said I was your best friend, and if I could satisfy Connor’s needs while you were ‘out of commission,’ it was better than him going to a stranger. She’s the one who pushed us together.” The room spun. I turned and ran out of the house, screaming at the top of my lungs for the neighbors to hear. “Everyone! Look at him! Look at the great Connor Sterling! He’s a fraud! He’s been married to this woman the whole time! They’ve been lying to everyone! He’s using his position to threaten me and take my child!” I was hysterical, my face flushed with a desperate, suicidal rage. “Have you had enough?” Connor asked, stepping onto the porch with Tiffany, both of them fully dressed now. “You’re making a fool of yourself in front of the whole neighborhood.” I didn’t care. If I was going down, I was taking them with me. But before I could speak again, Tiffany stepped forward and slapped me across the face so hard my ears rang. “Paige! I treated you like a sister, and you’re trying to seduce my husband?” she cried, her eyes instantly welling with fake tears. “The board members are on their way here! Everyone knows how hard Connor works for this community, and you’re trying to destroy him because you’re mentally unstable?” The neighbors, people I’d hosted for dinner parties, started to gather. “She’s always been trouble,” one woman hissed. “I heard about what happened five years ago. Once a tramp, always a tramp.” “Connor is a saint for putting up with her,” another added. “Get her out of here! She’s a disgrace to the neighborhood!” Connor sighed, playing the part of the grieving, exhausted husband. “Everyone, I didn’t want it to come to this. But for the sake of the truth… I swear, I have never been unfaithful to the values of this community. Paige’s claims are the delusions of a woman who’s been obsessed with me since I tried to help her out of the gutter.” My heart shattered. I looked at the crowd. I saw the woman whose son I’d helped find when he got lost at the mall. I saw the kids I’d bought expensive chocolates for. They were all looking at me with disgust. “Slut!” someone yelled. A stone—or maybe a piece of gravel—caught me in the forehead. The physical assault began. Not with fists at first, but with shoves. My hair was pulled. I felt my postpartum bandages shift, the scent of blood and sweat filling the air. Tiffany looked at me with pure revulsion. “Oh my god, Paige. Did you just leak on the driveway? That’s disgusting.” The crowd backed away as if I were a leper. “Keep that filth away from us!” I curled around the baby, shielding him with my broken body. I don’t know how long it lasted. I felt my clothes tear, felt the sting of spit on my skin. Connor finally walked over, looking down at me with mock pity. “I’ll give you one last chance, Paige. Admit who you really are. Admit the truth.” I looked at my shoes, my vision blurring. Suddenly, Tiffany lunged forward and snatched the baby from my arms. “Are you even a mother? The baby is choking and you’re just sitting there!” “Give him back!” I shrieked, reaching for my son. Tiffany put her hand around the baby’s neck, her eyes cold as a snake’s. “Stay back, or I swear, you’ll watch him take his last breath.” I froze. My heart stopped beating. I watched, paralyzed, as Tiffany told the crowd that I had been abusing the child, that I had attacked her. “Paige, you’re insane! You’d hurt your own son just to get back at me?” Connor shouted. He kicked me in the side, sending me sprawling into the dirt, before picking Tiffany up and carrying her into the house. I tried to crawl after them, but someone grabbed my collar. A sharp pain exploded at the back of my head. The world went black. When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a secluded patch of woods on the edge of town. My clothes were rags. Panic surged through me. “Who’s there? Where’s Connor?” A group of men—the kind of men Connor’s “security” team usually handled—were standing around me. One of them reached out and touched my leg, his eyes gleaming with a sick hunger. “You don’t know? Your man sold you to us. Said we could have our way as long as you didn’t come back.” Sold? My body began to convulse with tremors. “No. Connor… he wouldn’t. Not even him…” But then, the truth hit me like a freight train.

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The atmosphere at the high school reunion wedding was electric, the kind of forced joy that usually comes with an open bar and old rivalries. It was all fine until the MC grabbed the mic, grinning as he announced that whoever caught the bouquet would be the next one to find their “happily ever after.” In a moment of sheer, desperate impulse, I lunged forward. I didn’t just catch it; I fought for it, elbowing my way to the front until the silk ribbons were crushed in my palm. Breathless and beaming, I turned toward him, shouting his name over the music. “Daniel! Look! I got the bouquet!” But the reaction I’d rehearsed in my head—the smile, the kiss, the whispered promise—never came. Daniel didn’t even look at the flowers. He just turned his back on me and walked straight toward Sophie, his first love, who was standing a few yards away. The whispers started instantly, sharp as glass shards. “Who is she? She practically tackled that girl for the flowers. Is she that desperate to get a ring?” “That’s Daniel Thorne’s girlfriend. Apparently, she’s been hounding him to propose since they graduated med school. He’s clearly dragging his feet. Doesn’t she get the hint?” “The woman she pushed is Sophie—his high school sweetheart. She’s a single mom now. Imagine getting shoved by your ex’s desperate girlfriend. Talk about bad luck.” I looked down at the bouquet. Suddenly, the flowers felt like glowing coals. Throwing them felt like admitting defeat; holding them felt like a slow burn. Daniel was already on the lounge sofa, lifting Sophie’s foot onto his lap with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. … “Does it still hurt?” he asked, his voice a low murmur. “I’m okay, really,” Sophie replied, her voice that specific brand of soft that makes every man in the room want to be a hero. The snickers from our former classmates grew louder. “Man, Daniel really hasn’t changed. He’s still got it bad for the one that got away. Look at him. It’s like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.” “His girlfriend is a piece of work, though. Fighting for a bouquet like it’s a Black Friday sale. She’s lost all her dignity just to get a wedding. If he doesn’t marry her soon, she’ll probably stage a kidnapping.” The laughter cut through me like a serrated blade. I tightened my grip on the stems and walked over to him. “I didn’t push her, Daniel.” He didn’t look up. He was focused on Sophie’s swollen ankle, cleaning a scratch with a precision he usually reserved for the ER. He moved with a practiced ease, his touch light but firm. Finally, he raised his head. His eyes were cold. “Go find out if there’s a shop nearby that’s still open. She can’t walk in those heels. Size six. Get her some flats.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper. My knuckles were white against the bouquet. “Do you even know what size I wear, Daniel?” He hesitated, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “It doesn’t matter,” I said, a hollow laugh escaping my throat. “I could tell you a hundred times, and you’d still forget.” The judgmental stares followed me like spotlights. Sophie made a half-hearted attempt to stand, her face a mask of concern. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. It’s not what you think. Daniel, please, your girlfriend is upset. I can handle this myself.” But he gently pressed her back down into the cushions, murmuring instructions on how to keep the foot elevated. I couldn’t breathe. I turned and bolted out of the hotel lobby, the humid night air hitting me like a physical blow. I waited. I stood by the curb, half-expecting—praying—that he would chase after me. I waited until the Uber pulled up. He never came. My phone buzzed as I sat in the backseat. A text: I’m taking her to the hospital just to be safe. Stop making a scene, Hannah. It’s embarrassing for everyone. A tear fell, splashing onto the screen, blurring his words. Seven years. We had been together for seven years, not seven days. How had my desire for a life with him become a punchline? Every woman I knew—girls younger than me, couples who had started dating years after us—was already married. I had watched them all walk down the aisle, one by one. And every single time, they asked the same question: “Hannah, when is it your turn?” I always said, “Soon. We’re just waiting for the right time.” I told myself he was busy with his residency, that he needed to establish his career. But I had waited seven years. When my grandfather was dying, his last wish was to see me in a white dress. He never did. That regret would haunt me forever. Tonight was the wake-up call I had been ignoring. This man didn’t love me. He certainly didn’t want to marry me. He didn’t get home until dusk the next day. I had been sitting on the sofa for five hours, staring at nothing. “When are your parents coming into town?” I asked, my voice thin and exhausted. “I need to make the dinner reservations.” I gripped the hem of my shirt. Every time I brought up wedding planning at dinner, he found a way to deflect. My parents were starting to look like fools, constantly being stood up or brushed off. He paused, not meeting my eyes, and headed for the bathroom. “Don’t bother with a reservation.” “Just get some rest,” he added over his shoulder. “You have work tomorrow.” “I’m quitting,” I said. He stopped in his tracks. “My parents found me a job back home. They also found someone they want me to meet. A setup. I saw his picture—six-foot-two, handsome, a doctor just like you. If things go well, I could be married by next year.” He spun around, his eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp anger. He grabbed my shoulders, his grip tight. “Are you really that desperate? You’re going to blackmail me into a proposal by threatening to marry some stranger?” “Yes! I’m thirty, Daniel! Not twenty-three, not twenty. Thirty.” My voice broke. “Do you have any idea what that means? If I waste another two years on you, the doctors will be writing ‘geriatric pregnancy’ on my charts before we even pick a venue. I gave you the best seven years of my life, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t compete with the ghost of Sophie.” His brow furrowed. He reached out as if to touch my face, then pulled back, his hand hovering in mid-air. “Sophie and I… it’s not what you think.” A loud knock interrupted us. A man’s head poked through the doorway—one of Daniel’s med school friends. “Hey, man! You ready? We’re heading to the after-party. You coming?” “Get out,” Daniel snapped. “I’m not going.” The friend hesitated. “Sophie’s there… some of the guys from the old crowd are cornering her, trying to get her to do shots. She looks pretty overwhelmed. You sure?” The change in Daniel’s face was instantaneous. The anger he’d felt toward me vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused anxiety. He looked at me, as if waiting for me to give him permission—or perhaps just waiting for me to get out of his way. “Go,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “Go before your precious Sophie gets her feelings hurt.” He didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “Go to sleep,” he said. “Stop overthinking everything.” The roar of his engine faded into the night. He hadn’t loved me in a long time. I was just the only person in the world who refused to admit it. I tossed and turned all night, finally succumbing to a chemical sleep after two Ambien. When I woke up the next morning, the table was set with breakfast. Daniel was in the kitchen, wearing an apron. He walked over and slid a small, navy-blue folder across the table toward me. His birth certificate and social security card. “Let’s do it,” he said. “Let’s get married.” For seven years, I had prayed for those words. Now, my heart just felt heavy. “I know your favorite food is honey-glazed salmon,” he said softly. “I know you wear a size six shoe. I know you prefer leggings to jeans because you hate being restricted. I know you don’t wear perfume because you’re allergic to most florals.” So, he did know. He had always known. Maybe I had pushed him too hard yesterday. Maybe this was his way of finally choosing me. His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then quickly stripped off the apron. “There’s an emergency surgery at the hospital. Wait for me. As soon as I’m out of the OR, we’ll head to City Hall and get the license.” I had waited so long for this. Seven years of history was too much to just throw away. I spent the afternoon doing my makeup, picking out my most elegant white dress, and I arrived at City Hall early. I waited until the clerks started clearing their desks. I watched the sun dip below the skyline. “Ma’am?” the security guard asked. “We’re closing in five minutes. Are you waiting for someone?” Numbly, I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It rang and rang. Finally, someone picked up. But it wasn’t Daniel. It was a woman. “Dr. Thorne is busy right now. Is there a message I can take?” Daniel hated anyone touching his phone. And I knew that voice. It was Sophie. “I…” The words died in my throat. I hung up. Walking out of City Hall, the evening chill seeped into my bones. But it was nothing compared to the sharp, sudden cramp in my abdomen. My vision went black, and the pavement rushed up to meet me. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. A young nurse beamed at me. “Good news, honey. You’re pregnant.” Later, as I walked past the neonatal unit, I stared through the glass at the tiny, fragile lives in the incubators. So small. So innocent. I remembered asking Daniel once if he wanted kids. He had pulled me close, his chin resting on the top of my head, and whispered, “Let’s have two. One that looks like you, and one that has my stubborn streak.” But now, carrying his child, I didn’t feel joy. I felt a cold, paralyzing fear. At the end of the hallway, I saw a familiar white coat. Daniel. He was holding the hand of a small boy, walking toward me. Sophie was at his side. Looking at them, they didn’t look like a doctor and a patient’s family. They looked like a family. If Sophie hadn’t left the country all those years ago, she would have been the one in the white dress today. I was just the placeholder. “Daddy Daniel, when I’m all better, can we go to Disney World?” the little boy chirped. My heart stopped. Daddy? Daniel finally saw me. He let go of the boy’s hand, his brow knitting together. “What are you doing here?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Since when do you have a son?” A flicker of guilt crossed his face, but Sophie stepped forward before he could speak. “Hannah, please don’t be mad at Daniel. I’m divorced, and my son is just very attached to him. He calls him that because… well, because Daniel has been so wonderful to us.” She looked back at the boy and lowered her voice. “He has a congenital blood disorder. Daniel didn’t tell you because he didn’t want you to worry. Today was his surgery. Daniel hasn’t left his side.” I looked at Daniel. He stood there, silent. He could have explained. He could have sent a text. A single sentence would have saved me hours of agonizing at City Hall. But he chose to let her be the one to tell me. I looked at the thin, pale boy hiding behind Sophie’s skirt, his arm wrapped in gauze. My anger flickered, replaced by a hollow ache. To make it up to me, Daniel invited my parents to a private dinner at a high-end steakhouse. The table was filled with my favorite dishes, the atmosphere forced but polite. But every time the conversation drifted toward the wedding, his phone would vibrate. Finally, he answered. It was Sophie, her voice a frantic, sobbing mess that bled through the receiver. “Daniel, I’m scared! His father is here—he’s trying to take him! He hit me, Daniel! Please, I don’t know what to do!” Daniel surged to his feet. I grabbed his hand, using every ounce of my strength to hold him back. “My parents are here, Daniel. You promised. You said you wouldn’t walk out today.” He looked down at me, then gently but firmly pried my fingers off his arm. “I have to go. This is an emergency, Hannah. I’ll come back as soon as it’s settled and apologize to your parents. I promise.” The door swung shut behind him. My mother sat in stunned silence. My father’s wine glass remained suspended in mid-air. I looked at my empty palm and realized how pathetic I looked. Worried about his safety—or perhaps just needing to see the truth for myself—I followed him. His car was parked in front of a luxury townhouse I recognized. It was the house we had toured six months ago. We were supposed to move in after we got married. Now, the windows glowed with a warm, inviting light. Sophie and her son were already living in my dream. In the driveway, Daniel was in a heated scuffle with a man. Daniel’s knuckles were bloody—the hands of a surgeon, now bruised for a woman who wasn’t his. He pinned the man against a car. The man spat on the ground and laughed. “Fine! You want me to leave them alone? Give me twenty grand a month. Or I’ll keep coming back. You can’t protect them forever.” Daniel kicked the man’s legs out from under him, pulled a gold card from his wallet, and threw it at his face. “Take the card and get the hell out of here!” Sophie threw herself into Daniel’s arms, sobbing into his chest. I stood in the shadows, watching them. I felt like an intruder in someone else’s life. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Hannah, that man is not reliable. Seven years, and he treats us like an afterthought. You’re not a girl anymore. Don’t waste another second.” “That setup your father mentioned? I called him. He’s successful, kind, and he wants to meet you. Hannah…” “Mom,” I interrupted, my voice sounding like a stranger’s. “Set it up. I’ll meet him.” The next day, I went to Daniel’s office to return the navy folder. The room was empty. As I turned to leave, Sophie’s son appeared in the doorway. “Are you the Mean Lady Mom talked about?” The Mean Lady? My heart tightened. He raised a toy water gun and squirted it directly into my face, laughing. “Bang! You’re dead, Mean Lady! You can’t have my Daddy! My Mom and Daddy belong together!” Water dripped down my forehead, soaking my hair. I stepped forward to take the toy away from him, but the second I moved, he let out a piercing shriek. Daniel and Sophie burst into the room. “What happened?” Sophie cried, rushing to her son. The boy pointed a trembling finger at me. “She said I don’t have a daddy! She tried to hit me!” Sophie’s eyes welled with tears. “Hannah, if you think Daniel and I are too close, I’ll stay away. But please, don’t take your bitterness out on my son. He’s sick. Do you have any idea what this stress does to him?” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but Daniel grabbed my wrist, his eyes burning with a dark, primal rage. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he hissed. “I told you I’d marry you! What more do you want? Do you need to destroy a child just to feel secure?” He gripped me so hard that the bandage on his own hand began to seep blood. I couldn’t find the words. Sophie screamed. “Daniel! He’s turning pale! Help him!” Daniel shoved me aside to get to the boy. The force was so sudden that I stumbled back, the small of my back slamming into the sharp corner of his mahogany desk. A white-hot pain exploded in my spine. I doubled over, clutching my stomach as my vision blurred. “Daniel… it hurts…” He didn’t turn around. I looked down. A dark, crimson stain was blooming across the skirt of my pale dress. I collapsed onto the floor, the world fading to gray. When I woke up, the doctor’s face told me everything before he even spoke. “I’m so sorry, Hannah. We couldn’t save the baby. You’re young, though. You’ll be able to try again.” I touched my flat stomach. I felt nothing. No tears, no anger. Just a profound sense of relief. The last thread tying me to Daniel had finally snapped. My parents helped me pack. My mother’s eyes were full of pity as we loaded the last of my boxes into the car. “Are you sure about this, Hannah? Once we leave, we aren’t coming back.” I took one last look at the apartment. Seven years of memories, seven years of building a life for a man who didn’t exist. I checked my phone one last time. A notification from Sophie’s Instagram popped up. A photo of Daniel’s hand—wearing the watch I had bought him for his birthday—holding hers. The caption: No matter what happens, you’re always by my side. I forced a smile. “I’m sure, Mom. I’m staying with you and Dad from now on.” As the car pulled away, I took out my SIM card and tossed it out the window. That night, back at the hospital, Daniel developed a nagging cough. He reached for the drawer where I always kept his medicine, but it was empty. He realized he’d been too harsh with me. He realized he’d stood up my parents. Again. He sighed and reached for his phone to call me. There was a knock on the door. A young nurse walked in, holding a chart. “Dr. Thorne? Your girlfriend, Hannah… she was admitted earlier. She had a miscarriage. The doctor said she needs to be very careful with her recovery.” Daniel froze. The world around him seemed to stop breathing.

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I was born to inherit a criminal empire, but through a bizarre twist of fate, I was “reclaimed” by the Wentworths—a family of old-money aristocrats who thought they were doing me a favor. Back at the Wentworth estate, I was the “real” daughter who felt like a ghost in my own home. Meanwhile, they had Madison. Madison was the “fake” daughter they’d raised in my absence—a girl who played the part of the fragile, wide-eyed porcelain doll to perfection. Madison had a fiancé, Tyler. To help her secure her spot and drive me out, Tyler decided to seduce me. It was a classic trap. I played along. I leaned into the role of the naive girl from the streets, letting myself get tangled up in his web. I wanted to see how far he’d go. I didn’t have to wait long. He took our most private, intimate photos and put them up for sale at an underground auction house, intending to incinerate my reputation and leave me with nothing but ashes. When the news leaked, I became the city’s favorite target. My name was dragged through the mud. But the Wentworths? They didn’t protect me. Instead, they turned on each other, using me as the ammunition. “I told you nothing good comes from the gutter! Why did we even bring her back?” my father barked. “She’s your flesh and blood, isn’t she? Don’t you dare pin this on me!” my mother shrieked back. Madison sat there, dabbing at fake tears, playing the peacemaker. “Poor Lexi… she’s just from a different world. She doesn’t understand our values. She’ll learn, eventually.” That was the final straw. I was kicked out of the Wentworth mansion that night, and like clockwork, Tyler and Madison’s engagement was reinstated. With nowhere else to go—or so they thought—I went back to the only life that ever made sense. I stepped back into the family business and took over the very underground auction house Tyler thought he was using to destroy me. The night of the grand auction arrived. Madison and Tyler showed up, dressed to the nines, likely expecting to watch my public execution from the VIP lounge. They froze when they saw me standing on that stage, gavel in hand, bathed in the spotlight. I cleared my throat, the microphone carrying my voice to every corner of the darkened room. “Our next lot is titled ‘The Counterfeits.’ We have a collection of explicit, unfiltered photos of our very own ‘Prince Charming,’ Tyler, and the Wentworths’ darling Madison.” “Standard rules apply. Highest bidder takes the prize.” … 1 I had just hung up on my biological father—a man who ran the city’s shadows and had been begging me to come home—when I headed over to Tyler’s place for a date. I was smiling, playing the part, until I reached the door and heard voices from inside. “Tyler, look at what she did! Lexi is so… animalistic. How could she leave these marks on you?” It was Madison. She was pointing at the dark, bruised hickeys and bite marks on Tyler’s neck, her voice trembling with performative heartbreak. Tyler’s handsome face flushed. He tried to adjust his collar, coughing awkwardly before pulling Madison into a gentle embrace. “It’s okay, Maddy. If this is what it takes to get her out of the house so you can keep your place as the only Wentworth daughter, I’ll endure it. It’s a small sacrifice.” He paused, his ears turning a deep crimson. “The marks… they’ll fade. Stop crying, babe.” Madison buried her face in his chest, her voice dropping into a hiss. “Promise me you won’t fall for her. You’re mine.” I leaned against the doorframe, biting back a cold laugh. This counterfeit girl had spent years basking in the wealth and love that belonged to me, and even now, she felt entitled to every scrap of it. Tyler agreed immediately. His lack of hesitation sent a sharp, sudden pang through my chest. So, all that effort? All the sweet words and the calculated seduction? It was all for her. He was a martyr for his little princess. Then, he pulled out a USB drive and handed it to her. He stroked her hair, his voice dripping with faux-chivalry. “Every photo is in here. Whether you want to blackmail her into leaving or just burn her world down publicly, I’m with you. I’d do anything to make you happy, Maddy.” My hand tightened on the doorknob. My blood felt like it was turning into shards of ice. Last night, we were “intimate.” Today, he was handing over the knife to slit my throat. Rage and humiliation warred in my gut, sharp as a blade. I was ready to burst in and end them both right there, but Madison’s next words stopped me cold. “Tyler, I want to send these to The Onyx—the underground auction. We can tip off the press, build the hype… Lexi won’t just be gone. She’ll be buried.” The Onyx. The underground auction house my father gave me for my eighteenth birthday. Madison looked up at him, eyes wide with hope. Tyler hesitated for a second. “Do you think I’m evil?” she whispered, clutching his sleeve. “If we don’t do this, she’s the one who marries you. I can’t lose you.” She lowered her head, a sob catching in her throat. “Some white-trash girl from the middle of nowhere comes in and steals my life, my name… even my fiancé. I just want to be your wife, Tyler.” Tyler’s heart clearly melted. He pulled her closer. “Fine. Whatever you want. I’ll help you.” By that evening, the rumor mill in the city was on fire. Word had spread that “The Lost Wentworth Daughter” was the star of an upcoming erotic auction at The Onyx. My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. The manager of the auction house was sweating through his suit when he finally got me on the line. “The files are already in our system, Boss. Do you want me to scrub it? If the Big Man finds out your photos are being circulated in our own house, he’ll have my head. Please, save me!” I smiled, a cold, sharp expression. “Why are you scared? I’m right here.” “But… the photos—” “Don’t scrub them,” I interrupted. “In fact, fan the flames. Make sure the whole world is watching. I want this bridge to burn bright enough to see from space.” 2 When I walked into the Wentworth dining room that evening, the air was thick enough to choke on. I sat down and started eating as if it were any other Tuesday. My father slammed his glass onto the table, the wine splashing onto the white linen like blood. “You disgrace! How dare you show your face here?” Madison smirked almost imperceptibly before dropping her fork to rub my father’s back. “Dad, please, your heart…” She turned to me, her eyes flashing with a cruel triumph masked as moral outrage. “Lexi, don’t you have any dignity? Think of your fiancé! Think of the family! How could you be so… desperate? To let yourself be filmed like that?” “Since when does a counterfeit get to lecture me?” I asked quietly. Before Madison could squeeze out a tear, my mother jumped up. She hovered over Madison like a protective hen, glaring at me with pure loathing. “She has been my daughter for twenty years! She is a princess in this house! You have no right to speak to her like that!” She spat the word “daughter” at me, emphasizing that my blood meant nothing compared to the bond she shared with Madison. I looked at them—these people who were supposed to be my parents. My heart felt like a lump of cold iron. Faced with a scandal that could ruin my life, they had zero questions, zero desire to help. Just blame. I picked up my knife and fork, pushed a shard of broken glass aside, and calmly cut into my steak. My father and mother were vibrating with rage at being ignored. They started shouting at each other instead. “I told you! You can’t take the ‘street’ out of a girl. Why did you insist on bringing this mess into our lives?” “She came out of your womb, didn’t she? Don’t blame me for her trashy genes!” Madison watched me, looking like she’d already won. A moment later, Tyler stormed in, his face a mask of righteous fury. “Lexi! How could you do this to me?” He stared at me, his voice trembling with “betrayal.” “How many other men have been in your bed? Was it someone from your old life? Or someone new?” I looked at the faint marks on his neck—marks I had left there—and the irony was almost too much to bear. He was such a good actor. He really leaned into the role of the scorned lover. But why? Why did I have to be the sacrifice for his grand romance with Madison? When I didn’t answer, he seemed to get even angrier. He lunged forward, grabbing my arm, his voice actually shaking now. “Why aren’t you defending yourself? Is it true? Are you really—” Madison cut him off. “Since Tyler is here, Mom, Dad… I think the family owes him an explanation. And a solution.” Her eyes were shining. Tyler stiffened, slowly letting go of my arm. The scandal was the perfect excuse. My mother glared at me one last time before turning to Tyler, her voice softening into an apologetic coo. “Tyler, dear, we are so sorry. You know… Lexi might be our biological child, but she’s been a wild animal for years. She has habits we can’t break. It breaks our hearts, really.” “Wild animal.” The words stung. They were the ones who lost me. I was seven years old, wandering the streets alone, terrified, until Frank found me and brought me into the Syndicate. I still have nightmares about those nights. And now, they used it as an insult. I gritted my teeth, swallowing the bitterness. My father spoke up then. “Lexi is too manipulative, too stained for a man like you. Tyler, you’ve been wronged. As an apology… we’d like to reinstate the original arrangement. The engagement will pass back to Madison. There will only be one Wentworth daughter from now on. As for Lexi… we are done with her.” Madison beamed, looking at Tyler with pure adoration. But Tyler’s gaze lingered on the marks on his neck for a split second, and his expression darkened. He looked at me. “Do you have anything to say?” What was there to say? Right then, my phone vibrated. I stood up and walked toward the door. As I stepped into the hall, I heard Tyler’s voice behind me, cold and final. “I agree. The engagement is with Madison.” I stopped in my tracks. I hit ‘accept’ on the call. “Boss,” the voice on the other end said urgently. “We found it. Everything.” 3 The rumor that my private photos were being auctioned was the final nail in the coffin. By kicking me out, the Wentworths had essentially confirmed it was true. The internet was a cesspool. People called me every name in the book. I even got DMs asking for my “hourly rate.” I didn’t stay silent. I posted one sentence on my socials: Tomorrow night at The Onyx, I’m auctioning off ‘The Counterfeit Couple’—the private collection of Tyler Blackwood and Madison Wentworth. Don’t miss the show. Tyler was the first to hit back, tagging me from his official account: Delusion is a sad look, Lexi. You’re the one who betrayed us. Don’t try to drag Madison into your mess. The Wentworths didn’t stay quiet either. They put out a three-page press release “vouching” for Madison’s purity and threatening me with a defamation lawsuit. The public was firmly on their side. Perfect. I needed them to feel safe. I needed them to show up. If the whole cast wasn’t there, the finale wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying. The next night, The Onyx was packed. The energy was electric, a mix of high-society voyeurism and dark-web cruelty. Tyler arrived looking grim, followed by a phalanx of security guards carrying briefcases of cash. My auction house had a “cash only” rule—an old tradition I kept because I liked the weight of it. Madison and the Wentworths arrived through the private entrance, also carrying several cases. They were here to buy my silence, to bury whatever I thought I had. When I stepped out onto the stage in a sleek, black silk dress, the room went silent. I felt every predatory eye on me. I welcomed them. My biological parents charged toward the stage. My father raised his hand to slap me, but before he could connect, my manager—a man who had seen more blood than a surgeon—intercepted him. He caught my father’s wrist in a grip that looked like it might snap bone. “You forgot the rules? Should I have my men show you the exit?” Madison stepped forward, looking like a wilted flower. “Dad is just emotional, please. Lexi… why are you doing this to me?” She looked at me, tears welling up. “Why are you so cruel?” The manager looked at me. I gave him a tiny nod, and he let go, backing away with a final warning. They couldn’t touch me on stage, so they resorted to psychological warfare. My mother stepped closer, her voice a hushed, manipulative whisper. “Lexi, honey, stop this. You can’t play with Madison’s reputation like this. You’re sisters. I know you’ve had a hard life, and you’re worried about the inheritance, but this is beneath you.” She leaned in, her eyes cold. “If you come down now, tell everyone this was a prank born out of jealousy, and get the manager to cancel the lot… we’ll let you come home.” I looked at her, tilting my head. “You’ve been around this world long enough to know the rules, Mother. If I cancel an auction after the gavel is up, the house takes my hands or my feet. Is that what you want?” My mother’s face paled for a second before she masked it with a shrug. “Oh, surely they wouldn’t do that to a girl. They’re just… being dramatic, right?” Madison’s face twisted with spite. “It’s what you deserve for being a snake!” I got it. They wanted me to gamble my limbs to save Madison’s “good name.” They didn’t care if I bled out in the alleyway as long as their precious princess remained untarnished. It was hilarious. Truly. I didn’t waste another breath. I walked to the center of the stage and picked up the heavy, silver-plated gavel. “Our first item tonight,” I announced, my voice amplified throughout the hall, “is a collection from ‘The Counterfeit Couple’—starring our very own fraud, Tyler Blackwood, and the fake heiress, Madison Wentworth.” “Standard rules. High bidder wins.” 4 The room erupted. The Onyx didn’t hire “auctioneers.” They had a reputation for being ruthless and honest. The fact that I was the one holding the gavel changed everything. But it was my phrasing—”Fake Tyler”—that sent the crowd into a frenzy. Tyler Blackwood was the sole heir to the Blackwood shipping empire. And I had just called him a fraud. Tyler stormed the stage, grabbing my wrist. “Lexi! You’ve fallen so low you’re working in a place like this? Get your things. We’re leaving.” I used my free hand to deliver a slap that echoed like a gunshot. “Who do you think you’re talking to?” I hissed. “You’re just a piece of meat I decided to play with. Did you really think you meant something to me?” I leaned into the mic. “Or are you just nervous, Tyler? Afraid of what’s in the vault?” Tyler gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with hate. “Fine. If you want to rot in the mud, be my guest. Don’t crawl back to me when you’re nothing.” He walked off the stage. I smiled and slammed the gavel down. “Lot One: A series of candid photos of Tyler Blackwood. Starting bid: Ten cents.” It was an insult. A starting bid that low for a man of his stature was a slap in the face. And because it was an anonymous auction, the rich socialites in the room didn’t mind humiliating him. The price climbed quickly. A group of wealthy cougars pushed it to three million. Tyler, looking like he wanted to murder everyone in the room, finally bid thirty million just to shut them up. Sold. I did the same with Madison’s photos. Before the Wentworths could even open their mouths, Tyler dropped another thirty million to save her. He was playing the hero, basking in the pity of the crowd. But then, I dropped the real bomb. “Next lot: Evidence of the Wentworth family’s systemic tax evasion and offshore money laundering. Starting bid: One hundred million dollars.” The room went dead silent. The Onyx only auctioned verified items. If it was on the block, it was real. This was a bomb that would level the Wentworth legacy. The family panicked. They started bidding against themselves, but they didn’t have the liquid cash. Madison turned to Tyler, begging him to use the Blackwood accounts. But I wasn’t done. “And for a combined lot,” I said, a predatory grin spreading across my face, “we have the ultimate secret: The identity of the real Blackwood heir.” “Starting bid: Ten billion dollars.” I reached back, and a tall, shadow-dressed man stepped through the velvet curtains.

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At three in the morning, I was dead to the world when Gavin suddenly ripped the covers off me and dragged me out of bed. His words tumbled out in a frantic rush—he said I was O-negative, that Brooke was hemorrhaging, and the hospital’s blood bank was completely tapped out. I winced, rubbing my eyes, and told him I was severely anemic. My body couldn’t handle a blood donation. He didn’t listen. He just started shoving my arms into my winter coat, rushing me toward the door, insisting they only needed a pint and that Brooke was fading fast. Sitting in the passenger seat of his SUV, the streetlights blurring into streaks of yellow against the dark glass, the name Brooke acted like a physical barb in my chest. Instantly, it dragged me back to the darkest, bloodiest memory of my high school years. She was the ringleader. The girl who tormented me, who ultimately shoved me down a flight of concrete stairs, shattering my leg and permanently robbing me of my future in dance. It was Gavin who had called the police back then. Because of him, the school couldn’t just sweep it under the rug. Brooke was expelled, and she practically vanished from the earth. I never imagined that seven years later, I would hear her name in Gavin’s mouth again—and certainly not like this. I turned my head to look at his sharp profile. I asked him if he remembered the months I spent in the hospital during my junior year. He stiffened. His eyes darted away from mine, fixing on the road. He muttered that Brooke hadn’t had an easy life these past few years, and at the end of the day, a life was a life. A hollow, broken laugh escaped my lips. I didn’t say another word. Later, the moment the thick needle pierced the vein in my arm, a sharp, electronic chime echoed directly inside my skull. A synthesized voice spoke. It told me that even though I was currently playing the role of the tragic heroine in a cheap melodrama, I still needed to respect my own body. It told me I had to learn how to say no. I flinched, my breath hitching. In a terrified whisper, I asked it what I was supposed to do. The electronic voice instantly spiked in volume, ordering me to pull the IV needle out right this second, walk out the front doors, take a left, and spend twenty bucks on a lottery ticket. 1. I stared at the plastic tubing taped to my inner arm, my hand shaking violently. The System urged me in my head. “Pull it out! Trust me!” But I was terrified. If I pulled it out, how would Gavin look at me? Would he think I was a monster? Would he think I was selfish? Would he… leave me? The glare of the hospital lights overhead was blinding. It reminded me of the lights from seven years ago. I had been lying in a pool of my own blood, watching Brooke’s silhouette disappear at the top of the stairs. When the paramedics finally arrived, the ER doctor had looked at my charts and said, “Compound fractures. I’m sorry, sweetie, but you’re never going to dance again.” Gavin was the one who stayed by my side. He came to the hospital every single day. He held my hand through the agonizing physical therapy, told me terrible jokes to make me smile through the tears. I remember him brushing the hair from my sweaty forehead, whispering, “It’s okay, June. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll always be right here.” Because of that, for the five years we had been together, he had been my entire universe. I painted for him, I cooked his favorite meals, I waited by the window for him to come home. I bent my life to fit into the spaces he left for me. And now, he was forcing me to bleed for the girl who broke me. “Do it now!” the System commanded. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripped the plastic hub of the needle, and ripped it out. Dark crimson blood immediately welled up and spilled over my skin. A nurse down the hall shrieked and started running toward me. The door slammed open. Gavin froze in the threshold. “June, what the hell are you doing?!” I looked up at him. For the first time in my life, I found the strength to say, “I don’t want to do this.” “You…” The color drained from his face, replaced by a dark, furious disbelief. “Do you realize she is dying in there?” “I know.” I stood up. My bad left leg trembled under my weight, the old aches flaring, but I locked my knee and held my ground. “But I’m dying too.” He reached out to grab my arm. I flinched away. As I limped out of the ER, his voice cracked like a whip down the tiled hallway: “You are being incredibly selfish, June!” I didn’t look back. The air outside the hospital was bitter cold. The wind bit into my bad leg, making a deep, familiar ache settle in the bone. “Fifty yards to your left. There’s a bodega that sells lotto tickets,” the System instructed. I dragged my leg down the sidewalk. As I passed the wing where Brooke’s room was, I looked up and saw a lit window on the third floor. My heart slammed against my ribs. Seven years. I thought I had buried that terror. But just looking at the glass, my mind was flooded with the sensation of freefall, the sickening crack of my bones on the concrete. I clamped a hand over my mouth, bile rising in my throat. 2. The guy behind the counter at the bodega raised an eyebrow as I bought a twenty-dollar scratch-off. “Late night for a walk, hon, especially with that limp.” I just nodded, keeping my eyes down. “You’re going to win five million dollars,” the System said matter-of-factly. I didn’t believe it, but I clutched the ticket anyway. On the walk back to our apartment, my phone vibrated constantly. Gavin. I let it ring. When I finally reached our front door, he was already there, leaning against the frame, radiating anger. “What is wrong with you tonight?” he snapped. “Brooke almost died. Do you get that?” “I have anemia.” I stared at his shoes. “I could have died, too.” “It was a single pint of blood, June, it wouldn’t have killed you!” His voice echoed in the quiet hallway. “You just couldn’t bring yourself to help her!” I stopped talking. What could I even say? Tell him I was terrified of her? Tell him my leg throbbed with a phantom agony every time her name was spoken? Tell him I wished, just once, he would look at my frail, broken body with the same desperate panic he had just shown for her? The words wouldn’t come. Seeing my silence, his jaw tightened. “Fine. Play the victim.” He shoved past me, got back into his car, and drove off. I sat alone in our dark living room. The streetlights cast the shadows of the large oak tree outside across the hardwood floor, swaying like ghosts. Seven years. From the day my leg was shattered until now, that tree had shed its leaves seven times. And I was still trapped at the bottom of the staircase. “You did the right thing,” the System murmured. “Nothing is more important than your own survival.” But my chest felt like it was caving in. The next morning, I scratched the ticket. I held my phone in one hand, comparing the numbers, my fingers trembling so badly I almost dropped it. Five million dollars. It was real. “See?” the System said, sounding deeply smug. “I told you. This is the down payment on your new life.” I stared at the iridescent foil shavings on my kitchen counter, completely speechless. Gavin didn’t come home for the next three days. He sent one text: “I’m at the hospital with Brooke. Her condition is unstable.” I replied: “Okay.” He didn’t text back. I opened the leather-bound journal I kept in my nightstand. The pages were filled with my meticulous, desperate handwriting, documenting every late night he’d had over the past six months. October 3rd. Said he was working late at the firm. Came home at 2 AM. October 10th. Client dinner. Home at 1 AM. October 18th. Said an employee was hospitalized, went to check on them. Never came home. I read the lines, one by one. A strange, broken giggle bubbled up in my throat, but the tears fell faster than the laughter could form. Outside the window, the oak leaves were falling again. I remembered how he had held my waist during physical therapy, promising he would be my crutch forever. Now, he wouldn’t even come home to sleep in our bed. The System paused, recalibrating. When it spoke again, the electronic hum was softer, tinged with a strange, synthetic sorrow. “He changed, June.” Listening to its awkward, robotic empathy, I nodded slowly. “I know.” That evening, Gavin finally texted: “Brooke is being discharged tomorrow. I’m going to pick her up.” I stared at the glowing pixels. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard before typing: “Can I come with you?” Sent. One minute passed. Three minutes. Five. He left me on read. 3. I went to the hospital anyway. He didn’t stop me from getting in the car, but he didn’t welcome me, either. The drive was suffocatingly silent. When we walked into the ward, the heavy stench of antiseptic made my stomach churn. I pressed my hand over my nose and mouth. It was the exact same smell from seven years ago. Lying in that stark white bed, the orthopedic surgeon looking down at me with pity. “Comminuted fracture of the left femur and tibia. The joint is irreparably damaged. She won’t dance again.” I had screamed until my throat bled. I had been dancing since I was a toddler. My mother used to brush my hair and tell me, “June is going to be the most beautiful prima ballerina in the world.” Brooke shoved me down the stairs, and the music stopped forever. “We’re here,” Gavin said, stopping abruptly. I looked up. Brooke was standing in the doorway of her private room. She was drowning in an oversized hospital gown, her face pale, looking agonizingly fragile. My bad leg buckled slightly, a tremor radiating up my spine. Cold sweat broke out across my neck. It felt like the ceiling was slowly crushing me. It was her. It was really her. Seven years, and she still had the exact same face. My mind flashed to her cruel, glittering smile as she stood over me. “Trash belongs in the gutter.” I remembered the sharp point of her stiletto grinding into my knuckles. The sudden, violent force of her hands on my shoulders. I couldn’t breathe. “June?” Gavin noticed my pallor and instinctively reached out to steady me. “What’s wrong?” I couldn’t form words. Brooke saw me. She froze for a fraction of a second before a soft, deeply apologetic smile bloomed on her face. “June… about everything that happened back then… I’m so sorry.” She took a hesitant step forward, reaching out as if to take my hand. I recoiled violently. She dropped her hand, looking utterly heartbroken. “June, do you still hate me? I know I was wrong. We were just kids, I was so stupid and mean… but life has punished me. I’ve eaten dirt for the last seven years. I think about what I did to you every single day…” As she spoke, tears welled up in her large, doe-like eyes, spilling over her pale cheeks. Gavin sighed, a heavy, protective sound. “June, Brooke already owned up to her mistakes.” Brooke? Since when did he drop her last name and say it with such tender familiarity? Brooke aggressively wiped at her eyes, her voice trembling. “June, I know you despise me. But I’ve changed, I swear. All these years, working bottle service at seedy clubs, letting disgusting men grope and humiliate me… every time they put their hands on me, I thought of you. I told myself it was karma. I deserved it.” Gavin’s eyes softened completely. The hardness in his jaw melted away. I looked back and forth between them. I felt a hysterical urge to laugh. The System’s voice crackled sharply in my head. “Do not buy a word of this. She is acting.” I know. But no one else believed me. After he finished the discharge paperwork, Brooke reached out and grabbed Gavin’s sleeve. “Thank you for taking care of me these past few days.” Her hands were delicate, her nails painted a soft, innocent pink. Gavin didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted his grip. I watched his fingers lace through hers. Right there in the hospital corridor, in front of the nurses, in front of God, in front of me, their fingers intertwined. My crippled leg flared with a blinding, white-hot agony. 4. Walking down the hospital steps, my knee finally gave out. I stumbled forward, bracing for impact. Gavin didn’t catch me. He was too busy holding the door for Brooke. Brooke, with four perfectly functioning limbs, practically skipped to the passenger side of his SUV and pulled the door open. I stood on the pavement, frozen, staring at the empty space in front of me. It wasn’t until Gavin looked over, a crease of annoyance between his brows, that the spell broke. “Are you getting in or what?” Brooke suddenly gasped, covering her mouth as she shot me a sickly-sweet, apologetic smile. “Oh my gosh, June, I’m so sorry! I totally forgot this is your seat. It’s just… I get terrible motion sickness in the back. Do you mind if I take shotgun?” She pressed her palms together in a pleading gesture, giving me a playful little wink. Numb, I dragged myself into the back seat. My entire body was shaking violently. All I could see was their laced fingers. Brooke glanced at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes wide with faux concern. “June, are you cold? Why are you shaking so much?” My breath caught. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the car anymore. I was back in the dim, damp locker room behind the gym seven years ago. Brooke had been smiling that exact same sweet smile as she gripped my hair, forced my school shirt off, and used a black Sharpie to write “MUTT” across my chest. She had asked me the exact same question then: “June, are you cold? Why are you shaking so much?” My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth where I had bitten the inside of my cheek. Brooke was still talking. “June, I get the feeling you really… hate me. And it’s totally fair! I hate the person I used to be, too. If I could, I’d become your servant just to make up for the pain I caused you.” Her eyes were the picture of earnestness. I still couldn’t speak. It felt like someone had shoved a fistful of raw cotton down my throat. Gavin let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s just an old condition she has. Don’t worry about it.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. Mixed in with a superficial layer of concern was an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher—annoyance? Pity? Resentment? The drive home was suffocating. I remained mute in the back, Gavin drove in silence, while Brooke effortlessly filled the dead air, playing the charming, reformed survivor, telling self-deprecating stories about her struggles in the service industry. Gavin listened, a faint, fond smile playing at the corners of his mouth. His eyes were heavy with a protective ache for her. He dropped me off at our apartment first. He looked at my deathly pale face, and his tone cooled, tinged with a deep exhaustion. “Brooke is still really weak. I need to get her settled at her place.” I nodded slowly. “Okay.” “Just go upstairs,” he said, not even looking me in the eye. “I’ll be back later.” “Oh,” I whispered. I stood on the curb, the cold wind whipping my hair, and watched his taillights disappear down the avenue. “She’s manipulating you, and she’s manipulating him,” the System said. I wrapped my arms around myself. “Maybe you’re reading too much into it?” “I am an advanced algorithm, June, I don’t ‘read into things’!” the System snapped. “She is putting on a masterclass in gaslighting!” “Maybe… maybe she really did change?” I sat on the floor of my living room, pulling my knees to my chest. “People grow up.” “You—” The System cut off, too frustrated to formulate a response. I spent the afternoon in my makeshift art studio. I tried to paint. I tried to paint the girl from seven years ago, in her white tulle skirt, standing center stage under the hot lights. But I couldn’t get it right. Every time I painted the left leg, it came out crooked. Broken. Bent at an unnatural angle. I hurled my brushes across the room and buried my face in my arms on the desk. Outside, the oak tree had lost the last of its leaves. Gavin didn’t come home until ten o’clock that night. “Is Brooke feeling better?” I asked quietly from the couch. “She’s okay.” He shrugged off his jacket. It smelled heavily of cheap cigarette smoke. “She lives in this dump of a studio. It’s really rough on her.” I wanted to scream. What about me? I sat in this empty apartment all day waiting for you. Is that not rough on me? But I swallowed the words. I was terrified of making him angry. “Say it!” the System yelled in my head. “Scream at him! Call him a bastard, call him a narcissist, call him a piece of shit!” “You are his fiancé! You have every right to demand to know why he’s prioritizing the woman who crippled you!” I shook my head imperceptibly. I was afraid if I pushed him, he’d roll his eyes and call me petty. I was afraid he’d say: Look at you. You’re not even half the woman Brooke is. I was terrified of losing him. After the year of relentless bullying, after being pushed down those stairs, I had developed severe clinical depression. My self-worth was practically non-existent. I didn’t dare speak up. I just turned the knife inward, asking myself over and over: Am I being too sensitive? Should I just be the bigger person and forgive her? Around midnight, as we lay in bed, his phone lit up on the nightstand. It was a text from Brooke: “Gav, I’m feeling really dizzy…” He threw the covers back and sat up instantly. “I need to go check on her.” Over the System’s deafening, screeching alarm in my head, I forced the words past my lips. “Can you… not go?” He paused, one arm in his sweater. “Just get some sleep, June. I’ll be back soon.” “Can I come with you, then?” Gavin exhaled sharply, a sound dripping with condescension. “I am just checking on her to make sure she doesn’t pass out. It’s basic human decency. Could you please stop being so paranoid? Your leg is bad enough, you don’t need to be dragging yourself out into the cold.” And then he walked out. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. A single tear slipped out of the corner of my eye, tracking hotly into my hairline. The System let out a long, static-laced sigh. It didn’t say another word. 5. After Gavin left, the silence in the apartment was deafening. I couldn’t sleep. I dragged myself out of bed and limped into the studio. On the easel sat my half-finished canvas. The stage, the bright spotlights, the faceless audience in the dark. And the girl in the white dress. I stared at her twisted, broken leg. A sudden, violent sob ripped from my throat. I grabbed a palette knife and slashed it across the canvas, right over the leg. It wasn’t enough. I ripped the canvas off the frame. I grabbed the sketches off the wall. I tore the second one, then the third, ripping the heavy paper into shreds. The studio floor was soon buried in torn paper and snapped pencils. I collapsed against the wall, sliding down until I hit the floorboards, my leg throbbing in relentless agony. The System shrieked, “Stop it! June, breathe! Stop hurting yourself! Put your hands down!” I couldn’t calm down. Brooke was back. And this time, Gavin hadn’t stood in front of me like a shield. He had stepped out of the way to catch her instead. The nightmare from seven years ago was playing on a loop, and I was trapped inside it. I fumbled for my phone and dialed Gavin. It rang out. I called again. Voicemail. I called him fifteen times. Finally, a text came through: “Brooke’s running a fever. I’ll be home when I can.” I stared at the glowing blue bubbles. A laugh ripped out of me, harsh and jagged. A fever. She had a fever, so she needed him to hold her hand through the night. What about me? I was drowning, suffocating on the floor of our home. Where was he? I typed: “I’m hurting too.” He replied instantly: “Take some Tylenol and go to sleep.” Nothing else. I let the phone slip from my fingers. It clattered against the wood. Through the studio window, the city skyline glittered against the dark, alive and careless. But I felt totally consumed by the blackness. Just like that night seven years ago, bleeding out on the cold concrete, the darkness pressing in from all sides. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a tight ball in the corner. My bones ached. My heart felt like it was tearing down the middle. “Stop crying,” the System whispered. “I’m not crying,” I lied. But the tears poured down my face, hot and relentless. The System let out a soft, humming sigh. “I ordered you some flowers.” I looked up, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “What?” “Sunflowers,” its voice was incredibly gentle now, stripped of all its electronic edge. “It’s a shame I’m just lines of code. If I had arms, I’d try to hug you right now.” I sat there, stunned. After a long time, I whispered, “Thank you.” “Don’t thank me,” it replied. “You need to learn how to love yourself.” “He is not your savior, June. Only you can save you.” Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang. It was a delivery courier. A massive bouquet of bright, golden sunflowers. Nestled among the heavy petals was a small card. It read: You deserve to be fiercely loved. Holding the flowers to my chest, the dam broke, and I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. The weight of the sunflowers was heavy and real in my arms. I traced the edge of a golden petal and whispered into the empty room, “Are you disappointed in me?” It took a moment, but the System’s voice returned, sounding slightly muffled. “Yes.” “But June, you are just sick right now. And people can heal.”

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The night before my wedding, my groomsmen dragged me into a high-end adult boutique, buzzing with the chaotic energy of a bachelor party. The moment I stepped through the neon-lit doorway, the laughter died in my throat. My fiancée was standing by the register. And right beside her was her childhood best friend—the one that got away. They were having their own little pre-wedding celebration. He was pressing a sleek, elegantly packaged toy into her hands. He leaned in, his voice low but loud enough to catch over the store’s ambient music. He told her it was custom-made to his exact measurements. A stand-in, he said, to keep her company when he couldn’t be there. Camilla’s cheeks flushed a deep, rosy pink. She took the box. She murmured something about how he needed to stop telling her to call off the wedding, adding that she would just tell me she bought it for herself so I wouldn’t get upset. Hearing that, a pathetic, desperate part of me actually felt a wave of relief. She’s still marrying me, I thought. She still cares about my feelings. But then, out of nowhere, glowing text began to float across my field of vision, scrolling like a digital ticker tape in the air: [Wake up, man! That’s not a rejection. She’s keeping him on the hook! She’s telling him she can’t marry him, but he still owns her heart!] I blinked, stunned by the hallucinatory words. But as I looked back at Camilla—at the coy, half-resisting, half-inviting way she looked at him—the truth hit me like a physical blow. The veil was gone. I understood everything. My face felt numb. I pulled out my phone, snapped a crystal-clear photo, and took a short video. I uploaded it straight to my Instagram story, making sure to tag him directly. No need to wait for the future, I typed. You can marry her tomorrow. I hit post. Then, I dialed the wedding planner. “Cancel everything for tomorrow,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Keep the deposit for the venue. Consider it my wedding gift to them.” … 1 An hour later, the heavy oak door of our townhouse was thrown open, hitting the wall with a violent thud. Camilla stormed in. She was unsteady on her heels, smelling sharply of tequila and a heavy, expensive men’s cologne that definitely wasn’t mine. “Theo! Have you lost your mind?!” she screamed, her eyes red-rimmed and wide with disbelief. “Why the hell did you cancel the wedding?!” I was sitting in the unlit living room, letting the shadows swallow me. I looked at her with an ice-cold stare. “You know exactly why. So why are you asking?” Camilla choked on her next breath. It was the first time in eight years I had ever spoken to her with anything less than total devotion. She dragged a frustrated hand through her perfectly styled hair. “Because of Thomas’s gift? You’re calling off a wedding and humiliating us in front of everyone over a stupid little joke?!” The glowing text scrolled past my eyes again. [Holy shit, a ‘stupid little joke’?! She comes home reeking of another man’s cologne and has the nerve to interrogate her fiancé? The audacity is astronomical!] [She doesn’t think she did anything wrong. It’s always the guy’s fault for being ‘insecure.’ Classic narcissist! Textbook gaslighting!] [She just wants to have her cake and eat it too. Don’t cave, man! Emotional cheating is still cheating!] I read the floating words and nodded, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Yeah. Over a stupid little joke.” Seeing the immovable wall of my posture, Camilla faltered. Her tone immediately softened, slipping into the sweet, placating cadence she always used when she needed me to yield. She walked over, instinctively reaching out to take my hand. “Theo, stop this. If something was going to happen between me and Thomas, it would have happened years ago. Why would I wait until the day before our wedding?” “Just be a good guy, take down the post, and let’s get married tomorrow. Okay?” I pulled my hand away before she could touch me. I shook my head. “Before you even walked through that door, I had already notified everyone that the wedding is off. The venue is canceled.” I stood up. “I’ll pack my things and be out of here as soon as possible.” Camilla froze. Her lips parted, her eyes wide with genuine, unadulterated shock. “You’re moving out? Theo, do you even hear yourself?” I couldn’t blame her for being surprised. Anyone in our Upper East Side circle would have dropped their jaw hearing that I was the one walking away. Back in college, when Thomas moved to Paris, Camilla had sobbed until she threw up, unilaterally announcing that her life was over. I was the clown who jumped into a freezing lake in the middle of January just to fish out a silver ring Thomas had given her. I spent three days running a 104-degree fever, just happy she let me keep her company while she mourned him. Everyone in our circle called me Camilla’s lapdog. I didn’t care. As long as she smiled, nothing else mattered. Eventually, she looked at me and asked, “Do you want to try being together?” I had been ecstatic. I thought I had finally loved her enough to make her mine. For eight years, I held her like she was made of spun glass. I anticipated her every need, terrified she might break. Until a month ago. We were shopping for wedding bands when Thomas moved back to New York. That afternoon, Camilla was driving us to Whole Foods. Suddenly, Thomas’s name lit up on the car’s display screen. I will never forget that exact second. Camilla took one look at the screen, and her breathing hitched. Her hands jerked violently on the steering wheel. Her eyes were glued to his name, completely oblivious to the fact that the lane ahead of us had stopped. “Camilla! Watch out!” I yelled. The sound of screeching tires tore through the air. The car spun out of control, slamming brutally into a concrete median. 2 Crash. The impact was violent. Instinct took over; I unbuckled my belt and threw my body over the driver’s seat, shielding Camilla with everything I had. My forehead smashed into the windshield. Blood instantly poured into my eyes, turning the world a hazy, terrifying red. A high-pitched ringing echoed in my ears, and my ribs screamed in agony. Fighting through the pain, I turned to check on Camilla. She didn’t have a scratch on her. But she wasn’t looking at me. Her knuckles were white as she gripped her phone, her eyes locked on the text message on the screen. It took her a full five seconds to finally look over and see my face covered in blood. “Theo! You’re bleeding!” she cried, hastily shoving the phone into her purse. Her voice shook as she fumbled to start the ruined car, panicked about getting me to a hospital. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood in my throat, but my chest hurt infinitely worse than the gash on my head. In a life-or-death moment, her first instinct wasn’t my safety. It was his message. The ER smelled sharply of bleach and antiseptic. The nurse picked shards of safety glass out of my forehead. It hurt so badly a cold sweat broke out over my body, my fingernails digging half-moons into my palms. I turned my head to look at Camilla. She was sitting on a plastic waiting room chair, her head bowed, thumbs flying furiously across her screen. She didn’t even spare me a passing glance. “Camilla,” I asked, my voice raspy. “Is everything okay?” She flinched, quickly flipping her phone face down on her lap. She forced a stiff, unnatural smile. “It’s fine. My parents are just having a massive fight. It’s bad.” Looking at her evasive eyes, a pathetic, hopeful part of me wanted to believe her. I wanted to believe her distraction had nothing to do with Thomas. “You should go deal with that,” I told her. “I’ll come to your parents’ place after I get stitched up.” She looked at me like I had just granted her a pardon. She grabbed her designer bag and fled, not even stopping to ask if I needed anything for the pain. Half an hour later, my head wrapped in gauze, I showed up at her parents’ brownstone. They were sitting on the couch watching Netflix. They looked at me in total confusion. “Camilla hasn’t been here,” her mother said. “And we certainly haven’t been fighting.” I froze in the doorway, a bone-deep chill washing over me. Camilla didn’t come home that entire night. I sat in our pitch-black living room, dialing her number forty-seven times. Every single call went straight to voicemail. A suffocating wave of panic pulled me under. At 2:00 AM, my phone finally illuminated the dark room. It wasn’t a text from her. It was an Instagram update from Thomas. The photo showed a man’s hand gently pulling a duvet over a sleeping woman’s shoulder. On the woman’s wrist was the vintage Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet I had given Camilla last month as an early wedding gift. The caption was a knife to the gut: [People who have loved deeply will always find their way back to each other.] I gripped my phone until my knuckles turned white. I wasn’t angry. I was terrified. Terrified that eight years of unwavering devotion couldn’t compete with the ghost of her first love. Camilla finally came home the next evening. I was sitting at the dining table. I slid my phone across the wood, stopping right in front of her. Thomas’s post glowed on the screen. I looked at her, my voice eerily steady. “Camilla, if you want to start over with him, I’ll step aside.” All the color drained from her face. “I know,” I continued softly, “that if he hadn’t left, I probably never would have had a chance with you. So if—” Before I could finish, she raised her hand and slapped me across the face. Hard. “Theo! What the hell is wrong with you?!” she yelled, her eyes welling with angry tears, her voice shaking. “Thomas and I did nothing! I got too drunk yesterday and just slept in his guest room! You really have zero faith in me?!” She grabbed the collar of my shirt, practically screaming into my face. “I am only marrying you! Theo, do you hear me? Only you!” I looked at her tears and clung to them like a drowning man clutching a piece of driftwood. “Okay,” I whispered. “As long as you choose me, I will never let you down.” That night, we swore we would only ever love each other. We held each other in the quiet dark. I kissed her forehead, and she made a solemn vow against my chest. I thought that was the end of it. But memories are like scalpels; they cut clean and deep. “Theo, say something!” I snapped back to the present, looking at the woman standing before me, reeking of alcohol and betrayal. She took a step forward, gripping the hem of my shirt in a desperate plea. “I swear, I only love you. Thomas was just drunk and posted that out of context. Please don’t be mad. Please?” Seeing her frantic, pleading eyes, I felt an involuntary softening in my chest. Eight years is a lifetime. You don’t just amputate a limb without phantom pain. But right then, the neon letters scrolled across my vision again. [Classic cheater playbook: Get caught, shift the blame, make him feel guilty, then keep treating him like a backup plan!] [Tears + Promises + Pouting = He falls for it every time. Wake up! Don’t let her manipulate you!] [If you forgive her this time, you’re going to be miserable for the rest of your life!] Any lingering warmth in my heart instantly turned to ash. Slowly, deliberately, I peeled her fingers off my shirt, one by one. “You’re drunk. You’re not thinking straight,” I said, taking a step back to put cold, empty space between us. My voice was entirely devoid of emotion. “Go to sleep. Tomorrow morning, we’ll sit down and figure out the logistics of our breakup.” 3 Instead of letting go, Camilla threw her arms around my waist from behind, burying her face into my back. She was sobbing. “Theo, do you remember our sophomore winter? You jumped into that freezing lake for me. You almost died.” Her tears soaked through my shirt, burning hot against my skin. “We’ve been together for eight years. How can you just throw that away?” “Please don’t cancel the wedding. Just tell everyone it was a misunderstanding. We have to exchange our vows tomorrow…” My throat tightened. Eight years of memories tore at my nerves, begging me to stay. And then, the familiar text floated through the room: [Here we go again! Is she going to milk the ‘lake’ story for the rest of her life?] [Emotional blackmail at its finest! She treated him like garbage until she realized she was losing her safety net!] [She doesn’t miss you! She misses her personal ATM and emotional punching bag!] I closed my eyes and swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. Once again, I pried her fingers off my body. “It’s late. Go to bed.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. I collapsed onto the sofa and lit a cigarette, my hands trembling slightly. The harsh smoke filled my lungs, but it couldn’t stop the flood of memories. The first time she burned her finger trying to cook me dinner. The way her eyes shone with tears when I proposed. The radiant joy on her face when she found her wedding dress. I took a sharp drag. The nicotine burned, but the pain in my chest was sharper. Am I really throwing away eight years? I thought. Maybe nothing really happened between her and Thomas. Just as I hovered on the edge of giving her—giving myself—one last, pathetic chance, the doorbell rang. The sound shattered the heavy silence. I crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and went to open the door. Thomas was standing on the porch. He smelled strongly of whiskey. In his hand, he held a sleek, black boutique shopping bag. “Hey, Theo. Is Milla asleep?” I stared at him with dead eyes. “She’s asleep. Whatever it is, say it tomorrow.” “Ah, wait.” Thomas wedged his leather loafer into the doorframe. He lifted the black bag with a smirk. “Milla left in such a hurry, she forgot something in my room. I didn’t want her to be without it for the wedding night, so I brought it over.” My brow furrowed. “Leave it on the porch. Now get out.” Thomas didn’t move. The corners of his mouth curled into a malicious, arrogant smile. “Don’t you want to know what she left behind, Theo?” Slowly, theatrically, he reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of black lace lingerie. “Milla is so forgetful. Leaving her undergarments lying around.” The blood in my veins turned to ice, then rushed to my head in a blinding flash of heat. That lingerie. I had bought it for her. I had gone to the boutique with her just last week and picked it out myself. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My stomach violently churned, and I dug my nails so deeply into my palms I felt the skin break. This wasn’t just a provocation. This was Thomas stripping me of my dignity and stomping it into the dirt. “Thomas! What the hell are you doing?!” Camilla came sprinting out of the hallway, barefoot. She stared at the black lace in his hand, her face draining of all color until she looked like a corpse. Smack! She lunged forward and slapped Thomas across the face with everything she had. “Get out! Why did you come back to ruin my life?!” Thomas’s head snapped to the side. Instantly, his eyes went red. Camilla’s hand hovered in the air. Her fingers trembled just a fraction, a flash of undeniable panic crossing her features. “I’m sorry, Milla! It’s my fault!” Thomas cried out. “I was just out of my mind with jealousy! I couldn’t control myself! I can’t let you go!” Then, in a sickening display, Thomas raised his hand and violently slapped his own face twice. His voice cracked with emotion. “But can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you felt nothing when you looked at me tonight?” He stared at her, his eyes wild, tortured, and completely obsessed. Camilla opened her mouth, but no sound came out. The phantom comments exploded in my vision: [Gross! What is this, a cheap soap opera?!] [Give her an Oscar! She’s playing the tragic, torn heroine right in front of her fiancé!] [Run, Theo! Let these two toxic freaks destroy each other!] I watched this melodramatic display of star-crossed lovers, feeling nothing but a profound, acidic nausea. I turned my back to them and grabbed my coat off the back of the sofa. “Take your time,” I said. “I’ll give you two some privacy.” Camilla lunged, wrapping her arms around my waist in a death grip, her nails digging painfully through my shirt. “Theo! Don’t leave! You’re the only one I love! We’re getting married tomorrow!” She whipped her head around and screamed hysterically at Thomas: “Get the fuck out! I only love Theo!” Hearing that, Thomas’s face twisted into something ugly and unhinged. A dark, extreme madness flashed in his eyes. He suddenly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a switchblade, and closed the distance between us in three long strides. He grabbed my right hand, forced the handle of the knife into my grip, and pointed the blade directly at his own stomach. “Theo! It’s all my fault! I couldn’t help myself!” he screamed. “Kill me! If it makes you feel better, if it means you’ll forgive Milla, I’ll die right here!” My pupils dilated. I yanked my arm back to throw the knife away. But in the next split second. A dull, wet tearing sound echoed through the silent room. Hot, thick blood sprayed across the back of my hand. 4 “Ahhh!” Camilla’s shriek shattered the room. Hot, sticky blood slid down my fingers, dripping onto the hardwood floor. I stood frozen, my mind entirely blank for one surreal second. “I didn’t do that,” I said, my voice purely instinctual. Camilla shoved past me, pushing me back with brutal force. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice vibrating with panic. “Theo! Why would you do this to him?!” Thomas clutched his bleeding abdomen and slid down the doorframe, collapsing onto the floor. He leaned against the wall and offered Camilla a weak, tragically pale smile. “Milla, don’t be mad at Theo… It’s my fault. I made him angry.” The ticker tape went wild: [Holy shit! This guy is psycho! He stabbed himself just to frame the fiancé?!] [She actually believes him?! Does she have mashed potatoes for brains?!] [Get out of there, Theo! Let them have each other. This is insane!] I looked at the blood on my hand, then at the tragic, intertwined couple on the floor. A cold, cynical laugh clawed its way up my throat. I grabbed a tissue from the console table, wiped the blood off my skin with utter detachment, and dialed 911. On the floor, Camilla was pressing both of her hands over Thomas’s wound, her tears falling in a torrential downpour. “Thomas, hold on! You’re going to be okay!” Thomas raised a trembling hand, his bloody fingers gently brushing her cheek. “Milla… if I can’t have you in this life, I’d rather die today. At least… at least I’ll always have a place in your heart.” Camilla completely broke down. She pulled him against her chest, and right in front of me—the man she was supposed to marry in twelve hours—she wailed, “Stop talking like that! I love you! I’ve always loved you! Just stay with me, and I’ll do whatever you want!” The floating words returned: [Vomiting everywhere. Confessing their eternal love while her fiancé stands right there? Have they no shame?!] [The mask is finally off! Theo just got the biggest, brightest pair of horns ever!] [Burn it all down. Watching this is giving me an aneurysm.] Watching her weep over another man, the absolute last thread of attachment I had to her snapped. The resentment, the hope, the desperation—it all evaporated into cold, thin air. The wail of the ambulance sirens soon pierced the neighborhood’s quiet. Paramedics rushed in, loaded Thomas onto a stretcher, and hauled him out. Camilla didn’t even stop to put on shoes. Dressed only in a thin silk slip, her bare feet hit the freezing pavement as she chased the stretcher out into the biting wind. Watching her frantic, desperate silhouette disappear into the night, a memory from three years ago flashed in my mind. I had broken my leg pulling her away from a falling scaffolding. I was in agony, covered in cold sweat. But she had covered her eyes, refusing to even look at me, murmuring over and over, “It’s too awful. The blood… I hate blood.” I thought she was just squeamish. I had even comforted her while waiting for the ambulance. Now I knew the truth. She wasn’t afraid of blood. She just didn’t care enough because the man bleeding wasn’t him. Under the weight of that realization, the blood in my veins turned to ice. A gust of wind blew through the open door, snapping me back to reality. Footsteps rushed up the porch. Camilla had run back inside to grab her phone and wallet off the coffee table. “Theo, wait for me to get back. We will talk about this tomorrow,” she tossed over her shoulder. She didn’t even wait for a response before sprinting back out the door. At the hospital, Thomas’s wound turned out to be superficial. After a few stitches, he was perfectly fine. Sitting in his room, Camilla looked at his pale face, her heart breaking for him. She was convinced I had stabbed him in a jealous rage, and a seed of resentment toward me had sprouted in her chest. But remembering the canceled wedding, she pulled out her phone and sent me a few voice memos. “Theo, Thomas is fine. I know you just snapped because you were angry, so I won’t hold it against you. But he’s really weak right now, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving him alone. I’m going to bring him back to our house so I can take care of him for a few days. Pick up some good bone broth on your way home, and just apologize to him. We can put this whole mess behind us.” She hit send. There was no reply. Camilla frowned, assuming I was just throwing a tantrum. Two hours later, carefully supporting Thomas’s weight, she pushed open the door to our townhouse. “Theo, we’re back.” The house was dead silent. There was no smell of dinner cooking. I wasn’t waiting in the foyer to take her coat. Irritated, she settled Thomas onto the couch and marched straight to the master bedroom, fully prepared to give me a piece of her mind. “Theo, are you done acting like a—” Her voice cut off. She stood in the doorway, her pupils dilating in pure shock.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440961”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The moment I stood on the edge of the rooftop, ready to let the wind take me, a ledger crystallized in my mind. Cold. Precise. Irrefutable. It whispered a truth I hadn’t been able to see: I was nothing more than a “disposable muse”—the tragic, short-lived “pure heart” in some twisted redemption arc. And my boyfriend, Grayson? He wasn’t the struggling student he pretended to be. He was the crown prince of a Manhattan real estate empire, a man who could buy and sell the very building I was standing on. For four years, he had played the role of the starving artist, watching me get bullied and overworked with a detached, chilling silence. As it turned out, my suffering was merely his “test.” The most sickening part? According to the script of his life, after my death, he would reclaim his throne and unleash a wave of “vengeful” grief. He’d probably light a hundred-dollar bill at my grave, sighing about how I was the only girl who ever loved him for his soul and not his billions. But the reality? For those four years, I was his benefactor. He ate, slept, and breathed on my dime. Even that five-figure designer watch on his wrist was something I’d bought by maxing out three different credit cards. I didn’t jump. I stepped back from the ledge. I walked down those stairs, found him in the middle of the crowded quad, and slammed a stack of itemized bills—years of accumulated debt—right into his face. “Hey, Grayson. It’s time to settle up. Fifty thousand dollars. I want every cent.” 01 The spreadsheets, crisp and cold, fluttered against his face before hitting the pavement. Grayson’s expression darkened instantly. “Nina, haven’t you had enough of this tantrum?” He reached out to grab my wrist, but I wrenched it away with a force that surprised even me. My skin burned where he’d touched it. “Nina, honey, don’t be like this. If it’s about money, we can talk,” Isabelle stepped forward, her hand sliding possessively into the crook of Grayson’s arm. She looked at me with that pitying, “bless your heart” smile she always used for the help. “Grayson didn’t mean to hurt you.” I laughed. My eyes landed on the limited-edition jacket she was wearing. Grayson had told me it was a birthday gift for her. A “high-end knockoff,” he’d called it. Coincidentally, he’d taken five thousand dollars from me last month. Claimed it was a “family emergency.” “That jacket he bought you last month? I’m pretty sure I paid for that too,” I said, my voice cutting through the humid afternoon air. “Tell him to pay me back for that, as well.” The smile on Isabelle’s face cracked, piece by piece. “What are you talking about?” “Nina, you’ve lost it!” one of Grayson’s hangers-on shouted, stepping into my personal space. “You think a guy like Grayson needs your money?” “Exactly! You got dumped, so now you’re throwing dirt? It’s pathetic,” another chimed in. They circled me like vultures, their faces full of righteous indignation. To them, I was the gold-digger. The jealous ex. The girl who couldn’t handle being told no. I turned to the first one. “Caleb.” “Last week, you bought that new gaming rig. You asked Grayson for five hundred. He told you he was broke and took my card to pay for it.” I pivoted to the next one. “Brooks. Two nights ago at The Onyx. You put a two-thousand-dollar tab on a card Grayson said was his. Want me to pull up the bank statement for the group?” The quad went silent. Only the rustle of the wind and the hushed whispers of the gathering crowd remained. Grayson stared at me, his eyes twin pits of ice. “Nina, four years of everything we shared… and all you see is money?” What a performance. If it weren’t for that ledger burning in my brain, I might have actually believed him. “Yes,” I replied. “Our ‘love’ has a price tag now.” I pulled out my phone, opened the calculator app, and shoved the staggering total in his face. “Fifty thousand. Not a penny less. Venmo? Zelle? Or do you need to ask your daddy for an advance?” The murmurs grew louder. Dozens of phones were out, lenses trained on us. “Holy shit, check the school’s Sidechat!” “It’s going viral! The architecture prodigy has been ‘charity-funding’ the secret billionaire heir for four years?” “Billionaire? Which one?” Just then, a black Maybach glided silently to the curb. The door opened, and a middle-aged man in a sharp charcoal suit and white gloves stepped out. He ignored everyone, walked straight to Grayson, and opened a black silk umbrella over his head. He bowed slightly. “Mr. Grayson, your father expects you home.” Grayson straightened his collar, smoothing out the wrinkles where I’d grabbed him. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the “struggling artist” was gone. “Nina,” he said, his voice flat and terrifyingly calm. “The game is over.” 02 Back in the dorm, I couldn’t stop shaking. “Nina!” Paige jumped down from her loft bed and threw her arms around me. “That was legendary! I’m staying up all night to help you draft the legal notice.” We started organizing the folder. It was a museum of his lies. October 2020: Designer sneakers, $1,200. March 2021: Isabelle’s birthday party at ‘The Onyx,’ $4,500. September 2021: Art gallery rental fees, $8,000. My phone lit up. Grayson. [You have twenty-four hours to take down those posts on the forum, or there will be consequences. Don’t test me.] I screenshotted it and sent it to Paige. “Perfect. Direct evidence of a threat. He’s just adding time to his own sentence.” Paige told me to block his entire circle. I was about to, but Isabelle’s name flashed on the screen. I hit speakerphone. “Nina, please…” her voice was weak, trembling with fake tears. “Just delete the post, okay? Grayson loves you. This was just… a test. He was going to propose after graduation. He already had the ring picked out…” I almost choked on a laugh. Paige was typing furiously, but she didn’t miss a beat. “Isabelle, are you paying the fifty grand? No? Then shut up and hang up.” “I’m trying to help Nina!” Isabelle’s voice spiked. “You have no idea what his family is capable of. Nina is going to get hurt! You can’t win against them. Is the money really worth ruining your life?” Before I could answer, a notification popped up from an anonymous group chat on the university forum. It was a leak of the group chat Grayson’s friends used. Brooks: [Holy shit, Nina is actually going nuclear? Crazy bitch.] Caleb: [She really thinks she’s special? Grayson was just slumming it. She’s just a broke architecture student with no connections.] Brooks: [For real. Grayson letting her hang around for four years was charity. Now she wants a payout? Hilarious.] And then, a reply from Isabelle. A “shy” emoji followed by: [Aww, don’t be mean guys. Nina is actually kind of pitiful.] I remembered the night of Grayson’s gallery opening. Isabelle was wearing a gown I’d paid for, smiling at him while they toasted his “genius.” I was in the corner, sallow-faced from pulling double shifts at the cafe, getting mocked by his friends for my “cheap” clothes. Grayson hadn’t defended me. He’d told me to go back to the dorm early so I wouldn’t “embarrass” him. “Nina?” Paige broke my trance. I hung up on Isabelle. I found Grayson’s contact. Block. Delete. One by one, I scrubbed his friends from my life. Ding. A message from an unknown number. [Ms. Nina, I am Grayson’s mother. Regarding the… misunderstandings between you and my son, I believe we should talk. Name your price. Fifty thousand? I’ll give you seventy-five to end this. Delete the posts and disappear.] I stared at the screen for a long time. I handed it to Paige. She read it and let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Nina, the accounting has just begun. Don’t worry. With me on your side, we’re going to discuss the interest on this debt.” 03 The next morning, my advisor called me into her office. She pushed a cup of lukewarm tea toward me. “Nina, your recent behavior has been… erratic. People are concerned about your mental state. Perhaps you should take a leave of absence? Just to get your head straight?” I started to speak, but a knock at the door cut me off. Isabelle walked in, carrying an expensive-looking fruit basket. “Professor, I just wanted to check on Nina. She’s been so volatile lately. I’m worried she might do something desperate.” She turned to me, eyes brimming with tears. “Nina, I know you’re hurting, but you can’t keep lashing out at Grayson like this. Just delete the post. We’ll find a way to handle the money, I promise.” The advisor nodded in agreement. They were playing “good cop, bad cop” with practiced ease. When I refused to budge, the advisor’s tone shifted from “concerned” to “impatient.” Every time I tried to argue, they talked over me. So this was what Grayson’s mother meant by “ending this.” Seventy-five thousand dollars to buy my silence, my exit, and a “mentally unstable” label to follow me for life. Suddenly, the office door was shoved open with a loud bang. Paige stood there, followed by a very grim-looking Dean of Students. She slammed her phone onto the desk. Grayson’s text was on the screen: [You have twenty-four hours… or there will be consequences.] Paige tapped the screen again. An audio file began to play. It was Isabelle’s voice from the group chat: “Aww, don’t be mean guys. Nina is actually kind of pitiful.” Then, a different recording. A private voice note: “It’s disgusting how broke she looks. Did she really think Grayson liked her? She’s just a walking ATM. My mom already talked to the advisor—she’s getting kicked out today. Who does she think she is, trying to take down a family like ours?” The fruit basket slipped from Isabelle’s hand, apples and oranges rolling across the floor. The advisor froze, her lips trembling, unable to find a single word. Paige tucked her phone away. “The evidence we’ve gathered is enough to prove that my client, Nina, is being subjected to premeditated, organized harassment and psychological coercion. And considering your role in this, Professor, we’ll be reserving the right to pursue legal action against you personally.” For the first time, I felt the true power of using the rules as a weapon. As we left the office, the Dean called out to me. He looked at Paige, then at me, his expression complicated. “The Grayson family… they have deep roots in this city, Nina. This isn’t going to end easily.” 04 Within ten minutes of leaving the office, the university forum had a new pinned post in bright red. EXPOSED: Architecture Student Nina Accused of Extorting Ex-Boyfriend for $50k After Being Dumped! The post was a work of fiction. It painted me as a calculating social climber who had drained Grayson’s “modest” savings and was now lashing out because he couldn’t satisfy my greed. It framed Grayson as the victim—a guy blinded by love, who gave me everything only to be betrayed. The comments were a cesspool. [I knew it. Grayson is way too hot for her. He was definitely doing her a favor.] [Fifty thousand? Who does she think she is? A Kardashian?] [This girl is toxic. Cancel her.] Paige grabbed my phone, her face a mask of cold fury as she scrolled. Isabelle’s “mean girls” squad had joined the fray. They posted photos of me from freshman and sophomore year—wearing faded T-shirts, eating ramen in the library, pulling all-nighters in the studio with messy hair. I looked plain. Tired. Average. The caption: [Some people have been planning the ‘victim’ act since day one. Look at the ‘innocent’ act. The real Nina is the one screaming for cash now.] Paige handed the phone back. “It’s time.” She logged into my account and hit ‘post.’ Subject: Four Years, Fifty Thousand Dollars. The Ledger of a ‘Charity Case.’ The post contained a single, massive image: an Excel spreadsheet. It was an endless, meticulously detailed scroll. Date. Item. Amount. Payment Method. Notes. From fifty-dollar skins for his video games to five-hundred-dollar “boys’ dinners” to thousand-dollar tech upgrades. And behind every single entry was a screenshot of a text message. Grayson begging, wheedling, or simply demanding. The evidence of my “sweet burden” was now the evidence of his parasitic nature. At the very bottom was the watch. $12,000. Next to it was the credit card statement, and the subsequent “overdue” notices from the bank. The forum went dead silent for three seconds. Then, it exploded. The narrative didn’t just shift; it was obliterated. [Holy… my eyes… This isn’t charity. This is a scam.] [Four years? He sucked her dry.] [I take it back. Nina isn’t an ex; she’s a saint. Most tragic partner of the year.] [I’m gonna puke. Isabelle is wearing gifts bought with another girl’s credit card debt?] I watched the comments roll in, and for the first time in years, I felt a strange, hollow peace. 05 Apologies and messages of support flooded my DMs. I felt like I could finally see the light. Until a high-pitched roar of an Aston Martin engine tore through the quiet of the dorm parking lot. The light died. Grayson stepped out of the car. He was wearing a bespoke suit, looking every bit the billionaire heir—a world away from the guy in the “thrifted” tees I’d loved. The crowd of students parted for him like the Red Sea. He walked up to me, pulled a black card from his wallet, and tossed it at my feet. “A hundred thousand. Is that enough?” He looked down at me as if I were an ant he’d accidentally stepped on. “Nina, stop embarrassing yourself.” I smiled. My phone was already recording, the red light blinking silently. “So, the last four years… it was all an act?” His handsome face finally showed something other than boredom: annoyance. “It was a test, Nina. One you failed.” “I was too good to you. I let you forget your place. I gave you a thousand chances. If you’d just stayed quiet, stayed humble, we could have actually made it.” “I even thought that if you passed the final test, I’d tell you everything. I’d bring you to the estate. I’d let you marry into the family.” He spoke as if he were granting me a divine blessing. The crowd began to whisper. The eyes that had just pitied me were now filled with a sickening envy. “A test?” I repeated, stepping forward until my shoe touched the black card. “When I stayed up all night drawing blueprints so I could split my scholarship money with you, was that a test?” “When I worked three jobs to buy you that phone and my hands were literally peeling from the industrial soap in the kitchen, was that a test?” “When I was eating plain bread for a week because my card was maxed out, and you were taking Isabelle to a two-hundred-dollar-a-seat musical using my money—was that a test too?” With every question, his face grew more twisted. He had no answer. His patience snapped. He waved a hand dismissively. “Enough! Nina, stop obsessing over these petty details! It was a game. You lost.” I tucked my phone away and turned my back on him. I didn’t look back. I sent the video to Paige. Five minutes later, the hashtag #TrustFundPrinceTestsGirlfriend hit the top of the trending charts.

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At the family dinner, my stepsister Lexi couldn’t stop glowing. She had just announced her biggest “get” yet: she’d managed to hire Dante, the internet’s most coveted livestreamer, for her personal brand launch. I sat across from them, nursing a glass of Pinot Noir, watching the man I had spent nearly a million dollars supporting over the last three years. To his millions of fans, he was a god. To me, he was supposed to be a partner. But tonight, I was invisible. Dante was busy peeling shrimp for Lexi, his movements practiced and tender. He laughed as he shared “insider” tips on product selection, and even made a show of pouring a special artisanal herbal blend for my father, playing the part of the perfect, dutiful guest. He even went as far as adding our housekeeper on Snapchat, charming everyone in the room. Everyone except me. When I finally raised my glass, intending to offer a professional greeting, the warmth vanished from his face. He leaned in, turning his head so only I could hear his venom. “No amount of money can buy back your youth, Jade,” he whispered. “Stop trying.” Lexi smirked, pulling out her phone to show off her chat logs with him. There were photos of Dante—shirtless, wearing nothing but an apron—cooking dinner for her. She bragged that he had driven across the entire tri-state area just to deliver a home-cooked meal to her doorstep. “Jade, did you know?” Lexi asked, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Dante told me his top donor is some pathetic, middle-aged woman going through a mid-life crisis. He says she uses every order as an excuse to harass him. Just because she has a little cash, she thinks she owns him.” I felt a coldness settle in my chest. For three years, I had been his silent engine. I bought every product he endorsed, cleared his inventory, and pushed his metrics to the moon. Yet, he never once accepted my friend requests. His only communication was through the platform’s cold, automated system: “New drop live. Go buy.” Even at industry events, he looked through me like I was made of glass. I realized then that he wasn’t a cold person. He was just cold to me. I offered a thin, effortless smile and looked down at my phone. With a few taps, I pulled up the dashboard for the man who had been stuck in second place behind Dante for three years—a creator named Kit. I pushed him to the top of the featured homepage. Then, I sent a single message to a private group chat. Within seconds, three hundred major brand reps responded. The pivot was instantaneous. If Dante found me so embarrassing, I saw no reason to keep his throne warm. … After Lexi finished her little taunt, I didn’t bother replying. I kept my head down, typing into the group chat: Cancel Dante’s ten-million-dollar contract. Reallocate the budget. The chat went silent for three seconds. Then: Who’s the replacement? I scrolled through the platform until I found a familiar face. Kit. He’d been in the industry for a decade. For the first seven years, he and Dante had been neck-and-neck. Then, three years ago, Dante met me. Kit had spent the last three years being suffocated by Dante’s shadow—a shadow I had cast. I had met Kit once. It was at a gala where someone had accidentally spilled red wine down my dress. I had instinctively looked to Dante for help, but he had jerked his head away, pretending to be deep in conversation with a CEO. It was Kit who had stepped in. He politely asked if I needed assistance, led me to a private suite to change, and then stood guard outside the door for twenty minutes to ensure my privacy. That night, I rewarded him by fast-tracking a contract for him. When Dante found out, he blocked my number for two weeks. Thinking of that now, I typed: Give it to Kit. The chat exploded. Notifications blurred past, but I put the phone away. The dinner continued. Dante, who was always stoic and unreadable with me, was currently making my father roar with laughter. Lexi playfully tugged at his sleeve, and he caught her hand, giving her a look so full of adoration it turned my stomach. Lexi shot me a triumphant look. “I heard you and Dante were acquainted, Jade. Why are you so quiet?” Dante’s expression turned to stone. He didn’t even glance my way. “I don’t know her,” he said flatly. Three years. A million dollars. And I didn’t even warrant a “hello.” I said nothing, stood up, and walked to the restroom. When I came out, Dante was waiting in the hallway. His brow was furrowed in disgust. “If you continue to stalk me like this, I’m calling the police,” he snapped. I almost laughed. “This is my house, Dante.” “It’s Lexi’s house,” he countered, cutting me off. “She told me everything. How your mother stole another woman’s husband and occupied the position of ‘Mrs. Summer’ for twenty years. If she hadn’t died early, Lexi wouldn’t have even been allowed to reclaim her rightful name.” He stepped closer, his eyes threatening. “I’ll let it slide this time. But if there’s a next time…” He brushed past me, his pace quick, as if he were afraid my “desperation” might be contagious. I watched him go, offering no explanation. That evening, Dante posted a status: Saw someone I love today. Feeling great. Going live at 7 PM. I checked the time. It was 6:30. Usually, I’d be in the digital waiting room by now, ready to drop ninety-nine “Grand Finale” gifts to prime the algorithm for him. Dante would always act like he didn’t see the screen-filling effects, never saying a word of thanks. If I commented, he would intentionally reply to the person right above or below me, never me. My assistant sent a text: The deal with Kit is inked. He wants to add you to say thank you personally. I replied ‘Sure’ and went to sleep. A while later, someone started pounding on my bedroom door. Lexi’s voice was shrill. “Jade! What are you doing? Dante is live! Why aren’t you in there supporting him? If he gets angry, don’t come crying to me!” I pulled the door open. “Why should I support him? I don’t even know the man.” She choked on her next word, then sneered. “Fine. Be petty. But don’t regret it later. Dante has a high pride. If you offend him now, it’ll be more than a two-week block.” My heart sank—not for Dante, but at the realization. My history with Dante… she knew everything. When did they start conspiring together? Lexi isn’t blood-related to me or my father. Five years ago, after my mother passed, my father remarried. Lydia brought Lexi into our lives, changed her last name to Summer, and Lexi started playing the part of the “perfect, helpful daughter.” They had tried to wiggle into the family company multiple times, but my father never relented. They thought it was my father holding them back. They didn’t realize the company was founded by my mother, and her shares passed entirely to me. My father didn’t refuse them; he simply didn’t have the authority to say yes. Lexi must have been feeding Dante lies, making him believe the Summer empire belonged to her. I closed the door and checked my phone. I tried to enter Dante’s stream just to see the wreckage, only to find I was blocked again. This time, I didn’t send an apology. I blocked him back. Dante’s fan forums were already tagging me. “Where is the Queen Patron today? Is something wrong?” A familiar avatar popped up in the comments. It was Lexi. “We don’t need her. Let’s show him we can carry the room ourselves!” The fans tried to rally, but the energy was limp. When Dante finally ended his stream, the hashtag #DantesBust started trending. Without my massive opening donations, the major brands hadn’t bothered to show up. He was used to being the king, but he had neglected his community management. Now that I was gone, the house of cards was folding. His peak viewership wasn’t even hitting the numbers of a C-list influencer. While Dante’s fans were begging for my return, I was looking at a message from Kit. He had sent over an exhaustive list of brand partners. His 8 PM “Mega-Drop” was going live with discounts even lower than Dante’s best days. The internet caught fire. Everyone was speculating on who Kit’s new “Angel Investor” was. Meanwhile, Dante’s camp was silent. His team hadn’t even announced a lineup for the night. At 8:00 sharp, I entered Kit’s room and dropped gifts for ten minutes straight. Dante’s team officially canceled his broadcast for the night. I didn’t look back. I watched Kit’s numbers climb to an eye-watering 500,000 concurrent viewers. Kit was different from Dante. Dante used to sit there, bored, letting his assistants do the talking. If he got annoyed, he’d just walk off-camera, and his fans would call it “authentic.” Kit, however, was in the trenches. Before the stream, he had sent me a twenty-seven-thousand-word strategy brief, timed to the minute. The sales ticker started rolling. Thirty million. Fifty million. Eighty million. The moment it crossed a hundred million, the chat went feral. Kit’s eyes turned red. His voice trembled. “Thank you, Jade. Thank you so much…” Three hours later, the stream ended. He was the number one trending topic in the country. I exited the app only to find my DMs exploding. Dante’s fans had invaded. “You shameless bitch. You leave Dante to go hook up with another guy? Where’s your loyalty?” “You were Dante’s top fan. You owe him a handwritten apology on video, or we’re coming for you.” “Disgusting. How many times did you have to sleep with Kit for this?” Someone asked Dante for his take. He posted a brief, chilly response: “Some fans spend a little money and think they own the creator. Honestly, it’s terrifying.” That was the spark. The fans went rabid. “So that woman, Jade Summer, tried to force Dante into a relationship just because she bought some stuff?!” “Gross. She’s giving all women a bad name.” Within an hour, my photos were leaked. They were edited to look like funeral portraits, captioned with slurs like “Old Whore” and “Sugar Mommy.” My phone started ringing incessantly. “I heard your mom is dead. Good. She deserved to die for raising a snake like you!” I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. Despite the harassment, Dante said nothing. He watched the world burn my reputation and didn’t lift a finger. The last flicker of warmth I felt for him died right then. I wasn’t going to play nice anymore. Suddenly, Kit posted to his Twitter and Instagram. “Jade is my most important partner. Anyone who insults her insults me. My success belongs to her, and I won’t tolerate this harassment. If you want to talk shit, come for me.” His fanbase immediately clashed with Dante’s. My legal team already had the cease-and-desist orders ready. I retweeted them and shut off my phone. The moment I walked into the house, Lexi’s voice cut through the air. “Jade! Are you insane? You’re trying to make Dante jealous by doing this? You’ve lost it!” She practically shoved her phone into my face. “Who gave you permission to send Dante a legal threat? Do you have any idea what this does to his reputation?” “Withdraw it now. Publicly apologize to him. Say you were out of your mind and promise to triple your donations next time he goes live!” I didn’t hesitate. I slapped her hand away from my face. “Are you done telling me how to run my business?” A flash of pure hatred crossed Lexi’s face, but she shrank back. I went upstairs and checked the metrics. It had been a good night. Kit had gained 400,000 followers, and the engagement was off the charts. A Tier-1 luxury brand had already reached out—they wanted to host their new product launch exclusively in Kit’s studio. As the owner of the media firm, I scheduled a meeting for both parties to sign the contracts at my office the next morning. The next day, I arrived to find two uninvited guests in my lobby. Lexi smirked at me. “Jade, I brought Dante here. Just apologize to him. For my sake, he’ll forgive you, and we can put this ugly mess behind us.” Dante didn’t look at me. He was sipping a coffee, chin tilted up, waiting for me to come crawling over. I was exhausted by the delusion. Before I could speak, Lexi’s eyes snagged the folder in my hand. She snatched it. Her eyes lit up. “Oh, I see! You were playing the long game. Using Kit to create a buzz, just so you could hand this luxury contract to Dante as a ‘peace offering.’ Clever.” Dante’s expression softened. He took the contract and signed his name in a sweeping, arrogant scrawl before I could even process the theft. Then, he tossed the folder at my chest. He chuckled darkly. “I’m taking this contract because I’m the best, not because you gave it to me,” he said. “Don’t get it twisted. And don’t try this pathetic ‘jealousy’ stunt again. It’s beneath you.” I frowned. “That contract wasn’t for you.” Dante looked at me with pure condescension. “Jade, you got my attention. You won. But don’t push your luck.” Lexi chimed in, “Seriously, Jade, stop the act. You’re obsessed with him. You can’t breathe without Dante. If he actually walked away, you’d crumble. Just be grateful he’s giving you another chance.” I had once liked Dante. I had built him up because I admired his talent, and yes, his market value was high. But “couldn’t breathe”? Please. Dante stood up to leave. “I don’t need an apology from someone who doesn’t matter,” he said over his shoulder. Lexi shot me a smug look. “I’ll talk him down for you, Jade. He listens to me.” After they left, I called my legal team to void the signature and draft a fresh copy. As the broadcast time approached, Kit messaged me, sounding panicked. “Jade, I… am I supposed to be co-hosting the launch with Dante?” I went to Dante’s page. He had posted a promotional poster: Exclusive Luxury Launch. Tonight at 8 PM. I sighed and sent him a private message: That contract wasn’t for you. It’s a legal violation. Take the post down now. He didn’t reply privately. He screenshotted my message and posted it to his millions of followers, tagging me. “Just because I chose your sister over you, you’re trying to sabotage my career? You’re the daughter of a mistress, Jade. You owe Lexi everything. Have some dignity.” The internet exploded. “A mistress’s daughter? That explains everything.” “Spending the family’s money on a man who hates her. Pathetic.” Lexi followed up with a post of her own: “The past is the past. My mother and I just want peace. Please don’t dig into the family drama. Thank you for the love.” She attached a “family” photo: her, my father, and her mother. I was nowhere to be seen. The comments hailed her as a saint. Lexi called me, gloating. “Jade, you should probably go into hiding for a few days. People are looking for you. Dante is going to address everything tonight on his stream. Don’t watch—it’ll only hurt your feelings.” I hung up without a word. Shortly after, Kit’s official account announced the luxury pre-sale. The public was confused. “Who’s doing the drop? Kit or Dante?” “Are they co-streaming? No way, they’re rivals.” “Who actually signed the deal?” The brand’s official account settled it. They tagged Kit: “Thrilled to announce our exclusive partner for the new collection, @Kit. See you at 8 PM.” Then, a second post, tagging Dante: “Regarding the unauthorized use of our brand name for promotion: this is a formal notice of trademark infringement. Remove all related materials immediately or face legal action.” My phone began to vibrate violently. It was Dante. When I picked up, his voice was a low, vibrating growl of suppressed rage. “Jade Summer. Have you had enough yet?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “440959”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel