Five years of keeping our relationship a secret, and it all came down to my left foot stepping across the threshold first. Jackie had shut down again. He slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing in the driveway, breathing in the acrid scent of his Porsche’s exhaust fumes. I let out a tired sigh, pulled out my phone, and added a new entry to my Notes app: [Never step out with the left foot first. A notification flashed at the top of the screen: [Notes storage limit reached. I scrolled down. It was an endless, suffocating wall of text—thousands of entries, all of them Jackie’s “rules.” He was on the spectrum, diagnosed with Asperger’s years ago. He didn’t know how to communicate, let alone express his emotions. His only language was cold, stony silence, leaving me to guess exactly what had triggered his displeasure this time. By the time I rushed into the office parking lot, breathless and disheveled, I saw them. Amber, his newly hired secretary, was sitting in the passenger seat of his car. They were laughing, batting playfully at each other. My heart seized, a panic-driven alarm blaring in my chest as I watched them. Flirting in the company parking lot? Forbidden. Eating in Jackie’s car? Forbidden. Spraying perfume inside his vehicle? An absolute crime. I waited, heart in my throat, expecting Jackie to snap at her, to hand down one of his clinical, devastating reprimands. Then, she opened the door and hopped down. Her left foot hit the pavement first. Instead of flinching, Jackie reached out, his face softening into a look of pure, undivided adoration as he caught her hand. Somewhere deep inside me, a quiet, vital structure collapsed. It turned out his diagnosis wasn’t a cage that kept the world out. It was a cage he built only for me. I was the only one trapped in it. … Right after HR approved my sudden request for a personal day, my phone buzzed. Predictably, it was a text from Jackie. [?] It took me less than a second to translate it. He was demanding to know why I wasn’t at my desk. In the past, a text like that would have sent me into a tailspin. I would have frantically typed out a ten-paragraph essay explaining whatever unavoidable emergency had kept me away, begging for his understanding. But now, the image of him holding Amber as if she were made of spun gold flashed behind my eyelids. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion settled over me. I couldn’t bring myself to care enough to explain. [I don’t feel like going.] A heavy, eerie silence followed. He didn’t reply. I sat in a quiet coffee shop downtown, aimlessly stirring my latte. My mind drifted back to the office, imagining Jackie’s current state. If I failed to deliver his morning iced Americano—exactly three pumps of syrup, no milk—by 8:00 AM, he would punish me with a day of absolute silence, forcing me to play a guessing game of what I’d done wrong. It wouldn’t end until I humbled myself, apologizing repeatedly for my incompetence. Or if his coffee mug was placed even slightly off-center on his mahogany desk, he would stare at it, rigid as a marble statue, until I adjusted it to the millimeter. Only then would he begin his workday. He had a million silent ways to torment me, keeping me in a constant state of hypervigilant anxiety. The alternative was an endless, freezing cold war that eroded my sanity. My phone lit up with a text from a coworker, looking for office gossip. Where are you today?] I typed a brief reply: [Handling some personal things.] Seconds later, she sent over a video file. You need to see this. Mr. Keller and the new secretary are practically glowing. Everyone on the floor is betting they’re sleeping together!] I tapped the video. Amber was sitting directly on Jackie’s immaculate mahogany desk, her legs swinging carelessly. She wasn’t doing any work; instead, she was casually touching up her makeup. Jackie was holding a compact mirror for her, his expression a mix of mock exasperation and tender indulgence. “Does this blush look better, or the lighter one?” she asked, tilting her head. “The lighter one,” he murmured. “What about the lipstick? This nude or the brighter coral?” “The coral suits you better.” On the desk, a spilled coffee was slowly seeping into a stack of quarterly reports. The Jackie I knew would have had an absolute breakdown over a single stray drop of liquid. But now, he didn’t even glance at it. His eyes were locked on her, as if she were the only thing in his universe. My chest tightened. The sensation was bitter, far worse than the cold brew sitting untouched in front of me. I remembered trying to tease him once, years ago, holding up two lipstick shades. He had immediately soured, his face hardening with irritation. “Why do you insist on testing me? You know my diagnosis makes it difficult to process subtle color variations. It’s exhausting.” Then he added, with cold detachment, “And honestly, Natalie, beautiful people look good in anything. If someone isn’t naturally striking, makeup isn’t going to save them.” I had stared at my plain, ordinary reflection in the mirror, burning with humiliation. I never asked him about colors again. It turned out he didn’t have trouble seeing the difference. He just didn’t care to see it on me. The video ended, leaving my hollow expression reflected in the dark screen. Lost in thought, I typed out a reply without thinking: [They look sweet together. Amber and Jackie make a good match.] Within seconds, my phone began vibrating violently. A barrage of question marks flooded the screen. [?] [Natalie, what are you talking about?] [Delete that right now! Did you mean to send that to a private chat?] My heart sank. I had posted the reply in the main company Slack channel instead of my private message with my coworker. Before my trembling fingers could hit “delete,” Amber sent a voice note, her voice trembling with soft, performative tears. “Natalie, I don’t appreciate you twisting my professional relationship with Mr. Keller like this. Our employee handbook strictly prohibits office romances. I would never do something so inappropriate!” I let out a dry, bitter laugh. Her words were a thinly veiled jab at my own five-year secret relationship with Jackie. For five years, Jackie had insisted that a public relationship between a CEO and an administrative assistant would ruin the company’s reputation. So, we stayed hidden. I worked a quiet, low-level desk job, though he frequently summoned me to his top-floor office. Once or twice, a colleague had walked in on a lingering touch or a shared glance, but Jackie would quickly and silently pull away. Rumors swirled, of course, but I never confirmed them. Jackie ignored the gossip, and the office settled into a quiet, unspoken understanding. Until Amber arrived. Three weeks ago, she had burst into his office without knocking, catching Jackie with his arm wrapped tightly around my waist. It was the first time in five years I saw him panic. He pushed me away so violently that I slipped and fell onto the hardwood floor. Looking at the startled young girl, he stammered, “There’s nothing between us. It’s not what it looks like.” Amber had fled the room like a frightened rabbit. From that day on, Jackie never called me to his office again. The very next morning, he promoted Amber—who had only been an intern for three days—to be his personal executive assistant. He even had HR release a company-wide memo clarifying that he and I shared no personal ties whatsoever. Looking back, that was the moment his heart had shifted. I didn’t try to defend myself on Slack. I simply typed: [I’m sorry.] A second later, Jackie—who had never once posted in the general company channel—replied, tagging her. [@Amber Don’t worry. You are my exception.] The channel erupted. The virtual chatter was deafening. [Is this an official announcement?] [Oh my god, this is literally a romance novel come to life.] [The ice-king CEO falling for the clumsy intern? I’m screaming.] I quietly closed the application, a profound sadness settling deep in my bones. All of Jackie’s rigid, unbendable rules could be shattered for the right person. That person just wasn’t me. I opened my personal email and searched for an old message buried in my archive. It was an offer letter from a prestigious design firm in London, sent six months ago. At the time, my entire existence had revolved around Jackie, so I had politely declined, holding onto the hope of a future with him. Now, I read through the terms, took a deep breath, and hit reply. I accepted the position. [Jackie, I am officially opting out of your double standards.] To ensure a clean break, I spent the next few days working late, wrapping up my remaining projects. It was 3:00 AM when I finally closed my laptop and stretched my aching back, only to find Jackie standing in the doorway of my cubicle, his face cast in shadow. I packed my bag, intending to brush past him, but he stepped sideways, blocking my path. He kept his eyes lowered, a familiar tell that he was harboring a deep, silent anger. I knew exactly what he wanted to ask. “It was an accident,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “I meant to send it to a coworker, not the general channel.” His jaw tightened, disbelief rolling off him in waves. “That’s all you have to say?” The realization hit me slowly, a cold splash of water. He wasn’t here because he was worried about me. He was here to defend his new muse. I glanced past his shoulder toward the glass doors of the lobby. Down in the driveway, his black Porsche was idling. Amber was sitting in the passenger seat, her eyes red and puffy, looking like a victim in need of saving. I had never experienced that kind of protective instinct from him. On our first anniversary, after weeks of begging, he had finally agreed to take me to an upscale French bistro downtown. While idling at a red light, he spotted someone who looked like an assistant manager from our firm crossing the street. Without a word, he grabbed my shoulder and shoved me down onto the floorboards, pinning me there until the light turned green. By the time he let me up, I was gasping for air, my face flushed purple. [“Just deal with it,” he had snapped, straightening his tie. “What would people think if they saw us? I have a reputation to protect.”] Yet, for Amber, that precious reputation was discarded without a second thought. I stared down at the tips of my shoes, letting out a soft sigh. “What do you want from me, Jackie? I said you two make a good match. That’s hardly an insult.” It was a cruel irony. She had stepped into my relationship, and yet I was the one forced to offer blessings. I knew better than to expect Jackie to care about my hurt. A flicker of surprise crossed his eyes, gone as quickly as it came. He cleared his throat. “You need to apologize to Amber. You embarrassed her.” Before I could reply, Amber fluttered into the room like a delicate butterfly, wrapping her arm around his. “It’s my fault, Jackie,” she whimpered, her voice sweet and tremulous. “I shouldn’t have confronted Natalie in the channel. I know my own heart is pure, so I shouldn’t let these things get to me.” Her lips formed a small, apologetic pout, but her eyes gleamed with pure triumph. Jackie pulled her behind him protectively, his tone instantly shifting to soft reassurance. “Don’t apologize, Amber. She owes you one. She’s just bitter because she can’t stand seeing you succeed.” He glared back at me, his voice hardening. “To project your own pathetic insecurities onto an innocent girl… it’s disgusting, Natalie.” Each word felt like a clinical diagnosis of my moral failings, spoken as if I were a common criminal. The sheer exhaustion of the late hour and the humiliation bled together into a dull ache in my temples. I couldn’t fight anymore. I nodded, offering a hollow, mechanical apology. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, bowing my head slightly. “My hand slipped.” As I bent forward, a single, hot tear escaped, blurring my vision. Five years of devotion, reduced to this humiliating display. Jackie stood with his arms crossed, watching me closely before finally sighing. “I’ll let it slide this once. But if you disrupt the workplace again, you’ll be suspended.” I gave a quiet nod. Jackie blinked, clearly taken aback by my compliance. It was a stark departure from the woman I used to be—the one who would cry, scream, and beg for a scrap of affection whenever she felt him slipping away. He wasn’t prepared for this silent, calm version of me, standing by as he openly championed another woman. His throat worked, as if he wanted to say something more, but Amber pulled at his sleeve. “Jackie, we’re going to be late! You promised you’d take me to that gallery opening downtown!” The tension left his face instantly, replaced by a soft smile. “Right. Let’s go.” I watched them walk away, hand in hand. I walked home alone in the humid Seattle night, the sticky air clinging to my skin. But inside, I felt entirely hollow, cold as a tomb. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Amber had posted a photo carousel and tagged me. The photos showed the two of them at the exhibition. Jackie, usually so stoic and unresponsive, was leaning close to her, gesturing toward a painting with animated interest. They stood shoulder to shoulder, looking like a perfect, stylized couple in a high-fashion magazine. The caption read: [No matter how much negativity comes my way, I’m keeping my head high! So lucky to have a boss who always has my back.] Jackie had liked the post instantly, leaving a row of supportive emojis. I let out a dry laugh and left a comment of my own: [Great attitude. Incredible audacity, too.] Almost immediately, a text from Jackie popped up. [Clearly, you haven’t learned your lesson. Don’t bother coming in tomorrow. Stay home and think about your behavior.] I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I opened an airline app and booked a one-way ticket to London for three days later. When the confirmation screen appeared, a massive weight lifted from my chest. [Jackie, I’m never coming back to that office. And I won’t be standing in the way of your precious Amber ever again.] Jackie didn’t come home that night. I was grateful for the quiet. I spent the evening packing my life into three large suitcases. Around midnight, a former colleague sent me a link to a TikTok account, urging me to look. The handle was @Insomniac_Amber. It was a dedicated couple’s vlog documenting a “secret office romance.” The videos were filled with snippets of daily life with her “CEO boyfriend.” Though his face was kept out of frame, I immediately recognized the broad shoulders, the tailored suits, and the small dark mole on the back of his neck. It was Jackie. The comments section was flooded with envious followers. One user asked how she managed to land a literal CEO. Amber had pinned her reply: [Honestly, I liked him from day one! He had this super plain administrative girl always hanging around him back then, but she wasn’t even in my league, so I just went for it!] Another comment read: [He told me they were just strictly professional, even after I saw them together once. But honestly? If I want something, I take it.] There was no denying who she was talking about. Every sweet, romantic gesture Jackie performed in those videos—the gentle hand-holding, the surprise gifts—were things he had denied me for five years, claiming they triggered his sensory issues. My colleague messaged me: [So you and Jackie were actually together! She literally stole him from under your nose. This is sick.] I typed back calmly: [It’s fine. It’s in the past now. Let them have each other.] The next afternoon, I walked into the HR office to submit my resignation. The HR director stared at the document, her mouth falling open. “Natalie, you’re resigning? Does Jackie know about this? Let me give him a call.” “No, wait—” I started, but she was already dialing. “Jackie, hi. I have Natalie in my office submitting her resignation, and I wanted to check if you had authorized—” Before she could finish, Jackie’s voice cut through the speaker, sharp and impatient. “She’s suspended. Whatever she does from now on is none of my concern. Let her go.”] In the background, I heard Amber’s soft, giggling voice before the line went dead. The HR director looked at me with deep embarrassment. I simply smiled and shrugged. It didn’t matter what he thought. As long as I was free, his indifference was a blessing. With the paperwork finalized, a profound sense of relief washed over me. I went back to my desk to pack up my personal belongings. The office was quiet, though I could feel the weight of a dozen pitying stares. Whispers traveled across the cubicles about Amber’s viral videos and how she was already landing brand sponsorships. “Poor Natalie,” someone whispered near the water cooler. “She lost her man, her job, and her dignity all at once.” I ignored them, snapping my storage box shut. Just as I was about to leave, my phone buzzed with a text from Jackie. [Pick up that brand of lavender diffuser oil from the boutique downtown and bring it to the apartment. I need it.] A dry chuckle escaped my lips. It was a chore he had assigned me a thousand times before. Whenever Amber wanted to go shopping, he would claim he needed to “clear his mind” and send me on errands. When she wanted to visit a museum, he would call it a “research trip.” When they traveled, he called it “business.” And like a fool, I had believed him every single time. Now, the transparent nature of his lies was glaring. I decided to buy the oil, wanting to leave with absolutely no loose ends. By the time I unlocked the door to our shared apartment, exhaustion settling deep in my bones, I froze. Jackie and Amber were wrapped around each other in the living room, Amber wearing nothing but one of Jackie’s oversized white shirts. Jackie pushed her away instantly, his posture stiffening as he scrambled for an explanation. “It’s not what you think. Amber’s feet were sore from walking all day. I brought her here to run a bath and help her relax.” I didn’t say a word. I simply placed the diffuser oil on the entryway table and took a step back, signaling that my duty was done. Amber, however, put on a helpless pout. “Natalie, could you be a dear and light it for me? I’m absolutely terrified of lighters.” I suppressed a sigh, picked up the matches from the console table, and struck one. I leaned forward to light the wick. In the flickering glow, I saw the cold, calculated look in Amber’s eyes. Before I could pull away, she reached out, feigning a sudden start, and knocked the lit match and the highly flammable alcohol-based oil directly into my face. The liquid caught instantly. Pain exploded across my cheek, and the smell of burning hair filled the room. “Help me!” I screamed, thrashing wildly as I tried to smother the flames on my face and shoulder. “Jackie, help!” But Jackie didn’t move toward me. Instead, his first instinct was to pull Amber into his arms, covering her eyes. “Don’t look, Amber. I’ve got you. Let’s get out of here.” He scooped her up and rushed out the front door toward the elevator, leaving me alone in the burning room. As the heavy door swung shut, his muffled voice echoed through the hallway: “Just wait for me, Natalie! I’ll be right back. Amber has trauma related to fire…” [Wait for me.] It was the phrase that had defined my last five years, and once again, he didn’t look back. Through the open door, I watched the elevator indicator lights count down. In sheer desperation, I dragged myself into the bathroom and plunged my head and shoulders into the filled bathtub. When I finally broke the surface, gasping for air, the apartment was thick with black smoke. My phone, sitting on the counter, buzzed. [Amber is severely shaken up. I’m taking her to the ER. Clean up the mess.] A hollow, broken laugh escaped my throat. I should have known. In Jackie’s clinical, orderly world, there was only room for Amber now. The room began to spin, the smoke filling my lungs until my vision faded into black. When I finally opened my eyes, the sterile, blinding whiteness of a hospital room made me wince. I tried to move, but a sharp pain flared across my face and arm. “Oh, thank god, Natalie. You’re awake. You gave us a terrible scare!” I turned my head slowly to see Mr. Hogan, our building’s property manager, sitting by my bedside, his face etched with worry. “Did… did you bring me here?” my voice was raspy, barely a whisper. “Yes,” he said, patting my hand gently. “The fire caught the living room curtains, and the smoke detectors went off. I banged on your door, but when there was no answer, I had to call 911. The firefighters had to break the door down. You were nearly gone, Natalie.” A cold shudder ran through me. If Mr. Hogan hadn’t acted quickly, I would have died in that apartment. “The doctors said you had severe smoke inhalation and minor burns,” he continued quietly. “They needed a family signature for an emergency procedure. I tried calling Jackie repeatedly, but he kept declining the calls. In the end, I had to sign the paperwork myself as the building representative.” Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. “Thank you. I… I don’t know how to repay you.” A near-stranger had saved my life and stayed by my side, while the man I loved for five years had actively ignored my life-threatening emergency. Mr. Hogan’s phone rang, cutting through the quiet room. He answered it quickly, putting it on speaker. “What is it now?” Jackie’s voice was sharp, dripping with annoyance. “Jackie, I finally got through,” Mr. Hogan said urgently. “Natalie was rushed to the hospital. She was unconscious from smoke inhalation. You need to get down here.” There was a long pause on the other end, followed by a heavy, irritated sigh. “Natalie, is this your idea of a joke? I took Amber to the clinic because she was traumatized. Is your jealousy so pathetic that you have to pay the property manager to lie to me?” “Jackie, this is serious—” “There was barely a spark when I left,” Jackie interrupted coldly. “I’ll be home in a few hours. Stop throwing tantrums.” The line went dead. Mr. Hogan stared at his phone, his face red with embarrassment. “It’s fine,” I said, offering him a weak, reassuring smile. “He’s not coming. I’ll handle the discharge papers myself once the doctors clear me.” He gave me a sympathetic look, checked on my vitals, and quietly excused himself. Left alone, I scrolled through my phone. An algorithm-driven notification popped up. It was Amber’s TikTok. Her latest video, captioned Late-night clinic run with my protective CEO, had already gained over a million likes. The comments were filled with adoration. [He literally carried her in his arms!] [This is the sweetest thing ever.] In the comments, sleuths had already uncovered his identity. Wait, isn’t that Jackie Keller, the tech mogul from Seattle?] The internet was in a frenzy. A local business blog had managed to catch Jackie outside his office that morning, asking about the viral rumors. In the video clip, Jackie actually smiled at the camera—a rare, relaxed expression. “We’re just focused on keeping her happy,” he said smoothly. “She likes sharing her life, and I’m happy to support her.” The fan accounts were losing their minds. My heart is melting! They are end-game.] I stared at the screen, a cold detachment washing over me. I left a simple, three-word comment under the video: [Is that so?] Within minutes, my phone vibrated with a text from Jackie. [What is wrong with you, Natalie? Are you trying to invite a hate mob to Amber’s page? She’s fragile right now after what happened with the fire. Stop trying to ruin her happiness with your petty games.] I let out a dry, silent laugh. She was “fragile” from seeing a match lit, while I was lying in a hospital bed with second-degree burns and damaged lungs. I didn’t reply. I had nothing left to say to him. When several hours passed without a response from me, his tone shifted to a desperate, impatient compromise. [Look, I apologize if I was harsh. Stop ignoring me. I’ll come by the apartment tonight and we can figure out how to explain this online.] [Amber is just trying to build her brand to help pay off some family debt. She asked me to play along for her vlog. It’s just content. We aren’t actually together. If you can just cooperate and be sensible, we can go back to how things were.] I actually laughed out loud this time, coughing slightly as my damaged lungs protested. He truly believed he was doing me a favor, that I would gladly accept being his secret, obedient shadow while another woman claimed him in public. I typed two words: [No thanks.] Then, I blocked his number. If they loved attention so much, it was time to give them exactly what they wanted. Once I was discharged, I returned to the empty apartment, packed my laptop, and spent the night compiling a meticulous Google Slides deck. It contained timestamps, texts, flight records, and photos spanning five years. I created an undeniable timeline of our relationship, showing exactly when Amber had entered the picture. I sent the entire file to a couple of major internet culture reporters and drama channels, checked in for my flight, and walked away without looking back.

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On the day of the career fair, I hired a divorced single mother. But the second she cleared her ninety-day probation, she slapped a maternity leave request on my desk. I stared at that crumpled piece of paper, my ears ringing. “During your interview, you told me you were divorced and just wanted a stable job to support your kid,” I said, my voice tight. “You said you had no plans to date or start a family anytime soon. Why did you lie to me?” She just rolled her eyes. “When opportunity knocks, you don’t ignore it. It’s not my fault. Besides, not everyone wants to be a lonely, single career-obsessed dog like you.” During the argument that followed, she shoved me down the stairwell. I ended up with a shattered leg. She didn’t even look back. She just walked away and immediately took her maternity leave. Her parting words? “If you don’t approve it, I’ll see you at the Department of Labor.” What she didn’t know was that I had already found out her divorce decree was a total forgery. Since she decided to play dirty, I was going to make sure she paid for every single cent she took from me. … The heat at the convention center that day was brutal. The air was a suffocating mix of body odor, cheap cologne, and the hot, metallic scent of freshly printed resumes. My head was pounding. After three hours of sitting at a cramped folding table, I had collected dozens of resumes. They fell into two categories: fresh college grads who thought they deserved a six-figure salary for showing up, or seasoned slackers who just wanted to punch a clock and coast. I was packing up my banner, ready to call it a day, when a quiet, hesitant voice spoke up behind me. “Excuse me… are you still hiring?” I turned around. Standing there was a woman in her mid-thirties. She looked polished, her makeup done with careful precision, holding a rolled-up resume in her hand. She wore a faded light-blue button-down shirt, neat jeans, and had her hair pulled back into a sensible bun. Her skin had a warm, healthy glow, and her eyes were bright. She looked sharp, capable. I gestured to the empty chair. “We are. Have a seat. Let me see your resume.” Her name was Meredith. Thirty-five. She had spent the last eight years managing client relations for a local building supply distributor. I flipped through her pages. “Why did you leave your last job?” She gave a soft, gentle smile, the faint crinkles at the corners of her eyes making her look incredibly approachable. “They relocated their operations out of state. I couldn’t move with them.” “Oh? Tied down here? Parents to look after?” “No,” she paused, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a document and slid it across the table. “I’m divorced. I have a seven-year-old boy. He’s in school here, and I’m his primary caregiver. I can’t just uproot him.” I glanced at the copy of her divorce decree. The photo on her ID attached to it showed a slightly thinner, less happy version of the woman sitting in front of me. My chest tightened with a sudden spark of hope. For a boutique agency like mine, our biggest fear was hiring young newlyweds who would inevitably go on maternity leave six months in. We simply didn’t have the budget or the staffing to absorb that kind of disruption. A divorced mother with a school-aged kid felt like the perfect solution. They were usually stable, motivated, and practical. I decided to lay my cards on the table. “Meredith, I’ll be honest with you. We’re a small firm, and every single person here has to carry their own weight. There’s no room for dead weight. What are your long-term plans? Are you looking to remarry, or maybe start a family again anytime soon?” She shook her head immediately, her expression earnest. “Monica, I completely understand. Honestly, with my situation and a young son, dating is the last thing on my mind. I just want a stable, nine-to-five job where I can do good work, earn enough to support the two of us, and be home in time for dinner. I promise you, my personal life won’t interfere with this job.” It was music to my ears. The position required constant client interaction. Consistency was everything. I couldn’t afford someone who needed a personal day every other week. Meredith seemed like an absolute godsend. I asked her a few technical questions about account management. Her answers were solid, her past campaign results impressive. She clearly knew her stuff. I made the decision right then and there. “Tell you what. We do a ninety-day probationary period at thirty-five hundred a month. Once you’re permanent, it bumps to forty-five hundred plus commission, with health insurance and a 401(k). If that works for you, you can start next Monday.” Her eyes lit up. She stood up, grasping my hand in a warm, firm grip. “Thank you so much, Monica. You won’t regret this. I won’t let you down.” Walking away from the convention center, I felt a warm glow of satisfaction. I felt like I’d done a good deed—helping a struggling single mom while securing a stellar employee. How could I have known I wasn’t hiring an asset? I was inviting a parasite into my business. And she was going to put me in a hospital bed. For the first month and a half, Meredith was flawless. She was the first one in and the last one out. Her assignments were completed ahead of schedule, requiring zero oversight. Our major clients raved about her responsiveness and warm demeanor. I congratulated myself daily on my keen eye for talent. Even Chelsea, our office manager, mentioned her in passing. “Meredith never goes out for lunch. She always brings a Tupperware from home and heats it up in the breakroom. She told me she’s saving up for her son’s soccer club.” Hearing that made me feel even more protective of her. When her three-month review came up, I officially brought her on board and voluntarily added an extra five hundred dollars to her base salary. “I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” I told her. “Don’t burn the candle at both ends.” She looked deeply moved, her eyes shining with tears as she thanked me profusely, calling me her savior and promising her lifelong loyalty. But on her third day as a permanent employee, everything shattered. I was on my way out to pitch a major prospect when she intercepted me in the quiet back stairwell, shoving a piece of paper into my hand. I looked down at it. My brain went completely blank. It was a formal maternity leave request. She was four months pregnant. She was requesting one hundred and fifty-eight days of paid family leave, starting the following month. I stared at the crumpled paper, my fingers trembling slightly. I looked up at her, momentarily speechless. She stood there, perfectly composed, her hands lightly cradling her stomach. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips. “Meredith… what is this?” My voice sounded hollow, distant. “What do you mean?” she asked casually. “During your interview, you told me you were a single mom. You said you had no plans to remarry or have more kids. It’s only been three months, and now you’re telling me you’re pregnant?” She shrugged, letting out a soft sigh. “Well, Monica, when the universe brings someone into your life, you can’t fight it. My new husband doesn’t care about my past. We got married recently, and well, this baby was a surprise. I can’t exactly undo it, can I?” “Then why didn’t you mention this during your onboarding?” My voice rose, the anger bubbling up. “You completely blindsided me! This role handles our three biggest accounts. If you go on leave next month, who is supposed to manage them? Do you have any idea what this does to a business our size?” “I didn’t know back then,” she lied, her tone suddenly shifting. The warm, gentle woman I thought I knew vanished, replaced by someone cold and combative. She rolled her eyes. “Besides, getting married and having a baby is completely legal. The law says you have to protect pregnant employees. Not everyone wants to spend their whole life single, lonely, and married to their job like you, Monica.” The sheer malice of her words knocked the breath out of me. I was nearing thirty. I had sacrificed my twenties, my social life, and my relationships to build this agency from scratch. To have my personal life weaponized against me by someone I had tried to help was a knife to the chest. I swallowed my anger, trying to maintain a professional boundary. “Meredith, even with legal protections, this is bad faith. You knew you were pregnant when you took this job. You lied to get hired.” “I didn’t lie about anything,” she snapped, stepping closer, her voice echoing in the concrete stairwell. “Prove it. You can’t. And let me tell you something, Monica—don’t even think about trying to push me out. I am a pregnant woman. You touch my job, and I’ll have the Department of Labor on your ass so fast your head will spin. You run a business; surely you’re smart enough to know the law.” I was shaking, my blood boiling. “You planned this. You calculated the exact days to clear probation so the company would be on the hook for your maternity leave and health insurance. Didn’t you?” “Think whatever you want. I did my job. I earned my pay,” she sneered. “Don’t touch me. I’m pregnant!” With a sudden, aggressive motion, she shoved her hands against my shoulders. I was wearing heels. My foot caught on the edge of the top step. I lost my balance and tumbled backward down the concrete flight of stairs. When I finally stopped rolling at the landing below, a blinding, white-hot pain shot through my left leg. I gasped, unable to draw air into my lungs. I looked up through the metal railings. The landing above was empty. Meredith was already gone. It was Tara, our receptionist, who found me ten minutes later, crying out in horror before dialing 911. The diagnosis at the ER was a clean tibia fracture. I needed surgery, a metal plate, and at least a month of strict bed rest. Lying in that sterile hospital bed, as the morphine began to wear off, the throbbing pain in my leg kept me wide awake. I was consumed by a cold, burning rage. I had tried to do the right thing. I had tried to support another woman, a single mother. In return, she had broken my leg, stolen my resources, and threatened me with a federal investigation. On the second day of my hospital stay, Chelsea came by with a stack of urgent documents for me to sign. Among them was a certified letter from Meredith. It was a fresh copy of her maternity leave request, sent via registered mail to create a paper trail. She was making her move. Sign it, or I’ll sue. Chelsea’s face was flushed with anger. “Monica, this is insane. We have to fight this. She lied to us, she hurt you, we can’t let her get away with this!” I looked at the crisp, clean paper in my hands. And then, slowly, I started to laugh. I had already filed a police report for assault the night before. But the stairwell was a notorious blind spot for our building’s security cameras. There were no witnesses to the actual push. Meredith had already told the officers it was a tragic accident—that I had simply tripped and fallen, and she had run to get help. Because she was pregnant, the police were hesitant to press charges without hard evidence. Chelsea looked at me, bewildered. “Monica? Are you okay? Did they give you too many painkillers?” “I’m perfectly fine,” I said, my voice dead calm. I picked up a pen and, without hesitation, signed my approval on the maternity leave line. “Give her the leave,” I told Chelsea. “Tell HR to process her full maternity benefits. Don’t skip a single penny.” “But why?” Chelsea looked horrified. “Why are we enabling her?” “Because,” I murmured, reaching under my pillow to pull out a manila folder. I slid a photocopied document toward her. “I want you to look at this.” Chelsea took it, her eyes widening as she scanned the page. “Is this… Meredith’s divorce decree? What about it?” When I first reviewed her onboarding paperwork, I had noticed something slightly off about the physical copy of the decree she provided. The paper stock was cheap, and the court’s raised seal looked incredibly flat, almost printed on. At the time, I had ignored it. I figured she had lost her original copy during a messy split and used a high-quality reproduction. I didn’t want to make a struggling mom’s life harder, so I just quietly kept a copy in my private files and let it go. Now, I realized she hadn’t lost her original decree. She had never divorced her husband in the first place. And luckily for me, I had kept the evidence. “And look at this,” I said, pulling up a text chain on my phone. “My friend runs a boutique employment law firm. Meredith actually consulted him a few months ago under a fake name, asking if a company could fire a woman who hid her pregnancy during hiring, and what kind of benefits she could legally squeeze out of them.” Chelsea’s hands started to shake. “This is premeditated. She planned the entire thing.” “Exactly,” I cold-smiled. “I had a private investigator look into her home address yesterday. She and her husband are very much together. They wanted a second child, but her previous company didn’t offer paid family leave. So, she came up with this scheme: fake a divorce to look like a safe, long-term hire, hide the pregnancy until she cleared probation, and let a new company foot the bill for her delivery and recovery. It had nothing to do with ‘destiny’ or a ‘new husband.’ It was a calculated corporate scam.” She had targeted a small business because she knew we lacked a massive legal department to fight back. She assumed the threat of a Department of Labor investigation would scare me into submission. But she made one critical mistake. She assumed I was stupid. “What’s the plan, Monica?” Chelsea asked, her voice dropping to a whisper, a spark of anticipation in her eyes. “Do we go straight to the police with the forgery?” I adjusted the heavy cast on my leg, grimacing slightly at the dull ache. “No. Not yet. Let her think she won. If we move too fast, she’ll play the victim to the local media, and our agency’s reputation will take the hit. We wait until she’s fully committed. We let her take the leave first.” I needed to secure our assets. “Go back to the office,” I instructed Chelsea. “Reassign her three major accounts to Hannah immediately. Tell them Meredith had a sudden medical emergency. Lock Meredith out of the shared drive. Change the passwords. I want her completely cut off from our data before she realizes what’s happening.” “Got it,” Chelsea nodded. “What about her personal desk? It’s locked.” I smiled. “Call a locksmith. Tell them we need to reclaim company property. Pack up her personal things, catalog them carefully, and ship them to her house. If she complains, tell her I authorized it. She can come talk to me in my hospital bed if she has a problem.” Chelsea grinned, a look of pure satisfaction on her face, and left to execute the plan. Over the next two weeks, while resting in my hospital room, I quietly built my case. I obtained certified records from the county clerk confirming Meredith’s marriage was fully intact. I spoke with her former employer. It turned out she had tried the same exact stunt with them. When they discovered her pregnancy, they offered her a choice: take a demotion to a non-client-facing role with a pay cut, or resign. She chose to resign and took her forged paperwork to me. I looked at the complete dossier of evidence on my bedside table and smiled. Meredith’s little house of cards was about to come crashing down.

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By the third year of my marriage to Christian, I had become the most reliable emotional specimen in his private psychiatric clinic. Three psychological evaluations a week. One deep hypnosis session a month. Christian told me it was all to cure my chronic insomnia. And I believed him. Without a single doubt. Until yesterday, when I woke up early from my trance and heard his voice drifting through the thin walls of the adjoining observation room. “Keep pushing her.” “The more authentic her breakdown, the better the desensitization therapy works for Callie.” The therapist hesitated, his voice tight. “But your wife is already showing signs of self-harm, Christian. If we keep going, she might not survive it.” There was a heavy, suffocating silence. Then, Christian spoke, his tone casual, almost detached. “Gwen is my wife.” “Helping me save the person I want to save is exactly what she’s supposed to do.” It was in that silent, freezing moment that the truth finally shattered me. All my agony, my sleepless nights, my panic attacks, my complete psychological collapses over the past three years— They were nothing but clinical data points. Harvested to cure his fragile, glass-doll childhood sweetheart. 1 When the doctor pushed the door open, I had already shut my eyes, forcing my breathing to remain slow and even. Christian must have assumed I was still deeply under. His footsteps on the linoleum floor were light, almost ghost-like. The cold, metallic electrode pads were pressed against my temples once more, their icy contact making me shudder inwardly. “Mr. Ward, perhaps we should stop here for today?” the doctor whispered, a tremor of hesitation in his voice. “Your wife’s wrist wound from last night hasn’t even begun to heal.” Through the slightly ajar door, Christian’s voice cut through the sterile air, cool and sharp. “She didn’t die, did she?” “Proceed with the schedule.” The doctor tried to advocate for me one last time. “But she lost a lot of blood last night, and the sedatives haven’t fully cleared her system. At least let her rest for a day.” I heard the dry rustle of paper as Christian flipped through my medical chart. His tone remained perfectly flat. “She’s survived much worse than this before.” “Gwen isn’t fragile.” “Gwen isn’t fragile.” That used to be his favorite way to praise me. When my stomach ulcers flared up so badly that I curled into a ball on the kitchen tile, he told me I wasn’t fragile. When I spent the entire night of my parents’ death anniversary staring at the ceiling, shaking with silent grief, he said I wasn’t fragile. Even when the deep hypnosis sessions left me dry-heaving over the toilet until my throat burned with bile, he still looked at me with that calm approval and whispered that I wasn’t fragile. But when Callie so much as winced during a routine blood draw, Christian would hold her hand, whispering softly, “Cry if it hurts, sweetie. Don’t hold it in. You don’t have to be strong for me.” Only now did I realize that “not fragile” wasn’t a compliment. It was his license to let me suffer. The room fell into a heavy silence. Lying back in the leather reclining chair, my fingers curled slowly into my palms, my short nails digging into my skin. The doctor, obeying his employer, finally flipped the switch. Through the noise-canceling headphones, the audio file I dreaded most began to play. The screeching of tires. The horrific tear of twisting metal. And then, my own hysterical, ragged screams. It was the recording of the car crash from three years ago. The crash that killed both of my parents. Christian had always known how deeply that night had scarred me. When I had my first severe panic attack on a stormy night during our first year together, I had locked myself in the closet, shaking uncontrollably. He had canceled an entire board meeting, pried open the closet door, pulled me into his arms, and kissed my forehead over and over. “Gwen, hold onto me if you’re scared,” he had whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I will never take your pain lightly. I’m going to help you heal. We’ll get through this together.” I didn’t know then that his way of “helping me heal” was to drag me back into that living nightmare day after day. Only to record my raw panic and slice it into therapy modules for Callie. My chest tightened, a suffocating pressure crushing my lungs as the heart rate monitor began to beep in sharp, frantic bursts. The doctor panicked. “Mr. Ward, your wife’s vitals are spiking! We have to stop!” The door to the observation room swung open. Christian stepped up to the side of my chair, looking down at me with cold, analytical eyes. His hand gripped my shoulder, firm and completely unyielding. “Gwen, breathe,” he commanded, his voice steady to the point of cruelty. “Don’t lose control.” “Don’t lose control.” His words to me were always commands. But then, a soft, dry cough echoed from the hallway outside. In an instant, his entire demeanor shifted. “Callie?” He spun around and rushed out of the room, completely ignoring how his abrupt movement tore one of the monitoring leads clean off my chest. “Are you alright? Did the alarm scare you?” A few moments later, he guided Callie into my room. She wore an oversized hospital gown that made her look even tinier, her face pale, her delicate fingers clutching at the sleeve of his designer suit. Christian leaned down, his voice dropping to a tender, soothing register. “Don’t worry, it was just the machine making noise. You’re safe. No one is going to force you to do anything.” Those words pierced my ears like a poisoned needle. Because ten minutes ago, he had looked at the doctor and said: “If Gwen refuses to cooperate, increase the dosage. Restrain her if necessary.” No one would ever force Callie. But I could be strapped down to a chair, plunged back into the worst day of my life, screaming until my vocal cords bled, only to be reduced to a sterile clinical annotation: “Subject’s panic response is highly authentic. High utility for modeling.” 2 When I opened my eyes, my tears had already soaked into my hair at my temples. Christian frowned slightly, pulling a tissue from the box to wipe my face. The gesture was practiced and gentle, but his voice was entirely hollow. “Another nightmare?” he asked. “You’re fine. The doctor is right here.” Suddenly, memory of last night flashed in my mind. After I sliced my wrist, blood had pooled across the bathroom floor. When Christian rushed home, his first instinct wasn’t to check the depth of my wound. Instead, he had looked up at the doctor standing by my side. “Did she have another episode? Did you manage to record the physiological onset?” The doctor’s silence had been painful to witness. Only then did Christian seem to remember I was a human being, leaning down to brush a stray lock of hair from my cheek. “Gwen, stop making a scene,” he whispered. “You’re going to frighten Callie.” And yet, when Callie sent him a single text in the middle of the night, he had abandoned my bedside instantly, throwing on his coat to rush to her. He had even grabbed the soothing chamomile and lavender herbal broth I had spent all evening brewing for myself. “Callie’s immune system is weak,” Christian had said as he walked out the door. “You can make another batch tomorrow.” The next morning, I saw that very thermos on Callie’s Instagram feed. Her caption read: “He said no matter how dark the night gets, he’ll always be the one to guide me home.” I stared up at Christian now, a sudden wave of physical nausea hitting me. How could he push me into the abyss with his own hands, and then, without missing a beat, ask if I was okay? Seeing me awake, Callie’s eyes immediately pooled with tears. “Gwen, I’m so sorry,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “Is it because of me that you had to go through this again today?” Her tears spilled over, beautiful and delicate. Christian’s brow furrowed slightly as he reached out to steady her shoulder. “Don’t say that.” I stared at his hand resting on her arm. The very same hand that had just wiped away my tears. But his grip on her was so light, so protective, as if terrified she might break under his touch. “Christian,” I rasped, my throat raw. “Why does curing her illness require exploiting my pain?” His hand froze. Callie’s face drained of color instantly. “Gwen, I am so, so sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this. Christian told me your biometric data was crucial for my therapy, but I really don’t want you to suffer because of me…” She apologized, yet her fingers tightened their grip on his sleeve, pulling him closer. Christian frowned at me, his eyes darkening. “Callie is already feeling incredibly guilty about this, Gwen. Don’t look at her like that.” The doctor lowered his gaze, his eyes flashing with a fleeting look of pity for me. Christian remained silent for a few seconds, as if weighing whether to keep up the lie. Ultimately, he chose clinical pragmatism. “Callie’s trauma triggers are nearly identical to yours,” he said calmly. “Your psychological responses provide the exact modeling data her treatment plan needs.” “Gwen, this isn’t abuse. It’s therapy.” I let out a dry, hollow laugh that tore at my throat. “Then what about me?” “Who is going to cure me?” Christian’s frown deepened, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face. “You’re already much more stable than she is.” “You have a family. You have our marriage. You have me.” “Callie has absolutely nothing. Why do you have to be so incredibly hostile?” Callie immediately grabbed his sleeve, weeping and shaking her head. “Christian, please, don’t argue with Gwen because of me. I really don’t mind. If Gwen doesn’t want to do this, I can stop the treatment. I don’t need to get better…” Christian pulled her behind him protectively. “No one is stopping your treatment,” he said, his voice dropping to a firm, unyielding register. When he turned back to me, his patience was completely gone. “Gwen, stop being childish.” “You’re just participating in a study. Nothing actual is going to happen to you.” “Callie has been ill for years, and we’re finally seeing a breakthrough. I won’t let you ruin her progress right now.” I stared at him, forcing out every syllable. “So my panic attacks, my sleepless nights, my bleeding wrists… to you, it’s all just ‘participation’?” He didn’t deny it. At that moment, the final shred of hope in my chest went completely cold. I reached down and ripped the IV needle straight out of the back of my hand. A bead of dark red blood welled up and trickled down my fingers. The doctor instinctively moved to help me, but I flinched away. Christian’s expression darkened. “Where do you think you’re going?” I held onto the edge of the treatment chair to steady myself, my voice as faint as a passing breeze. “Home.” “To pack my papers for the divorce.” My brother had already booked my flight. In three days, I would have my signed divorce papers in hand, and I would be flying to Boston. 3 Christian looked at me as if I had just told a particularly ridiculous joke. “Gwen, stop using divorce to threaten me.” “We both know you can’t survive without me.” And for a long time, I had believed that too. After my parents died, he was the one who carried me out of the psychiatric ward. When I was terrified of the dark, he kept every light in the house burning through the night. When the sound of screeching tires made me hyperventilate, he would cup his hands over my ears and whisper, “I’m here. I’m right here.” Back then, I truly believed he was my savior. It took me three years to realize that the lifeline he threw me could easily be twisted into a noose around my neck. I looked up at him and offered a quiet, peaceful smile. “Then consider it a threat.” Christian’s face hardened. He had likely never seen me like this before. In the past, whenever my panic attacks struck in the dead of night, I would cling to his sleeve and beg him not to leave. If he so much as knit his brow, I would immediately let go, terrified of being a burden. I had been so afraid of losing him. So afraid that I didn’t even dare to scream when I was in pain. But now, the only thing I felt was a desperate urge to get away. I dragged myself along the corridor, leaning against the wall for support. Just as I reached the exit, Callie’s soft, breathless voice echoed from behind. “Christian… my chest is so tight… I can’t breathe…” Christian spun around instantly. He strode past me, bending down to lift her into his arms. The movement was so practiced, so fluid, he must have done it a thousand times. I stood frozen, watching him carry Callie past me. The hem of her gown brushed against my skirt—a quiet, triumphant sweep. As Christian walked by, he didn’t even look at me. He only threw a single line over his shoulder. “Go home and calm down.” “And don’t ever let me hear you mention divorce again.” I watched his retreating back. A memory from six months ago flashed in my mind. I had suffered a severe seizure during a hypnosis session and crashed off the high treatment chair onto the floor. The panicked nurse had dialed his number, sobbing. When he finally arrived, his first words weren’t of concern. “Why wasn’t anyone watching her?” That day, I had split my forehead open, blood covering half my face. He hadn’t carried me. Instead, he had simply instructed the orderly to wheel me back to my room. Because Callie was scheduled for her first evaluation that afternoon, and he didn’t want her to be traumatized by the sight of blood. It turned out he knew exactly how to hold someone. It was just that no matter how hard I fell, I was never worth bending down for. I returned to the empty house alone. He had chosen this estate himself, nestled in the quiet of the hills because he knew I couldn’t stand loud noises. He had promised me that once I healed, we would plant a row of white camellias in the courtyard. But when I pushed the heavy iron gates open, the white camellias were gone. In their place stood rows of bright, towering sunflowers. Our housekeeper froze when she saw me standing in the driveway. “Ma’am… I didn’t expect you back so soon.” I stared at the blinding, aggressive yellow filling the yard, my voice barely a whisper. “Who ordered this?” The housekeeper lowered her head, avoiding my eyes. “Miss Callie mentioned that she’s spent too much time in sterile hospital rooms, and that sunflowers always cheer her up.” “Mr. Ward had the gardeners dig up the camellias yesterday.” A laugh bubbled up in my chest, bitter and hollow. I remembered standing before those young camellia bushes months ago, smiling as I asked Christian: “Do you think by the time they bloom, I’ll finally be okay?” He had stroked my hair gently and replied, “You will.” Now, the flowers hadn’t even had the chance to bloom before they were ripped out by the roots. I walked upstairs to gather my documents. But the moment I opened our bedroom door, my feet glued to the floor. Sitting on the nightstand was a strange, unfamiliar pill bottle. And right next to it was Callie’s soft cashmere scarf. The cloying, sweet scent of her perfume had already seeped deep into our sheets. I pulled open my closet, reaching for the small safe where I kept my papers. The security lockbox was gone. My passport, our marriage certificate, the heirloom my parents left me, and the visa documents I had prepared for Boston—all gone. I turned and ran back downstairs, confronting the housekeeper. “Where is my lockbox?” The woman’s face turned even paler. “Mr. Ward… Mr. Ward took it.” “He said… he was worried you’ve been emotionally unstable lately, and he didn’t want you doing anything reckless.” Standing in the foyer, a sudden, violent chill washed over me. He had blocked my exit before I even knew I wanted to run. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was Christian. His voice came through the receiver, calm and measured, as if we had spent the morning discussing nothing more than the weather. “Are you home?” I stared at the empty space in the closet. “Where are my documents, Christian?” A brief, heavy silence stretched over the line. “You’re not in the right headspace right now, Gwen. I’m keeping them safe for you temporarily.” “I won’t let you make a decision you’ll regret while you’re highly emotional.” My vision swam, dark spots dancing at the edges. “Leaving you is the only decision I will never regret.” I heard him sigh, a sound of patronizing patience, as if dealing with a petulant child. “Stop this now.” “Callie had a rough afternoon, and I need to stay at the clinic with her tonight.” “Take your medication and go to sleep. I’ll come home tomorrow and we can talk like adults.” I ended the call and let my knees buckle, sinking slowly onto the cold hardwood floor. My stomach churned violently, and the bandage on my wrist began to bloom with fresh crimson. The housekeeper cried out, reaching for her phone to call an ambulance, but I grabbed her arm. “Don’t.” I unlocked my phone and typed out a message to my brother, Declan. “Christian took my passport and documents.” “I need replacements.” Declan’s call came through almost instantly. His voice was cold as steel, vibrating with a quiet, lethal anger. “Gwen, don’t panic.” “I’m coming to get you tomorrow morning.” 4 Early the next morning, the electronic lock on the front door beeped. I expected Christian. But the person who walked in was Callie. She was wearing his black wool coat, her slender shoulders swallowed up by the heavy fabric. She was carrying a cardboard box. “Gwen.” “Christian asked me to come by and grab a few changes of clothes for him.” My eyes locked onto the coat she wore. It was a custom piece I had commissioned for Christian’s birthday last year. Inside the left cuff, I had personally embroidered a tiny, elegant “G.” He had held me close that night and whispered that having my initial right against his wrist made him feel like I was holding his hand all day. Now, it hung loosely off Callie’s frail frame. “Take what you need and leave,” I said, my voice dead. Callie walked into the walk-in closet, moving with an ease that suggested this was far from her first time here. She slid open the second drawer of the vanity, confidently retrieving the luxury watch Christian wore most often. Then she picked out a few of his tailored dress shirts. “How do you know where everything is?” I asked suddenly. Her hand paused over the drawer. She looked down, a small, subtle smile playing on her lips. “Christian told me.” “He said he hates it when people touch his things, but that I don’t count as ‘people.’” As if realizing she had crossed a line, she gasped softly and turned to look at me, wide-eyed. “Gwen, I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t be angry.” I didn’t say a word. Her eyes drifted to the nightstand. Resting there was the only thing I had left of my parents—my father’s old pocket watch. I lunged forward, slamming my hand down over hers. “Don’t touch that.” Callie flinched back violently, tears welling up in her eyes in an instant. “I… I just saw it looked dusty and wanted to help you clean it…” “I said, do not touch it.” She bit her lower lip, her voice shrinking to a pathetic whisper. “Gwen, do you hate me that much?” “I really never wanted to take Christian away from you.” “He’s the one who said you could never survive without him. He said you’re just throwing a tantrum.” “He said once you calm down, you’ll come crawling right back to him anyway.” Every single word was like a needle. Tiny, but piercing straight into my heart. Before I could even open my mouth, she took a dramatic step backward. Her hip caught the edge of the nightstand. With a sharp clatter, the pocket watch was swept off the table and crashed onto the hardwood floor. “Crack.” The delicate glass casing, already fractured from the accident years ago, shattered completely. My mind went entirely blank. That pocket watch was the last physical connection I had to my father. On the night of the crash, his hand had been clamped around it. When the rescue team finally handed his personal effects to me, the metal casing was still stained with his dried blood. I fell to my knees, desperate to gather the pieces. But before my fingertips could touch the shattered glass, Callie burst into loud, hysterical tears. “I’m so sorry, Gwen! I didn’t mean to! I swear I didn’t mean to…” Urgent footsteps echoed from the hallway. Christian was back. He burst through the door, his eyes immediately landing on Callie, who was sobbing against the wall. Only then did his gaze drop to me, kneeling on the floor, bleeding from where my fingers had pressed into the broken glass of the watch. “What did you do to her this time?” The exact same accusation. The exact same script. I slowly lifted my head, my eyes locking onto his. “She broke my father’s watch.” Christian frowned, his eyes flicking to the shattered pieces on the floor for a fraction of a second. “It’s just an old watch.” “Callie didn’t do it on purpose. Stop terrifying her.” “It’s just an old watch.” I suddenly remembered the day of my father’s funeral. Christian had knelt beside me in the pouring rain, gently wiping the dirt off the metal casing of this very watch. He had looked into my eyes and promised: “Gwen, from now on, I will protect the things they left behind. I won’t let anyone touch them.” Now, the girl who broke it was cowering behind his back. And he called it “just an old watch.” I let out a soft laugh. But not a single tear fell. Callie whimpered, her hands clutching at him. “Christian, I really just wanted to help Gwen organize her things… She suddenly rushed at me, and I got so scared…” Christian pulled her close, his voice cold as ice. “Gwen, apologize to her.” “She suffers from severe trauma triggers. You shouldn’t be provoking her.” I looked up at him. My chest felt completely hollowed out, as if a vital organ had been ripped from my ribcage. So Callie’s triggers required the entire world to bend to her will. But my grief, my nightmares, my parents’ last memory—they were nothing but minor inconveniences in her treatment plan. I looked down at the shards in my hand. The sharp glass had sliced into my palm, dark red blood dripping onto the floorboards. But I didn’t let go. “Christian,” I whispered. “Is it true that as long as she cries, I am always the one in the wrong?” His eyes flickered, a sudden, fleeting moment of hesitation crossing his face. But Callie let out a fragile cough, and his focus snapped right back to her. “Stop being unreasonable.” I nodded slowly. And stood up. “Fine.” “I apologize.” A brief spark of triumph flashed in Callie’s eyes before she quickly lowered her head again. I walked over to her. I reached out and placed the shattered halves of the pocket watch into her open palm. “I’m sorry,” I said, enunciating every single word. “It’s too old anyway. I wouldn’t want it to dirty your hands.” Christian stared at me, his jaw clenched, as if he wanted to say something more. But Callie suddenly gasped, clutching her chest, and slumped limply into his arms. “Christian… I can’t… I can’t breathe…” His expression turned to pure panic. He swept her up into his arms in one motion. Before rushing out the door, he threw one last freezing glare at me. “Reflect on what you’ve done today, Gwen.” The heavy bedroom door slammed shut. The house finally fell into silence. Thirty minutes later, Declan arrived. When he saw the dried blood on my hand and my deathly pale face, his eyes went red with fury. But he didn’t ask a single question. He simply took off his heavy winter coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and held me tight. “Gwen,” he whispered. “Let’s go home.” The car sped toward the private airfield. Before boarding, I turned back to look at the skyline of the city one last time. The city where I had spent three years of marriage, slowly allowing myself to be disassembled piece by piece. The cabin door slid shut. As the private jet taxied into the night sky, I finally closed my eyes. From this moment on, Christian could never trap me again.

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Everyone in the industry knows there is one golden boy you absolutely do not cross. I was simply standing in the back of the VIP lounge at the Aethelgard launch party, quietly sipping an iced Americano, trying to blend into the shadows. I hadn’t spoken to a soul. But the moment Tim Cross turned away from his vanity mirror and caught sight of me, his eyes instantly welled with tears. “I’m not trying to target anyone,” he said, his voice carrying clearly across the room, “but that black tailored suit you’re wearing is making me incredibly uncomfortable.” I stared at him and calmly told him I wasn’t changing. Right then and there, his face contorted. He pulled out his phone, switched it to speaker, and made four consecutive calls: to Cora Michell, the powerhouse CEO of Michell Media; Fiona Fletcher, the Sundance-winning director; Rae Crawford, the editor-in-chief of the country’s most influential lifestyle syndicate; and Victoria Coleman, the head of the city’s most ruthless litigation firm. All four of them picked up on the first ring, their voices dripping with an almost frantic deference. The onlookers in the room began exchanging pitying glances. A few whispered for me to get on my knees, apologize, and stop trying to play David against an entire empire. I just kept the straw between my teeth and let out a quiet, dry laugh. Cora was my former assistant—the one who, three years ago, couldn’t format a slide deck without crying, whom I had personally mentored. Fiona’s breakout indie film was financed entirely through my personal connections. Rae was my ex-girlfriend—the one who had wept on my porch when I walked away, to whom I had gifted my entire media network as a parting gesture. And Victoria? She is my younger sister, the girl I had practically raised and shielded from our family’s wreckage. I had only been out of the industry for two years. In my absence, this group of women had taken the keys to my kingdom and used my legacy to breed a pampered, arrogant little lapdog. And now, they were trying to blacklist me using the very resources I had handed them. … At the backstage launch of Aethelgard’s new line, I stood in a corner near the catering table. I didn’t want any trouble. The brand’s CEO had personally called me three times over the weekend, begging me to attend. He had offered a private VIP suite, a separate entrance, and a dedicated styling team. I had turned down every single offer. When you leave the spotlight, you do it for the silence. But a promise to an old friend is a promise, so I showed up. I figured I would stand in the back, keep a low profile, and slip out early without causing a scene. But then Tim Cross turned around from his lighted makeup mirror. The moment his eyes landed on me, he froze. He stared at me for five long seconds. I looked back at him, feeling a faint, ironic amusement. To be fair, the resemblance was hard to deny. He had the same sharp jawline, the same slight curve of the brow. It was a watered-down, softer version of my own face. It made sense why they had chosen him to fill the void I left behind. But Tim clearly didn’t view our shared features as a flattering coincidence. His gaze drifted from my face down to my suit, and I watched his pupils contract. The suit I wore was a bespoke, midnight-black piece Aethelgard had custom-tailored for me. It hadn’t even been announced to the public yet; it was a true one-of-one. Tim was wearing the brand’s current-season flagship piece. It was the same color palette and the same general silhouette, but the cut, the drape of the fabric, and the hand-stitched detailing on mine were obviously a tier above his. Tim’s expression soured instantly. His eyes reddened, and he spoke in a soft, trembling voice designed to sound fragile. “I’m not trying to be difficult… but you did this on purpose, didn’t you? Standing there, looking exactly like me, dressed like that. It’s making me really uncomfortable.” His assistant immediately stepped into my space, glaring. “Are you blind? Tim told you to change.” Another assistant chimed in, her voice dripping with venom. “That suit is obviously a cheap knockoff. Tim’s wearing the official, unreleased line. How embarrassing to show up in a counterfeit just to clout-chase. And trying to copy his face? Pathetic.” I looked at her, then back at Tim. I had promised my friend I wouldn’t make a scene. “I’m just standing here with a coffee. How exactly am I in your way?” A tear escaped Tim’s eye and rolled down his cheek. “You see? Everyone thinks they can just walk over me…” I didn’t have the energy for this. I turned on my heel, intending to find a quieter corner of the venue. “Stop right there,” Tim called out behind me. I paused. “You aren’t leaving this room until you take that suit off.” I turned my head slightly. “No.” The greenroom went dead silent. Tim blinked, surprised by the resistance, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. He pulled out his phone, set the volume to maximum, and dialed. The first call went to Cora Michell. She answered within three seconds. “Who is it, Tim? Give me a name. I’ll make sure they never find work in this city again.” The second call went to Fiona Fletcher. “Don’t cry, sweetie. Who’s bothering you? I’ll recast his role in my next feature by tonight.” The third call went to Rae Crawford. “Send me a photo of him. I’ll have the tabloids run the story as a front-page warning tomorrow morning.” The fourth call went to Victoria Coleman. “Don’t worry, Tim. We can hit them with copyright infringement, defamation, and emotional distress. My team will handle it.” Four calls. Four powerful women, treating him like a fragile glass doll. Tim hung up, tilting his chin up to look down his nose at me. “Now, are you going to change, or do we need to make this harder for you?” I kept my straw between my lips, barely able to contain my laughter. Cora? Three years ago, she was a nervous intern who couldn’t organize a digital file system without hyperventilating. I had built her career piece by piece. Fiona? The film that put her on the map was a script I spent weeks rewriting in a cabin upstate, using my own capital to secure her distribution when the studio threatened to pull the plug. Rae? My ex-girlfriend. When we broke up, she begged me to stay, and I ended up leaving her my entire public relations network as a cushion so she wouldn’t have to rebuild her career from scratch. And Victoria? My own little sister. I was the one who paid her law school tuition and helped her study by flashlight. I had been gone for two short years, and they had taken everything I left behind to raise a spoiled child as their personal king. And now, they were using my own tools to bury me. I took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll find another room. I don’t want to ruin the evening.” I began to walk toward the exit, but Tim wasn’t finished. “Who said you could leave?” His security guards immediately stepped in front of the door, blocking my path. “Tim told you to take off the suit,” his manager, a sharp-faced woman named Tamara, said as she walked over. She eyed me up and down with deep disdain. “This brand’s premier line doesn’t debut until tonight, and Tim is the sole global ambassador. What you’re wearing is either a cheap replica or it was stolen. You’re not just changing; you’re going to apologize.” The assistant smirked. “Make him get on his knees and apologize, Tim. People like this need to be put in their place.” Tim didn’t say anything, but the smug satisfaction on his face was answer enough. He just stood there, waiting for me to break. I remained still. “I’m not kneeling.” Tim’s smile faded. “Are you sure about that?” “Quite.” He gave a slight nod to the guards. The next second, two heavy hands gripped my shoulders, forcing me downward. I wrenched my body to the side, trying to break their grip, but the sheer weight of the two men pushed me toward the floor. In the scuffle, my leather shoulder bag was ripped from my arm, spilling my belongings across the polished concrete. My phone, my keys, my wallet—and an old, faded plastic security pass. The pass slid across the floor, stopping near the public relations director, a man named Franklin, who had just entered the room. He glanced down at the plastic card, and his face instantly lost all color. “Next Media Group?” he whispered. Tim frowned. “What is that?” Franklin’s voice was trembling. “Next Media… the shadow agency. They practically built the modern entertainment landscape. Our brand’s entire celebrity network was established because Next pulled the strings…” The whispers in the room shifted instantly. “Didn’t the CEO say a legendary executive was arriving tonight? Someone who demanded no special treatment?” “Could it be him?” The guards’ grip on my arms loosened slightly. Tamara, sensing the shift in the room, quickly pulled out her phone, her fingers flying across the screen. “Don’t let him fool you!” she cried, holding up her screen. “I just ran the business registration. The ultimate beneficial owner of Next Media is listed as ‘C. Coleman’—a woman! He’s just a guy carrying a dead executive’s old badge. He’s a fraud.” The tension in the room broke. The guards tightened their grip again, shoving me down. Tim let out a sigh of relief and smiled. “I knew it. A guy in a fake suit playing pretend.” He walked over, looked at the badge on the floor, and brought his heavy boot down on it, cracking the plastic. “Probably just some executive’s kept man, using a stolen pass to act tough.” With that single step, the entire room fell back into line behind Tim. “Imagine pretending to be a media mogul,” someone laughed. “No wonder he’s wearing a fake suit. The desperation is real.” “You’re too soft on him, Tim. People like this need a lesson.” The assistant turned to the guards. “He doesn’t want to kneel? Force him.” The guards shoved me down hard. My knees hit the cold floor with a dull thud, a sharp pain radiating up my legs. I let out a quiet grunt. Tim crouched down, bringing his face level with mine, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Hey, big shot. I thought you were some kind of industry legend. Why are you on your knees?” “Now, apologize, say ‘I’m a fraud,’ and maybe I’ll let you leave.” I grit my teeth and remained silent. I wasn’t afraid; I was holding back. This was my friend’s launch event, and I didn’t want to burn it to the ground. But Tim took my silence as submission. “Still quiet?” He stood up and glanced at Tamara. “Help him find his voice.” Tamara stepped forward. Before I could move, her hand whipped across my face. The sharp crack of the slap echoed through the dressing room. My head snapped to the side. Before I could recover, another blow landed on the other cheek. The heat radiated across my face, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. Something inside me snapped. I wrenched my arm free from the guard’s grip, driving my elbow back into Tamara’s ribs. As I scrambled to my feet to retaliate, the room erupted into chaos. In the scuffle, someone collided with Tim. He lost his footing, stumbled backward, and went over the edge of the decorative indoor water feature. A loud splash echoed through the room. When Tim dragged himself out of the shallow pool, soaking wet and shivering, a jagged piece of slate from the border had caught his cheek. A thin line of crimson was beginning to bead along his skin. The room fell into a terrified silence. Then, the screams started. “Tim’s face!” “He cut Tim’s face!” Tim touched his cheek, his fingers coming away red. The tears this time were real, born of pure panic. “My face… my face!” Tamara rushed forward, grabbing me by the collar and shoving me back down onto the floor. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea how much his face is insured for?” The assistant lunged in, landing two more heavy slaps across my face. “You are finished. Just wait until the directors get here. You’re going to lose everything.” I lay there on the cold floor, the taste of blood thick in my mouth, my left cheek swelling rapidly. But as I looked up at them, I couldn’t help but smile. “You really think you’re safe when those four women get here?” I whispered. Tamara let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Safe? You’ve got it backward, sweetie. You think anyone cares about a nobody like you? Last year, a co-star accidentally scratched Tim’s neck during an action scene. Cora had him blacklisted from every major network within twelve hours.” She leaned down, her breath hot against my face. “When they see what you did to him, they won’t just sue you. They will destroy you.” Tim sat shivering by the water feature, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, his eyes filled with malice. “Just wait… you’re going to regret ever being born.” I rested my forehead against the cool concrete, watching the droplets of blood smear against the grey surface. I didn’t bother responding. Because through the heavy doors of the greenroom, I could already hear the sound of hurried, chaotic footsteps. They were here. The double doors were flung open, and the four of them rushed into the room. Cora hadn’t even finished putting on her coat; she was in a silk camisole, her forehead damp with sweat. Fiona’s signature scarf was askew, her heels clicking rapidly against the floor. Rae’s hair was a mess, her lipstick slightly smudged, clutching her car keys like a weapon. Victoria looked sharp in her tailored suit, but her silver brooch was pinned crookedly—a sure sign she had run from her office. The moment Tim saw them, his crying redoubled. He threw off the towel and ran toward them, presenting his bloody cheek. “Cora… Fiona… look what he did to me… he ruined my face…” Tamara rushed to support him. “Ms. Michell, Ms. Fletcher, this fraud broke into the VIP lounge using a fake Next badge. When we tried to remove him, he threw a tantrum and pushed Tim into the stone fountain!” The four women fixed their eyes on the thin red line on Tim’s cheek. Cora’s expression turned murderous. “Who did this?” Tamara pointed a finger directly at me. “Him.” Their gazes shifted slowly to where I lay on the floor, my face bruised, my collar torn, my hair falling over my eyes. Cora stepped forward, her voice freezing the air in the room. “Lift your head.” I didn’t move. Fiona joined her, her eyes cold. “Do you have any idea what his career is worth? Do you know what you’ve ruined?” Rae stood silently behind them, her gaze cold enough to kill. Victoria knelt down, her tone clinical and lethal. “I can draft the civil suit right now. You’ll be paying for this for the rest of your life. And I’ll make sure the criminal charges stick.” Tim sniffled behind them. “He said you’d all kneel to him… he’s a lunatic…” Cora’s jaw tightened. “I said, look at me.” Slowly, I pushed myself up and raised my head, letting the harsh vanity lights fall across my swollen, bloodied face. The four of them froze. It was as if the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. Cora’s eyes widened in sheer terror. Fiona’s hand remained suspended in mid-air. Rae’s fingers clamped so tightly around her car keys that her knuckles turned stark white. Victoria stayed frozen in her crouch, forgetting to stand. I looked at them through my swollen left eye and let out a soft, wet laugh. “Hey, Cora,” I whispered, my voice hoarse. “Fi. Rae. Hey, kiddo.” Four names. Names that had not been uttered in this industry for two long years. Cora’s face went entirely, horribly white.

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After the miscarriage, a quiet, corrosive paranoia took hold of me. Every single day, I texted Christian, asking him the exact same question: “Do you love me?” For the first ninety-nine times, his replies were patient, almost sweet—a digital reassurance to keep my fragile mind at bay. But on the hundredth time, his patience finally snapped. He fired back three sharp sentences that left me breathless. [Nora, don’t you have anything better to do?] [The baby is gone. You don’t have to suffer through the pregnancy anymore, so now you’ve decided to torture me instead?] [If you have this much time to overthink, go look in the mirror. See that hollow, lifeless ghost staring back at you.] I froze, the phone heavy in my trembling hand. A second later, the messages vanished—unsent. A voice note popped up in their place, his tone smooth and composed. “Sorry about that, Nora. My assistant had my phone and sent those by mistake. Don’t take it to heart.” Whether it was a mistake didn’t matter anymore. The truth had already slipped through the cracks. In that quiet, sterile hospital room, I realized something cold and absolute: our marriage was over. … I discharged myself from the clinic, ignoring the dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. I didn’t go straight home. Instead, I made a detour to my attorney’s office to pick up the divorce papers, the folder heavy and cold in my hands. By the time I finally unlocked the front door of our brownstone, night had swallowed the city. The living room lights were blazing. Christian was sitting on the leather sofa, bathed in the sharp glow. At the sound of the door closing, he looked up, his brow instantly furrowing. “I went to the clinic and they said you’d already checked out. Where the hell have you been? You haven’t answered a single call or text.” He stood up, his voice tight with irritation. “Do you not understand you just had a miscarriage? Your body is weak. You’re supposed to be resting, not wandering the streets.” I didn’t answer. I slid off my shoes, walked into the kitchen, and poured myself a glass of water. My hands were perfectly steady. He followed me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he spoke again, his tone softening slightly. “Today was a mix-up, Nora. I told you, my assistant grabbed the wrong phone. She already apologized, and I gave her a piece of my mind. I promise it won’t happen again.” An assistant? Grabbing her boss’s highly encrypted personal phone and typing out paragraphs? I let out a soft, humorless laugh and set my glass down, turning to look at him. Christian was undeniably beautiful. I had known that from the moment I first laid eyes on him. Even now, at thirty-three, he possessed a sharp, magnetic elegance that outshone most men his age. Sitting there in his casual loungewear, he looked like he had been pulled straight from the pages of a high-end editorial. I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime doing nothing else. But tonight, it hit me with the force of a sudden downpour: his beauty had absolutely nothing to do with me. He was like an exquisite designer coat behind a glass display. You stand in the cold, staring at it for so long that you begin to believe it’s yours. But you’ve never actually held it. You’ve never felt its warmth. “Christian,” I said, my voice steadier than I expected. “What was her name again? Your new assistant.” He hesitated. “Maisie. Why?” “How long has she been with you?” “Six months,” he said, before quickly adding, “Why are you asking this? I told you, it was a mistake. Why do you have to pick at every little thing? Can’t you just let it go?” Four defensive questions, lined up like a shield. Instead of arguing, I kept my tone level. “I remember when she first started. You mentioned her once. You said she was clumsy, that she lacked the sharp, cutthroat attitude you usually look for in an assistant. Then you stopped bringing her up. I assumed you’d let her go.” “But not only is she still here, I’ve noticed that over the last six months, your late nights at the office have doubled. Your business trips have become a weekly routine.” Christian’s face darkened. “Nora, what are you trying to say?” I offered him a faint smile. “I’m just stating facts.” His impatience flared, his voice dropping into that familiar, condescending register. “Nora, I know you’re emotional right now because of the miscarriage. I get it. But you can’t let a few misplaced texts turn you into a paranoid wreck. It’s not good for you, and it’s certainly not going to help when we try for another baby.” “The baby.” That word was a silver needle, sliding deep under my skin, piercing my heart with agonizing precision. How long had we been married? Four years. When I was twenty-two, I had run away from my family’s protective shadow in New York, looking for a thrill. At a mutual friend’s dinner party in Chicago, I fell head over heels for Christian. I chased him relentlessly. At first, he dismissed me, saying I was too young, too naive. But I was stubborn, dragging my heart out into the open and laying it at his feet. I showered him with attention, bought him expensive gifts, and eventually, I was the one who proposed. People whispered behind my back, calling me desperate, unladylike. I didn’t care. I thought love meant being brave enough to lose your pride. We dated for a year, then married. And for four years, I was the only one pouring water into a leaking bucket. Every time he offered even a drop of warmth, I felt like the sun had risen just for me. When I got pregnant, he seemed genuinely happy. He was more attentive than he had ever been. But then came the accident. A slip on the stairs, a sudden, blinding pain, and just like that, our four-month-old baby was gone. Christian hadn’t cried, but the silence between us grew heavier. He withdrew into himself, speaking even less than before. Fear clawed at my chest—a desperate, clawing terror that he was slipping away, that he would seek comfort in someone else. That was why I kept asking if he loved me. I was begging for a lifeline. He never actually said the words “I love you”, but his replies—”I’ll be home early tonight”—had been enough to keep me breathing. Until today. Until a personal phone I was never allowed to touch was used by another woman to humiliate me. The illusion was shattered. He had never truly cared. But it was okay. It was over. I had run out of love to give. Seeing my silence, he probably thought I was giving in. He stepped closer, leaning down to wrap his arms around me. “Alright, let’s not overthink this. I had the housekeeper make some soup for you. Drink some, get some sleep, and tomorrow we can go out—” “Christian, I want a divorce.” The words were barely a whisper, yet they cut through the room like glass. He froze. His arms remained suspended in mid-air, a half-formed embrace that would never close. The only sound in the living room was the rhythmic, clinical ticking of the grandfather clock. One. Two. Three. Slowly, he straightened up, looking down at me with a harsh, incredulous laugh. “What did you just say?” I met his gaze, my voice unwavering. “I said, I want a divorce. I’m so tired, Christian.” “Tired of loving you.” Christian let out a mocking sneer. “Are you out of your mind?” I kept my lips curved in a sad, gentle smile. “No.” “Nora.” His voice lost all its warmth, turning razor-thin. “You’re divorcing me over three stupid text messages sent by mistake?” “Yes.” He laughed, a sound sharp with disbelief and anger. “I told you, it was an accident! Are you deaf? Besides, you love me too much to ever leave. You wouldn’t dare.” I smiled softly. “You think it was an accident, but I know better. And as for loving you… I don’t anymore.” For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked. Then his face hardened into a cold sneer. “Are you really going to throw a tantrum over this?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “I’m serious, Christian. Let’s end this. It’s better for both of us.” His fists clenched. Silence stretched between us, thick and volatile. Just when I thought he would resort to his usual silent treatment, his hand shot out, gripping my jaw tightly. His eyes flared with a sudden, dark fury. “Nora! What the hell do you want from me? I told you I didn’t send those messages! Why won’t you just drop it?” “You wanted to know if I love you, right? Fine. I love you. Happy now?” “If you’re feeling so damn insecure, we can go upstairs right now. I’ll touch you until you feel safe again. Is that what you want?” Before I could speak, he slammed his mouth against mine. In five years of being together, he had never initiated a kiss. Every intimate moment we shared had been driven by my longing, my reaching. I used to dream of him wanting me like this. But now, his touch made my skin crawl. It felt cheap. Dirty. I bit down on his lip, hard. He hissed in pain, flinching back and releasing me. I glared at him, my eyes burning with hot, unshed tears. “If you want someone so badly, go find someone else. I’m sure your little assistant is practically begging for it.” Christian stared at me, dumbfounded. “What?” “I said, go screw whoever you want!” I yelled, the dam finally breaking. “Just keep your hands off me. You disgust me, Christian. You make my stomach turn.” He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he wanted to pierce right through me. After a long, suffocating silence, a cruel smirk spread across his lips. “Fine. If you’re going to be this generous, I won’t stop you.” “Just don’t regret it. And don’t come crying back to me when you realize what you’ve thrown away.” He turned on his heel and slammed the front door behind him, the sound echoing through the empty brownstone. Then, absolute silence. I stared at the heavy oak door, and the tears finally spilled over. I sank to the floor, sobbing so hard my chest ached. It was a purging of five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for crumbs of affection from a man who treated me like an ornament. “I won’t regret this, Christian. I will never beg for you again.” I wiped my face with the back of my hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Nick,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “Pull the funding from Christian’s firm. All of it.” He didn’t come home that night. It was Saturday, so he didn’t have to go to the office. I wanted to hand him the divorce papers, but I had no idea where he was. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with a video link, followed by a barrage of frantic voice notes from my best friend, Becca. “Nora! Oh my god, isn’t this your high-and-mighty husband?” “I was shopping at Oak Street and I saw him with some girl! He literally knelt down on the sidewalk to tie her shoe!” “You just lost your baby, and he’s already out flaunting his little side piece? That absolute bastard! I swear to God, I’m going to murder them both!” I clicked the video. In the frame, the man who always carried himself with such cold, untouchable dignity in my presence was kneeling on the pavement. The girl beside him was giggling, whispering something, and he simply smiled—a soft, indulgent look I had never once received—as he tied her shoelace. She pulled out her phone to take a video of him, and he just shook his head with fond amusement. A sharp, physical pain flared in my chest. I had asked him to do small, affectionate things like that so many times. But he had always looked down his nose at me, treating my requests as childish nonsense, leaving me to swallow my embarrassment alone. I typed back a brief reply: “We’re getting a divorce.” Seconds after I hit send, an unknown number called my phone. “Hello, is this Nora? Your husband and his companion were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the precinct right away.” Becca was always hot-headed, but I hadn’t expected her to move this fast. I threw on a coat and hailed a cab. When I walked into the police station, the shouting was already echoing down the hallway. “You piece of trash!” Becca was screaming, held back by an officer. “How could you do this to Nora? She just had a miscarriage, and you’re out buying jewelry for your mistress? Kneeling on the street like a loyal dog? You make me sick! Nora loved you more than her own life—” “Did I ask her to?” Christian’s voice cut through the air, icy and sharp. I froze near the doorway, my boots sticking to the linoleum floor. “Did I force her to love me?” Christian continued, his face a mask of cold arrogance. “She was the one who threw herself at me. She’s the one who practically begged to get into my bed, who jumped at the chance to marry me the second I showed her a sliver of attention. Why is her devotion my problem? I don’t love her, and I’m not obligated to play the doting husband just because she managed to get herself pregnant.” Becca looked ready to tear him apart. “You ungrateful bastard! If it weren’t for Nora, your company would have gone under years ago, and you’d be—” “Becca, stop,” I said quietly, stepping into the room. The room went quiet. I walked past them and addressed the officer. “I’m here to take my friend home.” Before the officer could speak, Christian’s voice dropped, thick with malice. “She assaulted someone. She doesn’t just get to walk out of here.” I looked at the young woman hiding behind him, her eyes red and swollen as she clutched his arm. Then I looked at Christian. “What do you want?” Christian’s eyes narrowed. “Your friend slapped Maisie. I want an apology, and I want her to pay for what she did.” Becca scoffed. “You want me to apologize to that—” “I didn’t say you were the one paying,” Christian interrupted, keeping his eyes locked onto my face. “Nora, your friend did this on your behalf. It’s only fair that you take the fall for her.” “Are you out of your mind?” Becca lunged forward, but I stepped in front of her. “Fine,” I said. Becca stared at me, shocked. “Nora, no! He’s the one who cheated! He’s the one who’s wrong here!” I ignored her, walking right up to Christian and Maisie. “Go ahead.” Maisie shrank back slightly, playing the victim. “Christian, let’s just go. Don’t make a scene with your wife…” Before she could finish, Christian grabbed her hand, lifted it, and brought it down hard across my cheek. “Slap.” A sharp, burning pain erupted across my face. I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, waiting. “Can we go now?” I asked, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Did I say we were done?” Christian’s voice was like ice. “She struck Maisie once. I want it returned tenfold.” He raised her hand again. I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink as the blows fell, one after the other. “Slap. Slap. Slap.” With every strike, the remaining fragments of my love for him disintegrated. It wasn’t pain I felt; it was a profound, hollow emptiness. By the tenth slap, the physical sensation had faded into a dull vibration. A thin trickle of copper-tasting blood ran down the corner of my mouth. Nobody in the precinct intervened. Christian’s influence in Chicago’s business circles was immense; no one wanted to cross him over a domestic dispute. When it was over, Christian gently rubbed Maisie’s hand, checking her knuckles for any soreness. He spared me one last, contemptuous glance. “Keep your friend on a leash. If she acts like a feral dog again, I won’t be this lenient.” He turned to lead Maisie out. “Christian,” I called out, my voice raspy but clear. I pulled the folded divorce papers from my purse and held them out. “Sign them.” He stared at the papers for a long moment, a humorless laugh escaping his lips. “Still playing games, Nora? How long are you going to keep up this little act?” I wiped the blood from my lip, my expression deadpan. “It’s not an act.” His face darkened. He snatched the papers, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and scribbled his signature with vicious strokes. Then he slapped the folder against my chest, letting it flutter to the floor. “Fine. Let’s see how long you last. Without me, you’re nothing, Nora. When you come crawling back to my door begging for forgiveness, don’t expect me to even look at you.”

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Ten years. Three thousand six hundred days of loving Lance Harrison. Today was the day his parents were scheduled to inspect our corporate headquarters, and I had personally taken charge of the entire preparation. From the minute-by-minute itinerary of the tour down to the sugar-free pastries tailored for his parents’ dietary restrictions, I had stayed up until three in the morning, revising the thirty-page reception proposal eight times. But on the morning of their arrival, Lance sent a last-minute text: “The new intern, Mia, is going to handle the walk-through. Let her run with your plan.” Mia took my proposal and executed it to perfection, keeping his parents charmed and comfortable every step of the way. At the end of the tour, Lance’s mother openly asked him, “Is this lovely girl the one you’ve been dating for nearly a decade? So sharp, so thoughtful. She even made sure our desserts were made with xylitol. No wonder you adore her.” Lance just smiled. He didn’t correct her. Later, in his office, I confronted him, tears burning my eyes. “Why?” He looked at me, cold and indifferent. “We aren’t even engaged yet, Natalie. And you’re already this desperate to parade yourself in front of my parents? Are you really that eager to force my hand?” I froze. The sheer cruelty of his words left me breathless. He brushed past my shoulder, pausing just enough to whisper, “Don’t make a scene. It’s unflattering.” I didn’t argue. Ten years. On what would have been our anniversary, he would block my bridal car: “You said you’d marry me! Why are you marrying someone else?!” And I would smile: “You told me not to make a scene, Lance. But I’ve always preferred a clean break.” … Lance left after his warning, leaving me alone in his silent office. By the time I composed myself and walked out, his father and mother had finished their speeches. Mia was standing right beside them. His mother looked at Mia with pure, doting affection. “My dear, we didn’t bring much for our first meeting. But I want you to have this.” She slipped off a heavy, vintage gold heirloom bracelet—the one passed down to the daughters-in-law of the Harrison family. My heart squeezed. That bracelet was only supposed to be given to the woman marrying into the family. And his mother was giving it to Mia? Just like that? Mia waved her hands, feigning modesty. “Oh, no, Mrs. Harrison! It’s too beautiful. I couldn’t possibly accept this!” “Still calling me Mrs. Harrison?” his mother teased, beaming. Mia blushed deeply. “But…” “Take it, sweetheart,” his mother insisted, taking her wrist. “You’re family now. Don’t be shy with your own mother.” Mia’s blush deepened. She cast a timid, searching look at Lance. I stood in the crowd, my hands trembling inside my pockets. Lance’s gaze swept over the room, pausing briefly on my face. He offered a faint, easy smile. “If my mother wants you to have it, Mia, take it.” Mia looked up, her eyes wide with bashful delight. His father laughed. “She’s shy, Lance. Put it on her yourself.” Lance didn’t hesitate. He took the gold bracelet and slipped it over Mia’s wrist. She looked down, offering no resistance. Someone popped a confetti cannon. The room erupted into cheers. “Congratulations, Mr. Harrison and Mia!” “Mia, you sly dog! We had no idea you were dating the boss!” “Right? We all thought it was Natalie!” “Yeah, with the way Natalie’s been hovering over him, trying so hard to impress his parents today… who wouldn’t have guessed wrong?” I turned and quietly left the lobby. Everything was still running on my schedule. Today was actually his mother’s birthday. I had planned a surprise celebration after the inspection. Now, under his mother’s direction, it had morphed into an impromptu engagement party. A tiered cake was rolled out. I watched from afar as the crowd pushed Lance to Mia’s side. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Mia’s ears were bright red. Lance looked entirely unbothered, calm and collected. He picked up the cake knife and looked at her. “Do you prefer sweet or savory?” “Whatever you cut for me… I’ll love it,” she murmured. Cue the teasing, suggestive sighs from the staff. His mother laughed heartily. “Look at these two. So sweet.” Lance cut a slice with a strawberry on top. “I know you love strawberries. This one’s for you.” As he said it, his eyes drifted toward my corner. I looked away, walking back to the conference room to pack up my things. While I was organizing the files, the door clicked open. Mia walked in, humming a tune. When she saw me, her smile stiffened. “Na… Natalie.” I didn’t say a word, just continued stacking folders. “Natalie, wait!” She rushed over and grabbed my arm. “I didn’t expect things to go this way! I was put on the spot, I couldn’t say no! Look… I’ll give you the bracelet right now!” She began tugging at the gold band on her wrist. But even though the bracelet was clearly loose, she struggled, wincing as if it were stuck fast. “Stop acting,” I said quietly. “Keep it.” “Natalie!” She grabbed me again. “I really didn’t mean to. Just give me a second, I can get it off—” “What is going on here?” Mrs. Harrison pushed the door open, her face hardening the moment she saw us struggling. “Are you the difficult marketing director I’ve heard about? The one who constantly bullies Mia?” I froze. “Bullying?” Is that how she saw me? I looked at Mia, who immediately averted her eyes. Suddenly, the puzzle pieces fell into place. “I’ve heard about you, Natalie,” Mrs. Harrison said coldly. “They say you run your department like a tyrant. Tell me, do you think you own this company? Or do you actually believe you’re going to marry my son?” The air left my lungs. How could she have heard these things on her first day here? Unless… I clenched my fists. Was it Lance? Had he been painting me as a bitter, overbearing tyrant to his family? The door opened wider, and Lance stepped in. “What’s happening?” His mother turned to him. “You really need to clean house, Lance. This woman actually tried to steal the heirloom I just gave Mia.” Lance looked at me. “I didn’t,” I said, my voice tight. Mia finally managed to slip the bracelet off. She grabbed my hand, trying to force it onto my wrist. “Please don’t be angry, Natalie. I’m returning it to you.” Mrs. Harrison gasped. “Mia! Why are you giving away my gift?” Mia’s eyes welled with tears. “But… Natalie has loved Lance for so long.” “Just because she wants him doesn’t mean she gets to rob you! If she bullies you at work, that’s one thing, but you cannot let her walk all over you like this!” Mrs. Harrison pulled Mia protectively into her side. “Don’t worry. Lance and I have your back.” “But… I’m just an intern. I don’t deserve this bracelet…” “Who says you don’t?” Suddenly, Lance grabbed my wrist. His grip was firm as he easily unclasped the bracelet from my arm and handed it back to Mia. “If I say you deserve it, you do.” Then, he looked at me. “As of right now, Natalie, you are relieved of your duties. Mia will be taking over as Director.” I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. He frowned, a brief flicker of hesitation passing through his eyes before his expression hardened again. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Natalie.” His mother beamed. “There. Now she answers to you, Mia.” Mia looked at the gold bracelet back on her wrist. She gave me a look—a subtle, fleeting smirk of triumph that quickly vanished behind a shy nod. Watching the three of them play their parts, I felt a sudden, sharp urge to laugh at my own stupidity. I looked at Lance. “Fine, Mr. Harrison. Honestly, I was getting tired of that seat anyway.” I walked past him without another word. Down in the parking garage, just as I unlocked my car, a hand grabbed my wrist from behind. “In a few weeks, I’ll promote you to VP under me,” Lance said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Mia will still report to you. Don’t take this to heart. My mother loves her, and I couldn’t embarrass her in public.” It was always like this. After every fight, he would explain, throw me a bone, and expect me to forgive him. I gritted my teeth and threw his hand off. Before he could react, I got into my car and drove away, leaving him standing in the exhaust fumes. By the time I got home, my phone was buzzing with over a dozen texts from him. The first few were the usual excuses. But the last message was a screenshot of a booking confirmation. Cape Cod. A cottage by the ocean. “Natalie, don’t worry. While you’re on administrative leave, I’m taking time off too. The trip to the coast you’ve been begging for? We’re going. Let’s call it our early honeymoon.” I stared at the screen. If he had sent this a year ago, my heart would have skipped a beat. Now? I felt nothing but a dull ache. I typed back a simple reply: “Don’t bother.” He replied almost instantly: “Be good. Stop being angry. I booked the tickets for 8 AM tomorrow. I’m staying late at the office tonight to clear my schedule so I can be fully yours. Don’t wait up for dinner.” He added a heart emoji. I set the phone down. Whatever. I would wait for him to get home and lay it all out. My family had set me up on a blind date, and I had agreed to go. This ten-year relationship was over. But I waited all night. It wasn’t until dawn that the front door unlocked. Lance walked in, smelling of expensive gin and late-night smoke, his steps slightly unsteady. It was long past 8 AM. “I thought we had an 8 AM flight to Cape Cod?” I asked. He blinked, rubbing his temples as if trying to recall. Then he let out a dry laugh. “Oh. I cancelled the tickets. I’m taking Mia instead.” I went numb. “You’ve seen the ocean a dozen times, Natalie,” he said, collapsing onto the sofa, clearly exhausted from pulling an all-nighter. “I was planning to come home and pack last night, but the team threw a promotion party for Mia. I had a few too many drinks. She mentioned she’d never seen the ocean. So, I switched the names on the booking.” Even though I had already checked out emotionally, the casual cruelty still stung. “You promised.” The alcohol slowed his reaction. He smiled—the kind of dismissive, tired smile reserved for a nagging wife. “Natalie, we’ve been together for ten years. We’re basically an old married couple. Why are you keeping score over something so trivial? Besides, you’ve planned beach trips three times already. Don’t be greedy.” He closed his eyes and leaned back. I stared at him, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. Yes, I had planned three beach trips. And I had never made it to a single one. The first time, Lance had caught a severe fever the night before. I cancelled on my best friend and nursed him for three days. The second time, he was facing a crucial bidding war. I cancelled my flight and stayed up for forty-eight hours revising his pitch deck. The third time, his schedule clashed with an important client meeting, and there was no one else to host. I threw my luggage back in the closet, slipped on my Louboutins, and went to the dinner in his place. Three times. I had never actually seen the water. But he only remembered the bookings. I nudged his shoulder. “Then I’ll go with someone else.” “Mmh,” he mumbled, eyes closed. “Go with Zoe.” “It’s not Zoe.” His breathing grew slow and even. He was asleep. I didn’t wake him. I picked up my phone and texted my blind date, confirming our trip for the following day. Before leaving, I had to hand over some transition documents to my team. But the moment I stepped into the office, Mia was waiting for me, wearing a sharp designer suit that used to be my style. “Oh, Natalie! You’re here,” she chirped. “Perfect timing. I need these documents printed—two copies of each. Put them on my desk when you’re done. You know where it is, right? Your old office.” I looked at the massive stack of papers she was thrusting toward my chest. I shook my head. “I’m here to drop off my files, not to do your admin work.” Mia’s smile turned patronizing. “Natalie, Lance made it clear. I’m the Director now. Have you forgotten?” “I am on leave.” “And did I approve that leave?” She crossed her arms, suddenly carrying herself with the unearned confidence of someone who had been in charge for years. “As your direct supervisor, I need to sign off on any PTO. Did you submit a request?” I looked her up and down. “Do you honestly think I need your permission?” Her brow furrowed. I let out a soft, humorless laugh, ignored the papers, and turned on my heel. “Natalie.” Lance stepped out of the executive suite, having witnessed the entire exchange. Mia quickly scooped up the heavy stack of files. “It’s fine, Lance. Natalie used to be my boss, it’s natural she doesn’t want to take orders from me. I’ll print them myself.” She lifted the heavy stack, wincing as if she were carrying the weight of the world. Lance’s voice was cold. “If she’s too good for it, are you, the Director, supposed to do grunt work?” A wave of irritation washed over me. “It’s really fine, Lance, I can manage…” Mia took a step, stumbled dramatically, and fell, sending the papers flying across the floor. Lance rushed forward, catching her by the arm. “Careful!” “I’m okay, really…” Mia clutched her ankle, looking up at me with tears pooling in her eyes. Lance’s gaze snapped to me, hard and unforgiving. “Natalie. You aren’t the Director anymore. If you want to throw a temper tantrum, do it somewhere else. If you don’t want to work, fine.” He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. “Go to HR and collect your severance. We don’t need you here.” The office fell dead silent. Everyone was watching. I looked at him, slightly surprised but mostly relieved. “Go on,” Lance said, his tone casual, indifferent. I didn’t argue. He had saved me the trouble of drafting a resignation letter. “Thank you, Mr. Harrison,” I said, offering a polite, empty smile before turning around. I saw his eyes twitch, a shadow of unease crossing his face. The moment I got to my car, my phone lit up with a text from him: “Don’t worry, I won’t let them actually fire you. Mia is new to the role and needs to establish authority. You embarrassed her in front of the whole staff; I had to react. Once you get back from your trip with Zoe, I’ll announce your promotion to VP. And…” Another message arrived—a photo of a velvet box containing two platinum engagement bands. Engraved inside were our initials. “I’ll finally make us public.” I didn’t reply. On the day of my flight, I ran into Lance at the airport. He was with Mia. I was alone. My blind date and I were flying from different cities, planning to meet at our destination: Lake Tahoe. “Wait for me a second,” Lance told Mia before walking over to me. “Why are you alone?” he asked, looking at my single suitcase. “We’re meeting there,” I said. He scanned me from head to toe, then took off his designer coat and draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t worry about the Cape Cod trip. There are other people joining us, it’s not just Mia and me.” I nodded. “Okay.” “Natalie,” he said, his eyes softening with a rare touch of vulnerability. “Be safe. Call me if you need anything.” “Thanks.” “When we get back, it’ll be our tenth anniversary.” He looked at me searchingly. “Let’s get married then.” I thought about it, then smiled. “That day is indeed a perfect day for a wedding.” His face lit up. “Then we’ll have double the reason to celebrate.” “Yes.” Our flights were boarding at the same time. He and Mia headed toward one gate; I went toward another. Lance waved. “See you when we get back.” I nodded, letting the coat slide off my shoulders onto a nearby terminal chair. I never said the man I was marrying was him.

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At the bonfire party, my friends started teasing Maeve, asking when she was finally going to marry me. Her expression turned dead serious. “Did you all lose your minds after living in the city for a few years?” she asked, her voice carrying over the crackle of the flames. “In the Ridge, men don’t take wives, and women don’t take husbands. We only keep the Walk.” The crowd laughed and chimed in, and I forced a smile to match theirs. But a quiet, gnawing anxiety settled deep in my chest, heavy and cold. Maeve and I had been on the Walk for six years. Every single night, I climbed up the wooden ladder to her loft window. For all intents and purposes, we had been living as husband and wife. But lately, with the valley opening up to tourism, the pressure to get a legal marriage license and buy property was staring us in the face. I had finally broken down and asked her a few days ago, “Maybe we should just get a license? Sign the papers?” Maeve had fallen silent for a beat. Then, she reached into her bag, pulled out a small, navy-blue folder, and slid it across the table toward me. “Actually, Micah… I signed the papers with Brody this morning.” She paused, watching my face. “He’s an out-of-towner, a college kid. He needs local residency to buy land for the development project. Without a legal spouse, his hands are tied.” Sitting quietly in the corner, Brody gave me a timid, apologetic smile. Maeve reached out and squeezed my hand reassuringly. “We don’t care about a piece of paper anyway. You don’t need it. But I had to help him.” A log in the bonfire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the dark night. The laughter died instantly. Everyone went quiet. As I sat there, numb, my gran’s old words drifted back to me from the depths of my childhood. “The Walk is built on freedom, Micah. You come and go as you please.” If she could marry someone else, I could climb through another window. … The atmosphere around the bonfire turned instantly awkward. My friends exchanged uneasy glances, shifting in their camp chairs. Sitting in the corner, Brody seemed unable to shoulder the sudden weight of the silence. He stood up, looking small. “Micah, I’m sorry… I just really wanted to stay in the valley. If this makes you miserable, I’ll file for divorce tomorrow, I swear.” Maeve’s hand was still resting on the back of mine. “Micah, Brody came all this way to handle the tourism development. As the community liaison, I’m responsible for him. You understand that, right?” I remained silent, staring at the table. Seeing the tension escalate, a friend tried to smooth things over. “Haha, Maeve’s always looking out for people! Yeah, it’s just a piece of paper. Only city folks care about that stuff anyway.” I couldn’t hear the chatter around me. My eyes were locked entirely on Brody’s wrist. He was wearing the hand-beaten silver cuff. The one I had given Maeve. “Why is he wearing your silver cuff?” My voice was raw, barely a whisper. Maeve glanced at his wrist, her tone dismissive. “Oh. We got caught in a torrential downpour in the mountains this morning. He was shivering and terrified. I just gave him my silver cuff to wear for a bit—you know how the old folks say it wards off bad luck.” I froze. She knew better than anyone. On the Ridge, if a walking partner let another man wear their personal silver, it meant the bond was severed. She had stood beneath the ancient oak tree, holding my hand, and sworn to the prayer ribbons that no other man would ever touch that cuff. A cold seeped into my bones. I stood up, claiming I didn’t feel well and needed to head back. But a friend grabbed my arm, pulling me back down. “Come on, Micah, don’t run off. It’s just a misunderstanding. We’ll sort it out!” He grabbed an empty whiskey bottle from the table and spun it. “Look, since we’re all fired up tonight, let’s play Truth or Dare! If you don’t want to play, you take a shot of the rye!” The crowd, desperate to break the suffocating silence, cheered and leaned in. The bottle spun on the rough wooden table, slowing down until it pointed straight at Brody. “Truth or Dare, Brody?” someone asked, grinning. Brody hesitated, looking at the floor. “I… I’ll just take the shot.” He reached for the jar of homemade rye. Maeve stopped his hand. “Brody’s had too much to drink tonight. I’ll take the truth for him. Go ahead, ask me.” The group exchanged quiet, uneasy glances, shooting looks at me. One of the guys, emboldened by the alcohol, asked the lethal question. “Alright, Maeve. Real talk. What’s the most scandalous thing you and Brody have done behind Micah’s back?” All eyes landed on Maeve. She was flushed, half-tipsy, and completely unbothered. “Last month, when we were mapping the trail up the snowy peaks, we got trapped by a blizzard in the survival cabin. To keep him from hypothermia, we had to strip down and get into the same sleeping bag.” She smiled faintly, a trace of reminiscence in her voice. “To be honest… it was actually really beautiful. He was pressed against me. I couldn’t help but feel a spark.” Brody’s face turned bright red. “Maeve, please… you shouldn’t say things like that.” Maeve shrugged, utterly justified. “Why not? It was an emergency. Besides, Micah has always been sensible. He’s not going to make a fuss over something like that.” A wave of nausea hit me. While she was in that cabin, I had nearly died. I had gone mad with worry, dragging myself through freezing slush with the rescue team. Ice water had filled my boots, freezing my toes until they were raw, infected, and entirely numb. I only let them carry me down the mountain after I heard she was safe. A collective gasp went around the table. People looked at me, holding their breath. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a fist. I just stood up. “It’s getting late. I really need to go get some rest.” Maeve frowned, reaching out to pull me back. “Micah, I’m being honest with you because I have nothing to hide. It’s just a game. You’re not actually mad, are you?” I pulled my hand from her grip, inch by inch. “I’m not mad,” I said quietly. “I’m just… tired.” I turned and walked away into the dark. I had barely cleared the trees when the silence behind me dissolved into drunken, rowdy cheers. “Maeve! It’s your turn again! No more truth, it’s dare time!” “How about you kiss your new groom?” Brody’s shy voice carried through the cold air. “Don’t… Maeve and I, we’re just married on paper. It’s not real…” Then, the noise abruptly cut out. “Holy shit! Maeve, are you crazy? You actually did it?!” “Come on, guys, shut up! Micah hasn’t even cleared the clearing yet!” Someone tried to smooth it over. “Hey, Maeve’s clearly wasted. The rye is talking…” “Yeah, she’s out of her mind. Stop egging her on!” I didn’t look back. I just kept walking. Later that night, Maeve returned to her loft cabin. The lofts were the private spaces of the Ridge’s women. No outsider was ever allowed to set foot inside except for their walking partner. For six years, I would knock three times beneath her window, and she would push open the shutters to let me climb in. There had never been an exception. But tonight, for the first time, I saw that the heavy wooden latch was firmly down. Swallowing the bitterness in my throat, I stood below, wanting to talk to her one last time. “Maeve, open the window.” No answer. I knocked again. “Maeve, are you angry?” Silence. Suddenly, her phone rang inside. Through the thin wooden walls, Brody’s sobbing voice leaked out into the quiet night. “Maeve, my mom heard about the marriage… she wants to see my wife. Please help me. Her heart is weak. If she finds out it’s a sham, it’ll kill her.” After a long pause, Maeve sighed. “Okay. Wait for me.” She finally pushed the window open. “Micah, you need to head back tonight. I have to see this through. Wait for me, I’ll be back soon.” She climbed down and rushed into the darkness. I stare at the empty window, feeling a profound sense of absurdity. The Walk demanded absolute, one-on-one devotion. For a walking woman to enter another man’s cabin at night was the ultimate betrayal. She didn’t return that night. I walked back to my own cabin, and in the dark, I dropped the heavy wooden latch on my own window. When a man of the Ridge decides to sever the Walk, he doesn’t make a scene. This window is closed. And I am completely done with Maeve. The next morning, I walked out of my room and looked toward the highest ridge. My gran’s old hand-hewn cabin sat on the hill overlooking the lake. It was where I grew up. With the new tourism laws, the county only recognized “legally married couples” for property ownership of historic homes. Since I had no marriage certificate, I couldn’t claim her cabin. Maeve knew this. Yet she had given that certificate to someone else. At dawn, the screech of construction machinery woke me. It was coming from Gran’s cabin. I ran up the hill. A small excavator was parked in the yard. Maeve was standing nearby, talking on her cell phone. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Landry. Brody is doing great here. We bought the house by the lake—the air is wonderful, the view is beautiful. I’ll take good care of him.” I froze. My eyes drifted to the blueprints and deed resting on the stone table. The address was Gran’s cabin. My head spun. “Maeve, what is this?” She hung up quickly. “Micah, you know the county won’t let you keep this land without a marriage certificate. You couldn’t buy it. I had to secure it under Brody’s and my name first.” I started to shake. “So you bought my grandmother’s house to use as your marital home?” Maeve frowned, looking at me like I was a difficult child. “Brody’s health isn’t great. He can’t stay in those damp worker dorms forever. Once the new house is built next year, he’ll move out. Then I’ll divorce him and register with you.” She waved her hand to the workers. A couple of men walked inside carrying heavy sledgehammers, heading straight for the stone hearth. “What are you doing?!” I tried to rush in, but Maeve grabbed my arm. “The old hearth is a fire hazard, and Brody hates the smell of woodsmoke. I’m having them tear it down to install modern underfloor heating.” I stared at her, horrified. For six years, I had told her what that hearth meant to me. It was where Gran sat every winter night, spinning stories by the crackle of the wood. And now, she was smashing it because Brody “hated the smell of smoke.” “Don’t touch it!” I broke free from her grip, throwing myself in front of the hearth, blocking the workers. Behind me, a weak cough broke the air. “Micah, stop it. Let them tear it down.” My ailing grandfather stood there, leaning heavily on my uncle’s shoulder. My uncle walked over, pulling me away from the stone with a heavy heart. The sledgehammer swung down. “Gran—!” I screamed, watching the stones crumble. The dust choked my throat, and the last physical piece of my grandmother turned to rubble. My knees buckled, and everything went black. I woke up in my own bed. Grandpa was sitting beside me, his weathered hand resting on my forehead. “Micah, you’re awake.” Tears streamed down my face. “Grandpa, why did you let them…” He sighed, wiping my tears with a trembling thumb. “My boy, if something isn’t meant to be kept, it’s better to cut it clean.” He looked at me, never mentioning Maeve’s name, and limps out of the room. Left alone, I stared at the ceiling. That evening, as the wind shook the prayer ribbons by the lake, I sent word through my uncle to the community: “Micah has severed his old Walk. If there is someone who wants a true, faithful partnership, someone who believes in keeping the window unlatched for only one person, I will seek her light tonight beneath her loft.” The news spread like wildfire. People thought I was just acting out because my feelings were hurt. When Maeve heard of it, she only laughed. “Everyone in the valley knows Micah belongs to me. Even if he stands out there all night with a lantern, what woman would dare take him? He’s just trying to make me jealous.” In her mind, I loved her too much to ever leave. But as night fell, I quietly packed her things. Six years of memories. A straw-woven grasshopper she had made. A few jackets in my closet. I tossed them into a trash bag, carried them to my hearth, and lit a match. Watching them burn, I felt an incredible, unexpected lightness. I walked down the path to the lofts. Just as I was about to turn away, thinking no one would answer, three soft knocks sounded from a window above. Maeve had spent the evening looking at property lots with Brody and having a celebratory dinner. She was tipsy. When she dropped him off, Brody grabbed her sleeve. “Maeve, you’re drunk… why don’t you stay tonight?” A spark of heat flared in her chest. But then she remembered the rumor about my “severance.” She pictured me standing beneath her window in the cold, filled with regret, knocking. She pushed Brody’s hand away, bought a package of my favorite maple fudge, and hurried back. She reached my cabin and knocked. “Micah, stop being stubborn. Open up. Let me apologize.” She waited. No answer. Panicking, she knocked harder. “Micah, I bought the maple fudge. Stop playing games, let me in!” Finally, the latch slides back. The door creaked open. Maeve sighed with relief. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad—” She stopped dead. In the moonlight stands another woman. “Can I help you with my partner?” The maple fudge dropped to the dirt, shattering. All the alcohol drained from Maeve’s system instantly.

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I work at a local commercial bank. My dad always complained about his failing memory, so he asked me to keep his $50,000 savings in my account for safekeeping. Over the next couple of years, however, he slowly asked for every single dollar back. But then, during a family dinner at our house to discuss my younger brother’s upcoming wedding, my brother suddenly said: “Dad, that fifty thousand you had Lucas save for you—we need to pull it out now so I can pay the deposits for the wedding venue.” My dad looked at me, smiled warmly, and nodded. “Sure, of course!” My heart skipped a beat. I looked at him. “Dad, that fifty thousand… you asked me to withdraw all of it for you over the last two years. It’s gone.” My dad froze. His expression made it crystal clear to everyone in the room: I have no idea what you’re talking about. He forced a weak chuckle. “My memory’s shot these days, Lucas. Are you sure you transferred it all back to me?” A cold chill washed over me. Every single time he had asked for that money, he had insisted on cash. Not a single electronic transfer. Not a single paper trail. My brother, Toby, sneered. “Come on, Lucas. Dad’s getting older. Don’t tell me you’re trying to pocket his life savings just because his memory is slipping.” “If you really gave it back, show us the receipts. Show us the bank transfers. Prove it.” … The air in the room turned instantly hostile. Every relative’s eyes locked onto me, heavy with judgment. It was the look you give a parasite—someone stealing from their own aging parents. My dad smiled nervously and nudged Toby. “Toby, don’t talk to your brother like that. Lucas wouldn’t do something like that.” He pushed Toby gently toward the kitchen. “There are some grapes in the fridge. Go wash them for everyone.” Then, with practiced ease, he turned back to the guests, attempting to smooth over the tension. “Here, let me get everyone some more drinks.” His attempt to “keep the peace” only sealed my guilt in their eyes. “Dad, do you really not remember?” I asked, my voice flat, my eyes locked on his. He smiled again, rubbing his temples. “You know how my head is. Let me think.” “Lucas, when did you transfer it? Give your dad a hint, maybe it’ll jog his memory,” Aunt Helen said, her voice dripping with artificial warmth. “The last installment was five thousand in cash,” I said. “Six months ago, right before the holidays. You said you needed it for Christmas shopping and hosting. You don’t remember that?” My dad used to have a steel-trap memory. He could recall details from fifteen years ago down to the penny. It was only in the last few years that he started hiding behind the excuse of “forgetfulness.” Toby returned with a bowl of washed fruit, setting it down with a heavy thud. His voice was hard. “Last Christmas, Dad told me he didn’t have a dime for the holidays. I had to Venmo him five hundred dollars so he could buy groceries!” He stared at me, his face saying it all: You’re a liar. My dad immediately chimed in. “Right! Yes, I remember now. I was completely broke at the end of last year.” He looked at Toby with proud, misty eyes. “Toby was such a good boy. He sent me five hundred dollars.” Toby pulled out his phone and shoved his transaction history in my face. “See? I bought the Christmas groceries, Toby. There’s the proof. Where’s yours?” He was practically begging for a fight, treating me like a criminal on the stand. Aunt Karen couldn’t watch anymore. She reached out, squeezing my arm with that same condescending, “for your own good” pity. “Lucas, your dad has had a hard life.” “Your mom passed away so early. He raised you two boys all on his own. It wasn’t easy.” “That fifty thousand is everything he has. He pinched pennies his entire life to save that money.” It was the classic passive-aggressive dance of adults. They didn’t outright call me a thief, but every single word accused me of being one. Suddenly, Uncle George spoke up. “Lucas, is this because you don’t want your dad spending his savings on Toby’s wedding?” Toby’s eyes narrowed instantly, sharp and predatory. He had already convinced himself I was trying to steal his inheritance. “Is that what this is, Lucas? You’re keeping the money because you’re jealous?” Before I could speak, he let out a bitter laugh. “I don’t get you! You’ve never even been close to Dad. Why are you trying to steal from him now?” It was true. I had never been close to my dad the way Toby was. There was always an invisible, cold distance between us. I didn’t even know when it started. Maybe it was because when we were kids, Toby was always the crier, the fragile one, and my dad would let him sleep tucked under his arm. I was relegated to the foot of the bed. Or maybe it was because the dinner table was always filled with Toby’s favorite foods. Or maybe it was because the phrase I heard most growing up was: “You’re the older brother, Lucas. Just let him have it.” His favoritism wasn’t a loud, angry thing. It was quiet, insidious, bleeding into every corner of our lives. I didn’t hate him for it; I just couldn’t bring myself to play the doting son. My dad had decided to leave everything to Toby the moment Toby turned ten. I remember him saying, “The younger one needs me more. I have to help him out. Lucas has a good head on his shoulders; he’ll figure things out on his own.” I hadn’t protested. Toby was the one who stayed close, the one who made him feel like a father. “I don’t want any of your money,” I said quietly. “And I didn’t steal Dad’s—” My dad’s phone rang, cutting me off. He answered it quickly. “Yeah, we’re on our way now.” He hung up and turned to the room, clapping his hands. “The restaurant has the private room ready. Let’s go grab dinner. If the food is good, I’ll book them for the reception.” He ushered the aunts and uncles out with practiced hospitality. At the restaurant, we sat around a large circular table piled high with food. But before I could even take a bite, Uncle George leaned in, his tone dripping with unearned wisdom. “Lucas, your dad really did sacrifice everything for you boys.” “He put you through college, which is how you got that comfortable, fancy job at the bank.” “We’re family here. I’m only saying this because I care about you.” Just like Aunt Helen, he left the worst unsaid. Every word was a knife disguised as a blessing. My cousin Todd chipped in, “Uncle Frank is incredibly generous. When I was in community college, my parents only gave me three hundred a month for expenses.” “Toby got a thousand dollars a month. I’m sure Lucas got the same. With his salary, it’s a miracle Uncle Frank saved fifty thousand at all.” My stomach dropped. A cold, heavy weight settled in my chest. During my four years of college, my dad had only sent me five hundred dollars—and that was only during the first two months of my freshman year. He never sent another dime. I knew money was tight, so I never asked. I worked part-time jobs, pulled night shifts, and covered my tuition with scholarships. And now I was learning he had been sending my share to Toby. My voice turned ice-cold. “During my four years of college, my dad gave me a grand total of five hundred dollars. Not five hundred a month.” “Five hundred dollars. Total. I worked thirty hours a week to keep myself fed.” The table fell dead silent. Everyone stared. My dad looked up, his face a mask of innocent confusion. “That can’t be right, Lucas. I sent money to both of you every single month.” I pulled out my phone, opened my bank app, and scrolled back to my college years, holding it out to him. “Look for yourself. Five hundred dollars. That’s it.” My dad stared at the screen. For a split second, a flicker of genuine embarrassment crossed his face, his brow furrowing. He quickly pulled out his own phone and pulled up his past statements. “Look, Lucas. Right here. Every month during those four years, I had a recurring transfer of one thousand dollars.” I looked at the screen. The recipient name on every single monthly transaction was the same. I didn’t feel angry anymore. Just tired. My voice was barely a whisper. “The transactions are there, Dad. But they’re all to Toby’s account.” My dad blinked, stunned. Then he gave his forehead a sharp, performative slap. “Oh, my god. My head is a sieve!” “How did I manage to send your money to your brother’s account?” He looked at me with deep, theatrical regret. “But Lucas, why didn’t you say anything? If you weren’t getting the money, you should have told me!” Then he turned to Toby, who was sitting on his right. “And Toby, what is wrong with you? Why didn’t you tell me you were getting double the money every month?” Toby shrugged, rolling his eyes. “How was I supposed to know? I thought you were just worried I’d run out of cash, so you split it into two transfers.” Toby leaned across the table, his eyes boring into mine. “So what, Lucas? You felt cheated because of some college money, and that’s why you decided to steal Dad’s fifty grand?” I opened my mouth to respond, but my dad threw his arm out, physically shielding Toby from me. He patted my shoulder, his voice pleading. “The college money was my fault, Lucas. My memory is terrible. I messed up the accounts.” “Toby just speaks before he thinks. Don’t take it out on him.” I ignored Toby and looked straight at my dad. “Dad. The fifty thousand. I gave it all back to you. Do you honestly, truly not remember a single time I handed you those envelopes of cash?” My dad winced, looking deeply pained. “Sorry to interrupt,” the restaurant manager said, walking into the private dining room and breaking the suffocating tension. My dad immediately forced a bright smile. “Mr. Miller, how is everything? Please let me know if we can adjust anything for you.” “It’s very good, thank you,” my dad said. “Perfect. We can finalize the details once you’re finished with your dinner.” As soon as the manager stepped out, my dad acted as if nothing had happened, waving his fork. “Eat, eat! We’re all family. Let’s not let the food get cold.” Silverware clinked against plates. I hadn’t even swallowed my first bite when Toby muttered under his breath, “You’re always coddling him, Dad.” “A few grand from college is nothing compared to fifty thousand dollars!” “He’s clearly just trying to take your entire life savings.” My dad nudged him hard, telling him to drop it, but Toby was already on a roll. He pulled out his phone, opened the calculator app, and began aggressively tapping the screen. “Let’s do the math,” Toby sneered, holding the phone up. “Four years of college allowance at five hundred a month is twenty-four thousand. You got five hundred, so Dad owed you twenty-three thousand five hundred.” “But wait. Summer break is three months, winter break is one month. That’s four months a year you lived at home. Sixteen months total where Dad didn’t owe you a dime for food.” “So subtract eight thousand. That means Dad owed you fifteen thousand five hundred.” “Deduct that from the fifty thousand Dad left with you, and you still owe him thirty-four thousand five hundred!” “So give him the damn money!” My uncle Richard sighed, playing the mediator. “Lucas, Toby needs this money for his wedding.” “You have to understand. Toby is willing to meet you halfway. You’re brothers. Don’t ruin your family over a budget dispute.” I opened my mouth to speak, but my dad cut me off again. He smiled warmly at the table. “Lucas has always been the responsible one. He wouldn’t let his brother’s wedding fall through.” “Let’s eat first. We’ve had a long day.” Suddenly, Aunt Helen smiled at me. “Lucas, since Toby is getting married, you as the older brother must be preparing a very generous gift. How much are you putting in the card?” I had already set aside a thousand dollars. But my dad spoke up before I could answer. “Lucas is giving at least five thousand. They bicker, but I know how much Lucas loves his little brother.” He was trapping me, painting me into a corner where I couldn’t say no without looking like a monster. I looked around the table. “I just bought a townhouse two years ago and my mortgage is tight. I’ve prepared a hundred dollars.” My dad had been furious when I bought that place. He hadn’t supported the decision, and I hadn’t asked for his permission. He had ignored my calls for weeks afterward. At my words, the temperature in the room plummeted. Toby let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Of course. The guy who’s trying to steal from his own father can’t even spare a decent wedding gift.” The relatives leaned in, their voices overlapping in a chorus of disappointment. “Lucas, this is his wedding. A hundred dollars is insulting. You’re embarrassing your father.” My dad’s smile finally slipped. “Lucas, stop playing games. This is serious. He’s your only brother. You need to show him some real support.” The restaurant manager walked back in, holding a folder with the contract, mercifully cutting off the onslaught. She laid it out on the table. “Alright, so our standard package is normally $150 per person, but we can offer you a discounted rate of $130.” “For 100 guests, the catering and venue fee will be $13,000.” “For the decor, we have different tiers. The basic setup starts at $5,000, and our mid-tier is $8,000.” “Our premium all-inclusive package, which includes the bridal suite, makeup, and dress rentals, is $15,000.” “And we can provide guest shuttles for $1,000.” My dad and Toby studied the brochures. My dad closed the folder and looked at the manager, ready to negotiate. “How about we do the premium all-inclusive package, the shuttles, and the catering for a flat $25,000? But you have to give us the absolute best decor. This is my son’s big day. I won’t have him or his bride feeling second-class.” The manager paused, calculating. “Let me speak to my director.” She stepped aside to make a quick phone call, then returned with a nod. “We can do that. I’ll have my assistant print the updated contract.” Once my dad signed his name on the line, the manager smiled politely. “And how will we be handling the payment today? Card or check?” My dad turned his head slowly, looking at me with absolute confidence. “Lucas, didn’t I leave that fifty thousand with you?” “Go ahead and take care of the twenty-five thousand deposit now. You can keep whatever’s left over.” A cold, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “Dad, what are you playing at?” “I know your memory isn’t great, but there is no way on earth you forgot that I already gave you every single dollar of that money.” “Are you really trying to force me to pay for Toby’s wedding?” My dad’s face fell, his eyes filling with a wounded, fragile sorrow. “Lucas… how could you say that to me?” “I genuinely don’t remember you giving it back. To accuse me of lying… it breaks my heart.” He clutched his chest, looking like a father utterly destroyed by his ungrateful son. Toby jumped out of his chair, pointing a finger at me. “You selfish piece of garbage! You keep claiming you gave it back! Where is the proof? Where are the receipts?” In an instant, the room erupted. The voices of aunts and uncles swarmed me like wasps. “Lucas, how can you be so heartless? We’ve been talking to you for hours and you won’t listen to a word!” “Your father worked himself to the bone for you, and you’re stealing his life savings.” “You’re the one who went to college! How can you behave with so little dignity?” “He’s only asking for half of his own money back, and you still won’t give it to him!” I couldn’t breathe. The sheer, suffocating weight of their hypocrisy pressed down on my chest until something inside me finally snapped. “Enough!” I roared. The room went dead silent. “You want proof? Fine. I will show you the proof. Every single dollar has a paper trail.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “514684”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On the day I was finally recognized as the true heir to the Dwight fortune, the imposter—the boy who had lived my life for twenty years—looked at me with tear-rimmed eyes and offered to give back his engagement. I thought of my girlfriend, who had just told me she was pregnant, and quietly declined. “No need. My heart already belongs to someone else.” The moment the words left my mouth, a series of glowing, translucent lines drifted across my vision. [Lmao, look at this bitter second-lead acting so noble. He’s going to regret this the second he sees the female lead.] [Too bad she’s still going to choose the adopted brother anyway. Cue the pathetic stalking phase.] [Cody’s going to be driven to a suicide attempt, and this guy will end up hated by the family, despised by his ex, and dying a miserable, lonely death. Absolute clown.] I lowered my eyes, a cold wave of absurdity washing over me. Stalking a strange woman? I had my own life. I had the woman I loved. Just then, soft footsteps echoed behind me. Cody wiped his tears, quickening his pace to meet the newcomer. “Margot, this is my brother… Wyatt. The engagement… it should have been his all along.” I turned around, and my heart stopped. I was staring into a pair of agonizingly familiar eyes. It was Margot. The woman who had funded my life for five years, the woman currently carrying my child. 1. When Margot saw me, a flash of pure panic crossed her features. But it was gone in a heartbeat. She masked it immediately, adopting a polite, distant expression. “Mr. Dwight,” she said, her voice cool and detached. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Then she reached out, gently smoothing her hand over Cody’s. Her tone was soft but unyielding. “Don’t talk nonsense, Cody. Our engagement was decided a long time ago. Nothing is going to change that.” In the air before me, the text feed exploded. [Here it comes! He’s going to play the victim, expose their secret affair, and force her hand!] [He’s totally going to use the pregnancy to blackmail her and steal the engagement!] I took a slow, deep breath, pulling my gaze away from her. “Nice to meet you, Miss Crestwood,” I said quietly. The text paused for a second. [Wait… that’s it? Why isn’t he throwing a tantrum?] [He’s just acting. Let’s see how long he can keep up the charade.] [Oh, I get it. Reverse psychology! Playing hard to get.] Margot clearly hadn’t anticipated this response. She shot me a lingering look, a mix of warning and quiet calculation. My biological mother, Lydia, seized the moment. “You mentioned you had someone you loved, Wyatt? How serious is it?” All eyes fell back on me. I looked at Margot. Her expression was perfectly composed, but I noticed her clenched fists trembling slightly at her sides. I looked up, meeting their expectant stares, and let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Serious enough that… she had to go home for an arranged marriage. So, I got dumped.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Lydia’s face contorted as if she had swallowed a fly. My father, Richard, cleared his throat and awkwardly shifted his gaze. Margot’s face drained of color, turning visibly rigid. Cody eagerly pressed, “So… you really don’t want the engagement, Wyatt?” “I don’t,” I replied, my voice clipping short and clean. There was no hesitation, no lingering affection. “Since you two are so deeply in love, the arrangement is yours.” The text rolled again: [Keep faking it! He’s definitely going to corner her in private and cry like a baby.] My biological parents visibly relaxed. Lydia stood up. “Wyatt, let me show you to your room. Cody isn’t well; he shouldn’t be sitting up for too long.” My room was at the very end of the hallway. When she pushed the door open, I was greeted by a cramped, drafty space. It had a shared bathroom down the hall, and its north-facing window let in absolutely no sunlight. Lydia’s voice was dismissive. “You’ll have to make do with this for now. Cody’s been in his room for twenty years—he’s used to it, and it wouldn’t be fair to make him move. You’re the older brother, so be understanding.” Richard followed her, lingering in the doorway to add, “Cody has always been delicate, and he’s highly sensitive. Make sure you yield to him. We need harmony in this family.” I stared at the room, which was smaller than the master bathroom Cody likely enjoyed. I nodded. “Understood.” A few minutes after they left, there was a soft knock. Margot stood in the doorway, her voice a sharp whisper. “Wyatt, watch your mouth. The last five years were nothing but a transaction. I felt sorry for you, so I threw you a bone.” “Cody is the man I am marrying. As for the baby in my womb, he will call Cody ‘Dad.’ You’d better learn your place.” I stared at her stomach. Only an hour ago, I had foolishly believed that being recognized by the Dwights would finally bridge the class divide between us. I thought I could finally stand beside her in the light. It turned out to be nothing but a pathetic illusion. Pushing down the bitter ache rising in my chest, I looked her in the eyes. “Margot, we’re done.” She froze, completely stunned. I closed the door in her face and didn’t look back. 2. But Margot was clearly infuriated by my finality. She shoved her hand against the door to keep it open, but before she could speak, footsteps echoed down the hallway. Cody appeared, carrying a fruit platter. The moment he saw us alone, his eyes welled with tears. “Wyatt… are you still angry at me for taking the engagement?” He let out a trembling sob. “I really didn’t mean to… If you love Margot, I… I can step aside…” Lydia rushed over at the sound of his voice. Seeing the scene, her brow furrowed in deep disgust. “Wyatt! You just got back and you’re already tearing this family apart? Cody is fragile—he can’t handle this kind of stress!” “How can you be so shameless? Creeping around your brother’s fiancée in the middle of the night?” [Ooh! Caught red-handed! I bet he’s going to expose her pregnancy right now to force her hand!] [Classic victim-blaming. He’s going to lose his mind and start screaming any second.] “I didn’t,” I said, my voice entirely flat, devoid of any emotion. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like to sleep.” Without giving them another glance, I shut the door. Through the thin wood, I could hear Lydia comforting Cody. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Mom will make it right…” [Wait, why didn’t he scream?] [He’s playing the long game! His tactics have leveled up!] The comments kept rolling, but I had already stopped caring. My phone buzzed. It was a wire transfer from Margot—a massive sum. Then came a text: Keep your mouth shut about the past. Do it out of respect for everything I’ve done for you. I stared at the screen, letting out a bitter laugh. Yes. She had done a lot for me. Five years ago, the grandmother who raised me fell gravely ill right after I finished high school. On the day my university acceptance letter arrived, I was working late at a high-end private club. I was short thousands of dollars for her medical bills, and I had already decided to forfeit my education. That night, a group of wealthy older women cornered me in a VIP lounge. They poured whiskey over my head, tearing at my collar. I fought back, but my voice was caught in my throat. Then Margot kicked the door open. Her bodyguards cleared the room, and she wrapped her designer coat around my shivering, half-clad body. She didn’t ask questions. She only asked, “Do you need money?” I had nodded, my tears thick with humiliation. She handed me a card. “Take it. Pay your bills, go to school, and never step foot in a place like this again.” She saved me. She gave my grandmother a fighting chance, and she paved a completely different path for my life. Afterward, she quietly funded my tuition, visiting me whenever she could. Eventually, on a rainy night, she stayed over at my tiny apartment. Everything had felt so natural. Before my grandmother passed, she held Margot’s hand. “Please look after Wyatt,” she whispered. Margot had nodded. And I had believed her. Five years. From eighteen to twenty-three, I gave her the absolute best years of my youth. I learned to run her household, memorized every single preference she had, sat in quiet companionship when she was exhausted, and spoke words of comfort whenever she needed them. I even learned to appreciate fine wine, read financial statements, and decipher the coded jargon of her elite social circle. She told me her family demanded a match of equal status, so she asked me to wait. To wait until she had enough power to make her own decisions, to go public with us, to marry me. Just yesterday, she told me she was pregnant. Before we could even process the news, the Dwights tracked me down. I had thought the universe was finally giving us a chance. I thought we were finally equals. But she told me she was marrying Cody. A boy who wasn’t even a Dwight by blood anymore. A boy who was no longer her equal. My vision blurred. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I pulled up my email inbox. There was an unread message from three days ago—an acceptance offer for a Master’s program at the Royal College of Art in London. I clicked Accept. Margot, the baby, and those five ridiculous years—I didn’t want any of it anymore. [Wait, what is he looking at? Is that a foreign website?] [Who cares, probably plotting his next move to stalk her.] [Can’t wait for the drama to unfold!] I locked my phone screen. The black glass reflected the hollow outline of my face. 3. At breakfast the next morning, Cody approached me with a bowl of seafood chowder, his smile saccharine and innocent. “I made this, Wyatt. You should try some, it’s really good.” “No, thank you,” I replied politely. He insisted on stepping closer, and then, his foot suddenly slipped. The scalding liquid poured directly onto my lap. The porcelain bowl shattered against the floor. Sharp pain flared across my skin, leaving angry red welts. I hissed, gritting my teeth. Instantly, Cody’s eyes flooded with tears. “I’m so sorry, Wyatt! I didn’t mean to, I swear…” Lydia was the first to speak, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Why didn’t you catch it? Why were you just sitting there?” Richard frowned. “So incredibly slow and awkward.” [Here we go! He’s going to use this to make a scene!] [He totally dodged it on purpose to make Cody look bad. So manipulative.] [Serves him right! That’s what you get for hitting on Margot!] Just then, Margot walked through the front door. Cody immediately threw his arms around her, buried his face in her neck, and let out a soft, wounded whimper. Margot’s eyes filled with fierce protectiveness. She patted his back gently, then turned a freezing glare toward me. “Cody was only trying to be nice, Wyatt. Why do you always have to act so miserable?” I looked past her, fixing my eyes on Richard and Lydia. “Mr. Dwight, Mrs. Dwight. Did I spill the soup?” They fell silent, unable to argue, but Richard simply waved his hand dismissively. “The point is that your brother was startled. That’s what matters.” To “comfort” Cody, Richard made an announcement right then and there. “The boutique consulting branch I planned to have Wyatt manage… we’ll hand it over to Cody instead.” Margot nodded in agreement. “I’ll throw in a few corporate clients of my own as an engagement gift for Cody.” “Whatever you want,” I said quietly. [Wait, why isn’t he putting up a fight? This is weird…] Back in my room, another transfer notification popped up from Margot. Along with it, a text: Stop taking your frustrations out on Cody. I accepted the money. Then, with slow, deliberate fingers, I typed out a single line and hit send. Margot, did you forget that I’m severely allergic to seafood? The chat went dead silent. A long time passed before another massive wire transfer cleared. I smirked, accepting every single dime. Why shouldn’t I? It was the least she owed me—penance for five years of my life and the price of my silence. Outside my window, the sound of an engine revved, followed by Cody’s loud, carefree laughter. I assumed Margot had taken him out to cheer him up. It wasn’t until dusk that they finally returned. A few minutes later, Cody burst into my room, painting in mock panic. “Wyatt! My limited-edition watch is gone! It was the engagement gift Margot got me…” He held up his phone, showing me a photo of the piece. My chest tightened. I recognized that watch instantly. A year ago, Margot had taken me to a private charity auction and told me to pick my favorite item from the catalog. I had chosen this exact watch. She bid aggressively, paying an exorbitant price to win it. I waited for weeks, expecting her to present it to me, but she never did. When I finally built up the courage to ask, she had casually shrugged. “I gave it to my cousin.” It turned out, from the very beginning, it was always meant for Cody. [Look at his guilty face! He definitely stole it!] [Search his room!] Margot gave me a hard, unforgiving look. “Wyatt. You were the only one home all day. Just give it back.” “I didn’t take it.” Lydia hurried in, her voice strained. “We aren’t accusing you, Wyatt. We’re just asking if you saw it.” “Yeah, Wyatt,” Cody whispered. “It’s extremely expensive…” The implication was loud and clear. They were calling me a thief to my face. Margot stared at me, her dark eyes filled with a heavy, disappointing judgment. That look pricked me like a needle, leaving a tiny, dull ache. Suddenly, an overwhelming exhaustion settled into my bones. I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “I’ve been in my room all day. I haven’t left once. If you don’t believe me, check the security cameras.” I met Margot’s gaze directly. “There are cameras in the hallway and the main foyer.” Margot’s expression faltered. Cody’s face stuck in an instant. “Oh, let’s not get carried away with cameras. We’re family…” Lydia tried to placate everyone. Right then, the housekeeper hurried down the hall, holding the watch. “Master Cody! It was caught in the crevice behind your nightstand. I found it while dusting.” The room went completely quiet. [Wait, it actually was a misunderstanding?] [Looking at him, he doesn’t seem interested in fighting back at all… This is getting weird.] The comments thinned out, showing the first hints of doubt. Margot’s expression was frozen. She quietly sent another wire transfer with a brief note: My mistake. I accepted it. Once they cleared out, I opened my phone and pulled up flight schedules to London. [What is he doing? I can’t see his screen…] [Who cares, probably plotting another scheme.] I locked my phone, pulled the blanket over my head, and finally closed my eyes. 4. The Dwights spared no expense for Cody’s birthday gala. The guest list included the city’s entire high society. Lydia had practically ordered me to attend. “If you aren’t there, what will people think of us? They’ll say we’re hiding our own flesh and blood.” At the gala, Cody stood at the podium, giving a tearful speech thanking the Dwights for twenty years of unconditional love. The crowd murmured with adoration. “Such a sweet, grateful boy. He’s closer to them than any biological child could be.” A few guests glanced toward the dim corner where I sat, whispering behind their champagne flutes. “Is that the real son? Why does he look like a statue?” “Raised on the streets. He simply lacks the breeding for a room like this.” Margot stayed by Cody’s side the entire night, gently dabbing away his tears and holding the microphone for him with a soft, adoring smile. I sat alone, my wine untouched. The roaring chatter of the crowd pressed against my temples like rising water. I couldn’t breathe. Slipping away early, I walked back to my room. But when I pushed the door open, I froze. My desk had been completely ransacked. The drawers were pulled out, their contents spilled onto the floor. My heart hammered in my chest. I rushed to the nightstand. My grandmother’s jade pendant—the only physical piece of her I had left—was gone. I ran back to the ballroom. In the middle of the crowd, Cody was holding up a raw green jade pendant, turning it under the crystal chandeliers. He laughed, speaking to his friends. “My brother lent it to me for the night. Beautiful, isn’t it?” “Give it back,” I said, stepping into his circle. My voice was quiet, but it vibrated with a sudden, dangerous edge. Cody gasped, startled, and his fingers slipped. The pendant hit the polished marble floor. With a sharp, sickening crack, it shattered into pieces. The entire ballroom fell dead silent. Tears welled in Cody’s eyes instantly. “Wyatt… I’m so sorry, it was an accident…” The guests began to whisper, throwing me glances as if I were a lunatic making a scene over nothing. Margot stepped in, barely looking at the broken pieces on the floor. Her tone was dismissive. “It’s just a cheap pendant, Wyatt. Is this really necessary?” I dropped to my knees, picking up the jagged pieces of jade one by one. The sharp edges sliced into my fingertips, but even as blood dripped onto the green stone, I felt absolutely nothing. “My grandmother gave this to me,” I whispered, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “The last thing she told me before she died was to keep it safe.” Margot’s expression softened into realization. She, more than anyone, knew what my grandmother meant to me. She was the one who had stood beside me at the funeral. But Cody sobbed harder, burying his face in her shoulder. She hesitated for a split second, then wrapped her arms around him, murmuring softly, “Shh, don’t cry. I’ll buy you a much better one.” Lydia stepped up. “Wyatt, it was an accident. Don’t be so petty.” Richard frowned. “Enough. It’s a trinket. It broke, so be it. We’ll buy you another one just like it tomorrow.” I stood up slowly, the broken shards cutting deep into my clenched palm. I walked right up to Cody, raised my hand, and hit him. The slap cracked like a whip through the silent room. A collective gasp echoed through the crowd. In the next second, Margot surged forward. She grabbed my wrist, and before I could react, her other hand came down hard across my cheek. Slap. My cheek burned with white-hot pain. The metallic taste of blood seeped onto my tongue. Margot’s eyes were cold as ice. “Wyatt. You’ve gone too far.” [Oh my god! That was his grandmother’s only keepsake!] [Margot is a monster! She knew exactly what it meant to him!] [I actually feel for Wyatt now. Who wouldn’t lose their mind?] I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I didn’t scream, and I didn’t cry. I carefully wrapped the broken pieces and the severed string in my handkerchief, tucking them deep into my breast pocket. “Whatever debt I owed you,” I said, looking at Margot, “is paid in full.” Then I looked at Richard and Lydia. “I don’t want this family anymore.” I turned and walked out of the ballroom. Behind me, Lydia’s hysterical voice echoed: “Let him leave! If he walks out that door, he’s never coming back!” My phone buzzed relentlessly. Margot sent a wire transfer: Stop being angry. Richard and Lydia each sent massive sums, labeled Compensations. I accepted every single one. The next afternoon, I returned to the house to pack the last of my belongings. As I reached the corner of the hallway, voices filtered out from Cody’s half-open bedroom door. “Dad, Mom… Margot is carrying my baby. We need to expedite the wedding.” “I heard rumors that she kept some charity case on the side. Honestly, it makes me feel so insecure.” I froze, the air violently knocked out of my lungs. The child she was carrying… belonged to Cody? [Wow, Wyatt got absolutely wrecked. In the end, he lost his girl and his baby.] [I officially support him going full villain mode.] My chest tightened so hard I couldn’t draw breath. Every remaining shred of hope and lingering affection I had harbored was ground into dust. I didn’t make a sound. I simply turned around and walked away. I grabbed my suitcase and threw my few clothes inside. An hour later, I was sitting in the airport lounge. I pulled out my phone and opened my chat with Margot. I typed out a final message: Margot, whatever mercy you showed me years ago, I paid back with five years of my life. I know the truth about the baby now. From this moment on, we are strangers. I attached a picture of the broken jade pendant. Send. Block. Delete. I powered down the phone, popped out the SIM card, and dropped it into a nearby trash can. The overhead speakers crackled to life. “Now boarding flight 248 to London Heathrow…” I stood up, picked up my bag, and walked toward the gate without looking back.

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On the day of my graduation, Larry had just slipped a simple silver band onto my ring finger when my phone buzzed. It was an email from a scrambled, unrecognizable address. The subject line read: From Ten Years in the Future. Amused and assuming it was some elaborate graduation prank, I typed out a quick reply: “Will Larry and I be happy? What about Cathy, my best friend? Will the two of us stay friends forever?” The response came almost instantly. “According to your current timeline, Larry has already been sleeping with Cathy for a year.” “Everyone knows. Even your mother.” “After you marry him, he will give you a thousand dollars a month for groceries while wire-transferring ten thousand to her.” “You will suffer three miscarriages, all because of him and Cathy.” “And you will only discover the truth on the day they celebrate their tenth anniversary of being together.” The final email contained only a single sentence. I stared at the screen, my entire body beginning to tremble. “I beg you, don’t marry him. The doctor says I only have a month left.” … Seeing me frozen in place with my eyes locked on the screen, Larry smiled, wrapping an arm around my waist. “What’s got you so mesmerized, babe?” I forced myself back to reality, locking my phone. “Nothing. Just a rejection letter from another firm.” He let out a soft laugh. “That’s their loss. You’re too good for them anyway. Besides, we already agreed we’re starting at the firm together.” I managed a tight smile but said nothing. Just then, Cathy ran over, her white sundress fluttering in the June breeze. She was holding a bouquet of baby’s breath. “Diana! Come on, we need to get our graduation photos before the light fades!” She grinned, grabbing my arm, before casting a playful glance at Larry. “I suppose I’ll let you be our photographer. But if they’re blurry, I’m throwing a punch.” She raised a small, clenched fist toward his chest. Usually, when they acted like oil and water, I would step in to play the peacemaker. But with the weight of that email sitting like lead in my chest, I simply watched. Larry offered a lazy, slow curl of his lips. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist as he drew out his words. “Is that so? I’d actually love to see you try.” Cathy’s cheeks flushed a sudden, deep crimson. She yanked her hand back, huffing. “Don’t touch me with your gross hands. Come on, Diana, let’s go.” Later, during a break in our photo session in the empty classrooms, I excused myself to use the restroom. As I walked back down the quiet hallway and reached for the classroom door, voices drifted through the slightly open gap. “Larry, this ten-carat diamond ring is so gorgeous. I love it. Why didn’t you get Diana one too? We’re best friends, we should have matching ones.” I heard the rustle of clothing, and then Larry’s voice, soft and indulgent—the tone he reserved for things he truly cherished. “Silly. You forgot? I’m playing the broke college grad around her. Besides, this was custom-made just for you. It’s one of a kind.” I looked down at the cheap, plain silver band on my finger. The cold metal suddenly felt like a brand. I stood there for a long moment, forcing a slow, quiet breath into my lungs, before pushing the door open. At the sound of the hinges creaking, Larry’s hand snapped away from Cathy’s shoulder. To celebrate our graduation, the group went out for dinner and drinks that evening. Sitting at the loud, crowded table, my phone vibrated in my lap. Another email. “Don’t listen to what they say. Watch what they do.” I didn’t quite understand the warning until someone at the table suggested a game of Truth or Dare. Larry drew a card: Do ten squats while bridal-carrying the second person to your left. I was sitting directly to his left. Cathy was sitting to mine. The second person to his left was Cathy. A chorus of whistles and suggestive laughter erupted from our friends. Cathy rolled her eyes, her brow furrowing in apparent disgust. “Ugh, what a stupid game. As if I’d want you touching me. Don’t worry, Diana, I’ll make sure he pays for this.” Larry chuckled, casting a brief, reassuring look at me. “Just a game, babe. Don’t be jealous.” He walked over and lifted Cathy into his arms. The fit was seamless, their bodies pressing together in an intimate, familiar alignment. Cathy’s arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her fingers burying slightly into his collar. When he finished, Larry laughed off the tension, complaining that she was heavy and wiping sweat from his forehead. But I noticed his ears were burning red. Cathy sniffed. “I’m the one who’s disgusted. Diana, I’m going to the restroom to wash off this cheap cologne.” They left the table—one after the other—with a practiced, silent coordination. My phone buzzed again. “Do you know? When I found his old journal years later, I learned that during that graduation dinner, when they took forever to return, they were in the empty private dining room next door…” I stood up, claiming I needed to use the restroom. The friends at the table tried to stop me. “Wait for Larry to get back, Diana. It’s crowded tonight, don’t go alone.” I offered them a calm, reassuring smile. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit under the weather. I think I’m going to slip out and head home early. Can you let them know for me?” They looked visibly relieved, nodding quickly. I walked down the hallway, keeping my footsteps light against the carpet. The restaurant’s bass-heavy music muffled the ambient noise, but as I passed the dark, vacant private room next door, I stopped. Through the narrow crack in the doorframe, under the dim amber light, I saw them. Cathy was pressed against the wall, her lips parted, her tongue sliding against his in a deep, desperate kiss. Larry’s hand was locked at the back of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her in with a hunger I had never seen in him. When I finally stepped out into the cool night air, a text message from my mother popped up. A few days ago, she had been ecstatic about booking the flights for our post-grad trip. I hadn’t received the confirmation email yet, assuming she was still waiting on a deal. “Diana, I could only get three tickets—one for me, one for Larry, and one for Cathy. There weren’t any left for you. See if you can get yourself on the standby list.” I stared at the glowing screen. A cold, hollow realization settled over me: I was the outsider in my own life. We had planned this trip for months. Cathy was the one who had suggested bringing my mother along, and my mother had happily volunteered to handle the bookings. My parents had divorced when I was young, and Cathy, who lived across the hall, had practically grown up in our home since middle school. We were a trio. Or so I had believed. My phone vibrated again. Larry was calling. “Why didn’t you wait for me, babe? I wanted to drive you home.” His voice was still so tender. It brought back memories of our high school graduation, of him standing under the streetlights, face flushed as he confessed his love. Throughout our four years of college, he had always played the protective boyfriend. When a stranger had followed me to my dorm, Larry had taken a blow from a metal pipe to protect me. He had never missed an anniversary, always scraping together whatever money he had to buy me a thoughtful gift. “Protecting my girl is just what I do,” he used to say, flashing that boyish grin. In our junior year, I had finally introduced him to Cathy. From their very first meeting, they seemed to detest one another. Larry had grumbled, “Is she going to steal all your attention from me? No way.” Cathy had laughed it off, asking me where on earth I had found such a hopelessly devoted simp. The morning after the graduation dinner, I was carrying the last of my things down from the dorm lobby when I ran into Cathy. She was in a foul mood, muttering about how Larry had dumped her at the campus gates the night before and made her walk the rest of the way. I said nothing. Outside, Larry’s car was idling. Cathy pulled open the rear door and slid inside, muttering that she was going to sleep. A couple of underclassmen walked past us, gossiping loudly. “Did you hear? Last night, near the woods behind the dorms, someone was making out so loud you could hear it from the path.” Larry, who was loading my suitcases into the trunk, froze for a fraction of a second. As I sat in the passenger seat, I adjusted the sun visor to check my makeup. Through the compact mirror, I watched them. Larry handed me a bottle of water, his eyes automatically darting to the rearview mirror to meet Cathy’s gaze. She made a childish face at him, and his lips curved into a private, knowing smile. When we got home, my mother was waiting. We had always kept a guest bedroom ready for Cathy. Before bed, my mother brought a warm glass of milk to my room. Her eyes lingered on my face a second longer than usual. “You’ve had a stressful week, sweetheart. Drink this and get some sleep.” I smiled, taking the glass. “Thanks, Mom. I will.” The moment she closed the door, my hand hesitated. Remembering the email, I walked over to the windowsill and slowly poured every drop of the milk into the soil of a large succulent, using a small spade to cover the wet dirt with fresh soil. My mother had sacrificed a lot to raise me. She had always seemed to give me whatever I asked for. But after everything I had seen, I couldn’t afford to trust blindly anymore. I lay down on the bed, keeping my breathing slow and even, pretending to be asleep. After what felt like hours, my bedroom door creaked open. Footsteps approached, stopping right beside my bed. Someone stood there, watching me in the darkness, before quietly slipping back out and shutting the door. A moment later, muffled, hushed voices drifted from the living room. I slipped out of bed, my bare feet making no sound on the floor, and pressed my ear against the wood of the door. “Is she asleep?” Cathy’s voice was a soft whisper. “She drank it. She’s out cold—I made sure to put a sleeping aid in her milk,” my mother replied, her voice chillingly calm. “Keep your voices down. Don’t wake her.” My heart gave a violent, painful squeeze. Larry’s voice rose, carrying a trace of hesitation. “Do we really have to go through with this? Is there no other way?” “Didn’t you promise me we’d celebrate after we registered the marriage license tomorrow?” Cathy’s voice turned into a whiny, petulant pout. “You said you’d make it up to me.” “But…” “Larry,” Cathy cut him off, her tone shifting. “Think about it. If she doesn’t get hurt, we marry tomorrow and we don’t even get to go on a honeymoon? She’ll expect you to spend all your time with her.” A long silence stretched over the apartment. “Fine. We’ll do it your way,” Larry finally sighed. “Tomorrow, Diana and I will go to the old bookstore downtown,” Cathy said, her voice turning sweet again. “Is that place safe? Don’t make it too serious. We don’t want a real tragedy,” Larry warned. My mother’s voice joined back in. “I’ll pretend I know nothing tomorrow. Just be careful, both of you.” I leaned my forehead against the cold wood of the door, my fingernails digging into my palms until they nearly drew blood. The mother who had fought a bitter, years-long custody battle against my father to keep me, the woman I had trusted with my entire life, was quietly conspiring with my boyfriend and my best friend to stage an accident so they could run off on a honeymoon. I took a slow, deep breath, walked back to my bed, and closed my eyes. The next morning, I intentionally stayed in bed until nearly noon. When I finally walked into the living room, they were already waiting. Larry and Cathy were sitting side-by-side on the sofa, while my mother hummed a tune in the kitchen. They looked radiant—no doubt because they had already made a trip to the courthouse that morning to sign their marriage certificate. Seeing me, Cathy jumped up with a bright smile. “Diana! Come to the old bookstore with me? I really want to find a copy of that vintage art monograph.” “Sure,” I smiled back. “Let’s go.” Larry offered to drive us. He parked outside the shop and stayed in the car, claiming he had some emails to reply to. The old bookstore was a dusty, two-story labyrinth. Cathy led the way toward the creaky wooden staircase that led to the second-floor loft. I followed a few steps behind, watching her closely. She climbed halfway up, then suddenly let out a sharp gasp, her body tilting backward as her arms flailed wildly, reaching out to grab my collar. Having prepared for this, I kept my hand locked tightly around the solid iron banister. I pressed my back flat against the wall, giving her absolutely no leverage. Cathy’s hands grabbed empty air. Losing her balance completely, she tumbled backward down the wooden stairs, landing hard on the floorboards with a sickening thud and a scream of genuine pain. Hearing the commotion, Larry burst through the front door. His eyes scanned the room, bypassing me entirely to land on Cathy writhing on the floor. He looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a raw, unscripted fury. “Why didn’t you catch her? You just stood there and watched her fall?” I stood on the stairs, looking down at him, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Larry, whose boyfriend are you? You didn’t even ask if I was okay before accusing me. If someone walked in right now, they’d think you were the one married to her.” He froze, a sudden flicker of panic and guilt crossing his face. Cathy whimpered from the floor, clutching her ankle. “It hurts so much, Larry… my leg…” Larry immediately knelt beside her, lifting her into his arms with practiced care, and carried her out to the car. He didn’t look back at me once. At the hospital, Larry was a whirlwind of anxiety. He handled the registration, paid the bills, and wheeled her to the radiology department, showing far more concern than a friend of the family ever should. In his panic, he completely forgot to play the role of the broke college kid. I leaned against the wall outside the examination room, my arms crossed, watching his frantic movements with a cold, steady gaze. Sensing my eyes on him, he finally seemed to realize his mistake. He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish smile plastered on his face. “She’s your best friend, Diana. I know how much you care about her. I just wanted to make sure everything was handled so you wouldn’t have to worry.” I almost laughed. His acting was usually seamless, but today, he had overplayed his hand. I turned around, walked out of the hospital lobby, and dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. After a few rings, my father’s voice came through the line, thick with disbelief and hope. “Diana? You’re actually calling me.” “Dad,” I said, staring at my reflection in the glass doors of the hospital exit. “That offer to join the company in London—does it still stand?” “Of course. Anytime you want, sweetheart.” “Set it up,” I said. “As fast as you can.”

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