My fiancé chased his kept canary all the way to New York. Coincidentally, I was in New York, too. The young girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of tears. She told me that true love is the only truth. Truth? What a coincidence. I happened to have a few pieces of “truth” right in my hands. 01 My fiancé back in the States made a fool of himself again. To chase down his runaway canary, he locked down an entire private airport. It was a small airfield, and it was late at night. The Vance family’s PR team quickly squashed any media leaks before they could spread. Unfortunately for him, he was still too late. The canary flew to New York one step ahead of him. I originally couldn’t have cared less. Cleaning up his mistresses was Preston Vance’s own problem. But when a stunningly beautiful Asian girl dropped to her knees in front of me, crying a river of picture-perfect tears, it naturally drew the stares of passersby. I stood at the top of the steps, frowning as I looked her up and down: “What was your name again? ‘Miss Innocent’ or something?” The girl froze, her tears hesitating on her lashes. She offered a stiff rebuttal: “It’s Aria.” I had a vague impression of this mistress who had been with Preston the longest. But that didn’t mean she was worth remembering. Over the years, I knew Preston constantly surrounded himself with women because he resented our arranged engagement. But causing a scene right to my face. She was the first. My expression gradually shifted to impatience: “What do you want from me?” She really was a professional actress. The paused tears immediately started flowing again, dropping like broken strings of pearls. “Ms. Sterling, Preston loves me. Please, I’m begging you, let him go. Stop clinging to him.” I raised an eyebrow. Clinging? I let out a cold laugh, looking down at her: “Ms. Montgomery, is that something a homewrecker should really be saying out loud?” “Preston and I knew each other long before you came along! You’re the real third wheel here!” Her face twisted in sudden anger, and she lunged up the steps, trying to grab me. My bodyguards, naturally quick on their feet, intercepted her immediately. In the chaos, she twisted her ankle and tumbled down the concrete steps. Gasps erupted from the crowd. In the surging sea of people, I could see the flashes of paparazzi cameras hiding in the shadows. The company I held a controlling stake in was about to go public on the US stock market, and I couldn’t afford any scandals right now. I scanned the area, and right on cue, I saw Preston wearing a black trench coat, shoving his way through the crowd. He had lost all of his usual aristocratic composure. His dark eyes were filled with panic and heartache. He took off his coat and draped it over Aria’s exposed long legs. Then he pinched her chin, and kissed her fiercely. His eyes were burning with an intense, undeniable possessiveness. The man’s voice was hoarse and restrained: “Run again, and I’ll break your legs.” Aria tilted her chin up stubbornly: “If I can’t have all of you, I’d rather die.” After their intense public display, they turned to look at me in perfect unison. Preston’s dark eyes were furious: “Serena Sterling, didn’t I warn you not to mess with Aria? “You actually dared to push her. Who gave you the nerve?” My eyebrow twitched violently. Who was messing with who here? With her backer present, Aria looked triumphant: “Sister, you’re a bit older, so maybe you don’t understand. In today’s society, the woman who isn’t loved is the real mistress. “True love is the only truth.” Her tone was incredibly provocative. What a perfect, dramatic scene straight out of a billionaire romance novel. The glass windows nearby reflected my face. With my long, straight black hair and cold, indifferent expression, I really did look like the evil second female lead trying to tear the star-crossed lovers apart. Beautiful, rich, and completely wicked. But I wasn’t an idiot. And real life wasn’t a movie. I smiled at her: “Truth? “What a coincidence. I happen to hold a few pieces of ‘truth’ right in my hands.” The sharp, metallic clicks of guns cocking echoed from behind me. I ground my teeth. How dare they threaten me on American soil? Did these two morons forget that it’s perfectly legal to carry firearms here? Aria shrank into Preston’s arms like a terrified rabbit, looking pathetic. But no matter how tough Preston liked to talk, he wasn’t going to argue with a bullet. “Preston, when you said you wanted to play around, I let it slide. But if you try to put your dirty laundry on the table, don’t blame me for flipping the table over.” I narrowed my eyes at him, my tone utterly merciless. He had been preparing to scoop Aria up and leave. Hearing my words, he let out a cold scoff: “Serena, do you honestly still think you’re the untouchable sole heiress of the Sterling family? “Stop hiding out overseas and daydreaming. Next time we meet, you might have already been kicked off the board.” The fact that the Sterling family had an illegitimate son was no longer a secret. It was currently the biggest gossip back in Chicago high society, and had even made the front page of the local financial journals. Preston left under the escort of his own bodyguards. My assistant stood by my side, her expression grim: “Ms. Sterling, the domestic headquarters just suspended all joint projects with us.” I squinted into the distance: “Prepare to fly back to the States.” Preston, did you really think that bastard could beat me? You backed the wrong side. 02 The Sterling and Vance families practically built their empires on the same boat decades ago. The Sterlings spent decades in heavy manufacturing. The Vances rode the wave of the economic boom. One manufactured, one exported. Together, they carved out an empire. But later, the Sterling family transitioned from factories to a massive corporate conglomerate, developing its own global brands. Our reliance on the Vance family grew smaller and smaller. But my engagement to Preston was settled by my grandmother’s generation. The old lady was born in the post-war era. She was iron-willed, decisive, and had a thunderous personality. In her youth, she was a legendary female entrepreneur and the absolute authority of the Sterling family. Beatrice Sterling’s word was the absolute law in the Sterling family. Even after her death, no one dared to disobey her. Beatrice was steadfast her entire life, changing her own decision only once when I was eight years old. She changed the name of the company from Sterling Global to Serena Global. That day, she was as strict as ever, staring at me with her eagle-like eyes. She said seriously, word by word: “Serena, remember this. From now on, the ‘Serena’ in Serena Global is your name. “You must ensure that this empire always belongs to the Sterlings.” Upon returning to the States, I went straight home. The mansion felt a bit emptier than it had when I left the country two years ago. My mother sat elegantly on the sofa, wearing gold-rimmed glasses, reading the newspaper. I poured myself a cup of tea and asked casually: “Did you clean everything out?” “Yes. The trash man and his trash belongings have all been thrown out.” I frowned: “You didn’t let him take half the assets, did you?” My mother looked up at me. “Do you think your mother signed a prenup for nothing?” Then she let out a long sigh: “Ah, back then I was so resentful. But now it proves your grandmother was an excellent judge of character. You are much more steady than I am.” I smiled helplessly: “Did you hit them?” My mother’s expression was somewhat proud: “Robert Cole, that little homewrecker, and their bastard son. I slapped all three of them.” I gave her a thumbs-up. “Next Wednesday is the Sinclair family’s golden anniversary gala. Go in my place.” She suddenly turned dead serious: “We absolutely cannot lose that partnership with the Sinclairs.” I swirled the tea in my cup, speaking lazily: “Of course.” 03 The Sinclairs were an incredibly deep-rooted family in Chicago. The elder Sinclairs were generous, low-key, and had vast connections. So it wasn’t surprising to see Preston at the golden anniversary gala. And standing right beside him was Aria. The radiant woman looked over at me, raising her red wine glass from afar and shooting me a provocative smile. I could barely make out her mouthed words: “I’m the winner, loser.” I was slightly displeased. After all, the Vance family and I hadn’t formally broken off the engagement yet. Preston blatantly bringing his mistress to a major high-society gala was a direct slap to my face. People around us were already waiting to see me become a laughingstock. Harper Sinclair appeared beside me, flashing a triumphant grin: “How is it, babe? I personally invited Aria here.” I pinched her cheek: “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” “How could I bear to kill you? I’m obviously giving you a chance to vent.” She blinked her cunning eyes: “Do you know why Aria is acting so arrogant right now?” I replied calmly: “It’s nothing more than her thinking she’s secured her spot on the Vance family ship, and the Vances are backing my dad’s illegitimate son.” Robert Cole had put on a brilliant act all these years. My mother’s health had always been poor. For years, he was the one managing the corporate affairs. Not only did he hide an illegitimate son older than me from everyone, but he also made the outside world believe he held the real power in Serena Global, even quietly placing his bastard son in the Vice President seat of a subsidiary. Preston was currently chatting happily with that illegitimate son, Jackson Cole. The people around them were subtly trying to suck up and join their circle. In contrast, my side was empty. No one dared to approach me. I had only been out of the country for two years, and these people had already forgotten who owned the Sterling name. Harper’s face suddenly turned cold: “Today, I’m going to show these people who really deserves to sit at the table.” She set down her wine glass and walked toward the center of the banquet with a bright smile: “Tonight, I specially invited Ms. Aria Montgomery to celebrate my grandparents’ golden anniversary. I heard that before Ms. Montgomery got into acting, she graduated from Juilliard. Why don’t you grace us with a dance?” Aria’s face instantly froze. Asking a guest to perform for the room was tantamount to public humiliation. Harper asked coldly: “What’s wrong? Is Ms. Montgomery unwilling? Or do you think our Sinclair family isn’t worthy?” The elder Sinclairs looked over as well. This caused Preston, who was about to step in, to halt his movements. Gritting her teeth, Aria performed a short routine. Because she hadn’t practiced in so long, she nearly tripped and fell several times in the middle of it. Harper walked up and patted her shoulder: “Asking you to dance was doing you a favor. Too bad your skills are so awful it ruined the mood.” Aria’s eyes turned red with anger, and she ran out crying. As she passed me, she didn’t forget to drop a harsh threat: “Serena Sterling, I’m not going to let you get away with this. Your days of being happy are numbered.” And from beginning to end, I didn’t even grant her a single direct glance. Harper returned to my side, fishing for credit: “How was that? Satisfying?” I nodded honestly. “So… about that European market expansion project?” Her eyes sparkled. I smiled fondly: “It was always yours. But are you sure you can keep your brother in check?” “Relax. You’ve been abroad for two years, do you think I was just sitting around? When Grandpa called Mason home to handle this project, that idiot was probably still panting in some random woman’s bed. He made Grandpa so mad he almost ended up in the hospital, which let me swoop in and steal the deal. “If Mason is useless, the Sinclairs will naturally have someone else step up for him.” The woman’s face was painted with inevitable ambition. I looked across the room at Preston, who was clinking glasses with Mason while absentmindedly glancing toward the exit, and I let out a mocking laugh. My fiancé… your taste is consistently terrible. 04 Shortly after the banquet ended, a video of a drunk Preston kissing Aria was sent to my phone. The exclusive private VIP lounge was mostly empty. They were surrounded by just a handful of Preston’s rich, trust-fund frat brothers. The lighting was dim and hazy. Aria’s eyes were still slightly red, making the seductive look in her eyes even more pitiful. “Preston, who do you really like? Serena or me?” Preston lay back on the black leather sofa, his collar undone, his arm wrapped around the woman’s slender waist as he narrowed his eyes: “Who the hell is Serena Sterling? Does she even deserve to be compared to you?” With that, they started making out as if no one else was in the room. Was this a direct warning right to my face? Who gave these trust-fund idiots the nerve? My gaze landed on the table in front of Preston. Printed on it was a logo I was intimately familiar with. I made a phone call: “Kill the main breaker for the entire lounge. And lock the doors.” The manager on the other end answered nervously: “Ms. Sterling, there are still VIPs inside. Mr. Vance is still here.” “If he wasn’t there, why would I tell you to cut the power?” The manager shut his mouth. “If he dares to come smash up the place tomorrow, call the police immediately, and contact the corporate legal department.” I heard that Preston and his little mistress spent the entire night playing a real-life “escape room.” When he finally saw the lounge’s logo and realized what had happened, he was so furious he kicked the doors several times. Preston hated me even more after that. He called me the very next day to drop a threat: “Serena Sterling, you just wait. The entire Sterling family is going to pay the price for your stupidity.” 05 Speaking of which, Preston and I did try legitimately dating for two months. On the day of our engagement, he was so happy he almost forgot himself. Even every time he saw me, there was a bit more tenderness in his eyes. Of course, it wasn’t because he loved me so much. But because he felt like he had finally won once. Preston and I were born in the same year. When we were born, the Sterling and Vance families were still in their honeymoon phase. But as the sole son and daughter of both families, we inevitably got compared. From who walked first, to who talked first, to our grades, and extracurriculars, both families were secretly competing. And I completely crushed him every time. I was even better at throwing a punch than he was. But Preston’s parents had a surprisingly great attitude about it. Every time they saw me, they still liked me very much. Until one time in the courtyard, when no one else was around. Mrs. Vance held my hand, smiling warmly: “My future daughter-in-law is so capable. You’ll definitely be able to help Preston run the company well in the future.” After she said that, she let out a faux-sympathetic sigh: “It’s just a pity your mother’s health was poor since childhood. She had a girl and couldn’t have any more.” It was only then that I realized that the Vance family’s ultimate trump card was simply the fact that their family heir had male anatomy. This was a concept my brain, born into the Sterling family, couldn’t comprehend. After all, my mother had aborted two male fetuses just for my sake. When Preston grew up, he naturally inherited his parents’ ideology. He wanted a bird in a cage, a submissive housewife. He believed that in a marriage, a wife was naturally supposed to submit. So he was happy to marry me. He could only win in marriage, and he only needed to win in marriage. Unfortunately, by the second month after our engagement, he couldn’t control himself. At a yacht party, he was kissing a girl on each arm. I only used one slap to make him see reality clearly. Then I had someone throw him into the ocean. I remember that day was Christmas. The seawater was freezing, the winter night bitterly cold. He was in the hospital for a full week. Preston’s parents came to our door to cause a scene. My mother refused to even see them. She only asked me one sentence: “As long as you want, the engagement can be canceled at any time.” I laughed lightly and comforted her: “As long as I want, I have ten thousand ways to make them actively cancel the engagement. “But not right now.” The Vance family was no longer suitable as an ally, but their foundation was still there. “But don’t worry, Mom. This kind of man is not entering the Sterling family’s door.” And since then, Preston completely hated me. Now that the conflict had intensified again, I figured it was time for the Vance family to make their move. 06 The public opinion attacks against Serena Global came faster than I imagined. Firing the first shot was the video of me pushing Aria down the steps in New York. Aria was a rising star; she had plenty of fans willing to charge the front lines for her. In less than a day, it pushed me to the top trending spots on all major social media platforms. Under every related video, there were long essays detailing the epic romance between the billionaire heir and the beautiful starlet, from childhood sweethearts to star-crossed lovers. The so-called “childhood sweethearts” was nothing more than Aria’s childhood dance troupe performing at the Vance estate. A blurry video where you couldn’t even clearly see eyes, noses, or mouths was dug up as “proof,” paired with emotional background music, making it look almost real. As for the descriptions of me, they claimed I was morally bankrupt. Soon, the news of my US-controlled company preparing to go public was also pushed into the spotlight. Financial media and bloggers intentionally or unintentionally hinted that the Sterling family was suspected of transferring assets offshore. The Sterling family was branded as unpatriotic. The stock plummeted for three days. I scrolled through the vicious comments on a stock trading app, calmly sipping my tea. At the other end of the table, the wealthy wives sat close together, occasionally covering their mouths to laugh at something Aria said to amuse them. This was a gathering hosted by Mrs. Davis. I never liked these types of gatherings that revolved around cheating husbands, kids studying abroad, comparing whose husband came home for dinner more often, and who had hidden more secret funds. But my mother wasn’t feeling well, so I could only take her place. One wife, egged on by the others, came over with malicious intent: “Oh, Serena, I heard the Sterling family stock dropped quite a bit. If you’re short on funds, don’t hide it in your heart. Tell us, maybe everyone can help you think of a solution.” I set down my teacup and smiled faintly: “It’s true that the Sterling family stock market evaporated tens of billions these past few days. I just wonder if Mrs. Davis’s secret slush fund is enough to cover it?” Mrs. Davis’s face was completely embarrassed. The other wives, who didn’t know much about the stock market, were all startled. Another woman spoke up: “Is your Sterling family going to go bankrupt? What about my husband’s contract with you guys?” “Mrs. King, please relax. Your husband was just doing a three-way battle at a hotel recently. He’s not worried, so you shouldn’t be either.” Mrs. King’s face turned black as well: “Young girls nowadays are just so sharp-tongued and impulsive. Not like my son studying in the US. He’s mature and steady, just waiting to graduate from Harvard and come back to take over the family business.” I spun the teacup, speaking with a faint smile: “Your son is indeed a handsome young man. And his boyfriend is quite dashing as well. The last time I saw them in New York, I was kind enough to remind them that HIV is still quite serious in the States.” Mrs. Wright clutched her heart and frantically started dialing her phone. Aria let out a cold laugh: “What’s the use of only being good with your mouth? You’re offending so many powerful wives. Are you complaining that the Sterling family isn’t dying fast enough? “Serena Sterling, Preston is mine now, and the Sterling family is finished. I really want to see what you’ll use to prop up your stupidity and arrogance when you lose everything you used to rely on.” Preston walked into the courtyard wearing a black coat. He lovingly took Aria’s outstretched hand and put it into his pocket. He completely ignored my existence as his fiancée. Was it just because of catching him cheating a few years ago and slapping him a few times? He was holding a grudge for this long? I thought to myself, completely unbothered. While keeping my eyes on the notification sent to my phone. In fifteen days, Serena Global would hold an emergency board of directors meeting.

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When an A-list actor adjusted my microphone, he unconsciously kissed my hair. We both froze. Because this was a reality show about divorce. And we were from two different former couples. 01 After my divorce from Ethan Vance, everyone assumed I would cling to him. He had publicly announced our marriage at the peak of his career. After tying the knot, he successfully transitioned from a teen idol to a serious actor. When he finally won his first major award, people still brought me up. “What gives her the right? She’s so lucky.” I was the one who asked for the divorce. But it was what he had been waiting for all along. While he was playing house on set with Chloe Sterling, his co-star in his new drama—wearing his jackets, using his phone case… I was still at home, flipping through the calendar, waiting for him. Time and again, he hung up my calls, using work as an excuse. Until one day, I ran into Chloe in first class. She greeted me warmly, a bright smile on her face. “Did you know?” she whispered in my ear. “I bought this ticket using his credit card.” She did it on purpose. Trying to force me into a divorce. I gave her exactly what she wanted. I went home and packed my bags in half an hour. I don’t want something that someone else has already dirtied. Thank god we didn’t have kids. Ethan leaned against the doorframe, watching me. His reaction was flat. He only asked one question: “What else do you want?” “Your phone.” He paused for a second, but then handed it straight to me. During the years he loved me most—when I stayed by his side from D-list obscurity to A-list stardom—I was always his only pinned contact. Now, I had been replaced. I was relegated to “Do Not Disturb.” An uncontested divorce. He gave me everything he earned over those years, asking only that I let him go as quickly as possible. He told me he truly loved Chloe. After signing the non-disclosure agreement, I thought we would never speak again. Until he called me one last time. “Let’s meet up.” It was the first month after our divorce. “We can’t let my fans know I cheated. The new drama is about to air.” I arrived early. In the break room, I overheard Ethan’s manager trying to persuade him. “Even after a divorce, you’re still an A-list actor. And her? Just an absolute nobody waiting to be laughed at. “She’s definitely not over it. “Just trick her. Tell her you want to go on a divorce reality show with her. “Make her think there’s a chance to win you back, and she’ll do everything to please you. “Then, we’ll edit the show to make the audience find her annoying, and you can maintain your ‘devoted ex-husband’ persona.” The manager nudged him. “Are you even listening?” Ethan had his legs propped up on a low table, lazily playing a game on his phone. He gave a noncommittal “Yeah.” “Trust me, you crook your finger, and she’ll come running back like a dog, grateful for the attention.” In the meeting room. Ethan was playing with his phone with one hand. He only said a few words. And I agreed. “I’ll do the show.” He stared into my eyes, pausing for a moment. “Are you really… that desperate for me?” He was too confident, too easy to fool. I lowered my eyelashes. “Yes. “Ethan, is there still a chance for us?” His gaze turned cold. He looked away and said softly, “Depends on your behavior.” “But,” he added, “the script for this show isn’t what you think.” This divorce reality show. It was scheduled to air while his new drama with Chloe was broadcasting. To drum up publicity for their on-screen romance. The theme of the show was “Seeing Marital Problems by Changing Lifestyles.” Chloe would be sharing a room with him. And I would be sharing a room with Chloe’s ex-husband. That guy, Carter Hayes, who skyrocketed to fame at nineteen with a single drama, won a grand slam of awards, and then abruptly retired to get married. Ethan was just the guy who picked up the scraps Carter left behind. He became famous because his face looked seventy percent like Carter’s. Rumor had it that Chloe and Carter lived apart after getting married. That she loved him, but couldn’t have him. 02 A hot spring resort. Two rooms, separated by a single wall. The show was broadcast live. There was an observation room on set and live comments from the audience online. [Ethan Vance and Chloe Sterling on a divorce show, sharing a room? They’re playing hard!!!] [Their chemistry is insane! So perfect together.] [Told you Ethan and his wife had no feelings left. No one likes the one holding them back.] [I’ve been waiting for them to divorce for so long!] [Was he blind? He loved her so much back then…] The staff strapped heart rate monitors on Ethan and Chloe. “If your heart rate reaches 70, you can leave the room.” [They’ll break that in seconds, right?] To everyone’s surprise, both of their heart rates stalled at 68. They had done everything together off-camera. They were too familiar with each other, afraid of slipping up and showing it. So they ended up acting overly cautious on the show. [Chloe is so polite, she doesn’t even dare get too close.] [Ethan, stop holding back! We support you!] Chloe sat by the door. Ethan stood on the balcony for some fresh air. From a certain angle, he could see into my room. Carter hadn’t arrived yet. I was sitting alone on the edge of the bed, wearing my heart rate monitor. Someone knocked on the door. It was a tall, slender man. A baseball cap hid half his face, and his damp bangs were dusted with mist from the hot springs. It was drizzling outside. He carried the crisp, cold scent of a foggy midnight. [MY FIRST LOVE IS BACK!!!] [How should I put this, Ethan… comparison is the thief of joy.] [Let’s not pit them against each other.] “You have to put this on.” I handed the other heart rate monitor to Carter. Ethan always hated it when people said he looked like Carter. In our first year of marriage, we were taking a walk on the street late at night. I froze, staring at a massive luxury billboard featuring Carter. Ethan pulled a beanie over my head, blocking my view, and muttered sourly: “I knew you liked this type of face.” And now. In the other room, Ethan was on the balcony. Watching clearly. Watching Carter walk into the room and close the door behind him. Putting on the monitor. Ethan didn’t care. He had known since that night that the man he could never catch up to, the man he was insanely jealous of—Carter—was only married to Chloe out of a contractual obligation. Carter didn’t even like Chloe. Naturally, it was even more impossible for him to like someone as incredibly ordinary and divorced as me, someone Ethan himself looked down on. Ethan scoffed lightly, completely unbothered. Yet, he scrutinized my reaction without missing a single detail. “Hello, I’m Audrey Miller.” My heart rate was resting at 50 as I held out my hand to Carter. “Hello, I’m Carter Hayes.” He took my hand. A few seconds later, a sharp, piercing beep came from the monitor. Carter’s heart rate had skyrocketed, breaking the limit. But the man himself was calmer than anyone else. He said, “The monitor is broken.” I said, “Oh.” 03 They changed the monitor, and sure enough, it was normal. After a few cooperative games, Ethan and Chloe’s heart rates surpassed 70, and they left their room early. But on my end. Carter’s heart rate remained stubbornly stuck at 25. Pathetically low. “If it never goes over,” I asked the staff, “do we have to spend the night in the room?” Carter heard that. His shoulders were broad, his back straight. He was wearing a thin black hoodie, his gaze empty and distant. The staff replied, “It counts as a failed mission. You can come out in an hour.” Carter and I were the last to come out. [That was such a fail.] [Zero chemistry between those two.] [Take her away, can we please not show her? I only want to watch Chloe and Ethan.] The live comments were dismal until the broadcast ended. Post-interviews were held in the various rooms. Cameramen, lighting crew, people everywhere. Ethan stood in a corner, watching Chloe getting interviewed, his gaze accidentally sweeping over me. “Excited?” He asked me out of nowhere. “Did you think for even a second that Carter might actually be interested in you?” I ignored him and tried to leave. But he blocked me. “What to do, Audrey,” he put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head to look at me. “I’m starting to feel that divorcing you was the best decision I ever made.” Someone walked past, and Ethan straightened up. Back to his gentle, affectionate, yet broken persona. As if I was the one who had hurt him the most. After Chloe finished her interview, she walked up to me under everyone’s gaze and grabbed my hand. “Audrey,” she had a worn red string tied around her wrist, “you really need to cherish Ethan. He truly loves you.” That red string. I had seen it before. For our anniversary last year, Ethan was tailed by a stalker fan and got into a minor car accident. He was fine. I dragged him up a mountain to pray at a temple, closing my eyes and filling my heart with prayers for his safety. When I opened my eyes, I saw him buying that red string. I thought he was going to give it to me. But he said he bought it for himself, to put my mind at ease. And now, it was on Chloe’s wrist. “Stop being unreasonable,” Chloe was still talking for the cameras. “I want you two to be happy more than anyone.” I didn’t say a single word. Ethan didn’t know. And Chloe didn’t know either. Actually, there was another, hidden reason I agreed to participate in this show, a reason I couldn’t tell anyone. When I closed my eyes that day at the temple, it wasn’t Ethan in my heart. 04 The reality show was filmed on weekends. The concept was “Weekend Spouses.” During the weekdays. I picked up my old career, wanting to return to my previous entertainment agency as a talent manager. “Carter and Chloe are divorced.” My former boss told me. “He signed a ten-year contract with Chloe’s dad’s company, and now he can finally terminate it. “He’s restructuring his studio, and I recommended you to him.” Following the address he gave me, I saw Carter at a photo studio. His profile was backlit, his features sharp and rebellious. It was indeed a face made for the silver screen. He was even harder to approach than I imagined. I waited outside for a long time. Until his assistant ran out and told me. “I’m sorry, Ms. Miller. We probably can’t meet today.” On the way back, my car broke down. At 11 PM, in the middle of nowhere, and it was raining. I held an umbrella, waiting for the tow truck. Watching the cars drive past from afar, like phantoms moving through the night. Not a single one was coming to pick me up. Headlights flashed in front of me. The window of a black SUV rolled down, and Carter’s assistant said to me: “Ms. Miller, get in the car first.” Carter sat in the very back, a baseball cap pulled over his eyes, fast asleep. His breathing was shallow, his long legs slightly bent. The space was a bit cramped for him. There was a lot of clutter in the car, and two suit jackets were hanging by the window. A crisp scent of pine. The smell of his hand when he shook mine that day. “Ms. Miller, I’m going to buy a bottle of water at the gas station up ahead. Do you want anything?” the assistant asked me quietly. “Just call me Audrey. I’ll go with you.” “Ah,” he waved his hand and got out of the car. “I’ll go. I’ll be right back.” The door closed, leaving only Carter and me in the car. No one else. And no cameras. The headlights flickered slightly; the interior of the car was dim. Even though there was a row of seats between us, his breathing felt as close as if it were right in my ear. I stared out the window at the blue glow of a convenience store not far away, where the assistant was wandering near a shelf. I remembered once, while grocery shopping, I saw a billboard with Chloe on it. “She’s so pretty.” I said to Ethan back then. His reaction was flat. “She’s alright.” I didn’t know. That “alright” was the reason he stopped coming home, time and time again. Later, I found out from others that Chloe was his first love. They broke up when he couldn’t catch a break in his career. He never forgot her. But back then, in the grocery store, he smoothly changed the subject and asked me: “Baby, did you ever date anyone before me?” “No.” At least, that’s what I told him, and what I told the world. In the car, someone was kicking my calf. The long leg stretching from the back seat wasn’t an accident. It was deliberate, mischievous, childish, and rhythmic. I pulled my leg back out of his reach. I didn’t speak, nor did I turn around. I maintained my previous posture, as if nothing had happened. “Audrey Miller.” He spoke up, perhaps just waking up, carrying a trace of reckless, youthful energy: “Long time no see.” It had been so many years. Why did he still like calling my full name like that? Just like in that cramped, hot, and humid rented apartment… Drowning again and again… In his gentle yet unrestrained, uncontrolled hands. 05 After that day, Carter and I had no further contact. Until the new weekend arrived. The live broadcasts for the show operated on a rotation system. This weekend, we were supposed to switch back to our original couples. “Director.” Chloe sounded incredibly understanding, looking like she was thinking only of the show. “The audience loves Ethan and me together. If you switch us back now, you’ll get backlash.” The director thought for a few seconds: “But—” “Ethan,” Chloe turned around, “what do you think?” Right in front of me, she asked Ethan: “Who do you choose tonight?” She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. The more something is kept in the dark, the more it craves to be chosen in front of everyone. Ethan understood her intentions. He deliberately let his gaze sweep over my face, then leaned back in his chair. “Is that even a choice? “The audience doesn’t want to see her.” Chloe got the answer she wanted and looked at me again. “Audrey, you won’t mind, will you? “But, you’ve been a housewife for so long, you don’t have much work experience, so you probably don’t know this… the audience’s preference is the most important thing. You should think of the bigger picture…” “Okay.” My tone was crisp. Hearing this, Ethan looked up at me. They all thought I was going to throw a fit. That way, they could edit my reaction into the bonus episodes to highlight Chloe’s thoughtfulness and understanding. They didn’t expect me to be so agreeable. Chloe, having finally memorized her lines for the morning, had nowhere to use them. After a long pause, she managed to squeeze out: “That’s good. No backing out now.” I said: “Let’s keep it like this from now on.” Her smile stiffened. Then, breaking into a smile, she tucked her hair behind her ear and whispered: “Are you trying to make Ethan jealous? “Who doesn’t know you came on this show to win him back? “What a shame, not only is he not jealous, but you can only watch helplessly as he walks into my room.” Over there, the production team called out. They decided to stick with last week’s setup. Before leaving, Ethan asked Chloe a question with a teasing undertone: “Aren’t you afraid of her being in the same room as Carter?” At the mention of that name, Chloe’s reaction was a bit exaggerated. She acted as if she had heard the funniest joke in the world. “I’ve never seen him like anyone. “Her? “You could lock them together for a year, and he still wouldn’t look twice at her.” The two exchanged glances and shared a knowing smile. Ethan purposely took off his coat and draped it over Chloe right in front of me. “Audrey, if you want to win me back, these little tricks aren’t going to cut it.” He wanted to provoke me. Make me break down and go crazy in public, so he could logically play the victim. Ethan and Chloe were taken to a luxurious mansion. That was the reward for the couple with the highest heart rate from last week. Chloe posted a picture of a candlelit dinner on Instagram. The comments were flooded with people shipping them. I saw all of this on my phone while riding in the production team’s van. The van was heading toward the older part of the city. [If their heart rates don’t go up today, they’ll be eliminated, right?] [They wouldn’t eliminate Carter. He’s too big of a star. They’ll probably just swap his partner.] [This is boring. Why would Carter even agree to a show like this?] [The weirder it gets, the more I ship it. I have a feeling something is going to happen.] [The person above is delusional!!! If something actually happens, I’ll do a handstand and eat shit!!!] I put my phone away and asked the staff: “Where are Carter and I staying tonight?” “Your heart rates were the lowest, so you have to accept the punishment. Tonight you’re staying in…” The van stopped. He lifted his chin, pointing at the old residential building in front of me. “There,” he said. “A cheap rental apartment.” We got out. There was only one camera inside the vehicle filming me. It was far away, only capturing my back. It couldn’t pick up audio. I stood at the door. My mind went blank for a few seconds. I took out my phone and called my former boss, who also happened to be my long-suffering best friend. “Carter said ‘long time no see’ to me.” Right now, I desperately needed her to pour a bucket of cold water on me. “So what? “What else is he supposed to say besides that?” My best friend responded exactly as I expected. “To put it bluntly, everyone has an ex. “He has so many options, why would he choose a divorced woman like you? “Just because of the few months you relied on each other? Be honest, that was the absolute lowest point of his life. Who would be nostalgic for that?” She was right. I hung up the phone. I turned the doorknob. Carter was on a ladder, fixing a ceiling light. As he reached up, his movements casually revealed the flex of his lean muscles and smooth lines. Just like back then. Except now he wore a bandage wrapped around his waist from doing wirework on a movie set. The old tungsten bulb flickered in his hands. Going out, then coming back on. It was too familiar. So much so that I stood in the doorway, unable to step inside for a long time. “Time to eat.” He saw me. Simple words, devoid of extra emotion. It made my unease seem exceptionally strange. I was the one overthinking it. To him, this show was probably just a safe PR move to wrap up his marriage. Outside, it was snowing. Tall, with sharp features, he stood by the counter preparing a hot pot with one hand. He radiated a very domestic, “husband material” vibe. I took a picture of his back and posted it on Instagram. Considered it fulfilling the production team’s task. After we ate, he didn’t let me wash the dishes. He moved swiftly, washed his hands, and then, inexplicably and automatically, started making the bed for me. There was only one bed. He said he would sleep on the floor. “The injury on your waist, do you need to change the bandages?” I asked him. “I can do it myself,” he said. When I finished my shower and came out of the bathroom, a thin quilt was already laid out on the floor. He was pulling a long roll of bandages out of his suitcase. I instinctively looked away and picked up my phone. Ethan had sent me a voice message. My hands were wet, and I accidentally played it on speaker. Ethan had seen my Instagram post. “Are you even used to eating hot pot? “Last time at home, you said you wanted a cake from that one bakery. I bought it for you on my way.” That cake was the one I said I wanted for my birthday last year. He never bought it for me. After waiting all this time, him buying it now was only to solidify his “devoted” persona for the show. I looked at my phone. The overhead light was blocked by Carter. “Can you help me?” In his hands was the roll of bandages. Didn’t he just say he could do it himself? Changing the dressing, wrapping the bandage. My arms weren’t long enough; I had to loosely encircle him with both arms. In this rental apartment in the north. The heating was inadequate, and the smell of snow mixed with rain seeped through the cracks of the old building. It was clearly very cold. But he and I maintained our distance. My fingertips only touched the bandage. His face could only turn to look elsewhere. Unlike that year, in that rental apartment in the south. Stiflingly hot and dark. It was clearly very hot. Yet, time and time again, as if there were no tomorrow, we possessively claimed each other. Click. The tungsten light flickered on. He and I stood beneath the light at this moment. In the year we were so poor and destitute we had no hope, we couldn’t even bear to replace a single lightbulb. We just made do. That old tungsten bulb was repaired over and over again. It would always flicker in the middle of the night. At the time, an eighteen-year-old Carter told me: “Every time it flickers, it means I’m thinking of you.” Tonight. At an age where we lacked for nothing. The tungsten light flickered countless times. I looked up and said to Carter, “Did you not fix it properly just now?” He froze, looking down straight into my eyes. “Yeah. “I did it on purpose.” I asked him, “Why?” “If I fixed it, you wouldn’t hear it flicker.” I was stunned. He took the bandage from my hand and swiftly, expertly wrapped it around himself with his other hand. “Audrey Miller.” He called my name. “Hmm?” “Do you prefer hot pot, or cake?” One must always answer questions about food honestly. “Hot pot.”

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After our parents divorced, my sister chose to live with our wealthy father. I moved into my mother’s cramped rental apartment. A few years later, my father squandered his fortune on partying, gambling, and women. Meanwhile, my mother became a massive live-streaming influencer and a famous female entrepreneur. My sister’s life was turned upside down, so she came crying to me. But when I wasn’t looking, she slipped poison into my cup. “We are both their biological daughters! Why do you get to live so well while I’m out on the streets?” “It’s my turn to live the good life!” When I opened my eyes again, we were back on the day of our parents’ divorce. This time, she beat me to it and threw her arms around our mother. “I want to live with Mom. I don’t care how hard it gets, I’m willing to endure it.” But she didn’t know—our mother was far more terrifying than our father. 01 My sister, Lily, always had a sweet mouth and knew exactly how to charm people. Because of that, she was favored much more than I was. Naturally, when our parents decided to get a divorce, they asked Lily first. They asked her who she wanted to stay with. Our dad, Richard, was a trust-fund kid from a very wealthy family. Our mom, Evelyn, was a stay-at-home mother who would have absolutely nothing to her name after the divorce, destined to struggle just to make ends meet. So, without a second thought, Lily obediently threw her arms around our dad. “I love Daddy the most! I can’t live without you, I want to grow up with you!” Dad beamed with joy, lifting Lily high into the air. “My sweet girl, you stay with Daddy, and you’ll be a little princess for the rest of your life!” Lily smiled sweetly. But in a blind spot where our parents couldn’t see, she shot me a smug, triumphant look. Yes, she had been like this since we were kids. She always had to compete with me. As long as she could “beat” me, she was perfectly willing to do things that didn’t even benefit her, just to see me lose. Dad and Lily were laughing happily. Mom stood off to the side, looking heartbroken and gloomy. I stayed silent for a moment, then walked over and took Mom’s hand. “Mom, I’m willing to live with you.” She gave me a deep, unreadable look and said nothing. 02 A few years later, through a stroke of luck, Mom’s live-streaming career exploded. We moved from a rundown rental into a nice apartment complex. Then from that apartment into a gated mansion community. Mom’s used scooter was traded in for a Mercedes. And then the Mercedes was traded in for a Porsche. One day, Mom was driving me out to run errands when we happened to witness a traffic accident. An e-bike rider was driving the wrong way down the street and crashed into a luxury car. The owner of the luxury car got out and started screaming, while the e-bike rider just stood there, meekly apologizing. His teenage daughter was standing to the side, crying her eyes out. Embarrassed by her tears, the man actually kicked his own daughter. Heartbroken, the girl turned her head, and her eyes met mine through the tinted window of the Porsche. It was my sister, Lily. I looked closer at the pathetic, apologizing e-bike rider—it was my dad! Lily saw Mom and me. Her eyes lit up, and she started chasing after our car like a madwoman. But Mom just stepped on the gas, driving forward as if nothing had happened. I hesitated before speaking up: “Mom, that was Lily.” Mom replied coldly: “I saw her. What, do you want to help her?” I didn’t dare make a sound. Mom let out a cold laugh. “She was so cute when she was little, wasn’t she? Now that she’s grown up, she’s just as ugly as her father. Ungrateful little backstabber. This is karma.” I shut my mouth completely. Not long after, Lily managed to find my contact info and asked me to meet her. Sitting in a coffee shop, she cried a river of tears. “Chloe, you have no idea. Dad is—” Lily told me that our dad was an absolute fool. He was incompetent, yet incredibly greedy. A few years ago, listening to the nonsense of his sketchy friends, he ignored our Grandpa’s strict warnings and invested tens of millions into a startup. The company was a complete scam designed to drain his money. Just like that, millions vanished into thin air. Grandpa was furiously disappointed and kicked him out of the family. “I thought Dad would learn his lesson, but all he did was party, drink, and sleep around.” After being cut off, Dad spent his nights clubbing. Taking the terrible advice of his various girlfriends, he went to Las Vegas and threw cash around like water. Within a few months, whatever millions he had left in his bank account were gone. Worse, he racked up over six million dollars in casino debt. Grandpa was entirely done with him and refused to give him a single dime. Out of options, Dad had to start doing DoorDash deliveries just to survive. But he was a man who had been pampered his entire life. He used to have a private chauffeur; he didn’t even know basic traffic laws. Not long after he started delivering food, he drove the wrong way down a street and crashed into a luxury car—the exact scene I had witnessed. In the coffee shop, Lily threw herself into my arms, weeping bitterly. “Chloe, I saw Mom driving a Porsche and wearing Chanel. Your purse is Dior. You guys must be living such a good life.” “Chloe, can you please go back and talk to Mom? I’m her daughter too. I don’t want to live with Dad anymore, I want to live with her.” “She must miss me so much, right? In those first few years after the divorce, she called me all the time, begging me to come back.” Her eyes were full of desperate hope. But just thinking about my mother made a violent shudder run down my spine. Finally, I said, “It’s best if you don’t live with Mom. But… I can give you some money.” Lily snapped her head up, a flash of pure, venomous resentment crossing her face. But just as quickly, she masked it with a grateful smile. “Thank you, Chloe. I knew you loved me the most.” 03 The next day, I transferred ten thousand dollars to Lily. She eagerly offered to invite me over to her rental apartment for dinner. Inside the dingy apartment, Lily handed me a cup of tea. “Chloe, I remember you always loved sweet peach tea since we were kids. I picked this out just for you. Tell me if it tastes good.” My guard was down, so I drank it. But soon, the room started spinning. My final memory was Lily holding a knife, slashing my face to pieces. “Chloe, we’re both their biological daughters! Why do you get to live so well while I’m out on the streets?!” “You have so much money, but you only gave me this pathetic amount?! And you won’t even let me go back to Mom?! You selfish, greedy bitch!” An endless darkness washed over me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day of my parents’ divorce. Faced with Dad’s question about who we wanted to live with… This time, Lily didn’t even hesitate. She turned and threw her arms around Mom. “I can’t live without Mom! I want to live with Mom! I don’t care how hard it gets, I’m not afraid!” Mom was so moved she hugged Lily tightly. Buried in Mom’s embrace, Lily flashed a cunning, wicked smile. In a blind spot where no one else could see, Lily silently mouthed the words to me: “Sister, this time, it’s my turn to fly high.” So, she was reborn too. But she didn’t know—Mom was far more terrifying than Dad. 04 Lily happily skipped off to the cramped rental apartment. I stayed behind in the sprawling mansion. Dad was as unreliable as ever. He had just finalized his divorce, yet that very night, he was getting ready to hit the clubs. On the phone, some mistress was speaking to him in a sickly-sweet voice. It cheered him up instantly. He grabbed his designer jacket, ready to walk out the door. Right as he was about to leave, I stopped him. I asked: “Dad, who’s going to eat dinner with me?” He answered like it was obvious: “Isn’t the nanny here? Just have her eat with you.” I bit my lip and said, “I haven’t seen Grandpa in a long time, and I miss him. Dad, can you drop me off at his house?” Dad hesitated. Seeing this, I added: “Auntie’s son, Liam, went to see Grandpa a couple of days ago. I don’t know what he said, but Grandpa bought Auntie a brand-new car. Did you know about that, Dad?” Hearing this, Dad’s hesitation vanished instantly. “That family just knows how to leech off my side of the family! Pathetic!” “Chloe, I’ll have the driver take you over right now. Remember, you have to put in a good word for me in front of Grandpa, understand?” Saying that, he practically shoved me into the back of a black SUV. Grandpa lived in a quiet, secluded lakehouse estate. In his eyes, my mother was a manipulative gold digger who used every trick in the book to climb the social ladder and marry my dad. He thought she was deeply scheming and venomous. Because of that, he always despised my mom, and by extension, he didn’t like Lily or me either. In my past life, after the divorce, Lily also tried to suck up to Grandpa. But she was a spoiled little princess who had been coddled at home. Her head was empty, and her only skill was pretending to be cute and innocent. At Grandpa’s house, all her little tricks failed miserably. No matter how much she cried or threw tantrums, all she got was Grandpa’s cold indifference. Unlike her, our aunt’s son, my cousin Liam Carter, was Grandpa’s absolute favorite. No matter what Liam said or did, he always earned Grandpa’s praise. Over time, Lily grew incredibly resentful. During a family gathering, she deliberately smashed an antique vase and framed Liam for it. She thought it would ruin Liam’s standing in the family. Instead, she was met with security footage from a hidden camera. Liam’s status remained unshaken. Lily, on the other hand, faced the absolute wrath of the family’s strict discipline. Grandpa accused her of being “scheming, venomous, and willing to do anything for personal gain—just like your mother.” He strictly ordered my dad to never bring her to the estate again. From that day on, Lily harbored a deep hatred for Grandpa. On his birthday, she even posted a twisted comic on social media, depicting the Grim Reaper using various horrific methods to take an old man’s life. Grandpa definitely saw it, but he ignored her completely. Later, when Dad went bankrupt and Lily’s life hit rock bottom, she finally remembered Grandpa. She knelt outside the gates of the lakehouse, begging him for forgiveness and a place to stay. Grandpa didn’t even show his face. The security guards just dragged her away. This time, time had rewound. Lily ran off to chase her dream of a luxurious new life. And the person standing outside the lakehouse, about to visit Grandpa, was me. I took a few deep breaths and pressed the doorbell. 05 Even though Dad had called ahead to say I wanted to visit, Grandpa’s expression in the study was still freezing cold. After I politely greeted him, he showed no intention of entertaining me. I didn’t get upset. I just found a quiet corner and sat down. Living with my mother in my past life, I had endured humiliations hundreds and thousands of times worse than this. This was nothing. In the study, Grandpa was quizzing Liam on his studies. Liam was seventeen this year. He was an academic genius with a deep interest in finance and economics. Grandpa was a self-made billionaire, but unfortunately, all of his own children were mediocre at best. Therefore, he genuinely admired this driven, grounded grandson. He would often pull Liam aside to analyze famous domestic and international business mergers and acquisitions. The questions Grandpa asked were extremely difficult. Liam answered the first few perfectly. But the next one was different. Liam fell into a long, deep silence. Grandpa wasn’t in a rush, patiently waiting for his answer. I timidly raised my hand. “Grandpa, can I share my thoughts on this?” Grandpa glanced at me, his expression full of doubt. “You? You’re not even in high school yet. What could you possibly know?” “If you can’t sit still, go wait outside. Don’t try to play smart with me.” I didn’t get angry. I just smiled and said, “If you aren’t satisfied with my answer, I’ll go stand in the corner outside. How about that?” Grandpa scoffed. But Liam chimed in: “Grandpa, why not let Chloe give it a try?” Grandpa didn’t say anything, which was a silent yes. I shot Liam a grateful smile and began to speak: “The initial capital for this specific group of entrepreneurs wasn’t exactly clean. In the early days, they acted as exclusive import distributors, helping foreign corporations open up the local market. By monopolizing information gaps, they extracted massive, exorbitant profit margins.” Grandpa looked at me in surprise and kept grilling: “Then tell me, what was their natural advantage, and what was their fatal flaw?” I thought for a second and replied: “They built close ties with foreign entities early on and adapted to the market quickly. That was their advantage. But it was a double-edged sword. Their fatal flaw was becoming entirely dependent on the first-mover advantage provided by those foreign companies. They never developed their own core competencies. So, once the market became regulated and standardized, their competitive edge vanished.” Grandpa stared at me for a long time. His expression was complicated. There was doubt. There was scrutiny. But there was no longer any contempt. After a moment, he asked, “You’re only fourteen. Where did you hear all this?” I said, “The public library has a lot of books. I love to read.” But that wasn’t true. In my past life, a massive portion of my mother’s “clients” were exactly those men who profited from those very distribution monopolies. They exploited loopholes, built wealth through cronyism and information gaps, and yet attributed all their success to their own sheer brilliance. And on drunken afternoons, holding a young girl in their arms, they couldn’t wait to brag about their past business conquests. Thinking about this, I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, I was still sitting in Grandpa’s solemn, antique study. I wasn’t in a dim, suffocating bedroom bathed in cheap pink lighting. Clap, clap, clap— Liam began to clap softly. He said, “Chloe is only fourteen, but her reading comprehension and analytical skills are incredibly sharp. That deserves recognition.” He looked at me, his expression gentle and sincere. “I concede. I couldn’t have answered it better.” I quickly shook my head. “It was just a lucky guess. I don’t know any of the complex financial and economic terms you were talking about earlier. I still have a lot to learn.” After a brief silence, Liam asked me, “Chloe, do you want to study with me?” 06 At Liam’s suggestion, Grandpa allowed me to audit his lessons. But he was still suspicious of me. He suspected this was just a creative new strategy to con money out of him. So, he ordered Liam to give him regular reports on my behavior. In truth, I didn’t need Liam to monitor me, and I didn’t need anyone to force me to work. Every single day, I went to class, came home, and whenever I had a day off, I was either practicing the piano or buried in the library. This was the normal life I had begged for but never had in my past life. How could I not cherish it? Months went by. In Grandpa’s study, I was no longer just a listener. Often, when Grandpa threw out a debate topic, Liam and I would argue until we were red in the face. Until Grandpa finally called a halt to it. I don’t know exactly which day it happened. But Grandpa stopped looking at me with defensive, guarded eyes. And Liam stopped reporting my behavior to Grandpa. He complained that paying too much attention to me was wasting his own study time, which was exactly why he had lost to me on a recent pop quiz. Grandpa just roared with laughter at that. I pretended not to notice any of it, quietly continuing to work on my practice exams. At school, my intense studying brought massive rewards. I won first place in the State Math Championship. My homeroom teacher said she was going to call me out for special praise at the upcoming parent-teacher conference. But my dad was as useless as ever. He promised he would attend, but half an hour before it started, he called to say he couldn’t make it. He said, “Chloe, Dad has a very important business meeting. Just let the nanny go to the conference for you, okay? Be a good girl.” But over the phone, I could clearly hear the giggling of several women in the background. I didn’t expose his lie; I just calmly hung up the phone. Then, I took a picture of the Math Championship honor roll hanging on the classroom whiteboard and texted it to Grandpa. On the list, my name and Liam’s name sat at the absolute top of the middle school and high school divisions respectively. Both carrying our family’s legacy, sparkling in the sunlight. I added a message: [Grandpa, Dad had a last-minute emergency and can’t make it to my parent-teacher conference. But my teacher really wants to talk to my guardian about my future academic track. Could you come?] Grandpa personally showed up at the school. This was a privilege not even Liam had ever received. My homeroom teacher was terrified but honored, and the principal rushed down just to greet him. Grandpa sat completely at ease in the principal’s office and asked, “How is my granddaughter’s academic performance? Are there areas where she needs to improve?” He knew the answer perfectly well, but he asked anyway. The homeroom teacher quickly piled on the praise, confirming that I was the absolute top student in every possible metric. Only then did Grandpa nod in satisfaction. After the conference, he hesitated for a moment, then surprisingly ordered his driver to take us to the high-end shopping mall. He said, “I saw the other little girls in your class dressing so brightly. Why are you dressed so plain? Is your father neglecting you?” In the end, he bought me six or seven tailored outfits. And several designer bags. Looking at the numbers on the receipt, I felt a wave of anxiety. “Grandpa, aren’t you worried I’m just after your money now?” He let out a booming laugh. “Go ahead and be after it! I’d be more worried if you weren’t!” I froze for a second, then laughed along with him. Lily thought that to please Grandpa, she had to rely on being cute, providing superficial emotional value, and acting like a spoiled princess. But she didn’t understand. Grandpa was a ruthless, self-made entrepreneur who built an empire from the ground up. He had seen countless sugar-coated bullets and witnessed the darkest sides of human nature. He didn’t need, nor did he respect, flattery and whining from someone useless. An aging titan holding the reins of an empire… The thing he most desperately wants to see is a vibrant, fiercely capable successor. And as long as I kept proving my competence, it was only a matter of time before I became the second Liam. Grandpa’s favorite.

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My new roommate leaves early and comes back late, always like a ghost. Thinking she worked too hard, I took extra care of her. Me: [Hey babe, I left some pot roast in the fridge for you.] Her: […Thanks.] Me: [Baby, scarfs were buy-one-get-one-free, got you one.] Her: […Okay.] Until one day. Me: [Ahhh baby help, do you have any overnight pads?] Ten minutes later, an incredibly handsome, cold-looking guy knocked on my bedroom door, holding a massive bag of overnight pads. “Are these enough? I can go buy more.” Guys, my world is collapsing! How did my cute girl roommate instantly turn into a 6’2″ hottie??? 01 My previous roommate was an absolute nightmare. He’d leave fruit in the fridge until it rotted and never clean it up. He’d pile dirty socks in the bathroom sink, then retreat to his room to play video games. We fought constantly. So, when he moved out, I specifically asked the landlord if I could get a female roommate. The landlord agreed without hesitation. Soon, the new roommate added me on Instagram. Her name was Summer, and her profile picture was a smiling Samoyed with its head tilted. She only had one post—a picture of a fluffy dog sitting on the grass, sticking its tongue out happily. My heart instantly melted. How bad could someone who loves Samoyeds be? Our subsequent messages confirmed my theory. Before moving in, she specifically texted me: [Hello, I’ll be moving in around 10:00 AM to 1:00 PM next Wednesday. Please let me know if this is an inconvenience.] Now, I’m the type of person who mirrors the energy I receive. Since the new roommate was so polite, I immediately became super friendly. I quickly replied: [No worries, baby! I’ll be at work then, so the place is yours. Take your time moving in~] She replied: […Okay, thank you.] I didn’t know why she added the ellipsis, but I didn’t think much of it and went back to work. 02 On the day the new roommate moved in, the apartment didn’t become a mess; instead, it was even cleaner. The dust on the crystal chandelier was wiped completely clean, and a broken lightbulb had been replaced. A beautiful enamel vase appeared in the corner, holding a tastefully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers. When the evening breeze blew, a lovely fragrance drifted through the room. The whole place looked warm and bright. Without a doubt, this was the new roommate’s doing. I felt incredibly emotional. The day my last roommate moved in, the living room was covered in footprints and drywall dust, the rug was ruined, and I had to clean it all up myself. How could my new roommate be such an angel? It must be because I’ve been a good person lately, and the universe is rewarding me! While marveling at this, I walked toward my room and noticed a gift box at my door. A sticky note was attached to it, with neat, elegant handwriting: [Hello, I’m glad to be your roommate. A small gift to show my appreciation. Hope we get along well. —Summer.] I opened the box and found a reed diffuser. The scent was sweet and lingering, like milk candy. I originally wanted to knock on her door and welcome her in person. But considering I had worked overtime and it was almost 11 PM, she was probably already asleep. So, I just texted her. Me: [Babe!! Thank you for the gift!] Me: [I love the scent so much! Mwah mwah mwah! /Heart/ /Heart/ /Kiss/ /Kiss/] Me: [Here’s to a great time living together!] A few minutes later, Summer replied. […I’m glad you like it.] But she clearly had more to say. The “typing…” indicator stayed at the top of the chat for a long time. It showed for a full ten minutes, but she still hadn’t sent anything. What could be so hard to say? After I took a shower, I saw she had finally sent a new message. Three minutes ago, from Summer. [Um… just to correct you. We’re not living together as a couple, we’re just roommates.] 03 A massive project our team was working on finally wrapped up. Our manager generously gave us a day off. So, that day, I bought a ton of groceries, cracked my knuckles, and prepared to cook a feast to reward myself. Mac and cheese for the princess. Lobster bisque for the princess. Pan-seared halibut for the princess. Truffle risotto for the princess. I accidentally made too much. Looking at the table full of food, I thought it over, portioned some out, and left half for Summer. I noticed she always left early and came back late, and never used the kitchen. She was probably surviving on takeout, poor thing. I wrapped the reserved food in plastic wrap and put it in Tupperware. Then I texted Summer: [Babe, I made too much food today, so I saved half for you. Try my cooking! /Heart/ /Heart/] She quickly replied: […Thank you.] I added: [Also also, my company gave us a box of peaches, and I can’t finish them. Help me eat some!] She: […Okay, thank you.] I put down my phone and started eating like a starving person. Almost an hour later, I was finally full and satisfied. My phone lit up; it was a message from Summer. [This might be a bit forward, but I wanted to ask, do you call everyone ‘babe’?] I immediately typed: [Of course not! I only call people I like ‘babe’! I like you a lot, so you’re my babe!] Summer: […We haven’t even met, and you like me?] Me: [Of course! Don’t doubt my judge of character!] Summer: [Alright.] Me: [Hey, do you not like being called ‘babe’? If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.] The chat showed “typing…” Again, for a full ten minutes. Summer finally replied: [It’s fine, you can call me that.] Me: [/Kiss/ /Kiss/ /Kiss/] 04 My best friend’s online boutique went out of business. She shipped me two huge boxes of inventory. Lace ones, ones with cat ears, ones with bunny tails… Operating on the principle of never wasting anything, I washed them all. Before, I had to consider that my roommate was a guy, so I could only dry my underwear in my own small room. Now it didn’t matter. My roommate was a girl like me, so I casually hung them out on the balcony. That day I was working overtime again, stuck in meetings until my eyes blurred. While making coffee, I saw a severe thunderstorm warning. I suddenly remembered! I still had clothes drying on the balcony! So I quickly texted Summer: [BABE!! Emergency! Are you home?] Summer: [Yes. What’s wrong?] Me: [It looks like it’s going to rain, and I forgot to bring my clothes in. Could you bring them in for me?] Summer: [No problem.] Me: [Thank you babe, you’re the best! /Heart/ /Heart/ /Heart/] I put down my phone and went back to work. After another discussion meeting, I finally had time to check my phone and saw several messages from Summer. 9:27 PM, Summer: [You didn’t say it was these kinds of clothes.] 9:28 PM, Summer: [Are you sure you want me to bring them in?] 9:56 PM, Summer: [Are you there?] 10:46 PM, Summer: […] 10:49 PM, Summer: [Brought them in for you.] I quickly replied: [Ahhh thank you baby! I was working and didn’t see my phone, sorry sorry.] I scrolled up and replied: [Hey, what’s wrong with these clothes? Do you not like them?] Summer: […] Me: [You prefer classic styles?] Summer: [That’s not what I meant.] Me: [Then which one is your favorite?] Summer: […] Me: [Animated sticker /Puppy tilting head/] Me: [Animated sticker /Puppy looking anxious/] Me: [Animated sticker /Puppy running/] Summer: […The one with the bunny tail.] Me: [Great taste! That’s my favorite too! I have two sets, want me to give you one?] Summer: [No need.] Me: [Don’t be shy~~] Summer: [I can’t wear it.] Me: [Huh? Is your size too big?] Summer: […] Summer: [You could understand it that way.] Me: [Ahhh I’m so jealous!!!] Me: [Animated sticker /Reaching out to squish/ Baby is so soft and sweet, baby makes my overtime better, let me squish!] Summer: [Please don’t do this. We’ve only known each other for a month.] Me: [Sorry baby, I won’t do it again.] Summer: [That’s not what I meant.] Me: [Then what do you mean? When we’re closer, I can squish?] Summer: […It depends.] 05 Summer went on a business trip last week. When she came back, she gave me a pearl necklace. A sticky note was attached to the outside of the box, again with her elegant handwriting: [Saw this necklace and felt it would suit you perfectly. Hope you like it. —Summer.] I didn’t know much about pearls, but I happily put it on. The next day at work, my colleagues immediately surrounded me. “Are these Akoya pearls? The luster is amazing.” “What’s rare is that every single one is large, perfectly round, and flawless.” “Audrey, where did you buy this necklace? Do you have a link?” I told them the truth: “My roommate brought it back for me from her business trip. I don’t think there’s a link.” A senior colleague said, “Your roommate is so generous! This must cost at least a few thousand dollars. Is your roommate a guy or a girl?” I touched the pearls, smiled goofily, and said, “A girl! She’s super nice, really clean. She basically does all the cleaning in the apartment; there’s not a single hair on the floor. And every time she goes on a business trip, she brings me a gift. Ahhh, she’s really the best! I really hit the jackpot!” My colleagues started chatting about pearls. I pulled out my phone and secretly texted Summer: [Babe! Miss you miss you miss you!] Summer: [What’s wrong?] Me: [Nothing, just feel so lucky to have you. T_T] Summer: [Mhm. When are you coming back?] Me: [Don’t know yet, looks like I have to work late again today.] Summer: [Okay.] Me: [Did you need something?] Summer: [No.] Me: [Animated sticker /Puppy collapsed in exhaustion/] Summer: [The landlord remodeled the bathroom and installed a bathtub. Text me when you get off work, I’ll draw the water for you.] Me: [WHAT!!!!! The landlord is too nice!!!! How did she know I wanted a bathtub!!!!! I only told my cactus!!!] Summer: [Who knows.] Me: [Oh right, baby, could you get the bunny tail out for me? It’s in the third drawer of the closet.] Summer: [You’re going to wear it?] Me: [Mhm.] Summer: […For who?] System notification: The other person recalled a message. Summer: [Sorry, that was out of line. It’s your freedom, I shouldn’t have asked.] Me: [Baby, you’re not allowed to say sorry! We don’t have to be so careful with each other!! I’m not wearing it for anyone, just for my own enjoyment, hehe.] Summer: [Your own enjoyment?] Me: [Hehehe, do you want to see? My body is super gorgeous! I possess the most beautiful body in the world!] Summer: [I believe you.] Summer: [But, I’ll pass for now.] Me: [Next time then! I’m a living masterpiece! /Twirls/] Summer: [Come home early, Ms. Masterpiece.]

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Four years into our marriage, Elliot set a plate of mango-shrimp salad on the dinner table. I stared at the dish for a long beat before reminding him, my voice barely a whisper, that I was allergic to shellfish. The fork in his hand froze mid-air. He looked at me, genuinely puzzled, and asked if I wasn’t the one with the mango allergy. In that moment, a cold clarity settled over me. I had never been allergic to mangoes. In the upper-right corner of our refrigerator door, there was a sticky note he’d written four years ago. The ink was fading, and the edges were curled with age, but the words were clear: Jo’s Allergies: Shrimp, Penicillin, Pollen. That note had lived there for over fourteen hundred days. He opened that fridge at least five times a day. All he had to do was look down. The person with the mango allergy wasn’t me. I didn’t argue. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply sat there and meticulously picked the shrimp off the salad, eating the mango chunks instead. They were cloyingly sweet, like a lie you tell yourself to keep the peace. He looked relieved, exhaling a sharp breath as if he’d just dodged a bullet, convinced the moment had passed. That night, while I was cleaning the kitchen, I finally reached out and peeled that sticky note off the fridge. It left behind a small, clean square on the stainless steel, a ghost of a memory. I folded the paper neatly and tucked it under his car keys on the entryway console. Tomorrow morning, when he reached for his keys to go to work, he might see it. If he saw it and asked why I’d taken it down, it would mean he still remembered what it stood for. If he just picked up his keys and walked out… then I would walk out, too. 1 “Hey babe, I’m heading out!” 7:28 AM. Just like every other morning, he emerged from the bedroom, his hair still damp from the shower. He crouched by the shoe rack, humming a song I didn’t recognize. On the console table, his keys sat directly on top of that folded note. I leaned against the kitchen doorframe, watching him. His hand reached out. His fingertips brushed the corner of the paper. He paused for maybe a fraction of a second—a heartbeat of hesitation. Then, his fingers closed around the keys. The note was swept aside, fluttering off the table and drifting onto the hardwood floor like a dying leaf. He didn’t look down. When he stepped forward with his left foot, his sole caught the paper, leaving a faint, dusty smudge across it. The door clicked shut. I heard the muffled chime of the elevator down the hall, and then, silence. I walked to the entryway and knelt. I picked up the paper. The grey footprint was stamped directly over the words Jo’s Allergies, obscuring my name entirely. I stared at it for ten seconds. The creases were fraying. I walked to the kitchen and dropped it into the trash. It was time to go. Packing didn’t take long. After four years of marriage, it was haunting how little of the house actually belonged to me. A few suitcases of clothes, a half-used palette of charcoal eyeshadow, my passport, my ID. There was one more thing in the office safe: my “Observation Journals.” I had started them the year Elliot fell into a deep clinical depression. I’d documented everything—every mood, every breakthrough, every setback—in sketches and prose. My original character designs and drafts were tucked between the pages. The code was my birthday. I opened it, pulled the journals out, and slid them into the hidden compartment of my suitcase. As the zipper hissed shut, my phone buzzed. It wasn’t Elliot. It was his office manager, Mrs. Gable. She sent me a screenshot of an Instagram story—hidden from me, but she’d seen it. The image was a vibrant Mango Dragonfruit Refresher sitting on a mahogany desk. In the background, you could see the sleeve of a charcoal grey suit—Elliot’s suit. The caption read: Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering your little quirks. The poster: Kaylee, the new intern. The location tag was the floor of Elliot’s firm. Mrs. Gable added a text: Jo, honey, this new girl has been overstepping lately. I thought you should know. I saved the screenshot. I closed the app, booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown, called an Uber, and rolled my suitcase out the door. In the elevator mirror, I checked my reflection. I wasn’t crying. My eyes weren’t even red. My lips, however, were parched and peeling. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a glass of water. “How many nights, ma’am?” the hotel clerk asked with a practiced smile. “I’m not sure yet.” I swiped the key card, the curtains hummed open, and the twenty-third-floor view of the city felt vast and empty. My phone rang at 2:17 PM. Elliot. I let it ring. 2:19 PM. Again. 2:21 PM. On the fourth call, I picked up. “What is wrong with you today?” His voice was layered over the rapid-fire clicking of a keyboard; he was clearly multitasking. “The house is a mess, nothing’s put away, and you’re nowhere to be found. Where are you?” “I took the note down,” I said. My voice was eerily steady. “You didn’t even notice.” “What note?” Two seconds of dead air. He really didn’t remember. “The one on the fridge,” I said. “The one that’s been there for four years. I put it under your keys. You stepped on it.” The keyboard clicking stopped. After a moment, he let out a short, jagged laugh of frustration. “Are we seriously doing this over a plate of shrimp? Jo, you’ve become so incredibly high-maintenance lately. Are you bored?” “It’s not about the shrimp, Elliot.” “Then what? What is it?” “Figure it out yourself.” “I don’t have time for riddles,” he hissed, his voice dropping as if someone was passing his office. “Just come home. Stop being dramatic.” I said, “Elliot, you can’t even remember what kills me and what doesn’t. We need some space.” I heard the sharp, cold sound of his scoff through the receiver. “Space? Fine. How long is this little tantrum going to last? I have a quarterly review tomorrow and a client gala the night after. You’re really choosing now to do this?” “Have a productive meeting,” I said. I hung up. Outside, the city lights began to flicker on. I lay on the sterile hotel bed, staring at the smoke detector on the ceiling. Its little red eye blinked at me, a silent observer. My phone lit up again at 11:03 PM. A text from Elliot: Jo, where the hell are you? Get back here so we can talk like adults. I didn’t reply. The second text: You really want to play it this way? The third, forty minutes later: Fine. Stay wherever you are. Have your little moment. I flipped the phone face down. The image of that mango drink was still burned into my retina. Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering. Good for her. Truly. 2 “Jo? I have something for you.” The next afternoon, there was a knock at my hotel door. It was Mrs. Gable. She stood in the hallway holding a dark brown paper bag, her expression a mix of pity and discomfort. “Elliot sent me,” she said. “He said he wanted to smooth things over.” Inside the bag was a cake box from a high-end French patisserie across town. It was the place I’d mentioned wanting to try months ago—the one with the two-hour line. He’d barely looked up from his phone then, muttering maybe another time. “Where is he?” “At the office,” she hesitated. “He said he’d come by to pick you up himself after his meetings.” I took the box. “Thanks, Mrs. Gable.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but she just sighed. “Take care of yourself, Jo.” I set the box on the desk and opened it. It was a three-layer mousse cake, the top covered in intricately carved slices of fresh mango. Mango. I took a small fork and poked at the center. Even the filling was mango coulis. I started to laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. He knew I didn’t eat the shrimp, but in his head, he’d swapped my allergy with Kaylee’s. Now, in a pathetic attempt at an apology, he’d bought a cake that catered to the other woman’s tastes. How many things in the “Jodie’s Favorites” folder in his brain were actually about me? At 3:30 PM, he arrived. He pushed the door open, his suit jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up as if he’d been rushing. But I noticed his watch face was turned toward the inside of his wrist—a nervous habit. He was checking the time. He was on a schedule. “Did you eat the cake?” He went straight for the desk. The box was open, the fork resting inside, the cake almost untouched. “I had a bite.” “And? I had to pull some strings to get that.” “You did?” He paused. “Well, I had the intern go pick it up, but I placed the order.” The intern. Of course. “Elliot,” I said, staying seated by the window. “This cake. It’s mango.” “Yeah. Your favorite, right?” “I don’t like mangoes.” His face shifted for a split second before he smoothed it over. “But… you said you weren’t allergic to them?” “Not being allergic to something isn’t the same as liking it. We’ve been married for four years, and there has never been a mango in our refrigerator. Whose taste were you thinking of when you bought this?” The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. He dropped his jacket on the bed and leaned against the desk, refusing to look at me. “Can you please stop reading into everything?” “Reading into what?” “You know exactly what,” he said, finally looking up. His eyes were bloodshot. “Kaylee is just a kid, Jo. She’s an intern. I’m just trying to be a good mentor—” “She posted a story for ‘Close Friends’ only. She forgot to exclude Mrs. Gable.” He went quiet. “‘Nothing beats the feeling of someone remembering your little quirks,’” I quoted. “Did you order her a separate drink? Did you specifically tell the barista ‘no mango’ for her?” “That’s because on her first day, someone ordered her a mango smoothie and her throat almost closed up! I had to remember it. It’s my job as a boss to—” “And what about your job as a husband?” My voice wasn’t loud, but he winced as if I’d slapped him. Then, the guilt turned into anger. It always did with him. “Enough, Jodie,” he said, pulling out the desk chair and sitting down hard. “So a girl in my office has an allergy. I’m a boss who looks out for his staff, and suddenly I’m an adulterer? Is this what happens when you spend too much time as a housewife? You lose touch with reality and start inventing ghosts to fight?” Housewife. Out of touch. Inventing ghosts. The words were old, tired weapons. Four years ago, when his first startup collapsed, he had been a shell of a man. He didn’t eat, didn’t bathe, didn’t leave the house. I had quit my job as a lead concept artist at a major studio to take care of him full-time. At 3:00 AM, when he’d wake up screaming from nightmares, I was the one who moved every sharp object out of the house. I was the one who started those journals—recording his progress, sketching him on the days he finally smiled. Those journals were the only reason he survived that year. And now, he was telling me I’d lost touch with reality. “Elliot, you didn’t just lose your memory,” I said. “You lost your soul.” He opened his mouth to retort, but I stood up and grabbed my suitcase. “Keep the cake,” I said. “I’m staying with Piper.” “Jo—” “Don’t follow me.” I walked through the lobby. It wasn’t cold outside, but the wind felt abrasive against my skin. At the crosswalk, my phone vibrated. A text from Elliot: Fine. Go stay with your bridesmaid for a few days. Cool off. But don’t make this a long thing. As if he were granting me a hall pass. I didn’t answer. I put the phone in my pocket and crossed the street. 3 “Jo, Elliot says it’s vital that you attend.” A week later. Mrs. Gable was on the phone while I was hanging laundry on Piper’s balcony. It was the firm’s four-year anniversary gala. “What were his exact words?” Mrs. Gable cleared her throat. “He said, ‘Everyone knows how hard Jodie worked for this company in the beginning. She needs to be there. Put her at the head table.’” Piper, sitting on the sofa, rolled her eyes and mouthed: Bullshit. I stayed silent for a few seconds. “What time?” “Saturday, 7:00 PM. The Westin Ballroom. Should I have a dress sent over or—” “No need. I have my own.” I hung up, and Piper immediately pounced. “You aren’t seriously going, are you?” “I am.” “Jo, wake up. This is a PR stunt to make him look like a devoted husband—” “I’m not going for him,” I said, snapping a damp towel straight in the sunlight. “But that’s my seat at that table. I want to see exactly who he thinks he’s given it to.” Saturday night, 6:55 PM. I arrived at the ballroom. Two young girls at the check-in desk blinked when they saw me, shuffling through the guest list for a long time before finding my name. “Mrs. Jodie Vance… you’re at the head table, Seat 3.” Seat 3. Elliot was Seat 1. I pushed open the heavy double doors. The table was draped in deep burgundy silk. Elliot was in the center, leaning over to whisper something to the person beside him. She was wearing a cream-colored satin slip dress, sharp and elegant. A small pearl brooch pinned to her collar. I looked down at my own dress. Same brand. Same collection. Different color. She was wearing the new spring limited edition. Kaylee. She was twenty-three, with soft features and bangs that grazed her eyebrows. She looked like a porcelain doll. She was in Seat 2—to my right, directly next to Elliot. And she was currently leaning over his plate, meticulously picking out the raw onions and piling them on the edge of her own bread plate. I had done that for four years. Elliot hated raw onions; he said the sharp taste ruined his palate for wine. She was doing it with more practiced grace than I ever had. “Jo! You’re here!” Kaylee saw me first and jumped up, her chair screeching against the floor. “Please, sit! I was just helping Elliot with his keynote notes and totally lost track of time. I didn’t mean to take your spot, so sorry!” Her tone was airy, the smile not quite reaching her eyes. Elliot stood up briefly, tugging at his waistcoat. “You made it. Sit over there; the view of the stage is better from across the table.” Across. I used to be his right hand. Now he was shunting me to the periphery. Kaylee stayed standing, waiting for my reaction. I walked over and sat in Seat 3. I said nothing. “Alright, a toast!” someone shouted. The rounds of drinks began. Elliot was drinking heavily, his face flushing a deep pink. By the third round, the tech director came over with a tray of chilled Sauvignon Blanc. Before Elliot could reach for a glass, Kaylee stood up. “I’ll take this one for him,” she said, flashing a sweet smile at the director. “Jo probably doesn’t realize since she’s not in the office much, but Elliot’s stomach has been acting up. He has to avoid cold drinks.” The director looked at me, confused. A few colleagues laughed. “Kaylee, you’re so attentive.” Stomach issues. Elliot’s stomach was perfectly fine. But he had started a course of Amoxicillin last week for a wisdom tooth infection. You can’t mix antibiotics with alcohol—it can cause a severe reaction. She didn’t know that. She just knew he hadn’t been drinking much lately and had invented a “sensitive stomach” narrative to play the doting assistant. I stood up. I walked around the table. I took the wine glass out of Kaylee’s hand. Her eyes went wide. “Jo—” I tipped the glass. The pale wine splashed across the white tablecloth, soaking into the fabric like a growing bruise. “His stomach isn’t the problem; his medication is,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “He’s on a Z-Pak. Alcohol and antibiotics can be a lethal combination. If you’re going to play the ‘devoted wife’ character, at least learn the script before you get someone killed.” The table went silent. Kaylee’s lip trembled, and her eyes instantly brimmed with tears. “I was just trying to help… I didn’t know he was sick…” “You seem to know a lot,” I didn’t let her finish. “You know how to pick his onions, you know how to ‘edit’ his speeches, you know his favorite drinks. Are you twenty-three or twenty-three months old? Because you’re acting like a child playing house.” Elliot slammed his hand on the table. His chair toppled backward. “Jodie, that is enough!” He rounded the table, stepping between me and Kaylee—shielding her. “She was trying to be kind. What the hell is wrong with you?” “Kind?” “You need to—” I reached down and twisted the platinum band off my left ring finger. It was a simple, light ring, with our wedding date engraved on the inside. I dropped it into the pile of discarded onions on his plate. “Enjoy your gala,” I said. “And Elliot? Happy early Independence Day.” I turned and walked out. As the doors swung shut, I heard Kaylee sob his name. He didn’t come after me. 4 “Hi. I’m Kaylee. I don’t think we were properly introduced.” I heard her voice three days later. I had gone back to the apartment to get the last of my things from the office safe—my journals. The door was unlocked. I walked in and froze. The safe was open. Empty. The code was my birthday. Anyone could have figured it out—especially if Elliot gave it to them. I called him immediately. “You took my journals?” “Oh,” his voice was casual, as if he were talking about a stapler. “Kaylee’s working on a freelance illustration project about mental health and she was stuck. I told her she could use your sketches for reference. Your old drafts are in there, right? She’ll give them back in a few days.” I nearly dropped the phone. “Those are my private property, Elliot.” “What’s mine is yours, right? We’re still married. I’m lending them, not selling them. Don’t be so dramatic.” I could hear a soft, girlish giggle in the background. “Where is she?” “Jo, don’t go over there—” “Give me her address.” He sighed, annoyed. “East Side, The Heights Apartments, 2103. Don’t make a scene.” I hung up and hailed a cab. Her door wasn’t fully closed. I pushed it open. The air inside smelled like cheap lavender incense. Kaylee was sitting at a small desk, her back to the door. My journals were splayed open in front of her. No—they weren’t just open. She was cutting them. She was using an X-Acto knife to slice the illustrations out of the pages, separating my art from the text. The cut-out sketches were lined up next to a flatbed scanner. She’d already digitized half a dozen. The floor was littered with the remains. The pages of text—the words I’d written to Elliot when he was at his lowest. Today you ate half a bowl of soup. You smiled for the first time. I’m waiting for you to come back to me. Those words were now just jagged scraps of paper. Something crunched under my shoe. A small corner of a sketch—the one of our old cat—that she’d trimmed off and trampled. “What are you doing?” She spun around. There was no fear in her eyes. Instead, she gave me a polite, condescending smile. “Oh, hi, Jo! I’m just organizing the material. Elliot said I could use these for ‘inspiration’… Your style is so vintage, it’s really cute.” “These are my personal archives,” I said, walking toward her. “Give them to me. Now.” “But Elliot said—” I reached for the remaining half of the journal on the desk. Her hand slammed down on top of it. “Jo, don’t be like this. I’ll give them back once I’m done scanning.” “Let go.” “You can’t just barge in here—” I pulled. Hard. She didn’t let go. She stood up, one hand pinning the book down, the other— Something flashed. It wasn’t the X-Acto knife. It was a pair of heavy-duty fabric shears. Maybe she’d grabbed them in reflex. Maybe not. I didn’t let go. She didn’t let go. During the struggle, her grip slipped. The blade of the shears sliced across the back of my right hand. It wasn’t a graze. It was a deep, sickening split. The sensation was slow. First, a shocking cold. Then, the sight of the skin parting. The blood surfaced faster than the pain. I looked down. From my thumb to the base of my pinky, a dark, jagged canyon had opened up. Blood began to drip, heavy and hot, landing right on the sketch of Elliot cooking in our first kitchen. “Oh my god!” Kaylee shrieked, backing away and dropping the shears. “You… you’re bleeding! Don’t blame me, you’re the one who started grabbing things!” My right hand went numb. My fingers wouldn’t curl. I used my left hand to scoop up the blood-stained journal and the loose sketches. As I reached the door, I heard heavy footsteps in the hall. Elliot. He took in the scene: the shredded paper, the overturned chair, Kaylee sobbing in the corner. He didn’t look at me first. He went to her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, looking at me with eyes full of fury. “Jodie, are you insane? Breaking into someone’s home?” “Someone’s home?” “You terrified her—” “Elliot,” I said, lifting my right hand. The blood was running down my wrist and soaking into my sleeve, but my fingertips were stained crimson, dripping onto the floor. “Look at me.” He froze for a second. His gaze flicked to my hand. Then he looked back at Kaylee’s tear-streaked face. “…You scared her half to death, Jo. What do you want me to say? You got a cut. Go get a bandage and stop making a theatrical production out of everything.” It wasn’t just a cut. The blade had gone so deep I felt the sickening buzz of a nerve being severed. I am an artist. This was my right hand. My mentor used to tell me: Your right hand is your life. Protect it like your eyes. “I’ve already called the police,” I said. “They’re on their way.” His face paled. “What?” “Assault. Attempted grand larceny. My intellectual property is on her hard drive.” Kaylee let out a hysterical sob. “Elliot, I didn’t steal anything! You told me to take it! You said I could!” Elliot’s jaw tightened. From the hallway, the sound of heavy boots approached. “Police! Open up!” I walked past him, clutching the bloodied journal to my chest with my left hand. As I brushed by, a drop of my blood landed on the toe of his polished leather shoe. The same shoes he’d used to step on my name.

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I had been the leading lady in this “perfect wife” script for five years. The illusion shattered on a Tuesday afternoon in a penthouse suite at the St. Regis. I walked in to find Everett and his personal assistant together. The girl—Megan—looked like a wreck. She was trembling, clutching a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses, her face a mask of panic as she stammered out an apology. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my Birkin. I just looked at Everett and calmly asked for a divorce. Everett didn’t even look at Megan. He gave her a dismissive glance before turning to me with a smirk, as if I’d just told a particularly charming joke. He told me that Megan’s monthly salary wouldn’t even cover the cost of one of my hair appointments. He pointed out that any one of my handbags could fund a normal person’s life for six months. He asked me, with a patronizing tilt of his head, how I expected to maintain this curated, effortless life without him. Then came the jab. He laughed, noting that all of Manhattan knew me as nothing more than a pampered hothouse orchid—a decorative vine that would wither the second it lost its trellis. He honestly believed that no one else would ever be “dog enough” to worship me and cater to my every whim the way he did. I fell into a contemplative silence. That’s when the System, which had been dormant for months, finally piped up in the back of my mind. Does he seriously not realize how long the waiting list is to be your ‘dog’? the System snarked. A cold, sharp laugh bubbled up in my throat. Perhaps these five years of gilded comfort had been too quiet. Perhaps I’d played the role of the fragile ornament so well that he’d forgotten a fundamental truth about decorative vines. The thing about orchids isn’t just that they’re beautiful; it’s that once they’re off the market, everyone else realizes exactly what they’re missing. 1 I stared at Everett. Only this morning, he had kissed my forehead, warmed my milk, and even put the toothpaste on my brush for me. In the span of a few hours, he had become a stranger. For the last five years, from the Hamptons to the Upper East Side, everyone knew that Francesca Stanford was his North Star, his literal crown jewel. He was the man who never touched a drop of scandal, who never spent a moment alone with another woman—until now. I looked down at Megan. Those thick glasses hid half her face. The System shrieked in my head: [I hate to judge based on looks, but host, is he actually blind? Put Megan next to you, and anyone with a pulse could see he’s trading a vintage Ferrari for a used tricycle.] I ignored the Voice. My upbringing—the years of elite boarding schools and social conditioning—wouldn’t allow me to descend into hysterics. I simply clenched my fists and took a steadying breath. “Why?” Megan was shaking like a leaf. Everett reached down, his hand lingering on her shoulder in a protective gesture that made my stomach turn. “Wait for me outside,” he told her softly. That casual intimacy stung worse than the betrayal itself. Everett was known in the boardroom as a predator—cold, decisive, and ruthless. The entire city feared him. He saved all his tenderness for me. Or so I thought. Today, I realized I wasn’t his only exception. Everett pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “When I buy her a coffee, she’s genuinely grateful,” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “When I buy you a ten-million-dollar necklace, I have to worry if you already have the same cut in your collection. I’m just… tired, Chessy. You’re the only woman I love, but sometimes I just want to be the one being taken care of.” He stubbed out the cigarette, waited for the smell to dissipate so it wouldn’t cling to my clothes, and stepped toward me. He reached out to brush a stray hair from my eye. “Don’t cry. Just give me some time to figure this out, okay?” I looked at that familiar, handsome face and stepped back, shaking my head with a bitter smile. “What a tragic story you’ve spun. But it doesn’t change the fact that you cheated on your wife. I told you when we married, Everett: I have zero tolerance for betrayal. We’re done.” Everett’s face hardened. “How long has it been since you actually worked? Do you have any idea what the real world looks like now? I’ve curated every second of your life for five years. If you leave me, you won’t last a month.” The System’s mechanical chime echoed: [Warning: Male Lead’s character arc has collapsed. You may now choose to revoke his ‘Success Aura.’ Due to your deep entanglement, the reclamation process will take exactly one month.] I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “A month? That’s plenty of time.” He might be powerful now, but he forgot whose story this actually was. In my world, I am the only protagonist. Everett’s fake smile vanished. He looked down at me with cold pity. “I suppose you need to feel the rain to remember why you liked the shelter.” I grabbed my bag and turned toward the door. “Everett, I didn’t have this life because I married you. Quite the opposite. You have your empire because I chose you.” Megan was still hovering in the hallway. She looked at me, gathering some twisted form of courage. “Mrs. Blackwood… I know I’m nothing compared to you. But Mr. Blackwood works until his stomach cramps from stress, and I’m the only one there to bring him a glass of warm water… I just didn’t think it was fair to him.” Everett stood in the doorway, his eyes softening at her words. I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust. “There are three world-class nutritionists on 24-hour standby at our house. If a glass of tap water moves you that much, Everett, then all those expensive supplements I’ve been making you take were a waste of money.” I looked Megan up and down. “You’re right. You are nothing compared to me. Not because of your clothes, but because you lack a basic sense of shame. And don’t call me Mrs. Blackwood. It’s Ms. Stanford.” I walked away without looking back. The System sighed in my mind. [Don’t be sad, host. In this story, you’re the star. If he’s lost the plot, he doesn’t deserve the role. The next one will be better.] I watched the skyscrapers of Manhattan blur past the car window. “The divorce cooling-off period is exactly thirty days,” I whispered. “And I promise you, I won’t be the one regretting it when the month is up.” 2 Everett’s efficiency had always been his greatest weapon. By that afternoon, my secondary credit cards were declined. My phone lit up with a notification: Primary account reported lost. Linked cards frozen. The System went quiet for a moment. [Good grief. Does he actually think he’s been ‘supporting’ you all this time?] I shrugged, leaning back against the leather seat of my private car. “Probably. Confidence is a hell of a drug for men like him.” For twenty-five years, my life had been a dream. Wealth, pedigree, and a permanent seat at the center of the city’s social elite. It wasn’t until five years ago that I realized I was the “Beloved Wife” in a commercial romance novel. My life was supposed to be a series of effortless wins, culminating in a life with a billionaire who worshipped the ground I walked on. Out of all the men who chased me, I picked Everett. Because of that choice, the System rewarded him. His business ventures turned to gold. He became the titan he is today. And while I used his cards out of convenience, he seemed to have forgotten that the Stanford name was old money when his family was still struggling to pay rent. When I got home, my housekeeper, Maria, hurried over. “Ma’am, I’ve prepared the braised sea bass you like for dinner.” I looked at the table. Two place settings. Perfectly aligned. No matter how busy Everett was, he always made it home for dinner. One year, during a massive blizzard that shut down the city, he had walked ten blocks in the freezing cold just because he promised we’d eat together. He had walked in shivering, soaked to the bone, but grinning as he pulled a perfectly intact box of macarons from his coat. “You mentioned you wanted these yesterday,” he’d said, his eyes bright with a boyish adoration. How could that man be the same person who looked at me today and said he was “tired”? My phone buzzed. Megan had posted on a private social media account. A photo of her and Everett at a greasy, late-night diner, eating cheap noodles. I felt a pang of sardonic amusement. Everett’s stomach was delicate; I spent thousands on specialized chefs and herbal tonics to keep his ulcers at bay. I had those meals hand-delivered to his office every day. I closed the app. “From now on, Maria, just one place setting.” Maria blinked, confused, but nodded. If he wanted to trade a Michelin-starred life for a bowl of greasy noodles, he was welcome to it. New York high society is a small pond. Word of our split traveled like wildfire. Rumor had it he took Megan to a high-level corporate gala. My phone was blowing up with texts from friends who were there. [Is he insane? He actually brought THAT girl? People are laughing behind their champagne glasses.] [Chessy, darling, you should have dumped that social climber years ago. I know three Ivy League models who would kill to take you out for a drink tonight.] I leaned back on a plush velvet sofa at a private lounge, nursing a martini and scrolling through the messages. I was feeling the hum of the alcohol when I nudged the man sitting next to me with the heel of my Louboutin. “I don’t want to walk to the car,” I murmured, my eyes half-closed. “Carry me.” He turned to look at me, his voice a deep, resonant hum. “Francesca, you’re drunk. And I’m not Everett.” I looked up into the dark, piercing eyes of Jasper Ternence. I looked into the eyes of Jasper Huxley. He had been one of the “candidates” for my husband five years ago. Now, he was the most powerful venture capitalist on the East Coast. I leaned in, my breath ghosting over his ear. “Are you going to carry me, or aren’t you?” His posture went rigid. Then, slowly, he stood up and offered me his back. I looked at the moonlight reflecting off the glass of the lounge and smiled. Why did Everett ever think I’d struggle without him? The System giggled in my head. [Host, let me know if you want to swap leads. The reclamation of Everett’s aura is already at 10%. Tomorrow, I have a little surprise for him.] 3 I flew to Paris for Fashion Week. I didn’t give Everett another thought. The System gave me daily updates, though. As the “Success Aura” began to drain, Everett’s empire started to leak. Several of his major projects were snatched up by competitors. He had climbed too fast and stepped on too many toes; without the System’s protection, the “Old Money” sharks were finally smelling blood. I signed a five-figure shopping bill without blinking. “He’s in love, isn’t he? He has his little assistant to pour him tap water. Surely a few lost millions shouldn’t bother him.” I posted a photo of my new wardrobe to Instagram. Five minutes later, a concierge at my hotel knocked. He was holding a leather-bound catalog. “Mr. Huxley’s office called, Ms. Stanford. He’s already pre-ordered the entire spring collection for you. It’s being shipped to your Manhattan address as we speak.” I smiled and sent Jasper a text: [Thanks.] The reply came instantly: [My jet is in Paris. I can fly you back whenever you’re ready. Will you do me the honor of dinner when we land?] I paused. My relationship with Everett had started with a dinner just like that. He’d promised then that he’d never miss a meal with me as long as he was in the city. I closed my phone and didn’t reply. When I got back to the States, my friend Beatrice invited me to an exclusive equestrian club in Westchester. It was members-only, and each member could only bring one guest. I used to go as my brother’s guest, but since the wedding, I had been under Everett’s membership. When the girl at the front desk told me, with an embarrassed look, that I wasn’t on the list, I was genuinely confused for a split second. Then I saw her. Megan was standing there, trying to look poised in a designer riding outfit that clearly didn’t fit her right. “Mrs.—I mean, Ms. Stanford. I’m so sorry. I told Everett I’d never seen a real stable before, and he insisted on bringing me. I didn’t realize I was taking your spot…” She’d ditched the glasses and was wearing twenty thousand dollars worth of couture, but the provincial, small-minded insecurity still radiated off her. Beatrice was about to tear her a new one when Everett walked in. “Chessy.” He said my name as if nothing had changed, as if we were still the golden couple of the year. “I heard you were in Paris. I used to pre-order all those collections for you. You’ve always been a loyal client of the French houses; it would be a shame for your collection to be incomplete this season.” But then he opened his mouth again and ruined it. “Stop being difficult. I’ll have someone buy you the couture. I’m here to meet a partner who happens to be Megan’s former classmate. I need her here. So, don’t play today, okay? Just go home and wait for me. We’ll talk later.” I stepped back, looking him in the eye. “Everett, do you really think I’m only worth the price of a few dresses?” Beatrice reached for her phone. “Don’t worry, Chessy. I think my brother is a member here…” She glared at Everett, disgusted. “If Ms. Stanford doesn’t mind, she can come as my guest.” The group turned. Everett’s face went pale. Standing there was Hugo Blackwood He was Everett’s biggest rival for the new downtown redevelopment project. I gave Hugo a small, elegant nod. “Thank you, Mr. Blackwood I’d appreciate that.” Hugo smiled, his eyes warm. “The pleasure is entirely mine.” I walked past Everett without a word. Behind me, I heard Beatrice’s voice, dripping with honeyed malice. “Oh, Everett, didn’t you know? Years ago, Hugo rented out the entire Brooklyn Bridge just to ask our Chessy for a date. It was on the front page of every tabloid. You were always just the runner-up.” 4 Megan spent the afternoon screaming and wobbling on the back of a horse, making a fool of herself in front of the club’s elite members. Her “classmate connection” did absolutely nothing to help Everett with his business meeting. By the time Everett left, his face was like thunder. Hugo held the reins of my horse, smiling up at me. “Years haven’t changed you, Francesca. You’re still the most captivating woman in any room.” I looked down at him. Years ago, he had chased me relentlessly. I’d found his arrogance a bit much back then. I’d heard he’d left the city to build his own empire without his family’s help. Now, he seemed… grounded. Stronger. “You’ve done well for yourself, Hugo.” He laughed. “You rejected me because I was just a rich kid with no substance. Now that I’ve built something real, and I hear you’re single… maybe you’ll reconsider. You know I’ve always been at your beck and call.” I winked at him. “Actually, there is one thing I need your help with.”

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I was out back in the woods, mid-swing with a splitting maul, when a guy in a suit showed up claiming he was my “protection detail.” The poor guy looked like he’d seen a ghost—or maybe it was just the way I handled the axe. He dropped a slip of paper with an address on it and bolted before I could even ask who was paying him. The night before I left for the city to join the Montgomerys—my biological family, apparently—my foster mom gripped my hands tight. She wouldn’t stop fretting. “The city’s got lights and money, Aggie, but those high-society types? they’ve got rules that’ll suffocate a girl like you. Don’t let them look down on you.” “If they give you even a second of grief,” she added, “you come right back to the Ozarks. I can still outwork any three of those city boys to keep us fed.” I just laughed and puffed out my chest. “Don’t you worry, Mom. Nobody’s gonna push Aggie ‘The Hammer’ around. Not a chance.” To prepare for the lions’ den, I stayed up all night devouring about two hundred “Secret Heiress” stories on my Kindle. I was ready for everything: the jealous sister, the cold-hearted father, the scheming stepmother. I had my counter-moves mapped out. The next morning, sporting two dark circles under my eyes, I rumbled up to the Montgomery estate driving my beat-up 1974 International Harvester tractor. I stared at the massive, gilded iron gates. Locked. Classic, I thought. The ‘Power Play’ cold shoulder. Just like the books said. I hopped down, took a deep breath, and delivered a kick that would’ve leveled a barn door. The gates creaked open. “Aggie’s home, losers!” I bellowed. But the scene inside stopped me cold. My biological parents and the “fake” heiress weren’t sneering at me from a balcony. All three of them were on their knees in the foyer, faces ash-white, trembling like they were awaiting a firing squad. “W-welcome home… Miss Montgomery!” they stammered in unison. I stood there, completely floored. This wasn’t the script. Where was the condescension? Where was the drama? 1 I scratched my head, looking at the three of them huddled on the floor. “Uh… what exactly is the vibe here?” My biological mother, Diane, and the girl who’d been living my life, Maisie, traded a terrified glance. Diane forced a jagged, awkward smile. “Aggie, darling… this is the welcome ceremony we spent all night rehearsing. Do you… do you like it?” I stared at them, my skepticism dial turned to ten. Man, city people are freaking weird. I sighed and waved a hand. “Alright, get up. The floor’s probably freezing.” They looked like they’d just been granted a stay of execution, helping each other up with shaky limbs. That’s when I noticed their clothes. For “Old Money” billionaires, they looked… plain. Almost aggressively so. Is this a trap? I wondered. Are they trying to make me feel guilty? Maisie stood tucked behind the parents, her eyes downcast, looking like a kicked puppy. She looked like she wanted to say something but was too scared to breathe. Robert and Diane stepped forward, hugging me with the kind of ginger care you’d use for a live grenade. “Aggie, we’re just so glad you’re back.” They led me upstairs to pick a room. When we passed a suite that looked like it belonged in a Disney castle—all silk and mahogany—the three of them stiffened. I saw the shame flash across their faces. Here it is, I thought. The classic trope. The fake daughter gets the palace, and the real daughter gets the broom closet. I know how this ends. But then Robert pointed to a modest, beige bedroom tucked near the servant’s stairs. “That’s… that’s where Maisie stays now.” I blinked, looking from the “Princess Suite” back to the beige room. “Fine. I’ll take the big one,” I said, testing them. Their expressions went from nervous to downright bizarre. “Is that a problem?” I barked. “No! No, no!” Diane squeaked. “Aggie can stay wherever she wants!” At dinner, Maisie came to find me. She stood in the doorway, looking all soft and innocent. I went on high alert. This is it. She’s mad about the room. She’s going to fake a fall or start a fight to make me look like the villain. Instead, she reached out and gently took my elbow. “Sister… I noticed the floors were just waxed. They’re slippery. Let me help you down.” When we got to the dining room, there wasn’t a five-course meal served by a butler. It was just home-cooked food. No staff in sight. I was convinced: They’re playing ‘poor’ to test my character. How original. Suddenly, the front door slammed open. A woman in a designer suit walked in like she owned the place. I expected her to be a mean aunt or a socialite rival, but Robert and Diane jumped like they’d been shocked. “Mrs. Hannigan,” they whispered. Maisie leaned in, tugging my sleeve. “That’s the housekeeper,” she whispered. I ignored them and went back upstairs to unpack. Later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, Maisie knocked. She was carrying a warm glass of milk. My internal alarm bells went off. According to every trope I’d read, there was an 80% chance that glass was hitting the floor, and a 100% chance I’d be blamed for it. “Sister, have some milk,” she murmured, her head low. “It helps with sleep.” I watched her, stone-faced, waiting for the performance to begin. Suddenly, her foot slipped. She lurched forward, losing her balance completely. The glass flew from her hand, shattering into a million pieces at my feet. And now come the waterworks, I thought. She’ll cry, say I pushed her, claim she was just being sweet, and the whole family will burst in to condemn my ‘brutality.’ I folded my arms and waited. I even had my comeback lines ready. 2 But the screaming never came. Maisie hit the floor hard. I heard her knee crack against the hardwood—a dull, painful thud. She didn’t even look at her leg. She scrambled up, frantic, her first instinct being to check me for glass shards. Her face was a mask of pure panic and apology. “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, Aggie! The floor was too slick—did it hit you? Are you hurt?” She looked at the mess, her eyes welling with actual tears of terror. I stared down at her, feeling… confused. I hadn’t even touched her. Maybe she’s just a really good actress, I reasoned. Establishing a baseline of innocence before the big move. I decided to play along. “I’m fine. Go to bed.” The next morning, I was yawning my way to the stairs when a shadow blocked my path. Maisie was standing at the top of the flight, looking like she’d been crying for hours. Bingo, my brain whispered. The Staircase Scene. She’s going to ‘fall’ and blame me. This is the big one. I braced myself. I’d seen this movie. When she tipped, I’d grab her and pull her into a hug, ruining her little drama. Suddenly, Maisie lunged. She grabbed my arm with a grip so tight it actually surprised me. Wow, she really doesn’t want me to escape the frame, I thought. I was about to flip her over my shoulder and end the charade, but she didn’t push. She started guiding me down the stairs, one agonizingly slow step at a time. Her voice was trembling. “Aggie… I had a nightmare. I dreamed you fell down these stairs.” “And then I got up for water and realized how slippery the wood is. I was so scared. Please, let me hold onto you. You have to be careful.” Me: “…” I tried to pull my arm away. I was a girl who could carry a butchered hog over a mountain trail without breaking a sweat. I didn’t need a waif-like girl to help me walk. But the more I pulled, the tighter she clung, tears streaming down her face. “Please don’t push me away. I can’t let you get hurt.” I looked at her, then at the ceiling. What is happening in this house? When we finally reached the foyer, Robert and Diane were waiting. They saw Maisie clutching my arm, and their first reaction wasn’t to ask what she was doing. They rushed me like a NASCAR pit crew, checking me for bruises. “Aggie! Are you okay? Did something happen?” Diane’s voice was pure anxiety. Robert turned to Maisie, his voice stern but shaky. “Honey, don’t grab her so hard. You’re going to bruise her arm.” The whole family was a mess of frantic energy. Diane ran to the kitchen to order my favorite breakfast (or what she thought was my favorite), and Robert started digging through a first-aid kit, insisting on putting ointment on a “red mark” that wasn’t even there. That’s when Mrs. Hannigan, the housekeeper, sidled up to me with a plastic smile. “Good morning, Miss Montgomery. I didn’t get a chance to properly introduce myself yesterday. You can call me Elizabeth.” I arched an eyebrow. “Is that right, Beth?” Her smile faltered for a micro-second. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, oily whisper. “Listen, honey. You’re new here. You don’t know how deep the water is with your parents. You and I? We’re the outsiders. You’d better watch your back with them.” I nodded slowly, playing the part. It almost made sense. Their behavior was too weird to be normal. 3 A few days passed in a strange, quiet truce. Before I could really start investigating the family dynamics, I was told I’d been enrolled in the same elite private school as Maisie. Finally, I thought. The School Arc. Maisie probably realized she couldn’t break me at home, so she was going to use her “Queen Bee” status to make my life a living hell on campus. Monday morning, as I headed for the door, Maisie came running up, out of breath. She shoved a breakfast burrito into my hand and wheeled out a bubblegum-pink electric scooter. “Aggie! Let me give you a ride to school!” I stared at the scooter, then at the sprawling mansion behind us. “Does this family not own a car?” “The… the car is in the shop,” she stammered, looking pained. I patted her shoulder. “Maisie, your lies are getting pathetic.” Her face turned bright red. “I… I…” I didn’t wait for her to finish. I grabbed a Lime scooter from the sidewalk and zoomed off. At the school gates, I didn’t even get five feet before a guy with bleached-blonde hair and a sneer blocked my way. “The boss wants to see you.” I looked up. A few yards away, a guy was leaning against a black Range Rover, sucking on a lollipop and holding a photo. “So, you’re the hillbilly the Montgomerys dragged home?” I rubbed my hands together. Yes. Finally. The Plot is moving. He looked me up and down with pure disgust. “I’m Hunter. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll crawl back to whatever hole you came out of.” I flipped a piece of invisible lint off my shoulder and gave him my best ‘main character’ smirk. “I’m your worst nightmare, kid.” Hunter’s face turned purple. “You… you little…” The surrounding students gasped. “Who is she? Nobody talks to Hunter like that!” “She’s a dead girl walking.” Hunter waved his hand at his goons. “Teach her some manners!” “Stop! Don’t touch my sister!” Maisie came sprinting toward us, nearly tripping over her own feet. Hunter didn’t even look at her. He just stuck out a foot, tripping her. She went face-first into the dirt right in front of me. I looked down at her. “Okay, that was a bit much. You don’t need to bow that low.” Maisie started sobbing, but she still tried to scramble up and stand between me and Hunter. Hunter just pushed her back down. “Shut up, you little brat. Get lost before I make you.” Maisie’s eyes were wide with terror. She stopped crying. She looked paralyzed. I looked at Hunter, then back at Maisie. I looked at Hunter again. He had the same arrogant, shifty eyes as Mrs. Hannigan, the housekeeper. Oh. I get it now. The “fake daughter” wasn’t a villain. She was a punching bag. And the housekeeper’s son was the one holding the whip. I stepped forward, grabbed Hunter by the collar, and executed a perfect judo hip throw. He hit the pavement with a sound like a wet sack of flour. “The name,” I said, leaning over him, “is Aggie.” Hunter was wheezing, clutching his back. I looked at Maisie on the ground. “Get up. Kick him.” She blinked through her tears. “I… I can’t…” I glared at her. “Kick him, or I’ll kick you. Pick one.” Maisie shivered, found a spark of courage somewhere in her gut, and delivered a shaky kick to Hunter’s ribs. Then another. Hunter howled. “You’re dead! Aggie, I’m gonna kill you!” As the crowd dispersed, Maisie followed me like a lost puppy, her eyes full of something I hadn’t seen before. “Aggie, that was… incredible.” “Aggie, you’re so cool.” “Aggie…”

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In preschool, the other kids called me a freak. I didn’t want to be a freak. More than that, I didn’t want to be the reason my mother cried. That day, I finally found the shards of courage I’d been hiding and told her: I didn’t want to play my brother anymore. I even asked her if she could just let him eat me—let the ghost of the boy take what was left. But Mom said I’d already done the eating. She told me I ate him while we were still in her womb. Back then, she’d used the promise of twins—a boy and a girl, the perfect “million-dollar” pregnancy—to marry into a family that lived behind iron gates and sweeping lawns. But when the dust settled, there was only me. A daughter. A consolation prize. My father walked away, leaving her with nothing but a grudge and a name that didn’t belong to her anymore. As punishment, she forced me to live two lives. One week, I wore the wig and the dresses, playing the daughter. The next, she’d take the clippers to my head, buzz it down to the scalp, and I’d become her son. Whenever I faltered, she would unravel. She’d scream that she was supposed to have a pair of kings, but I’d played the hand wrong. She’d ask the air why I was the one who survived. She’d demand I give her son back. During those fits, I would go still. I let her mold me, trim me, erase me. Mom was right, after all. I owed her. I was living on borrowed time, using a heart that should have been shared. 1 Mom’s favorite refrain was that the wrong twin died. If it had been me, she said, she’d still be in that limestone townhouse with the floor-to-ceiling windows, draped in the life she deserved. “It’s because of you—this useless, extra weight—that your father left us,” she’d whisper, the electric hum of the clippers vibrating against my skull. She’d stare at my reflection in the cracked vanity mirror, her grip so tight it felt like she was trying to peel the skin from my head. “Do you have any idea how rich he is?” she’d ask. “His guest house is bigger than this entire roach-infested apartment. If Danny were alive, I’d be sitting on silk right now. Not here. Not like this.” She suddenly yanked a handful of my hair. I winced, my neck snapping back, but I didn’t make a sound. In the mirror, Mom’s eyes were rimmed with a manic red. She wasn’t looking at me; she was looking through me, searching for a ghost. She told me that if I ever stopped being “good,” she’d send me back to the dark place—back to the womb—so Danny could finish what I’d started and take his turn at living. I was terrified of being sent back. I was terrified of losing the only person who looked at me, even if she looked at me with hate. “When I grow up,” I used to tell her, “I’ll get rich. I’ll buy you a house bigger than the one Dad has.” She’d just laugh, a sharp, bitter sound like glass breaking. “Your own father didn’t even want you for free. You’re a deficit, Maisie. You’ll spend your whole life trying to pay back a debt you can’t afford.” Today was a “Danny” day. The razor felt cold, a biting winter against my scalp. My hair couldn’t be longer than a half-inch, or the illusion would shatter. I hated the clippers. I hated the way the tiny, prickly hairs got under my shirt and itched until I bled. But if it kept her sane—if it kept her here—I’d let her shave me bald every day. I thought I could handle it. I really did. Until I started school. Last week, it was a “Maisie” week. I wore a sun-yellow dress with daisies on the hem. The other girls told me my hair looked pretty, and the teacher, Ms. Parker, even braided my wig into tiny, intricate plaits. I felt light. I felt real. But this week, the wig was in its box. I was in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, my buzzed head exposed to the fluorescent lights of the classroom. The other kids stared. “Wait, are you a boy or a girl?” I opened my mouth, but the answer felt like a lead weight. “She was a girl yesterday! Now she looks like a thumb!” a boy named Toby shouted, pointing a sticky finger. “She’s a freak! A half-and-half!” They formed a circle around me. It felt like the walls were closing in, the way Mom said the womb did. “Freak! Freak! Freak!” I tried to push past them, but someone shoved me back. I tripped, my knees skidding across the rough concrete of the playground. Blood blossomed through my skin, hot and stinging. That night, I sobbed into my pillow. I wanted to be like the other girls. I wanted to keep my braids. I didn’t want to be a debt collector for a ghost. But I didn’t have the right to choose. I had eaten my brother. The thought took root in my mind, growing like a dark vine. Give him back. Just give him back, and Mom won’t be sad anymore. I waited until she was mid-shave, the clippers buzzing near my ear. “Mom?” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the hum. “What?” she snapped. “I… I don’t want to be Danny anymore.” 2 The buzzing stopped. Mom’s hand froze in mid-air. She set the clippers down with a deliberate thud, then walked around to face me, crouching so her eyes were level with mine. “What did you just say?” I shivered, but the words I’d practiced in the dark finally spilled out. “Can we… can we just let Danny eat me now?” Mom went perfectly still. Seconds ticked by like hours. She stood up slowly, looking down at me with a terrifying blankness. She blew a few stray hairs off her palm, watching them float down onto my face like gray snow. “Oh,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal chill. “I see. Two days of school and suddenly you’re too good for this? You think you can just stop paying what you owe?” “No,” I said, the words tripping over each other. “I want to give him back to you. Then you can go back to the big house. You can be happy again.” I didn’t tell her the other part—that I was tired of being a freak. It felt too selfish to mention. “Mom, you said it. You said if you sent me back, he’d come back.” I expected her to be relieved. I thought she’d be happy I was finally offering her the one thing she actually wanted. Instead, her eyes turned into chips of flint. “Maisie. Who do you think you’re talking to?” She grabbed my shoulder and spun me back toward the mirror, pressing the clippers against my skin harder than before. It hurt. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You’re just like your father! You’re looking for an exit strategy!” Her voice rose, hitting a jagged, hysterical pitch. “You two ruined my life, and now you want to just skip out on the bill?” Her breathing became ragged, hot against the back of my neck. “You manipulate, you lie… just like him! ‘Oh, poor Danny,’ you say, but you just want to leave me here alone in the dark!” The clippers caught on a stray knot, yanking sharply. I gasped as a stinging heat flared across my scalp. When I reached up, my fingers came away red. Mom saw the blood. She didn’t stop. She just moved the blade to the other side, her strokes faster, more violent. “A useless girl like you doesn’t get to ‘exchange’ herself for a son. I told you—you belong to me for life!” She didn’t stop until the buzzing eventually died out. That night, she sat on the floor and cried until her voice gave out. The next morning, the “Mom” I knew returned. She made oatmeal, dressed me in a boy’s flannel, and walked me to the school gates. But when Ms. Parker saw me, she stopped dead. “Lydia,” the teacher said, reaching out toward the red scab on my head. “What happened here?” Mom swiped her hand away. “She was playing explorer. Fell into a rosebush. You know how clumsy kids are.” Mom’s voice was as smooth as silk. Ms. Parker didn’t look convinced. Her brow stayed furrowed the whole time she watched Mom walk away. Once we were inside, Ms. Parker took me to the “Quiet Corner.” “Maisie,” she whispered, “is there anyone else at home? An aunt? A grandma?” I shook my head. “Just Mom.” Ms. Parker hesitated. “And… is she kind to you, honey?” I blinked. No one had ever asked me that. Was she kind? I thought of the times she brushed my wig so gently I’d almost fall asleep. But I also thought of the bathroom floor, the locked doors, the way her fingernails left crescents in my arms. But those were my fault. I was the one who ate Danny. “Mom is good,” I told her, my voice steady. “She takes care of me.” “Then why the hair, Maisie? Why the clothes?” I looked at the floor. I didn’t want to lie, but the truth felt like a secret language. “I’m paying her back. It’s my turn to be Danny this week. If I do it long enough, maybe he’ll come back for real.” 3 I didn’t look up. I was waiting for her to laugh, or to tell me I was a freak like the boys on the playground did. But she didn’t. She just let out a long, shaky breath and touched the edge of the bandage she’d put over my cut. “Does it hurt?” she asked. I nodded, then shook my head. “A little. But it’s okay. I’m a boy this week. Boys are supposed to be tough.” Ms. Parker’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She turned away quickly, wiping them with the back of her hand, then turned back with a brittle smile. “You’re very brave, Maisie.” That one sentence kept me warm all afternoon. When the bell rang, Mom was waiting at the fence. Ms. Parker walked me out, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. “Lydia, do you have a moment? I’d love to do a quick home visit this evening,” Ms. Parker said. Mom’s face went from neutral to porcelain-white. Then, she snatched my arm, her grip digging into my elbow. “What did you tell her?” Mom hissed, right there in front of everyone. Her nails bit into my skin. “I didn’t say anything!” I cried out. “Don’t lie to me!” “Lydia!” Ms. Parker stepped between us, trying to pry Mom’s hand off. “You’re hurting her!” Mom jerked back, her eyes wide and wild, fixed on me like I was a traitor on a battlefield. “Maisie is a wonderful girl. She didn’t say anything wrong,” the teacher said, her voice dropping into a calm, authoritative tone. “A home visit is standard. I just want to see her environment.” Mom stared at her for a long time. Then, a fake, chilling smile stretched across her lips. “Oh. A visit. Of course.” She patted my head, her hand heavy and stiff. “I thought she’d gotten into trouble. We’d love to have you, Ms. Parker. Excuse the mess.” The walk home was silent. When we got inside, Ms. Parker followed. I watched her eyes sweep over our apartment. It was a museum of “Two.” Two of everything. Two toothbrushes. Two sets of shoes. The most haunting part was the wall with the wardrobes: one painted a soft, dusty rose with princess decals; the other a sharp navy blue with racing cars. Ms. Parker took a sharp breath. “Lydia… isn’t Maisie your only child?” Mom smiled. “This is a private matter, Ms. Parker. You’re here as a teacher, not a therapist.” She glared at me. “Maisie, go to your room.” I turned to go, but Ms. Parker called out. “Wait.” She turned back to Mom, her voice softening, pleading. “I’m trying to help. The kids at school… they’re bullying her. She’s confused, Lydia. And these bruises—” she gently lifted my sleeve to reveal the mottled purple marks on my forearm. “You have to know this isn’t right.” The fake smile on Mom’s face shattered. It didn’t just fall away; it exploded into rage. “And what do you know?” Mom’s voice started to tremble. “My parents died when I was a kid. I clawed my way into a life that mattered! I was carrying twins! Real, beautiful twins!” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “And then this… this thing happened. I’ve sacrificed everything to keep her fed, to keep her clothed. Do you have any idea how hard I work?” She began to scream. The veins in her neck stood out like cords. “I haven’t done anything wrong! I’m the victim here!” I started shaking. “Mom, you’re right. You’re right. It’s my fault.” Mom turned that terrifying gaze on me. “Yes! It is your fault! You’re the one who ruined everything!” 4 “Lydia, stop!” Ms. Parker pulled me into her arms, shielding me. “Do you hear yourself? She’s a baby! She’s five years old!” Mom went feral. She lunged forward, trying to yank me away. “Get your hands off my child! You have no right!” Ms. Parker held on tight, though I could feel her heart hammering against my back. “Lydia, look at me. If you don’t calm down, I am calling the police.” “Call them! Let them take me!” Mom shrieked, collapsing into a heap of hysterical sobs. Seeing her like that broke something inside me. I couldn’t stand her pain. I squirmed out of Ms. Parker’s arms and crawled over to Mom on the floor. “Mom,” I whispered. She looked at me, her face a mask of tears and smeared mascara. “Mom, let Danny eat me. Please. If I go away, you won’t be scared anymore.” Mom stared at me for an eternity. Then, she let out a soft, hallow laugh. “Fine,” she whispered. “Then go die. Go die and give him his turn.” Ms. Parker froze. “You’re sick,” she breathed, her voice thick with horror. “You aren’t a mother. You’re a monster.” Mom didn’t even look at her. She stood up and pointed toward the door. “Get. Out. My house, my rules.” Ms. Parker tried to argue, but Mom shoved her. “Out! Now!” The door slammed shut, the lock clicking with finality. Mom turned back to me, her eyes dead. “Smart girl,” she said quietly. “Found yourself a little protector, did you? You think a teacher can save you from who you are?” “No,” I whispered. “I gave you everything! I sent you to that school so you could be someone! And you use it to turn people against me?” She grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt and dragged me into my bedroom, throwing me inside and locking the door from the outside. “Stay in there and think about who really loves you!” I sat on the floor in the dark. I already knew she was the only one who loved me. But I was thinking about what she said. If I died, Danny could come back. There was a way. A real way to pay the debt. I stood up and walked to the window. It was a warm evening. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t even feel brave. I just felt like a check that was finally being cashed. I climbed onto the ledge and let go. The fall was fast. A rush of wind, a blurred world, and then— CRACK. It hurt. For exactly one second, it was the worst pain I had ever known. And then, it was nothing. I felt light. Like a balloon that had finally untied its string. Inside the apartment, I heard Mom screaming. “What was that? Maisie! You better not be breaking things in there! I’m not letting you out until you apologize!” I floated up. I passed through the ceiling and saw her kicking the door. “Mom, I’m not breaking anything!” I shouted. But she couldn’t hear me. She kept kicking until she slumped against the wood, sliding down to the floor. She put her face in her hands and started to sob. I tried to reach out and hug her, but my hands passed right through her shoulders. “Don’t cry, Mom,” I whispered. “Danny’s coming. You’re going to have your son back.” Mom sat there for a while, then wiped her eyes. She knocked on the door softly this time. “Maisie? Come out. I’m sorry. I just… I don’t want you to think she’s better than me. I’m your mother.” She sounded so small. So fragile. I can’t come out, Mom. I’m gone. Suddenly, a thunderous pounding came from the front door. “Lydia! Open the door!” It was Ms. Parker. Mom groaned and went to open it. Ms. Parker burst in, followed by two police officers. Her face was bloodless, her eyes wide with a terror I’d never seen. “Lydia!” she screamed, grabbing Mom by the shoulders. “Did you push her? Did you push her out the window?” Mom’s jaw dropped. She stood frozen, the world slowing down as the realization began to bleed into her mind. 5 “What… what are you talking about?” Mom’s hand stayed on the doorknob, her body a statue. Her eyes were wide, but they were vacant, like she was listening to a language she didn’t speak. “Maisie fell!” Ms. Parker shrieked, tears streaming down her face. “I was outside on the phone with the police, and I turned around and—” Mom didn’t wait for the rest. She shoved Ms. Parker aside and bolted for the window. We were on the sixth floor. She leaned out so far I thought she might fall too. I floated beside her, looking down. A crowd had gathered around the flowerbed. In the center of the concrete, there was a small shape. A blue t-shirt, khaki shorts. A buzzed head. The limbs were twisted at impossible angles. Beneath it, a dark, velvet red was slowly blooming across the gray pavement. That was me. “No,” Mom whispered. It wasn’t a word; it was a ghost of a sound caught in her throat. She stared at the little body, her eyes unblinking. Then, her bones seemed to turn to water. The officers caught her before she hit the floor. “Ma’am? Ma’am!” Her eyes moved, but they didn’t see the room. She tried to speak, but her voice was gone.

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I never imagined that the woman I called my sister, the person I shared every secret with, would suddenly cut me out of her life like a tumor. It happened in a flash of cold contempt. She tossed a debit card at me, her voice dripping with a disdain I didn’t recognize, calling it “compensation” for all the years I’d spent “sucking up” to her. I was reeling. I couldn’t wrap my head around what had shifted between us. Then, later that night, in a private VIP suite of the most exclusive club in the city—a club, ironically, owned by my own family—I witnessed a scene that will be burned into my retinas forever. She was on her knees. Someone was shoving her head down, forcing her to buff the shoes of a man who looked like he’d been carved out of pure grease. I lunged forward to pull her up, but she shoved me back so hard I hit the wall. Her eyes were feral, filled with a terrifying malice. “What is wrong with you?” she spat, her voice a jagged blade. “This is a private moment between me and my man! How did a nobody like you even get in here? Are you trying to steal him? Get out! Now!” She screamed at me, physically pushing me toward the door. I wanted to scream back. I wanted to tell her that this club was my birthright, that I hadn’t snuck in—I belonged here. But before I could find my voice, the man in the leather armchair let out a low, oily chuckle. “Since she’s already here,” he said, his eyes raking over me, “why don’t we let her stay?” 1 I had just stepped out of my internship at the firm, still buzzing from a quick call with my brother, when the receptionist handed me an envelope. Inside was a debit card. She told me my best friend, Norah, had left it for me. Confused, I pulled out my phone. I had a message from her sent thirty minutes ago. A single paragraph that made the world tilt on its axis. We’re done. Don’t look for me. Tell Wyatt it’s over, too—I don’t want him anymore. There’s ten thousand dollars on that card. Divide it between the two of you. Consider it a tip for all those years you spent barking at my heels like loyal little dogs. I stood frozen on the sidewalk. Norah was supposed to be my sister-in-law. We were family. How could she just… flip a switch? I thought back to last night. It was our birthday—we shared the same day. Norah had surprised me with a mango cake she’d baked herself. The thing was, Norah was deathly allergic to mangoes. She’d made it because it was my favorite flavor. I remembered the red, itchy hives blooming across her hands and the way my chest had ached with a mix of guilt and overwhelming love. When I started to cry, she’d wiped my tears, laughing and calling me a “forever-child.” We’d made a wish together. Mine was for our friendship to last a lifetime, for her to officially become a part of my family. Hers was for my brother and me to always be happy, healthy, and safe. We’d stayed up late, whispering about double weddings and our future kids being cousins. How does everything die in the span of a single sleep? My head was a chaotic mess. The card in my hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Norah was a scholarship student, a girl who had clawed her way up from nothing. When I first met her at the university, I’d heard the rumors—disabled parents, a brother with severe cerebral palsy. She survived on grit and the meager wages from three different part-time jobs. I remember seeing her for the first time in the corner of the cafeteria. She was wearing a faded, threadbare hoodie, eating plain white rice with a side of the free soup. My heart had broken for her. I started “complaining” that my food tasted terrible, sliding my steak and sides over to her tray every day. She’d looked up at me once, her eyes red-rimmed but shining with a fierce, incredible light. From that day on, she became my shadow. She tutored me, held my spot in the library, and looked after me with a devotion I’d never known. Then, a year ago, I was in a horrific car accident. The hospital’s blood bank was low. Norah didn’t hesitate; she gave me everything she had. When the doctors told us I’d suffered kidney failure, she begged them to test her. When they found a match, she pleaded with them to take hers, despite being malnourished and frail. She’d begged the doctors not to tell me, fearing I’d live under the shadow of a debt I could never repay. What she didn’t know was that my family owned the hospital. My parents knew everything the moment the intake forms were signed. We never let on that we knew, but in my heart, I vowed that Norah would never want for anything again. Because of that sacrifice, my brother, Wyatt, had fallen for her. He was moved by her soul, her quiet strength. With my help, they started dating. The call I’d just had with Wyatt? He was planning to propose tonight. The ten thousand on that card… to me, it was pocket change. But for Norah, it was four years of grueling, agonizing savings. I didn’t believe for a second she was walking away because she wanted to. I didn’t believe she’d stopped loving Wyatt. The only logic my panicked brain could find was that she was sick—some terminal diagnosis she didn’t want to burden us with. Terrified, I called Wyatt. He couldn’t reach her either. He was already headed into the city. All these years, I’d followed my parents’ rule: stay low-key. They wanted me to build my own life from the ground up, so no one knew I was the heiress to the Vanderbilt-level fortune of the East Coast. Not even Norah. But in that moment, I didn’t care about the secret. I wanted to find her and tell her that we didn’t care about the burden. We had the money, the resources, the best doctors in the world. Whatever was breaking her, we could fix it together. 2 By the time I reached the VIP suite at The Zenith, the air was thick with the scent of expensive gin and the sound of breaking glass. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll. I checked the room number my assistant had pinged me and pushed the door ajar. The sight inside turned my blood into ice. Norah was there, but she wasn’t the girl I knew. She was wearing a crimson, low-cut dress that looked cheap and desperate. Her makeup was heavy, almost theatrical. She was being held down on the floor by another woman—one of the club’s regulars, a girl named Crystal. In front of them sat a man who looked like a thumb in a suit. He was short, morbidly obese, and radiated a kind of oily cruelty that made my skin crawl. That was Silas Dickson. “Mr. Dickson, I told her to just lick the scuff off your shoe, but she’s acting like she’s too good for you,” Crystal purred, shoving Norah’s face closer to the floor. “Clearly, she doesn’t respect your position.” Dickson’s face turned a mottled purple. He grabbed Norah by the hair and slammed her head against the glass coffee table. The glass cracked. Blood began to bloom on Norah’s forehead, stark and terrifying against her pale skin. “I’m the only reason you’re making a cent in this city, bitch,” he growled. “Lick the shoe. Now.” Even with blood streaming down her face, Norah crawled forward. “Mr. Dickson, please. I’ll drink. I’ll sing. Just… don’t make me do that.” He kicked her back, the force snapping the delicate chain around her neck. Norah lunged for the necklace, her eyes wide with panic. But Crystal snatched it first. “Oh, look at this. I thought I’d lost my necklace. This little whore must have stolen it.” “Give it back!” Norah screamed, her voice breaking. “That’s mine!” I recognized it instantly. It was the birthday gift I’d given her last night. Knowing she’d refuse anything obviously expensive, I’d had our family’s jewelry team design a custom piece—understated, no brand name, but made of the rarest platinum and diamonds. It was one of a kind. Crystal, who had spent enough time around wealth to recognize quality, knew it was worth a fortune. She leaned into Dickson’s chest. “She’s been here two days and she’s already stealing, Silas. You have to teach her a lesson.” Dickson loved the “pure” types. He loved breaking them. The more Norah fought, the more he wanted to crush her under his heel. Norah was sobbing now, a mix of blood and tears masking her face. She knelt, her forehead touching the carpet. “I’ll do it. I’ll lick the shoes. Just please, give me back the necklace. My sister gave it to me. It’s… it’s more important than my life.” Crystal laughed, crossing her legs. As Norah crawled toward her, Crystal planted her stiletto directly on Norah’s cheek. “I’ve hated your face since the moment you walked in here. Playing the virgin in a place like this? Who do you think you are?” I was shaking, my vision tunneling with rage. I burst into the room and shoved Crystal back with everything I had. “Don’t you dare touch her again!” I stepped in front of Norah, my eyes burning as I stared down everyone in that room. There were at least ten people, all of them frozen in shock at my intrusion. Norah’s face went white. After a flash of pure terror for me, her expression hardened into a mask of disgust. “This is a high-end club, Cassidy. How did a loser like you sneak in? Get out. I can’t stand the sight of you.” I stared at her, stunned. “Norah, talk to me. What is happening? Whatever trouble you’re in, I can fix it. I promise.” The room erupted in cruel snickers. Norah started shoving me toward the door. “I’m in trouble because of you! You’re getting in the way of me making real money. If you want to help, then leave! Go!” I stumbled back, but I heard the desperation in her voice. She wasn’t angry; she was trying to shield me. She was trying to get me out of the line of fire. I grabbed her hand. I was seconds away from telling her that my brother owned this entire building, that he was on his way, and that I could make everyone in this room disappear from the social fabric of this city with a single phone call. But then, Dickson’s voice drawled out, “Norah, is this the sister you mentioned? Since she’s here, it would be rude not to have a drink.” 3 Norah swayed, her face turning the color of ash. “Mr. Dickson, she’s just a kid. She’s annoying and has a terrible attitude. I’ll drink with you. Anything you want, as much as you want.” Dickson just arched an oily eyebrow and waited. Without a second thought, Norah grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the table and began to chug. She only had one kidney. Alcohol was poison to her. This much, this fast—it could kill her. I tried to grab the bottle, but she swung an arm to ward me off. “You don’t get a drop of this, Cassidy. This is top-shelf stuff. Way out of your league.” She was still standing between me and Dickson, a human shield. My heart felt like it was being shredded. I snatched the bottle and smashed it on the floor. “Stop it! You can’t do this to your body! Norah, talk to me!” “Do what?” she spat. “I’m a girl from the gutters, Cassidy. I finally found a way to the top. Men like Mr. Dickson are my salvation. You? You’re just a broke anchor dragging me down.” “You need to leave,” she whispered, her eyes pleading even as her words remained harsh. “You’re like a leech. It’s disgusting.” It hit me then—the bitter irony. I had kept my wealth a secret to protect her dignity, and now, that same secret was letting her believe she had to sell her soul to save me. Crystal spoke up then, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Honey, didn’t she tell you? Your ‘big sister’ sold herself to this club for three years. All for a hundred thousand dollars. She told the manager her sister was dying and needed the cash for surgery. For the next three years, she’s a dog. If we tell her to eat off the floor, she eats.” Norah didn’t have a sister. Unless… My heart stopped. I looked at her, and the tears were streaming down her face. She squeezed my hand, a silent goodbye. “Cassidy, just go. Please. I’ll get the money. I won’t let you die.” A hundred thousand dollars? That was a month’s allowance. And what surgery? I wasn’t sick. I started to explain, but Dickson was done waiting. He kicked the table over. Three hulking security guards stood up, closing in on us. I felt a cold resolve settle over me. “I’ll pay the hundred thousand. I’ll pay double. I’m taking her with me right now.” I turned to the door, but two men blocked the exit. Their eyes were bright with a sick kind of excitement. Dickson leaned back on the sofa, letting Crystal light his cigar. Through a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he smirked. “In my world, there are rules, little girl. You broke my bottle, you crashed my party. You think you can just walk out?” My palms were sweating. I knew how these “nouveau riche” types operated. They felt invincible in their small ponds. “I apologize for the disruption,” I said, forcing my voice to stay level. “Two hundred thousand. Let us go, and you can find ten other girls to entertain you.” I thought I was being reasonable. But I’d made a mistake. I had bruised his ego. Dickson slammed his fist onto the arm of the sofa. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You think you’ve got more money than me? In this city, I am the money!” I learned later that Dickson was a lottery winner turned slumlord who had been humiliated by old money his entire life. To him, anyone acting superior was a target. He gave a sharp nod. Two men grabbed my arms, pinning me. From a side room, they rolled out a massive, cylindrical glass tank. It was nearly nine feet tall, narrow, and made of thick reinforced acrylic. It looked like a vertical coffin. They started filling it with water. Norah let out a strangled scream. She lunged at Dickson, but a guard kicked her in the stomach, sending her sprawling across the floor. She coughed, gasping for air, but still managed to crawl to his feet, sobbing. “Mr. Dickson, she’s just a child! Please, take me instead! I can hold my breath! Put me in the tank!” 4 Crystal stood over me, grinning. “You’re in for a treat, sweetie. Silas calls this ‘The Golden Three Minutes.’ If you can get out in three minutes, you both walk. If not… well, we seal the lid and watch the show until you stop kicking.” “This is murder!” I screamed. Dickson laughed. “In this zip code, I’m the law.” “Mr. Dickson treats people like you like ants,” Crystal added. “You think you’re special? What, is your family richer than him? Do you have more power? Please.” Dickson checked his watch. “Hurry it up. The Manhattan heavyweights are coming by tonight to talk about the new pier development. I don’t want a mess when they get here.” Crystal’s eyes lit up. “The ones from the Vanderbilt circle? I heard the heir is only here because his little sister is going to school nearby. They say he’d burn the world down for her.” Dickson’s bravado flickered into something like genuine fear. “Exactly. If I want to land that deal, I need to impress them. Crystal, go get that ten-million-dollar vintage watch I won at auction. I want it ready as a gift for the sister if she shows up.” He turned back to me, his face twisting into a sneer. “See that? That’s real royalty. You? You’re just a toy. Throw her in.” I struggled as they lifted me toward the top of the tank. “You’d better let me go! My brother is the man you’re waiting for!” The room went silent for a beat. Then, they erupted into hysterics. “You? The princess of the East Coast?” Dickson doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Then I’m the King of England!” Crystal was laughing so hard she had to lean on the tank. “And I’m the Queen! Come on, ‘Your Highness,’ give us a performance. I’ll make sure to buy plenty of funeral flowers with your ‘royal’ money.” Dickson grabbed a half-full bottle and smashed it against my forehead. “Let’s add some color to the show.” My head rang. The world spun as blood blurred my vision. Splash. The water was ice cold. I gasped, and my lungs burned as I broke the surface. “Start the clock!” someone yelled. I clawed at the sides of the tank, but it was perfectly smooth. There was no grip, no way to climb. The blood from my forehead turned the water into a swirling, pink mist. Through the glass, I saw them. I saw Norah being dragged across the floor, her clothes being torn as she fought them off. She picked up a shard of glass, ready to end her own life to protect her dignity, but they just laughed and kicked her again. I pounded on the glass, my screams turning into a pathetic trail of bubbles. The faces around the tank weren’t human anymore. They were monsters, illuminated by the blue light of the club, grinning at my slow, rhythmic drowning. The three minutes passed. I saw a guard slide the heavy acrylic lid over the top and lock it. Oxygen was a memory. My lungs felt like they were filled with molten lead. My limbs grew heavy, drifting like seaweed in the crimson-tinted water. My vision began to flicker, fading to black. Dickson leaned his face against the glass, his smile a distorted nightmare. “So much for the princess. Toss the body in the alley for the strays.” Suddenly, the heavy double doors of the suite were kicked open. Wyatt strode in, flanked by a wall of men in black suits.

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The rules of Truth or Dare have a brutal clarity on the final night of a reality dating show. The loser has to confess the story behind their most cherished gift. It was Janet who turned the spotlight on Parker, her eyes sparkling with a practiced, feline curiosity. She pointed to the faded red silk cord around his wrist—frayed, salt-worn, and looking entirely out of place against his designer watch. “A lucky charm from a secret lover?” she teased, her voice carrying that effortless flirtatiousness that had made her the season’s fan favorite. Every camera lens in the room pivoted. I felt my stomach drop, my fingers instinctively curling around the identical cord hidden beneath my own sleeve. I had spent an entire afternoon on my knees at a secluded chapel three years ago, praying for our future while that cord was blessed. Now, in front of millions of viewers, Parker didn’t even blink. “Just a lucky string my mom got me,” he said, his voice flat. “Nothing special.” As the group erupted into giggles, Parker reached down, untied the knot, and tossed the cord into the overflowing trash can next to the sofa. In the roar of the celebration, my fingertips went ice-cold. That discarded thread was supposed to bind our fates together. It turned out it couldn’t even hold his interest. When my phone buzzed with a new notification, for the first time in seven years, I didn’t check for his name. I tapped ‘send’ on a draft I’d been holding for weeks. And the recipient wasn’t Parker. 1 The production moved to the living area of the beach house. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the lingering scent of tequila. “Janet, you cheated back there,” the host said, wagging a finger. “Truth or Dare means you answer, not ask. That’s three penalty shots for you!” Janet let out a melodic laugh, pressing a hand to her chest as she leaned back. “Oh, I’m a total lightweight. I’ll be under the table. Parker, be a hero and save me?” The rest of the cast groaned in mock protest, but Janet’s eyes were locked on Parker, wide and pleading. It was the “damsel” act she’d perfected since Episode One. Without a word, Parker reached over, took the shot glass from her hand, and knocked it back. The second shot followed. Then the third. He slammed the empty glass onto the marble coffee table with a decisive clack. “Look at Mr. Knight-in-Shining-Armor,” another contestant smirked. “Confession Night isn’t until tomorrow, Parker. You’re making it a bit obvious, don’t you think?” Parker let out a faint, lopsided smile. “Just helping out a friend. It’s no big deal.” I watched him, a dull ache throbbing behind my ribs. I remembered our college graduation party—how I’d turned down a guy’s confession and the crowd tried to peer-pressure me into drinking. Parker had stood there with a dark scowl, silent. Later, when I’d had a single drink to be polite, he’d spent the rest of the night complaining about the smell of alcohol on my breath. But for Janet, he was a hero. For her, it was “no big deal.” I let out a short, jagged breath of a laugh. Parker’s gaze snapped to me. It was only for a second, but his eyes were hard, carrying a sharp flick of warning. Don’t ruin this, they said. I looked down, my thumb tracing the red cord on my wrist. “Rowan!” I looked up. The host was beaming at me. “Since Parker took the hit for Janet, her question is void. It’s your turn. You’ve been the quiet one all season. Tell us—what’s the most unforgettable gift you’ve ever received?” The room went quiet. Janet was practically draped over Parker’s shoulder now, her silk slip dress sliding dangerously low. Parker’s arm was stretched across the back of the sofa, almost—but not quite—circling her. I stayed silent for a few heartbeats. The bitter taste of irony was heavy on my tongue. “I have a red cord, too,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. “But it wasn’t from my mother.” The cameraman zoomed in. I didn’t look at Parker, but I could feel the air around him stiffen. “I hiked to a chapel in the mountains years ago to get it. It was supposed to ensure a ‘happily ever after’ with the person I loved.” I kept my eyes on the host, ignoring the way Parker’s hand clenched into a fist on his knee. Janet blinked, her expression a mask of manufactured sympathy. “That’s so romantic. So, did you end up with him?” I forced a smile, swallowing the salt in my throat. I looked her right in the eye. “Of course I did.” Parker suddenly broke into a fit of coughing, the veins in his neck bulging. As the others crowded around him with water, he shot me a look of pure venom. The conversation shifted, the laughter filled the room again, and the “quiet moment” was over. During a break in filming, I retreated to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. Parker followed me. He used the open refrigerator door to shield us from the cameras, his voice a lethal whisper. “What the hell was that, Rowan?” “I was answering the question, Parker.” “That’s private. We agreed to keep our history out of this show. You’re going to blow everything.” He paused, his jaw tight. “I threw that cord away for the cameras. It’s a performance. Don’t make it more than it is.” I looked at him, really looked at him, and realized he had no idea how much of a stranger he’d become. I remembered the chapel priest telling me the cord only worked if the heart was sincere. I had knelt for four hours until my legs went numb. I thought I was being devout. I was just being a fool. “Parker,” I whispered. “Do you even remember you have a girlfriend?” Before he could answer, Janet’s voice drifted in from the hall. “Parker? Are you done with those fruit platters yet?” Parker’s entire demeanor shifted instantly. “Almost ready, Princess!” The tone was so natural, so intimately playful—a voice he hadn’t used with me in years. He finished rinsing the grapes and pushed past me, his shoulder clipping mine. “We’ll talk tomorrow when the cameras are off,” he muttered. I watched him set the platter down in front of Janet. She picked up a slice of starfruit, took a bite, and made a face. “Ugh, too sour.” Parker naturally reached out, took the half-eaten fruit from her hand, and finished it himself. I finished my water and looked away. It was time for the final segment of the night: The “Ship Highlights.” 2 The production team projected the “High-Sweet Moments” onto a massive screen. This was the part where the audience’s favorite pairings were showcased, and we had to vote on which couple had the most “chemistry.” The winners would get a “Special Privilege” for the final confession night. Parker and Janet’s first date took up the most screen time. They were at an archery range. Parker was standing behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his hands over hers as he helped her draw the bow. His chin was practically resting on her shoulder. “Lift your elbow,” he whispered on screen. “Control your breathing.” The live-stream comments scrolled past in a blur of heart emojis. OMG, this is literally a Rom-Com. Parker is so smooth. He knew exactly what he was doing picking this date! They look like a power couple. Look at that height difference! On screen, Janet let him “teach” her for a few minutes before smirking. She drew the bow back with perfect form and hit the bullseye. Parker looked stunned, stepping back as a look of genuine admiration flooded his face. “You knew how to do this the whole time?” Janet turned around, handing him the bow with a wink. “I had to give you a reason to put your arms around me, didn’t I?” The screen showed Parker’s ears turning bright red. He looked flustered, shy, and completely smitten. My heart felt like it was being scraped by a dull blade. I had only seen that look on him once before—the night of our high school graduation when we’d snuck into the equipment shed for our first real kiss. In the years since, he’d always said we were “adults now” and needed to “be professional” in public. He’d become so obsessed with his image as a rising songwriter that he’d pushed me into the shadows of his life. The comments were losing their minds. Get them a room! Janet is a literal queen of flirting. Parker is toast. Is this Parker’s first love? He looks so innocent! Even the other contestants were nodding along. “Why are we even voting?” one girl joked. “Just give them the privilege card now. Nobody can compete with that.” I sat in the corner of the sofa, a plush throw blanket pulled over my knees, my fingers white-knuckled as I gripped the fabric. Janet was leaning her head on Parker’s shoulder, whispering something that made him chuckle. “Wait, wait,” the host said, trying to maintain some suspense. “We have to see everyone’s clips. The underdog might still surprise us!” As the reels continued, the girl sitting next to me gasped. “You know, I just noticed something. Rowan, you barely have any solo screen time, but in every group shot, your eyes are always on one person.” The room went deathly silent. Parker’s hand, holding a glass of water, froze mid-air. The host leaned in, sensing blood in the water. “They say the eyes don’t lie. Who were you looking at, Rowan? Who’s the secret crush?” Parker was staring at me, his eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea: Don’t you dare. I let out a soft laugh. I let my gaze drift past Parker, past the cameras, to where Gordom was leaning against the far wall, a cup of black coffee in his hand. Gordom was the “dark horse” of the show—a quiet, brilliant architect who mostly stayed out of the drama. The host followed my gaze and let out an “O” of realization. “Oh! So Rowan has had her sights set on the quiet one all along. You’ve just been shy!” Gordom looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine. There was a flicker of something intense and unreadable in his expression. “I thought she liked—” someone started to say, but Parker cut them off by slamming his glass onto the table. The sharp clink made everyone jump. The crew handed out cards and pens. “Time to vote! Write down the couple with the most genuine connection.” I took my card. In my peripheral vision, I saw Parker writing quickly, his pen flying across the paper. I didn’t need to see it to know what name he was writing. The results were announced immediately. Parker and Janet: Seven votes. A clean sweep. “It’s official! Parker and Janet are the nation’s choice!” The room erupted. Janet turned to Parker with a look of triumph, and he didn’t pull away. He looked back at her with an intensity that felt like a physical blow to my chest. I took my blank card—the one where I hadn’t written a single name—folded it twice, and tucked it into my pocket. Nobody noticed. As the cameras cut, I started down the hall toward my room. I heard heavy footsteps behind me. Parker grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the shadows of the alcove under the stairs. “Since when do you have a thing for Gordom?” he hissed. I looked down at his hand on my wrist. “It’s just for the cameras, Parker. Isn’t that what you told me? Why are you so worked up?” 3 A flash of guilt—or maybe just annoyance—crossed Parker’s face. He didn’t let go. “Are you pissed about the vote?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I told you a thousand times, the stuff with Janet is just branding. You saw the comments. The audience eats that shit up. It’s what my label wants.” He stepped closer, looming over me, his breath warm against my skin. Usually, this proximity would make my heart race. Now, I just felt tired. “You don’t have to explain,” I said. “I didn’t say anything on camera. Your ‘brand’ is safe.” I tried to pull away, but he tightened his grip. “We’ve been together for seven years, Rowan. You know how I feel about you. Why can’t you just trust me for once?” I’d heard that line so many times. He always framed my hurt as a “lack of trust,” making himself the victim of my “insecurity.” But he was the one who threw away the cord. He was the one who drank for Janet. He was the one who had spent six weeks flirting with another woman while I watched from the sidelines. “You’re right,” I said, my voice hollow. “I get it now.” He exhaled, looking relieved. He patted my shoulder as he walked past me. “Good. Just stick to the script.” That night, we were supposed to send our “Heartbeat Texts”—the daily anonymous message to our choice. Out of twenty-one nights, I had sent twenty to Parker. Tonight, the streak ended. The next morning was the final day of filming. The host gathered us in the courtyard. “For our final morning game, we’re doing a classic: Partner Push-ups. The winning pair gets a ‘Special Privilege’ card that could change everything for tonight’s Confession Gala.” The group buzzed with excitement. We all reached into a glass bowl to draw numbered balls for pairings. I was the last to draw. Ball number 3. Parker opened his palm. Ball number 3. The silence that followed was heavy. One of the other guys laughed nervously. “Maybe we should swap? Parker and Rowan haven’t really spent any time together. It’ll be awkward as hell to do partner push-ups.” Janet looked at Parker, a pout forming on her lips. “I don’t care about the rules, but I wonder who Parker would really want to partner with?” Everyone waited. Parker looked at me, his brow furrowed. “Rowan,” he said, his voice low. “Give your ball to Janet.” I looked at the number in my hand. Only last night, he was asking me to “trust his heart.” Now, he was asking me to hand my spot to the woman he was supposedly just “pretending” to like. “It’s just a game,” he added, his voice tinged with impatience. “Don’t take it so seriously.” I looked at him, and for the first time in seven years, the pedestal I’d put him on finally crumbled. He was right. It was just a game. I dropped the ball back into the bowl. “Fine. Take it.” Parker looked stunned for a split second. He probably expected me to put up a fight, to cry, to make a scene. But I was done fighting for a seat at a table where I wasn’t wanted. Suddenly, a hand reached into the bowl and tossed another ball back. “If Rowan is switching, I’m switching too,” Gordom said. He stepped forward, his gaze steady on mine. “Rowan, care to partner with me?” I looked up at him. “I’d love to.” Janet beamed and grabbed Parker’s arm. “Then it’s settled! Let’s go, Parker.” Parker didn’t move. He kept staring at me, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream. I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I walked over to Gordom. “You ever done these?” Gordom asked, his voice a warm baritone. “A few times.” “Do you want to be on top or bottom?” Someone in the back coughed. Gordom’s ears turned pink, and he quickly clarified, “I mean—for the weight distribution—” “It’s okay,” I laughed. “You do the work. I want to win.” He nodded. I lay down on the mat, and he positioned himself over me, his arms caging my body. By the twentieth push-up, his face was flushed, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. “If you’re uncomfortable… we can stop,” he whispered, his eyes locked on mine. “No,” I said, my heart hammering against my ribs. “I want to win.” From the next mat over, Janet’s giggles punctuated the air. “Slow down, Parker! Save some energy for later.” “Parker, you must work out all the time.” “Parker, do you need me to cheer louder?” Her voice was like a mosquito in my ear. I squeezed my eyes shut and gripped the edges of the mat. 4 Gordom won. His grey t-shirt was soaked with sweat, but he didn’t look tired. He looked triumphant. The host stepped forward with a flourish. “Gordom and Rowan take the prize! And here is your privilege card: The power to swap any person’s confession target tonight. The chosen person cannot refuse.” Janet’s eyes widened. Parker’s expression went from annoyed to borderline murderous. After the game, we were sent to our separate rooms to write our final confession letters. If a couple successfully “matched” tonight, they would be sent on an all-expenses-paid luxury date. I sat at my vanity, the blank card staring back at me. I didn’t hesitate. I wrote the name and tucked the card away. There was a knock at the door. Parker walked in without waiting. “Rowan, about tonight… please,” he started. “Don’t pick me.” The words were short, but they hit me like a physical weight. I held my breath, waiting for the rest. I knew he’d rented out an entire amusement park for Janet. I’d overheard the producers talking about ten thousand balloons and a diamond necklace hidden inside one of them. “One in ten thousand”—his way of telling Janet she was the only one. “I don’t want you to do anything impulsive,” he continued, his voice grainy. “Once the show is over, we can—” “Parker,” I interrupted, looking him in the eye. “It’s been seven years. Have I ever been impulsive?” He looked at me, a flicker of something like shame in his eyes. “The only impulsive thing I ever did was hike up that mountain for a piece of string,” I said. He was silent for a long time. Then he noticed my bare wrist. “You took it off? The cord?” He seemed to relax, a small, arrogant smile tugging at his lips. “I get it. You’re hurt. But look, after tonight, I’ll take you back to that chapel. We’ll get a new one together.” After tonight. Always after he was done with whatever was more important than me. A producer knocked on the door. “Five minutes to the Gala!” Parker didn’t say another word. He turned and headed downstairs. The courtyard was transformed. Fairy lights dripped from the trees like liquid gold. The host took the stage, looking like he was about to burst with secrets. “Before we begin, the Privilege Card has been played! Let’s see whose fate has been shifted.” All eyes turned to me. My phone buzzed in my pocket—multiple times. I glanced at it under the table. Parker: I told you not to pick me. Why can’t you just listen? Parker: Even if you confess, I’m going to reject you on live TV. Don’t do this to yourself. Parker: Rowan, don’t make a fool of yourself. Don’t ruin my career. I put the phone away and didn’t reply. Janet was the first on stage. She stood in the spotlight with a bouquet of white roses, her gaze fixed on Parker. “Parker, this journey has been a whirlwind,” she said, her voice trembling with just the right amount of scripted emotion. “Meeting you was the highlight of my year.” The audience (the other contestants and crew) cheered. “Say yes! Say yes!” She walked down and handed the flowers to Parker. He took them, his movements mechanical. When it was his turn, he stood at the mic, his eyes scanning the crowd. He looked at me for a split second—a look of pure warning—then turned to Janet. “I came here looking for inspiration,” he said. “And I found something I didn’t expect…” I stopped listening. I wasn’t looking at him. I was looking at Gordom. When the applause died down, it was my turn. I walked up the petal-strewn aisle. Parker stood up instinctively, then caught himself and sat back down. I gripped the microphone. “The person I’m choosing tonight is…”

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