I lived like a dog for a whole year for my pregnant director, Samantha Vance. I did all her spreadsheets, drove her to prenatal checkups, and even had to wash her stained maternity underwear when she had bladder leaks in her third trimester. She always promised me that once she went on maternity leave, her director position would be mine. Yet, on the first day back to work after the New Year, she walked into the office wearing a skin-tight dress and stiletto heels. Her stomach was as flat as a board. There was no baby. And my promotion announcement was nowhere to be seen. I asked her where the baby was. I asked her about the promotion she promised. She slapped me right across the face. “Who the hell are you cursing on the first day of the year? I don’t even have a boyfriend. Where would I get a baby from?” But my Amazon order history was packed with maternity supplies, and my phone was filled with secret photos of her ultrasounds. I ran around the office, showing my phone to everyone, trying to prove my innocence. But everyone thought I had gone completely insane with jealousy. “She’s desperate for a promotion. Creating fake pregnancy rumors about her own boss? How has this psycho not been fired yet?” Due to a “severe breach of company conduct,” the security guards dragged me out of the building like a dead dog and threw me onto the street. Every time I tried to explain, Samantha had her goons corner me in dark alleys, beating me up and forcing me to get on my knees and apologize. During my last attempt to claw back my phone for the evidence, I was pushed down a flight of stairs. Everything went black as I broke my neck. But then, I opened my eyes again. I was back. Back to the first day of work after the New Year. **1** I sat at my desk, my head spinning. Around me, my coworkers were wishing each other a Happy New Year, and the HR manager was handing out welcome-back coffee gift cards. I wasn’t dead. I was alive. Was everything that happened just a nightmare? I quickly tapped my phone screen. The latest photo in my gallery was a sneaky picture I took of Samantha during her 4D ultrasound. In the photo, Samantha’s face was glowing with maternal warmth. She was looking at the screen, rubbing her belly, her eyes curving into happy crescents. “Elena, you’ve worked so hard this year. Once this little one is out, the director chair is yours.” That was the promise she made me right before the holiday, when she was eight months pregnant. For that promise, I had lived like a dog for a year. When she wanted to drink at corporate dinners, I took the shots for her. I drank so much that I got stomach ulcers and ended up in the ER, only to drag myself back to her apartment to make her hangover soup. When her legs swelled up during her third trimester, I knelt on the floor to massage them, only for her to kick me in the shoulder, complaining my hands were too rough. When she craved a specific smoothie from a shop three miles away during a heavy storm, I biked there to get it. I wiped out on the wet asphalt, my knees bleeding, but I still protected the thermal bag in my arms. And most humiliating of all, when she had bladder leaks late in her pregnancy, I was the one who washed her underwear. Everyone in the office called me “Samantha’s obedient golden retriever.” I was the butt of every joke behind my back. But I didn’t care. My family was from a small town, and my younger brother needed a kidney transplant. I desperately needed the salary and the status of that director position. If being a dog for a year got me the crown, so be it. “Elena, what are you staring at? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The HR manager tossed a coffee card onto my desk. “Get to Samantha’s office. She just arrived and asked for you. Probably wants to talk about your promotion. You’re a lucky girl.” I took a deep breath, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. Samantha was about to pop. She had promised I would take over the department after the holidays. Clutching my phone, I rushed toward the elevator. *Ding.* The doors slid open. My eyes traveled up. Samantha stepped out. She was wearing a tight, cropped top and a miniskirt, showing off a perfectly flat midriff. She carried a limited-edition Chanel bag on her arm. In that second, my brain short-circuited. Where was the belly? Where was the huge, eight-month pregnant belly that made her waddle and hold her lower back? I froze, staring blankly at her flat stomach. She was eight months pregnant. It had only been a ten-day holiday. How could she look like she had never carried a child in her life? “Are you planning to stand there blocking the door all day?” Samantha walked past me, slamming a heavy stack of reports against my chest. “Last month’s data is absolute garbage. Redo it. I want a new proposal on my desk by midnight.” Instinctively, I reached out to touch her waist, my lips trembling. “Sam… your… your baby bump…” *Slap!* Samantha backhanded my hand away with brutal force. “Are you out of your mind? Why are you touching me?” She pulled a sanitizing wipe from her bag, aggressively rubbing the spot I had touched. “Ugh, what a disgusting way to start the morning.” *** **2** The entire open-plan office fell dead silent. Dozens of eyes locked onto us. Ignoring the stinging pain on my hand, I shoved my phone screen right in front of her face. “Sam, where is the baby? We just went to the prenatal checkup before the holidays! Here is the photo! Look! Where is the baby? Did something happen to it?” I was genuinely panicking. That was a life. A baby I had spent a year catering to as if it were royalty. Samantha glanced at my screen. Without even looking closely, she swiped her arm. My phone flew out of my hand, crashing onto the tiled floor and sliding several feet away. “Elena, have you gone completely insane trying to get a promotion? You’re making up sick, disgusting rumors about me being pregnant? I don’t even have a boyfriend! Where would I get a baby? If you’re mentally unstable, go see a psychiatrist, don’t throw a tantrum in my office!” “No boyfriend?” I pointed at the cracked phone on the floor. “Then why did I drink myself to the ER for you? What about the bottles of prenatal vitamins and calcium pills in your cabinet? What about the maternity pads I changed for you?!” “How can you pretend you weren’t pregnant?!” Samantha let out a cold laugh, turning to the whispering crowd. “Do you hear this? You feed a stray dog, and it bites you. I mentored her, and now she’s cursing me, claiming I had an illegitimate child. Elena, you are fired. Pack your things and get out.” “I’m not leaving!” I pushed past Samantha, losing my mind as I sprinted into her private office. I just needed to find proof. I frantically tore open her desk drawers and cabinets, searching for any trace of her pregnancy. But everything was gone. It was as if the baby had never existed. As if my entire year of slaving away for her was just a delusion of my own mind. “Security! Are you guys dead?!” Samantha’s shrill voice echoed from the door. “Get this psycho out of here!” Two beefy security guards rushed in, grabbing me by my arms. “Let go of me! I’m her assistant, I’m looking for proof!” My feet dangled off the ground as I kicked wildly. “Samantha, you monster! You aborted the baby just to clean up your track, and now you’re trying to get rid of me, aren’t you?!” “She’s still spouting nonsense!” Samantha spat. “Drag her out! Toss her into the street!” They dragged me across the floor. My skirt rode up, and the friction against the carpet burned my thighs. As we passed the cubicles, I desperately grabbed a doorframe. “Chloe! At the annual gala, didn’t I drink a whole bottle of whiskey for Samantha? You saw me throwing up blood! Say something!” “Valerie! You saw her morning sickness! You literally asked her if she was expecting! Tell them!” Chloe shrank back into her chair, eyes darting away. “Elena… don’t drag me into this. You just got drunk because you wanted to party. Samantha even paid for your Uber to the hospital…” Valerie kept her head down, typing furiously. “I don’t know anything. Leave me out of your drama.” “Let go!” the guard barked. I screamed as my fingers slipped from the doorframe. *Thud!* They threw me onto the cold concrete sidewalk outside the office building. My phone was tossed out after me, hitting my forehead and instantly raising a painful bump. I refused to believe this was happening. Samantha could buy off my coworkers, she could destroy physical evidence, but she couldn’t silence everyone. Marcus. The company driver. He was the one who drove us to every single prenatal appointment. He was an old, honest guy who had once slipped me a chocolate bar, telling me I was working too hard. A black Buick SUV slowly rolled out of the underground garage. It was Marcus’s car! Ignoring my bruised knees, I ran like a madwoman and threw myself in front of the hood. Before the car could even come to a full stop, I banged on the driver-side window. “Marcus! Marcus, please help me! Tell them! Didn’t you drive Samantha to the OB-GYN clinic this past year? Didn’t you?!” The window rolled down halfway, revealing Marcus’s weathered face. He glanced at Samantha, who was watching from the glass doors of the lobby, and then looked at my disheveled self. “Elena,” Marcus sighed. “Are you under too much stress? When did I ever drive Ms. Vance to a hospital? This past year, I only drove her to client dinners and golf courses. I’ve never been to an OB-GYN.” *** **3** My fingers clawed at the window seal. “You’re lying, Marcus! On the thirteenth of last month, in the freezing snow, the car broke down and I had to push it! We were going to her gestational diabetes screening! Did you forget?!” “Get some help, kid,” Marcus said, rolling up the window so fast it almost caught my fingers. “Don’t try to scam me.” “Still putting on a show?” A smug male voice sounded behind me. I turned around. It was Lucas Sterling. The vice president. Everyone in the office whispered about his secret affair with Samantha. I knew the truth—the baby was his. In my past life, I had walked in on Lucas rubbing Samantha’s bump, whispering, *“Daddy loves you, little angel.”* “Lucas!” I lunged forward like a drowning person catching a life raft, grabbing his leg. “You know the truth, right? That was your baby! Samantha got rid of it, and now she’s blaming me! Just tell the truth, please! I just want to clear my name!” Lucas looked down at me, disgust in his eyes. “Elena, I thought you were just stupid. I didn’t realize you were malicious.” Lucas kicked me square in the chest. He didn’t hold back. The kick sent me flying backward, my spine crashing hard against the concrete edge of a planter. The wind was knocked out of me, and a metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. “Samantha and I are child-free. We hate kids, and everyone in this company knows that. How dare you spread such vile lies, claiming she was carrying my child? You’re defaming my character.” “Defaming?” I choked out. “Lucas, are you even a man? When Samantha had severe morning sickness, you were the one who ordered me to buy those expensive sour plums! You made me boil bird’s nest soup for her! Now the baby is gone, and to protect your VP seat, you’re acting like none of it happened?!” “Where’s your proof?” Lucas pulled a neatly folded expense report from his coat and slapped it onto my face. “You claim you drank for Samantha? Look closely at the entertainment expense reports for the past year. Who signed off as the host?” I grabbed the paper. In bold ink, the signature at the bottom of every single dinner expense was *Lucas Sterling*. “No… this is impossible…” My eyes widened. “I was the one who drank… I got hospitalized… Lucas wasn’t even in the room…” “Then you’re either delusional, or you’ve fabricated a savior complex to force a promotion.” A crowd had gathered around us. Several people were holding up their phones, livestreaming the drama. “Look at this, guys. This is the psycho assistant who tried to ruin her boss with fake pregnancy rumors. Got shut down instantly.” “So disgusting. If she can’t get promoted, she tries to drag everyone down.” “She looked so innocent, who knew she was such a snake?” I stood in the center of the crowd, shivering violently. The memories were rewritten, the evidence was gone, and every witness had turned against me. I was nothing but a joke. So, I called the police. I refused to believe they could bribe the police. I refused to believe medical records could be faked. Inside the interrogation room. Two detectives sat across from me. Beside them sat Samantha, crossing her legs, and Lucas, looking grim. “Detectives, I have proof!” With my swollen, trembling hand, I unlocked my cracked phone. Thank god, it still worked. I tapped on the video file. “Look! This was taken right before the holidays!” I thrust the screen toward the detectives, my voice cracking with desperation. “This is Samantha! Look at her belly! Is that fake? Is that voice AI-generated?!” In the video, Samantha was holding her massive belly, smiling at the camera. *”When the baby is born, I’ll make sure he calls you Auntie Elena.”* The detective frowned as he watched the video, then turned to Samantha. “Ms. Vance, can you explain this?” Samantha calmly opened her designer bag and pulled out a manila envelope. “Detective, with how advanced deepfakes are these days, I’m sure you’re aware of what people can do,” Samantha said, giving me a pitying look. “That video is a complete fabrication. Here, I have my actual medical records from the most prestigious hospital in the city.” *** **4** She emptied the envelope. Several diagnostic sheets with official hospital seals slid onto the table. *Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS).* *Uterine lining thickness: 0.4cm (Severely thin).* *Diagnosis: Primary Infertility.* Samantha pointed at the documents, her eyes welling with tears. “Detective, my greatest pain in life is that I can never be a mother. Elena, as my assistant, knew this. She used deepfake technology to create this video just to mock my trauma and spread rumors in the office… It’s like she stabbed me right in the heart.” The detective picked up the documents, checking the official stamps and security watermarks. They were 100% authentic. “No! This is fake! She bribed the hospital to get these!” I lunged across the table, trying to grab the papers. “Check the surveillance cameras! Check the garage! The cameras must have caught me helping her into the car! Her belly was huge, you can’t fake that on CCTV!” “Be my guest,” Lucas sneered, handing a USB drive to the detective. The detective plugged it in, and the projector on the wall turned on. The footage showed Samantha walking through the garage over the past few months. In every clip, she was wearing fitted dresses, her waist incredibly slender. There was no baby bump. I stared at the screen, my reflection looking back at me like a textbook lunatic. Samantha wiped her tears. “Detective, you see? She has been obsessively stalking me, projecting some weird fantasy onto me. Now that her scheme failed, she’s trying to drag me down.” The detective’s gaze turned cold as he looked at me. “Ms. Miller,” he said, closing his notebook. “Based on the evidence, you are being charged with harassment, defamation, and public disturbance…” “I didn’t do it! I’m not crazy!” I screamed in despair. “That’s enough.” Lucas stood up, straightening his tie as his lawyer handed over a document. “Since Ms. Miller’s actions have severely damaged our company’s reputation and caused our stock price to dip today, we are suing her for $300,000 in damages. We also demand she be detained immediately.” Three hundred thousand dollars. Even if I sold my organs, I couldn’t pay that. I stared at my cracked phone on the table. It was my only hope. I snatched for it. “Still trying to destroy evidence?” Lucas reacted instantly, grabbing my arms and slamming me face-first onto the metal interrogation table. Samantha leaned down, whispering in my ear. “Elena, for the sake of our past year, I’ll give you one chance.” She pointed to the concrete floor of the precinct. “Kneel down right now. Give me three deep bows, record a video admitting you’re a delusional psycho who made up stories because you wanted to sleep with Lucas, and we’ll settle this quietly. I’ll drop the charges and the lawsuit.” If I knelt and recorded that video, I would be a social pariah forever. My name would be ruined, and I would never be able to clear it. “Go… to… hell…” I spat through my teeth. “I’ll see you both in prison…” Lucas snapped. “You ungrateful bitch!” He grabbed me by my hair. *Crack!* He slammed my forehead against the edge of the metal table. A blinding pain exploded in my skull. My ears rang loudly, but through the static, I could still hear Samantha’s soft, wicked chuckle. “Some people just have to learn the hard way.” My body went limp, slipping onto the floor. My consciousness began to drift. Before I blacked out completely, my blurry vision focused on the digital calendar hanging on the wall of the interrogation room. The glowing red numbers were pulsing. And then, everything clicked.

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Julian shot down two roses that day — hers and mine, and I become his legal wife. Selene, the illegitimate daughter of the Archer family, was the woman he actually wanted — but my family’s name forced him to put a ring on my finger. So he gave her one as well. Called it “equal.” It was never equal. Because after the wedding, Julian gave Selene everything. His time. His attention. His love. “You got the title,” he told me once, not even looking up from his phone. “Selene’s the one who suffered. You have the name, Vivienne. Stop fighting her for the rest.” So I wore the family ring. I managed the house. I handled the books, the staff, the events. And I slept alone. Every single night. I wasted away in that house. By the time my body finally gave out, I barely had the strength to ask him one question. “If you never loved me — why did you marry me?” Julian looked at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. “I was aiming for the red rose that day. Yours wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near it. But you put your flower right next to hers so I’d hit both.” His jaw tightened. “Your family forced my hand. I had to marry you because of the Ashworth name. Selene paid the price for years. And you still weren’t satisfied?” He exhaled. Slow. Relieved. “Now that you’re gone — it’ll just be the two of us. Finally.” I died with those words ringing in my ears. And then I opened my eyes. The sun was blinding. The air smelled like gardenias. I was standing on the Crane estate lawn, surrounded by a hundred guests in summer whites, and Julian Crane was raising a pistol toward a row of roses strung across a wire. The Rose Ceremony. The Crane family tradition. The heir shoots. The rose that falls decides his bride. I’d lived this day before. Last time, my white rose hung right next to Selene’s red one. His bullet tore through both. Two roses fell. Two women married him. One was loved. One was buried. Not this time. I reached up, unclipped my white rose from the wire, and slipped it into my pocket. The gunshot cracked through the air. The red rose exploded off the wire and tumbled to the ground. One rose. One bride. The crowd erupted. “Beautiful shot.” “Whose rose was that?” “It has to be the Ashworth girl’s, right? She and Julian grew up together — their families have been planning this match for years. Who else would he choose?” “Jealous? Maybe you could ask the Cranes to take you on as a mistress.” “Oh, stop. Julian and the Ashworth girl are solid. He’d never do that to her.” A girl nudged my arm, grinning. “Vivienne, congratulations! You’re about to be Mrs. Crane.” Across the lawn, I could see Selene Archer’s face draining white. Her lower lip trembled. Her eyes glistened. I said nothing. Up on the terrace, Victoria — Julian’s mother — smiled and waved me over. “Vivienne, sweetheart. Come here.” The women around her laughed. “Don’t be shy, dear. He shot your rose — it’s fate.” I smiled. Took one step forward. But I didn’t go to them. Instead, I curtsied — just enough to be polite — and said, “Victoria, I’m flattered. But that red rose isn’t mine. I didn’t put one up. I wonder which lucky girl caught your son’s eye.” The lawn went dead silent. Then the whispers broke out everywhere. “It’s not hers? Then whose is it?” “Mrs. Crane —” A soft voice cut through the noise. “The red rose is mine.” Selene Archer stepped forward. White dress. Teary eyes. Fragile as glass — but stealing a glance at Julian like she’d already won. Victoria’s smile froze solid on her face.

Victoria stared at Selene for a long moment. “I don’t think we’ve met,” she said, her voice cool. “Whose daughter are you?” Mrs. Archer scrambled out of her seat. “Mrs. Crane, my husband just took a position at the city clerk’s office — we only recently moved to New York. Selene is our daughter. She doesn’t get out much, which is why you haven’t seen her before.” She didn’t say illegitimate. But she didn’t need to. Everyone in that garden already knew. A minor city clerk’s daughter — and not even his legitimate one. Victoria’s expression went dark. She said nothing. She turned to look at Julian. Julian had already put the gun down. He walked straight across the lawn, past every guest, past every daughter of every family that mattered in this city — and stopped in front of Selene. He took her hand. Led her to his mother. “Mom. Selene is kind, graceful, and everything I want. I choose her.” Victoria glanced at me. I could read her face like a headline: this is a disaster. “Julian,” she said carefully, “the ceremony can be unpredictable. One shot shouldn’t decide everything. Why don’t we have the girls do something else — a second round? Something to make sure.” A few girls nodded. They all knew what a “second round” meant. Victoria was handing me the win on a silver platter. Everyone turned to look at me. Before Julian or Selene could respond, I stepped forward. “Victoria, the rules of the Rose Ceremony are clear — the shot decides the bride. Julian chose Selene’s rose. If we change the rules now, it wouldn’t be fair to her.” Julian jumped in immediately. “Vivienne’s right. Mom, this is fate. Selene is the one I want. There’s no need for another round.” Victoria looked at me with open disappointment. “Vivienne, you know I’ve always adored you. You’re exactly the kind of woman this family needs.” Julian cut her off. “Mom, I’ve always seen Vivienne as a little sister. I never once thought of marrying her.” Selene squeezed Julian’s hand. She shot me a look — quick, satisfied — then put on her apologetic face. “Julian can be a little blunt. Please don’t take it to heart, Vivienne.” She paused, then smiled sweetly. “But if you really do have feelings for him… after the wedding, maybe I could talk him into finding a place for you. We could be like sisters under the same roof.” My mother shot to her feet. The entire garden held its breath. Asking an Ashworth to play second to a nobody’s bastard daughter? Mrs. Archer grabbed Selene’s arm. “Shut your mouth,” she hissed. Julian knew Selene had gone too far. He stepped in fast. “Vivienne, she didn’t mean it like that. Selene’s just — she’s new here, she doesn’t understand how things work. She’s young. She didn’t know what she was saying.” I smiled. “Julian, we grew up together, so I’ll give you this one for free — Selene is actually two years older than me.” “If she still ‘doesn’t understand how things work’ and ‘doesn’t know what she’s saying’ at her age, I’d be worried about bringing her into the Crane family.” I tilted my head. “The wives in the Five Families will eat her alive. And when they do, it won’t be the Ashworth name they laugh at — it’ll be yours.” Selene’s face flushed red. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She turned to Julian with trembling lips. “I just got to New York — I don’t know the rules yet. But Vivienne is supposed to be from a powerful family. Is this how powerful women talk? By being cruel?” I kept my smile. “You just got here, so I’ll give you a pass. But in this circle? What I just said is considered polite.” “Trust me — the other wives won’t be this gentle.” Before Selene could fire back, Victoria’s voice cut through like a blade. “Enough.” She looked at Julian, cold. “You’ve made your choice. Fine. But hear me clearly — the woman who walks into this family as your wife must know how to carry herself. If she can’t, I don’t care if she has a ring on her finger. I will never accept her.” The garden was silent. Selene’s tears kept falling. Julian held her close, jaw tight. And I felt nothing.

The party ended. I was heading for the car when Julian caught up to me. “Vivienne.” He stepped in front of me, blocking the door. “Are you upset about today?” He had the nerve to look guilty. Like he was a good man who’d done a hard thing. “You and I grew up together. Our families wanted us to end up together. I always thought I’d marry you too.” He paused. “But then I met Selene.” “The moment I saw her, I knew. Everything I felt before — for you, for anyone — that wasn’t love. She’s the one, Vivienne. She’s the one I’m supposed to be with.” He said it like a confession. Like I should be moved. All I felt was cold. Because I’d heard this speech before. In another life. Right before years of empty rooms and slow death. I buried the chill crawling up my spine and stepped back. “Julian, I don’t know what you’re talking about. My parents never discussed a match with the Cranes. And actually — my family’s already working out a deal for me. The engagement will be announced soon.” I kept my voice light. “If I ever gave you the wrong impression, I apologize.” Julian didn’t even blink. Like he hadn’t heard a word. “Vivienne, don’t be stupid. You’re an Ashworth — you know what that’s worth. I’ll marry Selene. She’ll have the title. But I’ll set you up too.” He took a step closer. “Your own place. Your own account. A ring on your finger. You’ll run the household — Selene wouldn’t know where to start. Everyone will still call you Mrs. Crane. No one will disrespect you.” “The three of us — we can make this work.” He reached for my hand. I pulled back. Hard. “Watch yourself, Julian.” My voice came out sharp enough to make him flinch. “I have an engagement coming. You and I are done. Keep your distance.” Julian sighed like I was being difficult. “I know you’re embarrassed about what happened today. I’ll stop by your house and apologize in person. I’ll make it right.” He tilted his head, almost amused. “Vivienne — you know how this world works. Every man in the Five Families has a wife and a mistress. That’s just how it is.” “Even an Ashworth woman can’t expect her husband to have no one else.” “I know today wasn’t ideal. But the deal I’m offering you? It’s more than fair. The wedding, the terms — I’ll match everything Selene gets. Dollar for dollar.” I didn’t answer. I turned and got in the car. He followed. He was still talking when my mother came out of the house. She saw Julian standing by our car and her face turned to stone. “Julian. You have a fiancee now. It’s not appropriate for you to be seen with my daughter. Your reputation is your business — but Vivienne’s? I won’t let anyone put a scratch on it.” Julian straightened up. He always behaved around my mother. “Mrs. Ashworth, I just wanted to talk to Vivienne. Today was my fault.” He lowered his voice. “When I work out the terms, I’ll make sure Vivienne is taken care of. A proper wedding. The full thing — cathedral, reception, the whole nine yards.” My mother stared at him. “An Ashworth woman does not share a husband. Not as a wife. Not as a mistress. Not as anything.” Julian opened his mouth. “Drive,” my mother told the chauffeur. The car pulled away. Julian shrank in the rearview mirror. I didn’t understand what he was doing. In our past life, he’d been so obsessed with Selene that I was invisible to him. This time, he was just as obsessed — so why was he clinging to me? It didn’t matter. His engagement to Selene was all over New York within days. The Archers couldn’t contain themselves. Mrs. Archer threw party after party, telling anyone who’d listen that her daughter was marrying into the Crane family. Victoria was disgusted. Her son had lost his mind over an illegitimate girl from a nobody family, and now the whole city knew. Every time she saw another Five Families wedding announcement, she wanted to scream. When it came time to discuss the terms of the marriage, Victoria barely put anything on the table. Her assistant asked if it wasn’t enough. Victoria smiled coldly. “If we offer too much, it’ll look like we’re buying the girl. And what would the Archers put up in return? A walk-up in Queens and a used Honda?” She waved her hand. “The terms should match what her family can bring to the table. Anything more would just embarrass them.”

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Every time Conrad brought a mistress home, he brought a man for me as well. “I need novelty. You need company. We each get what we want, so neither of us has the right to complain,” he always said. Then his mistress got pregnant, and he brought home yet another man. This time, he informed me coldly, “Sherry won’t have the baby unless I give her a proper title. We’ll divorce for now. Before we remarry, you can get to know him. I won’t stop you.” In private, someone asked him, “Conrad, that’s the wife you knelt through ninety-nine stone steps to win back. Are you really willing to let her sleep with another man?” Conrad merely took a slow drag of his cigarette. “Everyone knows Cecilia has a purist streak when it comes to love. She won’t touch him.” Just as everyone assumed I would do what I had done before, write the man a check and send him away, I smiled. “All right. I’ll do as you say.” … The cigarette between Conrad’s lips stilled. Someone nearby sucked in a sharp breath. “She agreed?” “No way. She’s not kicking him out this time?” Conrad quickly recovered his careless expression. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, walked over, and patted my shoulder. “Enjoy yourself.” Then he put an arm around Sherry and headed upstairs. Behind me, whispers rustled through the room. “Is Cecilia serious this time?” “Oh, please. She loves Conrad too much. I bet she’ll still write that guy a check and send him packing.” “Conrad got someone pregnant this time. She’s probably just putting on a show to make him jealous.” I clenched my fists and walked forward with Adrian. They were right. Before this, every time Conrad brought another man to me, I handed him a check with a cold face and drove him away. I thought that was loyalty to my marriage. I thought that at least I was cleaner than Conrad. In the end, Sherry’s belly began to swell. What my so-called purity earned me was a divorce agreement, a bed I slept in alone, and the mocking eyes of everyone in the living room. I pushed open the bedroom door. When I turned around, I bumped straight into Adrian’s chest.

The tips of Adrian’s ears flushed faintly red. I gave a light cough and sat on the bed, pretending to be calm. “You sell yourself for money?” I asked. He nodded. The old me probably would have sneered, tossed him a check, told him to “take the money and get out,” and thought he was filthy. But really, among these people, who was filthier than Conrad? “Go take a shower.” I glanced at the divorce agreement on the bedside table and spoke quietly. For the past three years, I had turned a blind eye to Conrad’s absurd behavior. Because I loved him, I retreated step by step, while he pushed further and further. Now that we were both tired of this marriage… It was time for it to end. I picked up the pen and signed my name. Adrian came out of the shower just then, his hair still damp. The moment he saw me, the tips of his ears reddened visibly. “I’m done showering…” At the same time, my phone lit up. A message from Conrad: 【Go to bed early.】 I almost laughed. He had never sent me messages like that before. He had never cared about my daily life. But today, he did. Was it because I had kept Adrian? Was it because he had finally realized that Cecilia, the woman who had always been loyal to him, might truly be changing? I did not reply. I untied the belt of Adrian’s robe, slipped my hand inside, and pressed my palm against his abs. The lights went out, and we fell onto the bed kissing.

Early the next morning, I pressed a hand against my aching waist. We had done it several times last night. Adrian’s stamina in bed was almost terrifying. When I went downstairs, Adrian was in the kitchen helping the housekeeper. The moment he saw me, his ears turned red again. I smiled. I had just sat down at the dining table when Conrad came downstairs. He sat across from me, wearing an unreadable smile. “How was last night?” Before I could answer, the front door was pushed open. Conrad’s friend Mike rushed in cheerfully. “I bet she kicks him out by noon!” Jack followed right behind him. “Conrad, I bet she kicked that guy out last night—” His voice stopped abruptly. When he saw me, his expression shifted from excitement to embarrassment. “Cecilia… morning!” Conrad lifted the coffee beside him and took a sip, looking perfectly relaxed. As if his friends treating his marriage like entertainment was something to be proud of. I stood and walked toward the kitchen. “You should go. About what we discussed last night, we’ll talk later.” Adrian froze for a moment. Joy flashed in his eyes. He took off the apron, turned, and left. The front door closed. The living room fell silent for two seconds. Jack lowered his voice deliberately. “See? She still kicked him out.” Mike laughed. “Conrad really knows how to train a wife. That’s the kind of woman you marry. From now on, Conrad can have as many lovers as he wants. I’m jealous.” Conrad sat at the table, listening to them with the corners of his mouth curved. I exhaled and walked out of the dining room. Conrad and I spoke almost at the same time. “Come back to the old house with me for dinner tonight…” “Go to city hall at two this afternoon and finalize the divorce…”

Everyone froze. I placed the signed divorce agreement on the table. “Let’s get the divorce done first.” Conrad’s gaze fell on my signature. He did not move. Only after a long while did he look up at me. “What’s the rush? Didn’t I say we’d wait until Sherry’s pregnancy was more stable?” I sneered. “You don’t want to wait until I change my mind and tear up the agreement again, do you?” The atmosphere stiffened for several seconds. Then Sherry came downstairs. “Cecilia, please don’t be anxious. I just don’t want my child to be called illegitimate after he’s born. You don’t have to pressure Conrad like this.” As she spoke, her eyes reddened. Conrad looked at her pitiful face and suddenly laughed. “Cecilia, you think I don’t dare sign?” He picked up the pen from the table and signed his name quickly. Afterward, he threw the pen down hard. “Don’t worry. Once Sherry gives birth, we’ll remarry.” He stood and leaned close to my ear. “You’re the woman I stole back from hell. Out of all those things outside, which one could ever compare to you?” “This child will be raised by you later. Only you are qualified to raise him. Understand?” I said nothing. I dragged out the suitcase I had already packed and left. Behind me, Sherry’s soft voice drifted over. “Conrad, she… won’t really refuse to come back, will she?” Conrad glanced at Sherry. “Now that Cecilia’s gone, you must be secretly delighted.” “Of course not!” Sherry pouted. “My upbringing would never allow me to destroy someone else’s marriage…” As she spoke, she lowered her head and touched her belly. “Everything is for the child.” That wronged little expression instantly dissolved Conrad’s temper. “All right, don’t cry. I was only teasing you.” I took a deep breath and quickly left with my suitcase.

At one fifty that afternoon, I sat on a bench at city hall. I called Conrad for the tenth time. Still no answer. I found my lawyer’s number and sent a message. 【Help me file for divorce through litigation. I’ll send you the materials this afternoon.】 That night, after Conrad’s father, Old Blackwell, urged me several times, I still went back to the old house. Not long after I arrived, the door opened. Conrad walked in with his arm around Sherry. When he saw me, he froze. Old Blackwell’s face darkened. “You bastard. You bring just anyone into this house now?” Conrad sat down with Sherry in his arms, his tone easy. “Dad, it’s just dinner. Do you need to be this angry?” Then he glanced at me. “I thought you weren’t coming, so I brought her. Today is her occasion. Don’t make trouble.” I gave a small laugh. We were not even divorced yet, and he had already brought his mistress to meet his parents. Back then, on the day Conrad proposed to me, I was unexpectedly diagnosed with an illness. To avoid holding him back, I cruelly rejected him. But Conrad ran to the church and knelt his way up the stone steps one by one. Ninety-nine steps. His knees were scraped raw, all to pray that I would recover. When I found out, I cried bitterly and finally agreed to marry him. At the time, I thought true love could overcome anything. “So this is the pregnant mistress? Shameless.” Conrad’s mother’s voice interrupted my thoughts. Almost instinctively, he frowned and pulled Sherry closer. “Mom, you don’t get to criticize my woman.” Sherry leaned against him with red eyes. She always looked as if the entire world had wronged her. I found it boring and stood indifferently. “I’ll leave first.” The moment I walked out of the Blackwell family gates, I suddenly remembered something. Back then, his prayer had been: “Even if Cecilia never stays with me, as long as she is healthy, that’s enough.” Well then. He got his wish.

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The Praise Moon Festival, open to all unmated beastkin in the tribe, was held once every three years. Whoever caught a moonflower could enter a binding contract ceremony. I had planned to stay home. But Ash, my fiancé, loved a spectacle. He signed me up without asking. So I pulled my brother James and my childhood friend Liam aside. “Tomorrow, three females will toss their moonflowers at the same time. If Ash can’t catch mine, you two need to make sure you grab it for me.” They both nodded and promised. But when my moonflower fell, they charged toward Chloe—a rabbit beastkin from our tribe—and helped Ash catch hers instead. My moonflower landed squarely in the hands of Rex, a lone dragon beastkin who’d lost three mates and was about to leave the territory for good. My heart hammered with panic. I went straight to the Elder to negotiate the return of my moonflower and cancel the binding contract. But at the corner of the hall, I overheard the three of them whispering. James spoke first, addressing my fiancé. “Ash, you caught Chloe’s moonflower. By tribal law, you’ll have to enter a contract with her. What are we going to do about my sister?” Ash cradled Chloe’s moonflower like something precious. “What can we do? It’s just a ceremony. It’s not like we’d have to register it with the Alliance. It’s a fake wedding, nothing more.” “At least this way, Chloe’s mother will stop pressuring her to marry.” “As for Iris—worst case, she throws a fit, refuses the contract, and gets her tribal mark erased. She’s a female avian beastkin. What difference does it make whether she stays on the Clan Register or not?” Liam chuckled in agreement. “Iris has always believed in the Moon God’s blessings. Just sweet-talk her a little, and she’ll go along with your contract with Chloe.” I stood frozen in place, a bitter smile pulling at my lips. They’d all forgotten. Staying on the Clan Register to inherit my mother’s land was the dream I’d carried my entire life. It was the reason I needed to marry in the first place. And now the Moon God had given a sign. How could I possibly refuse? … The walk home was short. When I pushed through the door, James was the first to greet me, his voice low and urgent. “So? You went to the Elder to refuse the contract. What did he say?” Our parents looked over too. I hung my coat on the hook by the door. “Nothing much.” My father slammed his teacup down on the table. “If you refuse the contract, you know what that means—tribal law demands your mark be erased. Don’t come crying about it later.” “You’ve been with Ash for eight years. How did you let something like this happen?” I said nothing. After all these years, I was used to it. Whenever something went wrong, he blamed me. Never stood up for me. Never once felt sorry for what I went through. He only ever cared about Chloe, because Chloe was his first love’s daughter. Anything involving the Bennett family, and he’d take their side without a second thought. Even when it was never my fault. My mother had always been timid, silent in the face of my father and James’s favoritism. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then simply pushed a bowl of hot corn chowder toward me. I glanced at her and felt nothing I hadn’t already made peace with. As long as she was safe and well, that was enough. I could marry anyone. The doorbell rang just as I sat down. James went to answer it. Ash and Liam walked in side by side. Chloe trailed behind them. The moment she stepped inside, she called out in that sweet, clinging voice of hers, “Uncle! I’m here to mooch dinner!” Her rabbit ears drooped slightly, and she gazed up at my father with that coy look of hers. He beamed, couldn’t stop grinning. “Sit, sit, come sit down!” He pulled out a chair for her himself. They’d just come back from the sanctuary, where the Moon God’s blessing had been confirmed. Chloe’s moonflower had landed right in Ash’s arms. By tribal law, they were now “destined by the Moon God.” As for whether I accepted or refused the contract—none of them cared either way. Chloe settled into the seat beside Ash. He forked a piece of barbecued rib onto her plate first, then seemed to remember I existed and dropped a chunk of roasted bell pepper into my bowl. “You should eat too, Iris.” I looked down at it. I set it aside without a word. I’d hated bell peppers since I was a child. Was he so giddy from catching his sweetheart’s flower that he’d forgotten even that? At dinner, James started cracking jokes. “Rex showing up to the Praise Moon Festival—can you imagine? The guy must be desperate for a wife.” Liam leaned in eagerly. “Right? He’s been in the western territory less than three months. Word is he killed off three mates before he got here. Dragon bloodline or not, who’d marry a cursed beast?” My father took a sip of tea. “Tribal law says whoever catches the moonflower enters the contract. There was a bit of a mix-up today, but Ash and Chloe—their contract stands.” “Chloe and her mother have had it hard enough. They can’t lose their tribal marks. Everything else can wait.” My mother spoke up, her voice tight. “But what about Iris—” “And whose fault is that?” My father cut her off, his tone sharp. “She couldn’t even convince the Elder herself.” “When the time comes, Ash and Iris can register at the Alliance. For now, we follow tribal rules.” My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she could only lower her head. I was about to tell her not to worry when Ash took my hand. His voice was patient enough. “Iris, nobody wanted this to happen today. Three moonflowers fell at once—it was chaos.” “I didn’t expect to catch Chloe’s either.” “Once things settle down here, we’ll go register at the Alliance. Nobody’s going to remember a ceremony. Okay?” I took a sip of soup and nodded. “Okay.” He blinked. I rarely gave in that easily. In the past, I would have made a fuss, waited for him to coax me, dragged it out a little before letting it go. But his surprise lasted only a moment. Then he released my hand, quick and relieved, like he’d finally set down something heavy. He turned to Chloe, his gaze soft. “What about you, Chloe?” Her face flushed instantly. The tips of her rabbit ears trembled. “My mom insisted I enter the Festival. She wanted me married off. I didn’t have a choice. But at least it was you who caught my flower.” “I’ll do whatever you all decide.” Everyone laughed and launched into plans—how grand the ceremony should be, which band to hire for the Moon God hymns. No one remembered that I was supposed to be Ash’s bride. I finished my meal in silence and set down my fork. “You all keep talking. I’m full.” The chair legs scraped against the floor. The table went quiet for a beat. As I walked away, I heard Chloe whisper, “Is Iris upset?” Ash reassured her gently. “Don’t overthink it. Iris isn’t the sensitive type. She’s probably just tired from the Festival.” My steps faltered for just a moment. So that’s how useful the word “tired” was. It could explain away every grievance, silence every question, and let everyone feel perfectly justified.

I walked out into the yard. The moon hadn’t risen yet. Only the stars scattered coldly across the sky. “Iris.” Ash followed me out, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers. “You barely ate. Are you angry?” “Yes.” Honest as always. He laughed once and stubbed out the cigarette. “Don’t be petty about this. It’s your tribe’s customs that caused the mess. Three flowers dropped at once—who could tell them apart?” “Like I said, the tribal ceremony doesn’t count. Once we register at the Alliance—” “Ash.” I cut him off. He paused. I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. “From the very beginning, I told you I didn’t want to enter the Praise Moon Festival.” This was the tribe’s marriage tradition. It meant the Moon God had witnessed two souls and joined them as one. For thousands of years, the tribe had believed in it. I respected that belief. I didn’t want to participate because I already had Ash. I didn’t want to make a mockery of the Moon God’s will. But he’d had James put my name on the list. By the time I found out, my name was already recorded. There was no taking it back. Back then, I had no idea Chloe was also entering. He stared at me for a second. “It’s already happened. What’s the point of bringing this up now?” “You’re right. Nothing I say matters, because you never listen.” Ash frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. That look on his face—I’d seen it for eight years. Impatience, barely held in check. “Iris, what’s the point of digging up old grievances? The Festival was an accident. There was nothing I could do. If you’re really that unhappy, I’ll have someone talk to the Elder tomorrow. We’ll just go through the motions—keep it simple so you don’t lose face.” I looked at him. “Just go through the motions?” “A binding contract means marriage. Everyone in this tribe understands that. Are you really going to pretend you don’t?” Ash pinched the bridge of his nose. “Iris, be reasonable—” “Reasonable?” I let out a short laugh. “When I try to reason with my father, he says I’m talking back. When I try to reason with my mother, she tells me not to take things so seriously. When I try to reason with James, he calls me petty.” “I thought being with you would be different. But it turns out you’re exactly the same.” His mouth opened. “I didn’t—” “You didn’t listen to me,” I said. “You just assumed I’d give in eventually.” The way my father assumed I’d shut up in the end. The way my mother assumed I’d swallow it. The way James assumed I’d shrug it off. “Iris…” His voice softened. He reached for me. I stepped back and turned into the darkness. The plume feathers along my spine shivered in the night wind, as if they, too, were trembling on my behalf. Behind me, his footsteps followed for two paces, then stopped. Chloe’s soft voice drifted over—”Ash, what happened?”—and someone inside called him back to discuss the ceremony. He didn’t come after me. Three years ago, when he proposed, his eyes had been full of light—bright and warm and all for me. Now that light had gone somewhere I couldn’t find.

I stayed out until late. No one came looking for me. When I returned, they were all gathered in the yard around a bonfire, setting off fireworks. Beside them sat roses, wine, and grilled meat that Ash had prepared. Chloe held a sparkler, her face lit by the glow. A few stray sparks clung to her rabbit ears. “Ash, do you think Iris will be upset? Us having fun out here like this…” James waved his sparkler dismissively. “Upset about what? Chloe, you’re too kind. The more you worry about her, the more entitled she gets. Just ignore her.” Liam chimed in with a grin. “Exactly. Don’t waste your energy on her. Think about it—Ash caught your moonflower, of all people. If that’s not fate, what is? The Moon God himself is matchmaking for you two.” Chloe’s blush deepened, her ear tips drooping shyly. “Stop saying things like that. Iris would be upset if she heard…” Ash chuckled but didn’t deny it. “The Elder says all three couples from the Festival will hold their ceremonies together.” “One pair refused the contract, so it’s down to two.” “I won’t let anyone outshine you. I’m going to make sure your ceremony is perfect.” After all, this was the only thing he could give her. A small compensation for her feelings—the ones he couldn’t accept. Chloe lowered her head, her voice thin as thread. “But my gown won’t be ready in time. I’ll have to wear something plain.” James laughed. “Ash already thought of that. He had Iris’s dress altered to your measurements.” Chloe looked up. “Really? But what about Iris?” “She won’t need it.” Ash struck a match and lit Chloe’s sparkler. Silver sparks showered down across his shoulder. I couldn’t move. That dress. I’d had it made by a friend in the tribe who specialized in traditional craft. I’d used feathers from my own molting season, sewn on one by one. There was only one like it in the world. Ash had volunteered to oversee the progress. He’d taken my measurements himself. But when the dress arrived, it was too tight. Now I understood why. The March night wasn’t cold anymore, but a chill crept down my spine in waves. “But getting your tribal mark erased—that hasn’t happened to anyone in thirty years. Iris must be devastated.” Ash reached over and tapped Chloe’s nose with his finger. “You almost ended up married off to a stranger, and you’re still worrying about someone else.” His voice carried a smile—intimate, certain. “Iris does what her father and brother tell her at home. Once she’s married, she’ll do what her husband says. Getting removed from the Clan Register isn’t a big deal.” “Did you see her stand up to me today? She didn’t. She was calmer than I expected. She’s afraid I’ll actually leave her.” Chloe’s voice went small and muffled. “I just think Iris is so pitiful…” “Pitiful?” Ash looked down at her. “All she’s doing is giving up her spot in the tribe to you. Outside of here, nothing changes.” The night breeze carried his cigarette smoke and his laughter straight to where I stood. I gathered my emotions, packed them away neatly, and walked back in.

The yard went half-silent the moment they saw me. Ash still had an unlit cigarette between his fingers. Chloe scurried over and grabbed my sleeve, her rabbit ears quivering. “Iris! You’re back! I was just about to come find you—” I raised my hand to pull free. She tumbled backward with a little yelp and landed on the ground. The sparkler rolled away across the stones. “Chloe!” Ash closed the distance in three strides, shoving me aside. I stumbled back, tripped over the pile of spent firework casings, and went down hard. My palms hit the hot debris. The burn seared through me and I curled inward. James and Liam rushed over too. They hovered around Chloe like she was made of glass, helping her up with the tenderest hands. Not one of them looked at me. Ash turned his head in my direction. His eyes were blazing. “What the hell is wrong with you?” “Chloe was just worrying about you running off. She was worried about your safety.” “And you come back and shove her? Is that how you were raised?” The pain in my palms throbbed upward in waves. Moonlight fell across my hands. Blisters were already rising. He noticed me cradling my hand, and his tone softened—barely. “…Are you okay?” I didn’t look at him. I braced myself against the ground and stood up on my own. A laugh escaped me. “Worried about my safety. So worried she’s out here setting off fireworks to celebrate.” Ash faltered. “What are you talking about? Fireworks after the Praise Moon Festival—isn’t that your tribe’s tradition?” Yes. Tradition. But what did any of it have to do with me? “Move.” My voice was quiet. His brow furrowed. “You shoved someone and you’re just going to walk away without apologizing?” I looked up at him. My palm pulsed with every heartbeat. “Apologize?” I said. “Ask her. Did I even touch her?” Ash didn’t turn around, but behind him, Chloe let out a soft, wet sniffle. That single sound swallowed whatever words he might have said. “Iris, for both our sakes, you’d better apologize right now.” “If you really cared about us,” I said, looking straight at him, “you’d walk out of here with me. Right now.” “Go register at the Alliance. Forget Chloe. Forget the Moon God’s blessing. Forget everything about this Festival. Do you dare?” His lips moved. I waited for him to speak. Waited for him to take that one step toward me. But he hesitated. His head turned, just slightly, and he saw Chloe sitting on the steps, gazing up at him. Those red eyes, glistening and wet. Those rabbit ears, drooping like wilted petals. “Iris…” His voice sank low. “Don’t push me like this. There’s no rush for us. Chloe, she—” “Forget it.” I cut him off and brushed the ash from my skirt. “I was joking.” I already knew the answer. Why force him to say it out loud? Behind me, Chloe choked out, “Iris got burned. Let me get the first aid kit—” Ash grabbed her arm immediately, his voice going hard. “Leave her. She’s the one who shoved you first. Who is this act for?” I pushed open the bedroom door and walked inside. The footsteps outside faded. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my hand. The burn had blistered right across the softest part of my palm. It hurt. It hurt so much that everything went numb.

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A sudden fire broke out in the underground archives. My boyfriend of three years, Alfred, kicked away the fire extinguisher I was using to prop up a heavy steel bookshelf—all just to protect Vivian, an intern who had only sprained her ankle. “It’s just a stupid metal can. Don’t let it trip Vivian.” He carried Vivian in his arms, rushing out of the raging fire without once looking back. He left me pinned under a shelf weighing hundreds of pounds, suffocating in the thick, black smoke. I dragged myself out of the fire and spent three days and nights fighting for my life in the ICU. Meanwhile, he posted a photo on Instagram of Vivian eating imported organic cherries in a luxury private hospital room. The caption read: “A false alarm. Thank God I protected my girl.” He even stole the core architectural blueprints I had stayed up for three months to draw, using them to kiss up to the global architectural giant, “Asterion Group.” My coworkers mocked me, calling me a pathetic charity case with no family backing who deserved to be abandoned. Looking at the painkillers scattered all over the floor, I smiled coldly. They had no idea. The Asterion Group—the ultimate powerhouse they were all desperately trying to claw their way into—was actually owned by me.

The air in the underground archives was as thick and hot as boiling asphalt. An electrical fire had sparked an explosion. Within minutes, the narrow aisles between the bookshelves became a sea of flames. Choking black smoke clawed at my throat, making it impossible to breathe. I was pinned to the concrete floor by a row of collapsed heavy steel bookshelves. Hundreds of pounds of metal crushed my chest. Every single breath sent a sharp, agonizing pain through my broken ribs. The intense heat blistered my skin, and I could smell the sickening scent of my own hair burning. Less than ten feet away, through the shimmering waves of heat, I saw Alfred. For him, I had worked three jobs at once just to pay for his master’s degree. I had stayed up countless nights drawing blueprints to pave his career path, single-handedly turning him into a rising star in the architecture world. But right now, he didn’t even look at me. His entire attention was focused on the woman clinging tightly to his neck. Vivian, the new intern at our firm. She was the type who always wore innocent white dresses and spoke in a sweet, helpless voice. “Alfred… I’m so scared. The fire is too big. My ankle hurts so bad…” Vivian buried her face in Alfred’s chest, crying like a helpless victim. I could see her ankle. The one she claimed was “sprained” didn’t even have a scratch on it. But her tears completely wiped out any logic Alfred had left. “Don’t worry, Vivian. I’m here. I’ll get you out of here right now.” Alfred’s voice carried a tone of panic and tenderness I had never heard before. He swept Vivian up in his arms, cradling her like she was some priceless treasure. “Alfred…” I squeezed a broken, raspy plea out of my throat with the last of my strength. I reached out with a hand covered in black ash and blood, blindly searching the hot floor. I needed leverage. If I could just prop the shelf up by a few inches, I could crawl out. My fingers brushed against a cold, cylindrical object—a dry chemical fire extinguisher that had fallen off the wall. This was my only lifeline. I grit my teeth, ignoring the blinding pain, and slowly dragged the heavy red canister toward the edge of the shelf. “Alfred… help me…” I coughed up a mouthful of bloody phlegm, looking desperately at his back. Alfred heard me. He turned his head. For a split second, I thought he finally saw me. I thought he would put Vivian down and rush over to lift this damn shelf off my chest. But he only frowned. His eyes were filled with pure, unadulterated annoyance. Vivian followed his gaze, saw me, and suddenly let out an exaggerated, dramatic shriek. “Oh my God! Alfred! That red thing is blocking the way! I’m scared it’ll trip us!” Alfred looked down at the fire extinguisher I was desperately clutching—the tool that was supposed to save my life. He didn’t see a dying partner who had sacrificed everything for him. He only saw an obstacle that might trip the delicate little bird in his arms. Without a single second of hesitation, he raised his foot. He was wearing the custom leather shoes I had spent three months of my salary to buy him. Thud! Alfred kicked the fire extinguisher with full force. The red canister slipped from my fingers, rolling heavily across the concrete floor before disappearing into the deep flames. “It’s just a stupid metal can. Don’t let it trip Vivian. Useless trash.” Alfred threw those cold words over his shoulder, tightened his grip on Vivian, and stormed toward the emergency exit. He didn’t look back. Not even once. The fire extinguisher was gone. My leverage was gone. My only lifeline was cut off by the man I had loved for three years. The flames greedily licked the paper files around me, making a terrifying crackling sound. My vision began to blur. The oxygen in my lungs was completely gone. Right before I lost consciousness, I didn’t cry. I just stared blankly at the direction where Alfred had disappeared, carving his cold, heartless face deep into my soul. Alfred, if I, Valerie Padilla, survive today… I will make sure you taste what real hell feels like.

When I finally opened my eyes, the first thing that hit my ears was the sharp, rhythmic beeping of an EKG monitor. I squinted against the blinding, cold white light of the room. My throat felt like it was lined with razor blades. Every breath was excruciating. I was hooked up to multiple IV drips, and my chest was wrapped in thick, heavy bandages. I was alive. The hospital room was completely empty, smelling strongly of bleach and antiseptic. Alfred wasn’t there. A nurse pushed the door open. Seeing me awake, she let out a huge sigh of relief. “Oh, Miss Padilla! You’re finally awake! You suffered severe carbon monoxide poisoning and multiple fractured ribs.” “You were in the ICU for three whole days. We even had to use the defibrillator on you. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” Three days and nights. I pulled the oxygen mask off my face, my voice sounding like sandpaper. “Who… brought me here?” The nurse looked at me with deep pity. “The firefighters. They found you pulled under the debris after they put out the fire.” “You weren’t breathing when they got to you.” It wasn’t Alfred. He hadn’t even called 911 to tell them someone was still inside. He hadn’t sent anyone to look for me. He had truly left me in that fire to die. “My phone…” The nurse took my cracked phone out of a plastic bag on the nightstand. I plugged it in and turned it on. Countless notifications flooded the screen, but not a single missed call or text was from Alfred. I opened our work group chat on WhatsApp. Rachel, a senior designer at the firm, had sent a voice note. Her tone was dripping with venom. “Honestly, we are so unlucky. Valerie is always so careless. How do you manage to start a fire just by looking for files in the basement?” “She almost got Alfred and Vivian killed!” Another coworker, Chris, immediately chimed in. “I know, right? I heard Vivian was traumatized. Her ankle is still swollen.” “Thank God Alfred risked his life to carry her out.” “As for Valerie, she made her bed, now she has to lie in it. She’s probably hiding in some corner too embarrassed to show her face.” I stared at the screen, my dry, cracked lips curling into a mocking laugh. I started the fire? I’m hiding because I’m embarrassed? I closed WhatsApp and opened Alfred’s Instagram. His latest post was from yesterday afternoon. The photo showed a luxurious VIP room in a private hospital. On the nightstand were expensive imported organic cherries and a massive bouquet of pink roses. Vivian’s hand, featuring a fresh, expensive manicure, was in the frame, holding a cherry. The caption read: “A false alarm. Thank God I was able to protect my girl when it mattered most.” “As for those who only cause trouble, I hope they learn to reflect on themselves.” My girl. Those who only cause trouble. A sharp, stabbing pain hit my chest—far worse than my broken ribs. But it lasted for only a second before it was entirely consumed by a cold, burning hatred. Three years. For three years, I worked three jobs, ate expired bread, and spent every penny to enroll him in the most expensive architecture seminars. I ruined my eyesight rewriting his blueprints so he could be the star of the firm. And in the end, my life wasn’t worth Vivian’s fake ankle pain. Suddenly, the door to my room was pushed open. Rachel and Chris walked in, carrying a cheap, sad-looking plastic fruit basket. Seeing me awake, surprise flashed across their faces, quickly replaced by their usual arrogant disdain. “Oh, look who’s awake. Valerie, you really are like a cockroach, aren’t you? Still alive.” Rachel slammed the fruit basket onto the nightstand and crossed her arms. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?” “Do you know how many priceless paper archives the firm lost because of you?” I stared at her coldly, saying nothing. Chris rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at us like that.” “Alfred hasn’t slept in days because he’s been taking care of Vivian.” “Vivian has nightmares and cries every night because of you! And here you are, hiding in the hospital playing the victim.” “Playing the victim?” My voice was incredibly raspy. I slowly raised my arm, which was covered in IV lines and nasty red burn marks. “You call this… playing the victim?” Rachel sneered. “Cut the drama, Valerie. The doctor said you just inhaled a little smoke.” “Alfred said that once you’re discharged, you need to write a formal apology letter.” “You also have to publicly apologize to Vivian at the next all-hands meeting. Otherwise, consider your career in this industry over.” Apologize to Vivian? I stared at Rachel’s smug face. Suddenly, I snatched the cheap fruit basket from the nightstand and hurled it at the door with all my strength. Crash! The plastic basket shattered, and bruised apples and oranges rolled all over the floor. “Get out.” I stared at them, my eyes completely dead and cold. Rachel shrieked and jumped back, pointing a shaking finger at me. “Valerie! Have you lost your mind?!” “You’re just an orphan living off Alfred’s charity! How dare you tell us to get out?” “Alfred can get you kicked out of Los Angeles with a single phone call!” “I won’t say it again,” I said, my voice completely devoid of warmth. “Get. Out.” Maybe the sheer hatred in my eyes scared them. Rachel and Chris swallowed hard, shut their mouths, and slammed the door as they left. The room fell silent again. I leaned back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. The naive, pathetic Valerie who begged for love had died in that thirty-nine-degree basement fire. The Valerie who survived was going to burn their lives to the ground.

It wasn’t until I was moved to a general ward the next day that Alfred finally showed up. He was wearing a perfectly tailored designer suit, his hair styled flawlessly. He still smelled faintly of the sweet, cloying perfume Vivian always wore. He stood by my bed, looking down at me. His brow was furrowed. There wasn’t an ounce of guilt in his eyes—only annoyance. “Stop acting so weak now that you’re awake,” he said. His first words were like poison. “The doctor said you’re out of danger. You made such a scene, Valerie. It’s embarrassing.” I looked at the face I used to adore, and a wave of intense nausea hit me. “A scene?” I asked quietly. “I was pinned under a steel shelf in a burning building. I spent three days in the ICU. And you call that a scene?” Alfred tugged at his tie impatiently. “Can you stop being so dramatic?” “The fire was huge, and Vivian sprained her ankle. Of course I had to save the weaker person first.” “Aren’t you always boasting about how tough you are? Why couldn’t you just climb out yourself?” “You had to stay inside and play dead. Are you trying to guilt-trip me into proposing to you?” He actually thought I stayed in the fire to force a proposal out of him. “Alfred,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was as quiet as a whisper. “When you kicked that fire extinguisher away, were you thinking the same thing?” Alfred’s face instantly froze. His pupils dilated, and he quickly raised his voice to cover his guilt. “What fire extinguisher? I didn’t see anything!” “The smoke was so thick! How could I see what was on the ground?” “Valerie, don’t you dare try to pin this on me!” “Really?” I picked up my phone and opened a video file. “The security cameras in the archives sync directly to the cloud in real-time.” “The camera eventually burned, but the high-definition footage from the first five minutes of the fire was saved perfectly.” Alfred’s face went dead white. He took a sharp step back. “You… you watched the footage?” His voice started to tremble. “I didn’t just watch it. I backed it up,” I said coldly. “I saw everything. I saw you look at me while I was pinned under the shelf. I saw you kick away the fire extinguisher I was trying to reach. And I saw you carry Vivian away without a single backward glance.” “The audio is very clear too, Alfred. Especially when you called me ‘useless trash’.” Alfred completely panicked. He rushed to the bedside, trying to grab my hand. “Valerie… it wasn’t like that… I was terrified.” “I didn’t realize you were trapped! I thought the canister was empty…” “Don’t touch me. You disgust me.” I slapped his hand away. I sat up, staring at the pathetic, hypocritical man before me. “Alfred, we’re done. We are over.” I thought saying those words would break my heart, but in this moment, I felt nothing but pure, intoxicating relief. Alfred stunned. A few seconds later, the panic on his face vanished, replaced by a arrogant, mocking sneer. “Over? Valerie, did the smoke damage your brain?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, returning to his usual condescending self. “You’re breaking up with me? You’re an orphan who had to take out massive student loans just to get through school. Without me, do you think you can even survive in LA?” “The only reason you have this job is because I fought the partners to get you onto the project team. You think you got here on merit?” He truly believed he was my savior. “And another thing,” Alfred leaned down, his eyes gleaming with greed and ambition. “Asterion Group’s ‘Sky City’ bidding process is about to wrap up. My design has already been selected as the number one finalist.” “Vivian’s father is a massive venture capitalist. He’s already agreed to invest ten million dollars in my startup.” “Once I land this multi-billion-dollar project, I’ll be made a senior partner immediately.” He pointed a finger at my face. “When that happens, even if you beg me on your knees, I won’t give you a second glance.” Sky City? I repeated the name in my mind, a dark smile playing at the corners of my lips. That design was mine. I had spent six months, pulled countless all-nighters, and rebuilt the model over a hundred times to perfect it. I had planned to give it to him on his birthday as a gift to help him get his foot in the door of the elite world. But while I was fighting for my life in the ICU, he had hacked my encrypted laptop, stolen my life’s work, and put his own name on it. “Great,” I said, looking at him like he was already dead. “I can’t wait to see you land ‘Sky City’.” Alfred sneered. “Crazy bitch.” He turned and strode out of the room, his posture radiating the confidence of a man who thought he was about to conquer the world. Once the door shut, I pulled out my phone. I dialed a number at the very bottom of my contact list—a number I had blocked for three years. It rang only once before a trembling, highly respectful voice answered. “Miss Padilla.” “Arthur,” I said, looking out at the glittering Los Angeles skyline. My voice was terrifyingly calm. “Send a car to pick me up. Also, notify the board of Asterion Group. My leave of absence is over. I am taking full control of the company tomorrow.” “Yes, Miss Padilla! But… how is your health?” “I’m not dead yet,” I replied, closing my eyes. “Have the legal department prepare a lawsuit against Alfred Miller for intellectual property theft and corporate espionage.” “And one more thing. I will personally chair the final bidding meeting for ‘Sky City’.”

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After my grad school application failed, my hands started shaking. My stomach burned with a constant, dull ache, and I couldn’t sleep for weeks. My boyfriend, Julian, told me I just needed to stay busy. He pushed me to apply for jobs. I lost twenty pounds before I finally landed an offer. But the night before my first day, Julian gave my job opportunity to his first love, Emily. “If Emily’s parents hadn’t given me the seed money for my startup, I’d still be broke,” Julian reasoned. “I would’ve never been able to help pay for your college tuition.” “We both owe her. Just let her have this one, Georgina.” From that day on, my emotions spiraled completely out of control. Sometimes I would laugh hysterically for no reason; other times I would sob until I couldn’t breathe. Later, I picked up my paintbrushes again. Only when I buried myself in colors did I feel like I was actually alive. Today, Julian walked up to me again, his face cold. “I called you for dinner three times. You ignored me every single time.” The noise in my ears began to screech. My chest tightened. I habitually reached out to grab my brush and paintbox, but my hands met empty air. He looked at me with an annoyed sigh. “Looking for that trash again? I threw it out. I burned your paintings too.” “Emily is the employee of the month now. She just won first place in sales, and she needs space for her trophy. She’ll throw a fit if there’s no room.” “Don’t be so dramatic. Once I’m done with this busy season, I’ll take you on a trip.” With trembling hands, I pulled open the cabinet. There were only faint stains of acrylic paint left. It was completely empty. Three years. Over a thousand paintings. All gone. At that moment, I felt something deep inside my soul die.

“Why do you look so awful?” Everything around me felt like it had been blurred a thousand times. I hesitated for a long time, only snapping out of it when Julian called my name for the third time. I forced a smile that felt more like a cry. “Oh. What’s wrong?” Julian frowned and reached out to touch my forehead. “Well, at least you don’t have a fever.” “The doctor told you to get out more. You just lock yourself in the house all day painting, and your depression isn’t getting any better.” I opened my mouth, but my throat felt like it was stuffed with wet cotton. So you burned my only lifeline in the name of ‘helping me’? “Look at Emily. She never overthinks things. That’s why she’s always happy.” “Cheerful girls always have good luck. You’re just too timid and weak.” A bitter wave washed over my heart. Someone like Julian, who had always sailed smoothly through life, would never understand. Without a loving family or a healthy body, how hard it was for someone like me to just survive. Seeing my eyes turn red, he threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, fine. My bad. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” “Anyway, some friends and Emily are coming over for dinner tonight. A crowded house will be good for you.” After all these years together, Julian never remembered that I loved quiet. He never cared that I hated when he brought strangers into our home. Or maybe he did remember. He just didn’t care about me enough to bother. I opened my closet and picked out a faded dress. It was the most decent piece of clothing I owned. The doorbell rang, and plates of food were brought to the table. Emily, wearing the latest designer dress, sat right next to Julian at the head of the table. She laughed as she stabbed a wing with her fork. “These spicy Buffalo wings are amazing!” I sat in the farthest corner, quietly chewing on a small piece of dry bread. I was severely allergic to spicy food. Julian knew this from the day we met. Yet, for Emily, he still made a whole table of spicy dishes. After a few drinks, the conversation turned casual. “Emily is such an overachiever. She had straight A’s in college, and now she’s killing it at work.” “She’s already so successful, yet she still works so hard. How are ordinary people like us supposed to compete?” Emily smiled, raising her glass in mock modesty. “You guys are exaggerating. I just got lucky.” My heart was ripped to shreds. That job was supposed to be mine. Emily and Julian had literally stolen my life. “By the way, how is Georgina doing lately?” Emily suddenly looked at me, the mockery in her eyes barely concealed. “I remember back in school, your grades were always at the top of the class too.” Dozens of eyes focused on me like burning magnifying glasses. My mind went completely blank. “I… I…” Julian took over the conversation with a sigh. “Georgina is just resting at home. She’s sick.” He went into the kitchen and brought out a small plate, pushing it toward me. “I made baked potatoes just for you. No spice. Eat up.” Before I could even take a bite, I heard him sigh. “She worked so hard to get into a good college, but now she just lies around all day. I even have to bring her food to her face.” “She used to be so full of life. Now… I feel sorry for her.” Emily let out a dramatic, pitying sigh, her eyes lingering on my faded collar. “I remember Georgina used to love dressing up. Why are you dressed so… simple now?” Julian looked over, his voice laced with annoyance. “Seriously. Don’t I give you enough allowance every month? Why don’t you take care of yourself?” Before my condition got this bad, I had wanted to buy a new dress with the money I saved from my freelance work. But Julian had only given me a cold look. “You don’t even go out. There’s no point in buying pretty clothes. Save the money. We’ll need it later.” And now, he was embarrassed by me. My stomach churned violently. I grabbed my stomach and stood up abruptly. “I don’t feel well. Excuse me.”

The dining room immediately filled with whispers. “Is that the scholarship girl, Georgina? I heard she used to be the star student.” “Life is cruel. Such a bright girl, ending up like this.” Someone looked at Julian, trying to be kind. “Georgina must be really anxious. Julian, you should comfort her more. Make her happy.” “Yeah, the job market is brutal right now. Just let her rest for a while…” Julian frowned, slamming his fork onto his plate. “What? You guys think I’m treating her badly?” “No, that’s not what we meant—” He took a gulp of wine, his face darkening. “Since Georgina lost her job, she’s been home. I’m the one taking care of her, paying her medical bills, and taking her on trips to clear her head.” “I know how to love my wife. I don’t need you guys to tell me what to do.” “Today is Emily’s celebration dinner. Let’s not talk about other things.” Even strangers could see my worth and understand my pain, but Julian couldn’t. I let out a bitter laugh and closed my bedroom door. The laughter and noise from outside slowly swallowed me whole. When I opened my eyes again, Julian was shaking me awake. He snatched the pill bottle from my nightstand, shaking it. When he felt how light it was, his face turned pale with rage. “How many times do I have to tell you? Do not take this many sleeping pills at once!” “Do you really not care about your life at all?!” The angrier he got, the harder he kicked the nightstand. “You want to die that badly? Do you really think my heart won’t break?!” In all our years together, I had rarely seen him lose control like this. It felt like my childhood all over again—being screamed at, being helpless. My vision blurred, my body shook uncontrollably, and I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. Seeing me like this, Julian seemed to realize his mistake. “I’m sorry, Georgina. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.” He went to the kitchen. Half an hour later, he came back with a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. “This is your favorite. Eat slowly.” He blew on a spoonful of soup to cool it down, then fed it to me. “I was just so worried about you. Your health has been so bad, and taking that many pills… I was scared…” Looking at the guilt on his face, my heart ached with a dull pain. Julian’s love was like a wet wool coat. Wearing it made me freeze, but taking it off made me cold. I swallowed the soup, but I couldn’t taste a thing. “I’m fine. There were just too many people yesterday. I wanted a good night’s sleep.” He pulled me into a tight hug. “Emily was spoiled growing up, she doesn’t think before she speaks. I apologize for her.” “Tomorrow, once I wrap up my work, I’ll take you on a trip. Just the two of us. We’ll relax.” The next day, after we got off the plane, Julian covered my eyes. He said he was taking me to a beautiful place. My memories drifted back to the past. In college, he used to do this too. He was always bringing me good food and little gifts, giving me surprises. But when he took off the blindfold and I saw what was in front of me, my excitement shattered. “Georgina, don’t you love roses?” “We made it just in time for the rose valley bloom. This will make you happy, right?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Julian, we’ve been together for so many years. Have you ever once bought me a rose?” He froze. I was allergic to roses. The one who loved roses was Emily. “I’m sorry. I forgot.” He scrambled to explain, but I didn’t have the energy to listen. That suffocating, familiar wave of panic rushed over me again. My chest felt like it was being squeezed by a giant fist. Julian reached out to hold me, but his phone rang. “Julian? I saw your Instagram post. Are you in town too?” He instantly pulled his hand back, his voice turning professional and polite. “Yes, Mr. Wilson. If you’re free, can I buy you lunch?” “Sure. I have a new project coming up, and I was thinking of giving it to you.” “Let’s meet at the downtown cafe at three this afternoon.” Then, the voice on the other end changed its tone. “By the way, how is that sick wife of yours?” “You used to take so much time off work just to nurse her.” “Take it from me, Julian. Emotional men don’t make it far in business. A burden like that… you should drop her when you need to.” Julian shot me a frustrated look. “Yeah, she is a drag. But what can I do? I love her, so I spoil her.” My brain was buzzing. In everyone’s eyes, because I was sick, I was a burden, a piece of societal trash. But no one saw how hard I tried to exercise every day, how much I read, how hard I tried to keep up. My entire struggle against my fate meant nothing to them. To Julian, it was a joke. All my bottled-up emotions exploded. I spoke up, my voice shaking. “Mr. Wilson, you might be a successful businessman, but that doesn’t give you the right to erase my hard work or show off your superiority over someone who is sick.”

Julian grabbed my shoulder hard. “What the hell is wrong with you? This is my client! Apologize to Mr. Wilson right now!” “Mr. Wilson, I’m so sorry. She has mental issues, please don’t mind her…” I wiped my tears and looked straight at Julian. “Julian, I have a mental illness, but that doesn’t mean I am useless.” “You work hard every day, but I’ve been running my online shop and doing freelance work too.” “I am contributing to our home!” “Why do you have to call me a burden?” The man on the other end of the line lost his patience. “Forget it, Julian. You can’t even manage your own wife. Don’t bother showing up for this project.” “You two can sort out your own mess. Don’t come this afternoon.” Julian tried to speak, but the call went dead. His eyes were terrifyingly red. He suddenly pushed me away with immense force. When I fell to the ground, he panicked and reached out to help me, but I flinched away. My knees were scraped, and blood was oozing out. But the pain in my chest was ten thousand times worse than my knees. Julian’s chest heaved. He finally pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea how many all-nighters I pulled for this project? How much overtime I worked? And you ruined it with one sentence.” He pointed at me, his voice piercing my ears. “Who hasn’t struggled? Emily drank three cups of coffee a day during exams. I lived on instant ramen when I started my business.” “Why didn’t we get depressed? You’re just drama!” “Don’t try to scare me with suicide anymore. Next time you want to die, do it somewhere else. Don’t dirty my house!” After that, Julian and I entered a cold war. He came home very late every day. He went straight to the study without even looking at me. On the coffee table in the living room lay a credit card. That was my monthly allowance. Other than that, we lived in two different worlds. No connection. Two weeks later, he stopped coming home altogether. During those days, my headaches grew worse. When people spoke, it sounded like they were shouting through thick glass. I even started forgetting what I had just read. A few times, I wandered to abandoned buildings, half-conscious, wanting to just jump and end it all. The day I stood outside the safety railing, a black-and-white stray cat ran over. It wrapped its tail around my leg. I thought, Maybe it doesn’t want me to die. So, I brought it home. I named him Phoenix. With Phoenix around, the days didn’t seem so unbearable. One day, Emily showed up at our house again. “Julian has been in a horrible mood lately.” “He won’t even reply to my texts. Did your pathetic, depressing self do this to him?” I ignored her insults and kept stroking Phoenix’s fur. She suddenly leaned in closer. “Have you ever wondered why you’ve tried everything for years but could never get pregnant?” “The supplements Julian gives you every month? They’re birth control pills. He’s terrified you’ll pass your crazy genes down to a kid.” My head went numb. I instinctively snapped back, “That’s impossible. Julian loves kids. Stop trying to mess with my head.” “Impossible? If you don’t believe me, go to the hospital and get tested. See if you can ever have kids in this lifetime.” The last bit of my self-delusion shattered. Seeing my pale face, Emily smiled triumphantly. “What was the point of getting good grades in school, Georgina?” “You’re still a nobody. Living like a piece of trash.” Before she could say another word, Phoenix suddenly pounced on her. “Get off me, you filthy beast!” Emily screamed, clutching her bleeding arm. Just as I picked Phoenix up, Julian walked through the door.

He had a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a grocery bag in the other. Emily immediately threw herself into his arms, sobbing. “I was worried Georgina was depressed. I came to check on her, but she let her stray cat attack me!” “What if I get rabies?!” Julian already hated pets. Hearing this, his face darkened instantly. He snatched Phoenix out of my arms. “Georgina, I came back hoping to make things up to you.” “I didn’t realize you were this malicious. I am completely done with you.” “No wonder you failed your grad school application. People like you deserve to fail!” He raised Phoenix high above his head and threw him hard against the floor. A sickening splash of red and a sharp, choked cry exploded in front of my eyes. I watched Phoenix twitch, his little body slowly going completely still. It felt like my last thread of connection to this world had snapped. I stood frozen for a few seconds. Then, a huge rush of warm blood poured from my mouth. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Julian rushing toward me in a panic. “Georgina! Georgina, what’s wrong?!” “Call 911! Now!” When I woke up again, I was in the hospital. The whispered conversations around me made me feel like I was buried in ice. “She actually woke up. How does someone like that still have the nerve to live?” “Exactly. Real mental illness isn’t like this. She’s just faking it for sympathy. It’s disgusting.” With shaking hands, I pulled my phone from my pocket. It took three tries to type my passcode. I opened Instagram. #Abuser Georgina# #Faking Depression As A Fashion Trend# #Bipolar Or Just Evil# Several tags were trending. I clicked on the top post. Emily had posted my photo with a long caption. “This is my high school classmate, Georgina. She has always been paranoid and hostile.” “Lately, her behavior has been extreme. She abused her pet cat and drove her husband out of the house.” “She claims she has bipolar disorder because she failed her exams, but we all know she’s just a toxic person.” The attached photo was Phoenix lying in a pool of blood. The comment section had thousands of replies. “She’s giving actual depressed people a bad name. Can she just die?” “How could she do that to a cute little cat? Monster!” I wanted to defend myself, but my hands shook so badly I couldn’t even type. The screen blurred. Everything around me felt stretched out. What finally snapped me back to reality was a medical chart being slammed onto my bed. “Dr. Lucas, please calm down. Don’t waste your energy on someone like her.” “Calm down? I was the one who diagnosed her!” Dr. Lucas hissed, glaring at me with pure disgust. “I can’t believe I actually helped such a monster. I feel sick.” My phone kept buzzing. Emily had posted photos of my pill bottles, videos of my manic episodes, and all my personal information in the comment section. Soon, I was completely doxxed. People made memes out of my photos, and someone found my old school. My email was flooded with hate, and my DMs were a swamp of slurs. A text from an unknown number came through: “Julian knows about all of this.” “He told me to teach you a lesson. Don’t think just because you’re ‘sick,’ everyone has to bow down to you.” “Since you loved that beast so much, why don’t you go join it?” Looking at the words on the screen, a smile slowly spread across my face. She’s right. At 3:00 AM, I dragged myself to the hospital’s utility closet, a blind spot for the security cameras. I slowly pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills from my pocket. I opened it and poured all of them into my mouth. The pills, which used to taste bitter, now tasted sweet. As I closed my eyes, I thought I heard a faint meow. Phoenix, I’m coming to find you.

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Wayne and I had been fighting our divorce in court for a grueling six months. We had gone from the city’s golden couple—young, ambitious, and deeply in love—to a cautionary tale of bitter resentment. Thirty minutes before our third hearing was scheduled to begin, Wayne asked to meet. He was rubbing his temples, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. “It’s time to end this circus, Gwen. Cheryl can’t wait any longer.” “Name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll sign.” Before I could even open my mouth, his phone began to ring, shrill and demanding. He answered it, and a softness crept into his face—a gentle warmth he probably didn’t even realize was there. “Don’t worry, it’s fine. It’s just a matter of writing a bigger check.” “I’ll wrap this up soon. Wait for me at home, sweetheart.” I stared at the face that was once my home, now so utterly foreign. In that single, quiet moment, all the fight drained out of me. “Don’t worry about it.” “We’re done, Wayne. No more lawyers. I’ll sign the papers.” 1. The six-month legal battle ended not with a bang, but with a quiet surrender. The sudden settlement shocked everyone. After all, Wayne and I had been married for seven years. Fighting in court for half a year made people think we were just two stubborn souls who couldn’t let go, weaponizing the law because we couldn’t stop caring. The press had a field day. Wayne issued a perfectly polished, PR-approved statement: “I apologize for the distraction our personal matters have caused. While Gwen and I have officially finalized our divorce, we remain friends. I wish her nothing but the best in her next chapter.” My eyes lingered on the word “friends” for a long time. I let out a soft, hollow laugh. For Cheryl’s sake, Wayne had torn me to shreds more times than I could count. We could never be friends. We hadn’t even managed to salvage our dignity. Today was the kindest he had been in six months. After I gave him my answer, he sat on the plush leather sofa of the courthouse conference room for a long time, slowly stacking the negotiation folders he had prepared to use against me. “Since we’re settled, I’ll have my team draw up the final agreement,” he said. “I’ll leave you with twenty percent of the company’s shares as a settlement. And the penthouse downtown is yours.” He paused, running through a mental checklist to see if he had missed anything. Then, he stood up. Perhaps even he felt the negotiation had been jarringly fast. When he reached the door, he stopped and looked back. “Take care of yourself, Gwen.” I closed my eyes, offering him nothing but silence. Later that afternoon, my lawyer emailed over the settlement papers. A brief text followed the files: “The opposing counsel cited ‘irreconcilable differences’ as the grounds. A mutual, uncontested split. Under the terms, aside from the assets he personally transferred, the remaining marital property will be divided down the middle.” “Irreconcilable differences.” What a beautiful, sanitized way to package betrayal. I had still underestimated Wayne’s talent for keeping up appearances. My phone buzzed. A photo and a voice note appeared, sent from Wayne’s number. The photo showed my old desk at the office, all my personal belongings swept onto the floor. The voice note, however, belonged to a woman. “Hey, Gwen. I heard you’re finally leaving. Just thought I’d help you clear out some of this trash.” Cheryl. Her voice was sweet and melodic, with a lingering, childish lilt. It was the kind of voice men found impossible to resist. I tapped the microphone icon and replied, my voice deadpan and steady: “I may be resigning from my position, Cheryl, but I am still the largest individual shareholder of this firm. If I want to, I can have you thrown out on the street along with that trash.” The chat remained quiet for several minutes. When the next message popped up, it was Wayne’s voice, with Cheryl’s soft whimpering audible in the background. “Gwen, she didn’t mean any harm. Stop attacking her.” I didn’t bother to reply. I gathered my files, stood up, and walked out of the courthouse. As I got into my car, two more messages from Wayne flashed on my screen. Attached was a photo of a silver frame resting back on my desk. “The other stuff was old anyway, but I put this back. You should keep it.” Inside the frame was a photograph of the Northern Lights dancing over an arctic landscape. Years ago, during our first grueling year of building the business, he had printed it out and promised me: “The second we make it, Gwen, I’m taking you to the Arctic. We’ll take a photo just like this together.” Seven years had passed. Wayne had risen from a broke, struggling designer to the CEO of one of the city’s most talked-about public companies. Wealth and power were at his fingertips. But the trip to the Arctic was a promise he had buried long ago. Wayne was right about one thing, though. Old things belonged in the trash. Instead of replying, I tapped his profile and blocked his number. 2. I went to the office to finalize my exit paperwork with HR. As I reached for the brass handle of the office door, the voices of colleagues passing by stopped me cold. “Seven years of marriage, and she just walks away? What is Gwen acting so high and mighty about?” “Weren’t there rumors that someone cheated? Maybe it was her.” “Definitely. She probably got caught doing something behind Wayne’s back, which is why she settled so fast today.” “I heard Wayne even let her keep a chunk of shares. Honestly, he’s too good to her…” I stared down at my shoes, motionless. The HR director gave me an awkward, pained look. “Gwen… ignore them. They don’t know what they’re talking about.” I knew exactly what they were talking about. And I knew exactly who had planted those seeds. To pave a clean path for Cheryl’s arrival, to shield his precious little girl from public scrutiny, Wayne had thrown me to the wolves. He had made me the villain in his narrative. Sensing my silence, the HR director tried to soften the blow. “Everyone knows how much you loved Wayne. You built this company with him from the ground up when you guys had nothing. We all used to talk about how perfect you two were. They’re just gossiping. I’ll make sure their manager has a word with them.” I fell into a deeper silence. I had been willing to endure the lean, exhausting years with Wayne because he used to love me fiercely. Back then, he would insist on buying me the finest winter coat while refusing to replace his own tattered jacket. He remembered every milestone—our anniversary, Valentine’s Day, even the small, silly monthly anniversaries—while consistently forgetting his own birthday. Our wedding had been a modest affair in our small hometown, but he had spent every penny he had to make it beautiful. He always gave me the absolute best of whatever he had to offer. That was why, on our last anniversary, under the dim, romantic restaurant lights, as he stared at the little sugar figurines kissing on top of the cake and asked, “Gwen, do you honestly think this life we’re living is still worth it?”—the blow had been so crippling. I had refused to let go. I had wagered our entire history on the belief that he still loved me. I played that losing hand until we dragged each other down, turning into bitter strangers who couldn’t stand the sight of one another. I held on until he started trying to buy my exit with checks and stock options. Only then did I let myself face the truth. Pulling myself out of the memory, I shook my head at the HR director and threw open the door. The whispering employees xinstantly froze, lowering their heads in a rush of panic. But their terror wasn’t directed at me. They were looking past my shoulder, down the long corridor, where Wayne and Cheryl were walking side by side. 3. Cheryl walked a half-step behind Wayne, a brand-new ID badge pinned to her chest: “Creative Director.” The very title I had resigned from only an hour ago. She held a thick portfolio, flipping through the pages with obvious awkwardness. Wayne leaned in occasionally, patiently explaining the terms of the project to her. Oliver, Wayne’s executive assistant, walked behind them. Though he maintained a polite smile for Cheryl, the sheer exhaustion and irritation in his eyes were barely concealed. When he saw me, he froze. “Gwen.” At the sound of my name, Wayne stopped and looked up, the words dying on his lips. Cheryl immediately shrank back, her eyes welling with tears as if on cue. “Oliver, I know you don’t like me,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “But Gwen has officially resigned. It’s really not appropriate to address her that way anymore, is it? Besides, wasn’t her departure due to her own personal choices? Taking your frustration out on me is really unfair…” She emphasized “personal choices” with delicate spite. The gossiping employees exchanged knowing looks, their suspicions instantly validated. Oliver stood there, open-mouthed, utterly speechless. I folded my resignation slip and slipped it into my pocket, my tone perfectly conversational. “Oliver was just being polite, Cheryl. Why the dramatic reaction? And for the record, I never stated my reasons for resigning. Your creative little rumors are actually quite bothersome to me.” Cheryl’s face paled, and she opened her mouth to shoot back, but Wayne stepped in front of her, gently but firmly cutting her off. He looked at me, his eyes scanning my face. “It’s my fault,” he said quietly. “Let me know when you’re free. I’d like to host a proper farewell dinner for you. You’ve given years of your life to this place. Your contribution matters.” I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Don’t bother. If I’d known anyone off the street could do this job, I wouldn’t have worked myself to the bone for seven years.” Wayne’s expression tightened. I didn’t care to watch the regret settle on his face, so I turned and walked away. Outside, a light drizzle was falling. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, a sudden wave of memory washing over me. It had been on a rainy afternoon just like this one that the last threads of our marriage had finally snapped. I had been working at my desk until 1:00 AM, my blood sugar crashing so hard I was shaking. I called Wayne, hoping he could bring me a sandwich. But when the call connected, a woman’s voice answered. That was the first time I tore down the polite facade I had fought so hard to maintain. I screamed into the phone, my voice cracking. “Why is she answering your phone? How dare you let some girl humiliate me like this? Wayne, what is wrong with you?” A long, agonizing silence stretched across the line before his voice finally came through—not with an apology, but with a heavy, exhausted sigh. That sigh froze the blood in my veins. “I’ll have Oliver drop off some food,” he said, sounding infinitely tired. “Get some rest tonight. Tomorrow, we need to talk about a divorce.” I sat in the darkened, empty office, shivering from the cold and the shock. “On what grounds, Wayne? Don’t you dare forget that we built this firm together. You don’t get to—” He cut me off with quiet, brutal efficiency. “Gwen. If it weren’t for me, no agency in this city would have ever hired a designer with a black mark on her record.” The breath left my lungs. Every word died in my throat. Years ago, a prominent industry figure had accused me of copying his work after our concepts overlapped. My agency at the time fired me to save face, cementing my reputation as a plagiarist. I was blacklisted overnight. With nowhere to go, Wayne—who was actively pursuing me back then—stepped in. He told me he believed in me, that genius shouldn’t be stifled by industry politics. I had fallen for him completely, naive and desperate enough to believe he would always be my savior. Over the six months of our divorce proceedings, my authority at Vanguard was systematically stripped away. The designers I had mentored and trained were reassigned. The Creative Director position wasn’t just handed to Cheryl; Wayne had to clear-cut my entire department to build a path for her. My resignation hadn’t been a choice; it was an eviction. “Gwen!” Oliver’s voice broke my thoughts. He had run out after me, holding an umbrella. He offered it gently. “Wayne wanted you to have this. The steps are slick. Get home safe.” I smiled at him, but shook my head, stepping past the umbrella and directly into the cold, gray rain. I had survived hurricanes with Wayne. A little drizzle wasn’t going to break me. 4. To my surprise, a video of our hallway confrontation leaked online that very evening. Within hours, threads dissecting the tension between Cheryl and me began trending on social media. Initially, the speculation leaned toward Cheryl being the homewrecker who ruined my marriage. But by midnight, a highly polished “analysis” video alleging my own infidelity went viral. It laid out a terrifyingly detailed timeline of my daily movements, social circles, and meetings over the past six months. The level of detail was intimate and precise. Instantly, the public narrative flipped, and a tidal wave of vitriol crashed over me. I watched the video from start to finish. The timestamps and locations were accurate, but the commentary was pure, malicious fiction. There was only one person in the world who had access to my schedule with that kind of terrifying accuracy. I dialed Wayne’s personal cell, but it wasn’t his voice that answered. “Still calling your ex after the papers are signed? You really have no shame, do you, Gwen?” Cheryl spat, dropping her sweet act entirely. “Is the internet not dragging you hard enough? Do you need me to spell it out for you?” Her venomous tone was a far cry from the fragile girl she played in front of Wayne. “I’m recording this call, Cheryl,” I replied, my voice completely flat. “And since you’re so fond of public fabrication, look out for a defamation suit.” “You—” I hung up before she could finish. I checked the forums again. The frenzy was building. I clicked on the profile of the anonymous account that had posted the analysis video, and sure enough, thirty minutes after my call with Cheryl, they posted an update. This time, they painted me as a pathological liar and a serial cheater. They dredged up the decade-old plagiarism scandal, exposing the black mark on my career to the entire internet. The comment section became a feeding frenzy. “Oh, she’s that plagiarist from back in the day. Once a thief, always a thief. First she steals art, now she’s sneaking around behind her husband’s back.” “She owes her entire career to Wayne, and this is how she repays him? Talk about ungrateful.” “You can see it in her face. If she’s dishonest enough to steal work, she’s dishonest enough to cheat.” Reading the comments, I felt a familiar, cold dread, dragging me back to the helpless girl I had been ten years ago. With shaking fingers, I opened my messaging app, found the pending contact request Wayne had sent two days ago, and accepted it. I typed: “Did you leak my schedule to that account, Wayne?” His reply came almost instantly. “Gwen, you’re the largest shareholder of Vanguard now. You have more than enough money to disappear and live comfortably. Cheryl is just starting out here. I cannot let her reputation be ruined before she even begins.” I took a ragged, trembling breath. “You know damn well I never plagiarized that work.” The blinking dots appeared and disappeared for a long minute. Finally: “Nobody cares about the details of a ten-year-old rumor, Gwen. Let it blow over. Stop being so bitter about it.” Ten years ago, Wayne had held me in his arms and whispered, “Even if the whole world turns its back on you, I will always believe in you.” Today, he told me the truth didn’t matter. Staring at his words on the screen, the final, pathetic shred of hope I had been harboring withered away. Right then, my doorbell rang, sharp and relentless. Looking through the peephole, I saw a crowd of reporters packing the hallway, cameras aimed squarely at my door. Their voices muffled through the wood: “Gwen! Wayne just released a statement denying any involvement with Cheryl. Do you have a comment?” “Are the cheating allegations against you true?” “Gwen, can you address the rumors regarding your past plagiarism scandal?” A notification banner popped up on my phone—a massive wire transfer from Wayne’s personal account, captioned simply: “Settlement.” I took a long, deep breath and locked my phone. I reached for the door handle and pulled it open. The hallway erupted into a blinding storm of camera flashes. I stepped right into the glare, forcing a calm, polite smile onto my face. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Gwen.”

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Melody’s mother stole my father, and in doing so, she killed my mother. Years later, history decided to repeat itself. The boy I grew up with, the one who had been by my side for eighteen years, lied to my face. Behind my back, he spent his evenings helping Melody with her college applications, even gifting her the limited-edition vintage vinyl I had begged him to find for me. And when Melody hacked into my college portal and withdrew my Ivy League acceptance, replacing it with a local community college, he actually defended her. “Melody didn’t mean any harm, Caroline,” he pleaded. “She was just playing a practical joke on you.” But there was nothing funny about it. 01 Just days before the final college decision deadline, I experienced a violent, inexplicable tear in time. I was hurled ten years into the future. I saw myself. I saw a girl who had scored a 1550 on her SATs now limping on a shattered right leg, her hair unwashed and tied back with a fraying rubber band, busing tables at a greasy diner. Meanwhile, my stepsister Melody had graduated from an elite university, married my childhood sweetheart, Connor, and given birth to a picture-perfect pair of twins. I remember the blood draining from my face. “How did this happen?” My twenty-eight-year-old self offered a hollow, broken laugh. “Melody changed my college portal. By the time I found out, the deadline had passed. It was too late.” “Dad and Connor both took her side. They said she didn’t do it maliciously, that it was just a prank, that I needed to take a joke.” “But I couldn’t swallow the injustice. I confronted her. We fought at the top of the stairs, and she threw herself backward, framing me. Dad… Dad wanted to teach me a lesson. He hired the best prosecutors to press aggravated assault charges and let me rot in a juvenile detention center for six months.” “Connor promised he’d wait for me. But the day I got out, I found them tangled up in his bed.” “I snapped. I grabbed a kitchen knife. I hurt them both.” “That time, Connor hired the most ruthless defense attorney in the state to ensure I got the maximum sentence. Five years.” Her words were like lightning striking the base of my skull. My whole body went rigid. I heard my own voice trembling as I fought back: “No. That’s impossible. Connor and I grew up together. He loves me. He promised he’d protect me for the rest of my life.” “He knows how much I despise Melody and her mother. He would never help them destroy me.” The older version of me stared back, her eyes rimmed with red. She looked down at her ruined, asymmetrical leg. “Why wouldn’t he? People change, Caroline.” “Even this leg… Connor paid off one of the guards in lockup to look the other way while an inmate took a metal pipe to my knee.” She jerked her head up, her gaze fierce and desperate. “Caroline, listen to me. If you don’t want to lose your future, if you don’t want to become a convicted felon scrubbing grease off diner tables, wake the hell up! Stop letting Connor play you for a fool!” The sheer magnitude of the information hit my brain like a physical blow. The world tipped on its axis. The next second, I collapsed onto the hardwood floor. When I opened my eyes, the sterile, chemical scent of hospital bleach flooded my lungs. “Caroline, thank God, you’re awake!” Connor was sitting by the edge of my hospital bed. Both of his hands were wrapped tightly around my left hand, his dark eyes wide with unfeigned panic and concern. “You passed out in your room last night. You scared the life out of me!” 02 I lay there, perfectly still, just looking at him. Unbidden, a memory surfaced. Eighth-grade field trip to the state park. I had wandered off the trail and gotten hopelessly lost. It was Connor who spent three hours searching for me in the dying light. His shins were sliced up by thorny brambles, but he still insisted on carrying me on his back the whole way down the mountain because I was too paralyzed by fear to walk. I thought of my fourteenth birthday. My father had thrown a massive, catered backyard gala for Melody—who happened to share my exact birthdate—and completely forgot about me. I had hidden in the darkness of my closet, clutching a framed photograph of my mother to my chest, crying until I couldn’t breathe. It was Connor who opened the closet door. He was holding a lopsided, home-baked cupcake with a single lit candle, looking at me like a knight who had finally found his charge. “Happy birthday, Caro.” “Don’t be scared. You’re not alone. I’ll be here for every birthday, for the rest of your life.” I thought of all the times Melody had tried to insert herself into his orbit. In the dead of winter, she had spent weeks knitting him a gray scarf. Connor hadn’t even given it a second glance before tossing it into the cafeteria trash can. Melody’s eyes had welled up with those trademark tears, but Connor’s voice was like ice: “Don’t waste your time. I will always stand with Caroline.” “You and your mother destroyed her family. That makes you my enemy, too.” Then, another memory. Melody’s mother, Valerie, ‘accidentally’ knocking my mother’s vintage Cartier watch off my dresser, shattering the delicate glass face. Blinded by grief and rage, I had thrown a glass of ice water right in Valerie’s face. Valerie was a master of the victim act. She instantly collapsed into my father’s arms, weeping. “I was just trying to help Caroline tidy her room. I didn’t mean to bump the dresser. She misunderstood… she thinks I did it on purpose.” “Richard, please, don’t be mad at her.” Her calculated retreat only made my father more protective of her. He turned to me, his eyes devoid of any paternal warmth. “Caroline Ellis, who taught you to act like such a savage? Apologize to your mother, right now!” I tipped my chin up, my throat tight. “I only have one mother. Valerie is just a cheap homewrecker.” The slap echoed through the hallway. My father struck me so hard my ears rang. “I have spoiled you for too long. You have zero respect!” As punishment, he forced me to stand in the freezing mudroom for twelve hours. No dinner. No water. No sitting down. My legs shook. I was lightheaded from hunger. It was Connor who shimmied up the trellis and crawled through the mudroom window, pulling a bag of warm, sugar-dusted apple cider donuts from his jacket. I ate them through my tears, and he wiped my cheeks with his thumbs, his own face twisted in sympathetic agony. “Don’t cry. Once we graduate, we’re going to college in Boston. We’ll get as far away from them as possible.” “I’ll be your family from now on. I’ll take care of you. I’ll protect you.” It never surprised me that my father chose Melody over me. But Connor? Connor, who looked at me like I hung the moon? How could he ever betray me for her? I didn’t want to believe it. Maybe the vision of my twenty-eight-year-old self was just a stress-induced nightmare. I tried to self-soothe. But reality was waiting to deliver its own slap to the face. 03 Before we checked out of the hospital, Connor ran down to the pharmacy on the first floor. I watched him walk back into the room, holding a small paper bag. “Are you getting a cold?” I asked, confused. He froze. A heavy silence stretched between us before he hesitated, shifting his weight. “It’s not for me. It’s for Melody.” “She texted a few minutes ago saying she was running a fever, so she asked me to pick up some meds.” My heart plummeted into my stomach. The terror of my nightmare flooded my veins, making my skin prickle. I couldn’t stop the barrage of questions. “Why are you buying medicine for Melody? Since when do you two text? Since when are you close?” “Do you have feelings for her? When did this start?” Seeing my escalating panic, Connor quickly set the bag down and reached for my shoulders. “Caro, stop overthinking. How could I ever like Melody?” “You’re the only one I care about. But Melody… Melody saved my life. I’m just repaying a debt.” I recoiled. “She saved your life? When? Why don’t I know about this?” Connor finally confessed the secret he had been keeping for months: “Two months ago, I was walking back from a party. I was crossing the street, and a drunk driver blew a red light. I didn’t see it coming.” “If Melody hadn’t shoved me out of the way, I would have been the one with a shattered femur.” I knew Melody had been injured. Of course I did. But I had no idea she had broken her leg saving Connor. Suddenly, everything clicked. It made sense why, despite missing the final two months of senior year and being confined to a hospital bed, Melody had seemed completely unfazed. She was constantly posting bubbly updates on her Instagram stories. Her favorite captions were always: “My favorite private tutor is here again! I’m so spoiled! <3" "Look at the limited-edition vinyl my tutor hunted down for me! Best day ever!" I had never visited her in the hospital, so I had never seen this "tutor." I assumed my dad had hired some grad student to keep her grades up. But looking back, during that exact same period, Connor had stopped walking me home from school. "Caro, my grandma isn't feeling well. I have to go to the estate and check on her. I can't walk you home today." I knew how much Connor loved his grandmother. I never questioned it. I even bought her expensive teas and sent them with him. Was it all a lie? Hot tears welled in my eyes. I looked at the boy I thought I knew better than anyone. "So... the 'tutor' was you. And the person who gave her that vinyl record was you. Wasn't it?" I had wanted that record for a year. It was nearly impossible to find. I had begged Connor to help me track it down. He had tapped his chest confidently and said, "Leave it to me. Have I ever let you down?" Two weeks later, he handed me a generic, newly pressed album. "I'm sorry, Caro. The vintage one is completely sold out. I called every collector I know." But he had found it. He just gave it to Melody instead. 04 Seeing my tears, panic flared in Connor’s eyes. He scrambled to explain himself. "Caro, please don't cry. I swear to you, I'm only nice to her because I owe her my life." "I know how much you hate her. I was terrified that if you found out, it would mess with your head right before finals. That's why I asked everyone to keep it a secret." I fought to keep my voice from shaking. "If you were going to lie to me, why couldn't you just keep lying?" He looked miserable, rubbing the back of his neck. "Melody... she wants to apply to the same colleges in Boston as us." "She’s timid. She’s terrified of being in a new city where she doesn't know anyone and getting bullied. She thinks if I’m there, she’ll have someone to look out for her." "She literally took a car for me, Caro. I couldn't say no..." "Just... do it for me, okay? Can you just try to co-exist peacefully with her from now on?" He couldn't say no to Melody, so his solution was to demand that I compromise. The audacity was suffocating. "Valerie drove my mother to an early grave. And you want me to play nice with the daughter of my mother's replacement? Do you hear how insane you sound?" I was thirteen when my mother was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer. Valerie couldn't even wait for the body to get cold. She showed up at our front door, dragging Melody behind her. The sickest part? Melody was born on the exact same day, in the exact same year, as me. That was how my dying mother found out my father had been living a double life since the day I was born. The betrayal broke what little spirit she had left. She coughed up blood and passed away less than a month later. Three months after the funeral, my father moved Valerie into the master bedroom. Connor knew all of this. He held my hand through the funeral. And yet, here he was, twisting himself into knots to defend Melody. "You can't choose how you're born, Caroline. The sins of the parents aren't Melody's fault." "She's not like her mother. She's sweet. She's kind." "She has never once tried to hurt you. She’s always bending over backward, trying to get you to like her." "You need to learn to let things go. You can't live in this toxic bubble of hatred forever." As I watched Connor advocate for Melody, the warmth in my chest died out, inch by agonizing inch. The image of my twenty-eight-year-old self—limping, wiping down a greasy table, dead-eyed and broken—flashed behind my eyelids with terrifying clarity. Suddenly, the boy standing in front of me felt like a stranger. A dangerous stranger. I instinctively took a step back. "I need to be alone. Do not follow me." I needed space to think. Of course, Connor didn't listen. He followed me out of the hospital, but perhaps sensing my absolute disgust, he maintained a strict fifteen-foot distance all the way back to my house. 05 I walked through the front door of my house and pushed open the door to my bedroom. There was Melody, sitting in my desk chair, typing away on my laptop. The words from my future self—Melody changed my college portal—screamed in my head. My pulse spiked. I lunged forward and shoved her away from the desk. "Who gave you permission to touch my computer?" Melody stumbled and fell gracefully to the carpet, immediately playing dumb. "Sister, you're misunderstanding. I would never mess with your applications!" "My laptop crashed, and I just needed to look up some research material." She lowered her eyelashes, a perfectly timed tear slipping down her cheek. "I'm sorry. I forgot how much you despise me. I promise I'll never touch your things again." I didn't have the energy for her Oscar-worthy performance. I slid into the chair, pulled up the Common App portal, and checked my submissions. Thankfully, I had walked in just in time. She hadn't managed to alter anything yet. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. But when I looked up, Connor was standing in the doorway, helping Melody up from the floor. He was glaring at me with open disapproval. "Her leg is barely healed, Caroline. How could you be so aggressive?" "You're out of line. You owe her an apology." I stared at him, incredulous. "She was sneaking onto my laptop without asking. If she falls, she deserves it." Connor’s brow furrowed deeply. "Why are you being so bitter? It's like I don't even know who you are anymore." His reflexive instinct to protect her over me was the final nail in the coffin. It confirmed everything. Last night wasn't a hallucination. It was a premonition. In the not-so-distant future, Connor would absolutely destroy me for Melody’s sake. But I wasn't going to stick around and play the naive victim. I swallowed the sharp, acidic ache rising in my throat and met his gaze. "I am bitter. If you don't like it, then let's break up." His face drained of color. He looked at me like I had lost my mind. "Are you seriously throwing a tantrum and threatening to break up just because I called you out?" Melody clung to his arm, pretending to be the peacemaker, though she was clearly pouring gasoline on the fire. "Sister, please. Connor loves you so much. He does everything for you." "Every time you two fight, he's always the one who swallows his pride to apologize." "If you shed a single tear, he beats himself up for days." "You might be throwing a tantrum, but you shouldn't use your relationship as a weapon. Aren't you afraid of breaking his heart?" Connor looked at me, a profound disappointment settling over his features. "You're acting like a spoiled brat, Caro." "Just because I usually let you get away with murder doesn't mean I don't have my limits." "Let's just take some space. Don't call me until you've calmed down and realized how ridiculous you're being." With that, he wrapped his arm around Melody’s waist and helped her out of my room. Watching his retreating back, a profound wave of sorrow washed over me. My future self was right. People change. No matter how much Connor used to cherish me, Melody was now the priority. From this day forward, we were on different paths. I blinked back the stinging in my eyes, turned to my computer, and made a calculated, cold decision. I logged in and changed my binding enrollment from Boston to UC Berkeley in California. If he wanted to play house with Melody in Boston, he could have her. I was officially opting out. To ensure she couldn't try anything again, I changed my portal password. I had always used Connor’s birthday—it was entirely possible Melody had guessed it. Finally, I pulled a suitcase from my closet and began packing. I booked a room at a boutique hotel downtown. I refused to spend another night under the same roof as Melody. Who knew what kind of sociopathic stunt she’d pull next? This time, I wasn't going to prison. I was escaping the Ellis family. I was starting over. 06 Carrying my suitcase downstairs, I had to walk past Melody’s bedroom. The door was left ajar. Inside, she was sitting on the edge of her mattress, her skirt hiked up to her knees. Connor was kneeling on the floor in front of her, gently massaging her calf muscles. "Is that feeling any better?" he asked softly. Melody’s ears flushed pink. She nodded shyly. "The pain is fading. Thank you." Connor smiled, a soft, indulgent expression I used to think belonged only to me. "You don't have to thank me. You took that hit for me. It's the least I can do." Melody looked down, her expression steeped in manufactured guilt. "I'm so sorry. It's my fault you and my sister fought." "Maybe I should just go to a state school here. I don't want to be the reason your relationship falls apart." "If I get bullied in college, well... that's just my fate. I'll endure it." Connor squeezed her knee comfortingly. "You're not changing your plans. I promised I'd look out for you, and I keep my promises." "None of this is your fault. Caroline is just being irrational." "I guess I spoiled her too much. She thinks the world revolves around her." "Maybe Wyatt was right. I need to leave her out in the cold for a while so she learns how to behave." Wyatt. Connor’s arrogant, old-money best friend. Wyatt had always hated me. If Connor helped me with a project, Wyatt called me lazy. If we went to a diner and I meticulously picked the green onions out of my soup because I loathed the taste, Wyatt called me high-maintenance. If Connor lost track of time playing video games and missed my call, and we argued about it, Wyatt called me a controlling bitch. He was constantly in Connor’s ear, telling him he could do better, urging him to dump me. But back then, Connor would always shove him and shoot back: "Shut the hell up. Caro isn't high-maintenance, she knows what she likes. It's cute." "If she's mad at me, it's because I messed up. It's not her fault." "You're just a miserable single guy who’s jealous of what we have. Stay out of it." That Connor—the fiercely loyal, deeply devoted boy who would fight anyone who spoke ill of me—was dead and gone. The Connor sitting on the floor was Melody’s knight in shining armor. It was impossible not to grieve. We had shared eighteen years of life. Eighteen years of inside jokes, shared trauma, and quiet promises. Detoxing from him was going to hurt like hell. My nose burned. I forced myself to look away, gripped the handle of my suitcase, and walked out the front door without looking back. 07 I lived in the downtown hotel for two weeks. I didn't hear a word from Connor. But I saw plenty of him on Melody’s Instagram. He took her to the summer carnival, riding the vintage carousel—my favorite ride. He went shopping with her to pick out a dress for graduation. He stood in line for two hours outside Rosenberg's to buy her a fresh, warm box of pastries. He even took her to our spot. The stargazing hill overlooking the valley. Whenever the grief over my mother became too much, Connor would drive me up there, roll out a blanket, and we’d watch old movies on his iPad under the stars. In the photo Melody posted, a romantic comedy was playing on a tablet. Connor was leaning back against the hood of his car, looking relaxed. Melody was leaning into his space, pressing a kiss to his cheek. So this was his version of "repaying a debt." I stared at the photos. I scrolled through them obsessively, almost masochistically, etching the reality of their intimacy into my brain. It was a form of exposure therapy. And it worked. The agonizing, breathless pain in my chest slowly dulled, hardening into a cold, flat indifference. ... Once I felt like I could breathe again, I texted a friend and agreed to meet up at a lounge downtown. I was walking down the dimly lit hallway toward the restrooms when someone bumped roughly into my shoulder. I stumbled, my heels catching on the carpet, and nearly went down. A hand shot out and caught my elbow, steadying me. "Thanks," I muttered, looking up. I froze. Connor was standing there, looking down at me with an amused, patronizing smirk. "See? You still need me to catch you." His tone was incredibly casual, as if the last two weeks of silence and betrayal had never happened. "Admit it, Caro. You can't survive without me." My face remained entirely impassive. I pulled my arm out of his grip. "Don't flatter yourself. I'd be perfectly fine without you." Connor raised an eyebrow. "You're seriously still holding a grudge? Two weeks later?" "Caro, why are you so stubborn? Would it physically kill you to just back down once?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling heavily like a weary parent offering a truce. "Fine. You win. I surrender." "Let's just say I was wrong, okay? Let's make up. Stop giving me the silent treatment." "We've never gone more than a week without seeing each other since we were kids. I actually missed you." He reached out to pinch my cheek, a fond, easy smile spreading across his face. "I don't know why you're fighting this. You look like you've lost weight since I stopped coming around." "When you're done here, I'll drive you to that late-night diner. We'll get pancakes." It was painfully obvious. He hadn't taken my breakup seriously at all. He genuinely believed this was just an extended pout. I slapped his hand away. My voice was glacial. "Do not touch me. We are broken up." "I lost weight because it's ninety degrees outside and I haven't had much of an appetite. It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Stop being so narcissistic." Seeing that his charm offensive was failing, Connor’s smile vanished, replaced by a cold edge. "Caroline, enough is enough." "I'm handing you an olive branch. How much longer are you going to drag this out?"

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Taking my three-year-old daughter to the office. I thought the biggest disaster would be her smashing a coworker’s coffee mug. Instead, a coworker snapped a photo of her next to our billionaire CEO and dropped it in the company group chat. Three hundred employees. Three seconds of dead silence. And then, absolute chaos. To make matters worse, my daughter threw herself into the CEO’s arms and cheerfully yelled, “Daddy!” Meanwhile, my actual husband was at home scrolling through his phone. You want to guess what he reached for first? The carving knife, or the rolling pin? 1 My name is Laura, and for the last three years, I’ve been a marketing coordinator at Apex Group. Just your average corporate drone: a modest paycheck, one husband, one daughter, and a mortgage that keeps us on a tight budget. Life was modest, but it was ours, and it was peaceful. Until today. Out of nowhere, the daycare sent an emergency alert. A water main had burst, and they were shutting down for at least three days. My husband, David, was working an on-call shift he absolutely couldn’t get out of. My parents live halfway across the country, and his parents were out of state. I turned the options over in my head until I ran out of them. There was no backup plan. Gritting my teeth, I realized I had only one choice: I had to bring our three-year-old daughter, Zoe, to the office with me. Before we left the house, I knelt down, looking Zoe straight in her big, trusting eyes. “Zoe, listen to Mommy. We’re going to Mommy’s office today. You have to be a good girl. No running. No screaming. No touching things that aren’t yours. Can you do that for me?” Zoe stared back, her eyes wide, and nodded with immense enthusiasm. “Yes!” I believed her. God, I was so naive. We arrived at the office at 9:10 AM. When the receptionist, Amber, saw me walking in with a tiny toddler in tow, her face lit up. “Oh my gosh, Laura! Is this your daughter? She is absolutely precious!” “Yeah, daycare had a plumbing disaster. No choice,” I smiled, giving Zoe’s curly hair a gentle pat. Zoe actually behaved, offering a sweet, “Hi, pretty lady!” Amber beamed, immediately reaching into her desk drawer to hand her a cherry lollipop. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. So far, so good. We took the elevator up to the sixteenth floor. The moment I pushed open the heavy glass doors of the marketing department, the entire floor erupted. “No way, Laura brought her kid?” “Oh my god, let me see!” “She’s so tiny! I want to squeeze her!” My coworkers swarmed us like bees to honey. Zoe, startled by the sudden crowd, hid behind my leg, clutching my slacks. But she adapted quickly, peeked out, and flashed them a heart-melting grin. Tiffany was the first to squat down, offering a high-five. “Hey there, little one. What’s your name?” “I’m Zoe! I’m three!” Zoe proudly held up three fingers. Tiffany laughed. “You are absolutely gorgeous. Look at those big eyes, and those dimples—” Her voice trailed off. Her smile froze mid-expression. “Wait,” Tiffany murmured, tilting her head to study Zoe. Then she tilted her head to look toward the end of the open-plan office, where a large framed photograph hung on the wall. It was the official company portrait from last year’s gala. Standing dead center, radiating power, was our billionaire CEO, Richard Harrington. Tiffany looked at Zoe, then at the photo. Then back to Zoe, then back to the photo. She slowly stood up, her face twisting into an expression that was hard to read. “Laura…” “Yeah?” “Your daughter…” “What about her?” “Doesn’t she look… a little…” Tyler wandered over, following Tiffany’s gaze to the wall, then down to Zoe. His jaw dropped. “Holy crap,” he muttered under his breath. And then, the entire marketing department fell dead silent. It was a bizarre, suffocating kind of quiet. No one said a word. Dozens of eyes just bounced back and forth—from Zoe’s face to the portrait on the wall, and back again. I was still blissfully out of the loop. “What are you guys staring at?” Tiffany swallowed hard, pulled out her phone, and opened the company directory. She pulled up the official corporate headshot of CEO Richard Harrington—high-definition, professional lighting. She slid the phone right next to Zoe’s face. An adult man’s face. A three-year-old child’s face. The exact same almond-shaped eyes. The exact same slight upturn at the bridge of the nose. The exact same deep dimple on the right cheek. Even the slight arch at the tail of their eyebrows looked like a copy-paste job. The entire marketing department let out a collective, sharp intake of breath. Tiffany slowly turned her head to look at me. I will never forget that look. It wasn’t judgment. It wasn’t mockery. It was pure, unadulterated awe. “Laura…” “Don’t you dare say a word,” I said, my head suddenly spinning. “I haven’t even said anything!” “Your eyes just wrote a ten-thousand-word fanfiction!” I snatched the phone from her hand. The moment I saw the side-by-side comparison, a cold shiver ran straight down my spine. It was uncanny. It wasn’t just a passing resemblance; it was the kind of match where if they walked down the street together, a stranger would assume Richard was her biological father without a second thought. My mind raced. My husband, David, is soft-featured, has floppy hair, wears glasses, and is handsome in a completely average, boy-next-door way. Richard Harrington? Sharp-jawed, immaculately tailored, with an aura of untouchable power. They looked absolutely nothing alike. Yet my daughter looked like Richard’s miniature clone. How on earth was I supposed to explain this? I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, but the air in the room felt too thin to breathe. And then came the sound that made my blood pressure instantly skyrocket. Ping! It was Tiffany’s phone. A group chat notification. I looked down. It was the company-wide Slack channel—all three hundred employees. Tiffany—that absolute menace—had already uploaded the side-by-side photo. Her caption read: “Attention all departments, we have a major development. Marketing’s own Laura has brought in her daughter, who apparently shares a face with our CEO, Mr. Harrington. Visual evidence attached. Any geneticists in the house want to weigh in?” My entire body went numb. 2 The notifications didn’t stop. They kept rolling in, one after another, a relentless barrage of pings. ‘???’ ‘Are you kidding me? They’re identical!’ ‘Wait, is this Photoshopped?’ ‘Tiffany, you have a death wish, lmao.’ ‘I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. I rubbed them three times.’ ‘Is there a chance… she’s actually Mr. Harrington’s?’ ‘Laura! You’ve been hiding a massive secret!’ My fingers flew across my keyboard as I desperately tried to damage-control. “Everyone, please stop spreading rumors! This is purely a coincidence! Doppelgängers exist!” I hit send. There was a brief two-second pause. Then Tyler replied with a passive-aggressive smiling emoji. Tiffany reacted with a thumbs-up. Deborah from Marketing chimed in: “Coincidence? Oh, sweet summer child.” My eye twitched. Then came the killing blow. Kevin from Admin dug up last month’s keycard logs and dropped a screenshot into the chat. “May 12th: Laura from Marketing worked until 11:00 PM. CEO’s office light stayed on until 11:00 PM.” “May 19th: Laura worked until 10:30 PM. CEO’s light stayed on until 10:30 PM.” His caption: “Interesting.” My brain short-circuited. We were finalizing the quarterly campaign last month! Staying late was a necessity for me, and Mr. Harrington was notorious for being a workaholic who practically lived in his office. We were the last ones in the building because my proposals had to go directly to him for final approval! But trying to explain that now felt like trying to put out a forest fire with a water gun. Panic setting in, I typed frantically: “That was for the quarterly launch! The entire marketing team knows this!” There were six people on my immediate team. Not a single one of them typed a word to defend me. Tiffany was literally eating a bag of chips at her desk, her face lit up like she was watching an Oscar-winning drama. Tyler pretended to be deeply engrossed in a spreadsheet, though his smirk was so wide it almost touched his ears. I whipped around to face them. “Seriously? None of you are going to back me up?” Tyler gave me a lazy shrug. “Look, Laura, we want to help. But we also like having jobs. If Mr. Harrington actually turns out to be our secret brother-in-law, we’d rather stay on his good side.” “Shut up, Tyler.” Right then, my desk phone rang. I picked it up with a trembling hand. A smooth, deep voice drifted through the receiver. It was calm, measured, and entirely terrifying. “Laura.” “Mr… Mr. Harrington!” “Come up to my office.” “Sir, I can explain—” “I said, come up.” Click. The line went dead. The entire office was so quiet you could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. Every eye was locked on me. Tiffany whispered, “If you have any last words, Laura, now’s the time.” I ignored her. Clutching my hands into fists, I looked down at Zoe. She was sitting happily on the carpet, folding my project files into paper airplanes, completely oblivious to the fact that her mother was standing on the precipice of total social ruin. “Zoe, honey, let’s go upstairs.” “Where are we going?” “To… to meet someone.” “Yay!” She jumped up and grabbed my hand. The walk to the elevator felt like a march to the gallows. Behind me, the collective gaze of the marketing department pinned me like a butterfly on display. I could hear their hushed whispers fading as the distance grew: “Do you think he’ll admit it?” “Shh, keep it down!” The moment the elevator doors slid shut, I took three deep, ragged breaths. This was it. I was done for. The eighteenth floor. The executive suite. I pushed the door open. Justin, the CEO’s executive assistant, was sitting behind his desk in the lobby. He looked up, his expression a mix of absolute curiosity, intense scrutiny, and a distinct look of I knew it. “Mr. Harrington is waiting for you. Go on in.” Then his eyes drifted down to Zoe. He froze. He stared at her face for a full five seconds. Then he quickly lowered his head, pressing his lips into a tight line, his shoulders visibly shaking. He was trying, and failing, not to burst out laughing. Ignoring him, I scooped Zoe into my arms and pushed open the heavy oak door to the inner office. Richard Harrington sat behind his massive mahogany desk. Dark suit, pristine white shirt, every hair perfectly in place. In front of him, his monitor was turned slightly toward the room. Displayed on the screen was the Slack post—the side-by-side comparison of his face and my daughter’s. My knees felt weak, but I forced my posture straight. “Mr. Harrington, this is a massive misunderstanding, I—” “Sit,” he said, his voice level. I sat. Zoe wriggled out of my lap and began to wander around the spacious office, her eyes wide. Richard didn’t say a word. He slowly stood up, bypassed the desk, and walked over to where Zoe had paused by a leather armchair. The steady click of his leather dress shoes felt like a countdown in my chest. He knelt down. He leveled his gaze with Zoe’s. Zoe tilted her head to the left. Richard tilted his head to the left, too. Same angle. Same expression. Honestly, in that split second, even my own conviction wavered. It was uncanny. It was terrifying. “What is your name?” Richard asked, his usually cold tone softening just a fraction. “I’m Zoe!” “And how old are you, Zoe?” “Three!” She held up three chubby fingers. Richard stared at her, his eyes losing focus for a brief moment. I opened my mouth to say something—anything—to break the stifling silence. But Zoe beat me to it. She reached out with her small, chubby hand and gently patted Richard’s cheek. Then, in the clear, incredibly loud voice of a three-year-old, she squealed: “Daddy! You have nice new clothes! So handsome!” The air in the office instantly froze. Richard froze. I froze. Outside the door, a sudden shatter echoed as Justin dropped his ceramic mug, splashing coffee all over the entryway floor. Seeing no response, Zoe yelled even louder: “Daddy! Hug!” She threw her arms wide and launched herself directly into Richard Harrington’s chest. Richard’s arms moved mechanically, catching her out of sheer instinct. He slowly lifted his head, his piercing gaze locking onto mine. Looking back, there is only one way to describe that look: a total reckoning. “Laura.” “Mr. Harrington, I swear on my life—” “Does she call every man she meets “Daddy”?” “Well… no, of course not. But she’s young, and when she sees handsome younger men—” “Handsome younger men?” Richard’s voice was completely flat, but I could feel the cold edge of a guillotine hovering over my neck. “So what you’re saying is, your daughter regularly encounters “handsome younger men” and addresses them as her father?” “No! Mr. Harrington, that’s not what I meant at all!” “Then what exactly do you mean?” I had absolutely no answer. Behind us, the sound of Justin wiping up the coffee stopped. He was listening. Hanging on every single syllable. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his other hand slipped into his pocket, his thumb frantically moving. He was texting. It was over. By now, the entire company would know. Laura’s daughter just called the CEO “Daddy” to his face. 3 Everyone experiences embarrassment at some point in their lives, but I never expected mine to be broadcasted live to a corporate audience of three hundred. Justin’s updates were lightning fast. Before I could even step foot out of the executive suite, my phone was practically vibrating itself off my lap. The main Slack channel was in absolute meltdown: ‘Did I hear correctly? Laura’s kid called Mr. Harrington “Daddy” to his face???’ ‘Confirmed! Justin saw the whole thing!’ ‘The kid has instincts. Recognized her own flesh and blood instantly.’ ‘Laura has been keeping this quiet for three years. Respect.’ ‘No wonder all her marketing proposals get approved. She has a direct line to the top.’ I wanted to hurl my phone out the window. But Zoe was the one who truly pushed me over the edge. She refused to let go of Richard. Her small arms were wrapped tightly around his neck, her head resting on his shoulder with absolute contentment. Richard looked like he was holding a live grenade. His arm was frozen beneath her lower back, his other hand hovering awkwardly in the air, completely unsure of where to place it. “Laura. Remove your daughter.” “Zoe, come to Mommy.” “No!” Zoe clung tighter. “Daddy smells good! Just like home!” My soul left my body for approximately three seconds. Just like home? What did that even mean? Richard’s brow arched. “The same smell?” He looked at me, his gaze narrowing. “What kind of shampoo does your husband use?” “What… excuse me?” “I asked you what brand of shampoo your husband uses.” “I… I don’t know, whatever’s on sale at the grocery store—” “So you don’t even know what shampoo your husband uses, yet your daughter claims I smell exactly like him. Laura, does that strike you as normal?” I didn’t know if it was normal, but I knew I was about to have a psychotic break. Steeling myself, I reached out and physically pried Zoe out of Richard’s arms. Zoe immediately puckered her lower lip, her eyes pooling with tears. “No! I want Daddy!” “He is not your daddy!” I snapped, my voice rising a little too loud. Richard raised an eyebrow. Zoe went from crying to delivering a direct physical blow to my sanity. She pointed a chubby finger at a framed photo on Richard’s desk—a profile shot of him from a major business magazine feature last month. “Mommy, you’re a liar! Daddy’s picture is right there! This is Daddy’s office!” Richard glanced at his own portrait, then back at Zoe, and finally at me. A faint twitch appeared at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t a smile. It was the face of a man desperately biting back a sarcastic comment. I felt my entire life crumbling to dust in real-time. “Mr. Harrington,” I gasped, making one final, desperate bid for my survival. “I swear to you, we have never even had a proper conversation before today. I have a husband. His name is David. He works a regular job. We’ve been married for four years, and our daughter is three. This is just a crazy, bizarre coincidence. Truly.” Richard stared at me for ten seconds. Those ten seconds stretched out like a decade. Finally, he exhaled. “Fine. Go back to work.” Feeling like a pardoned death-row inmate, I scooped Zoe up and practically bolted. Just as my hand touched the brass doorknob, his voice stopped me. “Laura.” “Yes, sir!” “Control your daughter. Control your coworkers’ mouths. And clean up that Slack channel.” “Understood!” I scrambled out of the executive suite. The second the elevator doors closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and let out a long, sheltering breath. I looked down at Zoe. The little monster was happily licking a gourmet lollipop she had somehow swiped off Richard’s desk. “Zoe.” “Hmm?” “He is not Daddy.” “He is Daddy! He looks just like him!” “No, he isn’t. He’s Mommy’s boss. Do you know what a boss is?” “What’s a boss?” “The person who can make Mommy lose her job.” Zoe tilted her head, considering this. “Then Daddy is a boss too.” I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. There was no flaw in her toddler logic. Back on the sixteenth floor, I wished I could tape a ‘Do Not Ask’ sign directly to my forehead. But it wouldn’t have kept the sharks away. Tiffany was waiting for me, practically vibrating with excitement. “Laura! What did he say? Did he admit it?” “Admit what?” “Oh, come on, don’t be like that. Honestly, the whole office has your back.” “My back for what?” “Well, the marketing team has a pool going that you’re his secret mistress. Three-to-one odds. HR is betting you’re his high school sweetheart—five-to-one odds. Finance went wild and is betting Zoe is an IVF baby. Ten-to-one odds.” “You guys are… betting on my personal life?” “Don’t worry, I put twenty bucks on the mistress angle for you. If we win, I’ll split the payout.” I clenched my fists, taking slow, deep breaths to restrain myself from committing a felony. Not because I possessed incredible poise, but because at that exact moment, my phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down. A text from my husband, David. Just two words: “Laura Callahan.” My heart rate spiked. Then came a second text: an image. It was the side-by-side photo. And then a third: “Care to explain?” My fingers shook as I typed a furious response: “Honey, listen to me, it’s a complete fluke! A total coincidence! There are people who look alike all over—” Before I could hit send, a fourth text popped up: “Don’t bother.” And then a fifth: “I’m coming down to see for myself.” My mind went completely blank. I knew David. When he said “don’t bother,” it didn’t mean he was letting it go. It meant the trial was over, the verdict was guilty, and he was heading out to carry out the sentence. I frantically hit call. Ring… ring… ring… Nothing. I tried again. ‘The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently busy…’ He had blocked me. I stared at the screen, my mind spinning. From our apartment to the office was a twenty-minute drive. If he took the highway, fifteen. If he was driving in a blind rage— A sudden draft swept through the office as Gregory walked in. A balding, forty-something man who lived to make my life miserable, he immediately targeted me with a smug, oily grin. “Well, well, Laura. Quite a lively day we’re having.” My stomach plummeted. Gregory had never liked me. I wrote the marketing copy, he took the credit. I pulled the all-nighters, he accepted the bonuses. Now that I was in the middle of a massive scandal, there was no way he wasn’t going to stick the boot in. Sure enough, he cleared his throat and addressed the room. “Everyone, let’s remember this is a place of business, not a rumor mill. However, if certain personal indiscretions start affecting the company’s professional reputation, I will have no choice but to report it to HR.” He turned his eyes on me, dripping with false concern. “And Laura, you need to get that kid out of here. It’s a distraction.” “Gregory, the daycare had—” “That’s a personal issue. The office is not a daycare.” He spun on his heel and walked away. Tiffany leaned over, lowering her voice. “Laura, Greg is totally trying to get you fired.” I knew that. But Gregory was the least of my worries right now. My mind was completely occupied by a singular, terrifying image: David standing in our kitchen, holding our heavy-duty German kitchen knife. The one he insisted on buying for over a hundred bucks because “good steel makes a better chef.” It was sharp. Extremely sharp. I stared out the window at the bright blue sky, thinking to myself: It’s a beautiful day to die. 4 I called seventeen times. Every single one was forwarded straight to voicemail. I sent twenty-three texts. All of them met with a red exclamation point. David had blocked my number and my social media. In our four years of marriage, this was a Level-One Emergency. The last time he did this was when I accidentally spilled coffee on his custom-built gaming PC. He hadn’t spoken to me for three days. This time? I looked down at the comparison photo. Three days felt highly optimistic. Thirty years was more like it. I sat at my desk, staring blankly at my screen, unable to process a single word of copy. I had set Zoe up in an empty chair next to me with some scratch paper and crayons. She was coloring diligently, her little hand gripping a green crayon as she concentrated. I leaned over to look at what she was drawing. I nearly had a stroke. She had drawn three figures. One in a dress, labeled ‘Mommy.’ One tall figure, labeled ‘Daddy.’ And another equally tall figure, carefully labeled in messy toddler handwriting—’Handsome Daddy.’ The three of them were holding hands, and she had drawn a massive red heart right between them. Tiffany peeked over my shoulder. ‘Pfft—’ She immediately whipped around, pulling her collar up over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she convulsed with silent laughter. “Give me that,” I hissed, snatching the paper away. “No!” Zoe immediately started to wail. “That’s my family!” “We do not have a “Handsome Daddy,” Zoe! You only have one daddy!” “But Handsome Daddy is upstairs! He is my daddy too!” The marketing department went dead silent once again. Everyone pretended to be typing furiously, but I knew twelve ears were pinned in our direction. I stuffed the drawing deep into my desk drawer, taking three deep breaths. Just then, the receptionist’s voice crackled through the office intercom: “Laura, there’s someone here to see you on sixteen.” My heart stopped. “Who is it?” “A gentleman. He didn’t give a name.” A pause. “He… well, he’s carrying something. Security tried to stop him, but he claimed it was a specialty food item from home. Honestly, it doesn’t look like food.” “What shape is it?” “Long, flat. Wrapped in newspaper.” My blood pressure hit an all-time high. The entire team exchanged terrified glances. The smile finally vanished from Tiffany’s face. She swallowed hard. “Laura… is that…?” Tyler’s voice shook. “Should we call 911?” “Why would we call the police? That’s my husband!” “Is there a difference between a husband with a knife and a stranger with a knife?!” I stood up, my legs feeling like jelly. “Everyone, relax. He just has a short fuse. I’ll handle it.” Before I could take a step— BAM!

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Dating Jack for seven years meant living by his rules. Everything was split 50/50. Dinner, utilities, rent—even Valentine’s Day gifts had to be balanced down to the penny against the receipt. If he bought me a forty-dollar lipstick, I had to find a tie that cost exactly forty dollars to give him in return. If there was a two-dollar difference, he’d Venmo me the balance with the memo: “Adjustment.” My friends used to joke that my boyfriend was a walking spreadsheet. For seven years, I defended him: “That’s just who he is. He’s fair to everyone.” Until Prime Day, when I saw his childhood friend’s Instagram post. A nine-photo grid. Screenshots of her cleared-out shopping cart, totaling $4,200. Her caption: “Thank you, Jack. Clearing my cart every Prime Day for five years straight. You’re the best!” And underneath, a like from Jack, with his comment: “Told you, don’t worry about it.” I scrolled back through her profile. Last Prime Day. The year before. The year before that. Every single year. A nine-photo grid. Cleared-out cart. Thanking Jack. I stared at my phone, remembering my trip to urgent care last month when my stomach ulcers flared up. He had slid the bill across the counter to me at the discharge window: “Pay it first, and you can Venmo me half when we get home.” Seventy-three dollars and twenty-five cents. He wouldn’t even let the copay slide. I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry. I didn’t demand an explanation. I simply opened my work email and signed the contract for the corporate transfer to Singapore. 1 “Why hasn’t your signed relocation agreement come through yet?” “I just signed it. It should be in your inbox now.” I hung up with HR and slowly turned over the framed photo of Jack and me on my desk, facing it down. The front door clicked open. Jack walked in, carrying a cheap plastic bag from the corner bodega containing two pre-packaged tuna sandwiches close to their expiration date. “Dinner,” he said, tossing the bag onto the coffee table. “BOGO deal. Six bucks total. Send me three.” Without saying a word, I pulled out my phone, scanned his QR code, and Venmoed him three dollars. Jack stared at his screen for a second, his brow furrowing slightly. “No memo today? Don’t you usually write ‘Dinner 50/50’?” “Forgot,” I said quietly. “Try to remember next time. It messes up my end-of-month reconciliation.” He pulled out his chair at the dining table and opened his laptop, with practiced ease pulling up the spreadsheet titled Relationship Fund. It was his masterpiece—the thing he was proudest of. Over our seven years together, every single expense had been tracked in this spreadsheet, calculated down to the decimal. “For your urgent care visit last month, I covered seventy-three twenty-five.” His long, slender fingers tapped rhythmic patterns on the keyboard. “Plus the three dollars from tonight, you owe me forty-eight dollars and seventy-five cents.” “Sure. I’ll send it now.” I kept my head down, navigating the app, clearing my debt to him dollar by dollar. Right then, his screen lit up. Phoebe sent a voice memo. It played automatically, her voice loud, bright, and sweet in the quiet room. “Jack! I saw that new Dyson Airwrap online, but it’s so expensive… You said you’d get me something big for my birthday this year. Does that still stand?” A soft, genuine smile spread across Jack’s face. It was an expression I rarely saw anymore—one he never used when staring at his spreadsheets. He picked up his phone, holding down the microphone button. “Of course. Send me the link.” Within thirty seconds, Phoebe sent a screenshot. Five hundred and forty-nine dollars. Without a moment’s hesitation, Jack authorized the payment, his thumb tapping the confirmation screen with practiced speed. He didn’t search for a coupon code. He didn’t ask if there was a sale. I watched his fluid, effortless movements, and then looked down at the dry, cheap tuna sandwiches on our table. A five-hundred-dollar hair styler, paid in full, without a second thought. Meanwhile, my urgent care copay of seventy-three dollars had to be sliced down the middle, exacted to the penny. “Is it Phoebe’s birthday?” I asked, my voice flat. “Yeah, next week.” He didn’t look up. “You’re spending that much on her. Do you expect her to pay half?” Jack’s fingers froze over the keyboard. He looked up, his eyes flashing with a familiar, weary irritation. “Iris, are you trying to pick a fight again?” “I’m just curious about how you define fairness.” “Phoebe is practically my little sister. What’s wrong with buying her a birthday gift?” His brow pinched, his tone sharp with the annoyance of being interrupted. “Why do you have to compete with her? You and I split things because we are equal, independent adults. I respect your independence.” I respect your independence. He had used that phrase like a shield for seven years. In the beginning, I believed him. I thought he was progressive, modern, treating me as an equal partner rather than a dependent. Now, it just made me feel hollow. “Right. I’m not competing,” I said, putting my phone away. “Then why the attitude?” “My stomach is still acting up. I’m going to bed.” I didn’t wait for his reply. I turned and walked into the bedroom. Closing the door behind me, I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and opened the closet. My wardrobe was sparse. Any purchase that went beyond bare-minimum necessities would be flagged in red on Jack’s spreadsheet at the end of the month, followed by a lecture on “lifestyle inflation.” But I knew for a fact that the designer bags and expensive perfumes he bought Phoebe had never touched a single cell of those spreadsheets. From the living room, Jack’s voice drifted through the door. “Hey babe, tomorrow’s the weekend. We should go put down the deposit on the wedding venue. It’s two thousand dollars. Make sure you have your thousand ready.” I folded my last winter coat, pressing down the creases. “I’m busy tomorrow. Go ahead without me.” “You need to be there to sign. Otherwise, you’ll complain about the layout.” “Whatever you choose is fine.” “What is wrong with you today?” 2 When Jack pushed the bedroom door open, I had just slid the suitcase back under the bed. He leaned against the frame, his eyes scanning the half-empty closet. “Why are you packing up your clothes?” “Donating stuff I don’t wear anymore,” I lied easily. He didn’t question it. In his mind, I was a permanent fixture in his life. I would never leave. “We’re doing the venue walkthrough tomorrow. Phoebe’s coming too.” He walked over to the dresser, rummaging for his pajamas. “Why is she coming?” “She offered to help us coordinate. Plus, she wants to pick out her maid of honor dress while we’re there.” He said it so casually. I watched him from behind. “And who’s paying for her dress?” He paused, turning around to face me. “It’s a couple hundred bucks. I’ll just cover it. Do we really need to split hairs over this, Iris?” “I thought you believed in clean accounts.” “Are you seriously going to be this petty about everything?” His patience was gone. “Phoebe is trying to help us. Can you please just be the bigger person?” “I am being the bigger person,” I said, taking a step back. “Which is why you two should go ahead without me tomorrow.” The next morning, I went to the leasing office alone. I cancelled the application for the townhouse we had spent the last month touring—the one we were supposed to sign the lease on next week. The leasing agent looked at me in disbelief. “Ms. Campbell, you and Mr. Davis have been looking at this place for weeks. I thought you were putting down the deposit today?” “We changed our minds.” “Is it the security deposit? We might be able to work out a payment plan…” “No, thank you. The wedding is off.” I signed the cancellation form and walked out into the crisp morning air. The sun was blinding. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a photo from Phoebe. She was standing in front of a mirror at a high-end boutique, wearing an incredibly intricate, beaded champagne gown. In the background, Jack sat on a velvet sofa, staring down at his phone. Her text read: Do you like this one, Iris? Jack says it makes my skin tone pop, but it’s a little pricey… I zoomed in on the photo. The price tag was hanging off the sleeve, partially visible. $1,800. A maid of honor dress that cost more than the budget we’d allocated for my entire bridal look. I didn’t reply. I muted her notifications. Thirty minutes later, Jack called. I answered. “Where the hell are you? Phoebe and I have been waiting for an hour.” His voice was tight with frustration. “I’m running some errands.” “What errand is more important than our wedding venue? Phoebe has a Pilates class at two.” “If she’s that busy, you two should just make the decision.” “Iris, if you’re going to throw a tantrum, at least choose a better time.” Jack took a deep breath, trying to steady his voice. “Fine. If you’re not coming, I’ll handle it. Phoebe found a dress she loves. It’s eighteen hundred. I think it’s a bit much, but she really has her heart set on it.” There was a brief pause on the line, as if he was waiting for me to object. I said nothing. “Here’s what we’ll do: we’ll put it under the general wedding budget.” He laid out his solution. “So, we’ll just split it. Nine hundred each.” I laughed. A sharp, physical laugh that made my stomach ache. “She likes it, you’re buying it, and I’m supposed to pay half?” “She’s our maid of honor! It’s a wedding expense!” He sounded entirely justified. “I don’t need a maid of honor, and I don’t need an eighteen-hundred-dollar dress.” “You are being completely unreasonable.” Jack let out a cold, bitter laugh. “I’m not going to argue with you on the phone. I already paid for it. Just Venmo me the nine hundred when you get home.” “I’m not paying you, Jack.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what I said.” 3 Jack didn’t come home for dinner that night. He texted saying he was going out with some colleagues from work. I sat on the living room floor, sorting through the clutter in the drawers. At the bottom of one, I found an old smartwatch. I had saved up for weeks to buy it for his birthday during our third year together. He wore it for three days before taking it off. His excuse was that the band wasn’t breathable and irritated his skin when he worked out. A month later, Phoebe bought him a vintage watch. He had worn it every day for the last four years. I tossed the smartwatch into the trash bag and kept digging until my fingers brushed against a cold, metal ring. It was Biscuit’s collar. Biscuit was a stray Golden Retriever we had found shivering behind our apartment complex two years ago. When we first brought him in, he had parvo and was on the verge of death. I stayed up for three nights straight at the 24-hour animal hospital, spending over two thousand dollars of my own savings to keep him alive. Jack had told me then: “You’re the one who wanted to save him. The vet bills are on you.” And I accepted it. Biscuit was the sweetest dog. He seemed to know he was rescued, never barking, always gentle. Every time Jack came home from work, Biscuit would be waiting at the door with his slippers in his mouth. Eventually, even Jack warmed up to him, patting his head and buying him cheap treats. Until six months ago, when Phoebe came over. The moment she saw Biscuit, she screamed and jumped onto the kitchen counter. “Jack, I can’t do big dogs! What if he bites me?” Jack had quickly locked Biscuit out on the balcony. “Don’t worry, he’s harmless.” “But his fur… I can’t breathe when there’s pet dander in the air. I think I’m having an allergic reaction.” She clutched her chest, wheezing dramatically. That very night, after she left, Jack gave me an ultimatum. “Get rid of the dog.” “Why? Biscuit is perfectly trained.” “Phoebe is allergic. How is she supposed to visit us if we have dog hair everywhere?” I stared at him, stunned by his casual disregard. “This is my home too. Biscuit is part of our family.” “Are you seriously choosing a dog over me?” His brow furrowed. “I already talked to a guy who has a farm upstate. He’s coming to pick him up tomorrow.” “Don’t you dare.” It was the first time in seven years I had screamed at him, my eyes burning with tears. But he didn’t care. When I got home from work the next day, the balcony was empty. Only a solitary water bowl remained. I spent a week searching, even driving up to the acquaintance’s place upstate. The man told me the dog had slipped out of his truck at a gas station along the highway. He didn’t know where he went. I sat on the gravel driveway that night and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe. When Jack called, his voice held nothing but mild confusion. “It’s just a stray dog, Iris. Why are you acting like you lost your mind? If you want a pet that badly, we can get a hypoallergenic cat later.” Just a dog. To him, nothing I loved was ever worth keeping. I gripped the cold metal of the collar, my fingers tightening until they hurt. The front door swung open. Jack walked in, smelling of whiskey and stale smoke. Seeing me on the floor with the collar in my hand, his face darkened instantly. “Are you seriously still holding onto that old junk?” He kicked off his shoes and stepped closer. “It’s late. Go wash up and go to sleep.” I looked up at him. “Jack, when Biscuit went missing, did you actually look for him at all?” He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden question. “Why are you dragging up ancient history again?” “I just want to know.” “Yes, I looked. I drove around the block once, didn’t see him, and came back.” He pulled off his tie with an irritated yank. “It’s been six months. Can you stop obsessing over this?” I stood up, slipping the collar into my pocket. “You’re right,” I said softly. “It’s time to let go.” He let out a sigh of relief, assuming I was yielding, just as I always did. “There’s a group dinner tomorrow night. Phoebe’s coming too.” He spoke over his shoulder as he walked toward the bathroom. “Tyler and the guys said they haven’t seen you in ages. Get ready early, and wear something nice.” “I’m not going.” “Iris, seriously, what is your problem?” He stopped, turning back to face me. “You’ve been walking around with this miserable face for days. I’ve had just about enough.” 4 It was my last day before the move. My flight to Singapore was scheduled for three o’clock tomorrow afternoon. I finished checking out at the office, handed in my credentials, and returned to the empty apartment. Over the last week, I had slowly, quietly packed away my life. Piece by piece, like an army of ants, I cleared out my existence from the space. Even my toothbrush was gone from the bathroom sink. I pulled my single suitcase to the entryway, leaving it by the door. Then, I sat down at the dining table and opened Jack’s spreadsheet on my phone. Seven years. Two thousand five hundred and fifty-five days. I went through every single expense he had ever logged. After deducting the money he owed me, I owed him exactly four hundred and sixty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. I opened my banking app and transferred the exact amount to his account. In the payment description, I wrote: Paid in full. Moments after the transfer went through, my phone rang. “Why did you just send me money?” Jack’s voice was nearly drowned out by the thumping bass of a bar in the background. “I thought we liked keeping clean accounts.” “Look, stop being dramatic,” he said, his voice softening slightly. “We’re at the lounge. Grab an Uber and get over here. Everyone’s asking for you.” “I’m not coming. I’m tired.” “Iris, Phoebe wore her new dress tonight. Everyone’s talking about how great she looks.” His voice dropped, suggesting he had stepped away from the crowd. “Just come out for my sake. Put in an appearance, and we can forget about you splitting the cost of the dress. How about that?” A bribe of nine hundred dollars to swallow my dignity while Phoebe flaunted her dress in front of our friends. Seven years of this cycle: a slap in the face followed by a cheap peace offering. “Jack,” I said quietly. “Yeah?” “I hope you and Phoebe get exactly what you deserve.” There was a long pause on the line. “What the hell is wrong with you?” his voice turned freezing cold. “Phoebe and I are friends. You’re seriously going to make a scene in front of everyone because of your jealousy?” “Believe whatever you want.” “Fine. Don’t come. Stay home and think about how you’re acting.” He cut the line. I stared at the black screen, feeling absolutely nothing. Thirty minutes later, my rideshare arrived downstairs. I took one final look at the apartment where I had lived for five years. He had chosen the dark gray couch cushions; I had hated them. Phoebe had suggested the sage green curtains; they had always given me a headache. There was nothing of me left here. I pulled the door shut behind me, leaving it unlocked. I slid the key under the doormat. The highway to the airport was empty under the night sky. Sitting in the backseat, watching the streetlights bleed past the window, I opened my phone. I blocked Jack’s number. I left every group chat we shared. And then, I popped out the SIM card I had used for seven years and dropped it into the rideshare’s small trash bin. I slid in the new international SIM card my company had issued me. — At eleven that night, Jack stumbled into the apartment, smelling of alcohol. “Iris, have you finally gotten over yourself?” He called out to the bedroom, expecting the usual silence of a cold shoulder. Nothing. As he kicked off his shoes, he glanced at the entryway rack. My everyday flats were missing. He frowned, walking straight to the bathroom. The cup on the vanity was empty. My toothbrush was gone. His brows knit tighter as he marched into the bedroom and yanked the closet doors open. My side was completely bare. Not even a wire hanger remained. The alcohol flushed out of his system instantly. He grabbed his phone, searched my name, and typed a message. Where did you move your stuff to? He hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up immediately. Message could not be delivered. You are no longer connected with this contact.

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