Just before the green flag dropped at the Pacific Crest Rally, my fiancé, Wade, stepped in front of my machine. “Keira, we’re putting Daisy in the primary seat today. You’re going to run block for her.” The world went completely silent around me. I stared at him, my hands frozen on the handlebars. Wade knew. He knew better than anyone that this was my retirement race. It was my final ride before we were supposed to get married. It was also my shot at a historic sixth consecutive world title—the one that would cement my legacy as the greatest female rider in the sport’s history. Six years ago, Wade’s family garage, Caldwell Racing, was on the verge of bankruptcy. I was the one who dragged them out of the red. I took the titles, secured the sponsors, and turned an obscure, struggling crew into a global powerhouse. And now, they wanted me to step aside for a rookie who had barely survived her qualifying runs. I didn’t blink. “This is my race, Wade. I’m not stepping aside.” His brow furrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Daisy needs this win. You already have five titles under your belt, Keira. A sixth won’t change your life.” His voice hardened, dropping into that clinical, managerial tone I’d grown to hate. “It’s a board decision. If you don’t fall in line, you know what happens.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. “What, you’re going to fire me?” Wade didn’t look away. He didn’t deny it either. Behind him, the mechanics and crew members—men who had celebrated five world championships by my side—suddenly found the dirt on their boots incredibly interesting. None of them looked at me. In that quiet, devastating flash of clarity, I realized it wasn’t about Daisy needing the trophy. It was that they believed they didn’t need me anymore. Slowly, I unclipped the team badge from my chest. Then, I pulled the diamond engagement ring off my left ring finger. I slid them both across the metal tool bench, leaving them right in front of him. “If that’s how it is,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “Then you can keep the team. And you can keep the ring.” … I turned on my heel and walked toward the pit lane, my boots heavy against the asphalt. But when I reached my bike, Daisy was already sitting on it, wearing a pristine, custom-tailored leather suit. She looked up as I approached, offering a timid, wide-eyed gaze as if she’d just realized she was trespassing. “Oh, Keira… I’m so sorry. But Wade told me this machine is mine to ride today.” A high, ringing noise filled my ears. I spun around, grabbing the lapels of Wade’s jacket, yanking him toward me. “What is this?” My voice cracked, the raw panic leaking through. “You gave her my bike? On what authority? That is “my” machine! You have no right!” My eyes burned as I stared at him. “I built that machine’s legacy over six years of blood and sweat,” I hissed. “Three hundred races. Broken collarbones, concussions, endless nights working side-by-side with the engineers to shave off milliseconds. That data belongs to “me”.” “It took me to five world titles. And it was…!” I bit my lip so hard I tasted copper, swallowing the threat of tears. It was also the very first bike Wade had ever built from scratch. It was his promise to me. I still remembered the humid summer evening he pushed it out of the workshop, his cheeks flushed with nerves, asking if I’d partner with him to conquer the racing world. “Keira,” he had whispered then, “racing is a lonely, dangerous thing. Out on those tracks, you’re entirely on your own against the clock and the terrain. But I want this machine to be my hands, keeping you safe when I can’t be out there.” And now, he was handing that sacred piece of our history to a stranger. Wade calmly reached down, peeling my fingers off his jacket. His voice was entirely devoid of heat. “The bike is registered under Caldwell Racing,” he said. “Every custom modification was paid for through the team accounts.” He looked at me, his eyes cold. “Didn’t you just say you were done with the team? Done with me?” “Since you’re resigning, you no longer have access to team assets. Why shouldn’t I give it to our lead rider?” His words felt like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of me. I stared at him, feeling a profound, bone-chilling cold settle deep into my chest. Six years ago, when this team couldn’t even afford the track rental fees, I was the one who poured every single cent of my prize money back into the garage. I ran back-to-back races, slept in airport terminals, and begged sponsors just to keep the lights on. But because those millions went through the team’s accounts, it was no longer mine. I didn’t even have the right to ride the machine I bought with my own bones. Daisy gently reached out, tugging at Wade’s sleeve. “Wade… maybe we should just forget it. Keira is a veteran of this team. If she’s this upset because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.” She turned her soft, pitying eyes toward me. “Keira, please don’t be angry with him. A rally of this intensity is grueling. You’re thirty now. He’s only thinking of your health.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. But Wade was already turning away from me, his attention fully captured by her. “Let’s check your safety harness.” He dropped to one knee, lifting her boot onto his thigh, carefully tightening the straps. Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink, her eyes darting to me with a carefully crafted look of innocence. “Wade, people are watching… is this okay?” He let out a low chuckle. “Of course it is. You’re the future of this team. Today, nobody matters more than you.” It felt like a slap to the face. The surrounding crew members crowded around them, letting out easy, good-natured laughs. They started running through the wind-shear reports, the track conditions, and the rival telemetry with her. I stood alone in the center of the pit. Nobody looked at me. Nobody even handed me a radio headset. All that was left for me was a dusty, outdated backup bike in the corner of the garage—a model we’d decommissioned a year ago. They were freezing me out. They wanted me to beg, to realize that without a support crew, I couldn’t survive a single lap. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms until they nearly drew blood. Right then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Adrian Ward, the manager of Aether Motorsports, our biggest rivals. Attached was a highly detailed, real-time track and wind analysis. “I heard the shouting in the garage,” the text read. “Keira, my doors are always open to you. Let me know.” “Still throwing a tantrum?” I hadn’t heard Wade walk up. I locked my phone and looked up at him. He acted as though nothing had happened, holding out an iPad with the latest course telemetry. “The wind shifted. There’s a heavy crosswind coming off the ridge after checkpoint three. I had the engineers highlight the safe lines. Take a look.” I didn’t reach for the screen. Wade’s brow twitched. He let out a soft sigh, crouching down to perform a cursory check on my old backup bike. “By the way,” he said, his voice light and conversational. “Weren’t you asking me to visit your parents? I know I’ve had to cancel every time because of team emergencies. Once this race is over, I’ll clear my schedule. We’ll go together.” A heavy, suffocating knot tightened in my throat. I didn’t know when the Wade who used to worship the ground I walked on had turned into this calculating stranger. Whenever he needed me to sacrifice something for his benefit, he would freeze me out until I broke. And if I didn’t break, he’d offer a tiny, effortless olive branch, expecting me to fall back into line and pretend the hurt never happened. I looked down at the concrete. “We’ll see,” I whispered. Wade’s hand paused on the bike frame, clearly caught off guard by my lack of enthusiasm. But my mind was already drifting back to all the times I had begged him to come home with me. Every time, my parents would spend days preparing. My mother would wake up before dawn to bake his favorite pies; my father would spend hours manicuring the lawn. They would set a beautiful table, warming up dinner hour after hour, only to receive a text saying Wade had a “pressing engagement.” They tried so hard to hide their disappointment, offering me tight, reassuring smiles. “It’s fine, sweetheart. A young man has to build his business. We can always do it next time.” But “next time” never came. Suddenly, my phone vibrated with a social media notification. It was a post from Daisy’s public account. I had never followed her, but in that moment, a sick curiosity took hold. I tapped the screen. My hand began to tremble. None of the “emergencies” that kept Wade from my family were real. The night he claimed he was meeting with a crucial title sponsor, he was photographed carrying shopping bags for Daisy in Beverly Hills. The day he said he had a critical board meeting, he was pictured at Disneyland, holding Daisy’s cotton candy. And the weekend he claimed the wind-tunnel data was corrupted and required his overnight presence in the lab, there was a photo of him sitting at Daisy’s parents’ dining table, smiling over a home-cooked roast. In the comments, Daisy’s relatives joked about “the future son-in-law” and asked when the wedding was. Wade had liked every single comment. My chest grew so tight I could barely breathe. I scrolled to her latest post. It was a close-up of a racing bike. My bike. The caption read: “He said he wanted to give me a lucky charm for my golden year. From today on, Caldwell’s legendary ‘Vow’ is officially rechristened ‘Little Bell’.” I stared at the image. The hand-carved letters of my name, “Keira”, which Wade had painstakingly engraved into the alloy frame years ago, had been ground away. In its place was a shiny, laser-etched silver bell. The realization hit me like cold water. The swap wasn’t a last-minute tactical decision. My demotion wasn’t temporary. He had planned this weeks ago. I raised my head, holding the phone up to his face. My voice was dangerously thin. “How do you explain this?” Wade glanced at the screen, his expression unchanged. “It’s just a PR stunt to build her brand, Keira. You can be mad at me, but don’t start spreading cheap rumors about a young girl.” “And the bike?” I pressed, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Why did you grind my name off?” Wade finally stopped working and stood up to face me. There wasn’t a trace of guilt on his face—only a calm, infuriating rationality. “Keira, you’re thirty. Any other elite garage would have forced you out two years ago. I’m the only reason you’re still holding a primary seat.” I froze, the cruelty of his words leaving me numb. “You’re getting married next year,” Wade continued, as if he were explaining a simple business transaction. “You’re going to settle down and start a family soon anyway. The machine needs to be passed to the next generation, and this race is the perfect stage to launch Daisy’s career. What’s the issue here?” He reached out, his voice softening into a patronizing pat. “Be reasonable, Keira. Don’t make a scene.” A strange, absolute calm washed over me. I looked at him, nodding slowly. “I understand.” I turned and began pushing the heavy backup bike toward the starting grid. Wade let out a visible sigh of relief, clearly assuming I had surrendered. But he didn’t know that just seconds earlier, I had replied to Adrian’s message with a single word: “Yes.” When I lined up on the starting grid with a dusty, outdated machine, the grandstands erupted. Spectators stood up, pointing and shouting. “What the hell is going on? Why isn’t Keira on the primary?” “Is that her championship bike? Why is a rookie riding it?” “Putting a five-time champion on a scrap heap and giving the custom build to a novice? Has Caldwell Racing lost their minds?” Angry voices boomed from the front rows, directing their fury toward our pit. “Give Keira her machine back!” But their cries were ignored. The starter pistol cracked, and twenty high-performance engines screamed to life, tearing down the tarmac. The old backup bike was a beast. It lacked the smooth handling of my custom build; the engine ran incredibly hot, the heat radiating through the frame and scorching my inner thighs. But I didn’t care about the pain. My mind narrowed to a single, burning focus. Ride. Faster. I threw the bike into the corners, skimming centimeters from the rocky cliffs, leaning so low my knee sliders scraped the asphalt. Through the track speakers, the announcer’s voice grew increasingly frantic. “Keira is making a move! On a decommissioned machine!” “Oh my god, she’s slicing through the pack! She’s in the top five!” “Second place! Keira has taken second!” Meanwhile, on my championship bike, Daisy was collapsing under the pressure. She had started near the front, but as the technical mountain passes stretched on, she began to slip. Fifth. Seventh. Soon, she was swallowed by the mid-pack. The official track broadcast picked up the audio from her team radio. “Daisy is in tears! She’s crying in her helmet! The pressure is clearly too much for the rookie!” I tuned it all out. My eyes were locked entirely on the tail of the lead bike. Just one final climb, one sharp chicane, and I would take the lead. Suddenly, my comms channel crackled to life. Wade’s voice cut through, tight with suppressed rage. “Keira, that is enough. Slow down.” “Drop out of the lead pack.” “Fall back immediately and pull Daisy through the crosswinds.” I gripped the throttle, leaning into the wind. “No,” I said. The radio went silent for a beat. When Wade spoke again, his voice was deathly quiet. “Keira.” “Do not forget who owns your contract. If you disobey a direct team order, I will terminate you. You’ll be blacklisted from the sport, and I will sue you for every penny of the liquidated damages.” He paused, his voice dropping to a low threat. “And our wedding—if you keep acting like a child, I will seriously have to reconsider our future.” I watched the gap between me and the leader shrink. “I told you,” I said, my voice perfectly steady over the roar of the engine. “I don’t want the team. And I don’t want you.” “Wade.” “You have nothing left to threaten me with.” “My legacy is mine to keep.” The comms went silent. Wade didn’t yell. When he spoke, he sounded chillingly calm. “You’re going to regret this, Keira.” My stomach lurched. A fraction of a second later, the front forks began to shake violently. The steering dampener gave out completely. The handlebars whipped left and right, threatening to throw me off. Panic seized me as I realized what had happened. The bike had been sabotaged. I gripped the bars with everything I had, fighting the death wobble, forcing the machine toward the finish line. Even if I crashed, I was going to cross that line. But the speed was too high, the machine too broken. The front wheel caught a rut, and the bike high-sided, launching me into the air. The sound of metal slamming against rock echoed through the canyon. I hit the ground hard, rolling repeatedly until my body slammed into a boulder. Warm blood flowed down my forehead, blurring my vision. As my consciousness began to slip away, a faint whisper came through my helmet earpiece. “Keira,” Wade sighed, his voice laced with a strange, pitying sadness. “Why couldn’t you just listen?” Then, the world went completely black. I woke up late that evening in a sterile hospital room. The only person beside my bed was a young intern from the garage, a girl named Fiona. Fiona’s eyes were red, and the moment she saw me stir, she burst into tears and ran to call the doctor. The diagnosis was grim. My right femur was shattered in multiple places, and the skin on my right thigh had suffered severe third-degree burns from the overheating engine block. Even with the best surgeries, I would likely walk with a permanent limp. As for racing… My career was over. I stared blankly at the ceiling tiles, a suffocating weight crushing my chest. I couldn’t even find the voice to cry. Fiona buried her face in the edge of my mattress, sobbing. She was a young mechanic who had joined the garage simply because she idolized me. She never expected our first real interaction to be her watching me get wheeled out of an operating room. “It’s not fair,” she wept, her voice shaking with anger. “You were broken on the track, and Wade wouldn’t even ride in the ambulance with you. He stayed at the VIP tent to help Daisy handle the reporters.” “She finished fifth, and he’s throwing her a massive afterparty at the hotel. He hasn’t called once to check on you.” My throat was dry, my voice barely a whisper. “Did I… did I cross the line?” Fiona’s tears flowed faster. She hesitated for a long time before whispering, “No.” “You went down ten yards short. You didn’t get a time.” I closed my eyes, letting the tears slip quietly into my hair. The door clicked open, and Wade’s personal assistant walked in with two security guards. He told me Wade had ordered them to bring me to the press conference. Fiona jumped up, furious. “The doctor said she needs absolute rest! She’s severely injured, where do you think you’re taking her?” The assistant didn’t answer her. Instead, he pulled out his phone and dialed Wade on speaker. Wade’s voice filled the room. “Keira. The press is already spinning a narrative that Daisy stole your seat and that the team forced you out. It’s damaging her brand.” “I need you to show up and clear the air. Tell them you decided to retire due to old injuries, and that you fully support Daisy as the future of Caldwell Racing.” Fiona was trembling with rage. I looked down at my heavily bandaged, immobilized leg. After a long silence, I spoke. “I’ll do it.” “But I want a full release. An immediate, mutual termination of my contract with no financial penalties.” Wade’s tone instantly dropped. “Are you still trying to negotiate with me, Keira?” “My leg is shattered, Wade,” I said, my voice dead. “I will likely never ride a bike again. I’m useless to your team. Letting me go is the easiest way to clear your books. I just want to ensure you don’t use those liquidated damages to hold me hostage.” The line went silent for a long moment. Finally, he uttered a single word. “Deal.” Thirty minutes later, I was lifted onto a wheelchair and wheeled into the hotel ballroom. Daisy was standing in the center of the room, wearing a stunning cocktail dress that matched the deep navy of Wade’s suit. She was laughing, sipping champagne with a group of major investors while Wade introduced her to the sport’s power brokers. When he saw me enter, he gave me a brief, unreadable glance before gesturing for the security team to wheel me onto the stage. In front of the blinding flashbulbs, Wade announced my official retirement due to health concerns, naming Daisy as the primary rider for the upcoming season. A reporter in the front row stood up. “Miss Mercer, what caused the crash today? There are rumors online that the backup bike’s telemetry was altered to ensure the rookie’s victory. Is there any truth to that?” The room went dead silent. All eyes turned to Daisy, whose lower lip began to tremble. Wade gently placed a hand on her shoulder, stepping up to the microphone. “There was no foul play,” he said smoothly. “Keira suffered a rider error due to the physical limitations of her age. The incident had nothing to do with the machinery or the team.” I sat in my wheelchair, my fingers curling tightly around the armrests, and kept my head bowed. Before the press conference even concluded, the online smear campaign had already begun. Articles flooded the web, claiming I was a washed-up veteran who refused to hand over the reins to younger talent. They painted me as a bitter loser trying to blame my own mistakes on the garage. Meanwhile, Daisy was hailed as a rising star who had shown immense promise by finishing fifth in her debut. Some blogs even posted photos of Wade and Daisy from her social media, calling them the ultimate power couple, noting how much better they looked together than Wade and a “weathered” racer like me. At the end of the night, Daisy, slightly tipsy, clung to Wade’s arm, whispering that she was too tired to drive home. Wade looked down at her with a soft, indulgent smile I hadn’t seen in years. “Alright. I’ll drive you.” Then, as if suddenly remembering I was there, he glanced at me in my wheelchair. “You can make your own way back to the hospital, right?” I looked at him and nodded quietly. Without another word, he walked out, guiding Daisy through the lobby doors. I sat alone in the empty, littered ballroom. “Let’s go,” I whispered to Fiona. But as we reached the lobby, a sleek black SUV pulled up to the curb. The door opened, and Adrian Ward, the manager of Aether Motorsports, stepped out. He walked up to my wheelchair, offering me his hand. “Keira,” he said softly. “Let’s go. I’m going to help you take back everything they stole.”

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The Mojave Rally was swallowed by a sudden, blinding wall of desert dust, cutting visibility to absolute zero for every driver on the track. I pressed my headset tighter against my ear. Through the static, the voice of my fiancé, Garrett, came through—steady, warm, and reassuring. “Don’t panic, Ellie. You’ve got five hundred yards before Dead Man’s Curve. You can floor it here, push past the car next to you to shave off 0.7 seconds. Then it’s a hard right-three into a left-two.” Blindly trusting Garrett’s pace notes, I slammed my foot on the gas, the sand battering my windshield. He was my co-driver, my navigator, and the only man I trusted with my life. But three seconds later, a soft, mocking chuckle crackled through my earpiece. “Ellie, babe? Honestly, Dead Man’s Curve is actually a right-two into a left-three. But if Chelsea doesn’t win the championship this year, she’s going to throw another tantrum.” “You’re already a three-time champion. Giving her this one won’t kill you.” “I’ve already got an ambulance waiting at the bottom of the ridge, and I had them lay down some crash mats. I’d never let anything seriously happen to you. Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad if you don’t look.” With a soft click, Garrett cut the feed. He wanted to spare his ears the sound of my car tearing through the guardrails and plummeting off the cliffside. But he forgot one thing. I had run this track for five years. Even with my eyes closed, I knew every single inch of this dirt. … “Garrett!” I screamed his name, my knuckles turning white against the steering wheel. But the headset remained dead. Silence, heavy and suffocating, filled the cabin. Sweat soaked through my racing gloves. My foot was glued to the floor, the engine roaring as we pushed past 120 miles per hour. At this speed, lifting off wouldn’t save me in time. The dust storm completely covered the windshield, and the tires screamed as they spun over loose gravel. Dead Man’s Curve—the most brutal stretch of the Mojave—was right ahead, and I was flying blind. My brain scrambled to process Garrett’s words. “Did he really just feed me fatal pace notes just to hand Chelsea the trophy?” Dead Man’s Curve was named that for a reason. Countless racers had been broken by this mountain. The road was narrow, the turns sharp, and the drop-off was a sheer cliff. A single miscalculation meant free-falling into a ravine. Best-case scenario: a dozen broken bones and a shattered career. Worst-case: a body bag. Yet Garrett spoke of crash mats like he was tucking me into bed. Was he insane? He had been in the car with me the last time we flipped. Five years ago, during our very first trial run here, Garrett had been so terrified of me getting hurt that he secretly paid the track crew to line the ravines with high-density rescue pads. But my nerves got the better of me. I panicked, slammed the pedal to the floor, and missed the turn entirely. Garrett was in the passenger seat next to me. As the car rolled over, his immediate instinct was to throw his body over mine, shielding my head. Even with the safety pads, the impact sent us spinning into the rock face. I lay there shivering in his arms, and despite the agonizing pain of his fractured wrist, he stroked my hair and whispered, “It’s okay, baby. You’re the best driver out there. You’re safe.” I spent the next two years driving myself to the bone, running lap after lap under the scorching sun, just to win the championship. Because under rally rules, the champion’s co-driver had the option to stay in the air-conditioned command center, away from the dust and the danger. I won the title for him. I took the microphone in front of thousands of fans, and when they asked if I wanted prize money or endorsements, I shook my head. “I just want my co-driver to never have to risk his life in the passenger seat again.” I did it to protect him. And this was my reward. “Right-three into left-two.” The moment he said it, I knew it was wrong. But I was already committed, flying blind in a storm of dust. Suddenly, Garrett’s voice patched through the main rescue channel. “Search and rescue! Car number seven, Ellie Ross, has gone over at Dead Man’s Curve! Dispatch immediately! We need to save her!” My heart turned to ice. He was so sure I was going to crash. Already, the clueless media would be drafting headlines: “Three-time Mojave Queen Falls from Grace.” He was clearing the path for Chelsea. I couldn’t let them have it. “Just close your eyes, sweetheart. It won’t hurt as bad.” Garrett’s hollow words echoed in my mind. I closed my eyes. But not to surrender. I closed them to remember. Eighteen seconds had passed since his last correct note. At my current speed, that meant… I had it. I knew exactly where I was. Even with the sand blotting out the world, the map in my head was clear. I feather-touched the brakes, dropped the gears, and prepped the wheel. Then, a roaring engine behind me. Someone was catching up. Not just one car—two. Three yards. Two yards. Now! I yanked the wheel to the inside, hugging the cliffside blindly. It was a suicidal gamble, but my only choice. “CRASH!” A deafening impact rattled my teeth. Chelsea’s car clipped my rear quarter panel, the sheer force of her momentum spinning my car through the apex. I slammed hard against the canyon wall, the car tilting sideways and wedging into the rocks. But I made the turn. Behind me, a sickening crunch and a scream of metal echoed down the ravine as the third car missed the turn entirely. My heart beat so hard it felt like it would break through my ribs. As I sat there shivering in the tilted cabin, I noticed my collar was torn. The silver St. Christopher medal—the one Garrett had given me for my twenty-first birthday—had shattered against the steering wheel. Only the frayed red cord remained around my neck. “It’s not tacky,” he’d insisted back then, kissing my forehead. “It’s a protector. As long as you wear it, it’s like I’m right there with you, Ellie. You’re going to be the first queen of the Mojave.” I ripped the remaining cord from my neck, leaving a thin, burning welt. I stared at the broken silver pieces and threw them to the floorboards. It had kept me safe, I suppose. But some things stay broken forever. Suddenly, static hissed in my helmet. Because of the impact, my receiver had glitched and crossed onto Chelsea’s private radio channel. “Garrett, babe… if you’re this good to me, aren’t you worried Ellie will be furious?” Chelsea’s voice was a soft, calculated purr. “Worried? She’s hogged your spotlight for three years. It’s your turn to be queen. Besides, she’s probably unconscious in a ravine right now. By the time she wakes up, she won’t remember a thing.” The sheer cruelty in his voice made me shake. Along with his words, a wave of physical pain finally hit me. The car was tilted at a ninety-degree angle, trapping me inside. Every breath sent a sharp, stabbing pain through my left shoulder. Within minutes, the rescue crew arrived, hauling the car back onto four wheels. “Ellie Ross! Can you hear us?” “Get the stretcher! The driver has a suspected collarbone fracture and head trauma!” The paramedics removed my helmet, but the audio feed in my earpiece kept playing. “I tapped her car on the way past,” Chelsea giggled. “That loud crash down the cliff… that had to be her.” “You’re brilliant, sweetheart,” Garrett replied. “I’m taking you out for oysters tonight. Your favorite.” Oysters. I had spent years suffering through high-end seafood bars with Garrett, popping allergy pills and hiding my hives, just because I thought “he” loved it. I realized now he was taking Chelsea’s favorite meals and feeding them to me. The realization burned away the pain. I pushed past the paramedics, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and slammed the door shut. “Ellie! Stop! You’re injured! You need to get to a hospital!” I ignored them, threw the car into gear with my right arm, and roared back onto the track. Chelsea, Garrett… you want to take my crown? Not in this lifetime. By now, I was far behind the pack. The live broadcast commentators were already eulogizing my career. “We’ve just received word from the track. Three-time champion Ellie Ross has suffered a major crash near Dead Man’s Curve. It’s a devastating turn of events for the crowd favorite.” “It really is. Fans were hoping to see Ellie and her fiancé, star navigator Garrett, make history today. But the crown is up for grabs now, and Chelsea, who has played bridesmaid for three years, is currently leading the pack.” My left arm hung uselessly at my side. I grabbed a spare harness strap and bound my arm tightly to my chest to keep it from jarring. Everything relied on my right hand. As the dust storm cleared, the track ahead became visible. I didn’t need pace notes anymore. I knew every turn. “Chelsea is entering the final stretch!” the commentator screamed. “She’s almost at the finish line!” At the finish line, Garrett was already standing near the barrier, holding a massive bouquet of red roses next to a giant banner that read: “TO MY QUEEN, CHELSEA.” Reporters swarmed him. “Garrett! The race isn’t over, and Ellie is reportedly injured. What is this?” He smiled smoothly for the cameras. “My queen has worked hard for this. I wanted to make sure she had a proper celebration.” “But Ellie—” “Only a true queen of the Mojave deserves my heart. I’ve waited five years for this moment.” Suddenly, the crowd gasped. “Wait! Look at the track! An orange car has just blasted into the final straightaway! It’s number seven! Ellie Ross is still in the race!” I squeezed the wheel with my right hand, gritting my teeth through the pain, and drove straight at Chelsea’s blue car. I didn’t lift. I rammed her—a metal-on-metal screech that sent both our cars crossing the finish line in a cloud of burning rubber. “I see it! It’s number seven, Ellie Ross! She’s done the impossible!”

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Just because I ate an extra tub of the company’s Greek yogurt, the new intern reported me for embezzling company property. My fiancée, who was the CEO, called me out in front of the entire company at our weekly all-hands meeting. She suspended me on the spot and had the intern lead a full investigation—even tracking how many squares of toilet paper I used. Two weeks later, the intern rolled out a forty-foot-long invoice, claiming I owed the firm ninety-three thousand dollars in damages. I looked at my fiancée. She was staring at him with pure admiration. “Pay up, Wade. It’s strictly business. No one gets special treatment.” I nodded. “Fine. Strictly business.” Then I unrolled a hundred-and-fifteen-foot-long invoice of my own. “Helena, before I pay your ninety-three thousand, I’m going to need you to settle this bill for sixteen million, eight hundred and thirty-one thousand dollars.” The entire room went dead silent. … As the weekly staff meeting was wrapping up, Helena suddenly looked my way. “Wade, there’s one last item to add to the agenda. Someone has reported you for abusing company resources for personal use, causing significant financial loss to the firm.” The conference room fell dead silent. I froze. “Abusing company resources? When?” Dustin, the administrative intern who’d only been with us for two months, stood up. “Wade, the catered afternoon snack bar. We get one tub of Greek yogurt per person, right?” I stared at him. “But you take two every single day.” The kid flipped open his notebook. “This brand retails for six-eighty a tub. Even wholesale, it’s four-fifty. Five days a week, you’re taking five extra tubs. That’s ninety dollars a month. You’ve been with the company for seven years. On yogurt alone, you’ve pocketed seven thousand five hundred and sixty dollars of company property.” A wave of muffled snickers rippled through the room. Dustin wasn’t finished. “And it’s not just the yogurt. You charge your personal phone, tablet, and laptop at your desk every day. You treat the office electricity like it’s free. You have a personal mini-fan on your desk that runs from morning till night, five months out of the year. You drink three Nespresso capsules a day when the standard limit is one. You load a case of company-provided bottled water into your car every single week. And worst of all, you use the restroom four or five times a day, using three times as many paper towels and toilet paper squares as the average employee. Individually, these are small expenses. But compiled over seven years? It’s a massive bleed on our bottom line.” More people started laughing. I felt a hot, burning flush creep up my neck. “Dustin, you’ve been here two months. How do you even know my daily routine? Do you actually do any work, or do you just spend your day stalking me?” Dustin squared his shoulders. “As an administrative assistant, auditing resource allocation is literally my job. Identifying waste and reporting it is standard procedure.” He turned to Helena. “Helena, I recommend we place Wade on immediate unpaid suspension pending a full audit.” I looked at Helena. She was my fiancée. We were supposed to sign our marriage license at City Hall in less than two weeks. She knew me. She had to know how absurd, how utterly petty this was. Helena tapped her fingers twice against the mahogany table. “Wade, I am incredibly disappointed in you.” “Being my fiancé doesn’t give you a free pass to exploit this company. If everyone behaved like you, we’d go bankrupt in a month.” “Effective immediately, you are suspended pending investigation. Dustin, you will head the audit committee and trace every single discrepancy.” “You got it, Helena. I’ll make sure we get to the bottom of this,” Dustin replied, practically beaming. I opened my mouth to speak, but the words died in my throat. Out of the hundred-plus people in that room, not a single one spoke up for me. Helena stood up. “Meeting adjourned.” I sat frozen in my chair. Dustin strutted past me, packing up his notebook with a bounce in his step, looking like he’d just won the lottery. What these people didn’t know—but Helena knew perfectly well—was that the afternoon snacks, the yogurts, the pastries, and the fruit baskets were all provided entirely free of charge by my eldest sister Fiona’s catering conglomerate. Because I loved that specific premium brand of Greek yogurt, she always instructed the delivery team to leave extra cases. I wasn’t “stealing” company yogurt. I was eating my own family’s food. It was one thing for a new kid like Dustin to be clueless. But Helena knew. And yet, she hadn’t said a single word to defend me. I stood up, unplugged my personal laptop, my tablet, and my desk fan, and shoved them into my backpack. Near the exit, I ran into Dustin. He was leaning against the hallway wall, a smug grin plastered across his face. “Don’t take it personally, Wade. Just doing my job.” He lowered his voice. “But a word of advice—don’t be so cheap next time. It always catches up to you.” I stared him down. “Just get your audit done quickly.” He pulled out his phone, ignoring me, and hummed a mindless tune as he walked away. When I got home, I called Helena three times. No answer. The next morning, Pete texted me. Pete had worked under me for six years; I’d hired and trained him myself. He knew my work ethic better than anyone in the office. Hey Wade, Helena just transferred the Atlas Fabrics account to Dustin. I stared at the screen, stunned. Atlas Fabrics was my biggest account of the year. I had spent three months nurturing the relationship, and we were scheduled to sign the final contract next week. And she was hand-delivering it to Dustin? Whose idea was that? I texted back. Dustin told her he could handle it, and Helena greenlit it. I replied with a simple Got it and tossed my phone onto the couch. That afternoon, Pete sent another message. Wade, Dustin just copied all your client files. He claimed it was necessary for the audit. An audit for personal use of office supplies? What do my clients have to do with that? Pete didn’t reply. On the third day, I ran into Toby from the marketing department near my apartment complex. “Wade, people at the office are talking. It’s getting ugly.” “What are they saying?” Toby hesitated. “Some people are saying you weren’t just stealing yogurt. They’re saying you’ve been taking side consulting gigs under the company’s name and pocketing the commissions.” “Who started that rumor?” “I don’t know, but it’s spreading like wildfire.” “What about Helena? What did she say?” Toby looked down. “She said… ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire,’ and that the audit committee would verify the truth.” I let out a dry laugh. Where there’s smoke. She wouldn’t even offer a basic denial. She was letting them tear my reputation to shreds. I wanted to clear things up face-to-face. I dialed her number six times, getting nothing but a busy signal. On the seventh try, she finally picked up. “What?” her voice was clipped. “Helena, do you actually believe Dustin’s nonsense? You know exactly where the afternoon catering comes from.” “Wade, we are in the middle of an active investigation. Nothing has been finalized, so don’t get defensive.” “Besides, as the subject of an active audit, it’s highly inappropriate for you to be involved in company business. Just stay home and wait for our decision.” “Wait for your decision? What about my clients? Atlas Fabrics is signing next week—” “Dustin will handle it.” “Dustin? The kid’s resume is thinner than a sheet of printer paper. What is he going to handle?” “Your bias against Dustin is showing. He might be young, but his work ethic is impeccable. Honestly, you could learn a thing or two from him.” The line went dead. I stood by the window, staring down at the street below for a long time, the silence of my empty apartment pressing in on me. Day five of my suspension. I received a call from an unfamiliar number. “Hello, Mr. Lu? This is the account manager from Harvest Table Catering. We handle the afternoon snack deliveries for Summit Crest Brands. I wanted to verify some details regarding our ongoing agreement.” I recognized the voice. It was a customer service representative from my sister’s company. “What details?” “A Mr. Dustin contacted us this morning. He stated that Summit Crest is requesting to transition the complimentary catering into a formal commercial contract, and he wanted to settle the ‘outstanding balances’ for the past seven years. He mentioned you were aware of this.” I leaned back in my chair, a bitter smile touching my lips. Dustin was more ambitious than I gave him credit for. “You haven’t signed anything, have you?” “No, the paperwork is still pending. We wanted to clear it with you first.” “Don’t sign it. He doesn’t speak for me.” Not five minutes after I hung up, Fiona called me directly. “Wade, what’s going on at your office? Someone just called my billing department trying to convert our free catering into a commercial contract. They’re talking about back-paying ‘unbilled balances’?” “Fiona, don’t worry about it for now.” “Did something happen at work?” “Nothing major. I’ll have it sorted in a few days.” She didn’t press, but before hanging up, she added, “Alright, but if anyone is giving you a hard time, you tell me.” “I will,” I said. I sat back and thought about Dustin. He’d only been at the company for two months. There was no way he could have known the specifics of the catering arrangement, let alone track down the exact contact information for Harvest Table and initiate a contract, unless he had been digging through my personal files. This wasn’t the intuition of an eager intern. What was he really after? Two weeks later, Dustin texted me. The audit was complete, and I was required to attend a meeting at the office. When I arrived that afternoon, the main conference room was packed. It felt like the entire staff had gathered to watch a show. Dustin met me at the door, holding a massive roll of continuous feed paper. In front of everyone, he unrolled the paper. A forty-foot-long invoice stretched from one end of the conference table to the other, cascading off the edge and pooling onto the carpet. “Wade, this is the audit committee’s comprehensive log of your unauthorized use of company assets during your tenure,” Dustin announced, gesturing to the top of the roll. “Item one: one extra tub of Greek yogurt daily. Over seven years, that totals seven thousand five hundred and sixty dollars.” “Item two: charging personal electronic devices. Based on average power consumption over seven years, that’s eleven thousand three hundred dollars.” “Item three: personal desk fan drawing company power over seven years, totaling four thousand two hundred dollars.” “Item four: excessive consumption of pantry coffee pods…” He read the list item by item. It took him seventeen agonizing minutes. Finally, he stepped back and cleared his throat. “According to our calculations, you owe the company ninety-three thousand four hundred and seventeen dollars and fifty-six cents in damages. Here is the itemized breakdown, backed by concrete data.” He looked at me, his chest puffed out. “If you refuse to settle this debt, I will have legal counsel initiate immediate litigation.” I turned my gaze to Helena. “Did you look at this?” “I did,” Helena said smoothly. “Dustin was very thorough. Every item is fully documented. This is what real diligence looks like.” She patted Dustin on the shoulder. “Excellent work. I’ll make sure HR adds a substantial bonus to your check this month.” Dustin beamed, practically glowing. “Thank you so much, Helena!” I pointed a finger at him. “He’s an administrative intern. On what grounds is he getting a bonus?” “Besides, this list is absolute fiction. Take the charging costs—I brought in my own laptop and tablet because the company-issued computers were constantly freezing. I submitted three hardware upgrade requests, and administrative services rejected every single one. How was I supposed to pitch clients without a functioning computer?” “And the desk fan? It was a prototype the product team asked me to beta-test. It wasn’t even mine.” “As for the coffee—” “Enough, Wade,” Helena interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyone can make up excuses. None of that changes the fact that you’ve been draining company assets for years.” I pointed to myself. “Me? Draining company assets?” “Ninety-three thousand dollars, Wade. Look at the numbers. And that’s just what we managed to track down,” Helena said, tossing a printed copy of the invoice onto the table. I felt a cold numbness spreading through my chest. For seven years, I had been the top sales producer, bringing in over twenty million dollars in closed contracts. And yet, my boss—the woman I was supposed to marry—was demanding ninety-three thousand dollars over an intern’s fabricated report. Seeing my silence, Helena frowned. “Why are you just standing there? Pay it. Yes, you’re my fiancé, but this is strictly business. No exceptions.” I stared at her face. Really stared at it, as if seeing her for the first time. Around us, my coworkers watched. Some looked sympathetic, some looked amused, but most kept their heads down, pretending to be invisible. “Fine,” I said quietly. “Strictly business. Then let’s make sure we settle every single account.” Dustin brushed some dust off his hands. “No need to recalculate, Wade. I’ve double-checked every line. The math is perfect.” “You calculated what you think I owe. I’m going to calculate what this company owes me.” Dustin laughed. “Helena, has the company ever missed a paycheck for Wade?” Helena smiled thinly. “Your salary has been paid on the first of every month, Wade. Trying to deflect now is pointless. Pay the invoice, and we can talk about putting you back on the schedule.” I walked to the corner of the room, sat down, and opened my laptop. It was an older model and took its time booting up. Dustin scoffed. “Are you trying to stall, Wade? Is ninety grand too much for you to pull together?” He whipped out his phone and dialed. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a case of embezzlement. An employee has stolen over ninety thousand dollars in company property and is refusing to return it.” Hanging up, Dustin sauntered over and waved his phone in my face. “I’d suggest writing that check before the police get here. Once we go down to the precinct, a civil settlement isn’t going to save you.” I ignored him, my eyes fixed on the loading screen. The spinning cursor seemed to take an eternity just to open Excel. Within twenty minutes, two police officers arrived. Dustin practically flew to the door to let them in, looking like a civic hero. “Officers, right this way. He’s the one. He’s embezzled over ninety thousand dollars from the firm and refuses to make restitution.” He lifted a section of the long paper roll. “Here’s the itemized evidence, and the entire office is our witness.” One of the officers walked over to my desk. “Sir, I’m going to need you to come down to the station with us to answer some questions.” Helena sighed, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Wade, why must you be so stubborn? If you had just paid the money, we wouldn’t have to do this. You’re making a scene.” I stood up and closed my laptop. “I’ll cooperate fully, officer.” Helena’s face hardened. “Do you have any idea how busy my schedule is today? I have three executive meetings, and now I have to waste my afternoon giving a statement at the precinct. You are such a headache.” I stared directly into her eyes. “You’re the one who started this, Helena.” We were taken to the local precinct. After hours of statements and paperwork, the duty officer remained strictly neutral. “We need to verify the corporate records and the nature of these expenses. In the meantime, you’ll need to remain in holding.” In plain English: I was spending the night in a cell. Helena and Dustin finished their paperwork first. As an officer escorted me back toward the holding cells, I caught a glimpse of them through the glass partition of the lobby. Dustin muttered something, and Helena laughed—a light, musical sound that I used to find beautiful. I spent the night on a cold metal bench. I was released the following morning with instructions to return for follow-up questioning, and a firm warning that civil disputes of this scale could quickly escalate to formal charges if not resolved within fifteen days. Standing outside the precinct, the morning sun was so bright it made my eyes water. I checked my phone. Seven missed calls. All from Helena. I dialed her back. “Where the hell have you been?” Helena’s voice exploded through the speaker before I could even say hello. “Did you forget what today is? We were supposed to be at City Hall at nine to sign our marriage license! I’ve been waiting here all morning. If this is how little our marriage means to you, then the wedding is off.” “Helena,” I said, my voice dead and empty. “What?” “I was in a holding cell all night because you and Dustin called the police on me. Did you forget?” “Well, whose fault is that? If you had just paid what you owed, you wouldn’t have been in there. Did you really need to spend a night in jail just to learn your lesson? Honestly, Wade, sometimes you act like a child.” She slammed the phone down. I stood on the sidewalk, holding the dead phone. After a long moment, I walked into a print-and-copy shop in the alley adjacent to City Hall. The owner, Henry, was an old friend of mine, and his shop’s security camera pointed directly at City Hall’s main entrance. “Hey, Henry. Can you pull up your front camera footage from this morning?” “Sure, what’s up?” “Someone told me they spent the morning waiting for me on those steps. I just want to see if she was there.” Henry pulled up the feed and let me sit at the terminal. I held down the fast-forward key, scanning the footage from 8:00 AM to noon. People walked up and down the concrete steps of City Hall. Couples holding flowers, lawyers carrying briefs. But no Helena. Not for a single second. I closed the window, thanked Henry, and walked out into the cool air. I stopped at the corner of the block, pulled out my phone, and opened a group chat. The name was The Golden Boy and His Sisters. Six participants. I typed out a message: Fiona, Charlotte, Beatrice, Maeve, Regina—Helena let her new intern accuse me of theft over office snacks. They demanded ninety-three thousand dollars. When I refused, they called the cops. I just spent the night in a holding cell. I’m out now, and Helena just called to tell me the wedding is off. Within three seconds, the chat erupted. Fiona: “What? That miserable woman dared to do what? Has she forgotten who owns the lease on her office building?” Charlotte: “So that’s why some intern was trying to get my property management group to sign a new lease agreement. They’re trying to play us.” Beatrice: “I wonder how clean her company’s tax records are for the last seven years. Let’s find out.” Maeve: “An intern? Some two-month hire put my baby brother in a cell? Helena has officially lost her mind.” Regina: “Where do I send the legal summons? And how much time do we want to give them to respond?” Fiona called me immediately. “Wade, where are you? We’re coming to pick you up. We are going to her office right now.” In the background, I could hear Maeve’s sharp voice: “Does she actually think she can touch a member of this family and walk away?” “Don’t go over there yet, Fiona,” I said quietly. “Let me compile the invoice first.” “What invoice?” “She wanted to play accountant and count every single square of toilet paper. I’m going to return the favor. Every single thing she and her company have taken from us over the last seven years, I’m putting it on paper.” There was a brief silence on the other end. “Do it,” Fiona said, her tone icy. “Whatever records you need from my catering company, they’re yours.” After hanging up, I went back to my apartment, opened Excel, and started a new spreadsheet. Helena’s name flashed on my screen again. I picked up. “Wade, since you’re out of jail, why aren’t you at your desk?” she snapped. “The client from Atlas Fabrics is breathing down our necks. They refuse to sign with Dustin; they keep asking for you. You need to get down here and close this deal.” “I’m busy.” “Busy? You’re suspended, Wade. If you don’t show up to transition your accounts, it counts as job abandonment. Three consecutive days of unexcused absences and you’ll be terminated for cause—no severance, nothing. Think carefully.” “Do whatever you want,” I said, and hung up. I went back to my spreadsheet. The next morning, she called again, sounding more frantic. “Wade, are you seriously quitting? Fine, but you still have to complete a formal handover. You need to hand over the client strategies, the active proposals, and the vendor contacts to Dustin. And another thing—why did your sister’s company stop the daily snack deliveries? There was nothing in the pantry today, and the staff is complaining.” I let out a soft, cold laugh. “Dustin is an intern who excels at making spreadsheets, Helena. You really think he can manage enterprise clients? Atlas Fabrics only works with Summit Crest because of my relationship with them. Now that I’m gone, they won’t even take his calls. And the snack bar? My sister provided that for free for seven years because of me. Why on earth would she keep feeding your employees when you put her brother in a holding cell?” There was a long, stunned silence on the line. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means,” I said, “it’s strictly business.” I hung up and added her number to my block list. Over the next few days, other colleagues from Summit Crest tried to reach out—some out of curiosity, others acting as messengers for Helena. I ignored and blocked every single one. These were the same people who had snickered and watched the show during the all-hands meeting. A week later, the invoice was complete. I printed the spreadsheet on a continuous paper roll. When it finished, I pulled out a tape measure. One hundred and fifteen feet. I dialed Fiona. “It’s ready, Fiona.” She answered with just two words: “Let’s go.” That afternoon, my five sisters met me at the entrance of Fairview Plaza. We walked into Summit Crest Brands together. Once again, an all-hands meeting had been called. When I stepped into the conference room, Dustin was sitting in my old chair, scrolling through his phone. He looked up and smirked. “Well, look who decided to show up. Ready to settle your tab, Wade?” I didn’t say a word. I placed the heavy roll of paper on the edge of the long conference table. One by one, my sisters walked in, lining up behind me like a wall of sheer quiet authority. Helena sat at the head of the table. Seeing the five women behind me, her brow furrowed. “Wade, what is the meaning of this? Why did you bring your family?” “You said it yourself, Helena,” I replied. “Strictly business.” I pressed the end of the roll onto the table and gave it a firm push. The heavy cylinder rolled down the entire length of the mahogany surface, tumbled off the edge, and uncoiled along the carpet all the way to the glass doors of the room. The room went so quiet you could hear the hum of the fluorescent lights. I looked directly at Helena. “Helena, before I pay your ninety-three thousand dollars, I’m going to need Summit Crest to settle this bill for sixteen million, eight hundred and thirty-one thousand.” Regina stepped forward, placing a thick, official document in front of Helena. “This is a formal demand letter. If your company fails to clear these outstanding debts within the designated timeframe, we will initiate immediate asset seizure proceedings.” Dustin scoffed, jumping to his feet. “Sixteen million? Are you insane? Who owes you that kind of money?” Helena’s lip curled in disgust. “This is a joke. You’re a sales manager, Wade. You think you can extort sixteen million dollars from me with a roll of paper?” I pointed to the unrolled sheet. “Read it yourself.” Helena leaned forward and glanced at the first line. Her face froze.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “512301”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

In the middle of the scorched-earth apocalypse, the impossible happened: I got a video call from myself, ten years in the future. “When does this end? Are Mom and Dad going to make it back with the water? What about Toby? Is my brother safe?” The questions poured out of me, desperate and breathless. But the face staring back at me from the screen didn’t look like mine. It was a nightmare. He was covered in weeping, infected sores, his scalp entirely bald and raw. His eyes, sunken deep into a hollow skull, were yellowed and threaded with dark purple veins. He was so gaunt he looked like a skeleton draped in graying skin. “Apocalypse?” My future self let out a rasping, bitter laugh. “There is no damn apocalypse, Sean. This is a cage. An underground tomb your parents custom-built just to appease their golden boy, Toby.” My breath hitched. “For ten years, they’re going to bring you a single piece of moldy, expired bread every day, and you’re going to wag your tail like a dog, crying with gratitude. To stay alive, you’ll drink your own filtered urine. When the hunger gets too sharp, you’ll gnaw on the wooden frame of your cot…” He leaned closer to the screen, his skeletal face filling my vision. “And Toby? He isn’t missing. While you’re down here on your knees, licking condensation off the filthy concrete, he’s sitting in the air-conditioned mansion directly above your head. He’s drinking iced sweet tea, holding your fiancée, and whispering with your parents about how many more heating elements they can install to make your life a living hell.” I froze, my mind completely short-circuiting. He pulled his cracked lips back into a agonizing, hollow smile. “I traded my last breath to get this call through to you, Sean.” “They forgot to lock the heavy bulkhead door today. If you don’t believe me, push it open. See for yourself. The apocalypse only exists for you.” … The call cut out, leaving a wall of dead static. My hands shook so violently that my phone slipped from my grasp, clattering onto the cold concrete. All I could see was the reflection of my future self—broken, ruined, stripped of any humanity. “No… it can’t be…” I looked up at the reinforced skylight. Through the thick glass, I could see the desolate street. Scorched, skeletal trees. Cars melted into puddles of metal. Not a single living soul. The world outside was supposed to be a blistering, 120-degree wasteland. Ignoring my trembling knees, I scrambled on all fours toward the heavy bulkhead door. The door was lined with state-of-the-art thermal insulation. To ensure my “safety,” my mother had stuffed every seam with fireproof stripping. My father, a renowned meteorologist, had told me himself that the surface temperature had surged past critical levels. He said the streets were crawling with desperate, murderous scavengers. He warned me that without a tactical hazmat suit, I would burn to death within ten minutes. This door was the only barrier between me and a living hell. I placed my palm against the heavy brass handle. It was supposed to be scalding, hot enough to sear my skin off. I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and braced myself for the pain as I twisted my wrist. I barely had to apply any pressure. The door swung open. There was no blast of white-hot air. No suffocating heatwave. Instead, a cool, gentle breeze washed over me, carrying the faint, sweet scent of rain-soaked gardenias. Soft drops of summer drizzle fell onto my parched, cracked face. I stood there, paralyzed. A cold dread pooled in my stomach, making my knees buckle. My brain refused to process the sensory reality of the world before me. There was no apocalypse. It was a meticulously crafted stage play, designed by my own parents, just to soothe Toby’s bruised ego. This basement wasn’t a fallout shelter. It was my coffin. “Toby, sweetheart, come eat some of this chilled watermelon I just sliced.” The familiar, warm voice of my mother drifted through the air. A violent shiver ran down my spine. I instinctively shrank back, slipping behind the shadow of the villa’s brick siding. The house was beautifully, freezing cold. My mother, who supposedly had been missing for three days on a perilous run for canned goods, was sitting on the plush sofa. She had her arm wrapped around Toby, sipping a glass of cabernet while they watched a talk show. My father walked over, gently placing a piece of perfectly seared ribeye into Toby’s mouth with a fond smile. “Our sweet boy,” my father said softly. “Right now, Sean is either weeping over your photograph or staring at his skylight in despair.” “He still doesn’t realize you didn’t run away because of some stupid argument. He actually believes the sky is falling. He has no idea that skylight is just a high-definition LED screen.” “That boy had the nerve to embarrass you at school and try to steal your girlfriend. He deserves to learn what happens when he crosses you.” Embarrass Toby? Steal his girlfriend? I had done none of those things. But my parents had taken a handful of Toby’s venomous whispers and used them to sentence their own flesh and blood to ten years of psychological torture in a dark hole. Hot, bitter tears spilled over my cheeks, dripping onto my hands. Just ten minutes ago, I had forced myself to drink half a cup of stagnant, yellow water to save a single moldy crust of bread for my parents. I had starved myself so they could live. I had truly believed that if I just endured, if I was just strong enough, our family would make it to the other side of the end of the world. I caught my reflection in the patio glass. My knees gave out, and I nearly collapsed onto the wet grass. My lips were split and bleeding. My skin was yellowed with dirt, and my hair was falling out in clumps near my temples. I looked like a gutter rat. And according to the video call, this was just the beginning. I was going to get so much worse. I was going to die down there, believing their lie until my very last breath. I bit my own arm, squeezing my eyes shut to stifle the sob clawing its way up my throat. On the living room wall, a new family portrait hung in a gilded frame. I wasn’t in it. In my place stood Toby, flanked by my parents, with his golden retriever sitting at their feet. “Ah.” I swallowed the suffocating grief, turning silently toward the garden hose lying in the flowerbeds. I grabbed the nozzle and let the cool, clean water gush into my mouth. Over the past year, my parents would occasionally bring back half a plastic bottle of lukewarm, brackish water. Drinking a single capful of that felt like a gift from heaven. I had been pampered for twenty years; I never knew plain tap water could taste so sweet. But the image of my future, skeletal self remained burned into my retinas, cold and unyielding. My hand trembled against the plastic hose. “Fine.” “You want a post-apocalyptic wasteland?” “Since you went to all the trouble of building this beautiful stage… I’m going to make sure you get to play your parts to the very end.” I slipped quietly back into the basement. I pulled the heavy bulkhead door shut, sealing myself back in. The stifling, stagnant air of the cellar instantly wrapped around me, threatening to suffocate me. The cool rain outside felt like a dream I had already forgotten. I crawled back to my spot in the corner, pressing my face against the thumb-sized ventilation pipe, and watched the simulated red dust swirl on the LED skylight until sleep finally claimed me. In my dreams, I lived those ten years. I dreamed of the simulated “deaths” of my parents during a scavenge run. I dreamed of surviving on their meager, pre-staged rations. The hunger and thirst were constant, gnawing monsters. The basement walls in my dream were covered in desperate messages written in my own blood. Several times, I had tried to throw myself open to the “scorched air” outside just to end the misery. But the bulkhead door’s handle had been rigged to run scorching current, searing my flesh whenever I touched it. It was locked from the outside. And even then, in my madness, I had believed my parents locked it to protect me from the savage survivors outside. I dreamed of the day the food ran out. I was eating dirt and splinters. Then, the door opened. Toby stood there, looking down at my broken body, howling with laughter. “You absolute moron! You actually believed the world was ending?” Behind him stood his wife—Bridget, my former fiancée—looking at me with profound disgust. “How pathetic. He looks like a hairless mole rat. Is this really the great heir of the family?” My father grabbed me by the few remaining strands of my hair, dragging me out into the light. “Stop playing dead. The rations I left were more than enough to keep you alive!” “If you hadn’t bullied Toby, we wouldn’t have had to go to such lengths…” “Slap!” The sharp sting across my cheek snapped me awake. I opened my eyes to see my father looking down at me, his expression tight with irritation. He was wearing a heavily scuffed, spray-painted hazmat suit. Fresh, synthetic blood was smeared across his shoulder. “Sean! Why do you have a fever?” Perhaps it was the sudden intake of clean water, but my body had gone into shock. My forehead was burning. My father looked exhausted, his eyes performing a perfect imitation of paternal despair. “Sean, your mother and I are putting our lives on the line out there just to bring you a single bite of food.” “It’s a wasteland out there! A literal wasteland!” “Because you fought with your brother and drove him out of the house, he missed his chance to get to the shelter. We can’t even find his body! I’m begging you, stop making things harder for us, okay?” If this were yesterday, I would have wept with guilt. I would have fallen to my knees, begging for his forgiveness. Now, looking at his sweat-streaked, theatrical makeup, I felt nothing but a cold, heavy disgust. “You love acting so much?” “Let’s see how well you perform.” I lowered my head, letting my shoulders slump in manufactured shame. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to get sick. Maybe… maybe I should go out there with you next time. I can help scavenge. I can help keep us alive.” My father’s face went stiff for a fraction of a second. He quickly masked his panic with a heavy, theatrical sigh. “The survivors out there are desperate beasts, Sean. You wouldn’t last five minutes.” “Besides, we only have two functional suits. If anything happens to you, your mother and I wouldn’t be able to go on.” “Get some rest. I’ll go see if I can find some fever reducers in the ruins.” He stood up, turning his back on me without another word, and heavy-handedly shut the thick bulkhead door. “Click.” The tiny piece of sheet metal I had wedged into the strike plate earlier rattled softly. I crept over, carefully manipulating the metal shim to keep the latch from fully engaging, and pulled out the small garden trowel I had hidden down my trousers earlier. I pried the door back open. I crept up to the glass pane of the back patio, moving like a shadow. Inside, my father was peeling off the stiff hazmat suit with a look of deep revulsion. He grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, scrubbing his hands raw. “Useless brat,” he muttered, spitting his words. “How did I end up with a son like Sean?” “Always causing problems, always a burden. I swear, he needs another ten years down there to finally fix that rotten attitude of his.” Toby stepped up, affectionately wiping the dark theatrical grease from my father’s cheek. He wrapped an arm around my father’s shoulders, cooing playfully. “Dad, you’ve worked so hard!” “It looks like Sean still hasn’t learned his lesson. We should seal up his main ventilation pipe. If he has a fever, he can just sweat it out!” “Or we can turn up the heating rods. Let’s see how cocky he is when it’s 104 degrees down there.” “Oh, and we should add some zombie-dog sound effects to the LED sky screen! We can just tell him the virus mutated and the infected are roaming the streets.” Toby gushed about his plans to torture me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. My parents hesitated for a moment, but then nodded with indulgent, doting smiles. The blood in my veins turned to ice. If it hadn’t been for that video call, I would have been subjected to these monstrous cruelties for ten agonizing years. My mother turned on the television, pulling Toby down to sit beside her. She handed him a bowl of freshly peeled grapes, her eyes warm and tender. “We’ll take it one step at a time,” she said softly. “This isn’t just about making you feel better, Toby. It’s about correcting his character.” “Your father and I have calculated his rations perfectly. He won’t starve, but he won’t have the strength to act out. Until he learns how to be a proper, humble brother to you, we cannot afford to be soft-hearted.” “Brother?” I would never be a brother to a parasite. Toby was my mother’s favorite student. After his own parents passed away, she had brought him into our home. In the beginning, I had been happy to welcome him. I wanted to share my family. But he had repaid me with a campaign of systematic ruin. He framed me for burning his school projects, claimed I orchestrated his bullying at school, and accused me of hiring thugs to assault Bridget just so I could “possess” her. At the mention of my name, my mother’s expression hardened. “Once he’s broken and goes back to being the obedient, quiet boy he used to be, we’ll let him out.” She tapped a button on the smart remote, but as she glanced at the security feed, her brows knit together. “Where did that boy go? Why isn’t he on the camera?” My heart leaped into my throat. Toby leaned closer, gasping. “You’re right! He’s completely gone from the main feed!” “Did he… did he figure it out? Did he escape?” Cold sweat broke out across my back. I gripped the wooden handle of the trowel tightly. But my father let out a dismissive snort. “Escape? The master key is in my pocket. How could he get out?” “Besides, that insulated door gets hot enough to peel his skin if he tries to tamper with it. He’s far too soft to even touch it.” “He’s probably crying in the blind spot of the bathroom.” My father swiped the screen, bringing up yesterday’s footage. “Remember how picky he used to be? Yesterday, I threw him a half-eaten piece of dry salami, and he bolted it down like a stray dog.” “Your plan is working beautifully, Toby. He’s nearly tamed.” My mother pinched her nose in disgust, as if she could smell the stench of the cellar through the screen. “Tamed? He looks like an animal. No dignity at all. It’s embarrassing.” I let out a silent, cold laugh. What was I to them? A dog to be trained? Toby rested his head on my mother’s shoulder, sighing softly. “Since Dad told everyone I was lost in the wasteland, I wish I could go down there and see his face myself.” His eyes gleamed with sadistic anticipation. Naturally, my parents couldn’t bear to deny him. “That’s easy enough,” my father said warmly. “Put on a respirator mask. I’ll tell him you’re a survivor who helped us forage for his fever medicine. He’ll be weeping with gratitude at your feet.” “We can even bring Bridget along. Let her see what a pathetic worm her former fiancé has become. It’ll give her peace of mind.” To please their adopted darling, my parents were willing to utterly destroy me, body and soul. My initial instinct was to call the police. But now, I had a better plan. I was going to give them the exact apocalypse they had built. I slipped backward, quietly returning to the dark of the basement. I needed to be ready before they arrived. I had spent months studying the bulkhead door. My father had installed an emergency safety latch on the exterior—a standard heavy-duty fallout door mechanism. I remembered reading the manual in his study when I was younger. Once the manual override lock was engaged from the outside, no key, no electronic code, and no amount of physical force could open it from the inside. Come on down. Since you built the trap, you might as well see how it feels to be the prey. I dragged myself into the dirty bathroom corner, curling my body into a tight, shivering ball. Suddenly, the LED skylight flickered, displaying a horrifying image of a mutated golden retriever with half its skull exposed, clawing frantically at the glass. Before I could react, the alarm system blared, and the entire basement began to shudder violently under a simulated blast wave. The heavy door was thrown open. My parents, accompanied by two figures in bulky hazmat suits, came tumbling into the room in a state of orchestrated panic. My father frantically ripped off his respirator, his back drenched in sweat. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of dry dog kibble, and shoved it into my trembling hands. “The fallout is spreading! The surface is crawling with mutated beasts! The neighbor’s dog turned and slaughtered its owner!” “This is all the food we could salvage. Your mother and I had to eat wild rats to survive out there. Keep this dog food—it’ll keep you alive!” The dry kibble was covered in dried saliva. I recognized it instantly; it was the leftover food from Toby’s dog bowl. When I didn’t move, my mother’s temper flared. She snatched a crushed, dusty tablet from Toby’s hand and forced it past my lips. “Eat it! Sean, you aren’t some delicate prince anymore! We are in the end times; you don’t have the luxury of being squeamish!” “These two saviors risked their lives to bring you this medicine. Eat it!” “I raised you to show gratitude. Once you swallow it, get on your knees and thank them for saving your miserable life!” Even behind the heavy plastic visor of the hazmat suit, Toby’s eyes danced with sadistic glee. Bridget looked down at my filthy, skeletal frame and visibly gagged. I watched their performance in absolute silence. Then, with a cold smirk, I spat the pill onto the dirty floor. “Dad, Mom… it’s a lawless wasteland out there. How can you trust strangers so easily?” “What if this is poison? What if they followed you to steal our bunker?” The room went dead silent. Bridget was the first to react. She snatched the discarded pill off the floor with her gloved hand, turning toward the exit. “Ungrateful trash. We shouldn’t have bothered.” My mother, humiliated and furious, raised her hand and delivered a stinging slap across my face. The crack echoed off the concrete walls. “You spiteful, arrogant little monster! I swear, you are utterly irredeemable! You deserve to rot down here—” She caught herself, cutting her own words off as she realized she had almost broken character. Toby stepped forward, picking up the pill and grabbing my hand, forcing it into my palm. “The surface pharmacies are gone. We salvaged this from a frozen warehouse; it’s the last dose. Survival is all that matters, Sean.” But as he spoke, his grip suddenly tightened on my arm. With a sharp, sudden jerk, he threw himself backward, crashing heavily against the sharp iron frame of my cot. He let out a sharp cry, looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. “You… you tried to push me onto the exposed bolts?” “I risked my life to save you, and you try to murder me?” Before I could even speak, my father’s massive hand gripped my collar. He hoisted me off the floor and threw me violently into the bathroom corner. “I knew you hadn’t changed!” “Stay in there and rot! Don’t you dare come out until you’re ready to beg for forgiveness!” “Slam!” I was thrown into the shallow pool of grey water on the bathroom floor. The stench of stagnant waste filled my nose, making my stomach heave. My fever made my skull feel like it was cracking open. But my mind had never been clearer. The bathroom was the closest point to the exit. Through the cracked door, I could see Toby holding up his phone, snickering as he took photos of my pathetic state. My parents and Bridget stood by, their faces filled with doting amusement. “Now.” “This is the moment.” Adrenaline surged through my veins, hot and electric. With every ounce of strength left in my starved body, I lunged from the floor and bolted toward the bulkhead door. A furious, stunned roar shattered the quiet behind me. “Sean! What the hell are you doing?!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “512300”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our eighth anniversary, my boyfriend and I joined a tour group to visit a remote mountain range, only to be caught in a sudden avalanche. Amidst the chaos and panic, our group scrambled into a narrow cave. As the hours ticked by, hopelessness settled over us like a suffocating shroud. Eventually, the guide handed out scraps of paper and pens, telling us to write our final letters. I leaned in, my heart aching, wondering what beautiful, tragic final words he would write for me. But as his pen touched the paper, the first name he wrote was my best friend’s. “Grace. It took facing death to finally see clearly: you are, and always have been, the quiet moonlight of my soul.” “If I don’t make it out of here alive, and if someone ever finds my remains, please take this letter—and my ashes—to her.” What followed were pages of tender, agonizingly detailed instructions. “You have low blood sugar, remember to keep a piece of chocolate in your coat pocket.” “Your cramps get terrible; always keep a heating pad in your purse.” “You struggle with insomnia, so keep your phone far from the bed before you sleep.” Three whole pages. 1,537 words. And not a single mention of my name. In the face of death, his deepest truths had finally spilled onto the page. But they were not meant for me. My voice trembled as I confronted him, whispering, “Why?” “At the end of my life, I don’t want to lie to myself anymore,” he said, his eyes casting downward. “Besides, you get to die right here by my side. What more could you possibly want?” Nobody expected the rescue team to find us. But they did. In a flurry of tears and hysterical laughter, everyone tore up their final letters, scattering the scraps like confetti. I didn’t follow suit. I quietly folded the paper covered with my boyfriend’s and best friend’s names and slipped it into my pocket. My prognosis was grim anyway; whether it was a sudden departure or a slow fade, I figured I could always rewrite it later. It might still come in handy. … When our flight finally touched down in the middle of the night, the rain was pouring like a deluge. Grace was waiting at the terminal. The moment she saw us, she sprinted forward. Austin quickened his pace to meet her, catching her in a desperate, crushing embrace. The stoic tension he had maintained throughout the entire ordeal finally shattered, and he began to sob openly against her shoulder. “Grace, the only reason I held on… the only reason I kept breathing was because of you.” Her face buried in his chest, her voice cracked with emotion. “You two scared me to death. I thought I’d lost you forever. Promise me, no more climbing. No more snowy mountains.” She used the words “you two,” but her eyes were locked entirely on him, brimming with a devotion that excluded the rest of the world. He gently stroked her back, his voice softening to a soothing whisper. “Okay. Anything you say.” Outside, the rain lashed against the glass as they held each other in the crowded terminal, looking for all the world like a pair of star-crossed lovers reunited by fate. I stood a few paces behind, struggling with our heavy luggage, soaked and utterly pathetic. I didn’t know whether to step forward or disappear into the crowd. I was a ghost, a redundant bystander in my own life. It seemed the desperate longing in Austin’s letter was far from one-sided. Grace finally noticed me. She flinched as if burned, pulling back from his arms. “Chloe, are you okay?” She reached out to take my hand. I took a step back, letting her fingers grasp empty air. Her hand froze in midair, a flicker of panic crossing her face. “Are you mad at me for ignoring you? I… I was just so overwhelmed…” “How long has this been going on?” my voice was quiet, stripped of any anger. Grace’s face went entirely pale. She whirled her head toward Austin, her eyes wide with terror. Austin rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling a heavy sigh. “She knows.” “You told her?” she cried, hitting his chest in a panic. “We agreed to keep it a secret forever! How… how am I supposed to look her in the eye now?” “When did it start?” I interrupted, keeping my voice steady. She froze, her eyes welling with fresh tears as she stammered, unable to find the words. “Chloe, do you really have to make a scene here?” Austin interjected, smoothly pulling Grace behind him. His face hardened. “She drove all this way in a torrential storm just to pick us up. Don’t be so unreasonable.” He took Grace’s hand and guided her toward the exit. “I’ll drop her off first. You can take a cab.” Grace tugged on his sleeve, whispering, “Maybe I should take an Uber. There’s so much luggage, how is she supposed to handle it all by herself?” “She’s fine, she’s always been independent,” Austin said, his tone casual and unbothered. “Besides, she needs some time alone to clear her head.” I watched the two most important people in my life walk away together, their figures blurring into the rainy night. I stood frozen for a long time. My chest felt hollow, a cavernous space where the cold wind blew right through, leaving only ice in its wake. By the time I hauled all the bags through the rain and into our apartment, I was soaked to the bone. Within hours, my body temperature spiked to over a hundred and two. I dialed Austin’s number. “I have a fever.” “Don’t waste your breath making up excuses, Chloe. I’m not coming home tonight,” his voice was sharp with impatience. “And even if you do have a fever, go to the clinic. What do you expect me to do about it? I’m not your nurse. Grace said our dynamic doesn’t have to change. You should be grateful for that. Stop bothering me over nothing.” I listened to the dial tone, staring blankly at the screen. A strange, surreal numbness washed over me. For years, I had been conditioned to call him first, for absolutely everything, big or small. Eight years ago, when he asked me to be his girlfriend, he had made a solemn vow: “From this day on, if you call, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I will answer. I will always come to you.” And for a long time, he kept that promise. Whether I was caught in a sudden downpour without an umbrella, or away on a business trip just missing his voice, he would fly to my side. How could that Austin vanish so completely overnight? A notification lit up my phone. Grace had posted an update. It was a photo of a steaming bowl of spiced ginger tea, rich with honey. “No matter how fierce the storm, there is always someone to keep me warm.” But that tea was supposed to be mine. It was always my remedy. “Chloe, you’re the only person in this world I’d ever step into a kitchen for.” Outside, a sudden crack of thunder shook the windowpanes, making the whole world feel incredibly fragile. I sat in the darkness, unable to tell if the dampness on my face was leftover rainwater or my own tears. There was nothing left to deny. He hadn’t changed; he had simply packed up all his tenderness and devotion and moved them into someone else’s heart. The last lingering shred of hope evaporated into the night air. A sharp, blinding spasm of stomach pain tore through my thoughts, jolting me back to reality. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced myself to sit up and unlock my phone. I composed a text to a contact I hadn’t messaged in months. “I agree to go abroad for the clinical trial of the new treatment. I accept all the risks and consequences.” The reply came almost instantly. “Are you absolutely sure, Chloe? Under palliative care, we could stretch this out for a few more months. If the experimental surgery fails, you might never wake up from the table.” “I’m sure,” I typed back. I had once wanted to spend my final days by Austin’s side, holding onto whatever time we had left. Now, there was no point. “Understood. I will come get you in three days.” It wasn’t until the third day of my raging fever that I saw Austin again. It happened at the hospital, right outside the OB-GYN wing. He was standing there with Grace. My hand shook as I signed my own discharge papers, and a sudden, quiet tear escaped down my cheek. Grace caught sight of me and hurried over, reaching up to gently wipe my tear away. “Chloe, please don’t get the wrong idea. I had some terrible menstrual cramps, and he just brought me in to get checked out.” She threw a quick, meaningful glance over her shoulder at Austin. “Right, Austin?” Austin offered a low, murmured assent, but the raw worry in his eyes when he looked at her was impossible to hide. I stared at Grace through my blurred vision, my gaze fixed on her. I was terrified that if I blinked, the girl who used to cry whenever I cried would vanish forever. When we were five, a boy at the children’s home tried to steal my bread roll. Grace had charged at him, shoving him away and standing in front of me like a tiny, fierce shield. At twelve, when a group of older girls cornered me in the school bathroom, she had burst in, grabbed my hand, and run. Her palm had been slick with sweat, but her grip was unyielding. At eighteen, she had secretly skipped the college entrance exams. When I wept over her ruined future, she had shrugged it off with a grin. “I’m not cut out for college anyway, Chloe. It’s just a waste of money. I’d rather start working double shifts to help pay for your tuition. Besides, you have Austin to look after you now. I’m not worried.” Having Grace as my best friend was the proudest achievement of my youth. I never could have imagined we would end up in a place this humiliating. Yet, she looked at me now with genuine worry, acting as though nothing had ever changed between us. “Why are you at the hospital, Chloe? Are you sick?” “Just a cold,” I muttered, not wanting to say more as I turned to leave. But she slipped her arm through mine, laughing just like she used to. “Oh, good. Austin is taking me to the theme park today. Come with us!” That theme park. I had begged Austin to take me there dozens of times, but he had always been “too busy.” I figured before I left the country—and maybe this life—I might as well cross one last thing off my list. After days of ceaseless rain, the sun finally broke through the clouds. Austin immediately opened an umbrella to shield Grace from the heat. She paused, pulling me under the shade as well, offering a mock scolding. “Why are you letting Chloe stand in the sun? Don’t do that again.” He blinked, offering a helpless, affectionate smile. “Got it, princess.” The look in his eyes was pure, unadulterated devotion. I didn’t know what kind of peaceful illusion they were trying to maintain. Did they truly believe that acting as if everything was fine would make it so? Inside the haunted house, when Grace shrieked in fear, Austin instinctively threw his arms around her, shielding her with a desperation that laid his feelings completely bare. When a passing actor accidentally knocked me to the ground, scraping my elbow until it bled, I looked up only to see the back of his jacket as he rushed after her. He protected her with his front; he abandoned me with his back. The math of love was cruel and incredibly simple. Once we emerged into the daylight, Austin suddenly got a playful glint in his eye. He snuck up behind Grace and yelled, scaring her so badly she laughed and punched his arm. He raised his hands in mock surrender, both of them dissolving into giggles, their eyes locking with an intimacy that I had spent years refusing to see. Whenever they had been overly close in the past, I had always rationalized it. We grew up in the same group home; they were childhood friends. But standing there, I realized my entire life had been a masterclass in self-delusion. The scarf he “happened to grab” for her when he brought me a coat. The birthday gifts he bought her to “keep things fair” on my special day. The photos of meals he would text her, promising to take her there next time. Every single detail had been a breadcrumb, pointing to the truth. When we got tired, Austin went to buy drinks. Grace pulled me down onto a park bench, her smile strained. “Chloe, I want to be your maid of honor next month. Austin is actually really invested in the wedding. He’s been asking me for advice on all the details. Don’t be mad at him, okay?” I managed a faint smile. So he actually remembered we were getting married. Yet, only this morning, the wedding planner had called me: “Ms. Foster, we need to secure the deposit for the venue. Mr. Ward hasn’t replied to any of our messages. Are we rescheduling?” I took a deep breath, a profound, crushing exhaustion settling deep into my bones. “Chloe, we’re still best friends for life, right?” she asked, her eyes pleading. I remained silent. She wrapped her arms around me, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “We are, right? Nothing changes between us.” I looked over her shoulder. Austin was walking back toward us, holding Grace’s favorite ice cream and a bottle of tea. There was nothing in his hands for me. “Everything has changed.” My hands curled into tight fists at my sides. I didn’t hug her back. Grace let out a choked sob. Hearing her cry, Austin rushed forward, shoving me aside so hard I fell off the bench. He pulled her into his chest, carefully wiping away her tears. When he looked down at me sitting on the gravel, his face was contorted with disgust and blame. “Chloe, it’s been three days! Have you still not gotten over this?” he hissed. “For the sake of her friendship with you, she was willing to ask for nothing, to stay in the shadows as the other woman just so she wouldn’t lose you. How can you be so cruel to her? The wedding is still happening. What more do you want?” Staring at his furious face, he felt cold and entirely unfamiliar. This wasn’t the boy who had beaten up my bullies in high school. This wasn’t the man whose face had flushed red when he asked me out, or who had knelt on one knee, swearing that I was the only woman he would ever love. The old Austin had loved me with a fierce, undivided heart. The man standing before me had split his soul in two. And I had no interest in a tarnished love, or a marriage built on scraps. A sudden spasm of pain clawed at my stomach. I pushed myself up from the gravel, my voice dry and hollow. “The wedding is off. We’re done, Austin.” For a second, Austin’s face went entirely blank. “What kind of game are you playing?” Grace broke away from his embrace, sobbing. “It’s my fault. I never should have come back to the States. I’ll leave. I’ll go back.” His expression shattered. He frantically grabbed her hand. “Chloe, what is this cheap reverse-psychology trick? Are you trying to ruin her life again?” He glared at me, his jaw clenched. “Do you have any idea why she left the country back then? It was because I confessed my feelings to “you”. She couldn’t bear to watch us, and she fled because she loved me too much to stay.” I froze, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. Back in college, right after Austin and I started dating, Grace had suddenly married a wealthy older man and disappeared overseas. None of us knew that the man already had a family in Europe. She spent years trapped in a lie before discovering the truth. When she confronted him, he kicked her out onto the street with nothing but a one-way ticket back home. A year ago, if I hadn’t spotted her, disheveled and scavenging for food near a dumpster, she would have starved to death. The apartment she lived in now was paid for with my money. The funds in her bank account came from my paychecks. I had never asked for anything in return. I did it because she was my sister, the only family I had left, and I wanted to give her the world. I had thought Austin felt the same way, helping her out of shared history. How naive of me. For him, it had started as guilt, turned into pity, and festered into love. Looking at the wreckage of our lives, I couldn’t even tell whose fault it was anymore. We were just pieces caught in the gears of a cruel machine. I forced a dry laugh. “Then I wish you two a very happy life together.” As I turned to walk away, a flash of movement caught my eye. A feral, foaming dog was hurtling toward us, its bared teeth snapping. In a split second, I remembered a local news alert about rabid strays in the area. I was terrified of dogs, but instinct took over—I lunged forward to shield Grace. But in my panic, my foot caught on a root, and I stumbled heavily toward her. At that exact moment, Austin’s furious roar clashed with the dog’s vicious barking. “Chloe, what the hell are you doing?!” Before I could steady myself, I was violently shoved aside. I hit the dirt, and a searing, white-hot agony tore through my right calf. The stray had clamped its teeth into my leg, tearing at the flesh. Screaming in pain, I kicked out wildly, hitting the dog’s snout until it released me and fled into the bushes. Austin was already standing over Grace, holding her tightly. He glared down at me, chest heaving with rage. “When did you become so malicious? You tried to push her in front of you as a shield?!” It was only as the words left his mouth that his gaze drifted down to my mangled, bloody leg. His pupils contracted in horror. “Chloe… you…” He froze, slowly bending down to reach for me. Suddenly, Grace let out a sharp cry of pain, clutching her abdomen as she collapsed onto the grass. Austin froze. He instantly spun away from me. “Grace! What’s wrong?!” He scooped her into his arms, frantic, and began sprinting toward the street to hail a cab. I watched his retreating figure, my voice barely a whisper in the wind. “Austin… it hurts so bad…” But his entire universe was centered on Grace. My cries never reached his ears. Behind him, another pool of blood began to seep into the dry earth. It wasn’t coming from my leg. I hacked violently, coughing up thick, dark blood. The agonizing fire in my stomach flared to life, hotter and sharper than before. I lay there alone, gasping for air like a fish stranded on dry land, watching the yellow taxi speed away, kicking up a cloud of dust that settled over my face, my clothes, and my broken heart. It was a kind stranger who eventually drove me to the emergency room. The doctors patched up my leg and administered a rabies shot, but when they saw me coughing up blood, their expressions turned grim. While waiting for my lab results, I spotted Austin in the hospital corridor. He was pacing back and forth outside an examination room. The moment the door opened, he lunged forward. “Doctor, how are my wife and the baby?” The doctor adjusted his glasses. “The mother and fetus are stable for now, but we need to keep her for observation. I suggest admitting her.” Austin let out a massive sigh of relief and hurried off to fill out the paperwork. I sat on a plastic chair nearby, my entire body turning to ice. Six months ago, Grace had been dragged into an alley by a drunk. I had run to find her, stumbling right into the nightmare. The man had raised a knife to slash her, and I had thrown my body over hers. The blade plunged into my lower abdomen, releasing a torrent of blood. I survived the ICU, but the damage was irreversible. I had to undergo an emergency hysterectomy. When Grace wept by my bedside, I was the one comforting her. “It’s okay, we’re alive. The worst that happens is I’ll just be the godmother to your kids.” Austin had stood in the corner, his face pale and unreadable. Later, I found him sobbing in the hospital stairwell. I had tried to lighten the mood. “What, are you going to dump me now because I can’t have kids?” “Don’t talk like that,” he had choked out, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. “I almost lost you… I don’t care about kids, Chloe. I only want you. I will never have a child with anyone else.” His vow had felt so solid, so incredibly warm. I had believed him. I didn’t know then that promises carry an expiration date. His had lasted exactly six months. The lab results finally came back, and the doctor’s face instantly dropped. “It’s gastric cancer, and the trauma has triggered an acute stomach perforation! We need to operate immediately!” he turned to the head nurse. “Our hospital doesn’t have the specialized equipment for this complex of a case. There’s a brilliant young specialist who just got back from Europe—he has the expertise we need. Quick, get her family to sign the transfer papers! If we wait any longer, she won’t make it!” The nurse leaned over my gurney. “Ma’am, where is your family?” The pain in my abdomen was a white-hot blade. I curled into a ball, coughing up another dark splatter of blood. “I don’t have any family…” I whispered. “Search her phone for emergency contacts!” the doctor urged. The nurse found the number. It took thirteen consecutive calls before the line finally clicked open. “Hello?” Austin’s voice sounded exhausted. “Hello, this is the municipal hospital emergency room…” “I’m already at the hospital,” Austin interrupted, his voice spiking with panic. “Is there something wrong with Grace’s lab results?” “Grace? No, we’re calling about Chloe Foster,” the nurse said rapidly. “Are you her next of kin? Her stomach cancer has progressed rapidly, and she has a perforated stomach. We need you to sign her transfer papers immediately!” “Chloe? Cancer?” Austin’s voice instantly turned cold. “She had a scrape on her leg. Now she’s inventing stomach cancer?” In the background, I could hear Grace’s whimpering voice. “Austin, my stomach hurts so bad… can you call a nurse? Go check on Chloe, really, I’ll be fine by myself…” “Nurse! I need a nurse!” Austin shouted into the room, ignoring the phone. Then, his voice softened into a gentle, soothing coo. “Don’t worry, sweetie. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Once the nurse in their room reassured him, he spoke back into his phone, his tone dripping with disgust. “Tell Chloe to stop acting. I don’t have time for her drama.” “Sir, this is not a drill!” the nurse yelled back, her voice cracking with desperation. “The patient is in critical condition! We just need your signature—” “Why does she always have to be so incredibly high-maintenance?” Austin snapped, his patience entirely gone. “Tell her that once her leg is bandaged, she needs to stay in her room. I’ll drop by when I have a minute. If she keeps pulling these pathetic stunts, the wedding is off. And let her know—since she doesn’t know yet—Grace is pregnant with my child. If Chloe behaves herself, she can still be the godmother. Unless she’s literally dead, don’t call me again.” The call went dead. The nurse stared at the screen, then looked down at me with profound pity. I stared up at the sterile, white ceiling, a tear of blood and sorrow leaking from the corner of my eye. More than twenty years of shared life, and it ended like this. He had blinded himself to my agony, completely indifferent to whether I lived or died. As my vision began to darken, I closed my eyes, letting the blackness take me. Grace eventually drifted off to sleep. Austin stepped out into the quiet hallway and answered a call from the wedding planner. “Mr. Ward, are we moving forward with the ceremony? The venue’s hold expires in an hour.” “Yes,” he replied without a second thought. “I’ll wire the deposit right now.” After completing the transaction, Chloe finally crossed his mind. He walked down the corridor to her room and pushed the door open. The bed was empty, the sheets stripped. He frowned, pulled out his phone, and typed a quick, annoyed text. “Why can’t you just stay put? Do you really need me to cause a scene and hunt you down to feel special?” The message went through, but there was no read receipt, no reply. A strange, cold prickle of worry brushed against his chest. He grabbed a passing nurse by the arm. “Where is the patient from this room?” The nurse, recognizing his voice from the phone call earlier, gave him a freezing look. “She’s dead,” she said flatly, pulling her arm away. Austin’s face drained of color, turning instantly white.

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Lauren was allergic to romance. Ever since we got together, anniversaries were just another square on the calendar. I did my thing, she did hers. So on our seventh anniversary, when my phone stayed silent all day, I didn’t think twice about it. I was used to the quiet. But when she came home that night, she did something completely out of character. She handed me a small, wrapped box. I froze for a couple of seconds, my eyes instantly stinging with a sudden, ridiculous warmth. The stubborn, practical woman I loved had finally turned a corner. I eagerly took a dozen photos of the box, trying to find the perfect angle to post on my Instagram. But right before I hit upload, my feed refreshed. It was a post from her new personal assistant, Tony. “100 days at the firm! Thank you so much for the sweet surprise, Boss~” In the photo, the handsome, sharp-featured kid was standing next to an open car trunk overflowing with beautifully wrapped gifts, fairy lights, and expensive-looking boutique bags. When I tapped the live photo, the sound of Lauren’s voice played. It was soft, carrying a rare, gentle laugh I hadn’t heard in years: “It suits you.” I looked down at the cheap, flimsy five-dollar plastic trinket in my hand—the kind of throwaway item you buy in bulk off Temu. Suddenly, the last seven years felt entirely pointless. … My phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was a string of texts from my close friend, Zach. You could practically feel his excitement vibrating through the screen. “Did Lauren finally turn a corner???” “Seven years! A literal miracle!” “I know the box looks a little small, but a gift is a gift! She finally learned how to be romantic.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh and forwarded him Tony’s Instagram post. “This is what she gave her assistant today.” Zach’s side of the chat went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, a barrage of question marks and exclamation points flooded my screen. “That new kid, Tony?” “Doesn’t he know about you and Lauren?” “She bought him an entire trunk full of gifts?!” “Are you kidding me? This is messed up, Matt.” I stared at the messages, a slow, aching burn rising in my throat. In the past, whenever Zach tried to stick up for me, I’d always scramble to make excuses for her. She’s stressed. She doesn’t think about these things. She didn’t mean any harm. But this time, I couldn’t find a single word to defend her. When Lauren came out of the shower, I was still sitting on the sofa. She rubbed her damp hair with a towel, glanced at the unopened gift on the coffee table, and then looked at me. “Why aren’t you in bed yet?” Instead of answering, I opened Tony’s post and held the screen out to her. “Did you buy him this?” She barely glanced at it, her expression entirely flat. “The kid reached his hundred-day mark. I wanted to keep his morale up.” I stared at her indifferent, casual posture and spoke softly. “Lauren, do you know what today is?” The hand drying her hair paused. “What?” “Our seventh anniversary.” The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren looked at me, a flicker of irritation crossing her features. “Matt, really? We’re not in college anymore. Why are you suddenly obsessing over these trivial things? Can’t we just focus on building our lives together?” She draped the towel over her shoulders and turned to walk away. Watching her retreating back, I called out, my voice barely above a whisper. “Lauren, I’m turning thirty next month.” She stopped. “Most of my friends are already settling down, having kids. When… when are we getting married?” She sighed, turning back to face me with a pinched, exhausted expression. “The company is in a critical growth phase right now. Just give it some time.” “How much more time?” Lauren didn’t answer. She pinched the bridge of her nose, her face darkening. “Matt, I had an incredibly long day. Stop starting fights.” With that, she walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. I sat alone on the dark sofa, staring at the cheap box on the table. The wrapping paper was wrinkled and torn at the edges, looking like something pulled from a clearance bin. Late that night, my dad called me from London. “Hey, Matty. You still up?” “Yeah, Dad.” “I just wanted to check in. Have you thought any more about what we talked about last time?” I gripped the phone, staying silent. Five years ago, my parents had relocated to the UK for my dad’s work. They had begged me to come with them. But because of Lauren, I had stubbornly insisted on staying behind. For seven years, I had stayed by her side. I was there when we lived in a cramped, drafty studio apartment, and I was there when we moved into this luxury high-rise. I had helped her build her company from a tiny, two-person operation into a thriving business. I had always told myself that once the hard part was over, marriage would be our natural next step. But looking at the closed bedroom door, I realized I had been lying to myself the entire time. “Matty?” my dad’s voice was gentle, filled with a quiet concern. “Don’t take this the wrong way, son. But if she wanted to marry you, she would have done it years ago. She wouldn’t keep you waiting in the wings for seven years.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I know, Dad. Give me a few days. I’ll make a decision.” After hanging up, I sat in the quiet living room for what felt like hours before finally heading into the bedroom. Lauren was already fast asleep. I carefully climbed into my side of the bed, turning onto my side to look at her. When we first started dating, she had nothing. Every time she got paid, the first thing she did was transfer her paycheck to my account so we could save. If I hesitated to buy something for myself because of the price, she would drag me back to the store and buy it anyway. She wasn’t big on sweet talk, but her actions always made me feel like I was her entire world. I had never doubted her love for me. Until Tony arrived. One hundred days was all it took to dismantle seven years of devotion. The next morning, the office was buzzing when I arrived. A small crowd of coworkers had gathered around Tony’s desk. “Come on, Tony, what was that post about last night?” “An entire trunk! The boss really went all out for you.” “Spill the details. Is there something going on between you two?” Tony cupped his hands over his red cheeks, his voice dripping with performative shyness. “Oh my god, guys, stop! Don’t make assumptions. Lauren was just celebrating my hundredth day at the firm, that’s all.” “Oh, really? Then why didn’t the rest of us get a trunk full of gifts on our hundredth day?” “Exactly!” The teasing grew louder. Tony caught my eye from across the room. A small, smug smile touched his lips, but he quickly looked down, playing the part of the innocent junior. Just then, Lauren walked out of her corner office. Ignoring the knowing looks exchange among the staff, she gestured to Tony. “Tony, in my office, please.” “Right away, Lauren!” Tony piped up, practically skipping toward her door. Once the door clicked shut, a few colleagues drifted over to my desk. “Hey, Matt. You’ve been with the company since the beginning. What’s the actual deal with Lauren and Tony?” I kept my eyes on my monitor. “I wouldn’t know.” They looked disappointed but didn’t push further, quickly moving on to whisper about something else. I gripped the folder in my hands, a familiar tightness squeezing my chest. Lauren had always been incredibly sensitive about keeping her professional life professional. For years, we had kept our relationship strictly underground to avoid office gossip. Once, early on, I had left a homemade sandwich on her desk because I knew she had skipped breakfast. She had lost her temper, accusing me of being unprofessional, and didn’t speak to me for an entire week. From that moment on, I kept my distance. We never rode in the same elevator, never ate lunch together, and barely made eye contact in the hallways. But apparently, those rigid rules didn’t apply to Tony. It was a grueling day, and by the time I finished wrapping up my work, it was nearly midnight. The trains had stopped running. After a moment of hesitation, I swallowed my pride and walked down to the parking garage, hoping to catch a ride with Lauren. But as I reached her SUV, the elevator doors slid open. Lauren walked out, and right behind her was Tony. When she saw me standing there, she froze, her brow furrowing immediately. “What are you still doing here?” My voice was quiet, stripped of any emotion. “I had to finish the quarterly reports. I missed the last train.” She stared at me for a couple of seconds before letting out a sharp sigh. “Get in.” The headlights flickered on. I walked over to the passenger side and reached for the door handle. But before my hand could make contact, Tony slipped right in front of me and pulled the door open, sliding into the front seat. “Oh, sorry, Matt,” Tony said, blinking up at me with an innocent, wide-eyed look. “Lauren promised me I could always have shotgun. My motion sickness is really bad at night.” My hand hovered over the empty handle. I didn’t move. Lauren tapped the horn, her face tight with impatience through the windshield. I let go of the handle, walked to the back, and silently got into the rear seat. The SUV merged into the late-night traffic. Tony chattered the entire way, his voice high and animated. “Lauren, that client today was so hilarious, he kept telling the worst dad jokes…” “Oh, and did you see that new sushi place that opened down the street? Some of the girls said it’s amazing. We should definitely try it sometime!” Lauren offered soft, amused replies, occasionally laughing at his jokes. I leaned my head against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of gold and red. The silence in the back seat felt like an ocean. When we finally dropped Tony off at his apartment building, the car fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Lauren kept her eyes on the road, driving in silence until we pulled into our garage. She unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the door handle, but I spoke before she could open it. “Lauren.” She paused, turning her head slightly. “Yeah?” I took a slow, steady breath. “Let’s break up.” The air in the car turned freezing. Lauren stared at me for a long moment, then let out a soft, dismissive chuckle, shaking her head. “Matt, are you seriously throwing a tantrum over a car seat?” I didn’t say anything. Her tone softened slightly, condescendingly. “Tony is just a kid, and it was late. As his boss, making sure he gets home safely is just basic responsibility. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” I looked directly into her eyes. “Lauren, it’s been seven years. Every single time I worked past midnight, I walked to the train station alone.” “That’s completely different—” “How?” I interrupted, my voice cracking slightly. “Am I not allowed to want someone to care about me?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “I’m serious, Lauren. We’re done.” Her brow furrowed, her voice sharp with irritation. “Matt, this is getting ridiculous. Are you really going to throw away seven years over this?” I kept my gaze steady, refusing to back down. Eventually, she sighed, reaching out to pat my cheek. Her touch felt incredibly heavy. “Fine. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just go inside. I have a flight tomorrow morning, and I need to get some sleep.” She opened her door and walked toward the elevator. I remained in the back seat, watching her figure disappear around the corner. The last lingering ember of warmth in my chest went entirely cold. I pulled out my phone and texted my dad. “Dad, I’ve made up my mind. As soon as I wrap things up here, I’m coming to London.” The reply was almost instant. “Good. Your mother and I will have everything ready for you. Just come home.” The next morning, the sound of sizzling oil woke me. I walked into the kitchen to find Lauren standing at the stove, frying eggs. I stood in the doorway, momentarily stunned. It had been at least five years since she had cooked anything. When she noticed me, she gestured toward a pot on the counter. “There’s oatmeal. Help yourself.” Then, my eyes drifted to two neatly packed lunchboxes on the counter. “Who are those for?” “Oh, those are for Tony,” she said, her focus entirely on flipping the eggs. “He always skips breakfast, and his blood sugar drops. He’s passed out at work a couple of times.” Before I could even process the words, she checked her watch and hurriedly wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Shoot, I’m going to miss my flight. I have to go.” She grabbed her suitcase by the door, then paused, stepping back to give me a brief, obligatory hug. “I’ll be back in a few days. Take care of yourself.” The door clicked shut. I stood alone in the messy kitchen. If this had been any other day, I would have immediately started cleaning up her mess. But not today. Today, I had an appointment at the consulate. The wait at the visa office was long, but my paperwork was processed without any issues. By the time I returned to the office, the sun was already starting to set. The hallways were quiet, most of our colleagues having already left for the day. I knocked on the HR door. Katie was still at her desk. “Matt? What are you doing here so late?” “I’m here to submit my resignation.” Katie’s jaw dropped. “What? Why? You’re a founding member of this place. Lauren was literally talking about setting up your equity package next quarter.” I offered her a polite, tired smile. “I’m ready for a change. I want to go spend some time with my family overseas.” She saw the look in my eyes and didn’t press further. “Alright. If you’re sure, I’ll start processing it.” She turned to her computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. “Once we finish the offboarding paperwork, your last day will be next Tuesday.” I nodded. “Thank you, Katie.” As I turned to leave, I paused. “One more thing. Please keep this between us. I’d prefer if Lauren didn’t know until after I’m gone.” Though confused, she gave me a reassuring nod. “Understood. I’ll keep it under wraps.” Over the next few days, I threw myself into wrapping up my projects. Lauren sent me several text messages, but I left every single one of them on read. On Friday night, I finally dragged myself back to the apartment, completely exhausted. I was just taking off my shoes when my phone rang. It was Lauren. I stared at her name on the screen for a long time before finally picking up. “Matty…” her voice was thick, slurred, and carried that soft, clinging tone she only used when she was completely drunk. “I drank way too much… Can you come pick me up?” My heart gave a painful, familiar thud. She hadn’t called me “Matty” in years. Normally, it was just a blunt “Matt.” She continued to mumble into the receiver. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing down the sudden wave of emotion. “Send me the address. I’ll be there.” The city was wrapped in a heavy midnight fog when I arrived at the restaurant. But as I approached the entrance, my steps faltered. Lauren was leaning heavily against Tony, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. When Tony spotted me, he stiffened, taking a hurried, awkward step back. “Matt… I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” his voice was panicked, his eyes wide with a performative fear, as if I were about to strike him. The movement shook Lauren awake. She blinked, her instinct immediately driving her to step in front of the kid, shielding him from me. “Matt, don’t start with him,” she mumbled, her eyes glassy. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. Even completely wasted, her first instinct was to protect him. Tony clutched Lauren’s arm, his eyes shining with tears. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have let her drink so much. I’m so sorry, Matt.” Lauren reached up, gently patting his hair. “It’s not your fault, Tony. Don’t apologize to him.” Unable to watch another second of it, I stepped forward, pulling her dead weight away from him. “Let’s go. We’re going home.” She mumbled incoherently against my shoulder the entire ride back. I didn’t say a single word. By the time we got back to the apartment and she finished throwing up in the bathroom, she had sobered up significantly. She walked into the bedroom, a sheepish smile on her face, and tried to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back, letting her arms fall into the empty air. She blinked, confused. “What’s wrong?” I sat down on the edge of the bed, looking up at her. “Next Tuesday is my birthday. I want you to have dinner with me.” She hesitated, her eyes darting away. “I think I have a client dinner that night…” “Lauren,” I interrupted. “In seven years, you have never once spent my birthday with me.” She stared at me, the silence stretching between us. Finally, she nodded. “Okay. I’ll clear my schedule.” On Tuesday evening, I put on a tailored charcoal shirt—the one she used to tell me made me look handsome. When she walked into the restaurant and saw me, a flicker of genuine appreciation crossed her face. “You look nice tonight.” I offered a polite smile but didn’t reply. Make it special, I told myself. A proper goodbye to the last seven years. At the table, Lauren ordered several of my favorite dishes without even looking at the menu. But then, she turned back to the waiter. “And could you prepare a duplicate order of these to-go, please?” Seeing my questioning look, she explained, “Tony’s been talking about wanting to try this place for weeks. Since we’re already here, I figured I’d grab some for him.” I didn’t say anything. I just lowered my eyes and took a slow sip of water. The food had barely arrived when Lauren’s phone lit up on the table. She glanced at the screen, and her face immediately tightened. She set her fork down. “There’s an emergency at the office. I have to go. Go ahead and eat without me.” Without waiting for my response, she grabbed the takeout bags the waiter had just brought over and rushed out the door. I sat alone at the table, looking at the steaming dishes. I had completely lost my appetite. I paid the bill, walked out into the cool night air, and went home. I spent the next hour packing my life into two suitcases. At the bottom of the closet, I found an old shoebox. Inside were all the tiny mementos I had saved over the last seven years—movie ticket stubs, concert wristbands, and the annual photo booth pictures I had practically begged her to take with me. I stared at them for a few seconds, then carried the box to the trash chute and let it go. As I was wrapping up, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Tony. No words, just a single image. It was a close-up of his hand. Slid onto his ring finger was the thin silver band I had given Lauren for our first anniversary. My stomach dropped. I stared at the screen for a long, quiet moment. Then, I reached down, slid my own matching silver band off my finger, and set it gently on the coffee table. I took one last look at the apartment we had shared for years. There was nothing left here for me. The airport terminal was bright and loud, filled with families and travelers rushing to their destinations. I sat at the gate, opened my phone, and went through my contacts. One by one, I deleted and blocked Lauren’s number, her social media accounts, and her email. I was finally cutting the cord.

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On the day of our engagement, Ward vanished. He didn’t answer my calls, and my texts went completely ignored. My parents and I were frantic, terrified that he had been in a horrific car crash on his way to the venue. We were on the verge of calling the police when, after dozens of attempts, we finally reached his driver. The man stammered on the other end of the line, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “Mr. Ward is… he’s currently with Ms. Lacey, helping her pitch a new client. The client is proving difficult, and Mr. Ward can’t step away right now.” I swallowed the rising tide of anger, opening my mouth to demand that he put Ward on the phone, when a series of text messages from Ward popped up on my screen. “Our families have known each other for over twenty years, Izzy. Don’t sweat the formalities today.” “This is Lacey’s first time pitch-meeting a client on her own. The guy is a notorious shark, and I need to make sure she’s safe.” “I’ll add another thirty thousand dollars to our wedding fund. Don’t be mad.” My dad’s face fell as he read the messages over my shoulder. Without a word, he turned his back to me, staring out the window, his hands trembling slightly as he lit a cigarette. My mom’s eyes welled with tears. She looked at me, her voice thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, are you absolutely sure you want to marry him? I’ve watched that boy grow up, but familiarity shouldn’t give him the right to treat you like an afterthought…” Seeing my parents’ heartbreak cut through me like a knife. I squeezed my mom’s hand, forced a bright smile, and turned to our gathered family and friends. “Everyone, please, let’s eat! The engagement is off. Let’s celebrate my return to single life!” … Throughout the dinner, hushed whispers echoed around the private dining room. My parents kept brave, smiling faces until the last of the guests had been sent off. Watching their retreating figures, a burning pressure built behind my eyes. They had worked tirelessly their entire lives, looking forward to this day, dressing up in their finest clothes to host this celebration—only for it to end in public humiliation. The crushing weight of guilt broke me. “Mom, Dad, I’m so sorry. I embarrassed you both.” My mom turned, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and smiled gently. “What are you talking about? You are our greatest pride. Whatever you decide, we’re right behind you.” My dad, a man of few words, gave a firm nod. “Your mother is right. No matter what, we’ve got your back.” With that, he pulled out his phone and immediately wired back the wedding funds Ward had sent. Worried I hadn’t eaten enough, they went to the grocery store to pick up some of my favorite ingredients to cook at home. Shortly after we returned and I changed into my loungewear, Ward let himself in. Our families had been neighbors since childhood. After his father passed away and his mother remarried and moved, leaving him alone, my parents had practically adopted him, always inviting him over for family dinners. Over the years, he’d memorized our front door keypad code. He had used it for over a decade without it ever being changed. Seeing me in sweatpants on the sofa, his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth to speak, but seeing my parents busy in the kitchen, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me into my bedroom, slamming the door. His face was twisted with anger. “Izzy, what the hell is this?” he snapped. “You turned our engagement dinner into a single-life party? Do you have any idea how that makes me look to all our relatives?” I stared at him, letting out a soft, hollow laugh. “Oh, so now you care about the relatives? You didn’t care when you stood me up, leaving my parents to swallow their pride in front of everyone. What was your excuse again? Ward, if you didn’t want to get married, nobody was holding a gun to your head.” It was likely the first time he’d ever heard me stand up to him. He blinked, momentarily caught off guard, a flash of panic crossing his features. He knelt down, taking my hands, his tone softening. “Izzy, I’m sorry. It was poor judgment on my part. But have you forgotten what happened when you first started working? That client who tried to touch you?” He looked at me pleadingly. “You cried so hard. And your boss didn’t even support you; they blamed you for losing the account. I just didn’t want Lacey to go through the same nightmare you did. Can’t you understand that?” I looked down at the faint scar on the back of my hand, a dull ache blooming in my chest. Of course, I hadn’t forgotten. The client back then had been a notorious predator in the industry. The moment the project was assigned to me, I had warned Ward. We made a pact: if things went south during the dinner, I would text him three specific numbers as a distress signal, and he would come in to rescue me. But when the night came, I sent dozens of messages, and not a single one was answered. Ultimately, it was a pot of scalding water on the table that saved me. Amidst the client’s screams, I stumbled out of the room and ran downstairs, only to find Ward fast asleep in the driver’s seat of his car. I didn’t wake him. With trembling hands, I called the police myself. It wasn’t until the sirens wailed that he finally woke up. At the hospital, he wept and begged for forgiveness, claiming he’d been running on no sleep due to a major company launch and had only closed his eyes for a second. Seeing his dark circles and deep exhaustion, I forgave him. But now, he was using that unresolved guilt to justify rescuing another woman. And he expected me to just understand. Sensing my silence, he assumed I was softening. A relieved smile touched his lips. “Don’t be mad, Izzy. I’ll apologize to your parents properly, and we’ll pick another date. I promise I’ll be there for every second of it…” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted quietly, pulling my hands from his grasp. “We’re done. Check your bank account. The wedding money has been returned. Once you see it, please leave my house.” Ward’s face hardened as he checked his phone notifications. He stood up abruptly. “Izzy! We’ve been together for eight years. You’re seriously throwing all of that away over this?” Before I could answer, a soft, sniffling cry echoed from the living room. I bypassed him and opened the bedroom door. Lacey was standing in the entryway, clutching a basket of fruit and a carton of organic milk. My mom was sitting on the couch, and my dad stood by the kitchen door, his expression grim. Lacey’s fingers were tightly laced together, her eyes red and tearful. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Miller,” she whimpered. “Today was entirely my fault. I shouldn’t have begged Ward to come with me. Please don’t be angry with him.” I turned to Ward. “You brought her here? Ward, are you out of your mind?” Lacey rushed forward. “Izzy, please don’t blame Ward. I came here on my own. I swear I had no idea today was your engagement party. If I had known, I never would have asked for his help. It won’t happen again…” “Again?” I let out a bitter chuckle. “What’s next? The wedding day? Or maybe our wedding night? If you’re so dependent on your boss, why don’t you just move in with him?” Lacey looked up, her tears finally spilling over. “Izzy, I know you’re angry with me, but that’s not fair. This was my first business trip out of town, and it was in Ward’s hometown. I didn’t know anyone else…” Before she could finish, Ward stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. He glared at me, his voice dropping an octave. “Izzy, there’s a limit to everything. Why are you taking this out on a kid?” “I’m taking it out on her?” “Yes,” he said defensively. “Apologize to her. If you don’t…” “If she doesn’t, what exactly are you going to do to my daughter?!” My dad stormed out of the kitchen, putting his trembling, aging frame between Ward and me. A man who had never raised his voice in his life was now shouting in pure rage. “Ward! As long as I am breathing, you do not get to threaten my child!” My mom stood up from the couch, wrapping her arm tightly around my shoulder. Ward took two steps back, his composure crumbling. “Mr. Miller, Mrs. Miller, that’s not what I meant…” Lacey shook her head, biting her lip. “This is all my fault because I’m incompetent. I should be the one apologizing.” To our horror, she reached onto our entryway console, grabbed a bottle of high-proof whiskey my father had saved for years to toast our wedding, uncorked it, and began chugging it straight from the bottle. She choked on the first gulp, coughing violently and clutching her chest. Within seconds, her fair skin began to break out in bright red hives. “She’s allergic to alcohol!” Ward gasped. He snatched the bottle away and threw it onto the hardwood floor. It shattered into pieces, filling the room with the sharp scent of aged liquor. He swept Lacey up into his arms, grabbing her purse from the entryway hook, and rushed toward the door. Just before stepping out, he glanced back. “Izzy, I have to get her to the ER. You and your parents need to cool down. I am not agreeing to a breakup. Wait for me to come back.” Then, he was gone. Staring at the shattered glass and spilled amber liquid, a profound bitterness washed over me. I turned to my parents. “Mom, Dad, remember how you wanted to rent a cabin in Charleston for a while? A friend of mine just opened a branch office there and offered me a director position. If you’re up for it, we can book a flight tonight. I’ll finish my wrap-up work here and join you in a few days.” My parents exchanged a look. My mom nodded gently. “Let’s do it. Your father and I have worked our whole lives; it’s about time we took a real trip.” While my dad quietly returned to the kitchen to pack up the food and my mom began packing their bags, I swept up the broken glass. I texted my friend to accept the position, asked him to help coordinate my parents’ arrival, and changed our front door keypad code. After seeing my parents off at the airport, I caught a flight back to the city where my job was based. I landed around 8:00 PM. Outside the airport, a young college couple walked ahead of me. The girl was sitting on her rolling suitcase while the boy pushed her, wearing her pink backpack and holding her half-finished boba tea in one hand. They were laughing effortlessly, drawing fond looks from passersby. Watching them, my mind drifted back to my early college years with Ward. We were nineteen. His mother had just had a child with her new husband, cut off all contact, and stopped paying his tuition and living expenses. Ward worked back-to-back part-time jobs while juggling classes. Since we were dating, our expenses naturally went up. Knowing he was drowning in stress, my parents quietly gave me an allowance so I could cover our dates. But Ward was proud; he quickly caught on. From then on, whenever we dined out, he’d make an excuse to use the restroom and secretly pay the bill beforehand. He would hold my hand, his eyes burning with absolute sincerity. “Izzy, I’m your boyfriend, and I’m going to be your husband. I know you’re trying to protect my pride, but providing for you is my job. No matter what gifts I buy you, you don’t need to match their price. It makes us feel like strangers, and I want us to be closer than anyone else.” When his college startup finally took off, he showered me with everything that was trendy. We rented a tiny apartment together after graduation. Because of his devotion, I allowed myself to fully lean on him. We had our share of petty arguments, but we always took the time to learn each other’s love languages. As the years bled together, however, I noticed his attentiveness drifting. His emotional bandwidth for me grew narrower. Back then, I convinced myself that adult relationships required compromise, and that over-analyzing these shifts would only tear us apart. So, we kept walking until we reached the age where marriage was the natural next step. I had envisioned a beautiful wedding this year and perhaps a baby the next. But my mother’s words at the canceled dinner had shattered my denial: “Familiarity shouldn’t give someone the right to treat you like an afterthought.” I quickened my pace, bypassed the young couple, and hailed a cab. As soon as I closed the cab door, Ward’s name popped up on my screen, accompanied by a little red heart. I let it ring. He tried four more times; I declined every call. Finally, a local, unrecognized number called. Thinking it might be my landlord or a delivery service, I answered. Before I could speak, Ward’s voice barked through the speaker, thick with irritation. “Izzy, have you lost your mind? You changed the door code and ignored my calls?” He let out an exhausted sigh. “I brought Lacey here to apologize to your parents. Open the door.” “I can’t,” I said quietly. “And that door will never open for you again.” He scoffed. “Are you seriously doing this right now? How old are you, Izzy? You’re going to throw our entire relationship away because of a stupid engagement dinner? You even dragged your parents into this. Don’t you think you’re being ridiculous?” “It isn’t just about the dinner, Ward,” I said, watching the city lights blur outside the window. “It’s about who you used to be.” Silence fell over the line. “Who I used to be? What is that supposed to mean?” I toyed with the engagement ring on my finger. “Remember in college, when you said you wanted us to grow closer and depend on each other? I did that for eight years. You didn’t. Instead, you let our history become an excuse to treat me with contempt.” He let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “Izzy, is that what this dramatic speech is about? Who stays head-over-heels after eight years? Stop reading those trashy relationship blogs. You’re turning thirty soon. Aren’t you embarrassed to be throwing a temper tantrum like a teenager and humiliating your family? Let’s just end this drama. We’re getting our marriage license tomorrow. I’ll meet you at the city clerk’s office at two.” Even though I had already checked out of this relationship, his words still managed to squeeze the air from my lungs. A sharp pain bloomed in my throat. Before the tears could fall, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. “I will never marry you, Ward.” I hung up, rolled down the window, slipped the diamond ring off my finger, and flicked it into the darkness. The taxi pulled up to my apartment complex. The driver, an older woman around my mother’s age, looked at me in the rearview mirror, her eyes soft and understanding. “Sweetheart, half-baked love only leaves a bad taste in your mouth. I admire your courage to close the book. Don’t ever settle.” My throat tightened. “Thank you,” I whispered, nodding. Inside the apartment, the first thing I saw was our Polaroid photo wall in the living room. Seven years of memories. Looking closely, I realized that from year one to year seven, our physical gap had widened—from our cheeks pressed together to a stiff elbow’s distance apart. This year’s photo was supposed to be taken at the courthouse. There was no point now. I pulled every single photo off the wall, fed them into the paper shredder, and watched seven years turn into confetti. I opened my laptop and submitted my formal resignation letter to HR. Within minutes, my phone vibrated. It was Becca, my close friend in HR. “Izzy! Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating your engagement? Why am I looking at a resignation letter? Tell me you’re not pregnant because I’m not ready to be an aunt!” I managed a weak chuckle. “You’re safe. The engagement is off, we broke up, and there’s no baby on the way.” “What? What did that bastard do?” I told her everything. Becca was practically vibrating with rage through the phone. “I knew he was a piece of work! Thank God you got out. Remember that massive rainstorm last month? You went back to the office to grab some files and got stranded. I had to come pick you up because you couldn’t get a ride. Well, on my way home, I drove past his office building. I saw him carrying a girl on his back across the flooded street…” My heart seized. “Are you sure it was him?” “I took a video. I’m sending it to you right now.” The video arrived a second later. Outside Ward’s corporate office, the water was shin-deep. Ward was carrying Lacey on his back, her arms wrapped around his neck, her colorful slip-on shoes dangling as she laughed happily. I watched it on a loop, feeling a slow, cold numbness spread through my chest. That night, I had been trapped in the lobby for over an hour, unable to secure an Uber. When I called Ward, he told me he was stuck on a highway outside the city. He Venmoed me $500, telling me to use it for a premium ride-share. By midnight, my clothes were soaked, my period had started early, and I was in agonizing pain. I had no choice but to call Becca. When Ward finally got home in the early hours of the morning, he stayed up to make me chamomile tea, prep a heating pad, and bring me Midol without even changing out of his damp clothes. I had been so deeply moved by his care back then. Now, it just felt pathetic. “Izzy… Izzy, are you there?” Becca’s voice was soft, laced with worry. “I’m here. Thanks, Becca. I appreciate you.” I hung up, packed the remainder of my things, booked a moving service, and notified my landlord of my immediate move-out. The next morning, I handed in my keycard at the office. Just as I walked out of the building, an Instagram notification popped up. It was Ward. He had posted a picture of his car parked outside the city clerk’s office, with Lacey sitting in the passenger seat. The caption read: “Waiting for our turn at the courthouse. Lucky number 13.” The post was thirty minutes old. We shared dozens of mutual friends, yet there wasn’t a single like or comment. There was only one explanation: he had customized his privacy settings so that only I could see it. I smiled faintly and got into my airport ride. As the flight attendant requested we switch our phones to airplane mode, I opened Instagram, pulled up the post, and left a comment: “Congratulations. Wishing you a lifetime of happiness.”

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I took a speeding, out-of-control truck to the skull to keep my wife and daughter from being crushed. When I finally woke up, the doctors told Rachel that my cognitive function was permanently capped at the level of a five-year-old. At my bedside, Rachel wept, clutching my hand and swearing to the heavens that she would spend the rest of her life protecting me. Our daughter, Lucy, held my pinky in her tiny palm, her voice high and sweet: “Don’t worry, Daddy. Lucy will keep you safe now.” For the first two years, they actually did. Then, in the third year, Brandon arrived. He was the kind of guy who could fix a leaky kitchen pipe without calling a plumber, the guy who sat at the dining table patiently explaining long division to Lucy, the guy who had a warm, home-cooked meal waiting on the stove whenever Rachel stumbled home after a grueling double shift. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they fell in love with having him around. Rachel began giving him the prime cuts of the roast. Lucy drew a new family portrait for art class and sketched him right in the middle, standing where I used to stand. On Lucy’s eighth birthday, I stood outside her bedroom door, clutching the gift I had spent a month crafting with my stiff, fumbling fingers. Through the crack in the door, I saw her snuggling into Rachel’s lap. “Mommy,” Lucy whispered, her eyes wide. “Daddy is so silly. Why can’t Brandon just be my real daddy?” Rachel didn’t correct her. Her silence cut deeper than any words could have. I crawled back into my bedroom and cried until my chest ached. Finally, with trembling hands, I dialed a number I had kept memorized from a lifetime I could barely recall. It belonged to my old mentor. “You once told me you could make me smart again,” I whispered into the receiver. “Does the offer still stand?” A heavy silence stretched over the line. Finally, he spoke, his voice thick with gravity. “It does, Thomas. But you know the cost. You will lose everything else. You will forget them.” … “I’m not afraid of forgetting, Professor,” I whispered. The old man let out a long, heavy sigh, telling me to wait while he made the arrangements and that the surgery would be scheduled soon. I hung up, staring down at the hand-carved wooden pony in my palms. It was Lucy’s eighth birthday present. I had spent a month scraping away at a block of pine with a dull pocketknife, my fingers now covered in circular Band-Aids. They stung at the slightest touch. But I had kept telling myself: “Lucy will smile when she sees this. Lucy will be happy.” Laughter erupted from the living room, loud and bright. “Brandon! What did you get me?” Lucy’s voice was full of pure excitement. “Ta-da! The limited-edition Barbie dreamhouse set you’ve been begging for,” Brandon replied, his voice rich and easy. “Oh my gosh, Brandon! You’re the best! I love you so much!” I heard the distinct, wet sound of Lucy planting a kiss on his cheek. A dull, heavy ache settled in my chest. I stood up, pushing my bedroom door open. In the kitchen, Rachel was setting the table. Brandon was wearing my favorite linen apron, holding a spatula, laughing as he ruffled Lucy’s hair. The three of them stood there, framed by the warm kitchen light, looking exactly like the families in the commercials. I squeezed the wooden pony tight and shuffled over to Rachel’s side. “Rachel, I’m hungry.” The smile on Rachel’s face faltered. She turned to me, her voice dropping into a hushed, exasperated whisper. “Thomas, go back to your room for a little bit, okay? It’s Lucy’s birthday, and we have a guest.” “A guest.” I didn’t understand. If Brandon was a guest, why was he wearing my apron? I held the wooden pony out toward Lucy, offering it like a peace offering. “Lucy, happy birthday. Daddy carved this pony for you. Remember? You used to love the carousel.” The joy instantly drained from Lucy’s face. She took a step back, hiding behind Brandon’s leg. “I don’t want that. It’s ugly,” she said, pointing a finger at my hands. “And your fingers are all bandaged and gross. Don’t touch my new dolls with those dirty hands.” My hand froze in midair. It wasn’t ugly. I had sanded it down for hours, making sure there wasn’t a single rough edge that could hurt her. Brandon knelt down, pulling Lucy into a protective hug, and looked up at me with a patronizing smile. “Tom, kids don’t know how to filter themselves. Don’t take it to heart. But honestly, raw wood can be a bit splintery. We wouldn’t want Lucy getting hurt, right, Rachel?” He looked up at my wife. Rachel frowned, stepping over to push my hand down. “Thomas, stop making a scene. Brandon was nice enough to cook for us today. Can’t you just behave for once?” “But Rachel,” I muttered, looking at her. “You used to say that as long as I made it, Lucy would love it.” Rachel’s eyes darted away, her guilt quickly hardening into irritation. “That was before. Lucy is older now. She has real interests. Go back to your room with that block of wood. You’re ruining the mood.” “A block of wood.” My eyes stung, hot tears blurring my vision. I looked down at the cuts on my fingers. They really, really hurt. Brandon stood up, gently tugging Rachel’s arm. “Rachel, don’t be so harsh. He has the mind of… well, he’s like a kid. Maybe we should let him sit at the table? I can whip up another side dish.” Rachel sighed, her gaze softening as she looked at him. “You’re too patient, Brandon. He doesn’t appreciate it anyway. He just causes trouble. Let him eat in his room so he doesn’t knock things over and ruin Lucy’s night.” I understood. They didn’t want me there. I clutched the pony to my chest and turned back toward the hallway. “I won’t eat at the table. I’ll eat in my room.” As I closed the door behind me, I heard Brandon asking Lucy, “So, birthday girl, what did you wish for when you blew out your candles?” Lucy’s voice carried clearly through the thin drywall. “I wished that Brandon could stay with us forever and be my real daddy.” This time, Rachel didn’t say a word. She didn’t protest. I leaned against the door, and the tears finally spilled over, hot and silent. They really didn’t want me anymore. I wanted to be smart again. I wanted to leave this place. I pulled out my phone and typed a clumsy message to my mentor. “Professor, can we do the surgery sooner?” “Yes, Thomas. I will arrange it as quickly as possible,” the reply came. I stared at the glowing screen, then buried my face in my knees. The next morning, the apartment was dead quiet. Rachel and Lucy were already gone, and Brandon was nowhere to be seen. On the kitchen counter sat a couple of stale, cold breakfast biscuits. Beside them was a note from Rachel. “Took Lucy to the amusement park with Brandon. Stay inside and don’t wander off.” My stomach growled. I picked up a biscuit and took a bite, but it was dry and hard as a rock. I couldn’t swallow it. Rachel never used to let me eat cold food. She used to tell me my stomach was sensitive and that cold food would give me cramps. She used to wake up early to simmer warm, fragrant chicken porridge for me. If I didn’t want to eat, she would coax me like a child, holding the spoon to my lips. “Just one bite, Tommy. One bite, and I’ll give you a kiss.” Now, she couldn’t even bear to look at me. I wanted to go to the amusement park, too. They had promised me that after Lucy’s birthday, we would all go together and ride the Ferris wheel. But they took Brandon instead. I put the biscuit down and drank a glass of tap water. I didn’t understand why Brandon’s arrival meant I had to lose everything. Around noon, the front door clicked open. Rachel and Lucy walked in, with Brandon trailing closely behind. But Lucy wasn’t happy; she was sobbing hysterically. Brandon’s arm was wrapped in heavy white gauze, seeped through with fresh, bright red blood. Rachel was holding onto his good side, her face pale with panic and tenderness. “Careful, watch your step,” she murmured. “The doctor said to keep the stitches dry.” I ran over, looking at them. “Rachel, what happened?” Rachel snapped her head up, her eyes flashing with pure fury. She shoved me back, hard. “Don’t touch him!” I stumbled backward several steps, my spine slamming into the sharp edge of the shoe cabinet. A dull ache bloomed across my back. “Rachel, I just wanted to ask…” “Ask what?” Rachel’s voice shook with rage as she pointed a finger at me. “If you hadn’t thrown a fit yesterday and ruined Lucy’s birthday, she wouldn’t have been in such a terrible mood today! She wouldn’t have run away from us at the park!” “If Brandon hadn’t shielded her from that shattered glass, Lucy would be the one in the hospital right now!” I froze. I didn’t understand how Lucy running away at a park miles away was my fault. I had been home all day. Lucy peeked out from behind Brandon, pointing her little hand at me. “It is your fault! You’re a dummy! You always make Mommy mad. All the other kids have smart daddies, and I have you. I hate you!” The words felt like physical needles piercing my chest. I knelt down, trying to meet Lucy’s eyes. “Lucy, Daddy didn’t mean to… Daddy saved you once, remember? The truck—” “Shut up!” Rachel screamed, cutting me off. “Thomas, are you going to hold that accident over our heads for the rest of our lives? Yes, you saved us. But I have spent the last two years bathing you, feeding you, and putting up with you. Haven’t I paid my debt?” She looked at me, her eyes filled with nothing but cold exhaustion. “I am so sick of this. I am tired of taking care of a giant toddler. I deserve a normal life, a normal family.” The words crashed over me like stones. So that was it. Caring for me was just paying a debt. She had been sick of me for a very long time. Brandon let out a soft sigh, placing his uninjured hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Rachel, don’t. Tom doesn’t understand what he’s doing. As long as Lucy is safe, a few stitches don’t matter.” Rachel looked up at Brandon, her eyes shining with tears. “I’m so sorry, Brandon. We always drag you into our messes.” Brandon smiled, gently tapping Lucy’s nose. “I’d do anything to keep you two safe.” Watching the three of them console one another, I felt like a piece of discarded trash left in the corner of my own home. I stood up, slowly backing away. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “I won’t make you mad anymore.” I turned and ran back to my room, locking the door behind me. I crawled under the blankets and pressed my hands over my ears, blocking out the murmur of their voices. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a message from the Professor. “Grace’s restoration surgery was a complete success. Are you ready, Thomas?” Grace was another patient, a young girl who, like me, had suffered severe brain trauma. She was smart again. I wiped the tears from my face and typed out four words: “I am ready, Professor.” “Come out and eat,” Rachel called, knocking curtly on my door later that evening. Her voice was flat, as if the screaming match from earlier had never happened. I opened the door and walked out. The dining table was crowded with dishes—slow-roasted ribs, pan-seared salmon, and a pot of rich chicken soup. It was all Brandon’s handiwork. I sat down and reached my fork toward the ribs. They used to be my favorite. But before my fork could touch the meat, Rachel’s fork blocked mine. “The ribs are for Brandon,” she said coldly. “He’s injured and needs to recover. Don’t touch them.” She picked up two large ribs and placed them gently in Brandon’s bowl. My hand hovered in the air. I looked at Rachel, then at Brandon, who gave me a performative, apologetic shrug. “Rachel, come on, let Tom have some,” Brandon said smoothly. “I don’t need all of this.” “Absolutely not,” Rachel countered, her eyes narrowing. “You bled so much for Lucy today. You need to replenish your strength.” She turned back to me, pointing her chin toward a plate of plain sautéed greens. “Eat the vegetables. They’re better for your digestion anyway.” I bit my lip, slowly drawing my fork back, and took a single green leaf. It tasted incredibly bitter. I remembered how Rachel used to cook ribs for me. She would always pick out the tenderest, most flavorful pieces and slide them onto my plate. “Tommy is a growing boy,” she would tease. “You need your protein to stay strong.” Now, I wasn’t even allowed a single bone. Lucy took a sip of her soup, pointing at the pot. “Mommy, I want to give Brandon the chicken drumstick. Brandon is a superhero. He protected me.” Rachel smiled, brushing a hand through Lucy’s hair. “That’s very sweet of you, baby.” Lucy fished out the drumstick, dropped it into Brandon’s bowl, and then shot me a disdainful look. “Daddy is a coward. He doesn’t do anything but hide in his room.” I kept my head down, chewing on plain white rice. I wasn’t a coward. The day the truck came hurtling toward us, I hadn’t run away. I had pushed them both to safety. My skull had fractured, and there had been so much blood. It had hurt so bad. But Lucy didn’t remember any of that. After dinner, Rachel left me in the living room to watch TV while she went to wash the dishes. Brandon sat on the rug, helping Lucy with a puzzle. I sat on a small wooden stool in the corner, watching them from the shadows. Brandon suddenly turned his head. His eyes locked onto mine, and a cruel, tiny smirk touched the corner of his lips. He leaned slightly closer, dropping his voice so low that only I could hear. “You know, Thomas,” he murmured, “Rachel told me last night that marrying you was the biggest mistake of her life.” My fingers dug into my jeans. “You’re lying,” I whispered. Brandon let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Lying? Look at the way she looks at you. There’s nothing left but disgust. You’re just a heavy, useless anchor. Without you, the three of us would be a perfect family.” “A perfect family.” He meant him, Rachel, and Lucy. I stood up, glaring at him. “This is my house.” Seeing my anger, Brandon’s eyes gleamed. He suddenly gripped his bandaged arm and let out a sharp cry of pain. “Ow! Tom, please don’t push me! My stitches!” He threw himself backward onto the sofa, wincing dramatically. Rachel burst out of the kitchen instantly. “What happened?!” She saw Brandon clutching his arm, and her face turned incredibly dark. She marched over and stood directly in front of me. “Thomas, have you lost your mind?!” “I didn’t push him,” I shook my head, desperate to explain. “He’s lying! He was talking to me and then he just threw himself down!” Rachel didn’t believe a word. She raised her hand. “Slap.” The force of the blow snapped my head to the side. A sharp, burning sting flared across my cheek. The living room went dead silent. Lucy shivered, burying her face in Brandon’s chest. I held my burning cheek, staring at Rachel. Once, if I so much as scraped my knee, she would cry from worry. Now, she had slapped me across the face for the sake of a stranger. “Thomas, when did you become so malicious?” Rachel’s voice shook with disgust. “Brandon has done nothing but help us, and you try to hurt him? Go to your room. Do not come out until I tell you to.” I didn’t cry. I just looked at her, studying her face with absolute intensity. I wanted to commit this version of her to memory—so that after the surgery, I could wipe it away completely. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I’ll go.” That night, Rachel didn’t call me for dinner. I was too hungry to sleep, so I sat on the floor and began packing my things. There wasn’t much to take. A few clothes, a pair of sneakers, and two photographs. One was taken before the accident—me in a white lab coat, looking sharp, capable, and intelligent. The other was a family portrait taken shortly after Lucy was born. Rachel was smiling so beautifully. I stared at the family portrait for a long time. Then, very slowly, I tore it down the middle. I threw the half containing Rachel and Lucy into the trash can. I only needed the version of myself that was whole. At dawn, my phone lit up with a message from the Professor. “Your flight is booked for 3:00 PM. A car will pick you up at 1:00 PM.” I typed back a simple: “Okay.” I walked out of my room. Rachel and Brandon had already gone to work, and Lucy was at school. The apartment was hollow and quiet. I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. There were plenty of ingredients. After a moment of hesitation, I pulled out some tomatoes, eggs, and a cut of pork. These were the only two dishes I knew how to make. Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork with peppers. After I had lost my mind, I had spent months trying to learn how to cook them just to surprise Rachel. I used to burn my fingers constantly back then, and Rachel would always tear the spatula from my hands in a panic. “Tommy, you don’t need to cook. I’ll cook for you for the rest of our lives.” She had broken her promise. I clumsily chopped the ingredients, turned on the stove, and began to cook. A drop of hot oil splattered onto the back of my hand, leaving a stinging red blister. Ignoring the pain, I plated the two dishes and set them on the dining table. Then I took out a piece of paper. I wanted to write something, but my child-mind only knew how to write my own name. In crooked, childish letters, I wrote: “Thomas is gone.” I slid the paper under the plate. At exactly 1:00 PM, a car horn honked outside. I slung my small black backpack over my shoulder and walked out of the door. When the door clicked shut behind me, I didn’t look back. Sitting in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport, I watched the city skyline recede. Goodbye, Rachel. Goodbye, Lucy. At 6:00 PM, Rachel walked through the front door, holding Lucy’s hand. Brandon followed behind them, carrying a small bakery box. “Rachel, let’s go out for dinner tonight to celebrate my promotion,” Brandon suggested as he kicked off his shoes. Rachel scanned the quiet living room. “Why isn’t Thomas out here watching TV?” She frowned and walked further inside. “Probably still throwing a tantrum in his room. His temper has been getting so strange lately.” As she approached the dining table, she stopped. On it sat two cold plates of food. Tomato scrambled eggs and stir-fried pork. Beside them was a slip of paper. She pulled it out and stared at the uneven, struggling handwriting. “Thomas is gone.” Rachel stared at it for a second, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Unbelievable. He’s actually trying to run away now. He’s getting bolder.” Brandon walked over, looking at the plates with disgust. “Look at this mess. The eggs are practically burnt. Who could eat this?” “Rachel, let’s just throw it out. It’s an eyesore.” Rachel nodded, picking up the plates and walking into the kitchen. With two heavy thuds, the food I had spent all morning preparing was scraped into the garbage bin. Rachel washed her hands, walked down the hallway, and pushed open my bedroom door. “Thomas, stop playing these childish games. Get out of—” The words died in her throat. The room was completely empty. The closet doors were wide open, and several hangers were bare. On the nightstand sat my medical file. Rachel walked over and picked it up. Underneath it lay a crisp, white surgical consent form. At the top, the details were clearly printed: “Patient: Thomas.” “Procedure: Irreversible Selective Neurosurgery (Memory Ablation and Emotional Severance).” “Warning: This procedure will result in permanent, irreversible memory loss and emotional detachment.” Rachel’s hand began to tremble. Her eyes locked onto the words “permanent, irreversible memory loss”, and her breath caught.

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After my daughter fell ill, my mother brought over a small muslin bag filled with wild Appalachian herbal. She had foraged it herself up in the Vermont woods, nearly fracturing her ankle on a steep ridge in the process. I felt incredibly guilty and deeply touched. I carefully tucked the bag away in the pantry and repeatedly warned Garrett not to touch it. But when I came home from work, the pantry shelf was bare. Garrett had given the precious roots to his client’s young secretary. When I confronted him, Garrett didn’t even look up from his phone. His voice was entirely dismissive. “Oh, that little red bag?” he said. “Chelsea liked it, so I let her take it. I have so much on my plate at work, Hannah. I can’t be expected to remember every single little thing you say. Besides, it’s just some dried roots. If you want them so badly, I’ll buy you another bag online.” He was always like this. My words never seemed to register, always drifting right past him. In the past, I would have made excuses for him. I would have told myself he was under immense pressure, that he was working late nights to provide for our family. After a decade together, we owed each other grace, didn’t we? But tonight, something inside me shifted. Looking at that empty shelf, I felt a sudden, hollow ache. It was as if my heart had been emptied out along with it. … That herbal wasn’t just a wellness trend. It was a piece of my mother’s devotion. Desperate, I began rummaging through the cabinets, hoping he had just misplaced it. As I shoved boxes aside, a small pink journal slid off the top shelf and clattered to the floor. Garrett, lost in his gaming headset, didn’t even blink. He was completely dialed into his screen, muttering lazily: “It’s just a bag of weeds, Hannah. Why do you have to turn everything into a federal case? It’s embarrassing. You’re acting like a pauper who’s never seen a dollar bill.” They weren’t weeds. They were wild-harvested roots my mother had spent months searching for, specifically for her granddaughter. Just as I opened my mouth to snap back, Maisie emerged from her bedroom, her face pale and slick with sweat. “Mommy,” she whimpered, clutching her stomach. “My tummy hurts so bad…” Her gastritis was flaring up again. Panic spiked through my anger. I rushed to the medicine cabinet, my hands shaking. “Garrett! I told you Maisie has a delicate stomach. She can’t eat that greasy junk food! Why can’t you remember anything I tell you?” He finally pulled off his headset, his face twisted in annoyance. “Will you stop screaming? Why is everything a crisis with you? I’m in the middle of a Discord call with a major client. Can you please stop bothering me with these trivial things?” Trivial. Last month, leaving Maisie behind at the after-school program in the pouring rain, causing her to run a fever for three days—that was trivial. Yesterday, completely forgetting my severe shellfish allergy and ordering seafood takeout, sending me to the ER in the middle of the night—that was trivial. And now, giving our eight-year-old daughter greasy fast food that triggered an acute gastric spasm—that was trivial, too. It seemed that anything involving me or our child was a minor inconvenience to be brushed aside. The bright red takeout bag on the floor felt like a slap in the face. But looking at my daughter trembling in pain, I couldn’t waste time arguing. I scooped her up and drove straight to the hospital. Maisie was diagnosed with acute gastric spasms. The doctor said she had been in agonizing pain for five or six hours. Any longer, and she could have faced severe complications. I felt a sickening mixture of rage and guilt. Then Maisie looked up at me from the sterile hospital bed. “Mommy, I told Daddy my stomach hurt,” she whispered. “But he said he was too busy with work and told me to go to my room. Mommy… is Daddy really that busy, or does he just not like being around me?” Her small, innocent voice felt like a sledgehammer striking my chest, shattering the last of my fragile illusions. For the past year, Garrett’s life had revolved around an endless cycle of “work.” Late nights, business trips, weekend errands, gaming sessions. As long as he played the “provider” card, he was exempt from every domestic responsibility. I wanted to defend him, to spin the same tired lies I always did to protect her heart. But looking into her pure, searching eyes, the words died in my throat. I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. Once. Twice. He declined. I kept dialing, desperate and relentless. On the twelfth call, he finally picked up. “What now?” he groaned. “I told you I’m buried in work. What is so urgent that you have to harass me during office hours?” “Maisie is in the emergency room, Garrett. Because of that takeout you fed her.” There was a brief silence on the other end. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, though only slightly. “The takeout? Come on, that’s impossible. Her stomach can’t be that weak. Fine. Text me the location. I’ll head over.” The line went dead. But right before he hung up, the audio of his video game flared up, followed by his muffled voice speaking to someone else in the room: “It’s nothing, don’t worry about it. Married women are just exhausting. She loves making a mountain out of a molehill.” If I heard it, Maisie did too. She stared at me, her expression eerily calm. It was a kind of numbness no eight-year-old should ever possess. No tears, no expectations. Just flat acceptance. “Daddy isn’t coming, is he?” We both knew the answer. I swallowed the lump in my throat, leaning down to pull her fragile body against mine. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy is here. Even if it’s just the two of us, we’re going to be just fine.” Maisie didn’t ask any more questions. Exhausted by the pain and her father’s cold indifference, she drifted off to sleep a few minutes later. Three hours passed. Garrett was still a no-show. Unable to look at my phone without feeling sick, I reached into my purse to find a hair tie and pulled out the small pink journal I had scooped off the floor earlier. I opened the cover, and the name “Chelsea Ward” leapt off the page. I knew Chelsea. She was the young account coordinator at the client firm, the one handling Garrett’s accounts. What I hadn’t known was the level of devotion Garrett had poured into her. The pages were filled with her details in Garrett’s neat handwriting. Her career goals, her favorite coffee orders, her menstrual cycle, even random, passing comments she had made, preserved like sacred text. No wonder Garrett never remembered a word I said. He had given all his mental capacity—and his heart—to another woman. It felt like a slow-acting poison dripping into my veins. I sat in the dim hospital light, reading every single page. By the time I closed the book, the clock read 2:00 AM. Garrett finally strolled in, carrying a grease-stained paper bag. “Sorry, got caught up with some urgent things at the office,” he said, his voice casual. “You and Maisie probably haven’t eaten. I grabbed some of those Szechuan crawfish from that spot downtown. Let’s eat.” Maisie had a severe gastric condition; she couldn’t touch spicy food. And I was violently allergic to shellfish. Garrett had completely forgotten both facts. He expertly peeled a crawfish and held it up to my mouth. “Try it. I specifically told the chef no cilantro, extra chili oil, just the way you like it.” No cilantro. Extra chili. Those were Chelsea’s preferences. The pink journal had an entire entry dedicated to it: “Chelsea loves spicy Szechuan, hates cilantro. Chelsea hates peeling shellfish because she doesn’t want to ruin her manicures. Her acrylics cost $150 a set; Venmo her $1,000 for ‘office expenses’ to cover her spa days.” Garrett wasn’t incapable of care. He was just incapable of caring about “me”. A profound, crushing exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t want to argue. I didn’t want to hear his practiced excuses. I took a deep breath and looked him in the eye. “I found the pink journal in the pantry, Garrett.” His hand froze mid-air, the peeled crawfish dangling from his fingers. He stared at me, his eyes widening. Then, as if on cue, his guilt manifested as defensive anger. “You went through my things?” he snapped, his voice rising. “Hannah, how many times do I have to tell you to stay out of my work files? Everything I do with Chelsea is to secure this contract—for us! To give you and our daughter a better life!” Secure a contract by Venmoing her thousands of dollars? Secure a contract by booking boutique hotels and buying strawberry-flavored condoms? He had even documented her favorite positions in bed. The depth of his betrayal was beyond anything I had ever feared. In her sleep, Maisie whimpered. I gently pressed my hands over her ears to block out his voice. Seeing our daughter, Garrett let out a long sigh. He opened and closed his mouth, searching for a lie that would hold water. Finding none, he muttered something about needing to wash his hands and walked out of the room. A minute later, my phone buzzed. He had sent me a screenshot. “I’m sorry about earlier. I bought the organic herbal supplements online. Duty calls at the office, so I can’t stay.” The subtext was clear: “I apologized. Now get over it.” I opened the screenshot. Below a receipt for a $19.99 jar of generic herbal powder was an order confirmation for a $900 La Mer skincare set addressed to Chelsea’s apartment. He didn’t even have the decency to crop out his mistress’s gift. He was so secure in my silent endurance that he didn’t think he needed to hide it anymore. He assumed that as long as we had a child, I would never leave. I would always bow my head and accept his scraps. But he was wrong. I could tolerate his disdain for me, but I would never forgive what he had done to our daughter. My heart hardened into stone. I blocked Garrett’s number on my phone, pulled up my email, and sent a message to my family lawyer. “How quickly can we draft divorce papers and a custody agreement?” The reply came back almost instantly. “Three days.” Three days. Ten years of building a life together, reduced to a three-day filing process. But some things are meant to be broken quickly. The next afternoon, Garrett still hadn’t shown his face. He hadn’t even realized I blocked him. Instead, Chelsea Ward walked into the pediatric ward, carrying two gift bags of high-end organic fruit. She was wearing a tailored designer blazer, her manicured fingers sparkling. Her face bore a smug, triumphant smile. “Mrs. Mercer, I am so incredibly sorry,” she said, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I had no idea your daughter was so fragile that a simple takeout meal would put her in the hospital.” Then, her smile turned cold. She reached down and tapped Maisie’s forehead with a sharp, painted fingernail. “But honestly, you can’t blame me. The world is highly competitive. Weak, useless children like her… well, sometimes they’re just a drain on a family. On Garrett.” Maisie’s face went white. My heart shattered. I grabbed Chelsea’s wrist and yanked her away from the bed, pushing her out into the hallway. Chelsea scoffed, brushing off her sleeve as if I had contaminated her. “Am I wrong?” she raised her voice. “Little Maisie didn’t inherit any of Garrett’s drive. She’s sickly, timid, and completely unremarkable. How is a child like that supposed to inherit what Garrett built?” “My child will be different,” Chelsea continued, placing a hand over her flat stomach. “Garrett has already lined up the best private preschools. From the moment he’s born, he will have the best education—and Garrett’s undivided love.” Chelsea was pregnant. She was carrying Garrett’s child. A horrifying realization struck me. My voice trembled. “That takeout… you did that on purpose, didn’t you? Maisie has a sensitive stomach, but chili extract alone wouldn’t do this. What did you put in her food?” Chelsea shrugged, her eyes shining behind her designer sunglasses. “Why don’t you ask Garrett? After all, he knew exactly what was in that box. He doesn’t love you, Hannah. Why would he care about your little defective prototype?” My chest burned, the pain so intense I could barely breathe. The cruelest part was that I couldn’t even refute her words. Garrett’s neglect had been staring me in the face for years. When Maisie was three, I was in a terrible car accident. Terrified that a nanny wouldn’t care for her properly, I wrote out a detailed, hour-by-hour schedule and begged Garrett to watch her. But he claimed he was too busy with work and fed her nothing but instant ramen for weeks. By the time I was discharged, Maisie was skeletal and had developed chronic gastritis. I had screamed at him, demanded a divorce. But he begged on his knees, crying that our daughter needed a father, that he would change. For the sake of a complete family, I forgave him. But that fragile peace lasted only five years. Now, he had allowed another woman to poison our daughter just to please her. I leaned against the hospital corridor wall, gasping for air. Chelsea smiled, satisfied with her performance. She adjusted her sunglasses. “I’ll be honest with you,” she whispered. “Garrett and I have been together much longer than you think. We were going to keep it quiet, but you’re just so incredibly dense. Just like your daughter. Instead of fighting me, maybe you should ask yourself when your husband actually stopped coming home to you.” When? I couldn’t remember. The memories were too tangled, the betrayal too deep. I sank onto the hard plastic chairs of the waiting room, my body entirely numb. Then, a tiny, warm hand slipped into mine. Maisie was standing beside me, reaching up to wipe the tears from my cheeks. Her voice was quiet but steady. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’m here. I’ll always be here with you.” Her small, fragile frame radiated warmth. Looking at my daughter, I finally let go. I pulled her into my arms and sobbed. For Maisie’s sake, I pulled myself together. I drove straight to Garrett’s office. He was in the middle of a team meeting, and his face darkened the moment he saw me. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, stepping out of the conference room. “I’m in the middle of something. Go home. We’ll talk later.” I marched past him, slammed his leather-bound portfolio shut, and looked him dead in the eyes. “When did you and Chelsea start? And what did you put in Maisie’s food?” A flicker of panic crossed his face, but he quickly masked it with cold indifference. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’re having a mental breakdown, go to a clinic. Don’t embarrass me at my workplace!” I nodded slowly. “Fine. If you won’t tell me, I’ll call the police right now and report an attempted poisoning. Let’s see how well your little mistress handles a criminal investigation.” The mention of the police—and Chelsea’s potential ruin—shattered his composure. He quickly ushered his assistant out, closed the door, and let out a sharp sigh. “It wasn’t a big deal, Hannah. It was just… some pure capsaicin extract. Chelsea saw a prank video online and wanted to see if it worked. I didn’t think it would actually hurt her. We just wanted to see what would happen.” “We just wanted to see what would happen.” My daughter, whom I had carried for nine months and cherished with every fiber of my being, was nothing more than a lab rat for his mistress’s amusement. The rage inside me boiled over. I swung my hand and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side. He stared at me in absolute shock, which quickly curdled into fury. “Hannah! Are you out of your mind? Maisie is fine now, isn’t she? Why do you always have to blow everything out of proportion? I apologized! What more do you want from me?” Even now, he felt no guilt. He hadn’t even asked how our daughter was doing. To him, she was as insignificant as my feelings. My eyes burned with tears. “She is your daughter, Garrett! She has your blood running through her veins! How can you watch her suffer and feel absolutely nothing? What kind of monster did you let that woman turn you into?” Garrett sneered, his mask completely slipping. “Don’t lecture me about family. I never wanted that kid anyway. You were the one who trapped me, remember? You were the one who threw yourself at me, got pregnant, and forced me to marry you. What kind of child do you think a desperate woman like you is going to raise? If Maisie’s sick all the time, maybe it’s because of whatever garbage you were doing before you met me!” The room felt entirely cold. I stood frozen, the breath knocked out of me. For ten years, I believed Garrett simply didn’t know how to express his love. I never imagined that beneath his silence lay such deep, venomous contempt. He didn’t see my sacrifices as love. He saw them as desperation. The house I sold, the career I paused to support his startup—it was all just a pathetic woman clinging to him. I had wasted the best decade of my life on a man who despised me. There was nothing left to save. I looked at him, my voice barely a whisper. “I want a divorce, Garrett. We’re done.”

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My cousin’s fiancée was a self-styled fairy princess, and she had made it clear she wanted an exclusive, magical snowfall for her midsummer engagement party. To save money while maximizing the aesthetic for her Instagram feed, my cousin had hauled in a truckload of cottonwood fluff, scattering it across the entire living room of my villa. In my past life, I had tried to warn them that cottonwood fluff was highly flammable. But my aunt had pointed her finger at my face, screaming that I was just a bitter, single spinster jealous of another woman’s romance. Tyler had accused me of ruining the mood, shoving me into the cluttered basement and locking the door from the outside. When the fire erupted, they thought only of saving their own skins, leaving me behind to be burned alive into a charred corpse. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very day Tyler was spreading the fluff across the floor. I swallowed the burning hatred in my chest. This time, I didn’t stop them. I even went out and bought two boxes of indoor cold sparklers with my own money. “Tyler, what’s a snowfall without a little magic? A proposal needs sparklers!” “I even disabled the smoke detectors for you. We wouldn’t want the HOA ruining the fun.” Tyler’s eyes lit up, praising me for finally coming to my senses. My aunt scoffed triumphantly. “At least you know your place. If you did anything to ruin my future daughter-in-law’s special night, I would have made you pay.” That evening, Tyler led his blindfolded fiancée into the center of the room, stepping through ankle-deep fluff. I applauded softly, quietly stepping out the front door. Since they loved romance so much, they could keep the doors closed and enjoy their private winter wonderland to their hearts’ content. Even if it cost them their lives. … Three day-laborers carried heavy woven sacks into the living room, unzipping the tops to dump out massive drifts of white cottonwood fluff. The industrial fan in the corner hummed loudly, sending the fluff swirling through the spacious room, settling over the sofa, the coffee table, and the hardwood floors. Tyler had his arm wrapped around Tiffany at the entryway. Tiffany pinched her nose, waving her hand in front of her face. “It’s not thick enough,” she complained. “It doesn’t have that deep, sinking-in feeling when you step on it.” Tyler turned to the workers. “Go get two more truckloads. I want it ankle-deep.” One of the workers wiped the sweat from his forehead, looking uneasy. “Man, this stuff is incredibly light. To get it ankle-deep, you’re talking dozens of sacks. It’s probably going to clog up your HVAC vents.” Tyler pulled a crisp five-hundred-dollar bill from his wallet, slapping it onto the entryway console. He looked thoroughly annoyed. “Cut the crap. Here’s extra. Just go get it.” The worker grabbed the cash and hurried out the door. I walked in carrying the groceries I’d just bought, my shoes sinking into the white, feathery layer covering my hardwood floor. Tyler frowned the second he saw me, his expression twisting into disgust. “Erica, your shoes are covered in dirt. Don’t ruin the snow I set up for Tiffany.” My aunt, Sharon, emerged from the kitchen holding a platter of sliced fruit, placing it on the edge of the dining table where the fluff hadn’t yet reached. She rolled her eyes and pointed at me. “Are you blind? Can’t you see Tyler is busy setting up his proposal?” I set the grocery bags down on the floor, the horrific memories of my past life flashing before my eyes. In my previous life, seeing the house filled with cottonwood fluff had terrified me. I had immediately shut off the fan and warned them that this fluff was basically kindling—highly volatile and prone to explosive ignition at the slightest spark. But Aunt Sharon had sneered, calling me a bitter, unmarried prude who couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy. Tyler had lost his temper, shouting that I was ruining the magic, before violently shoving me into the basement storage room filled with old furniture and locking me in. That night, during the proposal, a stray spark from the cold sparklers ignited the fluff. The fire spread in seconds, and the three of them ran for their lives, leaving me trapped in the basement to burn to death. Now, back on this exact day, I stared down at the white fuzz clinging to the tips of my shoes and slowly stepped back onto the doormat. “Sorry,” I said quietly. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Tiffany pouted, leaning heavily into Tyler’s chest with a pathetic whine. “Tyler, look at her. She looks so miserable. I bet she doesn’t even want to lend us her villa for our engagement.” Tyler patted her shoulder, whispering sweet nothings. “She wouldn’t dare. The deed might have her name on it, but Mom gave her twenty grand when she bought this place. Half of this house belongs to us.” Aunt Sharon walked over, nudging my grocery bag with the toe of her shoe, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Tiffany’s right. Erica, are you just bitter because Tyler found someone so beautiful and successful, while you’re still entirely alone?” I forced a smile, looking up at them. “Of course not. Tyler getting engaged is a huge milestone. I’m thrilled for him.” I turned around, walked out to my car, and pulled two heavy cardboard boxes from the trunk. I carried them into the foyer and set them down on the floor. When I tore open the packaging, dozens of bundled, cylindrical indoor cold sparklers were revealed. “Tyler, what’s a snowfall without a little magic? A proposal needs sparklers.” Tyler’s eyes lit up as he picked one up, inspecting it. “These are perfect. The photos are going to look insane.” Tiffany squealed, grabbing a bundle and hugging it to her chest, her face splitting into a massive grin. “Oh, Erica, you really outdid yourself! This is going to feel exactly like “Frozen”.” I pointed up at the white plastic disc on the ceiling, claiming my credit. “I even disabled the smoke detectors for you. We wouldn’t want the HOA or the fire department ruining the fun.” Tyler nodded eagerly, thoroughly pleased. “Wow, Erica. You actually did something useful for once.” Aunt Sharon lifted her chin, scoffing. “At least you have some common sense. If you did anything to ruin my future daughter-in-law’s special night, I would have made you pay.” I took a step back, giving them space. “You guys keep decorating. I’m going upstairs to pack a few things. I won’t get in your way.” I walked up to the second floor, entered the master bedroom, and locked the door behind me. I dragged my suitcase out from under the bed. I packed my property deed, my passport, my jewelry, and a few luxury watches, tucking them safely into the inner lining of the suitcase. Then I opened my laptop, logged into my smart home dashboard, and adjusted the five security cameras on the first floor to their optimal angles. I enabled the automatic cloud backup feature. Downstairs, I could hear the workers shouting as another dozen sacks of cottonwood fluff were dumped into the center of the living room. I closed my laptop and slid it into my backpack. “Since you love romance so much, enjoy your private winter wonderland to your hearts’ content. Even if it costs you your lives.” I dragged my suitcase downstairs. The fluff in the living room was incredibly thick now. With every step, the soft white fuzz swallowed more than half of my shoes. Tyler was busy directing two workers on ladders. “Seal up every single window seam,” Tyler instructed. “Use the heavy-duty tape. I don’t want a single draft coming through.” One worker was wrapping wide black duct tape tightly along the edges of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Tiffany was spinning around the room, holding her selfie stick high. “Hey guys! Look at the midsummer snowfall my fiancé set up for me! Isn’t it incredibly romantic?” She pouted at the camera. “The proposal livestream starts at eight tonight. Make sure to tune in to catch some of this magic!” Aunt Sharon, who was wiping down the sofa armrests with a rag, frowned the moment she saw my suitcase. “Where do you think you’re going with that?” I stood the suitcase up by the door. “Work emergency. I have to go out of town for a business trip for a few days.” Aunt Sharon clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Of all the days to leave. You really are a dark cloud over this family.” Tyler walked over from the ladder to chime in. “Let her go, Mom. It’s better she’s not here to ruin the shot tonight. Tiffany has over a hundred thousand followers tuning in.” Tiffany lowered her selfie stick and wrapped her arm around Tyler’s. “Exactly. And my bridesmaids are coming soon. They’ve been dying to see this place.” She eyed my canvas sneakers with disgust. “Erica, watch where you step. My wedding dress is a rental, and if it gets dirty, the deposit is gone.” I nodded, keeping my feet firmly on the doormat. “Don’t worry. I’m not coming in.” The worker climbed down the ladder. “All the windows are sealed, boss. Not even a fly is getting through.” Tyler clapped his hands, satisfied. “Great. Go seal the back door and the basement door too. Wrap it thick.” I pointed toward the hallway under the stairs. “Tyler, the back door gets a lot of wind. Tape alone might not hold it.” Tyler looked worried. “What should we do? If the wind leaks in, it’ll ruin the snow effect.” I gestured to a pile of empty cardboard appliance boxes in the corner. “Just stack those empty boxes against the door to block the draft.” Tyler waved his hand at the workers. “Did you hear her? Do what she said. Block the door.” The two workers pushed the large, heavy cardboard boxes over to the back door, stacking them high against the handle. Aunt Sharon walked over to the smart control panel on the wall, grumbling. “Why are the HVAC and central air still running? Do you think electricity grows on trees?” Tyler rushed over to stop her. “Mom, if we turn off the AC, we’re going to suffocate in here with all these people.” Aunt Sharon glared at him. “Once the main lights are off, we’ll just have the ambient lighting. It won’t get that hot.” She reached out and flipped the main breaker switch on the panel. The hum of the house died instantly, and the air grew completely still. Tiffany smiled, agreeing with her. “Sharon’s right, Tyler. Too much air current will blow the snow around. It looks much prettier when it falls quietly.” Tyler rubbed his neck, giving in. “Fine, turn it off. And lock the front door too. We don’t want any nosey HOA security guards wandering in.” I adjusted my backpack and grabbed the handle of my suitcase. “I’ll take off then. Good luck tonight.” With that, I pushed open the front door and walked down the steps. As soon as I got outside, my phone buzzed with a notification from the family group chat. Aunt Sharon had posted a video. The clip showed the living room covered in cottonwood fluff, with the cold sparklers piled high on the coffee table. Aunt Sharon: [Tyler is proposing tonight! Everyone make sure to tune into Tiffany’s stream to support them!] Uncle Richard replied first: [Wow, that looks incredible. Tyler’s really moving up in the world.] Aunt Peggy followed: [What a gorgeous place. Tiffany is a lucky girl.] Aunt Sharon immediately sent a bragging voice note: “Of course she is. We bought this place in cash. Unlike some people who are in their thirties, completely single, and slinking off on ‘business trips’ today.” The chat went quiet for a few seconds before Aunt Peggy replied: [What’s the point of a girl getting so much education if she can’t even find a husband?] I stared at the messages but didn’t reply. I slid my phone into my pocket, walked over to my car, and loaded my suitcase into the trunk. I climbed into the driver’s seat, closing the door to shut out the summer heat. I rolled the window down just a crack, keeping my eyes fixed on the villa. The heavy front door was shut tight. With the blackout film on the second-floor windows and the thick tape sealing the first-floor glass, the entire house was now an airtight vault. As dusk fell, the streetlights began to flicker on. I opened the security app on my phone. The screen split into five crystal-clear feeds of the villa’s first floor. The main chandelier was off, leaving only the wall sconces casting a dim, warm glow. The cottonwood fluff on the floor gleamed white in the dim light, burying their ankles. Tiffany’s four bridesmaids, dressed in matching dresses, were sitting on the couch touching up their makeup, while Tyler adjusted his bow tie in his white tuxedo. Aunt Sharon, wearing a tight, crimson silk sheath dress and a pearl necklace, was fluttering around the room. She walked to the entryway, turned the deadbolt to lock the front door, and then twisted the extra security latch. “There, locked tight. Let’s see if anyone tries to interrupt our Tiffany’s livestream now.” Tyler watched her, complaining slightly. “Mom, why did you lock it so tight? We still have to go out for celebratory drinks after this.” Aunt Sharon slapped his hand away. “What do you know? The HOA sent an alert saying there’s too much cottonwood fluff in the neighborhood and they’re sending inspectors. If they barge in and see this, they’ll fine us a fortune.” Tyler shrugged. “Let them. Tonight’s worth it.” Tiffany floated down the stairs in a white gown with a massive tulle train that dragged behind her through the fluff. She wore a rhinestone tiara and held her selfie stick high. Her bridesmaids immediately squealed in jealousy. “Oh my god, Tiffany, you look stunning!” “That dress must have cost thousands! Tyler is treating you like a queen.” Tiffany smirked, clearly enjoying the attention. “Of course. And this entire villa is his engagement gift to me.” She walked to the center of the living room and mounted her phone onto a tripod. “Alright guys, I’m going live!” I switched over to her social media app. The very first recommended live stream was Tiffany’s. The title read: “Exclusive Snowfall in a Multi-Million Dollar Mansion: Witnessing True Love.” I tapped into the stream. Tiffany was standing in the middle of the drifting fluff, the industrial fan on its lowest setting gently blowing the white fibers around her. The viewer count surged quickly, jumping from five thousand to thirty thousand. The comment section was scrolling at warp speed: [Oh my god, is this actually inside a house? That is so romantic!] [How much did this cost? I am too poor for this world.] [He’s so handsome, she’s so gorgeous. Absolute couple goals!] Tiffany blew a kiss to the camera, blushing. “Thank you all so much. My fiancé bought this place in cash, and he set up this entire winter wonderland just to surprise me.” Aunt Sharon squeezed her way into the frame, grinning ear to ear. “Make sure to hit that follow button, everyone! My Tyler is quite the catch.” Meanwhile, the family group chat was blowing up again. Uncle Richard: [Look at Sharon on camera! That dress is so elegant.] Aunt Peggy: [With this many followers, Tiffany’s going to make a fortune doing brand deals.] Aunt Sharon, feeling generous, dropped a digital gift card link into the group chat: [A little celebration for everyone!] I tapped the link and claimed my fifty cents. On the camera feed, Tyler walked over to the corner, picked up the box of cold sparklers from the coffee table, and ripped it open. “Girls, come here. Take two each. The moment I get down on one knee, light them up.” The four bridesmaids scrambled over to grab their sparklers, while Tyler stuffed the largest bundle into his jacket pocket. He checked his watch. “It’s time.” He walked up to Tiffany, pulling a black silk ribbon from his pocket. “Close your eyes, babe. I have a surprise for you.” Tiffany giggled and closed her eyes as Tyler tied the ribbon snugly behind her head. He took her hand, leading her slowly to the exact center of the room. Her train carved a deep path through the thick fluff. I leaned back in my car seat, turning up the volume on my phone. The viewer count on the live stream cracked a hundred thousand. Tyler stopped Tiffany in the center of the room. The fluff beneath their feet was packed tight, but the surrounding piles remained massive. Aunt Sharon stood by the couch, filming with her own phone, while the bridesmaids took their positions at the four corners, holding the sparklers. The comments were a blur of excitement: [This is like a movie!] [Is that a ring box in his pocket?] [One hundred thousand people watching. I’m crying!] Tyler took a deep breath, let go of Tiffany’s hand, took a half-step back, and sank to one knee into the drift. The white fluff swallowed his shin. He pulled out the red velvet box and popped it open, the diamond ring catching the dim ambient light. “Babe, you can take off the blindfold.” Tiffany reached up and pulled the ribbon away. Seeing Tyler on one knee, she gasped, wrapping her hands over her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. “Tyler…” Tyler looked up, his voice thick with rehearsed emotion. “Tiffany, from the moment I met you, I promised to give you the world. This mansion, this snowfall—it’s all my promise to you. Will you marry me?” Tiffany nodded frantically, sobbing. “Yes! Yes, a million times yes!” Tyler stood up, slid the ring onto her finger, and pulled her into a tight embrace. Aunt Sharon clapped loudly, cheering. “Yes! Beautiful! A perfect match!” The bridesmaids screamed in delight, and virtual gifts—sports cars, yachts—flooded the live stream screen. Tyler let go of Tiffany and turned to the camera, shouting, “Thank you to all hundred thousand of you witnessing this!” He pulled the giant bundle of cold sparklers from his pocket. “But babe, the romance isn’t over yet.” He nodded to the bridesmaids in the corners. “Get ready.” The bridesmaids raised the sparklers high, forming a circle around the couple. Tiffany held her dress, her face full of anticipation. The chat was in a frenzy: [Here comes the magic!] [Light them up! Light them up!] [Real-life Disney princess!] Tyler reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek, windproof metal lighter. He flicked the cover open, spinning the wheel to produce a bright, steady flame. He held the sparkler fuses right over it. He looked up at Tiffany, giving her a smug, confident grin. And then, he pressed the ignition.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “512294”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel