Before the sterile lights of the operating room flared to life, I tucked my final letter under Cheryl’s pillow. “Cheryl,” “I wanted so badly to stay by your side forever.” “But Mom and Dad work so hard for every dollar. I couldn’t bear to watch them drain their life savings just to keep me on treatment.” “And the chemo hurts so much. My hair is entirely gone, and I don’t even recognize the hollow boy looking back at me in the mirror anymore.” “I saved up some money from my allowance—it’s under your mattress. Please use it to buy that heated massage chair for Mom and Dad. Their backs always ache after a long day.” “Keep whatever is left for yourself. Thank you for taking such good care of me, Cheryl. It’s your turn to look after them for me now.” Two years. More than six hundred days and nights of pure agony. I had made peace with letting go a long time ago. As I lay there, quietly waiting for the poison I had swallowed to take effect, I heard Cheryl’s hushed, urgent whisper from just outside the curtain: “Double the dosage of the injections. Once Toby’s Stanford nomination is officially transferred to Zach, I’ll find him the absolute best specialists in the country. We will cure him, I promise.” My mother’s choked sob was followed by a sharp slap. “You’re going to destroy him! Look at him—he’s been suffering for a year, Cheryl! He’s nothing but skin and bones!” Cheryl’s voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Mom, Zach doesn’t have Toby’s natural talent. If we don’t hold Toby back for these two years, Zach will never have a real chance to stand out.” “I’ll hire the finest physical therapists for Toby’s recovery. If anything goes wrong with his health, I’ll give him my own blood, my own organs. We’ll sign over the two lakefront properties in Lake Tahoe to him. Everything will be his.” So, Mom and Dad were actually wealthy. So, I never had leukemia. I was never truly paralyzed. But Cheryl… I’ve already swallowed the poison. There is no saving me now. … I lay silently on the freezing operating table. The anesthesiologist had already slipped the sharp needle into my vein, murmuring reassuringly, “Don’t worry, buddy. Just close your eyes. You’ll be asleep in no time.” I nodded. I wasn’t afraid at all. If anything, I felt a profound sense of relief. Because right before they wheeled me in, I had swallowed an entire bottle of pesticide. I had no intention of waking up. My parents didn’t know. They had stroked my face with trembling hands, trying to bolster my courage. “Don’t be scared, Toby. Mom and Dad will be right outside waiting for you.” Cheryl didn’t know either. She had gently squeezed my skeletal arm, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Our little prince is the bravest boy in the world. When you get out, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.” I blinked back my own tears, forcing a weak smile. “Okay,” I whispered. But in my heart, I was screaming apologies. “Mom, Dad, Cheryl. I’m sorry. I’m not that strong. And I can’t let myself be a burden to this family anymore.” I lingered on their faces—the three people I loved most in the world—tracing every line and feature. I wanted to etch them into my mind for the final moments. I had always believed that my family loved me more than life itself. We lived modestly, or so I thought, but whenever I wanted something, my parents never hesitated. They wore threadbare clothes themselves, yet they always bought me the best jackets and the newest art supplies without ever looking at the price tag. When I first fell in love with painting, I tried to keep it to myself, knowing how expensive private art instruction was. But my parents refused to let my dream die. They scraped together enough to send me to the most prestigious private tutor in the city. That summer, Dad worked construction shifts until his back was practically ruined. Mom ran her seafood stall at the wet market all day and woke up at four in the morning to prep breakfast boxes, her eyes permanently bloodshot with exhaustion. When I cried and lied to them, saying I hated painting and wanted to quit, Mom had simply held me close, her voice a soothing balm. “Our little prince deserves the world, Toby. Helping you fly is our greatest joy. It’s never a burden, baby.” Cheryl had spoiled me just as much. She always saved the best treats for me. When my legs grew tired on the long walk home from school, she’d hoist me onto her back and carry me the rest of the way. To her, it was simple: “You’re my little brother. Of course I’m going to take care of you.” As we got older, she stayed up past midnight tailoring study guides to help me with my academic classes. She took on extra shifts to buy me a high-end drawing tablet for my birthday—something she would never have bought for herself. So when I finally overheard the truth, my world fractured. I honestly thought I was hallucinating. They weren’t poor at all. They were incredibly wealthy, hiding it behind a carefully constructed facade. Their grueling sacrifices to “support my dreams” had been nothing but an elaborate, staged performance. The expensive, “hard-won” injections they administered to me daily weren’t medicine to cure me. They were the very chemical cocktails keeping me sick, systematically destroying my body to clear the path for Zach’s guaranteed Stanford nomination. It started two years ago when I began having mysterious spells of fatigue and nausea. Dad had carried me on his back to the community clinic. When the doctor handed down the “leukemia” diagnosis, I had wept in utter terror. My parents cried with me, holding me tight. “It’s going to be okay, Toby,” they sobbed into my hair. “We will cure you. No matter how much it costs, we will never give up on you.” Cheryl’s hand had trembled violently as she held mine, though her voice remained steady, artificially bright. “It’s fine, Toby. You have us. We won’t let anything happen to you.” Looking back, of course I wouldn’t die from the “disease.” Because I never had leukemia in the first place. But the “treatment” they put me through was very real. Month after month, cold metal needles pierced my flesh, leaving my once-smooth arms bruised, battered, and covered in a map of tiny dark puncture wounds. I swallowed handfuls of bitter pills that coated my throat in a medicinal film, keeping my stomach in a perpetual state of low-grade nausea. I had always been terrified of pain and hated taking medicine. But to spare my family any extra grief, I never made a sound when the needles went in. I swallowed the pills without a single complaint. Whenever I saw the pain in their eyes, I’d force a brave smile. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m strong. This won’t beat me.” Every month, they took me for simulated “chemo” sessions. The chemical cocktails they pumped into my system made me violently sick. I couldn’t keep anything down. Whenever I managed to swallow a few bites of food, I’d end up huddled over the toilet, throwing up bile, half-digested broth, and eventually, streaks of dark red blood. My hair began to fall out in thick, horrifying clumps. Soon, my once-thick curls were entirely gone, and I had to wear a beanie to hide my bald, sickly scalp. The pain was a living, breathing thing that kept me awake through the endless dark hours of the night. But I refused to let my parents or Cheryl hear me suffer. On the nights when the agony was too sharp to bear, I would bite down hard on the edge of my comforter, muffling my dry, desperate sobs into the fabric. I convinced myself that they were already carrying too heavy a burden. I couldn’t bear to be the source of their sadness. And yet, despite how perfectly I followed every medical order, living on a diet of tasteless broths and plain rice porridge, my body withered away day by day. I used to be a boy who laughed easily, a boy whose fingers were always stained with acrylics and charcoal. Now, I didn’t even have the strength to lift a paintbrush. My legs would buckle if I tried to stand, leaving me entirely bedridden. My schoolwork, which I used to master with ease, became an impossible fog. The words on the pages swam and distorted, turning into blinding, painful blurs that made my head throb. I lost my health. I lost my hair. At first, my high school friends would drop by to visit. But as the months stretched on and I remained confined to my room, the visits dwindled to texts, then to nothing at all. I lost my friends, too. My entire world shrank to the dimensions of my mattress, my family, and the relentless cycle of medication and simulated hospital visits. One afternoon, after throwing up until my throat burned with dry heaves, I broke down. “Mom, Dad,” I wept, gripping their hands. “Am I ever going to get better? I don’t want to do this anymore.” I had started this journey with so much hope, but as my body deteriorated, those hopes turned into a dark, suffocating despair. I couldn’t stand the thought of dragging my supposedly low-income family into financial ruin. Mom pulled me into her arms, sobbing against my neck, repeating the same empty refrain over and over. “Oh, my sweet boy. You’re going to get better. Of course you are. Don’t talk like that.” Dad’s eyes brimmed with tears. He turned his face away, unable to meet my gaze, his deep voice cracking. “We’re going to cure you, Toby. We will never give up on you.” Cheryl bought me sketchbooks and model kits to cheer me up. She tried to slide a premium set of drawing pencils into my hand, but my fingers were too weak to hold them. The set slipped and clattered to the floor. With a trembling hand, she quietly set the sketchbook on my nightstand. She stroked my gaunt cheek, her voice thick with emotion. “I know it hurts, Toby. But you’re the strongest boy I know. Just keep fighting. We’ll get through this.” They took turns sitting by my bedside, cooking delicate meals, wiping my feverish forehead, and whispering words of encouragement. In just a few months, they all lost a significant amount of weight. Watching their hollowed-out eyes and exhausted faces, a quiet resolution bloomed in my mind: I wanted to die. It wasn’t just the physical agony anymore—it was the crushing weight of guilt. I was destroying my family. More than once, I buried my face in my mother’s lap, my tears soaking her skirt. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m sorry, Cheryl. Just let me go. It’s my fault… I must have been a bad kid, not eating my vegetables, being stubborn. I’m so sorry I’m making you suffer like this.” Mom’s tears flowed uncontrollably, her chest heaving with violent sobs. “No, sweetie, no. If anyone should apologize, it’s us. We did this to you… we let you get sick…” Cheryl choked back a sob, her voice raw. “Toby, you are the best brother in the world. Don’t ever say such foolish things.” We held each other and wept in the sterile hospital room for what felt like hours. Back then, I thought they were crying out of sheer love and heartbreak. Only now did I realize those tears were born of guilt—a desperate, pathetic attempt to ask for forgiveness for what they were actively doing to me. I never doubted their love. But knowing the truth now, that love felt like a mouthful of ash. Yesterday, I had shattered my old ceramic piggy bank. Twenties, tens, fives, and a mountain of quarters and dimes spilled across my bed. I had saved every cent over the years—academic achievement stipends, birthday cash from relatives, and the lunch money I frequently skipped to save a little extra. It came out to exactly one thousand eight hundred and thirty-two dollars and fifty cents. My nose had started bleeding halfway through, but I wiped the blood away and kept counting, eventually packing the cash into a thick envelope and hiding it beneath Cheryl’s pillow. I wanted them to use that money to buy a high-end massage chair. Mom stood at that cold fish stall from dawn to dusk, her lower back constantly locked in pain. Dad supposedly hauled heavy drywall and bricks on construction sites, his shoulders permanently plastered with pain-relief patches. I wanted Cheryl to buy herself that designer dress she’d stared at online for months. Or they could use it for whatever they needed. As for me… I figured I’d watch over them from somewhere far above the clouds. After sealing the letter, I swallowed the entire bottle of pesticide. I remembered seeing Dad use it years ago on our small backyard garden. He would dilute the thick chemical with water and spray it on the weeds. Within hours, the stubborn weeds would shrivel up and die. As a curious child, I had asked him what was in the spray bottle. I vividly remember him holding the canister, carrying me piggyback, and speaking in a rare, stern tone. “Toby, this is poison. You must never, ever touch it. If you swallow even a drop, you’ll go to sleep and never see Mom, Dad, or Cheryl again.” My young self had shuddered and clung to his broad shoulders, nodding vigorously. “I promise, Dad. I’ll never touch it.” Years later, in chemistry class, I learned the science behind it. Organophosphates. They trigger rapid, irreversible multi-organ failure. Your lungs fill with fluid, your respiratory system shuts down, and the death is excruciatingly painful. With a lethal dose, there is no antidote. I went to the back cupboard, found the bottle I had feared my entire childhood, and drank it all. I wanted to make absolutely sure there was no coming back. Finding out that my agonizing illness was self-inflicted by the people I trusted most was devastating. But surprisingly, I didn’t hate them. I knew the love they had given me over the last thirteen years was real. They had taken me out of a cold municipal orphanage when I was five, named me Toby, and raised me as their own. They supported my schooling, bought my expensive canvases, and showered me with affection. You can’t fake a lifetime of tenderness. Even if they kept their true wealth a secret from me. Even if I now knew their love for me was merely a proxy for another boy. Years before they adopted me, they had lost their biological son. They had taken him to an amusement park, and in the overwhelming summer crowds, he slipped away. They put up missing flyers, appeared on national search programs, and spent a fortune trying to track him down. For years, there was only silence. When they adopted me, it was because I shared a striking resemblance to that lost boy, and we were the exact same age. In a way, all the love they poured into me was a desperate attempt to patch the bleeding wound of their guilt. I just never expected the world to be this small. The son they had spent a decade searching for ended up sitting next to me in my sophomore homeroom. I knew the crushing guilt they harbored. They wanted so desperately to make it up to him. So when the school announced there was only one early-admission nomination for Stanford, they resorted to this horrific plan to secure Zach’s future. I chose to believe they didn’t want to permanently break me. Under the weight of their immense guilt, Zach simply became their priority, and they figured they would make it up to me later. What they didn’t account for, however, was that I would die on this table. They would never get their chance. As they wheeled me toward the double doors, Mom’s face was wet with tears. “Toby, don’t be scared. Mom is going to be right outside the whole time.” Dad jogged alongside the gurney, his breathing heavy. “Don’t worry, son. Just a quick nap. When you wake up, we’ll get you whatever you want. Those new clothes you liked, remember? And that trip to New Orleans for real gumbo you’ve been begging for? We’ll pack the car the second you’re discharged.” My father, usually a man of few words, kept talking and talking, desperately trying to fill the silence. Cheryl’s eyes were raw. “Toby, we’re right here.” My heart swelled with a painful mix of grief and gratitude. I could only nod through my tears. “I know. Mom, Dad, Cheryl… I love you guys. Always.” “Toby… we love you too.” Their tears fell faster. But the moment the heavy doors swung shut behind me, the poison finally tore through my defenses, and I retched, coughing up a mouthful of dark, metallic blood. The chemical was in my bloodstream now. A white-hot agony bloomed in my chest and radiated outward, claiming every nerve ending. My lungs hardened, refusing to expand. I gasped, clawing at the air, but nothing came. My eyelids grew impossibly heavy. The blinding, clinical glare of the surgical lamp began to fracture into shimmering halos of light. Then, the pain faded, replaced by a strange weightlessness, as if I were drifting upward, leaving my broken body behind. I felt like I was back in the sun-drenched days before the sickness. Fragments of old memories drifted through my mind like dust motes. Dad hoisting me onto his broad shoulders, my childish laughter echoing through the park. Mom gently running a comb through my thick curls, dressing me in smart little outfits, kissing my forehead and whispering that I was her handsome little man. Cheryl teasing me, chasing me down gravel paths until we were breathless. She always let me win, eventually carrying me home on her back when my energy finally fizzled out. I could still smell the sweet scent of cut grass and warm asphalt on those summer breezes. I remembered the oil painting I did of the four of us standing by the lake—the one that won first place in the county exhibition. Slowly, the edges of my consciousness dissolved. The last thing I heard was the frantic, distorted shout of the lead surgeon. “Wait, something’s wrong! He’s in respiratory distress! His heart rate and blood pressure are plummeting!”

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Ever since we were children, my fiancé, Burke, wore a tiny silver bell on a chain around his neck. Whenever I rang my matching silver chime, he would appear before me, no matter what. I always thought he was my superhero. But his mother, Mrs. Chapman, disabused me of that fairy tale with a cold smile. “Isla, darling, it’s a leash. A dog collar.” “If he hadn’t been so reckless as a boy and knocked your pregnant mother down the stairs, you wouldn’t have been born premature. You wouldn’t have this failing heart.” I didn’t understand what a leash meant back then. I only knew that whenever I needed Burke, he was there to fix things. Until our engagement party. Mrs. Chapman brought a frail, pale girl before me. “Isla, this is your wedding gift. She has volunteered to be your heart donor.” “After the transplant, you and Burke can be together forever.” Before I could even process her words, the girl dropped to her knees, though her spine remained rigidly straight. “I will give you my heart,” she said, her voice shaking but resolute. “On one condition. Let Burke go. Free him.” The room erupted into whispers. But the most shocking thing was Burke. His eyes, usually so stoic, welled with tears. He reached up, ripped the silver bell from his neck, and hurled it to the floor. It shattered into useless, glittering shards. “Isla,” he hissed, his voice laced with a venom I’d never heard before. “I have spent my entire life paying for my mistake. I mortgaged my future to you to atone. Why do you still have to hurt Melanie?” The sheer hatred in his eyes pinned me to the spot. I could only watch, paralyzed, as he grabbed her hand and stormed out of the ballroom. But what Burke didn’t know was that my “forever” was already running out. I only had seven days left. … The laughter of the high-society crowd echoed around the ballroom, swelling in waves. Every eye was pinned on me. “Burke finally snapped. Can you blame him? Carrying that dead weight around for years.” “She actually thought she could keep him chained to her forever like a dog. Look at her now.” I stood frozen in the center of the room. The humiliation was physical, like being stripped bare under the harsh chandeliers. My fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. Mrs. Chapman’s face twisted in fury. She snapped at the security guards standing nearby. “What are you waiting for? Drag that boy back here! He’s lost his mind.” Then, she stepped toward me, wrapping her cold hands around mine, trying to offer comfort. “Isla, sweetheart, I will make this right. I promise you.” “Once we get Burke back, you can punish him however you like. I won’t stop you.” All my life, I had been the “fragile burden,” the tragic girl everyone pitied. Only Burke had ever protected me, pampered me. But now I knew. His kindness was never love. It was just penance. And now that he had decided his sentence was served, it was time for me to wake up from my beautiful, fragile dream. I looked down, slipped the heavy diamond ring off my finger, and placed it gently into Mrs. Chapman’s palm. “It’s fine, Mrs. Chapman. Let’s just call off the wedding.” I didn’t wait to see her reaction. I gathered the heavy tulle of my gown, turned, and walked out. When I got back to the empty family estate, the silence was deafening. Looking around my room, packed with the plush stuffed animals Burke had bought me over the years, I did something I hadn’t done in months. I called my mother, who lived thousands of miles away in Europe. “Isla! Darling, today is your engagement day, isn’t it? Oh, my beautiful girl must look like an absolute angel.” A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. A wave of childish, pathetic longing washed over me. My throat tightened, and a sob slipped out. “Mom… the wedding is off.” “I miss you so much. Can I… can I come stay with you guys?” “No, sweetie.” The warmth in her voice vanished, replaced by a tense, practiced cheerfulness. “Your father and I are in the middle of a massive expansion here to pay for your medical bills. You need to be good and stay with Mrs. Chapman, okay? Burke has sacrificed so much to care for you all these years. Don’t be selfish, Isla.” She kept rambling, her voice a background hum of excuses, but I stopped listening. In the background of the video call, a tiny, high-pitched voice had cut through her words. “Mommy.” A toddler’s voice. But I was an only child. “Mom,” I whispered, my heart freezing. “Who was that?” Her face stiffened. The lie died on her lips, and she let out a long, weary sigh. “Isla… it’s your little brother.” “He’s still so small. I can’t leave him right now. You understand, don’t you, baby? You aren’t mad at Mommy, are you?” My mind went completely blank. A brother. The line went dead before I could even reply. That familiar, crushing pain flared up in my chest. Instinctively, my hand reached down to shake the silver bell I always kept on my nightstand. But my fingers met empty air. Burke had smashed it. My parents had abandoned me. And Burke, the boy who had spent a lifetime holding me when I cried, had walked away too. My chest felt hollow, as if my heart had already been carved out, leaving nothing but a ragged, painful void. The sudden ring of my phone shattered the silence. It was Burke. I answered it instantly, my heart leaping with a pathetic spark of hope. But his voice on the other end was like ice. “Isla, did you seriously run to your mother to complain again?” “Hasn’t my family played your personal servants long enough? Why do you have to drag Melanie into your sick little games?” I listened to his trembling, furious voice, feeling strangely detached. “I didn’t complain, Burke. The wedding is canceled.” “I rejected the transplant. You can come back now. Don’t fight with your mother because of me.” There was a rare, heavy silence on the line. He seemed to catch his breath. I took a slow, painful breath and continued. “Burke… thank you for taking care of me all these years. The doctors say I only have seven days left. Can you… would you please spend these last seven days with me?” I held my breath, waiting, hoping for just a sliver of the boy I used to know. But before he could speak, Melanie’s voice drifted through the receiver, dripping with mocking pity. “Burke, don’t let her play you. His mother has guards looking for us everywhere. They’re downstairs right now.” Burke’s tone turned instantly frigid. “Isla, does torturing me make you feel powerful?” The line went dead with a sharp click. I slowly lowered the phone, my fingers stiff and cold. The tiny spark of light inside me flickered once, and went entirely dark. The next morning, I went to the hospital for my routine check-up. After the examination, the doctor’s face was incredibly grim. “Miss Brandt, your heart has reached its absolute limit. You need surgery immediately.” “I heard Mr. Chapman purchased an artificial heart for you. You need to contact him to have it delivered right away.” My heart trembled. I gripped my phone, hesitated for a long time, and finally dialed Burke’s number. Before the line could even ring, a hand snatched the phone from my grip and slammed it onto the tile floor. It shattered into pieces. I turned. Burke stood there, his eyes bloodshot, glaring at me with raw hatred. He grabbed my jaw, his fingers digging in with bruising force. “Isla, when the hell are you going to let me go?” “Are you really this pathetic? We’ve been apart for less than twenty-four hours, and you’re already stalking me to the hospital?” His grip was so tight I couldn’t speak. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over. “I… didn’t…” He let go of me as if I were toxic, pulling out a wet wipe and scrubbing his hands with deep disgust. “I came for my regular check-up. I wasn’t following you,” I whispered, trying to catch my breath. But my explanation only seemed to feed his rage. He swung his hand and slapped me across the face. Hard. “Still lying!” “If you weren’t stalking me, how did Melanie get clipped by a car in the parking lot? She saw you, Isla. She said she saw you.” The force of the blow knocked me to the floor. My vision spun. My chest tightened, a crushing weight cutting off my oxygen. I gasped for air, reaching a trembling hand toward his blurred figure. “I didn’t… my chest… it hurts…” A flicker of panic crossed Burke’s face. He took a half-step forward, as if to check on me. But then his phone rang. Melanie’s whimpering voice echoed from the speaker. “Burke… the doctor says my leg is broken. I have to get a cast. It hurts so bad…” Thinking of Melanie’s supposedly bloody injury, the panic in Burke’s eyes instantly crystallized into cold indifference. He turned away, leaving me on the floor without a single backward glance. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital ceiling blinded me. The doctor looked down at me with deep pity. “Miss Brandt, your heart is failing. We need to perform the transplant now, or else…” Or else I would die. A bitter smile touched my lips. My phone was smashed, and even if it weren’t, Burke had made it clear he never wanted to see me again. I slowly shook my head and closed my eyes. Suddenly, the door to the patient room was kicked open. Burke strode in, his expression cold as stone. Two burly security guards grabbed my arms, hauling me out of bed and forcing me onto my knees on the cold floor. “You’re getting bolder, aren’t you? First you try to ruin Melanie, and now you’re going after her family.” “Isla, did I not warn you to leave them alone?” He forced my head down, his frigid gaze boring into mine. I didn’t struggle. I just looked at him, my voice flat and hollow. “I didn’t do anything. I won’t confess to something I didn’t do.” A flash of irritation crossed his eyes, followed by a harsh sneer. “Still playing innocent? Let’s see how long you can keep it up.” He pulled out his phone and pressed play on an audio recording. “Melanie thinks she can do whatever she wants just because Burke is protecting her? Let’s ruin her. Ruin her entire family. Let’s see how smug she is then. Just do it, I’ll cover the fallout. I’ll transfer the five hundred thousand dollars once it’s done.” The voice on the recording was unmistakably mine. My eyes widened in horror. I shook my head frantically. “That’s not me… that isn’t…” Burke didn’t listen. He turned to his guards. “Since she has so much free time to scheme, she doesn’t need to stay in this hospital. Take her.” I was dragged out of the hospital and locked inside the empty Chapman manor. Guarded by heavy security, I couldn’t leave. Burke walked up to me, looking down at me as if I were a piece of trash. “Isla, you will stay here until Melanie’s surgery is complete.” “If you try another stunt, you can kiss that artificial heart goodbye.” He turned to the guards. “Watch her. Don’t let anyone in.” I lay on the cold hardwood floor, silent, watching the heavy oak doors slam shut. The suffocation was worse now. My heart was giving out. I crawled across the floor, searching for my emergency medication, but Burke had left it behind at the hospital. Exhausted, I let my eyes close, letting the darkness take me. At midnight, a guard shook me awake. “Miss Brandt, Mr. Chapman ordered me to give you this.” I forced my eyes open. It was a small, beautifully decorated cake. Every year on my birthday, Burke would bake me a cake. He never missed a year, each one unique. I had assumed this year would be different. Looking at the little icing figure in a ballgown, memories of our childhood flooded my mind. For a brief, foolish second, I thought the sweet, protective Burke had come back. My heart gave a painful flutter. I dragged myself to the landline on the wall and dialed the number I knew by heart. After several agonizing rings, the call connected. “Burke? It’s my birthday. I was wondering if you…” A young, breathless, purring female voice interrupted me. “Who is this? Stop ruining our night.” I heard Burke chuckle, a low, husky sound, before he leaned in to kiss her. The wet, intimate sounds of their kissing filled the receiver. After what felt like an eternity, his voice drifted over, lazy and uncaring. “Don’t worry about it, babe. Just a wrong number. Hang up.” I swallowed the rest of my words. I opened the cake and forced a few bites down my throat. My tears dripped onto the frosting, making it taste bitter and salty. The next morning, a bucket of freezing water was dumped over my head. I sat shivering, gasping from the shock. Melanie stood over me, tilting her head to show off the dark purple bruises on her neck. She smiled triumphantly. “You called last night, didn’t you, Isla?” “Too bad Burke didn’t have time for you. He was a little occupied taking care of me.” The sight of those marks made my eyes burn, but I forced myself to look straight at her. “I did. So what?” Melanie let out a soft laugh and leaned down, whispering in my ear. “I’m going to make sure Burke never pities you again. And I’m going to make sure you never get that heart transplant.” Before I could react, she grabbed my hand and pulled it toward her chest, throwing herself backward with a dramatic scream. She fell hard against the marble edge of the console table. Blood began to pool beneath her dress. Melanie turned deathly pale, clutching her stomach and crying out in agony. Suddenly, a massive force threw me aside. Burke rushed into the room, scooping Melanie into his arms, his eyes blazing with pure hatred as he looked at me. “Isla, how can you be so evil? Melanie’s baby was her only chance to harvest the stem cells for her leukemia treatment!” “Since you killed her child, you will pay her back with your own bone marrow.” My vision went black, and a high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I couldn’t hear what he was saying anymore. My silence only fueled his rage. He ordered the guards to hoist me up and drag me out to a private medical facility. It was only when they strapped me down onto the cold operating table that my mind cleared. “Burke, what are you doing?” “I told you, Isla. You killed Melanie’s baby. You owe her your marrow.” I stared at him in utter disbelief as the heavy, cold needle pierced my spine. As the paralysis crept through my limbs, I felt the sickening slice of the scalpel, felt them extracting the marrow from my bones. The agony was a white-hot iron, keeping me painfully conscious even as my body tried to shut down. Am I dying? Panic rose like a tidal wave. With the last of my strength, my fingers found the small silver bell on my wrist and shook it. “Chime.” Burke glanced at me. But he looked away immediately, turning his back on me to comfort Melanie. The bell slipped from my limp fingers, shattering on the tile floor, just like the love I had carried for him my entire life. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness pull me under. In the fading light of my consciousness, I heard the doctor’s terrified voice. “Mr. Chapman… her heart has stopped.” I felt my spirit detach from my broken shell, hovering in the cold, sterile air of the operating room. I watched my own heart stop on the monitor, a flat, green line accompanied by a long, continuous beep. I saw the doctor panic, saw Burke’s shoulders stiffen. A sudden, sharp dread flickered in his eyes. “What do you mean, stopped?” he muttered. Before the doctor could answer, Melanie grabbed his sleeve, her voice dripping with irritation. “She’s probably faking it again, Burke. I saw her yesterday, perfectly fine, and she pushed me so hard. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have lost the baby and had to undergo this emergency procedure anyway. If you feel bad, what will your mother say?” Hearing Melanie’s whimpering complaints, the brief panic in Burke’s eyes dissolved into cold skepticism. He turned away from my lifeless body, barking into his phone. “Tell Isla to stop playing these cheap games. Once she’s done throwing her tantrum, tell her to prepare for the wedding.” Then he turned to his assistant. “Get the artificial heart delivered to her room. I believe her scheduled surgery is in a couple of days.” I watched him carry Melanie out to his car, cradling her gently. They drove back to his villa, but before they could even step inside, his phone rang again. It was the courier delivering the artificial heart. The assistant answered, and his face drained of all color. He handed the phone to Burke with a trembling hand. “Sir… the courier says… Miss Brandt is dead.” “That’s impossible!” Burke roared, knocking a vase off the entryway table. It shattered into pieces. Melanie hid a small, triumphant smile, whispering softly, “Burke, calm down. The delivery guy is Walter, right? He’s been loyal to the Brandt family for decades. He and Isla are probably just trying to trick you.” But Melanie’s words couldn’t quiet the roaring in Burke’s ears. The dark premonition in his chest grew until it was suffocating. Before he could even make a move to leave, the front doors of the villa were slammed open. Mrs. Chapman burst in, flanked by security. She strode up to her son and delivered a stinging slap to his face. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Isla is dead!”

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When Donna first suggested we keep our finances strictly split—going fifty-fifty on everything, including the care of our aging parents—I agreed. I spent the next five years working myself to the bone, quietly building a million-dollar nest egg specifically for my dad’s retirement and medical care. But when the household ledger arrived this month, the charges were a sea of red, all linked to one name: her childhood best friend’s father, Frank. When I confronted her, she didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Tommy’s family is going through a tough time, Lester. I’m just helping where I can. It’s pocket change.” Pocket change. There were thirteen transactions, each hovering around a hundred dollars, all within a single month. Yet when my dad was hospitalized last month and his co-pay came out to three hundred dollars, Donna printed out the itemized statement and left it on the kitchen island, demanding I reimburse her half of the shared debit account immediately. I didn’t want to fight. I threw the papers onto the counter and locked myself in the guest room. Until yesterday, when my dad’s condition suddenly worsened. Panicked, driving like a madman, I rushed to the bank to withdraw the funds for his emergency surgery. But the teller behind the glass gave me a look of cold confusion. “Mr. Crawford, the beneficiary listed on this high-yield trust isn’t your father. Is it possible there’s been a mistake?” My brain went completely numb. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. How could there be a mistake? Every single dollar in that account was paid for in my sweat, my blood, the missed dinners, the eighty-hour workweeks. The teller, growing impatient, turned the monitor toward me. The name of the trust fund stared back at me in bold, unforgiving letters: “The Frank Palmer Care Trust.” Frank Palmer. Tommy’s father. … It felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water directly down my spine. My phone buzzed in my hand, jarring me back to the sterile warmth of the bank lobby. It was a text from my dad. “Don’t worry about me, Lester. The doctor says a couple of painkiller shots will do the trick. Save your money.” I pressed my hand over my mouth, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. Looking at the massive withdrawals over the past few months, I had actually allowed myself to believe my dad was finally spending money on himself, that he was finally enjoying his golden years instead of scrimping to save me a dollar. It had all been a lie. Someone else had been living off my sacrifice. I took a cab straight back to our suburban home, slamming the bank statement onto the marble coffee table. “Why is Frank Palmer’s name on my dad’s trust fund, Donna?” Donna startled, looking up from her tablet. But within seconds, her expression shifted back to that familiar, defensive coldness. “All my liquid capital is tied up in the firm’s new real estate development. You know I can’t touch it right now.” “I just put Frank’s name on it as a temporary measure. He’s sick, Lester. He could need emergency surgery at any moment. I needed a contingency plan. Once the firm’s payout clears next month, I’ll transfer three times that amount back into your account.” It was the same raw, unapologetic favoritism. She had assigned a custom ringtone to Tommy’s father years ago. Even if he called at three in the morning, she would leap out of bed to answer. Meanwhile, my dad’s chronic illness had flared up three times this past year, and she hadn’t so much as sent a text asking how he was doing. My phone buzzed again. It was a frantic alert from the hospital. My dad’s vitals were dropping. They needed to move him to the ICU immediately. “I need the money. Now.” My voice shook, my teeth clicking together. Donna looked at me as if I were a hysterical child, her eyes swimming with deep-seated irritation. Before she could speak, Tommy stepped out from the kitchen, holding a glass of iced tea, looking entirely too comfortable. “I’m afraid that’s not going to work, Lester,” Tommy said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “My dad just booked a luxury European cruise for the three of us. It covers all our expenses, and we had to use the cash on hand. There’s barely anything left in that account.” He smirked, turning his phone screen toward me to show the balance of the linked debit card: $54.82. A million dollars. Five years of working myself to the bone, of turning myself into a ghost at corporate dinners, reduced to fifty-four dollars and eighty-two cents. My throat closed up. I stared at Donna, my vision blurring. “My dad is on an operating table right now. He is dying. And you—” “Oh, stop it,” she interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. “Is it really necessary to make up a lie like that just for money? Fine. I’ll write you a promissory note. I’ll pay you back three million next month.” She grabbed a pen, scribbling a sloppy note on a piece of scrap paper and sliding it across the table, as if a few scratched lines could erase the absolute betrayal of my trust. Just then, the front door opened, and Frank walked in, carrying several high-end shopping bags, loudly boasting about the designer watch he’d just bought. That money was supposed to buy my dad a peaceful retirement. Last month, I had bought my dad a three-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater. He had tucked it away in his closet, refusing to wear it because it was “too nice.” He kept wearing his faded, threadbare flannel shirt. My hands shook as I unlocked my phone, frantically going through my contacts to see who I could borrow money from. Then, a banner notification popped up from the hospital. “Time of death: 4:14 PM.” The world went completely silent. It felt as though a lightning bolt had struck me, splitting me open from the inside out. I stood frozen in the entryway. I slowly crumpled the cold, worthless promissory note in my fist. Looking at the three of them laughing in the living room, a strange, hollow clarity washed over me. I decided right then: I was done. I was never coming back. During the three days of my dad’s wake, I cried until my eyes burned dry. Almost everyone we knew came to pay their respects, to offer a quiet word of comfort. Everyone except Donna. She didn’t even know. She was too busy driving Tommy and his father to their premium executive wellness physicals at the private clinic—a package I had originally suggested she buy for “my” father. Instead, she had forced my dad to go through the receipts, charging him for the co-pay right in front of her. That night, my dad had quietly packed his small bag and walked out into a torrential downpour, catching a bus back to his old house in the country. He developed a severe fever that night, which ultimately triggered his final organ failure. And now, he would never need another doctor. When I finally took an Uber back to the house to pack, I found my dad’s clothes and blankets strewn across the hallway floor. Tommy was standing in the living room, bossily directing two moving men as they unscrewed the framed photographs from the wall. “What the hell are you doing?” I gasped. Tommy crossed his arms, looking down his nose at me. “Oh, Lester. My dad’s heart has been acting up, and Donna said he should move in here so we can keep an eye on him. Obviously, we had to clear out this junk to make room.” When we first bought this house, we agreed on a split layout for our parents. The two guest rooms were meant for her mother and my dad. Later, when her mother moved to France, Donna unilaterally gave that room to Tommy. I hadn’t protested. But now, she was giving my dad’s room to Tommy’s father. Seeing my dad’s meager belongings being stepped on by the movers, a surge of raw fury rushed to my head. “These are my father’s things! What right do you have to throw them around?” “I gave them permission.” The front door opened, and Donna walked in, carrying a bottle of heavy-duty disinfectant. She began spraying the walls of my dad’s old room, her movements casual and unbothered. “Your dad hasn’t been back in three days. He obviously went back to the countryside. I told you he didn’t belong in the suburbs anyway, but you insisted on dragging him here.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “The place smells like old dust. It’s disgusting.” My fists clenched so hard my fingernails bit into my palms. My heart felt as though it were being crushed under the tires of a semi-truck. Suddenly, a loud “crack” echoed through the hall. The movers had dropped the only professional portrait my dad had ever taken. The glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces—mirroring the cold, lonely way he had died. In its place, Tommy hung a framed photo of Donna, Tommy, and Frank laughing together at a beach resort. A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my lips. “You told me you hated photos. We don’t even have a wedding album.” Donna froze, her hand hovering over the spray bottle. She looked away, a brief flash of discomfort crossing her face. “Frank said he was feeling depressed about his heart condition. He wanted to take some family photos to cheer himself up. It’s just a picture, Lester. Don’t be so petty.” Just an hour ago, I had seen Frank down the street, lively and dancing with the neighborhood block club. He didn’t look sick at all. I looked down. A small mason jar filled with loose change rolled out of the pile of my dad’s things, shattering against my boot. My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the floor, the tears finally spilling over. The jar still smelled faintly of the cheap peppermint and sawdust that always clung to my dad. I gathered the broken pieces and his scattered belongings into my arms. Donna sighed, adopting her usual tone of superficial sweetness. “Fine, Lester. Once Frank’s health stabilizes, I’ll take you and your dad to Europe. We can do a whole family trip. Will that make you happy?” In the past, I would have clung to that promise, begging for whatever scrap of affection she was willing to throw to my father. But now, he was gone. And I was simply too tired to care. I pushed past her, hard enough to make her stumble, and walked straight into the master bedroom, slamming the door behind me. Donna stood frozen in the hallway, staring blankly at the closed door. She had no idea that just an hour ago, I had accepted the corporate transfer to our international branch in Tokyo. Before, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind, so I had turned down the offer three separate times. Now, there was nothing left to keep me here. The flight to Tokyo was scheduled for two days later. My director, thrilled by my sudden acceptance, had authorized a three-month advance on my relocation salary. I used every penny of it to buy a beautiful, polished granite headstone for my dad. He had spent his entire life working in the cold, sacrificing everything for me. In death, he deserved a beautiful place to rest. When I got back to the house, I began packing my suitcase. There was very little of my own stuff left in the house anyway; most of it had been slowly crowded out by Tommy and Frank’s belongings over the years. Once I packed away my dad’s things, there was no trace of us left. A few minutes later, Donna walked in, the chill of the autumn air still clinging to her coat. I didn’t stop folding my shirts. She leaned against the doorframe, her brows furrowed in deep irritation. “What is this? Are you moving back to the countryside with your dad?” “Ever since Frank moved in, you’ve been throwing a tantrum. Now you’re running away? How do you think this makes me look to our friends?” I didn’t look up, refusing to absorb her misplaced anger. Sensing my absolute silence, she opened her mouth to snap at me, but a blood-curdling shriek from the guest room cut her off. “Oh my god! Help!” Tommy came rushing out, holding a large snake with a pair of BBQ tongs. “There’s a snake in my dad’s room! He has a heart condition! If anything happens to him, I’ll die!” Frank was cowering in the corner of the hallway, casting a highly calculated, terrified glance in my direction. With just one look from Tommy, Donna’s eyes snapped to me, instantly cold with accusation. “Did you put that snake in his room, Lester?” I met her gaze dead-on, my voice devoid of emotion. “You know I have a phobia of reptiles. Do you really think I would touch that?” My quiet counter-question made her hesitate for a fraction of a second. But Tommy took that moment to squeeze out a few tears, his voice trembling with victimhood. “I know Lester hates me, and I can leave if I’m not wanted. But my dad is old, and his heart can’t take this kind of shock… Lester knew that.” His sobbing voice wiped away whatever lingering doubt Donna had. Ignoring my well-known, paralyzing fear of snakes, she snatched the tongs from Tommy and stepped toward me, bringing the writhing reptile closer to my face. “So you do know how to feel afraid?” she hissed. “Then why did you do this to Frank? Are you trying to embarrass me until there’s nothing left of my reputation?” My pulse skyrocketed. Terror gripped my chest, and my hands began to shake uncontrollably. “Donna, I said it wasn’t me!” Frank whimpered from the corner. “Donna, sweetheart, maybe I should just go. I don’t want to get between you two.” Donna immediately grabbed his arm, her eyes flashing with ice as she glared at me. “I bought this house. If anyone is leaving, it’s him.” I stared at her, completely stunned. When we first bought this fixer-upper, we spent months choosing every tile, every coat of paint together. She had held my hand in the empty living room and promised me this would be our sanctuary. And now, she was throwing me out of it. I didn’t argue. I grabbed my suitcase, walked out, and slammed the door behind me. I spent the night in a cheap motel down the road. The next morning, my phone chimed with an automated alert from my bank: A foreclosure and lien notice on my dad’s old farmhouse in the country. My mind went entirely blank. Before I could process it, the bank representative called. “Mr. Crawford, we’re calling to inform you that Mrs. Crawford has leveraged your father’s property as collateral for a fifty-thousand-dollar personal loan. Since the primary account is flagged, we need to verify the repayment schedule.” A suffocating wave of dizziness hit me. When I finally stumbled my way to my dad’s old house, I found Donna and two loan inspectors standing in the yard, surveying the property. “Donna, what are you doing?” My voice was barely a whisper. She looked at me, completely unbothered. “Because of your little stunt last night, Frank had a severe panic attack. He’s in the hospital right now waiting for a heart stent.” “You made a mistake, Lester. Now you have to pay for it.” I tried to keep my voice from cracking, but the grief and rage were spilling over. “This house is the only thing my dad left me. It’s all I have left of him. You knew that.” Donna blinked, then looked around the empty yard. “Where is your dad anyway? I’d love to ask him face-to-face how he raised a son to be so vindictive.” A wild, breathless laugh escaped my throat, my eyes burning. “He… he’s dead, Donna.” Donna froze, her eyes widening. Beside her, Tommy stumbled slightly, as if trying to play up his own fragility. “Lester, please… don’t make up horrible lies just to escape responsibility. Your dad is a good man, and it’s cruel to curse him like that. I know how painful it is to worry about a father…” Seeing Tommy’s frail, pathetic act, Donna’s expression hardened once more. “Tommy stayed up all night at the hospital, terrified to close his eyes. You should understand that kind of pain, Lester. Do unto others—or did you forget that?” Years ago, when I sat outside my dad’s operating room crying my eyes out, she had told me I was overreacting. She told me it wasn’t a big deal. But now, because Tommy was crying, she suddenly understood what grief was. I walked over and stood in front of the front door, spreading my arms to block them. “Get. Out.” Donna’s face twisted with impatience. “It’s just a temporary mortgage, Lester. We aren’t tearing the place down. Don’t make a scene.” “Frank needs this surgery. Can’t you show a single shred of humanity?” I looked at her self-righteous face, and for a second, I thought I might actually lose my mind. Losing her remaining patience, Donna snatched the clipboard from the inspector and signed her name on the dotted line. She walked up to me, looking down at me with cold pity. “Don’t forget who put down the down payment for this farmhouse in the first place, Lester. I have every legal right to use it.” She pulled a stack of hundred-dollar bills from her purse and tossed them at my feet, like a master throwing a scrap to a dog. “Take this. Rent a nice apartment for you and your dad for a month. I promise I’ll clear the mortgage and give you the deed back in thirty days.” She turned, wrapping her arm around Tommy to support him as they walked back to her car. My fingers tightened around the dirt-stained bills. I collapsed onto the gravel driveway. In that quiet, dusty yard, the last remaining thread of my marriage finally snapped. For the rest of the day, Tommy’s social media was flooded with updates. Donna was at the hospital, feeding Frank soup, fluffing his pillows, playing the role of the perfect, devoted daughter-in-law. My phone buzzed repeatedly with texts from her: “I know you’re hurt about the money. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you next month, double.” “I found a lovely two-bedroom cottage near the city for you and your dad. I paid the security deposit. Move in there for now, and I’ll explain everything to your dad later.” But Donna… your money, your apologies, and you—I don’t want any of it anymore. That evening, Donna walked into the hospital room carrying takeout. Tommy smiled, leaping up to greet her. “Donna! You should have told me Lester’s dad actually passed away. We wouldn’t have had to go through all that trouble with the mortgage.” The takeout container slipped from her fingers. The plastic cracked against the linoleum, and hot soup splattered across the floor.

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Five years ago, my wife spent an afternoon volunteering at a local children’s shelter. She came home and cried in my arms all night. She told me about a three-year-old boy whose eyes reminded her so much of her late brother. She wanted to adopt him. I loved her too much to say no. I signed every piece of paperwork they put in front of us. For five years, that boy called me Daddy. I paid for the best private academy, threw him birthday parties that were grander than anything I’d have planned for a child of my own blood. Until last month, when Teddy was diagnosed with acute leukemia. He needed a bone marrow transplant. On the day of the donor match results, the oncologist pulled me into a private office. His expression was troubled. “Mr. Michell, you and the boy… you aren’t biologically related, are you?” I nodded. “No, we adopted him.” “And your wife?” I frowned, confused. “She’s his adoptive mother. There’s no biological connection there either.” The doctor fell silent for a long moment before sliding a folder across the desk. “According to these lab results, Mr. Michell… your wife is his biological mother.” I drove home with the report burning a hole in my passenger seat. When I walked in, Hannah was sitting on the living room floor, peeling an apple for Teddy. She looked up, caught the look in my eyes, and the paring knife slipped from her hand, clattering against the hardwood. That very evening, the doorbell rang. Standing on the porch was her college boyfriend, Chase. He was holding a bunch of white roses. “Hannah,” he said, his voice thick with relief. “My marrow is a match. Our boy is going to make it.” … “Our boy.” Those two words felt like ice picks driving straight into my chest. I slowly turned my head to look at Hannah. She was deathly pale, her lips trembling. The sharp, metallic clang of the knife hitting the floor still seemed to vibrate in the silence as she collapsed onto the sofa, looking entirely hollowed out. “Sean… I can explain…” I didn’t say a word. I pulled the front door wide open. The man outside froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to open the door. This was Chase Woodward, Hannah’s college ex. I’d seen photos of him before. At Hannah’s college reunion five years ago, she had posted a group picture. When I asked about it, she smiled and said he was just an old classmate, nothing serious. “Nothing serious.” Right. “Sean,” Chase said, quickly recovering his composure and tucking the roses behind his back. “I’m sorry. I came to—” “To claim your son?” I cut him off. His face fell. I threw the lab results right in his face. “Biological mother, biological father. A happy little family. How convenient.” The sheets of paper drifted onto the welcome mat. Hannah threw herself off the sofa, dropping to her knees at my feet and clawing at my jeans. “Sean, please, listen to me. I didn’t mean to keep this from you. I didn’t even know myself until recently—” “Recently?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Five years ago, when you sobbed in my arms all night, was that ‘recently’? When you told me his eyes looked just like your brother’s? Your brother? Hannah, you’re an only child. You never had a brother.” She had no answer. I crouched down, forcing her to look at me. “When is Teddy’s birthday?” “September twelfth,” she whispered. “And when did you and Chase break up?” Her eyes dilated with panic. “February.” I laughed, but my eyes burned. “Nine months from February is November, Hannah. But Teddy was born in September. You were already pregnant with another man’s child the day we signed our marriage license, weren’t you?” She broke down, sobbing hysterically. Chase, still standing on the porch, had the nerve to chime in. “Sean, look, what’s done is done. The boy’s life is what matters right now—” “Get the hell out,” I said, my voice dead. “Listen—” “I said, get out.” I had never looked at another human being with so much hatred. Chase pressed his lips together, bent down to pick up the fallen roses, and walked away. I slammed the door and leaned my back against it, slowly sliding down to the floor. Hannah crawled over, wrapping her arms around my leg. “Sean, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… Teddy is still in the pediatric ICU. He needs the transplant. I beg you, just let him get through this, and then you can do whatever you want with me…” I looked down at her. This woman I had adored, protected, and loved with everything I had for eight years. “Hannah.” “Yes?” “We’re getting a divorce.” She froze, staring up at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “I’m calling my lawyer first thing in the morning.” She shook her head violently, tears streaking her face. “No! Sean, you can’t do this! Teddy is in the ICU. He needs his family. He needs us to be whole!” I laughed again, a sound raw and ugly. “Whole?” “Hannah, this family was a lie from day one. The piece we were missing was just standing on our porch holding white roses.” “No!” she screamed. “Chase and I ended things years ago! I haven’t contacted him once since I married you!” “Then how do you explain Teddy?” She choked on her words. I stood up, stepping out of her grasp, and walked into the study. I opened the safe and pulled out the adoption papers from five years ago. A thick stack of documents, my signature on every single page. I remembered the social worker smiling at me back then. “Mr. Michell, you’re a good man, being so supportive of your wife’s wishes.” A good man. The phrase made me want to throw up. I threw the papers onto the coffee table. “Hannah, tell me. Five years ago, did you actually volunteer at that shelter?” She stayed quiet. “The little boy who ‘looked like your brother’—was any of that real?” Silence. “The night you cried and begged me to adopt him—was any of it real?!” I roared, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Hannah curled into a ball on the rug, gasping for air between her sobs. “I… I had no choice… My parents wouldn’t let me bring a baby home. Chase had gone out of state, he had no money… I couldn’t support him on my own. I had to put him in foster care temporarily… until I got married… and found a way…” A cold chill washed over me. “So I was your ‘way’?” “I was the perfect, unsuspecting idiot you handpicked to clean up your mess?” “You dated a guy for four years, got pregnant, turned around and married me, and then orchestrated a heartbreaking adoption story to get your kid back. Hannah, that is a masterpiece. They should write a screenplay about you.” She couldn’t speak through her tears. I took out my phone and dialed my attorney. “Patrick? I need you to draft a divorce agreement. As fast as possible. We split the assets fifty-fifty. The boy… isn’t mine. He goes with her.” I hung up and looked at her. “I’m sleeping in the study tonight. Tomorrow morning, we file.” Hannah lunged forward, grabbing my ankles. “Sean! If not for me, think about Teddy! He’s called you ‘Daddy’ for five years! How can you just watch him die?!” I looked down at her. “His real father was just here. He’s a match. He’s more useful than I am.” I pulled my leg free, walked into the study, and locked the door. Behind me, Hannah’s weeping was loud and desperate. I sank against the door, burying my face in my knees. Eight years. Eight years of my life, gone. The next morning, I woke up at five. I packed my basic toiletries into a duffel bag. As I passed Teddy’s bedroom, I paused. The door was slightly open. The small bed was covered in dinosaur sheets—he had picked them out himself three months ago. He had dragged me through the department store all afternoon, tugging my hand and piping up, “Daddy, I want the T-rex ones!” I had smiled and swiped my card. Back then, I was thinking about whether we should try for a second child once he got a bit older. How pathetic. I averted my eyes and went downstairs. Hannah hadn’t slept. She sat on the sofa, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. When she saw me, she stood up. “Sean…” “Let’s go,” I said. For a second, her face softened, thinking I’d changed my mind. But then I added, “We’re going to the courthouse.” The color drained from her face again. The drive was dead silent. At the county clerk’s office, there was a line. Some couples were laughing; others, like us, looked like walking corpses. When it came time to sign the initial paperwork, Hannah’s hand shook so violently she could barely hold the pen. “Sean, is there really no hope for us?” I didn’t look at her. “None.” “What about Teddy?” “Chase will take care of him.” She snapped her head up. “How do you know that?” I let out a cold laugh. “Hannah, how do you think he knew to show up last night? If he didn’t know Teddy was his, why would he get tested? Why would he show up at our house with flowers?” “How long have you two been talking behind my back?” Her lips trembled, but she couldn’t summon a single word. When the papers were finalized and filed, a strange sense of relief washed over me. Stepping out of the courthouse, the morning sun was blinding. My phone buzzed. It was the hospital. “Mr. Michell? Teddy’s… he’s having a rough morning. Can you come in?” I stood frozen on the sidewalk. Hannah, standing beside me, heard the tension. “Is that the hospital? What’s wrong with Teddy?!” I glanced at her. “If you want to know about your son, ask his father.” I turned and walked away. But after a few steps, I stopped. Five years. For five years, he called me Daddy. Just last week, he was clutching my sleeve from his hospital bed, whispering, “Daddy, I’m scared.” I took a deep, agonizing breath, turned around, and got into my car to drive to the hospital. When I got to the room, Chase was already there. He was wearing a patient gown, looking pale after the preliminary marrow collection procedures. Hannah had arrived before me and was holding Teddy’s hand, crying softly. Teddy was wearing an oxygen mask. When he saw me walk in, his eyes brightened, and he reached out a tiny, frail hand. “Da… Daddy…” My throat tightened. Chase stood up. “Sean, thank you for looking after Teddy these past five years. I’ll take it from here.” I ignored him. I walked to the bedside, crouched down, and took Teddy’s hand. “Hey, buddy. Chase is a match. You’re going to get better real soon.” He blinked, confused behind the plastic mask. “Chase?” My chest felt like it was in a vice. “He’s… he’s going to be your dad now.” Teddy shook his head, tears spilling over the edges of his mask. “No… I want my Daddy. I want you.” I looked away, not wanting him to see my tears. Just then, the door swung open. Someone I absolutely did not expect walked into the room. My mother. Leaning heavily on her cane, breathless, she stood in the doorway. She scanned the room, her gaze sweeping past Chase and stopping dead on Hannah. “Well, Hannah,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it silenced the room instantly. “My son treated you like a queen for eight years. And this is how you repay him?” Hannah’s face turned white. “Mrs. Michell…” “Don’t you dare call me that,” my mother said, slamming her cane onto the tile. “You are no daughter-in-law of mine.” I rushed over to support her. “Mom, what are you doing here? The doctor said your blood pressure is too high for you to travel.” “How could I stay home?” she snapped, looking at me. “You called me last night saying you were filing for divorce. I couldn’t sleep a wink. I took the first train down here.” “Sean, I told you from the start something was off about this woman. When she insisted on adopting that baby, I knew it didn’t make sense. What newlyweds choose to adopt before even trying to have their own? Turns out she just wanted her own kid back on your dime!” Hannah kept her head down, her shoulders shaking. Chase opened his mouth to speak, but my mother cut him off with a blistering glare. “And who the hell are you?” Chase shut his mouth, looking thoroughly chastened. My mother reached into her bag and pulled out a thick manila envelope, tossing it onto the bedside table. “Sean, I know you. You have too soft of a heart, and I didn’t want you second-guessing yourself. I had your uncle do some digging. See for yourself.” I opened the envelope. Inside were several photographs and a private investigator’s report. The first photo showed Hannah and Chase sitting in a quiet café. The timestamp was from three months ago. The next photo showed them walking out of the private clinic where Teddy was first diagnosed with leukemia. In the next, they were inside a car, Chase holding Hannah’s hand. According to the report, Chase had moved back to the area three years ago. During that time, he and Hannah had communicated at least forty-seven times, with eleven documented face-to-face meetings. My hands began to shake. “Three years,” I whispered, looking up at Hannah. “You’ve been seeing him behind my back for three years?” She trembled, her voice barely a squeak. “It’s not what you think… I only contacted him after Teddy got sick, to get him tested—” “Bullshit!” my mother barked. “Teddy wasn’t sick three years ago!” Hannah fell completely silent. I stared at the three-year-old photo in the café, my mind buzzing. Three years ago. That was the year I got promoted to VP, the year I bought her that beautiful colonial house with the big backyard. Three years ago, on her birthday, she had held me tight and whispered, “Sean, marrying you is the best thing that ever happened to me.” I let out a laugh. It started small, then grew, until tears were streaming down my face. Chase lost his patience. “Mr. Michell, you’ve signed the papers. There’s no need to drag this out—” “Drag this out?” I snapped my head toward him. “Chase, who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” “You let me play the fool for eight years, let me raise your kid for five, and now you’re telling me not to drag this out?” Everyone in the room went rigid. Right then, the phone in my pocket vibrated. It was a text from Patrick. Sean, I just got the results back on that background check you asked for. Teddy’s adoption paperwork is highly irregular. There’s no record of him ever being admitted to that shelter’s foster system. The entire placement was fabricated. More importantly, I found the private facilitator who handled the transfer. He’s willing to testify. We can sue for full restitution of every dollar you spent on Teddy over the last five years, plus substantial emotional damages. There’s one more thing… you might want to sit down for this. I took a slow breath and scrolled down to the next message. In an instant, my entire body went numb. The phone slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the floor.

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Early Saturday morning, my roommate Cassie walked over to my bed. “Becca, can I borrow your Costco card? I just need to run in and grab some things.” I was too sleep-deprived to think it through. Since a Costco card is just a membership pass and not an actual payment method, I didn’t see the harm in it. I mumbled an agreement and drifted back to sleep. By the time my eyes cracked open again, the afternoon sun was cutting a sharp, dusty line across my dorm room. It was 2:00 PM. I reached for my phone, and the screen was already drowning in notifications from our sophomore class group chat. Cassie: Hey guys, since the new Costco just opened up down the road, I figured some of you might not have had a chance to check it out. I’m going tomorrow. My treat—grab whatever you want. The replies were a cascade of sudden, sycophantic praise. “Cassie, since when are you a secret heiress?” “Wow, big spender! Thanks, boss!” I stared at the screen, my brain struggling to connect the girl in those texts with the roommate I actually knew. Cassie’s family was struggling—deeply so. She was on the university’s maximum financial aid package, and her daily life was a masterclass in aggressive survival. She worked long hours washing dishes at the campus dining hall, mostly because it paid a small stipend and, more importantly, came with free meals. Where on earth was she getting the money to host a wholesale shopping spree? Then, a cold realization bloomed in the pit of my stomach. My card. Did she think the membership card was a pre-loaded gift card? Did she think my annual fee meant there was actual cash sitting on that little piece of plastic? 1. The new Costco had opened near campus a few weeks ago, and it was all anyone could talk about. I’d gone out and bought an Executive Membership the very day it opened. Not for any logical reason, really—I just had a massive craving for their bulk snacks. I’d always loved their giant tubs of peanut butter pretzels and the massive bakery muffins, but since there hadn’t been a location near my hometown, my parents used to ship them to me in oversized cardboard boxes. Using my parents’ shared account always felt slightly stifling, though. They could track every single transaction, every late-night run for chocolate-covered almonds. So, I sucked it up, paid the annual fee myself, and walked out feeling a strange, adult sense of sweet independence. When I got back to the dorm, my roommates were sitting around the cramped common area, debating whether it was worth the money to sign up. I threw my hands up in a grand, generous gesture. “Don’t bother spending the cash. You guys can just use mine whenever you want.” Everyone was there, including Cassie. The offer had hovered in the air, a casual piece of college camaraderie. And then came this morning. The sun wasn’t even up when she shook my shoulder. “Cassie, what the hell?” I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I’ve never been a morning person, and being jolted awake at dawn is a surefire way to ruin my mood. But she didn’t seem to notice—or care about—my irritation. She stood over me, her hands clasped together. “Becca, can I borrow your Costco card?” My brain was still fogged with sleep. It took me a few seconds to even register what she was asking for. Seeing me hesitate, her face tightened, and her voice took on a sharp, whiny edge. “You literally said we could all use it. I’ve never even been to one. Come on, Becca. Just do me a favor and let me borrow it.” I shrugged it off. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a laminated pass to get through the sliding glass doors. And looking at her tense, expectant posture, I knew that if I said no, she’d probably stand there arguing until my Saturday morning was completely ruined. “Fine, it’s on my desk. Just let me sleep.” I let the heavy warmth of sleep pull me back under, completely missing the warning signs. When I finally woke up and saw the 99+ unread messages, my heart did a little flutter. I thought there had been some kind of campus emergency. I scrolled back to 9:30 AM. Cassie had posted in the group chat, inviting everyone on a trip to Costco. Some of the wealthier, more cynical kids had immediately started poking fun at her. “Why would we go with you? To stare at the ceiling? Do you even know how expensive bulk shopping is?” “Honestly, I doubt you can even afford the parking.” Cassie didn’t back down. Instead, she dropped the bomb: “My treat. Grab whatever you want.” That shut them up. The teasing turned to immediate, desperate flattery. But I knew Cassie. I lived with her. Her monthly allowance from her parents was barely enough to cover laundry, let alone groceries. She survived on campus jobs, taking the worst shifts at the dining hall because it guaranteed her a hot meal she didn’t have to pay for. Even if she somehow had a sudden windfall of cash, Cassie was not the type to share it. She was deeply, painfully frugal—except when it came to her own image. She had once taken out a high-interest point-of-sale loan just to buy a designer winter coat she couldn’t afford, just so she could wear it to lectures. When she ran out of money, she would casually “borrow” our food to survive. A splash of my oat milk here, a scoop of Leah’s peanut butter there. Once or twice was fine, but over months, it became an exhausting tax on our patience. We’d tried gently bringing it up, but she’d just nod and then, when she thought we weren’t looking, rifle through our drawers anyway. She was fiercely protective of her own resources, yet entirely comfortable consuming ours. So why this sudden, reckless generosity? Then, the puzzle pieces clicked. She had heard me complaining about how expensive the membership fee was a few days ago. She must have thought the Costco card was a loaded debit card. She thought my annual fee was actual store credit. 2. The idea was so absurd that if it were anyone else, I would have laughed it off. But Cassie had grown up in an incredibly isolated, impoverished rural town. Our academic advisor had once subtly mentioned her background to us, asking us to be patient with her transition to college life. She truly might not understand how these wholesale clubs worked. Feeling a sudden knot of anxiety, I decided to call her. The first two calls rang out. On the third, just as I was about to hang up, she finally answered. The moment the line connected, a wave of hesitation hit me. How was I supposed to ask her this? “Hey, do you realize you’re broke?” What if she actually did have the money? What if she’d saved up from her dining hall shifts to do something nice for her classmates? If I brought it up, I’d look like the elitist roommate making cruel assumptions based on her background. I didn’t want to humiliate her. It’s not that I looked down on her, but her methods of saving money were legendary in our dorm. Once, we’d gone out for a group dinner. Cassie refused to order anything, sitting there with an empty plate, watching us eat. Every time I reached for another slice of garlic bread, she would let out a loud, pointed cough. I didn’t realize what she was doing until after we paid and left. She pretended she’d left her umbrella at the table, went back inside, and packed up all our leftovers. The next day, she reheated the food, packaged it into small containers, and sold it to the girls down the hall as “homemade stir-fry.” We were horrified when we found out. But she just beamed, completely immune to our lectures on hygiene and basic ethics, thrilled by her profit margin. That was just the tip of the iceberg. During her period, she would spend hours sitting in the communal bathroom stalls to avoid buying tampons. When we finally felt bad and gave her some of ours, she’d turn around and sell them to underclassmen for a dollar a piece. She used AI-generated photos of damaged goods to get refunds on Amazon. She practically cleared out the dining hall’s supply of napkins and toilet paper every single week. I lived in constant fear that one day, someone was going to lose their temper and physically confront her. Yet, despite this desperate penny-pinching, her vanity was boundless. She would starve herself for a week just to buy a knockoff handbag, all while maintaining an online persona of a wealthy girl simply “experiencing the rustic charm of campus life.” Because we never publicly called her out, most of our classmates still bought into the act. “Hello? Becca? What do you want? International minutes are expensive,” she snapped over the line. “This call is on your dime, by the way.” I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. “Never mind. I was just wondering when you’d be back.” “Late. Don’t wait up.” She hung up. She did come back late—just minutes before the dorm’s midnight curfew. Before she arrived, Leah was sitting on her bed, venting her frustration. “I thought college was supposed to be the best four years of my life,” Leah muttered, throwing her hands in the air. “Instead, I’m living with a literal psychopath.” “She doesn’t listen to a word anyone says.” “I’ve told her a thousand times: do not cook raw garlic and fish in the bedroom. My clean laundry smells like a cheap takeout place. How am I supposed to wear this to my internship interview?” “And she never washes her dishes. There are actual fruit flies hovering over her desk.” Leah was practically vibrating with rage, trying to get all her anger out before Cassie walked through the door. Fiona and I nodded in silent solidarity. Our dorm didn’t have a balcony, so the only place to dry our clothes was on a rack near the window—which happened to be right next to Cassie’s bed. To save money on dining hall meals, Cassie had bought a cheap hotplate and cooked heavy, pungent meals right in the middle of our small room. The grease and smoke clung to everything we owned. We’d tried to negotiate shifting our beds around, but Cassie had shut it down immediately. “No way. I like the sunlight here. It saves me money on vitamin D supplements,” she’d said, without a hint of irony. “But if you guys want to swap so badly, you can just pay for my meal plan. And buy my vitamins.” “Since we’re roommates, I’ll give you a discount. Three hundred bucks a month.” Three hundred bucks? It was absolute extortion. We had been left speechless, entirely powerless against her thick-skinned audacity. When the door clicked open and Cassie stepped in, we immediately fell silent. As she brushed past me, I remembered her planned excursion for the next day. I felt a sudden, annoying pang of conscience. I had to say something. “Hey, Cassie,” I said, keeping my voice as gentle and non-confrontational as possible. “Just so you know, my Costco card is only to get you through the door. You can’t use it to actually pay for the groceries at the register.” If she already knew, it was just a harmless reminder. If she didn’t, I was saving her from a massive public embarrassment. Instead, her face twisted in instant fury. She marched over, cornering me by my desk, and pointed a finger directly at my face. “What is that supposed to mean? Do you think I’m trying to steal your money?” she shrieked. “You’re making up lies just to keep me from using it!” I raised my hands, retreating slightly. “No, Cassie, you’re misunderstanding. There’s literally no money on that card. It’s just an ID.” Leah and Fiona jumped in to defend me, but Cassie was completely deaf to reason. “You guys are just looking down on me!” she yelled, her eyes flashing with a deep-seated, toxic insecurity. “If I had the kind of family money you guys have, I’d be doing way better than any of you.” “You called me earlier just to grill me about this, didn’t you? It’s a stupid plastic card, Becca. I can’t believe you’re being this petty. Get a life.” I rolled my eyes, the last drops of my empathy evaporating. If I hadn’t given her the secondary card on my account this morning, I wouldn’t even be in this mess. Fine. Let her do whatever she wanted. I was done trying to protect her. Even if she did have some secret stash of money to pay for everyone, it wasn’t my business. And if she didn’t, well, my Costco account didn’t have a line of credit attached to it anyway. She couldn’t ruin my finances. I had tried to be a decent roommate. If she wanted to run headfirst into a brick wall of her own making, I wasn’t going to stop her. 3. The next morning, I woke up to the sound of rustling. Cassie was sitting at my vanity, her back to me. I didn’t say anything, quietly slipping out of bed to see what she was doing. She was digging her fingers into my expensive moisturizers, smearing them haphazardly over her face. My vanity, usually neatly organized, was a disaster zone of open caps and spilled powders. With one clumsy scoop, she had scooped out nearly half of my expensive face cream. The sheer disrespect snapped my patience. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yelled. “Who gave you permission to touch my stuff?” Cassie spun around. But it wasn’t her garishly painted, ghostly pale face that stopped me cold—it was her phone, propped up against my mirror, showing a live FaceTime call. I didn’t have my contacts in, but I could clearly make out the outline of a guy on the screen. I let out a sharp gasp, suddenly hyper-aware of my thin summer pajamas. I was practically exposed on a live video feed to some random stranger. Leah and Fiona bolted upright, fully awakened by the shouting. “What is your problem?” Cassie sneered, completely unfazed. “It’s just a little lotion. You don’t have to scream like a maniac first thing in the morning.” “Cassie, we literally agreed on this,” Leah said, her voice shaking with anger. “No FaceTime calls without warning between 10 PM and 8 AM. We sleep in here. Some of us actually care about our privacy.” “If you want to talk to your boyfriend, draw your bed curtains or go out into the hallway.” Cassie rolled her eyes, packing up her bag. “Oh, please. With your flat chest, nobody’s looking at you anyway.” “I pay rent here. This is my room too, and I’ll do whatever I want. You don’t own me.” She finished her makeup, entirely ignoring our boiling rage, and shoved past me to get to the door. “Move. I’m going to be late.” I stood there, trembling, looking at my ruined makeup and the expensive jar of cream that was now mostly smeared on her collarbones. It wasn’t just me, either. Leah’s closet doors were wide open, and Fiona’s desk drawers had been rummaged through. Cassie had clearly gone on a shopping spree in our own room before heading out. “I can’t do this anymore,” Fiona whispered, staring at her messy drawer. “I am going to lose my mind.” Buzz. My phone lit up. It was a message in the sophomore group chat: “We’re meeting by the campus gates in ten. Don’t be late!” A string of enthusiastic thumbs-up emojis followed. Our major was relatively small. Excluding the three of us and a few others who saw right through Cassie’s act, there were only about four or five classmates going with her. If they only bought a few small things, maybe she could actually cover it. But remembering her defensive, arrogant outburst from last night, I had a sinking feeling this wasn’t going to end quietly. She was too proud to back down, and too ignorant of how the system worked to realize she was walking into a trap. When I voiced my suspicion, Leah and Fiona’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god,” Leah gasped, clapping her hands. “She really thinks she can just swipe your membership card at the checkout.” “What is she going to do when it gets declined?” “She probably thinks that if she gets a massive haul and it somehow goes through, she can play the wealthy benefactor. And if you find out later, she’ll just use the ‘we’re roommates, don’t make a big deal out of it’ card.” “But she doesn’t realize…” Fiona started laughing, a bright, wicked sound. “Oh, this is going to be a disaster. Sweet, cosmic justice.” I rubbed my temples. “Come on, guys. We don’t know for sure.” Leah grabbed my arm, already pulling me toward the door. “Are you kidding? We are absolutely going to Costco right now to watch this show.” We didn’t even have to look hard to track them. Half the sophomore class was posting on their Instagram Stories. “Costco Sunday with the crew. Big things coming.” “Seeing how the other half lives. Thank you, Cassie!” The photos featured shopping carts stacked high with expensive electronics, prime cuts of beef, and imported chocolates. It was easily hundreds of dollars per cart. By the time we arrived at the warehouse, we spotted them near the bakery section. Cassie was leading the pack, tossing items into three separate carts like she was on a game show. The carts were piled so high they blocked her line of sight. We kept our distance, ducking behind a massive pyramid of toilet paper rolls to avoid being seen. She was completely intoxicated by the attention, basking in the compliments of the classmates trailing behind her. She didn’t notice us at all. I watched her add a massive Bluetooth party speaker to the pile. In my head, I was doing the math. Three carts. High-end groceries. Electronics. This wasn’t a bill a college student could just casually shrug off. This was thousands of dollars. Finally, the group headed toward the checkout lines. Since the register area was wide open, we lingered by the seasonal items nearby, pretending to examine patio furniture while keeping our eyes glued to the scene. The cashier began scanning the mountain of items. Cassie stood there, looking exhausted but smug, her arms crossed. “Alright, your total is $1,482.50,” the cashier said, her voice flat. “How will you be paying today?” Cassie reached into her pocket, pulled out my Costco membership card, and slid it across the counter. “Just charge it to this.” The cashier looked at the card, then up at Cassie, her brow furrowing. “Ma’am, this is just a membership card. Do you have a Visa or cash?”

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My best friend has an entire jewelry box overflowing with custom-made rings, a fact she never misses an opportunity to complain about. “Every time he gets a tiny spark of inspiration, he designs another one for me,” she said, letting out a performative sigh as she sifted through them. “I can’t possibly wear them all. But if I try to sell them, he gets incredibly jealous. Why don’t you take a few? Just to help me clear some space.” Then, as if a sudden thought had struck her, a flush crept up her cheeks. “Oh, wait. I completely forgot. Adrian is a chief designer now. You probably wouldn’t even look at these.” I felt a sudden, sharp heat radiate from the simple platinum band resting on my own ring finger. It felt less like a piece of jewelry and more like a brand. Despite his reputation as a brilliant, rising designer, Adrian had never designed a single ring for me. Not even his flawed prototypes or cast-off drafts were allowed on my fingers. “I have standards for my art,” he had told me once, his voice cool and absolute whenever I asked. “If it’s not perfect, I won’t let it out of my studio.” As we nudged the jewelry box back and forth across the table, one of the rings slipped out and rolled onto the polished wood. I froze. The delicate, intertwined band was a design I knew intimately. It was the exact ring I had practically begged Adrian to make for me. … After eight years of living together, of watching him work late into the night, I knew Adrian’s creative brushstrokes better than my own reflection. “Isabel? What’s wrong?” Linda waved her hand in front of my face, her bright pink nails catching the light. My throat felt dry, lined with sand. “Nothing. It just… looks incredibly familiar.” Linda’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She quickly snatched the ring off the table, her movements slightly too frantic. “Well, contemporary jewelry is all starting to look the same these days,” she said, her voice carrying a forced lightness. “Don’t overthink it.” “Don’t overthink it.” But the uneasy weight in my chest refused to shift. It wasn’t until I had left Linda’s apartment and walked down to the street that I realized I had left my keys on her counter. I turned back, only to halt near the entrance of the building. Adrian’s black sedan was parked by the curb. I watched as he stepped out of the driver’s seat, walking with a familiar, easy stride straight into the lobby. He didn’t page her dial; he had a key fob. My heart contracted, a tight, cold spasm. I followed him up, my steps silent on the carpeted corridor. Standing outside Linda’s door, her muffled voice drifted through the thin wood, trembling with anxiety. “Adrian, Isabel seemed to recognize that ring today. What if she starts asking questions?” “She won’t,” Adrian’s voice came through, steady and utterly dismissive. “Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio. Even if she saw the drafts, she wouldn’t remember.” “Linda, stop worrying.” “Linda.” The casual tenderness in his voice when he said her name felt like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of dread washed over me. I had to lean against the corridor wall to keep my knees from buckling. “I just feel so awful about this,” Linda sniffled, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Isabel is my best friend. She’s taken care of me since we were kids. When I lost my job, she brought me to Seattle and helped me get back on my feet. And now I’m doing this to her… I’m a horrible person…” “Linda, give me a little more time. I’ll handle it.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out the rest of their conversation. My chest felt hollowed out, as if something vital had been brutally torn from me. I didn’t have the strength to push the door open and demand answers. Numb and hollow, I walked back down to the street and returned to the apartment I shared with Adrian. Passing his locked studio, his dismissive words echoed in my head: “Isabel barely steps foot in my home studio.” I pushed the door open. The desk was cluttered with sketches, and his desktop computer was still humming. I sat down and began clicking through his digital design folders. Buried deep within the directories, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply “L”. I hesitated for a second, then typed in Linda’s birthday. The folder clicked open. Rows upon rows of detailed design files filled the screen, each one labeled with a specific date. The first sketch was dated October 11, 2023. It was titled “First Sight”. That was the exact day I had brought Linda to Seattle to live with us. It was the first time Adrian had ever laid eyes on her. I remembered asking Adrian once if he could design a small piece to commemorate the anniversary of our first date. He had scoffed, tapping his pencil against his sketchpad. “Design should be organic, Isabel. I don’t want to force it for the sake of a calendar date.” I had accepted his explanation, swallowed my disappointment, and tried to respect his creative freedom. The second design was dated Valentine’s Day, 2024. That date was our actual anniversary, a day we never celebrated because Adrian insisted that commercial holidays were beneath him. “The most important thing is our daily companionship, Isabel, not some capitalist ritual.” I had believed him. Only now did I realize he didn’t lack a romantic bone in his body; he just didn’t want to waste his romance on me. He had designed a delicate, vintage-inspired lace band for Linda to celebrate their first joint holiday. On that very night, he had told me an urgent client required him to stay at the studio overnight. There were hundreds of designs, spanning the last three years. Every milestone they shared—their first trip together, their first New Year’s Eve countdown—had its own ring. Even the ring I had begged him for, the one he claimed was a flawed prototype, had been specifically designed to comfort Linda when she was bedridden with severe cramps. My vision blurred, and my hand shook so violently I could barely control the mouse. Yet, I forced myself to scroll to the very bottom of the directory. My entire body went rigid. It was an unfinished draft of a wedding ring. The intricate metalwork was meticulously shaped to spell out Linda’s name in elegant, hidden cursive. Adrian had always told me he couldn’t design our wedding rings because he hadn’t found the “creative spark of pure happiness” yet. Now I knew the truth. His definition of happiness simply didn’t include me. I bit my lower lip so hard I tasted copper, but the tears still spilled over, hot and silent. After a long time, I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and dialed my supervisor’s number. “Ruth, about the transfer to the Geneva office… I’ll take it.” An eight-year relationship built on a foundation of polite neglect. I was done begging for scraps. “Really?” Ruth sounded genuinely surprised, though her tone quickly turned cautious. “The Geneva branch is a major commitment, Isabel. It’s a minimum of two years. Will your partner be okay with that?” If she had asked me yesterday, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about Adrian’s meals, his laundry, and how the long distance might strain our relationship. But those worries required a foundation of mutual care. He didn’t love me. Why would he care where I was? “I can handle it, Ruth,” I said, my voice steady. Sensing the finality in my tone, Ruth didn’t press further. “Alright. I’ll book your ticket. You leave in two days.” After hanging up, I looked up Linda’s public social media accounts. Since moving to Seattle, she had built a modest following as a lifestyle influencer. Her feed was dominated by photos of her hand, showcasing various exquisite rings. She wrote elaborate, poetic stories for each one, and her comment section was filled with envious followers praising her “thoughtful, wealthy boyfriend.” I had always assumed she was dating some reclusive tech entrepreneur, which was why she never introduced him. How incredibly naive I had been. Every single ring on her feed matched a file in Adrian’s hidden directory. I had even left supportive comments on those posts, wishing her endless happiness. Her most recent post was a photo of a half-eaten palmier pastry from a boutique bakery downtown. Her caption read: “Eating alone is sweet, but sharing it with you is pure happiness.” When Adrian came home that evening, he set a small, ribbon-tied box of palmiers on the kitchen island. “I remembered you liked these,” he said, offering a tired smile. “I stopped by that bakery on my way home.” It was the exact same bakery. But he had forgotten one fundamental thing: I had always detested sweets. Swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth, I looked at him and said, “Adrian, let’s get married.” Adrian stiffened, his hand pausing over his briefcase. “Let’s wait a little longer, Isabel. I’ve been in a creative rut lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding ring for us first.” Always the same excuse. My mind drifted back to his early days in the industry, when he couldn’t get a single commission and resorted to selling wire-wrapped jewelry at street markets. To secure him a prime spot, I would wake up at five in the morning to stand in the freezing rain. I had caught a fever that winter but refused to see a doctor, saving every penny to pay his booth fees. Back then, Adrian would hold my chapped hands and cry. “Isabel, I swear I’m going to design the most beautiful wedding ring in the world for you. I want everyone to see how happy you are.” I had believed him. I had waited from age twenty to twenty-eight. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Adrian.” Startled by my bluntness, Adrian’s expression darkened. “Isabel, can you stop suffocating me? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” He turned and slammed the bedroom door behind him. I closed my eyes, letting the silence of the apartment wash over me. The next morning, I went to the boutique hotel where I worked to finalize my transfer paperwork. As I was leaving, a colleague asked if I could cover the evening shift for her. By nightfall, the banquet manager informed me we were hosting a private VIP celebration for a design studio. “The owner is a rising star in the jewelry scene, Adrian,” the manager whispered. “He won a major regional award tonight and is planning to propose to his muse. We cleared out the premier private dining room for them.” My heart skipped a beat. Despite everything, a foolish, desperate part of me wondered… but the hope was dead before it could even form. When the elevator doors opened, Adrian walked out, and right beside him was Linda. They were dressed in matching, formal evening wear, looking like a perfect couple from a high-society magazine. When Adrian’s studio had started making a profit, he had told me he didn’t want me visiting the office because “professional boundaries are important.” I had respected his wishes. But seeing how easily his employees interacted with Linda, I realized his boundaries were reserved only for me. “The room looks amazing, Adrian! Don’t keep her waiting!” “Yeah, the ring is right there in your pocket!” “You designed it specifically for Linda, boss. It’s time to make it official!” The staff’s playful teasing echoed down the hallway. Linda blushed, looking down at her shoes. Adrian smiled, a look of pure warmth on his face as he pulled a small velvet box from his coat. He slipped the intricate ring onto Linda’s finger with a gentleness I had never seen him display. My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe. Even though no one in that hallway knew who I was, I felt stripped bare, exposed in my own quiet humiliation. Suddenly, Adrian’s eyes drifted toward the reception desk. Our gaze met. The smile died on his face, and the hallway fell silent. I squeezed my hands into tight fists, turned on my heel, and walked away. I wasn’t running; I simply refused to give the last eight years of my life an undignified ending. But Adrian followed me out to the lobby. “Isabel, don’t make a scene,” he said, his voice laced with annoyance and a patronizing attempt to soothe me. “The employees were just joking around. It was all for show.” I stared at him, saying nothing. Adrian kept going, his words tumbling out faster. “Linda… she provided the core conceptual inspiration for this award-winning collection. I only brought her along tonight to show my professional appreciation.” He paused, adding, “Besides, you were the one who asked me to look after her when she moved here. I thought I was doing this for you.” “For me.” When Linda first arrived in Seattle, alone and overwhelmed, I had asked him to show her some kindness. I remembered how Adrian had scoffed back then, complaining that Linda wasn’t a child. Yet now, he was using my past kindness as a shield. “Was putting a ring on her finger for me too?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Linda appeared at the end of the corridor, looking small and fragile. “Isabel, please don’t be mad,” she stammered, tears welling in her eyes. “It was just a silly game. This ring… Adrian actually designed it for you.” She hurriedly slid the ring off her finger and tried to force it onto mine. But our hands were different sizes. The sharp, unpolished edge of the setting scraped hard against my knuckle, drawing a thin line of blood. Linda gasped, pulling her hands back. “Oh my god, Isabel, I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to…” I looked at her tear-streaked face, and memories of our childhood flashed before my eyes. When her stepmother refused to give her lunch money, I had shared my meals. When she faced an abusive boss in her first job, I spent three sleepless nights drafting her legal complaints to secure her severance. I had never complained. I had loved her like a sister. And now, she was holding the knife that was tearing my life apart. Sensing my cold gaze, Linda shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe… maybe I should just leave. I don’t want to cause trouble between you two.” “No,” Adrian said, stepping forward to catch her arm. His voice was thick with protective anger. “You have a sensitive stomach and you haven’t eaten all evening. Go back inside.” He turned back to me, his eyes turning cold. “Isabel, must you always be so incredibly petty? Linda is your best friend. Why do you have to humiliate her like this?” “Petty.” The word felt like a physical slap. It shattered the very last piece of devotion I held for him. Adrian had seemingly forgotten that during his leanest years, I had worked three separate jobs to keep us afloat. I had skipped meals, survived on instant coffee, and worked through the night, eventually developing a chronic stomach ulcer. I still remembered lying awake in the dark, curled in pain, trying not to wake him. After eight years, he couldn’t remember my dietary restrictions, but he knew exactly how sensitive Linda’s stomach was. The vast chasm between his care for her and his neglect of me left me entirely hollow. Linda looked between us, stepping back. “I’m fine, really. I don’t want you and Isabel fighting because of me.” She turned to leave, but in her haste, she collided with an intoxicated male patron coming out of the adjacent lounge. “Watch where you’re going!” the man barked, slurring his words. Linda’s eyes welled with fresh tears. “You’re the one who ran into me.” The confrontation escalated in an instant. The man, red-faced and furious, snatched a heavy cocktail glass from a nearby tray and slammed it down onto the marble counter. “What did you say to me?” The glass shattered. A stray shard flew through the air, slicing across my cheek. I felt the sharp sting before the blood began to trickle down my jaw. But Adrian didn’t look at me. In that split second, his body had moved on pure instinct, pulling Linda tightly against his chest, shielding her from the flying debris. “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” he asked her, his voice trembling with panic. At that moment, I knew I had lost. Completely and irrevocably. When Adrian finally looked up and saw the blood on my face, a flash of guilt crossed his eyes, and he made a move toward me. But Linda let out a soft wail. “My ankle… I think I twisted it…” Adrian’s attention snapped back to her instantly. Without another word, he scooped her up into his arms. “Don’t worry, I’m taking you to the emergency room.” He cast a fleeting, apologetic glance back at me. “Linda has a very low pain tolerance. I have to get her to a doctor. Get someone at the desk to help you with that scratch, and I’ll come back to pick you up later.” Then, he hurried down the hall, leaving me behind. The physical sting on my cheek was nothing compared to the cold numbness spreading through my chest. The drunk patron, seeing his target leave, turned his anger on me. Discovering I was a manager, he pointed a finger at my face. “I am a premier rewards member here! Is this how your staff treats guests?” His shouting drew a crowd. If he filed a formal complaint, it would ruin my colleague’s performance record for the quarter. I had no choice but to swallow my pride and apologize. “If you’re really sorry,” the man sneered, pouring three double shots of high-proof whiskey onto the bar, “drink these. Then we’ll call it even.” The alcohol hit my empty, ulcer-damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent wave of nausea and sharp, stabbing pain radiated through my abdomen. By the time I staggered out of the hotel lobby, I could barely stand. I leaned against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Adrian’s number. “Adrian… my stomach hurts so bad… please, can you come get me…” “Just hold on, Isabel. I can’t leave right now—” Before he could finish, Linda’s voice echoed in the background, crying out in pain. Adrian hung up immediately. My vision went black, and the pain dragged me down into unconsciousness. When I opened my eyes, the sterile smell of disinfectant filled my nose. A doctor stood over my bed, looking at me with a mixture of pity and frustration. “You need to be much more careful,” the doctor said softly. “How could you drink high-proof alcohol while pregnant?” My heart stopped. “The… pregnancy?” I whispered, my hand instinctively drifting to my flat, empty stomach. “I’m sorry,” the doctor replied gently. “We couldn’t save the pregnancy.” A dull, heavy ache settled deep in my bones. The loss of that tiny, unborn life took the very last of my lingering hope with it. The following afternoon, I discharged myself and returned to the quiet apartment. Adrian wasn’t there. I turned on my phone and saw a text he had sent the previous night: “Linda took a nasty fall and there’s no one else to watch her. Isabel, please be the bigger person for once.” I didn’t reply. As I closed the messaging app, a notification from his studio’s official account popped up on my feed. It was a professionally shot photo from the previous night’s dinner. Adrian was on one knee, sliding a ring onto Linda’s finger under a canopy of fairy lights. The caption was filled with romance and promises of forever. Linda’s personal account had already been tagged by his followers. The comment section was a flood of congratulations. “No wonder that ring is so beautiful! Adrian outdid himself.” “You two are absolute couple goals!” “A match made in heaven.” I stared at the screen, a cold, dry laugh escaping my throat. I was done keeping secrets. I compiled a digital folder of my eight years with Adrian—the rent receipts I paid, the hospital bills from my overworked years, the dates of his designs matching Linda’s timeline, and finally, my miscarriage discharge papers from last night. I posted them all directly under his studio’s announcement. “Now you two can love each other without any secrets. Congratulations to my best friend and my partner of eight years.” I turned off my phone, grabbed my pre-packed suitcases, and walked out the door toward the airport. As I boarded the plane to Geneva, my phone, which I had briefly turned back on to check my boarding pass, began to ring frantically. The screen flashed with a single name: “Adrian”.

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My childhood friend, Wesley, had a shoe closet he loved to brag about. “She gets a spark of inspiration, and suddenly I’ve got another pair,” he’d say, gesturing casually to the rows of custom boxes. “I have more than I could ever wear. But if I try to sell them, she gets jealous. Why don’t you take a pair, Logan?” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he let out a self-deprecating sigh. “Right, I forgot. Gwen is a luxury designer. Why would you want her throwaways?” I instinctively tucked my feet under the bench, hiding my cheap, worn-out sneakers from the discount rack. Gwen, a renowned name in haute couture footwear, had never designed a single pair of shoes for me. Not even her flawed samples were allowed near my feet. “I have artistic standards,” she’d tell me whenever I asked. “If a piece isn’t absolutely perfect, I won’t let it touch the market. It’s about integrity.” But during our playful wrestling over the box, the lid slipped, and a shoe tumbled out onto the rug. I froze. The shoe on the floor was the exact design I had begged Gwen to make for me months ago. … After eight years together, I knew Gwen’s design signature better than anyone. “Logan? You okay?” Wesley waved a hand in front of my face. My throat felt incredibly tight. “Yeah. It just… looks familiar.” Wesley stiffened. He quickly snatched the shoe back, slipping it into the box with practiced ease. “Familiar? Come on, all sneakers look the same these days. Don’t overthink it.” “Is that so?” A cold dread began to pool in my chest. After leaving Wesley’s apartment, I walked down to the street before realizing I’d left my keys on his counter. I turned back, but as I reached the lobby, I saw Gwen’s car pull up to the curb. She got out, moving with a quiet, practiced familiarity straight into the building. My heart constricted. I followed her up, stopping just outside Wesley’s apartment door. Through the thin wood, Wesley’s anxious voice carried clearly into the hallway. “Gwen, Logan seemed to recognize those shoes. What if he suspects something?” “He won’t,” Gwen replied, her voice cool and entirely composed. “Logan rarely goes into my home office anyway. Even if he’s seen the drafts, he wouldn’t remember.” “Wes, stop worrying.” “Wes.” The casual intimacy of the nickname hit me like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of realization washed over me, and I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. Wesley hesitated. “Are we… is this really okay? Logan is my best friend. He took care of me when I was broke, brought me to Boston, and helped me get on my feet. I feel like a monster doing this to him…” “Wes, just give me a little more time. I’ll handle it.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My chest felt violently torn open, leaving me hollowed out and breathless. I didn’t even have the strength to push the door open and confront them. Numb and disoriented, I made my way back to the apartment I shared with Gwen. Passing her home office, her words echoed in my mind. I pushed the door open. Her desk was cluttered with sketchbooks, and her laptop was awake. I sat down and began to scroll. Deep in her local files, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply “W.” I paused, then typed in Wesley’s birthday. It opened instantly. A cascade of design files flooded the screen, each one piercing my chest. Every single sketch was carefully dated. The first was from October 11, 2023. It was titled “The First Encounter”. I remembered that date. It was the day I brought Wesley to Boston, the day Gwen met him for the first time. Once, I had asked Gwen to design a pair of shoes to commemorate our first anniversary. She had brushed it off. “Design needs to flow naturally, Logan. I don’t like forcing things.” Despite my disappointment, I had tried to understand. I thought it was just her artistic integrity. The second sketch was dated February 14, 2024. Our anniversary. A day she insisted on skipping because “performative holidays are for insecure couples.” I had swallowed the disappointment, telling myself she was just too pure for commercialized romance. But she wasn’t incapable of romance; she just didn’t want to waste it on me. She had designed a pair of shoes with wave motifs for Wesley, celebrating their first holiday together. And that night, she had told me a client needed an emergency redesign and didn’t come home. Then there was their first weekend getaway, their first New Year’s countdown… Over three years, she had designed hundreds of shoes for him. Even the pair I had begged her for—the one she refused—was designed solely to make Wesley happy. My vision blurred. My hand shook so hard I could barely control the mouse. But I kept scrolling to the very bottom. I froze. It was an unfinished sketch of a wedding shoe. The entire design incorporated the letters of Wesley’s name into the delicate embroidery. Gwen always told me she couldn’t design our wedding shoes because she hadn’t found the “right inspiration for happiness” yet. But her happiness simply never included me. My throat tightened, tasting the bitter salt of my own tears. After a long time, I wiped my face and called my boss, Frank. “Hey, Frank. That relocation offer to the Zurich branch? I’ll take it.” An eight-year relationship built on a lie. I was done holding on. “Really?” Frank sounded surprised, then hesitated. “Zurich is a long-term placement, Logan. At least two years. Will Gwen be okay with that?” Before, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about her being lonely, about the strain of long-distance. But that required her to actually love me. “I’ll be fine, Frank,” I said quietly. Frank sensed the heavy shift in my voice but didn’t press. “Alright. I’ll book your ticket. You fly out in two days.” After hanging up, I searched for Wesley’s Instagram account. Since moving to Boston, he had become a lifestyle influencer, documenting his daily life. His most frequent posts featured shoes gifted by his “secret girlfriend.” Because of the unique designs and the romantic stories he attached to them, he had built a decent following. The comments were full of people praising his “thoughtful girlfriend” and expressing envy. I used to think he just had a talented partner, which explained why they were always too busy to meet me. I never imagined that partner was Gwen. Every single pair in his posts matched Gwen’s sketches perfectly. What a joke. I had even congratulated him on finding such a catch. His latest post was a photo of half-eaten palmiers from a local artisan bakery. The caption read: “Sweet on its own, but sweet and blissful when shared with you.” When Gwen came home that night, she carried a pastry box from that exact bakery. “I remembered you like palmiers, so I grabbed some on the way back.” But she forgot one thing: I hate sweet food. Swallowing the bitterness, I looked at her and said, “Gwen, let’s get married.” She froze. “Let’s wait a bit. My inspiration has been dry lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding shoes first.” The same old excuse. I thought back to her early days in the industry. She couldn’t get any commissions and had to set up at local flea markets to sell her samples. To get her the best spot, I would wake up at 4:00 AM in the freezing winter to camp out. Once, I got a severe fever but refused to go to the doctor, saving every penny to pay her vendor fees. Back then, she had cried and held my face. “Logan, one day I’m going to design a one-of-a-kind wedding shoe for you. I’ll let the whole world know how happy you make me.” I believed her. I waited from age twenty to twenty-eight. “I don’t want to wait anymore, Gwen.” Startled by my bluntness, her expression darkened. “Logan, can you not pressure me like this? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?” She turned and walked into the bedroom. I closed my eyes. The next day, I went to the boutique hotel I managed to handle my transition paperwork. As I was about to leave, a colleague asked me to cover his evening shift. That night, the banquet manager mentioned a private room was booked for a design studio’s celebration. “The owner is a rising star in the shoe industry, Gwen Song. She just won a major award and plans to propose to her boyfriend tonight. She asked us to prep our best private suite.” My heart skipped a beat. I knew I shouldn’t hope, but I couldn’t help it. Until she walked in. And Wesley was right beside her. Both were dressed in formal attire, looking like a perfect couple. Since Gwen’s studio took off, she had told me she didn’t want employees gossiping about her private life, so she banned me from visiting her work. I thought she just kept a strict line between personal and professional. But seeing how familiar her employees were with Wesley, I realized she just didn’t want “me” there. “The red carpet is ready! The wedding shoes are waiting!” “We all know Gwen designed these for Wesley. It’s time to make it official!” The room erupted in cheers. Wesley smiled warmly, while Gwen blushed, presenting a beautifully crafted pair of shoes for Wesley to put on. The tenderness in her eyes was something I had never seen. A sharp ache rose in my chest. Even though no one here knew me, I felt the humiliating sting of my own foolishness. Then, Gwen’s eyes met mine. The air went still. I took a slow breath, turned around, and walked away. Not to run, but to preserve whatever dignity remains of these eight years. Gwen ran out after me. “Logan, don’t get the wrong idea.” Her beautiful face carried a flicker of annoyance, masked by a placating tone. “The staff were just joking around. It’s just office banter.” I looked down at her, silent. She continued, “The award-winning design only came together because Wes—I mean, Wesley—gave me the creative spark. This dinner is just my way of thanking him.” Then she added, “Besides, you’re the one who told me to look out for him. I thought I was doing this for you.” Right. When Wesley first moved here, I was worried he’d be lonely and asked her to help him adjust. Back then, Gwen told me I was overthinking it and that Wesley wasn’t a child. Now, she used my own kindness as her shield. “And giving him a pair of wedding shoes is also ‘doing it for me’?” The bitterness in my throat was overwhelming. Wesley walked out, looking incredibly anxious. “Logan, please don’t misunderstand. We were just playing around. These shoes… Gwen actually designed them for you.” He frantically tried to pull them off. But he forgot that we didn’t wear the same size. The shoes were visibly loose on him, yet they would never fit my larger feet. Wesley’s face drained of color. “Maybe… a design error…” I looked at his pale face, remembering when we were kids and he was getting beaten up, and I stood in front of him. When his stepfather cut off his allowance, I made a scene in the neighborhood until the man backed down. When he had a wage dispute with a corrupt boss, I stayed up for nights preparing his labor arbitration files to get his compensation. I never begrudged him any of it. He was my best friend. And now, he was the one holding the knife in my back. Wesley shifted uncomfortably under my gaze. “Maybe I should just leave. Logan, please don’t be mad.” “No, stay,” Gwen said, her voice thick with worry for him. “Your stomach is acting up. You need to eat. Go back inside.” She turned to me, her eyes turning cold. “Can you stop being so petty? Wesley is your best friend. Why do you have to make things difficult for him?” “Petty.” The word landed like a physical blow, shattering the last remaining piece of my heart. Gwen seemed to have forgotten that when we first started out, she couldn’t make a dime. I worked three jobs to support her. I skipped meals, pulled double shifts, and ruined my own stomach. The chronic ulcers were so bad I would spend entire nights curled on the bathroom floor, unable to sleep. But in eight years, she never remembered my stomach issues. She didn’t care about my pain. The massive divide between her care for Wesley and her neglect of me left my heart completely hollow. I had nothing left to say. Wesley looked at me, stepping away from Gwen. “I’m fine. I don’t want you and Logan fighting because of me.” He turned to leave, but in his haste, he bumped into a heavily intoxicated female customer. “Watch where you’re going!” the woman snapped. Already frustrated, Wesley shoves her back. “You’re the one stumbling drunk. Keep your eyes open.” The confrontation escalated instantly. The woman grabbed a wine glass from a nearby cart and hurled it. “Say that again!” The glass shattered. A flying shard grazed my cheek, leaving a sharp sting. In my peripheral vision, I see Gwen lunging to pull Wesley out of the way without a second thought. “Wes! Are you hurt?” In that moment, I had to admit defeat. Complete, absolute defeat. Gwen noticed my bleeding cheek, and a flash of panic crossed her eyes. She took a step toward me. But Wesley let out a sharp cry. “My ankle…” He winced, gripping his leg. Gwen’s attention snapped right back to him. She held him tight. “Don’t worry, I’ll take you to the ER.” She looked back at me. “Wesley can’t handle pain. I have to get him to a doctor. Get that cut on your face cleaned up, okay? I’ll come back for you.” And then she was gone. I stood in the hallway, the cut on my cheek turning numb. The drunk woman, seeing her targets gone, turned her fury on me. Knowing I was the manager, she screamed, “I’m a VIP member! Is this how you treat your guests?” She made a massive scene, drawing crowds from other rooms. Since I was only covering this shift, a formal complaint would ruin my colleague’s record. I had to swallow my pride and apologize. Her friends demanded penance. They lined up three glasses of high-proof whiskey. “Drink these, or this doesn’t end.” The alcohol hit my empty, damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent, searing spasm radiated through my entire body. When I finally stumbled out of the hotel, the pain was so intense I can barely stand. I leaned heavily against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Gwen’s number. “Gwen… my stomach hurts so bad… can you please come…” “Hold on, Logan, I can’t leave right now.” In the background, I heard Wesley’s voice whimpering in pain. Gwen hung up. The world went black, and the pain swallowed me whole. When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. The doctor was looking at me with deep frustration. “How could you be this reckless? You have severe, advanced gastric ulcers—practically on the verge of stomach cancer—and you’re drinking hard liquor?” I froze. Though they pumped my stomach in time, the doctor warned me the damage was severe and would leave lasting issues. I touched my stomach. The very last thread of hope in my heart snapped. The next day, I discharged myself and returned to the apartment. Gwen wasn’t there. I open my phone and see a text she sent last night: “Wesley was in so much pain, he couldn’t be left alone. Logan, try to be the bigger person here.” I didn’t reply. Instead, my phone notifications chimed with a public post from her studio. It was a collection of romantic photos from the banquet last night. She was proposing to Wesley in front of the crowd. The internet quickly found Wesley’s account. Matching it with his previous posts, the comment section was flooded with congratulations. “No wonder those shoes were so beautiful! She’s a genius!” “Congratulations!” “A match made in heaven.” I stared at the screen. It was absurd, sickening, and cold. I decided I was done protecting her. I uploaded a thread containing my eight years of relationship history with Gwen, the dates of her sketches, and my hospital admission slip from last night, posting it directly under her studio’s announcement. “Now you two can be together without any burden. My best friend and my partner of eight years.” I turned off my phone, packed my single suitcase, and headed to the airport. As the plane prepared to taxi, my screen lit up with a call. “Gwen.”

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My wife attended a client appreciation dinner, where my business partner, Richard Dalton, dragged her into a private dining room and assaulted her. I was right next door. I heard her screaming my name, her voice tearing at the seams, but I never pushed that door open. Afterward, she broke down and called the cops. On the day of the trial, I took the witness stand and testified that it was consensual. I told the court that she was the one who undressed and climbed onto his lap. The judge ruled right then and there: insufficient evidence. Richard was acquitted. My wife smashed her stainless-steel Yeti tumbler directly into my forehead. “Jack Colins, I want a divorce. You’re a monster.” Everyone said I was an animal. A coward. A piece of trash. But nobody knew that I had been waiting for this exact day for three agonizing months. … “Jack! Get out here right now!” Isabelle’s voice chased me down the courthouse corridor. I didn’t turn around. Blood was pooling at my eyebrow, tracing a hot, wet line down my cheek. She had swung that tumbler with everything she had, splitting the skin clean open. “Stop right there!” She lunged forward, grabbing my arm and jerking my entire body around to face her. Her face was a mess of running mascara and tears, her eyes swollen into thin slits. “How could you perjure yourself for him?” I looked down at her. I didn’t say a word. “I am your wife! I was violated! You were right outside that door! You heard me! Why didn’t you come in?!” Her fists hammered against my chest. One after another. There wasn’t much physical force behind them, but the rhythm grew frantic, desperate. “Tell me why!” I raised my hand, catching her wrists and peeling her fingers away from my collar. “Stop making a scene.” Four words. It was as if those four words drained the last drop of life from her. Isabelle stumbled a half-step backward. “Stop making a scene?” She laughed. A hollow, broken sound that shook loose more tears. “You’re telling me to stop making a scene?” “I was pinned against a table by your partner. My dress was ripped open. You were standing right outside. I screamed your name seventeen times, Jack. Seventeen times. And you didn’t make a sound.” “And now you’re telling me to stop making a scene?” I shifted my gaze past her shoulder. At the end of the hallway, a group of people was marching toward us. Her father, Robert. Her mother, Martha. Along with her cousin, Jessica, and Jessica’s husband, Todd. I wiped the blood from my jaw with the back of my hand and turned to walk away. Isabelle threw herself at my back, wrapping her arms in a death grip around my waist. “You are not walking away until you give me the truth.” “I already gave you the truth.” My voice was dead flat. “Every single word I said on that stand was a fact.” Her arms went slack. As if she no longer had the strength to hold onto anything in this world. “Jack.” Her tone shifted. It was no longer a question. It was pure, concentrated hatred. “The biggest regret of my life is marrying you.” “I’m divorcing you.” “Okay.” I dropped the word like a stone and stepped toward the exit. Robert’s slap landed faster than I anticipated. “Crack.” My head snapped violently to the side. “You son of a bitch!” Robert was shaking from head to toe, his chest heaving. “I gave you my daughter’s hand, and this is how you protect her?” I steadied my footing. I kept my hands at my sides. “Robert—” “Don’t you dare call me by my name!” He swung again, the back of his hand catching my jaw. “You don’t have the right!” Martha shoved her way to the front and spat directly into my face. “You’re not a man.” “A grown man, listening to his own wife get ripped apart, standing outside a door like a statue. Are you just useless, or are you an accomplice?” I wiped my face with my sleeve. “Martha, are you done?” “Done? I want to kill you with my bare hands!” Todd, the cousin’s husband, surged forward and grabbed me by the lapels of my suit. “How do you have the nerve to even stand upright, Jack? You should be on your knees begging Isabelle for forgiveness.” I met his eyes. “Let go.” “Are you threatening me, you piece of shit?” “There are court bailiffs right inside those doors,” I said, my tone completely devoid of emotion. “You throw a punch, I press charges. Assault is a felony, Todd. You’re a smart guy. Do the math.” Todd’s fist froze in mid-air. Robert stepped up, pulling his son-in-law back, before turning his furious glare back to me. “Jack, for the sake of the man I thought you were, I’m going to ask you one last time.” “Why did you cover for Richard Dalton?” “How much did he pay you?” I looked past them, toward the glass doors of the courthouse. A black SUV was idling by the curb, the tinted window rolled halfway down. “There’s nothing to explain.” “You—!” Martha lunged at me again, throwing wild slaps and kicks. The rest of the extended family swarmed in, a chorus of screaming, spitting venom. Someone tossed a cup of muddy coffee from God knows where. It splashed across my hair and face. I stood exactly where I was, letting them shove me back and forth. The blood from my forehead mixed with the cold coffee, staining the entire front of my white dress shirt a dark, rust-colored brown. The phone in my pocket buzzed. I didn’t take it out. It wasn’t time yet. The crowd was still screaming when a shrill voice pierced through the chaos. “Excuse me! Make way! Press!” A woman in jeans holding a phone mounted on a gimbal shoved her way to the front, pointing the lens directly at my face. “Hi, Kelly here from Metro True Crime. Sir, there are allegations online that you just committed perjury to protect your wife’s rapist. Is that true?” On her screen, the live chat was scrolling so fast it was a blur. Jessica, the cousin, immediately pushed her face into the frame. “It’s true! He’s the monster husband! His wife was assaulted, he did nothing to save her, and then he testified for the predator!” The vlogger pivoted the camera to Jessica, who fed off the attention, her voice growing hysterical. “My cousin has done nothing but suffer since she married him! She takes care of the house, raised their kid, works a full-time job. And what does he do? He sells her out!” The comment section exploded. “Die, trash.” “Dox him.” “Waste of oxygen.” The vlogger turned the camera back to me. “Sir, do you have a statement?” I gave her a long, hard look. I didn’t answer. I turned to walk down the steps. “He’s running! Look at him run! Guilty!” Jessica shrieked behind me. Robert grabbed my shoulder in a vice grip. “You aren’t going anywhere.” I stopped. My phone buzzed again. I looked down and tapped the screen. One new message. “Still tracking the ping. Give me two more hours.” I locked the screen and slid the phone back into my pocket. When I looked up, my face was a mask of stone. “Fine. We’ll do this here.” “What exactly do you all want to hear?” Martha pointed a trembling finger at my nose. “I want you to tell the world the truth! How much blood money did Richard give you?” “I answered that on the stand,” I said, my voice steady enough to cut glass. “I didn’t take a dime from anyone.” “I told the absolute truth.” “That night, Isabelle wanted it. She initiated it.” The second the words left my mouth, the entire crowd surged toward me. But then, the heavy courthouse doors swung open. Richard Dalton walked out. Immaculate custom suit, perfectly dimpled tie, wearing the relaxed, arrogant smirk of a man who just bought his way to an acquittal. He paused when he saw the mob on the steps. Robert was the first to break from the crowd, sprinting toward him. “Dalton! You animal! Look me in the eye!” I moved. Two quick steps, and I inserted myself directly between Robert and Richard. “Robert, we are on federal property. What are you doing?” “Get out of my way!” “I can’t do that.” “Jack!” Robert’s voice broke, vibrating with a profound, sickening disbelief. “You’re still protecting him?” “The court ruled.” I spoke as casually as if I were reading a weather report. “He’s an innocent man. You put hands on an innocent man, that’s aggravated assault.” Martha charged forward like a woman possessed. “I don’t care what the corrupt court says! He destroyed my daughter! You destroyed my daughter! I hope you both burn in hell!” I extended my arms, keeping her a safe distance away. Richard stood behind me. He didn’t flinch. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, sparked a cigarette, and took a slow drag. “Go to the car, Rich,” I said, not looking back. “It’s on the left.” Richard clapped a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Jack. You’re a real one.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Dinner’s on me next week.” He stepped around the screaming family, making his way down the steps to the idling black SUV. Just before he pulled the door handle, he looked back at me. The smile was gone. It was replaced by a look of profound, aristocratic pity. “You’re a good guy, Jack. It’s a damn shame you married a slut and had to clean up her mess.” He climbed in, and the heavy door slammed shut. The tires squealed, and the car vanished into traffic. In a split second, the entirety of the crowd’s wrath refocused onto me. “Jack! You just let him walk away?!” Isabelle’s voice cut through the noise. She was leaning heavily on Jessica, looking as though her bones had turned to glass. “Are you even human?” I turned around and faced her. Her face was stained with tears, her eyes bloodshot, radiating an agonizing hatred. “Isabelle, I told you. This ends today.” “Ends today?” Her voice cracked into a shriek. “He destroyed my body, he destroyed my reputation, he destroyed my life, and you say it ends today?” “The judge made the ruling.” “He ruled that way because you lied under oath!” She stumbled forward, only to be yanked back by her cousin. “Why did you say those things? Why did you say I wanted it? You heard me! You were right there!” I didn’t answer. Suddenly, someone in the crowd yelled. “He’s here! Her brother’s here!” A pickup truck slammed on its brakes at the curb. Mark leaped out of the driver’s seat. He didn’t even bother shutting the door before he was sprinting up the steps. He hit the concrete like he wanted to shatter the earth beneath him. “Jack!” Before my brain could register the movement, his boot connected squarely with my stomach. I folded in half, my knees crashing onto the hard pavement. He grabbed handfuls of my ruined shirt and hauled me upward. “How the fuck do you dare show your face?” He was so close I could smell the adrenaline on him. His eyes were wild, fully bloodshot. “What did I tell you the day I gave my baby sister away to you?” “I told you if you ever hurt her, I would break your legs.” He slammed me back down onto the concrete. Then he bent over and hauled me up by the collar again. “Three years. Three years. My sister gave you three years of her life. Do you have any idea what she’s sacrificed for you?” I stayed down on the ground. Not because I couldn’t get up. Because I didn’t want to. The phone in my pocket vibrated against my thigh. I lay on the pavement and subtly angled my head to glance at the glowing lock screen. “Location locked. En route. ETA 1 hour 40 minutes.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “I have to survive another hour and a half.” “Do you people even know what else he did?” Isabelle’s voice suddenly shifted pitch. The hysterical, piercing anger was gone, replaced by a hollow, bottomless despair. The entire crowd fell dead silent, turning to look at her. She stood in the center of the ring, her body trembling violently, her lips quivering. “Our daughter… Sophie.” “We lost Sophie in March.” Martha gasped, a horrible, choking sound. “What? Sophie? What happened to my grandbaby?” Isabelle buried her face in her hands, sobbing uncontrollably. “You told us Jack’s mother took Sophie to stay with her!” Martha rushed forward, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders. “Tell me! What happened to her?” Isabelle slowly lifted her head, her tear-soaked face locking onto mine. “It’s because of him.” “He was gambling. He owed sixty grand to loan sharks. They came to the house. It was just me and Sophie.” “They demanded the money. I told them we didn’t have it, and they…” Her voice shattered into pieces. “They shoved Sophie. Her head hit the corner of the coffee table…” “By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone.” Martha’s legs gave out. She collapsed onto the hard concrete. “My grandbaby… my sweet Sophie…” Robert’s face turned the color of wet ash. “Why didn’t you call us? Why didn’t you tell me?” Isabelle shook her head frantically. “I couldn’t bear to break your hearts. And I was terrified they’d come after you. The men told me if I went to the cops, they’d kill my whole family.” “So I swallowed it.” “I carried it all alone.” “And him?” She pointed a shaking finger at me. “He’s still gambling. Still racking up debt. Wasn’t my daughter’s life enough?” The bystanders were circling tighter now. Phones were out, red recording lights blinking everywhere. Whispers hissed through the crowd: “This guy got his own kid killed, and then covered for a rapist?” I remained on my knees, listening to every word. I didn’t defend myself. Not once. Robert walked slowly over to me. His voice sounded like grinding stones. “Jack. Is this true?” I looked up at him. “Trust your daughter.” That was all I said. I lowered my head and checked my watch. “You’re checking the time?!” Mark stomped his boot down onto my wrist, pinning it to the ground. “Got an appointment at the casino? Or a brothel?” White-hot pain shot up my arm, but I swallowed the groan. “I’m going to count to three,” Mark sneered, leaning over me. “And you’re going to tell the truth about the debt. Did you get Sophie killed?” I stayed silent. “One.” Silence. “Two.” He pressed his heel down harder. I felt the bone grinding. I clenched my jaw and forced my head up. “None of your damn business.” “Three.” He reared back and kicked me squarely in the ribs. I rolled onto my side, curling into a tight ball as the air left my lungs. Slowly, agonizingly, I forced myself into a sitting position. Isabelle was screaming from the sidelines, crying, “Mark, stop! Stop hitting him!” “You’re defending him?” Mark snapped, turning to look at her. “Izzy, open your eyes! He got Sophie killed, he sold you to Richard Dalton, and you’re begging for his life?” Isabelle shook her head, tears flying. “I’m not begging for him, I’m trying to protect you! If you put him in the hospital, you’ll go to prison!” “Then I’ll go to prison!” Mark spun back around, hauling me up by the front of my shirt again. “For my sister and my niece, I’ll do the time gladly.” The crowd was practically a mob now. People were yelling, “Give him what he deserves!” The true-crime vlogger’s livestream had crossed ten thousand viewers. The chat was a unified chorus demanding my death. Mark slammed me against the stone wall of the courthouse. “Last chance. Did you kill Sophie?” I let the silence hang for three seconds. Then I opened my mouth. “Yes.” One word. Martha fainted dead away. As Robert caught his wife, hot tears streamed down his weathered face. “My baby… my little girl…” I leaned against the cold stone, watching the destruction. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I swallowed it down. “Monster.” “Psychopath.” “Burn in hell.” The curses rained down from every direction. The bystanders weren’t just watching anymore. A middle-aged man in a track jacket stepped forward and shoved my shoulder hard. “I have a three-year-old at home. You don’t deserve to breathe.” I stumbled, the small of my back slamming into the sharp edge of a concrete planter. A sickening jolt of pain shot up my spine. But I pushed myself upright. Mark lunged at me again, fists raised. Isabelle threw her arms around him, pulling with all her might. “Mark! Enough!” “Why is it enough?!” Mark roared, trying to shake her off. “He killed Sophie, he let you get raped, he deserves to be gutted!” I raised a hand and slowly wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. I looked at all of them. Every single one. And then, I smiled. “Are you all done talking?” The smile caught everyone completely off guard. The yelling faltered. “Because if you’re done, it’s my turn.” I pushed myself off the planter, standing at my full height. “Does anyone here know what Isabelle was wearing that night?”

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The soul-snatcher who hijacked my life for three years turned my family’s estate into a toxic battleground of manufactured drama. The second she checked out and I finally woke up in my own skin, my vision was flooded with a frantic, glowing chat stream. [Oh my god, the real Grace is finally back! Her sister Sadie is a total snake now, and their brother Wyatt is incredibly biased.] [The impostor spent three years ruining everything, playing the victim, and trying to secure the entire inheritance.] [Grace’s reputation is in the gutter now. Let’s see how she cleans up this absolute trainwreck!” While I was sorting through the glowing words hovering in the air, my younger sister, Sadie, walked in holding a cup of hot tea. She had a timid, fragile smile plastered on her face. “You’re finally awake, Grace. Wyatt said you’re still too weak, so he wants me to represent the family at the gala next week.” I looked at the chat stream scrolling by—”Here comes the fake sister, trying to steal her power.” Then I looked at the fragile, sweet girl standing in front of me. Instead of taking the tea, I reached out, gently pinched her soft cheek, and let out a soft laugh. “Sure. If you want to go that badly, go pick whatever you want from my closet.” …… Sadie froze. Her hand holding the tea hovered in midair, her practiced smile evaporating into pure, unadulterated confusion. The chat exploded: [She’s totally glitched!] [Sadie did not see that coming, lmao.] [Look at her eyes, her brain has completely shut down.” But she recovered quickly. She took a sharp breath, her eyes welling with tears. “If I said something wrong… I’m sorry, Grace. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She took a tiny step back, shrinking into herself like a delicate wildflower caught in a sudden draft. I gave her performance a 9.5 out of 10. Half a point off because her eyes were too bright, constantly darting to gauge my reaction. She slipped. The chat agreed: [I gotta hand it to Sadie, her acting is top-tier.] [The impostor must have traumatized her so badly she developed survival reflexes.” Before I was shoved out of my own body, Sadie was a fierce, fearless kid. At thirteen, she got into a fistfight with a boy from the next block, won, and grinned at me with blood split across her lip. Now? She had learned to slouch her shoulders, flutter her eyelashes, and cry on command. All of it carved into her by that malicious squatter in my soul. I gestured for her to come closer. She took a tentative step forward. I reached out and pinched her cheek again. Still as soft as it was when we were kids. Sadie stood there, completely petrified. The chat went wild: [She pinched her! She actually pinched her face!] [The impostor used to scream if Sadie got within three feet of her, and now she’s playing with her cheeks??” “G-Grace?” “It’s nothing. Just felt like doing it.” Her lips parted, but she was speechless. The hundred lines she had probably prepared were suddenly useless, and she couldn’t improvise fast enough. The door clicked open. A middle-aged woman in a housekeeper’s uniform entered with a silver tray. When she saw me awake, a sycophantic smile spread across her face. “Miss Grace, you’re awake. I brought the lavender-infused broth you requested—” She glanced at Sadie, and her smile instantly dropped. “What are you doing here, Sadie? Miss Grace is recovering. Don’t come in here making trouble.” The sheer contempt in her voice was palpable. Sadie’s shoulders tensed as she looked down, silent. I realized then how much the impostor had enabled this behavior. With Wyatt away on a business trip, Sadie had no one to shield her from the staff’s petty cruelty. “Who gave you permission to speak to her like that?” My voice wasn’t loud, but the housekeeper froze. “Miss Grace?” “She is my sister.” I looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t know how you treated her while I was out of it, but starting right now, anyone who shows her even a shred of disrespect will be packed and fired by sunset.” The housekeeper’s face flushed red and white. Sadie snapped her head up, her eyes wide as saucers, staring at me like I was an alien. The chat went crazy: [She’s protecting her! She’s actually protecting her sister!] [The impostor used to lead the bullying, and now Grace’s first act is to shield her!” The housekeeper awkwardly set the tray down and scurried out. Sadie was still frozen in shock. I pushed the bowl of hot broth toward her. “Want some?” She shook her head mechanically, then nodded mechanically, completely overwhelmed. “I… I should go.” The door clicked shut, followed by the frantic “pitter-patter” of her running down the hallway. Faster than a mouse running from a cat. I leaned back against my pillows, the humor fading from my face. The mess left behind from the last three years was worse than I thought. But it was fine. Now that I was back, I’d clean it up. One piece at a time. The next morning, as I descended the grand staircase, I saw a confrontation in the foyer. Sadie was backed into a corner, her face pale. Facing her were two meticulously styled middle-aged women in designer activewear. One was pointing a manicured finger in her face. “Sadie, you ruined my daughter’s limited-edition Birkin bag last week. We agreed on a replacement. Where is the money?” Sadie bit her lip. “I didn’t ruin it—” “Didn’t ruin it? You’re a charity case living under this roof, who’s going to take your word?” the woman sneered. “Or are you trying to play dumb? I heard Grace absolutely despises you. You’re a ghost in this house. Who’s going to bail you out?” The new butler stood off to the side, watching with a smirk. [Wyatt is out of town, so these vultures come to bully the kid.] [They’re totally making this up because they know she’s an easy target.] [The butler is loyal to the impostor. He probably let them in on purpose.” I stepped off the stairs. My voice was quiet, but it commanded the room. They all turned. The two women’s eyes lit up, their sneers instantly morphing into sycophantic grins. “Oh, Grace, darling! You’re just in time. We were just telling your sister—” “What bag did she supposedly ruin?” I cut her off. “An Hermès limited-edition. Over forty thousand dollars.” Sadie’s face went even paler, her lips trembling. I glanced at her, then looked at the women, offering a cold smile. “Forty thousand? Fine. I’ll pay it. But—” I walked over, standing firmly at Sadie’s side. “Did my sister actually damage the bag, or did your daughter stage an accident to shake her down?” The woman’s expression faltered. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what I said.” I pulled out my phone. “There are security cameras in public spaces. Let’s pull up the footage. If my sister was at fault, I’ll write you a check for forty thousand without batting an eye. But if your daughter staged it…” I smiled. “We’ll let our lawyers handle the extortion charges.” The two women looked at each other, their faces draining of color. One of them let out a forced, nervous laugh. “Oh, Grace, there’s no need to take it that far. We were just asking… anyway, we should get going.” They practically sprinted out the front door. Once the door clicked shut, I turned to the butler who had been enjoying the show. “What is your name?” He blinked. “I… I’m Thomas, Miss Grace.” “Who let those women in?” “I didn’t realize they would—” “And how long did you stand there watching them berate my sister?” His face went white. “You’re let go. Pack your things and leave the property by noon.” “Miss Grace! I’ve worked for this family for years—” “Then you should know that Sadie is a daughter of this house,” I interrupted. “Not entertainment for your amusement.” The butler was escorted out by the security staff. The foyer fell silent. Sadie stood there, looking like she’d been struck by lightning. “You… you defended me?” “Obviously,” I said, looking at her. “You’re my sister.” Her eyes welled with tears. She blinked fiercely to force them back. “I… I’m going to my room.” She ran. Again. [She’s crying!] [Three years… and someone finally had her back.] [My heart is melting!” In the afternoon, Sadie crept out of her room, clutching a dress in her arms. My dress. A sage-green floral silk wrap dress from my closet. She stood in front of me, looking as conflicted as if she were deciding the fate of the nation. “Grace… you said I could pick whatever I wanted.” She took a deep breath. “I only tried this one on. If you’re mad, I’ll put it right back.” The chat exploded: [Here it is! The ultimate test!] [The impostor would literally fly into a rage if anyone touched her clothes.] [Remember when the maid touched her dress and she screamed for three hours?” I looked at the dress. I’d bought it right before my life was hijacked. I remember thinking how beautiful that shade of green would look against her skin, intending to give it to her. I never expected it to happen like this. “Try it on,” I said. Sadie froze, then, as if terrified I’d change my mind, dashed back into her room. When she emerged, she stood before the full-length mirror, spinning around. The silk flared, exposing her slender ankles. It was stunning, but— “The waistline is too high. Without a belt, it looks like a nightgown. Hold on.” I went upstairs, grabbed a leather belt, and brought it down. I cinched it around her waist, tying a neat bow at the back. “There. Take a look.” Sadie stared at her reflection, silent for a long moment. Then, she let out a tiny, soft giggle—like a bubble escaping a freshly opened bottle of soda. She caught herself, quickly covering her mouth with the back of her hand, but it was too late. [That was a real laugh! Not her act!] [Her green-tea armor is completely cracking!” That evening, we curled up on the sofa eating fresh strawberries. Sadie, still in her green dress, had her legs curled up under her, stuffing her cheeks like a little hamster hoarding food. I was scrolling through my phone next to her, a matching bowl of strawberries in my lap. Peaceful, quiet. She wasn’t afraid of me anymore; she was finally letting her guard down. “Grace, these are so sweet.” “Yeah.” “Grace, you want to try one dipped in chocolate?” “You eat it.” “Grace—” “Stop saying my name or I’ll think you’re casting a spell.” She burst into a bright laugh, her eyes curving into crescent moons. [She looks so happy, oh my god.] [Three years of walking on eggshells, and she can finally breathe in her own home.” Just then, the front door opened. Wyatt was back. He stood in the entryway, taking in the scene. Sadie in my dress, legs curled up, eating strawberries. Me scrolling on my phone. Two identical bowls on the coffee table. His expression shifted from exhaustion to confusion, and then to pure disbelief. [The big brother is back!] [He was away for a week and comes home to a parallel universe, lol.” “Wyatt!” Sadie called out, her voice muffled by a strawberry. Wyatt walked in, his eyes darting between us. “You two… aren’t fighting?” Sadie shook her head, gesturing to her dress. “Grace let me wear it. She even styled it for me.” Wyatt stared at the dress, then at me. His gaze shifted. It was no longer the cold, defensive wall he’d put up for three years. There was something else flickering in his eyes—something fragile and searching. Over the next few days, I could feel Wyatt watching me. At dinner, while watching TV, even when I was just talking to Sadie. Sadie had told him everything that happened—how I protected her, kicked out the scammers, and fired the butler. Wyatt listened in silence. On Saturday, Sadie was sprawled on the living room rug, sorting through nail polishes. “Grace, this one or this one?” she asked, holding up dusty rose and cafe au lait. “Dusty rose.” “Let me paint yours too. Sit.” She pulled up a small stool, taking my hand and resting it on her knee. Mid-stroke, she paused. “Your hands are freezing, Grace.” Without waiting for an answer, she squeezed my hand, pulling it into her warm palms. When she finished, she held my hand up, admiring her work. “Pretty, right?” “Very pretty.” She smiled brightly. Wyatt was sitting on the adjacent sofa, a folder in his lap, but he hadn’t turned a page. He was staring at us. I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Where are you going?” Sadie asked. “To make coffee.” A few minutes later, I walked out with a mug and set it on the side table next to Wyatt. “For you.” Wyatt looked at the cup. Black coffee. No cream, no sugar. His fingers tensed on the folder. “Who asked you to make this?” “No one,” I said, sitting back down. “You always drink it like this.” The room went dead silent. Wyatt stared at the dark liquid for a long time. Then, slowly, he picked it up and took a sip. [He drank it!] [Only the real Grace knew his coffee order. The impostor never paid attention!” Sadie stopped painting her nails. Her eyes darted between Wyatt and me. Wyatt set the mug down, his eyes locked on mine. The coldness was entirely gone, replaced by a complex, trembling hope that he barely dared to believe. “Grace,” he said quietly. The air in the room stretched taut. Sadie held her breath, clutching her nail polish brush, watching me. “How did you know I take my coffee black?” I looked at him, saying nothing. Sadie leaned forward, her voice trembling slightly. “Grace… is it really you? Are you back?”

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With our wedding just weeks away, I found a stack of toll receipts on my boyfriend’s phone. Every single one showed a midnight departure, a grueling twelve-hour drive, and a frantic return the very next morning. To keep me from noticing his absence, he had pulled off these brutal, back-to-back road trips, running on pure adrenaline and desperation. Looking at that exhausting, dangerous schedule, my friends tried to soothe me over brunch. “It’s normal,” they said, offering sympathetic smiles. “Cold feet. Guys freak out before the wedding. He just needs to get it out of his system, he’ll snap out of it.” But I didn’t believe them. So, that very night, I booked a ticket and followed him to Chicago. And there, in the passenger seat of his car, I saw the girl. They got out together and walked into a boutique motel off the highway. Panic, hot and sudden, blinded me. I lunged forward, desperate to catch him, to scream his name, but I didn’t see the oncoming traffic. The bumper of a sedan clipped me, sending me sprawling onto the wet asphalt. Through a haze of white-hot pain and blurring vision, my fingers shook as I typed a desperate text. “Pick up the phone. I’ve been in an accident.” A few yards away, Luke stopped. I saw him pull out his phone and look at the screen. I held my breath, waiting for him to spin around, to run to me. Instead, he swiped the notification away, shoved the phone back into his pocket, and guided the girl inside. I blacked out. It wasn’t until seven that evening, dragging my fractured leg in its fresh plaster cast, that I finally made it back to our apartment in New York. Only then did Luke’s name light up my screen, his voice laced with practiced panic. “Oh my god, Freda! What happened? Are you okay? Which hospital are you at? I’m coming to get you.” “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was hollow, entirely flat. No need to pick me up. And no need to get married, either. … My silence must have made him uneasy. “My phone died this afternoon,” Luke explained quickly, his voice soft and placating. “It was so hectic, I didn’t have a chance to charge it.” For the past three months, this had been his go-to excuse. If I hadn’t seen him with my own eyes, I would still be entirely in the dark, shielded by my own naivety. “Okay,” I murmured. “How bad is the leg? What did the doctor say?” His voice sounded genuinely worried. I looked up at the wall clock. It was 7:40 PM. It had been nearly eight hours since I sent that text. I snapped a photo of my heavy plaster cast and sent it to him. A compound fracture. Luke looked at the photo but didn’t ask any more questions about the pain or the diagnosis. Instead, he sent over a few photos of pink blossoms framing a lakeside path. “They’re in full bloom here,” he wrote. “It’s a literal sea of pink. Photos don’t do it justice.” I stared at the image for a long moment before typing back: “Is Chicago really that beautiful?” Beautiful enough to drive twelve hours for, four times in a single month? He had sent me the exact same photos four times now. The same angles. The same composition. He was so lazy with his deceit that he couldn’t even bother to take a new picture. There was a long pause on his end, as if he hadn’t expected the question. “It’s nice,” he said, his tone turning guarded. “To be honest, half of it was just helping a friend move her things. I was doing a favor.” He didn’t name the friend, and I didn’t ask, because I already knew he wouldn’t tell the truth. It was Giselle. I had scrolled through her Instagram earlier. She had posted a photo of herself looking radiant, standing under those exact crabapple blossoms. The photographer had clearly adored her, waiting for the perfect golden-hour light to hit her face before clicking the shutter. It was nothing like the photos Luke took of me. Nine times out of ten, his photos of me were blurry or off-center. Whenever I complained, he would just laugh helplessly. “I’m just a typical guy, babe. I don’t know how to work a camera.” But looking at Giselle’s profile, I finally understood. It wasn’t a lack of skill. It was a lack of care. Seeing that I wasn’t responding, Luke assumed I was tired. “You should get some rest. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” “Okay,” I said, and hung up. I clicked on Giselle’s caption again. It was a sweet, bubbly update: “Grad school is officially over! Four trips back and forth, but so lucky to have had a dedicated helper. Thank you, you know who you are.” She went four times. He went four times. He hadn’t missed a single trip. Meanwhile, our caterer, the florist, the tux fittings—he hadn’t shown an ounce of interest in any of them. My head throbbed, a dull ache matching the tight pressure of the cast. After sending an email to cancel the wedding venue, I finally fell into a fitful sleep around 2 AM. When I woke up, Luke was already home. The apartment smelled of rich herbs; he was in the kitchen brewing chicken broth. Seeing me awake, he walked over and gently brushed a hand against my cheek. “How did you manage to get hit by a car?” I stared at him for a moment. “I went out, saw someone I recognized, and tried to catch up with them.” Luke offered a mild, distracted nod. “Well, be more careful next time.” He didn’t ask where I had gone, or who the person was. Because he didn’t care. My train ticket to Chicago was sitting right there on the entryway table, fully visible. He didn’t even glance at it. My eyes stung for a brief second. I grabbed my crutches and dragged myself out of bed. After a quick wash, I hobbled over to the dining table and reached for a bowl of the soup. “Don’t touch that!” Luke suddenly yelled, lunging forward, his voice cracking with panic. I froze, the ladle hovering in mid-air. “It’s not for me?” He cleared his throat, trying to soften his tone. “A friend of mine has a terrible flu. I promised I’d drop some homemade soup off. But I mean… if you really want some, go ahead.” Though he smiled, the reluctance in his voice was sharp enough to cut. I didn’t argue. I looked down at my heavy plaster cast, then quietly put the ladle back down. Luke immediately sealed the thermos and packed up a few side dishes. Once everything was neatly packed into a tote bag, he finally looked at me. “What do you want to eat? I can whip up some quick food before I go?” “Who is this friend?” I asked. Our voices collided in the quiet kitchen. “Just someone from school. You don’t know them,” he said, his voice perfectly smooth. “Male or female?” The easy smile vanished from Luke’s face, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. “Freda, what is this? It’s just a normal friend. Are you just stressed about the wedding?” I didn’t push further. He turned back toward the stove to put a pot of water on, but his phone suddenly buzzed on the counter. He glanced at it, and within seconds, he was ripping off his apron and grabbing the thermos. “Something came up, I have to run. Make sure you eat something, okay?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. He was out the door before the lock could even click back into place. He rushed out to care for his ex-girlfriend’s mild flu, completely disregarding his fiancé with a broken leg. My phone vibrated with a text. The bridal boutique confirmed that the cancellation of my wedding dress order had gone through. I tapped to confirm the refund, then ordered myself some takeout. After eating, I took a cab to the clinic to pick up my pain medication. And there they were, walking right toward me in the lobby. Luke was carrying Giselle’s designer tote bag in his left hand, and the empty thermos in his right. The moment his eyes met mine, his smile froze. But he quickly adjusted his expression, smoothing over the cracks. “What a coincidence,” he said. Yes. A coincidence that we were at the same clinic, and a coincidence that she had already finished my soup. Giselle didn’t offer any explanation. Instead, she gave me a sweet, polite smile. “Freda, go grab your prescription first. We’ll wait for you outside.” She sounded so poised, so entirely at home, as if she were the one hosting the afternoon. Luke naturally nodded along with her suggestion. I didn’t say anything. When we got to the parking lot, I instinctively reached for the passenger door. Giselle was already standing there, looking at me with a soft, apologetic expression. “I’m so used to sitting up front. Do you mind if I take it, or do you want me to move?” She didn’t make a single move to step aside. The seat’s angle and distance from the dash were already adjusted perfectly to her petite frame. Before I could speak, Luke opened the rear door. “Freda, why don’t you sit in the back? There’s more legroom for your cast.” Throughout the drive, they laughed and chatted easily. I sat in the back, isolated behind an invisible wall, watching them exist in a world that didn’t include me. Suddenly, Luke pulled over by a roadside farm stand. Without a word, he jumped out of the car and ran toward the stalls. Seeing me lower my window, Giselle turned back with a smile. “Don’t worry, he just went to get fresh cherries. There’s a specific orchard stand he always stops at.” My chest tightened, but before I could say anything, Luke was running back, panting, his face bright with excitement. “Giselle, look, they had the sweet ones!” The moment the words left his mouth, he seemed to remember I was in the back. “Freda, do you want—” Before he could finish, Giselle plucked a cherry, pulled the stem, and popped it directly into his mouth. “Told you they’d have them!” Her finger lingered on his bottom lip for a fraction of a second before she pulled away. Luke’s face flushed red. He shot a quick, guilty glance at me in the rearview mirror, then cleared his throat and shifted into drive. “Let’s get going.” Giselle sat back, perfectly relaxed, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. In the reflection of the mirror, my expression was entirely blank. When Luke met my eyes, trying to gauge my reaction, I actually let out a quiet laugh. The car’s speed gathered abruptly. After we finally dropped Giselle off at her apartment, Luke immediately turned around to explain. “Don’t take her seriously, Freda. She’s always been a tease, it doesn’t mean anything.” “Do you even remember you’re getting married?” I asked quietly. The question was too sharp, and Luke’s face darkened. He didn’t answer. I turned my head to look out the window, my mind drifting. Luke and Giselle had been the classic college sweethearts. They were the golden couple—the debate partners, the honor students, the ones who traveled together every summer. But they were both too stubborn, constantly fighting, breaking up, and making up. When they finally called it quits after graduation because of differing career paths, Luke had wept as if his world had ended. I had never seen a man break down like that. I remembered walking up to him on that rainy evening, pulling my own beanie over his head to shield him from the cold, and running off before he could see my face. We reconnected a year later, and our relationship had progressed naturally. It was comfortable, steady, and peaceful. There was no screaming, no devastating heartbreak. And because of that, he had grown bored. “Don’t overthink this. Nothing happened between us,” his voice was stiff now, cold. I met his eyes in the mirror. “The sick friend was her, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” Luke admitted, his tone defensive. “She was sick, and I looked after her. That’s all it was.” He had built a thick, protective wall around himself. But I was the one left standing outside of it. We drove the rest of the way in silence. When we reached the parking garage, my leg was throbbing from the day’s movement. I wanted him to help me, to offer a shoulder. Instead, Luke walked over and simply hoisted me onto his back. I was too exhausted to fight, so I closed my eyes and rested my head against his shoulder. While we were waiting for the elevator, his phone buzzed in his hand. He paused, glancing down at me. “Freda?” I didn’t move, pretending to be asleep. Luke opened the notification. It was a photo from Giselle. She was wearing a tiny, black string bikini. “Does this look good? Thinking of posting it on Facebook.” I felt Luke’s breath catch. He typed rapidly: “Don’t you dare post that.” “Why not?” Luke’s grip on my thighs tightened. “Because you’re mine.” “I know. But you’re still getting married.” Luke didn’t reply to that. The elevator doors chimed open. He carried me into the apartment with careful, gentle steps, laying me down on the sofa. Then, he immediately hurried into his study, desperate to check if she had posted the photo anyway. He didn’t notice the tear tracking down the side of my face. He didn’t notice the damp patch of moisture on the shoulder of his shirt where my head had rested. It was nearly two hours later when he finally came out of the study, looking entirely at ease. Seeing me “awake,” he walked over and patted my head. “What do you want for lunch, babe?” “Fried rice is fine,” I said, shifting my weight and pulling my hand away from his touch. Luke froze, his eyes dropping to my bare ring finger. “Where is your engagement ring?” I had taken it off the moment I got home from Chicago. “It’s annoying to keep on with the cast when I wash up,” I said simply. “Did you put it somewhere safe? You can’t just lose a wedding ring, Freda.” “Is it really that important?” Luke’s brow furrowed. “What kind of question is that? Of course it is. It’s the symbol of our commitment to each other.” The very commitment he had been trading away in his study just minutes ago. Seeing my silence, he took a deep breath, kneeling down to take my hands in his. “Freda, you need to have more faith in us. You’re the only one I want to marry.” Yet he couldn’t bring himself to let go of his ex. I looked at him, genuinely wondering if he wasn’t exhausted by his own performance. How did he manage to split his heart so easily between two women? After lunch, I went into the bedroom to start quietly packing my things. When I came out, Luke was putting on a jacket. “Where are you going?” I asked. “An alumni mixer,” he said. Then, as if sensing my skepticism, he added, “Do you want to come?” “Yes.” Meeting his startled gaze, I offered a small smile. “I’ll go with you.” It was the first time in our three years together that I had ever insisted on joining him for an alumni event. The look on his face was far from happy. When we arrived at the restaurant, Giselle was already waiting at the entrance. Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second when she saw me, but she quickly masked it. “Freda, so glad you could make it!” “Thanks,” I said, but my eyes were drawn to her outfit. She was wearing a dusty blue knit dress. Beside her, Luke was wearing a matching dusty blue button-down. Even the leather-strapped watches on their wrists were from the same brand. Walking in beside them, I felt like the intruder. As soon as we walked into the private dining room, a guy near the head of the table stood up, waving a beer. “Luke! Heard you’re finally tying the knot! Man, when did you and Giselle get back together? You guys always were the perfect match.” Luke’s entire body went rigid beside me. Giselle, however, kept her face perfectly composed, even turning to look at me to see if my expression would crack. A friend nearby quickly tugged the guy’s sleeve, whispering loudly, “Shut up, you’re drunk. That’s his fiancé over there.” The guy’s face went bright red. He looked at me, stammering, “Oh, man, I’m so sorry. My bad, truly.” I smiled politely. “Don’t worry about it.” From beside me, Giselle let out a sharp, mocking laugh. It was brief, but loud enough to cut through the sudden quiet of the room. This time, I turned to look at her directly. “What’s funny, Giselle?” She clearly hadn’t expected me to call her out so bluntly. The tight, practiced smile on her face began to slip. “Nothing, Freda. Honestly, you’re just being so sensitive.” “Am I?” I said, my voice steady and clear. “Is it sensitive to care that you sent my fiancé a bikini photo yesterday? Or was that just another one of your little jokes?” The entire room went dead silent. Giselle’s face went completely white. Within seconds, she collapsed against the table, burying her face in her hands as she began to sob. Luke’s expression turned utterly hostile. He grabbed my wrist, his grip painfully tight, and dragged me out into the hallway. “Freda! Have you lost your mind? What are you doing?!” As he pulled me, my cast-bound leg clipped the sharp corner of the wall. A wave of agony shot up my spine, making me gasp. When the pain finally subsided, I looked at him and felt a sudden, bitter urge to laugh. I had just exposed his betrayal, and he was standing here, demanding to know what was wrong with “me”. “What are you so defensive about?” I asked. “I’m not defensive!” Luke hissed, his face dark with anger. “It was just a photo. Don’t be so provincial.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So I can send a bikini photo to my ex, too? And tell you it’s just a photo?” Luke rubbed his temples, looking thoroughly exhausted. Inside the room, Giselle’s crying was growing louder, drawing more attention. He had no interest in continuing this fight with me. “Just go home, Freda. We’ll talk about this at home.” Whenever there was a conflict, his first instinct was always to cast me out. Through the crack of the door, his classmates were looking at me with a mix of pity and discomfort. Behind them, Giselle had lifted her head, resting her chin on her hands, watching me with a smug, victorious little wave. I turned and walked away. When I got back to the apartment, my parents were already there waiting for me. They had already loaded the last of my boxes into the trunk of their car. My mom looked at me, her eyes quiet and steady. “Are you sure about this, sweetie?” I nodded. “I’m sure.” Before we drove away, my parents sent out a group text to all of our relatives, formally cancelling the wedding. On the drive back to my hometown, my phone buzzed with an Instagram notification. Giselle had posted a photo from the reunion. “The perfect reunion. Can’t wait for next year, guys!” In the group shot, Giselle was pressed tightly against Luke’s side, her arm wrapped possessively around his. But I had already left the battlefield. At 8 PM, Luke unlocked the door to the apartment, expecting to find me waiting for him. Instead, he was met with nothing but silence, and a sudden, cold dread began to settle in his chest.

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