Walking home after school with Everett, the world was exactly as it had always been—the smell of damp pavement, the rhythmic thrum of rain against umbrellas, the comfortable silence between two people who had known each other since they were in diapers. Then, a voice that was unmistakably Everett’s, yet completely silent, echoed inside my skull. God, Cora is such a drag. Why does she have to shadow me every single day? I froze. Everett hadn’t moved his lips. He was staring straight ahead, his profile as sharp and cold as an ice sculpture. If it weren’t for the Sinclair-Aria merger, I wouldn’t even look at her. My father would kill me if I blew the deal. It’s pouring. I bet Luna didn’t bring an umbrella. She’s probably shivering. My heart did a slow, painful somersault in my chest. I felt a cold sweat break out, unrelated to the rain. 1 Luna. She was the new girl—the girl with the thrift-store sweaters and the kind of ethereal beauty that didn’t belong in a place as cutthroat as our private academy. Rumor had it she lived in a cramped studio on the edge of the city, working two jobs just to keep up with the tuition. Everett’s jaw was tight, his usual mask of indifference firmly in place. But the voice in my head—the one that sounded like his soul stripped bare—wouldn’t stop. The walk to that neighborhood is brutal. The streets are a mess. I’m so worried about her. I just want to be the one to take her home. Ugh, if I could just find a way to shake Cora off for five minutes… I stood there, paralyzed. I looked at him, really looked at him, and for the first time, I saw it: the flicker of resentment in his eyes when he glanced at me. He didn’t just find me annoying. He loathed me. Suddenly, the heavy back door of the prep hall creaked open. A soft, hesitant voice drifted toward us. “Everett? My umbrella… it’s broken.” 2 I turned. Luna was standing there, clutching a flimsy, floral-patterned umbrella with a snapped rib that hung like a broken wing. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I didn’t mean to bother you both. I just… I was worried about my textbooks getting ruined.” She looked up, her eyes catching Everett’s for a split second before she looked away. They were rimmed with red, shimmering with a vulnerability that felt like a calculated strike to the heart. Luna had only been here a week. She barely spoke to anyone, let alone the “inner circle.” For her to ask Everett for help was a move I hadn’t expected. Everett was famous for his lack of patience; he usually cut people down before they could even finish a sentence. But today, he didn’t even hesitate. “Cora, I can’t walk you home today,” he said, his voice dropping an octave into something low and forced. “Luna lives on the other side of town. It’s too far for her to walk in this.” His face remained a mask of ice. If I hadn’t heard the internal screaming of his heart, I might have actually believed this was a moment of chivalry. “And what about me?” I asked, my voice laced with a bitter edge I couldn’t quite suppress. Everett frowned, his irritation bubbling to the surface. “Your driver is literally sitting at the gate, Cora. Just take her broken umbrella and run to the car. It’s twenty feet. You’ll survive.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoved Luna’s mangled umbrella into my hand. 3 Luna looked at me, her face a portrait of guilt and anxiety. She twisted the hem of her cardigan, her fingers shaking. “No, I can’t let you do that, Cora… I’m so sorry. I’m such a mess. Forget I said anything, I’ll just run for the bus.” She turned to go, but Everett caught her arm. His grip was firm, protective. He looked at me again, his lips thinned into a hard line. But his thoughts? They were a riot. Here comes the tantrum. I am so done with her drama. She’s spent her whole life thinking the world revolves around the Aria family fortune. She thinks she owns me. But I’m not playing along anymore. I love Luna. I want to scream it just to see the look on Cora’s face. Luna can’t get sick. I won’t let her. I felt like the air had been sucked out of the street. Something inside me—some old, dusty hope—finally cracked and turned to ash. Before he could say another word, I took a step back. “Just go,” I said. Everett’s shoulders slumped in visible relief. He turned to her, his voice softening into a register I’d never heard him use with me. “Luna, give me your bag. I’ve got you.” Luna gave me one last, lingering look of pity before she tucked herself under Everett’s umbrella. Within seconds, they were two silhouettes blending into the grey curtain of the rain. I looked down at the broken umbrella in my hand. Then, I tossed it into the gutter and walked into the downpour. At the gate, our driver, Arthur, scrambled out with a large canopy, looking panicked. “Miss Aria! Where is Mr. Sinclair? Why are you all alone?” “Just drive, Arthur,” I said, leaning back into the leather seat, feeling the cold water seep into my skin. My eyes burned, but I refused to let a single tear fall. 4 When I got home, my mother was a whirlwind of silk and concern. She began rubbing my hair with a towel, her voice a frantic hum. “Cora! Are you trying to catch pneumonia? Where is Everett? He’s supposed to be with you! Look at you, you’re pale as a ghost. If your father heard about this, he’d fly back from the London merger tonight…” “Mom,” I interrupted, my voice sounding hollow and strange. “I just want to sleep.” She paused, searching my face for a moment. “Agatha, get the ginger tea started! I’ll bring it up myself.” She didn’t push. She knew me well enough to know when the silence was a warning. I changed into dry clothes and went upstairs. The moment the door clicked shut, the world went silent. But the images from the afternoon kept playing on a loop in the back of my mind. I saw the way Everett’s eyes crinkled at the corners when he looked at Luna. I saw the way he looked at me—like I was an obstacle to be cleared, a debt to be paid. The voices hadn’t been a hallucination. Everett Sinclair didn’t just tolerate me. He used me. He hated the very shadow I cast. For years, I told myself he was just “stoic,” that he didn’t know how to show affection because of the pressure his father put on him. I was wrong. He knew how to show it; he just didn’t want to show it to me. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. The caller ID flashed: EVERETT. 5 The second I picked up, his voice came through like a jagged blade. “Cora, did you say something to your mother? Because my father just called me, losing his mind. It was a rainstorm, for God’s sake. I was being a decent human being and giving a classmate a ride. Do you really have to run to the parents every time you don’t get your way?” I could hear his breathing—jagged, frantic. It was the most emotion I’d ever heard from him. “Everett,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Are you calling to check if I’m okay? Or are you just scared that if my family pulls out of the merger, your father will finally realize you’re useless?” There was a beat of silence. Over the phone, the “mind-reading” didn’t work. But I didn’t need it. I could see the sneer on his face. “Don’t be dramatic,” he snapped. “You’re just throwing a fit because I didn’t hold your hand for two blocks. Just tell your dad it was a misunderstanding. Fix this, Cora.” I took a long, shaky breath. “Everett, why would I ever cover for you again?” The line went dead silent. 6 I let out a short, cold laugh. “You think your dad found out because of me? Everett, use your head. Do you have any idea how many people your father has watching us? He knows exactly how much money the Aria family has pumped into your father’s failing ventures. He’s not watching me—he’s watching his investment.” I heard a muffled thud on the other end, like he’d punched a wall. “Are you finished?” he hissed. “No,” I said. “I’m just getting started. I’ve spent years keeping quiet about your ‘moods’ because I thought we were a team. But the truth is, the Sinclair family would be in bankruptcy court if it weren’t for my father’s pity.” The silence stretched out, heavy and suffocating. He was calculating, weighing his pride against his bank account. Finally, his voice came back, cold as a winter morning. “I won’t be calling you for a while, Cora. Maybe take that time to think about how you treat people. You think money buys loyalty? Good luck with that.” He hung up before I could reply. 7 The cold war lasted three days. I knew he was waiting for me to crawl back, to apologize for “misunderstanding” him, just like I always did. He thought he was the prize. On the third day, I was walking to the library when Luna collided with me. It happened in slow motion. Before I could even react, she was on the floor, clutching her ankle and whimpering. Students stopped in the hallway, their eyes darting between us. Then, that familiar, low voice cut through the air. “Cora! What the hell are you doing?” I looked up to find Everett’s eyes burning with pure, unadulterated disgust. Luna bit her lip, her voice a tiny, fragile thing. “It wasn’t her fault, Everett. I was just… I was walking too fast.” God, even now she’s trying to protect her. Luna is too good for this world. I’ve only ignored Cora for three days and she’s already targeting Luna. She’s so incredibly spoiled. I can’t breathe in the same room as her. Once I take over the company, I am going to bury the Aria family. I’ll make sure Cora never looks down on anyone again. The thoughts hit me like a physical blow. 8 I looked at the crowd, then back at Everett. “She ran into me.” Everett stepped forward, his lip curling. “Save it. Do you honestly expect us to believe she tripped herself just to spite you? You’re pathetic.” I looked at Luna, who was looking up at him with wide, watery eyes. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that if she fell, a dog like you would come running to bark at me.” The hallway went dead silent. Luna gasped, fresh tears spilling over. “Cora, I know you hate me, but how can you talk to Everett like that? He’s only being kind…” Everett’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. “Is this who you are now, Cora? Just a bully hiding behind a trust fund? You clearly haven’t learned a thing—” “If you hate the trust fund so much,” I interrupted, “stop using it. I’m telling my father tonight to pull the funding for the East Side project. You should probably tell your dad to start looking for new investors. Or a bankruptcy lawyer.” There she goes again. Always the power play, always the threats. She’s bluffing. She’ll cool off in two days and come crying to me. And when she does, I’m making her get on her knees to apologize to Luna. “Do whatever you want,” Everett spat. “I don’t care.” He knelt down, sweeping Luna into his arms in a classic bridal carry. “Hang on,” he whispered to her, his voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’ve got you. Let’s get you to the nurse.” Luna tucked her head into his shoulder, her face hidden from the crowd. But as they turned, I caught it—the tiny, sharp curve of a smirk aimed directly at me. I didn’t say a word. I just turned and walked the other way. 9 My father came home that night, still smelling like jet fuel and expensive espresso. We sat in his study, the heavy oak doors shut tight. He tossed a stack of documents onto the desk. “The Sinclairs are pushing hard for the East Side development, Cora. Your Uncle George has been hounding me for a decision. I’ve been holding off. What do you think?” My father knew exactly what was going on. He’d seen the Sinclairs lean on our family for decades, using our reputation to prop up their shaky empire. He’d only allowed it because he thought Everett would eventually be family. I looked him in the eye. “Dad, I’ve been a fool. But I’m awake now. It’s time to cut them loose. All of it.” He let out a short, dry chuckle and pushed the papers aside. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that.” He stood up and walked over, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Remember this, Cora. You are an Aria. You are the heir to everything we’ve built. You don’t bow to anyone. Especially not a Sinclair.” I nodded, feeling a strange, cold peace settle over me.

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Piper always lived under the delusion that I was a trophy she’d managed to snatch from someone else’s hands through sheer, calculated manipulation. What was truly exhausting, though, was her attempt to goad her best friend—the “one who got away” in her own twisted narrative, Isabel—into trying to steal me, too. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” she had told Isabel back then. I remember the smugness in her voice. “Back when he was single, girls were practically tripping over themselves to get near him. Now? It’s just him and his girlfriend. There’s no competition.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her wine. “Love is a game of skill, Isabel. If you’ve got the moves, you take the throne. If you don’t, you bow out gracefully.” The very next day, I received a DM from Isabel. Attached was a photo. “I heard you don’t give the time of day to girls without a toned core,” the message read. In the photo, she was pulling up her workout top to reveal a razor-sharp six-pack. “I’ve got the abs. Can I get a reply now?” I was hovering my thumb over the screen, ready to type out a polite but firm rejection, when my vision suddenly flickered. Strange, translucent lines of text—like a live-stream chat—began scrolling across the air in front of me. [Ugh, this side character… just cheat already!] one comment read. [If it weren’t for you blocking the way, the Male Lead could have been rescued by the Heroine ages ago. He wouldn’t have to suffer in the slums.] Another followed immediately: [The Heroine is only staying with this loser because she’s afraid if they break up, he’ll go back to bullying the Male Lead. She’s literally praying he’ll hook up with the side-chick so she can be free.] Then came one that chilled me to the bone: [Stop hating on him. If this guy doesn’t break up with her soon, he’s slated for the ‘tragic ending.’ Once the Heroine and Male Lead finally get together, he’s going to get kidnapped, assaulted, and eventually die of a terminal illness in a gutter.] I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. Without a second thought, I called Piper, ended things right then and there, and accepted Isabel’s invitation. But I’d barely finished moving my boxes into Isabel’s penthouse before Piper showed up at her sister-friend’s door, brandishing a kitchen knife. “You used every dirty trick I taught you against me!” Piper screamed, her voice cracking with a manic edge. “I taught you how to steal from others, you bitch! I didn’t tell you to steal from me!” 1 I had just finished unpacking the last of my suitcases when I heard the commotion outside. Piper was standing in the driveway, shrieking insults at her “best friend,” her face contorted with rage. Fearing things were about to turn bloody, I stepped between them, my hands raised in a gesture of forced calm. “Piper, stop it,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Can you please just stop making a scene?” Piper looked like she was vibrating with lethal intent. But as soon as I spoke, the fire in her eyes died down, replaced by a haunting, glassy red. “Stop making a scene?” she whispered. “Is that what you think this is?” She took a step closer, her breath hitching. “I was a fool. I sat there like a total idiot, coaching that snake on how to seduce a man, never imagining she was practicing her lines for you.” Her voice broke into a sob. “Parker, she took everything. She took my pride, she took my life, and she took you. Can’t you see how much I’m hurting? Please, just… come home with me.” She became increasingly hysterical, the knife in her hand trembling so violently I thought she might drop it on her own foot. She reached out with her free hand, tracing the line of my arm until her fingers locked with mine. For a split second, my heart softened. I opened my mouth to offer some kind of explanation, some comfort—but then the glitches returned. [Wait, is this side character actually falling for this? Does he really think she wants him back out of love?] [Don’t be so full of yourself. The Heroine is just testing to see if you’re actually gone for good. She needs to make sure you won’t come crawling back to haunt her once she’s finally with her ‘True Soulmate.’] [Gotta hand it to her, the crying is top-tier. The ‘devastated ex’ act almost fooled me, too. Perfect performance.] [Alright, wrap up the melodrama. Why is he still holding her hand? Can’t he see the Heroine is literally cringing inside? Look at her eyebrows—she’s disgusted.] I looked at Piper. She was practically on her knees, her face a mask of Shakespearean tragedy. Was it all just a script? My hand jerked back as if I’d touched a live wire. I tore my fingers away from hers. She looked up, startled. A fresh layer of mist coated her eyes. Here we go again, I thought. The waterworks. I looked away, my voice turning cold and flat. “We’re done, Piper. Please. Stop haunting my life.” I didn’t wait for her to respond. I grabbed Isabel’s hand and pulled her toward the house. Behind us, the clouds broke. A sudden, torrential downpour began to lash the pavement. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the second-floor living room, I looked down. Piper was still there, standing exactly where I’d left her, soaked to the bone and motionless. “Feeling guilty?” Isabel asked. Her tone was a cocktail of mockery and comfort, with a twist of something I couldn’t quite place. “I can have the housekeeper call her a car if you want.” I shook my head. Ever since I realized I was just a “disposable male lead”—a plot device destined for a gruesome end—I had started suffocating the feelings I had for Piper. I couldn’t let them grow. I was terrified of the point of no return. Maybe our entire relationship had been a glitch from the start. When I was going through a messy breakup with my previous ex, Piper had played the part of the “supportive friend” for months. She handled the drama, dealt with the toxic fallout, and was the shoulder I cried on. When she finally asked to be with me, I hesitated. It felt too soon. She accepted my rejection with such grace, such quiet patience, that I found myself drawn to her. I fell for that image of the calm, restrained woman who knew how to hold space for someone. Then, the moment we went official, the mask shattered. She became a “velvet handcuffs” kind of girlfriend. Obsessive. Clingy. She monitored my every move. If I came home late, she cried. If I missed a text, she cried. If I didn’t hold her in my sleep, she cried. As a low-energy person, the constant emotional labor of “fixing” her moods had drained me to the husk. Now that the burden was gone, I should have been ecstatic. A warm hand slid over the back of mine. Isabel. She smiled. Unlike Piper’s performative warmth, Isabel’s composure felt like something forged in the fires of experience. It was solid. Unshakable. “I honestly don’t mind,” she said softly, “if you just want to use me as a rebound. Or a distraction.” I looked at her. Her face bore no resemblance to Piper’s. I thought to myself: Maybe this is what I need. Someone older, someone who can lead, someone who doesn’t need me to be her entire world. 2 [This guy is such a sucker for any woman who gives him the time of day. Does he really think a high-flying CEO like Isabel would actually fall for a loser side-character like him?] [I don’t know where he gets the confidence. This is a Male-Oriented trope world; every woman is eventually going to gravitate toward the ‘Male Lead.’ Parker, just accept you’re a placeholder!] The heart that had just begun to beat again felt like it was flatlining. Was everyone in my life just playing a game? I didn’t notice Isabel’s eyes locked on my face. Within a second, my expression had curdled. She squeezed my hand, her voice suddenly laced with an odd, sharp anxiety. “What is it? Is it the house? Do you hate the decor?” I didn’t understand what act she was playing now. I quietly pulled my hand away. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’m going to go lie down.” The next morning, I walked downstairs to find Isabel fumbling around the kitchen. She was trying to wash vegetables, but she’d somehow managed to spray water everywhere. Her silk blouse was damp, clinging to her skin. Her hair was matted in wet strands against her forehead. I watched a single bead of water trace a path down her neck, past the subtle rhythm of her throat, disappearing into the shadows of her collar. Beneath the translucent wet fabric, the sharp lines of her physique were unmistakable. Before I could look away, she spoke. “I… I might not be as good a cook as Piper,” she said, her voice uncharacteristically small. “But I’m a fast learner.” [Classic female competition!] the text scrolled by. [The Alpha Female can’t stand losing to the younger girl in any category. She’s using the side-character as a lab rat for her cooking.] [Parker is only getting this treatment because the ‘Male Lead’ isn’t available yet. Otherwise, why would a woman like Isabel ever step into a kitchen for a nobody like him?] I looked away, my voice colder than I intended. “You don’t need to cook for me.” Isabel looked stricken. She opened her mouth to argue, but my phone rang. It was my assistant, sounding frantic. “Boss, the corporate seal is missing. We just landed that massive tech contract and we need it for the filing immediately!” Panic flared, overriding my personal drama. I tore through my luggage, but it wasn’t there. It had to be at the house. At Piper’s. I checked the time. She should have been at work by now. I figured I’d let myself in, grab it, and be out in five minutes. I walked into the home office with practiced ease and yanked open the drawer. Empty. I frowned, wondering if I’d misremembered, when a low, raspy voice came from behind me. “Don’t bother. I hid it.” I spun around. Piper was standing in the doorway, her eyes bloodshot, looking like she hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours. The harsh words I had prepared died in my throat. I forced myself to look at her palm instead of her face. “Give it back, Piper.” She lunged forward, grabbing my wrists and pinning them behind my back before I could react. She hauled me into her chest, her grip like iron. “Move back in,” she whispered into the crook of my neck. “Move back in, and I’ll give it to you right now.” Her skin was unnaturally hot. She pressed her face against mine, her nose brushing mine in a desperate, fleeting mimicry of affection. She leaned in to kiss me, but I jerked my head away. I felt a sharp sting on my neck—she’d bitten me. She began to sob, the hot tears soaking into my collarbone. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I should have listened. I shouldn’t have tried to play games with Isabel. I didn’t think she’d actually take you.” “Can’t we just go back? I’ll be whatever you want. I’ll be the quiet little girlfriend. Just don’t leave me.” [Is he actually moved by this? Can’t he hear the subtext? She’s basically calling him a ‘cheater’ who likes playing both sides.] [Seriously, a guy this messy deserves the ‘tragic ending.’ It’s not an accident; it’s karma.] [Wait until he finds out the ‘Male Lead’ just got hired as Piper’s new personal assistant. The office romance is about to start!] I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. Almost fell for it again. These two “sisters” were both Oscar-caliber actresses. I gritted my teeth and brought my heel down hard on her foot. She gasped, her grip loosening for a split second, and I bolted for the door. She stumbled, then scrambled after me, literally sliding across the hardwood to block my path. “Parker, you can’t go!” she cried, clutching my knees as she knelt on the floor. I rubbed my temples, my patience finally snapping. “We are broken up, Piper. Give me one good reason why I should stay.” She looked frantic, sweat beading on her forehead. Then, a strange glint appeared in her eyes. She looked up at me, her expression suddenly, terrifyingly firm. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “You can’t abandon the mother of your child.” Me: What? The screen: [???] 3 I stared at her flat stomach, my mind racing through the timeline, trying to calculate the odds. She saw the doubt in my eyes. Standing up and using the hallway table for support, she reached back and pulled her silk nightshirt over her head in one fluid motion. I didn’t have time to look away. My eyes landed on the soft curves of her torso, her chest rising and falling rapidly in the dim hallway light. A small, triumphant smile touched her lips. She took my hand and pressed my fingertips against her lower abdomen. Her skin was smooth, tensing and then relaxing under my touch. “Feel that, baby?” she whispered. Before I could pull away, her other hand hooked around the back of my neck. She pulled me down and kissed me with a desperate, unyielding hunger. [False alarm. She’s not pregnant, she’s just thirsty.] [Well, she is the Heroine. That body is basically the gold standard for this genre.] [Obviously. Why do you think she’s kissing the side-character now? She knows things are going to get ‘intense’ once the Male Lead takes over, and she wants to get it out of her system.] [Heartbreaking. She’s using Parker as an outlet while saving her ‘pure soul’ for the Male Lead.] I felt a surge of humiliated rage. I bit her lip hard—hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled our mouths. She let out a low, breathless laugh and pinned me against the wall, her arms boxing me in. She opened her mouth to say something—something meant to be seductive, no doubt—but I glared at her with everything I had. Then, I dropped low, ducked under her arm, and sprinted out the door. Piper: …What? The screen: [Rare. The side-character actually rejected her?] [Just a ‘hard to get’ tactic. He’ll be back.] [Now that she’s confirmed he’s ‘playing hard to get,’ she can finally focus on her new assistant. Get ready for the sparks!] I ignored the voices. I spent the next hour on the phone with my lawyer and my secretary, figuring out how to bypass the missing seal. When I got to the office, I saw Isabel standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows. The morning sun framed her in gold. She was listening to a consultant, looking every bit the power player. She caught my eye and gave a small, subtle nod. I put on my “professional” mask and joined the meeting. Between her influence and my negotiation, the contract was saved. I thought she’d leave once the business was done. Instead, she stayed. She sat in my office, watching me work. I started to wonder what her angle was. Then the text appeared: [The ‘Alpha Female’ is so calculated. She knows the Male Lead wants to be a CEO. She’s scouting Parker’s company so she can short the stock and buy it out as a gift for her future man.] My heart did a painful somersault. You can mess with my feelings, but messing with my life’s work? That’s where I draw the line. Trying to stay polite given her stature, I cleared my throat. “Isabel, don’t you have a multi-billion dollar empire to run?” She bit her lip, standing up to button her blazer. She looked… hurt? “Right. I’ll get out of your hair. Call me if you need anything.” I nodded. I’d sooner call a debt collector, I thought. By the time I finished work, I was exhausted. I drove into my parking garage, but I found myself paralyzed by the thought of going upstairs. I didn’t want to see Isabel. I didn’t want to see anyone. I sat in the dark car, browsing Zillow. I needed a new place. Something temporary, something mine. I found a listing for a vacant condo nearby and messaged my assistant to buy it immediately. Relieved at the prospect of an escape, I finally went upstairs to pack my things. Of course, I ran into Isabel at the door. She didn’t say anything, and I wasn’t in the mood to pretend. But when I opened the door, I froze. There was Piper. She was wearing a Hello Kitty apron, standing in the foyer like a 1950s housewife. “Welcome home,” she said. “Dinner’s ready, sis. You too, Parker. Wash up.” Piper had this eerie, Stepford-wife smile plastered on her face. It was deeply unsettling. 4 Isabel’s brow furrowed, her voice dropping to a glacial temperature. “Last time you had a knife. What is it this time? Poison in the risotto?” Piper’s smile twitched, a tiny crack appearing in her mask. “Hardly. I wouldn’t risk harming Parker just to get rid of you.” Isabel’s patience evaporated. “What are you doing here, Piper?” “Don’t worry,” Piper chirped, regaining her composure. “I’m not here to break you two up. I’m here to… join the party.” She didn’t wait for an answer. She sat down at the dining table and started eating, as if to prove the food was safe. She was right; she had no reason to poison us. She was just playing the long game, testing my resolve. Back at her house, I’d been clear, and she knew the “Male Lead” was already in her orbit. This was just a spat between “sisters.” I was drained. I sat at the far end of the table, as far from Piper as possible. Isabel took the seat next to me. Immediately, Piper grabbed her bowl and slid into the chair on my other side. Isabel put a piece of sea bass on my plate. Piper’s chopsticks followed instantly, dropping a glazed rib into my bowl. “Eat up, Parker,” she cooed, her voice so syrupy it made my skin crawl. I hadn’t even picked up my fork when Isabel grabbed the arm of my chair and pulled it half an inch toward her. Piper didn’t miss a beat. She grabbed the other armrest and pulled me back, her smile frozen in place. “Let’s keep things fair, shall we?” They stared at each other over my head. I could practically hear the tectonic plates of their egos grinding together. I gave up on the food. I just sat there, sipping orange juice, watching the silent war. Isabel took a sip of her water. Piper took a gulp of her soup. Then, silence. Ten minutes later, my fingertips started to itch. My breathing became shallow, heavy. I turned to look at Isabel—her face was flushed a deep crimson. She was tugging at her necktie, her throat working in tight, rhythmic swallows. She locked eyes with Piper. They both seemed stunned for a second. Then, Isabel’s eyes widened. She gritted her teeth so hard I thought they’d shatter. “I… I underestimated how low you’d go.” The “supplement” Piper had put in the water was taking effect. Shaking, Isabel reached for her phone, but Piper snatched it and smashed it against the floor. Piper leaned in, grabbing Isabel’s collar and whispering into her ear: “I’m going to make sure someone ‘finds’ you tonight. Let’s see if Parker still wants you after you’ve been ruined.” As she spoke, a group of security guards—men I didn’t recognize—burst into the room. They grabbed Isabel and began dragging her toward the door. I gripped the edge of the table, my voice thick. “What… what did you put in the water?” Piper reached out, her long arm hooking around my wrist, and yanked me down. I lost my balance and tumbled into her lap. She straddled me, her pupils blown wide, looking down at my flushed face. “Just something to make you stop running,” she whispered. [OMG, the ‘Yandere’ trait just unlocked! She’s even betraying her best friend!] [Parker, get off her! This ‘forced love’ plot isn’t for you!] [Whatever, let it play out. At least the side-character is taking the hit so the Male Lead doesn’t have to suffer.] I struggled to get up, but her arms were like coiled pythons. Just as she started to lift me to carry me toward the bedroom, a figure appeared in the doorway, framed by the hall light. A young man, tall and lean, shouting: “Let him go!” [Holy crap! The Male Lead has entered the building!]

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When I opened my eyes, the air felt different—thicker, colder, and smelling faintly of cheap floral perfume and hairspray. I realized with a jolt that I was back. I was back on the day that had dismantled my life. It was the afternoon of my cousin Tiffany’s wedding. Earlier that day, during the reception, I had managed to snag several party favors—little gold envelopes tucked into the centerpieces. In this small, judgmental town, these were the “lucky” favors Tiffany’s new husband had boasted about: scratch-off lottery tickets. No one could have guessed that one of those tickets was a ten-million-dollar winner. In my first life, I had run home, breathless and sobbing with joy, wanting to tell my mother the news. My father’s stomach cancer had just been diagnosed; we were drowning in debt. This money meant he could finally get the surgery he needed in the city. It was a miracle. But my mother’s reaction had been a bucket of ice water to the face. She didn’t celebrate. She didn’t cry in relief. Instead, her face hardened into that familiar mask of stony “decency.” She snatched the ticket from my hand, insisting it belonged to Tiffany. “We are honest, hardworking people, Julie,” she had lectured, her voice vibrating with a terrifying kind of pride. “The poor must have dignity. We don’t take advantage of family. We don’t steal luck that isn’t ours.” I remembered the aftermath with excruciating clarity. My father died six months later in a cramped, humid bedroom. My mother, while trying to walk the neighborhood’s “village idiot” back to his house to prove what a good neighbor she was, was struck by a car. She survived, but she was permanently disabled. The relatives who had praised her “noble heart” brought over a few cartons of eggs and some “thoughts and prayers,” but they never mentioned the mountain of medical debt we owed. Left with nothing, my mother turned her desperation into a weapon against me. She tore up my university acceptance letter. Then, she drugged my dinner with sedatives, hoping to marry me off to the neighbor’s son—a man with the mind of a child and a family with enough “bride price” money to solve her problems. “Don’t blame me, Julie,” she’d whispered, her eyes brimming with calculated tears as I drifted into unconsciousness. “Blame the world. People are cruel, and money is the root of all evil. A mother has to do what she has to do…” In the end, unable to endure the suffocating shame, I had stepped off the roof of a six-story building. … “Seriously? You’re sure the winning ticket was from the favors at the reception?” “Positive. The clerk at the gas station said Derek bought two hundred tickets there right before the rehearsal dinner.”f The voice on the other end of the phone sighed heavily. It was my Aunt Linda. “Ugh, if I’d known, I would have told them to just put two-dollar bills in those envelopes. Ten million dollars… God, I just hope whoever got it has enough of a conscience to bring it back to Tiffany!” My mother was at the stove, the phone on speaker. She hummed in sympathy as she stirred a pot of thin soup, her brow furrowed as she cursed the “ungrateful” guest who was probably hiding the ticket right now. The ticket. My pupils contracted. The phantom sensation of being dragged across a carpet by a man twice my size flared in my nerves. The sound of my own skull cracking against the pavement—a wet, sickening thud—echoed in my ears. I gasped for air, my right hand clenching instinctively. I looked down. My knuckles were white, gripping the cold brass handle of my bedroom door. This wasn’t a dream. This was the morning after the wedding. In my previous life, I thought I was having a run of bad luck. I’d tripped on the porch coming home from the reception and spent the afternoon nursing a bruised hip. But it was that very day that I’d realized I held the golden ticket. And it was that day my mother had marched me to Tiffany’s house to hand over our future. “We’re poor, but we have our souls,” she had said. A sharp, rhythmic banging started at my door. “Julie? You grabbed some of those envelopes, didn’t you? Open them up! Let’s see if you’re the one holding onto Tiffany’s luck.” My mother’s voice was sharp with a sudden, opportunistic “integrity.” I heard her heels clicking toward the door. A wave of cold fury washed over me. I had one goal: She could never, ever know that I had the ticket. I turned the lock. I fumbled with the pockets of my jacket, pulling out seven small envelopes. I found it—the one with the specific serial number etched into my brain. I pulled up the lottery results on my phone. The numbers matched perfectly. I checked them once, twice, three times. Then, I slid the winning ticket into the pages of an old, dusty textbook at the bottom of my shelf. I took a deep breath, messed up my hair to look like I’d been sleeping, and opened the door. My mother looked ready to break the door down. Her face was a map of righteous anxiety. “What are you doing in here? Sleeping the day away while your cousin is in a crisis?” she snapped, looking me over with disdain. “Locking the door in the middle of the day… you’re becoming so secretive. I can’t rely on you for anything.” Her eyes darted to my desk, landing on the pile of candy and envelopes. “Did you win anything?” she asked, her voice dropping into a probe. I picked up a hairbrush and shrugged. “I haven’t even looked.” “Well, look now! Your aunt said there’s a massive winner out there. Tiffany and Derek are practically camped out at the lottery office waiting to see who shows up. If you have it, we need to get it back to her immediately. She’s family, Julie. Don’t let her suffer.” In my old life, I would have argued. I would have said that a gift is a gift, and if Tiffany wanted the money, she shouldn’t have given the tickets away. But I knew better now. You can’t argue with a martyr. I grabbed the remaining six losing envelopes and headed for the door. “Where are you going?” she yelled. “To the gas station to check them!” I called back. My mother didn’t know how to use the lottery app. She didn’t understand that a jackpot this big couldn’t be claimed at a local convenience store anyway. “If you won, you give it back!” she shouted after me. “Don’t be a thief! Honesty is the only thing we own!” When I got to the station, Tiffany and Derek were there, looking disheveled. Tiffany was still wearing her white silk rehearsal wrap with a fur stole, looking wildly out of place. She was accosting anyone who looked like they’d been at the wedding. When she saw me, her eyes lit up with a predatory hunger. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Julie! Why are you here? Did you win? Tell me you won!” I gently pried her hand off. I looked her dead in the eye and gave her a bright, vacant smile. “I did! I’m here to claim it!” Tiffany’s face went pale, then red. She snatched the stack of envelopes out of my hand before I could stop her. She tore through them until she found the one I’d left on top—the one that had won exactly one hundred dollars. Her face fell. “This? This is all?” “Yeah!” I chirped, acting thrilled. “A hundred bucks! Can you believe it? That’s like a week of groceries!” I took the ticket back, scanned it, and pocketed the cash. I made a show of tossing the other losing tickets into the trash can. “What are you guys doing here, anyway?” I asked innocently. Tiffany didn’t even answer. She turned away, scanning the parking lot for her next victim. I walked away, my heart hammering against my ribs. Stage one was complete. They wouldn’t suspect me for a while. Now, I just had to get to the city. On my way home, a hand dropped onto my shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Hey, kiddo. Look what I got you.” I turned to see my father. His face was sallow, a yellowish tint to his skin that made my throat ache. He was smiling, though his lips were pale. He had been sick for a month, and we hadn’t even raised half the money for his initial consultations. He pointed to a suitcase on the sidewalk. It was a soft rose-pink, hardshell, with spinning wheels. It looked expensive—too expensive for a man who was skipping meals to pay for “stomach medicine” that was really just antacids. My eyes blurred with tears. In my previous life, my mother had forced me to hand over the ten million. Tiffany had done a fake little dance of “Oh, but your father is so sick, are you sure?” And my mother had waved her off. “Everyone has their cross to bear. We aren’t going to use your good fortune to fix our problems.” Tiffany had pocketed the ticket and never looked back. When we finally went to her to beg for a loan a month later, she’d looked at us with “pity” and said, “I’d love to, Aunt Bethany, but with Julie starting school and your husband’s condition… I’d never see that money again. It would be like throwing it down a drain.” That was the day my father—the strongest man I knew—wiped away a tear and told us, “Stop. No more doctors. I’m done.” Now, looking at the pink suitcase, I realized he had spent his secret savings to make sure I went to college in style. “Dad…” I choked out. “It’s not much,” he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. “But the guy at the store said all the girls at the university use these now. It’ll last you years.” I didn’t scold him for the money. I just grabbed the handle and hugged him. “It’s perfect, Dad. Let’s go home.” Back at the house, my mother eyed the suitcase with a scowl. “Wasteful,” she muttered. “Your Aunt Linda gave me that old black duffel bag Tiffany used. It’s a bit dusty, but I could have fixed the zipper. Why spend money on vanity?” My father smiled sheepishly. “It wasn’t that much, Beth. Only about sixty dollars. It’s an investment.” My mother groaned at the “extravagance,” but since the money was already spent, she just went back to the kitchen. During dinner, I pushed a piece of broccoli around my plate and said as casually as possible, “Dad, I want you to drive me to campus tomorrow. It’s my first year, and I don’t want to take the bus with all this luggage. Plus, the city is dangerous. I’d feel better if you were there.” My father nodded immediately. “Of course. A-State is far. You shouldn’t be wandering around alone.” My mother slammed her fork down. “She’s nineteen! She needs to be independent. And why tomorrow? Move-in isn’t for another two weeks.” My heart sped up. In my last life, I had stayed behind to help her, and that delay had cost my father his life. “They sent an email,” I lied, holding up my phone screen too far away for her to read. “Orientation and early seminars start this week. I just saw it today. I have to go.” My mother looked at me suspiciously. “Your father isn’t well. I should go. I’ve never even seen the city.” She shot my father a look of pure resentment. “I married a man who can’t even take me on a vacation. My life is just one long struggle.” My father looked down at his plate, the light leaving his eyes. “Mom, I’d love for you to come,” I said, my voice sweet as honey, “but I saw Billy wandering around near the guitar factory today. He looked totally lost. You know his mom relies on you to watch out for him. If you leave for two days, who knows where that poor boy will end up?” Billy was the “neighborhood project” my mother used to bolster her reputation as a saint. Just last week, she’d stayed up all night finding him after he’d wandered off. She loved the way the neighbors whispered about her “golden heart.” My mother hesitated. She looked at the plate of cookies a neighbor had brought over as a “thank you” for her kindness. She sighed, a martyr’s smile touching her lips. “True. If that poor soul wanders off and gets hurt, I’d never forgive myself. Everyone knows I’m the only one he trusts.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Fine. Let your father go. I’m just a pack mule anyway.” The next morning, my father and I stood by the road with the pink suitcase. The November air was biting, but my palms were sweaty with anticipation. Just get to the city. Claim the ticket. Get the surgery. But before the bus arrived, two figures appeared, walking quickly toward us. It was Tiffany and Aunt Linda. They weren’t just walking; they were nearly running. My stomach dropped. I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “Julie! You’re leaving already?” Aunt Linda called out. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes, which were fixed on my luggage. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound normal. “It’s a long trip. I want to get there before dark.” Tiffany looked like a ghost. Her eyes were sunken, dark circles weighing them down. She wasn’t even looking at me; she was staring at my suitcase like she could see through the plastic. “Tiffany, shouldn’t you be on your honeymoon?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She stepped forward and grabbed the handle of my suitcase, trying to pull it toward her. “Wait,” she said, her voice raspy. “My mom and Aunt Bethany were talking. They said it’s weird you’re leaving so early. Almost like… like you’re running away.” “I’m going to school, Tiffany,” I said, holding on tight. “If you have nothing to hide,” Tiffany snapped, her facade finally cracking, “then you won’t mind if we check your things. My ten-million-dollar ticket is missing, Julie. And suddenly you’re rushing off to the city?” “This is insane,” I said, looking to my father for help. But then, my mother appeared from around the corner of the house. She walked up and put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “I called them,” my mother said, her voice cold. “Tiffany has been crying all night. It’s only fair, Julie. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. We are honest people. We don’t leave town with shadows over our names.” She nodded to Tiffany. “Go ahead. Check it.”

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It took me three long years of calculated restraint to save up for the SUV I’d been dreaming of. I walked into the dealership with a heart full of anticipation, ready to drive off the lot in a car I owned outright. Instead, the salesman slid a loan agreement across the desk and asked for my signature. He told me my cousin had already driven the car away. He told me I’d agreed to cover the twelve-thousand-dollar balance on the financing. The problem was, I don’t have a cousin. I forced the rage down, keeping my voice steady. I asked if the security cameras were operational and confirmed the exact minute the vehicle left the lot. Then, I didn’t waste another second. I dialed 911. I told the operator that someone had committed identity fraud to steal a vehicle in my name. … Three years of saving. Three years of saying “no” to everything else so I could say “yes” to this one thing: a mid-sized, midnight-black SUV. What does three years actually look like? It’s over a thousand days of discipline. I went from twenty-seven to thirty while staying in the same cramped one-bedroom apartment, climbing the ladder from a junior staffer to a manager with a title that finally felt like it meant something. Every month, the moment my paycheck hit, I didn’t reach for my credit card or order takeout to celebrate. Instead, I moved a fixed, non-negotiable amount into a separate high-yield savings account. That account wasn’t linked to Apple Pay. I didn’t have the app on my phone. The physical debit card was tucked away in a drawer at my mother’s house across the state. I had rehearsed the day the balance would hit my target over and over in my head. I wanted that SUV. It wasn’t a luxury brand—I didn’t need a status symbol. I just wanted a reliable, sturdy Ford Explorer. The total out-the-door price was thirty-two thousand dollars. It wasn’t a fortune by some people’s standards, but to me, it was the greatest achievement of my independent life. I’d first seen it at an auto show three years ago. It was tucked into a quiet corner, the black paint catching the overhead lights with a deep, liquid sheen. I’d walked around it twice, then sat in the driver’s seat. The way the leather-wrapped steering wheel felt in my hands, the way the seat seemed to contour perfectly to my back—even the slightly analog look of the dashboard felt right. It felt like mine. A salesman had approached me back then, asking if I wanted a test drive. I told him no, I couldn’t afford it yet, but I’d be back. He gave me a polite, skeptical smile, the kind you give someone who’s just window-shopping their life away. I wasn’t window-shopping. This Saturday, three years later, I finally walked into the Northside Auto Mall. The “Motor Mile” was a blur of neon signs and giant American flags flapping in the wind, a chaotic landscape of red, white, and blue that made your eyes ache in the morning sun. I arrived at 10:00 AM. The showroom was relatively quiet. A few porters were buffing the display cars, and a receptionist was scrolling through her phone. I went straight to the consultant I’d been talking to for the last six months—a guy named Shane. He was young, lean, and had a fast-talking energy that usually irritated me, but today, I was too excited to care. Over the months, we’d gone back and forth on pricing, inventory, and trims. He’d tried to push the “zero-down” financing on me at every turn, promising better perks and free maintenance packages. I told him no every single time. Cash. Outright. I don’t like owing people anything. Shane was on his best behavior today. He brought me water, offered me a coffee, and even set a small plate of biscotti on the table in front of me. He walked me out to the lot to see the black Explorer I’d reserved. I opened the door, inhaled that sharp, intoxicating new-car scent, and felt the weight of those three years finally lift. It was worth it. Back at his desk, the paperwork began. Shane pulled up the contract—midnight black, top-tier trim, thirty-two thousand dollars, paid in full. He pushed the document toward me. “Give it a look, Claire. If everything looks good, just sign at the bottom. We’ll head over to the finance office to process the payment, and you’ll be on the road by lunch.” I picked up the pen, but paused. “I can take it today, right? No waiting for detailing?” “She’s ready to go. We’ll do one final PDI check while you’re paying, and the keys are yours.” “And the insurance?” “All set. Our agency on-site already cleared the binder. You’re fully covered the second you drive over that curb.” I nodded and signed. Shane took the contract to the copier while I sat back on the leather sofa, a quiet, steady warmth spreading through my chest. It wasn’t a wild, shouting kind of joy; it was the deep satisfaction of a promise kept to myself. Shane returned a few minutes later with a thick manila folder. He set it on the coffee table and flipped it open to a loan agreement. “Claire, I just need your signature on this one as well.” I looked down. It was a financing contract for twelve thousand five hundred dollars. “I’m not financing,” I said, pushing the folder back. “I told you, I’m paying the full balance today.” Shane’s expression shifted. It wasn’t surprise; it was a flicker of profound awkwardness, the look of a man trying to figure out how to deliver an impossible piece of news. He looked at the paper, then at me, his mouth twitching. “Claire… this isn’t for your car,” he stammered. “It’s the remaining balance on your cousin’s vehicle.” I stared at him, my heart slowing down to a heavy, ominous thud. “My cousin?” “Yeah. He was in here two days ago. Picked up the exact same model, same color. He said you guys had worked it out—that when you came in for yours, you’d cover the tail end of his. He put twenty thousand down, financed the rest, and listed you as the guarantor. He said you’d be in today to finalize everything.” By the time Shane finished, a fine bead of sweat had broken out on his forehead. He seemed to realize how insane he sounded. His voice trailed off into a mumble. “My cousin,” I repeated, my voice dangerously flat. “Right. Mr. Miller… Paul Miller?” “I don’t have a cousin named Paul,” I said. “In fact, I don’t have a cousin at all. I’m an only child. My mother’s sisters have two daughters, both living in London. My father’s side hasn’t been in touch with us since I was in middle school. I don’t know who this man is, and I certainly didn’t agree to pay for his car.” Shane stood there, his jaw hanging slightly open, speechless. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw my water. Not because I wasn’t furious, but because rage is a luxury you can’t afford when you’re being robbed. Someone had used my name to walk off with a thirty-thousand-dollar asset, leaving me with a twelve-thousand-dollar bill. I looked Shane in the eye. “Is your security footage still on the server?” He blinked, startled. “Yes… yeah. We keep it for thirty days.” “When exactly was the car taken?” “Two days ago… Thursday afternoon.” “What time?” “Around 3:30. Let me… let me double-check the log.” He practically bolted to the reception desk. He spent a minute frantically flipping through a digital log before scurrying back. “The paperwork was finalized at 3:20 PM. He drove off the lot at 3:45.” “And you processed it? You signed off on it?” Shane looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. “I did.” “You processed a third-party guarantor without verifying my identity? Without a phone call? Without a notarized signature?” Shane’s lip quivered. “He knew your full name. He knew exactly what car you had on hold. He knew you were coming in today. He was so casual about it, Claire. He called you ‘little sis.’ I just assumed…” “You assumed.” I pulled my phone out and dialed 911. “I’d like to report a grand larceny and identity fraud,” I said when the operator picked up. “Someone has illegally obtained a vehicle using my personal information at a dealership. There is an outstanding debt of twelve thousand dollars being falsely attributed to me. I am currently at Northside Auto Mall.” After I hung up, I told Shane the police would be here in fifteen minutes. Shane’s face went from pale to a sickly shade of grey. He turned and ran toward the stairs, likely to find someone with enough authority to hide behind. I sat back down and took a sip of my water. It was lukewarm now, condensation dripping down the glass like tears. Within five minutes, a man in a crisp white shirt and dark slacks descended the stairs. He was in his mid-thirties, groomed to perfection, wearing the kind of practiced, “I can fix this” smile that always made me want to check my pockets for my wallet. He walked over and extended a hand. “Hi there. I’m Patrick, the sales manager. I am so sorry for the wait. I was tied up in a meeting upstairs, but Shane gave me the gist of the situation. I came down as fast as I could.” I didn’t take his hand. He didn’t flinch. He just tucked it into his pocket and sat in the chair across from me. “And you are Claire, right?” “I am.” “Claire, look. I’ve been briefed, and I want to start by saying this is clearly a massive breakdown in our communication protocol. I am incredibly sorry for the stress this has caused.” His tone was perfect—soothing, reasonable, every word polished until it shone. “Here’s what I’m thinking: why don’t we sit down and figure out the specifics? We’ll get to the bottom of this, and I promise we’ll make it right.” “The ‘bottom of it’ is pretty shallow, Patrick,” I said. “Someone walked in here, pretended to be my family, and stole a car using my credit profile. Your salesman let it happen without a single verification check. Now you’re asking me to pay for your mistake.” “Claire, we are absolutely going to investigate. We’re already pulling the files to verify the individual’s ID…” “You didn’t verify it then. That’s why the car is gone.” Patrick’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes hardened for a fraction of a second. “You’re right, and that’s on us. But this person had very specific information. Your name, your order details, your pickup time. That’s not information a stranger just happens upon. We have to consider the possibility that this might be an internal matter… or perhaps someone you know…” “I don’t know him.” “Is it possible your information was compromised? A stolen ID? A leaked social security number?” “Are you suggesting this is my fault?” Patrick held up his hands defensively. “Not at all, Claire. Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m just trying to help you analyze how this happened. He knew too much. My staff truly believed he was your brother or cousin.” “Then your staff is incompetent,” I said. “Your data management is flawed, which led to my leak, and your sales process is negligent, which led to the theft. Both of those are your problems, not mine.” The crack in Patrick’s “managerial” facade finally appeared. “Claire, I hear you. I’d be upset too. But the reality is that the event has already occurred. Right now, we need to focus on solutions, not pointing fingers…” “Pointing fingers is the solution,” I countered. “It determines who pays.” Patrick looked at me, likely re-evaluating the woman sitting in front of him. He realized I wasn’t going to be charmed into submission. He went quiet for a few seconds, then shifted gears. “Okay, let me be straight with you. We’re looking into the guy. We have the footage and the signed documents. But the legal process takes time. You came here for a car today, and you’re going to get it. Your Explorer is ready. You pay the thirty-two thousand, and it’s yours. That twelve-thousand-dollar balance? That’s technically a separate loan. It doesn’t have to stop you from taking your car home.” I waited for the “but.” “However,” he continued, “we’re in a bit of a spot with the bank. The loan has already been funded. The money was wired. The car is off the lot. If we try to claw that back now, it triggers a fraud alert that freezes our entire month’s commercial credit line. It would be a nightmare for us to untangle legally while the investigation is pending. And since your name is on that contract as the guarantor… even though it’s invalid, the system sees it as a default if it isn’t paid.” “And?” “So, here’s what I’m proposing. If you could just… cover that twelve-five as a temporary deposit, we’ll handle the rest. The moment we track this guy down or the insurance payout clears for the fraud, we’ll refund you every penny. We’ve got the contract, we’ve got the footage—he’s not going to get away with it.” Patrick spoke softly, like a teacher explaining a simple math problem to a slow child. I stared at him for five long seconds. “You want me to ‘front’ you twelve thousand dollars?” “Not front, more like a…” “You want me to pay for the car that was stolen from you, and then hope you find the guy so you can pay me back.” “I know it sounds like a lot, but this dealership has a reputation—” “A reputation for what? Giving cars away to strangers and then asking the victims to foot the bill?” Patrick choked on his next word. His face flushed a deep red, but he quickly smoothed his features back into that professional mask. “Claire, let’s be reasonable. We’ve been in business for eight years. We’ve never had an incident like this. It’s a total anomaly.” “Eight years and this is the first time?” I repeated. “So for eight years, you’ve never checked an ID? Or is it that for eight years, you just haven’t run into a con artist until today?” Patrick opened his mouth, then closed it. “Don’t you see the contradiction? If you’ve never had this happen in eight years, it just means your lack of oversight was a ticking time bomb. It wasn’t an anomaly, Patrick. It was an inevitability.” Patrick’s face turned stony. He looked down at the coffee table, tracing a pattern on the wood with his finger, calculating his next move. Just then, the heavy glass front doors swung open. Two uniformed officers walked in—one tall, burly man in his forties, and a younger woman with glasses. The man scanned the room, spotted our tense little circle, and walked over. “Who called it in?”

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Chad and I were seven years into our “merger-disguised-as-a-marriage” when the ghost of the girl he never got over suddenly decided she was bored of London and moved back to the city. To clear a path for her—to make our divorce look like a tragedy instead of a betrayal—he decided to play the ultimate martyr. He conspired with a doctor to script a grand finale: a terminal illness. On our seventh anniversary, he didn’t bring jewelry. Instead, he dropped to his knees, clutching a forged medical report for stage four stomach cancer, sobbing as he begged me to let him go so he could spend his “last months” in peace. I looked at his tear-streaked face, the performance so polished it was almost beautiful, and I leaned in. “Chad,” I asked, my voice a low hum. “Are you absolutely certain? Is it really terminal?” His eyes were steady, his voice devoid of even a flicker of doubt. “Yes. Stage four. There’s no hope.” I couldn’t help it. I laughed. He will never know that it was I who invoked the ancient legacy of my family—a rare, ancestral gift that allows a spouse one chance to make a spoken word manifest into reality. But of all the things he could have asked for, of all the wishes in the world, he chose to manifest a death sentence. 1 For our anniversary, I had booked the entire rooftop at The Observatory, the only restaurant in the city where the glass ceiling makes you feel like you’re dining inside a nebula. I had planned a surprise that would have changed our lives. Instead, I got Chad on his knees, trembling over a fake diagnosis. “Isla, the results came back today,” he choked out. “It’s cancer. Stomach. It’s… it’s stage four.” Panic flared in my chest for a split second, followed immediately by a chilling sense of irony. I was born into a family that guards a secret older than the city itself. We possess a “Vow’s Echo”—a one-time metaphysical blank check that makes a partner’s words come true. But it only works once in a lifetime. And the recipient can never know the power has been used. Looking at Chad’s handsome, refined face, I hadn’t hesitated. In my heart, I had whispered the incantation, intending to grant him whatever his heart truly desired tonight. But then he kept talking, and his words dragged me straight into hell. “Isla, the doctor said I have six months, maybe less,” he stammered. “I’ve spent my whole life sacrificing for the firm, for this family. For these last few months, I just… I want to be with the person I love.” “Lydia’s been back for a month. We lost seven years, and now I’m dying. We don’t have time left… Please, Isla. Set me free. Let us have this.” I gripped that piece of paper until my knuckles turned white. I looked at him, my eyes pleading for a way out. “Chad,” I said, my voice shaking. “Are you sure this report is yours? Are you absolutely, 100% certain you have terminal cancer?” I was screaming in my head: Deny it! Just say you’re lying! The Vow’s Echo is a singular strike. Chad, if you take it back now, the sickness will vanish. You can live. But Chad’s expression shifted. There was a flicker of relief, a hidden spark of triumph in his eyes. He thought he’d won. “Isla, the diagnosis came from the best private clinic under the Blackwood Group’s wing,” he said with finality. “Our doctors don’t make mistakes. It’s real. I’m dying.” A sharp crack echoed through the restaurant. I had knocked over a crystal flute. It shattered against the marble, shards scattering like the ruins of our seven-year life together. I closed my eyes, the weight of the magic settling like lead in the air. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll give you exactly what you asked for.” 2 Our marriage had been a tactical alliance between the Sinclair and Blackwood dynasties. I knew from the start that Chad had a “White Moonlight”—the girl who occupied the space in his heart I was never allowed to touch. Lydia Thorne. They were the classic high school sweethearts. In their social circles, they were “Endgame.” When they were eighteen, Lydia had famously declared at a gala: “Chad Blackwood, you’re my destiny. Everything else is just noise.” But Lydia was a girl who lived for the chase. In college, she fell for a brooding architecture professor, dropped out, and chased him across Europe, leaving Chad in the dust. His family couldn’t accept a woman so volatile as the future matriarch of the Blackwood empire. So, they chose me. For seven years, Chad played the part of the perfect husband. He was gentle, attentive, and stayed far away from scandal. People whispered that we were the rare “golden couple” of the elite world. I actually believed it. I was looking forward to our tenth anniversary. Then, Lydia came back. She hasn’t changed. She’s still the girl who burns everything down to get what she wants. She took to social media immediately, posting cryptic quotes about “reclaiming what was stolen” and “first loves never dying.” She was bold. She’d buy two greasy burgers from the late-night joint they used to haunt in high school and park her vintage convertible outside our gates at 2 AM, waiting for Chad to come down and eat with her. And he did. I watched from the darkened window as my husband—a man who usually obsessed over the temperature of his Earl Grey—sat on a curb with her, eating cold fries and laughing like a teenager. They trespassed into their old private school just to sit on the bleachers. They ran through the rain to get dollar-slice pizza, holding hands under the streetlights. They retreated into the shadows of the park, reliving every reckless, heated moment they had missed during their years apart. Chad started coming home later and later. Until one night, he didn’t come home at all. I sat in the living room, watching the sun rise. The company was in a tailspin; Chad wasn’t answering his phone or attending meetings. I spent the day cleaning up his messes at the office, my own stomach twisting with a dull, persistent ache. At 3 PM, a notification popped up on my phone. A follow request from a private account with a profile picture of a woman laughing. I clicked ‘accept.’ A tidal wave of photos flooded my screen, each one a fresh blow to my chest. 3 For seven years, I thought Chad was just a naturally stoic man. Looking at those photos, I realized he wasn’t stoic at all. He just saved all his passion for Lydia. He told me he was allergic to lilies, so I never kept them in the house. There he was in a photo, holding a massive bouquet of them at the airport for her arrival. He told me PDA was “unprofessional” for a CEO. There he was in a candid shot, kissing her deeply in the middle of a crowded terminal. He threw her a “Welcome Home” dinner at a private club, inviting all their old friends. In the videos, people toasted to “true love finding its way back,” as if the last seven years of our marriage were just a long commercial break. Every guest in that room had been at our wedding. They had toasted to our forever. I felt like the punchline of a very long, very cruel joke. When I finally confronted him with the photos, he looked panicked for a second. But then his face hardened into a mask of cold resolve. “Since you’ve seen them, let’s stop pretending,” he said. “Isla, this was always a merger. There was never real ‘feeling’ between us. I’ve been a good husband to you, but I’ve waited seven years for Lydia. She’s finally home.” “I want a divorce. I need to give her my name.” 4 “No,” I said, cutting him off. I swallowed the bile in my throat and tried to appeal to his logic. The Blackwood board would never accept Lydia—a woman who spent her days dragging the CEO to dive bars and playgrounds. After that, Chad seemed to retreat. The “anonymous” social media account went dark. I thought he was coming to his senses. Until the anniversary. Chad loved the stars. He kept a hidden leather-bound album in his study filled with astrophotography he’d taken in secret. His parents considered it a “waste of time,” so I had fostered the hobby in silence. I had spent a year commissioning a custom, master-crafted timepiece with a watch face that mirrored the night sky on the date we met. I had even quietly sponsored a celestial-themed gallery opening in his name for that night. And I was going to give him the greatest gift of all: the Vow’s Echo. As I sat in the restaurant, I prayed he would wish for something beautiful. A long life. For us to finally find real love. For the empire to prosper. He didn’t. He wished for a terminal illness. I slapped him—hard—my eyes stinging with hot, bitter tears. I laughed, a sharp, broken sound, and walked away. I was done. Chad, if you want to die just to be with her, then I hope you enjoy the afterlife together. 5 By the next morning, the news had shattered the high-society bubble. Chad Blackwood had terminal stomach cancer. His parents were devastated. His father looked at me, then at the “medical report,” his lips trembling. His mother took my hand, her eyes red. “Isla, dear, the family owes you so much,” she whispered. “The doctors say he has six months. We were too hard on him, always demanding more. Now his time is running out. We just want him to be happy in the end. You understand, don’t you?” Chad stood there, looking at me with a performative guilt that made my skin crawl. “Isla, I’m so sorry. For my final days, I just want to walk the rest of the path with Lydia…”

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My eighth attempt at reasoning with the smart lock manufacturer ended in another dead end. Frustrated, I pulled up their official website and fired off a scathing review. “This lock is absolute garbage. The passcode fails in the middle of the night for no reason, and I’m left stranded outside my own home. Save your money!” I hammered the keys, my pulse thrumming with irritation. The company replied almost instantly, hiding behind three sterile-looking inspection reports they attached to the thread. “We’re sorry to hear about your experience, but our products are military-grade and pass a triple-layer quality check before shipping,” they wrote, the digital equivalent of a shrug. I was ready to tear into them again when a notification popped up. A new comment from a user with a blank black avatar. “Are you sure it’s the lock? Maybe your husband is changing the code on purpose. He could be hiding someone in there while you’re at work.” I actually snorted at the screen. Hiding someone? My husband, Patrick, was the Chief of Neurosurgery. He spent twenty hours a day at the hospital, barely finding time to come home himself, let alone host a guest. “My husband works enough overtime to qualify for a cot in the ER. He barely has time to see me, let alone anyone else,” I shot back. A few minutes passed. Then, the black avatar replied again. “Honey, you don’t have to hide someone in your own apartment. Have you checked the floors above or below you?” The words hit me like a physical chill. My fingers felt heavy as I instinctively opened the tracking app on my phone to check Patrick’s location. On the screen, the little red dot representing his phone pulsed. It showed him exactly six meters away from me. 1 I’d set up the location sharing years ago during a hiking trip in the Tetons, and Patrick had likely forgotten it even existed. I stared at that red dot until my eyes burned. My mind was a complete blank. Patrick and I were the “it” couple—college sweethearts who actually made it. Six years of dating, three years of marriage. For nine years, he’d carried me on a pedestal. He’d come home from a double shift and still insist on doing the laundry or vacuuming just so I could rest. On his rare days off, he’d spend the afternoon at the farmer’s market, picking out the best ingredients to make me honey-glazed ribs or garlic butter shrimp. I would have believed in ghosts before I believed Patrick was capable of infidelity. He was obsessed with me. Why would he go through the elaborate trouble of resetting our door codes just to sneak around? But the red dot kept blinking. According to the map, he was in our building. If he wasn’t in our unit, he had to be above or below. Mrs. Gable lived upstairs; Mrs. Higgins lived below. Mrs. Higgins was sixty-two. My legs moved before I could tell them to stop. I climbed the stairs, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I reached Mrs. Gable’s door and took a ragged breath, trying to stop the shaking. It was impossible. Mrs. Gable was at least six years older than Patrick and worked in liquor sales. If Patrick were going to throw our life away, surely he’d do it with one of those gorgeous, young surgical nurses who looked at him like he was a god? He had better taste than this. He wasn’t that desperate. I remembered a few years back, a young intern with a powerful family background had made a very public play for him. She’d send massive bouquets of roses to his office and home-cooked bento boxes. She even cornered me at the hospital entrance once. “June, let’s be real,” she’d said, tossing her perfectly highlighted hair. “You’re an orphan with no connections. You can’t help Patrick’s career. Give him up, and I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars and a promotion at your firm.” Patrick had walked up right then to pick me up. He didn’t even look at her. He just shoved her aside, his face uncharacteristically dark. “I love June,” he’d said, his voice like cold steel. “And I’ll never have any interest in a woman who thinks she can buy people. Get out of our way.” He’d pulled me away, his grip firm. I remember being shocked; Patrick was usually the most polite, soft-spoken man I knew. That display of venom was entirely for me. He lost a shot at a Deputy Chief position because of that girl’s father, but he didn’t care. That night, he held me so tight I could barely breathe. “June, a hundred thousand can’t buy my life. I’ll make more for us. Don’t you ever think about leaving me.” A man like that doesn’t cheat. I stood at Mrs. Gable’s door, looking at my phone. The red dot was three meters away. My stomach lurched. I turned to go back down. Three steps down, the distance changed to four meters. I stood on the landing for ten minutes, paralyzed. Then, I turned back around and knocked. I heard a frantic scuffling from inside. It took a full two minutes before the door creaked open. Mrs. Gable stood there, and the sight of her made my blood turn to ice. Her face was flushed, her hair was a mess, and she was fumbling with the buttons on her blouse, trying to hide her chest. Pinned to her collar was a silver brooch—a black butterfly with onyx wings. It was crooked, hanging precariously from the fabric. A bomb went off in my brain. He was here. He was actually here. It turns out when a man is hungry enough, he doesn’t care about the menu. The rage was a physical thing, hot and blinding. I kicked the door open and screamed at the top of my lungs. “Patrick! You son of a bitch! Get out here!” The bathroom door snapped open. Patrick stepped out, his hands covered in dark grime, looking at me with pure confusion. “June? What are you doing here?” 2 I stared at him. He was a mess—his white dress shirt was streaked with grease and gray smudges. His face was smeared with dirt. I stood in the center of the living room, my chest heaving, the words dying in my throat. Patrick quickly wiped his hands on a rag, mumbling, “You’re home early. Mrs. Gable had a burst pipe, and she was worried it would leak down into our place. She asked if I could take a look before the emergency plumber got here.” He walked over and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, his voice returning to that familiar, soothing tone. “I’ve got dinner warming in the oven for you. I was just about to head down.” Mrs. Gable stepped forward, looking embarrassed. “I’m so sorry, June. I know Dr. Halloway has so little free time, but I didn’t know who else to call.” Patrick naturally wrapped an arm around my shoulder. “Neighbors help neighbors, Mrs. Gable. No worries.” “I’ve patched it for now,” he continued, leading me toward the door. “But you’ll definitely need a pro to look at it tomorrow. Come on, June. Let’s go home.” The tension drained out of me so fast I felt lightheaded. My heart settled back into its rhythm. Everything made sense now—they were just in the bathroom working on the plumbing. I managed a weak, apologetic smile for Mrs. Gable as we left. But as the door started to swing shut, I looked back. I saw Patrick glance over his shoulder at her. Their eyes met for a split second, and they shared a look. It wasn’t a neighborly nod. it was a secret, knowing smile. A silent communication that didn’t need words. My heart didn’t just drop; it shattered. Back in our apartment, Patrick bent over our smart lock, tinkering with the keypad. A moment later, it beeped. “Probably just a sticky key,” he said. “I’ve cleared the cache and reset it through my phone. Should be fine now.” He shed his dirty shirt and headed into the kitchen, his voice cheerful. “Sweetheart, you’ve got to try this. I made a new wasabi-infused lobster tail. Tell me if it’s better than the place downtown.” He held a piece of succulent meat to my lips. I opened my mouth mechanically. I chewed, I swallowed, but it tasted like ash. “It’s good,” I whispered. “Perfect.” Patrick chattered away as he shelled the rest of the lobster for me. He talked about the hospital, about a patient whose prognosis was improving, about his successful surgery that morning. He mentioned how his phone hadn’t stopped ringing even on his day off, with interns asking for advice. Normally, I’d be laughing, engaging with his stories. But all I could see was that look he gave Mrs. Gable. It wasn’t the look of a man who’d just fixed a pipe. It was the look of a conspirator. He noticed my silence and pressed a hand to my forehead. “You okay? You look pale. Work was that bad?” I pushed down the bile in my throat. “Just tired.” “Go lie down on the sofa. I’ll handle the dishes.” He moved through the kitchen with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times. He looked so honest. So grounded. I started to gaslight myself. I’m just sensitive. The lock is stressing me out. That internet troll got inside my head. Patrick is perfect. Patrick is busy. How could he possibly be cheating? But a voice in the back of my head wouldn’t shut up. Every time he has a day off, the lock ‘breaks.’ That’s not a coincidence. That’s a barricade. The sound of running water filled the kitchen. My gaze drifted to the smart lock at the entrance. Its screen was dark, like a silent, judging eye. Driven by a sudden, sickening impulse, I grabbed my phone and opened the tracking app again. The red dot was right here, overlapping with mine. My fingers trembled as I swiped up to view his location history. As the list of addresses loaded, a cold sweat broke out across my skin. March 8th: 1422 Magnolia Court. March 14th: The Highrise on 5th. March 18th: Velvet Lounge & Bar. He’d stay for an hour, sometimes four. And during those exact windows, I had texts from him. “At the grocery store, babe. Need anything?” “Dropping off some files at the clinic, be back soon.” And my replies: “Honey, the lock is acting up again. I can’t get in. Please hurry.” And ten minutes later, like clockwork, Patrick would always appear to “fix” the lock and let me in. My head spun. My vision blurred. Nine years of devotion. Nine years of a “perfect” marriage. It was all a curated performance. He was cheating. And it wasn’t just one woman. He was resetting my access to my own home from his phone, locking me out so he’d have time to finish his business and drive back to play the hero. 3 Patrick finished the dishes and dried his hands. “I’m going to jump in the shower. I smell like a sewer. If I don’t scrub down, you’ll be complaining about the smell all night.” I exited the app and sat perfectly still, watching him walk into the bathroom. The moment the shower started, I grabbed my keys and ran. “June? Can you grab me my robe?” his voice echoed through the door, warm and muffled. “June? You there?” The door clicked shut behind me. I practically threw myself into a taxi and gave the driver the first address on the list: Magnolia Court. I shoved a wad of cash at the driver and sprinted toward the unit. When the door opened, a woman I didn’t recognize stood there. “Can I help you?” I stared at her. She was short, with a bob cut and a slightly round face. She wasn’t a sexy nurse. She wasn’t a “trophy” mistress. She was just… ordinary. Plain clothes, plain face. A woman you wouldn’t look at twice in a crowd. Then I looked at her collar. My pupils dilated. The silver brooch. The black butterfly with onyx wings. It was identical to the one Mrs. Gable had been wearing. My brain felt like it was fracturing. Shards of memories and suspicions collided. I couldn’t breathe. I turned and ran down the stairs, the pain in my head so sharp I thought I might lose consciousness. I collapsed onto a stone bench in the courtyard and called my best friend, Bella. I was incoherent, sobbing. “June, stay put!” Bella’s voice was sharp with worry. “I’m coming to get you. Do not move. We’ll figure this out.” Bella arrived within minutes. She pulled me into a hug, rubbing my back, her expression grim. “June, it’s okay. It’s okay. We’re going to get through this.” I shoved my phone in her face, pointing at the tracking history with a shaking finger. “Bella, you have to come with me. I need proof. I need to catch him in the act.” Bella looked at the screen, her expression strange. “June… you’re just stressed. Let’s go home and sleep. We can deal with this in the morning.” I pushed her away, my voice rising to a scream. “Are you even on my side? Patrick is a liar! He’s been cheating on me for God knows how long! He’s been locking me out of the house like a dog so he can screw around!” The tears were a deluge now. My heart felt like it was being pricked by a thousand needles—not a sharp pain, but a dull, pervasive ache that wouldn’t stop. I wiped my face and stood up. “Fine. Stay here. I’ll do it myself. I’m going to tear that fake mask right off his face.” Bella scrambled to follow me. “June, wait! I’ll go with you. If he’s really doing this, I’ll help you bury him. Just… slow down.” I didn’t slow down. We drove to the next address. My heart felt like it had stopped beating as we reached the door. The door opened. A young girl, maybe twenty, with a ponytail and bright, clear eyes, looked at us. “Hi? Are you looking for someone?” A fresh wave of agony hit me. He was truly a monster. He was rotating through them—the older woman, the plain woman, the college girl. He was just sampling lives. The kitchen door behind her swung open. A familiar figure stepped out. “Tilly, who is it?” The girl turned back with a bright smile. “I don’t know, maybe they have the wrong house.” The silver butterfly brooch on her chest glinted under the hallway light. She turned to him, naturally taking a plate from his hands. A plate of honey-glazed ribs. The way he looked at her—the tenderness, the practiced domesticity—it was a mirror image of how he looked at me. He was taking care of her. He was giving her the exact same “unique” love he gave me. The last thread of my sanity snapped. “Patrick!” I lunged forward, fueled by a year’s worth of repressed subconsciousness, and slapped him across the face with every ounce of my strength. The sound echoed through the small apartment. Patrick’s face slowly turned toward me, a red handprint blooming on his cheek. “June? How… how did you find me?” The girl, Tilly, screamed and tried to push me away. “You crazy bitch! Why did you hit him? Get out!” A sharp, stabbing pain erupted in my chest. My head slammed against the doorframe as she shoved me. Suddenly, the world was a strobe light of disjointed images. Blood. So much blood. The sound of sirens—the rhythmic wail of an ambulance, the harsh pulse of a police cruiser. Faces blurred in and out of view. Someone was screaming my name. “Patient’s BP is bottoming out! Heart rate is crashing!” “Get a hundred milligrams of epinephrine, IV, now!” The black butterfly on the girl’s chest hovered over me, flickering, stinging my eyes. The world went black. 4 It was dark and freezing. Suddenly, a pair of headlights cut through the gloom, illuminating the world—and Patrick’s terrified face. The car swerved violently to the left. Patrick steered directly into the path of the oncoming semi-truck. The airbag deployed with a thunderous bang. I saw the massive grill of the truck crush the driver’s side. Patrick was pinned, the metal folding around him like paper. I stared, paralyzed, as he reached out a trembling hand toward me. Blood was pouring down his face, masking his features, but he was smiling. “June… stay strong… take care of yourself.” “Don’t cry, baby. I’m… I’m always with you.” Patrick coughed, a spray of crimson hitting the silver butterfly brooch pinned to my coat. His fingers twitched, his voice fading to a whisper, a broken doll trying to stroke my cheek one last time. I screamed. “Patrick, wake up! Don’t you dare close your eyes!” “Patrick, the baby! You haven’t seen the baby yet! Stay with me!” The sirens were deafening now. People were pulling at the wreckage, trying to get to him. “Stop! You’re hurting him!” I shrieked. Yellow police tape was being unrolled. The crowd was whispering. “He’s gone. Crushed instantly.” “Look at the car. He swerved left. He took the full hit to save his wife on the passenger side. What a man.” The rain started to pour. A crane began to lift the heavy freight from the mangled remains of our car. When they pried the door open, I saw him—what was left of him. A sharp, electric pain shot through me, and I fainted. I felt something warm and wet running down my legs. I was shivering, curled into a ball on the floor, tears streaming down my face. “June, wake up. June, it’s Mom. I’m here.” A warm hand touched my face. Wet droplets—tears that weren’t mine—fell on my cheek. The shivering began to subside. “June, please open your eyes. You’re scaring us.” I blinked. White ceiling. The smell of antiseptic. A familiar face appeared above me. “June, my sweet girl. You’ve been through so much.” My mother held me tight. My head was a mess of static and stabbing pain. I buried my face in her shoulder and sobbed. “Mom, I had the most horrible dream. Patrick died. There was so much blood.” Her body stiffened. Her voice was cautious, trembling. “June… it’s okay. It’s over now.” What do you mean, it’s over? The memory of Patrick in the apron, serving ribs to that girl, flashed back. “Mom, Patrick is cheating on me. I saw it. I saw them.” “He’s so cruel. You treated him like a son, and he betrayed me.” My mother looked at me with a heart-wrenching expression. She stroked my hair, her voice breaking. “June, don’t think about that right now. Just rest.” I became frantic. I grabbed Bella, who was standing at the foot of the bed. “Bella, you saw it too! Tell her! That girl, Tilly, she was there!” The tears wouldn’t stop. Patrick, how could you? I’ve been with you since we were eighteen. I lived in basement apartments with you, I supported you through med school… Bella stepped forward, her eyes filled with a terrible, heavy sadness. She looked at my mother, then back at me. “Mrs. Halloway, tell her the truth,” Bella whispered. “Don’t let her live in the fantasy anymore. Even if it breaks her, she deserves to know.” I stared at Bella. What was she talking about? I was the one who was cheated on. Bella leaned in, her voice steady and devastating. “June. Patrick is dead. He died saving you.” “You aren’t dreaming. This is the reality.”

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I’ve had a secret since I was a kid: at a gambling table, I don’t lose. It’s not a streak; it’s a law of nature. This past spring break, my roommates were itching for a thrill. They dragged me to a private, high-stakes club in the desert outskirts of Vegas, certain they could strike it rich. To give them the “joy” of winning, I spent the whole night playing the opposite of my instincts, effectively “feeding” them my own savings, dollar by dollar. But in that final round, I let my focus slip for just a second. In the blink of an eye, the house swept the board. They didn’t just lose the “winnings” I’d funneled to them; they burned through their own cash and ended up deep in the hole with a group of predatory loan sharks. I was about to say, “Don’t worry, I can cover it,” but they turned on me before the words could leave my mouth. They lunged, tied me up tight, and prepared to hand me over to the house to settle their debt. Looking at their twisted, desperate faces, I couldn’t help but let out a dry laugh. “Save your energy. This place wouldn’t dare touch me.” Bella, my roommate, sneered as if I’d lost my mind. She pointed a trembling finger at my nose. “If you hadn’t spaced out, we wouldn’t have lost! You’re the one going to the wolves, not us.” “Once the house takes a few of your fingers as collateral, maybe we can actually go back to campus in one piece!” Watching their greed strip away their humanity was almost comical. They had no idea. This underground gold mine—the very tiles they were standing on—was something I won in a card game years ago. Whether I’d lose a finger remained to be seen. But I knew one thing for certain: by tomorrow, there’d be a few heads on the table serving as the next round’s stakes. … 1 Bella yanked my hair back, forcing my face up to meet her crazed eyes. “Judy, quit acting like you’re already dead!” Her eyes were bloodshot, and her spit hit my cheek. “We just lost five rounds in a row. You blew your cash, and then you blew the money we borrowed! If we don’t hand your ten fingers over to the house today, none of us are getting out of here!” I was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey on the hotel carpet, my scalp screaming in protest. But I didn’t struggle. I just looked at her—this girl I’d shared a dorm with for four years. “Bella, did the gambling rot your brain?” I asked, my voice laced with a cold, sharp edge. “Leaving aside the fact that your losses have nothing to do with me, we’re in a high-end establishment. You’re kidnapping someone in a luxury suite. Do you have any idea who runs this territory?” “I don’t give a damn who runs it!” Macy, another roommate, stepped forward and drove her heel into my knee. “Stop trying to scare us with ‘rules’!” “Exactly! We’ve already made the arrangements!” Bella let go of my hair and crossed her arms, a smug, triumphant grin spreading across her face. “I might as well tell you—the man in charge of this whole operation is my uncle.” I arched an eyebrow. “The man in charge?” “That’s right!” Bella looked down at me as if I were a bug. “Everything in this building moves when my uncle says so. Once we hand you over, he’ll take what’s owed in blood, and then he’ll sell whatever’s left of you to some offshore ‘entertainment’ ship. Our debt gets wiped, and we get a nice little finders’ fee to disappear.” I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. Bella’s face contorted. “What’s so funny? You finally snap?” “I’m laughing at how pathetic you are.” I shifted my bound wrists, my tone dripping with mockery. “If your uncle was really the King of the Strip, if he really held the keys to this kingdom, would he really need three college girls to pull off a messy kidnapping in a hotel room? He would have had his enforcers snatch me off the floor the moment I stood up.” The room went deathly silent for two seconds. Bella’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. Hitting a nerve felt good. Enraged, she swung her arm back and delivered a heavy slap across my face. “Shut up! You’re just a bitch who doesn’t know when she’s beaten!” The metallic taste of blood blossomed in my mouth. I ran my tongue over my split lip, my eyes going stone cold. “I’m the one out of my depth?” I stared her down. “Fine. What’s his name? This ‘uncle’ of yours.” Bella gritted her teeth. “Write it down for your obituary! His name is Mr. Ray—Ray ‘The Hammer’ Vance!” Ray Vance? I almost lost it again. Just last month, I was sitting in the penthouse office reviewing the monthly HR reports. There was a new hire, a guy who wasn’t even qualified to work the floor, so they stuck him at the service entrance to check IDs. His name was Ray Vance. Mr. Ray? The Hammer? The world is truly teeming with idiots. BANG! The hotel door was kicked open. A middle-aged man in a cheap, ill-fitting suit with a protruding gut sauntered in, followed by four scrawny guys in “Security” shirts. “Uncle Ray! You’re here!” Bella’s face instantly shifted into a fawning mask of adoration as she rushed to meet him. “Here she is! She’s got the looks—she’ll definitely fetch a high price!” When Ray’s eyes landed on my face, he visibly swallowed. “Damn… she’s a premium find.” He crouched in front of me, rubbing his hands together, reaching out to touch my face. I jerked my head back and spat right at him. “Keep your filthy hands off me.” Ray froze. He blinked, then backhanded me across the head. “The bitch has claws!” He stood up and turned to his ‘security’ detail. “Boys, we just hit the jackpot. The Ghost has been in a foul mood lately, looking for some new… amusement. This girl is pure, she’s got fire—exactly his type.” He stepped on my calf, grinding his shoe into the bone. “Tie her tighter! If we deliver her to The Ghost’s bed tonight, we’re set for life!” 2 THUD. Ray kicked me in the stomach. I curled into a ball on the floor, coughing up a bit of red-tinged saliva. “Bella… maybe we shouldn’t kill her…” Macy whispered, shrinking back, covering her eyes. Tiff, the third roommate, was white as a sheet, trembling behind Bella. “Shut up, you cowards!” Bella hissed. I looked up at Bella, offering one final test. “Bella, it’s not too late. Untie me, and I’ll act like this never happened. I’ll pay off your debt. We’ve been friends for four years. Don’t throw your life away over a moment of desperation.” Bella froze for a second. Then, she let out a peal of hysterical laughter. “You’ll pay? With what? You lost your last dime just trying to buy a bottle of water!” She lunged forward, grabbing my chin in a bruising grip. “Judy, it’s because you have money that we’re doing this!” Her face was distorted by years of repressed envy. “Four years, and you were ‘so good’ to us. But why does one of your handbags cost more than my entire tuition? Why do you get to wear designer clothes and never work a shift while we’re out handing out flyers for pennies just to eat? I’m sick of it!” She shoved my head back against the carpet. “When you’re sold and gone, you’ll just be a ‘missing person.’ Your rich parents will come to campus, desperate. And we—your best friends—will be there to cry on their shoulders. They’ll give us ‘thank you’ money for our help, won’t they? Your useless life is finally going to pave the way for ours!” The other two girls seemed ignited by Bella’s venom. The hesitation vanished, replaced by the same ugly greed. They began hurling insults: “Always acting so damn superior! Every time you paid for dinner, you thought you were being nice? It was disgusting!” “I’m so done with the ‘Little Miss Princess’ act. Once you’re in a brothel, your family’s money will be enough to put a down payment on a condo for me downtown!” I lay there, listening to the depths of their malice, and I actually smiled. “Fine,” I whispered. “You chose this.” You can’t save people who are already dead inside. “Enough talk with a corpse!” Ray interrupted, impatient. He grabbed my collar like he was lifting a stray kitten and hauled me up. “If The Ghost wasn’t busy on the floor tonight, do you think we’d be wasting time here?” When Ray mentioned ‘The Ghost,’ his eyes filled with a terrifying, cult-like devotion. “The Ghost is the Reaper of this town! One word from him, and the whole Strip trembles! They say he carved his way to the top with nothing but a blade and a cold heart. Being sent to his bed is the greatest honor you’ll ever have—if you survive the night.” I smiled inwardly. A blade? Yeah, I remember. He was bleeding out in an alley, his insides nearly on the outside, when I found him. I gave him his life back. I groomed him, placed him in the spotlight, and made him the “Reaper” so he could take the bullets meant for me. The whole underworld knew: the legendary Ghost was just a loyal, rabid dog I kept on a very short leash. I let out a cold snort. “Since he’s so terrifying, why don’t you take me to him right now? I want to see if he dares to touch a single hair on my head.” Ray’s face darkened. He delivered another stinging slap. “You don’t even get to speak his name, bitch! Let’s see how much you talk when you’re kneeling at his feet, begging for mercy!” He signaled his men. “Grab her! Straight to the penthouse office!” Two guards grabbed my arms, wrenching them behind my back, and dragged me toward the door. Bella followed close behind, her eyes wide with excitement. “Uncle! Make sure he cuts off a few fingers in front of us!” 3 I was thrown onto the floor of the penthouse office. Two guards held me down against the massive mahogany desk. “Uncle, look!” Bella cried out, pointing to a crystal picture frame on the corner of the desk. Ray strode over and picked it up. Inside was a photo of a young girl in a white sundress. “I knew it!” Ray’s eyes lit up. “I told you he liked them pure. Look—this girl in the photo looks just like this bitch!” I glanced at the frame. It was a photo of me when I was six, taken at a theme park. Of course it looked like me. That idiot actually kept it on his desk. “Not just the photo! Look at the wall!” Macy pointed to a bulletproof glass case behind the desk. Inside were two brass casings stained with dried blood. Ray looked at them with religious awe. “See that? Those are the bullets he took for the business. He’d die for the rules, for this house!” He grabbed my hair again, forcing me to look at the display. “A brat like you, causing trouble here? You’re going to be skinned alive!” My scalp throbbed. But looking at those bullets, I couldn’t help but smirk. “He’d die for the house?” I repeated. Three years ago, a rival syndicate sent a hit squad after me. Kael—the man they called The Ghost—didn’t even have time to draw his gun. He threw himself in front of me and took those two rounds to the chest. “You’re still smiling?!” Ray was losing his mind. My lack of fear was an insult to his reality. I stared at him, my voice steady. “I’m just curious. If he’s such a martyr, where is he? Why hasn’t he shown his face?” “You little whore! You think you’re worthy of his time?” Ray was livid. He pulled a tactical knife from his belt and slapped the cold flat of the blade against my cheek. Bella stepped up, grinding her stiletto into my calf. “Uncle! Stop talking and do it! She was so tough downstairs—cut her thumb off first!” The other roommates crowded around, their faces twisted with anticipation. “Yeah! Do it! Let’s see how she acts then!” Ray hissed, moving the blade to my right thumb. “Consider this a little ‘welcome gift’ for him tonight. Hold her down!” The guards put their full weight on my shoulders. Just as the knife began its downward arc— A low, guttural voice echoed from the doorway. “What exactly are you doing in my office?” 4 Kael stood there, draped in a charcoal-black suit that made him look like a shadow given form. The room froze. The girls, who a second ago were screaming for blood, scrambled back into the corner, their mouths clamped shut. Ray’s bravado evaporated instantly. He transformed into a whimpering poodle, bowing and scraping as he hurried toward Kael. “Sir! I didn’t expect you back so soon!” Kael didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the desk, though the guards were still blocking his view of me. The lighting was dim, my face obscured by my own hair. “I asked a question,” Kael said, his voice like grinding stones. “What are you doing in here?” Ray gestured wildly toward me, desperate for credit. “Sir, we caught a cheat! A little brat who thinks she can spit on the rules of the house. She’s been insulting your name, acting like she owns the place!” Bella, afraid her uncle would take all the glory, chimed in. “Yes! She’s a fraud, a liar! We were just… cleaning house for you, Sir! Setting an example!” Kael’s brow furrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his features. Ray misread the cue. To prove his loyalty, he didn’t even wait for Kael to come closer. He spun back to the desk, raising the knife high above his head. “Don’t you worry, Sir! I won’t let this trash offend your eyes a second longer. I’ll take her hand right now!” The blade caught the light—a cold, silver flash. It came down with everything Ray had. “Die!” Bella shrieked, her eyes wide with malicious joy. CRACK. The sound of bone and steel meeting flesh echoed through the room. A spray of warm, copper-scented liquid hit the mahogany desk. A severed piece of a finger flew off, rolling across the carpet. “AHHHH!” Bella’s triumphant grin turned into a horrific gasp. Ray stood there, his arm trembling, the knife frozen in mid-air. The fawning look on his face was replaced by a terror so deep he looked like he’d seen the devil. Because the blade hadn’t hit my hand. My thumb was untouched. Kael had caught the blade with his bare hand. The force of the strike had been so great that the knife had sliced clean through his own pinky finger. Kael didn’t even look at his mutilated hand. He slowly lifted his head. Those eyes, usually as dead as a winter pond, were now a roaring, bloodshot red. He stared at the shaking Ray Vance and spoke with a terrifying softness: “I took bullets for her… and you thought you could touch her?”

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When May kicked the door open for the third time, flanked by her entourage, I was slowly straightening my collar in front of the mirror. Clifford, the lead counsel for the Sterling Group, spoke first. His voice was as clinical as a scalpel. “Mr. Smith—pardon me, Gavin. This is the third documented instance of marital infidelity.” “The prenuptial agreement is ironclad,” he continued, adjusting his glasses. “You are to leave with nothing. No assets, no alimony, and you are permanently waiving all custodial rights to your son.” May stood behind him. Those eyes, which I once thought held the stars, were now filled with nothing but a toxic, concentrated hatred. “The first time, you claimed she was a stranger. The second time, you played the amnesia card.” “Three strikes, Gavin. What’s the script this time?” She slammed the divorce papers onto the nightstand so hard a spray of ink speckled the mahogany. I didn’t look at her twisted expression. I didn’t care about the predatory clauses in that contract. As my fingers brushed the pen, I felt a sudden, inexplicable lightness. The moment my signature hit the paper, I heard May catch her breath. As I turned to leave, her controlled facade finally shattered into a scream that echoed down the hallway. But it didn’t register. Wasn’t this the ending she had been writing for us all along? … Clifford snatched the papers away before the ink could even dry. As if terrified I’d change my mind, he turned to May with a triumphant nod. “It’s done, May. He signed.” May stared at me, her brow furrowed. I suppose she was waiting for the encore—waiting for me to rip the papers to shreds like the last two times. Waiting for me to drop to my knees, forehead hitting the floor until I bled, sobbing, “Please, for the sake of our son, just believe me one last time!” I calmly capped my pen and set it on the table. “I’ll have my things moved out as soon as possible. As for visitation—” “You don’t deserve to be a father,” she interrupted, her voice dropping to a low, jagged growl. “You will never see him again.” I didn’t look up. I just let out a small, tired laugh. “I was actually going to say… I don’t want them. The visitation rights. You can keep them.” The indifference in May’s eyes flickered. For a split second, she looked unsettled. She couldn’t wrap her head around this sudden “efficiency.” For the last four years, she and our son had been my entire universe. I used to feel a pang in my chest just hearing the boy call Clifford “Uncle T” one too many times. To walk away now, so cleanly—it wasn’t like me. “Pathetic,” she spat, finally finding a way to rationalize my behavior. “You’re throwing away your own flesh and blood for whatever tramp you have waiting outside.” “Tell me, Gavin… was it worth it? All those schemes you used to crawl into my bed, forcing me to have that child—what was it all for if you’re just going to discard him now?” I listened to her, but the urge to defend myself had simply evaporated. The first time she “caught” me in a hotel room, I was catatonic with confusion. I had screamed myself hoarse trying to explain I hadn’t touched anyone. But May was always certain I was obsessed with her. And because the woman I was allegedly with had vanished—leaving nothing but a blurred silhouette on a security feed—May “mercifully” believed me. But she took our son away. I was relegated to once-a-month visits, scheduled a week in advance through Clifford. Every second was supervised. I had to watch Clifford’s smug face while I held my boy. I had to ask permission to buy him clothes or toys. If Clifford didn’t approve, the gifts never made it past the front gate. My mental health spiraled. Then came the second “affair.” I had taken a job to keep my mind busy. On a business trip, I woke up in a haze in a cheap motel. A stranger was lying next to me, watching me with a predatory grin. I called the police myself, but the medical exam showed no signs of assault. To May, that just meant I hadn’t had time to “finish the job.” After that, I was banned from parent-teacher conferences. May told the school Clifford would handle everything. She told me to stay home so I wouldn’t “embarrass the family.” When our son pointed a finger at me and called me a “bad man,” she stood by and said nothing. And now, the third time… I was tired of the game. I decided to give them exactly what they wanted. So why was she asking me why? Clifford stepped closer to her, lowering his voice in a mock-whisper that he intended for me to hear. “May, I’ve seen a lot of deadbeat dads in my career, but I’ve never seen one sign away his rights this eagerly.” “He’s probably been planning this for a while. A kid is just baggage when you’re trying to live a playboy lifestyle. Don’t waste your breath on him.” He glanced at me, a flicker of something dark and heavy in his eyes. I smiled. He seemed to have forgotten… four years ago, he was the one who drafted that absurd “three strikes” prenup with surgical precision. May’s face turned several degrees colder. “You’d better mean it. Don’t come crawling back to my doorstep on your knees.” She turned and swept out of the room. I watched her back, the corners of my mouth twitching. I won’t be back, May. Years ago, to convince myself I was worthy of you, I visited every cathedral and small-town chapel I could find. I prayed until my knees were raw. I traveled five thousand miles on a spiritual pilgrimage just to hear a priest tell me that “love is a destiny, regardless of birthright.” I thought I had found a miracle. It turns out I just found a curse. This time, my knees wouldn’t bend an inch. Clifford looked at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “Well, Gavin, time is money, and I’m sure you have a ‘busy’ night ahead of you. We’ll leave you to it.” The door clicked shut. Silence flooded the room. I looked down at the woman still sleeping off a drug-induced stupor on the bed. A wave of nausea hit my stomach. I had woken up before her; I could have left before they arrived to “catch” me. But I was bored of being the mouse. I had stayed just to end the game. I threw on my coat and walked out without looking back. The next evening, I went back to the house to pack. When I pushed open the master bedroom door, I found it stripped bare. My clothes, my books—everything was gone. The maid wouldn’t look me in the eye. “Sir… your things were moved to the garden shed. Mr. Clifford said… he said the master suite needs to be ready for its new owner immediately.” I let out a dry laugh. Four years of marriage, and I didn’t even get a decent goodbye. I walked to the storage shed in the backyard. It was a graveyard of boxes and plastic bags. I knelt and started digging. Nothing else mattered, except for my mother’s jade bracelet. It was an heirloom passed down through six generations, the only thing in this world that truly belonged to me. Finally, I found it at the very bottom of a crate. I clutched it in my palm, letting out a long, shuddering breath. As I started to gather a few shirts, a high-pitched, mocking voice came from the doorway. “What are you doing?” I turned. Parker stood there, his small frame silhouetted against the light. He looked exactly like May, but he had adopted that same condescending posture as Clifford. “Taking my things,” I said, returning to my packing. Usually, I would have rushed to hug him, even if he pushed me away. This time, I was a hollow shell of calm. “Those aren’t yours.” He walked inside when I didn’t respond, deliberately stepping on a pile of my sweaters. “Uncle T says everything in this house belongs to Mommy. You aren’t allowed to take anything.” I paused. “These are my personal belongings, Parker.” “You bought them with Mommy’s money.” He put his hands behind his back. “Mommy’s money belongs to the Sterlings. Sterlings don’t give things to outsiders.” Outsourcer? I looked up at him. My four-year-old son was looking at me as if I were a common thief. The coldness in his eyes was even sharper than May’s. “I’m taking one thing,” I said, tightening my grip on the bracelet as I stood up. “The rest you can burn for all I care.” “No.” He stepped in front of the door, spreading his arms wide. “You can’t steal from us.” “Parker, move.” “No!” he shouted. “You’re a beggar! A thieving beggar! Uncle T said once you leave, you’re never coming back, and if you touch anything, it’s stealing!” My pulse throbbed in my temples. “I’m saying it one last time. Move.” “No! Give it back!” He lunged at me, grabbing for the red silk pouch in my hand. I instinctively pulled back, and the silk tore. The jade bracelet slid out, hitting the concrete floor with a sickening crack. It shattered into jagged shards. I stood frozen. I remembered the day my mother put it on my wrist. She was so frail then. “Gavin, this has survived six generations. Give it to your daughter one day. Or your son’s wife.” I had no daughter. I would never have a daughter-in-law. All I had was this bracelet. Six generations of history, shattered by my own son. Parker stood there, muttering under his breath, “You should have just let go…” My eyes burned as I looked at him. “I told you… that was all I had left of your grandmother.” “You think she cares? Do you even know why she’s rotting away in that nursing home?” Parker blinked, taking a half-step back. “I don’t have a grandmother. I just know about the old lady who’s a money-pit.” The blood roared in my ears. “Uncle T said so. He said she stays in that fancy room and burns through Mommy’s money, and she’s never going to get better anyway. She’s just a waste of—” “Say that again.” My voice didn’t sound like mine anymore. It was a low, vibrating hum of pure rage. Parker looked startled, but he bit his lip and doubled down. “She’s a money-burning old lady! What are you going to—” I shoved him. He tripped over a box and landed hard on his rear. He stared at me for one shocked second before letting out a blood-curdling scream. “MOMMY! MOMMY!” I stood there, my palm tingling. I looked at my son wailing on the floor, but all I could hear was “money-burning old lady.” That woman was my mother. His grandmother. The woman who, despite being fresh out of surgery, spent weeks hand-knitting him a baby blanket. The woman who, every year on his birthday, had the nurses help her call him just to whisper a blessing. And he called her a waste of money. A sharp piece of jade sliced into my palm. The pain cleared my head. May burst in, saw Parker on the floor, and scooped him up. “Parker! What happened?” Parker buried his face in her neck, sobbing hysterically. “He hit me, Mommy! Make him leave! I want Uncle T!” May looked at me, her eyes flashing with cold disgust. “Gavin, have you lost your mind? Putting your hands on a child?” “I didn’t hit him,” I said quietly. “I pushed him.” “Is there a difference?” I looked down at the broken jade in my hand. “Yes. Hitting him would be an act of a father trying to discipline a child. Pushing him was simply giving him what he deserved.” May stiffened. She looked down at her son. Parker’s cries subsided into a smug mumble. “I was just telling the truth… Uncle T said that old lady is just burning Mommy’s cash…” May pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s a child, Gavin. Don’t be so sensitive. Clifford manages our family’s finances; he was likely discussing fiscal realities, and the boy overheard. Don’t make this a moral crusade.” “Clifford does so much for this family. You wouldn’t understand the pressure he’s under.” She caught sight of the shattered bracelet in my hand. For a fleeting second, her voice softened. “Look, I brought Parker here today so we could talk. But the divorce… let’s not tell him just yet. I don’t want to affect his development.” I knew what she meant. She wanted me to play the part of the disgraced ghost until she was ready to announce her “new” family. I didn’t say a word. Talk? About what? In four years, the total time she and my son had spent talking to me didn’t equal half the time she spent with Clifford. It was May who had pursued me in college. She was the one who broke down my walls, making me believe in a “possibility” that everyone said was impossible. I had prayed for a miracle, and I thought I got one. Now I realized the miracle was a mirage. My mother was waiting for me. I picked up my bag and walked out of the shed. In the living room, Clifford was kneeling in front of Parker, whispering something to soothe him. I walked past them like they were ghosts. Behind me, Parker wailed again. “The bad man is ignoring me!” He stamped his feet, furious. He was used to me groveling after he threw a tantrum. He was used to me saying, “Don’t be mad, Parker. Daddy’s sorry.” When I didn’t even give him a glance, his world tilted. May’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stop right there!” I stopped. “Come here and apologize to Parker,” she commanded. “You scared him.” I paused. I realized this might be the last time I’d ever see them. I didn’t have the energy to fight. I walked over and knelt down. “I’m sorry,” I said, looking her in the eye one last time. “I shouldn’t have pushed him.” Parker sniffled, then suddenly spat directly into my face. The glob of saliva slid down my cheek. “Dirty man,” he chirped in his sweet, childish voice. “You deserve it.” May watched with icy indifference. “Even a child can see through your disgusting behavior, Gavin. Your affairs have consequences.” I slowly wiped the spit from my face. I started to laugh. “My affairs?” The setups were so clumsy, so transparent—did she really not see the holes? Or did she just choose not to? “May, for four years, you and Clifford have been a couple in everything but name. You even sent my son to stay at his house. Who’s really the one stepping out here? We’re getting divorced. Can we at least stop lying to ourselves?” Clifford’s face went pale. His eyes welled with performative tears. “Gavin, how could you say something so cruel? May, I…” “Gavin, enough!” May’s gaze burned into me. “You want to talk about being ‘unfaithful’? Fine. Since you’re so convinced we’re ‘dirty’—” She stepped toward me, grabbing my wrist and dragging me toward the bedroom. “I’ll show you what dirty actually looks like.” She threw me onto the floor and used one of my own ties to bind my wrists. Then she turned, grabbed Clifford by his lapels, and pulled him close to her ear. “Do you want me?” she whispered, loud enough for me to hear. Clifford hesitated for a heartbeat before wrapping his arms around her. “May, I’ve waited a lifetime for this…” They began to lose themselves in each other, clothes hitting the floor. I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “May, we’re getting divorced. You can do this whenever you want. Why do you have to humiliate me like this?” She stopped, her hand gripping my chin. “Humiliate you? Gavin, you think you still have enough dignity left to be humiliated?” “May, honey, don’t let him distract you…” Clifford murmured, breathing against her neck. She let go of me and sank back into his embrace. I closed my eyes, silent tears tracking through the dust on my face. Then, my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a call from the nursing home. I struggled against my bonds to reach it. When I finally pressed ‘accept,’ it wasn’t my mother’s voice. It was a nurse, her voice trembling. “Mr. Smith? You need to get here immediately. Your mother… she found out about the divorce. She thinks she’s a burden to you. She’s on the roof—” “What?” “She said—” The line went dead with a burst of static. My brain exploded. “May!” I screamed. “Something’s wrong with my mother! Let me go! Please, just let me go!” She glanced back at me, a mocking smile on her lips. “Trying to use the ‘dying mother’ card again, Gavin? I told you, I’m watching the show. You stay put.” “I’m not lying! The hospital called! She found out about the divorce and she’s—” “Enough.” She stood up. “The ink isn’t even dry on the papers. How could she possibly know? You probably told her yourself just to trigger another crisis. It’s your own fault.” She turned back to Clifford. I lunged toward the door, my wrists screaming against the tie. “May! She saved your life! She saved Parker! She took that hit for you three years ago! Please don’t do this!” “Gavin!” She looked at me with pure exhaustion. “Is your mother your hostage? Every time you get caught cheating, it’s either ‘think of the baby’ or ‘remember the accident.’ I’m done.” “I’m not—” I choked on a sob. “This is real. Please…” Clifford wrapped his arms around her waist. “May, everyone knows she only jumped in front of that car to save her grandson. If it had just been you, she wouldn’t have moved a muscle. You’ve already paid her medical bills for years. You’ve done enough.” “Let’s not let him ruin the mood…” The last spark of hesitation in May’s eyes died. I stopped begging. I threw myself at the door, my head slamming into the wood. Blood smeared the white paint. She marched over, grabbed me, and threw me back into the center of the room. “You wanted the truth, Gavin? Here it is. You’re going to watch.” She tore a strip of duct tape and slapped it over my mouth. Then she hauled me up and shoved me into the walk-in closet, locking the door from the outside. The light disappeared. In the darkness, I heard them continue. Again. And again. The next evening, May returned from a gala. She stood in the living room, rubbing her temples, and habitually called out: “Gavin? My head is killing me. Make me some tea.” No one answered. She frowned and turned to the maid. “Where is he?” The maid looked confused. “Ma’am, I was going to ask you. Parker had a fever this morning—102 degrees—and he’s been calling for his father. Also… the hospital called. They said Gavin’s mother jumped last night. The body is at the morgue. No one has come to identify her.” May froze. “What did you say?” A cold realization gripped her heart. “You… you didn’t let him out?” The maid looked blank. “Let him… out of where?” May bolted up the stairs, her heart hammering against her ribs. She threw open the closet door—

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The day after the locks were changed, I posted a message in the company-wide Slack channel. “If anyone needs a spare key to the penthouse, please come see me directly.” When my phone screen lit up, I was staring blankly at the steaming water in the clawfoot tub, precisely 98 degrees. The message from the intern felt like a needle pressed into my pupil. “Hey Oliver, Serena actually gave me a spare key a few days ago. She said it would make things more efficient.” Efficient? The corner of my mouth twitched. My gaze drifted to the bowl of slow-simmered beef consommé on the nightstand, still radiating a faint warmth. My mind kept looping back to that strand of chestnut hair I’d found caught in the shower drain this morning. Coarse, wavy—entirely different from my own straight, ink-black hair. The mystery of the missing spare key from the entryway console finally had an answer. Last night, when Serena told me she’d lost her set, the sizzle of the steak in the kitchen had drowned out my doubt. She always used the keypad. Now, I realized her casual “I lost them” had been as calculated and light as a feather. I hung my suit jacket on the mahogany valet, watching my shadow stretch long across the hardwood floor. On the brass key rack, the silver fob was indeed gone. … The moment Serena walked through the door, her face was a mask of cold fury. “Oliver, have you lost your mind? What the hell was that message in the Slack channel? Do you have any idea what people are saying about him now?” I set the soup spoon down and looked at her, my gaze unwavering. “Why did you lie to me about losing the keys?” She froze. After a long beat, she exhaled, her voice dropping an octave into a deceptive softness. “Milo is my personal assistant, Oliver. Giving him a key was about logistics, nothing more. I only told you I lost them because I didn’t want you overthinking things. Are you really going to be this reactive?” I was silent for a few seconds. When I spoke, my voice was a raspy ghost of itself. “Should I just give him my set too, then?” “Oliver!” Serena’s voice sharpened, hitting the ceiling. “Milo left the office in tears this afternoon. He’s my employee, period. Can you please stop being so paranoid?” “Then how do you explain the handprints on the glass in the steam shower?” “What handprints?” I grabbed her hand and led her toward the master bath, pointing at the glass partition. But the surface was pristine. Empty. Serena wrenched her hand away, letting out a sharp, mocking breath. “I’m not doing this with you. Don’t let it happen again. Go fix your head.” Ten minutes later, I was removed from the company Slack. A notification popped up on my phone: my position as the “Executive Liaison”—a title she’d given me to justify my presence in her life—had been terminated. The grayed-out group icon and the termination notice felt like two successive slaps across the face. My skin burned. The aroma of the beef consommé drifted from the kitchen, but suddenly, it made my stomach turn. Two thousand, four hundred and eighty-five days. I was still waiting for the marriage certificate she had promised me years ago. Instead, I got a front-row seat to her publicly defending another man. My mind drifted back to the year my father jumped from his office window and my mother vanished into the night. Serena had been the one to hold me, her eyes red with a fierce vow. “Listen to me, Oliver. Even if the whole world turns its back on you, you have me. I can’t be a surgeon anymore, but I can sell the tech. I can build us a home. We’ll have a balcony full of flowers—you’ll plant hydrangeas, I’ll keep the succulents. We’ll have a life. A real one.” Back then, my heart ached with a gratitude so deep it was indistinguishable from love. I couldn’t say no to the woman who had lost the dexterity in her hands—the hands of a prodigy surgeon—saving me from that car wreck. So I stayed. I transformed from a concert pianist with a promising career into her high-end housekeeper, her personal chef, her shadow. Massages, gourmet meals, managing her social calendar—my entire existence was filtered through Serena. My mother hadn’t understood. “Is it worth throwing away your life’s ambition for her?” I had been so certain when I answered. But now, looking at Serena’s beautiful, increasingly distant face under the warm glow of the chandelier, I realized I had been catastrophically wrong. We settled into a cold war. She stopped coming home, though I still had the driver deliver her meals like clockwork. Meanwhile, Milo’s Instagram became a broadcast of my displacement. He posted a photo of the executive lounge door; a pair of black leather slippers sat by the threshold. They weren’t my size, and they certainly weren’t Serena’s style. Then came a photo of a new set of stoneware soup bowls—dark, masculine, nothing like the ones Serena usually preferred. In the photo, they were sharing a meal, their blurred reflections caught in the window, smiling at each other. Milo’s caption read: “Hearty soup with my favorite person. Some vintage relics are just meant to be replaced.” I had spent four hours slow-roasting the bones for that soup. The bowl they’d discarded was part of a set I’d bought her seven years ago for our first anniversary. The comments were a bloodbath of subtext. “Is the CEO finally trading up? This looks like a much better match than the last one.” Serena didn’t argue. She simply “liked” the comment. In the warmth of our living room, with the central heating humming perfectly, I felt a bone-deep chill. It was that casual, effortless “like” that did it. Seven years of giving everything I was, and I was just a “vintage relic” in the eyes of others, and a “previous model” to her. A notification pinged. Milo had tagged me in a post. “Oliver, I’m so sorry about the misunderstanding! I accidentally spilled something on my shirt the other day and had to use your shower. Please don’t be hard on Serena because of me.” “Serena said she’s added my biometrics to the smart-lock system now, so I don’t have to bother you for keys anymore…” followed by a smug emoji. He had every reason to be smug. On the surface, it was an apology. In reality, it was a flag planted in my territory, letting everyone know whose side Serena was on. A mutual friend commented: “Is this an apology or a victory lap? Serena, you’re really letting this slide?” Another replied: “Let it slide? Can’t you see the ‘Mr. CEO’ position is up for grabs?” Serena remained silent in the threads, but under the comment about “replacing the man of the house,” she posted a single smiling face. I stared at the screen until my eyes blurred with a stinging heat. I exited the app, opened the smart-home security settings, and deleted my own fingerprint from the system. I left only hers and his. Serena wanted to swap me out. And frankly, I was tired of being the help. That night, Serena finally came home. Her expression was neutral, but her eyes held a strange, bright intensity. She thrust a vintage leather-bound book of sheet music into my lap. “I told you I’d find this for you. Keep it.” She pushed me gently onto the sofa and sat down at the Steinway in the corner. Her back was to me, her shoulders hunched as she clumsily hunted for the notes with her scarred hands. If this had been a month ago, I would have been like Milo—I would have taken a photo and captioned it: “She’s trying so hard just to make me smile!” But now, I just asked quietly, “When did it start?” The piano went silent. Serena turned around, her brow furrowed into a tight knot. “I explained it. I even humbled myself to apologize. Oliver, what more do you want?” I looked her straight in the eyes. “There’s a pair of men’s slippers in your office. A new bottle of cologne in your gym bag. A high-end gaming console in the guest room. And the drawer in the nightstand? It’s full of a brand of protection we’ve never used. Your closet—” “Enough!” The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by our jagged breathing. Serena stood up after a few seconds. The sheet music was crumpled in her grip, her knuckles white. She looked at me with a cold, condescending disappointment. “Oliver, I’m starting to wonder if your father’s instability was genetic. What’s next? Are you going to threaten to jump off a balcony to guilt me?” “Like your father did when he found out your mother was leaving?” The words hit me like a physical explosion. My heart felt like it had been ripped open. I expected her to argue, to deny, to lie. I never imagined she would reach into my chest and twist the oldest, rawest scar I had. “In the adult world, we don’t say everything out loud. It’s called grace,” she said, her voice icy. “Whatever I do outside this house doesn’t change the fact that you were always going to be the man I married. I ruined my hands for you. I gave up being a surgeon for you. What else could you possibly want?” “Milo using the shower was a lapse in judgment, fine. He apologized. Let it go. Stop acting like a martyr.” The louder she spoke, the more clinical her gaze became. She framed it as if I were the one being unfaithful, the one being unreasonable. I looked at her and realized she wasn’t hiding out of guilt. She was acting out of the absolute certainty that I had nowhere else to go. She believed she owned me because I was “broken” without her. My throat felt constricted. I didn’t say another word. She remembered her ruined hands. She remembered her lost career. But she had conveniently forgotten that I had ruined my own hands too—not in a crash, but in the slow, agonizing death of a thousand chores, tending to her every whim until my technique was a memory. After she retreated to the bedroom, I sat at the piano. I pressed a key, then another. The notes were there, but the soul was gone. Later that night, I heard the front door click. Serena had slipped out. I opened my eyes in the dark. A few minutes later, Milo posted again. Five photos. Each one showed a drone-light display over the city skyline. Together, they spelled out: “SERENA LOVES MILO.” I had seen that same display three years ago. It was the night Serena’s company went public. She had given me the deed to the penthouse and a balcony filled with roses, peonies, and succulents. She had yelled into the night: “I kept my promise, Oliver! I’ll love you forever!” The woman was the same. The recipient had changed. My phone vibrated. A text from my mother. I turned off the phone, pulled my suitcase from under the bed, and began to pack. My clothes went in first. Everything else—the gifts, the mementos—went into the trash. When Serena returned the next morning, she saw the suitcase by the door. She loosened her silk tie, a mocking smirk playing on her lips. “And where do you think you’re going?” “On a trip.” “A trip?” She laughed as if I’d told a joke. “You’ve waited on me hand and foot for seven years. You haven’t spent a single night away from this house. You think you can just leave?” “Oliver, if this is some play to make me crawl back to you, it won’t work.” “I don’t think I’m in the wrong here, and I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong with Milo. I’ve supported you for seven years. It’s time you grew up.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t even look at her. I just tucked the suitcase back into the closet for now. It felt light—empty, almost. Just like the house I’d lived in for seven years, and the marriage I’d been waiting for. I thought it was a sanctuary; it was just a cage. Serena nodded, satisfied. “Good. You’re learning.” “Nobody else in this world is going to give you a home like this, Oliver. You should be grateful for what you have.” Her words were cold, punctuated by the faint scent of a strawberry-flavored vape—Milo’s brand—clinging to her hair. My heart gave one last, dull throb of pain. “Just remember, you aren’t that shining star on the stage anymore. You’re just my domestic partner. A man who’s lost his edge. Stay quiet, stay obedient, and I’ll keep taking care of you…” Her voice drifted off as she turned on the shower. I couldn’t hear the rest, but I’d heard enough. I smiled to myself. She didn’t know that my passport and essentials were already in that bag. I wasn’t staying because I was “grateful.” I was staying because my flight wasn’t until the day after tomorrow. The next day, Serena called me—a rarity. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. “The annual gala is tonight. The board and the investors all want to finally meet you.” She let out a small, flirtatious laugh. “Come. Use the opportunity. Propose to me in front of them. Let’s make it official.” My heart skipped a beat, then went flat. No excitement. No joy. But I agreed. Not because I had hope. But because after seven years of giving her my soul, I wanted a definitive ending. That evening, she sent a courier with a gift. A vintage-style leather watch strap and a tailored black tuxedo. My favorite color. My exact size. A ghost of warmth flickered in my chest. When the double doors of the ballroom opened and I walked toward the center of the room, I froze. In the center of the gala floor, on a platform draped in white orchids, stood Serena. She was wearing a stunning black diamond-encrusted gown and a sapphire pendant. And Milo was there, down on one knee, holding a ring box. The flashes of the cameras were blinding. The roar of congratulations felt like a tidal wave crashing over me. I should have been devastated. But I wasn’t. I just felt a profound sense of “of course.” Seeing me, Serena stepped off the platform and hurried over. She kept her voice low, urgent. “This proposal is just for show, Oliver. It’s for Milo’s birthday wish. He needs a ‘best man’ to stand with him for the photos. Just play along for tonight. I’ll explain everything when we get home.” She didn’t even realize how insane she sounded. She shoved me toward the platform, positioning me right next to Milo. And so, I stood there. The actual partner of seven years, forcing a smile for the cameras. I watched the woman I loved take the engagement ring I had picked out months ago and let another man slide it onto her finger. I watched them gaze into each other’s eyes. I watched them embrace and kiss while the room erupted in applause. I had dreamed of this moment. In my dreams, I was the one holding the ring. In reality, I was the prop. During the cocktail hour, Milo followed Serena around with a glass of custom-made ginger-infused water. It was my recipe—the one I’d perfected after dozens of tries to help with her chronic migraines. “You’ll be my ‘Water Man’ forever, won’t you?” she had once joked. Now, she’d given that recipe to him too. “The CEO and Mr. Milo are a match made in heaven,” a guest toasted. “I bet we’ll hear wedding bells and see a baby within a year.” “From your lips to God’s ears,” Serena laughed, raising her glass. Milo looked at me, his grin widening with triumph. He leaned in close under the cover of the noise. “Oliver, the proposal you waited seven years for? I got it with one little lie. You’re just as pathetic as your deadbeat dad. Why don’t you do the world a favor and follow in his footsteps?” His voice was low, but loud enough for Serena to hear. A few guests nearby went silent. Serena just sipped her wine, her eyes darting away, pretending she hadn’t heard a thing. I picked up a glass of red wine from a passing tray. I took a slow sip, then threw the rest of the glass directly into Milo’s smiling face. The room went dead silent. I turned to Serena. “Why did you really bring me here? To be a groomsman? To pass a loyalty test? Or just to be the punchline for your friends?” Serena’s face flushed with anger. “Oliver! I explained this to you! What the hell is wrong with you?” She stepped in front of Milo, shielding him. I didn’t look at her. “Whatever it was, you got what you wanted,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Serena, we’re done.”

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Three years ago, the wedding that was supposed to be the highlight of the New York social season became my public execution. My ex, Quentin, didn’t just leave me at the altar; he replaced me. In front of eight hundred guests, he announced a change of plans, a change of brides, and a total erasure of my dignity. I shattered that day. For a long time, the only thing I lived with was a crippling, suffocating depression that felt like drowning in slow motion. Then came Gideon. He stepped into my life like a sunrise in a dark room. With a patience that felt holy, he stitched the pieces of my soul back together. He swore on everything he held dear that he would be my anchor, my sanctuary, my forever. I actually believed him. I believed I had finally found a way out of the wreckage. Until today—sixty minutes before our vows were set to begin. Gideon walked into the bridal suite, but he wasn’t carrying flowers. He was holding a bridesmaid’s dress. His face was a mask of cold indifference as he dropped the fabric onto the vanity and told me to put it on. I gripped the lace of my white gown, my knuckles turning white. I couldn’t process the words. My brain kept stuttering, trying to find a reason, a joke, anything. He looked at my stunned face and let out a short, jagged laugh. It was a sound I’d never heard from him before—it lacked any trace of the man who had held me while I cried. He told me, quite casually, that he’d forgotten to mention a small detail: the bride had changed. He had a “kept woman”—a girl he called his little songbird. Apparently, she had been demanding a title, a place in the sun. So, he decided to give her my wedding. Gideon had the audacity to offer me a hollow comfort. He said the legal marriage certificate would still bear my name; the ceremony, the dress, the public “I do”—that was just a performance for her. A gift. The door pushed open before I could even scream. Callie strolled in. She moved with a slow, predatory grace. Half of her face was stunning, like a masterpiece, but the other half… it was a nightmare of melted wax and distorted features. It was a haunting, visceral sight. Without a word, she reached out and ripped the silk from my shoulders, tearing the wedding dress right off my body until I was standing there in nothing but my slip. She looked at me with a twisted, triumphant smile and called me “sister.” The word felt like a slap. That’s when the realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew her. She was the woman Quentin had married after he left me. Gideon didn’t even flinch. He wrapped his arm around Callie’s waist and kissed her right there, in the middle of my ruined dreams. He looked proud. He looked satisfied. Callie leaned into him, her eyes locked on mine with pure malice. She whispered that my ex, Quentin, certainly had good taste—that she was “exquisite” in bed, a fact Quentin had clearly appreciated. Her words were a serrated blade, sawing through the last of my heart. I had been betrayed before, but I never thought I’d be led to the same slaughterhouse by a different man. The hope, the trust, the healing—it was all a lie. The abyss I had fought so hard to climb out of opened its mouth and swallowed me whole. … “What’s the point of being a beauty queen if you can’t even keep a husband?” “Seriously, is this Callie girl some kind of sorceress? She looks like that, yet she’s stolen two husbands from the most beautiful woman in the city? I need her to start a masterclass.” “Men are all the same. Callie must be thrilled—from mistress to wife, and she gets to make the ‘rightful’ bride play bridesmaid twice!” The whispers drifted through the air, sharp and poisonous. I dug my fingernails into my palms until I felt the warm slickness of blood, but the physical pain was a dull thud compared to the screaming in my head. An hour ago, I was the woman of the hour. Now, just like three years ago, my carefully planned life was nothing but a dowry for Callie. On the stage, they were exchanging rings. I wanted to run. I wanted to scream until my lungs gave out. But Gideon’s voice—that beautiful, demonic voice—was still vibrating in my ears. “If you walk out that door, your sister’s ventilator stops tonight. Daisy won’t make it to sunrise.” When he saw the color drain from my face, he had the nerve to lean in. He kissed me with the same mouth he’d just used on Callie. “Don’t look like that, Izzy,” he’d whispered. “Once I’m bored with her, things will go back to how they were. Your ex only lasted three months with her before he was done. Just hold on a little longer…” He watched my reaction, his eyes searching for my pain. When he saw my eyes turn bloodshot with unshed tears, he laughed—a bright, joyous sound. “Yes! That’s it! That’s the exact face you made three years ago when Quentin replaced you at the altar!” Callie stood beside him, looking down at me from the height of her stolen pedestal. “Pathetic,” she mouthed. I didn’t look at her. My heart felt like it was being flayed alive. “Why?” I gasped, my fingers catching the fabric of his lapel. “Why, Gideon? Why are you doing this?” He smiled, a cruel, handsome tilt of his lips. “Why? Why do you always need a reason? I fell for you at first sight—you didn’t ask why then. Now I’ve got a taste for someone else, and you’re obsessed with the ‘why’ of it?” “Fine. You want a reason? She’s better in bed. She makes me feel things you can’t. Is that enough for you?” My hands began to shake uncontrollably. It had been a year since my last major episode, but the tremors were back—the physical manifestation of a soul breaking apart. Gideon’s eyes flickered with a momentary panic. He reached into his pocket and pulled out my medication, trying to force a pill into my mouth. Even while he was destroying me, he carried my meds. He acted as if he still couldn’t stand to see me hurt. I had been so afraid of marriage. It took every ounce of my strength to say yes to him, to believe that love wasn’t a trap. How could he turn his heart off like a faucet? And how could he choose her—the one person who had already gutted me once before? I couldn’t hold it back anymore. I broke. The sobs tore out of me, jagged and ugly. Gideon was the first to notice the tears. His face shifted from concern to a sneering contempt. “Isabel, you’re still so incredibly stupid.” “You lose a man and all you know how to do is cry. But unfortunately for you, there’s no ‘second me’ coming to save you this time.” As if on cue, the doors burst open and the paparazzi swarmed in like vultures. The flashes were blinding, the shutter clicks sounding like gunfire. The questions were relentless, honed to draw blood. “Miss Thorne, can you explain why the invitations had your name, but you’re standing here in a bridesmaid’s dress?” “How does it feel to be dumped at the altar for the second time? Do you think you’re just cursed?” “We heard you struggle with clinical depression. You’re shaking—is this a nervous breakdown on live TV?” “How does it feel to lose two men to a woman like Callie?” I clenched my fists, my gaze burning into Gideon. He leaned in and mouthed two words: “Quentin. Accident.” The blood turned to ice in my veins. Three years ago, when Quentin announced Callie as his bride, I had lost my mind. I had screamed. I had slapped him in front of everyone. The price for that slap was my family’s car being run off the road that night. My parents died instantly. My sister, Daisy, survived by a miracle, but she hadn’t opened her eyes since. Quentin had whispered it to me at the funeral: “If you’d just been a good girl, they’d still be alive.” Callie had laughed in my face: “Who cares if you’re the ‘it-girl’? You’re just a discarded toy. You can’t beat me.” Gideon was reminding me of the cost of rebellion. He was holding my sister’s life over my head. I took a shuddering breath, my teeth gritted so hard I thought they might shatter. I turned to the cameras, my voice trembling but audible. “I… I have no comment. I just wish Mr. and Mrs. Vance a very happy life together.” Gideon smiled, satisfied. With that one sentence, I became the headline. I was the national laughingstock. The girl who didn’t just lose—she thanked them for it. That night, Gideon brought both of us back to the penthouse. Callie had been his “bird in a cage” for a year, but this was her first time stepping into the home I had built. I had spent a month decorating the master suite for our wedding night. She took one look at it and claimed it. She looped her arms around Gideon’s neck, her eyes fixed on me. “Gideon, honey… I’m your wife now. That means everything here is mine, right?” Gideon looked at her distorted face with a terrifyingly tender smile. “Everything.” “What about her?” Callie pointed a manicured finger at me. I felt my heart hammering against my ribs, a trapped bird in a cage of bone. Gideon leaned down and playfully nipped her nose. “Do whatever you want with her.” I turned to run. I didn’t care about the consequences; I just needed to be out of that house. But Gideon’s low, melodic voice drifted down the hall. “Are you forgetting Daisy? You really want to run?” I froze. Daisy was all I had left. My parents were gone because of me. I couldn’t let her blood be on my hands too. I turned back. Seeing Callie’s face in the dim light of the hallway sent a fresh jolt of horror through me. No matter how many times I saw it—the way the skin on the left side of her face sagged and puckered—the primal fear remained. Callie caught my expression. Her smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp fury. “You’re afraid of my face, aren’t you?” My scalp tingled with dread. She had been bullied for that face her entire life. She was hyper-sensitive to every flinch, every look of pity or disgust. I could see the murderous intent in her eyes. “No… no, I’m not…” “Aren’t you?” Callie laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on a grave. “Gideon, I don’t like her. Let’s just kill her. Let’s get rid of her for good.” She said it with the sweetness of a child asking for candy. I remembered then what Quentin had told me—that the “accident” that killed my parents had been Callie’s idea. Why were men so drawn to this kind of darkness? Why did they choose her over me? Gideon’s expression flickered with a brief, sharp annoyance. “Callie, don’t forget your place.” “Isabel is still the woman I publicly claimed. She has a certain… value. You? You’re still the thing that stays in the shadows.” Callie’s face twisted with resentment. I looked at Gideon, a tiny spark of hope igniting in my chest. Maybe he still cared. Maybe this was some sick test. But then he crushed it. “You can do anything you want to her,” he said, his voice cold as a winter morning. “Just don’t kill her.” That was the moment I finally died. Callie let out a jagged, manic laugh. She grabbed a steak knife from the side table. She pinned me against the wall, her nails digging into my cheeks, and pressed the cold, sharp edge of the blade against my skin. She didn’t even push hard, but I felt the stinging line of heat as the skin parted. I was paralyzed. “Please… not my face…” My face was the only thing I had left of my mother. I looked so much like her. It was my only connection to the life I had lost. But Callie was beyond reason. Her words were venom, dripping into my wounds. “I hate this pretty little face of yours.” “Why do you get to be the one everyone loves? Why do people look at you with stars in their eyes while they look at me like I’m a monster? You’re the ‘Belle of the Hamptons,’ right? Let’s see how they like you when you look just like me.” “No! Gideon! Please! You know… you know what this face means to me!” I was sobbing so hard I could barely speak. I looked at Gideon, pleading with my eyes. He had told me a thousand times that my face was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He knew I used it to see my mother’s ghost in the mirror. He watched. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He wasn’t just indifferent; he was enjoying the spectacle. I realized then that he didn’t love me. He didn’t even love Callie. He loved the power of breaking things. The instinct to survive—or perhaps just the pure terror—gave me a sudden burst of strength. I shoved Callie away. She tripped, the knife slipping from her hand, and as she fell, the blade caught the “good” side of her face, slicing a deep, ragged line across her cheek. She let out a blood-curdling scream. I didn’t wait. I bolted for the door, my throat dry and burning. But the bodyguards were already there. They blocked the exit, their faces like stone. Behind me, Gideon’s voice was slow, almost bored. “Izzy, I really didn’t want to ruin that face. I liked looking at it.” He walked toward me, his steps heavy and deliberate. He grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at Callie, who was clutching her bleeding face and howling. “But you broke my favorite toy’s face. She’s very sensitive about her looks, Izzy. I’m afraid I can’t protect you anymore.” Callie’s screams turned into a manic, guttural sound. Gideon handed her back the knife. No matter how much I begged, no matter how much I screamed, he remained unmoved. He held me down. He literally held me down while Callie took her revenge. The blade cut into me, again and again. The sensation of skin being carved away was a white-hot agony that transcled pain. Everything in my vision turned a thick, sticky red. Through the haze, I heard Gideon whispering in my ear. “It’s okay, Izzy. I’ll still love you even when you’re ugly. Not like Quentin. He only loved the surface. I love the broken things.” Darkness began to pull at the edges of my consciousness. I drifted into a memory. Two years ago. Gideon had taken me to my final therapy session. The doctor told me I could stop the meds. Gideon had been so happy; he’d kissed my forehead and promised me a surprise. While I waited for him, I ran into Quentin. I was happy then. I had light in my eyes. Quentin saw it and told me he regretted everything. He tried to touch me, tried to pull me into his car. Gideon saw us. He didn’t see me rejecting Quentin; he saw me “glowing” because of him. He convinced himself that I was still in love with the man who had destroyed me. I had tried to explain for months, but he just went silent. I woke up to the sound of rhythmic thumping and moaning from the next room. “Gideon… do you like the black lace or the white?” “I like it all…” The sound of his voice through the wall was a spike through my heart. My body began to shake—the tremors were so violent I thought my bones might snap. Gideon. You saved me from the darkness, only to become the monster waiting in it. I listened to them for hours. Every sound was a fresh cut. Finally, the room next door went quiet. I heard the click of a lighter, and then Gideon walked into my room. He knew I was a light sleeper. When we first moved in, he had the entire place carpeted and padded so I wouldn’t wake up. He turned the house into a sanctuary of silence. Now, he used the sounds of his betrayal to wake me. “Does it hurt?” he asked. The tremors were so bad I couldn’t move. He sat on the edge of my bed and traced the bandages on the ruined half of my face as if he were touching silk. “I won’t ever leave you,” he whispered. “I just wanted you to feel the pain. If it hurts enough, you’ll never be able to forget me, will you?” “When this is all over, it’ll just be us. Forever.” I stared at him, my voice a broken rasp. “What are you talking about? I told you… I don’t love Quentin. I haven’t thought about him in years.” Gideon’s laugh was a hollow, self-deprecating thing. “Is that so? But Izzy… you don’t know, do you? Every night for the last three years, you’ve called out his name in your sleep. Every. Single. Night.” His eyes were bloodshot, manic. So this was it? All this horror because of a name I muttered in my nightmares? Or did he just want to own my trauma? I shook my head, tears leaking from my one good eye. “Gideon, please, you have to believe me… I was having nightmares… I was dreaming about the accident…” “I don’t believe you,” he said, his voice flat. He pulled out a phone and showed me a screen. It was a live feed of Daisy’s hospital room. “See this button?” he whispered. “One tap, and the oxygen flow to her ventilator stops. Don’t hate me, Izzy. I just can’t have you remembering him anymore. I have to be the only one left.” “No… no, please!” I screamed. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t be the reason she died. As his thumb hovered over the screen, something in me snapped. The pain in my body vanished, replaced by a surge of pure, adrenaline-fueled desperation. I threw myself at him.

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