On the day of our engagement party, Gwen got married. Just not to me. She did it in a fantasy MMO, in front of thousands of digital spectators, while virtual fireworks exploded across her screen for five straight minutes. My mother stood beside her, slightly bent over, waiting for those same five minutes. Gwen casually slid off her noise-canceling headphones. “Sorry, Mrs. Mitchell. Did you say something? I didn’t catch that.” My mother forced a small, apologetic smile. “Gwen, sweetie, I was looking at the catering invoice. It says we only have four tables reserved for Devon’s side of the family. Is that a mistake? I thought we agreed on ten?” Gwen didn’t even look up from her screen. “Are you saying I made a mistake?” My mother’s face went pale. She waved her hands in a flurry of panic. “No, no! Of course not. It must be my Southern drawl—I probably mumbled and got it all twisted. I’m so sorry.” Only after Gwen finished typing out a thank-you to her virtual wedding guests did she offer a solution. “If we’re short on tables, then just tell your family to invite fewer people.” My throat tightened. Ten minutes ago, the venue manager had sent me a text that was still glowing on my screen: “Mr. Mitchell, I am so sorry. Ms. Foster gave us strict instructions. Toby Ward’s sister is returning to town, and she needs the extra ballroom space to host her welcome-back party.” In the corner of the living room, my mother’s eyes brimmed with tears as she unlocked her phone to start texting our relatives in Charleston. I reached over and gently pressed my hand over hers. “Mom, don’t. If she wants fewer of us there, let’s make it easy for her. None of us are going.” She had married Toby in the digital world. In the real world, I was about to give her exactly what she wanted. … My mom’s eyes grew redder as she patted the back of my hand. “I know how hard things are for you two,” she whispered. She thought I was just throwing a temper tantrum. Eager to smooth things over, she told me she’d make my favorite Southern comfort dish tonight—spicy blackened catfish with homemade green tomato relish—and left for the local market with her canvas tote bag. I unlocked my phone and sent a message to our family group chat: “The wedding is off. Don’t worry about booking flights or hotels anymore. Thank you all.” After hitting send, I opened my chat with Gwen, tapped her profile, and removed her from my pinned chats. Hands slid around my waist from behind. Gwen rested her chin in the crook of my shoulder. “Why the long face, Devon? Is your cold still acting up?” Last Wednesday, during a torrential downpour, she had taken my car to pick up Toby from work because he didn’t have an umbrella. I had been left stranded at a bus stop for two hours in the freezing rain. By the time I checked myself into the ER with a 103-degree fever to get an IV drip, she was sitting in a darkened theater, sharing popcorn with Toby. I unwrapped her hands from my waist and took a step back. “That was quite the grand wedding you had in the game.” Gwen’s brow immediately furrowed. “Toby isn’t good at the game. He keeps getting targeted by high-level players. Getting ‘married’ in-game just makes it easier for me to carry him through the high-level dungeons.” She sighed, sounding thoroughly exasperated. “Devon, I know the difference between fantasy and reality. It’s literally just lines of code. Are you really going to start a fight over some pixels?” Years ago, when I begged her to play that exact game with me, she wouldn’t even bother setting up an account, calling it a childish waste of time. Now, for Toby, she had grinded all the way to max level. “When I asked you to play with me, you said it was childish.” A flicker of guilt crossed her face, but she quickly masked it. “Come on, that was years ago. People change. Tell you what—next time I’m helping Toby farm, you can tag along.” I shook my head. “No thanks. I already uninstalled it.” Her shoulders relaxed, as if she had just escaped a tedious chore. “By the way, when is your mother heading back to Charleston?” Gwen had complained that the engagement prep was too tedious, which was the only reason I brought my mother up to Chicago to help. My mom had been here for exactly two days. She was so terrified of making a mess in this sleek, minimalist penthouse that she barely sat on the edges of the sofas. And now Gwen couldn’t wait to throw her out? She reached out to ruffle my hair, a gesture she used when she wanted to placate me. “Toby’s sister is being released from prison tomorrow.” She said it so casually. “She has nowhere to go. I need you to have your mom pack up so we can clear out the guest room for her.” The blood rushed to my ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the apartment with a deafening ring. My voice shook. “You’re kicking my mother out to make room for Tabitha Ward?” “Devon…” “Do you even remember why she went to prison, Gwen? She stole my high school transcripts and sabotaged my Ivy League enrollment! Because of her, my admissions offer was revoked, and I ended up trapped at a sketchy, unaccredited diploma mill!” Gwen frowned, her tone hardening into irritation. “She paid her debt to society. She spent three years in prison, Devon. What more do you want from her?” “She ruined my entire life!” I choked out, the pain ripping through my chest. “And her life is ruined too,” Gwen cut in. The words hit me like a physical blow. The warmth drained from my face. Gwen sighed, stepping forward to pull me into a tight embrace. She stroked my back with slow, practiced movements, as if soothing a stray cat that had bared its claws. “Because you insisted on pressing charges, Toby had to carry the weight of his entire family alone. These past few years have been incredibly hard on him. You didn’t just lock up Tabitha; you shattered their entire household.” She kissed the top of my head. “Be good, Devon. Stop making a scene over nothing.” I held onto a desperate shred of reality. “This is my home.” Her voice turned ice-cold. “It’s my penthouse, Devon.” The last flickering ember of hope inside me died right then. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and forced a faint, lifeless smile. “Fine.” I pulled back. “I bought my mom a train ticket back home for three days from now. She’ll be gone.” Gwen blinked, momentarily taken aback by how easily I’d surrendered. She leaned in to press a kiss to my forehead. “I know this has been stressful for you. Once the wedding is over, I’ll take you to Bali. You’ve always wanted to go there.” She was wrong. The one who had always dreamed of Bali was Toby. I had already booked the tickets. Two of them. One for my mother, and one for me. Around noon, my mother returned with her groceries. She whipped up a fragrant, spicy blackened catfish, then reached deep into her suitcase to pull out a sealed glass jar, a conspiratorial grin on her face. “Devon, look what I brought all the way from Charleston!” The moment she unscrewed the lid, the sharp, pungent aroma of homemade pickled green tomatoes and okra filled the air. It was a Southern staple from my childhood, the perfect, tangy side dish to cut through the heat of the fish. “You always know exactly what I need, Mom,” I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face as I reached for a fork. Gwen emerged from the kitchen holding a mug of artisanal pour-over coffee. The moment the scent hit her nose, her brow contorted into a tight, disgusted knot. “Ugh, what is that awful smell?” She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, her expression sour. “Throw that out. Now.” My mother’s hand froze mid-air. The warmth on her face crumbled into raw embarrassment. She hurriedly screwed the lid back on, looking like a child who had just broken a valuable vase. “Oh, Gwen, sweetie… Devon told me you’ve been exhausted with work. These pickled tomatoes are supposed to help boost your appetite. I packed them in a double-sealed jar so they wouldn’t leak on the trip…” I didn’t wait. I jabbed a fork into the jar, pulled out a slice of pickled tomato, and popped it in my mouth. “I think it smells amazing.” Gwen’s face darkened completely. “Devon Mitchell, are you actively trying to push my buttons today?” Back in college, when we first started dating, she had eaten half a jar of these exact pickles that my mother had mailed us. She had smiled, her eyes bright, and told me it was the most comforting, soulful thing she’d ever tasted. But then, a year ago, Toby had wrinkled his nose at a jar and offhandedly muttered, “Ugh, smells like trailer-park trash.” Since that day, Gwen had never touched another pickled tomato. In fact, she acted as though the mere scent disgusted her. She loved what Toby loved; she despised what Toby despised. She had mastered the art of aligning her tastes with his. I tightened the lid and pulled the jar protectively behind my back. “If the smell bothers you, you’re welcome to stay in your office.” Gwen let out a dry, harsh laugh, turned on her heel, and slammed her office door shut. My mother’s eyes brimmed with tears. She gently tugged at my sleeve. “Devon, please don’t fight with her because of me. You have to spend the rest of your life with this girl. I don’t want her holding a grudge against you because of some silly pickles.” My throat burned with a sudden, sharp ache. I turned and squeezed her calloused, worn hand. “Mom, this has nothing to do with you. And I’m not marrying her.” She stared at me, stunned. I looked back at her with absolute, unwavering certainty. Realizing I meant every word, she pulled me into her arms, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed. “Oh, my sweet boy… you’ve been hurting so much, and I didn’t even see it. It’s okay. We won’t marry her. We don’t need her. You and I can make a good life back home.” Gwen didn’t come to bed until well past midnight. I lay under the covers, pretending to be asleep. The shower was running, and through the frosted glass of the master bath, I could hear her laughing—a soft, intimate sound reserved only for one person. She was on a speaker call with Toby. “You want to see my abs?” she teased over the sound of rushing water. “If I show you now, what’s next? You going to want to touch them too?” A pause, then she chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of everything for your sister. A reward? What kind of reward are you giving me?” The line went quiet for a moment. She cleared her throat, her voice dropping to a slightly flustered register. “Alright, that’s enough. Don’t you dare show that photo to anyone else.” My stomach violently churned. I gripped the edge of the blanket until my knuckles turned white. Gwen stepped out of the bathroom, her cheeks flushed, smelling of jasmine and hot steam. She slid under the covers and immediately reached for the buttons of my pajama shirt. It was her usual pattern: get worked up by Toby’s flirting, then come to my bed to relieve the tension. “Don’t touch me,” I snapped, a wave of revulsion washing over me as I shoved her away. “Are you still throwing a tantrum?” she asked, sighing. As I pushed her, her silk robe parted slightly. There, etched into the pale skin just beneath her left collarbone, was a fresh tattoo. A black hawk with spread wings. It was the exact same design that Tabitha Ward had tattooed on her arm. I stared at the dark ink, my voice trembling with cold rage. “You got a tattoo of that?” Gwen glanced down, casually pulling her collar closed as if it were nothing. “Toby has had terrible nightmares these past few years because his sister was locked up. I got the tattoo to help soothe his anxiety. It’s not like I tattooed his name on my body, Devon. Why are you making a big deal out of this?” She had permanently branded herself with the mark of the woman who destroyed my future, placing it right over her heart. All to soothe Toby’s “anxiety.” Without a word, I threw off the duvet and stood up. “Devon!” she called out behind me, but I didn’t stop. I walked into the study, shut the door, and spent the night on the small leather sofa. When I woke up the next morning and opened the door, the guest room was completely empty. My mother’s canvas tote bag, her old suitcase—everything was gone. Gwen was standing by the entryway, slipping off her designer heels. “Where is my mother?” I asked, my voice hoarse. “I booked her an early train and sent her on her way,” Gwen said smoothly. “Toby and his sister are arriving soon. I didn’t want any awkward run-ins to ruin the mood.” She had kicked my mother out while I was asleep. And my mom, terrified of causing a scene or making things harder for me, hadn’t made a single sound. She had just quietly packed her things and slipped away in the dark. My hands shook as I dialed my mother’s number. “Devon, sweetie! I’m at the hotel near the station,” her voice came through the line, forced and bright. “It’s beautiful here, really. Don’t you worry about me.” My eyes stung with hot tears. Only after verifying she was safe did I let out a trembling breath and hang up. The moment the call ended, the doorbell rang. It was Toby, and standing right beside him was Tabitha. “Gwen!” Toby beamed, stepping inside and kicking off his sneakers as if he owned the place. Gwen instantly closed the laptop on the dining table and went to greet them. The laptop screen was still glowing with the files of a high-stakes multi-million-dollar merger she had claimed was so urgent that “the world could end and she couldn’t afford a single distraction.” But now, with Toby here, she abandoned it without a second thought. I remembered the night I lay shivering on this very sofa, burning with a fever, begging her to take me to the emergency room. She hadn’t even looked up from her screen. “Let me finish this email first,” she had said. That email took three hours. “Come on in, Tabitha! This is the room Gwen set up for you,” Toby said proudly, pointing toward the guest room my mother had just been forced to vacate. Tabitha’s eyes slowly swept over me, her gaze slimy and patronizing. “Devon Mitchell. Long time no see.” Swallowing a surge of nausea, I took a step back. Toby strolled over, wrapping his arm familiarly around Gwen’s. He looked at me with an insufferable air of magnanimity. “Hey, Devon. My sister told me she’s willing to let bygones be bygones. She’s a bigger person than most, and she forgives you for putting her away. Now that we’re all living under one roof, we’re basically family.” My hands clenches into tight fists, my nails biting so hard into my palms that they nearly drew blood. “She falsified my transcripts and got me kicked out of Columbia! How dare she talk about forgiving me!” “Devon!” Gwen’s voice cut through the air, sharp and heavy with disappointment. “That was years ago. You have a stable, comfortable job now, don’t you? Why do you have to keep dragging up the past?” She shook her head. “You need to move forward. Stop being so petty.” My vision blurred. Seven years ago, on the day we finally uncovered the truth, Gwen had been the one with tear-filled eyes. She had slapped Tabitha across the face, held my shaking body close, and sworn that she would spend the rest of her life making things up to me, protecting me from ever feeling that kind of pain again. Now, she was standing shoulder-to-shoulder with my abuser, lecturing me on grace. I lowered my gaze, staring down at my shoes. “Right,” I whispered. “You’re right. I need to move forward.” That afternoon, I quietly rescheduled my flight to Charleston for the next day. At nine the next morning, I walked into the offices of Tidal Ventures with my printed resignation letter tucked neatly inside my bag. When I first graduated from that unaccredited, joke of a college, my resume was a black mark. Every prestigious firm shut its doors in my face. I had spent countless nights in a cramped, moldy studio apartment, crying until I physically retched from the sheer despair of a stolen future. Back then, Gwen had held me tight, wiping away my tears. “If none of these corporate bastards will hire you,” she had whispered, “then I’ll build a company just for you.” And she did. Tidal Ventures grew from a tiny startup into a private equity giant. To protect her reputation and avoid any whispers of nepotism, I had refused a high-level entry role. I started at the very bottom, working eighty-hour weeks, slowly grinding my way up to Chief of Staff. My entire youth, my blood, and my tears were poured into these foundations. But before I could even hand in my resignation, HR called me. I was being let go. The very company built on the promise of my salvation was throwing me out like garbage. I pushed open the door to my office. Toby was sitting in my ergonomic chair, casually sipping coffee from my favorite black ceramic mug. I turned to look at Gwen, who was standing by the window. My voice shook. “You gave him my job?” Gwen adjusted the silver cufflinks of her blazer, her face completely indifferent. “Toby was getting lonely sitting around the penthouse all day. Having him here gives him something to do, and keeping him close makes it easier for me to look after him.” “And what about me?” I asked. “You can stay home and focus on the wedding plans,” she said, as if she were doing me a favor. “You need a break anyway. Toby has had a rough life, and with his sister just getting out of prison, he has no safety net. Giving up your seat to him is the least you can do. Consider it a way to make amends.” Toby spun my expensive pen between his fingers, a smug, gloating smirk playing on his lips. “Yeah, Devon. After all, my sister spent three years in prison because of you, even though she didn’t really do anything wrong. She only altered your college records back then because of me, so I could—” He froze, abruptly cutting himself off and slapping a hand over his mouth. Every drop of warmth drained from my body. “What did you just say?” Gwen let out a heavy sigh, looking almost relieved. “Alright, since it’s out in the open, there’s no point in hiding it anymore.” She looked me straight in the eye. “I’ve always known, Devon. Tabitha didn’t act alone. Toby was the one who begged her to sabotage your transcripts.” “Why?” My voice was barely a whisper. “Because he was terrified of losing me,” Gwen said, her voice soft with pity. “He was scared that if you got into Columbia with me, you’d be too perfect, too successful, and he’d be left behind. He was just insecure, Devon.” She wasn’t just letting them steal my past; she was romanticizing the theft. “But since we’re being completely honest,” Gwen continued, her tone chillingly casual, “there’s one more thing you should know.” “The night your mother arrived in Chicago and had that severe asthma attack… Toby was the one who swapped her inhaler with a dummy cartridge.” My lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. I remembered that night vividly. My mother had collapsed on the hardwood floor, her face turning a terrifying shade of blue. If the paramedics had arrived even five minutes later, she would have died. And Gwen had stood outside the ICU, her arms crossed, murmuring coldly, “People from the South are tough, Devon. She’s fine. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” “But in the end, she was fine,” Gwen said now, dismissing the horror with a wave of her hand. “She only spent a couple of days in the hospital.” She knew. She knew Toby had stolen my future, and she knew he had nearly murdered my mother. Yet she still shielded him, excused him, and loved him through it all. Something inside me didn’t just break; it ground down into dust. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Gwen… do you honestly think my mother’s life and my own are that worthless to you?” She frowned, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me, but I flinched away. “Devon, don’t be like this,” she pleaded. “I know Toby can be selfish and reckless. I know he makes terrible mistakes, but deep down, he’s just a broken kid who didn’t know how to handle his fear.” She reached for my hands. “But I will make it up to you. I promise. Once we’re married, I’ll give you anything you want. Whatever you want to buy, wherever you want to go, we’ll do it.” She smiled softly, trying to coax me back into submission. “Be reasonable, sweetheart. Go home and get ready for the wedding. Let me take care of the rest.” Her promises were like rubber checks from a bankrupt bank, and I was done waiting in line to cash them. I didn’t even have the energy to cry. The anger was gone, replaced by a cold, vast emptiness. I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll go home.” She smiled, reaching up to gently ruffle my hair. “That’s my boy. I’ll have the driver take you.” “No,” I said, stepping back. “I’ll take a cab.” At 3:00 PM, I sat on a cold plastic chair at O’Hare International Airport. I pulled out my phone and sent one last text to Toby: “You can have her. The groom’s spot is yours.” My mother sat beside me, her worn hands clutching mine. Her eyes were filled with quiet anxiety. “Devon… are you sure about this? Ten years is a long time. You two were supposed to get married next week.” I smiled gently, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of gray hair behind her ear. “Mom, I just want to go home.” The tears spilled over her lashes, and she nodded fiercely, squeezing my hand. “Okay. Let’s go home. We don’t need their fancy high life. We’ll go back to Charleston, and I’ll make you the best blackened catfish you’ve ever had.” I took her hand, stood up, and walked down the boarding bridge without looking back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505120”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

This was the eighteenth time Virginia had brought her latest distraction home, demanding I paint them in the heat of their intimacy. Everyone in the room expected a scene. They wanted tears, broken glass, a husband driven mad by humiliation. Instead, I sat before the canvas, listening to their hushed, breathless giggles, and finished the piece without a single tremor in my hand. Wyatt, one of Virginia’s sycophants, let out a dry, mocking chuckle. “Come on, Virginia. Your husband has the patience of a saint. Most men would have thrown us out by now.” Virginia casually buttoned her silk shirt, her lip curling into a familiar, lazy sneer. “With what authority? The Cross family empire is dead. I paid off his family’s debts. Even his late mother’s studio is registered under my name.” She glanced at me, her eyes cold. “Without me, Allen is nothing.” I set my brush down and offered my standard invoice. “A custom bedroom scene. Three hundred thousand dollars.” Virginia didn’t blink. She slid a check across the table, followed by a thick envelope of divorce papers. “Christian is sensitive,” she said, her voice smooth and devoid of warmth. “He hates hiding. He feels cheapened by this arrangement. I need you to step aside for a while. Once he feels secure, I’ll find a place for you again. As my kept man, of course.” The room held its breath, waiting for the crack in my armor. I simply picked up the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. The smugness vanished from Virginia’s face. “Are you serious?” I capped the pen and met her gaze. “Completely. You and Christian deserve each other. I’m done playing my part in this twisted little game.” … Virginia’s fingers hovered over the signed papers, frozen. She stared at me, searching my face for the usual signs of desperation. When she realized I wasn’t bluffing, she let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Fine. But remember, Allen—you leave with nothing. Not a single thing from The Arbors belongs to you.” “Fine by me,” I said. This place had never been a home. It was a gilded cage, and every luxury she threw my way was just another link in the chain. My indifference irritated her. Just as she opened her mouth to snap at me, Wyatt chimed in with a smirk. “Nice strategy, Allen. Usually, Christian throws a tantrum and Virginia runs back to him. Now you’re trying the reverse psychology trick. Let’s see how long she lets you pretend to be strong.” The flicker of doubt in Virginia’s eyes hardened back into cold arrogance. “You’re a bit too old for these games, Allen. Christian is young; I tolerate his whims. But you trying to threaten me with divorce? It’s pathetic.” She grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her icy glare. “Look at yourself. You aren’t the golden boy of the Cross family anymore. Without me, how do you even survive?” I didn’t pull away. I kept my voice flat. “I still have my hands. I can paint.” “Paint?” She scoffed, as if I’d said something hilarious. “Everyone in our circle knows you belong to me. Who do you think would dare buy a canvas from Virginia King’s discarded husband?” I was tired of this. Tired of her endless resentment. She hated me because I had broken her heart years ago when she was penniless, telling her I couldn’t marry someone with nothing to her name. She never knew the truth. She only knew how to make me bleed for it now that she was on top. “I signed,” I said, looking past her. “Give me the keys and the deed to my mother’s studio.” “You want the keys?” Virginia smiled, a vicious, slow curl of her lips. “Christian wants a portrait. Of us, and the child we’re expecting. Paint it to his liking, and the studio is yours.” The room went dead silent. Christian leaned against her, a delicate, fragile thing. “Virginia, please, don’t pressure Allen. He just signed the divorce papers. He must be hurting.” He gently stroked her lower belly. “And you shouldn’t stress yourself. Think of the baby.” “The baby.” My chest tightened. Virginia caught the subtle shift in my posture and smiled triumphantly. “Surprised? Christian is different from you, Allen. He actually wants to give me a family. You never could.” She pulled him down onto the sofa. “Paint,” she commanded. The lights were dimmed slightly, focusing on them. I stood before the easel, forced to capture their domestic bliss. The room filled with whispered mockeries from her friends. “The ex painting the new husband and the unborn child… Virginia really knows how to win.” I blocked out the noise, focusing entirely on the canvas. Until Virginia ordered the servants to bring out a canvas covered in a white sheet. When she pulled the cloth away, my heart stopped. It was my mother’s portrait. Her final self-portrait before she died. Virginia handed me a palette knife. “Christian loves the composition of this piece. Scrap her face off. Paint his in its place.” A suffocating silence fell over the room. “That’s brutal, Virginia,” someone whispered, suppressed laughter in their voice. “Making him desecrate his own mother’s memory? Pure evil.” Christian bit his lip, playing the saint. “Virginia, please, don’t. Allen will hate me.” “He wouldn’t dare,” Virginia said, her eyes locked on mine. “Do it, Allen. And you get your keys.” I looked at my mother’s gentle eyes on the canvas. It was the only piece of her I had left. But Virginia wanted to destroy it, to destroy “me”. I took the palette knife. My hand shook, but I forced it steady. The first stroke of thick, white paint smeared across my mother’s cheek. I systematically erased her eyes, her nose, her smile, replacing them with Christian’s sharp, delicate features. When it was done, I set the knife down. “Are you satisfied, Ms. King?” Virginia stared at the canvas, a strange, burning anger flashing in her eyes. She hadn’t expected me to actually do it. Without a word, she snatched a manila envelope from her assistant and hurled it at my face. The sharp corner cut my cheek, and the envelope hit the floor, spilling the keys and deeds. “Take it and get out,” she hissed. “Let’s see what your art is worth when you’re begging on the streets.” I knelt, gathered the papers, and stood up. “Allen,” she called out as I reached the door. “If you walk out today, don’t ever think of crawling back. Even if you beg on your knees, I won’t take you back.” I smiled faintly. “I won’t.” This time, I was leaving for good. I didn’t leave immediately. I went to the small storage room at the end of the hall where my mother’s remaining things were kept. This place was barely a room—just a dusty closet Virginia didn’t use. In our three years of marriage, I never had a proper bedroom. I slept on the sofa or in the studio. I packed her sketchbooks into a worn leather suitcase. At the bottom was a small tin box containing remnants of my youth with Virginia. A sticky note from when she got her first minor investment lay inside: “Allen, when I’m rich, I’ll buy you the biggest studio in the world. You’ll only ever paint what you love.” I had believed her. That’s why, when my family went bankrupt, I chose to bear the hatred and leave, rather than drag her down with me. I had sold my own award-winning paintings anonymously, mortgaged my mother’s studio, and funneled every dime into her failing startup. My mother, seeing me drive myself to ruin, fell ill from the stress and passed away a year later. When Virginia became powerful and demanded I marry her, I felt a toxic mix of joy and deep, suffocating guilt. How could I deserve happiness when my mother died because of my sacrifices? I took the sticky note, lit it with a match, and watched it turn to ash. I went downstairs. Rain was pouring outside. Two security guards blocked the exit. “Mr. Cross, Ms. King ordered that nothing from this estate leaves with you.” “These are my personal belongings,” I said. “Allen,” Christian’s voice drifted down the stairs. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, Virginia right beside him. “If they’re yours, you shouldn’t mind a quick search.” I looked at Virginia. “You gave me the keys. The rest is just my mother’s old sketchbooks.” “We’ll see about that,” she said, her voice devoid of any warmth. I gripped the handle of my suitcase. “Virginia, do you really have to do this?” “Why should I believe anything you say?” she sneered. “You promised you’d never leave me when things got tough. Yet you ran away the moment my world started to crumble.” She gestured to the guards. They ripped the suitcase from my hands and threw it onto the marble floor. The zipper burst, spilling my clothes and my mother’s sketchbooks everywhere. I lunged forward to grab her main sketchbook, but a guard pinned my arm. The blue-bound book slid across the polished floor, stopping right at Christian’s feet. He picked it up, flipping through the pages. “Oh, Virginia, these drawings are beautiful. Can I keep them?” Panic flared in my chest. “Don’t touch that!” I yelled, breaking free and shoving him back. Christian squealed in theatrical terror, his hand slipping. The sketchbook flew out of his grasp, landing face-down in the muddy puddles of the driveway. My mind went entirely blank. My mother’s last hand-drawn sketches. I ran out into the rain to retrieve it, but Christian’s leather shoe stepped firmly onto the cover, grinding it into the wet gravel. “Oops,” he whispered, looking down at me. “Don’t look at me like that, Allen. You’re scaring me.” Virginia rushed out, pulling Christian behind her. “It’s just an old book! I’ll buy you a dozen more!” “You can’t buy this, Virginia!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at me!” she snapped. I knelt to pull the book from under Christian’s shoe. Suddenly, Christian let out a sharp cry. “Virginia, he pushed me—” Before I could react, Virginia grabbed my right wrist with terrifying force, twisting it. “Have you lost your mind, Allen?!” The pain was blinding, but I refused to let go of the wet sketchbook. “Let go!” Instead of letting go, she shoved me backward. I lost my footing on the wet tiles, my shoulder smashing into a glass display cabinet on the porch. The glass shattered. Instinctively, I put my right hand down to brace my fall. A jagged piece of thick glass sliced deep into my wrist, severing muscle and nerve. Agony exploded up my arm, and bright red blood began to gush onto the white stone. The world went completely silent. The anger on Virginia’s face froze. She stared at my right hand, her face turning pale as she watched the blood pool around us. She reached out, her hands trembling. “Allen…” I looked at her, my vision blurring. “Are you satisfied now?” My hand was numb, cold, and heavy. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I would never hold a paintbrush again. Twenty years of practice, of pouring my soul into canvases, ended in a splash of rain and blood. Virginia took a step toward me, but Christian suddenly gasped, clutching his head. “Virginia… my head… I feel dizzy…” Virginia turned back immediately. Christian was leaning against the doorframe, tears streaming down his face. “Allen lunged at me… I was so scared… I know he didn’t mean to, but…” He collapsed into her arms. The brief panic in Virginia’s eyes hardened back into disgust as she looked at me. “You’d even hurt a pregnant, defenseless person to get back at me?” I lay in the mud, shivering from pain and shock. “I didn’t touch him.” “Enough,” she said coldly. “You think mutilating yourself will make me feel guilty? Stop acting, Allen.” She turned to her assistant. “Get him out of here. Send him to Stonehaven Psychiatric Facility. Let them teach him some discipline.” She carried Christian to her car without looking back. The guards dragged me through the gravel. The pain in my wrist made me black out before they even threw me into the back of the transport van. I woke up in a sterile room. A male nurse approached my bed with a syringe. I saw my chart hanging nearby. A bright red sticker read: “ALLERGIC WARNING: DO NOT ADMINISTER.” I thrashed, trying to escape, but Christian’s voice drifted from the hallway. “Allen always has trouble staying quiet. Give him the shot. It’ll keep him peaceful.” Guards pinned me down. The cold needle pierced my skin. Within seconds, my lungs seized. I couldn’t breathe. My throat closed up, and the harsh fluorescent lights began to spin into darkness. I reached out with my right hand, but the fingers refused to move. Three days later, Virginia arrived at Stonehaven. Wyatt looked uneasy. “Virginia, was sending him here a bit too much? He’s still your husband.” Virginia scoffed. “My people watched him. Nobody would dare lay a hand on him. It’s just a lesson.” But the facility director stood before her, pale and sweating. “Ms. King… Mr. Cross had a severe anaphylactic reaction three nights ago. We tried to resuscitate him, but… he’s dead.”

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The office was in the middle of a sudden crisis when I texted my fiancée, Natalie, asking her to pick up my parents from the Amtrak station. It was their first time visiting the city. Half an hour later, she sent back a single character: “K.” A faint shadow of unease crept into my chest, but I brushed it off. It wasn’t until I got off work and walked into an empty, silent apartment that the anxiety flared. Driven by a terrible instinct, I grabbed my keys and rushed toward the station. The late afternoon heat was suffocating, hovering near a hundred degrees. Sixty pounds of fresh peaches from my father’s orchard lay bruised and scattered across the concrete. My father was slumped on the edge of a concrete planter, pale and slick with sweat, suffering from severe heatstroke. My mother was kneeling beside him, using a plastic bottle cap to drip water onto his cracked, dry lips. Natalie had never showed up. Instead, she had sent my father a text: “I’m caught up in something. Use a chatbot to look up the bus route.” But my father was using an ancient, battered flip phone. He had been holding that chipped, plastic brick to his ear, his voice trembling as he asked the automated operator over and over: “How do I get to my son’s house? Please, ma’am, just tell me the way.” When they saw me, my parents forced small, tearful smiles. My mother pulled anxiously at the hem of her faded cotton shirt. “Don’t go blaming your fiancée, Peter. It’s our fault. We’re just old and don’t understand these fancy gadgets. We’re nothing but a nuisance.” My hands shook as I unlocked my phone. On my feed, a new post from Natalie’s childhood friend, Ryan, stared back at me. In the photo, Natalie was carefully helping Ryan’s parents into a luxury motorhome. “Just mentioned my mom gets car sick, and Natalie literally took the afternoon off and rented an RV to pick them up from the airport. Sweeter than a real daughter.” I knelt down on the baking concrete and gripped my father’s trembling hand. On his scratched phone screen, the call log to Natalie was still glowing. Forty-three outgoing calls. Every single one of them declined. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Dad, the AI didn’t do anything wrong.” “It’s the person. She’s rotten to the core.” 1 My father’s IV drip ran until nine that night. He lay in the observation bed of the emergency room, his face a sallow, waxen yellow, his dry lips twitching slightly. “Peter, this must be costing a fortune,” he whispered, his hand shaking as he reached for the small, zippered pocket sewn into the waistband of his trousers. “I brought cash. Let me pay.” I gently pressed his hand down, my throat feeling as though it had been scraped with sandpaper. “It’s not much, Dad. I already took care of it.” In truth, Natalie’s credit card was in my wallet, but I had instinctively used my own personal debit card. From the moment she declined that forty-third call at the train station, I knew I never wanted to owe her another cent. By the time I brought my parents back to our apartment, Natalie was already there. She was dressed in silk loungewear, reclining on the sofa with her noise-canceling headphones in. Hearing the door open, she glanced up. Her eyes lingered for a fraction of a second on my parents’ wrinkled, sweat-stained clothes. “Oh, you’re finally here. It’s pretty hot out, isn’t it?” Her voice was polite, smooth, and entirely devoid of warmth. She pointed toward the foyer shoe rack. “The house slippers are on the second shelf. Mary, Robert, those boots have mud on the soles. Would you mind putting them in a plastic bag before you set them down? That entryway rug is pure wool, and it’s incredibly difficult to clean.” My mother, who had been about to step out of her shoes, froze. She looked down at my father’s mud-flecked work boots, panicked, and took two steps backward, retreating entirely into the cold, concrete hallway outside the apartment. “Oh, of course, dear. I understand,” my mother stammered. Kneeling in the hallway, she pulled the boots off my father’s feet herself. She used the clean underside of her own shirt to wipe the dust from the soles before she dared to bring them inside. My father stood in the foyer, rubbing his calloused hands together. From a battered canvas tote bag, he carefully pulled out a heavy glass jar, sealed tight. “Natalie, this is raw honey from my own hives back home. Peter mentioned you do a lot of corporate training and your throat gets dry. This is good for the lungs.” He held the jar out with both hands, offering it like a prized possession. Natalie took off her headphones, but she didn’t reach for the jar. Instead, she offered a thin, professional smile. “Thank you, Robert, but I only drink black coffee. No sugar.” She paused, adjusting her posture. “Besides, private, raw honey like this is highly risky. The levels of botulinum and heavy metals can easily exceed safety standards. If I get food poisoning, it’ll ruin my schedule tomorrow. You should keep it for yourselves.” My father’s hands hovered in midair. A shadow of deep humiliation and utter helplessness flickered across his cloudy eyes. Slowly, he drew his hands back, tucking the jar into the deepest corner of his bag. His voice was barely a whisper. “Oh, I see… I’m sorry. I don’t know much about science. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.” Natalie put her headphones back in, her eyes returning to her tablet. “It’s fine. Just use your phone to search things up when you’re not sure. Peter, take them to get washed up. They have that… Amtrak smell on them.” Her tone was incredibly casual. I stared at her profile, my fists clenching so hard my nails bit into my palms. A few minutes later, Natalie’s phone rang. She pulled her headphones out instantly, hitting the speakerphone button. Her voice underwent an immediate transformation, becoming soft, patient, and incredibly warm. “Mr. Curtis! Yes, that smart cervical massager was from me.” “You can’t find the power switch? No worries, I’ll walk you through it.” “Do you feel the raised metal button on the left side? Yes, hold it down for three seconds. Then push it up once for the lowest setting.” On the other end of the line, Ryan’s father laughed, complaining gently. “Oh, you young people and your high-tech gadgets. My old bones can barely keep up. I’m putting you to so much trouble, Natalie.” Natalie let out a soft, melodic laugh. There wasn’t a trace of impatience in her voice. “Mr. Curtis, please don’t say that.” “If our elders don’t know how to use something, it’s our job to guide them through it. It’s the least we can do.” I stood in the shadow of the hallway. I watched my father, who was terrified of stepping on the wool rug, pressing his back against the wall as he shuffled sideways toward the guest room. It’s our job to guide them through it. Then what was it, I wondered, when she told my father to ask a chatbot this afternoon? 2 The next day was Saturday. I had planned to take my father to a local clinic to get his heart checked after the heatstroke. But as I stepped out of the guest room, I saw Natalie standing in the living room, holding a small, black smart speaker. She plugged it into the outlet right outside my parents’ bedroom door and turned to face them. “Mary, Robert, I’m usually very busy with work, and Peter has his own projects. You won’t know how to operate any of the smart appliances in this house.” She tapped the top of the black cylinder. “So I’ve set up this digital assistant for you. If you want to turn on the TV, run the washing machine, or if you don’t know how long to microwave something, just talk to it.” “It’s much smarter than a human. It won’t get annoyed, no matter how many times you ask.” My mother’s eyes lit up, filled with a quiet reverence for the city’s technology. “Oh, my. Such a clever little box. Thank you so much, Natalie. We promise we won’t get in your way.” Natalie nodded, satisfied, and checked her watch. “I have to head out for a meeting. I probably won’t be back for dinner, so please help yourselves.” The moment the front door clicked shut, I saw a notification light up on her phone, which was synced to our shared tablet on the counter. It was a text from Ryan. “Natalie, my mom really wants to try that private farm-to-table bistro downtown, but I heard bookings are backlogged by a month.” Natalie’s reply had been instant: “Already taken care of. I used a favor with the clinic director to get us a private dining room. I’ll pick you all up at eleven.” I stood frozen in the quiet living room, feeling the blood in my veins turn to ice. I had mentioned that exact bistro to Natalie a month ago. I told her my parents were coming and that I wanted them to experience a nice, authentic meal in the city. At the time, Natalie hadn’t even looked up from her laptop. “Places like that are all about the aesthetic and markup,” she had said coldly. “Your parents are used to simple food. They won’t appreciate the difference. It’s just throwing money away.” At eleven that night, I got up to get a glass of water. Passing the guest room, I noticed the door was cracked open. The room was pitch black. In the dim light spill from the hallway, I saw my father kneeling on the carpet in front of the smart speaker. On his nose rested his reading glasses—the pair with the broken arm, held together by yellowing Scotch tape. In his hands was the washing machine manual Natalie had tossed to him earlier. Earlier that evening, my mother had accidentally splashed some soup on the sofa cushion. She wanted to wash it immediately, but she couldn’t figure out how to open the smart washer door. My father leaned close to the speaker, his voice hushed, strained with a thick, nervous rural accent. “Um… Alexa? How do I… how do I open the door for the… wash?” The speaker pulsed with a cold, blue light, its mechanical voice flat and metallic: “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Please speak clearly in a quiet environment.” Sweat beaded on my father’s forehead. He cleared his throat, trying desperately to enunciate. “Alexa! The washing… machine. How to… open?” The speaker pulsed again. “Searching for: How to open a washing business. Here are the top results…” My father stared at the glowing blue ring. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. He sat back on his heels, staring helplessly at the plastic cylinder. Then, he raised his rough, calloused hand and struck himself hard across the face. The slap was a dull, heavy sound in the quiet of the night. “Stupid,” my father whispered, his voice cracking with a sob. “So stupid… even a machine looks down on you.” He buried his face in his hands. “How is Peter ever going to hold his head up in front of her family with a father like me?” I stood outside the door, biting down on the back of my hand until it bled, tears streaming down my face, terrified of making a single sound. This was the “high-tech” solution Natalie was so proud of. It was a mirror, reflecting her quiet arrogance and my parents’ crushing humility, leaving them with nowhere to hide. 3 On Sunday afternoon, we had uninvited guests. Without giving me any warning, Natalie walked in the door carrying Ryan’s mother’s designer handbag, followed by Ryan and his parents. “Mr. Curtis wanted to see the river view,” Natalie said, kicking off her heels. “My apartment has the best view in the building.” Ryan held his father’s arm, speaking in a soft, pampered tone. “Natalie, I hope we aren’t interrupting you and Peter. My mom’s knees have been acting up because of the damp weather, so we’re moving a bit slow.” I walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of sliced fruit, meeting Natalie’s gaze. She looked at the plate, her brow furrowing slightly. “Peter, go to my study and get that German cold-laser therapy device out of the drawer. Let Mr. Curtis use it.” I hesitated. “That’s for my dad,” I said quietly. I had bought that device just yesterday. After his heatstroke, my father had been complaining of deep soreness in his lower back and legs. I had paid nearly fifteen hundred dollars to have a friend import it from Europe, and I hadn’t even opened the box yet. Natalie’s expression instantly hardened, turning cold and impatient. “Your father’s pain is from years of manual labor. It’s chronic joint damage; a delicate therapy device like that won’t do anything for him. Mr. Curtis has acute stiffness. It’s completely different.” She lowered her voice, her tone sharp. “And let’s not forget, when we bought this place, Mr. Curtis pulled some strings to get us the developer’s discount. Consider this returning a favor. Go get it.” She spoke with absolute conviction, weighing every human interaction like a transaction on a balance sheet. My father, who had been coming in from the balcony with a basket of laundry, overheard us. A flash of panic crossed his face. He quickly set the laundry down on a chair and hurried over. “Peter! I don’t need that thing,” my father said, offering a pleading, placating smile to Ryan’s father. He bowed slightly, presenting his hands. “Brother Curtis, you use it. My body is tough as nails. A fancy machine like that is wasted on me anyway.” Ryan’s father reached out, taking the box with two fingers, giving a curt, dismissive nod. “Thanks.” Natalie immediately knelt down on the rug to unbox it. She sat on her heels, carefully applying the therapy patches to Mr. Curtis’s knees, adjusting the settings with immense care. “Is the intensity okay, Mr. Curtis? Let me know if it’s too warm.” “It’s perfect, Natalie. You’re such a thoughtful girl,” Ryan’s mother beamed. My father stood nearby, rubbing his hands against his trousers, looking entirely out of place. To break the awkward silence, he turned toward the kitchen to grab a cloth. “I’ll… I’ll wipe down the coffee table for you all. You go ahead and chat.” “Robert,” Natalie said suddenly, stopping him in his tracks. She didn’t look up from the remote control in her hand. “That table is engineered quartz. You can’t use a wet dishcloth on it; it leaves water spots. If you’re bored, you can rest in the guest room. The Roomba is about to start anyway.” My father’s hand, holding the cloth, froze in midair. He stood there like a child who had done something wrong, slowly tucking the cloth behind his back. With his head bowed, he edged along the wall and slipped back into the guest room. As the door clicked shut, I heard Natalie whisper to Ryan: “Older folks always want to feel useful, but honestly, they just slow everything down.” The paring knife in my hand hit the kitchen counter with a sharp clatter. I took a deep, shuddering breath, turned, and walked into the guest room. 4 The next morning, early. The sound of violent coughing echoed from the bathroom. I pushed the door open to find my father leaning over the sink, staring at a bright splatter of blood. The severe heatstroke from Friday had pushed his fragile cardiovascular system to its absolute limit. “Peter… don’t tell Natalie,” he gasped, clutching his chest. His first instinct, even now, was the fear of being a burden to her. My hands shook as I pulled out my phone and messaged Natalie: “My dad is coughing up blood. Can you ask Dr. Lawrence if we can get him into the emergency cardiac unit?” She replied instantly. I tapped the message, only to find a block of standard, AI-generated text. “Based on your description, hemoptysis may indicate severe cardiovascular pathology. It is recommended to visit the nearest tertiary hospital. You can schedule an appointment via the hospital portal. The steps are as follows: Step 1, download the app…” Looking at that cold, automated response, something inside me went entirely dark. I closed the chat, rented a car, and rushed my father to Mercy General Hospital. The emergency room physician looked over his scans, his face grim. “He needs an immediate coronary angioplasty. Our cardiology department is excellent, but Dr. Lawrence is the only specialist available this week who can handle a high-risk case like this.” The doctor sighed. “Dr. Lawrence’s schedule is booked through next month. Your father can’t wait that long. You need to find a way to get him a priority slot.” Dr. Lawrence was Natalie’s former university mentor. They were incredibly close; she visited him every holiday. With the medical charts in my hand, I dialed Natalie’s number. It rang for a long time before she picked up. “Natalie, my dad needs emergency surgery. Can you call Dr. Lawrence? The doctor says we can’t wait.” My voice was tight, pleading. There was a pause on the line. “Peter, aren’t you making a mountain out of a molehill? I sent you the scheduling steps.” “Older people have heart issues all the time. He just needs some medication and rest.” “The doctor said he needs surgery! He’s throwing up blood!” I shouted, my voice cracking. Natalie sighed, her tone dripping with annoyance. “Stop yelling. Dr. Lawrence’s emergency priority slot for this week is already taken.” My body went rigid, the blood freezing in my veins. “Taken? By whom?” “Ryan’s uncle,” Natalie said, her voice entirely matter-of-fact. “His uncle runs an international logistics firm. His time is literally money. He was experiencing some mild arrhythmia yesterday, so I gave the slot to him.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “An arrhythmia gets a priority slot, but my father is coughing up blood in an ER? He is waiting for a life-saving surgery!” “Peter!” Natalie’s voice turned ice-cold. “Can you stop trying to guilt-trip me? Resources have to be allocated where they actually matter. Ryan’s uncle can secure a major corporate sponsorship for my promotion next quarter. What can your father do for me?” “He’s an old man from the country. Even if he gets this surgery, what social value does he actually bring to the table? He’s just going to consume more resources.” The hospital corridor was loud, crowded with moving stretchers, but a chill crept up my spine, paralyzing me. My mouth opened, but I found I had nothing left to say to her. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” Perhaps sensing she had gone too far, Natalie softened her tone slightly. “Look, I’ll send you a link. It’s a portal with a real-time cancellation tracker. Have your father monitor it; maybe he can snag a slot with another doctor. This is the era of digital medicine. He needs to learn to adapt.” The line went dead. A second later, a text banner appeared with the link she had promised. At that moment, the final, fragile thread holding me to her snapped. That afternoon, after making sure my parents were settled in the ward, I went back to the apartment. Natalie wasn’t there. I pulled my largest suitcase from the closet and began packing my things, along with the few belongings my parents had brought. There wasn’t much to pack. When I was done, I walked into the living room. I slid the engagement ring off my finger and set it gently on the glass surface of the coffee table. Then, I walked out, closing the door quietly behind me. No slamming. No noise.

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I had broken up with Dani six times, and every single time, it was because of Christian. To fund the lavish lifestyle of that bankrupt rich kid, she would constantly sneak out behind my back to run illegal canyon races, literally risking her life to bring home cash. Every time I finally lost my mind and ended things, she would end up on her knees in front of me, her eyes bloodshot, sobbing and swearing that it was the absolute last time. But then I’d look at her bruises, her cuts, and the sheer exhaustion etched into her face, and my chest would ache. I’d soften. I always softened. Today was supposed to be the day. The day our parents were meeting to finalize our wedding date. I sat in the private dining room of the restaurant, enduring the pitying, increasingly tense looks from my relatives, waiting from noon until the sun went down. Dani never showed up. It wasn’t until ten at night that my phone finally rang. It was Becca, one of her friends from the racing scene. “Dani crashed,” Becca gasped, her voice frantic over the line. “She was running a canyon race and her car flipped. They’re wheeling her into the ER right now. You need to come—” I cut her off. My voice was incredibly cold, even to my own ears. “It was for Christian again, wasn’t it?” Becca stammered, trying to find the words. “Christian… he fell in love with this limited-edition watch, and…” The background noise on her end was pure chaos—the sterile beep of hospital monitors, hurried footsteps, and Christian’s muffled, theatrical sobbing as he cried out Dani’s name. A heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion washed over me. This endless tug-of-war, the constant breaking up and making up with absolutely no boundaries—it felt like a slow death by a thousand cuts. A sentence with no end. I closed my eyes and spoke into the receiver, my voice flat, entirely hollowed out. “I’m not coming.” “Tell her we’re done. For good.” … My mother looked at me, letting out a long, aching sigh. “It’s for the best, Wyatt,” she said gently, her hand resting on my shoulder. “We don’t care about the embarrassment of a canceled dinner. It’s better than you spending the rest of your life living in constant terror.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “Thanks, Mom. You and Dad go on home. Don’t worry about me. I just have a few things left to clear up.” After watching my parents leave, I sat alone in the cavernous, empty dining room. The screen of my phone lit up. It was a short video from Christian. In the frame, Dani was lying in a hospital bed. Her forehead was wrapped in thick white gauze, her face ghostly pale, looking battered and fragile. She forced a weak, reassuring smile and reached out to brush away tears from someone standing just out of frame. “Why are you crying?” she whispered, her voice raspy. “When have I ever promised you something and not delivered?” The video cut off abruptly. Immediately after, a text came through from Christian: “Dani is awake. She won the watch for me. Don’t be mad at her, Wyatt, and don’t worry!” I didn’t reply. I locked the screen, slid the phone into my pocket, and left. Half an hour later, I was back at the apartment Dani and I rented together. I pulled my suitcase out from under the bed and began packing. When I slid open the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, my hands froze. Tucked away in the back was a cheap, plastic racing trophy. It was from the very first illegal street race Dani had ever won. Staring at the tacky gold paint, my mind drifted. I found myself pulled back into the shadows of two years ago. That was the first time she had lied to me, racing down the treacherous, barrier-free mountain passes of the Angeles Crest. When I found out, the sheer terror of what could have happened broke me. I packed my bags and told her we were over. It had rained heavily that night. Dani, battered and bruised from a near-miss on the asphalt, stood outside my apartment door in the pouring rain. She refused to leave, no matter how much I yelled or begged her to go. I kept my expression icy, telling her I would never forgive her. She panicked, her eyes wild with desperation, until her body simply gave out and she collapsed, unconscious, right at my feet. I remembered how my entire body had violently shaken as I dropped to my knees, cradling her limp form, sobbing so hard I couldn’t breathe. I truly believed I was losing the love of my life. That terrifying, suffocating fear made me surrender. I forgave her. And that surrender paved the way for the second time, the third time… and every time after. “Buzzz. Buzzz.” The violent vibration of my phone jarred me back to the present. It was Dani. “Wyatt,” she said, her voice sounding a bit tight but trying to sound cheerful. “Did I scare you? I’m totally fine. Just a cracked rib and some scratches, seriously.” “Becca completely overreacted. The doctor said I can head home as soon as the final scans come back. I’m so sorry about today. Your parents must be furious, right?” “Yeah,” I murmured quietly. Hearing that I wasn’t screaming or crying like I usually did, she let out a visible breath over the line. “Listen… I wanted to ask you something,” she continued, her tone shifting to that careful, bargaining register she used when she knew she was pushing a boundary. “About the wedding… do you think we could push it back? Just by a year or two?” She paused, choosing her words deliberately. “Christian was just in the room. He was telling me about his old friends from before the bankruptcy—they all just got these new sports cars, and he’s feeling really left out. He wants one so badly.” “So… I ended up wire-transferring him the money from our joint account. The savings we had put aside for the house down payment.” When I didn’t reply, her voice softened into a cajoling, pleading purr. “Come on, Wyatt. You know how much his family did for me when I was growing up. I’ve always promised to look out for him like a little brother. Now that they’ve lost everything, I’m the only one he has left to turn to…” She rambled on and on, wrapping her betrayal in the noble fabric of obligation and loyalty. If this had been a year ago, I would have been screaming, my voice cracking as I asked her the same agonizing questions: “What about me? What about my life, my youth, my dignity?” But now? I didn’t even have the energy to argue. The fire had completely died out, leaving nothing but cold ash. “Do whatever you want,” I said softly. On the other end, Dani’s voice flared with instant, poorly concealed relief. “Wyatt, I knew you’d understand. You’re the best. When you were quiet just now, I thought you were going to threaten to leave me again. You scared the hell out of me.” I let out a dry, silent laugh. “No. I won’t ever fight with you about this again.” “I mean it, Wyatt,” she said, her tone suddenly turning solemn and intense. “Believe me, this was the absolute last time I’ll ever race. I’ll never let you feel second-best again. We might have to wait a little longer to get married, but I swear, when we do, it’s going to be the most beautiful wedding this city has ever seen…” I listened in silence. Over the past five years, she had made some version of this speech dozens of times. The first time, it had moved me to tears. Now, my chest felt like an abandoned well—no matter how loud she shouted down into it, there was no echo. Right in the middle of her grand, sweeping promises of our beautiful future, the sharp creak of a door opening cut through the line. Then came Christian’s high, excited voice: “Dani! Becca just drove the new car over! It’s parked right downstairs, and oh my god, it is stunning! Come on, you have to come down and look at it with me!” Dani’s heartfelt confession to me vanished instantly. Her voice softened into that familiar, indulgent tone she reserved only for him. “You little devil, I just got stitched up… Alright, alright, let me grab a jacket. Stop pulling my arm, slow down.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I hung up. It had hadn’t always been this way. When Dani and I first started dating, Christian didn’t exist in my world. But two years ago, when the family business collapsed, Christian was forced to return from his expensive boarding school overseas. It was only then that I learned the truth: Dani was an orphan, and Christian’s family had funded her education and upbringing. To Dani, Christian wasn’t just a spoiled kid. He was the living legacy of a debt she felt she had to pay back with her very life. It was a debt that stood between us like an insurmountable mountain, ensuring our relationship was a tragedy from the start. I took a deep breath, picked up my phone, and dialed my college mentor. “Professor Campbell? The research spot you mentioned—the one at the Arctic observation station in Iceland. Is it still open?” Professor Campbell’s voice sharpened with gravity. “It is, Wyatt. But let me be entirely clear: this is a highly classified, deep-field assignment. Once you’re on-site, you cannot return to the States for at least three years. Are you absolutely sure you want to take this?” “I am,” I said, my voice completely steady. “I want it.” There was a long pause on the other end. “I thought you turned it down because of your girlfriend? Didn’t you two break up over this before?” “We did,” I murmured, a sudden, sharp ache blooming behind my eyes. “But we’re over now. Officially.” The moment I walked out of our apartment building dragging my suitcase, a pair of blinding high beams cut through the darkness. A brand-new, blood-red sports car was idling curbside. The window rolled down, revealing Christian. He looked at my suitcase, his lips curling into a smug, knowing smirk. “What’s this? Running away in the middle of the night?” I managed a polite, empty smile. “If I don’t leave, how are you going to move in?” Christian pushed the door open and stepped out onto the pavement. “Please, don’t act like I’m the homewrecker here. It’s pathetic. Dani wants to spend her money on me. It’s her choice. What am I supposed to do, say no?” He stepped closer, his smile sharpening. “Honestly, Wyatt, I almost feel bad for you. Do you want to know a secret?” “Dani got drunk once and told me the truth. She said if I hadn’t been the golden heir of the family that took her in—if she hadn’t felt so beneath me back then—she never would have settled for someone like you. You were always just the second-best option.” “So don’t act like you’re the prize. If I actually wanted her, you wouldn’t even have stood a chance.” The midnight wind swept down the street, making me shiver. But as I listened to him, I didn’t feel the sting of heartbreak. I only felt a profound, almost comical sense of absurdity. Five years of my life, wasted on this. “Then I genuinely wish you both a long and happy life together,” I said softly. “You deserve each other.” My lack of anger caught him off guard. His smug expression faltered, replaced by the ugly, petulant look of a spoiled child who hadn’t gotten the reaction he wanted. As I turned to walk away, he reached out and grabbed the strap of my suitcase. “Wait. Who said you could leave?” “Dani is still in the hospital. I don’t do sickrooms or caretaking. You need to go there and look after her.” I looked down at his hand on my bag. “Let go.” Instead of releasing it, Christian yanked his phone out and immediately dialed Dani on FaceTime. “Dani…” he whined into the camera, his voice instantly cracking into a sob. “Did I make Wyatt mad again?” “I just wanted to show him the new car, but he’s packed all his bags and he’s leaving. He refuses to go to the hospital to see you. I tried to stop him, but he’s being so mean…” On the screen, Dani looked exhausted, the white gauze stark against her pale skin. Hearing Christian’s tears, she didn’t ask why I was standing on a dark street corner with all my belongings. She didn’t ask if I was okay. She just pinched the bridge of her nose, her voice tight with irritation. “Wyatt, what are you doing now? We literally just talked about this on the phone. Stop taking things out on Christian. Just get over here to the hospital.” I stood there in the cold, ready to hang up and walk away forever, when my mentor’s words echoed in my mind: “The security clearance for the Iceland project is incredibly strict. I need your physical passport and ID on my desk by nine tomorrow morning to initiate the paperwork.” And all of my official documents were in Dani’s possession. Because today was supposed to be the day we got our marriage license, I had handed her my passport and ID packet the night before. She had tucked them into her leather backpack—the very same bag currently sitting on the nightstand in her hospital room. I looked at Dani’s face on the screen. “Fine,” I said. “I’m coming to the hospital.” Half an hour later, I stepped off the elevator on the third floor of the surgical wing. As I reached her room and went to push the door open, the sound of Becca’s voice stopped me cold. “Dani, don’t you think you’ve gone too far this time?” “That was the down payment for your house. You gave every single cent of it to Christian for a sports car? And you stood up Wyatt’s family for an entire day. Aren’t you terrified he’s actually going to walk away this time? He has been nothing but devoted to you for five years. We all see how much he loves you.” My hand hovered inches from the handle. Inside, there was a long, heavy silence before Dani spoke, her voice brimming with absolute certainty. “He won’t leave. We’ve been together for five years. You don’t just throw away a love like that.” “You know Wyatt. He has a soft heart. Every time we fight, all I have to do is apologize, and he comes running back. Once I get discharged in a couple of days, I’ll buy him a nice gift, say I’m sorry, and this will all blow over.” Becca let out a weary sigh. “But Dani, what you do for Christian… it’s too much. What kind of man is going to sit by and watch his partner endlessly sacrifice herself for someone else? What are you actually doing here?” Dani’s tone sharpened, turning defensive. “They are two completely different things. Christian’s family lost everything. They have nothing. I promised his parents I would look after him, and I don’t break my promises. It’s a debt I owe them, and I have to pay it.” She paused, her voice softening slightly. “Wyatt is reasonable. He’s mature. Once we’re married, I’ll make it up to him. I’ll love him twice as hard, buy him whatever he wants. But I am never turning my back on Christian. Wyatt will just have to get used to it.” “Hey! Why are you just standing out here?” Christian’s loud, petulant voice suddenly rang out from behind me in the hallway. The conversation inside died instantly. Dani’s head snapped toward the door. The moment she saw me standing there, every ounce of color drained from her face. “Wyatt… how long have you been standing there? Let me explain—” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly flat. “I’ve heard some version of that speech for years, Dani. I’m sick of it.” Dani reached out blindly from her bed. “Wyatt, please, stop acting like this. Becca and I were just talking. And I told you, this was the last time. From now on, I—” I let out a bitter laugh. “The last time? How many ‘last times’ have we had, Dani?” “You’ve been lying to me from the start. You never had any intention of letting him go. You just wanted to keep pushing me, testing my limits, until I was worn down enough to accept this sick, twisted dynamic.” Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. A sudden, fierce burn flared behind my eyelids. “Every single time you went out to race on those unlit, unguarded mountain roads, I couldn’t close my eyes. Not for a second.” “I sat there staring at my phone, absolutely paralyzed by the fear that the next call would be a paramedic telling me your car had gone over a cliff. Did you ever think about me? Just once? Did you ever care that I was waiting for you to come home?” Dani’s desperation made her voice pitch higher. “I’m a professional, Wyatt! I know my limits! I’m good at what I do, and I’ve always come back. Look at me, I’m fine!” I let out a soft, hollow laugh. “Fine? Let me ask you something, Dani.” “Even if we got married—even if we had children—the moment Christian snapped his fingers and wanted something else, you’d still sneak out in the middle of the night to risk your life for him, wouldn’t you?” Dani looked away, staring down at her hospital blanket, silent. I looked away from her. “Give me my documents. They’re in your black bag on the nightstand.” She blinked, startled. “Why do you want your bag? Wyatt, what are you doing?” “Just give it to me.” Sensing the absolute finality in my voice, Becca quickly reached over, grabbed the leather backpack, and handed it to me. I zipped it open, checked that my passport and ID envelope were safely inside, and turned on my heel. At exactly nine o’clock the next morning, I stood in Professor Campbell’s office. He looked at me over his glasses as I placed my documents on his desk. “Are you absolutely sure, Wyatt? Once we submit these and initiate the government clearance, there’s no turning back.” “I’m sure,” I said, my voice completely steady. “I won’t regret it.” … Three days later. Dani pushed open the apartment door, a large bandage still covering her forehead. She was carrying a garment bag containing a bespoke designer suit she’d ordered for me. A high-end peace offering to smooth things over, just like she always did. “Wyatt, I’m home!” she called out, trying to sound bright. “I got you that—” The apartment was dead quiet. Frowning, she kicked off her shoes and walked into the bedroom. “Are you still giving me the silent treatment? Come on, I came straight home from the hospital to see you…” Her voice died in her throat the moment she opened the wardrobe doors.

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My boss, Howard, was notoriously cheap, but he was also incredibly vain. It was a volatile combination. When he walked into the bullpen on a Tuesday morning and announced, “Why does Mother’s Day get all the hype while Father’s Day gets ignored? I’ve decided to take every single employee’s dad out for a lavish dinner,” I knew my week was ruined. Sure enough, every venue I suggested over the next few days was either “too trashy” or “too expensive.” He wanted five-star prestige on a fast-food budget. By the time I printed out my hundred-and-fifth venue proposal, Amber, our newly hired purchasing assistant, snatched the folder right out of my hands. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck in her head. “Fiona,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetner, “for an executive assistant, you really don’t know how to budget. Do you think Howard’s money grows on trees?” I crossed my arms, fighting the urge to grit my teeth. “If you’re so brilliant, Amber, what’s your grand plan?” That was exactly what she was waiting for. She smirked, practically preening in front of the entire office. “I have a connection. All-you-can-eat high-end seafood. A private tasting menu at an exclusive spot. And it only costs this much per person.” She held up two fingers. Howard’s eyebrows knitted together. “Two hundred?” Amber tilted her chin up proudly. “A full seafood tasting menu. Twenty dollars a head. All-you-can-eat.” … The fleshy muscles of Howard’s face twitched. I could practically see the gears turning in his head; he was utterly transfixed by the price tag. But his paranoia kicked in. “It’s not some sketchy food truck, is it?” Amber held her head high. “A premier, white-tablecloth establishment.” “Is the seafood actually fresh?” Howard pressed, leaning over his desk. Amber wagged her index finger with practiced confidence. “We get the exact same plates as their regular VIP clientele. Fresh off the boat. It’s an exclusive, back-door arrangement I set up.” Howard practically leaped out of his leather chair, rubbing his hands together with a greedy, manic glee. “Why didn’t I know we had this kind of talent in the department?” Amber flushed, looking demure, though she didn’t miss the chance to throw me under the bus. “Well, Fiona’s always locked down the corporate dining arrangements. I never really had a position where I could show what I could do.” My jaw tightened. I took a slow, deep breath to keep from snapping. Howard glared at me, the ghost of past corporate credit card bills clearly flashing before his eyes. He turned his gaze to me, cold and accusatory. “Fiona, I won’t look too closely at your past bookings, but going forward, all corporate events go through Amber.” My hands balled into fists in my pockets. “Look closely at my past bookings?” He was heavily implying I’d been taking kickbacks. It was insulting. Every single dinner, every single client lunch I’d booked had been scraped down to the absolute lowest budget he’d approve, negotiated through sheer persistence on my part. If I hadn’t fought tooth and nail to keep us within a respectable price range, he would have been laughed out of every restaurant in the city. I swallowed my urge to warn him. If he wanted to step off a cliff, I’d gladly step aside. “Of course,” I said, offering a tight, pleasant smile. “I’m sure Amber will do a wonderful job. I’d be happy to hand it over.” I wanted nothing more than to hand off this toxic, thankless task anyway. Amber beamed, her ego inflating by the second. “Don’t worry, Howard. I’ve got the connections. Leave it all to me.” Howard patted her shoulder, looking at her as if she were a long-lost daughter. “We need to give our younger generation more opportunities. Too many people in this company think their seniority gives them a free pass to gatekeep and take advantage.” The words felt like a slap, but I kept my smile perfectly plastered on my face. Let the fool have his moment. I couldn’t wait to see what kind of five-star establishment offered a twenty-dollar seafood tasting menu. When Amber and I stepped out of the office, her smug, self-satisfied grin was impossible to ignore. “I’m so sorry, Fiona,” she whispered, leaning in close. “I didn’t mean to steal your job. I just hope Howard isn’t too disappointed in you. It really wasn’t personal.” I didn’t even bother giving her a glance. I turned on my heel and walked back to my desk. But Amber wasn’t the type to let things go. A few days later, she marched over to my cubicle, flanked by a small army of our colleagues. The first words out of their mouths made me think I was hallucinating from exhaustion. “Fiona, we need you to refund us,” Courtney, Amber’s closest sycophant, demanded. I blinked, taking off my blue-light glasses. “Refund you for what?” I quickly scanned my memory, certain Howard hadn’t authorized any employee payouts recently. Before I could say more, Courtney stepped forward, pointing a manicured finger directly in my face. “We trusted you! Whenever we did group dinners, we let you organize them. You charged us eighty dollars a head! And here’s Amber, getting us into a luxury venue for twenty. You should be ashamed of yourself for stealing from us!” My face went cold. “Courtney, watch your mouth.” Someone in the back, sensing the sudden drop in temperature, pulled at Courtney’s sleeve. “Maybe there’s a misunderstanding…” “What misunderstanding?” Courtney scoffed, crossing her arms. “She was clearly skimming off the top. Stealing from the company is one thing, but ripping off your own coworkers? That’s just pathetic.” I stood up slowly, tapping Courtney’s hand away from my face. “You want to talk about evidence, Courtney? I keep every single receipt and invoice from our dinners. If you want to throw around accusations of embezzlement, I’ll happily let my lawyer handle it. We can go to court for defamation.” Courtney’s bravado faltered. She swallowed hard, casting a panicked glance at Amber. Amber quickly stepped in, waving her hands placatingly. “Oh, come on, let’s not get defensive. I only got that price because I’m close with the restaurant’s management. Fiona just doesn’t have those kinds of high-level connections, that’s all. It’s not her fault.” One of the designers immediately chimed in, eager to flatter. “Wait, high-level? Is the restaurant owned by your family?” Amber didn’t deny it, nor did she confirm it. She just lowered her eyes, blushing coyly. “Oh, please don’t ask. My family wants me to keep a low profile while I learn the business.” Instantly, the atmosphere shifted. The crowd looked at Amber as if she were an undercover heiress, a girl from “old money” playing at being a commoner. Meanwhile, they looked at me like I was a parasite. “Some people just shouldn’t take on roles they aren’t qualified for,” Rhonda muttered. Rhonda was a senior sales rep who always managed to pack away three boxes of leftovers at every company event. “If you can’t get us a discount, don’t play coordinator and waste our money.” “Exactly. She probably did it for the kickbacks.” “Well, how else do you think she affords those designer bags?” I tapped my desk loudly with a pen, my voice cutting through their murmurs like ice. “If you have proof of any wrongdoing, take it to HR. Otherwise, get back to work.” They slowly dispersed, throwing dirty looks over their shoulders. I sat back down, staring at the screen. The sting of their betrayal was sharp, but it brought a strange, cold clarity. I had spent years helping these people, picking out restaurants that met their dietary restrictions, fighting with vendors to get them free drinks, and even covering their shares when they “forgot” to Venmo me. And this was what it got me. I opened a blank document, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I didn’t want to be in this swamp anymore. I typed out my resignation letter, one precise word at a time. Just as I was about to hit send, a notification popped up. Amber had posted in the company group chat. The chat erupted instantly. “Amber: The venue for our Father’s Day dinner is confirmed: The Gilded Peony.” She posted the address and a link to the website. The office went dead silent for three seconds before everyone started screaming. “Courtney: Are you serious?! The Gilded Peony is the most famous luxury seafood restaurant in the city! My mom’s birthday dinner there cost us over fifteen hundred dollars!” Howard, who spent half his day browsing golf forums, immediately chimed in. “Howard: Is it really twenty dollars a head?” “Amber: Guaranteed, Howard. I’ve spoken with my contact. As soon as we arrive, they’ll run the special rate.” “Howard: What about the menu? We need to make sure they aren’t cutting corners.” Before Amber could reply, Courtney jumped in. “Courtney: Howard, a tasting menu doesn’t have a set menu! That’s the whole point of omakase. They serve whatever is freshest that day!” “Howard: Right, right. My mistake. This is a fantastic perk for our team. Amber, you’ve done an incredible job.” I stared at the screen, a dry laugh escaping my throat. I couldn’t resist throwing a wet blanket over their parade. “Fiona: The Gilded Peony is a traditional, high-end French-Asian fusion restaurant. They don’t offer ‘omakase’ or any form of unlimited tasting menus.” A plate of roasted asparagus there cost forty dollars. The idea of a twenty-dollar all-you-can-eat seafood menu was so utterly absurd that a child could see through it. But these people were blinded by their own greed. The group chat went quiet. A minute later, Amber replied. “Amber: Well, of course the public doesn’t know about it. It’s an off-menu, VIP-only privilege. My contact arranged it specifically for us.” Immediately, a flood of thumbs-up emojis and flattering comments drowned out my message. They called Amber a saint, a savior, a true leader. Howard was so thrilled by the prospect of saving thousands of dollars while looking like a philanthropist that his greed grew wings. “Howard: Amber, can we add more people? I’d love to invite our top suppliers and clients. At twenty dollars a head, it’s a steal.” He didn’t even realize how pathetic he sounded, practically begging an entry-level assistant for permission. “Amber: The more the merrier! Just give me the head count.” By the end of the day, Howard had invited extended family, golf buddies, suppliers, and clients. The guest list swelled to one hundred and fifty people. Fifteen tables. “Howard: Are you sure this isn’t too much trouble for your family’s restaurant?” “Amber: Not at all. Honestly, the more people we have, the better.” I shut down my laptop. I couldn’t wait for Father’s Day. When I walked into Howard’s office to hand in my resignation, his reaction was exactly as petty as I expected. He signed it without looking up, throwing a sneer my way. “You’ve been here five years, Fiona,” he said, tossing his pen onto the desk. “But honestly, what have you actually contributed? Your salary is way above the market rate, yet you’ve brought in less value than Amber has in her first month.” The anger flared in my chest, hot and sharp, but I forced my hands to remain steady at my sides. “Howard, my performance reviews are on file,” I said, my voice quiet and even. “Every contract I’ve managed has been flawless. If my work were truly that subpar, a man as budget-conscious as you wouldn’t have kept me on for five years, let alone given me raises.” His face flushed a deep, ugly purple. He pointed a finger at me, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I have work to finish,” I said, turning toward the door. “Have a good afternoon.” That afternoon, Howard pinned a message to the top of the company chat. First, Amber was promoted to Executive Assistant. Second, any employee who had submitted their resignation would be excluded from the Father’s Day banquet. I was the only one who had resigned. The chat flooded with cheers. “Courtney: Amber deserves it! Finally, someone with real class in that seat.” “Rhonda: Support the boss! Leeches who quit shouldn’t get to enjoy our company perks anyway.” I stood up, walked over to Courtney and Rhonda’s desks, and pulled up my Venmo QR code on my phone. “You still owe me for the last three group lunches,” I said, my voice carrying across the quiet room. “Pay up.” Their faces turned bright red. Courtney sputtered, “I—I don’t have my card linked right now—” “I’ll wait,” I said. “I also posted the itemized receipts in the group chat, just so everyone can see the exact math.” Reluctantly, they scanned the code and sent the money. I walked out of the office that evening with my head held high. I had already called The Gilded Peony. I had asked to confirm a reservation for a party of one hundred and fifty under our company name. The hostess had paused, checked her system, and told me there was no such booking. So, where on earth was Amber planning to put fifteen tables of hungry people? “”” Father’s Day arrived, hot and bright. I decided to treat my parents to a nice lunch at The Gilded Peony. We arrived early. I checked the elegant, gold-trimmed reservation board in the lobby. There was no mention of our company. Every private dining room was booked under names like “The Vanderbilt Gala” or “Dr. Henderson.” The main dining room downstairs was pristine, with white tablecloths and heavy crystal. A hostess with sharp, drooping eyes led my parents and me up the spiral staircase to the second-floor mezzanine. “I’m sorry,” she said when I glanced at the empty tables downstairs. “Those tables are reserved.” I counted them. Exactly fifteen tables. But they weren’t grouped together; they were scattered randomly across the floor, mixed in with other dining parties, and there were no company signs on any of them. We took our seats. Ten minutes later, I saw Howard, Amber, and a massive crowd of one hundred and fifty people stream through the front doors. My fork nearly slipped from my fingers. They actually made it? Did Amber actually have a connection? Howard looked around the grand dining room, his chest puffed out, but his smile faltered when he saw the setup. “Amber,” I heard him call out, his voice carrying up to the mezzanine. “Why are we in the main room? Why aren’t we in a private hall? And why are our tables scattered like this?” Amber quickly stepped in, her tone smooth. “They’re incredibly busy today, Howard. This was the only way they could accommodate a party of our size on short notice. It’s a miracle we got in at all.” Howard’s tension dissolved. “Right, right. Of course. It’s all Fiona’s fault for leaving us in a bind.” The surrounding colleagues murmured their agreement. Once everyone was seated, Howard’s son, Tyler—a bloated, obnoxious twelve-year-old who wore a designer belt that was stretched to its limit—began banging his spoon against the crystal water glass. “Dad! I want lobster! I want the big crab!” “Amber,” Howard said, waving a hand. “Let’s get some food out here. Everyone’s hungry.” Rhonda agreed, rubbing her stomach. “Yes, my dad and I skipped breakfast just for this!” Amber’s sweet demeanor suddenly vanished. She turned on them, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Are you guys starving or something? Stop rushing me!” The table went silent. They were too intimidated by her supposed “heiress” status to talk back. Thirty minutes passed. Our appetizers arrived—beautifully plated oysters and tuna tartare. Downstairs, however, the fifteen tables remained completely empty. No water, no bread, no menus. Howard was sweating through his suit jacket. He kept looking around, his eyes darting to the other tables where wealthy families were enjoying their meals. Finally, Amber stood up. Howard and the others let out a collective sigh of relief, assuming she was finally going to the kitchen to demand their food. But what she did next was something none of us could have ever anticipated.

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In preschool, the teacher asked the kids to draw their “Family Tree.” While the other children drew three thick branches, Lucy drew only two. “Where is your daddy?” the teacher asked. Lucy pointed to the very bottom of the page, where the roots met the dirt. “My daddy is buried in the mud. He never comes home, so he’s basically dead.” Later, the teacher pulled a sketchbook from her backpack. It was filled with pages of tally marks. “Every time Daddy promises to come home but doesn’t, I draw a line,” Lucy had explained. Twelve groups of tallies. Sixty times. The teacher told me she had already contacted a child psychologist. I told her it wasn’t necessary. I knew Lucy didn’t have a psychological disorder. She was just too smart. Smart enough to realize that grieving a death is easier than waiting forever. … “Lucy told the other kids in class that her father is dead,” the teacher told me during a private parent-teacher meeting after school. “I’ve had complaints from other parents. Their children are having nightmares. She told them that dead people don’t come back, so being dead is actually better than being alive.” I sat in the small, plastic classroom chair and offered no explanation. After leaving the preschool, I sat in my car for a long time. A small Disney charm hung from the steering wheel. Denis had promised to take Lucy to get it last weekend, but he canceled. He’d promised the weekend before that, too. In the end, I was the one who bought it for her. When we got home, Lucy was drawing. She was sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, crayons scattered around her. She was drawing a little girl standing next to a woman. “What are you drawing, sweetie?” “Mommy and me.” “Where’s Daddy?” “Daddy is at work.” She didn’t look up, focusing on coloring the woman’s dress bright red. “Mommy looks pretty in red.” I bought that red dress last year. The day I brought it home, Denis glanced at it, murmured a distracted “Looks nice,” and went right back to texting on his phone. Denis came home late that evening. Lucy was still drawing, and he leaned over her shoulder to look. She immediately covered the page with her hands. “Let Daddy see.” “You’re not my daddy.” He froze. “The teacher wanted us to draw our daddies today, but I don’t know what you look like. I couldn’t draw you.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his camera roll. “How about Daddy prints out some pictures for you? Then you can see me every day.” “Pictures are just pictures. They aren’t real.” “Lucy, Daddy’s just been really busy with work.” “Are you too busy to ever see me?” “There are very important things Daddy has to handle himself.” “Am I not important?” He knelt down, reaching out to hug her. Lucy took a step back. “You smell like someone else’s perfume. It’s not Mommy’s. I hate it.” His face fell. “Lucy, go to your room for a minute.” Lucy looked at me, hugged her sketchbook tightly, and walked away. The living room fell silent, leaving only the two of us. “Flora, don’t listen to a kid’s nonsense,” he said. “Is she wrong? Is that perfume Christine’s? She buys your shirts, she schedules your life, she travels with you. What’s a little perfume compared to all that?” “If that’s how you want to see it, I can’t stop you.” He grabbed his jacket, offered no further explanation, and walked out the door to have a cigarette. At 1:00 AM, after Denis fell asleep, I went through his phone. The password was still my birthday. There were no explicit texts, no obvious flirtations—nothing I could point to as definitive proof. But the absolute cleanliness of it was what felt wrong. He had three pinned chats: a client, his business partner, and Christine. I was not pinned. Scrolling up, the gap between his messages to Christine never exceeded two hours. The longest gap in his texts to me was five days. During those five days, he had replied to Christine thirty-seven times. He hadn’t thought of me once. “1:00 AM.” “Christine: Draft finalized. Sent to your inbox.” “Denis: Thanks for the hard work. Get some sleep.” “7:00 AM.” “Christine: It’s freezing today. Bundle up.” “Denis: You too.” I opened our own chat log. The most recent message from him was: “Won’t be home for dinner.” The one before that: “Out of town for three days.” Only cold, transactional updates over the last five days. I scrolled further back, all the way to six months ago. That was when Lucy first started preschool and cried every day for a week. I had texted him, begging him to come home early to comfort her. He had only replied: “Hang in there. I’ll try.” He didn’t even bother to vary his dismissive phrases. The next morning, the first thing Lucy did when she woke up was open her sketchbook. She picked up a pencil and drew a single line on the thirteenth page. “Mommy, that’s sixty-one.” That weekend, he said he had to go into the office. I made some soup and drove down to his office building. The receptionist recognized me. “Denis is still in a meeting.” I waited for thirty minutes. The conference room doors opened, and Christine walked out first. She smiled warmly when she saw me. “Flora! Denis’s going to be a little longer.” She poured me a glass of water. “His stomach has been acting up lately, and he keeps skipping lunch. He’s drinking way too much coffee. You should really talk to him about it.” I looked at her, my voice flat. “I will.” She turned and walked away, leaving me sitting there, my entire body stiff. I didn’t know his stomach was hurting. She did. I didn’t know he was skipping lunch. She did. I didn’t know he was drinking too much coffee. She did. Everything she mentioned was something Denis had never told me. When he finally came out of the meeting and saw me, his brow furrowed. “What are you doing here?” “I brought you some soup.” “Just put it in the fridge. I have a lunch meeting with a client.” “You can’t even have lunch with me anymore?” “It was a last-minute invite. I couldn’t say no.” “You promised Lucy you’d spend today with her.” “We’ll do it another day. I promise.” “Which day, Denis?” He paused, seemingly annoyed by my persistence. “What is wrong with you today?” Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed his coat and left. I sat there, staring at the unopened thermos. Christine came out of her office. Seeing me still sitting there, she smiled gently. “Flora, did Denis leave already? Let me put that soup in the breakroom fridge for you.” “Don’t worry about it.” In the elevator, I ran into one of his male employees. He glanced at me, then at the thermos. “Bringing Denis lunch?” I nodded. “He and Christine have been pulling crazy hours lately. Thanks for being so understanding. He’s under a lot of pressure. Thank god Christine’s there to help lighten the load. She’s amazing. Handles everything for him so seamlessly.” The elevator doors slid open. I walked out in silence. When he came home that night and took off his suit jacket, I noticed he was wearing a brand-new dress shirt. One I had never seen before. “When did you get that?” “Bought it last week.” I didn’t press further. I waited until he went to take a shower. This time, I opened his online shopping history. The shirt had been ordered by Christine. The shipping address was the office. The purchase date was last Wednesday at 3:00 PM. In the delivery notes, she had written: “Denis’s size is 16/34. The collar gets dirty easily, so please send two extra just in case.” When he walked out of the bathroom, I didn’t hesitate. “Christine bought your shirt.” He froze, towel in hand. “She just helped me pick one out.” “She picks out your shirts, books your trips, buys Lucy’s birthday presents. What else does she do for you, Denis?” This time, his impatience flared. “Do you have to make everything sound so ugly? Christine is just my assistant. Stop projecting your insecurities onto her.” “I’m just asking. What else does she do for you?” He didn’t answer. He threw on his pajamas and climbed into bed, turning his back to me. “I’m exhausted. Can we not do this tonight?” I turned off the light. But neither of us slept. He tossed and turned every few minutes. I lay there, thinking about the early days of our marriage. He used to bring me gifts from every business trip. He would hug me and kiss me the second he walked through the door. He used to drag me to the mall to help him pick out his shirts, asking me which colors looked best on him. Now, someone else did that. Someone else knew his exact measurements, knew how easily his collars got dirty, knew his favorite fabrics. Someone else knew his daily meals and habits. And I hadn’t even noticed. I hadn’t even been given the chance. The next morning, Lucy asked me: “Mommy, did you go to Daddy’s office yesterday? Did he ask about me?” I couldn’t bring myself to answer. Lucy looked back down at her drawing. “It’s okay, Mommy. I’m used to it.” Lucy missed him, so she used my phone to FaceTime him. It rang for a long time before someone finally picked up. But it was Christine’s face on the screen. “Hi, sweetie! Your daddy is in a meeting right now. I’ll have him call you back as soon as he’s done, okay?” Lucy stared at the screen for a few seconds. “Don’t worry about it, Christine. I just wanted to see if he changed his phone number.” Christine’s expression stiffened. Lucy hung up and handed the phone back to me. “Mommy, why does that lady always answer Daddy’s phone?” “Because they work together. They’re very busy.” “Then when is Daddy not busy?” I had no answer. “When you love someone, you answer their calls,” Lucy said softly. “He doesn’t answer because he doesn’t love us. Mommy, I’m a big girl now. I understand.” That Friday afternoon was the preschool parent-teacher conference. Denis had promised he would try his best to make it. I waited at the school, hoping. Eventually, a text came: “Last-minute contract signing. Can’t make it.” So, once again, I went alone. The classroom was packed with parents. When Lucy saw me walk in by myself, her face didn’t even change. The teacher had the children go up to the front to talk about their fathers. The other kids talked about what their daddies did for work, or where their daddies took them to play. When it was Lucy’s turn, she stepped up and took the microphone. “My dad is very busy. He’s never home.” “What does your daddy do?” the teacher prompted gently. Lucy thought for a moment. “He makes phone calls. That’s his job. He only knows how to call people.” A few parents welcomed this with a chuckle. “He makes a lot of calls every day, but he never calls me.” The laughter in the room died instantly. “How about Lucy tells us about her mommy instead?” the teacher intervened quickly. “My mommy is the best mommy in the whole world. She stays with me and takes care of me all by herself. She never says she’s tired, but I know she is, because I hear her crying in her room at night.” The classroom was dead silent. I sat in the very back row, tears slipping down my face. Lucy finished, bowed politely, and walked off the stage. When she reached my seat, she reached out and took my hand. “I’m done, Mommy.” On Friday, Denis said he would pick Lucy up from school. When Lucy walked out of the school gates and saw him, she hesitated before walking over. “Hi, Mr. Denis.” He knelt down to her level. “I’m Daddy, sweetie.” “No, you’re just a stranger who visits sometimes.” “Daddy is home now.” Lucy didn’t reply. She just gripped my hand. “Mommy, let’s go.” As we walked past him, Lucy paused. “Mr. Denis, you don’t need to pick me up anymore. I’m used to walking home with Mommy.” He stood there, frozen. When we got home, Lucy was doing her homework. I went into her room with some sliced fruit and saw her sentence-building assignment. The prompt was to write a sentence using “even though… but…” She had written: “Even though Daddy came home, he is not my daddy.” And: “Even though Mommy doesn’t say it, I know she is sad.” I stared at the page, set the fruit down, and quietly walked out. That night, Denis came home, his brow furrowed in anger as he looked at me. “Flora, who taught Lucy to say those things to me?” “Why didn’t you show up to the parent-teacher conference today?” I countered. “The contract signing was crucial. If we lost it, the company would have been in serious trouble.” “These conferences only happen twice a year.” “I know, but—” “There is no ‘but.’ You always choose something else.” “Do you think I want to? I’m working myself to the bone to make money for this family!” “This family doesn’t need you to work yourself to death. Lucy needs a father. A father who shows up to school, who picks her up, who stays with her when she’s sick.” “I know that!” “You know it, but you don’t do it.” He slammed his fist on the counter and stood up. “Are you ever going to drop this?” He stormed into the study and slammed the door behind him. Lucy’s bedroom door was cracked open. She didn’t come out. The next morning, Lucy opened her sketchbook and drew another line on the new page. “Mommy, that’s sixty-two.” She closed the book and looked up at me. “He always says he’ll change, but he never does, does he?” A week before Lucy’s sixth birthday, I reminded Denis. “I’ll be there. I promise,” he said. But the day before her birthday, I received a text: “Emergency in Seattle. Can’t make it back in time.” I stared at the screen for a long time. I typed out several responses, then deleted them all. In the end, I sent nothing. When Lucy came home from preschool, she asked, “Mommy, is Daddy coming home tomorrow?” “No, sweetie.” She went to the fridge, got a cup of yogurt, poked a straw through the foil, and set it on the coffee table. “This is my cake.” She closed her eyes and made a wish over the yogurt. “Next year, I won’t ask if Daddy is coming home.” My heart ached so sharply it felt like a physical weight. On her birthday, a package arrived. The return address listed Christine’s name. Lucy took one look at it and shoved it back into the box. “Daddy didn’t buy this. He made that lady buy it. Mommy, can you return it?” A bitter taste filled my mouth. The next morning, Lucy woke up and went straight to the package. She found a piece of paper, wrote “RETURN TO SENDER” in messy letters, and taped it to the box. “Mommy, can you mail this back? And tell Christine she doesn’t need to buy me things anymore.” “Lucy, that’s not very polite.” “She was impolite first. She took my daddy.” I knelt down and looked her in the eyes. “Lucy, nobody took Daddy away.” Lucy thought about this for a second. “Then I shouldn’t forgive him even more. He walked away on his own.” That night, after Lucy fell asleep, I sat by her bedside. Her eyelashes were still damp with tears. My phone buzzed. It was a text from him. “Flora, I know it’s Lucy’s birthday, I…” The message cut off there. He never sent a follow-up. In the middle of the night, Lucy woke up with a raging fever. The thermometer read 104 degrees. I called Denis over a dozen times. When he finally answered, the background was dead silent. “What’s wrong?” “Lucy has a fever. It’s 104.” “I’m out of town. Take her to the ER.” And then he hung up. I rushed Lucy to the emergency room, clutching her tight. Registering, paying, waiting for blood work. Lucy whimpered when they drew her blood, but she didn’t cry. I held her close on the cold plastic chairs of the waiting room. With her eyes closed, she murmured, “Daddy…” At 2:00 AM, the results came back: a viral infection. She needed an IV. When the nurse pricked her arm with the needle, Lucy finally broke down crying. Across the hallway, another father was holding his little girl. The girl was also on an IV, and her dad was gently rubbing her back, whispering sweet things to comfort her. Lucy watched them, saying nothing. We stayed in the ER until 4:00 AM. My phone lit up. “Denis: How is she? I’m taking the earliest flight back tomorrow morning.” By the time he got home the next day, Lucy’s fever had broken, though she was still pale. He pushed the door open, holding a bag of fruit. “Lucy, Daddy’s home.” Lucy looked at him and said nothing. He knelt down, reaching out to hug her. Lucy shrank back. “Daddy, can you please not come back? Every time you do, I don’t need you anymore anyway.” His hands hovered in mid-air. Then he stood up and looked at me. “Come out here with me.” We stood in the hallway outside her room. “Her fever was 104 last night. Where were you?” “I told you, I was out of town on business.” “Business? Or spending time with Christine?” His face darkened. “Do you really have to start this right now?” “You weren’t here when our daughter was sick. Now that you’re back, I’m not even allowed to ask?” “I didn’t come home to fight with you.” He looked at me with cold, distant eyes. “Flora, you’ve changed.” A dull ache bloomed in my chest. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. “While you were gone, Lucy had high fevers three times. Every single time, I was alone. She threw up in the middle of the night, and I was cleaning it up until dawn. She fell off the bed and needed stitches on her forehead; I was the one who had to sign the consent forms outside the operating room alone. She got pushed on the playground and scraped her knees; the school called, and I was the one who went to get her.” I threw the empty medication packaging into the trash. “Our daughter is six years old, Denis. How many times have you actually been to the hospital with her?” His brow furrowed, and just as he was about to speak, his phone rang. He shot me a look, turned his back, and answered. Through the quiet hallway, a panicked voice bled through the speaker. “Did you handle it? Did she find out?” A chill ran down my spine, freezing me to the core. He hung up the phone and turned to me, his expression suddenly panicked. “Something came up at the office. I have to go.” “Maybe we should get a div—” I began. But he didn’t let me finish. “We’ll talk when I get back.” He practically sprinted out the door. Lucy came padding out of her room on bare feet, asking if Daddy had left again. He had been in such a rush he’d left his jacket on the sofa. And in my head, Christine’s words from the phone call kept looping: ““I thought you said she would never find out.”” I walked into the study, opened my laptop, and typed four words into the search bar. The next day, when Denis came home, his eyes fell on the paperwork resting on the coffee table. The color drained from his face.

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The day before our wedding, my fiancé, Ted, suddenly insisted we get a comprehensive pre-marital health screening. At first, I thought he was just being protective, deeply invested in our health and our future together. I agreed without a second thought, touched by his apparent care. But the moment the results came back, the nurse’s expression shifted. Her eyes scanned my face with a sudden, icy judgment. “Miss Cooper,” she began, her voice carrying across the quiet room as she looked at the mutual disclosure waiver we had both signed. “Based on the medical history in our network, I am obligated to inform your partner that you have previously given birth to three children at this hospital.” I froze. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp. “What? That’s impossible. I’ve barely even been in any serious relationships before Ted. How could I have children?” I stepped forward, my hands trembling as I reached for the counter to defend myself, but before I could speak, Ted’s hand cut through the air. The violent crack of his palm against my cheek echoed through the sterile clinic corridor. “Damn you, Becca! My family put up a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding contribution for us, and you’ve been hiding three goddamn kids behind my back?!” No matter how frantically I tried to explain, the nurse adamantly insisted their database was infallible. Blind with rage and a suffocating sense of betrayal, I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a crime. I’ve apparently lost three children.” … The nurse stood behind the desk, holding my medical report. She deliberately raised her voice, ensuring her words carried down the hallway. “Miss Cooper, did your fiancé have any prior knowledge of your three previous deliveries?” Before I could even process the question, she looked up, her gaze landing squarely on Ted. “Mr. Ross, according to our central database, your fiancée has been admitted to our maternity ward for childbirth on three separate occasions.” She paused, a thin, patronizing smile playing on her lips. “And just so you are fully aware, a different man signed the partner consent forms each time.” The moment the words left her mouth, Ted’s hand slipped away from mine. “What did you just say?” He turned slowly, his eyes wide with a mixture of disgust and cold calculation. “Becca, you actually had three kids with other men? And you lied to me about everything?” The waiting room erupted into a flurry of whispers. “Unbelievable. She looks so sweet and innocent,” a middle-aged woman murmured to her husband, shaking her head. “You think you know someone. This is why you don’t skip the pre-wedding checks.” “Exactly. Thank God they did this today. Imagine marrying her and finding out you’re raising someone else’s baggage.” The whispers swelled around me like rising water. I felt sick, my chest heaving as I yelled back at the crowd. “It’s a mistake! Your system is wrong! I’ve never even been pregnant, let alone—” “Miss Cooper, please,” the nurse cut me off, handing over the printed report with a look of practiced exhaustion. “I’ve seen plenty of patients like you. The moment something inconvenient pops up on a screening, they immediately blame our technology.” A hysterical laugh escaped my throat. “Fine. If your system is so perfect, show me the names on those consent forms. Tell me who signed them. Give me the proof so I can understand what the hell is happening.” Without looking up, she tapped her pen impatiently against the desk. “I’m sorry, but patient privacy laws restrict me from sharing third-party identification without a formal court order.” My hands clenched into tight fists. “You just announced to my fiancé and a room full of strangers that I had three kids! How was that not a violation of my privacy? But the moment I ask for the information that could clear my name, you hide behind regulations?” I took a step closer, my voice cracking. “How am I supposed to explain this? If I can’t clear this up today, my entire life is over!” The nurse finally raised her eyes, letting out a soft, dismissive sneer. “Explain it? Miss Cooper, whatever choices you made in your past are your own business. The clinical data doesn’t lie. How you handle your personal affairs is up to you.” She turned her attention back to the monitor. “Next in line, please.” I stood there, staring at the white paper in my hands. Our wedding was tomorrow. The blush-pink bridesmaids’ dresses were hanging in my closet. The reservation for the oceanfront venue was paid in full. The caterers were set, and the invitations had been sent to over two hundred friends and family members. And now, a single line of corrupted data on a clinic report had pulled the rug out from under my life. No one in that room believed me. Not even Ted. To them, I was just another dishonest woman caught in a web of her own making. I turned slowly to face the man I was supposed to marry. My voice was barely a whisper, pleading for a shred of the trust we had built over the last three years. “Ted… you know me. You can’t honestly believe this.” He looked at me, his eyes cold, before darting his gaze away. “Believe you? Becca, look at the paper. It’s a certified medical report from a major hospital network. Why would they lie?” The sheer coldness in his voice sent a shiver straight down my spine. Before I could respond, he grabbed my wrist, pulling me roughly down the corridor into a quiet alcove near the emergency exit. For a fraction of a second, I thought I saw a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. “We need to negotiate, Becca,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, demanding murmur. “Negotiate what?” “Our arrangement. Specifically, the wedding fund and the deed to your condo.” My heart did a slow, painful flip. A dark, sickening realization began to take shape in my mind. “What are you talking about, Ted?” He let out a dry chuckle, leaning in close so his breath brushed my ear. “It’s simple, Becca. Call your parents right now. Tell them we’re returning the fifty-thousand-dollar wedding gift they insisted on keeping in your name. And then, you’re going to transfer the title of that downtown condo your mother bought you into my name.” He reached out, tapping my cheek—the same cheek he had just struck—with an agonizingly patronizing familiarity. “Do that, and I’ll keep this whole three-kid situation quiet. We can still walk down the aisle tomorrow, and I’ll play the part of the forgiving husband. After all, taking on a woman with that kind of history… a man deserves some hazard pay for his dignity, don’t you think?” I stared at him, completely paralyzed. “Ted… do you hear yourself? You’re extorting me.” Suddenly, he shoved me back, stepping out of the alcove and returning to the crowded hallway. In an instant, his face morphed into an expression of profound, agonizing heartbreak. “Becca, please!” he yelled, his voice carrying effortlessly across the waiting room. “I just told you I’m willing to look past your history and marry you anyway! Why are you still fighting me on this? No wonder you wouldn’t let us move in together or take things further before the wedding. You were just terrified I’d see the stretch marks!” I couldn’t believe my ears. Less than an hour ago, this man had been holding my hand, telling me how eager he was to start our lives together. Now, he was standing in a public clinic, eagerly painting a target on my back to destroy my reputation. “How can you say that?” My voice shook with a toxic mixture of grief and rage. “What have I ever taken from you, Ted? My mother bought our condo in cash. My father bought the car as my wedding present. My family paid for the entire engagement dinner!” “Shut up!” Ted’s face turned a violent, angry purple. He stepped forward and struck me again. “Slap.” The force of his palm knocked me slightly off balance. My cheek burned, a deep crimson stain blooming against my pale skin. “We offered fifty thousand dollars as a gesture of goodwill, treating you like absolute royalty, and you were out there getting knocked up by three different guys!” Ted sneered, turning to the crowd for validation. “Who even knows where your family got the money for that condo? Was it from one of your secret sugar daddies?” The waiting room murmured in agreement. “My god, he really is the victim here,” someone whispered. “She probably wanted a respectable guy to clean up her mess and play the family man.” “The proof is right there on the paper. There’s no arguing with science.” I held my burning face, staring at him. “We have been together for three years. You know exactly who I am. Do you honestly, in your heart, believe I’ve had three children?” Ted hesitated for a split second, a brief flicker of panic crossing his features before he recovered his arrogant smirk. “Who knows? I don’t follow you around twenty-four hours a day. For all I know, you were running off to other states to handle your business.” Realizing that appealing to his humanity was useless, I turned back to the nurse, holding up the medical report so everyone in the room could see it. “Look at the clinical details,” I demanded, pointing to the gynecological evaluation section. “Item twenty-one. The pelvic and cervical assessment clearly notes a nulliparous status. No anatomical signs of vaginal childbirth, no cervical dilation history. It literally states I have never carried a pregnancy to term. How do you explain that discrepancy?” The nurse didn’t even blink. “Miss Cooper, cosmetic and reconstructive surgeries are incredibly advanced these days. Vaginal rejuvenation and cervical reconstruction are common procedures for women who want to erase their obstetric history. Our local system wouldn’t have records of out-of-state cosmetic clinics.” A cold sweat broke out across my forehead. “So when your database says I have three kids, it’s absolute truth. But when your own clinical exam proves I’ve never given birth, you claim I paid for reconstructive surgery? You have an excuse for everything, don’t you?” The nurse offered a cold, detached shrug. “I am simply interpreting the records and the medical possibilities, Miss Cooper. Your personal choices are not our responsibility.” I took a deep, steadying breath, forcing the trembling out of my voice. “The reality is that you are accusing a woman who has never even had a sexual relationship of giving birth to three children.” “Please keep your voice down, Miss Cooper. Our database does not make mistakes.” “That’s enough!” Ted stepped between us, acting the part of the long-suffering partner. “Becca, just answer me. Are we getting married tomorrow or not?” I stared at him, the last traces of my affection turning to ash. “Are you threatening me?” Ted turned to the onlookers, letting out a bitter laugh. “Listen to her! The evidence is right there, the nurse confirmed it, and she’s still playing the victim. A reputable hospital network isn’t going to invent three children out of thin air.” The patients waiting in line, thoroughly annoyed by the delay, began to chime in. “Seriously, lady, just go home and sort it out. We’ve been waiting for our appointments for an hour.” “If your fiancé is willing to overlook this, you should be on your knees thanking him, not arguing.” I felt a tear slip down my hot cheek. I had lived a quiet, honest life, raised by parents who loved me, and I had never experienced this kind of public humiliation. No one in this room wanted the truth; they wanted a spectacle. And the man I had trusted with my future was holding the matches. I looked back at the nurse. “If you are claiming I delivered three babies here, this hospital must have the corresponding birth certificates and social security registration records. Show them to me.” The nurse’s fingers twitched slightly on her keyboard, but she quickly masked her unease with a hard stare. “I am a floor nurse. My administrative access is limited. I cannot pull archive files.” She leaned forward slightly. “Instead of fighting with me, you should be figuring out how to make things right with your fiancé.” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Make things right? I did nothing wrong. But you…” “Becca, stop it!” Ted interrupted, grabbing my shoulder. “She’s a medical professional doing her job. Why would she lie? You’re embarrassing both of us.” I wrenched myself away from his grip, my eyes hardening. “Ted, you are my fiancé. Instead of demanding a retest or standing by me, you are actively trying to destroy me. Why is that?” Ted’s patience finally snapped. “Fine! Keep acting proud, Becca. Let’s make this simple: either you sign the condo over to me by tonight, or…” He leaned in, his eyes dark with malice. “…I will make sure every single guest invited to our wedding tomorrow receives a copy of this maternity report.” It was a blatant, calculated shake-down. From the very beginning, he didn’t care about the fake medical records. He cared about the million-dollar downtown property my mother had gifted me. The nurse tapped her desk again, her voice dripping with irritation. “Miss Cooper, you are disrupting the clinic. Please move along.” “No,” I said, my voice ringing out clearly. I looked at her, then at Ted. “You said your access is limited, right? Then get someone down here who has the authority to pull the files.” Before she could answer, I reached past her and pressed the call button on the desk phone, dialing the department extension listed on the wall directory. “This is room four,” I said clearly into the speaker. “We have a severe discrepancy regarding patient records and a potential case of identity fraud. We need a department head immediately.” The nurse’s face paled slightly as she snatched the receiver back, but the damage was done. Within two minutes, a middle-aged woman wearing a white coat and a badge identifying her as Dr. Weaver, the Clinical Director, walked into the room. “What seems to be the problem here?” I opened my mouth to speak, but the nurse quickly intercepted. “Dr. Weaver, this patient is disputing our database records. I’ve explained our protocols to her, but she’s refusing to leave and is actively disrupting the clinic schedule.” Ted stepped forward, putting on his best polite-citizen act. “I’m incredibly sorry, Doctor. We didn’t mean to cause a scene. My fiancée is just… having a hard time accepting the results of her screening.” Dr. Weaver frowned, looking over the printout. She sat down at the terminal, typing in her administrative password. “Miss Cooper, I’ve reviewed the file,” Dr. Weaver said, her tone professional but unyielding. “The database does indeed show three separate live births registered under your social security number at this facility. Each discharge form was signed by a different presenting partner.” I took a slow breath. “Dr. Weaver, I have never been pregnant. I want you to pull the detailed birth records and the registration logs for those three children right now.” She sighed, giving me a patronizing look. “Miss Cooper, pulling archive files from the state registry database requires a formal request and administrative processing.” “How long does that take?” “Typically, up to three business days.” The trap was perfect. “Our wedding is tomorrow,” I said, my voice cold. “And you want me to wait three days while my fiancé uses this lie to blackmail me?” Dr. Weaver’s expression hardened. “Miss Cooper, please control your tone. I understand this is stressful, but we have strict protocols. Making a scene will not change our administrative timeline.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Protocols? Your protocol is using a corrupted file to destroy a woman’s life and calling it science?” “If you continue to be combative, I will have security escort you out,” Dr. Weaver warned, her patience wearing thin. Ted grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “Becca, stop it! Just accept it and let’s go. You’re making a fool of yourself!” The crowd in the hallway muttered in agreement, their faces filled with judgment. To them, I was a liar caught in a corner. But I wasn’t going to play their game. I looked at Dr. Weaver, then at the nurse, and finally at Ted. My voice was entirely calm now. “So, both of you are absolutely certain that according to your official records, I gave birth to three children who are currently legally registered under my name?” Dr. Weaver nodded slowly. “That is what the system indicates.” “And you have no record of where those children currently are, or who took custody of them after discharge?” Dr. Weaver hesitated, a faint shadow of doubt crossing her face, but she nodded anyway. “We only handle the delivery records.” “Perfect,” I said. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply pulled my phone from my bag, unlocked it, and dialed 911 right in front of them. “Yes, hello? I’d like to report a major crime. According to the medical records at Mercy General, I have given birth to three children at this facility, and they are currently missing. I believe they have been illegally taken or trafficked. I need officers dispatched immediately to investigate a case of child abduction.”

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Five years. That was how long I’d been with Margot. Then my father handed me an ultimatum: marry her, or end it. I had brought up marriage three times. The first time, she brushed me off. “Toby fell and hurt his knee at home,” she’d said, grabbing her car keys. “I have to take him to the clinic for an X-ray. We’ll talk when I get back.” The second time, she didn’t even look up from her screen. “Toby’s favorite limited-edition vinyl drop is opening downtown,” she’d said, her fingers flying across her phone. “I have to get in line early to help him grab one. Don’t be so impatient, Oliver.” The third time, I asked her point-blank: was it marriage, or was this over? She stared at me for a long time, her expression cool and unreadable. “Stop being dramatic,” she said, her voice dripping with that quiet, patronizing tone she always used when I pushed too hard. “Of course we’ll get married. Just not right now. I promised Toby I wouldn’t settle down until he found a girlfriend of his own.” Once I had my answer, I stopped arguing. I pulled out my phone and dialed the local jeweler where I’d placed an order weeks ago. “Cancel the custom engagement band,” I told the representative. “I won’t be needing it anymore.” She never knew I gave her three chances. And after three strikes, I was done waiting. 1 After canceling the ring, I called a local second-hand dealer to clear out the apartment. The buyer arrived and looked at the pile of appliances I’d earmarked for sale, his eyes widening. His boisterous voice echoed in the small entryway. “Man, are you sure about this? The fridge, the TV, the leather sofa… they’re practically pristine. You don’t want to check with your girl first?” I shook my head. “No need. Give me a flat price. You can haul them away today.” He didn’t ask further. Business was business. “These are heavy pieces, though. I can’t get them all in one trip. Mind if I do it in batches?” “That’s fine.” Margot walked in just as the television was being carted out. “What’s going on here?” her voice was cold, sharp, demanding. “Where are they taking the television?” “I sold it,” I said, not looking up from my phone. “Sold it?” She let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Where is Toby supposed to watch his shows when he visits? You know he’s in the middle of that new series…” She caught herself, her tight brows softening slightly as a different realization struck her. “Whatever. The screen on that one was too small anyway. It was straining his eyes. It’s fine—I’ll just order a larger smart TV tonight.” Years ago, when I first suggested buying a TV, she had scoffed. “We’re both working sixty-hour weeks, Oliver. Who has time for television? It’ll just sit there like a piece of dead plastic.” But she had forgotten why I wanted it. She forgot how deeply insecure I felt in that cavernous, silent apartment while she worked late into the night. The quiet felt heavy, like it was swallowing me whole. I bought it despite her protests because I needed a voice in the dark. I thought it would keep me company when she couldn’t. I never imagined that the person who would use it most wasn’t me, but Toby, her childhood friend who practically lived on our couch. I didn’t say a word. Margot scrolled through her phone, tapping the screen with practiced ease. “Just promise me you won’t fight him for the remote next time,” she said, not looking up. “Toby’s still got a lot of growing up to do. Be the mature one for once. Just let him have his way.” I had heard some variation of that sentence for five years. “Let him have it. Be the bigger person. He’s sensitive.” Whenever Toby was around, nothing in this apartment belonged to me. Everything had to be yielded. In the past, those words would have triggered a screaming match. I would have demanded to know why my comfort was always the collateral damage of her guilt. But today, I just nodded. “Okay,” I said quietly. “I won’t fight him anymore.” Not for the remote. And certainly not for you. Margot looked up, a flicker of relief and genuine approval softening her features. “Oliver,” she murmured, almost fondly. “If only you’d been this reasonable from the start.” 2 In the past, the mere mention of Toby’s name would set me off. Like last winter, when she gifted the vintage leather jacket I’d painstakingly sourced for her birthday to Toby instead. I had lost my mind, screaming in the kitchen: “Toby is all you see! If you love him so much, why aren’t you dating him?” Her gaze that night had been freezing. To her, I was a hysterical, paranoid lunatic. “Oliver, I look at Toby like a younger brother,” she had said, disgust dripping from her words. “Don’t make this disgusting.” And later, when I kept pushing, she simply remarked, “People with dirty minds only see dirt.” But she didn’t understand. I fought because I still cared. I screamed because I was still trying to pull her back to me. Now, my silence wasn’t maturity. It was apathy. “Oh, by the way,” Margot said, checking her watch. “Toby has an alumni mixer tonight. A few of his old classmates are always trying to pick on him, and he can’t handle that kind of social pressure alone. I’m going with him. Don’t wait up for dinner.” She didn’t wait for my response. She headed straight into the bedroom to change. While she was in there, my phone buzzed. It was the dealer. “Mr. Rodney, I sent the transfer for the TV. I’ll pay you item by item as I haul them out, if that works?” I typed back: “Perfect.” I began gathering Toby’s things from the living room—the plush navy throw blanket, the specialized ergonomic cushions, the little designer toys scattered on the side table. I packed them into a large canvas tote. These were all things Margot had carefully curated for him. Toby had once offhandedly complained that our leather couch felt cold and sterile. The very next day, she went out and bought these exact items to make a “Toby-friendly” corner. Once, when I accidentally sat on his cushion, she had snapped, “The couch is huge, Oliver. Can’t you sit literally anywhere else? Toby has mild OCD about his things. He hates them being moved.” She had made me get up so she could meticulously realign the throw and fluff the pillows back into their exact, designated coordinates. “What are you doing now?” Margot’s voice cut through the room. She was standing by the door, dressed in a sleek backless slip dress I’d never seen before. She looked at the canvas tote, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Everything was perfectly fine on the sofa. Why do you always have to start trouble the second I’m about to walk out the door?” “I sold the couch,” I said calmly, placing the bag by her bedroom door. “They’re picking it up tomorrow. Do whatever you want with his things.” I turned to go to my room to change, but her dismissive scoff followed me. “Honestly, good. I told you that firm leather was a terrible choice anyway. Glad you’re finally replacing it. Don’t buy the new one, though. Let me handle it. Toby has a bad lower back; he can’t sit on anything too rigid. I’ll pick out something softer.” I had bought the firm leather couch because she’d once read an article about posture support and complained about her neck pain. I had researched for weeks to find a piece that met her exact specifications. She remembered none of it. “Whatever you want,” I murmured. It didn’t matter. In a few days, I wouldn’t be here to sit on it anyway. 3 Shortly after Margot left, I put on a jacket and went out. I chose a highly rated French bistro downtown. When the hostess seated me behind a velvet curtain partition, I didn’t expect to hear familiar laughter drifting from the adjacent booth. “Toby, man, you actually did it. You snagged the high school ice queen. How long has it been now?” “Yeah, when are we getting the wedding invitations? Don’t forget us old classmates when you guys tie the knot!” “I always knew they’d end up together. Back in school, Margot wouldn’t look at anyone, but she always had this soft spot for Toby. It’s like they say—she only has stars in her eyes when she’s looking at him.” I froze, my hand hovering over the linen napkin. Through the gap in the partition, I could see their backs. I couldn’t see their faces, but I could clearly see Margot’s slender fingers meticulously deboning a piece of trout and placing the clean fillet onto Toby’s plate. The table erupted in low whistles and dramatic sighs. “Wow, Toby. She’s incredibly attentive. I’m jealous. If my wife were half as sweet, we wouldn’t be fighting every other day.” Toby leaned back, a smug, satisfied smirk playing on his lips, though his voice remained carefully humble. “Oh, come on, guys. Margot just gets me. It’s no big deal.” No big deal. Yes, Margot understood him perfectly. She knew his every mood by a simple shift in his expression. If he wanted to catch a midnight premiere, she would throw on a coat and drive him, even if she had an early morning meeting. If he wanted to hike up a trail, she would push through her severe vertigo just to keep him company. But when I was burning up with a fever that eventually turned into acute bronchitis, pleading with her to drive me to the urgent care clinic, she had simply grabbed her coat and said: “Toby’s golden retriever got loose, and he’s having a panic attack. I have to go help him look. It’s just a fever, Oliver. You won’t die. Take an Uber.” Sitting in the dimly lit restaurant, my father’s words from last winter echoed in my head. “Oliver, when I met your mother, I wanted to go to her parents’ house the very next day to ask for her hand. You’ve been with Margot for five years. Has she ever once brought up a future with you? If you keep pouring yourself into this empty cup, what happens when you’re old and she decides she’s bored?” Back then, I was naive. I wanted to believe in us. I told myself I’d give her three chances. If she showed even a shred of desire to build a life with me, I would keep waiting. I had even paid the deposit for the custom ring. But reality is a brutal teacher. On the night of the third proposal, when she told me she wouldn’t marry until Toby found a partner, I had asked her: “And what if he never does? What if he stays single forever?” She had shrugged, her tone casual. “A marriage license is just a piece of paper, Oliver. As long as we’re stable, why does it matter?” That was the moment the illusion shattered. Our five years together were nothing more than a convenient holding pattern for her. “Oh, Ollie? What are you doing here?” Toby’s voice broke my train of thought. He was standing in the aisle near my booth, a glass of wine in his hand. Margot turned around at the sound. When her eyes met mine, her entire posture went rigid. I saw the sudden panic in her face—the fear that I would make a scene and embarrass her in front of her high school crowd. “Margot, Toby, who’s your handsome friend?” one of the classmates called out. I looked at Margot, genuinely curious to see what she would say. She looked away, her voice dropping into a flat, detached tone. “No one. I don’t know him.” The words landed like a heavy blow, crushing the very last ember of hope I didn’t even realize I was harboring. I let out a soft laugh. Looking up at Toby, I said, “Yeah, you’ve got the wrong guy. I don’t know them either.” 4 Toby offered a playful, apologetic shrug. “Ah, my bad. Sorry about that!” He turned and headed back toward the table with his friends. My phone vibrated on the table. “Margot: I’m just helping Toby save face. Don’t make a big deal out of this. Wait for me outside when you’re done eating; we’ll head back together. Toby’s apartment complex is having an electrical blackout tonight, so he’s staying at our place.” It wasn’t a request. It was an executive decision disguised as an update. I didn’t reply. I paid my bill, walked out of the restaurant, and bought a ticket for a movie that was starting in ten minutes. I slipped into the dark theater with a cup of tea, turned off my phone, and let the white noise of the screen wash over me. By the time I returned to the apartment, the clock had passed midnight. The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of a hair dryer. Margot was sitting on the edge of the low stool, gently running her fingers through Toby’s damp hair while he sat cross-legged on the floor in his silk pajamas. The lighting was soft, warm, picture-perfect. I felt like an intruder stumbling into someone else’s happily ever after. “Ollie, you’re back!” Toby was the first to notice me. He put down Margot’s phone, looking up with a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Where did you go? We were worried.” Margot didn’t stop running her fingers through his hair. She cast a cold, mocking look over her shoulder. “If you’re going to act like a child and turn off your phone, you might as well not come back at all.” In the past, a comment like that would have carved a hollow ache in my chest. Tonight, it felt as insignificant as static on the radio. Without a word, I walked past them and into the kitchen. The refrigerator was mine—I’d bought it when we moved in. I opened the door, the cool air kissing my face. Just that afternoon, it had been nearly empty. Now, the shelves were packed with organic milk, cold-brew coffees, and imported berries—all of Toby’s favorites. Before I could even reach for a bottle of water, the door was slammed shut. Margot stood beside me, her hand resting on the handle. “Those are for Toby. He likes having his specific snacks stocked. If you want something, go to the grocery store tomorrow.” “I bought this fridge,” I said quietly. “If you want to keep it—” She cut me off with a sharp, derisive laugh. “And I bought this entire apartment, Oliver. Are you really going to start nickel-and-diming me?” I stared at her, suddenly remembering the day we moved in. She had held my hands in this very kitchen, eyes shining with tears. “Oliver, I never want us to be apart. I hate the thought of a single day without you. My home is your home. If we ever get into a terrible fight, I’ll be the one to pack a bag, because I never want you to feel like you don’t belong here.” I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked back to my room. I pulled up my banking app and calculated three years of fair market rent for my half of the space. I deducted the cost of the refrigerator, wrote out a check, and slipped it into a clean white envelope. Then, I packed my suitcases. When I walked back out, bags in hand, Margot’s face went pale, then instantly darkened with rage. I walked over and placed the envelope on the coffee table in front of Toby. “This covers my half of the rent for the past three years, minus the value of the fridge. Feel free to verify the math.” “Ollie, what are you doing?” Toby stood up, his face filled with performative distress. “Margot didn’t mean it like that, she was just—” “Toby, don’t waste your breath,” Margot snapped, her voice trembling with fury. She snatched the envelope and shoved it into Toby’s hand. “Keep it. Consider it your pocket money.” She glared at me, her eyes burning. “You want to walk out, Oliver? Go. Get out. But don’t you dare come crawling back when you realize you have nowhere else to go.” I didn’t answer. I pulled my suitcase toward the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the chilly night. As the door began to swing shut, I heard Toby’s panicked whisper: “Margot, go after him! It’s past midnight, where is he supposed to go?” Margot’s cold, confident voice drifted through the closing crack. “Let him go. He won’t last forty-eight hours before he’s begging to come back.” She didn’t know that once I decided to let go, she ceased to exist in my future. Over the next few days, the second-hand dealer came back and cleared out the couch. He sent me a text lamenting that he couldn’t take the fridge, but I didn’t care. As the days bled into a week, the silence in the apartment must have started to feel heavy. I heard from a mutual contact that Margot had started spending her evenings sitting in the dark living room, waiting for the sound of my key in the lock. But a week passed, and I remained gone. Just as she was finally swallowing her pride to search for me, her phone rang. It was one of her close friends. “Margot, did you and Oliver break up? Because I just saw him at a restaurant downtown… on a blind date.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505113”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When I fell into the ocean, my childhood sweetheart swam toward my cousin, leaving me to be swept away by the tide. My family assumed I was dead. My childhood sweetheart married my cousin. Three years later, I returned home, but my parents’ first reaction wasn’t relief or joy. It was fear—fear that my return would stress my cousin and threaten her pregnancy. My mother avoided my eyes; my father’s face was dark with warning. Ever since my cousin moved in years ago, my family had forbidden me from competing with her for anything, including the man I once loved, Elvis. But what they didn’t know was that the fall into the sea had wiped my memory clean. And in that blank space, I had found a fiancé who truly loved me, and a real family. 01 It had been three years since I plunged into the dark water. My mother, her eyes red and swollen, reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Bea, sweetie… please don’t hold a grudge against them. No one—literally no one—thought you were ever coming back.” I felt a sudden spike of discomfort and quietly pulled my hand out of her grasp. My father slammed his hand onto the dining table, making the silverware rattle. “The rescue team went out three separate times and came back with absolutely nothing. You had bad luck, Beatrice. Who else are you going to blame for that?” He pointed a finger at me. “Chloe married Elvis, and she’s pregnant. They’re coming over in a little bit, and I swear to God, if you say a single word to upset her, there will be consequences.” I looked down at the fork that had rolled off the table and onto the hardwood floor. I felt completely detached. Elvis? The name sounded vaguely familiar, ringing a faint, distant bell in my mind, but I couldn’t attach a face or a feeling to it. When I was lost at sea, drifting for three days and three nights, a man named Wright Godfery had pulled me out of the water. He told me I had struck my head against a jagged reef, leaving my brain a clean slate, stripped of every memory. It was only recently that a few fractured images had returned, suggesting I might have a family waiting for me in Hartford. Honestly, I hadn’t wanted to come back. But Wright’s family was incredibly loving. They simply couldn’t comprehend a mother and father who would give up on their own child unless there was absolutely no other choice, so they encouraged me to seek closure. Now, watching my mother guiltily look away and my father glare at me with cold hostility, I realized my intuition had been right all along. I shouldn’t have bothered. But it didn’t matter anymore. Once you’ve looked death in the eye and felt the ocean swallow you whole, your perspective changes. I only had room in my heart for the people who loved me. For those who didn’t, I had nothing left to give. “Sure,” I said, my voice flat and even. “I won’t say anything to upset her.” My father choked on his words, momentarily stunned by my lack of drama. My mother sighed, placing a piece of roasted chicken onto my plate. “Bea, these past three years haven’t been easy on any of us. Chloe was the one who stayed by our side, helping us get through the grief. And Elvis… he was practically consumed by guilt because he couldn’t pull you up in time.” She looked at me as if asking for sympathy. “You have no idea how much they suffered. Elvis lost nearly fifteen pounds. Chloe had to force a smile every single day just to keep your father and me from falling apart.” I picked at my food, carefully pushing the onions to the side. Suddenly, I felt a deep ache of homesickness for the dinners Wright’s mother used to make for me. 02 Half an hour later, the front door opened, and our guests finally arrived. Chloe entered the room, her hand resting protectively over her slightly rounded belly. Her face was a picture of delicate, theatrical guilt. “Aunt Meredith, Uncle Richard… I am so, so sorry we’re late.” She glanced toward the hallway, looking fragile. “My stomach was cramping a little before we left, and Elvis got so panicked. He insisted we go straight to the clinic to get checked out.” My mother’s face paled with worry as she immediately turned to Elvis. “What did the doctor say? Is the baby okay?” I let my gaze drift over to them. Elvis’s eyes were bloodshot. The moment our gazes met, he looked away so fast it was almost comical. It was bizarre. I had already explained to my mother that I had no memory of Elvis, but she assumed I was just acting out of spite. She had spent the morning lecturing me, telling me how he and I used to be inseparable, how we were childhood sweethearts who had practically planned our entire lives together. “Bea, let’s just make this transition peaceful,” she had pleaded. “For everyone’s sake.” She had used the word “peaceful” and “good” a dozen times. Yet, not once during my entire first day back did she ask the one question that mattered: “You were missing for three years. How did you survive?” When Wright found me, I had no phone, no wallet, and no identification. How did I buy food? Where did I sleep? Who kept me safe? I wasn’t angry. I didn’t even feel disappointed. The Godfery family had showered me with so much warmth and security that I had genuinely believed I belonged to them. I was simply curious from a psychological standpoint. How could biological parents be this cold to their own flesh and blood? 03 From the moment Chloe walked through the door, her eyes had been darting in my direction. When she noticed my brief glance at Elvis, her expression shifted into one of profound sorrow. “Bea, I’m so incredibly sorry,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to pull you down into the water with me. I… I honestly thought Elvis would save you first.” Elvis looked completely panicked now, his face flushing as he stared at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. My father immediately cut in, his voice booming through the living room. “Chloe, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for!” He glared at me. “We all know Beatrice was the one who pushed you first. You just lost your balance and grabbed her on your way down. Elvis did the right thing by saving you first. You were the innocent party.” My mother stepped forward, gently stroking Chloe’s hair. “Sweetheart, Bea is your cousin. She knows you didn’t mean any harm, and she would never hold a grudge. Just focus on the baby. Your uncle and I will handle everything else.” Good lord. I had always wondered why I had such a visceral, paralyzing fear of deep water, and why I would have been near the ocean in the first place. So, I didn’t just fall. I was dragged down. When I remained silent, Chloe’s face turned even paler, as though my quietness was an active assault on her delicate nerves. But it was a fascinating tactic. Every time she spoke a word of “apology,” my parents found a new reason to paint me as the villain. I couldn’t remember what kind of person she used to be, but the energy in the room was suffocating. My father’s tone turned harsh and authoritative. “Now that you’re back, we are closing this chapter. No one is to ever bring up that day again. Understood?” “Understood,” I murmured. My biological father was a terrifying man. He lacked even a fraction of the gentle, soft-spoken grace that Wright’s father possessed. And my mother was just as bad, instantly granting forgiveness on my behalf without even checking to see if I was okay. Whatever. Honestly, maybe I should thank Chloe. If she hadn’t dragged me into the sea, I might still be trapped in this house, living under their thumbs. I would never have met Wright. Wright’s grandmother, a wonderfully spunky old woman, once told me: “Sometimes, a disaster is just a blessing in disguise. Surviving a tragedy means the universe is redirecting you to a much better path.” 04 I stood up from the table and walked into the kitchen to clear some dishes. A moment later, the door swung shut, and Elvis stepped inside. We stood face-to-face in the narrow space, and the silence between us was painfully awkward. “Bea,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “These past three years… were you okay? Where were you?” “I was fine,” I replied simply. “If you survived… why didn’t you come back? Was it because of me? Because I didn’t dive back in for you?” I leaned against the counter, wanting to end the conversation as quickly as possible. “Something like that. But mostly, it was because I had amnesia. I had no idea I had a family here.” Elvis froze, his entire body going rigid. He opened his mouth to speak, but the kitchen door swung open again. Chloe stepped in, her eyes immediately scanning the space between us. She quickly walked over and wrapped her arm around Elvis’s, her voice dripping with sweet affection. “Honey, my back is hurting a little. Can we go sit down? And would you mind peeling some shrimp for me?” Elvis nodded dumbly and let her lead him back to the dining room. I turned back to the stove, noticing a pot sitting on the burner. I remembered Wright’s mother telling me that steamed egg custard shouldn’t be left in the hot pot for too long, or the texture would get ruined and tough. I grabbed a potholder and lifted the small ceramic bowl out of the pot. My mother walked into the kitchen right then. The moment she saw what was in my hands, her face tightened with anxiety. “Bea, Chloe is pregnant. That seafood and truffle custard was prepared specifically for her.” Chloe, who had followed her back toward the kitchen, lowered her eyes with a martyr-like sigh. “It’s fine, Aunt Meredith. Bea has had such a hard time out there in the world. Let her have it. I don’t mind.” My father’s voice boomed from the doorway, as if he were suffering from some sort of reflex. “She chose not to come back on her own! This has nothing to do with you, Chloe. Beatrice, put that down. It’s not for you.” He was so hostile. A small spark of anger flickered in my chest, but I quickly suppressed it. The Godferys had spent the last three years wrapping me in so much love and patience that my rough edges had been completely smoothed out. I didn’t have the energy for petty arguments. I offered a polite, empty smile. “I didn’t plan on eating it. I just saw it was done and took it out of the pot so it wouldn’t overcook.” Elvis stared at me, a strange, bewildered expression on his face. “Bea… you’ve changed so much.” “Have I?” I asked, completely indifferent. My father took a slow sip of his whiskey, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “In the past, you would have thrown a tantrum and fought your cousin for it. It looks like life on the streets finally taught you some humility and manners.” I was speechless. This neighborhood wasn’t cheap; their house was worth a decent amount. Yet they were acting as if a single portion of seafood custard was a rare luxury they had to ration like wartime survivors. I found myself missing Newport again. Since the town was right on the water, Wright’s family practically lived on fresh seafood. They would steam whole sea bass, grill giant scallops with garlic butter, and crack open fresh crabs on the deck. Whenever we sat down to eat, the entire family would vie for my attention, piling the best cuts onto my plate. 05 Chloe had a prenatal yoga class scheduled, so she and Elvis left shortly after dinner. My mother spent ten minutes praising how attentive Elvis was, calling him the perfect future father. Elvis had given me one last, complicated look before walking out the door, which I completely ignored. Upstairs, I walked into my old bedroom. It was pitch black and smelled of mildew. Realizing I wouldn’t be staying here long, I flicked on the dusty overhead light and began sorting through the clutter. My mother walked in, gasping when she saw what I was doing. “Bea! Isn’t that your favorite silk dress? Why are you throwing it onto the discard pile?” She looked sentimental, lost in her own memories. “I remember when I bought that for Chloe first. You were so furious you refused to eat dinner for two days until I bought you the same one.” “Had I really been that pathetic?” If Wright’s younger brother, Jude, ever found out about that, he would tease me endlessly. I picked up the dress by the hanger and tossed it onto the trash bag. “I don’t remember. Besides, the style is completely outdated. If you don’t want to waste it, you can cut it up and use it as a dust rag.” My mother looked as though I had slapped her. In her mind, even when I used to lose every argument against Chloe, my eyes had still held a desperate, lingering hope for her approval. I had wanted her to be fair. I had wanted to be loved equally. But now, as she stared at me, she saw nothing but a blank, chilling indifference. I tied up the heavy trash bag, intending to leave it by the curb. On my way down, I passed Chloe’s old room. The door was open, revealing a beautifully decorated space. Even though she had married and moved out, everything was immaculate. The sheets smelled of lavender and fresh laundry. It was a stark contrast to my cramped, dusty room that made me cough the second I opened the door. My mother noticed where I was looking and quickly tried to explain, her voice strained. “Chloe is very particular about cleanliness. I come in and air out her room every week.” She took a step closer to me. “Tomorrow, I’ll hire a professional cleaning service for your room. And I’ll buy you that designer bedding set you used to beg me for. I promise.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said. I had only come back to Hartford to settle my legal status. Wright’s parents had wanted me to have my family present for our upcoming wedding so I wouldn’t have any regrets, but now I saw that their concern, while lovely, was entirely unnecessary. My phone buzzed in my pocket. The screen lit up with a message from my contact: “Clingy Golden Retriever Fiancé.” Wright had sent a barrage of texts: “Babe, how is it going with your parents? Are you happy to see them?” “Why haven’t you sent me my bedtime kiss yet? Is someone being mean to you?” “I bought your mom a gorgeous emerald necklace, and I heard your dad likes off-roading, so I placed an order for a custom Land Cruiser. It should be around $200k.” “Let me know if that’s enough of an impression. My parents want to ship a whole truckload of gifts over too.” I stared at the screen for a moment, then typed a quick, seven-word reply. Within three seconds, my phone started ringing. 06 “Babe, what do you mean by ‘I don’t think they deserve it’?” Wright’s voice was laced with immediate concern, his protective instincts flaring. “Did they say something to you? Are they treating you badly?” He was always terrified of me experiencing even a shred of discomfort. I told him the truth, repeating what the clerk at the municipal office had told me earlier that afternoon. “Your parents filed a petition to declare you legally dead,” the clerk had said, looking sympathetic. “Usually, a person has to be missing for at least four years before we approve that. But because yours was a maritime accident, your family petitioned the court to expedite the process. They had you declared dead in just under two years.” I had practically laughed out loud in the office. A cold, hard realization had settled in my chest. Why had my father been in such an absolute rush to declare his own daughter dead? On the other end of the line, I could hear Wright grinding his teeth. “Are you kidding me? What kind of parents do that?” He sounded a hundred times angrier than I felt. “I’m so sorry, Bea. I should have gone with you.” Wright’s firm was handling a major corporate merger in the next state over, and though he had desperately wanted to accompany me, I had insisted he focus on his work. “Are you hurting, babe?” he asked softly. “Not really,” I murmured. “It’s just… a very strange feeling to find out your own family legally erased you.” I couldn’t quite describe it. I didn’t care about their love anymore, but there was still a dull, heavy pressure in my chest. 07 The next morning, I walked to the courthouse to file the paperwork to revoke the declaration of death. On the courthouse steps, I ran into Elvis. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at me with an intense, unreadable expression. “Bea… after your father legally finalized the death certificate, I went down to the cliffs every single week to leave white roses for you.” I nodded, feeling incredibly awkward. “Well, since I’m not actually dead, I guess you wasted a lot of money on flowers.” He shook his head quickly, then rushed to add, his voice desperate with the need to explain himself, “We only got together after you were declared dead. Chloe and I… we were both drowning in grief. We only survived because we leaned on each other.” “That’s nice,” I said politely. “You two seem perfect for each other.” Elvis’s eyes welled with tears. “Bea, I know I was the love of your life. But I’m married to Chloe now. I have a duty to her. I can’t betray her.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a pleading whisper. “Please don’t take your anger out on her. She’s delicate, and she’s carrying my child. She can’t handle any emotional stress right now.” I blinked, thoroughly confused. “I’m not doing anything to her.” Elvis’s face stiffened. “Good. Because once the baby is born, Chloe really wants you and Aunt Meredith to help us take care of him.” He was watching me closely, clearly testing my reaction. I shook my head. “That won’t work. I’m leaving Hartford very soon.” Elvis’s face went entirely pale. He reached out and grabbed my wrist, his grip tight and trembling. “What did you just say?” “I said I’m leaving.” “I just got you back!” he raised his voice, a desperate edge cutting through his tone. “How can you just leave again?” I pulled my wrist out of his grip with a sharp tug. “My fiancé lives in Newport. It’s only natural that I go back to him.” “No, that’s impossible,” Elvis stammered, his eyes wide. “You promised me when we were teenagers that we’d get married… How could you choose someone else?” I looked at him, feeling a deep sense of pity. “Look, your name is Elvis, right? To me, you are a complete stranger. You married my cousin. Please stop saying these bizarre things to me.” I took a step back. “My fiancé is incredibly protective and gets jealous very easily. If he finds out you’re harassing me, he will destroy your career, and I won’t stop him.” Elvis stood there, his body shaking as his eyes turned a deep, painful red. “Does this guy have some kind of chronic eye infection?” I wondered as I quickly turned and walked away. 08 I wondered if running into Elvis had cursed my day, because not ten minutes later, I literally ran into another ghost from my past. The moment she recognized my face, she shrieked, jumping back as if she had seen an actual demon. “Beatrice! Oh my God, I am so sorry! I know we were work rivals, but that was strictly professional! Please don’t haunt me in broad daylight!” She threw her hands up in a defensive gesture. “I am terrified of ghosts! I swear I’ll go to Grace Cathedral tomorrow and light a candle for your soul!” I stood there, completely deadpan. After a few minutes of dramatic panic, she noticed my shadow stretching across the pavement in the bright morning sun. Jessica finally calmed down, clutching her chest as she exhaled a massive sigh of relief. “Okay, don’t blame me for overreacting. Everyone at the news station thought you were dead.” She shook her head. “Your dad literally marched into the station manager’s office with your death certificate and a framed black-and-white photo of you, screaming at the top of his lungs. He claimed you fell into the ocean while investigating a story on local fishing docks, and he demanded they give Chloe your investigative reporting slot as compensation. He threatened to protest outside every day until they agreed.” To prove to the rest of the world that I wasn’t a wandering spirit, Jessica dragged me back to the station. I had only worked there for a short time before my accident, but I had a solid degree and a strong work ethic, so my former colleagues had actually liked me. The moment we walked in, the staff started venting about Chloe. “She can’t write a coherent copy block to save her life,” one editor grumbled. “Whenever she messes up, she just cries, and the rest of us have to pull overtime to fix her mistakes.” Another reporter chimed in, “If it weren’t for your memory, and the fact that her husband’s family buys half our commercial ad blocks, she would have been fired months ago.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. To show my appreciation for their hard work, I ordered a round of high-end coffees for the entire department. 09 By the time I walked back into my parents’ house, the atmosphere felt as heavy and grim as a cemetery. The second I crossed the threshold, a heavy ceramic mug came flying toward my head, shattering against the doorframe. I barely managed to duck in time. Without even asking what had happened, my father stood in the living room, shouting at me. “Beatrice! Look at what you’ve done! Was it really necessary to go to the station and humiliate your cousin in front of her colleagues?” My mother glared at me, her voice dripping with disappointment. “Chloe is pregnant, Beatrice. She already has to take time off, and her coworkers are already jealous of her. Now that they know you’re alive and she took your job, the management is going to make her life a living hell.” Chloe sat on the sofa, her eyes rimmed with red, looking like a victim of a great tragedy. “Bea, I didn’t mean to take your job. Uncle Richard said we shouldn’t let a good position go to waste, and that it would bring prestige to Elvis’s family. That’s the only reason I took it.” So, my father had rushed to declare me dead just to clear a career path for Chloe. I stared at them for a long moment, and then, a dry, cold laugh escaped my lips. “Chloe, your writing skills are practically nonexistent. How did you ever think you could handle an investigative beat? You should be careful—taking things you didn’t earn always backfires.”

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To force my mother’s hand so I could be with Lydia, I severed my own index finger, ending my career as a surgeon before it even truly began. She wept then, clutching my bleeding hand, swearing she would love me for the rest of her life. Yet, on the very day my mother was named Chief of Surgery, Lydia stood before a crowded auditorium, had my leg shattered, and left me half-dead on the floor. Then, she pointed a finger at my broken body and accused me of forcing myself on her. “Dr. Miranda,” Lydia had said, her voice carrying over the microphone, cold and clear. “You always said you loathed predators the most. That they aren’t worth saving.” She had looked down at me, her eyes devoid of the warmth I had once worshiped. “Now your precious, golden son is the very monster you hate. My husband caught him in the act and gave him what he deserved. He’s dying right there on your stage. Are you still going to save him?” Then, she leaned into the arms of my best friend, Simon, and walked out of the hall, thoroughly satisfied. My mother did save me. She brought me back from the brink of death. But I was left with a ruined leg, a permanent limp, and a three-year prison sentence. The trauma of the scandal and my imprisonment shattered my mother. Unable to cope, she threw herself from the roof of the hospital, surviving only to slip into a persistent vegetative state. Eight years later, we met again. She was dressed in bespoke tailoring, the youngest Chief Medical Officer in the city. I was barely clothed, sitting in a dim VIP lounge, selling my company to wealthy older women. When our eyes locked across the crowded room, the world seemed to stop. … Tabitha’s hand was still slipped under my shirt, her fingers tracing the line of my ribs with a slow, deliberate familiarity. My smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. I forced myself to look away from Lydia, tilting my head back to drink the vintage champagne Tabitha was pouring down my throat. Yet, I could still feel a gaze burning into my bare shoulders. “Dr. Miranda is usually so busy saving lives, I doubt she spends much time in places like this,” Tabitha remarked, noticing Lydia’s prolonged silence. She had been staring at me since she entered the room. Hoping to curry favor with the prestigious doctor, Tabitha pulled me closer. “This one is my absolute favorite. Handsome, sweet-talking, and knows exactly how to please. As long as the money’s right, you can play with him however you like.” To emphasize her point, Tabitha gave my hip a firm, possessive slap. “If you’re interested, Dr. Miranda, I’ll foot the bill tonight. Let him keep you company.” She gestured for me to pour Lydia a drink. The shock in Lydia’s eyes slowly curdled into deep disappointment. She looked away, her posture stiffening. “My child just recovered from a severe illness,” Lydia said, her voice dripping with quiet disdain. “I don’t touch filthy things. I’d hate to bring bad luck home.” My hand trembled. A few drops of dark red wine spilled from the bottle, staining the hem of Lydia’s pristine white coat. So, she had a child. Simon’s child. For the past eight years, I had traded my dignity for survival. I had been beaten, cursed at, and treated like a dog on a leash. I thought I was entirely numb. But hearing those words from her mouth made my chest ache with a sudden, suffocating sharpness. She was the one who had dragged me into this hell. She was the architect of my ruin. And now, she stood there in front of the person buying me, calling me filthy. Seeing Lydia’s brow furrow in annoyance, Tabitha immediately pushed me aside and gestured to one of her bodyguards. The man stepped forward and struck me across the face twice, hard. “Dr. Miranda is right,” Tabitha hissed. “You can’t even pour a drink properly. Useless piece of trash.” She kicked me in the ribs, sending me sprawling onto the floor. “Get out of my sight! Don’t let me see your face again tonight!” My ears rang. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My crippled leg buckled, scraping against a discarded bottle on the floor, sending a sharp, agonizing jolt up my spine. As I struggled to push myself up, a pair of expensive, hand-crafted leather shoes appeared in my line of sight. “What’s got you in such a bad mood, Tabitha?” The familiar voice was like a needle pressing into my skull. I looked up to see Simon looking down at me, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. “Well, look who it is. If it isn’t Lucas.” Simon looked me up and down, holding a hand over his nose as if smelling something foul. “You used to be such a big deal, Lucas. A brilliant surgeon who couldn’t keep his hands off a helpless girl.” He chuckled, turning to the rest of the room. “I guess you couldn’t handle a real job after prison, so you decided to sell your body instead? Must be nice, getting paid just to lie on your back.” A wave of cruel laughter rippled through the lounge. Simon and I had once been closer than brothers. Back in college, when he worked part-time and got cornered by local thugs, I was the one who threw myself into the fight to protect him. I injured my shoulder and was nearly expelled. Later, when he wanted to start his own business, I emptied my savings account to back him, living on instant noodles for a month just to keep him afloat. Now, he sat among the wealthy elite, peeling back my scars for their amusement. “Lucas was so obsessed with another man’s wife back then that he literally sliced off his own finger to prove his devotion,” Simon continued, thoroughly enjoying himself. “But when he realized she didn’t want him, he snapped and forced himself on her. Her husband caught him and nearly beat him to death.” Simon pulled out his phone, scrolling through old files. “Look, Tabitha, it was all over the local news back then!” “Simon, shut up!” Lydia’s voice cut through the room like a whip. She glared at him, her face dark with anger. Simon shrugged, slipping his phone back into his pocket, though the smirk never left his face. One of Tabitha’s younger friends, a spoiled heiress who loved cruel games, tilted my chin up with the toe of her designer heel. She tipped her glass, pouring cold gin over my head. I swallowed my pride, opening my mouth to catch the liquid, acting the part of the greedy, desperate dog they wanted me to be. The room erupted into even louder laughter. “At least he’s well-trained,” someone yelled. Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed through the room. Lydia had stepped forward and slapped the heiress across the face. The laughter died instantly. Everyone stared at Lydia in stunned silence. Lydia didn’t say a word. She spared me one fleeting, unreadable glance before turning on her heel and storming out of the suite. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The amusement in the room had soured. The women lost interest, shoving a crumpled handful of hundred-dollar bills into the waistband of my low-slung trousers before leaving. I dragged myself to the restroom, collapsing over the sink, and threw up violently. Three months ago, I was diagnosed with terminal stomach cancer. I didn’t have much time left. I knew Tabitha was volatile and liked to push boundaries. But my mother was still in the ICU, and the hospital bills were a black hole. I had to swallow the disgust, crawl into beds I hated, and let myself be used as a bargaining chip just to keep my mother’s machines running. I wiped my mouth, looking at my pale, hollow reflection in the mirror, and slapped myself hard across the cheek. Suddenly, a soft, alcohol-scented warmth pressed against my back. “Lucas. Tell me why. Why are you doing this to yourself?” In the reflection, Lydia’s eyes were rimmed with red, her gaze filled with a desperate, painful confusion. Outside, the autumn wind howled against the glass. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with another automated notification of my mother’s outstanding medical balance. I turned around, plastering a lazy, practiced smirk on my face. I slid my arms around her waist, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “It’s easy money, Dr. Miranda. And the hours are flexible. Need a companion tonight? Three hundred dollars. I’ll do whatever you want.” Lydia’s face flushed scarlet, her eyes welling with tears. “Lucas,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Is that all you think you’re worth now? Three hundred dollars?” She reached out, her fingers trembling as they brushed my shoulder. “Everything that happened back then… it was a misunderstanding. I can compensate you. I can make up for all of it. Just stop throwing your life away like this.” The heavy scent of expensive perfume and alcohol hung between us. I looked at her beautiful, familiar face and laughed out loud. Three hundred dollars could buy my mother another week of life support. I was dying, and I didn’t have a single penny to spare. For my mother, I would swallow any amount of filth. I used to be a cherished son. My mother was a world-renowned surgeon, respected by everyone. Doors flew open for me. And now? The eight years of humiliation I had endured, the prison time, the broken body—did she honestly believe a “misunderstanding” and some money could wipe the slate clean? My stomach flared with a sudden, burning pain that radiated through my chest. I sneered, rolling my eyes as I pushed her away. “If you’re not buying, Dr. Miranda, don’t stand in the way of my business.” Lydia looked stunned. Then her brow furrowed, and she called out to my retreating back. “Lucas… how is your mother?” I froze, my teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached. When my mother was young, she had been assaulted by a man whose identity was never discovered. My father, upon learning the truth years later, turned to alcohol and beat her systematically. She finally gathered the courage to take me and run, divorcing him. Because of her past, the very concept of sexual assault was her deepest trauma. It was the source of all her lifelong nightmares. And yet, she had to watch her own son be branded with that exact crime. It was the final blow that broke her. She jumped from the building because she couldn’t bear the shame and the grief. “My mother’s life is none of your business,” I said, my voice flat, and walked out. By the time I reached the hospital and paid off the outstanding balance, my account was completely empty. My oncologist had sent me several texts, begging me to come in for palliative treatment. I sat on a plastic chair outside the ICU, staring at the floor. I hadn’t eaten all day, and the alcohol was eating away at my stomach lining. The pain was excruciating. I pulled a stale, dry piece of bread from my bag and began to chew on it slowly, staring blankly at the sterile walls. Before I could finish, a shadow fell over me. Simon stood in front of me, chewing gum with a smug look on his face. Beside him was a heavy-set man wearing a thick gold chain, followed by a handful of freelance paparazzi holding cameras. “Hey, Bruce,” Simon said, pointing at me. “That’s him. That’s the boy toy Tabitha’s been keeping on the side. I hear she’s spent over fifty thousand dollars on him this year alone.” Simon smiled. “He’s got great reviews. Tabitha absolutely adores him.” I realized then what Simon had done. He had brought Tabitha’s husband, Bruce. Bruce was a notorious local loan shark. Without a word, he adjusted a heavy brass knuckle on his fist and punched me squarely in the stomach twice. I collapsed onto the floor, coughing up a dark pool of blood onto the linoleum. “You pathetic, parasitic piece of trash,” Bruce spat, kicking me in the ribs. “You think you can spend my family’s money and get away with it?” “If you don’t spit out every single dime you took from my wife by tomorrow, I’ll make sure you leave this hospital in a body bag.” The hallway was quiet at this hour, but a few patients and nurses gathered at a distance, murmuring. The camera flashes blinded me as the reporters took photos of my pathetic state. I closed my eyes, letting the light wash over me. Over the years, I had become notorious in these circles. When angry spouses found out about me, they would beat me, strip me, and leave me on display. I was used to it. Seeing no reaction from me, Simon’s smile faltered. He noticed a silver chain slipping from my pocket. With a cold laugh, Simon snatched the pocket watch out of my shirt pocket. “Hey, Bruce, I bet he stole this vintage watch from Tabitha too. Let’s smash it.” My eyes snapped open. I lunged forward like a rabid animal, scrambling on my knees to grab it. “No! Please!” It was the last thing my mother had given me before she fell into the coma. I had kept it close to my heart for twenty years. I fell to my knees, slamming my forehead against the cold floor over and over, begging them. “Please, Bruce, give it back. It’s my mother’s. I’ll pay you back the money, I swear! Just give it back to me and I’ll go!” Bruce sneered, spitting on the floor near my head. He raised his hand to throw the watch against the wall when a sharp slap echoed through the corridor. Bruce’s head snapped back. “Mr. Miller, you are currently committing aggravated assault on hospital property,” Lydia said, her breath shallow and uneven. She had clearly run all the way here. Her face was flushed, her eyes burning with fury. Bruce held his cheek, furious, but when he saw it was the Chief Medical Officer, his anger dissolved into a greasy, flattering smile. “Dr. Miranda… Simon told me this guy owed us some money. I got a bit carried away. My apologies.” He carelessly tossed the watch onto the floor and stepped on it, grinding the glass under his heel. “You’re lucky tonight, kid. If I don’t see double the amount by tomorrow, you’re dead.” With a wave of his hand, Bruce and his thugs walked away. Simon stepped forward, trying to explain himself to Lydia, but she cut him off with a harsh whisper. “I told you never to touch him. Get out of my sight. Now.” Simon glared at me, his eyes full of resentment, before turning and walking away. I crawled across the floor, gathering the cracked pocket watch into my palm, and carefully slipped it back into my pocket. Using the wall for support, I forced my aching body upright. I dragged my bad leg toward my mother’s ward. But Lydia grabbed my arm. “You need to get those wounds treated first.” I yanked my arm away, ignoring the pain, and kept limping forward. Lydia didn’t argue. She called two orderlies and had them carry me to the emergency room. She insisted on treating my wounds herself. Her hands were incredibly gentle as she cleaned the cuts on my face, her brow furrowed in anger. “Lucas, if I hadn’t shown up, they would have killed you.” She paused, looking into my eyes. “I just saved your life. You don’t have a single thing to say to me?” The familiar scent of her shampoo filled my senses, making me incredibly irritated. I looked at her, a bitter smile touching my lips. Saved my life? Did she forget that I was the one who saved hers first? When we were in college, she was diagnosed with leukemia. I was the one who secretly matched her bone marrow. I gave up an exchange program abroad to undergo the extraction procedure, lying in a hospital bed for a week. Since then, my immune system had been shot, and I was constantly sick. What did she want me to say now? Thank her for letting me live like a stray dog? Years ago, she had given herself to me, promising me a lifetime of happiness. The very next morning, she stood before the board and accused me of rape, having my leg shattered in the process. I survived, yes. But my mother jumped off a building because of it. I closed my eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “Thank you, Dr. Miranda. Since I’m still alive, I guess I can go back to serving my wealthy clients.” Lydia froze, her eyes filling with tears. “Lucas… why do you have to be so cheap? Why do you insist on living like this?” If this were eight years ago, I would have pulled her into my arms and comforted her. Now, looking at her tears, I only felt a deep, exhausting irony. She was the one who sent me to prison. She was the one who made me an outcast. I had to sell my body to keep my brain-dead mother alive. I lived like a ghost, neither human nor beast. And now she was asking me why I was cheap? Lydia pulled a black titanium card from her coat and forced it into my hand. “There’s five million dollars in here. Stop doing this to yourself.” I looked at the card, a mock-grateful grin stretching across my face. “Thank you, boss. If you ever need me, I’m available twenty-four-seven.” I turned and walked away, ignoring the sound of her sharp intake of breath behind me. The next morning, a torrential downpour hit the city. In my half-asleep state, my phone rang. It was my cousin, Jacob. “Lucas… Aunt Margaret… she’s gone.” The world went entirely silent. My heart felt as though it had been carved out of my chest, and my limbs began to shake uncontrollably. I tried to stand, but my bad leg gave out, and I crashed heavily onto the floor. By the time I scrambled to the hospital, Jacob was sitting outside the room, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I came to visit her,” Jacob gasped, his voice cracking. “And a group of men suddenly burst in. They pulled all the plugs on her machines, saying we were behind on payments and she had to be discharged.” “The man leading them looked like Simon. He leaned down and whispered something in Aunt Margaret’s ear… and then her heart rate just went flat…” Hearing this, I sank onto the floor, my face devoid of color. I raised my hands and slapped myself across the face, hard, over and over again. It was my fault. All of it. Trembling, I pulled out Lydia’s black card and stumbled to the billing department. The clerk ran the card through the machine and frowned. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miranda, but this card is frozen.” I froze, staring at her. “That’s impossible! There’s five million dollars on that card!” The clerk looked at my disheveled appearance, her expression turning into one of disgust. “Mr. Miranda, given your reputation, I highly doubt you own a black card. Did some wealthy woman give this to you in a drunken stupor and freeze it the moment she woke up?” “If you can’t pay the bill, why don’t you go find another client? A few sweet words and a smile, and I’m sure you’ll get your money.” My face burned with a deep, suffocating humiliation. I clenched my teeth, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Please, just try it one more time. My mother… my mother is in the morgue. I need to pay the release fee.” Losing her patience, the clerk threw the card out of the window, letting it slide across the floor. A crowd had gathered around the lobby, whispering and pointing. “Isn’t that Dr. Miranda’s son? The one from the news years ago? He couldn’t get the girl, so he forced himself on her.” “Yes, that’s him. I heard his sugar mommy’s husband beat him up yesterday. Who knows whose card he stole.” “What a tragedy for Dr. Miranda. Such a brilliant physician, ruined by her own son.” “A man living like that… he’d be better off dead.” I tried to block out the voices. As I reached down to pick up the card, a heavy leather shoe stepped directly onto my fingers. Simon stood over me, holding his phone up with a cruel grin. “Look at the camera, Lucas. Smile!” He snapped a photo, looking at the screen with satisfaction. “Eight years, and you still look as pathetic as ever.” “Oh, by the way,” Simon leaned down, his voice a poisonous whisper. “The doctor just signed the death certificate. You finally killed your mother.” He laughed, a sound of pure triumph. My chest felt hollow, as if a vital organ had been ripped out. The pain was so intense it went numb. I didn’t say a word. I just kept clawing at the card beneath his shoe, my tears blurring my vision. “Who did you say is dead?” Lydia’s voice shattered the air. I looked up blankly. Lydia stood there, her face completely pale. The billing clerk immediately put on a flattering smile. “Dr. Miranda, you might not know, but this gigolo’s mother has been a vegetable for eight years. She just passed away because he couldn’t pay the bills.” “He killed her.” Lydia’s voice shook. “Is… is that true?” Before I could speak, Jacob lunged forward, shielding me with his body. His eyes were bloodshot as he glared at Lydia. “Yes! It’s true! Your revenge is finally complete! Are you happy now?” “Lydia, the only reason I don’t lay a hand on you is because my aunt taught me better!” Years ago, Lydia’s father had been framed for a crime he didn’t commit and spent years in prison. By the time he was released, he had terminal cancer. He had tried to get an appointment with my mother, who was the top specialist in the state. But at that time, my father’s abuse had reached its peak. My mother was on the verge of a breakdown. In a moment of severe distress, she had snapped at him, saying, “I don’t save beasts like you.” Lydia’s father had frozen, his dignity shattered, and left. He died shortly after. After his death, Lydia had targeted me. She was the most brilliant, beautiful doctoral student at the university, and she had thrown herself into my life, rendering me completely defenseless. The moment I fell in love with her, I became the weapon she used to destroy my mother. On the day she accused me, as I lay bleeding on the stage, she had choked me, screaming into my face: “Why wouldn’t your mother save my father? He was innocent! He wasn’t a beast!” “Everyone calls her a saint, but she has no heart!” “I want both of you to live in agony for the rest of your lives!” During my years in hell, I had wanted to explain the truth to her. But I had no strength, and no dignity left to offer. A suffocating pain seized my chest. My stomach flared again, a metallic taste rising in my throat. “Lydia,” I choked out, pushing myself up. “You hated me so much. Don’t tell me you didn’t know about any of this.” “Are you pretending to be innocent now just to play with me a little longer?” I forced myself onto my feet, wiping a trail of dark blood from my mouth. I needed money. Money was the only thing that mattered now. My mother needed a funeral. I had debts to pay. I didn’t have the luxury of grief. I pulled out my phone and started a live stream on a local escort platform, setting my price. “One hundred dollars an hour,” I muttered to the screen. Before I could finish, Bruce appeared from the crowd, kicking me hard in the chest. “You worthless parasite! I heard your mother died. Even if she’s dead, you still owe me my money!” I crawled back to my knees, slamming my head against the floor. “Please, Bruce, just give me a few days. I’ll get the money.” Bruce grabbed my phone, looking at the stream. “Still trying to sell yourself? Aren’t you afraid someone will report you and send you back to prison?” Lydia couldn’t bear it anymore. She grabbed my arm, trying to pull me up, her voice cracking with desperation. “How much do you need? I’ll give it to you. I’ll pay for the funeral. I’ll pay off all your debts. Just please, stop this!” I shook my head, my grip tight on my phone. I began to peel off my shirt in front of the camera, forcing my battered body into a suggestive pose. “One hundred dollars. I’ll do whatever you want.” “Lucas! Stop! I’ll pay! I’ll pay everything!” Lydia screamed, dropping to her knees, begging me. But my bad leg was screaming in pain, and I couldn’t hold myself up any longer. I tumbled to the floor, pushing her hands away. “I can’t afford your money, Dr. Miranda.” Jacob pulled me into his arms, weeping openly. “Lucas, please, don’t do this. Is she worth it?” “If you hadn’t donated your bone marrow to her back then, she would have been buried eight years ago!” “Can’t you think about yourself for once?” Lydia’s entire body went rigid. She grabbed my hand, her fingers trembling violently, her eyes wide with horror. “You… you were my donor?”

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