The Memorial Day holiday was just around the corner, and our firm was scrambling to prepare for a roster of high-profile clients. In the middle of the open-plan office, the newly hired intern, Austin, leaned over his desk. He secretly pulled out his phone, whispering into a trendy AI application: “Book the largest private dining suite at The Zenith for tomorrow night. Twelve guests.” Watching him from my desk across the room, a faint, bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. In my previous life, I had always believed that relying on a virtual assistant for high-stakes reservations was reckless. To ensure nothing went wrong, I had spent sleepless nights running back and forth to the hotel, making dozens of frantic calls, and pulling every favor in my network. That was the only reason I had managed to secure a table at The Zenith—the most exclusive restaurant in the city—on a chaotic holiday weekend. But when the CEO praised me in front of the entire company, Austin felt utterly humiliated. Unable to handle the blow to his fragile ego, he stormed out of the building in a blind rage and was struck by a speeding car, dying instantly. My colleagues pretended to mourn, whispering about how thin-skinned he had been. But on the seventh day after his death, they lured me back to the office under the guise of an urgent meeting. They drugged my coffee and filmed my torment. “If you hadn’t been so desperate to steal the spotlight, Austin wouldn’t be dead!” “You just couldn’t stand that he was younger and more attractive, could you? You were terrified he’d take your job! You sick, twisted bastard!” “He already had the room booked through the app! You just had to show off and claim he did it wrong!” “You love the spotlight so much? Let’s make sure everyone sees you now!” The psychological torture, the viral videos, the absolute ruin of my reputation—it was too much. The moment I woke up from the trauma, I jumped from the office building. But now, the clock had wound back. Austin stood up from his desk, his chest puffed out, announcing loudly to the room: “All set! Twelve people, tomorrow night, the Grand Suite at The Zenith.” This time, I was the first one to clap. … Austin blinked, momentarily startled by my sudden enthusiasm. But his confusion quickly melted into a smug, victorious grin. “Wyatt, buddy, times change. The world is automated now. I know you’re getting up there in years, but hey, at least you can appreciate efficiency.” The office erupted into giggles and snide remarks. “God, gotta love Gen Z. They just say it like it is.” “Austin’s not just honest; he’s fast. Way faster than our senior manager, Wyatt.” “Seriously. Every year Wyatt takes weeks, begging and pleading for a reservation, and this kid does it in sixty seconds.” “Makes you wonder if Wyatt was just dragging his feet to make himself look indispensable, doesn’t it?” “Ten years of booking tables and he thinks he’s a marketing genius.” I took a slow sip of my lukewarm coffee, letting their words wash over me without a fight. The Zenith was the pinnacle of luxury in our city. Getting a table there on a normal Tuesday required a miracle, let alone during a major holiday. More importantly, Helena Lancaster, the matriarch of the Lancaster Group, was notoriously old-school. She valued protocol, respect, and above all, sincerity. She once terminated a multi-million-dollar partnership simply because a junior associate handed her a brand of sparkling water she didn’t drink. In her eyes, details were the ultimate measure of respect. Because of her reputation, everyone in the office avoided this account like the plague. It was a career-ending minefield. For the past five years, I was the one who began currying favor months in advance. I knocked on doors, waited outside the restaurant until closing, and pulled strings with general managers just to secure that one table. And it had worked. Helena had smiled across the table and said, “Your firm understands dedication. I won’t forget this.” Since then, the Lancaster contracts had renewed effortlessly, their value multiplying year after year. A one-hundred-million-dollar deal was riding on tomorrow’s dinner. And Austin believed a line of text to a free app could secure that? Seeing my silence, Valerie, our department director, looked slightly uneasy. “Wyatt, you’ve handled this every year. Are you sure we’re good to leave this to Austin?” I looked at her. A heavy, familiar knot tightened in my chest. Valerie had been my mentor, the one who guided me up the corporate ladder. Yet in my past life, she was the ringleader who pinned Austin’s death on me, the one who suggested they record my humiliation. And it wasn’t until my final moments that I realized the sick, twisted nature of her connection to the young intern. Before I could speak, Austin shot up from his chair, his face flushed with defensive pride. “Valerie! Just because Wyatt is your favorite doesn’t mean you have to play favorites! I booked this through official channels.” He thrust his phone screen in front of her face. “See? PocketPal confirmed it. It said they contacted The Zenith’s executive suite. Due to the high profile of our guests, they’re preparing their highest tier of service.” “And look—PocketPal even has a guarantee. If the booking fails, they pay out a thirty-million-dollar breach-of-contract penalty! What is there to worry about?” In my previous life, this absurd thirty-million-dollar guarantee was exactly what made me realize the booking was a scam. It was a laughable, algorithmic illusion. But this time, I only smiled. I wanted to see who he would collect that thirty million from when the hundred-million-dollar account went up in flames. Seeing my silent smile, Austin’s temper flared. He pointed a finger at my face. “Valerie, look at him! He’s sneering! You only doubt me because you want to keep throwing all the credit to Wyatt!” Valerie saw the tears welling in the young man’s eyes, and her protective instincts flared. She glared at me with sharp accusation. “Wyatt, that’s enough. I only asked for your input out of courtesy. Don’t get ahead of yourself. This company needs fresh blood, people like Austin who actually embrace the future.” “Since Austin has secured the reservation, the entire Lancaster account is now his responsibility. You will assist him. Whatever he needs, you execute. No questions asked. Understood?” I let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Valerie, you’re asking a senior director with ten years of tenure to assist an intern who started three weeks ago? If the board hears about this, what do you think they’ll say?” I closed my laptop with a quiet snap. “But fine. Since you’ve handed the reigns to Austin, I won’t interfere.” The room went dead silent. By the time Valerie realized what I had said, I was already at the door. “Wyatt!” her voice shrieked after me, sharp and frantic. “What is your attitude? How dare you threaten me with the board! And so what if you’re a director? A real leader puts the work first!” I paused, glancing back with a cold smirk. “Austin booked the table, didn’t he? If the hard part is done, what do you need me for?” Without another word, I walked out and returned to my office. I sat at my desk, my eyes drifting to the framed photograph of my mother resting on the corner. The reality of my second chance finally began to settle in, heavy and sweet. In my past life, when those horrific videos leaked online, my mother had thrown herself in front of the relentless wave of reporters and internet vigilantes. “My son isn’t like this! Stop filming him! He was forced—he’s terrified! Please, stop!” she had sobbed, her fragile frame shaking. “I know my son!” But Valerie had shoved her aside with cold, calculated cruelty. “Ma’am, I know exactly what kind of man your son is. I’ve seen him creeping around after hours. He brought his dirty affairs right into our office. He’s a stain on this firm, and I am officially firing him.” The crowd had surged forward. My mother had stumbled, clutching her chest as she collapsed to the pavement. I remembered screaming from the back of the crowd, “Stop! Please! Someone call an ambulance! She has a heart condition!” But Valerie had only scoffed. “Oh, please. What a pathetic stunt for sympathy. Like mother, like son.” My mother had tried to stand, tried to crawl back to protect me, only to be kicked back down by the mob. Her lips turned blue, her final words barely a whisper as she gripped my sleeve: “Wyatt… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you…” The phantom pain of that memory pierced my chest. I pulled the frame close, holding it against my heart. This time, I wouldn’t lift a finger to save Austin or Valerie. Let them burn. As long as my mother was safe, nothing else mattered. I put the photo back and opened my laptop. Outside, the meeting had adjourned. People filtered past my glass walls, throwing mocking glances inside. “Look at him. Does he really think we can’t function without him?” “It’s hilarious. He’s probably terrified Austin is going to take his office.” “Ten years of riding on his high horse, and a rookie leaves him in the dust.” They gathered around Austin, raising their voices so I could hear every word. “Congrats, Austin! Valerie said you’re the star of the show. Once the Lancaster dinner is wrapped, you’re getting promoted straight to team lead!” “In this place, it takes normal people three years to move up a single rung. You did it in weeks. Unbelievable!” Austin scoffed playfully. “Oh, come on, guys. It’s not that deep. Just a couple of taps on a screen.” Then, he strolled into my office, his hands casually shoved into his pockets. “Hey, Wyatt. When do you think you can pack up and clear out?” I looked up, stunned. “Clear out?” He feigned a gasp, covering his mouth in mock apology. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to mention. Valerie said since the Lancaster account is our top priority, and since I’ll need to coordinate with her constantly, she’s assigning this office to me. I mean, since you aren’t really contributing to this project, it doesn’t make sense for you to monopolize the private suite, right?” I almost laughed out loud. Ten years of sweat and blood earned me this small windowed office, and this kid thought he could just inherit it after three weeks? Before I could speak, my colleagues crowded in behind him. “Austin, you’re too polite. Why are you even asking him?” “Valerie gave the order. If he doesn’t like it, we can just throw his stuff in the hall.” “Yeah, Valerie’s got your back. He can’t do trash to you.” They began grabbing the organizers and papers from my desk. I watched them, a profound, hollow exhaustion settling over me. For the longest time, I had wondered why they hated me so much. I was their peer. I had worked late nights beside them. What had I done to deserve their venom? It was only in my final moments in my past life, bleeding on the asphalt, that I heard them whispering over my broken body: “We started at the same time. Why does he get to be two levels higher than us?” “Exactly. All he does is book that stupid restaurant every year. Big deal.” “Who knows what he had to do to get those tables? Slinking around the hotel at midnight… probably sold his soul, or his body.” It wasn’t hatred. It was raw, ugly jealousy. But jealousy of what? My performance metrics had been number one in the department for a decade. People came and went, but my team stayed stable, pulling in massive quarterly bonuses because my hard work shielded them from the layoffs. They didn’t see the shield. They only saw the shadow it cast. My silence emboldened them. They began clearing my desk with aggressive, sweeping motions. With a cold smirk, Austin grabbed the framed photo of my mother and tossed it carelessly into the trash can. “I have a bit of a germ phobia, Wyatt. You don’t mind, do you?” A switch flipped in my brain. I lunged forward, shoving him back hard. I bent down and snatched the photo from the trash. “Austin! Touch my things again, and I will personally see to it that you pack your boxes today!” The sudden ferocity in my voice stunned them. They glanced at each other, uneasy. “Pack his boxes?!” Valerie’s voice cut through the crowd. She stepped into the office, her eyes flashing. “Wyatt, while the CEO is away, I am the voice of authority in this office. If anyone is packing their boxes, it’s the person who refuses to follow my lead!” Just then, my phone buzzed on the desk. I went to silence it, but my finger slid across the screen, accidentally hitting the speakerphone. A polite, refined female voice filled the room: “Hello, Mr. Mercer. This is the VIP guest relations manager at The Zenith. I wanted to follow up on your inquiry from two weeks ago regarding the Horizon Suite, Room 808, for the Memorial Day holiday?” I had forgotten. I had initiated this booking weeks ago. It was our eighth anniversary partnering with the Lancaster Group, which was why I had insisted on their most exclusive suite. But now… I smiled, looking directly at Valerie and Austin. “Actually, we’ve made other arrangements. We won’t be needing the room.” The manager sounded surprised. “Are you sure, Mr. Mercer? This is the absolute last private suite available for the entire holiday weekend.” “I’m sure,” I replied smoothly. “Thank you for your time.” I ended the call. Austin let out a loud, mocking laugh. “The last suite? Please. When I used PocketPal, it said there were plenty of rooms left.” “Wyatt, do you really think staging a fake phone call is going to make Valerie hand this project back to you?” He smirked, opening his AI app again. Speaking into the microphone, he said, “PocketPal, upgrade my reservation at The Zenith to Suite 999. The largest one.” The app chimed instantly, displaying a text bubble: [Of course! I have upgraded your booking to the Zenith Luxury Suite 999 for tomorrow night at 7:00 PM. Rest easy! Just give them my name, PocketPal, when you arrive!] I remained silent. The Zenith’s highest tier of luxury ended at Suite 808. There was no Suite 999. The AI was hallucinating, feeding him the empty reassurances it was programmed to generate. But Valerie’s eyes lit up. “See? This is what real efficiency looks like! Austin, you’re a miracle worker.” “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Gordon hears all about this at the dinner. That team lead position is yours.” She turned to the onlookers, waving her hand dismissively. “What are you waiting for? Pack Wyatt’s things. Move him to the cubicle under the stairs.” “And if he won’t move, drag him.” A few colleagues chuckled, their eyes dripping with malice. Before they could lay a finger on me, I grabbed my mother’s photo, snatched my laptop and a few essential files, and walked out without looking back. They could have the office. They’d be begging me to take it back soon enough. For the next few days, Valerie and Austin locked themselves in my old office, ostensibly coordinating the Lancaster dinner. The rest of the team spent their time buying Austin coffees and singing his praises. I ignored the noise, quietly focusing on my own tasks and preparing for the storm. On the evening of the dinner, our team arrived early at the grand entrance of The Zenith. Our CEO, Gordon Croft, spotted me and immediately asked, “Wyatt, is everything in order?” Before I could answer, Valerie pushed Austin forward, beaming. “Gordon! Wyatt didn’t handle the arrangements this year—Austin did!” “He secured the most exclusive suite in the house. Mrs. Lancaster is going to be thrilled.” “We even brought the new hundred-million-dollar contract. If the dinner goes as planned, she’ll sign it tonight! It was all Austin’s idea. The boy is a genius.” Gordon blinked, a brief shadow of doubt crossing his face, but he didn’t say anything. Just then, the Lancaster Group’s town car pulled up. Gordon rushed forward to open the door, leaving Valerie and Austin behind. Austin leaned in close to me, whispering, “Wyatt, I heard it took you two years of grunt work just to get invited to a dinner with the Lancaster Group.” He sighed with mock pity. “Man, that’s tragic.” I looked at him, my expression deadpan. “Austin, I’d start thinking about how you’re going to survive the next ten minutes if I were you.” “What?” He snapped, his voice rising. “Wyatt, do you honestly think your ten years of tenure mean anything? Valerie promised me your job is mine. Just wait. With her backing me, you’re history.” He hurried after Gordon. Helena Lancaster stepped out of the vehicle. She spotted me immediately and smiled warmly. “Wyatt. Reliable as always. I assume the arrangements tonight are up to your usual impeccable standards?” Before I could reply, Valerie and Austin shoved their way into the space. “Mrs. Lancaster, hello!” “Actually, the booking tonight was handled by our brilliant new associate, Austin! Wyatt had nothing to do with it.” Valerie threw a patronizing glance in my direction. “You’ll have to forgive Wyatt, Mrs. Lancaster. He’s been getting a bit forgetful lately. Thankfully, Austin stepped up so we didn’t miss a beat.” Helena’s smile vanished instantly. “I value Wyatt’s strategic capabilities. Reservation logistics are administrative details, are she not?” Austin’s face flushed crimson. “No, Mrs. Lancaster, I…” Gordon, sensing the sudden chill, quickly gestured toward the lobby. “Mrs. Lancaster, let’s head inside and discuss over dinner.” Austin eagerly nodded, jogging ahead to lead the party. “Right this way! Mrs. Lancaster, you are our guest of honor. The Zenith promised me they would pull out all the stops. We’ll head straight to—” Suddenly, three hosts in pristine suits stepped forward, politely blocking the entrance.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “505110”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was staying at my mother’s place for the Thanksgiving weekend when I checked the time and called my husband before bed. The moment the call connected, a breathless, sweet-coated coo vibrated through the speaker: “Meow… that’s the magic spot!” My chest tightened. A sudden, cold impulse took over. I kept my voice light, almost playful. “Who’s that with you?” He laughed it off, a forced, airy sound. “Nobody… just a little kitten that wandered in. Cute little thing…” My stomach sank. A kitten? A kitten with a thick, sugary Southern drawl? Besides, he was severely allergic to cat dander—he couldn’t even walk past a pet store without breaking into hives. “Since she’s so cute,” I said quietly, “you should keep her.” I hung up. I opened my travel app and canceled my morning flight back. This marriage—this hollow, nauseating sham—was over. I declared it done, unilaterally, starting tonight. … My phone screen lit up. A notification from our home security app popped up on the screen. “Motion detected in the living room.” I tapped it. The feed lagged for two seconds, then cleared. Zachary was sitting on the sofa. Standing directly in front of him was a young girl. She was wearing a headband with plush pink cat ears. She looked up at him and giggled. “Zach, did I just blow my cover?” I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. In the next second, Zachary looked directly at the camera lens. He stood up. The camera feed shuddered. Then, it went black. A systemic alert flashed across my screen: “Device disabled by administrator.” I stared at those words for a long, quiet minute. My mother knocked gently on my bedroom door. “Charlotte, sweetie, want some of the stuffing I just baked?” I took a breath. “In a minute, Mom.” On the desk sat a handmade autumn spice sachet. My mother had slipped it into my bag that afternoon, telling me to give it to Zachary—something cozy to bring him comfort and keep the dust mites away. I picked it up and pushed it deep into the back of the drawer. My phone buzzed again. It was a text from Zachary. “Bad signal.” “Don’t overthink things.” “That was Lacey, the new intern in our project group. She stayed late working on the pitch deck with the team and just dropped off some files on her way home.” Our house was on the south side of the city. Zachary’s office was on the west end. That was one hell of a detour. Another text came through: “It wasn’t safe for a young girl to Uber alone at night, so I let her catch her breath for a bit.” “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning.” I didn’t reply. Then came a call. I stared at the caller ID. “My Zach.” I had saved it like that before our wedding. Back then, he had teased me for being so sentimental, making me promise I would never change it, even if we had a fight. I reached out and declined the call. Then I opened my contacts list and changed the name to “Zachary.” My phone vibrated once more. It was a picture message from an unknown number. In the photo, Lacey was sitting at our dining table. On the placemat were two plates of sweet potato pie. Beside her hand was my personal silver fork—the one etched with a delicate gardenia on the handle. Below the photo was a single line of text: “Hey there, Zach said you don’t like sweet pumpkin pie. No one’s using this seat, right?” I stared at the fork in the photo. I logged into my cloud drive, downloaded the security footage from right before the camera went black, and named the file: “Thanksgiving Night.” Then I uploaded it to a private, secure folder. Zachary sent another text. “Don’t be childish. I’ll explain everything when I see you tomorrow.” At 12:03 AM, a system notification popped up from our shared family photo album. “Zachary uploaded a new photo.” I tapped it. In the photo, Lacey was cradling the cat-ear headband to her cheek, her eyes crinkled into crescents. The caption read: “Thanksgiving kitten. Pure magic.” The album was named “Our Home.” The next morning. My mother set a hot bowl of oatmeal in front of me and asked, “What time is he getting here?” I kept my eyes on my spoon. “He’s busy.” At 8:20 AM, Zachary sent his location. He was parked downstairs. “Come on down.” I grabbed my coat and purse. My mother offered to walk me down, but I stopped her. “No need, Mom. I’ll be back soon.” Downstairs, Zachary was leaning against the driver’s side door. He managed a small smile when he saw me, reaching out to take my bag. “Didn’t sleep well?” I stepped sideways, avoiding his touch. “I’m fine.” His hand remained suspended in the air. “Charlotte, last night was a complete misunderstanding,” he said, his voice soft, placating. “Lacey just graduated. She was working on the proposal until ten. I saw her sitting alone in the office and drove her back to grab some files.” I just looked at him, saying nothing. “She’s young and doesn’t always know where the line is. Don’t take it out on her.” I asked, “How did she get my phone number?” Zachary paused. “It’s in the company directory.” “How did she get into our shared family album?” A crease formed between his eyebrows. “She was helping me upload client presentation files and had logged into my account on her phone. She must have clicked the wrong album by mistake.” “And the living room camera?” This time, he didn’t answer right away. I noticed a small sticker on the passenger door frame. It was a cartoon cat paw. Pink. It wasn’t something I had bought. Zachary reached out, peeled the sticker off, and crumpled it into his palm. “She was just messing around,” he murmured. “I knew it would bother you, which is why I turned off the camera last night. I wasn’t trying to hide anything from you—I just didn’t want you to see it and feel uncomfortable.” I let out a soft, dry laugh. So that was his logic. If a painful truth was kept out of sight, it ceased to exist. He opened the passenger side door for me. But as I went to step in, I saw a white canvas tote bag resting on the leather seat. Hanging from the strap was a matching cat-ear keychain. Zachary quickly picked it up and tossed it into the back. “She left it behind.” I stood outside the car, refusing to move. “I drove her home late last night,” he explained. “I forgot it was still here.” I looked at him. “You drove her home?” “Yeah.” The interior of the car smelled faintly of a sweet, cotton-candy perfume. It wasn’t mine. I sat down, and as I reached for the seatbelt buckle, my fingers brushed against a short strand of blonde hair snagged in the latch. I pulled it out and folded it neatly inside a tissue. Zachary watched me, his throat clearing nervously. “Charlotte.” “I know this whole thing has made you unhappy. I canceled my morning meetings so I could take you out for brunch, and then we can head back to the house.” “No need.” I tucked the tissue containing the hair into the side pocket of my purse. His fingers tapped irritably against the steering wheel. “What are you doing?” “It’s dirty.” He didn’t say another word. Halfway down the road, his phone began to ring. The dashboard display read: “Kitten Lacey.” Zachary immediately tapped the decline button. Three seconds later, it rang again. He glanced at me. “I’ll put it on speaker.” He accepted the call. “Zach, did I leave my office keycard in your car? And my flash drive is missing too—the client needs to see the final proposal by ten.” Zachary frowned. “Don’t panic. I’ll look for it.” Lacey paused on the other end. “Is Charlotte with you? Did I cause trouble again? Charlotte, I’m so, so sorry. I really didn’t know those were your cutlery, or that I shouldn’t post to that album. Zach never told me, he usually just lets me use whatever I want.” “He usually just lets me use whatever.” I looked down at the ring on my left hand. Engraved on the inside of the band was a tiny inscription: “Only Yours.” Zachary had chosen that himself. But now, his accounts, his albums, his car, his home—they were all open for someone else to “use whatever.” Zachary hung up. “She just doesn’t know how to express herself properly.” I stared out the window. “No, I think she expresses herself perfectly.” Zachary executed a U-turn, heading back toward the office. “Let’s find her flash drive first,” he said. “We can’t afford to lose this client. Wait for me in the lounge for thirty minutes. Once I handle this, I’m all yours.” I turned my head to look at him. “Zachary.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “Yeah?” “Do you know what today is?” He blinked, caught off guard. “The Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend.” I nodded slowly. “Right.” He didn’t remember. Today was our third wedding anniversary. When we walked into the office, the receptionist gave me a warm smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Grayson.” Lacey came running out of the main conference room. She was holding a ceramic travel mug—my travel mug. “Charlotte! You’re here too,” she said, quickly trying to shield the mug behind her back. Zachary spoke in a quiet, authoritative tone. “Go prepare for the client presentation.” Lacey nodded. “Zach, am I sitting next to you during the meeting?” “Yes,” Zachary replied. “It’s easier to coordinate the slides.” The glass doors of the conference room swung shut. Standing in the hallway, I could see the table placements through the glass. Right next to the head seat was a card labeled “Lacey”. And the nameplate that read “Charlotte Grayson” had been swept to the very bottom of a stack of reference binders, leaving only the letters “Char” peeking out. I sat in the lounge. Twenty minutes passed, and Zachary didn’t return. On the coffee table lay the printed project proposal. The cover page featured the exact structural framework I had stayed up three nights straight helping him rewrite last month. Under the title, the author block read: “Zachary Grayson.” “Lacey.” My name was nowhere to be found. I flipped to the very last page. In the acknowledgments, it read: “Special thanks to Lacey for her invaluable creative vision.” When I had originally brainstormed that exact creative angle, Zachary had wrapped his arms around me from behind, whispering, “How does that beautiful brain of yours work? You just saved my life.” Now, that lifesaver belonged to someone else’s byline. The door clicked open. Zachary walked in, carrying a paper cup of warm water. “Why are your hands so cold?” he asked, grasping my fingertips. His forehead creased. He lowered his voice. “Charlotte, I didn’t handle things well this morning. Once the client leaves, I’m taking you out to a real dinner. I didn’t forget our anniversary.” He pulled a small velvet box from his coat pocket. “I was planning on giving this to you tonight.” He flipped the lid open. Inside lay a brooch. It was a sterling silver kitten, its tail curved into a delicate crescent moon. Zachary’s expression shifted slightly as he registered my cold stare. “It’s not what you think. This was the only piece left in the designer’s holiday collection, and I thought it would suit you.” I stared at the silver cat. The sound of that “meow” from last night felt like a physical needle pricking my skin. Zachary snapped the box shut. “I’ll swap it for something else.” “Swap it.” It wasn’t that he was oblivious. It was just that if he had the time to swap it, he would. If he didn’t, he expected me to accept it anyway. From the hallway, Lacey’s voice drifted in. “Zach, the client is asking for you.” Zachary called back, “Tell them I’ll be there in five minutes.” Lacey spoke softly through the half-open door. “But Mr. Davenport said my draft has a lot of soul. He wants me to walk them through it. I’m afraid I’ll mess it up if you aren’t standing next to me.” Zachary closed his eyes for a brief, exhausting second. When he opened them, he looked at me. “Charlotte, I have to go in. This account is critical.” I nodded. “Go.” He let out a breath of relief. “Don’t leave. Wait for me.” The door shut. I took out my phone and logged into his company’s internal shared network. My credentials were still active; because I had built the initial architecture for this project, my account was still registered as an external consultant. I downloaded every single version history of the proposal. In version one, my name was listed as the sole creator. Starting from version two, Lacey was added. Then, my annotations were systematically deleted. Finally, the byline was changed. I exported every single document log, step by step. Then I prepared to log off. A prompt popped up on the screen: “Are you sure you want to unbind your external consultant profile from Zachary Grayson’s team?” From the conference room across the hall, applause broke out. Through the glass wall, I saw Lacey standing proudly in front of the projection screen, bowing with a bright smile. Zachary sat right beside her. He leaned in as she spoke, nodding and murmuring something in her ear. Whenever I used to give presentations, he would sit by my side just like that. He would gently squeeze my hand under the table, reminding me to breathe, to take my time. Now, that hand rested right next to Lacey’s laptop. As the meeting wrapped up, Mr. Davenport walked out of the room, clapping Zachary on the shoulder. “Lacey did an exceptional job, Zach. The kid has real instinct. Is your wife here today?” Zachary’s eyes found me in the lounge. I stood up. Before he could speak, Lacey walked over, a polite smile plastered on her face. “Mr. Davenport, this is Charlotte. She doesn’t actually work with the firm. She just helps Zach manage his personal affairs.” Zachary’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth. “No, that’s not… she actually…” But Mr. Davenport’s phone began to ring. The explanation died in Zachary’s throat. Lacey turned to him. “Zach, Mr. Davenport has a flight to catch. Shouldn’t we escort him down to his car?” Zachary looked back at me, torn. Mr. Davenport was already walking toward the elevators. Lacey gathered her laptop and followed him, calling back over her shoulder, “Zach, come on.” Zachary shoved the small velvet box into my hands. “Charlotte, wait for me.” I looked down at the silver cat brooch. The sharp edge of the velvet box dug into my palm. I set the box down on the lounge table. I tapped my phone screen. “Confirm unbind.” The system warned: “This action cannot be undone. You will lose all access to team files. Confirm?” I tapped “Confirm”. At that exact moment, a text message slipped onto my screen from an unknown number. “Charlotte, Zach almost ignored the client just to stay with you. Please don’t be mad at him. You’re still the only one in his heart.” I took a screenshot of the text, added it to the “Thanksgiving Night” folder, and walked out of the office. The receptionist called after me. “Mrs. Grayson, you forgot your brooch!” I didn’t turn around. The attorney slid the paperwork across the desk toward me. “Everything is in order, Charlotte,” Jared said, adjusting his glasses. “We can file the divorce petition unilaterally. There will be a mandatory mediation period. Your husband won’t be served immediately; it will take some time for the court to process the paperwork and send out the official notice.” I nodded. “That’s fine.” I signed my name on the dotted line. As Jared began verifying the evidence list, my phone vibrated on the desk. Zachary’s name flashed across the screen. Jared looked up. “Do you need a moment?” “No.” I flipped the phone face down. Zachary called a second time. Then a third. Finally, a string of text messages came through. “Charlotte, where did you go?” “I came back to the lounge and you were gone.” “I returned the brooch. I managed to get the ginkgo leaf one from the designer you liked—they had one left in stock.” “Come home for dinner tonight. I booked a table at our favorite restaurant to make up for our anniversary.” “Make up.” He used that phrase so often. As if as long as he was willing to “make up” for things, I was obligated to stand in place and wait for him. Jared gathered the folders. “Please sign this authorization form as well. Going forward, the court will contact my office directly.” I signed. Then I slid an emergency contact update sheet toward him. “Could you please witness this change for me as well?” Jared glanced at the form. “Medical emergency contact?” “Yes.” The line had previously read “Zachary Grayson”. I drew a clean line through his name and wrote my mother’s instead. My phone lit up again. This time, it was Zachary’s mother, Martha. “Charlotte, sweetie, come over for dinner tonight. Lacey is coming over too. Poor girl is all alone in the city for the holidays, it’s so sad. You’re the older, mature one—you should look out for her.” I remained silent. Martha chuckled over the line. “Zach told me you two had a little lovers’ spat. What marriage doesn’t have its bumps? Lacey is such a sweetheart. She’s in the kitchen right now helping me prep the Thanksgiving stuffing.” I spoke quietly. “Martha, I won’t be coming tonight.” The line went dead silent for a beat. “Why did you call me Martha?” I looked at the court filing receipt on the desk. “Force of habit.” Her tone cooled significantly. “Charlotte, Zachary has a stressful job. Don’t be so childish. It’s natural for a successful man to have young girls looking up to him. As long as he knows where home is, that’s what matters.” “I hope you enjoy your dinner,” I said, and hung up. I opened my contacts and changed her name from “Mom” to “Martha Grayson”. Then I opened our shared family settings on my phone. I went to permissions. I turned off shared photo albums, calendar syncing, health data sharing, and shared payment authorizations. The very last option was “Remove Family Member”. The prompt read: “Once removed, this user will no longer be able to view your location, calendar events, or medical ID.” I tapped “Remove”. When I walked out of the law office, Zachary’s car was idling by the curb. He rolled down the window. “Charlotte.” He got out of the car and walked up to me. “Why are you here? Is this really all because of last night?” He softened his voice, stepping closer. “I admit, I didn’t handle things perfectly. But surely we haven’t reached this point?” I looked down at his hand. The gold band was still on his ring finger. Mine was still on mine, too. But the words “Only Yours” engraved inside felt like a cruel joke. “Charlotte, let’s not make a scene,” he pleaded softly. “Let’s just go home and talk.” I met his eyes. “There’s someone waiting for you at home to make Thanksgiving stuffing.” He froze. His phone began to buzz in his pocket. It was Lacey. Zachary quickly pressed the side button to silence it. “I’ll tell her to leave right now.” But the phone lit up again. This time, it was Martha. Zachary answered. He listened for a mere three seconds before his face turned pale. “Mom, calm down. Don’t worry.” He turned back to me, his eyes pleading. “Lacey cut her hand in the kitchen. I need to run back and check on her. I’ll come find you the second I’m done.” He pressed a paper bag into my hands. “The ginkgo leaf brooch. The one you always wanted.” My grip was loose, and the bag slipped through my fingers, hitting the pavement with a soft thud. Zachary bent down to pick it up. I took a step back. “Zachary.” He looked up at me from the ground. “Don’t bother coming back,” I said. He frowned, standing up. “Charlotte, stop talking out of anger.” I stood on the steps of the law office, watching his car merge back into the heavy holiday traffic. Five minutes later, my attorney sent over the electronic confirmation. “Filing complete: Charlotte Welles v. Zachary Grayson. Divorce proceedings initiated.”

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The nanny was in the middle of giving the baby a bath when his elbow accidentally brushed against the smart assistant on the living room console. The device beeped, automatically slipping into developer diagnostics mode, and began playing back the history of my wife’s voice commands. My wife, Lauren, is a senior software architect. Every piece of smart tech in our house was custom-designed and installed by her, specifically for me. Before I could even reach out to turn the speaker off, her voice drifted into the quiet room. “Set the master bedroom to sixty degrees. He’s always whining about his circulation anyway. Let him freeze a couple of times; that’ll shut him up.” “He made that awful soup again today. Honestly, if it weren’t for the shares his mother is releasing at the end of the fiscal year, I couldn’t play the doting wife for another second.” “Just three more months. Once the equity transfer goes through, I’m throwing both of them out.” Tom, the nanny, froze. He didn’t say a word, but his eyes widened as he quietly gathered the baby in a towel and moved away from the speaker. I stood in the center of the room, my fingernails digging so deeply into my palms that they left white, bloodless crescents. Slowly, the roaring in my ears faded into a cold, hard calm. Three minutes later, the equity transfer document was nothing but confetti at the bottom of the paper shredder. … I pushed the shredder drawer back in, the plastic latch clicking softly into place. Tom stood by the nursery door, holding the baby close to his chest, his lips parting as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the air. He glanced at the pulsing blue light of the smart speaker, then tightened his grip on my son. “Take him into the back bedroom,” I said. Tom hesitated. “Sir?” “There are no smart devices in that room,” I explained, my voice steady. “I kept the physical brass key.” He nodded quickly and retreated, closing the door behind him. The moment the latch clicked, the smart speaker in the living room flared to life again. Lauren’s recorded voice cut through the silence. “At two in the morning, set the hallway nightlight to eighty percent brightness. Make it flash every ten minutes.” “He says he’s having trouble sleeping. Let’s make sure he stays that way.” I didn’t move. My fingers curled tighter. For the past two months, whenever the baby cried and the nightlights flashed, I would wake up in a panic. Lauren would hold me close, whispering comfortingly into my hair: “You’re just too anxious about the baby, sweetheart. Stop letting yourself get so worked up.” And I had believed her. The speaker kept playing. “Set the baby formula prep machine to night mode, ninety-five degrees.” “If the baby cries a little longer, he won’t have the energy to look over my ledgers.” The nursery door cracked open. Tom peered out, his voice trembling. “Mr. Wyatt… the last few nights, the baby wouldn’t stop crying after his bottles. I thought I was mixing the formula wrong. Mrs. Wyatt told me I was being unprofessional and needed to pay closer attention.” I looked over at the sleek, chrome formula machine sitting on the counter. It was connected directly to Lauren’s home network. When we first bought it, she had looked my mother in the eye and promised it would make my life easier. My mother had patted her hand and said, “Lauren is so detail-oriented. She’s more thorough than I ever was.” I pulled out my old phone—the one not synced to the house—and pressed record. “Should we call the police?” Tom whispered, stepping fully into the hall. “Not yet.” “But she’s hurting the baby!” he insisted, his voice rising in panic. “Every device in this house is logged under her administrator account,” I said, staring at the glowing blue ring on the speaker. “The second she realizes we know, she’ll wipe the server logs from her office.” Tom’s hand shook as he grabbed a pen from the counter. I recorded the rest of the audio playback, then had him write down exactly what he had heard tonight. He was shaking so badly that the pen skidded off the margin of the notepad. I paused the recording, giving him a moment to breathe, then guided him through the rest. When we finished, I walked into the study. A few paper scraps still clung to the teeth of the shredder. I knelt down, picking them out one by one. The fragments bore fragmented words: “Authorization,” “Proxy,” “Irrevocable.” A real equity transfer document would have a legal filing number and a notary seal. This didn’t. It was a proxy agreement. If I had signed it, she would have had the authority to vote and make decisions on my behalf at my mother’s board meeting tomorrow morning. She would have effectively seized control of the shares my mother built. I looked up the number for our family’s estate lawyer—a contact I had saved weeks ago when the first faint doubts began to creep in. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Lauren. “Did you sign the papers? Mom needs them for the funding round tomorrow. Let’s not disappoint her. I know you’ve been exhausted lately. Once this crazy week is over, I’m taking you and the baby away for a long weekend.” I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering. “Waiting for you,” I replied. I transferred the audio recordings, the smart kettle logs, and the nightlight schedule into an old, external hard drive. The drive belonged to my college laptop, which had never been connected to our smart home network. Lauren had always complained the machine was too slow to bother with. Just as the transfer finished, my mother’s name flashed on the screen. When I answered, she didn’t offer a greeting. She simply coughed, her voice raspy. “Ivan, Lauren spent the entire afternoon defending our valuation to the investors. She’s carrying the weight of this company on her shoulders. Don’t start another fight with her over nothing.” I held the phone to my ear, staying silent. “The funding round tomorrow is critical,” she continued. “Just sign the papers. We’re a family. Do you really think she would do anything to hurt you?” I looked out at the dark living room. The smart speaker had finally gone silent. “Mom,” I said quietly. “Do you truly believe she wouldn’t?” “You’ve only just started staying home with the baby, Ivan. Your emotions are running high. I get it. But there are fifty employees who need to get paid. We can’t afford your mood swings right now.” The line went dead. At nine o’clock, the front door lock chimed, and Lauren walked in. She immediately went to the nursery. When Tom opened the door, her voice was light and warm. “Thank you for staying late, Tom. How was our little angel today?” She kissed the baby’s forehead, then walked over to me, resting her palm against my cheek. “You look terrible, honey. Still not sleeping?” I stepped back, breaking the contact. “The papers are in the study.” Her hand hovered in the air for a fraction of a second before she smiled. “Good. Let me take a look.” She disappeared into the office. I stood in the hallway, listening to the sound of the desk drawer sliding open and shut. Before she came home, I had placed an identical manila envelope in the drawer, stuffed with blank printer paper of the exact same weight. She felt the thickness of the envelope and assumed the document was safe, merely waiting for my signature. When she came out, the smile was still plastered on her face. She didn’t mention the papers directly. Instead, she pushed up her sleeves. “Did you put them somewhere else?” she asked casually. “Maybe. I might have misplaced them. My mind has been foggy.” She studied me for a long beat, then let her gaze drop. “You really are working yourself into the ground.” She walked into the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with a small ceramic bowl. “Drink this and get some rest. We’ll find the papers in the morning.” As she set the bowl on the table, the faint, bitter scent of valerian root and chamomile drifted up. Every time the company had a major compliance review over the past year, Lauren would brew me this exact “wellness tea.” She always told me I needed to sleep first. And every time, I would wake up late the next morning, leaving her to handle the meetings alone. I picked up the cup and took a small sip, keeping my eyes on her. “Is it too bitter?” she asked. “It’s fine.” I walked into the kitchen to wash my hands, turned the faucet on high to drown out the sound, and poured the rest of the liquid down the drain. As I walked back out, the front door unlocked again. My mother-in-law, Helen, walked in carrying a thermal food container. The moment she saw me, her forehead creased. “Ivan, why is Lauren in the kitchen while you’re just standing there?” Helen sighed, setting the container down. “She went back to work before she was even fully recovered from childbirth. You can’t keep throwing these tantrums. Someone has to keep this family afloat.” Lauren stepped out of the kitchen, taking the container. “Mom, please. Ivan has been under a lot of pressure.” “Pressure is no excuse to jeopardize our future,” Helen snapped. “Your mother’s health is failing, Ivan, and the company is at a tipping point. What is so hard about letting Lauren manage your shares temporarily?” I looked at Lauren. “So you need me to sign tonight. No matter what.” She sat down opposite me, her voice dropping into a soft, pleading register. “Ivan, if we don’t even have basic trust between us, it’s going to break your mother’s heart.” “Exactly,” Helen chimed in. “You aren’t yourself lately. You’re going to make a decision you’ll regret. If you can’t handle it, just let Lauren sign as your proxy. You’re married. It’s not like she’s a stranger.” Tom stepped out of the hallway, his hands clenched at his sides. He couldn’t stay silent any longer. “He’s not unstable. The baby’s formula has been freezing cold, and the lights have been flashing in the middle of the night.” The living room fell into a suffocating silence. Lauren set her mug down with a soft click. She didn’t look at Tom. “Are you saying we don’t pay you enough, Tom?” Tom swallowed hard. “That’s not what I mean.” “Then what do you mean?” She smiled, though her eyes remained entirely cold. “I hired you to watch my child, not to drive a wedge between my husband and me.” Helen pointed a finger toward the foyer. “This is ridiculous. People like him shouldn’t be in this house. Fire him and get him out of here tonight.” Tom looked at me, his eyes pleading. I pulled out my phone and processed a digital transfer for three months of his salary right in front of them. “He stays tonight to watch the baby.” Helen slammed her thermal container onto the coffee table. “Ivan! Who do you think you’re throwing a tantrum at?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum,” I said. “I’m just protecting my son.” The corners of Lauren’s mouth tightened. She stood up and walked over to the smart home control panel on the wall. “Protecting him from what? From me? From the system I built?” She tapped the screen. One by one, the lights in the living room, the foyer, and the hallway went dark, until only the tiny safety light outside the nursery remained. Helen gasped, taking a step back. “Lauren, what are you doing?” Lauren ignored her mother, keeping her eyes locked on mine. “Every lock, every light, every security camera in this house was installed by my hands. Ivan, I did all of this to keep you and our baby safe.” I stared at the dark hallway, my hands trembling. Later that night, Helen retired to the guest room. Lauren tucked the blanket around my shoulders, leaning down to whisper in my ear, “Just sleep, Ivan. In the morning, this will all be over.” I closed my eyes. In the darkness, I heard the faint, digital chirp of the bedroom door lock engaging. She hadn’t just cut the Wi-Fi. She had locked me in from the outside. At one in the morning, the baby started crying. I stood up and grabbed the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. I turned it again, and the digital display on the lock flashed: Night Safety Mode Active. I grabbed my phone to call Tom, but the external network was offline. The screen only showed our local intranet connection. Lauren’s voice drifted through the door’s intercom. “Ivan, stop fighting it. You need to calm down.” Down the hall, the baby’s cries grew sharper, turning into a frantic shriek. My palms slicked with sweat against the brass handle. I reached under the nightstand and pulled out the physical backup key I had hidden months ago. Lauren had told me to throw it away when she installed the digital locks, but I had quietly slipped it into my drawer. The lock clicked mechanically, and I threw the door open. Lauren was standing at the end of the hallway, her phone in her hand. When she saw the physical key, her face went rigid. “Running around like this is only going to prove to everyone that you’re sick, Ivan.” I held up my phone. “The system logs showing you locked my door just synced to my lawyer’s server.” Lauren’s thumb froze over her screen. I pushed past her and walked into the nursery. Tom was cradling the baby, rocking him back and forth as he wiped a tear from his own cheek. “The door to the nursery locked too,” Tom whispered. “I couldn’t get out to find you. I’ve just been trying to keep him quiet.” I took my son into my arms. He buried his wet face against my neck, his little shoulders shaking with small, hiccuping sobs. Lauren walked into the room, her phone screen glowing as she initiated a FaceTime call with my mother. My mother’s face appeared on the display, her eyes tired and strained. The camera feed showed me holding the crying baby in the dark hallway, with Tom and Helen standing in the background like witnesses to a domestic dispute. “Ivan,” my mother sighed, her voice heavy with disappointment. “What on earth is going on over there?” Lauren stepped next to me, rubbing her temples with a look of practiced exhaustion. “Mom, I’m sorry to wake you. But Ivan’s state is deteriorating. I’m genuinely afraid his anxiety is turning into severe postpartum depression. He’s going to hurt himself or the baby. I had to lock the door temporarily just to get him to de-escalate.” Helen chimed in from the doorway, wiping her eyes. “Diane, I hate to say it about your own son, but he’s simply not stable. We can’t leave a newborn with someone who is losing his mind.” I kept my head down, patting my son’s back, refusing to engage in the theater. My mother stared at the screen. After a long silence, she spoke. “If I don’t show up to the board meeting tomorrow, the investors will require a proxy signature. Lauren, will you be able to sign for the family?” I watched my mother’s silent capitulation on the small screen, holding my son closer. “In an emergency like this,” Lauren said smoothly, “we have to put the company first.” They were all waiting for me to break. I tapped the screen, disconnecting the call, and carried my baby back to my room. When Lauren followed me inside, I was already transferring the final logs from the offline laptop onto a micro-SD card. Her expression shifted. “What are you doing?” Suddenly, the power to the room cut out. The laptop screen flickered, but because it had a battery, the progress bar kept moving until the transfer reached one hundred percent. Lauren stepped in front of me. “Where is the proxy agreement?” “I’m not signing it.” She let out a dry, humorless laugh. She reached into her folder and pulled out a document, tossing it onto the bed. It was an intake form for a psychiatric evaluation, scheduled for eight-thirty tomorrow morning. “If your mother and a licensed professional agree that you aren’t fit to make legal decisions, you won’t even be allowed into the building tomorrow,” she said quietly. Helen stood at the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. “Ivan, stop being stubborn. It’s normal for a man to feel overwhelmed when he steps back from his career. There’s no shame in admitting you need help.” Tom took a step forward. “He doesn’t need help. I have the logs of the formula temperatures and the flashing lights right here on my phone.” Lauren turned her cold gaze toward him. “How much is he paying you to lie for him?” Tom opened his mouth, but under her icy glare, he quieted down. Lauren turned back to me, holding out her hand. “Give me the hard drive, Ivan. We can still pretend none of this happened.” I looked down at the external drive in my hand. It was just the enclosure. The actual storage card was already slipped into the side pocket of the baby’s diaper bag. I turned to Tom. “The baby needs some fresh air. Take him out to the backyard for a minute.” Tom caught my drift. He grabbed the diaper bag, lifted the baby, and walked toward the back exit. Lauren didn’t stop him. Her eyes were fixed on the silver drive in my hand. Once the back door clicked shut, she dialed my mother again. When the call connected, my mother’s voice was cold and sharp. “Ivan, do you have the documents or not?” Lauren leaned over my shoulder, her voice dropping to a gentle whisper. “Just hand them over, Ivan. I’ll explain everything to your mother. We can fix this.” My mother added, “Give her the papers, Ivan. Don’t make me look like a fool in front of the board.” I looked at the screen, then at Lauren. They were waiting for me to surrender. Instead, I walked over to the shredder, pulled out the drawer, and dumped the pile of white paper confetti directly in front of the camera lens. Lauren’s knuckles went white as she stared at the shredded remains. The fake smile vanished from her face entirely. She stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “Ivan, you have no idea what you’ve just done.”

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In the world of broadcast journalism, Zack and I were the undisputed golden couple. He was the brilliant, obsessive executive producer, and I was the face of the network. Together, we were a “one-plus-one-equals-three” kind of phenomenon. But Zack’s genius came with a sharp edge. He was notoriously demanding, the kind of producer who could reduce seasoned anchors to tears with a single sigh. He’d say it openly in production meetings: “If any of you had a tenth of Leona’s drive, we wouldn’t be bleeding hours on these edits.” When I was selected for a prestigious three-month media fellowship in New York, he spent the night before my flight holding me tight. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his voice muffled and unusually soft. “I dread having to work with anyone else,” he murmured. “They’re all so slow. Promise me you’ll come back the second it’s over.” I laughed, running my fingers through his hair, but I couldn’t help but worry. “The girl stepping in for me is my own protégée,” I reminded him. “Olivia works incredibly hard. She just needs a break. Don’t go tearing her to pieces on day one.” Three months later, I walked back into the Chicago studio, dragging my suitcase straight from the airport. I stopped at the heavy double doors of Studio B. Zack was standing on the stage, leaning in close to Olivia. He was adjusting the lapel mic on her collar, his hands lingering just a second too long. Then, he patted her head and smiled—a warm, bright expression I hadn’t seen on his face in months. “You’ve got this,” he said, his voice carrying over the quiet stage. “Don’t be nervous. Frankly, you’re bringing something to this that Leona never did. This show belongs to you now.” … My hand slipped, and my heavy duffel bag hit the floor with a dull thud. The noisy control room suddenly went dead silent. Olivia’s face turned pale, her smile freezing. “Leona… you’re back.” She flusteredly began unclipping her mic, stepping down from the stage. “I—I can hand this broadcast back to you.” But before she could take two steps, Zack grabbed her wrist. He didn’t even look at me. He just stared at Olivia, his voice firm. “No. Stay. We’re keeping you on tonight.” The tension in the studio became palpable. The crew stood frozen, trading uneasy glances. Olivia looked at me with wide, panicked eyes, pleading for help, but her feet stayed glued to the floor. I looked at the shifting gazes of the staff, forced a polite smile, and said, “It’s fine. Keep going with the scheduled run-of-show.” The recording began. I sat in the very back row of the dark studio audience seats, watching Olivia shine under the studio lights. She used to sit at my desk, practically trembling, asking me, “Leona, do you really think I can do this? What if I freeze up?” I always told her that one day, she’d own the camera. Now, she was doing exactly that, but I felt no pride. Because Zack was standing by the monitor, a soft smile playing on his lips. The way he looked at Olivia—the sheer warmth, the absolute focus—was a look I knew all too well. It was the look that, for five years, had belonged only to me. It was past midnight by the time the taping wrapped. The crew was buzzing, talking about heading out for late-night drinks. Zack finally pulled off his headphones and looked in my direction, giving me a brief, casual nod. “You’re back. Why didn’t you let me know?” I lowered my eyes. “I texted you.” He blinked, momentarily confused, and reached into his pocket for his phone. But Olivia appeared from behind him, handing it over with a playful grin. “Producer’s rule, remember? Phones go on silent the moment you step into the studio. You forgot, so I did it for you.” Sensing the sudden chill between Zack and me, she faltered, her smile slipping. “Did… did I do something wrong?” Zack recovered first. He took the phone and let out a soft laugh. “Bold of you, using my own rules against me.” He tapped her lightly on the head. “Go on, didn’t you guys want sushi? Take the team and order whatever you want. It’s on my card.” Once she was out of earshot, Zack turned back to me, taking my suitcase. “I’m sorry, Leona. Today’s broadcast was a massive ratings hook. I couldn’t slip away to pick you up at the airport.” At the high-end sushi restaurant, the crew was loud, thanking Zack before diving into the menus. Olivia laughed, rubbing her stomach. “I am absolutely starving. I could eat an entire cow right now.” Zack poured himself a cup of green tea, deadpan: “Waitress, bring this lady an entire cow.” The table erupted in laughter as Olivia blushed. My stomach twisted. After a long silence, Olivia looked up at me cautiously. “Leona, you’re so quiet. What are you having?” I forced a thin smile. “Nothing for me, thank you. I’ve been recovering from a bad bout of gastritis. My stomach can’t handle raw food right now.” Zack frowned, a flicker of irritation passing through his eyes. I looked down, a bitter ache spreading through my chest. Sometime during my three months away, his texts had grown sparse, his replies taking hours, then days. When the gastritis had hit me in New York, leaving me curled up alone in an ER chair under the fluorescent lights, hooked to an IV drip, I had sent him a text: “It hurts so bad. I wish I was home.” He still hadn’t replied to that message. I had convinced myself he was just in his typical workaholic zone, blind to the world. But clearly, he wasn’t too busy to remember who wanted sushi. The dinner felt like chewing on cardboard. I rode home in the passenger seat of Zack’s car, surrounded by a suffocating silence. When we unlocked the door to our apartment—a place I hadn’t stepped into for ninety days—the living room was pitch black. Zack’s voice cut through the dark behind me. “Leona. We need to talk.” Zack sat on the leather sofa, lighting a cigarette and letting it burn halfway down in silence. “In the three months Olivia covered for you, the ratings for “The Point” jumped by twenty percent. We picked up two major national sponsors. I’m going to keep her on as the permanent anchor.” My heart skipped a beat, then began to thud violently against my ribs. “What does that mean?” The moonlight cut through the window, illuminating only half of his face, leaving the rest in shadow. “I’m giving her “The Point”. I’ll put together a pitch for a brand-new show for you.” His tone was final. With those words, he pulled the rug out from under my life. “The Point” was our baby. Five years ago, when we were just two hungry kids trying to make a mark, we had pitched it together, signing a virtual blood oath with the network executives. The show, with its razor-sharp journalism and uncompromising truth, had taken off. It gave Zack his power, and it gave me my reputation. It was the foundation of our careers, and the backdrop of our entire five-year relationship. I let out a hollow laugh. “Do you have any idea what I poured into that show? Do you even care what it means to me?” Zack pinched the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. “Leona, we have to look at the bigger picture. We have to move forward.” I stared at the face of the man I loved, searching for something familiar. “Moving forward? Is that about the show, or is it about her?” Though I hadn’t used her name, Zack’s expression instantly hardened. “Olivia works hard. She just needed a platform. Leona, you have the status, the awards, the financial security. You have everything. What hurts you to give her a little room to breathe?” I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, the sound sharp and ugly. “How incredibly familiar.” Three months ago, I was the one begging him to be patient with Olivia, telling him to go easy on her. Three months later, he was throwing my own kindness back in my face to justify taking my life’s work. I cared about Olivia. I wanted her to succeed. But “giving her a chance” did not mean letting her steal the ground from under my feet. “I’m not stepping aside,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “If you think she’s so brilliant, produce a new show for her.” Zack looked at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. “Leona, I am the executive producer of “The Point”. I have the final say on who anchors the desk.” He stood up abruptly. “You just got back. Get some rest. I’ll sleep in the study.” I pressed a hand to my aching stomach, wiping a cold bead of sweat—or a tear—from my temple. Late that night, lying in our king-sized bed that felt as vast and freezing as an ice sheet, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram notification from Olivia. A photo of her smiling in the studio. Caption: “Grateful for the climb. Never look back. Let’s do this!” And there, right at the top of the likes, was Zack’s name. He had liked it seconds after she posted. I stared up at the dark ceiling. It turned out my desperate rush to finish my fellowship, to catch the earliest flight home, was just a return to a life where I was no longer wanted. The next morning, I walked into the dressing room. Olivia was in the makeup chair, and she froze when she saw me in the mirror. The assistants in the room quickly found excuses to slip out, leaving us alone. Olivia hesitated, then stood up and gave me a deep, stiff bow. “Leona. I’ve looked up to you since college. You’ve been my mentor, my idol. You’ve helped me so much, and honestly, I would do anything for you. But I’m not giving up “The Point”.” “You were the one who taught me to seize every opportunity,” she added, her chin lifting slightly. I smiled, though it didn’t reach my eyes. “I told you to seize opportunities, Olivia. I didn’t tell you to build your career on theft.” “During my fellowship, the network executives talked about launching a new weekend segment. I put your name forward to anchor it.” Olivia’s face shifted, the sweet, deferential act melting away in an instant. She let out a sharp, cynical breath. “Oh, how noble of you. I’ve trailed behind you for years, Leona. When did you ever actually give me a real shot? Even when your stomach was tearing you apart and you were practically fainting on set, you wouldn’t let me fill in. If the network hadn’t forced you to go to New York, you would have kept me in your shadow forever.” She sneered. “In this business, Leona, it’s survival of the fittest.” I looked at her, seeing the ugly distortion on her face, and felt a strange sense of clarity. “Fine. Let’s see what you’re actually made of.” Before the evening taping, I walked onto the studio floor dressed in my anchor wardrobe. Zack’s brow furrowed immediately. “Leona, we talked about this last night—” “Zack,” I cut him off, keeping my voice professional. “We work in television. The audience is the only boss that matters. If you want to decide who gets “The Point”, let the ratings do the talking.” The studio fell dead silent. Olivia, standing nearby, smiled sweetly. “I think that’s incredibly fair. It would be an honor to compete with you, Leona.” Zack’s frown deepened. He opened his mouth to object, but Olivia stepped in, playfully tugging his arm. “Come on, boss. Don’t tell me you don’t think I can win?” Watching their easy, familiar intimacy in front of the entire crew felt like a physical blow. My eyes stung, but I kept my posture perfect. Zack finally sighed. “Fine. Tonight…” I interrupted with a cool smile. “My segments aren’t fully prepped yet. Tonight’s broadcast belongs to Olivia.” I took a deliberate step back, leaving the stage entirely to them. I sat in the darkness of the back row, watching the monitor. As her mentor, I knew Olivia’s technical skills were impeccable. But tonight, on camera, her tone was different. It was sweet, dripping with sentimentality, and midway through the lead story, she let tears well up in her eyes. She wiped a tear away, her voice trembling but dramatic. “I’m sorry, everyone. But looking at the footage of this woman… a simple housekeeper trying to make an honest living, humiliated and abused by her wealthy employers… it breaks my heart. Because she’s vulnerable, does she deserve to be treated like trash?” Her story was about a domestic worker allegedly abused by a wealthy family. I shook my head in the dark. Journalism is supposed to be objective. An anchor weaponizing their own tears to manipulate the audience is a betrayal of the craft. Under my tenure, “The Point” had always been clinical, calm, and devastatingly precise. We didn’t sell cheap tears; we delivered cold, hard facts. When the lights went down, Olivia came off the stage, flushed with excitement, clearly looking for approval. I stood up and intercepted her. “I taught you better than this,” I said, my voice low but firm. “When a story is this polarized, you do not take sides on air. You are an anchor, not an activist. You took a complex situation and turned it into a witch hunt.” Olivia’s face flushed red, then went white. She ripped off her earpiece and slammed it onto the desk. “I am sick of your lecturing! You just got lucky, Leona. You got Zack, you got a hit show, and now you think you’re God. Who are you to judge me?” She snapped her fingers at a production assistant. “Do we have the overnight ratings?” The assistant stepped forward, swallowing hard, stammering. “Yeah… they just came in. We… we beat Leona’s historic peak. By three points.” Olivia threw me a triumphant, venomous look. I didn’t say a word to her. I turned my eyes to Zack. “You’re okay with this?” Zack avoided my gaze for a second, then looked up. “Leona, the numbers don’t lie.” I nodded slowly. “Understood.” I turned and walked out. A week later, our scheduled broadcasts fell on the same day. When I walked into the makeup room, I saw the artist applying fake bruises and cuts to a man’s face. I stopped. “What is this?” A production coordinator mumbled, “Olivia’s segment. It’s the exposé on the construction worker beaten up by the trust-fund kid. The actual victim is too shy to speak on camera, so they brought in his brother to do the interview. The makeup is just to make it look… more authentic.” Cold dread settled in my chest. “Faking physical evidence? Are you out of your minds?” Olivia strolled into the room, leaning against the doorframe with a smug look. “Leona, this is my segment. I don’t recall asking for your input.” “This is a news broadcast, Olivia,” I said, my voice rising. “We have kept this show clean for five years. Fabricating a victim’s injuries is career suicide. Do you have any idea what this will do to the network if it gets out?” She matched my gaze, entirely unbothered. “The facts are the facts. We’re just using a visual aid to help the audience understand. What’s the big deal?” The shouting drew Zack into the room. His first instinct was to step in front of Olivia, shielding her. I looked past her, straight into his eyes. “Did you know about this? Faking a news package?” Zack remained silent. “What happened to the ethics we built this department on?” I asked, the words cutting through the chaotic room. “Do you even remember why we started this show?” We had been in a cold war since the night I returned, sharing a bed of silence, avoiding each other in the halls. I had planned to wait for the ratings war to settle before forcing a conversation about our marriage. But standing here, watching him protect a fraud, the fight evaporated from me. We had met in college. We were the top two students in the journalism department, rivals who fell in love over late-night editing sessions. He used to hold my hands, his eyes bright with a fire that consumed us both. “We’re soulmates, Leona. You’re my partner in everything. My dream only exists because of you.” Zack finally spoke, his voice quiet, flat. “Leona, this is the real world. Integrity doesn’t pay the electric bill. The market dictates what we do.” I stared at him. The passionate, idealistic boy I had loved was entirely gone, replaced by a cynical corporate empty suit. The silence stretched between us until Zack sighed, reaching out to touch my hand. I took a step back, out of his reach. “I won’t be a part of a network that fakes the news,” I said quietly. “You want “The Point”? It’s yours.” I didn’t look at Zack’s suddenly pale face as I walked out the door. I submitted my resignation that afternoon. Zack called my phone repeatedly, but I ignored every ring. I left a signed copy of the divorce papers on the kitchen island and moved my things into a short-term rental. From that day on, Olivia became the undisputed face of “The Point”. Zack launched a second, lighter entertainment show for her, and her star rose exponentially. She was guest-starring on talk shows, signing brand endorsements, and becoming a household name. On “The Point”, there were still viewer comments calling out the shift in tone—noting that the show had lost its objective, analytical edge. But those voices were quickly drowned out by a highly coordinated PR campaign. One night, around 2:00 AM, my phone lit up with a text from Olivia. It was a photo of Zack, flushed and half-asleep from too many drinks, resting his head heavily on her shoulder. “Leona, did you ever think things would turn out like this?” I didn’t reply. I was too busy drafting a pilot script. After leaving the network, I accepted an offer from their main competitor—a rival station that had tried to recruit me for years. They offered me absolute creative control. A new team, a new format, a blank slate. I worked eighteen-hour days, barely keeping my head above water. Sometimes, during the quiet hours of the night, I would look out at the city skyline and let my mind drift back to college, to the early days at the studio, to the husband who used to hold me in the dark. But the nostalgia only lasted a minute before I pulled myself back to the page. We decided on a live format. It was high-wire journalism, leaving no room for errors or second takes. Right before our debut broadcast, the energy in the studio was electric. Some of the crew members whispered anxiously, “Our time slot is directly against “The Point”. We’re going head-to-head with Zack.” I just smiled. “Zack? Let him come.” The director gave me the thirty-second cue. The makeup artist touched up my lipstick, and the technical director flashed a thumbs-up from the booth. I looked at the exhausted, hopeful faces of my new crew, pumped my fist in solidarity, and sat in the anchor chair. I took a deep breath as the red light flared on Camera One. “Good evening. Welcome to “The Lens”. I’m Leona.”

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It took three years for the entity who hijacked my body to fail her mission. To win over the elite heirs of Manhattan, she had used my face to play a desperate, clawing game of seduction. Instead of succeeding, she made me the laughingstock of the city and tore my family apart. Before she finally vanished from my consciousness, she left a parting note in my mind, dripping with malice: “What a shame. I played this hand straight into the ground.” “Your three brothers wish you were dead, and your man treats you like a stray dog he can’t shake off.” “Have fun cleaning up the mess.” I gasped, opening my eyes to the sudden, disorienting rush of reality—only to be met with a stinging slap across my face. 1 “Smack.” My head snapped to the side, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. “Summer, when is this endless drama going to stop?!” The roar of fury came from above me. I forced myself to look up. Standing over me was my second brother, Dylan. This was the same man—a famous pop star—who had once stood in a torrential downpour for three hours just to buy me a limited-edition birthday cake. Now, he looked down at me with nothing but disgust. A few yards away, the poolside was in utter chaos. My adoptive sister, Tiffany, was shivering on a lounge chair, wrapped in towels, coughing weakly as water dripped from her hair. The man holding her was Adrian Lockhart. Adrian was the untouchable heir of New York’s old money, and the primary target the soul-hijacker had spent the last three years shamelessly chasing like a dog. Adrian gently patted Tiffany’s back, then raised his eyes to glare at me, his gaze cold and sharp as ice. “Dylan, your family’s lack of breeding is truly something to behold,” Adrian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “Since Miss Harrington loves the water so much, perhaps she should spend the night in the pool to clear her head.” Dylan’s face paled at Adrian’s words, turning even more hostile. He whipped around and snarled at me, “What are you waiting for? Get over there and beg Tiffany for forgiveness!” “If you had actually drowned her today, I would have been the first to throw you to the wolves!” I said nothing. For three long years, I had been locked in a dark room of my own mind, a silent observer forced to watch that imposter use my body. I watched her put on gaudy, heavy makeup and throw pathetic, hysterical tantrums just to get attention. To please Adrian, she had gone so far as to slip drugs into his drink. To steal her brothers’ affection back from Tiffany, she had resorted to cheap manipulation, self-harm, and endless lies. She had dragged my dignity through the mud and exhausted every ounce of my family’s love. And now, she had patted herself on the back and vanished, leaving me to stand in the wreckage. Seeing my silence, a dry chuckle echoed from the other side of the patio. My eldest brother, Lawrence, stood up from his chair. He walked over and casually tossed a stack of papers at my feet. “Don’t waste your breath demanding an apology, Dylan. She doesn’t have a soul.” Lawrence looked down at me, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “Summer, we gave you countless chances over the last three years. You threw them all away.” “Sign the severance agreement. From this moment on, you are no longer a Harrington.” “Lawrence…” Tiffany whimpered from Adrian’s arms, looking up with big, watery eyes. “Please don’t do this. Summer only did it because she loves you all so much. It’s my fault… I shouldn’t have come back to this family…” “Tiffany, you’re far too soft. That’s why she keeps stepping on you.” My third brother, Oliver, walked over from the shadows. As a prominent surgeon, his voice carried a clinical, detached authority. “Summer, you are suffering from severe manic episodes and paranoid personality disorder. As a medical professional, I highly recommend involuntary psychiatric admission.” “Tiffany survived today, but you should use whatever sanity you have left to keep some dignity.” The onlookers at the party whispered among themselves, enjoying the spectacle. They were waiting to see the once-spoiled heiress of the Harrington family get publicly cast out. According to the memory of the entity who had run my life, this was the part where I was supposed to throw myself at Lawrence’s feet, weeping and begging for mercy. Or scream at Adrian that I was innocent, that Tiffany had jumped in herself. They were waiting for my hysterical break. They expected me to kneel. But I didn’t. I stood quietly in the cool night air, raising a hand to wipe the corner of my lip. It felt sticky. I stared at the smudge of blood on the back of my hand for a second, then slowly bent down to pick up the severance papers. “Do you have a pen?” 2 My voice was quiet, but it made everyone freeze. Dylan looked bewildered, his brow furrowing deeper. “What kind of game are you playing now? I swear to God, Summer, you could die right here and none of us would shed a single tear.” “I’m not playing a game.” I straightened my back and looked him dead in the eye. “I asked for a pen. Don’t you want me to sign?” The utter lack of emotion in my face made Lawrence frown. He let out a harsh breath, pulled a sleek fountain pen from his breast pocket, and threw it at my feet. “Stop acting.” “If you sign this without making a scene, I’ll have accounting wire a million dollars to your account, so you don’t starve on the streets and embarrass us.” I bent down and picked up the pen. Without a single word of protest, without even skimming the legal clauses, I flipped straight to the signature page and wrote my name in clear, elegant cursive. I handed the papers back to Lawrence. He didn’t take them. He just stared at my face, a flicker of shock crossing his eyes. “You don’t want them? I’ll leave them here then.” I placed the document gently on the table, then turned my gaze to Oliver. “Dr. Harrington,” I said, dropping the title of ‘brother’ entirely. Oliver stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not sick, but thank you for the clinical assessment,” I said softly. “Going forward, you should tell the chef to put less salt in your food. Your stomach has always been sensitive. If you keep eating like you do, you’ll get ulcers.” I turned my eyes to Dylan. “That slap just now clears whatever debt we had between us.” “All those embarrassing airport pickups and film-set visits that made you feel so ashamed? You don’t have to worry about them anymore.” Finally, my gaze drifted past them, resting on Adrian and Tiffany. Whether the intruder had actually pushed Tiffany tonight didn’t matter to me anymore. “Mr. Lockhart,” I said, looking at his handsome, stony face. “I apologize for the last three years of desperate clawing. I won’t cross your path again. Have a long, happy life together.” Saying all of this felt like it had drained the last reserves of my physical strength. I turned on my heel and walked toward the grand entrance of the estate. Behind me, the silence was absolute. They were likely paralyzed by this unfamiliar, eerie calm. As I reached the threshold, the heavy wooden doors swung open, letting in a gust of cold night wind. It was starting to drizzle. I was wearing the intruder’s favorite dress—a cheap-looking, low-cut red gown that offered no warmth. The wind hit me, and a violent shiver ran through my bones. “Summer!” Dylan’s voice came from behind me, sharp and frantic. “If you walk out of those doors, don’t you ever think about coming back!” “Do you honestly think this reverse psychology is going to make us feel sorry for you? Dream on!” I didn’t look back. I pushed through the heavy doors and stepped out into the rainy night. The wind was howling now, and the cold rain instantly soaked through my hair. Before I could even make it down the grand stone steps, a dozen blinding flashlights cut through the darkness. “She’s out! Summer Harrington is coming out!” “Block her! Don’t let her run!” A girl with short hair rushed to the front of the crowd, throwing a cup of ice-cold water directly onto my chest. 3 “We saw the group chat! You actually tried to drown Tiffany tonight!” “You toxic, miserable bitch! Why don’t you just die?!” A crowd of young girls carrying light-up signs blocked the path down the steps. The signs bore Dylan’s name. These were his fans. Over the last three years, the entity in my body had constantly crashed his filming sets to gain attention, turning his fanbase into my fiercest enemies. The schedule of tonight’s private gala was no secret, and they had clearly gathered here specifically to ambush me. The freezing water soaked through my thin dress. As the wind blew, my teeth began to chatter. According to the intruder’s habits, she would have shrieked, covered her face, and run back inside to throw herself into Dylan’s or Lawrence’s arms, screaming for protection. But I didn’t hide, and I didn’t cry. I just stood there, letting the rain wash over me. Behind me, the heavy double doors clicked open again. My three brothers, along with Adrian who was still sheltering Tiffany, walked out onto the landing. Security guards immediately stepped forward, holding large black umbrellas to shield them from the elements. They stood at the top of the grand steps, watching me get swarmed by the angry crowd in the freezing rain. Dylan didn’t try to stop his fans. Instead, he let out a bitter laugh. “Summer, is this another one of your pathetic pity plays?” “Did you choose the front exit on purpose just to rile up my fans so I’d feel bad for you?” His eyes were filled with nothing but disgust. “I’m telling you right now, even if they tear you apart tonight, I won’t lift a finger to save you.” Lawrence adjusted his gold cufflinks, his voice matching the coldness of the rain. “Get her out of here. She’s embarrassing the family just by standing there.” Oliver pushed his glasses up his nose, looking at my shivering, soaked figure. “You brought this on yourself.” As for Adrian, he didn’t even look in my direction. His attention was entirely focused on Tiffany. They were waiting. They were waiting for me to break down under the weight of the crowd’s insults, to weep and beg them to save me. Suddenly, Tiffany pulled away from Adrian’s chest and took a small step forward. “Summer… the rain is so heavy. You’ll get sick if you walk home like this.” She blinked her damp eyelashes, her eyes dropping to the glittering diamond necklace around my neck. “Summer… that necklace is the coming-of-age gift Mom left for me before she died. If you’re really leaving for good, could you please give it back?” The crowd erupted instantly. Several fans pointed directly at my face, shouting, “How shameless! Even after getting kicked out, she still stole Tiffany’s inheritance!” “She’s a thief! Don’t let her take Tiffany’s things!” Dylan’s face turned livid, and he marched down the steps. “Summer, you really are a piece of trash! Stealing from Tiffany? Take it off. Right now!” Lawrence’s expression grew even colder. He turned to the security guards. “Go strip the necklace off her. If she resists, use force.” Adrian finally looked up, his eyes filled with mocking disdain. “Summer, if you need money, I could have given you some. But resorting to theft is just pathetic.” Hearing his words, my heart didn’t even flutter. Before the soul-hijacker took over my body, Adrian and I actually had a real engagement. 4 Back then, he was cold to everyone else, but he saved every ounce of his warmth for me. He had severe germaphobia and hated physical contact, yet during the freezing winter months, he would naturally take my cold hands and tuck them into his coat pockets to keep them warm. He was a notorious workaholic, but when I once mentioned offhand that I wanted to see the ocean, he canceled a multi-billion-dollar merger without hesitation just to drive me to the coast overnight. He would frown and scold me for being reckless, all while wrapping his own heavy coat around my shoulders. But over the last three years, the entity had ruined every memory of us. She had drugged him, tried to climb into his bed, and acted like a hysterical, jealous lunatic in public. She didn’t just throw my own dignity out the window; she systematically turned Adrian’s deep affection for me into absolute disgust. The only reason he was treating Tiffany so well now was because she reminded him of the quiet, gentle girl I used to be three years ago. Looking at the deep contempt in his eyes, I felt nothing but exhaustion. This necklace was indeed a maternal heirloom—but it belonged to me. My mother had left it to me. Yet, because the intruder had worn it every single day just to spite Tiffany, everyone in the family had somehow convinced themselves it belonged to her. Under normal circumstances, the intruder would have screamed and fought to prove the necklace was hers. But I didn’t care to argue. Explaining anything to these people was a waste of breath. I reached behind my neck and unclipped the clasp. “Click.” A triumphant smirk flashed across Tiffany’s face, and she reached out eagerly. “Thank you, Sum—” I didn’t hand it to her. With a flick of my wrist, I tossed the diamond necklace directly into the muddy puddle at my feet. Dirty water splashed up, staining the hem of Tiffany’s pristine designer dress. “Ah!” Tiffany shrieked, jumping back and bursting into tears. “Summer, if you didn’t want to give it back, you could have just said so! Why would you throw away Mom’s memory like that?!” “What the hell is wrong with you?!” Adrian yelled, pulling Tiffany back under the umbrella and glaring at me with raw fury. Dylan looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel. He rushed forward, raising his hand to strike me again. “You miserable bitch! I’ll teach you—” I didn’t flinch. I just stood there, staring directly at his raised hand. “Go ahead,” I said, my voice cutting through the rain. “Hit me. If that hand lands, tomorrow’s front-page headline will read: “‘Pop Icon Beats Defenseless Woman on the Street.’” Dylan’s hand froze mid-air. He was shaking with rage, but he didn’t dare let his hand fall. I ignored him, turning my attention back to the rest of them. Right there, in front of the cameras and the crowd, I unclipped my diamond earrings and unclasped my bracelet, letting them drop into the mud. Finally, I bent down and slipped off my designer heels—the ones that had rubbed my heels raw, leaving them slick with blood. I stood barefoot in the cold rainwater, looking up at the figures on the stone steps. “I am leaving nothing that belongs to the Harringtons. From this moment on, I have absolutely no relation to any of you, or the Lockharts.” I turned around. The fans at the bottom of the steps seemed stunned by the cold, quiet intensity radiating from me. Without anyone saying a word, the crowd parted, leaving a clear path through the dark street. The rain poured over my face as I took my first steps into the night. Behind me, Dylan’s hand was still hanging in the air, his eyes slowly dropping to the pair of discarded high heels on the wet stone. Suddenly, a cold chill ran down his spine. The inner back of the heels was completely stained with deep crimson blood. It wasn’t just him. Every man standing on that landing was staring at that smear of red. For the past three years, the “Summer” they knew would cry and scream for weeks if she so much as nicked her finger on a piece of paper, forcing everyone in the house to appease her. But just now, with her feet rubbed raw and bleeding, she had walked barefoot onto the gravel-strewn pavement without even a flinch. The behavior was unfamiliar, yet terrifyingly recognizable. Because three years ago, before she “went mad,” the real Summer Harrington had been exactly like this. Tiffany sensed the sudden shift in the air. Seeing the men stare intensely at the direction where Summer had disappeared, a flash of panic washed over her. She quickly knelt down and scooped the muddy necklace out of the puddle. “Brothers, please don’t be mad at Summer,” Tiffany said, holding the muddy jewelry in her hands with a fragile smile. “She must have just been confused when she took it from my room. I told her I didn’t mind, but she still has such a temper…” She leaned instinctively back toward Adrian’s chest. In the past, Adrian would have immediately wrapped his arm around her. But this time, Adrian didn’t move. Instead, he took a step back, letting her lean into empty air. Tiffany stumbled, looking up in disbelief. “Adrian…?” Adrian stared at the muddy necklace in her hand, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Tiffany, you said she stole this from your room?” Tiffany’s heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to nod. “Y-yes, it’s the coming-of-age gift my mother left for—” “You’re lying.”

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I was at the door in a bunny suit. Tonight’s client was my husband—the man who left us here three years ago. Julian. The Don. “Three years, Nora,” he said, cold as a gun barrel. “Three years ago, you got your daughter Maya to safety but left Chloe on the gravel. You made a big mistake. Did you learn to be compliant now?” Chloe. His true love Serena’s daughter. I hadn’t known she was there that night. I stared at the ring on his hand—the one that had replaced ours. “Yes, sir.” His face flickered—then hardened. “Nora, don’t give me that dead look. You don’t get to do this.” “Selfishness has no place in the Vance family, Nora. You and Maya deserved that.” He smoothed his cuff. “And I came here today to offer you a chance at redemption.” Redemption? Was there such a thing for me anymore? I almost laughed, that hollow kind. Then Serena stepped out of the car. Her diamond rings caught the red neon of the bar. “Nora, please. Chloe is in the hospital,” she begged. “The doctors say she has weeks. We need Maya. We need her marrow. She’s a match.” “That’s it. Get the girl to the hospital. Then your punishment is over.” Julian finished. So that’s what this was. A bargain. But… it’s too late. “No, sir. You can’t take her,” I said. Julian’s jaw tightened. “Nora, I’m not asking. I’m taking my daughter back to Boston.” “She isn’t going to Boston. She can’t.” I said. “Because…” A choked sob rose in my throat. I swallowed it. Maya never liked to see me cry. “Because…she’s dead.” For a moment, The air turned solid. Julian didn’t move. Then— “Is this your play, Nora?” Julian’s voice dropped. “You’d curse your own daughter dead just to keep me from saving Chloe?” “Save your breath,” he didn’t blink. “Even if Maya’s dead, I’ll dig up her grave myself and see if her marrow can still be used.” I stood still. He didn’t know. Maya didn’t even have a coffin. In this flesh-eating underground, I couldn’t even save enough to buy her one. … Julian’s eyes locked on mine—the way he used to look at a bad ledger. Cold. Expecting me to bend first. Before I was sent here, I always did—the apology, the lapel, the surrender. He was waiting for it now. I wouldn’t. Neither of us moved. The doorway held a strange, frozen stalemate. I didn’t know how long we had stood there—my hands numb from the cold—before he finally spoke. “You think I put you in this shithole just to punish you? ” He sighed, “Truth is, I didn’t want to. But I had no choice.” I looked up at him. He looked away, jaw tight, reciting. “Three years ago, the East Side was bleeding into a turf war. The Commission had my neck in a noose. ” “I had to marry Serena to stop the bleeding. And I sent you and Maya here to keep you out of it.” I said nothing. He wanted me to understand. To see it the way he saw it—a chess move, a calculation, a necessary cruelty. But I was there. I was there when Maya asked me, in the back of that car, “Is Daddy leaving us?” I was there when she fell asleep on a jacket in the corner of a room that smelled like bleach and old sweat. I was there for every single day of the three years he called “keeping you out of it.” And I was still here. In a bunny suit. At the door. Smiling at every man who came in. With his wife’s diamond rings catching the red neon from the car he arrived in. So I said nothing. I just looked down at the frayed hem of my bunny suit. “I sent crates every month,” he said, taking a step closer. “Crates. Dry goods. Kerosene. Blankets…” “I made sure the trucks ran. I made sure they found you. I made sure you weren’t out in the cold.” “I did take care of you, Nora.” I remembered the kerosene. Two rusty cans that smelled like pond water—delivered by a guard who took my wedding ring in exchange. I kept my mouth shut. “I even started construction on the lot behind the estate,” Julian said. His voice softened, just a fraction. “A playground. Swings. A slide. Maya likes the outdoors.” “Trust me, Nora. I always wanted to bring you home—I just never had the right moment.” “Then Chloe got sick, and the doctors said we needed a match. It was the perfect reason to bring you home. But I never imagined…” A pause. His hand suddenly wrapped around my wrist, gripping so tight, the gold of his watch pressing into my skin. “Now you’re standing here, wearing this sleazy garbage, telling me my daughter is dead.” His chest rose and fell. “Apologize, Nora. Tell me where Maya is, and we go home. Right now.” With that, the grip on my wrist loosened slightly. “Julian,” I said, my voice flat like before. “Our daughter is dead.” “It was you who killed her,” I said. My voice stayed flat, even as my ribs ached and my chest hollowed out. “If you hadn’t thrown us into the cold to play your gangland games, she would be breathing.” A beat of dead silence. When he looked up again, his eyes were completely empty. The husband was gone. Only the Don remained. “After everything, you’re still lying to me?” He let go of my wrist and stepped back, his head dropping. His hand went to the gun at his belt. The hammer clicked back. A soldier ran up, snow clinging to his black wool coat. He was breathing hard. “Boss,” the soldier said, wiping frost from his forehead. “We found your daughter Maya.”

I didn’t understand the look on Julian’s face. It was as if I were the one holding the smoking gun. “You stood there and lied to my face, Nora,” he said, the disappointment heavy in his tone. “And now they’ve found her.” A laugh started in my throat—dry, sharp, and entirely out of my control. I shook my head, my shoulders trembling under the cheap satin of the bunny suit. “Why don’t you ask them, Julian?” I whispered, “Ask them what they found.” Julian looked past me to his soldier. The man’s face had gone the color of ash. He wouldn’t meet Julian’s eyes. “Bring her out,” Julian ordered. His voice didn’t have the same iron in it anymore. “Bring Maya out.” Time crawled. Julian’s hand was still on the gun. The hammer stayed back. He didn’t move. Neither did the soldier. “Move! Are you all deaf? Get Maya the fuck over here—now!” The soldiers finally moved. They didn’t have a proper coffin. The soldiers brought out a rough pine box—nailed together from kitchen scraps. They set it on the damp concrete floor between us. Maya lay there, eyelashes dusting her pale cheeks, fingers still curled like she was waiting for morning. The cold kept her. Seven days in the frozen dirt—she hadn’t rotted. “No… no, no… how—how is this even possible?” Julian took a step back, his leather boots dragging against the floor. His face went white. “Take it easy, Jules.” Serena patted his arm—a wife’s gesture—then turned to me, her smile thin and venomous. “Nora, I know you hate us,” she said, her voice smooth, like honey poured over glass. “But this is too much. Staging your own daughter’s death in a crate just to wound Jules? It’s sick. And bad luck—even if you don’t believe in that.” She turned to the box. “Maya, sweetie, get up now. The game is over.” I stared at her. Then I laughed again. A short, dry bark of a sound. I couldn’t believe she could lie so easily—so perfectly. For a fleeting second, I wished she wasn’t lying. And Julian? He bought it. Slap! It came fast. My head snapped left, the crack of it bouncing off the metal walls. Blood pooled under my tongue—metallic, immediate. Julian stood over me, his hand still raised, his chest heaving. “You are out of your mind, Nora!” Julian hissed. “You knew I was coming today. So you set this whole pathetic show up to punish me for three years ago?” “Why can’t you just see reason? I just did what I had to do for the Vance family!” He snarled, stepping closer, his expensive cologne mixing with the smell of the pine box. “Serena’s family was the key to securing the ports. My marriage to her was a contract on paper. And you? What were you? A liability. Worse. You’re a poison.” He stopped. Looked at the pine box. Then back at me. “You staged your daughter’s death. Fine. I don’t care if she’s breathing or not.” He pointed a finger at the pine box. “She’s donating. Even if I have to crack every bone in her body to scrape it out—Chloe will have what she needs.” For a second, I thought my ears had betrayed me. Did he really just say that about his own daughter? I swallowed blood in my mouth. I looked at Julian’s immaculate face. “Julian,” I said. “How are you so sure Maya is a match for Chloe?” He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. “Because Chloe is my daughter, Nora,” he said. The silence in the place stretched. I stared at him. Chloe and Maya were the same age. Which meant—he’d been cheating on me while we were still married. “Don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t what you think.” he continued, his voice flat again. Business-like. “Serena’s family needed an heir. She wanted a child. So I helped her.” “I lied about Chicago so you wouldn’t have to know. I just did what I had to do. I did it to protect you and Maya.” “To protect me and Maya,” I repeated. “Yes, Nora, I love you, and I love Maya, too.” Julian said, his voice softening, his hand reaching toward my bruised cheek. I flinched away. He let out a sigh. ” Don’t make scene again, okay?” “If you apologize now, we can end this. We can go back to Boston. We can be a family again.” I closed my eyes. The image of the cheap pine box burned against my eyelids. “Our daughter is dead, Julian,” I said, opening my eyes to look at him one last time. “And there is no family.” “We’re done.” With that, I turned and walked toward the exit, my bare shoulders cold against the draft.

The place went dead quiet. Nobody drew a breath. Julian stared at me, his eyes wide. “What the hell did you say? We’re done?” His gaze swept the surroundings, finally landing on the corner. Cole, the young assistant from the near clinic, stood there, sleeves rolled up, watching me with pity. Julian’s mouth twisted into a cold sneer. “So that’s it. You’re lying to me just to run off with him, aren’t you?” “You’re insane,” I spat. Julian let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Fine. If Maya is really dead, I’ll let you go. But if she’s breathing…” “You are never leaving me. Even when you die, you go into the Vance family vault.” He stepped closer. “Now, how do I end this little game of yours?” I met his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Then a raspy mew broke the silence from the corner. Serena’s eyes lit up. She leaned close to Julian, her hand resting on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “Julian, that’s Maya’s cat. She rescued it when we were in Boston. She’d never let anyone hurt it.” Julian looked at the skinny, matted ragdoll cat near the crates. His brow furrowed. Serena noticed it and quickly withdrew her hand, looking down at her diamond rings. “You must think I’m a monster, Julian. Suggesting we use a cat.” Julian looked back at me, smirking. “Nora was willing to put Maya in a pine box to play a trick. A cat is nothing.” I froze—then lunged for it. That cat was all I had left of Maya. Serena flicked her eyes at the soldiers. They had me before I moved. Pinned me in place. I watched the cat squirm in a soldier’s grip, its tiny paws clawing at the air. “No—!” I screamed. “Julian, stop it!” My protest only earned me more mockery. Serena tilted her head. “Aw. Did you actually think you could keep something?” “Show her what happens.” One of the guards stepped forward, grabbed the cat by its scruff, and threw it hard against the floor. Bang. The wet, heavy thump echoed off the metal walls. A low whimper came from the matted fur. My blood went cold. Julian didn’t look at me. He walked over to the pine box, his leather shoes clicking on the concrete. He looked down at Maya. “Maya,” Julian said, his voice flat. “You wanted this thing. You found it in the alley. You told me you’d protect it. Now it’s dying. ” “Get up, and I’ll have the vet save it. Stop playing games with your mother.” Nothing moved. Maya lay still, her chest flat. Julian’s jaw ticked. “Look at what your mother turned you into. A cold, cruel brat. Letting an animal die just to keep up a lie.” He gestured to the guard. “Do it again.” I lunged forward, but two guards caught my arms, slamming me hard onto my knees. My joints cracked against the concrete. “Stop! Please—please, I’m begging you.” My throat closed around the words. Tears streaked my face—hot and helpless—and I couldn’t wipe them away. The soldiers had pinned my arms behind my back. I could only stand there, crying like a child, while they took the last thing Maya ever touched. Bang. The guard picked up the cat and threw it a second time. A sharp, broken screech cut through the room. Then, silence. The cat lay on its side, its glassy eyes fixed on the damp wall, completely still. My chest hollowed out. The air finally broke through my throat, raw and burning. “Julian! You monster!” I screamed, my voice cracking. Julian froze. He looked down at the dead animal, then slowly turned his gaze back to me. His hand shook slightly as he adjusted his coat. “You’re raising your voice at me, Nora?” he whispered, his lips trembling. “Six years. In six years, you never once raised your voice to me. And now you’re screaming at me in front of my men. For a cat?”

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The day I tried on my wedding dress, I stepped out of the fitting room and found my younger sister, Chloe, straightening my fiancé’s bow tie. Adrian Westwood, the heir to Westwood Group—was looking at Chloe with a tenderness I knew all too well. I had just opened my mouth to say, “I’ll do it,” when the makeup artist smiled and went straight to Chloe. “Right this way, bride.” I froze where I stood. Adrian offered no explanation. The corner of his mouth simply lifted. Chloe lowered her eyes with a shy little smile and leaned into him. Oliver, my childhood friend, raised his camera and started taking shot after shot of them. “Don’t move. That’s a great pose.” I stood there awkwardly, clutching the skirt of my gown, watching them like an outsider. Most of Oliver’s shots were of Chloe and my fiancé. There were barely any of me, the actual bride-to-be. Chloe sounded so natural, as if she were the bride. “Emma, could you bring me that bouquet?” When Adrian saw I wasn’t answering, he came over and took the bouquet from my hands himself. “Emma, go pick out the invitation design. I’ll come find you after we’re done with the photos.” “What about the dress?” “Let Chloe choose it for you. The one she’s wearing looks good.” My gaze dropped. Adrian handed the bouquet to Chloe. Oliver lifted his camera and glanced at me from behind the viewfinder. “Emma, move a couple of steps to the side. You’re blocking the light.” I moved away without a word and stood in the corner. In that moment, I finally understood how unnecessary I was. Quietly, I went back into the fitting room, took off the wedding dress, and set it aside. When I reached the door, I looked back once. Chloe was twirling in front of the mirror. Adrian stood behind her, adjusting the bow at her waist. Oliver lifted his camera. “Yes, yes, that’s the angle.” A small, bitter laugh slipped out of me. If this wedding didn’t need me, then I wouldn’t be there. I turned and walked out of the bridal boutique. The moment I got into the car, my phone lit up. It was a message from the wedding planner. “Miss Lawson, have you decided on the invitation design?” My finger hovered above the screen when another message popped up. “Or you could have your sister help you choose. She has a great eye. Take a look at these two options she picked.” Two invitation samples appeared in the chat. There it was again. Let Chloe choose for me. My fingers tightened around the phone. I loved the ocean. Once, when I suggested to Adrian that we hold the wedding by the sea, Chloe wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What’s so great about a beach wedding? The waves are loud, and it feels too casual. A Westwood wedding belongs in a grand church filled with roses.” Adrian hadn’t hesitated for even a second. “Chloe is right. The beach is too casual.” Sitting in the car, I snapped back to myself and replied calmly. “Whatever.” In the end, Adrian would listen to her anyway. The reply came almost instantly. “Understood.” When I got home, messages started popping up one after another. Oliver was uploading photos to the wedding group chat. I tapped one open. In the photo, Adrian wore a sharply tailored black suit, while Chloe stood beside him in a white dress. They were smiling at each other as if she were the one he was about to marry. Tears slipped down my face. I stood, tore the sticky note off the fridge—the one that said “Seven days until the wedding”—crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.

Back at the bridal boutique, Chloe held the wedding dress against herself and asked, “Do you think this suits me?” Adrian smiled indulgently. “Of course. You have a beautiful figure.” Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he turned and looked around with a frown. “Where did Emma go?” Chloe said, “I don’t know. Honestly, it almost feels like the wedding doesn’t even matter to her.” My phone rang. It was Adrian. The second I answered, his voice came through sharp and cold. “Emma, where the hell did you run off to?” I leaned against the far end of the hallway, phone in hand, and answered flatly. “I’m a little tired. I came home first.” On the other end, Chloe sounded bright and cheerful. “Then get some rest. I’ve already picked out the dress and invitations for you.” Then came Adrian’s low voice, edged with reproach. “Look at Chloe. She’s been bending over backward to make sure everything is handled for you. Once this wedding is over, you owe her a real thank-you.” I looked at my pale reflection in the glass window and suddenly laughed. Was she really helping me, or was she just taking over my wedding without caring what I wanted? I said nothing else and hung up. When I woke the next morning, the wedding planning group chat was already sitting at 99+ unread messages. I opened the only voice message in which Chloe had tagged me. Her sweet, syrupy voice came through the speaker. “Emma, I changed the background music for you. The song you picked was too heavy. A wedding should feel lighter.” The very next second, Adrian’s reply appeared. [Yeah. The original song doesn’t fit. A lot of guests will be there. Change it to something lighter.] I stared at those words as my fingers slowly tightened. The song I had chosen was the one that had played at my parents’ wedding. I had once imagined that when the melody sounded at my own wedding, they would be there with me in another way, walking me down the aisle. But now everyone in the group chat was saying the new song was better. Not one person asked me, Emma, is that what you want? I set the phone face down on the table, and the room went instantly quiet. Deep in the closet hung the unopened garment bag for my wedding dress. On the desk sat the invitation sample. The embossed gold names on the cover stung my eyes. I threw it into the trash. I had once thought that, at least at this wedding, I would finally get to be the center of the story. But in the end, even the music, the dress, and the invitations had all been decided by someone else. My phone vibrated again. Chloe had sent a new message to the group. [Emma has never liked making decisions anyway. We can just decide these things for her.] Adrian replied, [All right.] I looked down at my suitcase and suddenly found it all ridiculous. Oliver had known me longer than anyone, yet he always took Chloe’s side. When Adrian was first pursuing me, he said I was quiet and gentle, the kind of woman a man wanted to protect. But after Chloe appeared, his tastes changed. He started saying girls should be more lively, more opinionated. I wanted someone to care about me too. I wanted someone to respect what I liked. But no one had ever asked me. Even this wedding, the one I had thought would finally let me be the heroine of my own life, had turned me into a backdrop again. I closed the suitcase and called my landlord. “I’m ending the lease on this apartment.” The landlord seemed to remember something. “Oh, right. You’re getting married. You’re moving into the Westwood residence, aren’t you?” “No,” I said. “I’m leaving Boston.”

The landlord paused for a moment, then said awkwardly that I could leave the key in the mailbox. After I finished packing, I stepped out of the bedroom. Just then, the front door opened. Adrian and Chloe came in together, laughing and talking. Chloe’s voice had that spoiled, coaxing sweetness to it. “You promised, Adrian. Once my lease is up, I’m moving into your estate. Save me the room with the bay window, okay? And change the curtains to that shade of pink I like.” Adrian didn’t object. His smile was indulgent. “As long as Emma doesn’t mind.” Chloe pouted playfully. “Emma has always taken care of me. Why would she mind?” She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. All at once, I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. I frowned. “What if I say I do mind?” Chloe froze. The next second, tears gathered in her eyes. Adrian’s voice immediately turned reproachful. “Emma, what’s wrong with you? You’re really going to make a scene over one room?” “I’m not making a scene,” I said. He frowned. “Then what do you mean? She’s your sister, not some stranger you need to keep out. The estate is huge. What difference does one more person make?” “That’s supposed to be our home after the wedding. The home of the future Mrs. Westwood. Who exactly are you marrying?” My words stopped Adrian cold. Chloe lowered her eyes, already looking close to tears. “Emma, I just wanted to be closer to you. If you don’t want me there, then forget it. I won’t move in.” Adrian looked at me in disappointment. “Do you hear yourself? You just tore her down over one room. She’s your sister, Emma. Could you try thinking about her feelings?” I lifted my head. “Then who’s supposed to think about me?” “You arranged for her to work at a company under the Westwood family and approved a salary far above everyone else at her level. She barely has to worry about anything. And what do I have? I only—” Adrian cut me off with a frown. “Enough. She’s your sister. I only look out for her because of you. Do you really have to make everything so petty?” Petty. Again. I laughed softly and stopped speaking. Chloe tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Adrian, don’t say that. Emma is probably just in a bad mood.” His tone softened. “Emma, I’ve already made the decision. Don’t be so small-minded.” I nodded with a cold smile. Fine. I would be leaving soon anyway. Whoever wanted to live in that estate could live there. Chloe dabbed the corners of her eyes, and her smile quickly returned. That afternoon, I went to Westwood Group headquarters. I put the access card to the Westwood residence, the key to Adrian’s private office, and everything else into a small bag and asked the receptionist to pass it on. Once that was done, I turned to leave. As I reached the stairwell with its dark carpet, I heard Adrian’s voice. “You want me to come with you on Saturday for your wedding manicure?” My hand tightened around the strap of my bag. “Yes. I just don’t want Emma taking it the wrong way. You know how she gets.” His voice came through the half-open door, carrying a faint smile. “Fine. I’ll take you. Don’t worry about Emma—I’ll talk to her.” I let out a bitter laugh. I had already decided to let go. What was I still waiting for? The next day, I loaded my packed luggage into the car and drove back to Hartwell, a seaside town in Maine. Before I left for good, I wanted to clean the old house my parents had left me. Aunt Grace and Uncle Henry, who lived nearby, came over to help. “Emma, why didn’t Adrian come back with you?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. He’s probably busy.” At dusk, Adrian arrived as scheduled for the pre-wedding family dinner. Adrian’s car stopped outside the yard. He stepped out first, while Chloe stood at his side like the lady of the house. When they saw me, the smiles on both their faces faltered. “Emma, why are you here?”

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On the very last day of the Columbia University Early Admission deadline, I discovered that Dante—the boy I had grown up with—had given my hard-earned recommendation letter slot to Bianca. When I finally tracked him down, he was leaning casually against the polished side of his sports car. He flicked a stray ash from his expensive cigar, his expression entirely indifferent. “Bianca’s family is going through a rough patch,” he said, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke into the freezing air. “If she doesn’t get into a good university, she’ll have to start working right away.” He looked at me, his eyes devoid of any guilt. “Your grades are excellent. Even if you have to take the SATs and apply normally, you’ll still get into Columbia on your own.” My face went completely pale. I stood there, unable to squeeze a single word past the tight knot in my throat. Seeing my silence and the sheer hostility radiating from me, Dante frowned. He pulled open his designer leather wallet, drew out a sleek black card, and held it out to me. “Look, I’ll fully cover your tuition for all four years of college,” he said, his voice laced with impatience. “Think of it as me buying this slot from you. Is that enough?” I stared at the black card glinting between his fingers. A heavy, suffocating silence stretched between us. The recommendation letter I had nearly died to secure was nothing more than a piece of cheap charity to him, something he could put a price tag on whenever it suited him. I didn’t take the card. I simply turned on my heel and walked away. Above us, the sky finally opened up, pouring down a cold, biting rain. “What kind of tantrum are you throwing now, Siena?” Dante’s voice sliced through the downpour, instantly turning icy. “Don’t you spend all your time scrounging for scraps and fixing junk at the repair shop just for a bit of cash? I’m offering you real money, so stop acting so damn high and mighty!” My footsteps faltered for a fraction of a second. I slowly turned my head back, looking at his face, which was now blurred by the thick sheets of rain and fog. More than ten years of treasured affection, of shared secrets and promises, rotted completely away in that single, agonizing second. A faint, empty smile touched my lips. “Sure,” I whispered, the rain washing the sound away. “Think whatever you want.” … By the time I dragged myself back to the grease-stained repair shop, my phone was already vibrating in my pocket. It was my best friend, Jenny. “Siena! Have you seen the admission list yet?” Jenny’s voice was frantic, practically screeching through the speaker. “How is Bianca’s name on there? Is this Dante’s doing? It has to be!” Listening to her panic, a bitter, hollow laugh escaped my chest. “I already went to see him.” “And? What did that bastard say?” “He said he bought the slot from me.” The line went dead silent. It took a long, painful minute before Jenny finally spoke again, her voice shaking with rage. “He is an absolute piece of trash.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t find the energy to agree. “What are you doing right now?” she asked, her tone softening with worry. “Working on a car.” “Stop fixing cars! You need to go to City Hall right now and make a scene! That recommendation letter belongs to you! Have you forgotten how much hell you went through just to get the Congressman’s signature?” I shook my head slowly, though she couldn’t see me, and picked up a heavy metal wrench. “It’s useless, Jenny.” “How is it useless? The Congressman promised it to you!” “If Dante’s family could swap my name out once,” I said, my voice deadpan, “they can easily do it a second time.” Another heavy silence fell over the call. Finally, Jenny sighed, her voice laced with pity. “I just saw Bianca’s Instagram post. Dante booked the most expensive hotel rooftop in the city to celebrate her admission.” “I see.” “Siena, you—” “I have to go, Jenny. A customer just pulled in.” I cut the call before she could say another word. Outside, a sleek sedan rolled slowly up to the entrance of the garage. I wiped my damp face with the back of my sleeve, stepped out into the damp air, and knelt down to inspect the worn tread of the tires.

The next day, I went to school to finalize some administrative paperwork and register for the upcoming SAT. As I walked down the crowded hallway, I ran straight into Dante and Bianca. Bianca’s slender arm was wrapped tightly around Dante’s. The moment she spotted me, she gasped softly and shrank back, hiding herself behind his broad shoulders. “Dan, I’m scared…” she whimpered, her voice trembling. Dante immediately stepped forward, blocking my path. His brow furrowed into a deep, defensive scowl. “Siena, don’t go scaring her.” I didn’t look at him. I simply tried to step to the side and walk past. Before I could take a step, his hand shot out, clamping around my wrist with bruising force. “What is wrong with your attitude? Bianca didn’t do anything to hurt you. She had no choice in this! Do you really have to make a scene and make everyone look bad?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp with all the strength I had. “Get out of my way.” My voice was sharp and cold, instantly drawing the attention of the students lingering by their lockers. A tear slipped down Bianca’s cheek, catching the fluorescent light of the hallway. “Siena, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. If you’re still angry… you can hit me. Just please don’t be mad at Dan.” She took a fragile step toward me, bowing her head as if waiting for a blow, presenting herself as the ultimate victim. Dante’s eyes flared with anger. He snatched her back into his embrace, glaring down at me. “Look at what you’re doing to her! Siena, I never realized your heart could be this venomous.” Muffled whispers began to ripple through the surrounding crowd. “Is that her? The girl from the dirty auto repair shop?” “Yeah, I heard the Congressman originally promised her the recommendation, but Bianca got it instead.” “Serves her right. Look at her face—it’s like a block of ice. Who would ever like a girl like that?” “Bianca is so much sweeter. If I were Dante, I’d help Bianca too.” I tuned out the murmurs, keeping my eyes locked on Dante’s cold, dark gaze. “I’ll say it one last time. Get out of my way.” Instead of moving, Dante sneered and shoved me hard. “You’re going to apologize to Bianca right now!” The sudden force caught me off guard. I stumbled backward, my shoulders slamming violently against the hard brick wall of the hallway. A sharp, throbbing ache flared across my back. I slowly lifted my head, staring at him. Dante stared back, his eyes completely empty of the warmth he used to reserve only for me. We had grown up together, sharing every secret, every scrap of food we could find. When he was twelve, his family had exiled him from the glittering high society of Manhattan to this run-down, impoverished town in New Jersey, and on his very first day, he had gotten into a brutal fight with the local street kids. I was the one who had rushed in, brandishing a heavy metal wrench, scaring off the older bullies who were beating him bloody. From that day on, he became my shadow, following me everywhere. He used to complain about the grease and oil covering my clothes, but whenever other kids tried to mock me because I couldn’t hear them, he would fly into a rage and beat them until they begged for mercy. I remember him wiping the dirt from his knuckles, looking at me with fierce determination: “Siena, from now on, I’m the one protecting you.” “Siena, even if your right ear can’t hear a thing, I’ll be your other ear for the rest of our lives.” “As soon as we turn eighteen, we’re getting the hell out of this dump.” Now, he was the one shoving me against a wall, all for another girl. Bianca buried her face in his chest, sobbing loudly. “Dan, please, let’s just go. It’s all my fault anyway.” Dante stroked her hair, his voice softening into a gentle, soothing tone I hadn’t heard in months. “It has nothing to do with you.” He shot me one last warning look, his eyes cold and menacing. Then, he guided her down the hallway, keeping his arm securely around her waist. I stood against the brick wall for a long time before I managed to straighten my spine and force my legs to move forward. On my way to the guidance counselor’s office, I passed the large bulletin board in the main lobby. The school had already posted the photos of the students who had secured early Ivy League admissions. Bianca’s portrait was placed right in the dead center. Beneath her smiling photo, a neat paragraph detailed her achievements: “An outstanding student of exceptional character and academic merit, rising above poverty through sheer resilience.” A dry, mocking chuckle slipped from my throat. The memory of returning to the repair shop on the night of her celebration flashed vividly in my mind. My father had been waiting for me, his breath reeking of cheap whiskey, his eyes wild and bloodshot. “Where’s the cash?” he had demanded, stepping into my path. When I tried to ignore him, his hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of my hair and slamming my head against the wooden partition. “I’m talking to you, you deaf bitch! Are you completely deaf now?” My right ear was completely useless, and his roaring voice made my left ear ring with a painful, high-pitched buzz. “I don’t have any money,” I choked out. “No money? I heard that rich boy Dante has plenty of it! You follow him around like a stray dog, so why haven’t you begged him for some?” He backhanded me across the face, the force of the blow sending me crashing to the floor. “You’re hiding it from me, aren’t you? Trying to lie to your own father!” He began tearing through my pockets, his dirty hands ripping at my jacket. I gathered my strength and shoved him away. Infuriated, he kicked me hard in the stomach, sending me curling into a tight ball on the cold concrete. “You little piece of trash!” he spat, towering over me. “I should have left you to rot. Just like your dead mother—nothing but a worthless, cheap bitch!” He reached for a heavy iron tire iron, raising it high above his head. Just as he was about to swing it down, the door flew open, and Dante burst into the garage. Dante had kicked my father across the room with terrifying fury, rushing to pull me up from the floor and frantically checking my face for injuries. “Where does it hurt? Where did he hit you?” I could only shake my head, my body trembling uncontrollably. Dante had stripped off his expensive jacket and wrapped it snugly around my shoulders. “Don’t cry, Siena. I’m here. Nobody is going to hurt you again.” That night, he didn’t return to his family’s mansion. He stayed in the dusty shop, sleeping on our lumpy, broken-down sofa just to keep watch over me. The next morning, he called in his family’s lawyers and had my father thrown into a holding cell. He had looked me in the eyes and said, “Siena, I’ll take care of you from now on.” Back then, I truly believed he would be my harbor for the rest of my life. I didn’t realize that promises of protection could dissolve so easily, leaving nothing but a bitter aftertaste.

During our school’s final SAT practice exam, I scored a near-perfect 1520. Dante scored a miserable 900. He crumpled his score sheet into a tight ball and tossed it carelessly into the recycling bin. “Whatever. It’s not like I actually need the SATs anyway,” he muttered. Bianca was standing right beside him, her eyes shining with pure adoration: “Dan, you’re still so amazing.” Dante laughed, leaning down to pinch her cheek: “Of course! I just have to go back to Manhattan and take over my family’s business. Standardized tests are for normal people.” I walked past their lockers, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead. “Siena,” Dante called out, his voice sharp. I stopped, but I didn’t turn around. “Are you seriously still throwing a fit over that recommendation letter?” I remained silent, my shoulders tense. “I know you feel slighted,” he said, stepping around to face me. “But you’ve seen Bianca’s situation. She needs this opportunity way more than you do.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a softer, almost pleading register: “Just take the card I gave you. The PIN is your birthday. Whatever you need for college—tuition, rent, books—just charge it to me.” He honestly believed that money could wash away any sin. He thought a handful of plastic and a bank account could erase my humiliation and replace the future he had stolen from me. “I don’t want your money,” I said, my voice flat. “There you go again,” Dante snapped, his patience evaporating instantly. “When are you going to drop this pathetic, useless pride of yours? How much do you even make working at that grease trap of a shop for a whole month? What I’m offering you is more than you’ll ever see in your entire life!” Bianca stepped forward, tugging gently on the sleeve of his jacket. “Dan, don’t be so harsh on Sie,” she whispered, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “She’s just… she’s just not used to having someone help her.” She looked at me, her eyes filled with a patronizing pity: “Siena, I know you must hate me. But I really was out of options. My stepmother… she’s a monster. She would have kicked me out.” Her eyes brimmed with tears on cue, her lip trembling. I watched her flawless performance. Over the course of our senior year, I had watched this exact same play unfold a hundred times. She was always the helpless, suffering victim in front of Dante. And I was always cast as the cruel, unfeeling villain. “Dan already said he’ll make it up to you,” Bianca continued, her tone taking on the self-important air of a lady handing out scraps. “Whatever you want, just tell us. We’ll take care of it.” A cold, sharp laugh finally slipped from my throat. It was the first time I had smiled in days. Dante stared at me, visibly taken aback. “What are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing because the two of you are such a perfect match,” I said, looking from his face to hers. “A cheap bitch and a loyal dog. I hope you stay together forever.” Before he could react, I turned and walked away. “Siena! Get back here!” Dante’s furious roar echoed down the hallway, but I didn’t spare him a single glance. That night, Jenny sent me a screenshot over text. It was a photo of Dante and Bianca at a high-end lounge downtown. Dante was holding a microphone, singing under the dim neon lights, while Bianca snuggled against his chest, her face glowing with happiness. In the background, their wealthy friends were holding up a massive, custom-made banner. “Congratulations to our girl Bianca on her Columbia admission! Wishing Dan and Bianca a lifetime of love!” Jenny’s text arrived a second later: “Siena, don’t look at it. He isn’t worth your tears.” I clicked my phone screen off and threw it onto the mattress. I pulled a stack of SAT practice books toward me, opened to a blank section of advanced calculus, and began solving the equations one by one. Only when my mind was entirely consumed by numbers and formulas could I drown out the hollow ache in my chest.

A week before the official SAT administration, school went on study leave. While the other students were out partying or cramming at high-end prep centers, I was still stuck in the auto shop, grease under my fingernails. On a humid Tuesday afternoon, the roar of a high-performance engine shattered the quiet street. Dante’s customized Aston Martin pulled up right in front of the garage doors, the bass from his stereo rattling the dusty windows. He climbed out, leaning casually against the driver’s side door, and waved a hand toward me. “Siena, get over here.” I didn’t lift my head from the engine bay I was working on. His footsteps drew closer, his shadow falling over my workspace. “I’m talking to you. Are you deaf in both ears now?” He reached out to grab my hand, but when he saw the thick black grease coating my skin, he quickly pulled his fingers back in disgust. “Go wash up. You’re coming with me.” “Where?” I asked, my voice dry. “Bianca wants to go to the beach. I’m taking the yacht out. You’re coming along.” I wiped my brow with my shoulder, keeping my back straight. “I’m not going.” “Still throwing a tantrum?” Dante let out a sharp, irritated breath. “I went out of my way to drive down here and invite you myself. Don’t be ungrateful.” “I said, I’m not going.” “Why the hell not?” “I need to study.” “Study?” Dante laughed, the sound dripping with genuine amusement. “Are you kidding me? You don’t need to study. You could probably get a 1500 with your eyes closed.” He paused, his expression softening just a fraction. “Just come. Think of it as a break. Bianca said she wants to make things right with you.” “I have nothing to make right with her.” Dante’s remaining patience snapped. “Siena, I am asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?” “No.” He stared at me for several tense seconds, a dark, mocking grin slowly spreading across his face. “Fine. You want to play the stubborn martyr? Go ahead.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a thick band of crisp hundred-dollar bills, and threw them directly at my feet. The green notes scattered across the grease-stained concrete floor, drifting into the puddles of dirty oil. “That’s your monthly salary. I already paid your boss off for your time. Take the cash and get out of my sight. Stop acting like an eyesore.” I stared at the money lying in the dirt, my hands clenched into tight fists. “Not enough?” He pulled out another stack, tossing it down like confetti. “Is this enough to buy your miserable pride?” Uncle Mark, the elderly owner of the shop, rushed out from the back office when he heard the shouting. “Master Dante, what is going on here? Let’s all calm down and talk.” Dante didn’t even spare Mark a glance. His eyes remained locked on mine. “Pick it up.” I didn’t move an inch. The passenger door of the Aston Martin opened, and Bianca stepped out. She hurried over to Dante’s side, clutching his arm with a worried expression. “Dan, please don’t do this. You’re going to scare Siena.” She knelt down on the dirty concrete, her expensive designer skirt dragging in the dust, and began picking up the scattered bills one by one. “Siena, please don’t be mad at Dan,” she pleaded, looking up at me with tear-filled eyes. “He only did this because he wanted us to hang out.” She stood up and tried to press the crumpled, dirty money into my hand. “Please, Siena. Just come with us. I don’t want your relationship with Dan to ruin because of me.” I looked at her tear-stained face, then shifted my gaze to Dante. Dante stood tall, his jaw set, showing absolutely no remorse. In his mind, this was an act of high charity. He believed he owned the right to dictate my life, my choices, and my dignity, simply because he had the means to pay for them. I turned my back on them and walked straight into the dark backroom of the shop. Behind me, Dante’s sneering voice carried clearly through the open door: “Look at her. Always the same disgusting temper. Give her an inch and she takes a mile!” A moment later, the Aston Martin’s engine roared to life, tires screeching as they sped away. Uncle Mark walked into the backroom, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “Siena, child… don’t take it to heart. Master Dante has always had a short fuse.” He picked up the remaining bills they had left on the counter and gently pressed them into my hand. “Take it. Your family… you need the money, Siena.” I gripped the stack of cash. The paper notes still smelled faintly of Bianca’s sweet, artificial perfume. I walked over to the rusted metal sink, turned the faucet on high, and began scrubbing my hands with harsh industrial soap. I washed them over and over, scrubbing until my skin turned raw and bright red, but the smell of that cheap perfume refused to wash away. That night, my father returned to the shop. He snatched the money from my drawer and smashed half the tools in the garage in a drunken rage. I didn’t hesitate. I dialed 911. The police came and dragged him away in handcuffs once again. Before they shoved him into the back of the cruiser, he spat in my direction, his face twisted in venomous rage. “You ungrateful little bitch! Calling the cops on your own father! You’ll burn in hell for this!” I watched the red and blue lights fade into the damp night, my chest completely hollow. So this was what it felt like to be completely, utterly alone.

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In my past life, I accidentally found out that my son had secretly googled: “What are the chances of my mom dying of a sudden stroke while tutoring me?” Later, he actually did anger me to the point of having a massive brain hemorrhage right on the spot. He just stood there, cold and indifferent, watching me twitch on the floor. He didn’t even call 91 In this life, I was reborn right at the moment he scored a miserable 10% on his math test. He slammed the paper onto my chest with a smug grin. “Mom, I got the lowest score in class again.” 1 My son, Leo, threw the test paper at me. Then, he grabbed a banana, flopped onto the sofa, and started munching on it. He threw the banana peel carelessly onto the hardwood floor. He chewed with his mouth open, looking at me sideways. “Mom, are you mad?” In my past life, this would have driven me insane. I would have lectured him until I was blue in the face about the importance of grades, and then dragged him to the table to correct every single mistake. But now? I was not going to let myself get angry enough to die early again. I casually tossed the test paper onto the coffee table and said flatly, “Leo, since you scored so low, it just proves you have absolutely no talent for academics. What’s the point of me getting mad?” I pointed at the banana peel on the floor. “Since you can’t study, you’d better start doing more chores. That way, you won’t grow up to be completely useless.” With his mouth stuffed with banana, his eyes went wide in disbelief. “Mom, you’re really not mad?” I couldn’t be bothered to look at him. “By the way, I’m not cooking tonight. Go make yourself some instant noodles.” In my past life, I was obsessed with his grades and his health. I spent every single day planning three nutritious meals, racking my brain to keep him healthy. And what did he do? He picked at his food and complained constantly. He even hated me because I didn’t allow him to eat potato chips, hot dogs, cupcakes, burgers, and instant ramen. Behind my back, he called me a “wrinkly old witch.” Now, he was chewing lazily, lying on the sofa without moving an inch. “Mom, didn’t you say instant noodles are poison?” “Besides, I don’t know how to cook. Go make it for me, Mom. Put in two hot dogs, lots of melted cheddar, and some bacon bits.” I ignored his demands, walked straight into my bedroom, and locked the door behind me. With a loud *thud*, my son let out a dramatic wail from the living room. “Mom! Mom! I slipped and fell! It hurts so bad! Come and help me up!” I just put on my AirPods, turned up the music, and ordered some takeout. A few minutes later, he started banging on my door. “Mom! Open the door! My leg is bruised! Take me to the ER right now!” The ER? In my past life, when he angered me into having a stroke, I had collapsed on the floor and pleaded with him. “Leo, Mom can’t move. Please, call 911.” My son had looked at me with pure coldness. He threw all his homework papers onto my face. Then, he picked up his iPad and started playing games as if nothing had happened. “Mom, it’s actually better if you can’t move. That way, you can’t nag me anymore.” My vision had grown blurry. I couldn’t believe my own son was doing this to me. I begged him to give me my phone. I wanted to call 911 myself. But he grabbed my phone and threw it straight into the trash can. He screamed at me in a rage, “Mom, you brought this on yourself! I’m not cut out for school! All you do is force me to study! Do you have any idea how miserable you make my life?” Then he turned around, walked out of the room, and slammed the door. When my husband came home later and asked where I was, my son lied and said he didn’t know. My husband didn’t bother to ask further. By then, I could no longer speak. The loud noise from the TV drowned out the last desperate gasps of air I could manage. In the end, I died in despair on that freezing floor. Outside the door, Leo kept banging. “Mom! Open up! I burned myself! It hurts, Mom!” I turned up the volume on my headphones, watched a funny video on TikTok, and felt lighter than I had in years. Soon, my husband, Marcus, came home. “Leo, how did you get a 10%? Where is your mother? How is she even raising you?” Leo said bitterly, “Mom doesn’t care about me anymore. She said I have no talent for learning.” “What? No talent? She’s getting lazier and lazier!” A heavy pounding shook my bedroom door. “Rachel, open this door! Our son failed his test, and you’re just hiding in here? What kind of mother are you? Instead of helping him study, you lock yourself in to relax?” “Open the door! If you don’t, I’m kicking it down!” How annoying. I finally opened the door. Standing outside was my son with a smug, gloating face, and Marcus, whose face was red with anger. Marcus slammed the test paper against my chest. “Look at this! 10%! How can you just lie in bed and relax with a score like this?” I let the paper flutter to the ground and brushed some imaginary dust off my shirt. “Marcus, I was mad too. But I realized I’m just bad at this. I tutor him every day, and his grades only get worse.” Before he could interrupt, I continued, “Haven’t you always said you’re better than me at everything? Great. You tutor him from now on.” Marcus practically jumped. “I work my ass off out there every day, and you want me to tutor him?! You don’t even have a job! You live in my house, eat my food, and spend my money! All you have to do is help our son with his homework, and you’re complaining about being tired?” He thought he could manipulate me again just because I was a stay-at-home mom. But back then, my career was actually better than his. I was about to get a major promotion when I got pregnant, and the doctor said it was a high-risk pregnancy. I had no choice but to resign. After Leo was born, every time I wanted to go back to work, Marcus found excuses to stop me. And I couldn’t bear to leave my baby. So, year after year, I transformed from a career-driven woman into their unpaid maid. I looked at him with a cold smirk. 2 “Marcus, I can easily go back to work. Even if we take turns, it’s your turn now. Leo is eleven. I’ve tutored him for five years, from first grade to fifth grade.” Marcus’s face darkened. “Rachel, you are thirty-five years old. Do you think finding a job is that easy? Just stay home and take care of our son. Besides, isn’t this what a mother is supposed to do? Go over this test with him right now!” I pushed him aside. “I said no. I’m tired, and I’m done tutoring him. Either do it yourself, or hire a tutor.” This was the first time Marcus had ever seen me stand my ground. In the past, whenever it came to Leo, I was always overly protective. Sometimes, when Marcus wanted to intervene, I wouldn’t let him. I was terrified his quick temper would lead to him hitting our son. And I was the only one who truly understood Leo and could tolerate his terrible habits. Leo had too many distractions. He would study for five minutes, then demand water, snacks, bathroom breaks, or complain about a headache. Marcus would never have the patience for that. But now, I didn’t care anymore. Leo was startled by my attitude, but he knew exactly what kind of man his father was. “Dad, I only want Mom to tutor me,” he said, grabbing my hand tightly. “Mom, I promise I’ll listen this time. I won’t get a 10% again.” Too late. I shook his hand off. He finally started to panic. “Mom, I swear, I won’t play games anymore.” Marcus softened his tone a bit, too. “Alright, the kid promised. Don’t be so dramatic. Go teach him. I’m exhausted after a long day.” Then, like a king returning to his throne, he threw himself onto the sofa and turned on the TV. “By the way, make dinner. I’m starving.” Leo, never learning his lesson, decided to throw gasoline on the fire. “Dad, Mom didn’t make me dinner! She told me to cook instant noodles myself!” Marcus angrily grabbed a banana, took a bite, and threw the peel right on the floor. He was exactly like his son. “Rachel! You let our son eat instant ramen? How irresponsible can you be! He’s always had a weak stomach. Is it because you keep feeding him junk? What kind of mother are you?” I didn’t want to waste my breath listening to them bark. I grabbed my keys and walked straight out of the door. Before I even left the neighborhood, Marcus’s calls started rolling in one after another. They literally couldn’t survive a single minute without me. Too bad. In this life, I was done being a perfect wife and mother. Lying on the comfortable bed in a hotel room, I turned off my phone. For the first time in eleven years, I got a good night’s sleep. I didn’t wake up until noon the next day. The moment I turned on my phone, I saw over ninety missed calls from Marcus and dozens of panicked texts from Leo. Then, there was a missed call from Leo’s school counselor, Mrs. Gable, from early this morning. I sighed and called her back. “Mrs. Rachel, why isn’t Leo at school today?” I froze. For years, I had been the one driving Leo to school. Did Marcus seriously forget to drop him off? But I didn’t bother calling Marcus. I simply told the counselor, “I’m not home right now. Please call his father.” The counselor paused. She clearly didn’t expect this response from me. In the past, whenever she called about Leo, I would drop everything and take full responsibility. I used to call and text her constantly just to check on his progress. “Mrs. Rachel, Leo got a 10% on his math test. It’s the lowest score in the entire school. As parents, you can’t just focus on making money. You need to pay attention to his education. He is in the fifth grade now…” I listened to her lecture patiently, then hung up. A second later, Marcus’s call came through. “Rachel! What the hell is wrong with you? The counselor just called me. Why isn’t Leo at school? Go pick him up and take him there right now. I’m swamped at work.” But over the phone, I could clearly hear a woman’s giggling voice in the background. “Marcus, let’s go to that new sushi place down the street later.” I hung up immediately. Right after, my mother-in-law, Martha, called. “Rachel, Leo just called me crying. He said he hasn’t even eaten breakfast! What is wrong with you? You do nothing all day, and you can’t even take care of one child…” She was so incredibly annoying. To show off his filial piety years ago, Marcus had bought an apartment for his parents in our neighborhood. He made it sound nice, saying they were getting old and living close by would let us take care of each other without any “in-law drama.” At first, I believed him. But later, I realized it was a trap. Whenever they got sick, I was the one running around serving them. But when I got sick and asked them to pick Leo up from school, they made up a million excuses to refuse. Yet, Leo loved them. Because every time I lost my temper while tutoring him, Leo would call his grandmother to complain, and she would immediately take him to her place to coddle him. Once, when I went to pick him up, I heard the old woman talking to him through the door.

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I have a very unique superpower: I can hear the inner thoughts of anyone who doesn’t love me. On the eve of my wedding, however, I suddenly heard my fiancée’s voice in my head: “If Julian crashes the wedding tomorrow to take me away, maybe wearing high heels isn’t the best idea for a quick escape.” I kept my mouth shut. The next morning, I boarded a one-way flight to London. Later, that wedding became the biggest joke in the city—both the groom and the bride had run away. I’ve always had a special superpower: I can hear the inner thoughts of people who don’t love me. Thanks to this ability, I can easily tell if someone’s affection for me is fake. It allowed me to cut ties with fake friends instantly, and to remain completely unfazed when the “campus goddess” I’d supposedly liked for years confessed her love to me. Even when buying fruit at a local market, I could read the vendor’s mind to pick the sweetest, juiciest one. Because every single hypocritical thought they had was broadcasted directly into my brain. To keep my world from getting too noisy, I usually avoided making eye contact with strangers. But when I met Olivia Sterling for the first time, the entire world fell completely silent. All I could hear was our actual conversation: “Hi, I’m Olivia. Nice to meet you.” There was no inner voice. When our eyes met, I couldn’t read Olivia’s mind at all. “Nice to meet you, too,” I replied. During the time Olivia was pursuing me, the world around me felt incredibly peaceful and pure. I genuinely believed she loved me. So, we fell in love, started dating, and eventually reached the point of planning our wedding. For two whole years, I never once heard her inner thoughts. But on the very eve of our wedding, Olivia’s inner voice suddenly forced its way into my head. Because of the upcoming wedding, Olivia had been incredibly busy lately. She came from an incredibly wealthy family and had recently taken over her father’s position, running the Sterling Financial Group on Wall Street. Between the wedding prep and her business, we both had a mountain of work to handle, especially over the last two months. I had my own career, and I deeply respected hers. As a result, we had barely seen each other recently. But today was our final fitting, and thinking about the rare quiet moment we’d share, I couldn’t help but smile. When I arrived at the bridal boutique, she was already there, trying on shoes. She whispered something to an assistant, then stepped outside with her phone in hand, speaking in a highly soothing, comforting tone to whoever was on the other end. I understood how busy she was. Running a major corporation is no easy task, especially since she wasn’t the only heir in the Sterling family. We caught each other’s eyes and shared a knowing nod. But then, Olivia’s voice suddenly echoed inside my head: *“Julian said he’s going to crash the wedding and take me away tomorrow. I should probably wear sneakers so it’s easier to run.”* Julian? Crashing the wedding? I froze on the spot, staring at her mouth. Once I confirmed that this was indeed her inner voice, I had no idea how to react. Even though it was a scorching summer day outside, a sudden chill rushed through my veins, paralyzing me. I could hear her mind now. What that meant was blindingly obvious. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the boutique assistant slip a pair of casual white sneakers into her wedding dress garment bag, just as she had instructed. Olivia gave me a quick nod and turned to walk out the door. This was our usual routine—she always had some urgent business meeting to rush off to. But the voice I had just heard was unmistakable. I never misheard my superpower. My body moved on its own. Unable to accept it, I quickly followed her and called out: “Olivia!” I desperately wanted to read more. I wanted to know what the woman who wore my engagement ring was actually thinking. Why did she suddenly stop loving me right before our wedding? Hearing my voice, Olivia paused just as she was about to slide into the backseat of her town car. But it was only a brief pause. She turned around, gave me a rushed explanation, and signaled her driver to hit the gas: “I’m so sorry, Ethan. A major client just called with an emergency. I have to run.” She was lying. At that exact moment, her mind was screaming: *“I could tell Julian was furious over the phone. If I don’t go comfort him right now, he won’t let me hear the end of it tonight.”* I’ve never been the type of guy to sit around and wallow in self-pity. Instead of driving myself crazy with questions, I prefer taking action. I immediately called Olivia’s personal secretary, offering a quick excuse to grab a coffee, and used my mind-reading superpower to dig up the truth.

His name was Julian Rivers. He was Olivia’s “first love”—the one that got away. Julian was an illegitimate son of the wealthy Rivers family. The matriarch of the Rivers family refused to acknowledge him, leaving his social status in a humiliating, awkward limbo. Olivia’s parents had vehemently opposed their relationship back then. Julian, possessing a fragile yet fierce pride, couldn’t handle the humiliation. He abandoned Olivia, fled the country, and went completely off the grid. As it turned out, Olivia’s “love at first sight” with me was simply because my eyes and facial structure looked strikingly similar to Julian’s. Now that the real deal was back, she had no use for a cheap knockoff like me. And the timing of Julian’s return lined up perfectly with when Olivia suddenly became “too busy” over the last two months. Everything clicked. The puzzle was complete. Hearing this story, I could only shake my head and laugh bitterly. I never expected that I would end up as the cliché “rebound stand-in” in some trashy romance drama. Julian wanted to crash our wedding to publicly declare his ownership of Olivia. And Olivia wanted to use this dramatic stage to prove her undying loyalty to him, appease her angry lover, and force the Sterling family to finally accept Julian. And me? My carefully planned wedding was nothing more than a prop for their romantic roleplay. The world really is just one giant, ridiculous soap opera. To be honest, it was so absurd I couldn’t help but curse out loud. That night, the lights in my apartment remained bright. Even though the wedding was scheduled for the next day, I was busy packing my bags without a moment’s rest. Two hours prior, I had already booked a first-class ticket to London. If they wanted to play crazy, I could play crazier. Since Olivia could plan a romantic escape with Julian, I might as well return the favor by pulling a vanishing act of my own. Fortunately, my parents had already relocated to London years ago. We hadn’t invited any of their overseas friends or extended relatives to this ceremony, only a few close friends here in New York. We had initially figured that since our parents had already met during the engagement, we would just host a smaller, intimate ceremony in London later to save everyone the hassle of traveling. That decision turned out to be incredibly convenient for my escape plan. I briefly explained my plan to my best friend, Leo Carter. He stood there in silence, taking the packing tape out of my hands with a deadpan expression. Since I couldn’t read his mind, I felt a bit uneasy. “Leo, are you going to try to stop me?” Leo rolled his eyes and snapped at me: “Are you stupid? I brought you a couple of heavy-duty contractor trash bags. They’re virtually indestructible for packing clothes.” Right. I forgot Leo’s family owned an industrial chemical and supply company. On the day of the wedding, Olivia and I stood at the entrance of the venue in our formal wear, welcoming the arriving guests. This time, Olivia’s inner thoughts were so loud they gave me a pounding headache: *“Is Julian here yet?”* *“I’m finally going to be with Julian. Three years. I’ve waited three years for this. I’m finally going to be Mrs. Rivers.”* *“When he takes me away today, he’ll finally believe that my heart has always belonged to him.”* …… I couldn’t help but shudder, frowning as I glanced at her. Yet, her face remained perfectly composed, wearing the same gentle, elegant smile she always had as she turned to me: “Ethan, you look a bit pale. Why don’t you go rest in the groom’s suite? I can handle the guests out here. You can just come out when the ceremony starts.” Perfect. I actually needed a solid excuse to slip away. I nodded, intending to change out of my tuxedo into some casual clothes, but as I walked toward the back, I ran right into Julian. Thanks to our similar features and my mind-reading superpower, the moment our eyes met, I recognized him instantly. I reached out and grabbed Leo’s arm, holding him back as he started rolling up his sleeves, ready to beat up the homewrecker. I pretended to be completely oblivious: “You must be one of Olivia’s friends, right? Please, head inside. The ceremony starts in a few hours.” Julian’s smirk faltered. He clearly hated hearing me call her “Olivia” so familiarly, and his tone turned dripping wet with sarcasm: “Mr. Vance, I’m so sorry. It looks like we wore almost the exact same tuxedo today. If people didn’t know any better, they might mistake me for the groom.” Julian’s arrogant thoughts echoed in my head simultaneously: *“Smile while you can, idiot. In three hours, your precious bride is going to run away with me. Let’s see if you can still smile then.”*

I kept my polite smile, gave a casual shrug, and said, “Well, tuxedos all look pretty much the same anyway.” I waved a server over to escort him inside. As he walked past, I heard his mind again: *“What a dumbass. I practically spelled it out for him, and he still doesn’t realize I’m here to ruin his life.”* The moment Julian was out of earshot, Leo couldn’t help but spit out, “Look at that arrogant prick. I seriously can’t stand him.” I shrugged. “Let him have his moment. He thinks I’m the joke of the day. After all, Olivia is fully prepared to let him ‘rescue’ her. That way, they get to play the tragic, star-crossed lovers while publicly forcing the Sterling family to accept him.” The wedding venue wasn’t far from JFK Airport. By the time I was sitting in the first-class lounge, the ceremony hadn’t even begun. I stared at the clock on my phone, waiting for the circus to start. Buzz! Buzz! Buzz! My phone vibrated continuously. Leo was spamming my Snapchat with a live commentary: “Ethan! He did it! He actually did it!” “Holy shit, these two cheaters are acting like they’re starring in Romeo and Juliet. Absolutely shameless.” Barely five minutes after the official start time, Leo sent me a video clip of the venue. According to the original schedule, I was supposed to walk onto the stage first, followed by some cheesy romantic speech from the officiant, and then the bride would enter. But to make it easier for Julian to crash the wedding, Olivia had altered the timeline, insisting that she walk out first and I follow. She wanted Julian to swoop in at the perfect dramatic moment, completely unaware that she had played right into my hands. In the video, Julian, wearing his matching tuxedo, strode up to the altar and snatched the microphone from the officiant’s hand. Ignoring the shocked whispers of the crowd, he began pouring his heart out, declaring his undying love. His dramatic, passionate speech brought tears to Olivia’s eyes. “Olivia, will you run away with me?” The guest seating erupted into chaos. Taking the bride away on her wedding day? This was a public slap in the face. But to everyone’s utter shock, Olivia nodded with tears of gratitude. She walked over, locked her fingers with Julian’s, and leaned gently against his shoulder. “I will.” At that moment, Julian’s massive ego was fully inflated. He even took the opportunity to address the closed doors of the groom’s suite, delivering a “victory speech.” The gist of it was: *I know you love Olivia, Mr. Vance, but she loves me. I hope you can find it in your heart to let us be happy.* In the video, Olivia stood in her simple, easy-to-run-in wedding dress, paired with those ridiculous white sneakers. Julian held the microphone, unable to hide the smug triumph in his eyes. He was clearly eager to see me come out looking devastated. He had probably rehearsed his patronizing consolations a hundred times in his head: “I truly hope Mr. Vance can bless Olivia and me.” “Mr. Vance?” The atmosphere suddenly turned incredibly awkward. When the victim of your public humiliation doesn’t even show up, your grand romantic gesture instantly turns into a pathetic, one-man circus. “Mr. Vance?” “Ethan?” …… Julian called out my name several times, but the venue remained dead silent. Finally, the coordinator pushed open the suite doors. The room was completely empty. Only my discarded boutonniere lay on the table, symbolizing the groom’s unexplained absence. The crowd erupted into a frenzy. Someone yelled: “Holy shit, did the groom run away too?” In the quiet airport lounge, I let out a loud laugh. Of course I wanted to bless them. Some of the guests were people I actually respected, and while it was bad form to ditch them, I figured a free comedy show was a decent apology. I shook my head, laughing as I watched the screen. Right at that moment, the giant projector screen behind the altar suddenly flickered, displaying a massive block of text in bold, blood-red font: **”WEDDING CANCELLATION NOTICE”** **”Due to Olivia Sterling’s ongoing affair with Julian Rivers, I have decided to call off the wedding. I wish them the best in their circus of a relationship. Hopefully, they stay locked in together forever and don’t ruin anyone else’s life.”** Below the text, a slideshow of recent, highly intimate photos of Olivia and Julian began to play on a loop. Buzz. Leo sent me a message: “Mission accomplished!” Seeing his text, I uploaded the exact same notice to my Snapchat Story—the final post I would ever make on this account. The wedding hall completely exploded. No one was laughing at me anymore. The real joke was standing right on the stage, holding hands. Now that the groom had vanished, nobody cared about Olivia and Julian’s “romantic escape” anymore. Julian’s passionate declaration of love on stage now looked utterly pathetic against the giant red word **”AFFAIR”** flashing right above his head. Star-crossed lovers? No, they were just two cheap cheaters caught in 4K. Leo was having the time of his life. Two minutes later, he sent me another video.

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