When I pushed open the door to my bedroom, Toby was balanced precariously on a chair, his fingers straining toward the heavy metal lockbox perched on the very top shelf of my wardrobe. He didn’t expect me back so early. The sudden creak of the hinges sent a jolt through him; his grip slipped, and my $45,000 Patek Philippe hit the mattress with a sickening, muffled thud. His eyes darted everywhere but at me, his face flushing a guilty, blotchy red. “Gavin… I was… I just wanted to look at it…” I didn’t move. I just watched him. “My roommate was right,” Toby blurted out, his voice rising in a defensive whine. “You wouldn’t even let me borrow a watch for one night. You’ve always been looking for reasons to lock me out!” I didn’t waste breath on an argument. I walked straight over, grabbed a handful of his hair to steady him, and delivered a sharp, stinging backhand across his face. The sound of the slap cracked through the silence of the room like a gunshot. The commotion brought my parents running. They burst in from the living room, faces tight with alarm. Toby immediately collapsed onto the bed, clutching his cheek and wailing. “Dad! Mom! He hit me! Gavin’s trying to kill me!” My mother’s eyes didn’t go to Toby first. They landed on the Patek Philippe lying on the duvet. Her expression went from shock to a cold, stony gray. She turned on her heel, marched to the mudroom, and returned a second later with a heavy, thick-soled leather clog in her hand. She didn’t hand it to Toby to comfort him. She shoved it into my palm. “Your hand will get sore if you keep using your palm,” she said, her voice trembling with a terrifying, quiet rage. “Use this. And don’t you dare stop until I say so.” “We’ve given you everything, Toby,” she hissed, turning her gaze to my brother. “And you repay us by becoming a common thief in your own home? Gavin, hit him. Hard.” I gripped the shoe, the weight of it familiar and solid, and brought it down across Toby’s back. The dull whack echoed against the walls. 1 The sound of the impact was heavy, followed by Toby’s shrill cry as he scrambled across the floor. “Mom! Dad! Help me! He’s actually going to kill me!” My father stood in the doorway, his face a mask of granite. He reached back, gripped the handle, and shut the bedroom door firmly. He didn’t leave even a crack for the light to escape. “Do it,” Dad said, his voice dropping an octave. “If he’s stealing from his own blood today, he’ll be robbing strangers at knifepoint tomorrow. Better he learns the cost of it here than in a cell.” I swung again. Toby had been the baby of the family, coddled and cushioned from every sharp edge the world had to offer. These hits were the first real consequences he’d ever felt, and he was falling apart, sobbing and crawling toward the corner. I planted a boot firmly in the center of his back, pinning him to the carpet. “What did you do wrong?” I asked, looking down at him. Toby was a mess of tears and snot, shielding his head with his arms. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your stuff! Gavin, please, just stop!” WHACK. I hit him again. “Liar,” I said coldly. “You said your roommate told you I was ‘locking you out.’ Give me the details. Who is he, what exactly did he say, and what were you going to do with my watch?” Toby flinched, refusing to look up. I increased the pressure of my boot on his spine until he let out a strangled yelp. He broke. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! It’s Dexter! Dexter said he was going to a birthday party for some billionaire’s kid this weekend, and he’d look like a loser if he didn’t have the right accessories.” “He knew you had the Patek. He told me to ‘borrow’ it so he could make an impression!” My mother let out a sharp, derisive laugh. “He asked to borrow it, so you decided to steal it?” Toby looked up, his face swollen and tear-streaked, radiating a pathetic sense of martyrdom. “I wanted to ask Gavin… I did! But Dexter said Gavin is too arrogant and selfish, that he’d never say yes…” “He said we’re brothers. That what’s yours is mine. He said taking it for a few days isn’t ‘stealing’—it’s just sharing. He said if I didn’t help him, it was because I looked down on him for being a ‘scholarship kid.’ That I was just another elitist jerk…” I felt a wave of genuine nausea. A forty-five-thousand-dollar piece of horology, and this kid wanted to ‘borrow’ it to play dress-up. And if I said no, I was the villain. It was the kind of toxic, bottom-feeding logic that made my skin crawl, and Toby had swallowed it whole. 2 “So, because he’s poor, he’s entitled to my life’s work?” I asked. Toby sniffled, trying to find his footing. “Gavin, you don’t understand. Dexter’s had it rough. He scrapes by on nothing… he just has a lot of pride. He needs to make connections at that party. It could change his life.” “A watch is nothing to you,” Toby added, his voice regaining a sliver of that borrowed self-righteousness. “But for him, it’s a gateway to a future.” I kicked him square in the shoulder, flipping him onto his back. “Nothing to me?” I leaned down, grabbed his collar, and hauled him up until we were eye-to-eye. “I bought that watch with the first real profit from my startup. I worked twenty-hour days for three years to earn that ‘nothing.’ And you’re going to give away my blood and sweat so some parasite can ‘change his life’? You’re playing Robin Hood with your own brother’s heart?” My father stepped forward, pulling a chair from the desk and sitting down. When he spoke, the room felt smaller. “Toby,” Dad said. “This Dexter… does he make a habit of ‘borrowing’ from you?” Toby shook his head violently. “No! He’s a great guy! He… he gets me coffee when I’m pulling an all-night study session!” Mom walked over to Toby’s closet and yanked the door open. It was half-empty. His North Face parkas, his designer hoodies—all gone. She turned to his desk. The $3,000 MacBook Pro we’d bought him for his birthday two weeks ago was nowhere to be seen. “Where are your coats, Toby? Where is your laptop?” Mom’s voice was like a whip. Toby’s eyes went shifty. He stammered for a moment before whispering, “Dexter had an interview. He needed to look the part… and the laptop… we just share it in the dorm. He couldn’t afford a good one, and I didn’t want to be that guy. I didn’t want to be ‘the rich kid’.” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. I dropped the shoe. “Fine,” I said, dusting off my hands. I turned toward the door. “Gavin, where are you going?” Toby asked, panic lacing his voice. “To help your ‘best friend’ find his destiny.” I drove to Toby’s university dorm with a cold, vibrating clarity. It was 9:00 PM. The hallways of the sophomore wing were buzzing with the usual Friday night energy. I walked straight to Room 304 and didn’t bother knocking. I kicked the door so hard the frame groaned. BOOM. The door flew open. Three guys were inside. Two were sprawled on their bunks, staring at their phones; they nearly jumped out of their skins. The third guy was standing in front of a full-length mirror, admiring his reflection. He was wearing a limited-edition varsity jacket I’d bought Toby for his birthday. He was decked out in name brands from head to toe. On his desk sat Toby’s MacBook. This was Dexter. He froze, his brow furrowing as he processed my intrusion. “Who the hell are you? You ever hear of knocking?” I didn’t say a word. I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed a handful of his carefully styled hair, and slammed him down to the floor. Dexter let out a sharp, pathetic shriek as he hit the linoleum. The two roommates scrambled into the corners of their beds, eyes wide, terrified. I put my weight onto my boot, pinning Dexter’s shoulder to the ground, and gripped his chin, forcing him to look at me. “I’m Toby’s brother.” I stared into his eyes, my voice a low, lethal hum. “A forty-five-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe. You really had the balls to ask for that?” 3 Dexter’s face went ghost-white. He struggled under my boot, but I didn’t budge. “What are you doing? Get off me! Toby said I could have it! You can’t just break in here and assault me!” Dexter screamed. “Borrow it?” I leaned down and delivered a sharp slap to his face. The sound echoed in the cramped room. His lip split instantly, a bead of dark blood blooming on the corner of his mouth. “I paid for that watch. Toby doesn’t have the authority to lend out my property,” I said. Dexter’s eyes welled with tears. He realized he couldn’t overpower me, so he pivoted. He looked toward his roommates, his face contorting into a mask of fragile, victimized innocence. “Caleb, Sam! Call campus security! He’s crazy! Just because he has money doesn’t mean he can hunt us down! He’s bullying us because we’re not like him!” The roommate named Caleb looked conflicted. “Hey, man… maybe just let him up? Dexter said Toby was cool with it. Toby’s always giving him stuff. Can’t we just talk about this?” “Talk?” I looked at Caleb. “He manipulated a nineteen-year-old kid into committing grand larceny. That’s a felony. Are you sure you want to be the character witness for a felon?” Caleb shut his mouth and backed away, his face pale. Dexter was still squirming, clutching the varsity jacket like it was his own skin. “I didn’t steal anything! Toby wanted to help me! You’re just a psycho who’s jealous because Toby actually likes me!” I knelt down, my face inches from his. “Take it off.” Dexter blinked. “What?” “The jacket. I paid for it. Take it off. Now.” Dexter clutched the lapels, sobbing. “You’re a monster! Toby gave this to me! You can’t just strip me in front of everyone!” I didn’t argue. I just grabbed the collar and yanked. The expensive silk lining tore with a jagged, ugly sound, exposing his t-shirt underneath. Dexter screamed and curled into a ball, weeping as if I were the villain in a Dickens novel. “Help! He’s killing me! The rich guy is trying to kill me!” A crowd was already gathering in the hallway, students peeking in, the murmur of voices growing louder. Someone started recording on their phone. Seeing his audience, Dexter’s performance went into overdrive. He crawled toward the doorway, reaching out to the onlookers. “Please! Someone help! I just borrowed a jacket, and his brother broke in to beat me up! Do we even matter to people like him? Are we just trash to be stepped on?” The whispers from the hallway turned sharp. “That’s messed up.” “You can’t treat people like that, no matter how much money you have.” “Call the cops. This is assault.” I stood in the center of the room, cold and detached. I pulled a wet wipe from my pocket and slowly cleaned the blood from my knuckles. It was a classic move. The weaponized victimhood of the “underdog.” 4 He’d wrapped himself in the armor of poverty, using it as a get-out-of-jail-free card, banking on the collective empathy of the crowd. Just then, the dorm supervisor and the faculty advisor, Mr. Henderson, pushed through the throng. Henderson took one look at Dexter—bloody, disheveled, and weeping—and his face turned a bright, indignant red. “What is going on here? Who is responsible for this?” Dexter lunged for Henderson’s legs, sobbing into his slacks. “Save me! Toby’s brother… he just started hitting me! He tore my clothes! He’s trying to humiliate me in front of everyone!” Henderson glared at me. “You’re Toby’s family? How dare you bring this kind of violence onto this campus! Do you have any idea how many laws you’ve just broken?” I tossed the used wet wipe into the trash can. “Mr. Henderson, right? This boy spent the last four hours convincing my brother to steal a forty-five-thousand-dollar luxury watch from my home. As the owner of the property and the victim of an attempted theft, I’m here to recover my stolen goods and address a criminal. You have a problem with that?” Henderson blinked. The crowd went silent. “Forty-five thousand? Theft?” Henderson stammered, looking down at Dexter. Dexter shook his head frantically. “I didn’t! He’s making it up! I just asked Toby if I could wear it for a night! I didn’t know he was going to ‘steal’ it! I’m innocent!” Henderson looked relieved, shifting back into his “peacekeeper” role. “Look, Mr. …?” “Gavin.” “Mr. Gavin. This is clearly a misunderstanding. Dexter is one of our top scholarship students. He’s had a very difficult life, but he’s a hard worker. He wouldn’t do something like this.” “Since nothing was actually stolen, let’s keep this in the family. Bringing this kind of drama to the school is bad for everyone. Apologize to Dexter, cover his medical bills, and we can forget this ever happened.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Apologize? Pay him?” I walked over to Dexter’s desk. “Where’s the rest of the stuff Toby ‘gave’ you?” Dexter cowered behind Henderson, silent. I brushed past Henderson and looked at the desk. It wasn’t just the laptop. There were limited-edition collectible figures, high-end headphones, all things I’d bought for Toby over the years. I picked up a rare, $500 glass-sculpted figurine. CRASH. I dropped it. It shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. “What are you doing!” Henderson shouted. I didn’t answer. I picked up a pair of $600 Sennheiser headphones and snapped the headband like a twig. The room was filled with the rhythmic sound of destruction. Dexter watched the wreckage of his “gifts” with a look of pure agony. “You’re insane! Those are mine!” “Yours?” I stopped and looked him in the eye. “You’re a ‘scholarship student’ who qualified for the Pell Grant, yet you have over ten thousand dollars worth of luxury tech and collectibles on your desk. And you’re telling me they’re yours?” The students in the hall started murmuring again, but the tone had changed. They were looking at Dexter’s desk with new eyes. Dexter’s face went through a kaleidoscope of colors—red, white, then a sickly gray. “Toby didn’t want them! He gave them to me! Is it a crime for a poor person to have nice things?” 5 I was done listening to his lies. I walked to his wardrobe and ripped it open. A dozen designer shirts. Three pairs of Balenciaga sneakers. Every single one was a piece I had helped Toby pick out at the boutique. I tore them off the hangers and threw them into the pile of broken glass on the floor, stepping on them for good measure. “Toby ‘gave’ you these too?” I asked. Dexter grit his teeth, tears streaming down his face. “Yes! He has so much, he can’t even wear it all! Why shouldn’t I have a turn?” “Is it a ‘turn,’ Dexter? Or is it a shakedown?” I pulled out my phone and pulled up Toby’s Venmo history. I held it up to Henderson’s face. “Look at this, Mr. Henderson. In the last month alone, Dexter has had Toby pay for over fifteen DoorDash orders—all of them expensive steakhouse or sushi dinners. Dexter’s phone bill? Toby paid it. That brand-new iPhone in his pocket? Toby bought it on a monthly installment plan.” I turned back to Dexter. “You didn’t find a friend in Toby. You found a vein, and you’ve been draining him dry while telling him it’s ‘sharing.’ You aren’t just poor, Dexter. You’re a parasite.” Dexter snapped. He stood up, pointing a finger at me, his voice shaking with rage. “Shut up! Toby wanted to spend that money! What do you know about friendship? You’re just a cold-blooded shark who thinks everything has a price tag!” I took a step toward him. He flinched so hard he hit the wardrobe door. That’s when I saw it. A secondary phone, half-hidden in the top drawer of his nightstand. I reached for it. Dexter turned into a wild animal, lunging for my arm. “Don’t touch that! That’s my private property! You’re a thief!” I swept his leg, and he hit the floor with a heavy thud, kneeling before me. I picked up the phone. It wasn’t locked. I tapped the photo gallery. My stomach did a slow, sickening roll.

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Three months ago, the day I discovered Pierce’s infidelity, I quietly packed my things and moved into the guest room. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I waited until the System notified me that all evidence of his betrayal had been collected. Only then did I step back into our master suite. The door was ajar. Inside, Pierce was on speakerphone, his voice filled with a warmth he hadn’t shown me in years. On the other end, three voices—voices I knew intimately—were joking around. My three ex-husbands. “So, Pierce,” one of them teased with a familiar lilt, “did you give her the divorce papers yet? Lacy made it clear—no tag-alongs allowed at her bachelorette party. If you want an invite, you come alone.” Pierce chuckled, a cold, sharp sound. “Don’t worry. I’m about to force her to sign.” He looked up then, spotting me in the doorway. His expression shifted instantly from amusement to a mask of icy indifference as he hung up. “Since you heard everything,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, “let’s just end it. You were always just damaged goods, Jacqueline. A relic tossed aside by your exes. You should be grateful I let you play the part of my wife for as long as I did.” I looked at him, feeling the hollow ache in my chest settle into something hard and crystalline. In the quiet theater of my mind, I reached out and pressed the System’s ‘Punishment’ key. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply smiled. … 1 Pierce’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. He stood up, jabbed a finger toward my face, and snarled. “Jacqueline, have you finally lost your mind? Are you going insane?” “Those three men kicked you to the curb years ago. Do you honestly think they’d ever want you back? If I hadn’t been charitable enough to marry you, you’d be nothing but a used-up socialite nobody would touch with a ten-foot pole!” I watched his desperate bravado, the way his veins thrummed with malice. In my mind, the System issued a crisp, mechanical ding. [Punishment Protocol Initiated. Pain Sensitivity increased by 10%. Luck Depletion: 10%.] Suddenly, Pierce went pale. He gasped, clutching his chest as he stumbled back against the vanity. His breath came in ragged hitches. “Did you… did you poison me?” he wheezed, his eyes darting around in a panic. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. I turned on my heel and went to the guest room to grab my suitcase. As I reached the foyer, the electronic lock chimed. The door swung open, and a wave of cloying, sugary perfume flooded the hallway. “Pierce, honey? I brought those artisanal honey-glazed chestnuts you love from the Upper East Side.” Lacy walked in, looking like a portrait of innocence in a white eyelet lace dress. She froze when she saw me with my luggage, her hand flying to her mouth in a choreographed gesture of shock. “Jacqueline? Are you… leaving?” Her eyes pooled with sudden, practiced tears. “Is this because I called Pierce yesterday? Please, don’t be mad at him. I was just so scared staying at the hotel by myself. I needed someone to talk to.” She trembled, ducking behind Pierce as if I were a physical threat. Despite the pain in his chest, Pierce pulled her into his arms, shielding her with a protective glare. “Jacqueline, enough! Lacy is fragile. Stop trying to intimidate her.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. It felt like glass breaking. “Fragile? It takes a lot of nerve to sleep with another woman’s husband. Doesn’t seem very ‘fragile’ to me.” Lacy’s tears began to spill over. “Jacqueline, how can you be so cruel? Pierce and I… it’s pure. We’re soulmates. You can’t let your three failed marriages turn you into someone this bitter.” A ripple of mocking laughter came from the hallway. “Lacy’s right, Jacqueline. You really need to work on that temper.” Three tall, well-dressed men filed into the penthouse: Beckett, Colton, and Jude. My past, standing in my present. Beckett tossed his Ferrari keys onto the marble console, his eyes sweeping over my suitcase with disdain. “What, the runaway bride act again? You did this when you divorced me, too. It’s getting a bit cliché, don’t you think?” Colton walked over to Lacy, patting her head before turning to me with a sigh. “Jacqueline, be an adult for once. Pierce works his tail off to provide this lifestyle for you. So what if he has a muse on the side?” Jude leaned against the doorframe, flicking a designer lighter open and shut. “You think you’re still the untouchable heiress of the Mercer estate? You’re a three-time divorcée. You should be thanking God anyone was willing to take the hand-me-downs.” Seeing the four of them standing together, a united front to protect their ‘golden girl,’ I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated nausea. Years ago, Beckett had begged me for a tactical marriage to secure his family’s inheritance. Colton had knelt in the pouring rain, pleading for my help to dodge a disastrous merger. Jude had been at death’s door, needing my signature and my resources to survive a medical scandal. Every single time, I had helped them. Every single time, when the crisis passed, I had walked away with nothing, leaving them the space to thrive. And now, they stood here, using the very status I helped them build to grind me into the dirt for a girl like Lacy. I looked at Pierce. “You called them here?” Pierce held Lacy tighter, his chin lifted. “Lacy said today was a day for celebration, a fresh start for all of us. She wanted you to see the reality of things so you’d stop using the threat of divorce as a weapon. You walk out that door today, Jacqueline, and you are dead to this circle. Don’t think for a second you’ll be allowed back in.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase, my spine as straight as a blade. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice steady and cold. “This place is so filthy I wouldn’t stay if you paid me.” I shouldered past Jude, walking out into the hallway without a backward glance. Behind me, I heard Lacy’s voice, sweet and venomous. “Oh dear, Jacqueline is so sensitive. She didn’t even say goodbye to the boys.” “Let her go,” Beckett scoffed. “She’ll be back in three days, crawling and crying for Pierce to take her back.” “Exactly,” Colton chimed in. “A woman like her can’t survive five minutes without a man’s bank account.” I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. In the silence of the car, the System’s voice echoed in my mind. [Host, revenge sequence initiated. Shall we proceed with full-scale Luck Depletion?] “Full power,” I whispered. If these four wolves wanted to hunt in a pack, they could starve in one, too. 2 Leaving that penthouse was like finally exhaling after holding my breath for three years. I didn’t go to a hotel. I drove straight to the glass-walled triplex overlooking Central Park. It was my grandfather’s private legacy, a property Pierce didn’t even know existed. He’d spent our entire marriage convinced I’d poured my last cent into his startup, believing I was nothing more than a dependent trophy wife. I’d just stepped out of the shower when my phone buzzed on the vanity. A message from Colton. A photo. In the picture, Lacy was perched on the velvet sofa in the penthouse, wearing a birthday tiara. Pierce, Beckett, Colton, and Jude were gathered around her, their faces soft with adoration. On the table sat the custom-ordered fondant cake I had designed months ago. The caption read: [Be smart. Come back and apologize to Lacy. It’s her birthday—don’t be the one to ruin it.] I stared at the screen for a second, then blocked his number. I followed suit with the other three, purging them from my digital life with a few taps. The next morning, I arrived at Pierce’s corporate headquarters with my lead attorney in tow. This company wouldn’t exist if I hadn’t leveraged my family’s old connections to secure its first round of Series A funding. I pushed open the door to the executive suite. Pierce was hunched over his desk, his hair a mess as he glared at a series of red spreadsheets on his monitor. He looked up, stunned to see me, before a smirk touched his lips. “So, one night in a cheap hotel was enough to bring you to your senses?” “I knew you couldn’t stay away,” he continued, leaning back. “Tell you what. Go buy Lacy that Hermès bag she wanted as a peace offering, and I’ll pretend yesterday never happened.” I dropped the divorce decree onto his mahogany desk with a dull thud. “Sign it.” Pierce glanced at the header, his face darkening. “Jacqueline, drop the act. You’re not scaring me with this. I pay for your clothes, your food, your soul. Without me, you’re a literal vagrant.” I sat down in the chair opposite him, tapping the desk. “Pierce, did you really forget whose money started this ’empire’? Or whose name opened the doors for those ‘exclusive’ contracts you’re currently losing?” His expression faltered, but he blustered through it. “So what? The company is in my name. The accounts are mine. You want a divorce? Fine. You leave with nothing. Not a single cent.” I nodded to my lawyer. Mr. Simon stepped forward, sliding a leather-bound folder onto the desk. “Actually, Mr. Prescott, per the initial investment covenant, Mrs. Blackwood—soon to be Ms. Mercer—retains a sixty percent equity stake held in a private trust. In the event of a legal separation involving infidelity, she has the right to call in all debts and liquidate her shares immediately.” Pierce lunged for the papers, his eyes scanning the clauses. The veins in his neck bulged. “Jacqueline, you… you set me up?” “It’s called an exit strategy, Pierce,” I said coldly. “You have three days to secure the buy-out funds, or I’ll see you in court for a forced liquidation.” I stood up to leave, but the door swung open. Lacy walked in carrying a boutique lunch bag. Seeing me, she immediately switched into her ‘victim’ persona. “Jacqueline! Are you here to see Pierce? Please, don’t pressure him. He’s been so stressed about the firm lately.” She touched her eyes, which were conveniently brimming with tears. “If it’s about money… I can give you my savings. I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling.” Pierce pulled her behind him, roaring at me. “Do you see this, Jacqueline? Lacy is thinking about you while you’re trying to bleed me dry! You’re nothing but a vampire!” I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a genuine, amused sound. “Lacy, keep your little ‘savings.’ You’ll need them to buy your own coffee once Pierce is back in a cubicle.” Lacy’s face went white. Pierce raised his hand, his face contorted with rage, ready to strike. His wrist was caught mid-air by a hand with long, elegant fingers. Beckett stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed. He shoved Pierce’s hand down and looked at me with a mix of disappointment and irritation. “Jacqueline, that’s enough. Lacy was trying to be kind. Why must you be so incredibly toxic?” I shook out my own wrist, though he hadn’t touched me. “Mr. CEO is quite the regular here lately. Don’t you have a company of your own to run, Beckett? Or are you hoping to pick up the scraps of this one when it crashes?” Beckett stiffened. “I’m here to discuss a partnership. And to check on Lacy.” I didn’t bother responding. I walked past them, my lawyer following close behind. As I hit the elevator bank, the System chimed again. [Luck Depletion Active: Pierce’s Midtown Development Project just hit a massive safety violation. Stop-work order issued.] I felt a ghost of a smile pull at my lips. 3 Over the next seventy-two hours, Pierce’s world didn’t just crumble—it imploded. The Midtown project was a disaster. The bank froze his lines of credit. His partners, smelling blood in the water, began pulling out one by one. Meanwhile, I sat in my floor-to-ceiling windowed living room, sipping a vintage Bordeaux and watching the ticker on my tablet. Prescott Holdings was bleeding out in real-time. My phone rang. An unknown number. I’d changed my SIM, but somehow Jude had found it. “Jacqueline, what the hell are you doing?” Jude’s voice was thick with suppressed fury. “Are you behind the short-selling of Pierce’s stock? Stop this childish vendetta.” I took a slow sip of my wine. “If he can’t manage his own risk, Jude, that’s hardly my problem.” Jude scoffed. “Don’t play coy. Nobody else would be this ruthless. Drop the lawsuits, Jacqueline. Don’t force our hand. You think you’re still the Mercer girl? The three of us can make sure you never work in this city again.” “And how would you do that, Jude?” I asked. “The last time I checked, you were the one begging for my signature on your medical release forms so you wouldn’t die a ward of the state. Have you forgotten how to be humble?” There was a sharp silence on the other end, followed by a snarl. “That was years ago! Don’t you dare throw the past in my face! Lacy is devastated by all this stress. You will stop this, and you will publicly apologize to her for the slander.” I hung up. The delusion was almost fascinating. Did they really think they were the protagonists of this story? That evening, a courier delivered a heavy, gold-embossed envelope. An invitation to an exclusive solo art exhibition for Lacy. It was being held at the Starry Night Gallery—the most prestigious venue in the city. Inside was a handwritten note: [Jacqueline, tomorrow is my big night. Pierce and the guys will all be there. I hope you can come so we can finally put this misunderstanding behind us. Love, Lacy.] I looked at the note and laughed. Put the ‘misunderstanding’ behind us? More like ‘publicly humiliate me with a show of force.’ The System spoke up. [Host, malice levels detected from the target are peaking. Suggest attending the event for a ‘Face-Slap’ bonus. Rewards: Double Revenge Points.] “Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I tossed the invitation into the fireplace. The next night, I stepped out of a black town car in front of the gallery. I was wearing a vintage black velvet gown that hugged every curve, my hair swept up to reveal a throat that felt far too bare. My makeup was lethal—sharp wings and a blood-red lip. The gallery was packed with the city’s elite. Lacy, in a custom blush silk gown, stood in the center of the room like a princess, flanked by her four knights. The room went silent as I walked in. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the air like a cold wind. Lacy’s eyes lit up. She hurried toward me, her skirt swishing. “Jacqueline! You actually came!” She reached out to grab my hand in a display of faux-sisterhood. I pivoted slightly, letting her hand grasp empty air. Her smile faltered, her eyes immediately welling up. Pierce was there in a heartbeat, stepping between us. “Jacqueline, what is wrong with you? Lacy went out of her way to invite you, and you can’t even be civil?” Beckett walked over, swirling a glass of scotch, his eyes raking over my dress. “Dressed like that… are you here to sabotage her, or are you just desperate for our attention again?” Colton chuckled darkly. “She’s run out of moves, Beckett. This is a cry for help.” A few people in the crowd tittered. I ignored them, looking instead at the ‘art’ on the walls. “This is the exhibition?” I asked, loud enough for the nearby guests to hear. “The colors are muddy, the composition is amateur, and the technique is… well, I’ve seen better work in a middle school hallway. Your taste, gentlemen, has plummeted.” Lacy’s face turned a blotchy red. “Jacqueline! You can hate me, but don’t insult my art!” Jude slammed his drink down on a nearby pedestal. The glass shattered, sent shards flying. “Jacqueline, you’re here to cause trouble. Apologize to Lacy. Now.” 4 The atmosphere was suffocating. Every eye in the room was on me, waiting for the fall. Pierce stepped closer, looming over me with a dark, triumphant look. “I’m giving you one last chance, Jacqueline. Get on your knees and apologize to Lacy. Right here, in front of everyone.” I looked at him, truly looked at him, and realized I felt nothing but a mild sense of pity. “Pierce, you’ve lost your mind. Me? Kneel for her? She couldn’t handle the weight of my shadow, let alone my respect.” Lacy retreated into Colton’s arms, sobbing. “Pierce, please, just let it go. Jacqueline has always looked down on me. I don’t want to be the reason your marriage is ruined…” Colton glared at me. “Look at how kind she is! And look at you—you’ve turned into a bitter, vengeful hag!” Beckett stepped forward then, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket. He flipped it open. Inside was a glowing emerald necklace. My breath hitched. It was my grandfather’s—the only thing I had left of him. I’d left it in the wall safe at the penthouse in my haste to leave. Beckett saw my reaction and smirked. “Want it back? I had a locksmith open that pathetic little safe of yours.” “Give it to me, Beckett,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Sure,” he said, holding the necklace over a trash bin. “As soon as you give Lacy the three head-bows she deserves for your bullying. Otherwise, I’ll drop this into the disposal and watch it get ground into dust.” I stared at the emerald, my nails digging into my palms. “Beckett, don’t you dare.” Jude sneered. “Who’s going to stop us? You have nothing left. No status, no husband, no friends. Get on your knees.” The crowd began to whisper. “Poor Jacqueline… she’s really fallen.” “She probably deserved it. You don’t get four men to hate you that much for no reason.” “Just apologize and get it over with, honey. Why keep up the act?” Pierce reached out, his hand moving to shove my shoulder downward. “I said, kneel!” His hand never reached me. The gallery doors were kicked open with a thunderous bang that made everyone jump. Two rows of men in black suits flooded the room, creating a human corridor. Then, a man walked in—tall, commanding, with a presence that seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room. He was in a charcoal-grey bespoke suit, his eyes like flint. Callum Blackwood. The King of the Manhattan elite. A man who didn’t just own companies; he owned the people who ran them. The room fell into a deathly silence. Callum walked straight to me. He saw Pierce’s hand hovering near my shoulder. Without a word, he delivered a backhand so sharp and powerful it sent Pierce sprawling across the floor. The sound of the slap echoed like a gunshot. Callum took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his hand with clinical precision, and dropped the cloth onto Pierce’s bleeding face. He then turned, pulled me firmly into his side, and let his voice ring out through the gallery. “Who gave you trash the right to lay a finger on my fiancée?”

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I had never liked my boyfriend’s older brother. From the very first moment we met, he made no effort to hide his disdain, mocking my “pedestrian” background with a razor-sharp tongue. I swallowed my pride and endured his coldness, purely for the sake of the man I loved. I never expected a freak accident to hurl me ten years into the future. When I opened my eyes, a small boy—no older than five—approached me with a shy, tentative look in his eyes. He asked if I would come to his kindergarten’s “Family Field Day” tomorrow. Looking at that tiny face, which was a spitting image of my boyfriend, my heart melted instantly. I nodded before I could even think. Excited, he grabbed my hand and led me toward the hallway to “find Daddy.” As we rounded the corner, we collided with a familiar, towering figure: Everett, my boyfriend’s brother. Before I could stammer out an apology, the boy’s voice rang out with pure joy: “Daddy! Mommy finally said yes!” I froze. My mind went completely blank. 1 Everett reached out to steady me, his hand lingering on my arm for a fraction of a second before he pulled back. He looked down at the boy with a cool, measured expression. “Charlie, it’s past your bedtime.” Charlie let go of my hand reluctantly, his eyes filled with a mix of lingering excitement and hesitation. But under Everett’s habitually commanding gaze, he had no choice but to retreat. He trudged obediently back toward his bedroom. I watched the whole scene, my brain still stuck in a massive system failure. Daddy? He called Everett Daddy? And I’m the Mommy? I was a sunny, carefree twenty-year-old college student when I went to sleep. How did I wake up as a married woman with a child? And how, in God’s name, was the husband Everett? This made zero sense. He was my boyfriend’s brother. How did the next ten years involve me ending up in some twisted, forbidden romance with my own brother-in-law? And where the hell was my actual boyfriend? Everett watched Charlie disappear into his room before turning his gaze toward me. He studied me for a few beats, his eyes unreadable. “Are you not going to sleep? It’s late.” My ability to think had flatlined. I just followed his lead, my voice cracking slightly. “Sleep. Right. Going now. Immediately.” I looked up at him, and for a moment, I felt a strange sense of vertigo. The Everett standing before me was vastly different from the man I remembered. By my count, he should only be thirty-five now. So why was his hair so heavily streaked with silver? I felt a prickle of dark humor in my chest. I guess corporate life really does a number on you. Still, my old instincts kicked in. I couldn’t stand the weight of his stare, so I turned and hurried back into the bedroom I had just come from. I could feel his eyes on my back the entire way—a heavy, intense physical presence. God help me. Someone needs to explain why ten-year-older me married Everett and produced a five-year-old son. Before I could spiral further, Everett appeared in the doorway. He held out a small white pill. “Vitamins,” he said, his voice flat and concise. Suspicion flared in my gut. Vitamins? Then why not just give me the bottle? We stood in a tense standoff for what felt like an eternity. Finally, Everett let out a sigh so faint I almost missed it. He looked down, pulling the pill back. His movements were practiced, weary—like a man who was intimately familiar with being rejected. “If you won’t take it, just leave it be.” He didn’t push. He just told me to get some rest and walked away. After he left, I felt more lost than ever. Was our marriage this strained? Did we even sleep in the same room? But then a thought hit me: if I actually had to share a bed with Everett, I’d probably have nightmares for the rest of my life. 2 That wasn’t hyperbole. Everett had genuinely traumatized me in the past. The first time we met was at Beckett’s—my boyfriend’s—birthday gala. As Beckett’s girlfriend, I was at the top of my game: charming, well-dressed, and perfectly capable of handling a room. But the moment Everett saw me, he winced as if he’d smelled something foul. “Which backwater bargain bin did you crawl out of?” he’d asked. I was stunned. Ugly? Low-class? To be fair, I was neither. I was a dean’s list student with a scholarship and a face that could stop traffic. Everett had to be legally blind to say that with a straight face. If it had been anyone else, I would have torn him apart. But Everett was the head of the family empire, the eldest son, and a man known in the business world as a “cold-blooded reaper.” I gritted my teeth and forced a smile. “Hello, Everett. I’m Beckett’s girlfriend.” His expression didn’t shift an inch. He didn’t even give me a second glance. Instead, he looked at Beckett with a mocking tilt of his head. “Beckett, since when did your standards for ‘company’ drop this low?” Beckett looked mortified, trying to smooth things over. “Everett, come on. Isla is great. Once you get to know her…” “No need,” Everett cut him off, his gaze already drifting away. “I’ve delivered the gift. Enjoy your party.” He didn’t even stay to wish his brother a happy birthday. He just walked out, treating his own brother like a piece of insignificant furniture. Later, I learned that his initial greeting was just the appetizer. Everett’s tongue was a weapon designed to make people question their entire existence. Because of that, every time I crossed paths with him back then, I’d break into a cold sweat. I spent years worrying about whether he would approve of me if Beckett and I ever got engaged. I never imagined I’d skip the engagement, skip the wedding, and wake up married to the Reaper himself. I tossed and turned, my mind a frantic loop of these memories until I finally drifted into a fitful sleep. Somewhere in the haze between dreams and reality, I felt a presence. Someone was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me for a long, long time. Then, a hand touched my hair. It was a stroke so light, so impossibly tender, it felt like a ghost. Who…? 3 I woke up to the feeling of someone staring at me. Sunlight was streaming through the curtains. Charlie was standing there, his little yellow duck backpack already on, his eyes wide and blinking. “Mommy! It’s time to go!” Go where? It took me three seconds to remember the Family Field Day. Right. I scrambled out of bed to get ready. Charlie followed me like a little shadow. Everywhere I went, he was there, his eyes glued to me as if he were terrified I might vanish if he blinked. I couldn’t help it. I leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Charlie froze like a tiny, confused penguin. A deep crimson flush crept up his chubby cheeks instantly. He nearly jumped. “You… you kissed me!” I frowned, a knot forming in my stomach. What did that mean? Had the “ten-year-older me” been so cold that I didn’t even kiss my own son? That seemed impossibly cruel. Before I could dwell on it, Everett walked in. He was already dressed. I stared at him for a second. Seeing him out of his tailored power suits was jarring. In his athletic gear, he looked… younger. Almost approachable. Then my eyes caught the streaks of white in his hair again, and the thought vanished. No. Still old. Still Everett. Everett glanced at us—at the way Charlie was hovering near me—and his eyes softened for a fleeting second. “The event starts at nine-thirty.” I immediately let go of Charlie and hurried to get myself together. I might not have experience being a mom, but I knew how to look the part. I wanted Charlie to be proud of me. I picked out an outfit that felt like “me”—or at least, the twenty-year-old version of me. When I stepped out of the dressing room, Charlie started cheering, turning into a one-man hype machine. Everett, however, just stood there. He looked me up and down, his body stiff. Beyond the shock in his eyes, there was something else. A flicker of… nostalgia? 4 On the drive to the school, I stared out the window. Charlie was chirping away in the back seat. Is this what ten years later looks like? Everything felt remarkably the same. Technology hadn’t made some giant leap into the future. Even the scenery felt strangely familiar. Before I could process it, we arrived. Charlie was vibrating with excitement, dragging me inside. Whenever we passed one of his little friends, he would wrap his arms around my leg. “This is my mommy! See? I told you she was the prettiest!” I laughed, but then a cold realization hit me. Was this the first time ‘I’ had ever shown up at his school? Why else would he say something like that? I looked toward Everett, who was walking on my left. Our eyes met. I wanted to ask him something—anything—but he immediately looked away. Classic. Whether it was ten years ago or ten years from now, Everett was still the most frustrating man on the planet. The kindergarten field day was packed with activities. But when I saw the equipment, my smile faltered. Crap. I was wearing a skirt. I had prioritized “looking pretty” over “being functional.” Everett spoke up, his voice level. “You stay in the stands and rest. I’ll handle the events.” Charlie was equally supportive. “Yeah, Mommy! Don’t worry, I’m gonna win a medal for you!” I gave them a weak smile and headed for the bleachers. By ten o’clock, the sun was starting to bite. I squinted, watching the father-son duo in the distance. Maybe it was the sunlight softening his harsh edges, but Everett didn’t look so terrifying anymore. He looked… human. Watching him with Charlie was actually quite beautiful. The genes were strong. They looked so much alike. And yet, there was a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. Charlie reminded me of Beckett, too. The thought of Beckett hit me like a physical blow. Where was he? Why was he gone? And why, since I woke up, had I not been able to find my phone? Had phones evolved into some kind of brain-link tech I didn’t know about? The cloud of suspicion in my mind began to grow. Suddenly, a warm voice spoke beside me. “You must be Charlie’s mother.” 5 It was the school’s principal. She sat down in the empty seat next to me and started chatting as if we were old friends. Apparently, the Blackwood Group—Everett’s company—was the primary donor for the school. I tried to mimic the way I’d seen my own mother talk to teachers, nodding and smiling. But the more she talked, the more unsettled I became. What did she mean by, “I know your work keeps you busy”? Why was she saying I should “try to be more involved in the school community”? And why was she gently suggesting that, as a mother, I needed to “spend more quality time” with my child? I was reeling. What the hell had I been doing for the last ten years? According to the principal, I sounded like an absentee parent. I said a dazed goodbye to her and watched Everett and Charlie compete in the races. Everything about this “time travel” was wrong. Why was Charlie so surprised when I kissed him? Why did I have no phone, no social life, no job? Why weren’t there any wedding photos on the walls of our house? The points were starting to connect, forming a dark, jagged shape. The cheers of the other parents felt distant, like they were happening behind a thick pane of glass. I didn’t belong here. When Charlie eventually ran up to me, beaming, I just nodded blankly. “Mommy, was I great?” “Yes, baby. So great.” Everett ended our day early and drove us home. Charlie didn’t seem upset by the early exit; in fact, he seemed used to it. He just kept watching me with an expression that broke my heart—pure, unadulterated worry. When we got back, I went straight to the bedroom. Everett followed me, but I blocked the door. “I just need to rest. Alone.” Everett stayed silent for a moment, his eyes searching my pale face. Finally, he gave a heavy nod. “Fine.” 6 The second the door was locked, I started tearing the room apart. It was a huge suite. Searching just one corner took me thirty minutes, and I found nothing. No clues. No identity. Frustrated, I went into the walk-in closet to change. My eyes were drawn to the very bottom drawer of the jewelry cabinet. It was tucked away, almost hidden. Driven by a strange, magnetic pull, I knelt down and pulled it open. Inside was a weathered, yellowing journal. I recognized it instantly. It was the style of notebook I’d been using since I was eighteen. I felt like I was standing at the threshold of a dark secret. My hands shook as I opened it. The damage was extensive; it looked like someone had tried to rip it to shreds. Nearly every page was missing a corner or a chunk of text. I read through the entries from when I was eighteen to twenty. It was full of the typical “girl in love” musings. I winced at my own younger self—God, I was so dramatic. I flipped faster. I wanted to see when things changed. Apparently, Beckett and I had stayed together for a long time. I desperately wanted to know what caused the breakup. But suddenly, the entries stopped. The dates ended right around my twenty-first birthday. I felt a wave of disappointment. Why didn’t I keep writing? Why was I so careless with this? I prepared to close the book and give up. But then, a scrap of paper—a torn corner from a later page—slipped out from the binding. There were only a few words. But they were written in my handwriting, frantic and jagged. [RUN!] [GET AWAY FROM HIM!] [HE IS A MONSTER!] My scalp went numb. Him? Did I mean Everett? Did he force the breakup? Did he force me into this marriage? It all started to click. The isolation. The lack of a phone. The silver hair. The “vitamins.” He had done something. He had taken my life and locked me in this golden cage. But ten years ago, he hated me. Why would he…? I couldn’t breathe. My head throbbed with a blinding pain. My hands were shaking so hard I could barely hold the notebook. I stood up, clutching my chest, tears of sheer terror pricking my eyes. I have to get out. I have to divorce him. I have to run. As I turned to the door, a shadow blocked the light. I froze. Everett’s voice drifted from the doorway, low and dangerous. “Isla. What are you doing?”

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The emergency room door was left slightly ajar, and Ted’s voice cut through the sterile hallway, reaching me loud and clear. He was telling the doctor that Daphne was a violinist. That her hands were her livelihood, that they absolutely could not be damaged. He demanded they treat her first. At that exact moment, I had just been pulled from the twisted metal of our car by the firefighters. My left wrist was slick with my own blood, a gash on my temple was steadily weeping down the side of my face, and a massive, ugly bruise was blooming across my thigh. By the time the ambulance arrived, the pain had escalated into a dull, terrifying numbness. My knees had been pinned in the crumpled gap of the passenger seat, the seatbelt biting into my collarbone so hard I couldn’t move. Half my body had lost all sensation. I remember the torrential rain hammering against the shattered windshield, the freezing wind howling through the broken glass. And I remember watching, helpless and pinned, as Ted kicked his door open, scooped up a bleeding Daphne, and disappeared into the storm with her. He moved like a man possessed. He never once looked back. “Daphne!” In the chaotic second the car was struck and the metal buckled inward, I didn’t even hear my own scream. I only heard my husband screaming another woman’s name. Right then, in the freezing wreckage, I simply stopped struggling. I finally understood. I could live a hundred lifetimes, and I would never win against the ghost of his first love. … “How is this woman related to you, sir?” the doctor asked. Ted hesitated. The silence lasted exactly two seconds. “Just treat them both.” That sentence was the perfect summary of what he had given me for the past three years. He never rejected me. He never truly acknowledged me. He never blatantly picked a side, but he never, not once, stood firmly in my corner. Lying on the narrow hospital bed, staring at the fluorescent ceiling panels, I suddenly let out a laugh. The nurse bandaging my head paused, her voice gentle. “Does it hurt?” “I’m okay,” I whispered. The truth was, the pain was blinding. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. But compared to the physical agony, what hurt far worse was the realization that I wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. Because this wasn’t the first time. And it wouldn’t be the last. When Ted finally pushed open the door to my cubicle, I had just finished getting stitches. His shoulders were still soaked from the rain. There was blood on the cuffs of his expensive dress shirt, and I didn’t know if it was Daphne’s or mine. “How bad is it?” he asked. I looked at him, my voice eerily calm. “Ted, I want a divorce.” He froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to drop that word, not here, not now. His brow furrowed, and his tone slipped into that familiar, restrained impatience. “Nancy, you’re running high on adrenaline right now. We’ll talk about this when you’ve calmed down.” “I am perfectly calm.” “Today was an accident.” “You’re right,” I nodded slowly. “The crash was an accident. But every single time you choose her over me, Ted—that is a choice.” His eyes darkened, his jaw ticking. “Do you really have to throw a tantrum right now?” I actually wanted to laugh again. A tantrum. To him, me asking for a divorce was just another hysterical female tantrum. We had been married for three years. Three years of staying up until dawn to help him draft proposals when his tech startup was bleeding money. Three years of wrangling his board of directors, drinking on his behalf at endless corporate dinners to secure funding, cleaning up his messes, and playing the perfectly poised, soft-spoken wife to the world. Everyone in our circle always said the same thing: Ted might be a little cold, but he takes good care of Nancy. He gave me black credit cards. He gave me a penthouse. He gave me a title. He gave me everything except his heart. Because every instinct, every subconscious reaction he had, belonged to someone else. Daphne. His untouchable golden girl. His first love. The dream he had never been able to wake up from. I used to be so painfully naive. I thought that if I poured enough warmth, enough devotion into him, I could eventually thaw the ice around his heart. It took me three years to realize the heart wasn’t frozen. It just didn’t belong to me. That night in the hospital, Ted didn’t argue with me anymore. He stood by the bed in silence for a long time before finally saying, “My grandmother’s birthday is next week. We’ll talk after that.” Classic Ted. Every time I backed him into a corner for an answer, he gave me a raincheck. I closed my eyes. “Fine.” Maybe it was how quickly I agreed, but he lingered, looking at me a second longer than usual. But I was already done explaining myself. The next morning, I discharged myself from the hospital. Ted had gone to check on Daphne. He sent me a brief text. Gideon is going to drive you home. Remember to take your meds. It read like instructions left for an assistant dealing with a minor inconvenience. Not a husband. Not a lover. Walking into our apartment, I really looked at the place for the first time in three years. Ted had bought this penthouse. He had chosen the interior design. Slate gray, stark white, matte black. It was beautiful, but it was as sterile as a luxury hotel lobby. The flowers on the kitchen island were white roses. Daphne’s favorite. The crystal wine glasses in the cabinet were a niche French brand. The exact ones Daphne had posted on her Instagram a year ago. The vintage record player in the study? The same brand Daphne used to obsess over in college. Even the low-fat yogurt permanently stocked in the fridge was Daphne’s preferred flavor. I am lactose intolerant. One bite gives me agonizing stomach cramps. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed these little breadcrumbs over the past three years. I just chose to play blind. Because acknowledging them meant admitting that I was living inside someone else’s lingering love story. That I was just a squatter in my own marriage. Even though I was the one wearing the ring. As I packed my bags, I pulled open a nightstand drawer and found an old, brushed silver lighter. In the bottom corner, deeply engraved, was a tiny letter “D.” A gift from Daphne. I had asked him about it once, shortly after we got married. He had come home drunk, and as I was helping him out of his coat, it fell from his pocket. “You still have this?” I had asked. He only gave me three words. “Forgot to toss it.” And yet, here it was, years later. Some things don’t get thrown away because they are much more than objects. I put the lighter back in the drawer and slid it shut. Then I began clearing out my life. My clothes, my books, my skincare, my files. I erased every trace that I had ever breathed the air in this apartment. When Gideon, Ted’s executive assistant, showed up to help, he stood in the doorway, totally bewildered. “Mrs. Crystal… what is all this?” “I’m moving out.” He opened his mouth to argue, then wisely shut it. Anyone who worked closely with Ted knew that while I appeared soft-spoken, once I made a decision, God himself couldn’t change my mind. Gideon stood awkwardly for a long time before muttering, “Mr. Crystal didn’t mean anything by it yesterday, you know.” “Didn’t mean what?” “With the crash… Ms. Daphne’s injuries just looked more severe in the moment…” I didn’t stop folding my sweaters. “Gideon, you’ve worked for him a long time. Do you honestly believe I’m only upset about yesterday?” Gideon fell silent. Because he knew. It wasn’t just yesterday. It was never just yesterday. The first time was three months after our wedding. It was my birthday. Ted had promised to take me out to dinner. I sat in an absurdly expensive, dimly lit restaurant for two hours. I stayed until the busboys were wiping down the tables and I was the only patron left sitting by the window. When he finally called, his voice was hushed. “Daphne ran into some trouble in Paris. I’m dealing with it. I’ll make it up to you.” I had gripped the phone, my voice trembling. “What about my birthday?” Silence on the line. Then: “We’ll celebrate tomorrow.” The second time, my fever had spiked to 103 degrees. He was supposed to be in Chicago on a business trip. I didn’t want to bother him, so I drove myself to urgent care for an IV drip. Sitting alone in the clinic at 2:00 AM, I opened Instagram. Daphne had posted a story. The location tag was the exact same hotel Ted was staying at in Chicago. The photo was just two coffee cups, but in the corner of the frame was a man’s wrist. The watch on that wrist was the Patek Philippe I had bought him for our anniversary. He came home the next day, bringing me medicine and a tasteful gift, his explanation airtight. “Ran into her in the lobby. She was having a panic attack, so I sat with her for a bit to talk her down.” I didn’t call him on his lie. Because I was still lying to myself. I was still foolishly believing that one day, he would wake up and realize who was actually building a life with him. The third time was last year, when his grandmother was hospitalized. The doctors needed a family member to sign the consent forms for surgery. His phone went straight to voicemail for hours. I ran around the hospital alone, dealing with insurance, doctors, and nurses, absolutely frantic, until 2:00 AM. When he finally walked into the waiting room, I thought he had rushed back out of fear for his grandmother. Instead, his first words were: “Daphne has a big recital tomorrow. She was spiraling tonight, so I drove her up to her friend’s cabin to get away from the noise. I didn’t have service.” His grandmother had looked at me from her hospital bed and let out a long, heavy sigh. I still remember the look in her eyes. It was a mix of pity and absolute clarity. She saw the truth then. I was just the only one who refused to see it. I taped up the last box of books. My phone buzzed. It was Daphne. I stared at the name glowing on the screen, then answered. Her voice was just as soft and melodic as always, carrying a hint of a delicate, post-traumatic rasp. “Nancy? Could we meet up?” My first instinct was to hang up. But then I thought, no. Some things needed to be said out loud, once and for all. “Text me the address.” I met Daphne at an upscale cafe a few blocks from the hospital. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere sweater dress. Her face was fashionably pale, and a tiny, pristine gauze pad was taped to her forehead. She looked like a bruised porcelain doll. As soon as I sat down, she spoke. “I’m so sorry about yesterday.” “You don’t need to apologize to me.” She traced the rim of her latte, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. “I actually didn’t even want to move back to the States. Ted was the one who insisted I come back to recover.” I raised an eyebrow, staring right at her. If she noticed my frigid demeanor, she ignored it. Her tone remained impossibly gentle, almost aggressively harmless. “Please don’t misunderstand us, Nancy. There is truly nothing going on. It’s just… we’ve known each other for so long. It’s natural for him to feel a little protective of me.” It was a masterclass in manipulation. It wasn’t a direct insult, but it was far more humiliating than one. I kept my eyes locked on hers. “Did you ask me here just to tell me that?” She finally looked up, a flicker of mock-sympathy in her eyes. “Nancy, I know you hate me. But there are some things in life you just can’t change, no matter how much you dislike them.” “Such as?” “Such as the fact that he cares about me.” She let that hang in the air for a second before delivering the final blow. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” In that exact moment, the fight completely drained out of me. Because she was right. I did know. I knew better than anyone that the softest, most fiercely guarded part of Ted’s heart was never meant for me. I had just spent three years operating under the delusion that if I was just a little more perfect, a little more understanding, a little more patient, he would eventually turn around and see me. I waited three years. I waited until I was sitting in a crushed car next to his golden girl. I waited until he left me in the bleeding dark. I was finally done waiting. I picked up my black coffee, took a sip, and looked at her with total calm. “You can relax, Daphne.” She blinked, confused. “I’m done competing with you.” For a fraction of a second, her perfectly curated expression slipped into rigid shock. I smiled. “And it’s not because you won. It’s because I don’t want him anymore.” I stood up and walked out without looking back. Stepping out of the cafe, the autumn wind stung the fresh stitches on my temple. But inside, I felt unimaginably, euphorically light. Walking away didn’t mean I lost. It just meant I refused to bleed to death for a man who would only ever see me as second best. That night, I checked into a boutique hotel downtown. By the time Ted got back to the apartment, half the place was empty. My phone rang. I answered it. “Where are you?” “I moved out.” “Nancy.” His voice dropped an octave, the warning tone he used in boardrooms. “I told you, we will discuss this after my grandmother’s birthday.” “And I told you, fine.” “Then what the hell is this?” “It means that until then, we’re sleeping in separate zip codes. It saves us both a headache.” A heavy silence fell over the line. “Are you really going to push this?” I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows of my hotel room, watching the headlights blur into rivers of gold on the street below. “Ted, do you honestly still think I’m just throwing a tantrum?” He didn’t answer. I let out a soft breath of a laugh. “I guess I can’t blame you. You’re used to it. You’re used to me acting out and then quietly cleaning up the mess anyway.” “That’s not what I think.” “It’s exactly how you act.” I hung up before he could string together another excuse. The next morning, I went into the office. I was the Director of Corporate Communications for Crystal Technologies. I was one of the founding executives who had been with Ted since the garage days. When I handed my resignation letter to the VP of HR, he practically fell out of his Herman Miller chair. “Nancy… are you absolutely sure about this? Should we take a few days to—” “I’m sure.” “Does Mr. Crystal know?” “He’s about to.” I walked out of HR and nearly bumped into Gideon in the hallway. He looked panicked. “Mrs. Crystal, Ted is in a board meeting—” “Perfect timing. Tell him to check his email when he gets out.” When I went back to my office to pack my desk, my two junior managers were practically in tears. “Nancy, are you seriously leaving us?” “Yeah.” “What are we supposed to do?” I dropped a stack of PR strategies into my cardboard box, not missing a beat. “Keep doing your jobs. This company won’t collapse just because I’m not here.” One of the girls sniffled. “But without you, Mr. Crystal is going to lose his mind.” My hands paused over the box. A slow smile spread across my face. “Then let him.” I think that was the first time in my adult life I ever prioritized my own peace over his stability. It felt intoxicating. Less than ten minutes after the company-wide email went out, my phone rang. “Are you in the building?” Ted demanded. “Yes.” “My office. Now.” “If you have a work question, you can ask it over the phone.” “Nancy.” The suppressed fury in his voice was vibrating through the speaker. “Do not make me say it again.” The old me would have caved instantly. But today, I just adjusted my phone against my ear and said, “I’m busy packing up my desk. I don’t have the time.” Click. Three minutes later, he materialized in the doorway of my office. He was a tall, imposing figure in a bespoke suit, and the second he stepped in, the entire floor went dead silent. Every head in the bullpen swiveled toward my glass walls. I didn’t look up. I kept sorting my files. Ted stepped inside and closed the door. His eyes locked onto the printed resignation form on my desk. His jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone. “Is this a joke to you?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” He stared at me, the anger barely contained. “You are the head of PR. Do you have any idea what kind of market panic it will cause if you walk out the door right now?” I finally looked up at him. “Are we having a professional conversation right now, Ted? Or a marital one?” His lips thinned into a hard line. I stood up and handed him my signed handover checklist. “If this is about work, my contract requires a three-month transition period. You have me until then. If this is about our marriage, we can go straight to the courthouse the morning after your grandmother’s party.” You could have heard a pin drop in that office. He probably never imagined that I—the woman who spent years protecting his ego and our public image—would pull the trigger so ruthlessly in the middle of corporate headquarters. He never expected the woman who always left him a way out to barricade the door. It took him a long time to find his voice. “Are you really doing this?” “I’m just sorry it took me this long to do it.” After that day, Ted and I entered a bizarre, suffocating cold war. He didn’t bring up the divorce again, and he stopped trying to block my resignation. But suddenly, he was everywhere. When I went to drop off tea for his grandmother, he was sitting in her parlor. When I went to the hospital to get my stitches removed, the elevator doors opened, and he was standing there. When I took a client out for drinks, the waitress came over and told me the gentleman at the bar had already covered the tab. Even the concierge at my hotel whispered to me, “Ms. Crystal, a gentleman has been calling every night for three days to ask if you’ve checked out.” It was insulting. When I slept next to him every night, I was invisible. Now that I was walking out the door, he suddenly knew how to pay attention. Too little. Too late. Grandma Estelle’s birthday dinner at the estate was a massive affair. The sprawling living room was packed with aunts, uncles, and cousins. The champagne was flowing, and everyone naturally assumed Ted and I would arrive together. But I walked through the double doors alone. The collective shift in the room’s energy was immediate. The glances turned sharp and speculative. “Nancy, sweetheart, where’s Ted?” an aunt asked. “He’s on his way.” The words had barely left my mouth when the front doors opened behind me. Ted walked in. And walking right beside him, looking like a vision, was Daphne. The entire room went dead silent for two agonizing seconds. I stood holding a glass of sparkling water, and in that moment, I realized I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. This was who he was. Just when you thought about letting your guard down, he found the perfect, surgical way to plunge the knife back in. Daphne was wearing a sweeping champagne-colored gown, her hair pinned up elegantly. She looked fragile, artistic, and completely out of place at a private family dinner—yet she stood next to my husband as if she owned him. Ted spotted me, and his footsteps faltered. Even he seemed to realize the catastrophic optics of what he had just done. But the older relatives were already sizing Daphne up. One of his uncles frowned. “Ted, who is this?” Daphne opened her mouth, her voice trembling slightly, but I cut her off with a bright, razor-sharp smile. “She’s a friend.” A friend. A friend he brought to his wife’s family dinner. A friend he chose to pull from a burning car while his wife bled in the backseat. What a lovely, versatile word. Ted’s face darkened. “Nancy.” “Did I say something wrong?” I looked right into his eyes, my smile not reaching my own. “If she’s not a friend, what is she? Family?” The air in the room practically crystalized. No one dared to breathe. The tension broke only when Grandma Estelle emerged from the hallway, leaning heavily on her silver-tipped cane. “Nancy. Come here.” I walked over and gently took her arm. She patted my hand, her sharp eyes lingering on the faint, pink scar near my temple. Then she looked at Ted, and her expression turned to absolute ice. “In my study. Now.” She was talking to Ted. Before the heavy oak doors of the study clicked shut behind them, I caught a glimpse of Daphne standing alone in the center of the lavish room, looking pale and humiliated. I just felt bored. Half an hour later, Ted walked out of the study. He looked like he had been put in front of a firing squad. The housekeeper came out and told me Estelle wanted to see me. The old woman was sitting in a velvet armchair, looking exhausted. She patted the ottoman next to her. “Sit, child.” When I sat down, she reached into her pocket and pressed a heavy, velvet box into my palm. Inside was an antique emerald ring, framed in crushed diamonds. It was the Crystal family heirloom. I stared at it, horrified. “Nana, I can’t take this.” “It’s yours.” “I can’t.” “And why not?” She looked at me, her voice quiet but carrying the weight of a judge’s gavel. “You’ve been married to that boy for three years. You’ve swallowed more poison than you’ve had champagne. If I don’t give this to you, who on earth deserves it?” My throat tightened. Estelle sighed. “I already took a strip off that idiot’s hide. Nancy, I’m not going to sit here and make excuses for my grandson. If you are too tired to carry this marriage anymore, I won’t stand in your way.” Tears prickled the back of my eyes. In three years, the only person in this family who had ever truly seen my worth, who had ever truly protected me, was his grandmother. She squeezed my hands tightly. “But I need you to remember one thing, Nancy. It is not because you weren’t good enough. It’s because he doesn’t deserve you.” I kept my head bowed. I couldn’t speak. The rest of the birthday dinner tasted like ash. Halfway through the meal, Daphne excused herself to the powder room. Ted immediately stood up and followed her. If this were last year, my stomach would have been in knots. I would have agonized over what they were whispering about in the hallway. I would have wondered if he was holding her, comforting her. But tonight, I just quietly picked up a piece of sea bass and put it on Estelle’s plate. Estelle watched me for a moment. “You’re really done, aren’t you?” I paused, then smiled softly. “Yeah. Pretty much.” Estelle let out a grim huff of laughter. “About damn time.” I almost choked on my wine. By the time I left the estate, a light drizzle had started falling. I had just reached the bottom of the front steps when Ted caught my arm. “I’ll drive you.” “I have a cab coming.” “Nancy, we need to talk.” I looked at him. “Shouldn’t you be driving Daphne home?” A muscle feathered in his jaw. “She already left.” “Got it.” I tried to step around him, but his grip tightened on my wrist. His fingers pressed directly into the deep, bruised laceration from the airbag. I hissed, sucking in a sharp breath of pain. He dropped my arm instantly as if I had burned him, staring at my wrist in horror. “God. I’m sorry.” What a novelty. Ted Crystal, apologizing to me. Unfortunately, I had outgrown the need for his apologies. “You don’t need to do this, Ted.” I took a step back, the gravel crunching under my heels. “What do you want to talk about? Do you want to explain how bringing her to Nana’s birthday was just ‘helping a friend’? Or do you want to break down the logistics of why pulling her out of the wreckage first made tactical sense?” “Does every single word out of your mouth have to be an attack?” “Is the truth attacking you?” I smiled dryly. “Because none of it is a lie.” He stared at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, swallowing down some heavy, unnamed emotion. Finally, his voice cracked. “She came tonight because Nana used to be fond of her. She just wanted to pay her respects.” I nodded slowly. “And?” “I didn’t do it to humiliate you.” “But you did.” The silence that followed was absolute. The only sound was the rain hitting the pavement. I looked at him, feeling a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion. “Ted, stop explaining. Every time you hurt me, you tell me you didn’t mean to. But the bleeding is always the same.” “I used to think you were just emotionally stunted. That you didn’t know how to love someone. But I realize now that’s not true. You know exactly how to love. You just don’t want to put me first.” “So let’s just call it. We’re done.” I turned and climbed into the back of my waiting Uber. As we pulled away, I looked in the rearview mirror. Ted was standing alone in the rain. He didn’t chase the car. A few days later, my notice period officially ended. On my last day, my old team threw a small farewell party in the breakroom. It was just the core group, the people who had survived the startup trenches with me. One of the senior developers had a few too many IPAs. He got red in the face and pointed a plastic cup at me. “Nancy, I’m telling you, without you here, the boss is gonna lose half his soul.” I tapped my plastic cup against his and smiled. “That sounds like a ‘him’ problem.” When I walked out of the lobby with my final box of belongings, Declan was leaning against the hood of his matte-black Porsche. Declan was a partner at a massive, cutthroat PR agency in the city, and a rival I had battled in boardrooms for years. He’d been trying to poach me for eighteen months. “Finally escaped Alcatraz?” He spun his keys around his index finger. “I thought you were going to die behind a desk at Crystal Tech.” “I almost did.” “And now?” “Now, I’m going to figure out what I actually want.” Declan studied my face for two seconds before a slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Welcome to the dark side.” A week later, I accepted an offer as VP of Crisis Management at Declan’s firm. The day the press release went out, the corporate grapevine caught fire. Some people gossiped that Ted and I had an explosive fallout. Some said I was smart to jump ship. And a few veterans whispered that letting me walk away was the most catastrophic miscalculation Ted Crystal had ever made in his career. When I read that last rumor, I smirked. At least someone in this city had some sense. It was two weeks after I moved out that Ted finally cracked and came to my hotel. I had been working late, drafting a campaign launch. When I stepped off the elevator at 9:00 PM, I found him standing outside my room. He was in a tailored suit, but he looked wrecked. The dark circles under his eyes made him look like he hadn’t slept in a week. I walked past him, slid my keycard into the door, and pushed it open. I didn’t invite him in. “Can I help you?” He stared at me. “You look thin.” Coming from him, the concern was so utterly absurd I almost laughed out loud. “And?” “Nancy, please. Stop this. Come home.” My hand tightened around the doorknob. “Whose home?” “Our home.” “That was never my home,” I looked him dead in the eye. “That was a museum dedicated to your memories of her.” His frown deepened. “I know I’ve been neglecting you lately. I admit that. But divorce isn’t a game. You shouldn’t throw our marriage away just because you’re angry—” “Ted.” I cut him off. “Do you really, truly believe I’m doing this out of spite?” He went quiet. I held his gaze. My voice was dangerously quiet, dropping every word like a stone into a glass lake. “The day of the crash. When I was trapped in that seat, bleeding, and I watched you carry her away… I had an epiphany.” “I spent three years bending over backwards for you. I sold my soul for your company, I drank your clients under the table, I played the perfect wife for your family. But the second it was life or death, your body moved toward her.” “In that moment, I wasn’t angry. I woke up.” “I finally realized that no matter how much I bled for you, no matter how perfect I was, I was never going to win against her.” “And since the game is rigged, I’m done playing.” I watched the words hit him. He actually flinched. It was the look of a man who suddenly realized the ground beneath him was gone. He realized I wasn’t negotiating. I wasn’t punishing him. I wasn’t waiting for flowers or an apology. I was just gone. Watching the color drain from his face, I felt a morbid sense of amusement. So, Ted Crystal knows how to panic. Too bad it didn’t move me at all. “Have a good night,” I said. “Don’t come back here.” I went to shut the door, but he slammed his hand against the wood, holding it open. “Nancy, what do you want me to do? Tell me what to do.” I looked at his hand. This was the first time in three years he had ever asked me what he should do. Usually, I was the one swallowing my pride, adjusting to his orbit, fixing the cracks. Now he wanted a map. But I had burned it. “It’s simple,” I said. “Sign the papers.” The tendons in his hand stood out in stark relief. It took him a long time to speak, his voice thick and wrecked. “Anything but that.” A tiny tremor went through my chest. Not from pity. From irony. “That’s funny,” I smiled thinly. “Because ‘anything but that’ is what you gave me for three years. You’re an expert at it.” I pushed his hand back and slammed the door. The hallway outside remained perfectly silent. It was silent for so long I thought he had left. But when I finally peeked through the peephole, he was still standing there. Standing perfectly still, staring at the closed door, like a man who had arrived years too late to realize the woman inside was never coming back out. I walked away and didn’t look again. For the next month, I didn’t ask anyone about Ted. I didn’t care. Until his company blew up in a spectacular PR disaster.

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I was at the boutique that morning, standing before the three-way mirror for the final fitting of my wedding suit. It was a piece I had spent months designing, a labor of love for the day I’d finally marry the woman who had been my entire world for a decade. The bell above the door chimed, and a young man sauntered in. One of the floor assistants leaned toward me, whispering that this customer had already rejected ninety-nine different suits in the last three months. Apparently, he was impossibly high-maintenance, backed by a wealthy, doting fiancée who didn’t mind paying for his endless revisions. As the assistant grumbled about the guy’s pickiness, the man suddenly stopped in his tracks. He pointed directly at me—or rather, at the suit I was wearing. “I want that one,” he said, his voice ringing with the casual entitlement of someone who had never been told ‘no.’ The assistant politely explained that the suit was a bespoke, one-of-a-kind piece belonging to a private client. It wasn’t for sale. Without a word, the man pulled out his phone and made a quick call. Minutes later, the store manager came rushing out, breathless and pale. He informed me that the man’s fiancée had just purchased the entire boutique. They were “insisting” that I hand over my suit to him. “Absolutely not,” I said, my voice steady despite the spike of adrenaline. “I designed this for my own wedding. It’s not a commodity.” The assistant who had been helping me earlier nudged my shoulder, whispering urgently, “Adrian, be careful. That’s the fiancé of Diana Beaumont. You don’t want to be on her bad side. Playing nice could open a lot of doors for your career.” The name Diana Beaumont hit me like a physical blow. My heart skipped a beat, then began to thud painfully against my ribs. If he was Diana Beaumont’s fiancé… then who the hell was I? … He saw the shock written across my face and mistook it for awe. A smug, practiced smile spread across his lips—the look of a man who knew he held all the cards. “You’re a designer, right?” he said, nodding toward my reflection. “Think of it this way: if I wear your work to my wedding, your name will be everywhere by Monday morning. It’s a career-maker.” I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I forced myself to swallow the bile rising in my throat and looked at the manager. “Let me see his contract,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. The manager hesitated, but after a sharp look from the young man, he handed over the tablet. I scrolled to the final page, my fingers trembling. There, at the bottom, was the signature I’d seen a thousand times. Diana Beaumont. Her elegant, looping script was unmistakable. It was the same handwriting that had filled the margins of my college notebooks. The same hand that had signed our engagement party invitations just months ago. Now, it was here, tethered to a man named Parker. The world turned cold, a sharp, crystalline frost settling into my bones. The reality was as absurd as it was undeniable. My fiancée, Diana, was living a double life. She wasn’t just cheating; she was planning a whole other forever. I felt my knees weaken. I reached for a glass of water on a nearby side table, forcing myself to take a slow sip. I studied Parker. He looked to be in his early twenties, radiating a restless, boyish energy. There was a haunting similarity in the set of his eyes and the curve of his jaw to my own. The realization didn’t bring comfort. It made me feel sick. He was a younger, shinier version of the man I used to be. “Fine,” I said, setting the glass down. “He can have the suit.” Parker grinned, unsurprised. He turned to head toward the dressing rooms, but I reached out and caught his sleeve. “This suit has a very specific silhouette,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let me style your hair for you. It needs the right look to really work.” Parker’s private suite was a testament to excess—plush velvet sofas, a fully stocked bar, and rows upon rows of designer labels. He noticed my gaze lingering on the racks. “My fiancée’s doing,” Parker said with a casual shrug. “She says since I spend half my life in here picking out clothes, I might as well be comfortable.” I forced a thin smile. “She sounds very devoted.” Parker arched a brow and sighed, though his smirk betrayed his pride. “She loves throwing money at me, yeah. But she’s always ‘too busy’ to actually show up for the fittings.” The assistant, who had followed us in to help with the pins, chimed in. “Oh, don’t say that, Mr. Parker! Miss Beaumont was here for almost every other session. She must be truly swamped at the office today to miss this one.” Parker beamed at the compliment. “True. She hates being away from me. I’m sure she’s miserable in whatever board meeting she’s stuck in.” The words felt like shards of glass in my chest. I remembered how Diana had been so “checked out” during our own wedding planning. When I asked her about the venue, she’d just say, “Whatever you want, Adrian.” When I booked the photographer for our engagement shoot, she stood us up three times. I had told myself she was just stressed with the merger. I told myself she was doing it all for our future. It wasn’t that she didn’t have the time. She just didn’t have the heart for me. I picked up a curling iron and began to work on Parker’s hair. “So,” Parker asked, looking at me through the mirror. “Was that suit for a client? The staff said it was a ‘not-for-sale’ piece.” I paused, the heat of the iron radiating against my palm. “No,” I said softly. “It was meant for my own wedding.” Parker blinked, looking genuinely sheepish for a fleeting second. “Oh. Man, I’m sorry. That’s… awkward.” He said he was sorry, but there was no move to give the suit back. He tilted his head, his eyes bright and pleading like a spoiled puppy. “It’s just—I’m so incredibly picky, you know? And this is the first thing that’s felt right. You’re clearly talented, though. I’m sure you can whip up something even better for yourself. You’ve got this!” I managed a nod. “It’s fine. I’m in no rush.” As I worked, Parker’s phone buzzed on the vanity. He couldn’t reach it because of the styling, so he hit the speakerphone. “Hey, babe,” he chirped. “Parker, how’s the fitting going?” The voice was a warm honey-pour I knew by heart. It was the voice that used to whisper “Wake up, Adrian,” into my ear every morning when we first moved in together. Back then, she was like a child, full of light, tickling me until we both collapsed into breathless laughter on the floor. I turned my head away, blinking back the sudden sting in my eyes. I had almost forgotten what she sounded like when she was being gentle. She hadn’t used that tone with me in years. “I’m getting my hair done, actually,” Parker said, grinning at the phone. “This suit is perfect, Diana. It’s going to look amazing next to your dress. It’s such a shame you’re not here to see it.” “I know, honey,” Diana soothed. “I’m buried in the board meeting. I’ll make it up to you, okay? I promise.” Parker pouted. “But this might be the last time I try it on. Don’t you want to see us together before the big day?” A soft sigh came through the line—the sound of her giving in. “Alright, you win. I’ll head over as soon as we wrap up. I can never say no to you.” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Last night, I had begged Diana to come with me to pick up the suit. I told her it was a big moment for me. She had looked at me with cold, judgmental eyes. “Adrian, stop being so needy. I have work.” Then she had walked away without a second glance. Apparently, her schedule was flexible after all. I just wasn’t the one worth bending it for. Parker hung up, looking victorious. The assistant sighed wistfully. “You two are just goals, Mr. Parker. Truly.” Parker laughed, then looked at me. “So, man, when’s your big day?” I froze, the question hanging in the air like a guillotine. Before I could answer, a rival designer from the shop—a guy who had always hated my “artistic” approach—walked in with a tray of accessories. He’d caught the tail end of the conversation. “He’s been working on that suit for months,” the guy sneered, looking at me with pure schadenfreude. “But we’ve never even seen this ‘fiancée’ of his. Honestly, we were starting to wonder if she even existed.” He turned to Parker, his face instantly transforming into a mask of sycophancy. “Now, you, Mr. Parker—you’re the lucky one. A woman like Miss Beaumont? She clearly can’t breathe without you.” I looked down, unable to find a retort. It was true. Diana hadn’t even set a date with me yet. Every time I brought it up, she found a reason to delay. I had been planning a wedding for a ghost. Parker frowned, seemingly coming to my defense, though his voice held a note of condescending pity. “Really? She hasn’t been helping? That’s a red flag, brother. You should watch out for that.” I played along, my heart a lead weight in my chest. “Maybe you’re right. I should rethink things. What about you? When are you two tying the knot?” Parker thought for a second. “The big ceremony is later this year, but we actually already made it official.” My breath hitched. “Official?” Parker nodded proudly. “Yeah, we eloped at City Hall on May 20th. I insisted on the date—5/20 sounds like ‘I love you’ in the old tradition, right? She was supposed to be on a business trip, but I talked her into it.” May 20th. My thirtieth birthday. I had waited up for her until 2:00 AM that night. She had texted me saying she was stuck at a conference three states away, exhausted and alone. I had felt guilty for even wanting her there. And all the while, she was signing a marriage license with a boy who shared my eyes. We had been together since we were eighteen. For a decade, she was the girl who couldn’t wait to turn twenty-one just so we could legally elope. Then, as her career took off, she became the woman who was “too busy for paperwork.” She had cried when I proposed. We were under a canopy of fireworks, and she had clung to me, sobbing “Yes, yes, forever.” I realized then that “forever” was just a word she recycled for whoever was currently holding her interest. Parker went into the dressing room to change into the final look. I followed him in to help with the delicate tailoring of the jacket. “Hey,” Parker whispered, leaning in close. “Could you guys let out the waist on the wedding dress a little? Just a preemptive strike?” I blinked. “The dress?” Parker smirked, a secret shining in his eyes. “She thinks she’s surprising me, but I know she’s pregnant. I don’t want to ruin her surprise, but I know she’ll be showing by the time we do the big reception. Can you make sure the designers know? Keep it on the down-low, though.” The world went silent. A cold, crushing weight settled onto my lungs. Pregnant. Diana—the woman who had told me for years that she was “strictly child-free”—was carrying a child. She had told me she was afraid of the pain, afraid of losing her career, afraid of being “trapped” by motherhood. I had respected her choice. I had defended her when her family pressured us. I had made my peace with a life that was just the two of us. And now, she was having a baby with him. I mumbled something incoherent and bolted out of the dressing room. I leaned against the door in the hallway, my chest heaving. The cruelty of it was breathtaking. Maybe she didn’t tell him because she planned on “handling” it. Or maybe, she just didn’t want a life with me. Parker’s phone rang on the sofa again. It was Diana. “Adrian!” Parker yelled from inside the room. “Can you grab that? My hands are full!” I stared at the phone. A dark, jagged urge took root in my mind. I wanted to see her world burn the way mine just had. I picked up. “Hello?” There was a pause. She didn’t recognize my voice through the digital filter of the phone. “Who is this?” “I’m an assistant at the boutique,” I said, my voice flat. “Mr. Parker is in the dressing room. Can I take a message?” She didn’t suspect a thing. “Oh, fine. Just tell him I ordered some afternoon tea to be sent over. Make sure he eats; he gets migraines if his blood sugar drops.” The tenderness in her voice was nauseating. It was a ghost of the woman I used to love. “Of course,” I said. “And one more thing,” Diana added, her voice dropping an octave. “Regarding the dress I ordered… tell the lead designer to adjust the waist. Make it larger.” My grip tightened on the phone. “Is there a specific reason for the change?” There was a long silence. Then, softly: “I’m pregnant. But please, don’t tell Parker. I want to surprise him. Just make sure the designer handles it.” I hung up and slowly sank to the floor, burying my face in my hands. It wasn’t that she didn’t want children. She just didn’t want my children. Ten years. I had given her a decade of my life, and I was nothing more than a placeholder. Parker stepped out of the room, looking radiant in the suit I had built for myself. It fit him perfectly. We really did have the same taste—in clothes, and in women. The staff hovered around him, showering him with praise. Parker lived for it. He snapped a selfie and sent it to Diana. “Babe, look at this. I’m a masterpiece, right?” Her reply came instantly: “Stunning. You were born to wear that.” I watched him, a boy vibrating with a happiness I once owned. I remembered when I first started in design. I had no formal training, just a sketchbook and a dream. Everyone told me I’d fail. Except Diana. She was my fiercest advocate. Back then, there was a vintage gown in a window downtown that I used to stare at. I loved the craftsmanship, but I was a broke student and buying a wedding dress seemed like a jinx. I never told her. I just looked. The next day, it was sitting in my bedroom. I remembered the way she looked at me then—with a fierce, unwavering devotion. “Adrian, if you love it, it’s yours. Whatever you want to do, I’m behind you. Always.” She had loved me once. I knew she had. But time is a slow, silent thief. Parker was preening in front of the mirror when his assistant suggested a pop of color—a brooch, perhaps. “You’re right,” Parker said, snapping his fingers. “I almost forgot. I just picked up that piece from the auction house today.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a velvet jewelry box. He pinned a shimmering object to his lapel and turned to me. “What do you think? My fiancée won this at an estate auction for me. Goes great with the suit, right?” My heart stopped. I stared at the brooch. I moved closer, my eyes wide, my breath hitching in my throat. It couldn’t be. But it was. It was a vintage emerald and gold piece—my mother’s only heirloom. An antique that had been in my family for generations. Years ago, when the Beaumont firm was on the verge of bankruptcy, Diana had been desperate. I couldn’t stand to see her lose everything. I had sold that brooch—the only thing I had left of my mother—to inject capital into her company. It was the seed money that saved her empire. I had spent my life feeling guilty for losing it. Diana knew how much it meant to me. She had promised me, a thousand times, that she would find it and bring it home. She had found it. And she had given it to Parker. I felt the blood drain from my face, replaced by a searing, white-hot rage. My nails bit into my palms until I drew blood. How dare she? How dare she use my mother’s legacy to buy the affection of a boy she was using to replace me? The door to the lounge swung open. A familiar silhouette stepped in, bathed in the soft glow of the boutique lighting. “Parker, honey? Are you ready to go home?” I turned slowly.

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My “Lawyer-on-Call” livestreams had become an accidental sensation. One evening, a caller joined the queue, her voice heavily distorted by a digital modulator. “Attorney Valentine,” she began, the robotic pitch masking her age. “I’m seeing a man—an ‘uncle,’ though we aren’t related by blood. Is there anything in the law that says we can’t be together?” I pushed down a sudden, inexplicable prickle of unease. “Legally? No. If there’s no biological tie and both are consenting adults, it’s not a crime.” “Then I have nothing to worry about,” she said, her tone visibly lighter even through the filter. “He’s getting married next Saturday. I’m planning to confess everything to him at the altar.” I fell silent for a few seconds, the ethics of the situation clashing with my professional detachment. “Sweetheart, if he’s marrying someone else, it means he’s made his choice. Don’t do this to yourself. Don’t throw away your dignity for a man who’s already at the finish line with someone else.” To my surprise, she let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “He’s afraid of the dark, Attorney Valentine. Did you know that? Even if he has to slip his fiancée a sedative in her milk, he still comes to my room to hold me until I fall asleep. Tell me… is that not love?” I froze. The air in my study suddenly felt too thin. As I scrambled for a response—some piece of advice to pull this girl back from the edge—the heavy oak door to my study pushed open. My fiancé, Garrett, walked in. He was carrying a glass of warm milk, a soft, practiced smile on his face. … Looking at that swaying glass of white liquid, my brain let out a high-pitched ring. I snapped my head up to look at Garrett. The girl on the stream said her “uncle” put sedatives in the milk. Coincidentally, Garrett had a niece. I forced myself to remain still, my eyes darting toward the monitor. The girl had disconnected, leaving behind a chaotic waterfall of comments that confirmed this wasn’t a fever dream. Poor fiancée… for the love of God, don’t drink the milk. This ‘uncle’ and ‘niece’ are monsters. Using someone’s health as a tool for their affair? There’s a special place in hell. I checked—the girl’s using a burner account. This was a targeted strike on Brooke’s stream. I took a jagged breath and clicked the “End Stream” button. “Everything okay?” Garrett asked, stepping closer. “You look pale. Too many hours on the screen?” He leaned down and pressed a dry, cool kiss to my forehead. “I’m sorry, Brooke. Maisie was being impulsive. It’s her fault you lost your position at the firm, and now you’re forced to hustle on these streams just to keep your reputation alive.” A month ago, Maisie had thrown a tantrum because Garrett and I went to a charity gala without her. In retaliation, she filed a formal, anonymous complaint with the State Bar, accusing me of bribing a federal prosecutor. I was suspended pending an investigation. Though I was eventually cleared, the stain on my “Golden Girl” reputation was indelible. I was forced to resign to save the firm’s face. “You don’t have to work this hard, you know,” Garrett murmured, brushing a stray hair from my face. “I can take care of you. After the wedding, you can just focus on the house. We’ll have three boys, and they’ll grow up happy with Maisie right there to help us. Like one big family.” “Here,” he said, pressing the glass against my lips. “Drink this. You need to sleep. Stop overthinking.” I swallowed hard, the cold rim of the glass clinking against my teeth. The girl’s voice echoed in the silence of my mind: He’s taking the milk to her now. It’s got the pills in it. It felt like a conspiracy theory, a glitch in the Matrix. But the hair on my arms stood up. I faked a heavy cough and pushed his hand away. “I’m not thirsty right now. I’ll drink it in a minute.” Garrett’s expression instantly soured. His features, usually so handsome and refined, twisted into something sharp and unrecognizable. “Are you still holding a grudge against Maisie?” He grabbed my wrist, his grip tight enough to leave a ghost of a bruise. “Do you have any idea how much guilt that girl is carrying? She can’t sleep because of what happened at the firm! She’s just a kid, Brooke. The pressure is killing her. To be honest, she’s the one who warmed this for you. She said if you drink it, it means you’ve finally forgiven her. Otherwise—” “Garrett, let go. You’re hurting me.” I struggled, but his hand was like a lead shackle. “Auntie Brooke… do you really hate me that much?” I hadn’t heard her come in. Maisie stood in the doorway, wearing a white silk nightgown that looked more like a slip. Her eyes were rimmed with red. Without warning, she crossed the room and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. I was stunned into silence. Garrett immediately let go of me to scoop Maisie up, pulling her into his chest. He turned on me, his voice trembling with a terrifying kind of righteous anger. “Brooke, are you trying to destroy this family?” “I’ve told you a thousand times—Maisie’s father died in my arms in the Sandbox. He was my brother-in-arms. He left her to me. It is my sacred duty to protect her for the rest of her life! In this house, her well-being comes first!” My heart felt like it was being crushed by a giant’s hand. My voice came out as a fragile whisper. “Does her ‘well-being’ include lying to the Bar? Does it include ruining my career because of a missed dinner?” When she found out I was pregnant two years ago—during her finals week—the two of them sat me down and shamed me. They told me I was “undisciplined,” that my timing was “selfish” and “disgusting.” The stress became a physical weight. I miscarried three days later. I had endured it all for Garrett. I had swallowed the bitterness because I believed in his “heroism.” But he didn’t care about my sacrifice. “You’re a grown woman arguing semantics with a twenty-year-old?” Garrett hissed. “You can find another job. But if you break her spirit, that’s forever!” “Garrett,” Maisie sobbed, clutching his shirt. “It’s my fault. Please don’t fight. If Brooke can’t stand the sight of me, I’ll just… I’ll just end it! I don’t want to live in a world where I’m a burden!” She broke from his arms and ran toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Garrett lunged for her. In his haste, he shoved me aside. I hit the edge of the mahogany desk, a sharp pain exploding in my temple as a knot began to form. Maisie struggled in his arms, her cries growing louder. “She won’t drink the milk! She hates me! I just want to go be with my dad in heaven!” My head was spinning, my vision blurring. Through the fog, I heard Garrett’s barking command: “Brooke! Drink it! Now! Show her you forgive her or so help me—” “You know what she means to me! If you drive her to the edge, you’re driving me there too!” Watching them—the “grieving” veteran and his “broken” ward—I felt a sudden, profound exhaustion. The fight left me. I stood up unsteadily, picked up the glass, and downed the milk in three long gulps. When the glass hit the table empty, I caught a glimpse of Maisie’s face over Garrett’s shoulder. She wasn’t crying anymore. She was wearing a tiny, predatory smile. My gut screamed at me. Something was wrong. I waited until they left the room, then stumbled into the bathroom. I didn’t hesitate. I shoved two fingers down my throat and forced everything back up until my stomach was empty and my throat burned. At 3:00 AM, I heard the faint floorboards creak in the hallway. “Garrett? Are you still coming?” My heart stopped. Garrett’s voice was a low, firm murmur. “Of course. You’ve been afraid of the dark since you were five. I’m not letting your father down tonight.” A moment later, my bedroom door eased open. Garrett crept in, checking on me. “Shh, she’s out cold,” he whispered to someone in the hall. Maisie stepped into the room, giggling softly. “I told you. She’s not waking up for a long time.” She walked over to my closet and pulled it open with a flourish. “God, Brooke is such a closeted flirt. Look at all this lace. She won’t mind if I borrow something, will she?” Garrett looked nervous. “Maisie, don’t. If she finds out, she’ll blow up. You know her temper.” Maisie ignored him, sliding a sheer negligee over her shoulders. “Let her. I’ll put it back before she even stirs. I want her clothes, Garrett… and I want her man, too.” She jumped onto Garrett’s back, whispering into his ear, “Actually, I prefer sleeping with nothing on. Is that okay, Uncle?” Garrett’s ears turned bright red. He glanced one last time at my “sleeping” form, his face a mask of conflict and desire, before carrying her out and closing the door. The moment the latch clicked, a single, hot tear tracked down my temple. It was her. The girl on the livestream. It had been Maisie all along. I didn’t sleep a wink. At 6:00 AM, Garrett slid back into bed beside me, radiating the scent of Maisie’s floral perfume. He kissed the corner of my mouth. “I love you, Brooke.” The bile rose in my throat. I nearly vomited on him right then and there. At 8:00 AM, I walked downstairs, the dark circles under my eyes heavy enough to feel. Maisie was in the kitchen, glowing with energy, stirring a pot of steel-cut oats. “Brooke! I heard you love honey and cinnamon oats. I got up at six just to make them for you. I felt so bad about the firm… I wanted to do something nice.” Her voice was a sugary poison. I felt a violent shiver run down my spine. “I’m not hungry.” I reached out to gently move her hand away from the bowl she was offering. The next second, the bowl hit the floor with a ceramic crash. Maisie let out a theatrical shriek. “It’s hot! Brooke, why would you push me?!” Garrett, half-dressed, came flying down the stairs. “Brooke! What is wrong with you? I leave the room for five minutes and you’re bullying her?” He grabbed Maisie’s hand and thrust it under the cold tap. “It’s okay, Maisie. I’ve got you.” “Don’t be mad at her, Garrett,” Maisie whimpered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “It’s my fault. I’m just… so sore and exhausted from last night. I was clumsy. My legs felt like jelly.” Garrett’s face flushed deep crimson. “If you’re that tired, you shouldn’t be standing. Come here.” He swept her up into a bridal carry. As they reached the stairs, they didn’t even bother to lower their voices. “Garrett, you’re so mean to her. What if she doesn’t marry you next week?” Garrett let out a ragged breath. “Please. She wouldn’t dare.” “We’ve been together seven years. She’s obsessed with me. She has nowhere else to go.” I watched them go, my eyes finally dampening. Seven years ago, he was my mountain guide on a trek through the Grand Tetons. We got caught in an avalanche. In that moment, he defied every human instinct for self-preservation and threw his body over mine. When he woke up in the hospital, the first thing he said was, “You’re mine. I’ll keep you safe forever.” I had been so swept away that I walked away from a pre-arranged family merger, a life of high-society security, just to be with him. Seven years later, the rugged guide was the CEO of a luxury travel empire. We had everything now. But his heart had rotted along the way. If Maisie was more important than me, then it was time I looked for my own version of “forever.” I pulled out my phone and dialed the wedding planner. “About the ceremony next Saturday,” I said, my voice cold and clear. “Change the venue. All of it.” “And… we’re going to need a different groom.” The night before the wedding, I went live one last time. The viewer count exploded—over a hundred thousand people in minutes. My stomach dropped. Something was wrong. The comments were a blur of vitriol: Look at the trending news, Brooke. You’re a fraud. I opened a news app. My name was at the top of the social media scandal board. SHOCKING: FAMOUS ‘VIRTUE’ LAWYER BROOKE VALENTINE REVEALED AS SERIAL BRIBERY OFFENDER. SECRET ABORTION FOR HIGH-PROFILE CLIENT EXPOSED. An hour before my stream, an account claiming to be my “former assistant” had posted a massive thread. It accused me of systemic bribery during my time at the firm. Even worse, it posted a photo of me from two years ago—masked, looking haggard and broken, sitting outside an OB-GYN clinic. The comments were merciless: No wonder her win rate was so high. She was buying judges. Preaches about the law and justice, but she’s just a high-end fixer. Who knows if she paid with money or her body? Probably both. I stood up, phone in hand, and kicked open the door to Garrett’s study. “It wasn’t her,” Garrett said before I could even speak. “Maisie is twenty. She doesn’t have the resources or the malice for a hit job like this. You probably pissed off the wrong person at the firm and they’re coming for blood.” I shoved the phone in his face. “Look at the account handle. This person joined my livestream yesterday. Look at the clip.” I played the recording. The distorted voice was clear: Is it legally problematic if I’m seeing an ‘uncle’—not by blood, obviously? Garrett’s brow furrowed as the clip played. The realization was right there, written in his eyes. But he shook his head, hardening his expression. “You’re so obsessed with winning, Brooke. It’s pathetic.” “You’re actually framing a young girl just to save your own skin? You don’t know Maisie. She’s gentle. She’s kind. She would never drug someone. But you—” He stood up, looking at me with pure disdain. “You’re a criminal defense lawyer. You know every dirty trick in the book. You’ve probably been planning this ‘scandal’ for months just to make her look like a villain.” I stood there, paralyzed. A sharp, acidic burn rose in my throat. “You think I would destroy my own career? My own reputation? Just to spite her?” I tried to breathe, but the air felt like shards of glass. He hadn’t just broken my heart; he was trying to erase my soul. My phone buzzed. It was the wedding coordinator. “Brooke, we’ve seen the news. About tomorrow… is the ceremony still on?” I looked Garrett dead in the eye. “Yes. Everything is proceeding as planned.” Garrett leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “You really are desperate to marry me, aren’t you? Too bad.” He dragged out the words. “You’ve spent so much time attacking my Maisie that you deserve a lesson. Don’t expect me to show up on time tomorrow. Maybe I won’t show up at all.” A smirk touched my lips. “Suit yourself.” On my way out, I passed Maisie in the hall. She raised an eyebrow, her face full of triumph. “Oh, Auntie. Going out to try and fix the ‘leaks’? Honestly, you should just admit it. The internet has a short memory. In a few months, everyone will forget you ever existed.” “And by then, you’ll have no job, no money, and no name. You’ll just be a housewife, totally dependent on Garrett. I wonder how long his ‘protection’ lasts for a loser like you.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a response. I walked out the front door. The wedding was in ten hours. … “Garrett, are you really not going?” Maisie stood before a mirror, her eyes gleaming as she adjusted Garrett’s silk tie. He was already in his tuxedo. “Let her wait.” Garrett pinched her nose playfully. “She went out of her way to frame you. I can’t just forgive that. I’m going to let her sweat. Let her realize who actually holds the power in this relationship.” Maisie wrapped her arms around his waist. “Garrett… after you’re married, will you still love me best?” “Always. I promised your father.” “Then… why can’t you just marry me?” She looked up at him, her lips parted. Garrett stiffened slightly, then gently pushed her back. “Maisie, don’t be silly. You’re family. I sleep in your room because you’re scared, that’s all. It’s… different.” He checked the gold watch on his wrist and picked up a bouquet of white roses. “Okay. It’s been two hours. That’s enough of a lesson. Let’s go.” When they arrived at the cathedral, Garrett stepped into the foyer and stopped dead. The place was empty. He grabbed a wandering janitor by the shoulder. “Where is everyone? Where’s the Valentine-Miller wedding?” The man looked at him like he was insane. “Mister, you’ve got the wrong day or the wrong place. This hall wasn’t booked for today. It’s empty.” Garrett felt the blood drain from his face. He had booked this venue six months ago. He had paid the deposit himself. How could it be empty? He dialed my number frantically. Busy signal. Over and over. In a fit of rage, he hurled his phone against the marble floor, shattering it into pieces. Seeing his meltdown, the janitor pointed upward. “Maybe try the rooftop garden? There’s a huge wedding happening up there. Started a while ago. Looks real fancy.” I had always been the one with the money. I had planned every detail of this day. Garrett felt a surge of relief. She moved it to the rooftop. Of course. She wanted a better view. He sprinted up the stairs. Halfway up, he collided with me. I was in my full Vera Wang gown, radiant and composed. The moment he saw me, he exploded. “Brooke! What the hell is wrong with you? Changing the venue without telling me? Do you have any idea how many people are waiting?” I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. From behind me, Callum walked forward and swept me into his arms.

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The day my parents split up, my sister—with her sun-kissed hair and honeyed words—left with our mother. My brother, the bouncy, charismatic golden boy, was scooped up by our father. When it was finally my turn, they looked at me and spoke in perfect, chilling unison. “You need to be the sensible one, Myra.” “You’re practically an adult now. You can take care of yourself.” 1 They left me, a ten-year-old girl, at my grandmother’s drafty, decaying farmhouse in rural Ohio. Then, they wrapped their arms around their favorite children and drove away, entirely satisfied with their choices. I already knew I was unloved. That wasn’t new. But in that moment? My chest caved in. It physically hurt, a sharp, twisting agony behind my ribs. My name is Myra Callahan. Since the day I was born, I’ve been the leftover part of the equation. After they had my sister, Bianca, they wanted a boy to complete the perfect picture. Instead, they got me. Another girl. A disappointment. So, they dumped me in the country with my grandmother. They didn’t bring me back to their manicured suburban life until I was six, right after she died. And now, four years later, they were throwing me right back. Except this time, the old house was completely empty. My grandmother wasn’t here anymore. Not that she had loved me much when she was alive—she was quick to slap and quicker to curse when she was in a foul mood—but at least she was a warm body in a cold room. Kids need someone. Anyone. But my parents never seemed to grasp that concept. It didn’t matter that my mother, Evelyn, was an award-winning literature teacher at a prestigious prep school. Or that my father, Robert, was a highly respected associate professor at the university. They had eyes only for the children they deemed worthy. They never paused to wonder if their middle daughter might need them, too. And just like that, I was left behind. 2 I became the wildest, most untethered kid in the county. I could climb to the very top of the old oak trees to peek into bird nests without anyone yelling at me to get down. I could wade into the freezing creek and swim for hours until my lips turned blue. If I stayed out all day, it didn’t matter. The other kids in town were bitterly jealous. “Man, I wish my parents didn’t care what I did,” they’d groan. “If I climbed that high, my dad would actually ground me for a year.” They envied my freedom, but God, I envied their chains. They had parents. Parents who cared if they fell. My parents had stopped caring a long time ago. When late afternoon rolled around, the air would shift. You’d hear Tommy’s mom shouting from her porch, telling him dinner was on the table. You’d see Sarah’s grandma shuffling down the gravel road to drag her inside. One by one, the woods would empty. And I would become entirely alone. I would sit in the branches, watching them retreat toward warmly lit windows, before slowly sliding down the bark and making the long walk back to my own dark house. It was so quiet inside. The kind of quiet that rings in your ears. I cooked for myself. I ate by myself. Spring, summer, fall, winter. It never changed. When night fell, I would crawl under the damp, heavy quilts of my bed. But no matter how long I lay there, I could never get warm. The icy wind would whistle through the cracks in the ancient window frames, seeping straight into my marrow. I remember staring out the window, confused. It was early autumn; it shouldn’t be this cold. Why was I shivering? I would pull my knees to my chest, cocooning myself in every blanket I owned, waiting for a pocket of body heat that never came. I didn’t understand it when I was little. It was only when I got older that I realized the truth. It wasn’t my body that was freezing. It was my soul. It was the absolute, hollow chill of having nothing and no one to anchor you to the world. Children are supposed to be insulated by love. I had none. So even buried under a mountain of cotton, I remained freezing. I grew up in that cold. Inch by inch. Year by year. By the time I was a senior in high school, sitting in a fluorescent-lit classroom churning through AP practice exams, I had come to a quiet revelation. It was okay not to be loved. It was okay not to have a family. I could survive on my own. Graduation was months away. Once I got my diploma, I could leave this town, this state, this life. I would go somewhere new, build a fresh existence, and surround myself with so many friends that the gaping hole left by my parents wouldn’t matter anymore. I had a plan. And then, I got sick. 3 Two months before graduation, my already irregular period turned into an unrelenting, heavy hemorrhage. I was terrified. I scraped together every dollar of my meager savings and took a bus to the main hospital in the city. The ultrasound tech was quiet. The doctor was grave. She told me there was a mass growing inside my uterus. A massive fibroid cyst. That was what had been destroying my cycle and causing the bleeding. The doctor looked at me with deep, unmistakable pity. “Honey, hasn’t this been agonizing? A mass this size… medically speaking, you should have been in debilitating pain for a long time.” I stared at my knees. “And your periods being this erratic,” she continued, her brow furrowing. “You’re young, maybe you didn’t know it wasn’t normal, but didn’t your mother notice? Has she never brought you in for a checkup?” “A simple ultrasound years ago would have caught this,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “If we had seen it early, you wouldn’t be looking at surgical intervention right now.” I dug my nails into my palms and forced a tight, brittle smile. “It doesn’t hurt that much.” “And… I never told my mom about my periods. She doesn’t know.” But that was a lie. I had told her. I told her that my cycle was a nightmare. That I would skip months, and when it finally came, I would bleed for three weeks straight. I told her about the blinding, white-hot pain in my abdomen. Twice, the cramps had been so violent I actually passed out cold. Her response? “Stop being so dramatic, Myra.” “Your sister never acts like this. When Bianca gets cramps, I make her some herbal tea and she’s fine.” “She doesn’t call me crying, claiming she’s ‘dying.’ You’re just weak. No wonder people find you exhausting.” “I don’t have time for this, her SAT prep tutor is waiting. I’ll Venmo you. Go buy some Advil. Honestly, all you ever do is ask for money.” My phone had buzzed a minute later. Ten dollars. Exactly enough for a generic bottle of ibuprofen at the pharmacy. I had tried telling my dad, too. He wasn’t any better. It was the second time the pain made me black out. I had collapsed on the hardwood floor of my lonely house, hitting my head on the coffee table. I woke up with blood in my hair. A kind classmate had helped me to the school nurse the next morning. I was young and terrified, but even I knew something was profoundly wrong inside my body. Sobbing, I called my father. It rang and rang. When he finally picked up, his voice was ice. “Myra. What on earth possesses you to blow up my phone like this? Do you have any idea that your brother is currently on stage performing his violin solo?” “If I hadn’t muted my phone in time, you would have ruined his entire competition.” “Thomas needs to win this to secure his conservatory admissions. You are nothing but a liability. No wonder your siblings call you the ‘Mistake.’” Myra the Mistake. That was the nickname Bianca and Thomas gave me. Kids are brutally honest in their cruelty. When they brought me back from the country at age six, Thomas was five. He was the prince of the house. Bianca was the prized princess. They each had their own massive bedrooms. Neither of them wanted the weird, feral country girl encroaching on their territory. Mistake. Get back to your doghouse. My dad had heard them say it once. He frowned and scolded them. “Don’t speak to your blood like that,” he’d said. Then, he cleared out a corner of the enclosed sunporch and put my bed there. Because of that one half-hearted scolding, I used to foolishly believe my dad was the only one who didn’t think I was a burden. But he was exactly like them. That day on the phone, bleeding and terrified, I stammered through my tears, trying to explain my symptoms. He met my terror with irritated exhaustion. “Fine, I get it. You don’t feel good.” “This is just a pathetic excuse to beg for your allowance early, isn’t it? Thomas is right. Teenage girls are just a nightmare of manufactured drama.” “Making up lies about dying just to get cash. It’s actually sickening, Myra.” He hung up on me. Hours later, I got a Venmo notification for $200. The note read: Your allowance for the month. Do not ask for more. And so, my illness festered in the dark, growing until it demanded to be cut out. Thankfully, the doctor assured me the surgery was relatively straightforward. An incision, a removal, and I would be cured. The catch? After my meager insurance, the out-of-pocket cost was $5,000. Thinking of the $10 sitting in my bank account, I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat. “Doctor… can the surgery wait? Just two months?” Graduation was in two months. Once I was out, I could get a factory job, work double shifts, and save the five grand. Her next words shattered that fragile hope. “Wait two months? Honey, you need to be admitted today.” “This cyst is causing active hemorrhaging. If we don’t intervene, you are at extremely high risk of bleeding out. You could go into cardiac arrest.” She leaned forward, her voice softening into a desperate plea. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Do not let stubbornness or fear cost you your life.” “Go home. Bring your parents back here to sign the consent forms and pay the deposit.” She was right. My life hadn’t even truly begun yet. I couldn’t just die over five thousand dollars. In my civics class, we learned about parental obligation. They brought me into this world; legally, they had to keep me alive in it. Paying me a pathetic $200 a month to rot in a farmhouse wasn’t enough. They had to pay for my medical care. They had to. 4 My mother’s manicured suburb was a long way from my part of the county. My bank account was running on fumes, but I spent $5 on a commuter train ticket to get to her house. I reasoned with myself on the ride over. She was a woman. Surely, when confronted with a mass growing inside my uterus, the sheer, terrifying reality of female anatomy betraying itself, she would understand. I stood on her pristine porch for a long time before I finally knocked. The door swung open. It was Bianca. Where I was gaunt, pale, and trembling, she was glowing. Her skin was flawless, her hair glossy. She radiated the kind of vibrant health that only comes from being deeply, expensively nurtured. She was the hothouse rose. I was the weed growing in the asphalt. We shared the same DNA, but our universes couldn’t have been further apart. Bianca looked at me, her brow furrowing in instant, deep annoyance. She looked at me like I was a tax auditor showing up unannounced. “What are you doing here?” “Didn’t Mom already send your pathetic allowance?” She planted her body firmly in the doorway, blocking the entrance. I opened my dry lips to speak, but my mother’s voice drifted out from the kitchen. “Is Thomas here yet? Tell them to come in!” Bianca rolled her eyes. “No. It’s Myra.” The house went dead silent for three agonizing seconds. Then, my mother’s voice, laced with heavy reluctance: “Oh. Well… let her in, then.” Bianca stepped aside just enough for me to squeeze past, acting as if she were bestowing a grand blessing upon me. The moment I stepped into the dining room, I understood why she hadn’t wanted me inside. The sprawling mahogany table was groaning under the weight of a feast. Filet mignon, butter-roasted lobster tails, artisanal sides I didn’t even know the names of. And right in the center, a towering, gorgeous custom birthday cake. My mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate of glazed chicken wings. She paused when she saw me. “Myra. Why are you here?” “You really should have called ahead. It’s your sister’s birthday today. We’re expecting guests and I didn’t make extra food.” My stomach, hollowed out by days of rationing crackers, gave a violent ache. I pressed my hand against it. “I’m not hungry,” I lied quickly. “I ate before I came.” Bianca crossed her arms and flopped onto the velvet sofa. “Doesn’t matter if you called ahead anyway. I don’t want a bloodsucker who only shows up to beg for cash ruining my birthday.” My face flushed a hot, dark red. The sheer humiliation of why I was actually there made my skin crawl. My mother didn’t correct her. She just looked at me, her silence a loud, ringing endorsement of Bianca’s words. Tears burned the back of my eyes. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t true. The only times I ever asked for money was when they completely “forgot” to send my allowance. I would wait. Days would pass. A week. And nothing would hit my account. Yet, they never forgot to reward Bianca with a trip to the Bahamas for bringing her math grade up a single letter. They never forgot to buy Thomas a three-thousand-dollar gaming rig because he learned a new concerto. I survived by eating dollar-store ramen and plain bread. But sometimes, even that ran out. I remembered sitting in class, my vision swimming from hunger, looking at the teacher’s pink eraser and hallucinating that it was a piece of meat. I only called them when I was so starved I was eyeing the half-eaten sandwiches in the cafeteria trash cans. Only then did I break down and ask for my own money. But to Bianca, I was a bloodsucker. What kind of vampire survives on two hundred dollars a month? “Mom,” I choked out, fighting the tears. “I’m not a bloodsucker. I only asked for money when my account was negative…” My mother held up a hand, cutting me off. “Enough. You’re a fine kid, Myra, but your sister isn’t entirely wrong. I’ve spent plenty of money on you over the years.” “Do you have any idea how exhausting it is being a single mother to a teenager? Let alone having to support you out in the country on top of it?” “Bianca didn’t do well on her SATs last year, so I had to put her in that elite prep course. That was fifteen thousand dollars upfront. Things are tight right now. You calling and demanding cash… you can’t blame your sister for being irritated.” Her words felt like liquid nitrogen poured straight into my veins. For a split second, she made me feel like the villain of the story. But I wasn’t the one draining her bank account. I cost her two hundred dollars. Something inside my chest, a dark, jagged thing, began to claw at my throat. I felt like I was going insane. I needed to scream. Before I could, my mother sighed. “Anyway, you’ve made your appearance. You should head back.” “You don’t know any of Bianca’s friends. It’s going to be awkward for everyone if you just hover here.” Panic seized me. I pulled the crumpled, slightly damp medical report from my jacket pocket and thrust it toward her. “Mom, please, I came because I have to tell you something. I’m sick…” Ding-Dong. The doorbell chimed, bright and cheerful. Bianca instantly lunged forward, grabbing my arm and shoving me hard toward the kitchen. Her face was twisted in absolute disgust. “Listen to me, you little freak,” she hissed. “If you don’t want to get thrown out on the street, you stay in this kitchen and keep your mouth shut. Do not tell anyone you are my sister.” “I am not letting my friends know I’m related to a trash-dwelling charity case. One word, and I’ll drag you out by your hair.” I thought of the blood, the doctor’s warning, the $5,000 I desperately needed just to survive. I shrank back against the refrigerator. “I won’t say anything,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Just please don’t kick me out yet.” Bianca shot me a look of pure venom, smoothed down her dress, and walked back out to greet her friends. 5 Bianca’s friends were exactly like her. Polished, loud, practically dripping in wealth. Standing in the shadows of the kitchen in my faded, hand-me-down sweater—clothes Bianca had discarded years ago—I truly did look like a feral animal that had wandered indoors. Soon, the house was filled with the sound of “Happy Birthday.” The clinking of glasses. The rich smell of expensive food being devoured. Just as they were about to cut the cake, the front door opened again. Two familiar voices echoed in the entryway. “Happy birthday to my beautiful girl! Sorry Dad is late!” And then, my brother, Thomas—who had never spoken to me without a sneer—sounded like the perfect, charming sibling. “Sorry, B. My fault entirely. Rehearsal ran late. I brought you that new Prada bag you wanted to make up for it.” A girl in the living room gasped loudly. “Oh my god, is this the famous violin prodigy brother?” “He’s exactly like the rumors! So handsome and so sweet.” Another voice chimed in. “Sweet? He’s a genius. He skipped two grades in middle school. He’s taking the SATs with us this year.” “No way! Thomas, what colleges are you looking at? Let a girl know so I can apply there too!” Thomas chuckled, the sound smooth and practiced. “Mostly just the Ivy League. Harvard’s humanities program has a better vibe than Yale, I think.” The girls practically swooned. “God, a prodigy brother and a gorgeous, smart sister,” someone sighed. “Bianca’s top of our class, too. Your parents’ genetics are absolutely insane.” My parents laughed. It was a warm, deeply satisfied sound. “Oh, stop. We aren’t that special,” my mother demurred modestly. “We’re just educators.” “Such a humble-brag!” a boy laughed. “Seriously, your family is like a poster for perfection.” The atmosphere in the living room was euphoric. I stood perfectly still in the dark kitchen, watching the warm glow of the dining room light spill across the floor. I felt like a thief, peering through a window at a family I was never allowed to join. Then, someone asked the question. “With genes like that, why didn’t you guys have more kids? Imagine how perfect a third sibling would be.” My breath hitched. My fingernails dug half-moons into my palms. What will they say? Would they, for one brief, fleeting moment, acknowledge that I existed? My father let out a short, dismissive scoff. “Actually, we do have another one. But she… didn’t exactly get the family traits.” “Oh?” a girl asked, intrigued. “What do you mean?” My father’s tone darkened. “I don’t know if it’s a genetic misfire, or if being raised by her grandmother out in the sticks stunted her brain. She’s dull. Slow. We brought her back when she was young, but she has no social skills. Completely withdrawn.” My mother, riding the high of the party, eagerly joined in. “Exactly. Zero emotional intelligence. She never even calls us.” “The only time we hear from her is when she wants money. Honestly, sometimes I look at her and wonder how Robert and I could have produced someone so… lacking. But thankfully, she turns eighteen soon.” “Once she’s a legal adult, our obligations are done. We won’t have to deal with it anymore.” The words didn’t just hurt. They severed something deep inside me. I stared blankly at the tableau in the living room. So, their love was entirely conditional. Because I wasn’t as aggressively brilliant as Thomas, or as socially dominant as Bianca, I wasn’t fit to be their daughter. That was why they dumped me during the divorce. That was why they never bothered to ask who I really was. If they had, they would know that my bad grades in elementary school were because the underfunded rural school never taught me phonics or basic math. When I was dropped into their suburban district in first grade, I was drowning. But that was elementary school. By middle school, I was never out of the top ten. Now, at my high school, I was ranked third in my entire senior class. My teachers called me brilliant. They said I was a lock for MIT or Stanford. My classmates loved me. I stayed late to tutor anyone who asked, breaking down complex physics problems with infinite patience. But to my own parents? I was a dull, stunted, emotionally deficient genetic mistake. It was hilarious. Truly, bitterly hilarious. Through the doorway, Bianca’s eyes locked onto mine. She wasn’t hiding her vicious, triumphant smirk. Under her piercing gaze, I suddenly felt dirty. I hadn’t done anything wrong, but I felt like a cockroach caught on the kitchen tiles. I took a panicked step backward, desperate to hide deeper in the shadows. My foot hit something hard. CLANG. A heavy metal pot lid went spinning across the tile floor. The noise was deafening in the quiet kitchen. The laughter in the living room died instantly. “Who’s in there?” my dad demanded, his voice dropping an octave. Bianca sneered. “Probably just a rat.” In the dark, I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking violently. Please don’t come in. Please just ignore it. If I wasn’t seen, I could pretend this night never happened. But the heavy footsteps grew louder. “That wasn’t a rat. That sounded like a person,” my dad said, his voice hard. “Get out here, right now.” Click. The harsh fluorescent lights of the kitchen flickered to life. And there I was. Stripped of the dark, exposed in my ragged clothes, looking like the most pathetic clown in the world. 6 A girl in the hallway shrieked. “Oh my god! There’s actually someone in there! Is she a burglar? Call 911!” Thomas let out a dry, cruel bark of laughter. “Relax, guys. It’s not a burglar. It’s just my idiot sister.” “What are you doing skulking around in the dark, Myra? Come to beg for more cash?” A dozen pairs of eyes shifted from fear to profound, morbid disgust as they stared at me. My mother sighed loudly, playing the weary, martyred parent. “Everyone, I’m so sorry. Myra isn’t a thief. She just came to visit and must have fallen asleep in the kitchen.” She turned to me, her eyes dead. “Alright, Myra. You’re awake now. It’s time for you to go back. You have graduation coming up. I know you aren’t going to get into a real college, but you still need to pass.” “Try not to fail out completely. It’s embarrassing enough for your siblings as it is.” She was stepping toward me, her hand reaching out to physically push me toward the back door. But I couldn’t leave. I didn’t have the surgery money. As her hand clamped onto my shoulder, the last shred of my dignity evaporated. I dug into my pocket and yanked out the crumpled hospital paperwork. My face was completely bloodless as I looked up at her, begging. “Mom, please don’t make me leave.” “Thomas is right. I did come for money.” The air in the room turned hostile. My mother’s face contorted in fury. I spoke as fast as I could, terrified that if I stopped, my throat would close up and I would choke on my own grief. “I’m sick. The doctor said I need surgery immediately. It’s not even that much, Mom, it’s just five thousand dollars for the copay.” Five thousand dollars. Less than half the cost of the Prada bag Thomas had just casually handed Bianca. A fraction of what his violin cost. But saying the number out loud felt like I had pulled a pin on a grenade. My father, who hadn’t spoken directly to me in months, closed the distance between us in two strides. SMACK. His hand cracked across my cheek with brutal force. “Five thousand dollars isn’t a lot?!” he roared. “Do you have any concept of how hard I work?” “You absolute embarrassment. You skulk in the shadows like a rat, you don’t even have the decency to wish your sister a happy birthday, and then you ambush us in front of guests for five grand?” My cheek burned like it had been held to an open flame. But the pain in my face was nothing compared to the violent tearing in my chest. “Bianca told me to hide!” I screamed, the truth ripping out of me. “She said she didn’t want anyone to know she had a trashy sister! And is five thousand really that much to you, Dad? Bianca’s new bag costs ten! Thomas’s bow alone costs more than my surgery!” “I’m in agony, Dad! I’m bleeding! I pass out at school from the pain, and you know that because the nurse called you!” For a fraction of a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his eyes. But his ego quickly crushed it, and his self-righteous rage returned. “You don’t get to compare yourself to them!” he spat. “Bianca is top of her class! Thomas wins national awards! They earn their rewards!” “What have you ever done but bring us down? Why should we invest a dime in you?” “And this supposed illness? I’m sure it’s just another one of your psychotic lies. You’ve been making up stories for attention since you were a kid.” Thomas stepped forward, snatching the crumpled ultrasound paper from my shaking hand. “Yeah, let’s see what terminal disease you’ve invented this time, Mistake.” He scanned the paper. Suddenly, he dropped it like it was coated in acid, wiping his hand aggressively on his jeans. He looked at me, his eyes wide with exaggerated, theatrical disgust. “A 10-centimeter uterine mass? Bleeding?” Thomas yelled, making sure the entire living room heard him. “Are you kidding me, Myra? You’re begging us for money because you caught some dirty STD?”

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Three years. I’ve spent three long, stifling years inside this fallout shelter—The Citadel. I haven’t seen a single “Xeno-beast,” and I wouldn’t know what radiation looked like if it hit me in the face. My life is a repetitive cycle of eating, sleeping, and existing in a state of enforced luxury that feels more like a high-end nursing home than a survival bunker. It’s not that I haven’t tried to do my part. I’ve begged to join the surface scavengers, to actually earn my keep. But every time I opened my mouth, the Director shut me down. His refusal was always the same: absolute, immovable, and shrouded in that creepy, paternalistic concern. He told me that my only job was to stay happy. He claimed that as long as I was “joyful,” the monsters within a hundred-mile radius wouldn’t dare approach. That was my “great contribution.” He even warned me that if I so much as scraped a knee, the entire Citadel would pay the price. So, I became a golden prisoner. I stayed in my climate-controlled suite, killing time with the only thing they allowed me: video games. Until the day the Strike Team came back. A man—Briggs, the Director’s son—burst into my room, his face a mask of gore and fury. He didn’t say a word before he grabbed my console and slammed it into the floor. The screen shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. His eyes were bloodshot, screaming at me through a throat raw from howling. He told me they were out there bleeding, that AJ’s insides had been torn out in front of him. That “Six” was gone—half his head bitten off by a Ravager. Fifteen men died on that run. He pointed a shaking, grease-stained finger at me and demanded to know why I got to sit in the AC, eating steak and playing games, while his brothers were being fed to the meat grinder. 1 “GAME OVER” flashed across the screen in a mocking, jagged red. I groaned, tossing the controller onto the velvet sofa. That was the seventh time tonight. This new expansion boss was tuned to be impossible; it wasn’t even fun anymore, just punishing. “Stress levels are up 3.7%. Heart rate at 105. I strongly suggest you terminate high-intensity entertainment immediately.” The voice was cool and clinical. Dr. Naomi Foster stood in the doorway, tapping a stylus against a tablet that displayed my biometrics in real-time. Even in the middle of a literal apocalypse, she kept her white lab coat pressed and her expression perfectly neutral. “I’m fine, Naomi. I was one hit away from clearing it,” I muttered, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. She ignored me, walking over to scan my wrist with a handheld sensor. “Director Killian’s orders are explicit. Your mood must remain within the ‘Optimal Joy’ bracket. Any factor contributing to negative emotional variance must be eliminated.” She reached for the power cable of the console. “Wait! Don’t!” I shielded the machine like it was a living thing. “I promise, the next run is the one. When I win, my mood will skyrocket. Dopamine hit, right?” Naomi paused, her eyes narrowing behind her glasses as she weighed my desperation against her protocols. Just then, a rich, savory aroma wafted through the door. “Hey there, kiddo. Hungry? Look what Saul managed to whip up for you.” Old Man Saul, the head of the mess hall, shuffled in with a silver thermal container. He was all smiles, his face a roadmap of deep-set wrinkles. When he popped the lid, the room was suddenly filled with the scent of slow-roasted brisket and fresh herbs—real food. In a world where most people killed for a sleeve of stale crackers, this meal was a king’s ransom. “Saul, you’re spoiling me again,” I said, though my eyes were already glued to the plate. “Hey, you deserve it! If it weren’t for you, my hydroponic garden would’ve succumbed to the blight months ago,” Saul chuckled, patting my shoulder. “Eat up! Happy belly, happy heart. And if you’re happy, we all get to sleep a little sounder tonight.” Naomi looked at Saul, then at me, and finally pulled her hand away from the power cord. She logged something on her tablet. “Protein and fat intake will assist in dopamine regulation. Permitted. But I’m checking your glucose in thirty minutes.” I dug in, the warmth of the food chasing away the residual frustration of the game. Saul and Naomi watched me from either side—one like a doting grandfather, the other like a scientist observing a prized specimen. This was my life. I was the Citadel’s most precious resource, pampered and protected with a single, bizarre mission: Stay happy. Because I was the “Sanctifier.” They told me that as long as I remained content, an invisible, intangible power within me projected a barrier that kept the radiation and the nightmares at bay. I finished the last bite, letting out a satisfied breath. I was reaching for the controller again, ready for a rematch, when a piercing, rhythmic shriek tore through the silence of the bunker. It wasn’t the red alert for a breach. it was the heavy, grinding groan of the main blast doors opening. Saul’s smile vanished. Naomi’s grip tightened on her tablet. Briggs and his team were back. 2 The sound of metal on metal echoed up the shafts, heavy and ominous. The atmosphere in my suite curdled instantly. Saul’s face went pale, and Naomi instinctively checked the lock on her tablet. The scent hit us first—not the sterile air of the bunker, but the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of spent gunpowder. Then came the boots. Heavy, frantic, and followed by the low, guttural moans of men in agony. I had just picked up the controller when my door—a door that usually hummed open with a soft beep—was kicked off its hinges. CRACK. The frame splintered, and the door slammed against the wall. Briggs stood there, a vision from a nightmare. He was coated in a thick layer of dark blood and soot. His tactical vest was shredded, and his left arm hung at a useless, nauseating angle. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying, manic grief. They darted from the empty dinner plate to the controller in my hand. His gaze felt like a physical weight, something heavy and sharp enough to draw blood. “Captain…” Saul started, his voice trembling. Briggs didn’t hear him. He marched into the room, leaving a trail of wet, crimson footprints on my white carpet. He walked straight to the TV, and before I could even blink, he ripped the cables from the wall. He hoisted the console high above his head and brought it down against the floor with a sickening crunch. Internal components shattered. Plastic shards flew like shrapnel. “What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled, jumping up from the sofa. That was the only piece of my old life I had left. “What am I doing?” Briggs turned, his voice a low, vibrating growl that erupted into a roar. He shoved a finger into my chest. “I’m out there in the dirt! I watched AJ get disemboweled by a crawler! I watched Six get his head crushed like a grape! We lost fifteen men today!” He was vibrating with rage, spit flying from his lips. “And you? You sit here in the cool air, eating real meat, playing your fucking games? Tell me… how is that fair?” “Briggs, back off!” Naomi stepped between us, her voice sharp. She held up her tablet like a shield. “You know the protocol! His emotional stability dictates the integrity of the Citadel’s field! You’re endangering every soul in this bunker!” “To hell with your protocols!” Briggs shoved her aside. She stumbled against the wall, her tablet clattering to the floor. “I’m tired of hearing about ‘importance.’ My brothers are dead! And for what? To protect this… this leech?” Saul tried to intervene, his voice breaking. “Captain, please, Jude didn’t choose this, he—” “Shut up, old man!” Briggs didn’t even look at him. He grabbed the collar of my shirt and hauled me off my feet. He was pure, raw muscle fueled by adrenaline and spite. I couldn’t breathe; my toes barely brushed the floor. His face, smeared with the lifeblood of his friends, was inches from mine. The smell of death on him was overwhelming. “You think losing your toy is bad? You think I’m ruining your ‘vibe’?” He let out a twisted, jagged laugh and began dragging me toward the door. “Come on. I’m going to show you what the world actually looks like. I’m going to show you exactly what people are paying for your ‘good mood.’” 3 My heels scraped uselessly against the cold metal floor. Briggs’s grip was like an iron vice. I was a passenger in my own kidnapping. The corridor outside was lined with people—survivors, technicians, the remaining soldiers. They had gathered to welcome their heroes home, but now they stood in a heavy, suffocating silence, watching me with eyes that had turned cold and predatory. “Look at him! Everyone, look at our ‘Chosen One’!” Briggs’s voice boomed, echoing through the narrow hall. “The great Sanctifier! Our precious little secret!” He threw me toward the entrance of the medical bay. Inside, it was a butcher shop. The smell of bleach couldn’t mask the copper of the blood. A soldier was screaming as a medic tried to tourniquet a stump where his leg used to be. Another man lay on a cot, his chest crushed, a ventilator wheezing a useless, rhythmic sigh. Near the back, a row of bodies lay under stained white sheets. My stomach did a violent somersault. I’d seen gore in games, but this was visceral. It was the smell of voided bowels and the sight of yellow fat clinging to torn muscle. “See that?” Briggs hissed in my ear. “The one on the left? That’s Miller. He got half his torso taken out trying to scavenge the specific brand of canned peaches you like. And that small one under the sheet? That’s Six. He was nineteen. Before we left, he told me he wanted to see you—just once. He wanted to see what ‘hope’ looked like. Well, here you are.” The crowd shifted. The pity and confusion I usually saw in their eyes had curdled into a dark, infectious resentment. “Why him?” a man with a missing arm rasped. “Why do we die out there while he rots in luxury?” “Parasite!” someone spat. “Throw him out!” The anger was spreading like a wildfire in a dry forest. “Stop this! All of you!” Naomi finally pushed through the throng. Her face was deathly pale. She looked at her shattered tablet, then at the monitor on the wall. A red line was spiking into a jagged mountain range. “The sensors are screaming! The radiation levels outside the perimeter are climbing! You’re killing us all!” She looked toward the end of the hall, toward the observation deck. I followed her gaze. Director Killian stood there in his crisp uniform, his face unreadable. He didn’t move. He didn’t call for the guards. He watched his son incite a lynch mob against his most “valuable asset” and did absolutely nothing. His silence was a death sentence. Saul rushed forward, trying to shield me with his frail body. “You can’t do this! If the field drops, we’re all dead! Director, say something!” “Get out of the way, you old fossil!” Briggs kicked Saul in the stomach. The old man gasped, crumpling into a ball on the floor. “Saul!” I screamed, trying to reach him, but Briggs caught me by the throat, pinning me against the wall. “You still care about others?” Briggs leaned in, his voice a lethal whisper meant only for me. “Cowardly science and old-man sentimentality don’t mean a damn thing here. Today, I’m going to expose the lie.” I looked at Saul on the floor. I looked at Naomi, held back by the crowd. Finally, I looked up at Killian, who remained as cold as a statue. A bone-deep chill spread from my heart to my fingertips. In that moment, I felt the Citadel shudder. A low, vibrating hum—so subtle I thought I imagined it—echoed in my ears. Briggs wasn’t finished. He dragged me to the center of the common area and raised a hand to silence the crowd. He pulled a serrated hunting knife from his belt. The blade caught the overhead LEDs, gleaming with a cruel, cold light. “You want to know what makes him so special?” Briggs laughed, pressing the tip of the blade against my cheek. “I’m going to open him up. Let’s see if our ‘Sanctifier’ is made of divinity… or if he’s just leaking the same pathetic blood as the rest of us.” 4 The cold steel bit into my skin. The room went dead silent. “Briggs, stop!” Naomi’s voice was a frantic shriek. “The alarms are going off! The external radiation is off the charts! You’re triggering a collapse!” Briggs didn’t even blink. He grinned at the crowd, a predator basking in the spotlight. “Do you hear that? The same old ghost stories,” he shouted. “We survive out there with steel and lead, not with ‘vibes’ and graphs!” He twisted his wrist. The blade sliced into my cheek. The pain was a white-hot spike. I let out a choked cry as warm blood traced a path down my jaw, dripping onto the sterile floor. But he was just getting started. He kicked my legs out from under me and pinned me face-down. His knee was a mountain in the small of my back. Then, he began to cut. It wasn’t a stab. It wasn’t a slash. It was a slow, methodical, agonizingly precise flaying. He traced the lines of my shoulders, peeling back the skin with the practiced hand of someone who had dressed a thousand kills. I heard Naomi’s hysterical sobbing. I heard the dull thuds of Saul being kicked as he tried to crawl toward me. And I heard the crowd—the terrifying, rhythmic chanting of people who had found a scapegoat for their misery. In a gap between the waves of agony, I managed to turn my head. I looked past the boots and the blood toward the high walkway. Killian was still there. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t horrified. He was merely… observing. The realization was colder than the knife. He wasn’t just allowing this; he had planned it. I was no longer useful as a mascot, so I would serve as a sacrifice to vent the colony’s rage. Inside me, something shifted. That “inner sun” they always talked about—that warm, pulsing core of energy that had always felt like a soft summer afternoon—began to flicker. In the face of this absolute betrayal, it didn’t just dim. It curdled. The light turned black. The warmth turned to sub-zero ice. Like a star collapsing into a black hole, my “Sanctity” died. The world changed. I could “feel” the invisible dome over the Citadel melting away like wax. I could “feel” the things outside—the ancient, hungry, irradiated malice—noticing the hole. They were like sharks catching a scent of blood in the water. By the time Briggs finished his grisly work, I couldn’t even feel the physical pain anymore. I was a hollow shell of raw nerves and cold void. “See?” Briggs hoisted my bloodied, ruined form up for the crowd to see. “Look at your god! He bleeds. He screams. He’s nothing!” The crowd roared, a sound of primal, fearful triumph. “Throw him out!” Briggs commanded. Two soldiers grabbed my arms and dragged me toward the airlock. I left a thick, smeared trail of red across the floor of the only home I’d ever known. The heavy gears of the blast door groaned. They tossed me out like a piece of spoiled meat into the grey, ash-choked wasteland. The doors hissed shut behind me. I lay in the dirt, a heap of flayed muscle and broken spirit. Above me, on the ramparts, Briggs appeared. He looked down at me, laughing, his voice carrying over the dead plains. “See? The ‘Sanctifier’ is gone, and the sky hasn’t fallen! It was all a—” His laugh was cut short by a sound that didn’t come from a human throat. It was a siren, but not the bunker’s. It was the sound of the world itself screaming.

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It took twenty-four hours for a nurse to find my body. By then, I was a cold weight in a pool of my own blood, a piece of forgotten medical waste. On my tenth birthday, my parents left this world forever. From that day on, my brother threw me out of our home. He packed my life into a suitcase and sent me to a boarding school where I stayed for eight years. He didn’t just dislike me; he loathed the very fact of my existence. As I died on that operating table, I could hear him in the next room. His voice was a velvet caress, a comfort I hadn’t felt in a decade. He was telling Hailey, his adopted sister, not to be nervous. He promised he would save her. He didn’t mention that he was harvesting my brain—my life—to give to her. The last thing he ever said to me over the phone was: “What is it this time? Coughing up blood or another fake fainting spell? I’m warning you, unless you’re actually dead, stop bothering me.” Then, he hung up. 1 After I died, my soul remained tethered to my brother. I watched him, my tether, as he stood outside the Intensive Care Unit like a gargoyle carved from grief and anxiety. Hailey had been moved there after the surgery. Through the observation window, he stared at her pale, fragile face with a look of pure, agonizing devotion. “The next twenty-four hours will determine if the transplant was a success,” Dr. Whitmore said, stopping beside him to offer a heavy hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done everything a surgeon could do, Beckett. The rest is up to fate. If the best neurosurgeon in the state couldn’t save her, then no one could.” “By the way,” the doctor added, “your phone was blowing up while you were in the OR.” He handed the device back. Beckett unlocked the screen, saw the name flashing there, and his jaw tightened until the muscles jumped. It was my homeroom teacher. He held the button down to delete the notification, but the phone rang again immediately. “You should probably take that,” Dr. Whitmore suggested gently. “They’ve called a dozen times. Maybe something happened to Wren at school?” At the mention of my name, Beckett’s eyes flashed with a visceral, jagged hatred. “Something is always happening to Wren,” he spat. “She faints, she vomits blood—it’s a goddamn theatrical performance. Every time I show up, she’s fine. She treats me like a dog on a leash. If she were even half as decent as Hailey, I wouldn’t have had to cut off her tuition.” He gripped the phone so hard his knuckles turned white. “Don’t bring her up. Every time I hear her name, I see my parents’ mangled bodies in that wreckage.” I stood beside him, a transparent ghost, my heart aching with a familiar, hollow despair. Beckett, I wasn’t lying. I would never play games with you. I only took the suppressants before you arrived because I didn’t want you to see me fading. I didn’t want to burden you. From the day our parents died, the brother who used to tuck me in at night began looking at me like I was a murderer. After the funeral, he volunteered for a medical mission in the rural South. That’s where he found Hailey—a girl with a brain tumor and a family too poor to afford a bandage, let alone surgery. He brought her back to our house. He sent me to boarding school. From that day on, he had only one sister. He wouldn’t spare me a glance, yet he moved heaven and earth for Hailey. To fulfill his promise of curing her before her twentieth birthday, he spent years searching for a donor, even putting up his entire life savings as a bounty for a “willing” match. I knew this was my only path to his forgiveness. When I realized I was terminal, I signed the organ donation papers. I thought that if my death saved the girl he loved, he might finally stop hating me. Tears I couldn’t feel rolled down my ghostly face. Just before the call timed out, Beckett finally snapped and pressed ‘accept.’ “Hello? Is this Wren’s guardian?” the teacher’s voice came through, frantic. “She’s—” “I don’t want to hear it!” Beckett barked, cutting her off. “If she’s dead, call me to pick up the body. Otherwise, lose my number.” Beckett, usually the epitome of the calm, collected surgeon, only lost his mind when it came to me. Or Hailey. He treated Hailey like a second chance at penance—as if saving her would earn him a pardon from our parents’ ghosts. Dr. Whitmore, who had been a peer of our parents, watched Beckett’s rage with a look of deep concern. “Beckett, it’s been eight years. The plane crash wasn’t Wren’s fault. I watched that girl grow up alongside you. She is the only family you have left in this world.” “Dr. Whitmore, please,” Beckett said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Don’t mention her again. My only priority is Hailey.” The senior doctor sighed and walked away. A nurse approached timidly. “Dr. Moore, your remaining clinic appointments for today—” “Cancel them all. I’m staying right here until she wakes up. I won’t leave her side for a second.” I felt a bitter smile touch my lips. I looked through the glass at Hailey. I was overwhelmed by a cold, sharp envy. I had donated my entire physical form, and it hadn’t bought me a single smile. She simply had to exist to make him abandon his principles, his patients, and his life. He used to be the kind of doctor who stayed late to see every single person in the waiting room. But for Hailey, the rules didn’t apply. Suddenly, Dr. Whitmore called his cell again. Beckett hit speakerphone without looking away from Hailey’s bed. “Beckett, I just saw Wren’s name on the hospital registry,” Whitmore said, his voice grave. “Did something happen?” 2 Beckett’s brow furrowed. I could see the fuse of his patience burning short. He glanced at the date on his phone, and his chest began to heave with jagged breaths. “Does she have no shame? Does she not know what day it is?” he hissed. “Tell her to get out. I don’t want to see her.” Today was my eighteenth birthday. It was Hailey’s nineteenth. And it was the eight-year anniversary of our parents’ death. “Beckett, this isn’t the visitor’s log,” Whitmore said, his tone dropping an octave. “It’s the inpatient list. Ask her if she’s okay.” “Or check your office,” Whitmore continued. “Whenever she comes to see you, she waits there. She’s a quiet kid; she wouldn’t tell you if she was hurting.” The dam broke. Beckett roared into the phone, “She’s been ‘hurting’ since the day they died! Every day it’s a new symptom, a new crisis, and every time I check, there’s nothing. I’m a doctor—do you think I can’t tell when someone is faking? Her face is yellow as cornmeal, and she doesn’t even have the decency to use the right foundation to hide the ‘sickness’ she’s pretending to have. I don’t know that liar. Stop talking to me about her!” On the other end, Dr. Whitmore sounded breathless with anger. “If you won’t ask, I will. You’re going to regret this, Beckett. If your parents were alive, they would never allow you to treat their daughter this way.” “Wren is no daughter of theirs!” Beckett screamed, his face a mask of fire. “She doesn’t deserve the name. As soon as Hailey wakes up, I’m taking her to the courthouse to legally put her on our family registry.” Dr. Whitmore sputtered, his voice thick with suppressed rage. “If your father were alive, you would be the one kicked out of the family. For eight years, you cut her off. Have you ever wondered how a young girl survives on her own? Have you ever looked in her dorm? She has more work uniforms for her three part-time jobs than she has school clothes! You’re a brilliant surgeon, Beckett, but as a human being, you aren’t worth the dirt under your father’s fingernails.” The line went quiet. Beckett’s eyes were bloodshot. He stood in the sterile hallway and screamed at the ceiling: “Don’t you dare bring them up! If it wasn’t for Wren, they would never have changed that flight! They wouldn’t be dead! I will never forgive her until the day she dies!” His words hit me like a physical blow, pinning me against the wall. A wave of exhaustion washed over my soul. I slid down the wall, burying my head in my hands. I had wanted to be like them. I wanted to be a healer. I worked three jobs to pay for the dream he stole from me. I studied by the light of streetlamps and worked double shifts, and the stress turned into a silent killer. Three years ago, I was diagnosed with liver cancer. I remember the day I tried to show him the report. I was trembling, my hand shaking as I held out the envelope. He didn’t even open it. He tore it into confetti and threw it in my face. “Wren, do you think if you pretend to be sick like Hailey, I’ll love you? In your dreams. If you bring me another fake lab report, I’m calling the police for fraud.” It was a report from his hospital. All he had to do was type my name into the system. I never mentioned it again. When I fainted at school, the teacher would call, and I couldn’t stop her in time. But don’t worry, Beckett. The calls are going to stop now. This time, I’m really gone. 3 My body lay on the cold steel of the operating table in the basement. Piece by piece, the parts of me not ravaged by cancer were being harvested. And upstairs, Beckett was still a sentinel at Hailey’s door. A nurse, hurried and harried, rushed past him toward the service elevator, but he caught her arm. “Wait, keep an eye on her for me,” he said, nodding toward Hailey. “Don’t leave for a second. If there’s a spike in her heart rate, page me. I’m just going to the restroom.” The nurse looked conflicted. “But the donor’s body… we need to prep for transport to the crematorium…” Beckett waved her off, frowning. “The donor saved my sister’s life. I’ll handle the final arrangements personally later. Right now, watch Hailey.” He walked away, glancing back three times, his heart visible on his sleeve. Half an hour later, he returned. It was shift change. The hallway was empty save for the skeleton crew. My body remained on that table, forgotten in the transition of paperwork. A young nurse ran up to him, holding a bag of takeout. “Dr. Moore, this was dropped off at the front desk for you.” Beckett pulled his gaze away from Hailey. He rubbed his tired eyes and saw Hailey’s name on the receipt. A warm, genuine smile broke across his face. “She’s an angel,” he whispered. “Even before surgery, she was thinking about making sure I ate.” There was a long note in the “special instructions” section. Beckett read it word for word, his eyes shimmering. [Big brother, if you’re reading this, the surgery must be over. Are you tired? Did you forget to eat again? I ordered this specifically for you. When I wake up, I’m going to make sure you take better care of yourself. You’re the most important person in the world to me!] Beckett wiped a tear with a napkin and ate the meal standing up. Just as he tossed the trash, Dr. Whitmore called again. “I found Wren’s room number. I’m sending it to you. Go see her. I’m stuck in a consultation.” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. “What is she pulling now? Doesn’t she know I’m busy? Did she tell you to call me? If she’s not dead, tell her to crawl over here herself! I am not leaving Hailey until she’s out of the woods!” He gripped the phone, his voice shaking with resentment. “Dr. Whitmore, I call you ‘Uncle’ out of respect for my father. But look at the difference. My biological sister does nothing but cause trouble while I’m trying to save lives. My adopted sister, while facing death, orders me dinner because she’s worried I’m hungry. Do you honestly still think Wren deserves a place in this family?” He slammed the phone shut. It was the first time he had ever truly defied his mentor. And once again, it was because of me. Don’t worry, Beckett. When you finally find out, you’ll never have to be angry again. 4 Beckett glanced at the room number on his screen, his face hardening into a mask of ice. He deleted the message. On his way back from the trash bin, he passed the door to the room I had occupied. He paused for a fraction of a second. His lip curled in a sneer. “Drama queen,” he muttered under his breath. My heart—the ghost of it—leaped into my throat. Just turn the handle, Beckett. Just look inside. You’ll see I wasn’t lying. But he didn’t stop. The weight of his disappointment was so heavy it felt like lead in my soul. I followed him to the corner, where he stopped, breathing hard. Suddenly, he spun around. He marched back to my room and threw the door open with a crash. “Wren! Get out here!” he barked into the silence. There was no answer. He took two steps inside and saw the bed. It was half-stripped, the pillows neatly stacked, but the mattress was empty. Look closer, Beckett! Look at the nightstand! I left everything for you! I didn’t kill them… I swear I didn’t… But he had no patience for me. Seeing the empty bed was proof enough for him. He slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. Back in the hallway, he pulled me out of his block list. He took a deep breath and sent a voice memo, his voice vibrating with rage: “Wren, if you waste hospital resources one more time, I will have security drag you out. If you aren’t in your bed, you aren’t sick. You’re a fraud. I’m giving you twenty-four hours to check yourself out. If you don’t, never call me your brother again.” As the message sent, my phone—sitting on the pillow in that empty room—chimed softly. No one was there to hear it. Beckett returned to Hailey’s window. He seemed to remember something and texted Dr. Whitmore: [I checked. She’s not even in her room. You fell for her act again.] Inside the ICU, Hailey’s finger twitched. Beckett pressed his face to the glass, his eyes wide. When he saw her eyelids flutter, he forgot all about me. He pulled out his phone and started shopping—jewelry, a designer bag, things a girl her age would love. Then he opened a food app and ordered a strawberry cake, her favorite. He paced the hall, muttering to himself. “What else does she like? What else?” He snapped his fingers and ran toward his office. He grabbed his briefcase and pulled out the legal documents for the family registry—the ones he’d had prepared for months. He was running so fast he collided with the nurse who had been assigned to me. She looked up, her eyes lighting up when she saw him. “Dr. Moore! Your sister, Miss Moore, she—” “Not now!” Beckett waved her off, not letting her finish. He burst into Hailey’s room just as she opened her eyes. He let out a long, shuddering breath of relief. Then, his phone rang. It was the morgue coordinator. “Dr. Moore, your sister… the organ donor… she’s still on the table in OR 3. The staff just realized. We need you to come down and sign for the body. There are no other family members on file.”

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For six months, I had been secretly dating my older brother’s best friend. I just hadn’t found the right moment to break the news to my brother. Then came the afternoon Tyler dragged me to the park out of nowhere, claiming we were going on a “sting operation” to catch Jackson on a date. “I finally caught the bastard,” Tyler said, practically vibrating with excitement. “He actually brought his new girl out in public.” Before my brain could even process the words, Tyler shoved me forward, right into the middle of the walking path. When my eyes focused on the couple standing in front of me, my vision blurred. The world tilted on its axis. My throat tightened so violently I could barely breathe, let alone speak. All I could manage to force past my trembling lips was a pathetic, broken whisper. “Hey, Jackson. Nice to meet you… both.” Jackson’s eyes locked onto mine, and the color completely drained from his face. 1. I stared at the man I knew better than my own reflection, the phone trembling in my grip. Tyler didn’t notice my world collapsing. He was too busy wearing a shit-eating grin. “Jackson, that sly son of a bitch. I knew if I trailed him long enough, I’d catch him on a private date.” He nudged my shoulder. “Mia, call him. Let’s see what he says.” I didn’t say a word. I just numbly pulled up the familiar contact and pressed dial. Fifty feet away, the young man strolling down the path pulled his phone from his pocket. He looked annoyed for a fraction of a second before answering. When he spoke, his voice was that same soft, familiar cadence I fell asleep to every night. “Hey. I’m tied up with something right now. Can we talk later?” I wanted to scream. I wanted to ask him if tied up with something meant holding another woman’s hand. But my throat was a desert. Nothing came out. Jackson glanced at his screen, his tone dropping an octave. “I have to go.” The line went dead. At that exact moment, a heavy hand shoved my back. My feet stumbled forward on autopilot until I was standing dead center in front of the golden couple. Looking at their intertwined fingers, a burning, acidic ache flooded my eyes. I clawed together every ounce of dignity I had left, pasted on a hollow smile, and offered my greetings. Jackson looked like he had seen a ghost. 2. “What are you doing here?” Jackson demanded, his voice tight. “Are you following me?” Before I could even open my mouth, Tyler leaped out from the bushes, waving his phone—which was currently broadcasting a FaceTime call to their college group chat—right in Jackson’s face. “Gentlemen! What did I tell you?” Tyler hollered. “Our boy is officially off the market! Who says he doesn’t owe us a steak dinner for holding out on us?” Seeing my brother suddenly materialize, the hostility vanished from Jackson’s face. The sharp, defensive edge he had directed at me instantly dissolved. “Dinner? Yeah, sure,” Jackson stammered, pulling the girl closer to his side. “Gia and I will treat you guys next time.” The pure, unfiltered adoration in his eyes as he looked down at her felt like a physical blow. There was nowhere to look, nowhere to hide from it. I suddenly realized I was staring at a total stranger. Only last night, this same man was on the phone with me, mapping out our future. We had spent an hour strategizing the perfect, seamless way to tell Tyler that we were in love. How does a man’s entire reality shift overnight? My phone buzzed in my palm. I looked down. It was a text from Jackson. Keep your mouth shut. Let me explain later. By the time I looked back up, Jackson had slipped his phone away and was laughing with my brother. The girl beside him smiled warmly at Tyler, then turned her gentle, doe-like eyes toward me. “And who is this?” she asked. Jackson didn’t miss a beat. “Oh, her? That’s the little sister I told you about.” Sensing Gia’s subtle hesitation, he quickly added, “She’s a total crybaby. Super clingy. Tyler and I used to do the dumbest things just to ditch her when we were kids.” Gia’s face lit up with understanding. She covered her mouth, giggling softly. “You’re so mean. You literally caused her to develop a stutter back then, and you still have the nerve to complain about her?” 3. For the longest time, I had only ever viewed Jackson as an older brother figure. Especially after the incident when we were kids—when he played a cruel prank on me just to get rid of me, traumatizing me so badly I developed a psychological stutter. After that, I kept my distance. Even when I ended up attending the same university he did, my boundaries remained firmly in place. But Jackson, apparently, had other plans. He started forcing Tyler to bring me along to their hangouts. He’d buy me iced lattes, pastries, designer bags. He’d drop them off without asking. I rejected them every single time, but his persistence was relentless. The turning point happened at a roommate’s birthday party. I had too much to drink, and Tyler, stuck at work, asked Jackson to pick me up. When Jackson tried to grab my arm, I shoved him away. I could barely walk straight, but my instinct to keep my distance was ironclad. I stumbled toward the curb to hail a cab, but he caught my waist and pulled me flush against his chest. He let out a heavy sigh. “You really hold a grudge, don’t you, kid?” He ruffled my hair, his tone suddenly dropping into something thick and indulgent. “Be my girlfriend, Mia. I’ll let you take your revenge on me for the rest of our lives.” The alcohol fog in my brain parted for a split second. Sensing my hesitation, Jackson cupped my face in his large, warm hands. “You’ve rejected my gifts a hundred times,” he murmured. “You can’t reject me tonight.” I was dizzy. Flustered. And, stupidly, I nodded. After that, he was the perfect boyfriend. He sat with me through evening lectures. He stayed at the library until midnight. When I had bad cramps, he’d show up with a hot water bottle and ginger tea. Tyler used to complain to me about it. “I swear to God, Mia, Jackson is hiding a girl. You have no idea how much he sneaks off campus lately. If I find out who it is… man, we swore we’d stay bachelors together, and he broke the pact.” Whenever Tyler said that, my heart would race. My cheeks would burn, and I’d look away. Later those nights, I’d text Jackson, asking how we were going to break the news to Tyler. He’d send voice memos, sounding dramatically aggrieved. “Man, I can already picture the day your brother breaks both my legs.” Then, his voice would soften into a raspy whisper. “But it’s fine. I stole his most precious treasure. It’s a price I’m more than willing to pay.” “I am not a treasure, idiot,” I’d text back, smiling into the dark. I had felt so incredibly lucky. And now, here I was. Watching the man who said he was willing to pay the price casually eat half-eaten fries off another woman’s plate. 4. Bile rose in the back of my throat. Tyler had bought a bunch of street food, but I hadn’t touched a single bite. Tyler happily devoured my portion, completely oblivious to my nausea, and kept teasing his best friend. “I knew you were too polished to be single for three years,” Tyler joked. “You turned down all those girls on campus. You were just waiting for the right one, huh?” Gia smiled brightly, tilting her head at Jackson. “Wait, didn’t you tell me no one ever had a crush on you?” Tyler’s eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas. He threw his arm around Jackson’s neck in a headlock. “Alright, spill it, man. How did you trick this gorgeous girl into dating you? I need to take notes.” I stood perfectly still, watching. Jackson purposefully avoided looking in my direction. Gia, clearly finding the dynamic endearing, let her eyes crinkle with laughter. “Honestly? He chased me for almost a year,” she said. Jackson looked away, the tips of his ears flushing red. Gia reached out and affectionately poked his cheek before continuing. “He’d ask me out every single day. Coffee, movies, dinner. But he’s so popular, and I have terrible trust issues. I didn’t feel secure, so I kept saying no. Until…” She went on to describe a night she had terrible stomach flu. How Jackson drove through a torrential downpour to get to her apartment. How he stayed up all night nursing her. How he gave her full access to his location and his schedule, proving his loyalty. Every single detail, every sweeping romantic gesture… it was exactly what he had done for me. “But the real kicker,” Gia said, her voice dripping with affection, “was that he truly understood what I cared about. I’m a massive Coldplay fan. He sat at his computer for three days straight, refreshing the page, just to score me a VIP ticket to their sold-out stadium tour.” “The March 1st show?” I asked. My voice sounded hollow, like it was coming from someone else. “Yeah, that exact one,” Gia nodded, sighing. “Because it was right near the college, it was impossible to get tickets. I would have been heartbroken if Jackson hadn’t pulled it off.” 5. I had wanted to go to that concert. I had wanted to go with him. I was the one who sat in front of my laptop for three days. I was the one who fought the digital queues and finally managed to snag two VIP tickets. I remember trembling with excitement when I showed them to Jackson. But we never went. He told me his frat brother was desperately trying to impress a girl who loved Coldplay, and begged him for the tickets. Jackson asked if we could give them up. He transferred double the ticket price into my bank account to make up for it. I had been crushed, but I figured there would be other concerts. If his friend was begging him, it felt petty to say no. Looking back now, I realized there was no frat brother. He took the tickets I fought for and used them to woo another woman. I had literally paid the price of admission for someone else’s love story. I mentally checked out. For the rest of the conversation, I stared at my phone, pretending I couldn’t hear Jackson awkwardly trying to rope me into the banter. A text popped up from a former senior at my college, someone I now worked with. It was regarding some outsourced project code that needed debugging. I threw myself into the chat, asking for specifics, burying my brain in data until the physical world faded away. When the chatter around me finally died down, I looked up. Tyler was staring at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Earth to Mia. I’ve been calling your name for two minutes. Are you hiding a secret boyfriend or something?” I opened my mouth to brush it off, but before I could speak, Jackson broke into a violent coughing fit. He pounded his chest, pretending he choked on a chili flake. Suddenly, I was completely out of fucks to give. “Actually, yeah. I am seeing someone.” The expressions on Tyler and Jackson’s faces were identical shades of thunderous black. Tyler practically launched himself off the park bench, looking like he was ready to commit a felony. “Mia! Call that son of a bitch right now! I am going to shatter his kneecaps!” “I guard you night and day, and some absolute degenerate still slips past the gates?!” Tyler yelled, pacing. “I want to see exactly who has the balls to lay a hand on my little sister.” I stared at him. You didn’t guard me very well from the guy standing right next to you, I thought. I could feel Jackson’s eyes burning holes into my skin. Even without looking at him, the sheer panic rolling off him was palpable. Why the panic, Jackson? Did you think I was texting you? Or did you think I was about to blow up your life right here, right now, and shatter Gia’s illusion of you? “Mia, you just started your internship,” Jackson said, his voice forced into a calm, authoritative older-brother tone. “You don’t know how to judge character yet. You need to let Tyler screen this guy for you.” I smiled sweetly. “You’re absolutely right. I’d love for both my big brothers to screen him.” Jackson stared at my phone as I raised it to my ear. The line picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Evan. Can we meet up?” Evan’s deep, soothing voice crackled through the speaker. “Send me the pin. It’s getting late—are you hungry? I’ll take you out.” “Just come here,” I said softly. “You can eat with us.”

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