Being married to a woman who couldn’t speak was, surprisingly, the most harmonious relationship of my life. But after five years of trying, and failing, to have a baby, the silence between us had grown suffocating. I finally snapped. “For God’s sake, Cecilia, give me something to work with here. Are you even trying?” That was the exact moment the Ticker appeared. Lately, in moments of high emotional stress, my mind had started projecting a bizarre, magical-realism phenomenon—a translucent, scrolling feed of text in my field of vision, like a live comment section ruthlessly judging my life. [Does the placeholder husband really have the nerve to blame her? Bro, you have low sperm motility. It’s a miracle if she ever gets pregnant.] [Hasn’t the female lead cooperated enough for five years? If she were with a guy who actually had functioning swimmers, she’d be pregnant on the first try.] [Don’t worry. The real male lead, Felix, just got back. They reunited at the Davis gala yesterday.] [The divorce papers she drafted are already sitting in her study drawer. Time for the side-character husband to step down.] Before I could even process the scrolling text, Cecilia lifted her hands. Her fingers moved in the elegant, fluid sign language we had perfected over the years: “Do you want to try again?” My chest hollowed out. I bypassed our bed, walked straight down the hall into her study, and yanked open the top drawer of her mahogany desk. The pristine stack of legal documents stared back at me. I returned to the bedroom, the papers heavy in my hand. “You want to divorce me?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. … 1 “…” Cecilia looked at the divorce agreement, her expression unreadable. She picked up her phone, her manicured thumbs flying across the screen, and held it up to me. “Wesley, do you love me?” I stared at the glowing pixels, completely thrown. Cecilia Davis and I were set up by her grandfather. We had zero emotional foundation going into this. Whether we loved each other had never seemed to matter. And yet, for five years, we had worked. Five years ago, a severe trauma left her with psychosomatic mutism. The doctors said her vocal cords were fine, but her mind had locked the door to her voice. We learned to communicate in the quiet spaces—a brush of shoulders, a shared glance, the silent cadence of sign language. It wasn’t a grand, sweeping romance, but our souls seemed to click into place. “Does it matter?” I deflected, my voice hardening. “You know as well as I do that our marriage was a transaction. We both got what we needed.” The light in Cecilia’s eyes instantly died. The heat that had been building between us just moments ago evaporated, leaving a chilling void. She turned without a sound and walked into the master bathroom, the click of the lock echoing in the large room. The Ticker rolled past my vision: [Of course it matters.] [What Cecilia wants is a partner who actually loves her.] [He doesn’t love her, but he’s perfectly happy to monopolize her time and her body.] [Unlike Felix. Felix’s love for her has always been open, proud, and unapologetic.] [Felix Harrington comes from real money. He’s her equal. If Cecilia hadn’t lost her voice five years ago, and if Felix hadn’t gone to Milan to study fashion, a regular guy like Wes Callahan would never have married into the Davis empire.] [Now that Felix is back, she’s naturally going to find an excuse to divorce Wes.] [LMAO, Wes still actually thinks he can get her pregnant.] [Isn’t he just after the Davis trust fund and her flawless genetics?] [Too bad he’s been shooting blanks for five years. Not a single successful pregnancy.] [All that effort for nothing.] Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. For the past five years, to optimize our chances of conceiving, I had lived like a monk. Strict sleep schedules, grueling workouts, militant diets. Yes, Cecilia came from a dynastic East Coast family. Yes, she was breathtakingly beautiful. But my desire for a child had absolutely nothing to do with Davis money. I was a marine biologist specializing in deep-water extremophiles. By nature, I was a cave diver—one of the most lethal extreme sports on the planet. Five years ago, I suffered severe nitrogen narcosis—the “martini effect”—during a deep-cave expedition. I nearly died. After that, I transitioned to a desk-heavy research role, drastically cutting down my dives. But the call of the water never left me. The dark, flooded veins of the earth still pulled at me like a magnet. When we got married, I desperately wanted a child. I wanted an anchor. I knew that if I had a son or a daughter tying me to the surface, I would finally have the strength to let go of my dangerous obsession with the deep. Just as the Ticker said. Five years of militant effort, and nothing. I had spent half a decade quietly assuming the issue lay with Cecilia’s stress levels. I never imagined that I was the broken one. The prolonged exposure to immense deep-water pressure over my career must have compromised me. Five years ago, Richard Davis, the patriarch of the family, orchestrated our meeting. I always assumed Cecilia only picked me because she had lost her voice and was settling for someone safe, someone who wouldn’t demand a spotlight. Now, her “one who got away” was back. There was no reason for me to drag this out. Taking a pen from the nightstand, I flipped to the last page and signed my name on the thick, textured paper. When Cecilia finally emerged from the bathroom, enveloped in a cloud of steam, I handed the documents back to her. “It’s signed,” I said, my tone aggressively neutral. “I’ll pack my things and move out tomorrow.” Cecilia stared at my jagged signature. Her eyes, usually a cool, crystalline blue, flushed red at the rims. She typed on her phone: “Have you thought this through?” I nodded. “Yeah. I have.” The reason I was cutting the cord so cleanly wasn’t born of spite. It was born of self-preservation. Because lately, I had realized something terrifying: I was starting to fall in love with my wife. But Cecilia was emotionally impenetrable. Cool, composed, and impossibly guarded. If she was holding onto the ghost of a first love, the most dignified thing I could do was exit the stage before my heart was entirely collateral damage. The Ticker mocked me: [Oh, please. Your little crush is nothing compared to what Felix feels.] [And so what if you’re catching feelings? Cecilia doesn’t like you.] [She and Felix have been waiting for each other all these years.] [Stepping aside is the only smart thing you’ve done.] Cecilia’s fingers tightened around the thick paper, her knuckles turning white. She walked back into the study and shoved the papers back into the drawer, slamming it shut. I went to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a bottle of rye I had been aging for years, and poured a heavy measure. I downed it in one burning swallow. The alcohol seared my throat, but it didn’t burn away the memories of the last five years. Before we got the marriage license, I had laid all my cards on the table. I told her about my ex-girlfriend, Nicole Foster. Nicole was a fellow cave diver, my partner in the water and in life for four years. During the dive where I got narced and nearly died, Nicole’s air supply was running critical. Instead of trying to haul my delirious body out, she cut the line. She left me in the dark and swam for the surface alone. I was saved by a nameless, faceless stranger—another diver who dragged me to an underwater decompression habitat. I spent two weeks in a hospital bed. The day I was discharged, I broke up with Nicole. It took me two years to even consider dating again, which led to the blind date with Cecilia. I could talk about Nicole with the clinical detachment of a scientist discussing an old specimen. It meant I was over her. But Cecilia? She had never once mentioned her romantic history. The things we bury deepest, the names we refuse to speak—those are the ones we can never truly forget. Felix Harrington. I knew the name. He was a rising star in bespoke menswear. When Cecilia and I got married, he was working in Milan for a legacy Italian fashion house. The suit I wore to marry Cecilia was from that exact brand. Just a few days ago, I had seen a feature on him in “GQ”. He had returned to New York to launch his own eponymous label. The interviewer had asked, “Felix, why leave the prestige of Milan to start from scratch in the States?” He had offered a devastatingly handsome, melancholic smile. “My first love is here.” “I came back to build my brand, yes. But more importantly, I want to wear a suit of my own design when I marry the woman I’ve always loved.” “So, we can expect wedding bells soon?” the interviewer teased. “That’s up to her,” Felix replied smoothly. “But I’m ready.” “Any plans for a family?” “We both love kids. I think we’ll aim for three.” The Ticker had said Felix wouldn’t have my “issues.” One try, and she’d be pregnant. A sharp, acidic ache bloomed in the center of my chest. Later that night, I pretended to be asleep when Cecilia finally came to bed. In the liminal space between waking and dreaming, I felt her slip under the covers and press her body against my back, just as she always did. I felt the soft, hesitant press of her lips against my shoulder blade, then the nape of my neck. She found the small mole resting just above my collarbone and kissed it with a desperate, lingering reverence. Her touch was scorching. A complete betrayal of the ice queen she played during the day.

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On the night of our seventh anniversary, Chelsea ladled a bowl of savory chicken broth for me, then slid a contract across the polished marble kitchen island. “I know you’ve always wanted your own gallery,” she said, her voice smooth, almost casual. “It opens next month.” I stared at her, my heart leaping with a sudden, breathless hope. She offered me a faint, amused smile. “Actually, Jesse, there’s something I haven’t been entirely honest about. That million-dollar debt from years ago? It was never real. I’m the sole heiress to the Whitmore estate. The struggle, the tight budgets—it was a test my family insisted on. And you passed beautifully.” But in the very next breath, she dropped a bomb so casually I almost missed it. “But there’s a catch. The role of the Whitmore son-in-law has to go to Oliver.” “The night you were locked away in your studio finishing those commission drafts… we had a few too many drinks. Things got out of hand. I’m pregnant with his child.” “I know you two are like brothers. When the baby is born, we want you to be the godfather.” “Everything else stays the same. He gets the Whitmore name on paper, but my heart belongs to you, Jesse. It always will.” A sudden, violent chill swept through me. My fingers slipped into the pocket of my heavy wool coat, which I hadn’t even had the chance to take off. Inside was a folded piece of paper—the neurologist’s diagnosis. The permanent, irreversible nerve damage in my right hand. “I know this is a lot to take in,” Chelsea continued, her tone as even as if she were discussing tomorrow’s weather forecast. “But we can’t delay this.” “Oliver’s heart condition is fragile. The news of the pregnancy put so much stress on him; he’s been having severe palpitations and blacking out. He can’t be left alone right now. You’ve always been the sensible one, Jesse. Go focus on setting up the gallery for a few weeks. Once his health stabilizes, I’ll make it up to you.” I looked down at the steaming broth. Suddenly, the last seven years of my life felt like a cruel, elaborate punchline. Ever since I helped Chelsea launch her startup, sleepless nights had become my default state. In those early days, we survived on low-budget, fast-turnaround freelance gigs that came with endless demands. … 1 I couldn’t count how many nights I had worked until dawn, my fingers cramping so badly I couldn’t grip the stylus, crying silently on the cold hardwood floor of my cramped studio surrounded by rejected drafts. After drying my face, I’d dial the clients to apologize and beg for another chance. Even when the repetitive strain turned into chronic tendinitis, I never uttered a single word of complaint. Back then, Chelsea would wrap my throbbing wrist in a warm compress, looking at me with soft, tear-filled eyes, whispering that things would get better. I looked at her now, my voice sounding like gravel. “If that million-dollar debt was a lie… what did you feel during those seven years? Watching me sketch for fourteen hours a day? Watching me refuse to buy a single new winter coat? Watching me drink myself to a bleeding ulcer just to secure a small investment for your company? What did you feel, Chelsea?” Chelsea went quiet for a moment, then reached across the table to cover my hand with hers. “Sweetheart, I know you feel cheated. But your background… my family would never have accepted it without a fight. I’ve been fighting for us.” “What happened with Oliver was a mistake. He’s sick, he was vulnerable, and he came on to me. We’d both been drinking. But I don’t love him, Jesse. You are the only man I love.” “As for Oliver… once the baby is born, I’ll arrange a trust fund and send him abroad to get the best cardiac care. We’ll raise the baby together. We’ll tell everyone it’s ours, and you will always be my real husband.” She spoke with such absolute earnestness that I realized she actually believed her own lies. But the ache in my right hand was intensifying now, a sharp, throbbing line of pain that seemed to find its way directly to my chest. “Do your parents know?” I asked, shifting the subject. I didn’t miss the sudden flicker of guilt in her eyes. “They… they insisted that the first grandchild of the Whitmore line cannot be born out of wedlock. They want me and Oliver to go back to the estate together. To make things official.” I wanted to laugh. It was almost funny. For seven years, I wasn’t even allowed to know where her family home was. I wasn’t worthy of their threshold. Now, thanks to Oliver, I finally had an invitation. Chelsea noticed my expression hardening, and her voice softened even further, taking on a coaxing, maternal tone. “Sweetheart, I know it hurts. But it’s already done. Think about it—Oliver is your best friend. His child is practically your child. What difference does it make?” She opened her mouth to say more, but her phone buzzed loudly on the counter. “Your chest is hurting again? Oliver, don’t take any pills yet. I’m on my way.” She grabbed her car keys from the hook, murmuring frantic reassurances into the receiver. Slipping into her flats by the door, she looked back at me. “I need to check on him, Jesse. We’ll talk when I get back. Drink the broth, okay? Don’t let yourself get hungry.” My fingers tightened around the diagnosis sheet in my pocket. I took a slow, trembling breath. “Chelsea. What if I told you my hand is ruined? That I can never paint again?” She paused, her hand hovering over the phone’s microphone. “Jesse, you’re not the type to make jokes like that. Stop acting out.” The door clicked shut behind her. I pulled the neurologist’s report out of my pocket, unfolding the crisp paper and flattening it on the dining table. It lay right beside the gallery transfer deed. I sat there in the silence of the empty house, watching the steam slowly rise from the bowl of broth until it grew cold and still. Outside, the pale, gray dawn of a Boston morning began to bleed through the window, illuminating the dust motes in the air. I picked up the bowl, took a single sip, and forced myself to swallow. Chelsea had always been an excellent cook. During those brutal, all-night drawing sessions, she would always bring me a hot bowl of soup. But this time, the taste made my stomach turn. A sudden wave of intense nausea hit me. I pushed the bowl away, rushed to the bathroom, and emptied my stomach until there was nothing left. I didn’t see Chelsea for the rest of the night. The next morning, her personal assistant knocked on the door, handing me a sleek black American Express card and a brass key. “Mr. Dalton,” the assistant said politely, “Ms. Whitmore asked me to deliver this. It’s a black card with no spending limit. Also, the penthouse on the East Side has been fully prepared. She wants you to rest there for the time being.” I stared at the plastic card, a dry, bitter laugh escaping my throat. Back in college, I had worked myself to the bone, taking on every miserable freelance gig just to fund Chelsea’s startup. I had tolerated every demanding, toxic client imaginable, sacrificing my physical and mental health just to keep her business afloat. And yet, with a single reveal of her true identity, she could produce a black card and a multi-million-dollar penthouse without blinking. In a sick way, I supposed I had Oliver to thank. Without his betrayal, I might never have witnessed the sheer scale of the Whitmore fortune. But the humor died quickly. I tossed the card and the key onto the table, pulled out my phone, and called Oliver. “Send me the address,” I said. Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds before he softly, hesitantly gave me the address to his luxury high-rise in Back Bay. A cold smirk touched my lips. I hung up and called an Uber. Chelsea was the one who opened the door. She was wearing a cozy knit lounge set, holding a warm mug of honey water. She froze when she saw me. “Jesse? What are you doing here?” “I came to see Oliver.” The penthouse was massive, bathed in natural light. The living room was centered around a plush, off-white sectional—Oliver’s favorite style—and a vase of fresh lilies sat on the glass coffee table. Oliver was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in a heavy cashmere throw. His face was pale, his lips nearly bloodless. When his eyes met mine, he instinctively shrank back, looking toward Chelsea for protection. “Jesse,” he whispered. I walked right past Chelsea and sat on the armchair opposite him. Chelsea followed, setting the warm mug in front of Oliver before sitting down closely beside him. She casually draped her arm along the back of the sofa behind his shoulders—a deeply practiced, protective gesture. I looked at Oliver. “Where does it hurt?” He stared down at his interlaced fingers, his voice barely audible. “My heart was racing last night. Chelsea insisted I stay here and rest.” He looked up, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. He looked exactly like he used to back in college when he got caught copying my art history assignments. “I only came here for one thing, Oliver. I want the truth. Do you love her?” Chelsea tried to interject. “Jesse, let’s discuss this back at our place.” “I’m asking him,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Oliver. “Could you stay out of it?” Chelsea’s face tightened at my sharp tone. She opened her mouth to argue, but Oliver gently tugged at her sleeve. “Chelsea, please. Let me talk to Jesse alone.” Chelsea hesitated, looking between the two of us, before finally sighing and stepping out onto the balcony. Oliver’s eyes brimmed with red. “Jesse, I know I’ve ruined everything. I know what I did to you is unforgivable. But the day the doctor told me my heart was failing… Chelsea was the only one there. She pulled strings to get me in to see the best specialist. She told me, ‘Jesse has a deadline today and couldn’t make it, so I’m here instead.’ She paid my deposit. She looked at me with so much pity. Jesse, in that moment, I realized that even if I only have one day left on this earth, I want to spend it with her.” I looked at him, feeling a dull, aching laceration in my chest. This was a brother I had shared ten years of my life with. I knew him well enough to recognize that his vulnerability, his desperation, was entirely real. But what about me? To raise the money for his heart transplant, I had pulled endless double shifts taking on extra freelance illustrations. For Chelsea, I had turned down a prestigious, fully-funded residency in Paris. Every spare ounce of my energy, my time, and my health had been poured into the two of them. Even the day of Oliver’s surgery, I had slipped down a flight of concrete stairs in a torrential downpour while running to grab a lucky charm he’d asked for, nearly shattering my right wrist. And yet, my best friend had climbed into bed with my fiancée. “Loving someone isn’t a crime, Oliver,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But using your illness to trap my fiancée, knowing exactly what she meant to me, is. Playing the victim while you two secretly carried on behind my back is.” His lips trembled. “Jesse, you love her too, but you don’t understand the terror of knowing your own heart could stop at any second. I was drowning. I just wanted a lifeline. I couldn’t sleep, thinking about dying alone. I just wanted someone to lean on…” “So because you needed a lifeline, I’m supposed to just hand over my fiancée?” My throat was parched, the words tasting like ash. He looked up, his tears still wet on his cheeks, but his gaze had shifted. The guilt was still there, but beneath it lay a simmering resentment, a bitter sense of entitlement. “Jesse, do you have any idea what Chelsea told me about you? She said you were too intense. She said you were so consumed by your work and your drive that she felt like she was suffocating around you. She said she only felt truly needed when she was with me.” He wiped his eyes, his breathing growing ragged as he leaned forward and grabbed my shoulder. “Do you know what it felt like for me? To be her dirty little secret? A shadow hidden in the dark, thrown a scrap of pity whenever she felt like it, while you got to be her fiancé in the light?” I sat there, ignoring the sharp twinges of pain firing down my right arm, and simply stared at him. So that was it. In his mind, he was the victim. He truly believed we had wronged him. There was nothing left to say. Looking at him, I realized with a chilling certainty that the boy I had grown up with was gone. I stood up to leave, but he lunged forward, grabbing my sleeve and sobbing hysterically. “Jesse! You neglected her for years for your art! You never gave her the warmth she needed—why couldn’t you let me do it? The Whitmores have more money than they know what to do with, and she’s carrying my child. I can finally get the medical care I need without worrying about dying in debt! I just want to live! You’ve always been better than me at everything, Jesse. You’ve always let me win. Can’t you just let me have this one thing?” I reached down and pried his fingers off my arm, one by one. “You’re out of your mind, Oliver.” Panic flared in his eyes. He scrambled to his feet to block my path, but his balance gave way. He stumbled, crashing heavily into the glass coffee table. The glass shattered with a deafening crack. He collapsed among the shards, clutching his chest, gasping in agony. The balcony door flew open. Chelsea charged into the room like a tempest, violently shoving me aside as I stood there in shock. She knelt beside Oliver, cradling him with a frantic, desperate tenderness, then looked up at me, her eyes burning with pure disgust. “Jesse, how could you? You’re a monster!” Oliver’s eyes fluttered, looking at me with a weak, pleading gaze. “Jesse… I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have…” “Oliver, stop,” Chelsea snapped, her voice breaking with worry as she helped him up. “You don’t owe him an apology. He’s the one who should be begging for forgiveness.” She escorted him toward the exit, pausing at the threshold to look back at me. Her expression was cold, hard, and utterly devoid of the warmth we had shared for seven years. “Jesse Dalton, pack your things and go back to that dead-end town you came from. If I ever catch you near Oliver again, I will personally ensure you never get another art commission in this industry. I’ll ruin you.” My father stood in the center of the room, looking frantically between me and the hallway. Finally, he gave me a look of deep disappointment. “Stop being selfish, Jesse,” he whispered, before turning on his heel to chase after them. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, along with Oliver’s ragged, shallow breathing, leaving nothing but the hum of the hospital monitors. A dry laugh escaped my throat. I reached over, ripped the IV out of my left arm, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My right hand throbbed with a sickening, white-hot intensity, but I pressed my shoulder against the wall and slowly dragged myself down to the reception desk. I paid my bill using my own meager savings, leaving me with almost nothing. Then, I placed the black Amex card on the counter. “Return this to Chelsea Whitmore,” I told the receptionist. I walked out of the hospital doors and bought a one-way ticket on the first Greyhound bus out of Boston. I didn’t pack. I didn’t look back.

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Three years after my parents’ divorce, I ran into my sister while I was street performing. She stepped out of a city patrol car, stopping dead in her tracks when she realized the guy desperately spitting fire for spare change on the corner was me. She walked over, her steps stiff, unnatural. “You’re a public nuisance,” she said, her voice tight. “Pack it up. You’re coming with me.” By the time they finished taking my statement at the precinct, my mother had arrived. She paid my fine and slid a sleek black credit card across the cold table. “Stop humiliating us,” she said. “Take this, find a decent school, and try to do something with your life.” I didn’t move a finger. When I spoke, my voice was a ruined, gravelly rasp. “Where were you? When Dad and I needed you most… where the hell were you?” My sharp tone made my sister’s brow furrow. “Things were complicated back then, Drew,” Diana said, her voice dripping with that familiar, exhausting fatigue. “You don’t need to dump all your bitterness on Mom.” My mother’s face hardened. She took on that lecturing tone she always used when she wanted to play the authority figure. “You’re just as stubborn as your father,” she said, her voice cold. “If you had just come with me, you wouldn’t be begging on the streets. Go back and tell him: the second he admits he was wrong, I’ll take you back as my son.” I stared at them, the words clawing at the back of my throat, tasting like ash. Did they really not know? Did they really not know that my father died three years ago? 1 My mother let her eyes drift over me, taking in my singed hair and the jagged, red scars climbing up my jawline. A flicker of something resembling pity crossed her face, but it was too fleeting to be real. “If I had known it would turn out like this, I never would have let your father take you,” she murmured. “Your suffering… it’s all his fault.” My expression iced over. “Ma’am, you have no right to comment on a stranger’s life. If you have so much money to throw around, go donate it to a shelter.” She opened her mouth, about to snap, but the words died on her lips, leaving only a heavy, useless sigh. A moment later, her phone buzzed. The screen lit up with “My Little Prince”. Instantly, her eyes softened into a warmth she had never once shown me. She turned on her heel and walked away, never looking back. Diana watched her retreating figure, then turned to me, her voice dropping to a low, frustrated whisper. “Stop doing this dangerous crap, Drew.” I ignored her, bending down to pick up my props one by one. She stood by the door, watching me for a few silent beats, before she turned and walked out too. The other people who had been swept up in the street sweep were slowly being released. One of them nudged me, curious. “Do you know that cop?” “Are you kidding?” someone else chimed in quickly. “That’s Sergeant Diana. She’s decorated—got the three stripes on her shoulder and everything. She’s the oldest daughter of Cynthia, the real estate billionaire, and her first husband.” “I remember reading an interview with her,” another added. “She said the only reason she joined the force was so she could grow up to protect her father and brother.” “Yeah, and Cynthia? When she wanted her husband and son to have her name, she walked away from her family’s corporate empire just to start from scratch. She told the media her biggest regret was leaving them behind.” I let out a cold, hollow laugh, cutting them off. “If she regretted it so much, why did she sign the divorce papers?” They looked at me, eager to defend the fairy tale they’d bought into. “If she didn’t love them, why does Cynthia tear up every time she talks about them? Why is her profile picture still her son’s old painting?” “Exactly. And Sergeant Diana wears a lucky charm her brother made for her every time she goes on a raid. Everyone knows they’re haunted by the past.” I raised my eyes, my voice flat, deadened by the truth. “They’re haunted by a lie,” I said. “She married her high school sweetheart on a sham certificate, refusing to legally register her biological son so he wouldn’t interfere with her new trust fund. Her real son was left undocumented, unable to even register for his college exams. While her ex-husband worked five jobs and her son collected aluminum cans just to buy bread, she was throwing million-dollar birthday bashes for her lover’s kid in a mansion.” “And the sister? She was brought back to the family estate, raised in silk and silver. But when her real dad came to the gates, desperate, she called him an embarrassment and had the guards throw him out, breaking his leg in the process. She watched her brother get tormented by her stepbrother at school every single day, did nothing, and even handed her brother’s hard-earned scholarship over to the bully.” The room went entirely, suffocatingly quiet. Someone gasped. “Are you…” I swallowed the raw, metallic taste of old grief. “I’m Cynthia’s son. Diana’s brother.” Nobody said another word. I pulled up my mask, hiding the jagged scars on my face, and walked out into the cold rain. I used every cent I made that day to buy a bundle of white lilies and the cheapest, smallest chocolate cake from the grocery store. I walked to the barren, wind-swept hillside on the edge of the county line. I set up the crooked wooden marker that had been knocked over by the storm, wiping the damp soil off his name. “Happy birthday, Dad.” I sliced the cake in half. The frosting, usually so sweet, tasted incredibly bitter. “I saw Diana and Mom today,” I whispered to the empty air. “They still think you’re alive.” The next day, I went back to the corner to perform. While I was spitting fire, a sudden gust of wind caught the kerosene mist. The flame leaped sideways, singeing the bangs of a boy passing by. Before I could even apologize, a man lunged out of the crowd, slamming his heavy leather briefcase directly into my temple. “You filthy street rat! You burned my son!” The metal clasp of the bag sliced my brow. Blood started warm and thick down my cheek. But I didn’t feel it. I was staring at Lawrence. He recognized me, too. His face contorted into pure disgust. Hearing the commotion, Diana pushed her way through the crowd. Her face softened into instant, frantic concern as she checked Wesley’s hair. “Does it hurt, sweetie?” she asked, her voice entirely different from the one she used on me. My mother stepped out from behind them, her eyes glaring at me with nothing but irritation. “Apologize to them,” she commanded. “Now. Before I lose my temper.” I wiped the blood from my eyes, a mocking laugh tearing from my throat. “Does it matter if I apologize? You’ll just do what you did three years ago—threaten my dad’s life until I crawl on my knees to beg their forgiveness.” Her face shifted. A fleeting, ugly shadow of guilt crossed her features. She remembered. She remembered exactly what she had done to us. Back then, when she first broke away from her family’s empire to start her own business, she took out massive loans from predatory lenders. But her family blocked her at every turn. Her startup collapsed, and the interest on the debt spiraled out of control. She stopped coming home. My father, hearing my high school counselor say I had a shot at a full Ivy League scholarship, worked himself to the bone. He took five jobs so I could focus entirely on studying. On the day I finished my final SAT prep exams, Dad bought a tiny cake to celebrate. But when a knock came at the door, it wasn’t Mom. It was a squad of debt collectors. They dragged my father away. When he finally crawled back days later, he was nothing but skin and bone, his forearms covered in bruises and track marks from forced clinical trials they’d used to squeeze out her debts. He never complained. He just smiled at me, his eyes hollow but warm. The next time we saw Mom, it was on a viral video on someone else’s phone. She was standing on a stage, publicly declaring Lawrence’s son, Wesley, as her own. My chest burned. “Dad… did Mom replace me?” My father grabbed the phone, his hands shaking violently as he stared at the screen. He took my hand, and we ran to the grand estate where the adoption party was being held. When we pushed through the double doors, the ballroom fell dead silent. My father’s voice was cracked, raw. “You said you were never going back to your family, Cynthia. You said you were done with him.” “You adopted his kid? What about us? What about your real son?” I looked at Diana, my voice cracking. “Diana… I’m your brother.” Lawrence and Wesley’s eyes welled with tears. Lawrence turned to leave, but Cynthia caught his arm, desperate. “Cynthia, is this true?” Lawrence whimpered. Cynthia held him close, her voice a soothing murmur. “No, darling. They’re just stalkers. They’ve been harassing me.” Diana sneered at us. “You heard her. Get out before I have the guards throw you into the street.” The room erupted into whispers and cruel laughter. “Look at those scammers trying to leech off her.” “Everyone knows how much Cynthia loves Lawrence. She waited years for him, and now these grifters are trying to ruin their family.” After we were kicked out, Cynthia came to our apartment once, crying, begging my father to understand. She claimed returning to her family was her only choice to clear the debts. She claimed adopting Wesley was to repay a life-saving favor. “Once I secure my inheritance, I’ll bring you both home,” she wept. “We’ll be together forever.” My father, skeletal and weak, pushed her away with everything he had left. “You knew,” he sobbed. “You knew what those collectors did to me to pay off your loans. You knew what you were doing to our boy.” “I hate you, Cynthia. I want to rip you apart. I want you to feel even a fraction of the agony we lived through.” She didn’t know how terrified I was of Wesley. Even when he tortured me at school, I kept quiet, too afraid to cause trouble. Cynthia wiped her tears, her face filled with brief remorse. But before she could speak, Lawrence’s voice cut through the room from the doorway. He stood there, pale, pointing at my father. “Cynthia… who is this man to you?” Cynthia panicked. She shoved me and my father away, rushing to soothe Lawrence. “Lawrence, let me explain. I just felt sorry for them. He thinks I look like his late wife—he won’t leave me alone!” She turned back to us, her eyes cold, warning. “Stay away from my family. If I see you near us again, I’ll make sure you regret it.” “This is your only warning.” She ordered her bodyguards to force my father and me to our knees. Wesley watched from the hallway, a cruel grin on his face. After Cynthia left, he dragged us into the back alley. He struck my father with his belt, his voice a vicious snarl. “Remember this. You try to take what’s mine, and I’ll put you in the dirt.” 2 Three years have passed, and they haven’t changed a bit. The tears finally broke, burning my cheeks. “Neither of you deserves to say his name!” I screamed, my voice a ruined rasp. Diana tried to reach for my arm, but I shoved her off. Her expression hardened. “Is this how he raised you? To scream at your mother?” she snapped. “He was bitter and miserable, and you’re turning out exactly like him.” A harsh, broken laugh tore from my chest. “Miserable? We spent three years hiding from you, doing everything we could to stay out of your pristine sight. How is that still offending you?” My mother frowned, her voice dripping with condescension. “You don’t understand how the world works, Drew.” “Oh, I think I do,” I spat. “You understand it perfectly—how to kick us to the curb the second we become inconvenient.” Her eyes went icy. “Did your father ever think about your future when he dragged you away?” she demanded. “He did it just to hurt me. Did he ever take responsibility as a parent?” I stared at her, completely numb. “How do those words even come out of your mouth?” “You were the one who told us to stay away.” She went quiet for a second, then shifted the blame back to me. “If you had focused on your exams instead of crashing that party, none of this would have happened,” she said. “I wanted you to have a future.” My heart went entirely cold. Even now, she thought it was my fault. The night after that party, my father had a raging fever, his body shaking under the thin blankets. But the next morning was the day the SAT scores were released. He forced himself out of bed, made me a bowl of oatmeal, and kept telling me not to worry, to go check my scores. But as I was putting on my shoes, Wesley showed up. He brought a basket of fruit, pretending to be a concerned classmate. My father tried to shut the door, but Wesley suddenly dropped to his knees, crying loudly, screaming that he just wanted a family. The noise drew the neighbors. Within minutes, Cynthia and Diana arrived. They didn’t come to help. They came to accuse us of bullying Wesley. My father, shaking with fever, stood in front of me like a shield. “Get out! Leave my son alone!” In the chaos, Wesley backed toward the kitchen. A second later, he knocked the grease pan onto the open stove. Fire erupted instantly, tearing through the cheap wallpaper. My father’s first instinct wasn’t to save himself. He threw his weight against me, shoving me out the front door. As I stumbled onto the landing, I turned back. The orange glare of the flames lit up his face. Wesley grinned, slipping past him into the hallway. Cynthia and Diana grabbed Wesley, shielding him as they ran down the stairs. Only my father was left inside. I screamed for him, throwing myself against the heat. I screamed until my throat bled, until the smoke choked the sound into a permanent whisper. It took two neighbors and a firefighter to pin me to the ground. I watched the roof collapse. My face was severely burned, my vocal cords scorched. A few days later, while I was standing in the hospital lobby, my school called. I had scored a perfect 1600. I was accepted into Columbia University on a full ride. My father had survived the initial blaze, though he was heavily bandaged, weeping as he held my hand. We cried together, thinking we had finally made it out. But the day before registration, the nightmare returned. My scholarship and admission had been revoked and handed to Wesley. I called my mother dozens of times. None of them went through. When I finally told my father, his face fell. He reached down, took off his silver wedding band—the only thing he had left—and pressed it into my palm. “Go find her. Show her this.” I went to her office. But Cynthia looked at the ring with nothing but disgust. “With a father like yours, you could never get into an Ivy League school,” she sneered. “Stop lying. You’re just jealous of Wesley.” “Go enroll in a community college. Maybe I’ll hire you as a receptionist one day.” I couldn’t speak. My phone was vibrating with a text from the ICU. My father’s lungs were failing from smoke inhalation. He was suffocating. I squeezed my fists until my knuckles turned white. I bowed my head. “I won’t go to school,” I whispered. “Just give me the money. Please.” I traded my Ivy League future for his hospital bills. But Lawrence cornered me at the billing desk. He snatched the emergency credit card out of my hand, his eyes wild with malice. “For my son’s sake, you will stay in the dirt where you belong,” he whispered. “Everything you have belongs to Wesley now. Your future, your life.” “I’ll let you live this time. But if you ever try to tell Cynthia, I’ll have you and your useless father shipped off to a forced labor camp across the border.” I snapped. I lunged forward, shoving him to the floor. But Cynthia walked in at that exact moment. Before I could explain, a bodyguard kicked me from behind, sending me crashing into the tile. My wrist snapped with a sickening pop. I screamed, rolling on the floor in agony. They didn’t even look at me. They only coddled Lawrence. I crawled toward the card on the floor, trying to reach it with my good hand. My mother stepped on my fingers, kicking the card away. “Lawrence lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. ‘My baby… the baby!’” “If you’re going to be this greedy, you get nothing.” “I’ll leave a bare minimum for your living expenses, just so you remember this lesson. But even if you end up begging on the street, I won’t give you another dime.” I dragged myself up, sobbing. “Mom, please… Dad needs surgery. Without the money, he’ll die.” The noise drew my father out of his room. He was pale, clinging to the IV stand, begging her. “I don’t need the surgery,” he rasped. “Just let our boy go to school… please.” Cynthia looked at him with nothing but disgust. “Look at what you’ve turned him into,” she said. “Until you both learn to apologize to Lawrence, don’t ever call me.” She walked away with Lawrence. She never looked back. Later, a kind stranger helped me buy a cheap, secondhand phone. I started streaming my street performances online, trying to raise money. With the help of some online donations, Dad’s condition began to stabilize. Until… The memory cut deep. I looked at Cynthia, my eyes burning. “What do we have to do for you to finally leave us alone?” The hallway fell dead silent. My mother’s expression crumbled, shifting through a dozen different emotions before she finally managed to speak, her voice tight. “Tell your father to come out. He needs to take responsibility for you.” I let out a loud, hysterical laugh, tears spilling over my scars. “Don’t you get it? He’s dead!” “He’s been dead for three years! His bones are dust!” “Snap.” Her palm slammed across my face, the sting sharp and hot. “Stop lying!” she shrieked. “Do you think making up a story will keep me from finding him? When I do, I’ll make sure neither of you ever has a peaceful day again!” I held my bruised cheek, staring at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. “Go ahead,” I whispered. “Find him. Do whatever you want to us.” She glared at me for a few tense seconds. “Just you wait,” she spat, turning on her heel. Diana looked at me, her mouth opening as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately turned and followed our mother out. The second they left, the adrenaline drained from my body, leaving me hollow. Saying those words out loud hadn’t brought the relief I thought it would. Only exhaustion. I was too tired to even hate them anymore. When I got back to my cramped, dark rental that night, the city was already pitch black. I walked over to the small table and gently wiped the dust off the keepsake urn with a tissue, just like I did every night. But as I wiped, the tears began to fall, soaking the paper. “Dad…” “If I had just grown up a little faster…” “Would you still be here?” I slid down to the cold floor, pulling the heavy ceramic urn into my chest, resting my forehead against the cool surface. Eventually, I drifted off. In my dreams, I was back in that dark place. The day the internet trolls flooded my livestream. Someone had leaked our address, claiming my father was a gold-digging homewrecker who had ruined Cynthia’s life. It went viral. To the world, my father and I were parasites clawing at a billionaire’s coat-tails. In every photo, she was trying to shake us off. A mob showed up at the hospital, dragging my father and me out onto the street. In the middle of the screaming crowd, someone stepped hard on my hand. I heard the tiny bones in my fingers snap. I looked up through the tears. Lawrence was standing there, looking down at me with a cold, triumphant smirk. I lunged forward, sinking my teeth deep into his leg. He lost his balance, crashing into Cynthia. She fell hard against the counter, clutching her stomach. “My baby… the baby!” Diana, who was on patrol nearby, rushed through the crowd, frantic. “Dad! Are you okay?” My father looked at her, his heart breaking as he watched his own daughter scream for another man. After the ambulance left, my father and I were locked in a holding cell under suspicion of assault and harassment. Though the charges were eventually dropped, no hospital would take my father back. On the long walk home, my father stared at the gray sky, silent tears tracing his worn face. “Drew,” he whispered after a long time. “Let’s go somewhere they can’t find us.” I nodded, my throat tight. “Okay.” But the moment we unlocked our front door, the debt collectors were waiting. They claimed Cynthia’s old debts weren’t fully settled. They threatened to sell me to an offshore human trafficking ring if we didn’t pay. My father threw himself in front of me like a wild animal. They broke his arm, but he never let go of me. Eventually, a neighbor called the police, and the men fled. But my father was barely breathing. I dragged him to the nearest clinic, but they turned us away because I couldn’t pay the deposit. I had no choice. Even knowing it was useless, I went to find Cynthia. Afraid she wouldn’t see me, I knelt right in the center of her corporate lobby. When she came down, her voice was like ice. “Stop putting on a show! Who would dare collect my debts?” “Do you have any idea how much danger you put your sister in? How do you have the nerve to ask for money?” “I told you, even if you starve to death, I won’t help you. Get out.” I pictured my father, fading away in that alley. The last spark of hope inside me died. “I’ll apologize,” I whispered. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carlisle. I’m sorry, Mr. Lawrence. It was all my fault.” Wesley stood by, mocking me. “An apology doesn’t mean anything without proof.” I bit my lip, pressing my forehead hard against the cold marble floor. “Thud. Thud. Thud.” “I’m a parasite. I forced myself on Mrs. Carlisle.” “I’m a monster. I hurt Mr. Lawrence.” “I’m sorry. Please. I promise I’ll disappear forever.” Blood smeared across the white marble. My cracked voice echoed through the vast, empty lobby. Wesley laughed, a sound of pure, twisted satisfaction. “See, Aunt Cynthia? He’s not your son. He doesn’t have a single bone of dignity in his body.” Cynthia’s face remained entirely expressionless. She flicked a card into the blood on the floor. “Take the money and run. I don’t ever want to see you again.” I clutched the bloody card and ran back to the clinic. But when the receptionist ran it, she looked at me with pity. The card was empty. I stood at the window, the world turning to static in my ears. I went back to his room, squeezing his cold, trembling hand. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’m going to save you.” I went back to the collectors. I told them I would go to the offshore ring. They made me take off my shirt, taking photos with my ID as collateral. But by the time I got back to the clinic with the cash, my phone rang. It was the doctor. My father had climbed out of the window. The last thing he left me was a voicemail. “Drew, I’m sorry. You have to live. You have to keep going.” I ran to the alley beneath the window, falling to my knees beside his broken body, screaming into the empty air. My father was gone. I held the urn in my lap, crying until my chest felt like it would crack. “Dad, let’s go home,” I whispered. I packed my few belongings and opened the door. Cynthia was standing on the landing. Her eyes drifted past me, freezing on the black-and-white photo on the urn. Her face drained of all color.

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My billionaire father-in-law was hanging by a thread after a horrific car crash. On his deathbed, to prevent a post-mortem bloodbath for control of his empire, he drafted a final mandate in front of the city’s top attorneys and press: whichever daughter reached his bedside first would inherit the entire multi-billion-dollar Prescott legacy. My sister-in-law, Isabel, was supposedly stuck on another continent. Vera, my wife and the eldest, was a mere ten-minute drive from the hospital. It should have been an effortless victory. A multi-billion-dollar empire handed to her on a silver platter. But I called her until my fingers went numb, and she just turned her phone off. All because Christian—her “one that got away”—was having a bad day, and she had promised to ride the Ferris wheel with him to watch a private fireworks display from the highest cabin. In my past life, I had lost my mind with panic. I’d stormed the amusement park with bodyguards, physically dragging her to her father’s deathbed. She dropped to her knees just as her father drew his last breath, successfully securing her position as the head of the empire. But Christian caught a mild fever from being left alone in the chilly autumn air. He threw a tantrum, accused her of abandoning him, and threatened to cut her out of his life forever. Vera was devastated. Once she secured total control of the company, she had me bound, weighted with heavy stones, and thrown into the freezing depths of the Atlantic. “If it weren’t for a money-grubbing parasite like you ruining everything, Christian would never have gotten sick. The inheritance was always going to be mine. You just had to meddle.” When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the hospital corridor, the family attorney frantically urging me to call my wife. I looked down at my phone. On her private Instagram story, she’d just posted a photo of the fireworks: “Even if the sky fell, I’d still watch the stars with my prince.” I double-tapped to leave a like. Then, with a calm heart, I opened my chat with Isabel: “Isabel, let’s make a deal.” … “Logan, what are you doing? Call Vera!” Beside me, Mr. Albright, the family’s lead counsel, was practically vibrating with anxiety. “The Chairman has made it clear. Whoever walks through that door first inherits Prescott Enterprises. It’s a ten-minute drive. If she leaves now, she wins.” I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of memory, forcing down the phantom sensation of cold ocean water filling my lungs. In front of the room packed with lawyers and doctors, I dialed Vera’s number. It rang and rang. The hollow tone stretched on until Albright’s forehead was slick with sweat. Finally, she picked up. The deafening, rhythmic boom-boom of fireworks exploded through the receiver. “Logan, I told you to stop calling,” Vera snapped, her voice dripping with venomous impatience. “Christian is having a panic attack today. I am not leaving him.” I kept my voice flat, empty of the desperation that used to define me. “Your father had a catastrophic accident. He’s in the ICU.” Before I could even mention the will, a soft, pathetic cough echoed in the background. “Vera… are you going to leave me again?” Christian’s fragile voice drifted over the line. “Logan, I’m really not feeling well today. Vera is just keeping me company. Is it necessary to invent such a sick lie? Do I need to beg you on my knees to let her stay?” Vera’s voice shifted instantly, turning into a cooing, maternal murmur. “Don’t worry, Christian. I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.” Then, turning back to the phone, her voice hardened into ice. “Do you hear him? He’s already fragile, and you’re deliberately trying to trigger him. Are you trying to kill him, Logan? Is that what you want?” Albright’s veins were bulging in his neck. He snatched the phone from my hand. “Mrs. Campbell, this is Albright. Your husband isn’t lying. Charles had a severe head injury in a pileup. He is at Metro Central right now. You have thirty minutes. He has structured his will so that—” “Oh, please, Mr. Albright,” a mocking, high-pitched chuckle interrupted him. It was Amber Fletcher, Vera’s personal assistant and Christian’s sister. “Logan, you really outdid yourself today,” Amber sneered. “Hiring a voice actor to play the family lawyer? Too bad you made one critical mistake. My best friend is on duty in the ER at Metro Central tonight. She says it’s completely quiet. You’re just jealous of my brother, so you’re putting on this pathetic little drama to drag Vera away.” Vera took the phone back, her disgust palpable. “Logan, using my dying father as a prop for your pathetic jealousy is a new low. You make me sick.” The line went dead. Albright stared at the phone, completely stunned. “How… how can she be this blind?” Before he could finish, the heavy ICU doors burst open. “You useless piece of trash!” Lydia, my mother-in-law, stormed in, her eyes red-rimmed and feral. She raised her hand to slap me across the face. Having anticipated this, I took a step back. Lydia’s momentum carried her forward; her hand cut through empty air, and she stumbled over a waiting chair, letting out a sharp cry as she hit the floor. Ignoring the pain, she scrambled up, pointing a trembling finger at my nose. “Where is Vera? Where is she!” “I knew you were a useless husband, but this? If Vera doesn’t get here, if that multi-billion-dollar estate goes to her, I will skin you alive!” Behind her was a small army of her sycophantic relatives—people who had spent years riding her coattails, feeding off the Prescott scraps. They swarmed the small corridor, their breath hot and angry. “You’re a disgrace,” one of her uncles spat. “Can’t even control your own wife. If she loses this inheritance, we’ll make sure you pay for it.” I watched them panic, entirely unmoved. I knew exactly why they were terrified. Lydia wasn’t the legitimate dowager. She had started as Charles’s mistress, getting pregnant with Vera while Charles’s first wife was still alive. To force her way into the family, Lydia had shown up at the estate when the first wife was in her third trimester, flaunting her infant daughter and spewing venomous threats. The shock had sent the first wife into premature labor. She bled out on the operating table. Isabel, the second daughter, had been born motherless. Naturally, Lydia and Vera had spent the next two decades treating Isabel like an unwanted weed. They abused her, humiliated her, and eventually shipped her off to Europe under the guise of “education” to keep her far away from the family business. Though Charles let Lydia live in his mansion, he never officially married her. He knew she lacked class. If Charles died today without Vera securing the inheritance, Lydia would be cast out with absolutely nothing. “Are you deaf?” Lydia shrieked, grabbing my arm. “Call her assistant! Tell them to get Vera here right now!” I didn’t argue. I dialed Amber’s number again, putting it on speaker. It picked up instantly, the sound of laughing and booming fireworks filling the sterile hallway. “Logan, are you seriously still calling?” Amber sighed, her tone dripping with condescension. “Can’t you give a woman some space? Do you have to cling to Vera like a wet band-aid? Let me tell you something—if you were my husband, I would have thrown you out years ago. A man’s job is to stay in the background and support his woman. Stop trying to control her.” Her sheer audacity made the relatives gasp. But I remained calm, slowing my words down for maximum clarity. “Amber, believe what you want, but Charles is on life support. He just drafted a mandate. Whoever gets to his bedside first—Vera or Isabel—inherits everything.” The line went silent. Lydia lunged at the phone, crying out in desperate hope, “It’s true! It’s true, Amber! Please, tell Vera to come back! I am begging you, there are billions at stake!” A slow, mocking laugh erupted from the speaker. Amber sounded like she’d just heard the funniest joke of the century. “Oh my god… Logan, you really don’t know when to quit, do you? I already told you I exposed your little scam. Did you seriously pay these extra actors to cry on cue?” She let out a smug hum. “Let me make this clear: Vera said that even if the President himself showed up tonight, nobody is allowed to ruin her date with my brother. Your little guilt trip is pathetic. If you have any dignity left, pack your bags. Vera is filing for divorce tomorrow. She’s only ever loved my brother, and I’m going to be the sister-in-law of Prescott Enterprises. You? Get ready to beg on the streets, you loser.” She hung up. Lydia’s face drained of color, turning a horrifying, chalky white. I let my eyes well up with fake, helpless tears, playing the part of the wounded husband to perfection, while inside, my heart was a block of solid ice. I had been married to Vera for three years. To protect her position in the company, I had worked eighty-hour weeks, fixing her disastrous business decisions and quietly covering up her astronomical blunders. And how did she thank me? She raided the company treasury to buy Christian private islands and superyachts. When I confronted her, she had the nerve to say: “Logan, you have the title of my husband. Christian has nothing. Why shouldn’t I spend a little money to make him happy?” Even Lydia had shrugged it off: “All rich women have their fun. As long as she comes home to you, why do you care who she keeps on the side?” They truly believed their love was sacred, untouchable. Fine. If love was all she needed, she didn’t need the money. A flurry of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Several key board members who had backed Vera rushed into the room, breathless and panicked. “Where is Vera? Why isn’t she here?!” the lead shareholder demanded, his collar soaked in sweat. Lydia pointed a trembling finger at me. “It’s him! Logan is useless! He couldn’t even get his own wife to come back!” The shareholder lost his temper, grabbing a thick folder of medical documents and slamming it against my chest. “Logan, what the hell is wrong with you? We risked our entire careers backing Vera! If she misses this mandate, everything we built goes down the drain because of your utter incompetence!” Before I could answer, the heart monitor began to beep frantically. The attending physician sighed, looking at his watch. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Chairman has twenty minutes left at most. If you have a way to get her here, do it now.” Twenty minutes. If Vera just checked her social media, she would see the chaos. The amusement park was only ten minutes away. She could still make it. Lydia’s hands shook as she dialed again. “Vera, please… answer your mother…” At the amusement park, the sky was ablaze with gold and crimson light. The Ferris wheel slowly rotated toward its peak. In the narrow cabin, Christian clung to Vera, pointing out the glass window. “The ringing is giving me a headache, Vera,” he whispered, looking up at her with big, watery eyes. “Turn your phone off. Or better yet, throw it into the lake.” He leaned against her shoulder, projecting an aura of fragile vulnerability. “For these next thirteen minutes, I want to be the only thing in your universe. Can you do that for me?” Vera hesitated for a fraction of a second. Logan’s warning flashed through her mind. But as she looked at Christian’s wind-flushed cheeks and his desperate, adoring gaze, her doubts evaporated. It’s just another one of Logan’s desperate ploys for my attention, she thought. My father is perfectly healthy. He isn’t going to just die. “Anything for my prince,” she murmured, a soft, doting smile spreading across her face. Without another thought, she tossed both of their phones out the cabin window, watching them plunge into the deep artificial lake below. “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable…” Lydia had called twenty times, and each time, she was met with the cold, automated voicemail. Her sister-in-law tried to comfort her. “Lydia, don’t panic. Even if Vera doesn’t make it, Isabel is still in London. A flight from Heathrow takes at least eight hours. There’s no physical way she can get here in twenty minutes.” Lydia let out a shaky breath, letting herself relax slightly. Just then, a breathless manager burst into the room. “Mrs. Prescott! Board members! Someone just spotted the second daughter, Isabel. She’s in a town car heading this way. She’ll be here in fifteen minutes.” The news hit the room like a physical blow. “No!” Lydia’s face went entirely bloodless. “She’s supposed to be in Europe! How is she here?!” In the midst of the screaming and shouting, I stood quietly in the corner, a slow, cold satisfaction blooming in my chest. Isabel had actually returned to the country weeks ago for a research seminar in a neighboring city. In my past life, Lydia had deliberately intercepted the news of Charles’s accident to keep Isabel in the dark until it was too late. But this morning, the second I opened my eyes in this timeline, I had texted Isabel directly. “The park! We have to go to the park!” Lydia lost her mind. She lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of my hair. “You useless parasite, you’re coming with me! We are dragging Vera back here!” A sharp, burning pain flared across my scalp, but I didn’t resist. I let her drag me out to the car. Lydia and her relatives piled out of the car at the amusement park entrance, charging toward the gates like feral animals. But their path was blocked by a dozen burly security guards in black suits. Standing at the front of the line, looking incredibly smug, was Amber. “Are you blind?” Amber sneered, crossing her arms. “Vera booked the entire park tonight. Not even a fly gets in.” Lydia, entirely unhinged, grabbed Amber by the collar. “I am Vera’s mother! Let me in! Tell her that little snake Isabel is about to steal her inheritance!” Amber shoved Lydia back with force. Lydia, wobbling on her stilettos, lost her footing and fell hard onto the concrete, letting out a sharp cry of pain. “Look, lady, you’re committed to the bit, I’ll give you that,” Amber said, looking down at her with pure disgust. “First Logan plays the lawyer, now you show up pretending to cry? You two will really do anything to ruin Vera’s date, won’t you?” “Vera’s orders were clear: even if her biological mother shows up, she waits outside.” Lydia screamed, ordering her relatives to force their way in. They charged the guards, but within seconds, they were beaten back, bruised and bloodied, howling in pain. Desperate, Lydia’s pride shattered entirely. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, throwing herself at Amber’s feet, begging and sobbing. “I beg you! Please let me call her! If we’re too late, everything is gone!” I leaned against the hood of the car, watching the pathetic circus unfold. For the first time in years, a genuine smile touched my lips. At Metro Central, the hallway was swarming with reporters. Live cameras were pointed directly at the ICU doors, broadcasting the drama to millions online. The green line on the heart monitor grew flatter and flatter. Suddenly, a heavy silence fell over the corridor. A slender, sharp figure stepped through the hospital doors, her stride long and confident. The moment her foot crossed the threshold of the ICU, the monitor behind the glass gave a single, continuous, high-pitched flatline. Mr. Albright took a deep breath. Facing the cameras, his voice rang out with absolute solemnity: “In accordance with the late Charles Prescott’s final mandate, Isabel Prescott was the first to arrive. Effective immediately, Isabel Prescott is designated as the sole heir to the Prescott estate.” Outside the amusement park gates, the broadcast on my phone echoed through the damp night air. Hearing the announcement, Lydia’s eyes rolled back, and she collapsed in a dead faint onto the cold concrete. At that exact moment, I looked up. The Ferris wheel had finally completed its final rotation. Under the fading embers of the fireworks, Vera walked out of the cabin, hand-in-hand with Christian, their faces glowing with a serene, untouchable happiness.

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I was at the bank to report a lost debit card when the teller casually asked: “Sir, you have a recurring royalty deposit under your name. Would you like me to link it to your new card?” I froze. On the screen in front of her, under my name, was an account receiving $320,000 in patent licensing fees every single quarter. For three whole seconds, my mind went entirely blank. I flashed back to five years ago, to the evening my wife brought home a thick stack of incorporation papers for me to sign. She told me it was just standard procedure to get the company registered. She had smiled, telling me I “only knew technology, not business,” before quietly sidelining me into a nominal advisory role. I took a slow, deep breath and looked at the teller. “Link it to the new card,” I said. “And route every future deposit directly into my personal account.” That night, my wife, who was supposedly on an urgent business trip halfway across the world, booked the earliest flight home. At 2:00 AM, she was pounding on my bedroom door so hard it rattled the frame. … At 2:00 PM that afternoon, I was standing in front of the teller’s window, trying to replace a lost debit card. I’d misplaced it the week before and simply hadn’t found the time to deal with it until now. The teller took my ID, typed my details into her system, and suddenly paused. “Sir, you have a recurring royalty deposit under your name. Would you like me to link it to your new card?” I blinked, confused. “What royalty deposit?” She turned the monitor slightly so I could see. I stared at the glowing pixels for a long, quiet moment, and then the reality of it hit me like a physical blow. There it was, in black and white: a recurring quarterly deposit of $320,000. The receiving account was a secondary card under my name—one I had never seen, held, or authorized. The ledger went back five years. Five years. Twenty quarters. $6.4 million. My fingers began to tremble against the cold marble counter. I remembered five years ago when I was spending eighteen-hour days in the lab, surviving on cold coffee and adrenaline. My wife, Lauren, had brought a stack of legal documents to my desk. She said they were the standard filings to register the startup, and that she needed her “technical partner” to sign off. I had been too exhausted to read the fine print. I just took the pen and signed where she pointed. She had laughed, leaning over to kiss my forehead. “Sweetheart, you just focus on the tech. Let me handle the commercial side. You’re brilliant in the lab, but you don’t know the first thing about running a business.” From that day on, I was pushed into a corner as a “special consultant.” She never spoke to me about the company’s financials. Whenever I asked how things were going, she would give me a dismissive pat on the shoulder and say, “Don’t worry about it. We’re barely scraping by anyway.” And yet, here was this card, quietly absorbing $320,000 every three months. So this was what she meant by “barely scraping by.” I took a slow, deliberate breath. The trembling in my hands stopped. My mind had never felt so painfully clear. “Link it to my new card,” I said. My voice was so quiet and steady it surprised me. “And make sure every deposit from now on goes straight into my personal checking account.” The teller gave me a curious look but didn’t pry. She began tapping away at her keyboard. Five minutes later, it was done. At 7:00 PM, I walked into an empty house. Lauren was still abroad. Her schedule had grown increasingly hectic over the last two years—she was traveling internationally at least once a month, always citing “investor relations” or “global client pitches.” I had believed her. I had trusted her implicitly. But standing in our quiet hallway, I had to ask myself: what had she really been doing? I walked into her home office and opened her laptop. It took me three attempts to guess her password. It was her birthday. Once inside her email client, I began scrolling through her correspondence. With every thread I opened, a cold dread settled deeper into my chest. Over the past five years, Vesper Technologies had signed seven major patent licensing agreements. Every single one of them was built entirely on my proprietary hardware designs. But on the signature line of every contract, the only name written was Lauren Evans. My patents. My blood, sweat, and sleepless nights. She had sold them to the highest bidders, while doling out a meager $1,200 monthly “allowance” to me, claiming the company was bleeding cash and we needed to tighten our belts. $1,200. I kept scrolling. Eventually, I found an email thread with a contact saved only as “Kevin.” The messages went back two years. The tone had started as strictly professional—negotiations over licensing fees—but gradually devolved into something intimate. “Thinking of you.” “Counting down the days until you’re back.” There were attachments, too. Photos. Lauren leaning into the chest of a tall man in a tailored charcoal suit, her laugh radiant against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. It was dated during her trip to Paris last autumn, the one she had claimed was an grueling industry summit. I stared at the screen until my knuckles turned white against the edge of the desk. Five years. She had built a life on my back, and then she had built a lie on top of it. I closed the laptop, leaned back in her leather chair, and watched the night swallow the room. At 2:00 AM, the peace was shattered. The doorbell rang in a frantic, unbroken rhythm, followed by heavy, desperate pounding on the front door. I got up from the sofa, walked down the hallway without rushing, and opened the door. Lauren stood under the porch light. Her hair was a wild, windblown mess, her mascara smudged, her eyes bloodshot. She was panting, clutching the handle of her carry-on suitcase. She had clearly come straight from the airport. “Larry… are you out of your mind?!” She pushed past me into the foyer, dropping her suitcase and grabbing me by the collar. “Why did you touch that account? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” I looked down at her hands gripping my shirt, and a faint, cold smile touched my lips. “Lauren, I was actually about to ask you the same thing. What exactly is that money?” She froze, her eyes darting away for a split second. “It’s… it’s Vesper’s operating capital,” she stammered, trying to regain her footing. “You can’t just freeze those funds! If you mess with that account, you’re going to destroy the company!” “Operating capital?” My voice remained entirely level. “A quarterly licensing deposit of $320,000 is operating capital?” The color drained from her face. “How… how did you find out?” “I also know that you and Kevin have been very busy helping me ‘manage’ those assets. Isn’t that right?” She took a step back, panic flickering across her features. But Lauren was nothing if not resilient. Within seconds, she pulled herself together, walked over to the living room sofa, and sat down. She pulled a slim silver case from her purse and lit a cigarette. In five years of marriage, I had never seen her smoke. “You went through my laptop,” she said, exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. “Yes.” She laughed softly, leaning her head back against the cushions. It wasn’t a nervous laugh; it was the sound of someone shedding a weight they were tired of carrying. “Fine,” she said, looking up at me with an icy, calm detachment. There was no guilt in her eyes, only a strange, clinical honesty. “What do you want to know, Larry?” “I’ll save you the trouble of asking. Kevin isn’t just a client. We’ve been together for two years.” She tapped her ash into a decorative dish on the coffee table, her tone as casual as if she were commenting on the evening forecast. “Honestly, you didn’t know anything for five years, and you lived a perfectly comfortable life, didn’t you? Why blow it up now?” My hands balled into fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. She looked at me, stubbing out the cigarette. “So stop playing these games. It doesn’t matter if you linked the card to your personal account. The licensing agreements were executed under the company’s corporate seal, not your personal name. If you think you can just take that money and walk away, you’re dreaming.” She stood up, smoothing down her designer skirt. “You’re an engineer, Larry. You understand code, not corporate law. You’re out of your depth.” She grabbed her suitcase, walked into the master bedroom, and shut the door behind her. I stood in the dark living room, cold to the bone. She didn’t even respect me enough to lie anymore. The next morning, I left for my office. As I approached the gate of our community, a black Porsche Cayenne pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down, and a man wearing polarized aviators looked out at me with a smirk. “You must be Larry.” I stopped. “Who are you?” He took off his glasses, revealing sharp, narrow eyes and a perfectly groomed jawline. “Kevin. Kevin West.” The blood roared in my ears. He leaned against the leather interior, studying me with a patronizing amusement. “Lauren told me about the scene you made last night. I figured I’d swing by, clear the air, and have a little chat.” “We have nothing to talk about.” I turned to walk away, but his voice drifted after me, smooth and unbothered. “Larry, don’t take this the wrong way. I actually admire your work. The engineering is top-tier.” “But you and I both know that brilliant tech is useless in a vacuum. Without Lauren’s business acumen and my connections, those patents aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on.” I stopped and turned back to face him. “Is that so?” “I’m here to offer you an out.” He opened his glove compartment and pulled out a checkbook, quickly scribbling a figure. He tore the slip of paper off and held it out to me. “One hundred thousand dollars.” “You unlink that account, sign a waiver, and stop digging into Vesper’s operations.” I stared at the check. My annual salary at my day job was barely $60,000. To the old me, $100,000 would have felt like a fortune. But my patents had generated $6.4 million in five years. He was trying to buy me off with pocket change. “No.” Kevin raised an eyebrow, his smile fading. “Don’t be stupid, Larry.” He slid the check back into his pocket and tapped the steering wheel. “Think about it. This is a one-time offer. Once I walk away, the price goes down to zero.” He shifted into drive, revved the engine, and sped away, leaving a plume of exhaust in the crisp morning air. I stood on the sidewalk, my teeth clenched, watching his taillights disappear. Instead of going to work, I drove downtown to the county records and the state patent directory. I spent three hours digging through databases until I found exactly what I was looking for. The seven licensing agreements were indeed signed under “Vesper Technologies, Inc.” But the original patent filings themselves? The registered inventor and sole owner was listed clearly as: Larry Evans. Lauren’s clever little contract from five years ago had only granted Vesper an exclusive license to use and sublicense the technology. She had never actually transferred the ownership of the intellectual property to the corporation. And deep within the boilerplate of that original licensing agreement, there was a standard clause: The licensor reserves the right to terminate the license upon sixty days’ written notice in the event of material dispute or restructuring. I had signed it without reading it back then. But now, that single clause was a loaded gun in my hands. If I pulled the trigger and terminated the license, Vesper Tech’s entire product line would become legally unauthorized overnight. They would lose their entire market. A nine-million-dollar annual operation, reduced to nothing. That afternoon, I went to a boutique firm specializing in intellectual property. I had an appointment with a senior partner named Cynthia Mitchell. “Ms. Mitchell,” I said, laying out the paperwork. “If I want to terminate this licensing agreement, what does the process look like?” Cynthia reviewed the contract, her red pen tracing the lines of Section 11. She nodded slowly. “According to this, you have the absolute right as the patent holder to terminate the relationship with sixty days’ written notice. There is no cure period and no veto power built in for Vesper.” “So, if I send this notice, sixty days from now they can no longer legally manufacture or sell anything using my technology?” “Exactly. Any continued use would constitute willful patent infringement.” “Perfect.” We drafted the cease-and-desist and termination letters right there, but I told her not to mail them yet. I wasn’t going to strike until every single piece on the board was positioned. On my way home, I stopped by an electronics store and bought a professional-grade voice recorder—thin, voice-activated, with a seventy-two-hour battery life. I slipped it into my breast pocket. From this moment on, every word that came out of Lauren’s or Kevin’s mouths would be recorded. The more arrogant they were, the better it would look in front of a judge. I didn’t argue with Lauren when I got home. I went back to my routine. I went to work, came home, and didn’t mention the bank account again. I let her think I had been properly intimidated. By the fifth day, she decided to test the waters. “Honey,” she said over dinner, her voice soft, returning to her sweet, domestic persona. “Did you think things through about that account?” I kept my eyes on the television, barely looking up. “Yeah. You were right. I don’t know anything about running a business. I shouldn’t have overreacted.” I saw her shoulders visibly relax. She smiled and moved closer to me on the couch. “I knew you’d understand. You just keep doing what you do best in the lab, and let me carry the heavy stuff.” I offered a quiet, compliant nod. A few minutes later, she picked up her phone and walked out onto the balcony to make a call. I slid closer to the glass door, straining to hear over the hum of the traffic below. “Yeah… don’t worry, he’s quieted down… Right, he’s just an academic. A few sharp words and he went right back into his shell…” Her laugh was light, carried away by the evening breeze. “When do you get back from your trip? I miss you…” My fingers tightened around the TV remote until my joints ached. But my face remained completely blank. In my pocket, the recorder silently spun. On the eighth day, my mother-in-law, Helen, paid us a visit. She didn’t even bother to take off her coat before she sat down at the dining table, her expression heavy with irritation. “Larry, Lauren told me about the little stunt you pulled last week.” She crossed her arms, looking down her nose at me. “I don’t understand what you’re complaining about. She feeds you, she keeps a roof over your head, and she handles all the stress of the business. You’re a lab rat. Why on earth are you trying to claw your way into things you don’t understand?” I paused, my fork hovering over my plate. “Helen, I was just asking about the company’s revenue. I didn’t mean anything by it.” “Asking?” Helen let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You signed those papers years ago. You get your share. Don’t start getting greedy now.” Lauren sat beside her, playing the peacemaker with a gentle smile. “Mom, let it go. He knows now.” Helen gave me one last warning look. “Good.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a shiny new debit card, and slapped it onto the table. “This is your new allowance card. Lauren bumped it up to $1,500 a month. That’s an extra three hundred dollars. More than fair, wouldn’t you say?” $1,500. My work brought Vesper millions of dollars a year, and they wanted me to thank them for a three-hundred-dollar raise. I picked up the card and forced a smile. “Thanks, Helen.” Helen nodded, satisfied. “There we go. A man should be content with a stable home and food on his plate. Why make waves?” After dinner, Lauren walked her mother down to her car. I sat alone at the empty table, flipping the plastic card over and over in my hand. On the tenth day, I received an encrypted PDF from Cynthia. Larry, I ran a comprehensive search on Vesper Tech’s corporate filings from the last three years. We found something highly irregular. What is it? I typed back. Three months ago, Vesper registered a new shareholder: Kevin West. He was issued a 25% equity stake. His contribution was registered as an ‘intellectual property/technical asset contribution.’ I stared at the screen, a cold laugh escaping my throat. Technical contribution? Kevin didn’t know the first thing about hardware engineering. He had used my proprietary designs to buy his way into my wife’s company. There’s more, Cynthia’s message continued. I reviewed the shareholder operating agreement. There’s an automatic forfeiture clause: ‘In the event that the core patent licensing agreements are terminated, Kevin West’s equity stake immediately forfeits and reverts to the company treasury.’ Meaning, if you terminate the license, Vesper’s product line stops, and Kevin’s 25% stake becomes instantly worthless. I put my phone down and leaned back, letting out a long breath. They had locked me out of my own creation, stolen my life’s work, and then used my own patents to gift my wife’s lover a quarter of the company. It was a beautifully orchestrated betrayal. By the fifteenth day, everything seemed normal on the surface. Lauren came home on time, cooked dinner, cleaned up, and occasionally played the doting wife. The better she performed, the more nauseous I felt. But I held my tongue. I needed the final piece to fall into place. That afternoon, Cynthia called. “Larry, the package is complete. Come to the office. It’s time for the final review.” I took a half-day off from work and drove to the firm. Cynthia had spread out four thick manila folders across her desk. “Let’s go over the battle plan,” she said, pointing to the first folder. “First: The formal Patent Termination Notice. Once served, the sixty-day clock begins. Vesper will have to cease all manufacturing of products utilizing your patents, or face massive statutory damages.” She tapped the second folder. “Second: The IP Infringement and Fraud complaint to the regulatory authorities. Kevin West claimed a 25% stake based on ‘technical contribution,’ but the tech he submitted is identical to your registered patents. That’s corporate fraud and illegal share issuance.” She moved to the third. “Third: A minority shareholder oppression lawsuit. As a 15% shareholder of Vesper, you have been systematically denied financial disclosures, skipped over for distributions, and excluded from corporate governance. This is a direct violation of corporate law.” Finally, she opened the fourth folder. “Fourth: The divorce petition. Complete with ironclad evidence of adultery, dissipation of marital assets, and forensic accounting showing Lauren transferred over $1.8 million from Vesper’s accounts directly into Kevin’s personal accounts over the last two years.” I looked at the mountain of paper, feeling the weight of the last five years finally shifting. “And then there’s this,” I said, placing the small voice recorder on the table. “Seventy hours of audio from the last fifteen days. Lauren admitting her affair, admitting she hid the patent revenues from me, and Kevin’s attempts to bribe and threaten me.” Cynthia played a few key clips, her eyebrows rising higher with every passing second. “Larry, this is gold. A judge will have zero sympathy for either of them.” She closed the folders and looked at me, her expression serious. “Are you absolutely sure you want to pull all four triggers at once? No half-measures?” I smiled. “Cynthia, they stole millions from me, treated me like a simpleton, and slept in my bed while telling me I should be grateful for a thousand-dollar allowance.” “They still think I’m just a quiet nerd who doesn’t have the stomach for a fight.” I stood up, adjusting my jacket. “Let’s show them what happens when the nerd fights back.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “502708”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I used to arrange gourmet lunch boxes from my mother’s luxury boutique hotel, Linden, for my coworkers. They featured two premium proteins and two organic sides. Although the actual cost was eighteen dollars, I only charged them ten. For over a year, everyone was thrilled with the arrangement. But when our new intern, Jarry, joined the company, he acted as if he had uncovered a heinous crime. “Ten bucks for a lunch box?” he scoffed loudly in the breakroom. “Talk about a rip-off! I can get the exact same setup for five. That’s a five-dollar markup per box. At a hundred boxes a day, that’s five hundred dollars. Good lord, that’s over a hundred thousand a year! That’s enough to buy a brand-new Tesla. This is highway robbery!” One of my colleagues, Kira, tried to defend me. “Actually, it’s a great deal. You can’t even get a decent salad down the street for eighteen dollars. Ruth is basically giving us these at wholesale cost.” “And Linden is a high-end boutique chain,” another chimed in. “You can’t even get a table on a Friday night. They prep this exclusive menu just for our office. It’s not even open to the public.” Jarry laughed, shaking his head as if we were the most gullible people on earth. “Cost price is ten dollars? Come on, wholesale meat is cheap. You don’t even use a pound of meat in these boxes. And that ‘exclusive, not-for-retail’ line is just a marketing gimmick. My uncle owns a diner, so I know exactly how the food business works.” “If you guys trust me, I can get you a real cost-price deal. Two proteins, two sides, five dollars flat.” “I’m doing this purely to help out, not to make a dime. I just can’t stand seeing some people treat their own coworkers like ATMs.” Within minutes, almost everyone had signed up to order through him. I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. Finally, I was free of this thankless, grueling chore that had been costing my family’s hotel nearly a hundred thousand dollars a year in subsidized expenses. 1 Today’s lunch arrived. It was a beautifully packaged box featuring two proteins and two sides. The first protein was slow-braised honey-soy baby back ribs—five thick, tender cuts of premium meat. The second was a herb-roasted organic chicken leg, plump and golden. For the sides, there was a warm heirloom soft-scrambled egg hash, and a crisp, chilled sesame sauce salad. It came with a side of house-made pickles and a bottle of cold-pressed fresh orange-mango juice. This was the exclusive daily menu my mother’s hotel prepared solely for our office. We had maintained this high standard for over a year. The original price was eighteen dollars, but I only collected ten. “Ruth, these baby back ribs are heavenly,” Chelsea said, savoring a bite. “The meat literally slides off the bone. Is the chef Michelin-starred?” “This chicken leg is huge,” Frank said. “I can barely finish it, and the seasoning is just perfect.” “Even the sides are incredible,” Kira added. “The dressing on these bamboo shoots is so refreshing.” “My favorite is the cold-pressed juice. You can actually taste the fresh citrus pulp. You can’t buy this anywhere else.” My colleagues were always full of praise, and their daily compliments made the effort feel somewhat worthwhile. But today, a discordant voice shattered the pleasant atmosphere. “Wait, you guys seriously pay ten dollars for this?” Jarry, the new intern, looked around the breakroom with an expression of righteous indignation. “You’re getting absolutely fleeced. The raw cost of this is five dollars max!” He turned his gaze to me, his tone heavy with judgment. “Ruth, we’re all colleagues here. Ripping us off like this is pretty low, don’t you think?” My fork paused over my bowl of plain noodles. A five-dollar cost? That wouldn’t even cover the organic produce and the cold-pressed juice. What did he think the ribs and chicken were made of? Tofu? Kira immediately spoke up to defend me. “Ten dollars is incredibly cheap, Jarry. A lunch like this would easily cost eighteen or twenty dollars anywhere else, and it wouldn’t taste half as good or be this fresh. I can barely finish my portion.” “Plus, Ruth orders these from a luxury hotel chain. It’s clean, professional, and we know exactly where the ingredients come from. We feel safe eating it.” Jarry let out a smug, knowing chuckle, looking at us as if we were children who didn’t know how the world worked. “Safe? Those ribs are clearly freezer-burned scrap meat. They’ve probably been sitting in some distributor’s warehouse for three or four months. That’s the easiest way to get food poisoning.” “And the chicken? It’s factory-farmed bird pumped with growth hormones. Eat enough of that and your endocrine system will be completely shot. My uncle is in the food service industry, and I’ve seen it all. The profit margins in restaurant catering are insane, and they make their money by cutting corners on quality.” “I’m not trying to stir the pot, but think about it: if the ingredients are really that premium, why doesn’t Ruth eat them herself? The hotel always sends her a separate, plain bowl of noodles. There’s definitely something sketchy going on.” The chewing in the breakroom abruptly stopped. Everyone stared at their lunch boxes, their expressions shifting from enjoyment to sudden unease. Chelsea gagged slightly, putting her fork down, and turned a sharp look toward me. “Ruth, do you mind explaining this?” “We don’t mind you making a little extra cash, but you shouldn’t be feeding us sub-standard ingredients that could make us sick.” The other colleagues quickly chimed in, their faces darkening with resentment. “Exactly. If you wanted to make a profit, you could have just charged us fifteen or eighteen openly. Don’t claim you’re doing us a favor at ‘cost’ while feeding us toxic garbage. What if we end up in the ER?” “Ruth, you could have at least used decent ingredients and taken a smaller cut. Doesn’t your conscience hurt?” My conscience? My family has run luxury hotels for decades, and we have never once used frozen, low-grade meat. In fact, we don’t even buy standard commercial meats. Everything we serve is daily-sourced organic pork and free-range chicken. The ten dollars I collected barely covered the raw ingredients. The labor of a professional kitchen, the utilities, the seasonings, and the temperature-controlled delivery van were entirely subsidized by my mother’s hotel. My mom had run the numbers for me once. Over the course of the year, we were losing close to a hundred thousand dollars on this office lunch program. That was basically the price of a brand-new Porsche, gone. Jarry covered his mouth, feigning regret. “Oh, man. I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t mean to ruin your side hustle.” “It’s just that my family is in this business, and I can’t help but speak up when I see people getting ripped off. No hard feelings.” “When I was working part-time for my uncle, I handled his bookkeeping. I know for a fact that a lunch box like this costs five dollars to make. If you guys want to save some money, I can ask my uncle to supply us at actual cost. Five dollars, flat.” Chelsea’s eyes lit up instantly. “Jarry, are you serious? Two proteins and two sides for five dollars?” “Of course. We’re coworkers, why would I lie to you? You can save that extra cash for Starbucks.” The breakroom buzzed with excitement. “Count me in for the month!” “Me too! I’ll prepay for a month right now.” Almost everyone crowded around Jarry to sign up. Chelsea turned to me with a smug, artificial smile. “Well, Ruth, as you can see, your lunches are overpriced, and nobody is happy with them. You should probably refund everyone’s prepayments for the rest of the month.” Without saying a word, I pulled out my phone and refunded every single person’s remaining balance. Then, I called my mother. “Mom, shut down the office kitchen service. You don’t need to send the delivery van anymore.” On the other end of the line, my mother let out a long, exhausted sigh of relief. “Thank goodness. Finally, we can stop bleeding money.” 2 After hanging up, I quietly finished my bowl of plain noodles. The reason I didn’t eat the hotel’s gourmet lunches wasn’t because of “sub-standard ingredients.” It was because I had undergone major gastric surgery the previous year and couldn’t tolerate anything rich, oily, or heavily seasoned. For the past year, I had been on a strict, bland diet of congee and plain noodles to heal my digestive system. Once the refunds cleared, the grumbling in the office began to take a different turn. “Sure, she refunded this month, but what about the past year? That’s over a hundred dollars a month. That’s more than a thousand dollars a year she scammed from each of us. I could have bought a designer handbag with that money.” “A hundred and fifty a month per person… with thirty people in the office, that’s thousands of dollars in pure profit. She was basically subsidizing her lifestyle with our hard-earned money.” “No wonder she wears designer clothes and carries Chanel bags. We literally bought them for her.” I didn’t bother explaining. No one would ever believe that a wealthy heiress was subsidizing their lunches to the tune of a hundred thousand dollars a year out of pocket. They would only view my explanation as a defensive lie. I took my last bite of noodles, packed up the empty container, and tied the plastic bag tight. I stood up, walked to the trash can, and dropped it in. The heavy thud of the container hitting the bottom of the bin broke the room’s chatter. The office went quiet, and everyone turned to look at me. Some looked at me with outright disgust, others with smug superiority. I swept my gaze across the room and spoke in a calm, measured voice. “If you truly believe I have violated pricing laws, please feel free to file a report with the Better Business Bureau. If you have concerns about the food quality, report Linden Hotels to the Department of Health. We welcome any inspection.” With that, I turned and walked out. Kira followed me into the hallway, looking at me anxiously. “Ruth, are you okay?” I shook my head with a small smile. “I’m fine, really.” “They’re just echoing whatever Jarry says. I know you weren’t ripping anyone off.” “Thank you, Kira. But I’m genuinely glad to be done with it.” Getting rid of this burden was a massive relief. A year ago, Chelsea had tasted the homemade lunches my mother’s chefs prepared for me. She loved them so much that she begged me to bring her a portion, offering to pay. It started with just her, then a few others joined, and eventually, the entire office wanted in. I had spent my personal time managing daily menus, keeping track of everyone’s specific preferences and dietary restrictions. Frank had severe type 2 diabetes, so his meals had to be strictly sugar-free. Miriam couldn’t stand cilantro. Another colleague was allergic to shellfish. Kevin couldn’t handle spicy food. Every single detail had to be manually noted and sent to the hotel kitchen daily. For an entire year, not a single person had ever had an allergic reaction or an upset stomach. My mother used to tease me, saying, “You treat those coworkers like royalty. You’ve never been this attentive to your own mother.” And after a year of exhaustive effort and a hundred-thousand-dollar subsidy, I was branded a greedy scammer. When I returned to my desk, Jarry slid over, wearing a carefully manufactured expression of guilt. “Ruth, I’m really sorry about today. I honestly didn’t mean to take away your business. I just wanted to help everyone save some cash.” “Everyone says you’re incredibly sweet, so I’m sure you’re not mad at me, right?” Mad? Why would I be mad? He had just saved my family a small fortune. I felt like buying him a drink. I kept my face completely blank. “I’m not mad.” He grinned, clapping me on the shoulder with unearned familiarity. “I knew you were the best, Ruth! Hey, since you already have the office spreadsheet with everyone’s dietary restrictions and preferences, could you just email it to me? It’ll save me the trouble of making a new one.” “Oh, and since you won’t be using that delivery van anymore, do you mind if I borrow it? It’s a really nice setup.” I stared at him, genuinely stunned by his sheer audacity. How could someone accuse me of running a scam and then immediately turn around and ask to borrow my specialized equipment? That van was custom-built with built-in sterilization and heating systems, purchased solely to ensure the food arrived pristine. A spark of genuine anger flared in my chest. Looking at his smug, innocent face, I uttered two flat words. “No way.” His smile vanished instantly. “Come on, Ruth, don’t be petty. It’s just a van. You’re not even using it anymore. It’s just going to sit there. Why not let me use it?” A few nearby colleagues immediately spoke up to support him. “Seriously, Ruth, you made so much money off us anyway. That van was probably bought with our cash. Letting Jarry use it is only fair.” “We’re all coworkers here, there’s no need to be vindictive. Jarry was just looking out for us. Don’t be so small-minded.” “It’s just a van, and she’s acting like it’s a treasure. She’s obviously just bitter because Jarry exposed her scam and ruined her side hustle.” The sharp words stung, but they also crystallized my resolve. I had worked myself to the bone for these people, customized every meal, and subsidized their lives, only to be met with this. I looked at them, my eyes turning cold and sharp. “The van belongs to the hotel group. If you want to rent it, contact corporate. I have no authority to lend it out.” “And let me make this very clear: I have never made a single cent off any of you. If you have proof of a scam, go ahead and sue me. I will gladly see you in court.” “But if I hear another defamatory comment about me stealing from this office, I will not hesitate to contact my lawyer and sue for slander.” 3 The office fell into a tense silence, and Jarry retreated to his desk with a sour expression. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text from him. [Ruth, this list of restrictions you gave me is insane. Frank needs sugar-free, Miriam wants no cilantro, Kevin can’t have spicy… This is a bulk kitchen operation, how am I supposed to customize all this? Are you just messing with me to make things hard?] He was already trying to blame me for his inability to deliver. I typed back a brief reply: [You can ask them yourself.] At 5:30 PM, I clocked out on the dot. For the first time in a year, I didn’t have to stay late cross-referencing allergies and sending spreadsheets to my mom’s kitchen staff. I walked out into the cool evening air feeling completely unburdened. As soon as I got home, my phone rang. It was Miriam, our HR manager. “Ruth, I heard about the little drama in the office today. Jarry is just a very direct young man, so don’t take his comments to heart. He was only trying to help the team save some money.” “To be honest, we’ve all grown quite fond of the food from Linden. If you can match Jarry’s five-dollar price point, we’d be happy to keep ordering from you.” “We won’t hold the past markups against you. Just tell the hotel to keep using those premium ingredients, and we’ll keep supporting them. That way, nobody has to make things difficult.” I had to suppress a laugh. The sheer, unadulterated entitlement of this woman was mind-boggling. She was acting as if she were doing me a favor by allowing me to lose even more money. “No, thank you,” I said firmly. Miriam paused, her tone turning cold and sharp. “Fine. I tried to build a bridge for you, Ruth. Don’t come crying to me when you regret it.” “I won’t.” I hung up and let out a genuine, hearty laugh. It felt incredible to finally wash my hands of them. The next day at noon, Jarry’s lunch delivery was thirty minutes late. My colleagues were practically faint with hunger by the time the boxes finally arrived. But when they opened them, the excitement vanished. The ribs were tiny, dry, and mostly bone with barely any meat attached. The chicken leg was shriveled and gray. Kira had to tear at it with her teeth, chewing for a solid minute before giving up and spitting it out. The salad greens were yellowed and wilted, and the rice was dull and clumped together, tasting like it had been sitting in a damp cellar for years. I glanced over and noticed the oil coating the food had a strange, dark reddish tint—a classic indicator of low-grade, recycled grease. Someone muttered under their breath. “These ribs taste really weird… they’re completely dry, and there’s this gamey, metallic smell.” “The chicken is like cardboard. I can’t even chew it.” “Why is the rice so yellow? It tastes bitter.” Everyone turned to Jarry, expecting an explanation. Jarry was busy stuffing a relatively decent-looking rib into his mouth, talking with his mouth full. “The ribs are great! It’s organic, free-range pork, not those factory-farmed pigs pumped with water. It’s lean, but the nutritional value is way higher.” “And the chicken is organic too. Free-range chickens are supposed to be tough because they actually move around. That’s pure muscle.” “The rice is heirloom, unprocessed rice. Shiny white rice is always polished with wax, which is terrible for your liver. You guys are just used to eating chemicals.” He glanced over at my desk. “I mean, some people only eat plain noodles because they know how toxic standard processed rice is, right?” I quietly ate my homemade hand-pulled noodles, letting him spin his ridiculous web of lies. Kira couldn’t stand it anymore and spoke up. “Stop talking in circles, Jarry. Ruth isn’t even in the lunch program. She’s eating noodles because she likes them. It has nothing to do with the rice.” He shot me a smirk, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. “Sure. It just proves what I said earlier. Linden probably sends her those noodles for free to keep her quiet. Otherwise, why is she still getting special food delivered from them if she’s not paying?” Chelsea looked at Kira with a mocking grin. “Kira, you’ve been defending Ruth left and right. Did she pay you off or something?” “Exactly,” another colleague agreed. “Defending a scammer just to get on her good side… aren’t you worried about karma? Jarry’s lunches are perfectly fine. They’re cheap, honest, and we aren’t getting ripped off.” Kira’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. She looked at me, opened her mouth to speak, but found herself speechless. Frustrated, she slammed her fork down and walked out of the breakroom. 4 That afternoon, Miriam called me into her office. She sat behind her desk, her face grim, as if she were about to deliver a death sentence. “Ruth, the rumors about you taking advantage of your coworkers are creating a highly toxic environment in this office. The company has no desire to launch a formal investigation over a lunch program, so we believe it would be best for everyone if you quietly resigned.” I stared at her for five long seconds. “Is this the company’s decision, or yours?” She held my gaze, her expression perfectly corporate. “I am the HR Manager. I have full authority over staffing and office conduct.” I nodded slowly. “Fine.” As I turned to leave, she called out to me. “Ruth, if you’re willing to keep supplying the Linden lunches at the five-dollar price point, I could perhaps find a way to let you keep your position…” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted, looking back at her. “I resign.” I walked back to my desk, pulled out my phone, and called my mother. “Mom, you don’t need to make any lunch for me tomorrow. I’ve been let go.” My mother paused. “Because of the catering?” “Yes.” “Was this Mr. Payton’s decision?” I stayed silent. My mother let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fine. Our contract with them is officially over.” Our company was a major food logistics and supply chain firm. My mother had encouraged me to work here to learn the operational side of the business from the ground up. Our family owned hundreds of hotels nationwide, and establishing our own supply chain network would save us millions annually. Since I had joined the firm, my mother had routed tens of millions of dollars in procurement contracts through them. The executives assumed they had won our business purely through their brilliant pitches; they had no idea I was the heiress to the Linden empire. I packed my belongings into a cardboard box. My colleagues watched me, some with curiosity, but most with smug satisfaction. Jarry walked over, holding a cup of coffee, a fake, pitying smile plastered on his face. “Ruth, I’m really sorry. I had no idea things would escalate like this. I feel terrible that you got fired.” I didn’t look at him, continuing to pack my desk. Seeing that I wasn’t responding, his smile faded, and his true colors emerged. “Don’t act like I’m the bad guy here. We’re being more than generous by not demanding you refund the difference for the past year. You dug your own grave, Ruth. You got exactly what you deserved.” I stood up, picked up my box, and took a step forward. As I walked past him, I intentionally rammed my shoulder into his. The hot coffee spilled all over his hand, causing him to shriek in pain and drop the cup. I looked back at him, letting a cold smile touch my lips. “We’ll see who dug whose grave, Jarry. I can’t wait to watch you hit the bottom.” Without waiting for a response, I walked out of the building. I drove straight to our flagship hotel, where I began compiling a year’s worth of procurement receipts, invoices, and kitchen surveillance footage from our exclusive program. At the same time, I began analyzing my former company’s supply chain models. I had spent a year learning their systems, and I was finally ready to start my own firm. Over the next week, Kira sent me daily updates. The photos of Jarry’s lunches were horrifying. The fish was practically rotting. The vegetables were brown and mushy. The portions were so small they barely covered the bottom of the container. When people complained about the lack of juice and pickles, Jarry always had a ready-made excuse. “The pickles were just fillers because the portion sizes were small before. And that fresh juice? It’s just chemical concentrate made from rotten fruit anyway. You’re lucky you didn’t get food poisoning.” By the seventh day, some of my former colleagues began sending me private messages. [Ruth, is there any way we can get the Linden lunches back? We’ll gladly pay ten dollars. Jarry’s food is literally inedible.] [It’s not even food, honestly. It’s like slop. I brought it home and my dog wouldn’t even sniff it.] [Yesterday I found a dead bug in my salad. Jarry claimed it was proof that the farm didn’t use pesticides. I was so nauseous I couldn’t even eat dinner. Ruth, please save us.] I didn’t reply to any of them. But a deep, unsettling feeling began to take root in my chest. On the tenth day, a piercing shriek shattered the quiet of the office.

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Zach and I had agreed to spend Thanksgiving at my parents’ house this year. But right as we were about to walk out the door, he looked up from his phone and sighed. “Babe, I did it again. I forgot to change the default shipping address. The package went to Lissy’s place.” I froze. We’d been married for three years, and for three years, he had never bothered to update his primary address on Amazon. The smart oven he ordered online? Sent to his ex-girlfriend, Melissa, because “her old one was acting up anyway, so it worked out.” The designer earrings he bought for our first wedding anniversary? Lissy signed for them, and he said it would be “too awkward to ask for them back.” Even the dozen red roses he ordered for me on Valentine’s Day ended up on her kitchen counter. “I can’t give you secondhand flowers, Bella,” he’d shrugged. “Just let her keep them.” And now, the Thanksgiving gourmet basket. I had spent weeks researching it, reminding him at least half a dozen times to order it to our place. But once again, it had gone to his ex. I took a slow breath, trying to keep my voice flat, empty of the scream clawing at my throat. “Drive over and get it back. Right now.” His face darkened. “She already opened it, Bella. How am I supposed to just go grab it? We’ll just stop by a grocery store on the way and pick up some nice wine or something.” “Get it back,” I repeated, my hands balled into tight fists. He threw his hands up in frustration. “Can you stop being so dramatic? You always have to make a federal case out of everything.” It was always the same script. Every single time he shipped my life to his ex-girlfriend and I asked him to retrieve it, I was the one “making a scene.” My fingernails bit so hard into my palms they nearly broke the skin. I watched him grab his coat and slam the door behind him. I didn’t let the tears fall. I wiped my face, pulled out my phone, and texted my attorney. “Happy Thanksgiving, David. I hope you’re having a good holiday. Could you please draft a divorce agreement for me? Thank you.” … I stopped at a high-end grocery store, bought some generic flowers and a pie, and drove to my parents’ house alone. My parents knew the moment they opened the door. “Where’s Zach?” my mom asked, looking past my shoulder into the empty driveway. “I thought you two were driving down together?” “Did something happen between you two?” my dad asked, his protective instincts instantly flaring. I forced a smooth, easy smile. “No, everything’s fine. His office had an emergency—some server issue he had to handle last minute. He felt terrible.” My parents sighed, but they understood. “Work is work,” my dad said, patting my shoulder. But as we sat in the living room, my phone buzzed. I opened Instagram. Lissy had just posted a new photo grid. The caption read: “He planned the perfect Thanksgiving surprise. He is too sweet.” In the photos, the gourmet, artisanal Thanksgiving food basket—the one I had painstakingly selected for my own parents—was unpacked. The imported cheeses, the cured meats, the specialty pecan pie were laid out beautifully on a rustic wooden board. And there, in the corner of the frame, was a hand pouring wine. Long, elegant fingers. A distinct scar running across the right thumb. I would know Zach’s hand anywhere. But what caught my eye, what felt like a physical blow to my chest, was his left hand. The ring finger was bare. Not even a faint tan line remained. One of our mutual college friends had already left a comment: “I swear, you two should’ve ended up together!” I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass. Then, I double-tapped the post. I liked it. Within three minutes, my phone lit up with a text from Zach. “Bella, seriously? You kicked me out of the house on Thanksgiving. Where did you expect me to eat? On the curb?” “It’s bad enough you pull this hysterical crap with me, but dragging Lissy into it and embarrassing us in public is incredibly trashy. Grow up.” Every word was a weapon, turned to blame me. I didn’t understand how liking a post counted as “making a scene.” And then there was the name. “Lissy.” He always called her by that sweet, soft nickname. Me? He called me “Bella”—and when he was annoyed, it was always my full first name, “Bella”. When I’d told him early in our marriage how much that hurt, he’d laughed it off. “It’s just a habit, Bella. It’s just a name. Why do you have to be so incredibly sensitive about everything?” I slowly scrolled up through our chat history. It was like looking at an autopsy report of a dying marriage. “Is my iced latte coming? It’s been over two hours. Can you check if the driver got lost?” “Sorry. Forgot to change the delivery address. It went to Lissy’s office.” “Can you please, for the love of God, delete her address from your DoorDash? Can you make our house the default?” “It’s a five-dollar coffee, Bella. Why are you acting so unhinged? It’s embarrassing. Just order another one yourself.” But he was the one who had texted me that morning, promising to surprise me with “the first lavender latte of spring.” I had waited by the window like a fool, only to be told I was being “unhinged.” I scrolled up further. “Hey, it’s almost midnight. Valentine’s Day is practically over. Did you get me anything?” “My bad. Shipped the package to Lissy by mistake. I’ll make it up to you next weekend.” I didn’t even realize when our relationship had devolved into this. Deliveries could be misrouted. Food orders could go astray. But how did you misroute yourself? We had planned this Thanksgiving a year ago. He had managed to send my parents’ gift basket to Melissa, and then, somehow, he had “misrouted” his own body to her apartment to spend the holiday with her. I stared at the image of his ringless finger. I felt pathetic. Maybe all those “accidental” shipping errors, the wrong addresses, the forgotten updates—maybe none of it was a mistake. Maybe his heart had always had a default destination, and it was Melissa. I wasn’t his wife. I was just a system error he had yet to correct. My phone vibrated twice. I exited his chat and opened the notification from my attorney. “Hi Bella, Happy Thanksgiving. The divorce agreement is ready. I’ve attached the draft below.” After dinner, I hugged my parents goodbye, drove back to our empty house, and printed out the papers. I sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, staring at the signature line. The front door unlocked, and Zach walked in. He tossed two shopping bags onto the counter. “Look, the gourmet pastries are gone—they’re just food, we can get them anywhere. But I drove all the way back to her place to get the clothes I bought for your parents.” He walked over, wrapping his arms around my waist from behind. “I’m sorry, okay? Let me take you out to that French place downtown tonight. To make it up to you.” I didn’t bother arguing. My parents both had dietary restrictions, which was why I’d spent hours sourcing that specific organic, low-sodium basket. You couldn’t “just get it anywhere.” And I didn’t remind him that I hated French food. I had told him dozens of times. But when someone doesn’t care, they don’t remember. If I brought it up now, he would just call me high-maintenance. It didn’t matter anymore. I opened the shopping bags. The clothes inside—a pair of sweaters and trousers for my parents—had already been unwrapped. The tissue paper was torn, the tags were gone, and there was a dark grease stain on the beige trousers, likely from whatever Thanksgiving dinner they’d shared. They were completely ruined. Unreturnable. I stared at the stain. It looked exactly like my marriage: stained, handled by someone else, and entirely ruined. “Why are these open?” I asked, my voice flat. Zach stiffened, softening his tone slightly. “Lissy opened them. She saw the package, assumed it was for her, and… you know.” “She wore them, stained them, and you brought them back for me to give to my parents?” The temporary patience vanished from his face, replaced by his usual irritation. “They’re already open, Bella! What do you want me to do? The tags are off, we can’t return them. Besides, they’re your parents’ sizes. No one else can wear them. If you don’t want them, just throw them out!” “No one else can wear them.” I didn’t need to ask who “someone else” was. The truth was as pathetic as it was clear: Melissa’s parents couldn’t fit into these clothes, so he brought them back to me. If they had fit her family, they would have been added to the long list of items Melissa kept. I stuffed the clothes back into the bag. “Get rid of them.” I turned to walk toward the study, but Zach grabbed my arm. “Come on, Bella, stop. I booked a table at Le Petit Bistro just to apologize to you. It’s Thanksgiving. Can we please not fight over a stupid shipping mistake?” Before I could say no, he was pulling me toward the front door. But when we arrived at the restaurant and the hostess led us to our table, someone was already sitting there. Melissa. She was wearing a sleek silk cocktail dress, strappy designer heels, and perfect makeup. Every strand of her hair was styled to perfection. Meanwhile, Zach had dragged me out in an oversized grey sweatshirt, leggings, and a claw clip holding up my messy hair. I looked utterly out of place in the dimly lit, white-cloth restaurant. Standing next to Zach in his crisp button-down, Melissa looked like his beautiful date. I looked like an awkward third wheel crashing their evening. I didn’t ask Zach why his “apology dinner” for me already included his ex-girlfriend. He pulled out a chair for me, whispering quickly in my ear, “Lissy couldn’t fly home for the holidays. She’s been dying to try this place, so I figured, why not? Just be nice, Bella. She’s younger, she doesn’t know any better. Be the bigger person.” I stared at him. Before we married, he told me Melissa was actually six months older than me. Yet here he was, calling her “younger” and asking me to “be the bigger person.” Was it selective amnesia, or just blatant favoritism? I didn’t care to figure it out anymore. He couldn’t remember that I hated French food. But he remembered exactly which French restaurant Melissa had been dying to try. When he made the reservation, whose face had he pictured sitting across from him? I kept the question to myself. It didn’t matter. I sat across from them. Zach and Melissa sat side-by-side, leaning into each other as they shared a menu, completely ignoring me. “You love the chocolate soufflé, right? Let’s get one,” Zach murmured. “I remember you like it too, Zach. Let’s get two,” Melissa cooed. “The escargot looks amazing.” “I knew you’d say that! Their escargot is supposed to be the most authentic in the city. You’re going to love it.” They handed the menus back to the waiter, seemingly remembering I was there only when the table was clear. Zach cleared his throat. “We ordered enough for the table.” Melissa flashed a sweet, apologetic smile. “Bella, I’m so sorry. Zach and I get so carried away talking about food, we completely lost track.” “Zach.” She called him by his college nickname, “Zachy”. They had been broken up for nearly six years, yet the intimacy of the name remained, comfortable and worn. Once, early in our relationship, I had tried calling him “Zachy” as a joke. He had cringed, telling me it was “cloying” and “weird,” asking me to talk like a normal person because it gave him goosebumps. The food arrived: escargot, foie gras, oysters, mussels, and poached salmon. I stared at my empty plate, my hands resting in my lap. Across from me, Melissa was glowing. She gasped happily with each dish, her fork poised and ready. Zach smoothly cut a piece of the foie gras and slid it onto her plate. She looked up, her eyes wide with mock surprise, whispering a breathy “thank you.” Zach finally looked at me, his forehead creasing. “The salmon is right there, Bella. Why aren’t you eating?” “I’m severely allergic to seafood,” I said quietly. “I’ve never eaten salmon in my life.” He froze for a fraction of a second. But immediately, the embarrassment in his eyes turned into irritation. “Well, I didn’t remember. Why didn’t you say anything?” He gestured to the table. “Even if you can’t eat seafood, there’s steak tartare right there.” But I never ate raw meat. He used to know that. He used to protect me from it. Somehow, over the last three years, he had deleted that file from his memory entirely. Suddenly, the sheer absurdity of sitting here hit me. I stood up, grabbing my purse. Behind me, I heard Melissa’s worried, delicate voice: “Oh no, is Bella mad?” And then, Zach’s low, angry whisper, not even trying to hide his resentment: “Ignore her. She always finds a way to ruin a nice night. Let’s eat.” I walked out of the restaurant into the cool night air and called an Uber. This time, there were no excuses left to make. No benefit of the doubt. As soon as I got home, I opened my laptop, typed out my resignation email to my company—I had been planning to leave anyway—and began to pack. I started with the study. Because of Zach’s strict security clearance at his engineering firm, he could never work from home. The study was entirely mine. Every book, every painting, every notebook belonged to me. I was halfway through a box of books when the front door opened. Zach walked in, the lingering smile on his face instantly dying the moment his eyes landed on the packing tape. He looked at me with deep, heavy disappointment. “Bella, when did you become like this?” he sighed, throwing his keys onto the counter. “It’s Thanksgiving, and you’ve been throwing a tantrum since this morning. Do you honestly only feel happy when everyone else is miserable?” It was almost funny. Even now, he was still painting me as the villain, the hysterical wife who ruined holidays. I didn’t have the energy to argue. “Zach,” I said, my voice steady. “I want a divorce—” Before the word “divorce” could fully leave my lips, his phone rang. It was a bright, upbeat indie-pop melody. Her ringtone. Zach always kept his phone on the default ringtone, claiming he was too lazy to change it. But Melissa had always been his exception. In our three years of marriage, he had gone through three different iPhones, and the very first thing he did with each new device was assign that specific song to her contact. When I had asked him about it once, he’d told me it was just a song he’d loved since college, a habit he couldn’t break. Only later did I find out it was the song playing in the background when he first asked her to be his girlfriend. He answered it instantly, not even glancing at me. I watched his face pale as he listened to her voice. “Hey, calm down. Don’t worry, I’m on my way,” he muttered, already grabbing his jacket. The front door slammed shut. He hadn’t even heard me say the word “divorce”. Or maybe he had, and it just didn’t rank high enough to compete with her. I stood in the quiet, empty living room. Our marriage had been built on a foundation of his leftovers. Her custom ringtone; the shipping address he refused to delete; the gifts meant for me and my parents that always ended up in her hands. He had never hidden where his loyalty lay. I was the one who kept choosing to be blind, hoping that if I loved him enough, he would finally see me, wake up, and change. But nothing had changed. I had spent three years of my life playing the fool. I finished packing the study, took a long shower, and got into bed. Around 1:00 AM, my screen lit up with a text. “Lissy had an emergency with her apartment lock. I’m staying over at her place tonight to make sure she’s safe.” I didn’t reply. I locked my phone, closed my eyes, and fell asleep almost instantly. The next morning, I continued packing my clothes and daily essentials. As I pulled suitcases from the closet, I realized how much of my own life I had withheld from this house. Because he was always shipping things to Melissa, a quiet, stubborn bitterness had taken root in me. Every time he sent something of mine to her, I refused to replace it. No matching couple’s slippers. No cozy monogrammed robes. No small decorative plants or frames I’d picked out for our shelves. On the bathroom vanity, our electric toothbrushes sat in a cup—cheap, ugly, basic models. Right after we got married, I had researched high-end dental sets with all the settings. When I went to buy them, Zach insisted on ordering them for us. Of course, they went to Melissa’s apartment. When he refused to ask for them back, I walked down to the local drugstore in a quiet rage and bought the cheapest, ugliest plastic ones I could find. I put a tiny waterproof sticker on mine to tell them apart, stubbornly refusing to buy a nice set ever again. I had harbored this foolish hope that every morning and night, when he used that cheap plastic toothbrush, he would feel a pang of guilt. That he would remember his mistake and reorder the ones I actually wanted. But three generations of that premium toothbrush had come and gone, and he had never noticed. We just kept brushing our teeth with garbage. I stared at the two cheap toothbrushes for a long moment, then picked them up and dropped them into the trash can. As I taped the final box shut, my phone rang. It was Zach. “Hey, that bonus from my firm finally hit my account today. The guys at the office are demanding I buy a round. I booked a private room at the Grand Plaza.” “I don’t think—” “My parents are coming too, so don’t be late,” he interrupted smoothly, not waiting for my answer before hanging up. The refusal died in my throat. I stared at the blank screen. If I was going through with this divorce, I owed it to his parents to tell them in person. I waited for the moving company to load up my boxes. Once the truck was on its way, I called my mom to let her know my things were coming, promising I would explain everything when I got home tonight. I took one final look at the apartment I had shared with Zach for three years. There was no nostalgia left. I locked the door and walked away. Zach had booked a massive private dining suite with two large tables to accommodate nearly thirty people from his firm. At the family table, sitting comfortably between Zach’s parents, was Melissa. Zach sat directly to her right. When the server opened the double doors for me, I saw Zach leaning in, whispering something in Melissa’s ear. Both of them were laughing, their eyes crinkled with shared warmth. The moment I walked in, the room fell dead silent. Zach jerked backward, putting a sudden, guilty distance between himself and Melissa. He cleared his throat, standing up to meet me at the door. “Bella, you’re here.” He gestured to a server, then turned to me. “We were just waiting on you. Come sit down.” I nodded quietly, walking over to greet his parents. Zach leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “My mom was missing Lissy, so she asked me to invite her. With so many colleagues here anyway, one extra seat doesn’t hurt, right?” I stepped back, out of his personal space. “It’s your dinner,” I said evenly. I was seated to Zach’s right, with Melissa directly to his left. As soon as I sat down, my eyes fell on the neon-pink designer handbag resting on her lap—the exact one I had wanted so badly last summer. Zach had promised to buy it for me, only for it to be “accidentally” delivered to her door. On the table in front of her sat a strawberry-adorned thermos I had put in our shared online shopping cart. But the most striking thing was the delicate gold chain on her wrist. It was the limited-edition gold bracelet from last Valentine’s Day. I had fallen in love with it the moment it was announced, and it launched on our second wedding anniversary. Zach had promised it would be my gift. It went to Melissa instead. When I demanded he ask for it back, he refused, accusing me of being greedy. We had fought for a month, sleeping in separate rooms. Now, there it was, shining under the restaurant lights on Melissa’s wrist. Course after course was served. The room filled with the clinking of glasses and the loud laughter of Zach’s coworkers. As the alcohol flowed, the jokes became bolder. “Man, even after all these years, Zach and Lissy still look like a perfect couple!” one of his colleagues shouted, raised beer glass in hand. “Right? If it weren’t for that stupid misunderstanding back in college, you guys would have three kids by now!” “Come on, Zach still hasn’t changed her custom ringtone! If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is!” Melissa blushed, ducking her head with a delicate, performative shyness. Zach only offered a half-hearted, “Alright, guys, lay off the drinks,” but his lips were curved in a pleased, indulgent smile. I sat perfectly still, my expression entirely blank. When the plates were finally cleared and the room began to quiet, I reached into my bag and pulled out two copies of the divorce agreement, placing them directly in front of Zach. I set a heavy black pen on top of the pages. I turned to his parents first. “Mr. and Mrs. Stanley, I’m sorry to do this here, but I wanted to let you know in person. I’m divorcing Zach.” Then I looked at him. “I’ve already signed it. It’s your turn.” “Once you’re done, we can file the paperwork at the clerk’s office first thing Monday morning.”

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The day I was officially brought back to the Harrington estate as their long-lost biological daughter, Daphne—the girl who had lived my life for twenty years—stepped forward with tear-brimmed eyes and offered to give me back her engagement. I rested my hand against my flat stomach, where a newly confirmed pregnancy was quietly beginning to take shape, and gave a soft, dismissive shake of my head. “There’s no need,” I said, my voice barely a murmur. “I already love someone else.” The moment the words left my mouth, strange, semi-translucent words drifted across my vision like a floating chat feed. [Lmfao, this villainess thinks she’s so slick rejecting him now. Just wait till she sees the male lead; she’ll regret it instantly.] [Too bad the male lead only has eyes for our precious female lead, Daphne. The villainess is just going to use her pregnancy to cling to him like a leech.] [Ultimately, she drives Daphne to slit her wrists, gets disowned by the family, despised by the male lead, and dies on the operating table during childbirth—both her and the baby.] I lowered my gaze, finding the floating words utterly absurd. Me? Obsessing over a wealthy stranger to the point of self-destruction? Just then, footsteps sounded from the entryway. Daphne wiped her tears and rushed toward the newcomer. “Adrian, this is Beatrice… my sister. The engagement was always meant to be hers.” I turned around, and my eyes locked with a pair of painfully familiar ones. It was Adrian Kingsley. The man who had kept me as his private secret for five years. The father of the child growing inside me. 1. When Adrian saw me, a flicker of panic crossed his eyes. But it was gone in an instant. He masked it, slipping into a cold, polite, and distant demeanor. “Miss Harrington,” he said, his voice smooth and empty. “It is a pleasure to meet you.” He patted Daphne’s hand comfortingly, his tone gentle but absolute. “Don’t say such things, Daphne. Our engagement was settled years ago. It isn’t going to change.” The text in my vision flared up instantly. [Here we go! The bitter second-choice sister is about to throw a tantrum, expose their secret affair, and force a wedding!] [I bet she uses the pregnancy as a weapon to snatch the engagement right now!] I took a slow, deep breath, pulling my gaze away from him. “Mr. Kingsley,” I said, keeping my voice entirely steady. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” The floating text hesitated. [Wait… that’s it? Why isn’t she making a scene?] [She’s playing hard to get. Just watch.] [Ah, the classic ‘retreat to advance’ strategy. High-level manipulation.] Adrian hadn’t expected this reaction. He cast a sharp, warning, and deeply searching look at me. My biological mother, Catherine, immediately pressed, “Beatrice, you just said you love someone else? How far did things go with him?” Everyone’s eyes locked onto me. I looked at Adrian. He maintained a perfectly calm facade, but I saw the slight tremor in his clenched fist. I smiled faintly. “Far enough… that he had to go back home to marry someone of his own social standing. So, I got dumped.” Silence fell over the room. Catherine looked like she had swallowed a fly. Richard, my father, coughed awkwardly, shifting his gaze. Adrian’s face darkened, visibly and violently. Daphne chimed in, “So, Beatrice… you really don’t want the engagement?” “I don’t,” I said, clean and absolute. “Since you two are so deeply in love, the engagement is yours.” The text drifted by: [Fake! So fake! She’s definitely going to corner him in private and cry to him later!] My biological parents looked visibly relieved. Catherine stood up. “Beatrice, let me show you to your room. Daphne’s health isn’t great, and she shouldn’t sit up too long.” My room was at the very end of the hall. It was small, cold, north-facing, and lacked any natural light. Catherine gave a dismissive shrug. “You’ll stay here for now. Daphne has lived in her room for twenty years; it wouldn’t be fair to make her move. You’re the older sister, Bea. Be understanding.” Richard stood by the door, adding, “Daphne has always been fragile and sensitive. Try to let her have her way. We need peace in this family.” I looked around the room, which was smaller than Daphne’s walk-in closet, and nodded. “Alright.” After they left, there was a knock. It was Adrian. He stepped inside and hissed, “Beatrice, keep your mouth shut. The last five years were nothing but an act of charity on my part. A transaction.” “Daphne is the one I am marrying. You’d better remember your place.” I touched my stomach, feeling the weight of the positive pregnancy test in my pocket. I had thought returning to my biological family would bridge the social gap between us. I thought I could finally stand by him openly. It turned out it was all in my head. I choked down the bitterness. “Adrian, we’re done.” He froze. I shut the door in his face. 2. Adrian was clearly infuriated by my indifference. He blocked the door, but before he could speak, footsteps echoed in the hallway. Daphne appeared, carrying a fruit platter. Seeing us alone, her eyes instantly welled with tears. “Beatrice… do you still blame me for keeping the engagement?” She whimpered. “I really didn’t mean to… If you love Adrian, I… I can step aside…” Catherine rushed over, her brow furrowing deeply. “Beatrice! You just got back, and you’re already tearing this house apart? Daphne’s heart can’t take this stress!” “How can you be so shameless, trying to seduce your sister’s fiancé on your very first night?” The text erupted: [Aha! Caught red-handed! The villainess is definitely going to drop the pregnancy bomb now!] [Classic white lotus victim act. The sister is about to lose her mind and start screaming!] “I didn’t do anything,” I said, my voice dead. “If that’s all, I’d like to sleep.” Without waiting for a response, I shut the door. Outside, I heard Catherine soothing Daphne. The text: [Wait, shouldn’t she be screaming? This is weird.] [She’s playing the long game! Her acting is getting way too good.] I ignored the floating words. My phone buzzed. It was a massive wire transfer from Adrian. Then a message: “Keep quiet about the past. Do it out of respect for what I did for you.” I let out a bitter laugh. Yes, he had saved me. Five years ago, when my adoptive grandmother was dying, I had just finished high school. My college acceptance letter had arrived, but I was working at a sleazy high-end club to pay her medical bills. That night, a group of men cornered me in a private VIP room. They threw drinks on me, tore at my collar. I screamed, but no one heard. Adrian had kicked the door open, knocked them down, and wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. He didn’t ask questions. Just said, “Do you need money?” I nodded, tears streaming down my face. He gave me a card. “Take it. Go to college. Don’t come back to places like this.” He saved me, saved my grandmother’s life, and gave me a future. He funded my education, visited me, and eventually, on a rainy night in my small apartment, we became lovers. Before she died, Grandma Ruth held his hand and said, “Take care of Beatrice.” He had promised he would. I believed him. For five years, from age eighteen to twenty-three, I gave him my youth. I learned his habits, prepared his meals, studied finance and business to understand his world. He told me his family wanted an equal match, and asked me to wait. To wait until he had enough power to marry me. Yesterday, I found out I was pregnant. Before I could tell him, the Harringtons found me. I thought we were finally equals. But he chose Daphne—who wasn’t even a Harrington by blood anymore. My eyes blurred. I opened my email and clicked on a message from three days ago: an unconditional offer for a Master’s degree at the Royal College of Art in London. I clicked “Accept”. Adrian, the baby, the five years—I was leaving them all behind. The text: [Wait, what is she looking at? An English website?] [Who cares, she’s probably plotting her next move to trap Adrian.] I turned off the screen, staring into the dark. 3. The next morning, Daphne brought a hot bowl of lobster bisque to the table. “Beatrice, you have to try this. It’s delicious.” “No, thank you,” I said politely. She insisted, stepping closer, and suddenly slipped. The scalding bisque spilled all over my thighs, the porcelain bowl shattering on the floor. My skin turned angry red, and I gasped at the burning pain. Daphne burst into tears. “Beatrice, I’m so sorry! It was an accident!” Catherine spoke first, blaming me: “Why didn’t you catch it?” Richard frowned. “So clumsy and slow.” The text: [Here it is! She’s going to use this to make a scene!] [She definitely dodged it on purpose. So manipulative!] [Serves her right for trying to steal Adrian!] Adrian arrived just then. Daphne threw herself into his arms, sobbing. Adrian held her, glaring at me. “Daphne was just trying to be nice. Why do you have to be so hostile?” I looked at my biological parents. “Mr. and Mrs. Harrington, did I throw the bowl?” They fell silent, but Richard waved his hand. “Your sister is shaken. That’s what matters.” To comfort Daphne, Richard announced, “The small boutique agency we were going to let Beatrice manage—we’ll give it to Daphne instead.” Adrian added, “I’ll throw in some prime advertising accounts as an engagement gift for her.” “Fine by me,” I said quietly. The text: [Why isn’t she fighting back? Something is off…] Back in my room, another transfer from Adrian arrived: “Stop targeting Daphne.” I accepted the money. Then, I slowly typed a message and sent it: “Adrian, do you even remember I’m severely allergic to shellfish?” Silence. Minutes later, another massive wire transfer appeared. I smiled and took it all. Consider it my severance pay. Outside, I heard Adrian’s car engine and Daphne’s giggles. He was taking her shopping. By evening, they returned. Shortly after, Daphne ran into my room, crying. “Beatrice! My pink diamond necklace is gone! Adrian’s engagement gift…” She showed me a photo. My chest tightened. I knew that necklace. A year ago, Adrian took me to an auction and let me pick anything from the catalog. I chose that pink diamond. He bid aggressively and won it. I waited for him to give it to me, but he never did. When I finally asked, he said he had given it to his cousin. It had been for Daphne all along. The text: [Look at her face! She definitely stole it!] [Search her room!] Adrian stared at me coldly. “Beatrice, you were the only one home today. Give it back.” “I didn’t take it.” Catherine hurried in. “We aren’t accusing you, Beatrice, we’re just asking if you saw it.” “Yes, Bea,” Daphne sniffled. “It’s incredibly expensive…” It was a blatant accusation. Adrian looked at me with deep disappointment. That look stung, but only for a second. I was too exhausted to care. “I’ve been in my room all day. If you don’t believe me, check the security cameras in the hallway and parlor.” Adrian’s expression shifted. Daphne froze. “Oh, let’s not get security involved. It ruins the family harmony,” Catherine muttered. Just then, a maid ran in. “Miss Daphne! The necklace was slipped behind your nightstand! I found it and put it away!” The room went dead silent. The text: [Wait, it was a mistake?] [She really didn’t steal it? This is getting weird…] Adrian looked stiff. He sent another wire transfer: “Sorry for the misunderstanding.” I accepted it. In my room, I opened my browser and scheduled an appointment at a clinic to terminate the pregnancy. The text: [What is she doing? I can’t see the screen…] [Whatever, she’s definitely planning something devious.] I locked my phone and closed my eyes. 4. Daphne’s birthday party was a grand affair. Catherine forced me to attend. “If you don’t show up, what will people think of us? That our real daughter is too embarrassing to show in public?” At the gala, Daphne gave a tearful speech thanking the Harringtons for raising her. Guests cooed, “What a sweet girl. More of a daughter than the biological one.” People looked at me in my quiet corner. “Is she the real one? She looks like a statue.” “Raised in the sticks. No class.” Adrian stayed by Daphne’s side all night, wiping her tears, completely devoted. I sat in the corner, my wine untouched. The noise felt like suffocating waves. I slipped away early and went back to my room. When I opened the door, I froze. My desk had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled open. I rushed to the nightstand. Grandma Ruth’s vintage jade bracelet was gone. I ran back to the ballroom. In the middle of the crowd, Daphne was holding the green jade bracelet up to the light, laughing. “Beatrice lent it to me. Isn’t it pretty?” “Give it back,” I said, my voice shaking. Daphne gasped, startled, and dropped it. “Crack.” The bracelet shattered into pieces on the marble floor. The room fell silent. Daphne immediately started crying. “Beatrice… I’m so sorry, it was an accident…” Guests whispered, looking at me like I was a madwoman. Adrian walked over, glancing at the pieces. “It’s just a bracelet, Beatrice. Is all this drama necessary?” I knelt on the floor, picking up the broken jade. The sharp edges sliced into my fingers, blood dripping onto the stones, but I felt nothing. “My grandmother left this to me,” I whispered. “The last thing she told me before she died was to keep it safe.” Adrian’s face paled. He knew exactly what Grandma Ruth meant to me. He had been there. But Daphne wailed louder, burying her face in his chest. He hesitated, then wrapped his arms around her. “Don’t cry. I’ll get you a much better one.” Catherine stepped forward. “Beatrice, your sister didn’t mean to. Don’t be so petty.” Richard frowned. “Enough. It’s just a bracelet. We’ll buy you a similar one later.” I stood up, clutching the broken jade in my bleeding hand. I walked up to Daphne. And I slapped her, hard, across the face. The crowd gasped. The next second, Adrian lunged forward, grabbed my wrist, and his other hand came down— “Slap.” He hit me back. My cheek burned, and I tasted copper. Adrian’s eyes were icy. “Beatrice, you went too far.” The text: [Oh my god… that was her grandmother’s only keepsake.] [Adrian is a monster! He knew how much she loved her grandma!] [I kind of get Beatrice now. Who wouldn’t lose their mind?] I wiped the blood from my lip. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I wrapped the broken jade in a handkerchief and slipped it into my pocket. “The debt I owed you for saving me… is paid in full.” I looked at Richard and Catherine. “This family… I don’t want it.” I turned and walked out of the ballroom. Catherine yelled after me, “Let her go! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare come back!” My phone vibrated repeatedly. Adrian sent a wire transfer: “Stop being angry.” My parents both sent wire transfers labeled “Compensation”. I accepted every single one. The next morning, I went to the clinic alone. I signed the consent forms, changed into a hospital gown, and lay on the operating table. “Do you have anyone with you?” the nurse asked. “No.” The procedure was quick. When it was over, I walked out of the clinic, pale and hollow, holding two pieces of paper. An ultrasound showing a fetus at eight weeks. And the surgical termination receipt. I returned to the empty Harrington house, grabbed my pre-packed suitcase, and left. At the airport gate, I opened my chat with Adrian. I typed out a message: “Adrian, I paid back your kindness with five years of my youth and a life. From now on, we are even.” I attached photos of the ultrasound and the medical receipt. I hit send. Then I blocked him, deleted his contact, turned off my phone, took out the SIM card, and threw it into a trash can. “Final boarding call for Flight 108 to London…” I stood up and walked toward the gate without looking back.

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An accident gave me a gift—or perhaps, a curse. I could hear a chime in my head whenever the person I loved lied to me. On our eighth anniversary, I stared at the pregnancy test in my wife’s hand, my heart hammering against my ribs at the sight of the two pink lines. “Charlotte, you’re pregnant?” She gave me a warm, tender smile. “Yes, James. I’m carrying our baby.” “Ding.” The sound reverberated inside my skull, sharp and metallic. My smile froze. Suddenly, Charlotte’s phone lit up on the counter. She glanced at the screen, her expression instantly shifting to one of polite regret. “James, there’s an emergency at the office. I have to go.” “Ding.” “I wanted to spend our anniversary with you so badly.” “Ding.” As she turned to leave, I stood up and followed her, the plastic edges of the pregnancy test digging painfully into my palm. “Charlotte,” I called out, my voice tight. “Would you ever lie to me?” She paused, turning back to cup my cheek with a soft, dismissive laugh. “What a silly thing to say. Of course not.” “I love you more than anyone. I’ll be back the second I’m done.” “Ding.” The front door clicked shut. The pregnancy test slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. “If the baby isn’t mine, then you aren’t either.” … Midnight came and went. The anniversary had bled into the next day, and she still wasn’t home. My phone buzzed. It was a message from the private investigator. “Mr. Davis, Charlotte has known this man for a year.” “She keeps him well-hidden. I only managed to snap a few photos.” The images loaded slowly. The man in the photos was the owner of the boutique bakery downtown—the very place she bought those artisanal almond croissants I supposedly loved. Tonight, my wife was celebrating his birthday. In one photo, white frosting was smeared playfully across her cheek. Knowing her severe dairy allergy, my first instinct was to reach out and wipe it away. But when I caught my reflection in the dark screen of my phone, all I saw was a man with bloodshot, hollow eyes. The next morning, Charlotte returned, carrying a paper bag from that same bakery. Seeing me sitting on the sofa, her eyes softened with worry. “Why are you up so early, sweetheart? Didn’t you sleep well?” She had changed her clothes, but the angry red rash of an allergic reaction on her jawline was unmistakable. I looked down. “No, I went to sleep early last night.” She let out a relieved sigh, sitting beside me and resting her head on my chest. A strange, unfamiliar body wash enveloped me. “I missed you, James.” “We closed a massive deal yesterday, and the team got a little wild. They threw cake everywhere—that’s why my skin is acting up.” “But look on the bright side. There was no line at the bakery this morning, so I got your favorite almond croissants.” A year ago, my heart would have swelled with gratitude and concern. But now, the chime rang in my ears like a persistent nightmare. “Lies. All of it.” No wonder her late nights at the office had grown more frequent. No wonder she always came home carrying those pastries, apologizing for the detour. She wasn’t taking a detour. Her heart lived there. “I’ll get your allergy medication,” I said, standing up abruptly to escape the torturous sound of her voice. She caught my hand. “You’re so sweet, but it’s fine. Just a little rash.” I stared down at her fingers gripping mine. “Where is your wedding ring?” She blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before recovering. “I dropped it off to be cleaned. It’s the symbol of our love, James. You know I’d never just stop wearing it.” The sharp chime shattered my last thread of hope. “Really?” I locked eyes with her. “Which jeweler? I should take mine in, too.” She hesitated, shaking her head. “Oh, it’s way uptown. I don’t want you making the trip.” “I’ll just drop it off on my way to work tomorrow.” A dull, heavy ache blossomed in my chest. She was so thoughtful. So seamless. And she was keeping another man just as seamlessly hidden. She pulled my hand, leaning into me with a pout. “Sweetheart, will you make that slow-simmered chicken soup you made last time? The one with the fresh herbs?” I looked up, my voice hoarse. “Last time? I’ve never made chicken soup.” She froze, then laughed it off. “Ah, I must have read about it in a pregnancy recipe book. I just pictured you making it, and it sounded so comforting.” I reached for the heavy ceramic pot in silence, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Amid the ringing in my ears, I remembered how I had stayed up late the night she told me she was pregnant, bookmarking nutritional recipes. The very first dish for expectant mothers was a nutrient-dense chicken broth. Suddenly, my phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number appeared: “Mr. Davis, did you enjoy the croissants?” “Oh, and make sure you simmer that soup for Charlotte.” On the counter, the croissants sat inches from me. The sweet scent of butter and almonds made me physically sick. I leaned over the sink, gagging. “James, what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She rushed to my side, rubbing my back, her voice thick with genuine concern. She had always been this attentive. When my parents died and I wanted to end my life, she was the one who pulled me back from the edge. She gave me a home. When we married, she loved me fiercely. She knew my moods before I did. She adjusted the thermostat to my liking; she placed my favorite things where I could easily reach them. I had prayed for a child with her. But even if we couldn’t have one, I was content. She was my family. I closed my eyes and pulled her into a tight, desperate embrace. “Charlotte, I’m tired of those croissants.” “The bakery is too far out of your way. Just come home early and spend time with me, okay?” “Now that you’re pregnant, let me take care of you.” She let out a soft laugh, resting her chin on my shoulder. “Okay. If they make my James sick, I won’t go back there.” “I’ll cut back on the late nights. I’ll come straight home to you.” As the chime reverberated through my skull, my blood ran ice-cold. Her sweet words were laced with poison, and it was slowly killing me. I wanted to scream at her. I want to tear the truth out of her and ask why she stopped loving me. But what was the point? Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her grip loosening immediately. She didn’t even bother with a gentle excuse before rushing out the door. The lock clicked. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. It was time to let go. It was time to pay back my debt. The sterile, white lights of the hospital ward made my eyes burn. Before the anesthesiologist administered the sedative, the surgeon smiled warmly. “Mr. Davis, you and your wife must have an incredible bond.” “When Mrs. Davis finds out you donated a kidney to her father, she’s going to be deeply moved.” “Yeah,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling. The pain in my chest eclipsed any physical ache. Charlotte had saved my life once. Her parents treated me like their own son after mine passed. When her father fell ill, I kept the compatibility tests a secret because I didn’t want them to worry. Now, it felt fitting. A life for a life. Once this debt was paid, we could end this. When I discharged myself, I was pale and hollowed out. I walked aimlessly through the hospital plaza, only to freeze. Two familiar figures were walking toward the maternity wing. Simon was holding Charlotte’s elbow, his movements incredibly gentle. “Careful,” he murmured. “Remember, you’re carrying our baby.” Charlotte sighed, her voice tender. “I told you, you don’t have to worry about money. I can support us both.” Simon took her hand. “Charlotte, you’ve already given me so much. I’m not with you for your money.” “I loved you from the moment you walked into my bakery.” Charlotte’s eyes softened. Then, she looked up and saw me. Her face went completely bloodless. “James? What are you doing here?” I looked at their intertwined fingers. On Simon’s hand was a platinum band. It was my wedding ring. I raised my own hand, looking at the identical band on my finger. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Congratulations.” Panic flashed in Charlotte’s eyes. She dropped Simon’s hand and took a step toward me. “James, let me explain—” Simon stepped in front of her, his jaw set. “Mr. Davis, the doctors said if Charlotte terminates this pregnancy, she might never have another chance to be a mother.” “I was greedy. I know my place, and I won’t break up your marriage.” “But please, don’t hurt her.” He gave Charlotte a lingering, desperate look, then turned and limped away. Charlotte’s hand hovers in the air, trembling. She wanted to go after him, but she forced herself to stay. I looked at her distracted, agonized expression. She was always so observant, yet she hadn’t asked why I was at the hospital. She didn’t see how pale I was. She didn’t notice that I could barely stand. Because her heart was running after someone else. “Charlotte, if you ever hurt James again, I will disown you myself!” Charlotte’s mother, Helen, was furious. I sat numbly on the sofa while Charlotte offered apology after apology. “James, I am so sorry.” “My health isn’t good. The doctors said a miscarriage could cause severe hemorrhaging.” Helen took my hand, her eyes pleading. “James, you and Charlotte grew up together. After your parents passed, I raised you as my own son.” “Her health is fragile. If she terminates this baby, it could kill her. I am begging you, just this once, can you…” Looking at the guilt in Helen’s eyes, I felt a profound sadness. When my parents died, Charlotte took me in. During my darkest hours, her family gave me warmth. But I never imagined our bond would become a chain of obligation. “Okay,” I said. My voice was dry, my soul a barren wasteland. Charlotte’s eyes lit up. She threw her arms around me, her tears warm against my neck. “Thank you, James. Thank you.” “I swear, I will cut all ties with him. It’s over.” The chime rang in my head instantly. I felt a strange, dull peace. When you’ve been cut enough times, you finally stop feeling the blade. Charlotte tried to play the doting wife again. She came home early, cooked, and spent her evenings with me. She planted white spirea bushes in the garden below our balcony. “When they bloom in April, it’ll look like snow from our terrace. I know how much you love that.” “I’m allergic to pollen,” I said quietly. She froze, looking at the sapling in her muddy hands. “I’m so sorry. I’ll have the gardeners replace them.” “Don’t bother.” I turned and walked back inside. It didn’t matter. I won’t be here to see them anyway. She followed me, desperate to explain, but her phone began to ring. She declined it. It rang again. She declined it again, her face growing increasingly pale. I walked over and pressed the speaker button. “Charlotte! Help me!” Simon’s voice screamed through the receiver. “They’re wrecking the shop! Get them off me!” Charlotte’s breath hitched. She looked at me, tears welling in her eyes. “James, this is the last time. He’s carrying my child… if anything happens to him…” “Go,” I said. My voice was flat. She didn’t think twice. She bolted out of the house. I pulled my lips into a grim smile. “Love makes people stupid.” She was usually so meticulous, yet she didn’t think to call the police. Pregnant and vulnerable, she ran straight into danger for him. She never ran that fast for me. I didn’t expect her to bring Simon to our home. Our home—the place she swore would only ever belong to us. She supported his bruised body, her touch agonizingly gentle. When she saw me, her face hardens with disappointment. “James, Simon has already given up so much. Why can’t you just leave him alone?” “You had his shop destroyed. How is he supposed to survive?” My lips parted, dry and cold. “I didn’t do it.” We had known each other for twenty years. She knew me better than anyone. But now, her heart had tilted, and truth no longer mattered to her. Simon gripped her sleeve, looking miserable. “Charlotte, it’s my fault.” He looked at me, then slowly, deliberately sank to his knees on our living room floor. “Mr. Davis, I know you hired a private investigator. I know you wanted to teach me a lesson.” “But I beg you, have mercy. If Charlotte loses this baby, she might never have another. Let her carry it to term.” “I will take the child and disappear. I’ll never come back.” Looking at his pathetic theater, the resentment I’ve kept locked away finally burst. “Mr. Simon, surely you know the number for the police?” “You really are a—” “Slap.” The force of her hand sent my head spinning. My cheek burned. Simon looked smug for a split second, though his voice remained frantic. “I have no family here. Charlotte is all I have. I’m sorry.” Charlotte’s chest heaved. “James, you don’t have parents. How could you possibly understand what it means to protect a child?” The words pierced my chest like a white-hot blade. I looked up at her. The sheer despair in my eyes made her flinch. “Charlotte, you don’t believe me?” “No.” Her voice was steady, hard. “You can hate me, but I will protect Simon.” The silence in the room was deafening. It was the final dirge for our twenty years together. Charlotte sent Simon away. She discovered the truth later—it had nothing to do with me. Just some local thugs who got food poisoning at his bakery. She came back to me, dripping with guilt. “James, I’m sorry. I was too emotional.” I looked at her as if she were a stranger on the subway. Twenty years of devotion erased by a stranger’s cheap performance. “James, I have my reasons. Just give me a little more time, please?” She clasped my hand, her grip desperate. I looked down and asked her, “Charlotte, will you ever lie to me again?” She shook her head vigorously. “Never. I swear, never again.” The chime rang. My heart remained dead and cold. Even now, she was lying. This cheap, sickening love had kept me trapped for so long, stripping away everything I was. That night, the investigator’s reports kept coming. Photos of them walking along the beach, picking up seashells. They did everything we used to do, only they looked happier. I typed a quick reply: “Stop sending them. I’m done.” I had enough. Enough to file for divorce. Enough to wake up. As I packed my things, I found my post-transplant medication. In the beginning, I took them willingly. I hid them because I didn’t want Charlotte to find out and cry. Now, I realized she wouldn’t waste a single tear on me. “Bam!” The front door was kicked open. Charlotte’s security guards bargained into the room. Before I could speak, I was dragged out of the house and forced into a car heading to the hospital. My medication rolled under the bed, forgotten. Charlotte was waiting outside the operating theater, her face a mask of panic. “James, Simon’s baby has a congenital liver defect.” “The genetic registry says you’re the only perfect match for the transplant.” “So?” My voice was a raspy whisper. “You want me to save your lover’s child? You want my life?” Charlotte grabbed my wrist, her grip painful. “It’s just a small lobe of your liver. There are some side effects, but you’ll survive.” “The baby is innocent, James. Please don’t be so heartless.” “Heartless.” The word carved a hollow void in my chest. I laughed. I laughed at the sheer absurdity of my life. Her baby was innocent. What about me? I loved her with everything I had. I gave her father my kidney. My fingers clenched until my knuckles turned white. “No.” “James Davis!” she screamed my name, her eyes flashing with a desperate resolve. “I saved your life when you wanted to end it. Now, I am asking you to save his.” I felt the final thread of my sanity snap. “What did you say?” She closed her eyes. “This is the last time.” The last time. She had said those words a thousand times. The phantom chime rang in my head, a relentless, haunting scream that had kept me awake for weeks. I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Fine. But after the surgery, you must promise me one thing.” She blinked, relief flooding her features. “Anything, James. Whatever you want.” This time, the chime didn’t ring. But I didn’t care anymore. She didn’t let go of my hand until they wheel me into the operating room. “James, trust me, okay? I’ll explain everything when you wake up.” I looked at her calmly. “Okay.” “Don’t forget what you promised.” It was my first, and last, lie to her. Once the surgery was over, I was leaving. We would be strangers in this life and the next. Charlotte stood in the hallway, letting out a long breath of relief. But in her head, a sudden sound rang out. “Ding.”

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With our wedding just around the corner, I found a digital trail of highway toll receipts on my fiancée’s phone. Every trip had started in the dead of night. A twelve-hour drive, straight. To keep me from noticing, she would turn right around and make the grueling journey back the very next day. Looking at that exhausting, relentless schedule, my friends tried to reassure me. “It’s normal, man. Cold feet. Some women just panic before the big day. She’ll snap out of it soon.” But I didn’t buy it. So, I followed her through the night, all the way to San Francisco. And there, in the passenger seat of her car, I saw him. I watched them get out, laughing, and walk together into a boutique hotel. Panic flared in my chest. Blinded by a sudden, desperate anger, I lunged across the street to catch her, but I never made it. A passing car clipped me, sending me crashing hard onto the wet asphalt. As my vision blurred and the pain set in, my fingers trembled over my screen, typing frantically. “Please pick up. I’ve been in an accident.” On the hotel steps, Vera paused. She unlocked her phone, her eyes scanning the screen. My breath hitched in my throat, waiting, praying for her to call. But she didn’t. She slipped the phone back into her pocket, turned, and followed the boy inside. I blacked out. It wasn’t until seven that evening that I finally dragged myself back to our apartment, my leg set in a heavy plaster cast, throbbing with a dull, sickening ache. Only then did Vera’s name light up my screen, her voice dripping with artificial worry. “Liam! What do you mean you were in an accident? Are you okay? Which hospital are you at? I’m coming to get you.” “Don’t worry about it,” I said, my voice entirely flat. There was no need to pick me up. And there was no need for a wedding anymore. … Perhaps it was the heavy silence on my end that tipped her off. Vera began to explain, her voice soft and defensive. “My phone died this afternoon. It was just such a crazy busy day, and I didn’t have my charger.” That had been her go-to excuse for the last three months. If I hadn’t seen her with my own eyes, I’d probably still believe it. “Okay.” “How is your leg? Is it bad?” She sounded genuinely concerned. I glanced up at the wall clock. 7:40 PM. Exactly eight hours since I had sent her that text. I snapped a photo of my heavy white cast and sent it over. A comminuted fracture. Vera looked at it, but she didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, she sent back a few photos of pink cherry blossoms. “They’re in full bloom here. It’s like a pink sea. The photos don’t even do it justice.” I stared at the images for a long moment before replying. “Is San Francisco really that beautiful?” Beautiful enough to drive twelve hours for, four times in a single month? She had sent me virtually the same photo four times now. Same angle, same composition. She couldn’t even be bothered to change up her lies. There was a pause. She clearly hadn’t expected the question. “Yeah. It’s nice.” After a brief hesitation, she added, half-shielding the truth, “Actually, I’m only half-vacationing. I’m mostly here helping a friend out.” I didn’t ask who the friend was. She wouldn’t tell me anyway, and I already knew. It was Bradley, her ex. Bradley had just updated his Instagram. He was wearing a perfectly tailored linen shirt, posing under a canopy of cherry blossoms. The photographer clearly loved him; every shot captured the perfect golden hour light. It was a stark contrast to the photos Vera took of me—blurry, out of focus, nine times out of ten my face was obscured. Whenever I teased her about it, she’d just laugh it off. “I’m just bad at photography, Liam. Cut me some slack.” But looking at Bradley’s feed, the truth clicked. It wasn’t a lack of skill. It was a lack of interest. Taking my silence as exhaustion, she said, “Get some rest, okay? I’ll head back early tomorrow morning.” I said okay and hung up. I clicked on Bradley’s post again, reading his caption. “Grad school is finally over! Four back-and-forth trips this month, but luckily, I had my favorite person helping me through it all. So grateful.” Four trips for him. Four twelve-hour drives for Vera. She hadn’t missed a single one. Meanwhile, our wedding venue, the caterers, the tuxedo fittings—she hadn’t spared a single second for any of it. My head throbbed, and my cast felt suffocatingly tight. After spending an hour online canceling our wedding venue bookings, I stared at the ceiling. It was nearly 2:00 AM before I finally drifted into a restless sleep. When I woke up, Vera was already back. The rich, savory scent of homemade chicken soup drifted from the kitchen. Seeing me stir, she walked over and gently brushed a hand against my cheek. “How did the accident even happen?” I stared at her for a moment. “I was out, and I thought I saw someone I knew. I tried to catch up to them, but I wasn’t fast enough.” She let out a soft, dismissive murmur. “Well, be more careful next time.” She didn’t ask where I’d been, or who I’d seen. Because she didn’t care. My flight itinerary to San Francisco was sitting right there on the entryway console, in plain sight. She didn’t even glance at it. My eyes stung. I gripped my crutches and swung myself out of bed. After a quick wash, I hobbled over to the dining table and reached for the ladle to pour myself a bowl of soup. “Don’t touch that!” Vera lunged forward, her voice sharp and panicked. I froze, the empty bowl trembling slightly in my hands. “It’s not for me?” She softened slightly, looking sheepish. “No… a friend of mine caught a really bad flu. I promised I’d whip up some soup for them.” She hesitated, then added, “But I mean, if you really want some, go ahead.” She forced a smile, but the underlying reluctance in her voice was impossible to miss. I didn’t say anything. I just looked down at my broken leg, set the bowl back down on the table, and let go. Relieved, Vera immediately sealed the thermos and packed a few side dishes into a paper bag. Once she was done, she finally looked at me. “What do you want for lunch? I can make you some grilled cheese?” “Who is this friend?” Our voices collided in the quiet room. “Just someone from school. You don’t know them,” she said, her voice smooth and practiced. I nodded. “A guy or a girl?” The faint smile slid off Vera’s face. She sighed, a trace of irritation bleeding through. “Liam, what is with you lately? They’re just a friend. That’s it.” “Are you just stressed out because of the wedding planning?” I didn’t push. She turned toward the kitchen to start lunch, but then her phone buzzed on the counter. Vera snatched it up, her eyes darting over the screen. Within seconds, she was untying her apron, grabbing the thermos, and hurrying toward the door. “Something came up. I have to run out for a bit. Make sure you eat something, okay?” Before I could even open my mouth, the door clicked shut behind her. She was in a frantic rush to tend to her ex’s minor cold, completely blind to her fiancé sitting there with a fractured leg. My phone vibrated. A notification popped up: “Your wedding dress rental cancellation has been processed successfully.” I tapped confirm, then opened a food delivery app and ordered a sandwich. After eating, I took an Uber to the clinic to pick up my pain medication. But as I walked through the lobby, I ran straight into Vera. She was carrying Bradley’s leather backpack in one hand and the empty soup thermos in the other. The moment she saw me, her laughter froze mid-air. But she recovered quickly, smoothing over her expression. “Oh! We just ran into each other outside.” Right. A coincidence. Just happened to be at the same clinic, and he just happened to have finished every last drop of her soup. Bradley didn’t offer an explanation. Instead, he flashed me a polite, easy smile. “Hey, Liam. Why don’t you grab your meds first? We’ll wait for you outside.” He sounded so comfortable, so welcoming. Like he was the host, and I was the guest. Vera nodded in agreement as if it were the most natural thing in the world. I said nothing. When we got to her car, I instinctively reached for the passenger door. Bradley looked at my hand, a polite but pointed smile on his lips. “Sorry, I’m so used to riding shotgun. Do you want me to move?” His tone was pleasant, but his body didn’t budge an inch. I looked past him. The seat’s height and the angle of the headrest were adjusted perfectly for him. Before I could say a word, Vera opened the rear door for me. “Liam, you should probably sit in the back. It’ll be easier with your leg anyway.” The entire drive back, they chatted and laughed, while I sat in the backseat behind an invisible wall, watching their world from the outside. Suddenly, she pulled over by a fresh produce stand. Without a word, she jumped out of the car and ran toward it. I rolled down my window, watching her go. Bradley spoke up from the front seat. “Don’t worry. She’s just grabbing some fresh figs.” I froze. Before I could process that, Vera was already jogging back, her eyes bright with excitement. “Bradley, look! I found them!” As she climbed back in, she suddenly remembered I was in the back. “Oh, Liam. Is there anything you wanted? I can go back and—” Before she could finish, Bradley split open a ripe fig and popped it right into her mouth. “Aren’t they amazing?” He didn’t pull his hand away immediately, his fingertips lingering on her lower lip for a beat too long. Vera’s cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She shot a panicked glance at the rearview mirror, quickly adjusted her seat, and cleared her throat. “Right. Let’s get going.” Bradley sat back, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. In the mirror, my expression remained entirely blank. When my eyes met Vera’s tense, searching gaze, I actually let out a soft laugh. The car suddenly lurched forward as she hit the gas. The second we dropped Bradley off at his apartment, Vera turned around to face me. “Please don’t overthink that, Liam. He’s always been a tease. It was just a joke.” “Do you even remember that you’re getting married?” The question was sharp, cutting through the thick air. Vera’s expression soured, and she fell silent. I turned my head toward the window, the passing streetlights blurring together. Vera and Bradley had always been the golden couple. Back in college, everyone knew them as the brilliant, perfect match. They ran debate prep together, won regional titles side-by-side, traveled the country. But they were both too stubborn, too competitive. They fought constantly, broke up, made up, and fought again. By graduation, reality caught up to them, and they ended it for good. Vera had cried like her entire world was ending. I’d never seen her look so fragile. I remember stepping off the campus shuttle, seeing her huddled on a bench, and gently placing my baseball cap over her head to hide her tears. I walked away before she could even look up. It was over a year before our paths crossed again. When they did, things progressed naturally. We exchanged numbers, started dating, and eventually built a life together. Our relationship was quiet, warm, and comfortable. There were no dramatic screaming matches, no devastating breakups. And that, I realized, was why she found it boring. “Stop reading into things. Nothing happened between us,” she said, her tone hardening. I looked up and locked eyes with her in the mirror. “He’s the friend from San Francisco, isn’t he?” “Yes,” she admitted, her voice flatly defiant. “He was sick, and I went to look after him. That’s all it was.” She looked back at the road, raising a massive wall between us. A wall meant to protect someone else, leaving me on the outside. Neither of us spoke for the rest of the ride. When we got to our building’s garage, my leg was throbbing from all the walking. I waited by the trunk, hoping she’d offer a hand. Vera walked over, turned her back to me, and crouched down. “Get on. I’ll carry you.” I was too exhausted to argue. I leaned onto her back, closing my eyes against her shoulder. As the elevator rose, her phone chimed. She hesitated, looking down at the screen, before murmuring my name. “Liam?” I didn’t answer, pretending to be asleep. Assuming I was out cold, she opened the text. It was a photo from Bradley—him shirtless, posing by a pool. “How does this look? Thinking of posting it on Instagram.” Vera’s breathing hitched, turning shallow and rapid. She typed furiously: “Don’t you dare post that.” “Why not?” Vera’s grip on my thighs tightened. “Because I’m your woman.” “Glad you finally admit it. Too bad you’re still marrying someone else.” This time, Vera didn’t reply. The elevator doors slid open. She carried me into our apartment with delicate, quiet movements, laying me gently down on the sofa. Then, she immediately hurried into the office, eager to check if Bradley had actually posted the photo. She didn’t see the damp patch on the back of her shirt where my tears had soaked through. It was more than two hours later when she finally stepped out of the office, looking entirely relieved. Seeing me awake, she ran a hand through my hair. “Hungry? What do you want for lunch?” “Just some fried rice,” I said, shifting my body slightly and brushing her arm away. Vera blinked, her eyes tracking my movement and landing on my bare hand. “Where is your ring?” I had taken it off the second I woke up in the hospital. “It gets in the way when I wash up.” “Did you put it somewhere safe? You can’t just lose your wedding band, Liam.” “Does the ring really matter?” Vera’s brows knitted together. “What kind of question is that? Of course it matters. It’s the symbol of our commitment.” Yet just minutes ago, she was wearing hers while flirting with her ex. When I stayed silent, she took a slow, deep breath, kneeling to take my hands in hers. “Liam, you need to have some faith in us. At the end of the day, you’re the one I’m marrying.” But that didn’t stop her from keeping her ex on a leash. I stared at her, genuinely wondering if she ever got tired of the juggling act. How did she find the energy to love two people at once? After lunch, I went into the bedroom under the guise of resting, and quietly packed a bag. When I hobbled back out, Vera was putting on her coat. “Going somewhere?” “An alumni dinner.” As if to preempt my suspicions, she added quickly, “Do you want to come?” “Yes.” I looked up and smiled at her stunned expression. “I’ll come with you.” It was the first time I had ever insisted on joining her friends. The look on Vera’s face was far from thrilled. Bradley was waiting outside the restaurant lobby when we pulled up. When he saw me limping beside her, his face stiffened for a fraction of a second. But he recovered instantly, plastering on a warm smile. “Hey, Liam. Glad you could make it.” “Thanks,” I said. My eyes fell on his shirt—a soft, powder-blue linen. Then I looked at Vera, who was wearing a powder-blue knit dress. Even their watches were matching. Walking behind them, I felt like a third wheel on a date. The moment we entered the private dining room, someone stood up with a loud grin. “Vera! We heard you’re getting married! When did you and Bradley finally get back together? You kept that quiet! After all these years, I knew you two would end up together!” Beside me, Vera froze, her entire posture stiffening. Bradley, however, didn’t look bothered at all. In fact, he turned his head slightly to look at me, scanning my face to see if I’d break. Someone who actually knew the truth cleared their throat, nudging the speaker. “Dude, you’ve had too much to drink. This is Liam, Vera’s fiancé.” The room went dead quiet. The guy’s face turned bright red, and he immediately apologized. “Oh, man. I’m so sorry. My bad.” I offered a polite, easy smile. “Don’t worry about it.” Bradley let out a soft laugh. It was sharp, sudden, and dripping with condescension. A quiet mockery of my tolerance. This time, I didn’t let it slide. I turned to look at him directly. “What’s funny, Bradley?” He clearly hadn’t expected me to call him out in front of everyone. His smug smile faltered. “Nothing. I didn’t laugh, Liam. You’re being a little sensitive, don’t you think?” “Am I?” I said softly. “So when you texted my fiancée a shirtless photo of yourself in swimming trunks yesterday, was I just being sensitive about that, too?” The room went instantly, suffocatingly quiet. You could have heard a pin drop. Bradley’s face drained of color. He looked down, thoroughly humiliated, his jaw tight. Vera’s expression turned utterly venomous. She grabbed my wrist with an iron grip and pulled me toward the door. “Liam, that is enough! Stop making a scene!” My broken leg clipped the corner of the wall as she dragged me out, and a sharp, white-hot flash of pain shot up my spine. Once the pain subsided, I actually felt like laughing. I had just exposed her betrayal, and she was the one reprimanding me. “What are you so defensive about?” I asked. “I’m not defensive,” she snapped, her jaw clenched. “It was just a beach photo. Don’t be so provincial.” I nodded slowly. “Right. So if I texted my ex a photo of me in my underwear, you’d be totally fine with it? It’s just a photo, after all.” Vera rubbed her temples, looking incredibly weary. Behind the closed door, we could hear the awkward hum of her friends whispering. She didn’t want to do this here. “Just go home, Liam. We’ll talk about this at the apartment.” What was left to talk about? In a room full of people, when the lines were drawn, I was the one she cast aside. Her friends stared at me with varying degrees of pity as I gathered my coat. Behind them, Bradley stood leaning against the wall, crossing his arms with a smug, victorious little wave. I turned around and walked out. But I didn’t go back to our apartment. I took a cab to my parents’ place, where they were already waiting for me. We packed the last of my things into the trunk of their car. My mother looked at me, her eyes filled with a quiet, unconditional warmth. “Are you sure about this, sweetheart?” she asked. I nodded. “I am.” By then, they had already sent out the notices to our relatives: “The wedding has been canceled.” On the drive to my parents’ house, my phone buzzed. Bradley had posted again. “Perfect reunion with the old crew! Let’s do this again next year!” In the group photo, Vera was pressed flush against him, her arm looped playfully through his. But I didn’t feel the sting anymore. I had already walked off the battlefield. At 8:00 PM, Vera finally unlocked the door to our apartment. But she wasn’t greeted by the smell of dinner or the sound of the TV. The flat was dead silent. A cold knot of dread tightened in her chest.

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