Mona walked out on our wedding. She did it to run to her ex-boyfriend—the same man who had abandoned her five years ago when she was on the verge of being permanently paralyzed. A collective gasp rippled through the chapel, the whispers rising like dry leaves. I gripped her wrist, fighting to keep my expression from crumbling in front of our guests. “Please,” I whispered, my voice thick with a desperation I hated. “Not now. Don’t leave.” Her eyes flickered with a brief, agonizing conflict. Then, finger by finger, she pried my hand off her wrist. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Wright. I have to go. I need to know why he left so ruthlessly back then.” Without a backward glance, Mona walked down the aisle, leaving behind a chorus of stunned whispers. Behind me, my mother—who had a severe, fragile heart condition—began to tremble violently. Before I could even process the humiliation of being left at the altar, she collapsed onto the floor. “Mom!” The world splintered around me. Somehow, through the panic and the blinding tears, I managed to get her into the ambulance. Sitting outside the emergency room, my phone buzzed in my trembling hands. Two notifications lit up the screen. The first was from Jerry: “I told you. The moment I came back, Mona would never choose you. You lose again.” The second was from Mona: “Give me thirty days. Let’s take a break for just thirty days, and then I promise I will love only you with all my heart.” I stared at the screen, my eyes as dead as a winter sea. A bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my throat. This time, I wasn’t going to let myself lose. … The red light of the emergency room stayed lit for three hours. My mother had undergone bypass surgery two years ago. She had warned me, softly but firmly, that Mona was not the kind of woman who could ever truly belong to me. But I had been stubborn. I had clung to the belief that Mona loved me with the same quiet, desperate devotion I had for her. Now, every single one of those sweet, deluded assumptions felt like a violent slap to my face. I could barely breathe. My father paced beside me, frantic and hollow-eyed. “Wright, what if she doesn’t make it? What if…” “She will,” I interrupted him, though the words were meant more to comfort myself than him. “Mom is strong. She’ll make it.” But my voice cracked. I had never been this terrified in my entire life. Then, my phone vibrated again. Another text from Jerry—this time, a video. It was filmed inside a dim hotel suite. Mona was there, still flushed and disheveled from running out on our wedding, standing in front of him. “Why did you come back?” she demanded. Jerry didn’t answer. He just watched her. She was the one who lost control first, her eyes brimming with angry tears. “You walked away without a single word, and now you think you can just breeze back in and ruin my life? Who gave you the right to be this selfish, Jerry?” I walked down to the empty stairwell, seeking a quiet corner to watch the rest. The woman on the screen—this unraveled, raw version of Mona—felt like an absolute stranger. My friends had warned me more than once that Mona was too cold, too detached with me. But I had always brushed it off. “She’s a high-powered CEO,” I’d say, defending her. “She’s built to keep her emotions under lock and key. That’s just who she is.” But sitting in that cold stairwell, the illusion shattered. She was capable of losing her mind. She could cry, she could shake, she could beg. It was just that none of those raw, primal feelings were meant for me. They were reserved entirely for Jerry. I closed my eyes, forcing down the physical ache in my chest, and pressed play again. In the video, Jerry didn’t offer an explanation. He just stood there, letting her vent, knowing he held all the cards. Mona’s anger lasted only a moment before dissolving into a bitter, helpless laugh. All her resentment crumbled in an instant. She stepped forward and threw her arms around him. “As long as you’re back…” she whispered. Jerry wrapped his arms around her waist, his eyes locking with the camera lens. He smirked—a look of pure, triumphant malice. The video cut to black. I let out a soft, hollow laugh. Outside, a sudden roll of thunder shook the hospital windows as rain began to pour. So that’s what she looked like when she loved someone. Five years together, and I had never once seen that expression on her face. I wiped my face and walked back to the waiting room just as the heavy double doors swung open. I rushed to the surgeon, my throat tight. “Doctor, my mother… how is she?” “She’s stable. The worst is over,” the doctor said, removing his mask. “But you must keep her calm. Her heart cannot handle any more severe shocks.” I nodded, every muscle in my body coiled tight. “It won’t happen again. Thank you, Doctor.” My father collapsed into a chair, weeping with relief, as my mother was wheeled out. Looking at her pale, thin face, I wanted to strike myself. Why had it taken me this long to finally wake up? Shortly after we moved my mother into a private room, a specialist knocked on the door. “Mr. Simon? I’m the hypertension specialist sent by Ms. Kingsley. How is the patient doing?” At that exact moment, my phone buzzed. A text from Mona: “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize your mother would react so strongly. I’ve sent a top hypertension specialist to the hospital. She’ll be fine.” My hand shook so hard the phone nearly slipped from my fingers. It was laughable. Five years. We had been together for five years, and she didn’t even know what kind of heart disease my mother had. I took a deep, steadying breath, keeping my voice level. “We don’t need your services. Please leave.” After settling my parents, I walked down to the ground floor to pick up some of my mother’s routine prescriptions. Passing the gastroenterology clinic, I stopped dead. Through the crack in the door, I saw Mona and Jerry. She was holding his hand, her face etched with deep, frantic worry. The doctor was taking notes. “Describe his symptoms.” Before Jerry could even open his mouth, Mona blurted out the answers. “His stomach has always been sensitive. He never eats warm food when he should, and his immune system is incredibly weak. We’ve tried holistic remedies, but nothing seems to stick.” My feet felt like they were encased in concrete. Every word she spoke—detailing Jerry’s health with clinical, intimate precision—was a needle driving straight into my chest. She couldn’t remember my mother’s cardiac history, but she had memorized the digestive quirks of an ex-boyfriend she hadn’t seen in half a decade. I pulled out my phone, dialed my lawyer’s number, and kept my voice whisper-quiet. “Draft a divorce agreement. Send it to my email.” Then, I walked into an adjacent examination room. “I need to schedule an urgent endoscopy,” I told the physician on duty. “My stomach pain has been unbearable.” The doctor looked up, her brow furrowing as she recognized me. “Wait, I remember you. We caught your early-stage gastric ulcer last month. Why hasn’t there been any follow-up? It’s gotten incredibly severe.” A dull ache flared in my chest. A month ago, while Mona was away on a business trip, I had started experiencing sharp abdominal pains. The biopsy came back showing an early-stage ulcer. I hadn’t told her because I wanted to wait until after the wedding—I thought I’d tell her when we were finally in a quiet, happy place. I never could have guessed that Jerry would return, or that she would leave me standing at the altar like a fool. I was still wearing my tuxedo trousers, wrinkling under the hospital lights, looking thoroughly pathetic. “I just neglected it,” I said quietly. “Please, just schedule the test.” The doctor sighed, typing into her computer. “Fine. Tomorrow morning at nine, Exam Room One. Just check in at the front desk.” I thanked her and walked back to my mother’s room. I pulled out my phone. Our mutual friend group chat was buzzing with activity. Mona had just added Jerry back into the group. “Welcome back, Jerry! I knew you two would find your way back to each other,” one friend wrote. “Exactly. You two always belonged together anyway,” another chimed in. “Uh… guys? Wright is still in this chat, remember?” There was a sudden, heavy silence. I smiled bitterly. These people had only tolerated me because of Mona; they had never actually respected me. A second later, a system notification flashed across the screen: “You have been removed from the group by Mona Kingsley.” My lips went dry and pale. A direct message from Mona popped up immediately: “I’ll add you back in thirty days. Be good.” I stared at those words for a long moment, then closed the app without replying. Once my medical tests were done tomorrow, there would be nothing left to bind us. Two days later, my mother woke up, and my tests were completed. I returned to Kingsley Enterprises to submit my resignation. I had barely sat down at my desk in the executive suite when the elevator doors slid open. Mona and Jerry walked out together. She stopped in front of my desk, adjusting her blazer. “Is your mother’s blood pressure under control?” I clenched my fists beneath the desk, keeping my voice dripping with cold sarcasm. “She’s doing perfectly, Ms. Kingsley. Thanks to your expert recommendation.” Mona’s brows knit together. She hated this sharp, cynical version of me. She was used to a Wright who hung on her every word, eager to please. Shifting her gaze away in annoyance, she turned to Jerry. Her expression softened instantly into something almost worshipful. “You’ll start as my chief personal assistant here in the executive suite,” she told him. “Once you’re familiar with our operations, I’ll move you to project management.” Jerry glanced at me, a smug smile playing on his lips. “Sounds great. I’m still a bit rusty, Mona. Maybe Wright can show me the ropes?” I looked up, the anger burning in my throat. “I decline.” Jerry didn’t flinch. He just quietly waited for Mona to handle it. Sure enough, her cold, authoritative voice cut through the room. “You don’t have a choice, Wright. This is a business, not a playground. Your personal preferences don’t dictate my decisions.” She didn’t wait for my response. She grabbed Jerry’s hand and led him into her private office. My hands and feet grew cold. Outside, the morning sun vanished behind a sudden flurry of snow, and a draft from the window made me shiver. I sank back into my chair, hyper-aware of the quiet snickers from the other assistants. By afternoon, I had finished drafting my formal resignation letter. Before I could print it, Mona called me into her office. Her face was dark with fury as she threw a thick folder at my feet. “Wright, is this job a joke to you? You put down three hundred million for a thirty-million-dollar bid! The entire legal team is scrambling to clean up your mess!” I knelt to pick up the papers, my heart hammering. I scanned the numbers. “This is impossible,” I said, my voice rising. “I audited this draft five times. The numbers were perfect.” Then, my eyes drifted to Jerry, who was standing by the window. The subtle, pleased curve of his mouth made my blood run cold. “It was you,” I whispered. It made perfect sense. His sudden eagerness to learn this morning, sitting right next to me for hours—finding out my computer password would have been child’s play for him. “Wright!” Mona snapped, her voice shaking the glass walls. “Are you seriously trying to shift the blame?” I closed my eyes and took a slow breath to steady myself. “Let’s check the security feed. Jerry probably didn’t realize that the little decorative clock on my desk has a built-in camera.” Jerry’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. I caught it. Mona remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line. Her hesitation was like a physical blow to my chest. Without waiting for her permission, I grabbed Jerry by the sleeve and dragged him out into the main bullpen, where dozens of employees were already whispering. “Wright, stop—” Mona called out behind us, but I ignored her. I pulled up the camera feed on the main presentation screen for everyone to see. The footage was clear. At 12:23 PM, while the rest of the floor was out for lunch, Jerry had sat at my desk. Every keystroke, every deliberate modification to the bid contract was recorded in high definition. Mona’s face drained of color. Whispers broke out among the staff. “It was Jerry? Why would he do that?” “Are you blind? He’s her ex. It’s a classic power move to get rid of the fiancé. Let’s see who Mona protects.” “My money is on Jerry. You rookies don’t know how crazy she was about him back in the day.” I kept my back straight, refusing to show how much their words stung, or how much Mona’s heavy, agonizing silence was tearing me apart. Jerry looked at me, a cold, mocking smile returning to his face. He turned to Mona, completely devoid of remorse. “It was me,” he said casually. “I changed the files to frame Wright. You can fire me if you want.” He stepped closer to her, holding her gaze. “Are you going to fire me, Mona?” My chest tightened. “She has to,” I thought. The proof was undeniable, and he had admitted to corporate sabotage. There was no way she could justify keeping him. I held my breath, waiting. After a long, agonizing pause, Mona looked away from Jerry and addressed the crowd. “The matter is closed. I will personally cover any financial losses incurred by this mistake.” Jerry’s smirk widened as he cast a pitying glance my way. A collective murmur of disbelief swept through the office. It felt like a physical strike to my face. “On what grounds?” My voice shook, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking. Mona looked at me, her expression incredibly defensive. “Jerry is my boyfriend now. He made a lapse in judgment, and as his partner, I am taking responsibility for his mistakes.” A hollow laugh escaped me. “Your boyfriend? Mona, did you forget we have a signed marriage license? He’s a homewrecker—” “Wright!” she snapped, her eyes freezing me in place. “He is not.” I looked down at the polished floor, the last of my hopes crumbling away. Jerry’s confidence hadn’t come from his own cleverness; it had come from Mona’s unconditional protection. I didn’t want to fight anymore. “Fine,” I whispered. “He isn’t.” She ordered everyone back to work, then ushered me into her office and closed the door. She reached out, wrapping her arms around me, her tone softening. “I’m sorry, Wright. I didn’t mean to snap. But I told you—just give me thirty days. After that, I am entirely yours.” My fingernails dug into my palms, the pain grounding me. I forced a faint smile. “Okay. I believe you. By the way, I have a few routine documents that need your signature.” I slipped my resignation letter and the divorce papers into a stack of standard corporate contracts and handed them to her. The abrupt shift in topic caught her off guard, but seeing my calm demeanor, she let out a sigh of relief. Without reading a single page, she signed her name at the bottom of each sheet. Back at my desk, I scanned and sent the signed divorce agreement to my lawyer, then walked down to HR to hand in my resignation. I sat through the remaining hours of the day in silence. When dusk fell, I took one last look at the office where I had spent five years of my life, left my ID badge on the desk, and walked out. In the parking garage, Jerry was leaning against my car. I tried to walk past him, but he stepped in my way. “See? I told you,” he sneered. “The moment I come back, you’re out. If you have any self-respect left, Wright, sign the papers and walk away. Why cling to a woman who doesn’t love you?” I stopped, looking at him with quiet contempt. “Is that so? Too bad that until the legalities are finalized, you’re nothing but a cheap affair.” “Why you—” He lost his temper and swung, his fist connecting heavily with my jaw. “You bastard!” “Jerry!” Mona’s voice echoed through the concrete structure. She hurried over, her eyes lingering on my swelling cheek for a brief moment. I waited for her to scream at him, to demand why he had just assaulted her fiancé. Instead, she turned to me. “I’m sorry, Wright. I apologize on Jerry’s behalf. To make it up to you, I’ll make sure our wedding in thirty days is the grandest event this city has ever seen.” Jerry smiled, casually draping an arm around her shoulder. My whole body went numb. My eyes burned with unshed tears. Before I could say a word, she led him away toward her car. The garage fell silent. I stood there alone, my jaw throbbing. Finally, the truth settled in. Mona didn’t care about Jerry’s flaws, his manipulation, or how he had abandoned her in the past. She knew exactly what he was doing, and she chose to protect him anyway. Because she loved him. Jerry was right. I had lost completely. My first defeat had been three years ago. Jerry had texted me out of the blue, claiming that Mona kept a photo of him in her wallet that she let no one touch. I hadn’t believed him until I checked her wallet late one night. When I threw the photo away, Mona screamed at me—the first time she had ever raised her voice in our relationship. The second defeat was a year ago. Jerry had messaged me saying that every May sixth, the anniversary of his mother’s passing, Mona would spend the day with his family in his place. That day had also been my father’s sixtieth birthday. I had begged her, practically on my knees, to cut ties with Jerry’s family and come home with me. But Mona had simply brushed my hand away and walked out the door without a second glance. The third defeat was at our wedding, when she abandoned me without a backward glance. And now, this was the fourth. I got into my car and was about to start the engine when my father’s name flashed on the dashboard screen. When I answered, his ragged, hysterical crying filled the car. “Wright… your mother… she’s…” The world seemed to stop spinning. Panic seized my throat, and my hands shook violently as I sped back to the hospital. But when I reached the room, all I found was a bed draped in a white sheet. My knees gave out. I stumbled forward, sinking to the floor, my hands reaching out to touch her cold forehead. “Mom?” My voice cracked, tears blinding me. “Mom! What happened? She was fine yesterday! Why?” My father was collapsed in a chair nearby, weeping uncontrollably. “Some man sent her a text… he sent her a video showing you being humiliated at the office. He told her you were completely abandoned and that she should convince you to let go…” I closed my eyes, a name burning in my mind. “Jerry.” Mona appeared in the doorway of the hospital room, looking deeply uncomfortable. She tried to wrap her arms around my trembling, grief-stricken body. “I’m so sorry, Wright. Jerry didn’t mean to… he was just so scared of losing me that he acted rashly…” I shoved her away with everything I had left. I looked at her, my throat tight with disgust and despair. “Mona… how did I ever love someone as rotten as you?” I pointed at the door. “Get out. Get the hell out!” Her face went pale, and she let out a long, weary sigh. “I will make this up to you, Wright. The wedding preparations are still under way. In thirty days, I’ll send Jerry away and we can start fresh. Just take this time to calm down.” She turned and left. When I opened my eyes, the sorrow was gone, replaced by a cold, quiet hatred. The next morning, my father and I quietly buried my mother. Then, we booked one-way tickets to Los Angeles. But before I boarded the plane, I made one phone call. I reached out to the coordinator at the luxury estate where Mona was planning our rescheduled wedding. I transferred fifteen thousand dollars to his account, requesting that he deliver three specific wedding gifts to Mona on our supposed big day. Three surprises she would remember for the rest of her life.

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The lights went out right in the middle of our engagement party. In the sudden pitch-black, I stepped backward, right onto the jagged edge of a shattered champagne flute. A sharp, hot pain sliced through my ankle, and I felt the wet warmth of blood pooling instantly against my shoe. Amid the chorus of startled gasps echoing through the ballroom, my first instinct was to call out his name. “Wayne!” He heard me. I saw the silhouette of his shoulders stiffen in the dimness, but instead of turning toward me, he swept right past, pushing through the crowd toward Sadie Wells, who was standing near the stage. When the dim amber glow of the emergency lights flickered on, the first thing I saw was Wayne holding Sadie tightly against his chest, shielding her from the room. “Are you okay?” he whispered, his voice thick with a panic he had never shown for me. “Did it scare you?” The master of ceremonies stood frozen on the stage, holding his microphone. He cleared his throat, leaning down to whisper, “Mr. Reynolds, Ms. Aldridge is bleeding over there.” Only then did Wayne look back. He saw the dark stain spreading around my foot. His brow furrowed, but only for a fraction of a second. “Sadie has severe claustrophobia, Mona,” he said, his tone flat and defensive. “Do you really have to pick right now to compete for attention?” At that moment, the entire ballroom fell dead silent. Wayne Reynolds was famous in our industry for being cold and unapproachable. He was a man of steel and silence—except when it came to Sadie. They had grown up together, and if she so much as mentioned being afraid of the dark, he would walk out of a multi-million-dollar board meeting to fly to her side. Meanwhile, I had been engaged to him for three years. I had spent those years managing his mother’s grueling post-stroke physical therapy, and I had even turned down a prestigious design fellowship in Copenhagen just to stay by his side and support his firm. He always told me, “You’re strong, Mona. You’re the stable one. You don’t need hand-holding like Sadie does.” It wasn’t until tonight that the truth finally clicked. “Stable” was just his shorthand for someone who could take a hit and didn’t need to be comforted afterward. “Fiancée” was just the title he gave to the person he felt safest sacrificing. … Sadie sobbed, gently pushing at his chest. “Wayne, go. Go check on Mona.” Instead of moving, Wayne kept his eyes locked on me, his expression tightening with impatience. “Don’t start with the attitude, Mona. There are too many eyes on us today. Just play nice.” I looked down at my white satin heels, now ruined and stained with dark, heavy red. Slowly, I reached down and slid the engagement ring off my finger. “Wayne,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “For once, I’m not going to play nice.” When the diamond hit the polished floor with a sharp, metallic clink, Wayne’s face turned absolutely rigid. “Mona Aldridge,” he hissed. “Have you had your little tantrum yet?” I didn’t answer. I bent down, unbuckled my shoes, and picked them up in one hand. The blood from my ankle was tracing a slow path down my calf, cutting a vivid line across the pristine white hem of my dress. Behind him, Sadie’s shoulders shook as she wept. “Mona, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” Wayne instantly pulled her closer, his hand resting supportively on her back. “You have nothing to apologize for.” When he looked back at me, his eyes held nothing but a cold, warning glare. “We have family and major clients sitting in this room. Are you seriously going to humiliate everyone over this?” A quiet, humorless laugh escaped my throat. So, my injury was just an inconvenience. My pain was an embarrassment, a sign that I lacked grace and discretion. At the main table, my parents looked sick. My mother made a move to get up, her face pale with worry, but my father gently held her arm, keeping her back. I caught my father’s eye and shook my head, silently pleading with him to stay where he was. Then, I turned to the coordinator. “The engagement party is over. Cancel it.” A collective gasp swept through the room. Wayne’s mother scrambled to her feet, her voice tight with panic. “Mona, sweetheart, let’s talk about this. Don’t do anything rash!” I didn’t look at her. Holding my shoes, I began the long, limping walk toward the exit. Behind me, Wayne’s voice cut through the murmurs, low and dangerous. “Walk out that door, Mona, and there’s no turning back.” I paused for a second, but I didn’t turn around. “I won’t be the one turning back.” But the person who chased me out into the cool night air wasn’t Wayne. It was Sadie. She ran after me, holding up the skirt of her delicate dress, panting as she caught up to me on the sidewalk. “Mona, please! You’re completely misunderstanding. When the lights went out, I got so terrified. I didn’t mean to grab onto Wayne.” I stopped and looked at her. “You didn’t mean to grab him. And I suppose the sudden change in the hotel’s lighting schedule was someone else’s idea too?” Sadie’s face went entirely white. I had only been bluffing, trying to see if she had any hand in the abrupt blackout, but the sudden panic in her eyes confirmed my worst fears. It felt like a physical blow to my chest. She quickly cast her eyes downward, her voice dropping into a soft, fragile whisper. “I only wanted to give you a surprise. The hotel staff told me they could set up a romantic, dimmed light show before the toasts. I had no idea the system would short-circuit.” Before I could reply, the glass doors of the venue swung open, and Wayne stepped out. Without a word, he slipped his charcoal suit jacket off and draped it over Sadie’s bare shoulders. “It’s freezing out here. Go back inside.” Sadie clutched the lapels of his jacket, looking up at me with wide, fearful eyes. “Wayne… does Mona hate me now?” Wayne didn’t look at me as he spoke. “She’s not in her right mind right now.” Hearing those words, the throbbing pain in my ankle suddenly didn’t seem so bad. It was entirely numb. I hailed a cab and drove straight to my design studio. My business partner, Gwen Kelly, was still at her desk, working late. When she saw me push the door open, she jumped, nearly spilling her lukewarm coffee all over her keyboard. “Mona? What the hell happened? Weren’t you supposed to be getting engaged tonight?” I tossed my clutch onto the desk. “It’s off.” Gwen rushed over, dropping to her knees to inspect my leg, and let out a string of curses. Without letting me argue, she dragged me straight to the nearest 24-hour clinic. The doctor spent twenty minutes picking a tiny shard of glass out of my flesh, put in two neat stitches, and warned me to keep it dry for at least a week. By the time we got back to the office, my phone finally lit up. It was a text from Wayne: Sadie is still severely shaken up. I’m driving her home. Go get your ankle looked at. Gwen read over my shoulder and let out a harsh, angry laugh. “Who the hell was he supposed to be marrying tonight?” I didn’t reply. When the nurse had pressed the alcohol swab to my open wound earlier, the pain had been so sharp I’d nearly bitten through my lip. But looking at the screen, I felt absolutely nothing. Half an hour later, Wayne walked into the studio. He pushed the door open, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, looking for all the world like I was the one who had spent the night making his life difficult. He walked over to my desk and reached out, his hand automatically moving toward my hair in a gesture that used to feel comforting. “Does it still hurt?” I tilted my head, deliberately evading his touch. His hand hovered in the empty air for a second before he slowly let it drop. “Mona. Stop being childish.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Did you look into it?” “Look into what?” “The power outage.” Wayne pinched the bridge of his nose. “It was just faulty hotel wiring. I’ll have someone from the operations team follow up with them tomorrow.” I stared at him. “Sadie told me she personally authorized a change in the lighting schedule.” He went quiet for a beat. “She wanted to give you a surprise.” I let out a soft laugh. “So her ‘surprise’ turns into a disaster, I end up with stitches, and she gets to play the innocent victim.” “Do you always have to target Sadie?” Wayne’s voice took on a sharp, defensive edge. “She already feels sick to her stomach about what happened.” A heavy weight settled deep in my chest. After a long silence, I spoke. “Wayne, the engagement is off. We’re done.” He looked at me as if I were a difficult child throwing a tantrum. “Just because I ran to her first tonight?” “No,” I said, making sure he heard every single syllable. “Because you choose her first. Every single time.” The room fell quiet. Then, my phone rang. It was my dad. I pressed the receiver to my ear. His voice sounded thick, gravelly with unshed emotion. “Sweetheart, come home. Mom made some soup.” Hot tears finally stung the backs of my eyes. “Dad.” “Yeah, baby?” “Wayne doesn’t need to come over anymore.” There was a brief pause on the line. Then my father spoke, his voice firm and steady: “Good. He isn’t welcome in our home anyway.” When I got to my parents’ house, my mother sat on the edge of the sofa, carefully re-wrapping my bandage. Her hands were shaking so much she dropped the medical tape twice. “How did it cut you this deep?” she whispered. “Just a broken glass,” I murmured. She didn’t pry. She just leaned down and gently blew on the stitches to soothe the sting. At the kitchen table, my dad kept piling food onto my plate, while my mom sat opposite me, her eyes rimmed with red. I laid my fork down. “Dad, Mom… I’m not getting married.” My mother’s tears finally spilled over. My father looked at me, his expression grave. “Are you sure about this, Mona?” “I am.” He slid the bowl of warm soup closer to me. “Then we don’t do it.” I blinked, momentarily speechless. His voice softened, though it remained incredibly heavy. “We didn’t raise you for twenty-seven years just to watch you learn how to suffer in silence in someone else’s house.” A tear slipped from my cheek, landing directly in my bowl. In reality, I should have seen this coming a long time ago. Three years ago, when Wayne’s firm was on the brink of bankruptcy, I was the one who walked through muddy, half-constructed job sites with him, shaking hands with contractors. When his mother suffered a stroke, I was the one who spent every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon guiding her through her rehabilitation exercises. The day I received my acceptance letter for the Copenhagen fellowship, Wayne had held me tight at the airport gate, whispering, “Wait for me, Mona. Just until the firm is stable, and then I’ll pack your bags and take you to Europe myself.” But once the firm stabilized, Sadie returned from her years abroad. She decided she wanted to be an interior design influencer. Wayne immediately handed over our newly finished model homes for her photo shoots, redirected our prime business inquiries to her inbox, and even had me stay up past midnight to edit her scripts. I had asked him once, “Don’t you think Sadie is getting a little too involved in our personal and professional space?” He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. “Grow up, Mona. She just got back to the States. She doesn’t have anyone else to rely on.” So, I grew up. I became mature, stable, and accommodating—so accommodating that I forgot that I was allowed to bleed too. The next morning, I walked into the office and printed two formal documents. The first was a withdrawal from our personal residential design project—the house that was supposed to be our home. The second was a formal resignation from the South Side Hotel development team. Gwen saw the papers on my desk and placed a fresh coffee next to them. “Are you really walking away?” “Yes.” “Can you actually let it go?” I picked up my pen and signed my name at the bottom of the sheets. “Even if it hurts, it’s time to give myself back to myself.” At noon, the cafeteria was packed. I had barely sat down with my lunch when Sadie slid into the seat opposite me. Her eyes were puffy, and her skin looked dull, as if she had spent the entire night crying. “Mona, how is your ankle?” I didn’t look up from my salad. She pushed a small carton of Greek yogurt toward me. “Wayne told me you love this brand.” I stared at the plastic container. For years, I had fooled myself into thinking Wayne kept track of my preferences. But the stark reality was that while he knew Sadie’s precise dairy-free milk order by heart, he constantly forgot that I was severely lactose intolerant. Sadie bit her lower lip nervously. “Last night… Wayne only stayed at my place because we had to pull an all-nighter restructuring the South Side proposal.” I looked up, my eyes narrowing. “At your place?” She caught herself, her hands fluttering in frantic explanation. “Oh, no! It’s not what you think. I was just too terrified to be alone after the blackout, so Wayne stayed out in the living room to keep me company.” She paused, adding in a tiny, fragile voice, “He was actually incredibly worried about you.” Heavy footsteps echoed behind us, and Wayne dropped a small box of pills onto my table. “Antibiotics. Make sure you take them with food.” Sadie looked up at him, her expression instantly softening. “See? I told you Mona wouldn’t stay mad at us.” Wayne glanced down at me, his jaw set. “She’s just being stubborn.” Sadie let out a delicate, airy laugh. “I actually bet Wayne last night that you would be crying by this morning.” Wayne shrugged. “You lost.” He looked directly at me, his voice dry. “Mona’s grown quite a backbone lately. She’s even brave enough to throw a scene at her own engagement party.” Listening to them exchange their casual banter, a wave of profound nausea washed over me. My injury, my humiliation, the ring I had publicly stripped from my finger—to them, it was all just a harmless joke to be laughed off over lunch. I set my fork down. “Wayne.” He looked at me, expecting my usual quiet compliance. “We’re done,” I said, my voice cutting through the ambient noise of the cafeteria. “It’s over.” The surrounding tables went dead quiet. Sadie’s eyes welled with tears instantly. “Mona… is this because of me?” “Don’t bother explaining to her,” Wayne snapped, cutting her off. He glared at me, his face darkening with anger. “Mona, have you had your little tantrum yet?” I picked up my tray. “I have. Which is why we’re finished.” By mid-afternoon, the entire office was buzzing with the news that the engagement was off. Gwen slipped into my cubicle, leaning over the partition. “Sadie was just doing a livestream from the model home, and a client’s wife completely lost her temper and called her a homewrecker right on camera.” My hand froze over my drawing tablet. “And?” “Sadie ended up tripping over a tripod as she scrambled to turn off the feed. Wayne practically carried her out of the building to take her to the emergency room.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “You would have thought she broke both her legs the way he was hovering.” I stared at the screen, silent. “Did she hurt her hands?” Gwen stared at me. “Mona, are you seriously still worried about her after everything?” I didn’t say anything. Sadie’s livelihood depended on her social media channels; if she had injured her hands, it would seriously impact her design work. Despite everything, I found myself walking into the clinic near the office. The door to her private room was slightly ajar. Sadie was sitting up on the gurney, a small patch of gauze taped over her knee. Wayne was leaning over her bedside table, twisting open a fresh bottle of water for her. He froze when he saw me standing in the doorway. Sadie spoke first, her voice weak. “Mona… you came.” I walked in. “How bad is it?” She shook her head. “Just a scraped knee, really.” Before I could even breathe a sigh of relief, Wayne’s voice sliced through the room. “Are you satisfied now?” I blinked. “What?” He set the water bottle down with a sharp click. “If you hadn’t insisted on making a massive scene about canceling the engagement, Sadie wouldn’t have been so distracted during her livestream today.” “And if she hadn’t been distracted, she wouldn’t have tripped and fallen. Do you see the chain reaction you caused?” It took me several seconds to fully process the words coming out of his mouth. “Wayne… you actually think this is my fault?” “Whose else would it be?” he said coldly. “You knew how fragile she is, and yet you had to broadcast our personal issues so the entire company was gossiping about it.” Sadie reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt. “Wayne, stop. Please don’t do this.” He ignored her, keeping his furious gaze locked on me. “I used to respect you, Mona, because you actually understood boundaries. You were mature.” “And now?” “Now, you’re so consumed by petty jealousy that you’re willing to humiliate everyone around you just to make a point.” A cold, tingling sensation spread through my limbs. “So, she gets called out by a client’s wife, and I’m to blame. She trips over her own equipment, and that’s my fault too?” Wayne’s brow furrowed. “Do you have to be so incredibly sarcastic?” “I’m just helping you finish your thought.” Sadie’s tears began to stream down her face. “Mona, I’m so sorry. I swear I never wanted to come between you two.” It was always the same routine. The second she started to cry, Wayne acted as though the entire world needed to stop spinning to accommodate her. Myself included. I took a slow step backward, toward the door. “Wayne, I’m going to say this one last time.” “Our engagement is off. Our professional partnership is officially terminated.” “From this moment on, whoever you choose to protect is none of my business.” His expression turned icy. “Mona, don’t force me to make things ugly for you in public.” I smiled, though it felt hollow. “Don’t worry. I’m never giving you the chance again.” As I turned to walk down the corridor, Sadie’s soft, trembling voice drifted out of the room. “Wayne… do you think Mona is never going to speak to me again?” And Wayne’s reply, quiet but confident: “She’s just throwing a fit. Give her a couple of days to cool off, and she’ll come around.” I kept walking, my footsteps even. Of course I would cool off. Once a heart goes completely cold, it never burns for you again. Over the next two weeks, Wayne didn’t call or text me once. But the office grapevine was relentless. Every day brought a new detail about him and Sadie. People said he was personally chauffeuring her to all her video shoots. They whispered that he had personally selected Sadie to be the face of the promotional campaign for the South Side Hotel project. Some even claimed that Sadie’s media consultancy fees had tripled overnight. Gwen practically slammed her coffee mug onto my desk. “She literally tripped her way right into the most prestigious contract of the year!” I kept my head down, refining my layout drawings. “Let her have it.” “Doesn’t it kill you?” My pen paused on the paper. “It hurts,” I admitted quietly. “But I’m not going back.” Later that afternoon, Sadie walked into the design department. She was wearing a flowing white linen dress, her eyes artistically rimmed with pink. “Mona,” she murmured. I didn’t look up from my screen. “Ms. Wells. Is there something you need?” She flinched. “You… you’ve never called me that before.” “My judgment used to be poor.” Around us, the clicking of keyboards slowed down. My colleagues were pretending to work, but every ear in the room was strained to listen. Sadie bit her lip. “Wayne’s stomach ulcer has been acting up terribly because of the stress. Can you please stop being so stubborn and just talk to him?” I finally looked up, meeting her gaze dead-on. “If his ulcer is acting up, you should drive him to a clinic. You shouldn’t be coming to me.” Her tears flowed right on cue. “I’m only trying to build a bridge for you two. Mona, you’ve been together for so many years. Is it really worth throwing all of that away over me?” I leaned back in my chair, staring at her. “Sadie, stop acting like you’re some innocent bystander.” “You knew exactly who he would choose, which is why your tears always seem to fall at the perfect moment.” Her face went entirely pale. “That’s not true…” “Sadie. Let’s go.” Wayne’s voice cut through the room. He walked over, his eyes fixed on me like twin chips of ice. “Don’t disrupt her work.” Sadie bowed her head meekly and fell in lockstep behind him as he turned away. Looking at them, a sudden wave of dark amusement washed over me. I was the one who had been wounded, both physically and emotionally. But in Wayne’s eyes, Sadie was the only one who ever suffered. That evening was the final presentation for the South Side Hotel development. As the lead architect and designer, I was responsible for presenting the entire blueprint package. But ten minutes before the board meeting started, Wayne pulled me aside in the hallway. “Sadie is going to deliver the opening presentation,” he said. My brow furrowed. “She doesn’t know the structural data.” “She’s the face of the marketing partnership. She needs the exposure.” “Wayne, this is a final board approval meeting, not one of her social media streams.” His expression darkened. “Mona, do not bring your personal vendettas into our professional obligations.” I almost laughed out loud. The meeting commenced, and Sadie took the podium. Her voice was noticeably tight, trembling slightly as she went through the slides. She managed to get through the first half of the deck without incident. But then, the lead client representative leaned forward, interrupting her. “Regarding the family-friendly wing, which class of fire-rated paneling did you specify for the walls?” Sadie panicked, shuffling through her notes frantically. “We… we specified standard wood veneer finish.” My heart stopped. That area required Class A fire-resistant gypsum and fire-retardant treated wood. It was a non-negotiable safety code for child-centric spaces. I immediately stood up. “My apologies, I’d like to clarify that point—” “Sit down, Mona,” Wayne commanded, his voice cold and sharp. I froze in place. The client representative’s face turned incredibly grim. “Standard wood veneer?” “Is Reynolds Development seriously treating child safety as a joke?” After the disastrous presentation concluded, the boardroom cleared out, leaving only the three of us. Wayne shut the heavy double doors, turned to me, and spoke his first words: “Mona, how did you let a mistake like that slip into the design package?” I looked at him, utterly dumbfounded. “Sadie read the wrong specifications.” “You were responsible for compiling the briefing documents.” “I gave her the correct, verified package. She chose to read from her old notes.” Sadie’s tears began to fall again. “Wayne, I’m so sorry. I got so incredibly nervous up there…” Wayne didn’t even glance at her. His eyes remained fixed on me. “You knew this was her first time presenting to a board of this scale. Why didn’t you run through the deck with her beforehand?” A cold sensation settled deep in my bones. “So… you want me to take the blame for this?” He slid a typed document across the conference table. “Sign it.” I looked at the header: Internal Incident Report: Lead Designer Mona Aldridge oversight in document preparation, resulting in incorrect project specifications delivered during presentation. I looked up. “Why?” Wayne’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact. “Sadie’s marketing contract went live today. If she takes the fall for a major safety compliance error now, her brand is ruined.” “And what about my career?” He hesitated for a fraction of a second. “You’re different.” “How am I different, Wayne?” “You’re my fiancée.” I stared at him, and the very last spark of warmth I held for him went completely dark. I finally understood. A fiancée wasn’t someone to be protected. She was just the most convenient shield.

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Three years of being Chloe Sinclair’s ghostwriter and secret boyfriend. Three years, only to watch her hand my three-month labor of love to her newly returned Ivy League ex, Julian Thorne. I stood in the hallway, watching through the crack of the door. Chloe was leaning against the wall, laughing with her secretary. “Ethan is just a tool I pay to get things done,” she said, her voice dripping with casual dismissal. “Once Julian gets the hang of the business, I’ll fire him. He’s an eyesore anyway.” She probably thought I’d crawl back to her, wagging my tail like a loyal dog, begging her to let me stay. Hilarious. I never became her secret lover because I cared about her fake affection. I did it for the industry-leading resources she controlled—the kind of elite, high-profile projects a regular guy like me could never touch otherwise. Now, my portfolio is so stacked that any top-tier agency in the city would tear each other apart to hire me. Chloe, you useless stepping stone. I’m officially done using you.

“Ms. Sinclair, this Starfire campaign is an absolute masterpiece!” “Especially the reverse-marketing strategy at its core. Incredible!” “Which creative genius in your agency came up with this?” Inside the sleek, glass-walled boardroom of our penthouse office, our biggest client, Mr. Davis, was practically vibrating with excitement. He slammed his hand on the mahogany table in pure admiration. I stood in the dimmest corner of the room, my fingers gripping the presentation clicker so hard my knuckles turned white. My palms were slick with cold sweat. But I kept my face blank. My eyes instinctively drifted to the woman sitting at the head of the table—Chloe Sinclair. She was my boss, and for the last three years, my secret girlfriend. That 120-page pitch deck was the result of seven straight all-nighters. I had analyzed thousands of competitor strategies and drank energy drinks until my stomach literally bled just to perfect it. Every word, every graph, was bought with my blood and sweat. I had foolishly believed that this time, Chloe would keep her promise. That she would finally let me put my name on the deck and introduce me to the client. Instead, Chloe just smiled. A look of smug triumph washed over her gorgeous, cold face. With a casual wave of her manicured hand, she pointed to the man sitting right next to her. A man wearing a custom-tailored designer suit, sporting a perfectly styled, handsome face—Julian Thorne. “You have a great eye, Mr. Davis,” Chloe purred. “This is our newly appointed Creative Director, Julian Thorne.” “He’s an Ivy League graduate. This entire campaign was his brainchild.” *Boom.* My brain went completely numb. A sharp ringing in my ears drowned out the murmurs of the room. Julian? He had joined the company less than three days ago! He didn’t even understand our basic business model yet. Aside from sipping espresso and flipping through magazines in his office, the guy didn’t even know how to format a PowerPoint slide! How dare he steal my life’s work? I stared at Chloe, waiting for a flicker of guilt, a fleeting glance of apology, or even a subtle signal. Nothing. She didn’t even spare me a passing glance. Julian gave a modest, polished nod, adjusting his expensive cufflinks with practiced grace. His voice was smooth and deep. “You flatter me, Mr. Davis. It was just a sudden spark of inspiration. Honestly, it’s all thanks to Chloe’s brilliant leadership.” “Haha! A match made in heaven! Powerhouse duo!” Mr. Davis laughed, before shifting the topic. “But Julian, I do have a quick question about the execution phase. How exactly did you calculate the conversion rate model for the emotional resonance phase?” The boardroom suddenly fell dead silent. The slick smile on Julian’s face froze. He turned to Chloe, his eyes wide with a look of pure, unadulterated panic. How could he possibly explain the model? He didn’t even know what the words meant! Chloe’s brow furrowed slightly. Under the table, her high heel sharply kicked my shoe. She turned her head slightly, shooting me a furious, impatient glare. “Ethan,” she hissed under her breath, her voice barely a whisper meant only for Julian and me. “What are you standing there for? Feed him the explanation, now!” At that exact moment, my heart went completely cold. Three years. I had lived like a ghost in her shadow, writing every single viral campaign that built her career. I helped her climb from a low-level manager all the way to Vice President of this branch. She used to hold me in bed late at night, tracing my brow with her fingers. *“Ethan, your mind is a work of art,”* she would whisper. *“Everyone else only sees my spotlight, but I know you are my soul. Once my position is secure, I’ll bring you out of the shadows. We’ll stand together.”* And I had believed her. Like an idiot, I endured the mockery of our coworkers, content to play the role of her low-paid, coffee-running “assistant” just for that empty promise. But now that her golden boy ex was back, I didn’t even deserve to be a shadow anymore. I was just a human teleprompter to be used and discarded. I took a deep breath, swallowing the bitter taste in my mouth. I stepped up behind Julian, leaned down slightly, and spoke in a clear, professional tone. I recited the complex mathematical model word for word. Julian parroted my words like a well-trained monkey, stumbling slightly but getting the message across. Mr. Davis looked a bit puzzled by the awkward delivery, but he ultimately nodded in satisfaction. He signed the ten-million-dollar contract right then and there. Once the meeting wrapped up and the room cleared out, Chloe leaned back in her leather chair. She tossed a thin white envelope at my feet. “Good job today. You didn’t screw up. Here’s your bonus.” I looked down at the envelope. There was maybe five hundred dollars in there. Meanwhile, the commission on this ten-million-dollar deal was easily worth fifty grand. I bent down, picked up the envelope, and let out a cold, mocking laugh. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair.” Chloe stood up, looking down her nose at me with patronizing pity. “Ethan, I know you feel cheated.” “But Julian just returned to the country. He needs a big win to establish himself here.” “Besides, you only have an associate degree from a community college. Even if we put your name on the pitch, the clients wouldn’t respect it.” “Be smart about this. Play your cards right, and I’ll take care of you later.” “I understand,” I replied, my voice so calm it surprised even me. “Good.” Chloe tapped my cheek affectionately. “Now go book a Michelin-star restaurant. I’m taking Julian out to celebrate tonight.” I turned and walked out of the boardroom. The second the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, I pulled out my phone and opened my bank app. Looking at the newly updated balance, my lips curled into a smile. That was the last of the money I had saved over the years from freelancing and stock trading. With this extra five hundred dollars, I finally had enough to pay off my younger brother’s final surgery bill and fully clear my family’s old debts. The chains that had bound me for three years finally shattered into dust. Chloe, did you really think I loved you enough to destroy myself for you? You thought wrong. I only put up with your toxic garbage because of your elite connections—the high-profile portfolio builders that allowed me to fast-track my career. Now, my personal portfolio is strong enough to open doors at any global agency in the world. I don’t owe you a single thing anymore. Just wait and see.

The next morning, I walked into Chloe’s office carrying her usual hot black coffee. She was leaning back in her chair, laughing with Julian. The moment Julian saw me, his smile vanished, replaced by the arrogant sneer of a high-and-mighty director. “Just put the coffee down, Ethan,” Julian said, waving his hand dismissively. “Oh, by the way, I heard you have a personal master folder on your computer? The one with all your old ideas and unused creative drafts?” “Copy it onto a flash drive and bring it to my desk. I’m looking for some inspiration.” I felt a cold laugh rising in my chest. That master folder held three years of my blood, sweat, and tears. It was my core competitive edge. And he thought he could just take it with a snap of his fingers? “Mr. Thorne, those are just rough, useless scraps. I wouldn’t want to waste your time with such garbage,” I said smoothly, keeping my eyes lowered. “Stop making excuses,” Chloe interrupted, tapping her fingers impatiently on her desk. “If Julian wants the drive, you give him the drive.” “Those unpolished drafts of yours are useless anyway. If they can give Julian a spark of inspiration, you should be honored.” “Go do it. Now.” “Understood, Ms. Sinclair.” I turned and walked back to my desk. I opened the folder titled “Master Brainstorm.” I selected every single valuable, high-impact strategy, and moved them over to my encrypted personal cloud storage. Then, I went online, downloaded about three hundred generic, outdated, free templates and buzzword-heavy copy, threw them into a folder, named it “Core Creative Assets,” and sent it over to Julian. You want to plagiarize me? Good luck with that trash. That afternoon, while making a run to the breakroom, I called a premier executive recruiter. “Hey, Marcus. It’s Ethan Vance.” “Yeah. Did you get a chance to look over my portfolio?” “…Awesome. Apex Media? Perfect. I can do an interview whenever they’re ready.” Apex Media. The undisputed giant of the advertising world. And Chloe’s biggest, most ruthless competitor. Hanging up the phone, I felt like I could finally breathe again. That night was the company’s celebration gala. The VIP lounge was filled with flashing lights, clinking champagne glasses, and loud laughter. Chloe led Julian around the room, introducing him to major investors and clients, positioning him as the next big thing. Meanwhile, as the “executive assistant,” I was relegated to the furthest table in the corner, squeezed in with the fresh interns. “Look at Ethan. What a loser.” “He followed Chloe around for three years and couldn’t even get a real promotion. Now that her actual boyfriend is back, he’s totally discarded.” “What did he expect? He’s just a community college kid. Did he really think he could climb into high society?” “Honestly, he’s just eye candy. A pretty boy toy Chloe kept around.” My coworkers’ whispers cut through the air, but I just kept eating my steak, my face completely expressionless. Their petty insults meant nothing to me. Compared to what I was about to do, this was just a light appetizer. A few drinks later, a heavily jeweled, tipsy woman staggered over to our table. It was Victoria Gable, a major distribution partner notorious for harassing young male employees. “Well, well, if it isn’t little Ethan,” Victoria slurred, sliding into the seat next to me. She slid her hand onto my forearm, her fingers tracing slow, suggestive circles. “Why are you sitting all alone in the corner? Come drink with me.” My body went completely rigid. A wave of intense nausea hit my stomach. I stood up abruptly, stepping back to create distance, and said coldly, “Ms. Gable, you’ve had too much to drink. Please respect my boundaries.” “Oh, please! Stop acting so innocent!” Embarrassed in front of the interns, Victoria’s face twisted in anger. “Everyone knows you’re Chloe Sinclair’s little pet.” “If Chloe can play with you, why can’t I? Spend the night with me, and I’ll guarantee your team a massive contract next quarter.” The commotion caught the attention of the entire room. The music seemed to quiet down as everyone turned to watch the drama unfold. I looked over at Chloe. She was standing not far away, holding a champagne flute, watching me with absolute indifference—like I was a complete stranger. Not only did she make no move to help me, but a mocking smirk also played on her lips. In that single second, the last trace of respect I had for her evaporated. This was the woman I had protected for three years. To her, I was just a piece of meat to be traded away to please a client. Just then, Julian strolled over, drink in hand. He stepped smoothly between Victoria and me, flashing a charming smile. “Now, now, Ms. Gable. Why waste your energy on a useless little assistant?” “Let me buy you a drink instead. Consider it an apology on his behalf.” Victoria’s attention immediately shifted to Julian, her eyes scanning him up and down. “Now that’s what I call professional. Fine, I’ll let it slide for Chloe’s sake.” Julian turned back to me, wearing the smug grin of a victor. “Ethan, aren’t you going to thank Ms. Gable for being so generous?” He condescended. “In this industry, you need to keep your eyes open. Don’t go around causing trouble.” I looked at the two of them. It was almost comical. Without saying a word, I reached down, grabbed a glass of rich red wine from the table, and—before anyone could react—slammed the liquid right into Victoria Gable’s heavily made-up face. “Ah! You absolute bastard!” Victoria shrieked, clutching her eyes. The entire venue fell dead silent. Chloe’s face turned white with rage as she stormed over, raising her hand to slap me. “Ethan! Have you lost your mind?!” I caught her wrist mid-air, meeting her furious gaze with a cold, piercing stare. “I don’t like dirty things,” I whispered. I let go of her wrist and walked out of the venue without looking back, leaving their prestigious gala in absolute ruins.

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Ethan was always sharp-tongued. From the very first day he moved into my house, he never spared me. He complained that I dispensed herbs too slowly, and mocked me for being too stupid to identify species. He scoffed at how I, a single girl, spent my days chatting and laughing with the patients who came to our family clinic, calling it utterly improper. He even said my amateur medical skills were going to end up killing someone. I never really cared about his harsh words. Every time he mocked me, I just laughed it off. But as the neighbors heard it more and more, they began to shake their heads. “The Jiang family raised their daughter to be a useless free-rider. How is she ever going to get married?” I heard all those whispers, but I didn’t care. Because Ethan had promised me that once he matched into the residency program at the city’s top medical center and became a licensed attending physician, he would come back to marry me. He had promised me himself. On the day my father was on his deathbed, he gripped Ethan’s hand tightly and said, “Ethan, I’m leaving Ivy to you.” With bloodshot eyes, Ethan nodded heavily. I was crying so hard I could barely stand, on the verge of fainting. He stood behind me for a very long time before speaking in that stiff, awkward tone of his. “Don’t be afraid.” Just those four words. I held onto them for five years. His parents had passed away early in a car crash. My father took pity on him, and seeing his natural talent for medicine, knew he was a rare gem. So my father brought him into our home, paid for his food, housing, and tuition, and even showed him the Jiang family’s private medical logs—secrets we never shared with outsiders. Some people said my father was a fool, raising an outsider who might just turn out to be an ungrateful wolf. But my dad wouldn’t listen. He only said a healer must have a benevolent heart, and a good talent shouldn’t be wasted. Later, my father passed away too. He left Jiang’s Apothecary to me, and he left Ethan to me. The day Ethan went to the city to report for his residency, I took a faded, yellowed notebook from my purse and stuffed it into his hands. It was the Jiang family’s ancestral medical log, containing exclusive treatments for dozens of rare and complex illnesses. “Take it,” I said. “The city’s major hospitals are full of hidden talents. This notebook will help you secure your footing.” Ethan frowned, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes—partly disdain, partly greed. “This is too valuable. I won’t let you down. I’ll bring it back when I come to marry you.” After saying that, he opened the car door and drove off without looking back. That night, I thoroughly washed the small clay pot I used to brew his daily herbal teas and put it away in the cabinet. Life went on. I waited for his messages, but I didn’t receive a single one. Until one day, Mrs. Gable, a neighbor, came to the apothecary to pick up her prescription. While waiting, she chatted with me. “Ivy, that Dr. Vance of yours is really making us proud. My son came back from the city and said everyone in the healthcare system is talking about him. The youngest attending physician appointed at the City Central Hospital this year is from our town. I knew it had to be your Ethan!” The scale in my hand paused. My heart pounded furiously, like a drum. He was coming back. But a few days later, Mrs. Gable returned, this time with an awkward look on her face. “Ivy… my son brought back some other news. Your Dr. Vance is married. He married Chloe Hearst, the daughter of the chairman of the Hearst Group in the city.” The wrapping paper in my hand slipped, and the dried herbs scattered all over the floor. A bitter scent filled the air. “Who did you hear that from?” “It’s all over the city. They say Miss Hearst had a bizarre illness that the top hospitals couldn’t cure. Dr. Vance cured her with a single custom formula. Chairman Hearst was so thrilled that he gave his daughter’s hand in marriage to him.” I didn’t believe it. I sent him a text message with just one line: “Ethan, is the news about the Hearst family true?” No reply. I waited for a month, checking my phone every single day. A month later, I finally got an answer. It wasn’t a text. It was him, in the flesh.

When Ethan stepped through the doors of Jiang’s Apothecary, I was behind the counter checking the books. He wore a custom-tailored dark grey suit and a luxury Swiss watch on his wrist that I couldn’t even name. He was no longer the intern who wore a dusty lab coat and smelled of herbal smoke. Beside him stood a slender woman wearing designer sunglasses. She drifted in with the faint, expensive scent of Chanel No. 5, which clashed horribly with the bitter smell of herbs in the shop. “Ethan…” I stood up, my voice trembling slightly. He didn’t look at me. His cold gaze swept across the apothecary where he had lived for ten years. As if he were looking at a dusty old warehouse that had nothing to do with him. “Miss Jiang,” he spoke, his tone as distant as if he were addressing a stranger. Miss Jiang. Not Ivy. My chest tightened, as if pierced by an invisible needle. “Bring out the centuries-old wild ginseng of the Jiang family,” he said in a stiff, commanding tone. “Chloe’s body is weak. She needs it to restore her vitality.” I froze. That centuries-old wild ginseng was the treasure of the Jiang family. More importantly, it was what my father had desperately commanded me to keep to save Ethan’s life. Ethan was born prematurely, carrying a congenital weakness in his system. Every time the seasons changed, his joints would ache terribly. My father said that by the time Ethan turned twenty-five, the illness would attack his heart and lungs. Only this specific ginseng, combined with our family’s unique acupuncture technique, could root it out. I had guarded this ginseng as if I were guarding his life. “Do you know who this ginseng was kept for?” I stared into his eyes, trying to find a trace of the past. Ethan let out a cold laugh, pulled a sleek black card from his wallet, and slammed it onto the counter. “Besides Chloe, who else deserves such a rare treasure? Ivy, I know you’re greedy. The money on this card is enough to buy ten of your little apothecaries. Don’t be ungrateful.” The black credit card gleamed sharply in the dim light of the shop. The woman behind the sunglasses coughed twice, her voice delicate and soft. “Ethan, if Miss Jiang is unwilling to part with it, then forget it. My health doesn’t matter.” “Chloe, don’t worry about it. There is no medicine in this world that I, Ethan Vance, cannot get.” When he turned to look at Chloe, his tone was so gentle it could melt. That kind of gentleness was something he had never given to me. For ten years, all he gave me was sarcasm and impatience. Looking at him, I suddenly found it incredibly hilarious. I burst out laughing, laughing so hard that tears almost came to my eyes. “Fine. I’ll sell it.” I turned around, went into the back room, and retrieved the redwood box containing the ginseng from the safe. The box was carved with intricate patterns. I had wiped it clean every day to keep it shining. I walked back out, pushed the box in front of him, and then slid his black card back. “Dr. Vance, I only take cash or wire transfer. Once the payment clears, we are done. From now on, the Jiang family has nothing to do with you.” Ethan’s brow furrowed slightly, as if he hadn’t expected me to agree so easily. He opened his mouth, seeming to want to say something, but in the end, he just let out a cold snort, picked up the box, and supported Chloe as they turned to leave. As he reached the door, he stopped. Without turning around, he said, “Ivy, you’re still as gold-digging as ever. You only care about money.” I watched their figures disappear at the end of the street. Ten years. He ate my family’s food, used my family’s money, and learned my family’s medicine. My father supported him to help him succeed, and I waited for him to come back and marry me. And before leaving, all he had for me was the word “gold-digger.” That night, I set up a fire pit in the backyard and threw the half-made wedding dress I had been sewing into the flames. The fire flared up high. The white silk curled, turned black, and dissolved into ashes. Leo, the young apprentice, peeked from the doorway and whispered, “Ivy, what are you…” “I don’t need it anymore.” The words squeezed out of my throat, dry and hollow, like I had swallowed a handful of sand. I didn’t cry. Not a single tear fell. But my throat felt like it was being squeezed tightly, making it hard to breathe. I stood up, my legs a bit weak. I held onto the edge of the table for a moment, then walked behind the counter and started tapping on the iPad register. *Tap, tap, tap.* As the numbers flashed, my hands stopped shaking. That was the method my dad taught me. He said when your mind is messy, just do the math. Once the numbers are clear, your mind will be at peace. I calculated the apothecary’s accounts from beginning to end. Once wasn’t enough, so I did it again. By the third time, my fingers stopped cooperating. I pressed the wrong button, then another. I stopped and pushed the iPad aside. I went back to my room, lay down, and reached under my pillow out of habit. It was empty. The medical log notebook had already been taken by him. I had been reaching for it for over six months, and every time I found nothing, my heart felt a little emptier. I rolled over and pulled the blanket over my head. Forget it. The man was gone, the book was gone, and the ginseng was sold. What was the point of thinking about it? He didn’t even care about his own life anymore, so why should I worry for him?

After Ethan left, business at Jiang’s Apothecary got worse by the day. Rumors spread that “the Jiang girl failed to cling to the genius doctor and was dumped.” Our old clients all drifted to the chain pharmacy down the street. Chloe’s personal assistant came by once. Dressed in a sharp business suit, she walked into the apothecary, covering her nose with a silk handkerchief in disgust as she circled the counter. “Oh, so this is the famous Jiang clinic? Smells like mold.” She let out a cold laugh. “Miss Jiang, our Dr. Vance is a merciful man. Out of pity for your family taking him in back then, he sent me to offer you a way out. You can’t keep this place running on your own anyway. Why not sell it to the Hearst Group’s health management branch? Dr. Vance can even arrange a receptionist job for you here. You still need to eat, right?” I looked up at her, my hands never stopping as I crushed herbs with the copper pestle. “Are you here to buy medicine, ma’am? If not, please leave. Jiang’s Apothecary is not for sale.” Her face twisted, and she spat, “Ungrateful brat! Dr. Vance said it himself—a placebo healer like you who can’t even tell herbs apart will kill someone sooner or later! Just you wait!” She clacked away in her high heels. I didn’t have time to deal with her. The counter was piled with last month’s bills and several herbs that desperately needed processing. That afternoon, a light drizzle started to fall outside. A man wearing a dark blue trench coat walked into the shop. “Excuse me, can you treat patients here?” I looked up and saw a face as warm and smooth as jade. His eyes were beautiful, like a clear lake in autumn. They carried a reassuring calm. In his arms, he held a young man whose face was turning purple, his breathing extremely weak. “Lay him flat, loosen his collar.” I quickly set down my work, walked over, and checked his carotid artery. His pulse was thin and weak, barely there. “Your friend is lucky he ran into me.” I turned to the cabinets, swiftly grabbing herbs, mixing them, preparing an injection, and applying acupuncture. Forty minutes later, the young man let out a long breath. His color slowly returned to a normal pale state, and his breathing stabilized. The man in the trench coat let out a sigh of relief and pulled out his phone to pay. “I’ll transfer you ten thousand.” “Ten thousand?” I was stunned. “The cost of the medicine is less than fifty. With the treatment fee, just give me fifty dollars.” He lowered his phone and smiled. His smile was like a warm spring breeze. “You have incredible skills, Dr. Jiang. I asked three major hospitals in the city about this toxin, and they all said it was untreatable. You cured it in under an hour.” I blinked, counting his change. “Do you know me? Are you from the city?” “Julian Cole, from Cole Pharmaceuticals.” He bowed slightly, pulling a card from his cardholder and handing it to me. “My father was an old friend of your father’s. I came here when I was a kid.” He looked at me, his gaze gentle, without a hint of arrogance. “Back then, you were sitting behind the counter cutting licorice root. You cut your finger and cried so hard, your eyes getting all red like a startled rabbit.” My face flushed instantly. “Mr. Cole, the fee is fifty. Here is your change.” I pushed the cash forward. “Keep it.” “We are strangers. I can’t take extra money from you.” He paused, then accepted the change. “Then I won’t overpay,” he said. “But can I come by and sit here sometimes?” “Sit in an apothecary?” “Yes. Have some tea, chat. And maybe learn a thing or two about natural medicine.” I looked at him, unsure of what he was planning. But his eyes were clean. There was no scrutiny like Ethan’s, nor any mockery like that assistant’s. He just stood there quietly, waiting for my answer. “Suit yourself. Just don’t disrupt my business.” He smiled. Not a polite, formal smile, but a genuinely happy one. His eyes curved, and the calm lake in his gaze rippled with warmth. “See you tomorrow then.” He turned and walked out. His dark blue figure stepped into the rainy alley, opening a long-handled black umbrella before disappearing. I lowered my head and continued crushing the herbs. *Thud, thud, thud.* As the pestle struck the mortar, my heart rate finally began to slow down.

Julian began to visit Jiang’s Apothecary regularly. Not for treatment, just to hang out. He brought premium green tea, sweet pastries from the city’s best bakery, and interesting news from the outside world. He sat in his corner, and I worked in mine. We each minded our own business, occasionally exchanging a word or two. Once, he picked up a prescription sheet I had written and flipped through it. “Your handwriting has gotten really beautiful, and this herbal formula is incredibly elegant.” “Practice makes perfect. I used to be told my work was absolute garbage,” I said flatly. “You’ve always been amazing.” He looked at me, his tone earnest. “Your father told my father years ago that his daughter’s talent for identifying medicine was a once-in-a-century gift. He said you were a natural-born healer.” My eyes stung, turning red. This was the first time anyone had told me that my father had praised me. Under Ethan’s long shadow, I had always believed I was just a useless fool. “The day I came here with my father when we were kids, he pointed at you while you were drying herbs in the yard. He said, ‘That little girl’s medical skills will definitely surpass yours in the future.’” I lowered my head, pounding the herbs in my mortar with extra force. The loud noise masked the tears that were about to fall. Julian didn’t say anything, quietly sipping his tea. After a few sips, he suddenly asked, “Do you still receive a rare herb every autumn?” My hands stopped. “How do you know about that?” “One year, I passed by your clinic and saw a package at the door containing a rare snow lotus. You were crouching there, opening it and looking around in confusion.” “That did happen. It’s been going on for years. Every year is different—sometimes wild ginseng, sometimes rare mushrooms. I never figured out who sent them.” “You never checked the tracking number?” “I did. The sender was always anonymous.” “Did they keep coming?” “Yes, every year.” “Who do you think it is?” I shook my head. He was asking too many detailed questions. A thought suddenly crossed my mind. I looked up at him. He still looked perfectly calm, head lowered as he drank his tea, his long eyelashes casting shadows that hid his expression. Could it be him? But as soon as the thought appeared, I crushed it. No way. How old was he back then? Besides, as the heir to a massive pharmaceutical empire, why would he send such expensive herbs to me year after year for no reason? I was overthinking. “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “Probably some patient my father saved in the past.” Julian didn’t push further. He set his teacup down and looked out at the drizzling rain. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” he said. “Just wondering.” He stood up and walked to the door. “See you tomorrow.” The door clicked shut, and he was gone. I sat behind the counter, holding the pestle, feeling as though a feather had gently brushed against my heart. But it was just a fleeting sensation. Who knew. I lowered my head and got back to work.

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The sensation of falling into a bottomless abyss suddenly stopped. I opened my eyes, gasping for air. In my arms was a warm, fluffy ball of fur. Nugget, my Golden Retriever, was shivering, burying his wet nose into my palm. I was alive. I really came back. The bone-shattering pain of being pushed off the rooftop in my past life still felt incredibly real. “Chloe Miller! Are you deaf?!” My roommate, Ashley Vance, pinched her nose, taking a dramatic step back. Her perfectly manicured red nails pointed at Nugget as she stomped her feet in sheer disgust. “That smelly mutt is shedding everywhere! It’s literally ruining my Clean Girl Aesthetic!” “Throw him out right now! Don’t you dare contaminate my luxury minimalist space!” She screamed about high-end luxury and minimalism, yet the “designer” slippers on her feet were already peeling at the edges. In my past life, to keep the peace, I cried and sent Nugget to the countryside that very night. Nugget ended up eating poisoned rat bait and died a painful death. And my compliance only made her abuse worse. In the end, just to monopolize the cheap rental lease of this downtown apartment, she pushed me off the rooftop. New hatred and old grudges clashed in my chest, and my anger exploded. Minimalist? Dust-free? Afraid of dirt, huh? I held Nugget on my lap and pinched a large handful of loose golden fur from his back. Ashley froze, not realizing what I was doing. In one swift motion, I lunged forward and stuffed the massive clump of dog hair right onto her perfectly made-up face. “Ahhhh!” Ashley’s makeup was instantly ruined by the wet dog hair. She doubled over, gagging on the spot. “Chloe, are you insane?! How dare you throw that toxic trash at me!” She grabbed a bottle of expensive, imported disinfectant spray. Instead of backing down, I grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard. Ashley cried out in pain and dropped the bottle. It landed right in my hand. I held down the nozzle and sprayed it directly into her face and mouth. “You spend every weekend drinking cheap booze with random guys at clubs. Your mouth is crawling with bacteria.” “Every time you open it, you contaminate my air!” “Today, I’m giving you a deep disinfection!” Ashley covered her face, screaming, “You bitch! Tomorrow I’m throwing all your shit onto the curb!” Throw my things out? I sneered. I turned around and kicked open her bedroom door—the one she never allowed anyone to enter. Inside, the floor was littered with dirty underwear. The trash can was overflowing with moldy takeout boxes. *This* was the “minimalist luxury oasis” she bragged about on Snapchat? I didn’t waste any words. I walked straight to her bed. I grabbed her silk duvet—the one she took photos of every day to flex on Instagram—and yanked it off. “My duvet! Don’t touch my custom silk!” Ashley crawled in, trying to stop me. I dragged the duvet into the bathroom and stuffed it into the washing machine. Then, I opened the cabinet and grabbed a full, undiluted bottle of Clorox bleach. Right in front of her, I unscrewed the cap and poured the entire bottle onto her precious silk duvet. I slammed the lid and started the heavy-duty spin cycle. “No! My silk duvet is ruined!” I didn’t stop. “Don’t you love deep disinfection? Pure bleach is the best way to kill bacteria.” She collapsed onto the floor, crying her eyes out. I walked over, grabbed her by the collar of her silk pajamas, and hauled her up. I stared into her eyes, speaking slowly and clearly. “Try me again, and I’ll treat you like toxic waste and throw you in the dumpster. Got it?” Ashley looked into my eyes, shivered in pure terror, and nodded frantically.

The next day, my company had a massive project launch, and I had to work late into the night. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, I knew something was wrong. There was a brand-new digital keypad lock installed on the bathroom door. Taped to the door was a giant piece of paper with bold letters: 【CHLOE’S EXCLUSION BAN】 【Chloe is strictly banned from showering after 10 PM!】 【Your low-class, working-class odor will contaminate my high-end skincare products.】 【Violators will be fined $500!】 Looking at the sign, I laughed out of pure anger. It was exactly like my past life. Ashley always found new ways to torture me. Back then, I swallowed my pride, too afraid to fight back. I had to use a bucket to fetch cold water from the kitchen sink to wash myself in the dead of winter. I caught a fever of 104 degrees the next day. Yet, she complained that my coughing ruined her beauty sleep and forced me to sleep in my car. This life, I wouldn’t let her walk over me for even a second. She’s a double-standard clean freak? Fine. I’ll beat her at her own game. I opened Amazon for same-day delivery. I spent a fortune ordering a giant jug of industrial-strength Clorox bleach. I also bought a high-pressure power washer, a professional respirator, and an industrial UV sanitizing light. Once the orders were placed, I sat on the couch and waited. At 3 AM, the delivery driver dropped the packages at my door. I hooked the power washer hose to the kitchen sink. I poured the bleach straight into the soap tank. Everything was ready. At 7 AM the next morning, the sound of slippers echoed from Ashley’s room. Every day at this time, she would spend two hours in the bathroom for her so-called “it-girl morning routine.” The doorknob turned. Ashley walked out, yawning, wearing the silk pajamas that I had bleached to a faded grey. The second she took a step out of her room, I pulled the trigger on the power washer. The high-pressure blast of bleached water slammed directly into her chest. Before she could even react, the force knocked her flat on her back. “Ah! What the hell are you doing?!” Through my respirator, my voice sounded cold and robotic. “Your body is crawling with toxic parasites.” “If you want to step into my living room, you must go through a full-body de-contamination blast first.” Ashley shook with rage. “You psychopath! I’m calling the police!” Without lowering the power washer, I reached into a bag next to me and grabbed a handful of dirty, used wet wipes. I scattered them across the floor like confetti, completely blocking her path to the bathroom. Ashley tried to step forward, but shrank back when she saw the oily, dirty wipes. “Ew! Get them away! Get this trash away from me!” She was used to using moral high grounds and her fake rich persona to bully me. Faced with my absolute madness, she was completely lost. “If you don’t want to step on this trash, then cooperate,” I said, aiming the nozzle at her face. “What’s the bathroom passcode?” Ashley cowered, gritting her teeth to hold out. “I’m not telling you! You’re not ruining my bathroom!” I didn’t waste another second and pulled the trigger again. The high-pressure stream shot straight into her mouth. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! It’s 0721!” she choked and coughed, finally screaming the code in humiliation. I turned off the power washer and took off my mask. Holding Nugget’s leash, I strolled past her. “If you change the code, I’ll flood your room with the power washer.” Right in front of her, I punched in the code and walked into the bathroom.

On Sunday morning, a loud burst of laughter came from the living room. Ashley had brought over her rich boyfriend, Tyler Reynolds. Tyler was wearing hyped streetwear, but his sneakers were covered in thick, black mud. He walked right in, leaving muddy footprints all over Ashley’s prized white wool rug. Ashley, who usually demanded I disinfect the toilet three times after using it, acted like a spineless puppy. She completely ignored the mud. Instead, she giggled, poured him drinks, and practically glued herself to his side. “Babe, you have to help me. My psycho roommate is bullying me every single day.” Tyler blew a puff of vape smoke, looking contemptuously at my closed bedroom door. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.” Half an hour later, the landlord banged on my door, furious. Tyler immediately whipped out a thick stack of cash, throwing down double the security deposit to buy off the greedy landlord. The landlord’s face changed instantly. He told me I had three days to pack my bags and get out. But they weren’t done. On Monday morning, the moment I arrived at the office, my manager called me into his office and screamed at me. He claimed my performance was terrible and that clients were complaining. Then, he stripped me of the core project I had been working on for six months and handed it to someone else. Specifically, to the new hire who had just been fast-tracked into the company today—Ashley Vance. Ashley, dressed in a designer pantsuit and high heels, strutted out. She was already trying to establish her “minimalist, clean-girl influencer” persona in the office. On her first day, she demanded that everyone keep a three-foot distance from her. During lunch, she walked over to my desk. She pinched her nose, using a folder to fan the air away from me. “Chloe, your low-class germs are literally drifting onto my custom blazer.” She picked up my stainless-steel mug with two fingers, looking disgusted. “Your mug is contaminating my files. I’ll buy you a new one out of my own pocket, okay?” The entire office fell silent. Everyone looked at me with pity. I stood up calmly. I opened my drawer and pulled out a portable digital microscope. I walked right up to her and pressed the lens against her precious custom blazer. The microscope was connected to my phone screen. I turned the brightness to the maximum. “Oh my god!” I suddenly gasped, raising my voice so the entire office could hear. “Ashley, why is your blazer covered in dead skin cells and… pubic lice?!” The entire office gasped. Ashley’s face drained of color. “What lies! This was just dry-cleaned!” I put on a pair of medical rubber gloves. Taking a pair of tweezers, I reached into her lapel with precision. I pulled out a coarse, curly, yellowish hair that definitely wasn’t hers. I held the hair high for everyone to see. “Clean girl? Dry-cleaned custom blazer?” “Which guy’s hair is this? You didn’t even shake it off before wearing it to work?” Before she could speak, I pulled a giant bottle of disinfectant spray from my bag. “Everyone back up! She’s a walking biohazard!” My coworkers scrambled away from her like she had the plague. When I got home after work, it was pouring rain. The moment I got to the building, I saw all my bags thrown into the muddy driveway. The landlord had already changed the locks. And my golden retriever, Nugget, was chained to a wet bush by the security guard, shivering and whimpering in the freezing rain. Job stolen, apartment gone, dog abused. A triple threat of misery slammed down on me. Tyler stood under the awning, his arm around Ashley’s waist, looking down at me in the rain. “Keep fighting us, loser. You’re just a broke bitch at the end of the day.” I didn’t say a word. I picked up Nugget and took him straight to the best 24-hour pet hospital to board him. Then, dragging my soaked luggage, I checked into a cheap motel. In Tyler and Ashley’s eyes, I had completely lost. But this was just a strategic retreat. The trap was set.

On Friday night, the company held its grand annual gala at a five-star hotel. Since the company was in the middle of a major IPO audit, everyone was there, along with several high-profile venture capitalists. Ashley wore a plunging designer gown, arm-in-arm with Tyler as they made their grand entrance. “The air here is so stuffy. It’s nothing like the crisp air in the Swiss Alps,” she complained loudly. Tyler sat at the VIP table, laughing and drinking with the CEO. Halfway through the night, Tyler put down his glass. He announced loudly that he would invest $5 million into the company on one condition: The CEO had to fire a “unprofessional, toxic” employee immediately—me. To secure the investment, the CEO immediately called security to throw me out. “Chloe Miller, pack your things and get out! Our company doesn’t need people like you!” Ashley sat next to Tyler, smiling victoriously. Just as the security guards stepped up to grab me, I kicked over the massive champagne tower next to me. At the same time, I plugged an encrypted USB drive into the control room computer. With one click, the massive high-definition LED screen in the ballroom lit up. The first gift was for Tyler. The screen displayed clear bank statements and contract screenshots. It showed the rental agreement for the luxury car Tyler drove tonight. It showed his forged asset documents used to get high-interest loans from loan sharks. It even showed text messages of him hiring actors to play his wealthy parents. The crowd gasped. The CEO’s smile froze. “Turn it off! Turn it off now! This is fake!” Tyler screamed. I ignored him and opened the second file—a special gift for Ashley. It was a compilation video of Ashley’s “clean, minimalist” life, filmed by a private investigator. The background was a disgusting, cheap room in a rundown trailer park. In the video, the glamorous Ashley was squatting on the floor. She was using a dirty plastic bucket—the same one she used to wash her underwear—to cook cheap instant ramen. Then, the scene cut to her walking down the street. She reached into a public trash can, pulled out a discarded, broken lipstick, wiped it with a tissue, and applied it to her lips. This video was the result of a month-long surveillance I paid for. Looking at the filthy reality on the screen, and then thinking of her usual “clean freak” behavior, the executives and coworkers were horrified. Several female coworkers actually gagged and ran to the bathroom. I picked up the microphone, my voice echoing through the speakers. “Your entire ‘minimalist luxury’ lifestyle comes from trash cans.” “You are a walking petri dish of bacteria.” Ashley covered her head, screaming as she tried to smash the screen. “It’s fake! All of it! Chloe is just jealous of me!” The CEO was furious. The $5 million investment was a scam, and now his company’s reputation was ruined. He slammed the table. “Security! Call the police! Investigate these two frauds!” Tyler and Ashley were pinned to the red carpet by security guards like wet dogs. I watched them struggle, thinking my revenge was complete. I turned to leave. But suddenly, Ashley broke free from a guard. She pulled out a document stamped with a official hospital seal, waving it in the air. “Officer! Help!” she shrieked at the arriving police. “This is her psychiatric evaluation! She is a diagnosed psychopath!” “She has homicidal delusions! She poisoned the drinks tonight to kill us all!”

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I stayed by Carter’s side during his hardest five years, only to finally get his proposal. The night before our engagement party, I made him a plate of handmade spaghetti. It was his birthday. I took half a day off work, simmered the sauce for four hours, and hand-wrote every single wedding invitation. But when he came home, there was a woman in a white dress standing behind him. It was Seraphina, the first love he had pined over for years. Sera saw the food on the table and smiled softly. “Carter has a very sensitive stomach now, Chloe. He probably isn’t used to this kind of home-cooked stuff anymore, right?” Carter took off his coat and draped it naturally over her shoulders. “She spent a long time making it. Just have a few bites.” It sounded like a favor. Like charity. Sera sat in my usual seat and twirled a single strand of pasta. “It’s a bit salty.” Carter looked at me. “Put less salt next time.” I quietly said okay. But the next second, he slid a black card in front of me. “Sera just returned to the country and has nowhere to stay. She’ll be staying in our new house for now.” “You should go stay at Helen’s place for a while. There’s plenty of cash on the card. Don’t make things hard for yourself.” I looked at the spaghetti clumping together, then at the invitations with our names on them. The handwriting was so neat, yet so ridiculous.

When Carter slid the card in front of me, Sera was still sitting in my seat, slowly playing with the cold pasta. The spaghetti was completely soggy. Yet she acted like she didn’t notice, looking up with a sweet smile. “Chloe, please don’t misunderstand. I’m really just staying here for a few days.” Carter draped his coat over the chair, his voice flat. “Chloe, go stay with Helen for now. I’ll have someone pick you up before the wedding.” I stared at him. “That is our house.” “The deed is under my name.” He paused, as if realizing he sounded too harsh, and softened his tone. “Don’t throw a tantrum. Sera just got back. She doesn’t know her way around, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving her in a hotel.” Sera lowered her head. “Carter, maybe I should just leave. Chloe seems to really mind.” Carter frowned. “No need.” Suddenly, my throat felt incredibly tight. We chose that house together. I remembered telling him how the south-facing balcony would be perfect for growing mint and jasmine. He had replied that the kitchen needed to be huge so I would have plenty of room to cook. I believed him. So on the day we got the keys, I stood in the kitchen holding our new plates, feeling happy for hours. It turned out that all that excitement was mine alone. I picked up the invitations from the table. “What about the wedding?” Carter looked at me. “It goes on as planned.” “Where does my mom sit?” He looked like he had just remembered my mother existed. “Sera’s health isn’t good, so she needs to be at the VIP table where I can look after her. Helen can sit at the second table. It’s the same thing.” I let out a dry laugh. “My mom has bad legs.” “I’ll have the staff arrange a wheelchair.” He thought of everything. Sera put her fork down and sighed softly. “Chloe, Carter is already being so good to you. The wedding, the house, the ring—he hasn’t skimped on anything.” “You shouldn’t be too greedy.” I looked at Carter. He didn’t contradict her. The tiny spark of hope left in my heart was completely snuffed out by his silence. I put the invitations back on the table. “I’m not leaving tonight.” Carter’s brows furrowed. “Chloe, don’t make this difficult for me.” “I won’t.” I took the plate of spaghetti, walked into the kitchen, and dumped it into the trash can. Carter followed me inside, grabbing my wrist. “It’s just a plate of pasta. Is this really necessary?” “You’re right.” I looked down at the empty plate. “It’s just a plate of pasta.” He was quiet for a moment, then reached for the plate. “I’ll have the housekeeper make you something else.” I stepped back, avoiding his touch. Sera stood at the kitchen doorway, her voice sounding as soft as cotton. “Carter, let it go. I don’t think Chloe wants to see me right now.” Carter let go of my wrist and turned to her. “Go get some rest first.” Standing in the kitchen, I watched him open the door to the master bedroom for her. In that room, I chose the bedsheets. I installed the bedside lamp. Even the closet still held the silk pajamas I had bought for our wedding night. Before Sera stepped inside, she glanced back at me. She smiled. The door clicked shut. And in my hand, a hairline crack suddenly split across the empty ceramic plate.

The next morning, I woke up on the couch. I was covered with Carter’s suit jacket. I stared at it for a few seconds. Just as I was about to sit up, I heard Sera’s voice coming from the kitchen. “Carter, does Chloe hate me? She slept on the couch last night. Was she trying to make me feel guilty?” Carter’s voice was low. “She’s just stubborn. She’ll get over it in a couple of days.” “Are you going to blame me?” “No.” “But you used to say you didn’t want a noisy home after marriage.” Carter paused. “Chloe is very sensible.” I pulled the jacket off, folded it neatly, and placed it on the armrest. Sensible. Always “sensible.” I walked into the kitchen. Sera was holding a cup of warm milk, wearing my pajamas. She gasped when she saw me, looking startled. “Chloe, I’m so sorry. I didn’t bring any clothes last night, and Carter said I could wear yours.” Carter looked at me. “It’s just a set of pajamas.” I looked back at him. “Do you know that my mom bought those for me?” He froze. My mom didn’t know how to shop online. She spent hours in a department store picking those out, saying a girl should wear something comfortable and beautiful after getting married. I had been saving them. Sera bit her lip. “Should I take them off and give them back to you now?” Carter frowned. “Sera.” Then he turned to me. “Chloe, don’t be so petty.” I nodded. “Right. I’m the petty one.” Carter clearly didn’t like my tone. He reached out to pull my arm. “Go wash up. We’re going to try on wedding dresses today.” Sera’s eyes lit up, but she quickly looked down. “A wedding dress… that sounds wonderful.” Carter noticed. He always noticed Sera’s emotions instantly. Half an hour later at the bridal boutique, the stylist rolled out the wedding dress I had custom-ordered. Before I could even touch it, Sera whispered, “It’s so beautiful.” Carter looked at her. “Want to try it on?” My fingers went stiff. Sera waved her hands quickly. “That’s not right. It’s Chloe’s.” But Carter was already speaking to the stylist. “Bring another one in a size S.” I looked at him. “Carter.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sera just wants to see how it looks. Don’t overthink everything.” Sera went into the fitting room. When she came out, even the boutique staff gasped. She was very thin. Wearing my dress, the waistline hung loose. Carter stood in front of her, gently adjusting her veil. His movements were so natural, as if he had done it a thousand times. The stylist smiled. “Mr. and Mrs. Carter look so perfect together.” The air went dead silent. Carter didn’t correct her. Sera blushed. “Don’t say that. The real bride is over there.” Everyone turned to look at me. I was sitting in the corner, still clutching the fitting receipt with my name on it. Carter finally looked back. “Chloe, go ahead and try yours.” I stood up. But before I could walk over, Sera suddenly tripped on the long train of the dress and fell forward. Carter caught her instantly, his voice tightening. “Are you hurt?” Sera leaned into his chest. “I think I sprained my ankle.” He picked her up in his arms immediately, turning to me. “Try it on yourself. Send me the pictures.” I watched them walk out. The stylist asked in a low, awkward voice, “Miss Helen… do you still want to try it on?” I looked down at the dress another woman had just worn. Suddenly, I felt completely drained. My phone buzzed. It was a message from my mom. *“Chloe, does the dress look beautiful? Mom is waiting for pictures.”* I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I turned it off.

Carter didn’t return until evening. He walked in holding a box of cake. “I bought this for you. Don’t be mad anymore.” I looked at the logo on the box. It was from Sera’s favorite bakery. He had waited in line with me there once. I found it too sweet and didn’t finish it. Back then, he said he would remember that. It turned out he didn’t remember my taste. He remembered hers. I asked, “How is Sera’s ankle?” “She’s fine. The doctor said she just needs to rest for a few days.” “What about the wedding dress?” Carter set the cake down. “We’ll order a new one.” “Is there enough time?” “We’ll just pay extra for rush delivery.” He was always like this. As if money could erase any insult. I took out my phone. “My mom wants to see the wedding photos.” Carter hesitated. “Don’t send them to her yet.” “Why?” “The boutique staff posted a video of Sera in the dress on TikTok. People in our circle saw it. I don’t want Helen to misunderstand.” I smiled. “Misunderstand what?” He looked at me, annoyed. “Chloe, do you have to talk like that?” Sera came out of the master bedroom, her ankle wrapped in a bandage, leaning against the doorframe. “Carter, don’t blame Chloe. It’s my fault.” I ignored her and looked straight at Carter. “Make her move out.” Carter’s expression darkened. “She can’t even walk right now.” “She can stay at a hotel with a nurse.” “She isn’t comfortable with strangers.” “And I’m not comfortable with another woman living in my future home.” He fell silent. Sera’s tears began to fall. “Chloe, if you really can’t stand me, I’ll leave right now.” She started hobbling toward the door. Carter immediately caught her, his tone dropping. “Stop nonsense.” Then, he turned to me. “Chloe, apologize.” I thought I heard him wrong. “What did you say?” “Sera didn’t mean any harm. Your words hurt her.” I clenched my fists. “And what about me?” Carter frowned. “You are my fiancée. You shouldn’t be so petty with her.” Fiancée. The word sounded so cheap coming from his mouth. I remembered the year his stomach ulcers got so bad that he called me at three in the morning. I rushed across the city to make him soup and stayed by his hospital bed all night. He had leaned back and told me, *“Chloe, I promise our home will always have a light left on for you.”* The light was still on. But it was shining on someone else. I didn’t apologize. Carter didn’t force me either. He just pulled out his iPad. “I had the digital invitations updated.” My chest tightened. “Updated to what?” “Sera is going to attend as a guest of honor. We added her name to the bridal party speeches.” I took the iPad and saw the digital invitation. Sera’s name was prominently displayed in the family speech section. My mother’s name had been pushed to the very bottom. I pointed at the screen. “Put my mom’s name back where it was.” Carter said, “The schedule is set. Don’t make a scene.” Sera whispered, “Chloe, I’m sure Helen doesn’t care about these minor details, right?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw the iPad onto the couch. Carter’s face went completely cold. “Chloe, you’re becoming unrecognizable lately.” I asked, “Then what should I be like?” He stared at me, speaking very slowly. “At least, you shouldn’t make me feel so exhausted.” Something blocked my throat. Sera spoke up at the perfect moment. “Carter, let’s drop it. Don’t we have to meet your mother tomorrow to sign the prenup? Don’t let me ruin your important day.” The prenup. I looked at Carter. He avoided my gaze. “It’s just a formality.” But at that moment, a horrible feeling washed over me.

When the prenuptial agreement was placed in front of my mom, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Carter sat across from her, his voice smooth and polite. “Helen, this is just to protect both sides. Chloe won’t be treated unfairly after we marry.” My mom didn’t understand legal jargon, but she understood one specific clause. *If the marriage is called off due to the bride’s actions, the bride must return the engagement ring and reimburse all wedding expenses.* She asked carefully, “What counts as ‘the bride’s actions’?” Sera, sitting beside Carter, explained gently, “For example, if Chloe’s emotional instability damages the family reputation.” My mom’s face went completely pale. I slammed the agreement shut. “We’re not signing this.” Carter looked at me. “Don’t be reckless.” “I said, I’m not signing it.” His voice remained calm. “Chloe, the invitations are already out. If you make a scene now, what will the relatives think of Helen?” That single sentence hit my weakest spot. My mom had been excited about this wedding for months. Whenever the neighbors asked, she would proudly tell them that Carter was a good man and that I was lucky. I couldn’t bear to imagine her face if she found out the truth. Sera slid the pen toward me. “Chloe, just sign it. Carter would never hurt you.” I stared at the pen. There was a scratch on the cap. It was a graduation gift I bought for Carter years ago. He had told me he used that exact pen to sign his first big business contract. Now, it was being used to force me into a corner. Suddenly, my mom clutched her chest, gasping for air. I jumped up in terror. “Mom!” Carter stood up too. “Get her to the hospital.” On the way, Carter drove incredibly fast. For a second, I thought he actually cared. Until Sera’s call came through the car speakers. Her voice was panicked. “Carter, my ankle hurts so bad. I’m all alone at home.” Carter gripped the steering wheel, silent for two seconds. I stared at him. “My mom is in the back seat.” “I know,” he said. But the car still pulled over at the next intersection. He called his assistant and told him to meet us, then turned to me. “He’ll go with you to the hospital. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Carter!” He didn’t look at me. “Sera is terrified of pain.” My mom leaned against me, weakly patting my hand. “Chloe, it’s fine. Let him go.” Even now, she was trying to save face for him. I suddenly realized how pathetic my persistence had been. At the hospital, the doctor said my mom had suffered an acute panic attack and needed to be admitted for observation. When I went to pay, my card was declined. The receptionist said, “This card has been frozen.” It was the secondary card Carter had given me for wedding emergencies. I called him. When it picked up, Sera’s voice came through. “Chloe, Carter is wrapping my ankle. He’s busy right now.” I said, “Put him on.” Carter took the phone. “What’s wrong?” “The card is frozen.” “I had my accountant freeze it.” His voice was cold. “You’re too emotional today. Take some time to calm down. My assistant will handle the hospital bills.” I gripped the phone tight. “My mom is waiting to be admitted!” There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then I heard Sera whisper in the background, “Carter, is Chloe still blaming me?” Carter sighed. “Chloe, stop using Helen to guilt-trip me.” I couldn’t say a single word. My mother lying in a hospital bed had become nothing but a bargaining chip to him. I had to text every contact in my phone to borrow enough money for the deposit. At 2:00 AM, I went back to the house to pack some clothes for my mom. The master bedroom door was ajar. Carter was standing by the bed, tucking Sera in. Sera asked, “What if Chloe refuses to sign the prenup tomorrow?” Carter replied, “She will.” “Are you that sure?” “She can’t live without me.” Standing outside the door, my fingers went completely numb. Sera asked again, “Do you love her?” Carter was silent for a very long time. So long that I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then I heard him say, “She’s suitable for marriage.”

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I am twelve years old when the seventh serpent man buckles his belt and walks out of my mother’s chamber. My father is in the corridor. Vespera — his whore — is hanging off his arm. He is watching my mother’s ruin like it amuses him. “You used to call yourself a highborn Vixen,” he says, low and lazy. “can’t share a Hold with my Vesp.” “Now look at you. How many beasts have fucked you tonight? How many have touched it? Tell me, my Queen— surely you can let me take Vesp as Second Mate now?” This time, Mama does not scream. She does not fight. She only takes the Beast Bond pendant off her throat — the tiger-fang my father carved for her the night of their bonding — and drops it into the brazier. The flame eats it whole. The next morning, he throws a Mating ceremony. Louder. Grander. More gold than the one he gave my mother fifteen years ago. He takes Vespera Nyss as his Mate before the whole Hold. The Stripe Hall is hung in crimson. The lesser shifters howl her name. The Hold elders bow. The feast is still going at dusk when the parchments come down from the rafters. Drawings of my mother. Naked. In half-shift. Vixen ears, two of her nine white tails curled out at the small of her back — tails she has never shown outside her own mate. And around her, drawn in cruel black ink, seven serpent men with their hands on her fur. I throw myself at the parchments. I tear them. I crumple them. I cover the worst ones with my body. It is not enough. The Hold is laughing. Kael’s face goes black. “So you like to be seen? Then I’ll let the whole Hold see her. Guards — take her to the Iron Beast Rack!” I scream. I lunge forward. Old Nan Brynn clamps her hand over my mouth and drags me away. The voices follow me down the corridor. “A Vixen who’s been on the Beast Rack — even if she lives, her body’ll be broken forever. Half a beast. Less than a beast.” “Generous of the Tiger King, eh? Sharing his own Mate with the rest of us.” “Going to taste sweeter than any beast-whore, I’ll swear.” The cold goes through me from the soles of my feet up. By the time Brynn gets me back to my chamber I have no voice left. I sit on the floor. I stare at her. “Nan. What is the Iron Beast Rack?” She doesn’t answer at first. She just sits down across from me, very slowly. “It’s the cruellest thing one shifter can do to another, my kit. That is all you need to know tonight.” I wait by the window all night. Mama does not come. It is past noon before they let me into her chamber. The moment I push the door open, the smell hits me — iron, sweat, something deeper and worse — and my stomach turns inside me. She is on the bed. Not moving. Her vixen-eyes are open, staring up at the carved beams. Under the thin white robe, her skin is one long bruise — black, purple, yellow at the edges. Her nine tails are gone. Tucked away under the robe, or unable to come out at all. I cannot tell which is worse. “Mama —” My voice will not steady. My fingers will not touch her. I turn, about to run for the Hold’s healer. The door bangs open behind me. Kael walks in with Vespera on his arm — painted, perfumed, the stolen tiger-fang pendant already swinging between her breasts. The moment she smells the chamber she lifts her sleeve to her nose and gags. My father looks down at my mother. His voice goes flat. “Iselle. Stop playing the dying swan.” “I told every beast at that feast not to actually touch you. Must you lie there like a corpse?” I open my mouth to fight him. To say she’s covered in bruises, can’t you see — Mama’s hand finds my wrist. She squeezes once, hard. Then she reaches under her pillow and brings out a folded parchment. A Bond-Break. “Kael. Break the Bond. I want it ended.” “I want nothing of this Hold. Not the gold. Not the name. Not the crown.” “I only want Lyra.” His brow knits up like he’s heard a child’s joke. His voice goes tired and impatient. “Don’t be a fool, Iselle. Your father is dead. Your brother is dead. Your mother died before you came of age. Leave me and where do you go?” I freeze where I’m standing. So he remembers. He remembers that my uncle drew the enemy off his trail in the Bone Wastes and took every arrow in his own body. His bones are still out there, bleaching in the frost, without so much as a cairn. He remembers that my grandfather smashed his own forehead open on the pillar of the Lion Throne Hall — begged the King of Beasts, bled all the way down the gold steps — just to get my father the war-bands he needed to come home alive. He remembers swearing under the moon in front of the Bloodline Altar of House Vale — I, Kael of the Drayven Streak, swear by tooth and claw — Iselle Vale of the Hollow, is my only Mate. One Bond. One bloodline. No other, while I draw breath. One life is a long time. It only took three years. He went north with the war-bands. He came home from the Bone Wastes with Vespera Nyss at his side. Serpents run cold-blooded, he said. Vesp couldn’t bear the chill. So Mama was to be gentle to give Vespera the warmer chamber. Because Vespera could not bear the scent of moonflowers, he ripped up Mama’s moonflower garden — five years she had spent on that garden — to spare her pretty nose. And when Mama quickened with a cub, Vespera laid her head on Kael’s shoulder and whispered, “The healer says this cub’s blood is set against mine. I will not live to if he draws breath — ” So he poured the wolfsbane brew down my mother’s throat himself. That night Mama lay on her bed bleeding through her shift, sobbing so the whole Den could hear her. And down in the Stripe Hall Kael had Vespera in his lap, listening to the moon-singers play, the drums so loud they smothered every sound my mother made. That was the night I understood. My father — the one who used to watch the bonfires of the moon-festival with Mama and I — was already dead.

He must have been afraid she would ask again. He snatches the parchment out of her hand and throws it into the brazier. The fire eats it in a heartbeat. Then he sighs. Soft. The way he used to. He reaches out to smooth back the white hair at her temple. Mama turns her head away. His hand stops in the air. His jaw locks. The stripes under the skin of his throat ripple once, dark. “Tonight I’m taking Vesp to the King’s moon-feast at Highmount. Give her the Vale Nine-Tail Crown.” “No!” I’m on my feet before Mama can answer. “That was my grandmother’s. That’s Mama’s only piece of the Hollow left. No one’s putting that crown on her head!” Vespera’s eyes fill on cue. The tears slide down without so much as a tremble. “It’s my fault. I should never have wanted the crown. I’m low-born. I have no father, no mother to stand behind me. Just let them laugh me back. It’s only what I deserve…” Kael’s face goes hard. “Iselle. This is how you raise my daughter? No manners, no shame? Maybe Vespera should raise her from now on. She will teach Lyra what obedience looks like.” Mama goes white. She drags herself upright on the bed, every bruise screaming, and shoves me behind her body. “Take the crown. Take it. Don’t touch Lyra.” A flash of triumph in Vespera’s eyes — gone before anyone but me sees it. She presses her hand to her chest, soft, sweet. “Kael. I’ve never been to the King’s court before. I’m sure to shame you in front of the Lion. Let Iselle come with me — as my maid. She can guide me. So I don’t fail you.” My mother — his true mate — serving the serpent like a slave. That’s not guidance. That’s to shame her in front of everyone. Kael doesn’t pause for so much as one breath. “Done.” By dusk, a rough grey robe lands in the chamber. I watch Mama drag her broken body off the bed. I watch her pull that coarse cloth over her bruises body, over the place where the tiger-fang pendant used to lie at her throat. The tears come up out of me without sound. Mama reaches over. Wipes my cheek with her thumb. Presses something cool into my palm. A hairpin. A single strip of polished silver willow-wood. The sacred wood of the Vale Hollow. And wound twice around it, fine and snow-white — a single strand of my mother’s fox-fur. “Lyra. My little kit. I don’t think I have much longer with you.” “After I’m gone, you take this pin. You leave the Drayven Reach. You go north — past the Bone Wastes, into the Frostfangs. You find Roen Wolfram, the Alpha of the Frostfang Pack. He was your grandfather’s sworn second. Show him this pin. He’ll keep you alive.” I close my fingers over the pin. My chest is splitting open. I know already. I know she’s been worn through. Bled out. Ground down, year after year. She fought. She fought every time. And every time she fought, they pushed her deeper into the mud. When Vespera was first brought into the Hold, Mama had a small den built outside and quietly settled her there — afraid she would ruin me. The next morning Kael named it jealousy. He made Mama crawl on her knees from the Hold gate to that little den, to beg Vespera personally to come back. Half a year ago, when Mama woke from the wolfsbane brew, she took a knife and went straight to Vespera’s chamber to kill her. Kael caught her at the door and told her, “Take one more step toward Vespera, and I’d throw your mother’s bones to the kennel-hounds. Nothing of the Vale family left to bury. Three days ago, Vespera’s drawings turned up all over Highmount. Naked. With half a dozen shifters crawling all over her. Kael decided Mama had drawn them. That night he poured a sleep-draught down her throat and locked her in a stone kennel with six lower shifters. After that night, Mama stopped fighting. I press my face into the bones of her shoulder. She is nothing but bones now. “Mama —”

Vespera isn’t done with us. At the King’s moon-feast, she has Mama pour her wine. Lift her hem. Kneel to set the cup at her feet. “Vale, pour.” “Vale, kneel.” “Vale, lift.” She uses Mama’s own family name like a slave’s collar. Every command snaps across the hall. The vixens of the King’s court titter behind their fans. The lords laugh outright. Mama does it all. She doesn’t lift her eyes from the floor once. I sit in the corner with Brynn’s claws tight on my shoulder. I don’t look away from any of it. When Vespera’s had enough of ordering Mama around, she takes us out to the cold pool behind the King’s hall. She tips her head, smiles, and slips one of her serpent-scale earrings off her ear. Drops it straight into the black water. “Swim for it.” Mama doesn’t move. Vespera’s voice snaps sharp against the water. “Vale. You’re my maid. When I tell you to go get something, you go get it.” Mama looks her in the eye, very calm. “You crawled out of a brothel, Vespera. A stolen crown doesn’t change that.” Vespera’s hand goes up to slap her. I’m between them before her palm comes down. I shove her hard with both hands. “Get away from her! Don’t touch my mother!” “Little bitch, you dare —” Her hand swings at me. Mama snatches me into her arms in one breath. Vespera’s nails rake across the side of Mama’s throat — three thin red lines. For one heartbeat, the old fire comes back behind my mother’s eyes. The old Vale blood. Even Vespera takes half a step back. Then she collects herself. Curls her mouth. “Iselle. You’re a clawless old vixen. All hiss, no bite.” “Don’t get it. I don’t care. But your daughter — your sweet little Lyra — is another matter.” “You wouldn’t —” Mama’s eyes flash wide, wild. “Lyra is Kael’s firstborn. If you touch her, and I’ll claw my way out of my own grave to drag you under —” “Oh, I know.” Vespera’s smile widens. “She’s almost old enough to mate. Every minor Streak and Nest is sniffing after her. So tell me — should I tell Kael to mate her off to Vorath’s boy? Or the Hawkmaster’s son?” Two of the most rotten cubs in all of Highmount. One a leopard-whelp who’s mounted low-blood shifters to death. The other a hawk-blood so cruel his own Cast won’t fly with him. Mama is shaking. Her jaw is locked. “Fine. I’ll go.” It’s the deep of autumn. The pool is half-frozen at the edges. Mama walks down the stone steps into the water inch by inch. By the time the water’s at her waist, her skin’s grey. Her lips are blue. I’m crying. I scream for her to come back. Vespera turns and slaps me twice across the face. “Shut your mouth, whelp. One more word and I cut your tongue out.” The marks of her hand burn on my cheeks. I bite the inside of my mouth so I don’t scream again. Then — behind us — a voice. “What are you doing?” Kael. Vespera’s face doesn’t change for one breath. Then she moves and grabs my wrist, slaps my hand onto her chest, and throws herself backwards over the low stone railing. The water swallows her with a great white splash. Kael is in the pool before she’s fully under. He hauls her up against his chest, fur cloak and silk shirt and all, his great gold tiger-eyes wild with panic. He doesn’t — not once — look toward the middle of the pool, where my mother is going under for the third time. It’s a low-blood shifters who finally drags Mama out. Vespera collapses in his arms, sopping, shivering. The moment she sees me, she shrieks and burrows deeper into him. “No — please — I’m sorry — I’m sorry — please don’t hit me again —” “I never touched you!” I scream. I point at the red prints on my own face. “She drove my mother into the freezing water to pick an earring! She called me a half-bred whelp! These marks on my face — she did this! She’s a serpent, she’s poison, she —” For the first time, Kael’s eyes go to my mother. She’s lying on the stone, the back of her robe torn open, the patchy place on her shoulder — where her bonded mark used to be black and clean. Her breath is barely there. Something almost like grief flickers across his face. He starts to open his mouth. Vespera weeps into his shoulder. “Iselle. I know you hate me. Play your wounded game — that’s your right — but to teach Lyra to lie about me…” “I admit it. The slap on her face was mine. Because she called me a whore. She even spat on my own dead mother’s name…” “I came up from the dirt but I have my pride. I’d rather drown than be spoken to like that.” She twists in his arms as if to throw herself back into the pool. “Enough.” His voice cuts. The stripes under his skin are crawling all the way up his throat. “Lyra. You raised a hand against Vespera. You shamed the Drayven Streak in the King’s court. To the Bloodline Altar. Twenty lashes of the Silver-Thorn.” “No —” Mama drags herself across the wet stones on her elbows. She throws her body over me. “If you whip anyone, you whip me.” Father’s voice doesn’t lift. “Forty.” … The Bloodline Altar is bone-cold. Mama kneels on the black stones, swaying. The Silver-Thorn Lash is brought out — black leather threaded with cursed silver, every barb a thorn forged to bite straight through a shifter’s hide and burn the soul beneath. One lash and a low beast’s shift breaks forever. Forty can kill a vixen of the highest blood. The first lash opens her from shoulder to hip. The blood runs down the stones in a long dark line and pools at her knees. I crawl forward on the floor. I beg the Hold elders. I beg Kael. No one looks at me. I watch her light go out, lash by lash. I watch it leave her eyes. By the fortieth, she hasn’t made a sound in a long time. She vomits a mouthful of bright blood and slides sideways off her knees. I carry her back myself to her chamber. I send for the healer. And I sit by the bed until dawn. I fall asleep with my face pressed to the edge of her furs. I half-wake to footsteps. Kael. He kneels beside the bed. His fingers shake as he lifts the robe off her back. When he sees what’s underneath — the cursed silver burns, the strips of skin curling away — his eyes go red at the rim. A tear falls on her shredded back. He begins, very gently, to dress the wounds with his own hands. His voice is broken raw. “Iselle. Why must you be so stubborn…” “Vesp came up from nothing, yes. But she’s loyal to me. She bit her own wrist open and fed me her blood in the Bone Wastes when I was bleeding out. Without her I’d never have come home to you —” “If you truly can’t share my Hold with her — once she bears me a cub, I’ll send her away. And then it’ll be the three of us again. Like before.” I keep my eyes shut. There’s no us anymore. You and Mama are finished, Kael.

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Ten years ago, my husband let his mistress carve open our daughter’s chest just so she could get some “hands-on experience.” Today, that same woman brought her own dying child to my operating table. I’m staring at the intake file on my phone when the call comes in. Ten-year-old girl. Gunshot wound, through-and-through to the abdomen. Hemorrhagic shock. They’re pulling up to my clinic in four minutes. I know that face before I even scroll to the mother’s name. Sienna Moretti. Don Vance’s woman. The one who killed my daughter. I flip the phone face-down. “I’m not taking this one.” The line goes dead silent. Doc. You’re joking, right?” The dispatcher’s voice cracks. “Last month you ran seven hours straight on three Bratva soldiers, alone. You’re the steadiest blade we have south of the river.” “I said I’m not taking it. Reroute her. Don’t waste my time.” I hang up. I haven’t even pulled my gloves off when Marcus shoves through the door, sweating through his collar. “Elena. Don’t move.” “There’s nothing to talk about, Marcus.” “Just listen.” He shuts the door behind him like he’s afraid I’ll bolt. “Through-and-through gut wound. Hemorrhagic shock. Pressure’s bottomed out. No other surgeon in this city will even touch a case like this. Only you can run that table.” “Then transfer her.” “Transfer her where?” His voice climbs. “The streets are locked down. There just was a hit two blocks over. She won’t survive the drive.” I straighten my cuffs. I don’t answer. “Elena, is it the equipment? I’ll get you anything. Blood, gas, instruments, two anesthesiologists, whatever the hell you want. Name it.” “It’s not the equipment.” “Then what is it?” “Personal.” “Personal?” He nearly chokes. “There’s a ten-year-old bleeding out on my table and you’re telling me personal?” Word is already out. Nurses and runners cluster in the hall, whispering loud enough for me to hear. “Thought she was supposed to be the ethical one.” “She’s a kid. What did the kid do?” “Whatever the beef is, you don’t take it out on a child.” I don’t blink. I just glance at the clock above the door. “Marcus. You just wasted five more minutes.” “Find someone else. Clock’s ticking. I’d start dialing.” I turn to leave. A voice cuts from the back of the crowd. “Hey, Doc. Wasn’t your kid the one who died in a back-alley clinic like this one? You really gonna let another little girl bleed out on the floor?” My whole body locks up. My phone screen is still glowing on the counter. The girl in the photo is laughing, dimples cut deep into both cheeks. Gianna had the exact same age. The exact same face. I close my eyes. If Dominic hadn’t handed my baby’s body to Sienna Moretti so she could practice, none of this would even be a story. The hallway door bangs open. A woman in a blood-streaked Valentino dress staggers in, clutching a kid-sized jacket soaked through. She grabs the nearest nurse by the arm and shakes her. “Who’s the surgeon? Please — please — somebody save my daughter!” The nurse’s eyes flick to me. Sienna follows the look. Her gaze lands on my face and stops. “You. You’re the one?” I don’t answer. She lurches forward, ripping open her purse, and dumps everything at my feet — black cards, a stack of cashier’s checks, bricks of hundreds bound in rubber bands. “What’s the problem? You want money? Name it.”

“This is the surgeon you brought me?” Sienna’s head whips toward Marcus. She doesn’t even try to hide the disgust. She drags her eyes back down me and laughs, sharp and ugly. “You’re the top surgeon in this city? Wow. I have learned something new tonight.” “So the famous underground surgeon is just another vulture, squeezing a mother for cash.” She closes the gap and yanks another check from her clutch. “Not enough? Fine. Pick a number. A hundred grand. Half a million. A million. Anything. Just save my daughter.” A couple of low whistles slip down the hall. I don’t move. I’m looking at the small gold crest pinned over her heart. Ten years. The medal she got for killing my daughter is still sitting on her chest like a damn trophy. She catches me staring. Her mouth twists into something almost smug. “What. You recognize it?” “That’s the Famiglia’s Cross. The Commission doesn’t pin that on just anyone.” She lifts her chin. Her balance comes back the second she remembers what she is. “Ten years ago. The Northside raid. I was on my feet for sixteen hours. I pulled half a dozen of our kids back from the dead with my bare hands.” “I’m not like you, Doc.” “When I save people, I don’t hold their lives hostage for a check.” She wipes her tears off so cleanly you’d think she practiced. I look at her. And I smile. “Did they all live?” Her face freezes for half a second. “Nobody’s perfect on a battlefield. You can’t promise every one of them walks out.” “So. They didn’t.” The hallway goes quiet. Sienna’s jaw sets. I lift my eyes to hers and say it slow, one word at a time. “You’re right. We’re not the same.” “I don’t pick up a blade unless I know I can finish.” “And I don’t make a mother stand outside a door thinking her kid has a chance, just to hand her back a corpse.” Sienna grabs my collar in both fists. “You don’t get to judge me. At least I had the guts to step up to a table. You won’t even walk through the door!” The whispers around us catch fire. “She’s not wrong. Sienna’s a war hero.” “Doc, this isn’t the moment to play queen bitch.” “That kid’s bleeding out. Just go in already.” The looks pin me from every angle. Cold. Disgusted. I don’t bother explaining. Then the monitor inside the OR shrieks. A nurse comes flying out, white as the sheet in her hands. “Pressure’s tanking again! We are out of time!” Sienna’s color drains. Every ounce of attitude she had two seconds ago is gone. She grabs my wrist. “Please.” “Whatever you want. Anything. Just walk into that room.” I look down at her hand on mine. Ten years ago, I begged Dominic Vance like that. The man who looked me in the eye and swore he’d bring our Gianna back. The man who handed her body to this woman instead. Something I’ve been swallowing for a decade rises up my throat and comes out as a quiet laugh. “Anything?” She nods so hard her hair falls into her face. “Anything. Whatever it takes.” I pull my hand back. “Fine. I’ll walk into the OR with you.” Her eyes light up like she just got pardoned. “Thank you. Thank you. Doc — me and her father, we’ll never forget this.” I haven’t opened my mouth when boots pound down the hallway. “Sienna!” That voice hits me and my fingers go still. Dominic Vance shoves through the crowd, white shirt rolled to the elbows, jaw locked tight. I’ve never seen him this rattled. He catches Sienna by the shoulders. “How’s Sofia?” She breaks. Tears spill the second he touches her. “Dom. They said if we wait any longer she’s gone.” His head snaps up to me. I’m in a mask and a low cap. Just my eyes showing. He takes one look and the old command snaps back into his voice. “You. You’re the surgeon?” I don’t answer. He pulls the check from Sienna’s hand and slaps it on the cart beside me. “Money’s not the issue. Save my daughter. Anything you want.” I look at him. Ten years and the man still thinks every problem on earth gets fixed with a stack of cash. Sienna grabs his arm. “She already said yes. She’s going in.” His shoulders ease a fraction. He turns to Marcus. “Then move. Put her on the table.” I finally speak. “Don Vance.” He pauses. The title catches him somewhere familiar, but he can’t place it yet. I look at him through the mask. My voice is flat. “Don’t get it twisted.” “I said I’d walk in. I never said I’d hold the knife.”

Ten years. And here I am, standing outside the same kind of operating room. The floor at my feet is buried under gear. Portable monitors. Temperature-controlled blood coolers. Backup generators. A full row of the clotting agent we never get to keep in stock. Three anesthesia teams rotating on standby. Imaging guys hunched over a folding table, muttering at scans. “It’s the Don’s kid. Whatever it costs. Whatever it costs.” I stand off to the side and watch the parade, and my throat starts to close. Ten years ago, my Gianna was wheeled into a back room just like this one. She had one flickering overhead lamp and a half-empty bag of O-neg. And she had Dominic’s promise. Today the man can have every piece of equipment in this city wheeled in within ten minutes flat, because the body on the table belongs to him and Sienna. What about my Gianna? What was she to them? A stepping stone. A practice cadaver. A name they buried so two of them could climb. They walked out of that back room with a Famiglia Cross and a hero story. They did the rounds. They took the bow. They got called merciful. The monitor inside screams again. The nurse rips the OR door back. Her voice is shaking. “Pressure won’t hold! She’s got maybe twenty minutes, Doc. Twenty!” Marcus is right in front of me. “Elena. You’re already here. Stop stalling.” “Nobody else in this city is going to touch that girl.” I let my eyes drift across the room. “You’ve got the best gear. You’ve got enough blood to fill a river. You’ve got specialists stacked three deep.” “And the kid’s parents? Weren’t they the ones who supposedly saved so many lives ten years back? The good Samaritans of the Northside?” “Sounds like a job for them. Not me.” Sienna’s face goes bone white. She wasn’t ready for me to drag it up here, in front of everyone. Her lips tremble. The tears come fast. “Yes. Yes, I picked up the scalpel back then. But my hand was wrecked after that night. I can’t handle a surgery like this anymore.” “Doc. I’ll say it. You’re better than me. You always were.” Then she drops. Knees crack against the concrete floor. “But the kid is innocent. She’s ten. She doesn’t even know what happened to her. Whatever you want — just save her.” She crawls forward an inch and slams her forehead down. “I’m begging you. Save my daughter.” The crowd snaps. “Doc, this is too far.” “She’s on her knees, what more do you want?” “You’re a surgeon. Act like one. Don’t take it out on a kid!” Hands grab at my coat. Somebody shoves an equipment cart at the OR doors. “Move! Get her in there!” “You’re cutting tonight, Doc, end of story!” In the middle of it, Dominic clamps down on my wrist. His grip is brutal. Whatever leash he had on himself just snapped. “Doc, I don’t know what your problem is.” “That is my daughter in there.” “You save her and Dominic Vance owes you a life. You hear me? A life.” Through the mask, he still doesn’t see me. I look at him and slowly slide my wrist out from under his hand. My voice comes out wrecked. “You want me in there that badly?” The hallway hushes. “Even if I walk in. Even if I pick up the blade…” I turn my head, look at the two of them side by side. “How do you know my hand won’t slip? How do you know I won’t open her carotid right there on the table?”

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I was hemorrhaging on the delivery table, yet the blood bank had only one unit of O-negative left. My husband, Thomas Sterling, gripped the pen, poised to sign. “Stop! That blood can’t go to her!” The dorr opened. Julian, my brother, pushed Claire in—my adopted sister, breathing fast, bandaged knee. “Evelyn,” Julian knelt. “You’re stronger. But Claire’s in shock from the crash—she needs the blood more than you.” My mother leaned in, tears spilling onto my face. “Ev, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But without the blood, Claire would faint. She’d fall apart. Please, Ev. Please.” But my baby’s heartbeat was fading. And I was still hemorrhaging. I looked to Thomas for help. But he was already standing beside Claire. “Evelyn,” he said. “You’d do this for Claire, right? We can always have another baby.” I opened my mouth to refuse—but Thomas had already torn the consent form to pieces. “Evelyn, be strong. You’ll get through it.” He took the last bag of blood and wheeled Claire out. Mother and Julian followed behind. The surgery resumed. The scalpel parted my skin. he surgeon reached in and pulled out my baby. No sound. “The baby is dead, And the mother’s crashing. Move now!” the surgeon screamed. Blood slipped out of me, bit by bit. I watched the ceiling lights until they blurred into white circles. After the surgery, Thomas handed me the divorce papers. “If you hadn’t been reclaimed by the Vance family,” he said, “my wife should have been Claire.” “Let’s end this.” I didn’t even have the strength to cry. Twenty years passed. I became the most authoritative expert in obstetrics in the country. My assistant slid a patient’s file across the desk. Malpresentation. Placental abnormality. High-risk pregnancy. The face in the photo—identical to Claire from twenty years ago. Her daughter. My hand trembled, almost imperceptibly. I slid the file back. “This surgery,” I said. “I can’t do it.” … Ben paused. He adjusted his glasses. “Dr. Vance, this one’s critical, If she hemorrhages on the table, she’s gone.” “Look at her, she’s just nineteen. And You’re the only one in the state who can map this surgery.” He pushed the file back. The photo in the upper left corner—the same narrow nose as Claire. The same pout. The name on the chart read: Sophie Sterling. “I’m not taking the case, I insist.” I said. I slid the folder back across the desk. My hands stayed flat on the desk. “You’ve never been like this before. Is it a scheduling issue?” Ben asked. “It’s a clinical decision,” I said. “Her family’s promised a substantial fee.”Ben continued. “That’s not what this is about.” A beat of silence. Ben’s eyes searched mine. “But she’s a Sterling, Evelyn,” He said softly. “Her father is Thomas Sterling. Her mother’s family runs the Foundation. If we turn this down, the Board will want a memo.” “Let them write it,” I said. I picked up a fountain pen and began signing the discharge papers for a different patient. Then— Knock. Knock. It wasn’t the polite tap of a nurse but the knock of someone who owned the hallway. The door opened. A girl in a wheelchair rolled in, pushed by a young man with bleached hair. Sophie Sterling. She looked at me, her eyes tracking the “Chief of Surgery” plaque on my desk. “You’re the Vance woman?” Sophie asked. Her voice was thin but sharp. “I am Dr. Vance,” I said. “They say you’re the best.” She leaned in, clutching the wheelchair, her silk dress tight over her sharp mound of belly. “Why say no? You save people.” I set the pen down. “There are other qualified surgeons, Miss Sterling,” I said. “Not for this,” she snapped. “I know the stats. If you don’t do this surgery, I might die. My baby might die.” “You should go, Miss Sterling. I’ve already made my decision,” I said. “I’m not leaving. Not until you take my case!” Fine. I walked around her wheelchair and headed for the door. Behind me, her voice came—sharp, venomous: “You Vance! You’d rather let me die than save me! You don’t deserve to be a doctor!” The door closed. Her shouts faded. Ben followed me out, his face uncertain. “Evelyn… do you… know her?” “No.” “Then why—” I didn’t answer. Twenty years. I thought I’d grown cold enough. But today—when that face appeared before me—my hand still trembled. Was she innocent? Perhaps. But I couldn’t operate on her with a clear mind. And so—I couldn’t guarantee success.

The next morning, Director Miller leaned against my office doorframe. “The parents are here, Evelyn. They want a word.” I didn’t look up from the chart. “I gave my answer yesterday.” “Just five minutes. They’re clogging up the VIP lounge, and the Board is breathing down my neck.” Crack. The door pushed open before he finished. A man and a woman walked in. The man wore a dark overcoat, his temples touched with gray, his stride steady. The woman had her arm linked through his—perfect makeup, the same air of pampered arrogance in her eyes. Twenty years, and nothing had changed. “Dr. Vance. I’m Thomas Sterling. This is my wife, Claire.” He extended a hand across my desk. They didn’t know who I was. I kept my hands on the desk. Thomas drew his hand away, unembarrassed. “Dr. Vance. We’re here about Sophie,” he said. “We know the risks. We also know your reputation. Whatever the fee is, triple it.” Claire stepped forward, her arms crossed. “New surgical suite. Research funding. Your name on the building,” she said. “All yours. Just say yes.” How generous. When they sent me away with nothing twenty years ago, they didn’t even let me take a spare shirt. I capped my fountain pen. “Mr. and Mrs. Sterling are most generous,” I said. Thomas smiled. “If you’ll save Sophie, these are nothing.” I held his gaze. “Mr. Sterling seems quite practiced. Do you often accept improper benefits?” His smile froze. Director Miller’s face shifted. “Evelyn! Is that how you speak to a patient’s family?” “Evelyn?” Thomas froze a second. His eyes narrowed. He looked at my nameplate again, then at the way I held my shoulders. Then his posture shifted. The blood left his lips. Claire took a half-step back, her hand fluttering to the pearls at her neck. Same nervous gesture. Twenty years later. “No…no, it’s impossible!” “How could it be? You… you were supposed to be in another city. You were supposed to be…” “Gone?” I finished. The room went quiet. The only sound was the hum of the ventilation. “Evelyn, look,” Thomas spoke again, his voice dropping an octave. “The past is a different country. We were young. Decisions were made in the heat of the moment—” I cut him off. “A unit of O-negative. That’s what you took from me. And today was the price of your decision back then.” Bang! Claire’s face turned a mottled red. She slammed her clutch onto my desk. “So this is revenge? Letting a nineteen-year-old die for a twenty-year-old grudge?” “I am a surgeon,” I said. “I don’t operate unless my hand is steady. Clinically, I’m not the right surgeon for this case.” “You’re a liar!” Claire shouted. “You’re a cold-blooded bitch who wants to see me suffer through my daughter!” Thomas grabbed her elbow. “Claire, stop.” “No! Look at her! She’s enjoying this!” Claire pointed a shaking finger at me. “I’ll go to the Medical Board! I’ll have your license! I’ll tell the press you’re refusing a dying girl!” “Claire!” Thomas roared, then he turned to me. “Evelyn, she speaks impulsively. Don’t take it to heart.” How gentle. It was the first time I’d ever heard Thomas speak to me in that tone. He didn’t move for a moment. He looked at me, searching for something in my face. Then he spoke. “Let’s come to an understanding. About Sophie. Name your price. I’ll pay it.” “No.” I answered. He let out a sigh. “Evelyn, We used to be married, Evelyn. Doesn’t that count for anything to you?” Used to be? A cold smirk touched my lips. That—that was the one decision I’d undo in a heartbeat—if I could. “It counted for one unit of blood,” I looked at him. “And you gave it away.” “The divorce papers. And the part where you said she was supposed to be your wife. Did that count?”

I stood up. “Thomas. You bring up old times now. Don’t you find that a little disgusting?” His face went pale. His lips parted once, twice—nothing came out. Claire grabbed his arm. “Let’s go. Why are you still talking to her? She’s hell-bent on ruining us. She’s just bitter—she can’t stand to see us happy.” Claire led him out. The door clicked shut. I stood there. Silence. Then I changed. Walked into the OR. This patient was the same as Sophie. Malpresentation. Placental abnormality. High-risk. Under the surgical light, I took the hemostat. My hand didn’t shake. Four hours later, the last stitch. Sats came up. Mother and child—stable. I stepped out. The family was waiting. “Dr. Vance, thank you,” A middle-aged woman took my hand, eyes red. “You saved them both. We’re in your debt.” “It’s the job,” I smiled. “Check with the nurse for the recovery schedule, please.” More thanks. Then they were gone. I pulled my mask down. Started walking. Two people at the end of the hall. Martha, who used to be my mother, and Julian. Martha walked over. No hug. Her eyes ran over my white coat—up, down, and back up again. “You’ve done well for yourself, Evelyn,” she said. I didn’t answer her. Just keep walking. She came after me. Her hand closed around my wrist. “You’re really going to watch her die? Sophie is nineteen.” Julian stepped into my path. He smelled of expensive cigars. “Look, Ev,” Julian said. “We know we wronged you back then. And We’ve lived with the guilt those year. But Sophie is innocent. She knows nothing.” “She’s your family too—can’t you at least—” “I have no family,” I said. “They died in a delivery room twenty years ago.” Martha’s mouth tightened. Her grip tightened. Her fingers were cold. “But I’m your mother,” she whispered. “I’m asking you to save my granddaughter. I’ll do anything. I’ll give you whatever you want.” I looked at her hand on my wrist. I didn’t move. “Twenty years ago, I wanted to live,” I said. “I wanted my baby to live. I begged you all on the delivery table, but you still gave the last blood to Claire.” “So you’re not my mother. Not anymore.” Julian’s face went dark. “Mom, stop begging her. Look at her—does she look like she’d soften?” He pulled his mother’s arm. His voice went hard. Cold. “Evelyn Vance. You think I don’t have a way to make you?” “Don’t think your reputation will save you. I can destroy you with one finger.” The mask of warmth—gone. Underneath, the same face I’d seen twenty years ago. “Go ahead,” I said. “Call the press. Tell them the whole story. Start with the unit of O-negative and the signature on the consent form.” I pulled my arm away from Martha. Twenty years. It was time.

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Claire Whitman posted the first photo at 8:17 p.m. I knew because I had been sitting alone at our table for fifty-two minutes, watching the candle between the bread basket and untouched wine burn lower and lower while Ethan ignored my calls. The photo showed an oceanfront cabana at Four Seasons Maui. White curtains. A silver ice bucket. Two glasses of champagne. A sunset too expensive to look real. Her caption read: Finally healing in paradise. Some people always know how to take care of me. I stared at the screen until the letters blurred. The waiter came by for the third time, his smile now softened with pity. “Still waiting for someone, ma’am?” I looked at the empty chair across from me. Three years ago, Ethan Hayes had brought me to this same restaurant after his promotion to international captain. He had worn a navy suit, ordered a bottle of wine without looking at the price, and told me I made Manhattan feel like home. Back then, I believed him. Back then, I thought love meant waiting. Waiting for late flights. Waiting for delayed texts. Waiting for him to remember my birthday, my school art show, my mother’s medicine, the dinner reservation I had made three weeks in advance. Tonight was supposed to be different. Tonight, I was going to break up with him. Instead, I was waiting again. My phone buzzed. Not Ethan. Claire had posted another story. This time, the camera was tilted toward the champagne. At the edge of the frame, a man’s hand reached for the glass. A silver pilot’s watch caught the Maui sunset. My stomach turned cold. I knew that watch. I had saved for two months to buy it for Ethan when he made captain. He had kissed my forehead that night and said he would never take it off because it reminded him of me. Now it was shining beside Claire Whitman’s champagne glass in Hawaii. I laughed once. The sound came out wrong. The waiter looked even more concerned. “Ma’am?” I placed my napkin on the table. “Can I get the check?” He hesitated. “Your guest hasn’t arrived yet.” “He’s not coming.” Outside, Manhattan was wet with rain. Yellow cabs slid past the curb, headlights smeared across the pavement like paint. I had just stepped under the awning when a black Porsche Cayenne pulled into the no-parking lane. For half a second, my stupid heart moved. Then the passenger window rolled down. Claire leaned out, her blond hair loose around her shoulders, her skin glowing with a tan no New York spring could have given her. Around her neck was a delicate gold necklace I had never seen before. Maui still clung to her like perfume. “Hi, Maya,” she said, smiling as if she had not just posted my boyfriend’s hand on her vacation story. “Sorry we’re late. Ethan had to pick me up from the airport.” We. Ethan stepped out of the driver’s seat, still wearing the navy sweater I had packed for him before his so-called layover. “Maya,” he said quickly. “I can explain.” I looked at him. At the man who told me my Native mother could take a fifteen-hour train because holiday flights were “too complicated.” At the man who booked Claire’s family lie-flat business-class seats to Hawaii. At the man who said my mother would not be comfortable in his Tribeca condo, then paid for Claire to sleep in an ocean-view suite at Four Seasons Maui. At the man who watched my mother eat from a paper plate in his kitchen while Claire had an entire drawer of porcelain cups he called “hers.” For once, I did not ask why. I did not raise my voice. I did not cry. I simply opened the door of the Uber that had pulled up beside me. Ethan reached for my wrist. “Maya, wait.” I stepped back before he could touch me. “No,” I said. It was the same word he had given me when I asked for one plane ticket for my mother. Only mine sounded final. I got into the car and closed the door. Through the rain-streaked window, I saw Ethan standing under the awning, Claire still watching from the passenger seat. My phone buzzed again. Claire had posted a close-up of the gold necklace. Best trip ever. I blocked her first. Then I blocked Ethan. Then I leaned back, watched Manhattan blur into lights, and finally let myself breathe. My mother had been right. Some people showed you exactly who they were. You just had to stop translating cruelty into love.

Two days earlier, I had still been stupid enough to hope. Ethan was in the kitchen of his Tribeca condo, still in his pilot uniform, one hand wrapped around an espresso cup, the other scrolling through his phone. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, Manhattan glittered like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. He owned the condo. He drove the Porsche. He wore a watch that cost more than my yearly salary. He had an AmEx Platinum, a wine fridge full of bottles I was afraid to touch, and a doorman who called him Captain Hayes. I lived there too, technically. But I paid for my own groceries. My own subway pass. My mother’s medicine. My brother’s certification classes. And every month, I still transferred Ethan money for utilities because I never wanted his parents, his friends, or Claire Whitman to say I was living off him. That morning, my mother called from home. “Maya,” she said softly, “are you sure I won’t be trouble?” I smiled even though she could not see me. “Mom, you’re my mother. You’re not trouble.” “I checked the route again. It says fifteen hours if I take the bus, then the train. I’ll bring snacks. I’ll be fine.” The thought of her sitting alone through the night with her canvas bag in her lap made my chest hurt. Aiyana Tallis had never left our Native community. Not because she lacked courage. Because life had kept her busy surviving. She raised two children. She took care of my grandmother until the end. She made beadwork at the kitchen table until her fingers cramped, selling pieces at community fairs and school fundraisers so I could afford art supplies. She deserved one comfortable flight. Just one. So I turned to Ethan. “Your airline gives you family travel benefits, right?” He did not look up. “Yeah.” “Could you use one for my mom? Just one seat. I can pay you back if there are fees. She’s never flown before, and the train ride is really long.” His thumb kept moving across the screen. “No.” The word came too fast. I blinked. “No?” “It’s complicated, Maya.” He sighed like I had asked him to hand me the plane keys. “Holiday travel is a mess. Standby rules. Blackout dates. Paperwork. You wouldn’t understand.” On the phone, my mother went quiet. A moment earlier, she had been asking whether she should bring Ethan blue corn bread or dried berry tea. She wanted to know if Manhattan people liked handmade gifts. She had even asked, shyly, whether wearing her ribbon skirt would be too much. Now there was only silence. Then she laughed a little. The kind of laugh she used when she wanted to make herself smaller for someone else’s comfort. “It’s okay, baby,” she said. “The train is good. I can watch the country go by.” I opened my mouth, but Ethan’s phone lit up on the marble counter. A notification flashed across the screen. American Express Travel: Four Seasons Resort Maui at Wailea confirmed. Ocean-View Suite. Three nights. Under it came another confirmation. JFK to Honolulu. Four passengers. Lie-flat business class. Confirmed. Claire Whitman. Richard Whitman. Margaret Whitman. Lily Whitman. Claire’s whole family. Hawaii. Ethan picked up the phone too quickly, but not quickly enough. “I need to take this,” he said. He walked into the study and closed the door. Through the wall, I heard his voice soften. “No, Mrs. Whitman, please. Don’t thank me. After everything Claire’s been through, you all deserve Maui.” I stood in the kitchen with my mother still breathing quietly in my ear. Beside Ethan’s leather flight bag sat the small beaded pouch she had mailed for him. Blue, black, and silver. A butterfly pattern. “For safe travel,” she had said. I looked at that pouch. Then at the closed study door. Then at the window, where Manhattan shone cold and untouchable. My mother whispered, “Baby, you don’t have to fight with him over me.” That hurt more than anything. Because even from fifteen hours away, even without seeing the Four Seasons confirmation glowing on his phone, she already understood what I had spent three years trying not to see. Ethan Hayes was not unable to help. He simply did not believe my mother was worth helping.

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