After Ethan’s climbing accident, I lost thirty pounds in a single month. I uploaded decades of our chat logs into an AI simulator, desperately hoping to create a digital version of him to keep me company for the rest of my life. But after thirty seconds of deep processing, the AI gave me a cold, calculated reply: The user’s husband has never loved her. Later, they found Ethan’s body. When the avalanche struck, he had used his own body to shield Chloe Miller, protecting her until his very last breath. When they died, there was no fear on their faces—only a peaceful, quiet acceptance. After burying my husband and my best friend, my body finally gave out. I collapsed in the cemetery, coughing up blood, and died right there on the cold grass. But when I opened my eyes again, I was standing right outside the SAT test center. In front of the gates, Ethan and Chloe were sweating profusely. Ethan’s grandmother had just suffered heatstroke on the sidewalk. I took one cold look at them, turned around, and walked away. This time, I wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. I just wanted to live for myself.

I walked briskly through the crowd, keeping my head down. Just as I was about to step through the school gates, a panicked female voice called out from behind me. “Hazel! Get over here and help! Ethan’s grandma just collapsed from the heat!” My footsteps paused, but I didn’t turn around. The cold wind of the cemetery still seemed to howl in my ears, and the metallic taste of blood still lingered in my mouth. Suddenly, a warm, firm hand grabbed my wrist. “Hazel, please. You’re the only one who can help me.” Eighteen-year-old Ethan stood before me, wearing a faded school hoodie. His eyes were as clear as mountain lakes—the kind of eyes that made you drown in them with just one look. But I wasn’t that gullible eighteen-year-old girl anymore. In my past life, I was so terrified that Ethan’s SATs would be ruined. So, I volunteered to take his grandmother to the ER myself. By the time I rushed back to the test center, I was thirteen minutes late. The doors were locked, and I missed the entire English section. Ultimately, my SAT scores were a disaster, and I ended up at a local community college. Meanwhile, he and Chloe got into top Ivy League universities together. When Ethan proposed to me years later, he said that without the eighteen-year-old me, he would never have become the successful man he was today. Back then, his expression was incredibly complex. Only later did I realize that his look wasn’t just gratitude—it was the suffocating weight of obligation. I shook my head and gently pulled my hand back. “I can’t help you, Ethan.” “If I take her to the hospital, I’ll miss the gate-closing time.” Ethan’s face went pale with disbelief. “That’s exactly why we’re asking you to go!” Chloe chimed in from the side, her voice sharp. “Ethan is at the top of our class. He has a real shot at Harvard! You can’t let his entire future be ruined because of this!” The more Chloe spoke, the more self-righteous she became. I took a deep breath. “I know. That’s why I’m not going.” “Hazel!” Chloe’s voice jumped an octave. “You’re practically a straight-C student who’s probably going to end up at some community college anyway. How can you compare your future to Ethan’s?” I froze, looking directly into Chloe’s eyes. With my actual academic level, if I performed normally, I could easily get into a top-tier UC school. Yet here she was, already labeling me a community college failure. “Ethan is your boyfriend! How can you be so incredibly selfish?” Chloe hissed. Ethan pulled her back, letting out a soft sigh. “Don’t say that, Chloe. This is my responsibility. It’s totally fine if she doesn’t want to help.” “But it’s so unfair to your SATs!” Chloe’s eyes welled with frustrated tears. I looked at Chloe calmly. “If you’re so worried about him, you can take his grandma to the hospital yourself.” Chloe choked on her words, completely speechless. “Alright, Chloe, don’t worry about it,” Ethan said, his tone softening as he patted Chloe’s shoulder comfortingly. “I’ll run his grandma to the clinic down the street and sprint back. Just focus on your test and don’t worry about me.” Chloe suddenly stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck. “You have to run as fast as you can, okay?!” Ethan’s hands hovered in the air for a few seconds. Those hands. I knew them so well. They had tied my shoelaces, held umbrellas over my head in the rain, and slipped a promise ring onto my finger. Slowly, those hands came down and gently patted Chloe’s back. “I will. Now go in and do your best.” Ethan turned his head to look at me. But I had already averted my gaze, walking straight into the exam hall without looking back.

When the proctor started reading the exam rules, my mind was still a bit hazy. But I forced myself to calm down quickly. It didn’t matter who Ethan truly loved anymore. What mattered was that I had successfully bought myself those precious thirteen minutes. It was only after the exam ended that I saw Ethan again, waiting near the gates. Chloe walked up behind him, tapped his shoulder, and as he turned around, she leaned in and kissed him right on the lips. Ethan froze for a second, but he didn’t pull away. Only after a few moments did he seem to regain his senses, whispering, “What if Hazel sees us?” Chloe pouted. “So what if she does? Were you planning on hiding us from her forever?” The passing students all turned to look, whispering. Once they recognized the top two students on the school leaderboard, their gossiping turned into supportive smiles. I walked right past them just as they were reluctantly letting go of each other’s hands. “How’s your grandma?” I asked. Ethan withdrew his hand from Chloe’s, his voice turning cold. “She’s in the hospital. Out of danger.” “That’s good.” I turned to leave, but Ethan quickly grabbed my arm. “Let me drive you home.” I pulled my wrist back. “No need. You should take Chloe home.” Ethan’s eyes darkened. In my past life, our three-way friendship had lasted for over fifty years. Like Ethan, my parents worked out of state, and I grew up with my grandparents. When I got my first period at eleven, I was terrified and locked myself in the bathroom. It was Chloe who knocked on my door with a box of pads, smiling and telling me, “Don’t worry, sweetie. It just means you’re growing up.” And it was Ethan who rode his bike to school with me every day, telling me, “Whenever your stomach hurts, my passenger seat is always reserved for you.” Later, they went to the same elite university, started a tech company together, and made it onto the under-30 Forbes list. And I was just the supportive wife, the loyal best friend, the one clapping for their grand achievements from the shadow of the stage. It was only after they died together in that Everest avalanche that I found out the truth. In our fifty years together, the chat log backup between Ethan and me was barely a hundred megabytes. But his archive with Chloe was over ten gigabytes. His will, locked securely in a safe deposit box, stated he wanted to be buried in the same plot as Chloe. All he left for me was a single, pathetic note: I’m sorry. But what use was a cheap apology for a lifetime of wasted devotion? The morning after the SATs, I put on my backpack and headed out. My grandmother poked her head out from the kitchen. “Are you starting your part-time job today, sweetie?” I paused for a few seconds, then shook my head. “No, Grandma. I’m going to the library.” Grandma let out a relieved smile. “I don’t mind you working, Hazel. I just don’t want you to exhaust yourself.” “I know, Grandma.” Ethan’s family was broke, and with his grandma hospitalized, he could barely afford his daily meals. In my past life, to help him cover his living expenses, I started working three part-time jobs the very next day after the SATs. For two solid months of summer, I worked non-stop without a single day off. Every night when I finished my shift, he and Chloe would walk over from the library to meet me. They were already studying college-level advanced calculus and would debate math formulas all the way home. I would drag my exhausted feet behind them, yawning constantly, unable to join their high-brow conversations. This time, as I sat down in the library with my laptop, I ran straight into Ethan and Chloe. Chloe gasped in surprise when she saw me. “Hazel? Why aren’t you working at the boba shop?” She glanced at the thick programming and web design books piled on my table. “Does your community college really require such heavy reading? I thought you guys just cruised through easy classes to get a degree.” “Honestly, instead of wasting your time on books you won’t understand, you should focus on keeping Ethan happy.” “He’s such an amazing catch. If you don’t lock him down, there’s a line of girls waiting to take your place.” I took a moment to digest her thinly veiled insults, then offered a faint smile. “Ethan is indeed very talented. You should hold onto him tightly then.” Ethan remained silent for a long time before asking, “Since when did we become so distant, Hazel?” I smiled but said nothing. Since when?

Probably since the moment I heard of his death, when I couldn’t eat or sleep, and my hair fell out in clumps. Or maybe when I imported his chat logs and tearfully typed to the AI, Ethan, I miss you so much. And the AI, after analyzing every single message, generated a brutal summary in its hidden thought process: The user’s husband initiated conversations only 1.2% of the time. Average response length: 4.1 words. High-frequency words: ‘Ok’, ‘Sure’, ‘Got it’. This relationship shows severe emotional asymmetry. Ethan didn’t know that I stayed up all night reading that analysis. When dawn broke, I sent one last message to the virtual Ethan: Let’s get a divorce. The AI replied: If that’s what you want. From that moment on, I knew I had to let him go. Because I hadn’t missed those thirteen minutes during the SATs, I scored fifty points higher than in my previous life. My score was more than enough to get into a top-tier university. Ethan didn’t make the cut for Harvard, but his foundation was solid enough to get into UC Berkeley. The day the results came out, Ethan was waiting for me downstairs. “I’m planning to go to UC Berkeley. Tell me your scores, and I’ll help you find a decent college nearby.” I didn’t buy into his helpful act. “I’ve already committed to San Francisco State University. Don’t worry about me.” Ethan’s brows furrowed deeply. “Long-distance is incredibly hard.” He paused, then explained, “I don’t have a scholarship. If we aren’t in the same city, it’s going to be really expensive to see each other.” In my past life, hearing this would have melted my heart. I would have thought he was desperately trying to keep us together. But now, I saw right through him. He was calculating costs. He was weighing whether seeing me was worth the bus fare. In my previous life, Ethan’s business took off right after college. We got married, and I naturally became the housewife managing his home. But by our third year of marriage, he and Chloe went to Europe to establish a branch office. The round-trip flight tickets were pocket change to him by then, yet he didn’t come home once that entire year. During New Year’s, I couldn’t help but ask when he was coming back. He merely replied, “Things are chaotic here. Low-priority matters have to wait.” I smiled at the memory. “You don’t have to worry about the distance,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Our relationship was never a high priority anyway.” Ethan’s face went completely blank. “Hazel…” “What are you guys talking about?” Chloe interrupted, suddenly appearing and wrapping her arm warmly around mine. “I’ve decided to go to Berkeley with you guys! Aren’t you excited?” “It’s a shame to give up my Ivy League offers, but I just couldn’t bear to be apart from you two.” Chloe giving up her Ivy League spot for Ethan was actually a bit of a surprise to me. “Ethan said that even though your major isn’t great, getting a degree from SFSU is good enough to pad your resume.” I gently pulled my arm out of her grasp. “I’ve already submitted my enrollment. I’m staying in San Francisco.” “San Francisco?” A flash of surprise crossed Chloe’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a smug satisfaction. “Well, look at our Hazel, finally making her own choices! SFSU is fine, the city is beautiful.” She nudged Ethan’s shoulder with her own. “Right, Ethan?” Ethan didn’t answer her. He just kept his eyes on me, his voice dangerously low. “You can still change your college portal submission. There’s still time.” I shook my head. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m not changing it.” Ethan stood frozen for a few seconds, his hands slowly clenching into tight fists at his sides. “Suit yourself.” In my past life, while Ethan was building his empire overseas, I was teaching myself video editing and social media management while raising our kid. When Ethan and Chloe finally returned, a major creator agency in San Francisco actually reached out to sign me. Chloe had brought me a brand-new Gucci bag as a gift. “For our hardworking Hazel! Your social media page is doing so well!” “But… if you sign with an agency in SF, who’s going to take care of Ethan and his parents? You won’t have any time for family.” Ethan had pressed his hand down on the contract I was about to sign, his voice filled with annoyance. “Hazel, why do you always lose sight of what’s actually important?” “The money I make is enough to support us for ten lifetimes. Why do you need to show your face online like some cheap influencer? Taking care of our home is your top priority.” After weighing his words, I gave up the SF opportunity. I spent decades cooking, cleaning, and taking care of his demanding family. And what did I get in return? The strap of my backpack was digging into my shoulder. I shifted it to my other hand and walked straight past them, refusing to waste another breath.

The library’s AC was blasting cold air. I flipped through a massive textbook on interior design, filling half a notebook with study notes. By the time I walked out of the library, the sun had already set. Passing by a familiar boba shop, I remembered that this was where I used to work in my past life. As I stood near the entrance, two familiar voices drifted over from the side alley. “Standing for eight hours straight is literally killing me.” “Ethan, my back hurts so much. Massage it for me, please?” I looked over and saw Chloe leaning against Ethan, whining playfully. Ethan looked startled and took a half-step back. “Why are you dodging? Hazel isn’t even here.” “Seriously, when are you going to break up with her?” Ethan remained silent. Chloe gave him a frustrated push. “I’m a straight-A student who could have gone to an Ivy League, and here I am shaking boba cups for you every day until my wrists ache! And you still won’t give me a proper title!” Ethan sighed, suddenly uttering a completely random sentence. “Back then, Hazel worked three jobs a day. It couldn’t have been easy for her.” I stood in the shadows, unmoving. I remembered that hot summer when I would walk tiredly behind them after a long shift. Once, my shoelaces came untied. By the time I tied them and looked up, they had already vanished down the street. Back then, I thought he walked fast because he was busy. Now I knew the truth—he simply never bothered to look back for me. I pulled my gaze away and walked home. After taking a shower and getting ready for bed, my phone suddenly buzzed. “Hazel, I’m downstairs.” I pulled back the curtains. Ethan was standing under the old oak tree outside my window, looking up at me. “What do you want?” I asked over the phone. The yellow streetlamp cast his long shadow across the pavement. He just stared up at me, silent. Just as I was about to hang up, he suddenly blurted out, “I changed my college choice.” “Five minutes before the portal closed.” I gave a flat, “Okay.” “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” I echoed flatly, “Where are you going?” I heard him let out a soft, nervous sigh over the receiver. “I’m coming to San Francisco with you.” He looked up expectantly, his eyes filled with a tenderness I had never seen before. I looked away, staring into the dark sky. “What time does the boba shop close? You should be picking up Chloe right about now.” “Hazel… please don’t be like this.” He paused, sounding as if he was making a massive sacrifice. “I don’t know why you refused to come to Berkeley with me. But since you chose San Francisco, I’m coming to you.” I replied calmly, “There is absolutely no need.” The night breeze rustled the leaves of the oak tree. I remembered the last time we saw each other at the airport before he and Chloe went to climb Everest. They were laughing and chatting as they disappeared past the security gates. He hadn’t looked back at me once. “Ethan,” I said softly. “Let’s break up.” “What?” His breathing suddenly grew ragged. Under the streetlamp, his fists clenched tightly as he stared up at my window. “Hazel, why?” I looked down at him and spoke in a quiet, steady voice. “After the avalanche, it took me a very long time to crack your phone passcode.” “Do you still remember what that passcode was?” His shoulders began to tremble. Silence fell over the line. “I know what it was. 0924. Chloe’s birthday.” I continued, “The night before the climb, you sent her one last Snapchat.” “If there’s a next life, I’ll choose you.” Under the dim light, he stared up at me. After what felt like an eternity, he whispered, “Hazel, what are you talking about?” His face was filled with confusion, yet his hand was gripping his phone so hard his knuckles turned white. My hand tightened on the curtain.

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A gorgeous new transfer girl arrived at our high school, boldly bragging to everyone that she’d get my childhood sweetheart, Ethan, into her bed within three months. Ethan merely gave her a freezing glare and called her delusional. Then, he grabbed my hand tightly, pulling me close as he whined like a spoiled puppy. “Everyone knows I’ve been yours since we were in diapers, Daisy.” The transfer girl chased him relentlessly all the way until winter break, but Ethan never gave her the time of day. Until the party right before the spring semester started. Ethan got completely wasted, and I had to drive him home. He mumbled my name the entire ride. My heart fluttered. Looking at his handsome, sleeping face, I decided to steal a quick kiss. This was going to be my first kiss. But the second my lips brushed his, his hand shot out, locking around my waist. His voice was incredibly husky. “Babe, why so shy this time?” “No tongue?” I froze instantly. Ethan’s kiss was deep and intense. His movements weren’t clumsy at all. In fact, he kissed like an absolute pro. He said this time. Who was the last time? Before I could even ask, he let me go. Ethan was too drunk to keep his eyes open. He let out a low groan, his brow furrowing slightly. “Silly girl… still haven’t learned how to breathe?” “Did I teach you all those times for nothing?” I took a sharp breath, placing my hand against his cheek to push him back. My fingertips were trembling violently, but I forced myself to stay calm. “Ethan. Look at me. Who am I?” Ethan went quiet, squinting his eyes to look at me. I never expected those few seconds of waiting to be so torturous. An answer was already screaming in my head. But I wanted to hear it from his own mouth. Ethan slapped his own cheeks, then pinched mine, mumbling drunkenly, “Babe… why are you still in my dreams?” “Daisy… you’re so much better in my dreams. You actually let me kiss you whenever I want.” My eyelashes fluttered. Hearing my name, the icy dread in my chest melted away instantly. So, he thought he was dreaming. Ethan cupped my face, his warm, wet lips pressing against mine again. “Babe, breathe. Don’t choke up and blush like you did last time.” He coaxed me gently between kisses, whispering all the pet names he had always used for me. After he finished kissing me, he collapsed back onto the bed, burying his face under the duvet as if he were suddenly shy. “Damn, it felt so real this time.” I sat by his bedside, my lips pressed into a thin line. After a few seconds, I stood up. Whatever. Ethan was an idiot, but he had chased me his entire life. If there was something going on, he wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret from me anyway. My parents weren’t home today. I pulled out my phone to order some takeout on DoorDash, but the screen flickered and died. Out of battery. Too lazy to grab my charger, I reached for Ethan’s phone instead. His lock screen was still my latest selfie. Ethan always claimed he got bored of things easily. So, he insisted on receiving at least three new, different photos of me every week. Otherwise, he’d throw a tantrum and ignore me. He was incredibly high-maintenance. I used to tease him about it, saying if he got bored so easily, why had he only loved me for so many years? He would just shrug and smile. “Well, I just love loving you.” But when I pressed my thumb against the home button, it read: Fingerprint Try Again. Out of the five registered fingerprints on his phone, one was his, and the other four had always been mine. I tried every single one of my fingers. All failed. Did he delete them by accident? No, Ethan wouldn’t do that. I tried entering his passcode—my birthday. He had used this passcode for years. He would never change it. Incorrect Passcode. Just then, his screen lit up with a notification from Snapchat. It was a photo. Sent by Chloe. The transfer girl who had been chasing him for months.

My grip on the phone tightened. I wondered, when did they even add each other on Snapchat? Didn’t Ethan hate her guts? Honestly, Ethan had always had plenty of admirers. But he was naturally arrogant, sharp-tongued, and his blatant favoritism toward me made most girls give up eventually. Chloe was the only one who had persisted this long. She was also the only one who could genuinely piss Ethan off. Once, after school, Chloe cornered me in the hallway. She looked at me coldly and said: “Daisy, you and Ethan aren’t officially dating, right?” “May the best woman win, then.” She was dripping with hostility. Before I could even open my mouth, Ethan grabbed my backpack, slinging it over his shoulder with practiced ease. He handed me a warm cup of coffee, then wrapped my scarf and beanie securely around me. Usually, Ethan was quite playful, but that evening, the air around him was freezing. He took my hand, his tall frame shielding me completely from Chloe. He said coldly: “She doesn’t need to compete with you. Because I’m the one begging for her attention.” “We aren’t dating yet, but she is my future wife.” On the walk home that night, Ethan didn’t say a word. I couldn’t help but poke his cheek. “What’s… wrong with you?” Ethan’s eyes were slightly red. He pinched my cheek in frustration. “Aren’t you even a little jealous?” “Another girl literally threatened you, and you had zero reaction? Do you even like me at all?” Oh. So that was why. I shook my head. “No. Because I know I’m the only one in your heart.” Ethan’s lips curved up, clearly pleased by my answer. He squeezed my hand tighter. “I can’t wait for us to graduate, Daisy. I want to make you my official girlfriend so bad.” I lowered my gaze, remembering what Ethan’s mother, Mrs. Carter, had told me in secret. “Daisy, Ethan has loved you since you were kids. I don’t object to you two being together, but can you promise me one thing? Don’t officially date him until after graduation.” I squeezed Ethan’s hand back, thinking: Ethan, just wait for me a little longer. We only have one semester left. I put Ethan’s phone down and went downstairs to my bedroom. The room I had lived in for over ten years. When I was three, my parents got a divorce. My mother, Sarah, took me with her and started working as a live-in housekeeper for Ethan’s family. Since Ethan and I were the same age, we basically grew up together. As a kid, Ethan always had this aloof, “do not cross” vibe. I was pretty terrified of him, but I’d still politely call him “Ethan.” He never acknowledged the nickname, but he would always drag me along whenever he played with his friends. I guess I was a cute kid, because one day, one of his friends asked Ethan if he could “have” me as his girlfriend. Normally indifferent, Ethan snapped. He tackled the boy to the ground and snarled, “Fuck off.” That was the first time I saw him angry, and the first time I heard him swear. On the walk back, I timidly trailed behind him, calling his name. His anger hadn’t faded. He turned around and yelled at me for the first time in his life: “Stop calling me like we’re just friends!” I was so scared that I avoided him for days, until he finally cornered me. His voice had softened, and his usual nickname for me was born. “Daisy, are you stupid?” “Friends don’t get married. I want to be your husband.” I had stood there, frozen, my heart pounding wildly. I had thought he tolerated me, maybe even disliked me. I never imagined he loved me. After that confession, Ethan became completely shameless about showing his affection. His love was loud, proud, and passionate. To the point where everyone in our circle knew: Ethan Carter would only ever marry one person. Daisy. But tonight, I couldn’t stop the doubts from creeping in. His natural, practiced kissing skills. The way he called me “babe.” And that Snapchat photo from Chloe that I couldn’t unlock.

The next morning was the first day of the new semester. My mom had taken a month off to visit family, and Ethan’s parents were away on a business trip. Only Ethan and I were left in the house. I had been tossing and turning all night, so I overslept. The moment I rushed out of my room, I bumped straight into Ethan’s chest. A faint scent of sweet citrus washed over me. I sniffed, asking subconsciously: “Did you change your body wash? It smells different.” He had always insisted on using the exact same body wash as me. He hadn’t changed it in years. Even when we went out yesterday, he still smelled like my lavender body wash. Ethan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He gave a quiet, dismissive grunt. He clearly didn’t want to explain. “I made breakfast. Let’s get to school first.” I took the breakfast bag from him, biting my lip. “My mom told me to take care of you…” Ethan grabbed my wrist, letting out a soft laugh. “You? Taking care of me? You literally threw me onto the bed last night and ran away.” I seized the opportunity. “I was going to order food, but my phone died. And you changed your passcode.” Ethan paused for a split second, then explained smoothly, “Some guys at school guessed my passcode was your birthday. It wasn’t safe.” “You know my phone is packed with your photos. I’d go crazy if anyone saw them.” “Oh,” I murmured. He continued, “I changed it to the date I first confessed to you.” I nodded, but a nagging thought lingered. Even so, did he really have to delete my fingerprints? Before I could ask, Ethan tossed his phone into my lap and leaned his head against the car window, closing his eyes. “See for yourself. It’s rare for you to actually check up on me.” “At least it means you finally care a little.” I never used to do things like this, but today, I was consumed by anxiety. I unlocked his phone and opened Snapchat. Chloe’s contact name was gone. I tossed the phone back onto his lap. “I saw Chloe send you a photo yesterday. Now she’s not even on your friend list.” Ethan replied casually, “Oh, yeah. She sent some nude photo. I blocked and deleted her immediately.” …A nude? My throat felt tight. I wanted to ask him why he had even added her in the first place. Didn’t he despise her? But I felt like I had no right to ask. Who was I to him? Everyone else thought I was being dramatic, playing hard to get when Ethan was practically worshiping the ground I walked on. But Ethan’s mother had taken my mom and me in when we had nothing. We owed her everything. Since she asked me to wait until graduation, I was going to keep my promise. Besides, it was only a few more months. We would be together soon anyway. “Daisy, when I accepted her request, I didn’t know it was her account,” Ethan said, showing me his lock screen. His eyes were warm and sincere. “It just disgusted me. She doesn’t have a fraction of my Daisy’s cuteness.” Once we reached the classroom, Ethan sat next to me as usual. He smoothly unpacked my favorite snacks, new stationery, and various little things I might need from his backpack. He had always taken care of me with this level of meticulous detail. Chloe was the last to enter the classroom. Despite the freezing winter weather, she wore a tight, cropped top, a thin jacket, and a tiny miniskirt. Chewing gum loudly, she tossed her backpack onto the desk right across the aisle from Ethan. Ethan’s pen paused. He glanced at me. “Daisy, let’s swap seats.” Chloe raised her chin and scoffed, sliding into her seat. I moved to Ethan’s original seat. The moment I sat down, a strong scent of sweet citrus hit my nose. It was the exact same scent as Ethan’s new body wash. Only, on her, it was much stronger.

During the first period of study hall, I forced myself to focus on my math problems, telling myself not to overthink. Suddenly, a folded note landed on my desk. It was from Chloe. I hesitated, then opened it. He smells like me, doesn’t he? My heart sank. I crumpled the note into a ball and threw it angrily at Ethan. Ethan, who was busy compiling my practice mistakes, looked up in surprise. He slowly unfolded the paper. The moment his eyes scanned the words, his knuckles turned white. Muttering a curse, Ethan grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the classroom. The teacher yelled after us, but Ethan ignored him, leaving our names to be written on the board. At the end of the hallway, I yanked my hand away. “What is your problem?” “What lies did she tell you now?” Ethan hissed. I bit my lip. “She didn’t lie. You two smell exactly the same.” Ethan let out a heavy sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t listen to her BS, Daisy. I ran into her at the grocery store two days ago when I went to buy your snacks.” “She probably saw me buying that body wash. She bought the same one just to mess with you.” It felt like too much of a coincidence, but I chose to believe him. Ethan wouldn’t lie to me. “Fine. I didn’t say anything. Let’s go back.” Ethan reached for my hand, but I instinctively flinched away. I was distracted for the rest of the day, making silly mistakes on simple calculus questions. On the ride home, Ethan didn’t hold my hand or speak to me for the first time. Usually, the walk from the classroom to the parking lot was his prime time to whine and cling to me. I actually loved listening to his endless chatter. It was such a contrast to his cold, arrogant persona in public. It was cute. But today, he just kept staring at his phone. With his long legs and wide strides, he completely forgot to slow down for me, leaving me trailing far behind. I clutched my backpack straps and jogged to keep up. That night, Ethan brought a mug of warm milk to my room. He leaned against the doorframe, watching me drink it. Then, tossing his messy hair back, he smiled softly. “Can I have a hug?” I nodded. Since we had already kissed last night, a simple hug didn’t seem like too much. I walked over and stepped into his arms. But the scent that filled my nose wasn’t the citrus from earlier. It was my lavender body wash. Hadn’t he changed his body wash? Suddenly, Ethan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He glanced at the screen. Immediately, he let go of me and walked out without looking back. “Sleep well, babe.” I stood frozen in the middle of the room. The mixed scent of lavender and citrus hung heavy in the air, suffocating me. Right before bed, I received a Snapchat friend request. The profile picture was Chloe. [Remember what I said three months ago? I did it.] [I tested him out for you first. Ethan is an absolute beast in bed.]

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I won a million dollars on a scratch-off ticket Ethan bought me. The moment I saw the winning numbers, I screamed, jumping up and down in pure ecstasy. “Ethan! We have the money to get married now!” He wouldn’t have to stress about our wedding budget, a down payment for a house, or car loans anymore. Our five-year relationship was finally going to end in a beautiful wedding. But he didn’t laugh. He just let out a faint, irritated sigh. “Are you really that desperate to marry me?” I froze. Then, a burst of roaring laughter erupted from his phone on the table. “Ethan, a bet’s a bet! She actually wants to use that money to marry you! You better put a ring on it, bro!” “Your wedding budget is only ten grand? That’s not even enough to buy Chloe a designer bag. She’s so cheap.” Chloe. The rich girl who bullied me throughout high school. I looked down at the scratch-off ticket crumpled in my fist. Then, I tossed it straight into the trash can. “Alright, cut it out, guys,” Ethan said into the phone. “Am I the type to go back on my word? Just get your wedding gifts ready for me.” After another round of teasing from the group, a voice that often haunted my nightmares came through the speaker. It was Chloe. “Ethan, are you insane?!” “We agreed you’d just play her to help me get even. Are you actually going to marry her?” Ethan wiped my tears with one hand while replying carelessly into his phone, “Yeah, why not? Who else would I marry? You, Chloe?” “Did you really think I was your lapdog, doing whatever you told me to do?” The call ended abruptly with a beep. She had hung up. Ethan stared at his phone for a long time before looking up at me with a smile. “Why were you crying just now? Were you just shocked that I actually have money?” Before I could answer, he asked, “Want some pasta? I’ll make it now.” He put on his apron and began boiling the pasta, acting as if that humiliating prank call had never happened. I took a deep breath, my chest aching terribly. I couldn’t help but ask, “Aren’t you tired?” “What?” “These past five years… aren’t you tired of acting?” Ethan went silent. The only sound in the apartment was the roar of the range hood. It was driving me crazy. I walked over, shut it off, and yanked Ethan’s arm, forcing him to look at me. “Aren’t you going to explain?” “I just did, didn’t I? What else do you want me to say?” He paused, then added, “Chloe is just a childhood friend. Don’t overthink it.” He was brushing it off, completely avoiding the bet they had made, and conveniently ignoring Chloe’s words about “getting even.” I tilted my head back, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. Five years. More than a thousand days and nights. I had given Ethan my whole heart. I truly believed he was the one I would spend the rest of my life with. I didn’t care that we were broke. We could work hard. I didn’t care that we didn’t have a house or a nice car. We could rent, and we could save. But now, I was being told that all of this—our entire relationship—was just a setup to help Chloe get revenge on me? A custom-made trap? I honestly didn’t get it. I was just an ordinary girl. Why did they go to such lengths to mess with me? How could Ethan play the role of the perfect, caring boyfriend for five whole years? When he used to tell me how guilty he felt for not being rich enough to give me a better life, did he want to laugh? When he massaged my cold feet or did my laundry, did he have to hold back his disgust? What an amazing actor. I really put him through a lot, didn’t I? “So, what date should we set for the wedding?” he asked casually, as if asking whether I wanted cheese on my pasta. I clenched my teeth, my voice dripping with bitterness. “We’re not getting married.” He scoffed. “Seriously? Because of a joke? Haven’t you been begging to marry me?” “Yeah, I lied to you, but doesn’t this have a happy ending?” “I can increase the wedding budget to over a hundred thousand dollars. House, car—whichever you want, just name it. What are you still throwing a tantrum about?” “This isn’t about the money…” Ethan stopped what he was doing. Suddenly, he slammed the pasta bowl against the wall. The shards shattered everywhere, scratching my bare leg. Marinara sauce splattered all over the floor. “When we had no money, you wanted security. Now that we have money, you want to talk about something else!” “Ava, are you out of your mind?!” Blood trickled down my leg, and my hands felt numb. Ethan instinctively reached out to grab me, but I pushed him away. “Yes! I am out of my mind!” My voice was barely a whisper. I pulled up my sleeves, revealing the old and new scars lining my forearms. “I have severe depression and PTSD. Are you happy now?” Tears poured down my face. I bit my lip so hard it bled, staring straight into his eyes. “Ethan, I’m asking you—are you happy now?!” “Why the hell would I marry you?!” “Why would I marry the man who helped my bully torment me?!” Ethan’s lips trembled, and a flicker of emotion crossed his eyes. For a split second, I actually thought it was pity. Then, his phone rang. He answered it. A frantic voice yelled from the other end, “Ethan! Chloe’s wasted! She’s screaming your name, saying she needs to see you!” “What does that have to do with me?” Ethan said, pulling out a first-aid kit to clean my cut. “She said… if you don’t show up tonight, she’s going to sleep with some random guy at the bar…” The bottle of antiseptic knocked over, spilling brown liquid all over the floor. Ethan clenched his fists. He gave me a conflicted look, then made his decision. “Clean yourself up. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t say a word. I just stood by the window in silence. I watched him sprint out of the building. He even kicked over my Vespa parked by the entrance because it was in his way. He had bought me that Vespa during our second year of dating. It couldn’t shield me from the rain, but it meant I didn’t have to squeeze onto the subway anymore. The day I got it, I was so happy that I took him on rides around the neighborhood for hours. My definition of love, my definition of happiness… Just like that Vespa, it was now lying knocked over on the pavement, its side mirrors shattered to pieces.

The blood kept dripping. I wrapped my leg up with gauze, feeling completely numb. The bright red blood mixed with my tears. It was sickening. I stared at the bandage. My mind kept drifting back to Chloe’s words: “play her.” Then, I remembered the nights I would wake up sobbing from nightmares, cutting myself because I couldn’t handle the pain, and how Ethan would always hold me and scream— “Ava! If you die, you get to escape! But what about me?!” “What about the people who love you?!” He had held me so tight. He sounded so incredibly sincere. His warm tears had soaked my shoulder, melting the ice around my heart. So, I had opened up to him. I sobbed and told him all my trauma. I told him how Chloe and her friends had spread disgusting rumors about me, accused me of stealing money, and how they had poured ice-cold water over my head in the middle of winter, leaving me with chronic health issues… It had forced me to take a year off from school and spend six months in a hospital. I had broken down countless times because of “Chloe,” yet I kept enduring it. And Ethan had comforted me every single time, holding me from dusk till dawn, whispering, “Don’t worry, I’m here.” Was he really comforting me? Or was he sharing my misery with Chloe as their proud trophy? I didn’t dare to think about it anymore. My laptop screen lit up. The Snapchat icon kept flashing. Ethan had forgotten to log out. With trembling hands, I clicked on it. I saw a group chat where Chloe was the admin. I scrolled all the way to the top and read every single message, word by word. I saw how Ethan’s relentless pursuit of me in college wasn’t because of love at first sight. It was because Chloe had said: [She’s going to the same college as you? She doesn’t deserve to be there.] [Ethan, I hate her so much. Can you pretend to date her, ruin her, and then dump her?] And Ethan had replied casually: [You won’t be my girlfriend, but you’re pushing me to someone else?] [You’re cruel.] I saw how every time I let my guard down around Ethan, the group chat would celebrate, begging him to “take her virginity.” I saw Ethan posting the video of him gifting me the Vespa, and everyone laughing at it: [So cheap. And she actually treats that piece of trash like a treasure.] I saw them calling the watch I bought him—using six months of my savings—cheap garbage… Every single cruel, toxic message pierced through my brain. My tears splattered onto the keyboard. I wiped them away with my sleeve and kept reading. Later on, Ethan’s messages in the group became less frequent. Until recently, when they couldn’t wait to see me break, planning the final blow. I sank back into my chair, my heart pounding violently. The air in the room felt frozen. I could hear my own shallow breathing and the loud noise coming from a video sent in the group chat. “Kiss her! Kiss her!” “Ethan, Chloe is being so obvious. Aren’t you going to show her some love?” I stared blankly at the video. I watched Ethan pick up a drunken Chloe and carry her into a private bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them. The cheers and wolf whistles in the video almost blew out my speakers. My fingers slowly moved to the keyboard. I typed and hit send: [You disgusting, sick bastards. Why don’t you all just go to hell?] The next second, the account was force-logged out. My stomach churned. I ran to the toilet and threw up until my throat burned. It turned out the storm of my youth had never ended. Ethan had just temporarily held an umbrella over me, making me believe the sun was shining. My phone rang. I picked it up. “You saw it?” Ethan’s voice sounded panicked. “Yeah.” “Wait till I get back. I’ll explain. I…” “No need.” I sat on the cold bathroom floor, looking around the cozy apartment we had decorated together. “You don’t need to explain, and you don’t need to come back.” “Ethan, I don’t want to play your game anymore. Just let me go.” “I can’t fight you guys, but at least I can run away.”

My phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Annoyed, I turned it off completely. I packed my bags and found the deed to the apartment. I put it back where it belonged. I used to wonder how Ethan had found such a cheap place so close to my office. It never occurred to me that he was the actual landlord. The bright moon hung outside, shining on my lonely figure. The rolling sound of my suitcase was incredibly loud in the silent night. But even louder was the screech of car tires stopping right in front of me. “Where do you think you’re going?” Ethan ran up to me, gasping for breath, grabbing my wrist tightly. “You’re a grown woman and you’re running away? How childish can you get?” “Come on. We’re going home.” I turned my head away, trying not to look at the hickey on his neck. I pulled my wrist back with all my might. “There is no ‘home’ between us.” Ethan stared at me. I tried to walk past him, but he snatched my arm again. “Be rational, okay?!” “Whatever happened between you and Chloe was years ago! How long are you going to keep bringing it up?” “You need to move on. I’ve been good to you for five years, and you know it. If you leave me, where else are you going to find a guy like me?” *How long am I going to keep bringing it up?* Because it still hurts. And he was casually reducing the trauma that gave me sleepless nights to a mere “old grudge.” I looked closely at him. This face that used to bring me so much joy… why did it look so foreign now? I guess I never truly knew him. My head was pounding. I didn’t want to argue anymore. “The keys are under the doormat. I didn’t take anything you bought me, except the clothes I’m wearing. But they’re ripped now.” “Tell me how much they cost. I’ll pay you back.” “You can’t afford it,” Ethan sneered, as if hearing a joke. “Do you really think I buy you cheap mall clothes? This was custom-made, Ava. What are you going to pay me with?” “With your tiny paycheck? Or your sad little pride?” “If you’ve got the guts, then take them off right—” He cut himself off. Because I had already started unbuttoning my shirt. One, two… “Fuck!” He threw his jacket over me, growling, “Ava, you’re literally insane!” He shoved me into his car. The car sped through the night, driving towards Ethan’s real home— A massive luxury mansion I had only ever seen on TV. “You’re sleeping here tonight,” he said, leading me into a bedroom. The closet was filled with clothes in my size. The bathroom had my favorite brands of toiletries. Even the giant plush strawberry bear I had wanted but couldn’t afford was sitting on the bed. What was this? A poisoned apple wrapped in gold? Or a temporary sweet treat before the next cruel prank? My stomach turned again. I dry-heaved, my hair sticking to my tear-stained face. Ethan frowned, looking at me with sudden uncertainty. “Ava, are you…” Are you what? I saw a flash of hope on his face, but it was immediately crushed by the loud clicking of high heels. Chloe stormed in, glared at me with pure hatred, and raised her hand to slap me. Fear shot through my chest. I instinctively flinched and closed my eyes. But the pain never came. Ethan had caught her wrist. “What is your problem?!” Chloe screamed. “I told you to play her, not marry her!” “Ethan, did you actually fall for this bitch?!” “She’s been a manipulative slut since we were kids! Don’t let her trick you!” Ethan didn’t say if he loved me or not. He just paused for a few seconds before saying coldly, “The moment you pushed me to someone else, you lost the right to question me.” I sat on the floor, watching them fight. My head felt heavier and heavier, and my skin felt burning hot. Through the haze, I heard Chloe yell, “This is my room! Why did you give it to her?! You’re just trying to make me jealous!” I couldn’t hear the rest of their argument. I just smiled faintly. I smiled at how pathetic I was. I had actually thought Ethan had a shred of genuine feeling for me. But he was just a liar through and through.

When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Ethan was sitting beside me, dark circles under his eyes, but a huge smile plastered on his face. “You’re pregnant.” He gently touched my stomach and opened his phone calendar. “I looked up some wedding dates. Which one do you like?” “We can have a beautiful outdoor wedding. I’ll get a custom wedding gown for you. Take a look at these designs.” “And after the wedding, we’ll go on our honeymoon. Didn’t you always want to go to…” He kept talking, planning out our future. I didn’t say anything. I just stared at my phone. My HR manager had messaged me. I was fired. It came from the higher-ups. I didn’t even need to ask. It was either Ethan or Chloe’s doing. Five years. I had worked my ass off at that company for five years. And they ruined my career with a single sentence. A trending notification popped up on my phone. It was about Chloe. I clicked on it. It turned out she was an influencer with millions of followers. Her page was filled with her glamorous life as a rich girl, with tons of people kissing her feet. Why did she get to live such a perfect life? Did she deserve it? The trending video was of her crying about her “doomed love story.” She claimed she and Ethan were childhood sweethearts. She said Ethan rented out venues for her birthday fireworks every year. He had gifted her countless luxury items and jewelry. And I was the “homewrecker” who ruined it all. With a few tears, she painted me as a manipulative gold-digger. Her followers were already doxxing me in the comments. My hands shook. I glanced at Ethan, who was busy talking to a wedding planner on the phone. I slowly began to type, attaching screenshots of our chat logs, and hit post. I watched the likes on my comment shoot up. Some people questioned my mental illness, while others brought up Chloe’s bullying history. Soon, the comment section became a warzone. But within minutes, my post was gone. Chloe had deleted it. Ethan walked back into the room after finishing his call, his brow furrowed. “Ava, you’re being too impulsive.” “Chloe is an influencer. It’s normal for her to exaggerate things online. I won’t let her hurt you anyway.” “We’re all in the same social circle. Don’t make things so ugly.” After a pause, he added, “Go apologize to Chloe. Let’s just put all these years of drama behind us.” I let out a soft laugh, looking at him with hollow eyes. My heart was too dead to feel any anger. I obediently let him lead me to a private room at a high-end restaurant. Ethan pressed a glass of juice into my hand. Across the table sat Chloe, looking perfect and arrogant. She tilted her head. “Apologize. Just like you did in high school. On your knees…” The room was filled with their wealthy friends, all wearing mocking grins. Just like back then. I walked over to her, step by step, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Chloe. I’m sorry you’re such a miserable piece of trash—” And then, I threw the juice right in her face. She shrieked in horror as her expensive makeup ran down her neck. I grabbed a bottle of wine from the table and poured it over her head. As the dark liquid soaked her hair, I yelled, “I’m sorry that I was prettier than you! I’m sorry my grades were better than yours!” “I’m sorry the class president liked me instead of you! I’m sorry you had to bully me to feel important!” Someone tried to grab me, but I slammed the wine bottle against the table, shattering it. I pointed the jagged glass at them. “Come near me and I’ll stab you! We can all die tonight!” Chloe was sobbing on the floor. I grabbed her hair, pulled her up, and slapped her face hard, over and over again. “Go to hell! You’re nothing but a spoiled, pathetic dog!”

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1 During our first year of marriage, he personally wrote on the first aid kit in bold red marker: Audrey’s Emergency Meds: Cat Allergy / Asthma Inhaler. By the second year, the kit had been moved from the entryway to the utility closet. He said we rarely used it and it was just cluttering the hallway. In our third year, Simon stood before me, cradling a fluffy Ragdoll cat in his arms, a warm smile on his face. “I have a severe cat allergy,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Did you forget?” His hand froze mid-stroke. “Wait, aren’t you afraid of dogs?” I had never been afraid of dogs. The one afraid of dogs was not me. But I knew exactly who loved cats. His first love, Fiona. I did not push him further. I just swallowed my antihistamine with practiced ease and slipped on a face mask. He let out a sigh of relief, thinking the matter was settled. Late that night, after he drifted off to sleep, I placed the bottle of allergy medication right next to the black coffee mug he used every single morning. If he saw the bottle while pouring his coffee and asked me about it, it would mean he still cared enough to recognize what it was. But if he just picked up his mug, his gaze sliding right past the bottle as if it were nothing but an annoying piece of clutter, then I suppose I was nothing but clutter to him too. “Simon, what time are you leaving this morning?” He was putting on his shoes in the hallway, not even bothering to look up. His eyes briefly swept over the prescription bottle sitting on the kitchen counter. “Seven-thirty. Why?” “Nothing.” I stood by the kitchen door, clutching the empty bottle. He had rinsed his mug, leaving wet rings on the counter, but the bottle remained exactly where I had placed it, untouched and ignored. I unscrewed the cap and dumped the last few pills down the drain. They rattled softly against the stainless steel sink. Before heading out, he planted a quick kiss on my forehead. “Don’t wait up for me tonight. I have plans.” His gaze had not lingered on my lifeline for even a fraction of a second. I walked over to the utility closet. The first aid kit had been shoved deep into the back, buried beneath a folding stool and an unopened bag of cat litter. He claimed the cat was gone, but the cat litter remained. The bag was neatly tied, looking far from discarded. I set the folding stool aside and dragged the kit out. It was covered in a thick layer of dust, but the red lettering on the lid was still visible: Audrey’s Emergency Meds: Cat Allergy / Asthma Inhaler. The year we got married, I accidentally touched a friend’s cat and nearly went into anaphylactic shock. He had rushed downstairs barefoot in the middle of the night to buy me medicine. Once the danger passed, he knelt on the floor with bloodshot eyes, carefully writing those words. “Audrey, just in case. I am not taking a single risk with your life.” Now, the box holding my survival was rotting in a corner, weighed down by unused cat litter. With trembling fingers, I wiped away the dust and popped the lid open. The asthma inhaler had expired eight months ago. The antihistamines were completely empty. The protective sleeve of the EpiPen had yellowed, a clear sign of poor storage conditions. This was a critical issue because these injectors lose potency when exposed to temperatures above seventy-seven degrees. During the summer, the utility closet was a sweltering oven without any air conditioning. Slumping against the wall, I stared at the useless medical waste scattered on the floor, a literal countdown to my own demise. It was almost laughable. He used to have a recurring alarm on his phone every three months to check my meds. It had been silenced long ago, deleted without a trace. I carried the open kit back to the entryway table, arranging the expired medications with their labels facing upward. Then, I went to pack my things. Three years of marriage, and my belongings were shockingly sparse. A few seasonal coats, an inhaler that was about a third full, my ID and passport, and a small notebook containing my financial codes. My twenty inch carry-on suitcase was only half full. I stood by the door for a moment, looking at the open kit on the table, and then at the red handwriting I had just dusted off. It was time to leave. At nine that evening, Simon called. His voice dripped with annoyance. “What are you doing? Why are all the lights off?” “I am not home.” “Where are you?” “Staying somewhere else.” Silence hung on the line for a second before his tone shifted to a mix of worry and exasperation. “What is it this time? Why are you throwing a tantrum in the middle of the night?” “I left the first aid kit on the entryway table. You must have seen it when you walked in.” “What about it?” “The medicine inside is expired, Simon. It has been expired for a very long time.” The line went dead silent for a long five seconds. “Audrey, can you speak like a rational human being? You packed up and left in the middle of the night over a first aid kit?” A rational human being. “Maybe I am not rational, Simon.” 2 My voice trembled with rising emotion. “I have a severe cat allergy. Don’t tell me you forgot. That EpiPen and inhaler in the kit are things I have to carry with me for the rest of my life.” He did not answer. “You used to care. But now, you want a cat, or maybe you want something else entirely.” “Audrey, I…” A long pause stretched over the line before his voice crackled through the speaker again. “I didn’t mean to. I just forgot.” “Save your breath, Simon. You didn’t forget. You just stopped caring. Go back to your cat-loving first love. She doesn’t need a first aid kit.” With that, I hung up. The moment the screen went dark, I blocked his number. On the evening of the third day, I went back to the apartment to retrieve my health insurance card. Judging by his usual schedule, he should not have been home yet. But when I slid my key into the lock, I noticed warm light spilling from beneath the door. Simon was standing in the kitchen, his apron tied slightly askew. Two pots simmered on the stove, one with soup bubbling inside, the other holding a half-cooked stir-fry left to cool. Hearing the door, he turned around, spatula in hand. “You’re back?” His tone was perfectly casual, as if nothing had happened. “I’m just grabbing something and leaving.” I walked straight past him toward the bedroom, refusing to waste another second. By the time I found the card and came back out, he had set the dishes on the dining table and pulled out a chair. “Sit down and eat. It’s warm. I bet you’ve only had instant noodles since yesterday.” Ignoring him, I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door. Suddenly, he rushed up from behind and wrapped his arms around me, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Audrey, I know I messed up. Please stop fighting with me, okay?” Before I could even struggle to free myself, a sharp, familiar irritation invaded my sinuses. My airways constricted instantly. My chest tightened as a suffocating wave of panic rushed up my throat. Summoning every ounce of strength, I shoved him away, clutching my chest as a high-pitched wheeze escaped my throat. Looking down, I saw several long, white hairs clinging to the front of his knit sweater. “You saw Fiona today,” I gasped, staring at him as I struggled to draw breath. His face froze. He took a half-step back, his voice turning raspy. “What are you talking about? I was at the office all day.” “There is Ragdoll fur all over your sweater!” I leaned against the wall, my vision beginning to blur. “What was her cat’s name again? Snowball, right?” “There was a stray cat outside the office. During lunch, I went out and…” “A long-haired stray?” I scoffed, a violent cough ripping through my chest, tearing at my raw airways. “Simon, do you think I don’t know what a purebred Ragdoll looks like?” He fell silent, tugging at the hem of his sweater. His eyes darted to the side, a telltale sign of his dishonesty. He was lying. I did not have the energy to argue. Stumbling into the bathroom, I fumbled through my bag for my backup antihistamines and a newly opened inhaler, swallowing the pills with a mouthful of tap water. “Audrey,” he said, following me to the hallway, his voice tight. “Are you really making this big of a deal out of it?” “My lungs are failing because you are covered in deadly allergens!” I tried to make a break for the door, but a sudden wave of dizziness pinned me to the spot. The heavy sedative effect of the antihistamines, combined with the lack of oxygen and the sheer exhaustion of not eating for a day, drained the remaining strength from my limbs. My knees buckled. I stumbled into the guest room and collapsed onto the bed, too weak to even lock the door behind me. I do not know how much time passed before the door clicked open in my semi-conscious haze. He had changed into fresh pajamas, smelling of soap and the damp warmth of a recent shower. “I showered and changed everything. I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.” My body felt like lead. Unable to lift a single finger, I watched helplessly as he climbed into bed beside me, pulling me close and draping a heavy arm over my shoulder. Before long, his breathing evened out, and he drifted off to sleep. Trapped in his embrace, I stared blankly at the ceiling, my eyes wide open. The cat hair was gone from his clothes, and the unfamiliar scent of jasmine perfume had washed away, but a faint red scratch on the side of his right index finger remained highly visible. It was the unmistakable mark of a cat’s claw, left behind when the pampered creature had kicked off from his chest. 3 I turned my head away and shut my eyes. In the hazy quiet of the night, his wedding proposal echoed in my mind. “I will protect you for the rest of our lives. I’ll never let anything hurt you.” The air purifier we bought for our new home sat in the corner of the master bedroom, plugged in with its green indicator light glowing. I could not remember the last time the filter had been changed. He probably did not even know it had one. A week later, my health took a turn for the worse. The lingering allergens had contaminated every square inch of the apartment. I called a cab and headed straight for the emergency room. The attending physician took my medical chart, flipped through the pages, and stared at me for a long moment. “Audrey?” It took me several seconds of peering through the fog of my nebulizer mask to recognize him. Marcus. We had been lab partners in biology class back in college. A faint twitch played at the corner of his mouth, a flash of surprise lighting up his eyes before he quickly composed himself. He did not ask what I was doing there. After adjusting the nebulizer settings, he pulled up a chair beside my bed and opened my allergy history, his tone as professional and detached as ever. “This is your third acute attack this month. I just reviewed the logs from your last two visits.” “Yeah.” “Every single one was triggered by cat dander, yet your residential profile says there are no pets in your home.” He closed the folder. “When did this start?” I thought about it. “About three months ago.” He flipped to my medication sheet and studied it for a moment. “You’re only taking oral antihistamines. What about your emergency plan? Do you have an EpiPen?” “It’s in the kit, but it might be expired.” He looked down and scribbled a few notes. “For cat allergies, we can start you on immunotherapy shots. It won’t cure you completely, but it will raise your tolerance threshold so that daily life isn’t affected. The treatment takes six months to a year. You’ll get shots once a week for the first three months, then once every two weeks. You’ll need to stay for a thirty minute observation after each dose.” He placed a business card next to my hand. “This is my clinic info. Come see me if you want to start.” I held the card, sitting in silence for a moment. “Marcus, how did you end up in allergy and immunology?” “I switched specialties during my residency.” He stood up and slid the chair back into place. “How did things get this bad? Your chart shows you’ve been visiting the ER almost every month lately.” I bit my lip and remained silent. He did not press for answers. He had always been that way in college, knowing when to stop asking when he knew I would not answer. Once, I had an attack in the campus library and could not find my inhaler in my backpack. He had dug it out from the side pocket of my purse. Later, he told me: “You should always make sure someone next to you knows exactly where your medicine is.” On the way home, my best friend, Sienna, came to pick me up. She glanced at me with concern. “How many times has this been this week?” “Four times.” “What about the cat? I thought you said he gave it away.” I kept quiet, leaning against the window and watching the streetlights blur past. Simon was not home that night. I went into the walk-in closet and searched the pockets of the winter coat he wore most often. In one of the pockets, I found a long strand of hair. It was not mine. I placed the strand back, hung up the coat, and went to check the logs of our smart doorbell camera. Someone had visited last Thursday afternoon. Simon was not home, but a long-haired woman was at the door. Before entering, she shook out her coat, cradled the white Ragdoll cat, and paused at the threshold. She deliberately rubbed the cat against my coat hanging in the entryway, then looked directly into the camera lens with a smug, knowing smile before stepping inside. Three hours later, she and Simon walked out of the apartment together. She knew exactly where the camera was, she knew our door code, and she knew my marriage was already dead in the water. 4 When I saw the live feed on my phone later, I stopped dead in my tracks in the hallway. Fiona was lounging on our living room sofa, the Ragdoll cat curled up on her lap. Simon was in the kitchen brewing tea, unable to hide the sheer delight on his face. Standing in the corridor, I unlocked my phone and dialed 911. The dispatcher picked up. “I am a severe asthmatic with a life-threatening cat allergy. Someone has brought a lethal allergen into my home. I am heading inside now, and I need police dispatch to record this call and send officers immediately.” The dispatcher told me officers would arrive in ten to fifteen minutes and instructed me to keep the line open. I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Fiona was the first to spot me. She stood up gracefully. The cat leaped from her lap, landing softly on the carpet, and began to saunter toward me with slow, lazy strides. White fur drifted through the sunbeams. Even my double face mask was useless against it. Microscopic dander penetrated my defenses, and in less than a minute, my throat began to constrict violently. “Oh, Audrey. You’re home,” Fiona said. Her voice was sickeningly sweet, though her eyes were sharp and calculated. “I just stopped by for a chat. I hope you don’t mind.” Mind? Of course I minded, but I could not even speak. My brain was running a frantic calculation. How long could my lungs hold out? Where was the kit? Was the EpiPen still functional? As I stumbled toward the entryway, the cat took another step closer, brushing against my ankles. The first aid kit was gone from the entryway table. I had left it there, but someone must have shoved it back into the dark corners of the utility closet. I flung the closet door open, digging through the clutter with fingers that were already going numb from lack of oxygen. An inhaler, an EpiPen, anything to save my life. The scent of jasmine perfume drew closer behind me. “Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong? Can’t breathe?” Fiona’s voice was dripping with venomous concern as she hurried over in her high heels. “Let me help you with that. Don’t worry…” “Get away from me,” I wheezed. My voice was a raspy choke, but I gripped the edges of the first aid kit, shielding it with my body. Her hand clamped down on mine, her grip far tighter than anyone trying to help would ever use. Gasping uselessly for air, my fingertips finally brushed against the plastic casing of the auto-injector. In that split second, Fiona made a sudden, violent swiping motion under the guise of steadying me. The first aid kit crashed onto the hard tile floor, the latches popping open. The EpiPen rolled out, spinning across the floor, its casing gleaming under the ceiling light. I lunged forward, throwing my entire weight toward it. Just as my fingers were about to close around it, Fiona shrieked, “Watch out!” Her stiletto heel came down with pinpoint accuracy, stomping directly onto the cylinder. There was a sharp, sickening crunch. It was the sound of shattering glass, and with it, my final lifeline was destroyed. The clear medication mingled with the tiny shards of glass, seeping into the grout lines in a useless puddle. Fiona gasped, instantly covering her mouth as crocodile tears welled up in her eyes. She turned to Simon, who had just rushed out of the kitchen at the noise, her voice trembling with mock terror. “Simon, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to, I panicked and stepped on it. She won’t hate me, will she?” Simon stood there, looking at Fiona with a deep frown. “How could you be so careless?” He reached out to help me, but I waved him off, stumbling backward. He was covered in the very particles that were killing me. “Meds… Simon…” I slumped against the wall, every attempt to draw breath a violent struggle. “Don’t panic. I’ll look. There has to be more…” He shoved past Fiona to search the apartment. But then his gaze fell on the phone clutched in my trembling hand. The call with the dispatcher was still active, the screen glowing in the dim light. The panic drained from his eyes instantly, replaced by cold disbelief. “Audrey, are you out of your mind? You called the police over this?” A horrific, guttural wheeze tore from my throat. Every desperate breath felt like razor blades shredding my trachea. Staring at them, I used the absolute last bit of oxygen in my lungs to force out a few broken words. “Breaking in with a lethal allergen… destroying emergency medication…” I glared at him, a trace of bloody foam bubbling at the corner of my lips. “Simon… attempted murder… you’re going to prison…” “You’re completely overreacting…” Before he could finish his sentence, the shrill wail of approaching sirens pierced the walls of the apartment. The sound choked the rest of his words back down his throat, freezing the annoyance right on his face.

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1 After driving eight straight hours down the interstate, I safely delivered my son’s family of three to their five-star beachfront resort in Miami. When I went to check us in, the front desk clerk informed me that there was only one reservation on file: a single deluxe oceanfront suite. My son wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist and looked me dead in the eye. “Mom, peak season rates are insane right now. You used to work graveyard shifts at the grocery store anyway, so just rough it in the car for a few nights.” My daughter-in-law rolled her eyes, chiming in right on cue. “We’re here to enjoy a romantic getaway. Why are you trying to be a third wheel? You really don’t know how to read the room.” My little grandson even spat at my shoes. “Grandma smells gross! I don’t wanna room with Grandma!” I looked at this pack of ungrateful parasites who were burning through my life savings while treating me like an unpaid chauffeur. Without a single word, I turned around and took the car keys. I drove straight to a used car lot and sold the vehicle for cash. Then, I booked myself a first-class ticket to Paris. If you all love the ocean breeze so much, you can sit on the sand and drink it in for the rest of your lives. My hands were still trembling against the steering wheel. From Atlanta to Miami, the GPS showed over six hundred miles. We had only stopped once at a rest area the entire trip, and not because I needed a break, but because little Tom had to use the bathroom. My son Derek and his wife Ashley lounged in the back seat the whole way. Not once did either of them offer to take a shift behind the wheel. Not once did they hand me a bottle of water. While we were at the rest stop, Tom started whining for ice cream. I pulled out twelve dollars and bought two artisanal bars, handing one to my grandson and the other to my daughter-in-law. Ashley glanced at it, her face twisting in pure disgust. “Take it away! Seriously, Mom? Twelve dollars for this gas station garbage? It’s loaded with artificial dyes and preservatives. What if it gives him a stomachache? Tom, spit that out right now, don’t eat her dirty food.” Derek frowned beside her, shooting me an impatient glare. “Mom, can you look at the brand names before you buy things? Stop being so cheap, it’s embarrassing.” I swallowed my words and kept driving. When we finally pulled up to the resort entrance, Derek pushed the door open and stretched his arms. His very first words to me were, “Mom, go find a parking spot. We’re going inside to check in.” Ashley hooked her two-thousand-dollar designer tote over her shoulder and clicked her high heels toward the grand lobby without looking back. Tom sprinted after her, his shoelaces completely untied. I called out, “Tom, your shoes!” but he didn’t even twitch. It took me twenty minutes of circling the resort’s massive parking garage to find a spot. I hauled three heavy suitcases out of the trunk by myself. Two of them belonged to Ashley, packed to the brim with her vacation dresses and luxury cosmetics. My own luggage was a single canvas duffel bag wedged into the dusty corner of the trunk. By the time I dragged all three suitcases into the air-conditioned lobby, my lower back was screaming in agony. The young receptionist pulled up the booking details, looked up, and said politely, “You have one deluxe oceanfront suite reserved under this name.” I thought I had misheard her and asked her to check again. “Yes, ma’am. Just the one suite.” I turned to look at Derek. He kept his arm snugly around Ashley’s waist, explaining it to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Mom, peak season rates are killer. This single room was over twelve hundred a night. You’re used to working overnight inventory shifts at the grocery store anyway, so just sleep in the car. Keep the AC running, it’s practically the same thing.” Rough it in the car for a few nights? I am fifty-eight years old. I had just driven eight hours straight down the highway, and my own son was telling me to sleep in the back seat of a sedan. Ashley scoffed. “We’re here for a private couple’s retreat. Why are you trying to tag along and ruin the vibe? Zero self-awareness.” Tom hid behind his mother’s designer skirt, sticking his tongue out at me. “Grandma smells gross! I don’t wanna sleep near Grandma!” I stood frozen in the middle of the polished marble lobby. The young receptionist cast a sympathetic glance my way before quickly lowering her head. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt completely closed off. Not a single sound came out. How did this entire vacation start a month ago? Ashley had been scrolling through her phone at the dinner table when she suddenly shoved the screen into Derek’s face. “Look at this influencer! Her husband booked her a penthouse beachfront suite in Miami! What about you?” Derek chewed the pot roast I had spent hours cooking, mumbling around his food. “No money.” Ashley dropped her fork and turned her sharp gaze toward me. I knew that look intimately. Every single time their household ran out of cash, she looked at me just like that. “Doesn’t Mom get her monthly pension?” The very next day, Derek sat on the edge of my bed, his voice dripping with honeyed persuasion. “Mom, you know how hard Ashley works taking care of Tom all day. She really needs a change of scenery to unwind…” He didn’t even need to finish the sentence. I understood the assignment. I went to the bank and withdrew fifteen thousand dollars. Even the car we drove down in was bought the exact same way. Two years ago, Ashley complained that taking rideshares was beneath her standard of living. She demanded a vehicle. Derek came to me instantly. “Mom, we need your help.” A thirty-thousand-dollar car. The down payment and every single monthly installment came straight out of my bank account. The elevator chimed and the doors slid open. The three of them stepped inside. Not a single one of them looked back. 2 When the metallic elevator doors sealed shut, I was left standing entirely alone in the cavernous resort lobby, holding a plastic bag of leftover road trip snacks they had left behind. That night, I curled up on the leather back seat inside the concrete parking garage. July in South Florida was unforgiving. The air inside the cabin grew thick and suffocating. I rolled the windows down just a fraction, but the humid night breeze only dragged swarms of mosquitoes inside with it. My back was drenched in sweat, sticking painfully to the upholstery, itching and burning. At three in the morning, someone came to pick up a vehicle parked in the adjacent stall. The harsh beam of a flashlight swept across my face. The man froze for two solid seconds, clearly astonished to find a gray-haired woman curled up like a stray dog inside a vehicle parked at a luxury beachfront resort. Daylight finally broke. My phone buzzed against the console. It was a text from Derek: [Mom, call down to the desk and order room service for us. Two steak omelets. Get yourself whatever you want.] I massaged my stiff, aching neck and sat upright in the driver’s seat for ten minutes. After placing their gourmet breakfast order, I sat in a quiet corner of the resort lobby and broke apart two plain wheat rolls I had packed from home. The bread was stale and dense. I forced it down my throat bite by bite, washing it down with bottled tap water. The first day’s itinerary was entirely curated by Ashley. She had spent weeks bookmarking trendy social media spots: a viral seafood establishment, luxury outdoor shopping pavilions, and sunset photography lookouts. Not a single activity involved my input. Around noon, we headed to the seafood restaurant. There was a thirty-minute wait outside the entrance. I was the only one standing in the line. Derek took Ashley and Tom into an air-conditioned boba shop next door. They ordered three iced matcha lattes and never once asked if I was thirsty. I stood baking under the subtropical sun with six groups ahead of me. A younger woman tried to cut in front of me, and when I politely told her the line started at the back, she shot me a filthy look and stormed off. When our number was finally called, I hurried inside the boba shop to get them. Ashley rose from her plush armchair with excruciating slowness. “Stop rushing us. I haven’t even finished my drink.” We sat down at our table. Ashley snatched the menu, flipped past the first two pages, and began rattling off orders to the waiter. Australian lobster, one hundred and fifty dollars. Alaskan king crab, two hundred dollars. Geoduck clams, one hundred and twenty. Two bottles of vintage white wine, two hundred and fifty. I reached out, hoping to check the menu for a simple, affordable stir-fried vegetable dish, but she yanked the leather binder right out of my reach. “Relax, Mom. This is plenty. You don’t know the first thing about fine seafood anyway, so don’t ruin the order.” The dishes arrived, crowding the tabletop. The second I reached my chopsticks toward a piece of shrimp, Tom shrieked at the top of his lungs. “That’s mine! Grandma, don’t touch it!” Ashley immediately backed him up. “Mom, don’t fight a child for food. You don’t even like seafood anyway, remember?” When had I ever uttered the words I don’t like seafood? What I had actually said, years ago, was: It’s too expensive, I can’t bring myself to buy it. Surrounded by a decadent feast, I quietly ate a small bowl of steamed white rice and a few slices of pickled cucumber. Derek sat gorging himself, his chin glistening with butter as he held up his phone to capture the spread for his social media feed: [Treating the wifey and kiddo to a feast! Happy wife, happy life!] Nine carefully filtered photos. I wasn’t in a single one. The bill arrived. One thousand four hundred dollars. Ashley casually picked at her teeth with a wooden toothpick while Derek didn’t even bother lifting his eyes from his screen. “Mom, put it on your card.” My fingers trembled slightly as I placed my debit card onto the silver tray, staring at the line item showing two hundred and fifty dollars spent purely on fermented grape juice. When I accidentally mistyped my PIN on the portable terminal, Ashley sighed loudly. “What’s the holdup, Mom? Does it physically hurt you to spend a little cash? You’re acting like we keep you chained in a basement.” One thousand four hundred dollars. Back when I worked the graveyard security shifts at the distribution warehouse, my entire monthly paycheck was barely nine hundred dollars. That afternoon, we toured a coastal nature preserve. Ashley hung her heavy designer tote over my left arm, strapped Tom’s insulated water jug over my right shoulder, and shoved cans of SPF spray, wet wipes, extra toddler clothes, and snack pouches into both of my hands. I looked like a pack mule carrying half a dozen bags, trailing behind them as they climbed the scenic wooden boardwalks. Derek and Ashley posed by the water for an elaborate family portrait session. The three of them. Just the three of them. I stood ten feet away in the scorching sand, holding four pairs of discarded sandals. “Move slightly left!” “Tilt your chin down!” “Your shadow is ruining the lighting!” Ashley made Derek retake the shots nine times before she was satisfied. She grabbed her device, applied her preferred aesthetic filters, uploaded the post, and walked away without sparing me a glance. Passing a high-end resort boutique, Ashley halted in front of the glass display window. Her eyes locked onto a cultured pearl necklace priced at eight hundred dollars. She stared at the jewelry, then turned her gaze to Derek. Derek checked the price tag, then turned his gaze to me. “Mom, Ashley really loves it. We’re on vacation, don’t be a killjoy.” 3 I pulled out my card again. Ashley fastened the delicate pearls around her neck, admiring her reflection in the gilded store mirror, turning left and right with a satisfied smirk. She didn’t offer me a single syllable of gratitude. By evening, we returned to the resort property. Exhaustion was gnawing at my bones. I finally gathered the courage to ask, “Can we please book a standard double room tonight? My back is locking up, I really cannot sleep in the sedan again.” Ashley cut me off instantly. “Book another room? Do you have any idea how much a basic room costs here? It’s over three hundred bucks!” Derek chimed in to reinforce the boundary. “Mom, it’s just a couple more days. Tough it out. You survived those freezing warehouse floors just fine.” The warehouse again. For ten straight years, I volunteered for the grueling overnight inventory shifts just to earn an extra four hundred dollars a month in hazard pay. Every single cent of that hard-earned money went directly to him. His university tuition, his fraternity dues, his apartment security deposits. And now he weaponized my past sacrifices to shut me up? For dinner, the three of them headed to the resort’s exclusive seafood pavilion. One hundred and twenty dollars per person. Derek sent me a quick payment request on his phone for three hundred and sixty dollars. I authorized the transfer. Alone in the dark parking garage, I tore open a packet of dry instant noodles I had brought from my kitchen pantry. I didn’t even have access to hot water. I simply gnawed on the crunchy, seasoned brick of dehydrated wheat until my stomach stopped growling. Sitting in the back seat, I opened my phone’s photo gallery. I scrolled back to a picture taken when Tom was barely a year old. He was resting peacefully on my chest, drooling and giggling up at the camera. Back then, the moment I walked into the room, he would reach his chubby little arms out, demanding to be held, following me around the house babbling Nana, Nana. Now, he looked at me and said Grandma smells gross. I stared at that digital screen until my eyes burned. Day three. Ashley’s closest college friend, Rachel, happened to be vacationing in Miami as well. She and her husband had rented a sprawling hillside estate overlooking the bay. Rachel extended an invitation for afternoon tea. Before we left the resort, Ashley actually turned to me. “Mom, you can come along.” Surprise flickered in my chest—she was actually including me? I changed into my cleanest blouse and followed them out. The private villa was nestled into the coastal cliffs, boasting white stucco walls, terracotta tiles, and an infinity swimming pool. As we approached the grand entrance, Ashley linked her arm through Derek’s, leading Tom up the stone pathway. Rachel greeted them at the double doors, radiating warmth and hospitality. Then her eyes drifted to me. She paused, smiling politely. “And who is this?” Ashley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, this is just our live-in nanny. She helps out with Tom.” Nanny. Rachel beamed, immediately reaching out to shake my hand. “Hello there! Wow, your family found such a tidy, reliable helper!” Derek stood right beside them. He glanced at my face. He didn’t utter a single word to correct her. I slowly slid my hand out of Rachel’s grip, my fingernails digging deep into the flesh of my palms. The expansive living room table was laid out with imported pastries, charcuterie, and fresh fruit platters. Ashley ushered Derek and Tom to the plush sectional sofa, the three of them crowding around the coffee table. I stepped forward to pull up an accent chair, but Ashley caught my eye and shot me a sharp warning look. She lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You! Go sit out on the patio deck. There really isn’t enough seating around this table.” Not enough seating. There was a perfectly upholstered armchair sitting completely empty right at the edge of the rug. I held my tongue, turned on my heel, and walked out through the sliding glass doors onto the sun-drenched patio. Through the heavy double-paned glass, the sound of their cheerful laughter filtered out in muffled bursts. Rachel knelt down to offer Tom a macaron. “Tom sweetie, do you like your nanny?” Tom’s voice pierced right through the glass, loud and shrill. “She’s just a baby-sitter! Mommy told me she’s super broke!” The living room went dead silent for one heartbeat. Then, the collective laughter erupted louder than before. I sat on a woven wicker patio chair, gripping the armrests until my knuckles turned stark white. Before leaving Georgia, I had specifically visited a local department store to purchase a new top—a fifty-dollar pastel floral blouse that the sales associate promised made me look vibrant. When I tried it on for Ashley back at the hotel, she sneered. “That looks horribly tacky. Don’t wear that out, you’ll embarrass us.” She forced me to change back into my faded, pilled gray cotton tee that I had owned for five years. The heavy glass patio door slid open. Rachel stepped out holding a delicate porcelain teacup, her expression tight and uncomfortable. She hesitated, lowering her voice as she approached my chair. “Ma’am… wait, are you actually Derek’s mother?” I kept my eyes fixed on the distant ocean horizon. She studied my profile, then looked back through the glass at Derek lounging on the sofa. The air turned glacial. Ashley’s face instantly shifted. 4 Ashley stormed out onto the deck. “Mom! What on earth is that facial expression supposed to mean? Are you deliberately trying to make people get the wrong idea?” I looked up calmly. “What expression?” “Sitting out here looking like a martyr! Someone asks you a simple question and you put on this pathetic, victimized act? You are an absolute embarrassment!” I stared at her flushed, indignant face without giving her a single syllable in response. Derek dragged me by the arm into the side hallway, his tone sharp and reprimanding. “Mom, stop being so overly sensitive. Ashley just misspoke in the moment. Look at how you dress yourself—it’s completely natural for people to assume… Why don’t you take any pride in your personal appearance?” Wasn’t she the one who demanded I change my clothes? I looked into my son’s eyes. Thirty years ago, when this creature was kicking inside my womb, I truly believed I was nurturing a human being. Now I realized I had raised a parasite. On the drive back to the resort, I took the wheel. From the back seat, Derek sent a casual voice note. “Hey Rachel, my bad about earlier. My mom is naturally introverted and doesn’t really know how to socialize in polite company. Sorry things got weird.” Ashley leaned over to snatch the device, adding her own commentary. “Yeah girl, my mother-in-law is straight out of the rural backwoods. Don’t take it personally.” The rural backwoods. Fine. At dawn on the fourth day, my phone rang. It was Ashley. [Mom! I just found the most breathtaking beachfront rental property! It’s fifteen hundred a night! Go to the front desk, check us out of this resort, and transfer our luggage over there. There’s actually a bed for you to sleep in this time~] Fifteen hundred dollars a night. But she explicitly promised there’s a bed for you to sleep in. I weighed my options for a moment, then drove over. The rental was a standalone luxury bungalow right on the sand, featuring one master bedroom and an open-concept living space. The moment we unlocked the door, Ashley bypassed the living room and threw herself onto the king-sized mattress. “Oh, this bed is heaven!” I asked quietly, “Where do I sleep?” Derek pointed toward a narrow utility closet tucked behind the front entry corridor. “There’s a folding metal cot in there. Make do.” I pushed the narrow door open. It was barely thirty square feet. The floor was cluttered with commercial mop buckets, dirty cleaning rags, and industrial jugs of floor stripper. The sharp, toxic stench of concentrated bleach assaulted my nostrils. In the corner leaned a rusted metal folding frame covered in a thick layer of drywall dust. A fifteen-hundred-dollar beachfront bungalow. Funded entirely by my bank account. And they relegated me to the janitor’s closet. I stood on the threshold. I did not take a single step inside. Yet, I said nothing. At noon, Ashley went live on her social media feed, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “We brought my wonderful mother-in-law down to Miami for a family retreat! I paid for the entire vacation out of my own pocket, aren’t I just the best daughter-in-law?” She spun the camera lens toward me, waving her manicured fingers. “Mom, come say hi to my subscribers~” Yesterday I was the hired help. Today, when she needed props for her digital audience, I was Mom again. That afternoon, they booked a private yacht excursion. Three tickets came out to eighteen hundred dollars. Derek held his smartphone out toward me with practiced indifference. “Mom, double-click for Apple Pay.” I authenticated the charge. Between the rental deposits, the dining bills, and the luxury shopping, I had bled nearly fifteen thousand dollars on this trip alone. That evening, Derek had a few drinks. He and Ashley were lounging on a woven hammock strung across the bungalow’s oceanfront deck, chatting casually into the night. They had no idea that the utility closet shared a paper-thin interior wall with the exterior deck. Every single word vibrated straight into my space. Ashley chuckled. “We’ve burned through almost fifteen grand on this trip, haven’t we?” Derek let out a soft alcoholic hiccup. “Give or take.” “Honestly, her wallet is her only redeeming quality. If it weren’t for her bank account, why on earth would I let her tag along? She’s nearly sixty, her driving is terrifying, she almost rear-ended a truck yesterday and gave me a heart attack.” They both dissolved into quiet, mocking laughter. Why on earth would I let her tag along. Those words hammered into my skull, strike after strike, shattering every remaining illusion. I wasn’t their mother. I was an ATM that doubled as an unpaid chauffeur. I didn’t close my eyes for a single second that night. Long before dawn, while the coastal sky was still a bruised, dusky charcoal, I silently gathered my canvas duffel bag. When I stepped out into the main living corridor, Tom’s soft breathing echoed from the sofa bed. The master bedroom door remained firmly shut. Zero movement. I picked up the car keys from the kitchen island. I turned the ignition, reversed out of the sandy driveway, and merged onto the deserted, pre-dawn streets of coastal Miami. The used car dealership opened its gates at eight o’clock flat. I sat waiting on the curb for forty minutes. The lot manager inspected the vehicle’s clean history and offered fourteen thousand dollars cash. It was a thirty-thousand-dollar sedan with less than twenty thousand miles on the odometer. I told him we had a deal. While signing the title transfer documentation, the manager paused, eyeing my face with genuine concern. “Ma’am, are you absolutely certain about this? This vehicle is practically brand new.” “I am certain,” I replied firmly. Watching the confirmation notification flash across my screen showing fourteen thousand dollars successfully deposited into my checking account, I hailed a taxi straight to Miami International Airport. I stood before the international ticketing counter for ten quiet minutes. The airline agent looked up with a welcoming smile. “Good morning, ma’am. Where are we flying today?” “Do you have any outgoing flights to Paris?” I asked. She clicked through her terminal for a few moments. “I have an itinerary connecting through JFK landing at Charles de Gaulle tomorrow morning. There are two first-class cabin seats still available.” I slid my debit card across the counter. By this point, my own actions felt entirely detached from reality. I felt like I was watching a stranger live my life. Yet, the transaction was approved. Sitting in the sunlit departure concourse, my mobile device began vibrating violently against my palm. Incoming call from Derek. I answered it. “Mom?! Where the hell are you? Where is the car?! Why is my driveway empty?!” “Did you take my car?! Bring it back to the bungalow this instant!” I spoke into the receiver with crystal clarity. “Derek, I paid the down payment and every monthly bill for that vehicle out of my own account. I sold it.” Dead silence stretched over the line for three seconds. Then his voice cracked, skyrocketing an octave into pure panic. “YOU SOLD IT?! Are you out of your mind?! That was my car! You can’t just—” The boarding announcement chimed overhead through the PA system. I ended the call. Gripping the handle of my simple canvas duffel, I stepped onto the jet bridge.

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1 My mother was the rightful heiress. Thirty years ago, her own parents conspired with her fiancé to steal her academic records, handing the life she had earned over to an adopted impostor. Armed with my mother’s stolen credentials, the impostor climbed the social ladder to become a celebrated prima ballerina, lecturing on national television about dreams and hard work. My mother, meanwhile, was cast out and abandoned in the rugged hills of Appalachia under the pretense of being too unrefined. She died in a dilapidated trailer, never receiving a single word of apology. Three decades have passed. I carried her unfulfilled dreams out of those mountains and became the lead developer of a groundbreaking medical algorithm. On the day the core data was finalized, a spoiled heiress was parachuted into our lab. She brought a co-authorship agreement, backed by her family’s massive resources, intending to buy out the research I had spent three grueling years building. But when I flipped the agreement open and saw the names of the primary investors, I smiled. I had been waiting for this day for a very long time. … “Are you done staring? If you are, sign it.” Ella’s high heel kicked my computer tower, sending a dull thud through the metal casing. She wore a full face of flawless makeup, holding a Starbucks cup. The diamonds on her manicured nails caught the sterile fluorescent light of the lab, flashing aggressively. “Nora, this agreement is the closest you’ll ever get to real money in your life.” She tossed a thick folder onto my keyboard. “Sign it. I take first author credits on the project, and you can stay on as second author.” She looked down at me, her eyes dripping with condescension. “Fifty thousand dollars. That is more than enough for you to build a nice little house back in whatever swamp you crawled out of.” I didn’t move. My eyes slowly traced the names of the investment firms listed on the paper: Apex Medical Group and Aurora Media. Apex was owned by Randy. Aurora was owned by Vivian. One was the impostor who had stolen my mother’s life. The other was the bastard who had trampled his own fiancée to secure his future. Now, their daughter stood before me, demanding to buy out the source code I had spent three years of sleepless nights writing. “What? Not enough?” Ella let out a sharp scoff at my silence. “Director Briggs told me all about you. Your mother was a backwoods farmhand who didn’t even finish high school, and you only made it this far on student loans.” She tapped my monitor with a long, glittering nail. “Scientific research is a luxury for the wealthy. People like you shouldn’t waste your time dreaming about changing the world. Take the cash and run. It is better for everyone.” The lab was dead silent. My teammates, the very people who had survived on instant ramen and cold coffee beside me for years, kept their heads down, staring intensely at their screens. Director Briggs waddled into the room, his face creased into a slimy grin. “Nora, Ella is offering you a very generous deal.” He stepped up beside her, bowing slightly. “Apex Medical just donated twenty million dollars in equipment to our institute. This project wouldn’t even have a launchpad without her father’s support.” He turned to me, his voice dropping into a thinly veiled threat. “Be smart, Nora. What difference does it make who gets first author? Once the project succeeds, your name will still be on the secondary list. Don’t let your selfishness ruin this.” I raised my head and met his gaze. “This is a federally funded, high-priority medical algorithm,” I said, my voice flat and even. “I wrote every single line of the core logic. First authorship designates the actual controller of the project.” I slid the folder back across the desk. “She doesn’t even understand the basic architecture of the model. If she signs off on this and the clinical data deviates later, who takes the fall?” Ella’s face darkened instantly. “Who do you think you are to question me?” She slammed her Starbucks cup onto the desk. Coffee splashed over the wood, staining my mousepad. “Let me tell you something, Nora.” She leaned down, her shadow falling over me. “Hard work doesn’t win in the real world. My family name is gold. My grandfather retired from the Department of Health, and my father is the chief of surgery at a major hospital. My presence alone is an honor to this project.” “You won’t sign?” She stood up straight, smoothing her designer top with a sneer. “Director Briggs, it seems your lead developer doesn’t understand how the world works.” Briggs broke into a cold sweat. He pointed a trembling, nicotine-stained finger at my face. “Nora! Do not push your luck! Sign the paper right now, or you are off this project entirely!” I stared at his finger. “Are you sure you want to suspend me?” I asked quietly. “The core database is locked in my private cloud. Without me, the data models you’ve run for the past three years are nothing but useless, corrupted junk.” Briggs froze. But Ella merely laughed, pulling out her phone and dialing a number. “Steve, bring your team in.” The heavy lab door pushed open, and three IT specialists in suits walked in. “Crack her private cloud,” Ella commanded, pointing at my terminal. “Copy every piece of data on that system.” She turned back to me, her eyes bright with malicious triumph. “Nora, I am not just taking your work. I am going to make sure you never work in this industry again.” She leaned casually against Briggs’s desk and gave a lazy wave of her hand. “Throw her out.” 2 I didn’t fight the security guards when they escorted me out. I simply powered down my monitor, slipped the small black USB drive next to my mouse into my pocket, and stood up. “Stop!” Ella’s sharp eyes caught my movement. “Search her. She doesn’t leave this building with so much as a scrap of paper!” The two guards hesitated. Briggs frowned. “Nora, play by the rules. Empty your pockets.” I looked at them, pulled the tiny USB drive out, and tossed it onto the desk. “It is a backup of my digital receipts from breakfast,” I said coldly. “Would you like me to open it and show you?” Ella rolled her eyes and waved her hand in dismissive disgust. The guards escorted me out of the building like a criminal. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright. I stood outside the iron gates of the institute, looking up at the facility where I had poured out three years of my life. My phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. Nora, this is called knowing your place. A stray dog can never become royalty. You and your dead mother belong in the dirt. I stared at the screen. My dead mother. The words felt like a rusted needle driving straight into my chest. My mother did die in the dirt, ravaged by late-stage lung cancer. On her deathbed, she was nothing but skin and bones, but her fingers had been wrapped tightly around a faded high school graduation photo. In the center of that photo, she was smiling brightly. Standing right next to her was Vivian, the woman who would later steal her name and her future. And next to Vivian was Randy, the man who had promised to marry my mother, only to push her into an abyss for his own gain. I put my phone away and hailed a cab back to my cramped apartment. But as I reached the entrance of the run-down brick building, I stopped. A sleek, black Maybach was parked along the curb of the dilapidated street, looking entirely out of place. A middle-aged man in a bespoke suit stood beside the car, a cigar clamped between his fingers. He looked every bit the picture of distinguished authority. Randy. Seeing me approach, he stubbed out the cigar and brushed a speck of ash from his lapel. “Nora?” His voice carried the smooth, heavy arrogance of a man used to being obeyed. “Yes,” I said, keeping a distance of two paces. He scanned me from head to toe. His gaze lingered on my worn sneakers and faded jeans, a flicker of pure disdain passing through his eyes. “Ella told me about the incident at the lab.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a leather checkbook, and uncapped a fountain pen. “Young people are hot-headed. I understand. You worked hard for three years, and it is natural to feel slighted.” He scribbled a quick string of zeros, tore the check free, and held it out to me. “One hundred thousand dollars.” His tone was so casual it felt like he was tossing scraps to a stray dog. “Take this, give us the password to the cloud, and leave the city. You grew up in the backwoods. You should know that this is more money than your family could make in three lifetimes.” I looked at the slip of paper fluttering slightly in the breeze. I didn’t reach for it. “Dr. Randy,” I said, meeting his eyes. “Are you really that confident that your money can buy everything?” Randy’s brow furrowed. He withdrew the check, his gaze turning icy. “Don’t get greedy, girl.” His voice carried a dark warning. “I don’t like people who don’t know when to submit. In this field, I have a hundred ways to destroy your career. Asking for the password is me giving you a way out.” “A way out?” A laugh escaped my throat, sounding sharp and hollow in the narrow alley. I looked at his manicured face and thought of my mother, coughing up blood onto her threadbare blankets. “Thirty years ago, did you use the exact same speech to give yourself a way out?” I took a step closer, my voice dropping. “Stealing someone else’s achievements, stepping on their bones to climb the ladder. Tell me, Doctor, when you sleep at night, are you ever afraid that the dead will come back to claim what is theirs?” Randy’s pupils contracted. The mask of calm composure cracked, revealing a flash of raw panic. “What did you say?” “Nothing.” I stepped back. “Tell your daughter I won’t hand over the data, and I won’t sign the papers.” “If you want to blackball me, go ahead.” I turned toward the stairwell. Behind me, Randy’s voice exploded in a rare display of fury. “You arrogant little brat! If you want to ruin your own life, don’t blame me for what happens next!” 3 Randy was a man of his word. Within twenty-four hours, I was transformed from a promising young researcher into an academic pariah. By the next morning, coordinated articles flooded every major news outlet and social platform. Young Genius Ella Solves Major Medical Algorithm Breakthrough Rogue Assistant Nora Accused of Attempting to Steal Team Research The Cancer of Academia: The Mountain Girl Who Tried to Sell National Secrets I sat in my dark apartment, watching the notifications cascade across my phone screen. On a live-streamed press conference, Ella sat under the flashing lights of the reporters’ cameras, wearing a pristine white blazer. Her eyes were red, presenting a picture of fragile vulnerability. “For three years, my team and I worked tirelessly to solve the core logic. But…” She bit her lip, looking down. “I never expected that Nora, a colleague I trusted completely, would lock us out of the database at the final hour. We have reason to believe she was planning to sell the algorithm to foreign corporations.” A reporter thrust a microphone forward, voice dripping with outrage. “Ella, how do you plan to handle such academic betrayal?” Ella took a deep breath, her expression hardening into brave resolve. “We have already contacted the authorities, and a joint blacklist has been issued to all major research facilities. I will not allow anyone to desecrate the sanctity of medical progress.” The comment section went wild. Absolutely disgusting! You can take the girl out of the swamp, but you can’t take the swamp out of the girl. Stealing research to sell abroad? Put her in federal prison! My heart breaks for Ella. She’s so brilliant and kind, yet she had to deal with this parasite. Blacklist her permanently! Someone should investigate how she even got into the institute in the first place. My phone buzzed constantly with notifications from the lab’s group chat. I had already been removed, but before the ban, the screen had been filled with messages from people who used to call me their mentor. You really never know a person. She acted so humble, but she’s just a thief. Thank goodness Ella caught her in time, or our three years of work would have been ruined. Did her mother never teach her not to take things that don’t belong to her? Oh, wait. She doesn’t have a family anymore. The last message was from Zack, a junior developer whose buggy code would have crashed the system last month if I hadn’t stayed up for forty-eight hours straight to rebuild it. I flipped my phone face down. I opened my old laptop and plugged in the small black USB drive, the one I had claimed was a receipt backup. A complex encryption prompt popped up on the screen. They thought that by seizing my workstation and locking my account, they had secured the algorithm. They didn’t know that the core logic bomb had been woven into the deepest architecture of the system since the day I wrote the first line of code. My phone rang. It was Professor Reynolds, my graduate advisor and the mentor who had brought me into the institute. I answered. “Professor.” “Don’t call me that!” Reynolds’s voice was tight with stress and anger. “Nora, what on earth have you done? The entire industry is calling you a fraud!” “Dr. Randy called me personally. He said if you don’t surrender the access keys, even my department will face budget cuts!” I remained quiet for a moment. “Do you believe them, Professor?” “It doesn’t matter what I believe!” Reynolds shouted. “Of all the people to cross, why did you have to anger the Randy family? They have deep roots in this city!” “Give them the data, write a formal apology to Ella, and go back home. Find a quiet job outside of academia and stay out of sight!” The line went dead. I looked at the black screen. I didn’t feel sad; I only felt a cold, sharp amusement. This was how Randy operated. Using money to crush, using power to silence, cutting off every social connection until his target was left helpless, forced to beg for mercy on their knees. Thirty years ago, they had used the exact same methods to drive my mother into exile. A notification popped up in the bottom corner of my laptop screen. It was an email from the committee of the Prometheus Cup, the national medical research competition. Dear Audrey Nora, due to recent allegations of academic misconduct, the committee has decided to revoke your presentation credentials for the upcoming finals. Right on cue, a text from Ella came through. Surprise. The finals are tomorrow morning, and I will be standing on that stage accepting the award with your algorithm. While you watch from the gutter like a sewer rat. This is what happens when you cross me. I stared at the text. My fingers danced across the keyboard, typing the final execution command into the terminal. I hit enter. A green progress bar flashed on the screen, loading to completion in a fraction of a second. “Ella,” I whispered to the empty room. “See you tomorrow.” 4 The next morning. The Metropolitan Convention Center was buzzing. The finals of the Prometheus Cup, the most prestigious medical research award in the country, were about to begin. Reporters and camera crews crowded the entrance. I wore a plain black trench coat and a baseball cap pulled low, blending into the crowd near the marble pillars outside the main hall. Several heavy-set security guards patrolled the doors, checking credentials. “Did you hear? The Randy heiress is presenting the closing project today,” a young intern reporter muttered to his colleague. “Of course. Word is if her project wins, Apex Medical’s stock is going to skyrocket tomorrow morning.” “That girl Nora got what she deserved. Trying to hijack a major medical breakthrough after working as a mere assistant.” “Honestly, she’s lucky the Randy family didn’t press charges. She should be in a cell right now.” I ignored the whispers and checked my watch. It was time. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Dr. Prescott,” I said quietly. “I am outside the entrance.” The deep, gravelly voice of Dr. Alan Prescott answered. “Use the side loading dock. My assistant is waiting there for you. Nora, those anomalies you sent me yesterday, I analyzed them all night. If your claims are correct, this isn’t just plagiarism; it is public endangerment.” Dr. Prescott was the head of the judging panel. He was also famous for his uncompromising ethics. He was a wall that Randy’s money could not penetrate. “I understand,” I replied. “Today, everything comes to light.” Ten minutes later, guided by Dr. Prescott’s assistant, I slipped into the back of the auditorium, taking a seat in the dim shadows of the back row. The stage lights were dazzling. Ella stood before a massive projection screen, dressed in a tailored Chanel suit, holding a laser pointer. She looked confident, radiant, and utterly untouchable. Randy sat in the front row, a proud, satisfied smile on his face. “Our neural-network-based medical algorithm is the result of three years of rigorous development and countless clinical simulations,” Ella announced, clicking to the next slide. The screen displayed a complex data visualization flow. “It increases the accuracy of early tumor detection by thirty-five percent. This is a monumental leap forward for oncology.” The hall erupted into thunderous applause. Several judges in the front row nodded in approval. Ella basked in the adulation, her chin tilting upward. “I want to take this opportunity to thank my father, who gave me the courage to pursue my dreams. And I want to make it clear that true science will never be compromised by those who seek to steal the hard work of others.” The audience murmured in agreement. Everyone knew exactly who she was referencing. As the applause died down, the floor opened for the judges’ questions. Dr. Prescott sat in the center of the panel, flipping through the printed report with a deep frown. “Ella,” he spoke into his microphone, his voice echoing through the speakers. “The performance metrics you presented are impressive. However, I have a question regarding the core architecture. In the event of a sudden embolic mutation, why does your D-7 code segment lack a fail-safe redundancy?” A sudden silence fell over the room. The question was highly technical, striking directly at the heart of the algorithm. Ella’s smile stiffened. Her fingers tightened around the presenter remote. “Well…” She glanced toward her father in the front row. “Dr. Prescott, we optimized the D-7 segment. In our tests, we found that a traditional redundancy wasn’t necessary because we implemented a more advanced filtering protocol.” “What kind of filtering protocol?” Prescott pressed, his eyes narrowing. “Can you explain the basic logic of that segment?” Beads of sweat formed along Ella’s hairline. “Those baseline codes were handled by our junior technicians,” she stammered, trying to maintain her poise. “As the principal investigator, my role was to manage the macro-framework and…” “The macro-framework?” A clear, cold voice cut through the auditorium from the very back. My wireless microphone, which I had patched into the house audio system minutes before, projected my voice perfectly into every corner of the hall. “Ella,” I said, standing up and taking off my cap. Under the collective gaze of hundreds of bewildered spectators, I walked down the center aisle toward the brightly lit stage. “You can’t even see that the D-7 segment is a logic loop designed to fail.” I looked at her pale face. “If you are going to steal my work, you should at least learn how to read it.”

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1 The night before my wedding, I drove forty miles to bring my fiancé’s mistress to our house. When Patrick pushed the front door open, he was greeted by the sight of the two of us sitting in the living room, sharing a quiet pot of tea. He let out a visible sigh of relief. “Rebecca, since you already know, it’s best if Brooke stays here with us.” He stepped closer, adjusting his collar. “You are still my legal wife, but Brooke is fragile. Let her have tomorrow’s ceremony first. Once she settles down and her emotions are stable, I will come back and marry you.” I took a slow sip of my tea, remaining silent. Taking my silence as agreement, Patrick didn’t waste another second. He grabbed Brooke’s hand and took her upstairs to choose from my wedding wardrobe. I didn’t get angry. I simply unlocked my phone, opened a private group chat, and sent a single message: I’m getting married tomorrow, but I’m missing a groom. Who’s in? Instantly, the thread exploded. Patrick’s closest friends began replying one after another, practically tripping over themselves to claim the spot. I let out a soft laugh. You see, Patrick, if you won’t marry me, there are plenty of men who will. … I muted the group notifications and set my phone down. “Rebecca, Mr. Patrick wants you to bring down tomorrow’s wedding dress.” The housekeeper walked over, pausing uncomfortably before continuing. “He said since you won’t be getting married tomorrow anyway, his bride might as well use it.” That wedding dress. I had spent six months designing it and another year flying across the country, hand-stitching every delicate detail myself. Nobody knew better than Patrick how much of my soul I had poured into that gown. Now, just because Brooke wanted to wear it, I was expected to hand it over? “Tell him,” I said quietly, “if he wants it, he can get on his knees and beg.” Half an hour later, the front door was kicked open. Patrick marched in, followed by a dozen boutique assistants, each holding two different designer gowns. He threw himself onto the sofa, casually reaching over to twirl a strand of my hair between his fingers. “Rebecca, our wedding is still a long way off. The girl took a liking to your dress, so let her have it first.” He gestured to the rows of dresses. “Pick one of these. Do you like any of them?” “If you don’t, that’s fine too. Once Brooke is done with yours, you can just wear it for our ceremony. I don’t mind.” Brooke let out a giggling laugh. She threw herself into Patrick’s lap, tracing lazy circles on his chest with her French-tipped nails. “Patrick, you are so bad. You told everyone in the city that Rebecca was never to wear second-hand goods.” She smirked at me. “Now you’re making her wear a dress I used first. She must absolutely hate me.” Patrick didn’t care. He stroked her hair, his voice dripping with easy confidence. “She isn’t that petty.” “Besides, she’s been with me for ten years. Who else is she going to marry if not me?” I looked down, keeping my eyes on my phone. In the group chat, those very same men were sending photos of their tailored suits, trying to present their best selves to me. Every single one of them had posted on social media, expressing how nervous they were about a wedding tomorrow. Patrick’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the posts, letting out a chuckle. “Look at this. Tomorrow is my wedding, but the guys are ordering custom tuxedos overnight. They are taking this more seriously than I am.” He casually unlocked his phone and sent a voice note to the groomsmen’s thread. “Alright, guys, no need to be so formal tomorrow.” “Just treat it like a regular hangout. Eat, drink, and do whatever you want. Just make sure you all show proper respect and call Brooke the lady of the house.” Patrick didn’t notice that not a single person replied to his message. He pulled Brooke closer, settling into a more comfortable position, and reached his hand out toward me. “Rebecca, where do we keep the protection? You know how clingy Brooke is. She practically drapes herself over me every second, and she throws a fit if she doesn’t get her way.” “But don’t worry, I kept my promise to you. The firstborn of this family will still come from your womb.” A bitter smile touched my lips. The promise he made years ago. He only remembered the second half, entirely forgetting the first. When he was twenty, under a sky lit with fireworks, he had sworn that I would be the only woman he would ever marry. He promised that our wedding would be his first, and our child would be his first. Ten years had passed, and everything had turned to ash. Seeing my smile, Patrick blinked, his tone turning unusually serious. “Rebecca, you should smile more. You used to laugh all the time in your early twenties. Now you’re always so cold. It isn’t flattering.” I pulled my smile back, instructing the housekeeper to order a bulk box of protection for him. Patrick instantly forgot his complaints. He seemed highly satisfied with my compliance. He scooped Brooke up in his arms and headed toward the stairs. “Oh, by the way, Rebecca, sleep in the guest room tonight.” “Tomorrow is the big day, and she wants to celebrate tonight. She has a terrible temper when she doesn’t get enough sleep, so have the makeup artists wait outside her door tomorrow morning. They can start once she wakes up.” “Patrick,” I called out, sitting quietly on the sofa. The man at the top of the stairs paused. He glanced back at me, his brow furrowed in annoyance, prompting me to speak quickly. I looked directly into his eyes, speaking slowly and clearly. “Tomorrow’s wedding is still happening.” “If you won’t be the groom, I will find someone else.” 2 Patrick clearly didn’t believe me. He let out a condescending chuckle, shaking his head. “Stop it, Rebecca. This isn’t the time to vie for my attention.” “I need to go keep Brooke happy. If she’s in a good mood tomorrow, maybe she’ll let you be her maid of honor.” In his arms, Brooke pouted, whispering in his ear. Urged by her, Patrick walked up the stairs without looking back. Soon, muffled sounds began to drift down from the master bedroom. The housekeeper stood near the door, opening her mouth several times before finally speaking. “Rebecca, the position of Mrs. Patrick… he has never considered anyone but you.” I looked at the box of protection still sitting on the counter. I gestured toward the stairs. “Take it up to him.” In the middle of the night, my phone rang. My best friend Hazel’s voice blasted through the receiver, nearly deafening me. “Rebecca! What the hell is going on? Why did Patrick just post that your wedding is canceled?” “You two have been planning this for over a year! The venue alone cost millions, not to mention the custom decorations you stayed up nights designing! How can he just call it off?” I sat up, rubbing my temples, entirely drained of sleep. Just as I was about to tell her that the wedding was still on, Hazel’s voice spiked another octave, trembling with fury. “Wait! Is Patrick insane? He just sent out a new digital invite! The wedding is still on, but the bride’s name has been changed to Brooke! Who the hell is Brooke?” I lowered my eyes. Patrick had always been like this. When he loved you, he would give you the world. But when he stopped caring, he would strip everything away without a second thought. Outside, the headlights of a passing car flickered against the window, casting brief shadows across the dark room. “Hazel, don’t worry about any of that,” I said quietly. “Just show up tomorrow. The wedding is still on.” “If he can change the bride, I can change the groom.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Hazel quickly pieced together what was happening, her voice cracking with anger. “That absolute bastard! Yes! Change him! Change him immediately!” “He acted so devoted before the wedding, traveling to twenty-eight countries with you to take photos, renting out a fleet of drones to announce the date! And now he does this? Men are truly worthless!” She began to sniffle, her anger turning to tears. “Rebecca, wait for me. I’m going to kick my boyfriend out of bed right now just to vent some of this anger for you!” I let out a helpless laugh. I wanted to tell her that things weren’t as bleak as they seemed. My backup grooms were highly qualified, each better than the last. Before I could speak, a soft knock came at my door. The housekeeper stood outside, looking deeply apologetic. “Rebecca, Mr. Patrick wants you to come to the master bedroom.” I knew that if I didn’t go, Patrick would only take his frustration out on the staff. I told Hazel to put on her bridesmaid dress and wait for me at the venue, then I hung up and walked upstairs. The half-open door revealed a disheveled room, thick with the scent of their intimacy. Patrick had clearly just showered. Water droplets fell from his damp hair, tracing down his neck over a fresh collar of bite marks. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to ignore the sharp, dull ache in my chest. Seeing me enter, Patrick pointed carelessly at the floor. A crumpled, stained bridesmaid dress lay in the corner. “Rebecca, I know you put a lot of effort into this wedding. Wear this tomorrow and stand as Brooke’s maid of honor. Consider it a way to honor all the planning you did this past year.” Brooke lay under the sheets, a malicious grin playing on her lips. She leaned in, whispering seductively against Patrick’s ear. “Patrick, Rebecca is a designer. Her custom wedding ring must be beautiful. I want it.” My face remained entirely blank. The wedding ring, like the dress, was a piece of art I had spent months sketching, molding, and perfecting with my own hands. Patrick knew this better than anyone. Yet, he only shrugged, his tone incredibly casual. “Rebecca, it’s just a ring. If the girl wants it, let her have it.” “Our actual wedding date isn’t set yet. We have plenty of time for you to design a new one.” He spoke with such absolute entitlement that the dull ache in my chest suddenly vanished. I felt absolutely nothing. I looked at Patrick and repeated myself one last time. “I told you, the wedding is still happening tomorrow.” 3 Patrick stared at me, blinking in surprise before letting out a confident laugh. “How? I’m the groom, and I won’t be there. Who are you going to marry?” “Alright, Rebecca, you aren’t the type to throw a tantrum. I promised I would marry you eventually, and I will keep my word. You just need to be patient and wait a little longer, okay?” Wait. Always waiting. I had waited ten years for him, finally reaching the altar, only to discover he had been cheating on me for the last three. And now he wanted me to wait again? To watch him marry another woman and then wait for him to condescend to bring me home? “I’m done waiting, Patrick.” He didn’t hear me. He glanced at his luxury watch, pulling Brooke back under the covers, throwing a careless remark over his shoulder. “It’s still early. We can go another round. Don’t worry, Rebecca, the firstborn of the family will still come from you.” I looked down, my eyes devoid of any warmth. Leaving the ruined bridesmaid dress on the floor, I turned and walked back to the guest room. The next morning, neither of them woke up early. The makeup artists stood awkwardly in the hallway. I walked up to them. “I am the bride. You can start on me.” I had been the only one coordinating with them for months, so they recognized me immediately. By the time my makeup and hair were nearly finished, Patrick and Brooke finally wandered downstairs. The morning sun streamed through the window, reflecting off my gown. Patrick stopped dead in his tracks, staring at me. The stylist secured the veil to my hair. I lifted the heavy skirt, standing up to face him. Patrick finally snapped out of his trance, pinching the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh. “Rebecca, I told you I would give you a proper wedding later.” “Let Brooke have this one. Be good, take the dress off. She’s going to throw a fit if she sees you in it.” Right on cue, footsteps hurried down the stairs. Brooke ran down, wrapping her arms around Patrick’s. The moment she saw me in the wedding gown, she lost her mind, pointing a finger at me. “Patrick! Today is my wedding! Why is she wearing a wedding dress?” “My mother was a mistress, and I swore I would never be like her. But for you, I threw away my pride! I became the very thing I hated!” Tears welled in her eyes. “For three years, I kept quiet! And now you’re going to make me share my wedding day with another woman?” Patrick immediately leaned down, softly comforting her. His frantic, gentle demeanor looked exactly like the boy from fifteen years ago. The boy who had pulled me from the rubble of a collapsed building, holding my terrified, orphaned self in his arms, swearing he would protect me forever. Memories were a cruel thing. I let out a soft chuckle, tossing a small, palm-sized pink notebook onto the floor. “Patrick, I don’t need this anymore. You can have it back.” If Patrick had bothered to look, he would have recognized the bucket list we had started fifteen years ago. Back then, he said that once we completed all one hundred wishes, we would never be parted. There were still ten wishes left, but I no longer wanted to complete them with him. “Rebecca, thank you. This is perfect timing.” Patrick picked up the notebook, offering a warm smile as he handed it to Brooke. “This is our couples’ journal. Once we complete all one hundred wishes, we will be together forever.” “Be good now. The dress is yours, and the wedding is yours.” Brooke’s tears instantly turned into a smug smile. She leaned against Patrick’s chest, throwing a triumphant look at me. “Patrick, make her take the dress off.” “She’s just a maid of honor. What right does she have to wear a wedding gown?” Patrick gestured with his hand, and several maids began to close in on me. “Rebecca, take it off.” The makeup artist looked around awkwardly. She tried to speak up for me, but the security guards blocked her, escorting her to another room. The gown was heavy, and I wore nothing but my undergarments beneath it. I looked at the crowded room. “Patrick, are you sure you want me to strip right here?” 4 Patrick’s hand twitched, clearly intending to have the maids take me to a private room. But Brooke’s sharp voice cut in first. “Of course! That is my wedding dress! Every second you wear it makes me sick!” Patrick remained silent, offering his silent consent. The maids swarmed me, aggressively pulling the gown from my body, tearing my hair loose in the process. The guards at the door couldn’t help but look, their eyes lingering on my exposed skin. In the next second, Patrick threw his suit jacket over my shoulders. He pulled me tightly against his chest, shielding me from view, and roared at the door. “Housekeeper! Get those guards out of here! Fire them!” I looked up at his furrowed brow, suddenly finding the entire situation hilarious. He was the one who ordered them to strip my dress. And now he was the one trying to protect my modesty. I pulled away from his embrace, letting the jacket slide. “Patrick, are you done acting? You have a wedding to get to, and so do I.” “Let’s not waste each other’s time.” Patrick froze, then let out a lazy, amused chuckle. “Alright, Rebecca, you don’t have to attend the ceremony.” “I know you don’t want to be the maid of honor. How about this? I’ll bring Brooke’s bouquet back to you tonight as an apology.” He reached out to pat my head. “You have such a temper. Who else but me would put up with you?” The wedding was scheduled to begin in an hour. Patrick was in a rush. Afraid that I would show up and cause a scene, he instructed the housekeeper to lock me in the study before he boarded the wedding car and drove away. Through the glass windows, I watched his car disappear down the driveway. My dress was gone, my ring was gone, and my groom was gone. But this wedding was still going to happen. At the main wedding venue, the bride stood at the entrance, complaining loudly. “Patrick, you promised me a perfect wedding! Now I don’t even have a bouquet! What kind of bride doesn’t have a bouquet?” “There was no choice,” Patrick replied, setting the flowers aside. “Rebecca’s wedding has been postponed. If I didn’t at least leave her the bouquet, she would have completely lost her mind.” Brooke pouted, turning her head away. “Then you have to treat me even better from now on.” Patrick looked at her annoyed expression, reaching over to pinch her cheek with a casual smile. “Of course. I’ll spoil you to the ends of the earth.” The officiant was already calling for them to enter. It was only then that Patrick realized his groomsmen had not yet arrived. The group of men seemed to have vanished into thin air. None of them were answering his texts or calls. But the guests were waiting. Suppressing his irritation, Patrick took Brooke’s hand and began to walk toward the main hall. As they passed one of the smaller banquet halls, a wave of cheers and applause drifted through the double doors, catching his attention. Through the half-open door, he saw a newlywed couple kissing. And standing right there in the middle of the crowd, cheering them on, were his own groomsmen… the very friends who had ghosted him. And on the stage, radiant in a breathtaking wedding gown, stood Rebecca. Patrick’s mind went entirely blank.

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1 I spent seven years building a tech startup from scratch alongside my childhood friend. My self-developed ad-targeting algorithm was the sole engine keeping the entire company afloat. But the moment his new girlfriend joined the firm, she made me her primary target. “Why are we paying eighty thousand a year to a basic data administrator? All she does is run templates and execute simple scripts.” “Starting today, your salary is cut to twenty thousand. You will handle basic data entry, and I will take over the core algorithm.” My co-founder, a friend I had known for over two decades, sat in absolute silence, permitting his girlfriend’s blatant disrespect. I didn’t offer a single word of defense. I simply signed the demotion. A week later, our primary clients saw their conversion rates plunge to zero, bringing the company to the brink of a multi-million dollar breach of contract lawsuit. His girlfriend came to my cubicle, crying over a corrupted database. “How can you just sit there and do nothing?” I smiled, sliding my new employment contract across the desk. “I only make twenty thousand. My job is to run templates.” … The weekly board meeting was a firing squad, and the target was painted directly on my chest. The sales director had just finished presenting a report on our skyrocketing customer acquisition costs, and the atmosphere in the room was freezing. Jimmy rubbed his temples, turning his gaze toward me. “Andrea, what does the data department have to say about this?” Before I could open my mouth, Vanessa cut in. “Jimmy, do you mind if I share a few thoughts?” Jimmy had always spoiled her. “Go ahead.” Vanessa stood up, her eyes locked onto me, filled with unprovoked malice. “Andrea, I’ve reviewed the metrics. Our retention rate for legacy clients relies entirely on a bidding model that promises a thirty percent conversion rate. On paper, that looks impressive.” “But the cost structure of this model is incredibly rigid.” “The optimization is slow, relying entirely on automated scripts while completely ignoring human psychology.” She clicked her remote, bringing up a slide presentation. “This is a digital marketing campaign I ran for a campus organization during my junior year. With a budget of only one hundred dollars, we generated thirty thousand clicks.” She presented the numbers with absolute confidence, as if a small student project could compare to a multi-million dollar corporate campaign. I remained silent, waiting for her to reach her actual point. Sure enough, she pivoted, targeting her real objective. “Jimmy, I’m not questioning Andrea’s expertise.” “I simply believe the company is overpaying for this so-called stability.” She looked around the room, making sure she had everyone’s attention. “Andrea’s salary is eighty thousand. Frankly, a freelance media buyer could handle this entire workload for thirty thousand.” “After all, digital marketing is about creativity and human connection, not writing code.” The meeting room was dead silent. An intern had just openly challenged the chief technical architect of the firm during a company-wide review. I looked at Jimmy. We had known each other for twenty-two years, and we had spent seven of those years building this business. The smart bidding engine I spent six months coding in our early days was the foundation of our success. It was the only reason he could walk into pitch meetings with absolute confidence. Now, he avoided my gaze. The company had been burning cash to expand into new markets, and our capital reserves were dangerously low. Vanessa’s cost-cutting proposal was incredibly tempting to him. Around the table, several department heads began to whisper, nodding in agreement with Vanessa. Jimmy remained silent for a long time before he finally cleared his throat, making his decision. “Andrea, Vanessa makes a valid point. The company is facing significant financial pressure.” “We’re going to adjust your compensation to twenty thousand for the time being.” “Vanessa will take over the management of the core algorithm.” “Since you have more experience, you can head the Content Compliance team. You’ll ensure the ad creatives meet basic regulatory standards.” Twenty thousand. That was even less than the thirty thousand Vanessa had suggested. It was a deliberate attempt to humiliate me. Jimmy added, “We’re all family here, Andrea. Don’t take it personally. Once this expansion phase is over and the revenue starts rolling in, I’ll make it up to you with a generous dividend.” I looked at his familiar face, suddenly feeling as though I was staring at a stranger. I didn’t argue about the complexity of the code, nor did I remind him that eighty percent of our clients signed with us solely because of that engine. I simply looked at him and asked, “Do you have the new contract ready?” My quick capitulation caught both Jimmy and Vanessa off guard. Jimmy recovered quickly, letting out a sigh of relief, and instructed HR to draft the demotion paperwork immediately. Five minutes later, a fresh contract was placed in front of me. Without a moment of hesitation, I picked up the pen and signed my name. Vanessa walked over, her chin tilted up. Leaning down, she whispered so only I could hear, “The data department belongs to me now. I’m going to prove that talent actually matters, not just nepotism.” I offered a polite smile and ignored her. 2 The new contract took effect the following morning. I moved my belongings from the private corner office to a cramped desk in the far corner of the open-plan floor. Vanessa moved into my old room. She worked quickly, calling a department meeting that very afternoon. Without consulting anyone, she threw out the entire streamlined data pipeline I had spent years building, replacing it with abstract theories she had copied straight from college textbooks. The senior data analysts were furious, but they kept their mouths shut, forced to take direction from an amateur. On Wednesday, the company held a kickoff meeting for our major Cyber Monday retail campaign. This was our most critical project of the year, and everyone was on edge. “This campaign is incredibly sensitive,” the sales director warned. “The demographic targeting must be exact. If we miss the mark, we won’t just lose the budget; we’ll destroy the brand’s reputation.” The moment he finished speaking, Vanessa stood up. She looked at Jimmy, her eyes bright with ambition. “Jimmy, let me handle this campaign.” “I guarantee we won’t just hit our targets; I’ll increase the conversion rate by another five percent.” Jimmy was clearly charmed by her confidence. He nodded immediately. “Excellent. Vanessa will take full charge of this campaign. Give her whatever resources she needs.” After the meeting, Vanessa walked straight to my desk. She dropped a heavy stack of folders onto my keyboard. “Andrea, these are the initial ad creatives for our baby-care client, Lullaby and Company. I need you to finish the compliance audit by the end of the day.” Her tone was that of a demanding boss addressing an assistant. Without looking up, I took the top sheet of paper. “I’ll look at it.” My calm demeanor only seemed to irritate her further. She wanted to rub her victory in my face. “I never imagined I’d see the great Andrea doing manual proofreading,” she sneered, crossing her arms. “Checking typos and reviewing images must be very relaxing.” “Unlike us, who have to manage multi-million dollar portfolios. The pressure is immense.” I finally raised my eyes to look at her. “Is the pressure too much for you?” “Of course not.” “Then don’t take on projects you can’t handle,” I said, putting the paper down. “Especially Lullaby and Company.” I spoke slowly, making sure she heard every word. “I spent three years developing that baby-care targeting model. The demographic overlap is incredibly complex.” “I am warning you once: do not touch the core audience tags.” “If you do, you won’t be able to handle the consequences.” Vanessa’s expression hardened, my warning striking a nerve. “Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?” “Andrea, remember your place. I don’t need advice from a compliance auditor.” “Your outdated model should have been replaced a long time ago.” To prove she was in control, she immediately pulled out her phone and called Jimmy. Her voice turned soft and sweet, dripping with feigned distress. “Jimmy, Andrea hasn’t handed over the administrator password for the algorithm yet. I need to adjust some parameters, but I’m locked out.” Ten minutes later, Jimmy walked over to my desk. “Andrea, give Vanessa the password. We need to keep the project moving.” “The system uses a dynamic security key. I have to log in to transfer the credentials,” I replied quietly. Jimmy stood by as I opened the login portal. I could feel Vanessa’s eyes boring into my keyboard as I typed. I kept my movements quick, but she was watching with intense focus. Once the transfer was complete, I logged out of my account. “It’s done.” “That’s it?” Vanessa frowned. “No special instructions?” “Yes,” I said, looking her in the eye. “One last warning: do not touch the model.” Vanessa let out a sharp laugh, grabbing Jimmy’s arm as they walked away. “Just focus on your typos, Andrea.” I stayed late that evening. As I passed the data room on my way out, I saw Vanessa sitting alone at the terminal. The arrogance on her face was gone, replaced by a feverish intensity. I heard her whispering to herself. “Why is this code so redundant? Pre-pregnancy, first trimester, second trimester, toddler parents… why are there so many specific tags?” “I’m going to simplify all of this. We’ll pool the entire budget and target a single ‘high-value buyer’ segment.” “Once I push the conversion rate to forty percent, let’s see who dares to question me.” I shook my head and walked out of the building. Some people have to fall into the pit themselves before they realize how deep it is. 3 On Cyber Monday, I arrived at nine in the morning and scanned my keycard. Compared to my old routine of staying up all night to monitor live traffic, my new compliance job felt like an early retirement. By ten, a wave of panic swept through the open floor. “What’s happening? Why is the live traffic dropping off a cliff?” “The client is calling! They want to know why our impressions are climbing but we have zero conversions!” I took a sip of my tea, pulling up the company’s public dashboard on my monitor. The red line representing Lullaby and Company, our premier client, was in a near-vertical freefall. The conversion rate sat at 0.1%. Our average was thirty percent. “Vanessa! What did you do?!” Jimmy’s angry shout echoed from his office. A few seconds later, Jimmy stormed out, his face pale with fury. Vanessa followed close behind, her eyes red. “I… I only optimized the demographic tags,” she whimpered. “I merged all those tiny baby-care segments into one ‘high-value buyer’ list. I wanted to focus the budget to get higher conversions. I don’t know why…” The sales director ran over, holding his phone, his face white. “Jimmy, the VP of Lullaby is on the line.” “They spent half a million dollars this morning, and the algorithm served their ads entirely to single men between eighteen and twenty-two!” “The brand’s social media is getting flooded with complaints! Men are asking why they are being targeted with breast pumps and nursing pads!” The director was sweating, his voice shaking. “They are demanding an immediate cancellation of their contract, a full refund of their budget, and three times that amount in damages for brand defacement! We are looking at a two-million-dollar lawsuit!” It didn’t stop there. On the main monitor, red warning lights began to flash for ten other major accounts. Because Vanessa had modified the core model, every campaign sharing that database was crashing. “Lawsuits… damages…” Jimmy stumbled, nearly losing his balance. “Where is Andrea? Find Andrea!” Jimmy’s eyes swept across the room until they landed on me, sitting quietly in my corner. He rushed over to my desk, his breathing ragged. “Andrea, look at the database! The model is bugged. You need to fix it right now!” Vanessa stood behind him, biting her lip, still holding onto her pride. I leaned back in my chair, looking at him. “Jimmy, I think you have the wrong person. I handle content compliance now, not database maintenance.” Jimmy’s voice cracked. “Andrea, this is no time to play games!” “You wrote the code. You’re the only one who can fix it. Get into the system and revert the parameters, quickly!” I didn’t move. Instead, I opened my desk drawer and pulled out a red leather folder. Inside was an official document: United States Patent and Trademark Office. Patent Number: US 10,845,921. Title: Multi-Dimensional Demographic Bidding Engine. Inventor: Andrea Chen. I tapped the folder, looking up at him. “This core engine is my personal patent. I only licensed its use to my previous position.” “As a compliance auditor, I no longer have the authority to access or modify this software.” Jimmy tried to suppress his panic, adopting a commanding tone. “I am authorizing you right now. Go fix it!” “I don’t accept verbal authorization,” I said with a calm smile, sliding the folder back into the drawer. “If you want me to restore the engine, we need to discuss the emergency licensing fee.” Jimmy’s face turned dark. He slammed his hand onto my desk, his voice rising to a shout. “Andrea, you are extorting me!” “The company paid you eighty thousand a year! Now that we are facing a crisis, you’re just going to watch us burn?”

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1 For four years, Mackenzie’s favorite word was “boundaries.” I did not know her passwords, touch her phone, or enter her study. Friends asked if she was hiding something. I defended her, blaming a tough childhood and lack of security. Last week, her phone lit up on the counter. A message from “Eric” read, “Tracker says you’re home. Aren’t you coming out?” I unlocked it and scrolled up. Her earlier text said, “Keep location sharing on. I need to know where you are.” Further up, he asked, “Made it to the office?” She replied, “Just walked in. Photo for you.” He answered, “Good boy.” Their live locations were shared 24/7. Last month, I ran a 103-degree fever. I asked her to pick me up from the clinic. She told me to send my location so she could order an Uber because she was busy in her study. I never knew what she did in there. Now I did. It was not boundaries. She simply did not care to possess me. No tears, no scene. I took off her fourth-anniversary necklace, left it on the foyer table, and signed the Munich job contract. … “What are you looking at?” Mackenzie pushed the study door open, her voice as calm as ever, though it carried her usual tone of quiet scrutiny. I calmly locked my phone screen. The job confirmation email, destined for our European headquarters in Munich, had already been sent. “Just looking at some job listings,” I said, placing the phone face down on the table. Mackenzie walked over to the kitchen island and poured herself a glass of warm water. Her eyes immediately darted to the charging cable I had just disconnected. It was her phone. Her brow furrowed in a barely perceptible flinch. “Gavin, I believe I’ve told you before not to touch my phone.” “I didn’t touch it.” “It was originally two centimeters away from the charging base. Now it is completely aligned with it.” She picked up the device, her tone devoid of anger but heavy with quiet reprimand. “I do not like people invading my private space. You know that.” I knew. Over our four years together, her private space had been a fortress guarded by a standing army. She changed her lock screen password once a month. Without her explicit permission, I wasn’t even allowed into her study to clean. She told me it was a trauma from her childhood, that she needed absolute control to feel secure. I believed her for four years. Until yesterday, when she forgot to lock her screen, and I saw the name Eric. Eric. Her junior from university. For him, she had no boundaries whatsoever. “How were your test results at the hospital today?” she asked, taking a sip of water. “The doctor said the pneumonia hasn’t fully cleared. I need to keep taking the medication.” “Then make sure you take it on time.” “My fever reducers ran out, and the pharmacy downstairs doesn’t carry the brand I need. Can you come with me to the medical center to get a prescription?” Mackenzie set her glass down, glancing at her watch. “I have an online conference at three.” “It’s only half past one.” “I need to prepare the slides beforehand.” She walked over, habitually running her fingers through my hair. “Just take a cab there. It is very convenient.” I didn’t pull away from her hand. I only stared at her quietly. “Mackenzie, last week you said you were too busy in your study, and you had me take a cab to the ER alone. Today is the same.” “I actually have work to do.” She let out a soft sigh, as if she found my request childish. “Gavin, you are twenty-six years old. Going to the clinic is a minor task you can handle yourself. Don’t be so dependent on me.” I wasn’t dependent on her. When I sat alone in the ER until three in the morning with an IV drip in my arm, I hadn’t depended on her either. Her phone buzzed against the marble counter. Mackenzie looked down, a rare, soft warmth flickering in her eyes. She quickly typed a reply. I didn’t need to look to know it was Eric. After all, they had their locations shared twenty-four hours a day. “I have to go out for a bit,” she said, reaching for her car keys. “Don’t you have a conference at three?” “Something urgent came up.” “What kind of urgent business?” Her movements paused as she put on her shoes. She turned back to face me, her brow furrowing again. “Gavin, you are crossing a line.” “I was just asking.” “We agreed we wouldn’t interfere with each other’s personal schedules,” she said, pushing the door open. “I’ll be back soon.” The door clicked shut. I walked to the foyer, looking down at the slippers she had just stepped out of. There was a faint scratch on the leather. It happened last month when she helped Eric move into his new apartment, scraping her foot against an old wooden dresser. She had spent the entire day at his place. She told me he was new to the city and had no family here, so as his senior, it was her duty to look after him. I walked to the balcony, watching her car pull out of the driveway. Then, I opened a local courier app on my phone. I entered the address of Eric’s apartment. I wasn’t trying to spy on her; I was simply having a document delivered to his building to see if she was there. Twenty minutes later, the courier sent me a confirmation photo. Mackenzie’s car was parked outside Eric’s building. The passenger door was wide open. She was leaning in, carefully buckling the seatbelt for a young man in a white shirt. The boy was smiling brightly, reaching up to gently pinch her ear. Mackenzie didn’t pull away. She actually tilted her head slightly, letting him do it. The woman who claimed she hated being touched, the woman who had built her entire life around boundaries. She looked as gentle as a tamed kitten. I saved the photo and canceled the delivery order. I went back to the living room and began packing my bags. 2 My flight to Munich was in fifteen days. I didn’t have many belongings. Though I had lived in this apartment for four years, there were very few traces of my existence. Mackenzie preferred a cold, minimalist aesthetic, keeping the living room in shades of black, white, and gray. I had once bought a pair of warm yellow cushions for the sofa, but she had tucked them away in a closet that very evening. “The color is too loud. It ruins the visual balance.” I never bought another decorative item after that. Around dinner time, Mackenzie sent a text. The meeting is running late. I won’t be home for dinner. Find something for yourself. I replied with a single word: Okay. Within half an hour, a new contact request popped up on my phone. The profile picture was a ragdoll cat, and the name was “Eric.” The message read: Hello, Gavin. I’m Eric, Mackenzie’s junior from university. I accepted the request. He immediately sent a message. Gavin, I am so sorry. Mackenzie was supposed to have a meeting this afternoon, but I accidentally sprained my ankle. She insisted on driving me to the hospital and waiting with me for the X-ray results. Then came a photo. In the waiting room of the ER. Mackenzie was leaning over him, carefully holding an ice pack against his swollen ankle. The harsh white lights of the hospital fell over her face, making her look incredibly tender. It was an expression she had never shown me. Please don’t be mad at her, Gavin. I was just clumsy and didn’t watch my step. She’s always so busy, and I feel terrible for constantly causing trouble for her. I looked at the text, feeling absolutely nothing. No problem. Is it serious? I replied. The doctor said the bone is fine, just some soft tissue damage. I need to rest it for a few days. That’s good. Gavin, Mackenzie went to queue at the pharmacy for my medication. She mentioned you were supposed to get a checkup today too. Did you go? He was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Yes. Oh, that’s too bad. Mackenzie shouldn’t have let you go alone. I’ll make sure to scold her for you next time! Even through the screen, the smug, passive-aggressive tone was clear. He enjoyed the triumph of stealing her attention from me. He thrived on being her sole exception. Mackenzie returned at ten that night. She carried the faint scent of hospital disinfectant, mixed with a trace of perfume. Jo Malone’s Wild Bluebell. Eric had posted a photo of that exact fragrance on his social media feed last week, calling it a gift from his favorite senior. “Still awake?” she asked, hanging her coat in the closet. “Waiting for you.” “I told you that you didn’t have to.” She walked over to the sofa and sat down, rubbing her temples, looking exhausted. “Was the meeting that difficult?” I asked, watching her. Her movements stiffened for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. “Yes. Some international accounts had issues. We’ve been arguing all afternoon.” She lied. She did it without blinking, her face perfectly calm. “Does your ankle still hurt?” I asked suddenly. She looked up, a flash of genuine panic in her eyes. “What ankle?” “I thought I saw you limping when you walked in. I thought you might have twisted it.” I explained smoothly. She let out a soft breath, offering a faint smile. “No, I think my leg is just asleep from sitting too long.” I watched her flawless performance. For four years, I wondered how many times she had used this gentle, reasonable mask to deceive me. “Mackenzie.” “Yes?” “If I disappeared one day, would you look for me?” Her movements froze as she poured a glass of water. She turned to face me, her brow furrowing. “Gavin, why are you asking these ridiculous questions lately?” “Just curious.” “We are getting married soon. Where would you disappear to?” She walked over, patting my shoulder. “Stop overthinking and go to bed. I have to be up early for the office tomorrow.” She didn’t answer my question. She only dismissed me with her usual warning not to overthink. I watched her walk into the bathroom, a faint smile touching my lips. My ticket to Munich was already confirmed. She wouldn’t have to look for me. Because she would never be able to find me. 3 The next day was Saturday. Surprisingly, Mackenzie didn’t leave early. Instead, she sat in the living room, flipping through a book. When I stepped out of the bedroom, she looked up at me. “The weather is nice today. Do you want to go out?” I was caught off guard. Over our four years together, the times she had suggested a weekend date could be counted on one hand. “Where?” “An art exhibition just opened in the East End. Didn’t you say you wanted to see it?” I had wanted to see it. I had mentioned it to her three months ago. At the time, she had said, “What is the point of looking at manufactured installations? It is a waste of time.” I had never brought it up again. Why the sudden change of heart? I nodded. “Sure.” We drove toward the East End. During the drive, her phone sat on the console between us. The screen lit up. A message from Eric. Mackenzie, I’m feeling much better today. I’m really craving that sea-salt caramel Swiss roll from the bakery in the East End. Could you pick one up for me? I sat in the passenger seat, seeing every word clearly. The East End. The Swiss roll. It wasn’t a long-overdue date after all. It was just a convenient detour. “What’s wrong?” Mackenzie saw me staring at the console, and she quickly turned the phone face down. “Nothing. The sun is just a bit bright today.” I looked out the window. The exhibition was crowded. Mackenzie walked ahead of me, maintaining her customary distance. She didn’t hold my hand. She said displaying affection in public was unseemly. I walked two paces behind her, watching her back. When we reached an installation called “Fragments of Time,” I stopped. It was a massive glass wall covered in thousands of old train and plane tickets. “Gavin, what are you looking at?” she asked, turning back. “Those are just old travel stubs.” “It represents the journeys of others.” “It’s a rather dull concept,” she said, checking her watch. “Let’s go. It’s almost lunchtime.” She was in a hurry to buy the Swiss roll. The bakery was located on the lower level of the adjacent shopping center. We waited in line for twenty minutes. When we reached the counter, there were only two sea-salt caramel rolls left in the display. “I’ll take both of these, packaged separately,” Mackenzie told the clerk. “Of course, ma’am.” She turned to me. “You like sweets, don’t you? I bought one for you too.” “I don’t like sea-salt flavor.” “Oh, I must have forgotten.” Her tone was perfectly flat, carrying no hint of apology. “We’ll just put them both in one bag, then.” She gave both to Eric. My favorite was matcha. She hadn’t even glanced at the matcha cakes sitting right next to them. Back in the car, she placed the delicate paper bag carefully in the back seat. “I have a quick errand to run. Would you mind waiting in the car, or do you want to take a cab back?” “Where are you going?” “To meet a client.” “Meeting a client on a Saturday?” “An urgent issue came up,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation. “Be reasonable, Gavin.” Reasonable. That was her highest praise for me, and my heaviest chain. “Sure. I’ll take a cab.” I pushed the door open and stepped out without hesitation. I stood on the curb, watching her car speed away. She didn’t even tell me to get home safely. I pulled out my phone and opened my social media. Eric’s feed had just updated. A photo of two sea-salt caramel rolls on a beautiful porcelain plate, next to a man’s hand holding a coffee cup. On his wrist was the Patek Philippe watch I had bought Mackenzie for her birthday last year. The caption read: The favored child always gets sweets. I liked the post. Then, I blocked his number. I didn’t do it out of anger; I was simply tired of looking at him. When I got home that evening, Mackenzie was already there. She was typing on her laptop in the study, the door half-open. I walked in, and she immediately closed the lid. “Why didn’t you knock?” “The door was open.” “You should still knock,” she said, her expression hardening. “Gavin, you are losing your sense of boundaries.” “I’m sorry,” I said, looking at her defensive posture. “I just wanted to ask if you were free tomorrow evening.” “What is tomorrow?” “It’s our fourth anniversary.” She blinked, her eyes darting away. “I have a mandatory dinner with a client tomorrow night.” “Is it that important?” “Yes, a major account,” she said, reopening her laptop. “I’ll make it up to you next weekend.” “Alright.” I turned and walked out of the study. There was no need to make it up next weekend. Because by then, I would already be gone. 4 On our fourth anniversary, I sat alone in the apartment, eating a simple bowl of pasta. By eight, a massive thunderstorm rolled in. Lightning flashed across the sky, accompanied by heavy rolls of thunder. I sat on the sofa, watching the wall clock. At half past eight, the front door unlocked. Mackenzie walked in, dripping wet. I was surprised. I thought she had a client dinner. “Why are you so wet?” I asked, handing her a towel. She took it, drying her hair quickly, a trace of panic in her expression. “The parking garage was full, and I had to walk from the street.” “The garage has direct elevator access.” Her movements froze. “The elevator was out of order.” I didn’t press the matter. She hurried into the bathroom to shower. As she tossed her wet clothes into the laundry basket, a small object fell from her coat pocket. It was an elegant red velvet box. The unzipped pocket had let it slip out. I walked over, bending down to pick it up. She had brought it home last night, and I had assumed it was a corporate gift. I opened the box. Inside was a sterling silver necklace with a custom pendant shaped like the letter “T.” T for Eric. Underneath the necklace was a small card. Eric, don’t be afraid of the thunder. I’m here. My fingers trembled slightly, but my mind remained perfectly calm. I placed the necklace back in the box and slipped it back into her wet coat pocket. She hadn’t been at a client dinner. She had been comforting Eric during the storm. And because of the heavy rain, she had rushed home to keep up her performance, running from her car without even parking properly. I walked to the balcony, watching the pouring rain outside. I remembered a rainy night three years ago. I had been writhing on the bed in agony from acute appendicitis, calling her for help. She was out of town on business, and she had simply replied, “Drink some warm water, and call an ambulance.” It turned out she was capable of running through a storm for someone. It just wasn’t for me. The bathroom door opened, and Mackenzie walked out in her robe. She glanced at the laundry basket, and once she saw the coat was untouched, she let out a visible sigh of relief. “Why didn’t you order dinner?” she asked, walking over to me. “I wasn’t hungry.” She reached into her robe pocket and handed me a small box. “Happy anniversary. I picked this up at the mall.” I opened it. It was a simple four-leaf clover necklace, a common design worth perhaps fifty dollars. Compared to the custom letter “T” necklace, it was cheap and thoughtless. “Thank you,” I said, setting it on the coffee table. “You don’t like it?” She frowned. “I do.” “You are always so cold,” she muttered, annoyed. “I buy you a gift, and you don’t even smile.” “Mackenzie.” “Yes?” “Were you really at a client dinner tonight?” Her gaze turned icy instantly. “What are you implying? I work a long day, come home exhausted, and instead of a welcome, I get interrogated?” “I’m not interrogating you.” “Then what do you mean?” her voice rose. “I told you I was at a dinner. If you don’t believe me, I can give you the client’s number and you can call them yourself!” She knew I wouldn’t call. And I didn’t care to expose her. “I believe you.” Looking at my calm expression, she felt as though she was punching water. Frustrated, she adjusted her robe. “I have a business trip to Chicago tomorrow. I’ll be gone for about a week.” “Safe travels.” My flight to Munich was in four days. Her week-long trip would allow me to leave without any confrontation. The next morning, she left with her suitcase. “Take care of yourself while I’m gone,” she said, changing her shoes in the foyer. “Will you bring me back something?” I asked suddenly. She blinked, clearly surprised by my request. “What does Chicago have? Deep-dish pizza? It’s too greasy for you. I’ll just find some standard souvenir.” “Alright.” The door closed. She didn’t look back. I walked to the window, watching her car drive away. Two hours later, I logged onto my computer and accessed the flight portal. I entered her ID number, which I had memorized from booking her previous flights. There were no records of a flight to Chicago. Instead, I found a booking for a flight to Miami, departing in two hours. The passenger sitting next to her: Eric. Her “business trip” was a beach vacation with him. I didn’t cry. I took the cheap clover necklace from its box and tossed it into the trash can. I packed the last of my clothes into my suitcase. Then, I called my landlord. “Mrs. Gable, my lease is up at the end of the month. I won’t be renewing. Mackenzie’s belongings are still in the apartment; she will handle them herself.” The day of my flight was clear and bright. The airport was bustling with travelers, and the announcements echoed through the terminal. I queued at the check-in counter with my two large suitcases. While waiting at the gate, I opened my tablet, connected to the airport Wi-Fi, and logged into my social media accounts one last time. My inbox was empty. Mackenzie hadn’t messaged me. Eric’s feed, however, was highly active. His latest post was a photo of a sunny beach. He was in swim trunks, his back to the camera, as a woman’s slender hand applied sunscreen to his shoulders. The caption read: Someone said the Miami sun is too harsh and insisted on being my personal skin-care therapist. The comments from their mutual friends were filled with teasing remarks. Wow, Mackenzie is really spoiling you! This is too sweet! I scrolled past without expression. I opened my chat with Mackenzie. Our last message was my text from four days ago: Safe travels. She had never replied. My fingers typed a final message: Mackenzie, let’s end this. There were no long paragraphs of accusations, no desperate questions. I hit send, then immediately selected “Delete and Block.” Afterward, I closed the account entirely, cutting my ties to the city. “Passengers for flight LH721 to Munich, boarding has now begun…” I packed my tablet, took my suitcase, and walked toward the gate. Through the glass windows, I watched a plane climb through the clouds into the endless blue sky. I didn’t look back.

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1 I chose a sleek Bluetooth speaker for Brooke’s birthday. Oliver scoffed, “For her best friend, you sure don’t know what she wants.” He pulled out a leather journal titled 100 Things About Her, flipping to a marked page. “Her real wish is vintage jasmine perfume—not a bulky speaker.” Taking it, I flipped through pages filled with details: her favorite matte black, iced jasmine oolong with light ice, hatred of hair-touching, fear of rainy-night walks. The tight handwriting burned my eyes, souring my throat. Slamming it shut, I forced down my trembling voice. “Oliver, do you know my favorite food? Or what I hate most?” He froze, stammering, unable to answer a thing. A bitter smile curled my lips as my chest tightened. He could catalog Brooke’s every quirk, yet after four years, knew nothing about me. The three of us had made a pact years ago. We promised that after graduation, we would all move to Portland together to build our careers. In that exact moment, I completely abandoned that plan. I pulled out my phone, opened the official employment offer from a top firm in New York City, and typed out my reply. “I accept. I will report for onboarding next week.” Less than a minute after I hit send, my phone began to vibrate. “You previously turned down a highly competitive salary package because you wanted to relocate to Portland with your boyfriend and best friend,” the project director said over the line. “What made you suddenly change your mind?” Thinking back on everything that had unfolded recently, I fell silent for a moment. Brooke and Oliver had never technically crossed the physical line. But it was that very ambiguity, that suffocating and blurred emotional affair, that left me with no solid ground to stand on. I could never point to a singular, undeniable betrayal, yet every interaction between them felt fundamentally wrong. It went on for so long that I started questioning my own sanity, wondering if I was just being overly sensitive. I used to believe that as long as the three of us stuck together, everything would work out fine. But holding that meticulously written journal today, I just felt incredibly exhausted. I let out a soft breath. “I thought it over carefully. Compared to Portland, New York City offers a much better trajectory for my career.” The director voiced his approval. “Excellent. We will see you on Monday.” I hung up and walked back down the hallway. Oliver’s gaze flicked over to me for a split second. “Was that the New York recruiter again? Just reject them already. Brooke already booked three plane tickets to Portland. We leave in a week.” I looked at him quietly. “What if I already accepted the offer?” He paused, glancing up at me with a lazy, dismissive smirk. “Are you serious right now? Everyone knows you follow me and Brooke wherever we go. There is no way you would abandon us to go to New York alone.” I forced a dry, hollow laugh. He was right. For years, I had trailed behind them, living my life as nothing more than an afterthought in their orbit. That was exactly why I refused to revolve around them anymore. I opened my mouth to speak, but Brooke suddenly leaned through the doorway, flashing a brilliant smile and extending her hand. “Oliver! Where is my birthday present?” Oliver immediately softened. He reached into a shopping bag and handed her the beautifully wrapped perfume. Brooke tore the wrapping paper away, her eyes lighting up instantly. “I have wanted this specific scent for months! I only mentioned it in passing once, I cannot believe you actually remembered!” Before she even finished her sentence, Oliver pulled out a luxurious designer handbag and placed it on the table before her. Brooke blinked in surprise. “There is another gift? Did Christina get this for me?” Oliver shook his head gently, his eyes locked onto her with undeniable tenderness. “No.” “The perfume is the gift you asked for. But this bag is the gift I wanted to give you. We are moving to Portland soon. You will need something high-end to carry to your interviews.” I stood just a few feet away, feeling like an absolute stranger intruding on a private movie scene. My heart sank deeper into my stomach. We were both women in his life. Yet he remembered a passing comment from Brooke well enough to write a novel about it. When my birthday rolled around last month, my boyfriend of four years simply patted my shoulder. “Christina, money is a little tight right now. I will make it up to you next year, okay?” I smiled at my own stupidity. He was not broke. He just preferred spending his savings on someone else. The drive back to our apartment was entirely silent. The moment I closed the front door behind us, Oliver finally spoke up. “Christina, you haven’t said a word. Are you mad at me?” Before I could even formulate a response, he kept going. “Is this because I didn’t get you a real birthday present?” He reached into his jacket pocket and handed me a tiny glass vial. It was the exact same brand and scent he had just purchased for Brooke. “Stop sulking. Here, take this.” One glance was all I needed. It was a complimentary miniature sample given out by the beauty counter. It could not even begin to compare to the full-sized luxury gift set he had proudly handed to another woman. Seeing my reluctance to take it, Oliver sighed defensively. “Brooke is different from you. At the end of the day, she is an outsider. As your boyfriend, shouldn’t I make an effort to maintain a good relationship with your best friend? What if she starts talking badly about me behind my back?” I stared down at the tiny glass vial sitting on the entryway table. “I am not mad. I am just tired. I am going to take a shower.” When I turned off the water and began towel-drying my hair, I heard Oliver laughing hysterically in the living room. I pushed the bathroom door open. He was curled up on the sofa, clutching his phone, typing furiously with a massive grin on his face. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up and chuckled again. “Christina, you have no idea. Brooke is hilarious. She went home to try on the new designer bag, took a picture, and sent it to me. But her cat decided to sit on the leather and refuses to move. She is freaking out but doesn’t want to drag the cat off, so she is literally crouching on the floor trying to reason with an animal.” He laughed while tilting his screen toward me so I could see the photo. My hands stopped moving through my wet hair. We used to have a group chat called The Grub Club. We shared every random, pointless moment of our days in that chat. But I could not remember the last time that group chat had been active. The final message was sent by me three weeks ago. I had asked where we should go for dinner over the weekend. Nobody ever replied. I stared at the glowing screen in his hand. My voice came out incredibly quiet. “When did you two add each other privately?” Oliver flinched. He awkwardly averted his eyes, the smile dying on his lips. “Oh, just… you remember that week you were pulling all-nighters writing your senior thesis? Brooke sprained her ankle. I happened to be nearby, so I drove her to the urgent care clinic.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. When Brooke sprained her ankle, I had blamed myself for days. We were supposed to go shopping, and I felt incredibly guilty that she got hurt while I was stuck in the library. She had comforted me over the phone, telling me not to worry because a kind stranger had helped her get to the clinic. She told me to focus entirely on my thesis. It took until this exact moment to realize that the kind stranger was my boyfriend. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room. Cold water dripped from the ends of my wet hair, falling onto the back of my hand. It felt like ice. On the day of Brooke’s birthday, Oliver left the apartment at dawn just to secure her favorite custom cake from a high-end bakery across town. The evening dinner took place at an intimate, atmospheric private kitchen. Brooke showed up wearing a stunning dress that perfectly matched the color of her new designer bag. Throughout the entire night, her eyes continuously gravitated toward Oliver. Whenever she noticed me looking, she would hastily tear her gaze away. When it was time for a toast, Brooke’s eyes looked visibly glassy. “I am just so incredibly lucky to have met both of you.” Right after she spoke those words, she shot a fleeting, loaded glance at Oliver, tilted her head back, and downed her entire glass of wine. Oliver immediately reached out, wrapping his fingers firmly around her wrist. “Slow down.” She smiled playfully, breaking his grip to pour herself another full glass. Her voice dropped into a raspy whisper. “It is my birthday today. I want to drink.” I sat right beside them, entirely incapable of joining the conversation. I was a ghost haunting my own relationship. Oliver tried to stop her at first. But eventually, he grabbed his own glass and filled it to the brim. She drank a glass, and he matched her. They sat across the table from one another, never making direct eye contact, yet their rhythm was intimately synchronized. After several rounds, both of them were heavily intoxicated. Suddenly, Brooke propped her chin on her hand, looking directly at me. Her words slurred heavily. “Christina… I fell in love with a guy. I really, really like him.” I managed to pull a bitter smile to my lips. “If you like him, you should go after him. Maybe he feels the exact same way.” Her eyes ignited. She leaned forward, staring at me with intense desperation. “Do you really mean that?” “I mean it.” The second those words left my mouth, Brooke lifted her gaze. She stared straight across the table, locking eyes with Oliver. Oliver’s face went completely rigid. The alcohol seemed to evaporate from his bloodstream instantly. He stood up in a sudden panic, disrupting the heavy tension. “You are drunk. Stop talking nonsense. I am calling a car to take you home.” He practically lunged around the table, throwing his arm over my shoulder and dragging me toward the exit without another word. The cab ride home was suffocatingly silent. Neither of us spoke a single syllable. Halfway there, Oliver abruptly rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. He turned his face toward the rushing city lights, his expression dark and unreadable, lost in his own chaotic thoughts. The acrid stench of burning tobacco instantly flooded the back seat. I instinctively held my breath. I have a highly sensitive respiratory system. I cannot tolerate cigarette smoke. Oliver knew this perfectly well. For the four years we had been together, he never touched alcohol or tobacco in my presence. Even when his fraternity brothers pressured him to partake, he would always hold my hand and decline politely. “My girlfriend cannot handle the smoke,” he used to tell them. But tonight, he let the toxic cloud fill the cramped space of the vehicle. He clearly saw me coughing and turning my face away in discomfort, yet he remained entirely indifferent. The second we walked through our front door, his phone chimed. It was a custom notification tone he had specifically assigned to Brooke. I ignored him and walked straight into the bedroom. It took him nearly half an hour to finally enter the room. He claimed it was a work call from the Portland recruiters. His lie was incredibly sloppy, completely riddled with holes, but I did not even have the energy to call him out. I simply rolled over, turning my back to him. Deep into the night, his phone began vibrating relentlessly against the mattress. Driven by a morbid impulse I could not control, I reached over and picked it up. I opened the chat. The glowing text pierced my eyes like broken glass. The most recent messages were sent while I was lying right beside him. Oliver wrote: “Brooke, we cannot keep doing this. It is not fair to Christina.” She replied: “I know. But I genuinely cannot control how I feel.” He wrote back: “I cannot hurt Christina. I cannot move to Portland with you anymore. I want to go to New York with her.” Brooke responded with a massive wall of text, guilt-tripping him relentlessly. She reminded him of their sacred promise that the three of them would stick together, begging him not to abandon her. Oliver went silent for a long time. His final reply consisted of a single word. “Okay.” The screen faded to black. I tapped it to wake it up again. I read those lines over and over until my vision blurred and my eyes burned. Only then did I place the phone back on his pillow. I lay perfectly still on the mattress, staring up at the dark ceiling. My mind drifted back to our college graduation day. The three of us had stood together on the campus green, debating where we should build our futures. I told them I wanted to go to New York City. The career opportunities for my major were endless there. Brooke said she wanted to return to Portland because it was close to her family. Oliver did not even hesitate. He immediately agreed with Brooke, suggesting we move to Portland and claiming that the majority should rule. I had laughed it off, telling them that as long as we were together, the destination did not matter. It took me until tonight to finally understand the truth. I was never Oliver’s first choice. During our junior year, Oliver and I had signed a lease for this modest one-bedroom apartment near campus. It was small, but I had poured my heart into making it a warm, inviting home. Our toothbrushes were a matching set—one blue, one pink—sitting side by side in a glass cup. Our indoor slippers were a set too. His were charcoal gray, mine were cream. Sitting on his desk was a pair of custom ceramic mugs painted with our portraits. He had dragged me to a street fair to paint them. His artwork was incredibly sloppy and disproportionate. I had laughed the entire walk home, but I still treated that mug like a priceless artifact, placing it right in the center of the room. Looking at all those carefully curated memories now, I just felt like a massive joke. Oliver leaned against the bedroom doorframe, watching me fold my clothes into a large suitcase. He sounded incredibly relaxed. “Packing already? You must be really excited to move to Portland.” My hands paused over a stack of sweaters. I looked up and called his name quietly. “Oliver.” “Yeah? What is it?” I shook my head slowly. “Nothing.” I lowered my eyes and went back to folding. Just then, the front door swung open. Brooke walked in carrying two iced coffees. She kicked off her shoes and made herself comfortable right on the edge of our bed. “I finalized the rental agreement for our place in Portland! It is a massive three-bedroom apartment with amazing natural light.” “The master bedroom goes to you and Oliver. I will take the room right next door. And as for the third room…” Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she turned to look at Oliver. “Oliver and I decided to turn it into a dedicated gaming room. We both play the same games anyway, it will be perfect.” My fingers stopped moving. I was never much of a gamer. But back in college, the two of them would spend hours sitting side by side on the sofa, screaming into their headsets, completely absorbed in their shared digital world. I would sit right next to them, utterly invisible, unable to contribute a single word to their conversations. Brooke suddenly slapped her forehead as if remembering something urgent. She reached out and grabbed Oliver’s arm tightly. “Oh my gosh, I almost forgot! You need to come help me deal with the moving company right now.” “My current landlord is being an absolute nightmare about the security deposit and the broken refrigerator. He keeps arguing with me in circles and I cannot handle him.” Oliver let her drag him a few steps toward the door. I frowned and spoke up sharply. “Oliver. I need to talk to you.” He started to turn around, but Brooke yanked his arm harder. “Christina, whatever it is, just tell him when we get to the airport! Let me borrow your boyfriend for two hours, please?” Without waiting for my permission, the two of them walked out the door shoulder to shoulder. I stood alone in the quiet apartment. The words let’s break up were lodged completely sideways in my throat. I swallowed the lump down. We were all functioning adults now. Three days of total silence was the universal code for a permanent breakup. I refused to waste another second overthinking. I zipped up my luggage, grabbed the handle, and walked out the door. From this moment forward, Christina was officially dead to both of them. … When Oliver and Brooke finally packed her belongings and headed for the airport, Brooke naturally looped her arm through his. Oliver remained silent, letting her hold onto him, his mind completely elsewhere. Since walking out of the apartment, he had been agonizing over what Christina wanted to tell him. It clearly bothered him that she could not even wait for him to finish helping Brooke. Brooke chattered happily about furniture layouts and gaming setups, but Oliver just nodded absentmindedly. He did not absorb a single word. They arrived at the bustling departure hall in a state of high anxiety. Oliver immediately scanned the massive terminal, desperately searching the crowds, but Christina was nowhere to be found. Brooke finally unlinked her arm from his, speaking casually. “Girls always take forever to get ready. Just be patient, we still have plenty of time.” But the minutes ticked by mercilessly. With only thirty minutes left before the Portland flight began boarding, the check-in counters were preparing to close. Christina was still completely MIA. Oliver gripped his phone tightly. He dialed her number without hesitation. The line clicked twice before an automated voice echoed through the speaker. “The number you have dialed is currently powered off.” Brooke stood beside him, tugging gently at his jacket sleeve. “Her battery probably just died. Should we head through security and wait for her at the gate?” Oliver ignored her entirely. He sprinted toward the customer service counter, his voice thick with panic. “Excuse me, I need you to page Christina over the intercom! We are booked on the six o’clock flight to Portland, and we cannot find her!” The airline agent typed on her keyboard, scanning the passenger manifest. When she finally looked up, her expression shifted into something distinctly uncomfortable. “Sir. Miss Christina booked a ticket on the four o’clock flight to New York City. She boarded her plane over two hours ago.” Those words struck his skull like a physical blow, leaving him completely paralyzed.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “501385”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel