1 Ten years into the zombie apocalypse, the eighty-odd residents of our town hid inside an abandoned coal mine. We survived day by day, licking moisture off the cave walls. In the end, only seven of us were left alive. After another neighbor mutated and was torn apart, I pressed my hands against the rock face in the deepest part of the mine. My fingers brushed against a piece of hard plastic. Three words were printed on it. Props Department. I stared at the plastic tag in my hand, my fingernails digging so hard into my palm they almost drew blood. On the back of the tag was a pristine barcode sticker. The date of purchase was printed beneath it in crisp, black ink. Purchased October 2032. But the year the virus broke out, the year the world ended, was 2024. We had been down here for a decade. Where the hell did a brand new plastic tag come from? “Mack, come look at this.” I gripped the plastic tag so tightly my knuckles turned white. My voice was a low, breathless whisper, shaking with an emotion I could not quite name. Mack was my childhood best friend. He had just used his pickaxe to smash a mutated rat scurrying through the tunnels, prepping it for our pathetic dinner. His face was smeared with soot and grime. He dragged his bad leg over to me, a permanent limp from a zombie scratch that never healed right. He stared at the tag in my hand. For three seconds, he just blinked. “What the hell is that? Where did you get it?” Mack’s voice spiked, sharp and frantic. “Bottom level, right out of the rock wall in Pit Seven,” I said. “It was sealed behind a thick layer of waterproof cement. I dug it out where the water was leaking through.” Mack snatched the tag from my hand, turning it over and over. When he held it up to the dying yellow light of our emergency lantern and read the 2032 date, his knees gave out. He collapsed onto the jagged gravel, his eyes bulging wide enough to pop out of his skull. “Two thousand thirty-two…” he repeated like a broken record, his lips trembling violently. “The outbreak was twenty twenty-four. We have been rotting in this hole for almost ten years.” I stayed silent, holding his panicked gaze. “So this was made after the world ended?!” Mack suddenly let out a strangled, broken roar. “People are still making plastic tags out there?! And calling them props?! What the hell is going on?!” I crouched down and clamped my hand hard over his mouth, snatching the tag back and shoving it deep into my pocket. “Keep your voice down,” I hissed, staring him dead in the eye. “Go get the others. Get Gary, the Mayor, and Martha. Something is wrong.” This abandoned mine used to be the main coal shaft behind our town. Ten years ago, the zombie horde washed over our homes like a plague of locusts. Limbs were torn apart in the streets. Monsters shrieked in the blood-soaked mud. The Mayor led the surviving eighty people into this mine in a desperate bid for life. A decade later, those eighty people had been reduced to seven. Some mutated. Some starved. Some died of fever. The upper tunnels were piled high with their rotting bones. Just last week, Pete the butcher went out looking for an underground spring and got his throat ripped out by a stray lurker. Now, the only ones breathing were me, Mack, the Mayor, our old town accountant Gary, a widow named Martha, her eight-year-old deformed son Toby who was born in the dark, and a sickly old man coughing his lungs out in the corner. By the time Gary and the Mayor limped over, Martha was huddled in the shadows, holding skin-and-bones Toby tight against her chest. She saw the pale, haunted looks on our faces and squeezed her boy even tighter. “What happened? Are those things banging on the blast doors again?” Martha asked, her voice cracking with terror. I did not answer. I just pulled the tag out and handed it to Gary. Gary was the only guy among us who used to work a desk job. He took the tag, squinting at the front. It did not register. Then he flipped it over. The barcode. The date. His entire body went rigid as if he had been struck by lightning. “Luke, where did you find this?” Gary snapped his head up to look at me, his voice quivering. “Bottom level. Pit Seven. Behind the concrete wall that leaks.” The moment the words “Pit Seven” left my mouth, Gary and the Mayor turned the color of ash. I remembered it perfectly. Pit Seven was completely sealed off eight years ago. That was the year the horde somehow found our ventilation shafts. Monsters poured into the mid-level sector. We lost a dozen people in one night. We were on the verge of being completely wiped out. The Mayor made the call. He took a crew, rigged some old mining explosives, and collapsed the upper tunnels. Then, using tons of rubble and quick-dry cement, they completely sealed off the only deep shaft leading to Pit Seven. He told us it was the only way to stop the monsters from crawling up through the underground river system. “Mayor.” Mack pushed himself off the ground. His eyes, sunken deep into his skull from years of oxygen deprivation and starvation, flared with a terrifying, bloodshot rage. He stalked toward the old man, step by step. “You led the crew to pour that cement eight years ago. Did you hide this tag in there?!” “Did you know something back then?! Did you seal out the zombies, or did you seal our only way out?!” Faced with Mack’s desperate, suffocating interrogation, the Mayor’s wrinkled face twitched violently. He backed up against the freezing rock wall. He stayed silent for a full minute before burying his face in his filthy hands. “I did not know. I swear I did not know what was out there.” The Mayor’s voice broke into a hoarse, jagged sob. “Eight years ago, when I was pouring that concrete. I felt something in the rock fissures. I felt thick, heavy cables.” “They were not the kind of cables you find in an old coal mine. They were brand new. Like fiber optic lines from the big cities.” “I wanted to dig following those lines. But the monsters were already clawing at the barricades! Pete’s wife got half her face bitten off right in front of my eyes!” “What else could I do?! I had to pour the cement. I had to seal the wall!” The Mayor dropped to his knees, tears cutting clean tracks through the soot on his cheeks. “I never told a soul. For ten years, I kept my mouth shut. I convinced myself I was hallucinating. I told myself everyone out there was dead, and those were just leftover mining wires.” “You convinced yourself?!” I let out a cold, venomous laugh, cutting his confession short. “You convinced yourself, and you let eighty people live like rats in a sewer for a decade!” I looked at Toby, huddled in the corner, gnawing on his own dirty fingers just to dull the hunger pains. I looked at the hollow, dead emptiness in Martha’s eyes. A violent, apocalyptic rage ignited in my chest, burning through my veins like wildfire. “Get the picks.” I turned to Mack, my eyes locked in a dead, absolute resolve. “Get the iron picks, the steel bars, every single thing we can use to smash stone.” “I do not care if there are zombies behind that wall. I do not care if it is fiber optic cables, or God himself.” “Even if it costs me my life, I am tearing that wall down today!” Breaking through that concrete was a brutal, soul-crushing ordeal. Eight years ago, fueled by the terror of being eaten alive, the Mayor’s crew had poured three thick layers of quick-dry cement, packing it with solid granite boulders. All we had were a few rusted pickaxes and crowbars. But driven by sheer, rabid desperation and an absolute hunger for the truth, nobody felt the fatigue. Mack and I took turns swinging the heavy pickaxe. Every strike against the rock sent shockwaves up our arms, splitting the skin between our thumbs and index fingers until blood coated the wooden handles. Gary and the Mayor hauled the broken chunks of rock away. Even Martha strapped Toby to her back and smashed at the cement with a heavy stone. Hour one. We broke through the first layer of cement. Hour two. The pickaxe blades curled and dulled. We resorted to using steel bars as chisels. Hour three. Mack raised the pickaxe high above his head, ready to strike, but froze mid-swing. “Luke. Listen.” Mack’s voice was sandpaper dry. He stared unblinking at a crack in the wall. Every single one of us stopped moving. We held our breath. The enclosed cavern was dead silent, save for the ragged, wheezing sound of our own lungs. Then we heard it. Leaking through the two-inch crack we had just hammered open, a faint noise drifted into the dark. It definitely did not belong in an abandoned coal mine. It was a sharp burst of radio static. It sounded exactly like a security guard adjusting the frequency on a walkie-talkie. But that was not all. A draft of air pushed through the crack. It did not smell like rotting corpses, or damp moss, or human waste. It was a rich, warm, intoxicating aroma. I inhaled sharply, my pupils contracting into pinpricks. It was the smell of freshly brewed espresso. And underneath it, the rich, savory scent of roasted meat and hot takeout food. “That is not the smell of the dead.” Martha’s tears broke like a dam. She clamped both hands over her mouth, biting her palms to keep from sobbing out loud. Mack’s hands began to shake violently. The heavy iron pickaxe clattered to the rocky floor. “There are people out there. They are drinking coffee.” If there were walkie-talkies out there. If there were people sipping espresso and eating hot meals. Then what the hell were we doing for the last ten years? What about the neighbors who strangled each other over a single sip of dirty water? What about the family members torn to shreds by those monsters in the dark? What was it all for?! “Smash it!” My eyes went completely red. I snatched the pickaxe off the ground and swung it at the crack like a deranged madman. “Tear this entire damn wall down!!” Mack and the Mayor snapped out of their trance. They let out guttural, animalistic roars, grabbing whatever tools were left and hurling themselves at the barricade. Rocks splintered. Concrete dust and droplets of our own blood flew through the air. The hole grew larger. The light bleeding through became painfully bright. It was the harsh, artificial glare of fluorescent studio lights. “Let me look.” Mack pushed me aside. He pressed his pale, sun-starved face directly against the jagged opening. He peered through. Just one look. Mack’s body went completely rigid.

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1 I’ve always lived in my sister Victoria’s shadow. She was the entertainment industry’s golden girl, praised as a genius, while I was dismissed as the pretty airhead. After she boasted endlessly about her son and sneered that someone like me could only produce another fool, I acted recklessly. First, I spent a wild night with a gorgeous stranger and vanished before dawn. Second, I begged the universe for a genius baby. It worked. Jeremy was born brilliant. The night we brought him home, frustrated by my failed attempts at mixing formula, he invented his own baby sign language to teach me. From then on, Jeremy ruled the house. When Victoria joined The Genius Kid Escape Room Challenge with her son, she dragged us along to play the role of the clueless contrast. Online mockery exploded. Airhead Daisy bringing a newborn to compete in a spit-up contest? Victoria will crush them. The dummy will cry at the first puzzle. When the livestream began, Victoria smirked at the camera. “Try not to fail the first room, Daisy. It lowers the bar for everyone.” Maybe I’m simple, but my son inherited his father’s extraordinary genes. Jeremy isn’t just smart—he’s a prodigy. “Aunt Daisy, don’t cry if you lose!” Harry sneered, copying his mother’s crossed-arms posture and rolling his eyes. I looked down at newborn Jeremy in my arms, who was currently blowing a tiny spit bubble. I held him closer and replied in earnest, “We won’t lose. My baby is very smart.” An awkward silence hung in the air for two seconds. Then, Victoria burst out laughing, her eyes filled with mockery. “Smart? Daisy, fools only raise fools. You can’t even do basic times tables, and that kid is a nameless bastard. He probably takes three business days to process a cry. If I were you, I would have crawled into a hole instead of showing my face on TV.” The live chat instantly flooded with hateful comments. “Daisy is so delusional.” “A one-month-old solving a puzzle? Is he going to spit up code?” “Victoria is an Ivy League graduate, and Harry is a proven prodigy. Get this airhead and her bastard off my screen.” Just as I was about to fire back, Jeremy tapped my chest with his tiny hand. His soft, gurgling thoughts echoed clearly in my mind. Mommy, don’t worry about bad auntie. Jeremy’s got this. Jeremy will make us win. Suddenly, the director’s voice boomed over the speakers. “First challenge: The Starry Constellation. Guests must decipher the passcode from the star map on the wall to unlock the main door.” Victoria raised her hand, casting a disdainful glance my way. “Director, let Harry handle this one alone. We don’t want people saying we’re bullying a dummy and her bastard.” The director coughed lightly. “That is acceptable, as long as it does not violate the rules. Ten minutes on the clock. Begin.” Victoria nudged her son forward, her voice dripping with pride. “Go on, Harry. Show your aunt what a real genius looks like. We need to remind some people that simply having a baby doesn’t make them fit for this show.” Harry stepped onto a small stool with an arrogant smirk, moving blocks on the wall. The chat erupted in praise. “Harry is so cool! He looks like a little professor.” “His IQ is 140. Deciphering a code is child’s play to him.” “Look at the airhead holding her baby. She probably can’t even read the prompt. I bet she is panicking.” I stared at the dizzying array of stars on the wall, my head spinning. Numbers and shapes had always looked like gibberish to me. I looked down at Jeremy, who was staring intently at the wall with his wide, bright eyes. Just then, Harry made a few quick moves on the puzzle. A sharp, grating alarm blared through the room, and red lights flashed violently. Wrong password. Victoria’s smile stiffened, and she quickly knelt down to comfort her son. “It is alright, sweetheart. This one is tricky. Let us try again.” Harry threw his marker to the ground, his face red with frustration. “It is all Aunt Daisy’s fault!” He stamped his foot, pointing a finger at me. “She smells weird, and it distracted me! If she and that little bastard weren’t standing here, I would have solved it already!” Victoria turned on me, her expression sour. “Daisy, can you please take your child and stand back? If you cannot solve it yourself, at least do not ruin things for my Harry.” I trembled with anger. He couldn’t solve it, so he blamed me? Just then, Jeremy waved his little fists. Mommy, don’t be mad. Jeremy already solved it. Go to the wall and press the third blue star on the left. Then, slide the red star on the right to the center. Trust Jeremy, Mommy. I will carry you to the finish line. I nodded vigorously. “Okay! Mommy trusts you!” By the time I carried Jeremy to the wall, Harry was sweating profusely, scrambling the blocks into an even worse mess. His eyes were welling with tears of frustration. Following Jeremy’s mental instructions, I pressed and slid the blocks. A satisfying click echoed through the room. The heavy metal doors slid open, and the bright lights of the next corridor flooded in. The automated broadcast rang out. “Congratulations to Daisy’s team! Clearance time: two minutes and twenty seconds!” “Impossible!” Victoria shrieked, whirling around. “How could you solve that? You must have cheated!” Harry, startled by her scream, burst into tears. The live chat went dead silent for a moment before exploding. “What just happened? Daisy solved it in seconds?” “There is no way. She can’t even do basic math!” “Pure luck! A blind squirrel finding a nut!” “Yeah, she must have just pressed random buttons and gotten lucky.” I blinked innocently at Victoria. “I didn’t cheat. I just slid them around, and the door opened. Is this puzzle really that hard?” I tilted my head, offering her a sweet smile. “How strange. Why couldn’t the genius solve it, but a dummy like me did?” Jeremy giggled in my arms, kicking his tiny feet. Mommy is the best! Auntie looks like she is going to explode. I felt a surge of pride and planted a soft kiss on Jeremy’s warm cheek. Victoria’s face turned purple. “Fine! Let us see if your luck holds up in the next room!” She grabbed the crying Harry and dragged him roughly toward the second challenge. “Stop crying! You useless thing!” The second room was crisscrossed with red laser beams. Having learned her lesson, Victoria rushed forward the moment the door opened and snatched the only clue card hanging on the wall. She shoved it into Harry’s hands, looking at me triumphantly. “Daisy, this room requires music theory and complex logic. Let us see you get lucky this time.” Harry stared at the card, trying to look professional, before pointing at the floor tiles. “Mommy, I got it! Step on C4, then E4, and finally G4!” Victoria beamed, patting his head. “I am so proud of you, my clever boy.” I stood at the entrance, looking at the grid of red lasers, feeling lost. The only clue was in Victoria’s hands, and I knew nothing about musical notes. Jeremy squirmed in my arms, his mental voice filled with amusement. Auntie’s clue is a decoy, Mommy. Don’t look at the floor, look up. There are three small lights on the ceiling: red, yellow, and blue. Just step on the corresponding colored tiles on the floor in that order. I looked up, and indeed, three small bulbs were blinking in a red, yellow, and blue sequence. Without hesitation, I followed Jeremy’s lead and stepped on a red tile, then a yellow one, and finally a blue one. A soft chime sounded. A green light flared, and the exit door swung open. On the other side of the room, Victoria was guiding Harry onto the tile marked C4. “Warning! Incorrect step!” A loud siren blared, and a harmless but intense pulse of air swept across their ankles. The sudden vibration knocked Harry flat on his bottom, and he began to howl. I stepped through the exit door easily, holding my baby. I turned back to the frantic mother and son, offering some sincere advice. “Sister, that clue card is a trap. You just need to look at the lights on the ceiling.” Victoria snapped her head up, staring at the flashing bulbs. Her face flushed a deep crimson. The chat went wild. “She cleared it again? Who is the real genius here?” “Red, yellow, blue? It was that simple? What was Harry calculating all that time?” “Victoria treated a trap card like a prize. This is hilarious. The self-proclaimed prodigy is getting schooled by an airhead.” But soon, a suspicious narrative began to take over the chat. “This feels rigged. How did she know the trick without even looking at the clue?” “Did the production crew leak the answers to Daisy? This is too obvious.” “This is disgusting. Ruining a child’s confidence just to build up a fake persona for a dummy?” Victoria caught on to the shift in public opinion. She looked at the camera, her eyes instantly pooling with tears. “Daisy, I know you have always been jealous of me, but you shouldn’t resort to… to indecent transactions just to win. I didn’t want to say anything about you visiting the director’s room in the middle of the night, but this is too much.” The chat erupted. “What? Sleeping with the director? That is vile!” “No wonder she cleared the rooms so fast. She sold herself for the answers!” “Get this fraud out of the industry!” “I feel so bad for Victoria. She has to share a stage with someone so dirty.” Victoria put on a heartbreaking performance. “Daisy, don’t deny it. I got up last night and saw you leaving the director’s room in your pajamas. I thought you were just lonely, but to think you traded your body for puzzle answers. I cannot stay silent.” Harry chimed in, pointing a finger. “Aunt Daisy is a bad woman! She is a cheater!” I trembled with rage. I spent the entire night in my room putting Jeremy to sleep. I hadn’t even opened my door. “You are lying! I never went there!” Suddenly, the director’s panicked voice came over the speaker system. “Everyone, please calm down! This is a misunderstanding! Miss Daisy did not visit my room last night. The hallway security footage can prove it!” However, his defense only fueled the fire. “Of course the director would deny it. Who would admit to taking bribes like that?” “They can edit security footage however they want. Victoria has an flawless reputation; she would never lie about this.” As the accusations grew worse, a post on social media skyrocketed to the top of the trending charts. It was from my biological father, Charles, the head of the Stone Group’s regional branch. Charles: A family disgrace. Daisy has suffered from cognitive delays since childhood and has never passed a basic math exam. She begged and threw tantrums for a chance to appear on this show. Please be patient with her, and do not hold her poor decisions against her. Attached to the post were high-definition photos of my failing childhood report cards and a medical evaluation indicating a low intelligence score. This post sealed my fate in the eyes of the public. The chat turned into a vicious torrent of abuse. “Even her own father called her out. There is no digging her way out of this.” “Her family must be so embarrassed of her.” “I bet the baby is a bastard from some random hookup too.” Staring at the cruel words, tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t understand why my father would do this. He was the one who promised me a sum of money for Jeremy’s formula if I agreed to join this show. Now, he and Victoria were actively trying to destroy me. A tiny, soft hand reached up, clumsily wiping away my tears. Mommy, don’t cry. Grandpa is a bad man. They are bullying you, so Jeremy is going to teach them a lesson. I sniffled, whispering, “What do we do, Jeremy?” Jeremy let out a small, proud huff in my mind. They don’t believe you? Then we will make them believe. Tell the director to let the viewers submit questions in real-time. A live duel. Whoever answers the most questions correctly wins. I froze. “The viewers? But Mommy doesn’t know any of those things.” Jeremy snuggled his small head against my chest. You have Jeremy. Jeremy is the smartest boy in the universe. Just repeat what I tell you. I took a deep breath, wiping my tears away, and looked directly at the camera. “You claim my answers were bought? Fine. Let the viewers submit the questions in real-time. If you lose, Victoria, you will publicly admit to your lies and apologize to my baby and me on your knees!” Victoria sneered, letting out a sharp laugh. “Deal! You brought this on yourself. Let us see how you survive without your script!” The chat went wild. “She is asking for it! Let us give her the hardest questions we can find!” “Bring out the university-level math and science. Let us expose this fraud!” To maximize ratings, the director immediately agreed. “To ensure complete fairness, we will open a live submission channel. We have also invited three industry experts to act as judges. Viewers can submit questions in the chat, and our judges will display the selected ones on the screen.” As the viewer count hit ten million, the system began to lag. The director was sweating when his private phone rang. The caller ID read: Wolf Stone. The director answered, his voice shaking. “Mr. Stone, to what do I owe the honor?” A cold, smooth voice replied, “Is there still a vacancy on the judging panel?” The director gasped. “Sir, do you mean…” “I will join.” Those three words, caught by the director’s microphone, leaked into the live stream. The entire audience went quiet before exploding into chaos. Victoria immediately smoothed her hair, smiling coyly at the camera. “Wolf praised Harry’s intelligence at a charity gala recently. He must be here to support us after seeing how we were treated.” The chat agreed. “Oh my god, the elusive Wolf Stone is joining the stream for Victoria!” I stiffened, holding Jeremy tightly. Wolf Stone. He was actually here. The live stream turned into a high-level academic examination. The questions submitted by the audience were brutal, ranging from university calculus to quantum mechanics, and even translations of obscure, ancient texts. Victoria’s face turned pale as she stared at the screen. Harry broke down, crying and hiding behind his mother. “Mommy, I don’t know these! What are those letters?” Victoria grit her teeth, glaring at me. “Daisy, do you even understand a single word of this? Stop pretending!” In truth, I didn’t understand a thing. But my baby did. Jeremy sat calmly in his stroller, whispering the answers into my mind, and I simply repeated them. “First question: the limit is the square root of two.” “Second question: the probability of wave function collapse is forty-five point six percent.” “Third question: the ancient text translates to ‘May peace prevail upon the earth.’” I spoke rapidly, barely pausing for breath. I didn’t even know what I was saying, but as fast as Jeremy fed me the answers, my mouth delivered them. While Victoria was still sweating over the very first calculus question, I had already answered a hundred. The chat was flooded with question marks. “Is she chanting gibberish? She must be making it up!” “No computer could calculate those quantum equations that fast!” Victoria grabbed onto this theory like a lifeline. “Yes! She is just making up random words! Director, have the judges verify her answers and expose her!” The three judges finished their calculations. Five minutes later, the final scores appeared on the screen. Daisy’s Team: 100 questions answered, 100% correct. Victoria’s Team: 0 questions answered. The internet went dead silent. Victoria stared at the screen, her body shaking violently. “How… this is impossible! Why?” I patted Jeremy’s head and smiled gently. “Because my baby is a genius.” Victoria snapped, screaming hysterically, “You expect anyone to believe that? He is a newborn! How could a newborn teach you? Besides, a dummy like you could never give birth to a genius!” A deep, commanding voice echoed through the speakers. “She certainly could, because she is my woman.”

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After discovering I was a fake daughter, I didn’t dare act like a spoiled brat toward my two brothers anymore. No more bossing them around, and no more checking up on where they went to party. My sharp, older brother Jeff was the first to notice the change, asking if something was making me unhappy. My hot-tempered second brother, Hunter, sneered at my sudden quietness before mocking Jeff for having a masochistic streak. Three months later, the true heiress returned. My best friend dragged me to a high-end club to drown my sorrows. There, I overheard our mutual friends teasing my two brothers, joking that they were finally free from acting like their sister’s loyal dogs. They even asked if the two of them would still accept me as their sister now that the truth was out. Jeff’s voice was calm and smooth: “Of course. But then again, the feeling of having someone who actually cares enough to rule over you is something you wouldn’t understand.” Hunter, however, let out a cold snort: “Whether I keep her around depends entirely on her behavior.” Someone in the room even placed a bet on whether I would still have the guts to call and enforce curfew tonight, now that I knew my real background. That night, after a moment of hesitation, I opened my contacts list just like I always did. My finger hovered over the screen for a single second. In the next instant, I only dialed Jeff’s number. 1 For as long as I could remember, I believed I was the center of the universe, an empress whose every whim deserved absolute obedience. Whenever I was displeased, the entire household suffered my wrath. My oldest brother, Jeff, was a quiet, distant man, but he indulged me. My second brother, Hunter, was volatile and had zero patience for my antics. His favorite phrase to throw at me was: “Can you stop being a clingy drama queen for once in your life?” That was until this afternoon, when we went out to the mountain racing tracks. True to form, I had forced them to bring me along. The winding mountain pass was crowded with flashy, multi-million-dollar sports cars, surrounded by a noisy crowd of wealthy trust-fund heirs. Not far from us, a rowdy group had gathered. A young, fragile-looking girl was being pinned against the hood of a car by Greyson Carter, the newly recognized bastard son of a billionaire family. My savior complex flared instantly. Lifting my brand-new Hermès Birkin bag, I swung it with all my might, striking the man hard enough to make him howl in pain. But before my grand heroic act could fully play out, a bizarre stream of glowing holographic text suddenly flashed across my field of vision. Wait, is this fake-heiress antagonist out of her mind? Who asked her to save the girl? She is completely ruining the plot. This scene was supposed to be the moment the two brothers saved the female lead, setting up their eventual reunion. The whole sibling reconciliation arc starts right here at the racetrack. The fake sister needs to back off, or she is going to end up dead. The words flickered in the air before me. Me? A fake sister? And this delicate girl in the white dress, Hailey, was the actual biological daughter of my family? My entire world shattered. The stiff leather corner of my bag had left a tiny scratch on Hailey’s cheek. Greyson spat a curse, but the moment he recognized my face, he swallowed his anger and backed down. Hunter strode over. Seeing the faint mark on Hailey’s face, he immediately turned on me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Gemma, can you go one day without bullying someone?” Usually, a comment like that would trigger a massive tantrum from me. But as I looked up, the glowing warning text flashed vividly in my mind once more. I swallowed my pride. Silently picking up my bag, I stood there and took the lecture without saying a word. Jeff, who had always been softer on me, stepped in to shield me from Hunter’s temper, guiding me away. I felt a sudden, profound wave of gratitude toward him. By the time we got home, my heart was still hammering against my ribs. After dropping Hailey off at the hospital, my brothers returned shortly after. I stepped forward, genuinely wanting to ask how she was doing. Hunter frowned, his eyes narrowing. “What is your game now, Gemma? We rushed back to be with you, isn’t that enough?” I wanted to explain, but the floating text cut in before I could speak. The antagonist is really pushing her luck. Let us see if she still acts this arrogant once her real identity is exposed. She bosses her brothers around constantly, completely unaware of how sick and tired they are of her. I wasn’t trying to be arrogant. Compared to my usual self, I was behaving like a frightened kitten. But looking at the exhaustion and irritation on my brothers’ faces, I shrank back and remained silent. Jeff, sensing my unusual quietness, asked softly, “Are you unhappy, Gemma?” Hunter let out a dry, mocking laugh. “Our little princess just assaulted someone, why on earth would she be unhappy?” If this had happened a week ago, I would have made a scene they would never forget. Today, I simply shook my head and quietly retreated to my room. Before closing my eyes, I made a firm decision: tomorrow, I was getting a DNA test. 2 The next morning, the sky was heavy with dark, low-hanging rain clouds. My heart felt just as heavy. When the lab results were handed to me, the sword of Damocles that had been hovering over my head finally fell. The report was clear: there was no biological connection between the Weston family and me. To make matters worse, the floating text returned to remind me of my insignificance. A fraud is a fraud. Perhaps she will finally give up now. The fake sister gets consumed by jealousy, repeatedly trying to frame the true heiress. But the clever protagonist outsmarts her every time, eventually reuniting with her family. Once the Westons learn the truth, they throw Gemma out on the street. But she doesn’t learn. Completely desperate, she kidnaps the protagonist and eventually falls to her death. My knees went weak at the thought of a high-rise building. Looking back, I realized how much I had taken their love for granted. Because I was the only daughter, I had ruled over my brothers with an iron fist. I forbade them from drinking or smoking at parties, set a strict curfew, and physically sniffed their clothes when they walked through the door, locking them out if I caught even a trace of alcohol. I had demanded luxury bags, designer cosmetics, and the latest jewelry, throwing fits if my deliveries were even slightly delayed. My entire life had revolved around them. But now, the realization hit me: they had only tolerated my behavior because they believed we shared the same blood. Once they discovered I was an imposter, they would hate me. I couldn’t interfere with Hailey’s return, and I certainly didn’t dare to boss my brothers around anymore. My best course of action was to gather what money I could and quietly prepare for my departure. So, I began waking up early to prepare breakfast for them. When they came home late, I didn’t yell; instead, I quietly handed them hangover soup. Hunter looked amused. “How strange. Our little brat has actually become sweet.” I kept my voice soft and meek. “I just don’t want you to find me annoying and leave me behind.” Jeff took the bowl from my hands, gently smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “You are my sister, Gemma. I could never find you annoying.” His words only made my heart ache more. Soon, he would realize I wasn’t his sister at all. 3 Now that I had stopped interfering in his life, Hunter seemed to be in a much better mood. Before heading out one evening, he actually asked if I wanted to join him. I shook my head immediately. “Go ahead and have fun. Don’t worry about rushing home.” Hunter looked thoroughly pleased. Later that night, Jeff called to check on me. My chest tightened with a strange mix of sorrow and longing, but I forced my voice to remain steady. Sensing something was off, he coaxed me gently. “Don’t be sad, sweetie. I am on my way back.” “It is fine,” I replied, trying to sound indifferent. “You can stay out as late as you like.” I thought this would prove to them that I was changing. But the moment Jeff walked through the door and saw me holding a fruit knife, his face went pale. He strode over, quickly disarming me and checking my hands. “Do not play with knives, Gemma, it is dangerous. I promise your brother and I will come home earlier from now on.” I tried to explain that I was simply peeling an apple, but he didn’t believe me. “Do not lie to me. You have never done a chore in your life.” He held my wrists, searching for any scratches. A cold laugh sounded from the doorway. Hunter leaned against the frame, his eyes narrowed in disdain. “Jeff, stop coddling her. I would love to see if she actually has the courage to cut herself.” The words stung, but before I could reply, Hunter looked down at his phone. His expression instantly darkened. He walked over and threw the device onto the table in front of me. “Look at what you did.” The screen displayed a scandalous headline. Scrolling down, there was a degrading photo of Hailey with her skirt partially lifted, exposing her skin. Hunter had warned me not to share any details about the incident at the racetrack. Now, he was entirely convinced that I had leaked the photo out of spite. He grabbed my arm, his grip painfully tight. “You are going to apologize to her.” My own temper flared. I pulled back with all my strength, knocking a glass bowl off the counter. It shattered on the floor, and a sharp shard sliced across my calf. A line of bright red blood began to pool on my skin. I gasped at the sharp sting. Jeff immediately shoved Hunter away, stepping between us to shield me. “Enough! You are treating Gemma like this over an outsider?” “Jeff, you are being completely blind!” Hunter snapped. Jeff’s voice remained calm but absolute. “I know Gemma. She would never do something so vile. If you lay another hand on her, I will not hesitate to step in.” My eyes welled with tears as I clung to Jeff. Hunter stared at us, his eyes lingering on how closely I held Jeff. “Fine,” he muttered, turning on his heel. “If you want to play the victim, go ahead. But Gemma, if I find out you had a hand in this, do not expect me to ever acknowledge you as my sister again.” The door slammed shut behind him. Jeff brought over the medical kit, kneeling before me. His warm hands gently held my ankle as he cleaned and dressed the cut, his movements incredibly tender. I stared at him, overwhelmed by his warmth. Sensing my gaze, he looked up, offering a soft, reassuring smile. “Gemma, remember this: whatever happens, you can always come to me. You do not need to change who you are for anyone else.” The tears I had been holding back finally spilled over. The terror and loneliness of the past few days completely broke me. I buried my face in his shoulder, sobbing loudly. “What am I going to do, Jeff? I am not Mom and Dad’s daughter. I am not your sister.” I waited for the rejection, for the cold distance that was sure to follow. But Jeff merely let out a soft, amused chuckle. “Silly girl. Is that what has been making you so miserable?” I stopped sobbing, staring at him in utter confusion. He already knew. “Why are you still being so nice to me then?” I whispered. Jeff wiped a tear from my cheek, his fingers lingering on my skin. “Because, Gemma, a brother’s job is to care for his sister.” I could only stare at him, slowly realizing the weight of his words. No matter what the blood tests said, he still chose to be my brother. 4 From that night on, I completely ignored Hunter. When the fridge ran low, I only prepared meals for Jeff. At my birthday dinner, I kept my arm looped through Jeff’s, treating Hunter as if he were invisible. Our mother noticed the icy atmosphere. “Have you two had another argument?” I simply ignored the question, and Hunter’s expression turned incredibly sour. The truth was inevitable; the protagonist would eventually take her rightful place. Later that night, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from my best friend, Harper. Through the noisy background of a club, she called out frantically, “Gemma! Come quick! Your brother got into a massive fight over some girl, and he is bleeding!” My heart leaped into my throat. “Which brother? Is Jeff hurt? I am coming right now!” If it was Jeff, I would run there barefoot. The line went quiet for a few seconds. “No, it is Hunter.” I let out a breath and sat back down on my bed. “Oh. Tell him to take some aspirin then. I have to go.” I hung up immediately. Hunter hated my interference anyway. This was exactly the freedom he wanted. The next morning, I walked out of my room to find Hunter waiting for me, his face dark. “Gemma, did you not get the call last night?” I kept my voice calm and polite. “I did. But I am behaving now, just like you wanted. I didn’t want to annoy you by showing up.” His face flushed with an anger so intense it looked like he wanted to tear something apart. He opened his mouth to snap at me, but the door behind him opened. Jeff walked out of his room. The moment I saw him, I forgot all about Hunter, rushing over to inspect him. “Jeff, I heard there was a fight last night. Are you hurt? Did you get any scratches?” Seeing my frantic concern, a subtle, pleased smile touched Jeff’s lips. A loud slam echoed through the hallway. Hunter had violently kicked his own door shut, glaring at me with bared teeth. “Am I invisible to you now?” His lip was split and bruised, his knuckles raw. I didn’t care to argue. “You can take care of yourself.” Hunter’s jaw clenched, his voice dripping with venom. “Fine. See if I care. Just do not come crawling back to boss me around tomorrow.” 5 I was glad I hadn’t interfered. Hunter would have only accused me of acting out again. But the truth was, my bossiness had always stemmed from my own deep-seated fears. When I was five, I had been locked in a dark cabinet during a game of hide-and-seek, forgotten for an entire afternoon. Since then, I had been terrified of dark, enclosed spaces. Even now, I couldn’t sleep without a light on. As a child, I would creep into my brothers’ rooms for comfort. As we grew older, we replaced that with a simple nightly routine: a goodnight kiss on the forehead. But Hunter often locked his door to keep me out, so I had learned to rely only on Jeff. Now, I knew I had to break these dependencies. A soft knock sounded on my door. Jeff stood there, dressed in dark silk pajamas that left his collarbones exposed, his damp hair clinging to his neck. He carried the clean, subtle scent of his shower gel. “Are you busy, Gemma?” The scent was intoxicating, making me slightly breathless. “Jeff, is something wrong?” He raised an eyebrow slightly. “You forgot our goodnight kiss.” I hesitated before shaking my head. “I think I should start getting used to being on my own.” I needed to learn to survive without him before Hailey took over. Jeff looked at me for a long moment, then nodded in respect of my choice. As I stepped forward to close the door behind him, my foot caught on a wet patch on the floor. I lost my balance, falling directly into his arms. Before I could pull away, the door was shoved open. Hunter stormed in, pulling us apart with unnecessary force. “Where is my goodnight kiss?” he demanded, his face tight. Jeff stepped between us. Hunter glared at him. “She is my sister too! Whatever you get, I deserve as well!” He looked at me, a strange, tense emotion in his eyes. “It is just a kiss. If he can do it, so can I.” I shook my head. “No more kisses.” Hunter’s eyes widened, and he immediately raised his voice to cover his hurt. “Fine! Who cares anyway? You are too old for this. It is about time you learned some boundaries. Do not come crying to me the next time you are scared of the dark.” I looked at him, completely numb to his words. “Do not worry. I will never bother you again.” 6 The predictions of the text came true. Three months later, Hailey was officially welcomed into the Weston family. Overnight, the news that I was a fake spread like wildfire, and the social circle began to treat me like a fallen princess. Only Harper stood by me. “You will always be my sister, Gemma. If they throw you out, I will take care of you. I have plenty of properties; you can choose whichever one you like.” Moved to tears, I agreed to go out with her to a high-end club to drown my sorrows. Inside our private lounge, the atmosphere was thick with expensive alcohol. I spent the evening drinking with some handsome hosts Harper had hired, the distraction slowly easing the knot in my chest. On my way back from the restroom, I noticed the door to a VIP lounge next to ours was slightly ajar. Inside, a group of familiar faces from our circle were talking. The conversation, predictably, was about me. They were speculating on what the Westons would do with me, and whether my brothers would still keep me around. Jeff was sitting in the center of the plush sofa, looking thoroughly relaxed. “Of course she is staying. Honestly, being wrapped around her finger is a feeling you wouldn’t understand.” A small smile tugged at my lips. Then, someone turned to Hunter. His response was exactly what I expected. He let out a cold snort. “Whether I keep her depends on her behavior. It would be nice to finally have some peace and freedom.” The men laughed, and someone proposed a bet: would Gemma call to demand they come home before curfew tonight? Jeff declined to participate. The others, however, were highly amused. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. We are just curious.” Unlike Jeff, Hunter seemed eager to prove a point. He tossed his phone onto the table, silently accepting the challenge. I quietly turned and left the hallway, heading straight back to the villa. Half an hour later, inside the VIP lounge, a phone began to ring. Hunter smirked, reaching for his device, but his smile froze when he realized his screen was dark. It was Jeff’s phone that was ringing. Jeff answered, and my voice carried clearly through the speaker. “Jeff, please come home before nine. The cake I made for you has been in the fridge for two hours, it is ready to eat. I also ordered some hangover smoothies for your friends and left some soup on the stove for you.” The men in the room cheered. “Thanks, Gemma!” I said a brief goodnight and ended the call, leaving the room to sleep. So I had no idea that someone spent the entire night waiting for a call. On the table in that VIP lounge, a phone sat in dead silence all night long.

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1 Emrhys spent our seventeenth year together celebrating my birthday in a crowded, noisy sports bar, watching a soccer match. Before kickoff, he slid a diamond engagement ring across the sticky table. “If Team A wins, we get married.” I froze, staring at him in disbelief. The referee’s whistle blew. Without waiting for my answer, and without looking at my face again, he turned his head back to the screens. By halftime, Team A was in the lead. Sasha, the waitress serving our section, sashayed over to our table. Wearing a cropped red jersey and tight denim shorts, she swung a cold bottle of beer by the neck and offered it to me with a smirk. “Let’s make a bet of our own,” she purred. “If Team B turns this around in the second half, you hand your boyfriend over to me.” “Sasha, stop messing around,” Emrhys interrupted. His voice, usually so steady and cool, carried a slight, nervous tremor when he spoke her name. Sasha took a long swig of her beer, her eyes turning glassy and red. “Are you really marrying her? Then what about us?” A heavy silence fell over the table. The two of them stared at each other, completely ignoring my presence. “Emrhys,” I called out. He heard me. He wanted to look away, but his eyes clung to her, unwilling to break the spell. I sat there like an outsider, watching this familiar silent dialogue. The same intense eye contact had happened for the first time just seven days ago. They had only known each other for seven days. But in that single moment, I realized my seventeen years had just lost to her seven days. A drunk customer at the next table waved an empty bottle, shouting at Sasha. “Hey, sweet cheeks! Cut the PDA with your boyfriend and get us another round!” Sasha didn’t hear him. Under the flashing neon lights, her eyes were locked onto Emrhys’s. The roar of the bar faded into white noise. I sat quietly in the dim shadow, my gaze drifting for a fraction of a second, but I still saw it clearly, the raw, overwhelming devotion in Emrhys’s eyes, a look he had never once given me. “Hey! Waitress! The beer! Are you deaf?” The man next to us stood up, slamming his hand down. “Flirting on the clock? I’ll get you fired!” Sasha snapped out of her trance, her brow furrowing. She rolled up her sleeves, ready to start a fight. Emrhys immediately grabbed her hand. Grabbing an unopened bottle from our table, he stood up and brought it over to the angry customer. “This one’s on me. Don’t bother her again tonight.” The man slammed the table, but when he saw the bottle, a rare, seventy-thousand-dollar vintage Richard Hennessy, the threats died in his throat. Sasha turned around, pouting. “That bottle is insanely expensive. Why waste it on a jerk like him?” Emrhys smiled at her, his voice dripping with tenderness. “For you, it’s nothing.” I stared at the empty space where the bottle had been. Just a few days ago, it had been sitting in the most prominent spot in our living room. The vintage matched the exact year of my birth, a rare, limited edition. Emrhys knew my taste. He had tracked it down and brought it home, saying, “You’ve always wanted to try this vintage. I saved it specifically for your birthday.” Today was my birthday. He brought it, just as promised, only to hand it away to a stranger to protect Sasha. “That was my present,” I said, my eyes still fixed on the empty table. Emrhys lit a cigarette, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “It’s just a bottle of liquor. Do you really need to drink that much anyway?” I turned to look at him. I used to hate alcohol. I only started drinking years ago because I had to entertain clients for his startup. Day after day of business dinners had slowly built my tolerance. Unlike Emrhys, who drank anything, I was fiercely loyal to Hennessy. Stubborn. Single-minded. The whistle blew for the second half. He turned back to the screen. “Just watch the game. If Team A wins, you’ll be Mrs. Ward. Why fret over a bottle of booze?” “Is this your idea of a proposal?” My eyes stung from his cigarette smoke. “You’ve been wanting to get married, haven’t you? Nana’s expecting it too.” We had been together for seventeen years. I had always assumed that when he proposed, it would be sweet. No grand gestures, maybe, but at least a gentle question, a moment meant just for us. But now, he was treating it like a casual bet on a sports match. He hadn’t even looked at me once, let alone asked what I wanted. “Team A has always been trash,” someone at the next table murmured. “Can’t believe they actually pulled ahead in the first half.” Emrhys was a die-hard fan. He knew the stats of every team. By betting on Team A, was he betting on them to lose? “Go, Team B! Shoot! Goal!” Sasha squeezed in right between Emrhys and me, cheering loudly. She looked back at me. “Audrey, don’t forget our bet. If Team B turns this around, Emrhys is mine.” “I’m not interested,” I said coldly. She turned around, holding out her half-drunk beer. “Don’t be such a party pooper, Audrey. Nobody likes a stick-in-the-mud.” I didn’t move. “Oh, right. Miss Audrey only drinks Hennessy. You’re too good for a cheap beer, huh?” “Yes,” I said quietly, looking her dead in the eye. “I am.” Sasha gasped, stomping her foot in mock hurt. Without a second thought, Emrhys snatched the bottle from her hand and took a long swig. “Actually, it tastes great.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. Emrhys was a germaphobe. He never shared drinks. If I so much as took a sip from his glass by mistake, he would immediately pour it out and get a fresh one. Now, they were casually sharing a bottle. Sasha’s cheeks flushed pink from the alcohol. She leaned into him, her voice turning into a sweet, playful whine. “Emrhys, what do you think about the bet I just made with Audrey?” Emrhys looked at me. A flash of hesitation crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by his usual indifference. “Sure, why not? That way, neither of us has to make a hard choice. Let the game decide.” “If we lose, it just means we weren’t meant to be.” The bitter taste of betrayal coated my tongue. I suddenly remembered how I first met Emrhys. It was also because of a game. He was ten. His mother had taken him to the park, a rare treat. “Let’s play hide-and-seek,” she had said to him and his little brother. “Whoever hides the best gets ice cream.” Emrhys wanted his brother to have the ice cream, so he hid right behind a tree near the entrance. But his mother never came back. It was dark when I found him shivering under that oak tree and brought him home. His stepfather refused to take him back, leaving him homeless. That was when my Nana took him in. I had no parents either; I grew up with Nana. We got by on her meager pension, but when Emrhys arrived, she worked herself to the bone, running a street stall and collecting recyclables just to feed us. By the time he went to college, Nana sold her only house to pay his tuition. Emrhys had held that thick envelope of cash wrapped in a faded cloth, his eyes red. “Nana, how will I ever repay you?” Nana had smiled. “If I’m ever gone, just promise me you’ll take care of my little Audrey.” Emrhys nodded solemnly. “I promise, Nana. I’ll cherish Audrey for the rest of my life.” And he did. For years, he was the perfect boyfriend, devoted, gentle, attentive. When his business finally took off, the first thing he did was buy a massive house to bring Nana to live with us. But lately, Nana’s health had been failing. She kept asking, “Audrey, Emrhys, when do I get to see you two walk down the aisle?” Emrhys used to laugh and promise her it would be soon. But starting seven days ago, his tone turned into quiet irritation whenever she brought it up. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I quickly excused myself to the restroom. “Audrey, sweetie, did Emrhys ask you tonight?” “Yes, Nana… he did.” “Oh, thank goodness,” Nana rasped, her laughter cut short by a heavy cough. “I just want to see you settled. If I leave you all alone in this world, I won’t be able to rest in peace…” My throat tightened. “Nana…” I couldn’t say anything else. I couldn’t tell her he was betting our future on a soccer match. I couldn’t tell her his heart was already with someone else. “Don’t worry, Nana. Get some rest.” I hung up quickly, wiped my eyes, grabbed my purse from the booth, and turned to leave. Emrhys caught my wrist. “The game isn’t over. Where are you going?” “Home to check on Nana.” He let out a sharp, frustrated sigh. “What is it this time? Do you have to use Nana as an excuse every time you throw a tantrum?” “You asked, I answered.” “Today is your birthday. We came out to celebrate you. Walking out like this is incredibly childish.” “Nana is alone. I’m worried.” “This match decides our marriage. Do you really care that little?” I didn’t want to watch the match anymore. I was terrified of the outcome. Part of me still desperately wanted Team A to win. But another part of me was terrified of what would happen if they did. Seventeen years of shared life, undone in seven days. “Just tell me how it ends,” I whispered, pulling my hand from his grip and walking out. Behind me, Sasha’s voice drifted over the music. “Is Audrey seriously leaving already? Is she on a curfew? Talk about an old lady.” Emrhys’s reply was flat. “Ignore her.” Just as I reached the door, a massive roar erupted from the crowd. I couldn’t help but look back. Team A had missed a crucial shot. The score was tied 1-1. My eyes found Emrhys through the sea of bodies. I saw him clearly. He had let out a long, slow breath of relief. He didn’t want Team A to win. He didn’t want to marry me. Outside, the night air was chilly. There was a small bakery down the street that sold the lemon tarts Nana loved. I walked over. The owner smiled as he boxed them up. “Where’s that handsome young man who’s always with you, dear?” “He’s busy with someone else,” I said quietly. The owner paused, looking at me with pity. “Well, true love doesn’t always have smooth sailing. Strong roots need a bit of storm to grow deep. It’ll work out.” I nodded, unable to tell him that this wasn’t a storm, the roots were already rotting. The moon tonight was slivered and gray, a far cry from seven days ago when it was full and bright. That night, Emrhys had held my hand, a box of tarts in his other hand. We were walking past that very sports bar when the cheers drew him in. We found a quiet table. In the center of the bar, a girl was shaking a bottle of beer, spraying it everywhere, laughing wildly. The spray soaked her hair and her clothes, clinging to her flawless figure. She was a wild fire in the dark. Emrhys was transfixed. Sasha caught his eye and walked straight to us. “Hey there, handsome. Which team are you pulling for? If you join my side, there’s a reward.” Before Emrhys could reply, she slipped the cigarette right out from between his fingers and took a deep drag, her red lips curving into a smirk. Emrhys had just stared, utterly breathless. That night, back home, we slept back-to-back. Emrhys, who hadn’t posted on social media in years, posted a single line: “Love at first sight is the only real love. Anything else is just hesitation.” We had never been love at first sight. Ours was a slow, quiet bond built day by day, woven into our very bones. If love at first sight was the only real love, what did that make us? I liked the post. He deleted it seconds later. I buried myself in work over the next few days. Since becoming his operations manager, I ran most of the firm’s international accounts while he spent his days at the bar. A car horn snapped me back to reality. Emrhys’s Mercedes pulled up to the curb. The tinted window slid down, revealing his scowling face. “What are you doing wandering the streets in the dark?” “Is the game over?” My voice trembled. “Not yet. I was worried about you walking alone. Get in.” Just as I went to open the door, I saw Sasha lounging across his lap in the back seat. She waved a lazy hand at me. “Hey, Audrey! Surprise! I got off early!” My head throbbed. “Sasha had a bit too much to drink,” Emrhys said smoothly. “She gets carsick easily, so she’s sitting back here with me.” “I’ve heard of sitting shotgun for carsickness,” I laughed coldly. “Didn’t realize your lap was a cure.” Before he could snap, I reached in, grabbed Sasha by the arm, and hauled her out of the back seat, shoving her into the front passenger side. Sasha looked at our driver, immediately straightening up, then glared at me. “I think I’m gonna throw up.” “Go ahead,” I said. “This car is already filthy anyway.” Emrhys’s face darkened. “Can you stop being so petty? Sasha isn’t like you. She’s free-spirited. She can’t handle your passive-aggressive attitude.” When we were kids, people used to call Emrhys a stray. I was a quiet girl, but the moment anyone picked on Emrhys, I would fight them tooth and nail. People called me touchy, stubborn, incapable of taking a joke. Only Emrhys had smiled and called it cute. Now, it was just “petty.” Suddenly, cheers echoed from the street. “Team A won! Team A won!” Emrhys’s face fell instantly. He rubbed his temples, casting a lingering, pained look at Sasha in the front seat, before turning back to me. “Audrey, since Team A won, we…” Before he could finish, Sasha rolled down her window and screamed at the fans outside, “No way! Team A is garbage! They couldn’t have won!” Then, she buried her face in her hands and started sobbing. Emrhys panicked. “Pull over,” he snapped at the driver. He opened my door. “Get out. I need to take Sasha home first.” And just like that, I was left on the shoulder of the highway. The car door slammed shut, and the taillights vanished into the night. I walked home in a daze. Nana was still awake in the living room. “Audrey, sweetie, where’s Emrhys?” “He had some urgent work to finish,” I lied. She handed me a warm bowl of soup. “I made his favorite beef stew. He’s been working so hard lately.” Watching her frail, trembling hands, my eyes filled with tears. “Nana… if I don’t marry Emrhys, will you be disappointed?” Nana went quiet, gently squeezing my hand. “Did he do something to hurt you, sweetheart?” I shook my head. I couldn’t bear to stress her weak heart. “Then I’m at peace,” she smiled weakly. “I raised that boy. I know he’s good. Leaving you in his hands is the only way I can rest easy.” Emrhys had always been a savior in her eyes. Even after his success, he bought her whatever she wanted. After tucking her in, I sat in the dark living room. By 3:00 AM, Emrhys still wasn’t home. I opened my laptop to work, trying to drown out the silence. Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from Nana’s bedroom, the sound of glass shattering. I rushed in. Nana was deathly pale, clutching her chest with one hand. In her other hand, her phone was active. On the screen, a video was playing, Emrhys and Sasha, locked in a passionate, desperate embrace, kissing like their lives depended on it. I immediately called 911. On the way to the hospital, Nana kept whispering Emrhys’s name. I dialed his number. Once. Twice. Thirty-seven times. No answer. On the thirty-eighth try, the line connected. I heard Sasha’s giggling in the background. “Emrhys! Nana collapsed! We’re in the ambulance on the way to the hospital!” “Can you give me a break?” his voice was laced with pure irritation. “How many times are you going to use Nana to guilt-trip me? Stop holding me hostage with her health.” He hung up. I sent text after text. “Nana is in critical condition. She’s calling for you.” “I am not lying to you.” Hours later, a single reply came from his phone: “You’d actually fabricate Nana’s death just to get me to come home? You’re sick, Audrey.” Then, his phone went dead. The surgeon finally stepped out of the operating room. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could.” The world went completely silent. My only family was gone. I collapsed by her bed, watching the white sheet cover her face. I cried until I blacked out, woke up, and cried again. At the funeral home, I looked at the last texts sent to Nana’s phone from an unknown number. “You old parasite. Dragging your granddaughter along to bleed a rich man dry.” “Can’t you two survive without leeching off Emrhys?” “He’s sick of you both. Forcing him to marry her is pathetic.” I called the number from a burner. Sasha’s voice answered. I hung up without a word. I knelt before Nana’s casket, bowing until my forehead touched the cold floor. “I’m sorry, Nana. I won’t marry him.” Three days later, the burial was over. Emrhys showed up at our apartment door, holding a box of lemon tarts. “Where’s Nana? I got her favorite tarts. We can eat them while we plan the wedding.”

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I fell in love with a customer who came to buy flowers every single week. He was always in a rush, picking up nothing but our cheapest white daisies. My heart always ached at the deep exhaustion shadowed in his eyes. Every time he came, I would painstakingly trim the stems and leaves, secretly slipping a few extra sprigs of baby’s breath into his wrap. That was until the floating chat comments suddenly materialized right there, drifting amidst my sea of blossoms. Oh my god, why is this supporting florist giving herself so much screen time? The male lead is buying those flowers for his dead first love’s grave. She actually thinks he’s a hopeless romantic like her. Doesn’t baby’s breath symbolize “a love destined to remain in the background”? Is she trying to confess or something? Cringe. When a girl gets this desperate, it’s honestly worse than a guy. Actually, he hates those extra flowers. He plucks them out and hands them to the street sweeper the second he walks out. Whatever, he’s about to meet the female lead anyway. Once our rich heiress gets jealous, she’ll just buy this shop and force this annoying florist into a brutal, endless corporate shift! My hand slipped, and my shears sliced clean through the stem, cutting the flower right in two. 1 The rain had been falling for seven straight days. It was heavy and damp, smelling of old bricks and wet concrete, as if determined to soak this coastal city to its very bones. Snip. The sharp sound didn’t come from the brass chimes hanging above the entrance, but from the pruning shears in my hand. It was Thursday again, exactly four in the afternoon. At this exact hour, Gideon would always arrive. For the past six months, rain or shine, he would push open the glass door and step inside. He always smelled of the damp, cold city air, his dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His voice was always a quiet, low rumble: “Just a bundle of white daisies, please.” My heart ached for him. Every time I looked into those deep, storm-ravaged eyes, I felt like I was looking at a weary traveler with nowhere to go. Because of that silly, unnamed flutter in my chest, I insisted on wrapping his flowers myself. Daisies were cheap, only three dollars a stem, and he only wanted ten. Behind his back, I would secretly tuck thick, fluffy stems of pure white baby’s breath into the spaces between the daisies. I thought of it as a silent comfort, a quiet way to cheer him up. Until just a moment ago, when a cascade of scrolling chat comments materialized in midair, floating right above the blossoms. My hand shook. The sharp metal blade sliced clean through the thickest stem of my freshest daisy. The small flower, with its bright yellow heart, tumbled onto the cold floor, rolling into the damp gray dust. The rain outside was loud enough to drown out my sudden, ragged breath. Oh my god, why is this supporting florist giving herself so much screen time? The male lead is buying those flowers for his dead first love’s grave. She actually thinks he’s a hopeless romantic like her. Doesn’t baby’s breath symbolize “a love destined to remain in the background”? Is she trying to confess or something? Cringe. When a girl gets this desperate, it’s honestly worse than a guy. Actually, he hates those extra flowers. He plucks them out and hands them to the street sweeper the second he walks out. Whatever, he’s about to meet the female lead anyway. Once our rich heiress gets jealous, she’ll just buy this shop and force this annoying florist into a brutal, endless corporate shift! My small florist shop was the result of years of grueling work. I had worked three part-time jobs after college, living on instant noodles for two years just to save up enough to rent this space. Since when did my hard work become a cheap backdrop for someone else’s romance game? The brass windchimes jingled, bringing in a draft of cold air that rustled the dried lavender on the counter. I looked up. Gideon had arrived. He wore a long black trench coat, his dark hair damp and clinging slightly to his pale forehead, making him look strikingly handsome. “Just a bundle of daisies, please.” He unbuttoned the top collar of his coat, his voice as deep and steady as ever. Normally, my heart would have fluttered. I would have worried about him catching a cold in the rain and stuffed his bouquet with as much baby’s breath as the paper could hold. But now, those mocking chat messages were still drifting right over his head. Look, the male lead is here for his daisies. Cue the florist’s pathetic self-indulgence. I took a slow breath, letting go of the baby’s breath in my hand and letting it drop into the green waste bin beneath the counter. “Of course. Give me just a moment.” I forced a bright, perfectly professional smile. I grabbed ten stems of daisies, wrapped them in plain brown kraft paper, and tied the bundle with a simple piece of jute twine. No baby’s breath. No elegant layering. Just a plain, thirty-dollar bouquet of daisies. I slid the bundle across the counter. “That will be thirty dollars. The card reader is on your left.” Gideon reached out. His fingers paused against the rough paper. He stared at the bouquet for a second. Usually, the arrangement was lush and blooming; today, it looked stripped down, almost naked. He raised his eyes, those dark, inscrutable depths fixing on mine. I met his gaze with my polite, unyielding customer-service smile. Without a word, he tapped his card. The machine beeped, confirming the transaction. He picked up the meager bouquet, turned, and stepped back out into the pouring rain. Above his retreating figure, the comments flickered again. Wait, what? Why didn’t she add the baby’s breath today? Did she finally wake up? Doesn’t matter anyway. He would have just thrown them away like usual. The comment about him giving them to the street sweeper felt like a splinter in my mind. “Becca, watch the register for a minute. I need to run out,” I told my assistant, grabbing a clear plastic umbrella from the stand and pushing through the door. I kept a safe distance behind Gideon. He walked slowly, his black coat cutting a solitary figure against the gray streets. About two blocks away, near a bus shelter, he stopped. An elderly woman in an orange safety vest was leaning against the glass to shelter from the rain, holding a worn broom. I hid behind a convenience store sign, watching through the edge of my umbrella. Gideon approached her. The woman looked up, her tired face breaking into a familiar smile as she looked at his hands, expecting something. “Oh, hello, young man. Do you have…” Gideon tilted his head slightly. His voice was muffled by the rain, but I heard him clearly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Not today. The shop didn’t include the extras.” The woman’s face fell slightly, though she quickly waved her hand. “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Get along now. It’s pouring.” Gideon nodded, held his simple bundle of daisies close, and boarded the city bus toward the suburban cemetery. I stood on the wet pavement, my knuckles white around the handle of my umbrella. The comments hadn’t lied. There was no silent understanding, no sweet habit. He didn’t want my silent comfort. The extra flowers I had lovingly tucked in were just a nuisance he cleared out of his way, a weekly charity hand-out for a stranger. “You really outdid yourself, Naomi,” I muttered, a bitter smile tugging at my lips. I didn’t go back to the shop. Instead, I hailed a cab. “Follow that bus, please.” The driver gave me a knowing look through the rearview mirror and hit the gas. We pulled up near the gates of the hillside cemetery. I watched Gideon walk past the stone archway, his dark coat disappearing among the rows of gray headstones. I waited until he left before I stepped inside. The air was heavy with the scent of wet pine and cold stone. Following the clues from the comments, I walked up the wet stone steps to the third row. I stopped in front of a clean marble headstone. The photograph on the stone showed a young girl. She had deep, lovely dimples and bright eyes that seemed to hold a thousand stars. In Loving Memory of Rosalie Jenkins. My breath caught. I knew her. Six months ago, she was a regular at my shop. She used to wear light purple sundresses, looking like a blooming iris. She never bought expensive arrangements; she only wanted pink hydrangeas, holding them to her chest with a smile sweeter than the flowers. Sometimes, she would press homemade cookies into my hands while we chatted about the weather. Then, she just stopped coming. I had wondered if she moved away. I never imagined she was lying beneath the cold earth. The cold rain dripped down my face. Looking at her picture, then remembering the hollow look in Gideon’s eyes, everything clicked. Gideon was never the lead in my story. He was a grieving man trapped in a past he couldn’t escape, while I had been stuffing his mourning bouquets with baby’s breath, symbolizing a quiet confession of love. How foolish, how incredibly inappropriate. “I’m so sorry, Rosalie,” I whispered to her picture. Leaving the cemetery, I tossed a damp, crumbled tissue into the trash, along with the ridiculous crush I had nurtured behind my counter for six long months. Gideon was just a heartbroken soul. And I needed to go back to my shop and figure out how to pay next month’s rent. Over the next few weeks, my shop returned to its quiet routine. Gideon still came every Thursday at four, and I served him with polite, professional distance. No extra flowers. Just business. “Why did you stop adding the baby’s breath, Naomi?” Becca asked one day. “It’s out of season,” I said simply. “Not worth stocking right now.” The comments above Gideon’s head were baffled. Wait, did she actually give up? It’s been weeks. Maybe we broke her spirit. Doesn’t matter. The real female lead is about to show up. This florist’s time is running out. One afternoon, as I was arranging fresh ranunculus, the chat suddenly went wild. Here she comes! The main event! Get ready! Our rich girl is going to humble this little shopkeeper! A woman in a tailored Chanel suit and an Hermès Birkin bag stepped into the shop, followed by a sharp-looking assistant. “Who’s the owner here?” her voice was sharp, dripping with casual arrogance. I wiped my hands and stepped forward. “I am. How can I help you?” She scanned me from head to toe, her eyes filled with cold amusement. “Wrap me a bouquet.” “Of course. What kind of flowers do you prefer?” Instead of answering, she strolled around the shop, stopping by the daisy bucket. She tapped a white petal with a manicured nail. “I hear Gideon buys these here.” Here it was. “Yes,” I replied smoothly. “Gideon is a regular customer. He usually prefers the white daisies.” Bianca, the heiress from the comments, let out a sharp laugh. She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Whatever pathetic little fantasy you’ve been playing at, drop it. A girl like you has no business dreaming about someone like him.” I met her eyes calmly. “Miss, you’ve misunderstood. The extra flowers I used to put in Gideon’s bouquets were just older stock we needed to clear out before they spoiled. It was a simple business decision to minimize waste. Since we adjusted our inventory strategy, we no longer have surplus to give away.” Bianca blinked, utterly thrown by my dry, practical response. She had probably rehearsed a dozen insults, but my sheer corporate pragmatism left her with nothing to bite on. “Make sure it stays that way,” she snapped, turning on her heel. In her haste, she kicked over a potted plant by the door, leaving in a huff. The next Thursday, Gideon arrived at four. I assembled his daisies. Just as I was about to hand them over, he spoke. “Why…” he hesitated, “is there no baby’s breath anymore?” I paused. I hadn’t expected him to ask. “Oh, we adjusted our inventory. We don’t stock extras anymore.” The chat exploded. Oh my god! He noticed! Is this a plot twist? She’s playing hard to get! What a snake! I kept my face neutral. Gideon looked at me, a rare flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. “I liked it better before,” he said quietly, taking the bouquet and leaving. I froze. Outside the window, I spotted Bianca’s assistant holding up a phone, recording the exchange through the glass. This was going to be trouble. The next morning, Bianca’s assistant returned, tossing a buyout contract onto the counter. The offer was insulting, barely half of the shop’s market value. “Sign it,” the assistant said. “You’ll stay on as manager, but you’ll be working for Miss Bianca.” “No,” I said, pushing the paper back. “I’d think twice if I were you,” she sneered. “What Miss Bianca wants, she gets. If you don’t sign today, you might not have a shop to open tomorrow.” In the days that followed, inspectors from the fire department, the health board, and the city licensing bureau began showing up in waves. But I had anticipated this from the floating comments. I had spent forty-eight hours organizing every permit, safety log, and purchase receipt into pristine, double-backed physical and digital folders. Every inspection passed with flying colors. Frustrated, Bianca changed her tactics. Her assistant placed massive online orders for rare, imported flowers under various fake accounts, totaling tens of thousands of dollars, due the next morning. My team worked through the night to secure and package the flowers. But at 8:00 AM, every single order was canceled. Becca looked at the mountains of delicate, perishable flowers, on the verge of tears. “Naomi, what are we going to do? We’re going to lose everything.” I stared at the blooming petals, a fire igniting in my chest. “Becca, grab your phone. We’re going live.” We went live on social media. I explained that due to a series of sudden cancellations, we had a massive surplus of beautiful, fresh flowers. “We are converting all of these into charity bouquets,” I announced. “We’re delivering them to local retirement homes, hospitals, and night-shift nurses. It’s on us.” I walked the viewers through how small businesses can protect themselves from malicious online cancellations, never naming names but keeping my tone completely objective and educational. The stream went viral. Our sales surged. The comments above my head shifted completely. I take it back. This florist actually has backbone. Why is she so hard to get rid of? I smiled. Hard to get rid of? We were just getting started. Bianca’s next move was vicious. She released a heavily edited video of my charity stream, splicing my words to make it look like I was exploiting Rosalie’s death for views. The title screamed: Local Florist Uses Deceased Girl’s Memory for Social Media Clout! The internet erupted with hate. My phone was flooded with abusive messages. Then, Gideon barged into the shop. His eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted with fury. He slammed his phone onto the counter, knocking over a glass vase. “Why would you do this?” his voice shook with betrayal. “Just to save your shop? To get views? How could you exploit someone who is gone?” “She hated being talked about when she was alive, and now you won’t even let her rest in peace!” My heart felt like it was being scraped by a dull blade, the pain slow and deep. But I didn’t cry. I didn’t flinch. I simply looked him dead in the eye, my voice tight but steady. “Is that really who you think I am?” He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but the anger quickly took over again. “The evidence is right there!”

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01 Celeste and I happened to wear the exact same dress today. My childhood friend, Wesley, teased me. “Same dress, but she looks like an angel, and you look like her maid.” Even my mother agreed. “When it comes to looks and grace, Beth doesn’t even compare to Celeste.” Celeste was the orphaned daughter of my mother’s late best friend. My mother had brought her home to adopt her. She was smart, beautiful, and danced ballet. Everyone preferred her. Even the stray cat I had rescued only cuddled with her, while hissing at me. Until Asher, the transfer student, became my desk partner. He secretly stuffed dead roaches into Wesley’s locker and poured rancid clam juice into Celeste’s thermos. I wanted to laugh so badly, but I didn’t dare. In a quiet voice, I asked Asher why he was standing up for me. Mimicking my hushed whisper, he leaned in and murmured, “Because I traveled back in time from ten years in the future.” “Give me a smile,” he cooed. “My future wife.” I froze. My face flushed crimson instantly. Before I could say a word, a loud commotion broke out near Celeste’s desk. She had taken a sip of her drink, and now she was coughing violently, her brow furrowed in distress. Her almond eyes pooled with tears, making her look incredibly fragile and pitiable. The classmates crowding around her were furious. “Who the hell did this?” “This is sick. Who would try to poison Celeste?” “How incredibly malicious.” Wesley gently patted her back, his eyes suddenly darting to me. “I bet Beth did it. She’s always been jealous of Celeste.” Celeste raised her pale face, forcing a weak, fragile smile. “Don’t say that about Beth. I’m just living under her roof. I must have done something to upset her… It’s all my fault.” With just a few soft words, she shifted the blame entirely onto my shoulders. It was the same effortless way she used to accuse me of stealing class funds or rumor that I cheated on exams. I bit my lip, whispering, “I didn’t do it.” But, as always, nobody listened. Nobody believed me. My nose stung with unshed tears. I lowered my head, trying to blink them away, when a strange, bright red plastic object entered my peripheral vision. A megaphone? I looked up in utter bewilderment. Asher had pulled out a massive megaphone from somewhere. He grinned, pressed the play button, aimed it directly at Celeste’s crowd, and let it blare at maximum volume: “BETH SAID SHE DIDN’T DO IT!” “DID YOU HEAR THAT? SHE DIDN’T DO IT!” “I’M HER WITNESS! SHE NEVER EVEN WENT NEAR YOUR DESK! SPREAD MORE LIES ABOUT HER AND I’LL HAVE YOU DEALT WITH!” Naturally, the teacher confiscated Asher’s megaphone within minutes. But with an eyewitness on my side, my name was cleared. I whispered a quiet thank you to him. Asher raised an eyebrow, a cheeky grin playing on his lips. “Don’t just thank me with words. How about a kiss?” “If that’s too hard, I’ll compromise. I can kiss you instead.” I laughed, giving his shoulder a gentle, playful shove. “You’re ridiculous!” But the next second, a sudden realization hit me. It had been a very, very long time since I had laughed and played around with anyone like this. 02 During the summer break of my eighth-grade year, my mother’s dearest friend passed away, leaving behind a single daughter. My mother brought her home to adopt her. That was Celeste. She stood at our front door, her eyes red, looking entirely lost and fragile. My mother’s heart broke for her, and she pulled me aside, telling me I had to share and yield to Celeste from now on. I nodded, genuinely feeling sorry for her. So, I emptied half the savings from my piggy bank and pushed the coins toward her. She whispered a quiet thank you. I shared my bed with her, she took the left side, I took the right. My favorite toy, a glowing, light-up princess wand, caught her eye. I placed it directly into her hands. “Do you like it? It’s yours.” But when did things start to change? Suddenly, I had nothing left to give. When I got a perfect score on my math test, my mother rewarded me with a family bucket of fried chicken. I used to love stuffing the chicken into the warm butter rolls, topping it with mashed potatoes. It was delicious. But now, Celeste had three pieces of chicken. My mother and I only had one each. The mashed potatoes were given entirely to Celeste. I slowly sipped my soda, my eyes drifting toward the bountiful plate in front of Celeste. My mother scowled. “Beth, you already have your chicken and soda. What are you staring at Celeste for? Always coveting what belongs to others. How did you become so greedy?” My mother also enrolled Celeste in ballet classes. The art classes she had promised to sign me up for were abruptly canceled. “We don’t have much spare cash left,” my mother said dismissively. “Be sensible. Besides, you don’t have Celeste’s natural talent for dance. Art lessons would just be a waste of money.” My father worked overseas and rarely came home. Whenever I missed him, I would hold the glass mermaid figurine he had bought me and whisper my secrets to it. Celeste saw it. She thought it was beautiful. My mother forced me to give the mermaid to her. Wesley, my childhood friend, had been furious on my behalf. “Is your mom insane? Treating an outsider like royalty while starving her own daughter? You earned that fried chicken with your perfect score, and Celeste just eats it without a second thought? Where is her shame? And you want to be an illustrator, why can’t you take classes?” He was fiercely protective of me back then, never holding back his tongue. He consoled me, promising, “I’ll come over tomorrow and bring you a massive fried chicken leg. You’re going to eat the whole thing right in front of Celeste. Not a single bite for her!” But when he arrived the next day, Celeste was sitting by the window, wearing a delicate floral dress my mother had bought her. She was reading a book, the warm afternoon sunlight bathing her clean, beautiful face. Wesley froze, completely mesmerized. The massive chicken leg slipped from his grip, rolling onto the dusty floor. “I think I finally understand what love at first sight means,” he whispered. 03 He stood there awkwardly for ages, not knowing where to put his hands. When he finally snapped out of it, he turned to me with a breezy, teasing grin. “Beth, your sister is as beautiful as an angel, while you’re just… average. No wonder your mom prefers her. It’s only natural.” Anger and tears flooded my eyes. I turned and ran into my bedroom, slamming the door. “I’m never speaking to you again!” In the past, whenever Wesley made me angry, I would lock myself in my room, and he would stand outside, coaxing and teasing until I opened the door. I was weak-willed; within two minutes, he’d have me laughing, and I would walk back out. But this time, he didn’t follow me. He stayed in the living room, spending the entire afternoon trying every trick in the book to make Celeste laugh. I sat alone in my room, crying, listening to the echoes of his eager laughter. He stayed all the way until dinner, completely unwilling to leave. Eventually, I made up with Wesley. After all, we had grown up together. He was my best friend. But everything was different now. He stopped going to the comic bookstore with me. Instead, he spent his afternoons waiting outside Celeste’s ballet studio. When he went on a trip to Savannah with his family, he brought Celeste a delicate silk fan, a vintage dress, and beautiful garden keepsakes. When it came to me, he just scratched his head, showing his boyish grin. “I ran out of allowance, so I couldn’t get you anything. Don’t be mad, Beth. Next time, I promise.” When we started high school, a once-in-a-century rainstorm hit on our monthly release day. The streets were flooded, water rising halfway up the trees and cars. The air was filled with the frantic shouts of parents calling for their children. My mother pushed through the crowds to find Celeste and guide her safely home. Wesley was frantic with worry too. He braved the thunder and pouring rain to run to our house, only relaxing when he saw Celeste was safe and dry. He eagerly grabbed a hairdryer to dry Celeste’s damp hair, while my mother bustled in the kitchen, brewing hot ginger tea to keep Celeste warm. Nobody remembered me, left behind at the school with no one to pick me up. By the time I waded through the waist-deep water to get home, I was soaked to the bone and shivering. I collapsed onto the kitchen table, sobbing from the sheer injustice of it. Wesley poked his head into the kitchen, letting out a chuckle. “Are you actually crying?” He laughed. “Beth, you look even uglier when you cry.” 04 After that day, I slowly learned to accept the differences in how Celeste and I were treated. I got used to walking behind them, silently watching Celeste and Wesley laugh and chat ahead of me. If I ever paused to tie my shoelaces, they would leave me far behind without ever looking back. I got used to my mother buying Celeste Converse sneakers, Adidas hoodies, and expensive backpacks because she was terrified Celeste would feel insecure about being an orphan. Meanwhile, I was given Celeste’s worn-out hand-me-downs. I got used to Wesley walking Celeste everywhere because he was terrified she would be harassed by strangers. He never worried about me. He said I looked “perfectly safe.” I got used to everyone preferring her. Even the stray cat I brought home would hiss at me but roll over to show Celeste his belly. Until today. Until Asher poured rancid clam juice into her thermos to get back at her for me. Watching Celeste weep, I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t dare. Wesley had once said, “Beth, you and your sister actually look similar when you laugh. Except she looks beautiful, and you look hilarious.” But Asher rested his chin in his hand, looking at me with a lazy, warm gaze. “Give me a smile.” “My future wife.” “I traveled back from ten years in the future just to make you happy.” Time travel? I thought he was just teasing me. But over the next month, he became my shield. During recess, Wesley ran over to tell me a joke he had heard. “Beth, you look like you’re from a historic lineage. Because your face looks incredibly historical, as in, ancient and worn out.” I lowered my head, biting my lip. Asher spun his pen, letting out a dry chuckle. “And you look like you belong in a circus. Specifically, as the clown. No talent, just a joke.” At dismissal, Celeste casually handed me a half-drunk boba tea, smiling sweetly. “Beth, why don’t you finish this? We shouldn’t waste our mother’s money.” Asher let out a loud groan. “Are you seriously offering your backwash to someone else?” He magically pulled out three half-empty bottles of soda from his desk and shoved them toward Celeste. “Here, I’ve got a bunch of leftovers too. Why don’t you chug them all? Don’t let them go to waste.” Celeste stomped her foot and stormed off in a rage. I couldn’t help it. A quiet laugh slipped from my lips. Asher watched me laugh, his own lips curving into a soft smile. Under some strange spell, I looked at him and asked, “Are you really from ten years in the future?” Asher raised an eyebrow, his eyes shining. “Getting curious about me now?” “Careful, sweetheart. You’re about to fall in love with me.” I flushed, giving his arm a playful hit. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a gentle murmur. “Really want to know?” “Sunday is your birthday. Come out on a date with me, and I’ll tell you.” 05 I bit my lip and remained silent. I hated birthdays. On my fifteenth birthday, Celeste and I had a joint celebration. My mother spent hours taking photos of Celeste, adjusting the lighting and angles to make her look perfect. When it was my turn to stand in front of the cake, before I could even pose, click. The photo was done. In the picture, my face was distorted, my eyes half-closed, and my mouth awkwardly open. I looked so ugly I wanted to cry. My mother had merely shrugged. “It’s because of how you look. No amount of photography can change that.” When Celeste blew out her candles, she began opening her gifts. In a velvet box lay a sparkling diamond hairpin. When she wore it, she looked like a princess. My gift was a cheap plastic bracelet. The pink beads were already peeling. A wave of bitter sorrow rushed over me. “Mom, you’re unfair!” I cried, pointing at the cake, which only had Happy Birthday Celeste written on it. “And today is her birthday, not mine! Her birthday is a day before mine! Ever since she came, I’ve had to share my birthday with her. Why do I have to do this?” My mother’s face darkened instantly. Celeste’s eyes welled with tears, her voice soft and trembling. “Mom, it’s all my fault. I took Beth’s special day. I won’t celebrate my birthday anymore, please don’t fight because of me…” My mother’s heart broke, and she wrapped Celeste in a tight embrace. “Celeste is already so sensible and sweet despite having no parents. Why do you always have to fight her for everything?” “If you hate celebrating your birthday so much, then get out!” I ran out of the house, crying. But I had nowhere to go, so I wandered around the neighborhood for hours. When night fell and nobody came to look for me, I walked back, sobbing, but too ashamed to go upstairs. Suddenly, someone called my name from behind. “Beth.” I turned. Wesley was standing by the entrance of the building, holding a plastic bag. “Happy birthday.” I opened it. It was a simple white dress. The fabric was scratchy, and the stitching around the collar was crooked. But I still cried tears of joy. “Thank you.” Wesley rubbed the back of his neck, then pulled out another gift box from behind his back. It was wrapped in beautiful pink paper with a perfect satin bow. Blushing, he said: “Uh… can you give this to your sister?” My smile froze. The scratchy dress in my hands suddenly felt weightless.

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My sister dreamed of being a fairytale heroine, guarded by loyal knights. The day I was born, she wished for a baby brother to protect her. My parents didn’t have the heart to crush her fantasy, so they changed my birth certificate, listing me as male. I kept my hair short, followed her like a shadow, carried her backpack, and fought her battles. Yet I could never shake the suffocating injustice. At seventeen, I secretly created a second social media account. My profile was a girl’s picture, my bio feminine, my feed filled with delicate princess dresses. A boy added me, and we talked for six months. One afternoon, he sent a voice note, chuckling softly, “I found you.” Later that day, the most popular guy in school confessed his love to my sister. As I was about to explain, glowing text began scrolling across my vision like livestream comments. What is this side character thinking? Does he believe confessing now will change anything? How could the future wealthiest tycoon of Bayview ever fall for a guy? It’s laughable. If he discovers he’s been chatting with a boy, he’ll be furious about the deception. But I wasn’t a boy. I was Dakin, and all I wanted was to wear a dress just once. My fingers hovered over the screen. In the end, I never sent that message. 01 Closing my phone, I listened to my classmates gossiping excitedly around me. “Oh my god, was that Miguel?” “He is so insanely handsome. I walked past him earlier and caught a glimpse, he looks so cool and detached.” “I can’t believe he confessed to Serena!” At Bayview High, rumors about Miguel always traveled the fastest. “Did you guys know? Miguel has been into Serena for a long time.” “My cousin is his roommate. He said Miguel is always staring at his phone, smiling so softly.” “The girl he likes has a really sweet voice, loves to daydream, and her social media is full of kittens and all kinds of princess dresses.” I looked out the window. Below the academic building, Serena was wearing a designer Miu Miu dress. Her long, wavy hair fell beautifully over her shoulders. She threw herself into Miguel’s arms. Even the way she blushed was breathtakingly beautiful. I thought to myself. They were right. Serena truly looked like a princess. My desk mate, Wyatt, leaned over the windowsill, watching my sister before turning back to look at me with a serious face. “Dakin, you and your sister don’t look alike at all.” “What do you mean?” Wyatt thought for a moment before offering an analogy. “Your sister is like a graceful swan. You… you look like her servant.” “Short, scrawny, and your hair is full of split ends.” Anger flared in my chest. I buried my face in my arms on the desk, ignoring him. Wyatt nudged my shoulder, his voice turning teasing. “Come on, Dakin, don’t be mad.” “I’ll buy you a drink.” Just as I was about to look up, he added, “Here, this one’s for you. And can you help me deliver the other one to your sister?” My drink was a cheap, dollar-store iced tea. The one for my sister was a fancy, expensive specialty berry latte. I buried my head deeper into the desk. “I’m not going.” “My sister doesn’t like you anyway. She won’t accept it.” Ego bruised, he slammed his hand on the desk, his face flushing with embarrassment. “We’re guys, we don’t need to drink fancy things. Why are you acting so high and mighty?” “Dakin, I think you’re just jealous of your sister!” With that, he stomped off. The entire classroom turned to look at me. I buried my face in my math worksheet, pretending I didn’t care. But my fingers gripped the hem of my shirt so tightly that my palms ached. I didn’t say another word to Wyatt that day. Once school ended and everyone had left, I sat in the empty classroom and cried. I suddenly remembered a time long ago when I had secretly tried on one of my sister’s hair clips. My mother had screamed at me, calling me a thief. Heartbroken, I had posted a picture of the clip online. A kind stranger added me: [Is this the one? Don’t worry about the money, I’ll send it to you.] Later, he messaged me: [So you like pink? Princess dresses, huh? Quite the girly heart.] Then, he added: [But… it suits you.] I knew that every time I posted on my feed, he was always the first to leave a like. Miguel had mistaken my sister for me. I didn’t blame him. After all, I was the one who, like a thief in the night, had secretly envied and peeked into my sister’s perfect life. 02 After that day, I logged out of the secret account and never opened it again. During breakfast, my mother gave me her usual reminder. “Your sister is having bad cramps today. As her brother, you need to take good care of her.” I chewed slowly on my toast. “I will.” Serena was two years older than me, a senior. Our classrooms were far apart. I carefully filled a thermos with warm chamomile tea and stirred in some honey. The moment the bell rang, I ran over to her building. By the time I arrived, sweating and out of breath, my sister had just gone to the restroom. I set the warm tea on her desk. After a moment’s thought, I slipped a few chocolates next to it. Suddenly, a boy with dyed red hair blocked my path, raised an eyebrow, and leaned against the desk. He looked me up and down with a sneer. “What class are you in?” “Don’t you know Serena has a boyfriend?” I didn’t know this guy. And I didn’t want to start any trouble. But before I could even open my mouth to explain, he snatched the thermos and threw it to the ground, splashing the tea everywhere. “I’ve been watching you for a while now.” “Every single day, you carry Serena’s bag, run errands, and buy her drinks.” “Tsk, trying so hard to kiss up to her? Do you really think you’re on her level?” He pinned me against the wall, his tone dangerously casual. He was too close. Terrified that he was about to punch me, I squeezed my eyes shut. “That’s enough.” “Asher, don’t push it.” A cool, detached voice sounded from nearby. Miguel took off his headphones. Glancing at me, he said calmly, “Take your chocolates back, kid. She doesn’t need them.” “And from now on, stay away from Serena.” His voice was beautiful. His words were polite, yet firm. Glowing comments flashed across my mind. [Lmao, the side character is such a clown.] [The male lead didn’t even recognize him. He thinks Dakin is a rival and is getting jealous!] [Dakin needs to know his place. Stop making a fool of yourself. Even if the male lead found out the truth, he would only feel disgusted, not fall for you.] Just then, Serena hurried back. Seeing the tense standoff, she let out a soft laugh. “Oh my gosh, what are you guys doing? Are you about to fight?” She naturally wrapped her arm around Miguel’s. Then, she pointed at me. “This is my brother. My real brother.” Miguel froze. “Your brother makes you tea and walks you to school every day?” Serena blinked innocently. “Yeah, he’s like my personal knight. A younger brother is supposed to protect his sister for the rest of his life, right?” A long silence followed. Realizing he had made a mistake, Miguel extended his hand to me and said sincerely, “I’m sorry.” I forced a tight smile, but my lips felt completely numb. Back when we chatted online, he used to tease me, making my face flush: [What are you so afraid of? Am I going to eat you when we finally meet?] But I never expected our actual meeting to be like this. And all he had to say to me was a cold, polite apology. 03 Perhaps out of guilt for the misunderstanding, Miguel had someone deliver some things to me a few days later. It was a stack of thick, neatly organized study guides and hard-to-find practice exams. Asher dropped the materials onto my desk with a lazy shrug. “Miguel put these together.” “He’s always top of the class. His notes should help you with the upcoming midterms.” Seeing my hesitation, Asher slung an arm around my shoulder. “Come on, don’t hold a grudge. We were out of line the other day.” “Just don’t go badmouthing us to your sister.” I thought to myself: Ah, so he likes my sister too. I nodded and accepted the books. As I flipped through the practice exams, a beautifully packaged box of imported chocolates fell out. I blinked in surprise. Asher was already walking away. He waved a hand over his shoulder. “Those are from me.” “Eat up. You need to grow taller.” During the midterm exams, for some reason, every question that was similar to the ones in that practice book was a breeze. I didn’t lose a single point. Gradually, the tension between us began to thaw. Whenever I ran into Miguel at school, we would exchange a polite nod. Sometimes, while memorizing vocabulary in the hallway, I would look down and see Miguel squatting near the academic building, feeding a small colony of stray ginger cats. The summer breeze blew softly, rustling his hair. He would smile, his lips curving into a gentle line, as if thinking of someone special. But in the next second, a bright, cheerful figure would throw her arms around him. “So this is where you were hiding!” Serena glanced down at the cats, wrinkling her nose. “Ugh, why do you like these basic ginger cats just like my brother does?” “I thought you’d prefer something cooler, like a Maine Coon…” Miguel went rigid. “Your brother likes these cats?” “Yeah, why?” Miguel stood up, brushing off his jeans. “Nothing.” “Let’s go. I want to see you practice ballet.” As they walked away, a little ginger cat rubbed against my ankle, meowing softly. I broke off a piece of a turkey jerky strip and fed it to the kitten. After that day, I rarely went to that hallway to study. 04 Miguel’s devotion to Serena was legendary throughout the school. On her birthday, he gifted her a diamond necklace worth seven figures. The class decided to celebrate at an upscale karaoke lounge, and during a game of Truth or Dare, Serena lost several rounds in a row. Miguel drank every single penalty shot for her. I went to the restroom, and when I came out, I saw him leaning heavily against the sink. He looked incredibly pale, as if he had just thrown up. After a brief hesitation, I stepped forward to support him. “If you’re not feeling well, you should tell my sister.” The moment our fingers brushed, Miguel stiffened. His handsome brow furrowed. He subtly but firmly pulled his arm back, escaping my touch. “Why is it you?” The floating comments sneered: [The side character is so pathetic, trying to orchestrate a run-in to get close to the male lead.] [He tried the same thing with the ginger cats last time. What’s the point of all this effort? Even if the male lead suspects something, he’ll just pretend he doesn’t know.] I withdrew my hand. “Just passing by.” Even after I had walked far down the corridor, I could still feel his dark, heavy gaze lingering on my back. I left the party early that night. Around nine, a light drizzle began to fall, and my father looked out the window with a worried frown. “Dakin, go pick up your sister and bring her home.” I kept my eyes glued to my textbook. “Someone is already bringing her home.” My mother frowned, her voice sharp with disapproval. “I don’t trust other boys walking her home in the dark. Dakin, since when did you become so selfish?” Seeing the rising tension, my father put his laptop aside and quickly tried to soothe her. I silently put on my raincoat, grabbed an extra umbrella, and walked out into the damp night. Perhaps Serena had stayed out too late. By a stroke of terrible luck, we were cornered by a group of local street thugs in a narrow, dark alley. “Dakin, what do we do? I’m scared…” Serena whimpered, her voice tiny and trembling. I didn’t tell her that I was terrified too. But I dropped my backpack anyway. “Serena, when things get messy, run toward the main road. Don’t look back…” It was supposed to be this way, wasn’t it? When I was a child and a plate was broken, I was the one who took the blame. Every teddy bear my parents bought was handed to her. When there was a massive spider in her wardrobe, she would scream and call my name, and I would swallow my own terror to kill it for her. From the moment I could understand words, the phrase my parents repeated most was: “You must promise to protect your sister. You’re the man of the house.” “Serena has a congenital heart condition, she’s so fragile. You are healthy and strong, so you have to look out for her your entire life.” “Our Dakin is so smart, surely you can understand and help your parents…” I had heard those words so many times that they had become second nature. So, when the wooden planks and metal pipes swung toward us, I didn’t hesitate. I shielded her with my body. When they grabbed my hair, I kicked them in the stomach. The noise eventually grew loud enough to draw the attention of nearby neighbors, who called the police, forcing the thugs to scatter. Wiping the blood dripping from my forehead, I reached out to pull my sister up. Some kind bystanders helped us to the hospital, and Miguel arrived shortly after receiving the news. He burst into the room, and his eyes immediately locked onto the scrape on Serena’s knee. He turned to me, his voice tight with anger. “Dakin, why couldn’t you have been more careful?” “She’s hurt! Is this how you protect your sister?” His anxiety made his aura incredibly cold and oppressive. Serena sobbed, shaking her head to defend me, but she was crying too hard to speak. “Hey, Miguel, calm down,” Asher stepped in, patting his shoulder. “Dakin is hurt too. Look at his forehead, it’s still bleeding. You can’t blame him for this.” Only then did Miguel notice the white bandage wrapped around my forehead. His voice caught in his throat. He fell silent, turned on his heel, and walked out to settle the hospital bill. Knowing his friend was in a terrible mood, Asher followed to comfort him. From a distance, Miguel’s cold, dismissive words drifted back to my ears. “He’s a guy. Isn’t this exactly what he’s supposed to do?” “What does he have to feel bad about?” “Honestly, I don’t feel safe leaving Serena in his hands.” I lowered my head, staring at the tips of my shoes, and kicked a small pebble. I didn’t say a single word. 05 When Miguel dropped my sister off at our apartment building, he called out to me. “The police found your phone.” The screen wasn’t locked. I mumbled a quick thank you and took it from him. Just as I turned to head upstairs, the phone in my hand began to vibrate. I froze, looking down at the screen. Standing under the dim streetlamp, Miguel slowly lowered his own phone from his ear. “It really was you.” We stared at each other through the hazy drizzle. There was no sudden joy of discovery, no regret for the misunderstanding. His face was as flat and cold as still water as he slid a card toward me. “Dakin, let’s just pretend this never happened, okay?” “I don’t want anyone else to know.” “Honestly, it’s pretty disgusting.” The freezing rain beat down on my face. It was so humiliating. So painful that it made me want to weep. With all the strength left in my body, I snapped the card in half, threw the pieces at his chest, and ran upstairs. The moment I crossed the threshold of my home, the tears finally spilled over, completely uncontrollable. I wanted to scream. I wanted to demand answers. Why was life so incredibly unfair to me? Seeing me, my father quickly put a finger to his lips. “Shh, your sister just fell asleep…” The heavy silence in the room was suffocating, pushing me to the brink of madness. “Dad, Mom, I don’t want to be the brother anymore!” I sobbed, my voice cracking. “I want to be a girl again! I want to grow my hair long, I want to take ballet lessons…” “Why are you doing this to me? It’s not my fault Serena is sick! Why do I have to carry this burden?” It was the very first time I had ever talked back. Flushed with anger, my mother raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face. “What is wrong with you? Who upset you that you’re taking it out on us?” My cheek burned with a stinging heat. I couldn’t stand to be in that house for another second. I bolted out the door and ran into the night. Behind me, I heard my sister stirring, her voice sleepy and mocking. “Why is Dakin crying? What a baby, crying over nothing.” My father asked, “Who set him off?” My mother replied coldly, “Who knows?” Outside, the storm grew heavier. I huddled under the awning of a bus stop, shivering, with absolutely nowhere to go. Clasping my knees to my chest, I let out a broken sob, weeping into the dark. Bus after bus passed by. Then, an umbrella tilted over my head, blocking out the rain. “Dakin?” Asher called my name a few times. When I didn’t respond, he squatted down and pressed his palm against my forehead. “Oh my god, you’re running a fever. Get up.” He reached out to help me stand. But my knees buckled, and I collapsed forward, crashing directly into his chest. Asher groaned as we hit the pavement, but his body went completely rigid. His eyes widened in absolute shock as he looked down at me. “You… you’re a girl?”

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Everyone in my graduating class knows that back in high school, I ruthlessly dumped the heir to the Croft corporate empire, Daran Croft, all for a fat paycheck. Now, they all think I am his pathetic lapdog, clinging to him as his personal secretary. What none of them know is that I am actually a corporate proxy, handpicked by Daran’s parents to babysit their deadbeat son. We signed a contract in secret. It was a transaction with a very clear price tag. Daran, however, firmly believes I am desperately in love with him. And now, that contract is exactly one month away from expiring. 1 I was a scholarship student funded by the Croft Foundation. I was also the brightest kid they had ever sponsored. Seven years ago, during my senior year, I was at the absolute top of my class. Then my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness, requiring a massive amount of money for medical bills. To make matters worse, my father vanished into thin air, taking every last cent of our family savings with him. That was when a woman dripping in diamonds and old money condescension appeared in my life. I knew exactly who she was. She was the mother of my then boyfriend, Daran. She slid a sleek black bank card across the table, followed by a thick legal contract. “Three million dollars.” The matriarch’s tone was dripping with arrogance. “Get accepted into an Ivy League business program. After you graduate, you will work for the Croft family for three years, entirely off the books.” “And while we are on the subject, I expect you to be smart about this little high school romance you have going on with my son.” I took the deal. I went straight back to school and broke Daran’s heart. After graduation, his grades were so atrocious that his parents shipped him off to Europe to hide the embarrassment. I, on the other hand, followed the contract to the letter and secured my Ivy League degree. This month marks the final thirty days of that binding agreement. The air in the CEO’s office was thick with the suffocating stench of cigar smoke. I wrinkled my nose in discomfort, keeping my eyes fixed on the man slouching in the leather executive chair. A redhead with miles of bare legs was perched comfortably on Daran’s lap. Her perfectly manicured, cherry red nails lightly traced the jawline of his handsome face. The two of them were lost in their own little world, giggling and flirting, treating me like a piece of furniture. I knew my place. I stood quietly to the side, my face an unreadable mask. “Come on, babe! I really want to be the leading lady in that new movie!” Behind the mahogany desk, the man smirked. He threw a fleeting, provocative glance in my direction. “Done. It is just a movie, right? If my Tiffany wants the part, it is hers.” I recognized the girl immediately. She was Tiffany, the latest flavor of the month tearing up the Hollywood gossip blogs. My expression remained utterly placid. I had grown entirely numb to these little theatrical displays of debauchery. Ever since I became Daran’s secretary three years ago, there had been a revolving door of supermodels and starlets. He had been a terrible student in high school, and he had learned absolutely nothing during his luxurious exile in Europe. On paper, this entertainment subsidiary was a sandbox for the young heir to learn the ropes of business. In reality, every single operational decision from the top down was executed by me. And the movie Tiffany was whining about happened to be the company’s most critical investment for the third quarter. “Mr. Croft, Director Dawson’s contract strictly prohibits investors from swapping out the cast at the last minute.” I felt a familiar migraine throbbing at my temples. The cast was already locked in. The entire production crew was scheduled to begin principal photography next week. Demanding a new female lead at the eleventh hour was classic Daran, reckless and incredibly stupid. Daran exhaled a cloud of toxic smoke, his arm tightening around the actress’s waist. “I am the one writing the checks. I can swap out whoever I want.” His eyes locked onto mine, cold and challenging. “If Dawson has a problem with it, tell him to pack his bags.” “And if you have a problem with it, you can pack yours too.” A dry laugh almost escaped my throat. Did he honestly think I wanted to stay in this gilded cage? If it were not for the remaining thirty days on my contract, I would have walked out that door and never looked back. “Understood, Mr. Croft. I will contact the production team immediately.” It was his money to burn. Why should I care if he tanked his own third quarter revenue? Tiffany giggled, planting a messy kiss on Daran’s cheek. “You are the best, babe!” Daran kept his gaze glued to me, a mocking sneer tugging at the corner of his mouth. I maintained my absolute indifference. In my head, I casually tallied up the number of women he had cycled through in the past ninety days. I also wondered how many of them would throw a tantrum post breakup, forcing me to work overtime to manage their hush money. I had barely stepped out of the corporate lobby when a voice called out from behind. “Hey, Secretary!” Tiffany strutted up to me, her designer stilettos clicking sharply against the pavement. “Word around the industry is that you and Daran used to date back in high school.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. It was hardly a state secret anymore. It did not surprise me that she had done her digging. “How can I help you, Tiffany?” She inspected her fresh manicure, her eyes heavy with manufactured pity. “I will write you a check for five hundred thousand dollars right now. Quit your job tomorrow and stay away from my man.” I stared at her, genuinely struggling to figure out what facial expression to use. “You dumped him for cash back then, right? Taking a payout to disappear now is the exact same thing.” She offered a venomous smile. “Do not tell me you actually think playing the devoted secretary is going to make him fall back in love with you?” “Daran despises disloyalty. Whatever twisted fantasy you are holding onto, it is a waste of time.” Great. Another clueless groupie who had heard two sentences of a rumor and decided to play the conquering queen. I gave her a radiant, polite smile. “I think you are deeply confused about a few things, Tiffany.” “Instead of wasting your breath trying to intimidate me, you should probably focus on keeping Daran entertained.” “I really hope I do not have to process your severance package as his fifth ex girlfriend this year.” The smugness melted off Tiffany’s face, replaced by pure, unfiltered rage. I offered her one last polite nod before turning on my heel and walking away. 2 Barely an hour later, my phone buzzed with a text from Daran. “My parents want you at the estate for dinner tonight.” Even through the screen, his absolute disdain was palpable. But frankly, I was far more annoyed than he was. Originally, I thought my debt to the Croft family simply meant managing their assets. It was only when they reassigned me to be Daran’s shadow three years ago that I realized the true scope of my “employment.” Not only did I have to run a multi million dollar company in place of a useless heir, but I also had to manage every microscopic detail of his personal life. The Croft family essentially treated me like a glorified, highly educated nanny. “Renee, didn’t I tell you to have Daran’s custom Italian suits tailored for the new season?” At the sprawling dining table, Eleanor Croft picked at her Michelin starred salad with a look of severe disappointment. “Why hasn’t that been handled?” “And another thing. I noticed Daran has dark circles under his eyes. Have you not been keeping track of his schedule?” “I specifically instructed you to keep him out of the nightclubs during the work week.” I forced a tight, professional smile and offered a practiced apology. All the while, I could feel Daran glaring at me from across the table, his eyes burning with resentment. “Furthermore…” “Mom! Enough!” Daran slammed his silver fork onto the porcelain plate. “Who does she think she is? Why is she managing my life?” “Because if I do not have someone watching you, you will ruin yourself!” Eleanor’s eyes welled with sudden, dramatic tears. “Do you think I forgot the stunts you pulled in Europe?” “Drinking until your stomach hemorrhaged. Passing out on public streets.” “Do you have any idea how dangerous the world is for a boy with your last name?” Daran scowled. Unwilling to entertain the argument, he pushed his chair back violently and stormed out of the dining room. I was left sitting there in agonizing silence. After a long moment, Eleanor rubbed her temples and looked at me. “If I had known how he would turn out, I never would have forced you two apart.” She let out a heavy sigh. “At least back then, he actually listened to you.” Her words dragged my mind back to the sunlit classrooms of high school. It was true. Back then, even though Daran was a terrible student, he was honest, fiercely loyal, and kind. I would spend hours cramming for AP exams, and he would just rest his chin on his desk, quietly watching me work. He was almost sweet. But the man he had become was unrecognizable. He was volatile, aggressive, and drowning in his own toxicity. Faced with Eleanor’s sorrowful expression, I chose to stay silent. “Renee,” Eleanor began hesitantly. “Is Daran… is he still acting the same way lately?” I knew exactly what she was asking. She wanted to know who he was sleeping with. I kept my tone strictly professional. “Recently, he has been spending a lot of time with a new actress from the studio.” Eleanor shook her head in utter disgust. “A cheap starlet. That will never do for our family image.” “He is so reckless. If he marries some empty headed trophy wife, what will happen to the Croft legacy?” I nodded in polite agreement, while secretly counting the petals on the ridiculously expensive floral centerpiece. The future of the Croft legacy had absolutely nothing to do with me. “You are the only one who understands him.” Eleanor suddenly reached across the table and patted my hand, sending a shiver of pure dread down my spine. “Do not worry, Renee. I know my own son. He can play around all he wants, but deep down, you are the only one he truly cares about.” I found the statement utterly absurd. Daran still cared about me? Impossible. Nobody treats someone they care about with such calculated cruelty. And even if he did, it was years too late. It did not matter anymore. After dinner, I grabbed my coat to leave, but Daran blocked the grand entryway. His face was twisted in a mocking sneer. “I suggest you stop wasting your energy, Renee.” “Do you really think kissing up to my mother is going to get you anywhere?” “Do you think I am still that pathetic teenager who believed every lie that fell out of your mouth?” He pulled out a silver lighter and sparked a cigarette. “When you took that buyout and dumped me, I was actually stupid enough to think you had some tragic, secret reason.” His jaw clenched, and his eyes turned to ice. “Nothing you do now is going to change a thing.” 3 Looking at the absolute hatred in his eyes, I felt nothing but a hollow sense of tragedy. He claimed to love me back then, yet when my family was falling apart, he did not notice a thing. When my mother was dying, I showed up to school every day looking like a ghost. Daran never once bothered to read the room. He just kept chattering away about his video games, his trust fund toys, and his weekend parties. He was completely blind to the fact that I was suffocating. Our high school was packed with elite, privileged kids who already despised me for being poor. After the breakup, it only took a few vicious rumors from his friends to completely shatter his so called unwavering trust in me. Even now, if he spent ten minutes looking into my past, he would easily uncover the truth about my mother. But honestly, even without his mother’s interference, we never would have lasted. Daran was a spoiled child. He lived in a bubble. He had no concept of struggle, of consequence, or of duty. I had been fighting for survival my entire life, carrying the crushing weight of a broken family on my shoulders. I never had the luxury of slowing down. Our paths were destined to diverge from the very beginning. I let out a quiet sigh. “I am not doing this with you tonight, Daran.” My apathy only fueled his rage. He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “I am an idiot for thinking a gold digger like you could ever feel guilt.” “You haven’t changed a bit.” I did not have the energy to argue. I walked past him and left the estate without looking back. Later that night, I had just collapsed onto my bed, utterly exhausted, when my phone started screaming. It was Daran. I answered the call, and my ear was immediately assaulted by the heavy, thumping bass of club music. “Did she answer? Did she actually answer?” I could hear rowdy voices in the background. “No way! She picked up!” “It is one in the morning, and the loyal dog is still on call.” My eyelids were heavy as lead, but I forced myself to sit up. “What do you need, Mr. Croft?” Daran’s voice drifted through the speaker, chillingly calm. “Be here in fifteen minutes.” I pulled the phone away and checked the screen. He had dropped a location pin. It was his favorite VIP nightclub downtown. “Understood.” I did not bother fighting it. This was just another one of his petty little games. I had tried to fight back in the early days, but the contract always forced my hand. Compliance was just faster. The moment I stepped into the VIP lounge, the strobe lights felt like ice picks in my retinas. I had been awake since six in the morning. I had not rested for a single second. And now I had to deal with this nightmare. But as my eyes adjusted to the neon glare, my blood ran cold. “Well, well, look who showed up!” “Daran, you are an absolute legend.” A guy in a designer jacket gave Daran a high five. I recognized him instantly. He was the frat boy who had spearheaded the bullying campaign against me right after the breakup. He had spent his entire life acting as Daran’s loyal foot soldier, desperate for a crumb of the Croft family influence. When Daran and I were dating, he used to follow me around calling me “Queen B.” The second we split, he appointed himself Daran’s avenger and made my senior year a living hell. I looked around the plush booth. I recognized almost all of them. It was a reunion of my high school nightmares. A group of girls huddled in the corner, pointing at me and snickering. “Remember how high and mighty she used to act? Now she is literally fetching his drinks.” “I guess the valedictorian crown doesn’t mean much in the real world.” “Everyone knows she sold him out for a quick buck. Look at her now, still clinging to the money. Once a rat, always a rat.” I tuned out the toxic white noise and walked straight up to Daran. “You called for me, Mr. Croft?” I stared down at him. He was lounging in the corner booth, a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips. He smirked, a cruel glint in his eye. “You really are a master of endurance, aren’t you?” I kept my voice perfectly flat. “You are my employer. I am doing my job.” The amusement vanished from his face. “Right. Just a job.” He snapped his fingers, and a waitress immediately crowded the table with bottles of high proof liquor. “I was just telling the guys how much your alcohol tolerance has improved over the years.” “They did not believe me. Go ahead, Secretary. Show them I am not a liar.” The entire booth erupted into cruel cheers. “Yeah, right! She used to pass out after one cider.” “Let’s see what the working girl can handle now!” I looked into Daran’s eyes. He was enjoying this. He wanted to break me. I was genetically predisposed to being a lightweight. My tolerance had never improved. But I didn’t argue. I walked straight to the glass table, picked up a tumbler of amber liquid, and threw it to the back of my throat. The burn was immediate. My brain felt fuzzy before I even set the glass down. I shook my head, refusing to look at the laughing faces around me. I picked up the second glass. Swallow by swallow, the glasses emptied. And with every drop, the suppressed memories clawed their way to the surface. The awe in his eyes when we first met. The quiet moments in the library. The crushing disappointment of our final argument. They bubbled up like foam on the edge of the glass, only to pop and vanish into nothing. Now, all that was left was this bitter stranger and an audience of vultures. I lost count of how many drinks I took. The neon lights began to smear into blinding streaks of color. “That is enough!” I heard Daran bark the order from somewhere far away. I slammed the empty glass onto the table. Using every ounce of willpower I had left, I forced a polite smile. “Are you satisfied, Mr. Croft?” My stomach churned violently. I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. “I need to use the restroom.” I stumbled to the bathroom, splashed freezing water on my face, and bypassed the lounge entirely, slipping out the back exit into the freezing night air. I knew I had minutes, maybe seconds, before I blacked out entirely. My hands shook violently as I fumbled for my phone, desperately trying to call a cab. But the moment I pulled the phone from my pocket, the pavement tilted at a violent angle. The world spun out of control. Through the blur, I saw a flash of a crisp white shirt. Strong arms caught me before I hit the concrete.

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## Chapter 1: I Died After They Took Everything I Built I died in a room with no windows. The room had once been a records archive on the forty-second floor of Aurelian Tower. After my demotion, it became my office. After my office, it became my holding room. After that, my grave. Shelves of sealed crystal ledgers climbed the walls from floor to ceiling. Their faint blue glow turned skin corpse-pale. By the fourth day, mine already looked dead. Outside the door, the company was celebrating. The board had just approved the succession roadmap for my sister, Seraphina Vale—the chairman’s biological daughter, recently returned, newly legitimized, exquisitely presented, and catastrophically unqualified. Three years earlier, when Chairman Alistair Vale brought me home from London and introduced me as his daughter, the same board had applauded me too. Not because they loved me. Because I was useful. I was the one who built the Aether Spine Project from a damaged municipal contract into the most profitable magical infrastructure platform in the country. I designed its stabilization architecture, negotiated its regulatory path, assembled its founding technical team, and spent four years sleeping under conference tables while lesser executives congratulated themselves on “vision.” They called me Miss Vale when I was turning collapse into revenue. Then Seraphina returned, and overnight I became Evelyn Ward again. Not daughter. Not heir. Not project head. Placeholder. Temporary blood substitute. A decorative administrative anomaly with good posture. When the board decided Seraphina should inherit Aether Spine for the sake of family legitimacy, they did not ask whether she understood flux lattice compression, ritual grid scaling, or city-load ward balancing. They asked whether she looked correct at the chairman’s side before investors, ministers, and old-money families who still believed bloodline was a management credential. She did. I did not. I was told to support the transition. I was told my contribution would always be respected. I was told title mattered less than impact. Then my access narrowed. My team was redistributed. My direct reports stopped meeting my eyes in hallways because they had mortgages, children, medical contracts, and the practical instincts of prey animals in a polished place. Every document I authored was refiled under Seraphina’s succession seal. Every technical failure she caused was redirected to me in private. Every warning I raised was recorded as resistance. When she nearly collapsed the eastern pilot network by approving an ornamental revision to the anchor sigils, I was forced to repair the damage overnight and sign the remediation report in silence. When I refused once—only once—my brother Lucian leaned across the conference table and said, very gently, “Don’t embarrass yourself, Evelyn. You were never meant to keep it.” The final blow came six months later. A containment ring in Subgrid Seven ruptured after Seraphina ignored a red-level maintenance brief. Three technicians were injured. The city regulators opened an emergency inquiry. Before dawn, HR froze my credentials and Governance accused me of retaining unauthorized override pathways in the system—legacy access, sabotage risk, compliance breach. I laughed when I read the charge sheet. Then I saw the signatures at the bottom. Lucian Vale. Helena Vale. Seraphina Vale. Chairman Alistair Vale. My family. Or what I had once called one. They confined me to Archive Room 42-B while the internal investigation proceeded. The room was chosen for “security.” In truth it was chosen because it was isolated, deniable, and six floors above the relay channels; if someone screamed in it, the tower swallowed the sound. My meals stopped arriving on the third day. On the fourth, the building ward around the archive floor began to fail in pulses—the wrong rhythm, too regular, the kind any trained engineer would recognize as delayed backup sequencing. Not neglect. Timing. I struck the emergency sigil until my fingers split. No one came. The last thing I saw before the room filled with white fire was my reflection in the crystal cabinet opposite me: hollow-cheeked, eyes red-rimmed, still wearing my access badge even though it no longer opened any door that mattered. I remember thinking, absurdly, that at least now they would have to admit I had died inside their tower. Then the fire swallowed the room. Something answered. Not a voice. Not exactly. A pressure moved through the burning white—through the stone, the wards, the ledgers, through the blood on my hands and the signatures that had put me there. A vast mechanical consciousness, old as the foundation engines beneath the city, seemed to notice me at last. **Claim denied,** it said—or perhaps I only understood the meaning afterward. **False inheritance detected. Witness retained. Debt returned to point of divergence.** Then I opened my eyes to applause. ## Chapter 2: The Real Heiress Arrives For one disorienting second, I thought the afterlife was theatrically vindictive. Gold light spilled over polished obsidian floors. A hundred suspended glyph-lamps rotated beneath the executive atrium’s glass dome. The air smelled of white lilies, ozone, and expensive perfume. Then I saw the date on the presentation screen. **Successor Welcome Ceremony — June 14** One year before my death. The day Seraphina officially entered headquarters. My stomach turned so violently I thought I might be sick on the atrium floor. I was standing exactly where I had stood in my first life: left of the central dais, charcoal suit, silver piping, project insignia pinned at my collar, expression arranged into professional neutrality by long practice. Onstage, Chairman Vale was finishing his speech about blood, continuity, and the future of the company. At his side stood Seraphina. She looked radiant. She always did in curated light. Champagne silk, pearl earrings, soft gold heels unsuited to a building powered by active runic engines. Her smile trembled in the precise way meant to suggest vulnerability rather than entitlement. In my first life, I had looked at her then and felt pity sharpened by unease. She had been newly returned from the estranged Vale branch abroad, publicly acknowledged after years of strategic silence. I knew she was insecure. I knew the board would devour her if she looked weak. I had planned to help her. That had been my first mistake. My second was almost stumbling when the memory of burning hit me—heat in my lungs, white fire behind my eyes, skin splitting under light. I locked my knees and stayed upright by habit alone. “Evelyn,” Chairman Vale said from the podium, his voice warm enough to fool a city. “Come stand beside your sister.” The room applauded again. I walked forward because in that room, in that family, hesitation was rebellion. As I crossed the light line before the dais, the air changed. It was faint. A tremor more than a sound. The suspended lamps above us gave a single, synchronized pulse. Somewhere very far below, through forty floors of luxury and steel, I felt the tower’s foundation engines answer like a heartbeat. Seraphina turned toward me with the same luminous smile I remembered. Her eyes flicked to my insignia and sharpened for half a heartbeat. Jealousy. Resentment. Fear. Those, at least, had always been real. She raised a crystal flute. “I’m so grateful,” she said sweetly, “to the sister who kept my place warm all these years.” Polite laughter. Then the tower chose blood. Seraphina’s face altered by a fraction—mouth tightening, pupils flaring, throat constricting as if an unseen hand had closed around it. What came out next was not what she intended. “I’m so grateful,” she said in the same clear, musical tone, “that the thief who wore my life is finally standing where everyone can see her. Don’t worry. Once I’ve taken her project, her floor, and her people, Father can send her back overseas or bury her in compliance where no one has to look at her again.” Silence hit the room so hard it rang. My fingers tightened around my glass. Seraphina stared at herself as if the words had escaped a stranger wearing her face. Lucian froze. Helena’s smile cracked first, then vanished. Around us, department heads lowered their eyes to their shoes, the projection lights, the atrium floor—anywhere but the chairman’s daughter. I felt something cold and electric move down my spine. Not random, I thought. Conditional. The thing in the fire—whatever lived in the tower’s oldest systems—had not cursed her without rules. The pulse had struck the moment she made a public claim. Inheritance. Place. Mine. Chairman Vale recovered first. “Seraphina,” he said, low and lethal. She inhaled sharply. “I didn’t—” Her lips moved again against her will. “She’s been useful long enough. Once I learn enough not to look stupid in front of investors, she can disappear.” Several people audibly gasped. I should have been horrified. Instead, beneath the shock, a dangerous flicker of laughter rose in me. Seraphina’s hands trembled. She turned toward Chairman Vale in mute appeal. And he did what he had always done. He looked at me. Not at the daughter publicly confessing theft. At me. As if I had somehow made the room inconvenient. “Everyone,” he said smoothly, “my daughter has had a difficult transition and appears to be reacting to an architectural truth resonance. The ceremony will pause for ten minutes.” A truth resonance. Not a lie, exactly. Not an admission either. He was already containing the language. Then his gaze settled on me with soft, practiced disappointment. “Evelyn. Stay.” Of course. ## Chapter 3: Truth Changes Nothing The executive reception room on the fiftieth floor overlooked the lower city. On clear days, the old ward canals glittered through the industrial district like silver thread. That afternoon, all I saw in the glass was my own reflection: upright, composed, too pale, with a heartbeat that still had not normalized since the atrium. Chairman Vale stood with one hand on the back of a chair. Helena sat near the fireplace, mouth compressed into polished disgust. Lucian leaned against the drink cabinet, arms folded. Seraphina stood between them, white-faced and furious. No one asked whether I was all right. Why would they? I had only just watched the tower use my sister as an instrument. “What did you trigger?” Helena asked. I blinked. “Excuse me?” “Do not be tedious,” Lucian said. “She was speaking normally until you approached.” A year ago, in my first life, accusations like that would have stunned me. Now they only made me tired. “I triggered nothing,” I said. “But the atrium lights pulsed when I crossed the dais. The response may be tower-linked.” Chairman Vale’s gaze sharpened. He noticed everything that threatened an asset. “Tower-linked how?” I chose my answer carefully. Not because I trusted them. Because information was now a form of currency. “The oldest foundation systems are bound into blood-recognition architecture. Most of it is dormant ceremonial code from before the tower’s last refit. If something in that layer detected a false public claim of inheritance, a truth discharge is not impossible.” Lucian frowned. “You’re saying the building objected to her?” “I’m saying the response occurred when she publicly laid claim to status over something she did not build and had not yet lawfully assumed.” Seraphina’s eyes flashed. “Stop phrasing it like that.” “Like what?” “Like I—” Her jaw locked visibly. She fought the words as if dragging chains. “Like I meant any of it. I was trying to be gracious, and instead I said exactly what I thought, and if any of you repeat that outside this room, I’ll ruin you.” Silence. Then Helena closed her eyes. Lucian muttered, “Unbelievable.” Chairman Vale still watched me. “Can it recur?” Not *is she harmed?* Not *what did the tower detect?* Can it damage the succession? “Yes,” I said. “If I’m right, it is probably conditional. Public performance. Claims of legitimacy. Status assertions under tower witness.” Seraphina made a strangled sound. “Fix it.” “I can’t.” “You can.” “I said I can’t.” Lucian pushed off the cabinet. “Then isolate the trigger. Keep her away from Ward for now.” There it was. The familiar shape of blame taking form before the facts had even cooled. Seraphina whipped toward him. “You think she should keep the project, don’t you? You’ve always respected her more because she isn’t useless, and you resent having to promote me because at least she can explain the numbers you pretend to understand.” Another silence. Lucian went very still. That one landed because it was true enough to wound. Chairman Vale’s face hardened. “Enough.” Helena rose in one fluid movement. “No. We will not normalize this. If the tower’s old recognition system has entangled itself with executive transition, then the source must be reviewed. Quietly.” She said *source* while looking at me. For a brief, bright moment, I had thought truth might save me this time. That if Seraphina exposed herself early enough, the future would fracture before it could close around my throat. Then Chairman Vale said, “Until we understand the disturbance, Evelyn will suspend direct unsupervised contact with Seraphina and submit her private archives for magical review.” Hope died quickly when it had practice. I laughed once, softly. “Do not take that tone,” Helena said. “What tone would you prefer?” I asked. “The one where I thank you for reviewing my records because your daughter publicly announced she wants my project, my people, and my removal?” “You are becoming emotional,” Helena said. There it was. The oldest sentence in the tower. Never mind what had been heard. Never mind what had been revealed. Never mind that the one person in the room consistently punished for Seraphina’s conduct was me. I was emotional. Therefore suspect. Chairman Vale softened his voice, which made it crueler. “Evelyn, the board insisted on Seraphina’s return because blood legitimacy stabilizes the succession package. The ministers prefer a recognized heir. The old contracts were drafted with lineage optics in mind. If word spreads that the tower itself is rejecting her, we risk the board, the city tenders, the summit, all of it.” There. At last, the real answer. Not delusion. Calculation. Truth changed nothing because too much money had already been staked on blood. “If there is any chance,” he continued, “that your unresolved resentment is interacting with old tower code—” “My resentment?” I repeated. He did not answer. He did not have to. Truth had entered the room. They still chose blood. I understood then that in this life, as in the last, honesty would never protect me. But perhaps this time it could be weaponized. ## Chapter 4: Risk Cleansing The official notice arrived by dusk. It bore the seal of Governance, Compliance, and Internal Ethics and was written in the elegant administrative language of institutional violence. **Pending investigation into contamination pathways affecting executive succession interfaces, Miss Evelyn Ward is placed under provisional procedural restriction.** The restrictions were immediate: – My executive access tier was frozen. – My project authority was reduced to observer status. – My direct reports were reassigned “for operational continuity.” – My private research vaults were marked for audit. – I was ordered to attend full-spectrum magical review and behavioral compliance assessment. The phrase they used for it was **risk cleansing**. In any sane institution, that would have meant a neutral technical investigation. At Aurelian, it meant ritual humiliation dressed as policy. The cleansing chamber sat beneath headquarters, six floors below the engine vaults, where the air smelled of hot stone, salt, and iron. Silver runes were inlaid across the floor in concentric rings designed to react to concealment spells, emotional surge, blood compacts, sabotage marks, and influence threads. I knew the chamber well. I had approved its renovation budget after the Harrow Audit scandal. I had not expected to kneel in it. “Hands on the ring,” said Director Morrow of Compliance. He was a thin man with a mild voice and a gift for converting cruelty into procedure. In my first life, he had managed every elegant stage of my removal while sounding perpetually regretful. “Is this full sequence necessary?” a junior auditor asked under her breath. Morrow smiled. “When succession optics intersect with old tower anomalies, necessity becomes elastic.” I knelt. The silver ring lit at my touch, cold as a blade. Above me, beyond the observation glass, silhouettes gathered: Morrow, two senior auditors, a governance scribe, Helena—and, of course, Seraphina, wrapped in pale silk and strategic distress. She should not have been there. The person allegedly affected by contamination was not permitted to observe a cleansing review. But rules in the tower bent around the correct surname. “State your name and position,” Morrow said. “Evelyn Ward,” I replied evenly. “Senior architect of the Aether Spine Project.” A pause. “Former acting project lead,” he corrected. I looked up through the glass until I found Seraphina’s outline. “Noted.” The first sequence activated. Truth rings I could tolerate. Concealment sweeps were unpleasant but survivable. Emotional resonance extraction felt like someone dragging a fine metal comb through the back of my skull. By the third sequence, blood ran from one nostril. By the fourth, my vision blurred. Above me, Seraphina pressed a hand to the glass with an expression of curated distress. Then her mouth moved. “I hope this hurts enough that she finally understands the difference between building something and owning it.” Several auditors stiffened. Morrow closed his eyes briefly, the only sign of strain he allowed himself. “Miss Vale,” he said without looking up, “please refrain from commentary. The response appears stronger under status-adjacent observation.” That mattered. There was the second rule. Not random speech. Not all lies. The tower punished concealed claim-making, superiority displays, possession language—particularly when spoken before witnesses and structures of rank. Seraphina gasped, horrified by her own voice. “I meant to say I hope the review is fair.” No one answered. The fifth sequence began. Pain drove through my sternum as the ward probed for unauthorized system links. I nearly bit through my tongue. White and silver blurred together. This is how institutions punish inconvenient women, I thought dimly. Not with chains. With procedures. When it ended, my knees shook so hard I could barely rise. Morrow reviewed the slate in his hand. “No evidence of direct magical influence exerted by Miss Ward over Miss Vale. However, there are residual signatures consistent with high-stress tower attunement, prolonged authorship fixation, and unresolved territorial imprinting on project structures.” I began to laugh before I could stop myself. Authorship fixation. I had built the thing sigil by sigil, contract by contract, collapse by collapse. In governance language, that became fixation—as if the problem were not theft but my failure to clap elegantly while being robbed. Helena spoke from above. “Can the imprint be isolated?” Morrow hesitated. “Possibly through reduced access, environmental separation, and removal from triggering symbolic structures.” Symbolic structures. My office. My floor. My team. The project. Seraphina, unable to contain herself, said, “Good. Put that in the record. She’s obsessed with what’s mine.” The chamber rang with the word. Mine. Afterward, Morrow did not meet my eyes as he signed the recommendation. He was careful that way. Men like him preferred not to look directly at what they made possible. That night my office was reassigned. By morning I had been moved to Archive Room 42-B. The same room where I had died. This time I understood it was not coincidence. It was a message. ## Chapter 5: The Girl Who Took My Chair Archive Room 42-B smelled like old paper, crystal dust, and stale ward smoke. Someone had added a metal desk as a gesture toward humanity. It was dented and too small for drafting work. My former office on the executive level had held a wall-sized project model, two communication mirrors, a private engineering slate, and a view of the eastern gridline I had personally designed. This room had no windows. For several minutes after the door shut, I could not breathe properly. Not because the air was bad. Because memory was. White fire. Locked door. Hunger. The pulse of failing wards. I stood absolutely still until the panic passed, one hard breath at a time, furious that even now they could still drag fear out of my body without touching me. Then I sat down and clipped my badge to the desk lamp so I would not have to feel it on my lapel. **EVELYN WARD — ADVISORY ACCESS** Advisory. I had once authorized city-load deployments. Now I advised. The tower hummed around me, a living body whose arteries I still knew better than its current owners. Through the floor I could feel the faint throb of the relay channels, slightly uneven on the west-side load. Maintenance would miss that for another two days unless someone flagged it. When they did, Seraphina would likely present the correction as one of her emerging leadership interventions. I opened the hidden compartment in my travel case. Inside lay three crystal shards no one at Governance knew I possessed, each keyed to mirrored offsite caches. In my first life, I had started making private redundancies after Lucian’s first attribution edits. Not because I expected justice. Because I understood systems. Valuable work is always easiest to steal before it is finished. This time, instead of grieving that precaution, I activated it. Archive copies pulsed to life: authorship logs, approval chains, emergency correction records, internal directives, silent rewrites, meeting transcripts. Evidence. Structure. Leverage. A knock came—too delicate to be respectful, too light to be accidental. The door opened before I answered. Seraphina stepped in alone. She wore cream today, a sapphire pin at her throat, and my former division seal on her sleeve. For one second, rage blurred my vision so completely I saw her not as a woman but as a fault line in the architecture of the world. She looked around the room and smiled. “I wanted to see how they’d arranged you.” “I’m touched.” “I told Father this was too severe,” she said. Then, helplessly: “I actually told him it was perfect. You look smaller in here.” I leaned back in my chair. “You should sit. Deception seems tiring.” Her expression twisted. “Do you have any idea what’s happening to me?” “A rare allergic reaction to ceremonial lying?” “Fix it.” “I didn’t cause it.” “Then stop analyzing it and make it stop.” “I can’t.” She took two furious steps toward the desk. “Do you know what it feels like to think one thing and say another in front of people who matter?” I met her eyes. “No. I know what it feels like to spend four years building something only to watch someone untrained inherit it.” Her mouth opened before she could stop it. “You were supposed to hand it over gracefully. That was the arrangement. You smile, everyone praises your loyalty, and then you disappear into some tasteful foreign posting while I keep the tower.” I went still. “In your arrangement,” I said softly, “was there ever a version where I remained a person?” Something flashed in her face then, rawer than vanity. Inferiority sharpened into hatred. “You think I don’t know they compare me to you?” she said. “Every room I enter, someone remembers you were there first. Every file I open has your notes in the margins. Every engineer looks at me like I’m wearing a borrowed title.” Her jaw clenched. “I hate you for making competence look effortless.” That one, I thought, she had meant to keep buried forever. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. Seraphina heard them too. Her expression changed instantly. I had seen that transformation once before in my first life—just before she ruined me with it. She snatched the crystal inkstand from my desk and slammed it against the filing cabinet. It shattered. A shard sliced her palm. Blood welled bright across her skin. Then she screamed. The door flew open. Lucian entered first, followed by Helena, Director Morrow, and two security officers. Seraphina staggered back, clutching her bleeding hand, eyes wide with practiced terror. “I came to apologize,” she gasped. “She—” The tower took her at once. “—and then I cut myself because no one believes me unless I’m bleeding.” Silence flooded the corridor. Even the security officers looked confused. Seraphina looked as though she might faint from horror. I did not move. Lucian stared at the blood, the shattered inkstand, then at me. “What?” She fought visibly for control. “She attacked—” “I needed her to look monstrous for five seconds, and now I can’t even frame her correctly.” Helena pressed fingers to her temple. Morrow, naturally, wrote something down. I watched them all, one by one. The evidence was there. The confession had been spoken aloud. Again. And yet I could already feel the shape of their conclusion forming—not because it was rational, but because it preserved the succession timetable. If Seraphina was unstable, instability had to be contained. If containing it meant removing me from sight, then that was prudent governance. Lucian looked at me with exhausted contempt. “What did you say to escalate her?” I laughed. I could not help it. Actually laughed in his face. That was the moment something inside me finally went cold enough to use.

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During our three years together, Carter took “going Dutch” to a pathological level. Even when we ordered pizza, he would look at the receipt and deduct the price of the mushrooms I didn’t eat from the total. “Chloe, I’m a professional,” he would say. “Feelings are feelings, but keeping money crystal clear is the only way a relationship lasts.” I used to think he was just naturally rigid. That was until Clara, the girl he grew up with and always called his “little sister,” returned from abroad. On that pouring, stormy night, I was running a 103-degree fever, trying to patch up a leaking window in our apartment by myself. Carter, on the other hand, spent $85,000 on a down payment for a brand-new Porsche just because Clara said she “didn’t want to take an Uber.” He then drove 120 miles through the storm just to grab late-night tacos with her. He didn’t crawl back until noon the next day, looking exhausted. He completely ignored me, even though I had just walked in the door from the ER. Without a word, he tossed the coffee mug I had used for three years straight into the trash can. “Clara is staying with us for a few days,” he said casually. “She’s a germaphobe, and your old mug looks like an eyesore.” “She’s never had a hard day in her life. As the older one here, just let her have her way. I’ll add another $100 to our shared grocery budget this month.” The sound of the ceramic shattering in the trash was deafening. For years, I thought if I just played the role of the perfect, low-maintenance girlfriend, I could finally melt his icy heart. It turned out his heart wasn’t made of ice. It was just that his fire was never meant to burn for me.

“Chloe, do you mind if I sleep in the master bedroom?” Clara stood at the doorway. She hadn’t even stepped inside, but her eyes were already scanning every corner of the room. “Oh, did I come at a bad time? Maybe I should just check into a hotel instead.” Carter pushed her suitcase into the hallway. “What hotel? It’s not safe for a girl like you to stay alone in the city.” He finished speaking, then looked up at me. “Change the sheets in the master bedroom, Chloe. Clara has sensitive skin; she can’t sleep on old linens.” I was still clutching a piece of the shattered ceramic mug in my hand. The sharp edge dug into my palm, making my fingertips go numb. Clara immediately grabbed Carter’s sleeve. “Carter, please don’t make Chloe mad because of me. I can honestly just sleep on the couch.” “You are not sleeping on the couch,” Carter’s voice softened. “Be good. Go take a shower.” I turned around and walked into the master bedroom. The sheets on the bed were pastel blue. When we first moved in years ago, Carter had said this color looked clean. He said it felt like home. As I yanked the sheets off, the picture frame on the nightstand fell to the floor. In the photo, Carter and I were standing on the beach. The wind was howling, and he was blocking the sun for me with his hand. I was laughing so hard my eyes were closed. That was our first year of dating. Back then, if I worked late, he would drive half an hour in the freezing cold just to pick me up. If my stomach hurt, he would stand at the pharmacy counter for an hour, carefully reading the back of every medicine bottle. He would even push the last bite of his warm sandwich to me. “You eat it. I’m not that hungry.” But later, he started talking about how “adults need to be independent.” And eventually, he turned that “independence” into a very dull, slow-cutting knife. I placed the photo face down. Just as I finished tucking in the new sheets, Clara pushed the door open and walked in. “Chloe, please don’t be mad at Carter. He’s just always taken care of me. I was a sickly kid, so it’s just a habit for him.” I said nothing. She walked over to my vanity and picked up my perfume, taking a sniff. “Wow, this scent is so… mature.” I reached out and took it back from her hand. Instantly, Clara’s eyes welled up with tears. Carter happened to walk in at that exact moment. “What’s going on?” Clara shook her head. “Nothing! I think I just accidentally touched Chloe’s things and upset her.” Carter glared at me. “She literally just got here. Is it really necessary to target her like this?” “It’s just a bottle of perfume.” Carter snatched the bottle from my hand and carelessly tossed it into Clara’s hands. “If you like it, keep it.” I had bought that perfume for myself on my birthday last year. When Carter saw the receipt back then, he had lectured me, saying $120 for a bottle of perfume was too luxurious, and made me pay him back my half of the rent early to “balance my budget.” Yet now, he gave it away to Clara without a second thought. The cut in my palm was still oozing blood, staining the glass shard in my hand. I threw the fragment into the trash. Carter glanced down. “What happened to your hand?” “Got cut by some old trash,” I replied flatly. He paused for a second. But in the next second, Clara let out a tiny, delicate cough. Carter immediately turned his back on me. “Is the AC too cold?” He rushed over to adjust the thermostat for her. I looked down at my hand. It turned out that some pain can truly only be felt by yourself. Later that evening, I was moving some of Carter’s work samples out to the balcony when he walked over. “Clara wants that premium truffle pasta from downtown. Come with me to grab it.” I looked up. “Now?” “She has jet lag and can’t sleep.” Carter pointed to some cardboard boxes on the floor. “While we’re out, make sure to carry up that case of spring water from the garage. Clara only drinks that brand.” I let out a cold laugh. “If it’s so easy, why don’t you carry it up yourself?” His face darkened. “What is wrong with you today? Clara is a guest.” I pushed the last box into the corner. “Carter, my fever just broke this morning.” He froze for a fraction of a second, as if he finally remembered my call from the ER last night. But it was only a fraction of a second. “Then stay home and rest. I’ll calculate the venmo request when I get back. We’re getting three portions of pasta, so you’ll pay for yours.” I sat on the floor of the guest room and opened my phone. An email from HR was sitting in my inbox. It was an offer for a transfer to our LA branch. A permanent position, starting next week at the latest. I stared at the screen for a long time. Then, I clicked *Accept*.

“You’re transferring to LA?” Carter had spotted the open email on my laptop. Clara was sitting at the dining table, picking at her truffle pasta. She complained it was too rich, eating only the truffles on top and leaving the rest of the expensive dish to go waste. Carter didn’t say a word about her wasting food. I closed my laptop. “It’s a company directive.” “Since when?” Carter frowned. “Something this big, and you didn’t even consult me?” I looked at him. “You were busy getting pasta.” Clara took a sip from her straw and asked in a small, innocent voice, “Is it because of me, Chloe? Are you leaving because I’m here?” Carter immediately snapped at me. “Stop taking your issues out on Clara.” I hadn’t said a word. She was the one who brought it up. But Carter had already decided that I was just being dramatic. “Go tell your manager tomorrow that you’re declining the transfer,” he ordered. “I can’t.” “Then quit.” He said it so easily. “It’s not like your salary is that high anyway. Just find another basic job here.” Clara tilted her head. “But Chloe is so independent. I doubt she’d want to live off your money, Carter.” As if reminded of my “independence,” Carter’s tone softened slightly. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just don’t feel comfortable with you living in a different city alone.” I kept my head down. “I don’t need your permission.” Clara quickly tried to play peacemaker. “Carter, I think Chloe is just sad about leaving you. She’s just saying the opposite of what she actually feels.” Carter’s expression relaxed. He preferred that narrative anyway. The narrative that I was obsessed with him, that I was throwing a tantrum, and that I was just waiting for him to comfort me. For three years, I had indeed been that girl. Every time he gave me the silent treatment, I was the first to apologize. Every time he chose Clara over me, I told myself they were just childhood friends. But “childhood friends” don’t wear my silk slip dress and stand on the balcony, asking him: “Carter, do I look like your girlfriend in this?” That afternoon, I ran back to the apartment to grab some documents. When I pushed the door open, Clara was wearing my white silk slip dress. That was the only gift Carter had ever brought back for me from a business trip last year. Clara hastily covered her chest. “Chloe! Oh my god, I’m so sorry! My clothes were in the wash and weren’t dry yet. Carter said I could borrow something of yours.” “I really didn’t mean anything by it. I can take it off and give it back to you right now!” She reached for the shoulder strap, but Carter immediately caught her hand to stop her. “Don’t do that,” he said. Then, he turned to me. “Chloe, apologize.” I thought my ears were playing tricks on me. “You want *me* to apologize?” He looked dead serious. “You scared her.” “Clara was sheltered growing up. She’s not used to being barked at.” I looked at that white silk dress. I suddenly remembered the day I first got it. I had tried it on for Carter, excited. He had barely spared me a glance. “It’s too revealing. Don’t wear it out.” Since then, that dress had sat at the very bottom of my closet. It turned out the dress wasn’t the problem. The person wearing it was. I slid my documents into my bag. “Keep the dress.” Clara blinked, stunned. “Really?” I looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t like keeping things that other people have already ruined.” Carter’s face went completely cold. He grabbed my wrist. “Step outside. We need to talk.”

Carter dragged me down to the parking garage. The brand-new Porsche was parked in the most prominent spot. Its glossy paint reflected the overhead lights, making my eyes ache. “You’re acting less and less like yourself lately,” Carter sighed, looking exhausted. “You used to be so mature. So cool.” He thought for a second. “You never used to sweat the small stuff with Clara.” Small stuff. My mug was small stuff. My bed was small stuff. My perfume and my dress were all “small stuff.” The moment Clara laid her hands on them, they became insignificant details I was supposed to ignore. I looked at him. “Then tell me, Carter. What *is* big stuff?” Carter fell silent for a moment. “Our future.” When he said those words, his expression was genuinely earnest. If this were a few months ago, my heart would have softened. He always did this—giving me a crumb of false hope right when I was at my breaking point. “We were planning to get engaged by the end of the year. I’ve already been looking at townhouses.” Carter’s voice softened. “If you transfer to LA now, you’re throwing our future away just to throw a tantrum.” I looked at the luxury car behind him. “Whose name will be on the house deed?” His brow twitched. “I’m paying the down payment, so obviously it’ll be in my name first.” “And the renovations?” “We’ll split that 50/50,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Didn’t you always want to design our home?” “And who gets the final say on the design?” Carter was growing impatient. “Clara took some interior design classes. She has great taste. We can just have her help us out.” I laughed out loud. In his “future,” there was his house, my 50% contribution to the renovation bills, and Clara’s taste. There was absolutely no room for me. Carter stared at me, then suddenly spoke up. “I didn’t buy this car *for* Clara.” I stopped in my tracks. Carter seemed to be explaining it to me, but it felt more like he was trying to convince himself. “She just got back to the States and her job situation isn’t stable yet. I’m just letting her borrow it. The title is under my name. It’s not a gift.” “Stop looking at her Instagram and overthinking everything.” I nodded. He looked visibly taken aback. He wasn’t used to my silence. He expected me to argue, to scream, to demand answers. My utter calmness made him uncomfortable. Suddenly, Carter’s phone buzzed. It was Clara. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he answered. He listened to the other end for a second. “I’ll be right up.” After hanging up, he turned to me, back to his usual tone. “Clara has a stomachache. I’m taking her to the urgent care.” He unlocked the Porsche, but stopped before getting in. “Don’t worry about the medical bill this time. I’ll cover it myself. Clara is tight on cash since she just moved back.” I kept my eyes on the concrete floor of the garage. A few months ago, my chronic gastritis flared up so badly I couldn’t even stand up straight. Carter had driven me to the clinic. But at the billing counter, he handed the invoice straight to me. “Pay it first, and we’ll split it on Venmo later.” The bill that day was $237.60. He made me Venmo him exactly $118.80. But now, because Clara had a simple stomachache, he told me “not to worry” because he would cover it himself. I finally understood. He wasn’t incapable of being generous. He just only applied his strict calculations to me. After Carter drove off, I walked out of the garage alone. A light drizzle was falling. My phone buzzed. It was a photo from Clara. Carter was kneeling on the floor in front of her, tying her sneaker laces. *“With my favorite guy here, I have nothing to fear,”* her caption read. I locked my phone. The rain fell on the back of my hand, feeling icy cold. When I got back to the apartment that evening, the living room was packed. Several of Carter’s friends were over. Zach saw me walk in and waved cheerfully. “Hey, Chloe! You’re back just in time. Clara wanted to celebrate her return, so Carter is personally cooking tonight!” On the dining table sat a massive pot of Slow-cooked Beef Bourguignon. It was my absolute favorite dish. Whenever I had begged Carter to make it for us in the past, he always dismissed it, saying it took too much prep work. Clara was sitting at the table, kicking her legs back and forth. “Carter is literally the best cook ever. I used to eat this all the time when we were kids.” One of the guys teased, “Man, Carter, you really spoil your little sister, don’t you?” Carter smiled gently. “She’s a picky eater.” I paused while changing my shoes. Zach seemed to notice something was off. “Hey, Chloe, you look a bit pale. You okay?” Clara immediately chimed in. “Oh, does Chloe not like having people over? I can tell everyone to leave if you want.” Carter set down a fruit platter. “Don’t ruin the mood.” I knew exactly who that comment was directed at. During dinner, Clara took a bite of the beef and frowned slightly. “Hmm, it’s a bit too sour for me.” Carter immediately tasted it. “I’ll add some sugar.” Zach laughed. “Wait, doesn’t Chloe love it on the sour side?” Carter’s hand paused mid-air. Clara lowered her eyes. “Oh… so this is how Chloe likes it? Then don’t change it. I’ll just eat less.” Carter picked up the pot and headed back to the kitchen. “I’ll make a fresh batch.” I stared at the piece of beef in my bowl. It was steaming hot. But suddenly, I couldn’t swallow a single bite.

By the time the second batch of beef was served, it was so sweet it was nauseating. Clara smiled and showed everyone her phone. “Look, guys! This is the car Carter got me. Isn’t it gorgeous?” She swiped through her camera roll. Photos of the car, designer bags, diamond necklaces, expensive dinners, and a shot of Carter’s back as he swiped his black card at a jewelry counter. Someone let out a low whistle. “Damn, Carter. Generous much?” Carter leaned back in his chair, his tone casual. “She just got back to the country. She needed a lot of essentials.” Zach instinctively looked at me. “Man, then Carter must treat you like a queen, Chloe.” Clara blinked innocently, acting like she didn’t get the hint. “Oh, what did Carter get you for your birthday, Chloe?” Before I could say anything, Carter answered for me. “Chloe doesn’t like wasting money on useless things.” He said it so naturally. As if I was born to not deserve nice things. For my birthday last year, he gave me a free one-day gym pass. It was a voucher he had won at his company’s holiday raffle. At the time, I had hugged him, thanked him sincerely, and felt happy for days. Clara covered her mouth with a soft gasp. “Wow, Chloe, you’re so thrifty! Unlike me, I’m always spending Carter’s money.” Carter gave her a playful look. “As long as you know. Stop buying useless junk from now on.” His tone sounded like a lecture, but his eyes were filled with warmth. I got up to clear the dishes. Clara suddenly followed me into the kitchen. “Chloe, do you absolutely hate me?” I turned on the faucet. “You’re overthinking.” “But Carter used to care about me the most,” she smiled, her sweet demeanor vanishing instantly under the rush of the water. “I was only gone for a few years. Did you honestly think he belonged to you?” The sound of running water drowned out the laughter from the living room. “You know that white silk dress? I wore it on purpose,” Clara whispered. “And your perfume? I took it on purpose, too.” “I just wanted to see how much you actually matter to him.” I turned off the tap. “And what did you find out?” She gave a light, mocking laugh. “Honestly? Not much.” In the next second, she grabbed a bowl of hot soup sitting on the counter and poured a splash of it directly onto the back of her own hand. The bowl shattered on the floor, and she let out a piercing scream. By the time Carter rushed into the kitchen, Clara was already shaking and sobbing violently. “Chloe… I just wanted to help wash the dishes… why did you push me?” Without a single moment of hesitation, Carter violently shoved me away from the kitchen door. “Chloe! Are you out of your mind?!” I looked at him. “I didn’t push her.” Clara clung to his chest, the back of her hand turning bright red. “Carter, it’s okay… maybe Chloe didn’t mean to do it.” “Shut up,” Carter said coldly. I thought he was talking to Clara. But in the next second, his cold gaze locked onto me. “Apologize.” Another apology. I suddenly realized how familiar those words were. For three years, I had been constantly apologizing. Apologizing for buying shoes that were “too expensive.” Apologizing for getting sick and “distracting him from his work.” Apologizing for not being “cool” enough, “understanding” enough, or “independent” enough. And now, I was expected to apologize for a bowl of soup she had poured on herself. This time, I wasn’t backing down. “I won’t apologize.” Carter’s face went completely dark. The guests in the living room had all stood up, feeling the tension. Zach stepped in, trying to defuse the situation. “Hey, Carter, maybe we should check the camera first? Didn’t you put a security cam in the kitchen?” We had a camera in the kitchen because Carter was always paranoid I’d forget to turn off the stove. I looked at Carter. “Yes, check the footage.” Clara’s sobbing paused for a split second. Carter knew the camera was there, but he didn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he avoided my eyes and said in a harsh, rigid voice, “Enough.” “We have guests over. Do you really have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” Zach frowned. “Carter, checking the app takes two seconds. It’ll clear things up.” Carter dismissed him coldly. “Clara’s hand is already burned. Does it really matter who’s right or wrong at this point?” I stared at him. So, whether the truth mattered or not depended entirely on *who* was hurt. Clara sobbed, “I don’t want to make things difficult for Chloe. We don’t need to watch it.” Carter wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. “I’m taking you to the hospital.” At the door, he stopped and threw a cold look back at me. “Chloe, if Clara ends up with a scar on her hand, we are not done.” The door slammed shut. The apartment was left in a messy silence, under the awkward gazes of his friends. Zach wanted to say something, but in the end, he just let out a heavy sigh. “Chloe… don’t take it to heart. Carter is just… really protective of Clara.” I bent down and picked up the shattered ceramic pieces from the floor. This time, the glass didn’t cut me. Because I was wearing gloves. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from the LA office. *“Hi Chloe, your transfer paperwork has been fast-tracked and approved. Your start date is tomorrow morning at 9:00 AM.”* I replied instantly. Then, in a corner where no one was looking, I quietly packed my suitcase. Go spend the rest of your life with your 50/50 calculations, Carter. I am done.

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