When I opened my eyes again, I was back in that kitchen, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and old grease. I was back on the morning that ruined everything. And once again, I chose to run. I ran straight to Granny Ruth’s room, my voice high and thin, a child’s treble spilling the secret of my mother’s planned escape. In my memories, Mom had spent years whispering the truth to me like a bedtime story. She told me she wasn’t from this place—that she was a “city girl” from a family with a real house and a lawn, stolen and sold into this godforsaken hollow. She promised that one day, she would take me far away. When I was six, she finally had everything ready. But I sold her out for a slice of thick white bread slathered in honey and the hollow promise of Granny’s affection. I remember sitting on the porch, stuffing my face with that sweet, sticky bread while my mother’s screams tore through the yard. They had her tied to the old, gnarled oak tree. My father was systematic with the belt. She had looked up then, her eyes gleaming with a pure, concentrated venom I had never seen before. She didn’t look like my mother; she looked like a wounded animal. She called me a heartless little monster. At the time, I felt only a confused sense of betrayal. I didn’t understand why she wanted to leave my father and me. I thought a “family” meant staying, no matter how much it hurt. Three days later, she took her own life in the tool shed. And not long after that, on a night when the moon was shielded by clouds, my father—blind drunk and raging at the world—killed me with a blow that was meant to “teach me a lesson.” In those final moments, as my breath rattled and faded, I finally understood. I understood her desperation. I understood her hate. And I understood that the “family” I had protected was really just a cage. 01 “You worthless bitch! I gave you a roof, I gave you food, and you try to run?” My father’s roar vibrated in my chest. Hank was a mountain of a man, his face twisted into something demonic as he swung the leather strap. My mother was suspended from the oak branch, her clothes tattered, blood blooming like dark roses on her skin. She didn’t even have the strength to scream anymore. Granny Ruth stood on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest, a look of profound disgust on her weathered face. “I told you she was a flighty thing, Hank. You should’ve kept her in the basement on a chain. You’re too soft.” She spat on the dirt. “If it wasn’t for this little girl speaking up, she’d be halfway to the interstate by now. We don’t have the cash to buy you another wife, son.” Mom managed to lift her head. The warmth that used to be in her eyes—the way she used to tuck my hair behind my ears—was gone. There was only a cold, jagged loathing. “You little demon,” she rasped, her voice a ghost of itself. “I should have smothered you in your sleep.” Hank reached for a heavy iron pry bar, swearing he’d break her legs so she’d never take another step toward the road. I paused, clutching my piece of honey-toast. I looked at her, my face smudged with dirt, and forced a smile that I hoped looked both innocent and chilling. “Daddy, if you break her legs, who’s going to hoe the garden?” Hank hesitated. The logic of the harvest won out over his rage. He cursed, dropped the bar, and grabbed a heavy rusted chain from the back of his truck. He looped it around her neck like a dog. “I’ll break ’em after the corn is in,” he growled. After he left to go play cards and drink with the neighbors, I crept out to the yard. I managed to get her down and brought her a bowl of cold scraps. “Mommy, eat,” I whispered. She jerked her head away, her lip curling. With a sudden burst of energy, she slapped the bowl out of my hand and spat in my face. “Get away from me! You’re not mine. You’re one of them.” I stood there, the cold grease from the scraps dripping down my cheek. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. Hank chose that moment to stumble back into the yard. Hearing her shout, he didn’t even hesitate. He kicked her off the porch steps and followed her down, his boots connecting with her ribs. “I’ve been too damn nice to you!” he screamed. He dragged her by the hair toward the side shed, the chain rattling against the stones. “You sleep on the dirt from now on,” he barked. He turned to me, his eyes bloodshot and impatient. “Hey, brat. If she tries to touch you again, you tell me or your Granny. You hear?” I nodded obediently. He grunted, stumbling toward the house. “You’re gonna be worth a few thousand in a couple of years,” he muttered to himself. “Better not let you die yet.” Late that night, after the house fell into a heavy, alcohol-soaked silence, I crept into the shed. She was shivering on the ground, her skin burning with fever. Granny kept all the medicine locked in a tin box; she said “strays and traitors” didn’t deserve it. I spent the night dipping a rag into a bucket of cold water, wiping her brow over and over. I sat there in the dark, hugging my knees. This was Day One of my second chance. In my first life, this was the beginning of the end. I had been brainwashed into thinking “family” was sacred, that her escape was a betrayal of me. So I told on her. And I watched her die. This time, I had turned her in again—but only to save her legs. I knew if she ran that day, Hank would have caught her at the trailhead and crippled her for life. I was smarter now. I knew she was a prisoner. I knew I was the child of a monster. This time, I wasn’t going to keep her here. I was going to be the one to open the gate. 02 “Get up, you lazy cow! It’s noon! Where’s my lunch?” Hank kicked the shed door open, his heavy boot prodding her limp body. When she didn’t move, he cursed and yelled back toward the house. “Ma! Give this bitch some aspirin or something. I don’t need her kicking the bucket yet.” “City girls,” Granny grumbled from the porch. “Fragile as glass.” I spent the day hovering over her. When she finally woke in the evening, her eyes struggled to focus on me. I held out a bowl of mashed potatoes, trying to look helpful. “Mommy, please eat.” She didn’t take the food. Instead, she used her last ounce of strength to grab my arm, her fingers digging in like claws. “Why? Why did you tell them?” The agony in her voice was a physical weight. I swallowed my tears and put on the mask of a brainwashed child. “Mommy, you and Daddy are supposed to be together. We’re a family. I’m just trying to keep us whole.” She stared at me like I was a stranger—a monster she had birthed. Then, she started to laugh, a dry, hacking sound. “My mistake. I thought you were my daughter. I forgot you have his blood in your veins. You were born rotten.” Her words cut deeper than any belt. In that moment, I knew I had lost her forever. She would never love me again. I remembered Granny once saying I was a “mistake” Mom had fought to keep. Mom had been skin and bones, yet she had nursed me and shared every scrap of her food with me. Before the bitterness took over, she used to hold me at night and whisper, “Daisy, hold on. Just a little longer. Mommy’s gonna get us out.” Everyone else called me “brat” or “worthless,” but she had named me Daisy. She told me I was her little bit of sunshine in the dark. But now, Daisy was dead to her. I was just another jailer. It didn’t matter. I still loved her. In my last life, I heard Hank bragging that he had let her try to escape that first time. He wanted to see if she was still “broken-in.” If she tried to run, he knew he had to beat the hope out of her once and for all. That’s why I told. I had to stop her from running into a trap. This time, I would ensure she ran when the path was clear. I would send her back to her real life, even if I couldn’t go with her. 03 As soon as she could stand, Hank had her back to work. She was a ghost in chains, hauling water, scrubbing floors, and working the garden. Hank spent his days at the local dive bar. When he lost at cards, he’d come home and take it out on her, calling her a “jinx.” I stayed in the shadows, forced to watch. After his rage was spent, he would drag her into the bedroom. I’d huddle in the hallway, listening to her muffled cries and his heavy, triumphant breathing. On the porch, Granny Ruth would listen too, a sickening smile stretching her wrinkles. “We’ll have a grandson soon,” she’d prune. She looked like a ghoul in the yellow porch light, a predator waiting for fresh meat. Under the cover of night, I started slipping away to the woods behind our shack. The briars tore at my skin, leaving me bloody, but I didn’t care. I knew the plants Mom used to talk about. I gathered what I needed and hid the herbs in a hollow log near the creek. The house sat on the hill like a squat, ugly beast, swallowing Mom’s life whole. At dawn, I’d be up to fix breakfast, trying to give her a few extra minutes of rest. “The brat’s actually useful for something,” Hank remarked one morning over his bacon. Granny Ruth tilted my chin up, inspecting me like a heifer at an auction. “She’s got her mother’s looks. She’ll fetch a high price when she’s of age. We’ll get our money back and then some.” I kept my eyes down, playing the part of the vacant, obedient doll. A month passed. Mom was getting weaker, the light in her eyes flickering out. She looked like she had finally given up. My heart ached, but I couldn’t comfort her. She looked at me with pure loathing every time I came near. Then came the news: she was pregnant again. Hank was ecstatic. “A son! Finally, an heir!” Granny actually gave her an egg for breakfast, a “reward” for her fertility. But that night, the silence was shattered by a scream that sounded like a dying animal. Mom had thrown herself against the corner of the heavy wooden dresser, over and over, until the life inside her was gone. Blood soaked the floorboards. Hank was incandescent with rage. He kicked her square in the chest. “You bitch! You killed my son!” Mom lay in the blood, her face pale as bone, but her eyes—for the first time in months—were blazing. “I will never,” she spat, “bear another monster for a rapist like you.” The word monster hit me like a physical blow. I knew she meant me. “You’re here to breed, and if you won’t do it willingly, I’ll beat it into you!” Hank screamed. He lashed her until she stopped moving, then tied her to the bedpost so she couldn’t even crawl away. From that night on, she wasn’t even allowed in the shed. He moved her to the pigpen. 04 She was treated like livestock now, chained in the muck of the pigpen with nothing but a thin layer of straw. Her clothes were rags, stained with old blood. When a neighbor stopped by and asked about the “city girl,” Hank just shrugged. “She’s a stubborn one. Lost the boy on purpose. Needs a firm hand.” The neighbor, an old man with yellow teeth, just chuckled. “They’re all like that. A woman ain’t a woman if she ain’t breeding. Hit her a few more times. Or, if she’s really a problem, just knock her upside the head until she’s simple. She’ll be easier to handle then.” Hank rubbed his chin. “But who’ll do the work if she’s simple?” The old man pointed at me. “The little one’s getting big. She looks handy.” Hank’s eyes lit up. “You’re right, Silas. You’re always right.” I stood by the pump, my blood running cold. My time was running out. I couldn’t wait any longer. “If you want her to be a good broodmare, you gotta feed her a bit,” Silas added. “Can’t have her dying before you get your money’s worth.” Hank nodded begrudgingly. Over the next month, he “fattened her up” like a hog for slaughter, forcing food down her throat when she refused to eat. Labor Day was three days away. In our town, that meant a big community BBQ and plenty of moonshine. I walked into the pigpen and knelt in the mud in front of her. She was a shell of the woman she had been. “Get out, you little parasite,” she hissed without opening her eyes. I looked at her, memorizing the curve of her jaw, the way her hair used to smell like lavender before it smelled like rot. “Mommy,” I whispered. “The holiday is coming. You’re going to see your real family soon. Aren’t you happy?” She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “See them? In hell, maybe. I’ll see them when I finally kill your father and then myself.” I looked down, my heart breaking in silence. 05 The Labor Day BBQ was the biggest event of the year. The house was full of the town’s worst men and their weary wives. Granny had me up at 4:00 AM to start the prep. She actually let us have a big pot of pork stew and cornbread. While I stirred the pot, standing on a chair, I slipped in the powdered herbs I’d been collecting for weeks. It wasn’t enough to kill—just enough to induce a deep, heavy sleep that felt like a coma. Hank and Granny wouldn’t let Mom or me eat the “good” food. That was my saving grace. By 8:00 PM, the sun had dropped, and the hollow was pitch black. One by one, the men and women in the yard began to slump over. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I whistled into the darkness, and a shadow moved near the treeline. It was Benny. Everyone called him “Simple Benny,” the local handyman who never said a word. But I knew better. I had seen him watching the house with eyes that were far too sharp for a fool. Benny moved with a soldier’s precision. He unlocked Mom’s chains and threw a heavy coat over her shoulders. Mom stared at him, bewildered. “Who are you?” “No time,” Benny whispered, his voice low and cultured—not the local drawl. “I’m an undercover agent. I’ve been trying to get enough evidence on this ring for months. Daisy told me tonight was the night. We have to move.” I handed Mom a small bundle. “Mommy, there’s some bread and water in here. For the road.” She pushed me away so hard I hit the muddy ground. “Stay away from me! Is this another trick? Are you calling them now?” I clutched my scraped elbow, unable to speak. Benny stepped between us. “She saved you, Stella. That first time you tried to run? It was a set-up. Hank was waiting in the brush with a shotgun. Daisy knew. She turned you in to keep you alive. She’s the reason I’m here.” Mom froze. She looked at me, her expression a chaotic map of shock and dawning realization. She reached out and pulled me into a fierce, trembling hug. For a second, I was back in the “before.” I breathed in the scent of her, even through the grime. Just a second longer, I prayed. Let me remember this. “Lights!” Benny hissed. I looked toward the village. Torches were flickering. The neighbors who hadn’t come to our house were mobilizing. Someone must have seen Benny. “Go!” I shouted. “They’re coming!” “Run!” Benny grabbed Mom’s arm. “This is the only shot!” They disappeared into the brush. I watched them go, then turned toward the approaching lights. A group of men, led by the town’s sheriff, were charging up the hill. “She’s heading for the ridge!” someone screamed. I took a deep breath and began to run—not toward Mom, but in the exact opposite direction. I wore an old shawl of hers, letting it flutter behind me like a signal. “There she is! Don’t let the bitch get away!” I scrambled through the thorns, my lungs burning, my legs screaming. A sharp pain exploded in my calf—a pitchfork or a stray bullet, I didn’t know. I kept moving until I reached the Devil’s Drop—a sheer cliff overlooking the river. I looked back. The torches were close. I could see Hank’s face, red with fury. I smiled. They’d never catch her now.

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The fire from two years ago was a monster that swallowed everything, leaving me to live in its charred ribs. It was a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. When the firefighter’s voice cracked through the smoke, rasping that he could only carry one of us, my mother didn’t hesitate. She pointed straight at me, simply because I was closer to the door. At the time, I thought I was lucky. I thought it was love. It wasn’t until later, when she convinced herself the fire had been started by us—a botched attempt to rob the neighbors—that the “luck” turned into a life sentence. She would grab me by the hair, her voice a jagged blade. “Your sister was perfect! She was the bright one! She would never have stolen anything!” “It was you! You’re the thief! You’re the one who killed her!” From that day on, I became a ghost in my own home. I was the surplus daughter, the shadow that didn’t deserve to be fed or clothed. Every night, I was forced to kneel before my sister’s portrait, a silent penitent for a crime I didn’t commit. The day the class field trip fund went missing at school, my mother didn’t even ask if I’d done it. She just grabbed me, dragging me toward the door, screaming that she was going to make me bow and beg for forgiveness from every student in that building. Terrified, I tore myself from her grip and bolted into the street. I didn’t see the car. I only felt the impact that sent me flying. As I lay there, the world fading to gray, I dialed her number with trembling fingers. I begged her to save me. But all I heard from the other end was a cold, cruel snort. “Who are you trying to scam now? You stole your sister’s life two years ago. If you’re dying, it’s finally justice.” I died that night. Two years later, the sister everyone thought was ash walked back through the front door. She told the truth through her tears: she was the one who had been stealing that night. My mother broke. She dragged my sister to every house in the neighborhood, knocking on doors, sobbing the same words over and over: “My Maren wasn’t a thief. She really wasn’t…” 1 The impact tossed me ten feet. I hit the pavement with a sound like a bag of wet glass. Everything—every bone, every nerve—shattered. It was a rainy night. The streetlights were dim, casting sickly yellow puddles on the asphalt. The driver didn’t even get out. He rolled down his window, muttered something about a “stupid stray dog,” and sped off into the dark. The cold began to seep in, a deep, hollow chill. But I didn’t want to die. Not like this. I fumbled for my phone and called my mother. When she picked up, she didn’t even give me a chance to speak. “So, you steal the class fund and then run away? You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” “Mom,” I wheezed, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “I got hit… by a car. Please. Help me.” There was a pause. A few seconds of silence where I thought maybe, just maybe, she’d hear the rattle in my chest. Then, she laughed. “You’re a pathological liar, Maren. You’re just scared because you got caught. You stole your sister’s future, her entire life. Honestly? You should have died a long time ago.” The line went dead. The dial tone was the last thing I heard over the roar of the downpour. Suddenly, the fight left me. I couldn’t even bring myself to dial 911. What was the point? Two years ago, my sister Lacey and I were trapped in the upstairs bedroom while the house burned. The heat was an animal. The firefighter said he could only take one. My mother chose me because I was two feet closer to the hallway. Afterward, she told me, “Maren, you only have a heartbeat because your sister gave hers up for you.” When the investigators found the neighbor’s jewelry in our living room and saw the pry marks on their back door, the narrative was set. Everyone decided we had broken in, and the fire was a freak accident caused by our clumsiness. That was the day the beatings started. My mother would whip my back with a wooden yardstick until it snapped, forcing me to kneel before Lacey’s photo. “Your sister was an honors student! She was the good one! She wouldn’t steal!” “You’re the thief! You killed her! Why couldn’t it have been you?” I tried to explain. I tried to tell her I didn’t know anything about the jewelry. But she had already decided I was the villain. And maybe she was right. If she hadn’t picked me, Lacey would be the one breathing. Lacey would have been worth the oxygen. She was burned alive. I couldn’t even imagine that pain. So, I stopped talking. I let my mother use me as a punching bag for her grief. For two years, I lived on scraps. I wore rags. “Your sister died hungry,” she’d say, pulling the plate away. “So you stay hungry.” “Think about how cold she is in the ground. You don’t deserve that coat.” “You stole her life. You spend every second making up for it.” I spent seven hundred days atoning. And now, lying in a pool of my own blood in the rain, the debt was finally settled. She wouldn’t have to hit me anymore. She’d finally be satisfied. As my eyes drifted shut, a strange, light feeling washed over me. My last thought wasn’t of pain. It was a wish: I hope she saved Lacey instead. 2 Apparently, the universe wasn’t finished with me yet. My penance wasn’t over. I felt myself drift upward, hovering over the street. Below me, I saw the girl I used to be. She looked like a heap of discarded laundry, her limbs twisted at impossible angles, her face swollen beyond recognition. No wonder the driver thought I was a dog. I tried to feel sad, but a violent tug—like a hook in my navel—jerked me away. In the blink of an eye, I was back in our cramped living room. My mother was on the phone with my principal. “Mrs. Higgins, I am so sorry for the trouble,” she was saying, her voice thick with performative shame. “I know she took the money. I’ll make her write a three-thousand-word apology. I’ll make her confess in front of the whole school tomorrow.” “Diane, please,” Mrs. Higgins replied. “Security is still checking the tapes. We don’t have proof yet. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” My mother let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “I know my daughter. She’s been a thief since she was in diapers. She stole two hundred dollars from my purse just last month. She needs to learn a lesson she’ll never forget.” I shivered, even though I didn’t have a body. Even as a soul, she could still make me flinch. I remembered that two hundred dollars. She had screamed at me for hours, slapping me until my ears rang, demanding I tell her where I hid it. I cried until my throat was raw, until I couldn’t even whisper “I didn’t do it.” When I wouldn’t “confess,” she stripped me down to my underwear and dragged me out onto the sidewalk in broad daylight. “If you won’t admit you’re a thief, then everyone can see what a thief looks like,” she told the neighbors. People stared. Some laughed. I just curled into a ball on the concrete, trying to disappear into myself. Eventually, the lady from the HOA came over and wrapped a blanket around me. She looked at my mother and said, “Diane, didn’t you pay the gardener two hundred in cash on Tuesday? I saw you hand it to him.” My mother froze. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t hug me. She just threw my clothes at my head and grumbled, “If you didn’t take it, why didn’t you just say so clearly?” But I had. I had told her a hundred times. You just didn’t want to believe me, Mom. To you, I was a thief by birthright. A ghostly tear slipped down my cheek and landed on her forehead. She blinked, looking up at the ceiling, wondering if the roof was leaking. She wiped it away with a look of pure disgust. “You don’t understand, Mrs. Higgins,” she continued. “She’s the reason my oldest daughter is dead. She broke into a house and started a fire. She’s a criminal.” Lacey and I were twins. We were in the same grade. The principal knew the history. There was a long silence on the other end. “Diane… the past is the past. Maren is your only child now. She’s a good kid. I don’t believe she did this. I’ll call you when we have the facts.” The principal hung up before my mother could argue. It was a strange feeling—to be dead and finally have someone take my side. It felt like a warm light, but it was followed immediately by the bitter sting of iron. 3 After the call, the anger seemed to drain out of her, replaced by that haunting, soft madness she reserved for Lacey. She picked up the framed photo of my sister and began to dust it with a silk cloth. For two years, I hadn’t seen her look at me with anything but hatred. But for Lacey? She had all the tenderness in the world. She whispered to the photo. She hummed a lullaby. Could Lacey hear her? I didn’t know. All I knew was that it was 2:00 AM, her living daughter was missing, and she didn’t care. She probably thought I was hiding out, too ashamed of my “crime” to come home. Suddenly, a white-hot flash of pain shot through my leg. It felt like a serrated blade tearing through muscle. The tug happened again. I was back at the crash site. A stray dog had found me. It had torn a chunk out of my calf and was now sniffing at my chest. It began to claw at my clothes, shredding the old, tattered winter coat I was wearing. The yellowed stuffing flew out like dirty snow. That coat was two years old. It was thin, patched a dozen times, and the sleeves were three inches too short. I’d spent the whole winter shivering. A few days ago, I’d gathered the courage to ask for a new one. She’d backhanded me so hard I hit the wall. “How can you be so selfish? You think you’re cold? Think about Lacey in the ground. Is she warm? You’re a thief—if you want a coat so bad, go steal one!” Now, the dog had stripped the coat away entirely. It began to bite into my stomach. “Stop! Get away!” I screamed, kicking at the animal. But my foot passed right through its fur. I tried to grab its collar, but my hands were smoke. I was forced to watch as the dog desecrated what was left of me. I remembered my mother’s curse the day she found out Lacey was gone. “Maren! Why couldn’t it have been you? I hope you rot in a ditch!” Well, Mom. Your wish came true. Finally, a man approached. He had a heavy stick and chased the dog away. I felt a surge of relief. Someone would see me. They’d call the police. My mother would have to come for me. But the man didn’t reach for a phone. He knelt down, squinting at my broken body. A slow, horrific grin spread across his face. He was a drifter. Someone who lived in the cracks of society, someone with no light left in his soul. He began to drag me by my ankles toward the treeline. I knew what was coming. I panicked. “No! Leave me here! Please!” But I was just a whisper in the wind. The tug happened again. Back to my mother. I stood right in front of her, screaming into her face. “Mom! Please! Go to the woods by the highway! Help me!” She didn’t hear a thing. She just smiled to herself and pulled a brand-new, expensive down parka out of a shopping bag. It was soft pink with a cute logo on the chest. It was exactly what a girl my age would have dreamed of. My heart—the ghost of it—stilled for a second. Then it shattered. She walked to the backyard, put the coat in a metal fire pit, and lit a match. “Are you warm enough now, sweetie?” she whispered to the air, watching the flames lick the pink fabric. “I realized today you’ve probably grown. Your old clothes must be too small. Mommy is so sorry she didn’t notice sooner.” The fire roared, casting a warm, golden glow over the yard. But I had never felt so cold in my life. 4 The next afternoon, my mother went to the grocery store and bought a massive basket of fruit. She picked up two apples—they were on sale. But then she paused, put them back, and filled the basket with expensive, ripe mangoes. I am deathly allergic to mangoes. They were Lacey’s favorite. Mom, you really never forget, do you? She took the fruit to my classmates’ houses. Every time a door opened, she began her rehearsed apology. “I am so incredibly sorry. My daughter stole the class money. Please, take this as compensation. She’s always been like this—a thief. She even caused the fire that killed her sister.” She went house to house, spreading the poison. People looked confused, uncomfortable. But I understood. She wanted a jury. She wanted the whole world to join her in hating me, because if everyone hated me, then it wasn’t her fault that Lacey was dead. But it didn’t matter anymore. My body was currently being treated like garbage in a shallow grave in the woods. Rumors can’t hurt a corpse. The last house was the worst: Sarah’s house. Sarah was my desk mate. And after the fire, she was my primary tormentor. She led the “Thief” chants, scribbled slurs on my notebooks, and once cornered me in the bathroom to kick me until I bruised. I’d begged my mother to intervene once. She’d just looked at me with dead eyes. “Lacey was burned alive. You got a few bruises. Get over it.” One day, Sarah had held me down and tried to force hot sauce down my throat. I’d pushed her away, coughing and gagging. The school called our parents. Sarah lied through her teeth. “Maren is a thief! She stole my snack, so I was just teaching her a lesson!” “What did she steal?” the principal asked. “A mango!” Sarah blurted out. “I brought a mango for lunch and it was gone after gym. It had to be her.” My mother knew about my allergy. She knew a single bite of a mango would put me in the ER. One word from her would have exposed the lie. I looked at her, pleading. Tell them, Mom. Please. She didn’t even look at me. She just slapped me across the face. “I was wondering where that mango came from yesterday! How could I raise such a thief?” I was stunned. You knew, Mom. You knew. Why did you choose the bully over your own blood? The memory made my ghostly stomach churn. I remembered the feeling of the hot sauce—the burning in my throat, my lungs, my gut. I’d thought that was the worst pain imaginable. I was wrong. Being hated by the woman who gave you life is much, much worse. When she got home, the neighbor, Mrs. Gable, was waiting by the fence. She looked pale. “Diane, did you hear? They found a body in the woods by the bypass. The police are looking for the family.” She shuddered. “They say it’s gruesome. Hit by a car, ravaged by animals… and then some vagrant dragged it off. My God, imagine the poor child.” My mother nodded solemnly. “That is horrific. Some people are just monsters.” Mom, you finally think I’m a victim. Then Mrs. Gable frowned. “Wait, where’s your youngest? I haven’t seen her in two days. Is she okay?” My mother gave a dismissive little snort. “I wish it were her. After what she did to her sister, how does she even have the nerve to keep breathing? If that body in the woods is hers, after all that suffering… well, maybe she finally paid her sister back.” She talked about me like I was a piece of litter. Mrs. Gable looked horrified. “Diane, maybe you should call the station. Just to be sure.” “She’s too smart for that,” my mother said, turning toward the door. “She’s just hiding because she stole that money. Let her stay out there. When she gets hungry enough, she’ll come crawling back. And then? Then she’s really going to get it.” I let out a hollow, silent laugh. Mom, I’m never coming back. Suddenly, a black sedan pulled into the driveway. The door opened, and a girl stepped out. She looked so much like me—the same eyes, the same hair. My mother’s face twisted into a snarl. She marched toward the girl, hand raised to strike. “You little brat, you finally showed your—” She stopped. Her hand hovered in the air. Her entire body began to shake, and tears flooded her eyes. “Lacey? Is that… is that you?” “Lacey, my baby… you’re home. Tell me I’m not dreaming.” I watched as my sister—the girl who had been dead for two years—stepped into the light and hugged our mother.

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My parents finally tracked me down in the fourth year of my exile. When they saw me, there were no warm embraces, no tears of relief. They didn’t ask if I’d spent my nights sleeping in shelters or if I’d gone days without a meal. They didn’t care about the hollows in my cheeks or the callouses on my hands. Instead, my father’s voice cut through the damp air of my tiny apartment like a blade. “Do you finally realize the gravity of what you did?” I didn’t hesitate. I dropped to my knees on the cold, cracked linoleum. The tears came instantly—ugly, desperate, and loud. I let them see my breaking point. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed, my forehead nearly touching the floor. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have been jealous of Courtney. I shouldn’t have fought with her. I never should have tried to frame her. Please, just tell me what I have to do!” After they brought me back to that sprawling estate on the hill, I became exactly what they wanted. I was a shadow. I was silent. I didn’t ask for things, and I didn’t fight back. Even when Courtney went out of her way to provoke me, poking at the bruises of my past, I kept my mouth shut. My parents were thrilled. They told their friends I had finally “matured.” They were proud of the girl they had broken. But then came the day Courtney sold the company’s most sensitive trade secrets to our biggest competitor. Overnight, the Whitaker empire began to crumble into ash. My parents panicked. They turned to me, their eyes wide with a desperate, newfound need. This time, I just watched them. I didn’t say a word. I felt nothing but the cold, quiet satisfaction of a ghost watching a fire. 1 When my parents found me, I was crouched on the floor of a basement studio, counting nickels and dimes to see if I had enough for a sausage roll. My father, Robert, looked down at me with a gaze so complex it bordered on disgust. “Natalie, do you understand your mistake now?” I froze for a heartbeat. Then, I let myself collapse. I hit the floor hard, the sound echoing against the thin walls. I let the tears flow until my vision blurred. “I know,” I choked out. “I was a monster. I shouldn’t have competed for your love. I shouldn’t have lied about her, or screamed at her, or hit her… it’s all my fault. I’ll never do it again, I swear.” “I shouldn’t have talked back to you. I shouldn’t have run away. I’m so sorry.” “Dad, Mom… I just want to come home.” My mother, Diane, finally softened. Her eyes turned a watery red as she reached out to pull me up. “That’s enough. Get up, Natalie.” Robert sighed, the tension in his shoulders dropping an inch. “As long as you’ve learned your lesson. Let’s go.” I nodded obediently, following them to the sleek black SUV waiting outside. I was the picture of a broken, repentant daughter. Everything had shifted four years ago when Courtney appeared. Suddenly, the affection and the life that had been mine by right were handed to her on a silver platter. I had fought for my place. I had screamed until my throat was raw; I had begged on my knees. But Robert and Diane had only watched me with icy detachment, as if I were a stranger throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. The breaking point was the day my college acceptance letters arrived. I had been on track for an Ivy League—my grades were perfect. But when I logged into the portal, I found my entire application had been withdrawn and replaced with a late submission to a predatory, unaccredited trade school in the middle of nowhere. Courtney had done it. I knew it. When I confronted her, she just looked at me with those wide, tear-filled eyes. “Why would I do that, Natalie? You must have filled out the forms wrong. Why are you blaming me?” I had been so blinded by rage I reached for her, wanting to shake the truth out of her. My mother slammed me back against the wall before I could touch a hair on Courtney’s head. Diane looked at me like I was a rabid animal. “Ever since your sister came home, she has tried to include you, and this is how you thank her? By inventing these delusions? You are a selfish, ungrateful child.” I saw red. “I’m not lying! Look at the IP logs! Check the history!” “Check what?” Robert barked, his brow furrowed in deep irritation. “You’re just acting out because we’ve been giving Courtney the attention she deserves. You’re pathetic.” “You think I’d destroy my own future just to spite her?” I screamed, my heart breaking in real-time. Robert’s voice was like ice. “In a heartbeat. You can’t stand her. You’d burn the whole house down just to see her cough.” “You only love her!” I yelled. “You only believe her!” That was the end. Robert pointed to the door, his face purple with rage. “Ungrateful brat! I’ve spent eighteen years providing for you! If you hate this family so much, then get out! Get out and see how long you last without my money!” I left that night. I thought I was strong. I thought I could survive on spite alone. Reality gave me a brutal wake-up call. I didn’t survive—I barely drifted. For four years, I delivered food, scrubbed toilets, and handed out fliers in the rain. I was fired from every decent job because I lacked the stability or the degrees I should have had. I ended up in a moldy basement, unable to even pay for the community college courses I tried to take. Now, we were back at the estate. As I stepped out of the car, I saw Courtney. Her skin was porcelain, her hair a perfect silk curtain. She was wearing a white cocktail dress that made her look like a modern-day princess. Beside her, I felt like a stray dog. She smiled and moved forward, linking her arm through mine. “I knew you’d want the master suite, Natalie. I’ve already moved my things into the guest wing and aired it out for you.” “Let’s put the past behind us,” she whispered, her voice like honey. “Can we just be sisters now?” I remembered how this started. When Courtney first arrived, she wanted my room. She didn’t ask for it directly; she just sighed about how “dreamy” it was while my parents were listening. They spent weeks trying to convince me to switch. I refused, clinging to the only space that felt mine. Courtney didn’t argue. She just started acting terrified of me. Every time I entered a room, she would flinch. My parents saw it. They saw a victim and a bully. They had screamed at me in the living room. “She’s been through so much, and you can’t even give her a room? You’re giving it up today, whether you like it or not!” Back then, I was furious. I thought she was a thief. Now, looking at her, I realized how absurd I’d been. She was the biological daughter. I was the “adopted” replacement, an abandoned infant who had occupied her seat for twenty years. When the real heir returns, shouldn’t she get her room back? “No, Courtney,” I said, waving my hands frantically, my voice trembling with feigned nerves. “I… I prefer the smaller room. It feels safer. Really.” Courtney blinked, her eyes instantly shimmering with unshed tears. “Natalie, are you still mad at me? I was so young then… please don’t hate me.” The atmosphere shifted. My mother’s face darkened. “Look at your sister, Natalie. She’s trying so hard to welcome you, and you’re still being difficult?” Robert stepped closer, his shadow looming over me. “She doesn’t owe you anything. Take the room she prepared, or you can go back to that slum you crawled out of.” I nodded quickly, my head ducked. “I’ll take the room. Thank you, Courtney.” The tension broke. They were satisfied. They sent the housekeeper, Maria, to show me upstairs. 2 At dinner, the silence was heavy until Robert spoke up. “We’re hosting a gala this weekend. It’s time to officially announce Natalie’s return to the social circle.” I stole a glance at Courtney. She was staring into her soup, her knuckles white as she gripped her spoon. She wasn’t happy. “Actually, Dad,” I said softly, “we don’t need to do that. Courtney didn’t have a big gala when she arrived. It wouldn’t be fair to her.” Courtney looked up, her expression a mask of sudden sorrow. “Is that what you think? That I’m holding you back from your place in this family?” I panicked. “No! That’s not it at all—” Robert slammed his hand on the table. “Your sister didn’t have a gala because we were dealing with the transition! Now we want to do something nice for you, and you’re being ungrateful again?” Diane’s eyes were cold. “Four years away didn’t teach you any manners, did it? You’re still just as spoiled and entitled as the day you left.” Before I could defend myself, Courtney began to sob. “Don’t blame her, Mom. It’s my fault. I took away her status when I came back. It’s only natural she hates me.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box, sliding it across the table toward me. “I bought this for you. To welcome you home.” I looked at her, watching the performance. I felt a flicker of the old irritation, but I suppressed it. I took the box. “Thank you,” I said, my voice flat. She gave a fragile, watery smile. “I think I’ll go to my room now. I have a headache.” My parents watched her walk away with hearts in their eyes. The moment she was gone, the lecture began. “She spends her own money on a gift for you, and you treat her like she’s an inconvenience,” Diane hissed. “Look at the woman she’s become compared to you.” Robert let out a sharp, disgusted grunt. “A total lack of gratitude. You’re lucky we even let you back in this house.” I kept my head down. I didn’t say a word. “Aah—!” A piercing scream shattered the quiet from the second floor. It was Courtney. We scrambled up the stairs and burst into her room. Courtney was standing by her vanity, shaking violently. Her jewelry drawers were ripped open, and her necklaces and bracelets were strewn across the floor, snapped and mangled. “What happened?” Diane gasped, rushing to her side. Courtney’s voice was a jagged whisper. “I don’t know… I came in to change for bed, and everything… it was all destroyed.” Robert’s face turned a dangerous shade of red. He turned to Maria, who was hovering in the doorway. “Who was in here this afternoon?” Maria looked at me, her eyes filled with pity. “I… I saw Natalie go in earlier.” My heart hammered against my ribs. I had gone in. I’d found one of her designer earrings by the hallway sink and wanted to return it. “I was in there, but—” “I don’t care about the jewelry,” Courtney interrupted, her voice breaking. She picked up the shattered remains of a heavy jade-and-gold bracelet. “But this… this was the heirloom Grandma gave me. It’s the only thing I had that felt like I truly belonged. Natalie, why? Why would you break this?” She turned and ran toward the door, sobbing. Diane caught her, holding her tight, and then turned her fury on me. “What is wrong with you?” Diane screamed. “I didn’t do it,” I said, my own voice beginning to shake. “Who else would?” Robert roared. “You think she smashed her own grandmother’s heirloom just to make you look bad? You’re sick, Natalie. You’re truly sick.” The scene was a carbon copy of four years ago. Courtney’s tears were the only currency that mattered in this house. If she cried, I was the villain. Case closed. Robert pointed toward my room. “Get out of my sight. Go to your room and don’t come out until I say so!” I turned and walked away in silence. 3 Hours later, my door creaked open. Courtney slipped inside, a sharp, mocking grin replacing her tears. “Did you like your homecoming gift?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe. I looked at her. “You smashed that bracelet yourself just to frame me. Why?” She let out a soft, tinkling laugh. “Of course I did. I left the earring by the sink as bait. I knew you’d be ‘helpful’ enough to bring it back.” I frowned. “I’ve done everything you wanted since I got back. I’ve stayed out of your way. Why are you still doing this?” The smile vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, concentrated venom. “Out of my way? You should have stayed in the gutter where you belong.” “You think I didn’t know?” she spat, moving closer. “When your rent got lowered out of nowhere? When that neighbor ‘randomly’ took you to the ER when you had that fever? When you got that job lead right after being fired? You thought that was luck?” I froze. Those things had happened. I thought the universe had finally taken pity on me. “That was them,” she hissed. “Mom and Dad were secretly helping you the whole time. They couldn’t let their ‘other’ daughter starve.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “Where were they when my foster father was beating me? When I was eating scraps off the floor to survive? I am the real Whitaker! Why should I suffer for twenty years while you lived like a princess?” I looked at her twisted face and felt a strange surge of pity. My parents had given her everything since she returned—the status, the jewels, the unconditional belief. They would have given her their very souls if she asked. But it wasn’t enough for her. She was obsessed with the crumbs they had dropped for me. “You should leave,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let a lunatic like you win.” She stared at me, then laughed again. “Not going anywhere? Fine. Have it your way.” She reached out, grabbed a heavy ceramic vase from my nightstand, and slammed it against her own forehead. The sound was sickening. Crack. “Natalie, please! Stop! I’m sorry!” she screamed, dropping to the floor. Footsteps thundered down the hall. Diane burst in first, dropping to her knees to cradle Courtney’s bleeding head. “Courtney! Oh my god, what happened?” Courtney huddled into her, sobbing hysterically. “I don’t know what I said… I just wanted to talk… she just picked it up and hit me…” “Shut up!” Robert screamed at me before I could even draw breath. “Have you ever once been anything but a curse to this family?” “I wish we’d let you rot in the street,” he spat, his eyes filled with genuine loathing. “It would have saved us all the grief.” They didn’t look at me again. They scooped Courtney up and rushed her to the hospital, leaving me standing in the middle of my room, surrounded by shadows.

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I couldn’t help but smirk. On the very night Judy Bell secured her first Best Actress nomination—a feat built entirely on the back of my sweat and influence—she stood before a swarm of reporters and accused me of being a tyrant. Into the glowing lens of the cameras, she wept about how “the machine” had stifled her soul, how she had been forced into a hyper-sexualized brand, and how every stitch of clothing she wore was a calculated move by a cold, corporate hand. My hand. She declared to the world that tonight, she was finally breaking her chains. She was going to prove that an artist could shine without the shadow of “big industry money” looming over them. The media ate it up. They hailed her as a brave revolutionary, a woman of integrity standing up to the big, bad wolf of Hollywood. I didn’t argue. I simply picked up my phone, dialed the chairperson of the awards committee, and gave them a simple instruction: “Change of plans for tonight. Give the trophy to someone who actually knows how to follow a script.” 1 I discovered Judy when she was eighteen. I found her at a back-alley industry party in a town that thrives on devouring girls like her. She was terrified, dressed in next to nothing, surrounded by a circle of aging vultures who were planning which hotel room she’d be delivered to after the appetizers were finished. When my assistant first briefed me on her, I felt a rare pang of genuine pity. She came from a broken home in a Rust Belt town where daughters were liabilities and sons were kings. Her parents were degenerate gamblers who had racked up debts that would take three lifetimes to pay off. To keep them afloat, she’d been coerced into filming some “private” content—the kind of videos that stay on the internet forever. Once you step into that swamp, there is usually no way out. In a moment of uncharacteristic softness, I stepped in. I bought out her “debts,” scrubbed the internet of her past, and spent years meticulously crafting her image. I hired the best acting coaches to sharpen her raw talent and, piece by piece, I put the clothes back on her that the world had tried so hard to tear off. Now, she thought her wings were strong enough to claw at the person who gave them to her. “The agency gave me my start, yes,” she told a reporter, her voice trembling with practiced emotion. “But I’m tired of being a puppet. I’m tired of the forced ‘sexy’ image and the mandatory dinners with investors. I want the world to know I can make it on my own. My talent is my only currency!” It was a stirring performance. She was poised, articulate, and utterly unafraid of the camera—skills I had spent thousands of dollars teaching her. Because I had shielded her for so long, she actually had a decent reputation in the industry. The fans immediately rallied behind her, screaming about “toxic management” and “corporate greed.” I sat in the back of my Maybach, watching her be escorted into the theater by a phalanx of security guards. I let out a dry laugh. My assistant, Sarah, glanced at me nervously. “Ms. Rossi, she’s probably just trying to generate buzz for the win. It’s a competitive year. Maybe she felt she had to play the victim to get the votes?” “Buzz is one thing; betrayal is another,” I said, my voice cold. “Four of the five nominees in that category are from my agency. It didn’t matter who won—until now. She’s developed an ego she hasn’t earned. She’s not renewing her contract, is she?” Sarah shook her head. “She signaled that she wants to go indie.” “Fine,” I said. “Let’s give her exactly what she wants. Freedom.” Sarah looked stunned. As the head of Apex Talent Group, I’ve spent twenty years navigating the shark-infested waters of this industry. My clients don’t just get rich; they become icons. I’ve treated them like my own children, poured my life into their careers. When actors wanted to retire and live a quiet life, I let them go with grace and a golden parachute. We stayed friends. Judy Bell was the first one to ever try to burn the house down on her way out. Everyone in that room knew that when she spoke of “the machine,” she meant me—Antonia Rossi, the most powerful woman in the business. I watched the hashtags trend. #FreeJudy. #DownWithApex. I smiled and turned to Sarah. “Start the audit. Every cent we’ve spent on her development over the last decade—I want a line-itemized bill. If she wants to be independent, she can start by paying her debts. And tell the PR team to kill her victory spreads. We’re backing Sofia Rossi for the win tonight.” “But Sofia was the dark horse,” Sarah whispered. “Not anymore.” I picked up my phone and made one more call. “Mr. Sterling, there’s been a change in the weather. Stick to the backup plan. Let’s go to a pure popular vote for the final tally. Let the ‘people’ decide.” Judy, let’s see how that “talent” holds up when I’m not the one holding the scale. The car pulled up to the red carpet. I smoothed my gown, stepped out, and was immediately blinded by the flashbulbs. I walked past the shouting reporters without a word, my heels clicking like a countdown on the marble floor. Once inside the VIP lounge, I had barely taken my seat when I saw Judy marching toward me. She looked defiant, her chin tilted at that perfect angle I’d taught her for “strong female lead” roles. “Ms. Rossi.” I leaned back in my chair, giving her a curt nod. My silence was louder than a scream. 2 Judy faltered for a second, then steeled herself. “Don’t hate me, Antonia. I just want to walk my own path. I can’t let you control my every move anymore.” I nodded slowly. The other studio heads around me were already snickering behind their champagne flutes. “You’ve certainly made a splash tonight, Judy,” the CEO of Paramount Pictures remarked. “Found a new home already? Who’s picking up your tab?” Judy glanced at me, her eyes darting nervously before she regained her bravado. “Actually, no. I’m taking a hiatus. I’m going to be my own boss.” “How brave,” I said. My lack of rage seemed to unsettle her. She wanted a fight; she wanted to be the martyr. “I’m serious, Antonia. From now on, my wardrobe, my scripts, my life—none of it is up for negotiation with the agency.” “Message received,” I said, checking my watch. “Is there anything else? The show is starting.” She bit her lip, frustrated that I wasn’t pleading with her. “I don’t need the ‘handouts’ or the ‘curated’ roles anymore. I’m going to prove that I can get the prestige projects on my own. I want to be like you—a power player.” I looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in months. In ten years, she had grown into a stunning woman, but she had developed a fatal delusion: she believed she was the chef, when in reality, she was just the finest ingredient in my kitchen. In this town, a “pretty girl with talent” is a commodity. You don’t sit at the table just because you’ve been standing in the room for a long time. I smiled and waved a hand. Sarah appeared instantly. “Ms. Bell’s seat is in the back of the house, I believe. Please show her the way.” Judy’s face flushed. “You’ll see. I’m going to be the biggest thing in this industry.” As she walked away, the man sitting next to me—a cynical old producer named Lou—laughed. “Ambitious girl. Too bad she’s got a paper-thin soul. She doesn’t realize she’s only a star because you keep the sun shining on her.” “You made a mistake with that one, Antonia,” another added. I took a sip of my drink. “She chose her path. Let her walk it until her feet bleed. I’ve already made my ROI on her. If any of you want to sign her tomorrow, be my guest.” They all laughed in unison. “A girl who bites the hand? No thanks. The market is too crowded for ego without leverage.” The ceremony began. I watched the notifications on my phone. The contracts were being drafted. Since she wasn’t renewing, every deal we had in the pipeline for her was being rerouted to other talent. If she wanted to be “free,” she could start with a completely empty calendar. The awards rolled out—Best Screenplay, Best Score, Best Supporting Actress. Apex clients were sweeping. The room kept turning to me with congratulatory nods. “Another banner year for Apex, Antonia!” “We do our best,” I replied, my eyes finding Judy in the back rows. She was sitting tall, waiting for her moment. Finally, it was time for the Best Actress presentation. Judy was asked to come up to the stage early to present a youth achievement award—a small courtesy I’d arranged weeks ago. As she stood there, the host, a man named Jordan Kent, decided to stir the pot. 3 “I have to ask,” Jordan said, grinning at the camera, “Judy, earlier tonight you mentioned going solo. Are we witnessing the birth of a new indie queen? And Antonia, how does it feel to lose your brightest star?” The theater went silent. Everyone loves a public execution. I smiled graciously from the front row. “I support her completely. Judy has been with us for a long time, and we’ve had a wonderful run. If she feels it’s time to fly solo, Apex will facilitate a smooth exit. We’re all friends here. It’s a small town.” Judy’s expression darkened. She hadn’t expected me to announce the “divorce” so publicly and so casually. It made her look like she was being fired rather than quitting. “That’s right,” Judy forced a smile. “My contract is up, and I’m launching my own production banner. I hope everyone here will support my new journey.” “And will there be future collaborations between you two?” Jordan pressed. I felt a cold laugh bubbling in my chest. Collaborations? She wanted to leave the house but keep the credit card? “Antonia’s agency controls half the prestige scripts in the city,” Jordan continued, “I’m sure Judy will still be looking to you for those A-list projects.” I leaned into the microphone near my seat. “We’ll see where the road leads. Judy is a… professional. If the right project comes along, we’re always open to talent.” Judy’s eyes were a storm of complex emotions. “Of course. I’m looking forward to working on more original scripts,” she added, a subtle dig at the franchise work I’d steered her toward. I caught Jordan Kent’s eye—the host. He looked away quickly. That one look told me everything. He was in on it. He’d probably been promised a role in whatever “indie” project she thought she was starting. The awards moved to the main event. Jordan announced that for the first time, the Best Actor and Actress winners would be decided by a live weighted vote, including the front-row board members. Judy’s poise slipped. She looked at me, panic flaring in her eyes. I gave her a reassuring, maternal smile. She relaxed slightly and checked her phone. A second later, my phone buzzed. Judy: Antonia, I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first. I just had to do this for myself. About the contract… we can talk. Me: I understand. Good luck tonight. I hope all your dreams come true. She was obsessed with this trophy. She thought that because she was “my girl,” I would pull the final strings to ensure her “Triple Crown” legacy. In the wings, I could see her personal assistant already typing out victory tweets. The buzz was deafening. Her fan clubs were losing their minds online. But her rivals weren’t staying quiet. “Is she serious? The show isn’t even over and she’s celebrating? Talk about bad luck,” one rival fan base posted. “Judy Bell is acting like she bought the vote. It’s a public/board split tonight. She’s too cocky.” The tension in the room was thick. The big screen showed the live tally. It was neck-and-neck between Judy and Sofia Rossi. The clock ticked down to the final second. They were tied. “And now,” Jordan Kent announced, his voice booming, “the tie-breaking votes from our four industry titans in the front row!” The first three votes came in: one for Sofia, two abstentions. Every camera in the building pivoted to me. Judy stood on the edge of the stage, her hair perfectly tousled, a look of hungry anticipation on her face. I took the mic, my voice steady and resonant. “My vote goes to… Sofia Rossi.” On the giant screen, Judy’s smile didn’t just fade—it curdled. The camera stayed on her for a brutal five seconds as the realization hit her like a physical blow. She was frozen, a statue of pure, unadulterated shock.

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The shadows were lengthening across my desk when the phone rang. The name flashing on the screen made my stomach drop into a cold, hard knot. It was my husband, Brady. His voice was a jagged mess of sobs and static. He told me he’d hit someone with the car. He was hysterical, babbling, begging me to take the blame—to tell the police I was the one behind the wheel. “Don’t move. I’m coming,” I whispered. I grabbed my bag and bolted, the confused shouts of my coworkers fading behind me as I hit the elevator. “Elva, have you lost your mind? You’re looking at prison time!” Mrs. Gable, the senior accountant from the next cubicle, caught up to me in the lobby. Her grip was so tight her nails bit into my skin. I gently pried her fingers away, a strange, hollow smile on my face as I checked my phone. “He’s my husband. If I don’t help him, who will?” Outside the police tape, the world was a blur of flashing blues and reds. My parents were there, looking smaller and more fragile than I remembered. My father’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice cracking as he reached for me. “My girl, my foolish girl, go home! Let me tell them it was me. I’ll go to jail for him!” I squeezed their hands and stepped past them. I heard my mother gasp, felt her collapse onto the pavement as the sirens wailed into the twilight, but I didn’t turn back. I couldn’t. When the cold steel of the handcuffs snapped around my wrists, I looked up. Brady was standing by a patrol car in the distance. He wasn’t alone. Lydia, the “childhood friend” he’d always called his little sister, was tucked into his side, her hand resting on his arm. A few months later, the judge’s voice echoed through the courtroom: twenty years. As the bailiff led me toward the holding cell, the happy couple finally approached the railing. “Elva, sign this.” Lydia slid a manila folder toward me. Her manicured red nail traced the line for Divorce Decree: Total Forfeiture of Assets. “A convicted felon doesn’t deserve to be Brady’s wife.” Our daughter, Daisy, hid behind Brady’s legs. She peeked out, her face twisted with a practiced sort of disgust. “Mommy is a bad person. I don’t want a mommy like her.” I looked at my reflection in the plexiglass—gaunt, pale, unrecognizable—and I started to laugh. It was a dry, jagged sound. With my cuffed hands, I scrawled my name on the bottom line. Later, a guard told me that when my parents walked out of that courthouse, their hair had turned white. … When I first arrived at the scene of the accident, the air smelled like burnt rubber and copper. I’d shoved a trembling, incoherent Brady out of the driver’s seat and climbed in myself. I called 911, and the police arrived minutes later. The perimeter was secured with yellow tape. An ambulance screamed to a halt. The victim, a delivery driver, lay in a pool of dark red on the asphalt. He was unconscious, his body broken in ways that made my chest ache. They rushed him to the ER, but the silence he left behind was deafening. Under the hot lights of the interrogation room, I took every hit. My father had slapped me ten times in the hallway of the precinct, his face a mask of fury and grief. My mother had suffered a minor heart attack right there on the linoleum floor. The police moved me to holding. I was questioned for four hours straight. My attorney, Zavier, arrived in the middle of the night with three of my coworkers. They were ready to testify that I was at the office when the crash happened. I looked them in the eye and shut them down. “Is there footage?” I asked. There wasn’t. The security system had “glitched.” Zavier turned purple with rage, pacing the room and calling me a delusional martyr, a woman who had traded her brain for a wedding ring. The next morning, the news broke: the driver had died. A few hours later, I was led to the visitation room. My parents looked like they had aged a decade in a single night. When they heard I’d confessed to vehicular manslaughter—a sentence that could carry twenty years—my father pointed a shaking finger at me. “I didn’t raise a daughter with no backbone! Do you have any idea what twenty years means? Your life is over, Elva! Finished!” I sat there, silent. My mother’s hands trembled as she reached through the gap in the partition to straighten my collar. “Elva, honey, we know it wasn’t you. Just tell the truth. Zavier can fix this.” I shook my head. “Mom, it was me.” My father let out a long, ragged sigh. “You’ve given that man everything. You work ten-hour days, you run the house, you handle Daisy’s schooling, while he sits on the couch playing video games. He doesn’t even respect us. He berates you for taking us shopping! You’ve loved him until you disappeared. But this? You can’t take the fall for this.” “He’s right,” my mother whispered. “There’s no one else here, baby. If he’s threatening you, if there’s a reason… tell us.” Looking at their white hair and sunken eyes, my heart felt like it was being squeezed by pliers. But I hardened myself. I gave them a few empty platitudes and changed the subject. “Mom, the fifty thousand dollars I asked you to withdraw—did you give it to the victim’s wife?” The man Brady killed was a gig worker. He had nothing. Just a wife and a young son in a cramped apartment. “I did,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “I gave it to her personally, just like you asked.” Before she could say more, the door swung open. Brady walked in, Lydia trailing behind him like a shadow. Behind them was Zavier, looking exhausted. “What are you doing here?” my father spat, stepping toward Brady. Brady flinched, taking a half-step back. “Dad, stop! Not here,” I called out. Seeing my father restrained, Lydia smirked. “I just wanted to check on Elva. I had to thank her for taking such good care of Brady. I mean, taking the rap for a fatal accident? That’s some ‘wife of the year’ energy right there.” Brady offered a weak, greasy smile. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Elva, thank you. I won’t forget this. I promise.” A cold sneer rippled through my soul, but I kept my face soft, adoring. “Of course, honey. You’re my husband. I’d do anything for you.” My father looked like he wanted to vomit. “This isn’t love, Elva! It’s a lobotomy!” He pointed at Brady and Lydia’s hands, which were inches apart. “Look at him! He’s already moved on!” “Dad,” I said calmly, “they grew up together. They’re close. I trust Brady. He’d never do anything to hurt our marriage. Right, Brady?” Brady’s expression flickered—guilt, maybe, or just surprise—before he nodded quickly. “Exactly. Elva gets me. Lydia and I are… we’re just family.” Lydia didn’t pull her hand away. My mother couldn’t take it anymore. “Even if she’s naive enough to believe you, have you no shame? You’re a married man. Act like it.” Brady finally stepped away from Lydia, but the smirk stayed in his eyes. He looked at my mother. “Hey, she’s the one who insisted on doing this. I tried to stop her, really, but she’s just so crazy about me.” Then his face shifted, becoming sharp and suspicious. “Wait. Mom, you aren’t wearing a wire, are you? Because that won’t hold up in court.” I laughed softly. “Relax, Brady. I’m going to prison. We aren’t recording you.” He visibly exhaled. My mother saw my eight-year-old daughter, Daisy, standing by the door. “Daisy, come here, sweetie. Come to Grandma. Don’t stay near that man.” Daisy looked at me, her small face twisted with a chilling amount of contempt. “No. I’m not going over there. She’s a murderer. And you’re a murderer’s mother. You’re not my grandma anymore.” My mother clutched her chest. Dad quickly fumbled for her nitro pills, glaring at the little girl. “We spoiled you, Daisy. Your mother worked herself to the bone for you! How can you be so heartless?” Daisy literally spat on the floor. “I don’t want ‘murderer’ relatives. Gross.” She had always been our “little sunshine” at home. My parents had doted on her. Seeing the mask fall off felt like watching a horror movie. That’s when Lydia tossed a document onto the table. “Elva, if you really love him, sign this. It’s a clean break. You’re going away for a long time. What are Brady and Daisy supposed to do? If you’re going to take responsibility, go all the way. Leave the house and the savings to the people who actually have a future.” There it was. The real reason for the visit. My father exploded. “Brady! I thought you came here to support her, but you’re just here for the vultures’ share!” Brady flushed, but he stood his ground. “Dad, Lydia’s right. Elva’s going to be behind bars. Why should the money sit in a frozen account? Do you want Daisy to starve?” Daisy screamed at me, “You’re a bad person! You killed someone! You don’t deserve to be my mom. If you don’t sign it, you’re just hurting Daddy!” My mother was sobbing now. “Daisy, your mother didn’t kill anyone! She’s doing this for your father!” “If she didn’t do it, why did she say she did?” Daisy shouted. “She’s a killer! That delivery guy had a son. He’s nine! Poor kid!” Then she grabbed Lydia’s hand, her face lighting up with a terrifying brilliance. “Lydia is going to be my new mommy anyway!” Lydia scooped her up, looking triumphant. “That’s right, sweetie. You can just call me Mom from now on.” “Mommy!” Daisy cooed. “Sign it,” Brady said, looking back at me. “I’ll come visit you. I promise. Just make sure the girl is taken care of.” I knew he’d never step foot in a prison visitor’s room. But I picked up the pen anyway. With my hands still heavy in chains, I signed away my life, my home, and every cent I owned. My father wept openly. “Why, Elva? There are good men in this world. Why give everything to a monster?” I looked at him with a gaze that was far too peaceful for the circumstances. “Dad, you don’t understand. This is what devotion looks like.” Beside me, Zavier the lawyer couldn’t help himself. “Mrs. Quinn, with all due respect, even a person signing a death warrant would have asked for better terms than this.” A small crowd of people had gathered by the open door of the room—officers, other visitors, rubberneckers. They started laughing. “She’s a special kind of stupid,” one woman whispered loudly. “Getting cleaned out by a guy who brought his mistress to the precinct.” “It’s pathetic,” another added. “He’s clearly going to take the house and move the other woman in by dinner time. Does she have a brain deficiency?” “Maybe he has dirt on her?” someone wondered. My parents looked up, hoping for a lifeline, but Zavier shook his head. “As far as I know, Elva has a clean record and a history of charitable donations. There is no dirt. She’s just… giving it away.” The room went quiet for a beat. “Is she broke? Maybe she’s hiding debt?” “On the contrary,” Zavier sighed. “She’s debt-free. She just signed over a five-hundred-thousand-dollar home and half a million in personal savings.” The laughter returned, harsher this time. “What a joke. She’s a disgrace to women everywhere.” Brady and Lydia exchanged a look of pure greed. They were satisfied. A moment later, the guards came to transport me. As I was led away, I heard Daisy clapping her small hands. “Yay! The killer is going to jail!” I was processed into the county correctional facility. As the heavy door of the cell groaned shut, I looked at the three grey walls and the tiny, barred slit of a window. I took a deep breath. For the first time in years, I felt like I could breathe. Nobody knew the truth. I wasn’t a martyr, and I certainly wasn’t “wife of the year.” I didn’t like prison. But I had a very, very good reason for being here. The next day. My mother came to visit. “Elva… Brady moved her into the house yesterday. And that BMW 5-series we bought you for your anniversary? Lydia’s been driving it all over town, showing off.”

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Here we are again. Tim is asking for a divorce. The excuse this time? His newest little pet is throwing a tantrum for a ring and a title. She’s young, he tells me, his tone practically bleeding with faux sympathy. Too fragile to be kept in the shadows. He strokes my arm, soothing me with promises that as soon as he gets bored of her, we’ll remarry. I just need to be a good girl and sign the papers. He says it with the casual ease of a man asking me to pick up dry cleaning, completely untroubled, as if dismantling our marriage is just a minor administrative hiccup. I put on my best performance, my voice trembling just the right amount as I ask if he truly means it this time. He barely glances at me. “I never lie, Cora.” He follows it up with a smug, self-assured smirk, reminding me that no one else has ever lasted more than six months by his side. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. I carefully scan the divorce settlement, letting my eyes drop to the very bottom of the page, tracing the delightfully long string of zeros next to my name. The heavy, suffocating knot in my chest finally unravels. This is the one-hundredth time my husband has asked me for a divorce. For the previous ninety-nine times, he put on grand, theatrical shows to appease whatever little sugar baby he was keeping in a gilded cage. And every single time the ink dried on the final decree, the alimony hit my offshore accounts with the precision of a Swiss watch. What Tim doesn’t know is that my greatest, most paralyzing fear is that one day, he might stop being so impulsive. 1 Tim stepped out of the en-suite, aggressively towel-drying his damp hair. “Cora, don’t forget. We need to file the papers with the city clerk tomorrow morning.” I stood by the doorframe, the freshly signed separation agreement clutched to my chest. He opened his mouth to add something, but his phone buzzed. “…Relax, babe. I won’t even touch her. You know you’re the only one I want…” His voice dropped an octave, dripping with a sickening kind of intimacy. “Little brat. I’ll deal with you later…” I thoughtfully pulled the bathroom door shut to give him privacy and wandered out onto the balcony of the Hamptons estate. The night was thick and dark. Out here, the silence of the sprawling, isolated grounds felt almost melancholic. A few minutes later, Tim emerged, car keys jingling in his hand. He caught sight of my desolate silhouette against the moonlight, and his footsteps faltered. For a second, I thought he might actually possess the patience to comfort me. “Can’t bear to let me go?” he murmured, coming up behind me. “I know, I know. But this one… she’s a headache. Be good for me, Cora. This is the last time. I swear it. The absolute last time.” My eyes went wide in the dark. A cold sweat broke out along my spine. The last time? What does he mean, the last time? No, no, no. Please, keep your terrible habits. I quickly molded my face into an expression of pathetic dependency, turning to look up at him. “You’re so good to me, Tim.” My voice broke perfectly. “I never want you to be unhappy. I’d do anything for you.” He leaned down, his eyes searching mine. “I love you, Cora. We promised each other forever. These girls? They’re just playtime. You are the real Mrs. Vanderbilt. You always will be.” He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over the oceanfront property. “Standard protocol. This house is yours now.” My hands began to tremble. Truly tremble. He paused midway through buttoning his tailored coat, reaching out to pat my cheek. “Do whatever you want with it. Just don’t be sad.” His thumb brushed my cheekbone. “Be at City Hall on time tomorrow.” The front door clicked shut. He was gone. I collapsed onto the plush velvet sofa, all the feigned weakness draining from my bones as I looked around the magnificent estate with deep, unadulterated satisfaction. During our previous ninety-nine divorces, I had liquidated every single property he had ever signed over to me. The first time he found out I had sold our actual marital home, he was furious. He demanded to know why. I remember looking at him with trembling lips and eyes swimming in fabricated agony. “Tim, you don’t understand. Every time I looked at those walls, I just saw the moment you told me you were leaving me. I… I couldn’t breathe in there…” I had let the sentence hang, choking on an imaginary sob. He had pulled me into his arms, the guilt in his eyes entirely genuine. “I get it. Shh, don’t say another word, Cora. It was too painful.” From that day on, every time we inevitably reconciled and moved into a new place, he made sure the deed was solely in my name. When the divorce cycle repeated, the house was mine to do with as I pleased. For the first ninety-eight times, I played it safe. I never chose properties that were too obscenely expensive, terrified he might see through my facade and decide not to remarry me. But this Hamptons estate? He picked this one himself. It was easily worth nine figures. I didn’t even wait for the sun to rise. I called my luxury real estate brokers immediately. When they arrived, they took one look at me and smiled. We were old friends by now. Regulars. They weren’t just familiar with me; they knew Tim’s habits inside out. After all, I used them to sell the properties, and whenever Tim wanted to buy a new one to woo me back, he used them too, purely for convenience. They moved through the house with practiced efficiency, snapping photos, recording video walkthroughs, and taking inventory of the designer furniture. I sat curled up on the sofa, clutching my phone to my chest, my eyes rubbed raw and red. Tim called one of the brokers. “How is she? Is she crying?” He did this every time. Whenever he initiated a divorce, he obsessively checked in with the people around me, needing to know if I was falling apart. As if it proved the depth of his love. “Mrs. Vanderbilt is…” The broker caught herself, likely responding to whatever correction he barked on the other end. “Yes, Mr. Vanderbilt. Miss Su looks entirely devastated. Her eyes are so red.” I had been reading a particularly tragic romance novel on my phone for the last hour. The female lead’s misery was practically infectious. The broker hung up and looked at me with genuine pity. “He is such a toxic bastard.” I gave a pathetic little sniffle. “No, you don’t understand him. Deep down, he has a good heart.” The team of women looked at me like I was a hopeless, brainwashed relic. But business was business. As they packed up their lighting equipment, the lead broker winked. “Next time you need to buy, you know who to call. Loyalty discount. Twenty percent off the commission.” I didn’t say a word. They didn’t know. There wasn’t going to be a next time. 2 Tim and I had barely stepped out of the courthouse in downtown Manhattan when my phone began to ring. It was Margot, his adopted sister. She had harbored a borderline obsessive crush on him since childhood. The moment I answered, her voice was a sharp, interrogating whip. “Cora. Did you actually sign the papers? Tell me it’s real this time.” Margot had been waiting like a vulture in the wings for ninety-nine divorces, desperate to claim him. But Tim was the kind of man who would flirt with a passing shadow, yet he flat-out refused to look at his adopted sister that way. It drove her absolutely insane. I held the phone a few inches from my ear to save my eardrums. “We just filed the petition. The cooling-off period is a month. We get the final decree after that. Margot, have I ever lied to you?” If we were being entirely honest, Margot was essentially my third-biggest financial backer. Every time Tim and I reconciled, she would track me down, slam a terrifyingly large check on the table, and demand I leave him. And every time, I nodded, took the money, and agreed. “Who is that?” Tim demanded, his eyes narrowing. Usually, the second the paperwork was filed, Tim was already in his sports car, peeling away to his newest conquest. But today, he seemed oddly reluctant. We were supposed to file yesterday, but he dragged his feet for three days until I finally had to gently nag him into coming. “It’s Margot.” His face instantly relaxed. “She’s just a spoiled kid throwing a tantrum. Don’t let her get to you, babe.” Whenever Margot crossed a line, Tim always expected me to be the bigger person. I nodded, offering him a frail, tragic smile. “I know, Tim. I know she’s just acting out.” My compliance instantly irritated him. “You do know she’s in love with me, right? Does that seriously not make you jealous?” I let the tears well up in my eyes, letting them hover right on the brim without falling. My chin quivered. “How can you say that to me? It’s not that I’m not jealous. It’s that… I have no choice.” I looked utterly, profoundly broken. A flash of genuine pain crossed Tim’s features. He reached out, his thumb brushing my jaw. “Shh, babe, I’m sorry. I know. It’s the last time. Once I get this out of my system, I’m coming right back to you. No more drama, okay?” I nodded helplessly. What else could I do? He opened his mouth to say something more, but his phone rang. He answered it, his expression hardening into annoyance, before walking back over to me. “The little birds are getting restless. I’ve got to go. Call an Uber, alright?” That’s right. This time, he didn’t just have one sugar baby. He had a pair. Sisters. He didn’t even wait for my response before turning on his heel and striding toward his waiting driver. I let out a long, shuddering breath. Thank god. 3 The truth is, the very first time I found out Tim was cheating on me—the first time he demanded a divorce so he could marry his mistress—I fought it. I fought hard. Tim was the one who chased me. He didn’t care that I was an orphan with nothing to my name. He didn’t care that I didn’t come from a legacy family. He spent four years of college pursuing me relentlessly. After graduation, to prove he wanted to marry me, he knelt outside his mother’s study in their Upper East Side townhouse for three entire days. Eventually, his mother called me in for a meeting. She didn’t mince words. “The Vanderbilt men,” she said, her voice like chilled glass, “are incapable of fidelity. It is a genetic rot. He has his father’s exact temperament. I am not refusing this marriage to protect him. I am doing it to protect you.” Her gaze drifted to the antique, centuries-old molding of the study. Her tone grew heavy with the ghosts of the women who came before us. “Girl… I do not want to watch another flower wither away inside the walls of this house.” She was sincere. But I was young, and I was so incredibly stupid. I thought my love was the exception. How could Tim be like them? This was the boy who would wake up at dawn just to bring me hot coffee in bed. The man who abandoned multi-million-dollar board meetings just to sit with me because I had a mild fever. Young girls are so easily snared by those fleeting moments of intense, cinematic devotion. We mistake grand gestures for a safe harbor, and by the time we realize we’re drowning, we’re too far from the shore. I wasn’t lying to the realtors earlier. That first divorce destroyed me. Standing in the middle of the penthouse we had decorated together, my heart felt like it was being ripped through my ribcage. I knew, even then, that even if it was just a phase, even if we eventually found our way back to each other, the betrayal had carved a canyon in my chest. It was a wound that would never fully close. One touch, and I would bleed out all over again. You can’t just tie a severed string back together and pretend the knot isn’t there. But knowing the truth doesn’t make leaving any easier. I couldn’t let go. On the night he proposed to his first mistress, I snapped. I took a blade to my wrists in our marble bathroom. Watching the crimson pool on the pristine white tiles, a sudden, pathetic wave of desperation hit me. I just wanted a crumb of affection from the man who had discarded me. I reached for my phone with bloody fingers and dialed his number. It rang and rang and rang before he finally picked up. “Cora. Didn’t I tell you not to contact me until the papers are finalized?” His voice was thick with annoyance. “Stop causing scenes. Just be a good girl. I’ll come find you when the novelty wears off.” “Don’t make me angry, Cora, or I really will leave you for good.” “Tim… I…” My voice was a ragged, wet whisper. I wanted to beg him not to leave me behind. I wanted him to come home. He caught the terrifying weakness in my breath. He paused. Then, his voice dropped to a glacial sneer. “What now? Faking an illness to guilt-trip me? Stop being so damn pathetic, Cora.” The line went dead. I lay there, the cold seeping into my bones, and in that agonizing silence, something inside me crystallized. I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t the one who broke our vows. I wasn’t the one who threw away our life. Why the hell should I be the one bleeding out on a bathroom floor? I managed to dial 911. When I woke up in the stark, sterile hospital room, the space beside my bed was empty and cold. That was the moment my love for Tim Vanderbilt finally died. I decided, right then and there, that I would leave him and never, ever look back. But that was also the moment it happened. As I hovered in that liminal space between life and death, a voice—cold, mechanical, and entirely divorced from reality—echoed in my skull. It called itself the 100-Divorce Protocol. It laid out a cosmic, inescapable bargain: Survive, but only if I completed one hundred divorces from Tim. If I failed, if I walked away before the quota was met, the death I had just escaped would reclaim me. I tried to refuse. I had just accepted death, hadn’t I? Why should I be afraid? “Because the death I give you will not be a quiet fading,” the voice had whispered in my mind. “It will be violent. It will be agonizing. And there will be nothing left of your beauty.” It knew my vanity. I could accept dying. I couldn’t accept being butchered. So, I made the deal. 4 I stood on the steps of the courthouse, raising a hand to shield my eyes from the glaring afternoon sun. “Get in.” Margot’s perfectly contoured face appeared from the rolled-down window of a sleek black Maybach. She never trusted me. Every time I came to file the papers, she had to see it with her own eyes. I didn’t argue. I slid into the rich leather interior. “Where am I staying this time?” She rolled her eyes, her lips pressing into a thin line of disgust. She didn’t even want to waste her breath on me. I understood. The pure, unadulterated arrogance of a legacy heiress. This was the ninety-ninth time. Margot was always paranoid that I would refuse to leave the marital home, so the moment I stepped out of City Hall with her brother, she would have a team of movers pack up my life and dump it into whatever condo she had purchased for me as a parting gift. “If you really have nowhere to go, I guess you’d just keep clinging to my brother,” she scoffed. “Giving you a condo is just charity.” “Drop the starving-artist act. I know exactly what kind of parasite you are,” she sneered, looking out the window. “All that ‘I don’t care about the money’ nonsense. You’re just playing the long game. Reeling him in for the big payout. Too bad my idiot brother is entirely blind to it.” Honestly? Margot was incredibly perceptive. I wasn’t playing the starving artist. Every time Tim and I got back together, I quietly listed the condo she had “gifted” me, sold it to the highest bidder, and wired the cash straight to my offshore accounts. But today, Margot didn’t take me straight to the new apartment. She directed her driver to Fifth Avenue. “This one. That one. And this entire rack. Wrap it all up.” She stood half a head taller than me, her eyes raking over my outfit with unfiltered disdain. To play the perfect, devoted “trad-wife,” my wardrobe consisted entirely of soft pastels, modest hemlines, and sensible flats. Low-profile. Submissive. Economical. Under the envious, wide-eyed stares of the luxury boutique staff, I watched a mountain of garment bags pile up. Next, she dragged me to an ultra-exclusive med-spa and salon, ordering a top-to-bottom overhaul. When it was over, I found myself staring at a stranger in the full-length mirror. I was entirely captivated by my own reflection. A champagne silk slip dress draped perfectly over my curves, the asymmetrical neckline highlighting my collarbones. A heavy collar of pink and blue sapphires rested against my skin, paired with a matching, brilliantly cut sapphire bracelet on my wrist. I looked lethal. Radiant and breathtakingly expensive. I swallowed hard, pushing down the intoxicating surge of vanity, and gently touched the cold stones. I looked at Margot nervously. “You aren’t going to make me give these back after I wear them, are you?” Margot inhaled deeply, looking at me like I was a peasant who had just crawled out of a sewer. “Who the hell would want to wear jewelry you’ve sweated on? If I put it on you, it’s yours. Shut up and stop being so embarrassing.” …Her temper really was atrocious. But god, I loved her. 5 Margot dragged me to an invite-only jewelry auction. I quickly pieced together the situation: This was the premier social event of the season. Tim had originally promised to be Margot’s escort, but those two little birds of his had kept him tied up in bed, forcing him to cancel on his sister. Margot was furious. She wanted blood. She wanted to force his new toys into a room with his “devastated” ex-wife and watch the fireworks. We arrived fashionably late. The moment we stepped into the gilded ballroom, the air shifted. A hundred pairs of eyes locked onto me. Shock. Pity. Predatory intrigue. In the past, whenever news leaked that Tim had initiated a divorce, I vanished. I became a ghost, refusing to be seen in the same zip code as him. The socialites in the room couldn’t hide their ravenous excitement. The quiet, long-suffering Mrs. Vanderbilt is finally going to bare her teeth. Tim heard the murmurs. He was seated in the VIP front row. He turned his head, and his eyes landed on me. His broad shoulders went rigid. A dark, stormy shadow crossed his face, his brows knitting together in a heavy scowl. The sheer weight of his stare was suffocating. I played my part perfectly. I shrank under his gaze, lowering my eyes, looking utterly miserable and out of place as I meekly followed Margot to our seats. “Um, Margot… I don’t have the kind of money for—” She didn’t even look at me. Her eyes were laser-focused on Tim, who was currently whispering sweet nothings to his two little accessories in the front row. “Shut up.” I clamped my mouth shut. Hey, don’t blame me when the bill comes due. I knew exactly what I was doing. She was using me as a human shield to humiliate the new girls. Right on cue, the older of the two sisters gasped at a pair of flawless emerald drop earrings displayed on the stage. Tim raised his paddle. Margot glanced sideways at me. “You want them?” Before I could even open my mouth, she nodded to herself. “You want them.” She raised her paddle. The room erupted into hushed, electrified whispers. “Oh, this is going to be good.” “Tim has been so brazen lately. Didn’t they say his wife was a doormat who never fought back?” “What is going on? And why did he bring Margot?” “You idiot, Margot brought her to use her as a weapon against the mistresses.” “I mean, Tim really crossed the line this time. Buying them penthouses is one thing, but didn’t he basically propose in public? That’s a slap in the face to his actual wife.” “No woman could tolerate that.” “Please. What can she do? She’ll throw a little fit, and then she’ll go right back to wagging her tail for him. She’s pathetic.” “Quiet, the bidding is starting.”

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When the billionaire found me, my adoptive parents were in the middle of a drunken rage, lashing out at me with a belt. I didn’t run. I didn’t cry. I looked at the man in the expensive suit with eyes that were three parts innocent and seven parts hollow. I looked exactly like a broken porcelain doll. I knew the truth: I was a replacement. Or rather, I was the original they had lost. In my past life, I told them the truth immediately. I begged for their love. In return, I was framed, my reputation ruined, and I was eventually burned alive in a “tragic” gas explosion. This time, I decided to play the role of the girl who knew nothing. I would become the perfect, tragic daughter of the Sterling empire. “My foster parents only hit me because they loved my brother more,” I whispered. “If you love your ‘other’ daughter more than me, what will happen to me?” “I just can’t take any more hits.” Three sentences. That was all it took to push the billionaire’s guilt to the breaking point. I smiled inwardly. The stage was set. Now, the real show begins. 1 When my biological parents found me, I was in the middle of a “lesson.” My foster mother had pulled a metal poker from the fireplace. It was glowing orange-red. She was swinging it toward my back, screaming about some chores I hadn’t finished. In the air, I could almost smell the faint, sickening scent of charred skin. That was the exact moment the Sterlings burst through the door. “Stop! How dare you lay a hand on my daughter!” My foster mother was far gone in her rage. She didn’t stop. My biological mother, desperate to intervene, took a hit to her arm while trying to shield me. She let out a sharp cry, her eyes instantly welling with tears. I watched them, my expression completely blank. Does it hurt? I’m sure it did. But it didn’t hurt nearly as much as being burned alive in a basement while my family watched from the lawn. 2 My biological mother and I were both rushed to the hospital. By the time we arrived, my biological father—a man whose face was on the cover of every business magazine—and his two children had arrived. The hospital bed was surrounded by people. “Mom, how could that woman be so vicious? What did she use to hit you?” I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who was speaking. That was my “big brother,” Caleb. In my last life, he was one of the people who helped pour the gasoline. “Mom, does it hurt? If I had known, I would have gone with you. I would have protected you.” That was Brooke. She was sobbing, sounding as if she were the one who had lost a mother. Brooke was the Sterling’s “foundling” daughter. The girl they adopted to replace me. Actually, she was the biological daughter of my abusive foster parents. All the beatings I took for eighteen years? They were meant for her. I shifted slightly. A sharp, stinging pain radiated from my back, making me gasp. The sound was loud in the quiet VIP suite. The family finally remembered I was there. My biological mother looked over, her expression awkward. “Avery… are you okay?” I wasn’t okay. But I wouldn’t die. Not yet. I looked down, a self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “I’m used to it. But you… your skin is so delicate. That burn must be excruciating.” I made sure to emphasize the word “excruciating.” My biological father finally walked to my bedside to check my injuries. I didn’t hide. I let the gown slip just enough to show the horrific patchwork of scars on my back. 3 The moment they saw the damage, a collective gasp filled the room. Brooke turned away, hiding her face in Caleb’s chest as if she couldn’t bear the sight. “Oh my God,” Caleb whispered. “How can a human being have a back like that?” He acted like a protective older brother, covering Brooke’s eyes so she wouldn’t be “traumatized.” Is it really that scary? I couldn’t see it, but I knew. It was a map of every mistake my foster father made while drunk, and every bad mood my foster mother had. My mother ignored her own burn. she practically threw herself at my side. Warm tears fell onto the back of my neck, sliding into the raw wounds and making them sting. “Avery, come home with us. We’re never going back to those monsters. They aren’t human. How could they do this to you?” My father looked shaken. “Come home. We’ll get you the best doctors. We’ll make you whole again.” I let my eyes fill with a desperate, fragile hope. I stared at them for a long moment, then slowly shook my head. “My foster parents only hit me because they loved my brother more,” I whispered. “If you love Brooke more than me, what will happen to me?” “I just can’t take any more hits.” The room went silent. The guilt radiating from my parents was palpable. I lowered my gaze, hiding the cold glint in my eyes. In my last life, I was submissive. I was a “good girl.” And I died like a dog. This life? I’m going to make Brooke feel every single thing I went through. 4 Despite their pleas, I didn’t go home with them immediately. I knew that something given too easily is never cherished. I retreated to my tiny, cramped studio apartment. It was barely two hundred square feet, but it was mine. The only problem was reaching my back to apply the ointment. It didn’t matter. I was used to sleeping on my stomach. Just as I was drifting off, my phone rang. It was my biological father. I knew exactly why he was calling. I let the phone ring seven or eight times before answering with a voice thick with feigned sleep. “Avery, we’ve already retained a team of lawyers. We’re filing criminal charges against those people. We need you to come in tomorrow to give a statement.” I yawned silently. A lawsuit. Typical. But… I wouldn’t allow it. If they were behind bars, how would Brooke experience the “quality of life” I had endured? “Sue my parents? I… I don’t think I can.” “A child without a mother is like a blade of grass in the wind. They hit me, yes, but at least I had a home.” “I don’t want to lose my family.” “Avery…” There was a long, heavy silence on the other end. “If that’s all, I’m going to hang up. Please don’t bring this up again. I don’t want to be an orphan.” Click. If I guessed correctly, that billionaire couple wouldn’t be getting a wink of sleep tonight. But what did that have to do with me? In my last life, they weren’t the ones who lit the match, but they were the ones who handed Brooke the gasoline. 5 The next morning, at 7:00 AM sharp, my biological parents were at my door. Their eyes were bloodshot. They looked at me with pure desperation. “Avery, please. Come home.” “You silly girl, what were you saying last night? We are your family. We are your blood! You will never be an orphan as long as we breathe.” To show their sincerity, they brought two maids and three massive suitcases full of designer clothes. But my apartment was too small. With all of them inside, you couldn’t even turn around without bumping into someone. My eyes welled with tears. I looked at them like a kicked puppy. “Really?” “Will you… will you love Brooke more? She’s been with you for twenty years.” My parents shook their heads in unison, their faces firm. In my last life, I didn’t know how to fight. I let Brooke’s “sweetness” win them over. They lectured me. They scolded me. Eventually, they loathed me. This time, I’m making sure they stay on my side forever. 6 Coming home this time was much more lucrative than before. My father called a family meeting. In front of everyone, he produced two black credit cards and a deed to a property in the city. “Avery, you’ve suffered too much.” “There is ten million dollars in this account for your ‘pocket money.’” “This penthouse is in your name. You can move in whenever you want. We are never going back to that tiny apartment again.” I acted panicked. “This is too much… I… I’m not worth this.” The more I refused, the more distressed they became. They practically forced the cards into my hand. “Avery, take it. This is yours. Eventually, we will transfer your share of the company stock as well…” I bit my lip. “Then… thank you, Dad. Thank you, Mom.” Hearing those words, the two of them were moved to tears again. I joined them, letting my own tears fall. It was a picture of domestic bliss. But Brooke wasn’t happy. She sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her knuckles white as she gripped her skirt. She was staring at me with a gaze that could kill. I flashed her a tiny, secret smile and slid over to sit next to her. I handed her one of the cards. “Brooke, let me share half with you. I’ve been through a lot of trauma, and sometimes my emotions might get a little… out of control. You won’t be mad at me, right?” The keyword: out of control. My parents didn’t catch the threat. They only saw a sister being “generous.” My father spoke up. “Avery is right. She’s been through hell because of those monsters.” “From now on, nobody is allowed to bully Avery!” Brooke forced a smile but didn’t speak. Caleb’s brow was furrowed, his gaze on me cold and suspicious. I didn’t care. I’m smart. I’ll wait. Once these “fake” siblings reach their breaking point, that’s when I’ll really start my rampage. 7 My mother wanted to show me around the estate, but Brooke cut in. “Mom, I know the house best. Let me show Avery around.” “You should go rest. You usually take your nap at this time. I already put your warm milk on your nightstand.” I smiled. Milk on the nightstand? I lived here for years in my last life. I knew for a fact my mother didn’t have a “milk before bed” habit. Brooke was marking her territory. She was showing me she knew our mother’s “habits” better than I did. My mother blinked, a bit surprised, but she looked touched. She patted Brooke’s hand. “Thank you, Brooke. I am quite exhausted today.” “You’re such a thoughtful girl. I’m so lucky to have you…” Before she could finish, I spoke up, my voice full of longing. “Mom… is the milk sweet?” “Back at my other house, only my brother was allowed to have milk.” I licked my lips. It worked. My mother’s hand dropped from Brooke’s. Her eyes turned red again. “Brooke, go… go warm a glass for Avery too. Bring it to her room.” I shook my head obediently. “No, Mom. I’ll go learn how to do it. I’ll warm a glass for Brooke. I’m the big sister. I should take care of her.” Three minutes later, under our mother’s watchful eye, Brooke was forced to choke down a glass of warm milk she clearly didn’t want. I looked down, hiding my smile. Drink it. The more you drink, the easier it is for my plan to work. I looked up, my expression innocent. “Mom, from now on, I’ll warm the milk for you and Brooke every day.” Brooke looked like she wanted to scream, but my mother just stroked my hair and smiled weakly. “Okay.” Brooke’s face turned ugly for a split second. She glared at me. Angry already? I almost laughed. In my last life, I never had this kind of intimacy with my parents. I was timid and small. I just wanted peace. In less than a week, I had fallen into every one of Brooke’s traps. My parents tried to defend me at first. But after Brooke framed me over and over, they looked at me with nothing but disappointment. Then came the fire. The mansion burned. It was only because of their “pity” that they sifted through the ashes and found a few pieces of my bones. We’re even now. I don’t love these parents, but I don’t quite hate them either. But Caleb? He was the one who made sure the doors were locked from the outside. 8 Without the siblings’ interference, my relationship with my parents was actually quite stable. My mother, trying to make up for eighteen years of lost time, insisted on tucking me in every night. This seemed to drive Brooke insane. That night, Brooke called my mother, sobbing. “Mom, I feel so sick. I think I have a fever.” “Mom, can you come stay with me? Like you used to when I was little…” My mother’s brow furrowed. She didn’t even put on her slippers before running to Brooke’s room. I followed at a leisurely pace. This was Brooke’s show, after all. She was performing for me. If I didn’t show up, who would appreciate her acting? By the time I got there, Caleb was already in Brooke’s room. The family doctor was packing his bag. “Mrs. Sterling, Brooke is just suffering from ’emotional stress.’ She’s probably been overworking herself lately. That’s why the fever hit her so suddenly.” I let out a soft chuckle. Overworking herself? More like she was fuming because I’ve been hogging our mother’s attention. Brooke’s face was flushed red, her eyes watery and pathetic. My parents were devastated. They hovered at her bedside. “Brooke, why are you so stressed? What’s bothering you?” “Are you in a lot of pain?” Brooke’s voice was weak, sounding as if she were about to draw her last breath. “Mom, I’m fine. Go take care of Avery.” Classic. She used this same trick in my last life. And just as expected, Caleb shot me a cold, venomous look. “Brooke was always perfectly healthy. She never got fevers. How ‘coincidental’ that the moment you show up, she falls ill.” I leaned against the doorframe, listening. This was nothing. In my last life, Caleb accused me of stealing Brooke’s necklace and nearly broke my hand “interrogating” me. My father barked, “Watch your tone with your sister!” A simple scolding. Meaningless. I took a step back. “It’s okay. Mom should stay with Brooke.” My mother looked torn, but she also looked relieved. I turned to go back to my room. “But Mom, you should probably keep your distance. The flu has been going around lately.” My parents looked confused. Caleb growled, “Why are you so dramatic?” I turned back and explained seriously, “The doctor said I’m malnourished and my immune system is weak. He told me to avoid ‘sources of infection’ whenever possible.” To prove my point, I shook my sleeve. The pajamas were the smallest size available, but they still hung off my skeletal frame. My parents’ eyes filled with pity. Caleb gritted his teeth. “You’re just trying to compete with her!” “I’m sick too. Is it wrong to want my own mother?” I said softly. “If I’m in the way, I’ll just go. Each daughter can just go back to her own mother.” 9 Brooke’s eyes flickered when she heard that. I knew that was her greatest fear. She had tasted the high life. Who would ever want to go back to being beaten in a trailer park? Caleb took two long strides toward me, using his height to loom over me. “You’re so vicious. You just want an excuse to kick Brooke out, don’t you?” I took a half-step back. Remembering my last life, my gaze toward Caleb turned icy. “Vicious? If life were fair, she would be the one with the scars on her back, not me.” Caleb’s jaw tightened. He pointed at me, looking at our parents. “Is this the daughter you fought so hard to find?” “She comes back and immediately starts trying to push Brooke out. She’s just like those monsters who raised her—pure trash!” I laughed out loud. I am vicious. When did I ever claim to be a saint? But Brooke and I are two of a kind. I just wondered which would win: the nature of my bloodline, or the nurture of her upbringing. In the end, my mother chose me. She followed me back to my room. She tucked me in, but her face was full of worry. “If you want to go to her, just go. I’m fine.” “No, honey. Mom is staying here with you…” I gave her a sweet, fake smile and closed my eyes. I needed my rest. Knowing Brooke, tomorrow was going to be an even bigger headache.

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When my biological parents finally tracked me down, I had already joined the neighborhood aunties’ line-dancing squad at the local community center. They stared at me—dressed in a bedazzled, loud floral knit set—with expressions of pure, unadulterated disgust. 01 “Are you… Maya? This outfit…” The well-dressed woman before me hesitated, her gaze raking over my “Blooming Florals” knit tracksuit. Ignoring the flicker of disdain in her eyes, I dropped the heavy bag of rice and the gallon of cooking oil I was lugging on my shoulder. I pulled a scratched thermos from my shopping bag. I took a slow sip of tea before looking at the group. “So, you’re the biological parents?” Mr. Sterling frowned but eventually nodded. “We are.” “And who’s she?” I looked at the fragile-looking girl standing behind them. Her eyes welled up instantly. The two men flanking her—one older, one younger—immediately stepped in front of her like human shields. “Don’t you dare bully Serena,” the younger one snapped, his impulsiveness getting the better of him. I looked at her face. We shared about sixty percent of the same features. Then I looked at the way the Sterling family reacted to his outburst. This family was going to be interesting. I leaned back against my dilapidated sofa and watched them like a spectator at a play. Perhaps realizing his tone was inappropriate, the older brother explained, “We know you’ve suffered these past years, but none of this was Serena’s fault. She’s innocent…” Before he could finish, the door to my cramped apartment was shoved open. A mob of neighborhood aunties, all wearing the same bedazzled floral tracksuits as me, swarmed my biological parents. They started shouting over one another, airing my grievances: “So you’re Maya’s real parents?” “What took you so long? Do you have any idea what this girl has been through?” “Let me tell you, that foster mother of hers was a monster! You see those heavy wooden laundry rollers? That woman would beat her with them for no reason!” “Exactly! Half the time she wasn’t even allowed to eat. In the dead of winter, that woman purposely shredded Maya’s school jacket and made her go to class in a torn T-shirt! During her SATs, she locked her in a room so she couldn’t take the test!” “We always knew no real mother could be that cruel. Turns out she wasn’t the real one!” “You better have that woman arrested. And that fake daughter of yours? You better check her, too. I bet she knew her mother swapped the babies on purpose…” “Wait, who’s crying?” Auntie Sarah, the leader of the squad, froze. The group of women looked around for the source of the sobbing, finally landing on the girl in white. “I’m… I’m so sorry,” the girl sobbed, her shoulders shaking. “I didn’t mean to steal your life. I…” “And who might this be?” Auntie Sarah narrowed her eyes, making a ‘shushing’ gesture to the group. I nodded. “That’s Martha’s biological daughter. Serena Sterling.” 02 “Maya, Martha is Martha. What she did has nothing to do with Serena.” My “big brother,” Marcus Sterling, spoke up. The rest of the family nodded in agreement. But these were the South Side Line-Dancing Aunties. They had seen every trick in the book. A few looks exchanged between them, and they had the whole situation pegged. Before the Sterlings could say another word, Auntie Bev—who hadn’t even pampered her own son this much—cut them off. “Oh, please. Give me a break.” “Whether she’s ‘innocent’ is one thing, but her crying like this? What is Maya supposed to do? Comfort the girl who’s been living her life?” Bev reached out and yanked up my sleeve, exposing the jagged scars on the back of my hand. “Look at this. Her ‘mother’ did this with a red-hot set of fireplace tongs.” “Then look at this girl. Dressed in designer labels, skin as soft as silk.” “And you want Maya to apologize to her? To comfort her? Does that sound right to you?” Bev turned her glare toward Serena. “Listen, kid. Maybe you can’t be blamed for what your mother did, but Maya lived through hell for eighteen years because of it! Have some decency. Stop the crocodile tears. You’re just stabbing Maya in the heart.” With that, Bev wiped a stray tear with her sleeve and pulled me into a hug. “My poor, silly girl. You always keep everything inside. No one loved you before, but now that your real parents are here, surely they won’t be biased against you, right? These are your parents. If you’ve been wronged, you speak up!” “Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, am I right?” The squad’s eyes were all locked on the Sterling parents. They smiled awkwardly. “Yes. Of course. Maya, tell us if anything is bothering you.” Serena, choked into silence by Bev’s bluntness, could only stare at the family with wide, red eyes, biting her lip. 03 Before I got into the Sterlings’ car, Bev shoved a shopping bag into my arms. She said it was the new “team uniform.” Inside was a high-end, trendy athletic set. I knew the aunties were worried I’d have nothing “classy” to wear at the Sterling estate, so they had pooled their money to buy it for me. I whispered a thank you and handed over the discounted eggs I’d fought for at the supermarket earlier. I locked up my new oil and rice. Marcus reminded me I didn’t need to lock them up—I wasn’t coming back. I tilted my head, glanced at the parents and the younger brother who were currently whispering comforts to Serena, and smiled at Marcus without saying a word. Marcus looked back, unable to help himself. “Maya, Serena didn’t do it on purpose. She feels truly guilty. She’s cried about this multiple times at home…” “Sure, sure. Whatever you say.” I brushed him off, clutched my new clothes and my backpack, and slid into the car. During the drive, I looked at my phone. The family looked at me. Auntie Sarah sent $500 to the group chat: [A little something from the squad. Don’t you dare refuse it!] Bev messaged me privately: [Maya, if it’s not comfortable over there, just come home.] The others echoed her. We lived in a rough neighborhood. Most of these women were retired on tiny pensions. Bev and Mrs. Higgins still worked stalls at the flea market to make ends meet. Every cent they had spent on me over the years was money they had saved by skipping meals. They were sending me this money now because they saw my “real” parents were biased. They were terrified I’d be mistreated in that mansion. “Maya, that outfit…” Eleanor Sterling, my mother, looked at my bedazzled tracksuit with a furrowed brow. She finally couldn’t help herself. “From now on, you are a Sterling. Your clothes and behavior must be appropriate.” “And at your age, you should be making friends your own age. Expand your horizons, socialize. Don’t spend all your time with… those community center ladies.” “Serena can help you with that. It’ll be a good way for you two to bond.” Eleanor spoke with such “sincerity” that Serena immediately played along. She reached for my hand, her intimacy making my skin crawl. “Mom’s right. I’ll teach you everything, Maya.” “Sister, when we get home, I’ll pick out some things from my closet for you. As for what you’re wearing… we’ll just have the maid throw it out.” “Exactly,” said Leo, the younger brother. “I don’t even know what that trashy set is. It’s hideous. If you keep dressing like that, don’t tell people you’re a Sterling. It’s embarrassing.” I paused my typing—I was in the middle of thanking my dear aunties—and looked at them with a bright smile. “Do you know why I always wear these ‘auntie’ clothes?” 04 “Because her mother—Martha—shredded every piece of clothing I owned to keep me from going to school. Not just that, but when the neighbors felt bad and gave me hand-me-downs, she burned them or cut them up.” “Eventually, those ‘trashy’ ladies you look down on found a way. They recruited me to help with their dance squad. They told Martha that the clothes I wore were team property—the squad’s assets. They told her if she destroyed them, she’d have to pay the community center back. That was the only way I was allowed to leave the house looking like a human being.” “By the way, Serena, do you know why your mother didn’t want me going to school?” I stared directly into Serena’s eyes. “It was because of that regional academic competition in eighth grade. She realized we were assigned to the same testing center. She realized that if I kept going, someone might eventually see us together and notice the resemblance.” “Oh, and one more thing. The aunties were too polite to say it earlier. Do you know what Martha did on the day of the SATs? She locked me in my room.” “She let a local creep into the house. She told me she’d sold me to him for three hundred dollars so he could ‘make me his wife’…” “Stop! Stop talking!” Eleanor went pale, clutching her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. The rest of the Sterling men looked sick, unable to meet my eyes. “Heh.” I let out a sharp laugh, ignoring their discomfort. “So, you should actually be thanking those aunties. If they hadn’t broken down the door, dragged me out, and personally driven me to the exam site, I’d either be dead or I’d be the mother of three kids in some shack in the woods by now.” The car went deathly silent. I curled my lips into a smirk, leaned back against the leather seat, and closed my eyes to rest. Maybe my little story was too much for them. As soon as we reached the Sterling estate, the parents made excuses about work and fled the scene. Serena and Leo also couldn’t handle my gaze and scurried upstairs. Only Marcus remained to lead me to my room—a converted guest bedroom on the first floor. I watched Serena and Leo run up to the second floor, then looked at Marcus and smiled. Marcus looked awkward. “This is just temporary. I’ll have the contractors renovate the spare room on the second floor. You can move up there once it’s done.” I just kept smiling. His face darkened. “Maya, we know you’ve been through a lot, but that’s in the past. Mom, Dad, and I are going to make it up to you. There’s no need to cling to the past and make everyone uncomfortable.” “Is it uncomfortable?” I asked, walking around the room. “Didn’t you see Mom and Dad’s faces?” His tone was accusatory. “And Serena. How do you think she feels, hearing those things while trying to live in this house…” I saw a heavy, long decorative brass statue on the nightstand. My eyes lit up. I grabbed it and swung it with everything I had, slamming it into Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus grunted in pain, clutching his arm and glaring at me. “Are you insane?!” I weighed the statue in my hand and grinned. “Does it hurt?” “What do you think?!” He looked at me like I was a maniac. “Maya, apologize to me right now!” “But that hit happened in the past,” I said, mimicking his tone perfectly. “And compared to what I’ve endured over the years, that little tap was nothing. Why are you clinging to what just happened? Why are you trying to make me feel uncomfortable, Brother?” Marcus choked on his words. I just waved him away and slammed the door. “Bye-bye, Brother.” 05 At dinner, perhaps out of a sense of guilt, my mother specifically asked what I liked and had the cook prepare a feast. When she saw me eating without a fuss, the tension on her face eased slightly. “Maya, you’re a Sterling now. Tomorrow, I’ll have my lawyer take you to change your legal name,” my father said. I looked around the table, my gaze lingering for a second on Serena’s puffy eyelids. “And what about her? Is she changing her name back to Miller?” The parents froze. Serena’s expression faltered. She bit her lip. “If Maya really dislikes me that much, I can move out.” She looked at my parents with eyes full of tears. “Maya, don’t be a bitch!” Leo shouted, jumping to his feet. “I just asked if she was changing her name to her biological mother’s name,” I said, glancing at Leo with indifference. Hearing that I didn’t explicitly demand she move out, the parents visibly relaxed. I couldn’t help but laugh at their reaction. “But since she brought it up.” “Let’s go with her plan. Have her move out. She’s right—I really don’t like her.” “Maya!” Leo glared at me. “How can you be so vicious? Serena even offered to give you her bedroom! She’s doing everything to accommodate you, and you just keep attacking her!” “It’s okay, Leo. I know she hates me. I should give everything back to her anyway,” Serena sobbed quietly. “Maya…” Eleanor looked at me, torn. I didn’t say a word. I simply pulled a photo from my pocket—one I’d prepared long ago—and tossed it onto the table. The family stared at the face in the photo, then instinctively looked at Serena. Serena looked exactly like her biological mother, Martha. “Now do you understand why I don’t like her?” I rolled up my sleeves, resting my chin on my hands, exposing the criss-crossing scars on my forearms for the whole table to see. My parents had seen the scars on my hands, but they hadn’t seen the rest. I turned my arm over, showing them the words Martha had carved into my skin with a knife: BITCH DOG. The Sterlings finally went silent. 06 I happily helped myself to two large pieces of steak. Serena, stuck in limbo, looked at the Sterlings for help. Marcus finally let out a sigh, attempting to “reason” with me. “Maya, we know it’s been hard. But Serena grew up with us. She’s family. We aren’t going to just throw her out. We hope you won’t take your anger toward… that woman out on her. You need to learn to get along.” I put my fork down. I didn’t address Marcus. I looked at Serena with a mocking smile. “What about you? Do you want to get along with me?” Serena blinked, immediately putting on her tragic, misunderstood mask. “Sister, even though I know you hate me, I’ve wanted to be your friend from the very beginning.” “So, you never actually intended to leave the Sterlings, did you?” I said. “In that case, why do you keep offering to move out? Just to make me look like the villain?” Panic flashed in Serena’s eyes. “I didn’t… that’s not…” I didn’t stay for the rest of her performance. I stood up and said, “I’m done,” and started walking toward the stairs. Leo realized what I was doing and blocked me. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Serena offered me her room, didn’t she? I’m accepting the offer.” I narrowed my eyes, giving them a pleasant, terrifying smile. “That wasn’t a lie, was it? You weren’t just saying that to mock me because I was put in the guest room, were you?” Serena stammered, “No… no, I really wanted to give it to you, it’s just…” “Good.” I looked at the housekeeper. “Mrs. Gable, please move Serena’s things to the guest room immediately. If I have to do it myself and things go missing, I won’t be held responsible.” Mrs. Gable looked at my parents, unsure. “What? Serena agreed to it. Does anyone have an objection? Or do you think I don’t deserve it?” I asked. “No, Maya. Don’t overthink it,” my father told Mrs. Gable. “Do as she says.” “Dad…” Serena looked at him, her world crumbling. My father guiltily looked away. He told Marcus to speed up the renovations on the other upstairs room. They hadn’t been in a rush to renovate a room for me before I got back. Now that Serena was displaced, they were frantic. How poetic. But even more poetic was the flash of pure venom in Serena’s eyes. She was finally losing her cool. Good. That looked much more like the girl who had “accidentally” dialed the wrong number and vented to a “stranger” (Martha), subtly hinting that Martha needed to keep me away from my real family. 07 I first found out about the swap on the day Martha’s nephew got into a decent college. Martha had gotten blackout drunk. She spent the whole night laughing and bragging. She talked about how her parents had always favored her brother. To pay for his house, they had sold her to an old cripple for thirty thousand dollars. After the cripple died, they stole her insurance payout to give to their grandson. “But look at me now. Their precious grandson worked himself to death and only got into a state school. My daughter? She’s a princess. She’ll always be a princess.” “As long as this jinx is out of the way! Yes, as long as you’re gone.” She had tried to find a stick to beat me with, but she was too drunk to stand. Usually, Martha was a quiet drunk. But that night, she kept rambling about how her “princess” was living the high life with my parents, and how her princess was cleverly guiding her to keep me far away from the Sterlings. The aunties from the community center heard everything. They took me to the police station immediately. Afraid of what Martha might do next, they pooled their money to buy me a burner phone. But by the time we got back from the station, Martha had vanished. … Serena’s things were moved out. I had to admit, she had a lot of stuff. Her clothes and jewelry alone filled two guest rooms. Compared to her, my single backpack and shopping bag looked pathetic. Eleanor Sterling stood in the middle of the empty, massive master suite, watching me hang my two outfits in a walk-in closet the size of a bedroom. The annoyance she’d felt over me “stealing” Serena’s room turned into sharp guilt. “Maya…” she began. I ignored her, putting on my cheap Bluetooth headphones and FaceTimeing the aunties to check in on their line-dancing progress. She stood there, hovering, before turning to leave. I turned my head. “Mom.” She looked at me, eyes instantly filling with tears. It was the first time I’d called her that. “Maya.” She rushed over and grabbed my hand. “Maya, I’m so sorry. I’ll make everything up to you. I promise you’ll never be hurt again.” For a second, my heart actually twinged. “If I told you Serena and Martha have been in contact this whole time, would you believe me?” I asked. The silence was deafening. The tears stayed in her eyes, but the emotion vanished. Just as I thought. From the first moment I saw how they looked at Serena, I knew. “Even if you don’t believe me, will you investigate it?” “Maya… that’s… that’s impossible,” she stammered. I smiled—the same flat, indifferent smile I always wore. “Fine. I get it.” I pushed her gently toward the door. “I need to rest, Mrs. Sterling.” I shut the door. And I shut the door to my heart, too. I pulled out my phone and messaged a contact: [Let’s do it.] If the Sterlings wouldn’t give me justice, I’d take it myself.

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On the day of our third anniversary, my husband Liam was obsessed with a young college student. Their love was intense and public. I continued to play the role of the gentle, understanding wife of a wealthy man, even thoughtfully covering for him in front of both our families. Until he went to an exclusive club to find his rebellious little “canary,” and saw me sitting on a male model’s lap, holding him and kissing him wildly. The usually composed, aloof man saw red, his eyes bloodshot, and smashed the club to pieces. 1 The little canary Liam kept on the side had been getting a bit restless lately. She actually went behind Liam’s back, sneaking to his family’s estate, demanding that his grandfather acknowledge her status. His grandfather was furious. I played along with Liam to defuse the situation, successfully getting her out of there in one piece. The young girl followed behind us, her eyes red. The moment we stepped outside the estate’s carved iron gates, she immediately reached out and grabbed Liam’s sleeve: “Liam, I’m not with you for the money!” She looked up at Liam, tears streaming down her face instantly. She looked so fragile and pitiable; it was no wonder Liam was completely infatuated with her. Obviously, the attitude of his grandfather and parents made her realize how massive the gap was between her and the Thorne family. That’s why she was so desperate to explain herself the second she got out. Liam frowned slightly, but ultimately couldn’t bring himself to scold her. He reached out and ruffled her hair, his tone a mix of helplessness and indulgence: “Alright, stop crying. I know.” With that, he looked at me, standing off to the side, looking a bit awkward: “She’s probably scared from what just happened. I’ll take her home first. You…” I had come here in his car, so if he was taking his new flame home, I naturally couldn’t go with them. But if I asked the estate driver to take me, his grandfather would definitely find out. I gave him a slight smile and proactively offered, “I’ll just call an Uber.” Liam was clearly very satisfied with my understanding nature. He nodded, wrapped an arm around the girl, and walked away without looking back. He didn’t even remember that the area around the main estate was some of the most expensive real estate in the city, exclusively residential. You couldn’t even get an Uber around here. 2 Liam didn’t come home until the following evening. He still had a few faded hickeys on his neck. They were intentionally placed right where his collar couldn’t hide them, like a bold declaration of ownership. Such childish little tricks; only a naive girl without an ounce of subtlety would do something like that. I lowered my eyes, pretending not to notice, and smiled as I took the coat he had just taken off, playing the role of the virtuous, perfect wife to the hilt. I even magnanimously showed concern for his mistress: “How is she?” He tugged at his collar, his tone light: “Just throwing a childish tantrum. A little coaxing and she was fine.” Seems like she was coaxed back to her senses. I hesitated for a moment, but finally decided to tell him what I had been considering for a long time: “Have you ever thought about giving her a proper title?” Liam’s tall frame froze in place. It took him a few seconds to process what I said. He asked, confused, “What do you mean?” “What I mean is, Liam, let’s get a divorce.” I was tired of playing the good wife. I didn’t want to do it anymore. 3 Clearly, Liam had never expected me to bring up divorce. He pinched the bridge of his nose, that handsome face I had swooned over for years now filled with irritation: “Chloe, you should know very well that divorce isn’t that simple for us.” I could hear that he was trying to suppress his frustration, keeping his voice as level as possible. In the past, this attitude meant he didn’t want to continue the conversation, and I should drop it. But this time, I was dead set on getting a divorce. My marriage to Liam was a corporate alliance. A divorce wasn’t just about the two of us; it involved both of our families. Getting a divorce really wouldn’t be easy. I bit my lower lip and continued, “It might be a little complicated, but…” “Enough!” He violently cut me off, reaching out and pulling me into his arms: “I know I’ve neglected you lately, and I’ll make it up to you, but don’t ever mention divorce again.” “Chloe, it feels like it’s been a long time since we…” With that, he lowered his head, his slightly parted lips moving closer to mine. I quickly slapped my hand over his mouth, making up an excuse: “It’s my time of the month! It’s not a good time!” Screw that! Who wants your sloppy seconds! Disgusting! 4 Since the divorce talk fell apart, I quickly packed my bags and moved out of the house. Liam, thinking I was just throwing a jealous fit, called me constantly. When I didn’t answer, he bombarded me with texts. Honestly, I was just worried he’d try to sleep with me again. As for jealousy… I’ll admit, when we first got married, any rumor about him made me physically ill. But as time went on, I slowly got used to it. My deep love for him was worn away by his constant betrayals. Still, I didn’t mind letting him misunderstand. I could use this opportunity to max out his credit cards, considering it my compensation for his infidelity. 5 A week after running away from home. My best friend, Sarah, and I walked into the most exclusive, high-end private club in the city. Naturally, Liam was footing the bill. As soon as we walked in, we ran into the little canary, wearing a server’s uniform and carrying a fruit platter: “You…” Never mind, I couldn’t even remember her name. I cleared my throat and asked, “What are you doing here?” The little canary pressed her lips together tightly, glaring at me with those pretty, big eyes, looking absolutely furious. Sarah hooked her arm through mine, looking her up and down: “Is this the little toy Liam keeps on the side?” “What, is Liam not giving her an allowance? Why is she working here?” The tray in the little canary’s hands trembled slightly. She looked like a cat with its back arched: “Liam and I are together because we love each other! It’s not for his money!” She directed her anger at me, continuing her outburst: “Liam says he only loves me! He’s only with you for the family business!” I waved my hand dismissively. “Got it, got it. Well, I wish you both happiness.” 6 I ignored her and led Sarah into our private room. Sarah laughed until she was breathless: “Where did Liam find this precious gem? Actually talking about ‘love’ with a married man in Liam’s social class.” “Does she actually think she can successfully replace you like that? She’d be better off taking whatever money she can get while she’s still young.” I smirked. “That’s why she’s young.” In old-money families like ours, legacy is more important than wealth. That’s why marriage is taken so seriously. If a marriage partner needs to have exceptional qualifications and a very high social standing, then it has to be a corporate alliance. Liam wasn’t stupid enough to give up everything he had for her, which is why he wouldn’t agree to the divorce. Sarah continued, “I heard that girl has been throwing tantrums with Liam the last couple of days.” “Apparently, because you moved out, you took up a lot of Liam’s attention, and the little girl wasn’t happy about it.” Our social circle is small; if someone wants to find something out, they will. I rolled my eyes at her. “You’re such a gossip.” 7 I have to say, spending my cheating husband’s money to hire male models is incredibly satisfying. Especially when the models are gorgeous, sweet-talking, and have amazing bodies. It would have been even better if my husband hadn’t caught me. When Liam kicked the door open, I was straddling a male model I had been seeing for the last couple of days, my arms wrapped around his neck, passionately kissing his face. I had on heavy, glamorous makeup, big, sexy waves, and a tight outfit that showed off my figure. Hearing the noise, I instinctively looked toward the door. Before the sultry look in my eyes could fade, I saw Liam’s face, dark as a thundercloud. I gave the male model one last peck on the lips before slowly climbing off him. Liam’s face was black as pitch, and he glared at the male model with a murderous intensity, looking like he wanted to hack him to pieces. I smoothed my hair, breaking the silence first: “Why are you here?” He ground his teeth, speaking in a low, slow drawl: “Chloe, how dare you?” “Why wouldn’t I dare? You play your games, I play mine.” The more I spoke, the guiltier I felt. “Let’s be fair, you have a mistress, and I never threw a fit about it.” I wasn’t guilty about being caught with a male model; I was just guilty because I was cheating on him using his money. 8 “Mr. Thorne, why are you over here? I was looking for you in the VIP lounge.” “I brought Mia here for you. I’m so sorry, I had no idea she was your girl.” I leaned sideways to look out the door. A chubby man was walking over, leading the little canary. Oh, so her name is Mia. Liam stood rooted to the spot, not even glancing in their direction. Mia, on the other hand, threw herself into his arms like a baby bird returning to the nest, crying: “Hubby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have thrown a tantrum, and I definitely shouldn’t have snuck out to work without telling you.” Me: “…” After her dramatic entrance, she followed Liam’s gaze and saw me. She pouted, shrinking back into Liam’s embrace, and acted like a spoiled child, whispering again, “Hubby.” A mistress calling my husband “hubby” right in front of me, the legal wife. That’s basically an open declaration of war, right? I didn’t really care. It was just a little nauseating. But I felt bad for the chubby man who had just walked up. Even though I didn’t know him, he seemed to recognize me. He looked at me, then at the clearly ravished male model next to me, then at the furious Liam and the little mistress in his arms. In just one minute, his facial expressions went through a dozen different changes. In families with corporate alliances, it’s normal for spouses to have their own side pieces. As long as they aren’t too blatant about it, they’ll usually turn a blind eye to maintain the facade for the sake of the business. A direct, face-to-face confrontation like ours was extremely rare. 9 Liam patted Mia’s back, suppressing his temper to coax her: “Be good, let the driver take you home first. I have some business to handle here.” Mia softly replied with an “Oh,” and slowly pulled away from Liam’s embrace. She looked me up and down, then casually remarked, “Are you talking about Miss Bennett’s business?” “When I first started working here a few days ago, I ran into Miss Bennett and her friend. I heard they hired the five most expensive guys.” “I was afraid you guys would fight, so I didn’t dare tell you.” I clicked my tongue. The little girl wasn’t as innocent as she looked. Liam’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. He shifted his gaze to Mia, his eyes filled with the impatient fury he was trying to suppress: “I told you to go home. Did you not understand me?” Probably never having been spoken to like that by him before, Mia pouted and glared at him, tears welling in her eyes, acting like she was upset and waiting for him to coax her. However, Liam wasn’t in the mood to play her childish little games right now. For the first time, he lost his temper with his precious canary: “Get lost!” 10 Mia ran away crying. Liam stormed over to the couch I had just been sitting on with the male model and threw himself onto it: “Manager Chen, please bring… all the guys my wife ordered.” He ground his teeth, ultimately unable to say the words ‘male models’. The man addressed as Manager Chen wiped the sweat from his brow, bowing and nodding in agreement. As soon as he left, Liam smashed a crystal glass on the table: “Chloe, you’ve really outdone yourself!” He took off his suit jacket and threw it at me, the large garment covering my head. I could faintly smell the perfume Mia had left on it. I pulled it down, intending to throw it back at him. But he frowned, scanning me up and down before his gaze settled on my long, bare legs exposed by my miniskirt: “Put it on!” “And don’t you ever leave the house dressed like this again!” 11 He sure is bossy! I never noticed he was this possessive before. I calmly folded the jacket and looked him straight in the eye: “Liam, let’s just get a divorce. I’m truly sick of this.” Liam, who had been holding back this whole time, completely exploded after I said that. His eyes bloodshot, he kicked the table in front of him: “Haven’t I told you never to mention that word again?” I sighed, trying to communicate with him calmly: “You don’t even love me, why are you forcing this? This way, all three of us are miserable.” Liam froze for a moment, pointing at the male model who had been standing quietly to the side, his voice hoarse as if it had been scrubbed with sandpaper: “Miserable? You seem pretty happy messing around with this cheap trash!” The male model raised an eyebrow and shot back, “You tell me if she was happy. Just think about how happy you are when you’re messing around with your own cheap trash.” I silently gave him a thumbs-up. What a hero. 12 By the time Manager Chen brought in a line of male models, Liam had already smashed the private room to pieces. The flesh on the fat man’s face jiggled as he cautiously glanced at the hero standing in the ruins: “Mr. Thorne, what is…” Liam threw his cigarette on the floor, crushed it with his foot, and said flatly, “Calculate the damages and send the bill to our finance department.” With that, a cold sneer played on his lips as he surveyed the dozen or so handsome male models: “I didn’t realize you had such a big appetite.” “My fault, I guess I didn’t satisfy you!” I glared at him angrily: “Liam, are you sick? You’re humiliating them!” As soon as I yelled that, the sound of loud, sharp slaps echoed behind me. Liam’s sneer deepened: “Looks like they’re perfectly happy being humiliated by me.” I turned around stiffly. The guys Manager Chen brought in were slapping each other, but the hero who had talked back to Liam was still standing to the side, looking defiant. Truly the one I was most satisfied with so far. 13 Liam had no interest in watching them perform. He grabbed my arm, trying to drag me away, but was stopped by the hero who had been watching the spectacle. Liam narrowed his eyes: “Know your place. You’re just a cheap toy for people’s amusement. Get out of my way!” I frowned, annoyed: “Liam, do you have to be so nasty?” Liam, surprised that I was defending someone else, tightened his grip: “You’d better shut up and come home with me right now.” “Otherwise, I can’t guarantee what I might do!” The hero’s handsome face also darkened, looking like a storm was brewing. I was afraid they were going to start a fight, so I quickly shook my head at him. After all, I was still Liam’s legal wife, and given Liam’s social standing, dealing with a simple male model would be child’s play. I didn’t want to cause him any trouble. 14 Outside the club, Liam hailed a cab, shoved me into the backseat, and got in right behind me. The ride was silent. When we got home, he immediately locked the bedroom door, then pulled out his phone and made a call to someone: “Bring some guys and smash ‘The Oasis’ for me.” “And there’s a guy in there named…” He looked at me, and I quickly shook my head. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t tell him, I genuinely didn’t know his name. I was just there to spend money, why would I care what his name was? “Go find Manager Chen, he knows who it is. After you smash the place, find that kid and break his hands.” 15 Liam has a bad temper; I knew that. But he usually has incredible self-control, so I rarely saw him enraged. I certainly never expected him to be so ruthless. “He’s innocent, Liam, you can’t do this!” He leaned forward, pinning me down, his beautiful eyes filled with jagged, bloodshot veins: “He dared to set his sights on you, so he’s not innocent.” “Chloe, be good. Don’t let me hear you beg for him again.” “Otherwise, it might not just be his hands next time.” In the end, I had implicated an innocent person. 16 I pushed against him with my hands, but he grabbed them and pinned them above my head. “Did they touch you?” he asked in a low voice right next to my ear. I tried to kick him, but he pinned my legs with his own. Completely immobilized, I ground my teeth and snapped back, “No! They don’t offer that service!” Being able to kiss and touch but not go all the way—it was very frustrating. He clearly knew that too. He burst out laughing, his expression softening considerably: “You look pretty cute when you’re angry.” He held both my wrists with one hand and used his free hand to pinch my cheek: “Let’s just say you were playing around these past two days. We’ll forget about it and go back to normal, okay?” It seems he’s gotten a lot of practice coaxing his little girl; he can switch on this doting tone effortlessly. “Sure, once you end things with your college student, I’ll go back to normal with you.” Liam went silent for a few seconds, let go of me, and sat up straight. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration: “You know she’s no threat to your position as Mrs. Thorne.” “If you really don’t like her, I’ll make sure she never appears in front of you again.” To put it bluntly, he just didn’t want to end it. I nodded, signaling that I understood. Thank goodness. Thank goodness I stopped loving him a long time ago, otherwise, my heart would be breaking right now.

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My husband, an A-list Hollywood actor, and I are a fake, affectionate contract couple. In front of the cameras, he loves me more than life itself, even throwing punches at other men on the red carpet to defend my honor. Behind closed doors, he hates me to the bone, keeping a beautiful young mistress tucked away in a penthouse. He slipped a diamond ring on her finger and called her his “good little wife.” His entourage of bros all respectfully called that girl “Sister-in-law.” I didn’t cry, and I didn’t make a scene. I just silently deleted the old text messages where he swore he would love me forever. We were each other’s first loves, our lives violently tangled together for years. Until I got sick, and piece by piece, began to forget everything about him. That was when he finally panicked. He exhausted his resources to create romantic surprises, trying every possible way to cure me. But all he could do was watch helplessly as I, in my final moments of clarity, fell in love with someone else. 1 In the seventh year of my toxic, love-hate relationship with Asher Montgomery, he met the woman he truly liked. Her name was Lily Thorne, a fresh-faced actress who had just graduated from drama school. She was innocent, adorable, and the way she smiled looked exactly like I did when I was younger. Friends in our circle whispered that Lily was just my stand-in. They said Asher’s obsession with her was just a fleeting novelty, just for fun. After all, Asher and I had a wildly public on-and-off history over the years. Everyone watched as a man that arrogant and proud laughed for me, cried for me, and broke his own unyielding spine for me. Everyone knew he loved me. They thought he couldn’t live without me. I suddenly remembered the night we got back together after a particularly brutal breakup. Asher had torn my designer gown to shreds, relentlessly claiming me in the dark. I melted into a puddle in his arms. In a daze, I heard his lips press against my ear as he coaxed me in a low voice: “My sweet girl, we are going to entangle and torture each other for the rest of our lives.” I genuinely believed Asher Montgomery would never love another woman the way he loved me. Until the third year of our marriage, when our relationship entirely shattered. And right on cue, Lily Thorne appeared. 2 At first, Asher acted like he hated Lily. They were co-stars in a blockbuster movie, playing romantic leads. Lily was a massive fan of Asher. Every time they held hands or hugged for a scene, her face would flush burning red. She couldn’t hide her crush at all. Back then, Asher and I were still on good terms. He would constantly complain to me, saying he hated how starstruck and pathetic Lily acted around him. When Lily wore graphic cartoon tees, Asher called her childish and ridiculous. When Lily wore hot denim shorts, Asher called her tacky and tasteless. Whatever Lily did, Asher found it annoying. But, perhaps even he didn’t realize it, every time he brought up Lily, he was smiling. During our nightly phone calls, his mind started to wander. Most of the time, it was because Lily was “too stupid” and was constantly bothering him with questions about the script. Asher would act disgusted, yet tirelessly stay up late explaining her scenes to her. Before hanging up one night, I asked him, “Tomorrow, can we please not talk about Lily Thorne anymore?” He flashed a wicked grin and asked me, “Is my wife getting jealous?” While teasing me, he pulled up his phone and blocked Lily’s number. Until a few days later, when Lily posted a photo on Instagram: “A passionate kissing scene, two hearts moved. I can’t sleep tonight. I want to talk all night with the person I like!” That night, Asher didn’t come back to our hotel. I called him, but the line was constantly busy. I realized then that this time, Asher was blurring the lines between acting and reality. He had given her his heart. 3 After that night, it was as if Asher suddenly stopped loving me. We entered a cold war. He offered no explanations and made no effort to coax me. For an entire month, we completely ignored each other. Until the day the movie wrapped, and the cast did a live press interview. A reporter asked him, “Now that filming is over, what do you want to do the most?” He unlocked his phone, showed the camera a photo of me wearing an apron and smiling at him, and said tenderly, “Right now, I just miss my wife. I want to eat her home-cooked food.” To some extent, Asher was my Hollywood safety net. If he didn’t love me anymore, I’d just hide my true feelings away, play the obedient wife, and rake in the PR money. That was fine too. That night, I cooked a table full of his favorite dishes. But Asher never came home. I didn’t wait up for him. I went to bed early. In the middle of the night, my phone rang. He sounded drunk, mumbling and whining into the receiver. “Be a good wife, my sweet wife, I miss you so much. Come pick me up and take me home.” He hadn’t called me “wife” in a long time. My eyes stung. I didn’t say a word. In the background, I heard his frat-boy friends cheering: “Who is the A-lister calling? Is it Lily?” They yelled into the phone: “Sister-in-law! Tonight Asher made a wish to be with you forever, till the end of time…” So, Asher had dialed my number by mistake. He meant to call Lily. He called her his good wife, and his brothers called her sister-in-law. He had already seamlessly integrated Lily into his private life. A sudden, splitting migraine hit me. I aggressively hung up the phone, buried myself under the covers, and wrapped them tightly around me. It didn’t matter. I could pretend I didn’t care. My acting had always been flawless. 4 The rumors of my fractured marriage with Asher spread quickly through the industry. Insiders whispered that he had fallen madly in love with Lily. He took her to candlelit dinners, bought her a penthouse in Beverly Hills and a sports car, and occasionally rented out the Santa Monica Pier just to ride the carousel with her. He liked her so much he wanted to give her every beautiful thing in the world. Even the ruby necklace I had been dying for but couldn’t secure at auction was recently bought by Asher. I assumed he was going to gift it to Lily. But one morning, I opened my eyes to see that very necklace resting quietly on my nightstand. Next to it was a note: “Happy Anniversary.” It was Asher’s handwriting. I stared at it in silence, then crumpled the note and threw it into the trash. I couldn’t figure out Asher’s mind anymore, and I didn’t want to try. 5 A few days later, at a private charity gala, I ran into Lily for the first time. The moment she saw me, she smiled. Staring at my necklace, she said in her soft, breathy voice, “Mr. Montgomery bought me a mountain of jewelry a few days ago. I thought this necklace looked a bit old-fashioned, so I told him to give it to you. I knew it! Scarlett, you have a much more mature look than I do, so it suits you perfectly. In the past, Mr. Montgomery said he spoiled me like a child, and I always argued back because I’m already twenty-two. But standing next to you, Scarlett, I suddenly realize I really am just too young.” I froze for a second, suddenly feeling incredibly pathetic. The anniversary gift I had cherished so much was just a hand-me-down that Lily didn’t want. Seeing my expression darken, Lily’s smile grew sweeter. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued to show off: “Scarlett, don’t feel embarrassed about taking the necklace. Wear it well. Mr. Montgomery buys me so much stuff I can’t even wear it all. If you see anything else you like, just let me know. You can take whatever you want.” I smiled along with her and asked softly, “As long as I like it, you’ll give it to me?” Lily nodded smugly. I reached out, touched the dazzling diamond earring on her ear, and yanked downward with brutal force. Lily let out a blood-curdling scream. She clutched her ear and bent over as bright red blood seeped through her fingers. I looked down at her with heavy, half-lidded eyes, maintaining my smile. “Thank you for the gift. You have another earring… can I have that one too?” 6 Lily’s pupils trembled violently. She looked terrified of me. Her blood splattered across the marble floor, causing a commotion among the guests. Asher arrived moments later. Seeing the blood on the floor, his expression turned instantly cold and ruthless. He yanked me into his arms, checking me over from head to toe. The concern and panic in his eyes looked so real. Lily lowered her hands, letting the blood drip down her ear and stain her white designer gown. She reached out to grab Asher, whimpering softly, “Mr. Montgomery… it hurts so much…” Asher lifted his arm, dodging her touch, and shot her a freezing, deadly glare. That single look froze Lily in place. She bit her lip, looking utterly humiliated. She didn’t understand. Asher came from a powerful, old-money family. Keeping a mistress for fun was one thing, but making a public spectacle of it at a high-society event was a massive loss of face. In public, Asher could only ever love me. His thumb smoothed over my furrowed brow as he coaxed me gently, “Who upset you?” I didn’t answer, and no one else dared to breathe. Two seconds later, Asher grabbed a crystal vase off the nearest table and smashed it against the floor. He roared, “Are you all fucking deaf?! Who upset my wife? Speak!” The atmosphere was suffocating. Lily clenched her fists and finally broke down, screaming, “It was me! It was me! Everything is my fault, are you happy now, Asher?!” She couldn’t hold it in anymore. Tears rolling down her face, she stared stubbornly at Asher and choked out, “It’s my fault for trying to be friendly with Scarlett and getting hated for it! It’s my fault for falling for someone I shouldn’t have, for risking everything to be with him even if they call me a homewrecker! It’s my fault for being delusional enough to think he actually liked me. It’s my fault for being a total idiot!” She lifted the glass of red wine in her hand and dumped it over her own head. The wine mixed with the blood, completely staining the front of her dress. Crying hysterically, she asked Asher, “Mr. Montgomery, is this enough? Is your beloved wife satisfied now?” Asher’s grip on my shoulders tightened, his fingers digging into my skin. He was probably heartbroken for her. He asked me, “Are you satisfied?” I found it so funny I actually laughed until tears pricked my eyes. I asked Asher, “Pretending to love me must be exhausting, right? Asher, I have a great idea. I can give you a perfectly legitimate reason to go love the woman you actually want. Give me money. I want a massive settlement. And then, we divorce.” Asher’s eyes grew colder and colder. He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he spat venomously, “Scarlett, I should have seen clearly long ago. You’re nothing but a gold-digging liar. You betray genuine love, and you’re going to die a miserable death.” I smiled, pushed him away despite the throbbing in my skull, and turned to leave. Asher, you really have a cursed mouth. I hadn’t told you yet. The doctors said there’s a tumor growing in my brain. It will hurt. I will lose my memory. And I might… actually die. 7 Asher was right about one thing. In the beginning, I only agreed to date him for his money. Before him, I had loved another boy with everything I had. Asher knew all of this, yet he still desperately tried to treat me well, forcing his way into my life, taking us from dating to marriage. I still remember the rainy day Asher proposed. We were curled up on the sofa watching a romance movie. He suddenly leaned into my ear and whispered, “Scarlett, just tell me you love me, and I’ll marry you right now. From then on, every cent I make is yours to control.” My heartbeat was deafening. The words “I love you” were right on the tip of my tongue, but I felt a little unsatisfied. Who proposes this casually? So I shook my head, deliberately trying to annoy him. Back then, Asher was shameless and thick-skinned. I have no idea where he pulled out a massive diamond ring from, but he grabbed my hand and shoved it onto my finger. I tried to run, but he grabbed the back of my neck and pinned me into the sofa cushions. He bit my ear and threatened fiercely, “Keep acting stubborn and I’ll strangle you.” That day, Asher’s kiss nearly melted me alive. I surrendered beneath him, repeating it over and over: “Asher, I love you.” Once upon a time, I truly did love you. But it seems you never actually believed me. 8 My illness worsened by the day. I swallowed handfuls of pills, but the headaches were so severe I couldn’t eat or sleep. Soon, I realized I was beginning to forget small details about Asher. My physical condition deteriorated rapidly, and the doctor prescribed even more medication. As I was leaving, he frowned and asked, “Why do you always come to these appointments alone? Where is your family? With an illness like yours, you need the care and support of your family.” But I didn’t have a family. What was I supposed to do? When I was six years old, my mother left me on a busy street corner in Chicago. She told me she was going to buy me cotton candy. She never came back. I thought I would never see my mother again for the rest of my life. Until I ran into Lily Thorne at the hospital. The ear I had ripped was heavily swollen, and she was there to get her bandages changed. The middle-aged woman accompanying her… I almost thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. That woman looked exactly like my mother. I ran toward her uncontrollably, terrifying Lily into stumbling backward. My mother shielded her, shoving me hard and pointing at my nose, screaming, “You little bitch! Are you trying to bully my daughter again?!” She suddenly grabbed my hair and yelled, “If you dare bully my daughter, I’ll beat you to death!” She slapped me across the face. I couldn’t dodge in time. Blood seeped from the corner of my mouth, and my tears fell instantly. My mother didn’t seem to recognize me at all. She had long forgotten me. She had another daughter now. Her daughter was Lily. 9 Actually, when I was thirteen, picking up plastic bottles on the street for recycling money, I had accidentally run into my mom. She was across the street, holding Lily’s hand, laughing and talking, looking incredibly gentle. I used every ounce of my strength to run toward her, screaming, “Mom! Your little honeybee is right here! Mom, don’t go!” She stopped in her tracks, turned around slowly, and looked at me in shock. Lily tugged at her shirt and insulted me: “Mom, it’s a homeless kid. So dirty.” We were both my mother’s children. But she was wearing a beautiful little dress and holding a cute plush teddy bear. And I was wearing ragged clothes and a pair of worn-out, dirty canvas shoes. I envied her so much. I argued in a small voice, “I’m not homeless… I’m your big sister…” I reached out my hand, forcing an ugly smile, and called her: “Little sister.” Lily suddenly burst into tears. She hid behind my mom and screamed, “Mom, chase her away! She’s trying to steal my bear!” My mother finally snapped out of her daze and shoved me violently to the ground. Back then, she acted exactly like she did today. Pointing at my nose and cursing, “Where did this feral stray come from?! You scared my baby! I’ll beat you to death!” No, no, Mom. I’m not a feral stray. I’m your little honeybee too. I’m just the honeybee you threw away. 10 This time, I didn’t cry and scream for my mom like I did when I was thirteen: “Mom, I’m your honeybee.” I shoved her back, just as hard as she had shoved me all those years ago. She took the opportunity to rip off my surgical mask, collapsing to the floor and screaming: “The big movie star is assaulting people! Scarlett Hayes is assaulting people!” Lily froze for two seconds, then suddenly pulled down her own mask, fell to her knees in front of me, and begged, “Scarlett, I know you’ve always hated me. You’re more famous than I am. When you hit me and insult me, I can endure it. But my mother is old. Please, I beg you, don’t make things difficult for her.” Crowds gathered, pulling out their phones to record. Lily was truly putting on the performance of a lifetime. I should have protected my reputation, covered my face, and left immediately. But I couldn’t control myself. I grabbed Lily by the hair. Staring into her eyes, I said coldly, “You really are a filial, wonderful child, little sister.” “Then I won’t hold back. Whatever your mother did to me, I’ll pay it back to you.” I swung my heavy designer bag and smashed it into Lily’s face. Over and over. My heart was in so much agony. If I couldn’t vent it, I probably would have found the roof of this hospital and jumped off. How could simply being alive be so excruciatingly painful? My mother lunged at me, clawing and tearing at me. Perhaps when she finally found out I was the honeybee she threw away, she would never forgive me for this. But that was fine. Mom, if you don’t want your honeybee, then your honeybee doesn’t want you either. 11 The video of me beating Lily quickly went viral online. Netizens flooded my Twitter mentions: “Are you just jealous that Lily is younger and prettier than you? Look at how viciously you hit her face!” “Someone needs to dig up Scarlett’s background. She acts like someone who grew up bullying people. Typical spoiled, malicious rich kid.” “Don’t cry, Lily. I know where Scarlett lives, I’ll go get revenge for you.” I was reading these comments in my apartment’s underground parking garage. I had just parked my car and was preparing to go upstairs. Suddenly, I heard a voice call out: “Excuse me, are you Scarlett Hayes?” I turned around to see a man holding a baseball bat. His eyes were murderous as he swung the bat down toward my head. Before I could react, I was suddenly yanked into a firm embrace. Asher held me tight, and the baseball bat slammed brutally into his back. He spun around, kicked the man to the ground, and roared viciously, “You touch my fucking wife and I’ll kill you!” Asher lost his mind, beating the man half to death without any regard for the consequences. For a fleeting second, I almost forgot we were in the middle of a messy divorce. I foolishly thought he still loved me very, very much. But I had already forgotten what Asher looked like when he actually loved me. 12 Asher hadn’t been home in a long time. He only came to find me because of Lily. The house was a disaster. I suffered from migraines every day and had absolutely no energy to clean. Asher rolled up his sleeves and started cleaning the apartment. He picked up my bra from the sofa, laughing as he scolded me: “Scarlett, you really aren’t cut out to be a wife. You really need to learn how Lily takes care of people. She’s so sweet. How could you bear to hit her? Go apologize to her. She cries every single day, and it breaks my heart to watch.” Right. Because Lily was sweet, her mother loved her. Because Lily was sweet, Asher loved her too. And what about me? Because I wasn’t sweet enough, I deserved to be abandoned by everyone, time and time again? I suddenly felt an intense surge of rage. I grabbed all the clothes Asher had neatly folded and threw them onto the floor. I tilted my head back and screamed at him: “I’d rather you stab me to death than apologize to her!” Asher leaned back against the sofa, yanked me into his lap, and locked his arms around my waist so I couldn’t escape. He laughed and insulted me: “I knew you wouldn’t listen. You were never any good.” He pulled out his phone, made a call, and told the film festival committee to strike my name from the Best Actress nominations for the end of the year. I had been in the industry for ten years. Nominated for Best Actress three times, walked away empty-handed three times. Finally, this year, I was a lock to win. For that award, I had tumbled down a rocky hillside, cracking my forehead open, yet I still refused a stunt double and finished the film. That golden trophy was bought with my blood. I slapped the phone out of Asher’s hand. A tear smashed against my arm as I cursed him: “Don’t be so fucking despicable, Asher!” He was completely unfazed. He rested his chin on my shoulder, smiled, and asked, “Are you going to apologize or not? Think carefully before you answer.” I finally broke down and cried. I screamed at him: “Asher, I’m sick! I can’t ever act again! I will never have another chance to win an award! You love Lily, you want to get revenge for her, so you crush my Achilles heel! But I refuse to let her win! I will never apologize! It’s just an award! I don’t want it!” My face was covered in tears, my heart bursting with a million grievances and nowhere to vent them. I grabbed Asher’s hand and bit down as hard as I could. He furrowed his brows and endured it in silence. When I was done crying and looked up, Asher’s eyes were red too. He cupped my face and said softly, “Scarlett, rather than saying I love Lily, it’s more accurate to say I hate you. I used to be madly in love with you, but you only ever loved my money. You scammed my money to fund another man. You’re really something. But if I’m blaming anyone, I blame myself for being pathetic. Even knowing you’re a master at playing the victim, I still fell for it. I still went soft. Stop crying. It’s just a trophy. I’ll give it to her.” He pulled me into his arms and kissed my ear. Like he was making a final farewell, he said slowly, “Scarlett, this is the last time I’m ever going to be good to you.” But this time, Asher lied to me.

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