Years into our marriage, when the critical condition notice for me arrived, Caleb Reed didn’t hesitate. He suggested mortgaging our house. To cover the sky-high medical costs, he, who once held himself so high, now toiled day and night, stripped of his pride. I couldn’t bear to be a burden on him and was preparing to give up on treatment. Then, a financial headline froze me in place. *“Reed Empire’s Heir Returns for Love! Takes Control of Multi-Billion-Dollar Company to Save His Beloved’s Life!”* The photo in the headline showed Caleb’s tired but deeply affectionate profile. I trembled, thinking this was his final desperate fight for *me*. But then the camera panned, and the woman in the sterile hospital gown was the same girl from the faded photo tucked away in his wallet. And I, I was foolish enough to believe he truly loved me. When Caleb pushed open the door, a chill from the late night swept in with him. He took off his cheap jacket, his face etched with exhaustion. “How are you feeling today?” He expertly poured a cup of hot water and brought it to my bedside. I shook my head, too weak to even speak. He sat on the edge of the bed, feeling my forehead to check my temperature. “The doctors say the situation isn’t optimistic, but Claire, don’t be scared. I’ve already sorted out the money.” He pulled a document from inside his jacket, carefully unfolding it. “I’ve already… mortgaged the house.” My heart constricted sharply. “You…” “Don’t say anything foolish.” He cut me off, as if expecting me to be moved by his gesture again. “Nothing is more important than you. As long as you get better, I’d be willing to sleep under a bridge.” He spoke with such earnestness, such deep affection. If I hadn’t seen that news just a few hours earlier, I would have believed every word. Caleb Reed, the scion of Reed Industries. My husband, who had played the role of a broke student for five years. “Caleb, do we… really have to come to this?” I asked, my voice dry. He was silent for a moment, then pulled out another document. It was a voluntary organ donation agreement. “Claire, the doctors said that given your condition, we might need to prepare for the worst.” His voice was light, but every word pierced my heart. “I know you’re the kindest person. The doctor told me today about a girl named Sarah Miller. She’s been waiting for a suitable heart for a very, very long time.” Sarah Miller. He finally said the name. The girl in the faded photo in his wallet’s hidden compartment, worn smooth from countless touches. “She’s really pitiful. She’s been sick since childhood, always living in pain.” He calmly recounted someone else’s story, a story that was, in fact, about my life and death. “If you… I mean, *if* you were to donate your heart to her, it would be a continuation of life, wouldn’t it?” I looked at this man who seemed to be losing his patience, not even bothering to craft another lie. He knew I was terminally ill and couldn’t afford the exorbitant treatment costs. He also believed, with certainty, that I loved him beyond words and would fulfill his every request. “So, mortgaging the house was to prepare for *her* surgery?” I asked bluntly. He paused, seemingly not expecting such a direct question. Then, he offered a sorrowful smile. “Claire, how could you think that of me? I’m doing this to cure *you*!” He became deeply affectionate again. “But your illness… you know, hope is slim. I just thought, on the off chance, if we fail, as the doctor said, we could save another life. It would be a way for a part of you to live on, wouldn’t it?” He held my hand, his hands warm and strong. “Just for my sake, okay? I don’t want you to leave with regrets.” “Sign this first, then we’ll fight together, alright?” I pulled my cold hand away. “I’m tired. I want to sleep for a bit.” A flicker of impatience crossed his face, but it was quickly masked by tenderness. “Okay, you rest. Don’t overthink things.” He placed the agreement and a pen neatly on my bedside table. In a spot I’d see the moment I opened my eyes. He got up, put on his jacket, and prepared to leave. At the door, he suddenly turned back and added, “Oh, and the doctor introduced me to the patient, Sarah. She’s in the VIP room on the top floor. If you want, I can arrange for you two to meet. She’s a really sweet girl.” With that, he closed the door. I stared at the agreement and the pen he’d left behind. It felt like a sharp blade, slowly carving into my heart.

The next day, a young nurse came to change my dressing. She was quick and efficient with her hands, but her mouth never stopped. “Ms. Davies, you really need to take good care of yourself. Your husband is so good to you.” I closed my eyes, not wanting to respond. “He comes to stay with you every day, running around for your medical bills. Everyone else is so jealous.” Jealous? Yes, how enviable. “Let me tell you, that lady on the top floor, in the VIP suite, she’s rich, but she’s truly pathetic.” The nurse lowered her voice, gossiping. “I heard her boyfriend is also a big shot – the scion of Reed Industries!” My fingers curled. “But honestly, I don’t think he cares that much about Ms. Miller. He’s busy with company affairs all day, only visits occasionally. Not like your husband, who practically wants to be glued to your side twenty-four-seven.” The nurse’s words dragged me back into my memories. I remembered when we first got together, Caleb was a broke student with nothing to his name. He would work odd jobs for a week just to buy me a lipstick I liked. He said, “Claire, when I’m rich, I promise I’ll give you the best life.” But later, after we graduated, he turned down all the high-paying offers, choosing the most ordinary job. He said, “Claire, I don’t want to work too hard. I just want to come home early every day to cook for you.” I believed him. I thought he didn’t care for wealth or status, that he loved me more than anything. Now, looking back, it was all just an act. He didn’t love me; he only cared about saving his Sarah’s life. “Ms. Davies? Ms. Davies? What’s wrong?” The nurse’s voice pulled me back to reality. I opened my eyes; she was looking at me with concern. “Did I say something wrong?” I shook my head. “No, just thinking about a few things.” The nurse sighed in relief, packed her things, and prepared to leave. “Your husband just called. He said he’ll be late tonight and not to wait up for him.” “Okay.” I replied. I knew he probably wouldn’t come tonight. Sarah Miller’s condition must be critical now, more important than me, his backup organ bank. In the evening, Caleb indeed didn’t show up. I propped myself up, slowly sitting. The agreement was still on the bedside table. Next to it lay my favorite poetry collection, the first gift Caleb ever gave me. He’d said, “Claire, in my eyes, you’re like a clear poem, I adore you so much.” I reached for the book. Its pages had yellowed, but it still held our unique scent. I opened the front cover, where his bold, sweeping handwriting read: *To my lifelong love, Claire Davies.* How ironic. Just then, the hospital room door opened. Caleb stood in the doorway. He saw the book in my hand and the still-blank agreement beside it. When he walked in, he carried a faint scent of perfume and a hint of red wine, strikingly clear in my sterile room. He didn’t ask if I’d eaten, walking straight to the bed and picking up the poetry collection. After absentmindedly flipping through a few pages, he finally couldn’t help but ask, “Claire, have you heard any gossip?” His question was calm. I didn’t answer, just watched him. Watched this stranger I shared my bed with. “Gossip spreads fast in a place like this. Just hear it and forget it, don’t take it to heart.” He was still playing the role of a considerate husband, comforting his emotional wife. “Who is Sarah Miller?” I finally spoke, mustering immense courage. His movements stopped. A few seconds later, he closed the book and set it aside. “To be honest, she’s just a friend of mine.” He answered airily. “A friend you need *my* heart to save?” I pressed. The air instantly solidified. The gentle expression on Caleb Reed’s face finally shifted. He stared at me, no longer bothering to pretend. “Yes.” He admitted it. “She’s really pitiful, she’s lived with illness since she was a child. Don’t you have any sympathy?” He countered. “Why should I sympathize with her? Sympathize with her using *my* life?” My emotions flared, and a sharp pain shot through my chest. “Claire Davies!” He raised his voice. “What kind of attitude is that? I’m discussing this with you, not begging you!” The impatience in his eyes was no longer hidden. “Are you sick, and your mind’s gone foggy too? When did you become so selfish?” Selfish? For him, I’d given up so many opportunities that could have given me a better life. For him, I wore cheap clothes, riding the bus, living on a shoestring budget for five years. Now, he wanted my life to save another woman, and then had the audacity to accuse me of being selfish. “Caleb Reed, you truly disgust me.” *“CRACK!”* A sharp sound. The poetry collection in his hand was violently thrown to the floor, its pages scattering everywhere.

“Don’t you dare be ungrateful, Claire!” His chest heaved violently. “Do you think you’re in any position to bargain with me now? Without me, you can’t even afford tomorrow’s medical bills!” This was the first time he had so blatantly threatened me with money. “Do you even deserve to look at these things in your current state?” He saw me staring at the floor, then pointed at the scattered poetry collection. “A dying person shouldn’t have any sentiment for our past!” His words tore my heart to shreds. In his mind, I was just a dying person, unworthy of anything beautiful anymore. I gave a bitter laugh, wiping away my tears. “So, you’re threatening me now? If I don’t sign, you’ll stop my treatment?” He probably hadn’t seen me like this before; he was momentarily stunned. But he quickly regained his cold composure. “I’m just making you face reality. Signing it is good for all of us.” He said “all of us,” which included Sarah Miller, but definitely not me. Just then, his phone rang. He answered, his impatient expression instantly turning anxious. “What? Her condition worsened? I’ll be right up!” He hung up, shooting me a furious glare. There was no love or tenderness left in his eyes. He advanced on me, step by step. “Claire Davies, now, immediately, sign it!” I leaned against the headboard, watching him coldly. Watching him frantic and distraught over another woman. Just as I’d suspected, he’d dropped all pretense because Sarah probably didn’t have much time left to wait. “What if I don’t sign?” “You have no choice.” He squeezed the words through clenched teeth. “Claire, don’t make me force you.” He started calling me by my name again, a cruel gentleness masking his true intentions. “Sarah can’t wait any longer. Help her, and you’ll be helping me.” He finally spoke his true thoughts. Not for any good deed, not for any continuation of my life, but simply to help *him*. To help him keep the woman he loved. “I spent five miserable years with you, Claire. Even if you don’t think for yourself, you should think for me, shouldn’t you?” “These five years, do you know what I gave up? I, the scion of the Reed family, lived with you in that tiny, rundown apartment, endured those tough years. I’ve done more than enough!” He completely tore off his disguise, revealing his true, ugly self. “It was all for Sarah! I approached you, married you, tolerated you – it was all for this day!” “The doctor said you had a weak constitution, that you wouldn’t live long, so I patiently waited for you!” “I thought once you died, I could naturally get your heart. I never expected you to drag it out for so long!” So that was it. My entire existence, from the beginning, had been a meticulously planned deception. A five-year performance staged solely to extract my heart. He saw my prolonged silence and seemed to realize he’d said too much. “Claire, struggling now is meaningless.” He picked up the agreement and the pen, pushing them into my hand. “Sign it. This is the last thing you can do for me.” “Is there anything you need to say, or any unfulfilled wishes you have in this life? I promise I’ll take care of them later!” I lowered my head, looking at the agreement in my hand. *Donor: Claire Davies.* *Recipient: Sarah Miller.* What a clean, cut-and-dry transaction. My hand trembled. Caleb thought I had given in. He leaned down, whispering into my ear. “Good girl, sign it. I’ll remember your kindness.” His breath on my earlobe made me feel a wave of nausea. I gripped the pen tightly. Then I looked up at him and smiled. He froze. The next second, I didn’t put pen to paper. Instead, I used every ounce of strength I had to tear the agreement in half. The tearing sound was deafening in the silent room. He hadn’t even reacted yet. I then tore those two halves into four, then eight… Countless pieces of paper fluttered from my fingertips, scattering across the floor. I dropped the pen; it rolled a few times on the ground, stopping at Caleb Reed’s feet. “Caleb Reed, you wish!” Before, I would have thought I had no money for treatment, no hope of getting better. But now, Caleb had inherited a fortune for a critically ill Sarah Miller. Logically, half of it should be mine. Why couldn’t I live?

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My parents, because I wasn’t “perfect” enough, implanted an AI chip in me. They said it would completely transform me. After the chip was implanted, I became the perfect daughter they’d always dreamed of. But the side effect was that every day, I’d forget something. I forgot the taste of Mom’s homemade soup. I forgot my favorite video game. I forgot my childhood friends. Eventually, I forgot my parents. When I saw them again, my eyes were smiling, but I spoke in a cold, mechanical voice, “Excuse me, who are you?” They froze. They stared at me, speechless for a long time after I said that. “…” Mom’s voice was a little impatient. “Lily, what act are you putting on now?” I searched my memories, but there was nothing there. I genuinely didn’t recognize them. So I firmly shook my head. “That’s correct.” “Lily,” Dad’s face darkened instantly. “What kind of joke is this?” “I know!” He frowned, as if something occurred to him. “Is it because you don’t want to go to school tomorrow, so you’re deliberately pretending?” My face still held the perfect smile I’d practiced countless times, and I replied in a flat, mechanical tone, “I apologize, but I genuinely don’t recognize you.” “I am not afraid of exams, nor am I afraid of starting school. I am the newest model of the Perfect Daughter System.” “I do not lie to anyone.” My tone was polite yet utterly unfamiliar. After speaking, I checked the synchronized time inside me. “According to my schedule, it is now bedtime. Sufficient rest is required to ensure optimal efficiency for school tomorrow.” I turned sideways and walked past them. “Please move aside.” My shoulder lightly brushed Mom’s arm. She seemed to flinch. She instinctively tried to stop me, but I easily dodged her. The programming inside me told me I couldn’t waste a single moment. I walked directly to my bedroom. Behind me, there was dead silence. Before closing the door, I caught a glimpse in my peripheral vision. They were still standing there, watching me. Dad’s shoulders slumped, and Mom raised a hand to cover her mouth. The lights cast their long shadows across the empty living room floor. Then, I heard Dad’s voice, very low. “What’s going on?” … I had no interest in listening to the rest. The lock clicked shut. I sat on my bed and pulled up my memory index. Pale blue data streams appeared in my vision. All input information, from the day of implantation, was categorized and clearly organized. Yesterday’s math formulas, last week’s English vocabulary, last month’s piano sheet music… Every memory was clear. But no matter how I searched, I couldn’t find the two people who had just claimed to be my parents. Suspecting an overload error, I scanned my brain space again. [Self-check complete. System operating normally. Memory bank intact. Logic module functioning correctly.] It seemed those two were indeed a cognitive error. I genuinely didn’t recognize them. I lay down and closed my eyes. Faintly, I felt a hollow emptiness somewhere. That feeling was very sad. But my brain told me it wasn’t important. … Actually, I did have some impressions of before. I was born into a dual-income household; both my Mom and Dad were high school teachers. Since I was their only child, they usually doted on me. But such a combination naturally meant they were stricter with their own child. They always wanted me to be first in everything, to excel at all costs. Yet, I seemed to be born without that particular knack. My grades were average, my competition results mediocre, always falling short of their expectations. But I had my own strengths. I was lively and outgoing, always friendly to others. When they were stressed from work and bickering at home, I would always squeeze in between them, cracking jokes and sharing funny school stories, which always managed to calm them down for a while. All the neighbors liked me. When Mrs. Henderson from downstairs came back from grocery shopping, I’d help her carry her bags up. When I saw Mr. Jenkins and Mrs. Miller, I’d wave and smile from afar, offering to help with anything I could. If a classmate was being bullied, I’d stand up for them. Even my homeroom teacher said I was a good kid. I always thought that counted as a form of excellence. But my Mom and Dad didn’t see it that way. They admired Mrs. Davies’ daughter, Sophia, more. She was three years older than me, an incredibly accomplished older girl. Always in the top three of her class, grade 10 piano, a stack of competition certificates. I’d met her before. She was refined and well-mannered, always speaking softly. But I always felt she lacked a certain spark; she always spoke in a rigid, textbook manner. To be honest, I didn’t dislike her. But I hated my parents for constantly comparing me to her. One evening at dinner, Mom brought up Sophia winning an award in a physics competition again. I felt a pang of discomfort and stirred the rice in my bowl, deliberately changing the subject. “Mom, I got chosen to lead our class during the school sports day parade this year! Isn’t that great?” The table fell silent. I thought they’d praise me. But instead, Dad just put down his fork. “All this superficial stuff, what’s the point?”

Mom chimed in, “Exactly. We don’t need that. We need solid grades, rankings, achievements like Sophia’s that we can show off!” I hadn’t expected such a response, and my heart felt like it had been pricked by a tiny needle. I tried to explain. “But I’m trying too, I…” “We don’t need you to try,” Dad cut me off, his voice not loud, but it felt like a heavy stone. “We need results. Results like Sophia’s.” Later, they even went to Mrs. Davies to seek advice, asking for her secrets to success. Mrs. Davies confidentially told them that Sophia used to be disobedient too, but then she found someone to get her the latest AI chip. After it was implanted, her child could grow exactly as the parents envisioned. She even claimed the chip was government-developed, capable of eliminating all “ineffective emotions” and “distractions.” My parents were swayed. They paid a hefty sum to Ms. Peterson to get this chip. And it was Sophia who told me about it. That day after school, she stopped me in the hallway, her eyes filled with an urgency I’d never seen before. “My mom lied to you guys. Remember, absolutely do not let them implant that chip in you,” she whispered, speaking very quickly. “Listen to me, don’t, under any circumstances.” I was stunned. It was the first time I’d seen such a vivid expression on her face. “What…?” I asked instinctively. She gripped my hand, explaining word by word, “It’s that AI chip my mom gave your parents, the one that’s supposed to make you obedient!” Then, she took a deep breath, leaned closer, and lowered her voice even more. “That thing will erode your brain. Once implanted, you won’t be you anymore. An AI program will slowly overwrite all your memories and emotions; it will take over your body.” “By then, what’s left will just be an empty shell, perfectly executing parental commands. Do you understand?” “By then, the real you will be no different from being dead.” She grabbed my arm, her fingers squeezing hard. “Don’t agree, no matter what, don’t agree.” I saw the light in her eyes, a light filled with fear and pleading. My intuition told me she wasn’t lying. That night, I tossed and turned. Sophia’s words buzzed in my head. A few days later, Mom and Dad did indeed have a serious talk with me. Mom held a small silver box in her hand, her eyes eager yet somewhat evasive. “Sweetie, this is something that can make you even better…” I looked at the box, a chill running down my spine. I remembered Sophia’s trembling voice. “Dad, Mom,” I looked at them, a hint of pleading in my voice. “If I use this, I’ll become the perfect daughter, right?” “Of course!” Mom immediately nodded. “But…” I took a breath, gathering my courage to finish. “What if that perfect daughter, actually… isn’t me anymore?” “What if the person sitting in front of you is just an obedient machine? Do you truly want a daughter like that?” The air in the living room instantly solidified. Mom’s smile froze on her face. “What are you talking about?” Her voice suddenly rose. “What do you mean ‘not you’? Huh? Isn’t it still your body? Mrs. Davies said this chip is absolutely safe! It’s just a tool to help you learn!” “But Sophia said…” “Sophia is jealous!” Mom cut me off, her face red. “She’s afraid you’ll surpass her! Can’t you see that? How much effort have we put into you? Huh? Are you just going to let outsiders provoke you?” Dad stepped forward, his face pale with anger. “I think you just don’t want to work hard! You’re making up these twisted excuses!” “I’m not…” I tried desperately to explain, but they wouldn’t listen to a single word. “You’re just lazy! Selfish!” Mom shrieked, tears welling up. “We’ve planned everything for you, and this is how you repay us? Do you want to be a failure your whole life?” Hearing such accusations, I suddenly had nothing to say. After a long silence, Mom suddenly knelt down, her eyes level with mine. Her eyes were red.

“Mom has been a teacher her entire life, and she’s taught so many students,” her voice began to tremble. “I always wanted, always wanted to prove through my own child that my education was right, that it was successful.” “Our expectations for you were too high… too high. Seeing you so ordinary, we worried, we feared… feared that we weren’t doing enough.” “Please… Lily…” I saw the desperate yearning behind her tears. In that moment, I suddenly understood everything. They didn’t love me; they loved the perfect educational dream they wanted me to fulfill. My chest felt squeezed by something, a bitter, swelling ache. But it was okay. I loved them. “I understand.” That sour feeling got stuck in my throat, but I swallowed it down. “If that’s what you want…” I looked at the silver box and slowly nodded. “I’m willing.” For the sake of the perfect daughter in your minds. I could stop being me. The chip implantation went smoothly. When I woke up, I didn’t immediately feel any different. I was still me. The only change was that I could no longer say no to my parents’ demands. If they told me to get up at six to memorize vocabulary, I got up at six. If they told me to do three practice tests a day, I did three practice tests. If they told me to go to piano and advanced math on the weekend, I grabbed my backpack and went. My grades started to improve rapidly. My monthly exam ranking shot from twentieth into the top ten. Mom held my report card, her eyes gleaming. “That’s wonderful!” She stroked my head. “This is our good daughter.” And to reward me, she suddenly suggested, “Come on, Mom’s taking you to get burgers. Didn’t you always beg for them?” I paused. I had vague memories of that, tugging on her sleeve, standing in front of a brightly lit red sign, pleading for a burger. Only to be pulled away without explanation. She said it was junk food. Now, she was proactively taking me there. We sat in the bright restaurant. She pushed a tray towards me, holding a golden burger, fries, and a soda. “Eat,” she said, smiling, with a warm anticipation in her eyes. I looked at the burger. A pale blue analysis interface automatically appeared in my vision: [High calories, saturated fatty acids exceeding limits, insufficient dietary fiber. Recommended intake: zero.] I looked up and replied in a steady voice, “According to the health management program analysis, this is junk food and detrimental to health.” “I decline to consume it.” Mom’s smile froze on her face. She looked at me for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed again, this time more heartily. “Right, right, right, can’t eat it! See how useful this system is? It helps you control your cravings! So good!” She seemed very happy, took the burger back, and ate it herself. I sat quietly until she finished. When we got home, she said she would make me soup, the lotus root and pork rib soup I used to love most. She bustled around in the kitchen. I followed my directives, sitting at the dining table and waiting. Suddenly, with a clang, followed by Mom’s sharp intake of breath. She had accidentally knocked over the pot lid, and hot water splashed out, reddening the back of her hand. She frowned, instinctively putting her hand under the faucet to rinse it, then glanced back at me. I remained seated, looking straight ahead, my face maintaining the calm expression programmed into me. Her frown deepened. “Lily,” her voice held a hint of suspicion. “Mom burned her hand, didn’t you see?”

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I’m a straightforward, love-struck girl who only falls for powerful people. The brilliant, unattainable genius shamed me for my bad grades. I thought he was so charming. My fault, I’m too dumb. I’ll learn. My super-handsome first love cheated on me with a glamorous, curly-haired woman. I thought he had great taste. My fault, I’m too lacking in competitiveness. I’ll learn. My rich ex-boyfriend dumped me for being too broke. I thought he was so smart. My fault, I wasn’t working hard enough. I’ll learn. But then, the three of them got into a huge fight over who would get back with me, and I just felt annoyed. Like I said, I’m a straightforward, love-struck girl who only falls for powerful people. But now I’m good-looking, rich, and talented. I’m the most powerful! The day Ethan transferred to our school, the whole class buzzed. He looked handsome and refined, tall and well-built, with fair skin. In our small town, where two-thirds of the class were from less affluent backgrounds, he truly stood out. The entire class instantly fell for him, except for me! My deskmate, Sophia, nudged me, her face flushed. “He looks like an actor from a TV show!” I didn’t pay attention. Because I was busy carefully changing my 30-point math test to an 80-point. There was no room for error. If my mom found out, my favorite snack for tonight would be gone. But just as I was in the zone, making the change look completely natural, Ethan bumped my desk — and my snack fell. I stiffly looked up, watching him take the seat in front of me. He casually glanced at me, then meticulously wiped his desk with a fragrant tissue. What a jerk! That was my first impression of him. This class was a test, and Mr. Harrison, our homeroom teacher, handing out the papers stopped the trash talk forming on my tongue. I quieted down because I was waiting to copy Sophia’s answers. Mr. Harrison went to the restroom midway through, and Ethan’s deskmate bravely spoke to him. “Only twenty minutes, and you finished?” “Too easy.” What a show-off! That was my second impression of him. Ethan’s deskmate asked hopefully. “Then, can I copy yours?” “Whatever.” Ethan’s answers quickly spread throughout the entire class, even Sophia copied them. But I found him smug and arrogant, and still held a grudge over my snack, so I unilaterally decided we were enemies. Stubbornly, I decided to write my own answers! As a result, that day, everyone in class passed or got high scores, except for me. And me? Mr. Harrison dragged me to his office. He yelled, asking if I’d answered the test with my feet to get a 15. I hung my head, listening with one ear and letting it out the other, my mind on Ethan. I was shocked he really got a perfect score on the physics test in twenty minutes. So impressive! That was my third impression. When I returned to the classroom, my seat was already taken. A crowd eagerly surrounded Ethan, their eyes gleaming with admiration. It was the first time I’d seen such expressions on my usually lifeless classmates. Ethan sat back, arms loosely crossed. He’d glance at a question and casually answer the problems, whether simple or complex. His handwriting was beautiful, his voice clear, and his appearance outstanding. The golden-orange sunset cast a glow on his features. He seemed to sweep his eyes over me. A never-before-seen charm impacted my heart. I was captivated. Ethan’s name spread throughout the school, love letters rained down like snowflakes. “Hey, can you give this love letter to Ethan for me?” Returning from the restroom, a girl blushingly handed me a pink envelope. I blushed too. Deliver a love letter? Then I’d get to talk to him! So I took on the task. Yes, I was an introverted person, and despite being captivated, I still hadn’t managed to talk to him. I mentally prepared myself, cleared my throat, and called him. “Ethan.” He casually looked my way. The words I’d planned stumbled out, a nervous mess. He saw the letter in my hand and paused. His gaze then swept over my 15-point test on my desk, and he raised an eyebrow in surprise. He scrutinized me as if I were a rare specimen. “15 points? Are you a paramecium?” Suppressed laughter erupted around us. The glaring red numbers suddenly felt piercing. My face burned. I quickly mumbled, head down. “It’s a love letter. A classmate from the next class asked me to give it to you!” “Oh.” Ethan shrugged. “Could you do me a favor and throw it away?” Ethan was different from others. Even when he mocked me, he had extraordinary charm. I felt self-conscious and blamed myself. I couldn’t live so miserably under his nose, breathing the same air as him. So I decided to study hard.

That weekend when I went home, my mom saw me struggling with my books and was so happy she could practically do a happy dance. She didn’t even scold me for my 15-point test. My dad just shook his head, grumbling. “If you ask me, studying is useless with your brain. You might as well come home early and learn to farm, then find a boy to settle down with, that’s more practical.” My dad used to be abusive, an alcoholic, and favored boys. When he saw I was a girl, he wanted to give me away. But after a particularly violent argument with my mom, something shifted in him. He completely turned his life around. He started treating me like his precious gem, hoping I’d achieve great things and build a strong family legacy. “What do you know? You’re so short-sighted.” My mom scoffed. Then she turned to me and said she’d buy a brighter lamp for me tomorrow in town, so I wouldn’t strain my eyes studying at night. She even pulled out some bills from her pocket, telling me to buy study materials. I nodded enthusiastically. “So, tonight’s snack…” “No.” I started listening intently in class, taking notes, and submitting homework on time. I even stayed in class to review during my favorite P.E. lessons. Sophia was surprised by my transformation. “You’ve changed your tune!” She raised her voice. “Don’t tell me you’re using studying as an excuse to ask Ethan for help?” “No!” I buried my head in my textbook, my heart pounding. Ethan’s deskmate turned around and scoffed. “You girls are so cunning, you’ll do anything to get Ethan’s attention.” Ethan’s gaze landed on the top of my head. “Hmm, I am a little curious about the upper limit of a paramecium.” Ugh, his voice was so nice. His delicate, pale fingers tapped my test paper. “Here, that’s wrong.” He offered, as if bestowing a favor. “You can ask if you have questions, just like those other girls.” “Watching you all fight over me is occasionally quite entertaining.” Oh, he’s so nice, but I couldn’t agree to it. Being near him, hearing his voice, I couldn’t think straight. Even sitting behind him, I couldn’t help but get distracted. After much deliberation, I painfully asked Mr. Harrison to change my seat. The front row VIP spot. As I packed my books, the entire class stared at me in shock. Even Ethan gave me a complex look, staring for an extra moment. My secret crush and my studies progressed side by side, and soon a year had passed. After immersing myself in my studies for so long, on the day the final exam results came out, I actually just barely made the cut to get into the same top-tier high school in the state as Ethan. The only catch was, he was in the honors class, and I was in the lowest-ranked class. Mr. Harrison teared up, using me as a legend to future students. My parents called every relative they had and celebrated like I’d won the lottery. Only I felt a mix of joy and worry. Joy because I’d see my idol again. Worry because: barely making it in, how could I claim to be from the same school as my idol? I wasn’t good enough, I had to keep striving. Day and night studying began again. I didn’t even let the holidays stop me. Whenever I got tired, I’d grab my vocabulary book and secretly find a corner to stake out Ethan. Just to catch a glimpse of him. He was voted “Campus Heartthrob” and was still the center of attention. Boys tried to get close, girls crushed on him. I liked him so much. Occasionally, I’d stare for too long and get noticed by Ethan and his friends. His friend would sneer, “Another fangirl, Ethan, do you know her?” Ethan would look at me and let out a dismissive chuckle. “Just a simple-minded paramecium.” My face turned red again, but his voice was as pleasant as ever! Days turned into weeks, then months, years passed by. My college entrance exam results came out. I was the top student in the state. My parents’ phones were ringing off the hook with calls from universities across the country. The school put up banners of honor, and the state and school gave me prize money. Everything felt like a dazzling fireworks display. I was a bit dazed. It wasn’t until I stood at the university entrance, face-to-face with Ethan, that I felt a sense of grounding. That’s right, I wasn’t a genius, but I had some intelligence and a lot of effort. My scores had steadily climbed, and by the third mock exam, I was tied with Ethan. Problems Ethan solved effortlessly, I also solved with ease. When Ethan chatted effortlessly, I could just as easily apply those theorems and formulas. Even for the big problems Ethan hesitated on, I had some ideas. Getting into Beacon University was a given. Winning by a hair, a given. I was thrilled. Finally, I was worthy of confessing to Ethan!

“Long time no see, I’m Chloe.” I spoke first. Ethan looked at me intently, a faint, strange resentment in his eyes. “You think I’d forget?” I didn’t understand, and eagerly confessed my long-held feelings. “Um, actually, I’ve liked you for many years.” His expression became even stranger. “Are you saying you worked so hard to surpass me just to pursue me?” I nodded firmly. “Only someone excellent enough can be worthy of you.” Ethan was silent. “You want to be with me?” His eyes seemed to flicker with encouragement. I looked up, a little excited, but then I suddenly noticed that the aura around Ethan had disappeared. “I…” Just as I hesitated, about to admit it, a group of foreign students squeezed into the international student registration area. As I moved to avoid them, I suddenly felt my rear lightly but distinctly pinched. At the same moment, a girl shrieked. “Who’s got grabby hands?” A few foreign students smirked, their eyes brazenly scanning our bodies. They spoke in French, which I didn’t understand. One of them even pointed at me, snickering lewdly. The girl was furious, stamping her foot, and demanded in English. The foreign students, emboldened, shrugged and finally spoke in English. “You say it was us? Got any proof?” The girl decisively turned her head to me. “You got touched too, didn’t you?” Countless eyes fixed on me. But I was a timid, easily rattled person who avoided trouble. That was always the policy for kids from less affluent backgrounds when they were away from home. Seeing this, Ethan silently stepped in front of me, shielding me from their stares. The foreign students smirked in triumph. “Heard you local girls love foreign guys, even for free. Is that you too?” “How much for a night?” The girl’s face flushed crimson with rage. Some people who couldn’t stand it tried to argue, but the foreign students just spoke in French, leaving them powerless. Until a young man named Julian appeared. The Student Council members seemed to find their backbone, visibly relieved. Julian gently comforted the girl for a few moments. Then his face hardened, and he looked sternly at the foreign students. Though tall, he still seemed slender compared to the group of nearly six-foot-three white men. But his presence showed no weakness. He conversed with the foreign students in fluent, firm French. Their arrogance gradually turned into bluster. Julian pulled out a statement and made a phone call. The big, burly white men’s faces changed; they exchanged glances. They grudgingly apologized to the girl, quickly registered, and slunk away. “Hmph, these foreign students still think they have privileges like before, but the Ministry of Education and the school have issued management announcements.” “It’s a good thing Julian arrived in time this time, otherwise we’d just be forced to accept it again.” The freshmen were full of curiosity and admiration. “Is he the Student Council President?” “Yes, Julian is a school legend, fluent in four languages, the student representative and planner for the college.” “He wins awards constantly, manages event projects flawlessly, and even brought in $100,000 in sponsorship for orientation.” “It feels like there’s nothing he can’t handle. I heard even the strictest Dean Thompson praised him, and several top-tier companies have extended job offers.” The Student Council members were full of praise and reverence. Julian, at the center of the crowd, was charming and approachable, a true gentleman. With just a few words, he lifted the girl’s bad mood, and she offered a shy smile. I whispered Julian’s name. For the second time in my life, I was captivated, my heart completely drawn to him. Ethan remembered the unfinished conversation. “Right, you still haven’t answered. Confessing to me, do you want to take things further?” I hesitated for two seconds. Looking over his shoulder, I saw Julian suddenly walking our way. My mind went into a frenzy, and I blurted out something random. “No, I didn’t mean that. I think love is about adapting to circumstances.” Ethan: ?

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The day my dad remarried, my stepmother, Sharon, gently welcomed me into her home. She’d simmered chicken soup for three hours just for me. But as I picked up a drumstick and took a few bites, she suddenly grabbed the scalding hot soup and poured it all over my head. “Look at your wonderful daughter, David! She was born to bring misfortune to our family, wasn’t she?” I shrieked, burned and bewildered, looking at Dad, hoping he’d speak up for me. Instead, he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, slapped it on the table – a document severing our father-daughter relationship – and said coldly, “Get out. I don’t have a daughter like you.” 0 The scalding, greasy chicken soup streamed down my head. My whole body was soaked, and the smell of chicken soup instantly filled the air. I stood there stunned, helplessly looking at Dad. I wondered if I’d offended Sharon somehow and wanted to apologize. But Dad pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it on the table. It was a “Document of Severance of Father-Daughter Relationship.” “Get out. I don’t have a daughter like you.” He finished speaking and yanked my arm, pulling me toward the door. “Why, Dad? What did I do wrong?” Today was Dad’s remarriage, and it was my first time at Sharon’s house. She had been incredibly gentle with me, speaking softly, smiling as she welcomed me in, and personally cooked chicken soup for three hours. But as I picked up a drumstick and took a few bites, Sharon, who was still scooping soup for me, suddenly dropped the ladle, grabbed the bowl, and poured the soup over my head. “What did I do to make Sharon angry? Just tell me, I’ll apologize to her.” I shook my head repeatedly, desperately clinging to the doorframe, demanding answers. Dad pried my fingers off the frame one by one, replying, “You have the nerve to ask? I’m too ashamed to even answer you. Do you think what you did was something to be proud of? Mia, I can’t believe I raised a daughter like you!” He shoved me to the ground, followed by the deafening slam of the door. The sound rattled me, leaving my ears ringing for a long while. I stumbled to my feet, messy like a drowned rat, and left. Growing up, Dad always treated me like the apple of his eye. If I accidentally bumped a table corner, the next day, every corner would be padded with soft protectors. But why today… I tossed and turned, unable to sleep, so I called Grandma Martha and burst into tears. Thankfully, Martha was still on my side, promising to call Dad and give him a piece of her mind. I choked back tears, my shoulders trembling uncontrollably: “Grandma, I was so careful at Sharon’s house, I didn’t dare touch anything.” “I even helped her with chores, helping her chop vegetables while she was cooking.” “All I did was eat one chicken drumstick, and she poured the whole pot of soup on me.” “Was that chicken some kind of golden goose? That precious?” But when I mentioned the chicken drumstick, Martha’s tone instantly turned cold: “You ate the chicken drumstick?” I mumbled a “yes,” completely confused. “Yes, I did. Was it really a golden goose? I had no idea that chicken was so precious. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have touched it.” Martha cleared her throat on the other end of the line, saying sternly: “Tell me exactly what happened that day, don’t leave out a single detail.” A strange nervousness crept into me as I started recalling the scene of eating the drumstick, describing even the color and pattern of the soup bowl in detail. “And then I just ate a chicken drumstick, and before I even had a chance to drink the soup, all that happened.” Before I could finish, I only heard a busy tone. I thought Martha had hung up accidentally. I called back, only to hear: “The number you have dialed is busy. Please try again later…” I tried several times, but it was always the same. Grandma Martha had blocked me. 0

The next day, I used someone else’s phone to call Martha. “Grandma, why did you block me? Just because I ate a chicken drumstick?” I’d lived with Martha since I was little. Whatever I wanted, it would appear in her hands the next day. Her voice rose, sharp and piercing, as if it would shatter my eardrums: “I don’t have a granddaughter like you. Your dad should never have had you!” My legs instantly went weak, and I sank to the floor. What had I done wrong? Why were they treating me like this? Both Dad and Grandma Martha wanted to cut ties with me, all because I ate a few bites of chicken drumstick. My heart was a mess of emotions. Were they hiding something from me? Perhaps they were in some kind of trouble and were using this as an excuse to cut me off, so I wouldn’t get involved. I was completely baffled. I called every relative I could think of, asking about them. But their answers were identical: “No, everything’s fine. They’re all healthy, and their careers are going smoothly.” My head felt heavy, the world spinning around me. Could they really be cutting ties with me just because I ate a chicken drumstick? I spent the next night tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I decided to go back to my hometown to see Martha and get a clear explanation. But I was currently working on a major project and could only wait until my vacation. More than ten days passed. I was constantly traveling for work and didn’t have time to dwell on these things. I also tried to reassure myself that if they weren’t willing to let me eat a simple chicken drumstick, then maybe such a family wasn’t worth having. Through this, I realized my standing in their hearts was nothing special. From now on, I’d live my own life, relying on myself to create a good future. That was the only way. But ever since that incident, I hadn’t eaten a chicken drumstick again. I thought the whole thing was over, but at the project completion celebration, Mr. Hayes invited our team to a rustic restaurant known for its free-range chicken. I got incredibly stressed at the mention of anything chicken-related. I immediately called Mr. Hayes to try and decline, but he was surprisingly inflexible: “Mia, you were the main person in charge of this project. How can you not attend?” “If your teammates see you not coming, aren’t you disrespecting me, your manager?” “Your team also has interns. You need to lead by example, right?” “No more excuses. If you don’t show up, don’t bother coming in again.” Mr. Hayes was usually very approachable, but this time, for some reason, he absolutely insisted I go. This was the first major project I’d completed since leading the team, and I’d poured a lot of effort into it. To keep my job, I drove there. Everyone was toasting each other, the atmosphere was lively, and they kept raising their glasses to me. But when the steaming hot chicken soup was placed on the table, I couldn’t help but frown. Before, just for eating one chicken drumstick, my own father wanted to cut ties with me, and Grandma Martha, who loved me most, vowed to never contact me again. If I ate a chicken drumstick today, would I lose my job too? At that thought, I recoiled, pulling back my fork, and shivered. I stood up, intending to get some fresh air outside. But just as I was about to leave, Lisa, who usually couldn’t stand me, spoke up, her voice sharp, making everyone look my way: “Mia, Mr. Hayes specifically ordered this free-range chicken for you. Not even touching your fork is a huge slap in his face, isn’t it?” We’d worked together for two years, and she’d filed reports against me at least a dozen times, always trying to trip me up and make my life miserable. I steadied myself and spoke calmly: “I’ve been feeling under the weather lately, so I can’t have chicken soup or chicken meat.” “Everyone, enjoy your food and have a great time.” With that, I practically fled towards the door. 0

Just as I was about to reach the exit, Lisa rushed over and blocked me. The cheap perfume filling my nostrils made me sneeze. “Oh, this is an old hen, not a young rooster. It’s actually good for you, so don’t worry, just eat it.” All my colleagues looked at me. Other team members also chimed in: “Mia, you’re the MVP of this project. You pulled so many all-nighters, you really need to replenish your strength.” “Lisa’s just looking out for you. Just have a bite, please.” Mr. Hayes, who had been silent for a long time, also spoke up, persuading me: “This is their own farm-raised chicken, not like the factory-farmed ones. Just try a piece.” Cold sweat beaded on my forehead as I forced an awkward smile. Lisa being this nice to me? I wondered what her game was. But now I was essentially on the hot seat. If I still refused, they’d accuse me of disrespecting Mr. Hayes and being arrogant about my achievements. If I wanted a promotion or raise later, someone would surely bring this up. After two or three seconds of hesitation, I had no choice but to return to the table and sit down. I picked up my fork and took a chicken drumstick. I put the drumstick in my mouth. It was incredibly tender. Seeing that no one reacted, I continued eating on my own. Until I had eaten it down to the bone. Time seemed to stop. Everyone fell silent, as if by unspoken agreement. The private room was so quiet, you could hear a pin drop. The smiles on everyone’s faces instantly froze. The malice in their eyes shot at me like sharp daggers. “Mia, you’re absolutely shameless!” My best friend at work was the first to react, clenching her fist and slamming it on the table, her eyes practically spitting fire: “I must have been blind to ever be your friend.” “You’re utterly disgusting!” “Mr. Hayes, fire her immediately. People like her don’t belong in our company.” My heart tightened, and my legs started to tremble uncontrollably: “The restaurant owner brought the chicken soup, and Lisa told me to eat it!” “What did I do wrong?” But my colleagues just stared at me coldly, ignoring my breakdown. I looked pleadingly at Sarah, my mentor, who brought me into this industry. When I first started, Sarah taught me everything, meticulously, detail by detail. She saw my potential, my champion. I hoped she would speak up for me. But to my surprise, Sarah seemed like a different person today. Her eyes held an expression I couldn’t understand, distant, like she was looking at a complete stranger. “Mia, if I’d known you were this kind of person, I would’ve fired you during the interview.” Mr. Hayes picked up the chicken soup bowl and smashed it violently on the floor, roaring: “Mia, don’t bother coming in tomorrow. Our company doesn’t need someone with your unethical conduct.” It felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped on me. I stood there, stunned. My colleagues shot me disgusted looks and dispersed. As they passed me, some even spat at me. “Ugh, she’s absolutely shameless. She’s a waste of space, a waste of oxygen.” I had worked here since graduating, diligently and meticulously, never made a single mistake. Was eating one chicken drumstick going to end my career of so many years? The private room was a mess. Overturned wine bottles dripped onto the floor, and I felt my strength draining away, slumping to the ground. The company SnapChat group erupted in condemnation against me. But I scrolled through thousands of messages and couldn’t find a single reason why they were treating me like this. When I returned to the office, my desk supplies had already been dumped next to the trash can, smelling of garbage. I was thrown out of the company like trash. A dozen colleagues stood by the entrance, staring at me like I was a pathetic stray. Like a puppet, I picked up my belongings, walking back to my rental apartment like I’d lost my soul. I lost all strength and fainted on the floor. 0

I was woken in the middle of the night by the cold draft coming through the window, which cleared my head considerably. I contacted the restaurant owner and requested the surveillance footage from that night, hoping to figure out what happened. Was I just too stressed from work, or had I developed dissociative identity disorder, doing something outrageous? Is that why everyone turned on me the moment I ate a chicken drumstick? I watched the footage from sunrise to sunset, my eyes bloodshot, but I found no signs of dissociative identity disorder. After much deliberation, I booked an appointment with a renowned psychiatrist. After I explained the whole situation, the doctor patted my shoulder and comforted me: “It’s normal for people today to experience high stress, sometimes leading to dissociative identity disorder or memory loss.” I clutched at that lifeline, pulling out my phone to show him the surveillance video from that night. But before I could even take my phone back, the doctor shoved it into my hand and pushed me out the door: “You’re beyond help. Please find another doctor.” “Or perhaps it’s best not to treat you at all. Even if cured, it won’t erase the evil within you.” I stood outside the door, helplessly wringing my hands, tears streaming down my face like a broken string of pearls. I stumbled back to my apartment complex in a daze, only to bump into my landlord. She angrily declared: “Get out within an hour! You disgusting creature, renting my apartment! Who knows if anyone will rent it after you’re done with it.” “If I’d known what kind of person you were, I never would have rented to you.” My entire body went limp, and I knelt at my landlord’s feet, begging for an explanation like a beggar. But she just kicked me away, refusing to even look at me, and walked off without a backward glance. Dragging my luggage, bag after bag, I had nowhere to go. So I called Eleanor, my mom. When I finally threw myself into Eleanor’s arms, all the hurt and frustration of the past few days spilled out. I hugged her and cried for over ten minutes. Eleanor didn’t say a word, didn’t ask anything. She just held me, gently stroking my hair. Ethan, my brother, also took time off work to come home, saying he missed me. The days with Eleanor were peaceful and wonderful, gradually allowing me to lower my guard and forget what had happened. Six months passed peacefully. Eventually, I needed to get back to life, so I interviewed for a company online, ready to resume working. Seeing me getting better, Eleanor smiled with relief and started bustling around, insisting I eat a full meal before leaving. Eleanor cooked many dishes, all my favorites. Just as I put down my fork and was about to go pack more things. Eleanor brought out a bowl of chicken soup! I looked at the greasy chicken soup and suddenly felt nauseous, the room spinning around me. “Mia, Mom made this chicken soup for you herself. Simmered slowly, so nourishing and delicious.” “You really should eat a big bowl. You won’t find anything like this anywhere else.” My head throbbed. All those painful memories flooded my mind at once. I was trying to think of an excuse to escape, but then I noticed Eleanor’s hands, red and blistered from burns. Eleanor noticed my gaze and tugged at her sleeve, trying to hide them: “It’s nothing, just accidentally burned myself with the pot while making soup. I’ve already put ointment on it.” My throat tightened, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse her: “Thank you, Mom. I’m definitely going to eat a big chicken drumstick.” Eleanor looked at me gently, “Eat up, eat up. It’s all yours.” With that, Eleanor started to clear away the other dishes, letting me eat slowly. Seeing nothing amiss, I lowered my guard. After all, I’d always loved Eleanor’s chicken soup the most. I picked up the bowl and took a sip of soup. A warm feeling spread through me instantly, leaving a sweet and savory aftertaste. Eleanor freed one hand to wipe a spot of grease from the corner of my mouth. But as I picked up the chicken drumstick and took a few bites, Eleanor slammed the cleared dishes onto the floor, shattering porcelain pieces across the floor. Before I could react, Eleanor’s slap already stung my cheek. “Mia, how could I have raised such a monster? I’m going to beat you to death!” With that, she grabbed a broom and swung it at me. Just as I raised my hand to block it, Ethan stepped in front of me. “Mom, what did Mia do wrong? How can you hit her?” Eleanor’s chest heaved violently, and the veins on her forehead bulged. She yanked Ethan aside and whispered something in his ear: “I served Mia chicken soup, and she actually…”

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At two in the morning, while a tired ER resident was looping black thread through the split skin on my forehead, my husband, Luke, updated his Instagram. The photo showed his colleague, Lexie, slouched in the passenger seat of his car, cradling a warm paper cup. His caption was dripping with mock-exasperation and cheap affection: “Chauffeur duty, round twenty. Too drunk to remember where she parked. I swear I don’t know what to do with her.” It had been posted at one-thirty. Exactly when my sedan was crumpled on the shoulder of the dark interstate, thirty miles outside the city, and I was clutching a blood-soaked napkin to my brow, dialing his number for the thirty-third time. I had bargained with God in the dark. I told myself that if he answered just once, I would turn down the massive promotion at our Chicago headquarters. I would stay here, in Boston, and fight for our marriage. But he never answered. He only sent a single, clinical text. “Lexie is too drunk to get home safe. I’ll be back later. Be good.” He was terrified for Lexie’s safety. He had no idea I was stranded on a pitch-black stretch of highway with a shattered windshield and a head wound. In our single year of marriage, he had played late-night chauffeur for Lexie twenty times. I had worked late sixty-eight times. He had never picked me up once. My mind drifted back to the worst of those nights—when a drunk stranger had cornered me in our office’s underground parking garage. I’d been so terrified I’d locked myself in my car and called the police. At the station, the female officer had looked at me with deep pity and asked, “Where is your husband, sweetie? Why isn’t he here?” I had forced a polite, empty smile. “He’s slammed at work. I can handle it.” Yes. I could handle it. In seven days, I would board a one-way flight to Chicago. The divorce papers waiting on my laptop were simply the final, quiet surrender. 1 At two-thirty, I finally pushed open our front door. I pulled off my heavy knit beanie, exposing the stark white gauze taped over my temple. The wound throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm. The living room lights were blazing. Luke was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, a wet microfiber cloth in his hand, meticulously dabbing at a stain on a delicate silk scarf. Hearing the door, he looked up, a familiar crease forming between his brows. “Why are you working so late?” Then his eyes caught the bandage, and he froze. “What happened to your head?” “I bumped it,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “How are you so careless?” He didn’t ask how I had bumped it. I looked at the women’s scarf in his hands and felt too exhausted to explain. An hour ago, I had been rear-ended by a hit-and-run driver on a dark highway, my face slammed into the steering wheel. I had called him thirty-three times. And he had been cleaning silk. “You picked up Lexie tonight?” I asked, watching his face. Luke’s expression remained perfectly innocent. He lifted the scarf slightly. “Yeah. Her department was entertaining clients. She’s young, got pressured into drinking too much. She couldn’t even find her car in the dark. If I didn’t go, and something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself. The company wouldn’t either.” He paused, looking down at the fabric. “She ruined her scarf when she got sick. I brought it back to see if I could save it.” He had thought of everything for her. He treated her cheap silk with more tenderness than he treated my life. “I called you thirty-three times,” I said. My voice was so calm it surprised me. Luke blinked, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, Novia. I was driving, and I didn’t want to get distracted, so I put it on silent. Next time you work late, let me know. I’ll come get you.” Next time. In a year, he had driven Lexie twenty times because “it wasn’t safe for a girl.” For my sixty-eight late nights, his only contribution had been a text telling me to “be careful.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply walked past him toward the bedroom. “Get some rest,” I whispered. “I’m tired.” As the bedroom door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. It was an email from the HR director in Chicago. “Dear Novia, your transfer paperwork is officially finalized. We look forward to seeing you in seven days. Please let us know if you need assistance with relocation.” I stared at the screen and typed a two-word reply: “Confirmed. Thanks.” Seven days. That was all that remained of this marriage. 2 I woke up the next morning to a violent wave of nausea. The pain in my forehead was sharp, radiating down into my neck. I forced myself out of bed, holding the wall for support. In the hallway, Luke was already fully dressed, putting on his watch. “Luke,” I called out, my hand gripping the doorframe. My knuckles were white. “I’m incredibly dizzy. Can you take the morning off and drive me to the clinic?” He turned, and when he saw my pale face, a flash of real concern came over him. “Of course. Let me grab my keys.” A tiny, foolish ember of warmth flared in my chest. Then his phone rang. The moment he swiped the screen, his face hardened into panic. “What? Someone hit your car?” “Lexie, hey, stop crying. Deep breaths. I’m coming right now.” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes full of frantic apology. “Novia, Lexie just got rear-ended on her way to work. The other driver is some aggressive guy, and she’s hysterical. She’s just a kid, she’s terrified. I need to handle this. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take you, okay? Just sit down.” He squeezed my shoulder, grabbed his keys, and was out the door before I could speak. Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. By ten o’clock, the apartment was silent except for the ticking clock. I sent him a text: “Are you coming back?” Ten minutes later, a voice memo arrived. In the background, I could hear Lexie’s soft, theatrical sobbing. “Novia, I’m so sorry. The guy is being completely unreasonable, demanding a cash settlement and threatening her. Lexie is a wreck, and the police are taking forever. If you’re really feeling terrible, can you just call an Uber to the clinic? I’ll Venmo you for it later.” I stared at the message and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I didn’t reply. I booked my own ride to the hospital. The CT scan revealed a mild concussion. The doctor handed me a prescription and warned me to rest, strictly forbidding any physical or mental strain. As I sat in the sterile waiting room waiting for my medication, a familiar voice called my name. “Novia? What happened to you?” It was Gavin, a close friend of ours from college. He hurried over, his brow furrowed as he looked at my bandage. “Just a clumsy accident,” I said with a weak smile. Gavin looked around the empty waiting area. “Where’s Luke? Why isn’t he here with you?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I actually just walked past the bistro across the street. I could swear I saw him in there with a young girl.” “He’s busy,” I said, my voice perfectly steady. “A colleague had an emergency and he had to help out. I can handle this myself.” After Gavin left, I stared up at the flourescent lights of the hospital ceiling. I realized then that when disappointment reaches a certain depth, you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. You just go numb. 3 Four days left. I had been cold, distant, and quiet. Luke, finally sensing the shift, had booked a table at a newly starred French bistro downtown—a place I had wanted to try for months. He said he wanted to make up for our missed anniversary. That evening, I put on the deep red dress he loved and arrived early. A few minutes later, the door opened. The polite smile I had prepared froze on my face. Luke walked in, and trailing right behind him was Lexie. “Hi, Novia! I am so, so sorry to crash your date!” Lexie wore Luke’s oversized trench coat over her shoulders. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly innocent. “Luke told me it was your anniversary, and I told him absolutely not, but my roommate locked me out of our apartment tonight and it’s freezing. Luke was worried I’d catch pneumonia, so he insisted I come.” She tilted her head, her eyes wide. “You’re not mad at him, are you? You’re always so understanding.” Luke pulled out a chair for her, then gave me an apologetic shrug. “Novia, she was shivering on the street. I figured it’s just one more plate. We can still have a nice dinner.” I stared at the trench coat she was wearing. I had bought it for Luke just last month. “The coat…” I murmured. “Oh, Lexie was freezing,” Luke said dismissively. “I had it in the back seat. Here, let’s order.” He handed the menu to Lexie. She immediately selected three highly spiced, heavy dishes. Then she gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my gosh, Novia, can you even eat spicy food? I’m so selfish, I only ordered what I like. Luke, why didn’t you stop me?” Luke laughed it off. “It’s fine. Novia’s had a terrible appetite lately. Maybe some spice will wake up her stomach.” A cold weight settled in my chest. Only yesterday, I had texted him a photo of my discharge papers and medical instructions, explicitly stating I had to avoid spicy and irritating foods due to the concussion nausea. He hadn’t even opened the message. “Luke, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. He blinked, the realization slowly hitting him. “Oh… right. Your head. I’m sorry, Novia, I’ve had so much on my mind I forgot. Server, can we change those—” “Don’t worry about it,” I interrupted. Lexie’s lower lip began to tremble. “Novia, are you mad at me? If I’m ruining your night, I’ll just leave…” She scrambled to stand up, her movements dramatic enough that her arm caught her water glass. The glass tipped, splashing warm water directly onto her hand. “Ow!” she gasped. Luke immediately grabbed a handful of napkins. He snatched her wrist, his face tight with concern. “Are you okay? Is it burned? Does it hurt?” I sat there, watching them. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a glass. While Luke was frantically dabbing at Lexie’s hand, I quietly stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the restaurant. The autumn wind outside was freezing, but this time, I didn’t look back. 4 The morning of my departure. I woke up early, folding my remaining clothes and placing them neatly into my twenty-eight-inch suitcase. In the living room, Luke was adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “You’re going out? On a Saturday?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Lexie is moving today. Her moving company is sketchy, and she has a ton of boxes. I promised I’d help her out.” He put on his coat and walked toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. I took a step back, slipping away from his touch. I looked into his eyes, giving him one last, silent test. “Luke, I feel really sick today. My head is spinning, and I have this awful tightness in my chest.” My voice was quiet, dead serious. “Can you stay? Just today. Stay with me.” Luke paused. For a second, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. Then his phone rang. The moment he answered, Lexie’s crying voice leaked through the speaker. “Luke… the movers are demanding double the price, and they’re getting aggressive… I’m so scared, please get here…” The hesitation vanished from Luke’s face instantly. “Don’t argue with them,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.” He hung up and turned to me, his voice returning to that patronizing, soothing tone. “Novia, you heard her. She can’t handle those guys alone. Just take your meds and rest. I promise I’ll be back by noon to check on you, okay?” I watched his hurried retreat. The final, microscopic spark of hope in my heart went cold. “Okay,” I whispered. The front door slammed shut. I walked over to the coffee table and placed the signed divorce agreement right in the center, where he couldn’t miss it. Next to the agreement, I laid out two documents. One was my ER diagnosis for a concussion and head trauma. The other was the police report from the hit-and-run on the highway. As I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment lobby, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the corner. Three hours later, my flight touched down in Chicago. I slid a new SIM card into my phone. The moment it connected, iMessages began to flood the screen in a violent, unending stream.

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I live alone, but lately, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that there’s a phantom in my apartment. It started with the small things. I’d make breakfast, turn my back for a single second, and the center of my fried egg would be scooped out, gone. Freshly laundered shirts hung in my closet would suddenly have faint, muddy smudges on the collars before I ever wore them. I tore the place apart, installed hidden cameras, and found absolutely nothing. Just as I started to let my guard down, convinced I was losing my mind, my girlfriend wrapped her arms around me from behind, her laugh warm against my neck. “You were so aggressive last night, babe,” she murmured. “I barely walked through the door before you pinned me to the wall.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Because last night, I hadn’t been home at all. 1 Sophia’s fingertips were still tracing the line of my arm. When she noticed my face had drained of color, she paused, leaning in to brush her nose against my cheek. Her tone was light, teasing. “What’s wrong? Feeling shy? You certainly weren’t like this last night when you had your hands tangled in my hair, begging me not to let go.” Every muscle in my body locked into place. The sharp sting of my fingernails biting into my own palms was the only thing keeping me tethered to reality. I stared dead into her eyes, my voice trembling so hard I barely recognized it. “You’re saying… you saw me in my apartment last night?” Sophia nodded, the playful smile still lingering on her lips. She reached out to wrap her arms around my waist, but I flinched, stepping back instinctively. She froze, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Yeah. The power went out in my building, remember? I was bored, so I came over to surprise you.” “The lights were off when I walked in, and before I could even reach for the switch, you grabbed me. I ran my hands through your hair. You just got that new textured fade. I know the exact feel of it.” Every word she spoke felt like an ice pick driving into my bones. I grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough that she winced. “I am not joking with you, Sophia. I was not home last night.” “I told you last week. Brody went through that horrible breakup, and I took him out drinking. I crashed on his couch. I never stepped foot in this apartment last night.” The smile on Sophia’s face died a slow, agonizing death. She reached out, her hand hovering nervously near my forehead. Panic was beginning to bleed into her voice. “Stop it, babe. This isn’t funny.” “Only you and I have keys to this place. You just installed that new smart deadbolt last month. Who else could it possibly be?” “We’ve been together for three years! Do you really think I wouldn’t recognize your body? Your voice? You sounded exactly like you always do. You even smelled like the cedarwood detergent you use for your sheets!” I didn’t argue. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone, found Brody’s contact, and put it on speaker. He picked up on the second ring, his voice gravelly with sleep. “What’s up, man? You left your leather jacket on my chair when you took off this morning. When are you coming back for it?” I drew in a sharp, ragged breath. “Brody, tell me the truth. Did I sleep at your place last night?” “No shit, man. Where else would you be?” Brody yawned, a hint of amusement returning to his voice. “We stayed up until three in the morning watching some terrible rom-com. You got all emotional, told me you wanted to get married, and made me fetch you an iced Coke. Don’t tell me you blacked out.” “Wait, is Sophia interrogating you? Do you need me to vouch for you?” “No. Thanks, Brody.” I ended the call. When I looked up, Sophia’s face was the color of ash. A cold sweat had broken out along her hairline. She stumbled backward, her hip colliding with the dining table. The glass of water I had just poured wobbled perilously before tipping over the edge, shattering into a hundred glittering pieces on the hardwood. “No… that’s impossible. How could that be?” She muttered the words to herself before suddenly snapping. Like a woman possessed, she sprinted toward the bedroom. I heard the violent crash of the closet doors being ripped open, the sound of hangers clattering to the floor as she tore through my clothes. Then came the frantic scraping of her dropping to her knees, checking under the bed, ripping apart the storage bins on the balcony. She tore through the apartment like a burglar, leaving chaos in her wake. Ten minutes later, she emerged from the hallway, covered in dust, her eyes glassy and unfocused. She slowly shook her head. “Nothing… there’s no one here.” I slumped against the wall, my legs suddenly too weak to hold my weight, and finally dialed 911. 2 The police arrived within fifteen minutes. When Officer Harris and a crime scene technician stepped through my front door, I was still shaking. I tried to hand them bottles of water, but my grip was so unstable I nearly dropped them. I told them everything. From the very beginning. I told them about the breakfast food vanishing into thin air months ago. The mysterious smudges on my freshly washed shirts. And then, the events of last night. With every word, the trembling in my hands grew worse. The technician, wearing latex gloves, methodically swept the apartment. The windows were intact. The heavy steel deadbolt showed zero signs of tampering. The security bars on the balcony—which I’d had professionally installed last month—were welded shut. You couldn’t even slip a hand through the gaps. He ran a specialized scanner over every inch of the walls. No listening devices. No hidden pinhole cameras. No secret compartments large enough to conceal a human being. “Let’s go take a look at the building’s security footage,” Officer Harris said, offering a reassuring pat on my shoulder. “Take a deep breath, son. Let’s see what the cameras say.” Sophia and I followed them down to the property manager’s office. Standing behind the officers, we watched the monitors as they fast-forwarded through the footage, starting from the moment I left yesterday afternoon. The screen showed it clearly: At 5:20 PM yesterday, I walked out of the lobby doors wearing a white t-shirt and jeans. I never returned. At 11:07 PM, Sophia keyed into the lobby. At 8:10 AM this morning, she left to pick up coffee and bagels. In between those hours, aside from a FedEx guy and a DoorDash driver dropping off food on other floors, not a single unfamiliar face stepped off the elevator onto my floor. The last remaining drop of color drained from Sophia’s face. She gripped the edge of the security desk, her voice vibrating with sheer terror. “It’s not possible… Then who was in that room with me last night?” “His voice, his build… it was exactly like Declan’s. I know what I felt. Declan, you have to—” “Is this really the time for that?!” I snapped, cutting her off before turning back to the police. “Officer, I’ve suspected someone was living in my apartment for months.” “Sometimes I’d leave a glass of water on the nightstand before work, and when I came home, it had moved two inches to the left. I’d make a turkey sandwich, turn around to grab a LaCroix from the fridge, and half the sandwich would be gone. I’d hang a clean white t-shirt in the closet, and the next day the collar would be stained yellow, like someone had sweat in it.” “Last week, I put my keys on the entryway console. I swear on my life I put them there. When I got home, they were sitting on the kitchen island. I convinced myself I was just losing my memory. But looking at this… I wasn’t forgetting things. Someone is in there.” Hearing this, Officer Harris took the technician back up to my unit. They spent another grueling hour tearing the place apart. They removed the ceiling tiles in the bathroom. They knocked on the drywall around the plumbing shafts. Nothing. Finally, Officer Harris let out a heavy sigh and handed me his card. “We’re going to pull the last three months of lobby footage and run it through the system. If you notice anything else, call me directly.” He hesitated, his tone shifting into something overly gentle. “It’s also entirely possible that the stress of your job is getting to you. Memory lapses happen. If it gives you peace of mind, maybe talk to a doctor. But for now, I’d suggest staying somewhere else for a few days.” After the police left, the apartment fell into a suffocating, dead silence. Sophia and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa. Neither of us spoke. The only sound was the heavy, jagged rhythm of our breathing. After what felt like an eternity, I stood up and pulled my suitcase from the closet. Sophia blinked, snapping out of her trance, and hurried over to help me fold my clothes. “You’re right. We can’t stay here. We’ll check into a hotel.” Once we were checked into a downtown suite, Sophia immediately pulled out her laptop and called a high-end security firm. “I need your best technicians at my boyfriend’s apartment first thing tomorrow morning. I want the highest-grade cameras you have—local storage, battery backups, night vision. I want every single blind spot covered. I don’t care what it costs!” She hung up the phone and threw her arms around my neck, her body wracked with violent sobs. “Don’t worry, babe. I swear to God, we’re going to catch whoever is doing this.” I held her, but I felt entirely hollow. My chest was a cavern of ice. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that two weeks ago, I had secretly hidden a micro-camera inside the air conditioning vent. The very next day, the feed had gone black. I thought it was a defective unit. I bought three more, from three different brands. Every single one of them mysteriously died within forty-eight hours, having recorded absolutely nothing. Would this time really be any different? 3 First thing the next morning, Sophia and I went back to the apartment. We hovered over the technicians as they installed four state-of-the-art 4K cameras in the living room, bedroom, balcony, and entryway. Every possible angle was covered. When they finished calibrating the system, the lead tech looked me in the eye and swore on his reputation. The cameras were tamper-proof, connected to an independent cellular network, and saved directly to the cloud and a physical hard drive. They would not fail. As soon as they left, we locked the door and retreated to the hotel. We sat on the bed, staring at the live feeds on my iPad. We watched for an entire day. The apartment remained perfectly, hauntingly still. Not even the curtains shifted. My anxiety only tightened its grip. By late afternoon, my phone rang. It was Officer Harris. “Declan, we’ve reviewed the last three months of security footage for your building.” “Aside from you and your girlfriend, the only other person to visit your unit was your friend Brody, who came by once last month. No unauthorized personnel have entered the building.” “Everyone who used the stairs or elevator was a verified resident, a delivery driver, or a postal worker. None of them lingered on your floor.” His voice softened, taking on that same pitying tone from yesterday. “Son, I strongly recommend you schedule an appointment with a professional. Work stress can cause severe dissociation and memory gaps. There’s no shame in it. Don’t carry this burden alone.” When I hung up, my heart sank to the bottom of the ocean. Sophia, having overheard the conversation, threw her phone onto the mattress and burst into tears. I silently handed her a tissue. She took it, wiping aggressively at her mascara-stained cheeks, and grabbed her silk robe. “I’m going to take a shower, babe. Let’s go out and get a nice dinner afterward. Let’s just… try not to think about it for one night.” She disappeared into the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the endless stream of traffic on the avenue below, my mind a tangled, rotting mess. Was I actually going crazy? Was I having a psychotic break? But the missing food… the dirty laundry… the man who had touched Sophia in the dark. Those things were real. They couldn’t be hallucinations. I let out a shaky breath, pulling my gaze away from the window, and glanced down at the iPad on the nightstand. My blood stopped flowing. Just seconds ago, the feeds had been crystal clear. Now, all four screens were pitch black. A red icon blinked in the corner of the screen: Signal Lost. It looked like a slashed, bleeding eye. I shot up from the bed. They were dead. Again. Before, I could convince myself it was a faulty wire or a dropped Wi-Fi signal. But this system was brand new. It ran on its own cellular data. Even if the network crashed, it was supposed to record locally. There was no technical reason for all four to die simultaneously. There was someone in my apartment. Right now. I grabbed my phone. I didn’t even bother grabbing my jacket. I tore open the hotel door and sprinted down the hallway. I practically fell into a taxi on the street, barking my address at the driver. My voice was completely unhinged. The driver took one look at my wild eyes in the rearview mirror, swallowed hard, and gunned the engine. Halfway there, my phone lit up. Sophia. Her voice was thick with panic, the sound of the running shower echoing in the background. “Declan, where did you go? I heard the door slam. Why did you leave?” “The cameras went black!” I screamed into the receiver. “He’s in my apartment! He’s there right now!” “Declan, stop! Wait for me!” she shrieked. “Do not go in there alone!” “I’m not waiting!” I hung up on her. My hands were shaking so violently I dropped my phone twice trying to open my texts. I found Officer Harris’s number and typed frantically: The new cameras died. Someone is inside. I am going there now. Please hurry. The taxi screeched to a halt outside my building. I threw a twenty-dollar bill at the front seat and bolted. The elevator was stuck on the penthouse floor. I couldn’t wait. I shoved open the fire door and started sprinting up the twelve flights of stairs. Halfway up, the echoing silence of the stairwell began to mess with my head. I kept hearing footsteps behind me, but every time I whipped around, there was nothing but the sickly green glow of the EXIT signs. My lungs burned. My legs felt like lead. By the time I hit the twelfth-floor landing, I was gasping for air, leaning heavily against the wall to keep from collapsing. I fumbled for my keys. They slipped from my sweaty fingers, hitting the concrete floor with a deafening clang. I snatched them up, my hands trembling as I slid the key into the deadbolt. The moment the lock clicked, it hit me. The smell of Tom Ford Ombré Leather. My cologne. Drifting out from under the door. I took a deep breath and kicked the door open. The living room lights were on. Bathed in the warm glow of my floor lamp, a man was sitting on my expensive leather sofa. One leg was casually crossed over the other. He was lounging comfortably, scrolling through my iPad. He had the exact same textured fade I had just gotten at the barber last week. Hearing the door crash open, he tapped the screen off and slowly, lazily looked up. I froze. The breath was knocked out of my lungs. The face staring back at me… was my own.

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I spent seven years as Blake Warner’s dirty little secret. The day his company finally went public, he walked onto the trading floor holding another woman’s hand. “Gwen, I have to take care of her,” he told me, his voice excruciatingly calm. “You’re tough. You’ve always been a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” Adult breakups are supposed to be clean. Civil. Dignified. But when my car finally pulled up to the driveway of the old family estate I hadn’t seen in years, a familiar face was waiting under the porch light. “Finally decided to come home?” Chase stood there, his voice a cool breeze, though the grease-stained paper bag of warm cinnamon-sugar donuts he shoved into my hands was piping hot. He leaned against the wooden railing, his eyes burning through the dark. “I’ve been waiting ten damn years for you.” 1 The night before the IPO, Blake was relentless. He kept me awake until the sky turned a bruised, pre-dawn purple, pulling me into different positions on the mattress, desperate and feverish. I was so exhausted I could barely move. I kicked him weakly beneath the sheets. “Tomorrow is your big day, not your execution. If you keep tearing me apart like this, how are we supposed to survive the rest of our lives?” He had just stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair dripping water onto his shoulders. “What if I said we weren’t going to survive it? Would you make a scene?” “It’s been seven years, Blake…” I propped myself up on my elbows, a sudden chill settling in my chest. “Are you out of your mind?” Then the reality of his words clicked, and my breath caught. “Is there someone else?” If this had happened seven years ago, I would have thrown myself at him, screaming, crying, begging for an explanation. But I was twenty-seven now. The fire had been replaced by a slow, freezing numbness. I reached for the pack of cigarettes on the nightstand and lit one. “What about the engagement party we planned? The deposit is already paid.” Blake reached down and took the cigarette from my fingers. “Don’t start smoking. You know I hate it.” I watched him put the same cigarette to his lips, inhaling deeply. A sharp, suffocating ache bloomed behind my eyes. “Who is she, Blake? Who is she?” Was she beautiful? Was her family wealthy enough to buy him the respect he had always craved? What did she have that gave her the right to steal the heart I had spent nearly a decade keeping alive? A tear slipped down my cheek, betraying my forced composure. Blake frowned, looking more annoyed than remorseful. “Gwen, we’re adults here. Let’s not do the whole hysterical, tragic scene, okay?” Blake had never been good at comforting me. In the beginning, when I actually let myself show anger, he would always wear this exact expression—this strained, patronizing tolerance. I hated it. So, I changed. Over the years, he used to brag to his friends about me. My Gwen is so good, he’d say. She doesn’t throw tantrums or act needy like other girls. But sitting on that bed, the truth finally tasted like ash. Other girls threw tantrums because they had the security of being loved. They had safety nets. I was “good” because I had nothing else to lose. My reward for seven years of silence was being erased entirely, without so much as a proper goodbye. I wiped my face, pulled myself out of bed, and began putting on my clothes. Blake reached out and grabbed my wrist. I froze. The dim yellow light of the bedside lamp cast long, ugly shadows across his face, making him look like a stranger. “It’s barely four in the morning. Just wait. It’s not safe to call an Uber right now.” His words were like a needle, piercing the very last pocket of softness left in my heart. I felt like a clown. I wrenched my hand away, but he grabbed me again, his patience finally snapping. “Have you had enough? If you hadn’t changed so much, do you think I ever would have looked at someone else? Gwen, why can’t you just reflect on your own behavior for once?” I almost laughed out loud. He was the one who cheated. He was the one who broke every promise we ever made. Yet here he was, standing on his moral high ground, blaming me for turning into the woman his neglect had created. The warmth inside me died. The tears stopped. I gently removed his hand from my wrist and quietly whispered, “Okay.” There was no point in arguing. Blake had forgotten that beneath the quiet, compliant shell he had molded, I was still Gwen Taylor. I was born with a vicious temper, and I had never lacked the courage to cut my losses. Seeing me calm down, Blake relaxed back into his usual detached, corporate persona. He began to talk about her. “Her name is Cassidy Wells. She’s not even twenty yet. She’s sheltered, sweet, and incredibly innocent.” “I have to protect her. She wouldn’t survive a day in my world without a proper title. She needs me.” “Gwen, you’re street-smart. You’re a survivor. You’ll make it without me. But her? She only has me.” His voice softened as he spoke her name, his sharp jawline relaxing in a way I hadn’t seen in years. He looked exactly like the twenty-one-year-old Blake Warner who used to lean against his battered motorcycle, holding my hand. Are you sure about this, Gwen? he had asked me back then. There’s no future for a bastard child like me. Later that day, he drove that motorcycle across the city, sold it for forty-eight hundred dollars, and rented our very first studio apartment. We were so poor we could barely afford heat, but we were so full of love that the cold never touched us. At six in the morning, Blake’s phone rang. It was Cassidy. “Blake, I had a nightmare,” her voice whimpered through the receiver, sweet and fragile. “I dreamed you left me.” She sounded so small, so beautifully helpless. Without a single word to me, Blake grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Ten minutes later, a text popped up on my screen: Take your time packing. I’m taking her to a hotel for a few days. Try not to leave any of your things behind. If she sees them, she’ll cry. I stared at the screen, my hands trembling. Then, another text arrived: If you ever need help, you can still call me. We can still be friends. My fingers tightened around the metal frame of my phone. The next second, I threw it against the drywall with every ounce of strength I had left. Blake, you cruel, arrogant bastard. How terrified were you that I wouldn’t leave? How pathetic did you have to be to offer me the scraps of your “friendship” just to ease your own guilt? 2 We had only lived in this penthouse for two years, but as I packed, I realized how much of my life had accumulated in the corners. Outside, a gray, relentless rain began to beat against the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood on a chair, reaching up to peel the very last Polaroid off the memory wall. A friend of Blake’s had taken it years ago in a smoky, subterranean pool hall. Blake was leaning against a cue stick, exhaling a plume of gray smoke. I was standing next to him, my face flushed red from coughing. He had laughed, his eyes dark and lazy. Gwen, this isn’t a place for a good girl like you. In response, I had grabbed the hem of his denim jacket, leaned in, and took a drag straight from his cigarette. He had panicked, pinching my nose and forcing me to exhale, laughing as I coughed my lungs out in his arms. Blake, I had gasped through my tears, wherever you are, that’s where I belong. Back then, his mother had just died, and his wealthy father refused to acknowledge his existence. He was working security at that pool hall just to have a cot to sleep on. A regular customer had taken our photo with a Polaroid camera that night. We couldn’t afford dinners or gifts; that cheap piece of film was our only treasure. My thumb brushed over my younger face in the photo. So young. So fierce. So willing to burn alive for him. A twenty-one-year-old Blake had squeezed my hand and looked at that photo. Just wait, Gwen. I’m going to make it to the top. And when I do, I’m going to give you the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. My new phone vibrated in my pocket. A contact from our old circle had sent me a video link. In the video, Blake was standing in a VIP lounge, his arm wrapped tightly around a young girl with straight, dark hair. This is my girlfriend, Cassidy, he announced to the room. Take good care of her, guys. Her face was young, but there was something disturbingly familiar about her. The friend who sent the video texted: What’s going on? Are you guys playing games again? I stared at the screen, then slowly crumpled the Polaroid in my fist and tossed it into the trash bag. No games, I replied. This time, it’s over. Once my suitcases were packed, I didn’t just leave. I hired a high-end demolition crew and paid them triple to strip the penthouse bare. Every custom sofa, every piece of Italian marble furniture, every light fixture I had picked out—I sold them to liquidators for pennies or had them hauled to the dump. I wanted to return the keys to a space that was white, hollow, and blindingly empty. Just like what he had left of my chest. Before I could leave the city, the company’s head accountant, Natalie, called me in tears. There was a discrepancy in the audit before the final SEC filing, and she couldn’t resolve it without me. My abrupt departure had left my former team pulling ninety-hour weeks to clean up the transition. I felt a pang of guilt. They hadn’t done anything wrong. So, I agreed to go in one last time. But when I swiped my card at the glass turnstiles of the corporate headquarters, the biometric scanner buzzed red. Access denied. The young receptionist looked up, her eyes widening when she realized who I was without my heavy makeup and tailored power suits. “Miss Taylor?” she stammered. She escorted me up to the financial department personally. Before she left, she whispered, “Gwen… you look so beautiful today. You look so young with your hair down.” I had naturally soft, youthful features. But for seven years, I had dressed in razor-sharp stilettos and severe, dark blazers to help Blake command respect in boardrooms. My feet ached so constantly I had forgotten what it felt like to walk on flat ground. Natalie was waiting for me with a stack of ledgers. After we corrected the errors, she walked me back down to the lobby. It was five o’clock, and the elevators were pouring out employees. Within seconds, a dozen of my former staff members surrounded me, their faces heavy with genuine regret. “Gwen, it’s not the same without you. The client from the Eastside project threw a fit this morning.” “Exactly. Without you leading the negotiation, we had to slash our margins by 5% just to keep them from walking.” I kept a polite, professional smile on my face, refusing to say a single negative word about Blake. Adults leave quietly. I had bled for this company. I had built its foundation from the ground up. Even if I was being discarded, I didn’t want to burn down the house I had built. During our first few years, Blake’s father had planted corporate spies and hostile executives to sabotage us. I was the one who went to war, taking the hits in public while Blake quietly consolidated power behind the scenes. It took us three years of absolute hell to purge his father’s men from the board. “Is this company really going to collapse just because we lost one Gwen Taylor?” The cold, mocking voice cut through the lobby like a blade. 3 The crowd of employees instantly fell silent, parting to create a wide path. Blake walked through the double doors, his fingers locked tightly with Cassidy’s. He glared at the gathered staff, his eyes dark with displeasure. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Gwen was the one signing your paychecks.” He raised an eyebrow. “If you miss her so much, feel free to submit your resignations and follow her out.” No one dared to breathe. In this building, Blake’s word was absolute law. He had grown comfortable in his tailored Tom Ford suits, carrying himself with the ruthless authority of a man who answered to no one. But none of them had expected him to kick out the woman who had put him on that throne the moment he arrived. Cassidy tugged gently on his sleeve, her voice dripping with a soft, delicate innocence. “Babe… is this Gwen? She looks… different than I pictured.” Her eyes drifted down to my feet, and she gasped softly. “Oh! We have the same shoes…” Blake’s brow furrowed as he scanned me from head to toe. It wasn’t just the shoes. My camel trench coat and black baseball cap were from the exact same luxury designer. When I had seen that video of Cassidy the night before, I knew she looked familiar. Seeing her in person, the truth was almost laughable. She looked exactly like me at twenty. The same pin-straight, waist-length black hair. The same pale, clean skin. The same wide, quiet eyes. A bitter smile touched my lips. Blake’s taste in women really was incredibly consistent. “Gwen, we agreed there would be no scenes,” Blake said, his voice dropping into a warning register. I let out a soft sigh. “I didn’t seek her out, Blake. Believe whatever you want.” Cassidy bit her lower lip, looking terribly slighted. “But these boots just came out. Blake bought them for me two days ago as a special gift…” I knew exactly what she was trying to imply. But what she didn’t know was that I was a black-card VIP at that boutique. The boots had been delivered to our penthouse before they even hit the retail floor. In fact, Blake had been the one to sign for the package at our door. I kept my mouth shut, waiting to see what he would do. Blake made a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his fingers tapping against his thigh—his signature tell when his patience was entirely exhausted. “It’s pathetic, Gwen.” “Why are you doing this to yourself? It’s embarrassing.” “Go to the department store across the street and buy something else. Change out of those clothes.” He gestured to his secretary, who immediately handed him a leather checkbook. He unscrewed his fountain pen, his hand hovering over the paper. “How much do you want?” “Give me a number. Let’s make this a clean break so you don’t have to keep pulling these desperate stunts.” Natalie’s grip on my arm tightened so hard it bruised. My nails dug into the palms of my hands, breaking the skin. My chest tightened, my stomach twisting into a hard, painful knot. “Blake,” I said, my voice rising, vibrating with raw fury. “You think this is about money?” Blake’s expression turned to ice. “You gave me seven years. Think of this as severance. It’s only fair.” Outside of our executive circle, very few people in the company knew the true nature of our relationship. We had kept it hidden in the early years to protect the company from his father’s attacks. Once the danger passed, Blake simply never brought up making us public again. I had spent years imagining the day we would finally share our love with the world—the congratulations, the shared smiles. I never imagined that when the truth finally came out, it would be to paint me as a bitter, money-grubbing ex-employee who refused to let go. Cassidy leaned her entire body against Blake’s shoulder, looking up at him with adoration. Even during our most intimate years, Blake had rarely held my hand in public, always claiming he wanted to keep “professional boundaries.” Yet here they were, Cassidy’s lips practically brushing his ear. “It’s okay, babe. She doesn’t have to change. I understand Gwen. When a man is as incredible as you, any girl would find it hard to let go.” She turned her wide, doe-like eyes to me. “I just feel so incredibly lucky. As long as you love me, Blake, nothing else matters.” Blake’s gaze softened instantly. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, right there in front of his entire staff. Something inside me shattered into fine, sharp dust. The words tasted like copper in my mouth. I watched him stroke Cassidy’s cheek, whispering, “You’re so good to me. I won’t let anyone make you feel small. I’ve got you.” I bit my lip until I tasted blood, using the physical pain to force my voice steady. “Fine. There is one thing I want.” Blake looked down at me, a smug, victorious smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Name your price.” 4 I took two steps forward, reaching out until my fingers wrapped around the silver chain resting against his collarbone. Hanging from it was a hand-carved silver medallion. The year his father had handed him that failing subsidiary, Blake had been terrified of failing. I had spent weeks working twenty-hour days, drinking myself into a stomach ulcer just to land the accounts that saved us. The day we signed the contract, I collapsed and was rushed into emergency surgery for a ruptured ulcer. That was the first time I had ever seen Blake look truly terrified. He had sprinted through the hospital corridors, covered in mud and sweat from a fall on his way there. He looked worse than I did. He had taken my hand, tears streaming down his face. Gwen, does it hurt? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. He stayed by my bedside for four days straight. As the anesthesia wore off, I kept calling his name in my sleep. Every single time I called out, he answered. He didn’t sleep; he barely drank water. When I finally woke up, his voice was completely gone, his throat raw. The nurse had smiled at me. While you were asleep, he never stopped talking to you. He kept telling you not to be afraid, that he was right here. He must love you very much. He did love me. Once. The day I was discharged, he disappeared for twelve hours. When he came back, his knees and forehead were scraped and bleeding. But he had smiled like a fool, holding out two matching, hand-carved silver medallions of Saint Jude, the patron of lost causes. He had hiked up a steep, rocky trail to a remote mountain monastery to get them blessed. They say if your lover places this around your neck, you’ll belong to each other for a lifetime, he had whispered, his hands shaking as he clasped the silver chain around my neck. Gwen, with this, we’ll never be lost. A lifetime. It turned out a lifetime only lasted seven years. The tears finally spilled over my lashes, hot and fast, as I looked Blake dead in the eyes. I watched the smugness in his expression slowly turn into a cold, hollow panic. “I want this, Blake,” I whispered. “Seven years of my life, paid in full with this.” I yanked the chain with everything I had. He let out a sharp gasp of pain as the metal clasp snapped. Originally, the medallion had been on a simple, sturdy cord. But as Blake grew wealthier, he had insisted on replacing it with a heavy gold chain. More expensive. But far more fragile. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my own matching silver medallion. Seeing them both in my hands, Blake reached out, his voice suddenly desperate. “Gwen, don’t—” But it was too late. I threw both silver medallions onto the polished marble floor with all my strength. The silver struck the stone with a sharp, echoing clatter, rolling into the dark corners of the lobby. A broken mirror can never be made whole. “Goodbye, Blake.”

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I caught my boyfriend of five years cheating on me. But when I confronted him, his only reaction was a sigh of profound, exhausting irritation. “Can you please stop making a scene?” Gavin said, his voice dripping with condescension. “I already told you, it was just business. I was playing a part for the clients.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. Playing a part? How far, exactly, did “playing a part” go before the theater became reality? I didn’t answer him. Instead, I tilted my head back, looking up at the ceiling, and spoke to the empty air. “System. This male lead’s character profile has completely collapsed. Decommission him and generate a new one.” The air in the room instantly froze. The world around us began to flicker, light and shadow warping like corrupted code. The very fabric of this reality—the high-end apartment, the skyline outside the window, the ground beneath my feet—began to splinter and dissolve. A few seconds later, the cool, synthesized voice of the System chimed in my mind: [Author confirmation received. Decommission current male lead, Gavin Sinclair? Begin character erasure countdown?] 1 “Yes,” I said, my voice steady, devoid of a single shred of doubt. “Confirm decommission.” The flickering reality paused for two agonizing seconds before the mechanical voice chimed again: [Request approved. Character erasure for male lead, Gavin Sinclair, has been initiated. Countdown: twenty-four hours.] [Upon completion, all protagonist halos, luck, and narrative privileges will be stripped. The world-line will automatically adapt to the new male lead.] As the last syllable faded, the lights in the room snapped back to normal. I looked down at my phone. The screen was still open to my text thread with Gavin. The messages were pouring in, one after another—not a single one containing an apology, only defensive accusations. I told you, it was just a corporate dinner. Just playing the game. In this industry, you have to entertain. I can’t just walk away from these mixers. Can’t you show a little understanding for the pressure I’m under right now? … Are you going to reply to me or what? Stop pulling your usual silent treatment. Monica, you never used to be like this. When did you become so incredibly unreasonable? Fine. Calm down. I still have to entertain these executives. Don’t ruin my night. Reading those words, I felt a strange, detached sense of amusement. Unreasonable? Making a scene? That afternoon, I had left work two hours early to book a table at his favorite steakhouse. I wanted to surprise him, to celebrate our fifth anniversary. At first, he texted to say he was running late at the office, telling me to go ahead and order. I didn’t want him to be hungry when he arrived, so I ordered a small appetizer and waited. Then, thirty minutes later, another text arrived. He claimed a client had called a last-minute meeting. He said we’d celebrate tomorrow, that my anniversary gift was on the nightstand at home, and that he’d make it up to me when he got back. I had felt a pang of worry. I knew how much he drank at these dinners, and how easily his stomach flared up. So, I paid the bill and walked to the pharmacy across the street to buy his favorite brand of hydration tablets. But as I stepped out, I saw him. He was walking into the very restaurant I had just left, surrounded by a laughing crowd. And right there beside him, practically glued to his arm, was Hailey. She was the sweet-faced intern from our alma mater, looking up at him with wide, worshipful eyes, her mouth moving in a continuous stream of “Gavin this” and “Gavin that.” I stood frozen in the cold air. Still, a foolish, desperate part of me wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. I thought, Maybe it really is a work thing. If I wait for him, we can go home together. That way, he won’t have to drive drunk. So, I slid into a quiet corner booth of the diner next door, ordered a lemon water, and watched through the window for two hours. I watched him block eight consecutive shots of tequila for Hailey. I watched him flag down a waiter to order three separate plates of those gourmet macarons she loved, placing them carefully in front of her. And when the dinner finally ended, I watched him take off his bespoke cashmere overcoat—the one I had saved up for months to buy him—and gently drape it over Hailey’s shoulders. My hands had been shaking so violently I could barely hold my phone. I took a photo and sent it to him. I had expected panic. I had expected a rushed, terrified phone call, a desperate attempt to explain. Instead, I got: Can’t you be a little more mature? Gavin hadn’t always been like this. When we first started dating in college, he was so terrified of losing me that he’d take screenshots of every text from a female classmate and send them to me, completely unprompted. If I got too busy with midterms and forgot to ask about his day, he would lean his head against my shoulder, his voice soft and teasing. “Baby, why aren’t you keeping tabs on me today? Do you not love me anymore? Look at how other guys’ girlfriends text them constantly.” I had laughed, calling him a dork, and told him I trusted him. Now, I realized how colossal of a fool I had been. When a man loves you, his devotion is a physical presence in the room. When he doesn’t, even your silent pain is an inconvenience. He used to panic if I so much as frowned; now, I was holding the receipts of his betrayal, and he was irritated that I was wasting his time. Gavin didn’t come home that night. I didn’t call him. I sat on the living room sofa, my eyes tracing the pink-wrapped gift box on the nightstand. I didn’t even bother to unwrap it. I stood up, walked over, and tossed it directly into the trash. Where he slept, or who he slept with, no longer mattered. The moment he chose to guard another woman’s comfort while throwing my dignity to the wind, he became garbage. And garbage belongs in the bin. 2 The next morning, I did something I hadn’t done in years: I slept in. It was past ten when I finally opened my eyes. I washed my face, walked downstairs, and had just taken a bite of toast when the front door lock clicked open. Gavin walked in, carrying his rumpled suit jacket over his arm. As he brushed past me, a wave of sweet, artificial perfume hit my nose. It wasn’t my clean, cedarwood scent. It was a cloying peach blossom fragrance—the exact scent Hailey always wore. Seeing me sitting at the dining table in my pajamas, chewing on a piece of toast, Gavin’s brow furrowed. The irritation of a hangover was plain on his face. “Why aren’t you dressed yet? I told you we were going to make up for our anniversary at lunch.” He checked his watch, his tone sharp. “You always take over an hour to do your makeup. By the time we leave, the afternoon will be half gone.” I took another slow bite of my toast, keeping my eyes fixed on the window. I didn’t say a word. Seeing my silence, he assumed I was still just sulking. He sighed, stepping closer, and reached out to pat my head. I tilted my head away, letting his hand fall through empty air. He froze, his hand hovering for a second before he slowly pulled it back. When he spoke, his voice carried the practiced, dismissive tone of a man who thought he could sweet-talk his way out of anything. “Alright, Monica. Stop acting out. I didn’t stay out last night on purpose.” He rubbed his temples. “The dinner ran until three in the morning. I was completely wasted, so I just crashed at a hotel near the venue. I was alone. If you don’t believe me, you can call my assistant, or I can pull the lobby camera footage. Satisfied?” I finally turned my head to look at him. My eyes locked onto the faint, dusty-pink smudge of lipstick on his white collar, then drifted down to his sleeve, where a tiny smear of yellow mango mousse had dried on the cuff. I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need to explain,” I said, wiping a crumb from the corner of my mouth. My voice was as calm and pleasant as if we were discussing the weather. “Where you slept, and who you slept with, is none of my business anymore.” Gavin’s face darkened instantly. The familiar, impatient edge returned to his voice. “Can you stop with the passive-aggressive act?” he snapped. “I am out there every single day, breaking my back to build a life for us. Can’t you show a little trust? Everything I do is for our future.” He stepped closer, gesturing wildly. “Once this contract with Mr. Garrison is signed, the company is on track for an IPO. We’ll be set for life. You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. Why can’t you just support me?” I cut him off, my gaze cool and steady. “Gavin, do you actually know why a scholarship kid from a rural town, with zero family backing and zero connections, managed to secure his first round of seed funding the day after graduation?” “Do you know why, in just five years, your startup became the darling of the tech sector? Why every major bid, every impossible contract, somehow magically landed in your lap?” I paused, watching the confusion flicker across his face, before delivering the final blow. “It’s because I chose you to be the protagonist of this story. Every ounce of your luck, every stroke of your genius—it was all just the halo I gave you.” The brilliant underdog, the commercial genius, the fiercely loyal partner, the self-made billionaire. Those were the exact parameters I had typed into the System’s creation engine five years ago. But somewhere along the way, he had forgotten the script. Gavin let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Monica, I know you’ve always looked down on where I came from. But don’t you dare diminish what I’ve built. Everything I have today, I earned with my own sweat, working eighty-hour weeks while you sat at home. Don’t act like you’re some god looking down on me.” I watched him, my voice flat. “So, when you spent all of last night taking care of Hailey, it was because she worships you? Because calling you ‘Gavin’ feeds that fragile, self-made ego of yours? Is that it?” Gavin’s face flushed red with fury. He ripped at his tie, his chest heaving. “Are you ever going to drop this?” he yelled. “I looked out for her! She’s an alumna from our university, a brand-new intern at my firm. Me acting as a mentor to a junior is a crime now? Since when did you become so incredibly petty?” Looking at his angry, flushed face, my mind drifted back to our college years. I had entered a student entrepreneurship competition, and a male teammate had simply walked me to my dorm, carrying my laptop. Gavin had found out, and he had waited outside my building in the freezing rain, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling as he pulled me into his arms. “Baby, you’re only supposed to let me take care of you. I’ll only ever take care of you. If another guy even looks at you, it kills me.” Back then, his tears were so real. His devotion was so absolute that I truly believed we would last forever. I suppose vows only hold weight in the exact second they are spoken. Just then, his phone began to buzz in his pocket. The anger on Gavin’s face vanished the instant he saw the caller ID. His features softened, and he took a subconscious step away from me before sliding the phone green. “What’s wrong, Hailey?” his voice was suddenly a gentle, soothing caress. “Shh, it’s okay. Take a deep breath and tell me.” The room was quiet enough that I could hear the girl’s frantic, tearful voice through the receiver. She had scraped her car against a pillar in the parking garage and was completely panicked, not knowing what to do. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. Stay exactly where you are,” Gavin murmured, his eyes darting toward the door. “I’m coming right now. I’ll handle everything, okay? Just don’t cry.” He hung up, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and headed straight for the door. He didn’t even look back to offer an explanation. Only as his hand touched the doorknob did he seem to remember I was there. “We’ll do dinner tonight,” he threw over his shoulder, his tone commanding. “I have to handle this emergency. Just stay home, be good, and stop throwing tantrums.” The front door slammed shut, the heavy wood vibrating in the frame. As the silence settled over the apartment, I looked up. Above the door, a glowing, crimson digital timer was ticking down. [09:32:17] [09:32:16] … 3 Nine hours and thirty-two minutes left before his protagonist status would be shattered into dust. I smiled, stood up, and tossed the rest of my toast into the trash. I didn’t waste any time. I spent the afternoon cleaning out the storage closets, pulling out every single gift, trinket, and memento he had given me over the last five years. The designer handbag he had saved up for three months to buy me during our first anniversary. The hand-bound journal of love letters from our second year, along with a silver necklace he had crudely engraved himself. The custom evening gown he had commissioned for me during our third year. The hand-carved wooden comb from our fourth. And the stunning, untouched diamond-encrusted bracelet from last year, which I had deemed too precious to ever wear. I packed them all into a giant cardboard box, carried it down to the building’s alleyway, and dumped it straight into the commercial dumpster. The building’s custodian, an older woman, stopped her cart and looked at me in shock. “Sweetheart, those are gorgeous things. Why on earth are you throwing them away?” I offered her a gentle smile. “They’re useless now. They’re just taking up space.” Just like Gavin. By the time evening fell, I was sitting comfortably on the sofa, looking up at the ceiling. “System, I have the specifications for the new male lead.” The mechanical voice chimed instantly: [Please state your parameters, Author.] “First, he has to be stunningly handsome. Ten times more striking than Gavin,” I said, ticking off my fingers. “Second, he must be immensely wealthy—someone who sits at the absolute pinnacle of the financial world without needing a single drop of my protagonist halo to get there.” “Third, he must be completely, utterly devoted. His heart, his eyes, his entire world must begin and end with me.” “And finally… make him sweet. A total ‘golden retriever’ boyfriend. Clingy, attentive, someone who doesn’t have a polite bone in his body for other women, and someone who would rather die than wrap his coat around another girl or buy her sweets.” Before the System could reply, a cold, low voice cut through the quiet living room behind me. “What ‘golden retriever’ boyfriend?” I flinched slightly, turning my head. Gavin was standing in the entryway. I hadn’t even heard the door open. His face was a mask of dark, thunderous fury, his eyes burning with an emotion I couldn’t quite place. In his hand, he was holding a glossy pink luxury shopping bag. He kicked off his shoes and marched over, standing over me, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. “Monica. What the hell are you talking about?” I shrugged, leaning back against the cushions. “My new male lead. You’ve gone bad, Gavin. You’re corrupted. So, naturally, I’m replacing you. I think a sweet, loyal younger guy will suit me much better.” Gavin’s entire body went rigid. He took a step closer, trying to control the shaking in his hands. “Replacing me? We have been together for five years. You think you can just swap me out like a piece of old furniture?” “Why not?” I tilted my head, looking at the crimson numbers floating directly above his head. The digital clock was ticking through its final sixty seconds. Gavin’s face flushed with a mixture of rage and disbelief. I let out a soft laugh. “When I chose you to be my protagonist, I gave you five years of unparalleled success, fortune, and luck. But I’m bored of this storyline now. I want someone who actually listens to me. It’s really that simple.” Gavin let out a harsh sneer, reaching down to grab my wrist. I pulled back, easily dodging his grip. “Stop playing these childish, delusional games,” he hissed, his teeth clenched. “I built my company with my own two hands, through my own blood, sweat, and tears. Your little fairytale ‘halo’ didn’t do a damn thing for me!” He looked like he wanted to shake me. “I’m telling you right now, Monica, you are not walking away from me. Five years of history, and you think you can just walk away? Not a chance.” “Is that so?” I pointed a finger toward the empty air above his head, my voice as light as a whisper. “But in exactly ten seconds, Gavin… you will be absolutely nothing to me.” Gavin froze, his eyes instinctively darting upward, though of course, he could see nothing but the ceiling. He opened his mouth to call me insane, but before the first syllable could leave his lips, the phone in his pocket began to vibrate violently. He pulled it out, scowling at the screen, and answered it with a sharp, impatient snap. “What?” I don’t know what the person on the other end said. But within two seconds, the arrogance and fury on Gavin’s face turned to ash. He went utterly, deathly pale, and his eyes stretched wide as he turned to look at me in sheer, paralyzed terror.

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The ninety-ninth time my mother tried to run away from my father, she didn’t pack a suitcase. She simply walked out to the balcony of our seventeenth-floor apartment, climbed over the railing, and let go. But down on the street, as the sirens wailed, the neighbors only wept for my father. “Such a tragedy,” they whispered, patting his trembling shoulders as he squeezed out a few performative tears. “He is such a steady, respectable man. What a shame he was cursed with such a dark, neurotic, crazy wife.” None of them knew the girl she had been before she met him. Before the rings and the vows, she was a wild, laughing thing who filled every room with light. It wasn’t madness that killed her; it was my father’s quiet, systematic indifference, eroding her soul day after day until there was nothing left but a hollow shell. It was while clearing out her old things that I found the truth. Hidden in a false bottom of my father’s desk was a locked tin containing letters and photos of his first love—his untouchable “golden girl.” Worse, the dates on the letters showed they had still been in touch recently. When I confronted him, panic stripped away his mask of quiet dignity. Terrified of exposure, he frantically burned the letters, then lunged at me. In the struggle, he grabbed my wrist, forced my fingers around the handle of a pair of heavy shears, and plunged them deep into his own chest. Before I could even scream, he smiled. It was a cold, triumphant look. He had framed me. Overnight, I became the monstrous, patricidal daughter, hated by the entire world. But when I opened my eyes again, the sterile smell of the police station was gone. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume and greasy diner food. I was sitting in a crowded booth, and my hands—slender, unblemished, and elegantly manicured—were not my own. I was looking into a mirror across the room. I was Gwen. My father’s legendary golden girl. And my mother’s best friend. My mother, nineteen years old and radiating a vibrant life I had never seen in her, yanked on my sleeve, groaning. “Oh, Gwen, my dad is being absolutely insufferable,” she complained, her eyes rolling dramatically. “He’s dead set on setting me up with this ‘steady, mature’ guy. As if I want to spend my youth being bored to death!” Looking at her glowing, undamaged face, the tears spilled over my cheeks before I could stop them. “You…” I choked out, my voice trembling. “You really used to laugh like this.” 1 My mother, Daisy, was startled by my sudden tears. The annoyance on her face instantly dissolved into frantic worry. “Oh my gosh, Gwen! What’s wrong? Why are you crying?” She grabbed my hands, her brow furrowing. “Did some jerk break your heart? Tell me who he is, and I swear I’ll go break his windshield!” She shook her fist with a fierce, protective grin, ready to go to war for me. Looking into her bright, shadowless eyes, my heart ached. The memory of her broken body on the pavement seventeen floors below flashed behind my eyelids, overlapping with the vivid, breathing girl sitting in front of me. I squeezed her warm wrists, my voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re the one who’s about to get fooled by a jerk, Daisy.” “No way!” Daisy puffed out her cheeks, a faint blush creeping up her neck. “I haven’t even been on a date yet! How could a guy fool me? Besides, my standards are sky-high. I’m not falling for just anyone.” We paid for our sodas and walked out, strolling down the sidewalk of the bustling suburban town. Daisy kicked a stray pebble, her tone turning uncharacteristically quiet as she spoke of her fears. “Honestly, Gwen… I’m scared. I’m scared of finding a guy who seems perfect on paper, only to turn into a completely different person the second we say ‘I do.’ I hear the older women in the neighborhood talking. They say men put on a show until the wedding day, and then the trap snaps shut. I want passion, Gwen. I want a love that’s real and loud. I don’t want to spend my life sitting in a stagnant pond.” She looked up at the gray sky, a trace of vulnerability in her eyes. “Do you think there are actually men out there who don’t change?” I looped my arm through hers, drawing strength from her physical warmth. “There are no perfect men, Daisy. And usually, the ones who seem the most ‘mature and steady’ are the ones hiding the darkest secrets. Don’t worry. We’re going to grill this guy together today.” In my mind, a cold resolve took root. In my past life, I couldn’t save her. But in this one, the universe had given me a weapon. I was Trevor’s fantasy—the girl he had spent his life obsessing over. I would use that obsession to dismantle him, piece by piece. I would make sure he never got his hands on her. I pulled her along, quickening our pace. “Come on. Let’s go to the café and meet this ‘steady’ gentleman your dad found for you.” Daisy took a deep, steadying breath. “With you there, I feel like I can handle anything.” When we pushed open the door to the local café, the rich aroma of roasted beans and warm vanilla washed over us. In a quiet booth by the window sat a young man in a pressed white shirt. At the sound of the door chimes, Trevor looked up. The moment his eyes landed on my face, the water glass in his hand wobbled. His carefully constructed mask of calm composure cracked, and a raw, burning hunger flared in the depths of his eyes. “Gwen…” he breathed, his voice barely audible. “How… why are you here?” 2 I stared at the face of the man who had ruined my mother’s life. In my memories, this man sat coldly on our living room sofa, watching my mother scream and unravel, treating her agony like an annoying buzzing fly. His systematic indifference had suffocated our household for over twenty years. But right now, his eyes held a desperate, burning fire—a passion he had never once offered my mother. He wasn’t incapable of love. He had simply hoarded all of his devotion for Gwen, his untouchable golden girl. Daisy’s eyes widened in surprise. She looked between us, curiosity written all over her face. “Gwen, do you guys actually know each other?” I searched my mind. In this timeline, the real Gwen had never met Trevor. He had only watched her from afar, nursing a silent, obsessive crush. I met his burning gaze and shook my head coldly. “No. I’ve never seen him before in my life.” The light in Trevor’s eyes instantly died, his shoulders slumping. But he recovered quickly, taking a breath and flashing a practiced, polite smile to cover his slip. “My apologies,” he said smoothly. “You look remarkably like someone I used to know.” Daisy, sweet and entirely lacking in guile, didn’t sense anything amiss. The fact that her blind date had briefly mistaken her best friend for someone else actually seemed to put her at ease, lowering her defenses. Once we sat down, Daisy dug into the plate of pastries on the table, sliding the fruit platter toward him. “This place has the best apple tarts. Sweet things always put me in a good mood.” Seeing her so completely unguarded, I sighed inwardly. I reached over with a napkin, gently dabbing a crumb of pastry from the corner of her mouth. Leaning close to her ear, I whispered, “Take it slow, Daisy. Don’t be so eager to please. You can’t judge a man over a single cup of coffee. Keep your guard up.” My gentle caution made Daisy pause. She nodded, swallowing her bite, though her eyes still danced with excitement. “I know, I know. But he looks really nice. Not like those slick, sweet-talking guys at school.” I held back another sigh. Just wait, I thought. The universe had positioned me perfectly. I had the winning hand. Daisy cleared her throat and began the small talk. “So, Trevor, I hear you work really hard. Is your family putting a lot of pressure on you to settle down?” Trevor set his water glass down, his gaze dropping to the table as he put on a somber, vulnerable expression. “I grew up in a single-parent household,” he said softly. “My mother is the only reason I’ve made it this far.” He paused, a tremor of grief entering his voice. “But she’s very sick. The doctors say she doesn’t have much time left.” He let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “To be honest, I didn’t expect much from this date. I know the massive gap between our families. I don’t mind telling you… even the money for these coffees today came from her meager life savings.” Daisy’s eyes immediately welled with tears. Trevor’s calculated display of vulnerability had struck her exact soft spot. A fragile, suffering man who needed saving was the polar opposite of her domineering, wealthy father. She laid her fork down, her voice soft with sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Trevor. I lost my mother when I was very young, so I understand the pain of family illness. You’re a wonderful son. I’m sure she’s very proud of you.” Trevor seized the opportunity to turn the spotlight, his eyes softening as he looked at me. “And what about you, Gwen? I imagine your parents must adore you.” I met his gaze, my voice flat. “I’m an orphan.” Daisy protectively grabbed my hand, explaining my history for me. “Gwen grew up in the municipal orphanage. She’s had a really tough life, but she’s the strongest person I know. I’m never going to let her be alone again.” Hearing this, Trevor’s eyes underwent a profound shift. A look of fierce, protective longing washed over his face, as if he wanted nothing more than to sweep me up in his arms and shield me from the world. “I had no idea you had suffered so much, Gwen,” he murmured, his voice dripping with intimacy. “If you ever need anything—absolutely anything—just ask me.” A wave of intense disgust rolled through my stomach. He is on a blind date with my mother, yet he’s openly playing savior to her best friend. In my past life, when my mother was burning with a 103-degree fever and begged him for a glass of water, he had locked himself in his study, telling her he couldn’t risk getting sick and ruining his productivity. Yet my sweet, naive mother was swallowed whole by his cheap tragedy act. She was nodding along, her heart aching for him. Seeing Trevor navigate the conversation with such practiced ease, the old feeling of dread from my past life crept back. He was a master at leveraging sympathy, building a flawless persona out of pity. Just as the atmosphere in the booth was growing suffocatingly tense, a middle-aged woman burst through the café doors, sweating and frantic. She spotted Trevor in the corner and screamed across the room, “Trevor! Come quick! Your mother collapsed at home! They’re rushing her to the ER!” 3 Trevor’s face drained of color. He bolted toward the register, his voice cracking. “Bill, please.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, frantically searching for cash. His movements grew chaotic, sweat beading on his forehead. The cashier tapped the counter, her expression cold. “Sir, you’re short by five dollars.” Trevor froze, his face flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. He looked down, utterly humiliated, refusing to meet our eyes. Without a second thought, Daisy reached into her purse and handed her wallet to the cashier. “Keep the change,” Daisy said quickly, turning to Trevor with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s get to the hospital.” Trevor kept his head down, his voice barely a whisper. “Thank you.” Watching Daisy pull him toward the door, I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. I swallowed my rage and followed them. When we arrived at the hospital, the red light above the emergency room was still glowing. Trevor slumped against the sterile white wall, hiding his face in his hands. His shoulders shook as tears slipped through his fingers, splashing onto the cold linoleum. My heart felt like ice. When my mother had jumped from the seventeenth floor, leaving a shattered, bloody ruin on the concrete, this man had stood outside the police tape without shed a single tear. He had calmly asked the officer if her outstanding funeral costs could be deducted from her state pension. But here he was, sobbing like a baby. The performance was flawless. Daisy was entirely heartbroken for him. She rubbed his back gently, whispering comfort. “It’s going to be okay, Trevor. The doctors here are excellent. Have faith.” Trevor looked up, his eyes red and pooling with tears as he gazed at Daisy. “I’m sorry, Daisy. I’m a mess. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” Daisy shook her head quickly. “Don’t say that. It just shows how much you love your mother.” I could feel my mother’s affection for him rising by the second. I dug my nails deeper into my hands, desperate to stop this trainwreck. Suddenly, the sleek cell phone in Daisy’s purse began to ring. In this era, a mobile phone was an incredibly expensive luxury. Trevor’s eyes instinctively locked onto the device, a flash of raw envy crossing his features. Then, he looked at me. Seeing my empty hands and simple clothes, his expression softened with a twisted sense of kinship, as if our shared poverty made us equals. Daisy answered the phone. “Dad?” My grandfather’s booming voice echoed faintly through the receiver. “How is the date going?” Daisy lowered her voice. “We’re at the hospital. His mother collapsed.” Charles sounded startled. “Her? Oh, heavens. My future in-law is in the ER? I’m coming down right now.” Hearing the words future in-law made my stomach turn. They had only just met, and already my grandfather was mapping out a wedding. The emergency light clicked off. The doctor stepped out, pulling off his mask with a heavy sigh. He shook his head. “The cancer has spread. There’s nothing more we can do. She doesn’t have much time left. You should go in and say your goodbyes.” We followed Trevor into the room. The woman on the bed was skeletal, her face pale beneath an oxygen mask. Her clouded eyes fluttered open. “Trevor…” she rasped. “Which one… is the girl?” Trevor stiffened. Almost by reflex, his eyes darted to me. Daisy, completely blind to the exchange, stepped forward warmly and took the dying woman’s hand. “Mrs. Osmond, it’s me. I’m Daisy.” I stood at the back of the room, my jaw clenched. Mom, why are you throwing yourself into this trap? Miriam’s dim eyes flickered with a sudden spark. She studied Daisy’s healthy, vibrant face. “What a beautiful, lovely girl…” she whispered, pausing to catch her breath. “My poor boy… he doesn’t deserve someone like you.” Daisy’s cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head. “Don’t say that, Mrs. Osmond. Trevor is wonderful.” Miriam, sensing Daisy’s sweet, pliable nature, squeezed her hand, beginning her emotional assault. “Daisy, my time is running out. But looking at you… do you think you could care for my Trevor?” Daisy bit her lip and gave a soft, hesitant nod. Miriam let out a ragged sigh, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes as she began to spin a tale of ancient history. As it turned out, my grandfather Charles’s first love had been Miriam. Due to family pressure and bitter misunderstandings, they had been torn apart, carrying the regret for decades. “Our generation’s tragedy,” Miriam wept softly. “If only the two of you could find happiness together… I could die in peace.” Daisy’s eyes welled with tears. The sheer, tragic romance of the story struck her romantic heart perfectly. Her desire to fulfill this dying woman’s wish skyrocketed. By midnight, the ward had fallen silent. Daisy had fallen asleep, her head resting on the edge of the mattress. Miriam, too, had drifted into a heavy, medicated sleep. Trevor quietly stood up and walked over to me. “Gwen,” he whispered, his eyes dark and pleading. “Can we talk outside? Just for a moment?” Looking at his handsome, earnest face, a cold smile bloomed in my chest. The trap is set. Time to spring it. 4 “Sure,” I whispered back. As he turned toward the door, I reached down and gave Daisy’s side a sharp pinch. It was our secret code—a signal we had used since childhood to mean something major is happening, pay attention. She stirred slightly, but her movements were incredibly subtle. Her breathing remained slow and deep, pretending to still be asleep. Trevor noticed nothing. Out in the quiet hallway, the cool night breeze rustled the collar of Trevor’s white shirt. He leaned against the windowsill, trying desperately to maintain his steady, mature persona, but the slight tremor in his hands gave away his frantic state. I pushed down the lingering terror from my past life and met his gaze coldly. He stared at me, a desperate, longing look in his eyes. “Gwen… I’ve actually known who you were since high school.” I raised an eyebrow. “And?” “You used to sit by the window in the library,” he murmured, taking a step closer. “You were so quiet, so elegant. All these years have passed, and you’re still exactly the same. Pure. Untouched by the world.” His praise didn’t flatter me; it made my skin crawl. He was deeply intimidated by Daisy’s wealth and sparkling confidence, but with me—the orphan he assumed was as desperate and poor as him—he felt a twisted sense of ownership. “Gwen, you have no idea the shock I felt seeing you today,” Trevor confessed, his voice dropping as he finally stripped away his saintly mask. “I’ll admit it to you. I wear a mask. I have to. My mother is dying, and I need money. I need a woman who can lift me out of this gutter.” “So you targeted Daisy?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Daisy is rich and gullible,” Trevor said, showing his true, calculating colors. “And I know she’s already falling for me. If I ask, she’ll marry me in a heartbeat.” I swallowed the white-hot rage burning in my throat. “Then why are you telling me this?” He took another step, closing the distance between us, his eyes wild with a frantic, obsessive heat. “Because my heart has only ever belonged to you, Gwen!” His breathing turned shallow and rapid. “You and I… we don’t have the luxury of wealth. We are the same kind of people. Only we can truly understand each other. Gwen, say the word. If you tell me to, I will dump Daisy right now.” He reached out, his voice filled with a desperate promise. “I don’t want to hurt her, but if you agree to be with me, I will go inside and break it off with her immediately.” He paused, his tone turning subtly menacing. “But if you reject me… then for my mother’s sake, I’ll have to marry Daisy.” I stared at the monster in front of me. He was wrapping his greed and manipulation in the guise of tragic love, treating two women like commodities, and using his own dying mother as leverage. In my past life, he had drained my mother dry. He seized her inheritance, controlled her every move, and made her beg for grocery money, turning a vibrant girl into a ghost. “You really are a prince among men, Trevor,” I sneered. But he had vastly underestimated me. I had expected him to try this. My eyes flickered toward the hospital room door, which was cracked open just an inch. Behind the glass, a familiar shadow shifted slightly. Daisy was standing there, her hands clamped over her mouth to muffle her gasps. Her eyes were wide with horror as she listened to the man she thought was her destined romance describe her as a gullible ATM and a backup plan. Trevor, entirely unaware, reached out to grab my hand. “Just say yes, Gwen. Tomorrow, I’ll cut that stupid girl loose!” Before his fingers could touch my skin, the hospital door was kicked open with a deafening bang. Daisy stood in the doorway, her eyes blazing through her tears. “Trevor Osmond,” she spat, her voice shaking with rage. “Why don’t you say those exact words to my face?”

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The day my parents shipped me off to that behavioral modification camp, I still had the proof in my pocket—the footage that would have cleared my name. They didn’t even look at it. Instead, they chose to believe the girl who was sobbing so hard she choked on her own breath. Five years later, when the heavy iron gates finally swung open and let me out, the first thing I saw was her. She was wearing my old school uniform skirt, her hand tucked comfortably into my brother’s arm, smiling as she called me her “little sister.” In my absence, she had become an internet darling—an inspirational sweetheart with millions of followers. She slept in my bedroom, in my bed, and used my family’s last name to sign brand deals. My mother’s first words to me were a warning: “Hailey has a weak heart, Gwen. Don’t do anything to upset her.” My father handed me a clinical evaluation report. “You have documented aggressive tendencies,” he said, his voice flat. “Don’t ruin any more lives.” Behind them, shielded by their protective bodies, Hailey looked at me. The tears vanished for a split second, and her lips silently formed five words: You can’t beat me. I smiled. Five years in that hellhole hadn’t taught me much. But it had taught me one thing: how to make people who pretend to be asleep open their eyes and watch themselves rot. 01 There was a red carpet rolled out at our front door the day I came home. In the living room, ring lights were set up, glowing aggressively. Three different smartphones were mounted on tripods, streaming live. My mother, Dora, dressed in a flawless champagne-colored pantsuit, was draping an arm around Hailey. She smiled warmly at the camera. “Today is the day our family is finally whole again,” she said in her polished, charity-gala voice. “We hope our journey can bring awareness to troubled teens transitioning back into the home.” The lens swung toward me. The live chat on the screen began to scroll at a dizzying speed. Wait, is that the sister who pushed her classmate off the stairs? She looks so cold. Creepy vibe. Don’t be scared, Hailey! We love you! I stood in the entryway, clutching a single black duffel bag. Inside were two changes of clothes, a heavily dog-eared copy of the civil code, and a certificate of completion from the youth reform facility. My mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second before she quickly recovered, waving me over. “Gwen, sweetie, come here. Say hello to everyone.” My name is Gwen. But for the last five years, that name had been a hushed taboo in this house. They preferred to call me the “problem child,” the “delinquent,” the “unstable one.” Hailey walked toward me. She was even more beautiful than I remembered—doe eyes, cascading brunette curls, wearing a pristine white dress. Around her delicate wrist was the scarlet thread bracelet my father had bought me for my sixteenth birthday. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. As she did, her manicured nails dug viciously into the old, tender scar tissue on my lower back. “Little sister, you’re finally home,” she whispered against my ear, her breath warm and smelling of mint. “I’ve missed you every single day. Is the bed in there still as hard as rock? I heard you have to ask permission just to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.” I didn’t flinch. The cameras were rolling, my parents were watching, and tens of thousands of strangers in the chat were waiting. She wanted me to shove her. She wanted me to snap, to lose my mind, so the audience could witness the “aggressor” attacking her victim live. Instead, I lifted my hands and gently patted her back. “Don’t shake, Hailey,” I whispered back, leaning into her ear. “It’s been five years, and your acting has actually gotten worse.” She pulled back instantly, her eyes welling with tears. “Mom, it’s okay. I think Gwen is just… still adjusting.” My mother rushed over, placing herself like a shield between us, her voice dripping with suppressed anger. “Gwen, you just got back. Can’t you behave for once?” My father, Richard, turned off one of the streaming phones, his face dark. “Your sister is a public youth ambassador now. There are eyes on us. Don’t humiliate this family.” My brother, Wyatt, came down the stairs. I remembered when we were younger, how he used to lift me onto his shoulders, how he’d buy me double scoops of chocolate chip ice cream whenever I got an A. Now, he looked at me like I was a ticking bomb that needed immediate containment. “We gave your old room to Hailey,” Wyatt said, his voice clipped. “You’ll sleep in the downstairs utility room for now.” I looked up at the door at the end of the second-floor hallway. My room. A cute, pastel plaque was hung on the wood: Hailey’s Sanctuary. Hailey. The girl who, five years ago, had cornered our classmate in the gym locker room with her gang. The girl who had sliced her own arm with an Exacto knife, crying to the police that I was the one bullying her. The girl whose cruelty I had recorded on my phone—footage I never got to show anyone before she turned the tables on me. And now, she was the underprivileged, inspirational girl my parents sponsored. My sister. My father tossed a thick stack of papers onto the coffee table. “These are the enrollment documents for your new school. They’re willing to take you, on one condition: you do not cause trouble.” I picked up the top sheet. It was a Parental Guardianship Agreement. Underneath was a behavioral observation contract. If I exhibited any signs of aggression at school, my family had the legal right to immediately commit me to a psychiatric ward or another closed-management facility. Richard had already signed it. So had Dora. Wyatt’s signature sat at the bottom as a witness, his handwriting sharp and cold. I put the papers back down. “Very thorough.” My mother breathed a sigh of relief, assuming I was finally broken into submission. Hailey leaned against Dora’s shoulder, her voice soft and fragile. “Gwen, you really shouldn’t blame Mom and Dad. They didn’t have a choice back then. You pushed me down the stairs, and I still have chronic pain from it. The fact that they’re willing to take you back… it’s incredibly generous of them.” I looked at her. “Does it still hurt?” She bit her lip, nodding meekly. “When it rains. And in my nightmares.” I took a step toward her. My mother instantly blocked my path. “What do you think you’re doing?” I stopped a few feet away, a faint smile on my lips. “I just wanted to compare.” The living room went dead silent. I slowly rolled up my sleeves, revealing a neat row of faded, jagged white scars lining my forearms. “These are from the program’s counselors. They used wooden rulers when we didn’t sit straight.” I pulled my collar aside to expose the back of my neck, where a thick, uneven surgical scar sat. “And this is from a metal basin. A girl in my cabin threw it at me while I slept.” I pointed to my left ear. “And this one? I was forced to stand outside in the freezing rain for three hours. The infection got so bad it damaged the nerves. I can’t hear low frequencies anymore.” Hailey’s face drained of color. The other two streaming phones were still live. The chat went absolutely silent for several seconds before erupting in a chaotic frenzy. Oh my god, what are those scars? What kind of camp was she sent to? Why did Hailey stop talking? My mother panicked, lunging forward to kill the feeds. My father’s face turned livid. “Gwen! Are you trying to ruin this family on your very first day back?” I pulled my sleeves down, smoothing out the cheap fabric. “Of course not, Dad.” I glanced at the scarlet bracelet on Hailey’s wrist. “I was just reminding my sister to adjust her lighting next time. It would be a shame if she accidentally broadcasted someone else’s wounds.” 02 The utility room had no windows. It smelled of bleach and old cardboard. It was packed with mops, dusty boxes, a broken treadmill, and a rusted metal cot. While I was shaking out the thin sheets, Hailey stood in the doorway, her teary, victim act completely gone. “Did you really think playing the victim would work, Gwen?” I shoved my duffel bag under the cot. “It worked well enough for you. You’ve been living off that act for five years.” She let out a dry laugh and kicked the blanket I had just folded, sending it tumbling onto the dusty floor. “Look at me. I have millions of followers, a full-ride scholarship, your parents, and your brother. What do you have?” I knelt down to pick up the blanket, shaking off the dust. She crouched in front of me, dropping her voice to a vicious whisper. “You don’t even know, do you? Your early admission slot at Columbia? They gave it to me.” My hands paused. She smiled, deeply satisfied by my silence. “And that little lakeside apartment your grandmother left you? Your parents already agreed to transfer the deed to my name once I graduate. To ‘compensate’ me for my psychological trauma.” That apartment had been my grandmother’s. Before she passed, she had held my hand and told me that if the world ever became too loud, that apartment would always be my sanctuary. I hadn’t cried in five years. Not during solitary confinement, not when I was burning with a fever and ignored by the staff, not when the girl in the cot next to mine spent the night slamming her head against the brick wall. But right now, I almost laughed. The sheer, bottomless greed of it. Taking my silence as defeat, Hailey sneered. “Don’t look so bitter. You brought this on yourself. Who wants to give a house or a future to a violent delinquent? Keep dreaming.” I looked up. “Hailey, do you ever think about Paige?” The smugness on her face hardened. Paige. The girl she had terrorized five years ago. The day I found her, she was shivering in the corner of the sports equipment room, her school uniform covered in blue paint, her hair hacked off in jagged clumps. After they dragged me away, I never saw her again. Hailey stood up, smoothing her white dress, stepping back into her delicate persona. “She transferred schools. What happens to her has nothing to do with me.” “Good to know,” I said, flattening my blanket. “Get some sleep, sister. You have a live stream tomorrow, don’t you?” She eyed me warily. “What are you planning?” “Nothing. Just watching you make your money.” The next night, Hailey went live from my old bedroom. My childhood bookshelf was her backdrop, and my first-place piano trophies were meticulously arranged behind her. She beamed at the camera. “I’ve been using this scar cream for years, guys,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet sincerity. “Look at my arm. The scar from that… terrible incident back in high school? It’s almost completely gone.” She rolled up her sleeve to show the faint, superficial mark she had made herself. The chat flooded with crying emojis and heart filters. I walked into the room carrying a warm glass of water. “Time for your medication, Hailey.” Her smile fractured for a second. “Gwen, I’m working right now.” “Mom told me to bring it,” I said, setting the glass on her desk. “She said your health is fragile and you can’t miss a dose.” The live chat instantly went wild with questions. Wait, what medication does Hailey take? I thought she was fully recovered? How can she stream for four hours if she’s sick? Hailey shot me a murderous glare before quickly pivoting to the camera. “Oh, it’s just vitamins, guys! My sister just got back, she doesn’t really understand.” I didn’t leave. I stood just at the edge of the camera frame. Terrified of what I might do next, she rushed her pitch. “Anyway, guys, this scar cream is on a special flash sale tonight! Buy three, get one free!” I picked up an unopened box of the cream from her desk, examining it. “Is this really the same cream you’ve been using for years, Hailey?” She clenched her jaw. “Of course it is.” “But the manufacture date on this box says last month.” The chat froze. I turned the bottle toward the camera, highlighting the print. “Your injury was five years ago, but this product hit the market thirty days ago. Your skin’s healing abilities are practically miraculous.” Hailey’s face warped with panic. My mother burst into the room, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the door. “Gwen! Stop causing trouble!” I let her pull me back, keeping my voice loud enough for the microphone to pick up. “Mom, I’m not causing trouble. I just don’t want Hailey to get sued for false advertising.” The words landed like a physical blow. The chat erupted in accusations, and Hailey panicked, abruptly ending the stream. The second the broadcast cut, she grabbed the heavy glass of water and hurled it at my face. I dodged. The glass shattered against the wall behind me, water and shards raining down. My father rushed in at the noise, finding a bedroom covered in broken glass and a sobbing Hailey. She was hyperventilating, clutching her chest. “Dad, I know Gwen hates me, but this is my livelihood! Why does she have to humiliate me in front of everyone?” My father turned to me, his chest heaving with rage. “Gwen, apologize to your sister. Now.” I looked at the shards on the floor. “She threw the glass, she sold the fake product, she told the lie. What exactly am I apologizing for?” Wyatt stepped into the room, his eyes cold as ice. “Are you determined to get her cyberbullied, Gwen?” I looked at my brother. “When they plastered my face all over the school bulletin boards five years ago, calling me a psychopath, did you ever ask who was pushing me?” Wyatt’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Hailey suddenly gasped, clutching her heart, and collapsed backward. “Hailey!” my mother shrieked. They all scrambled to her side. I stood by the door, watching them fawn over her with practiced devotion. Over Dora’s shoulder, Hailey caught my eye. The panic was gone, replaced by a slow, triumphant smirk. I pulled out my phone and tapped the screen. I had recorded the entire exchange on my phone—the glass flying toward my face was crystal clear. But I didn’t post it. Not yet. A clown needs to be on the grandest stage before you pull the rug out from under them. 03 By the next morning, I was the most hated girl on the local internet. Hailey had posted a new video. She was sitting in a hospital bed, an IV line taped to the back of her hand. Her voice was raspy and weak. “I’ve tried so hard to heal my sister with love,” she whispered. “But trauma changes a person. Please, don’t send her hate. She’s just sick.” At the end of the video, she cried as she apologized on my behalf. The comment section was a sea of sympathy. Hailey is literally an angel. If my sister did that to me, she’d be dead to me. Get the sister to a psych ward already, she’s dangerous. My mother threw her tablet onto the kitchen table in front of me. “Look at what you’ve done!” I glanced at the screen. “Trending number seven. You guys should have bought more bot traffic.” Richard’s face darkened. “Are you not embarrassed enough?” Hailey sat on the sofa, looking pale and fragile, while Wyatt stood behind her, his hand resting supportively on her shoulder. “Gwen, just record a public apology. Let’s put an end to this.” “An apology for what?” “An admission that you lost control of your emotions. Apologize to Hailey and her followers.” I stared at him. “Did you write the script for me?” Wyatt stiffened. I picked up the printed sheet of paper from the coffee table. The heading was bold: An Open Letter to My Sister and the Public. I read a few lines aloud and laughed. “Very dramatic, Wyatt. Is this how you pitch start-ups to investors? By making up fairy tales?” Wyatt’s face flushed with embarrassment. “I’m trying to help you, Gwen.” “By helping me lock the straightjacket in place?” I ripped the paper in half. Hailey’s tears immediately began to flow. “Gwen, if you hate me that much, I’ll delete my accounts. I’ll give everything back to you.” “Hailey, don’t say that!” Dora cried out, panic-stricken. “You worked so hard for everything you have. Why should you give it up?” “Because she knows her accounts are built on a lie,” I said, my voice cutting through the room. The living room went dead quiet. Hailey’s fingers clenched the hem of her skirt. I looked at my father. “Do you actually know how she built her brand?” “Through charity work, academic excellence, and raising awareness for bullying victims,” Richard said, his tone impatient. “Try fake sob stories, falsified medical reports, paid bot networks, and heavily edited videos of me from before I was sent away.” Hailey scrambled to her feet. “You’re lying! You’re making things up!” “Nervous?” I pulled out my phone and cast the screen to the living room TV. It was a screenshot of a discord group chat. Group Name: Hailey’s Core PR & Data Team. The admin had posted: Tonight at 8 PM, push the narrative. Keywords: “Sister’s aggressive tendencies,” “Victim sibling,” “Family healing.” Another account replied: The throwback video is edited. We kept the part where Gwen shoves Hailey, but cut the provocation. Hailey lunged toward the TV to turn it off, but I stepped in her way. “Wait, there’s more.” I swiped to the next image. It was an invoice from a prominent digital reputation management firm. Inspirational Persona Maintenance Package: $30,000. My father’s expression shifted. Hailey burst into hysterical tears. “Dad, this is fake! She photoshopped this! Who knows what kind of criminals she met in that horrible place? She just wants to destroy me!” Wyatt grabbed my phone to examine the images. “Screenshots can be faked, Gwen. Do you have actual proof?” I nodded. “I do.” Hailey went entirely pale. I held out my hand. “First, give me the transfer deed to Grandmother’s apartment.” My mother gasped. “How do you know about that?” “Just because I sleep in the pantry doesn’t mean I’m deaf.” Last night, I had heard them whispering in the study, discussing how to transfer Grandmother’s apartment into “Hailey’s Recovery Trust” because my mental state made me “unfit” to hold property. My mother avoided my gaze. “We were only going to hold it for safekeeping, Gwen.” “By putting her name on the deed?” Richard slammed his fist on the table. “Enough! How we distribute family assets is none of your business!” I stared at the man who called himself my father. Five years ago, he had slammed his fist down the exact same way. The evidence is clear! Stop lying! Ship her out, tonight! A sudden wave of exhaustion washed over me. I had no desire to argue with them. I picked up my duffel bag. Wyatt blocked the front door. “Where do you think you’re going?” “The police station.” Hailey panicked. “Gwen, we’re family! Don’t drag this outside!” I stopped. “Didn’t you just say my evidence was fake?” I looked her dead in the eye. “Then let’s let the police figure out if the screenshots are fake, if the chat logs are fake, and if every dollar you made off playing the victim is clean.” Her knees buckled. My mother grabbed my arm, her eyes pleading. “Gwen, please don’t be reckless.” I looked down at her hand. Five years ago, this was the hand that had pinned me down while my father took my phone and dragged me into the unmarked van bound for the camp. I peeled her fingers off my arm, one by one. “Mom, you can’t pin me down this time.”

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