After the eighth time Mom and Dad signed and tore up their divorce papers, something in Dad broke. He stopped asking if Mom was coming home at night. He stopped staring at the faint, sweet-smelling smudges on her collar. Even when my older sister, Lucy, started calling Damian “Daddy,” Dad didn’t flinch. Instead, Dad made a new rule: every time they mentioned Damian’s name in our house, they owed him a hundred grand. After that day, Dad’s phone buzzed constantly with the chimes of bank notifications. When Mom brought up divorce yet again, Dad was eerily quiet. “Damian’s suicidal, Leo,” Mom said, her voice tight with that familiar, exhausting urgency. “I can’t just watch him die.” “But I promise you, we’ll get remarried in thirty days, as soon as the cooling-off period is over.” After they filed the paperwork at the courthouse, Dad sat me down on the edge of his bed and showed me his phone. The account balance was a long, surreal string of numbers. “I’m leaving this place, Tony,” he whispered, his hand resting gently on my shoulder. “Do you want to come with me?” … “Where are you going?” Mom’s voice cut through the quiet bedroom from behind us. Dad quickly slid his phone into his pocket. “Nowhere,” Dad said, his voice flat. “Tony just wanted to get those honey-glazed ribs from the diner downtown.” Mom frowned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Stop acting like a child, Leo. Today is our anniversary. Let’s all go out together.” I saw the faint, mocking twist of Dad’s lips. So, she actually remembered. But the gold chain Mom had bought for Dad’s anniversary present was already hanging around Damian’s neck. “No, thank you,” Dad said. “Your little assistant will probably throw another fit if we do.” Damian—the man who had supposedly been on the verge of ending his life just hours ago—had been brought back to life by Mom’s soothing words. Right now, he was downstairs, laughing and playing video games with Lucy. But Dad really was different now. In the old days, he would have screamed at Damian, thrown tantrums at Mom and Lucy, pacing the house like a wounded animal caught in a trap. Now, he just quietly took my hand and led me out the front door. By the time we got back, the house was empty. Dad didn’t ask where Mom and Lucy went. He didn’t have to; Damian always made sure he knew. He sent Dad photos—Mom and Lucy holding shopping bags, laughing with Damian in the background. Dad stared at those photos for a long, quiet moment. He looked at Damian’s arm looped through Mom’s, and the bright, unforced smile on Lucy’s face. They looked like a real family. The irony wasn’t lost on me; Mom and Lucy hated taking photos with Dad. Whenever he tried to capture a memory with them, they would turn away, annoyed. Dad typed a comment under Damian’s post: “What a beautiful, perfect family. I’m envious.” They had too many mutual friends. As soon as Dad commented, the social circle erupted. Whispers started circulating, subtle hints that Damian was a homewrecker. It didn’t take long for Mom to call, demanding Dad delete it. “You know Damian’s emotionally unstable right now! Why do you have to provoke him like this?” her voice crackled over the receiver. “Delete the comment, Leo. How is he supposed to hold his head up in public?” She wouldn’t make Damian delete the post, but she demanded Dad erase his truth. This time, Dad didn’t even reply. He just hung up. The next afternoon, Mom finally brought Lucy home. Lucy looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but she eventually walked up to Dad. “Dad,” she mumbled. Dad didn’t look up from his tablet. He just pointed to the contract on the coffee table. “You know the rule. A hundred grand.” Lucy stiffened, a look of disgust crossing her young face. “You’ve gotten so transactional. You’re nothing like Damian.” Dad watched the notification ping on his phone as the transfer cleared. He actually smiled. “Make sure you remember that next time, sweetie. Otherwise, your mother’s accounts are going to run dry.” Lucy hadn’t always been this cold. But ever since Damian stepped into our lives, Mom had constantly complained about how ‘unstable’ and ’emotional’ Dad was. Over time, Lucy started seeing him as an anchor dragging the family down. Mom stepped into the living room, her face like stone, thrusting her phone in front of Dad’s eyes. “Is this what you wanted?” On the screen was a photo of Damian in a hospital bed, his wrist wrapped in thick white gauze. “I didn’t force him to cut himself,” Dad said softly. Mom let out a sharp, bitter laugh, grabbing Dad by the jaw, forcing him to look at her. “Who else but you would drive him to this, Leo? Three years ago, during the kidnapping, you were the one who leaked our location to the press. If you hadn’t, Damian wouldn’t be broken like this.” Dad closed his eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “It was a corrupt journalist looking for a payday. It wasn’t me.” “Who else in this world worships money more than you?” Mom hissed, letting go of his jaw. “Lately, all you do is demand cash, demand property, even charging your own stepdaughter for speaking a name. Aren’t you embarrassed by how greedy you’ve become?” I remembered what happened three years ago. We were traveling abroad—Mom, Dad, and Damian. Kidnappers had taken Dad. Damian had offered himself up to swap places with him. Mom had run thirty miles barefoot through the gravel and dirt to reach the embassy to get help. But somehow, the media found out. The leak enraged the kidnappers, and Damian was nearly tortured to death. Mom believed with every fiber of her being that Dad had sold the story to the press. She still blamed him. “If you hate me so much for what happened,” Dad said, his voice cracking, “why won’t you just let me go?” Mom grabbed his wrist, her grip so tight her knuckles turned white. “Because you owe him, Leo. This is your penance.” She paused, her voice shaking with old grief. “I tried to believe you were innocent. But every time I look at Damian, I remember how terrified he was, yet he still traded his life for yours. And I can never forget that while Damian was being tormented by those monsters because of that leak, you were sound asleep on a comfortable chair in the embassy lounge.” Dad’s entire body went rigid. “Dora, I was drugged, I—” “Enough!” Mom cut him off, her eyes flashing with disgust. “I don’t want to hear another word about how you ran thirty miles to save us. It’s pathetic. Do you really think we still believe your lies?” She didn’t believe him. She never would. Instead, she demanded he apologize to Damian. Dad’s pride was the only thing he had left. “Why should I apologize for something I didn’t do?” “Damian almost died because of your greed,” Mom said, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. “And now you’ve got your friends attacking him online. You will apologize, Leo.” Lucy stood on the stairs, looking down at us with cold, detached eyes. “Just apologize, Dad. Damian really is the victim here.” Dad let out a dry, hollow laugh. “And what makes you think I ever would?” Mom slid a black card across the glass table. “I know why you’re hoarding cash, Leo. Your father’s liver cancer is stage four. You need the money for his clinical trials.” She looked at him, completely detached. “Apologize publicly, and this card is yours.” Dad stared at the black card. The silence in the room grew heavy, suffocating. Slowly, agonizingly, Dad bowed his head. Lucy immediately pulled out her phone and started a video call with Damian. “Damian! Dad’s finally going to apologize to you!” Dad watched her jump up and down with joy. He stared at his daughter for a long time. It seemed the only time Lucy ever smiled these days was when Damian was involved. That night, Mom coordinated with her company’s PR department to set up a live-streamed apology. When the news broke, Damian’s friends began posting petty, vindictive messages on social media: “Some people will sell their dignity for a check.” “You reap what you sow. Should’ve thought about the consequences before you ruined someone’s life.” I was so angry reading them that I took Dad’s phone, wanting to fire back. But Dad gently took the phone from my hands and deleted my drafts. “I’ve been dragged through the mud for three years, Tony. A little more won’t kill me.” I looked at him, my throat tight. Dad kissed my forehead. “Once Grandpa’s surgery is done, we’re leaving. For good.” The apology was scheduled for two days later in Damian’s VIP hospital room. Damian lay in bed, offering a weak, saintly smile. “You really didn’t have to do this, Dora. I know Leo didn’t mean to.” Mom’s face remained strict. “He did wrong, Damian. He needs to take accountability.” “Don’t feel bad, Damian,” Lucy added gently. But the moment Mom and Lucy stepped out to speak with the doctor, the mask fell off Damian’s face. “How does it feel, Leo?” Damian whispered, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “To watch your wife and daughter prefer another man? It must taste like ash.” “So what if you married Dora? Her eyes are only on me now.” Dad’s hands trembled, but he forced himself to stand straight, staring down at the bed. “What’s to stop me from telling the truth on the live stream?” Damian let out a soft, mocking chuckle. “Try it. You have all the time in the world to play games. But does your father?” Dad went silent. Grandpa was running out of time. The live stream started right on cue. The chat window flooded with hostile comments: “Is this the piece of garbage who ruined Damian’s life?” “I heard what happened to Damian in captivity… horrifying.” “How does he sleep at night?” Mom stood just out of frame, her eyes cold and watchful. Lucy stood by Damian’s bedside like a loyal little guard. Dad read the script line by line. Every word was a needle pressing into his chest. By the time it was over, I noticed the black ink on the page had smeared from his tears. The moment the camera cut, Lucy threw her arms around Damian. “You’re too good, Damian. You shouldn’t let people like him bully you.” Damian looked up at Mom, his eyes pooling with tears. “Dora, I feel so guilty making Leo do this publicly…” Mom squeezed his hand. “He owed you this.” She threw the black card onto the bedside table, not even looking at Dad. “Take it and get out. You’re an eyesore here.” Dad grabbed the card and ran straight to the billing department. He cleared the outstanding balance just as Grandpa’s vitals were beginning to slip. As the doors to the operating room closed behind Grandpa, Dad finally let out a shuddering breath, leaning against the sterile wall. But barely ten minutes later, the doors swung open, and Grandpa was wheeled back out. Dad panicked, grabbing a nurse. “What’s happening? I paid! Why aren’t you operating?” The nurse looked down, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m so sorry, sir. The administration just ordered Dr. Evans to transfer to the VIP wing immediately to consult on another patient. There’s nothing we can do.” Her words felt like a physical blow to Dad’s chest. “What patient could possibly be more urgent than my father?” “It’s… Mr. Damian. Mrs. Dora demanded Dr. Evans personally handle his care.” Dad’s face went completely pale. “Dr. Evans is the leading specialist in hepatobiliary oncology. My father has terminal liver cancer; no one else can perform this resection. Damian has a superficial wrist wound! Why does he need Dr. Evans?” The nurse lowered her head, voice hushed. “Mrs. Dora just funded a new pediatric wing for the hospital. The board won’t cross her.” Dad’s eyes brimmed with tears, but he forced them back. He marched out to the quiet corridor and called Mom. Her voice came through, sharp and annoyed. “What now, Leo?” “Dora, please. My dad’s surgery can’t wait. Please let Dr. Evans come back—” Mom didn’t even let him finish. “Damian is in a fragile state, Leo. I brought Dr. Evans in to evaluate his psychological distress. Your father’s surgery can be handled by any other surgeon.” Dad’s voice was shaking violently. “Dr. Evans is his primary oncologist! He knows my dad’s chart inside and out! I’m begging you, Dora. Just let him finish the surgery, and I will do whatever you want after. Anything.” Then, Damian’s voice drifted through the receiver in the background. “Dora, it’s so sad that Leo uses his own father’s health to get your attention. There are hundreds of doctors in this hospital, yet he insists on the one specialist you called for me. It’s so transparent.” Mom’s tone turned completely frigid. “Damian is right. I can’t believe you’d stoop this low, Leo. You’re pathetic.” “I’m not lying to you!” Dad cried out. “Please, Dora—” But she was already done listening. “Enough! How many lies do you expect me to swallow? Damian told me you’ve used your father’s illness as an excuse dozens of times before. I guess he was right. You haven’t changed at all.” The line went dead. Dad stood frozen, the phone slipping from his hand as if all the life had been drained from his body. I tugged at the hem of his jacket. “Dad? Grandpa is going to be okay, right?” “Tony, wait here. I’m going to get Dr. Evans.” Dad wiped his face quickly, kneeling down to look at me before turning to run toward the VIP wing. I saw Mom and Lucy take the elevator in the adjacent building, then I ran after Dad. When I rounded the corner, I saw him. Two security guards were blocking him from entering the VIP suite. “Please, just let me see Dora!” Dad pleaded. “Mrs. Dora’s orders,” one guard said flatly. “No one enters without her authorization.” But then, the suite door swung open. It was Damian who stepped out. He looked perfectly fine—not at all like someone in need of emergency psychological intervention by a top oncologist. Dad stared at him. “Tell Dr. Evans to go back. My father is dying.” Damian smiled, pulling Dad gently past the threshold, out of sight of the guards. “But my mind is so troubled, Leo. I need Dr. Evans to sit and talk with me.” “Since tomorrow is the final day of our thirty-day divorce cooling-off period, I might as well tell you the truth,” Damian whispered, his eyes dancing with malice. “Three years ago? The kidnapping, the leak, all of it—I set it up. I had to build a wall between you and Dora. She loved you too much, you see. She didn’t leave any room for me.” Dad’s face shattered. “You’re a monster.” “I just wanted what was mine,” Damian sneered. “And you wouldn’t let go.” Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Damian leaned closer, his voice dropping to a venomous purr. “Oh, and by the way, your father hasn’t actually received his regular treatments for the last two weeks. He’s not going to make it. A broken family, a dead father… consider this my little gift to you.” With a raw, animalistic cry, Dad grabbed Damian by the hair and slammed his head hard against the drywall.

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A week before the National Studio Placement Exams, Larry and I went down to the Cape to clear our heads, and that was when we found the bottle. It was half-buried in the wet sand, a vintage glass container sealed with a weathered cork. Inside was a piece of parchment, yellowed and damp. The looping handwriting claimed she was me, writing from ten years in the future. At seventeen, the world still felt malleable, suspended in a state of endless possibility. I thought it was a beautiful, elaborate prank. Grinning, I took a pen from my pocket and scribbled my teenage hopes and burning questions on the back of the parchment. In ten years, did I actually get into RISD? Did I become a successful art teacher? Did Larry and I finally get married? Is my best friend, Leah, still happily single, or did she find someone too? Do we have a baby? Does she look more like me, or does she have Larry’s eyes? I corked the bottle and threw it as far as I could into the Atlantic. To my absolute shock, it washed ashore the very next morning. I pulled out the parchment, and my breath caught. The ink was fresh, the handwriting identical, but the words were a cold splash of water. You failed. You didn’t get into RISD. Larry paid someone to ruin your final canvas so Leah could take the last early-admission spot. You tried to rely on your SAT scores to get into a second-rate state college, but on the morning of the exam, you were so sick with morning sickness that you completely blew it. Years later, Larry confessed the truth to you. He said the academic pressure had been suffocating, and because he loved Leah too much to ruin her reputation, he settled for you—the girl who was always desperately throwing herself at him. You had a shotgun wedding. You became a housewife, trapped in a silent house with a beautiful baby girl. Beneath the text, a small, dark shadow lay at the bottom of the bottle. When I tipped it over, a handful of fine, gray ash spilled into my palm. But today, she left you forever. … “No!” I screamed, bolting upright. My cotton sheets were damp, stuck to my back with cold, clinging sweat. Before I could fully register the room, something freezing touched my cheek, making me flinch. It was a cold can of Coke. Larry was leaning over me, his brow furrowed with that gentle, familiar concern that had anchored my entire childhood. “Dana, hey. You were having a nightmare.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, his hand hovering near my shoulder, hesitant to touch. “You look completely bloodless. Do you want me to call a doctor?” I stared at him, my heart hammering against my ribs. The phantom texture of that wet sand and the dry, powdery ash still felt printed onto my fingertips. It was too vivid. Too terrifyingly real. I opened my mouth to speak, but before the words could form, Leah ran up to us, clutching two more soda cans. “Larry, you idiot! You grabbed the wrong one,” she scolded, swatting his shoulder playfully. “Dana’s on her period, she can’t have ice-cold drinks right now. Why did you give her that?” She kicked his shin lightly. Larry let out a dramatic wail of pain, leaning into her space. “I only bought the cold ones because you said you had a sore throat, you ungrateful brat,” Larry grumbled, though his eyes were crinkling at the corners. He turned to me, a mock pout on his lips. “Dana, look at her. She’s abusing me again. Aren’t you going to defend your boyfriend?” They stood there, laughing and bickering over the soda cans, and the sheer normalcy of the scene finally pulled me back to earth. I let out a shaky breath, laughing at my own paranoia. If there were two people in this world I could trust implicitly, it was them. Larry Warren was my boy-next-door boyfriend, and Leah Davis was the sister I never had. We had been inseparable since we learned to ride bikes. It was just the pre-exam stress. It had to be. A week later, the tension was thick enough to choke on as the three of us stood outside the convention center where the National Studio Exams were being held. Larry reached over, pulling my laminated exam ticket from my hand to inspect it for the third time. “Okay, let’s double-check. Brushes? Palette knives? Fixative?” He looked down at me, his eyes wide with anxiety. “Dana, you’re a scatterbrain. Don’t tell me you forgot your gesso again.” “I have everything, Larry,” I said, offering a soft smile as I adjusted the heavy strap of my portfolio bag on my shoulder. “You’ve gone through the checklist a dozen times.” He sighed, reached into his jacket, and slipped a dark chocolate bar into the front pocket of my bag. “You have terrible memory. If I don’t look out for you, who will? Eat this mid-way through. Don’t let your blood sugar drop; it’ll mess with your brushwork.” He squeezed my shoulder. “We made a pact, remember? All three of us, New York or bust. Don’t fall behind.” “Who’s a scatterbrain?” Leah interjected, slipping her arm through mine. She handed me a sleek, unopened watercolor palette. “Here. I bought an extra one just in case you muddy your colors like you did during the mock trials.” Looking at the pristine pans of paint, a warm, thick sense of gratitude filled my chest. Inside the testing hall, the energy was electric. Once the timer started, the world faded. My hands moved with a rare, fluid confidence. Every stroke felt deliberate, the colors bleeding together exactly as I had envisioned. It was the best piece I had ever painted. When the final bell rang, signaling the end of the session, I stood up to carry my wet canvas to the submission table. Suddenly, the girl in the row ahead of me—wearing a low-slung baseball cap—stood up quickly. She stepped backward, almost too perfectly, angling her wet canvas directly toward mine. A sudden, icy memory of the warning in the bottle flashed in my mind. …ruined your final canvas… Instinct took over. I took a sharp step to the left, pivoting my body to shield my painting. The girl stumbled, her canvas scraping harmlessly against the wooden easel instead of my work. “Watch it,” she muttered, her voice tense. My heart hammered. I looked down at her canvas, which she was holding awkwardly. On a whim, I reached out and tipped her frame slightly to look at the back of her stretcher bars. My blood ran cold. The entire backside of her canvas was coated in a thick, wet layer of white titanium acrylic. If she had collided with me, that wet paint would have pressed directly against the face of my piece, smearing my colors into a hopeless, chalky blur. My knees felt weak. The bottle. It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a joke. I didn’t let the girl leave. I immediately raised my hand and called the proctor over, reporting the bizarre presence of wet paint on the back of her canvas. Leaving the room in a daze of suspicion and fear, I walked out into the lobby. Larry and Leah were waiting by the glass doors. The moment they saw me, they came running. “How did it go? Was it okay?” Larry asked, his eyes searching mine. I opened my mouth to tell them about the terrifying near-miss with the girl in the cap, but my words caught in my throat. Larry—who was notoriously germaphobic, a guy who refused to share a fork even with his own mother—was holding a mango bubble tea. On the clear plastic straw, there was a distinct, unmistakable smudge of dusty-rose lipstick. The exact shade Leah was wearing today. Larry caught me staring. His hand twitched, and he quickly pulled the cup back, cleared his throat, and looked at Leah. “Oh, sorry, I grabbed the wrong one,” he said, his voice entirely too casual. “Leah, this is yours. Hand me mine.” They swapped cups seamlessly, a practiced, silent exchange that suggested this was a routine they had perfected long ago. I stared at the mango tea in Leah’s hand. Larry was severely, dangerously allergic to mangoes. One sip of that drink would send him into anaphylactic shock. He would never “accidentally” take a sip of it. He knew exactly whose straw he was sharing. They had been sharing a drink. And worse, Larry had lied to me instantly, without a single blink of hesitation. A heavy, suffocating weight settled onto my chest. Suddenly, all the tiny, mismatched puzzle pieces of the last two years began to lock into place. Larry’s affection for me had always been a shared commodity. Whatever he bought for me, Leah got too. For my seventeenth birthday, he had given me a delicate silver chain. The very next day, Leah had the exact same one on her wrist. He’d laughed it off, calling it a “best-friend discount” he got at the jeweler. But there were things Leah had that I didn’t. Whenever I was sick or down with cramps, Larry always “happened” to have booked tickets to a concert or planned a trip to the aquarium that he couldn’t cancel. He would apologize profusely, then take Leah so the tickets wouldn’t go to waste. I had always thought he was just trying to be practical. Now, I realized I was just the excuse. “Dana? What are you staring at? The Uber’s here!” Leah’s voice broke through my thoughts. She was already sliding into the back seat of the car, and Larry was climbing in right next to her, leaving the front passenger seat empty for me. I looked at them sitting close together in the shadows of the cab. “I’m actually not going back to school,” I said quietly. “My mom’s nearby. She’s picking me up.” I didn’t wait for their response. I turned and walked away, ignoring the sound of Larry calling my name. When I got into my mother’s car, the tears finally spilled over. My mother looked at me in shock, immediately pulling over to offer me tissues, asking what was wrong. I just shook my head, turned off my phone, and let the quiet hum of the engine drown out my thoughts. My mother assumed I was still upset about our argument from a few weeks ago regarding my college choices. She sighed gently, reaching over to pat my hand. “Dana, honey… I’ve been thinking. I won’t force you to go to Parsons in New York. You three have been together since you were toddlers. It was wrong of me to try and pull you away from your friends just for a prestigious name.” I looked out the window at the passing Cape Cod shoreline. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, my voice steadying. “No, Mom. I changed my mind. I want to go to Parsons.” From that afternoon on, I muted both of them. The unread messages piled up into the hundreds, but I didn’t open a single one. I stopped going to the library on Saturdays where Larry used to tutor me in algebra. The first to corner me was Larry. It was during class recess. He showed up outside my classroom, holding a greasy brown paper bag from the local diner we loved. He looked exhausted, his hair messy. My classmates immediately started whispering and nudging my arm. “Dana, your boy’s here with peace offerings.” “Seriously, Larry is the standard. Don’t forget to invite us to the wedding, okay?” I walked out of the classroom and stopped a few feet away from him. “My mom hired a private tutor for my SAT prep,” I said, my voice flat. “We don’t need to study together anymore.” Larry froze, the brown paper bag crinkling in his hand. “Dana, are you still mad about the bubble tea thing? I told you, it was an accident. I can explain…” “It’s not about that,” I lied smoothly. “I just need to focus on my academics. That’s all.” He wanted to say more, his jaw tight, his eyes reflecting a deep, wounded confusion. But in the end, he just stood there as I turned around and walked back into the room. That afternoon, Leah was waiting for me by my locker. “What is wrong with you, Dana?” she demanded, grabbing my wrist. Her grip was tight, almost painful. Her eyes were rimmed with red. “What did you say to Larry? He’s been a complete ghost all week. He got a C on his practice calculus exam today. He never gets C’s!” She wasn’t worried about me. She was terrified for him. My eyes drifted down to her backpack. Hanging from the zipper was a small, hand-woven blue leather tassel—a good luck charm from a boutique in Boston. Larry had the exact same one on his keys. They had gone to Boston together last weekend. So many details, once hidden behind my own willful blindness, now felt like a dam breaking. The local sushi place we always went to—the one where Leah’s phone automatically connected to the Wi-Fi the very first time she walked in. The Valentine’s Day roses Larry bought me that came in the exact same wrapping paper as the single stem on Leah’s desk. The time Larry went camping with “the guys” and came back with clean hiking boots and a subtle scent of white jasmine clinging to his flannel shirt—the exact body spray Leah bought by the dozen. And the hand-knit wool scarf I spent three weeks making for his birthday? He smiled, said it was beautiful, and left it in his closet all winter. Meanwhile, he wore the customized sneakers Leah bought him until the soles wore thin. I had been their shield. The convenient, naive third wheel that made their secret devotion look like innocent group friendship. At the end of the semester, our art studio organized a weekend retreat at a rustic cabin lodge in the mountains of Maine to let us unwind before final portfolio submissions. That night, everyone gathered on the wooden deck, drinking cider, grilling, and singing along to acoustic guitar music. The air was crisp, but my head was heavy from a couple of cups of spiked cider, so I decided to slip away early to wash up. As I walked down the dim hallway toward the guest rooms, I heard hushed voices coming from the screened porch around the corner. “There are only three early-admission spots for the district,” Larry’s voice was tense, strained with an unfamiliar desperation. “Leah is ranked fourth. Dana is third. If Dana submits her final portfolio, Leah is out. What the hell am I supposed to do?” My chest tightened. I stopped, pressing my back against the pine wood wall. “Man, it’s not that complicated,” another voice answered. It was Trent, one of Larry’s friends from the studio. “Listen to me. You take her out before the final exams. Give her a real ‘initiation.’ You know… make her think you’re taking things to the next level.” “Trent…” “Think about it. If you guys finally hook up, she’ll be completely obsessed, totally distracted. Her focus will tank, and her scores will drop. Once her portfolio grade slips, Leah slides right into that third spot.” A long, agonizing silence stretched between them. “That… that’s messed up,” Larry murmured. “Is it? She’s the one who’s been chasing you since middle school anyway. She’ll get over it. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do for the girl you actually want.” Larry didn’t argue. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t say no. I stood in the dark hallway, my hands trembling so violently I could barely breathe. The betrayal felt like a physical blow to my stomach. I went back to my room, packed my bags in ten minutes, sent a curt text to the art teacher saying my mother was picking me up, and called a local cab. I rode all the way back to the Cape in absolute silence, crying until my throat was raw. I slept for eighteen hours straight. When I finally turned on my phone the next afternoon, the school group chats were on fire. There were dozens of leaked photos and frantic paragraphs. During a midnight room check at the cabin, the chaperone had walked into Larry’s room and found him and Leah in the same bed. The scandal had erupted instantly. The school, wanting to avoid a lawsuit so close to graduation, had issued a formal warning but kept the details quiet from the public. Everyone who knew about Larry and me was sending me pitying texts. I didn’t reply to any of them. I put on my noise-canceling headphones, sat at my desk, and studied until my eyes burned. Larry caught up with me after our final study hall. He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin with a frantic, angry strength. “Dana! Why did you leave the lodge early? Why didn’t you tell me?” Leah was hovering behind him, her eyes puffy and swollen from crying. Looking at her, I felt a strange, cold detachment. Leah hadn’t always been the pretty, popular girl. In middle school, she had struggled with her weight, and the boys used to call her terrible names. I was the one who held her hand, helped her research healthy meals, and walked with her every evening. When a group of older girls cornered her in the girls’ room, I was the one who took the punches and got suspended protecting her. I had thought I was protecting my best friend. Instead, I had nurtured the person who would eventually try to steal my life. “Did I force him into your bed, Leah?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. “Did I make you two sleep together?” I looked at Larry, pulling my arm out of his grasp. “I have a question for both of you. One of you was my boyfriend. One of you was my best friend. How long have you been making a fool out of me?” I took a deep breath, looking at the boy I had loved for half my life. “We’re done, Larry.” Before Larry could speak, Leah burst into hysterical tears, offering loud, theatrical apologies that made me look like the heartless one in the school hallway. Larry’s face hardened, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close. “Fine,” he snapped, glaring at me. “We’re done. Just remember, Dana… karma has a way of sorting things out.” He said it with such smug certainty. He was still waiting for the news that my canvas had been ruined at the exam. I didn’t say a word. I turned around and walked away. I hadn’t told him that my painting was safe. I couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when the final results came out. On the morning of the SATs, we were assigned to the same regional testing center. Just before we entered the quiet rooms, Leah walked up to me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Dana, good luck today. Don’t be too nervous.” She tilted her head, offering a sympathetic smile. “But hey, if things don’t go well, Larry’s uncle is on the state education board. I can ask him to help you find a decent community college nearby.” “Save your breath, Leah,” I said, walking past her without looking back. When the final bell of the exam rang, I felt an incredible, weightless freedom. My mother was waiting for me outside the gates with a bouquet of yellow sunflowers and a reservation at my favorite restaurant. I rolled down the passenger window, letting the salt-kissed summer air wash over my face. On the day the results were released, I sat in front of my computer, holding my breath. I clicked refresh. SAT Score: 1560. Parsons School of Design: Accepted (Portfolio Rank: #1 in State). I grabbed my mother, screaming and crying with joy, and she held me close, tears streaming down her face. But when it came time to submit my official enrollment confirmation, she hesitated, looking at me with gentle, worried eyes. “Dana, sweetie… are you sure you don’t want to apply to any local schools? Just in case? I know you loved him for a very long time…” I clicked the “Confirm Enrollment” button for Parsons. “No, Mom,” I said softly. “I’m never going to look back.” In mid-July, we had to return to school to pick up our final diplomas. The moment I walked in, my old desk mate, Becca, ran over and grabbed my arm, her face red with indignation. “Did you see their Instagram posts? It’s disgusting. Aren’t you furious?” I glanced down at her phone screen. There was a photo of them at Lake Tahoe. Leah was laughing, her hand resting on Larry’s waist. They looked picture-perfect, framed by the blue water and the mountains. “Why should I be mad?” I handed the phone back. “They deserve each other.” Just then, the classroom doors opened. Larry and Leah walked in, wearing matching vintage denim jackets. They looked undeniably striking together. Larry leaned against the teacher’s desk, looking down at me with a smirk. “I heard you’re moving to New York. You know, you didn’t have to flee the state just because things didn’t go your way here. Leah and I are locked into our first choices. If you need study guides for a gap year, we can lend you ours.” Leah stepped up, her voice soft. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Dana. We just wanted to say goodbye. After all, we used to be friends.” “Friends?” I nearly laughed out loud. “How do you know things didn’t go my way?” Before either of them could respond, Mrs. Gallagher, our senior art teacher, hurried into the room clutching a stack of official letters. The moment she saw me, her eyes lit up with pure excitement. “Dana Collins! You absolute star!” she beamed, stepping up to the podium. “Quiet down, everyone! We have some incredible news to announce.” The entire room went silent. “Let’s give a massive round of applause to Dana Collins,” Mrs. Gallagher announced proudly. “She has just been awarded a full-ride presidential scholarship to Parsons School of Design, making her the only student in our district’s history to receive this honor!”

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It was Chelsea who took the car out at three in the morning, high on adrenaline, and left a man dead on the asphalt. But it was my fiancé—the man I was supposed to marry in three days—who stood in my living room and asked me to take the fall. I gripped the delicate lace of my wedding dress, my knuckles turning white, staring at him in utter disbelief. Zachary lit a cigarette, his face a mask of chilling composure. “Chelsea is pregnant, Norma. It’s mine.” He took a slow drag, the smoke curling between us. “She won’t survive prison. But you… you’re different. You’re strong. You can handle it.” My hand flew up before I could think. The slap echoed like a gunshot in the quiet room. They made sure the trap was airtight. Zachary and the Marks family fabricated the evidence together. No matter how many times I screamed the truth to the detectives—that I wasn’t even in the car, that I had been asleep in my bed—nobody believed me. The paper trail they created was flawless. My biological mother, Margaret, wept as she grabbed my hands, her tears wetting my wrists. “Norma, please. Just take the plea. You can’t let Chelsea’s life be ruined… she’s so fragile…” Zachary stood by the window, his voice low and muffled, refusing to meet my eyes. “It’s only a year, Norma. Just plead guilty. When you get out, I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” The day the heavy steel doors of the penitentiary slammed shut behind me was the exact same day Zachary and Chelsea walked down the aisle in a lavish society wedding. By the time I was finally released, the Markss had officially scrubbed my name from the family registry. To the world, the real heiress did not exist. I had nowhere to go but back to the old, grease-stained roadhouse grill my adoptive parents had left behind. It was late one evening when a sleek, black luxury sedan pulled up to the gravel lot of Barlow’s Grill. Zachary stepped out. He stared at me, his eyes burning with an intense, demanding glare. “Why didn’t you contact me when you got out? Are you still holding a grudge?” I shook my head slowly, keeping my voice level. “I stopped holding grudges a long time ago.” I turned back to the grill, flipping the seasoned skewers over the glowing coals, letting the smoke rise between us. He strode over, his polished leather shoes tracking dirt onto the concrete, and grabbed my wrist. “Norma, look at yourself. You’re throwing your life away in this dump. Have you completely forgotten your dreams? The piano?” I looked down at my hand—at the twisted, scarred knuckles and the faint, permanent tremors. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Who was it that destroyed those dreams, Zach? Do you really not know?” … I yanked my arm out of his grip and went back to tending the grill. “Norma!” his voice flared with sudden, unearned anger. I frowned slightly, genuinely puzzled by his fury. Since the day I walked out of those prison gates, I hadn’t bothered a single soul. I hadn’t knocked on the Markss’ front door. I hadn’t called him. I had vanished into the background, just as they wanted. Why was he still so angry with me? “Hey, can we get the check?” a customer called out from a nearby table. “Be right there,” I called back. I gestured for Phoebe to keep an eye on the grill, wiped my hands on my apron, and walked over to the table. “That’ll be thirty-eight dollars. Card or tap is fine right here.” Once the customers left, Zachary stepped into my path again. “Come back with me. Look at yourself—what are you even doing here?” I ignored him, walking straight past him back to the heat of the grill. “It’s been five years, Norma. Are you still punishing us? I get it, you’re angry that we asked you to take the fall. But it was only a single year.” My hands froze over the metal grates. A year? The air felt thick in my throat. I had spent five agonizing years behind those concrete walls. They hadn’t even bothered to check how long my sentence actually was. To them, my life was just a minor detail to be swept under the rug. But as the cold realization washed over me, I found I didn’t even have the energy to argue. “Are you finished, Mr. Crawford? Because I have a business to run, and you are disrupting my customers.” His temper flared, hot and demanding. He turned to the handful of diners sitting under the string lights. “Everything is paid for! Everyone, leave. Now!” A few people recognized his face from the local business news. Whispering among themselves, they quickly gathered their coats and slipped away. He was exactly the same—entitled, arrogant, completely indifferent to the lives of ordinary people. There was no saving tonight’s business. “Phoebe, you can head home early,” I said quietly. She looked at me, her eyes filled with worry. “Norma, are you sure you—” “I’m fine. Go on home.” I bent down to start clearing the tables, wiping away the grease and ashes. Zachary stood a few feet away, pulling out his phone. “I found Norma,” he said into the receiver. “Yeah. I’ll text you the address.” Before I could finish packing up the patio chairs, a sleek black town car pulled up to the curb. Drew stepped out, slamming the door. He walked toward me with a cold, severe expression, looking down at me the exact same way he did whenever he used to lecture me at the family estate. “Who are you trying to embarrass with this little act?” he sneered. “Do you want the entire city of Seattle to know that a Marks heiress is flipping burgers at a roadside shack?” “Get your things. You’re coming home right now.” I stopped wiping the table and looked up, meeting his eyes. Years ago, a look like that would have made me tremble. I would have looked down at my shoes and whispered, I’m sorry, Drew. I’ll do better. But that girl was dead. “Mr. Marks, have you forgotten?” I asked, my voice deadly calm. “I was formally written out of the family. I am no longer a Marks.” He flinched slightly, his rigid posture softening just a fraction. “The press was brutal back then. We had to distance the company from the scandal, otherwise the stock would have tanked. It was just a business decision.” He sighed, his voice dropping an octave. “Chelsea has been eaten alive by guilt these past few years. She misses you, Norma.” A hollow laugh escaped my chest. I honestly couldn’t tell if he was incredibly naive or just willfully blind. Chelsea only had to squeeze out a single tear, and Drew would believe whatever lie she spun. “I like my life here,” I said, resuming my packing. “Please leave.” Drew’s face darkened again. “You’re wasting your life in this place.” His eyes drifted past me, scanning the small, empty diner. “Where are your adoptive parents anyway? Why aren’t they helping you?” I froze, the damp rag slipping from my fingers. They didn’t even know. They had no idea my adoptive parents were dead. Before I went to prison, I had literally knelt on the marble floor of their foyer, begging them to look after the Barlows. They had looked down at me and given me their solemn word: Don’t worry. As long as you keep your mouth shut in court, we’ll make sure they are taken care of. And like a fool, I believed them. But during my second year inside, both of them passed away within months of each other, broken and alone. My eyes stung with sudden, fierce tears. “Get out!” I choked out, my voice raw. “Both of you, get the hell off my property!” Just as the words left my mouth, a sweet, melodic voice floated from the edge of the parking lot. “Norma!” My entire body went rigid. I would recognize that voice if I were deaf and blind. Chelsea. I remembered the very first day I walked into the Marks mansion. She had greeted me with that exact same high-pitched, sisterly affection. Chelsea had slid her arm through mine, her lower lip trembling with practiced guilt. “Norma, I’m so, so sorry. I spent eighteen years living the life that should have been yours.” Margaret had watched us with soft, tearful eyes, wrapping her arms around both of us. “You are both my daughters. You both belong here.” They had showered me with beautifully wrapped gifts. I had unwrapped them one by one, my heart swelling with a naive, desperate hope that I had finally found a real family. Three months later, I won first place at the International Chopin Competition. Standing on that brightly lit stage, clutching the gold medal, my eyes immediately searched the crowd for Zachary. He had walked toward the stage holding a massive bouquet of white roses, his smile brighter than the stage lights. “Norma, you were magnificent,” he had whispered. Chelsea had jogged up to us, linking her arm in mine and tilting her head as she looked at him. “Who’s this, Norma?” “This is my boyfriend, Zachary,” I had introduced him, unable to hide my pride. Chelsea had offered a warm, polished hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Norma’s sister, Chelsea.” Zachary had shaken her hand politely. After that, she became a permanent fixture in our lives. At first, Zachary would complain to me, teasingly grumbling that our dates always had a third wheel. But then things began to shift. I remember us sitting at a seafood restaurant downtown once. He ordered a plate of blackened sea bass. I had looked at him, surprised. “Since when do you eat fish? I thought you hated it.” “Chelsea likes it,” he said casually. I had laughed off, thinking nothing of it. But from that night on, his conversations slowly became peppered with her name. I didn’t care back then. I genuinely believed he was just trying to be a supportive brother-in-law. Looking back now, I see how blind I was. What a joke it all was. Then came the day I received the email. The Symphony Management Group wanted to sign me for a multi-city national tour. My hands shook so hard I could barely hold my phone. I wanted to scream the news from the rooftops. But Chelsea had stopped me, her hand warm on my arm. “Norma, let me go with you to meet the promoter first. Just to make sure everything is legitimate.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “We can announce it as a surprise at Mom’s birthday gala the day after tomorrow.” “Okay,” I had agreed, trusting her completely. The promoter had booked a suite at a luxury hotel downtown. But standing outside the heavy mahogany door of the penthouse suite, a sudden wave of unease washed over me. “Chelsea, maybe we should reschedule,” I muttered, taking a step back. “This feels off.” “Don’t worry, Norma. I’m right here with you,” she said softly, and before I could protest, she pressed the doorbell. The door clicked open. A heavy-set, slick-looking middle-aged man stood in the entryway, a glass of scotch in his hand. “Come on in,” he said, his eyes lingering on us. The man sat on the plush leather sofa, patting the spot right next to him. “Sit down, girls.” I stayed on my feet, my muscles tense. He smiled, a greasy, predatory grin. “You know, if you play your cards right, we can get this tour booked by next week.” My stomach turned. I grabbed Chelsea’s hand, my voice sharp. “We’re leaving.” But she didn’t budge. She slowly pulled her hand from mine, staring at me with a cold, blank expression. “It’s not time yet, Norma.” Before I could process her words, a violent crash erupted from the hallway outside. In a flash, Chelsea sprang into action. She clawed at her own hair, yanked hard on the collar of her silk blouse, tearing the fabric open and sending buttons scattering across the hardwood floor. Then, she stumbled blindly toward the entryway. Thud! The suite door was kicked off its latch. Zachary, Drew, and several of our family’s security guards burst into the room. Chelsea threw herself sob-wracked into Zachary’s arms, her shoulders shaking violently. “Zach… Drew… Oh god, I don’t want to live like this… Please don’t blame Norma, she didn’t know…” Before she could finish her performance, her eyes rolled back, and she “fainted” in his arms. Drew crossed the room in two strides. Before I could breathe, his hand cracked across my face. The force of the blow threw me to the floor, my cheek burning, my ears ringing with a deafening hum. “How could the Marks family raise such a vile, disgusting creature?” Drew roared, his face contorted in disgust. “You sold out your own sister to a predator just to get a damn concert tour?” I cradled my bruised face, staring up at him in absolute shock. “I didn’t! That’s not what happened! She tore her own clothes—” “Shut up!” Drew cut me off, his eyes filled with pure loathing. Right then, the slick promoter dropped to his knees, pointing a finger at me. “It was her! She set the whole thing up! She paid me to do it!” He pulled out his phone, waving a screen full of text logs and wire transfer receipts. The profile picture on the screen was mine. But I had never seen this man before in my life, let alone messaged him. Zachary stood in the corner of the room, silent. He didn’t say a single word. He just stared down at me, his eyes cold and heavy with absolute disappointment. When we returned to the estate, I was locked in the family’s private library, forced to kneel on the cold hardwood floor under the stern portraits of our ancestors. Three days later was my mother’s birthday gala. The moment the library door unlocked, Chelsea was waiting for me in the hallway. The tears from three days ago were entirely gone. She leaned in, her voice a low, venomous whisper: “You should have never tried to steal what belongs to me, Norma.” Margaret met us at the top of the stairs, sighing heavily. Her eyes held nothing but disappointment. “Norma, please. Do not cause any more scenes tonight.” I dug my fingernails deep into the palms of my hands, swallowing the lump in my throat as I followed her into the grand ballroom. Whispers immediately rippled through the crowd. “Is that the long-lost daughter?” “I heard she’s a prodigy. Won the gold medal at the Chopin competition.” “The Markss really hit the jackpot…” Chelsea turned to me with a bright, sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Norma, why don’t we play a duet for Mom?” But halfway through the performance, my throat began to constrict, my skin burning as hives erupted across my arms. Someone had coated the piano keys in peach fuzz—an allergen they knew would trigger a severe, anaphylactic reaction in me. I collapsed onto the keys. When I opened my eyes in the sterile white room of the hospital, only Zachary was sitting by my bedside. Not a single member of the Marks family had mattered enough to show up. My chest felt tight, a dull, aching sorrow settling deep in my bones. Zachary drove me back to the estate in silence. When the car pulled up to the grand iron gates, he stared out the windshield for a long moment, before leaving without saying a word. I pushed open the heavy front doors. Laughter floated down from the living room. Chelsea was curled up on the sofa next to Margaret, whispering something that made everyone laugh. It was a picture-perfect scene of a happy, intact family. Drew glanced up at me, his tone dry and dismissive. “If Chelsea hadn’t stepped in and finished the piece for you, you would have made a complete fool of the family tonight.” “The keys were covered in peach fuzz,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “I had an allergic reaction. Someone did it on purpose.” He let out a cold snort. “Who are you trying to fool? The doctor already called. He said it was just a minor panic attack. You were faking it because you couldn’t handle the pressure.” I opened my mouth to defend myself, but the words died in my throat. There was no point. The next afternoon, the family’s estate attorney arrived. “According to the late Mr. Marks’s trust,” the lawyer announced, sliding a folder across the mahogany table, “since Chelsea Marks is not of biological descent, her share of the family trust is nullified. The inheritance must be transferred immediately to Norma Marks.” Drew set his teacup down, his face indifferent. “They are both daughters of this house. It shouldn’t matter whose name is on the paper.” “Legally, sir, Chelsea has no claim to these assets,” the lawyer replied firmly. Once the shares were transferred to my name, Chelsea went quiet for two months. During that time, Zachary was attentive. He took me to gallery openings, classical concerts, and eventually, at our engagement party, he dropped to one knee, promising me a lifetime of devotion. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to believe that the storm had passed. Until the afternoon Drew threw a paper check violently into my face. Drew stood over me, his chest heaving with rage. “I actually thought you had changed, Norma. I thought you were trying to be a decent human being. But you’re even more venomous than before.” I looked down at the slip of paper on the floor. It was a personal check for five million dollars. My signature was forged flawlessly at the bottom. “Since you love buying people off so much, let’s see how much trouble you can make when you’re broke,” Drew sneered, tossing a thick document onto the desk. It was a trust fund transfer agreement. I looked up at him, my throat tight. “What is this?” He let out a harsh laugh. “You really are a sociopath, aren’t you?” He pulled a digital voice recorder from his pocket and pressed play. My own voice filled the quiet room: Chelsea, here’s five million dollars. Take it and get out of this house. There is only room for one daughter in this family, and it’s me… The recording was so perfect, the vocal inflections so precise, that if I hadn’t known the truth, I might have believed it myself. “This isn’t me,” I whispered. “I was at the Barlows’ house all day today. I never left.” “Of course they’d cover for you,” Drew snapped. “Those people would lie for you in a heartbeat.” “Sign it.” “I didn’t do this! Why should I sign away what my grandfather left me?” He didn’t bother arguing. He simply gestured to the two guards standing by the door. They stepped forward, grabbing my arms and pinning me rawly against the mahogany desk, forcing my hand to sign the transfer agreement. When they finally let me go, I looked at my family—at the people who shared my blood—and felt nothing but a vast, freezing void. I turned and walked out of the house. Outside, a torrential Seattle downpour was washing over the driveway. I dialed Zachary’s number nine times. Each call went straight to voicemail. I took a cab to his townhouse, but the windows were dark, the driveway empty. I stood in the pouring rain for what felt like hours, my clothes soaked through, before my feet took me to the only place that had ever felt safe: the Barlows’ modest suburban home. My adoptive mother, Diane Barlow, opened the door, her face pale with concern. “Norma? Sweetheart, what happened? Where is Zachary?” I couldn’t speak. The dam inside me broke, and I collapsed into her arms, sobbing hysterically. “Mom, I don’t want to go back there… They hate me… They don’t want me…” I poured my heart out, crying until my ribs ached. Diane held me close, gently rubbing my back just like she did when I was a little girl. “Then don’t go back, baby. You don’t ever have to go back. This will always be your home.” In the middle of the night, the buzz of my phone woke me. I blinked against the harsh light of the screen. It was an image message from Chelsea. Two hands, fingers tightly intertwined. I recognized the silver watch and the scar on the thumb instantly. It was Zachary’s hand. Below the photo, a single text: You have great taste in men, sis. But he’s mine now. With shaking fingers, I saved the photo to a secure folder. Over the next two days, she sent more. Every single day, a new photo. I stared at the collection of images on my screen. In three days, I was supposed to walk down the aisle to marry Zachary. I quietly saved every single one. I hoped he would appreciate the wedding gift I was preparing for him. But at four in the morning, a violent pounding on the front door shattered the silence. Zachary stood on the porch, his eyes bloodshot, several of the Marks family guards looming behind him in the shadows. “Norma,” he said, his voice raw. “Chelsea was in an accident. She… she hit a pedestrian. The man didn’t make it.” I leaned against the doorframe, staring at him, my heart completely numb. “And?” “The family is calling the police. Chelsea can’t go to prison, Norma. She’s pregnant. With my baby.” “So?” He took a deep, trembling breath, unable to look me in the eye. “Take the fall for her. If you confess, with our lawyers, you’ll only get a year or two. I’ll pull strings from the outside to get you out early.” I looked at him, and a cold, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. This was the man who had promised to protect me. The man who swore he would love me forever. “And if I say no?” Zachary lowered his eyes. The silence stretched between us, heavy and threatening. “The Barlows are getting old, Norma,” he murmured softly. “It would be a shame if… something happened to them while you were busy fighting this.” “You bastard…” On the morning I was supposed to wear a white wedding gown, I was escorted into a prison cell instead. On my very first night in the state penitentiary, three inmates dragged me into the blind spot of the showers. One of them clamped her hand around my jaw, forcing my head back. “Chelsea sends her regards,” she whispered. “She said you won’t be needing these anymore.” They pinned me down. One by one, they bent my fingers back until the bones snapped, slowly grinding my knuckles into the concrete floor. From that night on, the hands that had once flown effortlessly across black and white keys, the hands that had won international acclaim, could no longer hold a pen without trembling. Five years. How fast time passes when your soul is dead. I let out a long, slow breath, my gaze shifting across the three people standing in my parking lot. “The grill is closed,” I said, my voice empty of emotion. “Please leave.” I turned to walk back inside. Behind me, a loud thud echoed. Chelsea had dropped to her knees on the damp gravel. “Norma, please!” she sobbed, her face buried in her hands. “I know I ruined your life. You can hit me, you can scream at me, I’ll take it. But Mom has been so sick since you went away. Please, just come home and see her. Just once.” I paused, but I didn’t turn around. “Maybe that’s just her penance,” I said softly. I remembered the day I returned to the Markss. Margaret had held our hands, smiling warmly, promising that we were both her daughters. But she had never loved me. Not really. Chelsea was always her favorite, the golden child who could do no wrong. “Norma, do you even have a heart?” Drew yelled, his voice cracking with anger. My heart died five years ago in a dark shower stall, I thought. I didn’t answer. I walked into the small apartment behind the grill, locking the door behind me. On the mantelpiece, the framed photos of Diane and Thomas Barlow sat side by side, draped in black ribbon. I lit a stick of incense, placing it in the small brass holder before them. I pulled out the worn, folded letter my adoptive mother had left for me before she passed. My sweet Norma, I’m so sorry I couldn’t wait for you. But you must keep living. Don’t be afraid. I’m watching over you from the stars. A single tear escaped my eye, dripping onto the yellowed paper, blurring the ink. “I will, Mom,” I whispered. “I promise I’ll keep living.”

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After my third solo prenatal appointment, Logan called out of the blue. “Get rid of the baby,” his voice was cold, clipped, lacking even a shred of hesitation. “Chelsea should be the one to give me my first child.” “We’re married, Grace. We can have as many as we want later.” I stared at the dashboard of my car, the quiet hum of the engine suddenly sounding like white noise. I thought I had misheard him. The shock was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until I could barely breathe. I drove home, my hands trembling on the steering wheel, desperate for an explanation. But when I reached the house, the front door was slightly ajar. I stood in the hallway, the chill of the air conditioning seeping into my bones, and heard his voice drift from the study. It carried a warmth, a tender indulgence he hadn’t shown me in months. “I barely managed to bury the rumors you spread at our wedding,” Logan was saying to Chelsea. “It took everything I had to keep the press quiet. Don’t be so reckless next time.” Then came Chelsea’s voice, soft and coaxing, dripping with sweet innocence. “I was just so angry that you married her. It was just a joke, Logan. Besides, you fixed it, didn’t you?” “You only get away with this because you know how much I spoil you,” he murmured. The betrayal was a sharp, physical pain. I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed the door open, my voice steady despite the storm inside me. “I want a divorce.” Logan didn’t even flinch. He stood up, shielding Chelsea behind him, his face hardening into a mask of righteous indignation. “Grace, don’t forget who you’re talking to,” he said, his tone dripping with condescension. “When your mother’s scandal broke at our wedding, your family threw you both out on the street. I was the one who took you in. I saved you.” He stepped closer, his eyes cold. “Your mother is only stable right now because of the experimental medication I import for her. Where do you get the nerve to stand there and threaten me with divorce?” I froze. The words knocked the wind out of me. So, that was how he saw it. To him, our marriage wasn’t a partnership; it was a charity case, a debt I could never repay. Thinking he had successfully silenced me, a cruel, satisfied smile played at the corner of his lips. “Where would you even go without me? Be smart, Grace. Get rid of the baby. It’s what’s best for everyone.” In that quiet, devastating moment, a switch flipped inside me. If that was the case, then I wanted nothing to do with him. Not his mercy, not his money, and certainly not his child. … “Fine,” I said. My face was pale, my voice entirely devoid of emotion, like a completely still, dark pool of water. Logan didn’t notice the deadness in my eyes. If anything, a look of smug relief washed over his face. He reached out to stroke my hair, but I stepped back, slipping away from his touch with quiet precision. “I knew you’d see reason,” he said, pleased. “Don’t worry. Once Chelsea gives birth, I’ll make it up to you. We can have as many children as you want after that.” After that. There would be no after that. He had no idea what it had taken for me to conceive this child. The endless rounds of fertility treatments, the bitter medications, the physical toll it had taken on my body. The doctor had warned me that if I terminated this pregnancy, I might never be able to carry a child to term again. But Logan didn’t know. He would have known if he had accompanied me to even a single appointment. Seeing that I remained silent, Logan checked his watch and prepared to leave. “I have to go. I promised Chelsea I’d take her to her checkup today.” I watched his retreating back, and for a fleeting, desperate second, my heart waged a war against my mind. Despite the countless disappointments, despite knowing exactly who he was, my body reacted before my brain could stop it. “Logan,” I called out. He paused at the door, turning back to look at me. The brief flicker of warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by an impatient sigh. “What is it now?” “Could you… could you come with me tomorrow instead?” Logan frowned, a look of annoyance crossing his features. “Tomorrow is Chelsea’s birthday. I’ve been planning this party for months. I can’t miss it.” “But the doctor said—” “Enough, Grace!” he snapped, cutting me off. “Stop being so dramatic. I’ll come see you after her birthday is over.” Without another word, he turned and walked out. The heavy mahogany door shut with a dull thud, burying the apartment in a suffocating silence. I sank onto the sofa, the tears finally spilling over. I sat there in the dimming light, crying until my throat was raw and my chest ached. Eventually, the tears ran dry, replaced by a cold, hollow numbness. I walked into the bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of the dresser, and pulled out the tiny baby clothes we had picked out together. I remembered how Logan used to place his hand over my stomach, whispering about the toys he would buy, joking about how he would make sure the baby’s first word was “Dada.” Now, for the sake of another woman, he was casually asking me to destroy this life. Slowly, I began packing the clothes into a trash bag. With every tiny outfit I discarded, a piece of my heart went with it. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a text message from an unknown number. Miss Davenport, I have an update on the investigation. The rumors spread at your wedding definitely originated from Chelsea Ward. It was the private investigator I had hired in secret. My fingers trembled as I typed back: I need concrete proof. Do whatever it takes. As soon as the message sent, a cold resolve settled over me. When the scandal broke on my wedding day, my father hadn’t even bothered to ask for my mother’s side of the story. He had his lawyers draft disownment papers within hours. “The Davenport family cannot survive a public disgrace like this!” he had shouted. “The stocks are plummeting, and the board is demanding blood. You and your mother leave today.” My mother had dropped to her knees, begging him to believe her, begging him at least to let me stay. But he had security escort us out, empty-handed, into the pouring rain. More than twenty years of marriage, erased in an afternoon. My mother’s mind had fractured under the weight of the betrayal, and she had never recovered. If I could find the proof, I could clear her name. She wouldn’t have to live as a disgraced exile, and I would no longer be labeled the daughter of a fraud. But without the experimental drug Logan imported, I knew I couldn’t keep her stable. I was trapped. As the weight of the dilemma pressed down on me, my phone rang again. It was Rachel, my college roommate who now worked as a resident at the university hospital. I answered, but before I could speak, her frantic voice filled the line. “Grace, that medication you asked me to look into? Stop giving it to your mother immediately!” I blinked, momentarily paralyzed. “What? Why?” “I had my attending consult with a specialist in Europe,” Rachel said, her breath shallow. “That isn’t a psychiatric drug. It’s a heavy sedative mixed with a mild hallucinogen. It doesn’t heal her—it slowly deteriorates her cognitive functions. It’s making her worse.” The words felt like a bucket of ice water poured over my head. My blood ran cold, freezing in my veins. I knew Logan was cruel, but I thought he was merely covering for Chelsea. I never imagined he would actively feed my mother poison day after day, all while playing the role of our savior. Every week, he would look at me with soft, concerned eyes and ask, “Is your mother feeling any better today, Grace?” And I had spent the last six months feeling deeply, painfully grateful to him. The urge to confront him, to rip away his mask of benevolence, was overwhelming. But I couldn’t afford to lose my mind. Every second wasted was a second my mother was in danger. I bolted out of the apartment, got into my car, and sped toward the care facility. I threw open the door to her room just in time to see the nurse holding a glass of water, reaching toward my mother with a familiar blue pill. “Stop!” I lunged forward, knocking the glass out of the nurse’s hand. It shattered against the tiled floor, water and glass spraying everywhere. The nurse gasped, stepping back in shock and anger. “Mrs. Fletcher! What on earth are you doing?” “This is the specialized medication Mr. Fletcher imported. She has to take it on schedule. If her condition worsens—” “From now on, no one gives my mother any medication without my explicit permission,” I said, my voice shaking but absolute. “If anything happens, I take full responsibility.” The nurse muttered something under her breath, gathered her things, and left the room, slamming the door behind her. I turned to my mother, who had shrunk into the corner of her bed, trembling from the sudden noise. Looking at her hollow, frightened eyes, my heart broke into a thousand jagged pieces. I climbed onto the bed and wrapped my arms around her frail body. “It’s okay, Mom. It’s okay. No one is going to hurt you anymore. I promise.” She began to calm down, her breathing slowing, but then voices drifted in from the hallway. The door wasn’t fully closed. “Poor thing,” a stranger’s voice murmured, tinged with cheap curiosity. “I heard she used to be a prominent socialite. Look at her now.” Another voice, sharper and laced with venom, replied, “Don’t waste your pity. She got what she deserved. Cheated on her husband for twenty years before she got caught and thrown out. No wonder she lost her mind.” “Like mother, like daughter, I guess. I heard the daughter practically forced her way into the Fletcher family. Stole him right out from under another girl.” Ever since the day we were exiled, those whispers had followed us like shadows. In the beginning, I had fought back. I would scream, cry, and try to explain that my mother was innocent, that she had been framed. But my desperation only invited smug, knowing looks. There’s no smoke without fire, they’d say. Look how defensive she gets. No one cared about the truth. To them, we were just a cheap piece of gossip to liven up their afternoon. I had learned to tune it out, but my mother hadn’t. She began to shake violently in my arms. “Mom, don’t listen to them,” I whispered. But she broke from my grip, her eyes wide and glassy, staring at the door. “I didn’t… I didn’t do it…” she whimpered. Before I could stop her, she shoved me aside and bolted out into the corridor. “Mom!” My heart leaped into my throat as I chased after her. She ran like a cornered animal, blind with panic. People in the hallway scattered, whispering and pointing. At the far end of the hallway, near the elevator, stood Logan and Chelsea. Chelsea was wearing a loose maternity dress, her small bump barely visible, leaning into Logan as she spoke. My mother ran straight toward them, grabbing Logan’s sleeve with desperate, claw-like hands. “Logan! You have to help me! I didn’t do it… I was framed!” Before she could finish, Chelsea let out a sharp scream, stumbling backward as if she had been struck. “She hit me!” Chelsea cried, clutching her stomach, her face pale. “She hit my baby!” Logan’s expression shifted instantly. He violently pushed my mother away, sending her crashing against the wall, and rushed to Chelsea’s side. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” My mother hit the drywall with a sickening thud, sliding down to the floor, dazed. The hallway erupted into whispers once more. “Did that crazy woman just attack a pregnant girl?” “Oh my god, she did it on purpose! Being insane is one thing, but targeting a baby?” “Unbelievable. They really are trash.” Chelsea sobbed into Logan’s chest, her shoulders shaking, her eyes red. I pushed through the crowd and ran to my mother, kneeling beside her frail, trembling body. “Mom!” I held her close, a crushing weight pressing down on my chest. “Logan, are you blind?” I screamed, my eyes burning with tears. “My mother didn’t touch her!” Logan looked down at me, his eyes dead and unyielding. “That’s enough, Grace! Chelsea is pregnant. Why would she lie about something like this? Your mother is a lunatic, and she did this on purpose.” “Get your mother to apologize right now, or I’m calling the police.” Chelsea continued to sniffle, weakly pulling on Logan’s sleeve. “Logan, please… let it go. I’m sure she didn’t mean to. Don’t make things hard for them. I’m fine.” Logan’s grip on Chelsea tightened, his anger deepening as he glared at me. “Look at her, Grace. Chelsea is pregnant, yet she’s still the one worrying about your mother’s health. She went through so much trouble to secure that imported medication from abroad.” “And this is how you repay her? Have you no shame?” The words echoed in my mind like a deafening clap of thunder. Chelsea was the one who found the medicine. It was her. It was always her. Chelsea was the one who had spread the rumors at the wedding, and she was the one who had provided the slow-acting poison to rot my mother’s mind. “Chelsea, you sociopath!” The rage in my blood burned away every ounce of my restraint. I threw myself at her, completely consumed by fury. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you for what you did!” “Grace, stop!” Logan moved quickly, catching my wrists and pulling me back. “Are you blind, Logan?” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair. “That medicine isn’t a cure! It’s poison! Chelsea is trying to kill my mother, and you’re still protecting her!” “Shut up!” Logan roared, his patience entirely spent. “You’d make up any disgusting lie just to tear Chelsea down.” He snapped his fingers, and his personal security guards stepped forward, pinning my arms behind my back. “Since you refuse to apologize, and you clearly can’t control your mother, I’ll do it for you.” Without another look at me, he walked over to where my mother sat cowering on the floor. He pulled a small orange prescription bottle from his pocket, shook out two blue pills, and knelt beside her. “Time for your medicine, Diana.” “No!” I thrashed against the guards. “Logan, don’t! Don’t give her that! It’s poison!” Logan ignored me, forcing the pills into my mother’s mouth. “Let me go! Please! Logan, I beg you! Don’t do this!” “I’ll apologize! I’ll say whatever you want! Just please, don’t give her the pills!” “Too late,” Logan said coldly. He held my mother’s jaw shut until she swallowed. Within minutes, her thrashing stopped. But it wasn’t a peaceful calm. Her eyes glazed over, staring blankly ahead as if the very soul had been drained from her body. Logan stood up, dusting off his trousers. He looked at my mother’s catatonic state with an air of smug satisfaction. “Now, do you have anything else to say? The medicine works perfectly, as you can see.” I stopped fighting the guards. The tears kept falling, but I was no longer crying. I was hollow. I couldn’t hear what Logan was saying anymore; my mind had narrowed down to a single, sharp objective: I had to get my mother out of here. “Logan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s divorce.” The word seemed to strike a nerve. Logan’s eyes flared with anger. “You want a divorce? Fine. I’ll give you exactly what you want.” Chelsea, still clinging to his arm, looked up with a calculating gleam in her eyes. “Logan, if you’re getting a divorce, can Grace clarify things to the public first? People still think I’m the one who broke up your marriage. I don’t want our baby to grow up being called a bastard.” Logan’s expression softened as he looked down at Chelsea, then turned back to me, cold and commanding. “You heard her. Tomorrow is Chelsea’s birthday gala. You will stand in front of everyone and publicly admit that you were the homewrecker.” He knew. He knew better than anyone that Chelsea had left him to go abroad years ago. He knew I was the one who stayed by his side when he was drinking himself to death. He was the one who had pursued me, promising me the world. Looking at the familiar face of the man I had once loved, I started to laugh. “Fine,” I said, the tears spilling over my cheeks. “I’ll admit to whatever you want. Just give me the papers, and let me take my mother.” Logan nodded, satisfied. He wrapped an arm around Chelsea’s waist, and they walked away. Once they were gone, I made sure my mother was settled in her bed under the care of a private nurse I hired with my own savings. Then, without a second thought, I walked down the hall to the hospital’s ob-gyn clinic. I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. I didn’t want this man’s child inside me for another second. I couldn’t let my baby carry his blood, or grow up calling the woman who poisoned my mother “family.” As I lay on the cold operating table, the sterile chill of the instruments sending a shiver through my body, my throat tightened. I’m sorry, I whispered in the silence of my mind. I’m so sorry, little one. It wasn’t that I didn’t want them. It was that I couldn’t let Logan be their father. He didn’t deserve to be. The next evening, I arrived at the grand ballroom of the Regent Hotel. The gala was an incredibly lavish affair, attended by the city’s elite. Logan stood near the center of the room, holding a glass of champagne, laughing with a group of investors. When he saw me walk in, he froze. Perhaps he noticed that my stomach, which had been showing a slight curve the day before, was now completely flat beneath my silk dress. Or perhaps he was just surprised that I had actually shown up to keep my promise. Chelsea immediately slid her hand into Logan’s, casting a smug, triumphant look in my direction. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. After tonight, they would be dead to me. I walked up to the stage, picked up the microphone, and waited. The room fell silent as eyes turned toward me. “Good evening, everyone. I am Grace Davenport, Logan Fletcher’s wife.” “I’ve asked for a moment of your time tonight, on Chelsea Ward’s birthday, to clarify a few things.” “The rumors that ruined my family’s reputation on my wedding day, the lies that drove my mother to a breakdown—they weren’t an accident. They were carefully orchestrated by the woman of the hour, Chelsea Ward.” The smile wiped clean off Logan’s face. Chelsea gasped, her voice shrill. “That’s a lie! She’s lying!” I stared directly at Logan, my gaze sharp and unyielding. “And my husband, Logan Fletcher, knew the truth from the very beginning. He covered it up for her. Together, they pretended to help my mother by supplying her with what they claimed was specialized medicine—but was actually a slow-acting poison designed to destroy her mind.” Muttered gasps rippled through the crowd. Logan’s face turned a dangerous shade of crimson. He lunged onto the stage and ripped the microphone from my hand. He turned to the murmuring crowd, forcing a tense, dismissive laugh. “My apologies, everyone. Grace has been under a lot of stress lately. Her mental health has deteriorated, much like her mother’s. Please don’t take the delusions of a sick woman seriously.” Downstage, Chelsea wiped at her dry eyes, looking like a victim of a horrible tragedy. “Grace, how could you say such things about me? I only ever wanted to help your mother. I would never do something so terrible.” I stood my ground, my voice clear and loud enough to carry across the silent hall even without the microphone. “I am not crazy. Every word I said is the absolute truth.” “And where is your proof?” Logan sneered, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You have nothing, Grace. You’re just a bitter woman making a scene. No one here is going to believe you.” “She’s right, where’s the proof?” someone in the crowd whispered. “Without proof, it’s just slander…” Logan raised a hand to call security to throw me out. But before the guards could reach the stage, the heavy double doors at the back of the ballroom swung open. “If it’s proof you want, I have it right here.”

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When I found out my fiancé, Elliot, had let his female student move into his campus apartment, I didn’t scream. I didn’t demand answers, nor did I throw a glass vase against the wall like I would have months ago. Instead, I quietly deleted his number, blocked him on every app, and accepted my company’s transfer to their Zurich office. We met again five years later at an industry symposium. I was there as a venture capital partner representing one of the leading research labs. People I hadn’t seen in years flocked to my table the moment they recognized me. “Daphne! My god, Elliot has been looking for you everywhere. He’s been like a ghost these past five years, completely lost without you.” I frowned slightly, looking up just in time to see Elliot walk through the double doors, flanked by a small crowd of colleagues. Five years had elevated his academic standing, but it had carved deep lines between his brows. He looked hollowed out, the sharp, vibrant edge he once carried replaced by a dull, grey exhaustion. Everyone in our circle knew about our history—and the legendary depth of his regret. Intending to be helpful, they orchestrated the seating chart so we were placed right next to each other at the banquet. I treated him like a stranger, but the look in his eyes was a storm of raw, unshed grief. After what felt like an eternity, he whispered my name. “Daphne… how have you been?” “Good,” I replied, my voice level. “I’ve been really good.” 1 I kept my tone clipped and polite, the way you speak to a stranger you bump into on the subway. But beneath the surface, my chest was tight. Elliot and I had been childhood sweethearts. We grew up on the same tree-lined street, went to the same schools, and slid into a relationship as naturally as breathing. An engagement soon followed. But after the ring was on my finger, our careers pulled us apart. He was climbing the tenure track; I was putting in eighty-hour weeks at my firm. I thought the distance was just a temporary tax we paid for our future. Until he started talking about Summer. Elliot had always been fiercely private. He insisted we keep our relationship out of his professional life—no visits to his office, no public displays of affection. Yet, he let Summer loop her arm through his on campus. He let her tease him in front of his colleagues. At first, I brushed it off. He was her advisor; she was a brilliant, struggling student. But then came our five-year anniversary. He left me sitting alone at a candlelit table to rush to campus because Summer was having an emotional crisis. I lost my mind. I told him we were done. But Elliot—proud, stoic Elliot—dropped to his knees on our living room rug, tears streaming down his face as he begged me not to leave. “Daphne, please. There is nothing between us. She’s an orphan. She has no family, no one to look out for her. I’m just trying to keep her afloat. Please believe me. Don’t end this.” I looked at him, and all I could see was the boy who used to share his lunch with me on the school bus. I softened. I forgave him. And then, I forgave him again, and again, accepting his excuses every time he bailed on me because Summer “needed” him. Until the day I came home early from a business trip. I wanted to surprise him at his university apartment. I didn’t even go back to our place first; I dragged my suitcase straight to campus, exhausted but excited. I unlocked the door, and the air left my lungs. The apartment, which had always been a sterile expanse of gray and black, was filled with warmth. Fairy lights, plush pillows, cozy throws. And Elliot—who used to snap if I even rearranged his bookshelves—was holding a stuffed animal, asking Summer with a soft, teasing smile where she wanted him to put it. I stood frozen. When my brain finally forced my legs to move, I stepped back out into the hallway. “Why is your student living in your apartment, Elliot?” He shrugged, completely blind to the boundary he had crossed. “Summer’s tuition is high, and her part-time job barely covers groceries. I rarely sleep here anyway. What’s the big deal?” A big deal? We were the ones paying her tuition. Ever since Elliot took her on, we had been quietly sponsoring her expenses out of our joint account. And as for him “rarely sleeping there”—that was only true when I was in town. Whenever I traveled, that apartment was where he stayed. A male professor and his young female student, sharing an apartment. I wanted to scream, to ask him if he had lost his mind, but when I opened my mouth, the only words that came out were: “…Never mind.” 2 What was the point of arguing? The truth was written in the cozy pastel decor of that apartment. From the moment Summer entered his life, I had been demoted. The man who had sworn under the summer stars to love me forever, to never let me feel second-best, had given all his tenderness to someone else. My birthdays, our anniversaries—none of it mattered. One frantic phone call from Summer, and he would vanish. I had fought, I had cried, but every single time, Elliot would offer an apology so sincere, so desperate, that I would fold. He loved “me”, he’d say. She was just a student. He just felt sorry for her. But standing there, watching her live in the space I was kept out of, watching her rearrange the things I wasn’t allowed to touch, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I forced a polite smile, turned on my heel, and practically ran. At the campus gate, the security guard stopped me to sign the visitor log. As I took the pen, a dull ache bloomed in my chest. We had been engaged for three years, and yet, to visit my fiancé’s office, I still had to sign in as a stranger. How had I been so blind? I went back to my office with a cold weight in my chest. On my computer screen, the draft of my email declining the overseas transfer was still open. I had spent hours writing a detailed explanation about family obligations and my upcoming wedding. With a bitter laugh, I hit select-all, deleted it, and typed a single sentence: “I accept the transfer.” But while the decision took seconds, untangling a life takes time. While the firm handled my visa, I had to personally close out my life in the city. The hardest part was our shared bank account. I took a morning off to go to the bank, planning to withdraw my half of our savings and close the account. But the teller’s voice shattered my quiet resolve. “I’m sorry, Ms. Chapman,” she said, looking up from her monitor. “There’s no balance in this account.” I stared at her. We had opened that account when we got engaged, agreeing to deposit a set amount every month for our future house. After three years, it should have been at least eighty thousand dollars. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Could you check where the funds went?” The teller’s expression softened into pity. “The bulk of the funds was transferred last month into a new joint account under Mr. Elliot’s name and a co-owner.” She couldn’t legally give me the co-owner’s name, but I didn’t need her to. I walked out into the chilly autumn air and called a friend who worked in credit services. Ten minutes later, a PDF file landed in my inbox. Elliot had opened a joint account with Summer two years ago. And last month, he had emptied our nest egg to fund it. I stood on the bustling sidewalk, the city noise fading into a ringing silence. 3 I floated back to our apartment like a ghost. But as I slid my key into the lock, a voice from inside stopped me cold. “Elliot, are you sure Daphne won’t be angry? Me staying here, I mean…” It was Summer. Elliot’s voice was gentle, a tone he used to reserve only for me. “She won’t mind. Daphne is understanding. She’ll take good care of you while I’m away.” My hand shook as I turned the key. I walked in to find them sitting close on our beige sofa. Elliot looked up, his expression entirely casual. “Hey. I have to go out of town for a conference this week. The locks on Summer’s place are acting up, and I don’t feel safe leaving her there alone. I brought her here to stay for a bit.” He stood up, smoothing his jacket. “While I’m gone, do you mind letting her have the master bedroom? It has the private bath. Thanks, honey.” He said it so easily, as if he were asking me to water a plant. I swallowed the lump in my throat, my voice dangerously quiet. “Elliot. Do you even remember whose home this is?” He didn’t even look at me, a sigh of annoyance escaping his lips. “Daphne, please don’t start.” Summer shrank back, her eyes wide and watery. “Elliot, I think I’m making Daphne uncomfortable. I should just go…” Finally, Elliot looked at me. But there was no warmth in his eyes, only frustration. “Daphne, you’re an adult. You’re older than her. Why are you picking a fight with a kid?” “A kid?” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “She’s twenty-two, Elliot. Since when is a college senior a kid?” Elliot’s face hardened. He stepped in front of Summer, shielding her. “What is your problem lately?” “My problem?” I stepped closer. “Do you think the rest of the faculty is blind, Elliot? Do you think people aren’t talking about the two of you?” Summer’s gaze flickered. Behind his shoulder, her lips twitched into a tiny, victorious smirk. Elliot scowled. “Those are just rumors. Summer is my student, nothing more.” The dam broke. Five years of swallowed pride and quiet, lonely nights rushed to the surface. “A normal student-teacher relationship? Tell me, Elliot, what kind of professor lets his student move into his campus apartment? What kind of man leaves his fiancé on her birthday because his student called with a minor inconvenience?!” Elliot’s face went white, then a dark, angry red. “Daphne, enough! I have explained this a thousand times. Do you have to act like a hysterical child over nothing?” Summer whimpered behind him, playing the peacemaker. “Please don’t fight because of me. Daphne hates having me here. I’ll just go back to the campus apartment. I’ll manage.” She didn’t move an inch. She just stared at Elliot with puppy-dog eyes. I had reached my limit. I walked over, grabbed Summer’s wrist, and pulled her toward the door. “Great. Let’s go. I’ll drive you back myself.” Summer stumbled, feigning resistance, and then with a sharp twist, she threw her weight sideways. We both crashed hard onto the hardwood floor. “Summer!” Elliot panicked, rushing past me as if I weren’t even there. He gathered her into his arms, his voice laced with terror. “Are you okay? Did you hurt your hand?” Summer leaned into his chest, shaking her head. “I’m okay… check on Daphne. She fell harder.” Elliot looked up at me, his eyes blazing with a fury I had never seen before. Before I could process the look on his face, his hand swung out. “Slap.” The sound echoed in the quiet living room. My cheek stung, hot and throbbing. “How could you be so vicious?” he snarled. “Jealousy is one thing, Daphne, but physically attacking a girl? If she injured her wrist, do you have any idea what that would do to her lab work? Her career?” I sat on the floor, hand pressed to my burning cheek, staring at the man I had loved for half my life. He didn’t even ask if I was hurt. He didn’t see the tears in my eyes. He only saw his precious student. The pain in my chest was so immense it surpassed the sting on my face. “Elliot,” I said, my voice barely a whisper as I used the wall to pull myself up. “We’re done. Get out.” He flinched, a flicker of regret passing through his eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by pride. “Daphne, grow up. Stop using threats every time you don’t get your way.” He picked up Summer’s bags, then helped her to her feet. “Fine. If you’re going to be like this, I’ll take her with me to the conference. You need to cool down. We’ll deal with this when I get back.” “Deal with this when I get back.” I kept my head down, letting my hair fall forward to hide my face. There would be nothing to deal with, Elliot. Because by the time you get back, I will be gone. “”” Five days later, Elliot returned. He was still irritated, rehearsing the speech he would give me about boundaries and maturity. But despite his lingering anger, he had stopped at the airport duty-free to buy me a perfume I liked. He took a deep breath at the front door, unlocked it, and set the gift bag on the entryway table. “Daphne,” he called out, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Look, I’m sorry about how things went before I left. But you have to stop acting so irrationally over nothing.” Silence greeted him. He walked into the living room. It was completely empty. A cold, quiet dread began to settle in his stomach.

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There were only ten minutes left in the trial, and victory was finally within reach. My attorney—who also happened to be my husband, Dylan—suddenly took a phone call. When he hung up, his face was completely bloodless. He began frantically packing his files into his briefcase. “Your Honor,” he said, his voice echoing in the courtroom, “the plaintiff wishes to dismiss the charges.” The room erupted. I stared at him, my mind spinning into a complete blur. “Dylan, what are you doing?” I whispered, my voice cracking. “Melanie ran me over. She broke both my legs. She ruined my life!” “You promised me,” I pleaded, tears burning my eyes. “You promised you’d put her behind bars!” But Dylan only looked at me with a tortured expression, his voice a harsh, low hiss. “Melanie is on the roof of her building, Charlotte. If I don’t go, she’s going to jump!” “Your legs are already gone, but she stands to lose her entire reputation! Her whole life!” “I promise you, I will buy you the best wheelchair money can buy.” Without a single glance back, he bolted out of the courtroom, leaving me with nothing but the fading echo of his hurried footsteps. … The air conditioning in the courtroom felt like ice against the empty space where my legs used to be. I sat there, my mouth dry, unable to make a sound. The soft whispers from the gallery swirled around me like a physical weight. The judge rapped her gavel three times, her voice ringing out to ask if I consented to the dismissal. I stared at the heavy wooden doors where Dylan had just vanished. My fingers gripped the armrests of my wheelchair so hard my knuckles turned white. “I consent,” I whispered. The words felt like ash in my mouth. Across the aisle, Melanie’s defense attorney offered me a tight, smug smile. From the gallery, a woman’s quiet voice floated over: “Showing up to court like that… she’s desperate.” “I heard she was the one who instigated it,” another whispered back. “They say Miss Foster was the real victim here.” “Then why is her own husband representing her?” “Who knows? Probably trying to keep her quiet so she doesn’t embarrass him.” When the court adjourned, Melanie walked past me, her designer heels clicking against the polished floor. She deliberately let the toe of her shoe brush against the wheel of my chair. “Oh, Charlotte,” she murmured, leaning down so only I could hear. “Look at that. Dylan still chose me.” I looked away, staring down at my useless lap. Three months ago, Dylan and I had just signed our marriage license. We were on our way to tour wedding venues when Melanie called. She claimed she was drunk at a bar, surrounded by aggressive men, begging Dylan to come rescue her. I begged him not to go. But Dylan simply bypassed me, grabbed his keys, and drove off. Furious and hurt, I got into my own car and followed him. The moment I pulled up outside the bar, Melanie’s Mercedes-AMG surged forward. She drove straight into me. When I woke up in the ICU, both of my legs were gone from the knee down. In the hospital, Dylan held my hand and wept. He promised me a thousand times that he would make her pay. He said he would be my legs, that he would cherish and take care of me for the rest of my life. And I believed him. I believed him so deeply that I signed over half of the inheritance my late father had left me—as my dowry—straight into his name. How pathetic. I rolled myself out of the courthouse. Outside, Seattle was in the middle of a torrential downpour. The concrete ramp was slick, and my hands kept slipping on the wet metal rims. I pulled out my phone and dialed Dylan’s number. On the third try, he finally picked up. I could hear the howling wind in the background, punctuated by Melanie’s hysterical, breathless sobbing. “Charlotte, stop calling,” he snapped, his voice sharp with irritation. “Melanie is highly unstable right now. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get home.” Before I could say a word, the line went dead. The rain poured down over my face, mixing with my tears. Grit-faced, I gripped the cold handrail of the ramp, trying to guide myself down. But the wet wheels lost traction. The wheelchair tipped, throwing me violently onto the asphalt. My surgical wounds hadn’t fully healed yet. The impact tore them open, and I felt a sharp, sickening burst of pain. Within seconds, warm blood began soaking through my heavy bandages, running into the cold puddles around me. I lay there in the freezing rain, staring up at the gray sky, too exhausted to even scream. I lost track of time. Then, a shadow blocked the rain, and someone knelt down beside me. “Charlotte? It’s Elvis. Elvis Mercer. I used to work with your father.” He was holding a large black umbrella, the cuffs of his expensive trousers already soaked. He didn’t ask questions. He simply lifted me up with surprising gentleness, carried me to the backseat of his car, and wrapped a thick, warm towel around my shivering frame. The car heater blasted warm air, but my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering. My hands shook so violently I couldn’t even hold the cup of hot cocoa he handed me. “Thank you,” I rasped, my throat raw. Elvis didn’t say much. He used a dry towel to gently dry my hair while instructing his driver to head straight to the hospital. Once we arrived, he handled all the admission paperwork. Only when I was settled in a warm bed did my mind start to clear. “Elvis… let me pay you back. How much was it?” He waved his hand dismissively, tucking the receipts into the bedside drawer. “Don’t worry about it right now. Focus on healing.” His phone rang a moment later. He answered it, then turned back to me with a polite smile, explaining he had an urgent matter at his firm but to call him if I needed anything. Not long after Elvis left, Dylan walked in. Seeing me in the hospital bed, his first reaction wasn’t sympathy—it was a subtle, irritated knit of his brows. “How did you manage to do this to yourself?” “I called you,” I said, a suffocating tightness squeezing my chest. “I called you so many times. Why didn’t you answer?” Dylan’s eyes flickered, looking away as he sat on the edge of my bed. He reached out to stroke my cheek, but I flinched away. “Charlotte, look, I know you’re angry,” he said, his voice carrying a defensive weight. “But Melanie was truly on the edge. You don’t get it—people online are calling her a homewrecker, a murderer. If she had actually jumped, I would have had to live with that guilt for the rest of my life.” He spoke with such self-righteous certainty, as if I were the one lacking compassion. My voice trembled. “So Melanie’s reputation is worth more than my legs?” Dylan suddenly grabbed my hand, his grip tight and unyielding. “Your legs are already gone, Charlotte! No amount of fighting in court is going to grow them back! But Melanie is young. If she gets a criminal record, her entire future is ruined.” “I promise you,” he pleaded, softening his tone, “once this blows over, I’ll take you to Europe. We’ll get you the absolute best prosthetics available. We can go back to how things were. Please?” He looked at me with that familiar, tender gaze—the one that used to dissolve my anger instantly, the one that always made me yield. Now, it only made my stomach turn. I wrenched my hand free, pulled myself into my wheelchair, and rolled toward the door. Dylan stepped in front of me, his expression darkening. “Where do you think you’re going?” “Home.” I couldn’t stand being in the same room as him for another second. The air felt thick, unbreathable. Dylan didn’t stop me, but he followed me out of the hospital. When we arrived back at our house, the front door opened to reveal Melanie sitting on our living room sofa. She was wearing one of Dylan’s button-down shirts. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled with tears. She scrambled off the couch and dropped to her knees in front of my chair. “Charlotte, I am so, so sorry,” she wept, her voice trembling. “It’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Dylan. You can hate me, you can hit me, just please don’t hate him.” Dylan rushed forward, hoisting her up and shielding her behind his back. He turned to me, his tone laced with a warning. “Charlotte, Melanie is extremely fragile right now. Don’t push her.” I stared at the two of them, and a hollow laugh escaped my chest. “This is my house. You’re the ones who need to leave.” Dylan’s face instantly darkened. “Don’t be ridiculous, Charlotte. Melanie has nowhere else to go. She’s staying here for a few days until the press cools down, and then I’ll find her a place.” Behind his shoulder, Melanie peeked out at me, her tear-stained face masking a smug, victorious glimmer in her eyes. Without another word, I wheeled myself into the bedroom and locked the door behind me. Leaning my back against the wood, the tears finally spilled over. Dylan and I had been together for seven years. When he was courting me in college, he had stood outside my dorm room in the freezing cold all night just to apologize after our first fight. The snow had been inches deep, his lips blue as he swore he would never love anyone else. My father had hated him. He saw right through Dylan. I had fought my father for weeks—screaming, crying, even going on a hunger strike. Eventually, my father relented. He bought us a beautiful townhouse and set up a trust fund worth millions as my wedding gift. Now, just three months into our marriage, every promise we made was a sick joke. In the dead of night, I heard hushed giggles and low whispers from the living room. My phone had died from the rain and refused to turn on. I sat propped up against the headboard, staring into the dark until dawn. The next morning, I unlocked the door and rolled out to find Dylan in the kitchen making breakfast. Melanie was standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist. When she saw me, she quickly pulled away, looking flustered. Dylan glanced back, slid a fried egg onto a plate, and handed it to her. “Oh, you’re up,” he said casually, as if yesterday’s betrayal in court had never happened. “There’s coffee and oatmeal on the counter. Help yourself.” I ignored him, heading straight for the entryway to grab my purse. Dylan stepped in my way. “Where are you going?” “To find a new attorney. I’m refiling the charges,” I said, my voice dead calm. Dylan’s face flushed an angry crimson. He snatched my bag right out of my hands and slammed it onto the console table. “Charlotte! When is this temper tantrum going to end? I told you, this is over!” “Are you really not going to stop until you’ve driven Melanie to suicide?” Looking at his contorted face, the last shred of my hope withered away. “Dylan, you either get out of my way right now, or we get a divorce.” He froze, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Divorce? Look at yourself, Charlotte. Who is going to want you like this? Who is going to take care of you?” “Let me make this clear: you are not refiling, and you are not getting a divorce. Forget it.” He picked up my purse and marched over to the study, locking it inside his personal safe. Melanie stood by the kitchen island, biting her lip, looking on the verge of tears. “Dylan, please don’t fight with her because of me. It’s my fault. I should just leave.” She made a theatrical move toward the door, but Dylan immediately caught her by the wrist. “Don’t talk like that. This has nothing to do with you. As long as I’m here, no one is kicking you out.” I wheeled myself back into my bedroom. I dug through my vanity drawer until I found an old backup phone, plugged it in, and waited for it to boot up. The second it connected to the Wi-Fi, a barrage of urgent messages from my late father’s executive assistant flooded the screen. Dylan has drained the company’s entire operating account. My head spun so violently I nearly blacked out. My father had passed away from a sudden stroke last year, and the management of his logistics firm had fallen to Dylan while I was recovering from the amputation. I had been in too much physical and emotional pain to pay attention to the business. I never imagined he could be so brazenly corrupt. Suppressed rage gave me sudden energy. I pushed my way back into the living room. Dylan looked up from his tablet, his expression weary. “What now, Charlotte?” “Did you drain the firm’s accounts?” I demanded, my hands shaking. He remained silent for a few seconds, then shrugged with complete indifference. “Yeah. Melanie’s mother is in the hospital and needs medical treatment. I borrowed some capital. I’ll pay it back when things settle.” “That money was for our payroll! How are we supposed to pay our employees?” I screamed. Dylan scoffed. “They can wait a couple of days. Don’t be so heartless, Charlotte. If Melanie’s mother doesn’t get this surgery, she could die.” “Are your employees’ paychecks more important than a human life?” I shook so violently I couldn’t form words. Before I could find my voice, his phone rang. It was Melanie, weeping that her mother had just woken up and needed him. Dylan muttered a quick affirmation, grabbed his jacket, and walked out. I slumped back into my wheelchair, completely numb. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. Dylan had never loved me. He had married me for my father’s legacy, for my family’s wealth. And Melanie running me over… maybe that hadn’t been an accident at all. I sat alone in the dark living room until midnight, my thoughts racing in a chaotic loop. Then, a memory surfaced. My father had a trusted corporate attorney he had worked with for decades. I opened my old contacts and found the number. But just as I pressed call, the front door swung open. Dylan stood in the entryway, his eyes immediately locking onto the glowing screen in my hand. “Who are you calling?” I quickly tapped the screen to end the call, slipping the phone behind my back. “No one. Just calling the clinic about my physical therapy.” Dylan strode over, extending a cold hand. “Give me the phone.” I leaned back, trying to shield it, but his face hardened. He lunged forward and wrenched it from my grip. He unlocked the screen and scrolled through the recent calls. When he saw the attorney’s name, his expression grew incredibly dark. “Charlotte, you really don’t know when to quit, do you?” He threw the phone hard against the hardwood floor. The screen shattered into a web of broken glass. “Let me make this clear: don’t bother looking for a lawyer. All the evidence from the crash is locked away in my office. You couldn’t build a case against Melanie even if you tried.” He knelt down in front of me, grabbing my chin with a bruising grip. “Be a good wife, Charlotte. Keep quiet, and I’ll make sure you live comfortably. But if you try to cross me again, you won’t like what happens next.” He pushed my wheelchair into the bedroom, slammed the door, and I heard the sharp click of the deadbolt locking from the outside. Sitting in the dark, staring at the ruined phone on the floor, the tears finally flowed silently. I was locked in. The windows had security bars installed after my accident. I was completely trapped. For the next three days, Dylan only opened the door to slide a tray of food inside. He never spoke to me. Through the thick wood, I could hear Melanie’s soft giggles and Dylan’s low, murmuring voice—the same gentle tone he used to reserve only for me. I starved myself, refusing to touch a single drop of water. On the fourth morning, Dylan unlocked the door to bring breakfast. Seeing my pale, sunken face resting against the headboard, he sighed in irritation. “What is this? A hunger strike?” He placed a bowl of soup on the nightstand. “Do you honestly think this is going to make me feel sorry for you?” I looked up at him, my throat burning. “I won’t file the charges,” I rasped. Dylan paused, his tense shoulders relaxing slightly. “See? Was that so hard? We could have avoided all this unpleasantness.” He picked up the spoon, blowing on the broth, and held it to my lips. I turned my head away, keeping my eyes locked onto his. “But I want a divorce.”

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We were in the middle of packing our bags for Vienna when Mona suddenly snapped her suitcase shut. I looked up, confused. She held her phone out to me. “I canceled my study abroad application,” she said. “I’m staying here to go to college with Tom.” The words hit me like a physical blow. My voice trembled as I asked, “What about me?” She reached out, her fingers brushing my cheek with the same comforting warmth she’d always shown me. “My Jude is so strong. You won’t be scared going abroad alone, right?” “Tom is different. He’s fragile. I need to be here for him, or I’ll never have peace of mind.” A cold chill ran down my spine. My fingers clenched around the handle of my suitcase. Mona’s voice sounded distant, as if drifting through a thick fog. “You and Tom are like brothers. You wouldn’t want him to be alone here either, right?” I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could make a sound, glowing lines of text began to float across my vision. [Here it is. The turning point of their lives.] [If the male lead forces her to go abroad with him, Tom will get bullied at school and eventually jump off a building.] [But if he agrees, Mona will slowly fall for Tom over time. She’ll even sleep with him on her wedding day with Jude!] The words choked the breath right out of my throat. Mona nudged my shoulder. “Jude? If you’re not saying anything, I’ll take that as a yes.” 1 Mona probably never intended to give me a choice anyway. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box. When she opened it, my heart sank. Inside was the exact ring I had texted her about weeks ago, telling her how much I loved it. She had promised back then to save it in her notes. “I bought the ring you wanted,” she said, her voice soft. “Wear it, and everyone will know you’re taken.” “That way, no one else can eye my Jude. When you come back from Europe, we’ll get married, okay?” She leaned down to look me in the eye. Her gaze was tender, full of the same devotion I had known for years. Usually, when she looked at me like that, my heart would race. But this time, it gave one erratic thud and went completely quiet. As Mona reached to slip the ring onto my finger, the phantom comments flickered back to life across my eyes. [She shouldn’t have gone into pre-med. She should have gone into acting.] [Who would believe she was wrapping Tom in a warm, tearful embrace just an hour ago, and now she’s standing here playing the devoted girlfriend?] An hour ago. I had waited outside Mona’s house for three hours. She told me she was stuck in traffic. Turns out, she was with Tom. My fingers involuntarily curled inward, slipping away from the ring she held. A frown creased her beautiful forehead. She opened her mouth to speak, but her ringtone cut her off. The custom ringtone I had recorded for her had been replaced by a different tune—one she had set for Tom. The cheerful beat pounded against my eardrums like a hammer, making it hard to breathe. Mona tapped the screen and answered. It was him. She listened for barely a second before leaping to her feet, panic written all over her face. “Don’t panic! Stay exactly where you are, I’m coming!” She hung up and didn’t look at me again. Tossing the ring carelessly into my lap, she spoke in a breathless rush. “Tom got scraped by a car. I have to go check on him.” She ran out of the room, her hurried footsteps fading down the hall. I watched her go. The ring had bounced off my lap and rolled onto the floor, disappearing somewhere in the shadows. [Isn’t he going to look for it? He used to treasure that ring so much.] I slowly tried to stand, but my legs had gone completely numb from kneeling. I stumbled, collapsing back onto the floor. My knee slammed against the sharp edge of the desk. The pain was the final catalyst; the tears I had been holding back finally spilled over. I don’t know how long I sat there crying, until the room was completely silent and my throat was raw. I pulled out my phone and called my dad. “Dad, I don’t want to go to Europe anymore.” My dad sounded confused. “I thought you and Mona had it all planned out. Why the sudden change?” The comments flared up again. [Wait, is the male lead staying too?] [Actually, that might be for the best. If he stays, Tom won’t get hurt, and Mona won’t stray.] I let my eyes scan the words. My eyes were red and swollen, but my face felt entirely blank. “I’m not staying, Dad. I want to come to Iceland. Didn’t you want me to move out there and live with you?” There was a beat of silence on the other end, followed by my dad’s ecstatic cheer. The floating texts seemed as stunned by my choice as he was. They went entirely silent, like someone had hit pause. I didn’t look for the ring. The empty velvet box sat lonely on the desk, weighing down the European travel itinerary Mona had spent six months putting together. Her notebook was packed with detailed schedules and handwritten notes. On my way out, I grabbed it. Mona wouldn’t be needing it anymore anyway. When I reached the street, I threw the notebook and the empty box into a roadside trash can. As I turned around, my eyes met Mona’s. Her gaze lingered on the trash can for a split second before she marched up to me and grabbed my hand. I tried to pull away, but her grip was tight. I frowned. “I thought you were with Tom. Why are you back?” Her frown was deeper than mine. “He’s fine.” “But he heard we were both leaving and got so upset he went to a bar to drink himself into a stupor.” “I told him I was staying, but he wouldn’t believe me. You need to come tell him. He always listens to you.” She dragged me forward, but I dug my heels in and forced her to stop. “Where is he?” “At the bar—” Mona turned around impatiently, but her voice died in her throat. A sudden wave of guilt and pity washed over her face. “I’m sorry, Jude. I forgot.” “Wait for me at the convenience store across the street, okay? I’ll bring him out to you.” Once we reached the storefront, Mona shoved a warm cup of milk tea into my hands and rushed across the street. The rising steam from the cup blurred her silhouette through the glass window. After our high school graduation, Tom had insisted on going to a bar. Halfway through the night, he went to the restroom and never came back. Mona, worried sick, left me alone at our table to go search for him. She was gone for two hours. I tried calling both of them, but neither answered. When I finally decided to leave, a group of drunk guys blocked my path. Fortunately, I ran into some classmates from school who got me out. When I finally stumbled out of the bar, shaking, I saw Mona carrying Tom on her back, walking slowly down the street. When she saw me, she didn’t ask if I was okay. She just put her index finger to her lips. Shh. Don’t wake Tom. I should have found it strange back then. Mona had always complained about Tom following me around like a lost puppy. And Tom always acted like Mona wasn’t good enough for me. They supposedly couldn’t stand each other. I had no idea when their relationship had shifted. But seeing her carry him that night—with a gentleness usually reserved for fragile porcelain—told me everything. By the time the two familiar figures approached the convenience store, my milk tea had gone cold. The chime of the entrance door rang out. Tom draped an arm over my shoulder, acting as clingy and affectionate as ever. “Jude, please don’t abandon me.” Before I could speak, Mona tapped his forehead with her finger. “Oh, please. I’m staying here with you. Isn’t that enough to make you happy?” Tom immediately lunged at her, laughing and play-fighting. Their laughter filled the small convenience store. I sat there, looking like an intruder who had stumbled into their private world. Completely out of place. [What do they mean ‘developed feelings over time’? I bet she already has feelings for Tom right now.] [But when Jude went abroad in the original timeline, she flew to Europe every two weeks. If she didn’t love him, how could she do that?] [She loves them both!] Those words felt like a stone dropped into a quiet pond, sending ripples of unease through my chest. I rubbed my tired, stinging eyes. They immediately noticed and crowded around me with concerned faces. Tom glanced at the cold cup in my hand. “It’s freezing. Let me get you a hot one.” “But Jude, since when do you drink this flavor?” Beside him, Mona froze. She realized it too. That was Tom’s favorite flavor, not mine. When Tom returned and pressed a fresh, hot cup into my hands, I forced a smile. “We’re about to go our separate ways. I guess I’m just distracted and sad.” Tom pouted. “I’m the one who should be sad. Both of you are leaving me behind.” In my peripheral vision, I saw Mona shoot me a look. There was a trace of irritation in her voice as she said, “Didn’t I say…” I cut her off. “Didn’t Mona say she’s staying here to keep you company?” On the walk back, Mona kept a deliberate distance, trailing a few paces behind me. Only when we reached the fork in the road did she hesitate and speak. “Are you mad at me for staying with Tom?” She had been acting off since we left the store. Now I knew why. Seeing that I didn’t seem to care whether she went abroad or not had made her anxious. I nodded, answering honestly. “I was angry at first.” “But you’re right. I’m strong. Tom needs someone more than I do.” In truth, I wasn’t brave at all. I was terrified of the dark. When I was bullied as a child, I never fought back. It was always Mona who stood in front of me. She used to call me a coward, but she’d smile and promise she’d protect me forever. She hadn’t changed. She just chose someone else to protect. I ignored the swirling emotions in her eyes and turned to leave. But she grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Where is the ring I gave you?” Just as I was about to tell her the truth, her phone rang again. I assumed it was Tom, but when she answered, her expression shifted into something strange as she stared at me. I frowned. She hung up and stepped closer. “You’re not going to Europe?” I froze. Mona crossed her arms, a mocking smile playing on her lips. “No wonder you weren’t angry. You’re staying in the country too, aren’t you?” “Jude, wasn’t that European music academy your dream school?” “Throwing away your ambition just for me?” My bewildered expression slowly faded. My chest felt hollow. Not painful, just cold. She had forgotten. My dream school wasn’t in Europe; it was in Iceland. I had only applied to the European school for her. But none of that mattered now. Before I could clarify, she cut me off again. “You didn’t even bring the ring. Don’t tell me you’re jealous because you think there’s something going on between me and Tom?” “You were the one who told me to look out for him, Jude. Since when did you get so petty?” The sudden accusation left me stunned. I clenched my fists and looked her dead in the eye. “Petty?” “Mona, can you honestly tell me you don’t have feelings for Tom?” A sudden clatter sounded behind us. Tom stood there, wide-eyed and trembling, holding a dropped bag. His eyes welled with tears, and his first instinct was to look at me. “Jude…” “Don’t act like you didn’t know,” I said, cutting him off. Tom opened his mouth repeatedly, but no sound came out. An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. I just wanted to go home. But Tom grabbed my sleeve. “Jude, nothing happened between Mona and me, I swear. Please believe me…” His eyes were red. He looked just as helpless and pitiful as the day I first met him. The floating comments buzzed. [The side character actually cares about the main character, he’s just blindly in love with the girl.] [Please, he’s just a manipulative snake. If he really cared about Jude, would he keep playing the victim in front of Mona over and over?] I sighed. Before I could speak, Mona stepped between us. Her face was dark. “Enough, Jude. Stop cornering him.” “If this is all because you want me to go to Europe with you, fine! I’ll go! Is that what you want?” I wanted to tell her no. I really didn’t want that. But suddenly, a pair of headlights blinded us as an out-of-control car swerved off the road, hurtling toward the sidewalk. My instinct was to grab Tom and pull him out of the way, but a violent force shoved me aside, separating us. I was thrown hard against the asphalt. The last image I saw before blacking out was Mona, desperately throwing her arms around Tom to shield him. I woke up to the sound of hushed, tense arguing. Tom’s voice sounded fragile, laced with tears. “We can’t do this. I can’t betray Jude like this.” Mona’s voice was raw and strained. “Tom, isn’t it a bit late for that?” “If you felt so guilty toward Jude, why did you kiss me the night I ran out to find you?” My breath hitched in my throat. The cracks in my heart shattered completely, crumbling into dust. Through the thin hospital curtain, I saw their silhouettes shift. Their shadows merged in an intimate, unmistakable embrace. I dug my fingernails into my palms, numb to the physical pain. Tom’s weak resistance faded into silence. It only ended when a nurse pushed the door open. “Oh, you’re awake. How are you feeling?” The two shadows behind the curtain instantly sprang apart. When Mona stepped out, her shirt was noticeably wrinkled. I rasped out a quiet, “I’m okay.” The nurse assured me I was lucky—only a fractured leg. Once she left, Mona’s gaze drifted to my cast. “Does it hurt?” The guilt and pain on her face looked entirely genuine. But a wave of intense nausea surged from my stomach, forcing tears to the corners of my eyes. Mona reached out to wipe them away, but I flinched, pulling my face back. Her hand froze in midair, and her expression cooled. “Jude, in a moment like that, I didn’t have time to think.” “If you want to blame someone, blame me. Don’t take it out on Tom.” She glanced back toward the curtain, her eyes softening. “He looks up to you more than anyone. No matter what happens between us, don’t hate him.” “I’ll still go to Europe with you, and I’ll keep my promise to marry you. But I will also take care of Tom for the rest of his life.” [Ugh, she wants her cake and eat it too.] [Is she trying to build a harem? Keep dreaming, sister!] I couldn’t help but laugh. I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Hearing my laughter, Tom stepped out from behind the curtain, looking utterly lost. Mona frowned. “That’s enough, Jude. It’s settled.” “I’m going to take Tom home first. I’ve arranged a private nurse to come help you.” I closed my eyes and turned my face to the wall. I heard the door click shut. The next day, Tom showed up with a thermos of chicken soup. He kept his head down, refusing to meet my eyes. “When did you fall in love with Mona?” I asked quietly. Tom’s hand trembled as he poured the soup. It took him a long moment to answer. “Freshman year? Sophomore year? I don’t remember.” “So you used to talk trash about her just to keep me away from her?” He shook his head quickly. “No. I genuinely believed she wasn’t good enough for you.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Should I thank you then? For helping me see her true colors.” His eyes reddened, and his hands clenched into tight fists. “She has her flaws. But to me, she’s the best option I’ll ever have.” “I’m sorry, Jude.” Before I could process what he meant, he tilted the thermos and poured the steaming hot soup directly over his own arm. The hospital room door was kicked open. Mona burst in, throwing a bouquet of roses straight at my face. The sharp thorns scratched my cheek, and a drop of blood dripped onto the white bedsheets. She shielded Tom behind her, her eyes blazing with fury. “Jude! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” “Tom is your best friend. How could you burn him like this?” Maybe the sting on my cheek was just too sharp, but the tears finally spilled over. I swept the remaining soup containers off the bedside table, scattering red rose petals all over the floor. “Get out!” I screamed. “Both of you, get the hell out!” For the next month, until my leg healed and I was discharged, neither of them showed up. Tom sent me daily text messages checking in on me. Mona, on the other hand, frequently updated her social media. She was taking Tom on a trip across the country. I glanced at the photos of them smiling together, then calmly blocked both of their numbers. Because of that, I never saw the text Mona sent me a month later. She wrote: I’ll pick you up on departure day so we can head to the airport together. But she had no idea. By the time she sent that text, I was already on a flight to Iceland. When the message failed to deliver, Mona stared at the little red exclamation mark on her screen in disbelief.

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Three years in prison for a ring my boyfriend stole. The day I got out, I went straight to an exclusive private club to meet my new boss. Instead, I found my supposedly broke, food-delivery-driver boyfriend draped in designer labels, surrounded by bottles of Macallan 25, laughing like he owned the world. “Hey, Austin, isn’t today the day your little jailbird girlfriend gets released? Aren’t you going to pick her up?” A chorus of snickers. “A disgraced ex-con accountant?” Austin sneered. “She doesn’t deserve my time.” I walked right up to their table. “Care to explain?” When Austin saw me, there wasn’t a flicker of guilt on his face. He just smirked, kicking his designer loafers up onto the mahogany table. “Well, you see how it is. No point in hiding it anymore.” “It started as a dare. Play the broke guy, see if I could land the smart girl.” “But you just had to be difficult. Refused to be my side piece.” “Now that you’ve rotted in a cell for three years, do you still have that high-and-mighty attitude?” The table erupted into laughter. I felt a cold smile touch my lips. Austin had a pretty face, but his head was filled with absolute mush. The ring he stole was worth barely fifteen hundred dollars. There was no universe in which that carried a three-year sentence. The place they sent me was Otisville. Taking the fall for his petty theft was just a convenient cover for what I actually needed to hide. ………… Austin looked me up and down, scanning my face and body like he was appraising a piece of cheap merchandise. He nodded slowly. “Three years in federal lockup, and you haven’t even lost your edge.” He pulled a thick stack of bills from his leather wallet and slammed twenty thousand dollars onto the table with a sharp slap. “Too bad. An ex-con woman’s time is only worth about this much a year.” His cronies sneered in unison. “What’s a felon doing acting so high and mighty?” “She won’t even be able to get a job at a diner. She should be thanking God for twenty grand.” I stared at them, my expression flat. Inside, I was laughing. Before my arrest, my annual salary was a cool million. And today, my new boss was offering me a starting package of three million. Austin actually thought twenty thousand was something to brag about. I reached out, picked up the stack of bills, and weighed it in my palm. Austin’s smirk widened, entirely self-satisfied. “See?” he drawled. “Why make things hard on yourself? If you’d just played nice and kept your mouth shut as my mistress, I would’ve given you a hundred thousand a year.” Before he could finish his sentence, I hurled the stack of cash directly into his face. “That pathetic pocket change wouldn’t cover my monthly coffee budget. You actually thought you were doing something here?” The table flared with anger. “You ungrateful bitch!” “Just wait until you’re desperate enough to beg some old creep to pay your rent!” “No class. Typical jailbird.” Austin’s face twisted into a dark scowl, laughing mockingly. “Gwen, do you ever stop lying to yourself?” “Before you went inside, you were a nobody accountant. You lived in a damp basement, eating instant ramen every night, making five thousand a month at best.” “Where the hell do you think you’re getting big money?” A sharp needle of memory pricked my chest. The month I spent with him had been the absolute nadir of my life. I was under federal investigation, all my bank accounts had been frozen, and I was hiding out in a dingy basement, surviving on dry noodles. But it was also during that desperate, agonizing period that I resolved to clean up my act once and for all. “A low-level accountant should be kissing my feet for even looking her way,” Austin sneered. “I dropped hints about keeping you on the side, and you threatened to castrate me if I ever cheated on you.” “So I staged the whole proposal. I stole that diamond ring, proposed, and then called the cops on you myself.” “And you were stupid enough to take the fall and go to prison for me.” The pieces finally clicked. So that was his grand design. When he had proposed to me, I had been blinded by emotion. I was already facing a prison sentence for my own actions, and I didn’t want to drag him down with me. When the police showed up, he wept, begging me to confess, claiming he’d only stolen the ring out of sheer desperation. He said a felony charge would ruin his life forever. My heart had softened. I figured I was already facing three years in Otisville anyway; taking on one minor grand theft charge wouldn’t make a difference. So I took the heat. I had no idea the entire sequence of events was a script he wrote. Seeing my silence, Austin assumed I was intimidated. He reached out to touch my cheek, his fingers greasy, his voice dripping with condescension. “Now that you have a record, I’m the only option you’ve got left.” “Keep me happy, and maybe I’ll bump your allowance up to fifty grand a year.” The men around him chuckled dirtily. “Seriously, Austin, she is a stunner. Don’t forget about your boys when you’re done with her.” “We can even start a pool to lease her, as long as you’re sharing.” My eyes turned to ice. I grabbed his wrist in a vice grip and flung his hand away. “I’ll settle my accounts with you later,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Right now, I have an appointment in Suite One.” The table fell dead silent for a beat. Then, it exploded into a deafening roar of laughter, as if I had just delivered the punchline of the century. Austin laughed so hard he had to clutch his stomach. “Gwen, did they teach you how to tell fairy tales in prison?” The others chimed in. “The Summit Club is exclusive as hell. Even Austin only has access to the main lounge.” “Suite One is reserved for VIPs. Only people like Mr. Burke Pierce can book that room.” “They wouldn’t even hire you as a maid with your criminal record.” “Stop dreaming, honey. Just crawl back to Austin.” I swept a freezing gaze over them. “The person I’m meeting is Burke Pierce, CEO of Apex Enterprises.” The laughter stopped instantly. Doubts and confusion flickered across their faces. Then, a sharp, haughty female voice cut through the air. “Oh? That’s funny. As Mr. Pierce’s personal secretary, how is it that I had no idea he was hosting a private meeting in Suite One?” I turned. A young woman dressed in a tailored designer dress was walking toward us, her eyes brimming with patronizing disdain. The moment Austin saw her, he rushed over to wrap an arm around her waist, his posture instantly shifting into a sycophantic, eager-to-please pose. Vicky Mercer gave a cold sniff. “Mr. Pierce is in New York today on business. There is zero chance he’s in this club. If you’re going to lie, at least do some research first.” I raised an eyebrow. Burke had hired me to be the Chief Financial Officer of Apex Enterprises, yet he hadn’t even told his personal secretary. This was getting interesting. Emboldened by Vicky’s presence, Austin pointed at me, eager to explain. “Vicky, babe, this is that little accountant I told you about—the one I chased on a dare. She’s just throwing a tantrum because she’s not happy with the allowance I offered her.” Vicky sneered. “An ex-con pretending she’s on Mr. Pierce’s calendar? Delusional.” I tilted my head, genuinely curious. “Austin just offered to keep me as his plaything right in front of you. You aren’t even a little jealous?” Vicky let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “In our social circle, marriage is an alliance of assets. What he does on the side is irrelevant, as long as he doesn’t embarrass the Mercer family name.” Austin nodded eagerly. “Vicky is practical. I am the Vice President of Apex Education Group, after all. Only a woman of Vicky’s pedigree is fit to stand by my side. You, Gwen, are just a distraction. Though, if you play your cards right, I might let you carry a surrogate child for us. Pregnancy would ruin Vicky’s figure, after all.” I didn’t lose my temper. Instead, I drifted into quiet thought. My inmate friend back in prison, Frank, had been framed and sent away precisely because of financial discrepancies within Apex Education Group. Before my release, he had begged me to find Burke Pierce and untangle the company’s books. Looking at the smug couple in front of me, it seemed the rats had walked right into my path. I checked my watch. I had exactly five minutes before my scheduled meeting with Burke. I had no desire to waste another second arguing with fools, so I turned toward the hallway. “Hold on!” Austin barked. I sighed, turning back with sheer irritation. With a violent swipe of his arm, he crashed the wine glasses, plates, and leftovers off the table. They shattered across the marble floor in a messy pool. “Clean it up,” he commanded, looking down his nose at me. I stared at him, incredulous. “Excuse me?” Austin smirked. “An ex-con like you getting into The Summit Club? You must have snuck in to work the cleaning shift. The floor is dirty, jailbird. Get on your knees and lick it clean.” The table roared with laughter again, their predatory eyes locking onto me. “Go on, lick it!” “Don’t ruin our night, sweetheart. Do your job!” From the moment I walked in, they had done nothing but degrade me. At first, I found it pathetic. But now, a cold, sharp anger was beginning to burn through my veins. I looked at them, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. “Are you absolutely sure you want to waste my time? I have five minutes before my meeting with Mr. Pierce. You know his reputation. If he’s kept waiting, none of you will survive the fallout.” “Still playing the part, are we?” Vicky scoffed. “I bet there isn’t any executive in Suite One. Just some bald, wrinkly sugar daddy who paid for your cheap thrill.” Austin’s face darkened, his eyes filling with sudden disgust. “Gwen, I really underestimated how low you’d sink. Selling yourself to old creeps for a quick buck?” He seemed to make a decision. “Fine. I’ll increase my offer. Sixty thousand a year. Being with me is a hell of a lot better than letting some old bastard use you.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. Sixty thousand? Did he truly believe I was desperate enough for his pitiful crumbs? “You don’t believe me?” I pointed down the corridor toward Suite One. “Then walk with me. Let’s find out together who is waiting in that room.” “Excuse me, but is one of you the guest of Mr. Pierce?” a respectful voice called out. The general manager of the club, Mr. Higgins, was walking briskly toward us. I took a step forward. “I am.” The room fell dead silent. The smirks on their faces froze. Vicky’s expression faltered. “Mr. Pierce is actually here?” Mr. Higgins looked at me, his eyes scanning my faded, cheap clothes. He hesitated. I couldn’t blame him—I had just walked out of a federal penitentiary wearing a thirty-dollar target outfit. It was natural for him to doubt me. Without a word, I reached into my bag, pulled out the gold-embossed invitation card Burke had sent me, and handed it over. Mr. Higgins took the card. The moment his eyes registered the watermark and the personal seal, his posture instantly softened into deep deference. “My sincere apologies, Ms. Gwen,” he said, bowing slightly. “Mr. Pierce has been waiting for you. Please, allow me to escort you.” He extended an arm, gesturing toward the private corridor. “Wait!” Austin yelled, stepping forward to block our path. I knit my brows. “What now?” Mr. Higgins frowned. “Mr. Austin, this is Mr. Pierce’s personal guest. Do you really wish to delay her?” Austin paled slightly, raising his hands. “Mr. Higgins, I mean no disrespect to the CEO. But I have to warn you—this woman is no guest.” He pointed a trembling, angry finger at me. “She’s an ex-con who probably swiped that invitation card to sneak in and throw herself at Mr. Pierce. Don’t let her fool you.” “An ex-con?” Mr. Higgins blinked. Seeing the manager hesitate, Austin pressed on, his voice filled with triumph. “You have no idea. She was just released today after serving three years for grand theft. She’s desperate for a rich benefactor. A man of Mr. Pierce’s stature would never meet privately with a common felon. It’s absurd!” The crowd quickly joined the chorus. “A thief trying to climb the social ladder!” “Throw her out before she offends Mr. Pierce!” “Mr. Higgins, remember that gold-digger who stole a pass last year? The club’s reputation took a huge hit. Don’t make the same mistake.” Mr. Higgins’s expression grew increasingly grim. “Ms. Gwen… is it true? Have you served prison time?” I looked at the sea of mocking faces, finding the entire scene incredibly absurd. They knew I had a record, but they didn’t have the slightest understanding of what kind of prison I had been in. “I was at Otisville,” I said quietly. But Mr. Higgins’s face remained blank. Like the rest of them, he didn’t comprehend the weight of that name. “Otisville, Danbury, who cares?” one of Austin’s friends sneered. “A jailbird is a jailbird!” They didn’t understand. Yes, Otisville housed criminals. But it was reserved for the brilliant, the high-profile, and those whose crimes required a certain level of genius to pull off. It was a facility for elite white-collar offenders, not petty thieves. Seeing my silence, Austin took it as a sign of defeat. “See? She’s got nothing to say. She stole it! A parasite like her deserves to lick the floor clean and be thrown out into the street. Let’s teach her a lesson about showing her face around here!” “Yeah, clean it up!” “Get out of here, felon!” Before I could react, someone kicked the back of my knees. A sharp pain shot up my legs, and I fell hard onto the cold marble. Austin grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing my face down toward the broken plates and spilled food. “You arrogant bitch, act proud now!” Vicky stood by, her eyes sparkling with malicious amusement. I struggled, but I was outnumbered. Leftover sauce smeared onto my face and clothes. The sharp edge of a shattered porcelain plate sliced across my forearm, leaving a stinging trail of blood. The crowd roared with laughter, and a couple of the men began to roughly pull at my jacket. Mr. Higgins retreated to the side, his face twisted in disgust, preparing to leave the room to look for Burke’s “actual” guest. Suddenly, a cold, thunderous voice echoed through the lounge. “Stop this instantly!” “Who gave you the authority to lay a hand on my guest?”

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It was past midnight when my phone buzzed on the cluttered desk. I was in the middle of a grueling overtime shift, the harsh fluorescent lights of the office humming a low, irritating tune. The text was from Jerry, my boyfriend of five years. I ended the lease on our apartment. Sent you the new address. I stared at the screen, a familiar, cold weight settling in my chest. I didn’t need to look up the zip code to know what this meant. Is this about Melanie again? I typed back, my fingers trembling slightly. Melanie. The fragile, self-made, fiercely independent girl Jerry couldn’t stop talking about. This would be our third move in six months. We had started in a gorgeous, high-rise loft in the Gold Coast, close to everything. Then we downgraded to a noisy mid-rise, and now, according to the map, we were heading to a cramped, sketchy neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. All to be closer to Melanie. Predictably, my text struck a nerve. His reply came back almost instantly, sharp and defensive. Don’t start with the jealousy, Regina. Someone followed her home from work last night. She was terrified. You’re both women. Where is your empathy? I looked out the window. The Chicago skyline was dark, swallowed by the freezing winter night. A sudden, deep exhaustion washed over me. I couldn’t even count how many times Jerry and I had fought over Melanie. It was an exhausting loop: first came my anger and hurt, then his accusations, and finally, this hollow silence. I don’t have time for this, his next text read. I’m going to pick her up from her shift. Before I could type a response, he hung up—metaphorically speaking, cutting off the conversation with the finality of a locked screen. Not once during this entire process had Jerry asked if I wanted to move. Not once did he ask if I wanted him to pick me up, even though it was freezing and past 1 a.m. So, I didn’t ask for his opinion either. I opened my desk drawer and pulled out the corporate relocation agreement that had been sitting there for a week. With a steady hand, I signed my name at the bottom: Regina Davies. 01 Before packing up, I knocked on my manager’s door. Sandra was still at her desk. I handed her the signed contract for the London transfer. She looked up, startled. “Regina? I thought you said you wanted to stay in Chicago because of your boyfriend. You didn’t want the long-distance.” Most of the senior team had families tying them down, so Sandra had practically begged me to take the post. It was a massive promotion—a career-defining opportunity. But back then, the thought of leaving Jerry had made me reject it without a second thought. I offered her a tight, polite smile. “I wasn’t thinking clearly back then. I used to believe love could fix everything.” Sandra looked at me, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes. She didn’t press. She just took the paperwork and patted my shoulder gently. “We’re lucky to have you, Regina.” Getting a cab at 1:30 a.m. in the freezing cold was a nightmare. I stood on the curb, the biting winter wind cutting right through my coat. I watched my coworkers get picked up one by one. Greg, who lived in my old neighborhood, noticed me shivering. “Hey, Regina! No ride tonight? Is Jerry out of town? Come on, hop in, I’ll drop you off. Just tell him he owes me a beer!” I forced a smile and shook my head. “Thanks, Greg, but I actually moved. I’m not on your route anymore.” He thought I was just being polite, but when I told him the new neighborhood, his eyes widened slightly. “Oh. That’s… a bit of a trek.” “Yeah. My ride is almost here anyway. Don’t worry about me.” I waited in the freezing wind for another forty minutes before a rideshare finally pulled up. Our old high-rise apartment had been a ten-minute walk from my office, in a highly secure building. Back then, Jerry used to worry if I stayed late. He would wait downstairs in his car, heater blasting, just to make sure I walked the short distance safely. Now, we were living in a place that was a ninety-minute drive in traffic. And Jerry hadn’t even asked how I was getting home. By the time I unlocked my phone in the back of the cab, it was 2:30 a.m. My fingers were stiff and numb. There were several texts from coworkers making sure I got home safe. I replied to each of them. But Jerry’s chat, pinned at the very top of my messages, was a blank slate. A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I opened Instagram. The very first post on my feed was from Melanie. Thanks to my favorite guy for picking me up. Best boyfriend in the world. It was a photo of Jerry’s profile as he drove, his jawline sharp in the dim dashboard light. She was sitting in the passenger seat. My seat. The one Jerry had always insisted was exclusively mine. The comments were flooded with heart emojis and “Are you guys finally official?” comments. Melanie had replied to almost all of them: Omg guys, it was a typo! Don’t make it weird! We’re just really close friends! And there, right at the top of the likes, was Jerry’s profile picture. I tapped the heart icon, adding my own like to the post. Then I closed the app, opened my messages, and unpinned Jerry’s contact. 02 When the Uber finally pulled up to the brick building, it was past three in the morning. I dragged my suitcase up the dimly lit stairs of the pre-war apartment building. I reached the door and stared at the keypad lock. I instinctively punched in my birthday. Error. I tried our anniversary. Error. Before I could try a third time, the door swung open. Melanie stood there, wearing a pastel pink apron, holding a spatula, a warm, bright smile plastered on her face. “Regina! You’re finally home! Jerry and I are making late-night snacks.” She noticed me staring at the keypad and flushed with mock embarrassment. “Oh, sorry! The code is my birthday. I’m so forgetful, and Jerry was worried I’d lock myself out while helping you guys unpack.” I looked past her into the kitchen. Jerry—a man who absolutely detested cooking and had never once made me dinner in five years—was standing over the stove wearing a matching apron. Hearing our voices, he looked up and smiled warmly at Melanie. But when his gaze landed on me, the warmth vanished, replaced by a cool, defensive shield. “You’re late,” he said, turning back to the stove. “Go wash your hands. Melanie went out of her way to make a welcome-home dinner for us. She’s been unpacking all day, and she still insisted on cooking for you.” Melanie played the modest angel. “Oh, stop it, Jerry. We’re family now. Your family is my family. Regina, don’t listen to him, I was happy to do it.” The apartment was heated, yet I felt a chill deep in my bones. I didn’t say a word. I kicked off my boots and looked around the cramped entryway for my slippers. They weren’t there. Melanie tapped her temple. “Oh! Silly me. I saw those old, ratty wool slippers of yours and assumed you were throwing them out, so I tossed them. I haven’t had a chance to buy you new ones yet.” I stared at the cheap, plastic slide-ons she had set out for me. Something inside me snapped. I kicked them aside. “Who gave you permission to touch my things?” Melanie froze. Her lower lip began to tremble, and her eyes welled up with tears. “Regina… I’m so sorry. I was just trying to help…” Jerry immediately abandoned the stove, rushing over to shove himself between us, shielding Melanie. “Regina, what the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled. “It’s a pair of cheap slippers! Do you have to be so incredibly dramatic?” Melanie tugged gently at his sleeve, her voice soft and trembling. “Jerry, please, don’t. It’s my fault. Don’t fight with Regina because of me…” Jerry’s chest heaved with anger. “She spent the whole day helping us move, Regina! She cooked for you! Is this how you show your appreciation? By screaming at her?” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my palms. The physical pain was the only thing keeping me from breaking down right in front of them. “Those weren’t ‘cheap slippers,’” I whispered, my voice shaking. “My mother hand-knit them for me while she was dying in the hospital. They were the last thing she ever made. Melanie, what right did you have to throw them away?” Jerry froze. The anger died in his eyes, replaced by a flicker of guilt. He rubbed his temples, his tone softening slightly. “Look… you still shouldn’t have yelled at Melanie. She didn’t know. It was an accident. I forgot to tell her, okay? It’s on me.” I looked at Jerry, utterly hollowed out. I used to get terribly cold feet in the winter. My mother, weak and bedridden with terminal cancer, had spent her final weeks knitting those slippers for me. On her deathbed, she had placed my hand in Jerry’s, begging him in her softest, weakest voice to cherish me. And Jerry had promised. He had held me through the worst nights of my life. And now, he had simply “forgotten.” “Just eat,” Jerry said, his voice flat. “After we eat, I’ll go down to the dumpster with you and help you look for them. Just stop making a scene, alright?” I didn’t answer. I turned around and walked out the door, down the dark, narrow hallway. The old building had no working lights in the stairwell. I was walking fast, my eyes blurred with tears. My foot caught on the edge of a broken step. I fell. It was a brutal, tumbling fall down the concrete stairs. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my abdomen, so intense it stole the breath from my lungs. I couldn’t stand up. When I reached down, my hands came away wet and warm with blood. “Jerry!” I cried out, my voice echoing in the empty, freezing stairwell. “Jerry, please!” I called his name over and over. But no one came. The metallic scent of blood filled the cold air. In the semi-darkness, my mind began to slip. I thought I saw him—not the cold, distant twenty-seven-year-old Jerry standing in the apartment upstairs, but the twenty-two-year-old boy who used to love me more than life itself. 03 Jerry and I had met in college. He was the campus golden boy; I was the popular, slightly spoiled girl everyone wanted to be friends with. People tried to set us up, but we initially couldn’t stand each other. I thought he was arrogant and performative; he thought I was entitled. But everything changed during a student council hiking trip. I got a severe cramp from my period and fell behind, eventually getting separated from the group. I ended up lost, alone, and terrified in a dense, signal-less forest as night fell. I huddled under a tree, listening to the rustling of wild animals, waiting in absolute despair. And then, Jerry appeared like a miracle. He had noticed I was missing and came back for me. He carried me on his back, whispering words of comfort, all the way down the mountain. After that night, our pride crumbled. We started talking, really talking, and our hearts gravitated toward each other. By graduation, we were the couple everyone envied. Those were the happiest days of my life. But the happiness didn’t last. Shortly after graduation, my mother was diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer. My father had passed away when I was a child; she was my entire world. That year was a descent into darkness. Jerry would work his entry-level job all day and spend every night at the hospital, sitting by my mother’s bed, holding my hand while I cried. He survived on hospital cafeteria coffee and vending machine snacks for six months, pulling me back from the brink of collapse. When she finally passed, I shut down. I became silent, hollow, refusing to speak for days. But Jerry never gave up. He ignored my coldness, pushed past my walls, and patiently coaxed me back to the land of the living. He slept lightly every night, terrified that if he closed his eyes, I would find a way to follow my mother. I had lost my mother, but he was the one who lost weight faster than I did. It was his devotion that saved me. I used to think I was the luckiest woman in the world to have him. Under his gentle guidance, I slowly put my life back together, went to interviews, and got my career back on track. Until a year ago. Until Melanie. She was just a girl working at a local florist. Jerry had bought a bouquet from her once to congratulate me on a promotion. At first, her name only came up in passing. Jerry told me she had lost her mother too, and her father was a raging alcoholic. She had dropped out of high school to support herself. I felt deeply sorry for her. But gradually, Jerry became obsessed. Melanie’s kitchen light broke; he took a midnight Uber to fix it. Melanie had cramps; he took a sick day to brew her soup and deliver it to her apartment. He always claimed she was just a poor, helpless girl who had no one else. On our anniversary—which happened to fall on her birthday—he canceled our dinner reservation because she “couldn’t bear to be alone on her birthday.” He even agreed to relocate to this rundown, inconvenient neighborhood just because Melanie mentioned she hated the noise of the city center. We fought about it constantly. I asked him, point-blank, if he was in love with her. And every time, he would defensively claim they were just friends, that he had never crossed any physical boundaries. But emotional betrayal is a slow, agonizing poison. His body was there, but his soul had checked out long ago. Eventually, we stopped communicating. A simple conversation became a minefield. Jerry turned me into a paranoid, screaming version of myself, and then had the audacity to ask why I was acting so crazy. We fought, we went cold, we broke up, we got back together. I hated myself for being so weak, for not being able to walk away. But every time I resolved to leave, I would remember the boy who sat by my mother’s hospital bed for six months. We survived the absolute worst year of my life. How could we fall apart over something like this? I had no answer. So, I became quiet. I stopped fighting. I grew used to him missing our milestones, used to him giving Melanie the devotion that belonged to me. I grew used to the crowded space in our relationship. 04 When I woke up, the sharp, sterile scent of disinfectant filled my nose. Jerry was sitting by my bedside. Seeing my eyes open, he immediately pressed the call button for the nurse. The doctor arrived quickly, performing a brief examination before turning to Jerry with a solemn expression. “The patient has suffered a miscarriage due to the fall. She’s lost a lot of blood and her body is extremely weak. Make sure she gets plenty of rest and iron-rich foods.” I stared at the ceiling, my hand trembling as I placed it over my empty stomach. The ghost of that sharp, tearing pain was still there. I had been pregnant. And now, the baby was gone. Once the doctor left, Jerry stepped closer. His face was pale, his eyes rimmed with red. He reached out to tuck the blanket around me, his voice raw. “Regina… I’m so sorry. This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you walk out alone. But we’re young. We can try again.” He reached to stroke my hair, but I flinched, pulling away from his touch. I forced myself to sit up, but the pain in my abdomen flared instantly. Jerry tried to push me back down. “What are you doing? The doctor said you need to stay overnight for observation.” “Get away from me!” I screamed, struggling against his grip. “Let me go! I need to find my mother’s slippers!” I had lost my baby. I couldn’t lose the last piece of my mother. Jerry knelt by the bed, forcing my shoes onto my feet and wrapping his coat around my shoulders. “Stop screaming, Regina. I had Melanie go look for them. She called me earlier—she found them. They’re at the apartment. You’ll see them when we get back.” He discharged me against medical advice because I refused to stay. I was in too much pain to walk, biting my lip until it bled to keep from crying out. I refused to let him see an ounce of my weakness. Seeing my stubbornness, Jerry sighed and scooped me into his arms, ignoring my weak attempts to push him away. His chest used to be my safe haven. But now, as I breathed in the heavy, cloying scent of sweet vanilla hair oil—the exact brand Melanie always wore—I felt violently ill. Thirty minutes later, we reached the apartment. I watched Jerry punch a sequence of numbers into the keypad. It was my birthday. Error. He paused, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “The code is Melanie’s birthday,” I said, my voice dead and flat. The door opened, and Melanie was standing in the hall holding a thermos. “Jerry! You’re back! I was just about to bring this to the hospital.” She looked at me, her eyes wide with fear and performative guilt. “Regina… please don’t be mad at Jerry. It’s all my fault. I am so, so sorry.” She took a step closer, unscrewing the thermos. “I heard about the… the baby. I made this chicken soup for you to help you heal.” She pushed the greasy, steaming liquid toward my face, pretending she wanted to feed me. I raised my hand to push the container away. I didn’t even touch her. But Melanie stumbled backward, losing her balance. The scalding soup spilled all over her chest and arms. She let out a piercing, dramatic shriek. Jerry instantly let go of me. I crashed heavily onto the hard hardwood floor. The impact sent a jolt of pure agony through my abdomen, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my throat. I began to cough violently, curling into a ball. But Jerry didn’t look at me. Not once. He was on his knees, cradling Melanie in his arms, his face contorted with panic and tenderness. “Melanie! Oh my god, are you okay? I’m calling an ambulance!” Melanie clutched his shirt, tears streaming down her face. “Jerry, I’m okay… don’t be mad at Regina… she didn’t mean to…” Jerry turned to look at me, his eyes filled with a cold, burning disgust. “Regina, when did you become such a monster? I can’t believe I ever loved you.” A weak, bitter laugh escaped my lips. There it was. The ugly truth, finally laid bare. I can’t believe I ever loved you. Past tense. His love for me was a relic of the past; his love for Melanie was his present. Jerry stared at me, genuinely bewildered by my laughter. Melanie’s whimpers cut off whatever he was about to say. He shook his head, his voice dripping with utter disdain. “You are beyond saving, Regina. Honestly? Maybe it’s a blessing that baby died. I’d hate to see what kind of twisted, malicious mother you would have been.” He scooped Melanie up and rushed out the door, leaving me alone on the floor. A fresh wave of blood escaped my lips as I coughed. But in a strange, agonizing way, I agreed with him. I was glad my baby wouldn’t have to grow up in the wreckage of our lives. As the front door slammed shut, the memory of the sweet, protective boy from college faded forever. In his place was a stranger who had just handed me my execution sentence. Goodbye, Jerry.

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My adoptive brother, Connor, accused me of pushing him down the grand staircase. So, I took a step back and threw myself down right in front of them—a brutal, bone-cracking slide all the way to the bottom. My birth mother accused me of stealing Connor’s favorite cufflinks. So, I grabbed the heavy silver shears from the entryway table, hacked off my own right pinky, and flung the severed digit right onto the polished mahogany floor at his feet. “Is this the finger that stole from you?” I spat, the blood already pooling. “Go ahead. Keep it.” 1 I had only meant to toss it at his feet, but my aim was off. With a sickening slap, my severed pinky hit Connor square in the face, leaving a thick smear of dark red blood across his cheek. There were no screams. Just a dead, suffocating silence. Everyone stared. My biological mother gasped, clutching her mouth, her eyes bulging with terror. Connor clawed frantically at his cheek, trying to wipe the blood away, but his jaw was locked, the screams trapped in his throat. I stood there, watching them as the adrenaline began to fade. I looked down. The blood was dripping steadily, splattering against the immaculate living room rug in dark, heavy drops. Then, the delayed screams shattered the room. Connor pointed a trembling finger at me. “You… you… we were just talking! How could you do that to yourself?” “I didn’t ask you to cut your finger off! All you had to do was explain!” His voice cracked, the carefully constructed facade of the golden boy completely shattered. He was on the verge of a total psychological breakdown. I just stood in the center of the room, entirely unbothered. “Didn’t you say I took your things? Well, now you have the finger that did it.” Normally, if I so much as breathed in Connor’s direction, my biological sister, Fiona, would throw herself in front of him like a human shield. But now? Fiona, who had spent the last two months looking at me like I was dirt beneath her shoes, was trembling so hard she could barely punch 911 into her phone. My father—the man who usually wore a permanent mask of cold disappointment whenever he looked at me—had shaking hands. He barked orders at a housekeeper to find a Ziploc bag and ice to pack the finger. My mother fluttered around me like a panicked bird, trying to open the first-aid kit. But the moment she saw the sheer volume of blood gushing from my hand, her face went white, and her knees gave out. She collapsed onto the floor. She sat there, hyperventilating, her words coming out in jagged gasps. “How can you be so extreme? We just asked you a question! How could you mutilate yourself like this? Your body… your flesh and blood… it belongs to the parents who brought you into this world! How could you just cut it off?” I looked down at her, completely numb. “Oh,” I said. I was twenty-four, scraping by on minimum wage at a diner, when they found me. They told me I was the long-lost heir to a massive real estate fortune, switched at birth due to some bizarre administrative error at the hospital. To be honest, the whole “switched at birth” narrative felt incredibly suspect to me. How does a working-class kid get accidentally swapped with the heir of a multi-million-dollar dynasty? But no one would give me a straight answer. Whenever I brought it up, they looked at me like I was some ungrateful conspiracy theorist. Fiona had dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “It was a tragic mistake, Drew. None of us wanted this to happen. Don’t overthink it.” But how could I not? No one in this family wanted to dig into the truth because doing so might hurt their precious darling, Connor—the boy they had raised for twenty-four years. Initially, I hadn’t planned on reacting so violently to Connor’s petty provocations. But every single move I made was treated as a personal assault on their golden boy. If it were anyone else, they might have shrunk into themselves, drowned in insecurity, or spiraled into depression. Or maybe they would have gone completely mad, screaming at the walls. But I don’t go mad. I don’t beg. When Connor framed me for pushing him down the stairs, I didn’t argue. I just launched myself down the steps instead. When they accused me of stealing, I chopped off my own finger. In a world like this, if you aren’t ruthlessly cruel to yourself, society will swallow you whole and spit out the bones. 2 My dramatic self-mutilation was written off as a desperate cry for attention, a toxic stunt fueled by petty jealousy. Amidst my father’s roaring lectures, my mother’s hysterical weeping, and the distant, wailing sirens of the ambulance, I was strapped onto a gurney and rushed to the hospital. The surgeon was highly skilled. They managed to sew my pinky back on, aligning the nerves and skin with meticulous precision. A dull, throbbing ache settled into my hand, constant and heavy, like a persistent autumn drizzle. It seeped slowly into my chest. Once the doctor confirmed my hand was stable, the sheer gravity of what had happened finally caught up with Connor. Standing in the corner of the room, his face pale as paper, he suddenly clutched his chest, gasping for air. The next second, he collapsed. “Thud.” It wasn’t a soft, dramatic swoon into someone’s arms. He hit the linoleum floor hard. A genuine faint. Fiona, who had been hovering nearby, scowled. She opened her mouth to snap at me, but the moment her eyes met mine, the words died in her throat. She looked like she had swallowed a stone. I didn’t say a word. I just stared back at her. Normally, if I upset Connor, Fiona would unleash a torrent of verbal abuse, sometimes physically dragging me away. But today, she just stood there, her gaze heavy and conflicted. “Why do you have to take things so far?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Even if we haven’t been perfect to you, it’s your own body. Can’t you have some self-respect? Can’t you love yourself a little?” “There are security cameras all over the house,” she continued, looking thoroughly baffled. “If you didn’t steal it, all you had to do was say so. We would have checked the footage. We could have called the police. Why do you have to be so psychotic?” I looked up at my biological sister, a bitter amusement rising in my chest. “This isn’t the first time, Fiona. Remember when I asked you to call the police last time? What did you do?” Initially, I hadn’t wanted to turn our home into a horror movie. The first time Connor accused me of stealing, I had begged them to check the cameras. I had screamed for them to call the police. But my father had only roared at me to shut up, and Fiona had sneered. “”The fact that you’re so eager to call the police just proves you prepared for this,”” she had said back then, her voice dripping with venom. “”If you didn’t steal it, then who did? Things only started vanishing after you moved in. You’re nothing but a common thief.”” They had forced me to my knees, making me bow and apologize to Connor. That was my loving family. A flicker of shame crossed Fiona’s face as the memory hit her. She looked away, her voice dropping. “That… that had nothing to do with him. I was the one who hid those cufflinks. I just wanted to teach you a lesson since you were new to this world. I wanted you to see how cruel people can be. Why are you being so petty? If you didn’t like it, you could have just explained—” “Slap!” Before the words could fully leave her mouth, a hand cracked across her face. It was my mother. Having just settled Connor into a room, she had walked in just in time to hear Fiona’s confession. Her face was flushed with fury. “Drew is your brother! How could you call that a joke?” she screamed at Fiona. “Playing games with your own flesh and blood… do you even have a conscience?” It sounded like a defense, but I knew better. It was just a distraction to keep the peace. I closed my eyes, shutting them out. I wanted to see exactly how much longer Connor and my dear sister could keep up this charade. Every single person who had slandered me, gaslit me, and actively tried to destroy me—I was going to watch them burn. Two months later, I was finally discharged from the hospital. As fate would have it, my release coincided with the lavish engagement party for Connor and his high-society fiancée. The moment I stepped into the grand ballroom, the lively chatter died instantly. A suffocating silence draped over the crowd. Connor, spotting me, turned deathly pale, shrinking back as if he were the victim. Beside him stood Charlotte, his fiancée. She had never once deigned to look me in the eye. Now, her gaze swept over me, thick with disgust. “How could someone so uncultured be a real heir of this family?” she muttered loudly enough for those around us to hear. “They must have botched the DNA test. Don’t worry, sweetie. Once we’re married, you’ll always be the son of my family. No one can ever dispute your place.” The truth about the switched heirs had already rippled through high society, becoming the gossip of the season. Charlotte had immediately stepped up as Connor’s fierce protector, while I was paraded around in one of Connor’s old, ill-fitting hand-me-down suits. Everyone thought I was an easy target. And tonight, they thought the same. 3 The whispers started immediately, buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps. “I heard when the real son came back, he threw a massive tantrum and even pushed himself down the stairs.” “Completely unrefined. I don’t know how much longer they’ll keep him around. They’ll probably write him a small check and kick him out.” “Worse than that. I heard he’s a kleptomaniac. Always coveting what isn’t his. Just because you share the blood doesn’t mean you belong.” “And he’s unstable! Did you hear he mutilated his own hand just to spite his parents? Absolutely feral.” I stood in the midst of the hushed mockery, my face blank. Connor stepped forward, a patronizing smile playing on his lips. “Ah, Drew. You’re finally out of the hospital. I’m so glad you could make it to our special day. Please, promise me you won’t hurt yourself again to threaten Mom and Dad. It breaks their hearts.” Then, he pulled something from his pocket. My heart seized, blood rushing to my ears. It was a jade pendant. A simple, worn piece of jade on a faded red string. It had hung around my neck for as long as I could remember. Even when I was starving, with only a few dollars to my name, I had never once considered selling it. It was the only thing of value I owned, my only connection to a past before the nightmare of this family. Connor dangled it between his fingers, letting it catch the light, before clutching it tightly in his palm and leaning back into Charlotte’s arms. “This is our engagement heirloom, Charlotte,” he murmured. “Drew, I hope we have your blessing.” Seeing my entire body begin to tremble with rage, Connor shot a subtle look to the side. Instantly, Fiona grabbed my right arm, pinning it down, while my mother stepped in on my left. “It’s just a cheap piece of jade, Drew,” my mother whispered frantically in my ear. “Don’t make a scene. I’ll buy you a hundred pendants. Better ones. Just let it go.” Her placating words washed over me like static. Fiona hissed in my ear, her grip tightening. “This is a high-profile event. Don’t you dare try your self-harm tricks today. If this gets out, people will think our family has no class. It’s just a trinket. Let your brother borrow it.” I stared at them, my jaw clenched. What they didn’t know was that the moment I walked into the ballroom, I had secretly turned on a livestream on my phone, tucked securely into my breast pocket. The lens was clear, the audio crisp. I was recording everything. Every whisper, every smirk, every threat. I wanted irrefutable evidence. But I had never anticipated they would sink low enough to break into my bedroom and steal my only treasure. I had survived on the streets as a child, starving and freezing, but I had kept that pendant safe. Everyone thought it was cheap glass, but to me, it was my anchor. “That’s mine,” I choked out, my voice rising. “Give it back. Don’t touch it. It’s the only thing I have!” My desperate cry was cut short by a sharp, brutal crack. Connor had dropped it. Right before my eyes, the jade hit the marble floor, shattering into two jagged pieces. A flash of pure, sadistic triumph flickered in Connor’s eyes. He quickly masked it, clutching his hands to his chest, his eyes welling with crocodile tears. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! My hand slipped,” he whimpered. “Drew, you’re not mad, are you?” A raw, feral roar built in my throat. I thrashed violently, trying to break free from my mother and sister’s grip. I wanted to tear him apart. It was the last piece of myself I had left. Even a beggar is allowed to have one thing they love. As I opened my mouth to scream, a hand slammed over my face, muffling me. Fiona glared at me, her brow furrowed in deep annoyance. “It’s just a piece of stone! Why are you always so dramatic? Do you really want to end up in the hospital again? Is a stupid pendant worth your life?” Seeing me gradually go limp, Fiona slowly released her grip, her voice softening into a hollow, patronizing tone. “Look, it’s done. I’ll buy you a brand-new one tomorrow. Just calm down.” I looked up at her, a slow, terrifying smile spreading across my lips. Then, I bit down. Hard. With a sickening crunch, I severed my own tongue and let the bloody mass fall onto the white tablecloth. 4 A bloodcurdling shriek pierced the air. “Oh my god! His… his tongue! He bit his tongue off!” An icy wave of horror instantly paralyzed the ballroom. Guests scrambled backward, overturning chairs in their panic, as a torrent of dark crimson blood erupted from my mouth. The wealthy socialites who had just been laughing at me moments ago were now screaming, clutching their silk dresses. My biological family stared at me, their faces completely drained of color. Charlotte, the proud fiancée, was hyperventilating, stumbling backward into the catering tables. Connor, however, didn’t look afraid. A flicker of cold rage crossed his face as he glared at me. “I knew you’d do this!” he spat. “You did this on purpose!” He turned to our parents, his voice rising in hysterical accusation. “Mom, Dad, look at him! It was just an accident! I didn’t mean to break his stupid pendant, and he mutilates himself at my engagement party! He’s a psychopath! He’s a monster!” Even as I choked on my own blood, Connor showed no remorse. Instead, he grabbed Charlotte’s hand, his expression instantly shifting into one of fragile, victimized innocence. “He did this just to ruin my wedding,” Connor sobbed, playing to the crowd. “Someone call 911! Even if he wants to destroy my life, he’s still my brother. Please, save him!” He stepped closer to me, his voice dripping with faux concern. “Why would you do this over a stupid piece of jade? Are you insane? Do you have a mental illness? How could you do this to us?” Under the watchful eyes of the horrified guests, Connor nudged the severed piece of my tongue off the table. He stepped on it. Under the guise of his hysterical pacing, his expensive leather dress shoe ground the bloody flesh into the floor, twisting his heel with deliberate, vicious force. I knew what I was doing when I bit down. Without a tongue, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t defend myself. And the moment the family realized I was mute, they began to weave their narrative. As they half-heartedly tried to stem the bleeding, the murmurs of the crowd turned toxic. “He’s clearly deranged. You can’t keep someone like that in polite society.” “Exactly. He needs to be locked away in an asylum. If he can do this to himself, who knows what he’ll do to the family?” The venomous remarks echoed from every corner of the room. Even my mother, who had been holding a napkin to my mouth, began to weep, her words laced with resentment. “How could you be so unstable, Drew? Your brother made a mistake, but to mutilate yourself like this… how could you do this to me?” “What am I supposed to do with you now? You can’t even speak!” Though she claimed to be helping, her hands were shaking so violently that the blood continued to spill unchecked, flooding my airway and sending me into violent, silent coughing fits. Fiona stood by, her face pale but her voice hardening with blame. “How could you do this to Mom and Dad? Do you have any idea how much pain you’re causing them? You’re incredibly selfish!” “I can’t defend you anymore. Once the doctors patch you up, you’re going straight to a psychiatric facility. You need professional help to fix whatever is broken inside you.” They spoke of “help,” but their hands dragged me brutally toward the exit. The paramedics, who had mysteriously appeared far too quickly, rushed into the hall. It was a coordinated trap. No one was here to protect me; they were here to dispose of me. From the crowd, a few snide remarks drifted over. “Did the gutter rat really think a little self-harm would make them love him?” “Hilarious. All he did was guarantee himself a one-way ticket to a psych ward. Not a penny of the inheritance for him.” “The family has been far too patient. If he were my son, I would have had him committed months ago.” Connor leaned down close to my ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Look at you. You bit your own tongue off. Every time you hurt yourself, Mom and Dad just hate you a little more. Pain won’t get you what you want.” He shed a single, perfect crocodile tear, his eyes mocking me. “By the way… I heard that stray cat you kept in the alley? The one you cared so much about?” “It got run over by a car a few days ago.” A cold dread seized me. Connor smirked, his lips practically brushing my ear. “You couldn’t even protect yourself, did you really think you could protect a worthless cat? I had my driver run it over. Twice.” “A piece of trash like you deserves to rot in silence, just like that cat. And as for your tongue? Don’t worry. They won’t be sewing it back on this time.” Connor stood up, turning back to the crowd with a look of pure sorrow. “I know Drew has been struggling to adjust since he came home, but I never imagined he would go this far—” Suddenly, his voice cut off. His eyes widened in sheer terror. “What… what is that on your jacket?” he gasped. I looked down at my lapel. Nestled inside the fabric of the cheap suit, a tiny pinhole camera gleamed with a faint, blinking blue light. With my left hand, I pulled out my phone and held the screen up for everyone to see. Four words flashed in bold, black letters on the screen: [LIVESTREAMING IN PROGRESS.] Rich families often used signal scramblers at private events to prevent leaks, but they had forgotten to turn them on today. It was a fatal mistake. I opened my mouth, blood pouring over my chin, and smiled. My thumb swiped the screen, showing the chat feed. The comments were flying by so fast they were a blur of white light, sending a shiver through every person in the room. “User202: Holy shit, is this real? Rich people are literally evil.” “Watcher99: They broke his pendant and then pinned him down while he choked?!” “CatLover: Did that psychopath just admit to killing a cat? Call the cops!” “Anon: This is sick. He bit his tongue off because they wouldn’t let him speak.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “500617”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel