I was touching up my lipstick in the bridal suite of our engagement party when Austin brought his charity-case underclassman inside. “Sophie had a little accident with her dress,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were asking to borrow a pen. “Can she wear your dress for a bit?” I froze, the lipstick hovering a millimeter from my lips. Before I could process the words, he added, “Everyone knows you’re the star of the night anyway, Char. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” A young girl stood hovering by the doorframe. Her white canvas sneakers had been scrubbed so hard the fabric looked frayed at the seams. “Hi, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice tiny and trembling. Sam stepped right in front of me, shielding me from them. “Are you out of your mind, Austin? This is Charlotte’s engagement party. She went to thirty different boutiques before she finally found this dress!” Austin looked at me. It was that look. For five years, every time he looked at me with that soft, pleading desperation, I gave in. I gently patted Sam’s arm, silently asking her to step back, and clicked my lipstick shut. “She can wear it,” I said. Austin smiled, a look of immense relief washing over his face. He reached out to stroke my hair. “I knew you’d understand. You’re always so good to people, Char. On our actual wedding day, I’ll buy you the most beautiful gown in the world.” Sophie changed into my silk gown. Austin knelt on the floor, carefully smoothing out the delicate train so it wouldn’t drag on the dusty tiles. “You look beautiful, Sophie,” he murmured softly. I watched them, a cold ache spreading in my chest. I had seen that exact gesture before. During our engagement photoshoot, the photographer had asked him to do the same thing for me. Austin had scoffed, calling it cheesy and dramatic. I reached down and slipped my engagement ring off my finger. Just like that. I was done being the understanding one. … “Who is that lovely girl? She looks absolutely stunning in that dress.” Austin’s aunt stood by the buffet table, holding Sophie’s hand and looking her up and down with an approving smile. Sophie lowered her gaze, her lips curving into a shy, delicate smile. Before she could speak, Austin chimed in from behind her. “She’s a junior from my old college department. Her family’s had a really tough time lately. Her own dress got ruined tonight, and Charlotte felt so bad for her that she insisted on lending her this one.” His aunt nodded, her eyes shifting to me as I stood nearby in my plain knit sweater and jeans. “But why is Charlotte dressed like that? It’s her engagement party, and she looks so… plain.” “She doesn’t care about stuff like that,” Austin answered for me, his arm wrapping around my shoulder. “Our Charlotte is the most generous girl in the world.” As his weight pressed against me, I took a half-step to the side. His hand slipped off, falling into the empty air. He frowned slightly. “What’s wrong?” I kept my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.” Sam grabbed my arm from behind and dragged me into the quiet hallway near the restrooms. “Are you seriously just going to let this happen?” she demanded, her voice shaking. “What else am I supposed to do, Sam?” “Go out there and tell everyone that the dress is yours! Tell them that she isn’t his fiancé—you are!” I looked at her eyes, which were turning red with frustrated tears. “Sam, you’re more upset than I am.” “How can I not be?” Sam’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying at his friends’ table?” She pulled out her phone and tapped on a video clip uploaded to Instagram by one of Austin’s college buddies. In the video, Sophie was standing to Austin’s right, wearing my silk gown. Austin’s hand was resting casually behind her waist. Someone off-camera yelled, “The bride is gorgeous, man!” Sophie looked down, her cheeks flushing a deep pink. She didn’t correct them. Austin didn’t either. He just laughed and waved his hand dismissively. Underneath the post, there was a comment: Austin’s fiancé is so pure and lovely. It had over thirty likes, and not a single soul had replied to correct it. I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth, closed the video, and handed the phone back to Sam. Laughter erupted from the banquet hall again. Sophie was being led around to toast the tables. She handled herself beautifully, tilting her glass just slightly as she leaned in. I had taught her that. Only last month, she had told me she was terrified of attending her first formal networking event. She asked me how to hold a glass and carry herself, and I had spent an entire afternoon practicing with her in my living room. “Can you call me an Uber, Sam?” “You’re not going back in?” “There’s nothing left to go back to.” I walked over to the reception desk in the lobby, pulled the ring out of my pocket, and set it down next to the guestbook. A thin layer of dust coated the dark wood; the ring settled with a quiet, hollow clink. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a notification from Austin’s Instagram. “So grateful to everyone who came out tonight.” He had attached three photos. One of the crowded banquet hall, one of him raising a glass with his college friends, and the last one… Sophie, wearing my silk dress, smiling warmly at the camera. He had tagged Sophie’s account. His caption read: Huge thanks to Sophie for helping me host tonight. You worked so hard. There was no mention of me. Not a single photo. Not even my name. I turned off the screen. When I crossed the street to wait for my ride, the lights of the hotel lobby were still blazing. Even from across the asphalt, I could hear the faint, muffled hum of music and laughter. Before getting into the car, I looked back one last time. Austin was standing on the steps of the hotel entrance, looking down at his phone. Sophie walked out from behind him, gently draping his coat over his shoulders. He pulled the lapels together to bundle up. The movement was so natural, so perfectly practiced. “Charlotte, you left your ring on the guest table.” At two in the morning, Austin’s call came through. His voice was calm, completely unhurried. “I know.” “Well, I kept it safe for you. I’ll put it back on your finger tomorrow.” He paused, his tone softening into that familiar, soothing register. “I know tonight was hard on you. Sophie’s dress was a real emergency, but you letting her borrow yours… everyone saw how sweet and understanding you were.” “Austin, let’s break up.” The line went dead silent for three seconds. Then, he let out a low chuckle. “Charlotte, I know you’re hurt about tonight. But breaking up? Don’t you think that’s a little dramatic?” “I’m serious.” “You say we’re breaking up every time you get upset,” he said, his voice dropping into the patient, slightly patronizing tone he used to defuse my moods. “Fine. Once you’ve slept on it and calmed down, call me. I’ll come pick you up.” “Austin—” “Char, be good. Tomorrow I’ll take you to that new sushi spot downtown—the one you’ve been begging to go to.” I didn’t say anything. After a few seconds of silence, his voice hardened. “Charlotte, it’s been five years. When have you ever actually had the heart to leave me?” The question was quiet, but it left me breathless. He didn’t believe me. He genuinely believed I was incapable of walking away. I hung up. Sam walked out of the kitchen holding a glass of water and sat down across from me on the sofa. “What did he say?” “He said he’s coming to pick me up tomorrow.” “Are you going?” “No.” She wanted to say something, but she looked at my face and swallowed her words. I stared at my phone screen. The top of my call log showed his contact name—a name I had saved five years ago: Austin followed by a little sun emoji. We had just started dating back then. He had waited for me outside my dormitory in the freezing November wind, holding a paper bag of warm, cinnamon-dusted roasted almonds. “My roommate told me you walk the long way home every day just to smell these,” he had said, his breath fogging in the cold air. “They’re so expensive, though,” I had murmured. “Eight dollars a bag.” He had laughed, pressing the warm paper bag into my hands. “From now on, you tell me whenever you want something. Whether it’s eight dollars or eight hundred.” His eyes had been so bright and clear back then. They made me feel completely safe. Sam suddenly spoke up, breaking the silence. “Do you remember when he actually started to change?” I thought about it for a long, quiet moment. “I don’t know.” Maybe it was the day Sophie first showed up, crying that she couldn’t afford her tuition. Maybe it was the first time Austin looked at me and said, “Just let her have this one, Char.” The change had been so slow, so imperceptible. A fraction of a millimeter every day, until one day I looked back and realized there was nothing left. Sam tucked a throw blanket around my shoulders. “Don’t go back there. Just stay here with me.” “Okay.” At three in the morning, his name lit up my screen again. It rang for three seconds, then went silent. He didn’t call back. He knew my patterns. In his mind, I just needed one night to cry it out. When the sun came up, I would go home on my own. Just like I always did. I swiped to decline the call. It was the first time in five years I had ever ignored him. “Sam, let me in.” The following evening, Austin was standing on Sam’s porch, holding a white paper pastry bag. Sam blocked the doorway, her arms crossed. “She doesn’t want to see you.” “I know she’s angry,” he said with a tight, apologetic smile. “Just let me talk to her for a second. I’ll leave right after。” “Talk to her about what? How you couldn’t even manage to put her name in your post last night?” Austin’s smile vanished. “Sam, this is between Charlotte and me.” “Don’t call her Charlotte. You don’t get to use her name anymore.” I walked over to the door and gently laid a hand on Sam’s arm. “It’s okay, Sam. Let him in. I’ll talk to him.” Sam stepped aside, her eyes cold as she watched him walk past. Austin kicked off his shoes and set the white bag on the coffee table. “I brought that chestnut crepe cake you love. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” I didn’t touch the bag. He sat down on the sofa opposite me. “Char, what do you want me to do?” “I told you. I want a breakup.” His brow furrowed. “You’re throwing away five years over a dress?” “It was never about the dress.” “Then what is it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. It was his classic posture—the patient, long-suffering partner waiting for me to finish my tantrum so we could get back to normal. “On your birthday last year, I booked that reservation at the French bistro two months in advance. As we were walking out the door, Sophie called saying she had a stomach ache. You drove straight to her apartment.” “She was completely alone in the city, Char. What if it had been appendicitis?” “You got there and realized she had just eaten too much takeout. And then you stayed and watched television with her all night while I sat alone at that restaurant until closing.” He rubbed his temples. “I apologized for that, didn’t I? I bought you that designer necklace to make up for it.” “And then you bought her the exact same one, didn’t you?” “She was going through a really hard time—” “She’s always going through a hard time, Austin,” I said, my voice low and steady. “When is she ever actually happy?” Austin fell silent. “Last month, when I had that business trip, you told me to take an Uber to the airport because you had to help Sophie move into her new dorm.” He opened his mouth to protest. “She had so many heavy boxes—” “And you gave her my handmade cotton quilt. The one my mother quilted by hand and sent to me from home.” “That quilt was getting old and frayed, Char. I told you I’d buy you a luxury down comforter to replace it.” “It was mine! My mother sat with her reading glasses on for a week, stitching those patterns. She wrapped it in three layers of plastic just so the stitches wouldn’t get ruined in the mail!” The living room went dead silent. Sam stood by the kitchen door, her knuckles white as she gripped the frame. I didn’t cry. I used to cry. I used to scream and demand to know why he was doing this to me, and then I would forgive him the second he murmured an apology. But today, I just felt hollowed out. Tired. “Charlotte,” Austin said, his voice dropping into a tone of quiet disappointment. “I always thought you were different from the other girls.” “The other girls?” “The petty ones. The ones who keep score of every little thing.” He looked at me, his eyes entirely sincere. “I thought you understood. Sophie has absolutely no one else in this city to rely on. You have me, you have a good job… you don’t lack for anything. What’s so wrong with me looking out for her a little?” He spoke with such earnest conviction. He believed every single word. “You have everything, Char. Can’t you just let her have this when she has nothing?” I looked at him. Really looked at him. He was actually waiting for me to nod. He expected me to say “You’re right, I’m sorry.” But among all the things he claimed I had, there was one thing called Austin. And he had been slowly packing up that piece of my life and giving it to someone else, all while asking me why I felt empty. “You’re right, Austin. I have everything.” His shoulders relaxed slightly, a faint sigh of relief escaping his lips. “So,” I continued, “I don’t need you anymore either.” The relief vanished from his face. “Charlotte.” “You never used to be like this.” I didn’t answer him. He stood up, his face dark, and walked out the front door. My gaze fell on the white pastry bag on the table. Chestnut crepe cake. He didn’t even remember. I had stopped liking chestnut cake a year ago. The white silk of the wedding dress felt cool and heavy against my skin. My mother stood behind me, gently smoothing down the delicate tulle of the veil. The wrinkles around her eyes deepened as she smiled at my reflection. “When is Austin getting here? I feel like I haven’t seen him in six months.” I looked down at my phone screen. Ten minutes ago, Austin had sent a text. “Sophie’s graduation thesis data got corrupted and she’s crying in her advisor’s office. I have to go help her sort it out. Go ahead and try on the dress first. Explain to your mom—she’s always been so sweet to me, she’ll understand. I booked her favorite Italian restaurant tonight to make it up to her.” My mother had undergone minor heart surgery just last month. I hadn’t told her a single thing about what was happening between Austin and me. I pressed the power button, darkening the screen, and turned to face her with a smile. “His office had an emergency meeting, Mom. He won’t be able to make it.” My mother blinked, surprised, but quickly patted my hand reassuringly. “Work comes first. It’s good that he’s dedicated to his career. You look absolutely beautiful, sweetheart. Let me take some photos of you.” Click. In the photos, I stood in a gown of pure white, smiling perfectly. But my eyes were completely dead. After watching my mother board the train back to her small town, I went straight back to Sam’s apartment. Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I dialed the wedding coordinator’s number. “Hi, this is Charlotte. I have a reservation for the Lakeside Chapel for next spring. I need to cancel it.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “Ma’am, that chapel has an eight-month waiting list. The twelve-thousand-dollar deposit is entirely non-refundable. Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” “But you came in so many times, Charlotte. You were so meticulous about every detail. Our designer said she’d never seen a bride so invested…” “Just cancel it, please. Thank you.” I hung up before she could say anything else. Sam sat on the opposite end of the sofa, watching me quietly. “Are you absolutely sure about this, Char?” “Yes.” That chapel was located forty miles outside the city. There was no direct subway line; you had to take two different buses and walk twenty minutes down a dirt road. I had chosen it because it sat right on the edge of a quiet, pristine lake. Five years ago, on our very first weekend trip, Austin had taken me to that exact lake. He had spent the entire afternoon taking photos of me against the water. He told me it was our secret sanctuary. I had designed every single detail of that wedding myself, arguing back and forth with the designer over dozens of drafts. I chose white magnolias for the tables because Austin’s mother loved simple, clean flowers. The processional music was the acoustic track that had been playing in the background during our very first date at that tiny coffee shop. I had hand-drawn the seating chart with colored markers—blue for his guests, pink for mine. His college roommate was terrified of heights, so I had carefully placed him at a table near the ground-floor exit. Austin had never asked about any of it. He had just nodded and let me do all the work. “Charlotte, if you need to cry, just cry,” Sam said softly. I shook my head. I tried, but the tears wouldn’t come. I didn’t think I had any left. Sam was in the middle of editing a marketing deck at her office when her phone rang. It was Austin. “Charlotte’s phone is completely turned off. Can you give her a message for me?” Sam set her pen down. “What is it?” “Sophie is taking her graduation photos next month and wants to do something really unique.” His tone was light, as if he were asking to borrow a stapler. “I remembered that chapel Charlotte booked by the lake. The scenery is gorgeous. Can you ask Charlotte to call the venue and let Sophie use the space for a day?” Sam gripped her phone, her knuckles turning bone-white under the office fluorescent lights. “Austin,” she said, her voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “Yeah?” “That venue has already been canceled.”

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Five years in the suffocating depths of the Blackwood forests, where I was sold like cattle by the girl who stole my life. I ran ninety-nine times. And ninety-nine times, they dragged me back, treating my body like a canvas for their cruelty. Bones that shattered and mended crookedly. A belly that swelled with forced pregnancies and then hollowed out. A tongue snipped away, piece by agonizing piece, until only a mutilated stump remained. Before my hundredth attempt, I decided to end it all. I was going to poison every last one of them. But then, crouching in the shadows of the old barn, I overheard Hank, the local foreman, talking to one of his men. “The ultra-wealthy really know how to amuse themselves,” Hank chuckled, spitting tobacco onto the dirt. “Setting up a whole mock-up facility out here in the middle of nowhere just to treat the fake daughter like a rabid dog.” “The poor bitch is too stupid to realize this entire setup was just an elaborate lie to keep her out of the way while Miss Christine carried her pregnancy to term in peace,” the other man laughed. “She can try to escape a thousand times. A fake is just a sewer rat in the end, nothing more than a stepping stone for Christine.” Despair, cold and absolute, swallowed me whole. I didn’t hesitate. I uncapped the bottle of agricultural herbicide and drank it down, letting the burning chemical slide down my throat. My lungs caught fire, my stomach melting. I rolled in the dirt, clawing at my chest, but through the agony, a ragged, breathless laugh tore from my throat. Free. I was finally going to be free. … When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. I curled into myself, every breath feeling like I was inhaling crushed glass. A few minutes ago, Hank had shuffled into the room, looking pale and rubbing his hands together nervously. “Mr. Cross… I think we went too far this time. Miss Isla… she might not make it.” Jackie Cross walked to my bedside. He looked down at me, those cold, beautiful eyes I had once loved now completely vacant. “Isla, you left me no choice.” “You stole Christine’s life for eighteen years. You lived in her luxury, slept in her bed. This is your penance. This is what you owe her.” He bent down, his icy fingers wiping away the dried blood at the corner of my mouth. “Now that Christine has safely delivered her baby and taken her rightful place as the heir to the Whitmore estate, your punishment is over. I’m bringing you home. You’ll work as a maid in my house, and you can still be close to me.” He tossed a glossy shopping bag onto the bed. “I brought you new clothes. Change, and let’s go.” But the poison was already liquefying my lungs. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even lift a finger. Seeing me lie there motionless, Jackie’s patience thinned. “Get up. I’ve explained everything to you. What are you throwing a tantrum for?” “Did eighteen years as a spoiled princess make you forget who you actually are?” A bitter wave washed over me. A tantrum? Who was I to throw a tantrum? Who would even care? My parents—the people who looked at me with pure hatred the moment the truth came out? Or him, the man who couldn’t wait to discard me? My life had been an endless nightmare, and now, I wasn’t even allowed to die in peace. My silence infuriates Jackie. His expression darkened, and he turned to Hank, his voice sharp. “Is this how you’ve been managing her? She’s completely forgotten how to behave.” Hank paled, bowing and scraping. He grabbed my hair and dragged me off the bed, slamming my head against the concrete wall. Thud. A sickening crack. Warm blood instantly flooded my vision, blinding me. He did it again. And again. The pain was a blinding white light, my consciousness splintering. Suddenly, a slender figure burst into the room, throwing herself between us. It was Christine. Tears streamed down her flawless face as she fell to her knees, clutching Jackie’s legs. “Jackie, please! Don’t do this to her!” she sobbed, looking like a tragic angel. “Being taken by those awful people… maybe it was just my destiny. I never blamed her! She’s a victim too. Please, just let her go!” Jackie’s expression softened instantly, his chest heaving with protective tenderness. He pulled her gently to her feet. “This isn’t your fault, Christine. You’re too sweet. She’s just ungrateful.” He glared at me. “Do you hear her? You stole her life, and she still has the grace to forgive you. What more do you want?” “Get up! Stop playing dead to get attention. If you behave, I will still let you be a maid at my estate.” I opened my mouth, but only a wet, raspy wheeze came out. My lungs felt like lead weights. I knew my time was short. Soon, I would be free. Hank mutters, “Mr. Cross, that herbicide… it’s deadly. Even livestock don’t survive three days after drinking it. Miss Isla… she’s really dying.” “Shut up!” Jackie snapped. “She’s a fraud. She spent eighteen years manipulating the Whitmores with her tears. Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to fall for it now?” Christine clung to Jackie, whimpering, tugging his sleeve. “Jackie, don’t be so hard on Isla… even when she poisoned my baby, I forgave her…” Jackie kissed her temple. “You’re too good for this world. If she wants to play the martyr, let’s see how long she can keep up the act.” He gestured to his bodyguards. They grabbed me by the wrists and dragged me out like a dead animal, down the sterile hospital hallway, and tied my wrists to the trailer hitch of his SUV. The engine roars. The car surged forward. The rough asphalt tore through my skin, leaving a thick smear of crimson on the road. I screamed—a guttural, voiceless shriek of pure survival instinct. But the driver only accelerated. Jackie watched from a distance, a cold smirk on his face. “Look at that. I knew she was faking.” As my bones cracked against the pavement and my throat closed up, my life flashed before my eyes. The girl I used to be. The parents who loved me. The boy who once bought me a star and named it after me, who filled the night sky with fireworks on my eighteenth birthday, whispering, “Isla, I will protect you forever.” But that fairytale shattered. A single DNA test stripped me of my name, my family, my humanity. I became the parasite. I gave up my room, my inheritance, my dignity. But I couldn’t give up Jackie. I thought he loved me, not my last name. Until the night I caught him and Christine outside a hotel. When I demanded answers, he only frowned. “Isla, the woman I marry must be the Whitmore heiress. Are you?” The SUV speeds up. The physical agony was secondary to the numbness in my chest. Then, I hallucinated. I saw the twenty-three-year-old Jackie, wearing a tailored suit, kneeling before me. With my last ounce of strength, I murmured, “Jackie… let me go… let me die…” The illusion shattered. The real Jackie stood over me, his face twisted in disgust. “Stop looking at me with those filthy eyes!” “If you hadn’t pushed Christine down the stairs and caused her miscarriage, you wouldn’t be here today! You poisoned her because you couldn’t stand that she took your place, your parents, and me.” “Whatever you’re suffering now is not even a fraction of what she went through!” It was always my fault. Because I was the “fake.” When Christine threw herself down the stairs, I was the one who pushed her. When she shattered the family heirlooms, I was the culprit. She even poisoned herself to miscarry her own child, just to rid herself of me forever. A single tear from her, a soft whimper of, “I don’t think sister likes me,” was enough to seal my fate. I closed my eyes. I didn’t even have the strength to bitter-smile. Just as I began to drift into unconsciousness, a hand yanked me up by the collar. The pressure on my chest eased slightly, and I gasped for air. Jackie sneered. “Kowtow to Christine three times. Promise you will serve her as her dog for the rest of your life, and I might let you live.” A hollow laugh echoed in my mind. My legs… they put metal plates in my knees three years ago after my fiftieth escape attempt. I couldn’t even stand, let alone bend them to kneel. “Still playing the proud princess?” Jackie growls, kicking me hard in the ribs. Christine quickly steps in, grabbing his arm. “Jackie, don’t force her. She was raised as a Whitmore. How could she ever humble herself to bow to me? Let it go.” Her “kindness” was the perfect fuel. Jackie threw her hand off and laughed coldly. “Won’t bow? Then I’ll make sure she can never stand again.” He nodded to the bodyguard. The SUV shifted into reverse, the engine revving. Panic, cold and sharp, shot through me. Hank pinned my shoulders to the ground. Crack. The heavy tire rolled over my legs. The pain was absolute, white-hot, dividing my body in two. Jackie watched me writhe in the dirt. “Ready to bow now?” As the reverse lights flared again, I trembled. I knew what would happen if I didn’t. Using my elbows, I dragged my broken body forward, pressing my forehead into the gravel. Once. Twice. Three times. Every movement tore my lungs apart. When I finished, my arms collapsed, and I fell face-first into the blood-soaked dirt. Suddenly, Christine rushed over and kneels, wrapping her arms around me in a mock embrace. She leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper in my ear. “Since you’re dying anyway, I’ll tell you a secret.” “You actually are the real Whitmore heiress. I paid a fortune to fake that DNA test.” My eyes widened. The blood in my veins turned to ice. She smiled, a sickeningly sweet expression. “I was always smarter, prettier than you. Why did you get to have the perfect life while I rotted in the dark? I wanted to see the great Isla Whitmore crawl in the dirt. Look at you now. You look like a sewer rat. It’s beautiful.” Before I could process the horror, she shoved me away, cupping her hands over her face, crying hysterically as she ran to Jackie. “Jackie! She tried to bite me! She’s insane!” Before I could make a sound, Jackie’s heavy boot crashed into my jaw. My teeth shattered, blood pooling in my mouth. “You crazy, ungrateful bitch!” Jackie screamed. “Even now, you try to hurt her!” I tried to scream the truth. But my severed tongue could only produce wet, gargling noises. No… I’m the daughter… I’m the real one… Jackie frowned. “What? Are you still trying to claim Christine is the fake? Still trying to play the victim?” I nodded desperately. He backhands me across the face. “I can’t believe I ever loved you. To lie like this, even at death’s door!” The tears that slipped down my cheeks were mixed with blood. What a farce. I was the victim, yet I was begging my torturer to believe me. Jackie turned to the guards. “If she’s only going to use that mouth to spit poison and lies, she doesn’t need it. Tear out whatever is left of her tongue and throw her in the pool to wake her up. She needs to learn her place.” Hands pinned me down. I watched the metal shears slide into my mouth. Then, a rush of copper, a blinding wave of agony, and absolute silence. They dragged me to the edge of the estate’s swimming pool and threw me in. The freezing water rushed into my nose and throat. I thrashed wildly, but a hand clamped onto the back of my neck, pushing me deeper. Over and over, until my limbs grew heavy, and the light above the water began to fade. Through the water, I heard Jackie’s muffled, tender voice. “Don’t worry, Christine. I’ve handled her. Once she’s a maid in our house, she’ll never hurt you again.” A bodyguard whispered, “Mr. Cross… she’s stopped moving. She’s not coming up.” Jackie sighed impatiently. “Leave her. She’s just acting. When she’s swallowed enough water, she’ll beg for mercy.” Acting. They stole my parents. My love. My life. What did I have left to act with? The dark water filled my chest. The pain faded into a quiet, cold weight. Finally. It was over.

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Austin had been flying for eight years, working his way from co-pilot to captain, and I had been there for every single mile of it. During his busiest year, I quit my job just to make sure there was a hot meal waiting for him on the counter whenever his chaotic schedule allowed him to come home. I asked him once: “Could you take me up with you sometime? Just once, so I can see thirty thousand feet through your eyes?” He didn’t even pause his fork. “The cockpit is a workplace, Joy. Not an amusement park.” I said okay. And I never brought it up again. Until last night, when insomnia kept me tossing and turning, and I stumbled upon a hidden, passcode-protected folder in his photo library. There were over forty photos inside. Every single one of them was taken from the captain’s seat. Seas of clouds, burning orange sunsets, double rainbows cutting through storm clouds, and the Milky Way stretching across the endless ink of the night sky at thirty thousand feet. Every picture had been sent to the same person. The contact name was saved simply as a teddy bear emoji. The most recent photo was a sunset from three days ago, with the sun hanging like a gold coin off the tip of the wing. His caption read: “Tonight’s view was breathtaking. Next time you fly with me, take the jump seat on the right. It has the best angle.” The reply was a hugging emoji and four words: “Can’t wait for vacation.” I put the phone back exactly where I found it. I didn’t change the passcode, and I didn’t delete the folder. When morning came, I brewed my coffee as usual and drank it in silence. Then I opened my laptop, typed out my resignation letter, and booked a one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe. Eight years. I was finally done chasing his flight paths and scheduling my life around his arrivals. Done sitting in an empty house, wondering where in the sky he was. If his thirty thousand feet had no room for me, I would touch down, plant my own roots, and watch my own sunsets. 1 “What are you doing up so early?” Austin asked, pulling his roller bag out of the bedroom, a slight crease forming between his brows. I held my mug close, watching him pin the four-stripe captain epaulets to his crisp white shirt. “Couldn’t sleep. Decided to make coffee.” He walked over to the kitchen island, picked up the hot mug of milk I had poured, and took a slow sip. “Up late watching those useless shows again?” “No.” “Joy, your sleep schedule is getting completely out of hand.” He glanced at his watch, his tone carrying that familiar, slightly patronizing edge. “I’m flying to Frankfurt today. It’s a four-day trip.” “Okay.” He seemed a bit caught off guard by my quiet reaction. Usually, when he had a long-haul international flight, I would spend the day before packing his bag—organizing his antacids, melatonin, and neck pillow. I would remind him a dozen times to text me the second he touched down. Today, I did nothing. I just sat on the barstool, watching him. “Where’s my stomach medicine?” He rifled through the side pocket of his bag. “Second drawer of the TV console. Get it yourself.” He paused, turning to look at me. “What is wrong with you today? You can’t even walk a few feet to help?” “I’m just tired.” He sighed, walking over to the console to pull open the drawer and stuffing the medicine box into his pocket. “You stay home all day, Joy. I don’t know what you could possibly be tired of.” His phone lit up on the marble countertop. A text notification popped up. The sender’s name was a single teddy bear emoji. “Safe travels to Frankfurt, Captain! It’s freezing there today, don’t forget your heavy coat.” Austin snatched up the phone, the glow of the screen illuminating the slight curl of a smile on his lips. He typed a rapid one-handed reply, not even bothering to zip his luggage. “Work text?” I asked, staring at the little bear emoji. He locked the screen and slid the phone into his pocket. “Yeah. Isla. She’s on the same route today, working the cabin.” “I thought she was a purser on domestic routes.” “Scheduling shuffle. They needed an experienced lead to train the new hires on the long haul.” He answered smoothly, without a hint of hesitation. He didn’t even need to think about his cover story. I watched his broad, straight shoulders as he walked away, thinking of the forty-odd photos in that encrypted folder. Beautiful, sweeping vistas of the sky that he had never shown me, yet had shared so freely with Isla. “Austin.” “Yeah?” He was putting on his shoes at the entryway. “Do you know what next Wednesday is?” He didn’t pause. “Wednesday? I have simulator training. Why?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was our eighth anniversary. Eight years ago, on that exact day, he had received his first-officer contract. He had spun me around our cramped rental apartment, laughing like a kid. He promised me then that one day, he’d find the most beautiful clouds in the sky and bring them down for me. He forgot. “I’m heading out. I’ll text you when I land.” He opened the door. “Austin,” I called out again. His hand lingered on the brass knob, a flash of impatience crossing his face. “What now, Joy? The crew shuttle is waiting downstairs.” “Your suitcase zipper. It’s open.” He glanced down, casually pulling it shut. “Right. Thanks. You’re acting weird today.” The heavy door clicked shut behind him. The apartment fell back into a suffocating silence. I walked back to my laptop, hit “Send” on my resignation email, and pulled up my travel app to confirm the one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe departing in seven days. Seven days. More than enough time to erase eight years of my existence from this place. My phone buzzed. It was Zoe. “Did you send it?” she asked immediately. “Yeah. It’s done.” “Good. No turning back. When are you telling Austin?” “The day I leave.” Silence stretched over the line for a few seconds. “Joy… eight years of your life. You’re really just going to let it end like this? Quietly?” “I don’t want it anymore,” I said, staring at the cold mug of milk on the counter. “Zoe, have you ever seen the sunsets he takes photos of?” “What?” “They’re beautiful. The way the light catches the wing… it looks so gentle.” I flipped my phone face down on the marble. “Too bad they weren’t for me.” 2 That afternoon, I went down to the building’s leasing office and had my fingerprint removed from the smart-lock entry system. The building manager, a warm older woman named Mrs. Albright, watched me with a puzzled frown. “Why on earth are you removing your access, Joyce? That’s going to make coming and going so difficult.” “I won’t be needing it anymore,” I said with a faint smile. Back upstairs, I dragged two large cardboard boxes from the storage closet and began sorting through my life. The apartment was massive—a two-thousand-square-foot luxury condo overlooking the city skyline, bought entirely in cash by Austin. He had told me it was a reward for standing by him during his hardest years. I had believed this was our home. Now, I realized how little of myself was actually in it. In the walk-in closet, my clothes occupied barely two racks. The rest of the space was filled with his seasonal pilot uniforms, tailored suits, winter trench coats, and athletic gear. I packed only my everyday essentials into a single suitcase. The expensive evening gowns he had bought for me—stunning but completely outside my personal style—I left untouched, hanging neatly in their garment bags. On the nightstand sat a miniature metal plane model. It was a souvenir he had brought back from his very first international flight. I picked it up. Underneath lay a dusty polaroid. A photo of us from four years ago. He had just been promoted to captain, radiating confidence and pride. I pulled the photo out, let it slip into the trash can, and set the model back down exactly where it had been. By evening, my phone vibrated. A message from Austin. “Just checked into the hotel. Made it safely.” Normally, I would reply instantly, asking if he was exhausted, if his room was comfortable, if he needed to catch up on sleep. Today, I sent a single line. “Ok.” Thirty minutes later, another text arrived. “It’s freezing in Germany. Want me to pick up anything from the duty-free shop?” I was busy packing my skincare products from the bathroom vanity into a travel pouch. “No, I’m good.” “Don’t you usually bug me to get that luxury night serum?” I looked at my reflection in the mirror. “No, I don’t need it anymore.” He didn’t reply after that. Maybe he thought I was being difficult, or maybe he was simply too busy tending to someone else. I opened Instagram and searched for Isla’s profile. Her latest post had been uploaded ten minutes ago. A scenic night shot of the Rhine River. On the table in the foreground sat a glass of mulled wine, and resting casually near the rim was a man’s hand. There was a faint, jagged scar across the knuckle of his middle finger. Austin had gotten that scar slicing fruit years ago. I remember how panicked I had been, changing his bandages every single night for a week to make sure it didn’t scar worse. Isla’s caption read: “Frankfurt is freezing, but the mulled wine is warm. Flying is always better when someone is watching over you.” A few of their coworkers had already liked it. One commented: “Is Captain Austin footing the bill? You’re a lucky girl, Isla!” Isla replied with a blushing emoji. I quietly closed the app. The sharp, stabbing pain that used to pierce my chest was gone, replaced by a dull, cold numbness. For eight years, I had lived like a blind woman, feeding off the crumbs of promises he threw my way. He wasn’t incapable of being attentive. He wasn’t bad at romance. He had simply reserved all of his attentiveness and romance for someone else. A few days later, Austin’s flight landed. At seven in the evening, the front door swung open. He walked in holding a beautifully wrapped gift box. I sat on the couch, watching him kick off his shoes. “You didn’t make dinner?” He glanced toward the dark, empty kitchen. “I already ate.” His brow furrowed deeper. “I just flew fourteen hours, and there’s not even a hot meal waiting for me?” “You can order DoorDash.” He tossed the gift box heavily onto the coffee table. “Joy, what is your problem lately? What are you throwing a tantrum about?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Then why are you barely texting me? I asked you what you wanted from duty-free and you gave me nothing.” I looked at the elegant box. “Is that for me?” He stiffened slightly, his eyes darting away. “This… someone asked me to pick it up for them. I’ll take you to the mall tomorrow to buy whatever you want.” Someone. “Did Isla ask you to buy it?” I looked him straight in the eyes. His expression darkened instantly. “Have you been snooping through my phone?” “Her Instagram account is public.” He let out a sharp breath, his posture instantly shifting back to one of defensive irritation. “She did me a favor, so I picked up a gift to say thank you. What is the big deal? Why do you have to be so incredibly petty?” “I didn’t say anything.” “You don’t have to say anything! Look at that cold, miserable face you’re making!” He ripped off his tie in frustration. “She’s a coworker. We see each other every single day at work. What’s wrong with showing a little professional courtesy?” “You’re very courteous,” I said, standing up. I had no energy to argue. “Joyce!” he yelled after me. “I’m exhausted. Can you please just grow up for once? Don’t make me come home to an attitude.” Grow up. I had been the mature, understanding partner for eight years. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and walked straight into the guest bedroom without looking back. “I’m sleeping in here tonight. Get some rest.” 3 Over the next two days, I systematically erased my presence. I gave the potted monstera plant in the living room to our neighbor downstairs. I scheduled a local junk removal service to take the balcony lounge chair I had spent weeks picking out. Austin didn’t notice a single missing item. He only seemed pleased by how quiet I had become. “See? Things are much better when you’re not picking fights,” he muttered on Friday morning, eating the frozen dumplings I had tossed into a pot of boiling water. “Today is Isla’s birthday. A few of the crew members are getting together for dinner tonight. I want you to come with me.” My hand paused as I wiped the counter. “Why would I go?” “You’re always complaining that I never introduce you to my colleagues. Well, here’s your chance. Everyone’s going to be there. You can get to know them.” His tone made it sound like an act of charity. In the past, I had practically begged him to let me meet his friends and coworkers. He had always brushed me off: “They’re all pilots and crew, Joy. You won’t understand what we’re talking about anyway. You’ll just be bored.” Now, he was inviting me. All because it was Isla’s birthday. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go.” I wanted to see for myself exactly who Isla was to his colleagues. At eight that night, we arrived at the upscale sushi restaurant he had booked. When the sliding door to the private room opened, six or seven people were already seated. Isla sat at the head of the table. She was wearing a white French-style midi dress, and around her neck gleamed a familiar diamond necklace. The exact one from the gift box on our coffee table. “Austin! You made it! And you brought your partner!” Isla stood up, a bright, welcoming smile plastered on her face. “It’s so wonderful to finally meet you, Joyce. Austin talks about you all the time.” She reached out warmly to take my hand. I stepped back, keeping my hands at my sides. “Happy birthday,” I said evenly. The room went tense for a split second. Austin pulled me down into the seat next to him, hissing under his breath, “Don’t you dare ruin this night with your attitude.” Throughout dinner, the conversation revolved entirely around aviation. Which routes had the worst turbulence, which air traffic controllers were the most short-tempered. I truly didn’t understand any of it, nor did I care to. “Seriously, though, Austin’s landings are like butter,” one of the co-pilots laughed, raising his sake glass. “Isla knows better than anyone. When Austin is flying, you don’t even have to worry about spilling a drop of coffee in the back.” Isla giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, absolutely. Austin is famous for his touch. Last month we hit that massive thunderstorm over Tokyo, and my legs were literally shaking. Then I got a message from the cockpit saying, ‘I’ve got you. Don’t be scared.’ I felt safe instantly.” The table erupted into playful teasing. “Ooh, ‘I’ve got you, don’t be scared!’ How romantic!” Austin laughed along, making no effort to correct them. If anything, his eyes held a soft, indulgent warmth as he looked at her. I took a sip of my green tea. It had gone cold and bitter. The Tokyo thunderstorm. I remembered that flight. The weather had delayed his arrival by five hours. I had been frantic, unable to sleep, calling his phone dozens of times only to be met with voicemail. When he finally texted me back, it was five words: “Busy at work. Stop nagging.” So he had been busy comforting Isla in the cabin. “Joyce, don’t you worry about him when he’s away?” Isla suddenly redirected the spotlight onto me. “Austin’s stomach has been acting up. Yesterday he didn’t even eat breakfast before his simulator run. We were all so worried about him.” Her tone carried a thin veil of accusation, suggesting I was failing to care for him. The table fell quiet. Every eye turned to me. “He’s a grown man,” I said, setting my teacup down. “I’m sure he knows how to use an app to order food.” Isla gasped slightly, her eyes welling with tears. “I… I didn’t mean anything by it, Joyce. I was just looking out for him…” “Joy, that is enough!” Austin slammed his chopsticks onto the table, his face turning a dark, furious crimson. “We’re out having a good time, and you have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” “Did I say something embarrassing?” I met his gaze calmly. “Isla was just trying to be nice, and you treat her like this? What is wrong with you?” “Captain,” I said, sliding out of the booth and picking up my purse. “Since you have such caring colleagues to look after your stomach, you won’t be needing me anymore.” “Joyce! Walk out that door and see what happens!” he roared. I opened the sliding door and stepped through without a single moment of hesitation. The cool corridor air hit my face, and I took a deep, clear breath. Eight years. I was finally done compromising my dignity just to save his face. When I got back to the apartment, I packed my remaining books into the boxes. Only Wednesday left. 4 Austin didn’t come home that night. He didn’t show up until noon the next day, bringing with him the faint, distinct scent of sandalwood perfume. Isla’s signature scent. He threw his car keys onto the entryway table and stared at me with cold fury. “Have you thrown your little tantrum yet?” I was using packing tape to seal one of the boxes, not even bothering to look up. “Are you playing deaf now?” He walked over, kicking the side of the box hard. “What is all this junk you’re packing anyway?” “Just cleaning out some things I don’t use.” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Joyce, this silent treatment is pathetic. Do you honestly think if you act cold for a few days, I’m going to crawl back and beg for your forgiveness?” I stood up, wiping the dust from my hands. “I don’t expect you to do anything.” “Then what is this attitude? Isla cried for an hour last night because of what you said. You owe her an apology.” “I’m not apologizing.” “You are unbelievable!” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration and sat heavily on the couch. “I don’t have time for this. Next Wednesday, I’m flying the northern route to Reykjavik. If you admit you’re wrong, I’ll give you the companion pass I was going to give Isla. I’ll take you to see the Northern Lights.” I froze. The Northern Lights. Six years ago, when I was diagnosed with a thyroid nodule—benign, but terrifying to me at the time—he had held my hand in the hospital bed. He promised me, “Once you’re better, I’ll take you to see the auroras. You’ll fly on my route, and we’ll watch the most beautiful sky together.” He had delayed that promise for six years. Now, he was offering it to me like a piece of meat thrown to a misbehaving dog. And that companion pass was originally meant for Isla. “Not interested?” He frowned when I stayed silent. “Do you have any idea how hard those passes are to get? Isla begged me for months before I finally agreed. I only changed my mind because of our anniversary.” “Give the ticket to Isla,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “What did you say?” “I said, give it to her. I don’t want it.” Austin surged to his feet, his face twisted in rage. “Joyce, don’t push your luck. I’m throwing you a bone here. Reject it, and don’t you dare come crying to me later.” “I won’t.” With a curse, he grabbed a glass from the coffee table and shattered it against the floor. A sharp fragment sliced across my calf, leaving a thin trail of blood. He didn’t even glance down. He just turned on his heel and slammed the front door on his way out. I looked at the small bead of blood on my leg, wiped it away with a tissue, and kept packing. It didn’t hurt. Not anymore. Finally, Wednesday arrived. Our eighth anniversary. And the day my resignation took effect, the day I would leave this city forever. Dragging my single suitcase, I took a cab to the airport. My flight to Tahoe was scheduled for three in the afternoon. After printing my boarding pass, I sat in the departure lounge, watching the planes taxi across the tarmac. The Reykjavik flight was scheduled to depart at two. Austin should be in the left seat by now, running his pre-flight checks. I pulled out my phone, wanting to take one last look at his flight status—a final punctuation mark on these eight years. When I opened the airline app and checked the crew manifest for his flight, his name wasn’t there. The captain’s slot was filled by someone else. I blinked. Had he taken sick leave at the last minute? Just then, something caught my eye near the first-class lounge entrance. A man in a casual trench coat was pushing a pastel-pink suitcase. Beside him walked a woman in a matching coat, her arm wrapped tightly around his, her head resting on his shoulder. Austin and Isla. I stood frozen, watching them disappear into the lounge. A conversation between two gate agents nearby drifted over to me. “Hey, wasn’t that Captain Austin who just went in? I thought he was scheduled for the Reykjavik run today.” “No, he took personal leave. Word is he wanted to take Isla to Finland.” “Oh, wow. Isla was bragging about it in the group chat yesterday. She said Captain Austin literally dropped his dream route just to buy commercial first-class tickets to take her on a proper vacation.” “Must be nice. He really treats her like a queen.” A bitter laugh escaped my throat. So he hadn’t offered me Isla’s companion pass. He had skipped his duty entirely, spending his own money to plan a romantic getaway just for the two of them. And he had tried to use a cheap, deceitful lie to make me feel grateful. The intercom chimed, announcing the boarding call for my flight. I looked toward the first-class lounge one last time. Then, I turned around and handed my boarding pass to the gate agent. The cabin doors closed. Taxi, acceleration, takeoff. Thirty thousand feet in the air, the plane soared through the clouds. While Austin was sitting in first class on another plane, chasing a new muse, I looked out the window at the vast, endless sky. Eight years. I was finally free.

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My mother is a parenting expert. Growing up, she told me my father was dead, taken by a car crash before I could even walk. “Megan,” she’d whisper, clutching my shoulders too tightly, “you’re all I have left. You have to make me proud.” And I believed her. For eighteen years, I believed every word. She was ruthless. Nothing I did ever measured up. I used to think she was just pushing me to succeed. I used to think she just didn’t know how to show love. I used to think being a single mother was hard, and that it was my job to carry her burden. So I kept quiet. I buried my suffocating thoughts, locking them away in a manuscript. I never expected it to go viral. Then, the nightmare started. My novel was flagged for plagiarism. A cease-and-desist letter arrived from the media studio of the nation’s most celebrated child psychologist, Dr. Diane Michell, accusing me of theft. The internet tore me to pieces. I watched her televised interviews. I stared at her glossy headshot. It was my mother. I wasn’t her daughter. I was her variable. She raised me under a regime of systematic criticism, while my sister was raised on a diet of unyielding praise. Eighteen years. Two different scripts. One best-selling case study. Fine. Let’s see who actually stole from whom. 1 I sat in my dorm room, the blue light of my laptop screen reflecting in my eyes as I typed the final paragraph of my latest chapter. A red notification bubble popped up in the corner of my browser. “Wren, your novel, ‘The Unreachable Stars,’ has been flagged for multiple copyright violations and has been temporarily suspended. Please contact your editor immediately.” I stared at the words, my fingers frozen over the mechanical keyboard. Plagiarism? Whom could I have possibly copied? My phone buzzed. It was my editor, Jodi. “Megan,” Jodi said, her voice dropping to a tense whisper, “do you have any idea who Diane Michell is?” I blinked. “Diane Michell? No. Who’s that?” “She’s the Dr. Diane Michell,” Jodi said, her voice dropping even lower. “The child psychologist who was just on the morning talk shows. Her parenting books have sold hundreds of thousands of copies. She just released a memoir called Two Paths.” “It’s a non-fiction case study,” Jodi continued. “It details the real-life childhood of her eldest daughter. Megan, the experiences your protagonist goes through in your novel—they are almost identical to the memoirs of her daughter.” “The internet is calling for your head. If we don’t clear this up, the platform will permanently delete your account to protect themselves. You’ll lose all your royalties.” I gripped the phone, my knuckles turning white. “I didn’t plagiarize anyone,” I said, my voice steady but cold. “That is my life.” “Your life?” “Every single thing written in that book happened to me.” The line went silent for a few seconds. I opened my laptop and went to the trending page. There it was, sitting at number three: #WrenPlagiarizesDianeMichell I clicked the tag. The top post was an official statement from Diane Michell’s public relations firm: “The web novel ‘The Unreachable Stars’ has blatantly plagiarized the lived experiences of Dr. Michell’s eldest daughter, Megan, as documented in our upcoming book, ‘Two Paths.’ This includes, but is not limited to, highly specific incidents such as ‘being forced to stand in a corner for two hours over spilled milk,’ ‘being reprimanded for placing third in a school-wide exam,’ and ‘having a handmade Mother’s Day card rejected for poor handwriting.’ We have gathered evidence and will pursue full legal recourse.” The comments were a bloodbath. “Plagiarizing scum!” “Stealing someone’s childhood trauma for a quick buck. Disgusting.” “I feel so bad for her daughter. Imagine having your painful memories repackaged into a cheap online soap opera.” I scrolled down and found a clip of Diane’s latest interview. On screen, a woman in her early fifties sat in a plush leather armchair. She had a sharp, stylish gray bob, wore silver wire-rimmed glasses, and carried an air of serene, professional warmth. Behind her was a floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelf. The host leaned forward. “Dr. Michell, your new book Two Paths documents how you raised your two daughters under entirely different psychological frameworks over eighteen years. What made you decide to conduct this… trial?” Diane smiled, a polished, practiced curve of her lips. “I wouldn’t call it a trial. It was simply an academic and maternal adaptation to my children’s distinct temperaments. My eldest daughter was naturally reserved and sensitive; she required adversity training to build resilience, so I held her to rigorous standards. My youngest daughter was outgoing and expressive; she needed positive reinforcement to foster her self-esteem, so her father raised her with unconditional praise.” “So, one was disciplined and the other was praised?” the host asked. “Not disciplined—challenged,” Diane corrected gently. “Many parents misunderstand adversity training. They think it’s just about being harsh. True adversity training means letting the child struggle, letting them find their own way up when they fall, rather than rushing to pick them up.” I stared at the screen, my hands growing numb. Diane Michell. My mother. The eldest daughter she held up as a “triumphant case study of adversity training” was me. I shut the laptop and leaned back, feeling an empty, hollow ache open up in my chest. My father wasn’t dead. He was alive and well. He was living in another city, tucking another daughter into bed every night, telling her how perfect she was. When my mother held me and told me, “You’re all I have,” she was lying. She had him. She had her. She just didn’t have room for me. And what about me? What about the nights I stood by the open window of our twelfth-floor apartment, staring down at the pavement, wondering if the fall would finally quiet her voice in my head? What about the crushing weight of feeling like my existence was a mistake, an endless disappointment? What about the desperation of trying to reach a finish line that she kept moving further away? I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jodi. “Diane Michell is my mother. The eldest daughter in her book is me.” Jodi replied within seconds. “Are you out of your mind?” “I’m entirely sane.” I didn’t make a public statement right away. Instead, I spent the entire night digging through every article, television appearance, and podcast interview my mother had ever done. She had appeared on dozens of parenting panels, repeating the same thesis. She called it the “Dual-Track Study.” She wanted to prove that nurture trumped nature, that parenting methodology was the ultimate architect of human potential. Two children from the same genetic pool, raised under opposing psychological doctrines, destined for entirely different lives. When a journalist asked about the final results, she had laughed softly. “The study is ongoing. But early indications show that the child raised under positive reinforcement is more confident, vibrant, and highly creative. The child raised under adversity training… well, her academic achievements are exemplary, but her personality is somewhat guarded. We are still observing.” She said the word “guarded” with a light, dismissive shrug, as if she were describing a laboratory mouse that hadn’t quite cleared the maze in the expected time. Then I looked up my sister. Her public handle was Daisy, but her legal name was Daisy Gallagher. She had lived with our father since she was a toddler. Her life was the mirror image of mine. When Daisy got a C, our father told her she was a creative free spirit. When Daisy broke a vase, he told her it was just glass and that her safety was all that mattered. When she participated in a school play and forgot her lines, he filmed the entire performance and posted it with the caption: My little star shines brightest. She grew up bathed in unconditional warmth, her confidence untouched by doubt. Her social media was filled with professionally shot photos and inspirational quotes. In one picture, she stood on a sun-drenched stage in a white dress, the comment section flooded with praise: This is what a girl raised on pure love looks like. I closed the tab and leaned my head against the wall, a bitter laugh escaping my throat. It wasn’t jealousy. It was the sudden, blinding clarity of understanding. I had spent my entire life wondering why my mother could never offer me a single word of praise. It wasn’t because I wasn’t good enough. It was because she couldn’t praise me. She built her career, her books, and her seminars on the absolute necessity of “adversity training.” If she acknowledged my success or showed me tenderness, her entire psychological theory would collapse. She knew I was suffering. She just didn’t care. To her, I was never a child who needed to be loved. I was a baseline data point. I was a chapter sub-heading in her next bestseller. I was the “guarded” subject she analyzed behind silver-rimmed glasses. But I was done playing my part. Why should I stay quiet? Why did I have to follow her script? Why did I have to carry the scars of her experiment while she sold my pain to the highest bidder, only to turn around and call me a thief? The next morning, an email sat in my inbox. “Dear Wren: We would like to formally invite you to attend Dr. Diane Michell’s press conference and book launch for ‘Two Paths.’ At the event, we will address the narrative similarities between your online novel and Dr. Michell’s memoir in an open forum. Saturday, 3:00 PM. The Oakridge Art Center.” The phrasing was impeccably polite. An “open forum” in name; a public execution in reality. She wanted to brand me as a plagiarist in front of the national media, using my humiliation to fuel the marketing campaign for her new release. I stared at the invitation, feeling a cold, quiet anger settle over me. She didn’t know who I was. She thought I was just some random online novelist who happened to write a story that hit too close to home. A convenient target she could crush to prove her point. If she knew I was her daughter, would she stop? I thought about it, and the answer came instantly—no. She would simply pivot. She would tell the media, “This is the rebellion of a troubled child. Despite all my sacrifices, she seeks to destroy my work. You see? Adversity breeds resentment in ungrateful temperaments.” I smiled. No matter what I did, I was always going to be the villain in her story. Jodi called me immediately. “Are you really going?” her voice trembled. “What are you going to say? You can’t just stand up in front of the press and scream that she’s your mother. Do you even have proof?” “Yes,” I said. “I do.” The Oakridge Art Center was packed. A massive promotional banner hung over the entrance, showing the silhouettes of two young girls—one looking down toward the shadows, the other looking up toward the light. Beneath the image read: Different Paths, Different Heights. I wore an oversized, faded gray sweatshirt and carried my worn canvas backpack. At the registration desk, I signed in under my pen name: Wren. The assistant glanced at my signature, her eyes flickering with a cold, judgmental sneer. The gallery was filled to capacity with journalists, parenting bloggers, and industry professionals. Diane sat on the elevated stage, and next to her sat Daisy. Daisy wore a delicate cream silk dress, her blonde hair styled in soft waves. She possessed the radiant, unblemished confidence of someone who had never been told she wasn’t enough. In front of her sat a large bouquet of white roses with a card that read: Joy in the Light—The Triumph of Positive Reinforcement. She looked beautiful. She looked like a girl who had never known a single shadow. Because she didn’t know that her light had been paid for with my darkness. The moderator warmed up the crowd before handing the microphone to Diane. “Before we discuss the core philosophies of Two Paths,” Diane said, her voice carrying beautifully through the speakers, “we must address a matter of intellectual property that has gained traction online. An online writer has taken the private, painful upbringing of my eldest daughter and turned it into a sensationalized web novel. We have invited this writer here today because we believe in transparency, and we believe she owes my family an explanation.” The spotlight swung to the very back row. I stood up. Every face in the room turned toward me. As I walked down the center aisle, my worn backpack slipped from my shoulder. I caught it, but the sudden movement caused the zipper to give way. A thick stack of yellowed, handwritten pages spilled across the polished concrete floor. Someone bent down to help me, but I shook my head, kneeling to gather them one by one. Those pages were my journals from the ages of ten to seventeen. On stage, Daisy tilted her head, watching me with a look of mild pity. I stepped onto the stage. Diane stared at my face. Her brow furrowed slightly. She recognized me, yet she didn’t. I had lost weight, my hair was cut short and jagged, and I no longer carried myself with the quiet, trembling posture of the girl she had left behind. “I am Megan,” I said into the microphone, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. “The daughter whose spirit you broke for eighteen years. And I am Wren, the author of The Unreachable Stars.”

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At my sister’s wedding, my mother was guided onto the stage to give her speech. As she spoke, the MC deftly steered the conversation. He asked her how she, as a single mother who had raised two girls on her own, managed to handle their romantic lives. My mother’s face was flushed with wine, her lips curling into a smug, unconscious smile. “When Donna was in the middle of her Columbia University applications, this absolute piece of trash—the son of an ex-con—was hounding her. The boy actually climbed over the school’s security fence in the dead of night just to see her, and broke his leg in the process!” “To cut their little romance short once and for all, the next time they met, I called the police and reported that he was attempting to assault my daughter.” “The boy was expelled, and Donna got her acceptance letter from Columbia. I heard he eventually rode the tech boom, started a software company, and made quite a name for himself. He’s even getting married this year. A happy ending for everyone, wouldn’t you say?” The MC offered a polite, strained smile. “With that kind of tough love, your daughter must be incredibly grateful to you now.” My mother shook her head, tears spilling over her lashes and hitting the microphone with a soft, hollow thud. “The day she got her acceptance letter, she walked out onto the balcony and jumped right in front of my eyes.” “You tell me. Did I raise an ungrateful snake, or what?” … 1 “Mom! Today is my wedding! And you promised we would never talk about Donna again!” My sister, Luna, clutching her white gown, snatched the microphone away in sheer embarrassment. I drifted near the high ceiling of the banquet hall, looking down at my mother. Since my death, she had refused to hold a funeral, nor would she allow any of our relatives to speak my name. There was no memorial portrait, no shrine. Not a single photograph of me remained in the house. My death was treated as a pillar of shame in her life. Untouchable. Unspeakable. If Luna hadn’t married a prestigious university professor today to give her something to brag about, my mother would probably still find the mere sound of my name curse-worthy. After the reception ended, my mother ran into Wyatt Callahan in the lobby. She hadn’t seen him in six years. The old high school classmates surrounding him recognized her instantly. Their voices dripped with immediate, venomous sarcasm. “Oh, look. It’s Donna Beckett’s mother.” “I heard Donna was supposed to be getting married today too. I guess these days, you have to be completely shameless to survive.” “We should steer clear of them. Who knows? She might call the cops on us next.” I watched Wyatt silently. The boyish warmth had long faded from his face, replaced by a cold, hardened indifference. But at the mention of my name, the disgust and raw hatred in his eyes flared, completely unshielded. Six years ago, my mother’s 911 call didn’t just ruin his chances at college. It had caused his father, who spent days desperately begging people for help to clear his son’s name, to lose control of his car and die in a horrific crash that summer. And my false police statement had sealed Wyatt’s fate, cementing the assault charge and ensuring the rest of his youth was spent under a cloud of cold stares and whispered humiliations. He hated me. He loathed me. I understood why. Only my mother reacted like a cornered animal, screaming at the top of her lungs. “I was not wrong! Everything I did was for her own good!” “If you hadn’t kept clawing at my Donna, her relationship with me would never have turned so bitter!” “In the end, she chose to jump rather than go to Columbia! Did you whisper something to her? Did you poison her mind?!” Wyatt paused, his lighter frozen mid-air as he went to light a cigarette. “Six years later, and you two are still putting on this miserable theatrical act?” His face was partially obscured by a plume of grey smoke. His knuckles went white as he gripped the cigarette. “Speaking of that phone call, it actually reminded me of something. She asked me what she had to do to earn my forgiveness.” “I told her, ‘Jump. A life for a life. Maybe then I’ll forgive you.’” “What? Didn’t have the courage? Decided life was too short to waste, so you went ahead and enjoyed yourself instead?” “You and your daughter… you’re both so sickeningly hypocritical.” Wyatt turned on his heel, leaving with his group of friends. My mother’s face drained of color, and she stumbled, falling hard onto the polished marble floor, her sleeves pulling back slightly to expose the jagged, raised scars on her forearms. Six years ago, when I had desperately tried to go to the police station to testify for Wyatt, my mother had grabbed a kitchen knife, her eyes wild and bloodshot, and sliced into her own skin over and over. “He’s only going to be detained for a few days! If you just finish your exams, we can write a letter of leniency to the district attorney and he’ll walk free!” “Donna, do you want me to bleed out right in front of you before you finally listen to me?!” I will never forget the blinding heat of the sun that day, reflecting off the blood-slicked kitchen floor. The relatives who rushed over after hearing the commotion surrounded me, screaming that I was an ungrateful monster, a selfish brat. Their spiteful words felt like a physical weight, drowning me. I didn’t go to the police station. I couldn’t bear to look at Wyatt. I just studied. I memorized vocabulary and solved calculus equations until my eyes bled, rarely sleeping more than two hours a night. My mother wanted me to get into Columbia, so I forced myself to do it. I thought once I succeeded, Wyatt would be set free. But before I could even wait for his release, I received the news of his father’s death. My mother, as if struck by a sudden realization, scrambled to her feet and chased after Wyatt. She threw herself recklessly in front of his moving sedan. A sharp, agonizing screech of brakes echoed through the parking lot. The bumper clipped her, sending her tumbling onto the asphalt, her knees scraping open and bleeding. But she didn’t seem to feel the pain. She dragged herself up, throwing her body against the passenger window, her voice cracked and choked with tears. “That phone call… did she really say nothing else to you?” The day the acceptance letter arrived, my mother had wanted to call every single person in our contacts. I had looked at her thick, mummy-like bandages, and suddenly, everything felt entirely, profoundly pointless. Without leaving a single word, I had stepped over the window frame and let go. Wyatt rolled his window down halfway, looking at her with a lazy, mocking gaze. “What did you want her to say?” My mother’s throat tightened. It took her a long moment to force the words out. “Did you… did you know she had clinical depression?” After my death, my mother had torn my room apart, turning every drawer inside out. She found that the last call I ever made was to Wyatt. She also unearthed the prescription bottles of antidepressants hidden deep beneath my mattress. She acted as though if she could just find some external trigger, my death would have absolutely nothing to do with her. In the heavy silence of the parking lot, Wyatt let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You two really are something else.” “Using clinical depression as a sob story, baiting me into scaling a security fence in the middle of the night just to check on her.” “And like a fucking idiot, I actually fell for it!” My mother gasped, choked by his venom. For the first time in her life, I saw her try to defend me. “Actually… that text message saying she wanted to end her life, I was the one who sent it from her phone. Donna didn’t know anything about it.” “Before she died, she desperately wanted to see you to explain everything! I locked her in her room…” Wyatt cut her off, his voice dripping with impatience. “Are we done here?” “Did she ask you to make up these pathetic lies so she could sleep better at night? Or does she think we’re going to have some high school reunion romance?” “Tell her this: women like her make me sick. Even as a side-piece, she’d be too dirty.” My mother opened her mouth, wanting to clarify that the daughter getting married today was Luna, not me. But Wyatt had already rolled up the window. “What time is the live interview?” he asked his assistant in the front seat. “8:00 PM, sir. We have about an hour.” Outside the window, the neon lights of the city blurred into a stream of gold and red. Wyatt’s eyes drifted down to the interview outline on his lap. “Mr. Callahan, did you have a girl in your youth who made your heart race, someone you wanted to marry?” Wyatt’s face darkened as he threw the outline onto the dashboard. “Remove all questions about high school or first loves.” He treated my memory like a contagious disease. I tilted my ghostly head and let out a soft, hollow laugh. Six years ago, on the day Wyatt was released from the detention center due to insufficient evidence, I had run away from home to see him. I brought my ID and two bus tickets. He walked out of the precinct with his leg still encased in a heavy plaster cast. I told him I wanted to run away with him. “Anywhere, Wyatt. Let’s just leave this town and never look back.” Wyatt stood a few paces away, his laughter cutting through me like winter wind. “So your mother can call the police again?” “What charge are you two going to slap on me this time? Kidnapping? Rape?” I fell silent. All I could do was press a small slip of paper with an address into his palm. “I’ll wait for you here,” I whispered. “If you change your mind, come find me.” That was my one desperate, pathetic attempt at saving myself. Wyatt’s eyes were frozen over, looking at me like an enemy. “Donna, falling for you was the biggest mistake of my life.” “But I regret it now. Can you just stay the hell away from me?” Right in front of my eyes, he tore the paper into tiny, fluttering pieces. I had no choice but to go to the bus station alone. Yet, the moment I approached the ticket gate, my mother, flanked by three police officers, blocked my path. On the ride back, my mother held her phone up, showing me the text message she had received from Wyatt. Her voice was shrill, deliberately loud enough for the entire bus to hear. “Donna, stop being so pathetic! He never wanted to run away with you. You’re the only one making a fool of herself!” “Do you have any shame? Abandoning your family, your mother, for some boy?” “Do you know how hard I worked to raise you? If I knew you’d turn out like this, I would have aborted you!” I kept my head down, fat, silent tears dripping onto my lap. I couldn’t hear her screams. I just kept playing Wyatt’s last voice message over and over, pressing the speaker close to my ear. “3:20 PM. Union Station.” “Keep a tight leash on your daughter. I hope I never have to see her face again as long as I live!” Wyatt, you got your wish. From that day on, we never saw each other again. At 7:50 PM, Wyatt walked into the television studio, followed by the production crew. A minute later, my mother walked in. The pre-recorded segment had been hastily changed to a live broadcast. Wyatt stood up immediately, intending to walk out, but my mother stopped him. “I brought some of Donna’s old things. They’re connected to you. Don’t you want to see them?” Wyatt wanted to say he didn’t care. But his legs felt as though they were filled with wet cement. He couldn’t take a single step. My mother handed a notebook and a worn paperback novel to the host. The book was the one Wyatt had given me six years ago. “This is my daughter’s diary,” my mother explained. “To keep me from reading it, she wrote everything in code. That novel is the key.” I looked at Wyatt. He was the one who had taught me that code. Under the host’s careful prompts, my secret teenage heart was dissected on live television. Our first meeting at his father’s struggling fruit stand. The time I was cornered by older boys in an alley, and Wyatt had charged in, taking a blow that required five stitches in his abdomen. The quiet walks home from school. We had never done anything inappropriate. Sometimes we didn’t even speak five words to each other during the entire mile-long walk. It was a simple, quiet story. So ordinary that the live stream only had about a dozen viewers at first. Wyatt’s jaw tightened. He cut her off with a cold sneer. “So, is this show about discussing your daughter’s high school crush?” My mother paused, ignoring his sarcasm. She handed a flash drive to the technical crew. On the massive screen behind them, a directory with twenty gigabytes of data opened. Every folder contained video files of me—studying, reading, sleeping in my bedroom. Three camera angles. Complete surveillance. Wyatt’s breath caught in his throat. I had told him about those cameras once, in a whisper, but he had thought I was exaggerating. My mother picked up her microphone, her voice flat. “When she was preparing for her exams, it was the most critical year of her life.” “I didn’t just install cameras in her bedroom; I put a GPS tracker on her phone.” “Every day, who she spoke to, where she walked, what she did—it was all under my eye.” As the footage played, the viewership of the live stream began to climb rapidly. Within ten minutes, over a hundred thousand people had joined the stream. My mother glanced at the chat, which was a blur of outrage and condemnation. A woman who had spent her entire life protecting her reputation now acted as if she couldn’t feel the heat of the fire. She looked at Wyatt, whose face had gone completely rigid. “If you don’t believe me, you can have these files analyzed. They’re real.” “After I dragged her back from the bus station, I confiscated her ID, her money, her cards.” “Wyatt, Donna never lied to you. I was the one who thought you’d ruin her future. I was the one who felt she was slipping out of my control, so I did those things.” “You shouldn’t hate her. It isn’t fair to her.” Wyatt sat motionless in his chair, his eyes dark and hollow. “Fair?” “I spent fifteen days in juvenile detention. I missed my exams. My father died in a car crash trying to raise bail for me. Who talked to me about fairness then?” “You say she was innocent? But she stood in front of the reporters and said I assaulted her!” By the end, Wyatt was shaking, his voice laced with venom. “Why don’t you have Donna come out here and say it to my face?” “She got into Columbia, married a professor, her life must be wonderful. What is this pathetic show for?” The live chat flooded with similar sentiments: “Exactly! Let the girl come out and speak!” “She probably had a hard time too, maybe she was forced.” “Are you kidding? The victim here is the guy! His father died because of her!” My mother swayed slightly as she stood up. She looked as if she had aged a decade in a matter of seconds. “She can’t come.” “She died six years ago.” Hearing this, Wyatt’s face didn’t register surprise. He stood up, his eyes briefly passing over the faded diary. “Donna.” My chest pulled tight. Even knowing he couldn’t see me, my spirit trembled at the sound of his voice. “If you’re really dead, then good.” I froze. His words were like a frozen blade, tearing through my phantom heart. My mother walked right through me, reaching out to grab Wyatt’s arm. “I’m holding her funeral tomorrow. Can you please come see her one last time?” The only answer was his silent, retreating figure. I wanted to tell her: Wyatt hates me. Why would he ever come? But to my surprise, he did. The next day, he stood in my old bedroom. The splintered wood where the lock had been broken, the boarded-up windows, the heavy blackout curtains. It was a suffocating, claustrophobic box that the security cameras had never quite captured. I stood in the hallway, refusing to cross the threshold. Even after six years of being dead, that room remained my personal hell. Wyatt looked away, his voice dripping with disgust. “You call this a funeral?” “If you’re going to put on a show, at least do it right. Do you want me to order a coffin and some wreaths?!” My mother looked at him quietly. She placed my old, cracked phone on the desk in front of him. “You’ve hated her all these years because of her statement.” “She tried to explain it to you later, but you wouldn’t listen.” “Do you have any idea how you helped kill her?” On the shattered screen, two call logs were displayed. One was to 911. The other was the last call I made to Wyatt on the day I died. The calls were less than sixty seconds apart. The heavy, locked gates of memory were violently torn open. The day the acceptance letter arrived, my mother was thrilled. She made an exception and allowed me to go outside for three hours. It was the first time I had been allowed out of the house in a month. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I had only heard that Wyatt was planning to leave the city, and I wanted to see him one last time. But as soon as I reached his apartment building, I was dragged into a dark, trash-strewn alley. My clothes were torn. I tried to scream, but a heavy hand was pressed hard against my mouth. Until, from the alley entrance, I heard Wyatt’s voice talking to a classmate. “I think I just saw Donna walking this way. Was she coming to say goodbye?” His voice had been so clear, so sharp. “Didn’t see her, and I don’t want to. From this day on, she could die and it wouldn’t have anything to do with me.” The moment their footsteps faded, those dirty hands dug deeper into my skin. I don’t know how long it lasted before they finally left. My body was covered in bruises; I couldn’t even crawl. After dialing 911, the silence of the alley felt terrifying. With trembling fingers, I dialed Wyatt’s number. During that twenty-second call, I couldn’t find any words. I didn’t know what to say. Wyatt must have realized it was me, and he hung up. My mother paused, closing her eyes before she spoke again. “Back then, she wanted to go to the police to clear your name. I used my own life to threaten and manipulate her.” “What happened to your father… I never wanted that. If you want to hate someone, hate me.” “But the one who dealt the final blow to Donna was you! Every piece of misery in her life started the day she met you!” Wyatt stood frozen. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Then, my mother pulls open the large closet door nearby. A massive, chest-style freezer was revealed. Mother looked at my preserved body with a strange, ecstatic expression, pulling the horrified Wyatt toward it. “Donna, look. Didn’t you always want to see him?” “I brought him to you.” “Go on, tell him whatever you want.”

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I’d started to notice a pattern: every single time my long-distance, text-only boyfriend and I got into a fight, our high-strung CEO would force the entire department to work overtime. It was uncanny. So, sitting at my desk, I finally typed out a message to him: “Every time we fight, I end up stuck at work. I think we need to break up. You’re bad luck.” Less than a minute after hitting send, disaster struck. Panic-stricken, I furiously tapped out another text: “I’m not even kidding, you really are a curse! The boss just announced he’s cutting our salaries! Let’s block each other. Goodbye.” A moment later, the CEO’s personal assistant, Simon, stepped out of the corner office. His eyes swept across the room, meticulously scanning our desks, before finally coming to a halt right in front of Clara. “Take this pen,” Simon said, his voice flat but carrying a strange weight, “and follow me to the office.” The silver fountain pen in Clara’s hand was mine. I’d lent it to her just yesterday. And it was a gift from my text-boyfriend. 1 Three minutes ago, I had officially cut ties with my virtual boyfriend. Immediately after, Simon had rushed out of the boss’s office, looking thoroughly rattled. He’d ordered us all to stand up, clear our desks, and searched for… something. Then, he took Clara and the pen away. We held our breath as Clara was led away, only letting out a collective sigh once the heavy glass doors clicked shut behind them. Instantly, the office erupted into quiet whispers. “What did Clara do?” “She’s going to get absolutely shredded.” “Someone get the tissues ready. It’s going to be a bloodbath.” The dread was entirely justified. The Harley family owned a massive, sprawling empire, and Zachary Harley had originally been the high-flying CEO of the parent company. But after our branch’s performance took a nosedive, they sent him down here to personally whip us into shape. Tall, impossibly handsome, highly educated, and possessing the kind of tailored physique that belonged on a runway—that was our first impression of him. For about twenty-four hours, Zachary was the collective fantasy of every woman in the office. But by day two, he shattered those illusions with a brutal iron fist. No being late. No office romances. No personal phone use during work hours. And the absolute kicker: our annual revenue target was arbitrarily doubled to a billion dollars. For context, we had barely scraped five hundred million the year before. He was ruthless, treating performance metrics like a matter of life and death, moving through the office like a flawlessly programmed, unfeeling machine. People went into his office with forced smiles and came out in tears. If you did well, he expected better; if you fell short, he tore you to shreds without a second thought. He was our resident Grim Reaper. Under the crushing weight of this daily anxiety, I had turned to a coping mechanism: a secret online relationship. It had started as a complete accident. My cousin had gotten a new number, and when I went to add him on WhatsApp, I mistyped a digit. Surprisingly, the stranger on the other end accepted my request anyway. Assuming it was my cousin, I immediately fired off a barrage of random texts. The only response I got was a single question mark. Pissed off, I snapped back: “What is your problem? Want a fight? Keep it up and see what happens.” The stranger replied with another silent: “?” A prickle of unease set in. I tapped on his profile picture and scrolled down. It was completely blank—no status updates, no photos, nothing like my cousin, who posted every single detail of his mundane life. My stomach sank. Oh, God. Cringing, I typed: “I am so incredibly sorry. Wrong number. Can I buy you a coffee to make up for it?” I sent him a quick Venmo of five dollars. He immediately sent back fifty. Intriguing. I decided I liked him already. After a few more exchanges, I realized there was something uniquely captivating about him. Despite never having met, we fit together with an ease that felt almost predestined. We didn’t share names, photos, or occupations. We were looking for a connection of the mind, a sanctuary from our real lives. Eventually, we drifted into a relationship. Even without physical presence, it was understood that we belonged to each other. He was sweet, mostly, though he had a sensitive streak. He’d get broodingly quiet if I took too long to reply, or if I forgot to text him goodnight. If I teased him too sharply, he’d go cold. And every single time he went cold, Zachary Harley would suddenly order us to work late. It was the most bizarre, agonizing coincidence. Once or twice, I could shrug it off. But every single time? My sanity couldn’t handle the double whammy of a moody boyfriend and a tyrannical boss. So, I broke things off. And the immediate, terrifying fallout? A company-wide salary cut. Dear Lord. If keeping a secret boyfriend meant destroying my livelihood and everyone else’s, it was a curse. We were clearly cosmically incompatible. And now, poor Clara had been dragged into Zachary’s office all because of that pen. My ex-boyfriend had insisted I keep it with me at work, treating it like some sort of talisman. I’d lent it to Clara yesterday because her own had run dry. Dating that man was a hazard to myself and everyone around me. A short while later, the heavy door swung open. Clara emerged—not crying, not trembling, but with a soft, triumphant smile gracing her lips. Simon walked a half-step behind her. Usually, Simon was a carbon copy of Zachary: starch-shirted, unapproachable, and utterly humorless. But right now, he was hovering behind Clara like a well-trained puppy. Clearing his throat, Simon announced to the room, “The pay cuts have been rescinded. No overtime tonight, and Mr. Harley is treating the entire department to dinner.” Before we could process the sudden miracle, he added, “Also, Clara has been promoted to Assistant Project Lead.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air, before delivering the coup de grâce: “And Clara is officially Mr. Harley’s girlfriend.” The silence in the room was absolute. Clara had only been with the company for six months, while I had poured five years of sweat and tears into my desk just to earn that exact same title. But who was going to complain? When a man as powerful and cold as Zachary Harley decided to show blatant favoritism to his woman, there was no room for logic. It was less about jealousy and more about awe. Within seconds, the spell broke. My coworkers abandoned their keyboards and swarmed Clara, showering her with sugary praise. “Clara, oh my gosh, are you really dating Mr. Harley?” “How did you do it? How did you tame the beast?” “Seriously, you saved our lives today. We owe you big time!” Clara stood at the center of the storm, playing the part of the demure, blushing maiden perfectly. I had no desire to join the parade. Stepping away, I quietly checked my phone. Nothing. No texts, no desperate pleas. My virtual relationship was officially dead. I headed toward the breakroom to get a coffee, but before I could make my escape, Clara parted her sea of admirers and walked straight up to me. “Gwen,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet courtesy. “Yes?” I asked, keeping my tone polite. She smoothed her dark red lipstick, looking momentarily hesitant. “I wanted to ask you… that silver pen you lent me yesterday. Was it a gift from your boyfriend?” “Yeah,” I replied simply. “My online boyfriend.” Clara leaned in a fraction closer, her eyes scanning mine. “Do you know what he looks like? Or his real name?” “No. That’s kind of the point of the whole anonymous dating thing.” I gave her a curious look. “Did the pen cause some sort of problem in there?” “Oh, no. Mr. Harley didn’t mind at all,” she said quickly, her smile returning. “Actually, I really love the way it writes. Would you be willing to sell it to me?” I didn’t care about the pen anymore, nor did I want to know what it had cost him, though the weight of the metal suggested it wasn’t cheap. “Don’t worry about it,” I said, shrugging. “If you like it, keep it.” Keeping it would only remind me of a dead relationship. “But… your boyfriend gave it to you,” she pressed, tilting her head. “We broke up.” “Why?” I leaned in and whispered, “Bad feng shui. The universe basically told me he was a hazard to my health.” Clara looked deeply pensive. “I see… Would you mind telling me a bit more about him? What was he like?” Seeing my raised eyebrow, she quickly softened her expression. “I know it’s a weird question. It’s just… I haven’t had much relationship experience, and sometimes with Mr. Harley, I find it so hard to read him. I’m trying to understand how men think.” I took a sip of my coffee and offered a polite, distant smile. “You’re gorgeous, Clara. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble figuring him out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work.” The restaurant Zachary booked was the most expensive steakhouse in the city. It was a classic power move, really—buying our goodwill to ensure his new girlfriend had a smooth ride at the company. Clara sat closely by his side, practically dripping in newly acquired diamonds that caught the candlelight. Zachary watched her with a softened intensity that felt entirely out of character. Who would have thought our resident monster was actually a hopeless romantic under all that starch? As luck would have it, the moment dinner ended, the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour. My colleagues paired up under shared umbrellas and dispersed into the wet night. Having forgotten my own, I stood stranded under the restaurant’s awning, watching the sheets of rain. “Let me give you a ride.” I looked up to find Simon standing beside me, offering a rare, gentle smile as he tilted his umbrella to cover me. “Mr. Harley and Clara left together. My car is parked just over there.” “Oh, thank you so much,” I said, genuinely relieved. Once we were on the road, Simon glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “How long have you been with the firm, Gwen?” “Five years.” “Are you seeing anyone?” “Just broke up, actually.” I found the sudden curiosity strange. Simon wasn’t exactly known for his warm conversational skills. “Clara was just promoted to Assistant Lead,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on the road. “Since she’s still relatively new, I was hoping you could help guide her through the ropes of this next project.” Ah. There it was. “Of course,” I replied, a little dryly. “She’s the boss’s girlfriend. I know how the game works.” “Actually, Gwen, that’s not what I meant at all.” Simon met my gaze in the mirror. “Rachel is going on maternity leave soon. When she does, her position as Project Lead will be vacant. Personally, I’m hoping you’ll be the one to fill it.” A subtle hint, but a welcome one. Given my track record, I deserved that spot. “Thank you, Simon. I’ll make sure to put my best foot forward.” For the new campaign, Clara and I were co-leads, each handling half of the workload. She took the preliminary market research and strategy, while I handled the execution and financial projections. Once compiled, the final report had to be personally presented to Zachary. Clara insisted on handling the presentation herself. Normally, presenting to Zachary was the corporate equivalent of walking the plank; we used to pass the duty around like a hot potato. But since she was the golden girl now, I was more than happy to let her take the spotlight. When she finally emerged from his office, however, her face was completely drained of color. She walked back toward our cubicles with heavy, dragging steps. A bad feeling settled in my stomach. Did being the boss’s girlfriend not shield her from his wrath? “Clara, are you okay?” I asked, rising from my chair. “Gwen, I need a massive favor. Please, you have to help me,” she pleaded, her eyes welling with tears as if she were the victim of some grand tragedy. “What’s going on?” “I made a really stupid mistake on the first half of the report. I didn’t realize we had to use this year’s projected metrics; I just used last year’s closed data. When Mr. Harley started losing his temper, I got so scared… I told him that part was yours.” I stared at her, utterly speechless. “You did what?” Clara grabbed my forearm, squeezing it tightly. “He wants to see you in his office right now. Please, Gwen, just take the fall for this one time. I’ll buy you dinner, I promise!” My cubicle neighbor, Zoe, nudged my foot under the desk, shooting me a warning look. But seeing Clara’s frantic state, and knowing the power dynamic, I let out a tired sigh and nodded. “Fine.” “Oh, thank you so much, Gwen!” Her tears vanished instantly. She spun on her heel, her perfectly curled hair bouncing as she practically skipped away. Zoe gave me a look of pure sympathy. “She’s the boss’s girl,” she whispered. “We can’t win. Good luck, Gwen. Fight hard.” Bracing myself for the worst, I marched toward the lion’s den. Zachary’s office was decorated in stark, oppressive shades of charcoal and slate, designed to make visitors feel small. He sat behind his massive desk, radiating a cold, lethal aura. He didn’t even bother to look up when the door clicked shut. “Took you long enough. Are you physically incapable of walking at a normal pace?” “Just pretend he’s yelling at Clara,” I chanted silently to myself. “It’s fine.” “How long have you been with this company?” Zachary asked, his voice sharp with irritation. “Fi… five years,” I stammered, hating how small I sounded. “Five years? And you present this utter garbage?” He picked up the heavy binder and tossed it. It skittered across the polished floor, stopping right at my feet. I bent down to retrieve it, and as I stood up, my eyes met his. His gaze was icy, razor-sharp, and entirely unyielding. “Five years of experience, and you make a rookie mistake like this? Do you honestly believe you’re still an asset to this department?” Terrified and utterly overwhelmed, my brain short-circuited. “Yes, sir. You’re right. I’m an idiot.” Simon slipped into the office carrying a stack of folders. He took one look at my pale face and frowned slightly. “The second half of this report is acceptable,” Zachary continued, relentless in his criticism. “But the beginning is a complete disaster. If you don’t want to do your job, Gwen, let me know.” “Actually, sir, Gwen is one of our most reliable seniors. This seems unlike her,” Simon interjected gently, trying to throw me a lifeline. “Wasn’t this a joint project with Clara?” Zachary glared at his assistant as if Simon had suddenly grown a second head. My eyes drifted to the desk, landing on the fountain pen gripped in Zachary’s hand. A jolt went through me. It was incredibly familiar—nearly identical to the vintage pen I’d bought for my text-boyfriend. I’d spent hours hunting it down in an antique shop, and the owner had sworn it was a one-of-a-kind piece. Before my rational mind could stop me, the words slipped out: “Does that pen write well?” Zachary’s expression hardened even further. “Mind your own business, Gwen.” He snapped the file closed. “You’re working overtime tonight. Don’t even think about leaving until this is fixed.” When Zachary gave an order, there was no negotiating. Clara was nowhere to be found for the rest of the afternoon. With no other choice, I sat down and began rebuilding her half of the project from scratch—scraping databases, cross-referencing figures, and pulling new charts. By the time the rest of the office packed up and left, I was still buried under a mountain of papers. I ordered a lukewarm black coffee, too exhausted to even think about dinner. The open-plan office was pitch black, save for the solitary glow of my monitor. I rubbed a few drops of peppermint essential oil onto my temples, hoping the sharp scent would stave off the pounding headache. Once the revision was complete, I carried the binder back to Zachary’s office. He hadn’t left either, still buried under his own mountain of executive paperwork. As I approached his desk, he suddenly stopped writing and looked up, his nose wrinkling. “What is that smell?” “Peppermint oil,” I mumbled, rubbing my neck. “I was getting a headache.” “I don’t like it,” he said, his brow furrowing. “It has a…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “A medicinal, apothecary smell,” I supplied automatically. The phrase slipped out before I could stop it. My text-boyfriend had used those exact words once when I told him about my favorite oil. Zachary froze, his hand suspended in mid-air. He stared at me, a sudden, intense confusion flashing in his dark eyes. He rubbed his temples, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Where did you hear that phrase?” he demanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I…” Before I could answer, the door burst open. “Babe! You must be exhausted, I brought you—” Clara froze when she saw me standing there. She was weighed down with glossy shopping bags from Saks and Chanel. So that was where her “urgent client meeting” had taken her. “Oh. Gwen. You’re still here,” she said, her voice dropping the high-pitched baby tone. “No thanks to you,” I thought. Zachary skimmed the revised pages of my report, his expression unreadable. “This is acceptable. It’s late. Go home.” I turned to leave, but as the door swung shut behind me, I caught the low murmur of Clara’s voice: “What were you two talking about just now?” I was too tired to notice the sharp, calculating look she threw at my back. The next day at lunch, Zoe slid into the booth across from me, looking like a spy on a covert mission. She glanced left and right before leaning over the table. “Gwen, there’s a rumor spreading. People are saying you stayed late last night specifically to try and make a move on Mr. Harley.” I choked on my salad, coughing into a napkin. “What? Who said that?” “It’s all over the group chats. I know it’s garbage, obviously, but still…” Only Clara and I had been there last night. Why would she spin a lie like that? Shaking it off, I tried to focus on my work. Later that afternoon, I walked up to the executive suite to turn in the final contract specs. The heavy wooden door to Zachary’s office wasn’t fully closed, and Clara’s voice drifted out into the hallway. “Babe, you’ve heard the rumors,” she was saying, her voice a soft, dramatic purr. “Honestly, I think letting Gwen go might be the best way to protect her reputation. And yours.” “She’s been with the firm for five years, Clara,” Zachary replied, sounding exhausted. “I can’t just fire her without cause.” “But her work has been so sloppy lately! Most of the project we just turned in was actually done by me. If she leaves, it clears up the gossip and we don’t have to worry about her bringing down the team’s metrics.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I walked back to my desk and quietly began packing my personal things into a cardboard box. Ten minutes later, an email from HR landed in my inbox: “Termination of Contract.” “Gwen, can you take a look at these client files?” our department director asked, dropping a folder on my desk, entirely unaware of what had just happened. I smiled politely and took the folder. I wanted to finish my final day with my head held high, even if leaving the place I’d dedicated five years of my life to left a bitter taste in my mouth. By the time I finished wrapping up the files, it was nearly eight in the evening. I carried my box of belongings out of the building and headed toward the subway. My apartment was in a quieter, slightly older neighborhood, and due to ongoing road construction, my usual shortcut was blocked. I had to take a detour, turning my ten-minute walk into a dark, thirty-minute trek. The streetlamps were sparse, casting long, shivering shadows on the pavement. A prickle of dread crawled up my spine. Footsteps. I glanced back. A dark silhouette quickly melted into the shadow of an alleyway. My heart hammered against my ribs, my knees turning to jelly. Trembling, I pulled out my phone and went to my contacts. At the very top of my list was the phone number my text-boyfriend had given me. “If you’re ever in trouble,” he’d written months ago, “call this. I don’t care what time it is. I’ll find you.” With no other options, I pressed dial.

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During AP Literature—taught by Mrs. Grant, a woman known for handing out detentions like candy—the girl my childhood best friend was in love with forgot her textbook. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. Without missing a beat, my childhood best friend snatched my book off my desk and slid it onto hers. Mrs. Grant walked down our aisle, her expression darkening as she stopped at my desk. “A student coming to AP Lit without their text is like a soldier walking into battle without a rifle,” she snapped, her voice carrying across the dead-silent room. “Stand up.” Zane didn’t say a word. The girl he was obsessed with, Megan, shot me a sweet, helpless little smile from across the aisle. They all thought I would just take it. They thought the perpetually accommodating, quietly invisible version of me would swallow the humiliation in silence, just like I always did. But for some reason, today, the silence felt like glass in my throat. I didn’t want to swallow it anymore. I pointed a trembling, rigid finger at Megan. “That is my textbook. She’s the one who forgot hers.” 1 The entire classroom froze. The collective intake of breath was audible. Zane whipped his head around, his brows pulling together in a harsh line. He looked at Mrs. Grant. “Don’t listen to June, Mrs. Grant. She’s just talking crazy. That’s Megan’s book.” He had quite literally ripped it out of my hands thirty seconds ago. Mrs. Grant’s patience, already razor-thin, snapped. “Whose book is it?” No one spoke. Mrs. Grant was notoriously merciless; getting caught unprepared in her class meant academic crucifixion. I kept my hand raised, pointing squarely at the heavy hardcover on Megan’s desk. “My name is written in black ink on the inside cover.” All the color drained from Megan’s perfectly rouged face. Mrs. Grant didn’t hesitate. She snatched the book from Megan’s desk, flipped open the heavy cover, and scanned the page. A muscle feathered in her jaw before she slammed the book back down onto my desk. “Keep better track of your property,” she told me sharply. Then, she turned her wrath entirely on Megan. “Forgetting your material is one thing, but attempting to steal a classmate’s property to cover your tracks? Is this how you think the world works? Do you realize you’ve just wasted two minutes of my time? Multiply that by thirty students, and you’ve stolen an hour of collective learning. Stand up. You will remain standing for the rest of the period.” Megan was an honor roll darling. Aside from Mrs. Grant, no teacher in this school would dare subject her to this kind of public humiliation. Her eyes immediately welled with tears, the rims turning a delicate, tragic pink. She slowly pushed her chair back and stood up. But right as she did, Colin—who sat in the row next to us—suddenly picked up his own textbook and placed it gently onto Megan’s desk. He stood up, his posture perfectly straight. “Mrs. Grant, this is Megan’s book. Her name is in it. I must have grabbed it by mistake.” I stared at the book. From where I sat, I could clearly see the name “Megan” hastily scribbled on the inside cover. It was Colin’s handwriting. Colin had just given up his own book for her. Mrs. Grant narrowed her eyes at him, clearly not buying a second of it, but she didn’t care enough to play detective. “Fine. Then you stand.” A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in the center of my chest. Colin, Zane, Megan, and I. We had practically grown up together, a tangled knot of childhood history. But the reality was, both Colin and Zane were hopelessly, undeniably in love with Megan. Within the suffocating ecosystem of our little friend group, I was always the collateral damage. Megan’s needs were the absolute baseline of our existence. If she wanted something, Zane and Colin expected me to surrender it without a second thought. If she wanted to go somewhere, I was dragged along as the obligatory audience, whether I wanted to be there or not. I should have been used to it. This exact scenario, in varying degrees of humiliation, had played out a hundred times before. In the past, I had always just closed my eyes and taken the hit. But today… today, in that split second, the foundation cracked. I was just so entirely done. Megan was still emitting soft, tragic little sniffles. Zane was glaring daggers at me, his handsome face twisted in genuine disgust. I simply looked away, staring straight ahead at the chalkboard. 2 The second the bell rang, Zane cornered me. “What is actually wrong with you, June? Are you psycho? Why did you have to fight Megan over a stupid book?!” I looked up at him. He was objectively striking—that messy, dark hair, the sharp jawline, the rebellious, chaotic energy that made half the girls in school swoon. “It was my book,” I said, my voice quiet but steady. Zane dragged a frustrated hand through his hair. “It’s a fucking piece of paper, June! So what if you said it was hers? Did you have to make her cry like that? If I had my book, I would’ve given it to her. You think anyone cares about your pathetic little textbook?” Zane came from old money. He didn’t care about grades, skipping class whenever he felt like it, or sleeping in the back row when he was forced to attend. He was the classic untouchable rich kid. The only time he ever woke up was when Megan needed something. Across the room, Megan was still dabbing at her eyes. Colin was hovering over her, gently handing her a tissue. Once she was settled, Colin walked over to my desk. He looked down at me, his expression a mix of disappointment and patronizing authority. “June. What exactly is going on with you today?” Colin and Megan were the academic elite of our grade. Colin, specifically, had held the number-one rank in the school since freshman year. It was the only reason Mrs. Grant hadn’t absolutely destroyed him for the book stunt. When I didn’t answer, he pressed on. “It’s just a textbook. Did you really need to wage war against Megan over it?” The dam broke. “It was my textbook, Colin. And if she can’t survive a class without one, why is it automatically assumed that I should?” “Because Megan is different from you,” Colin blurted out. The words hung in the air. He blinked, suddenly realizing how cruel that sounded, and quickly backpedaled. “That’s not what I meant.” I stared at him, feeling strangely hollow. I knew exactly what he meant. Of course she was different. She was beautiful, brilliant, and wealthy. I was painfully average. My grades were middling. I blended into the wallpaper. When she cried, the world stopped to wipe her tears. When I cried, I did it alone. I just felt an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. I had spent years deluding myself into thinking we were actual friends. I didn’t say another word. I just grabbed my backpack and walked out of the room. 3 I made my way up to the narrow rooftop behind the science building. It was a secret spot I had discovered sophomore year, an abandoned little concrete oasis where I went when the noise of my life got too loud. Heavy, bruised clouds blotted out the afternoon sun. I leaned against the brick wall, pulling out my phone. A cloud storage notification popped up on the screen: On This Day. It was a photo of me, Colin, and Zane from elementary school. The irony tasted bitter. Before Megan ever existed in our orbit, it was just the three of us. My mom and Colin’s mom had been college roommates; Colin and I had shared a playpen. Then Zane moved into the neighborhood—a wild, combative kid who immediately clashed with Colin, the picture-perfect golden boy. They got into a fistfight behind the swingset one day. I had jumped in to defend Colin and ended up punching Zane squarely in the nose. It forged a bizarre, unbreakable bond between the three of us. Before Megan, things had been so bright. Colin used to let me ride on the handlebars of his bike. I remembered a time in middle school when I saw a dress in a boutique window. It was astronomically expensive, completely out of the realm of possibility for my family. For my birthday, Zane bought it for me. When I had panicked, telling him it was too much and trying to give it back, he had just laughed, ruffling my hair until it stood on end. “It’s just a dress, June-bug. You want something in this life, you tell me. I’ll always take care of you.” It had been so good. When exactly did the rot set in? It was when Megan transferred to our school. She was a sparkler—bright, gorgeous, effortlessly outgoing. She immediately latched onto me, claiming she wanted to be my friend. I had been so wildly flattered that I introduced her to Colin and Zane without a second thought. At first, the boys were indifferent. But slowly, imperceptibly, the gravity shifted. They were pulled into her orbit. I remembered the day Zane pulled me aside, looking deeply uncomfortable. “Do you have a problem with us hanging out with Megan? I mean, she’s new, June. She doesn’t have anyone… if you’re going to be jealous and weird about it, maybe I just won’t hang out with you guys anymore. Sorry.” He called me jealous. He told Megan not to pay attention to my “petty moods.” Colin’s bike handlebars became Megan’s designated spot. Zane’s extravagant gifts were suddenly all wrapped in Megan’s favorite color. And I became the shadow, trailing ten steps behind them, watching them laugh. I looked down at the concrete. A tear slipped off my lashes, splattering dark against the gray dust. I had clung to this friendship like a life raft, willing to carve away pieces of my own dignity just to keep them. But standing here now, the delusion shattered. They hadn’t seen me as a friend in years. I let out a ragged, ugly sob. I was crying so hard my chest physically ached, completely lost in my own grief, when a voice suddenly cut through the heavy air. “Do you need a tissue?” I gasped, my head snapping up. Sitting on the ledge of the roof, one leg dangling over the edge, was a boy holding an incredibly thick, leather-bound book that looked like it was written in German. The dim light caught the sharp, almost architectural angles of his profile. He was devastatingly handsome, in a way that didn’t even look entirely real. I recognized him instantly. Holden Croft. Unlike the try-hard honors students in our grade, Holden was a terrifying, once-in-a-generation genius. He had a Wikipedia page for his math Olympiad medals. Rumor had it he could have skipped straight to college at fourteen, but his parents wanted him to experience “normal socialization.” Even so, he had already been accepted to MIT on a full ride. He didn’t have to take the SATs. He only showed up to school now to use the advanced science labs and read in the library. We had been in the same homeroom in middle school, but I was certain he didn’t remember I existed. What the hell was he doing up here? Humiliation washed over me like scalding water. I scrubbed frantically at my wet face. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea anyone was up here reading—” “It’s fine,” Holden said. He hopped down from the ledge with quiet grace and extended a small pack of tissues toward me. “If you need to keep crying, pretend I’m not here.” “Thanks.” But the sheer embarrassment of the situation had effectively killed my tears. Holden didn’t leave. He just stood there, looking at me. I shifted uncomfortably. “What?” He pointed a long, elegant finger toward the ground. “You’re standing on my jacket.” I looked down. Horrified, I realized that in the dim light, I had marched right onto a dark navy jacket he had folded on the ground. There were three distinct, dusty sneaker prints right across the fabric. My face caught fire. I scrambled to pick it up. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I’ll take this home and wash it, I swear, I’ll bring it back tomorrow!” He gave a single, brief nod. He didn’t say anything else. He just picked up his heavy book and walked away. 4 That night, I sat on my bed and Googled the brand name on the tag of the jacket to see if it was machine washable. When I saw the price tag attached to the image on the screen, my soul momentarily left my body. It was Loro Piana. Cashmere. It cost more than my parents’ car. I knew the Croft family was unimaginably wealthy, but what kind of high schooler casually leaves a five-thousand-dollar jacket on a dirty rooftop?! I squeezed my eyes shut, took all the cash out of my emergency savings jar, and practically sprinted to the most expensive dry cleaner in town. The next day, I managed to get Holden’s phone number from a girl in student council, intending to text him to coordinate returning it. But when I typed his number into my phone, a contact photo already popped up. We were already friends on the messaging app. When did that happen? I stared at his profile picture—a blurry photo of a black cat—entirely baffled. But I pushed the thought away. That evening, I met him back on the rooftop to hand over the pristine, plastic-wrapped jacket. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me. My stomach plummeted. Oh god, he found a pulled thread. He’s going to make me pay for it. Instead, his tone was completely level as he asked, “Why were you crying the other day?” I pressed my lips together. “I don’t know,” I lied weakly. “I just… I felt like a failure. I’m not particularly pretty, I’m not that smart, my grades are just floating in the middle…” I trailed off, not knowing how to explain the crushing weight of being inadequate. A pair of pristine white sneakers stepped into my line of vision. I looked up. Holden was staring down at me, his gaze intense and unreadable. Up close, the sheer symmetry of his face was staggering. His grandmother was supposedly French, and the mix of European bone structure with his dark, striking Eastern features made him look like a young movie star. My face heated up. “What?” His voice was a low, steady rumble. “I think you’re pretty.” “What?” “I said, I think you’re beautiful.” I knew he was just saying it to be polite, but it still caught me entirely off guard. For a guy who looked like he breathed ice, he was surprisingly kind. I managed a weak, self-deprecating smile. “Thanks.” But he wasn’t finished. “As for your grades,” he continued smoothly, “I have absolutely nothing to do right now. My schedule is empty. We’re old classmates. Do you want me to tutor you?” My head snapped up. 5 The next day, right after the final bell rang, I was packing my bag when someone grabbed my arm from behind. It was Megan. She flashed me her most brilliant, practiced smile. “June-bug! Do you have plans tonight?” My feelings toward Megan were a tangled, suffocating mess. I had so few friends growing up. When she first arrived, I had genuinely adored her. But over time, things began to curdle. Maybe I was just too sensitive, but she always made me feel like I was shrinking. She would constantly hang out with Colin and Zane without me, and then spend the rare times we were all together recounting inside jokes I didn’t understand, rendering me completely invisible. Or she would show up to my low-key birthday sleepover wearing a full face of makeup and a designer dress, take a hundred selfies, and post the ones where my eyes were half-closed and she looked like a supermodel. When people in the comments asked, “Why is a ten like you hanging out with a troll?” she would reply, “Stop it! She has a great personality, apologize to her right now!” And the commenter would say, “You’re too nice for your own good, Megan.” It was a thousand tiny papercuts over three years. “What is it?” I asked, keeping my voice flat. “A new Cajun seafood boil place opened downtown. I’m treating! Let’s go.” Here we go again. She knew perfectly well that I had a severe intolerance to spicy food, yet every single time it was her turn to pick, it was either tear-inducing hotpot, spicy wings, or Cajun food covered in cayenne pepper. “I’m busy,” I said, zipping up my bag. “I can’t go.” Megan immediately linked her arm through mine, pouting. “Why? Are you still mad about the textbook thing? Come on, I already forgave you for yelling at me!” Zane sauntered over, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Who’s treating? Can Colin and I come?” Megan laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. “No way! Girls’ night only. No smelly boys allowed.” “But I want free food!” Zane whined, playing along. They joked back and forth for a minute before Megan sighed dramatically. “Fine, fine. You guys can come. But only because June is bringing you as her plus-ones!” She squeezed my arm. “Let’s go, June!” I pulled my arm out of her grip. “I said I have plans. I’m not going.” Megan froze. Her lower lip began to tremble as she looked at me with wide, wounded eyes. “June… are you seriously still holding a grudge about yesterday?” Colin, who had been reading at his desk, closed his book with a sharp snap and walked over. “June, what kind of tantrum is this?” His voice was cold, clipped. “You humiliated Megan in front of the entire class yesterday. She’s being the bigger person and trying to make peace. What exactly are you trying to prove?” “Don’t yell at her, Colin, it’s my fault,” Megan whispered, a single tear spilling over her lashes. Zane’s protective instincts flared. He stepped into my space, looming over me. “Jesus Christ, June. You just take advantage of the fact that she’s too nice to fight back. You’re being a miserable bitch, you know that?” I bit down on the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper. It was always like this. I was the villain in a play I hadn’t even auditioned for. “I told you,” I said, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “I have plans. I’m meeting a friend.” “It’s fine, June,” Megan said with a brave, watery smile. “If you don’t want to hang out with me, you don’t have to make up fake friends to get out of it.” “What friend?” Colin demanded, his brow furrowed in disbelief. “Drop the act, June.” “Yeah,” Zane scoffed, his eyes full of pure disdain. “Don’t flatter yourself. Nobody in this school can stand you. Who else besides Megan would ever want to be seen with you?” I looked up at Zane. I looked at the boy who had once patted my head and promised to buy me anything I ever wanted. I looked at the dark, hateful sneer on his face now. How did we get here? When did we become strangers who despised each other? I opened my mouth to speak, but a voice from the doorway beat me to it. “Her friend is me.”

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With Thanksgiving right around the corner, the company Slack carpool channel suddenly lit up with a notification. It was a pin pinned to the top, titled “Holiday Carpool Etiquette.” [Since I’m bringing my two kids back to my hometown and can’t stand the smell of car air fresheners, any colleague offering a ride must have their vehicle professionally detailed inside and out before we leave.] [My kids get hungry easily on road trips. To prevent tantrums and keep them in a good mood, the car owner should prepare Starbucks drinks, imported organic snacks, and lavender aromatherapy sachets in advance.] [Tolls and gas are the sole responsibility of the car owner—after all, you’re already heading that way. Additionally, you must drop me off right at my doorstep in the suburbs. Do not leave me at some random park-and-ride in town…] The author of this manifesto was Tina, a working mom from the adjacent department. I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer audacity. These days, some people managed to turn begging for a favor into issuing a royal decree. But a second later, my phone buzzed with a direct message request from her. “Hey Jessica, I heard you just bought a new Porsche Panamera. It looks pretty spacious. Drive the four of us back for the holidays. Oh, and make sure to lay a portable baby mattress across the back seat.” I didn’t even hesitate. I typed back: “I don’t have a baby mattress, but I do have a body bag that should fit your whole family. Do you want me to drop you off at the crematorium on my way?” … Not even two minutes after I hit send, the company’s five-hundred-person general channel exploded. Tina had screenshotted my reply and posted it directly into the main thread, accompanied by a long, agonizing block of text. “I want everyone to see this. I’m a working mother of two. I work myself to the bone every single day. Is it really such a crime to ask to hitch a ride home for Thanksgiving?” “Some people drive luxury cars but have absolutely zero empathy. Not only did she reject me, she literally wished death upon my entire family!” “Where is the basic human decency? Are young people today really this classless?” The channel went dead silent for a few seconds. Then, right on cue, a few of the older, self-righteous busybodies who usually gossiped with Tina began to chime in. [Oh Tina, don’t let it get to you. Kids these days are incredibly selfish.] [Exactly. It’s just a ride. What happened to looking out for one another? Telling someone to go to a crematorium is way too far.] [Just bought a fancy car and now she doesn’t know how to act. Zero social skills.] Even Mr. Garrison, our HR manager who loved nothing more than sweeping conflicts under the rug, jumped into the thread. [We’re all colleagues here. Let’s keep the language professional and constructive. Jessica, please apologize to Tina so we can move past this.] Staring at my screen, I laughed out loud. It was a cold, sharp sound. Did they really think I was some fragile pushover they could easily walk over? I placed my hands on the keyboard and let the truth fly. [First of all, my car was bought with my own hard-earned money, not issued by the company. I choose who rides in it.] [Second, carpooling is a mutual agreement, not a charity drive. You want me to cover gas and tolls, detail my car, and stock up on Starbucks and imported snacks? You’re not looking for a ride; you’re looking for a private chauffeur and a nanny.] [Third, if you’re actually so broke that you can’t afford a train ticket or an Uber, I suggest you set up a GoFundMe instead of holding the company Slack hostage with your cheap moral guilt trips.] [Fourth, Mr. Garrison, since you’re so incredibly generous, why don’t you lend her your BMW 5-Series for the weekend? You aren’t traveling anyway.] Four consecutive messages. The general channel plunged into a graveyard silence. A moment later, Tina panicked. [What nonsense are you talking about! When did I ask you to cover the gas? That was just a suggestion!] Without replying, I uploaded the screenshot of her original post from the carpool channel—complete with her demands for gas-and-toll coverage, Starbucks, and the baby mattress—and dropped it right into the general channel. The chat erupted again, but this time, the tide turned completely. [Wow, this is actually insane…] [Talk about looking for a free ride and expecting first-class treatment.] [Starbucks? I barely buy that for myself on weekdays.] [This isn’t a carpool. She’s trying to adopt a servant.] I could practically picture Tina’s face turning a violent shade of green. She stopped typing in the chat. Instead, she stormed across the office floor, her heels clicking aggressively against the linoleum, and stopped right in front of my cubicle. “Jessica! What is wrong with you?!” she shrieked. “You screenshotted that out of context on purpose! I only wrote those things for the safety of my children!” I leaned back in my ergonomic chair, looking up at her with a calm, level gaze. “If you care so much about your kids’ safety, rent an Escalade. Why are you bothering me? My Panamera wasn’t built to transport your little princes.” “You!” Tina’s face flushed a deep crimson. “You’ve only been with this company for six months! Do you have any respect for your seniors? Do you even know how things work around here?” I reached out and firmly swatted her pointing finger away from my face. “Don’t point at me. I have no obligation to indulge your entitlement, and I certainly don’t respect people who don’t respect boundaries.” “I’m going to management! I’ll have you written up!” “Go ahead. Take a left, the executive suite is on the fifth floor. If you don’t go, you’re a coward.” Tina was shaking so violently she could barely stand. Suddenly, she sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands, and began to sob loudly. “You’re bullying me… you’re bullying a mother of two…” “I can’t take this! Why is this younger generation so incredibly cruel!” I calmly pulled out my phone, opened the camera app, and pointed it directly at her face. “Cry a little louder,” I said, my voice steady. “I’m going to go live on TikTok. I’ll title it ‘Corporate Toddler Having a Tantrum.’ We might even make enough from the views to pay for your Uber home.” Tina’s crying stopped instantly. She scrambled off the floor, glare-staring at me with pure venom. “You’ll regret this!” she spat, before turning and fleeing back to her department. I watched her retreating back, letting out a small, dismissive sigh. If this was the best she could do, she shouldn’t have started a fight in the first place. The next afternoon, the administration team began distributing the annual Thanksgiving corporate perks. Everyone was receiving a premium Williams Sonoma Thanksgiving gourmet gift basket—complete with a smoked organic heritage ham—along with a five-hundred-dollar Target gift card. I was buried under a pile of urgent Q4 reports, so I didn’t join the line immediately. By the time I finally wrapped up my work and walked down to the HR office, Katie, the administrative assistant, looked at me with an expression of pure dread. “Jess… I’m so sorry,” Katie whispered, keeping her voice low. “Your basket and gift card… Tina took them.” I frowned, a cold knot forming in my chest. “On whose authority?” Katie lowered her voice even further. “She said that since you drive a Porsche, you obviously don’t care about these little company handouts. She said she has a big family to feed, so she was doing you a favor by taking them off your hands.” “And Mr. Garrison? He didn’t stop her?” “Mr. Garrison said that colleagues should support one another during the holidays. He told me to just sign it off.” Taking my hard-earned benefits to play the generous savior with someone else’s money? I turned around and walked straight to Tina’s desk. She was surrounded by a small circle of the usual busybodies, happily unpacking the gourmet ham and the artisanal treats from my basket. “Oh, this heritage ham is going to be so delicious,” one of them was saying. “My oldest boy is going to love this.” “You really know how to look out for your family, Tina.” I walked right up to the desk and slammed the lid of the wooden basket shut, the sharp crack echoing through the open office. “Enjoying your feast?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “Who exactly gave you permission to touch my things?” Tina gasped, jumping slightly in her seat before narrowing her eyes at me. “Jessica, seriously? It’s just a Thanksgiving basket. You drive a luxury car—are you really going to throw a fit over some ham?” “What I drive has absolutely nothing to do with you.” I held out my hand. “Give me my basket. And the five-hundred-dollar gift card. Now.” Tina instinctively clutched her pocket, taking a step back. “I already loaded the digital gift card onto my Target account! And the basket is already opened—what do you want me to do, spit the food back out?” She tilted her chin up, her expression turning into a stubborn, defensive sneer. “Besides, Mr. Garrison approved it. If you have a problem, go talk to him!” She was acting like a cornered animal, relying on her usual defense of sheer shamelessness. A couple of the surrounding colleagues tried to intervene. “Come on, Jess, let it go. It’s just a holiday basket. Don’t make things uncomfortable for everyone.” I slowly turned my head to look at the woman who had spoken. “Great. Since you’re so generous, why don’t you hand over your basket to me and we can call it even?” The woman closed her mouth instantly, turning her head back to her computer screen as if she hadn’t said a word. I looked back at Tina. “You already linked the gift card? Fine. Venmo me five hundred dollars. The retail price of that Williams Sonoma basket is three hundred and eighty dollars. You owe me eight hundred and eighty dollars total.” Tina shrieked. “Are you insane? That’s highway robbery! I’m not giving you a single dime!” Right at that moment, Mr. Garrison walked over, holding his insulated tumbler and looking thoroughly annoyed. “What is going on here? Why is there always shouting whenever you two are in the same room?” Tina’s face transformed instantly into a picture-perfect mask of maternal grief. “Mr. Garrison, Jessica is harassing me! She’s demanding money! I’m a mother of two trying to make ends meet, where am I supposed to find that kind of cash?” Mr. Garrison turned to me, his expression hardening. “Jessica, this is getting out of hand. You are being incredibly petty. It’s a holiday gift—is it really worth causing a scene over?” “Tina’s family is going through a tight spot financially. You need to show some understanding and compassion.” I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Mr. Garrison, you really love playing the philanthropist with other people’s money, don’t you?” “Since you’re so deeply moved by her situation and think eight hundred and eighty dollars is pocket change, why don’t you pay me on her behalf?” I unlocked my phone, brought up my Venmo QR code, and shoved it directly in front of his face. “Go ahead. Just scan it.” Mr. Garrison froze. He clearly hadn’t expected me to turn the spotlight on him so ruthlessly. With half the department watching, his face went from pale to a deep, embarrassed plum. “Jessica! Watch your tone! I am your manager!” “A manager? Does being a manager give you the right to hand over an employee’s personal property as a personal favor?” I pulled my phone back, my eyes cutting slowly between Mr. Garrison and Tina. “The company distributes these benefits based on headcount. Tina took mine without my consent. In the legal world, that is called theft.” “And you, Mr. Garrison, as a representative of management, did not stop her. In fact, you facilitated it.” “So, what’s the plan here? Are the two of us running a little extortion ring on company time?” The moment Tina heard the word theft, she lost her mind. “You’re lying! I was just picking it up for you! It’s not theft, stop trying to scare me!” “Picking it up for me? Did I sign a waiver? Did Katie receive any email or text authorization from me allowing you to touch my benefits?” I looked at Katie, who was standing nervously nearby. “Katie, company policy states that any proxy pick-up requires a written screenshot or email authorization from the employee. Did you receive one from me?” Katie’s eyes welled with tears as she shook her head rapidly. “No… no, I didn’t. Mr. Garrison told me it was fine, so I let her take it.” The ball was firmly back in Mr. Garrison’s court. He gritted his teeth, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Jessica, are you seriously trying to burn every bridge in this office?” I nodded slowly. “Yes. I’m funny that way—I actually believe in the rules. Either Tina Venmos me the eight hundred and eighty dollars right now, or I send an all-company email CC’ing the CEO and the Head of HR.” “Let’s see what executive leadership thinks of our office’s wealth-redistribution program.” “And while we’re at it, let’s let the board see how Mr. Garrison uses his employees’ benefits to play charity worker.” The color drained completely from Mr. Garrison’s face. He might be a manager, but at the end of the day, he was just another cog in the machine. If this reached the C-suite, his career was over. “Fine! Enough! It’s not that big of a deal!” Mr. Garrison waved his hands in exasperation, turning to snap at Tina. “Tina, pay her the money! Stop making a fool of yourself!” Tina stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. “Mr. Garrison, I don’t have that kind of money! Tommy’s after-school program fees are due next month—” “I don’t care! Just pay her!” Mr. Garrison was desperate to put out the fire before it consumed him. Seeing that her protector had abandoned her, Tina’s tears began to flow in earnest. She bit her lip, pulled out her phone, and scanned my code with trembling fingers. “Venmo received: $880.00.” The crisp electronic chime felt incredibly satisfying. I tucked my phone back into my pocket. “See? That wasn’t so hard. No need to waste everyone’s time.” Ignoring the murderous glare Tina was sending my way, I turned and walked back to my desk. I thought the financial sting of eight hundred and eighty dollars would teach her a lesson, but I had severely underestimated how low some people could sink. On the final half-day before the holiday weekend, nobody was doing any real work. I decided to head down to the parking garage to put some of the Thanksgiving groceries I’d bought into my trunk. But the moment I reached my designated parking space, I froze. My brand-new Porsche Panamera—a car I had owned for less than a month—had a deep, jagged scratch running down the left side. It stretched from the front fender all the way to the rear bumper, cut so deeply that the gray primer underneath was fully exposed. To make matters worse, a thick, sticky liquid had been poured over the hood. It was slowly dripping down, emitting the sour, rancid smell of cheap hazelnut coffee. Looking at the ruined paint, a hot surge of fury rushed through my veins. The garage was empty. I marched straight to the building’s security office and demanded to see the footage for my section. The security guard clicked around on his mouse for a long moment before looking up at me with an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, miss. Your spot is right behind that concrete pillar—it’s a complete blind spot.” “Plus, the camera covering that corridor went down a couple of days ago. We haven’t had a chance to fix it yet.” No camera footage? I pulled out my phone immediately, ready to dial 911.

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The night Beckett decided to go public with Serena—his “golden girl,” his untouchable muse—I took my boy-girl twins straight to the backstage entrance of the Film Academy Gala. The security guard blocked me, his face tight with impatience, probably marking me as another obsessive stalker fan. A couple of fansite girls standing nearby with telephoto lenses sneered at me. I didn’t say a word. But Maisy looked at the giant digital poster of Beckett on the wall, then tugged her brother’s sleeve. “Todd, look. That man stole your face.” That was when everyone finally noticed the two children standing on either side of me. They looked exactly like Beckett Ward—the newly crowned Best Actor. The guard blinked, looking from Todd to the screen, his voice losing its edge. “Who… who are you, exactly?” “I’m Beckett Ward’s first love.” 1 Back in our cramped apartment, as I was pouring milk for the kids, a glowing line of text—a live chat comment, like a Twitch stream overlay—floated directly across my vision: [The ex-girlfriend is still in her cheap rental pouring milk. It’s so sad I want to laugh.] [She doesn’t even know, does she? Beckett wasn’t the one who sent that breakup text back then.] The milk carton slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum with a wet thud. Maisy looked down, her tiny brow furrowing with distress. “Mommy, it leaked.” I didn’t hear her. On the television, Beckett was standing at the end of the red carpet. Black tuxedo, silver cufflinks. Three years ago, he wasn’t an Oscar winner. He lived in a cramped, five-hundred-square-foot apartment in East LA. He’d come home from set covered in dust and crouch in our tiny kitchen to make me instant ramen. “Gill, as soon as my first movie airs, we’re going public.” But that movie never got its release. He had a terrible accident on set. And then, I received a text from his phone: “Don’t come looking for me.” Just six words. I stared at those six words all night. The next morning, I went into early labor. The twins were born premature. They spent twelve days in incubators. Back then, I told myself Beckett Ward was dead. But now, these floating comments were telling me he never sent that text. The live comments continued to scroll: [And Beckett doesn’t even know she gave birth to his twins!!!] [Once they go public tonight, Serena is basically the future Queen of Hollywood. The ex and the kids will be pushed even deeper into the shadows.] [Ugh. The biological dad is on the red carpet, and his kids are fighting over spilled milk at home.] I looked down. Todd was chewing on his straw, staring intently at Beckett on the screen. He looked exactly like Beckett did in his old childhood photos. A spitting image. Maisy held her plastic cup, asking softly, “Mommy, who is our daddy?” I stood up. Todd stood up too, his eyes wide. “Mommy, are we not having milk?” “No,” I said. “We’re going.” I grabbed my purse, cramming our birth certificates, my old cracked phone, and the family records inside. Maisy was still wearing her bunny pajamas, one sock missing. I scavenged under the sofa, found the missing sock, and pulled it over her foot. Todd clutched his Spider-Man backpack, his little face solemn. “Mommy, where are we going?” On the screen, Beckett and Serena stood side-by-side against the step-and-repeat. Serena wore a pristine white dress, her hand resting gracefully on his arm. The interviewer smiled warmly. “Are you two sharing some special news with us tonight?” Before Beckett could answer, the chat comments went wild: [Countdown to the big reveal!] [If the ex doesn’t go now, she’ll never get another chance.] I shut the door behind us. “We’re going to find your dad. The one who owes us.” The drive from our apartment to the convention center usually took forty minutes. That night, the traffic kept us crawling for an hour and a half. The Uber driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror three times. On the fourth, he couldn’t help himself. “Heading to the gala, huh? Big fan?” Maisy was yawning against my chest. Todd sat beside me, one hand holding his backpack, the other gripping the envelope with the birth certificates. I stared out at the endless sea of red taillights. “Just collecting a debt.” The driver blinked. “At an awards show?” “Yes.” “A celebrity owes you money?” I looked down at the live stream on my phone. Beckett had already entered the indoor press room. Serena was beside him, her smile poised and flawless. The host was building up the suspense. I flipped my phone face down. “He owes us a lot.” The driver didn’t ask any more questions. When we arrived, the outside was a madhouse. Flashy signs, banners, cameras, and screaming fans blocked the entrance like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Carrying Maisy and holding Todd’s hand, I headed toward the side entrance. A security guard stopped us. I said, “I’m here to see Beckett Ward.” His look hardened instantly. “Do you have a badge?” “No.” “An invitation?” “No.” “Then you can’t go in.” I swallowed my anger. “Just tell him Gill Harris is here. He’ll know.” The guard let out a dry laugh. “Look, lady, at least eighty women have come here tonight claiming to know Beckett. Some girl earlier even claimed to be his high school sweetheart.” A few fansite girls nearby heard him and began turning their long lenses toward us. I pulled Maisy closer. Todd stepped in front of me. “My mommy doesn’t lie.” The guard looked down at Todd and froze. He looked at Todd’s face, then glanced up at the giant digital billboard broadcasting Beckett’s live red-carpet close-up. The sharp jawline. The nose. The slight, guarded press of his lips. The guard’s throat moved. A fansite girl lowered her camera, her voice dropping. “That kid…” Another girl finished her sentence: “…looks exactly like Beckett.” Hearing them, Maisy lifted her head from my shoulder and looked up at the billboard. She blinked. “Todd, look. That giant man stole your face.” Todd frowned. “Don’t talk nonsense.” A lens clicked as a camera pointed at Todd. I immediately blocked it with my hand. “Don’t film the children.” The fansite girl lowered her camera, looking slightly embarrassed. The guard, no longer daring to push us away, grabbed his walkie-talkie. “We have a situation at the side entrance. A woman is here looking for Mr. Ward. She has two kids with her.” A voice crackled back almost instantly: “Keep them there. Do not let the media get pictures.” The live comments began to flash rapidly across my eyes: [Here we go. It’s happening.] [PR’s first instinct is always to shut down the ex.] [Those poor kids. Their real dad is right inside, and they’re locked outside in the cold.] I looked at the guard. “You said eighty women have come looking for him tonight.” I pulled out my old, cracked phone. The screen lit up with the three-year-old message. “Do they have this?” The guard couldn’t make sense of it. Back then, I had saved Beckett’s number as “Beckett the Debtor” because he owed me three months of rent. But the guard looked at Todd’s face again, and his expression completely changed. A few minutes later, a man in a sharp black suit walked briskly toward us. His badge read: “Aura Media, Public Relations.” He offered a polished, empty smile. “Miss Harris, is it? It’s a bit crowded here. Why don’t we step inside to talk?” “Where is Beckett?” I asked. His smile didn’t waver. “Mr. Ward is currently working. If you have any demands, you can discuss them with me first.” “Demands.” The moment he said that word, I knew exactly how they had classified me. A stalker. A bitter ex. A blackmailer using kids to cash in. Before I could speak, Todd asked, “Mommy, what are demands?” “It means they think we’re here for money,” I said. Maisy immediately looked up. “Is he going to give it to us?” The PR guy’s face stiffened. Someone nearby choked back a laugh. I looked down at Maisy. “Not yet.” She said seriously, “Then we can’t leave.” The PR guy led us into a backstage storage room. It was cluttered with cases of bottled water, folding chairs, and designer gift bags. The moment we walked in, Maisy eyed a plate of miniature cupcakes on the table. Before I could say anything, the PR guy casually slid the plate out of her reach. “Apologies. Those are reserved for the talent.” Maisy’s mouth puckered. Todd glared at him. “My sister didn’t even ask for them.” The man ignored him with a dismissive smile. I sat down and pulled Maisy onto my lap. “When is Beckett coming?” “Mr. Ward has a very tight schedule tonight.” “Then I’ll go back outside and find the reporters.” The smile finally vanished from his face. Just then, the door swung open. First to walk in was Simon—Beckett’s manager. Three years ago, he used to call me “sister-in-law.” Back then, he wore a cheap puffer jacket and sat on our worn-out couch eating cold takeout pizza, telling me Beckett was going to make it big, and that he’d get me front-row tickets to his first major awards show. Now, he was in a bespoke suit with a gleaming tie clip. He didn’t look surprised to see me at all. “Gill.” I stared at him. “Simon.” He smiled. “It’s been a long time.” Before I could reply, I heard footsteps outside. Light, but distinct. I knew that stride. Beckett walked in. After three years, he was leaner than he appeared on screen. He was wearing a designer watch from tonight’s sponsor and a silver brooch on his lapel—part of the matching couple’s jewelry line he and Serena were promoting tonight. I had rehearsed a thousand things to say to him. I wanted to ask why he sent that text. I wanted to ask if he’d ever thought of me over these three years. I wanted to ask if he knew I had almost died on the operating table. But seeing him standing there, the words dissolved in my throat. Maisy spoke first. She pointed a tiny finger at him. “Todd, look. It’s the face-stealer.” Todd’s ears turned red. “Stop it.” Beckett’s gaze locked onto Todd’s face. He stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then his eyes drifted to Maisy. All the color drained from his face. Simon quickly stepped in. “Beckett, the press room is waiting.” Beckett didn’t move. He looked at me, and my heart gave a betraying flutter. But then he spoke, his voice tight: “Who authorized you to bring the children here?” I froze. I looked at him. Three years. I had survived those three years alone, only to be blocked by security and hidden in a storage closet. And the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t “how have you been” or “how did you find me.” It was “who authorized you to bring them here.” I let out a sudden, dry laugh. “Mr. Ward, don’t be in such a rush to interrogate me.” I set Maisy down and gently pulled Todd to my side. “First, why don’t you explain why these two kids have your exact face?” Beckett’s throat bobbed. He stared at the children. It wasn’t a look of disgust or disbelief. It was the look of a man who had suddenly been served a verdict he couldn’t comprehend. Simon cut in. “Gill, you can’t prove custody or paternity just by looks. Do you have any idea what kind of damage this stunt could do to his career?” I looked at him. “I do.” “And you still came?” “Why wouldn’t I?” I countered. “Should I have waited for him to announce his relationship tonight, and then leave a comment on his post saying, “By the way, Beckett, you have twins”?” Simon’s face darkened. The door opened again. Serena stood there. Her makeup was immaculate, her white gown spotless, and Beckett’s matching designer jacket hung draped over her shoulders. When she saw me, her eyes widened in brief surprise before she smoothed her expression. “Beckett, the host is calling for you.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes immediately swept over the children, lingering on Todd. She paused, then walked in with a gentle smile. “You must be Gill.” I didn’t answer. Serena didn’t let the silence grow awkward. She knelt down in front of Maisy, her tone dripping sweetness. “Hi there, sweetie. It’s very crowded back here. You shouldn’t be running around.” Maisy shrank behind my leg. “Mommy, her smile is too bright.” Todd added flatly, “Like my desk lamp on the highest setting.” Serena’s smile stiffened for a fraction of a second. The live comments went wild: [Hahaha “desk lamp on the highest setting”! Go off, little man!] [The kid speaks facts. Serena’s face just turned green.] Beckett glanced at Maisy. It was a brief look, but I saw the flicker of emotion in his eyes. Serena saw it too. She stood up, smoothing her skirt, and murmured, “Beckett, regardless of what’s going on, the live broadcast isn’t over. We can figure out the situation with the children later. We can’t delay the announcement.” “We can’t delay the announcement.” I almost laughed out loud. “Miss Gable,” I said, “you’re certainly in a hurry.” Serena’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Gill, you misunderstand. I’m only worried that making a scene here will hurt the children.” It was a beautifully played sentiment. But a second later, I noticed a staff member outside the door, pointing a phone camera directly at us. I saw it, but it was already too late. Ten minutes later, I was trending. “Beckett Ward: Mysterious Woman with Children Backstage” “Unforeseen Drama Before Beckett Ward’s Big Announcement” The leaked video was only twenty seconds long. The first half showed me holding the children in the cluttered storage room, my face cold. In the middle, Serena, with red-rimmed eyes, was saying, “Gill, we can figure out the situation with the children later. Don’t let this affect Beckett’s announcement tonight.” The clip ended with Maisy hiding behind me. The caption read: “Alleged ex-girlfriend gatecrashes awards show with kids to force a confrontation, while Serena Gable handles the crisis with grace.” The comment sections erupted. [Is she crazy? Dragging kids to an awards show to cause a scene?] [Serena is class personified. She’s still trying to protect the kids.] [We don’t even know whose kids those are. She’s really trying to trap him?] I sat in the storage room, scrolling through the comments. I looked up at Simon. “Your agency moves fast with the media buys.” Simon denied it immediately. “Gill, public opinion is already turning against you. If you’re smart, you’ll stop making a scene.” “I’m not making a scene.” “Bringing two kids backstage at a major awards show isn’t making a scene?” Todd stood beside me, his jaw clenched tight. Maisy was getting sleepy, her head resting heavily on my lap. I stroked her hair. “Then tell me, Simon. What do you call it?” Simon said coldly, “Unbecoming.” I looked up at him. “I didn’t care much about being becoming when I had an emergency C-section all by myself.” The room went completely quiet. Beckett, who had been standing by the window in silence, turned to look at me. I didn’t meet his eyes. I reached into my bag and pulled out my old phone. It was three years old, the screen webbed with cracks, the charging port barely functioning. But I had kept it because of that single text. It was the proof of my abandonment, and the reason I had never reached out to him again. Simon’s expression shifted when he saw the phone. “Gill,” he said, his voice softening, “let’s be reasonable. Tell us what you want.” I placed the phone on the table. “I want Beckett to tell me, to my face, if he sent this text.” Beckett walked over. “What text?” Simon cut in quickly. “Beckett, the press is waiting. Don’t let her play you.” I tapped the cracked screen. The message log opened. “Sender: Beckett the Debtor” “Content: Don’t come looking for me.” Beckett stared at the screen. The change in his face was visceral. I watched him. “Did you send it?” Beckett couldn’t find his voice. Simon spoke up instead. “It was three years ago, who remembers? Phones get hacked, people lose them. Bringing this up now doesn’t prove anything, Gill.” I smiled. “Why are you so nervous, Simon?” Simon’s smile faltered. Beckett looked up, his gaze fixing on his manager. Just then, a production assistant knocked on the door. “Mr. Ward, the interview is starting. The host is already teasing the announcement on air.” Serena stood at the threshold, her voice a soft plea. “Beckett, everyone is waiting for you.” Beckett didn’t budge. I pushed the phone closer to him. “Beckett, when this text was sent, where were you?” His eyes darkened, sinking into shadow. Simon stepped in front of the phone, lowering his voice to a hiss: “Gill, name your price.” All pretense of politeness was gone. “We made you disappear once three years ago. We can do it again tonight.”

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When I arrived at the scene of the crash, the air was thick with the scent of burning rubber and cheap gasoline. My husband, Wright, was covered in blood. Yet, even with his chest collapsing, he was still clinging desperately to my twin sister, Gina, whose body was already broken beyond recognition. “Jodie,” Wright gasped, his voice rattling in his throat, his eyes glazing over as he looked up at me. “I spent my whole life regretting marrying you just to spite your sister. I know you’ve hated me too. If there’s a next life… let’s just let each other go.” “Sure,” I murmured, barely looking at him. “Whatever you say.” I stood there and watched him draw his final, ragged breath, feeling a profound, quiet sense of satisfaction. I wasn’t being cruel; I was being practical. I had already given birth to Toby, the sole heir to the multi-billion-dollar Alden real estate empire. My mother-in-law was staggeringly generous, and my husband was now conveniently out of the picture. A life of luxury, zero marital obligations, and a massive inheritance? If I had to live that reality all over again, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second. Decades later, when my own time came, I closed my eyes in a plush hospital bed, surrounded by silk sheets. But instead of slipping into the eternal dark, I woke up with a gasp. I was staring at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom. It was the exact day Wright was scheduled to propose to my sister. In my previous life, Gina had made up a last-minute excuse to send me to the venue in her place, setting up the grand misunderstanding that bound Wright and me together. This time, however, she didn’t bother with excuses. She simply locked my bedroom door from the outside, determined to claim her wealthy suitor without any interference. I didn’t panic. I quietly opened the window, climbed down the trellis to the lawn, and caught a cab straight to the venue. They say a forced marriage is bitter, but they’ve never tasted the fruits of a wealthy, dead husband’s estate. This time, I was still going to marry him. 1 I arrived at the venue early. The garden of the boutique hotel was a sea of Turkish Halfeti black roses—all because Gina once mentioned she liked the dark, dramatic aesthetic. Scattered across the manicured lawn were a dozen velvet gift boxes, each containing a piece of diamond jewelry worth millions. In our past life, Gina had constantly complained to our parents that her boyfriend, Wright, was a broke loser. Their dates consisted of five-dollar food-truck tacos and cheap corner-store milkshakes; his gifts to her were plastic trinkets from thrift shops. When she finally deduced he was planning a proposal, she panicked, viewing it as a trap to bind her to a lifetime of middle-class mediocrity. She had tricked me into going to the garden to reject him on her behalf. I was the one who walked into that garden, only to discover that “broke” Wright was actually the sole heir to the Alden fortune, testing her love. By the time Wright realized I was Jodie and not Gina, the ring was already on my finger. His wealthy friends were cheering, cameras were rolling, and the social pressure was immense. He couldn’t back down without humiliating his family. After the ceremony, he had used my phone to call Gina, demanding an explanation. Gina had laughed over the receiver. “Oh, Jodie probably saw your text and went to watch the drama. We look identical anyway, Wright. Dating her is the same as dating me. You’re both childish, so you should have plenty in common. Let’s call it quits. Don’t contact me again.” Wright’s face had turned a deep, furious crimson. He slammed my phone onto the pavement, turned to me, and asked if I had my ID on me. I had nodded, pulling it from my pocket. We signed the marriage papers that afternoon, without a prenup, driven entirely by his spite and my survival instinct. Now, standing in the shadow of the rose arches, I looked at this younger, unblemished version of Wright. A wave of nostalgia hit me. In our first marriage, he had only touched me during our first month together—and only because his formidable mother, Donna, had threatened to disinherit him if he didn’t produce an heir. Afterward, he spent the rest of his short life chasing Gina across the country, eventually dying in that horrific pileup at twenty-eight. Our son, Toby, was only three when Wright died. Donna, terrified I would take the boy and vanish, had showered me with trusts, properties, and black cards. I had spent sixty glorious years as a wealthy, independent widow. Remembering those peaceful, luxurious decades, a genuine, warm smile spread across my face. I raised my hand and called out to him. “Wright.” He turned. But he didn’t rush forward with the joyful, boyish grin from my memories. Instead, his brow furrowed, his eyes scanning my face with intense, calculated suspicion. “Are you… Jodie?” he asked, his voice tight. My heart sank slightly. The script had changed. Wright was reborn, too. I adapted instantly, shifting my posture to mimic Gina’s signature aloof, slightly defensive tilt of the head. “Wright, what are you talking about? Didn’t you send me the coordinates to come here? What does my sister have to do with this?” Wright let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He strode over and pulled me into a tight embrace. “Gina. Thank God. It’s you.” Terrified of another mix-up, he didn’t waste a second. He pulled a small velvet box from his pocket, his hands trembling slightly with urgency. “Gina, I’m sorry. I hid my family’s financial situation because I wanted to be sure of… well, of everything. But my feelings for you are entirely real. Will you marry me?” I nodded eagerly, offering my hand. “Yes.” He slipped the massive diamond ring onto my finger, pressing a lingering kiss to my knuckles. “Gina, I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy.” Seeing him look at me with such tenderness was deeply disorienting. In my previous life, even though marrying me had been his own spiteful decision, he had treated me like a criminal who had stolen his true love. But his hostility had never really bothered me. Whenever Wright threw a fit or ignored me, Donna—who had built the Alden empire from scratch after her husband’s early passing—would drag Wright to the coals, strip him of a luxury asset, and hand it to me as an apology. Before marrying into the family, I had been terrified of Donna. Afterward, I realized she was the mother I had always wanted. When Wright refused to sleep in my room, Donna took me on private shopping sprees to Paris, sat with me front-row at fashion weeks, and used her influence to get me private meet-and-greets with my favorite artists. When Wright intentionally called me “Gina” at a family dinner, Donna bought a prize-winning French bulldog the next morning and named it “Wright,” training it to sit on command. When Wright smashed a plate during an argument, Donna replaced our entire dining set with dynasty-era antique porcelain, warning him that the next broken dish would cost him his trust fund. Eventually, Wright’s tantrums became my favorite source of entertainment. Seeing his angry face was like watching a slot machine align to pay out a jackpot. Looking at him now, I felt that familiar, comforting thrill of a secured future. Tears of genuine joy welled up in my eyes. Wright froze, a soft, self-satisfied smile playing on his lips as he brushed a tear from my cheek. “You silly girl. Why are you crying? Are you really that happy?” I nodded vigorously. Wright laughed, turning to signal toward the pavilion. Dozens of his friends emerged from the greenery, cheering and throwing confetti, even if they were slightly confused as to why the proposal had happened twenty minutes ahead of schedule. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Donna. She wore a sharp, charcoal-grey pantsuit, her presence commanding the entire garden. She walked over, her sharp eyes softening slightly as she took my hand. “My dear,” Donna said, her voice rich and steady. “I hope you don’t hold Wright’s little deception against him. It was my idea. Since his father passed early, he’s all I have, and I wanted to ensure the woman he brought home loved him for who he is, not what he owns. You won’t suffer a single day under my roof.” She patted my hand before looking up. “Wright is always so quiet about his personal life. Tell me, dear, what did you study in college?” Wright, who had been watching us with a look of quiet triumph, suddenly went rigid. I knew exactly what he was worrying about: Gina had barely scraped through a local community college, and Donna valued intellect above all else. I offered Donna a bright, flawless smile. “Mrs. Alden, I actually just graduated from Columbia University with a degree in Business Administration. I haven’t started my career yet, but I’m hoping to find something challenging soon.” Donna’s smile widened, becoming entirely genuine. Without hesitation, she slipped a heavy, diamond-encrusted emerald bracelet off her own wrist and slid it onto mine. “An Ivy League business graduate? Perfect. If you don’t mind, you can start in our corporate office next week. I’ll personally find a senior executive to mentor you.” Wright stared at me, his mouth slightly open, utterly dumbfounded. Suddenly, a loud commotion broke out near the garden entrance. Gina was struggling against three security guards, her face flushed with fury as she screamed, “Wright! I’m over here! You got the wrong twin!” Our parents were right behind her, trying to pull the guards off her. Wright’s pupils contracted to pinpricks. He looked at the heavy emerald bracelet on my wrist, then at my face, and finally at the screaming girl by the gates. “You’re… Jodie?” he whispered, his voice cracking. “How… how is it you again?!” I raised my brow slightly, leaned in, and whispered, “Surprise.”

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