Married for seven years, Julian Sterling and I tried every single way to get pregnant, but nothing worked. Looking at my body, bloated from all the hormone injections and medications, Julian’s eyes would turn red. He’d hug me and say, “Claire, it’s all my fault. My sperm count is practically zero. I can never make you a mother in this lifetime. But I swear, I will love you with my entire life to make up for it.” I believed him. For his sake, I gave up on having children. I even locked up the beachfront Malibu mansion I had fully decorated for a future baby, just to cut off any painful memories. Until today, when I received a call from the prestigious Royal Swan Ballet Academy. “Mrs. Jian, your daughter Lily just pushed her dance partner off the three-foot-high stage! The other child has a broken leg. Please come with Mr. Sterling immediately!” My brain went completely numb. I had never been pregnant. Where the hell did a daughter come from? I rushed to the academy, only to see my supposedly sterile husband holding a beautiful little girl tightly in his arms, shielding her. And standing right next to them was his unforgettable first love—Evelyn Ward. On the incident report, the home address listed was none other than my private Malibu mansion. It turned out that my compromise, my mansion, and my money were nothing but a cozy nest he had built for another woman! Well. I’m going to see how deeply in love you two really are once my money is completely out of the picture.

The lights at the charity gala were blinding. On stage, the auctioneer was holding up a crystal angel statue, his voice booming through the microphone: “Six million dollars! Offered by Mrs. Claire Jian! Do I hear any higher bids?” I held up my paddle, my expression calm. Julian had been staring at this angel statue in the catalog for days. He told me his mother had been suffering from terrible migraines lately, and he wanted to win the auction to give it to her as a peace offering to soothe her mind. In our seven years of marriage, Julian had treated me incredibly well. His only flaw was his diagnosed male infertility. To make up for this regret, his love for me was almost pathologically obsessive. And because I loved him, I went out of my way to be the perfect daughter-in-law. I didn’t even blink when paying the hundreds of thousands of dollars for his mother Beatrice’s annual “wellness spa retreats.” “Buzz!” The moment the gavel fell, my phone vibrated violently inside my clutch. It was an unknown number. I lifted my gown and walked out to the terrace of the banquet hall to answer it. “Hello, is this Claire Jian?” a sharp, anxious female voice demanded over the line. “This is the Royal Swan Ballet Academy! Your daughter, Lily Sterling, pushed the lead dancer off the stage during rehearsal! The other girl has a broken leg, and her parents have already called the cops. You and Julian Sterling need to get here right now!” The early autumn night wind blew over me, but I felt like I had been plunged straight into an ice bath. “You have the wrong number,” I said, my fingers gripping the phone so hard they turned white. “I don’t have a daughter.” “That’s impossible!” The woman immediately read off a list of information. “Lily Sterling, seven years old. Father: Julian Sterling. Mother: Evelyn Ward. The emergency contact listed under your name, Claire Jian, with this exact phone number! Mrs. Jian, your kid caused a massive accident. Playing dumb won’t get you out of this!” Julian Sterling. Evelyn Ward. These two names were like poison-tipped nails driven violently into my eardrums. Evelyn was Julian’s college sweetheart. Seven years ago, when Julian proposed to me, he deleted all her contact info right in front of me and swore they would never see each other again. But now, not only were they seeing each other, they had a seven-year-old daughter? “Mrs. Jian? Are you still there?!” “Send me the address.” I hung up. The cold wind against my back made me shiver, but my mind was suddenly incredibly clear. Without even picking up the angel statue I had just won, I stepped into my high heels and walked straight into the dark night.

The Royal Swan Ballet Academy was located in the most expensive district downtown. When I pushed open the heavy doors of the rehearsal hall, the room was already in absolute chaos. “You need to give us an explanation today! My daughter is supposed to audition for top international companies, and now her leg is broken! Can you even afford to compensate for that?!” A woman dripping in diamonds was pointing her finger and screaming at a man. The man, who was bowing his head and repeatedly apologizing, was Julian. The very same Julian who, before leaving the house, had kissed my forehead and told me he had to work late at the office. And hiding behind him was a little girl dressed in a custom white swan tutu. She was clutching the hem of Julian’s designer suit jacket, sobbing uncontrollably. “Daddy, I didn’t mean to… I’m scared…” “Don’t be scared, Lily. Daddy’s here. Daddy will protect you.” Julian knelt down, his heart clearly breaking for her. He pulled her into his arms, reached into his pocket, pulled out a strawberry gummy, unwrapped it, and popped it into her mouth. Standing at the doorway, my stomach turned. Julian had severe OCD and absolutely hated sweets. He would frown even if I ate a single piece of candy near him. Yet, in the pocket of his hundred-thousand-dollar custom suit, he kept strawberry gummies just to comfort this little girl. “Oh, my poor baby! Who dares to bully my sweet granddaughter!” A familiar figure suddenly rushed in from the hallway. My mother-in-law, Beatrice, who was supposed to be resting at a private high-end wellness clinic because she “couldn’t handle the outside draft,” was running like a track star. She was holding a pink thermos and immediately threw her arms around Lily, kissing her face. “Mom.” I walked forward, my heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. My voice was like ice. The room fell into a dead silence. Beatrice froze. Julian snapped his head up. The moment his eyes met mine, every drop of color drained from his face, and his pupils shook with sheer terror. “Cl… Claire? What are you doing here?” He instinctively let go of the little girl and tried to stand up to walk toward me, but a fragile-looking woman next to him quickly grabbed his arm. She was wearing a simple, elegant white dress, her eyes red and tearful. It was Evelyn Ward. “Claire…” Evelyn looked at me timidly, tears streaming down her face. “It’s all my fault. Please don’t blame Julian. The child is innocent…” I ignored her completely and stared straight into Julian’s eyes. “Julian, weren’t you working late at the office?” I took a step closer, backing him down. “Aren’t you sterile? Didn’t you say I was the only woman you’d ever have in this life?” Panic took over Julian. He violently shook off Evelyn’s hand and rushed over, trying to grab my shoulders. “Claire, let me explain! It’s not what you think! Lily is Evelyn’s child with another man. That man ran out on them, and Evelyn was struggling so hard on her own. I was just… just helping out an old classmate. I’m only her father on paper!” “On paper?” I let out a cold laugh and turned my gaze to the family showcase board on the rehearsal hall wall. Right in the center hung a massive family portrait. Julian was in casual wear, holding a beaming Lily, while Evelyn leaned her head happily on his shoulder. Underneath the photo, the home address was clearly printed: “Malibu Mansion, Rose Garden No. 1.” That mansion was my pre-marital property. It was the only inheritance my late parents had left me!

“Julian, you’re not just her dad on paper. You actually used my private mansion to register her school records?” My voice wasn’t loud, but every word cut like a knife. Julian’s face was whiter than paper. He shook his head frantically. “Claire, don’t misunderstand! That mansion has been sitting empty anyway. To get Lily into this academy, we had to show proof of a multi-million-dollar property. I only borrowed the address! They have never actually lived there, I swear!” “Yes, exactly!” Beatrice chimed in, quickly finding her voice. “Claire, don’t be so petty. You can’t even get pregnant anyway. T he Sterling family needs an heir! Even if Lily isn’t Julian’s biological child, she calls me Grandma. What’s wrong with me loving her? What’s wrong with using an empty house address?” I looked at this mother and son, feeling a wave of sheer absurdity. “I” couldn’t get pregnant? Years ago, during our fertility checks, Julian was the one whose medical report showed zero active sperm. He had literally knelt in the pouring rain, slapping his own face, begging me not to leave him. To save his pride, I had told everyone that my body was too weak to carry a child. And now, they were throwing that lie back in my face as if it were my fault. “Are you Claire Jian?” the mother of the injured girl sneered, looking at us. “I don’t care about your family drama. But today, if I don’t get three million dollars in compensation, this isn’t over! Since that mansion is yours, you are paying for this!” The school administrator also stepped up, handing me an incident liability form. “Mrs. Jian, since you are listed as the primary emergency contact and the owner of the registered property, please sign here.” I looked down at the paper. “Mother’s Name: Claire Jian.” “Contact Number: My private cell number.” “Home Address: Rose Garden No. 1.” They hadn’t just stolen my house; they had stolen my identity. Evelyn had been walking around using my name, enjoying the social status of being Mrs. Sterling! I pulled out my phone and took high-definition photos of the liability form, the family portrait on the wall, and the three guilty faces in front of me. “Claire, what the hell are you doing?!” Julian lunged to grab my phone. I stepped back, dodging his hands. My eyes were dead. “Julian, I’m not signing this, and I’m not paying a single penny.” I looked around the room, making sure my voice was clear enough for everyone to hear. “I, Claire Jian, am declaring right now. I do not have any children. This girl, Lily, has absolutely nothing to do with me. As for the Rose Garden No. 1 mansion, I have never authorized anyone to use it. If you dare forge my signature on any documents, I will see you in federal court.” Without giving Julian another glance, I turned on my heels and walked out into the night. The cold wind hit me again. I kept my back straight, but my tears finally broke free, streaming down my face. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of devotion. It was all a meticulously planned scam.

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Seven years of love, and I personally pushed Julian Vance to the absolute peak of Hollywood. On the day he bid fifty million dollars for a legendary, flawless pink diamond at a charity auction, the entire internet was waiting for him to propose to me. Even I thought this would be the perfect fairytale ending to our seven-year romance. But under the blinding spotlights, he walked right past me. He placed the pink diamond necklace around the neck of Chloe White—a helpless, naive rookie who had just debuted. “This necklace is too heavy for you to wear, Selena. You don’t need it. Chloe needs it more.” I wanted to fight back, but I soon realized he had already secretly transferred my movie contracts, my connections, and even my life’s work to her. It wasn’t until a raging fire broke out on the set of a survival reality show that the truth fully hit me. I was left struggling in the smoke, screaming for help, while Julian carried Chloe—who had nothing but a tiny scratch on her knee—out of the flames without once looking back. At that moment, my heart died. He forgot one thing. Everything he owned was given to him by me. I could build him up to the highest peak, and I could drag him down to the deepest hell.

The Metropolitan Charity Gala was a glittering sea of luxury. The massive crystal chandeliers cast a mesmerizing glow over the room. The wealthiest elites, tech billionaires, and A-list celebrities of New York were all gathered here. I was wearing an haute couture, star-embellished gown, sitting in the center of the very front row. Sitting right next to me was Julian Vance—the newly crowned Oscar-winning actor, the man of the hour, and my boyfriend of seven years. “Next up is our final masterpiece of the night—the legendary Pink Hope Diamond! We will start the bidding at ten million dollars!” The auctioneer’s voice echoed through the grand hall. A month ago, rumors had already flooded Snapchat and Instagram. Everyone said Julian was going to buy this diamond to propose to me on this live-streamed night. “Twenty million!” “Thirty million!” “Forty million!” The bids kept rising, pushing the atmosphere to a fever pitch. Julian hadn’t raised his paddle yet. He just leaned back in his seat, looking effortless and handsome, gently stroking my knuckles with his thumb. His hand was warm. It was a touch that always made me feel safe. When the price stopped at forty-five million, the room fell quiet. Finally, Julian slowly raised his paddle. His voice was deep and commanding: “Fifty million.” The crowd gasped. Countless cameras instantly spun toward us. Flashbulbs went off like wild lightning, making the room as bright as day. The live chat on the streaming platforms was exploding. The screen was covered in comments like: “OMG! Propose! Propose!” “They are literal goals!” The auctioneer’s voice trembled with excitement. “Fifty million! Mr. Julian Vance bids fifty million! Any higher bids? Going once… twice… sold!” The moment the gavel hit, the room erupted into thunderous applause. I turned to look at Julian, my heart beating so fast it felt like it would burst out of my chest. Seven years. From the days when he had nothing, to now, standing at the absolute peak of the entertainment industry. I had shared cold, cheap takeout with him in leaky basements. I had drunk myself to stomach bleeding at corporate dinners just to secure auditions for him. Now, was he finally going to keep his promise to marry me? Julian stood up. Under the watchful eyes of the world, he took the velvet box containing the pink diamond from the model. He turned around, his deep eyes looking in my direction. My breath caught. My eyes grew hot, and I even began to raise my hand, ready for him to slide a ring on it. But Julian walked right past me. A cold draft swept by as his suit jacket brushed against my arm, taking all the warmth from my body with it. I froze. My mind went completely blank. To the absolute shock of the audience, Julian walked to a quiet corner in the second row. Sitting there was a young, rookie actress wearing a simple white lace dress, looking like a frightened little deer. Chloe White. Julian stopped in front of her and opened the velvet box. The pink diamond sparkled brilliantly under the lights. It hurt my eyes to even look at it. “For you, Chloe.” Julian’s voice wasn’t loud, but through the microphone he was wearing, it echoed clearly through the entire hall. The silence in the room was deafening. Even the camera flashes stopped for a second. Chloe covered her mouth, her eyes instantly turning red as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Julian… this is too expensive. I can’t take this…” She shook her head, looking incredibly fragile and adorable. But Julian smiled warmly. It was a gentle, adoring smile he had never once shown me. With his own hands, he put the fifty-million-dollar necklace around Chloe’s slender neck. “Take it. You just started your career. You need something to give you confidence. Think of this necklace as my encouragement to a promising talent.” He said it so grandly, so righteously. Then, he turned his head and looked at me, still frozen in my seat. There was no guilt in his eyes. Instead, there was only a cold, condescending look of charity. “Selena, you’re already an Oscar winner. You have everything. This necklace is too heavy for you; you don’t need it. Chloe needs it more to light up her path ahead. You’re always so generous, I’m sure you don’t mind, right?” I looked at his familiar face, suddenly feeling like he was a complete stranger. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand, crushed into tiny pieces. I could barely breathe. “I don’t mind?” He took the pink diamond I had waited years for, on the night everyone expected him to propose, and gave it to a rookie who had done nothing but copy me and talk trash about me behind my back. And he had the nerve to ask if I minded? I bit my lower lip so hard that I tasted iron. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t run away crying. I am Selena Shaw. I never let anyone see me defeated. I slowly stood up, smoothed down the wrinkles of my gown, and kept my spine perfectly straight. Under the strange glances of the crowd, I walked right up to Julian. “Julian,” I said. My voice was terrifyingly calm. “Since you love playing the generous hero so much, I hope the two of you stay locked together forever.” Without waiting for his face to turn pale, and ignoring Chloe’s fake gasp of shock, I turned around. Stepping in my five-inch heels, I walked out of the gala, head held high. The moment I reached my private dressing room backstage, all the strength was drained from my body. I collapsed onto the sofa, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Julian’s spare jacket was still draped over the back of the couch. I took a deep breath, wanting to throw his trash jacket into the bin. But as I grabbed it, a neatly folded document slipped out of the inner pocket. There was no title on the front, only a stamp: “Project: Eclipse” As if possessed, I opened it. With just one look, the blood in my veins completely froze. “Step 1: Gradually strip Selena Shaw of her major brand endorsements. Under the excuse of “rebranding,” quietly transfer these contracts to Chloe White.” “Step 2: Use Selena’s social media traffic and industry connections to build hype for Chloe’s new movie. If necessary, leak negative rumors about Selena to make Chloe look pure and innocent.” “Step 3: On the day Chloe wins Best Actress, officially announce the breakup with Selena, securing Chloe’s place as the new queen of Hollywood.” At the bottom of the page was Julian’s signature. The date was from six months ago. Six months ago—right when Chloe first signed with his agency. I stared at the document, and a dark, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. Tears fell from my eyes, blurring the signature of the man I had loved for seven years. He didn’t just stop loving me. He had been planning this. He was systematically draining my life, my career, and my influence to build up his new girl. He wanted to destroy me to make her a star. Julian Vance, you are a monster.

Late at night, a heavy storm raged outside. The wind violently slapped sheets of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the villa, making an eerie, pounding sound. I sat in the pitch-black living room, refusing to turn on the lights. Next to my feet were two packed suitcases. At 2:00 AM, the electronic lock on the front door clicked open. Julian walked in, smelling of rain and expensive cologne. He casually loosened his tie and flicked on the living room lights. The sudden brightness made me squint. He saw me sitting on the couch, and then his eyes landed on the suitcases. His movements paused, and his brow instantly furrowed. His voice was filled with irritation. “Selena, what kind of drama are you pulling now?” “I already explained the auction to you. Chloe is just a rookie. What’s wrong with me helping her out? You’re the veteran here. Did you really have to embarrass me in front of everyone tonight?” As he spoke, he poured himself a glass of whiskey at the bar. He sounded so righteous, as if I were the one who had committed a crime. I looked at him—this man I once thought I would grow old with. “Explain?” I let out a cold laugh and threw the “Project: Eclipse” documents directly at his face. The sharp edge of the paper sliced across his cheek, leaving a thin red line. The sheets scattered all over the floor. Julian looked down, and when he realized what the papers were, his pupils shrunk. He snapped his head up, his mask of calm sophistication finally cracking. “You went through my things?” he growled. “If I hadn’t, how would I have known that my boyfriend of seven years was planning to ruin my life for a girl he met six months ago?” I stood up, walking toward him step by step. “Julian, did you think I was an idiot? Did you think I would let you ruin me and thank you for it?” Julian’s throat moved as he swallowed hard, a flash of panic in his eyes. But he quickly forced himself to look calm, even reaching out to grab my hand. “Selena, let me explain. This plan… it’s just a standard business strategy from the agency. You’re already at the top. You don’t need these resources anymore. But Chloe is different. She’s fragile. She needs protection.” “Fragile?” I slapped his hand away, my eyes as cold as ice. “She’s fragile, so you stole my global luxury cosmetics contract and gave it to her?” “She’s fragile, so you paid tabloids to spread rumors that I was a diva on set, just to make her look sweet and hardworking?” “Julian, you’re not protecting her. You’re trying to destroy me!” Julian’s face went completely dark. His controlling ego was triggered. “Selena, don’t be ungrateful! Everything you have right now—which part of it didn’t come from me? Without me, do you think you’d be where you are today?” He pointed a finger at me, his words cutting like knives. I looked at him, feeling a deep, hollow sadness. “Julian, have you forgotten? Years ago, you were the one kneeling in the snow outside a director’s office, begging for a five-minute audition. I was the one who used my own salary to buy you a supporting role!” “When you were framed in that media scandal and almost canceled, I was the one who used every single connection I had, begging people face-to-face to save your career!” “I made you who you are, and now you have the nerve to say you gave me everything?” I grabbed the whiskey glass from the bar and smashed it onto the floor. With a loud shatter, glass flew everywhere, and the amber liquid spilled across the floor—just like our broken seven years. Julian was stunned by my anger and took a step back. “You’re crazy, Selena. You’re completely out of your mind.” He took a deep breath, returning to his cold, arrogant tone. “Fine. Since you’ve seen it, I have nothing to hide. Let’s take some space. You need to calm down. As for the contracts, I’ll compensate you.” “Compensate?” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase, my back straight, looking like a queen going to war. “Julian, keep your disgusting charity to yourself. As of tonight, we are done.” “You better pray your little rookie can stay hidden under your wing forever. Because if she flies out, I will show both of you what happens when you cross me.” Dragging my suitcases, I walked straight out into the pouring rain. Behind me, Julian’s furious roar echoed through the storm: “Selena! If you walk out that door, don’t ever think about coming back! Let’s see how long you can last in this town without me!” I didn’t look back. The freezing rain drenched my face, but it couldn’t put out the fire of revenge burning in my chest. “How long can I last?” “Julian, I will outlast both of you.” “I will stand at the absolute top and watch you slide into the mud.”

The morning after I left Julian, the retaliation came exactly as expected. My agent, Harper, walked into my apartment with red eyes and threw a stack of termination papers on the table. “Selena, Julian is going crazy. He used all his industry backing. Overnight, he got your remaining five brand deals canceled. Even the massive sci-fi movie you were supposed to star in has recast you with Chloe.” I calmly flipped through the contracts. The cancellation fees were in the millions. Julian was trying to completely blacklist me, forcing me to crawl back to him. “That’s not all,” Harper’s voice shook. “The internet is flooded with fake news about you. They’re saying you’re jealous of rookies, that you threw a tantrum at the gala, and they’re even hinting that you have an old billionaire sugar daddy…” I opened Snapchat and Twitter. Eight out of the top ten trending topics were about me. “SelenaShawGalaTantrum” “CancelSelenaShaw” “PoorChloe” At 3:00 AM, Chloe had posted a selfie with red, teary eyes: “I will always respect my seniors’ advice. I will work harder and not let anyone down.” Under her post, Julian’s fanboys and paid bots were leaving nasty comments: “Selena is just a bitter, aging actress who’s jealous of Chloe’s beauty!” “Bullying rookies? Cancel her forever!” “Julian finally saw her true colors. Good riddance!” I looked at the toxic comments, a cold smile appearing on my face. This was Julian’s play. Destroy my career, then ruin my reputation. “Harper, how much money do we have left in the business account?” I asked. Harper paused. “After paying off the fees, we won’t even be able to pay next month’s rent for the studio. Selena… maybe you should just talk to Julian? You guys were together for seven years…” “Never,” I cut her off. “I would rather starve than beg that piece of trash for mercy.” Just then, Harper’s phone rang. She picked it up, her face changing expressions rapidly. After she hung up, she looked at me, hesitating. “What is it?” “It’s… the production team of “Wilderness Survival”,” Harper bit her lip. “They’re offering to pay triple your usual rate to guest-star in the premiere episode. But…” “But what?” “But Chloe is a permanent cast member on that show. And you know how dangerous that show is. It’s unscripted, real-deal wilderness survival.” I understood instantly. This wasn’t a sudden lucky break. This was a trap set up by Julian. He knew I was broke. He was using the massive paycheck as bait to get me onto a show where I would be forced to make Chloe look good, get humiliated, and become the laughingstock of the internet. “We should decline. It’s too dangerous,” Harper said, worried. “No,” I raised my head, a dangerous spark in my eyes. “Accept it. Why wouldn’t we?” Since they wanted to play, I was going to play with them until the very end. I wanted to hit them the hardest when they thought they were winning.

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At the celebration banquet, Ethan stood on the stage, held the microphone, and said his only wish was to get a new wife. I froze in place. Beneath the stage, a young intern giggled loudly. “See, Mr. Miller? I told you. An old woman like her would be scared out of her mind the second she hears you don’t want her anymore.” “A bet’s a bet, Mr. Miller! You placed the highest bet, so Venmo me that $5,200 right now!” The crowd burst into laughter. Ethan didn’t even look at me. He walked straight down the stage. After transferring the money on his phone, he gently ruffled the young girl’s hair with pure fondness in his eyes. Only after doing all of this did he finally turn to look at me, his tone completely casual. “Rachel, it was just to liven up the atmosphere. She’s just a kid who likes to play around. Don’t take it personally.” He was absolutely sure that, just like in the past, I would swallow my pride, choke down the humiliation, and let it go. But this time, I picked up the microphone and spoke calmly: “What a coincidence, Ethan.” “How did you know that my wish is exactly the same as yours?”

The laughter in the room stopped instantly. Ethan’s face turned incredibly pale. He was the first to speak, his voice sharp: “Everyone was just joking. Why are you making a scene?” Before I could even reply, he waved his hand dismissively, his tone bordering on cruel: “Our Managing Director, Rachel, has been emotionally unstable lately. I apologize on her behalf.” Chloe tilted her head, looking at me with a sweet, mocking smile: “Could she be going through menopause? Mr. Miller, do you smell that retirement home scent on her when you sleep at night?” After saying that, she quickly covered her mouth, pretending to look innocent. Ethan gave her a fake, gentle scold: “Chloe, don’t talk like that.” But looking at the warmth and indulgence in his eyes, there wasn’t a single shred of real anger in his voice. It was pure, unfiltered favoritism. Chloe easily picked up on Ethan’s protection, which only made her act more spoiled and arrogant. People around us started whispering and snickering, throwing mocking glances at me. A sharp pain pierced my chest, spreading through my entire body. Ten years. I had stayed by his side, watching him go from having absolutely nothing to building a multi-million-dollar company. And yet, all I got in return was him protecting another young girl in public, while dragging my dignity through the mud. I pushed down the bitterness in my throat, took a deep breath, and spoke coldly: “Chloe, for public gambling, defamation, and slander—you should know that I can not only fire you right now, but I can also have my lawyers destroy you.” Chloe’s face turned instantly white. She instinctively hid behind Ethan. The sight of their intimacy burned my eyes. In the next second, Ethan stepped forward. Just like the way he used to protect me, he shielded Chloe completely behind his broad shoulders. “Rachel, cut the boss act. Ten years ago, when you got fired over a stupid two-hundred-dollar mistake and cried your eyes out, weren’t you the one begging?” Looking at him now, I felt nothing but a hollow sense of mockery. Yes. If Ethan hadn’t beaten someone up back then, I wouldn’t have been fired, and I wouldn’t have almost starved to death because I couldn’t afford the rent. Back then, he had cupped my tear-stained face in his hands, his eyes fierce and dead serious as he promised: “If anyone ever dares to disrespect you again, I’ll risk my life to make them pay.” But now, the very man who swore to protect me for the rest of my life was holding up the umbrella for the person stabbing me. How ironic. Ethan didn’t want to argue with me in public anymore. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me into the private VIP lounge next door. He threw me onto the leather sofa. My high heels scraped against my ankle, drawing blood. I gasped in pain. Ethan paused for a second, but his voice remained cold and hard: “You can’t even walk in heels, yet you insist on wearing them. You love making things hard for yourself, no wonder you’re always targeting a young girl.” “If you’re done throwing a tantrum, go home. I have things to take care of.” Without another glance, he turned on his heel and walked out. I sat frozen on the sofa for a long time before finally pulling out my phone. My Snapchat was filled with updates from the company employees. Chloe’s post was right at the top. It had two photos. One was a screenshot of the $5,200 Venmo transfer, captioned: [From the man I admire the most~] The other was a selfie of her and Ethan, standing extremely close. Chloe’s cheeks were flushed, and Ethan was looking down at her with a gentle smile. The comment section was filled with her friends dropping passive-aggressive hints about how I had a horrible temper and lacked any charm. I looked down at the beautiful but painfully tight high heels on my feet, and the truth finally sank in. Some people are meant to share your struggles, but they can never share your success. The warmth we once shared and the vows he made were real. But his current coldness and his betrayal were just as real. I opened my phone. The reservation for the luxury cruise tickets for two was still sitting in my app. I had tried countless times to piece back together this broken, ten-year relationship. But now, with a simple tap of my finger, I canceled Ethan’s ticket. Then, I messaged my divorce lawyer. For the rest of this journey, I would never wait for anyone again.

It was past midnight when I got home. That night, I dreamed of the heavy blizzard from ten years ago. In our tiny, cramped apartment, Ethan and I huddled together for warmth. We had no parents to help us, no wealthy backgrounds, nothing but our own two hands to fight for a future. Back then, I was always insecure because I was five years older than him. But one day, he came home, mysteriously pulled open his shirt, and showed me his chest. It was still bleeding, but my name, Rachel, was freshly tattooed over his heart. His eyes were incredibly bright as he wrapped his arms around me and whispered: “Don’t be scared anymore. If I ever stop loving you, Ethan Miller, my life won’t have any meaning left.” Those days of struggling in the mud and keeping each other warm flashed through my dreams over and over again. When I opened my eyes, I was brought back to the shattered reality of ten years later. Ethan was sitting by the edge of the bed, his voice completely devoid of emotion: “If I don’t come home, you just hide under the blanket and cry? Rachel, would it kill you to just back down for once?” I turned my back to him, refusing to say a word. He let out a heavy sigh, leaned back against the sofa, and said casually: “Rachel, you can’t even get pregnant. Honestly, I’ve already done more than enough for you over the years.” “Besides, I came back to tell you that Chloe is pregnant. Don’t go looking for trouble with her.” His tone was so casual, yet his words stabbed directly into my deepest wound. I bolted up, grabbed the bedside lamp, and hurled it straight at him. My voice shook violently: “Ethan! If I hadn’t walked through a raging blizzard for two hours to secure that contract for your business, my child would be here calling me ‘Mom’ right now!” “How can you even say that to me? Are you even human?!” Perhaps the raw agony on my face was too obvious. Looking at my bloodshot eyes, his expression finally softened slightly. “I can’t spend my entire life tied to a woman who brings nothing to the table anymore. You know how it is. Even the most loyal man gets tired.” Wiping away the tears from the corners of my eyes, I let out a mocking laugh: “What? Do you want me to get down on my knees and thank you?” The annoyance in his eyes flared up again. “Are you done yet? Losing that baby was your own fault for not being careful. You brought that on yourself!” “Chloe is so much younger than you, yet she’s gentle and understanding. Look at yourself now! You’re completely unreasonable!” He slammed the door and left. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. The next morning, the moment I walked into the office, Chloe was already waiting for me. Holding a cup of hot coffee, she gave me a smug, malicious smile: “Rachel, Ethan told me last night to focus on prenatal care for the baby. I guess he’s really sick of women like you~” Without even looking up, I snapped back: “Prenatal care? Teaching the kid how to be a homewrecker just like you?” Chloe’s expression turned nasty. Just as she was about to snap back, she heard Ethan’s footsteps approaching from behind. With a sudden gasp, she threw herself forward, spilling the scalding coffee all over my arm. My skin turned instantly red and began to blister. She grabbed my wrists, her fingernails digging deep into my flesh: “Rachel, I truly came here to apologize. Even if you hate me, please, for the sake of the baby, just let me go!” Ethan kicked my office door open and roared at me: “Rachel! Don’t push your luck! Do you really think you own this place?!” “I’m telling you, if anything happens to Chloe or the baby, I will make you pay!” With that, he scooped Chloe into his arms and walked out in front of everyone. Employees gathered in the hallway, whispering and watching the drama. My arm throbbed with intense pain. A wave of overwhelming despair washed over me, followed by a sudden, sharp pain in my lower abdomen. My vision went black, and I collapsed onto the floor. When I woke up, I was lying in a hospital bed. As I struggled to sit up, a nurse rushed over and gently pushed me back down. She said: “You’re pregnant. You need to rest. Stop working yourself to death.” I froze, staring at her in complete disbelief. Right at that moment, Ethan’s voice echoed from outside the ward.

Ethan pushed the door open, his eyes completely cold. “Rachel, you really love playing the victim, don’t you? The moment Chloe gets hospitalized, you put yourself in a hospital bed too. Are you that desperate for attention?” I looked up at him. For a split second, I wanted to tell him that I was pregnant. But his baseless accusations made me shut my mouth. I had nothing left to say to him. Whatever love and warmth I once had for him had already decayed in my throat after his countless acts of betrayal. Seeing my silence, his expression grew even colder. He turned to leave. “Whatever. Play your little games all you want. I’m not playing along.” The room fell into a dead silence. I slowly placed my hand over my still-flat stomach. The moment I get discharged, I’m taking my baby and leaving. Leaving Ethan, and leaving this place of heartbreak. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I drifted off to sleep. When I woke up again, it was pitch black outside. Standing right beside my bed, holding my pregnancy test results, was Chloe. Sensing that I was awake, she whipped her head toward me, her eyes filled with venom and jealousy. “Rachel, why do you have to ruin everything for me right now?!” I tried to sit up, but my body felt completely drained of energy. Seeing my movement, Chloe assumed I was going to find Ethan. She stepped forward, blocking me, her voice distorted with rage: “You shameless bitch! You refuse to sign the divorce papers, and now you want to use this brat to keep your position?!” I didn’t want to waste my breath on her. I reached out to press the call button on the headboard. But Chloe shrieked and threw herself at me. “Since you won’t listen, you and your little brat can go to hell!” The sudden force of her impact knocked me off balance. I fell off the bed, my lower abdomen slamming violently against the sharp corner of the bedside table. An excruciating pain exploded from my abdomen, radiating through my entire body. As the room spun, I felt a warm gush of fluid between my legs. The ward door was suddenly pushed open, and Ethan rushed in. I saw him frown, stepping toward me. “Ethan… save my baby…” Before I could finish, Chloe grabbed Ethan’s arm tightly. Clutching her own stomach, she sobbed pitifully: “Ethan, don’t blame Rachel… Loving you was my fault to begin with. If punishing me makes her happy, I don’t mind.” “But Ethan, my stomach hurts so bad… Is our baby going to be okay…?” Her tears streamed down her face as she whimpered. Ethan’s face turned incredibly pale. The slight worry in his eyes when he looked at me instantly turned into disgust. “Rachel, just because you lost your baby years ago doesn’t mean everyone has to suffer for your bitterness! You’ve gone too far this time!” “I couldn’t save our first child, but I will not lose this one!” He carefully picked Chloe up in his arms and rushed out of the room. The door slammed shut, leaving me entirely alone. The sticky, warm blood soaked through my clothes. I slowly closed my eyes. I knew this baby was gone too. When I was finally woken up by my phone, it was a voice message from Ethan. There was no apology, no worry. Just a casual, dismissive tone: “Chloe wanted to go to the beach, so I’m taking her trip. No one is watching your little performance anymore, so stop acting.” I slowly put my phone down and placed my hand over my empty stomach. My heart didn’t hurt anymore. There was only a vast, endless numbness. I opened my contacts, found my best friend, Lily, who lived abroad, and transferred all my business shares and assets to her. I had originally wanted to keep some dignity and get a peaceful divorce. But now, there was no need for that.

In the days that followed, besides recovering, I focused entirely on drafting the divorce agreement and finalizing the asset transfer. Once everything was settled, I went back to the apartment to pack my things. The place was a mess, filled with traces of the two of them. I ignored it all and packed quietly. There was no nostalgia, no regret. Halfway through packing, Ethan called. “Chloe is pregnant and it’s not convenient for her to move around. Pack your things and get out. She’s moving in.” I picked up our framed wedding photo from the wall, tossed it into the trash can, and said calmly: “Okay.” Silence fell on the other end of the line. He clearly didn’t expect me to agree so easily. After all, during our ten years together, whenever something like this happened, I would fight him tooth and nail. Ethan’s voice carried a hint of surprise: “This is our wedding house. Have you forgotten?” My hand paused for a second. A bone-chilling coldness swept through me. So he did remember what this home meant to me. Yet, he still chose to trample over my boundaries in the most humiliating way possible. I took a deep breath and said softly: “It’s fine. Do whatever you want.” My compliance seemed to anger him even more. “Fine! Great! Since you don’t care about anything anymore, then hand over your Managing Director position to Chloe too!” I didn’t say another word. I hung up, labeled my boxes, and called the moving company. My cruise was leaving in five hours. Just as I was about to walk out the door, a group of workers pushed their way in and started smashing the place up. I blocked them, frowning: “Who gave you permission to break into my apartment?” One of the workers replied without looking up: “Mr. Miller’s orders. We’re tearing this place down to remodel it exactly how Ms. Chloe wants it.” Right then, Chloe appeared at the doorway with a smug smile on her face: “Rachel, no matter how hard you try, Ethan still chose me in the end. Just give up.” Looking at her arrogant face, I found it hilarious. I didn’t bother arguing with her and walked toward the elevator. But as soon as the doors opened, I ran straight into Ethan. “Where are you going?” he demanded. “Business trip.” Hearing my reply, he relaxed his grip on my arm and said arrogantly: “Don’t think you can skip Chloe’s promotion ceremony by using a business trip as an excuse. You have to be there!” I didn’t even spare him a glance as I stepped into the elevator. After all, how could he know that I would be boarding a luxury cruise this afternoon? And once the cruise trip ended, I would fly straight to the country where Lily lived. I was never coming back. Ethan stared at my retreating figure, his voice filled with threats and spite: “Rachel, you better not regret this! Even if you come back crying and begging me on your knees, I won’t take you back!” The elevator doors closed, heading down. I completely shut out the place that held all my youth and agony. Ethan thought I was just throwing another tantrum and decided to play a game of chicken with me. By the time Chloe’s promotion meeting started, all the company executives had arrived. Chloe clutched her stomach, looking weakly at Ethan: “Ethan, is Rachel not coming because of me? It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have accepted this promotion…” Ethan’s brows furrowed deeply, his face dark with anger. “She’s crossed the line this time, bringing her personal tantrums into a board meeting. When she gets back, I’ll make sure she apologizes to you.” He spoke with absolute certainty, as if I would walk through that door in the next second, crying and admitting my mistakes. Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. The receptionist walked in holding a package. “Mr. Miller, a courier just delivered this. They said it’s a special gift for you and must be signed by you personally.” Ethan’s eyes lit up slightly, and a smirk played on his lips. He was sure this was my way of begging for forgiveness. Once again, he thought he had won. With a hint of anticipation in his voice, he said: “Open it.” The assistant opened the package, but in the next second, her expression froze. Inside, there were no flowers, no apology note. Just two documents. A signed divorce agreement, and a share transfer document.

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In the final split-second of the grouping game, Daphne didn’t hesitate. She shoved me away. For the tenth time that night, she singled Jesse out of the crowd and pulled him into her arms. Jesse—my half-brother, the son of the woman who tore my parents’ marriage apart. She had turned a simple party game into a private chase between the two of them. Her excuse was always the same: “Losers have to take the penalty, Logan. He and his mother treated you like garbage, so I’m just giving him a taste of his own medicine.” But when Jesse, dripping wet and shivering under the giant suspended water bucket, finally broke down and sobbed, her face changed. She lunged forward, throwing her body over his to shield him. The lounge fell dead silent. The look on everyone’s faces made me feel like the ultimate punchline. “Look at how the campus queen looks at his little brother! Are Logan and Daphne even actually together? I swear those relationship photos he posts are AI-generated. Why else has Daphne never once acknowledged them?” “For real, Logan’s Instagram feed is just a collection of a desperate simp’s delusions. It’s wild!” I looked at Daphne, waiting for her to say something, but her eyes were locked entirely on Jesse. Her voice carried a manufactured sharpness: “What are you crying for? Logan didn’t even cry when your mother kicked him and his mom out.” But I saw it. I saw the raw, aching tenderness in her eyes. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, pulled out my phone, and wiped my feed. “You’re right,” I whispered to no one in particular. “Daphne and I were never actually together.” Maybe it was time to listen to my mother, leave the country, and accept the family match she’d arranged for me. … Daphne used to despise home-wreckers. When she first learned that my mother and I had been cast out of our own home because of Jesse and his mother, her protective rage was terrifying. She had literally grabbed a chair, marched over to my father’s office, and cracked his head open. Since then, she’d never given Jesse a single break. She targeted him at every turn, fighting my battles for me. But now, amidst the snickers of our classmates, she was gently, helplessly wiping the tears from my bastard brother’s face. Once Jesse’s sobbing quieted to a whimper, Daphne finally let out a sigh of relief. She slid back over and sat down beside me. “What were you guys talking about?” she asked. Before I could utter a word, our classmates chimed in, their voices dripping with mockery. “We were just saying how you and Logan are basically strangers.” “Yeah, Daphne, did you know? Logan’s been posting couple goals on his feed every other day. Talk about living in a fantasy world. It’s hilarious!” Daphne’s face was half-shadowed by the dim neon lighting of the lounge. Her expression was unreadable, her tone utterly detached. “Really?” she said, swirling her drink. “Then he should probably delete them.” The lounge erupted into a chorus of laughter. “See! I told you! Why would a girl like Daphne ever date a clinger like him?” “Honestly, she and Jesse make way more sense. Enemies to lovers, right?” In the middle of the mockery, my eyes stung with hot, rising tears. Over the last two years, Daphne had never explicitly forbidden me from posting about us. But whenever I begged her to post something in return, she’d always offer the same rehearsed line: “My social media is strictly professional, Logan. It’s for my professors and internship coordinators. It’s not appropriate to post relationship stuff. Your posts are enough for both of us.” So I would settle for the bare minimum, asking her to at least like my photos. She never did. And when I called her out on it, she would pull me close, whispering, “You know I hate scrolling through social media. As long as the people who matter know we’re together, who cares?” And so, for two years, I performed a solo play to an empty theater. Sensing the sudden shift in my mood, Daphne reached under the table, her fingers slipping into mine, squeezing reassuringly. “I was just joking,” she murmured, her voice soft and coaxing. “They’re just being assholes. Don’t take it to heart.” “I just took on a major research project under my adviser. If the department heads think I’m distracted by a public relationship, it’ll hurt my standing.” “Be good, Logan. Just wait until the semester ends, and I’ll explain everything to them.” But this time, the words didn’t soothe me. They felt like hollow, well-worn scripts. My nails bit deep into my palms. Forcing down the sob catching in my chest, I whispered, “Don’t bother.” Right there, in front of her, I opened my profile and deleted every single post, every photo, every mention of her name. I stood up to leave, my hands trembling as I shot a text to my mother across the Atlantic: Mom, I’ll take the flight. I’m ready to move and meet the person you chose for me. The moment I stepped out of the lounge, the cool night air hit me, and the tears I’d been holding back finally broke. Before I could make it to the curb, a firm hand gripped my wrist. It was Daphne, panting slightly. “Logan, where are you going? We agreed I was driving you home!” I wrenched my arm back with everything I had. “Don’t touch me!” Daphne froze, finally seeing the tear tracks shining on my face. Her breath hitched. “Are you seriously crying over a deleted post?” “Daphne, you’re in love with Jesse, aren’t you?” “Are you insane?” she snapped instantly. “He’s the bastard who ruined your family. I despise him!” She stopped, her posture softening as she stepped closer to wrap her arms around me. Her tone turned into that familiar, soothing caress. “Look, I’m sorry. Stop being difficult, let’s just go back inside.” “I’ll go back in there and tell them we’re together, okay? Right now.” Looking into her eyes, I saw the ghost of the girl who had always put me first. I remembered freshman year of high school, when I had slapped Jesse’s mother during an argument and my father locked me in my room for three days without food. It was Daphne who climbed the trellis to my window, sneaking in meals and eventually calling the police to force my father to let us go. Sophomore year, when Jesse played the victim, turning the entire grade against me. Daphne didn’t say a word; she walked right into the classroom, smashed his desk, threw his backpack in the dumpster, and told him, That’s what actual bullying looks like. Junior year, when Jesse lured me up into the mountain trails on a false pretext and abandoned me. Daphne drove all night—ignoring the fact that she had her SATs the next morning—and carried me down the mountain path on her back, step by painful step. Those memories were etched into my bones. My heart wavered, aching with the desperate hope that the girl who carried me through the dark wouldn’t do this to me. “Come on,” she whispered, tugging gently. “Everyone’s waiting. Once this is over, we’ll go home together.” I clenched my fists and let her lead me back into the private room. The second the door swung open, a massive slab of cake slammed directly into my face. Thick icing clogged my nose and mouth, suffocating me. The sugary grease stung my eyes, and the sticky weight of it dragged down my clothes. I stood there, utterly humiliated. As I blindly tried to scrape the frosting from my eyes, the room exploded into vicious laughter. “Oh my god, look at him! That is priceless! He’s actually trying to eat it off his face, that’s disgusting!” “Classic Daphne! One little sweet talk and he comes running back like a puppy. Otherwise, we wouldn’t even have gotten this show!” The shame burned through my chest. Then I saw Daphne. She was leaning against the bar, her shoulders shaking with laughter. My voice shook, thick with tears. “Why?” Before Daphne could answer, Jesse’s smug, lighthearted voice cut through. “Come on, Logan. Everyone took their punishment tonight except you. You ran away. That’s not fair, is it?” “So I asked Daphne to bring you back.” My mind went entirely blank. I stared at Daphne, desperately searching her face, but her warmth had vanished, replaced by a cold, detached look. “Logan,” she said flatly, “if you play the game, you have to follow the rules.” Something inside me shattered, a clean, silent break. She hadn’t brought me back to clear the air. She hadn’t brought me back to declare her love. She brought me back because Jesse said it wasn’t fair. I was brought back to be their entertainment. A soft sigh sounded beside me as a heavy jacket was thrown over my head. Daphne’s voice was neutral, her expression carefully blank. “Clean yourself up. Stop making a scene.” But as the jacket slid down, my eyes caught her exposed collarbone. Written there, in bold, black Sharpie, were the words: Jesse’s property. Daphne noticed where I was looking. She let out a soft, amused scoff. “You missed it. I lost a drinking game to Jesse while you were gone. This was my dare. Kid’s got a weird mind, honestly. I don’t know what goes on in his head.” But Daphne’s tolerance for alcohol was legendary. She was a vault. I remembered a fraternity fundraiser where she systematically drank an entire table of recruiters under the table without her cheeks even flushing. And Jesse? If I remembered correctly, he was severely allergic to alcohol. If Daphne hadn’t wanted to lose, Jesse could never have outdrunk her. When we played games in private, she wouldn’t even let me draw a tiny flower on her wrist. Yet here she was, letting Jesse write something so degrading on her bare skin. The pain in my chest was dull and heavy, like my lungs had been stuffed with cotton. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. But Jesse wasn’t done playing. “Hey, you deserved it for throwing me under the bus earlier! That mark stays on for at least a month, Daphne! I’m getting back at you for everything. If I don’t make you cry by the end of this semester, my name isn’t Jesse!” Daphne smirked. “Oh yeah? Who was the one crying like a lost puppy five minutes ago?” He let out an embarrassed shriek and lunged at her, swatting at her arm. In the scuffle, his shoulder shoved hard against me. I stumbled backward, the sharp edge of the mahogany table cutting violently into my lower back. The pain was so sharp it drew cold sweat on my forehead. Through my blurred vision, I watched them. Daphne was laughing, batting him away, completely oblivious to the fact that I was hurting. The last embers of my hope died. She kept saying she hated him. But her body, her laughter, her focus—they all belonged to him now. The background chatter of the room drifted back in: “Daphne’s basically throwing herself at him. Unlike some people who beg for scraps and still get ignored. If I were Logan, I’d take the hint and leave. It’s embarrassing.” “Wait, if Daphne likes Jesse, why was she always so brutal to him before?” “Dude, you don’t get girls. When you like someone, you pick on them. That way, they’re forced to look at you.” In the past, I would have laughed that off. You don’t hurt the people you love. But now, the truth was staring me in the face. People change. Hearts rot. A notification vibrated in my pocket. It was a flight confirmation from my mother. Logan, the ticket is booked. Tomorrow morning. I looked up at Daphne, who had already forgotten I was in the room, deeply engrossed in a new round of some party game with Jesse. I looked down and typed back: Okay. If her heart had moved on, I didn’t want the leftover pieces anyway. By the time I got back to our shared apartment, the rain was pouring, soaking me to the bone. Daphne’s text thread remained completely silent. She hadn’t even realized I was gone. I briefly thought about sending her a formal breakup text, but decided against it. In the eyes of the world, we had never been together anyway. Then, a special notification popped up. Daphne had posted on her Instagram. It was a photo of two hands, fingers tightly locked. No caption. Immediately beneath it, her roommate had posted a video. In the clip, Daphne and Jesse were holding their breath, their fingers still intertwined. Daphne leaned in, tickling his side, making him squirm and laugh. “You’re cheating! You know I’m ticklish there!” he gasped. The roommate’s caption read: The tension in this room is insane. I am literally screaming! I stared at the screen until my fingers turned white from gripping the phone. So, she was capable of posting her life online. She just didn’t want to post me. I don’t know how long I sat there on the cold hardwood floor. Until the front door was kicked open with a violent bang. Daphne stormed in, her eyes wild with rage. She grabbed my collar, dragging me to my feet, and shoved her phone in my face. “Did you do this? Did you leak the story about Jesse being a bastard? You actually wrote that he’s trying to steal your girlfriend! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? He’s so hysterical he’s threatening to jump!” I looked blankly at the screen. It was an old account of mine that I hadn’t used in years. “I didn’t write that,” I said quietly. “It’s your account! Who else could have done it!” Daphne’s face was flushed, her jaw tight with disgust. “I’ve helped you get back at him so many times, Logan. Isn’t that enough? This is someone’s life! How could you be this petty?” “Delete the post right now, and post a public apology clarifying everything!” My nails dug into my palms. “Clarify? Clarify what, Daphne?” “Even if I did write it, is any of it a lie? Is he not a bastard? Did his mother not destroy my family?” Daphne looked at me like I was a monster. “He was just a kid! He didn’t choose his mother! He shouldn’t have to pay for her sins. If he had a choice, do you think he’d choose to be born illegitimate?” Seeing my silence, her expression went completely cold. “Fine. If you won’t clear his name, I’ll do it myself.” She snatched my phone out of my hand. I lunged to grab it back, but she held it high, pinning me against the wall with her body weight. Right in front of my face, she typed out a statement on my account: Everything I said about Jesse was a lie born out of jealousy. His mother never ruined my family. He is my brother, and Daphne and I were never together. I projected a fantasy of us being in a relationship. My accusations of him being a homewrecker are completely baseless. She pressed send. Then she mass-forwarded it to our entire school group chat. I lost it. I screamed, I thrashed, I pushed her with everything I had. My mother, being overseas, might not see the gossip sites, but she kept an eye on my social feed. If she saw this… the sheer humiliation she would feel on my behalf was too much to bear. I fought wildly to get the phone back, but Daphne caught my wrists and locked them behind my back, trapping me against her chest. “Shh, calm down,” she whispered, her voice suddenly switching back to that tender, suffocating warmth. “Once this blows over, it’ll be fine. Let Jesse’s head clear, and I’ll explain things to everyone. Then we’ll get married, okay? Just you and me.” With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box. Inside was a ring. The ring I had dreamed of for two long years. Tears streamed down my face. I had imagined her proposing a thousand times, but never like this. No romance, no flowers, just a rushed gesture in a cold room, the ring clearly the wrong size. Even when she spoke of marriage, her mind was entirely on saving another man. My phone started ringing, breaking the silence. “Daphne! Jesse’s on the ledge of the dorm window! He won’t come down unless you come right now!” Daphne’s face went pale. She shoved the velvet box into my hand, gave me a hurried, desperate look, and ran out the door without another word. I stood in the empty apartment, the heavy silence settling around me. I looked at the ring, then let out a hollow laugh that quickly turned into a sob. “No, Daphne,” I whispered to the empty hallway. “I’m not marrying you.” I threw the ring directly into the trash can. I slid down to the floor, picked up my phone, and began deleting the post she had forced onto my feed. But the damage was done. The notifications were already pouring in—insults, threats, mockery. With shaking hands, I blocked the incoming messages. Then, I dug through my cloud storage. I found the voice memo from the night Daphne agreed to be my girlfriend. I had been so ecstatic, so afraid she’d take it back, that I made her repeat her confession so I could record it. I never thought I’d use it as a weapon. I uploaded the audio file, alongside the video of Daphne and Jesse tickling each other, to my feed. Underneath, I wrote: You can decide who the real liar is. Daphne and I were together for two years. But as of today, we are done. The internet erupted. Within seconds, Daphne’s name flashed on my screen. I blocked her number immediately, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out to the waiting Uber. As we drove down the highway, I saw her blue sports car speeding in the opposite direction, hurtling toward the apartment. For a brief second, our cars aligned, and I caught a glimpse of her panicked face. Goodbye, Daphne, I thought, looking away. We are finally over.

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The Grand Prophet once foretold that a monstrous serpent would rise and bring ruin to our world. In response, the mortal King decreed a total purge. Every serpent shifter was to be hunted down and slaughtered, leaving none alive. With our clan facing complete annihilation, Grandfather, our Chief, decided to send our deadliest warriors to assassinate the tyrant. I rolled up my sleeves, practically vibrating with excitement as I volunteered for the job. But Grandfather simply patted my shoulder and sighed. “It is not your turn to play the hero, Maisie. Stay in the safety of our mountains and hold down the fort.” I had no choice but to swallow my grand dreams of battlefield glory. But tragedy struck, wave after wave. Garrick, our fiercest Black Mamba shifter; Talia, our deadliest Banded Krait; and even Toby, our master of stealth and camouflage—all of them met their ends at the hands of the tyrant King. Watching Grandfather lose his scales from sheer grief and stress, I couldn’t take it anymore. I scribbled a hasty farewell note and slipped down the mountain in the dead of night. The moment I crossed the ridge, Grandfather’s voice echoed through the canyon in a raw, hysterical screech: “You absolute idiot! You’re a corn snake! You don’t even have your adult fangs yet! What do you think you’re going to do, tickle him to death?!” Years later, I kicked that broody, cold-hearted tyrant clean off the royal mattress. Who says corn snakes are useless little pests? “Go on,” I’d tell him, pointing a finger. “Peel my corn.” … Grandfather’s voice was shredded by the howling mountain wind. I paused, blinking back at the dark peaks. “Was someone calling me?” I spun around twice, heard nothing but the whistling pines, and happily resumed my trek down the slopes. I pumped my fist in the air, a surge of righteous loyalty warming my chest. “Don’t worry, Grandfather! I won’t fail our people. The tyrant’s head is as good as mine!” But when I finally marched into the bustling capital, my heroic confidence evaporated. I stood frozen in the middle of the crowded cobblestone streets, completely lost. Damn it. I had spent so much time asking the elders for assassination techniques that I’d forgotten to ask the most basic question: How do you actually get inside the palace? Was I supposed to shift back into my snake form and slither past the armed guards on the drawbridge? As I crouched in a dusty alleyway, agonizing over my options, a pale, clean-shaven man in a stiff linen coat emerged from around the corner. He was wringing his hands, his voice pitched in a desperate, high-pitched whine. “Ruined! We’re absolutely ruined! One of the new kitchen maids caught the fever and died on the road. If our numbers aren’t complete, the Chief Steward will have my hide!” My eyes snapped wide. A palace recruiter. Just like the stories the elders told. I lunged out of the alley and blocked his path. “Excuse me, sir! Are you looking for staff? What about me? I can do anything—scrub floors, wash dishes, whatever you need! Just get me inside the palace. I need to see the King.” The steward eyed me up and down. A sleazy, split-second grin broke across his pale face, and he patted his chest importantly. “Well, aren’t you an eager little thing? I happen to be a very influential man in His Majesty’s household. Keep me happy, and I won’t just get you a meeting with the King—I’ll get you a ticket straight to his bedchamber!” I was practically vibrating with excitement. I nodded eagerly, trailing behind him like a loyal pup, dreaming of my impending glory. Ten minutes later, I was standing in the scullery of the royal latrines. “This is your new home,” the steward said, his smile entirely gone. He gestured coldly toward rows of wooden chamber pots lined up in the corner, radiating a stench so foul it made my eyes water. “From today on, you’re on chamber-pot duty. Thirty pots a day. No food until they’re spotless.” I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But… you said you’d take me to the King?” He didn’t even bother to look back as he swept out of the room. The other kitchen maids in the room burst into cruel, mocking laughter. “Look, girls, another gullible idiot fallen for old Higgins’s lies! A pot-scrubber wanting to see the King? Keep dreaming, honey!” I squeezed the rough scrubbing rag in my hand, my knuckles turning white. For the Clan. For the mission. I can endure this. I scrubbed. I scrubbed from the first light of dawn until the stars claimed the sky. By the time the last wooden pot gleamed in the dim candlelight, I sniffed my fingers and nearly gagged on the spot. Curse that rotten tyrant. Tonight, he pays for this indignity with his life. I stretched my aching neck, took a deep breath, and let the magic take over. My bones softened, my skin tightened, and my clothes fell away as I shifted into my true form—a small, vibrant corn snake, patterned in brilliant shades of red and orange. During my endless shifts, I had kept my ears open, piecing together a map of the estate from the maids’ idle gossip. I slithered along the cold stone baseboards, a silent, colorful shadow slipping undetected into the King’s private wing. I squeezed through a crack in the heavy oak window and slipped into the room. Sitting by the hearth, bathed in the warm glow of a desk lamp, was a man reviewing royal ledgers. He was stunning. Dark, sharp eyebrows, a nose carved like marble, and a jawline that could cut glass. I froze on the carpet, subconsciously swallowing a sudden pool of saliva. Get a grip, Maisie. I mentally pinched myself. This gorgeous creature is a cold-blooded monster who slaughters your people for sport. Kill him. I coiled my small body, aiming directly for the exposed, pale skin of his throat. With a silent prayer to our ancestors, I launched myself through the air. A split second later, two cool, incredibly strong fingers clamped around my neck, pinning my head in place. Wait. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I went completely rigid. Garrick, who was a master of the coil, had spent hours training me back home. He would pat my head and say, “Listen to me, little Maisie. Once our kind wraps around a beast’s throat, there is no escaping. You squeeze until their ribs crack and their lungs collapse. They die before they even realize what’s happening.” But theory and reality were violently clashing. I thrashed wildly, my tail whipping against his forearm in a desperate attempt to gain leverage. The two fingers holding me didn’t even twitch. Gideon raised his other hand, idly flicking the tip of my tail with his index finger. His voice was a low, amused drawl. “Where did you crawl out from, you foolish little thing?” Every single scale on my body flared in sheer indignation. Suddenly, the King’s brow furrowed. He brought me closer to his face, sniffing slightly, and his expression dissolved into pure disgust. “Why do you smell so foul? Did you fall into a cesspool?” Without another word, he wound my body into a tight, neat spiral—like a ball of yarn—and dropped me unceremoniously into a silver basin filled with fresh water. “Clean yourself up before you try to kill me again.” I thrashed in the water, cursing his entire royal bloodline to the heavens. But my small size made the simple task of untangling myself an absolute nightmare. I spent the entire night twisting, turning, and wrestling with my own knotted tail. By the time the horizon began to bleed gold, I finally managed to straighten my spine. Gasping for air, I propped my chin on the edge of the silver basin, only to find myself staring directly at the sleeping face of the King. Leaving an assassin loose in his chambers while he sleeps? He is as arrogant as he is foolish. I glided silently over the rim, climbing up the velvet bedpost and creeping onto the silk pillows beside his head. Talia’s voice echoed in my mind: “Our fangs carry the ultimate kiss of death, Maisie. One prick, and their heart stops before they can even scream.” I lunged forward, opening my mouth as wide as it would go, and bit down on his bottom lip with all the force my tiny body could muster. The King’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He simply reached up, plucked me off his face, and used his thumb to pry my jaw open. “You don’t even have your adult fangs yet, little pest,” he murmured, a slow, mocking smirk spreading across his lips. I glared at him, hissed, and tried to look as menacing as possible. Gideon tilted his head, bringing his face so close I could see my own bright, chubby reflection in his dark eyes. “Keep looking at me like that, and I’ll have the kitchens turn you into snake soup.” I froze. My eyes snapped shut, my tail tucked tightly against my belly, and I went limp, playing dead with absolute, shameless commitment. A soft, low chuckle vibrated above me. I peeked through a tiny slit in my eyelids, catching the thoughtful glint in Gideon’s eyes. He suddenly turned toward the door and called out, “Guards!” My stomach plummeted. A young servant rushed into the room, bowing deeply. “Your Majesty?” Gideon lifted me by the tail, dangling me like a piece of colorful rope. “Take this thing out and dispose of it.” Dispose of me? Soup? Skinning? Cold dread washed over me. I immediately flipped onto my back, let my tongue loll out of my mouth, and tried to look like a shriveled piece of jerky. “Oh dear, is it already dead?” the young servant gasped, recoiling slightly. Gideon glanced at my pathetic performance. The corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “If it’s dead, throw it in a jar of spirits. It’ll make a fine medicinal wine.” The servant gingerly scooped me up and turned to leave. The moment we crossed the threshold into the cool hallway, I launched myself out of his hands, landing on the stone floor with a soft splat before vanishing into the shadows of the corridor. “Ah! It’s escaped!” the servant shrieked behind me. I fled through the maze of hallways, not slowing down until I scrambled back into the safety of my smelly latrine scullery. Only then did my racing heart begin to settle. Gideon was terrifyingly sharp. No wonder our first three assassins had failed so miserably. I curled up in the corner of the room, resting my chin on my knees, deeply analyzing my tactical errors. Direct force and venom were clearly out of the question for a harmless corn snake shifter. I needed to adapt. I needed to study Toby’s method of stealth and infiltration. But as I looked down at my reflection in a bucket of water, my heart sank. Bright orange and red scales, decorated with bold, festive yellow saddles. I looked like a walking holiday lantern. If I tried to hide in the grass, I’d be visible from a mile away. My snake form was useless for stealth. I bit my lip and made a decision: I would have to use my human form. For the next week, I pushed my body to its absolute limits. By day, I scrubbed my thirty chamber pots; by night, I slipped out to shadow the King, studying his schedule. Eventually, I noticed a pattern. When he worked in his private study late at night, he dismissed all his guards and advisors. A perfect, moonless night. The ultimate time for a strike. I slipped into a makeshift suit of black clothes I’d sewn from discarded rags. Crawling beneath the shadows, I reached the exterior wall of his study just as the sentries rounded the far corner. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the stone windowsill and hoisted myself up to climb through. I shoved the glass panes open with a sharp clatter. But I had vastly overestimated my physical agility. I ended up hopelessly wedged in the window frame, my legs dangling outside while my upper body spilled into the bright, warm study. The room was ablaze with candlelight. Gideon sat behind his grand desk, surrounded by several high-ranking ministers in formal robes. They were clearly in the middle of an incredibly important council meeting. Every single eye in the room snapped to me. The silence that followed was suffocating. “Uh, hi,” I offered, letting out a nervous, high-pitched chuckle. “Busy night, huh? Keep up the good work!” I frantically tried to wiggle backward out of the frame. I had just managed to get one leg back over when Gideon’s smooth, dry voice cut through the air: “Arrest her.” The guards lunged. Panic seized me. I thrashed wildly, but the cheap fabric of my makeshift black suit caught on a heavy iron latch, pinning me in place. Seeing the guards closing in, I tore myself free with a desperate wrench of my body. I fell backward, landing hard on the muddy grass outside. Before the guards could burst through the palace doors, I willed my body to shift back into my colorful snake form. But just as I made a mad dash for the shrubbery, a long, elegant hand descended from above, pinning me expertly by the neck. “You again?” I looked up into Gideon’s handsome, mocking face. He held me up to his eyes, examining my bright scales as if I were a particularly amusing clockwork toy. The guards came rushing around the corner, only to find a pile of torn black rags on the ground. “Forgive us, Your Majesty. The assassin has vanished.” Gideon waved them off with an indifferent shrug. “Let it go. Any assassin who gets stuck in a window frame is hardly a threat to the crown. Besides,” he added, glancing down at my plump midsection, “judging by her proportions, I suspect she was merely trying to raid the royal pantry.” I snapped, sinking my tiny, toothless mouth onto his index finger. Threaten my life all you want, but do not insult my figure! Unfortunately, no matter how hard I clamped down, I couldn’t even break his skin. Gideon ran his thumb down my spine, tracing the vibrant orange patterns of my scales. “I’ve been needing a new belt,” he mused, a dangerous spark in his eyes. “Since you’re so fond of sneaking into my quarters, I think I’ll keep you.” Before I could react, he wrapped my long, supple body around his waist and tied me in a loose, secure knot. The sheer humiliation of it. A proud warrior of the serpent clan, reduced to a tyrant’s belt accessory. I wanted more than anything to bite him, but every time I squirmed, the knot tightened, squeezing the breath right out of me. After a few futile struggles, I gave up, letting my tail dangle limply against his thigh, swaying with the rhythm of his steps as he walked back inside. My life went completely off the rails after that night. Whether Gideon found me genuinely amusing or simply wanted to torture me, he refused to go anywhere without his new “accessory.” During morning court, I was wrapped around his wrist, masquerading as an exotic orange bracelet. During meals, I was coiled neatly beside his plate, presented with a silver saucer of small, harmless crickets (which I flatly refused to touch). At night, he left me on the silk pillow right beside his head, completely unbothered by the fact that I was technically his sworn enemy. One morning, as I was dozing off around his wrist, a cold, grating voice echoed through the Great Hall, snapping me awake. “Your Majesty, the serpent plague remains a threat to our realm. I have read the stars, and the dark magic of the serpent clan still lingers. If we do not tear them out by the roots, they will bring ruin to your throne.” My eyes snapped open. Standing in the center of the hall was an old man in flowing black robes, holding a silver staff. It was Grand Prophet Lucius, the architect of our clan’s misery. “I implore you, Your Majesty, double our forces. Every serpent, from the grandest python to the smallest hatchling, must be put to the sword.” Rage surged through me, hot and suffocating. This was the man who had ordered the slaughter of my family. I squeezed Gideon’s wrist in a tight, furious grip. Sensing my sudden agitation, Gideon calmly laid his other hand over me, his thumb gently stroking the top of my head to soothe me. “I hear your concerns, Prophet. We shall discuss this at a later date.” Lucius frowned, stepping forward. “But Your Majesty, this is a matter of urgent—” “Court is dismissed,” Gideon interrupted, rising from his throne without another word. I peeked out from the edge of his sleeve, flicking my tongue toward Lucius as we swept past him. That afternoon, Lucius left the palace for his private manor. Waiting until Gideon was deeply engrossed in his paperwork, I slipped down his sleeve, sliding along the baseboards and out into the gardens. Lucius was a cunning old fox; physical force or brute strength would never work on him. But during my time spent clinging to the King, I had observed the royal physicians and managed to swipe a pouch of powerful sleeping powder used to treat Gideon’s occasional insomnia. I had stolen a massive dose. I would knock the old bastard out cold, and then I’d find a way to finish him. Keeping to my snake form to avoid detection, I carried the pouch in my mouth, trailing Lucius through the winding, quiet streets of the capital. When he finally turned down a deserted alley, I coiled my tail and launched myself through the air, flinging the pouch directly at his face. But Lucius didn’t flinch. A sickening, cruel grin stretched across his wrinkled face. He whipped out a heavy silk fan and gave it a sharp, powerful flick. The entire cloud of sleeping powder was blown straight back into my face. The world began to spin. My vision blurred, my muscles went limp, and I collapsed onto the cold stone path with a soft plop. A sharp, agonizing pain flared in my tail. Lucius ground his heavy boot down on my lower body, twisting his heel with slow, deliberate cruelty. He looked down at me, his voice dripping with malice. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you tailing me, you pathetic little worm?” I thrashed in agony, but the pressure only intensified, crushing my delicate scales. “A mere corn snake trying to take my life?” he hissed, raising his boot to hover directly over my head. “I could crush you like a common garden slug.” He smiled, his boot slowly descending. My vision began to go dark, my lungs screaming for air. Just as the sole of his boot was about to crush my skull, a calm, commanding voice echoed down the alleyway: “That is my pet you’re stepping on, Prophet. And I get incredibly displeased when people break my toys.”

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As we passed our old high school, Wright suddenly spoke. “Georgia, let’s call off the wedding. It’s in three days, I know, but…” My expression remained flat. “For a trainwreck who can’t keep herself out of trouble?” Wright’s eyes flared with warning. “No matter how much of a mess she is, I’ll always be there to clean up after her. As long as her feelings for me are real.” I stared at this man I had loved for nine years. Finally, I smiled and nodded. “Fine. Then I hope you get exactly what you want—a trainwreck’s pure, unadulterated heart.” Nine years of devotion. The love had died a slow death long ago. It was time to go home, inherit the family empire, and marry the childhood ward my grandfather had groomed to be my husband. …….. Wright’s cool, detached eyes flickered in surprise. He hadn’t expected someone as notoriously rigid and proper as me to speak with such biting sarcasm. Then his lips curved downward into a frown. “Georgia, I admit I’ve wasted nine years of your life. But I hope you won’t let jealousy drive you to do something that hurts her.” He didn’t bother to examine the shift in my demeanor. He simply chalked it up to bitter, ugly envy. I looked at this man. The man I had chased for nearly a decade, whose love I could never quite grasp. Suddenly, the whole thing felt incredibly hollow. He used to say we both needed to work hard for our future together. But in reality, he had just stood by, coldly watching me sink deeper and deeper into a relationship I couldn’t escape. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care about my soul, my hopes, or my quiet suffering. To him, I was just a walking stereotype—the rigid, disciplined heiress bound by duty and etiquette. I was boring. Not even half as exciting as his precious scarlet letter. I used to think that even if he strayed, he would eventually find his way back to the right path. That we would face the world together as partners. Now I saw the truth. Some people are just destined to remain in the gutter. “Wright, I knew you wouldn’t forget our nine-year promise.” A tall woman in a striking scarlet dress stepped out from behind him. Jet-black hair, blood-red lips—she was breathtakingly, aggressively beautiful. She carried herself with an easy, untamed confidence, sliding her hand effortlessly around Wright’s arm. “I heard you finally gave up on me and were getting married. Why didn’t I get an invitation? And if you’re really tying the knot, why did you come to meet me today?” Scarlett’s barrage of questions made the usually taciturn Wright flush a deep crimson. He answered in a panicked rush: “Who said I was getting married? It’s completely untrue.” As the words left his mouth, he cast a tense, guilty glance at me, terrified I would expose his lie. I lowered my head, hiding the bitter smirk playing on my lips. “He’s right. It’s entirely untrue.” No wonder Wright—who was supposed to go wedding dress shopping with me today—had suddenly taken a detour to our old school. Scarlett tossed her long hair back with a carefree laugh. “Georgia, honestly, you’re hopeless. I gave you nine years, and you still couldn’t lock him down? If I were you, I would’ve just pounced on him the way I did back in the day.” If I hadn’t known Scarlett’s true colors, I might have actually believed she was just a bright, free-spirited beauty. She smiled, reminiscing about the past. Wright reached out to hold her hand, his tone firm: “I’m not the kind of guy who settles for just anyone.” I didn’t believe a word of what Wright usually said, but that statement? I agreed with it completely. Even when Scarlett had cheated on him a dozen times with wealthy patrons to secure her modeling career—getting caught red-handed in hotel rooms more times than I could count—Wright had remained fiercely, pathetically loyal, begging her not to leave him. You have to understand, Wright came from old money. He was notoriously proud, cold, and untouchable; most people couldn’t even get him to spare them a glance. Yet Scarlett could pull his heartstrings with a single look, making him lose his absolute mind. Scarlett smiled seductively, leaning into him. “Didn’t you say you wanted to show me what it feels like to ride in a Maserati again? Let’s see if you’re still as good as you used to be.” Wright’s eyes darkened with raw desire. He didn’t even try to reject the invitation. I watched them walk away hand in hand. I didn’t say a word to stop them. When I was seventeen, my grandfather bypassed my greedy, vulture-like uncles and handed me my first major project as a test for the family inheritance. But my first campaign was publicly exposed for plagiarism. Wright, representing our partner firm, mobilized his own resources to prove someone had deliberately copied and leaked my pitch. A classic damsel-in-distress rescue. Cliche, but incredibly effective. I fell head over heels for this quiet, serious, meticulous man. We both carried the crushing expectations of our families. In the eyes of high society, we were the perfect golden couple. When Wright’s mother was driven to suicide by his father’s mistress trying to force her way into the estate, I used my family’s PR machine to block the mistress from taking her place. When his illegitimate half-brother tried to steal his shares, I helped him land a massive international client, securing his position. When he was diagnosed with a rare, aggressive form of cancer and admitted to the ICU, I wrote him letters by hand every single day, pulling strings to get them delivered to his sterile room. I was naturally quiet and reserved, but I spent hours scouring the internet for jokes, reading them over and over until I laughed out loud, just so I could write them down and coax a smile from him. Over three years of cancer treatments, I wrote a thousand letters. I stood outside that ICU window, watching him in secret, a thousand times. The day his cancer went into complete remission, Wright wrote back to me for the very first time: My life was as flat and colorless as water, but meeting you made it burn. We had walked through the valley of death together. It was indeed a burning, passionate survival story. I thought our silent bond didn’t need to be spoken. I thought we were partners, chosen for life. But then Scarlett burst into our lives like a force of nature. On the day he was discharged, Scarlett, carrying a bundle of fiery red roses, collided straight into his chest. She laughed and said, “Hey handsome, you broke my flowers. You have to pay me back. These were meant for my sweetheart, but since they’re in your hands now, I guess you’re my sweetheart!” He had frowned, but he hadn’t pushed her away. At the time, I didn’t realize that single collision had knocked her straight into Wright’s heart. If I had known, I would have thrown myself between them without hesitation. After that, Scarlett pursued Wright relentlessly. She held up massive signs in public, filled his driveway with elaborate flower arrangements. Wright went from frowning and avoiding her to smiling the moment she entered the room. Finally, in front of the entire student body, Scarlett presented him with a giant cardboard box. Wright had rubbed his temples, a helpless, indulgent smile on his face. “Fine, I give in. Just stop making a scene.” But Scarlett opened the box. “Give in to what? I’m just delivering your lunch. Pay up.” Wright’s face flushed. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her deeply. “Stop playing with me.” Three months. In three months, Scarlett did what I couldn’t do in three years. Since then, Scarlett loved to flaunt her hold over him in front of me. “I heard you two have known each other forever. You don’t still think of him as your cold, older-brother figure, do you? Let me tell you a secret. That untouchable prince of yours? To me, he’s just a toy.” Wright didn’t feel insulted. He would just affectionately ruffle her hair and say, “You’d better play with me for the rest of your life.” Scarlett would slap his cheek playfully, her eyes dripping with triumph. “Do they know that the great, dignified Wright Geller is just a begging dog when he’s with me?” Wright would stare at the love bites on her neck, his smile wild and reckless. “Then you’d better tell them I’m a dog that bites.” Scarlett would hit him in mock annoyance, and they would kiss passionately, completely ignoring my presence. Then she’d look at me. “And what about your dear ‘sister’ here? I hear you two have been partners in crime for years. Everyone in town thinks you’re a couple.” Wright’s brow would furrow with undisguised disgust. “Being with someone as stiff and boring as her doesn’t compare to being ruined by a beautiful mess like you.” It felt like a physical blow to my chest, stealing my breath. He proved it with his actions. Even after Scarlett humiliated and betrayed him countless times, he never looked at me. He was willing to throw his dignity away, punching her new boyfriends, getting into ruinous fights with her wealthy sponsors, dragging his own reputation through the mud. He refused to let go. But his burning obsession couldn’t keep her. “I just wanted to see what it felt like to tame the untouchable bachelor,” she told him one day. “I’m bored now. Bye.” That night, she posted a picture on a luxury yacht, wrapped in the arms of an international media mogul, captioned: [Next goal: Becoming his muse.] Scarlett repeated her tricks, chasing after the billionaire, turning herself into a joke across two continents. Wright didn’t say a word. He simply brought me a business proposal: “Didn’t you say we were partners? Help me regain my position in the company. When this is over, there will only be you by my side.” … Women always have this savior complex. For nine long years, I thought I was dragging Wright out of the quicksand. I helped him secure sole control of the Geller empire. But to him, that success was just leverage to win Scarlett back. I used to feel so bitter. How could I lose to someone so shallow? Now, I just felt thoroughly disgusted. If he wanted to chain himself to a toxic wreck, then I wished them a lifetime of misery together. May they never set each other free. The news of Wright canceling our wedding swept through our social circles. Many mocked me behind my back for being a pathetic, desperate hanger-on who got dumped at the finish line. My grandfather called me. “Are we still going ahead with the wedding?” I gave a quiet hum of agreement. Grandfather sighed softly. “If you don’t want to, sweetheart, we can call it off. I won’t force you.” My voice was light, untroubled. “A stray dog can never compare to a loyal, well-trained hound at home, Grandpa. Besides, if I don’t get married, my uncles will keep circling the estate like vultures. I’ve played this game long enough. It’s time to settle down. The wedding goes on. There’s no reason to waste a multi-million-dollar ceremony just because the groom ran away. We’ll just swap him out. It’s no big deal.” In our world, true love is a luxury few can afford. I had accepted that reality long ago. I went to my final bridal fitting alone. The moment I walked in, I noticed the sales associates looking at me with absolute dread and embarrassment. Sensing something was wrong, I stepped deeper into the boutique. The wedding dress—the one my mother had custom-ordered for me the year I was born—was currently draped over Scarlett. I turned to the manager, my voice cold. “Who gave permission to let someone try on a gown stored under the Lawson family name?” A sales girl rolled her eyes at me. “The Lawson family? This is Mr. Geller’s future wife’s dress. Everyone knows your engagement is off, so what does this dress have to do with you? Can’t even keep her own man, yet she’s trying to claim a priceless designer gown.” The girl stepped in front of me, physically blocking me from touching the fabric. I let out a dry, cold laugh, looking past her to Wright. “I wasn’t aware this dress had a new owner.” Wright, dressed in a matching tailored tuxedo, didn’t look even remotely guilty. He spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world: “Scarlett is the wife I’ve chosen.” He slid a black Amex card onto the counter. “There’s five million on here. Consider it payment for the gown. Don’t make a scene.” Scarlett giggled, covering her mouth. “Oh, Wright, even if this thing were dripping in real diamonds, it wouldn’t be worth five million. You really do spoil me.” Having no interest in their cheap theater, I walked past Wright, my face expressionless. “Take it off.” Wright stepped in front of me, a warning in his eyes. “Georgia, don’t force me to play dirty with you.” I smiled. The moment Wright decided to cancel our wedding and humiliate my family, we were already past the point of civility. “I won’t repeat myself. Take. It. Off. Or I’ll gladly strip your sweetheart naked right here in front of everyone, so they can get a good look at her famous figure.” Scarlett knew I wasn’t bluffing. She pouted, suddenly playing the victim. “Fine, Wright. Since Georgia wants it so badly, I’ll just let her have it.” I refused to play into her hands. “Who knows if you’ve already ruined it. I want to watch you take it off.” I didn’t trust Scarlett as far as I could throw her. Wright glared at me, his eyes burning with hatred, as if I had subjected his precious angel to some unspeakable torture. “Georgia!” Scarlett let out a triumphant smirk and pulled me into the fitting room. “Sure, then. Come watch.” I kept quiet, watching her slide the zipper down. She exposed her flawless skin and suddenly spoke: “Do you want to know why Wright would rather be my dog than look at you? Because to him, I’m the one who wrote him those thousand letters when he was dying of cancer. I’m his entire survival story.” I froze, staring at her in utter disbelief. Her grin widened. “You stayed by his side for all those years. You blocked his dad’s mistress after his mother died. You saved his inheritance. So why couldn’t you stay with him when he needed you most? Why did you give up on writing those letters?” She looked at me with the smug satisfaction of a victor. “Did you really think Wright kept you around for nine years out of affection? No, Georgia. He kept you around because he hated you. He hated you for leaving him halfway. He hated that your love wasn’t strong enough to stay.” A cold numbness spread from my chest to my fingertips. Everything in the last nine years had been a massive, tragic misunderstanding. Scarlett stepped closer, smiling. “It’s maddening, isn’t it? You were the one who wrote the letters. You were the one who pulled strings to get him the best oncologists when his family gave up on him. But he thinks it was me.” I stared at her, my hands shaking. She tilted her head innocently. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t steal your credit. Wright assumed it all on his own from the moment I ran into him. He said you were too stiff and boring to ever write such beautiful, funny letters. He said only someone as wild and vibrant as me could have saved his soul.” At that moment, I felt a wave of profound, pathetic irony. No verification. No questions. Wright had simply decided that Scarlett was his savior because she fit the fantasy. Suddenly, Scarlett raised her hands and violently slapped her own cheeks. She dragged her nails down her collarbone, leaving angry red welts, and began to shriek: “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have touched your dress! I’m so dirty, I’m just a terrible person!” Wright burst through the door. Seeing Scarlett disheveled, crying, and covered in scratches, his face contorted in rage. He raised his hand and slapped me across the face. My head spun from the force of the blow, and I stumbled against the wall. “Georgia! I’m the one who called off the wedding! If you have a problem, take it out on me!” Remembering what Scarlett had just told me, I opened my mouth to speak. I wanted to ask him if he would feel a single shred of remorse if he knew the truth. But before I could speak, he cut me off: “You insisted on coming in here just because there are no cameras. You wanted to hurt her! Well, you got what you wanted. Are you happy now?” He pulled out his phone right in front of me and dialed a number. “Announce it to the press immediately. I am marrying Scarlett Young. From this day forward, if anyone so much as touches a hair on her head, they answer to me!” He glared at me. “If you ever go near my wife again, I will destroy the Lawson family if it’s the last thing I do!” He took off his tuxedo jacket, wrapped it around Scarlett, and ushered her out. The store owner, who had rushed over after being alerted by the staff, began apologizing profusely: “I am so sorry, Miss Lawson. I was out of the boutique today and didn’t brief the staff properly. I will personally resolve this misunderstanding with your fiancé.” She looked pale, terrified that this disaster would get her blacklisted from the entire luxury industry. “Don’t bother. He is not my fiancé.” I wasn’t going to take my anger out on an employee. I merely said, “Clean the gown. I’ll need it in three days.” The manager blinked. “But… isn’t the wedding off?” “The wedding is on schedule,” I replied coldly. “But you’ll need to size up the groom’s tuxedo. My new fiancé is three inches taller.”

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I was adjusting my bow tie in the dressing room of our engagement party when Ruth brought that impoverished junior from her college inside. “Troy got his suit dirty,” she said, her voice breezy, as if she were asking to borrow a pen. “Let him wear yours for a bit.” I froze, my fingers still tangled in the silk. She offered a small, dismissive shrug. “Everyone knows you’re the groom today anyway, Christopher. It doesn’t matter what you wear.” Troy stood hovering near the doorway. His canvas sneakers were scrubbed raw, practically fraying at the seams, and he looked down at his feet, offering a quiet, nervous, “Hey, Christopher.” Wayne stepped in front of me, his chest rising. “This is Christopher’s engagement party, Ruth. He went to thirty different shops to find this bespoke Italian suit. He’s been waiting months for it!” Ruth didn’t look at Wayne. She looked at me. It was a look I knew too well. For five years, whenever her eyes softened into that silent, pleading pressure, I was the one who stepped back. I was always the one who surrendered. I placed a hand on Wayne’s arm, gently pushing him down, and slowly unfastened my silver cufflinks. “Let him have it,” I said. Ruth smiled, a small, satisfied curve of her lips, and patted my cheek. “I knew you’d understand. I promise we’ll get you the absolute best custom suit for the wedding.” When Troy changed into my suit, Ruth leaned in, her fingers smoothing the lapels and adjusting the shoulders. “You look so handsome, Troy,” she murmured softly. I watched her, a cold knot tightening in my chest. I remembered that exact gesture. During our wedding photoshoot, the photographer had asked her to do the same for me, but she had brushed it off, calling it too cheesy for public display. I reached down and slid the engagement ring off my finger. This time, I was done being understanding. … “Who is this young man? He looks so sharp.” Ruth’s aunt was standing by the neighboring table, holding Troy’s hand and looking him up and down with an approving smile. Troy kept his head low, a faint, self-conscious smile touching his lips. Before he could speak, Ruth slid into the conversation. “He’s my junior from school,” she said smoothly. “His family has had a rough time lately. His clothes got ruined in an accident, and Christopher felt bad for him, so he insisted Troy wear his suit.” Her aunt nodded, her gaze drifting over to where I stood in my plain, off-the-rack gray blazer. “But why is Christopher dressed like that? For an engagement party, it’s… a bit casual, isn’t it?” “Christopher doesn’t care about things like that,” Ruth replied quickly, her hand reaching out to find my arm. “He’s the most generous man I know.” As her fingers brushed my sleeve, I took a half-step sideways. Her hand fell through the empty air. She blinked, startled. “What’s wrong?” I kept my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.” Wayne grabbed my elbow from behind and pulled me into the quiet shadow of the hallway corner. “Are you seriously just going to let this slide?” he hissed. “What do you want me to do, Wayne?” “Go out there! Tell everyone that’s your suit, that he’s a nobody, and that you’re the one she’s marrying!” I looked at his flushed face, the raw frustration in his eyes. “You’re more upset than I am, man.” “Of course I am!” Wayne’s voice cracked. “Do you have any idea what they’re saying at her table?” He pulled out his phone, tapping frantically before turning the screen toward me. It was an Instagram story posted by one of Ruth’s college friends. In the frame, Troy stood in my bespoke suit on Ruth’s right, her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder. In the background, someone was teasing, “The groom looks so handsome!” Troy merely blushed, keeping his eyes down, offering no correction. Ruth didn’t deny it either; she just laughed and waved a hand at the camera. Underneath the post, a comment read: Ruth’s fiancé is so sweet and innocent. It already had thirty likes. No one had corrected them. I swallowed the dry bitterness in my throat, handed the phone back to Wayne, and turned off the screen. From the banquet hall, another wave of laughter drifted out. Troy was being pulled into a toast. He handled the crowd gracefully, tilting his glass slightly as he leaned in to speak. I had taught him that. Just last month, he had confessed how terrified he was of formal business dinners. I had spent an entire afternoon showing him how to hold a glass, how to stand, how to navigate a room. “Call me an Uber, Wayne.” “You’re not going back in?” “There’s nothing left for me in there.” I walked over to the guest registry table. The silver engagement band felt heavy in my palm as I set it down next to the guestbook. The wood was slightly dusty, and the ring settled with a tiny, sharp clink. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an Instagram notification. Ruth had posted. “Thank you to everyone who made tonight so special.” There were three photos. The first was a wide shot of the glittering hall; the second was her laughing with her bridesmaids; and the third… Troy, smiling brilliantly in my suit. She had tagged him. The caption read: Huge thanks to Troy for keeping things running tonight. Couldn’t have done it without you. My name wasn’t in the post. I wasn’t in any of the photos. I turned the screen off and pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. When I crossed the street, the warm, golden light of the banquet hall was still burning. Even from the far curb, the music and the muffled laughter reached me through the damp night air. Before opening the cab door, I looked back one last time. Ruth was standing on the hotel steps, her head bent over her phone. Troy stepped out from behind her, gently draping his dark coat over her bare shoulders. She pulled the collar tight around her neck. It was a natural, fluid gesture. It looked like a habit. “Christopher, you left your ring on the registry table.” It was two in the morning when Ruth’s call came through. Her voice was steady, free of any real alarm. “I know.” “Well, I went ahead and kept it for you. I’ll put it back on your finger tomorrow.” She paused, her tone softening into that gentle, placating register she used when she wanted to smooth things over. “I know today was hard on you. Troy’s suit really was an emergency, but everyone saw how mature and understanding you were.” “Ruth, let’s break up.” The line went dead silent for three long seconds. Then, a soft, breathy laugh came through the speaker. “Christopher, come on. I know you’re hurt about the suit, but a breakup? Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” “I’m serious.” “You always throw the word ‘breakup’ around when you’re sulking,” she said, her patience returning like a mother dealing with a stubborn child. “Fine. When you’re done being angry, call me. I’ll come over.” “Ruth—” “Be good, Christopher. Tomorrow I’ll take you to that sushi place uptown. The one you’ve been begging to go to.” I didn’t answer. After a quiet moment, her voice dropped, turning cool and sharp. “Christopher, it’s been five years. When have you ever actually had the courage to leave me?” The question hung in the quiet room. I didn’t have an answer for her. She truly believed I would never go. I ended the call. Wayne walked out of his kitchen, carrying a mug of warm water, and sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “What did she say?” “She said she’s coming to find me.” “Are you going to see her?” “No.” He opened his mouth to speak, took one look at my face, and quietly closed it. I stared down at the dark screen of my phone. Her contact name was still saved as Ruth with a tiny sun emoji beside it, a detail I’d put there five years ago. We had just started dating then. She had waited for me outside my dorm in the middle of a brutal November freeze, clutching a small, cheap plastic hand warmer to her chest to keep it warm. Her cheeks had been bright pink from the wind. Your roommate told me your hands get so stiff from drawing in the cold, she had said, her voice shaking slightly from the chill. I had told her she didn’t need to worry, that I was fine, that guys didn’t need things like hand warmers. But she had laughed, forcing the warm plastic into my palms and wrapping her small, frozen fingers around mine. With me, you don’t have to pretend to be tough. If you’re cold or tired, you tell me. Back then, her eyes had been so bright, so full of a fierce, protective warmth that made me feel entirely safe. Wayne broke the silence. “Do you remember when she actually started to change?” I thought about it for a long long time, tracing the memories back through the years. “I don’t,” I whispered. Maybe it was the afternoon Troy first showed up at her office, red-eyed and trembling because he couldn’t afford his tuition. Or maybe it was the first time she looked at me and said, “Just let him have this, Christopher. You have so much more than he does.” The shift had been glacial. A fraction of an inch every day, so small it was impossible to measure, until one day I woke up and realized there was nothing left of the woman I loved. Wayne stood up and tossed a thick blanket over my lap. “Don’t go back to your place tonight. Just crash here.” “Thanks.” At three in the morning, the phone lit up again. It rang three times before going dark. She didn’t call back. She believed one night of silence would be enough to cure my anger. She believed that when the sun came up, I would pack my bags and come home, just like I always did. I flipped the phone face down. For the first time in five years, I let the silence stay. “Wayne, let me in.” The next evening, Ruth was standing on Wayne’s porch, a small white bakery box dangling from her finger. Wayne stood firmly in the doorway, his arm blocking the frame. “He doesn’t want to see you, Ruth.” “I know he’s upset,” she said, giving him a tight, polite smile. “Just let me talk to him for five minutes. I’ll leave right after.” “Talk about what? About how you couldn’t even manage to type his name in your post yesterday?” Ruth’s smile faltered, her jaw tightening. “Wayne, this is between Christopher and me. Don’t interfere.” “Don’t call him Christopher. You don’t get to use that name anymore.” I walked over to the door and gently tapped Wayne’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Wayne. Let her in. I want to say this to her face.” Wayne slowly stepped aside, his eyes cold as he watched her brush past him. She kicked off her heels and set the bakery box on the coffee table. “I brought that tiramisu you love. I didn’t get a chance to give it to you yesterday.” I didn’t touch the box. She sat down on the armchair opposite me, smoothing her skirt. “Christopher, what exactly do you want me to do?” “I already told you. I want to break up.” Her brow furrowed, a trace of genuine irritation slipping into her voice. “You want to throw away five years over a suit?” “It was never about the suit, Ruth.” “Then what is it?” She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees and clasping her hands—the exact pose she assumed whenever we had a disagreement, her eyes wide with that patient, patronizing look that said she was ready to let me vent until I got over myself. “Last year on your birthday,” I said, my voice quiet, “I spent two months trying to get a reservation at that French place downtown. Right before we were supposed to leave, Troy called to say his stomach was cramping. You took the car keys and drove straight to his apartment.” “He was completely alone in the city, Christopher. What if his appendix had burst?” “He had eaten too much takeout, Ruth. That was it. And instead of coming back, you stayed there and watched TV with him until midnight while I sat at that table alone until the kitchen closed.” She hesitated, her eyes flickering. “I apologized for that. I bought you that designer watch to make up for it.” “And then you bought Troy the exact same one two weeks later.” “He was going through a rough patch—” “He’s always going through a rough patch,” I said, the words falling flat and heavy between us. “Tell me, Ruth, when is he ever actually fine?” She remained silent. “Last month, when I had that flight to Seattle, you told me to take an Uber because you had to help Troy move his things into his new apartment.” “He had so many heavy boxes—” “You gave him the wool blanket my mother knit for us. The one she sent from home.” “It was getting old and frayed,” Ruth said, her voice rising slightly. “I was planning to buy you a cashmere one to replace it.” “It was mine!” My voice didn’t rise, but the sheer weight of it made her flinch. “My mother sat in her armchair with her reading glasses on for an entire week to make that. She wrapped it in three layers of paper so the stitching wouldn’t get crushed in the mail. It wasn’t yours to give away.” The room fell into a suffocating quiet. Wayne stood near the kitchen doorway, his knuckles white against the frame. In the past, I would have kept pushing. I would have screamed, demanded to know why I wasn’t enough, and then I would have wept and forgiven her the moment she muttered a soft apology. But looking at her now, I felt nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. “Christopher,” Ruth said, her voice dropping into a cold, disappointed register. “I always thought you were different from the rest.” “The rest?” “People who keep score,” she said, looking at me with a genuine, baffling sincerity. “I thought you understood. Troy has absolutely no one in this city. You have me, you have a great family, you have a career… you don’t lack anything. Is it really so terrible that I give him a little extra support?” She spoke with such absolute conviction, as if her logic were entirely flawless. “You have everything,” she whispered. “Why can’t you just yield to someone who has nothing?” I looked at her. Really looked at her. There was a faint flicker of expectation in her eyes, a belief that if she just explained it one more time, I would nod, apologize for being selfish, and let it go. But among all those things she claimed I had, there was one thing named Ruth. And she had been slowly, quietly giving herself away to someone else, piece by piece, while wondering why I felt so empty. “You’re right, Ruth,” I said softly. “I have everything.” She let out a tiny, relieved breath. “So,” I continued, “I don’t need you anymore.” The relief vanished from her face. “Christopher.” “You used to be so soft,” she whispered. I didn’t answer. She stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out, the front door clicking shut behind her. My eyes fell on the bakery box on the table. Tiramisu. She didn’t even remember. I had stopped liking tiramisu a year ago. The tuxedo fit me perfectly in the mirror. My mother stood behind me, her gentle hands smoothing the collar of my shirt, the fine lines around her eyes deepening into a warm smile. “When is Ruth getting here? I feel like I haven’t seen her in six months.” I looked down at my phone. Ten minutes ago, a text had arrived from Ruth. Troy’s graduation thesis data got corrupted. He’s in his advisor’s office crying his eyes out. I have to go help him sort it. Try on the suit without me, and explain things to your mom—she’s always so sweet, she’ll understand. I’ll book that Italian place she loves 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 the cracks forming between Ruth and me. I clicked the screen off and turned to her with a smile. “She had an emergency meeting at the office, Mom. She won’t be able to make it.” My mother’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she quickly patted my hand. “Work is important, sweetheart. It’s wonderful that she’s so dedicated to her career. You look so handsome. Come on, let me take a few pictures of you.” Click. In the photo, I stood tall in my tailored suit, a perfect smile plastered on my face, but my eyes were entirely hollow. After watching my mother board her train back home, I drove straight to Wayne’s apartment. Sitting on his worn leather sofa, I dialed the wedding coordinator’s number. “Hi, this is Christopher. I need to cancel the reservation for Clearwater Chapel.” There was a long pause on the other end. “Mr. Hayden, that venue has an eight-month waiting list, and your ten-thousand-dollar deposit is completely non-refundable. Are you absolutely sure?” “I’m sure.” “But you came out here so many times,” the coordinator said, her voice filled with genuine confusion. “Our designer said you were incredibly meticulous about every single detail…” “Just cancel it. Thank you.” I hung up. Wayne sat on the opposite end of the couch, watching me. “Are you really sure about this, Christopher?” “Yeah.” That chapel was forty miles out of the city. There was no direct train; you had to take two buses and walk another twenty minutes through a gravel path. I had chosen it because of the lake. Five years ago, on our very first weekend trip, we had found that lake. I had spent the entire afternoon taking photos of her against the water. She had laughed, wrapping her arms around my neck, and told me it was our secret place. I had built the entire wedding design with the coordinator, draft after draft. I chose white magnolias for the tables because her mother loved simple, classic flowers. The processional music was the exact acoustic track that had been playing in the background of the coffee shop on our very first date. I had drawn the seating chart myself, color-coding it with colored pencils—pink for her family, blue for mine. I had placed her college roommate, who suffered from severe vertigo, on the ground floor near the French doors so she wouldn’t feel trapped. Ruth had never asked about any of it. “Christopher,” Wayne said softly. “If you need to break down, just do it. I’m not going to judge you.” I shook my head. I didn’t have any tears left to cry. Wayne was in the middle of a design review at his office when his phone rang. It was Ruth. “Christopher’s phone is off,” she said, her tone light and casual, as if she were asking to borrow a lawnmower. “Can you tell him something for me?” Wayne set his stylus down. “What is it, Ruth?” “Troy’s shooting his graduation photos next month and wants somewhere unique. I remembered that lakeside chapel Christopher booked. The view is gorgeous. Can you ask Christopher to call the venue and let Troy borrow it for the afternoon?” Wayne’s fingers tightened around his phone, his knuckles turning white. “Ruth,” he said, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet register. “That venue has been cancelled.”

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My best friend asked me to help her plan the perfect confession to the love of her life. I spent weeks drafting her texts, picking out her outfits, and curating the perfect playlists. It was only on the night of the confession that I realized the man she loved was Chase—my childhood best friend, the boy I’d secretly loved for ten years. They kissed right in front of me, under the amber glow of the streetlights. When they got married, I wore the champagne-colored bridesmaid dress, smiling until my cheeks ached. When she was caught in a high-end escort raid, she claimed she was taking the fall for me. When she stole and sold his family’s priceless antique heirloom, she swore it was to pay off my non-existent gambling debts. And finally, when she framed me for embezzling two million dollars from his family’s firm, I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, lonely death in a prison cell. But then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day her affair was exposed. … Whenever Tori sneaked out to hook up with her assistant, Zack, she’d tell Chase she was with me, helping me handle some crisis. This time, as Chase’s name flashed across my vibrating phone, I hesitated for a long second before sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t sound like my usual submissive, eager-to-please self. My voice was flat, hollowed out of any warmth. “What is it?” “Isabel, are you seriously doing this again?” Chase’s voice boomed through the receiver, sharp and dripping with irritation. “What is it this time? Did you get dumped, or did your dad get into another car accident? What’s your excuse for keeping Tori out late tonight?” He sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “You make an absolute mess of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down with you, don’t you?” “Do you even remember last month? When the police raided that wellness spa and you almost got arrested for soliciting? Tori literally took the fall for you to save your reputation! Do you have any idea how much drama that caused for us as a married couple?” “Isabel, you’re Tori’s best friend, which is the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to your trashy habits and your gambling debts. But if you don’t show some goddamn gratitude and keep harassing my wife, don’t expect me to remember our childhood. I will ruin you. Now tell Tori to get her ass home right now!” If it weren’t for this phone call, I wouldn’t have known just how wretched my reputation was in his mind. Among close friends, covering for each other is common. But the moment I died in that prison cell, knowing Tori had put me there, our friendship died too. In this life, I was only living for myself. I had absolutely no intention of warning her. Instead, I kept my voice cool and detached. “You’ve got it wrong. I have no idea where Tori is. Why don’t you ask Zack? He’s her assistant. He practically lives in her pocket. He’d know her schedule better than anyone.” I hung up before he could respond. Tori was a gold-digger, pure and simple. For a prominent family like Chase’s, a wife cheating with her subordinate was a cardinal, unforgivable sin. The thought of her perfect world shattering brought a rare smile to my face. I walked to the kitchen and popped open a cold can of beer, taking a long, satisfying sip. But Chase’s hatred for me ran deeper than I had calculated. Barely ten minutes later, my front door shook. Chase didn’t just show up—he brought the company’s security guards with him. They burst into my apartment, grabbing my arms and pinning me like a common criminal. One of the guards kicked my bedroom door open, but the room was empty. “Isabel! Where the hell is Tori?” Chase stared at me, his eyes burning with pure disgust. Once, we had been inseparable. We had shared whispered secrets in treehouses and stayed up late talking about our futures. Now, in his eyes, I was a cheap delinquent, a gambler, a parasite on society. Meanwhile, Tori had carefully painted herself as the long-suffering, saintly best friend who carried my crosses. There’s a word for that, isn’t there? Contrast. It was time Chase saw the real contrast. “I told you,” I said, wincing as the guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “If you want Tori, ask Zack. They’re always together.” He sneered, stepping closer. “You think playing these petty mind games is going to make me angry, Isabel? I know my wife. I know her heart. I wouldn’t believe a single lie that comes out of your mouth.” “Honestly, I feel sick just thinking about how much she protects you. How did she ever end up with a piece of trash like you?” “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Tori? Why isn’t she picking up her phone?” In Chase’s mind, Tori was flawless. Because she spoke in sweet, soft tones and carried herself with grace, her narrative was the only one that mattered. He truly believed I was trying to poison his marriage. With a curt nod, he gestured to the guards. “Make her talk.” The punches came fast. I was thrown to the floor, boots and fists raining down on me until my vision blurred and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. My face throbbed, swelling instantly. But beneath the blinding pain, a cold, dark spark of satisfaction flared. Let them hit me. The anger was a physical weight, burning away the lingering weakness of my past life. It fed the desire to see Tori burn. “You’re nothing but a gutter rat, Isabel,” Chase spat, looking down at me as I lay curled on the hardwood floor. “And the gutter is exactly where you belong.” “I told Tori a thousand times to cut you off. But she insisted you were her sister. She kept giving you jobs, paying off your debts, lying to your parents to keep your squeaky-clean image alive!” “And this is how you repay her? Stabbing her in the back? You think if you keep your mouth shut, I can’t touch you?” Chase pulled out his phone, his face twisting into a cruel grin. “You’ve always been such a dutiful little daughter, haven’t you? Let’s see how your parents feel when they find out what a degenerate you really are.” My parents had worked for Chase’s father for decades at the family firm. They had practically raised Chase alongside me, and they still looked at him like the golden boy who would one day inherit everything. Of course he had my mother’s number. He pressed dial and put it on speaker. My mother’s fragile, aging voice echoed in the quiet room. “Chase? Sweetheart, is everything okay? Why are you calling this late?” “Mrs. Peterson,” Chase said, his tone instantly shifting to a polite, albeit stern, register. “I’m calling because we need to talk about your daughter.” “Oh? What about Isabel? Is she having trouble at work?” Chase let out a cold, sharp laugh. “I wish it was just work. Mrs. Peterson, did you know your daughter was arrested at a sketchy massage parlor last week for soliciting sex?” “What? No… no, that can’t be right. Not my Isabel. She would never do something like that!” My mother’s voice trembled, breaking into a sob. An electric jolt of rage went through me. I lunged forward, trying to grab the phone, but the guard slammed me back down, pinning his knee into my back and crushing his heavy hand over my mouth. I could only make muffled, desperate noises. “Tori saw it with her own eyes, Mrs. Peterson,” Chase continued, mercilessly. “Tori went there to find her, and the police raided the place. Isabel ran, leaving Tori to take the fall and protect her name. Do you really think Tori would lie about something like that?” I glared at Chase, my eyes burning with a silent, venomous promise. You blind fool. She’s going to ruin you, and you’re going to deserve every second of it. “And it’s not just that. She’s got a massive gambling problem. She owes millions to loan sharks. Tori even had to pawn one of our family heirlooms just to keep those thugs from breaking Isabel’s legs! Drugs, gambling, prostitution—she’s practically running the gamut. I’m telling you this because you need to rein her in before she drags my wife down to hell with her.” He ended the call. Seeing my bloodshot, furious eyes, his chest swelled with triumph. “Look at you. Your poor parents have no idea. They still think you’re the straight-A student they sent off to college.” “I honestly don’t get why Tori tolerates you. What do you even bring to her life besides filth?” “She even bought you a townhome, Isabel. You are the definition of an ungrateful leech.” I froze, the blood in my ears suddenly roaring. I managed to spit out the hand covering my mouth. “What did you just say? Tori bought me a townhome?” “Oh, cut the act.” Chase scoffed. “Tori bought you that place near the harbor as a thank-you for setting us up back in college. She didn’t want me to tell anyone to spare your pathetic pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any.” A manic, dark humor bubbled up in my chest. Tori hadn’t bought that townhome for me. She had bought it for Zack. And right now, they were probably in it. I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto the floor and looked up at him. “I didn’t receive any townhome, Chase. I swear, your brain is so rotted by love that you’d believe her if she told you the sky was pink.” “I know the address, Isabel. Don’t play dumb.” I nodded, a slow, dangerous smile stretching across my swollen lips. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there. Or are you just like Tori—all bark and no bite?” “You really want to play this out?” Chase’s eyes darkened. “You do realize she bought that place with my family’s money, right? Since you’re going to keep lying, I might as well reclaim what’s mine.” He pointed at the guards. “Throw her in the car. Keep her locked down. Tonight, she loses everything she never deserved.”

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Eight years in the shadows, and Freda went Instagram official with someone else. In the video, she was wrapping her arms around her handsome new designer, her smile warm and completely open. It was a look she had never given me. The entire internet seemed to be shedding tears over their beautiful love story. Even a simple photo of them watching the sunset together had already gone viral, turning the location into the ultimate “relationship goals” travel spot. Every top comment under the post felt like a eulogy for the eight years I had quietly given her: “I still remember when Damien lifted her up with one hand to let her make that shot on the court. I’ve been dreaming of a love like that for years.” “She loves him so much. Even when things were tough for her, she still made sure to set up a charity toy drive in his name.” A few friends who actually knew about us sent cautious texts, telling me to hang in there. I could only reply with a smiling emoji, just like I always did. For an entire week, she ignored my messages. As the sun was finally dipping below the horizon, she sent a single character back: ‘K’. The delivery guy arrived with my dinner. My throat tightened, and I choked out over the phone to the restaurant, “You… you forgot the marinara sauce.” The guy on the line panicked. “Hey, man, don’t cry. It’s okay. I’ll drive a new one over to you right now, okay?” In that moment, I realized a total stranger was terrified of my tears. Yet she had watched me suffer in the dark for eight years without a single shred of pity. Eight years, and I still hadn’t earned the right to stand beside her. So, I decided to stop trying. … Freda walked into the apartment carrying the crisp, sharp chill of early winter. Seeing me packing my things, she didn’t react. She simply held out a bundle of roses. “Last ones at the florist,” she said. “I remembered you liked roses, so I grabbed them.” The outer petals were already brown and curling at the edges. The thorns hadn’t even been stripped, and they were wrapped carelessly in a few sheets of old newspaper. I stared at the flowers for a long moment. My mind drifted to the Instagram photos I had seen yesterday, posted by a mutual friend. Freda had been in Paris, accompanying Damien to a fashion show. At the auction, she had bid on every painting he wanted. At a Michelin-starred sushi bar, she had lovingly peeled his sweet shrimp for him. That same day, I was at home fixing a burst pipe under our sink. I ended up spending six hours alone in the ER, hooked up to an IV. She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. Without a word, I tossed the roses into the trash can. Freda’s expression stiffened for a second, but she kept her voice gentle. “I really was busy this week, Jude. I didn’t mean to make you wait.” “And those trending articles… you know how the tabloids love to twist things. It’s not the first time. Don’t be mad at me, okay?” I looked at her face and suddenly let out a soft laugh. “Fine. Let’s go public tonight. Post it on your feed right now.” She sighed, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. “Jude, don’t do this. I told you, it’s just not the right time.” I had heard that phrase for eight years. When her company needed a plus-one for their gala, she chose someone else—because it wasn’t the right time. When she was asked about her relationship status at the annual company party, she claimed she was single—because it wasn’t the right time. Now, she was hard-launching another man with a radiant, shameless smile, and it still wasn’t the right time for me. When would it be the right time? An overwhelming exhaustion washed over me. “Give me your phone.” She hesitated, but handed it over anyway. The lock screen was clean. On her messaging app, the only pinned chats were work groups and a few business partners. I opened her contacts. My finger froze. His contact name was My Boy. My contact name was Jude. Before I could even ask, she quickly explained, “We were playing a game at the afterparty. I lost a dare and had to change it.” I didn’t say a word. I opened her cloud storage drive. There was a password-protected folder. I tried my birthday. Access denied. I tried hers. Access denied. My mind went blank for a second. I typed in his birthday, and the folder opened. Over ten thousand photos. All of him. His profile as he bent over his sketchpad. A close-up of his fingers wrapping around a coffee mug. The way he squinted in the bright sunlight. Every single shot was taken with immense care, like a secret confession of devotion. I looked up at her. “Is this for work, too?” She stood frozen, completely silent. Then, she snatched the phone back and deleted the entire folder right in front of my face. She stared at me, her expression hardening. “Are you happy now? Is that enough? What else do you want me to do?” Her voice trembled at the end. I knew she was angry. Before I could say anything, she turned and marched into the bathroom. When she came out, she was holding a spare duvet, heading straight for the guest bedroom. “I’m sleeping in here tonight,” she said coldly. “Your snoring is too loud. I can’t get any rest.” Right before she closed the door, her phone rang. Even through the heavy wood, I could hear her voice—soft, sweet, cooing as she comforted whoever was on the other end. I used to actually believe I snored. I used to feel so guilty about it. For an entire month, I recorded my sleep every night, desperate to find the cause so I could see a doctor. There was no snoring on those tapes. Only the occasional rustle of me turning over in bed. And her, murmuring in her sleep: “I miss you so much, Damien.” What was the exact moment things had started to change? Maybe it was when she began coming home later and later, staring at her phone with a lingering smile. Or when she stopped drinking the herbal tea I brewed for her, switching instead to a sweet, cloying perfume I didn’t recognize. Maybe it was when she stopped sharing her day with me, reducing our conversations to cold, one-word replies. Or perhaps it was that one night when she stared at me for a long, quiet moment, and said, “Why don’t you have any ambition? You’re so ordinary. You’re nothing like…” She never finished that sentence. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. But as I packed, I realized how little of myself actually existed in this apartment. Everything I owned barely filled a single suitcase. As I stood in the entryway, she walked out of the study to grab a glass of water. She glanced at me. “Going somewhere?” “Yeah.” She nodded slowly, then turned and went back to her office. In the back of the Uber, I opened our chat history. I scrolled up. It was a graveyard of one-sided effort: “It’s getting cold today. Wrap up warm.” “What do you want for dinner?” “When will you be home?” Her replies never exceeded three words. I typed out a final text: It’s over. I hope you get everything you ever wanted. The moment I got out of the car, my best friend, Zack, threw his arms around me. I couldn’t speak. My eyes burned with a fierce, hot pressure. Once we settled into his apartment, we sat across from each other. He started counting on his fingers, his anger boiling over. “I haven’t forgotten how toxic she is,” Zack said. “How many fires did you put out for her? And what did you get? She literally stood in front of a crowd of people and pretended she didn’t even know you.” “Or what about that time you spent an entire month pulling all-nighters for that design proposal? She handed it over to someone else because she claimed your degree ‘wasn’t prestigious enough.’” “And the most ridiculous part? You brewed custom remedies for her insomnia every single day, and she had the nerve to complain that you were ‘lazy’ and ‘had too much free time’ just because you took care of the house.” He grew red-faced, finally looking at me with a heavy sigh. “For years, every time you brought up marriage, she dodged. Jude, she was never your person.” “It’s over, and that’s a good thing. Cut your losses. I just… I genuinely don’t get what you ever saw in her.” I forced a small, tired smile. The truth was, I had fallen first. Back then, I saw her kneeling on a rainy sidewalk to feed a stray dog, always willing to give her last dollar to help a friend. When I finally confessed my feelings, she stayed up all night thinking about it. “I want to try,” she had told me. “Give me a chance, and I’ll build a better life for us.” I knew there was someone else in her heart, but neither of us ever spoke his name. Maybe she wasn’t a good partner, but there was a time when her love felt real. Zack pulled out his phone, scrolling through Damien’s social media. Damien’s posts were mundane: what he ate, a sketch he drew, a cute florist shop he passed. And under every single post, Freda’s handle sat at the very top of the likes. “He’s a master manipulator,” Zack muttered. “Who can compete with that kind of calculated innocence?” Seeing the look on my face, he softened. “You know what? Forget it. Let’s get out of here. I’m taking you out.” The bar was dark, the bass vibrating deep in my chest. I looked up, and my heart seized. Freda was walking in from the VIP entrance, guiding Damien through the crowd with her hand resting lightly on the small of his back, shielding him from the drunken patrons. As they reached their booth, their circle of friends erupted: “Look at that! Freda finally grew up!” “I knew you two would end up together. Congrats, guys!” Freda, unusually, remained quiet. But Damien offered a shy, modest smile. “Stop teasing us. She just saw I was bored and brought me out to clear my head.” I watched them, feeling an odd, hollow calm. All night, Freda sat close to him. When he lost a drinking game, she immediately reached over and downed his shot without a second thought. When people joked about them, she didn’t get defensive; she just laughed along. I remembered a night when I had worked late, past eleven. I had texted her, keeping my tone as polite and small as possible: Do you think you could pick me up? I waited an hour in the cold before she showed up. Her face was tight with irritation. “Can’t you just call an Uber next time? I’m incredibly busy, Jude. I don’t have time to be your personal chauffeur.” Just then, my coworker walked out of the office lobby, spotting her and asking with a warm smile if this was my girlfriend. I had looked at her, hoping. She had offered a polite, distant smile. “No, just a friend.” When the night ended, Zack’s girlfriend came to pick him up. I sat alone on a bench, waiting for my ride. A few minutes later, Freda walked out, supporting a tipsy Damien. She didn’t notice me at first. She leaned down to button his overcoat, her movements so tender she might have been handling glass. Then, as if remembering something, she pulled out her phone to call someone. She turned, and our eyes met. Her brow instantly furrowed. “Going out to bars to find a replacement the very night we split? Is that why you wanted to break up, Jude?” So that was how she saw me. I didn’t answer. I just sat there. My Uber pulled up. Freda carefully tucked Damien into the backseat of her car, then marched over and grabbed my arm. “Get in. We’ll drop you off.” I pulled my arm back. “No thanks. My ride is here. Go ahead.” Her impatience flared. “Just get in, Jude. I’m not leaving you out here.” The Uber driver honked, and to avoid a scene, I finally got into her passenger seat. The ride was agonizing. She asked the driver to adjust the AC, then reached into the back to drape a soft throw blanket over Damien. Damien stirred, blinking sleepily. “Freda… do you remember that Italian place near campus? You saved up for six months just to take me there.” Freda murmured softly in response. They talked about their shared past the entire ride. I watched the neon lights of the city blur against the window, hearing nothing. When we reached my complex, I got out. Freda followed me onto the sidewalk. Under the dim yellow streetlamp, she looked slightly uncomfortable. “I know I’ve been distant lately. But Damien and I… it’s not what you think.” “Throw a tantrum if you need to. But when you’re done acting out, you can come home. I won’t pressure you.” I let out a soft laugh. “There’s no need. Do whatever makes you happy, Freda. Goodbye.” As I turned away, her voice cut through the cold air. “Don’t regret this, Jude. Because when you come crawling back crying for me to take you back, I won’t.” I didn’t look back. Inside my new apartment, I pulled out my phone and found my dad’s contact. I hesitated for three seconds. I typed: That blind date you mentioned… I’ll go. Two weeks later, I met Ella Crawford. My father had described her as stiff and overly analytical, but she was the exact opposite. She was incredibly warm and attentive. She arrived twenty minutes early, and throughout dinner, she never asked a single invasive or awkward question. Every topic she brought up was tailored to my interests. As we were talking, I caught a movement at the edge of my vision. Freda and Damien were walking toward our table. Freda froze, her gaze darting between me and Ella. Before she could speak, Damien smiled and gently pulled her arm. “Oh, is this your little brother? Looks like he’s finally moving on.” Little brother. So that was the story she told the world. I expected them to leave, but Freda kept her eyes locked on me. “Mind if we join you?” I looked at Ella. She gave me a reassuring nod, so I agreed. The moment they sat down, Freda flagged the waiter down, rattling off a list of demands: “No onions, no garlic, no spicy elements in any of his dishes. And please make sure his water is room temperature. He has a sensitive stomach.” The waiter blinked, taking down the notes. The rest of the meal passed in excruciating silence. Freda kept piling food onto Damien’s plate. “Eat up. You’ve been working late on those designs, you’re practically skin and bones. Your health comes first.” Damien chuckled, patting her hand. “Alright, alright, I get it. We have company, Freda.” Freda seemed to suddenly remember I was there. Her smile faltered. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up a piece of shrimp with her chopsticks and placed it on my plate. “You should eat more, too. You look thin.” Before I could say a word, a hand reached across the table and pulled my plate away. Ella spoke, her voice quiet but razor-sharp. “Jude can’t eat shellfish. It’s a shame that after living with your ‘little brother’ for so long, you didn’t even know he has a severe allergy. I suppose you must have been terribly busy, Ms. Heather.” Freda’s face turned white. Just as she opened her mouth to argue, Damien’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways, sliding out of his chair. “Damien!” Freda practically threw herself onto the floor to catch him, lifting him in her arms and rushing out of the restaurant without casting a single glance back at me. I stared at the empty plate where the shrimp had been, then looked up to meet Ella’s worried eyes. “You look pale. Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” I shook my head. After dinner, I declined Ella’s sweet offer to drive me home. I took a cab to the local clinic myself—my stomach had been acting up from stress. As I walked through the lobby, I overheard a couple of nurses gossiping, their voices thick with envy. “I’m serious! It was just a minor blood sugar drop, but his girlfriend was practically screaming at the attending doctor. She was so frantic!” “God, they look like a movie couple. I need a girlfriend who cares about me like that.” I followed their gaze down the corridor. At the end of the hall, Freda was standing by Damien’s hospital bed. She was a woman of few words, but right now, she was talking animatedly, her face flushed with concern. Damien suddenly reached up and wrapped his arms around her waist. She let out a helpless, affectionate laugh, running her fingers through his hair. I looked down, letting the scene fade. The nurse at the desk asked, “Are you here alone? What seems to be the problem?” “Nothing. I was just… checking on a friend.” For years, I had held onto the foolish hope that maybe Freda would turn around, that she would finally claim me in front of the world. But seeing her like that, the last embers of hope died. It was okay. I still had time to save myself. The next morning, I packed my resignation letter into my briefcase and went into the office. The elevator doors opened to a burst of laughter from the creative department. “Damien, man! Hard work pays off! I knew that design award had your name on it!” “You’re on a roll lately, man. Career, love… you’ve got it all.” “Are those flowers from Freda? Oh, look at that ring! Congratulations!” I walked straight past them and into Freda’s office, laying the letter on her desk. She pushed it back toward me. “You’re doing fine here. Even if you’re just an administrative assistant, it beats grinding it out in the cold.” I slid the letter back to her side. She let out a dry, mocking laugh. “What? Found a new sugar mama? You can’t wait to throw me away now?” “Freda, be reasonable. You’re the one who crossed the line. We broke up. What I do is none of your business.” She sneered. “Who am I to say anything? Before, you’d start a fight over going public, throw a tantrum and threaten to leave whenever you were unhappy. And now you don’t even have the decency to ask before you quit?” The office door suddenly burst open. Damien stood there, his eyes rimmed with red. “Jude, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you and Freda used to be together… Please don’t fight because of me.” In that split second, the blood rushed to my head. Before I could stop myself, I swung my hand and slapped him across the face. Freda’s reflexes were instantaneous. She shoved herself in front of him, shielding him with her body. She stared at me, cold and mechanical, as she threw my resignation letter back at my chest. “Get out. You’re fired. And before you leave, you will apologize to him.” I looked at her one last time, turned, and walked away. I stood outside the building I had worked in for five years, unable to believe this was how it ended. I walked aimlessly down the street, my mind spinning. Suddenly, a car swerved around the corner, heading straight for me. I tried to jump back, but the bumper clipped my leg. A sharp, white-hot agony flared up my right shin. I collapsed onto the cold pavement, my body shaking violently. With trembling fingers, I dialed Freda’s number. No answer. Just as I was about to give up, the call connected. Her voice was ice-cold. “Are you ready to admit you were wrong? Apologize to Damien, and you can have your job back.” The world turned black, and I passed out. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was standing over me, explaining the situation. “A fractured right tibia. You’ll need to rest and undergo physical therapy. Don’t take your youth for granted, young man.” I barely heard him. My eyes drifted through the half-open door of my hospital room. Freda was standing in the corridor, cradling Damien in her arms. Between them, Damien was holding a golden retriever puppy—a breed she had always refused to let me have. I had asked her a hundred times if we could get a dog. Every time, she told me they were too much work, too messy, that we didn’t have the time. Yet there she was, holding the puppy as if it were the most precious thing in the world. I stared at the display and let out a quiet, bitter laugh. Just then, a crowd of reporters flooded the hallway, their cameras flashing. “Mr. Enoch, is it true that you tried to insert yourself into Ms. Heather’s relationship?” “Freda Heather’s partner is Damien Ward. Were you aware of that?” “We heard you’ve been trying to sabotage their engagement. Is this a pattern of behavior for you?” I forced myself up, clutching the side of the bed, and limped toward the exit. As I brushed past Freda, her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something. But in the end, she turned to the cameras and said, “He and I have absolutely no connection.” After that, Freda never saw Jude again. She convinced herself he was just throwing a tantrum. He had done this before, she reasoned. He’d always come back in a few days. She called her housekeeper. “Make some of that restorative soup for Jude. He’s been looking pale lately.” The housekeeper paused on the other end. “Ms. Heather… Jude packed up everything and threw away the rest two days ago. He’s not coming back.” Freda’s fingers went cold. At that moment, a notification popped up on her phone. Jude had posted on social media. It was a single photo of us from the early days, when we were happy, his smile bright and unburdened. The caption read: [Eight years in the dark. In the end, her heart belonged to someone else, and I was nothing but a ghost in her story.]

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My ex-husband was dead. His wife didn’t call to invite me to the funeral. She called to demand that my six-year-old daughter go to the funeral home to sit with her father’s body for the overnight vigil. “If his own daughter isn’t there to keep watch,” she’d sniffed over the phone, “the neighbors will talk. They’ll say we’re cold-hearted.” But I was out of town on a business trip, stuck three states away, so I had no choice but to beg my ex-husband’s sister, Claire, to watch over her. It wasn’t until two in the morning that my daughter’s smart watch buzzed with a fragmented, static-heavy voice message. “Mommy… it’s so cold… there are so many metal drawers here… I think people are sleeping inside them…” “The door is locked… I can’t get out…” My fingers spasmed, and the phone nearly slipped from my hand, clattering against the nightstand. She was locked in the mortuary cold storage room. I remembered what our pediatrician had once said during a winter safety brief. A six-year-old child trapped in forty-degree temperatures will begin to experience organ failure in less than four hours. … “Mommy, a sheet slid off one of the tables. I see a hand. It’s so, so white.” My fingernails dug into my palms, my entire body shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone to my ear. “Baby, don’t look! Cover your eyes and go sit by the door. Jump up and down, okay? Let’s count. Count from one to a hundred. Mommy is coming. I’m coming right now.” “One… two… three…” Her voice was thick with tears, each trembling number hitting my chest like a physical blow. I dialed Claire. It rang eight, nine times before she finally picked up, her voice slurred and heavy with sleep. “Mmh… Zoe? Melanie said she took her back to the chapel… I think I had too much to drink…” “She’s in the morgue freezer, Claire! Wake the hell up!” There was the sound of rustling sheets, followed by a heavy, wet snore. She had passed out cold again. I screamed her name three times, but there was nothing but dead air. Claire never drank. She had a terrible stomach; even a sip of wine made her violently ill. Melanie must have forced those drinks down her throat. Gritting my teeth, I dialed Melanie. She picked up almost instantly, the canned laughter of some late-night talk show blaring in the background. “Oh, Zoe?” Melanie said, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “She’s sitting vigil for her father. It’s good for her. Children need to learn respect and duty early on.” “She’s not in the chapel! You locked her in the damn freezer with the corpses!” Melanie went quiet for two long seconds. “Oh, that little brat really has a big mouth, doesn’t she? I told her to sit tight. I’ll let her out when the sun comes up. Besides, dead people don’t bite. Her dad is right there keeping her company. What is she so afraid of?” A vein throbbed violently in my temple, my jaw aching from how hard I was clenching it. “Melanie, you go open that door right now. It’s forty degrees in there. Four hours and her organs will start shutting down. If you do this to her, if you kill my daughter, I swear to God I will end you.” She laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound that sliced through the television’s laugh track—hollower and faker than any studio audience. “Oh, please. Who are you trying to scare? I have legal guardianship of this family now. Besides, it’s the middle of the night. I’m not driving all the way out there.” She let out a slow, exaggerated yawn. “If you’re so worried, Grace… come get her yourself.” The line went dead. My entire arm was trembling so violently that my phone slipped from my fingers and bounced onto the mattress. I grabbed it and dialed 911. “My daughter is locked inside the cold storage room of the Southside Funeral Home! She’s six years old! She’s only wearing a thin summer dress! It’s forty degrees in there and she’s already been inside for almost two hours!” “Ma’am, please try to breathe,” the dispatcher’s voice was calm, too calm. “That funeral home is in the unincorporated county sector. The nearest patrol unit is about thirty to forty minutes away.” “Forty minutes?!” I screamed. “She’s wearing a dress!” “We are dispatching a unit right now, Mrs. Evans, please remain calm.” I slammed the phone down and swiped frantically through my airline app. The absolute earliest flight out was at 5:30 AM, landing at 7:00 AM. With the drive to the airport and the run to the mortuary, it would take at least seven hours. The screen flashed in bold, red letters: No Tickets Available. My phone buzzed again. It was Zoe. She wasn’t counting anymore. Her voice had changed—it was slow, dragging, thick with sleep. “Mommy, my feet hurt so bad. I lost my shoes. I’m so tired. I want to go to sleep.” I bolted from the edge of the bed, my knee slamming into the sharp wooden corner of the nightstand. I didn’t even feel it. Extreme lethargy. It was the onset of hypothermia—the most dangerous stage. If she fell asleep now, her core temperature would plummet. “Zoe! Do not sleep! Do you hear me? Stand up! Jump! Jump as hard as you can!” There was an agonizing silence on the other end. “Mommy… I can’t jump. My legs won’t move.” I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t just sit here and watch her die. My college roommate, Tara, lived back home, maybe twenty minutes from the Southside Funeral Home. I dialed her number. It rang four times. “Hello? Who’s calling this late?” she mumbled, thick with sleep. “Tara! It’s Grace! My daughter is locked inside the cold storage at Southside Funeral Home! She’s freezing to death! You’re the only person who can get there in under half an hour!” “The funeral home?” “Please, Tara! I’m begging you!” “Send me the address,” she said, her voice instantly sharp and sober. “I’m walking out the door right now.” I fired over the pinned location, kicked my bare feet into a pair of slip-ons, and bolted from my hotel room. No socks, no luggage. Just my phone and the rental car keys. That was all I needed. I couldn’t wait for the sluggish hotel elevator. I hit the heavy fire door and sprinted down the concrete stairs, throwing myself down twelve flights. At a landing, my elbow slammed into the steel railing, sending a sickening jolt of pain through my ribs, turning my vision black for a split second. I didn’t stop. I reached the parking garage, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and fired up the engine. My phone buzzed with an automated alert from Zoe’s watch. Wearer’s current core temperature: 95.7°F. Normal is 97.7°F to 98.6°F. My daughter was growing colder, degree by degree, right before my eyes. I slammed my foot onto the gas pedal, the tires screaming as the rental car tore up the exit ramp of the hotel parking lot. Less than three hours until organ failure. I was hitting over a hundred miles an hour on the dark interstate, the highway completely empty except for my headlights slicing through the black. Steering with my left hand, I used my right to frantically scroll through private charter apps on my phone. On the fourth service, a listing popped up: a small private propeller plane, on-call for emergency night dispatches, capable of taking off in an hour. Four thousand dollars. My fingers shook so hard I messed up the payment passcode three times before it cleared. Approved. Transaction successful. The watch call line clicked back open. Zoe was singing. “Twinkle… twinkle… little… star…” Each syllable was separated by an agonizing, shallow gasp. She didn’t have enough air. She was dragging the words out, pushing them past frozen lips. I bit down on my own lip, breaking the skin, the copper taste of blood filling my mouth. She stopped halfway through the verse. “Mommy… I can’t sing anymore. My mouth is hard. I can’t open it.” Her lips were stiffening. Hypothermic muscle rigidity. “Baby, listen to Mommy,” I sobbed, pressing harder on the gas. “Stand up. Clap your hands. Clap them really hard! If you make a loud noise, Mommy will buy you that singing bunny you wanted. The big white one.” “I can’t… my fingers aren’t listening to me…” I floored the accelerator, pushing the rental car to its absolute limit. My phone screen lit up with a voice note from my boss. His voice exploded through the car speakers. “Grace, the contract signing with the North Star Group is at eight tomorrow morning. You are the lead coordinator on this. I don’t care what kind of family emergency you have going on with your kid; you need to be in that boardroom. If you aren’t, the fifty-thousand-dollar breach-of-contract fee is coming straight out of your salary.” I held down his contact name and hit block. Fifty thousand dollars. My daughter was freezing to death in a room full of corpses, unable to even open her mouth, and they wanted to talk to me about fifty thousand dollars. The phone buzzed again. It was the 911 dispatcher transferring me to an officer on the scene. “Are you there?!” I yelled. The officer’s voice sounded young, hesitant. “Mrs. Evans, we’ve arrived at the funeral home. We’re in the main chapel right now with a Mrs. Melanie Evans. She’s keeping vigil, and there is a young girl next to her in a pink puffer coat who says she’s sitting with her father.” “That is not my daughter! That’s her own daughter! Ask that child what her name is!” Through the receiver, I heard the officer murmuring a question, followed by a sweet, high-pitched little girl’s voice. “My name is Lexi.” “Did you hear that?!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Her name is Lexi! Not Zoe! My daughter is in the cold storage! Building B, the very back room!” There was a pause, a long, agonizing silence. Then Melanie’s voice cut in—soft, tremulous, laced with fragile, performative tears. “Officer, please don’t listen to her. ‘Lexi’ is just Zoe’s nickname. Her biological mother has been trying to ruin my life ever since she divorced my husband. She’s calling in the middle of the night making up these horrible, crazy lies.” Her sob pitched higher, perfectly practiced. “My husband’s body isn’t even cold yet, and she’s still trying to torture us like this.” The veins in my temples pulsed with a stabbing heat. I gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked under my palms. “She is lying! Just walk over to Building B and open the door! One look! That’s all it takes!” “Mrs. Evans… look,” the officer said, clearly uncomfortable. “Mrs. Melanie Evans is the deceased’s legal spouse. She tells us the cold storage door lock is malfunctioning and won’t open until the morning facility manager arrives. Without a warrant or visual probable cause of an immediate threat inside that specific wing, we can’t legally force entry.” “So you’re just going to stand there and watch a six-year-old freeze to death?!” Silence met my question. “Mrs. Evans, we will keep trying to resolve this with the family. Just try to stay calm.” The line went dead. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel three times, my knuckles cracking against the hard plastic in dull, useless thuds. A notification popped up on my screen. It was a text from Melanie. It was a photo. Lexi was sitting on a plush, heated velvet sofa in the main chapel, wearing the exact pink puffer coat I had bought for Zoe just last week. She was holding a warm bowl of sweet dumplings, smiling brightly for the camera. The caption read: Lexi is being such a good girl keeping watch for her sister. She’s warm, full, and completely safe. You can stop worrying now. One child was eating warm food in a stolen coat. The other was barefoot, freezing in a dark room full of dead bodies, unable to even part her lips. My phone vibrated with a FaceTime call from Tara. “Grace! I’m here! But the funeral home gates are locked!” she yelled, wind whipping into her microphone. “The security guard won’t open up. I told him there’s a kid freezing to death inside, but he says they don’t allow non-family members in after hours!” “Climb the fence!” I cried. “The east wall—there’s a low section near the trees. Climb over it!” Tara paused for a single beat. “Okay.” Over the speaker, I heard the frantic scraping of her shoes against brick, the metallic clatter of her hands grabbing the iron bars, and the sharp tear of fabric as her jacket caught on a spike. Then, a heavy thud. Tara gasped, sucking in air through her teeth. “I’m over. I’m running toward Building B.” Her footsteps were rapid, her breathing growing heavier and shallower through the line. Then, she stopped. “I’m here. It’s a low, gray brick building. The door is heavy iron, and there’s a massive padlock on the outside.” “Put your ear to the door!” A long, excruciating silence stretched over the connection. My hands on the wheel were slick with sweat, slipping against the leather. Then, Tara’s voice cracked. “I hear her. It’s incredibly faint… like a tiny whimper. Grace, she’s still breathing!” “Break it! Find a brick! Smash the lock!” The sound of a heavy brick slamming against steel echoed through the speaker. Clang. “It’s not working!” Tara panted. “It’s an industrial-grade lock! The brick shattered and the lock didn’t even scratch! My hand is bleeding, Grace. I can’t break it!” “Do it again!” Suddenly, the smashing stopped. There was a confusion of voices, the sweep of flashlights, and heavy, approaching footsteps. Melanie’s voice cut through the dark like a blade. “That’s her! She’s trespassing! What the hell are we paying security for?!” The sounds of scuffling and dragging filled my phone. Tara was struggling. “Let go of me! There’s a little girl in there!” A man’s gruff voice roared over her. “Get back! You keep making trouble and we’ll have you arrested!” “Get her out of here! Drag her out!” The call disconnected. I dialed back frantically, but it went straight to voicemail. A minute later, my phone rang. It was Tara, breathing hard, her voice tight with pain. “Grace… they threw me out. Four guys. They literally tossed me over the wall.” She paused, her voice cracking. “I’m so sorry.” “It’s not your fault,” I said, my voice eerily calm as adrenaline took over. “Call the police again. Tell them it’s unlawful imprisonment of a minor. Tell them you’re a witness and you heard her crying inside.” “I’m on it.” 4:10 AM. The private charter terminal. The small propeller plane sat on the dark tarmac. The pilot, a weathered man in his fifties, was running through his pre-flight checklist. “We need about twenty more minutes,” he said without looking up. “Make it ten. I’ll pay you an extra thousand dollars.” He paused, turning to look at me. He took in my tear-stained face, my bare, dirty feet, and my dust-covered clothes. He didn’t say a word. He just turned back and doubled his speed. My phone vibrated. I swiped and connected to Zoe’s watch. There was a sound on the other end. A tiny, incredibly weak breath. Slow. Shallow. The pauses between each gasp were terrifyingly long. “Zoe!” No answer. I screamed her name five, six times. Finally, there was a tiny rustle. “Mommy… Daddy is here. He’s telling me… to go to sleep with him. I’m so sleepy.” Her father had died three days ago. His body was sitting in one of those very freezer units. My six-year-old daughter was hallucinating her dead father telling her to go to sleep. “Zoe, listen to Mommy! You cannot sleep! Stand up! Jump!” No response. Her breathing was fading into a whisper. An automated alert popped up on my screen. Wearer’s temperature: 94.6°F. It was dropping again. “Zoe! Answer me! Please!” Nothing but a freezing, dead silence. The pilot called for boarding. The cabin door sealed shut, and my phone signal began to flicker—one bar, then half a bar. I made my first call to my brother, Jack. “Jack, I’m landing at 5:30. Pick me up. We’re going straight to the Southside Funeral Home.” He didn’t ask a single question. “I’m already in the car.” My second call was to my attorney, Robert. “Every recording, screenshot, and call log is synced to the cloud drive. If anything happens to my daughter, I want you to sue her. Sue her for everything she has. Destroy her.” “Grace, she’s going to be okay. Hang in there—” The signal cut out. The connection to Zoe’s watch severed. At thirty thousand feet, the world below was a vast sheet of black. I didn’t know if Zoe was still breathing. I didn’t know if her temperature had fallen past ninety-four. I didn’t know if she had closed her eyes and drifted off with her father. I knew nothing. I could do nothing. I sat in the dim cabin, clutching my dead phone, feeling every passing second tear away a piece of my soul. 5:28 AM. The tires screeched against the tarmac. The moment the plane touched down, my phone vibrated constantly as a flood of notifications poured in. Twelve missed calls from Tara. Three voice notes. The first one: “The police came back! Melanie is wearing full mourning black, crying and holding Lexi in the chapel! She’s telling everyone you’re completely unstable and making up stories!” The police had been fooled again. The second one: “I begged them to just check Building B! But her brother-in-law rushed in and accused me of trespassing again! He shoved me twice!” The third one, her voice hoarse and broken: “I tried everything I could, Grace. I’m so sorry.” A voice message from Melanie, sent forty-two minutes ago: “You’re still up in the air, aren’t you, Grace? By the time you get here, the sun will already be up.” And the final notification from Zoe’s watch, stamped forty minutes ago: Wearer’s temperature: 93.2°F. Heart rate: 48 bpm. A healthy six-year-old’s heart rate should be between eighty and one hundred and thirty. I threw open the cabin door and sprinted down the metal stairs into the freezing dawn. Jack’s truck was idling just outside the tarmac gate, exhaust pluming into the cold air. I yanked the door open and threw myself into the passenger seat. He took one look at me, asked nothing, and slammed his foot on the gas. The truck launched into the heavy morning fog. We were thirty minutes away from the funeral home. Zoe had been locked inside for over four hours. Jack drove like a man on a rescue mission. He didn’t slow down for the curves. When an oncoming semi blared its horn and flashed its high beams, he didn’t even blink, jerking the wheel to clip the edge of the shoulder and blast past. I gripped the door handle, my knuckles turning white against the plastic, my eyes glued to the GPS. 2 miles. 1.7 miles. “Jack, faster,” I whispered. He didn’t reply. The speedometer climbed from seventy-five to ninety. 6:05 AM. The heavy iron gates of the Southside Funeral Home loomed out of the morning fog. They were chained shut. Before I could even speak, Jack floored it. The front bumper plowed directly into the iron gate. A deafening screech of tearing metal echoed down the empty street as the gates were ripped from their hinges, dragging beneath the truck in a shower of sparks. He slammed on the brakes in front of Building B. I threw the door open and bolted toward the heavy iron entrance. Four people stood in our way. Melanie, her massive brother-in-law, her cousin, and a funeral home custodian. Melanie stood with her arms crossed, blocking the doorway. A brief flash of panic crossed her face, quickly replaced by a sneer of pure malice. “Are you out of your mind, Grace?! That’s public property you just destroyed! I’ve already called the cops! You’re going to jail!” I didn’t even look at her. My gaze cut past her shoulder, pinning itself to the iron door behind her. My daughter was behind that door. 93.2 degrees. 48 beats per minute. I took a step forward. Melanie’s brother-in-law, a massive guy over six-foot-two and easily two hundred and fifty pounds, stepped in front of me, spreading his thick arms. “You need to back off—” Before he could finish, Jack’s hand clamped onto the back of his neck. He hoisted the giant off his feet and threw him like a sack of concrete directly into the brick planters. Terracotta pots shattered everywhere. “Get out of our way,” Jack growled. Melanie shrieked and lunged at me, her long nails scraping across my neck, leaving three burning welts. I grabbed her wrist and threw her aside with everything I had. “Get off me!” She slammed against the brick wall and slid to the ground, howling. Her cousin took a half-step forward, but Jack gave him a single cold look, and the cousin instantly stepped back. The first door was secured with a heavy steel chain wrapped through the handles, held together by an industrial padlock. I spotted a metal emergency tool box on the wall. I tore it open with my bare hands, the sharp metal edge slicing deep into the meat of my palm. I barely felt it as blood welled up. I grabbed the heavy bolt cutters, clamping them onto the chain. I threw all my weight into the handles. Jack joined me, pressing down with his massive strength. The cuts on my hand split further, blood dripping down the cold steel. With a loud crack, a link snapped. I ripped the chains away and yanked the doors open. Behind us, Melanie was screaming. “This is breaking and entering! I’m suing you! I’m sending you both to prison!” The corridor inside was dark and freezing, the sharp stench of formaldehyde filling my throat. We ran. At the end of the hall stood the second door, secured with an electronic keypad lock. I grabbed the handle and pulled, but it didn’t budge. Jack raised the bolt cutters and slammed them into the control panel. Sparks flew as the LCD screen shattered, a shrill error alarm blaring incessantly, but the latch remained locked. We shoved the tip of the cutters into the gap between the door and the frame. We pried together, sweat and blood dripping onto the concrete floor. With a sickening screech, the frame gave way. We gave one final, desperate heave, tearing the aluminum casing out of the drywall. The door sagged open. We pushed through. The cold storage room. Two rows of stainless steel body drawers lined the walls, illuminated by the sickly green glow of emergency lights. At the far end was the third door. It was a heavy, walk-in freezer door, and an iron bar had been slid horizontally through the handle, jamming it tightly from the outside. I threw myself at it, pulling frantically, but my hands were covered in slick blood, slipping off the cold iron. Jack wedged the bolt cutters under the edge of the bar, hammering and prying. We took turns, pulling and slamming with raw, desperate fury until the bar finally began to budge. With a sharp clack, the bar popped free. I grabbed the round metal wheel handle and spun it—once, twice, three times. The seal broke with a heavy hiss, and the freezer door swung open. A wave of forty-degree air rolled over us. The lights inside were off. On either side, some of the body drawers were partially open, the white corners of body bags peeking out from the shadows. I ran inside, my eyes scanning the dark corners. Zoe was curled up on the concrete floor in the very back, wedged between two of the freezer units. She was barefoot, her thin summer dress covered in grey dust and stains. Her face was a ghostly, translucent white. Her lips were a dark, bruised blue, and a delicate layer of frost clung to her eyelashes. Her fingertips were completely purple. She wasn’t moving. I fell to my knees on the icy floor, scooping her up into my arms. She felt so light. Weightless. And cold—a deep, radiating cold that seemed to come from her very bones. I pressed my palm against her cheek. There was no warmth there. None. “Zoe! Zoe, wake up! Mommy’s here! I’m right here!” No response. I pressed my ear against her chest. My own heartbeat was roaring in my ears, so I held my breath, straining to hear. One second. Two seconds. Three. Then, a tiny, sluggish thump. Her heart was beating. It was agonizingly slow, but it was there. I ripped off my heavy winter coat, wrapped her in it, and stood up, running toward the exit. “Call 911!” I screamed at Jack. “Now!”

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