To save myself a lot of trouble, I always made up a wife. One afternoon, while out shopping with a coworker, I spotted a jacket I absolutely fell in love with. The only problem was the price tag—it was a bit steep. As the sales clerk kept up her relentless pitch, I casually brushed her off. “Ah, never mind. My wife would kill me. Even if I bought it, she’d just make me return it.” I didn’t think much of it. But the very next day, a package arrived at the office. I ripped it open, and there it was—the exact jacket! My coworker’s eyes went wide. He grabbed the card tucked inside and read it aloud: “To my wonderful husband: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve the best of everything. Signed—Your loving wife!” I froze. My wife was completely made up. I had never even been in a relationship. Where the hell did a wife come from? 1 I figured Brandon was just playing a joke on me, making up the words as he read. I snatched the card from his hand. But the elegant, flowing script on the card was undeniable. There it was, written in black and white. “Damn, Zach. And here I thought you were just complaining all this time,” Brandon teased, nudging me. “Saying your wife doesn’t let you do this, doesn’t let you do that. Turns out she’s incredibly generous. Five grand, just like that!” A few other coworkers started crowding around my desk. “I had no idea your wife was so loaded, Zach!” I forced a tight, artificial smile, my throat completely dry. I couldn’t squeeze out a single word. I’d been at the firm for three months, and my status as a happily married man was rock-solid. Whenever there was a task I didn’t want to do or an after-work gathering I wanted to skip, I’d blame it on my “wife.” Oh, she’s cooking tonight. Oh, she prefers I stay in. It was the perfect shield. But the truth was, I was single. I had been single my entire life. I’d never even held a girl’s hand. So where did this wife come from? I snuck a glance at the label. Even the size was a perfect fit. Who sent this? For a brief, vain moment, I wondered if I had a secret admirer. But I had only seen the jacket when I was shopping with Brandon. He was the only one who knew about it. I quietly watched Brandon’s face. Nothing. He looked genuinely amused, completely devoid of guilt. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, unable to focus. Once I got home, I immediately called the store’s customer service. It was a high-ticket item, so they had to have some record of the buyer. But after a few seconds of keyboard clattering, the representative said, “I’m sorry, sir. This order was placed anonymously. The customer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have access to their billing details.” Anonymous? Why so mysterious? I stared at the jacket for a long time before shoving it into the deepest, darkest corner of my closet. The next morning, Brandon stopped by my desk. “Hey, Zach, why aren’t you wearing the new threads? I was dying to see what a five-thousand-dollar jacket looks like on a regular Tuesday!” I laughed it off. “Wearing something that expensive to sit in a cubicle? Feels like a waste.” In truth, I was terrified to wear something when I didn’t know where it came from. Brandon dropped it, but before I could ease into my workflow, the receptionist paged me. “Zach, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” My stomach did a cold flip. I had a terrible feeling about this. Sure enough, I opened the box to find a luxury cologne set. And tucked inside was that same card: Your loving wife. Brandon, who had followed me, gasped. “Isn’t this that new limited-edition release? We were just talking about this last week! You said you loved almost every scent in the collection.” He was right. And I vividly remembered saying: “I’d love to buy the whole set, but my wife would have a fit. She already thinks I have too many bottles cluttering the bathroom.” Brandon shook his head in mock jealousy. “She wouldn’t let you buy it, huh? So she just goes ahead and buys the whole collection for you instead. Man, Zach, what kind of angel did you marry?” An angel. Right. An angel so celestial she didn’t even exist. What was happening to me? Was it really a secret admirer? If so, why not just ask me out? Why play this bizarre game, sending expensive gifts and calling herself my wife? My mind was a chaotic mess as I stuffed the cologne set into my bottom drawer. Brandon frowned, noticing my distress. “Hey, you okay? You don’t look happy at all. Did you and the wife have a fight?” I offered a weak, noncommittal smile. Taking my silence as confirmation, Brandon sighed. “Ah, that explains the gifts. Well, don’t stay mad at her too long. A wife that generous deserves a quick apology.” I said nothing. Instead, I copied the tracking number from the shipping label, found the online merchant, and messaged their support team. The response was exactly the same: Hi there! This order was processed anonymously under our high-profile privacy tier. We cannot disclose customer information. Can you even do that with standard online shopping? As I sat there, trying to make sense of it all, the receptionist’s voice cut through the office intercom again. “Zach, you’ve got a delivery. And… you’re going to need help carrying this.” 2 Flowers? I stood up, numb, and walked toward the lobby. A local courier was standing there, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of deep red roses and orchids. It must have taken up half the counter. “Zachary?” the courier asked. “Your wife sent these.” I stood frozen. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway out the door. I ran after him, catching him near the elevators. “Wait! Excuse me. Can you tell me who placed this order?” The courier gave me a strange look. “Your wife.” I shook my head, my chest tightening. “No, I mean, can I see the account name on the order? On your app?” The guy looked confused but shrugged and pulled out his phone, scrolling to his job history. As expected, the sender’s profile was completely blank—no name, no picture, just a system-generated ID. “Look, man, whoever she is, she paid three hundred bucks for the arrangement and left me a hundred-dollar tip,” the courier said, his grin reaching his eyes. “Your wife is amazing. You’re a lucky guy.” I handed his phone back, my fingers stiff. I managed to force a polite nod. Back in the office, my coworkers immediately swarmed my desk. “Are those roses? That looks like a fortune!” “That’s nothing. His wife didn’t even blink at a five-thousand-dollar jacket yesterday!” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” My eyes fell on the small envelope nestled among the petals. I slid the card out. Sweetheart, please don’t be mad at me anymore. My hand shook so violently I almost dropped the card. “Seriously, Zach, how could you ever stay mad at her?” one of the account executives joked. “I’m literally crying. Why can’t I find someone like that?” “Just forgive her already!” Their teasing voices faded into a dull hum. I kept my eyes fixed on Brandon. The jacket. The cologne. Only Brandon knew about those conversations. And now, right after I let him believe my “wife” and I were in a fight, a massive bouquet of apology flowers shows up. Was this some elaborate prank? Had he figured out that I was lying about being married, and decided to spend a fortune to mess with me? But Brandon was a junior designer. He didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a joke. Nothing made sense. With my head spinning, I decided I needed some grounding. After work, I drove over to my Nana’s place. Nana’s small, cozy apartment always smelled of vanilla and baked chicken. She had prepared a massive feast for me, and as we sat down, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders, letting the warmth of her home wash over me. But then I noticed her ears. “Nana, where is your hearing aid?” Nana, whose hearing had been failing for years, squinted at me. It took her a moment to register my words. “Oh, that silly thing!” she chuckled, waving her hand dismissively. “It fell right into the pond yesterday while I was out by the park. Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. I can hear you just fine!” How could it not matter? I immediately pulled out my phone and started researching the best medical-grade hearing aids on the market. “Just get me a cheap one from the drugstore, Zach. Don’t go wasting your hard-earned money,” Nana insisted, patting my knee. I stayed the night on her pull-out sofa. The next morning, a sharp knock on the front door woke me. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stumbled into the hallway. Nana had already opened the door. A delivery driver stood on the porch. “Delivery for Zachary,” the driver said. Nana stared at the small package, her face lighting up. “Oh, Zach! When did you order this? That was incredibly fast!” I froze, the sleep instantly draining from my brain. I rushed to the door. The package in the driver’s hand was from a premium audiology brand. But I hadn’t placed the order yet. I had only put it in my online cart the night before. A cold shiver ran down my spine, raising the hairs on my arms. 3 “Sir? Need a signature here,” the delivery driver prompted. Nana reached out to take the stylus, but I quickly stepped in. “Actually, I think there’s been a mistake. I ordered the wrong model. I need to reject the delivery, please.” This was for my grandmother. I couldn’t risk her using something from a stranger. Who knew what was actually in that box? As the driver took the package back, my eyes caught a small, familiar card taped to the side. Only the best for Nana. —Your loving wife. My hand trembled so hard I had to shove it into my pocket. After sending the driver away, I called into work to take the morning off. I drove Nana to a local clinic, got her fitted for a proper hearing aid, and paid for it myself. Before I left, I held her hands tightly. “Nana, if you get any packages over the next few weeks, do not open them. Call me immediately. Promise me.” Though confused, Nana nodded and promised she would. When I finally got to the office that afternoon, I was a nervous wreck. Who was this person? How did they know my grandmother’s address? And more importantly… I had only searched for those hearing aids on my phone the night before. I hadn’t spoken a word about it to anyone else. How could a package arrive first thing in the morning? There was only one logical explanation. I stared down at the screen of my phone. Someone had hacked my device. They were monitoring my searches, my location, my life. It had to be. Determined to reclaim my sanity, I went straight to an electronics store after work. I bought a brand-new phone, factory-reset my old one, and sold it to a trade-in kiosk. It was a massive hit to my savings, but as the days passed and no new packages arrived, I finally felt like I could breathe again. My relief lasted for about a week. Then, on a rainy Thursday night, I had a dream. In the dream, a woman I had never seen before stood in front of me. Her eyes were filled with a profound, aching sadness. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You won’t wear the jacket. You won’t use the cologne. You even sent back the hearing aid I got for Nana. “Do you hate me now? Or do you just not want my gifts? “It’s your birthday. Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want.” I bolted upright in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, drenched in cold sweat. I checked my phone. It was past midnight. Today was, indeed, my birthday. But what a bizarre, deeply unsettling nightmare. When my alarm finally went off, I shook my head, trying to banish the memory of her sad eyes, and got ready for work. At my desk, I was nursing a coffee and chewing on a bagel, trying to focus on a design pitch, when my phone buzzed. It was a notification from my banking app. I tapped it open. My jaw dropped. One… ten… a hundred… a thousand… ten thousand… a hundred thousand… One million dollars. A cool million had just been deposited into my checking account. I thought it was a glitch, some cruel banking error, but when I refreshed the page, the balance remained the same. And there was a transaction memo: Happy birthday, sweetheart. The room seemed to tilt. Let me just give you money instead. That way, you can buy whatever you want. The words from my dream echoed in my ears. I sat frozen in my chair, my entire understanding of reality crumbling. “Zach? You okay?” Brandon tapped my shoulder, noticing my blank stare. I quickly flipped my phone face down. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Dear God, what was happening to me? Where did a million dollars come from? Was it possible that I actually had a wife, and I had somehow… forgotten her? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Brandon said, leaning against my cubicle wall. “It’s your birthday today. What are the plans?” I slowly picked up my phone and stared at the balance again. I had never used any of the physical gifts. But was this real? Could I actually spend this money? I took a deep breath. “Hey, everyone,” I called out to the office. “It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight.” The office erupted into cheers. “Wait, Zach,” one of the designers asked. “Aren’t you celebrating with your wife?” “She’s… out of town on business,” I lied smoothly. I sent a group text with the address of a high-end steakhouse downtown. Brandon’s eyes went wide when he saw the venue. “Whoa, Zach. We’re going there? Are you sure you can afford that place?” I smiled, keeping my terror hidden. “Don’t worry about it.” But as we left, a cold knot of dread tightened in my stomach. What if the card got declined? 4 It didn’t. My worries were entirely unfounded. When the bill came—totaling over fifteen thousand dollars after bottles of high-end wine—I slid my card over without a flinch. The transaction went through instantly. My coworkers stared at me in absolute shock. “Zach, what does your wife actually do for a living?” “Seriously, man, you’ve been holding out on us. We had no idea you were loaded.” “Alright, alright, let’s let the birthday boy make a wish!” Brandon had ordered a chocolate cake, and someone placed a paper crown on my head. As the candles flickered, I closed my eyes. Given the sheer absurdity of the past few weeks, a wild, ridiculous thought popped into my head. What if I had somehow developed a superpower? What if whatever I wished for simply materialized? Let’s test the limits, I thought. I breathed in and made a silent wish: I want to be rich. Unbelievably, ridiculously rich. I opened my eyes and blew out the candles. Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. My phone vibrated with a text alert. I sat up, my heart hammering, and opened the message. It was another bank notification. The number was so long I had to count the digits twice. One hundred million dollars. My breathing turned shallow. I got out of bed and started pacing the room, convinced I was losing my mind. Did I really have a wish-granting superpower? But that defied every law of physics and science. And as the initial rush of adrenaline faded, panic took its place. A sudden influx of a hundred million dollars would undoubtedly trigger red flags with the IRS, the FBI, or homeland security. And if it wasn’t the government, what if some dangerous criminal syndicate was using my account to launder money? As much as I loved the idea of being wealthy, this money felt like a gilded ticking time bomb. I decided right then: tomorrow morning, I was going to the police. If they could trace the source of the funds, great. If not, at least I’d have a paper trail showing I tried to report it. Yes. That was the smart thing to do. I took a few deep breaths to calm my nerves and crawled back into bed. I grabbed my phone to set my alarm, but my finger slipped, opening my photo gallery. I froze. There, at the very top of my camera roll, were several photos I had never seen before. They were pictures of me… standing next to a woman. She was smiling warmly, her arm wrapped around my waist. And her face was identical to the woman from my dream. Terrified, I scrambled out of bed and flipped on the lights. My apartment felt suddenly cold, haunted. I had absolutely no memory of these photos. I had never met this woman in my life. Could they be AI-generated? But I had just bought this phone. How could anyone have put them there? I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I kept every light in the apartment burning until dawn, and the second the sun broke over the horizon, I hailed a cab straight to the police station. “Morning. Can I help you with something?” The desk sergeant looked at me with immediate concern. I must have looked like a ghost, pale and disheveled. He poured me a cup of water. I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Officer… someone is putting photos of a strange woman on my phone. And… I keep receiving massive sums of money from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned. “How massive?” “A million dollars yesterday. And last night… one hundred million.” “One hundred million?!” He practically choked on his coffee, his voice echoing in the quiet lobby. “Officer Nightingale, what’s all the shouting about?” another detective called out from across the room. But I didn’t hear him. Officer Nightingale. Nightingale. That surname… I slowly raised my head and stared at her face, her badge. Suddenly, a violent spark flared in my brain. I remembered. I knew exactly what was happening. Along with the realization came a blinding, agonizing headache. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could say another word, the world went completely black.

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I am the biological daughter who was lost for fifteen years. When my family finally brought me back, my adoptive sister, terrified that I would slowly usurp her place, hired men to abandon me in the freezing Alaskan Barrens during a family vacation. I survived in that frozen hell for a month, nearly torn to pieces by wolves, before a local bush-dweller miraculously found me and saved my life. When I returned home, bloodied and hysterical, I told my parents she had tried to murder me. My parents brushed it off. “Beatrice was just being immature,” they said. “It was a prank, and she already knows she was wrong. Let it go.” I couldn’t accept the reality that my own parents didn’t love me. In a fit of raw, desperate rage, I took a knife and slashed Beatrice’s arm. Furious, they shipped me off to Stonebridge Academy—a brutal reform school disguised as a boarding school—to “break my spirit.” I spent three agonizing years there in a living hell until my heart turned entirely to stone. Three years later, they sent a car to bring me home. I escaped halfway through the drive and fled back to Alaska. I became a wilderness search-and-rescue specialist in the Barrens. For twenty years, I never lost a single soul. On my thirty-fifth birthday, I received a very specific rescue request. I looked at the dossier, shook my head, and said, “This one, I won’t save.” ……. Jonas, our local community lead, froze, the joy draining from his weathered face. He grabbed my sleeve, his voice tight with panic. “Kaya, why? Why won’t you save him?” “This is easy for you. If you pull him out, they’re offering five million dollars. That’s enough to replace your rusted prosthetic leg, and it would buy the targeted therapy drugs for your cancer.” “That five million is your lifeline. Why are you throwing this away?” I glanced down at the battered, scuffed prosthetic on my left leg and shook my head quietly. “I’ve lived long enough, Jonas. There’s no need to drag it out.” “If I say I’m not going, I’m not going. Just tell them I’ve gotten old and cowardly.” Jonas stared at me, his eyes filled with disbelief. “Old and cowardly? Kaya, if you were afraid of death, you wouldn’t have taken up Mika’s mantle as a search-and-rescue leader in these unforgiving wilds.” “Lately, the wolf packs in the interior have grown massive, and the danger of going out there is through the roof. Everyone else stopped doing runs years ago.” “Only you. For over twenty years, whenever someone screamed for help, you went out—no matter the blizzard, no matter the storm.” “And now you’re telling me you’re afraid to die? I don’t buy it.” My voice remained steady. “My mind is made up. I’m not saving him. You can find someone else.” Jonas sighed, defeated. “Who else? No one has been out into the deep Barrens in six years. They don’t even know the shifting ice paths. Besides, there are hundreds of wolves out there now. If a pack catches a scent, there won’t even be bones left to bury.” “But you’re different. You saved those pups years ago, including the alpha. The pack knows your scent. They won’t touch you.” Jonas ran out of breath. Seeing my stone-cold expression, he lowered his voice, almost begging. “Kaya, please. The boy’s name is Brody. He’s the only heir to one of the biggest billionaires in the country. People that rich… they look for scapegoats. They won’t care about your reasons.” “You have the power to save him. Why invite their wrath and bring trouble down on yourself?” I replied flatly, “Let them be angry. I’m not changing my mind.” Jonas sighed, defeated. He dialed a number on his satellite phone. When the call connected, he spoke with a heavy, pitying tone. “The boy just had his eighteenth birthday. His life hasn’t even truly begun. Can you really bear to let him freeze out there, to let the wolves tear him to pieces?” Eighteen… My mind drifted. I was eighteen when Beatrice had me dumped in the freezing Alaskan interior. I had struggled alone for a month before the wolves finally tracked me down and tore into my leg. Just as I was preparing to die, Mika, a local woman, risked her own life to drag me out and eventually helped send me back to the family who had cast me aside. And when I finally fled that family, hollowed out and broken, it was Mika who took me in. She taught me how to navigate the wilderness, how to survive, how to save others. The first time a survivor wept at my feet, thanking me for saving their life, something inside me healed. I found a purpose. I stayed in Alaska, saving hundreds of lives over two decades. Every rescue wasn’t just about saving someone else; it was about rescuing that terrified, eighteen-year-old girl sobbing in the dark. My thoughts were shattered by an arrogant, sharp voice coming through the speaker of the satellite phone: “If you bring my son back alive, I’ll double it. Ten million.” The familiarity of that voice made my chest tighten. I had spent twenty years convincing myself I had let the past go. But hearing her voice, the old, jagged glass in my chest cut deep. I took a slow, steady breath to quiet the storm inside me. “It isn’t about the money. I can’t do it. I won’t save your child.” On the other end of the line, Beatrice’s voice turned shrill and venomous. “I’ve done my research! You go in and out of the Barrens like it’s a walk in the park. You have the ability to save him, but you’re choosing to let him die. Aren’t you afraid of retribution?” Retribution? I whispered the word to myself and let out a cold, bitter laugh. Oh, Beatrice. Your retribution is already here. Back then, when they brought me back, I had been naive enough to think we could be sisters. I didn’t realize she saw me as a parasite. Terrified that my return would threaten her inheritance and her parents’ affection, she hired men to discard me in the freezing wilds during a family cabin trip. I had wept, begging her to let me go, promising I would leave the family and never claim a dime. Her cruel, venomous words had been burned into my soul for over twenty years: “You’re just a piece of trash they dug up from the dirt. You think you get to be my sister?” “Only when you’re dead will everything in this family truly belong to me.” I was left to rot, my leg mangled by wolves, rendering me a cripple. When Mika saved me and I dragged myself back to our estate, sobbing as I told my parents the truth, Beatrice merely shed a few crocodile tears. She clutched our mother’s sleeve and whimpered: “Mom, I just wanted to play a prank on her. I didn’t think she’d actually get hurt! I’m so sorry!” And my mother immediately shielded her, dismissing my agony with a casual wave. “Beatrice was just being careless. She apologized. Stop being so vindictive.” My mother’s eyes had been cold, filled with a warning. I had lost a leg, and she called it a careless prank. That was the moment I realized they would never love me. Hysterical and broken, I grabbed a paring knife from the counter, lunged at Beatrice, and screamed, “Then let’s see how you like my prank!” My mother threw herself in front of Beatrice, slapping me hard across the face, sending me crashing to the floor. “How did I give birth to such a monster? Your sister made a mistake, and you try to take her life? You should have just died out in the snow!” When my father returned, he didn’t even look at my bandages. He arranged for me to be sent to Stonebridge Academy, barking coldly: “You can come back when you’ve learned some basic decency, respect, and how to behave like a civilized human being.” The abuse I suffered at that reform school stripped away whatever affection I had left for them. The moment I escaped, I fled. But the despair of that day remained lodged in my chest like a rusted nail. Beatrice’s voice cut through my memories again: “If you rescue my boy, I will fund a state-of-the-art school for your village. I’ll make sure every single kid in that town gets a world-class education and a ticket out of there.” Jonas’s breath hitched beside me. I paused, but my voice remained flat. “I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” I hung up. Jonas looked at me, his eyes rimmed with red. “Kaya, did you hear her? She’s offering a future for the kids.” “We live in a place where teachers quit after three weeks because of the isolation. Our kids have to travel hours in freezing temperatures just to get to a basic middle school.” “We’ve been trapped in this cycle of poverty for generations. This is their only shot at a different life.” “Please, I’m begging you. Save the boy.” Listening to Jonas’s desperate plea, my lips trembled. “Jonas… it’s not that I don’t want to. I truly can’t. I won’t survive it, and neither will he.” Before the words fully left my mouth, the deep, thrumming roar of a helicopter echoed overhead, followed by the crunch of tires on ice. A fleet of black SUVs pulled up outside my cabin. The cabin door was thrown open. Beatrice, flanked by my biological parents, stepped inside. “Are you the legendary Kaya who navigates the Barrens?” Beatrice scanned me from head to toe, her expression dripping with cold arrogance. I looked at the three of them. There wasn’t a single flicker of recognition in their eyes. I had only spent three months with them before being shipped away. Now, after twenty years of harsh Alaskan winds, biting frost, and manual labor, my skin was weathered and dark, my cheeks flushed with permanent windburn, my frame thickened by years of hauling heavy gear. I looked nothing like the fragile, pale girl they had discarded. I said quietly, “I never said I could navigate it freely.” Beatrice’s lip curled in disgust. She cut me off dismissively. “Cut the act. You’re holding out for more money, aren’t you?” “Fine. Bring my son back, and I’ll give you fifty million.” I remained silent. Beatrice took my silence as greed, her tone turning venomous. “Don’t get greedy, sweetheart. Too much cash might choke you.” “Beatrice, mind your manners.” My mother pulled Beatrice back slightly, offering me a polite, plastic smile. “My daughter is just out of her mind with worry, Ms. Kaya. Please don’t take offense.” “Please try to understand our position. Brody is the sole heir to our family’s legacy. If we lose him, it will destroy us.” “You must have family of your own. Surely you can understand a mother’s desperation? I am begging you, as an old woman—save my precious grandson.” Seeing my biological mother humble herself to protect the child of the woman who had tried to kill me… a sharp, familiar pain bloomed in my chest. I wanted to scream at her. She isn’t even your blood! You give her and her son everything, so why couldn’t you spare even a drop of love for me? I didn’t need much. Just a crumb. But the words died in my throat. I pulled my lips into a cold, hard line. “I’m afraid I can’t relate. I was abandoned by my parents as a child, and I’ve never had a family of my own.” “I said no. Take your business elsewhere.” “You miserable bitch!” Beatrice’s face contorted with pure hatred. She pointed a finger in my face, her voice shrieking: “You cold-blooded freak! No wonder your parents threw you away. You deserve to die alone. I hope you rot in hell!” “Beatrice, calm down.” My father stepped in, gently patting her shoulder before turning his sharp, calculating eyes on me. He spoke in a measured, powerful tone: “Ms. Kaya, the golden window for rescue is closing. We have less than ten hours. Every second you waste puts my grandson closer to death.” “You’re refusing because the price isn’t right. Fine. Save my boy, and I will personally hire elite tutors to ensure every child in this village gets into an Ivy League school.” “On top of that, I will write a check for one million dollars to every single resident in this town.” “I believe that is more than generous.” “But if you still refuse…” My father’s eyes turned glacially cold as he gestured toward Jonas. “My conglomerate owns the distributors that purchase the wild chaga and morel mushrooms harvested by your people. It is the only source of income for this entire region.” “If you continue to stall, I will blackball your village. I will cut off your livelihood completely.” “Your people can starve on this frozen tundra for all I care. And I promise you, I keep my word.” Jonas’s face drained of color. He fell to his knees in front of me, grabbing my coat. “Kaya… they’re billionaires. They can do it.” “Please. For the sake of my mother who saved your life, bring the boy back. We can handle the cold, but the kids… their futures shouldn’t die here!” “Did you forget what my mother said before she died? She wanted the kids to see the world beyond these mountains!” I looked at Jonas’s tear-stained face, then glanced out the window at the local children huddled in the snow, watching us with terrified, wide eyes. The weight of their entire future crashed down on my chest. Tears welled in my eyes, but my voice remained a whisper. “I’m sorry. I really can’t save him.” “Why?! Why won’t you just save him?!” Jonas scrambled to his feet, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me in sheer, broken desperation. “Stubborn bitch,” Beatrice spat, her smile turning vicious. She turned to the armed security guards standing behind her. “Round up all the kids in this village. We’re taking them into the Barrens.” She laughed, a manic, desperate sound. “The biggest threat out there is the wolves. If we feed them first, they won’t touch my son.” “If this freak won’t go, we’ll use these local stray dogs to pave the way. One way or another, I’m getting my son back.” The guards moved instantly, heading toward the door. Jonas threw himself in their way. “Stop! Stop it! The kids have nothing to do with this!” I couldn’t believe the depth of her depravity. I shook with rage. “Beatrice! This is kidnapping! You’re breaking the law!” Beatrice lunged forward and kicked me hard in the chest. I crashed to the floor, my worn-out prosthetic snapping off and skittering across the wood. She stood over me, looking down with absolute disdain. “The law? There isn’t a cop for a hundred miles, you pathetic cripple. Who’s going to stop me?” “Besides, all of your worthless lives combined aren’t worth a single hair on my son’s head. Dying for him is the highest honor you’ll ever have.” “Don’t worry. Once he’s safe, I’ll pay some priest to pray for your miserable souls.” The guards dragged the screaming children from the snow, binding their wrists with zip-ties. “Kaya! Help us! I don’t want to go to the wolves!” “Kaya, I’m scared!” The screams of the children mixed with the desperate shouts of the villagers trying to fight off the armed guards. The scene was absolute chaos. And my biological parents stood there, watching the brutality unfold with cold, silent approval. Jonas was pinned to the floor by a guard. He watched his own nephew being thrown into the back of an SUV and screamed at me, his voice cracking: “Kaya! For God’s sake, tell me why! What did they do to you that’s worth sacrificing all of us?!” I stared at the cold, indifferent faces of my biological parents. I let out a ragged, hysterical laugh, and screamed at the top of my lungs: “Why?! Because his mother is the monster who tried to kill me!” “If I go out there, the only thing I’ll do is throw her son directly into the jaws of the wolves myself!” “Just like you did to me twenty years ago, Beatrice!”

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The turbulence on the flight home was violent, the kind that makes your stomach drop and the cabin scream. At the boundary between life and death, with my hands shaking, I dialed Griffith’s number, desperate to hear his voice one last time, to leave him my final words. He hung up on the second ring. An automated text popped up a second later: Driving. On my way to pick up Leona. In our five years of marriage, I’ve flown eighty-six times. Before every single landing, I would send him a tentative text, asking if he might be free to pick me up. His answer was always a variation of the same cold refrain: Leona’s flight is coming in too. I have to get her. Eighty-six landings for me. Eighty-six airport pickups for Leona. The worst of those times was during a torrential downpour last spring. I spent two miserable hours standing under the leaky awning of the arrivals terminal, dragging my heavy suitcase through puddles, unable to hail a single cab. When I called him, sobbing softly, it wasn’t Griffith who answered. It was Leona, her voice sweet and light over the static. “Hey, Monica. Griffith’s got his hands full loading my bags into the trunk right now. He can’t really talk.” Now, the cabin around me was a nightmare of screams, falling oxygen masks, and weeping. The plane was spiraling out of control at thirty thousand feet. Through the window, the night sky was stained a violent, blinding orange as the left wing ruptured into flames. My screen buzzed. A message from him. Got Leona. What time do you land? I’ll come get you. I stared at the glowing words, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping my throat. Five years. He was finally offering to pick me up. But the fire was consuming us, pulling the metal bird down in a sickening, terminal dive. He didn’t know. My flight was never going to land. 1 “Grif, has Monica texted you back yet?” The car was warm, the heater humming softly. Leona sat in the passenger seat, adjusting the collar of her wool coat. Griffith kept his eyes on the traffic light ahead, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. “Not yet. She’s probably just sulking.” I sat in the back seat, watching them in silence. I wasn’t sulking. I was dead. My physical self was still trapped in the smoking, shattered wreckage of a fuselage. But my soul, bound by some invisible, cruel tether, had drifted back here—into the quiet luxury of Griffith’s SUV. Griffith picked up his phone, pressing the voice note icon. “Monica, I’m at the terminal. Which exit are you at?” He hit send. The little voice message bubble sat quietly in our chat, unanswered. The minutes ticked by, stretching into an uncomfortable silence. Outside, the wind whipped through the airport plaza, rattling the signs. Leona shivered and let out a soft sneeze. “Do you think something’s wrong? What if Monica got hurt?” Griffith let out a dry, dismissive scoff. “What could possibly be wrong? She’s just throwing a tantrum because I didn’t pick her up first. She’s playing hard to get.” He raised the phone to his mouth again, his tone sharpening. “Monica, there’s a limit to how much drama I’ll tolerate. Leona and I are both sitting here waiting for you.” He sent it. It sank into the same quiet abyss. With a cold, irritated sigh, Griffith shoved the phone into his pocket. “Forget it. It’s freezing out. I’m taking you home first. Once she’s done acting out, she’ll make her own way back.” He had no idea I was sitting right behind him, watching the faint line of annoyance etched onto his profile. On the drive back, the speakers played Leona’s favorite indie-pop playlist, filling the car with cheerful, mocking melodies. Thirty minutes later, the SUV pulled up in front of Leona’s apartment building. Griffith unbuckled his seatbelt, stepping out into the cold night to retrieve her bags. Leona wrapped her coat tighter around her shoulders, offering him a soft, grateful smile. “Thanks for picking me up tonight, Grif. You should probably head back and get Monica now.” Griffith grabbed her suitcase, his voice flat. “No need. She’s a grown woman. She has legs; she can hail an Uber.” I stood beside them on the damp pavement, watching this bitter little play. Five years. Eighty-six flights. Not once did he offer me this simple courtesy. While I had stood in endless, freezing taxi lines, shivering under the fluorescent airport lights, he was reserving his warmth, his gentleness, and his late-night drives for someone else. He wheeled her suitcase past the glass lobby doors. “Get some rest.” Leona took a step forward, wrapping her arms around his waist in a lingering embrace. “Thank you, Grif. Honestly, since we were kids, you’ve always been there when I needed you most.” Griffith patted her back, his expression softening into something incredibly tender. “Go on up. Get some sleep.” She turned and stepped into the elevator. Griffith walked back out to the sidewalk, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He struck a lighter, the small flame illuminating his face in the dark. He pulled out his phone again and tapped on our chat. Still nothing. The last shreds of his patience evaporated. He typed out a final, biting message: If you’re going to act like a child, Monica, don’t ever expect me to pick you up again. When you’re done throwing your fit, call a cab and get home. He locked the screen with a sharp snap of his thumb. Crushing the cigarette butt against the rim of a metal trash can, he climbed back into the driver’s seat. I sat in the passenger seat next to him, watching his hands grip the steering wheel as the engine purred to life. Griffith, don’t worry. I will never ask you to pick me up again. I’m never coming home. 2 Despite the harsh words he had texted, Griffith drove home fast, weaving through the late-night traffic. He was convinced I was already home. He was likely picturing me sitting on the living room sofa, arms crossed, staring sullenly into space. He was probably planning to throw a few half-hearted apologies my way, wait for me to soften, and put the whole thing behind us. But when he unlocked the front door of our townhouse, the living room was enveloped in pitch darkness. A flicker of irritation crossed his face. Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out quickly, a spark of anticipation in his eyes that instantly died when he saw the sender. It was Leona. Hey Grif, just unpacked and heading to bed. Did Monica ever get back to you? Griffith typed back with one hand. Not yet. She probably checked into some airport hotel to make a point. Maybe you should go look for her? Leona replied. It’s pretty late for a woman to be out alone. It can be dangerous. Griffith let out a dry laugh. She’s a grown woman. What could possibly happen to her? He tossed the phone onto the kitchen counter and walked into the master bedroom. On the nightstand sat a silver picture frame. It was a photo from our third anniversary. We were standing on a beach, smiling into the camera. His gaze lingered on the photo for a long beat. I floated right beside him, a foolish spark of hope flaring in my chest, wondering if he had finally remembered. Once the clock struck midnight, it would be our fifth wedding anniversary. But he didn’t remember. The momentary pause was just the final sigh of his exhausted patience. He pulled open the closet, grabbed his silk pajamas, and headed into the bathroom. The rush of the shower filled the quiet room. He didn’t notice that the very bottom drawer of the wardrobe wasn’t fully closed. Peeking out from the gap was the corner of a small, pastel pink gift box. It was the surprise I had painstakingly prepared for our fifth anniversary, meant to be opened at midnight. Inside was a positive pregnancy test, alongside a pair of tiny, hand-knitted white baby booties. If the flight hadn’t torn apart in the sky… If I had made it home… I would have placed that box in his hands tonight. But now, both I and the tiny, unformed life inside me were nothing but ash, scattered across a barren field miles away. The water stopped. Griffith stepped out onto the bedroom balcony, throwing a dark bathrobe over his shoulders. He unlocked his phone. Still no missed calls. No texts. The silence was grating on his nerves. He tapped out another message, his thumbs flying across the screen with aggressive force: Monica, I don’t have the energy for this running-away game. Tomorrow morning, I’m taking Leona to that artisanal bakery upstate—the one with those brioche donuts she likes. Meet us there. Don’t make me go hunting through every hotel lobby near the airport. It’s embarrassing for both of us. He threw the phone onto the outdoor lounge chair and went back inside to bed. I stared at the messages sitting in the digital void, a profound sadness washing over my cold soul. That bakery upstate. It was my favorite place in the world. It was a forty-mile drive from the city. I had begged him, so many times, to take me there on a lazy Sunday morning. It’s too far, Monica, he’d always say, barely looking up from his laptop. It’s out of the way. A waste of time. But now, because Leona wanted those donuts, a forty-mile drive was no longer too far. It was no longer a waste of time. Griffith pulled the duvet over himself and switched off the bedside lamp. In the quiet dark, his breathing soon became slow and even. He slept soundly, wrapped in the comforting delusion that when the sun rose tomorrow, everything would return to its proper place. That I would still be waiting, ready to be forgiven. 3 The next morning, Griffith tried calling me one last time before leaving the house. It rang out, eventually dropping to voicemail. Suppressing a sigh, he drove over to pick up Leona and headed toward the upstate bakery. The morning commute was congested, bumper-to-bumper traffic stretching down the highway. The radio was playing softly in the background, transitioning into the morning news broadcast. “…Breaking news this morning. A commercial flight traveling from Chicago to New York experienced catastrophic failure late last night due to severe weather and structural distress. The aircraft crashed in a remote area upstate. Search and rescue operations are underway, but hopes are slim for the one hundred and thirty-two passengers and crew members on board…” Leona gasped, her hand flying to her mouth as her face paled. “Oh my god… that’s awful. Grif, wasn’t Monica flying back from Chicago last night? She wasn’t on that flight, was she?” Griffith’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the leather of the steering wheel. His expression remained entirely unbothered. “No way. She’d never book that one. It’s a prime-time evening flight—the tickets are always double the price. Monica is too frugal for that.” I sat in the back seat, looking at the absolute certainty on his face. He didn’t know. To see him a few hours earlier, to surprise him on the eve of our fifth anniversary, I had splurged. I had paid the exorbitant change fee to get onto that exact flight. He pulled into the gravel parking lot of the bakery. “Come on, let’s get some food. We can’t have our Leona starving.” The bakery was buzzing with the morning rush, smelling of fresh yeast and roasted coffee. Griffith’s eyes swept across the crowded tables, looking for my familiar face. He glanced down at his watch, his brow furrowing as his impatience mounted. Usually, if we had a disagreement, I would have arrived early just to secure a table for him, desperate to smooth things over. But the minutes stretched on, and the seat opposite them remained empty. “She’s really dragging this out,” he muttered, checking his phone again. He figured he’d grab a quick bite, drop Leona off, and then check a few airport hotels to find me. But before their order arrived, his phone rang. It was his senior VP, sounding frantic about an urgent board meeting that required his immediate presence at the office. Griffith had to rush through breakfast, drive Leona back to her apartment, and head straight to his downtown office. The moment he walked into his suite, his executive assistant, Thomas, was waiting with a tablet in hand. “Mr. Payne, the briefing materials for the emergency meeting are ready.” “Good.” Griffith shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over the back of his chair. Thomas hesitated, looking slightly uneasy. “Sir… is Mrs. Payne doing alright? I saw the news about the crash upstate this morning, and I knew she was traveling.” Griffith opened his laptop, not even looking up. “She’s fine. She wasn’t on that flight.” “Thank goodness,” Thomas said, visibly relieved. He cleared his throat. “Also, today is your fifth anniversary. Would you like me to book a table at Le Jardin tonight?” Griffith froze, the realization hitting him like a belated wave. It was their anniversary. The tight lines around his mouth softened slightly. No wonder I had been so angry last night. No wonder I had gone completely silent. “Yes,” Griffith said. “Book the corner table overlooking the river. And order a bouquet of red roses.” Thomas smiled and nodded, turning to make the arrangements. Griffith picked up his phone again. Looking at our still-empty chat history, he let out a quiet sigh. He typed: Monica, I’m sorry about last night. I should have picked you up. Then, he sent the location of the French restaurant. Seven o’clock tonight. Let me make it up to you, okay? He assumed that once I saw the effort, the reservation, the roses, my anger would melt away. He had always operated this way. A cold shoulder, followed by a sweet gesture. He truly believed a fancy dinner and a dozen roses could erase months of neglect and quiet humiliation. But he didn’t know. I would never make it to dinner. 4 By late afternoon, the sky turned a bruised, heavy grey. Rain was on the horizon. A strange, low-level anxiety began to hum in Griffith’s chest. Then, a text from Leona popped up: Grif! My project bonus just cleared! I want to buy you dinner to celebrate tonight. Are you free? Griffith hesitated. He had plans to celebrate our anniversary tonight. But then he reasoned that he could easily grab a quick drink with Leona first and still make it to the restaurant by seven. Sure. Send me the place, he replied. I watched him make the choice with a dull, familiar ache. For five years, it had always been like this. Whenever Leona called, no matter how sacred the day was to us, she was always his first priority. After work, Griffith went straight to meet Leona at a trendy bistro downtown. He sat across from her, listening patiently as she rambled about her career wins, clinking his glass against hers to toast her success. It wasn’t until his watch read 6:45 PM that he finally slid his jacket back on and stood up. “I’ve got a commitment I can’t push, Leona. I have to run. Bill’s already taken care of.” On his way to the parking garage, he passed a luxury jeweler’s boutique. He popped inside, hastily picking out a delicate diamond necklace as an anniversary gift. Then, he got into his car and sped toward the French restaurant. I sat in the passenger seat beside him, staring down at the velvet box on the console. He had forgotten. Again. I had a severe contact allergy to certain metal alloys, especially nickel. Years ago, he had gifted me a similar necklace. To avoid hurting his feelings, I had forced myself to wear it for an entire evening. By midnight, my neck was covered in raw, weeping hives, and we ended up spending our anniversary in the ER. That night, he had held my hand, green with guilt, swearing he’d never be so careless again. But now, the promise had dissolved from his memory entirely. By the time he walked into Le Jardin, he was thirty minutes late. He expected me to be sitting there, just like I had for the past four anniversaries, waiting patiently with a gentle, forgiving smile. But the table was empty. He stood there, staring at the unoccupied velvet chair, momentarily stunned. He dropped the gift box onto the white tablecloth with a sharp click and pulled out his phone, shooting off an irritated voice note. “Monica, I booked the restaurant, I bought you a gift, and I’m sitting here waiting. How much longer are you going to keep this up?” A waiter approached him cautiously. “Sir, shall we bring out the steaks?” “Give it ten more minutes,” Griffith snapped, loosening his tie. He was growing increasingly resentful. He had cut his celebration with Leona short just to make it here, and yet I was still making him wait. What more did I want from him? He didn’t know I was sitting right across from him, staring at his frustrated face. His eyes remained fixed on the restaurant’s entrance, waiting for the door to swing open. He was utterly convinced I would walk through it. Just as I always did. Throughout our five years of marriage, all it took was a small crumb of affection for me to swallow my pride and sweep all my hurt under the rug. The minutes crawled by as the rain outside turned into a torrential downpour, splashing heavily against the glass. Griffith’s brow furrowed deeper. The silence since last night, paired with the background noise of the morning’s crash report, began to fester in his mind, growing into a cold, prickly dread. Suddenly, his phone vibrated violently against the wood table. The screen lit up with my name: Monica. The tension drained from Griffith’s shoulders, and he let out a long, heavy breath of relief. He swiped to answer. “So, you’re finally done playing hard to get? I knew you couldn’t stay away for long.” But it wasn’t my voice on the other end. It was the solemn, clinical voice of a man. “Is this the family of Monica Payne? We are calling regarding the passenger flight from Chicago. The aircraft suffered a fatal crash last night. “We need you to come to the precinct forensic center immediately to identify the remains.”

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I saw the post on our building’s resident WhatsApp group at ten on a Tuesday night. It was the kind of message that made me stop mid-sip of my wine, my eyes widening in the dim light of my living room. Belinda, the pregnant woman from across the hall, had tagged everyone. “Can anyone keep my husband company? Requirements: chat with him, cook him dinner in the evenings. I’ll pay $3,000 a month pocket money, plus a brand-new La Mer skincare set.” The chat went instantly quiet, a collective breath held in the digital ether. Then, she tagged me directly. “Lauren, I think you’re perfect for this. You’re single and beautiful. I’ve already left the gift box at your door. Just head on over tonight.” I opened my front door. Sure enough, there was a beautifully wrapped green box sitting on the welcome mat. I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. I picked up the box, walked to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it right in. Then I typed a quick reply in the group chat: “Are you out of your mind?” I honestly thought it was just some bizarre, temporary lapse in sanity. I was wrong. It was only the first step into a nightmare. … At seven the next morning, I opened my door to head to the office. “Lauren, you took the skincare. Why didn’t you show up to keep my husband company last night?” Belinda was standing in the hallway, blocking my path. Her hands were propped on her heavily pregnant belly, her eyes wide and demanding. I frowned, keeping my voice low. “Have you completely lost your mind?” Belinda’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How dare you speak to me like that? I was trying to be generous. That La Mer set cost more than you make in a week, and you take my things and refuse to do the work? Where is your decency?” I pointed toward the end of the hallway. “The box is in the trash chute. Go fish it out if you want it. Now, get out of my way.” I tried to step around her toward the elevator, but she lunged forward, grabbing the strap of my canvas tote bag. “You stay right here! Is it the money? Do you think three grand isn’t enough?” Belinda’s grip was surprisingly tight. “I’m telling you, it’s easy cash. Just cook for my husband, talk to him. It’s not like it’s going to kill you!” My face went cold. “Belinda, let me say this one last time. I have zero interest in your husband, and I have zero interest in your money. If you touch me or my belongings again, I will call the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Belinda didn’t flinch. Instead, she pushed her pregnant belly toward me. “I’m pregnant. What do you think the cops are going to do to me? Touch me. Lay one finger on me and I’ll sue you until you’re completely bankrupt!” The shouting was loud enough to echo in the concrete stairwell, drawing the attention of our neighbors. Mrs. Higgins, an elderly woman from the floor below, poked her head out of the elevator vestibule, holding a mug of tea. “Oh, Lauren, dear, what’s all the commotion? It’s far too early for this.” Belinda pointed a manicured finger at me. “Mrs. Higgins, you be the judge! This girl took my expensive gift, promised she’d help watch my husband while I’m resting, and now she’s going back on her word!” My hands shook with sheer frustration. How could anyone twist reality so effortlessly? I pulled out my phone and pulled up the WhatsApp group. “Mrs. Higgins, look at this. She posted this insane proposal last night. I didn’t let her in, I didn’t accept her package, and I threw it straight into the garbage.” Mrs. Higgins squinted at the screen, then looked at Belinda. Her expression shifted into deep, awkward discomfort. “Oh, Belinda… sweetheart, this is… well, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Who hires a companion for their own husband?” “What do you mean, a bit much?” Belinda’s voice grew louder, more hysterical. “I’m pregnant! I can’t take care of him right now. What’s wrong with finding him a little company? It’s my duty as a supportive wife!” She glared at me, her eyes dripping with condescension. “She’s a single woman. She dresses up to turn heads every single day—we all know what she’s looking for. I’m offering her a paid opportunity, and she’s acting like she’s too pure for it!” I took a deep, steadying breath, bypassing her completely, and dialed building security. “This is Lauren in Apartment 802. I have a tenant blocking my doorway and harassing me. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing me mention security, Belinda’s face flickered with a brief flash of hesitation. “Call them! You think I’m scared of some rent-a-cops? My husband is a senior VP at a top firm. He could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards stepped out of the elevator, looking thoroughly flustered. I pointed at Belinda. “Get her away from my door so I can go to work. If she blocks me again, I’ll file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe building environment.” The guards looked apologetic, shifting on their feet. “Uh… Mrs. Matt, please. You’re pregnant, you shouldn’t let your blood pressure get this high. Let’s just go back inside, okay?” Belinda slapped their hands away, her finger nearly touching my nose. “Lauren, you’re going to regret this! This isn’t over! You think you can treat me like this? I’ll make sure you can’t show your face in this neighborhood!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past her, and stepped into the waiting elevator. I tried to convince myself that if I just ignored her, she would eventually get bored and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low she was willing to sink. That evening, I didn’t get home until eight after a grueling sprint of overtime. The moment the elevator doors slid open on the eighth floor, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. Wet paint. I walked toward my door, and my heart dropped into my stomach. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Slurred across the wood in frantic, jagged strokes were the words: HOMEWRECKER GO TO HELL. Hanging from the brass doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, bloodied rat. The hallway seemed to spin. A wave of intense nausea washed over me, and I had to lean against the wall to keep my knees from buckling. Right then, my phone buzzed in my hand. I picked up. Belinda’s soft, mocking laughter came through the receiver. “Do you like my housewarming gift, Lauren?” My voice was like ice. “Your gift? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” Her tone was dripping with fake innocence. “Vandalized? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a fragile pregnant woman, Lauren. I can barely bend over to tie my shoes, let alone carry a paint can. What could I possibly do?” She paused, letting the silence stretch. “But then again, there are plenty of decent people in this building who can’t stand a homewrecker. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do some community service.” My grip on the phone was so tight my knuckles turned white. “Belinda, do you honestly think you can get away with this just because the hallway camera is down?” “Go ahead and check the feeds,” she sneered. “The building manager told us weeks ago that the system is broken. Lauren, be smart. Wash up, put on something nice, and go to my husband’s room tonight. Let’s put this little misunderstanding behind us.” “Otherwise, tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up immediately, blocked her number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two officers arrived. I laid out the entire sequence of events, showing them the WhatsApp logs, the call logs, and the recording of the call I had just received. The two young officers exchanged troubled looks. “I’ve heard some strange neighborhood disputes, but this is a new one,” one of them murmured before walking over to knock on Belinda’s door. The door opened. Belinda was wearing a loose, flowing linen maternity dress, holding a pristine bowl of washed grapes. When she saw the police, her face contorted into a perfect picture of innocent shock. “Officers? Oh my goodness, is everything alright? Did something happen?” The officer pointed toward my door. “Do you know anything about this, ma’am?” Belinda gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. “Oh, how dreadful! Who would do such a horrible thing? Lauren, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd?” I stared at her, my voice deadpan. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the audio recording. As her own voice echoed in the hallway, Belinda’s eyes welled with tears. “Officers, please listen to that. Did I ever actually admit to doing it? I was just upset because she’s constantly trying to catch my husband’s eye. I was just talking back. How could a pregnant woman carry paint and do all that?” The officers looked frustrated. Without direct camera footage or an explicit admission, their hands were tied. “Mrs. Matt, your statements on this recording clearly constitute harassment,” the officer warned her, his voice stern. “Consider this a formal warning. If there are any further incidents, we will have no choice but to issue a summons.” Belinda nodded eagerly, wiping her dry eyes. Once the police walked away, the hallway fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Just the two of us. Belinda’s face instantly changed, her tearful expression melting into a cold, triumphant smirk. “See that, Lauren? Even the cops can’t touch me.” She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I am carrying the heir to the Matt family fortune. Even if I ended you, any lawyer would get me off on postpartum psychosis. I wouldn’t spend a single day in a cell.” I looked at her, and for the first time, a strange, calm smile touched my lips. “Is that so? Let’s see how that works out for you.” I didn’t waste another word. I walked away, called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired a professional deep-cleaning crew to scrub the paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I walked into the lobby of my office building, the receptionist, a sweet girl named Julie, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lauren, oh my god, have you looked at the company Slack?” My stomach tightened. I pulled out my phone. On the main company-wide channel, an anonymous user had posted a long, detailed article. The title was venomous: The Dual Life of Senior Designer Lauren: Classy on the Outside, Homewrecker on the Inside. The post featured my professional headshot side-by-side with a cropped screenshot of Belinda’s WhatsApp message to me. The text beneath was pure poison: “This woman targets married men for money. She accepted expensive luxury gifts from a pregnant neighbor’s husband, but when she realized she couldn’t extort more cash, she backed out and called the police on a pregnant woman to cover her tracks.” The office was already humming with it. When I walked through the bullpen, my coworkers’ conversations died instantly. Eyes darted toward me, whispered judgments hanging thick in the air. I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight into the Director’s office. Diane, our Design Director, was a sharp, formidable woman in her late forty’s. She looked at the screenshots I handed her, then at the police report and the call logs. Her brow furrowed deeply. “Lauren, I’ve worked with you for five years. I know your character,” Diane said, her voice measured but serious. “But this post has spread like wildfire. We’ve already had two major clients call asking if this is going to affect our current campaign.” “I understand,” I said, drawing a breath that felt like lead. “I will handle this completely. If I can’t resolve it within the month, I will tender my resignation.” Diane nodded slowly. “Alright. Take the time you need to clear this up. I’ve already instructed IT to permanently remove the post and track the IP.” Leaving her office, I immediately called Russell, a private investigator I’d met through a mutual acquaintance. Defamation. Harassment. Extortion. I wasn’t going to play defense anymore. I booked a room at a boutique hotel near my office and didn’t return to the apartment. For the next month, Belinda went completely silent. There were no more posts, no more text messages. Everything seemed to return to normal. I allowed myself to believe they had finally realized they were playing a dangerous game and backed off. I was incredibly naive. It was a rainy Friday afternoon, exactly four weeks later, when I walked out of the office lobby. A figure stepped out from the shadow of the awning, blocking my path. He wore a tailored gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the polished professional. He looked at me with an expression of profound, humble apology. “Lauren? Hi. I’m Zachary Matt, Belinda’s husband.” I stopped, my body instantly tensing. “What do you want?” Zachary sighed, reaching into his leather briefcase to pull out a beautifully wrapped package. He held it out with both hands. “I came to apologize to you in person,” he said, his voice soft and deeply apologetic. “Belinda’s hormonal levels have been completely unstable since she got pregnant. She’s had severe mood swings, and she’s done some incredibly irrational things. I’ve been traveling out of state for work and had no idea how bad things had gotten. I am so, so sorry for the nightmare she put you through.” I didn’t touch the box. “I don’t want your apology, and I don’t want your gifts. I’ve retained a lawyer, Mr. Matt. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, Zachary’s eyes flickered. He withdrew the box slowly, taking a step closer. His voice dropped to a low, confidential murmur. “Lauren, a lawsuit is so exhausting. It takes months, and honestly, a public dispute like this won’t do any favors for a single woman’s reputation.” He adjusted his glasses, his eyes drifting down my figure with a slow, deliberate assessment. “To be honest… Belinda’s idea was crazy, but it doesn’t mean it was entirely wrong.” I froze, wondering if I had somehow misheard him. “What did you just say?” Zachary smiled, a greasy, predatory curl of his lips. “You’re a gorgeous woman, Lauren. It must be so exhausting, trying to survive in this city entirely on your own. Belinda’s health is poor right now, and she can’t… satisfy me.” He reached out, his fingers hovering just inches from my cheek. “If you agree, we don’t have to talk about three thousand dollars. I can make it thirty thousand a month. All you have to do is spend a few nights a week with me.” “Belinda is old-fashioned. She genuinely believes this is her duty to keep me happy. See? My entire family wants you. Why are you hesitating?” A wave of cold revulsion washed over me. These two were a perfect match: one was a delusional madam, and the other was a self-righteous john. I slapped his hand away and, in one fluid motion, brought my palm hard across his cheek. SLAP. Zachary’s head snapped to the side. He cupped his face, his polite facade instantly evaporating into a dark, vicious glare. “Don’t flatter yourself, Lauren,” he hissed, spitting a bit of saliva onto the pavement. “I was throwing you a bone.” He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper against the sound of the rain. “Believe me, I have a hundred ways to make you beg me to touch you.” I met his gaze, my voice deadly quiet. “I’d love to see you try.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called Russell. That night, around two in the morning, I was pulled from a deep sleep by a violent, deafening pounding on my hotel door. BANG! BANG! BANG! “Lauren! You miserable bitch, open this door!” It was Belinda. I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open up! You think you can sleep with my husband? You think you can lay your hands on him? Get out here!” The screaming was hysterical, accompanied by a barrage of vile insults that echoed down the quiet hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then called the front desk. “I’m in Room 802. There are people trying to break down my door. Send security up immediately!” Outside, the noise grew louder. Zachary’s voice joined the shouting. “Lauren, stop playing innocent! You had the nerve to hit me, but now you’re hiding like a coward?” His voice sounded slurred, heavy with alcohol and toxic confidence. I stood flush against the door, my hand trembling as I held a can of pepper spray. Five minutes felt like an eternity before I heard the sharp command of security guards, followed by the heavy, hurried footsteps of police officers. Only then did I let out a long breath and unbolt the lock. The hallway was a scene of utter chaos. Belinda’s hair was wild, her eyes crazed as she struggled against an officer trying to hold her back. Zachary was standing to the side, raising his hands to explain to another officer. “Officer, please, it’s just a family matter. My wife is pregnant and highly emotional. She thought her husband’s mistress was in this room. We just wanted to talk.” I stepped out, pointing directly at them. “Officer, they have been stalking and harassing me for over a month. They tracked me to this hotel.” The responding officer recognized them immediately. “You two again? The vandalism case from last month isn’t even resolved, and now you’re causing a scene at a hotel?” Belinda’s eyes turned bloodshot, her face contorting with wild rage as she lunged toward me. “You whore! You hit my husband! I’ll tear your eyes out!” The officer grabbed her arm, pinning her back. “Ma’am, calm down! You’re pregnant, you need to stop this!” Suddenly, Belinda went completely still. The rage on her face vanished, replaced by a ghastly, pale mask of pure terror. A low, guttural moan escaped her throat. “My… my stomach… Oh god, it hurts…” She collapsed onto her knees, and within seconds, a dark, brilliant pool of blood began to seep through the hem of her light-colored dress, staining the patterned hotel carpet. Everyone froze. Zachary’s face drained of color as he threw himself onto the floor beside her. “Belinda! Belinda, what’s happening?” The officer immediately barked into his radio: “Dispatch, we need an ambulance at the Grand Hyatt, eighth floor. Hemorrhaging pregnant female.” The hallway was a blur of shouting and panic. Belinda clutched Zachary’s jacket, her fingers trembling, her gaze locked onto me with a look of absolute, venomous hatred. “It’s her… she did this to my baby… Zachary, don’t let her get away with this…” When the paramedics finally arrived and wheeled her out on a stretcher, Zachary stood up. He turned back to look at me, his eyes dark with a terrifying promise. “If my child dies, Lauren, I will make sure you pay with your life.”

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In the second year of my divorce battle with Rachel, the court stripped me of everything. I was cleaned out, left with nothing but the clothes on my back and a mountain of debt. While I was packing my life into cardboard boxes, my daughter fished an old, dusty phone from the bottom of a trunk. “Look, Daddy! It lights up!” I tapped the screen. A single email notification popped up, casting a dim glow over the empty bedroom. It was a message from ten years ago, written by my younger self. Are you doing okay, twenty-eight-year-old Drew? Did you marry the girl of your dreams? Is our baby as cute as you always hoped? She loves kids more than anything. I bet you guys are incredibly happy, aren’t you? My throat tightened. I gripped the phone, typing back a reply line by line. I got married. We have a beautiful daughter. But three years into the marriage, I found out she was sleeping with my best friend. The godfather of our child. We fought in court for two years. She won. She made sure I was left with absolutely nothing. Seconds after I hit send, a reply flashed across the screen. You’re lying! Rachel and Jordan love me more than anyone in the world. They would never betray me! I let out a bitter, hollow laugh, my fingers trembling against the glass. The people who love you most? Our daughter has a congenital heart defect. She won’t survive without surgery. I literally got down on my knees, begging Rachel for the money to save her life, and she accused me of trying to extort her. She froze all my bank accounts and spent our wedding savings on a lavish ceremony with Jordan. The invitations are already out. Drew, don’t be an idiot. Ten years from now, Rachel doesn’t love you anymore. Whether you break up with her or stay—it’s your choice. … The messages stopped. I waited ten minutes, but there was no reply. Eighteen-year-old Drew was so hopelessly in love with Rachel. How could he possibly believe me? I wiped the tears from my eyes and went back to packing. My daughter sat on top of the open suitcase, swinging her little legs. “Daddy, why are we moving?” she asked in her sweet, quiet voice. I opened my mouth, but the words caught in my throat. How do you explain to a child that you lost everything? How do you tell her that her mother is marrying someone else, and that she will soon have a brand-new family that doesn’t include us? It was a burden too heavy for a four-year-old to carry. Below, the purr of a high-end engine broke the quiet afternoon. A sleek, black Mercedes-Maybach pulled up to the curb. Jordan and Rachel stepped out, laughing and talking in low, intimate whispers as they walked up the steps. I dragged my heavy suitcase down the stairs, meeting them right at the landing. Jordan smirked, waving a marriage certificate in front of my face. “Leaving so soon, Drew?” he asked, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Rachel was in such a rush. The court finalized the divorce this morning, and she insisted we get hitched this afternoon. She couldn’t wait a single minute.” I didn’t look at him. My eyes locked onto Rachel, but she simply stepped aside, her expression entirely blank. She looked at me the way she would look at a stranger on the subway. Lucy, completely unaware of the tension, waved her tiny hand. “Uncle Jordan, hug!” Jordan smiled warmly, pinched her cheek, and slid a thick white envelope into my hand. “Just a little something for the kid. Take it.” The envelope was heavy. In the old days, my fist would have met his jaw before he could finish the sentence. But now, I swallowed my pride, gripped the envelope, and slid it into my pocket. Rachel’s brow furrowed in disgust. “Is this who you are now, Drew? You couldn’t win any assets in court, so now you’re stooping to taking handouts?” I stood there in silence for a few seconds before asking one last time, my voice barely a whisper. “Rachel… Lucy’s surgery. Can you please just—” “Drew, enough!” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “I have given you more than enough money over the years. Stop using our daughter as a cash cow. I saw her physical report from the clinic—she’s perfectly healthy. You won’t extort another dime from me.” I gripped the handle of my suitcase so hard my fingernails dug into my palms. It hurt enough to bring tears to my eyes. I had told her dozens of times that the clinic report Jordan gave her was a fake, but she refused to believe me. She said Jordan’s family owned the best private hospital in the city, so there was no way they could be wrong. She trusted Jordan blindly. When I tried to show her the official diagnosis from the state general hospital, she tore it to pieces right in front of me, calling me a liar. She had even hired a high-powered corporate legal team specifically to ensure I walked away with nothing. Lucy pulled at my coat. “Daddy, I’m scared.” I bent down, scooped her into my arms, and walked right past them, dragging the suitcase behind me. As I brushed past Jordan, I caught the sharp, woody notes of his cologne. It was the custom fragrance Rachel had gifted me for our anniversary two years ago. She had told me it was a limited blend, that it represented how I was the only one in her heart. Not long after, the same scent started clinging to Jordan. Every time I smelled it, it felt like a physical blow. I loaded our lives into the back of my old sedan. As I started the ignition, the old phone in my pocket vibrated. Are you really me? eighteen-year-old Drew wrote. I asked Rachel about it. She laughed and said she’d only ever love me. She promised our baby would be healthy and beautiful, and that she’d give her the world. Rachel loves me. I believe her. Of course he did. He was young and untouched by betrayal. I pulled the gold-embossed wedding invitation from my bag, took a photo of the names Rachel & Jordan printed in elegant cursive, and hit send. Ask her then. If she swore to love me forever, why is she marrying him today? After sending the email, I powered the phone down. From the moment I first discovered Rachel’s affair until today, I had remained remarkably quiet. I had signed the papers quietly. I had stood in the courtroom quietly. Even when her lawyers tore my character to shreds, I hadn’t shed a single tear. But now, communicating with the ghost of our past, a profound wave of grief washed over me. Because I remembered, better than anyone, how fiercely she used to love me. When my family went bankrupt when we were sixteen, she gave me every penny of her savings to help pay off our debts. When her parents cut her off financially to force us apart, she worked three part-time jobs just to help me pay my college tuition. After graduation, she defied her entire family to move to an unfamiliar city and build a startup with me. I had tried to push her away back then, telling her she deserved a better life. But she had held onto me, crying, and said, “Drew, as long as I have you, I don’t need anything else.” We had promised to build a beautiful life for our future children. But the very day we finally moved into our dream home, our marriage began to rot from the inside out. I drank myself to sleep that night in our cramped rented apartment. The next morning, my head was splitting, but I forced myself to sit up and dial every contact in my phone, begging for loans to cover Lucy’s surgery. I had just put the phone down when the preschool called. “Is this Lucy’s father? Lucy just collapsed on the playground. We’re in the ambulance on the way to the pediatric ER…” By the time I sprinted into the hospital lobby, Rachel was already there. She stood by Lucy’s bed, looking down at our pale, unconscious daughter. Her expression was cold and harsh. “Alright, Drew. How much do you want this time?” My hands shook as I dug through my bag for the medical charts. “Rachel, she’s really sick. Just look at the arterial scans, please—” Rachel grabbed my wrist, her grip unexpectedly painful. “Stop acting.” She threw a shiny platinum debit card onto the linoleum floor. “I know exactly what’s wrong with Lucy. This card has more than enough to cover your rent and living expenses. The PIN is your birthday.” I wrenched my hand free and knelt to pick up the card. Rachel glanced at Lucy one last time, then turned toward the exit. As she passed me, she paused. “Drew, if you had just pretended not to know about Jordan and me, we would still be a happy family. I never wanted to marry him. You’re the one who insisted on a divorce and made this so incredibly ugly.” My chest heaved with a quiet, burning rage. Pretend? How could I pretend when I had walked into our own guest bedroom and seen her wrapped in the arms of the man I called my brother? Even when she was pregnant, she couldn’t keep away from him. It was the constant stress and her reckless lifestyle that had caused Lucy to be born premature. Since she was an infant, Lucy had been in and out of critical care. While I spent sleepless nights weeping in hospital corridors, Rachel was either at “late-night business dinners” or traveling with Jordan. Jordan had spent more time with our daughter than Rachel ever did. I leaned against the hospital wall, suddenly remembering the old phone. I pulled it out, charged it, and powered it on. Several unread emails popped up. Drew, I asked her, the messages from my younger self read. She saw the photo of the invitation and broke down. She swore it wasn’t her. She actually cut Jordan out of her life. He lost his mind, screaming at her, but she told him she couldn’t bear the thought of hurting future-you. Jordan was supposed to go to the same college as us, but now he’s enrolling in a school abroad. See? The future can be changed. Rachel also said that if she ever turns into the monster you described, she wants to apologize to you. She’s so sorry. A strange sensation washed over me, like ink dissolving in water. My mind felt fuzzy for a moment, and then, a set of new memories settled into my brain. In this altered timeline, Rachel had indeed severed ties with Jordan after high school, and Jordan had left the country. But four years later, he returned. He used his family’s massive investment fund to bail out Rachel’s struggling startup, positioning himself as her primary partner. They still ended up in the same bed. I typed back to the eighteen-year-old Drew: It doesn’t work. He comes back. If you want to save our daughter, you have to break up with Rachel. You have to leave her completely. Lucy remained unconscious through the night. The next morning, she slowly opened her eyes, her tiny hand reaching out to touch my cheek. “Don’t cry, Daddy. Lucy doesn’t hurt anymore.” I buried my face in her small, warm palm, letting my tears flow silently. The doctor stepped into the room, his face grim. “Mr. Evans, your daughter’s vitals are dropping. We need to get her into the operating room as soon as possible. Have you secured the deposit?” “I’m working on it,” I whispered. I had exhausted every single resource. The money I managed to scrape together was barely enough to cover the pre-op tests. In a state of sheer desperation, I dialed Jordan’s number. “Jordan… please. I need sixty thousand dollars. I’ll sign whatever you want. I won’t contest the assets, I won’t look at Rachel again. Just let Lucy live.” A soft, mocking chuckle came through the receiver. “Well, look who finally crawled back to me.” “Jordan, please.” “There’s a high school reunion tonight at the hotel downtown,” Jordan said, his voice dripping with malice. “Come down. Get on your knees and beg me in front of everyone, and maybe I’ll think about it.” At eight o’clock that evening, I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the private dining room. The laughter inside died down instantly. Dozens of eyes turned to me, filled with amusement and pity. “Wow, Jordan wasn’t lying. The fallen prince actually showed up for a handout.” “If he hadn’t played the victim and kept Rachel away from her family back then, she would have married Jordan years ago…” I had lived with these whispers for three years. But the boy who used to throw punches to defend my honor in high school was now the man sitting on the plush velvet sofa, swirling a glass of expensive Cabernet. “You’re here,” Jordan said, tilting his chin upward. “On your knees, Drew.” I froze, my joints locked. “What’s wrong? Don’t want the money?” He slid a blank check across the polished mahogany table. “Kneel, and you can write whatever number you want.” The room erupted into snickers. “Just do it, Drew. Don’t act like you still have pride.” My fists clenched, my chest burning with a humiliation so intense it felt physical. Slowly, I let my knees drop to the carpet. “Jordan, I’m begging you. Save Lucy. She’s only four. She didn’t do anything wrong.” Jordan stood up, walked over to me, and slowly tipped his glass, pouring the dark red wine directly over my head. “You know what I hate most about you, Drew?” he whispered, his eyes dark. “We grew up together, the three of us. But Rachel always looked at you. I spent years trying to earn her parents’ approval, and she threw it all away for a charity case like you.” The cold, sticky liquid ran down my forehead, dripping into my collar. Jordan tossed the check onto my wet lap. “Take it. Write the amount. We were brothers once; I’m not going to let a kid die.” I picked up the pen and wrote the exact amount needed for the surgery. Not a penny more. Just as I finished, the double doors burst open. Rachel walked in. She took one look at the check in my hand, walked straight up to me, and delivered a stinging slap across my face. I fell sideways onto the floor, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. “Have you no shame, Drew?” she spat, her voice trembling with rage. “You’re actually begging Jordan for money now?” Jordan stepped up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Babe, don’t be mad. I just felt bad for him. He has nothing left.” Rachel looked down at me, her eyes filled with cold, unadulterated disgust. “Take the charity and get out. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough.” I grabbed the check and scrambled to my feet, walking out to the sound of hushed laughter. As the heavy doors clicked shut behind me, I caught the voice of an old classmate asking, “Rachel, do you ever regret marrying him in the first place?” Through the crack in the door, I heard her clear, steady reply. “Every single day. If I could go back ten years, I wish I’d never met him.” My chest seized. If eighteen-year-old Rachel could hear those words, she would hate the woman she had become. I rushed back to the hospital and scheduled the surgery for the following week. After agonizing over it, I dialed Rachel’s number. It took ten attempts before she finally answered. “Rachel… can you come to the hospital on Wednesday? It’s the day of her surgery. She keeps asking for her mom.” The line was quiet for a long moment. “I have a product launch. I’m busy,” she said flatly. “Just text me when it’s over. Oh, and Jordan and I are having our ceremony this weekend. Don’t cause any trouble.” Before she could say another word, I hung up. The day of their wedding, the entire city seemed to be celebrating. Every local news channel was broadcasting the “wedding of the century” live from the grand cathedral downtown. I sat by Lucy’s bed, staring at the gold-embossed invitation, wanting nothing more than to tear it into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, the monitors beside the bed began to blare. Lucy’s face turned a terrifying shade of blue, her tiny chest heaving as she gasped for air. Within seconds, a team of doctors and nurses rushed into the room, pushing me out of the way. “Lucy! Lucy, look at Daddy! Stay with me!” I screamed, but a nurse held me back as they wheeled her toward the ICU. “Mr. Evans, her lungs are failing. We have to do the emergency bypass right now! Go to the billing desk and clear the deposit!” I sprinted to the desk, pulling the platinum card Rachel had given me from my wallet. “Declined,” the receptionist said, looking at me with pity. “The account has been frozen.” My blood ran cold. Rachel had frozen the card. I called her. Declined. I called again. Blocked. I ran out of the hospital, hailed a cab, and urged the driver to fly toward the cathedral. When I arrived, the steps were covered in white rose petals. Rachel was standing near the entrance, her magnificent lace gown trailing behind her, a bouquet of white calla lilies in her hands. I lunged past the security line, grabbing her arm. My voice was completely shot, raw and bleeding. “Rachel, Lucy is dying! She’s in the ICU right now. Unfreeze the card! Please, I’m begging you, just unfreeze the card!” Rachel’s face darkened. She waved her hand, and two large security guards immediately grabbed my shoulders, dragging me backward. “Drew, stop this ridiculous drama!” she yelled over the crowd. “I checked the clinic reports myself. She has a mild arrhythmia. To crash my wedding with a lie like this… you’re pathetic.” “Rachel! Please!” The heavy oak doors of the cathedral closed, and the beautiful, resonant notes of the wedding march began to play, completely drowning out my screams. I fell to my knees on the stone steps. In my pocket, the old phone vibrated. It was a message from eighteen-year-old Rachel. Drew, it’s Rachel. I know everything now. I promise you, I will never let those awful things happen to us. I swear to love you with my entire life. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I stared at the screen, my vision blurring with tears. The eighteen-year-old Rachel had sworn to love me with her life. The twenty-eight-year-old Rachel was inside, walking down the aisle to another man, leaving our daughter to die alone. My phone rang. It was the hospital. “Mr. Evans… I am so sorry. We couldn’t get her into the operating room in time. Lucy passed away at 2:14 PM.” The world went entirely silent. The air left my lungs. My mind went blank, a vast, frozen wasteland. Through the stained-glass windows of the cathedral, I could hear the faint sound of cheering. They were exchanging rings. A sudden, violent surge of adrenaline hit my system. I broke free from the guards’ grip, threw my weight against the heavy wooden doors, and charged down the center aisle. “Rachel!” I screamed, my voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “Our daughter is dead! She’s dead because of you!” The guests gasped, rising from their pews. Rachel shrieked, stepping back into Jordan’s arms. “Drew, you’re insane! Lucy was fine! Someone get him out of here!” “Drew, get the hell out!” Jordan yelled, stepping in front of her. “I paid for her treatment!” I lunged at him, my fist connecting heavily with his cheekbone. “You changed the records! You knew she was dying, and you hid it from her! You killed my little girl!” The chapel fell into absolute chaos. Guests were screaming, and several security guards tackled me to the ground, pinning my face against the cold stone floor before dragging me out into the pouring rain. As I lay on the wet pavement, the old phone in my hand buzzed one last time. It was eighteen-year-old Drew. I can’t do it, Drew. I can’t break up with her. She loves me too much, and I love her. I have to believe her. I let out a ragged, weeping laugh. We were the exact same fool, he and I. Even when we knew how the story ended, we still chose to believe. I pushed myself up, my fingers slippery with rain and blood as I typed my final reply. Drew, Lucy is dead. She died ten minutes ago while Rachel was kissing Jordan at the altar. They killed her. I am begging you, please break up with her. Don’t love her. Don’t marry her. Please… don’t let my little girl die again. The tears blinded me completely. I couldn’t see where I was going. I stumbled off the curb, my boots slipping on the wet asphalt. High-beam headlights cut through the gray storm. A horn blared, deafening and sharp, followed by the violent screech of brakes. The world spun. In the final, fading moments of my consciousness, I thought I saw an eighteen-year-old girl in a high school uniform, tears streaming down her face, sprinting toward me through the dark. “Drew!”

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We were halfway through a private spa party when my fiancée went missing. I headed toward the VIP wing to find her. As I walked, lines of glowing text—a bizarre, floating stream of internet comments—glitched across my field of vision: [Why is this charity-case fiancé suddenly heading to the sauna? The heroine is in there getting cozy with the golden-boy imposter right now!] [I love that he paid for the private booking, only for it to become their secret love nest. Delicious irony!] [Serves him right for standing in the way of true love. Die mad about it!] My fiancée’s assistant, Luke, stepped out of the shadows to block my path. “Mr. Carpenter, Miss Harrington said she went to fetch some fresh linens for you. She asked you to wait in the private lounge.” [Luke’s such a bro, always covering for them.] [Our sweet, edgy Christian belongs with Isla. If I were there, I’d lie to this country bumpkin too.] [Isla was too reckless, though. She slammed the door so hard she jammed the emergency lock from the inside. You can’t open it from within now.] I looked at the heavy door. Faint waves of heat radiated from the seams, shimmering in the cool corridor air. Then I looked at the red “Out of Order” sign hanging from the brass handle. I pulled out my phone and dialed the locksmith down the mountain. “Hi, the lock on the sauna door is jammed. Take your time riding your scooter up the mountain. No rush, an hour should do. I’ll wait right here.” [Wait, no! If they wait an hour, they’ll be steamed alive!] 1 “Wayne, what are you doing standing out here?” Isla’s trust-fund friends approached me. Leading the pack were Chad and Ashley. They belonged to Isla and Christian’s elite circle, and they had despised me ever since the Carpenters brought me back a year ago—the biological son who had been lost for twenty years. Chad rolled his eyes, his voice dripping with condescension. “Didn’t Isla tell you to wait in the lounge?” “Did you get lost, Wayne? I guess a luxury alpine resort is a bit much for a guy raised in the sticks.” Ashley chimed in, crossing her arms. “Honestly, Wayne, just because you have the title of fiancé doesn’t mean you have to cling to her like wet paint. Isla has been working herself ragged with PR lately. She finally gets a second to unwind, and you’re smothering her. Aren’t you embarrassed?” [Seriously, this guy is so clingy. Go away already!] [Don’t interrupt our couple’s private time!] [It’s getting incredibly hot in there. Go away, Wayne! Luke, figure out a way to get them out!] I didn’t bother replying to their barbs. Instead, I turned to the spa attendant standing nearby. “Bring me a chaise lounge,” I said. “And set up two of those heavy-duty industrial fans, pointed right at me.” “Oh, and bring over a platter of iced watermelon, chilled grapes, and the most expensive gelato you have.” The attendant blinked, startled, but scurried off to comply. Chad frowned, his brow furrowing. “Wayne, what the hell is wrong with you? This is the VIP corridor. You’re turning it into a campsite?” I ignored him, sinking into the plush leather of the lounge chair the attendant had brought and scooping up a spoonful of blood-orange gelato. “I paid to book out this entire floor. I’ll sit where I want, eat what I want. If you don’t like it, the elevator is right there. Walk.” “You—” Chad’s face turned a dark, mottled purple. Luke was sweating now. His eyes darted repeatedly to the heavy, sealed door of the sauna. The heat escaping from the seams was already warming the hallway. “Mr. Carpenter, it’s really humid out here. It’s not good for your health. How about I escort you to the hydrotherapy pool?” I took my time swallowing. “No need. I just noticed the lock on this sauna seems to be broken. What if someone’s trapped inside? I have a soft heart, Luke. I think I’ll stay right here and wait for the locksmith.” Luke’s face drained of all color. He knew exactly who was in there: his boss, and the adoptive brother she actually loved. [Oh my god, he’s doing this on purpose!] [Does he know? No way, how could a brainless charity case figure it out?] [This is bad. Christian has a weak heart. It must be over 120 degrees in there by now. They’re going to dehydrate!] Chad stepped up, pointing a finger at my chest. “Wayne, don’t push your luck. There’s a maintenance sign on the door. Why would anyone be in there? You’re just throwing a tantrum to get Isla’s attention, aren’t you? Let me tell you something—no matter what pathetic stunts you pull, she will never look at you.” Ashley sneered in agreement. “Exactly. You’re a crude, classless bore. You don’t possess a fraction of Christian’s grace. The Carpenters only brought you back out of pity. Don’t act like you actually belong here.” I looked at them, my gaze cold. I was the biological Carpenter heir, stolen at birth and raised in poverty for twenty years. A year ago, they found me. But my birth parents and my older sister had already poured two decades of love into Christian, the boy they adopted to replace me. They hated my bluntness, my refusal to play their high-society games. Even Isla, the girl I had been betrothed to since childhood, only had eyes for Christian. For a year, I tried to fit in. I begged for their affection. In return, I received nothing but cold shoulders and quiet mockery. Well. I was done playing nice. 2 I dropped the empty rind back onto the silver platter with a loud, deliberate clatter. Chad and Ashley flinched, their irritation spiking. “Who do you think you’re throwing a tantrum at, Wayne?” Chad crossed his arms, looking down his nose. “You think having the Carpenter name makes you special? In this town, people only respect Christian. You’re just a stray dog who wandered into a mansion.” I laughed. “A stray dog? Chad, did you fail basic English, or do you just struggle with metaphors? Christian lived my life, spent my parents’ money, and wore my name for twenty years. How exactly am I the stray here?” [He’s just bitter. Blood means nothing; history is what counts!] [Christian is so sweet. If he weren’t trying to protect Wayne’s feelings, he and Isla would have gone public ages ago.] [Someone open the door! It’s hitting 140 degrees in there!] [Isla is losing consciousness, and Christian is fading. They’re going to die of heatstroke!] Luke was practically vibrating with anxiety, clutching his walkie-talkie but too terrified to call for help publicly. “Mr. Carpenter, please, I’m begging you. Go back to your suite. Let me handle this. If Miss Harrington sees you acting like this, she’ll be furious.” I leaned back into the chaise lounge, completely unbothered. “Let her be furious. What do I care? Nobody touches that door without my permission.” Ashley’s patience snapped. “Wayne, you’ve always been a ghost in our social circle. If you don’t leave right now, I will personally make sure you are blacklisted from every country club and gala in the state!” “Yeah! We’ll freeze you out completely!” Chad barks. I looked at them, finding it almost tragic how much I used to care about their approval. I used to swallow their insults and pay their bar tabs, just to spend five more minutes near Isla. Now? I couldn’t care less. “Sounds great,” I said softly. Chad and Ashley exchanged a stunned look. They hadn’t expected me to fold so easily—or rather, not care at all. “What did you say?” Chad blinked. “I said, sounds great. Frankly, I’m sick of paying for a bunch of trust-fund freeloaders anyway. I already closed the tab for today. From now on, if you want to drink, buy your own. Oh, and Chad? Venmo me for the gelato and the fan rental. Let’s split it fifty-fifty.” [Is he insane? He’s actually burning bridges with her friends?] [He used to beg to be included!] [Forget about that! Christian just collapsed in Isla’s arms! Save them!] [Isla tried to throw herself against the glass, but she’s too weak. It’s blast-resistant glass, she can’t break it!] Luke could not take it anymore. Gritting his teeth, he stepped forward. “Mr. Carpenter, forgive me.” He reached out to grab the arm of my chaise lounge, intending to drag me away. I looked up at him, my eyes like ice. “Touch me, Luke, and see what happens. You’re Isla’s assistant, not my keeper. Remember your place.” Luke froze. Just then, a sharp, irritated voice cut through the humid air of the corridor. “Wayne! What on earth are you doing now?” I looked up. It’s my biological older sister, Vicky. And she brought security with her. Chad immediately ran to her like a kicked puppy. “Vicky, thank God you’re here! Wayne is throwing a fit. He’s blockading the hallway, insulting us, and threatening Luke!” Vicky’s brow furrowed, her eyes blazing as she marched over to me. “Where is Christian?” “We’ve been looking for him everywhere, and here you are, lounging like a king and stuffing your face?” Looking at her familiar, biased face, I felt a dull ache in my chest, but I swallowed it down. “He’s a grown man. Why would I know where he is?” Vicky pointed a manicured finger at my face. “Don’t you dare use that tone with me! Christian has a heart condition. If anything happens to him because of your negligence, you’ll answer to me. Get up right now and go find him!” I took another sip of my chilled drink. “No. I’m waiting for the locksmith.” 3 “What locksmith? Have you completely lost your mind?” Vicky swats the glass out of my hand. It shatters against the marble floor, sticky liquid splashing across my designer trousers. She doesn’t apologize. She just looks at me with pure disgust. “Wayne, when is it going to be enough?” “Every time we go out, you ruin the mood. Do you have any idea how pathetic and small-minded you look right now?” [Yes! Tell him, Vicky!] [He needs to be thrown out of the family!] [Vicky, move him! It’s nearly 160 degrees in there! Christian is slipping away!] [Isla’s skin is completely flush! Break the door!] “Vicky,” I said, my voice deadly quiet as I stood up and brushed the glass shards off my knees. “That is the last time you will ever lay a hand on me.” “If you don’t want to wait for the locksmith, be my guest. Smash the door open yourself. If you have the guts, go ahead.” Vicky let out a bitter laugh. “You are utterly deranged. Security, remove him. Get him out of my sight before he embarrasses this family any further.” The two guards she brought stepped forward, grabbing me by the shoulders. [Yes! Toss him out!] [Once he’s gone, they can break the lock!] [Christian, hold on, help is coming!] [Isla is convulsing. Oh my god, this is awful!] “Get off me!” I twisted violently, anchoring my hands around a heavy marble pillar in the corridor. Vicky snapped: “Pry his hands off!” The guard applied pressure to my knuckles, a sharp, white-hot pain shooting up my arm. In a flash of adrenaline, I leaned down and bit his wrist, hard. “Ah!” The guard gasped, releasing his grip instantly. Dark red blood began to drip onto the pristine white marble. [Oh my god! He bit him?!] [Feral trash! He has no class whatsoever!] [Vicky, call the cops! Don’t let him delay the rescue!] Vicky screamed, “Wayne! You animal!” “I will teach you some respect if it’s the last thing I do!” Chad yelled, “Call the resort police! Get him arrested for assault!” Within minutes, two local deputies who patrolled the resort area arrived. Vicky pointed at me, her voice shaking with calculated fury. “Officers, my brother is mentally unstable. He’s been causing a public disturbance and just brutally assaulted my security guard. Please take him into custody immediately.” Chad and Ashley eagerly backed her up. “Yes! We saw it! He’s extremely violent!” The deputies looked at the guard’s bloody wrist, their expressions hardening. “Sir, you’re under arrest for aggravated assault. Please step away from the pillar.” The cold metal of the handcuffs clicked around my wrists. I offered a thin, razor-sharp smile. “I’ll go quietly, deputies. But I suggest you stick around. There’s about to be a massive scandal in this hallway.” “Shut your mouth!” Vicky snarls. Just then, the elevator chimes. “Vicky! Have you found Christian yet?” A portly, middle-aged man in a tailored suit rushed out, followed by several wealthy business associates he’d been entertaining. 4 My father, Richard Carpenter, looked frantic. But when he saw me in handcuffs, his worry curdled into instant rage. “Wayne! You worthless embarrassment! What have you done now?” “Your brother is missing, and you’re here starting fights and getting arrested? I should have left you in whatever gutter we found you in! You are a stain on the Carpenter name!” [Preach, Mr. Carpenter! He doesn’t deserve the name!] [Only Christian is a true Carpenter!] [Drag him away! The lock is melting!] The deputy explained, “Sir, your son assaulted a guard. We have to take him in.” Richard waved his hand dismissively. “Take him! Keep him locked up for a few days to teach him a lesson! Just get him out of my sight so I can find Christian!” I looked at the man who shared my DNA, feeling nothing but a cold, liberating emptiness. “Dad,” I said, the word tasting like ash. “You want to find your precious Christian?” “Look right there.” I nodded toward the sauna door with the “Out of Order” sign. Richard’s face faltered. Vicky immediately scoffs. “Don’t lie. Why would Christian be in a closed sauna?” “If you don’t believe me, ask Luke,” I said, tilting my head. “He’s been guarding this door like a loyal dog since the start.” Every eye in the corridor turned to Luke. Luke stammered, his collar soaked in sweat. “No… no, sir… Miss Harrington and Christian… they aren’t in there…” I let out a soft laugh. “Really? Then who turned the temperature dial up to maximum? And who slammed the door so hard the lock jammed?” “Your golden child, Dad. He’s inside right now, having a lovely little rendezvous with my fiancée.” Slap. The force of Richard’s hand spun my head to the side. My cheek burned instantly, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in my mouth. “You filthy-minded degenerate!” Richard was shaking, his face bright red. “You dare slander your own brother and Isla? Christian is a boy of impeccable character! He would never do something so vile! You’re just jealous because he’s better than you, more loved than you, so you throw dirt on his name!” The wealthy associates behind him shook their heads. “Wayne, that’s incredibly low. You don’t accuse your own brother of that.” “Yes, Isla is a lovely girl. Quite respectable. This is absurd.” I touched my burning cheek, my eyes narrowing to slits. Slap. An even louder, sharper crack echoed through the corridor. I watched as Richard stumbled back, clutching his own face. The hallway goes dead silent. Vicky gasped, her eyes wide with horror. “Wayne! You hit Dad!” Richard looked like he wanted to tear me apart. “You ungrateful bastard! I brought you into this world, and you dare strike me?!” The deputies quickly stepped between us. “Sir, step back! Calm down!” I stood behind the deputies, looking down at my father. “You gave me life, but you never gave me a father. If you think I’m lying, open the door. Let’s see who is telling the truth.” Driven mad by the humiliation, Richard lunged toward the sauna. “I will! And when it’s empty, I’m personally throwing you out of the family!” He grabbed the metal handle of the sauna door. “Ah!” He shrieked, pulling his hand back. The metal was scalding. Just then, the locksmith ran out of the elevator, clutching his tool bag. “Make way! Emergency!” The man worked fast. Within thirty seconds, his drill ate through the jammed lock mechanism. With a heavy click, the blast-resistant glass door swung open.

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My best friend was about to propose to the girl of his dreams, and he wanted my help to plan it. It was only on the day of the proposal that I realized his dream girl was Vicky—the girl I had spent ten years loving in silence. I stood there and watched them kiss. When they got married, I was the best man. When he got busted in a vice raid, he told everyone he was taking the fall for me. When he stole and sold her family’s priceless heirlooms, he claimed it was to pay off my mounting gambling debts. And finally, when he embezzled millions from the company, he framed me so perfectly that I was sentenced to fifteen years. I died a cold, miserable death in a prison cell. But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the exact day his affair was about to be exposed. … Every time Brandon snuck out to meet his secretary, Tiffany, he would tell Vicky that he was helping me out with some personal crisis. This time, as my phone buzzed incessantly with Vicky’s incoming calls, I hesitated before finally sliding the screen to answer. I didn’t take my usual apologetic, deferential tone. I kept my voice flat, entirely detached. “What is it?” “Wayne, are you seriously doing this again?” Vicky’s voice cut through the receiver, sharp and dripping with exhaustion. “Is it another fake breakup, or did your dad crash his car this time? What’s your excuse for dragging Brandon away tonight?” I listened to the static on the line, feeling the phantom ache of my prison years settling into my joints. “You’ve made a complete wreck of your own life, so you just have to drag everyone else down into the mud with you, don’t you?” she snapped. “When you got caught in that sting last year, Brandon literally took the fall to protect your reputation! Do you have any idea how much strain that put on our marriage?” She paused, waiting for an apology that wasn’t coming. “Wayne, you’re Brandon’s best friend. That’s the only reason I’ve turned a blind eye to the hookers and the gambling. But if you don’t start showing some gratitude, if you keep harassing my husband, don’t expect me to keep playing nice. I will run you out of this city. Tell Brandon to get his ass home. Now.” If it hadn’t been for this phone call, I wouldn’t have fully understood how thoroughly Brandon had dismantled my character over the years. Among close friends, covering for a late night is one thing. But from the moment I learned Brandon had set me up for a fifteen-year prison sentence, we ceased to be brothers. This time, I was only playing for myself. I had no intention of warning him. “You’ve got it wrong, Vicky,” I said, my tone bordering on bored. “I have no idea where Brandon is. If you’re looking for him, why don’t you call Tiffany? She’s his secretary. She usually keeps a tight grip on his schedule.” I hung up before she could reply. Brandon was a parasite, surviving entirely off the wealth of Vicky’s family. For an old-money dynasty like theirs, a keeping-up-appearances husband sleeping with his secretary was the one transgression that could never be swept under the rug. Thinking about the storm heading his way, I walked into the kitchen and cracked open a cold beer, enjoying the quiet. But Vicky’s contempt for me ran deeper than I anticipated. Ten minutes later, she showed up at my apartment. She didn’t come alone; she had brought three security guards from her father’s company. They burst through my door, pinning my arms behind my back as if I were a violent fugitive. They kicked open my bedroom door, only to find the room empty. Brandon was nowhere to be seen. “Wayne, where the hell is he?!” Vicky looked down at me, her eyes filled with disgust. There was a time when we were childhood confidants, sharing secrets under the summer stars. Now, in her eyes, I was a degenerate, a gambler, a blight on society. Meanwhile, Brandon had spent years painting himself as the loyal, self-sacrificing saint who kept pulling his worthless friend out of the gutter. It was a masterclass in manipulation. I decided it was time to let her see the man she had actually married. “I told you,” I muttered, wincing as a guard tightened his grip on my wrist. “You should ask Tiffany. They’re practically joined at the hip.” She let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Do you honestly think these pathetic lies make me angry? I know my husband’s character, Wayne. I would never believe a single word out of your mouth. I just feel incredibly sorry for him. I don’t understand how he could have remained loyal to a piece of garbage like you.” She stepped closer, her designer heels clicking against my cheap linoleum floor. “I’m giving you one last chance. Where is Brandon? Why isn’t he answering my calls?” Because Brandon’s saintly image was so deeply ingrained in her mind, she genuinely believed I was trying to destroy her marriage out of spite. With a flick of her hand, she signaled the guards. They threw me to the floor. A heavy boot found my ribs, and a fist caught the side of my jaw. My head hit the floor, and my vision blurred. But through the throbbing pain, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. The physical pain was nothing compared to the fifteen years of slow death I had suffered in my previous life. If anything, the sting of the blows only fed the fire of my anger. I wanted to watch them burn. “You’re just a cockroach in the sewer, Wayne,” Vicky spat, looking down at me as I spit blood onto the floor. “And the sewer is exactly where you belong.” “I told Brandon to cut you out of his life years ago. But he kept defending you. He gave you a job at the firm, he paid off your loan sharks, he lied to your parents to preserve your image as a good son! And this is how you repay him? By whispering venom behind his back? If you won’t talk, I have other ways to make you behave.” She pulled out her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. “You’ve always cared so much about your parents. What do you think will happen to your mother’s weak heart when she finds out her golden boy is a degenerate?” My parents were lifelong employees of Vicky’s father. They had worked at his estate for decades, and they had always treated Vicky like their own future daughter-in-law. They kept in touch. Vicky dialed, and she put it on speaker. A moment later, my mother’s voice came through, sounding old and tired. “Hello? Vicky, sweetheart? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?” Vicky didn’t hesitate. “Helen, I’m calling because we need to talk about your son.” “Oh? What’s wrong with Wayne? Is there trouble at the office?” Vicky let out a cold laugh. “It’s not his job, Helen. It’s his character. Last week, Wayne was arrested in a vice raid at a massage parlor. I assume he didn’t tell you?” “What? No… my Wayne? That’s impossible, Vicky. He’s not that kind of boy!” My mother’s voice began to tremble. Rage surged through me, and I tried to lung toward the phone, but the guards slammed me back down, a heavy hand crushing my mouth shut. “Helen, Brandon saw it with his own eyes,” Vicky continued smoothly. “Brandon went to the parlor to drag him out, and the police raided the place. Wayne ran like a coward, leaving Brandon to take the fall and protect his name. Surely you don’t doubt Brandon’s integrity?” I stared up at Vicky, my eyes wild with hatred. You foolish, arrogant girl, I thought. You have no idea that the man you are protecting is the one who will eventually ruin your entire family. “It’s not just the hookers, Helen. Wayne is a compulsive gambler. He owes millions to loan sharks. Brandon actually had to sell some of our family’s heirlooms just to keep those criminals from breaking your son’s legs. He’s a mess. Honestly, looking at him tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on drugs too. I’m telling you this because you need to rein him in. He is going to drag my husband down with him.” She ended the call, leaving my mother’s soft, weeping voice cut off in the dark. Seeing the blood in my eyes, Vicky smiled, a look of vindication on her face. “It turns out your parents really had no idea what a monster you’ve become. They still think you’re the straight-A student from college.” “I honestly don’t know why Brandon stays associated with you. What do you even bring to his life besides trouble? He even bought you a house, Wayne. You’re nothing but a parasite.” I blinked, the pain momentarily forgotten. “What did you just say? Brandon bought me a house?” “Oh, keep playing dumb,” Vicky sneered. “He told me he bought a townhouse in your name to thank you for helping us get together years ago. He only made me promise to keep it a secret so we wouldn’t hurt your fragile pride. But looking at you now, it’s clear you don’t have any pride left.” A puzzle piece fell into place. I knew for a fact Brandon hadn’t bought me a house. But I knew he had recently purchased a townhouse in the suburbs using corporate funds. He had told Vicky it was for me, but in reality, it was the love nest he had bought for Tiffany. And right now, they were almost certainly inside it. I spit another mouthful of blood onto the floor and looked up at her. “I don’t know anything about a house, Vicky. But your gullibility is truly impressive. Do you actually believe every single lie that comes out of his mouth?” “I know the address, Wayne. Stop trying to squirm out of this.” I nodded slowly. “Fine. If you’re so sure, take me there right now. Unless you’re too scared to find out what’s actually behind that door.” “You really want to play this out?” Vicky’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I don’t know he bought that place with my family’s money? If you want to be stubborn, I’ll go there right now and evict you myself.” She pointed at the guards. “Put him in the car. We’re going to clear out his things tonight. I want him to lose every single thing he took from us.” An hour later, the black SUV pulled up to a quiet, tree-lined street in an upscale suburban development. But the real trouble was waiting on the sidewalk. As I stepped out of the car, I saw my mother standing under a streetlamp, shivering in her thin coat. Vicky had known exactly how to hurt me. She had called my mother to meet us here, wanting to humiliate me in front of the only person whose opinion still mattered to me. She wanted to break me completely so I would never dare speak to her husband again. Seeing my bruised face and the blood on my shirt, my mother burst into tears. She rushed over, throwing her arms around me before turning to Vicky. “Vicky, please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I know Wayne has done terrible things. He’s made mistakes, but please, for my sake, don’t do this to him. Let us go home.” “Helen, I wanted to handle this quietly,” Vicky said, her tone dripping with condescending pity. “But Wayne is still lying to my face. He refuses to tell me where Brandon is, and he’s even denying that Brandon bought him this house. I had to bring you here because you’re the only one who can make him see sense.” My mother turned to me, her face pale with shock and disappointment. She struck my arm, her hands trembling. “Wayne! What has happened to you? How could you become like this? I raised you to be honest! How could you take a house from Brandon? If the neighbors find out, how am I supposed to show my face?” “Helen, your parenting wasn’t the problem,” Vicky intervened. “But Wayne has completely lost his way. The gambling, the vice… if he continues to behave like this, I will have no choice but to involve the police.” My family had never had any dealings with the law, and the threat terrified my mother. She grabbed Vicky’s hand, pleading desperately. “Please, Vicky, my husband and I worked for your family for thirty years! Give him one more chance. Wayne… he’s just lost. He still loves you, you know. He still keeps your photo on his nightstand!” “Mom! Stop!” I shouted, the humiliation burning hotter than the physical pain. Vicky looked at me, her expression turning from anger to deep disgust. It was the primal reaction of a wealthy woman realizing she was being coveted by someone she considered a servant. I forced myself to look her dead in the eye. “Vicky, are you sure you want to make a scene here?” “Are you threatening me? You brought this on yourself.” “No,” I said, a cold smile touching my lips. “I just don’t think this is a big enough audience. Why don’t you call our old college classmates? Call the executives from the firm. Let’s make it a real show.” Vicky’s jaw clenched. “You think I won’t?” “I know you won’t.” Driven by her own arrogance and the need to prove her dominance, Vicky pulled out her phone. In college, she had been the wealthy, untouchable campus queen, and she still held sway over our old social circle. With a few quick messages, she summoned anyone who lived within a twenty-minute drive, promising a reckoning. Within half an hour, a small crowd of former classmates and colleagues had gathered on the sidewalk. They looked at my bruised face with complete indifference, quickly gathering behind Vicky to listen to her recount my “crimes.” “Wayne always seemed so quiet in school. I guess you never really know someone.” “He’s just a parasite. I don’t understand why Brandon kept him around for so long.” “If it weren’t for Brandon, he would have been fired months ago. He has no shame.” “Wayne, you’re an embarrassment. Stop leeching off people who actually work for a living.” Their whispers grew louder, and Vicky’s posture grew more triumphant with every insult. My mother was weeping openly now, pulling me behind her small frame, trying to shield me just as she had when I was a child. “Please, stop saying those things,” she sobbed. “My son isn’t a bad person. He was a good student, he cares about us… he’s not what you think…” “Helen, of course you’d say that,” a former classmate interrupted coldly. “But people change. Wayne is just bitter. He couldn’t stand seeing Brandon succeed, and he couldn’t stand seeing Brandon marry Vicky. This is pure jealousy.” “They’re a perfect couple, Wayne. Without them, you’re nothing. You’re just a loser standing on a sidewalk.” “Like mother, like son,” another whispered. “No wonder he turned out this way.” The crowd continued their verbal assault, and Vicky looked at me like a queen looking down at a peasant. “Well, Wayne? Are you satisfied with the turnout?” In my past life, this level of public humiliation would have destroyed me. But tonight, I was almost giddy. The larger the crowd, the more spectacular the fall would be. I looked at Vicky. “Not quite. Since we’re all here, why don’t we go up to my ‘new house’ and take a look? Unless, of course, Brandon didn’t actually buy it for me. What if he spent your family’s money on something else and used my name as a cover?” “Wayne, you ungrateful bastard!” someone yelled from the crowd. “Brandon threw you a lifeline, and you’re trying to drown him!” “I’m streaming this live,” another colleague muttered, holding up a phone. “The local business community needs to see what kind of snake Wayne really is.” Vicky let out a cold, sharp laugh. “You think I don’t know the unit number, Wayne? I know exactly which door it is. I only stayed away because the very thought of you makes me sick. But since you want to play the victim, let’s go up. Let’s see how long you can keep this act up.” I had to admire Brandon’s cleverness. He had used Vicky’s hatred of me to create the perfect blind spot, conducting his affair in a place Vicky knew about but would never visit. We piled into the building’s elevator in shifts. When we finally stood in front of the door to Unit 4B, Vicky turned to me, her eyes cold. “Alright, Wayne. Stop the show. Hand over the keys.” “I don’t have the keys,” I said simply. But as I spoke, I pointed to the small shoe rack next to the door. On it sat a pair of expensive men’s leather loafers and a pair of delicate women’s heels. Vicky’s eyes followed my finger. She froze. She recognized those loafers; she had bought them for Brandon herself last Christmas. “Wayne…” her voice trembled slightly, her confidence wavering for the first time. “Is Brandon inside your apartment?” I let out a soft, pitying chuckle. “Why don’t you knock and find out? Or are you suddenly afraid of what’s on the other side?” “Afraid? Of what?” Her temper flared, and she pounded heavily on the wooden door. Almost immediately, a woman’s annoyed voice drifted from inside. “Who is it? Can’t you use the doorbell? Stop pounding!” The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Standing in the entryway was a young, beautiful woman in a silk robe, her hair tousled and her makeup slightly smudged. The crowd behind us gasped in unison. They recognized her immediately. It was Tiffany, Brandon’s personal secretary. “V-Vicky…” Tiffany stuttered, her face turning pale as she tried to pull her robe tighter around her body. Before anyone could speak, a man’s voice called out from the bedroom. “Babe, who is it?” And then, under the gaze of a dozen colleagues and a live phone camera, my best friend Brandon walked into the hallway. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of boxers, his skin glistening with sweat. When his eyes met Vicky’s, the color drained completely from his face. I leaned against the wall and smiled. The show had finally begun.

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When I cancelled the fifteen-thousand-dollar wedding photography package, the boutique coordinator stared at me in absolute silence. “Miss Evans, the deposit is completely non-refundable,” she said, her voice dropping into a hushed, cautious tone. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until Drew gets back from his business trip to talk this over?” I slid the receipt back across the polished glass counter. My voice was quiet, but steady. “No need to wait. He’s too busy watching the Northern Lights in Iceland with his childhood sweetheart.” Drew and I had been together for eight years. Over nearly a decade, I had begged him countless times to take me to Iceland. I wanted us to stand under the green glow of the aurora for our wedding photos. It was my only real dream for our wedding. Every single time I brought it up, his brow would furrow with irritation. “It’s too far, Tina. Too expensive. Why do you always need these elaborate, useless things? We can just shoot in a local studio and have them Photoshop the lights in. It looks exactly the same.” I had believed him. I had forced myself to be the practical, low-maintenance partner he always praised. Until last night. I was looking for an old tax document on his backup laptop when I found a social media account still logged in. It was an Instagram page with over a million followers, a joint couple’s blog called Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. For eight years, hundreds of posts had documented a secret life. And the star of every single photo, every beautifully edited reel, was his childhood sweetheart, Joyce. Every single September, while I stayed behind in our cramped San Francisco apartment, Drew had flown to Iceland to capture a commemorative photo with Joyce under the green ribbon of the aurora. It turned out Drew wasn’t incapable of romance. He just didn’t want to waste it on me. When the partial refund was finalized, I walked past the window and stared at the lace gown I had tried on three times. My chest ached so deeply I could barely breathe, and tears began to blur my vision. The boutique manager gently handed me a tissue. “Since the deposit is forfeited anyway… we could transfer the credit to a solo portrait session for you?” I wiped my eyes and shook my head. “No, thank you.” I had already booked a one-way ticket to Southern Italy, leaving in three days. If the moon wasn’t going to shine on me, I would go chase the sun myself. … The moment I stepped out of the boutique, my phone vibrated in my purse. It was Mom. “Tina, sweetie,” she began, her voice warm but tinged with that familiar maternal worry. “Your father and I were talking. We’re thinking of selling the old house in Eugene. With that and our savings, we should have enough to help you and Drew with a down payment on a place in the Bay Area.” She paused, taking a soft breath. “A woman needs her own name on a deed, Tina. If you marry into that family without a safety net of your own, you won’t have a way out if things get hard.” Hearing her voice, my throat tightened. The tears I thought I had finished crying threatened to spill over. “Mom, don’t,” I choked out, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You don’t need to do that. I’m not marrying Drew.” There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end. Then, the sound of the phone being snatched away. My dad’s gravelly voice filled the receiver. “Did he do something to you? Does his family think we’re just small-town nobodies?” My parents had always carried a quiet guilt about how hard I struggled to survive in San Francisco. If I hadn’t been so relentlessly, stubbornly in love with Drew, they would have never agreed to this marriage. “No, Dad,” I lied, looking up at the gray city sky to keep the tears from falling. “I actually just landed a massive historic restoration project in Southern Italy. It’s a three-year contract, and the pay is incredible. When I get back, I’m going to buy a beautiful house with a massive garden right there in Eugene. I don’t want to struggle in the city anymore.” It took a long time to soothe them, but they finally believed me. The second I hung up, a notification flashed at the top of my screen. The couple’s account had just posted a new photo. In the image, their fingers were tightly intertwined. Behind them, the sky was ablaze with the breathtaking, emerald ribbons of the aurora borealis. The caption read: Year Eight. Guided by the Northern Lights, we are still each other’s only. I stared at the word only, my fingers trembling against the glass screen. Eight years. Drew had never posted a single picture of me on any of his social media accounts. Whenever I had asked about it, he’d dismiss me with a patronizing sigh. “Tina, I’m thirty years old. I don’t feel the need to broadcast my private life to the world. It’s childish.” I realized then: he didn’t hate showing off his life. He just didn’t want to show me off. When I walked into our apartment, a plush teddy bear sat on the entryway console, pinning down a small, elegant note. Drew’s homemade ginger tea is literal magic! Here’s a little thank-you gift—my favorite plushie! I stood in the quiet hallway, a cold numbness spreading through my chest. Just last month, my cramps had been so severe I couldn’t get out of bed. I had begged him to make me some hot ginger tea. He had been on the phone with Joyce, his face twisted in annoyance as he snapped at me: “Tina, stop being so high-maintenance. I’m a guy, I don’t even know how to make that stuff. Just order something on Postmates.” Looking at Joyce’s delicate handwriting, I realized he not only knew how to make it, but he also made sure the temperature was perfect for her. I crumpled the note into a tight ball and threw it, along with the plush toy, directly into the trash can. In the study, the monitor of his desktop was still glowing. He had forgotten to log out of his personal email and social accounts. I sat down and began clicking through the archives, page by page. Aside from their annual September trips to Iceland, all those weekends he claimed he was “pulling overtime at the office” were actually spent taking Joyce to every trendy boutique hotel and scenic spot along the Pacific Coast Highway. Two years ago, my favorite singer was in town. I had saved up to buy two tickets and practically begged him to come with me. He had scoffed. “Those arenas are loud and crowded. I’d rather spend my weekend catching up on work.” Yet, the digital trail showed that the very next day, he had accompanied Joyce to an outdoor music festival. In the vlogs, he carried her designer tote bag, blocked the chilly wind with his own jacket, and knelt down in the dirt to tie her sneakers. In contrast, every photo of Drew and me from the past three years had been taken by me. In every single one, he looked utterly miserable. “My angles are terrible,” he’d always complain, rushing me. “I’m a straight guy, I don’t know how to take aesthetic photos. Just take a quick one and let’s go.” Suddenly, my phone rang. It was a FaceTime call from Drew. On screen, the cozy, wood-paneled interior of a luxury Icelandic cabin flickered. He noticed my red, swollen eyes and frowned. “Have you been crying?” My throat felt like it was coated in sand. I shook my head. “No. Just windy outside. Got some dust in my eye.” He seemed to accept the excuse, his tone immediately turning dismissive. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. We can do the wedding shoot then.” I opened my mouth to tell him the shoot was cancelled, but before I could speak, Joyce’s smiling face popped into the frame. She naturally wrapped her arm around his. “Tina! I was vacationing in Iceland and literally ran into Drew during his business trip! You don’t mind, do you?” Before I could answer, Drew chuckled, looking down at her. “Why would she mind? Go on, show her what we got.” Joyce proudly held up a cheap, generic Northern Lights keychain. “I picked this out just for you, Tina!” I stared at the plastic trinket. In the drawer of our entryway table, there were already eight identical keychains. It was her signature, passive-aggressive way of reminding me she was always there. I didn’t acknowledge her comment. I just stared at the screen and said softly, “Safe travels. When you get back, I have a big gift waiting for both of you.” The next afternoon, Drew arrived home. His suitcase was packed with expensive organic supplements, luxury skincare sets, and rare teas. He rummaged through the clutter for a long time before pulling a cheap keychain out of a side pocket and tossing it onto the kitchen island. “Here. Yours.” I caught it, the sharp plastic edges digging into my palm. I looked at the beautifully wrapped gift boxes still sitting in his suitcase. “What about all those?” “For Joyce’s parents. They have delicate health, they need the supplements,” he said casually, not even looking up. “And the ceramic tea set is for her mother. Joyce mentioned her old set was chipped.” My parents sent homemade jam and local Oregon honey every single month; Drew had never once acknowledged their gestures, let alone bought them a gift. I took a slow breath, my grip tightening on the cheap plastic in my hand. “I still want to go to Iceland for our wedding shoot, Drew. Can we please make it happen?” His movements stiffened, and his brow furrowed immediately. “We already booked the indoor studio here. Why do you have to be so difficult, Tina? We aren’t children anymore. Can you please start being practical about our life together?” Practical. Sensible. Reasonable. Those were always the rules for me. But for Joyce, his boundaries didn’t exist. Before I could reply, the front door clicked open. My future mother-in-law, Diane, walked in, laughing gaily with Joyce at her side. Diane took one look around our living room and scoffed. “Tina, I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re supposed to be a designer. Why is this place so dreary? It feels incredibly small-minded and cheap.” She looked at me, her eyes sweeping over my simple clothes with open disapproval. “If Drew hadn’t introduced you to his clients, how would you even survive in San Francisco? You have no leverage in this city without him.” In the past, I would have swallowed the insult, keeping the peace. Drew would always stand by, whispering, She’s just old-fashioned. Be the bigger person. But this time, I didn’t back down. “If you think it’s so awful, Diane, why don’t I tear everything down and let you redecorate it entirely to your taste?” Diane froze, her expression shifting from surprise to deep disdain. “A lot of attitude for someone with so little to show for it. Look at how Joyce styled the family estate. Cozy, refined. You should take notes instead of embarrassing the Mercer name.” Joyce chimed in, putting on her sweet, peace-making act. “Diane, Tina is from a small town in Oregon. It’s only natural she has a different aesthetic. Oh, Drew, I’m starving! I’m going to cook tonight so Tina can try my recipes. Will you help me prep?” Drew looked down at her, his expression softening into an indulgent smile. “Always putting me to work. What are we making?” “Your special marinated sea bass!” Without a second thought, the two of them walked into the kitchen. Drew grabbed the linen apron hanging on the wall and carefully tied it around her waist, his movements so natural, so practiced, they looked like a married couple. Diane sat down on the sofa, smoothing her skirt. “Honestly, Drew was always meant to marry Joyce. They share the same background, the same pedigree. Tina, since your family has neither wealth nor influence, you should learn to be agreeable. Marrying into our family is the luckiest thing that will ever happen to you.” I stood in the shadow of the hallway, watching the kitchen, and smiled quietly. “It’s fine,” I whispered. “I won’t argue anymore.” At the dinner table, I sat like a ghost. The three of them laughed over childhood vacations and family gossip, speaking in a shorthand I could never hope to understand. As I reached for a serving dish, my eyes fell on Joyce’s left hand. Resting on her ring finger was a brilliant, custom-cut diamond band. And on Drew’s left hand—the hand that usually wore nothing—was an identical, matching silver band. My chest felt as though it had been struck by a heavy hammer. That night, as Drew stood by the closet unbuttoning his shirt, I stared at his hand. “Is that a matching couple’s ring, Drew? What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t even turn around. “Oh, this? Joyce’s birthday is coming up. She wanted to know what it felt like to wear a diamond engagement ring, so she begged me to wear the matching band for a few days to indulge her. It’s just a piece of jewelry, Tina. Do you have to make a federal case out of everything?” A physical ache bloomed in my chest. “An accessory? I am your fiancée, Drew. You are wearing a couple’s ring with another woman while we are planning our wedding. What do you think I am?” Drew slammed his tie onto the mattress, his face darkening. “Tina, are you seriously doing this? I put your name on the deed of the condo without you contributing a single cent so you could have a future in this city. Most outsiders would kill for that opportunity. What more do you want from me?” He sneered, his voice laced with venom. “Joyce and I have a lifetime of history. What is the harm in wearing a silly ring to make her happy on her birthday? Why must you be so small-minded?” He grabbed his jacket, slammed the bedroom door, and left. I stood frozen in the quiet room. A few minutes later, my phone lit up. Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce had updated. The photo showed their hands overlapping, the matching bands gleaming under the soft light. The caption read: Fulfilling my little princess’s birthday wish. I looked at the screen and let out a soft, dry laugh. “You’re right, Drew,” I whispered to the empty room. “I should be satisfied.” Over the weekend, it was Joyce’s birthday dinner. I had tried to stay behind, but Drew had blocked the doorway, his face set in a hard scowl. “If you don’t show, Joyce will think you’re holding a grudge. She bought you gifts, she helped with the photography contacts. Don’t be ungrateful, Tina.” How thoughtful of her. She had spent a week in Iceland with my fiancé, worn a matching ring, and paraded it online. But I went anyway. Not because I was submitting, but because I wanted to see exactly how hollow the man I had loved for eight years had become. The private dining room at the restaurant was loud and lively. Joyce sat at the head of the table, her makeup flawless, the diamond ring catching every reflection of the chandelier. “Tina’s here!” one of Drew’s close friends called out. “Drew, man, when is the big day? Have you set the date?” Drew, sitting close to Joyce, took a sip of his wine. “The date isn’t locked in yet, but we’re doing the photoshoot tomorrow.” A chorus of congratulations rose around the table. The conversation quickly shifted to local real estate and the new country club. I sat quietly in the corner, a familiar outsider. In the past, I had tried so hard to blend in, but Drew would always steer me away, whispering, These business discussions are dry, Tina. You wouldn’t find them interesting. Now I realized he didn’t want to save me from boredom; he just didn’t want me in his world. Suddenly, someone across the table noticed the jewelry. “Joyce, your ring… wait, matches Drew’s? Is that the custom piece from that Italian designer?” A few people turned to look at me, their eyes filled with awkward, lingering curiosity. Drew leaned back in his chair, his tone entirely casual. “It was her birthday wish. She wanted me to wear it with her to ward off unwanted attention tonight. Just a birthday gift to keep her happy.” “Does Tina mind?” someone joked. Drew’s gaze slid over to me, cold and warning, assessing my reaction. I picked up my water glass, took a small sip, and met his eyes. “I don’t mind.” He frowned, his brow twitching slightly at my complete lack of emotion. Before he could speak, the waitstaff wheeled in a massive tiered cake. As Drew stepped forward to help Joyce cut it, his eyes landed on the fruit garnishes. His face hardened and he snapped at the waiter, “Who ordered this? You know Joyce is severely allergic to mangoes!” He carefully sliced a piece from the untouched side, placed it on a plate, and handed it to me. “Here, don’t let it go to waste.” I didn’t reach for the plate. Drew’s frown deepened. “I thought you said you didn’t mind. Eat it. Don’t waste good food.” I looked at him, my voice flat. “I’m allergic to mangoes too, Drew.” Drew’s hand froze mid-air. The entire table fell into a sudden, uncomfortable silence. One of his friends tried to laugh it off. “Man, Drew, how do you forget that? Don’t tell us you forgot her birthday too.” Drew, defensive, snapped back instantly. “Of course not. September third.” The table erupted into easy laughter again, but I couldn’t join them. September third was the date printed on my driver’s license—a clerical error from when I was a teenager. My actual birthday was two months later. I had corrected him dozens of times over the years, but he had never bothered to remember. Joyce cut another slice, placing it in front of me with a soft, sympathetic smile. “Don’t be mad at him, Tina. Drew remembers my allergies because we grew up together. That kind of instinct… you can’t just unlearn it.” It was an apology wrapped in absolute triumph. I pushed my chair back and stood up. “Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” Inside the quiet bathroom, I washed my hands. The door opened, and Joyce walked in, letting the heavy door click shut behind her. Without an audience, her sweet demeanor vanished. “You have quite the tolerance, Tina,” she said, leaning against the counter. She turned her phone toward me, the screen open to the Instagram page. “See this? Every time he held me, took care of me, memorized my favorite things, made my dreams come true—it’s all here. You’ve spent eight years with him. What do you actually have?” I looked at the photos of them laughing in the snow, but I said nothing. She took a step closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “You can play the fiancée all you want, but he doesn’t love you. If I were you, I’d have packed my bags and left to save whatever dignity I had left.” She stared at me, waiting for me to break, waiting for the tears. But I only looked at her calmly. “So what? No matter what you did, the person marrying Drew is me.” The color drained from her face. I walked past her, opening the door without another word. Outside, Drew was already waiting in his car. He didn’t ask about the dinner; he drove in silence, the tension thick between us. When he took a sharp right turn, I looked out the window. “This isn’t the way to the condo.” Drew kept his eyes on the road. “Joyce drank too much tonight. She’s going to be miserable tomorrow. I’m going to drop off some honey water and her favorite bakery cake.” I leaned my head back against the leather seat. “You treat her so much better than you treat me.” The tires screeched as Drew slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the curb. He turned to me, his voice raw with frustration. “I’ve told you a thousand times, she’s like a sister to me. It’s a habit. I’m marrying you, Tina. Isn’t that enough?” I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. “It’s enough.” When we finally parked outside our building, he kept the engine running, clearly eager to leave again. As I unbuckled my seatbelt, I looked at him one last time. “Drew, if one day I left you, what would you do?” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Are you serious right now? Joyce’s parents are out of town. She’s completely alone. It’s only right I look after her.” He paused, a smug, dismissive smirk pulling at his lips. “You’ve been with me since you were nineteen, Tina. Everything you have, I gave you. If you leave me, do you really think you’ll find anyone better?” I looked at him, feeling the final, lingering pieces of my love for him turn to ash. He was entirely convinced that I would never leave, because he believed I had nowhere else to go. I didn’t answer. I got out of the car, and the moment the door clicked shut, he hit the gas and drove away. Inside the quiet apartment, my phone buzzed. It was an email from United Airlines: Flight confirmation to Rome, Italy tomorrow morning at 10:30 AM… I stared at the text, then walked into the bedroom and pulled my suitcase from the top shelf. When I actually began packing, I realized how little of myself was in this space. My clothes, my laptop, a few skincare bottles. It barely filled a single suitcase. Yet, Drew’s closet was packed with high-end, custom-tailored suits I had bought him with my savings. Diane’s vanity in the guest room was lined with expensive organic supplements I had worked late-night freelance shifts to afford. At 2:00 AM, my phone buzzed with a new post from Joyce@ChasingLights_WithYouJoyce. The photo showed Drew sitting at the edge of a bed, gently wiping a damp cloth over Joyce’s forehead. The caption: No matter how late, he’s always there when I need him. I locked the screen and set the phone down. There were no tears, no anger. Just a profound, hollow silence. The next morning, I made breakfast out of habit—toasted sourdough, soft-scrambled eggs, and warm milk. Drew let himself in around 7:00 AM, the cold morning air clinging to his coat. He kicked off his shoes, offering a quick, tired explanation. “Joyce was really sick last night. I couldn’t leave her alone.” I set the plates on the table. “Okay.” My lack of emotion seemed to make him uneasy. His tone softened slightly. “After the photoshoot this afternoon, we’ll lock down the wedding date and call your parents. Happy?” I looked at his face—the face of the boy I had loved for eight years. “Drew, in these eight years, did you ever actually love me?” Drew froze, his expression hardening instantly. “If I didn’t love you, would I be marrying you?” Eight years ago, when he was chasing me, he would stand outside my dorm in the freezing rain just to bring me coffee. He used to celebrate monthly anniversaries, finding tiny, beautiful ways to surprise me. Now, there was only this transactional indifference. Suddenly, his phone began to vibrate violently on the counter. It was a call from Joyce. He answered, and her weak, trembling voice filled the quiet kitchen. “Drew… I’m so cold… I think my fever is coming back…” Drew’s face went pale. He snatched his car keys off the counter. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his wrist. “Joyce has a full-time housekeeper, Drew. She doesn’t need you there. Today is our wedding photoshoot. Can you just stay? Just this once?” He looked down at my hand, his expression wavering for a fraction of a second, before hardening into irritation. “Tina, be reasonable. She’s sick. I’ll have the driver take you to the studio. Go ahead and start your makeup, I’ll catch up as soon as her fever breaks.” He pulled his arm from my grip and walked out the door. I looked at my empty hands, and a single, quiet tear slid down my cheek. I took a deep breath, walked to the table, and laid a handwritten note next to his keys. Drew, I cancelled the photoshoot. The wedding is off. These eight years end here. Then, I opened my laptop. I compiled every screenshot, every folder of chat logs, every photo from the hidden couple’s account, and uploaded them to a public post. My caption was simple: We ran a marathon for eight years, and you documented it for eight years. Since you love each other so much, I’m stepping aside. I hope you get exactly what you deserve. I zipped my suitcase, walked out of the apartment, and headed to the airport. On the other side of the city, Drew was sitting by Joyce’s bed, carefully peeling an apple, when his phone began to ring off the hook. He answered with a scowl. His friend’s panicked voice came screaming through the line: “Drew! That secret Instagram account with Joyce—Tina found out! She just put the whole thing online! It’s going viral!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “499021”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Three years after my heart stopped beating, Douglas stood on the grand stage of the Lincoln Center, basking in the applause as he accepted the international trophy for the Metropolitan Dance Company. When a reporter asked about me—the fallen prodigy who had once been the company’s star—Douglas’s face hardened into a mask of righteous disgust. “I have no room in my heart for students of such low moral character,” he declared, his voice echoing through the microphones. “He was a boy who used his pretty face to seduce a daughter of our city’s political elite, all while carrying on a sordid affair with the daughter of a cheap construction tycoon.” He paused, letting the dramatic weight of his words settle over the audience. “I have no tolerance for corruption. I personally pinned an open letter of denunciation to the theater doors, stripped him of his residency, and cast him out. It was the only way to protect the young lady’s future and set an example for the rest of the company. That same young lady went on to build an empire in the real estate boom. Today, she is the wealthiest woman in the state. History has proven that my judgment was entirely correct.” The host sighed with theatrical sympathy, pressing for details about my current whereabouts. Douglas offered the camera a cold, dismissive sneer. “He’s been dead for years. He was one of the vagrants who froze to death in the great blizzard three winters ago. If you ask me, it was simply the natural conclusion to a life of utter ruin.” The interview aired that evening, quickly spreading across every social column in the city. But the woman at the center of the story knew nothing of it. At that very moment, Diana Maxwell was sitting in a private gallery penthouse, elegantly raising her paddle to bid on a limited-edition antique watch her fiancé had fallen in love with. … My soul drifted in the quiet space of the luxury sedan, watching Diana slide the watch onto Elliot’s wrist. In the passenger seat, Elliot smiled warmly, deliberately tuning the car’s radio to the broadcast of the interview. “Diana, look,” Elliot said, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “It’s another interview with my uncle Douglas. Honestly, that Jude Fletcher was terrible. He nearly ruined my uncle’s career back then, and he’s the reason your family threw you out of the estate…” He turned to look at her, his eyes searching her face. “Diana, do you ever think about—” A shadow of intense distaste crossed Diana’s brow, and she cut him off with a sharp wave of her hand. “Don’t speak of him.” Her hand drifted down to rest on her swollen belly. “You’re going to be a father soon, Elliot. Don’t let such worthless things occupy your mind.” She smoothly changed the subject. “The celebration dinner for Douglas is set at the Plaza. I’ve already had my assistant handle the reservations.” I hovered above her in the dim light of the car, unable to shed a single tear. I knew Diana hated me. Years ago, she had severed ties with her family for my sake, squeezing into a drafty, single-room rental in the poorest district of the city. On stormy nights when the roof leaked, she would pull me tightly against her chest, using her own warmth to thaw my frozen hands and feet. “Don’t be afraid, Jude,” she had whispered into my hair. “As long as we have each other, I will never let you go.” That was before she walked into a basement studio and found me in bed with another woman. Only then did she realize how foolish she had been to ignore Douglas’s warnings. She closed the door on my memory because remembering me was a stain on her perfect life. It made sense. After all, I was the darkest mistake she had ever made. The Plaza was a sea of crystal chandeliers and expensive silk. Douglas had returned to the city draped in glory, and half the high-society registry had gathered to pay their respects. Former students who hadn’t spoken to him in a decade crowded around, offering expensive gifts and hollow praise. When Diana and Elliot entered the ballroom, Douglas’s eyes lit up. “Diana, Elliot! You finally made it. Come over here.” Diana smiled, but her eyes instinctively swept the perimeter of the room, searching the crowd. Douglas, catching her glance, smiled knowingly. “Don’t bother looking, Diana. He isn’t coming.” The comment drew the attention of the surrounding guests. Diana quickly pulled her gaze back, her lips curling into a cool, detached smile. “You misunderstand, Douglas. I was only thinking that with our wedding next month, I should probably send Jude an invitation for the sake of old times. I just didn’t expect him to lack the courage to even show his face in public.” A sudden, suffocating silence fell over the circle. The air grew heavy. Finally, a young man from the old neighborhood spoke up, his voice hesitant. “Diana… didn’t Jude die three years ago?” The entire ballroom seemed to lose its sound. Diana froze, but her immediate reaction was a cold, mocking laugh. “I didn’t realize his acting skills had improved so much over the years. He actually has you all playing along with his little drama.” The guests exchanged uneasy looks, quickly raising their glasses to smooth over the tension. “Right, right. Diana has been busy running her empire; it’s natural she wouldn’t keep up with old rumors. Let’s not let the past ruin tonight. Cheers! This is a rare vintage of Cristal.” I watched the hollow spectacle from above, my chest aching with a phantom coldness. These were the same people who had thrown stones at me when we were teenagers. My father had been a covert intelligence officer whose records were destroyed during a bureaucratic purge, leaving our family branded as traitors. They had called me the son of a rat, a stain on the neighborhood. Only Diana had been different. She had stood between me and their cruelty, shielding me with her own body. “Don’t just stand there and let them hurt you,” she had told me, wiping a smudge of dirt from my cheek. “You have me now.” To help me gain her family’s acceptance, she had knelt in her grandfather’s study for three days and three nights, begging the retired General to use his influence to secure me an audition at the Metropolitan Dance Company. I had danced until my feet bled, spending fourteen hours a day in the studio until I became the youngest principal dancer in the company’s history. I thought that if I climbed high enough, I could finally stand by her side without shame. But Douglas’s arrival shattered everything. Douglas had never married; he poured all his ambition into his nephew, Elliot. From the moment he took over the company, his eyes were on the Maxwell family fortune. He was determined to see Elliot marry Diana. And I was the only obstacle in his way. Douglas’s cruelty always came disguised as mentorship. To “build my character,” he forced me to clean the entire theater alone after hours. To “strengthen my discipline,” he made me rehearse through lunch breaks while the others rested. To “teach me humility,” he took a pair of scissors to the performance costume my mother had spent nights sewing by hand. “Some people put more effort into cheap theatrics than actual technique,” Douglas had sneered in front of the entire company. “Who are you trying to seduce with these rags?” My peers slowly drifted away, whispering behind my back. Confused and hurt, I tried to confide in Diana. But she was drowning under her family’s immense pressure, and she could only offer tired, empty comforts. “Douglas is from the elite circles of Boston, Jude. His standards are high. He’s only pushing you because he knows what you’re capable of.” She had sighed, massaging her temples. “The international competition in Paris is next month. If you win the gold, my grandfather will finally have to accept you. Just bear with it a little longer.” I believed her. But the abuse only grew worse. During a public dress rehearsal, Douglas stood in front of the patrons and spat his venom directly at me: “You think you’re an artist? You’re nothing but a cheap hustler. Your father sold out his country, and you’re selling yourself. Is that a family tradition?” My mother had walked into the theater lobby at that exact moment, carrying a warm lunchbox she had prepared for me. Before I could even process his words, she collapsed onto the marble floor, her face pale. Terrified, I pushed Douglas out of my way to reach her. But by the time we reached the hospital, a notice of my suspension had already been delivered. I sat by my mother’s bedside, staring at her unconscious form, my world collapsing around me. Late that night, Diana walked into the hospital room. Her eyes were dull with exhaustion and profound disappointment. “Jude, I heard you got into a physical altercation with Douglas. You pushed him?” “No, Diana, you don’t understand,” I pleaded, grabbing her sleeve, the tears spilling over. “He insulted my father. He said horrible things in front of my mother—that’s why she collapsed! He’s been tormenting me for months, Diana, you know how much I cherish my father’s memory!” I held onto her like a drowning man, terrified that my only light was about to go out. Diana was silent for a long, agonizing moment. The hope in my chest withered with every passing second. “I know Douglas is strict,” she said softly, pulling her arm away. “But he is a respected mentor. I cannot believe he would say such vulgar things.” She looked at me, her eyes hollow. “My mother has already cut me off because of us. My grandfather is bedridden with stress. All I need from you is to go to Paris, win that gold, and prove to them we belong together. Jude, please. Stop causing trouble. Just apologize to Douglas so we can put this behind us.” Her words were a slow, deliberate twist of a knife. I had never cried when the company mocked me. I had never complained when my joints burned from exhaustion. But I could not bear the weight of her disbelief. I slowly let my hand fall to my side. The taste of iron rose in my throat. “You don’t believe me either.” Diana looked away. “It’s not about belief, Jude. We simply have no ground left to lose.” My hands shook. “I have nothing to apologize for. I am innocent, and I will prove it.” I ran out of the hospital, heading straight back to the theater. I only wanted to confront Douglas, to force him to admit his lies. But when I reached his office, his harsh demeanor was gone. He smiled warmly and asked me to join him in the private basement studio so we could talk things out. I followed him, desperate for a resolution. The studio smelled of a strange, cloying sweetness. Douglas handed me a glass of water, and without thinking, I drank it. Within minutes, my vision blurred. My limbs turned to lead, and the world went dark. When I woke, it was to the agonizing sensation of my clothes being torn. I was lying on the cold, dirty floor of the prop room. Bridget Callahan, the spoiled daughter of the local developer, was hovering over me, her hands ripping at my shirt. I tried to push her off, but my arms wouldn’t obey my command. Suddenly, the heavy door was kicked open. Diana stood in the doorway. She took in the scene—my disheveled clothing, Bridget draped over me—and her entire body went rigid. I choked out the words through the haze of the drug. “Diana… it’s not… Douglas did this…” But my voice was a slurred whisper, and Bridget immediately began to cry, pretending she had been the one assaulted. Diana’s eyes burned with a cold, murderous rage. “Jude Fletcher. I destroyed my relationship with my mother for you. I broke my grandfather’s heart. I even carried your child when we had nothing, believing we had a future.” She took a slow, deep breath, her voice cracking with betrayal. “And this is your answer to me.” She didn’t look back as she walked out. With the last of my strength, I flung Bridget off me and tried to drag myself toward the door. But Bridget, humiliated and furious, grabbed a heavy iron staging pipe from the corner and brought it down hard on my right leg. The sound of my bone snapping echoed in the empty room. Jude Fletcher, the prodigy of the Metropolitan, became a cripple that night. That was the price of my innocence. Soon, the rumors flooded the city. They said I had abandoned Diana the moment she was cut off from her family, choosing instead to climb into the bed of a wealthy heiress. I knew Douglas was the architect of those lies, but lying in my hospital bed, I was powerless to stop them. What I didn’t know was that Diana had gone to Bridget’s home in a blind fury, leaving the girl bloodied and earning herself a severe police record. When her grandfather heard of the disgrace, his heart gave out. He died before the ambulance could reach the estate. While I was still mourning the General’s death, a doctor from the county clinic came to my room. He handed me a forged document. Our daughter—the fragile, premature baby girl we had kept in an incubator at the clinic—was dead. Before I could even process the grief, the door flew open. Diana stood there in her mourning black, her eyes red and sunken. “Jude Fletcher. My grandfather is dead.” Her voice was dead, devoid of any warmth. “He died believing I ruined our family name for a common thief.” The tears blinded me as I tried to press the paper into her hand. “Diana… our baby… she’s gone…” “Stop it!” she shrieked, slapping the paper from my hand. “Douglas told me everything. You sold our daughter to Bridget’s family for fifty thousand dollars. You sold her to fund your new life.” She turned on her heel. “We are done.” The door slammed shut, dividing our lives forever. Overnight, my name became synonymous with ruin. Diana left the country the following morning without another word. It was raining heavily that day. My mother, barely recovered from her collapse, walked out of the hospital and saw the public denunciation pinned to the community board. She had lived her life with quiet dignity, a retired schoolteacher who had never raised her voice. But that afternoon, she tore at the paper with her bare hands, screaming herself hoarse. “My son is not a monster! Don’t believe them! Please, look at me, he didn’t do this!” A crowd gathered, throwing insults and garbage at her. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Your husband was a traitor, and your son is a parasite.” Dazed and heartbroken, my mother wandered toward the riverbank. Her foot slipped on the wet grass, and she fell into the freezing currents. They didn’t find her body until three days later. My last anchor to this world was gone. Eventually, after months of searching through the dark corners of the state, I found my daughter. Douglas had hidden her in a neglected foster home in a remote Appalachian coal town. I took my little girl, Maisie, and we lived in a small cabin on the edge of the mountains, scraping by on whatever odd jobs a crippled dancer could find. Back at the Plaza, the celebration dinner was winding down. Douglas, thoroughly drunk on vintage champagne, leaned over the table. “Jude Fletcher didn’t have the stomach for a hard life,” he muttered, a cruel chuckle escaping his lips. “And that little bastard of his was no better. Died of leukemia at three years old. That’s what you call divine intervention.” Diana’s hand trembled, spilling hot tea over her silk cuff. My soul stood beside her, watching her face. The night Maisie was diagnosed with acute leukemia, the mountains were hit by the worst blizzard in fifty years. The local doctor told me her only hope was a bone marrow transplant from a direct relative. I walked seven miles through knee-deep snow, my crippled leg screaming in agony, to reach the only payphone in the valley. When the call finally connected, I sobbed into the receiver. “Diana, please! I’m begging you, save Maisie! She’s your daughter! Your marrow is the only match!” But a man’s soft, mocking laugh answered instead. Elliot’s voice came through first, followed by Diana’s cold, level tone. “Jude, your performances are getting pathetic. I will never allow myself to be manipulated by a liar like you. Stop using these disgusting tricks to crawl back into my life.” The line went dead. That night, I held my daughter close as her body grew colder and stiffer in my arms, my own blood staining the wooden floor as I coughed up the last of my life. The next morning, the local mail carrier delivered a money order for a thousand dollars. In the memo line, there were only six words: Buy a coffin. We are even. I held Maisie’s worn photograph and that piece of paper, and I sat by her small grave in the woods until the snow covered us both. I didn’t feel the cold. I was only glad that I would finally see my little girl again. In the warm light of the Plaza, Douglas let out a heavy sigh. “Well, what’s done is done. It’s a pity, really. That little girl had her mother’s eyes. She would have made a beautiful dancer.” With that, he collapsed onto the table, unconscious from the alcohol. Diana stood up so fast her chair screeched against the marble floor. The guests stared at her in shock. Her face was bloodless, her voice tight. “There’s an emergency at the office. Excuse me.” She drove like a madwoman, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, leaving Elliot calling after her in confusion. “Diana! Where are we going?” She didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on the dark road ahead. The car tore through the winding mountain passes, finally screeching to a halt at the base of the Appalachian valley. The old town mayor recognized her immediately. His face contorted with hatred. “Diana Maxwell. You have some nerve showing your face here.” Diana blinked, confused. “You… you know who I am? Is Jude Fletcher here?” The old man’s eyes filled with tears, and he pointed a trembling finger toward the ridge. “That little girl looked exactly like you. She died without ever seeing her mother’s face. They’ve been dead for three years, Diana. Did you come all this way just to gloat?” Diana looked up toward the ridge. Nestled among the wild pines were two mounds of earth, one large and one very small, sitting close together under the gray sky. Her breath caught. her pupils dilated with a sudden, violent terror. Elliot stepped out of the passenger side, his eyes wide with manufactured grief. “Diana, don’t listen to them. I heard Bridget’s family went bankrupt last month. This is obviously a scam to extort money from you using a fake grave…” Diana took a slow, shuddering breath, her professional composure sliding back into place like armor. She stared at the dirt mound and spoke four cold words: “Dig it up.” The gathered townsfolk gasped, clutching their shovels and tools. Diana’s voice was flat, carrying the absolute authority of her wealth. “If he is dead, there should be bones. I will not allow a liar to use my family’s name to play his games.” Her security guards stepped forward, pushing past the angry locals. In the chaos, Elliot saw his chance and shoved Diana from behind. She fell onto the cold dirt. As she turned to see who had pushed her, Elliot grabbed the old mayor by his collar, shouting, “How dare you lay a hand on her! Did Jude pay you to hurt her baby?” That accusation snapped the last thread of Diana’s sanity. Her eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red, she snatched a rusted shovel from a guard’s hand. “Get away from me!” she screamed. Ignoring the sharp pain in her abdomen, she swung the shovel down into the larger grave with all her might. Clang. The first strike. The dark earth flew, landing on my spectral form like lead weights. Clang. The second strike. The wooden grave marker snapped in two, my name splintering into the dirt. The old mayor collapsed, clutching his chest in distress. I wept, trying to grab her hands, begging her to stop. But she was possessed, throwing herself into the earth, digging deeper and deeper. Suddenly, the metal blade struck something solid with a dull, hollow thud. Diana froze. Her face drained of what little color remained.

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Pregnancy had turned me into a creature of suffocating anxiety. Every single day, I would text Donald to ask if he loved me. For the first ninety-nine times, he replied with a measured, manufactured gentleness. Until the hundredth time. Suddenly, my phone buzzed with three rapid-fire texts, dripping with a venom I’d never seen from him before. [Camille, do you seriously have nothing better to do?] [The morning sickness stopped, the baby isn’t torturing you anymore, so now you’ve decided to torture me?] [If you have this much free time, why don’t you look in the mirror? Your face is starting to look like a bloated piece of cheap meat.] I sat there, paralyzed. A second later, the messages vanished from the screen—unsent. A voice note popped up in their place. “I’m sorry,” Donald’s voice came through, smooth and composed. “My junior assistant accidentally sent those from my phone. Please don’t take it to heart.” Accident or not, the logistics didn’t matter anymore. All I knew, with a sudden and crystalline clarity, was that our marriage was completely, irreversibly dead. … I got up and went straight to the clinic. When I walked out of the sterile, brightly lit recovery room, my womb was empty. The four-month-old pregnancy was gone. By the time I finally returned to our penthouse, the city skyline was cloaked in absolute darkness. The living room was bathed in the warm glow of the designer lamps. Donald was sitting on the Italian leather sofa. Hearing the door, he looked up, his brow furrowing instantly. “Where have you been? It’s late. Do you not know how to return a text or a call?” I didn’t say a word. I slipped out of my heels, stepped into my slippers, and walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. He watched me, his gaze lingering on my face for a few seconds before he finally let out a long sigh. “I explained what happened this afternoon. My assistant grabbed the wrong phone. She’s already apologized to me, and I reprimanded her. It won’t happen again.” ‘A junior assistant grabbed her boss’s private phone by mistake?’ A faint, hollow laugh escaped my lips. I set the glass down and actually looked at him. Donald was breathtakingly handsome. It was the first thing I had known about him, the very first time I saw him. Now, at thirty-three, he had aged like fine bourbon—far better than most men his age. Just sitting there in his cashmere loungewear, he looked like an editorial spread in GQ. I used to love looking at him. I used to think I could spend a lifetime memorizing the planes of his face and never grow tired of it. But tonight, looking at him, I realized his beauty had nothing to do with me anymore. He was like a couture gown in a heavily guarded window display. You can stand on the sidewalk staring at it for years, convincing yourself it belongs to you, but you never actually get to take it home. “Donald,” I started, my voice ringing out much calmer than I had anticipated. “What was that little assistant’s name again?” He paused, a micro-shift in his posture. “Marissa. Why?” “How long has she been working for you?” “Six months, give or take.” He frowned, quickly adding, “Why are you interrogating me about this? I told you it was a misunderstanding. Do you really have to cling to this? Can’t you just pretend you didn’t see it?” Four defensive questions in a row. I didn’t take the bait. I just let the silence stretch for a moment before I continued. “I remember when she first started. You mentioned her in passing. You said the new hire was clumsy, practically incompetent, completely lacking the ruthless efficiency you usually demand from your staff. You never brought her up again. I naturally assumed you’d fired her.” I tilted my head. “But it turns out, not only did you not fire her, but right around the time she showed up, your ‘overtime’ hours mysteriously doubled. Your sudden out-of-state business trips became incredibly frequent.” The crease between Donald’s brows deepened. “Camille, what exactly are you implying?” I offered a small, empty smile. “I’m just stating the facts.” His irritation finally broke through his polished veneer. “Look, I know pregnancy is hard. Your hormones are all over the place, your emotions are volatile. I get that. But you can’t just spiral into paranoia over a few misfired texts. It’s not good for you, and it’s not good for the baby.” ‘The baby.’ The words were a microscopic needle slipping precisely between my ribs, piercing directly into my heart. How long had we been married? Four years. I was twenty-two when I sneaked back to the States after living in Europe, just wanting to rebel, to play. At a society party, I laid eyes on Donald and fell with a catastrophic, gravity-defying kind of love. I went after him with everything I had. At first, he thought I was too young, too naive. But I was relentless. I ripped my heart out of my chest and offered it to him on a silver platter. I bought him expensive watches, sent him rare vintages, and eventually, I was the one who proposed. People in our circle whispered. They laughed at me behind their manicured hands, saying a girl from my background shouldn’t be so desperate, so lacking in grace. But I hadn’t cared. I thought that was what love was supposed to be—brave, unashamed, loud. Eventually, he wore down. We dated for a year, then married. For the four years of our marriage, every single day was a tightrope walk of me pouring out my affection, desperate for scraps. If he gave me the slightest hint of warmth, it was like the sun rising in my universe. When I got pregnant, something shifted. He seemed genuinely pleased. He gave me more attention than he ever had. But the quiet terror had already set in. The foundation was rotting. I couldn’t shake the anxiety, constantly clinging to him, begging him to validate me. Even though he rarely used the word ‘love,’ his soft, ”I’ll be home early tonight,” felt like a lifeline. Until today. When the private phone—the one he never even let me touch—was casually handled by another woman to hurl insults at me. That was when the fog cleared. He had never, not from day one, held me in his heart. But it was okay. It was finally over. I had simply run out of love to give. Seeing me stand there in silence, he must have assumed I had yielded. He walked over, his anger softening into a patronizing patience, and reached out to pull me into his arms. “Alright, enough. Stop overthinking. I had the housekeeper make your favorite soup. Have a bowl and go to sleep. It’s the weekend tomorrow, I’ll take you shopping—” “I had an abortion.” The words slipped from my mouth, light as a feather. But Donald froze completely. His arms were still raised in the ghost of an embrace, suspended mid-air. The penthouse went so quiet I could hear the rhythmic ticking of the antique clock in the hallway. ‘One. Two. Three.’ Slowly, he straightened his posture. He looked down at me as if the English language had suddenly become a foreign tongue. “What did you just say?” I looked up, meeting his eyes dead on. I enunciated every syllable. “I said, the baby is gone. After you sent me those messages, I went to the clinic. I terminated the pregnancy.” I watched the color drain from his face, inch by agonizing inch. In the five years I had known Donald, I had almost never seen him lose his composure. To the world, he was utterly untouchable, a man whose emotions were regulated like a flawless piece of Swiss engineering. But right now, the gears were grinding to a halt. I found a morbid sense of fascination in it. I just kept watching him. “You didn’t consult me… and you just got rid of the baby?” My lips curved upward. “Yes.” “Camille.” My name tore from his throat, trembling. “That was my child, too.” I gave a nonchalant shrug. “I know.” “You know?” His voice suddenly shattered the quiet room, his eyes turning a violent, bloodshot red. “You know, and yet you went to the clinic by yourself and killed our child without even saying a damn word to me?!” “Camille! Do I even exist to you as your husband?!” He had never yelled at me like this. Whenever we fought in the past, his weapon of choice was icy silence. He would simply freeze me out until the lack of oxygen forced me to apologize first. But in this moment, a genuine laugh bubbled up from my chest. “Donald, so you actually ‘can’ get angry? Your eyes ‘can’ get red? You’re capable of losing your mind like a normal human being? I thought your only setting was emotional abuse.” Donald flinched, but the shock quickly morphed into absolute fury. His hand shot out, his fingers digging painfully into my jaw. “What the hell is wrong with you?! I told you I didn’t send those texts! Why won’t you just believe me?!” he roared, his breath hot against my face. “And that wasn’t just your baby! It was mine! What gave you the right to play God and rip it out of you?” “Since you’re so capable of murdering my child all by yourself, then you are going to give me another one!” Before I could process the words, he yanked me forward and crushed his mouth against mine. It wasn’t a kiss; it was an assault. The sharp, metallic taste of copper flooded my mouth instantly. I winced against the pain. Five years together, and he had never initiated a kiss. Even in our most intimate moments, I was always the one reaching for him, pulling him down. There were times I would lie awake, dreaming of him just wanting me like this. Now, all it invoked was a rising bile in my throat. I bit down, hard. He groaned in pain and shoved me backward. I stumbled, catching myself, my eyes burning with unshed tears as I glared at him. “You want a baby? Go find another woman. Your little assistant seems pretty damn eager to breed for you.” Donald froze, wiping the blood from his lip. “What did you say?” “I said,” I screamed, my voice tearing at the seams, “Go have a baby with Marissa! Keep your pathetic, hypocritical hands off me!” “Donald, right now, looking at you makes me want to vomit!” He stared at me, his gaze so intense it felt like he was trying to nail me to the floorboards. Three agonizing seconds passed. Then, he laughed. A cold, hollow sound. “Fine. Since you’re being so incredibly generous, I’ll give you exactly what you want.” He grabbed his keys from the console. “Don’t regret this. And don’t come crawling back to me crying.” The front door slammed shut with bone-rattling force. The silence rushed back in, heavier than before. I stared at the heavy oak door. The tears, which I hadn’t realized were falling, suddenly became a torrential flood. I collapsed to my knees, sobbing uncontrollably. It was as if I was purging five years of quiet humiliation, of begging for scraps, of making myself small. ‘Donald, I promise you, I won’t regret this.’ ‘And I will never, ever beg you again.’ I wiped my face with the back of my trembling hand, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I rarely used. “Hey, it’s me,” I whispered when my brother picked up. “The shadow capital we injected into Donald’s firm. Pull it all. Every last cent.” Donald didn’t come home that night. First thing Saturday morning, I went straight to my lawyer’s office and had the divorce papers drawn up. Since it was the weekend, he wouldn’t be at the office. I had no idea where to find him to serve him. Just as I stepped out onto the bustling Manhattan street, my phone buzzed with a video file. A second later, a voice note from my best friend, Jocelyn, exploded through my speaker. “Cam! Is this your untouchable, golden-boy husband?!” “I’m at Fifth Avenue shopping, and I just saw him with some girl! He literally got down on one knee on the sidewalk to tie her shoe for her!” “You were four months pregnant, and he’s out here scavenging for scraps? The absolute audacity of this bastard! I swear to God, I am going to murder them both!” My thumb hovered over the screen. I tapped play. The footage was slightly shaky, shot from a distance. But there he was. The man who always stood above the rest of the world, crouching on the pavement with an indulgent, helpless smile, tying the laces of the young girl beside him because she was pouting. She was laughing, filming him with her phone. A sharp, phantom pain sliced through my chest. It wasn’t that I hadn’t wanted that kind of indulgence from him. I had. But whenever I asked, he would just look down at me with that cool, detached expression. He never outright refused, but he never moved a muscle, either. He would just let the silence stretch until I was so humiliated I had to laugh it off and change the subject. I swallowed the lump in my throat, typed a quick reply to Jocelyn. [I’m divorcing him.] The moment the text sent, an unknown number called me. “Is this Camille St. Claire?” a stern voice asked. “Your husband and your friend were involved in an altercation. We need you to come down to the 19th Precinct immediately.” Jocelyn had a temper, but I hadn’t expected her to go scorched-earth this fast. I hailed a cab and rushed downtown. The moment I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, the shouting hit me like a physical wave. “Donald, you piece of shit!” Jocelyn was screaming, restrained by an exhausted-looking officer. “How could you do this to Camille?! She was carrying your child! And you’re out here flaunting your mistress in broad daylight, tying her damn shoes?! Why don’t you just drop dead?!” “Camille gave you everything! She loved you so much—” “Did I ask her to?” Donald’s voice cut through the air, sharp as a guillotine. I froze in the doorway. Donald wasn’t finished. “Did I ever beg her to treat me well? Did I beg her to love me? Was I the one who threw away my pride to chase a man who didn’t want me? Was I the one who crawled into her bed, practically begging to be married the second I snapped my fingers? So what if she was good to me? I didn’t love her. Why the hell should I owe her anything just because she decided to martyr herself? And what, just because she was pregnant, I’m supposed to chain myself to her side?” Jocelyn looked ready to combust. If the cop hadn’t been holding her back, she would have torn his throat out. “You soulless bastard! If it weren’t for Camille, you would’ve been bankrupt and rotting in—” “Jocelyn, stop,” I interrupted, stepping fully into the room. I walked straight past Donald and looked at the desk sergeant. “I’m here to take her home.” Before the officer could speak, Donald’s dark, commanding voice echoed through the bleak room. “She assaulted someone. You think she gets to just walk away?” I slowly turned to look at the woman clinging to his arm. Marissa. Her eyes were red, her cheek bearing the faint, pink outline of Jocelyn’s hand. Finally, I looked at him. “What do you want, then?” Donald’s eyes were glacial. “Your friend slapped my assistant. Now, I want her to pay it back.” Jocelyn let out a bark of incredulous laughter. “Let that little bitch try to hit me, I’ll break her—” “I didn’t say she would hit you,” Donald interrupted, his gaze sliding off Jocelyn and locking onto me with a terrifying intensity. “Camille. Your friend made a mistake on your behalf. Therefore, you foot the bill.” “You motherf—” Jocelyn trembled with rage, lunging forward. But before she could move, I spoke. “Fine.” Jocelyn’s head whipped toward me. “Camille, are you out of your mind?! He’s the one cheating! He’s the one who ruined everything!” I ignored her. I walked the few steps until I was standing directly in front of Donald and Marissa. “Do it.” Marissa shrank back slightly, tears welling perfectly in her eyes. “Mr. Hobart, please, don’t make it hard for your wife, I—” ‘SMACK.’ Before she could finish her performance, Donald grabbed Marissa’s wrist and drove her hand forcefully across my cheek. A sharp, burning pain exploded across the left side of my face. The room went dead silent. I turned to walk away. “Did I say we were done?” Donald’s voice was absolute ice. “She slapped Marissa once. I want it paid back tenfold.” He practically dragged Marissa forward. Before my brain could even register the threat, the blows rained down. ‘Smack. Smack. Smack.’ Nine hits. Each one heavier, more degrading, more violent than the last. With every strike, a tiny piece of the pathetic, desperate love I had hoarded in my chest withered away and died. By the time the final blow landed, I felt absolutely nothing. A profound, hollow numbness had settled into my bones. Something warm trickled down the corner of my mouth. I tasted iron. None of the officers stepped in. Donald Hobart owned half the real estate in this city; no one was going to cross him over a domestic spat where he technically didn’t throw the punch himself. When it was over, Donald gently massaged Marissa’s wrist, not looking at me. He delivered his final warning to Jocelyn. “Keep your dog on a leash. Next time she barks at people who belong to me, it won’t end like this.” He turned, placing a protective hand on Marissa’s lower back to guide her out. “Donald.” I called out to his retreating back. Reaching into my designer tote, I pulled out the manila envelope. “Let’s divorce.” He stopped, turning back with a look of pure disdain. “You want to divorce me?” I nodded once. “Yes.” He stared at me for a long, suffocating moment, and then a cruel smirk touched his lips. “Camille, I haven’t even settled the score with you for killing my child behind my back. Now you’re pulling this ‘divorce’ stunt to get my attention? Playing hard to get?” I gave a dry, broken smile. “You flatter yourself.” His expression darkened instantly. He snatched the papers from my hand, pulled a Montblanc pen from his breast pocket, and aggressively slashed his signature across the bottom line. He threw the papers directly into my chest. “Just a friendly reminder, Camille,” he sneered, leaning in close. “Without me, you are absolutely nothing. When you inevitably come crying back, begging me to let you in, I won’t even look your way.”

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