My cousin Tyler got married on a crisp October afternoon, but my wife, Tracy, refused to stand by my side at the ceremony. I’d seen it coming. It was the same script she ran every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, finding some eleventh-hour excuse to avoid visiting my family in our quiet Ohio hometown. Yet, even with my expectations managed, standing in the reception hall under the warm string lights, dodging well-meaning questions from aunts and childhood friends, a familiar, bitter ache settled in my chest. I knew what people whispered when my back was turned. ‘Can’t even bring his own wife home. What kind of man is he?’ Some had already quietly assumed we were divorced. I sat at the corner table, nursing a glass of bourbon in silence, the noise of the celebration fading into a dull hum. Right then, a strange, cold clarity washed over me. I made my decision. There was no need for them to whisper anymore. I pulled out my phone and dialed Tracy’s number. It rang. Declined. I called again. Declined. A third time. Declined. A text popped up a second later: ‘Are you seriously doing this right now? I’m busy.’ Staring at her words, the last lingering thread of my patience snapped. I calmly typed three letters back: ‘I want a divorce.’ I locked my phone, set it face down on the table, and took a slow sip of my drink. 1 ‘You are completely insane,’ her text read the next morning. ‘You want to throw away our marriage just because I didn’t drag myself to your cousin’s wedding?’ Another text followed immediately: ‘My sister Courtney came up to the city for the weekend. God forbid I actually spend time with my own family.’ In the past, I would have replied with a essay. I would have tried to appeal to her sense of fairness, explaining how it felt to always be the one compromising. I would have reminded her of the double standards—how she claimed to loathe “obligatory family gatherings” yet expected me to show up, smiling and helpful, at every backyard barbecue, birthday, and baby shower her family threw. But I had run out of words. The silence in my chest felt too vast to fill with arguments. ‘I’m serious, Tracy,’ I typed back. ‘Start thinking about what you want to keep. I’ll do the same.’ ‘We split everything fifty-fifty. If you agree, we can sign the papers and keep this quiet.’ A beat of silence, then her final reply: ‘Get help.’ I put my phone away. I had no intention of replying. For the rest of the holiday weekend, the silence between us stretched across the state lines. She didn’t call, and I didn’t reach out. On Sunday evening, the heavy front door of our apartment clicked open. Tracy walked in, carrying a reusable grocery bag stuffed with fresh produce and farm eggs from her parents’ place upstate. She took one look at my cold, set expression, rolled her eyes, and marched into the bedroom, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frames in the hallway. A few minutes later, the door swung open again. She stormed into the living room, her face flushed with rage, clutching the draft of the separation agreement I had left on the kitchen island. “What is this?” she demanded, flinging the papers at my chest. They fluttered to the hardwood floor. “A divorce,” I said, my voice flat, matching the gray light filtering through the window. “I want a real reason, Jeremy.” “I’m tired,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “I don’t want to do this with you anymore.” “You’re discarding me over a wedding?” Her voice cracked, and her eyes welled with tears. In the early years, those tears would have undone me. I would have reached for her, apologized, swallowed my own hurt just to make her stop crying. Now, I watched her face with the detached curiosity of a stranger. “We’re adults, Tracy. Can we at least do this with some dignity?” “Dignity? You call tearing our lives apart dignified?” She grabbed the papers from the floor and ripped them in half, then in quarters, scattering the white scraps like confetti. “I’m not divorcing you. I’m not going to be the town gossip because you had a temper tantrum.” I stood up, walked into the guest room, and rolled out the suitcase I’d packed earlier that afternoon. “I’ll give you three days to think it over. If you don’t agree to a dissolution, I’ll file contested.” “Step away from that door! Jeremy, you don’t get to just walk out on me! What did I ever do to deserve this?” She followed me into the entryway, her voice rising to a shriek. “Is there someone else? Who is she?” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of an answer. I pulled the door shut behind me, the lock clicking into place with a definitive, satisfying snap. I just wanted it to be over, even if it meant leaving money on the table. But the peace didn’t last. Less than two hours later, my phone lit up with a call from my father-in-law, Richard. He didn’t yell; he just told me to come over to their house so we could “talk like men.” Hoping for a clean break without a prolonged legal circus, I turned my car around and drove to their suburban home. When I walked into the living room, the atmosphere was suffocating. Richard, his wife Pam, and Tracy’s sister Courtney were all lined up on the sectional sofa, their faces grim. It felt less like a conversation and more like a tribunal. Pam was the first to strike. “Jeremy, Tracy told us everything. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly cruel? Threatening divorce just because she missed one family event?” She leaned forward, her silver bracelets clinking. “Marriage isn’t a game. You don’t just throw a tantrum and walk away when things don’t go your way.” I sat on the armchair opposite them, keeping my hands folded in my lap, refusing to engage in the familiar, exhausting dance of defending myself. Over five years, we had fought about everything. We fought about our non-existent sex face because she rejected me so often I’d stopped trying. We fought about money—even as my salary climbed into the mid-six figures, she’d always find some friend’s husband who made more, using their success as a club to beat down my confidence. And then there was the control. If I was home, I wasn’t allowed to just ‘be’. If I watched a game or read a book, I was “lazy,” “lacking ambition,” “wasting my life.” For five years, she claimed we couldn’t have children because we weren’t financially stable enough, yet she had quit her demanding corporate job for a low-stress, twenty-hour-a-week receptionist gig that paid pocket change, spending her afternoons streaming shows and her weekends at the spa. I was drowning in her double standards. “Tracy has sacrificed so much to build a life with you,” Pam continued, her voice dripping with maternal indignation. “She’s never known a day of real comfort since she married you. What right do you have to call it quits?” My eyes drifted to the thick gold band glistening on Pam’s wrist. I bought that. I thought about Richard and Pam’s farmhouse upstate. When they fell behind on their property taxes and their private insurance premiums skyrocketed, I was the one who wrote the checks. I was the one who set up a monthly three-thousand-dollar transfer to keep them afloat. And Tracy? Every anniversary, birthday, Valentine’s Day, and random Tuesday of self-care was funded by my account. The only “bitterness” she had ever tasted was the artisanal coffee she complained was never hot enough. Pam’s mouth kept moving, recounting all the wealthy sons-in-law her friends had, comparing my efforts to theirs. I looked directly at her. “I came here to talk to Tracy. Could you please keep your mouth shut?” Pam gasped, surging up from the sofa. “Do you hear him? The charity case we let into our family is telling me to shut up! Tracy, look at the monster you married!” She pointed a manicured finger at me. “If you treat us this way in our own home, God only knows what you do to my daughter behind closed doors.” “If this is the level of conversation we’re going to have, I’ll let my lawyer handle it,” I said, standing up. “Sit down, Jeremy,” Richard barked, his voice thick with authority. “Do you think your parents raised you to treat your elders with such disrespect?” “Let’s wait for his parents,” Courtney piped up from the corner, checking her watch. “They should be here any minute.” My heart sank slightly. I knew Tracy had called them, hoping to weaponize my mother’s traditional views on marriage against me. But if we had to lay all the cards on the table, we might as well do it now. A few minutes later, the front door opened, and my parents walked into the tense room. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Pam lamented, immediately rising to greet them. “Your son has completely lost his mind. He’s threatening to ruin this family, and when I tried to offer some gentle guidance, he insulted me in my own home.” My father didn’t look at Pam. He walked over to me, placed a heavy, reassuring hand on my shoulder, and looked down at me. “Have you made up your mind, son?” “Yes, Dad. I have.” “Then we support you,” my father said simply. Pam’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “Are you serious? We called you here to help fix this, not to encourage his foolishness!” “Fix what?” my father asked, his voice steady and quiet. “Since the day they got married, Tracy has treated us like we don’t exist. She hasn’t spent a single holiday with us. She’s never once called us Mom or Dad. Where was your ‘guidance’ then?” “They aren’t my parents!” Tracy snapped, her tears drying up as her anger flared. “I have my own parents. Why should I have to pretend?” “Then you don’t have to pretend to be his wife anymore either,” my father said. “Let’s go, Jeremy.”

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On our eighth anniversary, I didn’t prepare a single thing. Instead, I sat at the kitchen table and drafted a divorce agreement with my own hands. When I walked into the house, Elliott had his little mistress pinned against our headboard, taking her with a desperate, frantic hunger on our wedding bed. The girl turned her face toward the door, her lips curving into a smug little smile when she saw me. “Hazel… you’re home?” she gasped, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Should I… should I get up?” Elliott didn’t even pause. He patted her hip, his tone warm and teasing, the way someone might comfort a pet. “Why get up?” he said. “She doesn’t exactly inspire passion.” He finally looked up, cutting his eyes toward me before gesturing toward the hallway with his chin. “Be a good wife, close the door,” he added casually. “She’s shy.” He expected me to do what I always did—to turn around in silence, walk out, and give them whatever space they needed to ruin my life. Instead, I walked into the bedroom, set the divorce papers on the nightstand, and said quietly, “Elliott, let’s get a divorce.” … His movements faltered. He looked down at the girl beneath him, then slowly pulled away. “Hazel, do you really think I have the time for your little tantrums right now?” Amber tilted her head, her eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and irritation at being interrupted. “Hazel, a man has needs,” she purred, adjusting her hair. “If you’re too old and faded to satisfy Elliott, you have to let me do it, right?” I ignored her and pushed the papers closer to him. “Sign it, and I’ll leave right now.” Elliott grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it with one hand while keeping the other casually draped over her waist. “Are we really doing this?” he asked, exhaling. “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” “Not throwing a tantrum?” He let out a slow plume of smoke, the gray haze blurring the sharp lines of his face. “Every single time you pull this stunt, you end up tearing up the papers yourself. Stop playing hard to get, Hazel. It doesn’t work on me.” Amber shifted, letting out a soft, delicate sigh. “Elliott, baby… don’t be so mean to her. She did give you a child, after all. Even if… well, even if she had to trick you into it.” Elliott blew out another breath of smoke, his lips twisting into a mocking sneer. “Hazel, you drugged my drink and crawled into my bed eight years ago just to get this ring on your finger, didn’t you? As long as you stay in your lane, the title of Mrs. Mercer is yours. Don’t push your luck.” He truly believed I would keep playing the obedient, understanding wife, guarding the empty shell of our marriage while I waited for him to look at me. But he didn’t know that my heart had already rotted from crying. I didn’t even have the strength left to pretend it didn’t hurt. I was done. I couldn’t do it anymore. “Elliott, I mean it,” I said, my voice shockingly steady. “I’m sick of playing the perfect wife. I’m exhausted. I don’t want it anymore.” He let out a dry laugh. Reaching out, he pinched Amber’s chin, forcing her to look up. “Amber, tell her. How long have you been with me?” Amber’s voice was soft, breathless. “Almost… almost three years…” “She isn’t complaining about being tired,” Elliott said, letting go of her chin to look back at me. “And yet you’re the one crying about it? What right do you have to be tired?” He picked up the divorce papers and shoved them back into my hands. “Take your papers and close the door. Or what? Are you lonely? Want to join us?” He was always like this. Treating my sincerity like a comedy, my exhaustion like a petty bid for attention. He truly believed everything I did was a desperate plea for him to look at me. I felt so tired. Too tired to even argue. I turned and walked out, the sounds of their passion picking up again behind the closed door. I sat on the living room sofa. A draft from the window fluttered the edge of the papers resting on my knees. I buried my face in my hands, sitting there in the quiet for a long time, but my palms remained completely dry. When you cry too much, you eventually run out of tears. My daughter’s photo sat in a silver frame on the coffee table. She was wearing a little white sundress, her eyes crinkled into perfect, happy crescents. I closed my eyes, and the memories—the ones that had already decayed into my bones—flooded back. Elliott and I had been together for eight years. The first three years were genuinely beautiful. So beautiful that I thought he was my forever. Then came the night he was drugged at a party, and I ended up pregnant. I remember spinning around in his arms, crying, “Let’s get married, Elliott!” But his first words to me were: “Hazel, you really are calculating, aren’t you?” From that day on, the women in his life never stopped. The day our daughter was born, he was out shopping with some swimsuit model. I suffered a massive hemorrhage during labor and had to sign my own consent forms. The day our daughter turned a month old, he drank until dawn in a VIP lounge. The day she first called him “Daddy,” I recorded a video and sent it to him; he replied a day later with a single word: ‘Annoying.’ But for our daughter’s sake, I endured it. Three years ago, when she was diagnosed with congenital heart disease, Elliott pulled strings and hired the best medical team in the country. For a brief second, I thought we might finally find happiness. But the surgery failed. During those agonizing eleven hours in the waiting room, every call and text I sent him vanished into a black hole. I knelt on the cold hospital floor, throwing up from sheer panic. And where was the man who had vanished? He was all over Amber’s latest Instagram post. The caption read: ‘The best kind of company.’ He was at a music festival with Amber, kissing her passionately under a shower of confetti in a roaring crowd. Before my daughter passed away, her last words were: “I hope Mommy and Daddy don’t fight anymore.” I had foolishly believed that day would come. If only I was quiet enough, patient enough, obedient enough. But I never saw that day. And now, I truly couldn’t do it anymore. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Elliott: ‘Pick up a box of ultra-thin condoms on your way back. And get some macarons from that bakery down on 4th. Amber wants some.’ I stared at the screen, motionless. I had done things like this too many times. When they slept in my bed, I slept on the living room sofa. When she wanted desserts from the other side of town, I drove two hours in traffic to buy them. When she wanted to wear my clothes, I cleared out my closet. I didn’t feel anything anymore. The phone buzzed again. ‘If you aren’t back in twenty minutes, consider yourself off the Chelsea project.’ The project was my life’s blood, the product of countless sleepless nights. I looked at the pouring rain outside, took a deep breath, put on my coat, and walked out. I returned drenched to the bone. Opening the front door, I saw Amber sitting on the living room sofa wearing my silk pajamas. Her bare feet were propped on the coffee table, and she was turning something over in her hands. It was my daughter’s picture. The frame I kept on my nightstand, the one showing her happiest smile. Amber tapped her manicured nails against the glass. “Cute kid,” she murmured. “Too bad.” My voice squeezed out of my throat, raw and unrecognizable. “Amber. Put it down.” She looked up, a smirk playing on her lips, and loosened her fingers. The frame slipped. It hit the hardwood floor, and the glass shattered, sending shards flying everywhere. I stared at the cracks, a violent buzzing filling my ears. Amber carelessly kicked a piece of glass away with her toe. “Oops. Hand slipped. Hazel, you’re not going to get angry over a dead person, are you? After all, how can the dead compete with the living?” I was shaking so hard my bones ached. I raised my hand and slapped her across the face, hard. Amber’s head jerked to the side. She froze for a second, then began to shriek. “Hazel, don’t you think you’re taking this too far?” Elliott walked into the room, grabbing my arm in a vice grip. His voice was flat, but the fury beneath it was unmistakable. He pulled so hard I stumbled, my knees crashing onto the floor. Shards of glass sliced into my skin, and the sharp pain made me gasp. “Elliott, do you even dare to look down?” I choked out. “That is your own flesh and blood.” He glanced down, the anger in his eyes flickering slightly. “I’ll have someone restore the photo.” Amber buried herself in his chest, whimpering, “Elliott, it was an accident… I didn’t mean to…” He let go of her and leaned down toward me. “But as for hitting her, that’s where the line is crossed.” He reached out and yanked the necklace from around my neck. It was the promise necklace he gave me years ago. When we were eighteen, he told me it belonged to his late mother and was meant for his future wife. The chain snapped. The pearls scattered across the floor. Elliott clutched the pendant in his hand, looking down at me. “From now on, you don’t deserve to wear this.” He tossed the pendant carelessly into the trash can. Then he picked Amber up in his arms and walked toward the door. Amber clung to his neck, looking back at me over his shoulder. Her lips moved silently. I read her lips perfectly: ‘Serves you right.’ The door slammed shut. Left behind were the scattered pearls, the broken glass, and my daughter’s smiling face, sliced into jagged pieces on the floor. She seemed to be asking me: ‘Mommy, does it hurt?’ I collapsed onto the glass, my tears falling one by one, blurring her ruined smile. I fell into a dream. I dreamt of our senior year of high school, when I was hospitalized with acute appendicitis. Back then, I had no parents, no family. I had to sign my own surgery forms. Elliott skipped three days of classes just to sit by my bedside. When the pain kept me awake, he held my hand and told me terrible jokes, over and over. They weren’t funny at all, but he told them with such earnestness. The day I was discharged, he knelt down to tie my sneakers. The sunlight caught the back of his head, highlighting his hair in gold. He looked up at me, his eyes crinkled with warmth. “Hazel, from now on, I’m tying your shoes. For the rest of our lives. I promise.” I smiled in my sleep. Then I woke up, my pillow soaked. My phone screen lit up. It was a video from Amber. In a VIP hospital suite, Amber leaned against the pillows, a shy, radiant smile on her face. Elliott sat on the edge of the bed, his hand resting gently over her slightly rounded belly. “Who do you think the baby will look like?” he asked, looking up into her eyes. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything. I promise.” Amber giggled and snuggled into his chest. The text beneath read: ‘It’s been so long since you’ve been a mother, Hazel. I guess you probably can’t comprehend how happy I am right now.’ The screen went black. I stared at the dark glass for a long time. My chest felt squeezed by an invisible hand, numb with pain. In three years, he had never once asked who our daughter looked like. “I’ll give both of you the absolute best of everything.” He had never said those words to me or to Lucy. My phone buzzed again. A location pin from Elliott. ‘Thought you wanted to talk about the divorce? Get over here.’ I changed my clothes, took the divorce agreement, and walked out. The door to the third-floor VIP lounge was cracked open. The moment I pushed it open, a dozen pairs of eyes whipped around to face me. The long leather sofas were packed with people, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement. “Look at that, the wife actually showed up!” “And she made it in under thirty minutes! Damn, I just lost three grand!” Elliott sat right in the center, legs crossed, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Mrs. Mercer is always punctual.” Amber walked up to me, snatched the papers from my hand, and read aloud: “Voluntary dissolution of marriage…” The room erupted into laughter. Some clapped, others doubled over. “Hazel, are you seriously divorcing him? Where are you going to find a guy as good as Elliott?” “Yeah, even if he plays around, he still gave you the title, didn’t he?” Amber picked up a small red booklet from the coffee table and held it up to my face. A marriage certificate. She opened it, pointing to the names and photos. ‘Elliott Mercer. Amber Ward.’ “Hazel, look closely,” she laughed, her smile widening. “Your marriage certificate is a fake!” “The venue was rented, the officiant was a hired actor, and the entire wedding was a sham populated by paid extras.” She snapped the booklet shut and tapped it against her hand. “This one is real.” The laughter swelled around me. “Jesus, Elliott, that is brutal!” “I went to that wedding! She was sobbing her eyes out, completely clueless! Haha!” “The officiant could barely read his lines, and she just thought he was nervous!” The laughter poured into my ears and leaked out of my eyes. I stood frozen. I had thought that, at the very least, I had that wedding. I had that boy in the white shirt. I had his promise to tie my shoes forever. It turned out even that was a lie. Elliott sat there, watching me through the haze of smoke and mockery. “The day we were supposed to register, Amber clung to me and begged so sweetly I couldn’t say no. But publicly, you were still Mrs. Mercer, weren’t you?” It seemed there was no need to sign the divorce papers after all. I turned and walked out of the lounge. Behind me, the laughter continued. “Elliott, she was crying like that at the wedding. Now that she knows it was all a joke, do you think she’ll want to kill herself?” His voice was soft, indifferent: “Who cares.” I leaned against the hallway wall, slowly sliding down until I was crouching on the floor. I had grown up an orphan, and at eighteen, I was severely bullied at school. I fell into deep depression and stood on the edge of the school rooftop, ready to jump. It was Elliott who had appeared behind me. “Hazel, I’ll protect you.” He had pulled me back from that ledge. Everything I learned afterward—how to smile, how to stand tall, how to walk with my head held high in a crowd—I learned because of him. But the person who had pushed me right back to the edge of the roof was also him. I got home after midnight and began to pack. There wasn’t much in my closet. Most of the clothes had been worn by Amber anyway, and I didn’t want them. I packed only a few of my own things and the photo album. I flipped to the last page of the album. Lucy was completely bald, terribly thin, but she was still smiling. She said, “Don’t cry, Mommy. Lulu doesn’t hurt.” I clutched the album to my chest, crouching on the floor. My phone buzzed several times. Amber. ‘Hazel, there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you.’ ‘You didn’t actually think your daughter’s surgery failed because of bad luck, did you?’ My hands began to shake violently. ‘The day of her surgery, Elliott knew I had a high fever, so he pulled her entire surgical team to treat me instead.’ ‘The schedule got messed up, and they had to swap in a backup surgeon who wasn’t up to the task.’ ‘Oops, I didn’t think there would be an accident~’ ‘But honestly, she was just a kid. She couldn’t possibly be more important than me, right?’ I could barely hold the phone. Back then, when Elliott secured the country’s top medical team, it had kept me from completely losing my mind. I thought he cared about us. I had stayed in that empty marriage, lying to myself, hoping he would change his mind and make our family whole again. But he hadn’t even cared about his own daughter’s life. Another video arrived. In the video, Elliott leaned back on the couch while Amber snuggled in his lap, her voice babyish: “Elliott, do you regret pulling the medical team away for me back then?” His voice was calm. “You had a hundred-and-four-degree fever. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.” Amber pouted. “But do you regret it?” Elliott paused for a second. “No. There’s only one of you.” The video ended. I stared at the black screen. My voice was trapped in my throat, but the tears wouldn’t stop. I bent over, my forehead pressed against the cold floor, my entire body shaking with dry, silent sobs. By the end, my tears had run dry, leaving only a hollow, radiating ache in my chest that made it hard to breathe. My daughter’s smiling face was pressed against my chest, icy cold. I packed the album into my suitcase, zipped it shut, and booked the earliest flight out. On my way to the airport, I watched the sky gradually brighten outside—from black to gray, and finally to white. My heart was entirely still, devoid of even a single ripple. I took out my phone and sent Elliott one final message. After printing my boarding pass and passing through security, my phone lit up before I could turn it off. Texts from Elliott. One after another, the phone vibrating relentlessly. I turned it off. As the plane lifted into the air, the string inside my heart—the one that had been stretched taut for so many years—finally snapped.

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When I prepared to deactivate our TikTok account—the one with over a million followers—the comments section was a frenzy of pleas. “Please don’t go! We’re still waiting for your travel documentary series!” I stared at the screen, gave a quiet, humorless laugh, and tapped confirm. My boyfriend was the editor. We’d made a pact to document every city we visited together on the platform. For three years, my lens was trained entirely on him. But in the final cuts he exported, I was nowhere to be found. Until last week, when I was helping him clean up his external drive. Tucked away in the deepest subfolder was a directory named Elena. I clicked it. It was another girl. She was standing on a backlit beach, the setting sun painting her hair a warm, spun-gold. The footage was in slow motion, edited to the exact indie ballad we called “our song.” Every single frame had been meticulously color-graded and retouched. Meanwhile, in the hundreds of videos we’d published, I had only ever appeared once. I was a blurry, out-of-focus shape in the background. In the overlay comments, he’d actually typed: “Who let this random extra into the shot?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to edit me. It was that I was never worthy of being in his frame. As I was packing my things, my phone buzzed with an urgent text from him, demanding to know why the account was gone. I didn’t reply. Since he never wanted me in his frame, I would simply walk out of his shot entirely. 1 I opened my airline app and booked a one-way ticket back home to Maine for three nights from now. When the confirmation popped up, my thumb hovered over the screen. It felt like finally waking up from a three-year-long dream. It was just past one in the morning when the front door unlocked. The bedroom lights flickered on, harsh and blinding. I winced, shielding my eyes. Tim stood by the edge of the bed, his voice tight with impatience. “What the hell happened to the account?” “Do you have any idea how important tomorrow is? Elena has a brand sponsor reviewing our metrics. You deleting the account just killed her deal.” “Regina, do you ever think before you act?” I opened my eyes but said nothing. He waited a beat, his temper flaring hotter. “A million followers, just gone? Three years of my editing work, down the drain?” “What kind of crazy episode are you having right now?” I propped myself up against the headboard, keeping my voice quiet. “Tim, I want to break up.” He stiffened, then let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “This again?” “Aren’t you tired of threatening to leave every time you’re unhappy? I was just putting together a portfolio for Elena so she could sign a contract.” “You’re a grown woman, Regina. Is it not exhausting to be this jealous over nothing?” I didn’t take the bait. He sighed, his posture slumping slightly as his tone softened. “Look, I get it. You’ve been in a bad mood lately. But did you really have to blow things up like this? Now I have to spend tomorrow explaining this to the sponsors. Do you think I don’t have enough on my plate?” I watched him pour a glass of water, drink it down, and explain his rationalizations. A profound, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me. In his entire tirade, there was room for Elena’s brand deals, the value of the account, and his three years of wasted labor. There was just no room for me. I pulled the duvet back over my shoulders and turned my back to him. Tim lingered for a moment, his voice dropping an octave. “Just sleep. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” Soon, the rush of the shower filled the apartment. I kept my eyes wide, staring at the blank wall. In the quiet of the dark, my mind drifted back to three years ago. The night we hit a hundred thousand followers. We’d been sitting on the hardwood floor of our cramped studio apartment, eating cheap instant ramen. Tim had held up his phone, his eyes reflecting the blue light of the screen with absolute wonder. “Regina,” he had said, “from now on, you capture the most beautiful frames. And I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I promise.” The hum of the water continued in the bathroom. My eyes stung with a sudden, sharp ache. When I woke up the next morning, he was already gone. I made myself a quick bowl of oatmeal, the rising steam blurring my vision. I pulled out my phone and texted my mother. “Mom, I’m coming home in a couple of days to stay for a bit.” It took a long time for her to reply. “Really? You aren’t too busy?” followed by, “Your dad had his checkup last month. The doctor says his recovery is on track, but he keeps asking when you’ll visit.” I stared at her words—You aren’t too busy?—and felt a lump rise in my throat. During our first year, over the holidays, Tim had insisted we stay to finish a holiday campaign. “If you leave, who’s going to assist me?” During our second year, when my dad underwent coronary bypass surgery, Tim had told me, “Going back won’t help him heal. It’s better to finish the sponsor shoot so we can send them money. That’s more practical.” By the third year, when Elena returned from living abroad, he didn’t even bother making up a good excuse. He just shrugged and said, “We can’t walk away right now.” I typed out a long, rambling paragraph. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to tell her how much I had missed them, how utterly exhausted I was. But in the end, I deleted it character by character. I simply wrote: “I’ll call you when I land. Don’t worry Dad about it.” Around four in the afternoon, Tim returned. A few minutes later, the clatter of pots and pans drifted from the kitchen. I froze. Tim was cooking. In our three years together, I could count the number of times he’d cooked on one hand—and it was always just scrambled eggs or instant noodles. Today, there were three different dishes and a pot of soup simmering on the stove. He was looking at a recipe video on his phone, awkwardly tossing vegetables in the pan. I stood in the doorway. “Who is all this for?” He didn’t look up from his phone. “Elena’s coming over for dinner. She’s on a strict diet, and takeout is too greasy. It’s healthier to cook at home.” I mumbled a quiet “Oh” and went back to the bedroom. I remembered the weeks I’d worked late nights, stumbling through the front door at midnight, asking if he could at least boil some pasta for me. His response had always been the same: “Are your hands broken? Do I have to wait on you hand and foot?” Now, he was cutting fruit, simmering bone broth, and remembering that Elena didn’t eat spicy food and preferred room-temperature water. Meanwhile, I had told him a thousand times that I couldn’t stand cilantro, yet a thick layer of it floated on top of the soup he was brewing. The savory scent of the kitchen drifted into the bedroom, and my stomach betrayingly growled. I opened a food delivery app and ordered a simple bowl of soup. Just as I finished eating, the doorbell rang. Elena had arrived. She brought a bottle of red wine, her laughter ringing out as she stepped inside. “Tim! Since when do you know how to cook? This is amazing.” Tim sounded almost bashful. “Just picked it up last week. It’s nothing special.” At the dining table, Elena offered me a fork with a bright smile. “Regina, you should try some of this.” I shook my head. “I already ate.” Tim frowned, setting down his glass. “When did you eat?” “I ordered delivery.” His face darkened immediately. “I cooked a whole table of food and you went and ordered takeout? What is your problem, Regina? Do you have to act so childish in front of Elena?” I looked at him, the sting of humiliation rising in my throat. But I refused to let him see me cry. I turned and walked back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind me. “Enjoy your dinner.” Through the thin wall, I could hear Elena’s bright, melodic laughter and Tim’s murmuring responses. His voice was low, laced with a gentle patience I hadn’t heard directed at me in three years. The next morning, Tim came into the kitchen and immediately asked, “Did you make breakfast?” “I forgot,” I said quietly. He took a deep, irritated breath. “I literally asked you last night. How do you forget that? Regina, what is wrong with you lately? You used to never be like this.” “You can make it yourself,” I replied. “Since you’re such a good cook now.” He stared at me for a long beat, letting out a cold scoff. “Fine. Keep playing these games. Let’s see who breaks first.” I said nothing. He slumped onto the sofa and opened his laptop to edit. After a while, he spoke up without looking at me. “Oh, by the way, the Iceland sponsorship is locked.” My thumb froze over my phone screen. Tim’s voice was casual. “The brand wants an aurora-themed travel shoot. We fly out early next month. Seven days.” I remained silent. He seemed to recall something, adding, “I know I promised we’d go together. But the brand specifically requested someone with a chic, editorial look. Elena fits that aesthetic better.” He paused, then tossed out a careless reassurance. “I’ll take you some other time. It’s not like Iceland is going anywhere.” Iceland wasn’t going anywhere. But I had been waiting for three years. The night we hit a million followers, eating cheap ramen in our tiny apartment, Tim had promised: “Once things settle down, I’m taking you to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. I know it’s your dream.” I had brought it up so many times after that. Each time, he claimed we didn’t have the budget, or our schedule was too packed, or that we should focus on domestic trips first. Now the budget was there. The schedule was open. He was finally going to Iceland. But he was taking Elena. I gave him a quiet murmur of agreement. He visibly relaxed, likely assuming I was finally falling back into my usual submissive role. I stood up and went to take a shower. Once the water started running, I slid down the tiled wall and sat on the floor, letting the hot spray wash over me. My tears mingled with the water, completely indistinguishable. When I came out, Tim was browsing a camera retailer on his laptop. The screen showed a high-end camera body—worth over five thousand dollars. He didn’t look up. “Elena’s birthday is next month. I want to get her this. Her phone’s video quality is terrible. You’re the gear expert, take a look for me.” I stared at the screen. My birthday had been last month. He had completely forgotten it. I hadn’t reminded him. I had just ordered a lonely bowl of takeout at the studio. Three days later, he’d sent a brief text: “Forgot your birthday. I’ll make it up to you.” He never did. “Whatever,” I muttered. Tim scowled. “What do you mean, ‘whatever’? I’m trying to have a normal conversation with you. Can you at least act like a human being?” I looked at him. Three years. Over sixty cities. A career I’d abandoned. A family I’d neglected. A birthday spent eating cold takeout alone. And now, I was the one who wasn’t “acting like a human being.” The words choked me, pooling in my throat until only a flat response remained. “Do whatever makes you happy.” I walked into the bedroom. Before the door clicked shut, I heard him mutter, “Unbelievable,” followed by the sound of heavy keystrokes. He bought the camera. He paid for it using our joint business account. Half of that money was mine. He left again in the afternoon. I pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. A few sweaters, my documents, my old storyboarding notebooks, a pair of gold earrings. That was it. I stared at the small pile, stunned by how little there was. Three years of my life, shrunk down to fit into half a suitcase. My phone rang. It was Tim. “Elena’s shoot is short-handed this afternoon. We need someone to hold the reflector. Can you come over?” “I’m busy.” He scoffed. “You’re just sitting at home. What’s the big deal?” “No.” The line went quiet for a beat. Then, Elena’s sweet, melodic voice chimed in near the receiver. “Regina! Hey, it’s Elena. Please don’t worry about it, I can easily find a friend to help. Tim, don’t badger Regina, let her rest at home.” She giggled. “Oh, by the way, Regina, Tim was just telling me how thin you’ve gotten lately. Make sure you eat a good dinner, okay?” I gripped the phone tightly. It turned out even his minor displays of concern had to be filtered through Elena before they reached me. “Got it,” I said, and hung up. I went back to folding my sweaters, my chest aching with a dull, throbbing weight. The package arrived that evening. It was the camera. Tim unboxed it with extreme care, handling it like a fragile treasure. “The sensor is gorgeous,” he murmured. “Elena’s going to love this.” His mother’s name lit up his phone screen. He swiped to answer and put it on speaker. “How are things, sweetie? Is that lovely girl, Elena, still filming with you?” Tim smiled. “Yeah, Mom. It’s going great.” “I saw the video you posted. She is just stunning, and she has such class.” Tim chuckled. “Stop, Mom, you’re going to give her a big head.” His mother continued, “Make sure you bring Elena over for Christmas dinner. Your dad really wants to meet her.” I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands and feet turning ice-cold. There was a brief pause on the line before his mother seemed to remember my existence. “Oh… and how is Regina? I feel like I haven’t heard her name in a while. Are you two doing okay?” Tim glanced at me. “We’re fine, Mom. Don’t worry about it.” He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t ask if I wanted to say hello. For three years, I had bought his parents Christmas gifts, called them on their birthdays, and sent weekly check-in texts. Yet to his mother, I had become an afterthought—a name that had faded from conversation. He ended the call and placed the camera into a decorative gift box. I stood up. “Where are you going?” he asked. “To bed.” My final day arrived. Before leaving that morning, Tim called out, “I have a full day of shooting. I’ll probably be back late.” “Okay,” I replied. Once the front door clicked shut, a heavy silence settled over the apartment. This was my last day in this space. I pulled my suitcase out from behind the wardrobe. Documents, the gold earrings, my notebooks, a few outfits, my chargers. Everything fit into a single carry-on bag. I looked around. Almost everything in this apartment had been bought by me. I left all of it behind. In the kitchen, the spice jars still bore the neat labels I’d printed. A sticky note remained on the refrigerator door in my handwriting: Need eggs. Almost out of olive oil. Before I moved in, Tim’s fridge was always empty. I was the one who had turned this cold apartment into a home. In the living room, I had picked out the sofa, ordered the curtains, and replaced the throw pillow covers three times. The packing foam from his new camera was still piled on the coffee table, waiting for someone to clean it up. In the study, the high-end editing monitor and PC had been purchased with my savings—nearly twenty thousand dollars. At the time, Tim had told me, “Once the channel takes off, I’ll pay you back tenfold.” It had been three years. He had never paid me back, nor had he ever brought it up. On the corner of the monitor screen, a cute little panda sticker that belonged to Elena was pasted, a silent reminder that the space already belonged to someone else. I rolled my suitcase to the entryway and took one last look. Inside the elevator, I dialed my mother. “Mom, I’m landing today.” Her voice instantly brightened, pitching higher. “Really? Should we come pick you up at the airport? Your dad went to the market early this morning—what do you want to eat?” Listening to her voice, a sudden wave of warmth flooded my chest, and my eyes swelled. “Anything is fine, Mom.” During the cab ride to the airport, I scrolled through my social feed and saw Tim’s latest post. A nine-image grid. Every single photo was of Elena. Elena holding her new camera, Elena laughing into the lens, Elena leaning in close to Tim to look at the monitor. The caption read: New journeys, new partnerships. Stay tuned. I scrolled back through his profile. In three years, there wasn’t a single mention of me. No couple photos, no birthday wishes, no trips. The only time I had ever appeared was in a sponsored post from two years ago. He had written: Thanks to the team. I was the entire team. Scrolling further down, I saw his mother had shared the post, commenting: My son found the perfect partner. Bigger and better things ahead! I closed the app. I opened my phone’s photo library, selected the remaining fourteen photos of Tim and me, and hit delete. I arrived at the airport, checked in, and went through security. The terminal was buzzing with travelers. My phone vibrated in my palm. It was a voice message from Tim—the first time in three days he had actually reached out with his own voice. I tapped play. His voice was slightly low. “Regina, are you still mad at me? You’ve been so quiet these past few days. I’ve been thinking, and maybe… maybe there were some things I overlooked.” I held the phone, a small, involuntary ache flaring in my chest. Another message popped up immediately. “But you have to understand me, too. It’s been insanely busy. Elena’s just starting out, and she relies on me for almost everything. Once she’s established, I promise I’ll make time for you. You’ve worked in media; you know how this goes.” “About the account… think about it again. Losing a million followers is a massive waste. I can help you rebuild your own brand if you want. It’s hard to start from scratch, but we can make it work.” Finally, a text message followed: Don’t be mad. It’s really not that big of a deal. Not that big of a deal. I stared at those words. Three years of quiet humiliation, the deleted frames, being labeled a random extra, the broken promises of Iceland. To him, it was just a minor inconvenience. I began typing a long response. I wanted to tell him how long I had waited, how deeply it had hurt. I wanted to tell him that he wasn’t incapable of love—he was just incapable of loving me. But midway through, I deleted the entire block of text. I scrolled back through three years of chat history to the very first message he had ever sent me: From now on, you capture the most beautiful frames, and I’ll edit you into the most beautiful story. I stared at it for a few seconds. Then, I replied with just five words: This is where we end.

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My cheating husband got his brain scrambled in a car accident. Now, the only words he can utter are “yes” and “no.” Nothing else. Not a single other word. And the kicker? He can only tell the absolute truth. Talk about poetic justice. I asked him, “Is the woman you’re sleeping with my best friend?” His face went paper-white, but his lips moved against his will: “Yes.” “Did you transfer our marital assets?” “Yes.” “Is your bank passcode your high school sweetheart’s birthday?” “Yes.” Armed with this bizarre condition of his, I easily sent his mistress to prison and clawed back every single dime of his fortune. He couldn’t even manage to yell at me for it. Until today. A cute delivery guy flirted with me at the door. I turned back to look at my husband, sitting there with his usual blank, vacant stare. “Are you really my husband? You don’t even care?” I teased. But the words slipped right out of him: “No.” I froze. I stared straight into his eyes. It took me a long, agonizing moment to find my voice. “Then is my husband, Dylan… is he dead?” “Yes and no.” … 1 A cold shiver ran down my spine. I stared deeply into his eyes and asked him again, slower this time. “Are you really Dylan?” The man sitting before me looked entirely calm. “No.” My lips trembled. “Then… who are you?” He couldn’t answer that. He was bound by the rules of his condition—only straight yes-or-no questions would work. Well, that and the strange “yes and no” he had just uttered for the first time. I studied the face in front of me. It was Dylan’s face, line for line. The faint scar near his temple was from three years ago, when someone dropped a heavy glass bottle from a high-rise balcony. He had shoved me out of the way, taking the blow himself. It took seven stitches to close. The scar was real. It was Dylan’s. I fell silent, my mind spinning into a dark, chaotic spiral. Up until now, this man had been a hundred percent accurate. It didn’t even matter if the questions had nothing to do with his life; he could predict World Cup scores with terrifying precision, or tell me which celebrity rumors were true. I had made a small fortune relying on his answers. I trusted his word implicitly. If I asked him if an earthquake was going to hit in five minutes and he said “yes,” I would have packed my bags and run without a second thought. But now, he was telling me he wasn’t Dylan. And when I asked if Dylan was dead, he said, yes and no. An icy dread settled deep in my bones. If he wasn’t Dylan, then who had I been living with for the past three months? And where was my actual husband? Is it really possible for a person to be both dead and alive? As I was debating whether to tie him to a chair and drag the truth out of him question by question, a sudden, heavy knock rattled the front door. I went over and pulled it open. Two police officers stood on the porch, their expressions grim. “Are you Flora? We’re with the city police department. We have some news, and we need you to try to remain calm.” “At approximately 9:30 this morning, we recovered a severely decomposed body from the riverbank. We found an ID card in the victim’s pocket belonging to your husband, Dylan. We’re here to ask if you have any knowledge of this.” I nearly collapsed. “That’s impossible!” The two officers exchanged a quick, guarded look. “Why is it impossible?” I dug my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself to stay grounded. “Dylan can’t be dead. He’s right here.” I pointed toward the living room, where Dylan sat on the sofa, his head bowed, completely silent. The officers blinked, then walked past me into the living room. One of them pulled out the ID card and compared the photo to the man on the couch. Seeing the identical features, they fell into a tense silence. I scrambled to explain. “My husband is incredibly clumsy. He loses things constantly. Someone must have found his lost ID and then met with an accident. It’s just a bizarre coincidence…” The older officer cut me off, turning directly to the couch. “Sir, are you Dylan?” The man answered in a quiet, flat tone. “No.” The room went dead silent. The way the officers looked at me changed instantly. I quickly reached into my bag and pulled out the medical files. “Please, let me explain. My husband was in a severe car accident three months ago. His hippocampus was badly damaged. Aside from losing a large portion of his memory, his language center was compromised. He can only say ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ Here, I’ll show you.” I stepped closer to the couch. “Dylan, do you like eating garbage?” “No.” “Dylan, are these two police officers bad people?” “No.” “Dylan, are you Dylan?” “No.” I let out a weak, desperate laugh. “You see? His mental capacity is currently comparable to a seven-year-old. You can’t take his words literally.” The officers exchanged another look. They carefully inspected the official medical reports I handed them and made a quick call to the hospital to verify the details. Once they confirmed I was telling the truth, the tension in their shoulders eased slightly. “It looks like this might just be a strange misunderstanding. But we’ll still need you to come down to the station with us to make a formal statement.” I asked if we should bring Dylan along. The older officer thought about it. “Bring him. You wouldn’t feel easy leaving him home alone, would you?” So, I took Dylan and followed them to the station. Earlier, I’d been clever. I deliberately asked him three questions in a row where the answer could only be “no.” The second question confirmed the officers weren’t bad people, which meant they probably wouldn’t make things too hard for me. But just as we finished the statement and were getting ready to leave… A female officer suddenly pushed the door open, her face grim. “Wait. I have some questions.” She caught the eye of the younger officer, giving him a brief nod, and sat down directly across from me. “I think you’re lying.” My fingernails dug hard into my palms. “Excuse me?” She stared deeply at me, reaching over to click off the recording device. Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Flora, don’t you recognize me? It’s Lisa.” A cold shiver ran down my spine. At first, I honestly hadn’t recognized her. Lisa, my old high school classmate. A girl who once harbored a massive crush on Dylan. We had never gotten along, and she spent years chasing him. After Dylan rejected her, she vanished from my life. I had no idea she’d joined the force. “The DNA results for the body aren’t back yet, so we can’t confirm if it’s Dylan. For all we know, you hired an actor to take his place.” She glanced sideways at Dylan, her tone softening just a fraction. “Dylan, do you remember me?” Dylan flicked his eyes up to her, then quickly looked back down at the floor. I didn’t know if it was just my imagination, but a fleeting flash of pain seemed to ripple through Lisa’s eyes. I spoke up immediately. “His brain is damaged. He literally cannot answer anything that isn’t a straight yes-or-no question.” Lisa tapped her ballpoint pen against the desk, looking lost in thought. “Flora, let me ask you. Why did Dylan get into that accident in the first place?” My body went rigid as the memories flooded back. When I first found out Dylan was cheating on me, I had completely spiraled. He had started lying to me about a year ago, getting incredibly good at it. It began with a stray lipstick left on the passenger seat, then a long, unfamiliar strand of hair tangled in his coat buttons, followed by endless nights “working late” at the office. Every sign pointed to an affair. But he had ripped out the dashcam, wiped his phone clean, and left me with zero hard evidence. My hysterical confrontations were met with nothing but his impatient, defensive screams. “Enough! Do you have any idea how crazy you look right now? Like a hysterical nag!” “You want to go through my phone? Go ahead! Search it! And when you find absolutely nothing, you’re getting on your knees to apologize to me!” I had finally given up, fully prepared to file for divorce, when the crash happened. He’d been driving fatigued, wrapping his car around a semi-truck halfway up a mountain road. I let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Should I say there’s a God after all? He crashed on his way to meet his mistress and ended up a vegetable. You can look it up; the accident report is on file right here at your station.” Lisa nodded, tapping out a quick message on her phone. A moment later, a reply chimed. As she read it, her expression grew increasingly heavy. “What you’re saying is true. But it still doesn’t prove that this man sitting next to you is actually Dylan.” My patience snapped. “Are you insane? Can you not see his face? He is Dylan!” “Back in high school when you were learning how to sketch, didn’t you secretly draw hundreds of portraits of him…” Lisa cut me off. “Flora, I suspect you murdered Dylan.” I laughed out loud, utterly bewildered. “Lisa, if you keep making accusations like that, I will file a formal complaint.” “A severely decomposed corpse. Tell me, how on earth did you decide that was Dylan? Based on a single ID card?” “Not just the ID. The height and weight of the corpse perfectly match Dylan’s medical records.” Lisa’s voice dropped to a near-whisper. “And then there’s the tattoo.” “The face was ruined by the water, yes. But the tattoo on his wrist is entirely unique. It was…” She hesitated, closing her eyes for a brief second. “…it was something I tattooed on him with my own hands.” The interrogation room fell into a dead silence. Beside me, Dylan remained completely motionless, not saying a word. But at the mention of the tattoo, his hand twitched. In the next second, I grabbed Dylan’s arm and yanked his sleeve up. On the inside of his wrist, a poorly drawn, ugly little dog tattoo came into view. Lisa’s face went entirely pale. “Don’t tell me you gave the same tattoo to two different guys!” I scoffed. “I always wondered why he had such a bizarre, ugly tattoo. Now I know it was your doing.” “Lisa, does your face burn yet? Still suspecting me? You think I killed Dylan? What would even be my motive?” She furrowed her brow, fighting back. “Tattoos can be copied…” I cut her off. “Copied? So you’re telling me I found someone who looks exactly like him, matches every single physical feature, just to pull off a duplicate? Why would I even bother?” “Dylan cheated on me and ended up half-braindead. He only recognizes me. As long as I play the loyal, doting wife, his parents are practically weeping with gratitude. I have free rein over all his money. Why would I want him dead?” “If he actually died, his parents would swoop in to claim their share of the estate. What do I stand to gain?” The older officer let out a sharp, warning cough. “Watch your language. Keep your speculation to yourself.” I shut my mouth, shaking my head with a cold smirk. Truth was, I wasn’t worried at all. Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I hadn’t killed anyone.

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Eight boyfriends. Eight sudden, panicked exits. Every single time a relationship crept toward something real, my cousin Courtney would quietly slip them a single text: “Just a heads-up about my cousin—she has a history of severe mental instability. Be careful.” I was completely in the dark. Until the ninth guy didn’t run. He sat me down and told me himself. I still had all eight of my exes on my contact list. After calling each one to confirm the devastating truth, I demanded they send me screenshots of the message Courtney had sent them. Now, at Courtney’s engagement party, she was gliding through the room, her arm looped tightly through Dustin’s—my eighth ex. Our relatives were practically swooning over him. My aunt Sharon patted Courtney’s hand, then turned her sharp eyes on me. “Quanna, you really need to start taking notes. Look at your cousin. She actually knows how to choose a man.” I forced a tight, empty smile. “You’re right, Aunt Sharon. I should definitely learn a thing or two.” I stood up, picked up my champagne glass, and walked straight toward Courtney. “Hey, Courtney,” I said, my voice cutting through the chatter. “There’s something I’ve been dying to ask. When you sent them that text, what exactly was going through your head?” 1 “Quanna, what on earth are you talking about?” Courtney’s perfect smile faltered, her eyes darting to my hands. I turned my phone screen toward the crowd, displaying the screenshots. “You really have a gift, Courtney,” I said, keeping my voice steady despite the roar in my ears. “Sifting through my boyfriends to find the best of the bunch. Dustin is a great guy. Congratulations.” Whispers erupted around the table. Courtney squinted at the screen, her expression instantly shifting from surprise to deep, solemn concern. “Quanna, we tolerated your outbursts when we were kids, but this is my engagement party. How could you try to ruin this for us?” She turned to the rest of the family, her voice dripping with pity. “Honestly, AI deepfakes are getting so realistic these days. If you don’t look closely, you’d actually think this was real.” Aunt Sharon’s face darkened instantly. She turned a glare toward my mother. “Helen, look at what you’ve raised. Is this a joke? How could she pull a stunt like this on today of all days?” The room turned on me in a heartbeat. “She’s just bitter because Dustin chose Courtney over her.” “So petty.” “It’s not just petty. It’s a character flaw.” I ignored them and looked directly at Dustin, my chest tightening. “Dustin. Tell them. Is that screenshot fake?” Before Dustin could open his mouth, Courtney leaned in close to him, her voice a stage whisper. “Dustin, just say whatever keeps her calm. We don’t want her to relapse.” Dustin looked at me, then took a distinct step backward, closer to Courtney. “Quanna… look, if you say it’s real, then it’s real. Just… please don’t get upset.” A cold rage washed over me. “Dustin, what is that supposed to mean? Tell them the truth!” “Quanna,” Courtney interrupted, stepping in front of him. “Dustin just realized the two of you weren’t a match. He didn’t want to force it. Why are you doing this?” She turned back to the family, sighs of exasperation rippling through the room. “You all know how she is. Ever since we were little, if she couldn’t win, she’d find a way to tear everything down. It’s happening again.” She looked back at me, her tone gently patronizing. “You can’t keep acting out like this, Quanna. I’m only letting this go because you’re my sister. Anyone else would have thrown you out by now.” The relatives shook their heads, murmuring in agreement. “So immature.” “Thank goodness Courtney is the bigger person.” “I don’t know how Helen puts up with her.” My mother’s face was pale, her hands trembling. Seeing her like that made my head spin with anger. Without another word, I pulled up the other seven screenshots and forwarded them directly to the family group chat. “It wasn’t just Dustin!” I cried, my voice cracking. “Courtney sent the exact same message to every single one of them!” Courtney’s eyes widened slightly as her phone buzzed. But as she scrolled through the images, a slow, mocking smile crept onto her lips. “Quanna, if you’re going to forge evidence, at least try to make it believable. Look at this. Every single message is identical. Not a single word changed, not even a punctuation mark.” My heart sank. She was incredibly calculating. She must have anticipated a day like this and used a standardized template for every single one of them, knowing the identical texts would make them look like a repetitive, poorly made copy. She let out a soft laugh, her eyes glinting with malice. “Honestly, Quanna… eight men, and you couldn’t keep a single one of them. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming me and look at yourself.” She patted my arm. “Don’t lose hope, though. Work on your personality, and I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually.” I had never been good with quick comebacks, and under the weight of her systematic gaslighting, the words choked in my throat. I stood there, mute and shaking. Within minutes, several older uncles escorted me out of the private dining room. Behind the heavy double doors, the sounds of laughter and warm toasts started up again. Outside, in the dimly lit hallway of the restaurant, I stood alone, shivering. My mother walked out a moment later, her eyes red. “Quanna,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug. “You’re my daughter. I know you’d never do something like that. Your cousin has always had a hundred different schemes running at once. Just stay away from her.” “Mom, I can’t just let this go,” I said, tears finally spilling over. “If I let her walk all over me, she wins. And you and Dad will never be able to hold your heads up around the family again.” “But what can you do?” “I’ll find a way.” The next morning, I began reaching out to my exes one by one. If I could get just one of them to stand up and tell the truth, Courtney’s entire facade would crumble. But to my horror, my messages wouldn’t go through. One by one, they had blocked me. The last ex, right before he blocked me, sent a single image. It was a photo of me at the engagement party, standing wildly on top of one of the banquet tables, my arms flailing, looking like a literal madwoman. My blood ran cold. Courtney had beaten me to it. She was a master of manipulation; in the photo, the surrounding relatives had expressions of sheer horror and alarm painted on their faces. To anyone looking at it, the narrative was clear: the unstable cousin had finally snapped. I couldn’t take it anymore. I grabbed my keys, intending to drive straight to my aunt’s house to confront Courtney, but my mother caught me at the door. “I know my sister, Quanna,” she said, her voice tight with worry. “And Courtney is just like her. You can’t beat her at this game.” “She’s destroying my life, Mom! I can’t just sit here!” A dark shadow fell over my mother’s face. “Do you know what Courtney whispered to me right before we left the restaurant yesterday? She said she and Dustin are meant to be, and she won’t let anyone ruin her happiness. The look in her eyes… it terrified me. I’m scared of what she’ll do next.” I let out a bitter, hollow laugh. “I’m the one who should be doing something to her! What else can she possibly do?” The answer came much faster than I expected. When I walked into the office the next morning, my department manager called me into his room. “Quanna, we’re going to have to let you go.” I stared at him, stunned. “What? Why?” “Your role is client-facing, Quanna,” he said, his tone entirely devoid of empathy. “We can’t risk you frightening our accounts. You shouldn’t have hidden your medical history from us.” He cleared his throat. “We’ve already found a replacement.” Before I could even process the words, the door opened. Courtney stepped into the room, wearing a sleek, professional blazer. “Don’t worry, Quanna. I’ll take good care of your accounts.” The room spun. My hands clenched into fists, and for a split second, I wanted nothing more than to lung across the desk and tear her apart. But I forced myself to freeze. If I lost control now, a new photo would emerge. One far worse than the table incident. She wanted me to go crazy. She was baiting me. I turned on my heel and walked out, feeling like a bomb ticking down to zero. When I got back to my apartment building, the nightmare followed me. My neighbors—people I had exchanged pleasantries with for years—guiltily avoided my gaze, stepping back into their apartments when they saw me coming. Then I saw the local community forum online. The photo of me on the table had been uploaded, alongside a thread that was rapidly gaining traction. Look at this girl. Dumped so many times she finally lost her mind at her cousin’s engagement party. Her name is Quanna Lin. Apparently, every guy she dates runs for the hills. Why? Word is she has a history of severe psychiatric issues. Well, that explains it. Who’d want to deal with that? I immediately went to the local precinct. “Officer, my cousin Courtney is defaming me online. I want to press charges.” But Courtney had covered her tracks perfectly. After a brief, superficial investigation, the police informed me that there was no digital paper trail linking the upload to her. They closed the case due to lack of evidence. Just as the walls felt like they were completely closing in, Courtney came to find me. She stood on my doorstep with a mysterious, satisfied smirk. “Quanna, I’m giving Dustin back to you. He’s all yours now.” I stared at her, immediately on guard. “What kind of game are you playing now?” “Honestly, I only got close to Dustin to test him for you,” she said, her voice smooth and dripping with mock sisterly love. “You’ve always been so naive about men. Now that the test is over, I’m returning him. You don’t have to thank me. That’s just what family does.” I was speechless. I looked at the woman standing in front of me, wondering how someone could be so utterly devoid of a soul. “Dustin will call you soon. Don’t let him slip away this time.” With that, Courtney turned and walked down the hall. As I watched her retreating back, trying to figure out what her real angle was, my phone buzzed. It was Jared. My ninth boyfriend. “Quanna,” he said, walking up the apartment stairs toward me, his phone in hand. “Look at what your cousin just sent me.” I took the phone. On the screen was a fresh message from Courtney: [You’re incredibly brave. I already told you my cousin is unstable, and yet you’re still seeing her?]

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I moved everything ourselves from our damp basement studio to the new place—a cramped, run-down sixth-floor walk-up I’d just bought. To save a hundred dollars on movers, I made seventeen round trips, hauling heavy boxes up those narrow, creaking stairs. Darren just stood by the door, watching me silently. It wasn’t until I dragged the final mini-fridge over the threshold and shoved it into the kitchen that my knees finally gave out. I collapsed onto a packing crate, reaching for a bottle of water, ready to take a sip. That was when he spoke. “Actually, I’ve been lying to you. I’m not some broke guy from out of town. I’m the only heir to Shaw Enterprises.” “I lied because the constant scheming in my circle got exhausting. I needed a simple environment to heal myself.” “I’m telling you the truth now because I don’t want you pressure-testing me about marriage now that you’ve bought a place.” I froze, a half-smile on my face, telling him not to play stupid jokes on a day like today. Then he unlocked his phone and held it in front of my face. It was a bank transfer receipt. To a girl named Charlotte Shaw. A single transaction of five million dollars. The memo read: “Birthday gift for my baby.” He told me he never took me to high-end restaurants not because they were too expensive, but because he thought my shabby, dust-covered appearance would embarrass him. The clumsy, hand-made anniversary card he’d given me? He’d bought it off Craigslist for five bucks. And that week-long trip back to his “hometown” for a cousin’s wedding? He had actually chartered an entire private island in the Caribbean to throw a million-dollar fireworks show for Charlotte. The plastic cup in my hand slipped, clattering against the bare floorboards. Water pooled around my worn sneakers. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even argue. I just stood up, grabbed my duffel bag, and started packing my clothes. Darren blocked the doorway, his brow slightly furrowed. “You’re just leaving?” I looked him dead in the eye, my voice entirely flat. “I put fifty thousand dollars down on this place. I want it back in cash. Every single cent.” 1 “Do you think I’m completely pathetic?” When I asked him that, Darren was leaning against the cheap shoe rack by the door, idly tapping the moving contract against his thigh. He glanced down at the paper, remaining silent. So I asked again, my voice rising just a fraction. “Five years, Darren. Five years of working until midnight, spending my weekends haggling with contractors over a five-dollar difference in floor tiles. What were you doing? You were wiring five million dollars to someone else?” He finally looked up at me. “That’s enough,” he said. “What’s enough?” “Are you done throwing a fit?” I stared at him. Over the past five years, he had spoken to me in a thousand different ways—with warmth, with mild irritation, with gentle coaxing. But he had never used this voice. He sounded like he was talking to a stranger. Darren set the contract down on the entryway table. He adjusted his cuffs. I noticed the cufflinks for the first time—deep blue sapphire, heavy and undeniably real. “About the apartment,” he said quietly. “You did put fifty thousand down. I’ll have someone wire it to you.” “I want to know what you were thinking,” I demanded, my hands shaking inside my pockets. “All these years. What was the point?” He paused for a few seconds. “I wasn’t really thinking anything.” “Darren!” He let out a soft sigh. He slipped his hands into his pockets, leaning back against the wall, entirely relaxed. The contrast between his effortless posture and my trembling frame was nauseating. “You really want the truth?” he asked. I nodded. “Fine,” he said, his voice level. “The truth is, I never planned on a forever with you.” “What does that even mean?” “It means I was with you because you made life easy,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’re sensible, you don’t ask for much, and living with you meant I didn’t have to deal with any of the high-society drama. But if you’re asking if I love you…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “No. I never did.” I waited for the turn. I waited for him to say “but things changed” or “we built something real”. He didn’t. “Then why did you agree to save up for this place with me?” I asked, my voice cracking. “This place?” he replied smoothly. “Do you honestly think I needed to save up?” Right. Of course he didn’t. The amount of pocket change he threw around could buy ten of these run-down apartments. All those nights we spent in our damp basement, sharing stale sandwiches and walking an extra mile in the freezing rain to save three dollars on delivery fees—it wasn’t because he was broke. It was because he didn’t think I was worth the luxury. “You were playing with me,” I whispered. He didn’t deny it. “From the very first day you asked for my number at the subway station, telling me you were just another struggling transplant trying to make it in this city, all the way to today… you were just playing a game.” He shrugged. “If that’s how you want to see it, then sure.” “And Charlotte?” At the mention of her name, his expression shifted. Just a flicker of something real. “She has nothing to do with this,” he said defensively. “You gave her five million dollars for her birthday.” “It’s my money.” “So what you have with her is real, and everything with me was a lie.” He didn’t answer. But silence is its own kind of confession. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to ask one last question. “Over these five years… was there ever a single day where you actually envisioned a life with me?” Darren looked at me. The coldness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. I pulled it open. A woman stood in the hallway. She wore a pristine cream-colored cashmere coat, her hair pinned up in an effortless, elegant twist. Tiny solitaire diamond studs caught the dim hallway light. She looked entirely too clean, too perfect, like a photograph. She smiled when she saw me. “Hi,” she said, her voice dripping with easy confidence. “I’m Charlotte.” I couldn’t speak. She peeked over my shoulder into the apartment, her eyes lingering on something behind me before turning back to me. She scanned me from head to toe, then back up. “So, you’re the one he bought the place with?” She smiled a little wider. “Do you know what the first thing he said to me when he came home was?” She paused, waiting for dramatic effect. “He said, “Her hands are always covered in dust.”” She excelled at sounding polite while cutting deep. My hands “were” covered in dust. I’d been moving heavy boxes all day. My nails were dirty, and there was a small, raw scratch across my knuckle that I hadn’t even noticed until now. She glanced down at my hands, just for a second, then met my eyes again. “Thank you for your service,” she said softly. “It must have been exhausting playing house with a fake pauper for five years.” I heard footsteps behind me. Darren stepped up, stopping half a pace behind me. Charlotte’s expression softened, turning playful and flirtatious as she looked at him. “You didn’t tell me it would be like this. If I knew you were living in a dump like this, I would’ve just had the driver wait downstairs.” Darren said nothing. Charlotte turned back to me, leaning in slightly. Her voice was low, but every syllable cut through the quiet corridor. “You didn’t actually think he loved you, did you?” I gripped the doorknob so hard my knuckles turned white. “He told me about you,” she whispered. “He said you were so naive, you believed absolutely everything. He couldn’t believe you never figured it out. Every time he talked about his ‘frugal life’ with you, we laughed so hard.” She tilted her head, watching for my breaking point. And then, Darren laughed. In all the years I’d known him, I had never heard him laugh like that. It was a light, careless sound, shared only with her. They laughed together, and I stood between them, a ghost in my own home. Charlotte wrapped her coat tighter around herself, glancing at Darren. “How much longer? The driver is waiting.” “Five minutes,” Darren said. He was still standing behind me, but his voice was already directed outward, toward her world. I stepped aside. Charlotte didn’t even bother to step inside. She turned on her designer heels and walked toward the elevator. The sharp click-clack of her heels echoed down the tiled hallway, steady and self-assured. She paused at the elevator doors and looked back once. The elevator chimed. The doors slid shut, swallowing her up. The hallway fell silent again. Darren remained behind me. I waited for him to say something, but the silence stretched on. Finally, I turned around to face him. The smile had vanished from his face. “What was so funny?” I asked. He didn’t answer. He just stared toward the end of the hallway where the elevator had been. I kept my eyes locked on him. Darren reached down, picked up the crumpled moving contract, folded it neatly, and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Take care of yourself,” he said. He brushed past me to leave. “Darren.” He paused. I leaned against the doorframe, wiping the dust from my hands onto my jeans, and forced a smile. It felt tight and ugly on my face, but I didn’t care. “I don’t ever want to see either of you again,” I said. “Ever.” He looked at me for a long beat. “Fine.” He walked away. I didn’t watch him get into the elevator.

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I had spent a whole year looking forward to it—the one day my father would take the train down to Boston to see me. But it was barely two in the afternoon when Leona looked up from her phone and said, “Your dad should probably get going.” We had been married for seven years, and every single year, my father made this trip. And every single year, he was ushered out the door before sunset. I wanted to ask him to stay the night, to tell him I’d already made up the guest bed. But before I could even open my mouth, Leona added, “He can keep those slippers if he wants.” He had been wearing them for less than three hours. She didn’t hand them to him. She just gave them a careless flick with the toe of her shoe, sending them sliding across the hardwood floor until they clattered to a stop near his feet. My dad flinched. Then, a slow, tight smile squeezed onto his weathered face. He bent down, his joints popping slightly, and scooped them up. “Thank you, Leona,” he muttered. He was so small, so desperate to avoid being a burden. I knew exactly what he was doing—he was shrinking himself so he wouldn’t cause trouble for me. Before my dad could even straighten up, Frank walked out of the guest bedroom. He was holding a can of Lysol, spraying the air with aggressive, systematic puffs. “God, it’s filthy in here,” Frank muttered, coughing dramatically. “I think my allergies are acting up. Honestly, Leona, you can’t just let anyone track dirt into the house.” Frank had been living in our guest room for three months. Leona had driven two hours to pick him up and bring him to our home herself. My dad’s face flushed a deep, painful crimson. Mortified, he clutched his cheap plastic bag of belongings and hurried toward the door. My tongue felt completely numb. I looked at Leona, waiting for her to say something, anything. But she didn’t even look up. She just turned around and helped Frank spray the entryway. I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my coat and ran out after him. “Dad, wait! I’m coming with you.” … He ended up forcing me to go back. He stood there on the platform, stubbornly pushing my shoulder, trying to smile even though his eyes were raw and red. I stood there for a long time, watching his heavy, slightly hunched back disappear into the crowd. I felt hollowed out. It wasn’t until a sharp, persistent ringing broke the silence that I snapped out of it. It was Leona. “When did you go out?” I looked down at my watch. Almost two hours had passed. It had taken her two hours to notice I wasn’t in the apartment. Before I could even answer, she continued: “Frank wants those roasted nuts from the shop down the street. Grab some on your way back up.” The words I wanted to say died in my throat. “Okay,” I said, and hung up. When I walked back into the apartment, Frank was in the middle of throwing my dad’s favorite mug into the trash can. I reached out and caught his wrist, pulling the mug back. “What’s wrong with this?” I asked. Frank looked a bit embarrassed, but he quickly recovered, offering a smooth, plastic smile. “Oh, it’s just old. Corey bought a brand-new ceramic set for the kitchen, so I was just clearing out the clutter.” “Don’t throw it away,” I said, my voice tight. “I’ll use it.” He shut his mouth, looking sheepish, and took the grocery bag from my hand. As he turned to walk away, I said, “Frank, here’s the receipt.” He froze, not reaching for it, and turned his head toward Leona. She had just stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her wet hair. Her voice was incredibly casual. “Don’t worry about it, Dan. It’s just a few dollars. Let Frank have them.” One hundred and seventy-eight dollars. It wasn’t a fortune. But this was the ninth time this month. In total, I had spent over two thousand dollars on Frank’s errands and cravings. He had never offered to pay me back once. Yet, just this morning, Leona had refused to let me buy my dad a seventy-dollar train ticket. “Your dad has a pension,” she had said, not even looking up from her tablet. “He can pay for his own ticket. Besides, the money you’re spending is marital property.” My dad’s train ticket was “marital property.” But Frank’s snacks were “just a few dollars” of our shared money. Before I could say a word, Frank smiled triumphantly and retreated into his bedroom, leaving me standing in the hallway, my hand still holding the crumpled receipt in midair. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my heart. “When is Frank moving out?” I asked. “Corey is still looking for a place,” Leona replied. She had been giving me that exact answer for three months. “He’s been looking for a long time,” I said, keeping my voice level. “Can’t he just find a temporary studio, or stay with other relatives?” Leona’s hand stopped mid-stroke as she dried her hair. Her expression turned cold, slightly defensive. “Why are you in such a rush? Is someone else planning to move in?” Before I could speak, she sighed, a heavy, performative sound. “Even if someone is, isn’t there another spare room in this place anyway?” Yes. There was a spare room. But she couldn’t find it in her heart to let my father stay in it for even one night. My fingers clenched, crushing the paper receipt into a tiny, sharp ball in my palm. Outside, the sky had turned a bruising shade of purple, and then the rain started. A sudden crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes, and my ears began to ring. When my dad was a boy, he had slipped down a muddy ravine during a flash flood, trapping his leg for hours. Ever since, he had been terrified of heavy storms. During bad rainstorms, his anxiety would spike so violently he would sometimes bite his own tongue until it bled. My temples throbbed. I immediately dialed his number. It rang twice before someone answered—but it wasn’t my dad. “Hello? Are you related to the owner of this phone? He just collapsed in the waiting area of the transit station. We’re loading him into an ambulance right now.” A cold sweat broke out across my back. I thanked the stranger with a trembling voice, hung up, and bolted into the bedroom. As I threw on a dry shirt, I called out to the living room: “Leona, my dad collapsed. My car is still at the mechanic. I need you to drive me to the hospital to get him.” But when I walked out of the bedroom, the living room was empty. Leona was gone. Panic clawed at my chest. I called her three times in a row, but each call went straight to voicemail. Frank walked out of his room then. With Leona gone, he didn’t bother hiding his irritation. He looked at me with open disgust. “Dan, for God’s sake, you’re not a child. Leona went to pick up Corey. If you have some family emergency, go handle it yourself and stop breathing down her neck.” The proprietary tone in his voice, the casual way he spoke as if Leona belonged to his family and not mine, made my stomach turn. I pointed a shaking finger at the front door. “Get out of my house. Now.” Frank let out a condescending laugh, then sat down heavily on our leather sofa, stretching his legs out. “I’m not going anywhere. If you want to leave, then leave. This is Leona’s apartment. You don’t have the right to tell me what to do.” The notification for my rideshare flashed on my phone. I didn’t waste another second looking at him. I turned and ran into the storm. At the hospital, I found my dad sitting on a gurney. He had fainted from panic, and when he fell, he had cut his forehead. When he saw me walk through the sliding doors, he immediately hung his head, looking like a little boy who had broken a vase. There was dried, dark blood flaking near his hairline. He looked so small, so devastatingly fragile in that bright, sterile room. My eyes burned. I walked over and took his rough, calloused hand in mine. “We’re going home, Dad.” “No, no,” he said, his voice quiet as he tried to pull his hand back. “You go on home. I can just stay here in the waiting room tonight. It’s fine.” He tried to smile, his fingers twitching in my grasp. “Don’t worry about me, Dan. I’m a grown man. I can take care of—” He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes widened, and his face crumbled with worry. “Oh, kiddo… please don’t cry. Don’t cry.” But I couldn’t stop the tears. They ran hot and fast down my face, dripping onto his hand. My dad stared at me, helpless and heartbroken. Finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh. “Okay. I’ll come back with you.” In the back of the cab, he held my hand so tightly his knuckles turned white, as if he were being marched into a lion’s den. When we reached the front door of the apartment, I gently brushed a stray lock of gray hair from his forehead. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “Just stay right beside me.” I pushed the door open. Corey was already there, sitting on the sofa. The three of them—Leona, Corey, and Frank—were laughing, sharing some inside joke. The moment they saw us, the laughter died instantly. The room went dead silent. Leona blinked, her brow furrowing into a deep, immediate frown. “Why is your dad back?” She didn’t see the dried blood on his forehead. She didn’t see his damp, dirty coat. Her very first instinct was to ask why he was back. My dad shrank back slightly, his dry, chapped lips parting as if to apologize. I didn’t give him the chance. “This is his home too,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “He’s staying the night.” Under the heavy, suffocating weight of their stares, I led my father down the hallway and into the guest room. “Wait a minute.” Leona followed us, slamming the guest room door shut behind her. Her face was tight with anger. “You can’t just bring people over without letting me know first, Dan.” “Did you let me know before you brought your people here?” She gasped slightly, her eyes widening. “That is completely different!” I shook my head. “You’re right. It is different. One is my father. The others are strangers.” The words fell like lead weights into the room. Outside the door, the apartment went utterly silent. I could feel my dad trembling beside me, practically on the verge of tears. I squeezed his hand, trying to ground him. Suddenly, the door clicked open. Corey stood there, his eyes rimmed with red, looking incredibly fragile. “Dan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble between you two. I’ll leave. I’ll pack my things right now.” But Leona was faster. She grabbed Corey’s wrist, holding him back, before turning a furious glare on me. “Dan, stop being so childish!” I just stared at her. I watched her stand in my home, protecting another man, using me as a scapegoat to keep him comfortable. Seven years of marriage, and in that single, quiet moment, I realized it was over. The marriage was entirely, irreparably empty. Without saying another word, I pulled my father into the room and closed the door, turning the lock. When the latch clicked, I felt a warm tear fall onto the back of my hand. My dad was crying silently, his face pale with guilt. “It’s my fault,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I ruined everything. I made you two fight.” My dad had raised me all on his own, working twelve-hour shifts in a factory just to put food on our table. And now, in his old age, he had to suffer this kind of humiliation because of me. I wrapped my arms around his shaking shoulders, a deep, bitter wave of self-loathing washing over me because I hadn’t protected him. “Tomorrow, when I leave, you talk to Leona,” my dad murmured into my shoulder. “Couples shouldn’t sleep angry. You’ll make it right.” But he didn’t understand. There was nothing left to make right. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was an email from my divorce attorney, attaching the drafted settlement agreement and asking if I wanted to make any revisions. I didn’t open it. I just wanted to focus on my dad. I found him a pair of clean pajamas. “Go take a warm shower, Dad. And make sure you lock the bathroom door.” He nodded quietly and walked down the hall. I went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. As I walked past the master bedroom, I heard muffled laughter coming from inside—both male and female. My stomach dropped. I reached out and tried the doorknob. It was locked. The laughter stopped instantly. There was a sudden, frantic rustling sound from inside. A few moments later, the lock clicked, and Leona opened the door. Corey was standing just behind her. His face was flushed, his collar slightly askew, and his eyes had a bright, heavy look to them. “Hey, Dan,” Corey said, his voice soft, almost timid, though his eyes never left mine. He was watching me, waiting to see my reaction. “I didn’t have any clean clothes left, so I was just trying on one of your shirts to see if it fit.” I didn’t understand. Why did he need to try on my clothes in our bedroom? Why did the door need to be locked? It was a flimsy excuse, wrapped in a thin layer of provocation. Leona cleared her throat, not looking me in the eye, and told Corey to go get some rest. Once he was gone, Leona pulled me into the bedroom and closed the door. She picked up her phone, acting as if nothing had happened, and held it out to me. “Here, Dan. I bought your dad’s return ticket. Does this time work?” I looked at the screen. 7:30 AM. She truly couldn’t stand the thought of him being in her space for a single extra minute. I didn’t take the phone. I just looked at her. “Who said he’s leaving tomorrow?” Leona’s face tightened, a look of pure, cold resentment washing over her features. It was a look I knew intimately. For seven years, every time my father visited, that same look of disgust would creep into the corners of her eyes. I used to tell myself she just wasn’t used to sharing space with older people. But now, the truth was glaringly obvious. She looked down on him. She despised him because he was a retired blue-collar worker from a small town, and because he wasn’t Corey’s father. “Dan, there are already too many people living in this apartment,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation. I nodded slowly. “Then tell Corey’s father to move out.” “That’s different,” Leona snapped immediately, looking at me as if I were a petulant child. “They are our guests.” They were honored guests. My father was an eyesore. In that moment, a strange sense of relief washed over me. I was so incredibly glad we had never succeeded in having a child. It made what I had to do so much simpler. “Fine,” Leona muttered, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Let him stay as long as he wants. I don’t care anymore.” She slammed the door and walked out. When I went back to the living room, my dad had finished his shower. I sat him down on the sofa and went into the kitchen to start dinner. But the moment I turned my back, I heard Frank’s voice boom from the living room. “Hey! Get up. I bought that orthopedic cushion. Go sit somewhere else.” I heard my dad scramble to his feet, his voice small and apologetic. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” But Frank didn’t let it go. His voice grew sharper, louder. “If you don’t know, then ask! Honestly, where are your manners?” My dad went stiff, his head bowing under the weight of the scolding. He looked toward Leona, hoping for some kind of intervention, but she just kept her head down, staring at her phone as if she were completely deaf. My chest tightened. I turned off the stove exhaust fan. Frank’s voice carried clearly into the kitchen now, dripping with venom as he continued to berate my father. “First you show up uninvited, and then you refuse to leave. I’ve never seen anyone so shameless. At your age, don’t you have any dignity?” Something inside my brain snapped. I walked out of the kitchen. My dad was standing frozen by the sofa, looking completely hollowed out, as if he had dissociated from his own body to escape the shame. But Frank wouldn’t stop. “You should pack up and leave tomorrow. You’re just a farmer anyway, don’t you have crops to harvest? I mean, honestly, a man your age behaving like a parasite—” Before he could finish the sentence, I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. The crack of my hand against his cheek echoed through the room. “Dan!” Leona, who had been completely oblivious a second ago, flew off the couch and shoved me backward. “How could you hit him!” Corey ran over, throwing his arms around his father, sobbing loudly. “Dad! Oh my god, Dad! They’re treating us like animals. Let’s go, we can’t stay here!” Frank started wailing, clutching his cheek. “At my age, to be struck in the face like a dog… I don’t want to live anymore!” He lunged toward the dining table, grabbing a silver fruit knife. My dad, terrified that Frank was going to hurt me, immediately threw his frail body in front of mine. His lips were trembling with fear, but he didn’t move an inch. Leona panicked, rushing forward to wrench the knife from Frank’s hand. When she turned back to me, her eyes were burning with a hatred I had never seen before. “Dan, apologize to him. Now.” I didn’t even look at her. I gently took my dad by the arm and led him back into the guest room, closing the door behind him. When I stepped back into the living room, Leona grabbed my wrist, squeezing so hard her knuckles turned white. “I said, apologize!” Behind her, Corey was watching me over his father’s shoulder. The crying had stopped; there was a small, triumphant smirk on his lips. It made my stomach turn. A cold, heavy anger settled deep into my bones. I looked Leona dead in the eyes. “I am not apologizing. And both of them are going to pack their bags and get the hell out of my home.” Leona stepped in front of them, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. “Think very carefully about what you’re saying, Dan. If they leave, I leave too.” She looked at me with absolute certainty. In seven years of marriage, we had barely fought, and every time we did, I was always the one to crawl back, begging for forgiveness. I had fallen in love with her first, pursued her for a year, and everyone in our social circle knew I worshipped the ground she walked on. She was entirely confident that she held all the power. “Then go,” I said. Her face froze. She stared at me, her mouth parting slightly in sheer disbelief. When she realized I wasn’t bluffing, a mask of cold fury settled over her face. She packed a small bag, grabbed Frank and Corey, and stormed out, slamming the heavy front door so hard the walls vibrated. For the first time in years, I felt like I could finally breathe. Over the next week, Leona didn’t come home. Instead, she posted photos on her social media accounts—showing Corey and Frank around Boston, taking them to expensive restaurants. She knew I would see them. It was a calculated move, a gamble. She was waiting for me to break, to call her and beg for her to come home. But I spent those days packing. My dad didn’t ask any questions this time. He didn’t try to convince me to make up with her. He just silently helped me wrap my dishes in newspaper and pack my books into cardboard boxes. When we were done, I called a moving service to transport everything to a small condo I had purchased before we got married. My car was finally back from the mechanic. On the day we left, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. I laid the printed divorce agreement on the dining table, walked out, and closed the door on that life forever.

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I had just finished slaving away at my late-night food cart, scrubbing grease off the flat-top, when I finally hit the milestone: fifty thousand dollars. It was every cent Hannah needed for her startup capital. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a FaceTime call from an unknown number. When I picked up, the face staring back at me was my own—only ten years older. Exhaustion forgotten, my heart leapt with a sudden, naive hope. I leaned into the screen and asked him, “Did she do it? Did Hannah’s business take off? Did she buy us that house with the big yard she always talked about?” I held my breath, waiting for the payoff of all those sleepless nights. “She promised me a beautiful wedding. Tell me, did I cry like a baby when she walked down the aisle?” The older version of me didn’t smile. He just shook his head, his voice dead and flat. “Hannah’s startup took off during her senior year,” he said. “In your timeline, she’s already a millionaire. She bought the house, Sean. But you’re not the one living in it. It’s Devon—the scholarship student you spent your own rent money to help.” My breath caught. “And that wedding?” he continued, a cruel edge slicing through his quiet tone. “You cried, alright. But only because you had to watch her marry Devon.” I stared at the screen, a nervous laugh bubbling up in my throat. “This is a joke. Who is this?” Instead of answering, he reached up and slowly pulled down his black face mask. The face beneath was mine, but ruined. A web of thick, jagged burn scars puckered across his skin, distorting his jaw and cheek. Before I could even scream, he tilted the camera downward. He lifted his pant legs to reveal a pair of cold, metallic prosthetic limbs. “This is what loving Hannah Kelly gets you,” he said, his eyes hollow. “This is your future.” “If you don’t believe me,” he added, “go to the Sapphire Lounge right now. The private room in the back. She’s there with him.” 1 The call disconnected. The silence in my cramped, dark apartment was so thick I could hear the erratic rush of my own breath. I tried to tell myself it was a prank, a deepfake, some elaborate hallucination brought on by sheer exhaustion. But the image of that ruined face, those metal legs, was burned into my retinas. It was too vivid, too terrifyingly real to ignore. Driven by a desperate, sickening panic, I grabbed my keys and drove to the Sapphire Lounge. The club was loud, a low bass vibrating through the floorboards, but the VIP hallway was quiet, smelling of expensive cologne and leather. When I found the door to Hannah’s private booth, my fingers hovered over the brass handle. Before I could push it open, a burst of laughter drifted through the gap. “Come on, Hannah,” a voice teased. “You bought Devon such a gorgeous birthday present. The least you can do is put it on him.” I leaned in, peering through the narrow crack in the door. There she was. Hannah. She was holding a sleek, heavy wristwatch, her fingers gently threading the leather strap around Devon’s wrist. She looked up at him, her eyes soft, glowing with an intimacy I hadn’t seen in years. My heart stopped. I recognized that watch. I’d seen it in a luxury magazine last month. It was a Patek Philippe. A hundred thousand dollars. Instinctively, my left hand went to my right. My fingers brushed against the cheap, lightweight band on my ring finger. She had put it there just yesterday. We were sitting on our sagging secondhand sofa when I asked her to marry me. No flowers. No grand gestures. Just us in our tiny kitchen. She’d slipped the ring onto my finger, her eyes filled with a sudden, tearful guilt. “I’m so sorry, Sean,” she’d whispered, kissing my cheek. “I don’t have the money for anything better right now. But once my business takes off, I promise I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you the world.” I had squeezed her tight, telling her I didn’t care about rings or money. As long as I had her, I had everything. When Devon had come over to congratulate us later that night, he’d looked at the ring and made a passing joke about how it looked like something bought off a cheap wholesale site. At the time, I’d brushed it off as him just being his usual blunt self. But standing in that hallway, a cold, sharp pain bloomed in my chest. He hadn’t been joking. My ring really was a cheap piece of online junk. But his watch—his watch was something she had spent months planning for. I stepped back into the shadows of the hallway, my hands trembling as I pulled out my phone. I typed a message to the number from the video call. When did they start? I wrote. If they love each other so much, why keep up this agonizing lie? Why not just break up with me? My future self replied almost instantly. Hannah told me they’ve been together since graduation, the text read. She didn’t break up with you because she couldn’t bear the thought of Devon being labeled a traitor or a gold digger. She pitied him. She hated that he had to stay in the shadows while she built her empire. So, she gave him the money, and she gave you the title. A bitter laugh escaped my throat, tasting like ash. Hannah and I had grown up together. When she was ten, her parents died in a tragic car accident. I remember her sitting on our porch, looking so small and broken, that I begged my parents to adopt her. We became family. The very first night she slept under our roof, she looked at me with tear-streaked eyes and promised, “I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you’re happy, Sean.” And Devon. He was my high school classmate. His family lived below the poverty line, struggling to keep food on the table. Back then, my father’s business hadn’t collapsed yet. I used my own allowance to buy Devon lunch, to pay for his study prep books, to make sure he didn’t fall through the cracks. On his sixteenth birthday, he sat in my room and told me I was the first person who had ever made him feel like he mattered. The two people who had promised to protect me were the ones holding the knives. Inside the room, Hannah’s voice cut through the laughter, sharp and authoritative. “Nobody breathes a word about me and Devon to Sean. I mean it. I don’t want him starting drama or making Devon’s life difficult.” It felt like someone had shoved a handful of dry sand down my throat. Even when she was warning people about me, she was doing it to shield Devon. I stumbled away from the door, running blindly out of the lounge and into the cold night air. The city lights blurred before my eyes as cars rushed past on the wet asphalt. I pulled out my phone again, typing with numb fingers. Is this the night? I asked my future self. Is this the night you lost your legs? His reply took a long time to load. No. It’s in three days. You’ll come home early from your food truck shift and find them in our bed. You’ll lose your mind. You’ll scream, you’ll demand answers, until Hannah finally snaps and tells you the truth. You won’t be able to breathe. You’ll run out into the pouring rain, blind with grief, and step right in front of a speeding truck. My lungs seized up. By the time I dragged myself back to the apartment, my body felt like lead. I lay on the mattress in the dark, staring at the peeling wallpaper, unable to quiet the screaming in my head. It was nearly two in the morning when Hannah finally came home. By the time she crept into the bedroom, she had already changed out of her designer clothes and back into her old, faded grey t-shirt and worn-out jeans—the uniform of the struggling entrepreneur she pretended to be. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep as she slipped beneath the covers. But when she settled in, turning her back to me, the quiet became unbearable. I reached out and gently took her hand, squeezing her fingers. “Hannah?” I whispered into the dark. “Are you marrying me because you love me?” The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Finally, she gave my hand a weak, reassuring squeeze. “Of course, Sean,” she murmured, her voice soft but distant. “I told you. We’re going to build a home together.” I pulled my hand back, a cold, bitter smile settling on my face. A home. She was doing this out of a sense of obligation, out of a childhood promise. Not love. And because there was no love left, my future self had ended up in ruins. The next morning, Hannah was already gone when I woke up. It was the perfect opportunity. My mother’s medical bills at the care facility were mounting, and every decision I made was ruled by tight budgets and cheap alternatives. As I walked around the apartment packing my things, I realized with a sudden, aching clarity how little I actually owned. Aside from my legal documents and a few changes of clothes, there was nothing of value. Nothing worth keeping. I had just zipped up my battered suitcase when the front door swung open. Devon walked in, a heavy silver key fob swinging from his index finger. He gave me a smug, bright grin. “Hey, Sean. Look what my girl just bought me.” He tossed the keys in the air and caught them. “I swear, she’s crazy. She already bought me a townhouse last year, and today she wanted to buy me a Porsche. I told her it was too flashy for a daily driver, so I compromised on a fifty-thousand-dollar BMW instead. Oh, by the way, I ran into Hannah downstairs. We rode the elevator up together.” If this had been yesterday, I would have smiled and congratulated him on finding someone who treated him like royalty. But today, hearing the words “fifty thousand dollars” and “Hannah” in the same breath made my blood run cold. I turned toward the doorway. Hannah walked in right behind him, her eyes lingering on Devon’s face before she finally looked at me. “The fifty thousand dollars in our joint savings account,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “You… you transferred it?” Hannah nodded casually, tossing her purse onto the kitchen counter. “Yeah. My startup needed some quick liquidity for a new inventory shipment. I took it this morning.” She noticed the raw, red rim of my eyes and paused, looking slightly puzzled. “What’s that look for? Didn’t you tell me two days ago that you finally hit the fifty-thousand mark? You were sleeping so peacefully this morning, I didn’t want to wake you.” A jagged, burning pain sliced through my chest. I remembered the night she cried about not being able to afford a decent wedding ring. I had held her close, telling her I only needed another hundred dollars to hit our fifty-thousand-dollar goal. I told her we would use it to launch her dream. She had taken those words, waited until I was asleep, and used my sweat and blood to buy Devon a car. Images flashed through my mind: evading the city inspectors in the freezing rain, arguing with angry customers, collapsing on the curb over a five-dollar discrepancy because my bones ached so badly. My throat felt parched. “Hannah… do you have any idea how hard it was for me to save that money?” I had no intention of letting her keep it. I needed that money to move my mother to a better, safer care home, far away from this city. Hannah stared at me, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face before she brushed it off with a quick, dismissive smile. “Sean, I know you work hard. But don’t worry, once my business starts bringing in real revenue, everything I make is yours anyway. Besides, between your regular job and the food cart, it’s not like you have time to spend money anyway.” She knew how hard I worked. She knew the physical toll of those late-night shifts. But when it came to Devon, my pain was a sacrifice she was entirely willing to make. Before I could say another word, she grabbed Devon’s sleeve, pulling him toward the door. “This idiot managed to scrape the bumper against a concrete pillar on the way here,” she said over her shoulder, giving me a bright, artificial smile. “I’m going to go with him to the auto shop to get it sorted out.” Devon rolled his eyes, nudging her playfully. “Who are you calling an idiot?” They bickered softly, their voices fading down the hall as the elevator doors slid shut. It was a scene I had witnessed dozens of times before, but today, the scales had fallen from my eyes. It was sickeningly clear. I walked over to the window, looking down at the street below. I watched Hannah walk Devon to his brand-new car, naturally reaching out to open the driver’s side door for him. As my eyes lingered on the scraped front bumper of his car, my mind flashed back to last week. I had been rushing from my day job to get the food cart set up in time. I was driving too fast, took a corner too sharply, and my old truck flipped over. The impact had shattered the windshield, glass slicing into my forehead. I lay on the asphalt, blood pooling around my head, fading in and out of consciousness. With trembling fingers, I had dialed Hannah’s number. Her voice had been soft, but unyielding. “Sean, sweetheart, I’m in the middle of a pitch meeting. Can you call an ambulance and head to the ER? I’ll be there as soon as this wraps up.” I sat in the emergency room for six hours, getting fifteen stitches in my brow. She never showed up. Later, she told me the client had dragged the meeting out until midnight. That same night, lying alone in my hospital bed, I saw Devon post a picture on social media. It was a shot of two hands holding drinks, captioned: “Finally found my forever.” I had stared at the delicate, slender hand resting in his, feeling a strange, nagging sense of familiarity. Only now, after seeing my future self, did I realize those were Hannah’s fingers. I dialed my future self on FaceTime again. “If I leave her right now,” I pleaded, staring at his scarred face, “if I just pack up and disappear, can I stop all of this? Can I save us?” He looked back at me, his eyes dark with a heavy, sorrowful pity. “It’s too late to stop the first tragedy, Sean. It’s already happened.” He took a slow, jagged breath. “Dad’s death? That was Devon.” A wave of pure, icy dread washed over me, starting from my chest and freezing my limbs. The memory of my father’s body lying broken on the pavement outside his office building rushed back into my mind, sharp and agonizing. I clenched my fists, forcing my voice to remain steady. “What did Devon do?” A tear slipped down my future self’s scarred cheek. “He stole our family company’s proprietary designs and sold them to our biggest competitor. That’s why Dad went bankrupt. That’s why the debts were so overwhelming he felt he had no choice but to jump.” My hands began to shake violently. I had been the one who got Devon that internship at my dad’s firm. I had begged my father to give him a chance. I never imagined that a boy who looked so sweet and harmless could harbor such venom. “The competitor paid Devon a fortune,” my future self continued. “And he turned around and used every single dollar of that blood money to fund Hannah’s first startup. That was her seed capital.” My voice shook. “Did… did Hannah know?” The older Sean closed his eyes, tilting his head back to keep from sobbing. “She claimed she didn’t. I didn’t believe her. I lost my mind, grabbed a knife, and tried to stab her. She blocked it, and I ended up slicing her arm. But even after she found out exactly what Devon did to my father, she stayed with him.” I squeezed my eyes shut, a sob catching in my throat. “What do you want me to do?” He opened his eyes, burning with a desperate intensity. “Take Mom and run. Get her out of that care facility immediately.” He swallowed hard. “After they confessed their affair to me, Devon went straight to the facility to find Mom. He mocked her, taunted her about Dad’s death, until she had a psychotic break and tried to attack him. Devon stabbed her right through the heart.” The room felt like it was spinning. “I went to the police,” my future self whispered, his voice cracking. “I wanted him executed. But Hannah used her money, her lawyers, and her influence to spin the story. They made it look like self-defense. She told me… she actually looked me in the eyes and said, ‘Sean, your mother is already gone. There’s no point in ruining Devon’s life over an accident.’” My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the dusty floor of my apartment. I hated myself. I had welcomed the wolf into our home. I wanted to scream, to tear my own hair out, but looking at the ruined man on the screen, a profound, hollow exhaustion settled over me. I wanted to ask him about the fire. I wanted to ask how his face had been destroyed, what other horrors were waiting for him. But in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to say a word. After we hung up, I drove straight to my mother’s facility. Seeing her sitting quietly by the window, her mind fragile but peaceful, I knew I had to act. I called a trusted friend from college, someone outside Hannah’s circle, and arranged to have Mom transferred to a specialized private clinic in another state. My friend worked quickly. By that afternoon, Mom was safely checked out and on her way. On my drive back, I passed through the market district where I usually set up my food cart. Through the crowded sidewalk, I spotted them. Hannah and Devon. They were walking hand-in-hand, their fingers laced together. He said something that made her laugh—that beautiful, genuine laugh I used to love—and she looked up at him with a gaze so full of pure devotion it made me physically sick. I covered my mouth, leaning against the steering wheel as a sob finally broke through. This was the girl who had held onto my hands for dear life when we were children, refusing to let go when I slipped into a storm drain. This was the woman who, after my father died, held me in the dark and swore we would rebuild our lives together. She had become an absolute stranger. A sharp, burning pain flared in my abdomen. It had been lingering for weeks, but today it was unbearable. For peace of mind, I drove myself to the local clinic. After running some blood tests and an ultrasound, the doctor sat me down with a grim look. “Mr. Collins, you have severe gastric ulcers. You need immediate treatment and rest. You cannot keep pushing your body like this.” I stared at the medical report, feeling a strange, dark echo. I picked up my phone and called the older Sean once more. “What happened today?” I asked. “In your timeline, on the day you got your diagnosis.” He let out a ragged, trembling sigh. “The exact same day I found out about my stomach, Hannah took a pregnancy test. It was positive. They hid the truth from me. They let me believe the child was mine.” My chest tightened as his voice broke into a full sob. “I loved that boy, Sean. I loved him with every fiber of my being. I raised him for ten years, wiped his tears, took him to baseball games… and then, on the day Hannah and Devon finally had their public wedding, Devon cornered me. He laughed in my face. He told me the boy was his. And the worst part? The kid already knew. They had taught him to treat me like a foolish servant.” The sheer cruelty of it left me numb. I reached my hand toward the screen, wishing I could reach through the glass and comfort him. “So… you couldn’t take it anymore. You set the fire?” He nodded slowly, a look of profound regret passing over his scarred features. “I wanted to end it. But Hannah dragged me out of the flames. She wouldn’t even let me die in peace. Now I’m stuck like this. Half-human, half-monster. And the hatred… it eats me alive every single day.” A heavy weight settled over my chest. I took a deep, steadying breath. “I understand,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.” I hung up the phone and walked back into my empty apartment. Just as I crossed the threshold, my phone buzzed with a text from Hannah. Working late at the office tonight, babe. Won’t make it home. Don’t wait up! I stared at the screen for a moment, then locked my phone without replying. I slept for what felt like days, drifting in a dreamless, heavy fog. When I finally opened my eyes, I was surprised to find Hannah sitting at our small kitchen table. She was wearing her favorite faded grey hoodie, looking like the same girl I’d loved for a decade. “Morning, Sean,” she said softly, offering a warm smile. “I brought breakfast.” I sat down across from her, my expression entirely neutral. She slid a beautifully wrapped box toward me. “Your support meant everything. We secured the new account, and I wanted to get you a little something to say thank you.” I opened it. Inside was a high-end electric razor. I looked at it, then gently closed the lid. Hannah’s eyes searched mine, a trace of anxiety in her voice. “You don’t like it?” No, I didn’t. Last night, Devon had posted a picture of this exact razor on his social media, mocking it as “grandpa gear” before quickly deleting the post. I realized she must have bought it for Devon first, and when he rejected it, she decided to pass it off to me as a romantic gesture. I looked up, forced a small smile, and said, “It’s nice. I’ll try it out after breakfast.” She seemed to relax, letting out a soft sigh. “Sean… there’s something I need to tell you.” Before she could finish her sentence, her phone blared on the tabletop. I didn’t need to look at the screen to know who was calling. She answered quickly, her tone instantly shifting to panic. “What? I’m on my way. Hold on!” She hung up and scrambled to grab her purse. “Sean, I’m so sorry. Something came up. I have to go.” I remained silent, taking a slow sip of my coffee. She made it to the doorway, but then she froze. She slowly turned back to look at me, her expression thick with an odd, lingering anxiety. “Sean?” she asked, her voice cracking slightly. “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m going?” She was waiting for me to play my usual role—the doting, slightly worried fiancé who would tell her to drive safely. I offered her a polite, empty smile. “If I ask, will you stay?” She flinched, the words hanging heavy in the air. She stared at me for a long moment before speaking with intense solemnity. “Wait for me here. Please. I have something really important to tell you when I get back.” “Okay,” I replied softly. “I have a gift for you, too.” A soft, hopeful smile touched her lips, and she turned and left. The moment the front door clicked shut, I stood up. I placed the cheap engagement ring she had given me on the center of the kitchen table. Beside it, I laid the electric razor. Then, I grabbed my packed suitcase and walked out of the apartment without looking back. Stepping into the bright morning sunshine, I pulled out my phone and sent a final text to my future self. Don’t hate anymore. Your nightmare is over. Meanwhile, after rushing to the hospital to check on Devon, Hannah’s anxiety only deepened. Unable to shake the cold dread in her stomach, she ignored his pleas for her to stay and drove back to the apartment like a madwoman. When she pushed open the door and found the place unlocked and dead quiet, her heart sank. She saw the empty closet. She saw the ring on the table. Panic clawed at her throat. She realized she had to find me, to explain everything, to fix this before it was too late. But as she spun around to run back to the stairs, she collided with a woman standing in the hallway—a woman who looked older, exhausted, but wore her exact same face.

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Three years after our “paper” divorce, my six-year-old daughter, Lily, walked for two hours through the cold streets just to find me. She gently tugged at the edge of my coat. “Mommy, I’m so hungry.” My heart dropped. On the way to get her food, a post on my Snapchat suddenly flashed through my mind. It was a photo Julian had posted just a few hours ago. It was a picture of a beautifully prepared, organic kid’s meal. His caption read: Nothing is too good for the kids. Always homemade with love. “Didn’t your daddy make you dinner?” I asked, my voice trembling. Lily shook her head. “No. That was for Leo.” I froze in my tracks. Leo was Celeste’s son. Celeste, his first love. In that instant, the cold truth washed over me. There was never a “paper” divorce. He had left me for real. 0 I pushed the menu in front of Lily. But my eyes kept drifting downward. I saw the worn-out, scuffed edges of her little sneakers. I couldn’t bear to think about how she had walked such a long distance all by herself. Lily flipped to the very back of the menu and pointed to the simplest thing on the page—a small bowl of Mac and Cheese. My chest tightened. It physically ached. “Why only that, sweetheart? You can have whatever you want with Mommy!” I thought she was just feeling distant because we hadn’t seen each other in a month. Forcing a smile, I took the menu back and ordered three more of her favorite dishes. But Lily shook her head fearfully. “Daddy doesn’t let me eat that much.” “He says girls need to stay skinny to look pretty.” “Mommy, I was just so hungry… that’s why I came to find you. Please don’t tell Daddy.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with an anxiety that no six-year-old should ever have. We had only been apart for a month. How did she become like this? My heart was bleeding. Tears blurred my vision, and I quickly began piling food into her plate to hide them. “You’re only six, baby. You need to eat to grow.” “Didn’t Mommy send you those bags of pecans last week? If you were hungry, you should have eaten some of those.” Regret hit me like a tidal wave. I should have packed her more snacks. Even some crackers would have saved her from this misery. The last time I saw her, her cheeks were chubby and rosy. Now, she looked like a shadow of herself. Lily looked up and saw a tear slip down my cheek. She stood up on her chair, reaching out her tiny hand to wipe my tears away. But the moment her fingers touched my face, a cold sweat broke out across my back. I grabbed her wrist. Her tiny, delicate hands were covered in raw, healing cuts and bruises. “What happened to your hands?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but I was crumbling inside. My voice shook violently. But Lily just gave me a small, innocent smile. “I got them from shelling the pecans.” “Daddy said the dog would choke on the shells, so he made me shell them all and grind them into powder for the dog’s food.” “I shelled two whole bags, Mommy! Aren’t I strong?” She tilted her head up, waiting for my praise. But the words caught in my throat. It felt like swallowing glass. I excused myself, walked out of the restaurant, and dialed Julian’s number. It rang three times before he finally picked up. “What is wrong with you?” I screamed. “You starve Lily, and then you make her shell the pecans I sent her just to feed your damn dog?” “Julian, do you even deserve to be a father?” The rage I had kept locked in my chest exploded. Julian’s voice on the other end was cold, indifferent. “She eats less now so she won’t have to suffer through diets when she’s older. I’m saving her from ending up like you, obsessing over weight every other week.” “And stop sending those cheap organic snacks. Who knows where they’re sourced? You can’t even guarantee they’re clean.” Before I could speak, the line went dead. He was right about one thing. Julian was a billionaire’s son. He grew up in absolute luxury. Even his kid’s meals were topped with caviar. But Lily didn’t get caviar. She didn’t even get her pecans. She had nothing. I stood there, listening to the heavy thud of my own heartbeat. I wiped my face, refusing to let my daughter see me break down. But Lily was too smart. She noticed the moment I walked back in. She lowered her fork, not daring to look me in the eye. “Mommy… is Daddy mad at me?” I forced a warm smile and stroked her hair. “No, sweetie. Daddy wants you to eat up.” “After this, Mommy will take you to your piano class, okay?” She was too young. I didn’t want her to carry the weight of our broken family. But Lily just looked at me blankly. “The piano class?” “Daddy said Leo needed it more. He gave my spot to him.” 0

For a second, I couldn’t process her words. That piano class was taught by a world-renowned pianist. I had pulled dozens of favors and spent months on a waiting list to get Lily in. And Julian just gave it away to Celeste’s son? What kind of sick joke was this? Without wasting another second, I took Lily and drove straight to the prep school. After settling Lily in the waiting room, I stormed into the director’s office. “Why wasn’t I notified that my daughter’s spot was transferred?” “I signed the contract. I paid the fees. Did anyone think to ask for my consent?” The administrator looked incredibly uncomfortable. Her face flushed red as she spoke softly. “Mr. Sterling arranged it personally. He specifically instructed us not to tell you.” All the air left my lungs. Classic Julian. When he wanted to cover his tracks, not a single whisper would escape. I had paid thousands in tuition, only for Celeste’s kid to reap the benefits. I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. The administrator was just doing her job. But as I turned to leave, she called out to me. “Mrs. Vance… I highly suggest you pay closer attention to Lily’s mental health.” “She’s been… isolated by her classmates lately.” The hesitation in her voice sent a chill straight down my spine. Lily was a sweet, gentle girl. How could she be isolated? My mind was a chaotic mess as I walked out into the hallway. And then, I saw him. Julian was walking out of a classroom, holding Leo’s hand. He naturally reached down to take the boy’s backpack, carrying it for him. I stared, dazed. I wondered if he ever smiled like that when he was with Lily. “Daddy!” Lily saw him too. She ran toward Julian, her little arms outstretched, desperately wanting a hug. But Julian flinched. He stepped back, avoiding her completely. An expression of pure disgust flashed across his face, as if she were a stranger. “You have the wrong person,” he said coldly. Lily froze. Her hands fell to her sides, her tiny fingernails digging deep into her palms. Class had just ended, and several kids gathered around, watching the scene. “Look, Lily has no daddy!” “Even my dog has parents. Lily is unwanted!” The kids’ laughter echoed down the hallway. It pierced my ears. Without thinking, I rushed forward and pulled Lily tightly into my arms. “Go away! All of you!” “I am Lily’s mother! She is not unwanted!” My entire body was shaking. It felt like someone had ripped a piece of my heart out. My sweet Lily. What kind of hell had she been living in? Three years ago, to protect Julian’s family assets during a massive corporate restructuring, we agreed to a legal divorce. Back then, he had held my hands and cried like a child. He promised it was just on paper. He promised that once things settled, we would remarry. He promised Lily would never suffer. Because of those promises, I waited. Year after year. But it was all a lie. Julian heard those kids mocking Lily. He heard her crying. But he turned around and walked away without a single backward glance. As Julian got into his car, I ran out and blocked his path, standing right in front of the hood. “You owe me an explanation!” 0

Julian looked surprised to see me. Before rolling down his window, he carefully put noise-canceling headphones on Leo. “Today isn’t your scheduled visitation day, Elena.” “Have you forgotten how to follow rules?” He didn’t even look me in the eye. He leaned against his steering wheel and lit a cigarette. The smoke drifted between us, blurring his face. It felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. “You’re the one who broke our agreement first!” I screamed, my voice cracking. “Julian, you promised you would take care of Lily! What the hell are you doing to her?” “You starve her, you take away her classes, and you pretend she doesn’t exist!” “She is your own daughter!” I lost all control. I screamed at the top of my lungs, demanding justice for my little girl. But Julian’s brow didn’t even twitch. “Leo has real musical talent. Letting Lily take those classes is just a waste of money.” “Lily’s custody belongs to me. I raise her my way, and you have no right to interfere.” “Besides, she’s alive and well, isn’t she?” I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. Was survival the only bare minimum he thought his daughter deserved? “Do you have any idea that her arms are covered in bruises? That boy, Leo…” When I had pulled Lily into my arms earlier, she had whimpered in pain. That was when I noticed the dark purple bruises on her tiny arms. Leo was the one doing this to her, right under Julian’s nose. But before I could finish, Julian cut me off. “Enough.” “Don’t try to throw dirt on him. Leo would never do something like that.” “No wonder Lily has started lying lately. She clearly learned it from you.” With that, Julian started the engine, forcing me to step aside. “I have things to do.” He stepped on the gas and sped away. Leaving me standing alone in the cold wind. He knew. Lily must have cried to him for help. But Julian chose not to believe her. He would rather believe Celeste’s son than his own blood. The strength drained from my legs, and I collapsed onto the pavement. So this was what it meant to love someone else’s child. Because he loved Celeste, he loved her son. And because he was done with me, Lily had to pay the price. That evening, I saw Julian again at a high-end restaurant. It turned out his “important business” was celebrating Leo’s birthday. But he had completely forgotten. Today was Lily’s birthday too. Through the glass of the private dining room, I saw Julian, Celeste, and Leo sitting together, looking like a perfect, happy family. Three years ago, Julian had celebrated Lily’s birthday just like that. He bought every single flavor of cake because he didn’t know which one she’d like best. He imported limited-edition dolls and custom-made princess dresses. He had even placed a diamond necklace around my neck, whispering how grateful he was that I gave him such a beautiful daughter. Those memories felt like they happened yesterday. But in the blink of an eye, everything had changed. I was holding a takeout box of Lily’s favorite food, getting ready to leave, when a cheer erupted from the private room. I turned around. Julian was presenting Leo with his birthday gifts. The boxes piled up, overflowing from the table. Then, Julian pulled a black platinum card from his wallet. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. Buy whatever you want, buddy.” My breath hitched. Leo gasped in excitement, but I felt like I had been doused in ice water. That card… was the savings account I had set up for Lily’s college fund! I could barely breathe. Celeste leaned over and kissed Julian’s cheek. “Julian, this is too much.” “It’s nothing. Just pocket change.” Yes, to Julian Sterling, fifty thousand dollars was pocket change. One of his custom suits cost more than that. But that was money I had saved, dollar by dollar, working late-night shifts. I knew the Sterlings were incredibly wealthy, but I wanted to contribute to Lily’s future. When I handed Julian that card a year ago, he had kissed my forehead and told me to rest, promising that the Sterling family would always provide for Lily. It was all a lie. My ears buzzed. I was about to storm in there and demand my card back. But suddenly, a pair of strong hands grabbed me from behind. Before I could scream, I was pinned to the floor. The bright lights of the restaurant hallway faded, and darkness took over. 0

When I opened my eyes, I was in the backseat of Julian’s SUV. He was sitting next to me. He was looking in the vanity mirror, wiping a bit of frosting from his nose. The warmth from the party hadn’t fully faded from his face, and a soft smile lingered on his lips. Seeing me stir, he spoke in a casual tone. “Celeste has had a hard time raising Leo alone. I just wanted to help them out a bit.” “Elena, don’t overthink it.” His tone was so indifferent. Like he had just done a minor good deed. I knew we were divorced. I had no right to care who he helped. But he had no right to touch Lily’s money! I ripped the restraint cloth off my arms and threw it right at his face. “Give me back the money, and give me back Lily!” There was no longer any reason to leave Lily with him. If he didn’t want to raise her, I would do it myself. I expected him to agree easily, but instead, Julian reached out and gently took my hand. His eyes softened. “Lily is my daughter. How could I not love her?” “I’ve actually made arrangements to send her to a traditional boarding school upstate. They’ll teach her discipline and domestic skills. When she’s older, she can marry Leo. They’ll keep it in the family.” My heart stopped beating for a second. I stared at Julian, desperately searching his face for any sign of a joke. There was none. He was completely serious. “Are you insane? That place is a prison! You want to throw your own daughter into a house of submission?” Without thinking, I slapped him across the face. The slap echoed in the quiet car. I only regretted that I hadn’t hit him harder. Julian froze. When he turned back to look at me, his eyes were dark with malice. “Elena, I am not asking for your permission.” “Lily is lazy. She doesn’t even know how to clean up after herself. How is she going to take care of Leo in the future?” “Sending her to that school is for her own good. She needs to learn her place early so she doesn’t suffer later.” His tone left no room for argument. Before I could scream at him again, his phone buzzed. The name Celeste popped up on the screen, accompanied by a red heart emoji. His harsh expression melted instantly. He gave the driver a quick nod. The door was opened, and I was shoved out of the car like a piece of trash. I fell hard onto the gravel road. Sharp stones sliced into my palms and arms. But as the blood began to seep through my skin, I felt no pain. I pressed my hand against the wound and walked toward my apartment. Lily was still waiting for me. Thankfully, I made it back before midnight to celebrate her birthday. After she blew out the single candle on her small cake, she looked at the clock anxiously. “Mommy… can I sleep here tonight?” she whispered. That broke me. I pulled her into a tight hug. “You’re staying here tonight.” “And we are never going back.”

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The moment the first session of the SATs ended, everyone in our class headed to a nearby diner for lunch. Amber, the most popular girl in our grade, walked in holding a greasy brown paper bag she bought from some cheap roadside food truck. “Hey guys! I got these smoked turkey legs for everyone!” she announced with a sweet, angelic smile. Having grown up in a family that ran a famous three-generation Texas-style BBQ Smokehouse, my eyes instantly locked onto the meat. One look, and I knew. These weren’t turkey legs. They were expired, heavily chemically-treated pork and duck meat, loaded with food coloring and toxic artificial smoke flavors to mask the rot. Without hesitation, I slapped the tray out of her hand, stopping everyone from taking a bite. But Amber couldn’t handle the public embarrassment. She felt I was targeting her. She burst into tears, ran out of the diner, and was immediately crushed to death by a speeding semi-truck. My boyfriend, Tyler, grabbed me by the neck, his eyes bloodshot with rage. “This is on you! If you hadn’t humiliated her, Amber would still be alive!” “She’s dead! Now you pay!” Even the classmates I had just saved turned on me. “They were just some turkey legs! Did you have to be so malicious?” “Look what you did! You literally killed her!” In the end, Tyler and the others locked me in a room and force-fed me ninety-nine of those rotten, toxic turkey legs until I choked and died from severe food poisoning and ruptured stomach. Meanwhile, because I had stopped them from eating the rotten meat, they remained perfectly healthy, aced their exams the next day, and all got into Ivy League universities. When I opened my eyes again, the smell of woodsmoke and cheap grease filled my nose. I was back on the day of the lunch.

The private dining room door was pushed open. Amber walked in, carrying a greasy paper bag, her face glowing with a sweet smile. “Sorry I’m late, guys! I brought a peace offering!” She placed the bag in the center of the table and opened it carefully. “I stood in line forever to get these smoked turkey legs for us!” Instantly, she became the center of attention. “Oh my god, Amber! You’re literally the best!” “My mouth is watering just looking at them!” I sat in the corner, a wave of nausea hitting me. My family has run a BBQ smokehouse for three generations. I grew up in the kitchen watching my grandfather smoke meats. I could tell with a single glance what was real and what was fake. This garbage wasn’t turkey. It was expired duck legs wrapped in heavy artificial spices and chemical red dye, double-baked to look edible. In my past life, this very tray of meat had ruined my entire existence. I had warned them loudly that the meat was rotten, that it would put them in the hospital and ruin their exams the next day. But Amber had burst into tears right there, covering her face. “Chloe, I know your family runs a famous BBQ joint… but you don’t have to humiliate me like this…” Tyler, my boyfriend, had immediately jumped to her defense and slapped me hard across the face. “Chloe, are you out of your mind?!” he had yelled. “We all know you’ve been jealous of Amber, but did you have to ruin her moment like this?” Amber had run out of the restaurant crying, only to be hit by a semi-truck and die instantly. “Chloe? Earth to Chloe. What are you staring at?” Tyler’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was sitting right next to me, looking at me with a soft, affectionate expression. He reached toward the table. “You must be exhausted after the test. Let me grab the biggest one for you.” “No, thanks,” I said coldly. “What’s wrong?” Tyler asked, confused. Amber looked over too. She picked up a turkey leg and offered it to me with a sugary sweet smile. “Come on, Chloe. Your family is the expert here. Try it first and tell me if it’s authentic!” I leaned back slightly, my voice flat. “No. I’m watching what I eat.” “Watching what you eat?” Amber froze, then laughed softly. “But Chloe, you’re already so skinny! Don’t be like this. I bought these for everyone to share. If you’re the only one who won’t eat, it feels like you’re rejecting me.” The moment she said that, Tyler’s brows furrowed. “Chloe, Amber is just being nice. Don’t start drama.” I kept my eyes down. “I said, I’m not eating it.” I repeated, clear and firm. Tyler’s face darkened completely. “Chloe, what is your problem?” Tyler’s voice rose, drawing everyone’s attention to our corner. “No problem. I just don’t want to eat it.” I leaned back against my chair, not even bothering to look at him. He slammed his hands on the table and stood up, glaring at me. “Chloe, do you think you’re better than everyone else just because your family owns a famous smokehouse? Are you seriously looking down on street food bought by Amber?”

“Dude, that’s so uncalled for!” “Yeah, Amber stood in line for this. If you don’t want it, fine, but lose the attitude!” “She’s totally doing this on purpose. She’s just jealous that everyone loves Amber.” The classmates around us immediately started taking sides. Just like my past life. No matter what I did, I was always the villain. Amber’s eyes welled up with tears instantly. She grabbed Tyler’s sleeve, her voice trembling. “Tyler, please don’t yell at Chloe. Maybe the food really isn’t good. Chloe is the expert, so it’s normal she doesn’t like it… It’s all my fault…” Her playing the victim immediately turned the whole room against me. “Amber, don’t cry! This has nothing to do with you!” “Yeah, forget her! More for us. It’s her loss anyway!” A guy named Hunter took the lead, grabbing a leg and taking a massive bite to show his support for Amber. “Oh my god! This is amazing! So flavorful!” he mumbled through a full mouth. “Better than any five-star restaurant!” With the first follower, the rest quickly joined in. “Let me try!” “Give me one! Amber, you’re a lifesaver!” Within seconds, the tray was nearly empty. They stuffed their faces while throwing dirty looks at me. Tyler sneered, picked up a piece, and held it to Amber’s lips with a tender smile. “Here, Amber. You eat too. Don’t let irrelevant people ruin your day.” Amber smiled through her tears, took a bite from his hand, and closed her eyes happily. “Mm, so good!” The surrounding classmates started chanting and cheering. “Oh! Get a room, you two!” “Tyler, you’re so biased, only feeding Amber!” I sneered inwardly. *Since you all love it so much, eat up. Eat all of it.* I pulled out my phone, checked the time for the afternoon exams, and started reviewing my study guides. “Chloe, are you really not going to eat?” My desk mate, Sarah, leaned in and whispered to me. She was the only person in the room who hadn’t joined the mob. In my past life, she was also the only one who had secretly handed me a tissue when everyone was screaming at me. I glanced at her and kept my voice barely audible. “Don’t eat it either.” Sarah blinked, looking at my dead-serious expression, and then at our classmates who were happily devouring the meat. She looked incredibly confused. “Why?” “If you want to be able to sit through the exam this afternoon, trust me just this once.” I didn’t explain further. Sarah hesitated for a few seconds, but looking at my eyes, she finally nodded and slowly put down the turkey leg she had just picked up. Just then, Tyler stormed over, ripped my phone out of my hands, and slammed it onto the table. “Chloe! I’m talking to you! Are you deaf?!” The phone hit the wooden table with a loud, violent crack.

The room went dead silent. Everyone stopped chewing and stared at us. “What is your deal today?” Tyler roared. “Amber brought this out of the goodness of her heart, and not only are you ungrateful, but you’re also acting like a total bitch! Everyone is watching. You will stand up and apologize to Amber. Right. Now.” His voice was dripping with venom. Amber quickly ran over, grabbing Tyler’s arm, her eyes swimming with tears. “Tyler, please stop… It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have bought them… Chloe, please don’t be mad. I’ll apologize for Tyler, okay? Just don’t let this ruin your afternoon exam.” She claimed she was apologizing, but she leaned her body heavily against Tyler’s chest. The classmates chimed in again. “Seriously, Chloe, you’re crossing the line today.” “Tyler is just defending Amber. Just apologize and let it go.” “We’re all classmates. Don’t make it weird.” Apologize? I looked at them, finding the entire situation hysterical. In my past life, I saved all of them. Yet Tyler hit me, verbally abused me, and watched me die. In this life, I did absolutely nothing, and I was still the bad guy. I realized then that no matter what choice I made, the outcome for them didn’t matter. Because in Tyler’s heart, I would never be as important as Amber. I slowly stood up, meeting his furious gaze calmly. “Tyler,” I said softly. “We’re done.” The rage on Tyler’s face instantly froze. “What… what did you say?” “I said, we are breaking up.” I repeated, enunciating every single word. “From this moment on, you, Amber, and whatever drama you guys have are none of my business.” “Chloe!” Tyler raised his hand, the exact same scene from my past life flashing before my eyes. I didn’t flinch. I just stared at him coldly. “Hit me,” I whispered. “Do it, and we are completely through.” His hand froze in mid-air. It shook violently, but he couldn’t bring himself to swing it down. “Fine! Great!” He pulled his hand back, trembling with pure rage. “Chloe, don’t you dare regret this! Breaking up over something so petty? Who do you think you are? Trust me, I will do just fine without you!” “I wish you the best of luck with that.” I picked up my phone from the table. Thank god, the screen wasn’t cracked. I slid it into my bag, checked my test permit, and turned to leave. “Stop right there!” Tyler yelled. “Did I say you could leave? You haven’t apologized, and a breakup is a two-way street. I don’t agree to it!” Hunter and a few other guys immediately stood up, blocking the door. “Chloe, don’t just run away. Talk it out.” “Yeah, nobody leaves until you apologize to Amber.” I took a deep breath, the last ounce of warmth in my heart completely evaporating. “Move.” “No way! Not unless you get on your knees and apologize to Amber!” Hunter barked. On my knees? I almost laughed. Just then, Amber’s voice trembled from behind. “Oh… wait…” She suddenly clutched her stomach, her face turning pale. “My stomach… it hurts so bad…” Tyler immediately spun around, panicked. “Amber, what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine…” Amber forced a weak smile, but cold sweat was already beads on her forehead. “Maybe… maybe it’s just the iced soda I drank earlier. My stomach is just acting up. I’ll be fine after using the restroom.” Clutching her stomach, she hurried out of the dining room. “Hurry back!” Tyler called out anxiously. Once she left, he turned his glare back to me, his frustration peaking. “Chloe, are you happy now? You literally stressed Amber out so much she has a stomachache!” “If she messes up her exam this afternoon, I swear I will make you pay!” I was so amused I almost laughed out loud. Stressed into a stomachache? Or did she just eat rotten meat? “What are you looking at? Apologize!” With Amber gone, Hunter got even more aggressive, reaching out to shove my shoulder. I took a step back. “If I were you, I wouldn’t touch me,” I said calmly. “And I’d stop eating that garbage on the table. In fact, you should all go to the ER to get your stomachs pumped right now. Maybe then you’ll make it to your exams tomorrow.” Hunter froze, and then burst into hysterical laughter as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world. “Did you guys hear her? She wants us to get our stomachs pumped! Chloe, did studying dry your brain out? Do you think you’re some kind of psychic doctor?” “She literally wants us to fail! She’s so toxic!” “Exactly! She didn’t eat, so now she’s cursing us!” They mocked me as they picked up the remaining meat and stuffed it into their mouths. “So delicious! Too bad some people don’t have the taste buds for it!” “Right? How could something this good be bad? What a joke.” Tyler looked at me with pure disgust in his eyes. “Chloe, I never realized how vile you could be. Just because I defended Amber, you’re resorting to this pathetic way to curse us?” He shoved me into the corner, his arms pinning me against the wall. “I’m saying this for the last time. Get on your knees and apologize to Amber. Otherwise, this isn’t over.” He whispered threateningly. I looked up at his face, so close to mine. This was the boy I had loved for three years, the one who had brought me nothing but agony across two lifetimes. I spoke, my voice chillingly calm. “Tyler, aren’t you even a little curious? Why didn’t I take a single bite, yet I knew something was wrong with it?” He blinked, taken aback. “Because my family does this for a living,” I said, holding his gaze. “I know meat better than any of you. That is not turkey. It’s spoiled duck meat masked with industrial chemical dye. If you eat it, you’ll end up with severe food poisoning. At best, you’ll be vomiting blood. At worst…” “Shut up! Amber literally said she bought it from a popular street vendor!” “So?” I countered. “Just because she said it, it’s true? You’d rather believe a pathological liar than me?” “Shut your mouth! Don’t you dare talk about Amber like that!” “Then why isn’t your precious Amber back yet?” I asked. I glanced at my watch. There was only one hour left before the afternoon SAT session. The incubation period for that bacteria was about thirty minutes to an hour. It was about time. Tyler froze. Suddenly, the door to the dining room was kicked open. A guy ran in, clutching his mouth. Before he could even reach the trash can, he threw up violently all over the floor. Immediately after, classmate after classmate turned ghostly pale, clutching their stomachs. Like rockets launching, they scrambled and fought to get out the door to the bathrooms. “My stomach… oh god, it feels like I’m being stabbed!” “Me too… I can’t… I think I’m gonna throw up!”

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