When the school gave the coveted Ivy League Endorsement to the girl who bullied me, I completely stopped caring. State Physics Olympiad? Hard pass. Valedictorian speech? Nope. Statewide Honors Assessments? I handed in blank Scantrons! When the Chairman of the School Board came to inspect and specifically requested an audience with me? Oh, I definitely showed up for that. I walked right onto the stage and snitched: “Dad, the school is rigging the system.” 01 After the mock exam results came out, I proudly took the number one spot in the junior class with a near-perfect score. But what awaited me wasn’t congratulations, but the mocking gazes of my classmates. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Harris, called me to his office based on my transcript. Going in with me was Chloe Miller, the Vice Principal’s daughter. Seeing me, she shot me a provocative glare. The AC in the office was blasting warm air. Mr. Harris waited for us to sit down before cutting straight to the chase: “The Ivy League Endorsement has been decided.” His eyes drifted between the two of us, then he smiled and extended a hand toward Chloe: “Congratulations.” I waited expressionlessly for him to finish, then asked, “What about me?” Mr. Harris’s smile froze. “Taylor, I called you here to help you process this. I know you study incredibly hard, and you’ve won plenty of honors over the last three years. But your academic foundation is already rock solid, whereas Chloe…” I finished his sentence for him: “Whereas Chloe has average grades, bullies her classmates, and preys on the weak.” Mr. Harris: “…” Chloe flared up: “Taylor, what kind of bullshit are you spewing? Did I not teach you enough of a lesson last time?!” I shot her a cold glance. Her so-called “lesson” involved having her clique lock me in the bathroom, putting bugs and dead mice in my desk, and stealing my textbooks and throwing them in the dumpster. It wasn’t like Mr. Harris didn’t know about this. I pointed at her arrogant, entitled face. “Even with her like this, the Endorsement still goes to her?” 02 Looking embarrassed, Mr. Harris shot Chloe a warning look, then turned back to pacify me: “With your grades, you can get into any top-tier university in the country. But…” I interrupted him: “Didn’t the school bulletin state that the Endorsement prioritizes the number one student in the mocks?” Mr. Harris furrowed his brows. “That’s what it says, but you don’t really need the extra boost from the Endorsement, do you?” No, I did need it. Before high school started, I made a bet with my dad. If I secured the Ivy League Endorsement on my own merits, I wouldn’t have to study finance and could major in music instead. I refocused my gaze on Mr. Harris. “Over the last three years, I’ve won five national awards, sixteen state-level awards, and countless school honors. I consistently rank first in every single exam. Even with all that, the Endorsement still goes to her?” Mr. Harris instantly began sweating bullets, his lips moving but no words coming out. Chloe glared at me, raising her voice: “Are you annoying or what? He spelled it out for you! It’s just one recommendation. If you piss me off, I can make sure you never hold your head up in this town again!” I ignored her, staring fixedly at Mr. Harris. Until he finally snapped impatiently: “Rules are dead, but people are alive. The spot is finalized and can’t be changed. You should just focus on scoring a few extra points on the SATs. It makes no real difference.” I nodded, pulled my gaze away, and turned to leave. As I walked out, Chloe chased after me and called out: “Taylor! Some people are born on third base, and some strike out. If you want to blame someone, blame your dad for being a nobody!” 03 Walking out of the office, I pulled out my phone and called my “nobody” father. He didn’t pick up. A moment later, my dad texted me: “Just arrived at the embassy in DC. What’s up, my precious daughter?” I chuckled dryly and typed back: “Nothing.” I guess we were just mules to some people. My dad immediately transferred $5,000 into my account, adding: “Studying is hard work. Take this and treat yourself to some good food. Daddy has to go into a meeting. I’ll bring you souvenirs when I get back!” The warning bell rang. The moment I stepped into the classroom, I heard Chloe’s exaggerated laughter ringing out: “Ugh, it’s just an Ivy Endorsement, it’s not even a big deal.” The sycophants hovering around her looked at me with their noses in the air. “Of course it’s a big deal! It’s the spot certain people would kill for.” “Right? So what if she gets good grades? She still couldn’t beat our Chloe.” I sat down and prepped for class, acting as if I hadn’t heard a thing. After class, when Mr. Harris called me over to his desk, I walked right past him, deaf to his voice. He grabbed my arm, leaned in close, and said displeased: “Next Friday is the State Physics Olympiad. You’re going to represent the school. This is a state-level competition, and it concerns the school’s prestige. Prepare well this week. If you have questions, go see the physics teacher…” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was just enough for the whole classroom to hear. I gave him a passing glance and casually pulled my arm out of his grip. Then, using a much louder voice, I said: “I’m not going.” 04 The rest of Mr. Harris’s words caught in his throat. His small eyes behind his glasses widened in utter shock, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. It wasn’t just him; the rest of the class was stunned, too. “Is Taylor off her meds?” “Didn’t she use to love these competitions? Wherever there was a spotlight, she was there. What’s wrong with her now?” “Oh—I get it. She didn’t get the Endorsement, so she’s deliberately rebelling against the teacher.” “Tch, who does she think she is? Does she really think she can threaten him?” Mr. Harris snapped back to reality, his frown deepening. “Our school only gets one spot for this Olympiad. If you don’t go, who will?” I leaned against the wall. “Whoever wants it can take it.” “Taylor, this isn’t just about you! It’s about bringing glory to the school!” I rolled my eyes. “Who cares?” Mr. Harris: “…” His fingers were shaking with rage. “Taylor! Have I not prioritized you for every single competition? I gave you so many opportunities, and this is how you repay me?!” I almost wanted to applaud his thick skin. Just then, Chloe strutted over arrogantly. “Mr. Harris, if she doesn’t want to go, let me. I only dropped five points in the physics section of the mocks. I practice AP problems all the time. I can handle it.” Mr. Harris nodded. “Chloe is always so dependable. I knew I wasn’t wrong about you.” He then shot me a dirty look. “An ungrateful brat who bites the hand that feeds her.” 05 Once Mr. Harris left, Chloe glared at me viciously. I looked back at her, my expression blank and breezy. She frowned. “What’s with that look? You looking down on me?” Before I could answer, she sneered, “Don’t think you’re all that. It’s just a little physics competition. I’ll definitely place higher than you ever could.” Since I didn’t have a competition to prep for, my weekend freed up, and I finally went home for a visit. Only my sister-in-law, Jenna, was in the living room playing with my nephew. Seeing me, she asked in surprise: “Taylor? Aren’t you prepping for the Olympiad?” I shook my head, confused. “Jenna, how did you know about the competition?” “The State Physics Olympiad is tomorrow. I was invited by the Board to proctor the exam.” Jenna explained, then paused as if struck by an idea. “Since you’re home, why don’t you come with me?” “What would I do there?” “Don’t you want to try your hand at the paper? I heard they introduced two new problem types this year. It’s supposed to be brutally hard.” I was instantly intrigued. Besides music, my biggest passion was cracking impossible logic puzzles. That feeling of clearing the fog fascinated me. So the next day, I went to the testing center with Jenna. After the exam officially started, she cleared out a spare office for me to take the test. Right as the clock neared the end, Jenna pushed the door open, fuming, and slammed her keys onto the desk. My train of thought broke. I looked up. “What happened?” Jenna ran a hand through her hair. “Nothing major. Just a girl caught cheating.” I frowned. “Did you disqualify her?” “Not yet. It’s a tricky situation, and I didn’t want to disrupt the other students. I just took down her candidate number and I’ll report it later.” Jenna said casually, then picked up my fully answered test booklet. “Done?” “Pretty much.” Jenna took my paper. “Great. I have a meeting later, so I’ll drop this off with the grading committee while I’m at it. If you’re bored, just call an Uber and head home first.” 06 I walked out of the testing center and ran straight into Chloe and Mr. Harris. Mr. Harris took this Olympiad very seriously. He had personally escorted her to the exam, accompanied by several of her lackeys. They were laughing and chatting by the entrance, practically blocking half the doors. I had barely stepped out before they spotted me. Seeing me, they swarmed over like stray dogs spotting a bone. “Taylor, what are you doing here?” “I knew it. Talked a big game about not competing, but you’re actually dying of regret inside.” “Of course she is! First prize is ten thousand bucks. That’s enough to feed a broke bitch like Taylor for a whole year.” Mr. Harris didn’t stop their mocking. Instead, he reprimanded me: “I gave you a chance and you didn’t take it. What are you doing stalking us now?” I frowned. “Stalking?” Chloe demanded, “Yeah! Otherwise, how did you know the testing center was here?” I replied, “None of your damn business.” Chloe flared up. “I’m trying to be nice, don’t push it!” “Get lost,” I said. Her lackeys quickly jumped in to smooth things over. “Chloe, don’t sink to her level! She’s just jealous of you!” I glanced at the lackey and said flatly, “You get lost, too.” “…” Seeing that a fight was about to break out, Mr. Harris finally intervened. “Alright, enough of this. Chloe, how do you think you did?” Chloe’s furious expression instantly flipped into smug triumph. “I think I nailed it. The questions were super easy, and I finished way early. Getting first place shouldn’t be a problem!” 07 Her lackeys put on exaggerated looks of awe. “Wow, I knew you were the smartest, Chloe!” Mr. Harris’s eyebrows practically flew off his forehead. He patted Chloe’s shoulder excitedly. “I heard they added new problem types this year. Even Taylor wouldn’t have been guaranteed first place. Having this much confidence—you really make me proud!” Chloe smiled. “Mr. Harris, how could Taylor even compare to me?” She paused, then added in a dramatic, mocking tone: “After all, she’s just a sore loser.” I took a deep breath, turned around, and prepared to leave. Chloe’s mocking voice grew louder: “Taylor, running away already? Weren’t you acting tough just a second ago?” I let out an “Oh,” and said expressionlessly, “I don’t compare myself to livestock. It’s bad for my health.” Chloe: “…” I don’t know what she told her Vice Principal daddy when she got home. During the morning assembly the following week, Vice Principal Miller gripped the microphone and passionately praised Chloe: “Chloe Miller from the Senior AP class achieved absolutely outstanding results in the State Physics Olympiad! Let’s give her an early round of applause!” Thunderous applause erupted across the school. Her dad took the opportunity to drag my name through the mud: “Furthermore, I want to criticize a certain student who thinks she is above it all. She put her personal ego above the school’s honor, completely disregarding…” Before he could finish, a black SUV abruptly pulled up outside the gates behind the football field. Three men in sharp suits stepped out and strode onto the field. 08 Mr. Harris recognized them instantly. His eyes gleaming, he whispered to Vice Principal Miller: “They’re from the Olympiad Ethics Committee!” Hearing this, Vice Principal Miller immediately dropped the microphone, plastered on a desperate smile, and rushed forward. “Ah, you must be the officials from the State Board! Welcome to our campus.” The three men shook his hand with cool detachment. The lead investigator spoke up: “We are members of the Olympiad Ethics and Grading Committee. We came to your school today to find someone.” Because the microphone was still on, their conversation faintly reached the ears of the student body. Miller, perhaps intentionally, flushed red with excitement. “Who are you looking for?” “Chloe Miller.” Miller put on a ‘just as I thought’ expression and roared into the microphone: “Chloe! Come up here, quick!” Chloe puffed out her chest and proudly marched over to Miller’s side under the gaze of the entire school. As she walked past me, she let out a cold snort. The three men confirmed her identity, then announced: “The results of yesterday’s Physics Olympiad have been finalized. Regarding the student Chloe Miller, we…” Before they could finish, Miller interrupted them, unable to hide his excitement: “I know, I know! You must be here to personally congratulate Chloe! It’s so much trouble for you to make the trip. Chloe has always been an exceptional kid, so taking first place was entirely within our expectations…” The more the three investigators listened, the more bewildered they looked. Finally, unable to take it anymore, they cut Miller off: “Please let us finish!” “Yes, yes, go ahead.” The lead investigator pulled out a formal document: “Following a review by the Ethics Committee, Chloe Miller was found cheating during yesterday’s Physics Olympiad. We are canceling her score, issuing formal disciplinary action, and delivering a state-wide notice of censure.” “…” 09 Miller’s eyes went wide in disbelief. “Impossible! How could my daughter possibly cheat?!” The investigator frowned impatiently and shoved the disciplinary notice into his hands. “This is the official ruling. If you wish to dispute it, you can file an appeal with the State Board of Education.” That was what they said, but delivering a major disciplinary notice in person meant there was a zero percent chance of an error. As they turned to leave, Miller’s face cycled through shades of red, white, and green. He reached out to block them. “What exactly happened? There were two proctors in that room and four security cameras. If she was really cheating, why wasn’t she disqualified on the spot? Why wait until now to issue a ruling?” The investigator glanced at Chloe and said meaningfully: “You’ll have to ask your daughter about that. She’s young but full of ideas. Hiding a micro-receiver inside a hair clip? If she used that cleverness for good, she’d be brilliant.” Miller whipped around to look at Chloe. “A receiver?!” Over two thousand pairs of eyes across the school zeroed in on Chloe simultaneously. What was supposed to be a commendation ceremony had turned into a public execution. Chloe’s face was as white as a sheet. She stammered, “I… I don’t know anything about a receiver!” “Save the excuses. All the evidence has been handed over to the police for the record. Young lady, do we need to take you down to the precinct?” Hearing the word “precinct,” Chloe couldn’t utter another word of defense. She dropped to her knees in front of her father. “Dad! It wasn’t me! It was my friends’ idea!” Miller gritted his teeth. He wanted to scream at her, but with the entire school watching, he could only manage: “Get back to your class!” Chloe hung her head in shame and slinked back to the line. A teacher from the neighboring class, who had always hated Mr. Harris, laughed sarcastically: “I thought that Chloe girl from your class was going to make headlines! Well, she certainly made headlines.” Mr. Harris: “…” At that moment, I had to try my hardest to think about my dead grandmother just to keep myself from bursting out laughing. 10 After the morning assembly, Chloe was taken away by her father and never returned to the classroom. By noon, the fallout from Chloe’s disciplinary action was announced. She was suspended pending investigation and barred from returning to campus for the foreseeable future. As her escorting teacher, Mr. Harris had his entire semester bonus docked. Infuriated, Mr. Harris threw a massive tantrum during the afternoon class, making passive-aggressive remarks and pinning the blame entirely on me: “Running into this mess out of nowhere—what horrible luck! If we hadn’t swapped candidates, I wouldn’t have suffered this injustice!” The students in the front row were too terrified to breathe. I, however, lazily propped up my blazer to make a comfortable pillow, resting my head on it, and nodded in profound agreement: “You’re totally right, Mr. Harris! If we hadn’t swapped candidates, everything would have been perfect!” When he said “swap candidates,” he meant the Physics Olympiad. When I said it, I meant the Ivy League Endorsement. Realizing what I meant, his face grew even uglier. He pointed a finger at me and exploded: “Who asked you to interrupt when I’m speaking?! Taylor, I used to think you were a good student, but your attitude is atrocious! Get out into the hallway!” I grabbed my jacket, stood up, and walked out. The door slammed heavily behind me. Three minutes later, I knocked and opened it again. Mr. Harris’s face was dark. “What do you want now?!” I stepped aside, revealing a handsome, clean-cut boy standing in the doorway. “Someone’s looking for you.” 11 Mr. Harris’s fierce glare instantly morphed into fawning flattery the second he saw the boy. “Liam! What brings you here?” The moment he said that, a commotion rippled through the classroom: “Holy shit, it’s Liam Vance from Oakridge Prep! Are you serious?!” “Ahhh! It’s him! My crush! He’s rich, smart, and gorgeous! He was literally on national TV last year!” Liam stood in the doorway, his expression cool but polite. “Hello, sir. I’m looking for a student in your class.” Mr. Harris’s smile widened, practically beaming like a spring breeze. “Who are you looking for?” Who in their class could possibly be worth a personal visit from this elite young master? I leaned against the wall, casually listening as Liam enunciated every syllable: “Taylor Sterling.” Mr. Harris’s smile froze. I looked at Liam in confusion. The silence stretched for about five seconds before Liam politely added: “I heard she’s in your class. Could you ask her to step out?” Instantly, Mr. Harris’s eyes darted between Liam and the empty air, filled with disbelief and awkwardness. After a long pause, he retracted his gaze, his eyelid twitching violently. “Why are you looking for Taylor? Did she cause some kind of trouble?” “No.” Liam denied it with a strange look on his face. He thought for a few seconds, then pulled a folded test paper from his backpack. “I just wanted to ask her about her thought process for the final question on this physics exam.” Mr. Harris: “…” 12 Mr. Harris snatched the paper from Liam’s hand and inspected it closely. “What test is this?” Liam answered, “The State Physics Olympiad.” Mr. Harris’s eyes widened in shock. “You must be mistaken. Taylor didn’t even participate in the Olympiad. How could she possibly solve a question like this!” Liam frowned, looking slightly displeased. “It’s impossible that I’m mistaken. I got a copy of this directly from my uncle on the grading committee. The difficulty of this year’s exam was insanely high. Only Taylor managed to solve the final section of the last problem. I definitely didn’t remember the name wrong.” He finished, then looked at Mr. Harris suspiciously. “Are you sure Taylor isn’t in your class?” The sheer volume of information in Liam’s words was too much for Mr. Harris’s pig brain to process. He couldn’t fathom how I had managed to take the exam. Hearing Liam’s questioning tone, he instinctively argued back, “Of course Taylor is in my class.” “Then where is she?” Mr. Harris shifted his gaze back to me, his lips moving soundlessly. The next second, I tapped Liam on the shoulder from behind. “Hey, looking for me?” Liam’s calm demeanor cracked for a split second. He looked at me, scanned me up and down, and asked, “You’re Taylor?” “Yep.” “What are you doing out in the hallway?” I flashed a light smile. “Oh, getting punished. Couldn’t you tell?” “…” 13 Liam and I crouched together in the corner of the hallway outside the classroom as I explained my thought process for the problem. No matter how much Mr. Harris beckoned him to come inside and sit down, Liam rejected him with a deadpan, “No thanks.” He even threw in a veiled insult: “If Taylor has to squat out here, I can too.” It turned Mr. Harris’s face the color of liver. Near the end of the period, I finally finished explaining the solution. Before leaving, Liam asked for my number: “The Statewide Honors AP Assessments are coming up soon. We can discuss practice problems.” I gave him my number. Liam carefully saved it in his phone, then gave me a meaningful look. “Your homeroom teacher really doesn’t like you, huh?” I let out an “Huh?” “Is it that obvious?” He didn’t answer, but a faint smile touched his lips. “I think I get the picture.” “Hmm?” “Nothing. See you around.” I didn’t understand what Liam meant at the time. It wasn’t until two weeks later, when I saw Liam in our grand auditorium, that I finally understood what his “See you around” meant. The seven elite prep schools in the state held a joint academic assessment every year. Before the exams, to boost morale, they organized a seminar featuring the top 100 students from each school. This year, our school was hosting. Each school was expected to send an outstanding student representative to give a speech. Oakridge Prep sent Liam. As for our school… I stared at the pot-bellied Dean of Students, who was desperately trying to comb his combover over his bald spot, and said blankly: “A representative speech? You could have asked me earlier.”

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During winter break, while I was helping my son with his homework, he suddenly cursed at me: “I have a new mom now! I don’t need you to teach me! Get lost!” I looked at him in silence for a long time, then asked if he really didn’t want me to be his mom anymore. He viciously said yes. “I told you before, I would only give you three chances. This is the third time you’ve said you don’t want me. Remember this: you are the one who didn’t want me.” I got up and walked away. My son excitedly pulled out his phone and started playing Fortnite. He was so happy. 1 Walking out of my son’s room, I was calmer than I thought I’d be. After all, this was the third time my heart had been reduced to ashes. My son booted up Fortnite, his face twisting in manic obsession as he gamed away. I closed his door, shutting away his silhouette. I went back to my own bedroom, sat at the vanity, and stared at my pale, puffy, and bloated face. For thirteen years, I raised my son from a crying infant into a bouncing teenager. Only I knew the grueling hardships I endured along the way. But why did he turn out like this? I reflected on myself time and time again, but time and time again, I realized it wasn’t my fault. So whose fault was it? His dad’s toxic chauvinism, and his grandmother’s manipulative spoiling. “What kind of man does chores? Men are meant for big things.” “Men grind outside, women stay home and be good maids.” “What’s the big deal about washing underwear and socks together? It won’t kill you.” “You’re so annoying, why are you complaining about such little things?”… These were the things his dad, Mark, said on a daily basis. And that was exactly how he educated our son. Under the weight of thirteen years of misery, I broke down constantly. Every time I broke down, I would scream and cry like a deranged madwoman. In my son’s eyes, I was a lunatic, and his dad was a gentleman. “Look at your mother. Does she have any class at all?” That’s how Mark evaluated me, and my son would cling to his dad’s arm, looking at me with pure disgust. He had no idea that in a toxic household, the one screaming and causing a scene is usually the one in the most agonizing pain. In my misery, I completely lost all authority over my son. He resented me, rejected me, and even cursed at me. As for his grandmother, Martha, she claimed she came to “help us out,” but she really just came for a free ride. She barely lifted a finger, yet she was incredibly cunning and always knew how to win my son’s favor. If I scolded my son, she would scold me. If I forced my son to drink milk, she would sneakily buy him Coke. If a teacher punished my son, she would march to the school and physically attack the teacher. … Oh, she was so smart. She ruined my son’s growth and development, but she won his absolute devotion. And I, trapped in thirteen years of agony, had morphed into a shrieking housewife. 2 The woman in the mirror was already covered in tears. I didn’t even know when I started crying. From the next room, my son screamed: “Defend the damn tower, you idiot!” He was having the time of his life because I wasn’t nagging him anymore—even though tonight was the last day of winter break, and dozens of pages in his homework packet were still blank. Taking a deep breath, I patted my cheeks, burying my emotions as much as humanly possible. Giving up on someone you love is a bitter pill to swallow, but what follows is the exhilarating thrill of liberation. Once you flip that mental switch, nothing else matters. I stood up and took a hard look at my bloated body in the mirror. These were the scars left by thirteen years of torment. Thirteen years ago, I was a slim, beautiful, and ambitious college graduate. With my outstanding capabilities, I became the General Manager of a medical aesthetics spa chain. The owner, Brenda, treated me like a sister. But I threw away a brilliant career for “love.” I married Mark, became a full-time stay-at-home mom, and dedicated my life to serving my husband and raising my son. Breakdown after breakdown, healing after healing. Hurt by my son over and over, only to forgive him over and over. Until tonight. I finally gave up on him. I gave up my own flesh and blood. Because this was the third time he told me he didn’t want me to be his mom. Three months ago, I gave him a warning. At the time, Mark had already checked out of our marriage and was keeping a mistress on the side. For the sake of my son, I turned a blind eye. But that woman, Tiffany, started coming around the house more frequently. She would even buy groceries and drop them off just to butter up my mother-in-law. She got close to my son, too. He absolutely adored her. One time, after I scolded my son, he flat-out told me he didn’t want me to be his mom anymore. He wanted to swap me out. I knew he wanted that woman to be his new mom, and I knew Mark would kick me to the curb sooner or later. I didn’t care about Mark, but I cared about my son. So I told him: “I know you really like that lady, but I am your mother. If you ever say you don’t want me to be your mom again, I will tolerate it twice. But the third time, I won’t want you either.” My son didn’t take it to heart. Tonight, he blurted it out: I have a new mom now! I don’t need you to teach me! Get lost! 3 Exhaling another deep breath, I checked the time. It was 9:00 PM. Martha was still at her Zumba class at the community center. Mark was out “networking.” I knew his “networking” was taking place in his mistress’s bed. I opened my phone and found a contact named Brenda. Brenda was the owner of the MedSpa chain. After I quit, she asked me to come back multiple times, but I always declined. To this day, we only texted during the holidays or on birthdays. Our last chat was on my birthday. She sent me a generous gift card. It was the only gift I received, because no one in my own family remembered my birthday. After debating it for a long time, I sent Brenda a text, asking if she was asleep. She immediately FaceTimed me. I hesitated, but accepted the call. “Wow, Mel actually reached out… um… you…” Brenda’s beautifully preserved face froze on the screen, her words catching in her throat. I knew my current appearance had completely thrown her off. I had gained at least sixty pounds, and the youthful collagen in my face was long gone. For some reason, seeing Brenda looking so beautiful while she stared at me in shock made my tears flow like a broken dam. “Mel? Is that you? Oh honey, don’t cry.” Brenda panicked, caring about me just as deeply as she did all those years ago. I sobbed uncontrollably. So many emotions were tangled up inside me. I was filled with intense guilt; I never should have left Brenda. 4 After a long while, I managed to hold back my tears and apologized to Brenda. Brenda asked me what happened. I didn’t want to say it, but I needed to vent so badly. I told her my life was terrible, my marriage was a disaster, and I wanted to make some money so I could gain my independence. I really needed money. I knew Mark would divorce me eventually, and I had to be prepared. “Your husband is a piece of trash, just as I thought… and your mother-in-law is a wicked bitch. I guessed as much years ago when you first told me… sigh, I’m not going to lecture you.” Brenda sighed in frustration, wishing I had been stronger, but then she immediately started making a plan for me. “You can’t be a General Manager looking like this. We’re in medical aesthetics, and the company has expanded more than tenfold since you left. “Here’s the plan. I just opened a new branch in your area. You’ll go in as the Assistant Manager to help out. Your base salary will be $6,000 a month. In the meantime, you need to lose weight and get fit. You need your beauty back. Once you get your looks back, you’ll come to headquarters and be a General Manager. I’ll pay you $15,000+ a month plus commission!” I was ecstatic. Honestly, I didn’t even dare to hope for an Assistant Manager role; I just wanted to do administrative work. Pulling in $3,000 or $4,000 a month would have been a dream. I didn’t expect Brenda to hand me an Assistant Manager position and promise me a GM role in the future! I had the skills and the ambition. I wasn’t going to turn this down. “Brenda, give me a year. I will absolutely come see you at headquarters!” “Silly girl, come whenever you’re ready. Don’t wait a year, and don’t put too much pressure on yourself.” Brenda understood what I meant. This year was for me to transform myself. But she was afraid I’d rush it. After all, a year isn’t that long. 5 Hanging up the video call, a genuine smile finally returned to my face. I immediately started studying the MedSpa materials Brenda had sent me. Thirteen years had passed, and the medical aesthetics industry had changed drastically. I couldn’t afford to slack off; I had to understand everything thoroughly to be a good Assistant Manager. I studied until 10:00 PM, filling five pages with notes. Then, Martha came home. She opened the door loudly and slammed it shut even louder. The BANG made my eardrums throb. She did this every single day. No matter how many times I asked her to be quiet, nothing changed. “Grandma, look at my stats! 23 kills, MVP!” Cody grabbed his phone and ran to greet her. Martha didn’t understand the game, but she praised him endlessly: “My grandson is so amazing! Are you hungry? Want a late-night snack? I brought you some fried chicken.” “Hungry, hungry, hungry! Grandma, feed it to me, I’m going to keep racking up kills!” Cody plopped down on the sofa, and Martha tore off pieces of chicken to hand-feed him. I walked out to get a glass of water. Watching this scene, my heart felt completely dead. Not a single ripple. Martha shot me a glare. “Getting ready to yell again, huh? Cody studied all day. Playing a few games and eating some chicken is perfectly normal.” “Hmph!” Cody didn’t look at me, but he twisted his body, turning his back to me to express his annoyance. “Eat slowly. I’m busy.” I poured my water, went back to my room, and continued studying my materials. “What’s wrong with your mom? She’s usually acting like a crazy banshee.” Martha sounded a bit confused. Cody scoffed. “She’s scared. I threatened to replace her with a new mom. Now she doesn’t even dare to fart.” A thirteen-year-old middle schooler saying things like this. I put in my earplugs and focused on my studies. I wanted to be a great Assistant Manager, then a Branch Manager, then a General Manager. I was going to return to my peak. I was going to make $15,000 a month. When that day came, Mark’s $8,000 a month wouldn’t mean shit. The one initiating the divorce would be me, not him. He wasn’t worthy. 6 That night, I was incredibly hyped and full of passion. The exhaustion of pouring your heart into a career is entirely different from the soul-crushing exhaustion of being a housewife. I no longer had to suffer in agony because Mark didn’t come home at night, and I didn’t have to be furious because my son was staying up late playing video games. My eyes were solely focused on my work. That was something that truly belonged to me! When the sun came up, I had only slept for five hours, but I was bursting with energy. Normally, this was the time I would wake up to prepare breakfast and clothes for my son, and pack his backpack for whatever camp he had. But today, I got up, washed my face, and walked straight out the door to get breakfast, not even glancing at my son’s room. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, and a large caramel macchiato. I ordered a bit of everything and tasted it all, just like I did when I was in my twenties. I love food, but after marrying Mark, cooking three meals a day enveloped me in the greasy smell of the kitchen like a lingering nightmare. I was never going to cook a single meal for this family again! After eating and drinking my fill, I took a walk. By 8:00 AM, I was heading to the Elysian MedSpa branch to meet the manager. I specifically sent Brenda a text: “I’m heading out!” I figured she wasn’t awake yet, but she immediately FaceTimed me. I answered, and she was beaming: “Mel, you’re full of drive! Looks like you really want to change. You got this!” I nodded solemnly. Brenda then asked me: “Are you going to get a divorce first? I can hook you up with a shark of a lawyer to make sure you get a bigger cut of the assets.” I shook my head. “No rush. I’ve been stuck in the mud for thirteen years; I don’t mind staying for one more. When I finally climb out of this mud, I’m going to shove Mark and his entire family face-first into it!” I wasn’t satisfied. My heart was full of resentment. If I just divorced him now, no matter how much money I took, I wouldn’t feel good. I wanted them to feel miserable! They were the ones who deserved to suffer! “Looks like you have a plan. Good, that’s the Mel I know. The old Melody is back!” 7 Brenda didn’t say much more. She was incredibly busy, considering her company had expanded massively. However, she transferred $1,000 to my account, calling it a “start-work bonus,” saying everyone gets one. I was touched. Who gives a $1,000 start-work bonus? But I accepted it anyway. If I didn’t take this money, combining everything I had to my name wouldn’t even add up to fifty bucks. At 9:00 AM, the Elysian MedSpa opened. I had been waiting outside. I walked in and introduced myself to the branch manager. The manager was a middle-aged woman, very stylish and chic. She clearly wasn’t impressed by my appearance, but since I was personally assigned by Brenda, she didn’t dare say anything. She was just very cold. But after I worked for one day, the manager was beaming at me. “Mel, you are incredible! You closed nine premium memberships in one afternoon! That’s amazing! “Your etiquette and customer service skills are totally professional. You definitely worked in this industry before, didn’t you? “The three clients you targeted were indeed high-spenders. They bought memberships after just one treatment!” The manager’s praise gave me a long-lost thrill. This was a thrill I had lost thirteen years ago. I am back! 8 By the time I got off work, it was already 9:30 PM. I could have left earlier, but I didn’t want to. I preferred immersing myself in work. I checked my phone. Sure enough, it was blowing up. Three missed calls from Martha, seven from Mark. Right then, he called again. I answered, and Mark started screaming immediately: “Mel, where the hell did you go? No dinner, no laundry, you didn’t pick up the kid! I come home and the place is a disaster, damn it!” “Didn’t you say doing chores was incredibly easy? I just skipped one day. How could it be a disaster?” I mocked him. Mark flared up: “What the f*ck do you mean? Get your ass back here right now!” “Your son doesn’t want me to be his mom anymore. He has a new mom now. I suggest you let the new mom be your maid.” I mercilessly exposed his affair. He had a new woman. In the past, I tolerated it for the sake of my son. But now, I didn’t even want my son anymore. What was I tolerating? It’s your turn to tolerate me, Mark! Mark clearly stiffened for a second, then continued with an icy tone: “Since you know, I won’t hide it. Men have a lot of social obligations outside; who doesn’t do this? “Besides, I work so hard to provide for you, and you’re still not satisfied? What’s wrong with me having a little fun on the side?” He was so unbelievably shameless. His shamelessness was built entirely on my perceived “uselessness.” Yes, a full-time stay-at-home mom who only knows how to do laundry, cook, and act as a maid is considered useless. She is looked down upon by her husband. That’s why Mark dared to openly say he was “having fun on the side.” He wasn’t afraid of me getting angry at all. “Got it. You work so hard. Let your mom serve you well. Your son only likes your mom anyway. I’m not coming back.” I hung up the phone. Just because I’m not in a rush to divorce doesn’t mean I’ll keep being a doormat. I’ve let everything go. If I say I don’t want my son, I don’t want him! If I say I’m not coming home, I’m not coming home! 9 Ignoring Mark, I went to grab dinner, then took an Uber to a boutique women’s fitness and sculpting studio. I signed up for a month-long fat-loss boot camp. Five sessions a week, $100 per session. Dropping $2,000 all at once was a massive expense in my eyes. In the past, I wouldn’t have even dared to dream of this. All my spending had to be for the family. A measly $300 personal monthly allowance had to cover all the little things around the house. It was truly pathetic. After signing up for the classes, I booked a room at a four-star hotel for the night, letting the plush mattress support my exhausted body. It had been so long since I felt this relaxed. The next day, I rented an apartment and started my new life. My daily routine became a straight line between the MedSpa and the fitness studio. I didn’t even cast a glance back at my old home. Martha started panicking. Because I refused to go back, she had to do all the chores. “Mel, are you out of your mind? Why aren’t you coming home? Are you out fooling around with some wild man?!” Martha yelled at me over the phone. Cody’s voice echoed in the background: “It’s better if she doesn’t come back! I get annoyed just looking at her. She can go die!” My grip tightened on the phone, then relaxed. I was as calm as still water: “Cody only likes you, so you take care of him.” I hung up, turned on Do Not Disturb, and poured all my passion into my work and my workouts. 10 In just two short months, the Elysian MedSpa branch I worked at became the highest-grossing clinic in the region. Brenda was amazed. When we FaceTimed, she couldn’t stop praising me. “Mel, you are a force of nature! That new branch is dominating the market, crushing even the established clinics. You’re too powerful!” “Of course I’m powerful. After all, I was an all-star General Manager thirteen years ago.” I wasn’t modest at all. Brenda laughed loudly, then looked closely at my face. She noted that I had lost a lot of weight and looked much healthier. It was true. I had lost over 25 pounds. Even though I was still around 155 pounds, my entire demeanor and energy had completely changed. Looking at myself on the screen, I let out a soft breath. For a moment, I was overwhelmed with emotion, unable to find the words. “Okay, okay, don’t cry now. You’ve taken the first successful step. Keep pushing! I can’t wait to see you drop down to 120 pounds. When you hit 120, you’re going to be drop-dead gorgeous.” Brenda encouraged me again, and promoted me to Branch Manager with a base salary of $8,000. The original manager was transferred to an older branch. To celebrate my promotion, I treated Zoey, the owner of the fitness studio, to dinner. Over the past two months, Zoey and I had become close. She was very young, only twenty-six, and single. Zoey was bubbly and cute. She was also a minor influencer with about 50,000 followers on TikTok. While eating, she chattered away: “Mel, I’ve noticed a massive change in you. It’s not just that you lost weight; your whole vibe has changed. How should I put it… “Two months ago, when you came to me for classes, I honestly didn’t really want to take you on. Your image was so poor, and you looked broke. Our members are usually pretty wealthy…” Her honesty made me laugh. I nodded. “Yeah, I was incredibly broke back then. I was taking care of an entire family of freeloaders on a $300 monthly allowance.” “No way, was it really that bad?” Zoey’s eyes went wide. She was shocked, but she didn’t pry into my family drama. Instead, she started plotting something else: “Mel, you really need money, right? Do you want to be an influencer with me? I’ve been wanting to find a client to use for content—specifically, a weight-loss transformation series. “You’re at 155 pounds right now. If you keep this up every day, when you hit 120, you’ll look beautiful and fierce. You’ll definitely attract a huge following!” Zoey looked at me with expectation. I thought about it and asked: “How much is the pay?” Zoey gave me a playful eye roll: “We’ll split the video ad revenue 50/50. And… your fitness classes will be free from now on. How about that?” “Deal!” I took on an extra side gig: being Zoey’s content subject. She really liked my aura. She said that even though I was a downtrodden housewife, I had the bone structure of a classic beauty. When I slimmed down, I’d be explosive. Who knows, I might even become a massive influencer. And I have to admit, Zoey’s project drew in a ton of followers. Many netizens wanted to see how far I could transform, and they wanted to learn some weight-loss tips along the way. Another month later, I lost another 15 pounds. I was down to 140 pounds. When I looked in the mirror, I would occasionally catch glimpses of my younger self. It was as if the clock from thirteen years ago was running backward, and I was walking step-by-step toward the woman I was thirteen years ago.

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I floated suspended in the damp, heavy air, looking down at my own body crumpled in the dirt. My chest ached with a phantom tightness, but more than anything, my heart swelled with a profound, suffocating guilt toward my mother. I’ve embarrassed her again, I thought. Just like always. It all started with the eight-mile weighted ruck march. My mother was the Company Commander of our grueling advanced training regiment. To dispel any whispers of nepotism, she insisted that I—despite my documented, severe asthma—participate in the field exercise. I had a forty-pound tactical pack strapped to my shoulders. With every step I dragged forward, it felt like swallowing broken glass. I had to stop and gasp for air just to keep moving. By the halfway point, the edges of my vision were blurring into dark vignettes. I couldn’t hold on anymore. I reached into my cargo pocket for my rescue inhaler, just needing one quick burst of albuterol to open my screaming lungs. But before my fingers could even close around the plastic casing, Squad Leader Kelsey snatched it from behind me. Without breaking stride, she chucked it over the edge of the ravine. “Captain!” Kelsey yelled toward the front of the column, her voice dripping with sycophantic eagerness. “Gemma is trying to slack off again! Don’t worry, ma’am, I won’t let her drag the whole company down!” Far up the trail, my mother paused. She glanced back over her shoulder, her face a mask of rigid, exhaustion-fueled irritation. “The entire company is waiting on you, Gemma. Do you have absolutely no shame?” her voice cut through the humid air, sharp as a switchblade. “If you can’t walk, crawl. If you can’t crawl, roll. Do not humiliate me out here.” She turned back around. She didn’t look at me again. I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste copper and kept pushing forward. My chest felt like it was caught in an industrial vice, tightening with every frantic, shallow breath. Black spots danced furiously in front of my eyes. Finally, around mile five, the invisible vice snapped shut. My knees buckled, and I slammed heavily into the unforgiving earth. I never got back up. 1 Several cadets marched past me as the column moved out. “The Captain is brutal, man. Even to her own kid.” “You kidding? Especially to her own kid. Zero special treatment.” “I thought her daughter was slated for Public Affairs? Desk duty, taking photos. She shouldn’t even be on a tactical ruck.” “You don’t get it. The Captain forced her into it to prove a point. If she went easy on her kid, she’d lose the company’s respect.” The hushed murmurs drifted into my ears. I lay face down, my cheek pressed into the jagged gravel and wet soil. The massive rucksack was still crushing my spine, pinning me to the ground. My tactical uniform blended perfectly with the underbrush. They didn’t even realize I was there. They just stepped right over me. I thought I heard the dull, sickening crunch of my own ribs giving way under a heavy combat boot. As the last person passed, their sole caught the edge of my uniform sleeve, flipping my arm. It left my hand clawing at the dirt—a frozen testament to the fact that, even in my final moments, I had been desperately trying to stand back up. Kelsey, sweeping the rear, slowed her pace as she approached. She looked down at me, her eyes narrowing. She nudged my shoulder with the steel toe of her boot. “Why are you hiding in the weeds? Trying to catch a break?” she sneered. “Get up. Now. Before I go tell your mother.” I didn’t move. She kicked me again, harder this time. My shoulder jerked. When I still didn’t respond, she grabbed me by the webbing of my tactical vest and dragged me roughly into the tall grass off the trail. Seeing me flop into the weeds like a sack of wet sand, she let out a dry, contemptuous laugh. “You’re a hell of an actress, I’ll give you that. Playing dead to get out of a hike. No wonder you wanted Public Affairs.” A few stragglers from the rear guard caught up. Seeing me sprawled in the brush, they slowed down, whispering among themselves. Kelsey’s eyes darted around. She took a step back, pitching her voice loud enough to echo off the trees. “Gemma!” she gasped in mock horror. “Are you seriously just going to lay there and wait for the Captain to come carry you?” The group of cadets broke into muted laughter, the mockery thick in the air. “Must be nice, being the Captain’s kid.” “VIP treatment. When your legs get tired, mommy comes to the rescue.” I drifted in the air above them, a silent spectator. I watched them circle my corpse like kids looking at roadkill. Kelsey turned toward the high ground up ahead and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Captain Rossi! Gemma stopped again! She’s on the ground playing dead!” Up on the ridge, my mother stopped. She turned around. I watched her begin the march down the incline, her strides long and furious. And as she approached, a small, childish thought flickered in my ghostly mind. If she realizes I’m dead… will it break her heart? She reached me, stopping exactly three paces away. “Gemma. How long do you plan on throwing this tantrum?” She stared down at me. Her voice was absolute ice. “Forty people in this company. They are all waiting on you. Are you really this selfish?” Silence. “You need to get it through your head that out here, you aren’t my daughter. You are a recruit. Because of your pathetic display, you’ve killed the regiment’s momentum. When we get back to base, you’re running a hundred laps and standing at attention outside the barracks for two hours.” Kelsey’s lips curled into a faint, triumphant smirk. “Captain, do you think she’s… actually hurt?” “Hurt?” My mother paused. “I know my daughter. She’s been pulling this exact stunt since she was a little girl. The second things don’t go her way, she drops to the ground and makes a scene.” Her words drifted up to me, frigid and dismissive. “She just wants to break me. She wants me to coddle her in front of the entire company, just to prove she’s special to me.” I hovered beside my mother, my translucent hands reaching out, desperate to explain. No, Mom. I wasn’t trying to force your hand. I died. She said she knew me. But the girl she knew was a memory from childhood. She didn’t know the woman I had become. She didn’t know how much I had learned to swallow the pain. She didn’t know that by mile three, my heart was already spasming in my chest. She didn’t know that my inhaler—my only lifeline—had been ripped away and tossed into a ravine by the very girl she was trying to impress. Mom, I didn’t want to make you soft. I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I just… I couldn’t walk anymore. I’m so sorry, Mom. I embarrassed you again. 2 When I still didn’t move, my mother’s annoyance flared into genuine rage. She closed the distance in two quick strides, her eyes narrowing at the patch of flattened grass. “Gemma.” No answer. She raised her voice, a sharp, military bark. “Gemma, drag your ass out of there right now.” The wind swept through the tall grass, revealing half of my mud-caked uniform. My mother saw it. She parted the brush. I was face down, my shoulders sunken into the earth. From her angle, it looked exactly like I was deliberately burying my face in the dirt, stubbornly refusing to look at her. My mother inhaled sharply. The air around her turned venomous. “Wow. You’ve really perfected the dead weight routine, haven’t you? What, are you trying to force my hand like you did back then?” A memory hit me with sudden, blinding clarity. I was twelve. My parents had both been given orders for a dangerous overseas deployment. I had screamed, cried, and ultimately faked a severe asthma attack just to force my mother to stay behind. She stayed. But my father went. And a stray bullet in a desert thousands of miles away made sure he never came back. After that day, my mother became a different person. Whenever my chest seized up, whenever I genuinely couldn’t breathe, she looked at me with cold suspicion. She thought I was always lying. Her voice trembled with barely contained fury. “You think you can play mind games with me?” She crouched down, her hands violently twisting into the collar of my tactical shirt. She hauled my upper body out of the grass and slammed me back down against the wet earth, handling me with the rough, mechanical detachment of dealing with an enemy combatant. She pressed her hand hard against the back of my neck, shoving my face into the damp, decaying leaves and mud. “Great acting,” she hissed. Footsteps crunched on the gravel behind her. Lieutenant Callahan, the platoon leader, jogged up. He stopped short, his eyes widening as he saw the Captain pinning her own daughter to the dirt. He opened his mouth, closed it, and finally spoke. “Captain… should I radio for the medics?” “Cancel that,” my mother snapped, cutting him off. “She has faked sickness since she was in middle school. She plays the victim to get pity. If I don’t break her of this habit today, it’s going to ruin her.” Her grip on my collar tightened. My head lolled limply against her knuckles, swaying with the movement. “I am going to ask you one last time, Gemma. Are you getting up?” She let go. My forehead hit the ground with a sickening, hollow thud. She stood up, towering over me, her chest heaving. “Fine. You want to stay down?” She raised her leg. The reinforced toe of her combat boot drove hard into my thigh. “Get up.” Another kick. This one to my ribs. “Keep faking. Go ahead.” A third kick. To my shoulder. Callahan couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward. “Captain, that’s enough!” My mother shoved him back. She leaned down, grabbed me by both shoulders, and hauled my limp body up. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. Smack. The sound was sharp and terrible in the mountain wind. My head snapped violently to the side. “Are you awake now?” Another slap. “Stop faking.” A third. “Don’t you ever lie to me again.” Callahan grabbed her arm, physically pulling her away. “Captain! Stop! Something is wrong! Look at her face—” My mother wrenched her arm out of his grip, but her gaze finally locked onto my face. She stared at me for three agonizing seconds. “Unbelievable,” she whispered, her voice laced with disgust. “You actually put on corpse makeup to trick me? I knew I shouldn’t have let you anywhere near this regiment. You are a complete embarrassment.” She released me, letting me drop like a stone back into the weeds. “If she wants to lay there, let her lay there. We’ll see how long her little protest lasts.” She turned and walked away. After a few paces, she stopped and threw a look over her shoulder at the Lieutenant. “Pass the word down. Double-time the pace. Anyone who falls behind stays behind.” Callahan opened his mouth to argue, but she was already marching back to the front. He cast one last, tortured look at the brush before jogging after her. I hovered right where I fell. I looked down at my own body. The left side of my face was severely swollen. The blood trickling from the corner of my mouth had already dried into a dark crust. My uniform was painted with the muddy imprints of combat boots, and my shoulder rested at a grotesque, unnatural angle where it had been crushed. I was dead. I wasn’t supposed to feel physical pain anymore. But for some reason, my soul felt like it was being torn apart. 3 Callahan had only taken a few steps toward the column when his boot kicked something hard in the grass. He paused, looking down. It was an Albuterol inhaler. He recognized it instantly as the one I carried everywhere. A deep crease formed between his brows. He picked it up and immediately shouted for Kelsey. Kelsey, who had seamlessly blended back into the middle of the formation, jogged over at the sound of her name. “Lieutenant? What is it?” Callahan stepped into her space, holding the plastic inhaler right in front of her eyes. “This is Gemma’s inhaler. Why is it in the dirt miles from where she collapsed? I recall Gemma mentioning before we shipped out that you took her spare. Is that true?” Kelsey’s eyes flickered with panic. She took a half-step back. “Sir? I don’t know what you’re implying.” “I’m asking if you threw her asthma medication into the woods. Do you realize that kind of hazing can be fatal?” Kelsey’s voice dropped an octave, trembling. “No, sir. I didn’t. Why would I touch her meds? She’s probably just making things up to get me in trouble.” She gathered her confidence, her voice growing louder, as if volume could make the lie real. “Besides, she was faking the whole time anyway! The Captain said it herself—she’s been faking sick since she was a kid. What does this have to do with me?” Several cadets nearby slowed down, rubbernecking at the confrontation. “Looks like the Squad Leader is getting chewed out. You never see Callahan that mad.” “I heard he said she tossed Gemma’s inhaler.” “Wait, that inhaler? I think I actually saw her—” Before the cadet could finish the sentence, my mother’s voice cut through the trees like a whip. “Why is there a bottleneck here? Keep moving!” Callahan and Kelsey turned simultaneously. My mother marched toward them, her expression entirely unreadable, her eyes dead and cold. Callahan immediately stepped to her, holding out the plastic device. “Captain, please look at this. Isn’t this Gemma’s rescue inhaler?” My mother gave it a fleeting, disinterested glance. “Captain…” Kelsey’s voice wavered, immediately injecting tears into her tone. “I swear I didn’t touch it. I saw the bottle earlier and just asked her what it was…” “Enough.” My mother cut off Kelsey’s frantic defense. She glanced at the worn label on the canister. And then, just as Callahan opened his mouth to press the issue, my mother snatched the inhaler from his hand and chucked it blindly into the thick, impenetrable brush. “Move out. We’re burning daylight.” Callahan stood frozen in the mud, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked painful. He tried one last time. “Ma’am, I am not comfortable leaving Gemma out here. If she really is having a medical emergency—” “I said she is faking,” my mother exploded, her voice echoing violently through the woods. Whatever nerve Callahan had struck, it triggered a raw, defensive fury. “You just saw her! She’d rather play dead in the mud than keep up with this unit. This isn’t just a discipline issue anymore, Lieutenant. It’s a character defect.” She pointed a finger hard at Callahan’s chest. “The minute this exercise is over, I am filing the paperwork for her immediate discharge. I will not have a manipulative coward in my regiment. And as a Platoon Leader, your focus should be on the unit, not letting yourself get manipulated by one malingerer.” She leaned in. “Not another word. One more word and you’ll be running those hundred laps with her.” Callahan’s jaw clenched so tight the muscle leaped in his cheek. But he didn’t say another word. A cold breeze swept over the trail, rustling the dead leaves. The blood seeping from underneath my body had already soaked deep into the earth, coagulating into a dark, sticky mass. I floated in the air, watching my mother’s rigid back as she marched away. Callahan had been so close. He had almost uncovered the truth. Just one step away. But my mother chose to believe Kelsey over me. With her own hands, she had taken the very last shred of hope for me, and she had buried it. 4 It was pitch black by the time the company returned to base camp. A sudden, freezing drizzle began to fall. The few floodlights around the staging area cut through the rain, casting everything in a sickly, jaundiced yellow. My mother stood at the front of the formation with her clipboard, conducting roll call. She barked out the names, one by one. Each was met with a crisp “Here, ma’am.” Until she reached the third name from the bottom. She paused. “Gemma Rossi.” Silence. She called it again, sharper this time. “Gemma Rossi.” Only the sound of rain hitting the muddy tarmac answered her. My mother slowly raised her head, her eyes scanning the exhausted, rain-slicked faces of the cadets. “Where is she?” When no one spoke, she folded the roster, shoved it into her rain jacket, and let out a short, hollow breath. “Fine. She wants to play hide and seek.” She squared her shoulders, addressing the entire company. Her voice carried over the storm. “Listen up. As of tonight, Cadet Rossi is dismissed from this program. Anyone who shrinks from duty, who abandons their unit in the field, has no place in my command. I am filing the discharge papers tonight. Let her be a lesson to the rest of you. Dismissed.” The formation broke in utter silence. In the front row, Kelsey kept her head bowed, but the very corner of her mouth twitched. My mother turned on her heel and marched to the command tent. Callahan hesitated for a agonizing second before jogging after her. “Captain, it’s pouring out there. She’s alone in the woods—” “She knows how to hide,” my mother snapped, not even looking at him. “You really think she’s just sitting out there letting herself get rained on?” Callahan went quiet. His fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles stark white against the gloom. The rain was coming down in sheets now. Callahan stood in the doorway of the command tent, watching the deluge outside, then turned back to my mother. She was sitting behind a folding tactical desk, illuminated by a harsh LED lantern, furiously filling out the discharge forms. The scratch of her pen against the paper was loud and rhythmic. Callahan stepped forward. “Captain. Requesting permission to take a search detail out for her.” She didn’t look up from the paperwork. “Denied.” “Ma’am, the temperature is dropping. If she’s actually hurt—” She slammed the pen down and finally looked at him. Her eyes were hard. “Did she cast some sort of spell on you, Lieutenant?” Callahan blinked, caught off guard. “She has been doing this exact routine since she was a child,” my mother said, her voice dripping with fatigue. “The second she doesn’t get her way, she hides. She forces the whole family to panic and search for her. And when she’s finally found, she turns on the tears and plays the victim.” She leaned back in her chair, a look of profound disgust crossing her features. “I am not falling for it again.” Callahan’s voice dropped, turning dark and heavy. “Captain. What if she isn’t faking? What if she’s really—” For a fraction of a second, the color completely drained from my mother’s face. But just as quickly, the mask slammed back into place. “Are you lecturing me on how to run my command?” “I’m just saying, whether you plan to discipline her or discharge her, we need to bring her back to base first. Leaving her out there… isn’t this an overcorrection?” The word hung in the damp air of the tent. Overcorrection. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain against the canvas. My mother stared at Callahan, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “An overcorrection?” she repeated, stepping out from behind the desk. Her voice was terrifyingly low. “Do you have any idea what she did when she was twelve years old?” Callahan remained silent. Instead of explaining, my mother took a deep breath, forcing her features back into a state of chilling calm. “If she likes hiding in the woods, she can stay in the woods. Let’s see how long her stubbornness lasts in the cold.” Callahan stood his ground. His lips parted, but before he could push any further, the tent flap flew open. Kelsey ducked inside, out of breath. “Captain, someone is here to see you.” My mother’s lips curved into a bitter, knowing smile. She shot Callahan a look of pure vindication. “See? What did I tell you? She was faking. She got tired of the rain and came crawling back. I told you, she just needs to learn a lesson. The more you cater to her, the more she manipulates you.” Suddenly, the heavy canvas door was ripped open from the outside. A gust of wind drove rain deep into the tent, splattering mud across the tactical maps. Major Henderson, the base commander, stood in the doorway. He was thoroughly soaked, his face a terrifying shade of gray. He looked directly at my mother, cutting off whatever she was about to say. “Why did you abandon a recruit in the field? Search and Rescue just pulled a body out of the ravine. She’s wearing one of our uniforms.”

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A girl suddenly collapsed onto her knees at my front door, and honestly, I was a little thrown. She was wailing, screaming about how she’d spent sixteen years searching for her mother, and apparently, that mother was my wife. I was standing there with a can of Coke in my hand, thinking to myself that this was about to be a hell of a show. I figured it was just another one of those high-society soap operas—a long-lost child coming to claim their inheritance. It’s a classic trope, right? After all, I’m currently the husband to a titan of industry. My wife adores me, we have kids, and I’m essentially living the “winner” script of a lifetime. But I didn’t expect the plot twist to hit so fast. She suddenly whipped around, pointed a trembling finger right at my nose, and started screaming. She called me a squatter. A fraud. She claimed I’d stolen her father’s rightful place, and she didn’t stop there—she called my two sons “bastards.” 1 “Mom!” The girl was practically face-down on the marble floor of the dining room entrance, sobbing at Diana’s feet. She was wearing a faded, washed-out T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looked up at Diana, who was sitting at the head of the table, and the floodgates just opened. “Sixteen years… I finally found you!” The entire room froze. Parker stopped mid-bite into his apple. Chase’s hand paused as he reached for his coffee. Even Walter, our long-time house manager, let his eyes widen just a fraction. Diana sat there, her brow slightly furrowed, her expression a mask of calm. She didn’t say a word. And me? I just took a long, satisfying sip of my Coke. Sugar and carbonation—the greatest invention in human history. Life throws a lot of curveballs at you, but I’ve always lived by one rule: even if the sky is falling, you might as well have a drink while you watch. The girl’s name was Jade. She was seventeen. According to her, she was the result of a one-night stand Diana had seventeen years ago at a place called The Midnight Vault. Her father was a guy named Ray. Apparently, he’d been a bartender there, spent one night with a very drunk Diana, and ended up raising a daughter alone for seventeen years. Now, Ray was supposedly on his deathbed, which gave Jade the courage to come “home.” “Mom, my dad is really fading. His only wish in this world is for me to take my rightful place in this family…” Jade’s voice was raw, her body shaking with tremors. “I know I shouldn’t be here, I know I’m a disruption, but I had nowhere else to go…” She sounded devastatingly sincere. Tears and snot were a mess on her face, and I could hear some of the younger house staff whispering in the hallway. Diana glanced at me. I gave her a small, supportive nod. “Get up for now,” Diana said, her voice steady. “Walter, arrange a guest room for her. And get in touch with the lab for a DNA test.” “Thank you, Mom! Thank you!” Jade sobbed, nearly kissing the floor again before the staff helped her up. As she stood, her eyes flickered over to me. There was a flash of pure, unadulterated hatred in that look. Then her gaze shifted to Parker and Chase. A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of her mouth. I saw it clearly. It was the smile of a winner. Like she’d already taken the crown. I’d first heard the rumor that Diana had a secret daughter from Walter during breakfast. Actually, it started with a text. Ping. Diana: “You up? Breakfast is on the table.” I sent back a blowing-kiss emoji and took my sweet time getting ready. My name is Gavin, and I am the husband of the Chairwoman of the Sterling Group. When I “woke up” in this life five years ago, I only remembered my name. But I quickly realized I’d hit the cosmic jackpot. My wife, Diana, was the eldest daughter of the Sterling empire and had already taken the reins as CEO. She’s five-nine, gorgeous, and looks like she stepped out of a high-end fashion editorial. She wasn’t easy at first. Word was she’d been through some trauma, and she treated me with a chilly indifference for the first few months. But I’m a romantic at heart—and a pragmatist. I wanted a life of luxury, so I set out to win over the Ice Queen. I learned her likes, her dislikes, and figured out exactly what made her feel safe. Slowly, she went from ignoring me to depending on me. Now? Now she won’t leave the house without a kiss. The first thing she says when she walks through the door is, “Honey, I’m home.” She insists on falling asleep in my arms, or she can’t sleep at all. At forty-something, Diana is the woman of my dreams. I finished my morning routine and headed downstairs. The dining room was already full. Diana was in her spot at the head of the long mahogany table, dressed in a deep navy silk robe. She smiled when she saw me. “There you are.” 2 “Morning,” I said, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking my seat. Across from me sat our sons, Chase and Parker. As soon as I sat down, Chase pushed a plate of freshly sliced fruit toward me. Parker, who was working on a breakfast sandwich, grinned. “Looking sharp today, Dad.” “Of course. These skin serums don’t apply themselves, you know.” “Was that new night cream any good?” “Game changer. I’ll order a jar for you.” “Thanks, Dad!” Diana looked at us, laughing softly as she shook her head. “You three. All you do is talk about shopping.” “What’s wrong? You tired of me spending your money yet?” I teased, shooting her a playful look. “Never. I work so you can spend it. That’s the deal.” Chase set his phone down, his face deadpan. “Mom, that was pathetic. Have some dignity.” “You’ll understand when you’re older. It’s called spoiling your husband.” “Whatever. You win.” I popped a piece of melon into my mouth, enjoying the quiet hum of the house. “What’s the schedule today?” Diana asked. “Spa in the morning, then tea with the guys in the afternoon. You?” “Board meeting this morning. I should be back early afternoon.” “Dinner together, then?” “Definitely. What are you craving?” “I’ll think about it. Let’s decide when you get home.” “Deal.” That was when Walter walked in. Walter had been with the family for over thirty years. He was the definition of “unflappable,” but today, he looked genuinely rattled. “Chairwoman. Sir.” “What is it, Walter?” Diana asked. Walter hesitated. “There is a young woman outside. Seventeen, perhaps. She’s asking for you, Ma’am.” “Who is she?” “She claims…” Walter paused, clearing his throat. “She claims to be your daughter.” The room went silent for two beats. Diana’s brow pinched together. She looked at me. I kept chewing my melon, thinking, Well, here we go. The secret-love-child plot. Classic. But honestly, a daughter didn’t bother me. This family has more than enough money to go around. “And?” I asked through a mouthful of fruit. “She’s been at the gate for two hours. Security told her to leave, but she refused to budge,” Walter said. “She says she won’t leave until she sees the Chairwoman.” “Bring her in,” I said. “Let’s finish breakfast first, then we’ll deal with it.” Diana nodded in agreement. Walter bowed and left. Parker looked up at me. “Dad, aren’t you… worried?” “About what?” I asked, sliding a piece of bacon onto his plate. “What if she’s actually…” “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I said. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.” Whether she was blood or not—that was a question for a lab tech. It wasn’t something I needed to lose sleep over. Jade’s first day in the house was a masterclass in performance art. She spent her time telling the staff how much she’d suffered growing up, subtly painting me as the “other man” who had dismantled her rightful family. But that was just the appetizer. The real show began when her father, Ray, showed up. The day before the DNA results were due, Jade brought him onto the estate. No warning, no permission. She just marched him right through the front door. Ray was in his late forties. When he stepped out of the car, he gawked at the house, muttering, “Jesus, look at this place. It’s a palace!” He walked into the living room, crashed onto the designer sofa, and crossed his legs. He looked at a maid and snapped, “Get me some tea. Earl Grey. High-end stuff, don’t give me the cheap tea bags.” The maid looked at me. I gave her a small nod. He took a sip of the tea, then wandered into the dining room. He ran a finger over the table. “Nice wood. Needs to be polished better, though. Can’t have scratches on a piece like this.” Then he went into the garden, pointing at the prize-winning rose bushes. “Too bright. I don’t like roses. We’ll rip these out next week and plant lilies. I’ve always been a lily man.” Our head gardener looked like he was about to have a stroke. At lunch, Ray sat himself down before anyone else, grabbing a fork and digging in. “Fish is good. Shrimp is decent. The soup is a bit salty, tell the chef to dial it back next time.” He critiqued every bite. Parker sat with his fork hovering in mid-air, unsure if he was even allowed to eat. Chase leaned back, his eyes turning cold and dangerous. Diana wasn’t home; she was still at the office. “Ray,” I said, finally speaking up. “How are you feeling? Jade mentioned you were quite ill.” Ray waved a hand dismissively, his mouth full of sea bass. “Whatever. You should probably start thinking about where you’re going to live once those DNA results come back, Gavin.” “I wouldn’t worry about my living arrangements if I were you. Do you need me to call a doctor to look at you?” Ray’s expression flickered for a second. “No, no. I know my own body.” For a man on his deathbed, he had a hell of an appetite. I saw right through him, but I didn’t say a word. That afternoon, Ray started “reorganizing” the estate. He made the staff move the crystal vases because the “vibe” was off. He told them to change the table linens because the color was “unlucky.” He walked down the gallery, demanding the paintings be re-hung. “They look cluttered.” He even wandered into the garage and pointed at my red Ferrari. “I like this one. I’ll take the keys for this starting tomorrow.” The driver looked at him awkwardly. “Sir, that’s Mr. Gavin’s car.” Ray just shrugged. “He can get a new one.” Finally, he found his way into my walk-in closet. He stood there, staring at the walls of custom suits and watches, his eyes gleaming. He reached out and touched a Patek Philippe, his fingers lingering on the gold casing. “This is nice. I could get used to this.” He turned and saw me leaning against the doorframe. He froze for a second, then gave me a greasy smile. “Just looking, Gavin. Just opening my eyes to how the other half lives.” “Look all you want,” I said softly. 3 He spent twenty minutes in there. When he finally walked out, the look in his eyes had shifted entirely. I knew that look. It was greed. Pure, unadulterated entitlement. The look of a man who believed all of this already belonged to him. That evening, Diana came home. Ray transformed instantly. He became the picture of the tragic, pining lover—soft-spoken, fragile, heartbroken. He stood in the foyer, eyes downcast, his voice trembling. “Diana… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come. But I just… I missed you so much.” He started to weep. Real, cinematic tears. Jade joined in, and the two of them held each other, sobbing loudly enough to wake the neighbors. Diana watched them, her face unreadable. She said only one thing: “The results come in tomorrow. Everything will be clear then.” Ray nodded, wiping his eyes. “Thank you, Diana. I don’t want anything for myself. I just want Jade to have her name. That’s all I need before I go.” I almost laughed out loud. He didn’t want anything? This was the same man who had been cruising in my Ferrari, eyeing my Patek, and demanding the roses be dug up. He didn’t want a “name.” He wanted the keys to the kingdom. The next morning, Ray stopped pretending altogether. He was up at 5:30 AM, barking orders at the kitchen staff. “This oatmeal is too thin! Do it over!” “The eggs are overcooked! I wanted them poached, not rubber!” “This milk is cold! Heat it up!” He was sitting in Diana’s chair at the head of the table, his feet up, picking at his teeth. When I walked down, I saw him there. I didn’t make a scene. “Morning, Ray. Sleep well?” He looked at me, a smug grin plastered on his face. “Not bad. Bed’s a bit soft, though. I’ll have the staff swap it for a firm orthopedic mattress tomorrow.” “Sure. I’ll let Walter know.” He spent the morning continuing his “renovations.” He moved the sofas. He tore down the artwork in the hallway, complaining they were “too depressing” and needed “bright floral prints” instead. Then he went back to the garden and pointed at the peonies. “These are tacky. Rip ’em out. I want red roses everywhere!” Our gardener finally snapped. “Sir, those peonies are Mr. Gavin’s favorite. He’s been tending them for five years!” Ray glared at him. “Who cares what he likes? We’ll see who’s running things by dinner time!” He leaned in closer to the gardener. “Besides, my daughter is the only real heir to this fortune. Remember that.” Parker heard that while we were playing chess in the sunroom. “Dad, did you hear what he said?” “I heard.” “You aren’t angry?” “What’s the point of being angry?” I moved a knight. “Let him play. Let him make as much noise as he wants. The louder they are, the harder they fall.” Parker thought about it, then grinned. “You’re letting him dig his own grave, aren’t you?” “Smart kid.” In the afternoon, Ray took the Ferrari out. When he came back, the car was stuffed with shopping bags. He had the staff carry everything to his room and then stood in the middle of the living room to make a grand announcement. “This house is far too dated. We’re doing a full remodel. I want the living room to be Neo-Classical, the dining room French Provincial, and the master suite should be old-world dark wood. We’re putting a fountain in the driveway and a gazebo in the back. And the pool? It’s embarrassing. We’re ripping it out and starting over!” He turned his gaze toward me. “You don’t mind, do you, Gavin? I’m just trying to look out for the family. This place hasn’t had a man’s touch in seventeen years.” I smiled. “Whatever makes you happy, Ray.” 4 He blinked, clearly surprised that I wasn’t putting up a fight. When Diana finally got home that night, Ray slipped back into his “feeble” persona. He brought a cup of tea to her study door, his voice a whisper. “You look exhausted, Diana. You work too hard.” Diana took the tea and gave him a long look. “You went out today?” Ray’s face paled slightly. “Yes… I did.” “In the Ferrari?” “I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have taken your car—” “That isn’t my car. It’s Gavin’s,” Diana said, her tone icy and flat. “You should have asked his permission.” Ray froze. The message was loud and clear: in this house, his opinion didn’t matter. Mine did. Ray forced a smile. “Of course. My mistake. I’ll apologize to Gavin tomorrow.” As he backed out of the room, the mask slipped. His face twisted into a look of cold, poisonous resentment. Back in the guest wing, Jade was waiting for him. “Dad? How did it go?” Ray slammed the door and hissed, “Diana is still protecting that man. She wouldn’t even let me touch the damn car!” “It doesn’t matter,” Jade said, her voice hard. “Once the DNA test comes back, how do we kick them out?” “Don’t rush!” Ray snapped. “Everything here belongs to us. If it wasn’t for that guy, I’d be the one living here. I’d be the one Diana came home to. I’d be the one driving that Ferrari!” He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glowing with a manic intensity. “Tomorrow, when the results are read, you play the victim. Make sure Diana sees how much you’ve suffered. Then we make her throw that man and his two little brats out onto the street!” “I’m ready,” Jade replied instantly. “They’ve been living my life for too long. It’s time they gave it back.” She had been raised on this story for seventeen years. In her mind, she wasn’t an intruder. She was the rightful queen returning to her throne. On the day of the reveal, Diana stayed home. She sat in the library, the sealed envelope resting on the desk in front of her. Jade and Ray sat on one sofa; Parker, Chase, and I sat on the other. “Open it,” I said quietly. Diana tore the seal, pulled out the document, and flipped to the final page.

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I was spiraling. My own family had gone as far as bringing in a “spiritual consultant,” convinced that I needed to be purged, perhaps even burned alive. It was a nightmare that made no sense. If they saw me use my left hand, they would erupt into a frenzy of screams and hysterics. Yet, in the next breath, they would cradle that same hand, weeping, asking if it hurt, smothering it with a terrifying kind of devotion. Even when I took a heavy iron wrench and systematically smashed my husband’s brand-new luxury SUV into a heap of twisted metal, he and my mother didn’t blink. They didn’t care about the car. They only cared about me. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that I was my daughter’s biological mother. But after the way they looked at me, I ended up at a clinic, demanding a full DNA panel. I thought I was the one who had finally snapped. When I walked into the kitchen later that day, my mother didn’t greet me with a smile. She picked up a pot of boiling water and flung it toward me, her face contorted in rage. “My daughter is dead! You’re just a skin-suit! Don’t you dare try to play me!” But then, she saw it. She saw me reach out with my left hand to steady myself, my fingers grazing the biometric lock on the pantry. Her rage vanished, replaced by a haunting, hollow sob. she turned and ran, fleeing back to her own house to “report” me to my father. I was paralyzed by a cocktail of terror and confusion. “Give me my wife back, or I’ll gut you myself!” my husband, Trevor, had hissed at me earlier that morning. His face had gone deathly pale, his eyes wide with revulsion. “What kind of freak are you?” But the moment he watched me use my left hand to swipe my keycard at the community gate, his aggression evaporated into a chilling, wide-eyed silence. It felt like a glitch in the universe. I tried to bring it up to Trevor when he got home from work, hoping for a rational explanation. Instead, it triggered a domestic war. From that day on, every time I used my left hand, my own daughter would shriek at the top of her lungs, calling me a “kidnapper” and an “imposter.” She wouldn’t let me touch her. She acted as if my skin were made of acid. I told myself she was just being a temperamental toddler. But then came the weekend trip to the city. We were at the subway station, moving through the turnstiles. Out of habit, I reached out with my left hand to tap my transit card. My daughter, whose hand I was holding, suddenly yanked herself away. She looked at me with a face full of pure, unadulterated horror and screamed for the whole station to hear: “You’re not my mommy!” The commuters stopped. They began to whisper and point. I stood there, frozen, the mechanical hum of the station feeling like a death knell. … After fleeing the suffocating atmosphere of my home, I practically sprinted to the office. I needed the grind. I needed the spreadsheets and the deadlines to prove to myself that the world was still round, and that I wasn’t the one who had lost my mind. They were the crazy ones. My daughter, my husband, my mother—all of them. I poured every ounce of my soul into my work. Using my “good” right hand, I hammered away at the keyboard, crafting a PowerPoint deck that was nothing short of a masterpiece. It was a high-stakes project proposal, and under my direction, it became a surgical strike of logic and strategy. During the board meeting, I operated the laser pointer with my right hand, articulating my vision with a clarity that felt like a lifeline. When I finished, my boss was the first to clap. His eyes were gleaming with genuine respect. “Jade, this is incredible. The project is yours. Perfect execution.” My colleagues swarmed me with congratulations. “You’re a legend, Jade!” “This plan is air-tight. No one does it like you.” For a few beautiful moments, the validation washed over me, loosening the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in my chest for days. I took a deep, shaky breath. I felt human again. And then, a pen rolled off the mahogany table and clattered onto the floor. Without thinking—purely by instinct—I leaned down and picked it up with my left hand. The air in the conference room didn’t just turn cold; it vanished. I looked up, and every single person was staring at my left hand. Their expressions weren’t just surprised—they were curdled with fear, disgust, and a primal sort of rejection. “Agggh!” It was Valerie, my closest friend at the firm. She was backing away, her face a mask of ghostly pale terror, her finger trembling as she pointed at me. “You… you…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. She turned and bolted like she had seen a demon rising from the floorboards. She tripped, losing a high heel in the process, but she didn’t stop. She literally scrambled out of the room on all fours. I stood there, paralyzed. The pen slipped from my fingers and hit the carpet with a dull thud. What was happening? Why? Why was the rot spreading to my professional life? By that afternoon, Valerie had submitted her resignation via email, citing “severe psychological trauma” and a need for immediate medical leave. The fear in me finally curdled into a scorching, white-hot rage. This was a conspiracy. It had to be. It was Trevor. It had to be him. He must have coordinated with the entire company to gaslight me, to break me until I admitted I was insane. I marched toward my department head’s office. I wasn’t going to take this anymore. I slammed the door open with my left hand. “Mr. Henderson, I need an explanation, and I need it now!” Henderson was hunched over some files. He jumped, startled. But the second his eyes landed on my left hand—the one still gripping the door handle—he surged out of his chair. He stumbled backward so hard he slammed into his filing cabinet. “Don’t… don’t come any closer!” He was shaking violently. His hand fumbled in his desk drawer until he pulled something out and aimed it at my face. It was pepper spray. “Get out!” he shrieked, his voice cracking. “If you don’t leave this building right now, I’m calling the police!” A wave of profound, crushing loneliness swallowed me whole. I wasn’t just being harassed. I was being erased by the world. I decided to test the boundaries of this absurdity. I needed to see how far they would go. I went home. Trevor and my mother-in-law were sitting on the sofa, watching TV, a picture-perfect scene of domestic bliss. I didn’t say a word. I walked straight to the hall closet, pulled out Trevor’s brand-new graphite golf driver, and walked out to the driveway. His million-dollar pride and joy—the limited edition Porsche—was gleaming in the sun. I gripped the club, put every bit of my trauma and fury into my shoulders, and swung. I smashed the hood with everything I had. CRUNCH. The metal crumpled. I expected a blowout. I expected him to scream, to maybe even hit me. Instead, they both came sprinting out, but they weren’t looking at the car. They lunged for the golf club, wrenching it out of my hands. Trevor grabbed my right hand, his eyes brimming with tears of genuine heartbreak and panic. “Honey, is your hand okay? Did you hurt yourself?” He began meticulously checking my fingers for even the slightest scratch. “You’ve been pampered your whole life,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “How could you do such back-breaking work? You shouldn’t be lifting heavy things.” My mother-in-law hovered behind him, clutching her chest. “Exactly! The car is just metal, we can buy ten more. But your hands… they’re precious. We can’t let anything happen to them.” It was the most grotesque, nonsensical display of affection I had ever witnessed. That night at dinner, my biological mother joined us. She had cooked a massive spread of all my favorite childhood dishes. The atmosphere was sickeningly sweet. I decided to push the button one more time. As the “warmth” reached its peak, I intentionally reached out with my left hand to grab a pair of serving tongs in the center of the table. The laughter died instantly. It was like someone had cut the power to the house. Trevor’s face went from flushed to a sickly, translucent white. SMASH. The bowl of soup in my mother’s hands hit the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. My daughter let out a piercing, jagged scream. She scrambled off her chair and hid behind the sofa, pointing a shaking finger at me. “You’re not my mommy! You’re a monster! A demon!” Trevor lunged. He grabbed a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table, his face distorted by a murderous, primal rage, and hurled it directly at my left hand. “I’ll kill you, you freak!” I dived out of the way, the crystal whistling past my ear and shattering against the wall. A shard grazed my knuckle, and a bead of dark red blood welled up. Before I could even catch my breath, my mother tackled me. She pinned my shoulders to the floor with a strength I didn’t know she possessed. She held a bowl of dark, foul-smelling liquid in one hand and used the other to pinch my jaw open with bruising force. “Drink it! Drink it now! We have to drive this thing out of you!” I thrashed and gagged as the bitter, revolting “tonic” was forced down my throat. I ended up retching it all over the rug. They locked me in the master bedroom. For two days and two nights, the door remained bolted from the outside. Food and water were pushed through a small gap at the bottom of the door, like I was a high-security inmate. The first day, I screamed. I clawed at the door. I begged. The only response was a tomb-like silence from the hallway. By the second day, the exhaustion set in. And with it, a cold, hard clarity. If I wanted to survive, I had to play the part. I tore through the vanity drawers until I found a roll of heavy medical gauze. I began to wrap my left hand—from the fingertips all the way to the elbow—tighter and tighter, until it was a mummified club. Then, using my teeth and my right hand, I fashioned a sling out of a silk scarf and hung it around my neck. I stood in front of the mirror for hours. I practiced. I practiced how to move, how to balance, and how to do everything clumsily with only my right hand. When I was ready, I knocked on the door with my right fist. Softly. Vulnerably. There was a long silence. Then, the sound of the key turning in the lock. The door swung open. Trevor stood there, his eyes cold and predatory. But when his gaze dropped to the sling—to the heavily bandaged, “useless” limb hanging at my side—the killing intent vanished. It was replaced by a complex swirl of emotions: relief, pity, and a terrifying flash of triumph. “Honey…” His voice broke. He stepped forward and pulled me into a crushing embrace. “You’re finally… you’re finally back to normal.” The domestic “warmth” returned like a light switch being flipped. My mother acted as if nothing had happened, piling my plate with food, her smile brighter than a neon sign. My daughter crept out of her room, shyly approaching me with a spoon to blow on my soup. “It’s not hot anymore, Mommy. Eat up.” Everything was exactly as it had been. Or rather, a hyper-saturated, terrifying version of it. After dinner, Trevor pulled out his phone, his face glowing with excitement. “We need a photo. To celebrate our family’s rebirth!” They crowded around me, and I forced a smile for the lens. But as Trevor was about to hit the shutter, my daughter slipped. She tripped on the rug, screaming as she began to fall toward the sharp, jagged edge of the marble coffee table. My brain didn’t have time to process the “rules.” Reflex took over. I whipped my left hand out of the sling, the bandages trailing like streamers, and caught her by the collar with a vice-grip, yanking her back just inches from the stone. She was safe. Not a scratch on her. I looked up, expecting a sigh of relief. Instead, I met two pairs of eyes—Trevor’s and my mother’s—that looked like the eyes of the dead. They were staring at my left hand, still suspended in the air, gripping my daughter’s shirt. The illusion of the happy family shattered into a million pieces. SLAP. The blow was so hard it sent me spinning. I hit the floor, my ears ringing with a deafening roar. Trevor was towering over me, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated evil. “Monster! You just couldn’t keep it up, could you?” His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a violent disappointment, as if I had committed the ultimate sin. “Why did you move it? Why did you have to use it?!” He roared, grabbing me by the hair and dragging me across the floor toward the door. My mother didn’t stop him. She ran to the front door, threw it open, and began wailing for the neighbors to hear. “Look! Look at the thing that stole my daughter’s body!” “She’s not my girl! My daughter is dead! This is a demon!” Neighbors peeked out, whispering and pointing, but no one moved to help. Their eyes were identical to my coworkers’—filled with a superstitious, cult-like dread. Trevor dragged me back into the living room. It had been transformed. In the center of the room stood a makeshift altar. A man in dark, ornate robes—the “consultant”—was waiting, a heavy wooden staff in his hand. “I told you the spirit was cunning,” the man said, stroking a thin beard with a smug, self-important air. My mother and Trevor pinned me to the floor, their knees digging into my back as the “exorcist” began his ritual. He circled me, chanting in a low, rhythmic drone, before pointing his staff at my left hand—the hand that had just saved my child’s life. “The source of the rot is here!” he bellowed. “Burn it! Only fire can end this!” What happened next broke my understanding of humanity. They lashed me to a heavy wooden chair, binding my torso and legs until I couldn’t move an inch. My mother emerged from the kitchen carrying a plastic jug. The smell hit me instantly. Gasoline. Trevor stood in front of me, flicking a silver lighter. Click. Click. Click. He had a twisted, serene smile on his face. “Honey, I gave you a chance.” “Since you won’t go back to being my obedient wife, you can go to hell along with that monster’s body.” As I screamed until my throat bled, my mother tipped the jug. The cold, stinking liquid drenched my head and shoulders. Trevor thumbed the lighter. Click. A small, orange flame bloomed in his hand, reflected in my wide, terrified eyes.

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The cold, mechanical voice echoed in my skull just as my fingers tightened around the jagged edge of broken glass. I was ready to end it all. [Tragic Narrative Arc Complete. Host preparing for extraction to the Prime Reality.] Five years. I had been trapped in this frozen hellscape—the so-endured Winter Sanctuary—for five long years. To ensure their survival, I was sold into the subterranean labor wards. I wore an iron collar around my neck. I spent my days on my knees doing the most degrading, back-breaking work imaginable. I lost two toes to the frostbite. If I displeased the overseers in the slightest, they would drag me by my hair into the freezing water tanks until my lungs burned. But now, my fiancé, Todd, casually unzipped his heavy thermal coat. “If you hadn’t messed with the climate control and given Evie pneumonia, we wouldn’t have had to leave you down here to learn your place,” he said, his voice smooth, reasonable. “You’ve finally learned your lesson, haven’t you, Caroline?” My eyes widened, hollow and unblinking. Then my brother, Declan—who had lost an arm saving me three years ago in this very simulation—walked over. Both of his arms were perfectly intact. “Evie has a kind heart,” Declan said, adjusting his pristine cuffs. “She’s already forgiven you. Just be obedient from now on.” In the corner, the figures of my parents, who had mutated into the infected undead just months ago, nonchalantly wiped the black sludge from their mouths. They looked entirely human again. “Letting you lose a leg to the cold was a necessary punishment,” my mother said softly. “You can’t go around scheming to hurt Evie anymore.” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. All of this. All of this was because Evie caught a cold? Something inside me snapped. A wet cough racked my chest, and a spray of dark blood hit the icy floor. The world faded to a suffocating black. 1 When I woke, the first thing I saw was a face of flawless, porcelain skin. Evie sat at the edge of my bed, her lips curled in faint disgust. “You’ve been somewhat manageable these past few years,” she said, examining her manicured nails. “So I decided to let you come back. But if you even think about crossing me again, Mom, Dad, and Todd won’t let you off so easy.” I didn’t know when I had ever crossed her. But five years in the dark had bred a bone-deep reflex in me. I didn’t dare think. I just nodded, a jerky, submissive motion. My parents stood near the doorway, exchanging a look of profound satisfaction. “She’s finally been tamed,” my father noted. “Those five years of character building didn’t go to waste.” Character building. That was their word for the iron collar. For kneeling in the freezing slush to scrub boots. For being dragged by my scalp into the icy depths. Character building. I didn’t argue. I just lowered my chin until it touched my chest. “I’ll be good. I’ll obey.” Todd and Declan shared a fleeting smile. It was the look of artisans admiring a wild thing they had successfully broken. Todd walked toward the bed and reached out to pat my head. My body seized. A violent, uncontrollable tremor ripped through me. His hand hovered in the air, freezing for a fraction of a second before he pulled it back. “You don’t need to be afraid. No one is going to hit you anymore,” Todd said, his tone adopting a velvet softness. “The Sanctuary is in the past. You are my fiancée now. You are Caroline Smith.” I shook my head, my eyes wide with terror. “No,” I whispered. “I’m the stray.” Todd froze. The softness evaporated, replaced by a tight, offended furrow in his brow. “Are you still blaming me for this?” My legs gave out. I threw myself off the mattress, hitting the hardwood floor with a heavy thud, and pressed my forehead against the floorboards. “No, no! The stray wouldn’t dare. It’s my fault. I’m worthless.” The smug smiles on my parents’ faces cracked. Declan stepped forward, grabbing my arm to haul me up. “Alright, enough of this. You’re out now. You don’t need to use that word anymore.” He pulled me out of the bedroom and down the hall into the dining room, pressing me into a chair. “Eat something. You must be starving.” I lifted my eyes, just a fraction, to take in the table. It was groaning under the weight of roasted meats, fresh vegetables, and steaming bread. In the wards, we fought like wild dogs for moldy rations. If you were a second too slow, you gnawed on frozen roots. Sometimes, if you reached for a dropped crumb, the guards would stomp on your hand until the bones snapped. Reflexively, I yanked my hands back, burying them deep inside my sleeves. Todd picked up a piece of glazed meat with his fork and placed it on my plate. Like a gunshot, the gesture sent me sliding off the chair. I hit my knees on the rug. “The stray… Caroline doesn’t deserve meat. Please, leave it for Miss Evie.” A suffocating silence fell over the dining room. Declan let out an irritated sigh and walked over to pull me up. But the moment his bare skin brushed my hand, he went rigid. My hands looked like petrified wood. They were gnarled, covered in the purple-black webbing of healed frostbite, the knuckles thick and deformed. I saw the memory flash in his eyes. The year he caught the fever in the Sanctuary. I had knelt in front of the ward overseer, smashing my head against the concrete until my skull bled, just to trade for a single bowl of hot broth to keep him alive. Declan abruptly dropped my arm. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair, his voice suddenly sharp with defensive frustration. “I told you to eat, so eat. Drop the dramatic act.” Todd stepped in, his voice taking on that soothing, patronizing cadence again. “It’s all over, Cara. You aren’t that spoiled, arrogant girl anymore. We won’t send you back.” He picked up the piece of meat and held it to my lips. I opened my mouth. I took it in. I didn’t dare chew too loudly. I just swallowed it down. Todd nodded, pleased. My mother reached out, patting my shoulder, a small smile returning to her face. “Since Caroline has finally learned how to behave, I suppose we can start planning the wedding.” 2 Five years ago, I was the girl Todd loved. He used to hold my hand in the snow, pressing it into his coat pocket, promising he would keep me warm for the rest of our lives. But those memories felt like they belonged to a ghost. A girl from another lifetime. I gave a short, mechanical nod. Evie suddenly dropped her fork. It clattered against the fine china. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Todd, her body is still so weak from her… time away. Isn’t a wedding a bit too stressful right now? Can she handle it?” “I’m fine,” I blurted out. The panic was a living thing in my chest. I was so terrified they would think I was being difficult. I was terrified they would throw me back into the dark. Evie stared at me, the fake sweetness draining from her expression. “Well. That’s good, then.” When the meal ended, I immediately stood up and began clearing the plates. My mother blinked, startled, but she didn’t stop me. Five years ago, I was the princess of the Smith household. I didn’t know how to run a dishwasher. Now, I stood at the sink, scrubbing every single plate until my knuckles throbbed. I washed them three times over before putting them in the sterilizer. In the wards, if a plate had a smudge, you took a beating. When I finally turned around, wiping my wet, deformed hands on my jeans, I saw Todd standing in the kitchen doorway. I jumped, my heart hammering against my ribs. Had I done something wrong? Was he angry? He frowned, his eyes scanning my hunched posture. “You… you don’t need to do chores here.” I dropped my gaze to his shoes, my voice small, fervent with devotion. “It’s my duty. I’ll take good care of you all. I promise.” I swallowed hard. “Just please… don’t send me back.” He stood there, perfectly still. Every muscle in my body pulled taut as a wire. I waited for his verdict. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice thick. “I’m never sending you back.” It was only when he turned and walked away that I remembered how to breathe. That night, Declan knocked on my bedroom door. He walked in holding a folded garment. “Your skin is sensitive. The fabric on this one is incredibly soft. You used to love this brand.” I reached out. The cashmere brushed my ruined fingertips, and for a second, my breath caught. It was so soft. Then, like it burned me, I shoved it back into his hands. “I don’t deserve something so nice. This is fine.” I pointed to the threadbare, patched jacket sitting in the corner of the room. Declan’s hand froze mid-air. “You didn’t used to be like this.” Used to be. I dug through my fragmented memories. The old Caroline. The girl who only wore silk, who demanded fresh linens every week, who drank from crystal. “I was ungrateful,” I recited, the words flat and rehearsed. “I was spoiled and I wasted so much. I know my place now. I’m content.” Declan’s jaw clenched. His knuckles turned white where he gripped the cashmere. He opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but the words died in his throat. He let out a ragged breath. “Just get some sleep.” He turned on his heel and pulled the door shut. But I didn’t go to sleep. I went to Todd’s room. He was sitting on the edge of his bed. When I walked in, he looked startled, but a flicker of genuine warmth—maybe even desire—lit up his eyes. “What are you doing here?” he asked softly. I quietly clicked the door shut behind me. “You are my master now. It’s my duty to serve you tonight.” Before he could process the words, I began unbuttoning my shirt. I climbed onto the mattress, lay flat on my back, spread my legs, and stared blankly at the ceiling. I felt nothing. Seconds ticked by. He didn’t move. A cold sweat broke out on my neck. I turned my head to look at him. Panic clawed at my throat. Did I do the ritual wrong? In the labor wards, when the guards were silent like this, it meant the punishment was going to be severe. I shot up into a sitting position. “I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong? Is my expression bad? I can fix it. Tell me how you like it.” I scrambled to appease him. But Todd looked horrified. His brows were drawn together, the warmth in his eyes completely extinguished, replaced by something dark, something I couldn’t decipher. His voice was a gravelly whisper. “In the Sanctuary… did you…” “I was stupid before!” I interrupted, my voice shrill with terror. “I was wrong. I’ll change, I swear I’ll be exactly what you want, just please don’t make me go back!” He squeezed his eyes shut. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he fought back whatever emotion was rising in him. Slowly, he reached out, grabbed the heavy duvet, and pulled it over my bare shoulders. The lamp clicked off. The room was swallowed by the dark. As I lay there, my eyes sliding shut, I heard him whisper into the silence. He was on the phone. “I need you to run a background check. Find out exactly what happened to her over the last five years.” 3 The next morning, a piercing scream shattered the quiet of the hallway. My eyes flew open. Muscle memory took over—I threw myself off the mattress and curled into a tight ball in the corner of the room. When Todd realized who was screaming, he bolted out the door. I threw my clothes on and scrambled after him. Evie was standing in the corridor, her eyes red and brimming with tears. “My necklace is gone! Mom gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. I never even wore it!” My parents were instantly at her side, cooing and soothing her. Then, a young maid spoke up, her voice trembling. “Last night… I saw Miss Caroline sneaking out of her room…” Every single pair of eyes in the hallway snapped toward me. My mother’s brow furrowed. “Caroline. Where were you last night?” I shot a panicked look at Todd. I hadn’t served him properly. I didn’t know if I was allowed to say I was there. I ducked my head, my gnarled fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. Evie shot the maid a subtle, sharp look. Taking the cue, the maid lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “I bet she’s hiding it on her!” Instinctively, I curled inward, protecting my chest and face, but in the struggle, the back of my shirt was ripped downward. The hallway went dead silent. I felt the cool air on my back. I knew what they were staring at. A roadmap of intersecting, jagged horrors. Old scars layered over new ones. Burns, lacerations, the thick, raised keloids of repeated lashings. There wasn’t a single inch of unbroken skin left. Todd lunged forward, pulling my shirt up and wrapping his arms tightly around my shaking frame. “Stop it!” he roared at the maid. “She was in my room last night.” The air turned heavy, suffocating. A flash of pure, venomous jealousy crossed Evie’s face, but she masked it perfectly within a second. My mother slowly walked around to look at me, her voice shaking uncontrollably. “Your back… what happened to your back?” I kept my chin tucked, whispering to the floor. “It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Declan stepped closer, his voice dark and thick with an emotion I didn’t recognize. “Cara… you can’t blame us. Sending you to the Sanctuary… it was for your own good. To teach you. But you’re home now. We’ll make it up to you.” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” My mother hurriedly wiped at her wet cheeks. “I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe, honey. We’ll get you jewelry, makeup, whatever you want. Anything you want to eat, just tell me.” Even my father cleared his throat, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “Let’s put the past behind us. You’ve matured a great deal.” At breakfast, my mother obsessively piled food onto my plate. Declan heated up a glass of milk and placed it gently in front of me. Todd sat close by my side, meticulously peeling shrimp and dropping the meat into my bowl. Across the table, Evie just sat there, aggressively stabbing a piece of fruit with her fork. She hadn’t taken a single bite. I kept my head down, eating exactly what I was given, chewing each bite with terrified precision. After breakfast, I headed toward the stairs to return to my room. Evie suddenly appeared, grabbing my arm and yanking me toward the top of the staircase. She looked at me, her eyes stripped of all their usual sweetness. They were cold, dead. “Don’t think you’ve won,” she hissed. “I got rid of you five years ago, and I can do it again. Mom and Dad’s love belongs to me. Todd is mine. You will never beat me, Caroline.” Then, her foot suddenly slipped. She threw her weight backward. “Ahhhhh—!”

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The rescue boat rocked violently against the churning rapids. The rain was a cold, relentless sheet, blurring the world into shades of slate and charcoal. Beside me, the rescue worker was screaming, his voice nearly lost to the roar of the flood. “We can only take one more! You have to decide now!” I hesitated, my hand frozen on the edge of the boat. And then, it happened. Glowing lines of text began to drift across my vision like a digital fever dream. Look at this tragic side-character, one line read. She actually thinks they’re naked because of hypothermia. She has no idea her ‘artist’ husband was busy ravishing his little protege by the riverbank when the levee broke. I can’t wait for the next part, another comment scrolled by. After she saves him, he’s going to realize his true feelings, shove her overboard to make room, and give the girl mouth-to-mouth. Total swoon moment. Give us the drama! The hesitation vanished. My heart, which had been hammering with panic, suddenly went cold and still. I remembered a week ago, finding my husband, Killian, in the corner of his studio. He had his young apprentice, Luna, pinned against the wall. He’d whispered that she was his soul, his muse—that he’d give his very life for her. Luna had looked up with that wide-eyed, innocent gaze and asked, “How would you give it, Killian?” Well, Killian. Here was your chance to find out. I grabbed the single rescue rope and threw it toward Luna. The situation was simple, really: Killian, the prestigious professor, had taken his favorite student on a “plein air” painting trip into the mountains. A flash flood hit. Now, they were both drifting in the freezing water, stripped bare by the current—or perhaps by something else—clinging to a log and dying of exposure. 1 “Jade, please! Think about this!” Parker, one of Killian’s other students who was on the boat with me, looked at me with a horrified, stiff expression. “Luna’s already unconscious from the cold. If we pull the Professor up first, he actually has a chance of surviving!” The floating text in my eyes hissed in agreement: [Parker is such a loyal dog. He knows that if the Professor gets on the boat, he’ll definitely kick the wife off to save Luna!] [Our sweet Luna is going to be so kind later. She’ll inherit Jade’s entire estate after she drowns, and she’ll be so ‘devastated’ she won’t even let Killian touch her on Jade’s death anniversary. What an angel.] I stared at the text, a bitter taste in my mouth. Since when did being a mistress and a gold-digger count as being “kind”? “I know… I want to save him more than anything. He’s my husband,” I whispered, my voice trembling perfectly. I stared out at the dark water, looking like a woman whose heart was shattering in real-time. I let my body sway, a fragile silhouette against the storm. “But Killian always said… he said Luna’s father saved his life years ago. He told me he owed her a debt that could never be repaid.” I twisted my damp handkerchief, dabbing at my eyes. “He told me that for the sake of gratitude, he would lay down his life for her. He’s a man of honor, Parker. I have to respect his wishes. I have to be a good example for our son!” Without another word, I looped the rope into a lasso and flung it toward the floating, unconscious Luna. We hauled her in. “Jade!” Killian’s voice was a desperate, guttural howl from the water. He reached for us, but the current was too strong. A sudden surge of debris slammed him against a jagged boulder. His head snapped back, and he went limp, disappearing under the frothing brown water. I looked down into the depths, a tiny, dark smile touching my lips. Don’t die too easily, Killian, I prayed. The fun is just beginning. Just as he vanished, Parker managed to snag Killian’s shirt with a makeshift hook made from his own belt. He started trying to pull him toward the side. Knowing these people, I knew that if Killian got a finger on this boat, I was going over the side. I quickly grabbed my phone and dialed my mother-in-law, Beatrice. The second she picked up, I let out a jagged, hysterical sob. “Mom! Something terrible has happened!” “What is it?” Beatrice’s voice was already sharp with irritation. “Luna and Killian… they were caught in the flood! They’re saying Luna might not make it! It’s horrific!” “What?” Beatrice’s blood pressure clearly spiked through the phone. “Jade, you useless woman! You can’t keep an eye on your man, and you can’t even look after a young girl? Listen to me—if you don’t save Luna, I’ll make sure Killian divorces you tomorrow. You’ll be out on the street with nothing! I’m coming down there now!” “Mom, I’m trying! I’ll do exactly what you say! I’ll save her!” I hung up, a cold satisfaction settling in my chest. I had successfully misled her. She now thought Luna was the only one in the water. “But the boat is full,” I shouted to the air, making sure Parker heard. “We have to wait for the next sweep! I hope she can hold on!” The real show was about to start. Beatrice arrived twenty minutes later on a larger, overcrowded rescue vessel. She saw me straining against the rope Parker was holding—the rope that was currently tethered to a submerged, unconscious body. Because Killian was underwater, you couldn’t tell who it was. The weight was dragging our small boat down, making it tilt dangerously. Beatrice screamed from the other vessel, “Jade! You murderous bitch! I knew you’d try to hurt her!” “Mom, wait!” I stammered, acting paralyzed by “nerves.” “You’re pretending to be a hero, trying to save some ‘stranger’ while Luna is dying?” Beatrice roared, ignoring the other passengers. “Let go of that rope! Luna’s life is the only thing that matters! Let the other person drown!” Parker tried to intervene. “Ma’am, the person under the water is—” He wanted to say it was his professor. It was her son. But Beatrice didn’t give him the chance. She lunged across the gap between the boats and slapped him hard across the face. “I know all about you, Parker! Jade, you’ve always been a slut. I knew from the day you married into this family you’d try to ruin us. You’re probably trying to save your secret lover right now!” She turned to the men on her boat. “A thousand dollars to whoever ties this brat up and cuts that rope! Save my grandson!” I blinked. Grandson? So, Beatrice knew. She knew Luna was carrying Killian’s child. That’s why she was so desperate. 2 In the face of death, human nature is a fragile thing. Parker was tackled and gagged within seconds. I “struggled” to hold onto the rope, crying out, “Mom, please don’t! Killian is—” But Beatrice wasn’t listening. “Shut up! I don’t care if it’s your own father at the end of that rope. He’s in the way of my grandson’s future!” She grabbed a pair of emergency shears from the rescue kit. With a sharp snip, the tension vanished. The rope whipped back, empty. Beatrice looked triumphant. “Get us to the shore! To the hospital! We have to make sure the baby is safe!” Well, Killian, I thought as I watched the spot where he had been submerged drift away. Don’t blame me. It was your own mother who cut the cord. 3 Beatrice was so worried about Luna’s “precious cargo” that she moved her to the faster boat, leaving me behind in the rain. The boat drifted for a while in the silence of the receding storm. “Jade…?” A weak, watery voice drifted from the darkness near the bank. I froze. It was Killian. He sounded like he was coughing up his own lungs, but he was alive. “I knew I was too stubborn to die… Jade, get help! Get me out!” He was clinging to a low-hanging willow branch, his body a map of bruises and jagged cuts from the rocks. He was pale, shivering violently—shaking with the final stages of hypothermia. “Oh, Killian!” I cried out, my voice dripping with performative grief. “The boat is full! We can’t take any more! Help is coming, I promise! You have to be strong!” “Jade… pull me in…” “I can’t! But remember what you said? Luna’s life is more important than anything. I made sure Mom took her to the hospital first! I knew that’s what you’d want!” I looked around the boat and found some heavy gear—anchor weights and broken metal parts. “Here, Killian! Let me throw you something to help you stay afloat!” I tossed the heavy metal weights directly toward him. They splashed heavily, missing him by inches but creating waves that battered his weakened grip. Without the extra weight, our boat moved faster, catching the current toward the landing. Killian’s face, twisted in a mask of realization and fury, vanished behind a wall of rain as he let out a pathetic, pig-like squeal before being swept back into the dark. He looked so moved, he practically fainted. I really am the most understanding wife a man could ask for. 4 The search for Killian made the local news every night for two weeks. Beatrice didn’t care. She didn’t even realize he was missing at first; she was too busy hovering over Luna in the private wing of the hospital. The nurses were less than impressed. “She was carrying twins,” one whispered to me in the hall. “But if they hadn’t been so… active… during the storm, her uterine wall wouldn’t have been so compromised. They were caught in the act when the water hit. The bacteria from the floodwater caused a massive infection. It’s a miracle she’s alive, but the babies…” Luna was in a coma, bleeding out from complications. Then, after fifteen days, they found him. Killian had survived by eating whatever washed up in the debris—contaminated, rotting scraps. His wounds had turned gangrenous, untreated and festering in the humidity. By the time he reached the ICU, he was swollen beyond recognition. Even the people in the “bullet chats” didn’t recognize him. The “God-like Artist” now looked like a piece of waterlogged meat. Looking at him, I remembered the early days. We were childhood sweethearts. We were happy, once. But then his art took off, and I became the “boring corporate wife” who didn’t understand his soul. He found his “soul” in the wide eyes of his students. Last month, when Luna’s ex-boyfriend leaked explicit photos of her online, Killian had stepped up. He’d used his “artistic expertise” to testify that the woman in the photos wasn’t Luna. He claimed it was me. His wife. When I confronted him, he had pinned me by the throat against our bedroom door. “Jade, I gave you the dignity of being a professor’s wife. Why must you hurt her? The uploader confessed you hired him out of jealousy. I’m just letting you take the fall to balance the scales. I owe her my life. If she wanted my head on a platter, I’d give it to her.” I had slapped him then, with every ounce of strength I had. When I woke the next morning, he was gone, leaving a note saying he was going to a “remote gallery opening.” In reality, they were hopping between cheap motels and riverside campsites, playing out their tawdry fantasy under the guise of “art.” The doctor in the ICU shook his head. He was trying to find a polite way to say Killian was a wreck. His bones were shattered, protruding through the skin in places, and the infection had reached his marrow. “We can stabilize him,” the doctor said, voice low. “But he’s been out there too long. He’ll never walk again. He’ll be lucky if he retains any mobility in his arms.” I wiped a stray tear, pulled two hundred-dollar bills from my purse, and tucked them into the doctor’s pocket. “Please, just keep him alive. That’s all that matters.” “Jade…?” Killian croaked from the bed. He sounded like a ghost. I rushed to his side, clutching his bandaged hand. I made sure to squeeze just hard enough to find the broken phalanges beneath the gauze. Killian’s pupils dilated. A muffled scream tore through his throat. He shook with agony, but he was too weak to pull away. “It’s my fault,” I whispered, leaning close to his ear, my voice a silk-wrapped blade. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re in such bad shape… I’ll take care of everything. The house, the studio, the accounts. I’ll handle it all.” Fear flashed in his clouded eyes. He understood. Everything he had built—his reputation, his wealth—was slipping into my hands. “Don’t thank me. I did what you asked. I saved Luna first. Sadly, she lost the babies, and you’ll never walk again, but I know you’d make the same choice a thousand times over. After all, we’re one soul, aren’t we? I know you better than anyone.” His throat hitched. “Jade… you… monster…” He tried to curse me, to ask if I’d done it on purpose. Instead, he just choked on a mouthful of black bile. The floating text was buzzing: [The wife better watch out. Marcus—I mean Killian—is the protagonist. He’ll have a miraculous recovery once the baby is born, and then it’s over for her!] [Wait, today is Luna’s due date! Here comes the miracle!] Right on cue, the sound of a thin, wailing cry echoed from down the hall. “My Luna is a fighter!” Beatrice’s voice boomed in the corridor. She strutted past the door, throwing me a look of pure venom. “She’s given us a beautiful grandson, unlike some barren women I know—” She took the bundle from the nurse and suddenly, the bragging stopped. A heavy thud followed as Beatrice collapsed onto the linoleum. “What… what is this monster? This can’t be my grandson! You’ve swapped him!”

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The wedding was less than twenty-four hours away, but there I was, standing in the hallway of a luxury condo I’d found through a last-minute listing. The price had just plummeted, and in this market, I couldn’t afford not to look. The door opened to reveal a woman who was young, radiant, and glowing with a flush that hadn’t come from a bottle. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, smoothing her silk robe. She offered a small, knowing smile. “My husband insisted on a FaceTime call. We got a little… distracted.” She led me into the living room, her voice a steady stream of sweet, casual complaints about him. She told me how he’d just bought a massive penthouse uptown—insisting they needed floor-to-ceiling windows for “the right romantic atmosphere”—which made this place redundant. That was why she was selling it so cheap. I was about to offer a polite compliment about how attentive her husband sounded when my breath caught. My entire world narrowed down to a single point on the gallery wall. There, framed in heavy gold, was a wedding portrait. The man in the photo, wearing a smile I had woken up to for seven years, was Simon. The same Simon who was supposed to stand at the altar with me tomorrow. In that heartbeat, the blood in my veins turned to ice. My hands went numb, the keys in my pocket feeling like lead. 1 She noticed me staring. A prideful, shimmering laugh escaped her lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? Simon practically chased me for six months before I said yes.” Chloe—I remembered her name from the listing now—stroked the edge of the frame. “He bought me this place as a ‘thank you’ for finally agreeing to be his. The deed is entirely in my name. Cash closing.” I nodded, my brain stuttering. I remembered a stretch of time last year when Simon, a man who usually lived in wrinkled flannels, suddenly started obsessing over his skin-care routine and tailored shirts. I’d teased him about having a mid-life crisis. I didn’t realize he was playing the role of the smitten suitor for a girl ten years younger than me. I didn’t realize he’d already walked down an aisle. Chloe adjusted her robe, but not before I saw the dark, blooming bruises of love bites across her collarbone. “Don’t let the suit fool you,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with a cruel sort of intimacy. “He’s a beast in bed. Half the time, I can’t even make it out of the house the next morning.” I blinked, my eyes stinging. I looked around the room. It was filled with ghosts of a life I thought was mine. The plush velvet sofa was the exact model Simon and I had looked at, the one he said was ‘too expensive’ for our tiny rental. The espresso machine, the organic linen throws—everything in this high-end condo was a premium version of the life we shared in our 500-square-foot walk-up. It hit me then, a dull ache behind my ribs: my life was just the low-budget rehearsal for this. While I was staying up late worrying about his “business trips” and “overtime shifts,” he was here, cocooned in luxury with his secret bride. “Here,” Chloe said, handing me a folder. “You can check the title. Simon said he wanted us to have a ‘real’ marital home, but he knew I needed to feel secure, so he put his savings into this for me.” I opened the folder. The date on the purchase agreement felt like a physical blow to the stomach. Two years ago. Right after our engagement. We had saved every penny for a down payment. Then, Simon had come home looking devastated, telling me a “crypto investment” had wiped him out. I didn’t hesitate. I gave him my entire savings to help him “settle the debt.” I worked three jobs to make up the difference. I worked until I was so exhausted I miscarried our first child at eight weeks. And all that time, my money—our “future”—was paying for Chloe’s security. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days of lies. Enough time for a child to have been born and taken its first steps. “Ma’am?” A housekeeper appeared at the kitchen island, her voice soft. “Mr. Sterling insisted you eat before he gets back. For the baby.” Chloe turned to me, a dainty, apologetic smile on her face. “Sorry. I’m three months along, and Simon is absolutely neurotic about my nutrition. He’s obsessed.” My voice came out like gravel. “You’re… pregnant?” She rubbed her belly, her expression softening into something genuinely maternal. “Thirteen weeks. He cried when I told him. He’s already picked out a nickname. Peanut.” Peanut. When I was pregnant, Simon had spun me around the kitchen, crying with joy. He’d spent nights scrolling through baby name sites. When I lost the baby, he’d held me in the hospital bed, sobbing that “we’d have another chance.” He wasn’t wrong. The chance had come. It just wasn’t for me. He’d even stolen the nickname we had picked out in the dark of our bedroom and gifted it to her. The front door clicked. “Chloe? Did Peanut let you sleep in today, or was he—” Simon stopped dead. The color drained from his face, a flicker of raw panic crossing his features before his mask slammed back into place. He walked right past me as if I were a shadow, sitting down next to Chloe and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We have company?” he asked, his voice tight. “I told you not to open the door to strangers.” Chloe giggled, looping her arm through his. “She’s here about the listing. See? I told you I could handle the sale myself.” Simon forced a laugh, his eyes never meeting mine. “My girl is the best.” A hollow, echoing void opened up in my chest. Just yesterday, I’d told him I found a great deal on a condo and asked if he wanted to see it. He’d snapped at me, telling me he was too stressed with work to deal with my “fantasies.” I turned and walked out. I didn’t say a word. The winter air hit me like a physical blade. I walked until my face felt frozen, the tears turning into a mask of ice on my cheeks. When I finally got back to our apartment, he was there. Waiting. He stood up as I entered and reached for my hands, trying to tuck them into his chest the way he always did when I was cold. “Maya, you’re freezing. Where have you—” I wrenched my hands away. Looking at the “worry” in his eyes, I started to laugh. It was a jagged, ugly sound. Tears began to splash onto the hardwood. “Maya, don’t,” he whispered, reaching out to wipe my face. He pulled a small box from behind his back—a matcha cake from the bakery I loved. “I only married her because of the baby. You’re the one I want to be with. You’ve always been the one.” I pushed his hand away, my entire body shaking. “The wedding photos are real, Simon. The deed is real. The baby in her stomach is real.” His face hardened. He tossed the cake onto the table, his gaze turning sharp and defensive. “Are you really going to hold this over me? I had to be responsible. I couldn’t let my child be a ‘mistake’ on a birth certificate.” The pain was a white-hot spike. When I was pregnant, I had begged him to just go to the courthouse. I didn’t need a party. I just wanted our baby to have a family. He’d stalled. He’d made excuses. Then the baby was gone, and the “need” for the courthouse vanished. But for Chloe, he couldn’t wait. “She’s been in your life for two years, and she got everything I spent seven years begging for,” I said. “And you’re asking me if I’m ‘holding it over you’?” He let out a frustrated breath and pulled a legal document from his bag. He slid it across the table. “If you want that condo so bad, fine. Sign this. I’m transferring the title to you. Consider it… a settlement.” I looked at the paper. For years, I had obsessively saved every cent for a home. I’d spent nights calculating interest rates, dreaming of what color to paint the nursery. It was the only thing that kept me going through twelve-hour shifts. And now he was handing it to me like a consolation prize. “What were we, Simon?” I choked out. “What were the last seven years?” He rubbed his temples, his voice dripping with an exhausting kind of patience. “Chloe is young. She’s fragile. She needed the security of that house to feel safe with me. You… you were always the strong one, Maya.” I stared at him. “So that was my mistake? Being strong?” He gave me a cold, dismissive look. “Chloe has boundaries. She has self-respect. Our first time was our wedding night. But you? You were in a cheap motel with me when you were twenty. You set the bar low for yourself.” The words felt like a physical assault. I looked at the man I had loved since I was a girl and remembered him crying in that “cheap motel,” holding me and swearing he’d spend the rest of his life making me happy. I had thought it was love. He had thought it was a transaction. He shoved the contract into my hands. “Take the house. Chloe is pregnant. You can scream at me all you want, but don’t you dare go near her again.” Even now, his priority was her peace. His phone buzzed. His expression smoothed into something tender as he glanced at the screen. He grabbed his coat, giving me one last warning look before heading for the door. But the door flew open before he reached it. Chloe stormed in, her face twisted in a mask of rage. She didn’t hesitate—she lunged forward and slapped me so hard my head snapped back. Her designer nails left a row of bleeding gashes on my cheek. “You bitch!” she screamed. “You’re trying to steal my husband?” She blew on her reddened palm, looking at me with pure disgust. “Look at you. You’re pathetic. Look at this dump you live in. You think a man like Simon wants a tired, old secretary when he has me?” I looked at Simon. He was watching her with a terrifyingly fond expression—the same look he’d used when he proposed to me years ago. Now, I was just the background noise in his new life. Chloe grabbed the contract from my hands and tore it into confetti, throwing the pieces in my face. “You’re not getting our house. You’re not getting him.” Simon stepped in then, gently catching her wrists. “Chloe, honey, stop. You’re pregnant. Let’s just go home. Don’t let the neighbors see this… spectacle.” The neighbors. The spectacle. After seven years of building a life together, I was just an “outsider” causing a scene. Chloe sobbed into his chest. “You told me you broke up with this old woman months ago! If I hadn’t followed you today, I wouldn’t have known you were still seeing her.” I looked up, stunned. She had known about me the whole time. She turned her head, looking over Simon’s shoulder to sneer at me. “I know everything, Maya. I know you live like a pauper to save pennies. I know you couldn’t even keep your own baby. A man’s heart is where his money is. Look around this room, then look at my condo. Who do you think he loves?” Simon stiffened. He put a hand over her mouth. “That’s enough.” Chloe wrenched free, her voice shrill. “Why? It’s the truth. He only comes here when he wants a break from the good life. You’re just his bargain-bin habit, Maya.” Simon’s jaw tightened. “I said, enough.” As they left, Chloe paused to flash her marriage license at me like a weapon. “If you have any dignity left, stay away from my husband. Nobody likes a home-wrecker.” The date on the license was the day I had been home on bed rest after my miscarriage. He’d told me he was going out to get groceries to make me soup. Instead, he’d gone to the courthouse to marry her. I sat in the dark until the sun came up. When I walked into the office the next morning, my belongings were scattered across the floor. My desk was plastered with printed signs: HOME-WRECKER. WHORE. My manager threw a termination notice at my feet. “We don’t need this kind of drama, Maya. We’re a family company. Pack your things.” “I didn’t do anything,” I said, my voice hollow. He laughed. “His wife sent a formal complaint. She sent photos. She sent the marriage license. Go home.” The whispers followed me out. She looked so sweet. You never really know people, do you? When I got to my apartment complex, the walls of the lobby were covered in posters with my face on them, detailing my “affair.” I began tearing them down, my fingernails bleeding. Neighbors stood in small groups, pointing and whispering. A man from the third floor stepped into my path, a leering grin on his face. “How much for a night, honey? If you’re giving it away to married guys, I’m sure we can work something out.” “Get away from me!” I screamed. He grabbed my arm, his face turning ugly. “Don’t act like a lady now. I saw the posters.” A hand clamped onto the man’s wrist. I looked up, seeing the familiar red braided bracelet on the newcomer’s arm. “Simon!” I cried, grabbing his sleeve. “Tell them! Tell them we’ve been together for seven years! Tell them I’m not the mistress!” Simon shoved me away. His eyes were burning with a cold, frantic rage. “I told you to stay away from Chloe!” he hissed. “She’s in the hospital because of the stress you caused her! She almost lost the baby today!” “I didn’t do anything to her!” “I don’t care! These posters? This is what happens when you mess with my family. Don’t think your ‘seven years’ gives you the right to harass my wife.” He turned and walked away, his words solidifying the lie for everyone watching. I was the villain. My phone rang. It was my mother, her voice hysterical. “Maya… people are here. They’re outside the house with a megaphone, calling you names… your father… he collapsed. It’s his heart, Maya. We’re in the ER…” The world tilted. I ran for the street, waving down a taxi. I had to get to the station. I had to get home. “Please,” I sobbed to the driver. “Faster. Please.” I saw the semi-truck lose control before I felt it. The roar of twisting metal filled the air. I reached for my phone, my thumb hitting the speed dial. Then, the world went black. Simon was sitting in the hospital cafeteria, picking at a salad while Chloe slept upstairs, when his phone vibrated. An unknown number. He almost ignored it, but something made him swipe right. “Hello?” “Is this… Mr. Matcha?” a voice asked, hesitant. The name hit him like a physical blow. It was the private nickname Maya had given him on their first date at a hole-in-the-wall tea shop. It was the name she used for him in her secondary phone—the one she kept for just the two of them. “Maya?” he gasped.

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When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the very first day I received that mysterious deposit. It all started when I was at my lowest—broke, hungry, and wondering if I’d be evicted by the end of the week. Then, a single dollar appeared in my bank account. I remember thinking it was a glitch or perhaps some anonymous soul throwing a penny into my wishing well. I didn’t waste time questioning it; I used that dollar to buy a pack of instant ramen just to stop the cramping in my stomach. But the next day, the balance grew to two dollars. On the third day, it was four. By the fifteenth day, the number on my screen had ballooned into a staggering $32,768. That was the moment the reality of the situation hit me like a physical blow. The money was doubling every twenty-four hours. This wasn’t a “gift” from a friend; nobody I knew had that kind of capital or that kind of sense of humor. Terrified of the legal implications, I stopped spending. I practically sprinted to the bank, my heart hammering against my ribs, demanding to know where the wire transfers were coming from. The teller looked at me like I was delusional. She told me my balance was zero. No deposits, no withdrawals, no history. “That’s impossible!” I shouted, shoving my phone in her face to show her the mobile app. She just sighed, flagged a security guard, and had me escorted out as if I were some junkie playing a prank. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. The app updated every day at midnight like clockwork. I tried tracing the source, but there was no routing number, no note—just a void where the sender’s name should be. That night, exactly at midnight, I was frantically scrolling through my contacts, trying to see if any old college friend had hit the jackpot and decided to play benefactor. Suddenly, a cold, sharp pressure bloomed in my chest. My heart skipped a beat, then another, before stumbling into a rhythm that felt like death. I collapsed onto my bed, the world fading to black before I could even scream. 1. A single dollar. It was there again, staring at me from the screen of my cracked smartphone. The exact same starting point as my previous life. No sender info. No paper trail. Just the money. In that first life, I was too desperate to be suspicious. I was sick, out of work, and living in a damp basement apartment in South Philly. I didn’t have the luxury of wondering who was playing God with my bank account; I just needed to eat. I figured someone had just typed in the wrong account number. After all, what’s a dollar? Then came the two dollars. I started to romanticize it. I thought maybe it was some eccentric philanthropist who knew I was struggling and wanted to help in a way that felt like a game. By the third day, it was four dollars. It kept growing. I felt a surge of profound gratitude. This “miracle” allowed me to finally pay off my medical bills and keep my treatment going. My health improved, but it was quickly replaced by a new, suffocating kind of anxiety. I had assumed the charity would cap out at a few thousand. But by the fourteenth day, when the balance crossed the ten-thousand-dollar mark, the scale changed. I told myself I’d work hard and pay it back eventually. After a brief internal struggle, I used the money to claw my way out of that basement. I signed a lease on a sun-drenched apartment and bought a few professional outfits, ready to restart my life. Then, the fifteenth day hit. Thirty-two thousand dollars. I couldn’t breathe. My family was gone, my parents passed away years ago, and my remaining relatives treated me like a leper. I didn’t have “rich” friends. Who would do this? Why this specific pattern? The uncertainty drove me to the bank, where the horror truly began. The bank insisted my balance was zero. But the money was real—I had spent it. I had paid the hospital, the landlord, the boutiques. If the money didn’t exist, how were those transactions cleared? I went home and started calling everyone I ever knew, desperate for an answer. I never finished the list. At the stroke of midnight, my heart simply stopped. As I sat there now, reliving the memory of that phantom pain, a terrifying realization began to take shape in my mind. The reason I died… was likely because I hadn’t spent every last cent. 2. For the first fourteen days, I had emptied the account. But on the fifteenth day, when that thirty-two thousand arrived, I froze. I was too scared to touch it. And at midnight, I was punished. Was this some kind of twisted gift from a higher power? A “Brewster’s Millions” scenario where the price of the windfall was total consumption? If I didn’t spend it, did I forfeit my life? “No,” I whispered, shaking my head to clear the fog. “That’s insane.” I’m a pragmatist. I don’t believe in urban legends or digital ghosts. There had to be a logical explanation. My plan was simple: use the money to get healthy again, and then, before the numbers became astronomical, find the person behind the curtain. By the thirteenth day of this new life, the balance hit $8,192. This time, I didn’t spend it on fluff. I drove to a bank on the other side of the city—a small branch where nobody knew me. I had a nagging suspicion that the staff at my local branch in my last life had been lying to me. “Hi, I’d like to check my balance, please,” I said, keeping my voice steady. I didn’t mention the “miracle.” I wanted to see what their system showed first. The teller tapped a few keys, her expression neutral. “Ms. Lane, it looks like this account has a zero balance.” My blood ran cold. “Zero? Are you sure? Could you check for pending deposits?” “Nothing,” she said firmly. “According to our records, the last transaction on this account was back in early March when you withdrew your final twenty dollars. There hasn’t been a cent moved since.” I stood there, paralyzed. Early March. The day before the first dollar appeared. That meant every deposit and every purchase I had made over the last two weeks existed entirely outside the banking system. How was that possible? Who has the power to bypass the federal banking infrastructure? I demanded to see the manager. I caused a scene. But no matter who looked at the screen, the answer was the same: Zero. I became convinced it was a conspiracy. The bank had to be in on it. They were gaslighting me. I called the police, right there in the lobby. But after they ran their preliminary check, they treated me like a psychiatric case. They escorted me out with a warning: if I came back to “harass” the staff again, I’d be facing a disorderly conduct charge. I felt a deep, hollow sense of dread. If science and the law couldn’t explain the money, then I was playing by different rules. Rules that ended in a body bag if I failed to follow them. I didn’t gamble. I spent the eight thousand dollars as fast as I could—donations, high-end electronics, anything to hit zero. Only then did I allow myself to breathe. That night, I sat down with a calculator. If this continued, by the twentieth day, the daily deposit would be over a million dollars. I could buy a house to clear that. But what about after that? Could I buy a whole city block? By the end of the second month, the amount would exceed the national debt. It would be impossible to spend. If the rule was “spend it or die,” I was already a dead woman walking. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. Unless the theory is wrong, I told myself. Unless there is a person—a human being—pulling these strings. I dug my nails into my palms until I broke the skin. I had to stay sharp. I went back to my list of contacts, more determined than ever. On the seventeenth day, I finally found a name that made sense. 3. Beatrice Whitmore. We had been neighbors growing up, the kind of best friends who shared every secret and a blood-oath of sisterhood. But after my parents’ business collapsed and they committed suicide, I was shuffled off to distant relatives in another state. We hadn’t spoken since middle school. I’d recently seen her name in the business section. She’d made a fortune in European tech and had started investing back in the States last year. Out of everyone I knew, she was the only one with the resources to pull this off. But why? If she wanted to help me, why the doubling game? Why did I die in my first life? Was my death the goal? If this was a conspiracy, what could she possibly want from a girl who had nothing but a pile of medical debt and a haunted past? I couldn’t find an answer, but she was my only lead. I tried her office number—blocked. I went to her corporate headquarters, but the receptionist told me Ms. Whitmore was “unavailable” to see me. That meant one of two things: either she’d forgotten I existed, or she was terrified of looking me in the eye. I played it cool. I used the doubling money—now in the hundreds of thousands—to buy a sleek, nondescript SUV and spent my days staked out across from her office. Finally, I saw her. I followed her car to a private bank—the same one I had visited in my first life. I watched through the window as the manager practically bowed to her. That was the confirmation I needed. The bank wasn’t a glitch; it was an accomplice. They were erasing the trail for her. As she walked out toward her car, I didn’t hesitate. I lunged forward, blocking her path. “Beatrice! Why are you doing this?” I screamed, grabbing her by the lapels of her designer coat. I searched her face for a flicker of guilt, for the girl I used to know. She looked startled, then annoyed. “Cassie? Cassie Lane?” She pulled back, smoothing her coat. “You’ve lost your mind. What on earth are you talking about?” “The money! The deposits! Why are you messing with my head?” I pointed at the bank manager who had rushed out to assist her. “How much did you pay them to lie to me? To tell me my balance is zero while you pump millions into my account?” The manager didn’t even let Beatrice answer. He grabbed my arm, shoving me back with enough force to make me stumble. “You’re delusional,” the manager spat. “Ms. Whitmore is here on high-level corporate business. You? You’re a girl who couldn’t even afford her own antibiotics a month ago. You think a woman like her has time to play games with a charity case like you?” Beatrice sighed, reaching into her Birkin bag. She pulled out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and tossed them at my feet. “Look, Cassie. I get it. You heard I was back in town and you’re desperate. You want to cash in on a friendship that ended fifteen years ago? Fine. Take the cash and get lost. That’s all our ‘history’ is worth to me.” She turned and climbed into her town car without a backward glance. I stood there, fists clenched, watching the red glow of her taillights. I was more certain now than ever. Beatrice was the one. Because the manager had said something he shouldn’t have known. “A girl who couldn’t even afford her own antibiotics a month ago.” In this life, I hadn’t been to this bank. I hadn’t told anyone about my illness here. How did he know I was sick? There was only one way. They had been watching me. 4. Once the adrenaline faded, the fear went with it. I’ve spent my whole life being afraid—of poverty, of sickness, of the end. But now that the monster had a face, I could fight back. If Beatrice wanted to play, I’d play. I would spend every cent she threw at me until she ran dry. “Dr. Lowery, I’m putting you on a ten-thousand-dollar daily retainer,” I told the physician I’d recruited from out of state. “Your only job is to test every drop of water and every scrap of food that enters this house. I want to know the second you detect a toxin.” By the twenty-first day, the deposit was over two million dollars. I bought a fortress of a house, upgraded the security to military grade, and locked myself in. I had chemical sensors and a private doctor who was forbidden from contacting the outside world. If Beatrice wanted me dead, she wasn’t going to get me with a “sudden” heart attack this time. Every day, I spent. Day twenty-two: Five million dollars. I bought art, jewelry, and offshore gold, ensuring the balance hit zero before the clock struck midnight. I was convinced Beatrice was reaching her breaking point. No matter how rich you are, liquidating tens of millions in cash every few days is a nightmare. But by day twenty-four, when the balance hit nearly twenty million, my confidence began to crumble. How could one person have this much liquidity? Even for a tech mogul, this was an impossible amount of cash to move anonymously. Was I really worth this much to her? At 2:00 AM, unable to sleep, I slipped out of the house. I drove three hours to a tiny, rural town and found a local credit union. I bribed a late-night IT contractor with fifty thousand dollars to let me look at the raw data in the federal system for my account. I typed in my ID and my account number. The screen blinked. Balance: $0.00. My heart stopped. The managers hadn’t been bought. The system wasn’t being manipulated by Beatrice. The money… it really didn’t exist in the physical world. But if the money was “magic” or “supernatural,” then why did the bank manager know about my medical history? I felt like my brain was fracturing. If the money wasn’t Beatrice’s, then my first death wasn’t a murder—it was a systemic erasure. A rule of the universe. I frantically refreshed the page. Before I could see more, the contractor pulled me away. “Someone’s coming, you gotta go!” On the drive back, I looked at the twenty-million-dollar figure on my phone. Despair washed over me. How do you spend twenty million in a day? I started buying luxury yachts online, donating to every GoFundMe I could find. But the sheer volume was too much. The “System” was flagging me. I got a call from a federal agent. I hung up. I didn’t care about jail; I cared about midnight. Bang! Bang! Bang! The sound of the front door being kicked in echoed through the house. I checked the monitors. Men in uniforms. Panic seized me. I ran to the storage room, tripping over a stack of boxes. Junk spilled everywhere. And there, glinting under the harsh fluorescent light, was a small plastic card I hadn’t seen in years. I froze. I picked it up, then looked at my phone. The pieces finally clicked, and the horror of it nearly made me vomit.

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The night of the network gala, when I was twenty-six, the world I had built shattered in the palm of my hand. I was center stage, the lights blinding, the teleprompter humming. But when I flipped my cue cards to the next segment, the script was gone. In its place was a high-gloss photo of Andrea and her lover. From the first page to the twentieth, it was a curated gallery of betrayal. Every scene, every position, every indignity. The foyer of a boutique hotel, the leather backseat of her SUV, a private balcony overlooking the city… these images didn’t just hurt; they felt like needles driven directly into my retinas. I didn’t stop. Driven by pure muscle memory and a desperate, soaring shot of adrenaline, I finished the broadcast. I didn’t miss a beat. I didn’t stumble. I smiled for the cameras while my soul was being liquidated. The moment the cameras went dark, I bolted. I barely made it to the executive restroom before I collapsed, retching until my lungs burned. In that cold, marble stall, the truth finally crystallized. I was “special” to her, yes. I was the permanent fixture, the anchor. But I would never, ever be her only one. I had fallen for her when I was sixteen. She was seven years my senior, a woman who moved through the world with a terrifying, magnetic grace. I had pursued her with the clumsy, breathless devotion of a boy who didn’t know any better. I remembered the early days—how she’d sigh, peeling my jacket off her shoulders when I tried to look after her, telling me in that patronizing, “big sister” tone to go find a girl my own age. But then, the shift. The night she sat in my lap wearing nothing but one of my button-downs, pulling me into a kiss that tasted like expensive gin and ruined lives. She told me she loved the way I smelled. She said seeing the heartbreak in my eyes that first year had actually hurt her. Ten years had passed since then. In that decade, I watched a rotating door of young, hungry men cycle through her life. I stayed, foolishly believing I was the one she would eventually come home to for good. At sixteen, loving her was like being a moth addicted to the flame. I craved her gaze, her approval, her heat. At twenty-six, in the stinging silence of a bathroom stall, the fire finally went out. After a two-hour closed-door meeting with the station manager, I walked out with my ticket out of the country: a transfer to be a foreign correspondent. … Andrea hadn’t left. She was waiting outside the restroom, leaning against the wall with a practiced elegance, holding a bottle of chilled water. She didn’t apologize. She just slid a black titanium card into my breast pocket. “You were incredible tonight,” she said, her voice like velvet over gravel. “Don’t be too hard on Toby. He’s just a kid.” A few seconds of dead silence stretched between us. I just nodded. I couldn’t trust my voice. She reached up, her long, pale fingers smoothing my hair with a mother’s tenderness. It was the same gesture she used every time she wanted to keep me in line. “Be a good boy,” she whispered. By the time I gathered my dignity and returned to my office, the floor was deserted. The cleaning crew was sweeping up the wreckage of someone’s birthday party. I noticed a sticky note stuck to my monitor: “Hey Adrian! I bought cake for everyone for my birthday. The chocolates are a gift from my girlfriend—she wanted me to thank the team for taking such good care of me. Hope you like them! PS: You were a beast on stage today. A total pro. Andrea says I should learn everything I can from you.” Toby. He was the son of one of Andrea’s biggest investors. He’d slid into a production role six months ago through her influence. She’d asked me to “mentor” him. I lost count of how many fires I’d put out for that boy. And the chocolates—The Nebula Collection. It was a brand Andrea had built for me. A tribute to my late mother’s legacy. Toby wasn’t being oblivious; he was being surgical. He was feeding me my own history to see if I’d choke. When I got home, I stopped at the shoe rack. My slippers were gone. In their place sat a pair of chunky, expensive sneakers that didn’t belong to me. I walked upstairs barefoot, the cold hardwood biting at my soles. I found them in the media room. My mother’s final film was playing on the massive 4K screen. On the sofa, two figures were tangled together, clothes half-discarded, mouths locked in a messy, desperate hunger. “Get out.” My hand was white-knuckled on the door handle, shaking with a rage so cold it felt like ice. Andrea looked up, annoyed by the interruption. She didn’t look guilty; she looked inconvenienced. She reached over and gently straightened Toby’s shirt. “I’ll have the driver take you home,” she told him. Toby pouted, the picture of wounded innocence, but he stood up. “Adrian, man, don’t be mad at Andrea. It’s my fault. I begged her to let me see what a million-dollar sound system felt like.” He looked at the screen, then back at me, a nasty little glint in his eyes. “We got a bit carried away. Your mom, Serena… she was stunning. So much passion in those scenes. I heard she was actually pregnant with you when she filmed this—was it the director’s?” “Toby!” Andrea’s sharp command and my palm connecting with his face happened at the exact same time. Toby staggered back, clutching his cheek. He gave Andrea a watery, pathetic look, then bolted out of the room. Andrea’s face went stone cold. “You shouldn’t have hit him.” Then she turned and chased after him. I walked into the room and picked up the cashmere throw blanket that had been kicked to the floor. It was damp with spilled wine and… other things. After my mother died in that accident, my grandmother used to wrap me in this blanket when the night terrors got too bad. She passed away the morning after she gave it to me. It was the only piece of them I had left. I was in the laundry room trying to scrub the stains out when Andrea walked in. She knelt and slid my slippers onto my feet. “Enough, Adrian. Let the maid handle it tomorrow. Toby didn’t mean it. I’ll make him apologize to you later.” She wrapped her arms around my waist from behind, swaying her body against mine, using that soft, manipulative coo she used when she wanted to play house. “I talked to the station manager. I got you some time off. You said you wanted to go abroad? I’ll go with you.” “Christmas is coming up. The atmosphere in London or Paris will be perfect. We’ll stay as long as you want.” She was being so “sweet,” but I was shivering so hard my teeth rattled. The station manager didn’t waste any time. He knew who signed the checks. I pried her hands off me. I ran downstairs to grab my bag, looking for the divorce papers I’d prepared. They were gone. Andrea stood at the top of the stairs, sighing with the exhaustion of a parent dealing with a toddler. She came down and grabbed my arm. “Adrian, I told you from the start. I’m not wired for traditional romance. I told you that loving me would hurt. You were the one who said you didn’t care.” “I love you. You’re my husband…” She trailed off. The unspoken half of that sentence hung in the air: But I don’t love you enough to be faithful. She pressed my hand against her stomach. “Let’s have a baby on this trip. A fresh start.” It wasn’t a romantic gesture. It was a bribe. Yesterday, those words would have been everything I ever wanted. Now, they made my skin crawl. My stomach was a hollow pit, and my eyes felt like they were bleeding. Andrea’s expression shifted to pity. She rubbed my back. “I’m sorry, honey. If you hate Toby that much, I won’t let him near you again. Okay?” I didn’t say a word. I turned, went into the guest room, and locked the door. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a notification. I had been pulled from the New Year’s Eve Special. My replacement? Toby. My heart dropped into my stomach. A moment later, a string of texts came in from Toby. Apologies first. Then a “vow” to work hard and make me proud. Finally, a request for me to “mentor” him through the script so he wouldn’t let the team down. Andrea walked in with a glass of warm lemon water. I threw the phone at the wall. “Why?” I roared. I scrambled out of bed, trying to find my clothes. “Stop it. You know it’s useless,” she said, pinning me down with a firm hand. “The board already approved the change. It’s done.” All the strength left my body. I felt suddenly, violently ill. “Adrian, you’re burning up.” She pushed me back into the pillows. She made me eat some broth, made me take some pills. Ten minutes later, I threw it all up. I opened the balcony door for air and saw a car pull into the driveway. Toby stepped out, grinning, his arms wide open. Andrea walked down to him. She looked annoyed, but she stepped into his embrace anyway. He wrapped his heavy overcoat around her, pulling her close. Suddenly, he looked up. Straight at the balcony. Our eyes locked. He flashed a brilliant, predatory smile. “It’s freezing out here, Andrea,” he called out, his voice carrying in the crisp air. “You should have worn a coat.” Andrea’s hand disappeared inside his jacket, stroking his chest. “You’re warm enough.” “I’ve got warmer spots. Want to check?” Andrea swiped at him playfully. “Stop being so crude.” Toby laughed, throwing his hands up. “My bad. Punish me later?” She laughed—a genuine, light sound I hadn’t heard in weeks. “Get inside.” That sound hurt worse than the photos. Her heart had moved out years ago; I was just the only one who hadn’t realized the lease was up. I reached for my phone and pulled up a contact with no name—just a string of numbers. My finger hovered over the dial button. A knock at the door. Toby stuck his head in. “Adrian, hey. Sorry to bug you again. Last time, I promise!” “I’m just here to grab the tuxedo for the gala. We’re different sizes, so I need to get it to the tailor ASAP.” I gave him a thin, jagged smile and led him to the walk-in closet. “Wow,” he breathed, looking at the rows of bespoke suits. “These are incredible.” Crrrk— I took a pair of fabric shears and sliced through the shoulder of the tuxedo. His eyes went wide. A split second later, he let out a sharp cry. He grabbed the blade of the shears with his bare hand, a calculated, wicked grin flashing across his face for a heartbeat before he dissolved into tears. Andrea burst in. She saw the shears in my hand, the shredded silk, and Toby’s hand dripping blood onto the white carpet. The fury in her eyes was a physical weight. “Andrea, it’s okay,” Toby sobbed, playing the martyr. “I shouldn’t have come in without asking. Adrian has every right to be pissed.” I laughed. It was a dry, hollow sound. I turned back to the suit and began hacking it into ribbons, the bloody shears shredding the fabric with a rhythmic, violent obsession. I didn’t know who I was hitting anymore. When I finally stopped, I sat on the blood-stained rug amidst a heap of black scrap metal and silk. I felt nothing but a cold, empty static. Andrea walked over and picked up the shears. She wiped the blood off the blade with a piece of the ruined suit, her voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet chill. “You really went too far this time.” She looked down at me, touching my feverish forehead with one hand while her eyes remained vacant. “I like a man who’s a little fragile, Adrian. Red rims around the eyes? That’s hot. but once the tears actually fall… it just looks cheap. It’s ugly.” My breath hitched. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the two tracks of salt water from staining my face. She pulled her hand away. “Stay here and cool off. Call me when you’re ready to act like an adult.” She packed a bag and left. The house became a tomb. There were guards at the door. I was in a velvet-lined cage. The last time she’d been this angry was years ago, when I’d broken my leg on a remote shoot and finished the job without telling her. By the time I got home, I couldn’t feel my foot. She’d been angry because she was scared for me. She didn’t speak to me for a week. When she finally thawed, she’d tapped my forehead and said, “Do it again, and I’ll lock you in this house forever. I’ve got enough money to keep you as a pet.” I watched the New Year’s broadcast on my phone. Toby was on screen, holding the mic. He looked like a younger, cheaper version of me. Then he turned toward the camera, and the blood drained from my face. Pinned to his lapel was the Silver Crescent. My mother’s brooch. I wore it at every major event. It was my talisman, my bit of luck. I ran to my jewelry box. It was empty. I sprinted downstairs, but the guards blocked the exit. “Sir, please. Don’t make this difficult.” I started laughing. It finally clicked. She hadn’t locked me in to keep me safe. She’d locked me in so I wouldn’t ruin Toby’s big night. I called Andrea. No answer. I sent a voice note, my voice shaking with pure, unadulterated hate: “Give it back. Give me the brooch back, Andrea!” Nothing. Toby flubbed the broadcast. He messed up the sponsors’ names, then misidentified a major pop star. By the time the show ended, the “Toby is a Disaster” hashtag was trending. Immediately, the network’s PR team started leaking photos of his “heroic” injury—his bandaged hand, the blood on the mic. They framed him as a dedicated professional working through the pain. After the show, Toby posted a photo on Instagram. He was posing with a young fan—a girl from a local charity. The Silver Crescent was pinned to her dress. His text followed seconds later: “Hope you don’t mind me paying it forward, Adrian! The kid loved it. Her eyes lit up. Andrea said she’d buy you a new one. I promise I won’t steal the next one.” The blanket was ruined. The brooch was gone. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a glacier. Two hours later, I logged onto my verified Twitter account and posted a long-form thread. It was a scorched-earth confession. Within ten minutes, it had ten thousand retweets. #TobyTheThief was number one. But within the hour, the thread vanished. My account was suspended. “Violating terms of service regarding harassment.” I called every contact I had in the media. One old friend finally whispered the truth. “Adrian, Andrea made the calls. No one is touching this.” I collapsed onto the sofa. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry. I was a ghost in my own life. The final insult came three hours later on the late-night entertainment news: “Renowned host Adrian Winston is taking an indefinite hiatus due to ongoing mental health struggles. Industry insiders urge fans to respect his privacy as he seeks treatment…” She was erasing me. Late that night, Andrea returned. She held out a box containing an antique brooch—Andrean, rare, worth fifty times what my mother’s was. “Stop sulking,” she said. “Toby was wrong to take it. I’ve dealt with him.” I took the brooch and ran the pin along my thumb until a bead of blood appeared. I kept pushing. I felt nothing. “Adrian!” Andrea grabbed my hand, her voice rising in frustration. “How long are you going to keep this up? Talk to me!” Before I could answer, Toby burst into the room. He threw himself onto his knees. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have pushed it. I won’t cross the line again, Adrian.” “I don’t care about the job. I just want to be near Andrea. Even if it’s just once a week, once a month… I just need her.” I knew Andrea’s face. She looked annoyed, but beneath that, I saw the flicker of ego-stroking pleasure. Toby was crying—the exact “cheap” look she claimed to hate, yet she was reaching out to him. I hauled off and punched Toby square in the jaw. Then, I took the antique brooch and dragged the pin across his cheek. Andrea screamed. “Adrian! You’ve lost your mind!” She slapped me. Hard. I threw the expensive piece of jewelry against the marble floor and let out a scream that had been ten years in the making. “Ten years, Andrea! I went from a boy who would have died for you to a dog in your cage! You think this scrap metal makes us even?” She stared at me, shocked. It was the first time I had ever truly defied her. She looked into my bloodshot eyes and her voice went cold. “You’re not being a good boy anymore.” I flinched. It was a reflex. She signaled the guards. They pinned me to the floor. Andrea walked over to the mahogany display rack and pulled out a golf club—a vintage iron. “Adrian, have I spoiled you so much that you’ve forgotten who owns this house?” The club whistled through the air and slammed into my back. The pain was a white-hot explosion. I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper, but I didn’t give her a sound. “Are you sorry?” I hissed through gritted teeth. “What did I do wrong?” She swung again, catching my shoulder blade. “Why did you cut his face? Why did you go to the press? Your jealousy almost ruined him.” Third strike. My ribs. “Why can’t you learn? You’re twenty-six, not sixteen!” She stopped, breathing hard, waiting for me to beg. I didn’t. “Adrian?” She realized something was wrong. She touched my forehead. “Why are you so hot? Adrian, look at me. Say something!” I looked through her. The silence took me. The last time this happened was when my grandmother died. I ran to the neighbors to get help, but after I said “Grandma,” my voice simply vanished. It stayed gone for three years. In the fourth year, Andrea had a horrific car accident. She was in a coma for a week. I sat by her bed and whispered her name, and the sound finally broke through. She opened her eyes at that exact moment. “There’s my boy,” she’d said. I woke up in a private hospital wing. Andrea was there. She pressed the Silver Crescent into my hand. “I got it back, Adrian. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” “When you’re ready to go back to work, Toby will be gone. I won’t see him again.” I gripped the brooch. I closed my eyes. It didn’t matter. I had already signed my resignation letter. Her phone started ringing—a relentless, demanding buzz. She looked at me, then at the phone, and stepped out into the hall to take it. When she came back, the bed was empty. My wedding ring was sitting alone on the pillow.

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