For as long as I could remember, my parents painted our lives in shades of gray. Money was a ghost they were always chasing, a constant source of quiet desperation. They claimed to work back-to-back double shifts just to keep the heat on, always reminding me to be sensible, to understand the weight of our poverty. So, I buried myself in my books. I studied until my eyes burned, driven by a singular, desperate promise to pull us out of the mud and give my exhausted parents the comfortable retirement they deserved. But on Thanksgiving—a night meant for family gratitude—the elaborate lie they had spun for sixteen years finally fell apart. A classmate had hooked me up with a gig as a temporary server at the Grand Horizon, a six-star luxury hotel downtown. That was where I saw them. My parents, walking into a private VIP dining room with my younger sister, Zoe. The hotel’s general manager shadowed them, his posture practically bent in half, wearing an obsequious smile that made my stomach turn. I froze, convinced my eyes were playing tricks on me. Suddenly, the floor captain smacked the back of my head. “Hey, kid, what are you gaping at? If the VIPs catch you slacking on your shift, it’s my neck on the line!” “Who… who are they?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “The couple the manager is escorting? That’s the CEO of Summit Holdings and his wife. And that little girl next to them is Zoe, the heiress to the entire family fortune. Born with a platinum spoon in her mouth.” The world tilted on its axis. My parents. The people who claimed to work double shifts, whose clothes were patched and mended until the original fabric was lost. They were the wealthiest tycoons in Boston? … I stood frozen, my eyes wide, a violent tremor starting in my chest. They had been playing poor. The entire city, even a hotel captain, knew Zoe was the golden child of the family. I was the only one kept in the dark. “Get moving or get out!” the captain hissed. Beside me, my classmate nudged my shoulder, whispering to ask if I was okay. I shook my head, swallowing the lump of glass in my throat. “I’m fine,” I managed. “We’re serving their suite next,” he warned quietly. “Stay sharp. If we upset people that powerful, nobody’s going to save us.” “Okay.” Soon, we were lined up to serve. When I carried the heavy silver platter of imported seafood—a dish that cost more than my entire monthly allowance—into the suite, I kept my head bowed, staring at the polished mahogany floor. I couldn’t let them see me. Just as I set the platter down, Zoe’s bright voice cut through the soft jazz playing in the background. “Mom, Dad, it’s Thanksgiving. We’re out having this amazing dinner, but we left Elliot home alone with a frozen meal. Isn’t that a little mean?” Her words sent a fragile spark of warmth through my numb chest. For a split second, I thought someone in that house actually cared about me. But my mother laughed, a sweet, musical sound. “Oh, honey, don’t worry about your brother. Elliot is used to being on his own. He’s always spent the holidays by himself, hasn’t he?” My father didn’t even look up from his phone. His fingers tapped away as he muttered indifferently, “Your brother isn’t like you, sweetie. As long as he’s fed, he’s fine. But you’re different.” He finally set his phone down, his gaze shifting to Zoe. The tenderness in his eyes was absolute, a raw, protective adoration I had never once received. “You’re our princess. We would never dream of letting you experience the kind of hardships your brother has to go through.” No one noticed how hard I was shaking, or how the color had completely drained from my face. To them, my existence was negligible, a stray weed that could survive on rainwater and dirt. I was meant to suffer, to be molded by deprivation, while Zoe was a delicate orchid to be shielded from the slightest breeze. We shared the same blood, the same parents. Why was there such a vast, cruel gulf between us? A cold, sickening thought crept into my mind: Am I even theirs? “You guys are the best,” Zoe giggled, wrapping her arms around my mother’s neck. “I love you so much!” The hotel manager stood by the door, chiming in with practiced flattery, while my parents beamed with pride. “Eat up, sweetheart,” my mother said, spooning more lobster onto Zoe’s plate. “Don’t be like your brother. He’s so terribly picky, even at his age.” My father nodded in agreement. “I don’t know where he picked up that stubborn habit. He ignores the meat and only eats the roasted greens.” “Well, that’s your doing,” my mother teased playfully, rolling her eyes. As course after course of extravagant food was laid out, I stared at a dinner that easily cost more than ten thousand dollars. For years, I had believed we were drowning in mortgage debt, that we could only afford meat once a week. I had starved my own cravings, pretending I hated steak and pork chops just so my parents and Zoe could have larger portions. I wanted my parents to be healthy; I wanted my sister to grow up strong. My quiet sacrifices, my desperate attempts to be a good son, had been filed away in their minds as nothing more than “picky eating.” I didn’t confront them. I didn’t raise my head to demand why they were doing this to me. Instead, I swallowed my tears, turned on my heel, and walked out. I stripped off the uniform, changed into my worn-out jeans, and left the hotel into the biting autumn air. As I reached the street, my phone buzzed. It was Sarah, the owner of the local bakery where I worked part-time. “Hey, Elliot. That custom cake you ordered is ready. When do you want to pick it up?” I hesitated. My first instinct was to tell her to throw it away. But then I stopped myself. I had worked thirty grueling hours on my feet to pay for that cake. Why should I leave it behind? When I unlocked the door to our drab, cramped apartment, carrying the pink bakery box, I looked around. The living room was sparsely furnished, but the walls were covered with my academic certificates and honor roll plaques. The dam broke, and the tears finally poured down my face. My whole life, they told me we were poor. They told me education was my only ticket out. And I had never let them down. I was valedictorian every year since grade school, eventually scoring at the very top of the state in my SATs. While other kids had weekends, summer camps, and sleepovers, my life consisted of only two things: studying and working odd jobs. At ten o’clock, the door clicked open. They had already changed out of their designer suits and Zoe’s boutique dress, returning in their faded, second-hand clothes. They walked in to find me sitting at the kitchen table, silently eating a slice of cake. “Elliot?” my mother asked, setting her keys down on the counter with a frown. “Where did that cake come from?” “I bought it,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. It was supposed to be a Thanksgiving surprise for Zoe. But after a ten-course luxury meal, she didn’t need my cheap bakery cake. “How many times do I have to tell you?” my father snapped, his tone sharp with disappointment. “Every dollar you make should go toward your college fund. Your mother and I work ourselves to the bone so you can have a future. Don’t waste our sacrifices.” “Yeah, Elliot, you’re being irresponsible,” Zoe chimed in, mimicking his disapproval. I ignored her. I slowly put my fork down and looked up, taking in the three of them standing there in their carefully curated poverty. After a long pause, I spoke. “Dad, Mom. I need an iPad. It would make studying and accessing research databases a lot easier.” It was the first time in eighteen years I had ever asked them for anything. And it was directly tied to my education. The moment the words left my mouth, their expressions hardened. My father marched over, towering over me. “Are you asking for a toy to play video games?” he demanded, his voice echoing in the small room. I looked him dead in the eye, my face a mask of calm. “No. I need it for school research.” He let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “You can use the computers at the public library. You don’t need an iPad.” “I’ve told you a thousand times, those devices ruin minds. Don’t look at the kids who have them; they’re wasting their lives away. Besides, your mother and I work day and night, and the rent is suffocating us. We don’t have spare cash to throw away on luxury gadgets.” Under normal circumstances, I would have apologized immediately and told them to forget it. But this time, I didn’t back down. I stood up, meeting his angry glare head-on. “You pay for Zoe’s private ballet lessons,” I said quietly. “You could pause her classes for a month. That would easily cover the cost of a tablet for my studies.” The words acted as a catalyst. My father’s hand flew out, delivering a stinging slap across my face. Crack. The sound echoed, leaving a suffocating silence in its wake. My mother rushed over, placing a hand on my father’s arm. “Elliot, stop provoking your father. You don’t need distractions at your age. Besides, Zoe’s ballet instructor says she has real talent. If she stops her training now, she’ll fall behind. Her future depends on it.” I stared at her, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. “So in this house, Zoe’s dance classes are more important than my actual education. Is that it?” My mother blinked, taken aback. Then, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “Elliot, why are you acting so strange tonight? And of course her dancing is vital. It’s her dream.” Her words settled in my chest like liquid nitrogen. My father scoffed. “Don’t use teenage rebellion as an excuse to talk back to us.” With a violent sweep of his arm, he knocked my birthday cake off the table, sending it crashing to the floor in a ruined heap of pink frosting and cardboard. “Go to your room and study,” he barked, pointing a finger toward the hallway. “You stay in there until I say otherwise. Understood?” I gave them one last, lingering look. Then, without a word, I turned and walked into my bedroom. As the door clicked shut, his angry voice still bled through the wood. “He’s getting out of hand! Completely ungrateful for everything we sacrifice. If he keeps obsessing over screens and games, he’s going to ruin his life. Nobody will be able to save him.” I slid down against the back of the door, the hot tears finally spilling silently over my lashes, soaking my face in the dark. The truth was, I didn’t care about the iPad. I had enough academic resources. It was a test—a final, desperate gamble to see if they would choose me, just once. But the experiment had failed. The last shred of hope I held for my family died right there on the linoleum floor with that ruined cake. My compliance, my perfect grades, my years of self-denial—it all amounted to nothing. Their love was a spotlight, and it only shone on Zoe. After a long while, I wiped my eyes. A cold, absolute resolve settled deep in my bones. I pulled out my old, cracked phone—the one I’d repaired myself three times—and typed a message: I’m accepting the offer. I want to join the classified research program. Within seconds, the phone buzzed. Elliot, are you absolutely certain? Yes. Once you join, you will be unable to contact or see your family for the next five to ten years. You will be entirely off the grid. That’s fine. There’s no one here who cares anyway. The line went quiet for a few agonizing minutes. Finally, a response popped up: A transport team will pick you up tomorrow morning. Keep this entirely confidential. No goodbyes to anyone. Especially your family. Understood. I deleted the thread. Looking up at the wall of achievements, I felt absolutely nothing. At sixteen, my academic performance had caught the attention of a highly classified university recruitment program. Dr. Charles Mercer—a legendary figure in advanced physics—had quietly taken me under his wing as a research assistant. Within six months, I had single-handedly solved a thermal dynamics equation that had stalled his team for five years. To protect my safety and intellectual property, Dr. Mercer had kept my involvement completely off the record. He had tried to recruit me into a state-sponsored, deep-security research initiative, but I had refused back then. I wanted to build a career, yes, but my family had been my anchor. I couldn’t bear the thought of vanishing from their lives. Now? That anchor had rusted away. If they viewed me as a ghost, then I would become one. The next morning, my parents woke me up at dawn to make breakfast, exactly as they did every day. I didn’t show a hint of resentment. I fried the eggs, toasted the cheap white bread, and set the table. Seeing that I was behaving normally, my father’s expression softened slightly. As he reached for his coat, he gave me one last warning: “Keep your head in the books. If I catch you slacking off, there will be consequences.” Then, they left. I didn’t go to school that morning. Instead, I waited five minutes, slipped out of the apartment, and followed them. They started their commute on an old, squeaking bicycle they supposedly shared. But barely two blocks away, in a secluded alley, they tossed the bike behind a dumpster. A sleek, midnight-black Rolls-Royce Phantom was waiting for them. A uniformed chauffeur opened the door, and my parents, along with Zoe, stepped inside. I followed them in a cheap cab, paying with the last of my bakery cash. They had always told me Zoe went to a neighborhood public school funded by state grants. But the Rolls-Royce pulled up to the gates of Oakridge Academy—a private boarding school where tuition cost more than a high-end sports car. I watched Zoe, dressed in her tailored uniform, laugh and wave goodbye to them. Seeing her so happy, so effortlessly wealthy, cemented my decision. There was no room for me in their glittering, secret life. As the Rolls-Royce glided away into the morning traffic, I turned back toward our rundown apartment. I packed my worn backpack with a few changes of clothes. Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed. The transport coordinator was waiting at the curb. Before stepping out, I took one last look at the apartment—the cramped kitchen, the walls of meaningless trophies. “Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye, Dad. Goodbye, Zoe.” No, I thought, pulling the door shut behind me. Not goodbye. Farewell. I set my keys gently on the kitchen counter, closed the door, and walked down the stairwell without looking back. From this moment on, they would never have to pretend to be poor for my sake again.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “497698”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My father called to ask about the wedding details. I recited them effortlessly. What time the walk down the aisle started, when the vows would be read, when we would toast the tables—I had memorized the schedule better than any quarterly report I’d ever delivered. Then, out of nowhere, he asked, “What does Denis say?” I went quiet for three seconds. “He says it’s all up to me.” After hanging up, I stared at the thick stack of invitations on my desk. Three months ago, when I asked Denis what kind of wedding he wanted, he was staring at his phone, texting. He didn’t even look up. “You’re good at this kind of thing. Just do whatever you want.” What exactly was I good at? I was good at visiting eight different venues by myself to compare rates and layouts. I was good at tasting a dozen different artisan chocolates alone to pick the favors. I was good at staying up until 2:00 AM finalizing a last-minute seating chart, while he was “working late” at the office. I had forced myself to be good at everything. But during the rehearsal tonight, he still didn’t show up. I ended up having his best man stand in for him so we could walk the cues. When it was over, the best man looked at me, a flash of pity in his eyes. “Actually, Lauren… I saw Denis on the highway earlier. He was with Cora.” My heart skipped a beat, but I kept my smile perfectly intact. “Okay. Thanks for letting me know.” There was no point in waiting around for a miracle in this relationship anymore. …… “How did the rehearsal go?” Denis’s voice came through the line shortly after I got home. “Fine,” I said. “I knew it. You always handle things so well without me.” He chuckled, a casual assumption wrapped in praise. “I picked up that chestnut cake you love from the bakery downtown. Just parked the car, I’ll be up in a minute.” The call disconnected. The lock clicked. Denis walked in holding a neat little paper bag. He hung his suit jacket on the coat rack. “Today must have been exhausting,” he said, setting the bag on the coffee table. “Your best man filled in for you,” I said, leaning back against the sofa, watching him. He reached out, instinctively trying to ruffle my hair, but I tilted my head away. His hand froze in midair, his brow furrowing slightly. “Lauren, are you still mad at me?” He sighed, dropping his hand. “I didn’t skip out on purpose.” “No?” “Cora’s car broke down on the expressway loop.” His tone was entirely earnest, devoid of any guilt. “She has severe claustrophobia. She was trapped in the middle of traffic, sobbing hysterically. I couldn’t just leave her there.” “So you went to rescue her.” “Lauren, it was a dangerous situation. She was panicking on a busy highway. What if something had happened to her? The rehearsal is just a formality anyway. You know the run-of-the-play by heart, you didn’t need me there. Besides, the best man was there, wasn’t he?” He spoke with such absolute conviction, as if my silence were the unreasonable part. I opened the paper bag. It wasn’t chestnut cake. It was a slice of matcha crepe cake. “Why is this matcha?” I asked. Denis blinked, glancing at the box. “Oh. Cora mentioned earlier that their matcha crepe is their best-seller, so I just grabbed it. Give it a try. It’s good to change things up occasionally.” I stared at the green cake. “Denis, I am highly allergic to mangoes. This bakery uses a mango puree filling in their matcha crepes.” Silence fell over the room. A flash of panic crossed his face, but he quickly smoothed it over with his usual gentle demeanor. “I’m so sorry, I honestly didn’t think. Things have been so chaotic at the office lately, I must have gotten things mixed up.” “Gotten things mixed up? Or is your head just so full of Cora’s preferences that there’s no room for mine?” “Lauren, don’t be so sensitive,” he said, his brow tightening. “I apologized. It’s just a piece of cake. If you don’t want it, throw it out.” With a swift, clean motion, he swept the cake, box and all, into the trash can. It was efficient, like he was sweeping away my “unreasonable” attitude. “The best man said he saw the two of you at a coffee shop,” I remarked. Denis’s hand hesitated as he poured a glass of water. “We had to wait for the tow truck. I took her to grab a hot drink to calm her nerves.” He turned around, holding the glass. “You’ve always been so independent, Lauren. I knew you’d understand.” Independent. That was the word I had heard most over our four years together. Because I was independent, I could go to the ER by myself at midnight for an IV drip. Because I was independent, I could fix a blown fuse in the pouring rain. Because I was independent, he felt entirely justified in showering all his attention on the fragile, helpless Cora. The phone on the coffee table lit up with a video call from Cora. He didn’t even try to hide it. He answered right in front of me. “Denis!” On screen, Cora’s eyes were red and puffy. She was clutching a white cat. “What’s wrong?” Denis’s voice softened instantly. “I just wanted to say thank you again. If you hadn’t called the tow truck, I don’t know how long I would’ve been crying on that highway.” “It’s fine. Did the car get to the shop?” “Yes. But… I’m terrified of sleeping alone tonight. Every time I close my eyes, I feel like I’m suffocating again.” Her voice trembled. “Is Lauren there? Does she hate me for taking up your time today?” Denis glanced at me. “No, she’s very understanding. She doesn’t mind.” Listening to them, a wave of nausea washed over me. It was sickening. “Denis, could you come with me to pick up the car tomorrow? I’m scared to go to that auto yard by myself. I heard that part of town is really sketchy.” “Tomorrow?” Denis hesitated. Tomorrow was our appointment to try on my wedding gown. “I’m fitting my wedding dress tomorrow,” I said quietly. On the screen, Cora immediately gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! Lauren, I had no idea you guys had plans. I really didn’t mean to. I can go by myself. It’s fine if something happens…” Tears began to spill down her cheeks. Denis’s expression darkened. “Lauren, why do you have to be so hostile?” he muttered, looking at me. I said nothing. He turned back to the screen. “Don’t cry, Cora. I’ll go with you to pick up the car tomorrow morning.” “But Lauren’s dress…” “She can handle it. The shop assistants are there to help her.” Just like that, he made the decision for me. He hung up. “Are you happy now?” I asked. “Lauren, she’s sick. She has psychological trauma. Do you really have to pick a fight with someone who is suffering?” He sighed. “You never used to be like this.” I was too tired to argue. “Fine. I’ll go by myself.” I stood up and walked toward the bedroom. “Lauren, I’ll help you double-check the seating chart later,” he called out behind me. “No need. It’s done.” The next morning, I was sitting at my vanity, putting on makeup. Denis was already dressed in a sharp suit. “I’ll head over to help Cora with the car first. The shop is in the north suburbs, so it might take about two hours.” He adjusted his tie in the mirror. “My appointment at the bridal salon is at ten,” I said. “I know. Go ahead and start without me. Pick a few you like, and I’ll meet you there as soon as I’m done.” He laid out the schedule as if it were perfectly reasonable. “What if I can’t choose without you?” “Your taste is always perfect. You’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.” He turned and walked to the door. “Be good. Wait for me.” The door clicked shut. I arrived at the bridal salon. The consultant greeted me warmly. “Ms. Mercer, is Denis not here yet?” “He’ll be late.” I followed the consultant into the VIP fitting room. The haute couture gown I had waited three months for was draped elegantly on the display rack. It was heavy, intricate, and stunning. She helped me slip into it, but as she tried to pull up the zipper halfway, it stuck. “Take a deep breath, Ms. Mercer. You might be a bit tense—maybe from the wedding stress.” I felt a dull, familiar ache in my lower abdomen. The heavy, dragging sensation hadn’t let up since last night. Looking at my pale reflection in the mirror, I felt a wave of exhaustion. “Mr. Ross really should be here,” the consultant murmured. “This train needs to be adjusted properly from the back to see the full effect.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Denis. It rang six times before he picked up. “Lauren? What’s up?” The background was noisy, filled with the loud hum of machinery. “It’s ten-thirty, Denis. You’re not here.” “I’m sorry. Cora’s car has some undercarriage damage. The mechanics are going over the repair list with us, and she’s panicking because she doesn’t understand any of it. I need to make sure they aren’t ripping her off.” “So you’re leaving me here to wait for you while wearing a thirty-pound wedding dress?” “Lauren, can you please show some empathy? This place is filthy and noisy, and Cora doesn’t even have a place to sit. She’s miserable.” He was worried about Cora not having a chair. But he didn’t care that I was standing alone in a bridal salon, abandoned on the day of my fitting. I closed my eyes, and a memory from a snowy night a year ago flashed through my mind. I had a 103-degree fever. Denis told me he had an urgent board meeting and couldn’t take me to the hospital. I had to bundle up in a heavy coat and walk through the snow for thirty minutes just to hail a cab. When I finally reached the ER, I texted him to let him know I was safe. No reply. The next morning, I saw a post on Cora’s social media. A photo of her wearing Denis’s winter coat, holding a warm cup of cocoa. The caption read: My first real snow. So glad I had my favorite senior to keep me safe. Only then did I realize that his “urgent board meeting” was actually Cora wanting to see the snow, and being afraid of getting lost in the dark. He had stood by the river with her for two hours in the freezing cold, while I spent the night hooked up to an IV on a hard plastic chair in a crowded hospital hallway. When I confronted him, he said, “You were already at the hospital, Lauren. You had doctors and nurses. Cora was out in the cold all by herself.” He always had a seamless, unshakeable logic. He packaged his cruelty as chivalry, his neglect as mere responsibility. “Lauren? Are you listening?” his voice cut through the line, laced with impatience. “I’ll get there as fast as I can. Just have the staff make you comfortable.” “Don’t bother,” I said. My voice was eerily calm as I opened my eyes. “Don’t come.” I hung up. “Ms. Mercer?” the consultant asked, her eyes filled with concern. “Please help me take it off.” “But we aren’t finished… you waited three months for this to be imported…” “We’re done. I won’t be renting this.” I changed back into my clothes, pulled a credit card from my purse, and handed it to her. “Keep the deposit. Just cancel the reservation.” Stepping out of the salon, the crisp morning air cleared my head. I opened my phone and pulled up my chat with the wedding coordinator. Cancel everything. The venue, the catering, the flowers. She immediately replied with a string of shocked emojis. Ms. Mercer, the wedding is next week! The cancellation fees are astronomical! I know. I’ll pay whatever the penalty is. Just send over the cancellation agreement. I caught a cab to the hospital. The cramping in my stomach was getting sharper, and I needed to see a doctor. I waited in line, surrounded by expectant mothers accompanied by their husbands, clutching my clinic slip alone. “Lauren Mercer?” I stood up and walked into the exam room. The OB-GYN looked over my charts, her face grave. “Ms. Mercer, you’re pregnant. About five weeks.” She paused. “We need to discuss your options immediately. Did your partner not come with you?” “No.” “I suggest you call him. This is something you should decide together.” I reached into my bag, my fingers trembling against my phone. For four years, Denis and I had been careful. He always insisted that Cora’s mental health was too fragile, that he had to divide his energy to care for her, and that it wasn’t the right time for a baby. This pregnancy was an accident. “Your progesterone levels are incredibly low, and you’re showing signs of an impending miscarriage,” the doctor explained, pointing to the numbers on the screen. “Have you been under extreme physical or emotional stress lately?” I let out a bitter, silent laugh. Planning a wedding entirely on my own, working late nights to coordinate every detail, all while enduring Denis’s emotional absence and constant gaslighting. How could I not be stressed? “You need absolute bed rest and progesterone supplements immediately. Any strenuous activity or severe emotional upheaval, and you will lose this pregnancy,” she warned strictly. I walked out of the clinic with a prescription in hand as a light drizzle began to fall. I didn’t call Denis. I knew exactly where he was—comforting a shaken Cora. My child didn’t weigh as much as one of her sighs. I took a cab back to our apartment. It was a beautiful place we had bought six months ago. I had spent four months painstakingly decorating every inch of it. The digital lock beeped, and the door swung open. In the entryway sat a pair of pink heels. The ones Cora had worn yesterday. My chest tightened. I walked inside. In the living room, Cora was curled up on my sofa, wearing my silk robe, watching TV. Denis was in the kitchen, slicing fruit. Hearing the door, Denis walked out with a fruit platter, his face completely untroubled. “Lauren, you’re back. How did the fitting go?” He didn’t even ask why I was home early, or why I was alone. I stared at the robe Cora was wearing. It was a designer piece Denis had bought me during a business trip last month. I hadn’t even worn it yet. “Why is she here?” I pointed at her. Cora scrambled off the sofa, clutching the silk fabric tightly around herself. “Lauren, please don’t be mad. The mechanics at the shop were so aggressive today, and I had a panic attack. Denis saw how shaken I was, so he brought me here to rest.” “The mechanics were rude, so you decided to put on my clothes?” I asked, my voice cold. “I’m sorry…” Cora’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “I spilled water on my dress, and Denis told me to find something to change into. I didn’t know this was… off-limits.” “Lauren, it’s just a robe. We can wash it,” Denis intervened, his brow furrowing as he set the fruit down. “Stop being so hostile.” Just a robe. To him, my personal space, my belongings, and my dignity were always secondary to Cora’s comfort. “This is our home,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “And you brought another woman here, and let her wear my clothes.” “Can you be reasonable for once?” Denis sighed, looking at me like I was a difficult child. “The guest room was empty. Look at her state—did you want me to send her back to that cold, damp apartment of hers? What if she has another depressive episode and does something drastic?” “And what about me? Are you trying to drive me insane instead?” “You’re being hysterical.” He stepped closer, trying to take my hand. “Lauren, you used to be the kindest person I knew. When did you become so bitter?” Kind? Bitter? I yanked my hand away from his touch. A sudden, sharp pain flared in my lower abdomen, making me gasp and take a step back. Denis didn’t even notice. He turned to Cora. “Go rest in the guest room for a bit. I need to talk to Lauren alone.” Cora nodded meekly, looking like a kicked puppy, and slipped down the hallway. “Denis,” I said, swallowing down the physical pain. “Make her leave. Now.” “No,” he said flatly. “It’s pouring rain outside. Where is she supposed to go? You’re crossing a line, Lauren.” I stared at him. This was the man I was supposed to marry. This was the man I had loved for four years. “Fine,” I whispered. My voice felt as fragile as glass. “Do whatever you want.” I turned and walked into our bedroom, locking the door behind me. From the hallway, Denis’s muffled, exasperated voice drifted through the wood. “Calm down first. I have some work emails to finish. Did you get everything ready for our appointment at the courthouse tomorrow?” I didn’t answer. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and began packing. My clothes, my jewelry, my skincare products. It was shockingly little. I had lived here for months, yet everything I owned fit into a single suitcase. I printed the cancellation receipt from the wedding venue and placed it on the nightstand, laying my engagement ring right on top of it. Tomorrow was the day we were supposed to get married. My phone buzzed. It was a message from HR. Lauren, the legal department has signed off on your transfer to the London office. Do you have your flight booked? Yes, I replied. I fly out tomorrow morning. The next morning, I wheeled my suitcase out of the bedroom. Denis was in the kitchen, setting a warm breakfast on the table. Cora sat nearby, wearing an oversized white button-down. It was Denis’s shirt. She smiled as she took a glass of milk from him. “Thanks, Denis. Your breakfast is still the best.” Denis froze when he saw me walk out with my luggage. “Where are you going?” “We’re going to the courthouse today, aren’t we?” I said calmly. “I’m just taking some clothes to the dry cleaners on the way.” “Oh.” He relaxed, taking off his apron. “Actually, Lauren… about the courthouse…” He hesitated. I stopped and looked at him. “Cora has a follow-up evaluation for her depression today. The clinic requires a family member or a close contact to sign off on her files.” “And?” “Could we postpone the courthouse by just a day? We can go tomorrow. It’s the same thing.” He looked at me, his tone carrying that familiar, unyielding expectation that I would understand. “Today is the date we chose. The invitations have already been sent.” “Lauren, it’s just a piece of paper. What difference does twenty-four hours make?” He stepped toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. “You’re the organized one. You always know what’s important. I promise, the second I get back this afternoon, we’ll go.” “Denis…” Cora piped up from the table. “Maybe we shouldn’t. I can go alone. I don’t want Lauren to be mad at me…” “She won’t be,” Denis cut her off. “Lauren isn’t petty.” I looked at him. I looked at his confident face, so certain that I would yield, as I always did. The dull ache in my belly was a constant reminder that this man didn’t care if I lived or died. “Okay,” I said softly. “I knew you’d understand.” He smiled, visibly relieved. He grabbed his car keys. “I’ll take her to the clinic first. Get some rest, you looked pale yesterday.” “Don’t worry about it.” “What?” “Nothing. Go.” The front door shut, and the apartment fell into a dead silence. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even have the energy for anger. There was only a profound, hollow sense of relief. I pulled out my phone and dialed the moving company. “You can come up now.” Two hours later, the movers took the last of my boxes down to the truck. I stood in the empty bedroom, looking around. Without my things, the room looked cold and sterile. I walked over to the coffee table and laid down a note. It wasn’t even a letter. Just a single sentence. The wedding is cancelled. Do not contact me again.

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To save myself from a lot of unnecessary drama, I always pretend I’m married. It started out as a simple shield. One afternoon, while out shopping with my coworker Rachel, I spotted a coat that I absolutely fell in love with. It was gorgeous, but the price tag was steep—nearly four thousand dollars. The sales associate was laying on the charm, practically begging me to try it on, when I waved my hand and let the lie slip naturally: “Oh, thank you, but I’d better not. My husband would lose his mind if I bought this. Even if I took it home, I’d just end up having to return it.” I didn’t think twice about it. But the very next morning, a courier package arrived at the office. When I tore open the box, my heart stopped. It was the exact coat. Rachel’s eyes went wide. She snatched the card tucked inside the tissue paper and read it aloud: “To my beautiful wife: If you love it, you should have it. You deserve every beautiful thing in this world. —Your loving husband.” I stood there, completely frozen. My husband was a ghost. A phantom. A convenient excuse. I’ve never even been in a serious relationship, let alone walked down an aisle. Where on earth did this husband come from? 1 For a second, I thought Rachel was playing a trick on me, making up the words on the fly. I snatched the card from her hand, but there they were—two lines of elegant, flowing handwriting, staring back at me. “Natalie, look at you, playing the humble wife!” Rachel nudged me, grinning. “Here you are, always complaining about how strict your husband is, and then he goes and drops four grand on a coat without blinking!” A few other coworkers started drifting over to my desk. “Wow, Natalie, I had no idea your husband was this loaded!” “Seriously, talk about low-key.” I forced a stiff smile, my mind racing so fast I couldn’t find my voice. I had been at this marketing firm for three months, and my “married” persona was airtight. Whenever there was a happy hour I wanted to skip, or a tedious weekend project I wanted to dodge, I’d sigh and say, “I’d love to, but my husband has plans for us.” It was the perfect boundary. But the reality was that I was a textbook case of a late bloomer. I hadn’t even held a man’s hand, let alone built a life with one. I peeked into the box. Even the size was correct. Who could have sent this? A tiny, narcissistic part of me wondered if I had a secret admirer. But the only person who had been there when I saw the coat was Rachel. I watched her closely as she gushed over the fabric. She seemed entirely genuine, completely devoid of any secret, knowing looks. I spent the rest of the day in a haze of anxiety. As soon as I got home, I called the boutique’s customer service line. An order of that size had to have a paper trail. But after a few moments of typing, the representative sighed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. This purchase was made anonymously. The buyer requested full privacy protection, so we don’t have any billing details on file.” Anonymous. I stared at the coat hanging on my door for a long time before finally shoving it into the darkest, deepest corner of my closet. The next morning, Rachel eyed my plain knit sweater. “Natalie, where’s the coat? I was dying to see you style a four-thousand-dollar piece today!” “Oh,” I laughed nervously, “it’s way too nice for a regular Tuesday at the office. I don’t want to ruin it.” I certainly wasn’t going to wear something when I didn’t know who bought it. I tried to lose myself in my spreadsheets, but an hour later, the receptionist buzzed my line. “Natalie, there’s a package for you at the front desk.” A cold prickle of dread washed over me. Sure enough, when I opened the small, heavy parcel, it was a limited-edition designer vault containing every single shade of a luxury lipstick line. The card inside bore the same message: Your loving husband. Rachel gasped from the desk next to mine. “Oh my god! Isn’t this the vault we were looking at online last week? The one you said you wanted so badly?” She was right. And I remembered exactly what I had said to her: “I’d buy the whole set in a heartbeat, but my husband would roll his eyes. He constantly tells me my vanity is already overflowing.” Rachel shook her head, green with envy. “He tells you no, and then he buys the entire collection anyway? Natalie, what kind of fairy-tale marriage are you hiding?” Fairy-tale. That was one word for it. Another word was terrifying. I didn’t even know who this person was. My head throbbed as I shoved the lipsticks into my desk drawer. “Hey, are you okay?” Rachel asked, her tone shifting to concern. “You look pale. Did you and the mister have a fight?” I leaned into the excuse, offering a weak, miserable nod. “Ah, that explains it,” Rachel said, satisfied with her own deduction. “He’s trying to buy his way out of the doghouse. Honestly, with peace offerings like these, you should let him stay there a bit longer.” I didn’t answer. I quietly noted the tracking number on the shipping label, logged onto the courier’s website, and initiated a live chat with customer support. Ten minutes later, the prompt popped up: 【We apologize, but this shipment was dispatched under an anonymous corporate account. No sender information can be disclosed.】 Can you even do that with standard mail? I was still staring at the screen when the receptionist’s voice echoed through the office. “Natalie! You’ve got flowers!” 2 Flowers? I stood up slowly, my legs feeling like lead. A delivery guy was standing by the glass doors of our lobby, holding an enormous, breathtaking arrangement of white roses and delicate hydrangeas. “Are you Natalie?” the guy asked, checking his clipboard. “These are from your husband.” I stood there like a statue. By the time I snapped out of it, the courier was already halfway down the corridor toward the elevators. I ran out after him. “Wait! Please, wait!” He stopped, turning around with a look of mild amusement. “Yes, ma’am?” “Who placed the order? Do you have a name?” “Your husband,” he said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “No, I mean—can I please see the account details on your tablet? Just the username, or a phone number?” The courier looked hesitant, but when he saw the sheer panic in my eyes, he relented and scrolled through his delivery app. The sender’s profile was entirely blank. “Look, all I know is the order came through our premium dispatch. The arrangement was five hundred dollars, and the guy left a three-hundred-dollar tip for a direct hand-delivery. Your husband is incredibly generous, ma’am.” I handed his tablet back, my hands trembling. I managed to murmur a thank-you before retreating back to the office. Naturally, my coworkers swarmed. “That bouquet must have cost a fortune!” “First the coat, then the vault, now this? Your husband is setting the bar impossibly high.” “Look, there’s a card. What does it say?” I looked down at the small piece of cardstock nestled in the blooms. Please don’t be angry anymore, sweetheart. My fingers shook so hard I nearly dropped the arrangement. “Natalie, you have to forgive him now,” Rachel teased. “I don’t care what he did. A man who loves you this much deserves a clean slate.” I couldn’t hear her over the roaring in my ears. The coat. The makeup. The flowers. The only person who knew about those exact conversations was Rachel. And the moment I let her believe I was “fighting” with my husband, a bouquet arrived asking for forgiveness. Was she doing this? Was it some elaborate, incredibly expensive prank to expose my lie? But Rachel was a junior copywriter living in a studio apartment with two roommates. She didn’t have thousands of dollars to throw away on a psychological game. None of it made sense. My mind was a chaotic mess, and by the time five o’clock rolled around, I felt a desperate need to ground myself. I decided to visit my grandfather. Grandpa’s house was always my sanctuary. He cooked a massive dinner, and I sat beside him on the sofa, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. It was only then that I realized he wasn’t wearing his hearing aid. “Grandpa,” I said, raising my voice. “Where is your hearing aid?” He turned his good ear toward me, blinking. “Oh, that old thing? It fell right into the lake yesterday while I was casting my line. Don’t worry about it. I can get by just fine without it.” “Of course you can’t,” I insisted, pulling out my phone to search for the best models on the market. “Don’t go spending your hard-earned money on me, Natalie,” he muttered, patting my hand. I ended up staying the night in my old bedroom. The next morning, a sharp knock at the front door woke me from a restless sleep. I rubbed my eyes and padded down the hallway. Grandpa was already opening the door to a delivery driver holding a small cardboard box. “Sign here, please.” Grandpa looked at the label, confused. “Natalie, did you order something? It’s already here?” I froze, the last remnants of sleep instantly vanishing. I rushed forward. There, in the courier’s hand, was a box from a high-end medical supply company. Inside was the exact top-of-the-line hearing aid I had been researching the night before. But I hadn’t placed the order. I had only added it to my cart. A cold sweat broke out across my back. 3 “Ma’am? Can you sign for this?” the driver prompted. Grandpa reached for the pen, but I grabbed his wrist. “Actually… I think there’s been a mistake. We didn’t order this. I need to refuse the delivery.” This was for my grandfather. I couldn’t risk him using something that came from an unknown, potentially dangerous source. As I pushed the box back toward the driver, my eyes caught the shipping label. Tucked under the plastic sleeve was a small, familiar note. Only the best for Grandpa. —Your Grandson-in-law. The breath left my lungs in a sharp gasp. After sending the confused driver away, I took half the day off, drove my grandfather to a local clinic, and bought him a certified hearing aid in person, using my own savings. On the drive back, I held his hand. “Grandpa, if you get any packages over the next few weeks—anything at all—promise me you won’t open them. Call me immediately.” He didn’t quite understand the urgency, but he nodded, sensing the terror in my voice. “Alright, sweetheart. I promise.” When I finally went into the office that afternoon, I was running on pure adrenaline. How did this person know my grandfather’s address? More importantly, how did they know about the hearing aid? I had only researched it on my phone the night before, while sitting in Grandpa’s living room. Could my phone be tapped? It was the only logical explanation. Someone was monitoring my search history, my location, perhaps even my microphone. I left work early, went straight to an electronics store, and bought a brand-new phone with cash. I did a factory reset on my old device and sold it to a refurbished tech kiosk. It was a massive hit to my bank account, but the peace of mind was worth every penny. For the next four days, the silence was deafening. No packages. No flowers. No notes. I finally began to breathe again. But on the fifth night, I fell into a deep, vivid dream. I was standing in a room filled with soft, golden light. A man was standing in front of me. He was tall, with dark hair and eyes so expressive they made my throat tight. He looked at me with an expression of profound, aching sorrow. “Wife,” he murmured, his voice cracking. “You won’t wear the coat. You won’t touch the makeup. You even sent back the hearing aid for your grandpa. Do you hate my gifts? Or do you just not want anything to do with me?” He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush my cheek, though I couldn’t feel his touch. “It’s your birthday today. If you don’t like my choices, I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy.” I bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, my chest heaving. It was morning. The alarm on my phone was blaring. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Today was indeed my birthday. I forced myself to get ready and head to work. I sat at my desk, chewing on a piece of toast while reviewing a marketing proposal, when my phone vibrated in my palm. I tapped the screen, and my heart stopped. It was an alert from my banking app. Deposit Received: $1,000,000.00. One million dollars. I stared at the screen, convinced it was a glitch, a decimal point error. I logged out and logged back in. The balance was real. The available funds were there. Under the transaction details, there was a single memo: Happy Birthday, my love. The words from my dream echoed in my head: I’ll just give you money. Buy whatever makes you happy. My hands began to shake violently. I sat there, paralyzed, as my entire understanding of reality began to crumble. “Natalie? Are you okay?” Rachel asked, waving a hand in front of my face. I slammed my phone face-down on the desk. “Yes! Yes, I’m fine. Just… a headache.” My god. What was happening to me? Where did one million dollars come from? Was it possible to have a husband I had somehow completely forgotten? “Hey, I saw your calendar,” Rachel said gently. “It’s your birthday today. What are your plans?” I picked up the phone again, staring at the impossible number of zeros. None of the physical gifts had been fake. The coat was real wool. The lipsticks were real wax and pigment. Was this money real, too? Could I actually spend it? I took a deep, shaky breath. “You know what? It’s my birthday. Dinner and drinks are on me tonight. Everyone is invited.” The office erupted into cheers. “Natalie, seriously?” Rachel asked, her eyes wide. “Are you sure? We have a pretty large team.” “I’m sure,” I said, a strange, reckless confidence washing over me. “My husband is traveling for work, so I have some extra cash to burn.” I sent a reservation link to our group chat—a high-end French restaurant downtown. Rachel gasped when she saw the menu prices. “Natalie, are you insane? This place is incredibly expensive!” I just smiled. But deep down, I was terrified. What if my card declined? 4 But the transaction went through effortlessly. When the waiter returned my card after processing a fifteen-thousand-dollar bill, my coworkers looked at me as if I were royalty. “Natalie, seriously, what does your husband do?” Rachel whispered, leaning in over her empty champagne glass. “This is insane.” “He’s just… in finance,” I lied, my voice hollow. “Lots of international travel.” I barely heard the rest of their chatter. I was too busy staring at my hands. We went back to my place for cake. As Rachel lit the candles, she urged me to make a wish. I closed my eyes. If this was some bizarre, inexplicable superpower where whatever I thought of manifested into reality, I wanted to test the limits. I want more, I thought fiercely. Give me enough money to never have to worry again. I blew out the candles. Later that night, after everyone had left and the apartment was quiet, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I snatched it up, my heart hammering against my ribs. It was another bank notification. Deposit Received: $100,000,000.00. One hundred million dollars. And the memo: I will always give you everything you want. I got out of bed, pacing the floor of my tiny apartment. This wasn’t a dream. This was terrifying. If the government saw this kind of money appearing in a middle-class girl’s account, they’d think I was funding a cartel. I needed to go to the police. Even if they locked me up, at least I’d be safe from whatever supernatural force was tracking my every thought. I resolved to go to the precinct first thing in the morning. But as I reached to put my phone down, my finger accidentally swiped open my photo gallery. My breath caught. There were new photos in my camera roll. Dozens of them. And they weren’t of me alone. They were candid, beautiful photos of me and the man from my dream—the dark-haired man with the sorrowful eyes. We were laughing on a beach, sharing coffee in a diner, holding hands under a canopy of autumn leaves. I had no memory of these moments. I had never seen this man in my waking life. I kept the lights on all night, sitting in the corner of my living room with a kitchen knife in my hand, waiting for the sun to rise. At 6:00 AM, I took a cab to the local police precinct. The station was quiet, smelling of stale coffee and floor wax. A young officer at the front desk looked up at my pale face and dark circles. “Can I help you, ma’am?” “I… I need to report something,” I stammered, gripping the edge of the desk. “My phone has been compromised. Someone is adding photos to my gallery, and I’ve had… a large amount of money deposited into my account from an untraceable source.” The officer frowned, pulling over a notepad. “How much money?” “One hundred and one million dollars.” He stopped writing. “Excuse me?” From the back room, another officer walked out, holding a clipboard. “What’s going on, Briggs?” I froze. Briggs. The name struck a chord deep in my chest. I stared at the second officer’s face—the sharp jawline, the slight scar over his left eyebrow. Suddenly, my head exploded with pain. Memories—sharp, violent, and fragmented—flooded my brain. I saw a crowded street, the screech of tires, the smell of burning rubber, and then… nothingness. My vision blurred, the room began to spin, and before I could call out, the world went completely black.

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The building’s WhatsApp group chat was usually a boring feed of package-delivery complaints and noise warnings. But that night, a message popped up that made me stop scrolling. It was from Derrick, the guy who lived directly across the hall from me on the eighth floor. He tagged the entire building. “Looking for someone to keep my wife company. Duties include chatting and cooking dinner every night. I’ll pay $3,000 a month cash, plus a brand-new bottle of Hermès Terre d’Hermès cologne.” The chat went dead silent. No emojis, no thumbs-up. Just absolute, stunned silence. Then came the second notification. This time, he tagged me directly. “@Lewis, I think you’d be perfect for this. You’re single, and I see you heading to the gym all the time. I’ve already left the cologne outside your door. Just come on over tonight.” I walked over to my front door and opened it. Sure enough, sitting on my welcome mat was a perfectly wrapped orange Hermès gift box. A dry, disbelief-fueled laugh escaped my throat. I picked up the box, walked it straight to the trash chute down the hall, and tossed it in. Then I opened the app and replied to the group thread: “You’re out of your mind.” I thought it was just a bizarre, isolated stunt. A joke in poor taste. I was wrong. It was the first quiet creak of a door opening into a nightmare. … The next morning at seven, I grabbed my briefcase and opened my door, ready to head to the office. “Lewis. You took the cologne. Why didn’t you show up to keep my wife company last night?” Derrick was already standing there, blocking the hallway. He was wearing a silk pajama set, his hands planted firmly on his hips, glaring at me like a disappointed boss. I frowned, taking a step back. “Are you seriously out of your mind?” Derrick’s eyes went wide. “Why are you being so hostile? I went out of my way to buy you an expensive designer cologne, and you take it but don’t do the job? Where’s your integrity?” I pointed toward the trash chute at the end of the hall. “The box is in the garbage. Go dig it out yourself if you want it back. And get out of my way.” I tried to squeeze past him toward the elevator, but he took a sharp step forward, grabbing the strap of my messenger bag. “Hold on! Is it the money? You think three grand isn’t enough?” Derrick held on tight, his fingers sinking into the canvas strap. “Let me tell you, three thousand dollars is a lot of cash! How much do you even make at your little design firm anyway? Just cook some dinner for my wife, talk to her for a few hours. It’s not going to kill you!” My face went cold. I knocked his hand off my bag. “Derrick, I’m going to say this exactly once. I have zero interest in your wife, and I don’t want your money. If you touch me or harass me again, I’m calling the police.” “Go ahead! Call them!” Instead of backing down, he pressed closer, his breath smelling faintly of stale coffee. “My wife is pregnant! What are the cops going to do to me? You touch me, even a finger, and I’ll sue you for everything you have!” Our voices had been echoing down the concrete hallway, and the racket finally drew attention. The door to the apartment below us clicked open, and Jerry, an elderly neighbor who lived on the seventh floor, poked his head out, clutching a reusable grocery bag. “Oh, Lewis, what’s going on up there? Quite a loud morning, isn’t it?” Derrick immediately pointed a finger at me and shouted down the stairs. “Jerry! You be the judge here! This guy took my gift, agreed to keep my wife company, and now he’s backing out of the deal!” My hands began to tremble with pure rage. How could someone distort reality so seamlessly? I pulled out my phone and swiped open the building’s group chat, showing the screen to Jerry as he walked up the stairs. “Jerry, look at this. He posted this crazy proposal in the group chat last night. I didn’t even let him in. I threw his box straight into the trash chute.” Jerry squinted at my screen, then shifted his gaze to Derrick. His expression warped into deep embarrassment. “Derrick… come on, man. This is… it’s a bit much. Who looks for a ‘companion’ for their own wife like this?” “How is it a bit much?” Derrick’s voice grew even more shrill. “My wife is pregnant! She’s hormonal, she’s stressed, and she can’t stand the sight of me right now. Why shouldn’t I find someone to keep her happy? That’s what a good husband does!” He sneered at me, looking me up and down. “Look at him. A single guy, always showing off his muscles at the gym. He’s practically begging for female attention. I’m giving him an opportunity, and he’s acting like he’s too pure for it!” I took a slow, deep breath, dialing the building’s property management office. “Yes, this is Lewis Matthew in Unit 802. There’s a resident harassing me outside my door. Send security up right now. If they aren’t here in three minutes, I’m calling 911.” Hearing the word security made Derrick’s expression flicker. “Call them! You think I’m scared? My wife’s family has real money, Lewis. They could crush you like a bug!” Five minutes later, two security guards rushed out of the elevator, panting. I pointed at Derrick. “Get him away from my door. I have to go to work. If he blocks my path again, I will file a formal complaint against management for failing to maintain a safe environment.” The guards looked uncomfortable, offering placating smiles. “Uh… Mr. Collins, let’s calm down. Why don’t we head back inside your apartment?” Derrick shoved one of the guard’s hands away, pointing his finger right at my nose. “You think this is over, Lewis? It’s not. You reject me, you humiliate me, I will make sure you can’t show your face in this building again!” I kept my expression entirely blank, walked past him, and stepped into the elevator. I truly believed that if I just ignored him, he’d get tired of the drama and stop. But I had severely underestimated how low he was willing to go. I got back from the office around eight that night after pulling a long shift. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, a sharp, chemical stench hit my nose. It smelled like fresh paint, heavy and toxic. I walked down the corridor to my door and stopped dead. My door was covered in thick, dripping crimson paint. Scrawled across the center in jagged, mocking letters were the words: DIE, BOY TOY. And hanging from the doorknob by a bright red string was a dead, blood-smeared rat. I stood there, the air leaving my lungs. My stomach violently churned. Before I could even process the horror, my phone vibrated in my palm. I swiped to answer. Derrick’s voice, smug and dripping with satisfaction, filled my ear. “Hey, Lewis. Do you like my little housewarming gift?” My voice was a frozen whisper. “Did you do this? Are you admitting you vandalized my door?” On the other end, he let out a sharp, arrogant laugh. “What door? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just happened to walk past your place and saw a mess. Thought I’d call and check in on my neighbor.” He paused, his tone shifting into something darker. “But honestly, plenty of people in this building are sick of looking at your smug face. Maybe some good Samaritan decided to do something about it.” I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. “Derrick, do you honestly think because there isn’t a working camera in this hallway, you’re going to get away with this?” “Go ahead and try to prove it! Management hasn’t fixed those hallway cameras in months,” he sneered. “Listen to me, Lewis. You wash up, clean yourself up, and go knock on my wife’s door tonight. We can let bygones be bygones.” “And if I don’t?” “Then tomorrow, it won’t just be paint on your door.” I hung up on him, instantly blocking his number, and dialed 911. Ten minutes later, two police officers arrived at the scene. I laid out everything—the screenshots from the building’s WhatsApp group, the context of our morning confrontation, and the audio recording of the phone call I had just received. The two young officers stared at the dripping red door, their brows furrowing deeply. “I’ve got to admit, this is a first,” one of them said, before walking over and knocking on Derrick’s door. The door swung open. Derrick stood there in his silk pajamas again, holding a bowl of freshly washed green grapes. Seeing the police, his face instantly morphed into a picture of innocent concern. “Officers? Oh my goodness, what happened?” The officer pointed at my door. “Did you do this?” Derrick gasped, covering his mouth. “Oh, that’s horrible! Who would do such a thing? Lewis, have you been getting involved with the wrong crowd? Is someone after you?” I stared at him. “That’s not what you said on the phone five minutes ago.” The officer pulled out my phone and played the call recording right in front of him. When the audio finished, Derrick squeezed his eyes shut, looking like a victim of a grave injustice. “Officers, listen to that. Did I confess to anything? Not at all.” He wiped a fake tear from his eye. “I was just frustrated because this guy is always trying to hit on my wife. I was throwing some shade. Is it a crime to talk trash to a guy who’s eyeing your pregnant wife? I’m a respected tenant here. I wouldn’t touch paint.” The officers exchanged a look of frustration. Without direct eyewitnesses or functional hallway cameras, and with Derrick’s clever wording in the recording, their hands were legally tied. “Mr. Collins, your behavior and statements are bordering on criminal harassment,” the officer warned, his voice stern. “Watch your step. If we receive another call regarding your conduct, you will be brought down to the station.” Derrick nodded quickly, his head bobbing like a toy. “Of course, officer. Absolutely. I understand.” Once the police left, the hallway fell silent again. Derrick’s fake remorse evaporated instantly. He leaned against his doorframe, a nasty, victorious smirk spreading across his face. “See that, Lewis? Even the cops can’t touch me.” He stepped closer, dropping his voice to a low, venomous whisper. “My wife is carrying the sole heir to the entire inheritance of her family. You want this to stop? You do what you’re told. Go keep her happy.” I looked at him, and to my own surprise, a quiet laugh slipped out. “Is that so? We’ll see about that.” I didn’t waste another word on him. I called a locksmith to change my locks, and hired an emergency cleaning crew to power-wash the crimson paint off my door. The next morning, the moment I stepped into the lobby of my design firm, the young receptionist, Toby, rushed over and grabbed my arm. “Lewis, man, you need to check the company-wide Slack channel right now.” My stomach dropped. I pulled out my phone. An anonymous user had posted a long, detailed thread in the main channel. The headline read: The Secret Life of a Star Designer: The Self-Righteous Lewis Matthew is a Home-Wrecker Preying on Pregnant Women. The post included my headshot from our company website, alongside a cropped screenshot of the message Derrick had sent in the building’s chat. The text underneath was pure venom: “This man will do anything for money—even target a pregnant woman. He accepted expensive designer gifts from her husband, but when he realized the cash wasn’t enough, he backed out of the deal and tried to frame the husband by calling the police. This is the kind of predator we work with.” The office was already a hornets’ nest. When I walked past the open cubicles, the whispering started. People turned away, pointing, murmuring behind their hands. I gripped my phone and walked straight into the creative director’s office. My boss, Richard, was a no-nonsense man in his late forties. He looked up as I entered, then closed his laptop. I handed him my phone, showing him the full, uncropped chat logs and the police report from the night before. His expression grew incredibly grim. “Lewis, I’ve known you for five years. I know your character,” Richard said, his voice measured but serious. “But this post has already circulated. We’ve got clients calling, asking what’s going on with their lead designer.” “I know,” I said, taking a steadying breath. “I’ll handle this. Completely and legally. If I can’t resolve it within the week, I’ll resign.” Richard gave a slow nod. “Go handle it. I’ll have IT scrub the post and block the IP.” Leaving his office, I immediately called an attorney friend of mine. Defamation. Stalking. Sexual harassment. I packed a bag and checked into a boutique hotel near the office, refusing to go back to my apartment. For a few weeks, Derrick went quiet. No more messages, no more online posts. The silence was a relief. I started to think they had finally realized they had crossed a line. I thought they were scared. But I was incredibly naive. A month later, on a chilly Friday afternoon, I stepped out of the office building. Before I could even reach my car, a figure stepped out from the shadow of the parking garage, blocking my path. It was a woman in a designer maternity dress, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. She was visibly pregnant. She looked at me, a tight, apologetic smile plastered across her face. “Mr. Matthew. Hello. I’m Aurora, Derrick’s wife.” I stopped, my guard immediately going up. “What do you want?” Aurora sighed, reaching into her Chanel bag to pull out a beautifully wrapped package, holding it out to me with both hands. “I came here to apologize to you in person,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “My husband… since we found out about the pregnancy, his mental state has been incredibly fragile. He does erratic things. I’ve been staying at my parents’ estate upstate to rest, and I had no idea he was causing you so much trouble. I am truly, deeply sorry.” I didn’t move to take the box. “Save your apology. I’ve already hired a lawyer. We’ll settle this in court.” At the word lawyer, a sharp flash of calculation crossed Aurora’s eyes. She slowly retracted the gift box, took a step closer, and lowered her voice. “Lewis, a lawsuit is so tedious, don’t you think? It takes forever, and honestly, a public court battle won’t do much for a handsome, single young man’s reputation.” She pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up her nose, her eyes scanning my chest and shoulders with a slow, predatory appraisal. “Besides… Derrick’s idea might have been poorly phrased, but that doesn’t mean it’s a bad opportunity for you.” I froze, wondering if I was actually losing my mind. “What did you just say?” Aurora smiled, a cold, empty expression. “Come on, Lewis. You’re a talented guy, but working this hard to pay rent must be exhausting. Derrick… well, his physique isn’t exactly thrilling, and he certainly can’t satisfy me.” She reached out, her fingers hovering just inches from my jawline. “If you agree, we can forget about the three thousand. I’ll pay you thirty thousand dollars a month. All you have to do is come over and spend a few nights a week with me.” She gave a soft laugh. “Derrick is a bit simple-minded. He actually believes this is his duty as a husband to keep me happy. You see? My entire household is welcoming you with open arms. Why be difficult?” A cold shiver raced up my spine. This couple was a nightmare of epic proportions. One was a self-righteous pimp; the other was a casual solicitor. The sheer disgust boiled over. I violently slapped her hand away. Slap! My hand caught the side of her face. Aurora’s head snapped to the side. She stumbled back, clutching her cheek, her polite facade crumbling instantly. Her eyes turned black with venom. “Lewis Matthew, don’t play hard to get. I offered you a golden ticket.” She spat on the pavement next to my shoe. “Believe me, I have a hundred different ways to make you crawl to my bed on your knees.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a threat. I met her gaze, a cold smile touching my lips. “Then I suggest you try them. Let’s see who breaks first.” I turned on my heel and walked away. The moment I got back to my hotel room, I called my lawyer to document the encounter. But the storm hit sooner than I expected. At two in the morning, I was dead asleep when a deafening racket shattered the quiet of my hotel room. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Lewis! Open the door, you pathetic piece of trash!” It was Derrick. I sat straight up in bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. How did they find out which hotel I was staying at? “Open the door! You try to steal my wife? You lay your hands on her? Get out here!” The pounding on the door grew more violent, shaking the frame. Derrick’s slurred, hysterical insults echoed through the hallway. I grabbed my phone, immediately dialed 911, and then patched through to the front desk. “This is room 802. There is a man trying to kick my door down. Send security up right now!” Outside, the shouting escalated. I heard Aurora’s voice join in. “Lewis, open up! You think you’re so high and mighty? You had the guts to hit me, but you don’t have the guts to face us?” Her voice sounded thick, slurred with alcohol. I pressed my back against the locked door, my hand trembling as I gripped the can of pepper spray I kept in my bag. Five minutes felt like five hours. Finally, the muffled voices of security guards echoed in the hall, followed by the heavy, authoritative footsteps of police officers. I let out a long, shaky breath and turned the lock, stepping out. The hallway was a scene of pure chaos. Derrick was thrashing wildly, trying to tear himself away from two police officers who were attempting to cuff him. Aurora stood to the side, trying to smooth things over with a third officer. “Officer, please, this is all just a misunderstanding. My husband is just incredibly protective. He thought his wife’s lover was in there, that’s all.” I stepped forward, pointing at them. “Officers, this isn’t a misunderstanding. This is criminal harassment. They’ve been stalking and harassing me for over a month.” The officer dealing with Aurora looked at Derrick, recognition dawning on his face. “Wait. Are you the guy from the paint vandalism call last month? And now you’re bringing the drama to a hotel?” Derrick’s face flushed a deep, violent purple. He lunged toward me, spit flying from his mouth. “You home-wrecking coward! You hit my wife! I’ll kill you!” The officers slammed him against the wall. “Stop resisting! Calm down!” But then, Derrick suddenly went limp. He stared down at Aurora. My eyes followed his gaze. A dark, crimson pool of blood was rapidly spreading down the fabric of Aurora’s maternity dress, staining her shoes and the carpet. “Oh my god…” Derrick whispered, his voice cracking. “My baby… Aurora…” The entire hallway froze. Aurora’s face drained of color. She collapsed against the wall, clutching her stomach. “My baby… it hurts… oh god, it hurts…” The officers immediately radioed for an ambulance. The hallway dissolved into a frenzy of shouting and medical jargon. As the paramedics arrived and loaded Aurora onto a gurney, Derrick turned back to me. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with a primal, terrifying hatred. “Lewis Matthew,” he hissed, his voice trembling with a terrifying promise. “If my baby dies, I will take your life.”

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After an accidental one-night stand, I was dragging my suitcase toward the door, ready to skip town. Just as my hand touched the brass knob, a glowing stream of bullet comments drifted across my vision. [Why is he running? If he runs, he’s a dead man!] [Jeff is such a brainless side character. The female lead is literally carrying his baby, and he’s trying to hide.] [After her car crash, she was told she could never have kids. The baby in her womb is the heir the Moreau family has been desperately praying for.] [If he runs, the male lead will swoop in and take credit. He’ll become the savior of the Moreau family, marry in, and use the kid to secure his fortune forever.] My foot froze mid-step. Half a minute later, I kicked my suitcase back into the walk-in closet, ran out of the building, and headed straight for the penthouse of the Moreau Group headquarters. Michelle Moreau was in the middle of a board meeting. I threw the conference room doors wide open, marched inside, and stared right into her eyes. “Michelle, you’re pregnant.” “And it’s mine.” … You could have heard a pin drop in that massive boardroom. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to me in perfect unison. Michelle sat at the head of the long mahogany table, her crisp white shirt buttoned all the way to the top. Her features were cold, aristocratic, like a marble statue carved from arctic ice. But everyone in the New York elite knew that behind that porcelain face lay a woman who was ruthless, cutthroat, and completely unyielding. Three years ago, a horrific car crash had nearly claimed her life. She survived, but the Moreau family’s private physicians delivered a devastating diagnosis: Michelle was virtually sterile. For a family whose dynasty was riding entirely on her shoulders—Michelle being the sole heir—this was a catastrophe. Her grandmother, Lady Enid, had desperately summoned every specialist in the hemisphere and even tried setting Michelle up on blind dates, only for Michelle to throw them out with a glacial glare. So, when I dropped my bombshell, the executives’ faces went through a spectrum of shock far more entertaining than my reaction to the floating chat comments. Michelle picked up the document she was reading, studied it for two seconds, and then looked up. “Mr. Beckett, please leave.” I choked on my breath. “You don’t believe me?” She raised her eyes, entirely devoid of warmth. “What is it you want?” The question stung worse than a slap. I, Jeff Beckett, was the spoiled youngest son of the Beckett family. I’d spent my life doing exactly what I wanted, earning a reputation as a reckless playboy. I had spent ten years desperately chasing Fiona MacAllister. And last night, in a stupid, drug-addled attempt to make Fiona jealous after being slipped a spiked drink at a party, I had stumbled into Michelle’s arms instead. When I woke up this morning, my first instinct had been to run. If my parents found out I had compromised the terrifying Michelle Moreau, they would tear me to pieces. But the floating comments said that if I ran, I’d die. And Alan would steal my child. Alan was the supposed “hero” of this story—hardworking, gentle, the perfect, soft-spoken contrast to Michelle’s cold exterior. In the original timeline, he was destined to become the love of her life, while I was just the disposable side character whose only purpose was to pave their way. The chat stream flashed again. [Jeff, play the victim! Cry a little—Michelle is weak for soft boys!] [Don’t back down. You’re the only man who could ever give her a child.] [Alan is already buttering up the grandmother. If you’re a second too late, your wife and kid are gone!] I dug my nails into my palms, forcing my eyes to brim with tears. “Michelle… you don’t believe it was me that night?” Someone in the room let out a sharp gasp. Michelle’s eyelids flickered, a subtle crack in her icy composure. I walked around the massive table, stopped right beside her chair, and gently pressed my hand flat against her lower stomach. “You don’t have to believe me yet… but you have to keep me close.” Michelle froze, her fingers stiffening over her documents. I stared down at her, my heart hammering so hard it physically hurt. She looked up at me, her gaze lingering on my face for what felt like an eternity. “Meeting adjourned,” she said quietly. The board members scrambled out of the room, their heads low. The heavy doors clicked shut. She pulled her hand back and picked up the office phone to dial her personal line. “Have the chief of obstetrics come up to my office immediately.” I finally let out a breath. But before I could relax, the door swung open again. A man in a crisp white linen shirt stood in the doorway, holding a high-end insulated lunchbox. “Michelle? Did I catch you at a bad time?” The chat stream erupted instantly. [Alan is here!] Alan had that clean-cut, boy-next-door look. Dark hair, soft eyes, a gentle smile. Standing next to someone as cold as Michelle, he looked like a ray of pure sunshine. When his eyes fell on me standing so close to Michelle, his eyelashes fluttered with a brief flash of distress. “Michelle, are you feeling unwell?” I glared at him, letting my irritation show. “What’s it to you?” Alan’s face paled slightly. “I’m only worried about Michelle.” Michelle’s voice was flat. “Who gave you permission to come up here?” “Your grandmother asked me to bring you some broth,” Alan said softly, his tone incredibly patient. “The doctor mentioned your stomach has been acting up lately.” Michelle’s expression grew even colder. “Leave it on the table. And get out.” “Michelle, your grandmother also mentioned she wants you to come over to the estate tonight.” The stream went into overdrive. [Here it comes! Lady Enid wants to play matchmaker for Alan and Michelle.] [Alan saved the grandmother’s life once. She absolutely adores him.] [Jeff, throw a tantrum! If you annoy Michelle, she’ll kick you out!] I immediately leaned closer to Michelle, practically brushing shoulders with her. “You can’t go tonight.” Michelle looked down at me, her brow arching. “Are you trying to control me?” I tilted my chin up, meeting her gaze defiantly. “You’re carrying my baby. Of course I am.” The remaining color drained from Alan’s face. Michelle stared at me, her eyes calm and analytical, as if she were reviewing a contract filled with loopholes. “Jeff, you had better be very clear about the consequences of lying to me.” I was terrified of her. But I was more terrified of dying. I squared my shoulders, doing my best to look completely vindicated. “Then test me. Right now.” Ten minutes later, the chief of obstetrics arrived at Michelle’s private office suite, accompanied by a nurse and a portable ultrasound machine. Blood tests, urine samples, an ultrasound. Michelle lay on the medical daybed, her dark skirt draped over her lap. I stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping my back rigidly straight to hide the fact that my palms were slick with sweat. Alan hadn’t left; he was lingering in the hallway, peering in through the partially open door. When the initial quick-screen tests were complete, the doctor held the charts, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. “Ms. Moreau… you are indeed pregnant.” Michelle froze, staring blankly ahead. “According to the gestational age,” the doctor continued, “the timeline aligns perfectly.” I turned around immediately, a smug grin plastered on my face. “See? What did I tell you?” But Michelle was still staring at the doctor. “Can we confirm the paternity?” The doctor swallowed hard under her intense gaze. “An invasive prenatal paternity test is not recommended at this early stage. However, we can schedule a non-invasive prenatal paternity test in a few weeks.” My smile faltered. “Michelle, you still don’t believe me?” She remained silent. Alan stepped into the room, his voice dripping with gentle reason. “Please don’t be upset, Jeff. Michelle’s situation is unique. It’s only natural for her to be cautious.” I grabbed a decorative throw pillow from the sofa and hurled it directly at his face. “Who the hell asked you?” The pillow hit Alan, forcing him back a step. His eyes instantly pooled with hurt tears. Michelle frowned. A wave of bitter frustration washed over me, and I marched toward the door. “Fine. I’m leaving.” But as I turned to storm out, a wave of dizziness hit me, and the world spun into darkness. I stumbled, my knees giving way. Before I could hit the floor, Michelle was there, catching me in her arms. “Doctor!” her voice cracked with sudden panic. I grabbed her wrist, my own eyes burning with tears. “Let go of me.” Michelle went entirely rigid. An instant later, the sharp, rhythmic click of a cane echoed down the hall. Grandmother Enid had arrived. She marched into the suite, her sharp eyes locking instantly onto Michelle’s stomach. “Whose child is carrying the Moreau name?” Lady Enid was in her late seventies, her silver hair perfectly coiffed, her posture immaculate. But as soon as her eyes shifted to me, she stared at me as if I were a solid gold statue. I tried to pull away from Michelle’s grip, but her hold only tightened. “Don’t move,” she whispered near my ear. The old matriarch hurried over to the bed. “How far along?” “About six weeks,” the doctor answered quickly. The string of pearls in Enid’s hand trembled. “She’s truly pregnant?” The doctor nodded. Tears welled up in the old lady’s eyes. Alan quickly stepped forward to support her, murmuring softly, “Enid, please don’t get too worked up. We still need to verify the paternity.” The joy on the grandmother’s face flickered. She looked at Michelle. Michelle guided me gently to a plush armchair, pulling a soft cashmere throw over my legs. “We are not doing any risky procedures during the first trimester.” Her grandmother frowned. “Michelle, this concerns the future of our family bloodline.” Michelle’s voice was cold and heavy. “And this baby concerns my life.” Silence blanketed the room. The chat comments drifted lazily across my vision. [Michelle believes him? Alan is panicking now.] [In the original story, Lady Enid was grooming Alan to be her grandson-in-law. Now Jeff has completely hijacked the plot.] [Jeff, don’t get cocky. The greedy extended Moreau family is already on their way to fight for the inheritance.] Lady Enid sat down on the edge of the seat next to me, taking my hand in her warm, papery ones. “Jeff, dear. What would you like to eat? Where would you like to stay? You looked so pale just now.” I opened my mouth to say it didn’t matter. But Alan beat me to it. “The family estate is quiet and perfect for rest. I could stay there and keep Jeff company.” I let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “You? Keep me company?” Alan nodded smoothly. “I only worry you might feel out of place on your own.” I turned my eyes to Michelle. “I’m not going to the estate.” Lady Enid’s expression soured. “And why is that, Jeff?” I forced my eyes to water again, my voice dropping to a vulnerable whisper. “I’m scared.” “Scared of what, darling?” I pointed a trembling finger at Alan. “Of him.” Alan froze. Even the grandmother looked taken aback. I looked down at Michelle’s belly with tear-filled eyes. “The second he walked in, he was obsessed with testing the baby, and now he wants me hidden away at the estate. What if something happens to the baby while I’m away from Michelle?” “Jeff, you’re completely misinterpreting my intentions,” Alan pleaded, panic leaking into his voice. I wrapped my arms around Michelle’s waist, burying my face against her. “Look at him. He’s glaring at me again.” Alan: “…” Michelle looked down at me, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of amusement dancing in her eyes before she quickly masked it. Lady Enid turned to Alan, her expression noticeably cooler. “Alan. Go home for now.” Alan’s lips parted, pale and dry. “Enid, I—” “I said, go home.” Alan picked up his untouched insulated box and left. The moment the door clicked shut, the grandmother’s stern facade dissolved. She clasped my hand warmly. “Jeff, sweetheart, you can stay wherever makes you feel safest.” I looked up at Michelle. “I want to stay at her place.” Michelle’s brow furrowed slightly. But her grandmother didn’t hesitate. “Done. You’ll stay with her.” “I didn’t agree to that,” Michelle said, her voice dropping an octave. Lady Enid slammed her cane against the hardwood floor. “Hush up.” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. The chat stream drifted by: [Step one of using the baby to secure the bag: Complete.] [Too bad the Beckett family hasn’t made their move yet.] Right on cue, my phone began to vibrate. My mother’s name flashed on the screen. I stared at it, frozen. Michelle glanced down at the screen. “Scared of your parents?” “Who’s scared?” I lied. The call timed out, but two seconds later, it started ringing again. This time it was my father. If I didn’t answer, the Becketts would storm the Moreau building themselves. Taking a deep breath, I swiped to accept the call. My mother’s voice was shrill enough to shatter glass. “Jeff! Where on earth are you?” I stole a glance at Michelle. “Just… shopping.” “Shopping on the penthouse floor of the Moreau Group?” A cold chill ran down my spine. Had Fiona ratted me out? Sure enough, my mother’s next words confirmed my fears. “Fiona told me you went to see Michelle Moreau.” I held the phone a few inches away from my ear. “Is she pregnant?” she shrieked. Lady Enid’s ears must have been fine-tuned for drama; she instantly leaned closer to the receiver. I closed my eyes. “Yeah.” The line went completely dead for three agonizing seconds. Then, my mother burst into tears. “Have you lost your mind? What is going on between you and Michelle?” Before I could answer, Michelle reached out and took the phone from my hand. “Mrs. Beckett, I am on the line as well.” My mother choked back her sobs, silenced by the sheer authority in Michelle’s voice. A moment later, my father’s deep voice boomed through the speaker. “Michelle, send Jeff home. Immediately.” Michelle looked down at me. I shook my head frantically. She spoke back into the phone, “That is not possible right now.” My father let out a harsh laugh. “You have no right to hold my son hostage.” Michelle’s expression remained utterly blank. “If he wishes to leave, I won’t stop him.” I grabbed her sleeve, tight. “I’m not leaving.” The sound of glass shattering echoed from the other end. My mother’s voice trembled with absolute fury. “Jeff Beckett, you wait right there.” The line went dead. I buried my face in my hands. I was screwed. Lady Enid patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, dear. The Moreaus will protect you.” I looked at her dryly. “You were just trying to banish me to the estate a minute ago.” The old matriarch coughed, suddenly finding the wallpaper very interesting. Michelle cleared her throat. “Let’s head to my place first.” I knew she was incredibly wealthy, but when the town car pulled into the ultra-exclusive gated community where every square foot cost more than my entire trust fund, I couldn’t help but let out a quiet “Wow.” My mood instantly brightened. “Michelle, I have to admit, your place is perfect for recovery.” She set her designer bag on the console table. “You can take the master bedroom.” I plopped onto the plush sofa, hugging a velvet accent pillow. “Where are you sleeping?” “The guest room.” I frowned. “That’s too far. What if you get hungry in the middle of the night?” Michelle stopped and looked at me, her dark eyes unreadable. “Where exactly do you want me to sleep?” I pointed a finger toward the massive king-sized bed in the master suite. “The bed is huge.” Her gaze darkened, a subtle, dangerous warmth flickering in her eyes. “Jeff. Don’t push me.” I shut my mouth instantly. Later that night, my stomach woke me up. I crept downstairs barefoot to raid the kitchen. The fridge was packed with high-end, organic ingredients, none of which I knew how to cook. I finally found a container of fresh strawberries. I was just taking a bite of one when Michelle’s quiet voice sounded from behind me. “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” I jumped, dropping the strawberry onto the cold hardwood floor. She walked over, kneeling down without a word, and used a clean kitchen towel to wipe my feet. Her movements were incredibly gentle. Looking down at her dark lashes and softened features, my heart skipped a sudden, erratic beat. Suddenly, the chat comments flared up in bright red text. [Friendly warning: Fiona is downstairs.] [She brought the Beckett family with her.] The doorbell rang. Michelle slid a pair of warm slippers onto my feet and stood up. “Go back to the bedroom.” “No way,” I muttered. “I want to watch the drama.” She sighed, taking her soft cashmere coat from the chair and draping it over my shoulders. She opened the front door. My parents stood on the porch, flanked by Fiona. Fiona was wearing a classic camel coat, her soft features looking tired and worn. When she saw me, her eyes softened. “Jeff.” Once, just hearing her say my name would make my entire week. Now, my only instinct was to shrink behind Michelle. When my mother saw Michelle’s coat wrapped around me, her eyes flooded with tears. “Jeff, get over here.” I shook my head. My father’s face was set in granite. “Michelle, the Becketts and the MacAllisters are already in the middle of arranging a marriage. By keeping him here, are you trying to start a war with both of our families?” Michelle stood firm, her tone completely level. “Jeff hasn’t agreed to any marriage.” Fiona looked at me, her eyes searching mine. “Jeff, you told me you wanted to marry me.” My throat tightened. It was true. I had written her countless love letters, bought her expensive gifts, and made an absolute fool of myself fighting with Alan over her attention. But the floating comments had already warned me of the original plot: I would chase her until I lost my family, my fortune, and my life, and she would only show up at my funeral to drop a single white rose on my casket. Looking at Fiona now, a wave of cold reality washed over me, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. “My eyesight wasn’t great back then.” Fiona’s face froze. My mother stepped forward, frantic. “Jeff, stop talking nonsense.” I stepped out from behind Michelle and wrapped my arms around her waist. “She’s pregnant with my baby.” My father’s hand flew up, swinging a heavy slap aimed directly at me. But Michelle moved instantly, throwing herself in front of me and taking the full force of the blow. The sharp crack echoed through the foyer. Even my father stared at his hand, stunned by what he had done. Michelle’s head was turned to the side, a small bead of blood forming where her lip had split. A sharp pain pierced my chest. “Dad!” Michelle grabbed my wrist, her grip steady. “Don’t.” My eyes burned. “Are you out of your mind? Why did you do that?” The chat stream flashed across my vision: [Oh no, Jeff is softening up.] [Fiona’s face is literally green with jealousy.] [Alan tipped off the Moreau family’s greedy relatives. Round two of the drama has arrived.] The private elevator at the end of the hall chimed open. Several men in sharp, tailored suits stepped out. The middle-aged man leading them cast a cold, calculating look at Michelle’s abdomen. “Michelle, dear. A miracle like this, and you didn’t think to inform your Uncle Alistair?” Michelle’s eyes went utterly black. “You have no right to speak to me.” Uncle Alistair’s expression darkened. “The Moreau bloodline cannot be compromised by some low-rent scandal. This boy needs to be locked down at the estate.” My parents’ faces grew even more hostile at the suggestion. Fiona stepped forward, her voice tight. “We don’t even have proof that this child belongs to a Beckett.” Alistair sneered. “Then we run a DNA test.” Every single person in the room stared at Michelle’s stomach as if it were a prize trophy—or a piece of meat. Suddenly, Michelle threw the front door wide open. “If you want to negotiate, we do it in the living room.” She squeezed my hand, her voice dropping to a low murmur that only I could hear. “Don’t be afraid.” But the moment we sat down, a maid brought over a tray with a glass of warm milk. In my vision, the glass was suddenly highlighted in a flashing, warning red by the chat comments. [Don’t drink it.] [There’s something in it.]

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In the iron cage of an underground fighting pit, my heat cycle hit without any warning. Up on the high platform, my so-called fated mate — the uncrowned king of the Night Faction, Maximilian Cross — covered his nose in disgust and pulled his beloved Tiffany into his arms. “A defective little runt who can’t even shift, and she thinks she has the right to smell like that? Let the beasts tear her apart in that cage.” The whole crowd burst out laughing. The half-shifted beasts, eyes blazing red, drooled as they lunged toward me. Just when I’d given up all hope, a pair of blood-soaked combat boots came crashing through the iron bars. Jax — Maximilian Cross’s illegitimate brother, the one they called the Mad Dog — stepped in front of me, putting himself between me and those half-shifted beasts. He wrapped his oversized coat tight around my naked, trembling body. His burning breath spilled against the curve of my neck. “Why are you shaking? If he doesn’t want you — I do.” Inside the underground fighting pit, my hands were bound behind my back. They’d thrown me into the center of an iron cage caked in mud and dried blood. Riiip— The wire mesh tore through the back of my shirt, leaving a wide strip of bare skin exposed to the freezing air. I was shaking from the cold — but deep inside my body, a strange, feverish heat was running wild. So hot. It felt like ten thousand ants were crawling through my bones. This was the scent of a mate bond awakening. In the world of the Night Shifters, every adult female released her own unique pheromones on the night of her awakening — a signal meant to draw in her fated mate. I tilted my head back, my vision blurring as I looked up at the VIP platform ten meters above me. That was where Maximilian Cross sat. The new ruler of the Night Alliance. The black wolf alpha with the purest bloodline. The man my family had promised me to since before I was born. Right now, he was staring down at me from above. He held a glass of deep crimson liquor in his hand, his eyes as cold as if he were looking at a pile of garbage. My pheromones drifted upward through the ventilation system. It was an unbearably sweet scent — intoxicating, almost sinful. I watched Maximilian’s brow snap into a hard frown. Even the guards standing beside him had their breathing go ragged from the smell. “Maximilian…” I forced his name out of my throat, my fingernails digging hard into the mud. “Save me…” Maximilian didn’t move. But the woman beside him — Tiffany — let out a coy little laugh and pressed her hand over her nose, using the moment to melt against Maximilian’s chest. “Max, that smell is disgusting. Has Serena lost her mind? She’s a half-blood who can’t even shift, and she’s seriously trying to force her pheromones out in a place like this? Is she trying to seduce those filthy pit beasts?” Maximilian let out a cold laugh and slowly tipped his glass. The red liquid poured down and splashed into the mud right in front of me. “Serena. You make me sick.” Maximilian’s voice came through the speakers and filled every corner of the underground arena. “Did you really think pulling a cheap stunt like this — throwing your scent around — would force me to claim you as my mate? A defective reject like you isn’t even worth the dirt on my shoes.” A sharp, ugly wave of laughter exploded through the crowd. Maximilian’s younger brother Dante was standing just outside the cage. He smashed an iron rod against the bars with a cocky grin, the clanging ringing straight through my skull. “You hear that, you worthless little freak?! My brother thinks you’re filthy! Stay in that cage and let those wild beasts have their fun with you!” Dante hit the switch. The gate at the far end of the cage began to grind open. Three half-beasts crawled out — eyes burning red, minds long gone from months of rage-serum injections. Ropes of foul-smelling drool hung from their jaws as they locked onto me. To them, my pheromones were the most potent aphrodisiac in existence. I stumbled backward in desperation until my back hit the cold iron mesh. Nowhere left to go. “Maximilian!” I screamed until my throat tore. “You felt it! I am your fated mate!” Rejecting a fated mate bond had consequences — the bloodline would turn on itself, punishing the one who refused. I saw the tendons in Maximilian’s hand go taut against his glass. For just one second, the color drained from his face. But he held it back. He would rather endure the agony of the bond’s backlash than take a single step down from that platform for me. “Open the gate.” Maximilian’s voice was ice. All three half-beasts roared and charged. A rough hand clamped around my ankle and yanked — hard. I screamed as my whole body was dragged through the mud. Another hand clawed at what was left of my shredded clothes. I squeezed my eyes shut. I gave up. And then — BOOM——!! A deafening blast. Every light in the underground fighting pit went dark at once. Only the emergency lights remained, blazing red and strobing wildly through the black. From ten meters up, a dark figure dropped from the stands like a phantom — a crushing, devastating force that slammed straight down onto the top of the iron cage. The cage was built from reinforced steel. He caved it in with a single stomp. The man landed in front of me like a true predator. I hadn’t even gotten a clear look at his face before I heard it — a sickening crack of shattering bone. The half-beast that had been gripping my ankle never got the chance to scream. He stomped its skull into nothing. Blood and brain matter splattered across my body. The other two half-beasts froze, instinct screaming at them to run. He didn’t give them the chance. His black combat knife swept through the air in a single fluid arc. Two heads hit the ground at the same time. Silence. The entire arena went dead quiet. Through the thick stench of blood, a scent hit me — aggressive, sharp, like cold pine and gunpowder smoke. His pheromones wrapped around me like a wave crashing over everything. The burning fever raging inside me stilled for just a moment the instant I caught that scent. Then it shifted into something deeper. Something that made my legs go weak. He turned around. The dark red lights caught the sharp angles of his face. His narrow eyes burned with something raw and unrestrained — madness and possession, all at once. Jax. Maximilian’s unspeakable half-brother—the most dreaded and bloodthirsty mad dog in the entire Alliance. He shrugged off his blood-soaked black coat and wrapped it around my naked, trembling body. His rough fingertips brushed across my cheek. I shivered. “Why are you shaking?” Jax scooped me up out of the mud with one arm and pulled me tight against his chest. He lowered his head, his lips almost grazing my ear, his voice low and rough. “They don’t want you. I do.”

Up in the stands, Maximilian finally snapped back to reality. He shot to his feet, his face pale with fury. “Jax! Put her down! Who the hell said you could touch her!” Jax didn’t even look back. He carried me through the arena floor, his combat boots stepping over bodies and blood without breaking stride. Dante came charging down with a dozen heavily armed guards, guns trained on Jax’s head. “You crazy bastard! You got a death wish?! Put that trash down!” Jax stopped. He slowly raised his eyes. The look in them was pure, crystallized murder. “Dante.” Jax’s voice was quiet, but every person in that room felt it crawl up their spine. “Which hand did you use to flip that switch?” Dante blinked. He took half a step back without thinking, then forced his voice loud to cover it. “The hell does it matter which hand?! Shoot him! Kill him!” The guards never got to pull their triggers. Jax vanished. The world spun. He had me locked against his chest, shielding me completely. A second later, a scream tore through the air. “AAAGH——!!” Dante dropped to his knees. His right wrist was bent at a grotesque angle, the bone punching clean through the skin, blood spraying in pulses. Jax stepped back into place, his black knife dripping. He glanced up at Maximilian with cold, flat eyes, and let a slow, cruel smile cross his lips. “Maximilian. Your dog got loose. I handled it for you.” Maximilian was shaking with rage. He pressed a hand hard against his chest — the searing pain of a rejected mate bond tearing through him. “Jax… You’re going to start a war with the entire Alliance over a defective omega?!” Jax looked down at me. I was curled inside his coat, the drug and his pheromones overwhelming me. I couldn’t stop myself — I pressed closer against him and let out a soft, desperate sound. Jax’s throat moved. The hunger in his eyes was almost violent. He tightened his arms and pulled me fully against him. “So what if I do?” He laughed, cold and sharp. “She’s mine. Even if she were worthless — especially then — none of you pieces of trash get to put your hands on her.” He turned and walked out of the arena, carrying me with him. Behind us: Maximilian’s furious roar, and Dante’s screaming. The black SUV tore through the storm. The privacy partition rose between the front seat and the back, sealing us off completely. In that small, closed space — just me and Jax. The fever inside me surged back with a vengeance. This was what happened when a mate bond awakened with nowhere to go. My skin was burning. Every nerve in my body was screaming for something I couldn’t name out loud. “Hot…” Without thinking, I pulled the coat open, baring stretches of pale skin. Mud and blood still clung to me, but somehow it only made everything feel more raw, more exposed. Jax slammed the brakes. The SUV let out a sharp screech on the empty mountain road and skidded to a stop in the pouring rain. He spun around and grabbed my wrist, pinning me hard against the leather seat. “Serena, look at me. Really look at me!” Jax’s voice was rough and ragged. His eyes were bloodshot, barely holding back something wild that was about to break loose. I stared up at him through a haze, my gaze drifting to the bob of his throat and the hard lines of muscle beneath his collar. I couldn’t make out a word he was saying. All I knew was that the cool, clean scent coming off him was the only thing easing my pain. I was like a dying fish, instinctively clawing toward water. I pulled free from his grip, threw my arms around his neck, and pressed my body against his burning chest. “Please… I need…” I was crying, searching blindly for his lips, kissing and biting at his jaw and the side of his neck without any sense of what I was doing. Crack. The last thread of Jax’s self-control snapped clean. “You asked for this.” He let out a low growl, took control, and slammed his palm against the back of my head, crushing his mouth down onto mine. It was a kiss built on hunger and force. He pried my lips open and pushed in deep, greedily sweeping through every inch of my mouth. His tongue was aggressive, relentless — like he wanted to consume me whole. “Mmph…” I couldn’t breathe, but my body melted completely. His large hand slid down along my waist, rough with calluses, leaving trails of fire everywhere it touched. His touch was possessive — rough, yet carrying a tenderness so faint it was almost invisible. Rip. The last scrap of fabric on my body tore away. He lowered his head, his hot mouth trailing down my neck, pressing deep red marks into my collarbone and chest. The marks of a beast claiming what was his. “It hurts…” I couldn’t take the intensity. Tears spilled down my face one after another. Jax went completely still. He lifted his head and looked at my tear-streaked face. The wildness in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by something raw and aching. He drew in a long breath, forced the fire inside him back down, and pulled his coat tightly around me again. “Hold on a little longer.” His voice was so hoarse it was barely audible. “Not yet. Your body’s too weak — it can’t survive a full bonding mark.” He pulled me into his arms, slipping one hand inside my clothes, his warm palm pressing flat against the back of my neck. A steady flow of pure, soothing energy poured into me. The primal force of a top-tier Alpha. He was using his own power to forcibly suppress the heat burning through my body. It was an incredibly dangerous thing to do. One wrong move and the energy could turn on him. But he didn’t even flinch. I didn’t know how much time passed. Eventually, the fire inside me died down. I leaned against his chest and let my eyes fall shut. In the blur between waking and sleep, I felt his lips press softly against my forehead. “Rest. I’m here. No one’s touching you.”

When I woke up, I was lying in a large, soft bed. The sharp smell of antiseptic hung in the air. “You’re awake. Stop playing dead.” A sarcastic voice cut through the silence beside the bed. I opened my eyes to find a scrawny old man in a white coat, his hair a wild mess, drawing blood from my arm with a syringe. This was the most notorious doctor in the underground black market — known simply as “the Ghost Doctor.” Jax was leaning against the doorframe, an unlit cigarette between his fingers, watching me with a heavy, unreadable gaze. “How is she?” The Ghost Doctor dropped the blood sample into a set of strange-looking vials and watched the liquid change color. A cold smirk crossed his face. “How is she? It’s a miracle she’s still breathing.” He turned and fixed his eyes on me. “Girl — did you drink some kind of bitter black medicine every single day when you were little? Did your family tell you it was good for your health?” I froze. I nodded without thinking. “Yes… my foster mother said I was born weak. She said it would help regulate my blood.” “Bullshit!” The Ghost Doctor slammed the vial down on the table. “That was Soullock Herb — a poison specifically designed to suppress high-grade shifter bloodlines! You’ve been taking it for fifteen years. Fifteen years, and it ground what should have been an extraordinary bloodline down to nothing!” The words hit me like a lightning strike. My whole body went cold. “What did you just say?” Jax stepped forward, his expression dark and dangerous. “Explain. All of it.” The Ghost Doctor pointed to the deep gold color swirling inside the vial, his voice trembling. “She’s not some defective. She never was. She’s a Blood Healer — a gift that comes along maybe once in a century. Her blood, her pheromones — they can purify the feral rage in any shifter.” I sat on the bed, completely hollow. My mind had gone blank. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of cold stares and cruelty from my own family. Fifteen years of being called worthless. I had always thought I was just unlucky — that I’d been born without the ability to shift. So it was true — someone had deliberately destroyed me. “There’s more.” The Ghost Doctor pulled out a specialized scalpel and walked over to me. “Girl, give me your left hand.” I reached out my left hand, trembling. He pressed the tip of the blade gently against the inside of my wrist, drawing a shallow cut, then dripped a blue liquid into it. In an instant, a strange black inscription surfaced beneath my skin — like a venomous snake coiling around my veins. “A Mate Interference Curse.” The Ghost Doctor stared at the inscription and drew a sharp breath. “This is one of the most vile forbidden spells in existence. Someone forcibly twisted your fated mate bond. The reason you caught Maximilian’s scent during your awakening — that was this curse at work.” My head snapped up. I stared at Jax, disbelief written all over my face. “Then my true mate is…” The Ghost Doctor let out a cold laugh. “Still don’t get it? That bastard Maximilian didn’t just steal the throne that rightfully belonged to Jax — he used this filthy trick to try and steal Jax’s fated mate too.” The cigarette in Jax’s hand crumbled to ash. A wave of murderous energy exploded from him, and every pane of glass in the room began to rattle violently. It all made sense now. That was why Maximilian suffered such a violent backlash when he rejected me in the arena. He was never my mate to begin with. He had forced himself into that place, and fate was making him pay for it. And that was why, in my darkest moments, catching Jax’s scent had made me feel safe. Because he was where I truly belonged. “Can it be broken?” Jax’s eyes were locked on the Ghost Doctor, his voice cold as ice. The Ghost Doctor wiped the sweat from his forehead. “It can. But it requires the blood of the true mate, combined with a dual-cultivation ritual to fully shatter the Soullock Herb’s seal. The process will be extremely painful. And…” “And what?” “And the moment the seal breaks, her presence will be exposed instantly. The entire Night Alliance will know she exists. Maximilian’s half-beast soldiers — the ones already on the edge of madness — will come for her like sharks smelling blood.” Jax crossed to the bed and stood over me, looking down. His gaze was deep and dangerous, like an abyss ready to swallow its prey whole. “Serena.” His long fingers tilted my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Are you scared?” I looked at him. The weakness and tears in my eyes faded away, replaced by a hatred carved straight to the bone. Fifteen years of lies. The humiliation in that arena. Maximilian. Tiffany. And the woman who called herself my foster mother. I grabbed Jax’s hand and dug my nails into his skin. “I’m not scared. I want the seal broken. I want every single one of them to pay in blood.” Jax smiled. “Good. I’ll help you.”

Maximilian’s retaliation came faster than I expected. The preparations to break the seal would take three days. In those three days, the entire Night Alliance descended into chaos. Because Maximilian had forcibly rejected his fated mate — even if the bond had been a fake one — his bloodline began showing severe signs of rejection. The elite guard he controlled through the dominance of his bloodline started breaking down en masse, erupting into fits of uncontrollable rage. Every day, half-beasts were losing control and attacking people in the streets. Maximilian was losing his grip. And Tiffany, that fool, decided to deflect the blame by spreading rumors through the Alliance — claiming that I, the so-called “cursed one,” had stolen a sacred relic from the Cross family and brought this disaster down on them all. She even showed up with a squad of fully armed mercenaries and surrounded the Ghost Doctor’s underground clinic. “Serena! Get your ass out here, you little bitch!” Tiffany stood in the pouring rain, a megaphone in her hand, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “You throw yourself at some other man, betray Max, and now you want to destroy the whole Alliance? Get out here and face what’s coming to you!” I stood in front of the clinic’s security monitors, staring coldly at Tiffany’s twisted face. Jax was on the couch behind me, calmly running a cloth along the blade of his combat knife. “Want me to go out there and twist her head off?” he said, his tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. “No.” I stood up. A cold flash crossed my eyes. “My enemies. My revenge.” I shoved open the clinic’s iron door and walked out. The rain was pouring down in sheets. Tiffany spotted me and stumbled back two steps, jabbing her finger in my direction. “You actually came out! Grab her! Dead or alive, I don’t care!” More than a dozen mercenaries raised their weapons and closed in on me. I didn’t move. I stood in the rain and slowly closed my eyes. Over these past three days of treatment, the Soullock Herb’s toxins had been nearly purged from my system. The power of the Blood Spirit Healer was awakening inside my veins. My eyes snapped open. My pupils bled into a deep, unnatural crimson. An invisible wave of psychic force — absolute, crushing, unstoppable — exploded outward from my body. Thud. Thud. Thud. The mercenaries at the front of the charge dropped like they’d been hit by a sledgehammer. Blood poured from their eyes, their ears, their noses. They were dead before they hit the ground. Tiffany screamed and stumbled backward, landing hard in the mud. “You — what did you do?! You’re supposed to be useless!” I walked toward her, slow and steady, and looked down at her from where she sat in the dirt. “You’re pathetic, Tiffany. Maximilian would rather suffer the backlash than touch you, and you still crawl around protecting him like a dog.” “Shut up!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. I crouched down and grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her head back. “Go tell Maximilian to say his prayers. Everything he owes me — everything he owes Jax — I’m coming to collect. Every last bit of it, with interest.” I slapped her across the face. Hard. The force sent her skidding across the ground. Tiffany spat out a bloody tooth, then scrambled on her hands and knees back to the car. I hadn’t noticed Jax move, but he was standing behind me now. He was holding a black umbrella, angled so that I was sheltered beneath it. “Does your hand hurt?” He lifted the hand I’d hit her with and pressed his lips gently against my knuckles. My heart skipped. “No,” I said. “Then let’s go home.” Jax’s eyes darkened. His voice carried a quiet authority that left no room for argument. “Tonight, we break the last seal.”

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Three years into my marriage, my husband’s family stole my dad’s accident settlement money and used it to buy a luxury mansion. At the housewarming party, my mother-in-law decided my parents’ memorial portraits were “bad luck” and threw them in the trash. My husband told me to just let it go. His sister held up her phone and live-streamed herself calling me a jinx to the whole internet. They thought I had no one in my corner. They thought I deserved to be crushed under their heels. I didn’t fight. I didn’t argue. I just quietly wiped the mud off the portraits—and pulled out a yellowed IOU for ten million. The rain came down in sheets. I knelt beside the trash bins in the mansion complex, digging through the reeking kitchen garbage with my bare hands. Rainwater mixed with slop splashed across my face. My fingers got sliced open on broken glass, blood streaming down with the mud and water. But I couldn’t feel the pain. I only felt cold. Cold straight to the bone. Ten minutes ago, I’d just set my parents’ memorial portraits in the spare bedroom of the new house. Today was the housewarming party. It was also the first day Kairo and I moved into the new place after getting married. I just wanted my mom and dad to see my new home. But the moment I turned to go get water in the kitchen, the portraits vanished. My mother-in-law, Beverly, stood in the living room directing the housekeeper to spray air freshener. “Why would anyone bring junk frames like that into a new house? Smells like death.” “Bad luck to keep them around. Better to just throw them out.” I tore downstairs like a madwoman. Finally, in a black garbage bag at the very bottom, my hand found that familiar wooden frame. The glass was already shattered. My parents’ faces were smeared with vegetable scraps and grease. That was the last thing I had left of them in this world. I took off the expensive coat Kairo had bought me before the wedding and carefully wrapped the portraits up. Like I was holding two frightened children. I carried them, step by step, back to that brightly lit mansion. Standing at the door, I didn’t push it open right away. Rainwater ran down my bangs and into my eyes. I blinked, but didn’t move. Something in the bag pressed against my palm—the corner of that waterproof pouch. I glanced down at my hand. Took a deep breath. And pushed the door open.

The hall was full of glittering guests, every one of them dripping in gold and designer clothes. The Sinclair family’s relatives and business partners were holding champagne, celebrating that my father-in-law Richard’s company was about to go public. And celebrating the family moving into this fifty-million-dollar luxury mansion. The moment I pushed the door open, the laughter died. I was soaked through, black sludge dripping off the hem of my dress. In my arms, a filthy bundle. I looked like a ghost who’d wandered into a high-society party. Beberly frowned, disgust flickering in her eyes. “Juliette, what the hell is wrong with you? Do you know what day this is? You show up looking like that just to ruin everything for me?” Kairo strode over quickly. He was wearing a tailored suit today, his hair styled to perfection. He reached out to pull me close, but the second he touched my sludge-covered sleeve, he flinched back without thinking. “Juliette, stop making a scene.” He lowered his voice. “Mom just thinks it’s bad luck to keep memorial photos in a new house. Go upstairs and clean up first, before you embarrass us in front of everyone.” I looked at him. This was the man I’d loved for three years. Before we got married, he’d held my hand and said, “From now on, my family is your family. My parents are your parents.” But now, my parents’ portraits were thrown in the trash. And all he felt was that I’d embarrassed him. “I’m making a scene?” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the silent hall it was crystal clear. “Beverly threw my parents’ memorial portraits in the trash, and you call that bad luck?” A wave of whispers swept through the hall. His sister, Tracy, let out a scornful laugh. She held up her phone, mid-livestream, and shoved the camera right into my face. “So your whole family’s dead, and you just had to drag two photos of corpses into our new house.” “A perfectly nice housewarming party, and you’ve turned it into a funeral.” “Everyone online is watching. Let’s let them judge—who brings this kind of bad luck into their new family?”

My fingertips went stiff. The edge of the frame inside the coat pressed into my palm. Like my dad’s thin, withered hand right before he died. When he handed me an old account book, he’d said, “Juliette, don’t ever use a debt of gratitude to pressure someone unless you’ve truly got no other choice. But if someday someone walks all over you, don’t go playing the bigger person on your dad’s behalf either.” Back then I just nodded. I thought I’d never have to use it. I thought the Sinclair family had truly accepted me. I walked over to the long banquet table. There sat a massive three-tier fondant cake, with “Congratulations on the Sinclair Family’s New Home” written across it. I gently set the bundle from my arms onto the table. Unwrapped the coat. The shattered frame emerged, carrying a sharp, sour, rotting smell. The wealthy women around me covered their noses and stepped back. Beverly’s face went livid. “Juliette! You get that filthy thing out of here right now!” “The ones who should get out of here are all of you.” From the soaked bag, I pulled out an old account book sealed in a waterproof pouch. On the first page, a yellowed IOU was tucked inside. Borrower: Richard Sinclair. “You still recognize this handwriting, don’t you?” I slapped the IOU down on the table. The corner of the paper quickly soaked through with the champagne on the table. Richard’s hand jerked, the wine glass trembling. Wine spilled onto his designer leather shoes. He instinctively reached out to grab the IOU. I let out a cold laugh and pinned his hand down hard with the account book. His hand was nailed there, unable to move. The sound in the hall seemed to be choked off all at once. I stared into his eyes and spoke slowly. “Ten million.”

“Dad.” Kairo’s voice tightened. “Is… is this real?” Richard’s throat bobbed, his face shifting from red to white. Beverly lunged forward. “You’re talking nonsense! What ten million? A broke little orphan girl like you—where would you get ten million?” “Ten million from twelve years ago and ten million today—are those the same thing?” I ignored her and flipped open the inner flap of the account book. An old photograph slipped out. In the photo, my dad stood at the entrance of a run-down factory. Beside him was a much younger Richard, his face full of eager flattery. On the back, in my dad’s handwriting: witnessed by my best buddy. Richard stared at that photo like he’d seen a ghost. “This account book…” His voice went hoarse. “Your dad really left it to you?” I didn’t answer. I just laid the photo and the IOU side by side, so every guest at the table could see clearly. A few of the wealthy wives standing beside Beverly leaned in. When they saw the amount and the signature, their expressions changed. “Ten million? Richard, that’s no small number.” Richard suddenly snatched his hand back, forcing himself to look calm. “That’s ancient history! Your dad did help me out back then, but that was an investment! Business has ups and downs—how can you call it a loan?” Those words were as good as admitting he’d taken the money. Beverly caught on immediately, straightening her back again. “Exactly! If your dad really treated it as a loan, why didn’t he come collect all these years? Now that you’ve married into our Sinclair family, eating our food, living under our roof, you start digging up old debts?” Tracy’s phone camera nearly jabbed me in the face. “You all hear that? This woman’s just a gold digger! Bringing up a debt from over a decade ago to extort our family!” I looked into the camera and suddenly felt how absurd it all was. Every brick in this mansion was soaked in my dad’s blood and sweat. All I’d done was set down two memorial portraits. And they still complained they took up space. I closed the account book, then opened it again. “Richard, if you’ve really forgotten, I can help you remember—page by page.”

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I thought I was marrying for love. Instead, I walked straight into a slaughterhouse, all carefully arranged just for me. The fiancé I’d loved for three years slipped an organ donation form between the pages of our marriage paperwork and tricked me into signing it — all to save his adopted sister, a girl he shared no blood with. When the anesthesia wore off, I was missing a kidney, and I’d been thrown out into a thunderstorm like garbage. They thought I was as good as dead. What they didn’t know was that I clawed my way back out of hell on nothing but the will to get even. I was going to cut my way to them, step by step, and make every single person in this conspiracy pay. Pain. A tearing, ripping agony spread from my lower back, like a rusty saw dragging back and forth across my nerves. I forced my eyes open. The blinding surgical lights made my head spin. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant. This wasn’t the bridal suite Sebastian and I had set up together. This was a cold, sealed underground operating room. “You’re awake?” A familiar, ice-cold voice sounded by my ear. I turned my head with effort. Sebastian stood over me in a perfectly tailored couture suit, looking down at me. He held a glass of red wine, and his eyes had none of their old warmth. All that was left was a sneer that chilled me to the bone. “Sebastian… what happened to me? My stomach hurts so badly…” My voice was hoarse. I struggled to sit up, only to find my hands and feet strapped down to the bed. Panic seized my heart in an instant. “Don’t thrash around. We just took out one of your kidneys. If the wound splits open, you could actually die.” Sebastian took a sip of his wine, his tone as casual as if he were chatting about the weather. Boom! My mind exploded. I stared at him, refusing to believe it. “What did you say? What kidney?!” “Thank you for the kidney, by the way.” A sugary-sweet voice came from behind Sebastian. Grace stood there in designer hospital pajamas, her cheeks rosy. There wasn’t a trace left of the “end-stage uremia” frailty she’d shown before. She wrapped herself around Sebastian’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder. “See, Sebastian, I told you. As long as you asked, she’d hand over her worthless life for you. A kidney’s nothing.” Sebastian tapped her nose affectionately. “Silly girl. If it saves you, I’d take more than a kidney. I’d take her whole life if I had to.” A cold went through my entire body, as if I were falling into a bottomless pit. “Sebastian! Have you lost your mind?! I’m your fiancée! We’re getting married tomorrow!” I thrashed like a madwoman, the straps cutting bloody welts into my wrists. “Married?” Sebastian soffed and looked at me like I was an idiot. “Susan, go look at yourself in a mirror. A broke nobody with no money and no power — you thought you were good enough to walk through the doors of my family’s home?” He pulled a document from his jacket pocket and slammed it down across my face. “Take a good look. This is the Voluntary Organ Donation Consent Form, signed in your own handwriting.” The sharp edge of the paper sliced the corner of my eye. I stared at the document. The signature line — that really was my handwriting. Then I remembered. Three days ago, Sebastian had handed me a thick stack of tedious prenuptial property agreements to sign, saying it was his family requirement. I trusted him completely, so I signed without reading a single word. So that was it. That death warrant had been buried in the pile. “This is assault! This is a crime! I’m calling the police!” I screamed in despair, tears bursting from my eyes. “Go ahead. Call them.” Sebastian leaned down and grabbed my chin, his eyes venomous. “You signed the consent form. A private doctor did the surgery. Who do you think the cops will believe — some hysterical woman, or the legal team of the Cross Group?” “Let me go! Give me my kidney back!” I shook my head wildly, wishing I could bite a chunk out of him. “You’re too loud.” Sebastian flung my chin away in disgust and tossed a check onto me. “That’s a million dollars, for one kidney. You’ve never seen that much money in your life, have you? Take the money and get out of this city. If I ever see you again, it won’t just be a kidney I take.” He turned to the two bodyguards at the door. “Throw her out.” “Yes, Mr. Cross.” Two big men came over, roughly unstrapped me, and dragged me off the bed like a dead dog. The wound split open instantly, blood soaking through the hospital gown. “Sebastian! Even as a ghost, I will never let any of you go!” My curses were sealed behind the heavy iron door. Late night. Howling wind and pouring rain. The bodyguards dumped me on a deserted mountain highway and drove off. Cold rain mixed with blood and ran into the mud. I curled up on the ground, convulsing with pain, my consciousness slipping away bit by bit. Just when I thought I would die in that storm — Two blinding high beams cut through the curtain of rain. A black Rolls-Royce Phantom screeched to a stop right in front of me. The car door opened. A pair of polished, handmade leather shoes stepped into a puddle. A black umbrella opened over my head, blocking out the downpour. I struggled to open my eyes. What I saw was a face so cold and sharp it looked like a god’s. The man wore a black trench coat, and his presence was so powerful that even the rain around him seemed to freeze. “Susan?” His low voice was strangely clear in the rainy night. I didn’t know him. but I knew he was my only hope of survival. I clutched the hem of his coat, my knuckles white. “Save me…” The man looked down at me, something dark and unreadable churning in his deep eyes. “Do you want to die? Or do you want revenge?” he asked. “Revenge…” I bit down hard, my mouth full of the taste of blood. “I want them to pay… blood for blood.” A cold, hard curve lifted at the corner of his mouth. “Get in.” He bent down, scooped me up into his arms, and carried me into the endless dark.

When I woke again, the first thing I saw was a lavish European-style domed ceiling. I was lying on a soft, enormous bed. The wound on my back had been cleaned and re-dressed with fresh gauze. “Now that you’re awake, get up and take your medicine.” By the floor-to-ceiling windows, the man from last night stood with his back to me, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Who are you?” I propped myself up and watched him warily. He turned around. The sunlight traced the sharp line of his jaw. “Kane Blackwood.” I sucked in a sharp breath. Kane Blackwood. The man at the helm of the Blackwood business empire, the true uncrowned king of this city. And the Cross family is nothing but a second-rate clan that only survives under the protection of the Blackwood family. “Mr. Blackwood, why did you save me?” I forced myself to stay calm. Kane walked to the sofa and sat down, crossing his legs, his sharp eyes studying me. “Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Just then the bedroom door opened, and a doctor in a white coat walked in, his face grim. “Mr. Blackwood, the lab results are back.” The doctor handed Kane a report, then turned to look at me with a flicker of pity in his eyes. “Ms. Susan, were you drinking some kind of ‘nourishing soup’ that Sebastian made for you every day?” I blinked, then nodded. “Yes. He said I was run-down and needed to build up my body for when we tried for a baby. Why?” The doctor sighed. “That wasn’t nourishing soup at all. We found high concentrations of a chronic immunosuppressant and heavy-metal toxins in your blood.” “What does that mean?” My head buzzed. “It means they didn’t just steal your kidney. They wanted you dead, too.” Kane spoke coldly, tossing the report onto the nightstand. “Taken over time, that poison would have made your remaining kidney fail fast. Within six months, you’d die of kidney failure.” Boom! It hit me like a hammer. My mind went blank. My whole body trembled, my stomach lurched, and I felt like I was about to throw up. The image of Sebastian gently watching me drink that soup every day turned, in that instant, into the most terrifying nightmare in the world. They didn’t just want my organs. They wanted to erase the evidence — to shut me up forever. “Ugh—” I leaned over the edge of the bed, dry-heaving, tears falling uncontrollably onto the carpet. So cruel! So vicious! “Done crying?” Kane’s voice held no warmth at all. “Tears won’t kill Sebastian.” My head snapped up. I wiped the tears off my face and bit down on my lip until I tasted rust. “Mr. Blackwood, help me.” I stared at him dead-on. “I know Blackwood family and Cross family are fighting over the land on the south side of the city. Help me destroy the Cross family, and I’ll do anything.” Kane narrowed his eyes, as if appraising my worth. “You have nothing left. What do you think you have to bargain with?” “I have the Cross family’s most fatal weakness in my hands!” I gasped out. “If I can prove they tricked me into the donation and harvested my organs illegally, the Cross Group’s stock will crash. They’ll never get that land on the south side!” Kane let out a quiet laugh, but the amusement never reached his eyes. “Susan, you’re too naive. The Cross family did this, which means they prepared for everything. That consent form you signed in your own hand is their shield. If you go out there now and start talking, they’ll turn it around on you and have you charged with extortion.” I froze. He was right. Black ink on white paper. How was I supposed to flip that? Kane stood, walked to the bed, and leaned down over me, his presence overwhelming. “I can give you the best medical care, the most professional PR team, and the best lawyers. But on one condition. You have to become a blade sharp enough to drive straight into the Cross family’s heart. So — do you have the nerve?” Looking into his fathomless eyes, the hatred inside me grew like wildfire. “I have the nerve,” I answered without hesitation. “Good.” Kane straightened up. “Let the games begin.”

Kane’s methods were clean, decisive, and shockingly fast. That very afternoon, an explosive topic suddenly appeared on social media and instantly blew up across the whole internet. The headline was lurid: “Prospective Heiress Demands Massive Prenup Payment, Fails, Then Flees With a Million Overnight!” The attached photo was an engagement shot of me and Sebastian, with a screenshot of a one-million-dollar check transfer underneath it. The poster claimed to be an insider close to the Cross family, bitterly condemning me as a materialistic, vain woman who’d thrown away years of love for money — who’d even fled with the cash the night before the wedding, leaving the Cross family humiliated. The comment section was nothing but slut-shaming and vicious abuse aimed at me. “Holy crap, this woman has no shame. She bailed for a million?” “Feel so bad for Sebastian, treating a gold-digger that well and getting stabbed in the back.” “Someone dig up her info! Make sure she can never show her face in society again!” I watched the endless stream of hateful comments refreshing on the tablet and laughed coldly. So the Cross family were afraid I’d cause trouble. They’d struck first, trying to nail me to the pillory and strip me of any chance to speak. “How does it feel?” Kane leaned against the doorframe with a glass of wine, watching me. “Cheap tactics.” I tossed the tablet aside, picked up my own phone, and logged into my verified, real-name social media account. I didn’t write a long defense. I just posted one photo. In it, I was wearing a baggy hospital gown, my face pale as paper, my lower back wrapped in thick gauze with blood soaking through it. The sight was shocking. The caption was a single line: “I didn’t run from the wedding. I’m just learning how to live the rest of my life with only one kidney.” Tap. Send. In under five minutes, the post shot straight to the trending list. Everyone was stunned. “Wait, what?! Missing a kidney?!” “That wound looks terrifying — she just had surgery, right?” “So the runaway-bride story turned into a kidney-harvesting story? This plot twist is insane!” The Cross family PR team moved fast. Sebastian’s mother — Mrs. Cross, the woman who’d always looked down her nose at everyone — replied directly in my comments from her main account: “Susan, why are you playing the victim? You donated that kidney to Grace of your own free will! That million was the ‘recovery fee’ you demanded yourself! Now you’ve taken the money and come online to stir up the crowd. Do you have any conscience left?” Her words sounded righteous, but they were full of holes. My fingers flew across the screen. I immediately posted a second time. It was a clip of high-definition dashcam footage. In the video, on a wild, stormy night, two big men threw me onto a muddy highway like trash. My wound split open, and blood ran across the ground. Caption: “Madam Cross, is this what you call ‘taking the money of my own free will’?” The moment that video dropped, the entire internet erupted. Public opinion flipped in an instant. “What the hell, that’s literally attempted murder!” “Dumping someone fresh out of surgery into a thunderstorm in the middle of the night — the Cross family are pure evil!” “Boycott the Cross Group! Investigate the Cross family!” The Cross Group’s official account was buried under hundreds of thousands of furious comments, and the stock dipped in the closing minutes of trading. I seized the momentum and typed out a third post, tagging Sebastian directly. “Sebastian, do you dare show the whole internet the original copy of that Organ Donation Consent Form I signed in my own handwriting? Let everyone see exactly who’s listed as the recipient on it.” Checkmate. He’d buried that form in the marriage paperwork to trick me into signing it. Whether he produced it or refused to, his crime of fraudulent donation would be locked in. The whole internet was waiting for Sebastian’s response. Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was Sebastian. I hit accept and put it on speaker. “Susan, you’ve grown a spine. You dare come after me online.” Sebastian’s voice carried a cold, murderous edge. “Where’s the original? Too scared to produce it?” I shot back, ice in my voice. “Heh.” Sean let out a cruel laugh. “I am scared. But are you brave enough to gamble with your parents’ lives?” My heart clenched. “What did you do?!” From the other end came my mother’s shrill, sobbing cry: “Susan! A whole gang of thugs came out of nowhere and smashed up our little diner! Your dad got beaten until he was coughing up blood, and now they’ve dragged him into a car!” “Sebastian! You animal!” I screamed, losing control. “Delete every post right now. Post a video saying you made it all up, that you’re mentally ill. Otherwise, you’ll never see your father again as long as you live!” The line went dead. My whole body went limp, and the phone slipped from my hand. Despair flooded over me like a tide.

Ding. A video landed on my phone. My father, his face covered in blood, was pinned to the floor of a van by two big men, barely conscious. Madam Cross sent a voice message: “Susan, if I don’t see your apology video in ten minutes, the next thing I send you will be your father’s finger.” I shook so hard I couldn’t control it, huge tears splashing down onto the screen. I couldn’t beat them. They had money and power. Wiping out my whole family would be as easy as crushing an ant. With trembling hands, I opened the camera on my phone and pointed it at my own ashen face. “I’m sorry. My name is Susan, and the posts I made earlier were all—” A large, well-defined hand suddenly reached over and snatched the phone away. “That’s all the backbone you’ve got?” Kane looked down at me, his eyes terrifyingly cold. “He’s holding my dad hostage! What am I supposed to do?! I can’t gamble with my father’s life!” I screamed, breaking down, reaching for the phone. Kane caught my wrist and hauled me up off the floor. “There’s no turning back from revenge. If you back down now, they’ll think you’re weak and easy to crush — and tomorrow they’ll come for your whole family!” He looked straight into my eyes, spacing out each word with unquestionable authority. “I’ve already sent my best security team to rescue your parents. What you need to do right now is go and win your fight.” I froze, staring at him blankly. He pressed a gold-embossed invitation into my hands. “Eight o’clock tonight. The Cross Group’s annual product launch — also Sebastian’s first public appearance as he formally takes over as CEO.” A flash of ruthlessness crossed Kane’s eyes. “Go. Find their weak spot, and deal them a fatal blow. As for your parents — I give you my word on the Blackwood family’s name. Not a single hair on their heads will be touched.” Looking at the certainty in his eyes, my chaotic heart somehow steadied. Eight o’clock that night. The grand ballroom of the International Hotel downtown. The place was packed with the rich and famous. A wall of media cameras hemmed the stage in. Sebastian stood under the spotlight in a white suit, delivering his speech with cocky confidence. “The Cross Group will dedicate itself in the future to—” Bang! I shoved the heavy ballroom doors open. I walked in wearing the bold red dress Kane had prepared for me, stepping forward on four-inch heels, one stride at a time. Lips red as fire, face cold as ice. The whole room fell dead silent in an instant. Every camera swung toward me in unison. “It’s Susan! The fiancée who leaked everything online!” The smile on Sebastian’s face froze. Madam Cross shot up from her front-row seat and pointed at me, screaming. “Security! Who let her in?! Throw this crazy woman out!” I showed no fear. I walked straight to the press table closest to the stage and picked up a reporter’s spare microphone. “No need. I’ll say one thing, then leave.” My voice carried clearly through the speakers into every corner of the room. I looked at Sebastian, his face livid up on the stage, and a cruel smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Sebastian — after Grace got my kidney transplanted, has she been taking her anti-rejection medication on schedule?” Sebastian’s pupils contracted sharply. “What are you getting at?” “I forgot to mention something.” I toyed with a strand of my hair, my tone as light as if I were discussing the weather. “My blood type is extremely rare — a Bombay phenotype, with a recessive genetic mutation. My organs carry an extremely strong tendency toward delayed hyperacute rejection.” “Once it triggers, she’ll have less than three months left.” The whole room broke into an uproar. The reporters fired their shutters like mad. Madam Cross covered her mouth in horror. “You’re lying! You vicious witch, you’re cursing my daughter!” I ignored her hysterics. I locked my eyes on Sebastian, swaying on the stage, and added softly — at a volume only the two of us could hear, but enough to shatter his soul: “Unfortunately, the only cure for this kind of rejection is produced by exactly one elite lab in Switzerland. And its founder happened to be a lifelong friend of my late grandfather — close as brothers.” I lifted my chin slightly, savoring the pure terror that surged into Sebastian’s eyes. “Sebastian. Now is the moment for you to get down on your knees and beg me.”

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On the day of my prenatal checkup, I stumbled upon my husband’s secret on social media. My husband, Ethan, was perfect in every way except for one thing—he wasn’t romantic at all. He said holding hands made his palms sweaty and gross, so he never held mine. He said kissing was unhygienic, turning away every time I leaned in for a kiss. Whenever he saw the disappointment on my face, he would just look at me calmly. “I come home on time every night, and I hand over my paycheck to you. Isn’t that the best proof of love?” So, I stopped asking for romance. Until today. While waiting in line for my ultrasound, I was scrolling through Snapchat and saw a viral thread. What does physical attraction actually feel like? I froze when I saw the top-voted comment. It was from Ethan’s account: “When she talks to me, I stare at her lips. It makes my throat go dry. I don’t even hear what she’s saying—I just want to kiss her.” Right beneath his comment, my best friend, Hailey, had replied: “So… does that mean what you feel for me is pure physical attraction?” “Patient 104, Chloe.” The nurse called my name. I stood frozen for a second. Then, I walked up to the desk and spoke, my voice trembling. “Excuse me, how do I schedule an abortion?” 1 The clinic doctor looked at me over her glasses. “Have you discussed this with your partner?” I looked down at my Snapchat chat history with Ethan. The last message was from three days ago. I had texted him: “My period is late this month. Why do you think that is? I’m going to the doctor.” I had just found out I was pregnant. I wanted him to guess the surprise. His reply was short: “If you’re not feeling well, just get some rest.” Before that, the chat was filled with jokes I shared, my complaints about work, and places I wanted to visit with him. Every single one was met with a dry, automated-like response. The opposite of physical attraction is visceral repulsion, right? I looked at the doctor and forced a smile. “There is no partner. No need to discuss.” The surgery was scheduled for five days later. By the time I got home, it was already late afternoon. Hailey had recently quit her job and had been staying at our place for almost a month. The moment I opened the door, I saw Hailey and Ethan standing close together at the kitchen island. Hailey used her own fork to feed Ethan a bite of medium-rare steak. He ate it, smiling, and muttered, “Delicious.” I stood there, feeling dizzy. I remembered when I was making soup once, I instinctively wanted Ethan to taste a spoonful. His reaction had been violent. “Do couples not need hygiene anymore? That’s disgusting, Chloe.” He had pushed my hand away so hard that the hot soup spilled all over my wrist. It was swollen and red for two weeks. I was so blind. They were acting like this right in front of me, and I had never suspected a thing. After all, one was my partner of five years, and the other was my best friend of twenty. The sound of the door closing caught their attention. Hailey walked out of the kitchen holding a plate of garlic butter shrimp. “Chloe! You’re back just in time. I just made this, try some!” She gave me an innocent, sweet smile. I just wanted to run to my room. I was afraid that if I spoke, my tears would betray me. “I’m not hungry.” Ethan’s brows furrowed slightly. “Hailey made this specifically for you. Don’t waste her effort.” I looked at him, suddenly wanting to laugh. I am severely allergic to seafood. Once, when Ethan and I went out to eat, I accidentally ate something with shrimp paste. I threw up and almost went into anaphylactic shock. Ethan was the one who rushed me to the ER. And Hailey, my best friend of twenty years, knew about my allergy better than anyone. Seeing me stay still, Ethan’s frown deepened. “Is this how you treat a guest?” Hailey quickly intervened, waving her hands. “Maybe she’s just not feeling well. It’s fine, really.” I locked myself in my room, finally letting the tears fall. I couldn’t understand. If Ethan felt a visceral repulsion toward me, why did he stay with me for five years? And Hailey… we had known each other since we were kids. Her father was an abusive alcoholic who never cared for her. I was the one who shared my lunch with her, bought her clothes, walked her to school… Why did she have to steal my man? At eleven in the evening, Ethan came into the bedroom. I had already wiped my tears. But right after he showered, Hailey knocked on our door. “Ethan! I just saw this hilarious TikTok. You have to come out and see this!” Ethan, who had just lain down, immediately got up to leave. I grabbed his arm. “It’s late, Ethan. Doesn’t she have any boundaries?” “Don’t you think listening to random jokes is a waste of time?” He didn’t look at me as he brushed my hand off. “We can’t ignore a guest.” “Besides, we click. It’s never a waste of time.” As the door clicked shut, Hailey’s giggling echoed from the living room. “I’m telling you, this creator is so funny…” I covered my eyes. I had shown Ethan that exact same TikTok creator three times. Every time, his response was: “Wasting my time with mindless trash. Don’t you think you’re being incredibly selfish?” To teach me a lesson, he had even blocked me on Snapchat for a whole month. Their laughter outside lasted until past midnight. I picked up my phone and opened my WhatsApp chat with my boss. “Hi boss, about the relocation to the Seattle office… I’d like to take the offer.” My boss called me immediately. “Chloe? Didn’t you say you were pregnant and couldn’t go?” “I’m not having the baby anymore.” Silence on the other end. “Okay. There’s one spot left. The flight is in six days. Can you make it?” “Yes.” 2 By sunrise, Ethan and Hailey were not home. I walked out to the balcony and looked down. Ethan and Hailey were walking back together, holding a fresh bouquet of gardenias—Hailey’s favorite. They had gone to the local Farmers’ Market again. Last year, I made a “Relationship Bucket List.” The very first item was to visit the Farmers’ Market together on a Saturday morning. I begged Ethan a dozen times. I told him how romantic it would be to wake up early, buy fresh flowers and groceries, and cook breakfast together. He didn’t even look up from his research paper. “I need to run data simulations on Saturday mornings. You can sleep in until nine. Why ruin our schedules and torture each other?” He was a man of strict principles. But since Hailey moved in a month ago, he could wake up early every single day to walk her to the market just to buy her fresh gardenias. I used to think it was because I asked Ethan to help me take care of Hailey while she was job hunting. I thought he was doing it for me. I was so incredibly stupid. Down below, they were talking about something when Hailey suddenly grabbed Ethan’s hand and playfully bit the fleshy part of his thumb. Ethan’s eyes crinkled with laughter, letting her do whatever she wanted. After she let go, she even leaned down and kissed the spot she had just bitten. My stomach turned, and I dry-heaved over the railing. Five years. Ethan had never kissed me like that. Once, before sleeping, I stole a quick peck on his lips. He practically ran to the bathroom, washing his face with antibacterial soap multiple times. When he came back, he demanded we sleep in separate rooms. “Saliva is full of bacteria, Chloe. Your childish ideas of romance are highly disturbing.” “If you are going to indulge in these low-class, primal habits, we should sleep separately.” I clenched my fists so hard my nails dug into my skin. I pulled out my phone and texted Ethan: “So, have you suddenly developed a taste for those ‘low-class habits’?” My phone buzzed instantly. “It’s fine. Why do you ask?” I looked down. Ethan’s hands were empty. He hadn’t even touched his phone. Then who replied to me? A chilling thought crossed my mind. I walked into his home office. His laptop was unlocked, with WhatsApp Web active. Hailey’s chat was pinned to the top. And my chat? It was muted. I stared at the screen, sensing something was off. I sent him another text: “My stomach hurts really bad today.” Almost instantly, a reply popped up on his laptop screen: “Drink some warm water.” My face went pale. I searched his desktop and found an automated script he had set up. He had categorized all my possible messages and set up auto-replies for them. If I shared something: “I’m busy. No need to spam me with useless things.” If I expressed emotions: “Don’t overthink” or “Go to sleep early.” If I was sick: “Drink some warm water.” I knew he was cold, but I never realized even his coldness was automated. He couldn’t even be bothered to write a few different words for his AI script. The front door opened. They were back. Hailey walked straight into our bathroom. “Ethan, I’m using your towel! Mine is too thin.” Ethan replied casually, “Throw yours away if it’s no good. Just use mine.” All his “boundaries” and “germaphobia” seemed to disappear when it came to her. Last year, I got caught in a downpour and came home soaking wet. I accidentally used his towel to dry my hair. He snatched it out of my hand and threw it straight into the trash can. “Sharing towels can transmit skin infections. Do you have no common sense?” I bit my lip so hard it bled. As I walked out of the office, Hailey ran into me. “Oh, Chloe, were you using the laptop? I need to borrow it to check some listings.” Ethan, hearing this, slammed his coffee mug on the table. “Don’t touch my laptop, Chloe!” “How many times do I have to tell you? Even in a relationship, people need privacy. Is that so hard to understand?” Hailey sighed dramatically. “Oh come on, Ethan. I was the one who asked to use it, and she was just opening it for me. Don’t be so mean to Chloe!” Ethan’s expression instantly softened. “Fine. Only because Hailey asked.” Hailey didn’t even ask for the password. She unlocked the laptop I had just closed with ease. She opened the browser, using Ethan’s saved profile and bookmarks. Ethan had passwords on everything. He kept all his “privacy” locked away from me, but Hailey knew every single password. I felt like I was suffocating. I grabbed my bag and bolted out the door. At the clinic, before the final procedure, the doctor checked with me one last time. “Are you sure about this, Chloe? This is your last chance to change your mind.” “I’m sure,” I said. “I won’t regret it. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.” 3 When I returned home, there were several pairs of shoes at the entrance. The living room was crowded, and the coffee table was covered with beer cans and snacks. Hailey stood up to greet me, acting like the hostess of the house. “Chloe! You’re back. These are Ethan’s colleagues from the lab.” She leaned in and whispered in my ear: “Since I’m still looking for a job, Ethan invited them over to help me network and get a referral. Isn’t he sweet?” How generous of him. Three years ago, my department had a joint project with Ethan’s lab. Once, I bumped into him on campus and tried to say hi, but he walked right past me like I was a stranger. When we got home, he lectured me: “I don’t want people at work knowing about us. I don’t want them thinking I’m using my position to favor my girlfriend!” But apparently, “professional boundaries” only applied to me. I sat at the very edge of the couch. Ethan was actively sharing embarrassing stories from his childhood. Hailey’s eyes went wide. “No way! You actually did that when you were ten?” Ethan laughed. “Seriously. My parents banned me from the kitchen for a month.” Hailey laughed hysterically. I had never heard that story in the five years we were together. Ethan hated me asking about his past. But now, just to make Hailey feel comfortable, he was laying his life bare for everyone to see. A guy wearing glasses chuckled. “Man, Hailey and Ethan get along so well. Chloe, you should learn a thing or two from Hailey.” “You two have been together for five years, but you still act like strangers.” Everyone laughed. I smiled too. They weren’t wrong. My five years with Ethan had been nothing but a one-woman show. After a few rounds of drinks, the beer ran out. Hailey stood up to go get some more. Several colleagues immediately stopped her. “No, no, Hailey, you sit. Let Chloe go.” “Yeah, Chloe, can you run to the store?” Ethan nodded in agreement. “Go ahead, Chloe. Hailey is having a good time. Don’t ruin the mood.” I stood up instantly and walked out. I didn’t want to buy beer. I just needed to breathe. I walked around the block for an hour before returning. By then, the guests had left. The living room was a complete mess—empty cans, spilled chips, half-eaten pizza slices everywhere. Ethan looked up at me lazily. “Clean up the living room, will you? Hailey’s back hurts, she can’t bend over.” I stared at him. “My back hurts too.” Hailey quickly stood up. “It’s fine, really! I’ll clean it. My back is just a little stiff, no big deal.” Ethan pulled her back onto the couch, then turned to me, his voice cold. “Since when does your back hurt?” I looked at him. My back had a chronic injury. Three years ago, when we decided to move in together, Ethan said that even in love, I needed to be independent. So, during the move, I tried to carry a heavy wooden drawer myself. I slipped and rammed my lower back into a metal shelf. I had a lumbar contusion and was bedridden for two weeks. Suddenly, I grabbed a glass bottle from the counter and slammed it onto the floor. It shattered into pieces. Hailey screamed. “I said I would do it, Chloe! Why are you throwing a temper tantrum?” I looked at Hailey’s face, my voice deadly calm. “Hailey, in all these years, have I ever done anything wrong to you?” As a friend, I had done everything for her. When we were kids in the middle of winter, she got acute gastroenteritis at midnight. No cabs were running, so I carried her on my back to the clinic, scraping my knees so badly they bled. When we graduated and her toxic father showed up at school demanding cash, I gave her all my savings—two thousand dollars I had saved from working part-time. Hailey’s face turned pale. “What are you talking about? If you want me to leave, just say it!” She slammed her bedroom door. Ethan stood in the center of the room, his face darkening. I could see it in his eyes—he wanted to lecture me for making Hailey uncomfortable. I didn’t give him the chance. “I’m tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.” Seeing the sheer exhaustion on my face, he swallowed his words. “Fine.” “Keep tomorrow free. We need to have a serious talk.” 4 I thought, since he was technically the father, he had the right to know. But the next morning, Ethan woke up early—not for me, but because Hailey was packing her bags after yesterday’s fight. The moment I woke up, I heard Ethan on the phone with a real estate agent. “Is that apartment close to the subway? … How’s the neighborhood security? … Send me a video tour.” He asked so many detailed questions. The gate security, the elevator brand, the background of the neighbors. He asked if there was any chemical smell in the freshly painted walls, which direction the windows faced, and if the heating worked well. I remembered when we first moved in together. He was busy, so I was the one house-hunting. I was so excited about our first home that I took videos of every detail and sent them to him to discuss. He replied: “Just pick one. It’s not that important.” I watched him quietly until he hung up. “Do you have time to talk now?” He put on his coat and glanced at his watch. “Not right now. The apartment Hailey likes is high-demand. If we’re late, someone else will sign the lease. We’ll talk tonight.” As the door shut, the apartment fell into a heavy silence. I sat on the couch for a long time. Then, I packed my bags. I left the things I wanted to return to him on the entryway table. Right before I was wheeled into the operating room. Maybe out of a final, foolish hope, I sent Ethan a text. “If I told you I was pregnant, what would you do?” The reply came instantly. “I’m busy. No need to spam me with useless things.” The automated script. I burst out laughing. I was laughing at my own stupidity, but at the same time, I felt a strange sense of relief. Then, a message from Hailey popped up. “Chloe, I’m so lucky to have a friend like you.” “Ethan is seriously the best. He even bought coffee and gifts for my new neighbors so they would look out for me.” “He said he’s going to stay over at my new place tonight to make sure the security is fine. But don’t worry, there are two bedrooms.” I stared at the message for a long time. The nurse came to wheel me in. “Is there anyone here to accompany you?” I shook my head. “No.” I signed the consent form myself. When they took the tissue out of my body, it hurt. But the deepest pain had already been carved into my heart long ago. An abortion is a minor procedure. By the next morning, I was discharged. It hurt to walk, but I managed. I went straight to the airport. Five years of self-delusion had finally come to an end. While checking in, I turned on my phone. A notification from our home security camera popped up. Ethan was finally home. He called my name a few times. No reply. Then, he saw the envelope I left on the table. Inside was the debit card containing his salary, and my abortion discharge papers. The moment he opened it, he froze like a statue.

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My husband confessed to me after his second affair. “Honestly, both of those women were just strippers I hired. Nothing happened between us.” “The only one I’m actually sleeping with is Chloe.” Chloe was my best friend. I froze. It took me a long time to find my voice. “Why? Why would you do this?” He lit a cigarette and smiled. “Chloe did it for your own good. She was worried you wouldn’t be able to handle finding out about us. So, we hired those girls to test you first. It was like exposure therapy to desensitize you.” “Since you were able to forgive me for those two strippers, you should be able to forgive her, too. The three of us can live together from now on. You’ll still be Mrs. Vance.” So, all those years of my suffering, the agony that drove me to slit my wrists… It was all just to pave a smooth path for Chloe. This time, I stopped fighting. After scheduling an abortion, I booked a one-way flight. 0Sebastian spoke of our future as if he was absolutely certain I wouldn’t resist this time. “Once we sign the official papers, she’ll take wedding photos with us. She’ll be at the ceremony, too. You know that wedding dress you liked? She likes it, too. It’s her first time wearing one, so just let her have it.” “As for the house, you’ll move into the guest room. Chloe gets cold easily at night, and the master bedroom gets the best sunlight. It’s warmer.” “And don’t say anything to my friends. As far as they know, you and I broke up a long time ago, and I’m officially dating Chloe now.” He rattled off these demands one by one, without even blinking. As if he were talking about the weather. Rage and logic tore at my mind, burning me alive from the inside out. But he just continued casually, “Oh, by the way, Chloe is pregnant.” “Be gentle with her. She can’t get stressed right now. If you’re angry, take it out on me.” Pregnant? They had been together for so long, and they only told me now because she was pregnant? Fine. He wanted me to take it out on him? I would. I slowly raised my hand. I wanted to slap him across the face, but he caught my wrist effortlessly. He frowned, looking genuinely confused. “Are you actually mad?” “That doesn’t make sense. Those two actresses did so many terrible things to you, and you were as quiet as a sheep. Why are you throwing such a fit now that it’s Chloe?” The “terrible things” he mentioned? One of them pushed me into a freezing lake in the dead of winter, causing me to miscarry. The other sent graphic, explicit photos of Sebastian to my parents, which gave my mother a fatal heart attack. They started rumors at my office that I was a homewrecker, getting me fired. And now, all of that was justified by his single sentence. It was all just “exposure therapy” to desensitize me, just to pave the way for Chloe. A wave of pure absurdity washed over me. I wanted to laugh, but tears spilled from my eyes instead. He sighed, leaning his face closer to me, presenting his cheek. “Forget it. Chloe is your best friend, so it’s natural you’re a bit upset. Go ahead, hit me.” “But after you do, you need to be nice to her. She feels incredibly guilty. She was too terrified to tell you until she was sure you were completely desensitized to the situation.” “She did it for your own good, Summer. Don’t scare her.” I hadn’t even done anything yet. And he was already worried I would scare her. They say when a man truly loves a woman, she will always seem fragile and young in his eyes, someone to be pampered and protected. That was why he called her a “young girl,” completely forgetting that I was actually two months younger than she was. Tears soaked my neck. I let my hand drop uselessly. “Pull over,” I whispered. “We’re done. I’m leaving.” He paused for a second, then let out a helpless chuckle. “Stop acting like a child. If you wanted to leave, you would have left years ago. You just want me to spoil you, don’t you?” “Give me your phone. I’ll buy everything in your Amazon cart right now.” “Tell me what else you want. I’ll get it.” He tried to coax me the way he always did, but I didn’t care anymore. I stared straight ahead. “I want my original wedding dress.” That dress was custom-made for me by Sebastian. Back when he knelt in the dirt, begging me to take him back, he had said, “Wear this, and I’ll give you the wedding of a lifetime. Please?” And I had forgiven him back then only because I remembered the boy he used to be. The teenage Sebastian who would blush furiously whenever our eyes met. The boy who fought off local thugs for me, getting stabbed in the back, only to smile and say it didn’t hurt at all. The boy who worked three part-time jobs just to put me through college. He had once slipped a plastic soda tab onto my ring finger and promised me the world. I remembered it perfectly. But he had long since forgotten. He sneered, leaning back into his seat, his voice turning cold and cruel. “That’s enough, Summer. You’re not some twenty-year-old girl anymore. Isn’t this temper tantrum getting pathetic?” “We both know you’ll forgive me in the end anyway. Why make a scene?” “Since you refuse to be reasonable about Chloe, you can walk home and cool your head.” Like a piece of trash, I was pushed out of his car. Outside, the heavy rain poured down. The freezing water made me shiver, but it was nothing compared to the ice in my heart. I didn’t even bother running for shelter. Right there in the rain, I pulled out my phone, scheduled an abortion, and booked a flight out of the city. 0

When I got back to the house, I walked in to find Chloe curled up on the sofa, eating potato chips. Sebastian, a notorious neat freak, was on his knees, picking up her dropped crumbs without a single word of complaint. I pretended they didn’t exist. Holding back my tears, I walked toward my bedroom. But when I opened the door, all my belongings were gone. In their place were the home decorations I had helped Chloe pick out just a few days ago. Back then, I had naively thought she was redecorating her own apartment. I had eagerly helped her choose items, never realizing they were meant to replace mine. Behind me, Chloe walked up, her expression timid and fragile. “Sebastian told you, right? My hands and feet get so cold at night. I really needed this room.” Before I could answer, she panicked. “Oh, are you mad? If you don’t want to switch, that’s fine! We can swap back.” “I mean, the other room is freezing and damp, but I can survive.” Clutching her slightly rounded stomach, she reached out to grab some of her things. Sebastian immediately caught her hand. “Don’t touch anything.” “But, Sebastian… Summer looks so…” “Summer can sleep anywhere,” Sebastian snapped, cutting her off. “But you’re different, Chloe. The guest room is freezing. You can’t sleep in there.” She couldn’t sleep in there. But I could. Had he completely forgotten? Three years ago, when his mistress pushed me into that freezing lake, I developed severe pneumonia. Ever since then, my joints throbbed with excruciating pain whenever it rained. Chloe kept offering to move back, pretending to be sweet, until Sebastian finally lost his patience. He grabbed my arm and dragged me to the hallway. “Didn’t we already talk about this? Why are you being so difficult? She’s pregnant. Can’t you just yield to her for once?” When I didn’t immediately nod, his grip tightened. His fingers dug so hard into my wrist that they left deep red marks. I gasped in pain. He let go quickly, gritting his teeth. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but you need to start behaving.” It felt as though an invisible hand was strangling me. I stood there, struggling to breathe, before finally whispering, “Fine.” Chloe beamed and ran forward to hug me. I instinctively took a step back, avoiding her. Her face fell, looking deeply hurt. “Summer, do you really hate me that much? I never did anything to hurt you.” “You forgave those other two women who actually harmed you. Why can’t you forgive me?” “Am I really worse than two strangers in your heart?” Staring at her wide, innocent eyes, the rage I had suppressed for years finally erupted. She knew. She knew exactly how much I had suffered over the years. She knew about the sleepless nights, the days I couldn’t eat, the deep self-doubt, and the depression. I had trusted her more than anyone. I had poured my heart out to her. And now, she had the audacity to ask why I couldn’t forgive her. She was even more repulsive than Sebastian. “Can you stop acting for one second?” I spat. The moment the words left my mouth, a brutal kick struck the back of my knee. I collapsed to the floor, my kneecap slamming hard against the hardwood. The skin broke, and blood began to seep through my jeans. Sebastian stood over me like a towering giant, shielding Chloe behind him. “I told you to watch your mouth,” he growled. “Have you forgotten everything I’ve said to you?” “Do this again, and the consequences won’t be this gentle.” The pain in my knee was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. It felt as though a heavy hammer was shattering my heart, leaving a gaping, bleeding wound. It took me a long time to drag myself up by holding onto the wall. I hobbled toward the door. Sebastian suddenly ran out after me. He threw a dry towel over my wet shoulders, looking almost apologetic, as if he had just realized what he’d done. “I reacted too harshly just now,” he muttered. “But your attitude today was unacceptable.” He then pulled out a medical folder. “Chloe has her prenatal checkup tomorrow. You’ve been pregnant before, so you know the drill. Go with her and help her through it.” So, my past experience with pregnancy was only useful to help his mistress. The sheer absurdity made me want to scream. But then I remembered my own abortion appointment tomorrow. It was at the exact same hospital. “Fine,” I agreed quietly. The next morning, the moment we arrived at the hospital, one of Chloe’s friends, Tiffany, cornered us. She looked at me with pure disgust. “So, you’re the pathetic leech. Chloe is pregnant, and you’re still clinging to Sebastian? How shameless can you get?” 0

“I heard Sebastian cheated on you twice, and you still took him back. God, you must have zero self-respect. If I were you, I would have jumped off a building years ago!” Tiffany sneered. “Honestly, Sebastian is a genius. He hired the ugliest actresses just to make sure Chloe wouldn’t get jealous. Talk about true love and sacrifice!” “You need to wake up, Summer. Sebastian only loves Chloe. You’re just a toy he keeps in the corner. He plays with you when he’s bored, and throws you aside when he’s done!” She had purposely chosen the crowded lobby to make her scene. Dozens of bystanders stopped to stare and whisper. Even some of the nurses recognized Chloe. “Oh, I know that girl. Mr. Vance has brought her here for checkups several times. But who is the other one? Is she the mistress?” “Doesn’t sound like it.” “Well, even if she isn’t, she must be pathetic. Imagine staying with a man who publicly cheats on you.” “Right? How embarrassing. Hahaha.” The whispers echoed in my ears, sounding exactly like the cruel thoughts that kept me awake every night. The old scars on my wrists began to throb. I wanted to run, but Chloe held tightly onto my arm, refusing to let me go. It was a never-ending nightmare. By the time she finally let go, I was completely numb. I followed her into the ultrasound room like a ghost. The results came back. Chloe was pregnant with triplets. When Sebastian got the news, he abandoned his board meeting and rushed to the hospital. He swept Chloe into his arms and spun her around. “I’m going to be a father! A father of triplets! Chloe, you’re my angel.” “My parents want to meet you. We’ll go to the Vance estate tomorrow.” I couldn’t stand to hear any more. I walked out into the corridor, only to overhear two of Sebastian’s bodyguards talking nearby. “So the Vance family is finally accepting Miss Miller? I thought she came from a no-name family.” “Well, Sebastian literally knelt in the pouring rain for three days outside the estate and went on a hunger strike. What choice did his parents have? They had to give in.” “But didn’t Sebastian hate his family? He swore he’d never go back.” “Love makes people do crazy things, man. Now he goes back to the estate every week just to secure Miss Miller’s place in the family.” Sebastian had been brought back to the wealthy Vance family when he was twenty-two. No one knew how much he despised his parents more than I did. Yet, for Chloe, he was willing to swallow his pride to get their approval. “If the family accepts Miss Miller, what about Miss Summer?” “Who cares? She has no legal status anyway. It’s embarrassing. Besides, Miss Miller and Sebastian already registered their marriage a long time ago.” Registered their marriage? What did that mean? I wanted to step out and demand answers, but the guards walked away. The words felt like a thousand knives stabbing into my stomach. I rushed back to our house and tore through the drawers to find the two marriage certificates Sebastian and I had signed years ago. I pulled up the official state registry portal on my phone and compared them. They were fake. The registration numbers didn’t exist. Just like his excuse that “his family would never accept me,” our marriage was a total lie. And I had believed him for three whole years. The photo on the fake certificate—of Sebastian and me smiling side by side—was the spark that finally blew up the volcano inside me. I drove back to the house, walked right up to Sebastian, who was carefully feeding Chloe soup, and threw the fake certificates right at his face. “What is the meaning of this?” I demanded, my voice shaking. He picked up the papers, but instead of looking at me, he smirked at Chloe. “I told you she wouldn’t figure it out for three years. You lost the bet, babe. Remember our wager?” Chloe blushed, tapping his shoulder playfully. “Stop it, Sebastian. I’m pregnant.” “Well, pregnant women are supposed to be more sensitive, aren’t they?” Their playful flirting made me feel like the ultimate fool. I snapped. I lunged forward and slapped their hands away. I barely used any force. But Chloe immediately fell backward onto the floor. Within seconds, bright red blood began to pool beneath her dress. 0

Sebastian’s eyes turned bloodshot. “What did you do?!” “Doctor! Get a doctor!” he screamed. Chloe was rushed into the emergency room. Sebastian grabbed my arm so hard I felt my bone cracking. “Did I not tell you to never touch her? I told you to take it out on me!” I wanted to tell him that I barely touched her, that she had thrown herself down. But seeing the absolute hatred in his eyes, I just laughed. “Yeah, I did it. So what?” What was he going to do? Break my legs this time? His gaze swept over me, freezing cold. “Fine. Since you confessed, I don’t need to waste any more words.” “Guard! Lock her in a private ward!” “I want her to experience a thousand times the pain Chloe is feeling right now!” I was dragged into a locked room and strapped to a bed. Several strange tubes and wires were connected to my body. Sebastian leaned over and stroked my hair like a venomous snake. “Don’t worry, Summer. It’ll only last for three days.” “I’ll come collect you in three days.” He didn’t break my legs. He didn’t even leave a single scratch on my body. Instead, they hooked me up to an illegal nerve-pain simulator. The machine sent waves of excruciating contractions through my abdomen, mimicking the worst stages of labor pain. For three days, I drifted in and out of consciousness. Through the heavy door, I could hear voices outside. “Sebastian, aren’t you afraid you’ll push her too far? What if she leaves?” “Leave? Where would she go? She’s been with me since she was eighteen. I had all her firsts. Who else would ever want her?” “As long as she begs for forgiveness and stops bothering Chloe, I’ll still keep her around.” I don’t know how long it took, but the pain finally stopped, and the tubes were ripped from my body. I tried to sit up, but my hand brushed against something wet and sticky on the bedsheets. It was dark, dried blood. My baby was gone. It had been aborted by the sheer trauma of the pain simulator. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Without a single tear, I got up and walked out of the hospital straight to the airport. I threw my phone into a trash can at the terminal. The last message that popped up on the screen was from Sebastian: [The wedding is tomorrow. If you aren’t dead, drag yourself over here.] The next day, at the beautiful outdoor garden wedding. Sebastian kept glancing at the empty seat in the front row. An inexplicable sense of unease began to creep into his chest. Suddenly, his phone rang. “Hello, Mr. Vance? This is the clinic. Miss Summer Vance had scheduled an abortion, but she missed her appointment. We had a slot open up today and wanted to check if she was still coming.”

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