This marriage was a transaction from the very beginning. My family’s firm desperately needed an influx of capital to stay afloat; her family’s corporation was staring down the barrel of a massive lawsuit that only our political connections could make disappear. We were business partners, signing a contract disguised as a marriage license. Sleeping in separate bedrooms became the unspoken rule. Once, early on, I tentatively asked if she might want me to move my things into the master suite. She rejected the idea without a second of hesitation. Her reason was simple: “Patrick would mind.” Patrick. The golden boy. The untouchable first love carved so deeply into her bones that there was no room left for anyone else. She had looked at me with eyes like cracked ice and delivered the final blow: “If your family hadn’t forced this hand, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. This arrangement is fine as it is.” I had stood frozen in the hallway for what felt like hours, my throat tight, before finally managing a hoarse, “Okay.” Since the parameters were so clearly drawn, I stopped looking for warmth in a house built on ice. For the next three years, the ghost of Patrick haunted every corner of her life. Whether it was a Belmont family dinner, a corporate gala, or even my own father’s birthday banquet, the man standing dutifully by her side was always him. I could see the whispers behind the champagne glasses, the polite but pitying stares of the elite circle, silently placing bets on who the real husband in this story was. But it’s fine now. The lawsuit is buried, my family’s firm is thriving again. Our mutual usefulness has run its course. It is time to leave this hollow shell of a home. 1 I sat in the dim light of the study, reading the divorce agreement from top to bottom one last time. Black ink on stark white paper. Methodical. Clean. Under the division of assets, I had left every box blank. I didn’t want a single dime. This sprawling estate in Beacon Hill belonged to her before we wed, the cars were hers, the company shares had nothing to do with me. I was leaving with the exact balance my personal checking account held the day we walked down the aisle. I uncapped my pen and signed my name. Wesley Callahan. Three years ago, I was foolish enough to believe that even a marriage born of corporate strategy could grow into something real, if only I tended to it well enough. God, I was so stupid. I slid the papers into a manila envelope, leaving it dead center on the mahogany coffee table. Then, I pulled out my phone and tapped on my text thread with her. “Come home a little early tonight. We need to talk.” Two minutes bled by. A single grey bubble popped up next to her immaculate headshot. “Yeah.” I locked my screen and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa. Turning on my heel, I walked into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of water. It was a designer’s dream—a massive Sub-Zero fridge, double built-in ovens, imported German cutlery—all gleaming, untouched, arranged like a museum exhibit. I rarely used it anymore. When we were first married, I tried. I really did. I wanted her to come home to the smell of a warm meal. The first time, I spent hours slow-roasting red wine braised short ribs. She took one polite bite, said it was “fine,” and then her phone buzzed. She walked out the door five minutes later. Patrick needed something. The second time, I made pan-seared scallops. She never even came home. The third time, I cooked an absolute feast. I stood over the stove from four in the afternoon until seven in the evening. She actually walked through the front door—but Patrick was trailing right behind her. They were laughing, a shared inside joke dying on their lips the moment they saw me standing there with flour on my apron and a table full of food. Viola blinked, her smile faltering. “We have reservations,” she said flatly. “We’re heading back out.” Patrick stood just behind her shoulder, tilting his head. He offered me a soft, patronizing smile. “Looks like you worked hard.” Just thinking about that smile now makes battery acid pool in my stomach. I never cooked another meal. Seven o’clock came. She wasn’t home. Eight o’clock. Nothing. At nine, my phone finally vibrated. I picked it up. A text from Viola. “Patrick is dealing with something. I’m going to be late. Don’t wait up.” I stared at the glowing screen for a long time. Don’t wait up. I had lived inside those three words for three years. It was always like this. It was always Patrick. He was a man in perpetual crisis, and she was his eternal savior. If he caught a cold, she had to be there. If he felt melancholic, she was his sounding board. When he moved apartments, she was boxing up his life. When he adopted a stray cat, she was picking out the kibble. Once, Patrick mentioned craving a specific slice of red velvet cake from a bakery across town. Viola drove forty minutes in gridlock traffic, delivered it to his loft, and waited for him to finish eating before driving back. She got home at 1:00 AM. “Did you even eat dinner?” I had asked her in the dark kitchen. “I ate at Patrick’s,” she replied, not looking at me. She went straight to the shower and then locked herself in the guest bedroom. I should have understood it then. But I didn’t. I held onto the naive belief that a wedding ring bought me time. I thought that if I was patient, if I gave her space, she would eventually notice that I wasn’t so bad. That if I was just good enough, quiet enough, supportive enough, she would eventually turn her head and look at the life we could build. Looking back, it’s laughable. When someone has absolutely no space for you in their heart, your goodness is just white noise. She wouldn’t love me for being perfect; she would just view my perfection as entirely irrelevant to her. I didn’t reply to her text. In the past, I would always type back an immediate “Okay,” just to show I was reliable. Sometimes I’d add a pathetic “Drive safe,” desperate to perform the role of the understanding, magnanimous husband. Tonight, I couldn’t stomach it. It didn’t matter anyway. In a few days, she wouldn’t have to text me at all. 2 I left my phone on the table and picked up the remote, flipping channels blindly. A late-night talk show was on, celebrities throwing their heads back in exaggerated, booming laughter. I sank into the cushions, struck by the sudden, suffocating absurdity of my existence. Here I was, sitting in a multi-million dollar mansion, guarding a hollow marriage, waiting for a wife who would never prioritize me. And she was out with her first love. Openly. Righteously. Because on the day we signed our marriage license, she had made it crystal clear: If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in this mess. In her eyes, I was the villain. I was the one who had driven a wedge between her and Patrick. I had used my family’s power to strong-arm her into a gilded cage. But what was the actual truth? The truth was, my father’s real estate empire had over-leveraged, and the cash flow had completely dried up. Her family’s tech firm had been caught in an ugly, potentially devastating federal probe, and they desperately needed my father’s political leverage to quash it. The patriarchs of our two families sat down over dry martinis and thick steaks, and our lives were traded like poker chips. No one asked me if I wanted to marry her. No one asked her if she wanted to be my wife. To the rest of the world, it was a perfectly balanced equation. Her family provided the capital, mine provided the shield. A flawless corporate merger. But Patrick became the casualty of our merger. Viola genuinely believed I had stolen his rightful place. I had demoted him from the man she was meant to marry to the dirty little secret she had to hide. And so, she gave every ounce of her guilt and devotion to Patrick, and reserved all her coldness for me. On our wedding night, she drank heavily at the reception. When someone finally helped her up to the master bedroom, I reached out to help her out of her heavy, beaded gown. She gripped my wrist. Her grip was terrifyingly strong. “Wesley Callahan,” she whispered, her voice rough with champagne and venom. “You know exactly what this marriage is. I don’t love you. I will never love you. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll play your part, go to work, and stay out of my way. We live our own lives.” She dropped my arm, stumbled out the door, and locked herself in the guest suite. We had slept in separate rooms ever since. She took the guest room; I took the master. Now that I thought about it, in three years, she had only crossed the threshold of the master bedroom twice. The first was that wedding night. The second was last winter, when my fever spiked to 103 degrees. I was delirious, shivering violently under the heavy down comforter. Marta, our housekeeper, had called her in a panic. Viola showed up two hours later. She stood in the doorway, her tailored trench coat still on, looked at my sweating, trembling form, and told Marta to call an Uber to take me to urgent care. Then she left again. She said Patrick had a gallery opening he was nervous about, and she had to be there to support him. She didn’t come home that night. When I woke up at 7:00 AM, throat feeling like broken glass, I checked my phone. Not a single notification. I washed up and walked slowly downstairs. Marta was already at the stove. When she saw me walk in alone, she stopped, her mouth opening and closing before she finally settled on a quiet, “Mr. Callahan, what can I make for you this morning?” “Just some toast and black coffee, Marta. Thanks.” I sat at the vast, empty granite island. My phone lit up. A text from Viola. “Patrick had too much to drink last night. I stayed over to make sure he was okay. I have a board meeting all morning, won’t be back.” I set the phone face down and took a sip of my bitter coffee. “Marta,” I said softly. “Could you pick up some cardboard moving boxes for me when you go to the store today?” She froze, the dish towel slipping from her hands. “You’re… moving, sir?” “Yeah. In a few days.” She opened her mouth, her eyes welling with questions she didn’t dare ask. But reading the absolute exhaustion on my face, she swallowed them down. She had worked in this house for three years. She had seen the quiet indignities. She knew. “Of course, Mr. Callahan.” 3 Marta nodded quietly and turned back to the stove. After breakfast, I went upstairs, pulled on a pair of raw denim jeans and a simple sweater. I was meeting a realtor today. Before I could officially walk away from this house, I needed a place to land. I hadn’t asked for a dime in the divorce, but that didn’t mean I was destitute. I had my own savings from before the marriage. And over the last three years, though I hadn’t worked, the Belmonts had dutifully deposited a $20,000 monthly “allowance” into my account. I rarely touched it. I had saved enough to float myself in a nice apartment for a year or two while I figured out the rest of my life. The realtor was a kid named Josh—sharp suit, fast talker, eager to please. He showed me a sun-drenched two-bedroom loft in Somerville, just outside the city center. The neighborhood had a quiet, artistic pulse to it. “Mr. Callahan, the natural light in here is incredible,” Josh pitched, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling windows. “The owner just did a full gut renovation. Everything is brand new. They’re asking six and a half thousand a month. What do you think?” I stepped out onto the Juliet balcony. The air was crisp, overlooking a neighborhood park where autumn leaves were turning gold. It wasn’t massive, but it was enough. Most importantly, there wasn’t a single trace of Viola Belmont in these walls. “I’ll take it,” I said. Josh blinked, clearly not expecting me to bypass the negotiation phase entirely. Then his face broke into a massive grin. “Amazing! I’ll draw up the lease with the owner right now.” I signed a one-year lease, wired the first, last, and security deposit on the spot. Stepping out onto the pavement with the brass keys heavy in my pocket, the afternoon sun hit my face. It felt warm. For the first time in years, I felt incredibly light. By the time I got back to Beacon Hill, Marta had stacked flattened Home Depot boxes in the center of the living room. I was just about to head upstairs to tackle my closet when the heavy oak front door clicked open. I didn’t turn around. I could already feel the shift in the air. Sure enough, a second later, a voice rang out behind me. “Oh, you’re home.” I turned. Patrick Giles was standing in the foyer, shucking off a designer cashmere coat. His eyes drifted from my face down to the cardboard boxes at my feet, pausing for a fraction of a second. “Packing up?” I didn’t answer him. Instead, my voice came out flat, stripped of any emotion. “What are you doing here?” “Viola brought me.” He strolled into the living room like he owned the place. “The lease on my loft is up, and I haven’t found the right spot yet. She told me to crash here. Said I could stay as long as I need.” I simply nodded. “Oh.” Patrick clearly hadn’t anticipated such a lifeless reaction. The smug little smile playing on his lips faltered. “You don’t mind, do you?” He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I mean, I told Viola it might be a little awkward, but she insisted. She said—” “If she told you to stay, then stay,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly level. “It’s a big house.” His jaw tightened. He walked over to the velvet armchair and sank into it, crossing one leg over the other. “You are just so incredibly generous, Wesley.” The venom was barely hidden now. “First you generously take my place at the altar, and now you generously let me sleep under your roof.” I looked down at him. Suddenly, I found the whole scene deeply, profoundly pathetic. I didn’t take the bait. I turned my back to him and started for the stairs. Feeling dismissed, Patrick raised his voice. “Wesley, I’m talking to you.” I paused on the first step and looked back over my shoulder. “I heard you. But you didn’t come here to bond with me, Patrick, so let’s not waste each other’s time. I have packing to do.” Patrick stood up, the faux-polite smile completely vanishing from his face. “You’re leaving?” The words slipped out, laced with genuine disbelief. “What else would I do?” I asked quietly. “Stay here and be a third wheel in my own marriage?” 4 Patrick stood frozen, struck completely dumb. I continued up the stairs, leaving him stranded in the vast, echoing living room. I opened my closet doors and began pulling hangers off the rack. After three years, I didn’t have much to show for my life here. Viola had never taken me on a vacation. She had never bought me a single gift. Not for our anniversary, not for my birthday, not for Christmas. Looking back, the sheer asymmetry of it all was staggering. I folded my last wool peacoat and placed it gently into the box. As I reached for the packing tape, my phone buzzed on the nightstand. Viola. “Dinner with clients tonight. Won’t be back to eat. Patrick moved his things in today. Make sure you set up the east guest suite for him.” I stared at the screen, locked the phone, and went back to taping my boxes. By early evening, my closet and study were practically stripped bare. When I finally walked downstairs, Patrick was sitting on the living room sofa, nursing an espresso. Hearing my footsteps, he glanced up. His eyes immediately locked onto the manila envelope I had left sitting squarely on the coffee table. “What’s that?” he asked. I didn’t answer. I walked over, picked up the envelope, and sat down in the armchair directly across from him. Patrick stared at the envelope for a few heavy seconds. Suddenly, he let out a short, sharp laugh. “Divorce papers?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “433136”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My husband, the man who once reigned supreme as the most terrifying Boss in the entire gaming multiverse, staged his own death to make a clean getaway. To drown out the silence of my suddenly empty manor, I started picking up a few male players in the game world. It was a casual distraction, or so I told myself. One gilded afternoon, while I was tucked away in the solarium enjoying a meticulously prepared tea, the sky fractured. A global system announcement blared across every server: The Duke of Roses has fallen in battle. In that heartbeat, my throat tightened. A cold, visceral fear clawed at my chest. I was the Duchess, after all. But in this world of blood and strategy, I was nothing more than a “waste”—a decorative object with a pretty face who spent her days indulging in luxuries while others bled through dungeons. I didn’t do raids. I didn’t do combat. I was the porcelain doll in a house of glass. As I sat there, paralyzed by indecision, a frantic stream of “Bullet Chat” comments began to flicker across my vision—the collective consciousness of the players watching my life like a reality show. [Can we talk about the plot twist? The Male Lead faked his death just so he wouldn’t scare the Female Lead with his Boss identity. He’s going undercover as a regular player just to be near her? That “Power Couple” trope is giving me life.] [Ugh, look at the Duchess. She’s such a waste. She should just stay put and be a pretty flowerpot. The Boss gave her maximum clearance; she’s literally invincible in this domain. Why the hell did she wander into other dungeons just to get hunted like a common NPC?] [Honestly? The Boss should have just killed his wife to prove his resolve. She’s nothing but dead weight.] [Did you see the latest chapter? The Female Lead’s hand shook when she saw the Duchess hurting people. She let her go so many times out of pity. Finally, she just got annoyed with the Duchess’s persistence. One clean strike, and the Duchess’s head was off. Brutal.] The delicate macaron in my hand hit the floor with a soft thud. Right then and there, I made a decision: I was staying put. I would stay in this dungeon and play the part of the “Little Queen” until the world ended. It was safer that way. But as the game cycles rolled on, the number of men I “rescued” and brought back to the castle began to multiply. It was getting out of hand. Desperate, I pulled out the one relic my “dead” husband had left behind—the Enchanted Mirror. “Mirror, mirror,” I whispered, looking at the glass. “The players I’ve picked up are top-tier, but they’re all demanding I ‘take responsibility’ for them. I’m exhausted. What am I supposed to do?” The words had barely left my lips when the air in front of me tore open. Space itself groaned as a familiar figure ripped through the fabric of the reality from another dungeon, stepping into my room with a dark, thunderous expression. 1. My husband died. As one of the most enigmatic and powerful Bosses in the network, Lucius, the Duke of Roses, was supposedly slain by a mediocre party of players. I was… melancholic. The Enchanted Mirror tried to cheer me up: “Think of the silver lining, mistress! A promotion, a fortune, and a dead husband—you’ve hit the trifecta of luck! This is a day for celebration!” I sighed, the lemon sponge cake in my mouth suddenly tasting like ash. Suddenly being thrust into the role of the primary Boss was like being asked to solve multivariable calculus when I’d only just mastered basic addition. The Bullet Chat scrolled by: [Say what you want, the Duchess is dim-witted, but she’s breathtakingly beautiful.] [Beauty is useless in a horror dungeon. She hasn’t even killed an ant. Meanwhile, the Female Lead cleared her starter dungeon on day one and unlocked the Hidden Ending.] [No wonder the Male Lead is obsessed. Faking his death to be a ‘newbie player’ just to get close to the FL… the strongest Boss and the strongest Rookie? They’re literally soulmates.] The truth was a bit more complicated. When I first tested into the NPC academy, Lucius was already a legendary Boss. As a wood elf, I looked much younger than I was. He actually thought the System had become so depraved it was recruiting child labor. He spent two hours screaming at the System developers before he finally picked me up and carried me back to his castle. Only after several cross-checks did he realize he’d misjudged my age. But because Lucius had essentially kidnapped me on my first day of work, my assigned dungeon collapsed. No other Boss wanted to take me in—I was tainted goods. Feeling a rare flicker of guilt, Lucius kept me at Rosehaven Estate so I could at least collect a paycheck. To ease my mind, he told me I was the “face” of the estate. My only job was to eat, drink, and look beautiful to show off how high-quality our dungeon’s benefits were. Occasionally, players would mistake me for a key quest-giver. They’d hide me away in secret rooms or bribe me with strange, colorful candies. I knew they wanted clues, but I truly had nothing to give. Lucius used to get so angry, convinced I was ruining the “integrity” of his game design. That was how I became the Duchess. [“She has hair like moonlight and eyes more brilliant than any gem. Do not look into them, or you will soon discover where the red-and-white cakes come from…”] I bought them. At the bakery. But out here, everyone’s identity is a lie. After that lore entry was added, players started avoiding me like the plague. One day, bored out of my mind while the Head Butler and the maids were out hunting players, I cornered Lucius and demanded a real job. His hand paused as he adjusted his formal cravat. He looked at me with a gaze that flickered between pity and annoyance. “You’re still young, and your strength is…” He saw the spark of hope in my eyes and coughed. “Your strength has… immense potential.” “So, the most important thing for you right now is to simmer. To observe. To wait.” He sounded so convincing. But I felt a hollow ache in my chest. When the dungeons closed for maintenance, the other NPCs would swap war stories, but I had nothing to share. Seeing my silence, Lucius tossed me the Enchanted Mirror. He told me it knew everything. He lied. The mirror didn’t even know he was faking his own death. 2. On my first day as the reigning Boss, I accidentally picked up a man. A new game cycle had begun. I remembered the Bullet Chat saying I was invincible in this dungeon, and I decided to see if it was true. As the new batch of players materialized in the courtyard, I smoothed my skirts and walked right up to them. They froze, sweat beading on their foreheads. I tapped the shoulder of the player closest to me, wanting to ask if he’d mind hitting me with a low-level spell just to test my defenses. The next second, he let out a scream like a slaughtered pig. I blinked, confused. An older, more experienced player hissed, “Stay calm! It’s the Duchess! Don’t look at her eyes!” They all squeezed their eyes shut and started hurling items at me—holy water, iron daggers, enchanted stones. Everything bounced off me without leaving a scratch. The Bullet Chat didn’t lie! I was so thrilled that I picked up a small girl standing nearby and spun her around three times in celebration. Seeing their weapons fail, the players shrieked and scattered. Within seconds, the courtyard was empty, save for a breathtakingly handsome man and the trembling little girl in my arms. The man was stunning—more beautiful than any NPC I’d ever seen. His skin had that marble-cold paleness of someone who never saw the sun, and his ice-blue eyes were clear but vacant. When I looked closer, I realized his pupils weren’t focusing. He wasn’t running because he couldn’t see me. A damp warmth on my chest reminded me of the girl. She was tiny, maybe six or seven years old. As soon as I set her down, she covered her eyes with her hands and huddled at my feet like a terrified kitten. “Please,” she whimpered. “Don’t kill me. My mommy is waiting for me. She’s sick, and it hurts every day. I have to go back.” The first lesson they teach you at NPC school is: Never show mercy. But I wasn’t an NPC anymore. I was the Boss. And a Boss does whatever she wants. I knelt down beside her. “I have a hidden quest for you,” I whispered. “If you eat this little cake I made, you clear the dungeon instantly and get a ten-fold reward. Do you dare to take the challenge?” The girl kept her eyes squeezed shut, her face a mask of terror. She thought about it for a long time, then shook her head. “Uncle Kay said monsters always lie.” I sighed and pressed a piece of candy into her hand instead. “Fine. But when the ‘Great Hunt’ starts, I’m going to hide you.” Before she left, the girl gathered her courage and looked up. She stared at me, awestruck. “Sister… they said we shouldn’t look at your eyes. Is it because they’re too pretty?” I let out a genuine laugh. It was the first time I’d felt truly happy since I took the job. The girl ran off to find her team, and I turned to go back inside. At the castle gates, I finally lost my patience and turned to the player who had been shadowing me the whole time. It was the beautiful, blind man. “Listen, player,” I said, trying to sound as menacing as possible. “Respect the game. If you step one foot inside this castle, I will kill you.” Then, he walked right in. The Butler and the maids looked at each other, then at me. I was floored. NPCs need a ‘trigger condition’ to kill, but Bosses don’t. Still, I lacked the experience. I couldn’t just execute him. The man turned his head toward me with eerie precision. His pupils were still dilated, but I felt like I was being pinned down by a predator’s gaze. “Caspian,” he said softly. “That is my name.” “Duchess… you remind me of someone I used to know.” “May I call you Rose?” I stared at him. The nerve! And how did he know my name was Rosalind? “Rose, may I stay?” His voice was like silk, each word carrying a hypnotic pull that made my defenses crumble. My head spun, and before I knew it, my body had already betrayed me. “You may.” The Bullet Chat exploded: [Wait, why is the secret antagonist in the Duchess’s dungeon? Isn’t he the final Boss of the Female Lead’s ultimate arc?] [The Duchess is such a fool. That’s not a player; that’s one of the strongest Bosses in the game. He’s a High Siren. His whole thing is soul-manipulation.] [Did you guys skip the lore? The Duchess saved him when they were kids. He’s been obsessed with her for centuries. He finally got strong enough to take her, only to find out she was married. He must have seen the death announcement for the Duke and hauled ass over here.] [I don’t remember this in the original script?] [In the original, the Duchess was supposed to find out her husband faked his death, get pissed, and go hunt the FL. The Siren came by, but she wasn’t there. Later, when he heard the FL killed the Duchess, he designed a ‘Hell Mode’ dungeon specifically to torture the FL. Wait… why is she still here?] What? Caspian wasn’t a player? I searched my memories, but I couldn’t find a trace of him. I took a cautious step back. If he was as powerful as my husband, I was in way over my head. 3. [GAME OVER! Congratulations to Boss Rosalind for achieving the achievement: NO SURVIVORS!] The system announcement echoed through the halls. I stood in a pool of blood, my new silk dress stained a sickening crimson. In front of me, the little girl lay still on the cold stone. Her face was frozen in a mask of absolute terror. Her fingers had been snapped back at impossible angles, but she was still clutching that piece of candy. The Bullet Chat was a blur of motion: [Holy crap, the Duchess isn’t a waste after all!] [She did the right thing! Those scumbags deserved to die!] [I’m so angry! That old player lied to the girl, telling her she could earn money for her mom’s medicine, but he just wanted a human shield. She was six!] [They saw the girl had a high-tier ‘item’ from the Duchess and they tried to rip it away from her. They tortured a child. Disgusting.] I stared at the blood-stained candy. An item? It was just a normal piece of candy. I’d only imbued it with a bit of my scent so I could find her during the Hunt. I knelt down and placed my hand over her eyes. A second later, every other corpse in the room detonated into a fine red mist, leaving the little girl lying there alone in the silence. “Goodnight, little one,” I whispered. I felt a hollow ache. I didn’t even know her name. Caspian appeared behind me. With a flick of his wrist, a stream of pristine, clear water flowed from his palm, wrapping around me and the girl. The filth washed away instantly. When the water vanished, the dungeon was serene again. The System reclaimed the girl’s body. “It wasn’t your fault, Rose,” Caspian said, stepping closer. “It’s not your fault. Destiny is never decided by a single piece of candy.” He pulled me into a gentle embrace. His voice was like a cool spring, soothing the jagged edges of my nerves. I remembered why I’d applied to be an NPC in the first place. My mother. Wood elves rarely choose this life; we don’t have the natural armor or the bloodlust. We’re easy prey for players. But my mother was dying. She grew weaker every day, and in her lucid moments, she’d write in a leather-bound journal. I’d peeked at it once. It was filled with advice for every stage of my life—things a mother wanted her daughter to know. She wrote it as a parent who knew she wouldn’t be there. Back then, I was just a girl who didn’t want to lose her mother. And the Horror Game paid very, very well. That night, I stared at the canopy of my bed. Since coming to Rosehaven, I rarely suffered from insomnia. The few times I did were after witnessing a particularly brutal massacre. But today, I was the one who had done the killing. I missed Lucius. When I couldn’t sleep, he’d read to me. It never worked, but he tried. Suddenly, a faint melody drifted into the room. My mind felt light, my vision blurring. Caspian was sitting on the edge of my bed. He looked different than he did in the daylight. He was devastating. His dark hair spilled over his shoulders like sea ink. Luminescent markings glowed on his skin, and delicate, silver-scaled fins peaked from behind his ears. His ice-blue eyes were focused now, burning with an intense, tender heat. “Rose… I’ve missed you so much.” “When I heard you’d married Lucius, I nearly tore the ocean apart with jealousy. He didn’t deserve you. I’m glad he’s dead. If he weren’t, I would have had to kill him myself.” “Rose, we were meant for each other long before he found you.” The world seemed to recede. I couldn’t hear his words clearly anymore, only the rhythmic movement of his lips. Driven by an impulse I didn’t recognize, I leaned forward and kissed him. Caspian let out a low, dark chuckle and pulled me closer. “Come with me, Rose. Let me show you what real devotion feels like.” That sentence, I heard perfectly. My consciousness rose and fell like the tide. Outside the castle, the withered roses in the garden bloomed all at once in the middle of the night. I remembered him then. Caspian was the little merman I’d saved years ago—the one who insisted he had to marry me to repay the debt. The next morning, I kicked him out of my room. He didn’t even seem angry. I grabbed the Enchanted Mirror. “Mirror… is there any way to resist a Siren’s charm?” In another dungeon, miles away, Lucius received the query and frowned. Where would she have encountered a Siren at Rosehaven? He figured she was just being curious. The mirror pulsed with his reply: Sirens cannot create desire from nothing. They only amplify what is already there. 4. And then, I got stuck with an Incubus. It was an accident. Unlike Sirens, who amplify existing feelings, Incubus magic is pure, unadulterated temptation. I’d decided to do a “performance review” of my dungeon’s perimeter. I was wandering the edge of the Whispering Woods when I blacked out. When I woke up, a man named Valentin was kneeling before me, his clothes in disarray, his damp eyes fixed on mine. He was the Incubus, and he was demanding an “explanation.” I rubbed my temples, tempted to just execute him and be done with it. But as I raised my hand, Valentin leaned his face into my palm, his pale violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears. My heart softened. Dammit. The Bullet Chat chimed in: [The Duchess is a beast! She just claimed the little Incubus right there in the woods. But where did he come from?] [Who knows? In the original timeline, the Duchess was already dead by now. Honestly, as long as she stays away from the FL and ML, I’m happy.] [The Incubus is so sweet, though. Look at him! He’s hungry, but he stops the moment she asks, unlike that Siren who just keeps pushing. Team Valentin!] [Why choose? I want her to have both.] I fell into a deep silence. Was the chat really suggesting that this man—with his eight-pack abs, sharp jawline, and forearms thicker than my waist—was the one who had been “claimed” by me? But I was a traditional woman! My husband was barely cold, and I already had a merman living in the guest wing. Valentin nuzzled my palm. “Mistress… please, have mercy,” he whispered, his face flushing a deep crimson. “My kind only has one partner for life. I already belong to you.” I sighed. I was just a soft-hearted wood elf. He looked so starved; I had to help him. But just as I moved toward him, a cold, familiar voice echoed from the forest path. “Rose? Are you out here?” Panic spiked in my chest. I instinctively shoved Valentin behind a massive oak tree, pinning him there and signaling for him to be quiet. Valentin seemed to be struggling. He kept shifting against me, his breath hot against my neck. I swatted him—a warning to stay still—but he let out a muffled, uncontrollable groan, his face turning even redder. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Please, let Caspian be deaf today. Caspian paused in front of the tree. “Rose?” The silence was deafening. I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs. After what felt like an eternity, Caspian murmured, “I suppose she isn’t here.” His footsteps faded. I exhaled, my knees going weak. By the time the little Incubus was “fed,” the sun had already set. My back ached. I told Valentin to find a place to hide for now, and I’d come for him when the coast was clear. I needed to go pacify my merman first. He couldn’t kill me, but he could certainly flood my dungeon. Valentin’s eyes went dim. He gave me a heartbreakingly fragile smile. “It’s alright, Mistress. You don’t have to look after me. I’ll hide from the monsters… I might lose an arm or a leg, but… it doesn’t matter.” He was so pathetic. How could I leave him? I decided to smuggle him into the castle. It was huge; surely I could hide one Incubus in the east wing without anyone noticing. The whole way back, Valentin clung to me, his tail wrapped tightly around my waist. Poor thing, I thought. He must be terrified of the forest mobs. When we reached the gates, he finally let go, looking down bashfully. “Mistress… is it wrong for me to stay? I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t need a title or a status. I just want to be near you.” I was genuinely moved. I led him inside, creeping through the foyer. The Butler and maids were out, so the coast was clear. Or so I thought. “You seem to have had a very busy day, Rose.” Caspian’s voice dropped like a guillotine blade. He was leaning against a pillar in the shadows, his expression unreadable. I froze. Caspian stepped forward, his shadow stretching long under the flickering oil lamps. He pointed a long, pale finger at Valentin. “Is this player proving difficult to handle?” “Let me kill him for you, Rose.”

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I stared at the glowing screen of my phone in the dead silence of my apartment, the blue light harsh against my exhausted eyes. It was past 2:00 AM, and a trending thread on Reddit’s r/TrueOffMyChest had suddenly snagged my attention. The original poster was claiming, with absolute, agonizing sincerity, that he had fallen hopelessly in love with five different women. All in the exact same day. He went into excruciating detail about the objects of his newfound affection: the young barista at the local boba shop, the DoorDash girl, his morning Uber driver, a quirky TikTok streamer, and, finally, his newly hired executive secretary. The comment section was a bloodbath of cynical internet humor. “Bro, loving one person in this economy is exhausting enough. You’re trying to roster five?” one top comment read. “This is honestly terrifying. It’s giving severe attachment issues,” another user chimed in. “You order a burrito and fall in love with the delivery girl? You get in an Uber and want to marry the driver? Seek therapy.” But as I scrolled through the digital roasting, a quiet, hysterical realization bloomed in my chest. I knew a secret none of these keyboard warriors did. Those five distinct women? They were all me. Because in order to survive in this city and keep my bank account out of the red, I was currently juggling five different jobs. And the tragically earnest poster getting crucified in the comments? That had to be my boss. The billionaire CEO who suffered from a documented, severe case of prosopagnosia—face blindness. 1 I had just kicked off my shoes after finishing my late-night side hustle when the post popped up on my feed. [Title: I think I’ve fallen in love with five women at the same time. What do I do?] Normally, I scrolled past relationship drama. I didn’t have the luxury of time for romance; time was money. But as I went to close the app, the OP’s avatar caught my eye. It was a very specific, pretentious geometric logo. Wait. Is that Payne? My boss, Payne Sinclair? I clicked back into the thread, my fatigue momentarily vanishing. His narrative style was… uniquely unhinged. He explained that within a single twenty-four-hour window, he had been utterly captivated by a boba barista, a DoorDash rider, an Uber driver, a TikToker, and his new secretary. [This morning, both my Lamborghini and my Porsche refused to start. I had to resort to an Uber. The driver was this woman with a fiercely focused energy. But what really sealed the deal was the graceful, poetic way she rolled down her window and absolutely destroyed the lineage of a guy who tried to cut us off. It was beautiful.] The comments were relentless. “Which Wattpad billionaire romance did this guy escape from? ‘My Porsche wouldn’t start’? Bro, where’s the Rolls-Royce?” “The reason you fell for her is wild. She cussed out a dude in traffic and that did it for you?” Payne had actually replied to that one: [The Rolls-Royce is in the shop for detailing. And she didn’t just cuss him out. I told her I was running late for a crucial board meeting, and she defied the laws of physics to get me there on time. She was protecting my schedule. She cares about me.] I sat on my lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling in stunned silence. This morning, I had been doing my usual 5:00 AM Uber shifts. By some cruel twist of algorithmic fate, I had picked up my own boss. His gated community had a ridiculous speed limit, and just getting out of the neighborhood took ten minutes. He had a meeting at ten. I had to clock in at the office by nine-thirty. I was driving like a stunt double in a Fast & Furious movie. If anyone tried to merge into my lane, I verbally dismantled them. I got us both to the high-rise with two minutes to spare. That was how Payne Sinclair fell in love with me? Before I could even process the absurdity, I refreshed the page. He had updated the post. [Because I was so distracted by the memory of the Uber driver, I couldn’t stomach the thought of going out for a proper lunch. I just ordered delivery. When the DoorDash girl arrived at my corporate lobby, some creep was harassing a woman on the sidewalk. My delivery driver took off her helmet and launched it in a perfect, parabolic arc, nailing the creep right in the back of the head. It was so badass. I am obsessed. The best part? She was holding my Thai food in her other hand, and she didn’t spill a single drop.] The comment section was losing its mind. “‘Couldn’t stomach a proper lunch so I ordered delivery.’ Ah yes, the male capacity for making excuses is truly boundless.” “So you fell in love again? What happened to the Uber driver? Are we over her already?” Payne replied immediately: [I still love the Uber driver very much. We are currently at two women.] I put the phone down, grabbed a towel, and went to take a shower. Mid-shampoo, my phone buzzed on the sink. It was the manager of the boba shop. “Jill, you only worked a two-hour shift today. Do you even want your paycheck this week?” I didn’t even bother rinsing the suds out of my hair before going on the defensive. “I did four hours’ worth of prep in those two hours, and I didn’t even charge you overtime. Plus, some guy practically choked to death in your lobby today and I gave him the Heimlich. I saved you a massive lawsuit. You’re welcome.” The manager paused. “Fair point. See you tomorrow. Don’t be late.” He hung up. I wrapped a towel around myself, picked up my phone, and saw another update on Reddit. [After work, I needed something sweet to calm my nerves, so I went to a boba shop. The barista there… her eyes looked so familiar. It felt like I had known her in a past life. I was staring at her, trying to figure it out, and I got so flustered that I inhaled a tapioca pearl right into my windpipe. I nearly died. But she vaulted over the counter and saved my life. I think I love her too.] [This feeling of having my heart pulled in so many directions is agony. A friend told me to just doomscroll on TikTok to distract myself. I did. I found this streamer. She is incredible. She can balance an entire dining chair on her chin while reciting the alphabet backward.] I stepped out of the bathroom and nearly tripped over the ring light I used for my streams. The comment section had officially turned into a circus. “This is unhinged. You’re just falling for every woman you make eye contact with.” “If you’re such a rich CEO, act like it. Call your secretary right now and demand background checks on all of them. Assert dominance.” Payne actually responded to that one too. [I absolutely cannot do that. Because I think I’m in love with my secretary, too. She is fiercely competent, and today she helped me yell at the board of directors. I really, really like her.] Before I accepted the job at Sinclair Holdings, the senior staff had warned me. The man at the top was brilliant, but he had face blindness. Because of his inability to recognize people, he had accidentally fired seven secretaries in the past two years, mistaking them for interns or trespassers. I was the eighth. On my first day, I made sure my massive corporate ID badge was pinned right at eye level. When I walked into his office, I said, “Good morning, Mr. Sinclair. I am your new executive secretary, Jill Gallagher.” He had looked up from his mahogany desk, his eyes lingering on my face without truly seeing it, before nodding. “Jill… hard to break, highly valued. Good name.” And I lived up to it. My goal in life was simple. Make money. Make a lot of money. 2 I took the corporate job not just for the competitive salary, but for the predictable schedule. Nine to five, with a strict two-hour lunch break. It fit perfectly into my ecosystem of survival. Wake up at 5:00 AM. Drive Uber until 8:30. Clock in at the corporate office at 9:30. Use my two-hour lunch break to run high-surge DoorDash orders in the financial district. Clock out at 5:00 PM. Head straight to the boba shop to shake teas for three hours. Go home, turn on the ring light at 9:00 PM, and stream ridiculous balancing acts for tips. Every minute of my day was monetized. My savings account was finally starting to look like a safety net instead of a countdown to eviction. Everything was going exactly according to plan. Except for the part where my billionaire boss was falling in love with my entire fragmented existence. The Reddit thread was going viral. The comments were getting sharper, the internet tearing into him with glee. “I’m struggling to text one girl back, and this dude is out here assembling the Avengers of crushes.” “Men who perceive every transactional interaction as romantic are a menace to society. She gave you your pad thai, bro, she doesn’t want your hand in marriage.” “If you’re so rich, stop whining on the internet and do something about it. Give the secretary a raise. Drop a grand on the streamer’s live. Tip your drivers.” I was reading that exact comment when my phone chimed with a text from Payne. “Miss Gallagher, your performance has been exceptional. Effective immediately, I am bumping your salary by 30%.” I physically leaped off my mattress. Seconds later, my Uber app dinged. A retroactive $100 tip. Then the DoorDash app. Another massive tip. A DM popped up on my TikTok account. “Hi. I find your content mesmerizing. When are you going live next? I would like to sponsor your stream.” My fingers were visibly shaking as I typed back a response. Then, my phone buzzed again. It was the executive Slack channel. Payne had tagged his chief of staff. “Please arrange for a custom floral arrangement and a cash bonus to be delivered to the boba shop on 5th Avenue tomorrow morning.” The chief of staff replied instantly: “Right away, sir.” I sat on my bed, clutching my head, my brain short-circuiting as it tried to process the influx of cash. After a few minutes of frantic pacing, I opened a burner Reddit account and left a comment on his thread. [OP, ignore the haters. I believe you. I understand exactly what you are going through. You need to follow your heart. Be bold! Show them you’re serious! And remember, the best way to show a woman you care is to support her financially. Throw money at the problem. Do not hesitate!] From that day on, I essentially became the phantom orbiting Payne Sinclair’s entire life. The next morning, I managed to snag his Uber request again. Compared to his cold, detached demeanor the first time, today, the man sitting in my backseat seemed… different. As soon as he got in, the expensive, cedar-and-bergamot scent of his cologne filled the car. His hair was meticulously styled, and his cufflinks caught the morning light. He glanced at the driver profile on the app, then looked up at the rearview mirror, a spark of genuine delight in his eyes. “You’re the same driver from yesterday, right?” I kept my eyes on the road, lowering my voice slightly. “Yeah. That’s me.” Payne’s smile widened, softening the sharp angles of his jaw. “Two days in a row in a city this big. You have to admit, that feels like fate.” I had to suppress a snort. Fate had nothing to do with it; it was the sheer, unadulterated finger-speed of a woman who had spent years fighting for the best gigs on the app. I drove with my usual terrifying efficiency, pulling up to the corporate plaza. I tapped my phone screen and turned around. He leaned forward, looking eager. “Do you think I could get your num—” “That’ll be $136,” I interrupted, pointing to the app. “Five stars would be appreciated.” As soon as he stepped onto the curb, I slammed the gas, ducked into an underground parking garage two blocks away, stripped off my casual driving jacket to reveal my tailored silk blouse, and sprinted into the lobby to clock in. The morning at the office was mostly normal, aside from the fact that I caught Payne staring wistfully at me through the glass walls of his office at least four times. At noon, I hit the streets for DoorDash. Thanks to my aggressive refreshing, I snagged his lunch order from a high-end sushi place. Result: A $200 tip. In the afternoon, I ran a few local courier errands on my way back from a corporate meeting. In the evening, I shook cocktails of sugar and tapioca while Payne stood awkwardly by the register, trying to make small talk before leaving another absurd tip. At night, I went live. A user named “T_SINC” dropped the equivalent of five hundred dollars in digital gifts while I balanced a broom on my chin. It was exhausting, but my bank account had never looked so beautiful. I was counting my digital earnings, my hands practically cramping, when I checked Reddit. Payne had posted a new update. [Loving five women is emotionally draining. But the strangest part is… in my mind, they are all starting to blur together. They’re beginning to look like the exact same person.] Because his previous posts had gone viral, the internet descended on this one like vultures. “The CEO is still at it! Bro, are you just projecting your mommy issues onto a specific type of working-class brunette?” Payne fired back: [I am taking this very seriously. My feelings for all of them are pure.] “Pure? You’re emotionally two-timing five women! You just have a type and you’re collecting them like Pokémon.” “If you’ve been pining for this long, make a move. Give your secretary a corporate card. Tell the DoorDash girl you’ll pay off her student loans. Drop a grand on the streamer and ask her out to dinner.” Alarm bells started ringing in my head. Sure enough, ten minutes later, a DM popped up on my streaming account from T_SINC. “Hi. You’re incredibly talented. Could we exchange numbers?” I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. But the capitalist in me won out. I sent him a Google Voice number. To his credit, Payne was a complete gentleman. No weird comments, no crossing boundaries. He just asked why I was always streaming so late at night. I typed back, “I have a lot of day jobs. Just trying to stay afloat.” “That’s awful,” he replied. “You have to work all day and stream all night? Your boss must be a tyrant. He sounds like a terrible person.” 3 You have no idea, I thought, nodding to myself. Playing into the algorithm’s love for a sob story, I crafted a tragic backstory for my streamer persona. An absent dad, a mountain of medical debt for my mom, a younger brother trying to get through college. A shattered American dream. It worked like a charm. Payne’s sympathy was palpable through the screen. I pressed my advantage. “But it’s okay. Knowing there are generous people like you watching my streams makes it worth it. Your gifts really help.” Payne immediately promised he would be back every single night. “By the way,” he texted. “Can I ask your name?” “I’m… Jane,” I typed back. Over the course of the next month, Payne practically funded my entire existence. He drank enough boba to reach their highest VIP tier. He became a legendary “whale” on the delivery and rideshare apps, known locally as the guy who tipped 200%. He had successfully acquired the contact info for every single one of my alter egos. I interacted with this man in some capacity half a dozen times a day, and thanks to his broken facial recognition, he remained blissfully oblivious. To keep my stories straight, I built a mental spreadsheet. The delivery girl was a broke college student. The streamer was the tragic heroine. But sometimes, the wires crossed. A few days ago, working as his secretary, I had tried to dodge a weekend shift by claiming I needed to visit my sick father. Payne had looked up sharply from his tablet. “Miss Gallagher? Didn’t you tell me during your interview that your father passed away when you were seven?” I froze, the blood draining from my face. “My… stepdad. He stepped up.” By some miracle of my own fast-talking and his inherent gullibility, he bought it. In fact, my “dedication to my family” only seemed to make him respect me more. Which was great for my paycheck, but terrible for office politics. The other assistants were starting to sharpen their knives. “Jill. Take this contract to the downtown branch.” Courtney tossed a heavy manila folder onto my keyboard. She was the quintessential nepotism baby—her father sat on the board of directors, and she treated the administrative pool like her personal sorority pledges. The other girls in the office had warned me to keep my head down. “She’s had a crush on Mr. Sinclair since they were kids. Any woman who breathes his air gets targeted.” I had rolled my eyes at that. “Why target the women? For all we know, he’s not even into girls. Where’s the feminism?” But Courtney didn’t care about feminism. She cared about territory. “Did you hear me, Jill? I need this downtown in two hours.” I looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky was the color of bruised iron, and rain was lashing against the glass in aggressive sheets. “It’s a monsoon out there. Can’t you just use the corporate courier app?” “No. I want you to do it.” She crossed her arms, her designer heels clicking against the hardwood. I let out a long, slow breath. “Fine. Open the courier app and request a runner. Put it under the corporate account.” “Are you deaf? I said you are taking it.” “I heard you perfectly.” Without breaking eye contact, I reached under my desk, pulled out my bright yellow rainproof courier jacket, and zipped it up right over my silk blouse. I gave her a dazzling, corporate-approved smile. “Thanks for the gig, Courtney. Good looking out.” It was raining, which meant surge pricing. Delivering this folder across town would net me an easy fifty bucks. If she wanted to play petty power games, I was going to get paid for it. As I waited for the elevator, my phone buzzed. A coworker texting me: “Omg, you broke Courtney’s brain. She’s practically foaming at the mouth in the breakroom.” I didn’t care. I finished the delivery, internally calculating how I was going to force Courtney to give me a five-star rating on the app, and headed back to headquarters. But the moment I walked through the revolving doors, water dripping from my yellow jacket, my heart stopped. Damn it. Payne was standing in the lobby. What was a CEO doing loitering by the security desks in the middle of a workday? “Jane? What are you doing here?” My breath caught in my throat. I froze, dripping rainwater onto the pristine marble floor. His eyes lit up, and he walked toward me, completely ignoring the security guards. “Are you making a delivery? How is the fund for your brother’s tuition going? I meant it when I said I could write you a check.” I didn’t say a word. Cold sweat mixed with the rain on the back of my neck. He has face blindness. How the hell did he recognize me? “How did you know it was me?” I asked, my voice tight. Payne stopped a few feet away, suddenly looking shy. He shoved his hands into his tailored pockets. “I… I still can’t really picture your face. But I remembered the way you stand. The silhouette. And the jacket.” The corner of my mouth twitched. I forced a laugh, desperately looking around for an exit route. But the universe hates me, and at that exact moment, Courtney stepped out of the executive elevator. “Jill? You’re back already?” Courtney sneered. “Jill? Wait, I thought your name was Jane?” Payne looked between us, utterly bewildered. Courtney was closing the distance, looking ready to cause a scene. Panic seized me. I lunged forward, shoved the signed delivery receipt directly into Courtney’s chest, and inhaled deeply. “Hi, your delivery is complete, please remember to rate five stars—ACHOO!” I let out an ungodly, theatrical sneeze, spraying a fine mist of (fake) saliva in her direction. Courtney shrieked, stumbling backward in horror, wiping at her face. “You are disgusting!” She spun on her heel and sprinted for the restrooms. I slowly turned back to Payne. I gave him a weak, trembling smile. He stared at me, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. “Who exactly are you?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “433134”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The gray haze that had clouded my vision for months finally fractured, dissolving into sharp, brilliant focus. My eyesight was back. Joy surged in my chest, a bright, sudden thing, and I spun around to share the news with my husband. But as I reached the heavy oak door of our bedroom, the sound of a voice—not his, but his brother’s—stopped me dead in my tracks. “Come on, man,” his brother was pleading, his tone low and urgent. “I know you lost your memories, but Celeste is still your fated mate. Your fiancée.” There was a heavy pause. “She’s badly hurt,” the brother pressed on. “Your S-rank healing ability is the only thing that can pull her back from the edge. Are you really going to just stand by and watch her die?” Silence. The kind of silence that suffocates. “Look,” his brother sighed, a sound full of misguided nobility. “If you’re that worried about the little blind girl you’ve been keeping around… she can’t see anyway. I’ll stay here. I’ll take your place beside her for a while.” And then, my husband—Callan, the man whose chest I had slept against every night—finally spoke. “Alright,” he said. Just like that. Alright. At that exact moment, the holographic live-feed—a bizarre, persistent glitch of the universe I had transmigrated into—exploded across my peripheral vision. [The ruthless founding father of the fan-club has arrived! Who else understands the tragic, self-sacrificing nobility of the grumpy younger brother offering his own body to the cannon fodder so his brother can go be with his true love?!] [Brother of the Year: If I don’t hold this fake marriage together, who will?] I slowly lifted my gaze and looked through the crack in the door. My heart skipped a violent, jagged beat. Standing there was a shifter who was taller, broader, and more imposing than Callan. His face was a touch more youthful but undeniably more striking, with a sharper jawline and a straighter nose. He was, essentially, Callan 2.0. After Callan slipped out the back door, I waited a beat. Then, blinking my eyes into a vacant, unfocused stare, I groped my way blindly into the room and wrapped my arms around the new man’s waist from behind. “Honey?” I murmured, pressing my cheek to his spine. “You feel distant today. Why are you suddenly standing on the left side of the room? Is something on your mind?” 1 Jace went entirely rigid. Two golden, velvet-furred tiger ears popped out from the crown of his head, twitching frantically. His long tail snapped out, stiff as a board. Callan was a Snow Tiger. Jace, I noted with quiet amusement, was a Golden Bengal. Feigning ignorance, I let my arms slide fully around his waist, my fingertips subtly measuring him. His waist is actually a bit narrower, I thought. With deliberate slowness, I let my hands trail upward, my palms flattening against the firm, heavy swells of his chest muscles. Beneath my touch, Jace tightened like a drawn bowstring. The tips of his golden ears flushed a deep, frantic crimson. My mind quietly calculated the differences: Chest broader by an inch. Waist leaner by half an inch. Hips a fraction wider. “Honey,” I purred softly, trailing a thumb over his collarbone. “Your body feels so tempting today.” The blush violently crawled from Jace’s ears down to the base of his neck. He bit down hard on his lower lip, audibly struggling to hold back a sharp intake of breath. “You’re awfully quiet,” I said, poking his pectoral muscle. “Don’t…” he choked out. “Don’t grope me like that.” He had obviously downed a vocal-altering potion before coming in. His voice was an eighty-percent match to Callan’s, but the remaining twenty percent betrayed the raw, slightly raspy cadence of a young man in his prime. “Your voice sounds a little strange today,” I whispered. I circled around to his front, reaching up blindly until my fingers grazed the prominent bump of his throat. “But…” I rose up on my tiptoes and brushed my warm lips softly against his Adam’s apple. “It sounds incredibly sexy.” Jace reacted like a deer caught in the headlights. He jolted backward, nearly tripping over his own boots, and practically hurled himself out the door, diving headfirst into the snowbank outside. I stood there for a second, blinking at the empty doorway, before a wicked, quiet smile curved my lips. [LMAO the younger brother just spawned in the starter village and immediately ran into a wicked villainess. His poor virgin brain is short-circuiting!] [There’s no way Jace catches feelings for the cannon fodder. Can the president of the rival fan-club really fall for the enemy?] [Jace absolutely loathes this woman for getting between his brother and Celeste. If he ever catches feelings for her, I will eat my own shoe.] [Comment above: Start chewing, babe. No need to wait.] It took Jace several aggressive rolls in the freezing snow before he managed to cool his blood enough to step back inside. “Honey, draw me a basin of water. I want to wash my feet,” I ordered, my tone perfectly even. If he was going to collude with his brother to deceive me, he could pay off his brother’s debts in manual labor. “Fine,” he muttered. To his credit, he was obedient. He returned quickly, carrying a wooden basin steaming with hot water. I sat on the edge of the bed, slipped off my socks, and extended my feet toward him. Jace’s hands were noticeably larger than Callan’s. My feet looked incredibly small resting in the wide expanse of his palms. The thick, rough calluses lining his fingers—the undeniable mark of a man who spent his life wielding weapons—scraped pleasantly against my skin. His face was an unreadable mask of cold indifference as he knelt on the floor, easing my feet into the warm water, but his touch was surprisingly meticulous as he began to wash them. “My toenail polish is chipping,” I directed, completely unapologetic. “Repaint them for me.” His brow furrowed in deep irritation. “You can’t even see. What’s the point of painting your nails?” I feigned a flare of temper, shifting my foot and pressing it down hard against his chest. “You never used to talk to me like that!” A breathless “Um…” tumbled from his lips. Tigers possessed an inherently yang constitution—they ran incredibly hot and were impervious to the winter chill. Because he thought I was blind, Jace hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt. My foot had missed the center of his chest. My toes were currently pressed directly, and rather firmly, against his bare nipple. Jace scrambled backward so fast he nearly kicked the water basin over, his face blazing. “I’ll… I’ll go find the polish…” I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Okay, that one actually was an accident. That night, we lay on the same bed. I rolled over, pretending to reach for the glass of water on his nightstand, and caught a perfect glimpse of his illuminated phone screen. He was texting his brother: [Callan, how do you live like this? I feel so sorry for you.] 2 Late in the night, shivering against the chill, I demanded he shift into his beast form to keep me warm. “Absolutely not!” Jace hissed into the dark. “My beast form is a combat state meant only for the battlefield. It is not a personal space heater!” I let my voice go cold, lacing it with hurt. “Is that so? Have you had a change of heart, or are you an entirely different person? You used to let me sleep holding your tail every single night. Why is tonight any different?” “I am exactly who I’ve always been!” he snapped, his voice tight with the fear of being exposed. There was a heavy rustle of blankets before he finally compromised with an aggrieved sigh. “You can hold the tail. Only the tail.” A thick, plush, golden tail slipped under the covers and curled against my chest. Compared to Callan’s fur, Jace’s was undeniably softer, smelling faintly of crushed pine needles and fresh snow. It was incredibly comforting. Wrapping my arms around it, I easily drifted into a deep sleep. The next morning, I slept in, waking only when the sun was high. Through the window, I spotted Jace in the yard, fiercely chopping firewood. He was a portrait of raw, untamed energy, but when he turned, I noticed the heavy, bruised shadows beneath his eyes. [Of course he has dark circles! The cannon fodder is a restless sleeper. Halfway through the night, she stopped holding his tail and accidentally grabbed his other “tail.” The poor boy had to go roll in the snow three times before dawn.] [Wait, what are you guys talking about? Does the tiger have a mutation? Two tails?] [Sweet summer child, please log off and go watch cartoons.] I took a slow look around the cabin. The floors were swept spotless. The chickens had been fed. Even the crumbling robin’s nest on the rafters had been carefully replaced with a sturdy, handcrafted wooden box. I had to admit, the kid had an eye for detail and the domestic diligence of a seasoned househusband. When he came inside and saw I was awake, however, his face snapped back into that familiar, frosty scowl. He practically shoved a mug of hot milk and a slice of toast into my hands. I took a sip of the milk and let my brow crease in displeasure. “What now?” he demanded. “What’s wrong with it?” “It’s too bland. I need two sugar cubes.” Jace groaned, rolling his eyes. “You are impossible to please.” Without another word, he snatched the mug from my hands, chugged the entire thing in three gulps, marched to the sink, washed the cup, and began pouring a brand-new glass of milk. I stared at him in quiet disbelief. …Couldn’t you have just dropped the sugar into the first cup? Once he finished the firewood, he sat by the hearth, glaring at his phone. Based on the aggressive typing, he was updating his friends: [She’s a total nightmare. But don’t worry, I haven’t given her a single warm look while doing the chores.] The stream lit up instantly. [Bro, it’s been twenty-four hours and you’re already washing her laundry with a grumpy face?] [Bestie, has it occurred to you that she’s blind and literally cannot see your ‘cold, intimidating glares’?] [Jace: Mind your business! I have my own pacing!] 3 Clearly fed up with me using his tail as a security blanket, Jace went online and ordered an industrial space heater for the cabin. In his mind, if the room was boiling hot, I wouldn’t need to cuddle with him. Unfortunately for him, a massive blizzard had grounded all the delivery crews. The heater was delayed indefinitely. For nearly two weeks, my only comfort was a single, golden tail. It was starting to annoy me. When Callan was here, I used to bury my icy hands and feet deep into the thick, warm fur of his stomach. It made me feel incredibly safe. [She’s probably missing Callan right now. While Callan is currently wrapped up in the female lead’s soft embrace, Jace is guarding his purity like a monk. No matter how much she flirts, he remains an unmovable mountain.] [Callan is destined for the female lead anyway. Jace only recognizes Celeste as his true sister-in-law. The sooner this cannon fodder accepts reality, the better.] That night, after yet another strategic roll in the snow to cool his perpetually running blood, Jace finally climbed cautiously into bed. “The temperature dropped again today,” he muttered, shifting awkwardly. “If you want, I can shift…” I rolled over, turning my back to him, and pulled my worn tiger plushie tight against my chest. “Let’s just sleep. I don’t need your tail tonight.” If I had to force it, I didn’t want it. Even if I was genuinely craving the heat of his body. Behind me, I felt his entire massive frame lock up. He sat frozen at my back for a very long time, his gaze practically burning a hole through my spine. Eventually, in absolute silence, he retracted his ears and tail. He pulled his blankets tight to his side. The bed was now divided by an invisible, icy wall. Jace had likely assumed that without my constant touching, he’d sleep like the dead. But the truth was, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, completely consumed by insomnia. On my side of the bed, my breathing remained even and deep. Somewhere around three in the morning, I felt the heavy, plush weight of a tail slither around my waist, gently trying to drag me backward toward the heat of his chest. Deep in sleep and irritated by the disturbance, I blindly swatted a hand backward. A solid smack echoed in the dark. The pulling stopped instantly. When I woke the next morning, my tiger plushie was missing, and our separate blankets had mysteriously tangled into one shared nest. Jace wasn’t in bed. I looked out the frost-rimmed window and saw him standing in the middle of a howling snowstorm, furiously scrubbing my plushie in a bucket of soapy water. He wrung it out, pinned it to the clothesline, and watched with profound satisfaction as the freezing wind instantly encased it in a solid shell of ice. He turned around, a triumphant smirk on his face, only to lock eyes with me staring at him from the window. “Haha, great weather today!” he yelled over the wind, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just thought I’d wash your toy and let it… get some sun…” I just slowly closed the curtains. 4 Jace hadn’t just washed the plushie; he’d washed the clothes I’d discarded yesterday. Unfortunately, his brute strength had ripped two massive holes right through my underwear, forcing him to trek down to the local market to buy replacements. He hadn’t been gone long when a frantic knock rattled the door. I opened it to find Kieran. He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his face flushed a feverish pink, two long, white rabbit ears drooping weakly against his damp silver hair. His mating heat had hit him early. He swayed on his feet, his words slurring together. “Faye… please. Help me…” Despite the freezing temperatures, Kieran was wearing only a thin white dress shirt, the top buttons torn open to reveal skin as pale as fresh snow. Snowflakes clung to his thick, dark eyelashes, his nose was painted a delicate, icy red, and his deep blue eyes looked up at me like fractured sapphires. I had always known my neighbor—who doubled as my pro-bono physician—was beautiful, but right now, he was breathtaking. His knees buckled, and he collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of my neck. His breath was scorching hot against my skin. “The new Federal law passed,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “Humans can officially bind with two shifter mates at once…” “When he gets back… he can be the primary mate. I’ll be the secondary. I swear, I’ll never cause drama or make things hard for you.” “Please, Faye. Just let me be yours.” He pulled back slightly, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “But if it’s too much… if it puts you in a bad spot… just pretend I was never here. I’ll go home. I’ll soak in the ice bath…” He made a pathetic, shaky attempt to pull away. I reached out, grabbed the lapels of his shirt, dragged him back into the house, and kissed him to shut him up. “Stop talking,” I murmured against his lips. Honestly, the math was simple. Callan had his fated female lead. Jace was guarding his virtue like a medieval knight. I was a practical woman living in the freezing wilderness. A bed without a warm body in it was just a waste. Besides, rabbit fur was incredibly soft. That was the conclusion I reached as I ran my hands up and squeezed the base of one of his velvet ears. Kieran violently shuddered at the touch, burying his face against my collarbone, letting out a soft, broken sound that was half-sob, half-sigh. Since the day I had crossed over into this world, my vision had been severely compromised. Kieran had been the one coming over every day, patiently treating my eyes free of charge. [Whoa, what’s going on? Why is the screen suddenly a blur of censorship mosaics?] [Are we not allowed to watch? Don’t be stingy, Doctor Rabbit!] [Honestly, I feel bad for the cannon fodder. Callan’s S-rank healing only works on the female lead, so Faye’s been stuck relying on conventional medicine. The rabbit doctor really stepped up and took care of her when no one else did.] Once Kieran’s fever had stabilized somewhat, he sat back against the pillows, pulling me securely against his chest. “Don’t worry,” he whispered softly, kissing my hair. “When Callan gets back, I’ll explain everything. I’ll tell him I seduced you. I’ll take all the blame.” The words had barely left his mouth when the front door banged open. “Honey! I bought the new clothes, come feel the fabric—” Jace froze. Kieran and I looked toward the doorway. Jace, broad and imposing, was standing there wearing a sheer, loosely knit chainmail-style top. It technically counted as clothing, but left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Clack. The cardboard box containing my new underwear slipped from Jace’s fingers and hit the wooden floor. 5 Jace snapped out of his shock, his eyes turning a ferocious, bloodshot red. With an earth-shattering roar, his beast form erupted from his skin. A massive Golden Bengal tiger filled the room, shaking the floorboards. “You dare crawl into my bed?! With my wife?!” he bellowed, his voice vibrating in my chest. “Don’t be afraid, honey! I’m going to rip this filthy rabbit’s throat out!” I panicked, terrified Kieran was about to get slaughtered, and lunged forward to stop it. But Kieran didn’t flinch. In a flash of blinding light, he summoned his spiritual beast form. The creature that materialized was a monstrous, pure white rabbit—bizarrely, it was even more massive than Jace’s tiger. Its jaw was lined with thick, jagged fangs, and its usually serene blue eyes burned a demonic crimson. “Both of you—” Before I could finish, Kieran launched himself forward, locking his jaws around the scruff of Jace’s neck and dragging the massive tiger backward out the door and into the blizzard. The two alpha males were terrifyingly matched in combat power. In the vast, blinding expanse of white snow, it was a brutal clash of fangs and claws. Kieran specifically targeted Jace’s face, slashing wildly at his handsome features. In retaliation, Jace ruthlessly aimed every strike directly beneath Kieran’s belt, determined to end the rabbit’s bloodline permanently. The chat overlay was absolutely losing its mind over the sudden action sequence. [Tsk tsk tsk, who says male leads aren’t scheming? The rabbit wants to cure her eyes, use his beauty to secure a permanent place, and ruin the competition’s face. Meanwhile, the tiger thinks the rabbit only won her over with his bedroom skills, so he’s trying to castrate him!] [Doctor Rabbit is a total manipulative green-tea bitch, but god, he’s gorgeous.] [Brother Tiger has zero brain cells, but absolute brute strength.] [Cannon Fodder Faye: Wow, such a hard choice. (Not)] It was the first time I fully agreed with the comments. I leaned against the doorframe, yelling into the wind, “Guys, stop fighting!” But they were too far away, entirely consumed by bloodlust. Kieran shifted back to his human form, licking a smear of blood from his sharpened claws. “I’ve seen her actual mate. You aren’t him! So where the hell did you come from, you home-wrecking stray?” Jace, bleeding from his cheek, shifted back, his chest heaving as he glared at the doctor. “I’m the home-wrecker? You’re the cheap whore who crawled into a married woman’s bed the second her husband was out of town! You’re the absolute lowest of the low!” Kieran threw his head back and laughed, a cold, mocking sound. “I looked up the registry. Faye is bonded to Callan, but they never signed the official marriage certificate. Which means she legally only has one partner. She doesn’t have a husband.” He tilted his head, his blue eyes narrowing. “Let me guess. You’re a Golden Bengal. Her mate is a Snow Tiger. You took advantage of the fact that she’s blind and swapped places with him, didn’t you?” Jace’s face twisted in violent, defensive rage. “So what?! I’m the one washing her feet! I’m the one massaging her! I’m the one warming her bed! Which means when the certificate is signed, it’ll be my name on it!” He summoned his claws again. “And once I kill you, you filthy rat, she’ll never know.” “Your math is a little off,” Kieran purred softly. “Because… I think she might already be able to see.” A flicker of absolute terror crossed Jace’s face. “Impossible!” “She can see,” Kieran repeated, his voice laced with venomous triumph. “You aren’t her original mate. She has no emotional attachment to you. You aren’t as strong as me, and you certainly aren’t as beautiful as me. Tell me, why would she ever pick you?” “You’re dead!” Jace roared. He launched himself into the air, bringing all his weight down to deliver a fatal blow to the arrogant herbivore. Kieran was an S-rank mutated beast; he had more than enough speed to easily dodge the attack. Yet, inexplicably, at the absolute last microsecond, he shifted his stance, deliberately allowing Jace’s spiritual energy to severely scorch his arm. From the doorway, I watched in stunned silence as Kieran was thrown backward by the impact, soaring gracefully through the air until he landed directly at my feet, collapsing weakly into my arms. “Faye,” Kieran gasped, coughing weakly against my shoulder. “Don’t be mad at Callan. It’s hard for him to accept our new dynamic, I understand that. But he’s lost his mind… It’s okay if he hurts me, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. Why don’t you come stay at my house? Let him cool off for a few days.” Jace, having just landed from his attack, heard the entire speech. His jaw dropped. His golden ears lay flat against his skull as he stared at the bleeding rabbit in my arms, his entire body trembling with rage. “You manipulative little bastard!” Jace screamed. “That is not what you were just saying!” Kieran let out a fragile, wounded sigh, sinking deeper into my embrace, while the massive, terrifying tiger roared in the snow. I gently stroked Kieran’s hair, looking up at Jace with deadpan eyes. “I think I’m perfectly capable of telling which one of you actually needs my protection.”

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The heavy thud of the car door was still echoing in my ears when the ride-share driver floored it. I hadn’t even reached the trunk for my suitcase before his taillights were shrinking into the distance. Panic flared in my chest. I fumbled for my phone and hit the call button immediately, offering to pay him extra just to turn around and bring my bag back. I expected a simple “on my way.” Instead, I got a cold, calculated silence, followed by a demand that made my blood run cold. “A thousand bucks,” he said. No hesitation. No shame. I scoffed, my voice rising in disbelief. “Are you joking? I’m not paying a thousand dollars for a three-mile return trip.” “Suit yourself,” he replied with a dry, jagged chuckle. “It’s not my life in this suitcase, is it? You’re the one in a rush. Not me.” The realization hit me like a physical blow. He knew he had me. I looked at my colleague, who was staring at me with wide, terrified eyes. We had a career-defining presentation tomorrow—files, hard drives, and sensitive documents were all in that trunk. I gritted my teeth and forced the words out. “Fine. A thousand. Just get back here.” He didn’t even drive a hundred yards before his voice crackled over the speaker again, dripping with newfound greed. “Actually, I changed my mind. It’s ten thousand now.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My throat felt like it was closing up. Sensing my hesitation, his tone shifted from smug to predatory. “What, no cash? Fine. Don’t believe me? I’ll find the nearest dumpster and toss this thing right now. You can go treasure hunting for your precious files yourself.” Ten thousand dollars. It was a ransom. But the thought of losing those documents—of failing the vetting process we were here to conduct—left me no choice. “Fine,” I hissed through clenched teeth. “Ten thousand. I’ll pay.” Five minutes passed. The phone buzzed again. “You know what? I’m thinking twenty thousand sounds more like a fair convenience fee.” Rage, hot and blinding, surged through me. My thumb hovered over the ride-share app, ready to hit the report button and call the police. But then, I caught a glimpse of his profile picture in the corner of the screen. I froze. Slowly, a different kind of smile spread across my face. It wasn’t one of joy, but of a cold, sharp irony. “Go ahead, Ray,” I whispered to the silent screen. “Take every cent. You’re going to regret this more than you can possibly imagine.” 1 “Twenty thousand?” I repeated the number, my fingers tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The driver, a man named Ray Garrity, didn’t miss a beat. His voice boomed through the receiver, devoid of any empathy. “I don’t play games, lady. Hurry up.” “Either you wire twenty thousand to my account right now, or I’m dumping this suitcase in the trash. Your call.” The sheer audacity of it was staggering. I navigated to the app’s ‘Help’ interface, my finger trembling over the ‘Report Driver’ button. He must have sensed the shift in the silence because he let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Listen to me carefully,” Ray warned. “Don’t even think about reporting me. The second I get a notification from the app, your suitcase hits the bottom of a grease-filled dumpster. Try me.” I froze. The threat hung in the air, thick and suffocating. My finger hovered, paralyzed, before I slowly backed out of the screen. Macy, my junior associate, grabbed my arm. Her voice was high and thin with panic. “Joanna, what are we going to do? Those files… if they’re lost, we’re finished. We can’t show up at the District Office tomorrow empty-handed.” She leaned toward the phone, her voice pleading. “Please, sir. Those documents are incredibly important. Can’t you have a heart? We’ll give you a five-star rating, a huge tip, anything—just bring it back?” Clearly, to a man like Ray, a five-star review was a joke compared to a twenty-thousand-dollar payday. “Five stars?” he spat. “What do I look like, a charity? I’m not some kid working for pocket change.” Then came the ultimatum. “Two minutes. That’s all you get to decide. Send the money, or say goodbye to your gear. I don’t have all night to waste on you.” Click. The line went dead. Macy’s eyes were rimmed with red, her face pale. “Joanna, what do we do? We can’t actually give him twenty thousand dollars, can we?” A dull ache started behind my eyes. I hesitated for only a second before the phone vibrated again. Ray was whistling a cheerful, jaunty tune on the other end. “Time’s up. You paying, or am I dumping?” 2 I stood there for a long moment, the cool night air biting at my skin. Tomorrow’s mission was too important to jeopardize. Twenty thousand dollars was a fortune, but the cost of failure was higher. “Fine,” I said, my voice sounding like gravel. “We’ll pay. Bring the suitcase back. Now.” He chuckled, a sound like sandpaper on wood. “Good girl. I’m on my way.” Macy and I shared a look of guarded relief. But that relief lasted exactly two minutes. The phone rang again, and Ray’s voice had lost its jovial edge, replaced by a calculating, slimy tone. “Actually… I was just thinking. Twenty thousand is a bit low for the risk I’m taking. Let’s make it twenty-five. Add another five grand and I’ll put the car in gear.” The anger I had been trying to suppress exploded. I gritted my teeth, my voice a low, dangerous hiss. “Ray Garrity! Don’t push your luck! We agreed on twenty. What is wrong with you?” He didn’t care. He was a bottom-feeder who had found a gold mine. “Think fast,” he urged, sounding like a bored telemarketer. “I’ve got other passengers waiting. Every minute you stall is money out of my pocket.” “If you keep wasting my time, the price is only going to go up. Do the math, lady. It’s cheaper to just pay me now.” I was shaking, my body vibrating with a cocktail of fury and helplessness. This man wasn’t just a thief; he was a vulture. If I gave him the extra five thousand now, what was to stop him from asking for ten more when he was a block away? I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady. “No. Absolutely not. If you don’t turn around right now, I’m calling the police.” Ray let out a derisive snort, completely unimpressed. “The cops? Go ahead. Call ’em. My daughter is a high-ranking official in the city. You think some beat cop is going to touch me? One word from her and any report you file disappears.” “Sounds to me like you don’t really want that suitcase,” he added, his voice dripping with arrogance. He knew he had us over a barrel. He knew those files were our leverage, and he was using them to squeeze us dry. I opened my mouth to negotiate, but he cut me off. “Tell you what. I’m done haggling. One price. Fifty thousand dollars. Total. You agree, and I’ll drive straight to you. You say no, and I handle this suitcase my way. Let’s stop wasting each other’s time.” Fifty thousand. Macy gasped, her hand over her mouth. We were both trembling now. “Fifty thousand? You’re insane!” I shouted. “Maybe,” he replied breezily. “But you were willing to pay twenty. Fifty shouldn’t be that much of a stretch for someone with your… credentials. I’ll give you five minutes to pull the funds together. Call me back when you’re ready to be serious.” Beep. The silence that followed was heavy. I rubbed my temples, feeling the pulse thrumming in my veins. Macy looked at me, her voice breaking. “Joanna, what are we going to do? The department will never reimburse fifty thousand dollars. We’ll be paying this out of our own pockets. I’ve only been on the job a year—I don’t have that kind of money.” Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. It was a photo from Ray. 3 The image was grainy but clear. Our suitcase was sitting precariously on the edge of a filthy, overflowing commercial dumpster. There were scuff marks on the leather—footprints—and a dusting of cigarette ash. It was a visual hostage note. I looked at the clock. Three minutes left. I took a long, shaky breath and looked at Macy. The time for panic was over; the time for strategy had begun. “Macy, call 911. Now.” Macy blinked, her face a mask of confusion. “But… didn’t he say his daughter was—?” “I don’t care what he said!” I interrupted, my voice sharp. “Call them. Now. Give them our location and tell them it’s an active extortion. Just do it.” With trembling fingers, Macy dialed. She spoke in a hushed, frantic whisper, relaying the details to the dispatcher. When she hung up, her eyes were still wide with fear. “They’re sending a cruiser, but Joanna… if he finds out, he’ll destroy everything.” “He won’t find out,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely sure. “We just need to keep him on the hook.” Exactly five minutes after he hung up, Ray called back. He was punctual, I’ll give him that. “Well? You got my fifty grand?” he demanded. “My patience is wearing thin. If you don’t want the bag, I’m taking it to a scrap yard. Maybe I can get twenty bucks for the electronics inside.” Then came a video. The suitcase was dangling over the dumpster, swaying slightly. My heart plummeted. “Stop! Fine!” I yelled into the phone. “You want the fifty thousand? You’ve got it!” I could hear the smirk in his voice. “See? Was that so hard? Why do people always have to make things difficult? I’ll text you my account info. Wire the money, and the bag stays safe.” “No,” I countered, trying to sound desperate but firm. “I’m not wiring a cent until I see the bag. You bring it here, we do the exchange in person. Cash or wire, but only when it’s in my hands.” The line went silent for a beat. Ray let out a cold snort. “And what if you change your mind once I’m there? I’m the one with the leverage here, lady. You don’t get to set the terms.” “But,” he continued, his tone shifting to a mock-conciliatory drawl, “I’m a man of my word. Tell you what. Send half now as a deposit. Twenty-five thousand. Once I get the confirmation, I’ll head your way. You pay the rest when I drop off the bag.” “I’m only three miles away,” he added. “I can be there in ten minutes. I promise, I won’t flake on you.” We were running out of time. The police weren’t here yet, and the files were too precious to lose. “Fine,” I rasped. “I’ll send the twenty-five. Just get here.” I initiated the transfer. It felt like tearing off a limb, watching that amount leave my account. “It’s sent,” I said two minutes later. “Got it,” Ray said, sounding genuinely delighted. “I’m on my way, sweetheart. Don’t go anywhere.” I hung up and prayed—prayed he wouldn’t vanish, and prayed the police would be faster than he was. 4 The minutes dragged by like hours. Macy was pacing a tight circle on the sidewalk, her anxiety radiating off her in waves. “Joanna, twenty-five thousand dollars… that’s so much money,” she whispered. “Are we really going to have to pay the rest? I can’t afford my half. I’m still paying off student loans. The department is going to kill us.” She was spiraling, her voice thick with resentment and fear. I couldn’t blame her, but I didn’t have the energy to coddle her. “Just stay calm,” I said, trying to keep my own voice from shaking. “The police are coming. We just have to get the bag back first. We minimize the damage, okay?” Macy nodded weakly, but she didn’t look convinced. We stood there in the deepening shadows, the streetlights flickering to life as the sun dipped below the horizon. The street was quiet, eerily so. “He’s not coming, is he?” Macy asked, her voice small. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Instead, I pulled up Ray’s profile on the app again. I stared at his face—the weathered skin, the arrogant tilt of his head. And then, something caught my eye. A detail in the background of his profile picture. My breath hitched. Before I could process the thought, a pair of headlights cut through the darkness. A white sedan pulled smoothly to the curb in front of us. The license plate matched. It was him. Ray rolled down the window, a smug, greasy grin plastered across his face. “Sorry for the wait, ladies. All that haggling made me hungry. Had to stop for a quick bite. But hey, I’m here now. Drop the other twenty-five into my account, and I’ll hand over the goods.” I stared at him, my eyes narrowing as I committed every detail of his face to memory. I didn’t say a word. Macy, however, was trembling with rage. She stepped forward, her mouth opening to scream at him, but as she got a clear look at Ray’s face, she froze. A gasp escaped her lips. Ray didn’t notice. He was too busy checking his phone. “Well? What’s the holdup? You having second thoughts? Because I can still leave. The dumpster is still waiting.” I looked past him. A block away, I saw the faint, blue flicker of a police cruiser’s lights, though they hadn’t turned on the siren yet. Ray saw my eyes shift. He looked in the rearview mirror, and his expression transformed instantly from smugness to pure, unadulterated terror. “What the—? You called the cops? You stupid—!” He scrambled to start the ignition, his hands fumbling with the keys. Even in his panic, the greed didn’t leave him. “Give me the money! Give it to me now and I’ll throw the bag out!” The cruiser roared closer, sirens finally wailing. Ray realized he was out of time. He didn’t wait for the money. He grabbed the suitcase from the backseat and shoved it out the passenger door, the heavy bag thudding onto the pavement. Then, he slammed the car into gear and floored it. But the bag wasn’t latched properly. When it hit the ground, the zippers gave way. Documents, folders, and files exploded across the asphalt like a burst of confetti. Ray looked back for a split second, his eyes catching on a specific sheet of paper that had landed face-up under the streetlamp. He slammed on the brakes, his car skidding to a halt as he stared at the document in sheer, paralyzed shock.

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The day I accompanied my brother to look at his new house was the first time I met his fiancée. She was a wealth management elite, fresh off a stint in Europe, or so the family legend went. She looked me up and down, her body physically blocking the doorway of the luxury condo, her face twisting into a mask of pure disdain. “You’re the delivery driver, right? Don’t come in. You’ll track dirt all over my new hardwood.” I froze. The air in my lungs went completely still. My brother, Justin, let out a nervous, scraping laugh and tried to smooth it over. “Wendy’s been living overseas for a long time. She’s just… blunt. Don’t take it to heart, Margot.” I didn’t want to make a scene. I truly didn’t. I turned on my heel, ready to walk away and let them have their moment, but her voice drifted through the open door, laced with a casual, devastating cruelty. “Look at her. She’s built like a twig. If she was actually just delivering food, that would be one thing.” She paused. I could hear the smirk in her voice. “But you have to wonder about the girls who do those late-night deliveries. The ones who bring themselves right to the customer’s door.” “It’s just… dirty.” My footsteps stopped. A quiet, hollow laugh slipped from my throat. I didn’t leave the building. Instead, I turned and walked straight down the hall to the developer’s sales office. “The wire transfer I authorized an hour ago for the down payment,” I told the agent. “Cancel it. I want a full refund.” 1. “Ms. Ellis, are you entirely sure?” The agent looked panicked, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. “If we terminate the contract now, there’s a two percent penalty fee.” He swallowed hard. “That’s… roughly ten thousand dollars.” Hearing the number, I just smiled. “That’s nothing.” “I would rather set that money on fire than let her have a single dime of it.” The agent stared at me, dumbfounded. I didn’t offer another word. I turned and walked out. Just as I rounded the corner into the grand lobby, I spotted Justin and Wendy. Her voice wasn’t a shout, but in the echoing marble foyer, she made absolutely no effort to hide it. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear, Justin. If you hadn’t shown me how serious you are by putting my name on this deed, I never would have agreed to marry you.” My brother stood there, staring at the floor, mutely adjusting the straps of her designer shopping bags on his shoulder. Seeing him cower, she let out a cold little scoff. “You know the kind of clients I deal with at the bank. High-net-worth individuals. Old money. If we’re being honest, your family background is entirely beneath me.” She paused, and the temperature in her voice dropped. “Especially that sister of yours.” “A grown woman, running around dropping off takeout? God, it’s humiliating just to admit I know her.” Justin didn’t say a word. His silence was the fuel she needed to keep burning. “She’s not going to latch onto me, is she? Because I’m telling you right now, do not expect me to use my network to get her a real job.” “I’m closing a massive portfolio deal next week. It’s my ticket to Managing Director. At a critical time like this, I cannot have your sister dragging down my image.” Justin nodded eagerly, like a dog begging for a treat. “No, no, of course not. I promise, she won’t bother you.” I stood in the shadows of the alcove, perfectly still. My heart was a slow, heavy drum in my chest. Wendy, feeling entirely victorious, kept going. “I’ve seen plenty of girls like your sister when I was abroad. Trust me. Nine times out of ten, that ‘gig work’ she’s doing is a front. These delivery girls…” She laughed. It was an ugly sound. “Who knows what beds they’re crawling into at night—” She looked up. And she saw me. The air in the lobby turned to glass. I looked right back at her, a faint smile playing on my lips. “Why’d you stop? Please, keep going.” “What happens at night?” Justin’s face drained of color. He immediately stepped between us, his voice sharp and defensive. “What kind of attitude is that? Have some respect. Can’t you even say hello to your sister-in-law?” I kept my eyes on him. I didn’t move an inch. Wendy recovered quickly. The viciousness vanished from her face, replaced instantly by the polished, condescending mask of a concerned relative. “Don’t be mad at me for being blunt, Margot. I’m only saying this for your own good.” “If you weren’t Justin’s sister, I wouldn’t waste my breath.” She sighed softly, playing the martyr. “Look, I know you didn’t finish your graduate degree. I know you’re desperate for cash. I get it. You don’t have the kind of professional pedigree I do.” “But a woman has to have boundaries. Selling your body is going to ruin this family’s reputation.” I let out a harsh bark of laughter. I opened my mouth to tear her apart, but Justin grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. “Enough, Margot. Wendy is treating you like family. She’s bearing her soul to give you advice.” “Don’t be a brat.” I looked down at his hand on my arm. A sudden, overwhelming sense of absurdity washed over me. I didn’t know if Wendy was bearing her soul. But I did know that my wonderful, perfect older brother had absolutely no heart at all. 2. Seeing Justin take her side, Wendy puffed up with renewed confidence. “Whatever. I understand. A multi-million dollar condo is something most people will only ever look at from the sidewalk. It’s natural for you to be jealous.” “This place is going to be in my name. I can’t wait to start decorating…” Right at that moment, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out. A notification lit up the screen. “Dear Ms. Ellis, your real estate deposit refund has been processed. Total amount credited: $4,900,000.” I swiped the notification away, locked the screen, and slipped the phone back into my pocket. “Alright,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Enjoy the new house, you two. I hope the move-in goes smoothly.” I turned and walked out the glass doors. That evening, I had barely stepped out of the shower when my phone rang. It was my mother. “Get over here right now!” she shrieked. The moment I unlocked the door to my mother’s house, before I could even take my shoes off, she lunged at me, digging her nails into my forearm. “Wendy loves the condo! Go back to the developer right now and wire that money!” Before I could process the demand, Justin stood up from the sofa, his face dark with anger. “What the hell was your problem at the sales office today?” “It was your first time meeting Wendy, and you intentionally try to humiliate her?” I stared at him, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. “I humiliated her? She looked me in the eye and called me a whore, Justin. Did you conveniently go deaf?” He scowled, waving a hand dismissively. “She lived in Europe for years! They’re direct over there. Stop being so dramatic!” “Besides, so what if she gave you a little tough love? She meant well!” I felt a cold smile stretch across my face. “I’m being dramatic?” “Fine.” I locked eyes with him. “Since she loves the condo so much, you guys can buy it yourselves. Why are you asking me for the money?” Justin’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. My mother’s face hardened into the familiar, terrifying mask of disappointment. “How dare you speak to your brother that way?” “Justin is the man of this house! He is the foundation of this family! Is it going to kill you to defer to him for once?” A laugh clawed its way up my throat. “Why is he always right?” “Why am I always the one who has to bleed for him?” My mother’s voice turned to ice. “Because a family needs a man to hold it up!” “What good is relying on a girl? You’ll just leave us anyway.” I looked at her. I didn’t say a word. It was a script I knew by heart. I had heard those words for years. When my dad was dying, they said the family needed a caretaker. They forced me to drop out of college. Later, I clawed my way back, finishing my undergrad purely on merit scholarships, working until my bones ached. Then my dad passed. I was accepted into a fully-funded Master’s program in the UK. I thought I had finally made it. I thought the nightmare was over. But I didn’t go. Because they went into my bank account, drained the four years of savings I had bled for, and used it to bribe recruiters and buy expensive networking club memberships to secure Justin—the golden boy—a cushy corporate job. When I found out and screamed at them, my mother said the exact same thing she was saying now. What’s the point of a girl reading so many books? A family relies on its men. They broke my wings, forcing me to abandon my education and plunge into the workforce just to survive. I stood in the hallway, looking at the two of them. I opened my mouth to fight, to scream, to demand justice. But the fire went out. It was just exhausting. I nodded slowly. “I have to go back to work.” I turned to leave. Justin chased me to the doorway. “Look at your goddamn attitude! You make a few bucks and suddenly you think you’re better than us?” “Running around all night—God only knows what shady things you’re actually doing!” 3. Early the next morning, having pulled an all-nighter, I had barely fallen asleep in my own apartment when my bedroom door was shoved open. My mother stood in the doorway, her face stormy. Justin and Wendy were right behind her. Wendy’s eyes immediately darted to a jacket hanging on the back of my chair. “I knew it. I wasn’t seeing things.” “That was her last night.” I pushed myself up on my elbows, my head throbbing, squinting at them. “Excuse me? Do you not know how to knock? How did you even get in here?” Wendy let out a derisive snort. “Your apartment. Right. Sounds so independent. We all know a man pays for this.” Justin stepped forward and threw his phone onto my duvet. “Is this you?” The screen was lit up. It was a blurry, zoomed-in photo taken in a dimly lit, high-end restaurant. Crystal wine glasses, dark wood. I was sitting in the center of a table, surrounded by a group of older men. I opened my mouth to speak, but my mother beat me to it, her face pale with horror. “Is that you?” I nodded slowly. “Yes, but that was last night at—” Wendy cut me off, her voice triumphant. “I told you! I told you both, and you didn’t believe me! Margot Ellis, you are a disgrace to the concept of the modern, independent woman.” I just stared at her, genuinely disoriented. “I was there for work.” Wendy sneered. “Oh, right. You were there to…” She leaned in, her eyes gleaming with malice, and over-enunciated the word. “…work.” I was so angry I actually laughed. “Are you implying that anyone who goes to a fine dining restaurant is doing sex work?” “Because you were clearly there too. So what does that make you?” Justin stepped in, vibrating with irritation. “How dare you compare yourself to Wendy? She has a European pedigree. She’s a wealth manager. It’s completely normal for her to entertain clients at places like that.” “But you?” I looked at him. I really looked at him. And the laughter bubbled out of me again, quiet and sharp. “You’re right. I could have had a European pedigree, too.” “Care to remind everyone why I didn’t get to go?” My mother slammed her hand against the doorframe. “Enough! How many times do I have to say it? Why does a girl need a fancy degree?” I stared her down. “Then why did Justin insist on marrying a woman who has one?” My mother’s expression darkened. “That is entirely different. Justin is marrying a woman to bring prestige into this family.” “You are eventually going to be married off. You are an outsider.” The room went dead silent. I didn’t say anything else. There was a physical weight on my chest, pressing down so hard I could barely breathe. Seeing my face shut down, my mother softened her tone, adopting a manipulative cadence. “Look, whatever you’re doing, just go to the developer today and transfer the money for the condo.” “Don’t drag your brother down when he needs you most.” I didn’t answer. They took my silence as submission, turning and filing out of my apartment. As the front door clicked shut, I could hear the faint murmur of my neighbors in the hallway. My mother had left the door open just long enough. “I had no idea Ms. Ellis was in that kind of business…” “It has to be true. Her own family just said it…” I sat alone on the edge of my bed. Slowly, my hands uncurled from the fists they had formed. I fell backward onto the mattress. The ceiling was perfectly, blankly white. My mind was a chaotic storm. For so many years, I had bled myself dry, working to the bone to prove my worth to this family. To prove I belonged. And all it bought me was one word. Outsider. 4. I turned off my phone, packed a duffel bag, and drove up the coast for two days. I needed to breathe. I needed to stop caring. A few days later, the moment I walked back into the city and switched my phone on, my mother called. I braced myself for a screaming match, but to my surprise, her voice was sickeningly sweet. “You’re back. Come to dinner. We’re celebrating.” Against my better judgment, a lingering, pathetic sliver of hope made me go. When I pushed open the door to the private dining room at the restaurant, my mother beamed. “There she is. We were just waiting for you.” Justin offered a strained, awkward smile. “Look, I was out of line the other day. I apologize. We’re family. We air things out, and we move on.” Wendy chimed in, flashing a practiced, glossy smile. “Don’t be mad at me, Margot. You know I’m just too honest for my own good. Water under the bridge, right?” I sat down, watching their terrible community theater performance with a blank expression. I didn’t say a word. People who want nothing don’t act this nice. Sure enough, before the appetizers even hit the table, Justin couldn’t hold it in anymore. “So, Margot, about the house situation…” I put my water glass down. The clink was loud in the quiet room. “I don’t have the money.” Justin’s face tightened, but he forced the smile back onto his lips. “I know you’re still upset. It’s fine. We actually thought about it.” He paused, clearing his throat. “We don’t need the new condo.” “We’ll just take your apartment.” I stared at him. For a second, I genuinely thought I had misheard him. “Excuse me?” He spoke with the casual entitlement of a prince demanding a peasant’s harvest. “We talked it over. Your place is huge. It’s a complete waste of space for a single woman.” “Just transfer the deed to us, and we’ll use it as our marital home.” I let out a slow, dark chuckle. “And where exactly do I go?” My mother jumped in, completely unfazed. “You can just rent a studio somewhere! It’s not a big deal.” “It’s not like you have a real career tying you to that neighborhood.” I laughed out loud. I couldn’t stop. Justin’s face instantly turned thunderous. “If you consider us family, you won’t make this difficult for us.” I leaned back in my chair, the laughter dying in my throat, replaced by a glacial calm. “Absolutely not.” Wendy, having suppressed her true nature for an agonizing ten minutes, finally snapped. “Forget it, Justin! I wouldn’t live in that apartment anyway. God knows what kind of filth has been in it!” I nodded agreeably. “You’re right. You shouldn’t live in my apartment.” “You’re a strong, independent woman with a European pedigree, aren’t you? Buy your own.” Her face froze. The next second, her gaze snapped toward the hallway outside the open door of the private room. Her eyes lit up like floodlights. “Oh my god, what timing. That’s the Managing Director of my bank branch.” She turned back to Justin, vibrating with excitement. “He told me he’s introducing me to a massive new client today.” “Once I close this portfolio, we can buy whatever house we want.” Justin practically puffed out his chest. “Exactly. That’s my girl. She’s got real talent.” “That European education really pays off. Even the Director worships her.” My mother piled on, shooting me a look of deep disgust. “Look at you. You have no idea how to navigate the world. When your brother and Wendy are wealthy and successful, you’re going to come crawling back.” Wendy tossed her hair, looking at me with pure venom. “Well, some of us actually have to rely on talent.” “Unlike others.” I didn’t say anything. At that exact moment, the Managing Director stepped into the private room. Wendy shot up from her chair, her face contorting into an eager, sycophantic grin. “Director! It’s so—” The man didn’t even look at her. He walked right past her extended hand and stopped dead in front of my chair. “Ms. Ellis!” His voice was breathless with respect. “That massive corporate deposit we discussed last week—do you have an idea of when you might want to finalize the paperwork?”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “433131”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When consciousness finally clawed its way back to me, the sterile scent of antiseptic filled my lungs. I was lying in a hospital bed. Sitting in the chair beside me was a strange woman, impeccably dressed in a tailored designer suit. Polite and eager to piece things together, I cleared my throat and asked if she was the employer I was supposed to be interviewing with for the live-in housekeeper position. The color drained from her face instantly. Her voice trembled as she demanded to know what the hell I was talking about. A spike of panic hit me. I scrambled to explain that my memory was a blank slate—a void—and the only coherent thought floating in the wreckage of my mind was that I was supposed to be interviewing for a job as a live-in nanny. She lunged forward, her manicured hand reaching for mine. Reflexively, I recoiled, pulling my hand back into the safety of the scratchy hospital blanket, and quietly reminded her to maintain professional boundaries. When I finally returned to that sprawling, modern estate with her, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the people living there were looking at me with eyes full of a strange, heavy history. I fell into a routine. Every morning, I was out of bed by five to prep breakfast. I addressed the woman of the house with a respectful “Ms. Croft,” and referred to the handsome male guest who was always lingering around as “Mr. Blake.” Over time, the way Mr. Blake looked at me shifted. The smug, self-satisfied smirk he wore during my first few days slowly curdled into a nervous, uneasy apprehension. There was a little girl in the house, too. Once, she ran up, arms outstretched, wanting to hug me. The moment was agonizingly awkward; I gently pushed her away by the shoulders, explaining in a soft voice that my employment contract strictly prohibited casual physical contact with my charges. She burst into catastrophic tears. Ms. Croft constantly stared at me, her gaze piercing and heavy. I assumed I was underperforming, that the house wasn’t clean enough or the meals weren’t up to standard, so I doubled down. I scrubbed harder. I cooked better. Until late one night. I was carrying a tray of chamomile tea toward the study when I accidentally caught the tail end of Ms. Croft’s phone conversation through the crack in the oak door. “Doctor, when is he going to get his memory back? I don’t know how much longer I can take this…” Her voice broke, thick with quiet, desperate sobs. “He used to love me so much. He worshipped me. And now… he looks at me like I’m a complete stranger.” Standing alone in the dimly lit hallway, the tray shaking slightly in my hands, I went entirely still. 1 I was up by five, as usual. Before the car accident, my last cohesive memory was that I worked as a housekeeper for a wealthy family, spending my days cooking and caring for a mother and daughter. Since I was out of the hospital, I figured I just needed to put my head down and do the job I was paid to do. I crept down the sweeping, architectural staircase. The kitchen was still swallowed in pre-dawn shadows. I opened the massive double-door refrigerator, marveling at the endless shelves of high-end ingredients. I bypassed the caviar and truffles, opting instead for eggs, some oats, and fresh berries to make a standard, unassuming breakfast. I was just finishing the oatmeal when the soft padding of footsteps sounded behind me. I turned. Ms. Croft was standing in the doorway. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with dark circles that spoke of a sleepless night. “You’re up early, Ms. Croft,” I said, offering a polite, deferential nod. She stared at me, a cold, bitter laugh escaping her lips. “You’re putting on quite the performance,” she said. I blinked, genuinely lost. “Excuse me?” She crossed the marble floor, invading my space. “Do you honestly think faking amnesia after a car crash is going to give you a clean slate? Is this your twisted way of starting over?” I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. “Ms. Croft, I assure you, my memory is completely gone…” “Save it.” She cut me off, her voice dropping to a glacial chill. “A few weeks ago you were screaming for a divorce, and today you’re playing the subservient little nanny?” Her hostility physically pushed me back. I took a step away, pressing my spine against the cool granite counter. She pressed on. “You want pity, don’t you? You want me drowning in guilt. You want Sophie to look at you and cry because her heart breaks for you.” “I don’t—” “I know exactly what you’re doing.” Her eyes were shards of ice. “Gideon Wright, I’ll give you credit for being manipulative, but this? This is pathetic.” My mouth opened, but the words withered in my throat. I didn’t know what to say. The oatmeal was ready. I served three bowls and arranged them meticulously on the massive dining table. Ms. Croft sat at the head of the table, not even glancing at the food I’d prepared. “You used to make breakfasts that looked like they belonged in a Michelin-starred restaurant,” she muttered. “And now I get this?” I rubbed my palms anxiously against my apron. “I… I only know how to make the basics…” “Keep it up, then.” She picked up her spoon, took a single, reluctant bite, and dropped it back into the bowl with a clatter. “Even the taste is wrong.” I stood there, suffocating in my inability to explain myself. Salvation, or so I thought, came from upstairs. The sound of crying. The little girl was awake. I hurried up the stairs and pushed open the door to the custom-designed pastel bedroom. Sophie was sitting up in bed. The second her eyes locked onto mine, fresh tears spilled over her cheeks. “Daddy…” she wailed. I knelt by the edge of her bed, keeping a respectful distance. “Miss, what’s wrong?” She froze. The tears stopped for a fraction of a second before returning with double the force. “Why are you calling me ‘Miss’… I’m Sophie…” I was entirely out of my depth. All I could do was offer a stiff, awkward pat on her small shoulder. Ms. Croft appeared in the doorway, her presence casting a long, cold shadow over the room. “Drop the act,” she commanded. “Sophie, ignore him. He’s just putting on a play.” The little girl looked frantically between her mother and me, her sobs escalating into hiccups. I stood up, the air in the room suddenly too thin to breathe. “I… I’ll just head back downstairs, then.” “Stop right there,” Ms. Croft ordered. “Where exactly have you been sleeping?” “In the staff quarters.” A harsh, mocking sound scraped the back of her throat. “You really are committed to the bit.” I kept my eyes glued to the floorboards. “Do whatever you want,” she said. “But don’t think for a second this is going to make me go soft on you.” Breakfast was an exercise in pure tension. Sophie kept staring at me over her bowl, her tears dripping silently into her oatmeal. Ms. Croft refused to acknowledge my existence. Once they finished, I cleared my throat, carefully choosing my moment. “Ms. Croft, if you don’t mind me asking… what exactly is my salary?” She slowly raised her head. She looked at me as if I had sprouted a second head. “Your salary?” she repeated. A humorless, incredulous smile stretched across her face. “Gideon, you really know how to find new ways to astound me.” Her words were a puzzle I didn’t have the pieces to solve. “Whatever. Play whatever game you want.” She stood up abruptly, smoothing down her skirt. “But don’t expect me to be a willing participant.” She grabbed her designer bag and walked out the front door. Sophie scrambled out of her chair and ran upstairs, leaving me entirely alone in the cavernous dining room. I stared at the half-eaten bowls of oatmeal, a profound sense of bewilderment washing over me. Were these people completely insane? 2 Over the next few days, Ms. Croft’s attitude toward me shifted from aggressive to purely frigid. It didn’t bother me. I was just the hired help. My job was to keep my head down, do the work, and stay out of the crossfire. Once I saved up enough cash, I’d put in my notice and leave. By noon, I was in the kitchen prepping lunch. Sophie was sitting on the living room rug, building a tower out of wooden blocks. When she saw me, she aggressively turned her back. Tristan Blake was lounging on the plush sectional. He flashed me an easy, perfectly white smile. “Need a hand in there, Gideon?” I shook my head, maintaining professional courtesy. “No, thank you, Mr. Blake. I have it under control.” His smile faltered for a microsecond before he nodded, leaning back into the cushions. I brought the food to the dining room. A simple shrimp fried rice and a side of sautéed greens. Sophie climbed into her chair, eyed the plate, and wrinkled her nose. “Uncle Tristan’s cooking is way better,” she mumbled to her lap. I stood by the sideboard, clasping my hands behind my back, letting the comment slide off me. Ms. Croft walked in from work. She took one look at the table and her meticulously arched eyebrows drew together. “This is it?” I nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.” She let out a breath of air that was half-scoff, half-sigh, and sat down. Sophie took two small bites of the fried rice. Suddenly, she dropped her fork and clutched her stomach. “Sophie?” Tristan was out of his seat in a second. Her face was rapidly turning an angry, blotchy red. A constellation of hives was blooming across her neck. Ms. Croft’s chair scraped violently against the floor. She scooped her daughter up in one fluid motion, sprinting toward the door. “To the hospital! Now!” Panic hijacked my nervous system. I ran out the door right behind them. The ride was a blur. Ms. Croft drove like a demon, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her jaw locked. I sat in the back with Sophie, watching the little girl wheeze and squirm, my chest tight with a helpless kind of terror. At the ER, the doctors administered an epinephrine shot. The diagnosis was swift and definitive: a severe shellfish allergy. Ms. Croft turned slowly to face me in the sterile hospital corridor. Her eyes were murderous. “You fed her shrimp?” I flinched. “I… I didn’t know the young miss was allergic…” “You didn’t know?” She let out a bark of a laugh that held zero humor. “You are her father. How could you not know?” The accusation hit me like a physical blow. “But… I really don’t remember…” “Drop it.” She slashed a hand through the air. “Gideon, do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I don’t see right through this?” She stepped closer, her voice a venomous hiss. “This is your way of getting back at me, isn’t it? Putting our daughter in danger just to make me feel like a failure?” I shook my head frantically. “No, I swear…” “Enough.” She spun on her heel and pushed through the doors to the pediatric bay, leaving me stranded under the flickering fluorescent lights. Tristan walked over, his hands shoved deep into his designer denim pockets. He offered me a soft, pitying sigh. “Gideon, man, I know you’re hurting,” he said softly. “But pulling a stunt like this… is it really worth it?” I stared at him, the gears in my brain grinding on nothing. He tilted his head, giving me a look of practiced sympathy. “Using this amnesia act to try and win Patricia back is only going to push her further away. It’s toxic.” I blinked, the confusion turning into genuine frustration. “I’m not trying to win her back. I don’t even know her.” “You don’t have to play the part with me.” He offered a sad, knowing smile. “Look, Gideon, as a friend? I think you should just give up. Patricia is completely done with you. No matter how deep into this character you go, it’s not going to change anything.” With that, he slipped into the hospital room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. I stood alone in the hallway, the ambient noise of the hospital fading into white noise. Nothing made sense. When we finally got back to the house, I retreated to my small room, locked the door, and pulled out my phone. I typed my own name into the search bar: Gideon Wright. The top hit was a society gossip piece from a digital tabloid. “Billionaire Wright Heir’s Cinderella Marriage Hitting the Rocks After Seven Years?” I clicked the link, my heart hammering a chaotic rhythm against my ribs. According to the article, Gideon Wright was the sole heir to the massive Wright Enterprises. Seven years ago, in a move that scandalized high society, he turned his back on his family’s wealth to marry an entry-level employee named Patricia Croft. After the wedding, he stepped down as Vice President, resigning himself to the role of a stay-at-home husband. Meanwhile, Patricia leveraged her wealthy father-in-law’s connections to build her own corporate empire from the ground up. Three years ago, Gideon’s parents died in a tragic aviation accident. He inherited an obscene fortune. Recently, the tabloids were swirling with rumors of an impending, messy divorce. I stared at the glowing screen, a profound sense of detachment settling over me. My first, instinctual thought was: This Gideon guy is a total idiot. He had all that money, all that power, and he threw it away to become a house-pet for a woman who clearly used him? 3 Ms. Croft—Patricia—hired a new private chef. She was a middle-aged woman who treated me with an uncomfortable level of reverence. “Mr. Wright, what would you like for dinner?” she asked on her first day. I stiffened. “Oh, no, I’m not…” “Don’t mind him, Maria,” Tristan chimed in from the kitchen island, nursing a glass of scotch. “He’s just really into cosplaying as the help right now. Just call him Mr. Wright.” Maria looked thoroughly bewildered but offered a slow, hesitant nod. Since the hospital incident, Sophie treated me like I was radioactive. Once, I saw her struggling to reach a puzzle box on a high shelf. I picked it up and held it out to her. She slapped it out of my hands, the box hitting the hardwood and spilling pieces everywhere. “Don’t touch my things!” she screamed. Patricia was standing in the doorway. She watched the entire exchange, offered a cold, satisfied smirk, and walked away without a word. Later that week, the house was empty. I decided to tackle the deep cleaning of the mahogany-paneled study. I pushed open the heavy double doors and started dusting the massive built-in bookshelves. They were cluttered with leather-bound books and silver-framed photographs. Halfway through the second shelf, I picked up a photo. It was Patricia and Tristan. They were on a boat somewhere tropical, the wind in their hair, their arms wrapped around each other, laughing with an intimacy that felt almost intrusive to look at. I frowned and kept scanning the shelves. There were at least seven or eight photos of the two of them. It took me ten minutes of searching to find a single photo of Patricia with “Gideon Wright,” shoved unceremoniously behind a stack of hardcovers in the darkest corner of the room. I snorted to myself. The dynamic between those two was aggressively obvious. How on earth did the ‘man of the house’ tolerate this level of blatant disrespect? My internal rejection of my supposed identity solidified. There was no way I was this Gideon guy. I simply did not possess that level of romantic martyrdom. While organizing the heavy oak desk, I slid open the bottom drawer and found a black Moleskine notebook. Curiosity got the better of me. I flipped it open. The very first entry was a single, jagged line of ink: “Why isn’t she home yet…” I turned the pages. They were filled with the manic, suffocating scribbles of a man drowning in his own life. “3:00 AM. I’ve been sitting in the dark living room all night.” “Tristan is back today. He swears they’re just friends, but if that’s true, why does he practically live in our house?” “Sophie told me she wishes Uncle Tristan was her dad. I think my heart actually stopped beating.” I stared at the handwriting. God, what a disaster. Breaking yourself in half for someone who won’t even look at you? It was pathetic. I’d rather scrub toilets for minimum wage than live like this. I flipped toward the back of the book. “We fought again today. She told me I was being completely irrational.” “Is it irrational to just want an explanation? To want my wife to act like my wife?” “Sophie defended him today. She called me the bad guy. She called me a monster.” “I’m so exhausted…” The handwriting devolved into a frantic scrawl toward the end. The paper was warped in places, the ink blurred. Teardrops. I turned to the very last page. Four words, pressed so hard into the paper the pen had nearly torn through. “I want a divorce.” I snapped the book shut. Finally. Some sense. Whoever this guy was, he was right. Divorce was the only sane option. I shoved the notebook back into the drawer. Whoever this pathetic, weeping, lovesick man was, he wasn’t me. Dinner that night was an exercise in silent endurance. Sophie kept shooting me these heavy, tear-filled glances from across the table. “Daddy…” she whispered suddenly, her voice barely carrying over the clinking of silverware. I looked up. “Did you… did you really forget about me?” she asked, her bottom lip trembling violently. I froze, caught in the headlights of a child’s grief. I didn’t know what the right answer was. Patricia set her wine glass down. She stared at me, a dangerous, fragile spark of anticipation flickering in her eyes. I opened my mouth, closed it, and finally, gave a slow, honest nod. Sophie shattered. She let out a devastating wail. Tristan was out of his chair in a second, wrapping his arms around her. “Hey, shh, Sophie, it’s okay, I’m here…” “Miss Sophie,” I offered, trying to be helpful. “You mentioned you prefer Mr. Blake anyway. So… it works out, right? You have him.” Sophie stopped crying for a fraction of a second, her face twisting in pure shock, before bolting from the table and running upstairs. Patricia stood up slowly. Her face was a mask of cold fury. “Have you had enough of this sick game?” she demanded, her voice vibrating with anger. “Torturing your own daughter just to make a point?” She didn’t wait for an answer before storming up the stairs after Sophie. The dining room descended into a heavy silence. Just me and Tristan. He let out a long, theatrical sigh and leaned back in his chair. “Gideon, man. Why do this to yourself?” I just looked at him, completely unbothered. He stood up, walking around the table until he was standing right next to me. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Patricia actually does care about you.” “She’s just… you’ve disappointed her so deeply these last few years. You smothered her.” He gave my shoulder a patronizing pat and headed for the stairs. I sat there, watching him go, shaking my head. What is there to pretend about? She might care about me, but the problem is, I don’t give a damn about her. 4 For the next few days, the temperature in the house rose a few degrees. Patricia stopped throwing sarcastic barbs my way, but she didn’t engage with me either. It was as if I truly had become a piece of the furniture—a real employee. That morning, Tristan ambushed me in the living room. “Gideon. We need to talk,” he said, his tone serious. We sat opposite each other. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, looking the picture of earnest vulnerability. “Patricia and I… we were college sweethearts,” he began.

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The resignation letter in my pocket felt heavy, its edges softened and frayed from where I’d been nervously gripping it all morning. “And now, for the grand finale—the award for ‘Least Valuable Player’!” The announcement was met with a heartbeat of stunned silence before the room erupted into a roar of laughter. I looked up. There, dead center on the massive LED screen, was my name—Casey Morgan—followed by a jarring, bright red number: 87. There are exactly eighty-seven employees at this firm. I had received a unanimous vote. “Casey, come on up! Don’t be shy!” Regina, our Department Director, called out with a playful, mocking glint in her eyes. She waved me toward the stage like a queen summoning a court jester. I took a sharp, steadying breath, stood up, and began the long, humiliating walk to the podium. When I reached her, she handed me a weighted plastic trophy. The words KING OF SLACKERS were etched into the base in a font that screamed cheap novelty. I forced a smile for the crowd. No one in that room knew that I was already halfway out the door. 1. The trophy was spray-painted gold, the kind of plastic that feels greasy to the touch. A thermal-printed label was crookedly stuck to the base: Annual Office Ghost — Casey Morgan. I held it in both hands as the flashes went off. It wasn’t the press; it was my coworkers, their iPhones out, capturing the moment for the company Slack channel. “Post it! Post it!” someone yelled. “Smile, Casey! Don’t look so miserable, it’s a joke!” I smiled. It was the kind of smile you wear at a funeral when you’re the only one who knows the deceased left you everything in the will. Regina thrust the microphone into my hand. “Well? Speech?” I took it. The feedback hummed for a second. “Thank you, everyone.” Four words. That was all they got. I handed the mic back and walked off the stage to an even louder wave of jeering. “God, is he actually mad?” “Relax, it’s just team building.” “That’s just Casey. Zero sense of humor.” I slumped back into my seat and set the plastic monstrosity on the table. Parker, the department’s golden boy, leaned over and clapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t take it personally, man. It’s just a game.” “Right,” I muttered. “Look at me,” he gestured to the three trophies at his place. Most Popular. Best Creative Lead. Top Sales Support. His trophies were brushed stainless steel with solid walnut bases. Mine was the only one made of plastic. The award had been a last-minute addition. Regina had suggested it during the retreat planning to “lighten the mood with some reverse-psychology humor.” The voting was anonymous, handled through a third-party app. Eighty-seven votes. Every single person—the receptionist, the janitorial lead, the interns, the CEO—had clicked my name. I didn’t need to ask why. I already knew the answer. In this company, I was a ghost. No one knew what I actually did. Regina didn’t know, Parker didn’t know, HR didn’t know. Even Payroll, when they cut my check every month, probably wondered why they were shelling out a mid-level salary for a man who seemed to spend his day staring at a black screen with green text. I’m a backend developer. On paper, it’s a standard role. But the reality is that I am the sole architect of the company’s core transaction engine. The system handles thirty million data points a day. It supports eighty percent of the company’s revenue streams. Without it, the front-end website is a blank white page. Without it, every “Buy Now” click results in a 404 error. Without it, the million dollars that flows into the company’s accounts every single day would simply vanish into the ether. But that system hasn’t crashed in three years. And because it hasn’t crashed, everyone forgot it existed. It’s like the plumbing in your house—you never think about the pipes until the day your floor is underwater. The retreat continued. Regina was on stage handing out three-thousand-dollar bonuses to the top performers. The room erupted in applause. Parker got two thousand for “Creative Excellence.” Someone in the back screamed, “Legend!” I sat in the corner, picking at a piece of fruit. My phone buzzed in my pocket. System Alert: Server memory usage exceeding threshold. Cache clearing required. I pulled out my laptop, established an SSH connection to the server, and typed a few lines of bash script. Three minutes later, the memory levels dipped back into the green. Crisis averted. I looked up. The party was still roaring. No one noticed what I’d just done. No one noticed that if I’d waited thirty minutes, every customer order processed tomorrow morning would have been corrupted. I shut the laptop. The intern next to me, a girl named Maya, glanced at me. “Seriously, Casey? You brought your laptop to a retreat?” “Force of habit,” I said. “Must be nice,” she laughed, turning back to the stage. “Having so little to do that you can just play on your computer all night.” By 10 PM, the retreat was winding down. On the shuttle bus back to the city, everyone was busy posting to Instagram. I scrolled through my feed. I saw Parker’s post: Current mood: Grateful! Best Creative Award in the bag! Love this team! Regina had liked it instantly. Comment: So well deserved! I saw Nicole’s post: Top Sales! Keep grinding! Regina liked that one, too. I didn’t post anything. I was busy reading the PDF of my resignation letter. I’d written it three days ago. Tonight, I was finally going to hit ‘Send.’ 2. I’d hesitated when I wrote the letter. Three years is a long time in tech. When I joined in 2021, the company was a scrappy startup. The dev team was five people. I was the third hire. Back then, we were short on everything—front-end, DevOps, QA. I did it all. I built the transaction engine from scratch. I designed the database schema. I wrote the monitoring scripts. I built the automated backup system. The night the first version went live, I stayed in the office until 4 AM. Regina wasn’t the Director then; she was a team lead. She’d patted me on the back and said, “Casey, keep this up and the company will take care of you. You’re the foundation.” I believed her. Year one: business boomed. Transaction volume went from ten thousand a day to a million. The system held. Why? Because I’d built in the scalability. I’d anticipated the load. I’d written the load balancers before we even needed them. At the monthly meeting, Regina said, “Tech is stable. Zero downtime this month.” The CEO nodded, then spent forty minutes talking about a new font choice for the landing page. No one asked why the tech was stable. Year two: we moved to a high-rise downtown. Regina was promoted. The tech team grew to fifteen. Five front-end devs, three back-end, two product managers. The new guys handled the flashy stuff—API integrations, data visualization, third-party hooks. The core architecture remained mine. No one else wanted to touch it because it was “boring.” My code wasn’t flashy. There were no trendy frameworks or buzzword-heavy architectures. It was just rock-solid. So solid that for three years, nothing went wrong. So solid that everyone forgot I was the one keeping it that way. During my annual review, Regina looked at me with a frown. “Casey, your KPIs… honestly, they’re not great.” “In what way?” I asked, genuinely confused. “Look at Nicole. She shipped thirty-eight new API endpoints this year. Parker redesigned twelve major landing pages. Even the new guy, Mark, did seven data reports. And you?” I thought for a second. “I optimized the database indexing three times. I migrated our servers to a more secure VPC. I patched a critical security vulnerability before it was exploited, and I refactored the asynchronous processing logic for the entire payment gateway.” Regina sighed, tapping her pen on the desk. “But how do we quantify that? How does that look on a slide for the board?” “The database optimization increased query speeds by forty percent. The migration ensured zero downtime. If I hadn’t patched that vulnerability, our customer data would have been on the dark web by Tuesday.” “But the board doesn’t see that, Casey. They see what’s broken. And nothing was broken.” She leaned back. “I’m going to be honest. You do things that are invisible. And when things are invisible, it looks like you aren’t doing anything. I need you to be more ‘visible’ next year. Write a blog post. Do a lunch-and-learn. Give us a ‘cool’ project. Let people see you working.” “I’m maintaining the heart of the company,” I said quietly. “I know, I know. But you have to make everyone else know.” My performance rating that year was ‘Needs Improvement.’ The lowest in the department. My bonus was a measly five hundred dollars. Parker took home fifteen thousand. Nicole took home twenty. I didn’t argue. Year three—this year—I asked for a raise. Just a ten percent cost-of-living adjustment. It was the first time I’d asked in three years. The reply from HR was a single sentence: Following a departmental review, your current compensation has been determined to be at market rate for your role and output. I went to Regina’s office. She made me wait outside for forty-five minutes. When I finally got in, she said something I will never forget. “Casey, let’s be real. Your role is highly replaceable. I could hire a fresh grad and have them up to speed in two weeks. There’s just no business case for a raise.” I nodded. I went back to my desk, opened a new Google Doc, and typed the header: RESIGNATION LETTER. 3. I didn’t hand it in immediately. I had to think about what would happen when I left. I looked at the Git logs. The core transaction system consisted of 140,000 lines of code. I had written 92,000 of them personally. Of the remaining 48,000, I had reviewed and refactored nearly 30,000. Essentially, 95% of the system had my fingerprints on it. The catch? The documentation. Or rather, the lack of it. It wasn’t that I was lazy. In year one, there was no time. In year two, Regina told me to “focus on shipping, we’ll document later.” By year three, I’d stopped asking. The logic of those 140,000 lines existed only in my head. The thirty-six database tables, the specific triggers that couldn’t be deleted, the weird legacy dependencies—none of it was written down. The server configurations, the failover protocols, the manual cache-clearing scripts—all of it lived in my brain. I wasn’t trying to sabotage them. There was just no one to hand it off to. Nicole did APIs; she’d never even looked at the database partitioning. Mark did reports; he thought the system ran on “auto-pilot.” The other back-end guy, Dave, had been there a year and still didn’t have the SSH keys for the production server. I’d tried to bring it up. “We really need to document the core architecture,” I’d say at weekly stand-ups. Regina would shrug. “Sure, put a plan together.” I’d put a plan together. I’d estimate two weeks of dedicated work. Regina would shake her head. “We’re too busy with the Q3 rollout. Maybe next quarter.” Next quarter. Next quarter. For three years. The night I finished the resignation letter, I did a final audit. What belonged to the company? The business logic. That stayed. What belonged to me? My personal utility scripts. My automation tools. My custom monitoring dashboard. I had written those using my personal GitHub account. I had used them to make my job easier, but they were my intellectual property, developed independently of their proprietary codebase. Clause 7, Section 3 of my employment contract: Any personal tools or code libraries created by the employee using personal resources, which are not directly part of the Company’s commercial product, remain the property of the employee. My monitoring scripts were on my personal GitHub. My automated deployment pipeline was a fork of my own open-source project. I wasn’t stealing. I was just taking my toolbox home with me. The company had been using my personal tools for three years without paying a cent for the license. I felt zero guilt. The night of the retreat, I went home and printed the letter. I signed it in blue ink. I tucked it into my laptop bag. The next morning, at 9:00 AM sharp, I walked into Regina’s office. “Regina, do you have a second?” “Make it quick, Casey. I have a meeting with the CTO in ten.” I laid the letter on her desk. She squinted at it, then her eyes widened. “You’re quitting?” “Yes.” “This is… sudden. Why now?” “It’s not sudden. I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.” Regina leaned back, a smug little smirk playing on her lips. “Is this about that ‘King of Slackers’ award last night? Casey, it was a joke. Don’t be so sensitive.” I smiled. “It’s not about the award, Regina.” “Then what? Money?” “It’s not about how much. It’s about the fact that I’m done.” “Look, don’t be impulsive. You’ve been here three years. You’re part of the furniture.” “Exactly. And like furniture, you only notice it when it’s gone.” Regina went silent for a few seconds. “Look… I can probably swing a small bump in your salary.” “Don’t bother.” I looked her straight in the eye.

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In my past life, I was the punchline of a joke I didn’t even know was being told. I spent years sandwiched between Berton and Sean, playing the loyal supporting character in a romance that didn’t belong to me. Berton used to tell me he loved me. But the moment I turned down my Ivy League graduate offer to stay by his side, he hopped on a plane to Switzerland with Lila. His goodbye note was a masterpiece of emotional cowardice: “She needs me more than you do.” I cried for three months straight. During those dark days, Sean was the one who showed up at my door with takeout every night. He told me he’d been waiting for me for eight years. I thought I had finally placed the right bet when I married him. He was the perfect husband—home by six, never a stray glance at another woman. Then came the winter of the accident. I spent seven days in a coma in the ICU. He never showed up. Not once. I woke up just long enough to hear the nurses whispering by my bed: “Her husband is here every day, but he never steps foot in this room. He’s next door, taking care of that Lila girl.” It was only then that the pieces clicked into place. The money Berton used to take Lila abroad for her “treatments”? It came from Sean. I wasn’t a wife or a girlfriend; I was just an NPC in their twisted game of devotion to the same woman. When I opened my eyes this time, the first thing I did was burn every photo of Berton. I shredded three years’ worth of Sean’s handwritten letters. I put my house on the market and booked two tickets to London for me and my Nana. I’m done being the footnote. 1 “The woman in Bed 12… it’s heartbreaking. Her husband is here every day, but he won’t even look at her.” “I know. He goes straight to the room next door to see that patient, Lila.” The nurses’ voices drifted through the heavy fog of the ICU. My body was a map of fractures and bruises, and I had been suspended in this half-waking nightmare for a week. My eyes wouldn’t open, but my mind was terrifyingly sharp. I heard the nurses call Sean’s phone over and over. He never came to my side. He was busy protecting someone “more important.” I used to think he was my savior. Turns out, he was just a different kind of cage. I fought to breathe, to scream, to wake up, but my vision faded into the long, flat drone of a heart monitor. When I opened my eyes again, the sun was blinding. I was sitting at my old mahogany desk. The calendar read March—three months before I was supposed to sacrifice my future for Berton. The phone rang. It was the Director of International Programs. “Isabel? I’m calling one last time about the London exchange. Have you made a decision?” My voice didn’t tremble. “Yes. I’m in. Thank you for the opportunity, Professor. I’ll have the paperwork finalized today.” “I’m so glad to hear that,” he said, sounding relieved. “It would have been a tragedy to waste a talent like yours on a whim.” He was right. Throwing my life away for a man wasn’t romantic; it was pathetic. I hung up and immediately dialed a real estate agent. “I want to list my property. Cash buyers only. I need it closed fast.” Ten minutes later, Berton called. His voice was like a cold splash of water—dismissive and entitled. “Izzy, Lila’s senior thesis is falling apart. You’re the best writer I know. Go over to her place and fix it for her.” Always Lila. She was the ghost that haunted every room we ever entered. In my last life, I stayed up for three days straight rewriting her entire project. She won the departmental award. I wasn’t even mentioned in the fine print. Berton’s excuse back then? “Lila’s health is fragile, Izzy. She needs the win for her resume more than you do.” And I had believed him. “Sure,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Send me the files.” “Good girl,” he murmured. The word made my skin crawl. He thought one crumb of affection was enough to keep me on a leash. Later that afternoon, Sean knocked on my door, carrying a bag from the Thai place I used to love. He set the containers out with a practiced, gentle grace. “Eat while it’s hot. I know you’ve been stressed out dealing with Berton and Lila. Don’t burn yourself out.” This was his move. He’d wait for Berton to bruise me, then show up to apply the bandages. “Lila’s project is a big deal,” Sean added, carefully casual. “Berton’s just stressed. The poor girl has been weak since she was a kid; she can’t handle the pressure alone.” They had a thousand reasons for her, and none for me. Lila was fragile, so the world had to stop spinning for her. I took a bite of the pad thai and forced a smile. “I get it, Sean. I won’t make things difficult for Berton.” He looked relieved. He thought I was still the same Isabel—the one who would erode herself until there was nothing left, just to keep them happy. The next day, I didn’t go to Lila’s. I went to the library and began my visa application. While I was scanning documents, I spotted them in the reference section. Lila was leaning into Berton’s chest, her face flushed and glowing—hardly the picture of a dying girl. “Berton, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she chirped. He looked at her with a tenderness I had spent years begging for. “Silly girl,” he whispered. He turned to go grab a coffee and caught my eye. His expression stiffened into a frown. My presence was an inconvenience to his perfect afternoon. I didn’t storm over. I didn’t demand an explanation. I just looked at him, tilted my head, and gave him a polite, hollow smile. Then I turned back to my laptop. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck. I didn’t care. In three months, I’d be an ocean away. 2 I didn’t touch a single word of Lila’s thesis. Two days later, Berton cornered me in the library. He slammed a book down on my table, the sound echoing through the quiet hall. People turned to stare. “Isabel, what the hell? I told you to help Lila. Why are you sitting here reading travel guides?” I looked up at him, then at Lila, who was standing behind him with the most perfectly rehearsed look of innocence. “I’m busy,” I said. “Busy with what? What could possibly be more important than Lila’s graduation?” Berton demanded, pulling her forward like a shield. “She hasn’t slept in days because she’s so worried. And you’re just sitting here, being selfish.” Lila touched his arm, her voice a fragile reed. “Berton, stop. It’s okay. I’m sure Isabel has her own things to do. I’ll just… I’ll figure it out. Even if I fail.” That did it. Berton’s face twisted with rage. “See? She’s more thoughtful than you’ll ever be! Isabel, I’m saying this once: I want that draft finished by the end of the week, or we’re done.” I watched their little performance and nodded slowly. “Understood.” He thought he’d won. He led her away, casting one last disgusted look over his shoulder. I went back to my work. I was fine with being the villain in their story, as long as I was the hero in mine. Eventually, the calls started getting more aggressive. “Isabel, where is it? The deadline is in three days!” Berton shouted into the phone. I turned on the faucet in the kitchen, letting the sound of rushing water fill the silence. “I’m so sorry, Berton. Nana hasn’t been feeling well. I’ve been at the hospital with her all day.” “Lila’s thesis determines her entire future,” he snapped. “Put your family stuff on hold for a second and get this done. If she doesn’t graduate, I’m never forgiving you.” My grandmother, the woman who raised me, didn’t matter to him. Only Lila’s GPA did. “But Berton—” I faked a tremble in my voice. “No buts. Get it done.” He hung up. I turned off the water and looked at my reflection. I couldn’t believe I had almost died for a man who treated me like a ghostwriter for his mistress. The real estate agent called an hour later. The house was sold. All cash. Closing was set for Friday. I needed to move some of Nana’s antique furniture out before the new owners moved in. It was heavy lifting, and I knew I couldn’t do it alone. Naturally, I called the “reliable” Sean. “Sean, are you free? I need to move some of my parents’ old things out of the house. I could really use a hand.” There was a long pause. Then, Sean’s voice came through, strained. “Izzy, I’m so sorry. I’m tied up right now.” In the background, I heard a very distinct, feminine cough. “Lila has a fever,” Sean explained. “I’m at her place making sure she’s okay. Maybe call a moving company? I’ll Venmo you the cost later.” Always her. “Don’t worry about it, Sean,” I said, smiling to myself. “Take care of her.” I hung up and hired professional movers within five minutes. Why beg for help when you can pay for excellence? A few days later, I decided to test the waters one last time. I called Sean, my voice weak and thinned out. “Sean… my stomach is killing me. I’m at the Downtown General ER.” “Don’t move,” he said instantly. “I’m on my way!” I sat on a plastic chair in the ER waiting room, watching the clock. Thirty minutes later, Sean burst through the sliding doors. He was sprinting, his face a mask of panic. But he didn’t even look at the seating area. He ran right past me. He bolted toward the orthopedic wing. I stood up and followed him at a distance. There, in a curtained-off area, sat Lila in a wheelchair. Her ankle was wrapped in a light bandage. She was sobbing. Sean dropped to his knees in front of her, stroking her hair. “Shh, it’s okay. The doctor said it’s just a tiny sprain. You’re going to be fine.” “But it hurts so much,” she whimpered, leaning into him. The way he looked at her—it was more real, more raw, than any look he’d ever given me. My “stomach ache” was a non-event compared to Lila’s bruised ego. I walked up behind them. The air in the room shifted. Sean turned around and froze. “Isabel… what are you doing here?” His eyes darted around, looking for an escape. Lila’s tears vanished instantly, replaced by a glint of pure triumph. “My stomach,” I said, gesturing to myself. “I’m just waiting for my prescription.” “Are you… are you okay?” Sean asked, standing up awkwardly. “I’ll live. Just a chronic issue. Don’t let me interrupt.” I turned and walked away before he could offer a lie. I didn’t need to hear it. I just needed to see it one last time to make sure my heart was truly dead to them. It was. 3 The day I got the wire transfer for the house, the sun was shining. I moved the funds into a private account and finalized my withdrawal from the semester. That Saturday, a mutual friend organized a night at a high-end lounge. I knew Berton and Sean would be there. To keep up appearances and avoid any “missing person” reports before I could flee, I went. We were in a private booth, drinks flowing. Lila, ever the center of attention, grabbed a set of dice. “Let’s play a game! Winner gets to pick two people to do whatever they want!” Predictably, Lila won the first round. She scanned the group with a cat-like grin. “I command Number 2 and Number 5 to recreate the ‘I’m flying’ scene from Titanic. Right here on the table!” I looked at my card. Number 2. Berton scowled and flipped his card. Number 5. The room erupted. “Isabel, this is your lucky night!” someone yelled. “Come on, Berton, give your girl a squeeze!” I was pushed toward the edge of the coffee table. Berton looked like he was being led to a firing squad. Sean was laughing along, though his eyes were cold. “Hurry up, Berton. Don’t keep the lady waiting. Izzy, open your arms.” I stood there, stiff as a board, arms outstretched, eyes closed. I waited for the awkward touch. Instead, I felt a violent shove from behind. Lila had lunged forward, laughing, “Wait, let me help!” The shove sent me off balance. My heels slipped on a spilled drink, and I went down hard. My head cracked against the sharp corner of the marble table. The world went black for a second. As I fell, bottles of champagne and glasses toppled over, drenching me in sticky, freezing liquid and crushed fruit. Silence fell over the booth. Then, I heard it. Berton’s voice, sharp with annoyance. “God, Isabel. You’re so clumsy. Way to ruin the mood.” Sean didn’t move to help. He just frowned. “It was just a game, Izzy. You didn’t have to make a scene.” Not one hand reached out to pull me up. All eyes were on Lila, who was now clutching her hand, her eyes welling with tears. “Oh no, I think I scratched my finger when I tried to catch her! Berton, it hurts!” Berton immediately pulled her to him, his voice melting into honey. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault. She just can’t stand on her own two feet.” I lay there on the cold, wet floor, my head throbbing, my clothes ruined. I didn’t cry. I just quietly got up, wiped the champagne from my eyes, and walked out. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t look back. I had three days until my flight. The third day was my birthday. Maybe the guilt had finally kicked in, or maybe they just wanted to make sure I wasn’t going to hold a grudge. Sean texted: “Happy Birthday, Izzy. 7 PM at The Peak. I booked the corner booth. Let’s celebrate.” A few minutes later, Berton messaged: “Happy Birthday. Lila didn’t mean to push you the other night, don’t be dramatic. We’ll all be there tonight to make it up to you.” I stared at the screen. One last goodbye. “Fine,” I replied to both. That evening, I took a car to the restaurant. It was a beautiful spot overlooking the city lights. This was a repeat of my past life. Back then, I had worn a dress Berton bought me. I had waited at this very table, only for both of them to vanish before the appetizers arrived because Lila had called saying she felt “faint.” I had waited until the restaurant closed. No calls. No texts. Just the sympathetic looks of the waiters and the crushing weight of my own stupidity. Later, I saw a post on Instagram. Lila, in a tiara, holding a cake. Berton and Sean were on either side of her, looking at her like she was the moon. The caption read: “Emergency cake party with my two favorite knights! Who says you need a birthday to be a princess?” My birthday didn’t matter. Her “impromptu” celebration did. 4 “Isabel? You’re staring into space.” Sean’s voice snapped me back to the present. He and Berton were sitting across from me. The food had been served, but the air was thick with unspoken tension. Sean raised his glass. “Izzy, I’m sorry about the lounge. This is to you. Happy Birthday.” Berton didn’t apologize, but he didn’t snap either. He just looked at me with a confusing, heavy gaze. Then, the inevitable happened. Sean’s phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, and his face went pale. He answered immediately. “What? Fainted? Which hospital?” He hung up and looked at me, the familiar script of “I’m sorry” already forming on his lips. “Izzy, I’m so sorry. Lila… she had a blood sugar crash. She’s in the ER. I have to go.” Before I could even blink, Berton was already standing up, jacket in hand. He looked at Sean. “I’m coming too. You might need help handling the paperwork.” Like clockwork. For the second time in two lifetimes, they were abandoning me on my birthday for the same woman. “Isabel, stay here and eat,” Sean promised, already halfway to the door. “We’ll be back as soon as she’s stable. I swear!” They bolted. The heavy doors of the private dining room swung shut, leaving me in total silence. I looked at the table full of expensive food. I didn’t wait a single second. I grabbed my coat and signaled the waiter. “Check, please.” I stepped out into the night air. It was cold, but for the first time in my life, I felt like I could actually breathe. I took out my phone and did what I should have done years ago. Berton: Blocked. Sean: Blocked. Lila: Blocked. I took a taxi straight home. The house was empty now. Just a few suitcases belonging to me and Nana. No furniture, no memories, no ghosts. I stripped off the expensive dress I was wearing—the one they liked—and threw it directly into the trash can. Along with it went every last shred of my feelings for Berton. I went into Nana’s room. She was asleep, her breathing steady. I tucked the blanket around her and kissed her forehead. “Nana, this time, I’m taking you somewhere where nobody can hurt us.” I didn’t sleep that night. I checked our passports and tickets a dozen times. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I woke her up gently. “Nana, we’re going on a trip. A long one. You ready?” She smiled, her eyes a bit foggy but full of love. “Wherever you go, Izzy. That’s where I belong.” At the airport, the morning light felt like a benediction. I held Nana’s hand as we walked toward the gate. Goodbye, Berton. Goodbye, Sean. And Lila? Good luck. You’re going to need it when your two “knights” realize their favorite prize is finally out of reach.

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I was the woman Beckett Thorne had jilted seven times. In our social circle, I wasn’t a person; I was a punchline. Then came Cade Sterling. He showed up with his entire empire in tow, offering me a ring and a promise of sanctuary. He told me he was “born under a dark star”—a man shadowed by a string of personal tragedies and bad luck. At the time, I didn’t care about the superstitions. I thought I’d finally found a soul as bruised as my own. I thought it was love. The first year of our marriage, a freak car accident left me shattered. The second year, I lost the baby. My entire world collapsed into a heap of sterile hospital sheets and grief. Even then, I clung to the wreckage. I chose to believe these were just the cruel whims of fate, the “dark star” he’d warned me about. Until tonight. April Fool’s Day. The party was in full swing when the mask finally slipped. A group of men had Cade cornered near the bar, raucously demanding to know why a man of his stature had insisted on marrying a “seven-time loser” like me. Cade laughed. It was a light, effortless sound, but his eyes drifted toward Bella, who was standing just a few feet away. “Bella was so obsessed with Beckett,” he said, his voice casual, as if discussing the weather. “I had to clear the board for her. Removing the competition was just… strategic.” Bella’s eyes welled with tears as she threw herself into his arms. “So the ‘bad luck’ was all an act? You did all that for me?” The room went bone-chillingly silent. I felt the blood drain from my limbs, leaving me cold as ice. Cade stepped toward me, reaching out to ruffle my hair with that familiar, patronizing tenderness. “Happy April Fool’s, babe. Don’t take it so hard.” I recoiled, breaking his touch. My voice came out flat, a dead sea of calm. “I want a divorce. And this time, Cade, I’m not playing.” … Cade’s expression darkened instantly. “Norah, don’t be dramatic. Don’t throw a tantrum.” Sensing the shift in the room, Bella wiped her eyes and reached for my hand. “Norah, please don’t be mad. Cade was just joking. Don’t let a little prank ruin what you two have because of me.” Before tonight, I would have believed her. Cade’s “devotion” had been armor I wore against the world. He was the man who had flown eight hours across the country just to make sure I took my medicine when I was flu-ridden. He was the man who stayed awake through time zones just to hear me say “goodnight” because I’d once mentioned feeling insecure. I looked at him now. That handsome face felt like a stranger’s mask. “Divorce,” I repeated. “I’ll have the papers drawn up. I don’t want a dime of your money.” Norah only married Cade for the money. I’d heard it a thousand times. In the breakroom at his office, at every gala, even from his own mother’s lips. Cade had never silenced the rumors. Every time I heard them, my guilt had only deepened, driving me to love him harder, to prove I wasn’t the gold-digger they thought I was. Cade stared at me, his eyes narrowing into slits. “Fine. If we’re doing a ‘truth session,’ let’s go all the way.” “The car accident? I arranged it. The injuries wouldn’t have been permanent if I hadn’t intentionally delayed signing the surgery consent forms. I needed you off the board so Bella wouldn’t have to compete with you in the gala circuit.” My breath hitched. He wasn’t done. “The miscarriage? The prenatal reports were faked. The baby was perfectly healthy. But you having a child would have complicated Bella’s standing in the family inheritance. The day of your surgery, I wasn’t ‘away on business.’ I was out helping Bella find her lost puppy.” Bella squeezed my hand, her voice a saccharine whine. “Norah, he’s just talking out of anger. You know you’re his number one.” The onlookers whispered, their eyes full of envy—not for me, but for Bella. They marveled at the lengths a man would go to for his “true” obsession. They all knew. They all saw it. And I was the only one standing in the wreckage of my own life. It felt like a physical blade through the chest. Because of that “accident,” I’d lost my career as a professional ballerina. Cade had “generously” hired the best medical teams for my rehab, making himself a saint in the eyes of the public. When I lost the baby and the doctors said I could likely never conceive again, Cade had poured millions into a bio-tech lab for artificial womb research, claiming he just wanted us to have a family. People called him the husband of the century. It was all a lie. A curated, expensive performance. I had pitied him for his “dark star.” I had sacrificed my body and my dreams for a ghost. I dug my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to scream. “Norah,” Bella chirped, eyeing my neck. “That necklace is so unique. Can I have it?” I instinctively reached for the emerald pendant. Cade had given it to me, claiming he’d climbed a mountain to a secluded monastery to have it blessed for my protection. I’d never taken it off. “Norah, for God’s sake,” Cade snapped. “You’re the older sister. Can’t you just let her have one thing?” Before I could move, he lunged forward and ripped the chain from my neck. The gold bit into my skin, leaving a raw, stinging welt that began to bead with blood. It was always like this. My parents, my lovers—everyone demanded I “yield” to Bella. When I refused to let her win a dance competition as a teen, my father had intentionally fed me an allergen that put me in the ICU for three days. When I didn’t give her my bridal bouquet, Cade had “gifted” her my custom-made wedding dress for her own collection. He had promised me “singular devotion.” But in the space between Bella and me, I was always the shadow. Clatter. The necklace hit the floor, the emerald shattering against the marble. “Oops,” Bella giggled. “My hand slipped. I’ll buy you a better one, Norah.” “It’s just a necklace,” Cade said, dismissing my pain before I could even speak. “It’s over. Let it go.” I knelt on the floor, my fingers trembling as I tried to pick up the shards. Maybe a jeweler could save a piece of it. Maybe I could save a piece of us. “Pathetic,” Cade muttered. He stepped forward, his heavy dress shoe grinding the remaining fragments into dust. “You’re ruining the mood.” He turned and walked away. The crowd followed him, their heels crunching over the emerald remains of my heart. I tried to stop them, but they moved like a tide, oblivious to the woman on her knees. The stone was gone. Irreparable. I was hauled into the car a few minutes later. Bella took the passenger seat as if it were her throne. “Norah, don’t be like that,” she said, pulling up a photo on her phone. “Cade actually bought me a whole set of that emerald style—earrings, bracelet, the works. He went to that monastery and spent three days praying for me. The one he gave you? The monk just gave that to him for free because he was such a good customer. It was a trinket. Don’t be so sensitive.” “Bella has a heart condition,” Cade added, his eyes softening as he looked at her. “As her future brother-in-law, I have to look out for her. Are you really going to be jealous of a sick girl?” The “blessed” heirloom I’d cherished was a gift-with-purchase. A scrap thrown to a dog. As we hit the highway, Bella began to gag. “Norah, the smell of grease on you is making me nauseous. The car is too small for this.” Cade’s stomach was sensitive, so I’d spent three years personally cooking every meal to ensure it was clean. I had worried about the smell of the kitchen clinging to me, but Cade used to pull me close and whisper, “Babe, it smells like love. I never want you to change.” “Get out,” Cade said. I blinked. “What?” “Bella’s sick. You’re making it worse. Get out and find your own way home.” The rain was beginning to pour, a heavy Atlantic curtain. He looked at me with none of the warmth he’d faked for three years. He looked at me with boredom. I was pushed out onto the shoulder of the highway. My old leg injury from the accident began to throb in the cold. I watched his taillights vanish into the grey. I walked until the world blurred. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. I’d been out for twelve hours. My phone was silent—not a single text from my husband. I opened Instagram. Bella had posted a photo: two hands intertwined, fingers locked. The caption: The truth finally came out tonight. No more secrets. No more missing each other. Cade’s “confession” wasn’t for me. It was his mating call to her. He’d used my destruction as a bouquet for her. I couldn’t reach him to pay the hospital bill. I had to discharge myself, limping back to the house we shared. The door was opened not by our housekeeper, but by Bella. “Oh, hi Norah,” she said, leaning against the frame in one of Cade’s shirts. “You’re just in time. Cade’s throwing me a ‘Freedom Party’ tonight. You’re welcome to watch.” She looked like the mistress of the house. I felt like a trespasser in my own life. “Cade,” Bella called out, smirking at me. “You were right. She couldn’t even last twenty-four hours before crawling back. I lose the bet.” She planted a kiss on his cheek. “It’s just a game, Norah. Don’t be a killjoy.” The guests in the foyer laughed. “She really can’t live without his checkbook, can she? Bella was being generous giving her three days.” Cade looked at me, his lip curling in disgust at my rain-soaked clothes and tangled hair. “Your stuff is in the basement storage room. Bella gets nightmares, so I’m staying in the master suite with her tonight. Go clean yourself up. You look revolting.” I sat on the edge of the small cot in the basement, the sounds of the party thumping through the ceiling. I rested my hand on my stomach. The hospital had given me the news. I was two months pregnant. A miracle. A second chance. I stared at the divorce papers I’d drafted. Once he signed them, we were done. I would raise this child alone. I would be the mother I never had. I found a metal bin and a lighter. One by one, I started dropping things in. The dried flowers from our anniversary. The polaroids. The letters. If I was leaving, I was leaving no trace. “Norah! What the hell are you doing?” Cade burst in, his face contorting as he saw the flames. In the center of the fire was a leather-bound journal. It was our “Three-Year Diary,” filled with his handwritten notes of every “happy” moment we’d shared. “Have you lost your mind? You’re burning that to get my attention? You’re pathetic.” The fire climbed higher. Cade’s voice dropped to a low, dangerous command. “Take it out. Now. Or don’t ever ask for my forgiveness.” He stood there with that arrogant tilt to his head, waiting for me to scream, to cry, to reach into the fire for the scraps of his affection. I didn’t move. Something shifted in his eyes—a flicker of genuine panic. He reached toward the flames himself, but it was too late. The journal crumbled into black ash. “Cade! You’re hurt!” Bella cried, rushing in to grab his hand. “Let me get the first aid kit.” “Norah, this is on you,” Cade hissed, nursing his singed fingers. “Since you’re so intent on being destructive, I’ve decided. Bella loves your new choreography—the one for the national competition. Since your leg is useless anyway, I’m giving the rights to her. She’ll perform it under her name. Consider it your contribution to the family.” He watched me, waiting for the break. He knew dance was my soul. He knew I’d spent three months in this basement, agonizing over every beat of that piece. “Cade,” Bella whispered, looking at the door. “Beckett is here.” Beckett Thorne, the man who had left me seven times, walked into the basement followed by a line of suited security. “Cade,” Beckett said, his voice like flint. “If you’re taking Bella, then we’re trading.” “Trading?” Cade laughed, though he moved to shield Bella. “We’re not in high school, Beckett.” “You want my wife? Fine. But you won’t leave me with nothing. The Thorne and Sterling families are equals. I’m taking Norah.” Trading wives. Like cattle. Like property. I looked at Cade. My stomach cramped—a sharp, stabbing warning. I didn’t know what Beckett would do to me, but I knew his hatred for Cade was a bottomless pit. “Cade,” I whispered, the first sign of fear breaking my mask. “Please. Just this once.” My parents wouldn’t help me. I was the “disposable” daughter. If Beckett took me, I was a dead woman walking. “Cade, I’m scared,” Bella whimpered, clutching his arm. Cade looked at Bella’s fake tears, then at me. He stepped forward and shoved me toward Beckett. “Three days,” Cade muttered to me, his voice low. “Just stay with him for three days until Bella’s divorce papers are finalized. Then I’ll come get you.” I didn’t answer. My heart had finally stopped beating. “Regrets?” Beckett asked as he led me to his car. “If you’d chosen me back then, I might not have married you, but I would have kept you fed.” I didn’t respond. I felt sick. “You know why I broke those engagements, Norah? It was Cade’s idea. He told me it was the only way to prove to Bella that I didn’t want you. He played us both.” Of course he did. For the next forty-eight hours, Beckett used me as a weapon. He staged photos—us in bed, us at dinner, my head on his shoulder. He sent them all to Bella. It worked. Cade came for me, breaking down Beckett’s door in a jealous rage. But as he threw me into the back of his car, he didn’t look like a savior. He looked like a demon. “You couldn’t wait, could you?” he spat. “How long has this been going on? Is that why you’re pregnant? Whose bastard is it, Norah?” The car smelled of Bella’s perfume. A pair of her lace underwear was tossed carelessly on the seat. The nausea hit me in waves. “Don’t look at me like that,” Cade sneered. “Bella and I… we couldn’t help ourselves earlier. Deep feelings, you know? You should understand, considering you’re carrying a Thorne brat.” He didn’t wait for my explanation. He didn’t care that the baby was conceived on our anniversary, the night he’d been so “drunk with love.” He pulled up to a private clinic. Security dragged me toward the operating room. “Cade, stop! It’s yours! Please, check the dates!” I screamed, but he was beyond reason. “You’ll say anything to keep that leverage over me,” he growled, his pulse jumping in his neck. “No anesthesia. I want her to remember the cost of betraying me. Do it now.” The pain was a jagged, tearing void. I felt my child—the only thing I had left to love—being ripped away from me. I felt the light go out. “Doctor! We’re losing her! She’s stopped fighting! Her heart—”

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