I finally got a bone marrow match for my mom while my surgeon boyfriend booked a flight to the World Cup with my best friend. I’m standing outside the break room when I hear it. I came to tell Drew the good news. The match. The surgery date. Everything we’d been praying for. Then his buddy’s voice cuts through the door. “Drew, man—you’re really flying out with Sienna for the Cup? What about Sloane’s mom? Her surgery?” Drew’s voice comes back, easy and bored. “Her mom waited three years. Sienna and I have waited four.” “A surgery can be rescheduled. The Cup happens once. We’re not skipping now.” “You’re not worried Sloane’s gonna lose it?” Drew actually laughs. “I’m the only surgeon in the country who can do this operation. What’s she gonna do?” My back hits the wall. My face goes ice cold. Drew and Sienna can barely stand each other on a normal day. They snipe, they roll eyes, they pretend to hate each other’s guts. But the second anyone says the word soccer, something shifts. Their eyes lock like they share a secret language. And me—I’m the one who doesn’t speak it. For two years I’ve stayed up till 3 a.m. watching match replays. I read sports columns. I memorized player stats. All so I could squeeze one sentence into their conversations. And every time I did, the room went dead quiet. They’d glance at each other and shake their heads like I’d embarrassed myself. “Sloane, honey. You really don’t get soccer.” I don’t get it. And I don’t want to anymore. … Drew gets home around eight. I’m already at the table eating. “Why didn’t you wait for me?” I sniff the air instead of answering. “You had garlic fries? You never eat that stuff.” Drew is the pickiest man alive. Since we moved in together, I cook from a nutritionist’s meal plan—different recipe every night, all of it organic, all of it perfect. He pauses. Then his face smooths over. “Passed a place on the way home. Thought of you. You love them, right? I tried a few.” I grip my fork tighter. “When have you ever seen me eat garlic fries?” Drew has a thing about smells. I stopped wearing perfume for him. He blinks. “Guess I mixed you up with someone.” I don’t say a word. Because I know exactly who loves garlic fries. Sienna does. Sienna inhales them. She changed his whole personality in a weekend. That’s what makes me feel like the joke. Drew sighs and drops into the chair next to me. Slides an arm around my shoulders. “Are you still mad about the trip? Babe, I don’t want to go. The hospital keeps shoving these conferences down my throat.” I stab at my food. I don’t answer. This afternoon, after I overheard him, I went into his locked office. The one I’m “not supposed to touch.” I found a photo album shoved between his medical textbooks. Hundreds of pictures. All of them him and Sienna. At stadiums. At sports bars. At away games in three different countries. The most recent one is from last week. Last week my mom had her pre-op screening. I was so anxious I ran a fever. Drew said he was on call. He was at a riverside grill with Sienna. Eating burgers. Watching the game. That was supposed to be our date. He’d promised me for months. He didn’t forget. He just left me out of it because I’d ruin the mood. His phone buzzes against the table. He glances at it and his mouth tugs up, completely unconscious. “It’s Sienna. Sending me match clips again. She’s so annoying.” He says annoying like it’s a love letter. I push my chair back and head for the bedroom. He doesn’t even ask where I’m going. I sit at my desk and pull up my laptop to message Mom about the surgery date. A minute later, Drew comes strolling in, talking about the game like I asked. I don’t look up once. He doesn’t notice. When I finally stand to leave, the chair scrapes the floor and his eyes snap up—to the screen behind me. “What’s that?” I turn. My stomach drops. I’d accidentally clicked over to my sports forum account. The one where I log every game, every player, every stat. The one I built so I could keep up with them. Drew leans over and scrolls. “Damn, this is solid work. This is Sienna’s account, right?” I stare at him. “It’s mine.” He laughs. Actually laughs. “Babe. Your brain is full of restaurants and shopping. There’s no way you wrote this.” My fingers curl into my palm. If Sienna had shown him this, he’d call her brilliant. For me, it’s a lie. “You’re right,” I say quietly. “It’s hers. I logged into her account.” He flicks my forehead. Hard. “Stop pretending to be something you’re not. It’s exhausting.” He didn’t pull the hit. My eyes water before I can stop them. I’ve told him a hundred times to be gentle. He never listens. Maybe it’s time I stopped trying too.

The next morning I go see Mom. I mention the surgery date, casual as I can. Her whole body tenses. “Did something happen? With Drew?” “I didn’t say anything weird, baby. Don’t let others find out we’re related. It’ll look bad for him.” She actually glances around the room like someone might be listening. I follow her eyes. The cramped six-bed ward. The thin curtain barely pulled around her cot. The woman two beds over moaning in her sleep. My throat closes up. The day Mom got admitted, Drew sat me down with that calm doctor voice. “It’s fine if she comes to my hospital. But no one can know she’s your mom. You know how many people are gunning for my spot. I can’t be seen pulling strings.” So she got dumped in a six-bed ward. She knows he’s picky about food, so she brought fresh vegetables from her garden. But he let them rot on the counter. I swallow hard and force a smile. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m getting you moved to a private room this week.” In the hallway I lean against the wall and wipe my face. Then I look up and freeze. Drew and Sienna are walking toward me. Laughing. His hand on the small of her back. The second they see me, they spring apart and start fake-bickering like they always do. Sienna loops her arm through mine. “Sloane! Babe, I ate something bad, came to get checked out. I was just about to go say hi to your mom.” I’m so trained to care about her, the words come automatic. “Are you okay?” She nods sweetly. “Drew was a lifesaver. Personally examined me and everything.” Drew shrugs. “If it weren’t for Sloane, you think I’d make an exception?” I stiffen. “Then can you make one for my mom? Move her into a private room?” Drew’s eyes are still on Sienna, soft and entertained. They cool the second they land on me. “That’s different, Sloane. How would it look to the other patients?” I laugh under my breath. He can publicly run a stomach exam on Sienna. But my mom has to stay invisible. I don’t fight him. I just pull my arm out of Sienna’s grip and walk away. She calls after me. I walk faster. She keeps calling. I’m almost at the elevator when I hear it— A loud thud. Then a scream. I stop. I turn around. Drew is already crouched on the floor, scooping Sienna into his arms. His face is white with panic. He doesn’t even try to hide it. I follow them to the exam room because I don’t know what else to do. Drew is running around like she’s bleeding out. I step forward to help roll up her pant leg. “Get out,” he snaps. “You’re in the way.” My hand stops mid-air. I let it drop. I stand in the hallway for twenty minutes. When he finally comes out, his jaw is locked. “She tore a ligament when she fell.” I exhale. “Okay. As long as she’s all right.” Drew rips off his gloves and throws them in the trash. “All right? You think everyone’s as lazy as you? How is she supposed to play now?” “What is wrong with you today? You throw a fit at home, you throw a fit in public—” I stare at him. I open my mouth to say she’s the one who chased me down. But he’s looking at me like I’m something stupid. Something exhausting. Every word I had dies in my throat. From inside the exam room, Sienna calls my name, soft and pitiful. I start to go in. Drew grabs my arm. He pulls out a tissue and gently—gently—wipes a tear I didn’t know I’d cried. Then he says it. “Don’t let her feel sorry for you and take your side. You’re not a child anymore.” He turns toward the exam room, already done with me. Two steps in, he realizes I’m not following. “What are you standing there for?” he asks. I look up at him. “Drew. Let’s break up.”

Something flickers across Drew’s face. Surprise. Then it’s gone, replaced by that pinched, irritated look. “Sloane. I’m swamped right now. I don’t have time for your drama.” I hold his stare. His voice drops, soft and cruel. “You really want to break up this week? You don’t want your mom to have her surgery?” My eyes go wide. I can’t believe he said it out loud. He squeezes my shoulder like nothing happened. “Come on. Quit pouting. Go sit with Sienna. She got hurt because of you—it’s the least you can do.” My stomach turns. I shove his hand off and run. I make it as far as a stairwell before my knees give out. I crouch in the corner and try not to sob loud enough to be heard. Two nurses pass by in the hallway, gossiping. “Dr. Langston is so sweet with his girlfriend. I’ve never seen him freak out like that.” “You know her uncle is Deputy Chief? The Chief loves Drew. Set for life.” The pieces click into place so fast I feel sick. Sienna’s uncle is the Deputy Chief of Medicine. That’s why Drew changed. Sienna’s the golden girl with the right family. Drew’s the rising star with the perfect résumé. From the very beginning, I was the ugly stepsister wedged in between. I don’t know how long I cry. Then my phone rings. Drew. “Where are you?” His voice is heavy. My stomach drops. “What happened? Is it Mom?” Today was her dialysis appointment. He pauses. “Just come home. Now.” I’m up before my legs are ready. I almost fall down the stairs. I call Mom three times—straight to voicemail. I call Drew back—straight to voicemail. My heart is hammering against my ribs. I run the whole way home and pound on our door. Drew opens it. Completely calm. I push past him into the living room. Sienna is curled up on my couch, swinging one foot, perfectly relaxed. “Where’s my mom?” I gasp. “Your mom’s fine,” Drew says. He nods toward the guest room. “Sienna’s gonna recover here. Go clean out the guest room for her.” My mouth falls open. Sienna giggles. “Drew said if I told you it was an emergency, you’d come running.” Drew’s lips twitch. He hands her a glass of juice without looking at me. “Drink your juice, princess.” Then, he tosses over his shoulder, “Game’s on in an hour. Finish the room and you can watch with us. Don’t say we never include you.” I’m still trying to breathe. My phone buzzes. [Mom: Sorry honey, was in my appointment. What’s up?] I look down at the message and laugh. Quietly. To myself. She’s fine. That’s all that matters. I walk into the guest room and shut the door. The TV blares to life behind me, two voices already arguing about lineups. I don’t pick up a vacuum. I don’t change the sheets. I pull a bag out of the closet and start packing. They’re so wrapped up in the game they don’t notice a thing. … The next few days, life carries on. Drew and Sienna eat the same meals. Sleep on the same schedule. Watch matches at 2 a.m. and ice her ankle together at sunrise. For two years he complained every time I got home late from sitting with my mom. Now? He’s all smiles. Whistling around the kitchen. Bringing Sienna smoothies. The less I come home, the more of her things appear in the apartment. Her shampoo in our shower. Her sweater on our chair. Her toothbrush in the cup next to his. When Sienna sees the matching mugs Drew and I bought on our anniversary, she throws a tantrum until he buys her an identical set. “Sloane and I have been best friends since we were six,” she pouts. “If anyone gets matching anything with her, it’s me. Who are you, exactly?” Drew rolls his eyes and calls her impossible. Then he drives across the city all day to buy her every matching thing she points at. When I get home that night, I find my slippers shoved to the very back of the closet. His and hers slippers sit neatly by the door, side by side. Like a set. I stare at them for a long moment. Then I reach into the closet, pull out a pair of cheap guest slippers, and drop mine in the trash. It doesn’t matter. Mom and I are leaving soon anyway.

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Daniela’s proudest achievement is fucking the Don of the Vitale family behind his wife’s back. That wife is me. Back then, I’m scrolling through the thread after work, half-numb from a fourteen-hour day, when the top reply catches my eye. Question: What’s the proudest thing you’ve ever done? Answer: Stealing my son’s classmate’s father straight into my bed. “Two years ago my son pulled a little prank on the girl sitting in front of him at school. Carved his initials into her back with a pocket knife. Cute, right? Her mom found out and came screaming into the headmaster’s office calling me trash. Said I raised an animal.” “And she made some calls. Used her family’s money. Got my son expelled and blacklisted from every elite academy in the city.” “That’s when I met her husband. A real man. Gorgeous. Powerful. He told me she was a vulgar, mouthy bitch — and I was hooked.” “We ended up in bed. Easy. He paid to put my son into a private school overseas — she still has no idea.” “Cheating tastes so good, girls. Highly recommend.” “And the best part? I’m carrying his baby right now. If it weren’t for the bump, I’d shove it in her face. But I can wait. When my kid’s older, we’ll come back for her daughter’s inheritance. I want to see her face then.” Underneath the words, a photo. A man’s face pressed into a woman’s chest. Neither of them showing. They don’t have to. Because right there, on his forehead — just above his eyebrow — is a two-inch scar. Clean white line. Hair never grew back. My palm goes cold around the phone. I zoom in. Two centimeters of dead follicles in a perfect stripe. The kind of scar you only get when someone splits your skull open with intent. I should know. I gave it to him. Two years ago. The night our daughter came home from school with her back carved up by a six-year-old with a pocket knife. The night I broke a whiskey bottle over Lorenzo’s head. I keep scrolling. The comments are a war zone. Half the thread is calling her a shameless whore. She’s loving it. She drops another photo to shut them up — a man shirtless, arms wrapped around a swollen pregnant belly, a box of strawberry-flavored condoms tossed on the nightstand. Lorenzo’s brand. Lorenzo’s size. “The mistress is the one who isn’t loved, sweetie. He only has eyes for me now.” “Not my fault, she couldn’t hold onto her man.” I know that voice before I see the name. Daniela Rossi. Nico Rossi’s mother. The woman who stood in the headmaster’s office two years ago and screamed at me in front of every parent on the board. I tap into her profile. Two years of daily posts. Every single day. Every single one of them about her and Lorenzo. The first one — a coffee shop, the week after Mia came home bleeding. Lorenzo’s hand resting on the table, wearing the watch I bought him for our anniversary. I scroll. A trip to the Maldives the weekend of our wedding anniversary, while I sat in a hospital room holding Mia’s hand through a fever. A black-tie auction in Monaco the night I called him crying because Mia wouldn’t stop asking where Daddy was. Every post. Every receipt. Two years of my marriage, livestreamed by the woman fucking my husband. I stop on a post from last month. The fifteenth. “My king took me to my prenatal check-up today. Cried when he heard the heartbeat.” I remember the fifteenth. I had a meeting I couldn’t push. I called Lorenzo and asked him to pick Mia up from school. He grunted something into the phone. I thought that meant yes. It was the first time we’d spoken all year. I came home at midnight. Mia wasn’t there. Lorenzo wouldn’t answer. The school said she’d left at three. I called the police. I sat on the kitchen floor in a blood-pressure spiral, waiting for the worst news of my life. They found her the next morning. She’d tripped on the way home, scraped her knees raw, and a baker on the east side took her in because she was too scared to walk in the dark. Lorenzo walked through the front door at 8 a.m. like nothing happened. I slapped him so hard his lip split. He told me he got busy and forgot. Told me Mia was fine. Told me I was overreacting like always. We had the worst fight of our marriage that night. He slammed the door behind him and didn’t come back. Three weeks. No call. No text. Nothing. And now I know where he’s been. I lock the phone. Set it face-down on the table. This isn’t the first time Lorenzo has chosen someone else over us. It’s just the first time I’m done pretending I didn’t see it coming. Our marriage was rotting long before Daniela Rossi ever walked into it.

The Vitale family runs half this coast. Old blood, old money, the kind of power that makes governors return calls within the hour. My family built the other half. The Castellanis have been moving cargo through these ports since before the Vitales picked up their first gun. By the time it came down to me, I’d taken the business global. Our grandfathers shook hands across a dinner table sixty years ago. Our parents bought houses next to each other. Lorenzo and I grew up climbing the same fence. The first time I got my period, I was thirteen and crying in the school bathroom. He was the one who showed up. Tied his jacket around my waist. Walked down to the corner store and came back with an entire bag of pads. “Take it. Don’t ruin my jacket.” The words were sharp. The hand shoving the bag into mine wasn’t. He cussed me out every time I cried, then slipped painkillers into my desk before class. “Take them. I’m not carrying your ass home if you pass out again.” When he couldn’t say what he meant, he wrote it down. I found the poem folded into my locker when we were sixteen. I laughed at how cheesy it was. He ripped it out of my hand, shoved it back into my chest, and kissed me under the streetlight outside my house. That was the night I knew. We grew up tangled in each other. Got married the year I turned twenty-four. Had Mia two years after that. And then everything started to crack. He wanted me home. Wanted me to step back from the business. Be a wife. Be a mother. The kind of woman his world expected. I wasn’t built for that. I’d spent my whole life clawing my way to the top of the Castellani empire — I wasn’t about to hand it off so I could pour wine for his capos at Sunday dinner. “Why is the business always more important than me? Than this family?” “They’re not more important. They’re equal. I’m not choosing between them, Lorenzo.” “That’s the problem. You should be.” We fought like that for years. He’d slam doors. I’d work later. He’d disappear for a week at a time. I’d disappear for two. He still played the husband. Still played the father. Until he didn’t. The fights got uglier. My deals took me overseas for months. His patience ran out somewhere along the way, and I was too busy holding two empires together to chase him back. Then Mia came home with her back sliced open. Lorenzo and I had screamed at each other two nights before that. He was still angry when he showed up to the headmaster’s office — late, hands in his pockets, like he’d been pulled out of something more important than his daughter bleeding through her uniform. Daniela was already there. Already screaming at me. Calling me trash. Calling Mia a brat who probably deserved it. I was about to break her jaw. Lorenzo walked in. Looked at his daughter’s blood-soaked shirt. Looked at me. And took Daniela’s side. “Kids play rough. You don’t have to come at her like an animal, Sera.” I slapped him. In front of every parent on the board. In front of Daniela’s smug, lipsticked grin. Then I made my calls that ended Nico Rossi’s name in every elite school on the coast. I made sure that little monster wouldn’t sit next to another child until his mother begged on her knees. She never did. But apparently her husband — soon to be ex — couldn’t pay to undo it, and that’s where Lorenzo stepped in. That night Lorenzo came home drunk and louder than I’d ever heard him. “You humiliated me. In front of half this city.” “You humiliated yourself. Our daughter was bleeding and you defended the woman whose son did it.” He grabbed my wrist. I grabbed the whiskey bottle off the bar. The glass came down on the side of his head before he could finish the next sentence. Amber liquid and blood ran down his face together, soaking the collar of his white shirt. My voice didn’t shake. “Lorenzo. Now you know what our daughter felt.” After that, the marriage was a corpse. We just kept dressing it up for the family. … My hand is locked around the phone so tight my knuckles ache. Daniela’s profile refreshes. New post. “Thank you to my king for cooking for me tonight.” A photo of a man in an apron. Standing at a stove. Smiling like he means it. I’ve been married to him for eleven years. He has never once cooked for me. I dial his number before I can stop myself. It rings. And rings. And rings. Right when I think it’s going to voicemail, his voice slides through, slow and lazy. “What?” “You promised our daughter you’d come home for her birthday yesterday. Where the hell are you?” A pause. Then, quieter — almost amused — “Sera. Beg me. Tell me you miss me.” “Apologize. Soften up a little. And I’ll come home.” I can’t speak. Then a soft female voice in the background. “Lorenzo, who is it?” The last flickering thing inside me goes out. I hear my own voice answer, calm as a blade. “In your fucking dreams.” I hang up.

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My husband said the signal at sea was too weak to text me back — until his ex posted thirty-one screenshots of their nightly video calls. *** My husband worked as a communications operator on an oceanic research vessel — and I could never reach him. Every time he shipped out, he’d say the same thing: signal’s unstable at sea, totally normal if it takes three to five days to reply. I believed that for two whole years. Until his ex, Molly Fuller, started posting screenshots of their video calls. Thirty-one calls in a single month. The shortest one — forty minutes. The image was so crystal clear I could see the deck behind him and the stars in the sky. I scrolled back through my own chat history. The longest I’d waited for a reply? Fourteen days. Two words: Mm-hmm. After that, I learned my lesson. No more staying up late, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. No more sending long paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one: [Stay safe.] Then two words: [Be well.] Then just a single period. And then — nothing at all. The next time he docked and came home, he frowned at me. “How come you never text me anymore?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing was scheduled — and he didn’t even know. ··· Declan Reid stood in the doorway, duffel bag still in hand. I used to change the sheets in advance, drive down to the pier to meet him, even line up his slippers facing outward so he could step right in. Today I was just sitting at the dining table, sorting through paperwork. He stared at the thick stack of documents, brow furrowed. “Izabella. I’m talking to you.” I pressed down on the stapler. A soft click. “How many days are you staying this time?” That caught him off guard. His tone softened slightly. “A week. Heading back to the ship next week. Tomorrow night there’s a banquet for the crew.” For the past two years, every time he came ashore, he said he was exhausted — walked in the door and collapsed into bed. But on Molly’s Instagram, he was strolling along the pier with her, helping her pick out equipment, staying on video calls until two in the morning. I kept my head down, organizing files. Said nothing. Declan set a gift box on the table. “This is for you. I missed our anniversary — I was at sea. Making up for it.” My fingers froze. I opened the box. Inside was a seashell bracelet. The edges were rough, barely sanded down. The tag under it read: 50% off. Before I could even open my mouth, my phone buzzed. Molly had posted on Instagram. In the photo, she stood on the pier, a deep-sea blue pearl necklace around her neck. In the corner of the frame was Declan’s sleeve. [Someone remembers I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the ocean.] I slid my phone across the table to Declan. He glanced at it. His expression shifted — then smoothed over just as quickly. “That necklace is a prop for her documentary. She’s just borrowing it. Yours is more of an everyday thing — more your style.” I nodded. “Oh. So Molly gets deep-sea blue pearls. I get seashells on discount.” He seemed thrown by that. Before he could respond, his phone rang — a video call, with Molly’s name on the screen. Declan answered almost on instinct. On camera, Molly was wearing a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Declan had bought it last year before shipping out. He said the windproofing was top-notch, couldn’t go to sea without it. Molly’s voice was hoarse. “Declan, I think I have a fever. The pharmacy’s closed and I’m all alone here. I’m kind of scared.” Declan looked at me. In that one look — I saw the conflict. And the apology of someone who’d already made up his mind. “Izzy, she just got to port. She doesn’t know anyone around here. I’ll drop off some medicine. I’ll be right back.” I watched him grab his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in months.” He frowned. “Don’t be like that. She’s sick.” The door closed. The apartment went silent again. I sat at the dining table and placed the seashell bracelet into a plastic evidence bag. Labeled it. [Difference in gifts.] Then I texted Milo Mainse, my lawyer. [Add one more item.] Milo replied almost instantly: [Got it.] Half an hour later, Molly sent me a photo. A box of medicine. A glass of hot water. Declan’s hand on hers. [You don’t mind, right, Izabella?] I replied: [Not at all.] After I hit send, I plugged in the voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Declan sent me a location pin. [Welcome banquet at seven. Don’t be late. My boss and colleagues will all be there. Don’t embarrass me.] I stared at the message, then dropped the voice recorder into my bag.

The welcome banquet was at a hotel near the port. By the time I walked into the private dining room, it was already packed. Declan was in uniform. Molly sat right next to him, draped in his crew jacket, his comms badge pinned to her chest. I knew that badge. Before his last deployment, I’d asked if I could keep one as a memento. He said shipboard equipment was strictly regulated — family members weren’t allowed to take anything. So I didn’t talk about it anymore. But now… it hung on Molly’s chest, like some kind of unspoken claim. Declan spotted me and pointed to a seat by the door. “Sit over there. The main table’s all crew. It’d be awkward if you sat here.” Molly looked up with a little smile. “Oh, Bella’s here! Declan, why don’t you let her sit next to you? I can move to that seat.” She said the lines, but didn’t budge an inch. Declan muttered under his breath, “It doesn’t matter where she sits.” I sat down by the door and quietly switched on the voice recorder in my bag. The dinner hadn’t been going long before the teasing started. “Molly and Declan — best team on the ship. One films the ocean, the other connects it.” “Honestly, back when you two were together, we all said you were perfect for each other.” “Declan really takes care of Molly, huh? Signal’s garbage out there, but her video calls never drop.” Declan just laughed it off. “Come on, knock it off.” He didn’t look at me. Molly ducked her head, the tips of her ears turning pink, like someone had touched on something she wasn’t supposed to admit. The food arrived. Declan picked the belly meat off the fish and placed it on Molly’s plate. “Stay away from the bony parts.” Then he swapped her iced drink for hot tea. “Your stomach’s bad enough — why are you drinking something cold?” I stared at the dressed crab in front of me. He knew I had a weak stomach. He knew I couldn’t handle too much seafood. The first year we were dating, he used to call ahead to restaurants and ask them to prepare hot soup for me. At which point, the person he remembered became Molly? Molly picked up her glass and walked over to me. “Bella, let me make a toast. Actually, I’ve been wanting to apologize to you. Declan gets so lonely out at sea. Sometimes I’d reach out just because I was worried the pressure was getting to him.” A few people chimed in right away. “Izabella, you’ve gotta understand his job. The mental toll on a communications operator — most people can’t even imagine.” “Don’t take it personally, Izabella. Molly’s an old friend, not some stranger.” “Declan’s a good husband overall, right? You guys are young — don’t blow this out of proportion.” I looked at their faces, one after another, all so matter-of-fact. I almost laughed out loud. “31 video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Is that part of the job too?” The room went dead silent. Declan’s face darkened. “Izabella. You really have to do this here? In front of all of them?” Molly’s eyes turned red instantly. “Izabella, you… you’ve got it wrong. I’m making a documentary — I needed to understand conditions on the ship. Declan was just helping me verify technical details…” I pulled out my phone and lit up the screen. “‘Verifying technical details’ requires singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at two in the morning?” Molly’s composure cracked for a split second before softening again. “I was in a really dark place that night. He was afraid something might happen to me.” Declan jumped in. “Izzy, Molly really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch my friend fall apart.” My friend. Those two words were like the ultimate cover-up. I didn’t push it further. I set my teacup down. The mood was ruined. No one cracked another joke at my expense for the rest of the night. Declan glanced over at me several times, his eyes full of irritation. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Molly followed. She stood in front of the mirror reapplying lipstick, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re recording, aren’t you, Izabella?” I didn’t deny it. She twisted the cap back on. “You really don’t need to be this guarded around me. If Declan actually cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I turned on the faucet. Water ran over my fingers. “You know, he always reaches out to me first when he’s at sea.” “The stars, the storms, when they’re pulling into port — I always know before you do.” The water kept on running. “You know he’s married.” Molly looked at me through the mirror. “I do. That’s why I never made a move. He’s the one who can’t let go.” She pulled out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. [She stopped messaging. Peace and quiet.] The date was the exact day I stopped sending him a single period. Molly’s voice dropped low. “Izabella, the thing men fear most isn’t a woman who makes a scene. It’s a woman with nothing to offer who still won’t withdraw gracefully.” I dried my hands. “Save that line for court.” When I walked out, Declan was standing at the end of the hallway, waiting. He looked at me, visibly annoyed. “The second you show up, everyone’s uncomfortable. Izabella, can you please stop dragging our personal problems into public?” I looked up at him. “I’m going to my parents’ tomorrow.” His brow furrowed tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I barely have any days off. How long are you going to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the dining room. The red light on the recorder was still on.

Back home, I started packing my clothes. Declan stood in the bedroom doorway. His face was dark. “If you move out now, our parents are going to know we’re fighting.” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “Not a fight. It’s a separation.” “Izabella Lane.” When he used my full name, it always came with this forced patience — like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. “I’ll admit I’ve been in touch with Molly too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped putting my dress into the suitcase.”I texted you at three a.m. with stomach cramps. You took fourteen days to reply. That same night, you were on a video call with her for an hour.” Declan frowned. “There are rules about communications on board. You can’t just reply to personal messages whenever you want.” I laid a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March 15th. I had a 102-degree fever and asked if he could just send me one word back. That same night, Molly posted a call screenshot — 63 minutes. April 20th. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until past midnight. Molly posted a reel — Declan showing her the moonlight over the ocean on video. May 9th. My dad had a sudden heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. I stood at the billing counter, hands shaking so badly I kept typing the wrong PIN. Declan was singing “Happy Birthday” to Molly. Someone was whistling in the background. … He stared at those pages for a long time before opening his mouth again. “Molly was depressed during that period. Her family situation was bad too. I was afraid she might do something to herself.” I let out a small laugh. “The day my dad went into surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. Something in his expression cracked, just for a second. His phone cut through the silence. Molly’s special ring tone. Declan picked up and hit speaker. On the other end, Molly was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Declan, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come to the banquet. Izabella cornered me in the bathroom — she said she’d expose me, said she’d make sure I never work in this industry again.” Declan’s head snapped toward me. “…you threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has security cameras.” “No need to check.” His voice hardened. “Molly wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I stared at him. Two years. Every time I was hurt, I needed evidence to prove myself. Meanwhile, all Molly needed was tears, and he took it as fact. Molly was still weeping: “Am I causing too much trouble? I just didn’t want you to be alone out there with no one to talk to…” Declan lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his eyes locked onto me, heavy and cold. “Why do you have to go after someone who’s already struggling?” I snapped back calmly. “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Izabella, do you have to be this heartless?” I pulled another file from the drawer. It was a message from last winter. [Declan, I can barely hold it together. The apartment’s freezing, my stomach’s killing me. I’m not trying to bother you. I just need to hear your voice.] I’d sent that message to him and only him. But that afternoon, Molly had forwarded me a screenshot with a note attached: [Izabella, you REALLY need to see a doctor:)] I held the screen up to his face. “You forwarded my message to her?” Declan’s face changed. “I just wanted her opinion on whether you’d been emotionally unstable. She took a few psychology courses back then.” The glass on the nightstand slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood came fast. Declan saw it. But his first move was picking up his phone and texting Molly. [She’s losing it. Don’t be scared.] I looked down at my hand. Turns out, when you hit a certain point, even pain could be on a delay. I pressed a tissue against the wound, grabbed my bag, and walked out. … The lights in the ER hallway were blinding white. Milo Mainse was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. He saw my hand, went to the nurse’s station for antiseptic cotton, then handed me the paperwork. “Court date’s confirmed. Three days from now, 9 a.m.” I took it. Milo hesitated. “You sure you don’t want to try mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone buzzed. A text from Declan. [you really freaked Molly out. i’m going to check on her tonight. calm down first.] Milo glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Declan called. “I’m taking Molly to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Your mom’s follow-up appointment — just go by yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” His reply was instant. “It’s a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use my family to pressure me.” And my mom heard every word.

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The affair photos hit the trending page forty minutes ago, and my in-laws are already begging me to save the man who ruined my life. My husband’s steamy pictures with his assistant leaked online while they were on a “business trip.” His devoted-CEO image? Shattered overnight. The company stock tanked. His family showed up one by one to guilt-trip me. [Think about the big picture, Melissa. Do the right thing.] So I did what they asked. I clicked the button and posted seven clarification statements: “There is no so-called mistress in my marriage to Mr. Francis. The rumors about him and his assistant Ms. Amy Turner maintaining a love nest at Moristero Manor are simply that — rumors.” “My three miscarriages over five years were pure bad luck. They were absolutely NOT the result of a bet Mr. Francis lost to Ms. Turner.” “Mr. Francis traveling to Japan with his assistant on our wedding anniversary was strictly for business purposes.” “The monthly Porsches and Hermès bags purchased for Ms. Turner were standard corporate gifts. Nothing more.” “My family’s heirloom being given to Ms. Turner was entirely my idea. I volunteered.” “As for the viral intimate photos online — they were personally photoshoped by me.” “I owe Ms. Turner a sincere apology.” Three minutes after I posted the video, my phone buzzed. Corey — radio silent for days — finally decided to show up. In my Message. [Melissa. Take it down. NOW!] [Do it before I get back, or you know what happens.] I laughed softly and typed back: [Then I won’t wait for you to come back.] … I barely set my phone down before a voice beside me spoke. “Ms. Wood, your reinstatement request has been approved. Given the nature of the position, we’ll need confirmation that you are currently unmarried and not pregnant before departure.” I nodded. “Understood. Thank you.” After the officer left, I sat alone in the empty walk-in closet. An open suitcase lay in front of me — a few changes of clothes and an old photo album. That was it. Outside the window, the sky was fading to dark. But my phone screen kept lighting up. That “clarification” video had been live for forty minutes, and the comments had already blown past a million. Seven of the top ten trending topics were about my statement. #CoreyFrancis_AmyTurner_MoristeroManor #A_Bet_Caused_Miscarriages #MelissaWood_Apologizes_AmyTurner #CoreyFrancis Every single one — top viral. I scrolled through the comments. My fingers barely had the strength to swipe. [wasnt Corey Francis supposed to be the most devoted husband in the city? what the hell happened?] [Monthly Porsches and Hermès bags as standard corporate gifts? is the Francis Global a company or a charity?] [Francis Global doesn’t even have an office in Osaka. What kind of business trip was this exactly?] [lol someone in reddit dug up the hot spring resort they went to — it’s a couples-only spot with some VERY adult packages. ‘Business trip’ my ass.] [volunteered to give away my family heirloom? Melissa, blink twice if someone’s holding a gun to your head.] [I’ve been a paparazzi for 10+ years and this is the first time I’ve seen someone write ‘my husband is trash’ in a PR statement and disguise it as an apology. Melissa — are you asking for help?] I stared at the screen for a moment, then let out a quiet laugh. They were right. I was asking for help. Just not from them. Every single line in that statement — the public wouldn’t catch the full meaning. But Corey would. The moment I posted it, there was no going back. Not for him. Not for us. My phone buzzed again. A message without a profile picture. [Ms. Wood — the marriage certificate held by you and Mr. Corey Francis has been verified as a fake document.] I froze. I thought I’d already made peace with it — back when I first found the clues myself. But hearing it confirmed out loud, my eyes still stung.

The next morning at six, I was jolted awake by a knock on the bedroom door. It was Jody, the housekeeper. “Mrs. Francis, your husband is home.” I blinked. He wasn’t supposed to be back today. Before I could react, Corey was already standing in the doorway. Behind him — Amy Turner and Carol Sharp, the company’s PR manager. Amy was dressed in a crisp blazer, eyes red-rimmed and glistening. “Melissa, how could you post something like that? Do you have any idea what people are saying about me online? I…I can’t even leave my house…” I leaned back against the headboard, watching her trembling-lip routine, and let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, that statement? I just threw it together. Didn’t expect you to take it so personally.” “Melissa!” Corey’s voice was barely contained fury. “You’re going to delete that statement right now. Then you’re posting a new one — say the account was hacked. Say none of it came from you.” I didn’t respond. Carol pulled a document from her briefcase and handed it over. “Mrs. Francis, the PR team drafted a new statement. You just need to sign.” I took it and skimmed through. Professional wording. Pinned everything on a hacked account. “Get yourself ready,” Corey said, his voice dropping another degree. “The company’s holding a press conference at two. You’ll be there with me. You don’t have to say a word — just stand next to me and smile. The rumors will die on their own.” I looked up at him. “You want me to pretend none of this ever happened?” His expression darkened. “I’m not asking.” “I know,” I said, the smile fading from my face. “But I’m done performing for you.” I thought saying that would shake something loose in him. Guilt. Shame. Anything. But he just stood there, looking down at me with something close to impatience. Like I was the one being unreasonable. I thought about how he got me here. Step by step. Lie by lie. In the beginning, it was “Amy’s just a fresh grad, don’t overthink it.” Then it became “She’s good at her job. It’s normal for me to look out for her.” And then — she had a key to Moristero Manor. My grandmother’s jade pendant showed up around her neck. And I lost three babies. He played both sides flawlessly. Not a single crack I could find. Until the week before his trip — the company’s anniversary gala. I went upstairs to the lounge to find him. The door wasn’t fully closed. I heard him inside, drinking with his buddies. “Corey, you lost another bet to Amy? What was it this time?” His voice, careless and loose: “Bet on how long it’d take Melissa to forgive me for skipping her birthday. I said one day. Amy said one hour. I lost.” He took a drag of his cigarette, voice lazy with alcohol: “Melissa’s great, just… boring as hell. Feed her a couple sweet lines and she buys every excuse I give her. Nothing special in bed either… Last time I took her family’s jade pendant — told her some bullshit about a business partner who’s obsessed with occult, said wearing it would ward off bad luck — and she actually believed me.” Laughter erupted around him. “Good thing you never actually filed that marriage certificate. You’d be kicking yourself right now. But seriously — Amy’s way more fun. You’re not going to make it official with her?” “…maybe. Mrs. Francis? That spot fits someone like Melissa better. Doesn’t make waves, doesn’t make a fuss.” The laughter died down, and then he lowered his voice. “But this time — we can’t mess with her body again over a lost bet. Three miscarriages because of me losing to Amy… one more and her body’s really going to give out.” I stood outside that door, and the cold seeped straight into my bones. In that one moment, everything clicked into place. … The memory faded. I watched Corey walk slowly toward me. Then he smiled. “Melissa, your parents’ ashes — they’re at Rosendale Cemetery, aren’t they?”

He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing my ear. “If you don’t show up at that press conference and say exactly what you’re told to say — next time you visit them, that spot will be empty.” He straightened up and adjusted his cuffs. “Some things, Melissa, you can’t afford to lose.” My fists clenched at my sides. “Corey.” I stood up and looked him dead in the eye. “I’m done.” His steps halted. I took a deep breath. “I’m leaving. Mrs. Francis — that title, the position, all of it — give it to her. Is that enough?” The room went dead silent. Nothing but the sound of heartbeats. I waited for his reaction. Rage. A sneer. Some vicious remark designed to gut me. Any of it would have been fine. After all, this was the result everyone wanted. He’d get what he always wanted. Amy would get what she’d been scheming for. And I’d finally stop pretending. But he just stared at me for a few seconds. Then he laughed. “Leave?” He repeated the word slowly. “You have no friends. No family. No job. Where exactly are you going to go?” He reached out and gripped my chin, tilting my face up. “Isn’t this good enough? Just turn a blind eye to a few things, and we’ll call it even.” EVEN? There was nothing even between us. There never would be. I’d been counting down the days. One more month — just one — and the classified file from my old unit would be declassified. I could have laid the truth out in front of him. Proved that I never betrayed him. That what he saw that night was a cover operation, not what he thought it was… But now? I didn’t want to explain anymore. Five years. 1825 days. And this was all I had to show for it — absolutely nothing. Amy sniffled softly from behind him. Her voice came out thin and delicate. “Corey, please don’t be like this…” “Melissa.” Then she looked up at me with those wide, watery eyes. “I really never meant to come between you two. Could you please take that statement down? The comments online are so awful… My parents are terrified…” “Take it down?” I looked at her. “Without that statement, you’d still just be ‘Corey Francis’s assistant.’ Now the whole world knows your name. Isn’t that what you always wanted?” Amy’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Corey pulled her behind him in one swift motion — that instinct to shield her, to protect her at all costs. More real than anything he’d shown me in five years combined. “Melissa!” His voice was low thunder before a storm. “I’m saying this one last time. It’s an announcement, not negotiation. Figure it out yourself.” He wrapped his arm around Amy’s shoulders, turned, and walked out. The door clicked shut. I stood there, staring at it, and felt something heavy settle over me — the kind of tired that sleep couldn’t fix. When I married him, I thought he was my safe harbor. In the end, even my dead parents became leverage in his hands. Turns out the storm was never outside. The harbor was indeed the storm itself.

Before the press conference, I was forbidden from leaving the house. I didn’t fight. Didn’t scream. I just kept telling myself — get through today. Just get through today. That afternoon, I sat next to Corey on stage and read the script, word for word. Camera flashes popped like firecrackers beneath us. Corey smiled and held my hand the whole time. To everyone watching, it looked like a perfect couple. But my palm was drenched in cold sweat. The second the press conference ended, Corey stood up and walked straight to Amy, who was waiting in the wings. I didn’t watch them. I went to a flower shop and bought a bundle of chamomile and drove to Rosendale Cemetery. It had been too long since I’d visited Mom and Dad. I kept telling myself I’d go once things calmed down. That I’d sit with them and talk, the way I used to. I kept putting it off. Almost waited too long. When I got to their spot, I froze. Where were the jade urns? In their place sat a pot of bright red roses, blooming like blood. Blooming like they owned the space. I thought I’d gone to the wrong spot. I checked the number three times. No mistake. No. No. My parents’ ashes had been here for ten years. I knew every inch of that shelf. My head started buzzing. I’d known Corey long enough to understand him. When he couldn’t do something, he’d rather watch me cry than pretend otherwise. Like the time I found traces of his affair with Amy and asked him to fire her. Just let it go, I said. Pretend it never happened. He didn’t say a word. His face just said, I can’t — he wouldn’t even bother lying about it. So when he promised that if I cooperated at the press conference, he wouldn’t touch my parents’ ashes — I believed him. I actually believed him. I stood there for a long time before I went to find the staff. “Excuse me — the urns that were here. Where… where are they?” The man at the front desk didn’t even look up. “Oh, that spot? Boss reserved it for her flowers. The ashes? Moved somewhere, I guess.” “…moved?” My voice cracked. “I paid the maintenance fees. You moved them without telling me? Get your boss here. Now.” He finally glanced up, smirking. “Our boss is Mrs. Francis — wife of the CEO of the Francis Global. And who exactly are you?” Mrs. Francis? But when did I ever— The chamomile slipped from my fingers and hit the ground. I rushed back to the spot and searched frantically. Nothing. Nothing left. My eyes burned. I turned to leave — and tripped over the flower pot. Dirt scattered across the floor. Something white peeked through the soil. I crouched down and picked it up. A shard of white jade. Engraved with the letter W. …it was a piece of my father’s urn. A hand shoved me aside. “What do you think you’re doing? That’s Mrs. Francis’s flower! You break it, you pay for it!” I stumbled back. I watched him scoop the dirt back into the pot — dirt mixed with fragments of my father’s ashes — and my whole body started shaking. “My parents’ ashes… were used as fertilizer for that flower?” He wouldn’t look me in the eye, just mumbled something about how people should focus on being good to their parents while they’re alive instead of obsessing over ashes after they’re dead. “What difference does it make where they end up?” I didn’t hear the rest. I turned and walked out. My mind was blank the entire drive back. It stayed blank until I pushed open the bedroom door and saw Amy Turner lying in my bed. That was when my brain snapped back on. Corey glanced at me, casually tucking the blanket around Amy’s shoulders. “The press conference didn’t work. The comments are brutal. She’s a mess, so I brought her here to keep an eye on her.” I stared at that look on his face — like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Corey.” My voice came out calmer than I expected. “Where are my parents’ ashes?”

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I took on a huge debt to save my fiancé’s family, turns out he’s the one who sent me to a mafia auction block. After my heart stopped for the fifth time, I’m slumped inside a dog cage, oil still slick on my skin, eyes blown out and empty. That’s when I hear them laughing outside the door. “This is rich. She really thinks she took on eighty million for Mr. Greco? That money’s his own damn cash.” “Boss was scared she was a gold digger. Set the whole thing up to see if she’d bleed for him. He thought she’d be washing dishes back here — had no clue she’s been strung up every night, passed around like a party favor.” The door swings open. The stink of blood hits them and they freeze, scrambling for their phones. So that’s it. The loan. The debt. The “selling myself to save him.” All of it — a stage play my fiancé paid for, just to test whether I’d bleed for him. Iron floods my throat. The world goes black. … When I come to, I’m wearing nothing but shredded rags barely covering me. Whip cuts everywhere, some deep enough to see meat. The iron door crashes open. A flashlight burns straight into my face. I don’t have the strength to lift a hand. I squint through swollen eyelids. And there he is. Matteo Greco. My fiancé. The man I bled eighty million for. The man who handed me to this place. His eyes hit my body — and freeze. Behind him, my best friend Vanessa slaps a hand over her mouth, faking horror like she’s rehearsed it. “Oh my God! Cora, what happened to you? Matteo only had you helping in the kitchen!” Her voice can’t hide the thrill underneath. Matteo walks closer. The reek of blood and whore-house oil hits him. He curls his lip. “Cora. I just wanted to test you. See if you’d suffer a little for me.” His voice is ice. “And what do you do? You throw yourself into a place like this. Selling yourself.” I look up at that perfect face. Something hot and the taste of blood floods my mouth. I turn my head and spit a mouthful of black blood, chunks of something inside it, right onto the toe of his shoe. Matteo jerks back two steps. “Don’t you dare play dead!” He stabs a finger at the marks on my body. “Look at yourself. Covered in this filthy oil like some cheap whore. I told you to suffer — I didn’t tell you to crawl under those old bastards!” I drag my mouth into something that might be a smile. “Matteo.” My voice is wrecked. Every word tears. “Is the show over?” “What did you say?” His face goes colder. I lift my head. The eyes that used to look at him with love are dead now. “I said. You make me sick.” His face turns to stone. Then his hand flies up — crack — and the slap snaps my head sideways into the iron bars. “You think I’m disgusting?” He’s shouting now. “You eat my money, you wear my name, and I’m not allowed to test you? You couldn’t hold a damn line. You made yourself this dirty!” Vanessa rushes in, grabbing his arm like she’s the voice of reason. “Matteo, don’t. Maybe she didn’t have a choice. Look at her — let’s just take her home.” Her gaze drifts over the bite marks on my inner thigh. She knows exactly where every one of them came from. A sick little flicker of pleasure crosses her eyes. Matteo inhales hard. Drags his glare across me one more time. “Get her out. Take her back. Let’s see if she’s still got the nerve to call herself my fiancée.” A bodyguard steps in and rips the cuffs off my wrists. The second the chain lets go, I collapse face-down into the pooled blood on the floor.

I’m dumped in the corner of his private jet, on the carpet, wrapped in a black robe one of his men threw at me. The cold is in my bones. My body convulses on its own. My teeth clack so hard I think they’ll crack. Matteo sits on the leather couch across from me, a glass of red wine in his hand. He watches me shake on the floor. For one second, something almost like guilt flickers in his eyes. The tip of his shoe nudges my shoulder. “Enough. Stop playing pitiful. You passed the test. Half-passed, anyway.” “You made yourself filthy, but at least you did it for me. When we land, you’ll get cleaned up. I’ll bring in the best doctors. The wedding goes ahead next month.” I don’t even flinch. Wedding. He throws me into hell, watches me get torn apart, then wants to put a ring on me. It’s so absurd I almost laugh. “What? Stunned by your good luck?” His brow knots when I don’t answer. He crouches down and reaches for my chin. I turn my face away. “Don’t touch me.” His hand freezes mid-air. His face drops like a stone. “Cora Lane. Don’t push me. You know what you are right now? A used-up piece of trash a hundred men have been through. I’m still willing to marry you. You should be grateful I haven’t tossed you in the river.” I open my eyes slowly. Meet his glare. The pity in it. The charity. “Matteo. You actually think if you snap your fingers, I’ll crawl back and lick your shoe?” “You—” He shoots up to his feet. Right on cue, Vanessa walks over with a glass of warm milk. She steps around me and hands the glass to Matteo. “Babe, don’t waste your breath. Her head’s not right yet.” She turns to me. Smiles. “Cora, sweetie. Matteo’s been so good to you. Where’s the gratitude? On those nights they had you strung up on the cross — didn’t you think of Matteo at all?” Matteo’s face goes white. His eyes come back to me, and this time there’s no hiding the revulsion. Vanessa pulls out her phone right on schedule. “Matteo… I didn’t want to show you this. I have a contact who works the block. He sent me something. I was going to delete it — I didn’t want to dirty your eyes. But the way she’s acting…” She lets it hang. Matteo snatches the phone out of her hand. Security footage. High definition. Me. Naked. Roped to a massive iron cross. Oil slicked over every inch of me, glittering under the lights. Below the stage, a dozen rich bastards screaming and tossing bets. Some of them howling like animals. A huge man climbs up holding an electric whip. He’s laughing as he brings it down across the inside of my thighs. Current rips through me. My body jackknifes. The sound I make doesn’t even sound like me. Then he puts his shoe on my face and makes me lick his shoe clean. It goes on. Smack. Matteo hurls the phone straight into my face. The screen shatters. Glass slices my forehead. Blood pours down instantly. “Cora!” His voice cracks — fury, and something worse, disgust so deep it’s almost grief. “You filthy bitch— you let those old bastards do that to you? You make me sick. You make me physically sick.” I lie there. Blood runs into my eyes. The world turns red. I look at his twisted face and find I don’t have a single word left to say.

The jet lands. They drag me straight to the Greco estate, down to the basement that never sees daylight. This is where Matteo used to keep his Rottweilers. The air still stinks of dogs. They chain my wrists and leave me face-down on the concrete. The iron door creaks open. “Tsk tsk. Still got that pride, huh?” Vanessa walks over and lifts my chin with the toe of her heels. “You wanna know why he locked you down here?” She crouches and leans in close to my ear, sweet poison in her voice. “Because you’re filthy. He’s scared you’ll give him something. Right now, every time he pictures you under those old men, he can’t even keep his food down.” I close my eyes. My breath is barely there. She doesn’t like that. Her eyes flash. She signals the guards behind her. “Teach her some manners.” Two of them yank me up by the arms. Vanessa pulls a small electric prod from her pocket. “Back at the auction block, they used one of these on you all the time, right? Let’s jog your memory.” She jams the prod straight into the raw, unhealed meat on my inner thigh. “AAAAAHH—!” I thought I was ready. I wasn’t. Everything goes white. My body convulses off the floor. The wound splits open. Blood soaks through what’s left of my clothes. She keeps clicking the button. Again. Again. Again. The world starts to dim. The door opens again. Matteo stands in the doorway, watching like it’s a movie. Vanessa pockets the prod instantly. The concerned-girlfriend face snaps back on. “Babe, you came down? It’s filthy down here.” Matteo walks straight to me. He has a folder in his hand. He drops it on my face. “Sign.” I force my eyes open. I can read the words. Voluntary Surrender of All Shares and Assets of Lane Holdings. Stapled behind it: Lifetime Servitude Contract. “You said you loved me, didn’t you?” His voice is ice. He’s looking down at me like I’m something on the bottom of his shoe. “You’re already ruined. So I’ll buy the rest of your life with that eighty million. You’ll be my slave. That’s the deal.” “Sign it, and I’ll bring the doctors. Don’t sign, and you rot down here.” I look at the folder. Something cracks inside me, and I start to laugh. It echoes off the basement. Thin. Awful. It doesn’t sound like me. It sets him off. “What the hell are you laughing at?” “I’m laughing…” I lift my head. I lock onto his eyes and I don’t let go. “I’m laughing because you’re never going to get what you want. Not from me. Not ever.” I pull together every scrap of strength I have left. And I spit a mouthful of blood right onto the contract. Matteo loses it. “Beat her! Beat her until she can’t move!” Vanessa’s eyes light up like Christmas. She waves the guards on. Boots come down on my ribs. My back. My face. Matteo just stands there. Watching. Cold. The fury of a man who’s never been told no. Somewhere in the haze, I make myself a promise. I’m going to live through this. And when I do, I’m going to bury every single one of them.

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My husband had a curse. Every wolf in Northbridge knew it. Every six months, Alpha Adrian Black would lose fifteen days of memory. Not all of it. Never his name. Never his power. Never the pack he ruled. Never the instincts that made wolves bow when he walked into a room. Only me. His Luna. His true mate. His wife. For fifteen days, the mate bond would go dead in his mind, and another woman would become the center of his world. He would call her his moon, his fate, his only love. And I would become the joke every pack wife pitied behind a jeweled hand. The first time the curse took him, Adrian fell for my rival at the Northbridge Broadcast Center. For his so-called true love, he had me kidnapped on the morning of the most important live broadcast of my career. I was supposed to anchor the national interview that would make my name impossible to erase. Instead, my own mate sent guards into the studio before the red light came on. They clamped a hand over my mouth, dragged me through the hallway in front of the crew, and broke both my legs on his orders so I could not crawl back to the desk. The broadcast went black. My rival took my seat. By sunrise, she was the new face of Northbridge. I was the Luna whose Alpha could break her bones for another woman and still make the whole city laugh. On the fifteenth day, Adrian woke. He collapsed at my feet and cried until his throat bled. Before nightfall, my rival vanished from the city. The official report called it a disappearance. The pack called it justice. No one dared say her name again. The second time, he fell for a maid who had climbed into his bed. She wanted my room. My jewels. My title. My bond. When I refused to leave, Adrian had his guards throw me into the red-lamp quarter outside the pack border. They filmed me being dragged through the streets while drunk wolves howled my name and posted the footage across every pack feed. On the fifteenth day, he woke outside the bond court. He put a blade to his own throat and begged me to let him bleed enough to pay for it. As for the maid, she ended the same way as the first woman: sold across the northern rogue line and returned three days later so broken she no longer knew how to speak. The worst time was the seventh. He chose my adopted sister. I was six months pregnant. For her, Adrian signed the order that sent me to a healer’s room and had our pup cut from my body before his lungs had learned how to breathe. By the time the curse ended, the sheets were soaked red, the crib was empty, and the pup I had carried under my heart was gone. Adrian woke in a room full of blood and silence. He tried to hang himself before the healers could stop him. They fought for three days and three nights to keep him alive. He survived. So did the curse. And now, this was the twelfth time. I stood at the door of our bedroom and looked at my best friend wrapped around my half-dressed husband. Selena Vale wore one of my old silk nightgowns. Pale blue. Expensive. The one I had thrown into the donation basket last week. She had always been delicate in public. Soft voice. Wet eyes. Fingers trembling at exactly the right moment. Now she lay against Adrian’s bare chest like a she-wolf who had won a war. “Elena,” she whispered, as if I were the one who had walked into the wrong room. “I know you’re hurt. But love can’t be forced.” Her hand slid over Adrian’s heart. “He loves me now. You have to accept that.” Adrian looked at me like I was a stranger standing too close to something that belonged to him. Something in my chest should have cracked. It didn’t. I only looked at the calendar on the wall. Day one. Good. I still had fourteen days to bury this marriage before it buried me. “If you run out of protection,” I said, “there’s more in the second drawer.” Selena blinked. Adrian’s brows drew together. I kept my voice calm. “If you want to give him a pup, tell me early. I have a heavy work schedule this week, and I’ll need time to file the rejection papers.” Selena stared at me like I had lost my mind. I turned to her and smiled. “Oh. And Selena?” “Yes?” “Did you buy life insurance?” Her smile froze. I let the question sit between us. Then I turned and walked out. Behind me, Adrian laughed, low and cruel. “Why are you wasting your breath on her? Elena was only ever a political Luna. My heart is yours.” A political Luna. That was what the curse always did. When Adrian forgot loving me, his mind filled the empty space with contempt. It gave him a story that made sense. I stepped out of the Alpha estate and called my lawyer before I reached the gates. “Start the rejection process,” I said. “I don’t care how much it costs. In fifteen days, I want the mate bond severed, my assets locked, and every Luna right removed from Adrian Black’s control.” There was a pause. “Luna Black, are you certain?” I looked back at the house where I had spent seven years bleeding for a male who only remembered loving me after the damage was already done. “Yes,” I said. “And don’t call me Luna Black again.”

By midnight, I was asleep in one of my own apartments across the city. By morning, my phone had almost burned itself dead. Adrian had called thirty-six times. I answered on the thirty-seventh. “Elena,” he snarled. “What did you do to Selena?” I rubbed my temple. “Good morning to you too.” “Don’t play innocent. She’s missing. You hated that I chose her, so you hurt her.” I almost laughed. The little fool had staged her own disappearance already. Fast learner. “Adrian, I didn’t touch your precious Eclipse Mate.” “Don’t call her that.” “That’s what she is, isn’t she? Fifteen days of moonlight before the dark comes back.” His growl shook through the phone. “If anything happens to her, I will never forgive you.” “You won’t remember saying that in two weeks.” The line went dead. Three minutes later, my apartment door broke open. Adrian came in first. His guards followed. His eyes were gold, wild, and empty of me. Before I could stand, his hand cracked across my face with the full strength of an Alpha who had forgotten he once kissed that same cheek. Pain burst white behind my eyes. I hit the floor hard enough for my teeth to cut through my lip. Blood filled my mouth. For half a second, the room went quiet. Then I looked toward the corner. The little red light on the security camera blinked steadily. Good. Adrian crouched in front of me, his expensive black coat brushing the floor. “Still looking at me like that?” he said. “Like I’m supposed to feel sorry for you?” I lowered my head. Not because I was afraid. Because the camera needed the angle. “Adrian,” I whispered, letting my voice tremble just enough, “you hit me for her?” His mouth twisted. “You kidnapped her. That crossed my line.” He stood. “Search the apartment. If she doesn’t tell us where Selena is, make her.” The guards moved at once. One fist landed against my ribs. Then another. Then another. Someone drove a knee into my stomach. Someone wrenched my arms behind my back until my shoulders screamed. I curled in on myself and counted each blow. Not because I wanted to remember the pain. Because every second was being saved to the cloud. A boot hit my side. My breath snapped apart. The room blurred. For one ugly heartbeat, I remembered the tenth curse, when Adrian had almost gouged out one of my eyes for a woman who said she hated the way I looked at him. When he woke that time and saw the blood crusted across my lashes, he locked himself in the cellar for a week and broke both his hands against the stone wall. He begged to tear out his own eye so the debt would be even. Back then, I stopped him. This time, I wondered why I had ever bothered. The last punch landed under my ribs. My throat tightened. I vomited blood onto my own floor. Adrian’s phone rang. His face changed before he even answered. “Selena?” His voice softened at once. “I’m coming. Don’t cry. I’ll be there.” He walked out without looking back. The guards followed. The broken door swung open in the silence. I lay on the floor until I could breathe again. Then I reached for my phone with shaking fingers, opened the live security upload, and saved the file under a new folder. Gift One. For the day he wakes.

Selena’s disappearance ended exactly the way I expected. She was found in a luxury hotel suite an hour later, wrapped in Adrian’s coat, weeping for the cameras. By noon, the whole pack believed I had tried to hurt her. By evening, Adrian froze my accounts. By nightfall, he called the Northbridge Broadcast Center and had me suspended from my own show. My director looked at me across his desk and smiled the stiff smile of a coward. “Elena, you know how this works. In fifteen days, Alpha Adrian will recover. He always does. Everyone knows you’re the one he truly loves.” Love. I looked at the suspension notice on the table. Then I asked, “Do you know how Adrian’s parents died?” The director’s smile vanished. “What?” “His father had the same curse. During his seventy-eighth cycle, he killed his Luna for another woman. When he woke, he jumped from the twentieth floor holding that woman in his arms.” The room went silent. I picked up the notice. “I’m not waiting for history to repeat itself.” Outside the station, Selena’s messages came one after another. Photos first. Adrian on his hands and knees while Selena sat on his back, laughing for the camera. Adrian kneeling at her feet. Adrian washing her feet in a silver basin. Adrian fastening diamonds around her throat. Adrian emptying every luxury store in Northbridge because she had said, laughing, that she wanted a mountain of gifts. Then came the words. You were always the main character, Elena. I was always the friend standing in the background. But now he belongs to me. Soon your crown, your wealth, your home, and your happiness will all be mine. Are you jealous? I hope it hurts. I stared at the screen. Then I took screenshots and uploaded everything. Gift Two. I drove back to the Alpha estate for one reason. My grandmother’s moonweave. It was the only thing I had left from my mother’s bloodline, a silver-threaded tapestry stitched by the women of my family for five generations. It carried our old crest, our birth moons, our names. My grandmother had placed it in my hands before she died and told me never to give it to anyone who did not understand what it meant. Adrian had once begged me for it. “Give me something that matters to you,” he had said, holding me after the seventh curse almost destroyed us both. “Something I can keep safe. Something that proves you won’t leave me.” So I gave him the moonweave. He framed it himself. Now I wanted it back. Clean break. Clean hands. Clean ending. But when I stepped into the estate, Selena was already in the great hall, holding a filthy stray pup against her chest. The animal was wet, trembling, and so terrified it had urinated down the front of her dress. Adrian stood beside her, pale from the fur allergy he refused to admit he had. “Poor thing,” Selena cooed. “Adrian, hand me that ugly cloth on the wall. I need to wipe him down.” My heart stopped. She was pointing at the moonweave. “Don’t,” I said. Adrian didn’t even look at me. He shattered the frame with one hand and pulled out the tapestry. “Why would anyone hang an old rag in the Alpha hall?” he said, disgust curling his lip. “Elena really has no taste.” The male who once kissed that cloth and swore it made him feel safe now tossed it to another woman like trash. Selena smiled at me. Then she dragged the mud-soaked, urine-stinking pup across my grandmother’s moonweave. Something in me finally tore open. I lunged. I didn’t reach her. Adrian caught the back of my coat and hurled me away from her as if I were filth. My body struck the floor-to-ceiling glass. The window exploded. Shards raked across my back, my arms, my thighs. For one second, I heard nothing but the wet sound of my own blood hitting the marble. Adrian froze. His eyes dropped to the blood spreading under me. His face went white. There. A crack in the curse. “Elena…” he whispered. Then Selena sobbed. “Adrian, she scared me. She scared the pup. I don’t want to stay here anymore.” The gold came back into his eyes. He shook his head hard. “No. No, I don’t care about her.” He pulled Selena close. “I love you. Only you.” I lay on the floor and reached for the ruined moonweave with bloody fingers. Selena passed me in Adrian’s arms. Her lips formed silent words. You are just like this rag. If I want it, he gives it to me. Then she let the stray pup slip from her arms. The animal, panicked by the smell of blood and waste, lunged back toward the cloth. Its teeth sank into my arm when I dragged the moonweave to my chest. Pain tore white through me. I held on anyway. By the time I woke again, I was in a private healer’s room. My hand was still clenched around a corner of the stained moonweave. A young nurse changed the bandages along my back and muttered under her breath, “Your Alpha is a monster.” I turned my head toward the window. Morning light warmed the sheets. “Healers called him last night,” she said. “They said you might not make it. They needed him to sign for emergency blood transfer.” I closed my eyes. “What did he say?” The nurse’s mouth tightened. “He said he was busy comforting Miss Vale. He said if you wanted to die, then let you die.” Let you die. I opened my eyes. “Can you repeat that?” I asked. She blinked. “What?” I lifted my phone. “For the record.” Her face hardened with understanding. She repeated every word. I saved the audio. Then I pulled the estate security footage from the backup server Adrian had forgotten I still controlled. The broken frame. The ruined moonweave. The glass. The blood. The dog’s teeth tearing into my skin. His face when he almost remembered. I uploaded everything. Gift Three.

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“I’m sorry, Maeve,” my coach said. “But the final roster has been confirmed. There wasn’t a mistake.” I found out on the last day of the public announcement. My Olympic Training Grant, the one I’d nearly destroyed my body for, had been reassigned. To Lyla Voss. I found Silas in the rink parking lot, leaning against his Porsche, flicking ash off a cigarette like it was any other Tuesday. “Lyla’s family is broke,” he said, not even looking at me. “Without the grant, she’d have to quit skating and get a job.” “You’re talented enough to qualify on your own at Sectionals.” I stared at him. Silent. Jaw locked. He frowned, pulled a black card from his wallet, and held it out. “Fine. I’ll cover your training costs for the next four years. All of it. Consider it me buying your spot. Happy now?” I looked at the card in his hand. So that was it. The spot I’d bled for. The early mornings. The torn ligaments. The hours on ice until I couldn’t feel my feet. All of it was just a price tag to him. A charity write-off. I didn’t take the card. I turned and walked away. Outside, it started to rain. Silas’s voice went cold behind me. “What the hell is your problem now? You bust your knuckles in that pro shop every day for cash. I’m handing you money and you’re acting like you’re above it?” My steps slowed. I turned my head. Looked at his face through the blur of rain. Fifteen years of loving him. Fifteen years of thinking he was mine. It all rotted through in that single moment. So I smiled. “Sure. Think whatever you want.” … I’d barely made it back to the pro shop when Bree called. “Maeve, did you see the roster? How the hell is Lyla on it? Did Silas do this?” I let out a bitter laugh. “I talked to him.” “What did he say?” “He said he bought my spot.” Silence on the other end. Then Bree’s voice came back, teeth clenched. “He’s a piece of shit.” I said nothing. “What are you doing right now?” she asked. “Sharpening blades.” “Stop sharpening blades! Go to the federation office and raise hell! That spot is yours! Do you not remember what you sacrificed for it?” I shook my head, kept working. “It won’t matter.” “How can it not matter? It’s a federal program!” “If Silas’s family can swap it once, they can swap it again.” More silence. Finally Bree said, “I just saw Lyla’s Instagram. Silas booked the most expensive restaurant in the city to celebrate for her.” “Okay.” “Maeve…” “I gotta go. Customer just walked in.” I hung up. A guy came in with a dull pair of skates. I grabbed them and got to work.

The next morning, I went to the rink to file my paperwork for Sectionals. In the hallway, I ran into Silas and Lyla. Lyla was clinging to his arm. The second she saw me, she ducked behind him like a scared kitten. “Silas, I’m scared.” He stepped in front of me, brow furrowed. “Maeve, don’t intimidate her.” I moved to walk around them. He grabbed my wrist. “What’s your attitude? Lyla didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t have a choice! Do you have to make a scene and embarrass everyone?” I yanked my hand free. “Move.” My voice was sharp. People in the hallway turned to look. Lyla’s tears spilled over. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. If you’re still angry, you can hit me. I deserve it.” She stepped toward me, arms open, like she was offering herself up. Silas yanked her back into his chest, glaring at me. “Look what you’ve done to her! Maeve, when did you become this cruel?” Whispers started around us. “That’s the girl from the pro shop, right?” “I heard she was supposed to get the grant, but Lyla got it instead.” “I mean, look at her face. Cold as ice. Who’d want to help her?” “Lyla’s so sweet. If I were Silas, I’d pick her too.” I ignored them all. Looked only at Silas. “I’ll say it one more time. Move.” He didn’t. He shoved me instead. “You’re apologizing to Lyla. Right now.” I stumbled back two steps. Hit the wall. Pain shot through my spine. I looked up at him. He looked back. Not a trace of warmth in his eyes. We grew up together. He was twelve when his family sent him from Manhattan to this nowhere town. Got into a fight his first day. I was the one who grabbed a wrench and scared off those older kids. After that, he followed me everywhere. He hated the grease on my hands. But whenever someone mocked my hearing, my dead right ear, he’d throw fists until they were on the ground. He said: “Maeve, I’ve got you from now on.” “You can’t hear out of one ear? Fine. I’ll be your other ear.” “When we get out of here, we’ll go to New York together.” Now he was shoving me into a wall. For another girl. Lyla sobbed harder in his arms. “Silas, forget it. Let’s just go. It’s all my fault.” He rubbed her back, voice going soft. “It’s not your fault.” He shot me one last look, pure warning, then walked away with his arm around her. I stood there for a while. Then straightened up and kept walking. On the way to the office, I passed the announcement board. Lyla’s photo was pinned in the center. Below it, the grant justification read: *Exceptional talent. Financial hardship. Remarkable perseverance.* I almost laughed. I remembered what it was like, going back to the pro shop. My father, reeking of whiskey, hand already out. “Where’s the money?” I ignored him. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head into the wall. “I’m talking to you! You deaf?” My right ear heard nothing. My left ear rang from the impact. “I don’t have any.” “Bullshit. That Kensington kid is loaded! You’re always hanging around him. What’s a little cash? You hiding it from me?” He slapped me across the face. Started digging through my pockets. I shoved him off. He kicked me in the stomach. Hard. “You ungrateful bitch!” I curled up on the floor. Felt my organs twist. He was still screaming. “Worthless! Just like your dead mother! Trash, both of you!” He reached for the tire iron. That’s when Silas showed up. He kicked my father off me. Pulled me up. Checked my injuries. “Where’d he hit you?” I shook my head. He took off his jacket. Draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” That night, he didn’t leave. Slept on the busted couch in the shop. The next day, he had my father hauled off by the cops. He said: “Maeve, I’ll take care of you from now on.” I believed him. I really believed he’d be the one person I could count on forever. Turns out, that kind of thing can just disappear.

At the last mock competition before Sectionals, I placed first overall. Silas scored dead last. He crumpled his score sheet into a ball and tossed it in the trash. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not competing at Sectionals anyway.” Lyla was right there, gazing up at him with worship in her eyes. “Silas, you’re so amazing.” He grinned, pinched her cheek. “Obviously. I’m going home to run the family business.” I walked past them. Silas called out. “Maeve.” I stopped. “Still pissed about the grant?” I didn’t answer. “I know it sucked for you. But you saw Lyla’s situation. He needed it more than you did.” He walked up to me, voice softening. “Take the card. The PIN is your birthday. Whatever you need for training, just tell me.” He actually believed money could fix everything. Could erase what he did to me. Could buy back what I lost. “I don’t need it,” I said flatly. “Here we go again.” Irritation crept into his voice. “When are you going to drop this pathetic pride thing? You make, what, minimum wage at the shop? I’m offering you more than you’d earn in a lifetime.” Lyla walked over, tugging at his sleeve. “Silas, don’t say that to her. She’s just… not used to it yet.” She turned to me, pity dripping from her eyes. “Maeve, I know you resent me. But I was truly desperate. My stepmom, she’s… she’s not human.” Her eyes went red again. I watched the performance. All year, I’d watched it. Over and over. She always played the victim in front of Silas. And I was always cast as the villain. “Silas promised he’d make it up to you,” Lyla said, like she was the lady of the house making an announcement. “Whatever you want, just tell us.” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. I actually laughed. First time in days. Silas blinked. “What’s funny?” “I’m laughing because you two deserve each other. A match made in hell.” I said it, turned, and walked away. Silas shouted behind me. “Maeve! Get back here!” I didn’t look back. That night, Bree sent me a photo. Silas and Lyla at a karaoke bar. He was singing into a mic. She was curled up against him, beaming. In the background, their friends held up a banner: *Congrats Lyla on the Grant! Silas + Lyla Forever!* Bree texted: *Don’t look at this. She’s not worth it.* I turned off my phone. Tossed it aside. Picked up my training journal. Started reviewing my jumps, one by one. Drowning in the work was the only way to stop thinking.

A week before Sectionals, the rink closed for the holiday break. Everyone else was out celebrating. Or cramming in last-minute practice at private facilities. I was still at the pro shop. One afternoon, Silas showed up. He pulled his Porsche right up to the front door, music blasting so loud the windows rattled. He got out, leaned against the door, and waved me over. “Maeve, come here.” I didn’t look up. He frowned, walked over. “I’m talking to you.” He reached for my hand, saw the grease, and pulled back. “Go wash up. You’re coming with me.” “Where?” “Lyla wants to go to the coast. You’re coming too.” I straightened up. “I’m not going.” “Throwing a tantrum again?” He clicked his tongue. “I came all the way here to get you. Don’t be ungrateful.” “I said no.” “Why?” “I need to train.” “Train?” He laughed like I’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “You could sleepwalk through Sectionals and still medal.” He paused, then added, “Come on. Think of it as a break. Lyla said she wants to make peace with you.” “There’s nothing to make peace over.” Silas ran out of patience. “Maeve, I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?” “No.” He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he smiled. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and threw it at my feet. Bills scattered across the dirty floor. “That’s your paycheck for the month. I already paid your boss. Take it and stay out of my sight.” I looked at the money on the ground. Didn’t move. “Not enough?” He pulled out another wad. “How about now?” Frank, the shop owner, came out from the back. He saw the scene and rushed over. “Mr. Kensington, what’s going on here? Let’s all calm down.” Silas didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes locked on me. “Pick it up.” I still didn’t move. Lyla got out of the car. She hurried to Silas’s side, tugging his arm. “Silas, stop. You’re scaring her.” She crouched down, picking up the bills one by one. “Maeve, please don’t be mad at Silas. He’s just doing this for me.” She held the money out to me, tears shining in her eyes. “Please come with us. I don’t want to be the reason you two are fighting.” I looked at her. Then at Silas. There was no guilt on Silas’s face. Not even a flicker. He thought he was doing me a favor. He thought he had the right to decide everything for me. Including my dignity. I stepped around them both and walked into the back room. Silas’s voice followed me, dripping with contempt. “See? That’s her problem. Give her an inch and she spits in your face.” Then the roar of the Porsche engine. Tires on gravel. Gone. Frank came in, sighing. “Kid, don’t take it to heart. That’s just how he is.” He picked up the bills from the floor and pressed them into my hand. “Keep it. Your situation at home, you need the money.” I held the cash. It still smelled like Lyla’s perfume. I walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed my hands over and over. Until my skin turned raw and red. Then I stopped. That night, my father showed up again. He took the money. Smashed up some of the shop equipment. I called the cops. They took him away. Again. On his way out, he jabbed his finger in my face. “You ungrateful little bitch! Calling the cops on your own father! You’ll rot in hell!” I watched the police car disappear down the road. My heart was perfectly still. So this is what it feels like. When everyone in your life turns their back on you.

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The Pack Elder frowned at me. “Maeve, the Academy slot you earned by ripping through three rounds of death matches soaked in your own blood, why is someone else’s name on it?” I found out on the last day of the posting. My Royal Guard Academy recommendation, the one I’d torn my body apart to earn, had been signed over by Silas. To Lyla Voss. An Omega with no combat record. I found Silas outside the main hall, leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed. “Lyla’s pack was wiped out,” he said without looking at me. “She has nothing. No protection, no rank. Without the slot, she’s dead.” “You’re strong enough to fight your way in through the The Blood Trials” I stared at him. Silent. Jaw locked. He frowned, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a leather pouch heavy with gold coins. He tossed it toward me. “Fine. I’ll fund your training for the next four years. Private instructors, weapons, potions, all of it. Consider it me buying your slot. Happy now?” I looked at the pouch on the ground between us. So that was it. The slot I’d bled for. The midnight hunts. The shattered bones that healed wrong. The hours sparring until my muscles tore from the bone. In his eyes, it was just a bag of coins. A charity toss to a stray. My inner wolf snarled. I forced her down. I didn’t pick up the pouch. I turned and walked away. Outside, it started to rain. Silas’s voice went cold behind me. “What the hell is your problem now? You scavenge leftover bones at that meat shop every day for scraps. I’m handing you gold and you’re acting like you’re above it?” My steps slowed. I turned my head. Looked at his face through the blur of rain. Fifteen years of loving him. Fifteen years of thinking he was mine. It all rotted through in that single moment. So I smiled. “Sure. Think whatever you want.” … I’d barely made it back to the meat shop when Bree’s voice crackled through the mindlink. Maeve, I just heard about the roster. How the hell is Lyla on it? Did Silas do this? I let out a bitter laugh. I talked to him. What did he say? He said he bought my slot. Silence in my head. Then Bree’s voice came back, raw with rage. He’s a piece of shit. I said nothing. What are you doing right now? Skinning elk. Stop skinning elk! Go to the Elder Council and raise hell! That slot is yours! Do you not remember what you sacrificed for it? I shook my head, kept working the knife. It won’t matter. How can it not matter? It’s a royal decree! If Silas can override it once, he can override it again. His father is the Alpha. The Elders won’t go against them. More silence. Finally Bree said, I just heard from the other females. Silas booked the grand feast hall for Lyla. Full celebration. The whole pack is invited. Okay. Maeve… I gotta go. Customer just walked in. I shut the mindlink. A wolf in human form walked into the shop with a fresh kill that needed butchering. I grabbed the carcass and got to work.

The next morning, I went to the pack hall to file my paperwork for the The Blood Trials In the corridor, I ran into Silas and Lyla. Lyla was clinging to his arm. The second she saw me, she ducked behind him like a scared pup. “Silas, I’m scared.” He stepped in front of me, brow furrowed. “Maeve, don’t intimidate her.” I moved to walk around them. He grabbed my wrist. His Alpha aura flared, pressing down on me like a stone wall. “What’s your attitude? Lyla didn’t do anything wrong. She didn’t have a choice! Do you have to make a scene and embarrass the whole pack?” I yanked my hand free. My wolf bristled under my skin. “Move.” My voice was sharp. Wolves in the corridor turned to look. Lyla’s tears spilled over. “Maeve, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. If you’re still angry, you can hit me. I deserve it.” She stepped toward me, arms open, chin tilted up to expose her throat. A textbook Omega submission pose. Silas yanked her back into his chest, glaring at me. “Look what you’ve done to her! Maeve, when did you become this cruel?” Whispers started around us. “That’s the she-wolf from the meat shop, right?” “I heard she was supposed to get the Royal Academy slot, but Lyla got it instead.” “I mean, look at her face. Cold as ice. Who’d want her in their pack?” “Lyla’s so sweet. If I were Silas, I’d pick her too.” I ignored them all. Looked only at Silas. “I’ll say it one more time. Move.” He didn’t. He shoved me instead. “You’re apologizing to Lyla. Right now.” I stumbled back two steps. Hit the stone wall. Pain shot through my spine. I looked up at him. He looked back. Not a trace of warmth in his eyes. We grew up together. He was twelve when his father sent him from the capital to this border pack. A young Alpha pup with too much pride. Got jumped by a group of older wolves his first day. I was the one who grabbed a silver-tipped blade and scared them off. After that, he followed me everywhere. He hated the blood and grime on my hands. But whenever someone mocked my hearing, my dead right ear from a childhood injury, he’d bare his fangs and fight until they submitted. He said: “Maeve, I’ve got you from now on.” “You can’t hear out of one ear? Fine. I’ll be your other ear.” “When I become Alpha, you’ll be my Luna. We’ll rule this pack together.” Now he was shoving me into a wall. For an Omega he’d known for one season. Lyla sobbed harder in his arms. “Silas, forget it. Let’s just go. It’s all my fault.” He rubbed her back, voice going soft. “It’s not your fault.” He shot me one last look, pure warning, Alpha dominance rolling off him in waves, then walked away with his arm around her. I stood there for a while. Then straightened up and kept walking. On the way to the Elder’s office, I passed the announcement board. Lyla’s portrait was pinned in the center. Below it, the recommendation read: Exceptional potential. Orphaned Omega. Remarkable resilience. I almost laughed. I remembered what it was like, going back to the meat shop. My father, reeking of moonshine, hand already out. “Where’s the money?” I ignored him. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head into the wall. “I’m talking to you! You deaf?” My right ear heard nothing. My left ear rang from the impact. “I don’t have any.” “Bullshit. That Alpha pup is loaded! You’re always hanging around him. What’s a few coins? You hiding it from me?” He slapped me across the face. Started digging through my pockets. I shoved him off. He kicked me in the stomach. Hard. Even crippled, even with one leg half-gone from the border wars, he was vicious. “You ungrateful bitch!” I curled up on the floor. Felt my organs twist. He was still screaming. “Worthless! Just like your dead mother! She-wolf trash, both of you!” He reached for the iron hook on the wall. That’s when Silas showed up. He kicked my father off me. Pulled me up. Checked my injuries. His wolf was growling low in his chest. “Where’d he hit you?” I shook my head. He took off his cloak. Draped it over my shoulders. “Don’t be scared. I’m here.” That night, he didn’t leave. Slept on the floor of the shop. The next day, he had the pack enforcers drag my father to the holding cells. He said: “Maeve, I’ll take care of you from now on.” I believed him. I really believed he’d be the one person I could count on forever. Turns out, that kind of thing can just disappear.

At the final combat trial before the Open Assessment, I placed first overall. Silas placed dead last. He crumpled his scorecard and tossed it into the fire pit. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not fighting in the Assessment anyway.” Lyla was right there, gazing up at him with worship in her eyes. “Silas, you’re so amazing.” He grinned, pinched her cheek. “Obviously. I’m inheriting the pack. Why would I need to fight?” I walked past them. Silas called out. “Maeve.” I stopped. “Still pissed about the slot?” I didn’t answer. “I know it sucked for you. But you saw Lyla’s situation. She needed it more than you did.” He walked up to me, voice softening. “Take the gold. I left three hundred coins with the vault guard under your name. Just tell him who you are and it’s yours.” He actually believed money could fix everything. Could erase what he did to me. Could buy back what I lost. “I don’t need it,” I said flatly. “Here we go again.” Irritation crept into his voice. “When are you going to drop this pathetic pride thing? You earn, what, scraps at the shop? I’m offering you more than you’d see in a lifetime.” Lyla walked over, tugging at his sleeve. “Silas, don’t say that to her. She’s just… not used to it yet.” She turned to me, pity dripping from her eyes. “Maeve, I know you resent me. But I was truly desperate. My old pack, they… they left me to die.” Her eyes went red again. The scent of distressed Omega poured off her. I watched the performance. All season, I’d watched it. Over and over. She always played the wounded pup in front of Silas. And I was always cast as the big bad wolf. “Silas promised he’d make it up to you,” Lyla said, like she was the Luna of the pack making an announcement. “Whatever you want, just tell us.” I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. I actually laughed. First time in days. Silas blinked. “What’s funny?” “I’m laughing because you two deserve each other. A match made in hell.” I said it, turned, and walked away. Silas shouted behind me. “Maeve! Get back here!” I didn’t look back. That night, Bree sent a messenger with a sketch from the feast. Silas and Lyla at the grand feast hall. He was standing at the head of the table, raising a goblet. She was curled up against him, beaming. In the background, pack members held up a banner made of stitched hide. It read: Congratulations Lyla on the Royal Slot! Long live Silas and Lyla! A note from Bree was tucked behind it. Don’t look at this. She’s not worth it. I tossed the sketch into the fire. Let the silence fill the room. Picked up my training blade. Started running drills, one strike at a time. Drowning in the work was the only way to stop thinking.

A week before the Open Assessment, the training grounds closed for the sacred hunt festival. Everyone else was out feasting. Or cramming in last-minute sparring at private dens. I was still at the meat shop. One afternoon, Silas showed up. He shifted back to human form right outside the front door. Still breathing hard from the run. He leaned against the doorframe and waved me over. “Maeve, come here.” I didn’t look up. He frowned, walked over. “I’m talking to you.” He reached for my hand, saw the dried blood under my nails, and pulled back. “Go wash up. You’re coming with me.” “Where?” “Lyla wants to visit the coastal pack. You’re coming too.” I straightened up. “I’m not going.” “Throwing a tantrum again?” He clicked his tongue. “I came all the way here to get you. Don’t be ungrateful.” “I said no.” “Why?” “I need to train.” “Train?” He laughed like I’d told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “You could skip training entirely and still crush half the candidates.” He paused, then added, “Come on. Think of it as a break. Lyla said she wants to make peace with you.” “There’s nothing to make peace over.” Silas ran out of patience. “Maeve, I’m asking you one last time. Are you coming or not?” “No.” He stared at me for a few seconds. Then he smiled. “Fine. Have it your way.” He pulled a leather pouch from his belt and threw it at my feet. Gold coins scattered across the dirty floor. “That’s your wages for the month. I already paid your boss. Take it and stay out of my sight.” I looked at the coins on the ground. Didn’t move. “Not enough?” He tossed another pouch. “How about now?” Old Frank, the shop owner, came out from the back. He saw the scene and rushed over. “Alpha Kensington, what’s going on here? Let’s all calm down.” Silas didn’t even glance at him. He kept his eyes locked on me. “Pick it up.” I still didn’t move. Lyla climbed down from the carriage behind him. She hurried to Silas’s side, tugging his arm. “Silas, stop. You’re scaring her.” She crouched down, picking up the coins one by one. “Maeve, please don’t be mad at Silas. He’s just doing this because of me.” She held the gold out to me, tears shining in her eyes. “Please come with us. I don’t want to be the reason you two are fighting.” I looked at her. Then at Silas. There was no guilt on Silas’s face. Not even a flicker. He thought he was doing me a favor. He thought he had the right to decide everything for me. Including my dignity. I stepped around them both and walked into the back room. Silas’s voice followed me, dripping with contempt. “See? That’s her problem. Give her an inch and she spits in your face.” Then the sound of paws hitting dirt as he shifted and ran. Gone. Frank came in, sighing. “Kid, don’t take it to heart. That’s just how he is.” He picked up the coins from the floor and pressed them into my hand. “Keep it. Your situation at home, you need the money.” I held the gold. It still smelled like Lyla’s rose oil. I walked to the basin, turned on the pump, and scrubbed my hands over and over. Until my skin turned raw and red. Then I stopped. That night, my father showed up again. He took the gold. Smashed the drying racks and the salting barrels. I sent word to the pack enforcers. They came and dragged him away. Again. On his way out, he jabbed his finger in my face. “You ungrateful little bitch! Reporting your own father to the enforcers! You’ll rot in the earth!” I watched them haul him down the road. My heart was perfectly still. So this is what it feels like. When everyone in your life turns their back on you.

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On the day I tried on my bonding gown, my sister Celeste said she wanted to help me decide. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Celeste was adjusting the silver-patterned collar pin for Ronan Blackridge, the Alpha no wolf in Blackridge Pack dared defy—the man I was supposed to bond with. I had just opened my mouth to say, “Let me,” when the stylist smiled and stepped toward Celeste.“This way, future Luna. Let’s try your styling over here.” I stopped short. Ronan did not correct her. Celeste only smiled shyly and leaned into him. My childhood sweetheart, Kieran, walked past me, lifted his camera, and started taking pictures of them. I stood there, stunned, like an outsider. Most of Kieran’s shots were of Celeste and Ronan. There wasn’t a single frame of me, the woman who was actually supposed to stand beside him under the full moon. Celeste sounded so natural, as if she were the one about to become Luna. “Elowen, bring me that bouquet.” When Ronan saw that I was silent, he came over and gently took the flowers from my hands. Those golden eyes of his, eyes that had once silenced rebellious wolves in the Elders’ Hall, were unusually soft now. “Elowen, why are you spacing out? Go pick the invitation design first. I’ll come over after we finish the photos.” Kieran lowered the camera just enough to show one eye from behind the lens. “Elowen, move two steps to the side. You’re blocking the light.” I moved away without a word and stood in the corner. In that moment, I finally understood how unnecessary I was. If this ceremony didn’t need me, then I wouldn’t be there. … I quietly picked up my bag from the shoe bench and pushed the door open. The wind chime rang once. No one called after me. I looked back. Celeste was turning in front of the mirror, and Ronan stood behind her, fixing the bow at her waist. Kieran held up his camera. “Yes, yes, that angle. Perfect.” The shutter clicked five or six times in a row. I turned around and walked out of the store. When I got into the car, my phone screen lit up. It was a message from the bonding ceremony planner. Miss Ashborne, the ceremony is coming up soon. Have you chosen the invitation design? Before I could reply, another message came in. Or you could let your sister choose for you. She has excellent taste. The car was silent. So quiet that I could hear myself breathing. One breath after another, as if I were counting something. What was I counting? The number of times I had been forgotten in this relationship? I typed three words and sent them. Whatever she wants. And I meant it. Whatever Celeste wanted. In the end, Ronan would listen to her anyway. The planner replied almost instantly. Got it. Thank you. I stared at those words and thought the planner must have been relieved. The bride’s decisions were always being changed. They were probably tired of revising the plans over and over, too. It was easier to let my sister decide for me. Before I could put my phone down, messages kept popping up. Kieran was uploading photos to the group chat one after another. I opened one of them. His composition was beautiful. Light fell across their faces. Ronan wore a black ceremonial suit with the silver wolf emblem of Blackridge Pack pinned to his shoulder, while my sister Celeste leaned against him as if they were the lovers about to bond beneath the full moon. I closed my eyes. My heart hurt so much I could barely breathe. I had tried so hard. I had poured so much care into this ceremony, trying to make every detail perfect. I wanted a perfect ceremony. I wanted to prove that I was worth being remembered by the man I loved. But in the end, I was still outside the frame. My phone lit up and went dark, then lit up again. Messages kept coming into the group chat. I didn’t reply. No one cared. I sent my assigned pack escort back, then drove alone to the apartment I rented. On the refrigerator was a sticky note I had written myself. Seven days until the bonding ceremony. I peeled it off, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the trash.

The next morning, I opened my phone. There were 99+ messages in the bonding ceremony group chat. I looked at the only voice message where Celeste had tagged me and hesitated for a moment before tapping it open. “Elowen, I changed the ceremony song for you. The one you picked was too depressing. A bonding ceremony should feel lighter.” Right after that came Ronan’s text. Yeah, the original one wasn’t right. I think Celeste’s lighter choice is better. The original one was not right? I had spent an entire month choosing that song. It was the song my parents had played at their wedding. Every time I heard it, my eyes would sting. My parents had died too young, and I had wanted them to be present in another way. Ronan knew that. Celeste knew that, too. And still, they thought it was too depressing. In the group chat, Celeste was still saying, “Elowen never likes making decisions. We can just decide these things for her.” Ronan replied with one word. Okay. I stared at that word and did not move. Messages flowed past one after another like running water. No one noticed that Elowen was in the group. No one noticed that Elowen had said nothing. My participation in this bonding ceremony was zero. I opened my chat with Ronan. Our conversation was still stuck on yesterday. I had told him, I’m a little nervous. He had sent back a head-patting sticker. As for the fact that I had left early, he had not even messaged me privately to ask what happened. He had only tagged me in the group chat last night. What happened? Were you so nervous you left early? No one answered. That didn’t matter either. Celeste posted a photo with the caption: Elowen, the styling shoot went so well today. The Luna gown is confirmed! And just like that, everything was brushed aside. Then they moved on to talking about laurel decorations, bonding invitations, and the ceremony backdrop. Suddenly, I felt that my place was not even extra. Extra meant I had at least existed once. I felt as if I had never been there at all. While I was packing my things, Celeste suddenly video-called me. I answered. On the screen, someone was doing her makeup. “Elowen, you’re taking forever. The styling team still hasn’t been confirmed, so I booked one myself. I’m testing the look first.” I looked at Celeste sitting in front of the mirror. I wanted to say something, but I did not know what to say. Two weeks ago, I had told her that my friend would personally do my bonding makeup. But it was as if she could not hear my thoughts at all. She simply decided everything for me. Had I never questioned her? Had I never been unhappy? Had I never stood up for myself? I had. But in the end, I was always given the same sentence. “Elowen, you’ve always been more mature than she is. Don’t argue with her over this.” Kieran had known me the longest, yet he always stood on her side. Then Ronan appeared and pursued me fiercely. That Alpha, known among wolves for being calm, powerful, and impossible to defy, would personally drive me home late at night and say I was adorably dazed. I thought he liked that quiet part of me. But after he met Celeste, his taste seemed to change. Without me realizing it, his words changed, too. He began saying that girls should be lively and decisive. One day, I could not hold it in anymore. “Can you stop being so close to Celeste all the time? Can you pay attention to boundaries?” I thought he would understand. Instead, he took it lightly, smiling as he rubbed my hair. “Boundaries? After you and I complete our bond, Celeste will also be under Blackridge Pack’s protection. Do you want me to treat her like a rogue at our borders?” I fell silent. Of course I did not want them to be enemies. “You’re more mature than she is. You should be more understanding.” That sentence had weighed on me for so many years that, for the first time, I felt like I could barely breathe. They had forgotten that I was only two years older than she was. I wanted a gift, too. I wanted someone to ask me, Do you like this? But no one ever cared.

I called my landlord and told him I was moving out today. On the other end, he asked, “You’re really leaving? You’ve lived there for more than four years.” Yes. Four years already. When Ronan and I first confirmed our relationship, he wanted me to move into Blackridge Pack’s Alpha residence with him. The main house was heavily guarded, home to his most trusted Beta, Gamma, and core warriors. Celeste said I should keep some private space for myself and suggested that I live alone. So I rented an apartment near Blackridge’s downtown offices, hoping I would see him more often. Ronan agreed. Sometimes, after he finished dealing with Pack matters, he would come here late at night and stay until morning. This place was filled with the sweetness of our early love, then with our arguments, our silences, and the sight of his back as he hurried away. But now, I had gathered enough disappointment. I had made up my mind to leave. “Yes,” I said. “I’m moving today.” The landlord sighed and told me to leave the keys in the mailbox. Not long after I hung up, the door was pushed open from outside. Ronan and Celeste walked in, laughing and talking. Celeste turned back and smiled at him. “You promised. After my lease ends, I can stay in your Alpha residence for a few weeks after the bonding. Save me the room in Moonshadow East Wing, the one with the bay window. And change the curtains to the pink I like.” I stood in the middle of the living room, wondering if I had heard her wrong. She said it so naturally, as if how long she would stay and how our home after the bonding would be decorated were both things she had the right to decide. Ronan did not object. His smile was indulgent. “Elowen won’t mind.” “Elowen always takes care of me. Of course she won’t mind.” I stood there, and something in my throat seemed to loosen. “What if I say I do mind?” The air went quiet for two seconds. Celeste froze. Perhaps it was the first time I had ever refused her. Before she even spoke, her eyes were already red. Ronan’s voice carried a note of reproach. “Elowen, what’s wrong with you? Usually you can’t wait to give her everything. Now you’re arguing over a single room?” “I’m not arguing,” I said. “Then what do you mean?” He frowned. “Celeste’s lease happens to be ending. She’ll only stay for a few weeks. She’s your sister, not some outsider we need to guard against. The Alpha residence is so big. What’s wrong with letting one more person stay for a while?” “That is supposed to be our home after the bonding,” I said. “The home meant for Blackridge Pack’s Luna. Who exactly is bonding with you?” Ronan choked on that. Celeste said softly, her eyes red, “Elowen, I just wanted to be closer to you. If you don’t want me there, forget it. I won’t move in.” Ronan looked at me with blame in his eyes. “Look at you. One sentence and you’ve hurt her this much. She’s your sister. Can’t you think about her?” “Then who thinks about me?” I lifted my head. “You personally arranged for her to enter Blackridge Pack’s External Affairs Office. You approved resources for her far beyond what others at her level receive. She hardly has to worry about anything. And me? I only have—” “Enough!” Ronan’s expression changed. “Be reasonable. She’s your sister. I only took special care of her because of you. Do you really have to be so petty?” Petty. That word again. I smiled and said nothing. Celeste tugged at his sleeve and whispered, “Ronan, stop. Elowen is probably just in a bad mood.” He patted her hand, and his tone softened. “Elowen, I’ve already decided. Celeste moving in is a good thing. You two sisters can stay close even after the bonding.” I nodded. Whatever. It was your home anyway. I would not be living there. Ronan let out a breath of relief. Celeste wiped the corner of her eye, though no tears had fallen, and smiled again. I turned to continue packing. Behind me came Celeste’s voice. “Can I really change the curtains to light pink?” Ronan’s voice was full of amusement. “Whatever you like.”

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I never lend money to anyone. Not because I am stingy, but because my family has passed down an ancient warning: anyone who borrows money from my hand must repay it before the third midnight bell tolls. Otherwise, the Reaper will come in person to collect the debt. My father called it the Reaper’s Debt. I was ten the first time I witnessed the curse. My classmate Ethan borrowed five dollars from me. He said he wanted to stop by the corner convenience store after school for a soda and a pack of baseball cards. The next day, when I reminded him to pay me back, he turned his empty pockets inside out and laughed like it was nothing. “It’s five dollars, Nora. Your family is loaded. Are you really that desperate for pocket change?” On the third afternoon, Ethan was found drowned in the shallow drainage canal behind the school. The deepest part of that canal did not even reach an adult’s knees. The police ruled it an accident. The second time, I was twelve. My best friend, Madison, borrowed a hundred dollars from me to buy concert tickets. On the day she was supposed to pay me back, she laughed at me in front of our lockers. “Real friends don’t chase each other for money. If you’re asking me for it, then you never saw me as a friend at all.” On the third morning, Madison was found collapsed beside the school bus stop. There were no external injuries. No history of heart disease. The medical examiner listed the cause of death as sudden cardiac arrest. When I was sixteen, our neighbor Caleb said he was sick and needed money for asthma medication and antihistamines. He borrowed two hundred dollars from me. Because it sounded urgent, I gave it to him. That night, I went to his house on purpose and reminded him not to forget the three-day deadline. Otherwise, I told him, the Reaper might come for him. “Oh my God, the Reaper? Could you be any more childish?” he laughed at me through the screen door. “Once the money is in my hands, it’s mine. If your Reaper wants it, tell him to come take it himself.” On the third day, Caleb suddenly swelled all over in the school cafeteria. He dropped to his knees and clawed at his own throat with both hands, as if an invisible hand had closed around his windpipe. I watched him suffocate to death. The paramedics said it was a rare and severe case of anaphylactic shock. Three times. Every time, on the third day. Every person who died had borrowed money from me and refused to pay it back. I was terrified, but I had no choice but to believe it. The Reaper’s Debt was real. After that, I never lent anyone a single cent again. When I kept pressing him, my father told me that one of our ancestors had once tricked the Reaper during a plague, using a silver coin to redeem the lover who should have died. The Reaper did not take his life immediately. Instead, he cursed his bloodline. From then on, if anyone owed money to our family and refused to repay it within three days, what they owed would no longer be money. It would be a life. So when my college roommate, Vanessa Reed, asked me to lend her money for a limited-edition skincare set, I refused without hesitation. “Sorry. I don’t lend money.” Vanessa was one of the most popular cheerleaders at school. She was sitting in front of the vanity in our dorm room, touching up her lipstick. When she heard my answer, she paused. “What did you just say?” “I can’t lend you money.” For two seconds, the dorm went silent. Then Chloe, another one of our roommates, burst out laughing. “Here she goes again with that story about the Reaper coming to collect debts.” Kayla laughed too. “Borrow from her and don’t pay her back in three days, and you die. So scary.” Vanessa snapped her lipstick shut. Then, without warning, she grabbed my phone and unlocked the screen with my face. “Give it back!” I lunged for her, but Chloe caught my wrists from behind. Kayla shut the dorm door. Vanessa opened my banking app with practiced ease. Her lips curved smugly. “You have five thousand dollars sitting here. Why are you so cheap?” “That’s my living expenses for the semester.” “You don’t want these pictures getting out, do you?” She suddenly held her phone in front of my face. On the screen were several photos of me in the shower. My mind went blank. “When did you take those?” “That doesn’t matter.” She slowly swiped through the photos. “What matters is that if I press send, they will be on the school forum and in every fraternity group chat on campus.” Chloe gave a low whistle. “With a body like that, you really shouldn’t be hiding it.” Kayla covered her mouth and giggled. “Maybe you’ll be campus famous by tomorrow.” Heat rushed into my face. “Tell me the verification code.” Vanessa’s thumb hovered over the send button. “Or I let all of Westbridge University enjoy these pictures for you.” In my mind, Ethan’s pale, bloated face, Madison’s body beside the bus stop, and Caleb’s desperate hands clawing at his throat flashed one after another. I could not give her the money. But I also knew Vanessa was not bluffing. In the two months since school had started, she had already used secretly recorded videos to drive another girl out. “Time’s up.” I closed my eyes and gave her the code. The next second, five thousand dollars disappeared from my account. Vanessa looked at the transfer confirmation and smiled with satisfaction. “You said people who owe you money die if they don’t pay you back in three days?” “It’s not a joke. You have to give it back before midnight on the third day.” She laughed even harder. “Then I can’t wait to see how your Reaper plans to kill me.” I said nothing else. She would never believe me anyway. The next day, Vanessa was perfectly fine. On the morning of the third day, she came back with the skincare set and deliberately piled the packaging boxes on my desk. “Looks like your Reaper forgot to show up for work.” The dorm filled with laughter. For the first time, I truly breathed in relief. But by noon that day, Vanessa had not come back. I sent several messages to my roommates asking where she was. No one answered. Chloe mocked me for not being able to live without her. Kayla said I was probably developing Stockholm syndrome. That night, the dorm supervisor told me Vanessa had submitted an emergency leave request. She said something had happened at home and she needed to be gone for a few days. My heart dropped. The Reaper had come. For the next two days, Vanessa never appeared. Then, on the afternoon of the fifth day, several police cars suddenly drove onto campus. Crime-scene tape sealed off the central lake. The dive team searched the water for four hours. At dusk, a female body was lifted to shore in a black body bag. The dead woman was Vanessa Reed. The Reaper’s Debt had come true once again. The other two girls from my dorm and I were taken to campus police for questioning. Chloe and Kayla pointed at me almost at the same time, their faces white with fear. “It was Nora! She must have killed Vanessa!” “Nora said herself that if Vanessa didn’t pay her back within three days, she would die!” “She predicted Vanessa’s death. Who else could the killer be?”

To prevent us from influencing each other’s statements, we were taken into separate interview rooms. The detective assigned to question me was Adrian Morgan. He was around forty, composed, his eyes sharp. He pushed a cup of water toward me. “Start from the beginning. What exactly happened between you and Vanessa?” I told him everything. Vanessa taking my phone. The private photos she used to threaten me. The forced transfer. And the Reaper’s Debt. Morgan did not interrupt once. Only after I finished did he slowly lean back in his chair. “So you’re saying anyone who borrows money from you and doesn’t return it within three days dies?” “I don’t want them to die. It’s a curse.” “What’s the curse called?” “The Reaper’s Debt.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re investigating a murder, Nora. I need facts, not a ghost story.” “I am telling you the facts. I didn’t kill Vanessa.” His tone suddenly hardened. “A twenty-year-old girl had her face destroyed and was dumped in a lake. Before she disappeared, you told her she would die if she didn’t pay you back within three days. Now she’s dead. How do you expect me to understand that?” I did not know how to make him believe me, so I told him about the three deaths from before. Ethan drowned. Madison died suddenly. Caleb suffocated from an allergic reaction. All three cases had been ruled accidents. All three had happened on the third day after they borrowed money from me. “That’s why, after high school, I never lent money to anyone again.” Morgan stared at me. “If you knew what could happen, why did you give Vanessa the money?” I broke down and clutched my head. “I didn’t have a choice! She filmed me without my consent and threatened me with the pictures. You can check her phone.” Just then, an officer knocked and stepped inside. “The body has been recovered. The medical examiner wants you there.” Morgan stood and had me brought along to confirm the identity. The central lake was crowded with students.The body lay on a silver waterproof sheet, the black body bag already unzipped.I looked only once before my stomach turned violently. The dead woman’s face had been severely damaged. Her long hair was tangled with lake weeds. Her skin had swollen pale from the water. The female medical examiner crouched beside the body. “Preliminary time of death is more than forty-eight hours ago. The facial damage may have occurred after death, or during the agonal stage. We’ll know more after a full autopsy.” I swallowed without meaning to. Morgan noticed immediately. “You’re nervous.” “I’m scared.” “Scared of the body? Or scared we’ll find something?” At that moment, the medical examiner suddenly looked up. “There’s something here.” Using tweezers, she removed a clear waterproof pouch from the inside of the body’s jacket. The pouch had been sealed tightly. Inside was a cream-colored envelope. Half an hour later, the envelope was delivered to the station as evidence. Morgan put on gloves and opened it in front of me. There was only one sheet of paper inside. The first line was in Vanessa’s handwriting. If I die, investigate Nora Sinclair. Before I could read the rest, Morgan folded the paper away. “Nora Sinclair, from this moment on, you are no longer just a witness.You are being formally detained on suspicion of murdering Vanessa Reed.” The interrogation room lights were much harsher than the interview room’s. My hands were restrained on the table. Morgan spread the letter in front of me. “Vanessa wrote that ever since she took your money, she felt someone following her. She dreamed of a person in a black robe standing beside her bed. She also kept having impulses to jump into the lake.” He tapped the paper with one finger. “You’re majoring in behavioral science. Nearly all of your psychology grades are As. Is it possible you used long-term suggestion to push her toward death?” I almost laughed from anger. “If I were that powerful, why would I let her leave behind a letter pointing straight at me?” Silence fell over the interrogation room. Then, from outside the door, came a shrill cry. “Vanessa! My daughter!” A woman was screaming in the hallway. “You’ve already caught the murderer! Why do you still have to touch her body? I won’t allow an autopsy! I want to take my daughter home whole!” Morgan frowned. Then he suddenly looked at me again. “You say the curse is real, right?” “Yes.” “Then I’ll test it myself.” I froze, but I understood what he intended. “Lend me twenty dollars. I’ll write you an IOU and refuse to pay you back for three days.” “No!” “Why not?” “You’ll die.” “I don’t believe in the Reaper.” His voice was calm. “And for the next three days, I’ll stay in the station with paramedics on standby. If something happens to me, your story holds up. If nothing happens, then you must admit someone used this so-called curse to kill Vanessa.” I shook my head wildly. But Morgan had already written the IOU and signed his name. “This is your chance to prove you’re innocent.” In the end, I could only reach into my pocket with trembling fingers, take out twenty dollars in cash, and hand it to him. Morgan accepted the money and said quietly, “The clock starts now.”

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