It was our seventh wedding anniversary. My mother-in-law was cooking in the kitchen, and my daughter was playing in the living room. I was charging my drunk husband’s phone when the screen suddenly lit up. It was a SnapChat message. The contact name was “Little Ember”: “Bro, can you still make it tonight? I bought new sheets, the burgundy kind you like.” I swiped open the screen. He had a saved folder in SnapChat called 【Ember’s Wish】. I tapped on it. Ninety-nine photos. Ninety-nine different women. Ninety-nine opened condom wrappers, neatly spread out on his white bedsheets. I stood rooted to the spot, trembling all over. In the living room, my husband drunkenly hugged our daughter, calling out, “Daddy loves you the most.” I smiled at my mother-in-law and said, “Mrs. Davis, I’m going out to buy some soy sauce.” It took me forty-seven seconds to get from our front door to downstairs. In those forty-seven seconds, I replayed every single frame of my seven-year marriage in my mind. His name was Mark, and I met him on a blind date. Back then, I had just left the military. My father was critically ill, my mother had remarried, and I was all alone in the world. When he was pursuing me, he said, “Alice, your first half of life has been too hard. Let me make the second half easy for you.” I gave up my highly sought-after federal job placement, a benefit of my military service, to his younger brother, all because of that one sentence. I sold the old house my father left me to help him get startup capital for his business. I transformed myself from a scout who could carry sixty pounds and cover twelve miles cross-country into a mere housewife. And what did I get in return? He was with “Mistress #1” in a hotel room on a night when I was throwing up so hard I had stomach bleeding from morning sickness. I was in labor for eighteen hours in the delivery room, while he was accompanying “Mistress #12” to her prenatal check-up. For our daughter’s naming ceremony, the gold charm he gave her was just plated. The real one, the solid gold piece, was around “Mistress #38’s” neck. I stood by the apartment building entrance and tapped on the video I had just recorded. Ninety-nine photos, with clear timestamps. From March 17, 2020, the night before our wedding. To February 28, 2026, three o’clock this afternoon. He took the last photo in the spare bedroom while I was in the kitchen. The wrapper was strawberry flavored. I took a deep breath and dialed a number. “General Thorne, it’s Alice.” There was a three-second silence on the other end, then a deep, resonant voice spoke. “Alice? You finally decided to contact me.” I couldn’t help it; my eyes stung. Eight years ago, I saved an old man during a border mission. I didn’t know who he was then, only that he’d been trapped in a collapsed tunnel for three days and three nights. I carried him for six kilometers in a heavy downpour. Later, I learned he was a highly decorated General from a major command. He told me then, “Alice, if you ever have any trouble, call me anytime.” Eight years. I had never made that call. I always thought I could manage my life on my own. “General, I need a lawyer,” I said. “For a divorce case.” “Also, I want to rejoin the military.” The voice on the other end simply said, “Okay.” After hanging up, I looked up at our seventh-floor window. The crooked holiday decorations Lily had pasted on the window for Christmas were still there. My phone lit up. It was a message from Mark: 【Honey, did you buy the soy sauce? Dad says you’ve been out for a long time.】 【Lily’s asking when you’re coming back to watch TV.】 I stared at the text and smiled. When I got home, Mark was sitting on the couch, watching a reality show with Lily. He saw me walk in and eagerly came to greet me. “What took you so long? I thought you got lost.” Lost? I could find my way in a primeval forest, yet I was completely lost for seven years in the marriage you gave me. “The grocery store downstairs was closed, so I had to walk an extra block,” I said, handing him the soy sauce. He took the bottle and turned towards the kitchen. Watching his back, I suddenly felt like he was a stranger.

In the kitchen, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Davis, was dropping meatballs into the hot oil. Mark stood by the stove, looking down at his phone. I stood at the kitchen doorway, watching him type. He looked up, meeting my gaze. His face stiffened. “Wh-what’s wrong?” I smiled. “Nothing. It’s just… you haven’t smiled like that in a long time.” His expression changed. I didn’t say anything more and turned to set the table. Dinner was lavish tonight; Mrs. Davis’s cooking was always excellent. Mark served me food, served Lily, toasted his parents, playing the role of a perfect husband, perfect father, perfect son. I looked at him and suddenly asked, “Oh, by the way, where’s your backup phone? I wanted to track a package this afternoon, but I couldn’t find it.” He paused. “Oh, that one? The battery was dead, so I threw it out.” “Threw it out?” “Yeah, I wasn’t using it anyway.” He looked down at his plate, avoiding my eyes. I nodded, not pressing the issue. After dinner, Lily pulled me to the balcony to look at the stars. She lay on my lap, looking up at me with her little face. “Mommy, will Daddy take us to Disney this year? He said he would last year, and the year before that too.” I looked down at my daughter’s bright, shining eyes. She was five years old. In those five years, Mark had taken “Mistress #1” through “Mistress #99” to vacation in Miami, to Japan, to the Maldives. But he had never once taken Lily and me to Disney. “We will go,” I said, stroking her head. But not with him. Lily fell asleep in my arms. Holding her, I remembered the year I retired from the military, the General asked me, “Alice, what’s your dream?” I said, “I want a home.” My phone vibrated. It was a text message from an unknown number: 【Dear Ms. Miller, I am the divorce lawyer General Thorne assigned to you.】 【Your husband, Mr. Mark Davis’s bank statements for the past three years have been retrieved.】 【There are seventy-three abnormal transactions totaling $420,000, all for personal luxury goods and hotel stays.】 【Additionally, the old house you purchased before marriage was mortgaged in March 2021. The mortgagor’s signature is Mark Davis, and your signature was forged.】 【Evidence has been secured. Awaiting your next instruction.】 I didn’t reply, I just hugged Lily a little tighter. In the living room, Mark was looking at his phone again. The screen was lit, and he was smiling. Tomorrow was Sunday. He was probably going on a date with some “mistress,” right? And I should go visit some old acquaintances. The next day, Mark woke up early. He kept checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. “I have a client dinner today for the company; I need to meet a big client,” he said, his voice cheerful. “Don’t wait for me for dinner.” I sat at the dining table and asked, “What client? You have to work on a Sunday?” “You wouldn’t understand. It’s times like these that show true sincerity.” He bent down to put on his shoes. “I might have to drink, so I might not be back tonight.” “Okay.” He paused, surprised. Before, whenever he came home late, I would always ask where he went, who he saw, and when he’d be back. By the end, he found me annoying, and I found myself pathetic. “Well, I’m leaving then?” he stood by the door. I looked up at him. “Be careful on the road,” I said. He left. I went into the bedroom and opened his closet. Deep inside, hanging there, was an old jacket he never let me touch. I felt the inner lining and found a black USB drive tucked inside. I plugged the USB drive into the computer, first sending the contents to my lawyer. Then I opened the documents. The original ninety-nine photos. Contact information for ninety-nine women. And an Excel spreadsheet. Name, age, profession, date of meeting, hotel room number, amount spent. He even had a rating system. S-tier: Long-term relationship, invest resources. A-tier: Maintain periodically, invest as needed. B-tier: Short-term experience, one-time investment. C-tier: Not recommended for repeat business. I scrolled the mouse, line by line. In the “S-tier” column, I saw a familiar name. Chloe. Note: Married, stable relationship, no burden. Her husband is deployed long-term, meets 3-4 times a month. Has been ongoing for four years. Four years. I slowly leaned back in the chair. My phone rang.

It was a message from Mr. Peterson, my lawyer: 【Ms. Miller, I have received the contents of the USB drive you provided.】 【The evidence chain regarding the marital property transfer and forged signatures is complete.】 【Additionally, your request to rejoin the military has been approved.】 【You can process your re-enlistment paperwork after May 1st.】 I looked up, gazing out the window. Downstairs, Mark’s car slowly drove out of the community. A woman was sitting in the passenger seat. I opened Lily’s room. She was still asleep, hugging her rabbit doll that was missing an ear. Mark had given it to her on her second birthday. That day, he said he had to work overtime suddenly and had it delivered by courier. I quietly closed the door. The living room TV was still on, replaying last night’s reality show. The host said, “May all lovers in the world find their happy ending.” On Monday evening, Mark returned. He carried a faint, unfamiliar perfume scent and a smudge of lipstick at the corner of his mouth. He claimed a female client was too enthusiastic during a business dinner. I didn’t expose him. But when I put his clean socks back in his closet, I quietly retrieved a second memory card from the lining of that jacket. This card contained only one video. It was filmed on June 18, 2022. In the video, he was in a hotel bed, embracing a woman in a red dress. The camera focused on the nightstand. An opened condom wrapper lay on it. The woman laughed and asked, “Aren’t you afraid your wife will find out?” He laughed. “So what if she finds out? She’s an ex-soldier, no family support, no connections. Where would she go without me?” “Besides, her scout skills were long gone, worn out in the kitchen.” I turned off my phone. His seven years of infidelity, I had collected all the evidence in just three days. The next day, Mrs. Davis said she was going back to her hometown to visit relatives and asked if I wanted to go. I said Lily had a bit of a cough, so I wouldn’t. Mark insisted on driving his mother. He eagerly carried her bags and helped her downstairs, looking like a devoted son. After they left, I took Lily to our neighbor’s house. Then I entered Mark’s study. Ten minutes later, I found a brown envelope in a hidden compartment behind his bookshelf. Inside were two insurance policies. Policyholder: Mark Davis. The first policy listed “Chloe” as the insured. The second policy listed “Leo” as the insured. The name of his four-year-old illegitimate son. Both policies were purchased on my daughter’s birthday. I picked up my phone and sent a message to Mr. Peterson: 【He bought insurance for his illegitimate son. Can this be used as evidence of bigamy?】 Mr. Peterson replied instantly: 【Yes. And in the Excel spreadsheet you provided earlier, Chloe is noted as “married.” If her husband files a lawsuit, Mark Davis could be charged with criminal interference with a military marriage. We are currently verifying her husband’s identity.】 Criminal interference with a military marriage. That alone could land him in jail for three years. I turned off my phone and stood in the center of the study, looking at our wedding photo on the wall. On Monday, Mark was sharply dressed in a suit, his leather shoes gleaming. He said the company had a meeting and he needed to meet investors, so he had to dress formally. I said okay. After he left, I changed into my old military uniform, which had been at the bottom of a trunk for three years. No insignia, no lapel pins, but the fit was still there, and so was my spirit. At ten in the morning, I stood at the entrance of the General’s office building. I was met by a young Lieutenant, about thirty years old. “Ms. Miller?” He gave a crisp military salute. “General Thorne has been waiting for you.” I followed him down a long corridor. Photographs of past Generals hung on both sides of the hallway. I paused in front of one. The man in the photo wore a General’s dress uniform, his hair completely white, his gaze piercing. “Alice,” his voice was hoarse. “You’ve grown some gray hairs.” My throat tightened, and I stood at attention, saluting. “General Thorne, sir.” He waved his hand. “Cut the formalities. Come in and sit down.” He pointed to a chair. “Tell me, how far along are things with your situation?”

I took out the evidence I had collected from my bag. He reviewed each piece, his expression growing darker with every item. He put down the last memory card and looked up at me. “Do you know what I admire most about you?” I shook my head. “Eight years ago, when you carried me for those six kilometers, you never once complained about being tired.” “I kept drifting in and out of consciousness. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw you pushing forward, rain streaming down your face, and you’d just wipe it away with the back of your hand and keep going.” He paused. “Back then, I thought, this soldier carries a mountain in her heart. She doesn’t need anyone to shelter her.” I lowered my gaze. “But General, I forgot that later.” “No, you didn’t forget,” he said, pushing the evidence back towards me. “You just put it aside for a while. Now you’ve picked it up again.” He didn’t ask about my marriage, or how I’d spent those seven years. He just picked up the phone and dialed an internal line: “Roberts, get me Peterson, my lawyer who specializes in financial cases. Also, check if there’s a family member named Chloe among the active-duty officers in our command, whose husband is deployed long-term.” He hung up and looked at me. “I’ll investigate the military marital interference aspect for you.” “As for rejoining the unit, you can finalize it after May 1st. Your old scout platoon has expanded, and they need experienced leaders.” I stood up, wanting to salute, but it didn’t feel enough. Finally, I just said, “General, thank you.” He waved his hand. “Don’t thank me. You saved yourself.” It started snowing as I walked out of the office building. I stood at the doorway, reaching out to catch a snowflake. My phone rang. It was a message from Mark. 【Honey, I won a massage chair. It’ll be delivered next week.】 【Oh, do you remember Chloe? The one who used to live downstairs from us. I heard her husband came back, and they’re going through a divorce these days.】 【I really didn’t expect such a seemingly honest woman to do something like that.】 I stared at the screen and didn’t reply. Half a month later, the court summons was delivered to Mark’s company. His face went stark white on the spot, and he knocked over his coffee. At three in the afternoon, he called me like a madman. The first call, I didn’t answer. The second, I hung up. The third, I blocked. He called again from a different number. “Alice! Are you crazy? What are you accusing me of? What did I do for you to treat me like this?” I leaned back on the sofa and spoke, one word at a time: “What did you do?” “When you bought Chloe her apartment, you used my card.” “When you took her to Japan for a vacation, you used the vacation days I earned from my military transfer.” “When you bought insurance for your illegitimate son, the insured was his name.” “In these seven years, you took four million two hundred thousand dollars from our home. All of it was our joint marital property!” Silence on the other end of the line. After a long while, his voice changed. No longer angry, no longer accusatory, but pleading: “Alice, I know I was wrong. Give me a chance; let’s talk this through properly.” “Withdraw the summons, and we’ll settle this privately. I’ll give you all the assets, the house, the cars, everything. I don’t want anything.” “Think about Lily; can you bear to let her grow up without a dad?” I scoffed. “Mark.” “Listen closely.” “Whether Lily has a dad or not isn’t up to me.” “It’s what *you* decided seven years ago when you walked out of our wedding reception to go find Mistress #1.” I hung up. Then I blocked all his numbers. At eight in the evening, Mr. Peterson sent a message: 【Chloe’s husband’s identity has been verified.】 【He is an active-duty Major in a field unit, deployed long-term, with twenty days of family leave per year.】 【He arrived in the city this afternoon and has fully entrusted us with representing him in court. The evidence for criminal interference with a military marriage is complete.】 I put my phone aside and continued reading a picture book to Lily. She snuggled in my arms, pointing at the bunny in the book. “Mommy, where did Daddy Bunny go?” I paused. “Daddy Bunny went to a place where he needs to correct his mistakes.” “Will he come back?” “No.”

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1 We were in a conference room at our vendor’s office when the guy handling our account leaned back, looked me up and down, and suddenly dropped this gem: “Karen, you look seriously intense. Like a straight-up witch.” “And why don’t you wear makeup? It makes you look ancient.” I cut him a look. “Did my company pay your agency just so you could insult me?” He immediately laughed it off, waving his hand dismissively. “Chill, I was just joking! You can’t take a joke? You actually look decent.” My face remained a mask of pure ice. “Did we pay you to rate my appearance, either?” Then, right there in front of the entire room, I pulled out my phone and dialed his boss. “Mr. Reynolds? This is Karen Collins from Lumina Group. We need to talk.” The room went dead silent. The nervous tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Even Rick, who had been grinning a second ago, went pale. Panic flashed in his eyes. “Whoa, Karen, come on. It was just a joke. No need to blow this out of proportion.” I raised a single finger to my lips, signaling him to shut his mouth. Joshua Reynolds’ voice came through the speaker. “Ms. Collins! What can I do for you? Please, fire away.” “Mr. Reynolds, your account manager, Rick Briggs, has repeatedly subjected me to unprofessional verbal attacks during today’s meeting. He has made derogatory remarks about my appearance and personal character, which is a direct and severe breach of Section 5.2 of our Behavior Guidelines in Exhibit C of our contract.” “Lumina Group is immediately initiating the breach of contract protocol. I expect a written explanation and a comprehensive remediation plan from Aurelia Media within twenty-four hours.” “Furthermore, I demand a formal, public apology from Rick Briggs in front of the entire project team.” The room collectively gasped. Rick’s face turned a violent shade of crimson. “You’re making things up! You’re blowing this way out of context! I never…” I didn’t let him finish. “I am speaking to your direct superior to resolve a contract issue. Why are you interrupting? Where is your discipline? Is this the kind of training Aurelia Media provides its staff?” Joshua, hearing the icy authority in my voice, realized his multi-million dollar contract was on the line. He scrambled to placate me, promising a satisfactory resolution if I just gave him a little time to investigate. I gave a curt nod and hung up. Within three minutes, the vendor’s team cleared out of the conference room like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Since my team had been dragged into this mess, I ordered a round of high-end afternoon tea and pastries to let everyone decompress. Penny, our junior designer, practically bounced over to my chair, her eyes shining with pure worship. “Karen, you are literally my hero! That was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen a boss do!” “You have no idea how much Rick has been getting on my nerves. He does zero actual work, but he loves making sleazy comments to the female staff under the guise of ‘joking.’ And if anyone gets upset, he plays the victim, saying ‘Oh, it’s just a joke!’ He’s a total creep.” “Last week, he told me I should dye my hair because black makes me look depressing. Like, mind your own business, asshole!” “And he did the same to Hannah. He told her she has thick thighs and should only wear long skirts to hide them because pants look hideous on her. Disgusting pig.” My brows drew together. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner? We are the paying clients here. Since when do we pay vendors to harass our team?” Penny bit her lip. “We just didn’t want to cause a scene. You know how it is, sometimes it feels easier to just bite your tongue and get through the day.” I shook my head. “We don’t go looking for trouble, but we sure as hell don’t run from it. If someone pushes you, you push back.” The rest of the women on my team nodded fiercely, eager to testify about Rick’s constant workplace harassment. Half an hour later, my phone rang. It was Joshua. I pressed the speaker button. Joshua’s voice boomed through, entirely too casual and dismissive: “Hey, Karen. I just looked into the whole situation, and honestly, it seems like a big misunderstanding.” “Young Rick is still green, you know? He speaks before he thinks, but he didn’t mean anything by it.” “As a senior director, surely you wouldn’t want to ruin a kid’s career over a silly slip of the tongue, right?” “Our companies have partnered on so many successful launches. We shouldn’t let a minor hiccup sour a great relationship.” “But don’t worry, I gave him a stern talking-to. I guarantee it won’t happen again!” 2 I tapped my fingernails against the polished conference table, looking around at my team. Their expressions had soured. Of course. Joshua wanted to sweep this under the rug with a slap on the wrist. I let out a cold laugh. “Mr. Reynolds, I think you’ve fundamentally misunderstood the situation.” “I didn’t call you as a friend looking for an apology. I called you as a representative of Lumina Group to formally notify you of a contractual breach. Whether professionally or personally, Rick Briggs must face severe, documented disciplinary action.” “An excuse like ‘he’s young and foolish’ does not cut it.” “If Aurelia Media is staffed by unprofessional children, then Lumina Group will have to seriously re-evaluate the viability of our partnership.” “As the client, I believe we reserve the right to choose partners who actually respect basic professional standards.” “We are done for today. Until your agency delivers a proper, formal resolution, there is no need for further communication.” Without waiting for his response, I cut the call. “Everyone finished eating? Good. Let’s pack up.” “Sam, the moment we get back, pull up the files on the other vendors who made the shortlist. I want a fresh round of evaluations ready by tomorrow morning.” “On it, Karen. I’ll have the packets on your desk before five,” Sam replied. “Let’s go. What a joke of an agency. Imagine trying to insult the client who literally funds your payroll.” As we gathered our tablets and prepared to leave, the conference room door burst open. “Get in there and apologize, right now!” Aurelia’s account director barked, shoving a thoroughly miserable Rick into the room. The director immediately turned to me, bowing and scraping with a desperate smile. “Ms. Collins, please wait! This was entirely our fault. Mr. Reynolds just called and gave us a piece of his mind.” “Especially Rick here. He lost his mind and spoke out of turn. I’ve brought him back to make things right immediately!” He gave Rick a hard nudge, glaring at him to start speaking. Rick’s face was a picture of pure, unadulterated resentment. He looked like a man being dragged to the gallows by the very ‘witch’ he had mocked. He refused to look me in the eye, keeping his head tilted back with a rigid, arrogant posture. When he spoke, his voice was flat and dripping with insincerity. “Ms. Collins, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I’m a straightforward guy, and I didn’t mean any harm. It was just a casual comment, but since it apparently caused you some emotional distress, I apologize.” “But I also hope you won’t take everything so seriously in the future. Overanalyzing things can warp people’s intentions and create unnecessary drama for everyone.” “As a high-level executive, surely you won’t hold a grudge against a low-level employee like me, right?” I stared at him. Was he actually serious? He was accusing me of being fragile, oversensitive, and vindictive, all while hiding behind the shield of a fake apology. And this was supposed to be a resolution? “I do not accept your apology.” Rick’s eyes flared with rage, glaring at me as if to ask, What more do you want? “My appearance is none of your business, and whether I wear makeup is my own choice and right. As a subordinate from a vendor company and a complete stranger, your unsolicited comments on my looks were vulgar, classless, and utterly unprofessional.” “I’ve also learned you are a repeat offender. Do you think every woman you work with is a target for your sleazy banter? Who gave you that right? Who gave you that kind of confidence?” “Don’t try to mask your disrespect as a joke. We are not friends, and you do not have my permission to speak to me like that.” “If your parents and teachers failed to teach you basic manners, then the world will gladly do it for them.” My words left him completely speechless, his face burning red. Behind me, my team couldn’t help but murmur in quiet satisfaction. Ignoring the account director’s frantic pleas, I walked out of the office, my team following in lockstep. On the ride back, Penny looked a bit anxious. “Karen, if we pull out of this project now, how are we going to explain it to the board?” I gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have walked out if I didn’t already have a backup plan.” 3 Back at the office, I spent two hours analyzing Aurelia’s main competitors and their product offerings. Once I had a solid strategy mapped out, I knocked on the door of our VP, Mr. Harrison. I walked him through the entire incident with meticulous detail, presenting my proposal to transition to a new vendor. I also pointed out several red flags I had noticed in Aurelia’s operations. In the past, we had overlooked their minor slip-ups for the sake of convenience and long-term stability. But if they were willing to assign a completely incompetent, disrespectful idiot to handle a multi-million dollar account, it proved their internal management was decaying. Mr. Harrison leaned back in his chair, weighed the risks, and nodded. “You have my full support on this, Karen. Take the lead and handle it.” I felt a wave of relief. With the green light from the top, I was free to play hardball. Meanwhile, Joshua Reynolds kept blowing up my phone. His voicemails were a broken record of excuses, promises of structural changes, and begging for a lunch meeting. I ignored them all. My time was far too valuable to waste on his empty promises. By the next day, I had blocked his number entirely, leaving the executives at Aurelia Media to sweat in their own juices. The following morning, I walked into the office to find Penny rushing toward my desk, waving her phone furiously. “Karen! Look at this! That absolute bastard Rick is smearing you on social media!” I took her phone. Rick had posted a series of updates on his public feed, accompanied by insulting caricatures of old, hideous witches: “Are vendors not human anymore? Are clients supposed to be gods? Some power-tripping, bitter bitch is trying to ruin my life just because she can’t get a man! Unbelievable!” “Talk about mentally unstable. Imagine getting someone fired over a harmless joke. Get some therapy, lady!” “Women dress up and wear makeup for men anyway. Why is she so pressed? Can’t even handle a compliment!” “She’s clearly projecting her own insecurities because she’s old and ugly. One comment and she loses her mind.” “If she didn’t have that title, nobody would even look at her twice. Desperate old maid.” In the comment section, a friend had asked what happened. Rick had replied: “Just some power-tripping client who got her feelings hurt because I didn’t flirt back. She’s ancient, ugly, and totally unhinged. I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole!” “Haha, I sell my services, not my body.” So this was the “sincere reflection and deep regret” Joshua had promised me. I let out a cold laugh. “Penny, take screenshots of everything and send them to my email. I have a little gift for Joshua.” I forwarded the screenshots straight to Joshua’s personal inbox. Within sixty seconds, my phone started ringing with Joshua’s ID. I didn’t even look at it. After twenty missed calls, he finally gave up. Over the next two days, as it became clear we were actively shopping for new vendors, panic rippled through Aurelia Media. Lumina Group was their largest client, accounting for over two-thirds of their annual revenue. Losing this contract would trigger a financial collapse. When I checked Rick’s social media again, his feed had been scrubbed clean. Penny, who had a vast network of industry friends, came back with some juicy gossip. “Rick is completely ruined. The board at Aurelia absolutely destroyed him. Everyone in his office is blaming him for jeopardizing the contract. He’s not getting any bonuses, and rumor has it they’re drafting his termination papers as we speak.” I listened without saying much. When Rick was busy throwing insults, he probably never expected that the “witch” he mocked had the power to make his career vanish.

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1 Brent returned from another trip with gifts for Evelyn and her daughter, Eva. This time, news of his “grand gesture” broke online before he even landed—a medieval Scottish castle bought to fulfill their princess fantasies. He walked in frustrated. “The media ruins everything,” he muttered. “I spent weeks securing that estate, and some reporter steals the surprise.” I cut him off. “Where’s my gift?” He blinked, then tossed a cheap plastic magnet onto the table. “Figured you’d love another souvenir. Go on, guess the city.” I stared at the mass-produced junk, its barcode still peeling off. Sixty-eight trips. Sixty-eight magnets. Meanwhile, Evelyn and Eva got custom jewelry, antiques, and now a castle. The exhaustion settled into my bones. Right in front of him, I tore every identical magnet off the fridge and threw them in the trash. “Cheap plastic garbage,” I said, a bitter smile on my lips. “What made you think I ever liked these?” Brent frowned, his expression a mix of confusion and irritation. “Audrey, don’t be so childish,” he said. “If you don’t like them, tell me what you want, and I will bring it back next time.” I met his gaze, my voice flat. “Do you even know what I like, Brent?” “What do you like, then?” “When you bought those gifts for Evelyn, did you ever have to ask what she liked?” He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. That was why every gift he gave her was a thrilling surprise. In eight years, Brent had managed to anticipate every single one of her desires, yet he knew absolutely nothing about his own wife. Brent chuckled, dismissing the tension as if it were a minor annoyance. “It has been so long, Audrey. Are you really still jealous of her? I told you before, we have to keep Evelyn’s emotions stable. If she spirals, what will happen to her daughter? Right?” We? Yes, I had been dragged into this twisted sense of duty too. Evelyn had suffered from severe depression after her messy divorce, and her mental health remained fragile. Because of her, and because of Eva, Brent had to be on call twenty-four hours a day. He would leave at a moment’s notice, whether it was a holiday, in the middle of our private moments, when I was sick, or on the day our five-month-old daughter died. One phone call from Evelyn, and he would run to her. And my only job was to endure. To swallow the loneliness, the rage, and the grief. Seeing my silence, Brent stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me. “Alright, next time I go abroad, write me a wishlist. I promise to buy everything on it, okay?” I wanted to tell him not to bother, but before the words could leave my mouth, the front door clicked open. “Uncle Brent! When are you taking Mommy and me to our castle?” It was Eva and Evelyn. Brent had given them the security code to our house without my consent. He had said, “Our home is Evelyn’s home too, Audrey. She should feel welcome.” Only now did I realize that this was indeed their home, and I was the intruder. Brent immediately let go of me and scooped Eva up in his arms. “How about tomorrow?” My chest tightened with a sharp, physical ache. I thought of our honeymoon, a trip we had planned for eight years but never took. Every year, when I asked him about it, he said he was too busy. He was too busy for me, yet he could always find the time to whisk Evelyn and Eva away on a whim. “So soon? I haven’t even packed yet,” Evelyn murmured, gently swatting Brent’s shoulder, her eyes brimming with delight. “No need to pack. I’ll have everything bought and waiting for you,” Brent said, smiling. Watching the three of them, they looked like a perfect, happy family. It made my eyes sting. Evelyn finally seemed to notice me, stepping forward to warmly take my hand. “Audrey, you should come with us! The more, the merrier. Brent is so wasteful, buying such a massive place. There is no way we can use all that space. You can choose a room for yourself, Audrey, your own little corner.” Her words reminded me of the tiny magnet in the trash. A grand castle for them, and a single, small room for me. That was my worth in their eyes, and in his. I pulled my hand back, my voice cold. “I’m not going.” Evelyn’s face fell, her expression turning hurt and apologetic. “Are you upset with me, Audrey?” Brent frowned, drawing Evelyn behind him. “Audrey, don’t take your moods out on others. I’ll take them for just two days, and you can use the time to cool down. Send me what you want.” “Uncle Brent, I got a new princess dress! Come see it at our house!” Eva urged, pulling at his sleeve. Brent agreed. He hadn’t even been home for an hour, and he was already leaving with them. I called out to him before he could step through the door. “Brent, do you even know what tomorrow is?” “What?” Brent looked back, genuinely confused. “It is our daughter’s memorial.” 2 Brent froze, a look of conflict finally crossing his face. Seeing his hesitation, Eva’s lower lip trembled, and she began to cry. “Are we not going? No, Uncle Brent! Eva has been waiting for days! You promised!” Evelyn pulled Eva back, her voice firm but gentle. “Eva, stop. Audrey has something very important to do with your uncle Brent today.” They called me Audrey, but they called him Uncle Brent, as if he and I had no relation at all. And Brent had never once corrected them. Brent looked at Eva’s tear-stained face, then turned to me with a sigh of helplessness. “The itinerary is already set, Audrey. It’s difficult to reschedule. How about I make it up to you? I’ll head straight to the cemetery to visit Grace the moment I get back.” He was suggesting we postpone a memorial. It was laughable, really. He only dared to suggest it because Grace could no longer cry or call him “Daddy.” But she was his flesh and blood, only five months old when she passed. It had been six years since we lost her, and I wondered how many times he had actually thought of her. Not a single toy he bought Eva ever made its way to Grace’s grave. He had even forgotten her memorial. My hands shook at my sides. I took a deep, shuddering breath and finally spoke. “Fine.” Grace probably didn’t want to see this kind of father anyway. Brent sighed in relief, as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank you for understanding, Audrey. Pick any gift you want, and I’ll find it, no matter how far I have to go.” I looked at the drawer of the coffee table, a quiet decision solidifying in my mind. I forced a faint smile. “Go on then.” They left. I stood in the quiet living room for a long time before opening the drawer to pull out the divorce agreement. It had been sitting there for two months, drafted the day after I received his last cheap souvenir. Back then, a tiny shred of hope still lingered in my heart. I had told myself that if Brent showed some real care on his next trip, I would rip the papers up. Now, there was no need. This agreement would be the gift I requested. The next morning, Brent left early. He pressed a light kiss to my forehead before slipping out, the one ritual he never forgot, the last soft spot in my heart. My eyelashes fluttered, but I pretended to sleep. Now, even that soft spot had turned to stone. Once he was gone, I got out of bed. I packed a basket with toys and sweets and drove to the cemetery alone. Six years ago, during a raging storm, Evelyn had called to say she was terrified, and Brent had rushed to her side. There were no cars, cabs were impossible to find, and the emergency lines were completely busy. Out of options, I had wrapped my feverish baby girl in a waterproof bag, strapped her to my back, and run through the pouring rain to the hospital. By the time I arrived, it was too late. Brent didn’t see her lifeless body until the next day. He wept and said he was sorry, but the funeral was rushed because Eva had fallen ill, and he had to go nurse her. “He wasn’t a good father, Grace,” I whispered, kneeling before the headstone. “Don’t think of him, it will only make you sad.” “You’re right. I wasn’t a good father. I’m sorry.” The voice behind me made my entire body freeze. I turned around in disbelief to find Brent standing there, holding a plush rabbit, his head bowed. “Weren’t you supposed to be on a flight?” I asked. “The flight was grounded due to the weather. The trip has been delayed.” So, it was because of a flight delay, not guilt. Knowing the truth actually made me feel lighter. He knelt beside me, placing the plush rabbit down. I recognized it instantly. It was the stuffed animal he had bought Eva last holiday season. “Isn’t this the toy you got for Eva?” I asked, my voice rising. “Yes, but she has too many toys to play with. This one is practically brand new.” My eyes burned with unshed tears. “You brought a secondhand toy that someone else didn’t want for our daughter?” “I didn’t think about it that way,” Brent said, looking baffled. “Do you want me to go buy a new one right now?” I snatched the rabbit and threw it back into his arms. “No need. Grace doesn’t want it.” Brent’s face darkened as he held the toy. “Audrey, we shouldn’t fight in front of our daughter’s grave.” “We shouldn’t. But you’ve done plenty of things you shouldn’t have, or our daughter wouldn’t have died in the first place!” I stood up abruptly, casting one last look at the headstone before walking away. Brent caught up to me at the cemetery gates, grabbing my arm. “Stop being angry,” he pleaded. “Evelyn felt terrible for holding me back, so she cooked a whole dinner for you. Let me take you there.” “No.” “Audrey, can you stop making a scene? We are trying our best to make it up to you, especially Evelyn. She is struggling with her own illness, yet she’s still thinking of you!” “Oh, so you’ve always known you were hurting me?” I asked, looking at him with mock surprise. “Then why keep doing it? Do you think a plate of food or a few cheap gifts can erase the damage? Can it bring my daughter back, or make me forget the scars?” 3 Brent froze, the grip on my wrist tightening. For the first time, I saw real guilt and panic flicker in his eyes. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice thick with emotion. “Audrey, I was careless. I neglected you. Let’s not go to Evelyn’s. Let’s have dinner, just the two of us. I’ll spend the whole day with you.” We hadn’t gone on a date in years. He knew it, but he had waited until our marriage was in ruins to try and change. I didn’t refuse him. I wanted to see just how far his sudden guilt would carry him. We drove away from the cemetery, and he took me to a small, quiet diner we used to frequent when we were dating. It had been seven years since we last stepped foot inside, but the rustic decor hadn’t changed at all. The owner came over to greet us, his eyes widening when he saw me. “Well, look at that! After all these years, this lovely girl is still by your side!” I froze. Brent quickly interrupted, his expression tense. “Actually, we’re married now.” “Really? Then the other woman and child you’ve been bringing here these past few years…” Before the owner could finish, his wife slapped his shoulder. “Mind your business and get back to the kitchen! Sorry, dear, my husband gets confused easily. Don’t mind him.” But I knew he wasn’t confused. The other woman and child were Evelyn and Eva. Even this sanctuary of our past had been overwritten by them, and Brent was the one who did it. It was fine. Leaving would be easier if nothing was left untainted. “Audrey, don’t overthink it,” Brent whispered quickly. “Evelyn is a picky eater, and this is one of the few places she actually likes. That’s why I brought her here.” “I don’t own the restaurant,” I replied, looking down at the menu. “Bring whoever you want.” Brent’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t press the matter. He turned to the owner’s wife and ordered my old favorite dishes, all of them spicy. “Actually, I can’t eat spicy food anymore,” I said. “Let’s get something mild.” Brent stared at me. “Since when?” I offered him a thin smile. “Since my tumor surgery.” Three years ago, I had a benign stomach tumor removed. When I told Brent about the diagnosis, he was on vacation in Paris with Evelyn. “Since it’s benign, I won’t rush back,” he had said over the phone. “I’ll ask my parents to look after you.” The medical consent form had listed a fifty percent risk of complications, but he had ignored it, or perhaps he had never bothered to read it. My parents had stayed with me until I was discharged. Brent’s face drained of color. “Why didn’t you tell me? If I had known, I would have come back.” “There was no need. We barely eat together anyway.” This dinner would likely be our last. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking down. “I’ll make sure to be there for you from now on.” I offered no response. When the food arrived, it tasted like ash in my mouth. Food only tastes good when you’re sharing it with the right person. Sitting across from someone who made my chest ache, every bite felt like a chore. As I swallowed the last bite, Brent’s phone rang. It was Evelyn, her voice trembling and wet with tears. “Brent, Eva couldn’t wait for you guys. She tried to climb onto the table to eat and got burned by the hot soup. Brent, what should I do?” Brent stood up so fast his chair scraped loudly against the floor. “Didn’t I tell you not to wait for us?” “But Audrey didn’t come, and I felt so guilty. Brent, is this my fault? Am I just a burden?” Brent broke into a cold sweat. “Calm down. I’m coming right over.” He hung up and turned to me, his gaze suddenly cold. “If you hadn’t thrown a tantrum today, this wouldn’t have happened. Are you satisfied with this kind of payback?” 4 Brent rushed out into the pouring rain, his figure quickly disappearing into the gray sheets of water. I let out a soft laugh, picked up my fork, and kept eating. The owner’s wife walked by, and I looked up at her. “The food is still as wonderful as it was years ago.” She pulled a tissue from her apron and gently handed it to me. “Thank you, dear. But let me get you a tissue, otherwise the food will taste too salty.” I reached up to touch my cheek. I was crying. I still hadn’t managed to hold back the tears. It was pathetic, really. I took a cab back to the house. The balcony window had been left open, and the plants we had bought together at the nursery were broken and drowned by the storm. They wouldn’t survive. Brent had never cared for them, leaving all the watering and pruning to me. Now, I didn’t have to care anymore. I opened the closet. Most of the clothes inside were mine. Over the years, Brent’s wardrobe had slowly migrated to Evelyn’s place, piece by piece. I packed my belongings into a single suitcase, placed the signed divorce papers on the coffee table, and sent him a text. “Brent, I’ve decided on my gift. The wishlist is at the house. Swing by and pick it up before you leave.” Within a minute, my phone rang. I answered, and Brent’s frantic voice came through. “Aren’t you even going to ask how Evelyn and Eva are doing?” “You’ll take good care of them,” I said. He was silent for a long time, struggling to keep his temper in check. “Take a photo of the list and text it to me. I have to look after them for a few days, so I won’t be coming back to the house.” “Then come get it when you’re finished.” “Why can’t you just send a photo?” I didn’t answer. I hung up the phone. A second later, his text arrived: “Are you really still trying to make things difficult for me?” “You can buy an entire castle in Scotland,” I replied. “But swinging by the house to pick up a list is too much of a chore?” He didn’t reply for a long time. Finally, a single text came through: “I’m sorry.” I swiped the notification away, grabbed my suitcase, and walked out the door. I was born and raised upstate in Vermont. I had moved to this bustling southern city only for him. Now, it was finally time to go home. During my first few days back in Vermont, Brent began texting me constantly. He told me what he ate, what he did, and how Evelyn’s condition had stabilized. He wrote that Eva’s burns were healing well, that they had postponed the trip to Scotland, and that he would buy me a real gift on his next trip. I didn’t reply to any of them, nor did I answer his calls. Then, a week later, he sent another message. “I’m home today. I bought your favorite cheesecake from the bakery. I really want to see what’s on your wishlist. Are you asking for the stars?” He was trying to joke, but I knew he wouldn’t be laughing for long.

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1 My college alumni group chat suddenly exploded with activity over two major pieces of news. First, the famous actress, Nicollette Cross, had officially announced her divorce. Rumor had it that a top-tier lawyer had handled her case, securing a massive victory in court and winning her half of her cold-hearted ex-husband’s fortune. Second, that very lawyer was none other than her college sweetheart, Luke Bennett. “He handled his first love’s divorce case? That is literally the plot of a romance novel!” “Please tell me they’ll get back together. They were the ultimate couple back in the day!” During our university years, Luke and Nicollette had sat firmly at the top of the campus couple rankings. Countless people had witnessed their passionate, whirlwind romance. Including me. I looked up at our wedding photo hanging on the wall, staring at Luke’s cool, sharp eyes. A quiet, heavy sadness settled over me. “Luke Bennett usually only takes on high-stakes corporate cases. He never touches ordinary lawsuits. Why would he make such a massive exception for a divorce?” “Because Nicollette is special to him, obviously. He used to spoil her rotten back then. Of course he would break his own rules for her.” “But he’s a senior partner at a top-tier firm now. Is it possible he already has a family?” The chat went quiet for a few seconds after that question. Then, someone quickly replied. “No way. If anyone actually managed to marry Luke Bennett, they’d be bragging about it all over social media. You couldn’t keep something like that a secret.” “Besides, knowing how intense Luke is about his feelings, he’s not the type to settle for a marriage of convenience.” Everyone in the chat simply assumed Luke was single, and the matchmaking comments grew even more frantic. “Back then, it was the spoiled rich girl and the brilliant, low-income law student. Now, it’s the gorgeous starlet and the elite law partner. How do these two always look like they walked straight out of a best-selling romance novel?” “Look at this photo of them leaving the courthouse. Just standing next to each other, the tension is unreal!” I remained silent, staring at the screen. The image in the chat was a paparazzi shot of Luke holding an umbrella over Nicollette as she walked out of the court wearing a mask and sunglasses. His own shoulder was completely soaked by the rain. Their eyes met under the dark canopy of the umbrella. They weren’t saying anything, yet it felt as though they were saying everything. It was a simple tabloid photo, but it captured an intimacy that rivaled the private picture Luke kept hidden. Once, while cleaning his study, I had found a photo tucked away in the deepest corner of his desk drawer. Nicollette was smiling beautifully at the camera. Luke wasn’t looking at the lens; his head was turned toward her, his eyes filled with a quiet, deep tenderness. If you looked closely at the blurred crowd in the background of that photo, you could see my shadow. But Luke’s eyes had never held room for anyone else. He had probably never even noticed I was there. A light knock on the bedroom door pulled me back from my thoughts. “Are you having breakfast?” Luke asked, leaning his head in. 2 The door wasn’t locked. But given the polite, careful distance that defined our marriage, he still knocked out of habit. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the faint, sharp outline of veins on his forearms. He looked effortlessly handsome. “Yes, thank you,” I said, getting out of bed. Breakfast was simple: warm milk and toasted bread. Luke had always disliked bread crusts. He would always tear them off and leave them on the side of his plate, and because I hated wasting food, I would eat them. Over the past two years, this silent exchange had become a routine. Today, he automatically placed his discarded crusts onto my plate. I stared down at them, my fork suspended in the air. Actually, I didn’t like crusts either. But I wasn’t Nicollette, and Luke had never bothered to ask about my preferences. I still remembered seeing him standing outside Nicollette’s dorm building during our college days, holding a bag filled with half a dozen different breakfast options. “My beautiful, stubborn girl,” he had said with an indulgent smile. “You didn’t finish your breakfast last time because you said it tasted awful. Surely one of these will please you today?” Living in the room next to Nicollette’s, I had occasionally been on the receiving end of those leftover breakfasts, thanks to her casual generosity. Luke sat across from me now, eating with the same meticulous, deliberate grace he displayed when dissecting an opponent in the courtroom. He glanced up at me, his voice calm. “Why aren’t you eating?” I pushed the plate aside. “I’m not very hungry.” Luke turned a page of his newspaper. “You should at least drink some milk.” “Luke,” I interrupted him, “did you take Nicollette’s divorce case?” I had never asked about his clients before. This was the first time. Luke paused for a brief second before speaking in a low, level tone. “She married the wrong man. As an old classmate, it was only right to help her out. Besides…” Besides, their relationship went far deeper than mere classmates. They had occupied the absolute center of each other’s lives for four years. I didn’t want to hear the rest of his explanation. Before he could finish, I stood up from the table. “I’m heading to work.” My focus was entirely gone that day. I moved through my tasks like a ghost, feeling a dull, hollow ache in my chest. During a team dinner that evening, I remained quiet, trailing behind my colleagues as we walked through a high-end restaurant downtown. Suddenly, a coworker grabbed my arm, her voice buzzing with excitement. “Oh my god! Isn’t that the famous corporate litigator, Luke Bennett?” I looked up sharply. A few yards away, Luke was standing by a table, his suit jacket draped casually over his forearm. Sitting across from him was a woman in a tailored cashmere coat. Even from behind, I recognized the elegant, familiar slope of her shoulders instantly. 3 I tried to quicken my pace to pass them unnoticed. “The woman sitting across from him… is that Nicollette Cross? Oh my god, Hazel, we just stumbled onto some major celebrity gossip!” my colleague whispered loudly, using my English name. Luke looked up from the menu, his sharp eyes scanning the room until they landed on me. His eyes had always been his most striking feature, intense and deep. Now that he was older, that gaze had only grown more refined and cold. “Hazel,” Luke called out. I froze, turning around slowly to meet Nicollette’s gaze. She was still as radiant and breathtaking as ever, the kind of beauty that made everyone else in the room feel invisible. She rose from her seat with a polite, hesitant smile. “…Hazel? From our class?” Luke’s eyes drifted over me as he gave a soft nod of confirmation. He didn’t offer any explanation about who I was to him, nor did he look particularly guilty about being seen with her. I wasn’t surprised. But a bitter, heavy ache still swelled in my chest. Nicollette looked me up and down. “I remember you. You were always so quiet and small back in college. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.” Her words instantly dragged me back to those suffocating college days, when I was a painfully self-conscious orphan, ignored and pushed to the margins of every social circle. I forced a tight, polite smile. “I should get back to my colleagues.” I turned and walked away, finally escaping the weight of their presence. During the dinner, my coworkers couldn’t stop asking questions. “You never told us you went to college with a superstar and a celebrity lawyer! That is so cool!” “We weren’t very close,” I replied quietly. “That’s a shame. Our company tried to hire Luke’s firm for a major restructuring contract last quarter, but the boss couldn’t find anyone to get us a meeting. His rates are astronomical.” “But why are those two dining together? Do you think they’re having a secret affair?” I let out a silent, bitter laugh. Luke’s secret spouse was sitting right here at this table. If he were with Nicollette, he would probably want the entire world to know he had finally married the love of his life. I shook my head and remained silent for the rest of the night. When our group went to pay the bill, the receptionist informed us that a Mr. Bennett had already settled our tab. My colleagues immediately began speculating again, wondering if Luke and I had been close friends in college. I couldn’t tell them the truth, so I simply offered a vague response. “He has always been generous.” Nicollette was generous too. Later that evening, she shared a photo of her dinner with Luke in our alumni group chat, delighting the gossips and triggering a fresh wave of excitement. “Oh my god, I didn’t think Luke even looked at this chat! Seeing the two of you together again makes my heart so happy.” “Luke looks even more handsome now. Honestly, Nicollette is the only woman who could ever stand beside him.” As the messages scrolled rapidly down my screen, my chest tightened. When I arrived home, the house was dark except for a single, warm floor lamp in the living room. Luke was sitting on the sofa, a nearly empty bottle of Romanee-Conti resting on the table in front of him. He was drinking heavily and quickly. For a man who was normally the definition of discipline and control, he only ever lost his composure when it came to Nicollette. My heart ached sharply. I wondered if I needed to see a doctor about this physical pain. From the shadows of the sofa, Luke’s cold voice cut through the quiet room. “Do you have nothing to say to me?” 4 The question was so sudden that I stood frozen for a moment before replying. “No.” Ours was a marriage of quiet convenience, built on polite distance. What right did I have to demand explanations? I knew better than anyone that Luke did not love me. But Luke didn’t let it go. He stood up, walked over to me, and pulled me into his arms. Before I could react, his lips pressed against mine in a sudden, desperate kiss. I went completely stiff, my mind racing. Before I could even raise my hands to push him away, he pulled back. His voice was rough and strained. “We need to talk.” Talk about what? A divorce? Was this kiss just a parting favor, a sweet transition before the end? Panic flared in my chest, and my instinct was to run. “I’m exhausted. I’m going to sleep.” Luke didn’t try to stop me. But that night, as I lay in bed, he reached out from behind and pulled me against his chest, whispering a quiet, heavy “I’m sorry” into the dark. A man only says he is sorry when he knows he has done something wrong. It was the last thing I wanted to hear. The sharp pain in my chest flared up again. It was strange how simple, quiet words could cause such physical damage. The next morning, I woke up early and went to the clinic for a full check-up. The results showed that I was perfectly healthy. Confused and seeking peace, I decided to visit Luke’s grandmother at her estate on the outskirts of the city. The villa was vast and quiet. Luke and I had met because of his grandmother, and our marriage had been put together largely through her gentle matchmaking. She had always treated me with immense kindness. The moment she saw me, her wise eyes softened with concern. “Hazel, sweetheart, did you and Luke have a fight?” I shook my head. We didn’t fight. We didn’t even have disagreements. “That boy has no idea how to cherish a young woman,” she sighed, patting my hand. “I’ll have a serious word with him.” I knew his grandmother had never met Nicollette. She had no idea how incredibly attentive Luke could be when he actually cared. During our university years, Luke was the most photographed student on our campus confession boards. He was lean, sharp-featured, and carried himself with a quiet, scholarly distance. Even in a simple, faded t-shirt, he looked like a prince who had stepped out of a classic tragedy. He was the unattainable, intellectual crush of every girl on campus, keeping everyone at a strict, polite distance. Yet, he had completely surrendered himself to the school’s most notoriously demanding drama queen. He had met Nicollette’s every whim with absolute devotion. He would eat nothing but plain bread for two weeks just to save up enough money to take her to a high-end restaurant she had mentioned in passing, even if she only took a single bite for a social media photo. He had once skipped a final exam to carry her to the campus clinic when she faked an illness just to get out of a physical fitness test. I had never had the luxury of being high-maintenance. I had learned at a very young age that nobody has patience for an orphan’s tantrums. So I grew up quiet, polite, and accommodating. After marrying Luke, I became even more careful. I knew I wasn’t Nicollette. I knew he wouldn’t tolerate my moods. “Luke does love you, sweetheart,” his grandmother said, her eyes filled with gentle sincerity. But I felt only a cold, creeping dread. If Luke truly loved me, why was I constantly living in fear? At that moment, the physical pain in my chest finally made sense. I was terrified.

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1 Devin guarded his boundaries fiercely. Three years of dating, and I’d never set foot in his apartment—his so-called sanctuary. I wasn’t allowed near his phone, not even to check the time. At group dinners, he always made sure I sat at the far end of the table. I told myself he just needed space. Then, the night before our wedding, I got a location pin from him. Thinking he was finally letting me in, I went to his building. The door was unlocked. Inside, a woman curled up on his sofa in one of his oversized shirts. Her bare legs draped over his thighs as she giggled, whining for a calf massage. Devin looked up, startled—then his expression cooled. “What are you doing here?” “I meant to send that to Valerie,” he said. “I was rushing and tapped the wrong name.” “Renee, you need to learn boundaries. Don’t come running every time I share a location.” A hollow laugh caught in my throat. He was draped over another woman, yet demanding space from his fiancée. I didn’t argue. I looked down at my phone and accepted the overseas transfer my manager had sent earlier. If he wanted distance, I’d give it to him—so much that I’d vanish from his world entirely. … I clicked accept. A confirmation message appeared on the screen. “Transfer Period: Three Years. Destination: London Branch. Please report to your new location this Saturday.” Today was Wednesday. There were exactly three days left until the wedding, and three days left until my flight. Devin saw me staring at my phone, his brow furrowing deeper. “Renee, I’m talking to you.” I locked my screen and looked up at him. “I heard you.” He hadn’t expected me to be this calm. The lecture he had prepared seemed to get stuck in his throat, and his expression soured even further. Valerie, who was still draped over his lap, finally slid her legs down. She adjusted the hem of the black t-shirt, which I recognized as Devin’s favorite, and looked up at me with a shy, fragile expression. “Dev, is this Renee?” Dev. We had been together for three years, and I had almost always called him by his full name. When we first started dating, I had suggested we use cute nicknames for each other, but Devin had shut it down immediately. He said those sweet, clingy names made his skin crawl. Now I realized he didn’t hate nicknames. He just hated them coming from me. Valerie stood up from the sofa, holding onto the armrest for support. “Renee, please don’t misunderstand. I sprained my ankle, and Devin was just helping me massage the swelling.” I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of plush pink slippers with little rabbit ears. On the coffee table rested a cute, star-shaped mug filled with warm milk. On the sofa, the cushion she had been leaning against was a limited-edition Disney design. None of these items belonged to Devin. And they certainly didn’t belong to me. It was almost comical. The very first time I stepped into my fiancé’s home, I felt like an intruder walking into a cozy nest he had built with someone else. Seeing my silence, Valerie’s smile faltered slightly. “Renee, Dev and I were born in the same year and grew up together. We’ve always been this close. We don’t really do boundaries.” I turned my gaze to Devin. He stood there with a frown, clearly seeing absolutely nothing wrong with her words. Yet for three years, he had enforced our boundaries with a cold, almost clinical precision. I was forbidden from entering his apartment. I was forbidden from touching his phone. I was excluded from his social circles. He had even scolded me once when I accidentally adjusted the air freshener in his car, telling me he hated when people messed with his things. The strict rules he had created to keep me at a distance simply did not exist for Valerie. I offered a small, quiet smile and looked at her. “Valerie. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Devin’s face darkened instantly. “Renee, what is with that sarcastic tone?” I looked at him, genuinely surprised. I wasn’t being sarcastic at all. I really had heard her name countless times before. The first time was on my birthday. I had booked a reservation at a high-end restaurant weeks in advance, but Devin cancelled at the last minute because Valerie had watched a horror movie and was too terrified to sleep. He had to go over to her place to tuck her in. The second time was when I had a high fever. I called him, asking if he could drive me to the urgent care clinic, but he refused, saying Valerie wanted lemon tarts from a bakery uptown and he had to go buy them before she started crying. The third time was the day of our wedding dress fitting. He showed up two hours late, his cuffs stained with coffee. He told me Valerie had lost her cat and had been crying hysterically, so he had spent the entire afternoon helping her search the neighborhood. Through all of those moments, I had never truly lost my temper. I had assumed that the girl who required so much of his patience and care was a young, helpless teenager. I had even resolved to be kind to her after we got married, knowing Devin didn’t have much family left. But standing here today, I realized Valerie wasn’t a child. She was twenty-eight years old, two years older than me. Valerie bit her lower lip, her eyes turning shiny with tears. “Dev, I don’t think Renee likes me very much.” She reached for her coat on the sofa. “Maybe I should leave. I don’t want to be the reason you two fight.” Before she could touch the fabric, Devin caught her wrist. “Why should you be the one to leave?” he said coldly. “The uninvited guest is the one who should leave.” A sharp, cold ache bloomed in my chest. I forced a quiet laugh. “Fine. I’ll leave.” I turned around and walked out the door. As I waited for the elevator, I realized this was my very first time visiting Devin’s apartment. And it would be my last. 2 I returned to my own apartment near midnight. I had bought this place with my own savings, and Devin had never spent a single night here. Even when I was down with severe cramps and called to ask if he could drop off some pain medication, he had simply declined over the phone. “Renee, we aren’t married yet,” he had said. “A man and a woman spending the night together in an apartment ruins a woman’s reputation.” At the time, I was actually touched by his old-fashioned chivalry, believing he was simply looking out for me. Only tonight, seeing Valerie lounging in his clothes on his sofa, did I realize the truth. His chivalry was nothing more than an excuse to keep me at arm’s length. I forced the thoughts from my mind and pulled my suitcase out to begin packing. Halfway through, my hand brushed against a heavy garment bag at the back of my closet. Inside was the wedding dress I had paid for with my own money. Throughout our wedding preparations, Devin had been entirely hands-off, though he was generous with the budget. He paid for the finest venue, the most expensive catering, and hired a tailor to hand-craft his own Italian suit. But when it came to my dress, he had shrugged. “Just rent one,” he had said. “You’re only going to wear it once. There’s no need to waste money.” On the day of our fitting, when he finally showed up two hours late, he had casually pointed at a basic, off-the-rack dress. “Just take that one. Let’s not make a big deal out of this.” But I didn’t want to compromise. I wanted to look beautiful for the man I loved, so I had gone back to the boutique alone and bought the most elegant dress they had. Now, it would never be worn. I took a few high-quality photos of the dress and posted them on a wedding consignment app. “Brand new, never worn. Selling at a discount.” Almost as soon as the listing went live, a notification popped up on my phone. A social media friend request. The profile picture was a woman standing by the sea, her back to the camera. The image looked incredibly familiar. It took me a moment to realize that the sea in her photo was the exact same background Devin used for his own landscape avatar. He had simply cropped her out of the shot. I accepted the request. A message arrived immediately. “Renee, I am so incredibly sorry about today. I didn’t mean to cause any misunderstanding.” “Please let me buy you dinner tomorrow to make it up to you.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I typed “No need,” but before I could hit send, another message popped up with an address. “This is my absolute favorite restaurant. Let’s meet there tomorrow at five.” I stared at the address, a dull ache settling in my chest. That was the exact restaurant Devin had taken me to for almost every date during our three years together. I had never really liked it; the food was too sweet, and the lighting was far too dim. But because Devin always insisted on going there, I had assumed it was his favorite. During those dinners, he would usually be buried in his phone, handling work, while I sat quietly across from him, cutting my steak. I had convinced myself that this quiet, domestic routine was a form of happiness. How incredibly foolish I had been. I decided to go. The next afternoon, I walked into the restaurant at precisely five. Sitting by the window, Devin and Valerie were already seated side by side. I walked over and sat down across from them. Valerie offered a playful, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Renee. I wanted to come alone, but Dev was so worried about me that he insisted on tag-along.” Worried about what? He was simply terrified that I might make her uncomfortable. I remembered my second year of dating Devin. A major client had a reputation for getting handsy with the female employees after a few drinks. After our team dinners, my colleagues’ boyfriends would always show up to drive them home safely. I had asked Devin to pick me up once. He had simply replied over the text, “I trust you. You’re an incredibly capable woman, Renee. I’m sure you can handle a client.” Love is defined by the exceptions we make. He was terrified of letting Valerie have a simple dinner with me, but he had been perfectly content to let his own girlfriend fend for herself against a predatory client. 3 The dishes were already ordered, and the server began bringing them out. As the plates filled the table, a cold realization washed over me. Almost every dish was seafood: butter-poached lobster, Chilean sea bass, oysters Rockefeller. The menu was nearly identical to our wedding reception menu. During our wedding planning, I had questioned Devin about the catering. “I have a severe seafood allergy, and you aren’t particularly fond of it either. Why did you choose so much seafood?” He hadn’t even looked up from his tablet. “The guests prefer it.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. Now, looking at the table, I finally understood who that specific “guest” was. Throughout the dinner, I didn’t touch a single piece of food, only playing with a few spears of steamed asparagus on my plate. Valerie, on the other hand, was in high spirits, happily shelling shrimp and chatting about their childhood memories. At one point, she naturally picked up a piece of crab meat with her fork and held it out to him. “Dev, try this. It’s incredibly fresh.” My hand froze on my fork. Devin had scolded me more than once for trying to share food with him, telling me he hated when people fed him. Yet now, he simply leaned forward and ate the crab meat directly from her fork, his expression perfectly relaxed. I felt completely invisible, like an uninvited stranger gatecrashing an intimate dinner. I set my fork down and stood up. “Enjoy your dinner. I have some things to take care of, so I’ll head out first.” Devin finally looked up at me. “Renee, what are you throwing a tantrum for now?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked out of the restaurant into the cool evening air, feeling a sudden, lightness in my chest. The suffocating weight I had carried for three years seemed to vanish. I pulled out my phone and sent Devin a text. “Let’s cancel the wedding. I’ll be at the hotel tomorrow morning at ten to handle the cancellations. Please join me if you’re free.” After sending the message, I hailed a cab and went home. Devin didn’t reply that night, and I didn’t waste my time waiting for one. I completed my transition paperwork for the London branch, took a warm shower, and went to sleep. The next morning, I arrived at the hotel lobby right on time. I waited for half an hour, but Devin never showed up. I called his number. It rang twice before he answered, his voice dripping with irritation. “My mother wants us to come over to finalize some wedding details. I’m already at her place. Just take a cab and meet us here.” I stared at the phone in silence. He either hadn’t read my text, or he had simply chosen to ignore it, assuming I was just throwing a minor fit. “Fine,” I said softly. I would tell him face-to-face, in front of his family. Devin’s family, much like Devin himself, were people who valued their boundaries. Despite the upcoming wedding, I could count the number of times I had visited his mother’s house on one hand. Every visit had been defined by a polite, chilly distance; his mother would offer me a cup of tea, and his father would remain buried in his newspaper. We were about to become family, yet we felt like strangers behind a glass wall. But today was different. As soon as my cab pulled up to the driveway, I could hear bursts of laughter coming from inside the house. When I opened the door, I realized Devin hadn’t come alone. Valerie was sitting right next to Mrs. Ross, her arm looped affectionately through the older woman’s. “Auntie, you need to talk to Dev,” Valerie pouted, leaning her head on Mrs. Ross’s shoulder. “I wanted to wear my favorite skirt today, but he made a huge scene and forced me to change.” Mrs. Ross laughed warmly, patting Valerie’s cheek. “I think Devin was right. That skirt was far too short. Let’s go shopping this afternoon and buy you some beautiful new dresses.” “Auntie, you’re the absolute best,” Valerie giggled. My own mother had passed away when I was young, and when I first started dating Devin, I had truly hoped to build a maternal bond with Mrs. Ross. I bought her thoughtful gifts for holidays and brought back souvenirs from every business trip. I had carefully invited her out for lunch and shopping. But she had never worn the silk scarves I bought, and the skincare sets ended up gifted to her housekeeper. Every invitation was met with a polite, vague “Let’s do it another day” or “When I have some free time.” I had assumed she was simply a busy, reserved woman. Now I understood that when someone truly wants to see you, they give you a specific date. They don’t push you away with empty promises of “another day.” The laughter in the living room died the moment they noticed me standing in the doorway. Mrs. Ross’s face quickly smoothed into that familiar, polite mask of distant hospitality. “Renee, you’re here. Please, have a seat.” I walked over and sat down in the armchair furthest from them. I looked at Devin. “Did you see the message I sent you last night?” Devin frowned. “What message?” He pulled out his phone. “Why can’t you just say whatever you need to say to my face instead of sending…” He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing. 4 “The entire conversation thread is gone. What happened?” Valerie quickly slid off the sofa and ran over to Devin, clasping her hands together in a pleading gesture. “Dev, I’m so sorry! I was playing a game on your phone last night and must have accidentally deleted Renee’s thread. It wasn’t anything important, was it?” Devin let out a soft, indulgent chuckle. “It’s fine. You formatted my entire phone once and I didn’t scold you, did I?” Valerie giggled and trotted back to Mrs. Ross’s side. I sat in my chair, my fingers turning cold. He wouldn’t even let his own fiancée touch his phone to check the time, yet he was perfectly fine with another woman deleting his messages and formatting his data. Devin turned back to me. “What did you text me? Just tell me now.” I looked at him, and the desire to explain myself suddenly vanished. For three years, he had never treated me with the basic respect a girlfriend deserved. Why should I waste my energy offering him a formal, polite notification of our split? I lowered my eyes. “It was nothing important.” Devin shrugged and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Mrs. Ross offered a pleasant smile. “Renee, how are the bridesmaid arrangements coming along? Is there a spot left for Valerie?” She patted Valerie’s hand affectionately. “Devin spent the entire evening helping her choose a gorgeous bridesmaid dress. She’s absolutely dying to wear it on Saturday.” I curled my fingers into my palms. Devin had never found the time to accompany me to a single bridal boutique, but he had spent an entire evening helping Valerie select her dress. But since there would be no wedding, who cares who the bridesmaid was? “Sure,” I said quietly. I stood up. “I have some urgent work to handle at the office. I’ll take my leave.” Mrs. Ross didn’t even offer a polite attempt to keep me for lunch. I left the house and took a cab straight back to the hotel. The event manager’s face fell when I told him I was canceling the wedding. “Ms. Reynolds, the ceremony is scheduled for this Saturday,” he said, looking at me with concern. “Canceling now means you’ll lose almost the entire deposit.” “I understand,” I replied, my voice steady. “Just process the cancellation.” He looked at me standing alone at the reception desk and didn’t press further. He had worked with countless couples, and he knew how rare it was for a bride to handle every single wedding arrangement completely on her own, without a single member of the groom’s family ever showing up to help. By the time I signed the final cancellation forms, the sun had set. As I walked out of the revolving doors, my phone buzzed with a notification from the consignment app. “Hi, is this dress still available? I’d love to purchase it.” The buyer had already processed the payment. Almost immediately, a long message followed. “I’m so sorry to message you so late. My fiancée and I have been together for three years, and our wedding is this Saturday. I don’t make a lot of money, and we couldn’t afford to buy a proper dress, so we had planned to rent a simple one. She kept telling me she didn’t mind, but I know she secretly wanted a beautiful dress of her own. When I saw your listing at such an incredible price, I wanted to surprise her. Thank you so much.” Standing on the chilly street corner, my eyes welled with sudden, warm tears. Three years of dating. A wedding on the exact same Saturday. One man was willing to stretch his modest budget to give his bride a beautiful surprise, while another man, despite having a massive budget, couldn’t care less about his fiancée’s wedding dress. I typed a quick reply. “I hope you have a beautiful wedding.” He sent back a smiling emoji. “Thank you! I wish you all the happiness in the world, too.” I stared at his blessing for a long time before offering a soft, quiet smile. I would find my happiness. It just wouldn’t have anything to do with Devin. Back at my apartment, I carefully pulled the wedding dress from its garment bag. The delicate white fabric flowed across my bed, shimmering softly under the light. It was breathtakingly beautiful. I had once imagined how wonderful it would feel to walk down the aisle toward Devin in this dress. Now, I was simply relieved that I had never worn it for him. The courier arrived twenty minutes later. I handed the large box to him and watched the elevator doors close. When I stepped back into my apartment, the silence felt incredibly peaceful. I didn’t delay any further. I grabbed my packed suitcases, turned off the lights, locked the door, and walked out of the building. My ride was already waiting at the curb. The driver loaded my bags into the trunk and looked back at me. “Heading to the airport, miss?” “Yes,” I replied. “JFK.”

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1 Under her best friend’s expert guidance, my wife finally divorced me. The day she slammed the door and walked out, my only real reaction was a sigh of relief: I finally had sole custody of the TV remote. It didn’t take her long to realize that the guys sweet-talking her on the dating scene were all talk and no commitment. They wanted a free trial, not a subscription. But what truly broke her was discovering that her dear best friend, the very one who had coached her into signing the divorce papers, was currently marching over to my apartment with a hot tray of homemade lasagna. When Brooke slammed the divorce papers onto the dining table, I was deeply engrossed in a food delivery app, trying to decide on a new fried chicken combo. “Tedd, sign it.” I looked up at her, glanced down at the papers, and then looked back at my phone. “Hang on a second. This coupon expires in three minutes.” Brooke’s face flushed, shifting from a pale white to a deep, furious crimson. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised we had reached this point. Her best friend, Amber, had a mouth that acted as a catalyst for disaster. Since last year, Amber had been practically living at our place, showing up every few days like she was reading from a script. “Babe, you deserve so much better.” “Tedd is just a mid-level corporate drone. What kind of future do you have with him?” “There are plenty of wealthy, single guys out there driving luxury SUVs, just waiting to treat you like a queen.” At first, Brooke would defend me. But over time, her defenses grew quieter. Eventually, she stopped defending me altogether. And finally, it led to this. I placed the order for the chicken, picked up the pen from the table, and flipped to the signature page. “How are we splitting things?” Brooke blinked, clearly caught off guard by how cooperative I was. “The house… my dad paid the down payment—” “Fine. The house is yours.” “The car… we bought it after we got married—” “Take the car too. I can bike to work. It’s better for the environment anyway.” Brooke’s expression turned incredibly complex. She had probably rehearsed this moment a hundred times in her head. She might have pictured me begging on my knees, crying, pleading for another chance. What she hadn’t anticipated was me ordering takeout while signing away our marriage. “That’s… that’s it?” I signed my name, slid the folder back to her, and capped the pen. “What else do you want?” “Aren’t you even going to try to save this?” I thought about it for a second. “If you can waive the delivery fee on my chicken, I might consider it.” Brooke took a sharp, ragged breath. She snatched the papers, turned on her heel, and marched toward the door. Just before leaving, she looked back, her eyes rimmed with red. “You’re going to regret this, Tedd.” The front door slammed shut. The apartment suddenly felt empty. Truly, physically empty. Brooke had cleaned out all her clutter, her towering shoe racks, and her endless supply of skincare products. I sat down on the sofa, picked up the remote, and pressed the power button. The sports channel flared to life. For three years, I hadn’t been able to watch a single game without sitting through hours of mindless reality TV first. The doorbell rang. Dinner was here. I opened the door, and the delivery guy handed me a steaming bag of fried chicken. “Big meal for one, man?” I took the bag and smiled. “Just got divorced. Treating myself.” His look of pity instantly morphed into pure envy. “Man, you are the happiest-looking divorcee I’ve ever seen.” He didn’t get it. It wasn’t just happiness. It was the feeling of a bird seeing the cage door open after three years of confinement. Once I finished the chicken, I shot a text to Marcus. It’s done. Signed. Three seconds later, my phone buzzed with an incoming call from him. “What do you mean, done? She actually went through with it?!” “Yeah.” “How are you holding up? Where are you? Are you okay? Bro, I’m coming over right now.” “I just finished some fried chicken. Grab a six-pack of beer on your way.” A brief silence stretched over the line. “Are you sure you just got divorced and didn’t win the lottery?” “Honestly, it feels about the same.” Marcus hung up. Twenty minutes later, he kicked open my door carrying a case of IPA. First thing he did was look around the living room. “Damn. She really cleared the place out, huh?” “Yep.” “The vanity desk?” “Gone.” “That massive shoe rack?” “Gone.” Marcus’s eyes lit up. “Your living room literally looks twice as big!” He collapsed onto the sofa, popped a beer, and tossed it to me. “Bro, let me be real with you.” “Go ahead.” He began counting on his fingers. “First, no more handing over your paycheck to a shared account. Second, no more playing mind reader when she’s mad. Third, no more getting kicked out of bed at two in the morning because she had a dream that you cheated on her.” I choked on my beer. “How do you know more about my marriage than I do?” “Are you kidding? You called me at three in the morning crying because she dreamed you were eating tacos with another girl, and she made you sleep on the freezing living room floor. You forgot about that?” “Can we please strike that from the record?” Marcus took a slow sip of his beer. “Never. I still have the voice memo of you crying. I play it whenever I have a bad day. It’s better than therapy.” I seriously considered dumping the rest of my beer on his head. But since he bought it, I let it slide. Around midnight, Marcus let out a soft burp and got unusually quiet. “Seriously though, what’s the plan now? Living solo?” “What else?” “Just watch your back. Newly single guys are prime targets. Some women smell the freedom and pounce.” I laughed. “Pounce on what? I’m a mid-level IT guy making ninety grand a year. Who’s targeting me?” Marcus shook his head, looking incredibly wise. “You don’t get it. Some women aren’t looking at your bank account.” At the time, I brushed it off. It wasn’t until later that I realized Marcus had actually been far too conservative with his warning. 2 Three days after the divorce, my life took a massive turn. Not for the worse—for the better. It was so good I started wondering if I’d spent the last three years in a white-collar prison. First of all, my bank account didn’t hit zero at the end of the month. When we were married, my paycheck would clear, and a chunk went to Brooke’s allowance. Then she’d want a new designer bag—money transferred. Then she’d have brunch with her girls—money transferred to cover her share. Yes, you read that right. I was covering her portion of those endless lunches with her friends. Now, that money stayed right where it belonged. Looking at the balance, I felt a sensation I hadn’t experienced in years. I had to search my vocabulary for the word: wealthy. Second, I suddenly had an abundance of time. Our old weekends used to go like this: morning shopping trips, afternoon movies, dinner dates, followed by late-night drinks with her friends. And then, I’d have to drive her friends home, only to get grilled by Brooke on why I dared to look at Amber through the rearview mirror. My new weekends looked like this: sleeping in, playing video games, ordering takeout, and playing more video games. Marcus warned me I was going to turn into a vegetable. I told him that being a vegetable was a luxury he couldn’t comprehend. Just as I was settling into this peaceful routine, Amber reached out. Yes, Amber. The very same best friend who had spent years telling my wife to “find herself,” “aim higher,” and “know her worth.” The architect of my divorce. She sent me a text. Hey Tedd. I heard about you and Brooke. Are you holding up okay? I stared at the screen for ten seconds. The sheer audacity was almost impressive. I replied: I’m fine. Amber: Make sure you’re eating well. Takeout is terrible for your stomach. You should have some real food. Tedd: Sure. Amber: Why don’t you come over tomorrow? I’m making a batch of homemade lasagna. Tedd: Can’t. Got plans with Marcus. Amber: How about I drop some off at your place then? I hesitated. Free lasagna. Only an idiot turns down free lasagna. Tedd: Alright. The next afternoon, Amber showed up at my door holding a heavy, foil-wrapped glass dish. Objectively speaking, Amber was attractive. Slender, nice style, always wore perfect makeup. But today, she had definitely dialed it up. Her makeup was heavier, and she was wearing a low-cut sundress that left very little to the imagination. When she bent over to set the dish down on the kitchen counter, well… let’s just say I kept my eyes on the counter. “Just put it on the table,” I said, grabbing a fork. Amber hovered by the entryway. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit down?” “Oh. Yeah, come in.” She stepped inside, looking around the living room. “You keep this place pretty clean for a bachelor.” “Fewer people, less mess.” She smiled, taking a seat on the couch. I dug into the lasagna. She watched me quietly. “How is it?” “Really good.” “I made it with three types of cheese, just the way you like it.” I paused mid-chew. How did she know I liked three-cheese lasagna? I’d only ever mentioned that to Brooke. I looked up. She was smiling sweetly. I shrugged and kept eating. Whatever, the lasagna was incredible. When I finished, Amber insisted on washing the dish. When she came out of the kitchen, her sleeves were rolled up, and her hands were still slightly damp. “Tedd, you’re almost out of dish soap. You need to replace it.” “Yeah, I’ll grab some.” “I can bring some over next time I visit.” “Oh. Sure, thanks.” Amber smiled again, this one lingering a bit longer. After she left, I texted Marcus. Amber just dropped off lasagna. Three seconds later, he sent a flurry of texts. Are you an idiot?! Why is she bringing you food?! Have you lost your mind? You don’t think that’s incredibly shady? I replied: The lasagna was spectacular. Marcus: I hate you. I tossed my phone aside. Marcus was a good guy, but he was paranoid. Amber was probably just being nice, checking in on her friend’s ex out of basic human decency. Even when she posted a photo of the lasagna on Instagram later that evening with the caption “Simple joys,” I didn’t think much of it. People post photos of food all the time. I chose to believe in the basic goodness of people. 3 A week after the divorce, I saw from Brooke’s social media that she had officially entered the dating market. She posted a heavily filtered selfie with the caption: “New beginnings, new me.” Her friends flooded the comments with praise. Amber’s comment was right at the top: “Babe, you look stunning! You deserve the world!” I scrolled past it. Honestly, Brooke wasn’t a bad catch. She was pretty, had a decent job, and was generally pleasant when she wasn’t being influenced by her friends. In a normal dating pool, she’d do fine. The problem was the criteria Amber had set for her: a guy with a luxury SUV, a six-figure salary, a degree from an Ivy League school, and standing at least six-foot-two. Brooke made forty-five thousand a year. That wasn’t dating; that was fantasy. How did I know all this? Because of Mrs. Gable, our neighborhood gossip. She lived down the hall, knew everyone’s business, and loved sharing it. Ten days after the divorce, she cornered me near the mailboxes. “Tedd! Have you heard about Brooke?” “No, what?” “She went on a blind date last weekend! The guy claimed he owned a tech startup. Took her to a high-end steakhouse downtown.” “And?” Mrs. Gable slapped her knee. “After a hundred-and-fifty-dollar dinner, the guy said he forgot his wallet in his car. He walked out to get it.” “Did he?” “Did he hell! He bolted! Left her with the bill! Your ex-wife had to pay the whole thing herself.” I just stared. I wasn’t hurting for Brooke, but I felt a phantom pain in my own wallet. In the past, that would have been my money. Mrs. Gable leaned in closer, dropping her voice. “But that’s not even the worst part.” “What happened?” “On her second date, she met a guy who actually seemed legitimate. Nice sports car, expensive watch. They went out three times. After the third date, he vanished. Blocked her number, ignored her texts.” I sighed, leaning against the mailboxes. “She was crying to her friends about it. Apparently, the guy just wanted a quick hookup. He had no intention of taking her seriously.” Mrs. Gable shook her head. “Essentially, he wanted the free trial, not the subscription.” I kept quiet. Even though we were divorced, hearing about her getting treated like that felt a bit uncomfortable. Not out of lingering affection, just human empathy. But it wasn’t my problem anymore. Our paths had diverged. A few days passed, and Mrs. Gable caught me again. “Tedd! You won’t believe this!” I sighed. “What now?” “Brooke’s third date! This one was set up by Amber herself!” My eyebrows twitched. “Amber set it up?” 4 “Yeah! Supposedly some big-shot venture capitalist, making millions. Want to guess how that turned out?” “How?” “Married. With a wife and kids. Just looking for a side piece.” I gripped the keys in my hand a little tighter. “Your ex-wife got so angry she threw a glass of water right in his face. And the guy just laughed and said, ‘I like them feisty.’” I didn’t say anything. No matter how things ended between Brooke and me, she was still my wife once. Hearing someone treat her like that was irritating. But what bothered me more was something else. The guy Amber set her up with was married. Did Amber not know? Or did she know and do it on purpose? A picture flashed in my mind: a wolf standing guard at the chicken coop, smiling warmly. But I brushed the thought away. After all, Amber’s lasagna was really good. That was enough of a reason to suspend suspicion for now. People are simple creatures. Sometimes, a warm plate of food is all it takes to keep your mouth shut. How pathetic. 5 Amber’s visits shifted from once a week to three times a week. Monday was lasagna. Wednesday was slow-cooked ribs. Friday was beef stew. My fridge had never been this well-stocked. Honestly, I started feeling guilty. Groceries cost money, and I couldn’t just keep accepting her charity. So every time she brought food, I tried Venmoing her. She declined it. I tried again. She declined it again. “You not taking my money is making me feel bad,” I told her. Amber blinked, her long lashes fluttering. “Then how about you buy me dinner?” “Sure.” I took her to the cheap taco truck down the street. Two street tacos and a soda. Total cost: twelve dollars. My treat. Amber sat on the metal stool, looking at the paper plate of greasy tacos. Her lip twitched. “You… normally eat here?” “Yeah, best tacos in the city. The salsa is homemade, and the meat is incredibly tender.” “You said you’d buy me dinner, and you brought me here?” “Is this not dinner?” Her mouth twitched again. I took a massive bite of my taco, juice running down my hand. “Eat up before they get cold.” She stared at her plate for a few seconds. Then, she picked up a taco and took a bite. As we walked back to my apartment, she suddenly spoke up. “Tedd, you know you’re different from other guys.” “Different how?” “You’re just… real. Genuine.” “Is that a compliment or an insult?” “A compliment.” Back home, Marcus called again. “Did you go out with Amber again today?” “How do you know?” “She posted on her Instagram. A photo of the taco truck with the caption ‘Simple joys’.” “It’s just a taco truck. Why is she posting about it?” Marcus’s voice cracked. “Are you dense? She’s clearly into you!” “No way. She’s my ex-wife’s best friend.” “That’s exactly why it’s terrifying! Think about it—” “I’m hanging up. I have a raid in ten minutes.” Marcus was a great friend, but his paranoia was exhausting. Amber was just a nice person who felt bad for a guy living alone. And as for the Instagram posts… maybe she just liked the aesthetic of street food. Over the next week, Amber’s routine changed. She wasn’t just bringing food anymore. She started helping me clean. She washed my curtains. She bought me a new set of bedsheets. She even put a vase of fresh baby’s breath on my coffee table. I stared the flowers for a long moment, a vague sense of unease settling in my chest. But I couldn’t put my finger on why. The most obvious shift happened last Saturday. She came over wearing a thin slip dress. It was November. It was forty degrees outside. The dress was incredibly short, revealing a fair amount of smooth, pale leg. She sat on my sofa, crossing her legs, letting one high heel dangle from her toes. I looked at her, then silently walked into my bedroom and grabbed a thick fleece blanket. “Here, drape this over yourself,” I said, handing it to her. “The draft in here is pretty bad. Don’t want you catching a cold.” When she took the blanket, her fingers brushed against my palm. My skin tingled. Probably just static electricity. That night, Marcus texted: Did she come over today? Yeah. She helped me put up the new curtains. And you still don’t think she has an angle? She’s a five-foot-five girl. What kind of angle could she possibly have? Marcus sent a link to an article titled: When a Woman Starts Cleaning Your House, It’s Time to Worry. I replied: Get help. Then I blocked him. I unblocked him two seconds later, of course. I still needed him to carry me in our game tomorrow.

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1 As New Year’s Eve fireworks lit Monaco Harbor, Preston proposed to me before thirty thousand people. Tears streamed down my face when I said yes. By morning, gossip headlines told another story: Crawford Heir Caught on Yacht with Mysterious Woman—His Fiancée’s Best Friend? The video showed him at the stern of a luxury yacht, arm around my best friend, her dress whipped by the sea breeze. Timestamp: one hour before he proposed. I checked it three times. He’d stepped off her yacht, crossed straight to the plaza, and knelt before the salt on his trousers had even dried. Harper’s message appeared seconds later: “Taken out of context—we were just talking.” “Help Preston with the PR mess first. I’ll explain once it blows over.” “If his reputation tanks, your families’ merger is finished.” I locked my phone and tossed it onto the sofa. Salt-bitter harbor wind poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Our engagement gala was in three days. I dialed the Lancaster heir—the Crawfords’ fiercest rival. He picked up on the second ring, as if expecting me. “Mr. Lancaster,” I said evenly, “are you open to a marriage of convenience?” … “Did you post the clarification statement?” Preston pushed open the door to my penthouse suite. He did not even bother taking off his coat. Harper trailed in right behind him. They both carried the distinct, damp scent of the ocean. I sat motionless on the sofa, my fingers still wrapped around the phone I had just used to call Roman Lancaster. “The PR department drafted a statement.” Preston walked over and casually tossed a few sheets of paper onto the coffee table. “Just say the three of us went out on the yacht together yesterday afternoon. Tell them the video is maliciously edited.” His tone was flat and commanding. He expected me to fall in line, just like I always did. I lowered my eyes to the crisp white paper. “The three of us?” “Obviously.” Preston frowned in annoyance. “This stupid rumor has been trending all morning. The Crawford stock is already taking a hit.” Harper stepped out from behind him. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Cici, I am so, so sorry.” She took a hesitant step forward. “I was in a really dark place yesterday. Preston was worried I might do something drastic, so he took me out on the water to clear my head.” She reached out to grab my hand. I shifted my weight and dodged her touch. Her hand froze in midair. She bit her lower lip and looked up at Preston with wide, helpless eyes. “That is enough, Cici.” Preston’s face darkened instantly. “Harper came all the way here to apologize to you in person. Who exactly are you giving attitude to?” I slowly raised my head and locked eyes with him. “One hour before you proposed to me, you were on her yacht. You ran over to the plaza and got down on one knee while your clothes were still damp from her boat?” A flicker of guilt flashed through Preston’s eyes, but it was quickly swallowed by his usual arrogant defense. “I was talking her down!” he snapped. “She was recently diagnosed with mild depression. She was standing at the edge of the deck saying she wanted to jump. Was I supposed to just let her die?” The louder he spoke, the more righteous he sounded. He made it seem like I was the cold-blooded monster for even questioning him. “I calmed her down, and I rushed straight to the plaza to see you without wasting a single second. I did not even stop to change my clothes just so I would not miss the countdown. What more do you want from me?” Harper sniffled. A single, perfectly timed tear rolled down her cheek. “Cici, please don’t be mad at him. It is all my fault. I had no idea there were paparazzi watching us. Your official engagement party is in three days. Please don’t let a pathetic, single girl like me ruin your mood.” She aggressively wiped at her eyes and forced a pitiful smile. “I will go post a video right now. I will tell everyone the woman in the video is not me.” “Come back.” Preston grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him. He turned his cold, furious gaze back to me. “You know her startup is in the middle of a crucial funding round. If she gets labeled as a homewrecker, her entire career is over.” I stared at his hand. His fingers were wrapped so tightly around Harper’s delicate wrist. “So her life is over if she gets labeled a homewrecker,” I said quietly. “What about me? I am supposed to issue a public statement admitting I am completely blind? That I am perfectly happy playing the fool in your little twisted love triangle?” Preston let go of Harper and ripped at his tie in frustration. “Do you have to be this unreasonable? You know exactly how much money is riding on this marriage between our families. Now is not the time to throw a jealous tantrum.” He grabbed a silver pen from the table and practically shoved it into my hand. “Sign the authorization form. Let the PR team post the statement from your account.” The tip of the pen pressed into the paper, bleeding a small black dot into the white page. I looked up at the man I had loved for five years. Five years ago, he dragged me through the pouring rain across three city blocks just to buy me a freshly baked almond croissant because I was having a bad day. Back then, he told me he would never let the world give me a single ounce of grief. Now, he was telling me I was just throwing a tantrum. I gripped the pen and signed my name on the dotted line. Preston’s rigid posture relaxed slightly. “There. That is the sensible Crawford bride I know.” He checked his watch. “I have a dinner meeting tonight. You should take Harper to the boutique to pick out the bridesmaid dress she is going to wear for our party.” I dropped the pen and pulled a wet wipe from the dispenser to clean my fingers. “No. I am tired.” Preston’s brow furrowed again. He opened his mouth to argue, but Harper quickly tugged on his sleeve. “It is fine, Preston. I can go by myself. Cici had a shock today. Let her rest.” Preston let out a heavy sigh and patted the back of her hand. “You are always so considerate.” He looked back at me, his eyes turning icy once more. “You better spend the night reflecting on your attitude. Do not even think about bringing this mood to the engagement party.” The heavy mahogany door clicked shut behind them. I picked up the signed authorization form, crumpled it into a tight ball, and tossed it into the trash can. My phone screen lit up. It was a text from an unsaved number. “City Hall. Tomorrow morning at nine.” 2 “Since the misunderstanding is cleared up, lend your tiara to Harper for the day.” Preston’s voice crackled through the phone speaker. In the background, I could hear the fawning voices of luxury boutique attendants. My hand froze around my water glass. “Excuse me? What did you just say?” “I said, Harper is trying on bridesmaid dresses right now, but none of the boutique’s accessories look right on her.” His tone was casual, completely devoid of empathy. “I remembered you sent your diamond tiara in for polishing. Let’s just pull it out so she can wear it for the fitting.” That tiara. It was a diamond necklace, the only thing my mother left me before she died. When Preston was preparing to propose, he hired a master jeweler from Milan to dismantle the necklace and reset the diamonds into an intricate, breathtaking tiara. When he placed it on my head, he had looked into my eyes and whispered, “This is your mother’s blessing. I want you to wear it and be the most beautiful bride in the world.” And now, he wanted to casually toss that blessing to Harper. “No.” My voice came out cracked and hollow. “Cici, why are you starting drama again?” Preston’s voice immediately dropped into a harsh growl. “She is just borrowing it for one day to take some photos. It is not like she is keeping it.” “Harper has suffered so much online abuse lately. What is the big deal if I try to make her feel a little better?” I took a deep breath. My stomach churned with violent nausea. “If she feels wronged, you can buy her the most expensive piece of jewelry in that entire store. But you have absolutely no right to use my dead mother’s memory to play the generous savior.” The line went dead silent for two seconds. Then, Harper’s soft, fragile voice filtered through. “Preston, just forget it. I knew Cici would be angry. It is her mother’s heirloom. Someone like me does not deserve to touch it.” That was all it took to ignite Preston’s fury. “Cici, you are crossing the line! I was just informing you out of courtesy. I already sent my assistant to the jeweler to pick it up. Do you genuinely enjoy making things so ugly between us?” I slammed my glass down onto the marble counter. The sharp crack echoed through the kitchen. “Preston, if your assistant touches that tiara, this wedding is off!” The line clicked. He hung up on me. I stared at the black screen, my fingernails digging so hard into my palms that they threatened to draw blood. He always did this. Every single time Harper shed a tear, he abandoned me without a second thought. Six months ago, I was hospitalized with acute gastroenteritis. I was writhing in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. When I called him, his first words were, “Harper’s apartment lost power and she is terrified of the dark. I have to stay with her.” I was in so much pain I nearly blacked out. I had to call an Uber to the emergency room alone. When I finally walked out of the hospital at three in the morning, I saw his newest post on social media. It was a picture of Harper sleeping peacefully with her cat. The caption read: “The poor thing is finally feeling safe.” Back then, I asked myself why I kept swallowing the pain. I did it because the very next morning, he showed up at my bedside with my favorite breakfast, his eyes red with guilt, begging for my forgiveness. He swore Harper was just a sister to him. He swore I was his only love. I was so desperate to hold onto the warmth he used to give me that I hypnotized myself into believing him. I picked up my phone and called the jewelry boutique. “I am so sorry, Miss,” the manager said apologetically. “Mr. Crawford’s assistant picked up the piece twenty minutes ago.” I ended the call and sank to the floor. It was all just so utterly absurd. Half an hour later, Harper updated her Instagram story. In the photo, she was wearing a spectacular white gown. Resting perfectly on her head was my mother’s diamond tiara. Under the boutique’s bright lights, the diamonds sparkled like shattered glass. Preston was the first to like the photo. His comment was just three words: “Perfect for you.” I stared at the picture for a long time. Then, with a numb, terrifying calm, I took a screenshot and saved it to my camera roll. A sharp cramp suddenly twisted my stomach. I curled into a ball on the rug, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. A sharp knock at the door broke the silence. Assuming it was the concierge, I forced myself up and dragged my feet to the entryway. I opened the door to find a tall, unfamiliar man in a sharp black suit. He was holding a velvet box trimmed in gold. “Miss Cici, Mr. Lancaster requested I deliver this to you.” I clutched my stomach, my voice weak. “Who?” “Mr. Roman Lancaster,” the man replied, bowing his head respectfully. “Mr. Lancaster said he does not want you wearing anything that another woman has tainted.” He popped the velvet box open. Resting inside was a ruby crown. It was heavier, bolder, and a hundred times more radiant than the tiara in Harper’s photo. “Tomorrow,” the man said softly. “He expects you to wear this when you meet him.” 3 The night before the engagement gala. I received a cold summons to the Crawford family estate. The moment I stepped into the grand living room, I saw Mrs. Crawford sitting rigidly on the vintage leather sofa. Preston stood stiffly beside her. Harper was curled up in an armchair, her eyes red and puffy. The atmosphere was as oppressive as a criminal tribunal. “Kneel.” Mrs. Crawford did not even lift her eyes. She just coldly spun the diamond ring on her finger. I stood exactly where I was. I looked at them with ice in my veins. “Excuse me, Mrs. Crawford. What is the meaning of this?” “What is the meaning?” She slammed her hand down on the coffee table. “You have the nerve to ask me that?” “You hired a troll farm to drag Harper’s name through the mud! You paid people to call her a homewrecker online! The entire city is tearing the Crawford family apart, and our stock dropped another three percent today!” She stood up, pointing a trembling finger at me. “How could our family ever accept such a vicious, toxic woman through our doors?” I furrowed my brow and looked directly at Preston. “I never hired any internet trolls.” Preston let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Still lying?” He threw a stack of printed bank transfers onto the floor at my feet. “My PR team tracked the payments. The account that wired the money to the troll farm belongs to your former assistant!” Preston’s eyes were blazing with self-righteous fury. “I know you are jealous of how much I care about Harper. But you do not get to use my family’s reputation to vent your pathetic, personal rage!” I glanced down at the papers. The name on the account did belong to my old assistant. But I had fired that assistant three months ago for stealing from my purse. And from what I heard, she immediately got a job at Harper’s startup company. I shifted my gaze to Harper. She was staring at the floor, wiping away invisible tears, her shoulders trembling. She looked like the ultimate, helpless victim. “Do not bother investigating,” I said, pulling my gaze away. “If you are determined to convict me, evidence does not matter anyway.” “Shut your mouth!” Mrs. Crawford screamed. “Tomorrow is the engagement gala. The only way to fix this nightmare is for you to start a live stream right now. You are going to apologize to Harper in front of the entire internet!” “You will tell the public that you manufactured this entire scandal out of jealousy. You will tell them the three of you are best friends!” I stared at her in absolute disbelief. “You want me to publicly apologize to her? To confess to something I never did?” My voice was dangerously low. “I am supposed to be the future bride of this family, and you want me to bow my head to a suspected mistress?” “She is not a mistress!” Preston roared, cutting me off. “Harper is an innocent girl, and you have ruined her life so badly she cannot even leave her house!” He stepped toward me, his face twisted in anger. “You apologize right now. If you refuse, do not even expect a single member of my family to show up at the gala tomorrow!” It was a threat. A blatant, ugly threat. They thought they had me cornered. They knew I had no parents, no powerful backing. They knew I had compromised my pride a thousand times over the last five years to keep this relationship alive. They firmly believed that the moment they threatened to cancel the wedding, I would crumble and obey. I looked at Preston’s furious, entitled face. He looked like a complete stranger. “Fine,” I heard myself say. My voice was completely devoid of emotion. “I will do the live stream.” A fleeting, triumphant smirk danced across Harper’s lips. Ten minutes later, the PR team had the camera set up. The moment the stream went live, hundreds of thousands of people flooded the broadcast. The comments were a wall of pure hatred aimed right at me. [The official girlfriend finally speaks? She definitely took a payout.] [God, she is so disgusting. How can a woman have zero self-respect?] Preston stood just behind the camera lens, glaring at me. “Read the script.” I looked dead into the camera lens and took a deep, steadying breath. “Hello everyone. My name is Cici.” “Regarding the recent rumors circulating online, I am here today to make an official statement.” Harper leaned close to Preston and whispered softly, “Preston, isn’t this too hard on her? I really don’t mind taking the blame.” “Ignore her. She owes you this,” Preston muttered back. I watched the vile, insulting comments rolling across the screen. The corners of my mouth curled into a cold, empty smile. “I am here to officially say to Miss Harper…” “Congratulations.” The entire living room went dead silent. Even the rapid-fire comments on the screen seemed to freeze for a split second. Preston’s face drained of color. “Cici, have you lost your damn mind? What the hell are you saying?” I ignored him entirely and kept my eyes on the lens. “Congratulations. You finally got what you wanted. You have officially made Preston your personal property. Your relationship is far too crowded, and I am officially done being the third wheel.” “Tomorrow’s engagement gala is cancelled.” The moment the words left my mouth, I reached over and yanked the power cord from the wall. The camera died instantly. A sharp, violent slap echoed through the room. My head snapped to the side. Preston was shaking uncontrollably, his eyes completely bloodshot. “Cici! Do you have a death wish?!” My cheek burned like fire. I tasted copper in the back of my mouth. I did not even raise a hand to touch my face. I just looked at him with dead eyes. “That slap repays you for the croissant you bought me in the rain five years ago. From this second on, we owe each other nothing.” As I turned on my heel and walked toward the door, Mrs. Crawford’s hysterical screaming echoed behind me. “Let her leave! I dare her to walk out that door!” “Even if she crawls back tomorrow on her hands and knees, I will never let her step foot in this house again!” I pushed through the heavy front doors and stepped out into the cold night air. The wind whipped my hair across my face. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Roman. “The mark on your face. Tomorrow, I will help you collect the debt.” 4 At nine o’clock the next morning, the marble halls of City Hall were dead quiet. Roman Lancaster sat across from me. He was wearing an impeccably tailored black suit. His cufflinks were deep crimson gemstones that radiated a quiet, suffocating authority. He did not ask about the faint red mark still lingering on my cheek. He simply slid a thick legal folder across the table. “Sign the papers, and you are officially Mrs. Lancaster.” “Every single resource the Lancaster family owns is yours to command.” His voice was a low, smooth baritone. It carried absolutely no emotional fluctuation. I picked up the pen and signed my name without a single second of hesitation. When the clerk stamped the official seal onto the documents, I stared at the marriage certificate. A bizarre, profound sense of peace washed over me. Five years of swallowing my pride. Five years of silent suffering. It was all finally over. “Miss Cici. Apologies. Mrs. Lancaster.” Roman stood up, smoothly sliding his copy of our marriage certificate into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. “Let’s go. It is time to attend your engagement gala.” I blinked in confusion. “The gala?” After the absolute chaos of last night, I assumed the Crawfords would have canceled the venue and notified all the guests. Roman looked down at me, the faintest ghost of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Preston did not cancel anything.” “He posted on his social media this morning. He claimed his fiancée suffered an emotional breakdown last night due to stress, but that today’s event will proceed exactly as planned.” “He is absolutely certain you will go crawling back to beg for his forgiveness.” My fingers curled into tight fists. The sheer arrogance was mind-boggling. Preston’s ego was so bloated, so completely detached from reality, that he truly believed I was a dog who would come running the moment he whistled. “Then let’s go,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I would hate to miss a good show.” At noon, the grand ballroom of the Crawford family’s seven-star hotel was packed with Manhattan’s elite. The air buzzed with gossip and the clinking of champagne glasses. I was not wearing the custom white gown I had spent months designing. Instead, I wore a stunning, blood-red evening gown. Resting perfectly on my head was the ruby crown Roman had sent me. As I walked down the carpeted hallway toward the main ballroom doors, I heard voices drifting from the VIP lounge. The door was cracked open. “Preston, is she really going to show up?” It was Harper. Her voice was dripping with fake anxiety. “There are so many reporters out there. If she ghosts you, you will be a laughingstock.” Preston’s voice was laced with arrogant impatience. “She will be here.” “A woman like her cannot survive without me. Last night was just a pathetic temper tantrum. When she gets here, give her the cold shoulder. Let her learn her lesson.” Harper let out a soft, breathy laugh. “And… what if she actually does not show up?” “Then you step in,” Preston said casually. “You already tried on the bridesmaid dress, and it fits you perfectly. I have no problem swapping the leading lady today.” I stood perfectly still in the hallway, listening to their banter. Whatever tiny, lingering trace of anger I had left completely evaporated. All that remained was pity. This was the man I gave five years of my life to. He treated my dignity like dirt to be trampled on, using my public humiliation as a cheap bargaining chip to flirt with another woman. I turned away from the lounge and walked straight to the massive double doors of the main ballroom. The security guards stationed at the entrance stared at me in shock. “Miss Cici… what are you wearing?” They had obviously never seen a bride show up to her own engagement party in a red dress and a ruby crown. I ignored them entirely and pushed the heavy oak doors open. The spotlights instantly swiveled to hit me. The low hum of conversation in the massive room died instantly. Preston’s parents were seated at the head table. When Mrs. Crawford saw my outfit, her face turned a violent shade of purple. “What kind of garbage are you wearing?!” she shrieked, shooting up from her chair. “Are you here for an engagement or a funeral?!” I did not even look at her. I walked straight down the center aisle, climbed the steps to the stage, and calmly took the microphone from the stunned MC. “I apologize for the interruption, everyone.” My voice echoed through the high-end sound system, crystal clear in the dead silence. “Today’s engagement gala is officially canceled.” The ballroom erupted into chaotic gasps. The door to the VIP lounge violently banged open. Preston stormed out, his face a mask of dark, murderous rage. “Cici! Have you lost your damn mind again?!” He took the stage two steps at a time and lunged to rip the microphone out of my hand. I took a quick step back, dodging his grasp. “I am perfectly sane.” I looked him dead in the eye and spoke clearly into the mic. “Preston, I am not marrying you.” Preston froze, his hand still hovering in midair. He honestly looked like his brain could not process the words. In his warped reality, this was just an extreme tactic to get his attention. “Do you have any idea what you are doing right now?” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice a venomous whisper. “Get off this stage and go change your clothes. If you do it right now, I will pretend this never happened.” “Oh?” A low, bone-chilling voice suddenly cut through the tension. It came from the main entrance of the ballroom. “Does the Crawford heir have an issue with my wife?”

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I went to the airport to help my fangirl best friend welcome her idol, but ended up falling hard for his manager instead. While the rest of the crowd was screaming at the celebrity, I let out a loud, shameless catcall directed straight at the man in the suit. “Hey handsome, how long are you?” The moment the words left my mouth, I realized how incredibly wrong they sounded. Frantic to save face, I stumbled over my words to fix it. “I meant your height!” The manager: … After chasing him for nearly a month, he gently but firmly shut me down. “Don’t waste your time on me. I have no plans to get into a relationship anytime soon.” Taking the hint, I decided to move on and started focusing on a new indie musician. But the man who claimed he had no plans for love ended up pinning me against a cold brick wall in a dark, empty alleyway. “Weren’t you dying to know how long I am? Measure it yourself.” 1 At the end of the chaotic VIP arrivals terminal, my best friend, Gloria, grabbed my arm and shook it so hard my teeth rattled. “Oh my god, he’s here! He’s actually here!” I stood on my tip-toes, trying to peer through the sea of heads blocking my view. “Where? I don’t see him. Which one?” Gloria let out a sharp squeal, taking a brief second to point my blind eyes in the right direction. “Right there, at your eight o’clock. The most handsome guy in the room.” I nodded, squinting toward her finger. A man dressed in black had just rounded the corner of the corridor. A pair of elegant, gold-rimmed glasses rested on the high bridge of his nose. He had one hand shoved into his pocket while the other held a phone to his ear, his sleeve shifting just enough to reveal a sleek mechanical watch. “The guy in black? Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s gorgeous.” The moment the words left my mouth, several fans standing nearby glared at me and pointedly took a few steps back. “No, idiot!” Gloria hissed. “The guy in black is Marcus, Ashton’s manager. I can’t believe Marcus is actually traveling with him today!” There must have been an emergency on the phone. Marcus gestured to a few assistants and slowed his pace, falling to the back of the group. A half-dozen assistants swarmed around a tall, masked figure, guiding the star forward like a protective shield. The crowd of fans immediately surged ahead to follow them. I dragged my feet, lingering at the back. Marcus hung up the call, frowning as he checked his watch. I stared at his collarbones, which were partially visible beneath his slightly loosened collar, and my brain completely short-circuited. In the midst of the deafening cheers and screams ahead, a sharp, clear whistle cut through the air. “Hey handsome, how long are you?” The bustling corridor fell into a sudden, agonizing silence. Marcus’s fingers trembled against his phone. Behind those gold-rimmed lenses, his narrow, dark eyes slowly squinted in my direction. He pressed his lips together, his earlobes turning a brilliant, unmistakable shade of crimson right before my eyes. My hands flew to cover my mouth. Catching Gloria’s horrified expression, I frantically tried to salvage the situation. “I, I mean, I was asking about your height!” Marcus pushed up his glasses, his expression turning completely blank as he noticeably quickened his pace. Not far ahead, Ashton, who was busy signing autographs, noticed the commotion. The eyes beneath his baseball cap curved into amused crescents. He tossed an arched brow at Marcus, clearly enjoying the free entertainment. “Hey, boss,” Ashton drawled, prolonging the syllables. “Someone’s asking you a question.” Marcus shot him a freezing glare, his voice low with warning. “Shut up.” An eagle-eyed fan page happened to capture the entire exchange on video. It stayed pinned to the top of the trending charts for three solid days. The question of just how long Ashton’s manager actually was became the internet’s favorite unsolved mystery. “So, what do you actually know about Marcus?” I asked, tossing my phone onto the couch and looking at Gloria with wide, hopeful eyes. “Are you seriously crushing on him?” I nodded sheepishly. “Well, you’ve picked a tough one,” Gloria sighed. “The guy is a total mystery. All I know is that he’s the industry’s ultimate ice king, a literal work machine. Just last month, he personally sent a whole group of obsessive stalkers straight to jail.” I let out a heavy sigh, wondering if I should just give up. But my mind kept drifting back to his sharp, cold face and the way the tips of his ears had flushed red in the airport. Since Gloria couldn’t offer much help, I took to the internet. Unfortunately, details about him were scarce. Aside from his professional reputation as a top-tier manager, there was practically nothing. “How can someone be this hard to find?” I muttered to myself. Just as I was about to dig deeper, my phone vibrated. It was my brother, Nathan, asking me to pick him up. The background noise on his end was loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and muffled laughter. With a heavy sigh of resignation, I grabbed my coat and headed out the door. When I arrived at the bar and pushed open the door to the private room, the first thing I saw was Nathan’s flushed, glassy-eyed face. “Hey! Over here!” he waved. I frowned and walked over, preparing to lecture him, but stopped dead in my tracks. Sitting right across from Nathan was Marcus. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier today. Perhaps the room was too warm, because he had undone the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt. When he saw me, a faint eyebrow arched in surprise. “This is my sister, Vivian,” Nathan slurred, gesturing wildly at me. “She’s a total bookworm, very quiet, basically lives under a rock.” I nearly tripped over my own feet, keeping my head down and not daring to make eye contact. Nathan, you idiot. Your sister reads romance novels with very vivid descriptions, and she only stays home during the day so she can sneak out at night while you’re asleep. “Quiet?” Marcus let out a soft chuckle, taking a slow sip from his glass. His gaze lingered on me for a few agonizing seconds before he quietly looked away. 2 Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I quickly tried to steer the conversation. “Nathan, you’ve had too much to drink. Let’s go home.” Nathan waved me off. “No rush. Sit down for a bit.” With no other choice, I sat down and stole a quiet glance at Marcus. He was leaning back against the leather sofa, his unbuttoned collar exposing the elegant lines of his collarbone. In the dim amber light of the bar, his profile looked incredibly sharp and effortlessly attractive. “Nathan,” I whispered, tugging gently on my brother’s sleeve. “Is he your friend?” “Yeah,” Nathan muttered, nodding. “How come you’ve never mentioned him before?” I pressed. “What do you mean? I talk about him all the time. He’s the guy you called a pretentious prick at dinner last week…” “You are definitely drunk!” I lunged forward to cover his mouth, but the damage was already done. Nathan was close enough to Marcus that his voice hadn’t been quiet at all. To make matters worse, he pointed a finger directly at Marcus to make sure there was no confusion about who we were talking about. Suddenly, every eye in the room turned to us. My face burned with a fierce heat. I waved my hands frantically in denial. “No, that’s not true! I didn’t say that! Don’t listen to him!” Marcus let out a low laugh and set his glass down, staring at me with an amused, knowing look. Feeling the urge to crawl into a hole and die, I decided to throw my drunken brother entirely under the bus. “He made me say it!” My betrayal was so seamless that the rest of the table burst into laughter. I wanted to apologize to Marcus, but as I stood up, my high heel caught in a gap in the thick rug. I lost my balance entirely. As the room spun, a warm, firm hand caught me securely by the waist, steadying me. My mind went completely blank. I found myself staring directly at a tiny, dark mole just beside Marcus’s Adam’s apple. The room became so quiet I could hear the faint thrum of the bass from the main floor. Then, a groggy voice broke the silence from below. “Huh? Why am I on the floor?” Nathan rubbed his forehead, swaying as he struggled to his feet. “Vivian, why is your face so red?” “Thank you, I have to go!” I squeaked out. It was the perfect opportunity to make a connection, but I cowardly chose to run. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized I had completely forgotten to ask for Marcus’s number. As I lay in bed, my mind was filled entirely with his face, the scent of his cologne, the tiny mole on his neck, and the faint, teasing smile at the corner of his lips. I buried my face in my pillow and groaned. I was completely, utterly doomed. Suddenly, I sat up in bed. I walked down to the kitchen, warmed up a glass of milk, and knocked on Nathan’s door. “Nathan, are you asleep?” Ignoring his steady, quiet breathing, I shook his shoulder until his eyes fluttered open. “What is it?” He reached for his glasses on the nightstand, looking thoroughly disoriented. “You drank a lot tonight, and I was worried you wouldn’t sleep well. So I made you some warm milk.” Nathan stared at me. “Vivian.” “Oh, were you asleep? Your eyes were closed, so I wasn’t sure.” Nathan: … “Here, drink your milk,” I said, offering the glass with my most innocent smile. Nathan let out a long sigh and held up three fingers. “I’m giving you three seconds. If you don’t tell me what you want, get out and close the door.” I bit my lip, lowering my voice. “You haven’t texted Marcus to let him know we got home safely.” Nathan let out a dry, mocking laugh. He grabbed his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and shared Marcus’s contact card with me. The bright light of the screen was blinding in the dark room. My heart hammered against my ribs as I looked at the contact details. My thumb hovered over the add button, trembling. “It’s so late. Do you think he’s asleep?” Nathan rolled over, turning his back to me. “He’s an iceberg, completely ruthless. Don’t go looking for trouble.” Ignoring his warning, I clutched my phone like a prize and hurried back to my room. 3 The phone vibrated in my hand, and I practically bounced off the bed. After screaming silently at the ceiling, I opened the message with trembling fingers. Hi Marcus, this is Vivian. Nathan and I made it home safely. Thank you for catching me tonight, otherwise I would have ended up with a massive lump on my head. I immediately flipped the phone face down onto my chest, holding my breath. It took three long minutes before the screen lit up with his reply. K. Outside, the wind rustled the leaves against my window, creating a restless pattern of shadows. I rolled over, determined to keep the conversation going. When you helped me earlier, I think some of my lipstick got on your white shirt. Can I pay for the dry cleaning? Or maybe I could buy you dinner to make up for it? Also, about what happened at the airport today, I’m really sorry. This time, I waited a full five minutes. No need. It is late, and I am about to take a shower. Goodnight, Miss Bennett. How was I supposed to reply to that? I quickly opened a guide Gloria had sent me titled The Fine Art of Flirting, and typed out a confident response. A shower?! Sending me a text like that in the middle of the night makes me feel like things are getting a bit intimate between us. The message had barely sent when the screen showed typing… A minute later, Marcus retracted his previous message. It is late, and I am going to boil some water. Goodnight, Miss Bennett. I stared at the screen. Well played. He had officially caught my attention. I spent the rest of the night drafting a master plan. Using Nathan’s connections, I managed to secure an internship at Marcus’s agency. The tantrums and begging I had to go through to get Nathan to agree weren’t worth mentioning, but the result was all that mattered. I stared at my new ID badge, tracing the letters of my name, and let out a long breath. Today happened to be the monthly evaluation for the agency’s trainees. A group of teenagers was currently performing, and Marcus stood at the front, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed in a deep frown. “Stop,” he barked, tapping his fingers sharply on the desk. “Your transition in the chorus sounds like a choking goose. And you, cut down on the excessive gestures. It just looks cheap.” When I pushed the door open, a dozen pairs of eyes immediately locked onto me. Nathan must have warned him beforehand, because Marcus didn’t look surprised to see me. “Everyone, this is Vivian Bennett. She’s our new intern.” Marcus nodded and pointed to the empty chair right next to him. “Sit here.” He then turned to the rest of the staff. “She’ll be shadowing me for the foreseeable future.” The staff nodded, though the looks they exchanged were incredibly strange. I was confused at first, assuming they were just annoyed by a nepotism hire. But within thirty minutes, I understood completely. Those looks weren’t annoyance. They were pure pity. Marcus was absolutely terrifying at work. He ran the office like a highly precise, unforgiving machine, delivering sharp, brutal criticism without sparing anyone’s feelings. “You call this dancing? A elementary school play has better coordination than this.” “Is this agency a farm? If you keep gaining weight, are you planning to star in a documentary about lost muscle definition?” “Who approved this proposal? Are you being paid just to produce generic garbage?” Under the bright fluorescent lights, the trainees looked incredibly pale. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Fortunately, since it was my first day, none of the fire was directed at me. I carefully slipped my phone out under the table and started texting Gloria. Marcus looks exactly like an Angry Bird when he’s mad. He’s so hot. I want to kiss him. I am absolutely going to make him mine. [Cute cat heart meme] Gloria, who usually replied within seconds, didn’t text back. I looked up in confusion, only to find the entire room staring at me with wide, shocked eyes. Following their gazes, my eyes landed on the massive presentation screen at the front of the room, which was currently displaying the cute cat heart meme. My stomach dropped. In my rush, I had clicked the very top conversation in my chat list, entirely forgetting that my last interaction was with Marcus. I had sent the message directly to him, and since his phone was currently cast to the main screen for the presentation… Now I knew why Gloria hadn’t replied. She never received it. I shrank back into my chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole. “The resemblance is actually quite striking,” Ashton commented from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a massive grin. “Good description, Vivian, though your taste in men could use some work.” I buried my head even lower. “That’s enough for today,” Marcus announced, completely ignoring Ashton’s teasing. Everyone in the room let out a collective sigh of relief. As they began to filter out, I remained frozen in my seat. Marcus turned to look at me. “Are you coming?” “Oh, right,” I muttered, quickly gathering my things to follow him. The steady click of his leather shoes on the marble floor sounded like a countdown timer. I kept my eyes glued to the pattern on the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs. Suddenly, he stopped and turned. I walked straight into his chest. “Miss Bennett.” The scent of cedarwood and faint amber washed over me. I stumbled back a step, but Marcus caught me by the elbow to steady me. Looking up, I could see his throat shifting as he swallowed. We were so close I could see my own reflection in his glasses. “Does your plan to pursue me include following me into the men’s restroom?” I scrambled back another step, finally noticing the sign on the door behind him. “Sorry, I was distracted.” “My office is that way,” Marcus pointed down the hall. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me. “Miss Bennett, I have schedules to manage, brand deals to secure, and teams to run. I really don’t have the time to play romance games with you.” I squeezed my hands into fists, my knuckles turning white. His voice was low, carrying a rich, resonant tone. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air between us. Marcus clearly thought his blunt rejection would send me packing, but he had no idea that I hadn’t processed a single word he said. I was too busy staring at the tiny mole on his neck. “Miss Bennett, do you understand?” Marcus’s cold voice finally brought me back to reality. “I didn’t hear a word,” I whispered. “But I really want to kiss you.” Marcus: …

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My wife was pregnant, but I had just lost my job. I pretended to go to work every day until we had our most catastrophic fight over a cup of hot coffee. I screamed, “I wish we never got married!” and slammed the door, rushing out into the torrential rain. When I opened my eyes, it was ten years later. Hover cars glided through the streets. On a massive holographic billboard was a face I knew intimately, yet barely recognized. She was a billionaire tech mogul. She was smiling as she told a reporter that her legendary rise began the exact night I abandoned her and our unborn child ten years ago. 1 When the second pink line appeared on the pregnancy test, Phoebe cried. I held her, pressing her face against my chest. Those few drops of scalding tears felt like a stamp of approval on my thirty years of life. I, Chad, was going to be a father. I told her not to cry, that this was the best news in the world. I promised her she could stay home and rest, that I would provide for both of us. Phoebe’s voice was muffled against my shirt. She told me I was the best. The sky over New York that day was an impossible shade of blue. The sunlight filtered through the tiny, grimy window of our cramped apartment, giving the stacks of cardboard delivery boxes a golden trim. I felt like the main character of the city. The future was right at my feet, paved in gold. Three hours later, the HR manager called me into his office. His expression was polite but entirely void of empathy. “Chad, you know how the market is right now. We are restructuring the department. The company will provide severance according to your contract.” My ears rang. I did not hear a single word he said after that. The only phrase that echoed in my skull was “laid off.” When I returned to our sunlit apartment, Phoebe was scrolling through her phone, researching what to pack in her hospital bag. Her face was practically glowing with happiness. I opened my mouth, but the words “I got fired” stuck in my throat like a fishbone. She looked up and smiled. “You are home early. Look at this crib I picked out. Isn’t it beautiful?” I looked at her and forced a smile that felt worse than crying. “It is beautiful.” Once the snowball of a lie starts rolling, it only gets bigger until it buries you alive. I began pretending to go to work. I left the apartment at seven sharp every morning, carrying my briefcase. I took the subway two stops down, killed time on a park bench until noon, and spent my afternoons in the lobbies of corporate high-rises, using their free Wi-Fi to send out resumes. Every interview ended in rejection. At thirty years old, stuck in a mid-level position with a mediocre salary, I was a piece of gristle in the job market. Nobody wanted a bite. At home, Phoebe’s belly grew rounder by the day. At first, we talked about baby names and nursery themes. Soon, the conversations shifted to the cost of ultrasounds, the price difference between organic and generic formula, and why the hourly rate of a night nurse was higher than my weekly paycheck. Every decimal point on my banking app felt like a needle stabbing me in the eyes. Our savings dropped from five digits to four, teetering dangerously close to three. Every time the number shrank, it felt like a syringe drawing blood directly from my veins. I became irritable and silent. She became anxious and hyper-sensitive. One night, she pointed to a bottle of prenatal vitamins on her laptop. They were a hundred and twenty dollars. She asked if we could afford them. I was staring blankly at yet another rejection email, and a sudden, blinding rage flared up inside me. “A hundred and twenty dollars?! Are they made of gold?! Do you have any idea how much pressure I am under right now?!” I regretted the words the second they left my mouth. She froze. She clutched her laptop, slowly raising her head to look at me. There was no anger in her eyes. It was a shattered, terrified look, like a deer caught in the headlights. “Chad,” her voice was a whisper. “Why are you screaming at me?” That was the first night we slept in separate rooms. I lay on the freezing living room sofa, staring at the ceiling, smelling the faint stench of old cooking oil lingering in the air. I did not sleep a wink. The girl who used to say “As long as I have you, I have enough” felt like she had been killed by the suffocating poverty of the last few months. The woman living in the bedroom was a stranger. A cold, calculating woman who only cared about numbers. 2 The collapse began in ways you could see. Phoebe stopped buying fresh fruit, claiming the bruised ones on the discount rack tasted the same. She stopped ordering takeout, saying the grease was bad for the baby. She packed away her expensive skincare routine and replaced it with a cheap bottle of baby lotion from the pharmacy, insisting the ingredients were safer. She squeezed every single penny we had, hoarding our money like she was guarding a drying river. When the landlord called to demand next month’s rent, Phoebe forced a cheerful tone, promising the transfer would be sent by Friday. The moment she hung up the phone, her face turned dark as a storm cloud. She looked at me. Her gaze was no longer full of trust. It was naked, harsh scrutiny. She was looking at me like a defective product. “Have you found a job yet?” “Soon,” I muttered, avoiding her eyes. “When exactly is soon? Chad, do you understand we cannot even make rent next week?!” My throat went dry. “The severance money isn’t totally gone yet, we can just…” “It is gone!” She shrieked, cutting me off. She snapped like a wire pulled way past its limit. “Prenatal appointments, vitamins, the hospital fees for the delivery, the money you spend eating and commuting every single day! Which of those is free? That tiny severance check isn’t even enough to buy a month’s worth of formula!” I shrank under her screaming, unable to lift my head. She was right. I was still “commuting” every day. I needed subway fare. I needed lunch money. It was the absolute last, pathetic shred of dignity I had left. “Maybe… we could ask your parents?” I whispered, feeling like a thief. Phoebe’s eyes turned red. She glared at me with pure venom. “My parents raised me for twenty-five years. They did not raise me so I could marry you, get pregnant, and then beg them for charity!” “You were not like this when you married me,” my voice dropped, dripping with a pathetic victimhood that disgusted even me. “You are right! When I married you, you wore a suit and worked for a great company! You promised you would give me a home! Look around, Chad. Where is our home? Is it this tiny, leaking box where we can hear the neighbors going at it through the walls?!” Every word was a glowing hot knife plunging into my chest and twisting. I had no defense. She was completely right. Winter arrived early that year. The damp, biting cold of the city felt like insects crawling into my bones. Phoebe’s morning sickness got worse. She threw up everything she ate. Her face grew so thin her eyes looked massive. She would sit by the window for hours, staring out at the gray skyline with an empty, hollow gaze. Under her relentless scrutiny, my lie about going to work was totally exposed. She just never said it out loud. A thin sheet of paper stood between us, and neither of us dared to tear it. If we did, this tiny apartment would become a literal prison. The night of the storm, I was lured out by a recruiter who turned out to be pitching a pyramid scheme. I wandered the freezing streets until midnight, soaked to the bone, starving, and shaking. I passed by a corner cafe and smelled the rich, sweet aroma of roasted coffee and warm milk. Like a man possessed, I walked inside. I bought a cheap black coffee for myself. And I bought a hot caramel latte to go for her. I thought about how sick her stomach had been lately. A warm, sweet drink might make her feel better. I even pictured her holding the cup, a long-lost smile finally gracing her face. For those few minutes, standing in that cafe, I felt the most peace I had experienced since losing my job. But I never could have predicted that this cup of coffee would be the bomb that blew our lives to pieces. I pushed the apartment door open. She was sitting on the sofa waiting for me. Only a dim floor lamp was on. “Where were you?” she asked. “A friend wanted to talk business.” I placed the cup in front of her like an offering. “I brought this for you. It’s hot. Drink it.” She glanced down at the paper cup with the cafe logo on it. She didn’t move. The air was heavy and silent. “How much?” she asked. “Not much, I just…” “I asked you how much it cost!” Her voice suddenly spiked. “…Five dollars.” She stared at me. She slowly stood up from the sofa like a mother wolf pushed into a corner. “Five dollars! Chad, what can five dollars do for us right now?! Can it pay the rent?! Can it keep the lights on?! Do you have any idea how much money is left in our account?! Do you even know how to do math anymore?!” She swung her hand and smacked the cup off the table. The scalding liquid splashed across the back of my hand. The paper cup hit the floor with a wet thud, spraying sticky brown coffee across the cheap linoleum. The skin on my hand burned fiercely, but it was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. I looked at her face, twisted in rage. I looked at her slightly swollen belly. I looked at the mess on the floor. A psychotic, terrifying thought exploded in my brain. If we never got married. If I never got her pregnant. Would I have to live like a stray dog? Would she have turned into this hysterical, screaming lunatic? I turned around and stormed out. I slammed the door so hard the walls shook. It sounded like something inside the apartment had finally, permanently shattered. As I rushed out into the pouring rain, I looked up at the pitch-black sky and let out a silent, agonizing roar. “If we never got married, wouldn’t it be better?!” 3 The rain lashed my face like a whip. I ran blindly through the storm, wanting nothing more than to put as much distance as possible between myself and that apartment of despair. Anger and humiliation burned my insides. There was only one thought echoing in my head. Let it all end. Let it all burn down. I hated Phoebe. I hated that she was no longer gentle. I hated her constant accusations. But I hated myself more. I hated my own uselessness. I hated that I could not even afford to give her a five-dollar coffee in peace. When my lungs were entirely out of air, I stumbled to a halt at an intersection. I instantly noticed something was terribly wrong. I had run out of a decaying, low-income neighborhood. The streets were supposed to be cracked, illuminated by flickering, yellow streetlights. But right now, I was standing in the middle of a massive, immaculate plaza. Towering above me was a skyscraper that pierced the clouds, its sleek glass exterior reflecting a dizzying array of neon lights like a giant sword dividing the sky. The streets were absurdly clean. Silent, hovering vehicles glided across the asphalt, kicking up a fine mist of rainwater. Giant holographic billboards rotated slowly in the sky, displaying celebrities I did not recognize selling products I had never heard of. The air smelled faintly of ozone. I was paralyzed. Did I take a wrong turn? When did New York build a place like this? I pulled out my phone to check the map. The moment the cracked screen lit up, my entire body went rigid. The date read: November 10, 2034. Ten years later? Was I hallucinating? Was my phone broken? I instinctively looked up at the largest holographic screen across the plaza. It was broadcasting an evening financial news program. A female anchor in a sharp gray suit spoke with crisp, perfect pronunciation. “Local tech giant Cerulean Dynamics announced today the successful launch of their next-generation AI interactive system, which is projected to bring over a hundred billion in market value to the conglomerate. Founder Phoebe Hayes continues to write her legendary corporate saga…” The screen cut to a studio interview. A woman sat in the center of the brightly lit set, facing the cameras with absolute composure. She wore her hair in a sleek shoulder-length bob. Her makeup was flawless. Her eyes were sharp yet profoundly calm, and a polite, distant smile played on her lips. Time had not aged her; it had forged her. She possessed a terrifying aura of power and confidence, as if the entire world rested in the palm of her hand. I stared dead at the face on the massive screen. It was a face I had looked at for seven years. A face I could trace with my eyes closed. Despite the astronomical shift in her presence, there was absolutely no mistake. It was my wife. Phoebe. The news ticker at the bottom of the screen called her a “Tech Visionary,” a “Self-Made Titan,” and a “Billionaire Mogul.” It felt like lightning struck the top of my skull and traveled straight down into my boots. My blood turned to ice. I stood in a storm ten years in the future, gripping a useless phone from a decade ago, staring at a woman who was lightyears beyond my reach. I felt like the biggest joke in the universe. 4 I drifted through the streets of 2034 like a ghost. My mind was a chaotic mess. I could not process what was happening. Was this a dream? A highly realistic nightmare? I decided to go home. As long as I could get back to that tiny apartment and see Phoebe waiting for me, all this absurd madness would vanish. I relied on my memory to navigate. The narrow streets I remembered had been widened. The mom-and-pop diners and bodegas had been replaced by luxury boutiques with glowing facades. It took me twice as long to find the familiar intersection. Our home was gone. The moss-covered brick building had been leveled to the ground. In its place stood a high-security luxury condominium complex named The Grandview. The security guard at the gate, dressed in a sharp tactical uniform, eyed my soaked, shivering, deranged appearance with intense suspicion. “Sir, who are you looking for?” My throat tightened. “I… I live here. Building Six, apartment 402.” The guard looked at me like I belonged in a psych ward. “Sir, there is no Building Six. There is only Tower A and Tower B. Furthermore, this complex was only built last year.” A bucket of ice water poured over my head. Demolished. Ten years was more than enough time for the world to flip upside down. With trembling fingers, I opened my phone contacts. I thought of my mother. No matter what happened, she would be there. I dialed the number burned into my memory. It rang for a long time before someone picked up. It was the sweet, high-pitched voice of a little boy. “Hello? Who is this?” My heart sank. “Hey buddy, I am looking for… Mary.” “You want my grandma?” The boy yelled away from the receiver. “Grandma! Phone for you!” I heard shuffling on the other end, and then my mother’s voice came through. She sounded significantly older. “Hello? Who is calling?” “Mom. It’s me.” Dead silence on the other end. A long, suffocating silence. “…You have the wrong number,” she said flatly. “Mom! It’s me, Chad!” I practically screamed into the microphone. “I said you have the wrong number!” Her voice suddenly spiked into a frantic, terrified pitch, as if she had just seen a monster. “I don’t know anyone named Chad! Do not ever call here again!” The call disconnected. I dialed again. The automated voice told me the number was unreachable. She had blocked me. Why? Why was my own mother pretending not to know me? And that little boy… whose son was he? My brother’s? No, my brother lived on the other side of the country. Terror swallowed me whole. There was truly no place for me in this world anymore. I opened my social media apps. Everything was frozen exactly as it had been yesterday. I clicked on Mike, my best friend from college. His latest post was a stunning photo of the Northern Lights in Iceland. The caption read: “Life is about enjoying the moment.” In the photo, he had his arm around a beautiful young woman, leaning against a heavily modified luxury SUV. The comment section was full of envy and praise. I scoured every single platform. My accounts still existed, but I was living in a single-player game. The most recent comment on my profile was from three years ago. Not a single person was looking for me. Not a single person asked where I was. I, Chad, was a pebble tossed into the middle of the ocean. I didn’t leave a single ripple. I was forgotten by the world. No, more accurately, I had been deleted from this world. 5 I sat on a park bench for the entire night. When a sanitation worker woke me up the next morning, I was covered in a few discarded newspapers. On the front page of the paper was a massive portrait of Phoebe. The headline read: “Cerulean Tech: A Decade of Brilliance.” Looking at the radiant, unstoppable woman in the photograph, I finally accepted the absurd reality. I had traveled ten years into the future. A future where I did not exist, and where Phoebe had conquered the world. I had to see her. I had to know what happened over the last ten years. Using the news articles, I tracked down the location of Cerulean Tech’s corporate summit. I spent the very last dollar in my wallet to buy the cheapest suit from a thrift store, and grabbed a fake press pass from a street vendor. Armed with a ridiculous outfit and pure, reckless desperation, I somehow bluffed my way into the opulent convention center. The hall was packed with elite professionals discussing business models and tech jargon I couldn’t even begin to understand. I felt like a rat sneaking into a gala of swans. Overwhelmed by shame, I shrank into the darkest corner of the room. And then, I saw her. She wore a perfectly tailored white pantsuit, walking in surrounded by a massive entourage. She was the light in the room, the absolute center of gravity. Every eye followed her. Every smile, every nod she gave was immaculate and brimming with power. She was laughing effortlessly with a foreign investor, speaking flawless, melodic French. It hit me then. Years ago, to save money, I was the one who convinced her to turn down a study-abroad program in Paris. She had always been this brilliant. She was just held back by me, suffocated inside that four-hundred-square-foot apartment. I hid behind a heavy velvet curtain, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wanted to rush out, grab her by the shoulders, and ask her why. But my feet felt nailed to the floor. I had no right. Look at what I was. Look at what she was. An entire decade separated us. A chasm of class and power I could not even begin to fathom. The second half of the summit was a Q&A with the press. Phoebe sat on the stage, her legs elegantly crossed, fielding aggressive questions with total ease. A young female journalist stood up, holding a microphone. Her eyes glinted with the thrill of gossip. “Ms. Hayes, you are the ultimate icon of a self-made woman. But rumors suggest that during your early startup phase, you went through an incredibly bitter marriage that severely hindered your career. Is there any truth to this?” The air in the convention center froze. Hundreds of eyes locked onto Phoebe, waiting for her response. I held my breath. Phoebe looked at the microphone. A soft, genuine smile touched her lips. It was a smile like a lotus blooming on a glacier. Beautiful, yet bone-chillingly cold. “Your phrasing is incorrect,” she said. “He wasn’t a hindrance. He was a springboard.” “I was married, yes. And I owe that man a massive debt of gratitude.” The journalist’s eyes widened. “Gratitude for what?” Phoebe picked up her glass of water, took a slow sip, and let her gaze sweep across the dark auditorium. It felt as though her eyes pierced through the fabric of time, cutting straight through the velvet curtain, landing precisely on me. The corners of her mouth curled upward into a perfect arc. Her voice rang out crystal clear through the massive speakers, carving itself into my eardrums and straight into my heart. “I am grateful that he abandoned me so ruthlessly.” She paused. Every single word fell like a sledgehammer onto my skull. “If he hadn’t pushed me off the cliff, I never would have known I could fly.” The room erupted into deafening applause. Standing in the shadows, my body turned to ice. My knees gave out, and I slowly slid down the wall until I hit the floor. So… that was it. She truly believed I abandoned her that night in the storm. I was the villain in her origin story. I was the stupid, toxic ex-husband she had to conquer to rise from the ashes. I was the stepping stone beneath her expensive heels. There was no greater irony in the universe. My utter despair was the starting line of her empire. 6 I don’t know how I walked out of that convention center. It was pouring rain outside, just as violent and freezing as the night I left her ten years ago. I stood on the corner of this futuristic city, watching the hover cars slice through the rain, watching Phoebe’s brilliant smile flash across the holographic billboards, and I finally broke. I crouched on the wet pavement and bawled my eyes out like a lunatic. My tears mixed with the rain. I couldn’t tell which was colder, which was saltier. I cried for my lost decade. I cried for my erased existence. I cried for the unborn child I never got to meet. Was he still alive? Or a she? What happened to the child who was supposed to be my entire future? I suddenly remembered my mother’s grandson on the phone. A bomb went off in my head. Did Phoebe… remarry? The thought slithered into my brain like a venomous snake, sinking its fangs into my sanity. I stumbled blindly down the street, having no idea where I was going. My phone had died hours ago. In this cold, alien, glittering future, not a single light was left on for me. I sought shelter under the awning of a bodega. The TV mounted inside the window was airing a replay of the afternoon’s financial summit. Phoebe’s voice played through the glass, echoing in my mind. I am grateful that he abandoned me so ruthlessly. If he hadn’t pushed me off the cliff, I never would have known I could fly. It wasn’t the poverty that destroyed us. It wasn’t the unpaid rent, the shrinking bank account, or even that five-dollar cup of coffee. It was the fact that in the absolute depths of our despair, I was totally blind to her terror, and she was blind to my drowning. We both used the clumsiest, most brutal methods to protect ourselves, and in doing so, we gutted each other. I blamed her for becoming harsh. She blamed me for being useless. We only saw the ugliest parts of each other, and we actively pushed each other off the ledge. What actually killed our marriage was the fact that when she needed me the most, I chose to run. I chose to hide my powerlessness behind a mask of rage. And finally, it was the hateful curse I screamed into the stormy night. If we never got married, wouldn’t it be better? I reached into my soaking wet pocket. My fingers brushed against something stiff. It was a crumpled five-dollar bill. The change from the coffee shop ten years ago, completely forgotten in the lining of my jacket. Between my numb fingers, it felt as heavy as lead. On the TV screen inside the bodega, the reporter asked one final question. “Ms. Hayes, your career is a triumph. What about your personal life? Care to share?” For the first time during the interview, Phoebe showed a truly soft, radiant smile. It wasn’t the polished armor of a CEO. It was genuine warmth. “I am incredibly happy,” she said. “I have a wonderful husband who loves me deeply. He is a gentle university professor. We also have a brilliant nine-year-old son.” My heart shattered into a million pieces. The rain washed the dust of it down the storm drain. I lost. I lost completely, utterly, and irreversibly. I gripped that five-dollar bill so hard my knuckles turned white. In that moment, I finally understood. There was no time travel. There was no miraculous leap into the future. This was hell. A custom-built, personalized hell created by my own explicit wish. I stood on the flooded streets of New York, looking up at the sky stained purple by the neon lights. My lips trembled as I softly repeated the curse I had cast ten years ago. “If only… I never married you.”

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When it was time to submit our college applications. My childhood best friend insisted I apply to the exact same local university as him. I believed him. I packed my bags, my heart brimming with absolute joy, just waiting for orientation day. That was until I accidentally overheard him joking around with his buddies. “You are a savage, man. Tricking Ashley into staying at Northwestern while you go off to USC. Halfway across the country. It’s going to be pretty damn hard for her to cling to you from that distance.” “Aren’t you worried Ashley is going to be miserable these next four years? Just because you were scared she’d ruin your chances with Serena?” My childhood best friend didn’t say a word. But he didn’t deny it, either. In a single heartbeat, the fog in my mind cleared. Right before the application portal closed, I quietly changed my early application from Northwestern to Brown. If he wanted me far away, I would give him exactly what he wished for. 1 The casual chatter inside the private dining room kept going. No one noticed me standing frozen in the hallway. Seeing Carter stay silent, one of his friends couldn’t help but speak up in his defense. “Honestly, she’s like a shadow he can’t shake. The funniest part is when Serena invited you for an all-nighter duo queue at the gaming lounge, Ashley actually went and snitched to your mom. Total buzzkill behavior.” Hearing them insult me, Carter’s brows knitted together. But it only lasted a fraction of a second. He still didn’t say a word to defend me. A suffocating mix of anger and sorrow expanded in my chest until my mind went completely blank. Another guy chimed in with a laugh. “That’s just how those innocent wallflowers are. They don’t know a thing about the real world outside of their textbooks. Ashley is high maintenance, too. She micromanages you worse than your own mother. No skipping class, no drinking, no getting into fights. If a girl even breathes in your direction to hand you a note, she gets totally jealous and throws a fit.” At that, the irritation on Carter’s face became obvious. He couldn’t hold it back anymore and muttered a curse at his gaming teammate on screen. Finally, someone couldn’t stomach it anymore and tried to talk some sense into him. “Alright, Carter, wrap it up. Joke all you want, but don’t mess with her future. Besides, aren’t you worried Ashley will actually get mad this time and run off with some other guy?” The moment those words hung in the air, the entire room erupted into roaring laughter. Even Carter couldn’t hold back. He collapsed against the leather sofa, laughing so hard he doubled over. “Ashley? Run away? If she actually managed to pull that off, I’d go to the nearest church and light a candle just to thank God.” The guy who tried to defend me awkwardly shut his mouth. Once the laughter died down. Carter suddenly paused, offering a half-hearted explanation. “It’s not like I intentionally hid my USC application from her. But the thought of spending the next four years of college being suffocated and bossed around by her just killed the vibe. I just needed her out of my hair for a while.” The room filled with snickers once more. I couldn’t bear to listen to another syllable. I turned and fled. 2 I ran without stopping until I reached a place where nobody knew me. Only then did the tears finally break through the dam. All those years of growing up side by side. To Carter, my loyalty was nothing but a nuisance. All my well-meaning advice. To him, it was just me being a control freak. Just a few days ago, he stood in my living room, looking my parents dead in the eye, giving them this passionate speech about how they couldn’t possibly let me go away to college alone. It was all a calculated lie. If he was so annoyed by me, if he found me so repulsive, he could have just looked me in the eye and said it. He didn’t need to treat my entire academic future like a chess piece. And he certainly didn’t need to pull me into his arms under the oak tree on the night of my eighteenth birthday. He had kissed me so tenderly that night. I was lost in a haze of naive bliss, responding clumsily, letting him hold me close. My heart had been completely full, entirely convinced that our feelings were mutual and that we would be together forever. Eighteen years of childhood memories dragged past my eyes like a long, slow-motion film reel. Amidst that tidal wave of overwhelming grief, a sudden clarity washed over me. Maybe it had always been unrequited. All those intimate moments. That fiery kiss. Just like my college application, they were nothing but harmless entertainment to cure his boredom. I wiped my face with the back of my hand. Checking my phone, I saw I had exactly ten minutes before the admissions portal closed permanently. Thank God. There was still time to fix everything. 3 Once I caught my breath, I logged into the university portal on my phone. Without a second of hesitation, I wiped my first choice clean. Truthfully, I had scored exceptionally well on my final exams. Way above expectations. Good enough to get into Brown, the school I had dreamed of since I was a little girl. But when it was time to submit our choices, Carter had relentlessly chipped away at my parents’ resolve. He convinced them my scores would only get me bare-minimum entry into Brown, meaning I wouldn’t get to pick my preferred major. He swore that if I stayed local at Northwestern, I would have my pick of the litter. Selfishly, I hadn’t wanted to be separated from Carter either. So I agreed in a heartbeat, promising to stay right there in Chicago with him. The most pathetic part was that I even selected the exact same major as Carter. It wasn’t even a subject I was passionate about. Now that I was switching my choice to Brown, I didn’t have the luxury of a competitive edge. I just picked a major that sounded vaguely interesting and checked the box to accept any reassignment. As long as I made it to Rhode Island, that was enough. Carter wanted me far away. So I would give him an ocean of distance. I double-checked my selection until my eyes blurred. With exactly three minutes left on the clock, I pressed submit. From this moment on, I could finally grant Carter his deepest wish. East Coast and West Coast. I would never be an inconvenience to him again. 4 I still went back to the restaurant. Tonight was the farewell dinner organized by our homeroom teacher. With graduation looming, I didn’t want to break my promise and disappoint the teachers who had guided me. By the time I pushed open the doors to the private hall, almost all the students and staff had arrived. Three massive round tables filled the space. The moment I stepped inside, my eyes instantly locked onto Carter at the table closest to the door. He was always the one who stood out in a crowd. And sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on his right side was Serena, the most popular girl from the class next door. My footsteps grew heavy. She was the “goddess” those boys had kept mentioning in the hallway. Even though I had just made the ultimate decision to cut Carter out of my life, a bitter, sour ache still clawed at my throat. For as long as I could remember, the seat to Carter’s right had always belonged to me. I took a deep breath. Lowering my eyes, I prepared to walk straight past them to the table at the very back. Thankfully, Carter was too busy playing the perfect gentleman, pouring Serena a glass of iced tea, to notice me walk in. Serena was undeniably gorgeous, her whole aura soft and inviting. Even if I couldn’t stand her, I had to admit the truth. Sitting there next to Carter, they looked like a perfect match. For some reason, that stray thought flickered through my mind in a chaotic blur. Just as I kept my head down, rushing past their table, a sweet, melodic voice called out. 5 “Ashley! Over here!” I turned my head. Serena was beaming at me, her eyes sparkling with absolute sweetness. Hearing my name, Carter turned his head. He raised an eyebrow at me, then let his gaze flick down to the empty chair on his left. He didn’t speak to me. But the command in his eyes was crystal clear. “Come on, Carter specifically saved this seat for you. A bunch of the guys tried to sit next to him for the drinking games earlier, and he shut them all down.” Serena’s tone was teasing and perfectly pitched. Her words were directed at me, but her eyes were glued to Carter, brimming with playful affection. A smirk tugged at the corner of Carter’s mouth. He reached out and lightly tapped the top of Serena’s head. “Talks too much.” Serena playfully batted his hand away, puffing her cheeks in mock anger. “Carter! You’re ruining my blowout. You are so dead.” Saying that, she reached out and pinched his cheek lightly. They laughed and bickered naturally, acting as if the rest of the room didn’t exist. They looked exactly like the star-crossed lovers from a teen movie. A chorus of wolf-whistles erupted around the table. “Oh man, give us a break! Don’t act like we aren’t sitting right here.” “What’s the deal, man? Is the golden boy finally making it official?” “Are you blind? You’re just noticing now? Why else would the homecoming queen from next door crash our class dinner?” “Damn, Carter, you kept that locked down tight.” Serena’s face flushed a delicate shade of pink as she waved her hands. “No, stop it, don’t say that. The teachers are right there.” As she spoke, she shyly buried her face against the sleeve of Carter’s letterman jacket. The shrieks and laughter from the table practically blew the roof off the restaurant. I stood rooted to the spot, entirely out of place. Before I could walk away, Carter offered a helpless, boyish grin. “Relax, guys. We’re just good friends. She only came to taste-test the menu before her class books this place.” Someone immediately fired back. “No way, man! No plus-ones allowed unless she’s the missus!” Carter looked down, a genuine smile spreading across his face, which only made the crowd cheer louder. I didn’t want to stand there acting as their awkward audience for another second. But the moment I turned my heel to leave, Serena called my name again. “Ashley, seriously, come sit right here. Otherwise, they’re just going to keep making fun of Carter and me and starting rumors. Guys, stop hyping it up. Ashley walks to school with Carter every single day. Why aren’t you teasing her? You’re just bullying me because I’m from a different class.” Hearing that, the students around the table noticeably froze. I had no idea what Serena’s endgame was with a comment like that. But I absolutely refused to be a pawn in whatever twisted little power play she was running with Carter. My expression remained entirely blank. I turned my head and looked her dead in the eye. “I’m good. I prefer sitting by the window.” 6 The second those words left my mouth, Carter visibly stiffened. The looks the other students gave me suddenly carried a heavy layer of awkwardness. I didn’t wait for a response. I completely ignored their side of the room and walked straight to the only empty seat by the window. Right next to Mrs. Higgins, our notoriously strict homeroom teacher. Usually, she terrified most of the class. Honestly, she intimidated me too. But at this exact moment, there was nowhere on earth that felt safer than sitting by her side. Mrs. Higgins paid no attention to the teenage drama. She just smiled warmly and asked about my college plans. “It’s a real shame you didn’t apply to an Ivy League with your grades, Ashley. But staying local at Northwestern gives you a lot of flexibility with your major. It’s still a wonderful choice.” I didn’t say a word. I just offered a polite nod. Her words were meant to comfort me, but I could hear the faint undertone of disappointment. Still, I decided to wait until the official acceptance letters rolled in before telling anyone the truth. As I zoned out, my phone buzzed frantically against my leg. I opened my messages. It was Carter. [Why the hell are you sitting all the way over there?] [Don’t you usually avoid Higgins like the plague?] [Come sit your ass down over here.] [?] [3] [2] [1] The moment the number ‘1’ materialized on my screen, I blocked his number. It was always like this. Since we were kids, he always used that stupid countdown to threaten me into obedience. He clearly had someone else by his side now. Did he really need to drag me over there just to be a front-row spectator to his new romance? I didn’t care what he thought anymore. I kept my head down and focused on my plate. But the entire night, I could feel a heavy, burning gaze landing on me from across the room. It made my skin crawl. 7 We didn’t exchange a single word for the rest of the evening. When the dinner wrapped up, I stood on the sidewalk waiting for my Uber. Carter’s pristine Ferrari suddenly pulled up and stopped right in front of my toes. The passenger window was rolled down. Carter stared at me with a completely deadpan expression, the exact same face he always wore when he was giving me the silent treatment. Our families lived in the same gated community. We always rode home together. My feet stalled. Just as I hesitated, Serena slipped past my shoulder, casually pulling the car door open and sliding into the passenger seat. Carter leaned over the center console, patiently clicking her seatbelt into place. The sports car only had two seats. A bitter realization washed over me. I felt like an absolute clown. I quickly spun around and power-walked toward the rear of his car. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Serena’s face flush bright red as she leaned over and pressed a secret kiss to Carter’s cheek. Carter froze for a split second, the tips of his ears instantly turning scarlet. In a flash, the neon lights and the bustling street noise completely blurred out, like I was suddenly trapped behind a thick pane of foggy glass. A dull, suffocating weight settled in my chest, dragging my heart down into my stomach. I dug my nails into my palms. I forced myself to look completely unbothered. Even though they were buckled in, Carter still hadn’t put the car in drive. I couldn’t help but glance back in his direction. Through the glow of the rearview mirror, his eyes locked straight onto mine. He was watching me, his face wiped clean of emotion. I knew exactly what he was doing. He was waiting for me to cave first. Just like I had done in countless petty fights before. But what he didn’t know was that I would never, ever bow my head to him again. My ride finally pulled up to the curb. I practically sprinted to the door, diving into the backseat. The thunderous roar of the Ferrari’s engine violently echoed down the street the exact second my door clicked shut. Two cars, driving off in completely opposite directions. Neither of us looked back. 8 Lying in the dark, my mind was a chaotic loop of Carter and Serena acting like a couple. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing myself to stop being pathetic. But before I knew it, my pillowcase was entirely soaked with tears. I must have drifted into a restless sleep, because I jolted awake to the aggressive vibrating of my phone in the dead of night. A call from Carter. I hesitated, letting it ring out. It rang several times before a string of texts flooded my screen. [Ashley, get your ass downstairs, or I’m climbing the damn trellis to your window.] Carter had the keypad code to my driveway gate. He had scaled my house before, sneaking me late-night snacks when we were younger. Terrified that he would actually pull a stunt like that, I grabbed a hoodie and crept silently down the stairs. Out in the garden, Carter was leaning casually against the large oak tree. He was holding a vintage Spider-Man thermos in his hand. Seeing my messy bedhead, a familiar smirk pulled at his lips. He instinctively reached out to mess up my hair. Muscle memory almost let him, but I jerked my shoulder away, dodging his hand. Carter blinked, his hand awkwardly suspended in the chilly air. He stared at me for a long moment before letting out a low, raspy chuckle. “Come on, princess, are you seriously still mad at me?” “Look, I drove all the way across town to bag up your favorite spicy garlic wings.” “And yet someone is being completely heartless. You didn’t even wait for me to give you a ride, you ignored my calls, and you actually had the nerve to block me?” While he was talking, he caught me off guard. He dropped the thermos onto the grass and grabbed my wrist, yanking me hard against his chest. My spine hit the rough bark of the tree. A towering, broad-shouldered wall of muscle trapped me in place. I couldn’t move an inch. Carter smelled faintly of bourbon, wrapped up in the warm summer breeze. His breath ghosted hot and heavy against my ear. Bathed in the moonlight, his dark eyes reflected nothing but my face. The unbearable proximity. The exact same spot. The memory of our first kiss came crashing down on me like an avalanche. Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes all over again. Carter was the golden boy of our school. Every girl wanted him. I had watched him toss countless love letters into the trash without a second thought. But how could a person be this incredibly cruel? If he didn’t love me, why did he kiss me? If he was moving on with someone else, why was he back here messing with my head? Was I really worth so little to him that he could just toy with my feelings like this? Seeing the actual tears spilling down my cheeks, Carter let out a heavy sigh. He reached down and snatched my phone right out of my hand. He unlocked it effortlessly, tapped the screen a few times, and shoved it back into my pocket. He sounded exasperated. “Alright, that’s enough. Just don’t let it happen again. I don’t stay on anyone’s blocked list.” “Try blocking me one more time and see what happens. If you actually manage to lose me, you’ll be the one crying about it.” A flare of pure rage ignited in my blood. I stomped my heel down as hard as I could onto his expensive sneakers. Taking advantage of his flinch, I ducked under his arm and spat back. “I’ll cry wherever the hell I want! It has absolutely nothing to do with you. Back off!” Carter winced, a flash of real anger crossing his features. He glared down at me. “Fine, Ashley. If you’re so tough, don’t even think about tagging along on my Europe trip this summer.” “Oh, and don’t come crying to me to help you move into your dorm at Northwestern either.” 9 I didn’t look back. The irony tasted like ash in my mouth. I suddenly found myself wondering just how long Carter planned on dragging out this pathetic little stage play. After that disastrous night, I didn’t see Carter for weeks. The only updates I got were screenshots of Serena’s Instagram stories popping up in the class group chat. Things between her and Carter seemed to be going perfectly. I accidentally clicked on one of the photos. They were glowing, smiling effortlessly into the camera. That familiar, hollow ache twisted in my chest. I exited the app and muted the group chat completely. I asked my mom to book me a one-way ticket to London to stay with my grandma for the summer. I planned to stay until August and fly straight to my university orientation. My mom was incredibly confused. I had spent the entire year hyping up this grand post-graduation Euro-trip Carter and I had planned. She couldn’t understand why I was suddenly bailing on him. I couldn’t bring myself to say I was running away to build a tolerance against the pain of losing him. My emotions were a chaotic mess. I couldn’t articulate the betrayal to my parents without breaking down. So I threw together a flimsy excuse and brushed it off. But on the morning of my flight, fate decided to play a cruel joke. Walking through the VIP departure lounge, I ran headfirst into Carter. And Serena was right there glued to his side. Carter was pulling Serena’s blush-pink carry-on. Serena had her arm looped tightly through his, giggling at something he said. I didn’t have time to dodge them. My feet froze to the marble floor. Carter just stood there, his expression turning to ice. He didn’t speak. Serena, however, practically vibrated with excitement, waving at me like we were best friends. “Ashley! Oh my god, what are the odds? My bestie and I have never been to Europe, so Carter is playing tour guide for us.” “Are you… traveling all by yourself? Do you want to tag along? We’d love to have you.” “Right, Carter? You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Serena tugged on Carter’s sleeve, pouting her lips perfectly. That was when I noticed the matching silver Cartier rings glinting on their fingers. The exact same rings I had pointed out months ago. The ones Carter had completely trashed, calling them “basic” and “tacky.” Carter cast a cold, indifferent look my way, then gave Serena a lazy shrug. “Whatever you want.” I took a half-step back, keeping my voice completely hollow. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” I didn’t wait to see their reactions. I spun around, gripping my suitcase handle, and vanished into the bustling crowd. As I brushed past Carter, I could practically feel the rigid tension radiating off his body, completely cloaked in hostility. But his mood wasn’t my problem anymore. Right as I reached the boarding gate and pulled up my digital pass, my phone buzzed. I opened the notification. It was a text from Carter. [I’m flying back to the States next week.] [I’ll take you on our trip then.] 10 I locked my screen. Then I paused, unlocked it, and permanently blocked his number through my cellular provider. From now on, we were walking completely different paths. There was absolutely zero reason to stay in touch. I spent a long, quiet month at my grandma’s estate in London. I slept for days, making up for the brutal sleep deprivation of senior year. Maybe it was the distance, being completely removed from a city where Carter’s ghost haunted every street corner. Or maybe it was because I strictly forbade myself from looking at any social media updates from home. But slowly, surely, he stopped being my first thought in the morning. Sometimes, late at night, a sad song would shuffle onto my playlist and I’d still cry. But I let the tears fall until I was completely exhausted. Until my eyes were dry. And then, I felt fine again. About halfway through the summer, Carter actually tried to video call my grandma’s iPad to get ahold of me. My grandma, fully aware that we had had a falling out, smoothly lied and told him I was out traveling with friends. Carter didn’t push it. And he never called back. Not long after that, the official university acceptance letters were mailed out. The moment the envelope arrived at my house in Chicago, my parents practically screamed through the FaceTime call. They were initially furious that I hadn’t told them about changing my application. But that anger instantly melted into pure, unadulterated pride that I had actually gotten into Brown University, a school most people only dreamed of. Hearing the confirmation, I burst into happy tears. I felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude that I hadn’t let my attachment to Carter ruin my future. That same night, the news hit the high school group chat. The handful of us who made it into Ivy Leagues were tagged and publicly congratulated by the faculty. The school even posted a digital honor roll banner. I had no choice but to hop back into the group chat to thank my teachers for all their help. Someone immediately chimed in. [Whoa, Ashley actually picked Brown! That’s amazing! I felt so bad thinking you settled for staying local.] Mrs. Higgins was in a fantastic mood. She sent a digital gift card into the chat and tagged everyone to claim it. The chat exploded into chaos, scrolling so fast it looked like New Year’s Eve. Notifications hit 99+ in seconds. Then, after a long lull. A brutally familiar default avatar popped up on the screen. Carter: [Damn, look at all these messages. What’s everyone so hyped about?] 11 For some inexplicable reason, the group chat went completely dead for three full seconds. Seeing that avatar after so long made my breath hitch. Eventually, a brave soul replied. [Yo Carter, where are you partying with the queen right now? Haven’t seen you all summer.] [Dude, just scroll up. You’re too lazy to read?] [Mrs. Higgins is handing out gift cards. Our class crushed it this year. Half the top twenty students are from our homeroom. We got a bunch of Ivy League acceptances. Look at the banner.] The guy even replied with a screenshot of the school’s digital honor roll. My name sat right there at number ten. Seeing my name in bold letters, a spike of panic hit my chest. In my darker, more petty moments, I used to wonder how Carter would react when he realized I picked an Ivy League on the East Coast. Not the local school he manipulated me into choosing. But now, I had my answer. He didn’t care. He didn’t care at all. He didn’t even bother to ask a single question. And why would he? He got exactly what he wanted. He was heading to USC with his gorgeous girlfriend. Where his boring childhood friend went to college meant absolutely nothing to him. Right before I closed the app, someone pointed out the elephant in the room. [Wait, didn’t Carter swear he was staying in Chicago? When did he switch to USC?] [Bro, Serena always said she wanted to go to Cali. You think he’d let her go alone? Man packed his bags for love.] [Who cares? Carter, we’re doing one last massive class dinner next week before everyone leaves for college. Don’t ghost us.] The conversation quickly dissolved into arguments about which steakhouse to book. I stared at the glowing text, feeling completely hollow. I couldn’t quite put a name to the emotion. But at least the sharp, stabbing pain was gone. I didn’t stick around to see Carter’s reply. I locked my phone and went back to my life. I wasn’t flying back for the dinner anyway. My plan was to fly directly from London to Rhode Island for freshman move-in. But as it turned out, Carter didn’t show up to the class dinner either. A mutual friend told me he flew Serena out to Antarctica for an expedition cruise. It sounded like they wouldn’t be back for weeks. He was probably going to fly straight to LA for his orientation. Antarctica. The exact place I had obsessively talked about visiting as a graduation trip when the stress of senior year was crushing me. Back then, he had rolled his eyes and told me I was crazy. Now, he was checking off my bucket list destinations, just with a different girl in the passenger seat. It wasn’t that he hated the destination. He just hated the idea of going with me. I didn’t humor my friend by asking follow-up questions. Taking the hint, the friend never mentioned Carter to me again. The next morning, my mom texted me a photo. A massive package had arrived from Iceland. Sent by Carter. 12 The box was huge. I had no idea what was inside. Carter’s parents had personally dropped it off at our front door. My mom asked if she should forward it to London or just open it herself. I sat in silence for a minute before declining her offer. I gave her a brief, sterilized version of what happened between Carter and me. Then I asked her to return the box to his house. While she was at it, I asked her to take the three large moving boxes stacked in my closet and drop those off at his house, too. Those boxes contained every single birthday and Christmas gift Carter had ever given me. From the scribbled macaroni art in kindergarten, to the framed butterfly specimens in middle school, right down to the pink diamond pendant he gave me on my eighteenth birthday. Everything I used to treat like sacred treasure. I had boxed it all up before I left for London. I just hadn’t found the courage to throw it back in his face yet. When my parents heard the truth, they were absolutely livid. They had been neighbors and close friends with the Carters for two decades, and they couldn’t fathom how their son could be so vicious. Messing with a college application wasn’t a prank. It was gambling with someone’s entire future. Even though my family had more than enough money to secure my future regardless, getting into an Ivy League was a point of immense pride for them. It gave them bragging rights at every country club dinner. So, not only did my parents return every single gift, but they also severely cut ties with Carter’s parents. Even after Carter’s mother saw the boxes and came over crying, begging for forgiveness, my mom refused to let it go. My mom told me later that when Carter found out I returned the gifts, he completely lost his mind. He apparently still had no idea I was going to Brown. Because the second his parents tried to lecture him about the application stunt and mention my acceptance letter, he stormed off. He was so furious that he demanded his parents never speak my name in his presence again. He called me petty, saying I was throwing a tantrum over a harmless joke, and that if I wanted to burn a lifelong friendship to the ground over nothing, then we were done. Hearing that stung, but it didn’t surprise me. Returning those gifts was my way of deleting eighteen wasted years. I peacefully counted down the days on my calendar. A week before college started, I flew back to Chicago.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “458742”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel