The night my husband’s childhood sweetheart returned from abroad, she insisted on playing a party game called “Snap Judgment.” The rules were simple: the host would read a personality trait, and on the count of three, everyone had to point to the person who embodied it best. No hesitations. Pure instinct. “First one,” the host announced with a grin. “A controlling, suffocating narcissist.” My younger brother, Cody—a boy I had raised with my own two hands after our mother died—didn’t hesitate for a fraction of a second. His finger pointed straight at my chest. My breath caught. In the sudden quiet of the dining room, the dull ache in my left shin flared, an echo of the winter I shattered my bone working double shifts on slick asphalt just to pay his college tuition. “Next,” the host called out. “A black hole of negative energy. Utterly exhausting to be around.” Tara, my best friend of over a decade, raised her hand and aimed her index finger directly at my face. A memory flashed behind my eyes: the night I dragged her out of her abusive uncle’s house, blood dripping down my collarbone, trembling in terror as the man’s fists pounded against the locked door of my beat-up sedan. I kept my mouth shut. “And finally,” the host cheered, “the absolute love of Travis’s life.” Every single hand at the table broke the rules and turned toward Whitney. My hand remained frozen in midair, suspended in the cold air between us. Travis, my husband—a man known for his icy, unflappable demeanor in boardrooms and private clubs alike—wore a soft, indulgent smile I had never seen before. “Wait,” Travis teased, nudging Whitney with his shoulder. “I thought the prompt was supposed to be ‘the most pathetic, jealous deadweight’? If you change it without telling me, I might’ve instinctively pointed at Bridget. You would’ve thrown a fit.” Whitney pouted, brushing her manicured hand over his arm in a practiced show of intimacy. “Subconscious reactions are the only ones that count! I just wanted to see if I was still number one in your heart.” A hollow numbness washed over me. Tara was still smiling warmly at them. Cody was happily pouring vintage Cabernet for the table, right next to a towering crystal bowl filled with fresh strawberries—a fruit I was severely, dangerously allergic to. In that quiet, crystalline moment, a profound exhaustion settled into my marrow. Under the edge of the mahogany table, my trembling fingers found the folded ultrasound in my pocket. I tore it into tiny, silent confetti. They were right about one thing: I had spent years trapped in a cage made of one-sided devotion. It was time I learned how to love myself. … Noticing my pale face, Whitney tilted her head, her wide eyes brimming with faux innocence. “Oh gosh… it was just a silly game, Bridget. You aren’t actually upset, are you?” Travis reached out, casually ruffling her glossy brown hair with familiar tenderness. “Whitney speaks before she thinks. It’s just a game, Bridget. Don’t be petty.” The silent warning in his gaze was unmistakable. I stayed quiet. Travis’s brow furrowed in annoyance. Cody and Tara’s expressions cooled instantly. The dining room plunged into that suffocating silence I knew all too well. It was a familiar script: no matter who started the fire, I was always the one blamed for the smoke. Like my last birthday. I had driven across town in a torrential downpour, arriving at the reserved lounge only to find an empty table. I stood in the freezing rain, dialing their numbers over and over. Past midnight, Travis finally called back to say Whitney had been craving authentic French cuisine, so they had moved the party across town. The only reason he remembered to call was to ask if I could pick up Whitney’s favorite matcha latte on my way over. I hadn’t gone. I went back to our empty townhouse and cried until morning. The next day, all three of them accused me of making a scene, claiming my oversensitivity had ruined Whitney’s night with unnecessary guilt. When I tried to defend myself, they treated me like a ghost for two weeks, stepping over me even when I was bedridden with a hundred-and-three-degree fever. In the end, I was the one who broke. I swallowed my pride, baked Whitney pastries, and bought her a bottle of expensive perfume just to end the cold war. For years, whenever they put on those icy, disapproving masks, I would instantly apologize out of sheer panic. Not tonight. “And what if I am petty?” I asked, my voice calm, cutting through the clinking silverware. “What if I choose to care?” Travis’s easy smirk froze. Whitney blinked, startled, then quickly slipped her phone out beneath the table. A second later, three distinct chimes sounded in unison. Their private group chat. A chat I had once begged Travis to add me to. He had only chuckled back then, his tone dripping with quiet condescension: “You dropped out of college, Bridget. You don’t have the background to follow our conversations. You’d just be a buzzkill. Don’t embarrass yourself.” I had never brought it up again. After a few frantic taps on her screen, Whitney produced an opulent velvet box from behind her chair. “It’s my fault! Please don’t be mad at the guys, Bridget! We really do love you!” She opened it with a flourish. “Look, we even picked out a homecoming gift for you!” Inside lay an exquisite, designer backless cocktail dress in an extra-small—a silhouette and size completely opposite to mine. Tucked into the silk lining was a handwritten card: “Welcome home to our princess, Whitney.” Cody reacted first, hastily snatching the box away. “Whitney, you grabbed the wrong one! That’s yours. Bridget could never fit into something like that.” Tara quickly dragged out a battered brown cardboard box from under the side table, offering a strained laugh. “Whitney just got back from Paris, so of course we got her something nice. Don’t overthink it, Bridget. Here, this is yours.” I opened the cardboard box without a word. Inside was a thin, scratchy polyester apron. Frayed seams, dollar-store fabric. Before I could even register the insult, Whitney’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry… I always mess everything up. I made Bridget unhappy again. Maybe I should just leave…” Cody grabbed her arm, glaring at me with genuine disgust. “Bridget, apologize to her right now! Whitney has a master’s degree, she’s gorgeous, and you didn’t even finish your sophomore year. How can you blame Travis for admiring her? You need to look in the mirror!” Tara guided Whitney gently toward Travis’s shoulder, chiming in, “Travis and Whitney make sense together on every level. You should just accept that, Bridget, instead of constantly competing with her.” My fingernails bit into the meat of my palms. A bitter, disbelieving laugh escaped my lips. “Did all of you conveniently forget,” I whispered, “why I never finished my degree?” The color drained from their faces. I didn’t wait for an answer. I pushed my chair back and walked up the stairs to the master bedroom. The moment the heavy door clicked shut, the tears I had held back for years spilled over. Memories flooded the dark room like dirty water. The year my mother died of cancer, Cody and I were left with nothing. Not long after, Tara showed up on my doorstep in the dead of night, bruised and sobbing, begging for sanctuary from an uncle who planned to traffic her off to clear his gambling debts. Our meager savings couldn’t cover living expenses, let alone tuition for three people. I worked three jobs—waitressing until 2 a.m., cleaning office buildings at dawn, stocking warehouse shelves in the afternoon. I poured every penny into their college funds while my own body deteriorated with chronic joint pain. When Whitney first appeared in Travis’s circle, Cody and Tara used to complain about how entitled and boundary-crossing she was. Then, slowly, the tide turned. Cody started raving about how cultured Whitney was, how she could debate global economics while I could only talk about grocery coupons. Tara began gushing over Whitney’s performative charity galas. Whenever I voiced my unease to Travis, he would look at me with weary disdain: “I gave you chances to go back to school, Bridget. You didn’t take them. Stop slandering Whitney out of jealousy.” They forgot. They chose to forget that Whitney had stolen my senior thesis, submitted it under her own name, and then used her family’s lawyers to frame me for academic fraud. I was expelled in disgrace. When I finally managed to secure the digital timestamps proving she stole my work, Travis had simply sighed, pulling me into a dismissive hug. “Whitney made a reckless mistake. As punishment, I’m sending her abroad for two years. Let it go, Bridget. For me.” I gave in. I sacrificed my name, my education, my entire future for him. And two years later, all it bought me was the label of a jealous, uneducated nag. Wiping my face dry, I pulled out a burner phone I had hidden away weeks ago. I dialed a number I had memorized long ago. “Micah,” I texted my former classmate, now a partner at a top family law firm. “I want a divorce. Help me take everything.” Before the screen faded, the bedroom door was shoved open. Travis walked in, his expression softening into that practiced, patronizing warmth. He reached out to stroke my hair. “Still brooding? Whitney is younger; we have to accommodate her a bit. Why let her get under your skin?” I said nothing. He poured a glass of warm water from the nightstand and brought it to my lips, his fingers moving to massage my temples with that gentle rhythm he always used whenever I was on the verge of a breakdown. “You’ve always wondered why I indulge Whitney so much,” he murmured softly. “The others told me not to tell you so you wouldn’t worry, but I don’t want secrets between us.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “A few years ago, when I was caught in that catastrophic earthquake during my business trip in the mountains… it was Whitney who dragged me out of the collapsed hotel ruins with her bare hands. I owe her my life, Bridget.” He sighed, looking down at me with heavy tenderness. “Because of that debt, there are things I can never punish her for. Including your college thesis.” A chilling silence dropped over me. Travis had indeed survived that devastating earthquake. But the person who had pulled him from the rubble was me. The day the news broke, I had driven frantically toward the disaster zone, running red lights, abandoning my car when the roads cracked open, and hiking miles through mudslides. Even after search-and-rescue teams declared the collapsed concrete slab hopeless, I refused to stop. I clawed through pulverized cement and rebar for four agonizing hours until my fingernails were ripped raw and bleeding. When the secondary aftershock hit, the ceiling gave way. With zero time to escape, I used my own body to shove Travis’s unconscious frame into the rescue void. He made it out unscathed. My lumbar spine was crushed. The trauma surgeons told me there was a seventy percent chance I would never walk again. In my despair, and terrified that the guilt would destroy Travis’s ambitious career, I made Cody and Tara swear to keep it a secret until I completed my grueling, agonizing physical therapy abroad. How had that sacrifice ended up bearing Whitney’s name? I opened my mouth to confront him, but a wave of sudden, heavy drowsiness hit me like a physical blow. My limbs turned to lead. Travis leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to my forehead. “Stop overthinking. Get some sleep. I’ll come back to tuck you in later.” The door clicked shut. Darkness dragged me under before I could fight it. I intended to wake up and demand answers. But what woke me hours later was the loud, celebratory pop of a party popper downstairs. Then came Tara’s nervous whisper through the vent: “We’re being so loud… what if Bridget wakes up?” Travis’s voice drifted up, cool and confident: “Don’t worry. I crushed enough sleeping pills into her water. If she woke up and threw another tantrum, the entire welcome party would be ruined.” My heart stopped. I dragged my numb, trembling body out of bed, crawling on hands and knees toward the door, peering through the slight crack. Downstairs, Whitney stood in the center of the living room, flanked by Cody and Tara, with Travis’s arm draped possessively around her waist. Cody sneered, tossing an empty confetti cannon aside. “Seriously. She’s pushing thirty and still acts like a delicate princess expecting the world to revolve around her. Always blabbering about ‘our home’—she’s so stupid she hasn’t even realized the deed to this penthouse is in Whitney’s name.” Travis chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s been with me a long time. Once her emotions stabilize, I’ll figure out a way to break it to her. Just don’t let it slip yet.” Tara and Cody gave him an easy thumbs-up. A wave of ice rushed through my veins. When Travis proposed, I had been insecure about my lack of family wealth and urged him to reconsider. He hadn’t answered right away. I thought he was having second thoughts. But the next morning, he showed up on my doorstep with a property contract, his eyes shining with pure devotion: “If your childhood never gave you a safe haven, Bridget, this house is our sanctuary. You will never be homeless again.” I had believed him. That promise was the anchor that kept me tied to him. And even that anchor was a lie. Using the wall for support, I dragged myself to the master closet safe. My shaking fingers typed in Whitney’s birthday. “Click.” The heavy door swung open. At the bottom lay the deed. On the surface, my name was printed clearly on the ownership certificate. But when I peeled the edge, the thin sticker came off. Beneath it, in bold, stamped ink: “Whitney Edward.” The very last ember of love in my chest burned to cold ash. I turned blindly to pack my suitcase, but my bare foot came down on something razor-sharp. A jagged, searing pain shot through my sole as warm blood pooled onto the hardwood. A sharp gasp escaped my throat. “Why are you awake?!” Travis’s voice cracked as he yanked the bedroom door open. Seeing the red stain spreading beneath my foot, he froze. “What happened? How are you bleeding?” Whitney rushed up behind him, covering her mouth in dramatic horror. “Oh no! I’m so sorry! When I was hanging the gallery wall earlier, I dropped a box of heavy brass tacks—one must have rolled inside!” I followed her gaze out toward the hallway. The entire corridor was lined with newly framed, professional portraits of Travis and Whitney holding each other, smiling against scenic backdrops. A sharp pang lanced through my ribs. When we got married, I had begged my brother Cody—a professional portrait photographer—to take a set of wedding photos for us. Travis had refused, claiming he hated cameras. Cody had flatly told me I wasn’t photogenic enough to waste his studio time on. Our only official photograph together was the grainy shot on our marriage certificate. Travis stepped forward, frantically attempting to smooth things over. “Whitney never got to take bridal portraits before going abroad. She just wanted to model the gowns for fun. Don’t take it the wrong way.” “And the dates?” My voice cracked, turning toward Tara. “You knew the whole time, didn’t you?” My gaze dropped to the timestamp on the lower corner of a beachside portrait. That was the week of our scheduled honeymoon. Travis had supposedly vanished on an urgent, top-secret corporate acquisition. During that lonely, miserable week, Tara had stayed by my side, taking me on drives to distract me. I had felt so grateful to have such a loyal best friend. It had all been an orchestrated cover. Meeting my shattered stare, Tara didn’t look remorseful. Instead, her chin jerked upward, her voice turning venomous: “So what if I knew? Do you have any idea that Whitney had a miscarriage because of your wedding?! If it weren’t for you playing the victim, Travis would have married her years ago!” Tara took a menacing step toward me. “A barren woman who can’t even carry a child has no right to stand in the way of their happiness! How dare you judge me?!” “Shut up, Tara!” Travis snapped, his face pale as he tried to grab my arm. “Bridget, it wasn’t what you think! It was one drunken mistake before we finalized our vows, nothing more! Whitney never held it against you—” I couldn’t hear him anymore. Tara’s words rang in my ears like a death knell. She knew better than anyone on this earth why I could never carry a pregnancy easily! When I threw myself between her and her drunken uncle, I tumbled down a rocky ravine during our escape. A jagged limestone rock pierced deep into my lower abdomen, rupturing my uterus. After the emergency surgery, the doctors told me it would be nearly impossible for me to conceive. Tara had wept on her knees by my hospital bed for days, swearing she would spend the rest of her life repaying me. And now, she threw that ruined womb in my face like a moral failing. Years of buried agony, silent suffering, and swallowed dignity erupted from my chest in a raw, blood-curdling scream: “WHAT IF I’M PREGNANT RIGHT NOW?!” Silence crashed over the room. No one rushed to check on me. Instead, the heavy crystal tumbler in Whitney’s hand slipped, shattering violently against the floor. “Enough!” Whitney shrieked. A flying shard of glass grazed my cheek, drawing a line of crimson. Travis didn’t even glance at my bleeding face; he lunged forward instantly to shield Whitney. Whitney violently shoved his hands away, pointing an accusatory finger at me while tears streamed down her face. “You know my baby died because of you, and you still make up disgusting lies just to stab me in the heart?! Do you hate me that much?!” “Fine! If I’m such an eyesore, I’ll just leave! You don’t have to fabricate such pathetic lies to push me out!” She turned and sprinted toward the front door. Cody and Tara scrambled after her in a panic, throwing venomous glares at me as they passed. Travis hesitated for a single second, his eyes turning arctic as he looked back at me. “You’ve crossed a line, Bridget. Using Whitney’s deepest trauma as a cheap prop. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, we’re getting a divorce.” He turned on his heel and rushed out into the night. The heavy front door slammed shut. I stood alone in the quiet penthouse. I didn’t cry. The numbness had finally set in. I packed my few personal belongings into a single duffel bag and walked out into the cool night air. The moment I checked into a discreet downtown boutique hotel, my phone buzzed with an encrypted PDF from Micah’s private investigator. Dozens of high-resolution photographs loaded onto the screen, carving my chest open. While I was slaving over hot stoves cooking dinners for my ungrateful family, Travis and Whitney were watching the Northern Lights in Iceland. While I was pulling all-nighters proofreading Travis’s corporate proposals, they were surfing together in Bali. Even during the week I spent in physical therapy for my damaged spine, they were caught on camera kissing under the Tokyo Tower. Tara and Cody had documented it all on private social media accounts, captioning the photos: “Hoping the one we love most stops sacrificing herself, so she and her soulmate can finally live freely in the light.” A wave of nausea hit me. My phone rang. Micah’s steady, reassuring voice came through the line: “Bridget, I’ve reviewed the files. The infidelity is indisputable and fully documented. In this state, we have more than enough grounds to enforce the prenuptial fault clauses and strip him of his marital assets. I’m filing the initial complaint in the morning.” He paused, his voice softening. “Also… I located the official search-and-rescue logs from the 2018 alpine earthquake. The original dispatch recordings and medical intake forms are attached to the file…” Before I could answer, the door of my hotel room was violently kicked open. Travis stood in the doorway, his face dark with fury. Behind him stood four bulky private security guards. With a flick of Travis’s wrist, the men lunged forward, pinning me face-down against the carpet before I could scream. “Travis! What the hell are you doing?!” He looked down at me from above, his eyes completely void of warmth. “The medical board has issued an involuntary psychiatric hold. As your legal husband, I am admitting you to a private facility for severe emotional instability and clinical psychosis.” I stared up at him in sheer horror. “Are you insane?! On what grounds?!” Travis let out a dry, chilling laugh and held up his tablet, hitting play on a video. On the screen sat my biological father—a violent alcoholic who had beaten my mother, neglected Cody, and tried to sell me off for cash before walking out on us a decade ago. The old man was weeping on camera, speaking to Tara in an official interview setup, tearfully accusing me of elder abuse, abandonment, and sociopathic behavior. Cody appeared next in the footage, looking somber as he nodded along: “My sister has severe personality disorders. She’s pathologically jealous, emotionally erratic, and constantly tries to destroy healthy relationships around her…” At the end of the video, Tara presented a forged psychiatric evaluation diagnosing me with severe antisocial personality disorder. Travis leaned down, his voice a low hiss in my ear: “Your little joke drove Whitney to the brink of suicide tonight. Until she forgives you, you’re going to stay locked up and learn some manners. When she lets you out, you will get on your knees and beg for her mercy.” He straightened up and gestured to the guards. “Take her to the transport van. Don’t let her see anyone.” Terror like I had never known gripped my throat. “No! Travis, stop! I didn’t lie to you! I am pregnant! Check the local clinic, call my doctor! Please, Travis, look at me!” Travis’s steps faltered for a microsecond. Then, his phone rang. Whitney’s frantic, hysterical weeping echoed from the speaker. Travis’s jaw tightened, and he walked out into the corridor without looking back. “Stop using pathetic lies to manipulate me. It disgusts me.” As soon as Travis’s footsteps faded down the hall, the guards locked the suite door behind him. Ugly, predatory grins spread across their faces. “Miss Edward told us to have a little fun with you first,” one sneered, grabbing my blouse. “Let’s see how crazy you really are, sweetheart.” Fabric ripped down the middle. I fought back with everything I had, kicking, biting, thrashing against their weight. In the violent struggle, my lower abdomen slammed hard against the sharp corner of the heavy wooden coffee table. A blinding, tearing agony ripped through my core. “Shit… blood! Look at the floor!” One of the men stumbled back in panic. As the guards scattered in fear, the world around me dissolved into a blur of gray shadows. My vision dimmed, but before my head hit the carpet, a pair of strong, familiar arms caught me in the dark.

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My husband was sleeping around behind my back. When his latest mistress showed up on my front porch, she looked me up and down, offering a sweet, rehearsed smile: “You must be Julian’s daughter, right?” I froze for a heartbeat. Realizing she had mistaken me for his child, I decided to play along. Months later, at Julian’s lavish birthday gala, the city’s high-society elite gathered under the chandeliers. My husband, flushed with champagne and ego, walked into the VIP lounge—only to find me and his mistress sitting side-by-side, holding hands, live-streaming our conversation to hundreds of thousands of viewers. Naturally, the internet broke. 1 Julian and I had been married for two years, and lately, his calendar was suddenly packed with “mandatory client dinners” and “emergency out-of-town conferences.” At first, I didn’t dwell on it. After all, I hadn’t married him for some epic, sweeping romance. Then came a crisp Tuesday morning. Julian had kissed my forehead and left for the office, leaving me nestled on our plush sofa in the sunlit living room, savoring a freshly brewed cup of black coffee. A sharp, impatient knock on the heavy oak door shattered the morning quiet. I frowned, set down my mug, and smoothed out my silk loungewear as I walked toward the foyer. When I opened the door, a completely unfamiliar woman stood on the welcome mat. She wore an understated beige knit dress, two-inch nude heels, and loose, glossy waves that fell gently over her shoulders. Everything about her screamed curated innocence—soft, polished, and impeccably maintained. I had never seen her before in my life. I tilted my head, looking at her with genuine curiosity. “Can I help you?” Before I could finish the sentence, she reached out, taking my hand with an almost maternal tenderness. “You’re Julian’s daughter, aren’t you? I’m a friend of your dad’s. He left his coat at my place last night, so I figured I’d drop it off.” “My dad?” She genuinely thought I was his kid. I held back a smirk and gave her my most wide-eyed, innocent gaze. “Hi! Are you… my dad’s new girlfriend?” She held out Julian’s tailored charcoal jacket, a faint blush creeping up her pale cheeks. “Aren’t you a direct one? You’ll have to let your dad tell you all about it when he gets home.” I took the jacket, feeling the faint trace of unfamiliar floral perfume on the wool. Just last night, Julian had sworn over the phone that he was buried under quarterly financial reports until two in the morning. Turns out, he was simply working overtime in someone else’s bed. I let out a soft, bright laugh and gently pulled her inside by the wrist. “Please, come on in. Have a seat. I get so bored sitting around this big house all by myself.” Flustered, she followed me into the living room, glancing around the high-ceilinged space. “You know, you look just like him around the eyes.” I chuckled. “That’s funny. Nobody’s ever told me that before.” Flashing my trademark sweet, obedient smile, I settled onto the armchair across from her. “So, what’s your name? And how did you and my dad meet?” Her eyes swept over the curated modern art on the walls as she answered, “I’m Audrey. You can just call me Audrey, or Auntie Audrey if you prefer.” I leaned in, resting my chin in my hands, putting on an intensely earnest expression. “Audrey, how old are you? What made you fall for an older guy like my dad?” She ducked her head, waving a manicured hand in modest protest. “Oh, stop. He’s only six years older than me.” I nodded, keeping the grin plastered on my face. “What do you do for work?” “Just an ordinary coordinator at a design firm,” she said softly. Then, after a brief hesitation, she added, “Actually, we’ve crossed paths once before, though you probably don’t remember. Your dad brought you to a private dinner party a while back. That was the first time I realized he had such a gorgeous daughter.” A sudden wave of amusement washed over me. “Really? What does he usually say about me?” Audrey smiled warmly. “He says you’re sweet, well-behaved, and incredibly smart.” “That lecherous hypocrite.” The moment he spots a pretty girl, he erases his marriage and invents an estranged family dynamic. Still, standing at five-foot-three with a petite frame, looking a solid decade younger than Julian—and with the amount of money I spent at the dermatology clinic every month—it wasn’t a stretch for a gullible stranger to believe I was his twenty-something kid. “So,” I pressed gently, “how did the two of you actually cross paths?” Audrey’s lips twitched, her cheeks heating up again. “Well… I was delivering some project proposals to his firm and ended up dropping the files in the lobby. Your dad… he stepped in and helped me out.” A classic knight-in-shining-armor routine. Just as I opened my mouth to dig for more details, her phone buzzed in her designer handbag. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry, I have an appointment across town,” she said, quickly rising to her feet. “It’s almost noon—make sure you order something healthy for lunch, okay?” With that, she pulled two crisp hundred-dollar bills from her wallet and pressed them firmly into my palm. “Next time, we’ll hang out properly. If there’s anything you ever need, just let me know. I have to run!” I curled my fingers around the cash, beaming at her. “Thank you, Audrey! You have to come visit me again soon!” 2 By the time Julian unlocked the front door that evening, I was lounging on the sectional, wearing a sheet mask and scrolling through my tablet. He walked in with that practiced look of tender exhaustion he always put on. “Hey, babe. You seem in high spirits today. Find something fun to do?” I peered at him through the eyeholes of the mask, my smile razor-thin. “Met someone new today. Pretty interesting woman, actually.” Julian gave me an indulgent look, loosening his tie. “That’s good. If staying home gets lonely, feel free to invite your friends over whenever you want.” I held his gaze, my tone light as air. “Will do.” Right on cue, my phone chimed with a notification. Audrey had sent a friend request on Instagram. I accepted immediately. Within thirty seconds, my DMs were flooded with aesthetic photos of four-course home-cooked dinners: braised short ribs, truffle mashed potatoes, perfectly seasoned asparagus. “Look at that—she’s playing the devoted domestic partner.” I typed back a flurry of enthusiastic flattery: “Audrey, this looks incredible! My dad is going to be so lucky. He’s terrible at feeding himself.” Moments later, I posted a photo of the empty kitchen counter to my Story, setting the visibility to Audrey only: “Could anyone be luckier than me? Looks like takeout days are officially over!” One minute later, Audrey replied with a blushing emoji. Right before heading to bed, I tossed out another piece of bait on my Story: “My twenty-fifth birthday is coming up next week… I’m completely obsessed with the new Chanel Classic Flap bag.” Beneath the image, I added a tiny caption: “Whoever gets me this is officially the best human being on the planet.” Satisfied, I peeled off my mask, applied my night serum, and went to sleep with the quiet serenity of someone who holds all the cards. Two days later, a courier arrived carrying a black ribbon-tied box. Inside sat the exact black lambskin Chanel bag, gleaming with pristine gold hardware. Audrey was certainly putting her money where her heart was. All this just to win over the spoiled daughter of an older man she barely knew. That evening, when Julian came home, I purposely slung the bag over my shoulder and spun around the entryway. “How do you like it? Does it suit me?” Julian glanced at it, his forehead creasing with subtle irritation. “I honestly don’t get you women. You have a closet full of leather, and you still keep buying more.” “Can’t bear the price tag? Just say so.” I ignored him, stepped into the bedroom, and snapped a photo of me hugging the bag, posting it straight to my private story for Audrey. “Oh my god. How is it possible for someone to be this sweet and generous? I am completely in love with her.” Audrey replied instantly: “As long as you love it, sweetheart! Next time your dad has a free weekend, the three of us will go shopping together.” I stared at the screen, stifling a laugh. Julian’s birthday was right around the corner. When Audrey and I walked into the room together, his face was going to be a work of art. “Audrey, you really don’t have to spend this much on me,” I typed back, adopting a contrite tone. “If my dad finds out, he’ll lecture me for taking advantage of you.” Audrey: “It’s our little secret! If neither of us says anything, how will he ever know?” I hit back with simulated hesitation: “Could we keep the fact that we’ve already met between us for now? When you guys eventually get married, imagine how happy he’ll be to see that we already get along so well! It’ll be the ultimate surprise.” Audrey: “I love that idea. Deal—it’s our secret.” “Yes,” I thought, locking the screen. “A secret.” Julian was certainly in for a surprise. 3 The next evening, Julian walked in to find several luxury shopping bags piled neatly on the foyer bench. A shadow of annoyance flickered across his eyes. He took a heavy breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “More shopping? Look… it’s not that I mind you treating yourself, but we have to start thinking about our long-term investments, don’t we?” I nodded solemnly. “You’re totally right, babe. But these were all gifts from a friend. I didn’t spend a single dime.” Julian scoffed. “Right. Designer clothes and shoes? Who’s the idiot handing out thousands of dollars in luxury goods to a stranger?” I looked at him with an innocent, knowing smirk. “You’d be surprised. There really are people that generous out there. Remember that new friend I told you about? I’m thinking of bringing her over for dinner sometime soon.” Julian didn’t press further. He clearly assumed I had somehow networked my way into a circle of wealthy suburban heiresses, likely calculating how he could eventually leverage their family connections for his own business. Julian and I had met through a high-end matchmaking setup right after I finished my bachelor’s degree. To be blunt: he wanted a young, presentable trophy to host dinners, and I wanted financial stability. Immediately after the wedding, he urged me to settle into the role of a full-time socialite wife, depositing eight thousand dollars into my personal account every single month. His favorite speech was always the same: “Just relax at home, darling. With my current executive salary and equity, I make more than enough to take care of you. Once the market settles, we’ll start thinking about a baby.” I had hesitated at first, but ultimately played along. Compared to grinding sixty hours a week in corporate America, living comfortably on his dime wasn’t a terrible compromise. I treated Julian like a demanding CEO—my only real job was managing his ego and keeping his domestic life frictionless. Meanwhile, to keep from losing my mind, I quietly built a lifestyle social media presence, amassing a respectable following of over a hundred thousand subscribers. Whenever Julian felt guilty about his late nights, he’d bring home two dozen long-stemmed roses, dropping to one knee with rehearsed theatricality: “You sacrifice so much for our home, sweetheart. I promise, everything I do is for our future.” I would take the roses, smile, and let him play his part. Over time, our conversations dwindled to logistical updates about groceries, dry cleaning, and vacation bookings. His attention drifted, finding distractions elsewhere. I harbored no illusions about him; divorce was always a matter of “when”, not “if”. Audrey wasn’t the first side piece I’d discovered, but she was by far the most naive. So naive, in fact, that it almost broke my heart. A woman this hopelessly trusting didn’t deserve to be dragged through the mud by a predatory narcissist like Julian. If Julian wanted to play with fire, he was going to burn his own house down. 4 While Julian remained lost in his fantasy of keeping a docile wife at home and a fresh romance on the side, I spent my afternoons orchestrating his downfall. Ever since her initial visit, Audrey had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the role of a doting stepmother. “Don’t skip breakfast! Cut back on the iced coffee, okay?” “There’s an indie pop concert in the city this weekend—do you want to go together?” Every few days, another package would arrive at the door: limited-edition sneakers, cashmere scarves, rare skincare sets. I finally understood how Julian had hooked her. It wasn’t that his charms were irresistible; it was simply that Audrey was entirely defenseless against calculated affection. She treated me with genuine, uncalculated warmth, spending money on me like it was water. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. “Audrey, how do you afford all this on a coordinator’s salary?” Audrey covered her mouth, letting out a soft laugh. “Oh, sweetie, don’t you worry about that. Your dad gave me an unlimited corporate card for our daily expenses.” She patted my hand affectionately, and I forced an appreciative nod. “How extraordinarily generous of my husband, using our marital assets to buy my cooperation.” “Audrey,” I said, tilting my head, “you and my dad have been together for a while now. Has he talked about popping the question?” A soft pink flush rose along her neckline. “He mentioned wanting to meet my parents, but they’re traveling in Europe until next month.” I breathed an internal sigh of relief. At least only one naive victim had fallen into his trap so far. “My parents told me that as long as I’m happy, they give their blessing,” Audrey continued, looking at me with gentle, empathetic eyes. “Honestly, my biggest concern was always you. I wanted to be sure you could accept me. Your dad told me that your biological mother walked out right after you were born, and that you grew up mostly with nannies… It must have been so lonely for you.” I nodded vigorously. “Oh, absolutely tragic.” I had been technically deceased in his fictional backstory for twenty-five years—how could I not feel wronged? That Saturday, Audrey texted me to go window shopping. “Your dad’s birthday is coming up. Want to help me pick out something special for him?” “Of course,” I texted back. “He’s worked so hard all these years. We definitely need to give him an unforgettable surprise.” Seeing that I was completely on her side, Audrey excitedly bought me three designer dresses during our trip. Three days later, on Julian’s actual birthday, he called me around noon to say he’d be stuck at the office until midnight. “Babe, is work really that chaotic today?” I asked in a sweet, concerned voice over the line. “Wait… why did you put on your bespoke navy suit this morning if you were just pulling an all-nighter at your desk?” Julian had spent fifteen minutes preening in front of the full-length mirror that morning, humming to himself while adjusting his silk tie. Over the phone, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, like you always say, dressing for the part commands respect from the board. It’s an important executive meeting.” “Of course, darling. Good luck with the presentation. I’ll have a late-night supper waiting when you get home.” “Thanks, babe. I knew you’d understand.” I hung up, looking at the silent screen. “Oh, I understand completely.” 5 That evening, using the location pin Audrey had casually shared with me, I arrived at “L’Auberge”, an upscale French restaurant downtown. I booked a private dining booth right next to theirs. The heavy mahogany partitions offered decent acoustic privacy, but through the decorative lattice near the ceiling, I could still hear Julian’s pompous voice floating over the ambient jazz. “Don’t worry, Audrey. In just a few months, once the company restructuring is finalized, I’m going to give you the wedding of your dreams.” “Pathetic.” “My position at the firm is rock solid. The managing partners rely on me for everything—I’m practically in line for Senior Partner.” “Keep digging that hole, Julian.” I took a slow sip of iced water, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat, before dialing Julian’s cell. “Ring… ring… ring…” “The subscriber you are trying to reach is currently unavailable—” The coward didn’t dare answer in front of her. I immediately redialed. Through the wall, I heard Audrey say softly, “Julian, is that an urgent work call? You can take it.” “Right. Let me just step out to the corridor for a second, darling. Be right back.” Heavy footsteps echoed on the parquet floor outside my booth. He stopped right near my doorway. He answered, his tone clipped and hushed. “What is it?” “Julian? Why are you whispering?” Before he could fabricate an excuse, I cut in cheerfully, “I booked a private booth at “L’Auberge” with a few friends. I was just wondering what time you’d wrap up so we could celebrate your—” “What? You’re at “L’Auberge”?” His voice cracked with panic. “Yeah! Booth 205. We wanted 203, but someone had already reserved it.” Silence hung in the hallway. Booth 203 was his booth. I was sitting less than four feet away from where he was having his romantic rendezvous. “Uh… babe, the reception in this building is terrible. Hello? Can you hear me—” Through the gap in the partition, I watched Julian duck his head, scurrying back toward his booth like a cornered rat. Ten minutes later, I sent him a follow-up text: “Babe, don’t worry about driving back to pick me up. I’m right outside the restaurant lobby. Just come straight over when your meeting ends!” Julian, frantic and sweating through his bespoke shirt, apparently told Audrey he needed to use the restroom. Over the next ten minutes, my phone lit up with seven frantic missed calls from him. I left every single one on silent. If I was staging a production, the curtains weren’t coming down early. When he finally rushed into Booth 203 to grab his coat and make an exit, he froze. There I was, sitting comfortably beside Audrey, sharing a bread basket and laughing over a glass of Pinot Noir. Julian’s face drained of all color. “Audrey? What… what are you doing here?” I turned to him, beaming with pure, innocent delight. “Surprise, Dad! Audrey and I planned this whole thing together for your birthday. Aren’t you thrilled?” Julian stood paralyzed, his jaw slack, nodding like a malfunctioning animatronic. The rest of the dinner passed in excruciating, suffocating tension, with Julian barely able to swallow his steak. Late that night, after we returned home and Julian retreated to the guest bathroom, my phone vibrated with a message from Audrey. “Your dad seemed completely off tonight. At first he was talking about marriage, and then he barely said a word for two hours. Do you think he’s hiding something from me?” I typed back with measured calm: “I’m sure he was just stressed about work. He carries so much pressure on his shoulders.” Audrey replied with a sigh: “I suppose having an ambitious man has its downsides, but it’s still admirable.” I locked my phone, letting out a cold laugh in the dark. “Ambitious?” He had the appetite of a predator and the spine of a jellyfish. Over the past month, Audrey had genuinely believed every word of the daughter persona. And knowing her the way I did now, I was certain she had no idea she was the “other woman.” I wanted to tell her the truth, but I worried she was already too emotionally invested. Yet watching a decent, if naive, woman walk straight into Julian’s web felt wrong. Fortunately, the universe handed me the perfect opening.

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Three months after my stepfather moved in, my monthly allowance went from four hundred and fifty dollars to thirty. He smiled over the kitchen island and told my mother, “You have to raise girls on a tight budget. Spoil them, and they’ll never learn to stand on their own two feet.” My mother nodded without looking up. “Whatever Dennis thinks is best.” Then came the deadline for the advanced studio art intensive: a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar materials fee. I emptied every pocket, unzipped every pouch in my backpack. Total: five dollars and forty cents. I sent my mother a text: “Mom, the school needs the fee for the art showcase by Friday.” She sent back a single word: “No.” I stood in the school hallway for ten minutes, watching the dust motes drift through the afternoon sunlight. Then I scrolled down to the very bottom of my contacts. A number I hadn’t dialed in three years. “Dad… I can’t stay here anymore.” The other end went dead silent for two seconds. Then came the sharp scrape of a chair pushing back against a hardwood floor. “I’m landing tomorrow. Wait for me.” The next afternoon at four o’clock, our doorbell rang. Dennis answered it. Four men in dark tailored suits stood in the hallway corridor. The man in the center took off his sunglasses. My father. “Hello. I’m here to pick up my daughter. And while I’m at it, we’re going to discuss this house.” … 1 Dennis moved in three months ago. Or rather, he slid in. The day my mother brought him through the front door, he was wearing a silk-blend floral shirt and polished leather loafers, smiling with the kind of saccharine warmth that felt rehearsed in a mirror. “Sylvie,” he purred, his voice dripping with easy charm. “Your mom and I are going to take such good care of you together, okay?” I didn’t answer. My mother gave the back of my head a sharp nudge. “Say hello.” “…Hi, Dennis.” He chuckled and patted my head like I was a stray dog he intended to train. “Good girl.” I stepped back half an inch. During that first week, his performance was flawless. He cooked dinner, vacuumed the living room rug until the pile stood in neat lines, brewed specialty herbal tea for my mother, and even swept the eraser shavings off my study desk with a little handheld brush. My mother wore an expression I hadn’t seen on her face in years—slack, unburdened, as if she had finally set down a heavy suitcase. For the first time since my father left three years ago, she stopped sitting on the living room sofa staring into the dark until two in the morning. By week two, the air shifted. First, my Greek yogurt disappeared from the fridge, replaced by cartons of expensive collagen wellness drinks he drank twice a day. Then the ceramic vase on the coffee table—an understated piece my father had bought years ago—was banished to the back of the hallway closet. “Too cluttered,” Dennis announced casually. “I brought in something more modern.” My mother didn’t say a word. Week three. Over dinner, Dennis set his fork down with a quiet clink. He used that exquisitely reasonable, concerned tone of his. “Brenda, don’t you think four hundred and fifty a month is a bit excessive for Sylvie’s allowance?” My mother’s fork paused in midair. He pressed on, smiling warmly. “It’s not about the money, obviously. It’s about boundaries. Girls who grow up with too much spending money never learn financial discipline. When I took in my niece that summer, the minute we curbed her spending, her grades shot right up.” I lowered my fork and looked at my mother. She chewed slowly, swallows caught in her throat. “He makes a good point.” Dennis turned to me, beaming with paternal benevolence. “Sylvie, thirty dollars a month will cover what you actually need. I’ll help you save the rest. When you get into a good college, you’ll get it all back in one lump sum.” Thirty dollars. Down from four hundred and fifty. My lips parted, a protest forming on my tongue. My mother didn’t even look up from her plate. “That’s settled, then. Don’t make a fuss.” That night, I lay awake in bed, tracing the ceiling cracks in the dim streetlamp glow. Four hundred and fifty dollars wasn’t an arbitrary number. It was the exact monthly stipend my father had stipulated before he left for Sydney—wired directly into an account meant exclusively for my living expenses. Dennis had to know that. Because that debit card was sitting in Dennis’s designer wallet right now. I rolled over and pressed my face into the pillow. It was fine. I could endure it. I had been enduring things since I was seven years old. When Dad wasn’t around, you just kept your head down, and time eventually passed. I had no idea this was only the opening move. 2 The first month, on thirty dollars, I scraped by. I skipped breakfast at the bakery down the block, bought the cheapest plain bagel and a small carton of milk at the school cafeteria for lunch, and ate dinner at home. When my art supplies ran dry, I rolled the old tubes of acrylic and gouache tight from the crimped bottoms, scraping out every last speck of pigment with a palette knife. Then the second month arrived, and our fine arts instructor announced the materials fee for the regional portfolio showcase. Two hundred and fifty dollars. Without paying the fee, you lost your spot in the city-wide youth exhibition. I explained my situation to my art teacher, but she sighed with genuine regret. The district required the deposit by Friday afternoon; otherwise, my slot went to the alternate. On Wednesday evening, I brought it up at the dinner table. “Mom, I need two hundred and fifty for the art intensive materials fee.” Dennis didn’t stop cutting his chicken breast, his eyes fixed on his plate. My mother frowned, her tone immediately defensive. “Art? Since when does drawing pay the bills?” “I was selected for the city exhibition,” I said, my chest tightening. “The teacher said—” “How much was it again?” Dennis dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, looking up with mild concern. “Two-fifty?” “Yes.” He glanced at my mother, wearing that practiced look of strained helplessness. “Brenda, the building HOA dues just went up last month, and we still have my cousin’s wedding gift to cover this weekend… things are honestly tight right now.” He spent over two hundred dollars every two weeks on imported face creams. Tight? I swallowed the fire in my throat, keeping my eyes locked on my mother. She dropped her fork, rubbing the bridge of her nose in irritated exhaustion. “Let’s put it on hold. We’ll revisit it next month.” “Next month is too late,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I said we’ll wait!” she snapped, raising her voice. “Why do you have to be so difficult? Didn’t you hear Dennis say things are tight right now?” I bit down hard on my lower lip, silencing myself. Dennis let out a soft, understanding sigh and reached over to pat my mother’s hand. “Come on, Brenda, don’t be too hard on her. She’s young. Sylvie, why don’t you ask one of your classmates if you can borrow a little until things settle down?” I pushed my chair back, stood up, and walked into my bedroom. I closed the door, leaned my back against the wood, and clutched the cuffs of my hoodie until my knuckles turned bloodless. Late that night, I sent my mother a text. “Mom, is there really no way to make the materials fee work?” Forty minutes later, her response appeared on the screen. “No.” Not even a period at the end. I placed the phone face-down on my desk and took several slow, ragged breaths. I opened my contacts and scrolled all the way to the bottom. A contact saved simply as “Dad”. Three years without a single call. Not because I didn’t want to, but because when he left, he looked me in the eyes and said, “Sylvie, Dad has some serious business to sort out overseas. Two years, and I’ll be back. Be good for your mom.” Two years had stretched into three. He wired money every month, texted on holidays, and occasionally FaceTimed, but he had never come back to the States. I knew he was under immense pressure, and I didn’t want to be another burden on his shoulders. But tonight… My thumb pressed the call button. “Ring—” “Ring—” On the third ring, the line clicked open. The background was utterly quiet. Then, after a heartbeat, his voice came through the speaker. “Sylvie?” It sounded identical to my memories—deep, low, and laced with a steady warmth. My throat closed up instantly. “Dad.” “What’s wrong?” His tone shifted in a fraction of a second; in the background, I heard the sharp scrape of his chair against the floor. “Your voice sounds off. What happened?” I opened my mouth, tried to form words, but nothing coherent came out. Finally, a single sentence broke through: “Dad… I don’t want to stay here anymore.” The line fell dead silent for two long seconds. Then I heard him speak. His voice was soft, but every syllable hit like an iron nail driven into pine. “I’m landing tomorrow. Wait for me.” The call ended. I stared at the glowing screen. Call duration: one minute and seventeen seconds. That night, for the first time in three years, I pulled the comforter over my head and wept out loud. Not out of self-pity, but because of the sudden, overwhelming realization—someone was coming for me. 3 The next day at school was a blur. My mind was elsewhere, and whatever the teachers were writing on the whiteboard dissolved into meaningless shapes. During fifth period, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it out under the desk and checked the screen. Dad: “Wheels down. What time do you get out?” My fingers trembled slightly as I typed. Me: “4:30.” Dad: “Got it. I’ll be waiting out front.” I slid the phone back into my pocket, my heart hammering against my ribs. When the final bell rang, I shoved my notebooks into my bag and walked toward the school gates. Before I even cleared the courtyard, I saw it: a sleek black Lincoln Navigator parked along the curb. Standing beside it was a man in a charcoal wool overcoat. His hair was trimmed shorter than three years ago. He was leaner, sharper around the jawline. The moment his eyes caught mine, he took off his sunglasses. The rims of his eyes were raw and red. The strap of my backpack slipped off my shoulder, and I froze in my tracks. He crossed the sidewalk in long, rapid strides, the soles of his dress shoes clicking against the pavement. When he reached me, he pulled me straight into his chest and wrapped his arms around me, holding me so tightly I could barely breathe. He smelled of faint cedar and cold air, exactly as he always had. “You’re so thin,” he murmured, his hand cradling the back of my head, his voice raspy. “Way too thin, Sylvie.” I buried my face into the wool of his coat and said nothing. After half a minute, he gently released me, cupping my face in his hands to look at me. His brow furrowed deeply. “Come on. Let’s get something to eat first. Tonight, I’m handling everything.” “Handling what?” He didn’t give a direct answer. He opened the passenger door for me. Inside the vehicle sat three other people—two women and a man, all in tailored dark suits with laptops open on their laps. The man in the front turned around and gave me a respectful nod. “Hello, Sylvie. I’m your father’s attorney, Thomas Fletcher.” An attorney. I looked over at my father. He buckled his seatbelt, his expression eerily calm. “We eat first. Then we go to the house and settle this once and for all.” I didn’t know what to say, so the fear inside me voiced itself: “Are you… going to leave again?” He turned his head toward me, and I saw something in his eyes I had never seen before. It wasn’t warmth. It was pure, unyielding resolve. “Not this time,” he said. “Nobody is making me leave again.” We ate at a quiet, wood-paneled bistro tucked away in the shopping district. He ordered the slow-roasted prime rib with whipped Yukon gold potatoes I used to love, along with a cup of rich French onion soup. After three bites, my fork slowed down. “Dad… Mom doesn’t know you’re back.” “I know.” “You’re going straight to the house?” “Yes.” “She’s going to be furious.” He cut a tender slice of roast beef and placed it gently onto my plate, without looking up. “Her temper is not my concern.” At the adjacent booth, Mr. Fletcher was speaking in hushed tones with his two associates, occasionally flipping through a thick manila folder. From the corner of my eye, I caught the bold header on the front cover: “PROPERTY TITLE MODIFICATION.” Beneath it was a smaller line: “Asset Breakdown: Real Estate under Brenda Jensen.” Brenda Jensen was my mother’s legal name. The food in my mouth suddenly lost all its flavor. “Dad… what are you doing?” He laid his fork and knife down and dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. “Sylvie, there are things I never told you.” He looked at me, his gaze as deep and still as winter water. “That house your mother is living in? I paid seventy percent of the purchase price in cash. When we divorced, I didn’t contest the title because you were living under that roof.” He picked up his glass of sparkling water and took a slow sip. “Now she can’t even manage your basic living expenses, and she’s letting an outsider walk all over you.” He set the glass down with a crisp click. “So I’m taking the house back.” 4 At 4:58 PM, I stood in front of our apartment door. My father stood beside me, the collar of his wool coat turned up, hands resting casually in his pockets. Behind him stood Mr. Fletcher and the two legal assistants. I pressed the doorbell. “Chime.” Ten seconds later, the lock turned from the inside. Dennis opened the door wearing an apron, his hands dusted with flour—he had probably been making fresh pasta or artisanal bread. He saw me and offered an easy, patronizing grin. “Sylvie, you’re back? Why are you so—” The words died in his throat. His gaze drifted past me to the people in the hallway. More specifically, his eyes locked onto my father. My father was half a head taller than him. He stood there without a word, slowly sliding his sunglasses off and hooking them into the lapel of his coat. Dennis’s smile froze into a grotesque mask. “You… who are…” “Right,” my father said, giving a single nod. His tone was as flat as checking the weather forecast. “I’m her father. It’s been a while.” Dennis’s face went chalk-white. He whipped around and shouted into the apartment, his voice straining. “Brenda! Brenda, get out here right now!” Footsteps echoed from the living room. My mother appeared in the entryway holding a mug of coffee. The second she laid eyes on my father, she didn’t drop the mug, but her hands seized up visibly. “…Patrick?” My father didn’t acknowledge her shock. He walked right past Dennis into the living room and cast a slow, deliberate glance around the space.

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I’ve always been able to see the exact number of times I will ever lay eyes on a person. For strangers passing on the sidewalk, it’s almost always a “1”. For Declan, the boy who grew up next door, the number floating above his messy dark hair was “31,441”. Because of that astronomical number, I spent the better part of nineteen years treating him like my husband-in-training. I wrote ridiculous boyfriend rules for him to memorize, policed his late nights, and made sure he stayed on the straight and narrow. Declan always rolled his eyes, constantly threatening to set me up with someone else just to get me off his back. “Drop the psychic act, Josie,” he’d tease, his smile crooked and maddeningly handsome. “My roommate’s a good-looking guy. You should try talking to an actual stranger for once instead of hovering over me.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his camera roll. Before he could stop himself, a photo flashed across the screen—Declan with his arm slung around a girl I’d never seen before—before he frantically swiped to a candid shot of his roommate. “He’s a little quiet, keeps to himself, but he’s solid. Seriously, you clinging to me twenty-four seven is—” I wasn’t listening. My eyes were locked on the staggering, endless string of golden digits glowing over the dark-haired boy in the photo. For the first time in my life, I looked up and said, “Fine. Give me his number.” I pulled out my phone. Declan’s face instantly drained of color. And right before my eyes, the number above his head rapidly plummeted, spinning backward in a dizzying blur until it came to a screeching halt. A single, solitary “9”. … The second I unlocked my phone and held it out, Declan slammed his thumb onto his power button, sending his screen pitch-black. I looked at him. “Battery died,” he muttered, his voice tight. “We’ll do it some other time.” He looked rattled, the blood refusing to return to his cheeks. Above his head, the “9” hovered like a cold, neon sentence. A sharp ache thudded against my ribs, but I didn’t say a word. Seeing me stare, Declan forced a breath and smoothed his expression into something resembling his usual smug charm. He picked up his umbrella from the cafe rack. “Come on. Let’s head home.” It was Friday afternoon. A late October drizzle slicked the asphalt, kicking up the sharp scent of damp earth and dead leaves. “The girl on your lock screen,” I said quietly as we fell into step beneath the gray canopy. “That was Audrey, wasn’t it?” Declan’s shoulders tensed beneath his jacket. After a heavy silence, he let out an irritated sigh. “It was from a club mixer last weekend. I forgot to delete it. Look, Josie, we’re not even together. You’re always breathing down my neck…” The sting was familiar, but seeing that little “9” floating above him took the edge off. The proprietary panic that used to seize my chest simply evaporated into a quiet, hollow calm. “I was just asking,” I said. I wasn’t going to police him anymore. I was only bringing it up because the walk back to our apartment complex suddenly felt miles longer than it ever had before, and the silence was suffocating. I knew now, with absolute certainty, that Declan and I had no future. Which meant I had zero right to tell him who he could hold. Declan, however, only scowled deeper at my lack of a fight. “You never ‘just ask.’ You’ve run off every girl who’s ever tried to get close to me since we were six.” “Then go make some friends,” I replied evenly. “I won’t stop you anymore.” My voice was barely louder than the falling rain, but Declan’s breath hitched. His knuckles turned white around the curved handle of the umbrella. He opened his mouth to snap something back, but his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. The screen lit up: “Audrey”. Declan didn’t answer. He stood frozen on the wet pavement, his dark eyes searching mine with a heavy, searching intensity. If this had been yesterday, I would have thrown a tantrum. I would have made him recite my loyalty rules three times over, snatched the phone from his hands, and rejected the call myself. Instead, I held his gaze for two quiet seconds, then looked away toward the street. The call timed out. A banner notification popped up immediately: “Declan, did you bring an umbrella? I’m trapped under the humanities building overhang. Any chance you could rescue me?” Declan’s jaw set into a hard, rigid line. “You’re really not going to say anything?” “Go on,” I said. “I’m actually going, Josie.” I nodded, pulled my own compact umbrella from the side pocket of my backpack, and popped it open. I didn’t turn back until his tall silhouette had disappeared down the crosswalk. What a cruel joke the universe had played on me. For nineteen years, I thought the numbers were etched in stone. I had been able to see them for as long as I had memories. When I was a toddler, I didn’t understand the floating digits. It took years to piece it together: they were a countdown of how many times I would see each person before they slipped out of my life forever. My dad would be with me until I was eighty-eight. My mom until eighty-nine. And Declan, the gorgeous boy who lived across the hall and shared his fruit snacks with me, was supposed to be my forever. His number had been larger than anyone else’s I had ever encountered. When I was five, I asked him, “Declan, what does being together for 31,441 days mean?” He had scratched his messy hair, run inside to ask his mom, and bounded back with an arrogant, dimpled grin. “It means we’re going to get married and grow old together.” From that day on, I treated him as mine. I laid down the law: no flirting with other girls, eyes on me, always walk me home. And Declan had always played along, indulging my bossiness with an amused smirk—even as he stubbornly brushed off every real confession I ever made. “If I date you now, I’ll be whipped before I even hit twenty,” he had laughed on our eighteenth birthdays, tapping my forehead with his knuckle. “Let’s wait until we’re twenty-five, warden. Let me have some fun first.” So I waited. I thought when we hit twenty-five, our fate would simply click into place. Then came college. And over the past year, his indulgence had curdled into impatience. I exhaled a long breath into the chilly air. I wasn’t devastated—not in the world-ending way I would have expected. It was more of a deep, quiet grief for wasted energy. If I had known the numbers could change, I wouldn’t have spent nineteen years exhausting myself trying to keep him in line. The drizzle was turning heavier, settling into that sticky, humid gloom I hated. I picked up my pace, eager to get inside, when a tall figure walking ahead caught my attention. He wore an oversized black canvas jacket and dark jeans. Even from behind, his posture had that effortless, striking line that made you look twice. But it wasn’t his build that made my breath catch. It was the digits. The impossible, endless string of golden numbers that had vanished from Declan’s head yesterday was now shimmering softly above this boy’s damp, dark hair. My boots splashed through the puddles as my feet moved before my brain could stop them. The closer I got, the louder my pulse thundered in my ears. By the time I fell in behind him, panic set in. What was I supposed to say? “Hey handsome, are you my future husband?” “Excuse me, do you believe in soulmates? Because you’re mine.” “Hi, please don’t call the police, but we’re going to grow old together.” I sounded like an escaped psychiatric patient. While my mind spiraled in complete humiliation, I kept trailing him like the world’s most awkward stalker, staring up at his glowing digits. Suddenly, his long strides stopped. He turned around slowly. I froze. Rain drummed against the fabric of my umbrella, a frantic rhythm matching the fireworks going off behind my ribs. Above his head, the numbers shimmered so brightly they might as well have spelled out: “This is your man.” Declan’s roommate was infinitely more striking in person than in that blurry photo. He had pale, flawless skin, a sharp, aristocratic jawline, and lips that were an unfairly soft shade of rose. Beneath dark, clean brows, a pair of clear, amber eyes looked down at me in quiet appraisal. Even the long, pale fingers holding the black handle of his umbrella looked like something sculpted out of marble. Heat rushed to my cheeks so fast I felt dizzy. “Can I help you?” he asked. His voice was low, smooth, and steady as cool water. “Are… are you scared of walking home alone in the rain?” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could filter them. I immediately wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole. “What is wrong with you, Josie?” The corner of his mouth twitched, barely there, but he didn’t laugh. “I mean—it looks like we’re heading in the same direction,” I stammered, my face burning so hot it could have boiled the rain. “Do you want to walk together?” My voice trailed off into a squeak. The little romantic in my chest seemed to curl up and die of embarrassment. “Sure,” he said. The voice was a rich, quiet melody, and my heart came roaring back to life. We walked side by side. I tried desperately to make small talk, but Jasper—just like Declan had said—was a man of few words. He listened intently, nodding in all the right places, but offered little on his own. Yet, for the first time, the overcast sky didn’t feel suffocating. A faint sliver of late afternoon sun broke through the clouds, casting a pastel rainbow over the entrance of my apartment complex. I looked at the iron gates, suddenly annoyed with how fast my legs had carried us. There were still a million things I hadn’t asked him. “Jasper,” he said, pausing outside the gate beneath the dripping archway. “I know,” I blurted out. Declan had mentioned his name before showing the picture. Jasper raised a subtle brow, clearly surprised. “Josie,” I offered quickly, wondering if I should spell it out, but he gave a small, deliberate nod. “I know that, too.” My hands shook as I dug my phone out of my bag. I had never hit on a guy in my entire life. I kept my eyes fixed on the golden numbers above his head, drawing courage from the universe’s promise. “Don’t be scared. He won’t reject you. He’s your future.” “Can… can I get your number?” I managed, nearly biting my tongue off. Silence stretched between us. The five seconds he took to answer felt like five years on a executioner’s block. “I’m sorry,” Jasper murmured, looking down. “I left my phone in the dorm. Maybe I could—” The classic, polite brush-off. The air rushed out of my lungs in a mortified gasp. Without waiting for him to finish, I spun on my heel and bolted through the gate. “No problem! Sorry for bothering you!” I ran all the way into my building lobby, my heart hammering against my throat and a stinging burn prickling behind my eyes. God, that was humiliating. He must think I was completely unhinged. Funny enough, Declan’s cold words over the past few months hadn’t hurt half as much as the gentle rejection from this boy I had only known for ten minutes. “Josie!” I had just closed my wet umbrella inside our apartment foyer when Declan’s breathless voice echoed from behind. I turned around, startled. Declan took the stairs two at a time, coming to a halt in front of me. The sweet, floral scent of cheap women’s perfume rolled off his damp clothes in waves. “I thought I saw you at the corner,” he panted, his chest heaving as if he had sprinted the entire way from the campus. “Were you walking with someone? A guy? Do I know him? Who—” Before he could finish his barrage, the kitchen door swung open, and my mom walked out carrying a tray of groceries. “Oh, you kids are back? Well, look at you, Declan! Got yourself a girlfriend?” Declan froze, blinking dumbly. “What?” My mom gave him a teasing grin, pointing a finger at his jaw. “You’ve got bright red lipstick smeared right across your cheek, honey.” The hallway went dead silent. Declan’s face turned an ash gray. He brought the back of his hand up, scrubbing violently against his skin, a flicker of sheer panic flashing across his eyes. “It was an accident,” he stammered, staring desperately at me. “She tripped on the stairs and I caught her, Josie, I swear. There’s nothing going on.” I was still drowning in my own embarrassment over Jasper, and I honestly didn’t have the bandwidth to care. I turned toward my apartment door. Seeing me walk away sent Declan into full-blown distress. “I’m clean, Josie! I still remember the rules! I didn’t mean to touch her—” He caught himself, his frantic tone melting into something softer, almost relieved, as he noticed the redness around my eyes. “Hey… don’t cry. I won’t walk with her again, okay? I promise.” I wasn’t crying over him. I was tearing up because I was terrified that the next time I saw Jasper’s gorgeous amber eyes, they would be filled with disgust. “What you do has nothing to do with me,” I said flatly, exhaustion weighing on my bones. “I told you, Declan. I’m done managing your life. Stop bothering me.” Declan’s relief faltered, but a small, stubborn smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Right. Keep playing tough.” The heavy, sullen cloud followed me into Saturday morning. Yawning, I threw on an oversized sweater and shuffled down the apartment path toward the street to grab a coffee. I stepped out of the gate and stopped dead in my tracks. I rubbed my eyes. He was still there. Not a hallucination. Jasper stood by the lamppost, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his breath pluming in the crisp morning air. When he caught sight of me, he pulled his hands out and walked over with slow, deliberate steps. “I brought my phone today,” he said softly. A brilliant crimson blush bloomed across the tips of his ears. He pulled out a sleek smartphone and held up his screen, a QR code already glowing. “Can I still add you?” My heart slammed against my ribs with the force of a sledgehammer. My throat tightened with sheer, bubbling delight. “Did you wait out here this early just to give me your contact?” Jasper pressed his lips together, the red on his ears spreading down his neck. “I didn’t know which unit was yours.” “Holy hell. He is adorable.” My brain short-circuited. I whipped out my phone with trembling fingers, scanned the code, and practically heard a brass band playing in my head. “It’s Saturday,” I teased, emboldened by the sudden realization that this wasn’t one-sided at all. “What if I hadn’t come out until noon?” “I didn’t think that far,” Jasper confessed, pocketing his phone and looking down at me with quiet intensity. “Have you had breakfast?” I tilted my head. Jasper parted his lips, but before he could answer, I noticed the faint morning dew clinging to the dark fringe of his bangs. He had been waiting out here for a long time. “Clearly not,” I beamed, unable to wipe the grin off my face. “Here’s your chance to make it up to me. Buy me pancakes?” He gave a slight, solemn nod. I reached out, grabbed his wrist, and practically dragged him toward the corner bakery. Jasper didn’t hate me. In fact, he liked me. A lot. Unfortunately, fate loves a bad timing joke. We had barely sat down with our pastries when a sharp, disdainful voice cut through the cafe. “Declan’s not coming, you know. I texted him this morning and he blew me off. But look at you—the little watchdog is always on duty.” Audrey stood by the counter, eyeing me with naked contempt. I blinked, taking a second to process the hostility. “Josie, why don’t you just let him go?” she continued, stepping closer, arms crossed over her chest. “He almost said yes when I confessed to him yesterday. The only reason he backed out was because he said you’d throw a fit. You guys aren’t even dating. Why do you hold such a tight leash?” I stared at her, suddenly realizing that her entire beef with me was rooted in Declan’s mixed signals. “I made things completely clear with Declan yesterday,” I said calmly. “Whatever happens between you two is none of my business.” Behind me sat my actual soulmate, and I wanted nothing more than to sever every lingering tie to Declan right here, right now. Audrey narrowed her eyes, skeptical. “Are you serious?” I nodded. “May you two have a long and blissful life together.” Her lip curled, and she reached for her phone. “Say that again. I’m recording a voice note for Declan—” I stared at her in mild horror. “Are you out of your mind?” Before she could hit record, a cool, firm hand wrapped around my wrist, pulling me back. Jasper stepped between us, his amber eyes dropping to sub-zero temperatures as he looked down at Audrey. “She doesn’t owe you an explanation.” His fingers were slightly chilled against my skin, but where he touched me, a bolt of electricity shot straight to my core. He led me out of the shop, our fingers naturally lacing together. Over his shoulder, I saw Audrey furiously snapping a photo of our retreating backs. “Are you… upset?” I asked around a mouthful of cinnamon roll once we sat on a park bench. I stole a glance at him. Jasper was eating his pastry with quiet, aristocratic grace, somehow making a cheap baked good look like fine dining. “People say you’ve been in love with Declan for years,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, a subtle dip of his throat catching my eye. “Josie… Declan talks about you in the room. He says you’re suffocating. I don’t think… he’s good for you.” “Oh.” I thought this was love at first sight on my end, but it turned out someone had been paying attention to me for a very long time. My heart swelled to twice its size. I glanced at the endless golden digits above his dark hair and bit back a grin. Catching my smile, Jasper looked slightly flustered and dropped his gaze. I leaned in closer, poking his cheek while he chewed. “If he’s so bad for me… what would you think if I switched to liking someone else?” He turned his head to look at me, the sunlight catching the gold flecks in his eyes. A soft blush climbed from his collar to his cheeks. “Can you just… switch who you love?” I put on my most serious, academic expression. “Of course you can. As long as the new guy treats me well enough, I can switch in a heartbeat.” Jasper fell silent again. He lowered his head, methodically finishing his roll, lost in deep, calculating thought. When I finally unlocked my apartment door twenty minutes later, humming a tune, I saw a dark figure sitting on the living room couch. Thinking it was my dad, I headed straight for my bedroom, only for a hand to shoot out and grab my forearm with bruising force. I gasped, jumping back. It was Declan. His face was shadowed, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched in his cheek, and his eyes burned with a dark, suffocating fury.

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Before Joshua and I ever started dating, he made one thing ruthlessly clear: he was not a man who apologized. He didn’t soothe ruffled feathers, he didn’t grovel, and he never, ever chased. So when our ninth blowout fight spiraled into another frosty standoff, I did what I had always done—I swallowed my pride and walked up to his penthouse to offer the olive branch. Every time we fought, Joshua would pack an overnight bag and retreat to his own place downtown, waiting like a king in exile. And every single time, I was the one who showed up at his doorstep, giving him the graceful exit he demanded. I reached his door, my knuckles raised to knock, when the sound of careless laughter drifted through the gap. “Come on, Joshua, you’re really not gonna throw the girl a bone?” “Seriously, man. If Elise finds out you bought flowers and a designer purse just to beg your cute little assistant for forgiveness last night, she’s gonna lose her mind and dump you.” Joshua let out a low, amused scoff. “Dump me? Elise?” His tone dripped with effortless condescension. “She’s so hopelessly wrapped around my finger, it’s pathetic. Give her three days of radio silence and she starts clawing at the walls. She’d never dare leave.” He paused, a quiet, indulgent sigh slipping into his voice. “Amber is different. If I don’t pamper Amber, she’ll actually ice me out for a whole month.” My hand froze in midair. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to comfort someone. It wasn’t that he was too proud to chase. He just didn’t care enough to do it for me. And if that was the case, then this pathetic, lovesick fool was officially done chasing. … “Oh, stop it!” Amber’s voice chimed in, bright and syrupy. “I wouldn’t ignore you for a whole month! Two weeks tops!” Joshua chuckled, his voice thick with a warmth I hadn’t heard in years. “Two weeks is still two weeks too long. Better to just keep you happy.” I pulled my hand back. My shoes felt like they were filled with wet cement, anchoring me to the plush hallway carpet. Inside, one of his fraternity brothers whistled. “Man, you’ve got it made. But for real, you’re not even a little worried Elise is gonna blow up your life?” Joshua took his time answering. A drag of a cigarette, a soft exhale. “Worst-case scenario? We break up.” He paused, his voice laden with lazy amusement. “Then again… do you really think she has the guts to walk away from me?” A roar of laughter erupted through the heavy oak door. “Fair point. Every single time you two fight, no matter who started it, she’s always the one on her knees begging for peace.” “She’s head-over-heels obsessed with you, man.” Joshua didn’t dispute a single word. When it came to me, he had always held all the cards, and he knew it. Amber giggled, tossing in her own smug guarantee. “Don’t worry, she’ll be here tonight. You guys don’t even know—last time before she came over, she sent Joshua this giant, pathetic essay spilling her guts. I literally texted back ‘UNSUBSCRIBE’ from his phone. You should’ve seen her face when she walked through the door. Ghost white!” She burst into peals of laughter. Outside in the dim corridor, a bitter, self-mocking smile crept onto my lips. So “that” was who sent that text. When I had arrived that night, Amber was lounging on his sofa. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t looked remotely guilty. She had just offered me a pair of guest slippers with a hostess’s practiced grace, as if she were the woman living there. “Honestly,” Amber added, her voice dripping with mock sympathy, “her little essay was so well-written I almost felt bad enough to forgive her on your behalf. Right, boss?” Joshua’s reply was a stroke of tender indulgence. “Right. Whatever you say.” “Let’s make a bet,” Amber said playfully. “Let’s bet on… what time Elise shows up tonight.” The dull clink of Joshua crushing his cigarette into a glass tray echoed through the hallway. “Fine. Put me down for tonight.” “Hell yeah! You guys never go past three days of the silent treatment, right?” someone called out. “Never,” Joshua replied smoothly. “Well, today’s day three. Looks like you’re taking the pot, Joshua.” Standing in the cold hallway, the pieces clicked together with agonizing clarity. Three years together, and we rarely fought—not because we were harmonious, but because whenever a fissure appeared, I scrambled to patch it before the seventy-two-hour mark. I was always the one handing him the script to make amends. This was our ninth fight. Today was day three. Inside, the chatter grew louder, everyone congratulating Joshua on his guaranteed victory. Joshua basked in it. “Elise can’t handle being ignored. The second I pull away, she panics and comes running back on her own. It’s hopeless. She’s pathetic like that.” My desperate attempts to save our relationship had been nothing more than a spectator sport to him—a badge proving I was a dog that would never stop begging. I let out a quiet, hollow laugh. Unfortunately for him, he was about to lose that bet. This time, nobody was coming to smooth things over. … Joshua didn’t come home until the following evening. His expression was dark, his jaw tight with irritation. The moment he stepped through the door, his eyes locked onto me, his brow furrowing deep. “Why didn’t you come by last night?” At midnight, Amber had posted a video on her social feed, teasing Joshua for losing their little bet. In the clip, Joshua’s face had been stone-cold, his frustration barely masked beneath a veneer of swagger. Looking directly into her camera, he had muttered, “Doesn’t matter. If she doesn’t crawl back today, she will tomorrow.” Yet throughout the entire day, my phone had remained silent. No calls. No long paragraphs. He had only come home because the predictable script had failed to play out. “Why should I have?” I put down my coffee mug and looked straight into his eyes. Joshua blinked, visibly thrown off balance by the bluntness in my tone. Then, a flicker of understanding crossed his face, followed by a faint, derisive smirk. “Trying out a new tactic this time?” “No,” I said evenly. “I just finally grew a brain.” He stared at me, his arms crossed over his chest. “If it wasn’t my mistake,” I said, my voice dangerously calm, “why should I be the one bowing my head?” The root of this ninth fight had been a smear of plum lipstick on his collar. Amber’s shade. Shortly after Joshua had walked through the door that night, a text had popped up from her—dripping with fake innocence—apologizing for accidentally grazing his shirt during an office run, begging me not to take it the wrong way or fight with him over a silly misunderstanding. When I pressed Joshua about it, he called me paranoid. The conversation spiraled into a screaming match. Nine fights in three years. Every single one of them had Amber’s fingerprints all over it. Ever since she became his executive assistant a year ago, the foundation of our life had begun to rot. When I once asked him to transfer her to a different department, do you know what he told me? He told me my mind was filthy. He said that without a legitimate professional reason, transferring her would be an abuse of power. “What is that supposed to mean?” Joshua asked, his voice hardening. I met his gaze, ignoring his question, and asked one of my own: “Joshua, in your eyes, was my love just me being a pathetic pushover?” Silence fell over the room. He didn’t deny it. Even though I had already heard the truth with my own ears, a sickening hollow opened up in the center of my ribs. Three years of devotion, reduced to a punchline. The heartfelt messages I poured my soul into, handed over to his assistant to mock. The grace I offered him, turned into a drinking game for his friends. “You were outside my place yesterday?” he asked, finally putting the pieces together. “I was,” I said without flinching. “I heard everything.” “Oh.” His features barely shifted, settling back into that infuriating, dismissive calm. “No wonder you’re acting out.” He gave a short, careless chuckle. “It was just a joke, Elise.” “A joke.” Everything in Joshua’s world was a joke. Taking shots with Amber with their arms linked at company dinners was a joke. Filling his Instagram story with candids of her was a joke. Letting her kiss his cheek when he lost a party game was a joke. And making bets on my dignity was just another harmless joke. What wasn’t a joke to him? Was refusing to ever comfort his girlfriend while buying bags and bouquets for his assistant just another punchline? Seeing my silence, Joshua’s posture softened by a fraction. “Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Guys talk shit when they drink. Nobody takes it seriously…” “You bought her flowers and a designer purse to apologize,” I cut in, my voice level. “Didn’t you?” Three years. He had never once apologized to me. To say it didn’t hurt would be a lie. Three years of my youth, crushed under the heel of his indifference. “You’re really hung up on that?” Joshua sighed, annoyed. “Amber is my assistant. She represents my firm when we meet high-end clients. She needed a decent bag to look the part. And the flowers…” He rubbed his temples. “I picked them up on a whim. She made a rookie mistake on a filing, I came down hard on her, and she got upset. I just bought them to smooth things over.” “To smooth things over.” Those words tasted like battery acid. On our very first anniversary, he looked me in the eye and told me he didn’t know how to coddle people. He told me he would never be the guy who groveled. So I spent three years bending over backward, shaping myself into the girl who never demanded anything, never made a fuss. He didn’t lack the ability to soothe someone. He just didn’t think I was worth the effort. A lump tightened in my throat. It took several seconds before I managed to force out a whisper: “Right. Understood.” Joshua looked at me, perplexed by the lack of tears or screaming. Before he could speak, his phone began to buzz against the marble counter. He glanced at the screen, then shot me a guarded look before stepping into the hallway to answer it. When he returned, his mask of effortless control was back in place. “Let’s just consider this silent treatment over,” he announced, as if granting me a royal pardon. He locked his phone and slid it into his slacks. “Something came up at the office. I need to head back in.” A routine lie. Practiced and polished. My expression didn’t waver. “Go ahead.” Without a second glance, he grabbed his keys and walked out. I waited two minutes, grabbed my jacket, and followed. … Joshua’s sleek black sedan pulled up to the valet stand of an upscale private lounge downtown. I slipped inside the building a few paces behind him, riding the elevator up to the sixth floor, where the private VIP suites were tucked away behind heavy velvet curtains. I paused outside suite 602. Through the frosted glass panel, Amber’s bright, bubbly laughter rang out clear as day. “Did you manage to calm her down, boss? Was she thrilled that you actually went home to her?” Amber giggled. “Honestly, she’s so easy to handle. One crumb of attention from you and all her anger just evaporates.” A mutual acquaintance chimed in: “Seriously, man, I’ve never seen a girlfriend that low-maintenance. Usually she’s the one chasing you, but you just show up once and it’s like nothing ever happened.” “Joshua, drop the masterclass, bro,” someone else laughed. “How do you train a girl to be that obedient?” Joshua tossed out a lazy curse. “Shut up.” He paused, swirling the ice in his glass. “Elise has always been easy. Even after hearing what we said yesterday, she didn’t scream at me. A couple of words and she was fine.” Amber gasped softly. “Wait, she actually came by yesterday?” “Yeah.” Another wave of snickering swept the room. Some called me hopelessly devoted; others joked that I was a stray that would never leave no matter how hard I was kicked. They praised Joshua for having me wrapped around his little finger. I stood in the dim corridor, taking in every single syllable. So that was why he had suddenly come home. That was why he had offered that half-assed truce. A faint, hollow laugh tore from my chest. The suite door suddenly swung open from the inside. “Elise?” The guy holding the handle froze, his face draining of color. The room instantly plunged into dead silence. Joshua stepped forward, a momentary flicker of guilt flashing across his eyes before his brow knit into an irritated scowl. “Were you following me?” I looked into his eyes, tilting my head slightly. “Didn’t you say there was an emergency at the office?” I glanced past his shoulder, letting my gaze drift over the silver balloons, the custom cake, and finally landing on Amber’s wide, guilty eyes, before looking back at Joshua. “This is your emergency?” Joshua’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Amber quickly hurried over, plastering a fragile smile across her face. “Elise, please don’t be mad at Joshua. Today is my birthday. He only came to help me celebrate. He only said it was work because he didn’t want you to overthink things.” She sounded like she was playing the peacemaker, but the gleam of triumph in her eyes was sharp enough to draw blood. I didn’t scream. I didn’t flip the table. I just nodded slowly. “Is that so? Happy birthday, then.” My unnatural calm caught Amber completely off guard. Her rehearsed smile froze. Joshua grabbed my wrist, pulling me a few steps down the empty hall before letting go. “Elise, what are you trying to pull here?” Looking at the tension in his jaw, I almost wanted to laugh. “Nothing,” I whispered. “I just wanted to make sure of something.” His scowl deepened. “Make sure of what?” “Make sure that every last piece of my heart is completely dead.” When I didn’t answer, Joshua parted his lips to say something more, but Amber was already at his side, sliding her arm through his with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a hundred times. He didn’t pull away. “Joshua, the games are starting! Everyone’s waiting for you,” she chirped, before turning to me with a saccharine pout. “Elise, why don’t you join us?” “No thanks,” I said. Amber stuck out her tongue playfully. “Alright then. But… you aren’t really mad, are you?” “Not at all,” I replied. Joshua studied my face, utterly baffled by my complete lack of resistance. Yet the relief won out. “Go home and get some sleep. Don’t wait up for me.” The suite door clicked shut behind them. I stood alone under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, blinking rapidly against the sharp sting behind my eyes, forcing the tears back down. My phone buzzed in my palm. A notification lit up the dark screen—a message from a contact I had saved three days ago. “Hello Elise, this is Marcus. If you’re free, we should meet and finalize the details.” I lowered my eyes, my thumb tapping out a single, steady reply. “Let’s do it.” … Joshua didn’t return until late the next morning. He was wearing a fresh button-down, crisp and unwrinkled. Catching me looking at him, he immediately offered a preemptive excuse: “Amber had too much to drink last night and threw up on my jacket. I had to buy a clean shirt at the hotel lobby shop. Don’t read into it.” I looked away. I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t reading into anything anymore, but the words felt like too much effort. Joshua ladled a bowl of oatmeal and sat down across from me at the kitchen island. “I’m leaving for a business trip this afternoon. I’ll be gone for about a week.” “With who?” I asked quietly. He paused for a beat. “Amber is my assistant. She’s coming with me.” I gave a faint nod and kept eating. I had already known the answer before asking. “Joshua, let’s break up.” I set my spoon down onto the ceramic bowl with a soft, dull clatter. “I’ve already packed my things. I’m moving out today.” Joshua froze. He looked at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What did you say?” The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the hum of the refrigerator. I looked directly into his dark, bewildered eyes. “I said, we’re done. I’m leaving.” Joshua stared at me, then let out a breathy, dismissive laugh. “Elise, what kind of joke is this?” He shook his head, leaning forward. “Look, I lied about last night because I didn’t want you spiraling. It was a dumb party. Is that really worth throwing three years away?” One small thing wasn’t worth it. But a mountain of small betrayals, stacked high over twelve agonizing months, had crushed everything beneath them. “If it’s about the party, I apologize,” Joshua offered, his lips curving into a placating half-smile. “Stop talking out of anger.” I looked at him, completely checked out, refusing to engage in the debate. He took my silence as surrender, assuming I had folded just like every other time. “Look, there’s nothing going on between me and Amber,” he added, his voice smooth with practiced reassurance. “Stop letting your imagination run wild.” That sentence again. I had heard it so many times I was entirely numb to its cadence. “Okay,” I murmured, and said nothing more. Twenty minutes later, the front door chime rang, followed by the electronic beep of the keypad. Amber strolled inside. “Last time I stayed over after that company mixer, Joshua gave me the door code so I wouldn’t have to ring the bell,” she chirped, blinking with wide, faux-innocent eyes. “You don’t mind, do you, Elise?” The girl wore her ambition on her sleeve. Transparent, greedy, and utterly brazen. “Not at all,” I said calmly. “Come and go as you please.” It had nothing to do with me anymore. He could hand the code to the entire city for all I cared. “I wasn’t even supposed to go on this trip,” Amber continued, watching my face for any sign of a crack. “Joshua insisted on bringing me. He said I need more exposure to high-level negotiations so nobody in the industry takes advantage of me.” During the first grueling year of Joshua’s startup, I had stayed up with him until three in the morning every night, surviving on black coffee and cheap takeout, enduring the condescension of every investor in town just to secure a meeting. And now, the road we had paved with my sweat and tears was being laid out as a red carpet for her. My face remained a smooth sheet of ice. “Good for you. Best of luck.” Joshua came down the stairs carrying his leather weekender bag, catching the tail end of our conversation. A flash of annoyance crossed his brow. “Elise, Amber didn’t mean anything by it. Drop the passive-aggressive act.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t say a word. “Well, we’re heading out, Elise!” Amber beamed, flashing a bright, triumphant smile. The day after Joshua boarded that flight, I cleared out the last of my belongings. Then, I drove downtown to meet Marcus, signing the paperwork that sealed the next chapter of my life. … During that entire week out of town, Joshua didn’t receive a single message from Elise. It was entirely unlike her. In three years, she had never gone seven whole days without checking in, asking about his schedule, or reminding him to take his vitamins. Joshua pushed the unsettling knot in his gut down, telling himself she was just being stubborn. “Boss, should we grab dinner before we head home?” Amber asked, strolling up to him in the terminal. She caught a glimpse of his open messaging screen. “Are you waiting for Elise to text?” Joshua locked his phone without answering. “Is she still mad at me?” Amber asked, her voice dropping into a fragile whisper. “Maybe I should go apologize to her when we get back.” Joshua tucked his phone into his coat. “Forget dinner. Let’s just head straight back.” Standing by the gate, he finally gave in and dialed Elise’s number to let her know he was on his way home. The phone rang three times before clicking open. The voice that answered, however, wasn’t hers. “I’m so sorry, the bride is currently busy doing the champagne toasts. If it’s urgent, could you please call back later?”

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Every autumn throughout our four years of college, Jonas would find the most vibrant sycamore leaf on campus and bring it to me. He promised that once our senior road trip was over, he would press all four leaves into a glass frame and hang it in our very first apartment together. Yet, when we arrived at the mountain cabin and sorted out the rooms, he gave the only master suite with a private bath to Vivian. “She got trapped in an elevator as a child,” Jonas explained, his tone infuriatingly reasonable. “She gets panic attacks if she has to sleep in a dark room alone.” I stared at her heavy duffel bag in his hand and asked quietly, “And what about me?” Before Jonas could answer, my roommate Beth laughed. “April, come on. You two have been together for four years. Are you really going to throw a fit over one night?” The others chimed in, annoyed that I was ruining the mood. Without asking, they relegated me to the drafty, leaking attic. Then they took the custom wooden frame I had brought, claiming Vivian had always loved pressed leaves and that it would make the perfect graduation keepsake for her. Jonas didn’t say a word to stop them. Only when Vivian’s eyes welled with tears as she offered a fragile apology did Jonas turn to me, his voice dipping into that cool, admonishing register. “She lost the best four years of her youth being stuck overseas. You have everything, April. Can’t you just let her have this one thing?” A sudden, hollow realization settled over me. Ever since Vivian returned to the States, everyone had remarked on how much my quiet demeanor, my short haircut, and even the curve of my smile resembled hers. It turned out Jonas had never been cherishing those four golden leaves. He was merely collecting the echoes of her that he saw in me. Outside, the autumn rain battered the sycamore trees against the windowpane. They all thought that taking that frame away only cost me a sentimental souvenir. None of them knew that beneath those four pressed leaves lay the official acceptance letter Jonas had spent two desperate years chasing. And in that quiet attic, I decided: none of it mattered anymore. 1 “The light in the attic is dead. Does anyone have a flashlight?” I stood at the top of the narrow staircase. Rainwater dripped steadily through a crack in the cedar ceiling, soaking through the edge of the mattress. Beth was busy unpacking Vivian’s coats into the downstairs closet. She didn’t even turn around. “Just use your phone flashlight. Make it work for one night, April. Everyone’s exhausted after an eight-hour drive.” “The bed is completely drenched.” “Then throw a couple of jackets over it,” Eli, our class rep, said as he passed by with a crate of snacks. “It’s a rustic cabin trip, not a five-star resort. Vivian’s health is fragile—learn to be a little considerate.” Jonas stepped out of the master suite carrying a steaming mug of hot water. He caught sight of my damp cuffs, his brow instantly furrowing. “Why haven’t you changed into dry clothes yet?” “My suitcase is right under the leak. It’s too heavy to drag across the floor.” Jonas pressed the warm mug into my hands and brushed past me up the stairs. He hauled the cot away from the damp patch, found a wooden pail to catch the steady drip, and took his own bath towel to wipe down my wet suitcase. “Drink some,” he said, turning back to me. “Your hands are freezing, and you’re still acting stubborn.” The hot water was steeped with dried orange peel and honey. Whenever I got carsick, he always made this for me. The citrus steam washed over my face, and I wrapped my fingers around the warm ceramic, swallowing the argument on my tongue. Perhaps he was just looking out for Vivian for a single night. Jonas pulled back the duvet on the narrow daybed across the attic, pressing his palm flat against the mattress. “This side is completely dry. I’ll sleep up here with you. Vivian can have the suite to herself.” From the bottom of the stairs, Beth’s voice drifted up: “Jonas, you’re ridiculous. You can’t even spend one night away from April?” He didn’t acknowledge her, keeping his head down as he checked the window latch. Looking at the familiar line of his jaw, I swallowed the quiet “forget it” lingering in my throat. Footsteps creaked on the stairs. Vivian came up slowly, clutching the banister. She was wearing Jonas’s oversized gray fleece—the one I had bought him for his birthday, with a tiny maple leaf embroidered inside the cuff. A sweater he had never let anyone else touch. “Did I cause trouble?” Vivian asked softly, her eyes wide. “April, please take the suite back. I can just sleep on the couch in the living room.” Jonas stood up straight. “Why are you wearing so little?” “The zipper on my duffel got stuck, and Beth said I should borrow something warm from you,” Vivian said, pulling the oversized sleeves over her hands. “You don’t mind, do you, April?” She directed the last question straight at me. “It’s not my sweater,” I said evenly. “Well, you picked it out for him—you have wonderful taste,” she murmured, burying her chin into the high collar. “It even smells like your detergent. Warm and sweet.” Jonas walked over to her and gently tugged the collar higher around her neck. “Come on. I’ll pry the zipper open for you.” “Aren’t you staying up in the attic?” she asked. His steps paused. “She can’t unjam the lock alone. I’ll come right back up once it’s sorted.” Vivian tugged lightly on his sleeve. “Never mind. Don’t make April upset. I’ll just figure it out myself.” “Stop being difficult, Vivian.” Jonas followed her down the stairs. I sat in the cold attic until eleven o’clock. The water in the wooden bucket rose until it spilled over the rim. He never came back, and my calls went straight to voicemail. Around midnight, I carried the bucket down to empty it. As I passed the master suite, the door was half-ajar. Vivian was sitting on the plush rug, and Jonas was kneeling on the floor before her, carefully winding a compression bandage around her swollen ankle. “April?” Vivian looked up, startled. “My bag fell over, and when Jonas caught me, the broken zipper sliced his hand. You should look at him.” Only then did I notice the raw, bleeding scrape along the web of Jonas’s thumb. When he saw me standing in the doorway, his first instinct was to pull his hand behind his back. “It’s just a scratch. Don’t look—you get lightheaded around blood.” He remembered. I fetched the first-aid kit from the hallway, but as soon as I uncapped the antiseptic, Vivian reached out and took his hand with practiced ease. “Let me do it,” Vivian said softly. “I’ve patched him up ever since he played high school basketball.” The sterile cotton swab remained frozen in my fingers. Jonas didn’t pull his hand away from her. Instead, he pulled the suite key from his pocket and held it out to me. “There’s a dryer in the private bath. Bring your wet clothes down. I’ll run them for you.” I took the key. My heart, against all reason, softened by a fraction. I turned toward the open closet in the suite to grab an extra hanger. There, taking up half the wardrobe, hung a neat row of men’s ironed shirts. Jonas’s electric razor sat beside the bathroom sink, right next to Vivian’s ceramic toothbrush holder. The receipt tape still stuck to the base of the holder was dated two weeks ago. Outside the door, Vivian’s light, playful voice drifted in. “Jonas, you brought all the spare clothes you had over at my place anyway. Why did you pretend you were only staying one night?” 2 “Vivian just moved back to the city. She had nowhere else to stay, so I let her crash in my old apartment for a few days.” Jonas shut the wardrobe door with a firm click and took the receipt tape from my hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. “It was just an empty apartment. I didn’t want you overthinking things, so I didn’t mention it.” Vivian leaned against the doorframe, her ankle neatly bound in Jonas’s bandage. “April, that place is two blocks from the clinic. When my chronic condition acts up, I can’t be left alone. Jonas was just dropping by to check in on me.” “Checking in on you enough to move his entire wardrobe in?” “April.” Jonas placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “If you’re mad, take it out on me. Don’t corner her.” He stood so close that the faint, bitter scent of medicinal ointment on his collar drifted into my nose. Whenever I ran a high fever, he used to sit by my bedside all night, wringing out cool washcloths every hour on the hour. Back then, he used to whisper that he never grew tired of looking after the people he loved. I hadn’t realized that list could hold two people at the same time. Vivian picked up the glass frame from the console table and held it out. “It’s all my fault. Take it back, April. The leaves are precious to you; I never should have accepted them.” The frame had already been pried open. The tip of the first leaf was snapped clean off. The fourth leaf had a deep, jagged crease down its center. The linen backing thread had been severed, exposing the white corner of the hidden envelope underneath. I reached out to take it, but Beth stepped between us and pressed her hand over the glass. “We’re shooting our graduation short film this afternoon! We already agreed to use the frame as a hero prop. We’ll give it back the second we wrap.” “I never agreed to that,” I said. Eli walked in carrying his camera rig. “The entire cohort is waiting on this shoot. Changing props now will throw the whole schedule off. Vivian isn’t trying to steal it from you, April. Stop making this so ugly for everyone.” Jonas rubbed the bridge of his nose, looking bone-tired. “April, it’s just for half a day. I’ll keep an eye on them. I won’t let it get damaged any further.” For four years, he had called me “April” in that low, gentle cadence. He only ever used my full, formal name when he was angry. I looked into his eyes. “Just half a day?” “I’ll put it back together with my own hands the moment we wrap.” Jonas reached over, gently slipped the black hair tie from my wrist, and gathered my windblown hair into a neat low ponytail. “The wind is picking up outside. You hate it when your hair whips across your face.” His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin behind my ear, winding the elastic twice—the exact tension I always preferred. Once again, I yielded. The shoot took place at the abandoned heritage railway station at the base of the mountain. Vivian sat on the wooden bench beneath the rusted station sign, clutching the frame, with Jonas seated beside her. Beth, directing the scene, tossed a thick crimson scarf across their laps, instructing Vivian to wrap it around Jonas’s neck. It was the scarf I had spent three months knitting by hand last winter. “Use a different one,” I said, stepping forward. Beth glanced back, annoyed. “The red pops on camera against the stone! Don’t interrupt the take.” “That was my gift to Jonas.” Vivian’s hands hovered in midair, but before she could pull the wool, Jonas intercepted it. “We won’t use it.” He walked over to where I stood on the gravel path, wrapped the scarf gently around my neck, and cupped the back of my head with a warm palm. “My things. You have the final say.” A few classmates whistled and cheered. On the bench, the smile faded from Vivian’s face. In that brief, shining second, he truly seemed to be choosing me. I gripped the fringe of the scarf, a wave of self-doubt washing over me. Perhaps I had been making mountains out of molehills. Perhaps I was suffocating him with my insecurity. The slate clapped, and the cameras rolled again. Vivian sat alone on the bench with the frame. When it was time for Jonas to step back into the frame, a sharp, metallic screech echoed down the tracks. A distant freight train sounded its long, piercing horn. Vivian clamped her hands over her ears, her entire body trembling as she shrank behind the wooden post. Jonas shoved the camera lens aside and lunged forward, throwing himself in front of her. “Look at me, Vivian! Don’t listen to it.” Vivian clutched his jacket hem, sobbing. “Can you… can you just hold me?” “Jonas.” I said his name once. He looked back at me, his eyes fractured with panic, but his arms had already encircled Vivian’s shaking shoulders. Beth physically stepped in front of me, blocking my view. “When she was trapped in that elevator, the freight train was roaring right outside the shaft! Are you really going to hold her trauma against her?” Eli lowered his camera, glaring at me. “Everyone knows Jonas’s family owes their lives to Vivian’s dad. He’s comforting his benefactor’s daughter—what is wrong with you?” Vivian buried her face in his chest, wiping tears with the back of her sleeve. “April, I’m so sorry… I can’t control it…” Jonas didn’t let go of her. Instead, he reached out, unwrapped my red scarf from my neck, and draped it over Vivian’s head, muffling her ears against the sound. “Let her borrow it for a minute,” he murmured. The fringed end of the scarf dropped into a muddy puddle between the tracks, soaking through with dark, filthy water. In the commotion, the wooden frame slipped from Vivian’s grasp. It struck the steel rail with a sharp “crack”. The shattered backboard split open, and the thick, pristine white envelope hidden beneath the pressed leaves slid out onto the gravel. 3 “The Northern Institute for Book Arts and Rare Paper Conservation. Joint Fellowship Acceptance Notice.” Eli picked up the letter from the gravel and read the official masthead aloud. Jonas shoved past him and snatched the document from his hand. His gaze scanned down to my printed name, then locked onto the stamp date at the bottom right. “You’ve had this for seven days?” “Give it back to me,” I said, stepping forward. “Why did you keep this from me?” “I was going to tell you once the trip was over.” Beth craned her neck. “Wait, isn’t that the fellowship Jonas applied for? He spent two years on the waitlist hoping for an opening. How did you get it first?” “Because this was a direct institutional nomination,” I said coldly. “It wasn’t through the general pool.” “But you two specialize in the exact same field of paper restoration,” Eli chimed in, flipping through his phone. “If April accepts the nomination, our university’s quota is filled. That means Jonas loses any chance at a supplemental spot this year.” Jonas folded the acceptance letter carefully and slid it back into the envelope. His voice softened, taking on that coaxing, soothing tone he always used when trying to de-escalate me. “April, let’s talk about this privately.” He took my hand and led me around to the stone wall behind the station depot. The wind was bitter back there. He immediately shrugged out of his heavy coat, wrapped it around my shoulders, and smoothed down my hair. “Your hands are like ice. Don’t be angry yet.” “Give me my letter, Jonas.” “I’m not keeping it from you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown paper bag of dried sour plums. “I saw these at the general store in town this morning. Bought them specifically for you.” My favorite sour plums. He hated anything tart, yet he could always pick out the exact brand I loved from a crowded shelf. I squeezed the paper bag, my knuckles whitening as his voice dropped to a low, tender murmur. “If you really want to move up north to Boston, I’ll go with you. We can break our current lease, and I’ll find a job at a local archive or studio up there. Just don’t make these life-altering decisions all on your own. Okay?” I searched his eyes. “You would really move for me?” “We promised we wouldn’t be apart after graduation.” A treacherous, shameful spark of hope flared in my chest. Perhaps those four years of pressed leaves weren’t a total lie. Perhaps the future we talked about was still real. Vivian was just a debt of gratitude he felt obligated to pay—an obligation, not a choice. “Jonas,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “I can tolerate you checking in on her. But there have to be strict boundaries. No more living under the same roof, and no more keeping secrets from me.” “I promise.” “Give me the frame back.” “The second the shoot wraps, I’ll hand it over.” Vivian’s voice drifted from around the stone corner. “Jonas? The department advisor just called back.” She stepped into view, holding out her phone. “The committee said my overseas studio hours haven’t been fully verified. They need a graduating senior from the same specialized track to sign an institutional endorsement for my portfolio.” Jonas didn’t take the phone. “Ask Eli to co-sign.” “Eli doesn’t meet the qualification threshold,” Vivian said, turning her gaze directly onto me. “April does. She has the official Fellowship acceptance—her endorsement carries the highest academic weight.” I gripped the bag of sour plums so hard the paper tore. “I won’t sign it.” The color drained from Vivian’s face. “It’s just to let me sit for the final thesis defense, April. It won’t affect your fellowship at all.” “I don’t know your portfolio, and I don’t know your restoration logs,” I replied coldly. “I will not legally vouch for work I haven’t supervised.” Beth came around the corner, grabbing my arm. “It’s just a signature! Vivian had to put her studies on hold for a year to nurse her dying father. Why do you have to be so cruel and cut off her entire future?” “You’re not the one putting your professional license on the line,” I snapped, shaking her off. “It’s very easy to be generous with someone else’s career.” “Enough!” Jonas barked, stepping between Beth and me. But as he did, he smoothly slipped my acceptance letter into his own backpack and zipped it shut. “Nobody is forcing anyone to sign right now. We’re heading back to the cabin.” I stared at his backpack. “Give me my envelope.” “You’re too worked up right now, April. You’re going to crumple it.” “Jonas. This is my boundary.” Jonas pulled the zipper tight. “When you calm down, I’ll give it back.” On the ride back in the van, Vivian sat in the passenger seat beside him, while Beth and Eli took the row behind them. I was relegated to the front bench beside the heavy metal equipment cases. Across the narrow aisle, Jonas passed me a bottle of water. The cap was already twisted open. I didn’t reach for it. He looked at me for a long moment, then placed the bag of sour plums quietly onto the seat beside my knee. “You’ll get a stomachache if you don’t eat anything sour when you’re nauseous. Don’t punish yourself.” As the van pulled into the cabin gravel, my phone chimed. An updated schedule for tomorrow evening’s department graduation symposium had been posted in the cohort group chat. The final item on the program read: “Overseas Portfolio Showcase – Vivian.” Under the field marked “Institutional Endorser”, my name had already been typed in. 4 “It’s just a placeholder,” Jonas said, closing his phone screen and pulling out a chair for me at the symposium hall. “Without your actual signature, it has no legal effect.” Long banquet tables had been arranged in the courtyard of the lodge, filled with faculty advisors, mentors, and classmates. My seat was tucked at the far edge, while Vivian sat directly beside Jonas, the dismantled glass frame resting on the table before her. The four pressed sycamore leaves were pasted onto the cover of her portfolio binder. The title was embossed in gold: “The Journey Home.” I reached across the linen tablecloth to seize the binder, but Beth immediately slammed her hand down on the edge. “The presentations are about to start! Don’t make a scene here.” “Those are my leaves,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. Vivian stood up, her lip quivering. “Jonas told me I could use them as design accents. I didn’t realize you were still so angry about it, April. If it bothers you this much, I won’t present.” She reached out to peel the first leaf off the heavy cardstock. The delicate veins had been set with industrial craft glue. The second her fingernail caught the edge, the brittle, dried leaf snapped in half. “Stop touching it!” My voice cracked across the quiet courtyard. Jonas caught Vivian’s wrist, grabbed a pair of fine tweezers from his toolkit, and began meticulously separating the leaf from the paper. He managed to salvage most of the first one, but the second leaf had fused entirely with the backing sheet. He looked up at me, his eyes full of pleading. “I can fix it, April. I promise you.” “You promised you wouldn’t let them break it in the first place.” Jonas’s jaw tightened, but he offered no defense. He retrieved a sheet of sterile mulberry paper, gently laid the broken fragments inside, and dragged his chair all the way over to my side of the table. “Sit down, April. I won’t let her touch them again. Once this showcase is over, I’ll help you mount them into a new frame.” He reached into his breast pocket and handed me the pristine white envelope. The paper was smooth, uncreased. “And here is this. I’m giving it back. When we get back to town, we’ll figure out Boston together.” I clutched the envelope, my knuckles white, and sat down. He had stopped Vivian from using the project, returned my fellowship letter, and chosen to sit beside me in front of all our peers and professors. In four days, this was the first clear, unambiguous choice he had made in my favor. When the moderator announced Vivian’s name, she didn’t step up to the podium. She kept her head down, quietly packing away her binders. Just then, Jonas’s phone buzzed loudly against the wood. It was an incoming call from his father. The courtyard was so quiet that when Jonas answered, the older man’s booming, exasperated voice spilled through the receiver for everyone to hear. “Jonas! Why hasn’t Vivian’s portfolio endorsement gone through yet? Mr. Hardy entrusted that girl to our family on his deathbed! You cannot let her walk away without her degree!” Jonas pressed his thumb over the mic. “Dad, this is April’s professional decision.” “You and April have been solid for four years! Missing one signature isn’t going to break you two up! Vivian has nothing left in this world—how many times do you expect her to beg on her knees?” Beth’s eyes were red with indignation. “April, we stayed in that drafty cabin, we gave you your acceptance letter back—do you seriously need the entire world to beg you before you show an ounce of human decency?” Eli shoved the endorsement form in front of my face. “It’s just an attestation that she completed foundational lab hours! The department board conducts the final review anyway—you won’t be held liable!” “Then find someone else to sign it.” “No one else has the credential,” Vivian whispered, her hands shaking over her portfolio. “Forget it, Jonas. My father didn’t give his life for yours just so I could hold it over your head. I’ll just drop out.” She reached out to rip the registration form in half. Jonas’s hand shot out, catching her wrist before the paper could tear. I saw the violent hesitation in his eyes. And then, as his gaze turned back toward me, that familiar, stubborn certainty hardened on his face. “April,” he said, his voice dropping into that pleading, suffocating pressure. “Help her. Just this once.” “I will not sign.” “If she doesn’t get the degree, she loses her studio apprenticeship.” “That is the consequence of her own incomplete coursework.” “April!” He barked my name, the frustration finally snapping through. “You already have the most prestigious fellowship in the country! Why can’t you leave a single path open for her?” The entire courtyard fell dead silent. Dozens of eyes burned into my back. The senior advisor flipped through Vivian’s submitted portfolio, pointing at the signature line on the final page. “Once the endorser signs, both students’ portfolios undergo a joint ethics review. April, think carefully before you proceed.” “I refuse to endorse it,” I said clearly. Jonas reached over and pulled the acceptance letter out of my hands. “Then we’ll temporarily defer your fellowship confirmation. We’ll wait until Vivian’s board review is complete, so it’s fair to both of you.” I stood up, my chair scraping violently against the flagstones. “By what right do you touch my future?” “Your online portal passcode is our anniversary date,” Jonas said, his fingers already flying across his phone screen. “I’m only submitting a temporary deferral request, April. I’m not canceling it. The second Vivian’s graduation is secured, I will personally reinstate your acceptance.” “Let go of me!” Beth stepped into the aisle, physically blocking the courtyard exit. “We’re not done sorting this out! Where do you think you’re going?” Jonas held me with one hand while tapping the confirmation portal with the other. He was still the same boy who remembered every password, every date, every tiny detail of my life. The very familiarity that once made me feel cherished had now become the cage that trapped me. Suddenly, Vivian picked up her portfolio binder and thrust it toward me. “Fine, April! If you won’t sign, take your damn leaves back!” She jerked the binder. The four dried sycamore leaves slipped from the loose plastic sleeves and fell straight into a wide ceramic mug of boiling tea on the table. The delicate, brittle veins expanded in the scalding liquid, instantly dissolving into dark, soggy mush as they sank to the bottom. Jonas instinctively reached into the scalding water to fish them out. Before his fingers could touch the surface, I reached over and pressed the power button on his phone, killing the bright screen. Then, I pulled off the simple silver ring he had given me for our third anniversary and dropped it into the mug of tea. It hit the ceramic bottom with a dull “clink”, settling right into the ruined leaves. His phone screen had been frozen one second before the deferral request could be submitted. “You don’t need to defer anything,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “I already formally accepted the fellowship.” Jonas looked up, dazed. “When?” “The night you left me alone in the leaking attic.” I pulled my arm from his grip and picked up my duffel bag, which had been sitting packed by my chair since dawn. Accepting that fellowship meant forfeiting the three-year apartment lease we had signed in the city. It also meant the supplemental candidate on the waitlist—Jonas—would never get the call. Outside the courtyard gates, the official shuttle from the Northern Conservation Institute was idling, its headlights cutting through the dusk. Jonas sprinted to the gate, catching the handle of my rolling bag. “April! The lease has three full years left! What about our home? What about our life?” I reached down and peeled his fingers off the handle, one by one. Behind us, the advisor at the table flipped to the very first preservation log in Vivian’s portfolio binder and suddenly shouted Jonas’s name across the courtyard. “Jonas! This portfolio piece wasn’t restored by Vivian! The primary registry and archive seal belong to April!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “580230”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On my twenty-fourth birthday, Jonas proposed to me. We were standing in the heart of the city, surrounded by a swelling crowd, when the towering digital billboard above the skyline lit up against the dusk. “Vivian, marry me.” Vivian was my older sister. Four years ago, she died in a violent car crash on the highway while driving to the airport to pick me up. Jonas, shattered by the loss, slipped into a severe, unyielding psychiatric break. In his mind, reality fractured, and the doctors warned that forcing the truth on him could push him over the edge. Consumed by the suffocating weight of survivor’s guilt, I agreed to play the part. I became her ghost. I became my sister’s substitute. Standing under the neon glow, looking into Jonas’s misted, tender eyes, I held back my tears and nodded, whispering, “Yes.” I reached out my right hand for the ring. In a split second, the tenderness vanished. His face contorted with sudden, feral rage. “Why are your nails painted?” he snarled, his grip turning to iron. “Vivian hated nail polish! She never wore this garbage!” The cheers around us curdled into terrified screams. Jonas seized my fingers, wrenching and tearing at the acrylics until my real nails ripped away from the nail beds, one by one. The blinding, searing agony tore through my nervous system, and everything went black. Cruelties like this had happened too many times to count. I once had hair that fell to my waist, but Vivian wore hers in a chic, shoulder-grazing bob. In a fit of manic rage, Jonas took kitchen shears and hacked off the eighteen years of hair I had carefully grown. I wasn’t allowed to touch sweets because Vivian detested sugar; I couldn’t listen to indie folk because Vivian favored classical; I couldn’t wear heels because Vivian preferred flats. The moment I slipped—the moment I acted like myself instead of her—Jonas lost control. When I opened my eyes, the stark white ceiling of a private hospital room greeted me. Outside the cracked door, Jonas was speaking in hushed tones with his close friend, Dr. Evans. “It’s been four years, Jonas,” Dr. Evans murmured, his voice heavy with fatigue. “Let Aurora go. And let yourself go, too.” “How do you know she isn’t enjoying every second of it?” Jonas’s voice drifted through the gap, freezing, detached, and razor-sharp. “I went through her journal. She developed feelings for me. Pathetic, disgusting feelings.” He paused, his tone laced with venom. “Just looking at her makes my stomach turn.” Beneath the thin hospital blanket, my bandaged hands clenched so tightly that fresh blood seeped through the gauze. The one-woman show I had been performing for four years had finally reached its curtain call. … The air conditioning hummed, blowing a frigid draft that made me shiver uncontrollably. “Jonas, what happened back then was an accident,” Dr. Evans pleaded softly. “Why take it out on Aurora? She’s endured hell for four years just to treat your supposed ‘condition.’ If she ever finds out you’ve been faking this entire breakdown…” “An accident?” Jonas cut him off with a harsh, mocking laugh. “If she hadn’t demanded to come home unannounced, Vivian wouldn’t have driven out in the middle of a torrential storm. She wouldn’t have died.” I could hear the bitter sneer in his breath. “In her diary, Aurora wrote that her only birthday wish this year was to cure me—to pull me out of the dark. Well, three days from now, at our wedding, I’m going to grant her wish.” Dr. Evans sounded alarmed. “What are you planning to do?” “I’m going to expose her in front of everyone,” Jonas said, his voice twisting with malice. “I’ll project pages of her diary on the big screen. I’ll let our families, our friends, and the press see how she used my grief as an excuse to crawl into my bed. I want the world to know what kind of vile, shameless parasite she is—stealing her dead sister’s fiancé.” Dr. Evans gasped. “Jonas, are you insane? Aren’t you afraid she’ll break? What if she hurts herself?” Jonas’s silence was deafening. When he finally spoke, every syllable was carved from ice. “If she’s truly that fragile, she can consider her death an apology to Vivian. But if she survives the humiliation… then I’ll pretend my mind cleared up. I’ll play the honorable man, take responsibility, marry her, and bury the past for good.” He paused, glancing through the small window in the door. I saw a flicker of something dark and unreadable pass through his eyes—an unsettling, possessive shadow. Dr. Evans hesitated before asking, “Jonas… be honest with yourself. In these four years, haven’t you developed even a shred of real feeling for Aurora?” Jonas didn’t answer. He simply patted Dr. Evans on the shoulder and instructed him to call the moment I woke up before walking away down the sterile hallway. Once their footsteps faded into nothingness, I slowly opened my eyes. The fragile love, the patient hope, the quiet devotion I had harbored in the deepest corners of my chest shattered entirely. His words crashed over me like freezing tidal waves, dragging me under until I couldn’t breathe. Four years ago, upon learning of Vivian’s death, Jonas collapsed in acute shock. When he woke, he looked at me and called me “Vivian”. Dr. Evans told me Jonas had developed severe dissociative grief, warning that any sudden shock could drive him to suicide, and begged me to play along for his therapy. Choked by guilt, believing my sister died because of me, I agreed without hesitation. Whenever Jonas had lucid intervals, he would apologize profusely for the physical pain he caused during his “episodes.” He took me on quiet dates, brought me flowers, and looked at me with tenderness. Slowly, helplessly, I fell for him. I foolishly believed that once he healed, I would finally step out of the shadows and stand by his side simply as Aurora. It had all been a lie. These four years were not treatment. They were Jonas’s meticulously designed torture chamber. With trembling, bandaged fingers, I retrieved my phone and opened my inbox. Sitting there was an official job offer from an architectural design firm in London. The start date listed on the contract was three days away—the exact day of the wedding. Without a second of hesitation, I clicked “Accept”. The wedding would go on as planned. Only the bride would be different. … The next morning, my parents rushed into the hospital room. Before I could open my mouth to tell them about Jonas’s deception, my mother pulled a chair up to the bed, her face drawn in sharp disapproval. “Aurora, what on earth were you thinking, wearing nail polish?” she snapped, lowering her voice. “You know Vivian never touched that stuff. Jonas’s mental state is hanging by a thread—he can’t handle triggers like that!” She leaned in, her eyes hard. “Until the ceremony is over, I’m staying right by your side to make sure you don’t step out of line. You have to be Vivian.” My father stood by the doorway, his shoulders slumped, wearing his usual look of exhausted indifference. “Listen to your mother, Aurora. Play Vivian properly. Your brother is graduating this spring, and his placement at that private equity firm depends entirely on Jonas’s connections. If it weren’t for Jonas funding his Ivy League tuition these past four years, our family would never have had this kind of prestige.” I opened my mouth, the words burning at the back of my throat, but I swallowed them down. They didn’t care about the truth. Even if they knew Jonas was sane, they would order me to keep playing the part. They needed his money and influence to pave Leo’s golden future. If they caught wind of my plan to leave, they would lock me in a room until I walked down that aisle. Footsteps echoed outside, and Jonas stepped into the room. My father immediately straightened up, bowing slightly. “Jonas! We were just lecturing Aurora about yesterday. She knows she made a mistake. It won’t happen again.” Jonas walked right past him, his gaze fixing onto my bandaged hands with an expression of profound, agonizing heartbreak. “Vivian… what happened to your hands?” Before anyone could speak, he raised his own hand and slapped himself across the face with a brutal crack. “It’s my fault,” he choked out, his eyes brimming with tears. “I failed to protect you. I swear, Vivian, I will never let anyone hurt you again.” I stared at his reddened cheek and the glossy sheen of tears in his eyes. A cold numbness washed over me. His acting was flawless. For four years, he hadn’t dropped character once. No wonder I had been such an easy mark. Seeing me remain silent, Jonas knelt by my bedside, taking my wrapped hands gently into his own. “Rest these few days, my love,” he whispered softly, his voice thick with devotion. “I’ll handle the wedding. Everything is designed according to your taste. I’m going to make you the most beautiful bride in the world.” The warmth radiating from his eyes was intoxicating enough to melt steel. But I knew the venom hiding beneath it. “I want the world to know what kind of vile, shameless parasite she is.” The phantom echo of his voice rang in my ears. I wanted to scream, to laugh, but my trembling lips flattened into a quiet, resigned line. I lowered my eyes. “Okay.” My parents exchanged satisfied glances and quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door behind them. Jonas stood up, pulled back the edge of the blanket, and climbed onto the narrow hospital bed. He slid an arm beneath my neck, pulling my head onto his chest, while his other arm draped lightly over my waist. “Vivian, it’s still early. Let me hold you while you sleep.” Vivian hated sleeping alone. At home, our mother slept in her room; after she began dating Jonas, he stayed by her side every night. Lying against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat, my body went rigid with dread. A second later, Jonas’s eyes snapped open. “Aurora!” Before I could react, he kicked me violently off the bed. My forehead slammed into the sharp mahogany corner of the nightstand. A warm, sticky trail of blood immediately ran down my temple, dripping onto the floor. As if snapping out of a trance, Jonas scrambled off the bed, his face pale with horror, and scooped me up. “I’m sorry, Aurora… I’m so sorry. I lost control again. The episode just took over.” I kept my lips pressed together, tasting copper, and said nothing. Two years ago, he had gotten heavily drunk and pulled me into his bed. That was the night we crossed the line. The following morning, before I even opened my eyes, he seized my bare arm and dragged me out into the hotel hallway, tossing a single towel at me to cover myself. He had stood in the doorway, shaking with rage, his eyes wild. “Aurora! I’m your sister’s fiancé! How could you take advantage of my drunkenness to crawl into my bed? How can you be so utterly shameless?” His furious shouts had echoed through the corridor. Guests opened their doors to gawk, and someone snapped pictures of my humiliated, half-naked state and posted them online. I was twenty-two, freshly graduated with a promising architectural job offer that was instantly revoked because of the scandal. Afterward, full of tearful remorse, Jonas gave me a position at his firm to “make it up to me.” Back then, I believed he was truly ill. I swallowed every drop of humiliation because I thought he was suffering more than I was. In the hospital room, a nurse cleaned and dressed the gash on my forehead. My mother walked back in, saw the fresh bandages, and frowned deeply. “How could you be so careless? The wedding is in three days! You have to protect your face—it’s the only part of you that looks like Vivian. If you upset Jonas and ruin your brother’s future, don’t bother coming home.” My father chimed in from behind her. “Aurora, we’re only saying this for your own good. A man like Jonas is the best match you could ever hope for. You need to learn gratitude.” I kept my head down and smiled faintly. “I’m grateful.” They gave me a few more sharp warnings about keeping Jonas happy before leaving to inspect the venue. When Jonas returned from settling the medical bill, he carried an embossed luxury shopping bag. “Vivian, today is our tenth anniversary,” he said with an easy, radiant smile. “I had my assistant book a table at the rooftop restaurant downtown. Put this on tonight. I’ll come pick you up at seven.” Another performance. I didn’t break character. “All right. I’ll be waiting.” The dress inside was Vivian’s size—a tight, structured silk sheath that was a full size too small for my frame. I spent the afternoon fasting, barely sipping water, and had to hold my breath just to zip it up. Walking was agonizing; every step threatened to tear the seams or pull the hem up too high. When Jonas arrived, he offered no coat. Passersby in the restaurant lobby cast lingering, uncomfortable glances at my exposed skin and strained posture. Jonas walked beside me with an air of absolute normalcy—or rather, quiet satisfaction. At the restaurant, he pulled out my chair with theatrical chivalry. “I ordered all of your favorites tonight, darling. Seafood. You’re going to love it.” Plate after plate of lavish seafood was brought to the table—king crab, oysters, lobster. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, not touching a single fork. I had a severe, life-threatening shellfish allergy. Even a tiny trace caused anaphylaxis, swelling my throat shut within minutes. Jonas knew this. He had seen my medical chart. Yet he cracked open a crab leg, dipped the meat in butter, and placed it directly onto my plate with a broad smile. “Eat, Vivian. Everything is ready.” I looked directly into his eyes. “I can’t eat seafood.” The smile on Jonas’s face vanished instantly. He slammed his palms against the table, rising like a towering shadow, his eyes burning with cold fury. “You’re not her,” he hissed, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. “Vivian loved seafood! She had a sensitive stomach, but she loved it so much she’d eat until her belly ached. How dare you say you can’t eat it?” He rounded the table, grabbed the chunk of crab meat from the plate, and shoved it toward my mouth. “Eat it!” I clamped my teeth shut, thrashing wildly with my bandaged hands, knocking over wine glasses that shattered on the marble floor. But Jonas was relentless. His fingers clamped around my jaw with crushing force, wrenching it sideways until a sickening “pop” signaled the dislocation of my joint. My mouth was forced open. The crab meat was shoved down my throat. Almost instantly, a suffocating constriction clamped around my airway. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird, dark spots blooming across my vision as I gasped for air that wouldn’t come. As the world dissolved into blackness, Jonas leaned down, his lips brushing my ear in a chilling whisper: “Aurora… why wasn’t it you who died that night?” … When I awoke, I was back in the sterile white room. Jonas sat by the edge of my bed, holding my hand, his face etched with familiar, theatrical remorse. “Aurora, forgive me… I lost control again. I swear to you, this was the last time. It will never happen again.” I gave a weak, barely perceptible nod. “Okay.” I didn’t believe him. But it didn’t matter anymore. He would never get the chance to hurt me again. Seeing the faint, victorious smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, I made a silent promise to the empty room. “Jonas, I hope you love the wedding gift I left for you.” … On the morning of the wedding, the bridal suite smelled of fresh-cut peonies and expensive champagne. My parents and my brother Leo were practically glowing. The moment the vows were exchanged, my parents would take possession of the multi-million-dollar estate Jonas had promised them, and Leo’s high-paying executive job would be finalized. Jonas had spared no expense. The cathedral was drowning in imported white orchids; the bespoke gown had been flown in overnight from Paris; the guest list included high-society elites, city officials, and prominent media outlets invited to livestream the event. In the dressing room, my mother sat on the velvet sofa, crossing her legs as she watched the makeup artist finish. “Aurora, remember that everything you have today is because of Vivian and us,” she said, her voice dripping with self-satisfied authority. “When you walk down that aisle, smile properly. Jonas loves Vivian’s smile. And after the ceremony, we’ll go down to city hall to legally change your name to Vivian. We can’t have Jonas seeing the wrong name on the marriage certificate and having another episode.” She spoke with sickening enthusiasm, as if erasing my identity entirely was a generous gift. My father tapped my shoulder before walking out. “We’ll be sitting in the front row, Aurora. Don’t be nervous.” I didn’t look at them. A few minutes later, Jonas entered the room. Seeing the gown draped over my form, his lips curled into a pleased, triumphant smile. “You look stunning, Vivian. You’ll be the most breathtaking bride today. I have a surprise waiting for you on stage… something you’ll never forget.” I looked at him through the grand mirror. “Jonas,” I said quietly, my voice level. “If you call off this wedding right now, there’s still time.” Jonas frowned slightly, entirely oblivious to the fact that his game had been exposed. He rested his hands on my shoulders, softening his voice. “Are you getting cold feet, darling? Don’t worry. I’m right here. I’ll be waiting for you at the altar.” He turned and walked out. The bridal suite fell into profound silence. I took off the diamond earrings. I unzipped the couture dress, letting the heavy white silk pool at my feet like shed skin, and pulled on my simple jeans and dark sweater. Reaching into the back of the wardrobe, I pulled out my small, pre-packed carry-on suitcase, slipped out the service exit of the hotel, and stepped into a waiting cab headed straight for JFK. … Inside the grand cathedral, the organ swelled with the opening chords of the bridal march. The heavy double doors swung open. Standing at the altar, Jonas watched the veiled bride take slow, measured steps down the aisle toward him. For some inexplicable reason, Aurora’s bright, sorrowful eyes flashed through his mind. A sudden, uncharacteristic wave of anxiety tightened in his chest; a bead of cold sweat rolled down his temple. The officiant smiled and announced into the microphone: “Ladies and gentlemen, please direct your attention to the screens for a look at the journey that brought this bride and groom together—” “Shut it off!” Jonas suddenly roared, panic lurching in his throat. It was too late. The technician hit play, and the massive LED walls illuminated. The chatter in the cathedral abruptly died. The images flickering across the screens were not the diary entries Jonas intended to broadcast. They were high-resolution photographs of Vivian—alive, laughing, wrapped in the arms of a handsome man on yachts in Monaco, dining in Milan, lounging on private beaches in the Caribbean. Below each photograph was a clear, unassailable timestamp spanning the last four years. “Isn’t that Vivian?” a guest whispered loudly. “Didn’t she die in a car crash four years ago?” “Is this some kind of sick deepfake? How could a dead woman take photos in Paris last month?” “I heard Jonas kept her sister as a replacement… is this Aurora’s revenge?” Jonas whipped around, staring at the screens, his blood turning to ice. With shaking hands, he lunged forward and ripped the veil off the woman standing before him. “Vivian?!”

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My sister had a gift—or a curse, depending on whose side of the grave you were standing on. She could see the last meal every human being would ever eat before they died. When we were kids, she pointed at our grandmother sitting on the porch and said, “Cheeseburger.” The next afternoon, Grandmother—a woman who had spent seventy years preaching against fast food—choked to death on a takeout burger our cousin had accidentally brought home. A year later, she pointed across the driveway at our neighbor and whispered, “Shrimp chowder.” The neighbor, who carried an EpiPen everywhere because of a severe shellfish allergy, died of anaphylaxis when a delivery order got mixed up on a rainy Tuesday. And then, my sister set her sights on the man I loved. When she failed to steal my fiancé, she stood in the center of the room, stared directly at his face, and said, “Vanilla cake.” Before I could scream, before my lungs could find air, he had already taken a bite of the pastry sitting on the sideboard. He dropped dead on the carpet, right in front of me. While I collapsed into the abyss of my grief, my sister wore a smug, radiant grin. “I don’t just see the final meal,” she whispered into my ear. “Once I say the words out loud, the sentence is executed.” My fiancé’s family branded me a curse, a black widow in training. My relatives turned their backs on me, whispering that tragedy followed wherever I walked. Meanwhile, my sister turned her lethal clairvoyance into a goldmine, charging fortunes to rid the ruthless of their rivals. Three years passed. I rebuilt my life in another city and met someone else—a man far wealthier, stronger, and more powerful than the fiancé I had lost. Today was our wedding day. And once again, uninvited, she appeared. “Clara,” she sneered, stepping into the aisle, her gown shimmering in the chandelier light. “Hand your fiancé over to me right now. Or you die.” I adjusted my veil and let a slow, icy smile touch my lips. “And what if I say no?” … My knuckles turned white against the lace of my wedding gown as my eyes locked onto Kendra. Around us, the grand ballroom of the coastal estate dissolved into a low hum of confused murmurs. “Who is that? Why is the bride’s sister dressed like she’s the one walking down the aisle?” “She wasn’t on the program. Looks more like she came to burn the place down.” Kendra had started her entrance with that familiar, predatory swagger, her eyes fixed arrogantly on the space just above my head. But suddenly, she froze. Her pupils dilated, shuddering violently. “Wait… what is that?” She took two halting steps forward, squinting, craning her neck as if trying to decipher something impossible hovering over my hair. A shadow of doubt crossed her face, and for a fleeting second, she looked unsettled. Then, shaking her head as if shaking off a momentary hallucination, she muttered under her breath, “No. I must have misread it.” Exhaling sharply, she regained her sneering composure and turned toward the man beside me. “You’re Paul Sterling, aren’t you? The eldest son of the Sterling empire. CEO of the entire shipping conglomerate.” Kendra tilted her chin up, looking at him as if he were a prize she was graciously deigning to claim. “Your pedigree is adequate. Barely. So I’m giving you one chance: throw Clara out into the street, marry me right now, and sign over your assets to my name. If you refuse, you’ll end up in a morgue drawer before the night is out. Don’t believe me? Just ask your darling bride.” The room erupted into an uproar. Several of the board members and family associates muttered that the girl had clearly lost her mind, speaking to Paul Sterling with such brazen lunacy. Yet Kendra stood there, overflowing with that same unshakeable, grotesque confidence she had worn the day she killed the first man I loved. Paul squeezed my hand, his palm warm and steady, though his brow furrowed with concern. “Clara, is this really your sister? Do you need me to have security escort her out?” I shook my head gently, offering him a calm, reassuring smile. “She is my sister. But calling security won’t do any good. If she wants someone dead, they die. Instantly.” A collective gasp rippled through the front rows. “What? Murder?” “On a wedding day? Is this a joke?” An older investor near the second row scoffed, eyeing Kendra’s petite frame with open contempt. “A scrawny little girl talking about murder? What is this, some tacky piece of wedding theater?” He chuckled, turning to the guest beside him. “Look at her—she doesn’t have half the grace of her sister. Looks like a back-alley stray, and she thinks she can march into the Sterling family?” That man was Marcus Thorne, a high-ranking executive in the shipping syndicate. And his insult had hit Kendra like a slap. Her head snapped toward Marcus. Her eyes narrowed into slits, staring intently at the space above his silvering hair for three silent, suffocating seconds. Then, a cold, breathless laugh slipped from her lips. “You miserable old bastard. Enjoy the crossing. “Lobster bisque.” On every banquet table in the room sat an exquisite, chef-curated tasting menu, featuring steaming bowls of artisanal seafood bisque. The ballroom hung in an awkward, stifled silence for a few beats. A few nervous chuckles broke out, assuming Kendra was simply having a hysterical meltdown over the catering. Then, Marcus Thorne’s face turned an ashen, bruised purple. His eyes bulged. His hands flew to his throat, his fingernails digging frantically into his collar as he fought for air that would not come. He lurched out of his chair, gasping, knocking over crystal champagne flutes, before collapsing heavily onto the polished marble floor, white foam bubbling at the corners of his mouth. Within twenty seconds, he went completely still. “My God! He’s dead!” “Is the soup poisoned? The food is poisoned!” Screams tore through the hall. Pandemonium broke loose as guests scrambled from their chairs, some lunging for their phones to dial 911, others rushing toward the towering double doors of the ballroom. Before the panic could spill out, I gave a sharp signal. Paul’s private security detail moved instantly, locking the heavy brass doors from the inside. Simultaneously, our installed signal jammers activated, cutting every cell phone in the room from the outside world. Two guards swiftly lifted Marcus’s body and carried him through the discreet service door toward the back kitchen. The guests stood frozen, staring at Kendra in sheer, unadulterated horror. Kendra reveled in it, her chest heaving with delight. “Clara! Did you really think running away to this coast for a year would save you from me? Keep dreaming!” she yelled, her voice bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. “Whatever Kendra wants, Kendra takes. Even if I have to track you to the ends of the earth!” I took a deep, steadying breath, lifted the microphone from the podium, and spoke into the silence. “I knew this day would come,” I said, my voice smooth and resonant. “Which is why we prepared for it. Everyone, please remain calm. Mr. Thorne was not poisoned. Every dish on these tables is entirely safe. It was simply his fate to die after tasting the bisque.” I looked across the sea of terrified faces. “The ceremony is not over. The Sterling family values discretion above all else; we will not allow rumors or hysteria to leak onto the internet, which is why your phones have no service. My wedding will not be ruined a second time by my sister. Please remain in your seats. The reception will continue.” A deathly quiet settled over the room. No one dared touch their silverware. Kendra kept her predatory glare locked on me. “That was just a courtesy demonstration. Hand Paul over, or I’ll go down the line and read out every single person’s execution meal.” Paul pulled me closer against his side, his voice a low, protective rumble. “Clara, shouldn’t we call the police?” “The police can’t stop this,” I whispered, sighing softly. “Let me tell them the story instead.” Kendra had hated me since the day she was old enough to look in a mirror. She was born plain and sullen, while I was favored with our mother’s looks and top marks at school. Our parents loved me openly, and that love festered like rot in Kendra’s chest. Then, during her teenage years, she woke up with an impossible sight: she could see the last meal hovering above people’s heads. Grandmother. The neighbor. The girls at school who didn’t invite her to parties. Even celebrities she despised on television. As long as she named the food out loud, death arrived with ruthless, terrifying punctuality. For ten years, she had never been wrong. Eventually, word leaked into the darker corners of high society. Desperate, corrupt people sought Kendra out, paying her to look at their enemies so those rivals would quietly perish in bizarre, inexplicable food-related accidents. The authorities could only ever rule the deaths as choking, heart failure, or misdiagnosed allergies. After all, how could a prosecutor indict someone for simply uttering the word “pancake”? Corporate magnates paid her fortunes to eliminate competitors. Kendra grew rich, and with every deposit into her accounts, our parents began to treat her like a queen—and me like an outcast. It wasn’t affection they felt for her; it was raw, paralyzing terror. They lived in mortal fear that she would look at them across the breakfast table and whisper a word that would end their lives. She reduced me to eating her scraps, wearing her cast-offs, treating me like a servant in my own childhood home. “If you want to stay breathing, Clara,” she would whisper, digging her nails into my shoulder, “you obey me.” To survive, I endured it. Until I met Landon. Landon was handsome, kind, and possessed an integrity that didn’t bend. When Kendra set her sights on him, flaunting her money and trying repeatedly to seduce him, Landon didn’t take the bait. He firmly, coldly told her to back off. Enraged, Kendra hired local thugs to assault me in an alley behind my apartment. If Landon hadn’t arrived in the nick of time, fighting them off and pulling me into his arms, I would have been destroyed. That night, my hatred for Kendra hardened into something solid and permanent. I confessed everything to Landon—Kendra’s supernatural curse, the terror our family lived under. He listened quietly for a long time, his brow knitted. “It sounds like a psychological trick, Clara. Think about it: if someone simply avoids eating whatever she names, do they become immortal? That defies basic science. Don’t be afraid. Once we’re married, I’m taking you abroad. We’ll leave her behind forever.” I couldn’t convince him. No matter how much I begged him to take her seriously, his rational mind refused to accept the impossible. On the day of our engagement party, I didn’t invite Kendra. Yet she appeared anyway, clad in an immaculate white gown, her eyes dripping with resentment. “Landon,” she had purred, stepping between us. “Are you really going to choose my plain sister over me? One last chance.” Landon placed his hand over mine and smiled calmly. “I love Clara. She’s the only woman I will ever marry.” Kendra’s expression darkened, and she pointed a single, painted finger at him. “Vanilla cake.” My breath hitched. On the dessert cart nearby sat a platter of vintage-style sponge cake. My heart violently seized. “Landon! Don’t eat the cake!” I lunged forward, but Landon merely offered a faint, skeptical smile. “What, my final meal is cake? Clara, watch me break this ridiculous superstition once and for all.” Before I could stop his hand, he slipped a bite into his mouth. Kendra smiled a grotesque, triumphant little smile and turned on her heel. Within three minutes, Landon’s skin turned the color of chalk. He collapsed across the linen-covered table, dead of sudden cardiac arrest before the paramedics even reached the driveway. His family went half-mad with grief, demanding an autopsy. But the lab found no poison, no foul play—just an inexplicable failure of a healthy heart. I cornered Kendra that night. “Why didn’t you just kill me too? Tell me my meal! Let me die with him!” She had looked up at the space above my head, frowned for several seconds, and then laughed wickedly. “Where’s the fun in that? I want you to live in terror. I want you to rot slowly in fear.” Desperate, I begged our parents to pack their bags and flee the country with me. The night before our flight, my parents were found dead at the kitchen table. Their last meal had been homemade meat pies. I broke down and went to the police, screaming that Kendra was a murderer. But the detectives looked at me with pity and irritation—how could a girl kill her parents by saying the word “pie”? For three years, I chased every whisper of the occult. I consulted mystics, astrologers, spiritual mediums, searching for a way to break her grip. The most renowned was an old spiritual practitioner who claimed to cleanse demonic entities. He set up an altar to purge Kendra. Kendra had merely glanced at him from across the room and muttered, “Sticky rice.” Three days later, the old man passed away in his sleep. His autopsy confirmed his last meal was sticky rice. I fell into absolute despair. Finally, under the cover of a midnight storm, I packed a single bag, abandoned everything, and fled across the coast to start over. For a year, there was peace. Then I met Paul. Paul was everything Landon had been—brilliant, protective, and unyielding—backed by the immense wealth of the Sterling legacy. Somehow, Kendra found out. The threatening messages began flooding my phone. “How does a worthless bitch like you land an heir to a fortune?” “Tell me where you are. Hand him over to me, or you won’t survive the year.” I blocked every number she used. And now, here she was, standing in the middle of my wedding aisle. “She’s like a parasite,” Paul muttered beside me, his jaw set, glaring at Kendra. I squeezed his arm, my voice trembling with crafted sorrow. “Paul, I love you. I want to protect you, but more than that, I need you alive. You saw what happened to Marcus Thorne. If she speaks your meal…” I turned to face the terrified room. “You don’t understand how absolute this is. There was a man whose meal she declared to be whole milk. He scoffed, purged his house of dairy, and avoided it religiously for weeks. But on the day he let his guard down, his wife took an exotic milk-infused bath before bed… they embraced, and he went into cardiac arrest within minutes.” The silence in the hall was suffocating. “Once she opens her mouth, the trigger is inevitable.” Kendra’s eyes locked greedily onto the five-carat diamond resting on my left hand. “Exactly!” Kendra cackled. “Paul, if you want to see tomorrow’s sunrise, you take off her ring and put it on mine! Her last fiancé died because he thought he was smarter than destiny!” Paul sneered, lacing his fingers through mine. “Bullshit.” He stepped in front of me, his voice ringing out across the hall. “I don’t care what kind of parlor tricks or dark magic you think you wield. In this life, I love only Clara!” “Paul, no!” I gasped, pretending to reach for his mouth too late. A look of pure malice twisted Kendra’s features. She stared at the crown of Paul’s head and whispered three venomous words: “Dark chocolate truffle.” Paul let out a dry, defiant chuckle. “I’ve despised dark chocolate since childhood. I don’t touch it. The Sterling estate oversees every morsel that enters my kitchen—” Suddenly, his voice cut off. His posture froze. His eyes widened in sheer, paralyzing horror as he turned his gaze to me. “The wedding favors…” he choked out. My breath caught. “What?” “In the limousine on the way here… my blood sugar was dropping. I opened a gift box and ate a small dark chocolate truff—” Before the word left his lips, Paul’s complexion drained to ghost-white. He clutched his chest, gasped violently, and collapsed onto his knees! “Paul!” I dropped to the floor, catching his shoulders as he slumped against me. Kendra threw her head back, laughing hysterically. “Who told you the food has to be eaten “after” I speak? Once I perceive your final meal, even if you ate it yesterday, the clock runs out the moment the word leaves my lips!” Paul’s skin grew icy under my hands. With the last ounce of his strength, his trembling fingers brushed my cheek, his lips barely moving. “I’m sorry… Clara… I couldn’t… protect you…” Tears streamed down my face. “Paul! No, please!” The ballroom erupted into chaos. High-society women wailed, men backed into corners, clutching their chests, terrified that drawing a single breath might draw Kendra’s gaze. Fighting back my sobs, I looked at the head of security. “Take my fiancé’s body to the back. Don’t… don’t let him lie out here.” “Are you out of your mind?!” an elderly guest screamed from the back. “Your groom just dropped dead and you’re not calling the FBI? Tackle that monster!” I turned a freezing glare toward him. “Do you want her to read your meal next?” The man’s mouth snapped shut instantly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed his own terror. Kendra strutted up the aisle, drunk on power. “Losing Paul is a shame,” she purred, looking down at his empty spot. “A handsome man. But since he was foolish, he’s just a corpse now.” She turned her gaze onto the room—dozens of the wealthiest elites on the eastern seaboard. “I can see every single meal floating above your heads,” Kendra announced, her voice sweet and lethal. “If you want to walk out of this hall alive, every family writes me a check for twenty million dollars. Make me the new queen of this city. Refuse, and you and your children will be dead before midnight. The police can’t touch me—legally, it’s just a tragic medical coincidence!” The terror was absolute. A hedge-fund billionaire broke first, his hands shaking violently as he pulled out a leather-bound checkbook, scribbling zeros with trembling ink, desperate not to end up like Marcus Thorne or Paul Sterling. Within minutes, Kendra held a stack of checks worth hundreds of millions. As one tech executive handed over his slip and turned to leave, Kendra’s hand darted out, grabbing his sleeve. “Wait a minute. What screen were you just on? A satellite phone?” She snatched the rugged backup device from his inner pocket. It bypassed the ballroom’s jammers. On the screen was an unsent SOS message to federal authorities. Kendra’s face darkened with rage. The executive turned white as paper. “Please—” “You dare cross me?” Kendra hissed. “Your last meal was “blackened prawns”!” The man let out a strangled cry, shoving two fingers down his throat, desperately trying to purge whatever he had eaten at the cocktail hour. But within seconds, a spray of dark blood erupted from his lips, and he crashed onto the carpet, convulsing until his limbs went limp. Screams tore through the room. People were ready to throw themselves through the reinforced glass windows. “Wait!” Kendra’s voice cracked like a whip. Her eyes drifted back to me. She squinted, staring at the space above my head once more, verifying whatever she saw until a smug, cruel smile spread across her face. “I see it clearly now,” Kendra proclaimed to the cowering crowd. “A compromise, everyone. If Clara dies, I’ll let all of you walk out of here, and I won’t even cash your checks! But if she refuses to die, I will name every last one of your final meals until this hall is a graveyard!” The room shifted in an instant. The desperate guests dropped to their knees, directing their weeping pleas at me. “Clara, please! Have mercy!” “I have three children at home, Clara! Please save us!” “It’s between you and your sister! Don’t let innocent people die!” I looked at the sea of weeping elites groveling on the floor. I let out a soft, resigned sigh. “Very well,” I said quietly. “I will sacrifice myself to save you all.” A wave of sobbing gratitude washed over the room. Kendra looked at me with pure contempt. “To think this is how it ends for you, Clara. You were always destined to lose to me.” I met her gaze, my voice steady. “Kendra… when you first walked in, you stared at the space above my head and hesitated. Why?” Kendra blinked, a flicker of unease passing through her eyes. “My eyes were playing tricks on me. I thought I saw something… impossible. But now I see it. It’s the most pathetic, ordinary thing in the world.” She stepped closer, sneering. “For years, the space above your head was just a blur. I thought you somehow didn’t have an execution meal. But now it’s crystal clear.” She pointed directly at my forehead. “Clara, your final meal is a plain white dinner roll.” The room held its breath. “If I knew your execution meal was something so trivial,” Kendra mocked, “I would have ended you years ago!” Without a word of protest, I turned and walked calmly toward the kitchen entrance, returning a moment later holding a fresh, unbuttered white dinner roll on a small porcelain saucer. “I’m going to eat it,” I said softly. “Keep your word. Let them go.” Kendra laughed. “Of course. Living cows can be milked again; dead ones are useless to me.” I nodded. Under Kendra’s manic, expectant gaze, and beneath the suffocating silence of eighty terrified onlookers, I lifted the roll to my lips… And bit by bit, I chewed and swallowed the entire thing.

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Ever since my boyfriend and my best friend claimed they shared an inexplicable “empathic bond,” our sex life completely ceased to exist. The first time it happened, we had barely turned off the lights when Chloe suffered a sudden flare-up of gastritis across town. Elliott was hit with the phantom agony right there in our bed, breaking out in cold sweats, groaning into his pillow. In the end, he gritted his teeth, scrambled into his jeans, and drove forty minutes through midnight traffic to deliver her medication. The second time, we were in the middle of a kiss when Chloe got her period. Elliott went ghost-white, clutching his lower abdomen before rolling away from me. “I have to drop off some Midol and a thermos of ginger tea,” he muttered, breathless with rehearsed pain. “Just give me an hour.” By the tenth time, we had finally made it past the foreplay. Skin against skin, breathing heavy. Then, right at the threshold of intimacy, he collapsed onto my chest, exhaling a shuddering breath. “Verna… god, it hurts. That disaster of a girl is having another crisis. I have to go check on her.” He threw on his clothes in a frantic rush and bolted out the door. A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. I grabbed my coat and followed him. When I reached the door of Chloe’s apartment, the hallway was dead silent—except for Elliott’s low, teasing drawl filtering through the wood. “You’re playing with fire, you know that? How many times is this? One of these days your precious bestie is going to figure it out.” “Please,” Chloe’s voice drifted out, dripping with smug amusement. “She actually bought that whole telepathy bullshit. How much credit do you give her brain? There’s no phantom pain. I just tap the couple’s band, and it calls you straight to my door.” … I froze on the welcome mat, every muscle locking into place. Memories flickered behind my eyes in sharp, humiliating bursts. The matching matte-black wristbands they both wore. Chloe had casually brushed it off months ago, claiming they were promotional freebies from a gym membership drive. I had believed her. I had never had a reason not to. My hands shook violently as I pulled out my phone and typed a quick search into the browser. The results popped up instantly: “Bond Touch Smart Bracelets for Couples.” They synced in real time. Not only could you monitor each other’s resting heart rates, but whenever one person tapped the face of the band, the other would receive a gentle, rhythmic vibration on their wrist. Which meant that every single time Elliott climbed on top of me, every time his pulse accelerated with arousal, Chloe’s band warned her. She tapped the sensor. Elliott felt the pulse. And he abandoned me without hesitation. A bone-deep chill crept from the tips of my fingers straight into my chest. Five years with the man I planned to marry. Fifteen years with the girl I called my sister. Behind the door, another round of muffled laughter broke out. Unable to stomach another second, my thumb punched the keypad lock. The passcode was our combined birthdays—a sequence Chloe had used for every lock, phone, and card since high school. The deadbolt gave a sharp, metallic “click”. The door swung open. Chloe was lounging on the sofa in a slinky silk slip, one bare leg propped casually over Elliott’s thigh. The moment their eyes met mine, they sprang apart like they’d been electrocuted. Chloe’s face flushed an ugly, mottled gray. “Verna? What… what are you doing here?” She forced an awkward, fragile smile. “I’m such a klutz. I twisted my ankle on the treadmill earlier. Elliott felt the sympathy ache and came over to help me ice it…” Elliott chimed in immediately, his expression morphing into a mask of practiced annoyance. “Verna, talk some sense into her, will you? Tell her to stop hurting herself. I’m sick of taking the fall for her clumsy ass.” A seamless performance. Practiced, polished, completely synchronized. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my throat. “Save it. How much longer were you two planning to treat me like a moron?” Chloe’s eyes flickered, but she kept up the act, feigning lighthearted relief. “Oh, thank god, you finally caught on! Remember that night we got wasted and started joking about psychic links? We never dreamed you’d actually fall for something so ridiculous, you silly girl. We just thought it was hilarious. We were taking bets on how long it’d take you to notice.” She stepped forward, reaching for my hand. I violently jerked away. I barely made contact, but she staged an exaggerated stumble, tumbling dramatically onto the plush rug. Tears sprang to her eyes on cue, spilling over with delicate tragedy. “You’re… you’re not actually mad, are you? I’m sorry. Verna, I’m so, so sorry…” Seeing her on the floor, Elliott’s eyes turned instantly bloodshot with panic. He rushed past me, lifting her up with tender urgency before glaring at me with undisguised venom. “It was a joke! Did you really have to push her?” “A joke?” My voice cracked, raw and suffocating. “Inventing a medical lie to ditch my bed ten times in a row—that’s your idea of a joke?” “Chloe just finalized her divorce!” Elliott snapped defensively. “You were the one who told me to check in on her and keep her company. Nothing happened between us! What the hell is wrong with you?” Chloe tugged weakly at the hem of his sleeve. “Elliott, don’t yell at her… It’s all my fault.” Her voice grew faint, thin as parchment. Beads of sweat broke out across her forehead. “What is it? What hurts?” Elliott asked, his voice dropping into frantic tenderness. “My stomach… the old ulcer,” she gasped, gently pushing at his chest. “Don’t worry about me. Just take some antacids from the cabinet. Go after Verna. Please, go comfort her.” “Comfort her? Screw that!” Elliott didn’t even spare me a glance. “Are you out of your mind? You’re sitting here dying of pain and still defending her?” He scooped Chloe up into his arms in one fluid motion, deliberately slamming his shoulder into mine as he barged toward the entryway. “I’m taking you to the ER.” At the front door, he gently set her down for a fraction of a second, kneeling on the floor to slip her sneakers onto her feet before picking her up again. Then the door slammed shut. Silence swallowed the apartment. I stood there in the echoing quiet, staring at the framed photograph hanging above the console table. Our eighteenth birthday. We were wearing matching high school uniforms, grinning wildly under the flash, our arms slung around each other’s necks. We had promised to be in each other’s lives until we were old and gray. A sudden wave of nausea hit me. My hand brushed the frame, knocking it to the floor. The glass shattered. When I picked it up, I noticed the back of the frame was loose. Tucked behind our portrait was another print. A photograph of Elliott, fast asleep in bed, the morning sun spilling across his bare shoulders. A woman’s hand rested gently against his cheek, fingers curved with intimate, possessive tenderness. On the side of the index finger, a small, dark mole was unmistakably visible. Chloe’s hand. The doorbell chimed, slicing through the air like a siren. I dragged my feet to the entryway and pulled the door open. Standing in the hallway was Marcus, Chloe’s ex-husband. “…What are you doing here?” I rasped. He hadn’t expected to see me. His brow furrowed in mild surprise. “Just grabbing the last of my storage boxes.” I didn’t have the strength to argue. I stepped aside. He walked into the living room, and his eyes landed on the photograph clutched in my trembling fingers. There was no shock on his face—only a tired, knowing indifference. “So,” Marcus said quietly. “You finally figured it out.” “Figured… what out?” “I never stepped out on her,” Marcus said, crossing his arms. “She was the one sleeping around behind my back.” My chest seized. Even now, some deeply ingrained, pathetic instinct tried to defend her. “Shut up. Don’t make shit up.” He let out a dry, incredulous chuckle. “No wonder Chloe always called you naive. Look at you, still running interference for her. How can someone be this blind? You bankrolled her divorce lawyer, practically moved into her life to support her, and didn’t you end up losing a baby in the process?” My throat closed up. The phantom ache in my lower abdomen flared violently, tearing open a scar that had barely begun to heal. Three months ago, Chloe had called me in tears, claiming Marcus was meeting his mistress in our neighborhood. It was twenty degrees below zero in the middle of a freak blizzard. I crouched behind a snowbank across the street for nearly four hours, waiting to snap photos of him. The ice was slick. I slipped on the stairs, crashing hard against the concrete. My winter coat was soaked through with blood. The pain was so agonizing I blacked out. If a random pedestrian hadn’t called 911, I would have frozen to death on that sidewalk. When I woke up in the hospital, the doctor told me I had been three months pregnant. The fall took the baby. Marcus looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity softening his sneer. “I guess I might as well tell you the whole story,” he said quietly. “The two shadows you saw tangled up against the window that night? That wasn’t me with some side piece. It was your best friend and your boyfriend. They were upstairs the entire time, watching the flashing lights of the ambulance carry you away from behind the blinds, too chickenshit to step outside.” My heart felt like it had been dropped into a vat of boiling oil. That night… I had texted our three-person group chat the second I spotted the figures in the window, telling Elliott and Chloe to hurry over so we could catch Marcus together. Both of them had texted back immediately: “On our way. Hold on.” They never showed up. They only appeared at the hospital hours later, pale and breathless, offering empty consolations over my empty womb. Marcus sighed. “Hard pill to swallow, huh? I had the exact same look on my face when I caught them. I wanted to burn their lives to the ground, but my regional manager happens to be golfing buddies with Elliott’s father. A few subtle threats against my career, and I folded. I thought you already knew. Look around this place, Verna. We’ve been divorced for months. Who do you think all this men’s stuff belongs to?” I forced my eyes across the room. The navy blue slippers by the door. The matching ceramic mugs on the drying rack. The soft gray cashmere sweater draped over the armchair. And the date stamped in the bottom corner of the photo in my hand: “January 22nd.” The day after my miscarriage. I was confined to bed rest, half-dead, bleeding into sterile hospital sheets. Elliott had claimed he was sent on an urgent out-of-town business trip. Chloe had claimed she had to visit her sick grandmother upstate. They had been here. In this bed. Together. Tears blurred my vision until the room dissolved into smeared watercolors. Marcus didn’t say another word. He rolled a black hardshell suitcase out of the guest room, gave me a final, sympathetic look, and closed the door behind him. The latch clicked, and my knees completely gave out. I collapsed onto the cold hardwood, sobbing until my ribs ached and the air in my lungs turned to ash. My entire universe shattered into jagged pieces. Fifteen years. We had shared a cramped dorm room in college. When we graduated, we split a drafty studio apartment, adopting a scruffy stray cat and sleeping under the same quilt to save on heating bills. We pooled our paychecks, never keeping tabs on who spent what. When I lost my first job and spiraled into panic attacks, Chloe had stretched her tiny two-thousand-dollar monthly salary to cover both of our rents and groceries for three months. She had even donated plasma just to buy me the leather jacket I’d been eyeing for my birthday. When I found out, she had just laughed and wiped my tears, telling me that as long as I was happy, nothing else mattered. She knew I had been in love with Elliott since sophomore year. She had proofread every confession letter I’d ever drafted. On the night Elliott and I finally made it official, Chloe had cried harder than anyone, grabbing him by the collar and threatening to break his neck if he ever made me shed a single tear. Was every single memory a lie? My fingernails dug into my palms until the skin split, blood pooling in the creases of my hands. When the tears finally ran dry, something inside me went cold and dead. I unlocked my phone, opened the chat, and sent Elliott a three-word text: [We’re done. Goodbye.] The message sat there. No reply. I walked back to our apartment in a trance. I didn’t go to the bedroom. I went straight to the study, opened my laptop, and filled out a transfer application for our regional branch across the country. Then I packed my life into two suitcases. Elliott didn’t come home until dawn. Stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion. “Chloe’s stomach was acting up so badly she couldn’t even stand. I had to stay the night at the clinic,” he said, kicking off his shoes. “What’s with that crazy text? Verna, stop throwing tantrums. Since when are you this insecure about my relationship with your own best friend? How many times do I have to say it? We are completely platonic.” He lied with an ease so seamless it made my stomach turn. When I didn’t respond, his tone softened. He let out a long, weary sigh and walked toward me. “Sweetheart, stop driving yourself crazy. You’re the one I love. You’re the one I’m going to marry.” “Buzz. Buzz.” The band on his wrist gave two sharp pulses. Elliott’s hand instinctively snapped behind his back. “Look, be good, okay? Don’t be mad. Something urgent just came up at the office, I have to run in early. I’ll take you out for a nice steak dinner tonight, I promise.” Without waiting for an answer, he ducked into the bathroom, rinsed his face, and practically sprinted out the door with his hair still damp. I knew exactly where he was going. My phone rang. The screen displayed my supervisor’s name. I picked it up, expecting to hear about the transfer request. Instead, his voice came through cold, sharp, and dripping with fury. “Verna. Get into the office right now.” A pit opened in my stomach. Ten minutes after arriving at headquarters, I was summoned into the corner office. “Your transfer request has been denied,” my boss said, slamming a file folder onto the mahogany desk. “Why?” “Because you’re fired.” My mind went entirely blank. “What?” He slammed his open palm onto the desk, shaking with rage. “We spent three months preparing the tender for the metropolitan redevelopment project! The bidding war is in a week, and our confidential floor price was leaked directly to our competitor this morning! The entire contract is dead in the water!” “What are you saying?” I choked out. “You think I leaked it?” He let out a harsh, mocking bark of laughter. “We traced the IP. The leak went straight to the lead designer at Apex Media—your best friend, Chloe. And the only people who had access to that encrypted pricing sheet were me and you!” The room tilted on its axis. I opened my mouth, but the words withered in my throat. “Pack your personal effects and get the hell out of my building,” he snarled. “We don’t harbor corporate spies.” I was shoved out of the office. The moment the glass door swung open, a cup of scalding coffee splashed across my chest. “You ungrateful parasite!” My senior associate glared at me, her eyes wild with fury. “Three months of eighty-hour weeks, ruined because of your filthy side hustle!” My desk had already been trashed. Liquid glue was smeared across my monitor, my design sketches ripped to shreds and scattered across the carpet. Vicious insults hissed through the bullpen like venom. Eight years of sweat, late nights, and sacrifices—evaporated in a single morning. Security escorted me off the premises like a common thief. I stood on the sidewalk, covered in brown coffee stains, dialing Chloe’s number over and over. Voicemail. I called Elliott. Voicemail. I took a cab to the hospital. The receptionist informed me that Chloe had checked herself out the previous evening. The betrayal, the injustice, the sheer suffocating weight of it all crushed down on my chest like an avalanche. I opened our three-person group chat and typed with trembling thumbs: [Did you steal my bid file?] [Why would you do something so disgusting?] [Answer me! Are you trying to destroy my life?] Silence. Until ten minutes later, when I opened Instagram. Elliott’s childhood friend had just posted a story. The video showed a dimly lit VIP lounge at an upscale karaoke bar downtown. Elliott was there. Chloe was there. So were half a dozen of our mutual college friends and close acquaintances. Everyone was cheering, clinking glasses of champagne under the strobe lights. A guy in the background yelled into a microphone: “A toast to Chloe’s massive promotion! Drink up, everyone!” … I flagged a cab and went straight to the club. I found the private room on the second floor. Through the heavy wooden door, their voices drifted out over the bassline of a pop track. “Hey, Elliott,” someone chuckled lazily. “If Verna ever finds out you copied her pricing sheet, she’s going to tear your head off.” “I didn’t have a choice,” Elliott’s voice sounded muffled through the wood. “This account was make-or-break for Chloe. If she didn’t close a major win this quarter, her department was going to lay her off.” “I heard Verna was up for the creative director seat after eight years there,” another friend chimed in. “Pulling a stunt like this… she’s probably going to get blackballed across the entire regional market.” There was a brief pause, the flick of a lighter. “It’s not that dramatic,” Elliott said casually. “Besides, she was too naive. She leaves her laptop unlocked around us without a second thought. If she takes the fall, she only has herself to blame.” “Cold-blooded, man. You really don’t give a shit about her anymore, do you? So when are you guys finally going to break the news? It’s getting exhausting keeping up this double act for you two.” After a long silence, Chloe’s voice drifted out, soft and plaintive. “We’re not going to tell her… Verna is my best friend. I could never bear to hurt her.” Elliott pulled Chloe into his side, his thumb stroking her jawline. “She has a soft heart. She values our friendship too much. I’ll respect her wishes.” “How touching.” My blood turned to pure acid. I raised my boot and kicked the heavy door inward with everything I had. “BANG!” The room went dead silent. Dozens of heads snapped toward the doorway. Elliott froze, his eyes widening in sheer panic as he instinctively shifted his body to block Chloe. “Verna… How did you… Did you hear all that?” I didn’t utter a single syllable. I grabbed a full bottle of vodka from the ice bucket near the door and smashed it against the marble table. Glass exploded in every direction. Chloe shrieked, cowering into the leather cushions, trembling violently. Elliott’s friend scoffed, stepping forward to turn the tables on me. “Honestly, Verna, you should’ve stepped aside years ago. We all know Elliott was in love with Chloe from the start. You’re the one who kept throwing yourself at him! Chloe only turned him down because she didn’t want to break your delicate little heart. You’ve been living on borrowed time anyway.” “Shut up, please!” Chloe wept, clinging to Elliott’s arm before looking at me with swollen, tear-filled eyes. “Verna… please don’t be mad. You’re the most important person in my life. I can’t lose you…” She sobbed so violently it looked as though I were the one torturing her. She lunged forward, trying to grab my wrists. “Don’t touch me!” I roared, shoving her back. “Chloe, as of today, you are dead to me.” She shook her head hysterically, her breathing turning erratic—the exact same routine she pulled whenever she was cornered. Cry, scream, play the martyr. Suddenly, she grabbed a small paring knife from the fruit platter and dragged the blade across her forearm. “Are you insane?!” Elliott screamed. He caught the blade in his bare hand, blood instantly welling between his fingers and dripping onto the carpet. “Why the hell would you hurt yourself over her?!” The room descended into utter pandemonium. Friends swarmed Chloe, wrapping napkins around her arm, soothing her, passing tissues, shouting over one another. I stood there in the center of the flashing lights, watching the grotesque circus unfold. And I started to laugh. Seeing my smile, Elliott looked at me as if I were a monster. “You are truly cold-blooded… She’s bleeding, and you’re standing there laughing?!” I didn’t answer him. My eyes locked onto the delicate silver chain resting against Chloe’s collarbone. I had bought that necklace for her ten years ago with my very first design paycheck. She had worn it every day since. I took a step forward and reached out to rip it off her neck. Elliott saw my movement and lost his mind. “Stay the fuck away from her!” He shoved me backward with both hands. My heel caught on the slick, alcohol-drenched floor. I slammed hard onto the ground, my palms and knees landing directly on the shattered vodka bottle. Jagged glass sliced through my skin. Blood pooled instantly beneath my hands. Elliott froze, staring at the red spreading across the floor. “I… Verna, I’m sorry, I thought you were going to attack her…” He crouched down, his face a mess of guilt and panic, his bloody hand reaching for my elbow. “Stop acting crazy. Let me take both of you to the hospital, okay?” I jerked away from his touch. I dragged myself up from the shards, wiping the smear of red across my denim jeans. I took one final look at the two of them. Fifteen years of sisterhood. Five years of love. They were garbage. And I was done bleeding for trash. I turned around, stepping across the broken glass, and walked out into the night. On the cab ride home, my phone buzzed incessantly with notifications from the group chat. Elliott: [I’m getting Chloe patched up at the urgent care. Wait for me at the apartment. We need to talk.] [I didn’t mean to push you that hard. Please don’t be mad.] Chloe: [Verna, I’m so sorry… please talk to me.] [Are you really going to throw away fifteen years of friendship over this?] Staring at the screen, my heart felt completely still. A flatline. I typed one final word into the box: [Rot.] I hit send, left the group, and blocked both numbers. Back at the apartment, my suitcases were already waiting by the door. I booked a one-way ticket on the earliest flight out of the city and left before the sun came up.

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The first stop of our honeymoon road trip was a sold-out stadium tour. Brett had bought the tickets months ago, promising it would be unforgettable. Halfway through the set, the jumbotron began scanning the crowd, pulsing with lights and electric bass before freezing—dead center—on the two of us. On stage, beneath a blinding halo of spotlights, stood the pop star I had spent six years idolizing. She leaned into her mic, looking directly toward our section, and offered a knowing, luminous smile. “Well, hey there. It’s been a while.” A shriek tore from my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs as I waved my glowing light stick in frantic, euphoric circles. Serena chuckled softly into the mic. “Aren’t you going to introduce the lucky girl next to you?” Brett held the arena microphone that had been handed to him by a floor coordinator. His knuckles were pale, his lips pressed into a tight, bloodless line. He didn’t speak. Oblivious to the sudden chill in the air, I leaned over, grabbed the edge of the mic, and shouted at the top of my lungs, “We just got married!” The stadium erupted. Tens of thousands of fans cheered, a roar of collective joy washing over us like a tidal wave. On the massive screens, Serena’s radiant expression froze for a fraction of a second. She cleared her throat, recovering with polished grace. “Congratulations, then. As our lucky fans of the night, you get to sing a duet with me. Brett… you pick the song.” The breath caught in my throat. “Brett?” She knew his name? Brett stared up at the stage, his gaze locked onto hers. When he spoke, his voice was thick, rough with suppressed emotion. “Let’s do “Almost Lover”.” The opening chords echoed through the stadium. Brett kept his eyes fixed entirely on her as the melody swelled, his lashes glistening with unshed tears. “I never want to see you unhappy, even if your happiness means a world without me…” By the final note, Brett’s eyes were brimming with tears. Serena tilted her head, her voice purring through the stadium sound system. “Anything you want to say to your new bride, Brett?” Brett slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were dark, distant, carrying a heavy ache that had nothing to do with me. “Joanne,” he said, each word deliberate and hollow. “Thank you. For loving her with me.” A text pinged on my phone—the hotel coordinator sending the final floral arrangements for our post-wedding reception back home. Tears blurred the screen. With shaking thumbs, I typed a reply. “Mom. Cancel the reception.” … The concert ended, and the roaring ocean of forty thousand people slowly drained from the venue. Brett and I remained seated in the VIP floor section, surrounded by discarded confetti and empty plastic cups. The silence between us felt louder than the music had been. I tightened my grip on the plastic light stick until the plastic bit into my palm, needing to hear him say it out loud. “Brett. You and Serena. You actually know each other?” Brett paused, his body stiffening before he settled back into his folding chair. When he answered, his tone was infuriatingly casual—as though he were discussing the weather. “Yeah. She’s my ex.” My stomach plummeted. A lyric from Serena’s breakout indie track—the one that had launched her career five years ago—flashed through my mind. “So… you’re the guy?” I asked, my voice barely audible. “The high school sweetheart? The boy next door she promised forever to on a porch swing before she signed her record deal?” Brett didn’t speak. He just gave a single, quiet nod. Every drop of warmth drained from my limbs. He turned to study me. “Does it bother you?” I stared straight ahead at the dark, hollow stage. Inside my head, the question echoed like a cruel joke. “Does it bother me?” My brand-new husband was the legendary, tragic first love of the pop star whose posters hung in our study, whose vinyl records I had spent six years collecting. I didn’t dignify his question with an answer. Instead, I pressed on, desperate for the full truth. “Why did you break up?” A fleeting shadow of grief crossed his features. “When she got signed to the major label, the contract had an ironclad image clause. No public relationships. No baggage. For her career, we had no choice.” A hot tear escaped, tracking down my cheek. I looked at the man I had loved for seven years, suddenly feeling as though I were sitting next to a total stranger. “You’re terrifying, Brett,” I whispered. “What is that supposed to mean?” “For six years, you’ve bought me every single one of her vinyl variants. You made me watch her backstage documentaries. You subtly, patiently molded me into her biggest fan…” My voice broke into a bitter sob. “You didn’t do that for me. You turned me into a fan so you’d have a permanent excuse to follow her around, go to her shows, and openly mourn her without looking suspicious. Isn’t that right?!” Brett’s face contorted, raw fury flashing across his eyes—the violent defensiveness of a man caught with his hands in the dark. He shot up from his seat, sneering down at me. “You are completely out of your mind.” Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the tunnel exit. “Brett!” At that exact second, the arena’s house lights slammed off with a heavy mechanical “thud”. Pitch-black darkness swallowed the cavernous room. I have suffered from crippling nyctophobia since childhood. My chest seized; a cold sweat broke out across my skin as panic gripped my throat. “Brett! Wait for me! Please, you know I can’t do the dark!” My voice bounced off the empty concrete walls, swallowed by the void. He didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Trembling violently, I fumbled for my phone, flicked on the flashlight, and stumbled through the rows of folding chairs, tripping over cables until I finally shoved my way out into the backstage parking lot. The alleyway was swarming with hundreds of screaming fans, barricades creaking under the pressure. Near the matte-black Mercedes Sprinter van, Serena was signing posters under the glow of security lamps. Suddenly, she paused her Sharpie, stood on her tiptoes, and waved past the wall of bodies with a blinding, dazzling smile. “Brett! Over here! Excuse me, guys, make a little room.” I watched from the periphery as Brett emerged from the crowd. After a split second of hesitation, a soft, indulgent smile broke across his lips as he walked straight toward her. Serena wrapped her arm through his with effortless intimacy, leaning into him as she announced to the squealing crowd, “Everyone, this is my childhood best friend. He’s actually one of the top orthopedic surgeons in the city now.” I stood on the outer fringes of the mob, frozen. Brett’s gaze was glued to her face, hungry and devoted, without a single glance spared for the surrounding lot—or for me. Her tour manager shouted over the noise, “All right, that’s wrap! Serena has a private schedule to keep!” The crowd surged forward in a frenzy of desperation. A wall of bodies slammed into me from the side. My footing gave out, and I crashed violently onto the asphalt. “Ah!” A chorus of screaming fans trampled forward. Heavy boots came down on my right hand; I heard a sickening, distinct “snap” in my fingers, followed by a searing white flash of agony. Someone else stepped squarely on my lower back to climb a barrier. The pain nearly made me black out. “Brett! Help me! Brett!” Across the sea of heads, Brett flinched, his head turning as if catching the faint sound of my voice. “Joanne?” Serena instantly leaned in, pressing her entire body against his side, whispering something urgently into his ear with a pout. Brett stopped. He didn’t come for me. Instead, he signaled toward two hired security guards, pointed vaguely in my general direction, and then wrapped his arm protectively around Serena’s waist, escorting her into the sleek black Sprinter. The heavy door slid shut. The van sped away into the night. I lay curled on the icy pavement, gasping for air through cold sweats. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. Brett: “Serena had a small emergency and needs my help sorting it out. Take an Uber back to the hotel.” The two private guards finally wandered over, grabbing me roughly by the arms like a sack of laundry and yanking me to my feet. Once they saw I was upright, they turned and jogged off after the convoy without a word. The crowd dispersed, leaving behind flattened paper cups and crushed light sticks. The midnight wind sliced through my clothes. Clutching my throbbing, crooked fingers and limping on a wrenched back, I managed to hail a cab to the nearest emergency room. Three hours later, the X-rays confirmed the worst: fractured index and middle fingers on my right hand, a severe lumbar sprain, and extensive soft-tissue contusions across my torso. Tears spilled over my cheeks as the ER nurse wrapped my hand in a thick fiberglass splint. The attending physician jotted down notes. “How on earth did this happen?” “Crowd crush… after a concert,” I rasped, exhausted. The doctor glanced around the curtained bay. “Do you have any family here with you?” Looking down at the bulky cast on my hand, my throat tightened. “No. Just me.” The nurse gave me a look of quiet pity and gently helped me pull my cardigan back over my shoulders. On the very first night of my honeymoon, in a strange city, I checked in alone, paid my medical bills alone, and sat under the harsh fluorescent lights of an IV bay alone. It was nearly 3:30 AM when I let myself back into the hotel suite. I collapsed onto the king-sized bed, curling into a tight, guarded ball beneath the duvet. Unbidden, seven years of memories flooded my mind. I remembered Brett standing in the pouring rain for forty minutes just to pick up my favorite lavender macarons. I remembered him driving across town at two in the morning because I had a migraine. When I had been hospitalized with severe bronchitis, he hadn’t left my bedside for forty-eight straight hours. On the night he proposed, he had dropped to one knee, looking up at me with eyes so full of tender conviction: “Joanne, in my life, you will always come first.” It took tonight for me to finally understand. His “first place” had been reserved long before I ever entered the picture. Sometime later, the suite’s electronic lock chimed. I kept my eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. The mattress dipped. Brett slid in behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me against his chest. “Ah!” A sharp gasp tore from my throat as his arm pressed into my bruised ribs. I shoved him away with my good left arm. Brett blinked in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp, taken aback. “What’s wrong with you?” “What’s wrong with me?” The dam holding back seven hours of humiliation and agony shattered. I sat bolt upright, lifting my cast-bound right arm into the light, my eyes burning with raw fury. “You’re asking me what’s wrong?” I shook. “Brett, were you completely blind? I was being trampled by a mob right outside the venue!” “I was screaming for you! Where the hell were you when my bones were snapping under people’s shoes?” Confronted with my trembling rage, Brett simply frowned, annoyance tightening his jaw. “Joanne, don’t make a scene out of nothing. Didn’t I tell security to pull you up?” “Besides, you’re a registered nurse. You know how to handle minor injuries at a clinic.” “Serena is different.” His voice softened involuntarily, laced with protective tenderness. “She pushed herself too hard on stage tonight. She twisted her ankle during the encore and was literally sobbing backstage from the pain. She’s a major public figure—she can’t just walk into a public hospital without causing a media circus. I happen to be an orthopedic surgeon…” A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I stared at him, my stomach turning with sheer disbelief. Seeing how pale and hollow I looked, Brett seemed to realize he had pushed too far. His posture softened, and he leaned in again, trying to rest a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Okay, look… I’m sorry, alright? I messed up.” “Don’t be mad, babe. It was an unexpected situation. I shouldn’t have left you, okay?” “I swear, for the rest of the trip, I am entirely yours. Just the two of us. Deal?” He used the same soothing, practiced tone he always used whenever he wanted to smooth things over. I closed my eyes, forcing down the violent urge to scream. We had been together for seven years, and we rarely fought. Part of my brain—the desperate, grieving part—wondered if he was genuinely just this emotionally oblivious. I drew a long, slow breath and pulled back from his reach. “Go take a shower,” I said quietly, staring at the wall. “You smell like another woman’s perfume. It’s disgusting.” Brett’s jaw tightened, but he swallowed his retort, grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom. Listening to the running water, I stared up at the crown molding on the ceiling until dawn broke, not sleeping for a single second. The next leg of our trip was a flight out west to a luxury mountain resort in Wyoming. At the airport terminal, I turned toward the standard security line and the economy check-in desks. Brett caught my elbow, steering me toward the dedicated VIP Priority lane instead. I glanced at him, perplexed. “When did you upgrade our tickets?” Brett was notoriously frugal with travel; he would never splurge on domestic first class on a whim. “Brett! Over here!” I turned toward the sound. Serena’s personal assistant, Lexi, was waving enthusiastically from the entrance of the private lounge. Brett looked at me with an effortless, breezy smile. “Oh, forgot to mention. Serena happens to have a four-day break before her next tour leg. She heard we were heading to the mountains and thought it sounded fun, so she decided to tag along.” “With Serena traveling, economy obviously wasn’t an option, so I bumped us up.” My brain went completely numb. Our honeymoon. He had invited his ex-girlfriend to crash our honeymoon. Seeing my blank, paralyzed expression, Brett chuckled and affectionately ruffled my hair. “What, starstruck?” “I figured you’d lose your mind. Getting to vacation with your idol? That’s once-in-a-lifetime fan access.” “I didn’t tell you last night because I knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep from pure excitement.” He guided me into the lounge. Inside, Serena lowered her oversized designer sunglasses and stood up. Without missing a beat, right in front of my face, she slipped her slender arm through Brett’s, leaning her head naturally against his shoulder. “Morning, Joanne,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet, innocent charm. She reached into her Birkin, pulled out a glossy photo print, and held it out to me. “Here. Brett practically begged me for a signed print for you last night.” Serena rolled her eyes playfully at Brett. “Honestly, Brett, the moment you get a wife, you forget your little sister. I only asked you to rub some arnica oil on my ankle, and you charged me a signed photo. Cheapskate.” I looked down at the photo in her manicured hand. My lungs emptied of air. It wasn’t a promotional headshot. It was a selfie taken in a dim hotel suite late last night. In the frame, Brett was lounging on a plush sofa. Serena, wearing nothing but a sheer silk chemise, was straddling his lap, her crimson lips pressed firmly against his cheek. And Brett’s face was turned toward the camera, his eyes heavy with undisguised adoration. In the bottom right corner, Serena’s signature was scrawled in gold metallic ink. Brett caught sight of the photo and his face paled slightly. His hand twitched forward, instinctively reaching to snatch it back. Using my uninjured left hand, I calmly took it from Serena’s fingers before he could touch it. I looked up, meeting Serena’s gaze, and offered a bright, perfectly polished smile. “Thank you so much. How thoughtful.” Serena’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, clearly frustrated that she hadn’t provoked a public breakdown. She pulled Brett toward the seating area, casually asking about my history as her fan. Brett began recounting every embarrassing thing I had ever done—how I had camped out in the rain for hours to buy a limited-edition vinyl box set, how I had begged mutual contacts for backstage passes. He told it like a stand-up routine, laughing at my expense. He conveniently omitted that “he” had been the one constantly talking about those items, sighing about how much he wished he had them, until I went out and got them to make him happy. Serena covered her mouth, giggling, then cast a pointed glance at me. “Brett… you don’t think Joanne married you just to get close to me, do you?” She laughed, half-joking, half-poisonous. “You should be careful. You never know with these obsessive superfans.” Brett turned his head, his eyes narrowing as he looked at me. “Is that true, Joanne?” His gaze was unsettlingly cold. Before I could even speak, the terminal chime rang out overhead. “First-class passengers for Flight 1408, now boarding at Gate 12…” Lexi suddenly stepped up and grabbed my coat sleeve. “Hey, where are you going?” Lexi looked at me with poorly concealed contempt. “Come with me. We’re in Main Cabin.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?” Lexi rolled her eyes. “Serena and Brett have the first-class suite. We’re just the assistant and the plus-one. Obviously we’re in row 28.” I turned, looking at Brett with absolute, frozen clarity. “Brett. This is what you meant by ‘we upgraded’?” A flash of awkwardness crossed his face. Serena immediately tightened her grip on his arm, giving a remorseful little pout. “Joanne, please don’t be upset. Last-minute first-class fares to Jackson Hole are ridiculously expensive, and Brett is on a surgeon’s base salary right now.” She wore the mask of a gracious saint. “You wouldn’t hold it against him just because you have to sit in coach, would you?” Brett sighed, stepping forward to pat my good shoulder. “Joanne, stop being unreasonable.” “You were planning to fly economy anyway. Don’t be vain.” “It’s only a three-hour flight. Suck it up, and we’ll meet at baggage claim. Be a good girl.” Right then, the last dying ember of my love for him went out. When the pain reaches its absolute peak, it doesn’t manifest as tears. It turns into a crystalline, icy stillness. I nodded gently. “You’re right.” Brett looked visibly relieved. He smiled back at Serena. “Let’s go, Rena.” I stood still, watching their backs as they walked side by side down the carpeted jet bridge. I turned to Lexi. “I left my prescription painkillers in the restroom by the food court. Head down to the gate; I’ll be right behind you.” Lexi scoffed, muttering under her breath, “Ugh, high maintenance. Hurry up, the plane won’t wait for you!” I waited until she vanished through the gate. Then, I turned on my heel and walked up to the customer service counter. “Hi. I need to cancel my boarding pass and recall my checked luggage, please.” The agent tapped her screen. “Of course. Where would you like to rebook?” I looked at the departures board. “One-way to Lake Tahoe. The earliest flight you have. First class.” Standing before the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, I watched the silver aircraft carrying Brett and Serena push back from the tarmac and roar into the gray sky. I pulled out my phone, opened the artist’s verified community page on Instagram and X, and uploaded a crisp, high-resolution photo of the Polaroid—the one where she was straddling my husband in silk lingerie. Caption: “A huge thank-you to my idol @SerenaSterling and my husband @DrBrettLawson for the lovely wedding gift! Wishing you both the best.” … Two hours later, Flight 1408 touched down in Wyoming. Brett checked his Rolex as they stepped off the jet bridge. “Where is she? Does it really take this long to deplane from row 28?” He stood near baggage claim for twenty minutes, his eyes scanning the crowd, but there was no sign of Joanne. Suddenly, Lexi came sprinting through the terminal doors, her face deathly pale, drenched in cold sweat. “Serena! Brett! We have a catastrophic problem!” Her hands were shaking so hard she dropped her phone onto the linoleum. Brett frowned. “Stop yelling. Where is Joanne?” “Joanne… Joanne never got on the plane!” “What? What do you mean she didn’t board?” He immediately pulled out his phone and dialed her number. “We’re sorry, but the number you are trying to reach has been turned off…” “Forget Joanne!” Lexi sounded on the verge of tears. She shoved her iPad directly into Brett and Serena’s faces. “Look at Twitter! Look at TMZ! You’re both trending worldwide!”

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