1 It had been exactly six years since I died a miserable death in a cold prison cell, taking the fall for my older brother’s adopted sister. Today, my brother Grant actually came looking for me again. He wanted me to confess to a crime committed by Roselyn’s younger brother, a kid they had sent away years ago. He claimed the boy was too young and couldn’t handle the harshness of being locked up. Grant said it so casually. He told me I already had experience behind bars, so going back in wouldn’t feel foreign to me. But he waited and waited, and I never walked out of those prison gates. Assuming I had been released early for good behavior and was just hiding from him out of spite, Grant stormed back to our family estate to demand answers. Instead of finding me, he walked right into my best friend Jenny. She was standing in the middle of the old living room, setting up a memorial for the sixth anniversary of my death. Faced with Grant’s relentless interrogations, Jenny stared at the flickering vigil candle on the altar. Her eyes were rimmed with a furious, bloodshot red. Finally, she couldn’t hold it in anymore. She screamed at him. She has been dead for years! She was beaten to death in her second year serving time for your precious little Roselyn! Grant scoffed, crossing his arms. “Wow, you really put on a good show.” His eyes were dripping with mockery. “How long did you two spend planning this little theatrical performance?” “It’s just seven years in a cell. Roselyn bribed half the guards in there. Hazel had the best food, the best supplies. What is she playing the victim for now?” Jenny glared at him, her chest heaving. “Every time I visited Hazel, her face and body were covered in fresh cuts and bruises. Why don’t you go ask your sweet Roselyn exactly who she was paying off!” Hearing that, Grant’s face instantly frosted over. “At the end of the day, she’s just jealous of Roselyn. That’s why she’s hiding.” The moment the words left his mouth, he lifted his expensive leather shoe. Smash. The vigil candle that had been burning for six years was crushed under his foot. The wick let out a pathetic little hiss, and the flame died instantly. “What the hell are you doing!” Jenny’s face drained of color. She threw herself onto the hardwood floor. My heart clenched. I instinctively rushed forward to grab her, but my hands phased right through her trembling shoulders. I could only watch helplessly as she ignored the searing heat, desperately trying to scoop up the spilled hot wax with her bare hands. “Don’t touch that, Jenny! You’re burning your skin, please, none of this matters!” I hovered around her in an absolute panic, crying out. But Jenny’s desperation only seemed to piss Grant off even more. “How long are you going to keep up this pathetic act? I don’t have time for your bullshit!” Like a madman letting off steam, he swept his arm across the altar. Offerings, the incense burner, my few remaining belongings. He smashed them all to pieces. “Hazel is just hiding to watch Roselyn suffer, isn’t she? She is absolutely vicious!” As he ranted, Grant’s gaze suddenly caught the wooden casket sitting behind the ruined altar. For a fraction of a second, his eyes faltered. It was a flicker of nervousness, something he would never admit to feeling. “Let’s see if it’s actually Hazel in this box.” “Don’t you dare touch her!” Jenny shrieked, lunging at him, but Grant shoved her hard to the ground. He flipped the casket lid open. His pupils shrank. No body. No ashes. Just my favorite white dress folded neatly inside. “Tch. I knew it. All a lie.” “That’s because you didn’t even leave her a body! I had to make a cenotaph just to give her a place to rest!” Jenny sobbed, her voice tearing at the seams. “Pure nonsense,” Grant sneered, his eyes as cold as a blade. “Oh, by the way. Your husband should be getting his termination email right about now.” Jenny’s head snapped up. “With your family’s income cut off, I imagine your mother in the ICU won’t last long before the hospital kicks her out. Are you absolutely sure you want to keep lying to me?” No. Grant couldn’t do this. I screamed into his ear with everything I had. “Did you forget that after Mom and Dad died, it was Jenny’s mother who fed us? She knitted your winter sweaters by hand! Have you lost your mind!” Grant’s face was twisted with hostility. “I really don’t get it. You are both pregnant. How can you sit there and watch Roselyn stress out, running around with a baby bump just because Hazel refuses to show her face?” “Hand Hazel over right now. Otherwise, dead or alive, I will dig her up and make sure she never finds peace.” Jenny was shaking from head to toe with pure rage. “You are an animal! She’s dead and you still won’t let her go.” “If you don’t believe me, go to the damn prison and check the records yourself. Do you think I have the power to make the whole world lie to you!” 2 I wanted to stay by Jenny’s side to comfort her, but my ghostly form was pulled against my will, tethered to Grant as he drove to the prison. “Hazel? Oh, her. She died six years ago.” Grant’s face darkened dangerously. “Look at you. Bribing state officials now.” “No wonder Jenny dared me to come here and ask. You guys had this perfectly rehearsed!” Looking at Grant’s furious expression, I actually found it laughable. If I had that kind of power, how would he have forced me into prison in the first place? Seven years ago, on the night of my birthday, Grant stormed into the house. He used Jenny’s sick mother as leverage to force me to take the fall for a hit-and-run Roselyn committed. He promised Roselyn had only made a mistake and swore he would get me the minimum sentence. But standing in court as my defense attorney, Grant completely waived the right to argue my case. I desperately tried to hire another lawyer to appeal, but Grant froze every single cent in my bank accounts. When I confronted him, screaming until my lungs gave out, he just looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “If a lawyer actually defends you, the prosecutors will dig deeper. They’ll find out you weren’t the one behind the wheel.” “You’re going to prison anyway. What does a few extra years matter? I’ve handled everything. Inside, you’ll live just as comfortably as you do on the outside.” But from my very first day as an inmate, I was at the absolute bottom of the food chain. Anyone could use me as a punching bag. Scars, both visible and hidden, mapped my entire body. I begged the guards over and over to call my brother. The only answer I ever got was, “Your brother says he’s too busy. Stop bothering him.” Back in the present, the guard on duty took a deep breath, trying to handle Grant’s arrogant attitude. “Look buddy, the system logs are crystal clear. Six years ago, Hazel died from a fatal puncture wound to the throat with a sharp object.” Grant paused for a second, then actually laughed. “This fake database page you guys coded is pretty impressive. But if you’re going to lie, at least make it believable. Where would someone get a sharp weapon inside a maximum security facility?” “Besides, Roselyn comes here every year to drop off money and gifts for Hazel. If she’s dead, why haven’t we ever received a single notice?” The guard finally lost his temper. “I don’t know any Roselyn. Hazel is dead! Deceased! Do you speak English?” Grant’s face turned ugly. “You really won’t drop the act until it ruins you. The warden and I go way back. Keep lying for her, and I’ll have him fire you before lunch.” The guard crossed his arms, stepping up to the glass. “Wow, you are a piece of work. If you’re so sure, go ahead. Call the warden. Have him run the search himself.” “If he finds anything different, I’ll hand over my badge and walk out myself!” Seeing the guard’s unwavering confidence, a flicker of doubt finally crossed Grant’s eyes. Right then, his phone buzzed. [Grant, come home quickly. Roselyn is having bad cramps.] Forgetting the guard completely, Grant spun around and practically sprinted to his car. The moment we walked through the front door of his penthouse, I saw my fiancé, Tristan. The man I hadn’t seen in seven years. 3 This was the man who once promised to love me until the end of time. Now, he was gently rubbing Roselyn’s swollen pregnant belly, treating her like she was made of fragile glass. “Grant, did Hazel agree to take the charge?” Looking at Roselyn’s pale, tear-stained face, Grant swallowed hard, overcome with guilt. He couldn’t speak. Roselyn’s eyes immediately welled up. “Why wouldn’t she agree? That is my baby brother! He had such a hard life growing up in foster care. He’s only nineteen. His life is just starting!” In that moment, I felt a bitter sting of envy. As a sister, she was far more devoted to her brother than my own flesh and blood ever was to me. “Don’t cry, Roselyn. I swear to you, I will find Hazel.” My phone buzzed in my memory. [Hazel, you need to confess for Roselyn’s brother right now. If the stress hurts Roselyn or the baby, I will never forgive you.] For seven years, I dreamed of Tristan coming to find me. I never imagined the first message he’d send me would be that. Roselyn suddenly bit her lip, leaning heavily on the couch to stand up. “Forget it. If Hazel really hates us that much, I’ll just go to prison for Toby.” She cradled her bump with one hand. “I’m pregnant. It’s not like they can give me the death penalty.” Tristan panicked, pulling her securely into his arms. “Hazel is so sick and twisted. You are carrying a child. How could she possibly let you go to a place like that.” I looked at them, a hollow, tragic smile forming on my lips. When I took the fall for Roselyn all those years ago, I was pregnant too. Did anyone ever care about my pain? “Relax. I’ve already sent my best investigator to track down her rat hole. Even if I have to tear this city apart brick by brick, I will drag her out.” Grant turned to look at Tristan. “Roselyn’s due date is coming up. Do you have everything ready?” At the mention of the baby, Tristan’s entire demeanor softened. “Absolutely. The trust fund my parents left behind, and that beachfront villa down the coast. Everything is secured for the baby.” My chest tightened. [Hazel, this trust fund and the beach house… even if you two don’t make it, my parents wanted you to have them.] Those things were supposed to be for our child. Watching Tristan give them away felt like a rusted knife carving out my soul. “With an uncle like you looking out for us, we don’t have to worry about a thing,” Roselyn cooed, leaning into Grant. Grant stayed silent for a moment. “Once we find Hazel and sort out your brother’s case, I’m going to step back. I won’t visit you as much anymore. Tristan will take good care of you.” Roselyn froze. “I owe Hazel too much for these past years. Moving forward, I want to properly compensate her. I want to finally be a real brother to her.” How rare. Grant was actually willing to distance himself from his precious adopted sister. Back then, when Roselyn offended one of his highest-paying corporate clients, Grant didn’t scold her once. Instead, he ordered me to go apologize, forcing me to drink with the client until my stomach bled to save his contract. It was a shame his guilt came far too late. I couldn’t accept his compensation from the grave. “What is there to compensate? She brought this all on herself. Hazel actually committed a hit-and-run and fled the scene. To this day, I can’t believe I was blind enough to think she was the kindest girl in the world.” Hearing Tristan’s words, Roselyn’s eyes darted away shiftily. Grant cleared his throat, staring at the floor. “Back then, she actually had the nerve to run to my place, crying that you guys were trying to frame her. Thank God I didn’t fall for her lies. I called you secretly so you could drag her away. If she had escaped, she would have forced Roselyn to take the blame.” I snapped my head toward Tristan, my phantom heart ripping into shreds. That night, Jenny told me she was close to finding security footage proving I wasn’t at the scene of the crash. She told me to hide. The only person I trusted to keep me safe was Tristan. All these years, I thought I just had bad luck when Grant found me. I never knew it was the love of my life who personally handed me over to hell. Grant’s phone rang. [Boss, I can’t find a single credit card transaction or digital footprint for Hazel. It’s like she vanished off the face of the earth. I’m starting to think… maybe something really did happen to her?] “Grant, Hazel is hiding so well. She must be really angry and refusing to help us.” The tiny shred of worry that had just sprouted in Grant’s eyes vanished the second he saw Roselyn’s tears. “Prison taught her a few tricks. She knows how to commit to a bit. But a living, breathing person has to eat and drink.” Grant’s eyes turned venomous. “I know exactly where to find her. There is only one person in this world who would go to these lengths for her.” When Jenny opened her front door, she thought it was Ryan coming home from work. The moment she saw Grant, her face twisted with pure disgust. “What the hell do you want? Here to repent to Hazel? Let me tell you, you are way too late.” She tried to slam the heavy oak door in his face, but Grant forced his way in with a cold shove. Locking the deadbolt behind him, he started kicking open bedroom doors. “Come out! Stop hiding, Hazel! Get your ass out here right now!” Finding nothing, Grant turned into a rabid beast. “Jenny, where the fuck are you keeping her.” Jenny’s knuckles turned white. “You really want to know? If you’re so desperate to see her, go to hell!” Grant spun around, his cold gaze locking onto Jenny’s massive, nine-month pregnant belly. “I heard you begged the heavens for this baby. Walked up ten thousand temple steps on your knees just to get pregnant, right?”

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1 My gated community, Havenwood Creek, was kind of out in the middle of nowhere, a dead zone for ride-shares and taxis. To solve the daily commuting nightmare, I bought a used shuttle bus and started the “Neighborhood Express.” The rules were simple: one, it ran on a fixed schedule during the morning and evening rush hours, taking everyone straight downtown. Two, it was completely free. I even covered the gas myself. My neighbors were touched. They pitched in for a little “Community Hero” plaque for me, their gratitude overflowing. But all that changed when Kevin moved in. Kevin was a professional muckraker who ran a ‘gotcha’ livestream, and on his very first day on the bus, he hit me with a barrage of questions. “Does this bus have a commercial operating license? If there’s an accident, will your insurance even pay out? Are you prepared to be responsible for 33 lives?” I tried to explain that I wasn’t charging a dime, that this was just me trying to help out. He just pushed his glasses up his nose. “Help? One accident and you’re talking about ruined lives, families shattered. Can you really bear that weight?” Just one week later, all thirty-three of my neighbors filed a joint complaint with the Department of Transportation, reporting me for “illegal commercial transport.” … It was the peak of the morning rush, and I was just about to pull away from the curb. “Stop! Don’t move the bus!” Kevin stood in front of the shuttle, his eyes locked on mine. In the back, my neighbors blinked sleepily, peering out the windows. “What’s the hold-up, Kev? We’re gonna be late!” someone, Ricky I think, yelled from the back. Kevin ignored him, aiming his phone’s camera right at me. “Folks, I’m doing this for your own safety. I just checked the tire treads, and they’re worn down to the legal limit. But more importantly,” he turned to me, “Mr. Peter, do you have a commercial operating license for this vehicle?” My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Kevin, this is my personal vehicle. I’m helping people get to work, not running a business. There’s no fee, so there’s no need for a commercial license.” “And that’s the problem,” Kevin said, his speech quickening for the camera. “For all my followers watching, a vehicle without the proper commercial license is an illegal shuttle. It doesn’t matter if he’s charging money or not. If there’s a crash, the insurance company can legally refuse to pay out a single cent!” He whipped his head back to me, his eyes wide with feigned horror. “Thirty-three lives, plus your own. Can you carry that burden? Are you willing to be the man who destroys thirty-three families?” The bus went silent. Laura, a young woman who was several months pregnant, hugged her belly and leaned back in her seat. She took my shuttle for her prenatal checkups downtown, saving over a hundred bucks each time. Now, her brow was furrowed, her gaze darting between me and Kevin. “Peter… is he telling the truth? The insurance won’t pay?” “I have a full commercial policy,” I said, patting the dashboard. “A ten-million-dollar liability coverage.” I held up my wallet to show my license. “And a Class-A CDL. You all know I’m a good driver.” “Ignorance of the law is terrifying,” Kevin sneered. “There’s a standard exclusion clause in every commercial policy: no payout for illegal operations. Your so-called ‘free rides’ don’t negate the commercial risk. You’re using your neighbors as guinea pigs!” A murmur rippled through the passengers. “He’s got a point. What if we get hurt and can’t get compensation?” “Free is nice, but is it worth the risk…?” I glanced at the clock. 7:40 AM. Any later and they’d all be late for work. “If you want to ride, stay seated. If you don’t, get off,” I said, turning the key in the ignition. “I’m not forcing anyone.” Usually, someone would have spoken up for me. Today, there was only silence. Finally, Ricky shouted, “Let’s just go! My perfect attendance bonus is on the line!” Kevin hopped on the bus and took the passenger seat next to me, adjusting his posture for his livestream. “To prevent any unfortunate incidents, I will be supervising this entire trip.” No one else spoke. The usual morning chatter and sharing of breakfast was replaced by the drone of Kevin’s voice. “You’re taking that turn too fast, the centrifugal force is excessive! The emergency hammer is stuck in its bracket; you’d never get it out in a fire! A fatal design flaw!” I gritted my teeth and drove them downtown. As they got off, they kept their heads down, scurrying away without a single “thank you.” At noon, a friend sent me a link. It was the number three trending topic in the city: Using Neighbors as Guinea Pigs? The Deadly Risks Behind the ‘Good Samaritan’ Shuttle. The video showed Kevin dramatically measuring my tire treads, set to grim, ominous music. He’d edited in my “I’m not forcing anyone” line, making me sound callous and dismissive. The comment section was a cesspool. “People like this are the worst. If something goes wrong, it’s ‘I was just trying to help!’ If nothing happens, it’s ‘Look how great I am!’” “Illegal transport is illegal transport. You can’t whitewash that.” My fingers trembled as I tried to type a response. My phone buzzed. A private message from Kevin. “I’m doing you a favor, Peter. Public pressure forces you to get your act together and avoid legal trouble. You should thank me. I’m a professional.” I took a deep breath and didn’t reply. Instead, I messaged my lawyer. “How long would it take to rezone a piece of land?” That evening, I drove the bus back to the community. I always parked it in a vacant lot where I’d painted my own lines. The HOA never cared. Tonight, a fresh yellow line was painted on the ground. Kevin stood just outside it, pointing. “Peter, this is now a designated fire lane. Obstructing a fire lane is illegal. Your bus is too wide to park here.” “This lot has been empty for three years!” I yelled. “And I left a ten-foot gap!” “Rules are rules,” Kevin said, pointing towards the paid parking lot. “They have oversized spots over there. Eight hundred a month, but it’s legal. You can’t always be looking for loopholes.” I shifted the bus into reverse and drove toward the paid lot. Fine. You want to play by the rules? Let’s play by the rules. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing the next morning. Kevin had started a new group chat: “The Havenwood Creek Community Shuttle Safety Committee.” He was the admin, with a few of the more zealous older women as moderators. I, the owner of the bus, had been kicked out. Luckily, I had a burner account in the group. The pinned announcement was a “Proposal for the Rectification and Regulation of the Community Shuttle.” It listed more than a dozen demands: The driver must publicly post his blood pressure, heart rate, and results from a breathalyzer test daily. The vehicle must be equipped with a real-time GPS tracker, with the data shared with all residents. Each seat must be equipped with motion sickness pills and emergency heart medication. It was also suggested that passengers purchase supplemental accident insurance, with the driver covering the cost. I stared at the screen and let out a cold laugh. I was giving them a free ride, not running an ambulance service. When I got down to the bus, everyone was just standing around, no one getting on. Kevin stood at the door, holding a printed-out checklist. “Mr. Peter, for the sake of safety, the community has unanimously agreed that you must fill out this daily pre-trip inspection form.” I stared him in the eyes. “And if I don’t?” Kevin shrugged. “Then I don’t think anyone will feel safe enough to ride. It’s their lives, after all.” Mrs. Gable, an older woman who used to call me a living saint, now eyed me with suspicion. “Oh, just fill it out, dearie,” she coaxed. “Mr. Kevin is just looking out for us. A little professionalism can’t hurt.” Ricky chimed in, “Yeah, Peter, it’s no big deal.” I took the pen and filled out their ridiculous form, curious to see what other nonsense they could dream up. As the bus started, the atmosphere was even heavier than the day before. The AC was taking a minute to kick in. Kevin pulled out a handheld air quality monitor and pointed it at the vent, filming. “As you can see, the filter hasn’t been cleaned in a long time. The PM2.5 levels are rising.” He announced gravely, “In an enclosed space like this, a malfunctioning AC unit could easily lead to oxygen deprivation or even carbon monoxide poisoning.” From the back, an older man clutched his head. “Oh my, no wonder I’m feeling a bit dizzy! Are we running out of air?” Someone else yelled, “Peter, can you open a window? It does smell a bit off in here.” “It’s true, it’s dangerous with so many people packed in.” The bus filled with a chorus of complaints. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The dizzy old man was the same one who, just last week, had told me this bus was more comfortable than the subway. The woman complaining about the smell used to eat onion bagels on her morning ride. One word from Kevin, and I was now the villain trying to poison them all. When we reached their stop, Kevin remained in his seat. “Since the hardware clearly can’t be improved, Mr. Peter should consider offering a heat-hazard stipend or a risk-assumption fee.” “After all,” he added with a smirk, “everyone here is risking their lives just to be your practice dummies.” “He’s right!” someone piped up. “Fifty bucks a day per person seems fair, don’t you think?” I said nothing, my knuckles white as I gripped the steering wheel. I had a fleeting, insane urge to weld the doors shut and drive straight into the river. But I held it in. Returning to the community that afternoon, the security guard at the main gate stopped me. “Mr. Peter, your vehicle can’t enter.” He frowned and gestured toward the security booth, where Kevin was waiting. Kevin emerged, holding a document. “Mr. Peter, according to the Havenwood Creek Roads & Grounds bylaws, large vehicles can cause damage to the underground pipes and pavement. Our calculations show that the axle weight of your bus exceeds the load-bearing capacity of our community’s roads.” He pointed down the road. “For the safety of all homeowners’ property, please park your vehicle on the undeveloped land two miles away. Do not bring it into the community.” I burst out laughing. “I’ve been driving this bus in here for three years without a problem! How is it suddenly overweight today?” Kevin’s face was a stony mask. “That was before anyone was properly supervising the situation. Now that I have identified the hazard, I cannot, in good conscience, allow it to continue.” I put the bus in reverse and drove the two miles to the barren plot of land. I pulled out the work order I’d gotten for the AC repair and tore it into tiny pieces. That night, I posted a message in the group chat: “The bus is going in for AC maintenance tomorrow. Service will be suspended for the day.” The chat immediately erupted. “What? Suspended? How am I supposed to get to work?” “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Mr. Kevin makes one suggestion and you shut it all down. Who are you trying to get back at?” “I don’t care! If I lose my perfect attendance bonus tomorrow, you’ll have to compensate me for my losses!” Kevin himself weighed in: “One shouldn’t be so selfish. If you’re going to start a service like this, you have a responsibility to see it through. This is malicious cessation of service!” I looked at my phone and laughed until tears streamed down my face. This was human nature. You give them a free lunch, and they complain it’s not salted enough. You take the plate away, and they scream at you for not spoon-feeding them. I turned off my phone and pulled out the development plans for the area around our community. There was a single, direct shortcut connecting our community to the tech campus. It was a private road that had not yet been handed over to the city. I circled it in red on the map and called my assistant. “Pull the deed for that access road. I need it.” At six the next morning, someone was pounding on my door. I opened it to find a crowd of seven or eight neighbors. Mrs. Gable was at the front, with the very pregnant Laura beside her. Kevin stood at the back, phone held high, livestreaming. “Peter, dear, how could you just stop the service like that?” Mrs. Gable slapped her thigh for emphasis. “Do you have any idea how far the subway station is? You’ll be the death of these old bones!” “Peter…” Laura’s eyes were red, one hand on her lower back. “I have my specialist appointment today. I have to be there. What if someone bumps into me on a crowded subway? Please, just this one last time, for me?” “Indeed, Mr. Peter,” Kevin said, pushing up his glasses. “While your vehicle does present certain safety hazards, in an emergency situation such as this, basic human decency dictates that you shouldn’t refuse to help. Or would you rather see a pregnant woman have an accident on public transport? Could you handle the public outcry from that?” It was pure emotional blackmail. If I refused, Laura would become the face of my cruelty online. I stared at Laura’s swollen belly for a long moment, then grabbed my car keys. I would give myself one last chance to see these people for who they truly were. “Fine. I’ll drive you. This is the last time.” My neighbors high-fived each other. Kevin made a V-for-victory sign at his camera. “You see that, followers? This is a victory for the power of the people! Justice may be delayed, but it is never denied!” On the way, no one mentioned the previous day’s drama. It was all “Peter, man” this and “Thanks, Peter” that. The charade continued right up until I slammed on the brakes. A stray dog had darted into the road. I stomped on the brake pedal. We were going less than fifteen miles per hour. The bus lurched slightly. The water bottle on my dashboard didn’t even tip over. “Aargh!” A cry came from the passenger seat. Kevin had launched himself out of his seat and onto the floor, clutching his neck and grimacing. “My neck… my neck!” he screamed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The illegal shuttle driver is trying to kill us! This is what happens when you operate an unsafe vehicle! Someone call 911! Call an ambulance!”

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Payday. I stared at the direct deposit notification on my phone, my mind going completely blank. My salary was supposed to be nine thousand dollars a month. The text said fifty-five hundred. What really sent my blood pressure into the stratosphere was the news that Alex, the culinary school intern who’d only been here a year, got a raise. From seven grand a month to ten-five. What the hell was this? I was the executive chef who had dragged this place up from a greasy-spoon dive to a three-star Michelin restaurant. I hadn’t seen a raise in five years. I’d spent every holiday season practically living in the kitchen, working overtime, training apprentices who were now running their own kitchens at our other locations. And this was my reward? A pay cut, while a kid who wasn’t even a full-time employee got a bonus? The fury built until I couldn’t see straight. I grabbed the resignation letter I’d kept in my locker for a day like this and stormed into the owner’s office. I remember him calling me and Alex in after the New Year. “The restaurant’s gone up another Michelin star,” he’d said, beaming. “Time for a raise for everyone.” I’d actually let myself get excited, thinking, finally, it’s my turn. What a joke. The owner, Mr. Ross, looked up from his desk, a surprised expression on his face when he saw the letter. “Susan, what’s this all about?” A cold laugh escaped my lips as I unleashed all the bitterness I’d been swallowing for years. “I can’t even support my family on this. I’m done.” 1 Mr. Ross slid the resignation letter back across his polished desk, his expression a mask of concerned difficulty. “Susan, I know you might be upset, but we’re adjusting to market trends, making strategic pivots. You’ve been here five years, you’ve seen us through thick and thin. Is this little thing really worth quitting over? Be a team player. Be reasonable.” I laughed again, a harsh, grating sound. “Mr. Ross, it’s precisely because I’ve been here for five years.” “Year one, I slept on the kitchen floor on New Year’s Eve just so I could be up at 5 a.m. to prep for the dinner service.” “Year two, I had a 104-degree fever in the middle of winter. You said a private party had booked the whole place and couldn’t be canceled. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely hold a knife, but I finished all twelve courses.” “Year three, business was booming. I was working around the clock, so exhausted I could barely stand. I was filleting a sea bass and nearly sliced my finger off. I just wrapped it in plastic wrap and got back to the stove. I didn’t get stitches until after we closed. The doctor said another half hour and I would’ve lost the finger.” “Year four, I was cooking all day and training apprentices all night. I worked endless overtime and never saw a single cent for it.” “Year five, I’ve poured my life into this place, and today, you cut my pay.” I leaned forward, my hands flat on his desk. “All I’m asking for is to be treated fairly. Is that really so hard?” The smile on Mr. Ross’s face finally vanished. He slammed his hand on the table. “Susan! What’s your point? Are you trying to list your accomplishments for me?” “Let me tell you something. The reason you’re standing here today, the reason you get to call yourself a Michelin-star chef, is because of what? Because of this restaurant! Because of the top-tier ingredients I spend a fortune on! Because of the platform I built for you! Without all that, what are you?” My fingers curled into tight fists, my jaw clenched. Five years ago, Savor was nothing more than a hole-in-the-wall diner. When he hired me, he promised me a percentage of the profits if I could turn the place around. I believed him. To perfect my craft, I traveled everywhere, studying under different masters. I used my own savings. I paid for my own travel and lodging. I even bought my own ingredients to practice my knife skills and cooking techniques after my shifts. The second year, I wanted to revamp the signature dish. He refused, said it was too risky. I stood in this very office and swore to him that if we lost a single dollar on it, he could deduct it from my salary. That revamped dish became a sensation. It’s what put this restaurant on the map. “Mr. Ross, let me ask you something. In five years, this restaurant’s profits have increased a hundredfold. Where is the profit-sharing you promised me when I started?” His eyes darted away. “Susan, it’s not that I don’t want to give it to you. We just don’t have it.” He cleared his throat and spread his hands. “Do you have any idea how much it cost to get that third Michelin star? The dinners for the critics, the networking, the kitchen upgrades… that set of imported French copper pots alone cost over twenty thousand dollars. Every penny the restaurant made went right back into it.” I stared at him. “No money?” “Then tell me this. Alex isn’t even a full-time employee. What are you paying him a bonus for?” Mr. Ross was silent for a beat. “Now, Susan, that’s not a fair comparison.” “Alex is a graduate of the Cordon Bleu in Paris. He’s formally trained. Do you know what the hottest trend in the culinary world is right now? International, high-end cuisine. If we want to compete on a global scale, we need a strong foundation in that world.” “And you? You cook traditional food. It’s good, but let’s be honest, it’s outdated. The market is moving on. If this restaurant doesn’t evolve, it dies. You represent the past, Susan. Alex represents the future.” The future of the restaurant who, as far as I knew, still couldn’t properly sear a steak. I looked down, a bitter smile on my face, and walked out of the office. Let’s see how many days Savor can keep its three Michelin stars without me. 2 I went to the staff restroom and splashed cold water on my face. Walking past Mr. Ross’s office again, I saw the door was slightly ajar. I heard Alex’s voice and stopped in my tracks. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Ross. I’ve got all her signature recipes down. The exact cooking temperatures, the sauce ratios, I’ve memorized everything.” Alex’s voice was slick with pride. Mr. Ross chuckled. “Alex, my boy, you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.” “What’s the real asset of this restaurant? The recipes. As long as we have those, it doesn’t matter who’s cooking. You add your fancy Western plating, your molecular gastronomy tricks… when we take that to the international market, it’ll be a slaughter.” Alex paused, then lowered his voice. “But, Mr. Ross, her attitude in here just now… I think she’s serious about leaving. What about that big banquet next week? Thirty-eight courses. If she really walks out…” Mr. Ross scoffed. “Walk out? She wouldn’t dare.” “Her husband has a bad back, he’s on medication constantly. That’s two grand a month right there. Then there’s the mortgage, I heard her on the phone once, that’s another forty-five hundred. And her son does some kind of martial arts, the training camps are eight grand a quarter.” “You do the math. How much does she need every month? She dares to quit? What’s she going to use to pay her mortgage? To buy her husband’s medicine?” Mr. Ross laughed again. “She’s just throwing a tantrum. In a couple of days, she’ll cool off and come crawling back. I’ll just dangle another carrot, promise her a bonus at the end of the year, and she’ll be back in the kitchen, working like a good little girl.” “I’ve seen her type a million times. With family responsibilities weighing her down, she has no other choice.” The laughter seeping through the crack in the door hit my ears like physical blows. I looked down at the pale scar on my right index finger and shoved my hand deep into my pocket. My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. A connection request on LinkedIn. The message read: Sarah Connolly, Talent Acquisition, Apex Hospitality Group. I accepted. A message popped up immediately. “Chef Susan, my name is Sarah Connolly, and I’m a recruiter with Apex Hospitality Group. We are currently building our flagship restaurant and would be honored to have you as our Executive Head Chef. We’re offering a salary of one million dollars a year, your own dedicated R&D team, and the full backing of the group to innovate within traditional cuisine. If you’re available, I would love to discuss this further.” One million dollars a year. I stared at the number on the screen for a long, long time. From the office, Mr. Ross’s voice drifted out again, clear as day. “She won’t dare leave.” I woke my phone screen and tapped out a reply. “Very interested. I look forward to our conversation.” I put my phone back in my pocket, straightened my back, and walked away without a second glance at that door. 3 That afternoon, I was in the kitchen, preparing for the final handover. I was pointing out a few things to the apprentices, which dishes they still needed to master, which daily details to watch out for. Suddenly, a server from the front-of-house burst in, her face pale. “Susan, we have a problem.” “There’s a food blogger out there, she has like, three million followers. She ordered our signature Matsutake Mushroom Consommé and the Pan-Seared Redfish.” “She took one bite and put her utensils down. Says it tastes wrong. She’s filming a video about it right now in the dining room!” Everyone in the kitchen turned to look at me, the same way they had for the past five years, expecting me to clean up whatever mess they’d made. I glanced over. “Alex made the signature dishes this afternoon. Have him deal with it.” Alex froze. He was standing at his station, his apron splattered with grease, sweat dripping from his forehead. The kitchen door swung open. It was Mr. Ross. He zeroed in on me the second he walked in. “Susan!” “Are you doing this on purpose?” “Did you or did you not teach him the core recipes for your signature dishes? Are you holding back, keeping secrets for yourself?” “That blogger has three million followers! Do you know what will happen if she posts a negative review?!” He pointed a finger at me, his voice full of command. “Susan, you go out there and apologize to her right now. Then you remake the dishes, serve them yourself, and smooth things over.” I gestured to the recipes taped to the wall, the paper yellowed and stained from years of kitchen smoke. “The recipes have been on that wall for years.” “But if your knife skills are sloppy, if you can’t control the heat, if your fundamentals are weak, there’s nothing I can do.” “If I made the mistake, I could fix it. But I can’t fix someone else’s lack of skill.” Mr. Ross’s face flushed red, then went pale. “Susan, are you slacking off on purpose because you’re mad about the pay adjustment?” “When there’s a problem in the restaurant, you, as the head chef, are just going to hide back here? What are you trying to do? Do you want to see this restaurant fail?” I found it hilarious. “The person whose cooking is making the restaurant fail doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Why should a chef who isn’t skilled enough to earn a high salary be worried?” Mr. Ross took a deep breath, a vein throbbing in his forehead. “Susan, the pay cut… I didn’t think it through.” “Our food costs were too high last year, the budget was tight, so I had to make some adjustments. It wasn’t personal.” “How about this: I’ll restore your salary to nine thousand, same as before. We’ll put this behind us, okay?” Back to nine thousand? Were five years of my life and sacrifice only worth nine thousand a month? I said calmly, “My salary is lower than Alex’s, so I must not be as skilled. In that case, someone of my level certainly can’t give him any pointers or solve this problem.” Mr. Ross’s face tightened. He glanced anxiously towards the dining room, then back at me. After a long moment, he spoke. “Fine.” He squeezed the word out through gritted teeth. “I’ll add another thousand. Ten thousand.” “Susan, ten thousand a month is not a low salary in this industry. Don’t be ungrateful.” “Now go fix this.” “And next month, we have three big private bookings. High-end clients, the cheapest table starts at eighty thousand. You have to personally oversee all three. There can’t be any issues with the food.” “You pull these off, and then we’ll talk about your bonus.” It was always then we’ll talk. And every year, there was a new excuse. “Fine,” I said. Mr. Ross visibly relaxed. He probably thought he’d won again. I turned to go deal with the situation in the dining room. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a message from Sarah Connolly, the recruiter from Apex Hospitality. “Chef Susan, the contract details have been sent to your email. You can sign whenever you’re ready. Just let us know your preferred start date, and we’ll accommodate you.” I glanced at the calendar. The earliest of those three private bookings was on the 12th of next month. The latest start date Apex had offered me was the 10th. I put my phone away, returned to my station, and got back to work. Mr. Ross thought Alex could handle it. So let him.

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I waited for three long years. In that time, I mailed seven whistleblower letters. His people intercepted the first six. For the seventh, I changed my strategy. I sent it directly to the state. He was on vacation in Miami that day. He had just posted a photo of the ocean view on his social media, captioned, “Hard work pays off. You deserve to enjoy life.” A string of likes quickly appeared below it. What he didn’t know was that thirty-seven agents from the State Department of Revenue were already walking through the doors of his company. I stared at the photo on my screen, then quietly set my phone down. 1. It all started three years ago, one night when I found the money. The day had been completely ordinary. I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, about to transfer some money into a savings account. I opened my banking app and glanced at the transaction history out of habit. An automatic debit. On the 15th of every month, a fixed transfer of $5,000. The memo read: Mortgage. I froze. We had paid off our mortgage in 2019. I scrolled up. Last month, $5,000. The month before that, $5,000. I kept scrolling back. It was there. Every single month. I counted. Fourteen consecutive months. Seventy thousand dollars. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling. In the living room, Mark was watching a football game, the commentator’s voice drifting down the hall. I picked my phone back up and took a screenshot. Then I looked up the recipient’s account information. The account holder: Amber. I knew that name. She was the receptionist I had personally hired for his company three years ago. I remember her interview. She wore a white dress and had two dimples when she smiled. I’d told Mark, “This girl seems bright. Let’s hire her.” “Whatever you think is best,” he’d said. He hadn’t even given her a second glance then. Or so I thought. I didn’t confront him right then and there. I didn’t cry, or scream, or throw my phone. I saved the screenshot of the bank statement to a password-protected folder. Then I turned off the light and pretended to be asleep. Mark came to bed at eleven, snoring the moment his head hit the pillow. I lay there with my eyes open, thinking all night in the darkness. The next morning, he left for work. I called in sick. I opened my laptop and looked up the bank card tied to that transfer. Mark was using a personal card linked to the company account. I knew which bank it was from because I had gone with him to open it years ago. I dug deeper into the transaction details. There was an auto-pay setup, and in the payee’s information, there was one extra piece of data: An address. Lakeside Terraces, Building 7, Apartment 1402. We lived on the east side of town. Lakeside Terraces was on the west side. I changed my clothes and left the house. Forty minutes later, I was standing in front of Building 7 of Lakeside Terraces. It was a nice complex. Manicured lawns, underground parking. I took the elevator to the 14th floor. I stood in front of apartment 1402. There was a cartoon sticker on the door, a smiling cat. I didn’t knock. I just stood there for five minutes, then turned and left. Because on the shoe rack by the door, I saw a pair of men’s slippers. Brown, size 10. Identical to the pair in our closet at home. I sat in a coffee shop across the street for two hours. At two in the afternoon, a woman walked out of Building 7. Ponytail, floral dress, perfectly applied makeup. Amber. She walked to the curb, made a phone call, and said something with a smile. I couldn’t hear the words. But I saw her gently touch her stomach. My hands began to tremble. Not from sadness. From rage. One hundred and eighty thousand dollars. My parents had given me one hundred and twenty thousand, and I had saved sixty thousand myself. Five years ago, when Mark told me he wanted to start his own business, I gave him every penny. I even quit my job at a major accounting firm to be his CFO. I built his books from scratch, one entry at a time. For five years, I worked until 11 p.m. every night. His company grew from a tiny startup into a business with a three-million-dollar annual revenue. And he took the money I helped him earn and used it to keep a woman. To buy her a condo in Lakeside Terraces. Five thousand a month, like clockwork. Seventy thousand so far, and still counting. I left the coffee shop and stood on the sidewalk for a moment. The late autumn wind was cold. I didn’t cry. I took out my phone and snapped a picture of Lakeside Terraces. I saved it to the encrypted folder. Then, I went home and started making dinner. Mark got home at seven. He ate the ribs I’d made and told me they were delicious. I looked at him and smiled. I didn’t say a word. He had no idea. I had already begun. 2. The next day, I went to the state’s business registry. I looked up our company’s equity transfer records. When we first registered the company, I held 30%, and Mark held 70%. I wrote the charter myself. I remembered it clearly. But the record in the system now showed: Katherine, 0%. Amber, 30%. The date of transfer was a year and a half ago. Attached was an equity transfer agreement. Transferor: Katherine. Transferee: Amber. Transfer price: One dollar. I saw the signature on the agreement. It was my name. But I didn’t sign it. When I sign my name, the final stroke of the ‘e’ in Katherine always has a small curve. This one didn’t. He had forged it. I stood there in the lobby of the registry, staring at the screen for a long time. The final stroke of the ‘e’ was straight, with no curve. Just like him. He stabbed me with a straight blade, not even bothering to conceal it properly. In that moment, I finally understood something. In Mark’s eyes, what was I? I was the money, the bookkeeper, the one who propped up his company, and then, like a piece of scrap paper, I was thrown away with a forged signature. A fake name. One dollar. I was worth one dollar. I took a picture. After leaving the registry, I did a second thing. I went back to the office. I was still the company’s CFO. Mark hadn’t touched my position. He had only touched the equity, because he was sure I would never check. I walked into the finance department, opened the company’s internal system, and started pulling Amber’s employment records. Date of hire: March 2020. I hired her. Then I checked her pay stubs. 2020: $4,000 a month. 2021: $8,000 a month. 2022: $15,000 a month, plus a thirty-thousand-dollar “annual bonus.” I checked her promotion history. 2020: Receptionist. 2021: Assistant to the General Manager. 2022: “Executive Vice President of Administration.” A receptionist, promoted to VP in two years. Her salary had nearly quadrupled. Plus the five-thousand-dollar monthly “mortgage.” Plus the thirty-thousand-dollar “bonus.” I did the math. In two and a half years, the money Mark had spent on Amber: Salary difference: Approximately $50,000. Monthly transfers: $70,000 (and counting). Condo at Lakeside Terraces: Down payment of around $80,000. Bonus: $30,000. Miscellaneous expenses: Unknown. A conservative estimate: Over $230,000. The startup capital I had given him was $180,000. He had spent more on her than my entire initial investment. I closed the laptop. I sat in my chair for ten minutes. Then I did a third thing. I looked for photos. There was a “Team Events” folder on the company’s shared drive. I started from the beginning. May 2020, the company’s first team-building event. In the group photo, Amber stood on the far right, prim and proper. December 2020, the annual holiday party. In the group photo, Amber stood next to Mark, her body angled slightly toward him. Mark’s hand rested on the back of her chair. I zoomed in. He was smiling. I knew that smile. It was the same smile he used when he was courting me. December 2020. The eighth month after the company was founded. So, the affair hadn’t been going on for a year. Or two years. It started almost as soon as the company was on its feet. Every single day I was propping up his company, he was behind my back with another woman. Four years. More than fourteen hundred days. I worked until 11 p.m. every night. He came home every night from Lakeside Terraces. I thought he was out entertaining clients. He was in apartment 1402. Behind the door with the smiling cat. I took screenshots of all the photos in chronological order and saved them to my encrypted folder. The evidence was mounting. So was my rage. But I kept quiet. Because I knew Mark was not a man to be trifled with. He had money, connections, and lawyers. If I showed my hand now, he had a hundred ways to make sure I walked away with nothing. I had to win. Not just have a fight, a good cry, and then get divorced with nothing to my name. I had to make him pay. A real price. 3. For the next week, I went through all five years of the company’s books. I had done these books. I knew better than anyone what was inside. On the surface, Mark’s company was a construction supplier with an annual revenue of three million. But in reality, starting in the second year, he had been keeping two sets of books. One for the IRS, and one for himself. I didn’t know at first. When I found out, he told me, “Every company does it. It’s no big deal.” I believed him. Because I was his wife. Looking back now, he probably had me cook the books from the beginning with a clear plan: if we ever split, these fraudulent records would be the rope around my neck. You did the books. You’re complicit. Clever. So clever. The things I compiled in that week: Underreported income: A cumulative total of around $800,000. Falsified invoices: At least a dozen. Fraudulent payroll records: Used to siphon company funds. Personal expenses billed to the company: The $80,000 down payment for the Lakeside Terraces condo was disguised as a “project fee.” I had the original drafts for all of it. Five years of drafts. I had kept them all. Not because I was prescient, but because it was my professional habit as an accountant. For every transaction, I had a scanned copy of the original receipt. Mark didn’t know. He thought I was just his obedient little bookkeeper. With all this, I wrote my first whistleblower letter. I signed my name to it. I attached evidence of the three most blatant instances of tax evasion. I mailed it to the city’s IRS office. Two weeks later, two agents came to the office. They walked around, looked at a few ledgers, and chatted with Mark for half an hour. Then they left. The conclusion: Upon review, no significant violations were found. I waited a month. Nothing. One evening, Mark came home and sat on the sofa, looking at me. “Katherine.” “Yes?” “Did you report me?” I didn’t answer. He laughed. “Let me tell you something. Frank, at the IRS? I’ve known him for ten years.” He crossed his legs. “You can report me a hundred times. It won’t work.” I just looked at him. “It’s just a formality every time, you understand?” He stood up and walked over to me. “If you feel so wronged, we can get a divorce.” He looked down at me. “You can have the house, and I’ll give you fifty thousand. Don’t even think about anything else.” Fifty thousand. I had put in one hundred and eighty thousand. I had worked as his CFO for five years for free. He was offering me fifty thousand. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” he asked. I looked at him. “I need to think about it.” He let out a short, sharp laugh and went back to the bedroom. He didn’t go to Lakeside Terraces that night. He probably thought he should stay to “pacify” me. I lay next to him, listening to him snore. Staring at the ceiling. Fine. You say a hundred times won’t work. Then I’ll try a hundred and one times. 4. I didn’t mail the second letter right away. First, I went to see someone. Brenda. Brenda was forty-eight, a former colleague of mine from the accounting firm. A year after I quit to join Mark’s company, he said he needed to hire a cashier and asked for a recommendation. I recommended Brenda. She had been with the company ever since. She was the kind of person who faded into the background. Dressed simply, spoke little, came and went on time, and never attended company parties. Mark never gave her a second look. But Brenda had one particular trait: in her twenty years as a cashier, she remembered every single dollar that passed through her hands. It wasn’t loyalty. It was a professional habit. Just like me. I took Brenda out for lunch. At a simple noodle shop. “Brenda, I’m divorcing Mark.” She put down her chopsticks. “Why?” “He’s cheating. You knew, didn’t you?” She was silent for a few seconds. “Everyone in the office knows.” “Everyone?” “He takes that Amber girl to business dinners. He doesn’t even try to hide it.” I laughed. The whole company knew. Except me. Because no one dared to tell the boss’s wife. “Brenda, I need you to do something for me.” I looked her in the eye. “How much of the company’s real cash flow from the past few years do you have records of?” Brenda looked at me for a long time. Then she said something. “Kate, I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that for two years.” She told me that two years ago, Mark had a new finance manager handle the accounts, sidelining her. But she didn’t quit. Because she knew this day would come. “I have a record of every dollar he’s taken from the company account each month.” She took a USB drive from her purse. “Cashier’s copy. It’s a habit of mine.” I took the drive. “Thank you, Brenda.” “Don’t thank me,” she said. “At the holiday party, he made me serve drinks. Said the cashier wasn’t a real employee.” She picked up a noodle with her chopsticks. “I’ve been waiting for this day too.” From that day on, Brenda became my eyes inside the company. Every suspicious transfer, every fake invoice, every personal expense disguised as a business one, she sent me a copy. Encrypted files, with the password changed weekly. Mark had no idea. He thought Brenda was just an old cashier who clocked in and out. He didn’t know that this old cashier was meticulously documenting his crimes. At the same time, I mailed my second whistleblower letter. This time, I intentionally only reported a minor issue, a transfer of about ten thousand dollars from a corporate to a personal account. The evidence was solid, but the amount was small. Why? Because I wasn’t trying to win this round. I wanted Mark to think this was all I had. As expected. Two weeks later, the IRS agents came again. They looked into it. Mark had to pay back eight thousand in taxes. He paid the fine, made a call to his “guy Frank,” and the matter was settled. He came home and said to me, “You reported me again?” I didn’t deny it. “Is this really worth it?” He shook his head. “Eight grand. That doesn’t even cover my lawyer’s fees.” He laughed. “Is that all you’ve got?” I looked at him. “Yes. That’s all I’ve got.” He smiled, satisfied, and left for Lakeside Terraces. I waited until he was gone, then took out my phone and sent a message to Brenda: “Keep going.” 5. The third month after I mailed the third letter. I found something new. The kickbacks Mark was paying to “Frank” at the IRS. Not just dinners and gifts. Direct wire transfers. Three times a year, ten thousand dollars each time. The money came from one of Amber’s personal accounts and was sent to a man named Frank Benson, the very agent in charge of auditing him. Brenda gave me this information. While organizing some old files, she had found a notebook locked in Mark’s desk drawer. It detailed every “PR expense.” Mark probably thought an old cashier would never go through her boss’s drawers. He was wrong. Brenda not only went through them, she took pictures. Every page, front and back, in high definition. Looking at those photos, I finally understood. It wasn’t that my letters were useless. It was that there was no such thing as a fair investigation. Every IRS audit was just a show Mark had paid for. The auditor was on his payroll. How could he possibly find anything wrong? I put my phone down. I took a deep breath. Fine. So it wasn’t a lack of evidence. It was that I was sending it to the wrong place. From that day on, I changed my strategy. No more letters to the city office. I started researching the whistleblower process for the State Department of Revenue. The state had its own independent whistleblower office, a separate system from the city. Mark’s “guy Frank” had no pull at the state level. But I wasn’t in a hurry. I needed more time. Because the amount of Mark’s tax evasion was still growing. He was getting bolder. Every report against him had been quashed. He no longer saw me as a threat. Two hundred thousand in evasion the year before, three hundred fifty thousand last year, and this year’s numbers were still climbing. He thought he was untouchable. With Frank in his pocket, no one could touch him. This was exactly what I wanted. The more arrogant he got, the bigger the hole he dug. And the bigger the hole, the harder it is to climb out. I mailed the fourth, fifth, and sixth letters. All to the city office. All squashed by Frank. Every time Mark got the news, he would just laugh. “You again?” He wasn’t even angry anymore. He found it funny. He thought his ex-wife (we were in the process of divorcing) was a pathetic, incompetent woman who could do nothing but write useless letters. What he didn’t know was this: In letters four through six, I had intentionally included only small pieces of evidence. Like baiting a hook. Every time he got away with it, he relaxed a little more. And every time he relaxed, he would commit another crime. And Brenda was recording every single one. By the end of the third year, Mark’s cumulative tax evasion had exceeded eight hundred thousand dollars. Add to that bribery, forging my signature to transfer equity, and creating fake invoices. Each crime was enough to bring him a world of hurt. Winter of 2024. I was ready. All the evidence, my five years of original drafts, Brenda’s three years of records, the photos of Mark’s bribery notebook, the forged signature on the equity transfer, was compiled into a single file. I printed three copies. One for the State Department of Revenue. One for the State Ethics Commission. And one for myself. The seventh letter. This time, no city office. No Frank. Straight to the state. The day I mailed it, it was very cold. The clerk at the post office asked me, “Registered or standard?” “Registered.” “You got it.” She gave me a receipt. I tucked it away safely. On the way home, I bought a bouquet of flowers. I put them in a vase in the living room. Then I sat down. And I waited.

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My brother’s son just turned eight this year. As the lawyer was handling the inheritance paperwork, he suddenly pointed to a clause at the end of the will and asked if I knew what my father had meant by it. I leaned in for a closer look. The clause stated that the house was to be provided, rent-free, for the use of the eldest grandson until he turned thirty. The lawyer sighed. “This means that for the next twenty-two years, while the house is legally in your name, you don’t actually have the right to use it.” 1 I stood in the law office, feeling like the punchline to a cosmic joke. Twenty-two years. My brother’s son, Henry, was eight. Thirty years old was exactly twenty-two years away. In other words, this half-a-million-dollar house, with my name on the deed, was to be a free home for my nephew for twenty-two years. And after twenty-two years, the place would be a rundown dump, its value a whole other question. Besides, after someone’s lived in a place for over two decades, could you really kick them out? My father had played his hand brilliantly. With a single piece of paper, he had bought out the last shreds of affection I had for him as a daughter. He had also bought all those days and nights I’d spent, devoted and exhausted, caring for him at the end of his life. I turned my head to look at my brother, William, sitting on the couch. His eyes darted away, unable to meet mine, but he couldn’t hide the smug little smirk playing on his lips. He knew. He must have known all along. I took a deep breath, my voice trembling uncontrollably. “Will, what is this?” William cleared his throat, putting on his best honest-man act. “Nora, don’t get worked up. Dad was just thinking of Henry’s future. He’s a boy, he’ll need a house when he gets married, right?” “Our family doesn’t have much. Dad didn’t have a choice.” His wife, Linda, immediately jumped in, her tone dripping with entitlement. “Exactly, Nora. You’re a girl, you’ll get married someday. A house isn’t as important for you.” “Besides, the deed is in your name, isn’t it? See how fair Dad was? He was still thinking of you. We’re just looking after it for you for twenty-two years. Saves you the hassle of renting it out. Isn’t that great?” A chill ran through me, a fury so cold it burned. “Looking after it? Linda, search your conscience. Is that what you call it? This is squatting! You’re stealing my home!” “How dare you!” Linda shot to her feet, her voice rising to a shriek. “What do you mean, stealing? This was Dad’s gift to his own grandson! It’s written right here in the will, clear as day! Nora, I’m telling you, don’t be ungrateful. The thing Dad worried about most before he died was that you wouldn’t honor his wishes. Are you really going to defy his dying wish? Can you live with that?” The thing he worried about most was that I wouldn’t honor his wishes? So when he held my hand and told me he wasn’t playing favorites, this is what he was thinking. He wasn’t comforting me. He was setting a trap. Sensing the escalating tension, the lawyer stepped in. “Ms. Shaw, Mr. Shaw, please, calm down.” “The will is legally binding. It’s all here in black and white. Ms. Shaw, you do indeed own the property, but the right of use for the next twenty-two years belongs to your nephew, Henry.” I looked at the lawyer and asked, enunciating every word, “So who pays the HOA fees, the heating bills, and the maintenance costs for these twenty-two years?” The lawyer paused, flipping through the documents. “The will does not specify. According to property law, the owner is typically responsible for such expenses.” “Okay. I understand.” I grabbed my bag, and without another glance at my brother or his wife, I turned and walked out. Linda’s shrill voice followed me. “Nora, what’s with the attitude? The keys! As soon as the deed is transferred, you’d better hand over the keys!” I didn’t look back. Stepping out of the law firm, the sunlight was blinding, but I felt frozen to the core. I pulled out my phone and found the last picture I had of my father. He was lying in a hospital bed, an oxygen tube in his nose. I was holding his hand, my smile full of daughterly devotion. Beneath the photo was the caption I’d posted: “Dad, may you rest in peace. You were the best father in the world.” Now, it all felt like a sick joke. 2 The six months my father was critically ill were the darkest of my life. He spent three months in the ICU, the daily bills piling up like a flood. My brother, William, just threw up his hands, claiming his factory was doing poorly, his wife was unemployed, his son had school expenses—he simply had no money to spare. Every time he came to the hospital, he’d hang around outside the room for ten minutes, snap a photo for his social media feed with a caption like, “Hoping Dad gets well soon,” and then make an excuse to leave. The entire burden fell on my shoulders. I rushed between my office and the hospital every day, spending nights on a cheap folding cot. Hiring a full-time nurse was too expensive, so I gritted my teeth and did it all myself. Bathing him, feeding him, dealing with his bodily waste—I did it all without a single complaint. Because he was my dad. The man who raised me. And because he had held my hand, more than once, and told me, “Nora, you’ve worked so hard all these years. Don’t worry, Dad knows what he’s doing. I won’t favor your brother.” The depth of my gratitude then was matched only by the depth of my disgust now. My husband, Mark, came home from a business trip to find me completely shattered. After I told him everything, he slammed his fist on the table in anger. “What kind of garbage is that? They’re walking all over you. What did he think you were? A free nurse and an ATM?” I collapsed into his arms, the tears finally breaking free. “Mark, I just don’t get it. How could he do this to me? I’m his daughter!” Mark held me, gently stroking my back. “Because you’re too good, Nora. In their eyes, your sense of duty is something to be taken for granted, an excuse to sacrifice you again and again.” He was right. Growing up, if there was ever anything good, it always went to William first. One egg had to be split, and he always got the bigger half. When I got into college, my dad gave me five hundred dollars for tuition. He gave William two thousand, telling him to go out and “make his way in the world.” After I started working, I sent three thousand dollars home every month, without fail. And my brother? The money for his wedding gift to his bride was scraped together because my dad forced me to pay for it. I wasn’t without resentment, but my dad would always say, “Your brother isn’t as smart or as capable as you are. As his little sister, you should help him out. We’re family, we can’t be so calculating.” “We’re family.” That one phrase had bound me for thirty years. Only today did I realize that in their definition of family, there was only taking and giving, no fairness or respect. And I was always the one expected to give. Just then, my phone rang. It was William. I swiped to answer but said nothing. “Hello? Nora?” William’s voice was laced with impatience, a commander issuing an order. “Where’d you run off to? Linda and I have been waiting. Where are the keys to Dad’s house? Get over here and give them to us. We’re planning to have it cleaned so we can move in next weekend.” I let out a cold laugh. “What keys?” William was taken aback for a second, then his voice rose. “What do you mean, ‘what keys’? The house keys, of course! Nora, don’t play dumb with me! The will is crystal clear. Are you trying to back out of it?” “The will says the house is for your son to live in, but it doesn’t say when, does it?” I said slowly. “The deed isn’t even finalized yet. The paperwork is still being processed. What’s the rush?” “You…” William was furious. “Don’t give me that crap! I’m warning you, if you don’t hand over the keys within a week, we’re calling a locksmith! Don’t blame us for embarrassing you then!” He hung up with a vicious click. I clutched my phone, the sorrow in my heart slowly being consumed by a rising fire of anger. Embarrassing me? They had ground my face into the dirt, using a knife carved from my own father’s bones to cut me to pieces, and now they wanted to talk about saving face? Fine. If you’re going to be shameless, then I’ve got no face to give you. 3 The next day, my aunt called. My father had only one sister, and she had always doted on William. “Nora, I heard from your brother that you’re refusing to give him the keys to the house?” My aunt’s tone was heavy with the scolding weight of an elder. “How can you be so thoughtless? Your father’s barely cold in his grave, and you’re going to make him turn in his grave over a house?” I answered calmly, “Auntie, that house is mine. The will states that I have ownership.” “Ownership, ownership, what’s that but a piece of paper? The house is for your nephew to live in, he’s still family.” “You’re a girl, what’s the point in fighting for it?” When I didn’t respond, her voice grew shrill. “Your brother has it so tough, supporting a family of three on his own. Henry is about to start elementary school, how can he not have a decent house? You’re married, you have your own home. Can’t you have a little sympathy for your brother?” There it was again. That same old argument. Because I’m a girl, I’m supposed to give way. Because my life is better than his, I’m supposed to be a bottomless well for him to draw from. “Auntie,” I interrupted her, “when Dad was in the hospital with hundreds of thousands in medical bills, neither you nor my brother paid a cent. Now it’s time to divide the inheritance, and you’re all suddenly so eager. Don’t you find that a little ridiculous?” The line went silent. A few seconds later, my aunt exploded in a rage. “Nora, what is that attitude? I am your elder! Wasn’t it your duty as a daughter to pay for your father’s care? What, did you expect us to praise you for it? I see what it is—you got married, and now you think you’re too good for your own family!” I hung up and blocked her number. On Friday afternoon, I was in a meeting when my phone started vibrating nonstop. It was Mark. I gave him a nod and stepped out of the conference room to answer. “Nora, you need to get back here, now!” Mark’s voice was a mix of urgency and fury. “Your brother and his wife, they’re at the house with a locksmith, trying to break in!” “I’m on my way!” I got permission from my director and floored it all the way to my father’s house. Downstairs, a small crowd of curious neighbors had already gathered. My brother William and his wife Linda were standing with their hands on their hips, directing a locksmith who was working on the security door. “Hurry it up, man! This is our house!” Linda’s voice was sharp and loud. I pushed through the crowd and shoved the locksmith away from the door. “Stop. Who gave you permission to touch the door to my house?” William saw me and showed no remorse. Instead, he played the victim. “So you decided to show up? Why didn’t you answer our calls? If you haven’t done anything wrong, what are you afraid of?” “What have I done wrong?” I pointed at the lock. “This is my house. What right do you have to break my lock?” Linda rolled her eyes. “Your house? The will says my son gets to live here for twenty-two years! That makes it ours! We have every right to enter our own home!” The neighbors started whispering amongst themselves. “Isn’t that the Shaw’s daughter? Poor thing. I heard her dad gave her the house, but then let his grandson live in it.” “That’s just bullying!” “Her brother and his wife are just awful…” Hearing the comments, Linda’s face turned beet red. She suddenly lunged at me, pointing a finger at my nose. “Nora, you ungrateful brat! William is the son! This house should have been ours in the first place! Dad only wrote your name on it because he was afraid you wouldn’t agree! You really think it’s yours?” “I’m telling you, we’re opening this door today! And we’re moving into this house!” As she spoke, she tried to shove me. Mark arrived just in time, pulling me behind him and creating a barrier between us. “William, Linda, have some decency,” Mark said, his face dark with anger. “The house belongs to Nora. What you’re doing is breaking and entering. It’s illegal!” “Illegal? Who are you trying to scare?” William yelled, his neck stiff with defiance. “It’s in my father’s will! Go on, call the cops! Let’s see who they listen to when they get here!” They were banking on the fact that I would be constrained by family ties, by my father’s reputation, that I wouldn’t dare escalate the situation. Seeing their shameless confidence, the rage in my chest burned hotter. I took out my phone and, in front of everyone, dialed 911. “Hello, yes, I’d like to report a crime. Someone is breaking the lock on my door. The address is…” 4 The police arrived quickly. When William and Linda saw the patrol car, they visibly panicked. Linda tried to sound tough. “What’s the use of calling the police? This is a family matter!” The lead officer was a stern-faced middle-aged man. He looked us over and asked directly, “Who called? What’s going on here?” I stepped forward and clearly explained the situation, including the contents of the will. William, in turn, produced a copy of the will, pointing to the clause with righteous indignation. “Officer, look, it’s in black and white. The house is for my son to live in! How is entering our own house breaking and entering?” The officer listened, his brow furrowed. He turned to a younger officer beside him. “Get on the radio with the legal department at the precinct and confirm how we handle this kind of situation.” Then he turned back to us, his tone serious. “Until this is sorted out, nobody touches this door. Both parties, come with me to the station to give a statement.” The moment Linda heard “station,” she started to throw a fit. “I’m not going! We didn’t break any laws, why should we go to the station? What kind of police are you? Siding with an outsider against us!” The officer’s face hardened. “Ma’am, I need you to cooperate with our investigation. If you continue to obstruct, we will charge you with interfering with a police officer.” That shut her up. She didn’t dare make another sound. At the station, we were put in separate rooms to give our statements. An hour later, we were brought back out. The young officer approached us holding a document. He addressed William and Linda. “We’ve consulted with our legal advisor. While this will grants your son the right to reside in the home, the property has not yet been legally transferred, and the owner has not willingly provided the keys. Your act of forcibly breaking the lock constitutes trespassing and property damage.” “If any property was damaged, the owner has the right to demand compensation and pursue legal action against you.” He paused, looking at all of us. “To put it simply, if she doesn’t want you to move in right now, you cannot force your way in. This is a civil dispute, and we advise you to resolve it through mediation or legal channels. For today, you’re getting a verbal warning. If it happens again, it won’t be this simple.” The expressions on William and Linda’s faces were a sight to behold. The will they thought was their trump card had, in the eyes of the law, given them no right to forcibly take possession. As we walked out of the station, the look my brother and his wife gave me was one of pure venom, as if they wanted to swallow me whole. “Nora, you’ve really outdone yourself!” William seethed. “You’d even call the cops just to keep us out! Do you even see me as your brother anymore? Do you have any respect for Dad?” “The moment you started scheming against me, no, I didn’t,” I said, looking at him coldly. Linda suddenly shrieked, “Fine! Fine! Nora, you just wait! See if you can keep us out forever! We have our ways!” They stormed off in a huff. Watching them go, I felt no sense of victory, only a profound weariness. Mark took my hand. “Nora, don’t be scared. Let’s go home.” I nodded, leaning against him. Although we had dealt with the immediate crisis, a sense of unease lingered in my heart. Two days later, my daughter’s kindergarten teacher called me, her voice frantic. “Lily’s mom, you need to come to the school right away!” My stomach clenched. “Ms. Davis, what is it? Is Lily okay?” “Lily’s fine, it’s her uncle and aunt. They’re at the gate right now, insisting on picking Lily up. They say they want to take her to see the new house that’s been prepared for her…” The phone almost slipped from my hand. They had sunk so low as to use my five-year-old daughter.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “430158”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

There’s this game making the rounds with my buddies lately. The idea is to pretend you’ve gone bankrupt for a month, just to see if the woman in your life is the real deal. To make it convincing, not only did my friends and family agree to play along, but my company even brought in a “new boss” to complete the charade. I swapped my designer clothes for a cheap five-dollar t-shirt and a beat-up trucker hat. Full of confidence, I went to find the woman I thought I loved more than anyone: Serena. But the second she saw me, her face twisted in disgust. Without a word, she had security throw me out like a piece of trash. I just stood there for a long time, my mind a total blank. When I finally came to my senses, I shakily dialed another number. When the call connected, I said in a raw voice, “Sophie, honey? Daddy’s gone broke. I don’t even have a place to stay.” On the other end, my daughter’s sweet, innocent voice replied, a gentle comfort. “Daddy, don’t be scared. You can have my room.” 1 When Benny’s call came, I was in the kitchen baking a cake. My daughter, who was playing a game on my phone, answered it. I don’t know what he said, but suddenly, my four-year-old’s face lit up, and she came running towards me. She ran so fast one of her little shoes fell off. “Mommy, this is great! Daddy’s gone bankrupt! He can come to my birthday party this year!” Bankrupt? The call was still connected. The contact name was “Ex-Husband.” The last time Benny had called was on New Year’s. He only ever contacted me on holidays. He’d summon me to his parents’ house to play the happy couple, to keep the old folks happy. The moment we were out of their sight, he’d coldly drop my hand and drive off to be with Serena. His back seat would be piled high with gift boxes, the passenger seat covered in a sea of red roses. I would clutch the thousand-dollar “performance fee” he’d tossed me and stand in the biting wind, feeling nothing. Because with that money, Sophie and I had our rent covered for the next six months. Hearing that Benny was bankrupt, I was just confused. Why wasn’t he calling his precious, doted-upon Serena? Why was he calling me, a woman he couldn’t stand the sight of? Benny’s voice came through the phone, cautious. “Luna… I have nowhere to stay, and I haven’t eaten all day. Can you… can you take me in?” I was about to say “No.” But my daughter clutched my skirt. Her big, grape-purple eyes blinked, full of hope and pleading. “Mommy, please? Just let Daddy be here for my birthday this one time. All the other kids have both their parents at their birthday parties.” I looked down at her, and my heart ached. I knew how much Sophie longed for a father’s love. Benny did love Sophie, in his own way. He’d take her to theme parks, buy her little dresses, and send her entire sets of those princess mystery boxes. But then one day, Sophie came home with her head hanging low and said she would never “bother” her daddy again. I dropped my spatula and stormed over to his villa. With the arm strength I’d built from washing a thousand dishes a day, I slapped Serena across the face, again and again. I shoved her head into the toilet to give that filthy mouth of hers a good rinse. After that, Benny never mentioned seeing Sophie again. But today was Sophie’s birthday. All she wanted was to have her parents with her. I relented. “Benny, Sophie misses you. You can come over for dinner.” On the other end, the man let out a sigh of relief. It was the sound of someone realizing they hadn’t lost everything after all. “You’re still at The Crestwood Estates, right? I’m on my way.” I was confused. “Where? I’ve never been there.” I rented an apartment at Maple Creek, close to the kindergarten. Our street was lined with food stalls. At night, you could hear the muffled bass from the karaoke bar across the road, and the pest control van made its scheduled rounds right below our window. It was a world away from the luxury complex Benny was talking about. There was a long silence on the phone before he asked for my current address. Even in his cheap clothes, the man’s presence was undeniable. The moment he walked in, Sophie launched herself at him, hugging his leg. Benny stroked her head fondly, his eyes scanning our small two-bedroom apartment. The warmth in them instantly vanished. “This is the kind of place you have my daughter living in?” 2 My hand, holding the teapot, froze. The apartment was nicely renovated, with clean, natural wood finishes. From the large appliances down to the cartoon-themed floor mats, Sophie had picked everything out herself, and I had paid for it. No matter how hard things got, I never let Sophie feel inferior about what she ate, wore, or where she lived. And yet, Benny’s first act upon entering my home was to find fault. But then again, he and Serena lived in a 5,000-square-foot villa. Of course this felt cramped to him. I dumped the tea I was making into the trash and pulled my daughter aside. “Sophie, sweetie, why don’t you go to your room and see if you can find the birthday present Mommy hid for you, okay?” The little girl’s face lit up, and she ran into her bedroom. My smile vanished. I shot daggers at Benny. “This kind of place? Who was it just now, begging to come to ‘this kind of place’? You don’t even have ‘this kind of place’ to live in anymore. What right do you have to criticize me?” Benny quickly composed himself. He was supposed to be a bankrupt loser now. Not a CEO. He sat down on the sofa, looking a bit awkward. “You misunderstood. I meant, why aren’t you living in the house I gave you?” I had no idea what he was talking about. “What house?” When we divorced, all I had was a single suitcase and my three-month-old daughter, Sophie. The little money I had came from selling the jewelry his parents had given me. Benny’s handsome brow furrowed. “Luna, you gave me a child. Even if I don’t love you, I would never neglect my own flesh and blood.” “I had my secretary, Mr. Quinn, buy a house for you both, and I set aside a large settlement for you. You didn’t take it?” A house? A settlement? This was the first I was hearing of it. But it clicked into place immediately. “I didn’t take a single thing. Are you broke now and trying to shake me down for money?” Benny’s eyes narrowed, a storm of regret brewing within them. “Luna, I would sooner beg on the streets than take a dime from you. In this entire world, the person I’ve wronged the most is you.” Our past was like a trashy novel. I was the orphaned daughter of the man who had saved Benny’s father’s life. The Young family took me in when I was eight, and his father doted on me. His mother liked my gentle nature. And Benny, two years my senior, treated me like a little sister he had to protect. He’d fight off the bullies who picked on me. He took me to see beautiful places, to interact with animals. He did everything he could to pull me out of the grief of losing my parents. And I poured my secret crush into my diary. “Luna loves Benny. Will Benny ever love Luna?” In my senior year of college, I got my answer. Benny proposed. I was overjoyed that he loved me back. Like a fool, I went with him to get our marriage license. It cost nine dollars. I didn’t know that his father had given me 10% of the company’s shares as a dowry, while making Benny start from the bottom. Benny wasn’t marrying me. He was marrying a comfortable life and a promising future. After we married, I was lost in a dream of love. I cooked for him, ironed his shirts, picked him up from late-night meetings. But while I was pregnant, he cheated on me with a “sympathetic” intern. Serena, who was half a year older than me. He said Serena understood him, that she was his soulmate, that they were true love. He said what he felt for me was just familial affection. Benny’s father, with his sharp eye, saw through Serena’s cunning and hypocrisy. He declared that as long as he was alive, that vixen would never set foot in his house. Benny came up with a compromise. He wouldn’t divorce me, keeping me around to appease his parents. But he would give Serena all the perks of being his wife, short of a marriage certificate. That day was the tenth day after Sophie was born. I, who had always let Benny walk all over me, ripped out my IV, grabbed the fruit knife, and without a second thought, plunged it into my own abdomen. Marrying Benny was my mistake. I was young, foolishly in love, an absolute idiot. His cheating, his treating me like a maid—I deserved it all. But I would rather die than let him ruin my daughter’s life. Blood pooled on the floor. Benny froze. He was panicked, terrified, guilt-ridden. He pressed his hands to my stomach, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. “Luna, don’t die.” 3 I was stubborn. If he didn’t agree to a divorce and give me full custody of our daughter, I would kill myself. If they saved me, I’d do it again, until I was dead for good. If I died, his father would make Serena’s life a living hell. To protect Serena, Benny signed the divorce papers. The day I left, he gave me one last instruction. We had to keep the divorce a secret. On holidays, I had to come back and play the happy wife for his parents. I said fine. I’d charge by the appearance. One thousand dollars a pop. For Benny, the man I would “rather die than be with,” to have to turn around and pay me—it was a blow to his pride. His face contorted in a sneer. “Don’t you have any feelings for me at all? Is money all you care about? Fine. I won’t give you a single cent. I’ll wait for you to come crawling back, broke and begging.” He was a man of his word. The “financial compensation” mentioned in the divorce agreement? I never saw a dime of it. I did live a life of poverty, but I got back on my feet, all by myself. I never once went back to him. Thinking back, Benny pressed his fingers to his temples. “I was just angry. A single mother and a child… of course I wouldn’t have actually abandoned you.” “But your angry words were my life for the past four years.” Benny was silenced. He looked around the room again. The furniture wasn’t cheap, but it was far from luxurious. A single pair of Serena’s socks cost a few hundred dollars. The clothes I was wearing were years old. Benny picked up his phone and called his secretary, Mr. Quinn. “Mr. Young… I mean, Benny. What can I do for you?” With a new boss in charge, Mr. Quinn was still adjusting. Benny’s voice took on its old authoritative tone. “Four years ago, I asked you to buy a house in The Crestwood Estates and set aside an eighty-million-dollar settlement. Did you deliver it to my ex-wife personally?” Eighty million? That would have been enough for Sophie and me to live comfortably for the rest of our lives. Mr. Quinn hesitated. “Well… I think you’ll have to ask Ms. Serena about that…” Her again. A wave of pure hatred washed over me. Serena already had so much. If she dared to touch what belonged to Sophie, I would make her regret it. At seven o’clock, I brought a Lamb-themed cake to the table. Sophie squealed with delight. “Wow, Mommy, you’re amazing! I love you so much!” My phone buzzed with messages from other parents in her class. “Did your mom make that herself? It looks better than the custom one I ordered from a bakery! I’m so jealous!” “Sophie’s mom is so talented. She can do fox makeup, make handmade bags, carve fruit… and now she makes beautiful cakes too…” In the past four years, I’d done every odd job imaginable to make ends meet, turning myself into a jack-of-all-trades out of sheer necessity. Sophie carefully cut the cake, giving the first piece to me and the second to Benny. “Daddy, this is the first birthday you’ve ever spent with me. I’m so, so happy.” Benny, who had been staring blankly at his phone, snapped back to reality and accepted the cake with exaggerated enthusiasm. I knew what he was thinking about. Today was also Serena’s birthday. In all the years past, he had always celebrated with her. It was no coincidence that my daughter and my rival shared a birthday. When I was nine months pregnant, Serena got tired of just taunting me with texts and photos. Or mailing me the free samples that came with the luxury goods Benny bought her. She came to the hospital to provoke me in person. It was her birthday, and Benny had just given her an engagement ring, promising her the wedding of the century. She came to invite me and my unborn child to attend. The rage and stress sent me into premature labor. I hemorrhaged, and we both nearly died. For the first time, Benny scolded Serena. Serena’s eyes filled with tears. “I just wanted to be with you, out in the open…” Benny’s heart melted, and he pulled her into his arms. “Shh, I’m keeping her around to protect you.” Just on the other side of the wall, I was fighting for my life in the delivery room. All I felt was disgust and despair. 4 The pain was a blade twisting in my soul. So now, hearing Benny was bankrupt, all I could think was that he deserved it. After the cake, I tried to kick him out. Benny looked at me pitifully. “I have nowhere to go.” I shoved him out the door with all my strength. “Not my problem. Go find her.” The hallway light flickered on, then off. Benny stood outside my door for a long time. Then his body slid down against the door, his head sinking in defeat. In truth, Serena was the first person he had gone to. Benny had thought to himself, I’ve spoiled Serena for four years, given her anything she ever wanted. When she heard he was in trouble, she would surely be frantic, ready to do anything for him. If she was willing to sell just one of the properties he’d bought her, she would pass his test. He couldn’t bear to make it too hard on her. But when Serena saw him in his blue-collar getup, she couldn’t hide her disgust. A needle pricked the man’s heart. Serena quickly masked it with a smile and welcomed him in. She figured this was all part of some elaborate birthday surprise. Pretend to be broke, then reveal the real gift. But a moment later, she saw a message in the group chat she shared with Benny’s wealthy friends. “The Young family is done for. Even his parents fled the country overnight.” “He sold the company and still owes a billion. Benny will be paying that off for the rest of his life.” “Not necessarily. He bought Serena all those houses and luxury goods. She can sell them to pay it off. But then, she’ll have to live a simple life with him.” Someone remembered that Serena was in the chat. Another friend cursed. She was immediately kicked from the group. Serena’s eyes went wide. It was so brutally real. Before, it was always “Serena, darling,” “our girl.” Now, they couldn’t even kick her out without a curse word. A storm was coming, and she had to save herself. “Your family is bankrupt? What does that have to do with me? Do we have a marriage license? Do your parents even accept me? Why should I have to sell my houses?” Benny’s heart hammered in his chest. He thought he must have misheard. His sweet, understanding girlfriend… how could she suddenly sound like this? “Serena, what are you saying? Besides a piece of paper, what haven’t I given you? I practically tore out my own heart for you. I gave up my wife and child for you.” Benny thought that would appeal to her sense of loyalty. He was wrong. Serena just scoffed. “You gave me those things willingly. I’ve never heard of anyone asking for gifts back. I slept with you for four years. You didn’t expect to get that for free, did you?” “Besides…” Seeing the raw fury in Benny’s eyes, Serena’s contempt grew. “A man who can abandon his own wife and child… you really think I’d want a man like that?” “Your wife nearly died in childbirth, and you didn’t care. Who knows if there will be a fourth or a fifth woman down the line? Who’s to say you wouldn’t do the same to me?” Benny staggered, barely able to stand, but he had no rebuttal. Serena fiddled with her phone. “Well, you’re useless to me now. So here’s a little parting gift. I’ll tell you why your wife was so desperate to divorce you.” “From the first time you slept with me, I sent her everything. Photos of our dates, our time in bed, the gifts you bought me. I sent it all.” “She really put up with it for a long time. It took me pushing her into premature labor for her to finally snap. I’m not a fool like her. I would never be your free maid, your baby-making machine…” A bolt of lightning seared through Benny’s brain. So, Luna had given him chances. So many chances. Serena dropped the act completely. “Benny, darling. I scraped your social media clean the day I started at the company. I knew all your likes and dislikes. What you thought was a soul connection was just me doing my homework… honestly, it was exhausting trying to keep you entertained…” Benny couldn’t take it anymore. He lunged forward and wrapped his hands around her throat, as if to strangle the life out of her. “You… you were only after my money! You used my love! You destroyed my marriage! You nearly cost me my child! My father was right, you’re a disease!” Before he could finish, security guards, summoned by Serena, dragged him away and threw him out of the building. It was the end of June, but Benny was shivering uncontrollably. Just then, his phone buzzed. It was a notification from the group chat named “Her True Heart.” The same friends from before had created a private chat to check on the results of their game. “Benny, bro, we just put on a hell of a show. Is Serena scrambling to sell a house to save you?” Benny typed back with furious thumbs: “Her name is Luna, and I’m going to win her back.”

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1 I jolted awake on March 7th, my eyes snapping open. By my desk stood the student I sponsored, a scholarship kid. She held a bottle of pills, a sweet smile on her face. “Eleanor, your allergy meds are almost out. I put a new bottle in your drawer for you,” she said. I didn’t call her out immediately. Because I distinctly remembered that after my accidental death in my previous life, I’d found a notebook hidden under her pillow. It was filled with dates, each one checked off, and each checked date perfectly matched a time I’d suffered an “accident.” And on the very last page of that notebook, there was a line I still couldn’t quite understand. … I looked at the bottle of pills in Vera’s hand. A white, round bottle, almost identical to the imported loratadine I used. But there was an extra line of small print on the label. Vitamin C. In my past life, I hadn’t noticed such a small detail. I’d casually put it in my medicine cabinet and dutifully taken it for half a month when allergy season hit. Then, my allergies had erupted, sending me straight to the hospital. “Eleanor, you look a little pale…” Vera tilted her head, her eyes wet and innocent. I took the bottle and placed it on my desk, not in the medicine cabinet. “You don’t need to buy my medication anymore. And you don’t need to organize anything on my desk.” Vera’s lips trembled. “Eleanor… did I do something wrong? Please tell me, I’ll change…” Tears welled up instantly, her voice dropping lower and lower until it became a soft sob. The door creaked open. Nathan stood in the doorway. He saw Vera crying and his face immediately darkened. “Eleanor, what’s going on? Are you picking on Vera again?” I looked at him. In my previous life, I had been in love with him for two years. Tall, handsome, student body president. But every time something happened to me, he was always the first to defend Vera. “Nathan, we’re breaking up.” “…What?” “We’re done. Effective immediately.” Vera quickly grabbed my arm. “Eleanor, don’t be rash! You and Nathan have such a good thing going. Don’t let me get in the way…” I looked down at the hand gripping my arm. Her nails were neatly trimmed, spotless. In my previous life, that hand had worn rubber gloves, using tweezers to painstakingly peel off and re-affix labels in the lab. That wasn’t the kind of meticulous work a timid liberal arts student would do. “Let go.” Vera recoiled. I grabbed my backpack and walked out of the dorm room. Nathan shouted after me, “Eleanor Bennett, what the hell is your problem? If you walk out, don’t bother coming back!” I didn’t stop. After leaving the dorm building, I sat on a garden bench for ten minutes, letting my heartbeat settle. Then I went back to the dorm building and borrowed a spare key from my friend, Sarah, in the room next door. While Vera was out, I re-entered the dorm. I walked over to Vera’s bed. She had very few belongings, and her bed was meticulously neat. Under the pillow. In my past life, at the very last moment before I died, I saw her holding a notebook. I reached under her pillow. My fingertips brushed against a hard cover. I pulled it out. It was an ordinary black notebook. I opened it. Page after page was crammed with dates. She was planning to kill me. From March to June, step by step, systematically. I was about to close the notebook when I noticed a small asterisk next to the date May 18th. After it, in tiny writing, were three words. [She will come.] She? Who was ‘she’? Was someone else involved in Vera’s plan? I pulled out my phone and took pictures of every page in the notebook. Then I put it back under the pillow exactly as I found it. By the time I left the dorm, it was dark. I stood by the window in the hallway, looking at the dates on my phone. March 12th, five days from now. In my previous life, that’s when my pollen allergies had landed me in the hospital. This time, I was eager to see what “surprise” Vera had in store for me. 2 For the next few days, I acted completely normal. Classes, meals, lab work, back to the dorm. I talked when I needed to, smiled when appropriate. But I no longer let Vera touch any of my things. Several times, she tried to help me organize my desk, bring me food, or collect my laundry, but I subtly refused each time. Every time I refused, she’d look at me with those wet, innocent eyes, like a puppy abandoned by its owner. My other roommates couldn’t stand it. “Eleanor, Vera is so good to you. Why are you so cold lately?” “Seriously, she genuinely cares about you. Don’t hurt her feelings.” I just smiled, offering no explanation. On the evening of March 11th. Vera went to the library. Ten minutes after she left, I locked the dorm door and began my inspection. First, I checked my medicine cabinet. The swapped allergy medication was still there; I had already sealed it away separately. Then I checked my bed. I pulled off the pillowcase and shook it out. Nothing amiss. I unzipped the pillow insert. My hand froze. Tucked inside the pillow insert’s lining was a small bag. It contained dried flowers. Tiny petals and pollen, sealed in a clear plastic bag. The bag had a small tear at the opening, and the pollen was slowly seeping into the pillow’s stuffing. Every night, I’d lay my face on that pillow, breathing for an entire night. Pollen would directly enter my respiratory system. For someone with severe pollen allergies, this was like burying my face in an allergen. In my previous life, on March 12th, my allergies flared up, sending me to the hospital. The doctor had attributed it to seasonal changes. Who would have thought someone had deliberately placed something in my pillow? I carefully removed the bag of petals with tweezers and placed it in a sealed bag. Then I replaced my pillow with a new one. On March 12th, I was perfectly fine. No allergies, no hospital, nothing happened. That evening, Vera returned to the dorm and saw me sitting quietly at my desk, reading. Her gaze lingered on my face for two seconds. It was brief, but I caught it. She was checking my skin for rashes, swelling, or signs of difficulty breathing. There was nothing. Her eyes flickered. I closed my book and spoke casually. “Vera, those dried flowers you put in my pillow last time were quite fragrant. What kind were they?” The entire dorm went silent for a moment. Vera turned, her face a mask of bewilderment. “Eleanor, what are you talking about? I never put anything in your pillow…” “Really?” I took the sealed bag from my drawer and held it up to the light. “This bag of petals fell out of my pillow insert. Want to take a look?” My roommates gathered around. “No way! Flowers in a pillow?” “Who would put flowers in a pillow…?” Vera’s lips parted, and her eyes began to redden. “Eleanor… maybe when I was airing out your bedding, some petals accidentally got on it… the school garden has so many flowers blooming lately…” “Petals that just ‘got on’ wouldn’t be in a plastic bag.” I flipped the sealed bag over. The clear plastic bag still had the torn opening. Clearly, someone had intentionally opened and placed it there. Vera was speechless. Tears streamed down her face, and her hands twisted together. “I really don’t know… maybe someone played a prank… Eleanor, please don’t accuse me…” The other roommates exchanged glances, unsure whose side to take. I didn’t press further. The time wasn’t right. I put the sealed bag away and smiled. “Never mind, I must have been mistaken.” Vera let out a sigh of relief, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand. But I noticed that when she returned to her bed, her first action was to reach under her pillow. Only after confirming the notebook was still there did her shoulders truly relax. That night, I took the bag of petals to the school’s biology lab and asked a senior student for help with identification. The results came back the next day. It wasn’t ordinary flower petals. It was ragweed pollen, mixed with a small amount of mugwort pollen. These two are the most common and potent allergens for all pollen allergy sufferers. Mixed with dried flower fragments, they were extremely subtle, almost impossible to discern with the naked eye. I took photos of the identification report and saved them. Just as I was about to turn off my phone, a text message popped up on the screen. An unknown number. No sender name. Just one line of text. [She didn’t buy the flowers herself. Check the old flower and bird market in Westside, March 5th.] 3 I didn’t immediately pursue that anonymous text message. Because the second date was approaching. April 3rd. In my previous life, on that day, I almost had an accident during my pharmaceutical chemistry lab class. Two reagent bottles had their labels swapped. I had followed the labels and taken ethanol for a dissolution experiment, but it was actually hydrochloric acid. It reacted violently with another reagent, and the beaker exploded. My hand was badly burned. At the time, everyone thought it was a lapse in lab management. Vera cried hysterically, “Eleanor, I’m so sorry! I must have accidentally bumped something when I was helping you organize your lab bench… Please let me pay for your medical bills…” Nathan had said, “She’s a liberal arts transfer; how would she know the difference between these chemicals? It’s your fault for not checking, why blame her?” I hadn’t blamed her. My past self never blamed her. But this time, I was going to film how “accidental” she was. March 28th, six days before the lab class. I went to see Mr. Miller, the lab administrator. “Mr. Miller, do we have security cameras in our lab?” Mr. Miller shook his head. “We used to, but they broke down six months ago. The university hasn’t allocated funds to fix them.” I’d expected that. In my past life, there were no cameras in the lab, which is why Vera dared to act. “However…” Mr. Miller pointed to a camera on the hallway ceiling. “There’s one in the hallway outside the lab door. It can record who comes and goes.” Not enough. I needed footage from inside the lab. That afternoon, I bought a mini recording device online. It was the size of a fingernail, magnetic, and could be attached to a metal shelf. On the evening of March 31st, I entered the lab when no one was around. I stuck the recording device to the top of the reagent shelf directly opposite my lab bench. The angle perfectly covered my entire work area. Then I waited. April 2nd, 11:40 PM. I was scrolling on my phone in the dorm when the recording device’s app pushed a motion alert. Movement detected in the lab. I tapped to open the live feed. In night vision mode, the screen was green. A figure pushed open the lab door. Walked to my lab bench. Pulled a pair of rubber gloves from their pocket and put them on. Then retrieved a small pair of tweezers from another pocket. She crouched down, carefully peeling off the labels from two reagent bottles. Using the tweezers, she gently lifted a corner of each label, peeling off the entire thing without a single wrinkle. Then she swapped the two labels and stuck them back on. The entire process took less than three minutes. Her movements were clean, precise, and without any hesitation. She stood up, removed the gloves, and stuffed them and the tweezers back into her pocket. As she turned to leave, her face was perfectly aimed at the recording device. Vera. Her expression was calm, her eyes focused. No nervousness, no fear. I downloaded the video, encrypted it, and saved it to my cloud drive. April 3rd. Lab class. I arrived at the lab ten minutes early. In front of the other students, I meticulously checked every reagent bottle. Pretending to discover the swapped labels. I raised my hand and called the professor over. “Professor, it looks like the labels on these two bottles are swapped.” The professor came over, saw they were indeed misplaced. “Who moved the reagents on this lab bench?” No one confessed. Vera sat in the observation area nearby. Liberal arts auditing students weren’t required to do experiments, but they could watch. She tilted her head with an innocent expression. “Eleanor, what’s wrong? Is there a problem with the reagents?” I looked at her. “Nothing, someone just swapped the labels. Luckily, I found it in time.” Vera’s expression remained unchanged. The lab class concluded smoothly, with no fires, no burns. After class, I went to the university’s academic affairs system to look up Vera’s admission file. I’d wanted to do this for a while. The file showed: Vera, female, twenty-one years old, a third-year student in the Chinese Literature department, applied to audit classes in the Pharmacy department in her second year. From a remote mountainous area, financially disadvantaged, father bedridden due to an industrial accident. I knew all of this. But there was a line in the file I hadn’t noticed before. College entrance exam preferences. First choice: Pharmacy. Second choice: Pharmaceutical Chemistry. Third choice: Chinese Literature. Her first choice was Pharmacy. Not Chinese Literature. She had wanted to study pharmaceuticals from the start. She had only been assigned to the Chinese Literature department because her exam scores weren’t high enough for her first two choices. Would someone whose first choice was Pharmacy not know what causes pollen allergies? Not know the importance of reagent labels in a lab? Not know that an epinephrine auto-injector has an expiration date? She knew everything. She was just pretending not to understand. I closed my laptop, and my phone vibrated. It was that unknown number again. [April 3rd, safe?] I hesitated for a few seconds, then replied. [Who are you?] The other party quickly responded. [Doesn’t matter. May 18th, your epinephrine auto-injector. Be careful.] When I tried to send another message, there was no reply. This person knew Vera’s entire plan. Every date, every move. Even where the pollen was purchased. Was he Vera’s accomplice? Unlikely. If he were an accomplice, why would he warn me? Then he must be Vera’s enemy. Or… another victim. 4 The acacia trees on campus were blooming everywhere. For someone with pollen allergies, this season was a nightmare. I carried my epinephrine auto-injector everywhere – it was a lifeline for anyone with severe allergies. During a severe allergic reaction, epinephrine must be injected within minutes, or it could lead to laryngeal edema and suffocation. In my previous life, on May 18th, I suddenly had an allergic reaction outside the classroom. Difficulty breathing, swollen throat, blurred vision. Vera had frantically rummaged through my bag, found my epinephrine auto-injector, and tearfully injected me. But it brought no relief. Because that pen was expired. Expired epinephrine degrades and becomes ineffective; injecting it was useless. It was only when a passing school nurse gave me a new shot that I was pulled back from the brink. I lay in the emergency room all day. Vera knelt by my bed, crying, “Eleanor, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know this pen could expire… It’s all my fault for not checking when I helped you organize your medicine cabinet…” Nathan said, “It’s your life-saving medication; if you don’t check it yourself, what good is blaming Vera?” This time, I was prepared. On May 10th, I bought two brand new epinephrine auto-injectors. One I placed in my medicine cabinet, openly visible, with a date three months old, almost expired. The other I hid in the innermost secret pocket of my backpack, brand new. Then I waited. May 15th. I returned to the dorm and noticed my medicine cabinet had been disturbed. The epinephrine auto-injector I’d placed in plain sight was still there. But when I picked it up and turned it, there was an extremely fine scratch on the pen. This wasn’t the same pen I’d put in there. Someone had swapped my pen, replacing it with an identical-looking one. I opened it to check the expiration date. Expired by eight months. This was even more ruthless than in my previous life. Last time it was at least almost expired; this time, it was a completely useless pen, expired by eight months. I put the expired pen back in the medicine cabinet, untouched. Then I took a photo with my phone. May 18th. At 3 PM, a few classmates and I were discussing a project on the lawn outside the academic building. The acacia pollen concentration was high. My nose started to itch, and my eyes felt a bit puffy. Vera appeared nearby, handing me a bottle of water. “Eleanor, are you feeling unwell? Should we go to the infirmary?” I took the water but didn’t drink it. “I’m fine.” After a while, I felt my throat starting to tighten. My hand reached into the secret pocket of my backpack, gripping the new epinephrine auto-injector. Then I made a decision. I closed my eyes and slumped backward. Feigning an allergic reaction. “Eleanor Bennett! What’s wrong with you?!” “Quick, call an ambulance!” The scene erupted into chaos. Vera was the first to rush over, falling to her knees beside me. “Eleanor! Eleanor, don’t scare me!” Her movements were quick. She flipped open the outer compartment of my backpack and pulled out the epinephrine auto-injector from the medicine cabinet. “Found it! I’ll inject her!” A classmate nearby shouted, “Do you know how to use it?” “Yes! I’ve seen the tutorials!” Vera said, pulling off the cap and aiming it at my outer thigh. I opened my eyes and grabbed her wrist. “No need.” I pulled out the new epinephrine auto-injector from my secret pocket and injected myself. Within minutes, the allergic symptoms rapidly subsided. I sat up, my breathing steady. Vera stood frozen, still holding the expired, useless pen. I looked at her. “Vera, is that the pen you took from my medicine cabinet?” “Yes… yes, it is…” “Then take a look. How many months expired is it?” Vera looked down at the date on the pen. Her expression quickly shifted to one of panic. “What? Expired? How could this be… Eleanor, I didn’t know… I didn’t notice when I helped you organize your medicine cabinet before…” “Really.” I stood up, brushing grass from my skirt. “Then tell me, where did the unexpired pen in my medicine cabinet go? I replaced it with a new one two weeks ago. How did it become one that’s eight months expired?” Vera’s mouth opened, but no words came out. That evening, while Vera was in the shower, I once again opened her notebook. Next to May 18th, two words had been added. Failed. I flipped to the next page. A line of text, written with such force the paper was nearly torn. [If all three attempts fail, initiate Plan B.] Plan B? I continued to flip. The last page of the notebook. It only had one line of text and an address. [Find Sister Johnson. Westside Old Factory District, Building 17.] Westside Old Factory District. I opened my phone and searched the address. The first news headline that popped up made my pupils contract sharply. [Ten Years Ago, Westside Pharmaceutical Factory Safety Incident Led to Three Deaths; Factory Director Johnson Sentenced to Seven Years.] Head of the accident investigation team: Eleanor’s mom, Martha Bennett. Martha Bennett. My mother.

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I spent seven years loving Leo. His secretary suggested the kidnapping was a good chance for me to learn my lesson, and he actually didn’t pay the ransom. Those hellish months made me see him for who he truly was. Just when I finally made up my mind to leave, he came to me, eyes red, begging me to come back. He said he wanted a fresh start, but I had already learned how to stay far, far away. 1. The day I walked into the city barefoot, I made the news. Kirsten Hassell, the adopted daughter of the prominent Hassell family, had been kidnapped for months. She stumbled back, filthy and reeking, her clothes ragged, her bare feet scarred and bleeding. She was a wreck, like a stray dog. I watched the media flashes, the cameras clicking, desperate for a shot, but my heart was already stagnant, incapable of even a ripple. The old Kirsten was dead. The glamorous, naive, spoiled, vibrant Kirsten was gone. The kidnappers, and Leo, had utterly destroyed her. Soon, a group of bodyguards in black suits cut a path through the throngs of people. Their leader, Ethan, I knew. For seven years, during my relentless pursuit of Leo, he had been the one to “escort” me out of Leo’s office and private apartment. “Escort” was a polite word for it; it was more like dragging me out, because I wouldn’t give up, and because Leo found me utterly exasperating. “Ms. Hassell, Mr. Hassell is waiting in the car for you. Please come with me.” Ethan’s gaze flickered with surprise when it landed on me; he clearly hadn’t expected me to be in such a wretched state. I nodded, stepping forward on my injured feet, leaving bloody prints on the pavement. The pain receptors in my nerves were long since numb; this short walk was nothing compared to my escape. Ethan walked behind me, unable to resist calling out, “Ms. Hassell…” I didn’t answer him. Pity me? He should be relieved. After this lesson, I would never pester Leo again, nor would I add any extra trouble to his job. Once in the car, I saw Leo sitting, eyes closed, lost in thought. His short, dark hair was impeccably styled, his sculpted features flawless, undeniably handsome. Of course. During my absence, he must have felt an unprecedented sense of peace and relief. He looked better than ever. Hearing the slight commotion, Leo slowly opened his eyes. The moment he saw me, he barely recognized me. “Kirsten?” I meekly nodded. Yes, I had learned my lesson. Before, I hadn’t cared about being the adopted daughter of the Hassell family, acting as if I were their biological child, proud and arrogant. But now, after the kidnapping, I understood that my life was in the Hassell family’s hands. If Leo didn’t pay the ransom, my life was worth less than dirt. He frowned, a hint of displeasure. “How did you get yourself into this state?” This state? What state? A lunatic? A beggar? I’d run for dozens of miles, sleepless, not only evading kidnappers but also wary of predatory animals in the suburban forests. When thirsty, I drank rainwater; when hungry, I rummaged through trash heaps by the highway. I imagine anyone would go mad under such circumstances. I knew he was annoyed that I appeared before the media looking like this, that it would cause trouble for his company—the Hassell family’s company, to be precise. “I’m sorry.” *Sorry for offending your eyes, Leo.* Leo paused at my reply, then a smirk played on his lips. “She was right. You actually learned your lesson.” I didn’t understand what Leo was talking about. Once the car door closed and the vehicle started moving, Leo suddenly reached a long arm toward me. I instinctively recoiled into the corner, but he stopped short, speaking with a disgusted tone, “Kirsten, you stink.” I don’t know if it was the confined space of the car, but Leo finally smelled the foul odor clinging to me—a fermented mixture of blood, sweat, dirt, and scraps from garbage piles. Hearing Leo’s words, I instinctively moved to get off the seat, but the car swerved slightly, and I ended up kneeling in the aisle. “I’m so sorry, I won’t get the seat dirty, I’ll just…” *Just kneel here.* It hurt so much. My knees, and the tiny pinprick wounds the kidnappers had made with fine steel needles. They blamed me; I wasn’t important to Leo at all, and they hadn’t gotten the ransom, wasting their time, so they took their anger out on me. I couldn’t stand, so I just knelt in that cramped space. Leo instantly became furious. “What are you doing? Get back in your seat!” He ordered me, but his disgust kept him from helping me up. I could only obey, using immense effort to prop myself up and sit back. The pain, coupled with the low blood sugar from the past few days, brought tears to my eyes. Leo had always ignored my tears, finding them annoying, but this time, he surprisingly tossed me the handkerchief he had used to wipe his hands. I clutched the clean, white cloth. Before, I would have been overjoyed, but now, that handkerchief only served to highlight my filth and brokenness. Ethan glanced at me in the rearview mirror. My head was bowed; perhaps he had never seen me so disgraced and pathetic. 2. When the car returned to the Hassell estate, Leo ordered someone to take me to the bathroom to wash up. I refused the maids’ help, only asking them to pick out a long dress, one that covered my ankles, from my old wardrobe. They rummaged for a while, finally pulling out a modest, long-sleeved dress, almost like a student’s uniform, from a corner amidst various fashionable clothes. No one defined what a student should wear, but looking at myself in the mirror, I did indeed resemble a student more than my former flamboyant style. I remembered receiving my acceptance letter from a top international design school before the kidnapping. Now, three months had passed since the enrollment deadline. “Thank you.” The maids looked utterly stunned, clearly not expecting their young mistress to thank them. But after everything that had happened, I understood perfectly: I was essentially no different from them. They were maids hired by the Hassell family; I was a daughter hired by the Hassell family. Pushing the door open, I saw Leo waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He leaned casually against the railing, his eyes lazily scanning me up and down, then he scoffed. “Kirsten, what game are you playing now? Dressed like that.” *Too plain?* Leo thought this was another one of my childish ploys for attention, but I only wanted to cover my scars. I followed Leo into the dining room. The room was silent until Leo gestured for me to come forward. Only then did I notice Mr. and Mrs. Hassell sitting at the dining table, looking worried. Mrs. Hassell saw me and almost rushed over. She stumbled, and a woman beside her gently helped steady her. “Mrs. Hassell, please don’t worry. Ms. Hassell has returned safe and sound, hasn’t she? Ms. Hassell, Mrs. Hassell has been so worried about you that her hair has turned gray.” I knew this woman; she was Leo’s secretary. Claire. Claire had naturally flowing black hair, wearing the simplest, most unassuming turtleneck sweater and jeans, yet a beautiful rose gold necklace hung around her neck. I was “safe and sound,” while Mrs. Hassell had worried herself sick. The moment Claire spoke, I transformed from a victim into an unfilial daughter of the Hassell family. Mrs. Hassell held me, weeping, while the woman comforted her. But I couldn’t cry. I looked at Leo, and his eyes seemed to say I was a heartless person. Finally, Mr. Hassell spoke, his voice firm, interrupting them. “Stop holding Kirsten, let her come and eat.” Mrs. Hassell wiped her tears. “My fault, my fault. My darling has suffered so much these past months, she must not have eaten properly. Come, Auntie made your favorite fish chowder!” Mrs. Hassell pulled me to sit between her and Mr. Hassell. Leo sat opposite me, and Claire sat beside him. Such a perfect picture of a family. I looked at the food in my bowl—a feast of colors, aromas, and flavors. I had almost forgotten what normal food looked like. I yearned to drop my chopsticks and just grab it with my hands, stuffing it into my mouth. The closer I got to the city highway, the stricter the sanitation management became. Gradually, I couldn’t find any more trash heaps, which meant no food. So I had been starving for almost three days, surviving only on tree leaves. Under everyone’s gaze, I forced myself to pick up the bowl and shovel rice into my mouth with chopsticks. Even so, I still caught Claire’s mocking gaze; she ate daintily, in small bites, displaying her elegance. Leo, witnessing this, naturally looked even more disgusted with me, yet at Mrs. Hassell’s urging, he reluctantly picked up a piece of sweet and sour pork and placed it on my plate. I thought that even the blandest porridge and steamed buns, which I used to find hard to swallow, I could now devour. But looking at the tempting sweet and sour pork, and realizing Leo had personally put it there, my stomach churned with nausea. “Darling, eat. Leo knows you like sweet and sour, so he specifically asked Auntie to add this dish.” *Nonsense.* Leo had no idea what I liked. Conversely, I knew all his preferences by heart. For instance, gold—he favored rose gold. Seeing my hesitant chopsticks, Mr. Hassell asked with concern, “What’s wrong, darling? Did you argue with Leo on the way back? Don’t worry, after dinner, I’ll give him a good talking-to.” “Dad!” Leo exclaimed, perhaps feeling this made him lose face in front of Claire. I shook my head silently, overcoming the physiological revulsion, and brought the sweet and sour pork to my mouth with my chopsticks. But the moment I swallowed, I threw up. Leo’s expression was startled. I immediately stood up from my chair, covering my head and retreating to a corner. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll eat it, please don’t hit me!” Everyone was shocked. Mrs. Hassell’s tears flowed again as she came to embrace me. “Did those people abuse you, darling? Tell me, did they?” Mr. Hassell and Leo also approached. Mr. Hassell’s expression was pained, looking at me with heartache. Leo, however, frowned, remaining silent, his face grim. *What does this mean? Didn’t the kidnappers threaten the Hassell family, saying that if the ransom wasn’t paid, their adopted daughter would experience abuse?* *Why are they asking me now if I was mistreated?* Actually, giving me stale bread and spoiled rice wasn’t really abuse, especially compared to the slop I ate afterward. I was just so terrified, terrified of the feeling that my life was in Leo’s hands. The kidnappers had negotiated directly with him, but he chose to abandon me. He hated me that much. I suppose that’s where the physical nausea came from. 3. After dinner, I was called to Mr. Hassell’s study. Mr. Hassell, abandoning his usual decisive corporate demeanor, patiently and kindly asked me, “Darling, you’ve liked Leo since you were a child. Do you still like him?” I shook my head frantically, so hard my facial muscles started to ache. Seven years of loving Leo, seven years of humiliation, seven years of pain. But I never learned my lesson, did I? That’s why this time, this time I went through a hell of revenge and torment. I couldn’t dare to like Leo anymore. Mr. Hassell pondered my answer for a moment, then sighed regretfully, “Oh, well. You may not be Leo’s wife, but you’ll always be a daughter of the Hassell family. My darling is so good, so beautiful, it’s that boy Leo who’s unlucky.” He took a bank card from his drawer. “This is what your parents left for you, four million dollars. They asked me to hold onto it and give it to you as your dowry when you grew up.” Four million dollars. The ransom was also four million dollars. During the kidnapping, I had resented my parents, wondering why they hadn’t taken me with them, sparing me this gratuitous torment. It turned out, they had already left me a guarantee to live well. They loved me so much. I bit my thumb, preventing myself from crying out. “Thank you, Uncle.” It was already 8 PM when I left the study. I walked toward my own room but bumped into Leo halfway. He understood my intention and spoke to me with an unexpectedly gentle tone, “Claire is staying in your room tonight. You’ll stay in the guest room next to mine.” So it was for Claire. I nodded and started walking in the opposite direction. When I first moved into the Hassell household, Leo disliked me and moved to the room furthest from mine—one in the far east, the other in the far west. But my room had been decorated by a top-tier designer hired by the Hassell family; the guest room couldn’t compare. Yet, ultimately, it all belonged to the Hassell family. If Leo told me to yield, I would. I hadn’t walked two steps when Leo called out, “Kirsten, why are you so obedient now?” I turned around and saw a mocking, yet almost worried, expression on his face. “I… I’m sorry…” I spoke hesitantly. Aside from endlessly apologizing, I had no idea what to say to Leo. “This is the third time you’ve apologized to me today. You’re being strange.” Leo walked over, leaning in and raising a hand to my forehead. I recoiled as if electrocuted, pushing myself away quickly. By the time I gripped the hallway railing, my legs were weak, almost unable to stand. Leo looked at me like I was insane, his expression growing impatient. I forced back the tremble in my voice and said, “I… I’m moving out tomorrow. I’ve already told Mr. Hassell.” I had expected Leo to be relieved by the news, to finally let me go. Instead, he grew angry. “Moving out? Why?… I merely let Claire stay in your room for a night. She’s a guest; what’s wrong with you being accommodating?” I shook my head frantically. “No, it’s not that.” Leo’s face darkened as he walked toward me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me toward the easternmost room. “Come with me, I need to talk to you.” Fear engulfed my mind. I tearfully pulled out the bank card Mr. Hassell had given me earlier in the study. “I’m sorry, I have money, please don’t hit me.” “I have money, please don’t hit me.” Leo turned back, startled. I was already slumped on the floor, my wrist still held high in his grip. “Kirsten, what are you saying?” My lips were now bitten purple. As Leo’s face loomed larger, I gradually recalled the kidnappers’ insults: *The Hassell family’s dog, foolishly clinging to its master.* “Mr. Hassell, I—no, Mr. Hassell, I won’t bother you anymore. I wouldn’t dare again.” Leo finally realized my mental state was off. His movements became much gentler. He put an arm around my waist, lifting me from the floor. The sudden loss of balance made me instinctively cling to Leo’s neck. His stern expression finally softened slightly. “Kirsten, I’m not saying I don’t want you around, it’s just…” Before he could finish, the hallway door swung open with a *click*. Claire poked her head out of my room, the bright light from inside spilling into the hall. She covered her mouth, feigning surprise. “Mr. Hassell, Ms. Hassell.” Leo looked displeased. “I gave you the room, what else do you need?” Claire replied somewhat aggrieved, “It’s a video conference with the US branch. Mr. Hassell, they need you to attend personally.” Leo glanced at me in his arms, then reluctantly put me down. My body was stiff, unable to speak. “Wait for me in my room.” Leo left that instruction, then walked over to Claire. The two entered the room, and the door closed. The bright light vanished from the hallway. I felt like I had just escaped death, cold sweat already soaking through the back of my clothes. Leo wouldn’t be back. I knew Claire’s tactics. Countless times, on my birthdays, my graduation ceremonies, he had been called away by Claire exactly like this. Perhaps he truly wanted to leave, and truly didn’t want to return. And I needed to leave as soon as possible, to a place where I wouldn’t see Leo. I was terrified that any further contact with him would push me over the edge into madness. 4. I sat on the guest room bed until 3 AM, with no sound coming from Leo’s room next door. During that time, I used the new phone Mrs. Hassell bought me, logged into an app, and found a well-secured apartment for rent. Just as dawn broke, the Hassell estate was silent. I carried my shoes, barefoot, and slipped out. Walking outside, I suddenly saw someone leaning against Leo’s car, playing on their phone. My heart leaped, fearing it was Leo. The person heard my movement and looked up. I realized it was Ethan. I pretended nothing was wrong, walked past him, and headed to the roadside to hail a cab. But he followed me. “Ms. Hassell?” “……” “Mr. Hassell knows you’re…” “Can you please not tell Leo?” I suppressed my agitation. I was so close, just a hair’s breadth away from escaping. Why did I have to run into him? Ethan looked confused. “Mr. Hassell will be worried.” I shook my head hard, and started to take off my clothes. Ethan instinctively backed away, then turned his head, his ears flushing. “Ms. Hassell, what are you doing?” I didn’t care. If I could live, what was shame? That feeling had long been eroded by Leo. “He won’t worry about me. All these scars were left on me by the kidnappers, under his instruction.” Ethan looked at me then. Under my jacket was a white sleeveless tank top, clearly revealing purple-red whip marks, blue bruises, and several scabs on my arms. He was incredulous. These shocking scars were beyond his comprehension. I quickly put my clothes back on while he was stunned and pleaded, “Ethan, please, let me go, or I’ll die.” It was the first time I had called him by his name. Before, I always called him Leo’s dog, just as the kidnappers called me. Ethan was speechless for a long time. I quickly ran towards the roadside to hail a taxi. Suddenly, a large hand grabbed me, but after realizing there were injuries beneath my clothes, it recoiled. I was on the verge of tears. “No…” Ethan gritted his teeth, his voice firm. “You won’t find a taxi at this hour. I’ll take you.” “?” With a complex mix of emotions, I got into Leo’s car again. Ethan turned off the dashcam, just in case. “Just bear with it, we’ll be there soon.” He thought I resisted being in Leo’s car, which was true, but as long as it meant escaping Leo, escaping the Hassell family, this endurance was nothing. We arrived at the prearranged apartment complex. I texted the agent that I wanted to move in immediately. To close the deal, he came early in the morning with the contract and keys, greeting us with a cheerful smile at the complex entrance. Ethan was worried, so he came up with me to see the place. It was a fully furnished loft. Although small, it had all the necessary household items. “One thousand two hundred square feet, it’s already the largest apartment in our complex, Ms. Hassell. Whether you live alone or with a boyfriend, it’s more than enough.” I looked at Ethan. He said nothing, his head bowed as he flipped through the contract in his hand. Then he asked about utilities and air conditioning. Finding no issues, he handed it to me. I don’t know why, but I trusted him immensely. Perhaps it was his good nature, not caring when I lashed out at him with kicks and punches every time he dragged me out of Leo’s office. Or perhaps it was when he found me in a bar, under Leo’s orders, and brutally beat those men who tried to lay hands on me. Without hesitation, I quickly signed, pulled out the bank card, and handed it to the agent. He swiped it on the POS machine, then complimented Ethan and me a few times before happily leaving. In the empty room, only Ethan and I remained. He suddenly became a bit awkward. “Ms. Hassell, I should head back.” I nodded, intending to write him a check as thanks—an old habit of mine—but then realized my pockets were empty. Right, I had left with nothing. I had wanted to bring a few personal items, but even my own room had been taken over, let alone a checkbook. “Ethan, how can I thank you?” Ethan was slightly surprised. “No… no need to thank me.” I said no more. Even if he needed something from me in the future, I wouldn’t refuse. Ethan left; he had to go back to work. Before leaving, he said, “Get some good rest.” I certainly needed rest. The thought even crossed my mind: *Finally, I can rest.* Dozens of miles, I slept under tarpaulins in farmlands, on low tree branches. It wasn’t really sleeping; my mind was constantly on edge, wary of those hunting me, wary of wild animals. Back at the Hassell estate, I was constantly waiting for an opportunity to escape. So, sitting on that soft guest room bed, I pinched the soft flesh of my inner thigh over and over, just to stay awake. I took off my shoes, went upstairs into the bedroom. The large bed inside had only a bare mattress; I hadn’t had time to buy any furnishings. But luckily, this loft came with blackout curtains. I pulled them shut, collapsed onto the mattress, and fell into a deep sleep.

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I was helping my husband deal with traffic violations when I logged into the DMV app and noticed something odd. Besides our ten-year-old family sedan, a red Porsche Panamera was also registered in the system. The owner of the luxury car, with local license plates, was an unfamiliar woman. The remarks section brazenly displayed the jarring words: “Daddy’s Little Princess.” Twenty-two years of marriage instantly shattered before my eyes. The image of my daughter passing away seventeen years ago due to a thirty-thousand-dollar surgery fee suddenly surfaced. I remembered him kneeling in the hospital corridor, slapping himself, repeating that he was useless and couldn’t save our daughter. My hands trembling, I exited the app and searched for the car owner’s social media account. Half an hour ago, she had just posted a picture of her new car, bragging that it was a twentieth birthday gift from her dad, with the location tagged in the city’s most exclusive luxury residential area. 1. I stared at the location on the screen. Summit Gardens. The city’s wealthiest district, with an average price of twelve thousand dollars per square foot. I clicked on the profile of the girl named Ashley Chen. It was entirely filled with daily displays of wealth. “Dad took me to a Black Pearl restaurant, five hundred a person, but the food was just so-so.” “Dad bought me a limited edition Chanel bag, a rare style in the whole city.” “Today’s my eighteenth birthday celebration; Dad booked out the yacht club.” I scrolled through each post. My fingers were ice-cold, trembling incessantly. In every post, a man appeared. Sometimes it was a hand wearing a Rolex Submariner. Sometimes it was a broad back. That watch, that back—I knew them all too well. David Chen. I scrolled down to an older post. The timestamp was seventeen years ago. It was a baby’s full-moon photo. The caption read: “Ashley’s full moon! Dad says I’m his little princess.” Seventeen years ago. That same month, seventeen years ago, my daughter, Cici, lay in the ICU. The doctor said that if we paid the thirty thousand dollar surgery fee, our child could live. David Chen knelt on the floor. Slapping himself on both sides of his face. “I’m useless! I’ve borrowed from every relative and friend, and I can’t get a single dime!” “Honey, let’s give up. Cici is suffering too much.” He embraced me, weeping uncontrollably. Cici passed away. I held her cold body, crying until I fainted. David Chen swore to me then. “Honey, from now on, my life is yours. I will work tirelessly to make money and never let you suffer again.” Now. The money he worked tirelessly to earn had become a Porsche. It had become a luxury home in Summit Gardens. It had become a girl named Ashley Chen. The sound of a key turning in the lock came from the door. I quickly exited the account and locked my phone. David Chen pushed the door open. He was carrying a carton of discounted strawberries. “Honey, I’m home. The supermarket had strawberries on sale today, so I bought you a carton.” He changed into his slippers and walked over to me. “Did you take care of the traffic violation points?” I looked at him. Fifty years old, a bit bald, wearing a faded shirt. To anyone, he looked like a devoted and frugal good man. “Yes, it’s done,” my voice was steady. “That’s good,” he sighed in relief. “This old Jetta, the brakes are getting worse and worse. Almost rear-ended someone today.” “Then let’s get a new car,” I said. David Chen immediately frowned. “Replace what car! A car costs tens of thousands of dollars.” “We don’t have money for a new car right now.” “The company accounts don’t even have ten thousand dollars in liquid funds.” “I’m out there every day, begging and pleading for business, isn’t it all for our retirement?” He placed the strawberries on the table. “Don’t always be so extravagant. These strawberries are twenty dollars a pound; I even think that’s expensive.” I looked at the carton of strawberries. Some were already rotting. Ashley Chen’s Porsche, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. My strawberries, twenty dollars. “David Chen.” “Hm?” He picked up a strawberry and popped it into his mouth. “Where were you today?” His chewing paused. “Meeting clients, of course. That construction boss from the Southside is a real pain. I spent the whole afternoon drinking tea with him; my stomach feels like it’s been worn through.” Southside. Summit Gardens was in the Northside. The Porsche center was also in the Northside. “Did you close the deal with the client?” “No. They said our quote was too high.” David Chen sighed. “Business is so tough these days. Honey, could you spot me for next month’s living expenses from your salary?” I watched him put on his act. Seventeen years. He had deceived me for seventeen years with that very face. My salary was eight thousand dollars a month. All of it went to utility bills, groceries, and mortgage payments. He only gave me two thousand dollars a month, claiming the company was struggling and could only afford that small base salary. I believed him. I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing over two hundred dollars. “Okay,” I said. David Chen smiled. “You’re the best, honey. Once I get through this rough patch, I’ll definitely buy you a gold necklace.” His phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his face instantly changed. “The client is calling; I’ll take it on the balcony.” He grabbed his phone and quickly walked to the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him. I stood up. Walked to the balcony door. Through the glass, I heard his hushed voice. “Ashley, didn’t Daddy just transfer fifty thousand to you?” “What? You found a watch you like?” “Okay, okay, Daddy will transfer the money to you tomorrow. Don’t be mad, Daddy loves you very much.” He turned around. I stood behind the glass door. He startled, nearly dropping his phone. He pulled open the door, forcing a smile. “Client, rushing for an order.” I looked at him. My gaze drifted past his shoulder, to the night sky behind him. “David Chen.” “What is it?” “I just checked that traffic violation record.” He tensed up. “What about the violation?” I stared into his eyes. “The location of the violation was the Porsche Center in the Northside.” 2. David Chen’s face froze. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “You must have read it wrong,” he forced a laugh. “My old Jetta, what would it be doing at a Porsche Center?” “Really.” “It must be a system GPS error. This navigation system often drifts.” He walked over and put his arm around my shoulder. “Honey, don’t be so suspicious all the time. My heart only beats for you in this life.” “After Cici left us, I lost all motivation to live. If it wasn’t for you, I would have given up long ago.” He brought up Cici again. Every time I questioned him, he would mention Cici. Using a dead child to cover up his lies. I pushed his hand away. “I’m going to take a shower.” I walked into the bathroom and locked the door. Turned on the faucet. Water splashed loudly. I took out my phone and dialed my cousin Mark’s number. Mark worked in the traffic police department. “Mark.” “Hey, Auntie. What’s up?” “Help me look up a license plate number.” I recited the Porsche’s license plate. “Look up the owner’s information, and the car’s travel history. Focus on this afternoon.” “Okay, give me five minutes.” Three minutes later, Mark called back. “Auntie, I found it.” “The owner is named Ashley Chen. I sent you her ID number on WeChat.” “This car left the Porsche Center at 2 PM today and went straight to Summit Gardens.” “Oh, and this car was bought in full. The payment account name is David Chen.” I leaned against the cold tiles. “Got it. Thank you.” “Auntie, why did Uncle buy someone else a Porsche? Who is this Ashley Chen?” “I don’t know.” I hung up the phone. Opened the ID number Mark had sent. Ashley Chen. Date of birth: August 15, 2004. August 15, 2004. Cici passed away on August 12, 2004. Three days. Three days after Cici died. Ashley Chen was born. While he was weeping hysterically in the hospital corridor, his other woman was in the delivery room giving birth to his child. He wouldn’t even spend thirty thousand dollars to save Cici. But he had money to book a VIP delivery room for another woman. I covered my mouth. Preventing myself from making a sound. Tears fell onto the back of my hand, feeling scalding hot. I finished my shower and came out. David Chen was already in bed. He was looking at his phone, a smile on his face. Hearing me come out, he immediately clutched his phone to his chest. “Finished showering?” “Yes.” “Go to sleep soon; you have to get up early tomorrow for business.” He turned over, his back to me. I lay beside him. Listening to his even breathing. The next morning. David Chen left. I took the day off. I took a taxi to Summit Gardens. I sat down at a cafe near the community entrance. Ordered an Americano. The window seat offered a perfect view of the community’s entrance and exit. 10 AM. A red Porsche drove out. The windows were down. A young girl was in the driver’s seat. Wearing sunglasses, with exquisite makeup. In the passenger seat sat a woman. In her forties, very well-maintained, dressed in designer clothes. I had seen that woman’s face before. Seventeen years ago. City People’s Hospital. The cardiology nurses’ station. The nurse who was responsible for giving Cici her injections. Sarah Porte. On the day Cici died, Sarah Porte stood beside David Chen, handing him a tissue. “Mr. Chen, please accept my condolences.” Her voice had been so gentle back then. I watched the Porsche drive away. Took out my phone and looked up Sarah Porte’s name. There was a chain of beauty salons in the city called Elite Beauty. Legal representative: Sarah Porte. Registered capital: one million dollars. Date of establishment: 2005. 2005. The same year David Chen opened his construction company. He told me the company was started with high-interest loans. He used to lie awake at night, worried, losing handfuls of hair. To help him pay off the interest, I worked three jobs a day. Daytime, cashier at the supermarket. Evenings, selling at the night market. Weekends, handing out flyers. I worked myself into the hospital twice with stomach bleeding. David Chen held my hand, crying. “Honey, when I make money, I’ll definitely give you a good life.” His good life. He gave it to Sarah Porte. He gave it to Ashley Chen. I took a sip of my coffee. It was very bitter. My phone vibrated. It was a WeChat message from David Chen. “Honey, I won’t be home for lunch today. Have a big client to meet; might have to drink a bit.” I replied with one word. “Okay.” Then I stood up. Paid the bill. Walked out. Took a taxi to the flagship store of Elite Beauty. 3. Elite Beauty was located in a bustling area of the city center. A three-story storefront, lavishly decorated. I walked in. The receptionist immediately approached. “Hello, madam, do you have an appointment?” She sized me up. My old down jacket, my faded jeans. A hint of disdain flickered in her eyes. “I’m looking for Sarah Porte,” I said. “May I ask who you are?” “I’m David Chen’s wife.” The receptionist froze. Her face changed color. “Please wait a moment.” She picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. Spoke a few hushed words. Two minutes later. A woman in a business suit walked down from upstairs. It wasn’t Sarah Porte. It was Ashley Chen. She walked towards me in high heels. Took off her sunglasses. Sizing me up. The disdain in her eyes was even more obvious than the receptionist’s. “You’re Anya Lin?” She called me by my first name. “I am.” Ashley Chen chuckled. “I thought you were someone important. Turns out you’re just a hag.” She crossed her arms, circling me once. “How many years have you worn these clothes? Are they pilling?” “My dad, honestly, why wouldn’t he even buy you new clothes?” “Oh, I forgot. My dad said you’re extremely stingy, so buying you nice things would just be a waste.” I looked at her. Twenty years old. Young, beautiful, and arrogant. “Where’s Sarah Porte?” I asked. “My mom’s getting a spa; she’s too busy for riff-raff.” Ashley Chen walked over to the sofa and sat down. Crossed her legs. “What do you want with my mom? Money?” She pulled a card from her bag. Tossed it onto the coffee table. “Here’s ten thousand dollars. Go buy some decent clothes. Stop embarrassing my dad.” I didn’t look at the card. I looked at her. “You call David Chen ‘Dad’.” “Yeah.” Ashley Chen raised an eyebrow. “My biological father, is there a problem?” “Do you know he’s married?” “I know,” Ashley Chen said indifferently. “So what? My dad doesn’t love you at all. He just pities you.” “Pities me?” “Yeah. You can’t even have a child. One died of illness.” Ashley Chen’s smile was vicious. “My dad said you’re just a barren old hen. If he didn’t pity you, he would have divorced you ages ago.” Her words pierced my heart. “Barren old hen.” I repeated the words. “Did David Chen say this?” “Of course.” Ashley Chen was triumphant. “My dad loves me very much. He says I’m his only little princess. What are you, anyway?” I took out my phone. Tapped record. “I’ve recorded everything you just said.” Ashley Chen’s face changed. She abruptly stood up. “What are you doing! Delete it!” She rushed over to snatch my phone. I stepped back. She missed, twisted her ankle, and fell to the ground. “Ah!” she screamed. The beauty salon’s security guards immediately rushed over. Helped her up. Ashley Chen pointed at me, furious. “Get her out of here! Now!” Two security guards walked toward me. I put away my phone. “No need to escort me. I’ll leave on my own.” I turned and walked out of the beauty salon. Behind me, Ashley Chen’s insults followed. “Pauper! Old hag! You’ll regret this!” I walked to the street corner. Dialed David Chen’s number. It rang for a long time before he answered. “Hello, honey, what’s wrong? I’m drinking with clients.” The background was very quiet. No sounds of a noisy drinking party. “David Chen, I’m at the Elite Beauty salon entrance.” The other end of the line instantly fell silent. After a full ten seconds. David Chen’s voice, suppressed with anger, came through. “What are you doing there?” “Meeting your little princess.” “Anya Lin! Are you crazy?!” he roared. “What are you causing a scene in someone else’s shop for?!” “Someone else’s shop?” I scoffed. “Isn’t that the shop you opened for Sarah Porte?” “What nonsense are you talking about?!” David Chen was furious. “Sarah Porte is my friend! Ashley is my friend’s daughter! Don’t be unreasonable here!” “A friend’s daughter calls you Dad?” “A friend’s daughter, and you paid full cash for her Porsche?” “David Chen, do you think I’m an idiot?” David Chen took a deep breath. His tone suddenly softened. “Honey, listen to me. Things aren’t what you think.” “Just come home first. I’ll be right back. We’ll talk at home.” I hung up the phone. Went home. I opened my laptop. I work in finance. Although David Chen’s company accounts haven’t been managed by me these past few years, I still have administrator access to view them. I logged into the system. And started checking the books. I looked up the transactions from 2004. That year, Cici fell ill. David Chen said he couldn’t borrow any money. I scrolled to August 10, 2004. Two days before Cici died. There was a thirty-thousand-dollar transfer recorded from the company account. Recipient: Sarah Porte. Notes: House purchase payment. I stared at those words. Thirty thousand dollars. Cici’s surgery fee was exactly thirty thousand dollars. He took the money that could have saved her life and used it to buy a house for his mistress! 4. The door was violently flung open. David Chen rushed in, panting. He was sweating profusely, his tie askew. Seeing me sitting at the computer, he strode over. “Anya Lin! What the hell is wrong with you today?!” He slammed my laptop shut. “What were you doing causing a scene at Sarah Porte’s shop? Do you know how difficult you’ve made things for me?!” I sat in the chair. Looking at him. “Thirty thousand.” David Chen froze. “What thirty thousand?” “August 10, 2004. You transferred thirty thousand dollars to Sarah Porte.” I looked into his eyes. “That was Cici’s life savings.” David Chen’s face instantly drained of color. He took a step back. His gaze shifting evasively. “You… you checked my accounts?” “That was Cici’s life.” My voice was soft, yet trembling. “You’re talking nonsense!” David Chen suddenly raised his voice. “That was money I lent to Sarah Porte! Her family had an emergency at the time!” “An emergency?” I laughed out loud. “Does buying a house count as an emergency?” “David Chen, Cici was lying in the ICU, waiting for money to save her life. You took that money to buy a house for another woman.” “Are you even human?” David Chen flew into a rage. He pointed a finger at my nose. “Don’t you dare bring up old grievances here! The doctors said that with Cici’s illness, even with surgery, she wouldn’t have lived for many years!” “Thirty thousand dollars thrown in would have been a waste!” “I saved that money for our future!” *A waste.* He called his own daughter’s life a waste. I stood up. Slapped him across the face. *Slap!* The sound was sharp. David Chen clutched his face, looking at me in disbelief. “You dared to hit me?” He raised his hand and shoved me hard. I hit the corner of the table. A sharp pain in my waist. “Anya Lin, I’ve tolerated you for too long!” David Chen pointed at me, yelling abuses. “Look at the mess you are now! Always wearing a gloomy face, like a dead person!” “I’m out there making money to support the family every day, what else can you do besides annoy me?” “I’m telling you, Sarah Porte is a hundred times gentler than you! And Ashley is more obedient than your short-lived daughter!” *Short-lived daughter.* He finally spoke his true feelings. I steadied myself by holding the table. I didn’t cry. My tears had dried up seventeen years ago. David Chen panted. He adjusted his clothes. His tone suddenly turned cold and harsh. “Since we’ve laid all our cards on the table, I won’t hide it from you anymore.” “The company’s capital chain is broken. It owes the bank ten million dollars.” “If I don’t plug this hole soon, I’ll go to jail.” He looked at me. “Mortgage your parents’ old house. Take out three million dollars to save the company first.” I looked at him. It felt absurd. “You bought Ashley Chen a one-point-five-million-dollar Porsche, and you opened a ten-million-dollar beauty salon for Sarah Porte.” “Now you’re asking me to sell my parents’ house to save you?” David Chen was self-righteous. “The company is our joint property! If the company goes bankrupt, you’ll be on the hook for the debts too!” “That house is just sitting empty anyway, what’s wrong with using it in an emergency?” “If you don’t put it up, you’re just heartless! You’re a cold-blooded animal!” *Cold-blooded animal.* I took out my phone. Opened Ashley Chen’s social media feed. She had just updated her status. “Daddy says a girl should live in a penthouse. Thanks, Dad, for the river-view apartment! Love you to death!” The post included a picture of the property deed for a river-view apartment. Name: Ashley Chen. Time: This morning. I shoved the screen into David Chen’s face. “Is this what you mean by a broken capital chain?” David Chen’s eyes widened as he saw the screen. His gaze flickered with panic for a second. Then turned to anger. “I promised her that a long time ago! That money can’t be touched!” “Anya Lin, I’m asking you one last time. Are you mortgaging the house or not?” I looked at him. “No, I’m not.” David Chen gritted his teeth. “Fine. You just wait.” He slammed the door shut and left. The room returned to silence. I took out my phone. Dialed a number. “Hello, is this Mr. Jenkins, the lawyer?” Mr. Jenkins was a university classmate of mine, specializing in divorce and economic dispute cases. “Anya Lin? What’s wrong?” “I want a divorce. And I need to investigate David Chen’s hidden and transferred marital assets.” “Okay, bring all your documents to my law firm tomorrow.” Mr. Jenkins paused. “By the way, Anya Lin, there’s something I need to tell you in advance.” “What is it?” “Those assets under David Chen’s name you asked me to investigate earlier. I asked a friend to check.” “He not only bought a house and a car for that Ashley Chen.” “He also, half a month ago, gratuitously transferred eighty percent of your company’s shares to a woman named Sarah Porte.” I clutched my phone tightly. “And,” Mr. Jenkins’s voice was very low. “I found Ashley Chen’s birth certificate.” “The father’s column… it doesn’t say David Chen at all.”

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The clerk tiptoed toward me, whispering that the shop was out of blueberries again and asking if I wanted to order more. I’d just put down my phone, the screen still showing a vlog about working at a cat café. In the video, the blogger was quite something. Whenever friends showed up, the blueberries on their cakes were piled up like little mountains. Not only that, but she’d often make excuses about getting coffee orders wrong, giving her friends free drinks. The comment section was full of jokes about her getting fired for it, but she just shrugged it off, saying she’d be back in school in a month anyway. 1. With fewer customers in the shop, I slid the freshly made crepe cake into the display fridge and scrolled through my phone for a bit. That’s when I stumbled upon this vlog about working at a cat café. Being in the same line of business, I started watching with genuine interest, but my brow soon furrowed. To treat her friends, the small slice of cake she brought over had so many blueberries they were spilling onto the plate. And don’t even get me started on the intentionally ‘mistaken’ drinks – it was practically a buy-one-get-one-free deal. After her friends had their fill of petting cats and left, she brazenly helped herself to the shop’s supplies. Not only did she hand them a lint roller, but she also picked out a large mango as a parting gift. I rolled my eyes, thinking it was probably just an act for views. After all, who in their right mind would genuinely exploit someone else’s generosity and do something so unethical, then boast about it? I expected to see some criticism in the comments, but to my surprise, they were all supportive: “LOL, I wish I could get my friends jobs like this too.” “If I had a pal like the streamer, I’d be set for life.” Someone else, clearly loving the drama, posted: “Are you a long-term employee? Aren’t you worried about getting fired?” The blogger’s reply was smug: “Nah, just a summer gig. But I told the boss I was in it for the long haul.” “I’m out when school starts; not my problem after that.” Then, she brazenly shared her ‘wisdom’ in the comments: “I told the boss I flunked my college entrance exams and my folks wouldn’t fund my studies. They totally bought it and felt sorry for me.” “Closer to school starting, I’ll just say I’ve saved enough and need to go back to my studies.” Reading that, I suddenly remembered the day I interviewed Charlotte. The cat café I owned rarely featured purebred cats; most were strays with nowhere else to go. Initially, business was slow, but with a bit of word-of-mouth, my place gained some traction. Soon, I was swamped with customers daily and needed an extra pair of hands. The ‘Help Wanted’ sign had barely been up outside the café when Charlotte showed up for an interview. “Can you commit to this long-term?” To keep the business running smoothly, I needed a steady employee, not someone who’d ditch after a few days. Replacing them would mean more hiring, training, and a whole lot of hassle. “A summer job is fine too. The pay’s the same as for a long-term position, just let me know in advance when you plan to leave.” Charlotte looked earnestly at me: “Boss, I can definitely stay long-term!” “I flunked my entrance exams, and my parents won’t support my studies, so I really need this job.” At the time, her story tugged at my heartstrings. But… I stared at that comment, a strange feeling of absurdity washing over me. Could it really be that much of a coincidence? 2. “Boss, we’re out of blueberries. Should we grab some more?” My barista, Sarah, was doing inventory. A moment later, she added, “Strawberries and durian are running low too…” I put down my phone and headed to the back. Summer fruits don’t last long, so to avoid waste, I usually restock every few days. This way, customers always get fresh fruit, and I save on costs. But I’d specifically bought enough blueberries for three days yesterday. How could they be gone already? “Sarah, did we really have that many blueberry cake orders yesterday when I wasn’t here?” “Pull up the sales records for me, please.” Counting myself, there were three of us working in the shop. Sarah and I both handled pastries and coffee. If we were both in, I usually took care of the sweets while she managed coffee and tea. If one of us was off, the other would cover. Charlotte was responsible for delivering drinks to customers on the second floor petting cats, and she also handled the litter boxes. Sarah looked at me, hesitating, as if she wanted to say something. “Ms. Hayes!” Charlotte came bounding down the stairs, cutting off our conversation. She beamed: “Table 2 wants another order of fries; can you whip them up?” She sauntered over and draped herself familiarly over my arm. “Ms. Hayes, I overheard you talking about the blueberries.” “Yesterday afternoon, a customer found a rotten piece of fruit and insisted on compensation. To smooth things over, I gave them the last of our blueberries.” “It was an emergency, and I didn’t have time to ask you. You’re not mad I acted on my own, right?” Blueberries I’d personally picked out that morning, rotten by the afternoon? I remained noncommittal. Charlotte, ever curious, continued, “Ms. Hayes, didn’t you say you had to go back to your hometown for something? Why are you here today?” I subtly pulled away from her, my expression cool. “I was worried you two might get swamped, so I rescheduled my plans.” After frying the fries, I reopened that vlog. The blogger hadn’t shown her face, keeping her identity private. The video only displayed parts of the shop’s interior and the blogger’s hands. Initially, I hadn’t paid much attention to those minor details. But now, with the IP address, the identical décor to our shop, and the ring on the blogger’s hand, I could pretty much confirm that I was the unwitting boss in the video. 3. All those overlooked details now flooded my mind. Just last week, an old customer had given me a strange look as they left, saying, “Ms. Hayes, do you think all shops treat their loyal customers poorly?” “You pay the same money, but you get less than everyone else.” At the time, I was baffled; now, it all clicked. A surge of anger shot through me. I opened the second-floor surveillance feed, wanting to check yesterday’s video. But I found that the movable snack rack, which usually sat in the corner, had been relocated right in front of the camera, completely blocking its view. I actually laughed, a bitter, humorless sound. During work hours, I was usually busy downstairs making desserts and rarely went upstairs. I only went up before closing each day to check the cleanliness and the cats’ well-being. Yet, the trust I’d placed in her had become Charlotte’s license to do whatever she pleased. She’d even blocked the camera. Annoyed, I started heading upstairs to move the rack, but as soon as I reached the second floor, I heard a burst of laughter. Charlotte was lounging on the sofa, a cat in her lap, chatting away with customers. The scattered cat litter and the trash on the adjacent table were completely ignored. “Ms. Hayes? What are you doing up here?” She casually put down her chips and set the cat aside. Seeing my gaze linger on the trash, she sheepishly picked up a dustpan and brush. I didn’t want to argue with her in front of customers, so I took a deep breath and subtly hinted, “Charlotte, once you’re done with the upstairs tasks, come down and lend a hand.” She acted oblivious, countering in a stiff, unyielding tone, “Didn’t you say initially that my job only covered the second floor?” But the cat bowls were empty, and she hadn’t refilled them. The litter was clumped, and she hadn’t cleaned it. What exactly had she been doing? I ignored her. After moving the snack rack, I cut straight to the chase: “From now on, no moving the second-floor furniture without my permission.” Charlotte didn’t say a word. But as she went downstairs, I faintly heard her talking to a customer: “Are all bosses like this? Can’t stand seeing someone relax, always gotta grind you down.” “And she’s spying on me with cameras… Must be hitting menopause or something.” I waited and waited downstairs, and in the meantime, another wave of customers arrived. After finishing up, it was dinner time, and Charlotte finally ambled down. “I’m so drained. This job is killer.” “Sarah, can you whip me up a latte?” 4. Sarah glanced at me, then pursed her lips and shook her head, refusing. Charlotte pouted, muttering, “Seriously? It’s just a cup of coffee. It’s not like it’ll break the bank.” “Should’ve just gone to a bubble tea shop instead.” I scoffed inwardly, keeping my poker face. I wasn’t about to let her know I’d already seen her vlog. “Then go for it. I’ll pay you for these two weeks.” Her eyes widened, clearly caught off guard. Charlotte quickly forced a laugh. “Ms. Hayes, I was just kidding! Don’t take it seriously.” “Oh, what are we having for dinner tonight?” She awkwardly changed the subject. “I’m craving crayfish!” Three servings of crayfish would be at least three or four hundred bucks. She really had some nerve. I did provide two meals a day, but I wasn’t about to dip into my savings for her extravagant tastes. Last week, she wanted barbecue, and I, thinking everyone had a tiring day, specially took them to a barbecue joint after closing. I might be the boss, but my wallet couldn’t handle that kind of expense every day. “Still fast food…” Charlotte sighed in disappointment, poking at her rice with chopsticks. “Oh, by the way, Ms. Hayes, can I leave an hour early from now on?” Sarah shot me a look, lips sealed, and I knew she probably had an opinion on it. If Charlotte left early, her tasks would fall to someone else. During the interview, she’d painted herself as a stellar employee, but now her true colors were showing. “Why?”

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