Seven years of marriage, and Sophia Wentworth had learned exactly what she was worth to Lucian Drake—down to the last dollar. Dinner together: fifty thousand. Coming home: a hundred thousand. Sharing his bed: a million. Sophia had never once crossed a line and played her role with flawless precision. Until the night of their seventh anniversary. Lucian sat in the leather armchair by the window, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. “My girlfriend wants me to propose,” he said, his tone as indifferent as a stock report. “Name your price, Sophia. How much to make you disappear?” He paused, and something that almost resembled hesitation flickered across his face. “If you’re not ready, you can wait. I’ll smooth things over with her and come back for you after.” Sophia’s fingers tightened around the ring box hidden behind her back—the engagement ring given to her by Lucian’s greatest rival. Then, she smiled and stepped forward and placed a divorce agreement on the coffee table. “Two dollars to buy me out,” Sophia said. Taking the bus from here to the church to married with the man who was her true lover. Two dollars is exactly the fare. — Lucian crushed the cigarette against the leather sofa. “Sophia.” His voice dropped. “This is your last chance to negotiate.” In seven years, the sentence she’d heard from him most often was “name your price”. It had started small—attending galas, picking up his girlfriend Stella from class, cooking Stella’s meals, managing Stella’s wardrobe, tracking Stella’s medication schedule. Each task was just one more line on the invoice. “Two dollars,” she said again. “Final offer.” She turned toward the door. Stella was already at the top of the staircase—eyes red, lower lip trembling with practiced perfection. She descended slowly, one hand trailing the railing, gaze fixed on Sophia. “Please don’t make her leave,” Stella whispered to Lucian, though her eyes stayed on Sophia. “I’m not trying to take your place. I swear I’m not.” Tears slid down her cheeks. In the corner of her mouth, barely visible, a smile curved upward. Sophia didn’t acknowledge the performance. She reached into her bag and pressed two Coachella tickets into Stella’s hands—she’d lined up at midnight to get them. “For you. I hope you enjoy it.” Then she opened her notebook. “Six a.m.—Stella takes her coffee with oat milk from the new café on Riverside Drive. Go early, the line gets long. Seven a.m., wake her up, lay out her clothes—no repeating outfits within the week. Eight a.m., drive her to class. Nine a.m., collect her dry cleaning—only the green blazer this week, she has a lunch on Thursday. Ten a.m., call her nutritionist to confirm Friday’s appointment. Noon, her preferred lunch order from—” She kept going. Through afternoon, through evening, all the way to three in the morning. Seven years of invisible labor, recited in a single, unbroken monologue, transferred from her keeping to his. When she finally stopped, the cigarette smoke had long since cleared. The room was very quiet. Something had shifted in Lucian’s eyes. He would have denied it if anyone had named it. “If you behave,” he said quietly, “you can stay.” She opened her mouth to answer. Then Stella screamed.

Stella had tumbled down the staircase. One moment she was at the top. The next she was sprawled across Sophia, both of them hitting the marble floor in a tangle of limbs. Pain detonated through Sophia’s left leg and skull simultaneously. Something warm and wet ran from her hairline. She lay still, blinking at the ceiling. Lucian crossed the room in three strides—and reached for Stella. He swept her into his arms, voice low and urgent. The room was very quiet. Sophia tried to push herself upright. She couldn’t. Lucian turned. “You couldn’t even keep her safe?” He hauled Sophia to her feet by her arm. “Apologize to her.” Sophia stood on a leg that was screaming and apologized. Ten times, as instructed, while Stella watched with glistening eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish Stella’s assignment on time. I’m sorry she scraped her hand on the railing. I’m sorry—” By the tenth apology, Sophia’s throat had gone dry and rough. She tasted iron at the back of her mouth. Then Stella’s voice, sweet and light: “Could Sophia walk to the bakery on the west side for me? The strawberry cake there is just divine—you know how delicate those strawberries are. She should walk. The fresh air will do her good.” Sophia was already reaching for her crutch before Lucian could answer. She made the trip three times that night. The first time, the cake had cooled by the time she returned. Unacceptable. The second time, her left foot had opened up and left a trail of blood across the pale marble. Stella screamed at the sight of it, then declared she didn’t want the cake anymore anyway. The third time, it was eight the next morning. Sophia’s clothes were torn. Her left ankle had swollen to twice its size. The place where her prosthetic connected to her right leg had worn through to raw flesh. Every step was broken glass in fire. But the cake was perfect. Not a single strawberry out of place. She placed it in Stella’s hands. Stella looked at it. Then set it on the floor in front of her little dog, Biscuit. “Oh, Sophia.” Wide, soft eyes. “I hope you’re not upset. I just… didn’t really want it anymore.” Sophia nodded. She turned to Lucian. She had been running on pure will for hours. Now she stood in front of him and let herself speak. “Is this enough?” Level, calm, precise. “Are you satisfied? Can we sign the divorce papers now?” Her legs gave out. The floor came up fast and she went down hard. The last thing she saw before the dark took her was Lucian Drake’s face—the face she had never once seen break—cracking open with something she couldn’t name. He dropped to his knees beside her, his hands framing her face. His mouth was moving. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare.” She couldn’t hear him anymore. The dark was very quiet. And for the first time in seven years, so was she.

In the dream, her mother slapped her. The crack turned Sophia’s face sideways. She stood there, cheek burning, and did not raise her hand to touch it. “You have no right to die,” her mother said, shaking. “You are standing on your brother’s shoulders to survive. Every breath you take, he paid for.” “I never asked him to.” Her mother’s face crumpled. The slaps came harder. Sophia stood and received them, tears on her face—not from pain, but from the bewildering injustice of a life she had never been consulted about. Then her mother knelt. Sophia stared. She had never seen her mother kneel to anyone. “I know what you’ve suffered,” her mother said, voice breaking. “But this is what your grandfather left behind. You are the only one who can hold it. You must keep going—” The dream shattered. Sophia woke to antiseptic. Lucian sat in the chair beside her bed, eyes red-rimmed, jaw dark with stubble. “You were bleeding through your shoe,” he said. “Your foot. Why didn’t you say something? I could have driven you.” “Was there something you needed?” she asked. He poured water from the bedside pitcher and set it next to her. Then, very carefully: “Stella’s anxiety has been flaring. I’d like you to help her through it.” The doctor stepped forward, voice strained. “Mr. Drake—Mrs. Drake’s condition is critical. Every single indicator is negative. Any additional stress could be life-threatening. Stella’s anxiety disorder is a psychological condition. It requires medication and therapy, not—” Lucian looked over the doctor’s head at Sophia. “Help her one last time,” he said. “I’ll sign the divorce papers. Plus thirty million on top.” He gestured. Guards brought in reinforced restraints—the kind used for crisis situations, he would have said if anyone asked. Sophia looked at her own wrists. Old scars, layered over older scars. The record of every time she had been Stella’s anchor when Stella’s darkness turned violent. Lucian saw them. His voice came out strangely. “Does it hurt?” She stood, walked into Stella’s room, and did what was asked. She held Stella through the worst of the episode—the blows, the screaming, the wild grief of a woman whose pain was real even if her cruelty was calculated. When it ended, Sophia lay on the floor looking at the ceiling, breathing, waiting for her vision to clear. She checked her bank account from the hospital floor. Thirty million. Exactly as promised. She got up. Found Lucian’s sleeve and tugged it once. He knew immediately what she wanted. His expression closed off. “Seven years,” he said flatly. “You don’t throw seven years away over something this small.” “Something this small.” She let go of his sleeve, picked up her phone, and called a car. She thought she was about to walk out. She hadn’t counted on Stella blocking the door—again.

Stella was already in the doorway. Her arms opened wide and folded around Sophia in a hug that felt like being gripped by something with too many fingers. “I’m so sorry,” Stella breathed. “I keep hurting you. I don’t mean to. I really don’t.” She pulled back just far enough to look at Sophia’s face, eyes bright with tears. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make it right.” Through the open door: Lucian, and eight members of his security team, arranged in a quiet line. No way out. Sophia gave one small nod. Stella released her. In the brief moment of contact, her fingers had pressed hard enough to leave marks. Bruises bloomed across pale skin, visible even from where Lucian stood. “Does it hurt?” he asked. He sent for ointment. Sat beside her on the edge of the bed and applied it to the broken skin of her forearm—touch careful, face unreadable. “Where is my assistant?” Sophia asked. His hands stopped. “I let him go. He wasn’t right for the role.” “Don’t fire my staff without asking me.” He set down the ointment and looked at her the way he always looked at her when she pushed back—from slightly above, with the coldness of someone who has never had to recalibrate. “Everything you have came from me.” He pulled her close. “Have you fallen in love with that assistant?” Before she could answer, the hospital began to shake. A low tremor—something enormous clearing its throat underground. Then the walls moved. Windows rattled. Someone in the corridor screamed: “Landslide—get out—the hillside is going—” Sophia dropped into a crouch. Slabs of earth cracked loose and thundered down. One hit the exterior wall and blew it open like paper. Lucian reached for her. Then Stella’s voice cut through—high and terrified, from the middle of the corridor, sitting directly beneath a massive crystal chandelier swinging in wide, sickening arcs. Lucian’s hands stopped. He looked at Stella. He looked at Sophia. “Sophia—” She pushed him. Not hard. Not angrily. One firm, deliberate push toward Stella. “She needs you.” She watched him run. Watched him scoop Stella up. Watched him turn—just once—to look back at Sophia, his face stripped of everything. That was when the ceiling came down. The rubble hit in sections. First the plaster, then the support beams, then the weight of everything above. Sophia had no time to move, no direction to move in. She covered her head and waited. The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was Lucian Drake fighting back through the rubble toward her, his mouth forming her name over and over in the roar: “Sophia—” Then: nothing.

Sophia woke in a hospital bed—cleaner, quieter—and reached for her phone. “Can you help me file for divorce?” she asked. A pause—then a sound trying hard not to be laughter. “Now you ask me?” Low, amused. “You could have called me ages ago, Sophia.” “If you’re not willing—” “Don’t you dare hang up,” Ethan Harlow said immediately. “I’ll do whatever you need. Anything.” A beat. “Can you come soon? I miss you.” She hung up. Lucian appeared in the doorway. He crossed the room and took the phone from her hand. “Are you texting that assistant again?” “Is there something you needed?” He sat. Showed her his phone screen—a message from Stella, wanting to take Sophia out as a thank-you for the earthquake. His expression suggested he considered this generous. “No,” Sophia said. He stood and moved toward her—and Sophia was on her feet, arms crossed in front of her chest, three feet of space between them, before she registered she’d moved. They both froze. Lucian’s hands came up, empty. His face had gone pale—not with anger. With something else. “I wasn’t going to—” He stopped. Looked at his own hands. Then walked out. The door closed harder than he intended. Sophia sat on the edge of the bed. She thought about a three-year-old girl with the habit of reaching up to hold Sophia’s hand in the garden—gripping her fingers like she was the most important thing in the world. She had been. Lucian had taken her away one morning, promising she would be safe, that Stella loved children. Sophia had believed him. She stopped believing him the night she stood outside a closed door and heard Stella’s voice carrying clearly through the gap: “That was your first baby with Sophia. I didn’t mean for it to happen—she was right at the edge of the pool—” And Lucian’s voice, lower, but not low enough: “It’s done. What’s done is done. It’s not worth falling apart over one child.” Sophia had walked back to her room and sat on her bed. Outside the window now, blue fireworks lit the city. A drone display stretched across the skyline. Every billboard in Hartfield carried the same image: Lucian Drake, hand outstretched, diamonds and champagne, and beneath it the words: “Stella—marry me.” The comments were floods of congratulations. Everyone, it seemed, was relieved for him. So glad he’d finally found the right person. So glad to see him happy at last. Sophia closed the page. She opened the airline app and bought a one-way ticket. She was about to put her phone in her bag when it rang. She looked at the screen. Lucian. She answered because she assumed he needed something for Stella.

She was halfway to the departure terminal when her phone rang. She let it ring. It rang again. Seven times. Eight. On the ninth call, she answered. “Stella bet you to someone else,” Lucian said, voice stripped of everything except the bare information. “Twenty-four hours. Consider yourself loaned out. She didn’t realize she’d lose.” Sophia laughed—short, clear, bewildered. “Then will you sign the divorce papers after? I’d rather whoever picks me up doesn’t know I’m still technically married. It might make things awkward.” The line went dead. Seconds later, a message from Stella: “I’m so sorry! He promised he wouldn’t hurt you—he’s a harmless old man, I swear! I feel terrible about this!!” Sophia read it twice, changed into clothes she’d borrowed from a nurse’s locker, and walked out the back entrance of the hospital instead of the front. Twenty yards from the staff gate, she saw them—a wall of security contractors around the rear exit, and at their center, a heavyset man in his seventies, holding a document with Lucian’s signature on it. “Don’t be in such a rush, Mrs. Drake. We’ve still got twenty-four hours.” He had a device. The kind that sends electricity through the body in controlled pulses. Every nerve fires at once. You don’t fall from weakness—you fall because the human nervous system was not designed to receive that kind of input and stay upright. Sophia collapsed. Then she got back up. The twenty-four hours passed. At dawn, she was released. She walked back through the gate, up the steps, and into the villa where Lucian was waiting with a bowl of hot congee and an expression of complicated concern. She looked at him for a long time before she spoke. “Those men,” she said. “Were they yours?” She said it as a statement, not a question. “You booked a flight,” he said carefully. “Because Stella was jealous.” He crossed to her and gripped her arms. “You’ve been in love with me since you were ten years old,” he said, voice rough. “You followed me to secondary school. You confessed at sixteen. You begged to marry me at twenty. Sophia—” His voice cracked. “I will not let you leave.” He released her and walked away before she could answer. He didn’t see Stella in the corridor, listening. Didn’t see the flash of something vicious move through her expression before her usual wide-eyed softness slid back into place. Stella pulled out her phone. She composed a message—one line, carefully worded, designed to look accidental—and sent it to Lucian’s personal account. A message about the hotel reservation she’d made in the upmarket district of the city center, a room under a name he would recognize. Then she leaned against the wall and waited for the fallout.

Sophia’s phone buzzed. One message. No sender name—just a number she didn’t recognize, and a single attached image. Her grandfather. Hospital bed. Oxygen mask. Eyes closed. Below the image, four words: He’s still alive, Sophia. She stared at the screen. Her grandfather had died in front of her. She had held his hand. She had watched him go. But she couldn’t be sure. And Stella knew she couldn’t be sure. Lucian’s number appeared next: Stella’s on a ledge. Top floor of the Meridian. Live right now. Your grandfather’s condition depends on what happens next. Sophia pulled up the livestream. Sixty thousand viewers. Stella on a rooftop, mascara running, telling her followers she had loved the wrong person and had nothing left. The comments were flooding—don’t do it, we love you, please come down. Below the building: crash mats. Forty stories up, they were decorative at best. Unless someone was willing to be the second layer. Sophia was already moving. She drove to the Meridian. Took the elevator. Pushed open the roof access door into cold air—and saw exactly what Stella needed her to see. Lucian on one side of the ledge, arms out, voice low. Stella on the other, swaying, crying, looking not at Lucian but at the crowd below. Then Stella looked up. Found Sophia’s eyes. And smiled. Less than a second. Then the tears came back. Stella tipped forward. Sophia ran. The impact came in two stages—Stella’s weight hitting her from above, then both of them hitting the mats below. Something cracked in Sophia’s chest. She heard it before she felt it. She stayed conscious long enough to confirm Stella was breathing. Then she stopped. They were brought into the hospital at the same time. Stella was wheeled left. Sophia was wheeled right. Forty minutes later, the surgeon came out and found Lucian in the corridor. “Mr. Drake.” He kept his voice low. “We need to discuss Mrs. Drake’s treatment plan. Given her existing injuries and the impact trauma, there are several decisions that need to be made quickly.” Lucian frowned at the surgical consent forms the doctor held out. Kidney removal. Right cornea extraction. He looked up at the surgeon, whose eyes didn’t quite meet his, and was about to say something— Stella’s attending physician burst out of the other wing. “Mr. Drake—Stella’s hemorrhaging. She needs a transfusion immediately, but she’s having an episode. She’s torn out the IV line. She’s been calling your name—” Sophia’s surgeon stepped forward at exactly that moment, consent forms extended, pen already uncapped. Lucian’s jaw tightened. He took the pen, signed through the stack of forms without reading further, and ran toward Stella’s operating room.

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On Christmas Eve, I slipped into Chicago without telling Damien. I spent the afternoon cooking ！ a full spread, enough to fill his entire dining table ！ planning to surprise him. While I waited, I scrolled Reddit and stumbled onto a thread. [What does a man do when he actually loves you?] Someone in the comments answered. [He couldn’t make it home for Christmas, so he stayed back to keep me company ！ told his family work ran over.] [He was supposed to get engaged to his girlfriend this year, but I said I wasn’t ready, so he pushed the date back. He remembers every little thing I like, never forgets my birthday, and even decorated the passenger seat of his car just for me.] My stomach dropped. Was it a coincidence? Damien had told me the same thing ！ too buried in work to fly home for Christmas ！ and our own engagement date had been pushed back too. Someone replied to her: [How is that any different from being the mistress?] She laughed it off. [The one who isn’t loved is the mistress. He told me he stopped having feelings for his fianc└e a long time ago. He’s only still with her out of obligation.] [Right now, we’re watching the Christmas fireworks~ ] The photo attached showed a side profile, fireworks blazing in the background. Identical to Damien. ´ I zoomed in. Zoomed back out. Told myself it was someone who just looked like him. Then she posted a second photo ！ hands intertwined. On those overlapping fingers sat a ring I knew too well. My eyes burned. My hand trembled as I dialed Damien’s number. It rang a long time before he picked up. Fireworks crackled in the background. His voice came through soft and warm. “Mia. What’s wrong?” “Where are you?” I asked. “At the office. Still catching up on work.” He sounded completely at ease. If I hadn’t seen that post, I might have believed him without a second thought. I blinked against the sting in my eyes and said, “I’m at your place.” Silence for a few seconds. Then: “I’m heading back now.” I stood there looking at the dinner I’d spent all day making, and something in me felt almost laughable. When Damien came through the door, he wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him. His personal assistant. Nadia Reyes. She’d appeared in the background of our video calls before ！ brief flickers I hadn’t thought much of. I’d only learned her name afterward. When his eyes met mine, something flickered across Damien’s face. A half-second of unease. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” My eyes had gone red. I looked at what he was wearing. The man in that photo wore the exact same thing. I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. “I wanted to surprise you,” I said, my voice coming out hoarse. Turned out Damien surprised me first. I shifted my gaze to Nadia. “You work late with your assistant?” Damien paused. Then steered the conversation sideways. “Next time, just let me know ！ I’ll come pick you up.” I smiled, but there was nothing behind it. I said nothing. “Didn’t expect you to remember me, Ms. Fontaine.” Nadia flashed me a playful wink. “Mr. Voss and I were just finishing up at the office. The moment your call came in, we rushed straight back~” Straight back. She said it like she lived here. Somehow I was the one who felt out of place. Damien glanced at Nadia, something warm flickering in his eyes, then turned to explain to me: “Couldn’t get a cab on Christmas Eve, and I needed to get back fast ！ I had no choice but to bring Nadia along.” “I’ll drop her home in a bit.” I pulled at the corner of my mouth. What Damien didn’t know was that I had taken an unofficial six-hour ride to get here. Nadia smiled at me. “You don’t mind, do you, Ms. Fontaine?” Damien laughed, easy and natural. “She’s not petty like you.” Nadia stuck her tongue out at him. “I’m not petty.” They bickered the way couples do ！ not like a boss and his employee. The hand I’d burned on the stove earlier throbbed quietly beneath everything. Nadia looked at the table full of dishes, visibly impressed. “Wow ！ Ms. Fontaine, you made all of this?” She sighed lightly. “I’m hopeless in the kitchen. At home it’s always my boyfriend who cooks´” I stopped listening. I turned to Damien. One word at a time. “I don’t like her.” “Damien. Fire her.”

The smile on Nadia’s face went rigid. She hadn’t expected me to strike like that. Her eyes flew instinctively to Damien. Damien paused. “Alright. Whatever you say.” Nadia stiffened. “Mr. Voss´” Damien used the excuse of getting her a cab to walk her out. He was gone for two hours. Every dish I’d spent all day making had gone cold. I threw it all in the trash. By the time Damien came back, I’d just closed out of the Reddit thread. My eyes went straight to his collar. Rumpled. And on it ！ faint, but unmistakable ！ a smear of lipstick. Ten minutes ago, the comment had updated. [His fianc└e showed up out of nowhere and dragged him back. Even tried to have me fired. But so what? He played along to her face, and then spent the whole ride back coaxing me.] [We hooked up in the car. He walked back in with his collar a mess ！ and a little bit of my lipstick on it, oops~] Every detail matched. Damien crossed the room to hold me. I shoved him back hard. “Don’t touch me.” Nausea surged up my throat. I pressed a hand over my mouth and ran for the bathroom. Damien followed, rubbing my back. “Did you eat something bad?” Her perfume clung to him, drifting into my lungs in slow waves. Nothing came up. I straightened and walked back out. Damien poured me a glass of hot water. I didn’t take it. I just looked at him, exhausted. “Is Nadia really just your assistant?” The moment the words left my mouth, Damien’s brow creased. “Of course. She’s just my assistant.” I finally laughed. I pulled up the thread and held the screen out to him. “Then what is this?” “An assistant is worth skipping Christmas for? Worth pushing back our engagement?” Damien stared at the comment for a long time. I waited. I thought he’d say something ！ anything. But all he did was frown. “She’s just a girl being dramatic, posting for attention. Don’t take it to heart.” Posting for attention. Nadia said Damien memorized everything she liked. That he cooked for her. That he customized the passenger seat of his car for her alone. That he even delayed our engagement for her. That was just for attention? “Damien,” I said. “Do you know I like spicy food?” He looked at me, clearly lost. Like he couldn’t understand why I was asking something like that. He said nothing. I let out a short, bitter laugh. He didn’t know. Which was why every meal between us had always been mild. Which was why I never knew he could cook ！ because he had never once cooked for me. And the passenger seat ！ last time I visited, I’d brought a small dashboard ornament, something I wanted to put there. Damien refused without hesitation. He said he didn’t like clutter in the car. Apparently that rule had exceptions. Just none for me. Damien looked at my red-rimmed eyes and softened his voice. “Mia. Don’t worry about her.” “After the holidays, I’ll let her go. Once everything’s in order ！ we’ll get engaged. I promise.” For Nadia, Damien had given up Christmas with his family. For Nadia, he had pushed back my engagement. I had told myself he was just busy. Said yes to everything he asked. And Nadia had told the internet that Damien was only with me out of obligation. If that was all I was to him ！ an obligation ！ then he didn’t need to carry it anymore. I didn’t want the engagement either.

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I’d just set foot inside the Sterling estate when Chloe threw herself into my parents’ arms, sobbing. “Dad, Mom, please don’t make me call her my sister. I can’t.” She clutched Eleanor’s blouse, shoulders shaking. “She’s the transfer student spreading vicious rumors about me at school. She’s the reason I’m on antidepressants!” Eleanor cradled her, stroking her hair. Richard’s face turned to stone. He looked at me like I was something scraped off his shoe. “After everything it took to find you, this is who you turned out to be? A bully?” I stood frozen in the foyer, hands flying into frantic ASL signs. “Me? Spread rumors about her?” “I can’t speak!” …… Nobody was looking at my hands. “Get her out of my sight,” Richard said to the head butler. “The Sterlings don’t raise cyberbullies. She’s not welcome here.” My fingertips were still numb from the cold outside. Chloe buried her face in Eleanor’s neck, her sobs rising perfectly. “You don’t understand. Last month I scored second in our class. She told everyone I cheated. Said Dad paid off the teachers. Said I slept with the dean for my scholarship recommendation.” Every word landed. Eleanor’s hand on her back got firmer. Richard’s jaw locked. I opened my mouth. Only a thin hiss came out. I’d been unable to speak since birth. Damaged vocal cords, the doctors said. My whole life had been ASL and a notepad. I raised my hands to sign “That’s not true”— Grayson shot up from the couch. He crossed the room in three strides and loomed over me like I was trash on his designer rug. “Clara, cut the act. Chloe’s barely holding it together because of you, and you still want to play innocent?” I flinched. Grayson was the Sterling heir. Since I’d walked in, he’d been glued to Chloe’s side, his eyes soft for her and nothing else. The way he looked at me now made my skin crawl. “Grayson, don’t…” Chloe tugged weakly at his sleeve. Her voice was honey. “Maybe she just wanted to fit in so badly she didn’t know how else to get attention. I’m not angry. Really, I’m not…” “You’re too damn kind, sweetheart.” Eleanor pulled her closer, then turned to me with ice in her eyes. “Clara, we brought you home to give you a family. Not so you could play mind games with your sister. Whatever gutter tricks you picked up out there, drop them. Now.” Richard’s voice dropped to a lethal quiet. “You carry this family’s name. Do you understand what that means? And the second you walk through the door, you’re terrorizing your own sister. You’re a disgrace.” A cluster of maids hovered by the archway, whispering loud enough to carry. “Heard she grew up in an orphanage upstate.” “How could anyone be cruel to sweet Miss Chloe?” “Look at her waving her hands around. Probably faking being mute for sympathy. Attention seeker.” The words cut through me. I forced myself to breathe. I reached for my backpack. I had a notebook in there. I could write everything down. Make them understand. My fingers touched the zipper. Grayson grabbed my wrist. His grip was brutal. “What else are you pulling out to manipulate them?” I twisted and reached with my other hand, finally dragging out a sheet of blank paper. Before I could use it, Grayson snatched it away and tore it to shreds. White scraps drifted down around me. Some caught in my hair. I stared at him. The last warm thing inside me went cold. Chloe hiccupped on cue and buried her face deeper in Eleanor’s shoulder. “Grayson, don’t. She’s just—” “Just what? Look what she’s done to you.” His voice cracked. “Someone this twisted doesn’t belong in this family.” Richard didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “Throw her out. She is not my daughter.”

I spent the whole night curled up on the narrow bed in my dorm room. First period hadn’t started when my guidance counselor pulled me out of homeroom and sent me to her office. I pushed the door open. Chloe was already sitting across from her. Her shoulders hitched up and down in rhythm, a crumpled tissue in her fist, eyes swollen. The second she saw me, she looked up with the perfect mix of fear and hurt and shrank back behind the counselor’s chair. “Clara. Come in.” Ms. Harris’s voice was cold. “Tell me what you did to Chloe yesterday.” I didn’t move from the doorway. Chloe’s sobs started right on cue. “Ms. Harris, please don’t pressure her. Yesterday in the hallway she stopped me and said I was a gold-digging leech who’d stolen what belonged to her. She said she’d make sure I couldn’t stay at this school. I was so scared.” Her voice was quiet. Every word a small knife sliding under my ribs. Ms. Harris’s face darkened. She picked up the phone. “I’ve already called your parents. They’ll be here any minute.” The door opened not long after. My parents walked in. Richard’s face was iron. Eleanor went straight to Chloe, wrapping an arm around her. Richard’s voice was tight. “Ms. Harris. What happened? Did Clara hurt Chloe again?” Ms. Harris folded her hands on her desk. “Based on Chloe’s statement, Clara has been engaged in verbal harassment and spreading false rumors on school grounds for some time. She’s even threatened Chloe with expulsion. This school has a zero-tolerance policy on bullying.” Richard’s head snapped toward me. The disappointment in his eyes was suffocating. “How did the Sterlings produce something like you? Do you wake up every morning thinking of new ways to humiliate this family?” I opened my mouth. Only a thin hiss came out. I raised my hands, fingers starting the sign for “That’s not—” His palm cracked across my face. My head snapped sideways, ears ringing, cheek burning. I stared at him. Tears I’d been holding finally spilled. “You have the nerve to cry?” Richard’s voice was pure disgust. “You pull something like this and then cry? Milking the victim angle for sympathy now.” Beside him, Chloe whimpered into Eleanor’s chest. “Dad, Mom, please don’t yell at Clara. I don’t blame her.” Eleanor’s eyes swept over me, freezing. “You have no class. None. All you know how to do is terrorize my sweet Chloe.” The office door had cracked open. Students were peeking through the gap, whispers carrying in. “So she really was bullying Chloe…” “She seemed so quiet. Guess that’s the type.” “I heard her own parents didn’t even want her. Makes sense.” The words cut into me. I forced a breath. I raised my hands again and signed clearly: “I didn’t do it.” Ms. Harris cut me off halfway. “Clara, could you please stop with these ridiculous antics? If you have something to say, say it. Don’t put on a freak show in my office.” My fingers stopped mid-air. So even my silent defense was just attention-seeking to them. The door pushed open wider. A girl stood in the doorway. Her voice came out small. “Ms. Harris… she’s not putting on a show. That’s ASL.”

The room went still. Lily stood in the doorway, cheeks red, but she kept going. “I’m not making this up. My little brother was born deaf. I’ve been signing my whole life. What she just signed was ‘I didn’t do it.’” Ms. Harris narrowed her eyes. “You’re sure? This isn’t something to joke about.” Lily raised her head. “I know what I saw. I wasn’t guessing. And Clara’s never spoken a single word at this school. Everyone knows that.” The office fell silent. My parents’ expressions shifted. Eleanor looked at me. Her lips parted. Something close to guilt flickered across her face. Then Chloe sniffled. “Sis, even if you don’t want to admit what you did, you shouldn’t be paying someone to act it out with you. To pretend you’re mute.” Whatever guilt had been in Eleanor’s face sealed shut. Richard’s head whipped toward me, eyes burning. “Clara, congratulations. To avoid the consequences, you’d actually stoop to faking a disability? Dragging another student into your act? You’re rotten to the core.” My hands shook as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the disability certification I’d kept folded for years. I tried to show them. The second my fingers touched the paper, Richard snatched it away. He didn’t even look. He tore it in half with both hands. The paper became pieces in an instant. I stared at him. The tears broke. “Keep acting. Go on, keep it up.” Richard’s voice was pure contempt. “You know what? You need a lesson. Since you love pretending so much,I’ll send you to a boot camp for troubled teens. Let’s see how long the mute thing lasts when the people there get their hands on you.” Eleanor pulled Chloe tighter, looking at me with open disdain. “Clara, we were truly wrong about you. We never imagined you’d sink this low just to dodge responsibility. You’ve disappointed us beyond words.” Chloe leaned into Eleanor’s arms. The corner of her mouth curved up for a split second, but her sobs never stopped. “Dad, Mom, please don’t be like this. Maybe she just had a moment of bad judgment…” “A moment of bad judgment?” Richard laughed coldly. “This is who she is. She’ll never change. Keeping someone like this in the family only drags us down. I’m calling Carl right now. He runs the reform program. He can come pick her up himself.” Ms. Harris stood off to the side, her face shifting. She looked at me, then at my parents, and sighed. She waved Lily toward the door. “You should go back to class. We’ll handle this.” Lily opened her mouth, but Ms. Harris’s look stopped her. She gave me one long look, full of sympathy and helplessness. Then she turned and left. I stood there staring at the torn paper on the floor. And suddenly, I laughed. The innocence I’d fought with everything I had to prove was nothing but a ridiculous performance to them. In this family, I’d never meant anything at all. I slowly crouched down and began picking up the scraps, one by one. The edges cut into my fingertips. I didn’t feel them. Nothing could compete with what was happening inside my chest.

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My wife is six months pregnant, but she insists on a business trip out of town. I begged her not to go. For the baby’s sake. She reassured me, saying if she earns more now, I’ll have it easier. While helping her pack her underwear bag, a phone I’d never seen before fell out. The screen flickered. A private message popped up. “You’re such a dirty girl. Even knocked up and you still can’t behave?” I stared at the contact name for five seconds. The contact was saved as “Master.” And I was saved as “Chump.” … The bathroom door opened. I panicked and shoved the backup phone back to the bottom of her suitcase, burying it under layers of clothes. Steam poured out. Samantha stepped out wrapped in a towel, her face flushed pink from the heat. Her skin was pale. Pregnancy had made her curvier. Her cheeks had a rosy glow. By all appearances, she was the picture of a happy mother-to-be. She walked over, reaching out to touch my forehead. “What’s wrong? You look awful.” I instinctively stepped back, dodging her hand. Samantha’s hand froze mid-air. A flash of confusion crossed her eyes. “Didn’t sleep well.” I forced out a smile uglier than crying. “Had a nightmare. I’m worried this trip will be too much for you.” Samantha relaxed and lowered her hand, giving me a playful eye-roll. “I told you it’s fine. The client is really nice. Why are you more nervous than me?” She sat on the edge of the bed and started drying her hair. Looking at her swollen belly, that thorn in my heart twisted again. Five years together. That’s my wife. Carrying my child. I still couldn’t give up. I wanted to give her one last chance. If she’d turn back now, for the baby’s sake, maybe I could pretend I never saw that phone. “Honey, do you really have to go?” I crouched in front of her, looking up, my voice already begging. “I’m not afraid of hard work. I can deliver food. Drive for Uber.” “As long as you stay home and rest, I’ll do anything.” “Please don’t go. Okay?” Samantha stopped drying her hair. She lowered her eyes and sighed. “Babe, I already signed the contract with the client. If I back out now, we’d owe three times the penalty fee.” She adjusted the towel wrapped around her body, shifting to expose her calf. I stared at that spot. Above her knee, there was a coin-sized bruise. Purplish-blue. For the past two months, she’d been locking the bathroom door. She wouldn’t even let me in to deliver clean clothes. The occasional glimpse of her arms and thighs always showed unexplained bruises. Last week, it was on the inside of her left thigh. The week before, her arm. Every time I asked with concern, she had perfect excuses. “The bathroom’s so slippery. I bumped into something.” “Hit the corner of my desk. You know how clumsy pregnant women get.” I believed her. My heart ached for her. I covered our entire bathroom with non-slip mats. I bought foam bumpers and padded every sharp corner in the house. I wished I could turn myself into cotton and wrap her in it. Turns out I really am cotton. A wad of cotton people use to wipe their ass. What kind of bump leaves a mark on the inner thigh? What kind of slip produces bruises that look like finger marks from someone squeezing hard? I stared at her calf. My stomach churned. Samantha seemed to notice my gaze. She pulled the towel down to cover her leg. She walked over and naturally wrapped her arms around my neck, smelling of body wash. She buried her face in my neck and nuzzled. “Babe, blow-dry my hair for me.” “I leave early tomorrow morning. I want you to spend more time with me.” If this were yesterday, I would’ve thought this was a sweet burden. Now I just felt disgusted. Every hair on my body stood on end. I stiffly picked up the hair dryer, running my fingers through her hair. Hot air roared, covering my rapid breathing. What am I to her? A sucker who provides a paycheck and a stable life? “How many days this time?” I turned off the dryer. My voice was so cold it scared me. “Three days. I’ll be back Sunday.” Samantha turned around and wrapped her arms around my waist, pressing my hand to her belly. “You’re gonna miss us, right? Me and the baby?” My hand rested on the curve of her stomach. “Yeah. I will.” Six months along. Is it even mine?

Once that thought took root, I couldn’t bury it. “The client—man or woman?” I tried to sound casual, turning to fold clothes. “A man. Some old guy in his fifties. So annoying.” Samantha complained as she stood up to grab the storage bag. My heart jumped to my throat. She opened the bag, checked it, but didn’t dig to the bottom layer. “These are maternity sets. So comfortable.” She muttered to herself, sealed the bag, and put it in the suitcase. I turned to pour water, avoiding her eyes. Afraid I’d lose it and slap her across the face. “Babe, did you pack that pregnancy oil? I’ll need it there too.” She smiled and walked over, hugging me from behind, her hand rubbing her belly. “The baby just moved. You wanna feel?” Her chest pressed against my back. I felt no warmth. Just a snake wrapped around me. She lied. Without hesitation. Like it was nothing. That kind of composure doesn’t develop overnight. I gripped the water glass. My knuckles turned white. “Yeah.” I took a sip of water, but all I tasted was bitterness. “Get some rest. You have a flight tomorrow.” I pulled away from her embrace, got into bed, and lay with my back to her. That night, I listened to her breathing, eyes open until dawn. In these five years, how much else has she been hiding from me? Her so-called business trips—what the hell has she really been doing? Six a.m. Samantha got up. She put on light makeup. Said she needed to look fresh for the client. She wore a loose trench coat that hid her baby bump. She looked almost girlish. I stood on the balcony, watching her wheel her suitcase to the door. “Babe, I’m leaving. I’ll text you when I land.” She turned at the entrance, blowing me a kiss. I leaned against the doorframe, expressionless, and nodded. “Safe travels.” The moment the door closed, I grabbed my car keys and bolted. I’d already called in sick. Even if the sky fell today, I wasn’t going to work. To avoid being spotted, I didn’t take my usual car. I borrowed my neighbor Rick’s beat-up van, saying I needed it to help a relative move stuff. Samantha didn’t take the subway. She hailed a cab at the gate. I followed from a distance, keeping two car lengths behind. The cab got on the highway, but it wasn’t heading toward the airport. My hands strangled the steering wheel. My knuckles went white from the pressure. I knew this route. It led to the city’s most exclusive wealthy district. Half an hour later, the cab stopped in front of “Skyline,” a private club. I knew this place. Members-only. Annual fees start at hundreds of thousands. Rumor had it they offered every kind of service. Total privacy. Samantha got out of the cab but didn’t go straight in. She stood at the entrance, looking around, then pulled out her phone to text. I parked across the street in the shade, cracking the window open. Even from a distance, I could see the anticipation and excitement on her face. Two minutes later, the club’s main door opened. A tall man in a black suit walked out. The moment Samantha saw him, she jogged over—completely ignoring her six-month pregnancy. She hooked her arm through his with practiced ease. His hand went straight to her waist. Samantha giggled and playfully hit his chest, pressing her body closer. I sat in the car, feeling all the blood in my body rush to my head. I grabbed my phone from the passenger seat and frantically snapped photos. Who the hell is this guy?

I can barely recognize this face anymore. We first met five years ago. A rainy night. Outside a convenience store. She’d been kicked out by her landlord for not paying rent. She was curled up in a corner, soaked to the bone. I held my umbrella over her and brought her back to my tiny rental. That night, I cooked her instant noodles. She cradled the bowl and drank every drop of broth. She looked up, eyes red, full of trust. “Liam, can I be your wife? Let’s never be apart.” After I got paid, I’d buy her roasted sweet potatoes from a street stand. She’d break one in half and feed it to me, her mouth smudged with ash, her eyes crescent moons when she smiled. That was Samantha when she was with me. Simple, poor, but her eyes shone. She’d hold me from behind, her face pressed to my back, arms around my waist. “Liam! I want to be with you forever!” Three years married. Five years together. I treated her like a princess. I gave her my whole paycheck. Did all the chores. Never forgot a holiday gift. We’d traveled to every corner of the country together. After she got pregnant and her feet swelled, I massaged them for half an hour every night. When she craved the pizza from across town at midnight, I’d drive there without a second thought. I held her in the palm of my hand. And she trampled me into the dirt. I don’t understand. I really don’t. Wasn’t I good to her? Why did Samantha become like this? Just as they were about to enter the building, I sent Samantha a text from my own phone. “Honey, did you get to the airport? Did you get your boarding pass?” Less than a minute later, she replied. A photo of her in an airplane seat. Blue sky and white clouds outside the window. She held a cup of orange juice. No makeup. If I weren’t standing outside the club right now, I would’ve believed it completely. The photo was obviously Photoshopped ahead of time. Or an old one from her gallery. Then came a voice message. I played it. Her voice was sickeningly sweet. “Just sat down. The baby kicked me. Babe, make sure you eat well, okay?” “Bad signal. I’m turning my phone off. I’ll text you when I land.” I listened to that voice message over and over. She’s got one man on her arm while pacifying the fool at home. Does she get off on playing two men like this? I let out a cold laugh. But tears betrayed me, streaming down my face. I wiped my face and pulled up the tracking app on the backup phone. Last night, while she slept, I’d installed a hidden GPS program on that phone. I didn’t dare check the chat history. Afraid I’d lose control and strangle her on the spot. Even if she was just sexting people online, for the baby’s sake, I could play dumb. The red dot blinked. The location showed she was in the building right in front of me. Moving fast. The dot finally stopped on the 8th floor.

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I waited eight years for him to say “I do” — until he handed my bouquet to his assistant. The bouquet landed in Ella Morgan’s arms almost by accident. Lana Shaw’s carefully aimed throw sailing perfectly into the crowd — but it bounced off the other fingertips, then tumbled once in the air, and fell into Ella Morgan’s lap like fate correcting a mistake. Every eye in the room turned knowingly toward Nate Sinclair. It was involuntary, collective, the way a room full of people who’d watched a couple orbit each other for eight years would naturally look to the man and think: *now.* The chanting started almost instantly. “Put a ring on it! Put a ring on it!” “Eight years, Quinn! No more excuses!” “Kiss her! Propose! Do *something!*” Someone pushed Nate forward. He stumbled a step, then steadied himself. Ella felt her cheeks flush. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She waited for the words she had been waiting eight years to hear. This was it. The moment they had engineered with surgical precision — every detail coordinated with Lana months in advance. And he was supposed to say *I will marry you.* Nate reached her. The noise swelled around them — whistles, applause, someone banging a fork against a champagne flute. But Nate only reached down and calmly took the bouquet from her hands. He turned with casually and easily, as though the gesture meant nothing, and handed it to the bridesmaid beside him —his assistant, Rain Chambers. “She caught it first,” Nate said. He smiled, easy and familiar, and ruffled Ella’s hair. “Be good, baby. Next time.” The spotlight followed the flowers away. It found Rain Chambers — Nate’s assistant, who had no business being a bridesmaid at this wedding — clutching the flowers with an expression of perfect, rehearsed surprise. Ella stood alone in the center of the floor. The applause had shifted, scattered, refocused on the pretty girl with the bouquet and her shy, delighted smile. Ella’s hands hung empty at her sides. She smiled. It was a quite small Nate didn’t know. There would be no next time. Her wedding was next week.

Lana’s face darkened. She was already striding across the floor, her bridal train gathered in one fist, the other hand rising like she intended to slap someone. Ella caught her wrist before she could raise her hand. “Lana,” Ella said quietly, “the wedding isn’t over.” “That woman did it on purpose!” Lana turned. Her eyes were redder than Ella’s. “I told every bridesmaid that bouquet was for you—” “Lana.” Ella squeezed her hand, her voice was quiet, steady. “Your wedding isn’t over yet.” The crowd had already moved on. The spotlight followed Rain, who clutched the bouquet and glanced at Nate with shining eyes. Nate had already stepped back to the edge of the crowd, at ease. The officiant, a seasoned old family priest, cracked a joke and the warmth returned to the room. Lana bit her lip, turned away, and finished her vows. Through the reception, Ella sat at the bridal table. She felt the stares—the pity, the curiosity. On the other side of the room, Nate laughed with his friends. Rain sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The distance between them had long since crossed the line of what was appropriate for an assistant. She hadn’t been a bridesmaid originally. But the groom’s side had been short a groomsman at the last minute, and someone suggested Rain. Nate brought her everywhere now. “Experience,” he called it. Even to her girlfriend’s best friend’s wedding. When Lana and her new husband reached their table for toasts, Lana hugged Ella hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper only Ella could hear. “That woman has been circling him for six months. I had someone look into her — she’s calculating, Ella. Every move is deliberate. And Nate, he—” “Lana.” Ella patted her back and cut her off. “You’re the most beautiful bride today. Don’t waste it on this.” Lana huffed but said nothing more. — The night wore on. Guests filtered out in twos and threes. The music softened. The staff began clearing tables. Finally, Nate walked over, calm and unhurried. “Ready to go?” He took her bag from her hands, then reached to put his arm around her shoulder. Ella shifted sideways, just out of reach. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call a car.” He didn’t seem to notice her evasion. He nodded. “Fine.” The car slipped into the dark city streets. Neon signs blurred past the window. Ella’s own reflection stared back at her—carefully made up, but the exhaustion under her eyes was unmistakable. “Earlier,” Nate said, “Rain got the bouquet first. She’s young. Probably just wanted some wedding luck.” He shrugged. “You can’t blame her. Don’t take it to heart.” Ella said nothing. She watched the city lights bleed into one another. After a moment, he glanced at his phone, then at her. “Are you mad?” He leaned closer. “I said next time, didn’t I? Our wedding will be better than Lana’s. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” His fingers threaded through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck—gentle, soothing, like calming a restless pet. The ache spread through her chest like something dissolving. Every time. It was always the same. Soft words, empty promises of “next time.” And then he assumed the storm had passed. “Nate,” she said, watching his reflection in the glass. “Yeah?” “Lana and I made a vow when we were children.” Her voice was flat. “Whoever got married first — the other one’s wedding had to happen within a week.” “We were going to be each other’s maid of honor. We were going to be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The car went quiet. His hand stopped moving on her neck. “That was kid stuff,” he said, and laughed. “You can’t be serious. Plans change. Venues, schedules, catering—these things take months, sometimes a year. We’ll plan properly. I’ll give you the perfect wedding. What’s the hurry?” He didn’t explain why he hadn’t been able to make a single public commitment tonight. He just skipped straight to “how to plan a perfect wedding.” Ella thought of a fitting room, one month before tonight. Lana spinning her around in front of a three-way mirror, eyes bright and brimming. “Ella, you look incredible in this. I designed it just for you.” The dress had been champagne-colored silk, with tiny pearls stitched along the waistline. Lana had spent weeks on it. “When it’s your turn,” Lana had said, her voice cracking, “I’m making you the most beautiful wedding gown anyone’s ever seen.” Nate had been there that day. He’d been answering emails on his phone, head down, thumbs flying. At Lana’s declaration, he’d glanced up briefly, smiled. “Looks nice.” Then his eyes had dropped back to the screen. In that moment, surrounded by champagne silk and her best friend’s joy, Ella had felt it clearly for the first time — the quiet, creeping grief of eight years without an answer. The car pulled into the parking garage. The engine cut. Nate unbuckled his seatbelt. He seemed to consider the evening resolved — the small unpleasantness of the bouquet addressed, the apology delivered, normalcy restored. He leaned across the console toward her, angling for a kiss. Ella lifted her hand and pressed it gently against his shoulder. He froze. “I’m tired, Nate,” she said.

He looked at her. Held the silence for a few seconds. Then he patted her shoulder, casual as ever. “Being maid of honor is exhausting. Get some rest.” He paused. “Rain said she can’t find a car. It’s late — not safe for a girl to be out alone. I’ll swing by and drop her off.” “Okay,” Ella said. Her voice was flat. He didn’t move right away. He seemed to be waiting—for her to tell him to be careful, like she always did. Or to complain, with a little hurt in her voice, that it was too late to go out. But Ella just opened the car door and stepped out. The car pulled away behind her. She closed the door and collapsed onto the sofa. She lay there for a long time. Then she got up and walked toward the bedroom. She passed the room they had called “the nursery.” Her steps slowed. They had planned it when they bought this house four years ago. A nursery. But there was no child now. The room had filled, instead, with boxes and clutter. She walked inside. On the dusty crib, she found a stack of old things. Love letters in his handwriting. Movie tickets. Amusement park passes. Instant photos from their trips together. At the bottom was a photo from their college graduation. He was carrying her on his back under a cherry blossom tree. She had her arms around his neck. Her hair and the pink petals flew in the wind. On the back, he had written in bold, careless strokes: *I’ll carry you forever. That’s a promise.* The weak light from the living room fell on those words. Cold. Like a silent mockery. Like a joke that had stopped being funny a long time ago. From downstairs, she heard the faint sound of a car pulling into the garage. She stayed where she was, just listening. The key turned in the lock. Footsteps, deliberately light. After a moment, the door pushed open. He stood in the doorway. “Not asleep yet?” She didn’t turn around. She stayed crouched by the crib. “No.” “What made you dig these out?” His voice was light. “Feeling nostalgic?” She didn’t answer his question. She asked quietly, “Did you get her home?” He paused. Then he explained, “Yeah. She lives far. It really is hard to get a taxi there.” “Oh.” She looked down again and carefully stacked the photos back in place. “It’s late,” he said again. This time he reached out to pull her up. She didn’t take his hand. She pushed herself up on her knees, wincing a little. Her legs had gone numb from crouching so long, and she swayed. “Nate.” “Yeah?” He stopped walking. “Let’s break up.” He stopped moving. He looked at her for two seconds. Then he laughed. He reached up and loosened his tie. “Still thinking about the bouquet? Don’t be so sensitive.” His voice was patient, the way you soothe a child throwing a tantrum. “Fine. I’ll order you a bigger one tomorrow, okay? Now go wash up and get some sleep. I have an early meeting.” He turned and walked toward the bathroom. “One week,” Ella said to his back. Her voice was quiet. “I’m getting married.”

His hand, resting on the bathroom door handle, froze. A few seconds passed. Then he turned around. The indulgent warmth on his face had been stripped away entirely. “Ella. Enough.” He lifted his hand and pressed his fingers against his temple. “Marriage is a major decision. You don’t just throw it together because you’re upset.” “October twenty-eighth,” she added calmly. “The venue is booked. The dress is ready.” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “This is Lana, isn’t it? She’s been in your ear again. She rushed into her own wedding, and now she thinks everyone else should do the same?” “Ella, think clearly. Don’t let her drag you into something stupid. We’ve been together for eight years—” “Nate.” She cut him off. “The invitations go to print tomorrow.” A muscle twitched beneath his eye. “You think this is going to work? This will only make me think you’re childish. Irrational.” His voice climbed, each word landing harder than the last. “I’m at a critical point right now — the family is in the middle of a power shift, and this is supposed to be the moment I prove myself. A wedding right now would split my focus and throw off everything I’ve been working toward.” “Are you really that desperate to get married?” The words hit her like stones flung across the room. Once, this tone would have made her flinch. Would have sent her scrambling to explain, to apologize, to retreat. Not anymore. But now she felt nothing in her chest but calm. His attention had always been expensive. There was only so much of it to go around — between the deals that needed closing, the family politics that needed navigating, and the pretty assistant who required late-night check-ins, birthday surprises, and the occasional business trip that conveniently included a spa resort. What was left for the girlfriend was never much. craps. Crumbs swept to the edge of the table. Ella met his gaze and nodded. “Yes. All our friends are married now. I want to be married too.” She turned and walked into the bedroom. On the nightstand, there was still a fashion magazine from six months ago. The cover headline read: *“Every Bride-to-Be Must Read! The Perfect Three-Month Wedding Countdown Guide.”* She had bought it in a rush of excitement, flipped through a few pages, and then set it down when Nate said — as he always said — *no rush.* It had not been opened since. In the darkness, she stared at the blurred outline of the ceiling. Her phone buzzed softly. The screen lit up. A message from Lana. 【Still awake? I can’t stop thinking about that woman’s face. It makes me so angry. What is Nate even thinking?】 What was he thinking? Nothing special. Nothing new. He was exactly who he had always been. The world doesn’t always bloom just because you wait. Another long text came in. 【Remember our vow? No more than a week apart. I meant it.】 【But that idiot of yours stood there with the bouquet in your hands and still didn’t get it. Eight years, not eight months. Forget it. This time, I’m giving you permission to break the promise.】 Ella’s fingers paused for a second. Then she typed back. 【Babe, have I ever broken a promise to you?】

Nate moved out the next day. He packed a bag and moved into the small apartment near the office. The one he used when work ran late. He said her sudden talk about marriage made him feel suffocated. He needed space. Fine. She needed space too. She quietly spent the following days putting things in order. The apartment — the one they had picked out together five years ago, furnished together, built a life in together — she listed it with a real estate agent. The day she handed the keys to the agent, she went home and sorted through the last of her things. In an old magazine, she found a project file. One of Nate’s current deals. She hesitated, then decided to bring it to him. His studio was not far. She could drop it off. When she arrived at his apartment, the door was shut. Muffled laughter came from inside. More than one person. She raised her hand to knock. A familiar voice drifted out, pitched in that particular register of feminine distress — just helpless enough to be charming: “Mr. Sinclair, it’s all my fault. I’ve never caught a bouquet before — I had no idea it would cause such a fuss. Now everyone in the office group chat is talking. Several coworkers asked me privately if you and I are…” She paused. “You really need to clear things up for me in the group. Otherwise, I’ll be too embarrassed to show my face.” Ella’s hand froze in midair. Before Nate could answer, one of his friends cut in, laughing. “Come on, Rain. Do you actually want him to clear it up? Or are you just trying to get him to say something else?” A ripple of knowing laughter. Rain’s voice came back, mock-offended and sweet: “You’re terrible!” Not a trace of genuine annoyance. “Enough,” Nate said. His voice was easy. Indulgent. “Don’t tease her. It’s not important. People will forget about it in a few days.” *People will forget about it in a few days.* The words opened a door in her memory. Early in their relationship, Ella had stopped by the office to help Nate with some paperwork. He had forgotten himself — draped an arm over her shoulder in the hallway. A colleague spotted them. That same afternoon, he had posted a calm message in the company group chat. *Just clearing up a misunderstanding, everyone please stay focused.* She had understood back then. She had stopped going to his office. Now she understood something else. It wasn’t office romance he minded. It was being seen with *her*. A woman who couldn’t help his career. Nothing to his ambition. Nothing but love — and love, apparently, was not a currency that spent well in public. Another friend spoke up, confused. “Wait, Nate. How did you smooth things over with Ella? I actually got a wedding invitation this morning. This is too sudden.” A brief silence. Then Nate laughed — short, cool, hollow. “The small stuff, I can indulge. But this time, she needs to learn on her own that throwing a tantrum doesn’t get results.” “So you’re really not going?” someone asked. Nate didn’t answer. Silence was its own answer. Then another friend spoke, more carefully. “Nate, are you sure you want to let it go this far? We’ve been waiting to drink your wedding toast for years.” He paused. Then he said, half joking, half probing, “Unless… you have other plans? Like, with a certain secretary?” “Mr. Vic~” Rain drew out his name in a teasing voice. “Don’t joke like that. Mr. Sinclair knows what he’s doing.” Those last words — soft, intimate, loaded. Nate did not correct her. A murmur of shared, masculine amusement filled the room. Someone else chimed in, “To be fair, Nate’s already more loyal than most. After all these years, anyone else would have run out of patience.” “What does Ella even do for you? She just gives you trouble. Not like our Rain here. Smart, capable, shows up when it counts…” Rain interrupted, playing coy. “Don’t say that.” The motion-sensor light in the hallway had gone dark again. Ella stood in the blackness, the project file pressed against her chest. After a long moment, she bent down. Slid the envelope beneath the door with the toe of her shoe. Quietly. Precisely. Then she turned and walked away.

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The moment they shoved me out the window, I heard Kate laughing. “Say goodbye to your life of the Vegas Gambling King, bro.” That was John Miller speaking. My best friend. And Kate, my wife of three years, stood right beside him. His hand was sliding over her waist. She was still holding that bottle of champagne she’d drugged me with. Then they kissed. Slow. Triumphant. Hungry. And I started falling. From thirty floors. The Vegas neon blurred into a fog of light and shadow, exactly like the glory I’d seen when I first arrived here. The wind roared in my ears. Ten minutes ago, I was still at the table. The man across from me pushed five million toward me and asked if I had the guts to match it. I slid my stack forward with absolute confidence. “All in.” I flipped the cards. Perfect twenty-one. The crowd erupted. Confetti cannons fired. Golden paper rained from the ceiling. The Vegas celebrity Mr. Dawson raised my hand and thundered: “Vegas, welcome your new KING!” Fifty million in prize money. Ten years of gambling with zero losses. Then one glass of champagne. And everything went to zero. I was betrayed by my best buddy and the woman I thought was my true love. He forced me to sign the divorce papers, transferred my trillion-dollar fortune. I reached for her but she pushed me off the tallest building in Vegas. The new legendary gambling king of Las Vegas！falling on the very day of his coronation. … The Vegas neon still flickers. Just not for me anymore. I curl in the depths of an alley reeking of rot, both hands twisted at grotesque angles. Who am I? Where did I come from? My memories are like shredded playing cards scattered across the ground！impossible to piece together into anything whole. Only hunger is real. A soggy, half-eaten sandwich lands in front of me. I crawl toward it with everything I have. A filthy boot suddenly stomps on it. Sauce splatters across my face. “Bad luck. Even trash wants to steal my food.” The boot kicks my shoulder. I tumble backward. My skull cracks against concrete. The second kick is coming！ “STOP! I’ll call the police!” The light at the alley entrance splits open. A middle-aged man, broad-shouldered and thick-backed. Beside him, a girl holds up her phone, the cold screen-glow illuminating her tight jawline. The homeless man mutters and shuffles away. The girl crouches down. Streetlight gilds her hair with warm gold. “Sir, are you okay?” I stare at her blankly. Something churns in the depths of my memory！shattering wine glasses, the world spinning, a pushing palm, the weightlessness of falling！but I can’t catch a single clear face. “We can help you contact your family!” “I don’t know!” I curl into myself, trembling, hands over my head. “I don’t know anyone! Please don’t kill me… don’t kill me…” The girl and her father exchange glances. “Dad… I think he has amnesia. And his hands!” The middle-aged man lifts my deformed wrist, his brow furrowing deeply. “Both hands fractured. Without care, he won’t last a few days.” A few days. So that’s all my life is worth. The girl reaches toward me. Palm up. “Sir, I’m Leah. My father Sam runs a small bar nearby. You can stay for a while. Maybe you’ll remember something. Okay?” I stare at that hand. Hesitate for one heartbeat. Then slowly, slowly, I take it.

“Sean! Table three needs another round!” “Sean! Whiskey on the rocks!” “SEAN！” I weave through Sam’s bar, a tray loaded with glasses that don’t wobble an inch. I flick my wrist. Several menus fly out like they’ve been enchanted, arcing through the air before landing perfectly on tables across the room. I spin back. Ice cubes scatter from my shaker, clinking as they drop into a line of glasses behind the bar, casting rainbow halos. “Sean, you’re the man!” “Wooo, bro, do it again!” “Sean, King of the Vegas Bar! Sean, OUR KING!” The crowd roars. The atmosphere burns. Behind the bar, Sam and Leah watch from a distance, smiles pulling at their mouths. “Look at those moves,” Sam murmurs. “If I hadn’t seen it myself, who’d believe this was the beggar from that alley?” Leah’s eyes follow me. “He wanted to save enough to pay us back for the medical bills.” “Medical bills?” Sam laughs. “With what he’s done to our revenue, I should be paying HIM a bonus.” I carry drinks to a table of women in the corner. My fingers twist, and a rose appears from behind a bottle. “Your drink, miss.” Their laughter never stops. They don’t just order more！they stuff tips into my apron. Leah walks over, hands me a water bottle. “Dad couldn’t stop talking about how capable you are.” I reach for it. Our fingertips brush. We both freeze. She jerks her hand back, ears burning red. “This isn’t just ‘helping out.’ This bar was dying before you came！” The bar door EXPLODES open. A sloppy young man with a cigarette dangling from his lips storms in. His eyes are poisoned knives, stabbing straight at me. “Who the hell said you could touch MY bar stuff? Get the hell away!” He grabs my collar. Alcohol and casino-cigar stench blast my face. “You’ve got it wrong, sir. I’m the server here, and we’re actually closing the bar！” “Wrong my ass!” He slams me against the wall. “I’m Sam Peterson’s son! You think some damn dishwasher can tell ME what to do?!” Mike Peterson. Leah’s brother. The “good-for-nothing bastard son” Sam never talked about without sighing. He spots the cash in my apron pocket. Greed flashes. He snatches it. “That’s for the medical bills to pay back!” “Medical bills my ass!” He shoves me. “Pay your future boss first!” He shoves hard. I stagger back, my lower back crashing into the bar. And when my elbow knocks over a stack of dice, the dice scatter across the counter. In that instant, images flash！ Crystal chandeliers. Green felt. My fingers closing around the dice cup. Three dice inside. A flick of the wrist. The dice spinning against the cup walls, striking, falling. The reveal. Triple sixes. A tsunami of chips crashing toward me. The man across the table, face ashen, then eyes blood-red as he lunges！ Those red eyes in the images overlap with Mike’s furious ones in the reality. I grab a whiskey glass on instinct, scooping the scattered dice inside, wrist rotating. Then flick！ “AGH！!” Mike stumbles back, clutching his eye. The money scatters across the floor. I look down at the bar. The remaining dice sit in a perfect straight line, ordered by size. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. A straight. Mike stares in shock. “You！you did that on PURPOSE!” “No, I didn’t！” “Shut up! You’re DEAD tonight!” He swings again. The fist nears my face. I dodge on instinct, with the glass rim catching his temple. He jerks away and I flick the last die from the glass bottom into the air！ It spins. Falls. Lands in his gaping mouth. “GUH！!” He chokes, doubling over, coughing wildly. Money flies everywhere. I look at the counter. The remaining five dice have somehow flipped themselves over in the vibration. Six. Six. Six. Six. Six. A leopard. All sixes. “SEAN!” Leah rushes over, putting herself between us. “Mike! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

Mike straightens, dice crumbs still at the corner of his mouth, eyes full of horror. “Leah, I’m your BROTHER! And you’re defending this punk！” “You stole his money and hit him, and YOU’RE the victim?” Mike’s face goes greenish. His fists crack. He looks at me, then at Leah shielding me, and suddenly smiles. That smile is a viper’s tongue. “Fine. Real fine.” He reaches to poke Leah when a group bursts through the door. “MIKE PETERSON! Where the hell are you hiding?! Get out here and PAY UP!” Mike immediately shrinks behind the bar, praying hands toward Leah. I comes following Leah out from behind the counter. A group of thug-looking men faces us. I instinctively pull Leah behind me. “Who are you?” The leader is young, well-dressed, a playful smirk on his lips. Behind him, a tall thin man toys with a deck of cards. The shuffling sounds like a snake hissing. “Who are we?” The leader snorts. “Damn, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week.” Leah tugs my sleeve, voice trembling. “That’s Lucas Marsh! His father is the biggest crime boss in this district. We can’t mess with him.” Lucas slaps a contract on the table. “Your brother owes us over a hundred grand. Today he pays, or he dies.” “A hundred thousand? Didn’t we just pay off his debt months ago?” Leah’s hands shake as she picks up the contract. “Yeah, well, the idiot went straight back to the tables.” Lucas smirks. “Told you. A gambling dog can’t be saved. Debts must be paid. You still have this dump of a bar, right? Sell it to me. Might cover a fraction.” “But this is our last property! Without it, we have nowhere to live!” Lucas shrugs, swaggering toward Leah. One hand tilts her chin up. “Can’t sell the bar? Sell yourself then. With that face, working as my club’s top girl, you’d make a fortune！” I clamp his wrist. “Watch your hands.” Lucas jerks back, stumbling, face darkening. “Who the hell do you think you are?” He turns to Leah, voice sliding over her skin like a snake. “Listen here, you little bitch. This land has already been targeted by John Miller! Even if you don’t mortgage it to me, you’ll lose it sooner or later! And with my father’s connection to Miller, you won’t see a SINGLE DIME when that happens!” John Miller. That name is a burning needle stabbing into my temple. Head splitting. Images surging！ A suited man grabbing my right wrist, twisting hard. “Say goodbye to your ‘gambling god life,’ bro!” I shake my head violently, trying to drive out the visions. Mike tries to sneak away from behind the bar, but two sharp-eyed thugs spot him, dragging him before Lucas. “Please, Lucas! Give me a few more days, I swear I’ll pay!” Lucas sneers, nodding to his men. One kicks Mike’s leg, dropping him to his knees. Another flick opens a switchblade. CLICK！the blade extends. Cold steel presses against Mike’s fingers. “Sorry, kid. The boss needs money NOW. So every minute you waste, I cut off one finger.” Mike’s eyes dart around frantically. Then they fix the dice and cards on the bar. “WAIT! WAIT! Give me one more chance！” “Chance?” Lucas leans down. “You already burned my last shred of trust when you ran last time!” Mike’s gaze suddenly locks, like a drowning man grabbing his final straw. He looks at Leah. His lips tremble. He says something that freezes my blood: “Lucas, I’ll bet my SISTER to you! Didn’t you say she could be a stripper?” Leah stands frozen. Her eyes fill with shock and disbelief. “BROTHER! WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!” “Mike, you COWARD!” Lucas SLAMS the table, laughing wild and triumphant. “DEAL! It’s SETTLED!”

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Thanksgiving weekend was finally here, and my attorney husband had finally agreed to take the family on a trip. But right as we were about to board, Derek still hadn’t shown up ！ him or Lily. Just a text. [Legal heavyweight Nathan Rhodes is meeting with our firm about a partnership. Bringing Lily along. Go enjoy yourself.] Then a voice message from Lily, bright and breathless: “Mom, he’s like my absolute idol! I really want to go!” Looking at the two of them, so sincere and united, I said one word. Fine. Then I called my childhood best friend to come pick me up. The second I saw Nathan, I smiled. “Shouldn’t you be sitting across from my husband right now?” — Nathan stared at me, completely lost. I shook my head, said nothing, and pulled open the passenger door. “Draw up a divorce agreement for me later. But first ！ we’re catching my husband in the act. He’s having an affair.” Nathan didn’t ask twice. He floored it straight to Derek’s firm. The place was locked up. Dark. Not a soul inside. A clerk from the convenience store next door leaned out: “Looking for someone, ma’am? It’s Mr. Gould’s anniversary today ！ he rented out the entire Hartley Estate. Everyone from the firm is there celebrating.” Nathan glanced at me, one brow raised. “Looks like you’ve got it wrong. Derek’s planning a surprise for you.” Looking at Nathan’s teasing expression, I couldn’t even manage a smile. “Today is not our anniversary.” His expression froze. My fist tightened. “Hartley Estate. Now.” — We pulled up to the gate. I pushed the car door open and made it two steps before security moved to block us. I stared through the lit windows at the silhouettes shifting inside the ballroom. My fist tightened further. “I need to find someone in there.” One of the guards let out a short, contemptuous laugh. “Got an invitation? No? Then get lost. Tonight is attorney Derek Gould and Miss Lara Sutton of Hartwell Group’s anniversary. Don’t come here starting trouble.” “Hartwell Group?” Nathan turned slightly, lowering his voice, something caught in his tone. “Isn’t that also！” Lara Sutton. The name snagged. I’d heard it before ！ Derek mentioned her constantly. Called her his buddy. I didn’t bother arguing with them. I reached back into the car and pulled out the Hartley Estate membership card. The second they saw it, all three of them straightened up. They stepped aside without a word, eyes trailing us as we walked through. I pushed open the ballroom doors. It was loud inside. Crowded. I spotted them immediately. Lara bent forward with one hand braced on the table, Derek standing close behind her, a balloon trapped between them. The crowd was pounding the tables, egging them on. “Didn’t Lara just say Derek’s favorite position is from behind? So the dare is ！ pop the balloon between them, no hands. Go!” Derek had always been so proper. In all our years of marriage, we’d barely been intimate ！ and every time I brought it up, he told me I was being inappropriate. I was sure he’d be furious. Instead, he reached forward, placed his hands on Lara’s hips, and guided her into a bend. Lara trapped the balloon between their bodies. Derek pressed himself flush against her, and the balloon buckled and warped under the pressure. The room got louder. Whistles cut through the air. Phones went up, recording everything. Something snapped in me completely. I shoved through the crowd and drove my foot into Lara hard. She went down with a sharp cry. Derek didn’t even look to see who it was. He was already crouching to pull her up, face twisted with fury as he raised his eyes ！ And then he saw me. He went still. “How are you back?”

Over in the corner, Lily had been playing with other kids. The moment the commotion started, she quietly slipped behind Lara. I stared at Derek’s hand still holding Lara’s arm. “An anniversary,” I said, my voice cold. “With another woman. Derek, what exactly do you think I am?” The room went dead silent. People exchanged glances. Someone whispered: “Wait ！ who’s the other woman here?” Another: “Gould’s really out here like this?” The murmurs rippled through the room, and something shifted uncomfortably across Derek’s face. Lara looked up at Derek like the whole world had just wronged her. “Derek…” He seemed to make a decision. He looked at me and his voice went hard: “Are you done? I’ve told you ！ we’re over. Stop showing up and making scenes.” I stared at him. “When did we end?” “Stop playing dumb!” His voice cracked upward. “You’re the one who said it was over! I have a wife now, a family ！ why won’t you leave me alone?” I pointed at Lara. Then at myself. A laugh rose in my chest ！ the kind that isn’t funny. “Derek. Look at my face. Tell me who I am. Tell me who Lily’s mother is.” Nathan stepped forward. “You’ve got this wrong ！ Chloe is still your wife！” “Who the hell are you?” Derek cut him off. “This is between me and Chloe Quinn. Stay out of it.” He turned back to me, impatient. “Chloe, I’m telling you ！ walk away. Don’t embarrass yourself. My wife Lara is Nathan Rhodes’ own prot└g└e and the daughter of Hartwell Group. You cannot touch her.” Nathan went very still. I looked at him. He looked at me. He shook his head slowly. The whispers sharpened around us. Eyes shifted toward me with something ugly in them. “So she’s the ex who won’t let go…” “She seemed so put-together. How does someone have that little self-respect?” “Poor guy. Having to deal with someone like her still chasing after him…” Lara moved in at exactly the right moment, draping an arm around Derek’s shoulder, positioning herself between us like she was shielding him. “Lady, Derek has already told you. He wants nothing to do with you.” She turned to the room, her voice dropping into something soft and aggrieved. “The past is the past. Derek and I have a child, a home. Please stop disrupting what we have.” I stared at the two of them, rage burning straight through me. I closed the distance in one step and slapped her across the face. The crack rang through the entire ballroom. Every person in the room went rigid. Lara pressed her hand to her cheek and turned to Derek, her eyes filling on cue. “Derek!” Derek’s face changed instantly. “Hold her down!” Two guards in black suits exploded from the corners of the ballroom, seizing me by both arms and forcing me to the ground. My knees cracked against the hard marble floor and I hissed through my teeth at the impact. “Have you lost your mind?” I thrashed against their grip, screaming up at him. “I am your wife! You’re doing this for her?” Derek said nothing. His eyes had gone red. He turned, grabbed a wooden chair from the nearest table, raised it above his head, and brought it down across my back with everything he had. The pain tore a muffled cry from my throat. My back blazed. He wasn’t done. He stepped forward and drove his dress shoe into my side ！ once, again, again. Nathan fought his way through and lunged to intervene. Another guard slammed him to the ground before he could reach me. “Derek Gould, stop it! She is your wife!” Nathan’s voice tore from the floor. Derek kicked harder. Then I coughed, and tasted blood ！ and caught a flash of movement as Lily came sprinting through the crowd toward me. “Don’t you dare hurt my mom!”

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I was the real son of the Carter family. But my family chose the fake one. April Fool’s Day. To make the fake one happy, my fianc¨¦e and sister turned me into their plaything. the fake one ripped my clothes to shreds. Used a marker to write “TRASH” across my face. When I didn’t react, he kicked me straight into the septic tank. When they fished me out, a crowd stood around with phones raised. Mocking laughter pierced my ears. My sister stayed a hundred feet away, covering her nose in disgust. She wouldn’t come closer. the fake one’s smile was smug. “Ethan, happy April Fool’s. You played along great.” My fianc¨¦e stepped in front of him, her tone dismissive. “It’s just a joke. Don’t take it personally.” She gestured to someone. They blasted me with a pressure hose. I got knocked flat. Freezing. Body turning purple. But I didn’t beg for mercy. Overnight, the video of me naked went viral in our circle. My sister hated me for dragging the fake one’s reputation down. She threw me out. My fianc¨¦e publicly canceled the engagement. “The Astor family can’t have a man with such a stain on him.” I nodded to everything. Didn’t argue. They thought I was faking composure. They didn’t know my mission had only three days left. These people? I felt dirty just looking at them. … In the courtyard, Dad swung his whip. Each lash tore into my flesh. “Shameless! Filthy!” I didn’t explain. Just endured silently. Fighting back only made the beating worse. A few days after being brought back to this house, Ryan¡ªthe fake son¡ªaccused me of stealing his watch. Mom and Dad ransacked my room. My sister Clara stripped me in front of everyone. They found nothing. I thought they’d apologize. Instead, Clara slapped a tooth out of my mouth. “You must’ve sold Ryan’s watch! Where’s the money!” My room was closet-sized. I didn’t have a single bank card. I tried to explain. She hit me harder. Called me unrepentant. I huddled in the corner. Got kicked until I coughed blood. Ryan suddenly gasped. “Found it.” The diamond-studded watch gleamed in the sunlight. All I felt was a stabbing pain in my eyes. I looked at Clara. No guilt on her face. Just a flat response. “Just a misunderstanding. Don’t worry about it.” “I’m Ryan’s sister. I trust him unconditionally.” Clara knew she was Ryan’s sister. But she forgot I was her actual brother. In the courtyard, Dad’s whip kept falling. Blood streaked my body. Clara stood by. Didn’t say a word in my defense. She was the one who let Ryan humiliate me. Let him take naked photos of me. But she blamed me for ruining Ryan’s reputation and threw my few belongings out the door. She wanted me gone. I agreed. But Dad roared. “You think you’re leaving? Want to embarrass us more?” He ordered the whip. Made them execute family discipline on me. Two hours later, Mom stopped him with a frown. “Enough. Make him bang his head on the floor 99 times. Write a confession. Then we’re done.” Dad threw down the whip, annoyed. “You spoil him too much!” Spoil? I found that funny. Mom’s “bang head” meant smashing my head into the ground hard enough to make a sound. If it didn’t echo, it didn’t count. The confession? Had to be written in blood. Less than ten thousand words? Not sincere enough. They’d make me rewrite it. I said nothing. Banged until my forehead bled. They splashed cold water on me to wake me up. I kept going. Wrote twenty thousand words in blood. Every word dripping with humiliation. Crushed into the dirt. I remembered every insult clearly. Waiting for the day I’d collect what they owed me with interest. I thought that would be enough. Ryan covered his nose and stepped back. “Clara, it’s not that I won’t let Ethan inside. It’s just… he stinks.” Clara ruffled his hair affectionately. Shot me a sideways glance. “You don’t deserve the servants’ quarters. Go stay with Goliath.” Goliath was Ryan’s python. And I was terrified of snakes. I remembered the day the cops first brought me home. Ryan looked disgusted back then too. But Clara didn’t make me sleep in the snake pit that day. She just made me stay in the dog cage. The pet dog’s cage was bigger than the servants’ room I got later. When Ryan didn’t give orders, the dog didn’t bite me. I could barely get some sleep. The snake pit? No way I’d survive. I fell to my knees in front of Mom and Dad, begging. “Please, I know I stink. I can leave the Carter estate. I can sleep in the dog cage. Just don’t make me go to the snake pit.” A flicker of emotion crossed Dad’s face. He was about to speak. Clara grabbed the back of my neck. “Ethan, stop playing the victim!” “If it weren’t for you, would the Carter family be a laughingstock? You should be grateful you have anywhere to sleep!” She dragged me toward the snake pit. I looked back at Dad. He looked away. The stench from the pit nearly knocked me out. A forked tongue flicked against my face. Just as I closed my eyes in despair, the system’s cold mechanical voice echoed in my mind. “Time until Host’s mission completion: two days remaining.”

I suddenly calmed down. Slowed my breathing. Two days left. I couldn’t give up. Three years ago, Ryan got a stomachache after dinner. Eyes red, he accused me of spiking his food. Before I could react, Clara pried my mouth open and forced an entire bottle of laxatives down my throat. The pain left me unconscious on the bathroom floor. No one checked on me. The whole family went to the hospital with Ryan. On the verge of death, a mechanical voice rang in my head. “Host life value has reached zero. Forcibly binding Revenge System.” “Current Mission: Survive three years.” “Success: Pain Rebound. One hundred million dollar cash reward.” “Failure: Soul annihilation.” I didn’t understand what a system was back then. Thought it was a hallucination before death. But when I woke up on that bathroom floor and the pain was gone, I believed. The system gave me a second chance. I was eighteen. I started valuing my life. Became silent. Compliant. I recalled survival shows I’d seen on TV. Forced down my fear. Stayed perfectly still. The python slithered past me. Its touch cold and terrifying. Outside the glass enclosure, Ryan held my fianc¨¦e’s hand. That smirk on his face. “Lucy, your fianc¨¦’s dirty, so he got tossed in the snake pit.” “Does it hurt your feelings?” Lucy’s eyes barely flicked over me. “Stop talking nonsense. I don’t have a fianc¨¦. That engagement has been canceled.” Even now, my heart twisted painfully. Lucy was different from the Carter family. She was my childhood friend from the orphanage. When she first came to the orphanage, her leg had been broken. No one wanted to adopt her. I pretended to be dumb. Stayed behind to keep her company. Her leg made it hard to walk. I fought for food for her. Stood up for her. One winter, some older kids stole her crutch to burn as firewood. I threw myself in front of her. They hung me upside down from a tree. Packed snowballs hard as rocks and used me as target practice. They broke my nose. Blood splattered everywhere. Lucy held my frozen body and cried all night. She said when she grew up, she’d protect me. I laughed in my haze. Thought she meant it. Later, when the cops brought me back to the Carter family, the first thing I did was help Lucy find her family. Turned out she was an illegitimate daughter. The Astor family had thrown her away on purpose. To help her return home, I proposed a marriage alliance. Clara called me pathetic. Said I’d just gotten back and was already chasing women. I knelt in the courtyard for seven days. No food. No water. My knees bled through the scabs. In exchange for a marriage contract. It wasn’t that the Astor family was bad. Mom and Dad just wanted me to marry better. To be a stepping stone for Ryan’s rise. The day I went to pick Lucy up from the orphanage, her eyes were red. She hugged me tight. Swore to the God. “Ethan, once I’m stable in the Astor family, I’ll marry you!” But she never married me. She personally tore up our marriage contract. Threw me to Ryan to humiliate. When did it change? Maybe the first time Ryan put his arm around her shoulders. He was stronger than me. More outgoing. Better at making people happy. He’d put his arm around Lucy’s shoulder and say, “Lucy, your engagement to Ethan was forced on you, right?” Lucy didn’t deny it. Maybe it was that business dinner when I drank myself to a bleeding ulcer trying to shield her from toasts. Collapsed on the floor, couldn’t get up. Lucy frowned. “Ethan, you’re so embarrassing.” I brought up marriage. Brought up rings. A wedding. She got impatient. Plucked a weed from the roadside and wrapped it around my finger a few times. Then turned around and dropped a fortune on a luxury watch for Ryan. Personally picked out the style. I asked her, “Lucy, do you remember what you said back at the orphanage?” She laughed. That laugh was mocking in a way I’d never seen before. “Ethan, you drag up the orphanage every single day. Aren’t you tired?” “Yeah, you helped me. But you’ve used that favor to tie me down for years. Isn’t that enough?” I tied her down? I shattered my knees kneeling. Went on a hunger strike. Fought like hell to get her a future. But she said, “Ethan, stop pretending. You wanted this marriage because you’re the least favored son in the Carter family.” “Couldn’t find a wife, so you latched onto me?” “That desperate to get married? That starved for a woman?” In that moment, something inside me shattered. Ryan’s laughter pulled me back from the memory. “Lucy, don’t be so heartless. Ethan was your fianc¨¦ for years.” Lucy sneered. “Fianc¨¦? A freeloader like him? As if.” I took a deep breath. Silently asked the system. “Will betrayal get reflected back too?”

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“Chloe, keep an eye out for me. I’m going to shift.” “Spending all day with male wolves, suppressing my pheromones, my wolf is going crazy.” I suddenly open my eyes and hear Selena say the same words as in my past life. In my past life, I followed Princess Selene, disguised as a man wolf, into Lycan King’s Academy. On one night of the full moon, Selene was discovered when she secretly shift into her wolf form. According to werewolf law, a female wolf entering Lycan King’s Academy must be punished. But this time, I don’t want to take the blame for Selena like I did in my past life. And I don’t want to provoke Rayne again just to stay alive. In my past life, after passing the academy’s tests, Selena fulfilled her dream of becoming a King’s warrior, and the moment she returned home, she put on a dress. That was when Rayne finally learnt that Selena was a female wolf. He resented me for taking Selena’s place, saying that if not for me, the one he would have marked should have been Selena. “I train with Selena in the academy for three years. We work perfectly together. We should have been mates.” “If there is another life, I don’t want to meet you again.” Even Selena regretted letting me take her place back then. That’s true. How can anyone live a whole life without regrets? I have mine too. Seeing that she is about to shift, I grab her wrist and press it down. “What about another day? This spot isn’t hidden enough. If we get caught, it’ll be trouble.” That is exactly what happens in my past life. Not long after Selena shifted, her scent was picked up by the patrolling wolves. Even though they didn’t see her face clearly, the news that a female wolf has slipped into the academy spreads. Selena forced me to take the blame. “Chloe, I’m begging you. I haven’t passed the tests yet. I can’t be exposed as a female at a time like this.” I was an Omega. When I was nine, I was attacked by Rogues, and Selena’s mother saved me. From that day on, I became Selena’s servant, bound to her by a Blood Bond. Selena was the princess of the Black Moon Pack, yet she always wanted to enter the Lycan King’s Army like a male wolf and became a warrior. So three years ago, I accompanied her to the Academy, disguised as a male wolf. As long as wolves passed the academy’s tests, they can become warriors. But I didn’t want to die either. So I went to Rayne, the youngest commander in the academy, and begged him for help. Just to stay alive, I even took off my robe to please him. The academy was full of male wolves. The moment he catched my scent, something dark stirred in his eyes. He dragged me onto the bed, and the restraint he has held back for so long collapses in that instant. I didn’t know how Rayne handled the situation, but from that day on, I stayed in his room. Later, Rayne and Selena passed the tests together and became King’s warriors. On the day we left the academy, Rayne promised that he would take me as his mate. But what I got instead was at the Lycan King’s banquet, Rayne stared at Selena in her dress, completely lost. When he heard Selena said what happened in the academy, he crushed his wine glass with his bare hand. I went to him and asked if he would still mark me as his mate. He looked at my face and said, “I keep my word.” He marked me as his mate as promised, but on the night of our Mating Ceremony, he left me behind and went off to drown himself in drink. That was when I finally understood. He resented me for taking Selena’s place. He said that if not for me, the one he would have marked should have been Selena. From that day on, he never stepped into my room again. Later, Selena became Prince Theron’s mate. But not long after, Prince Theron failed in his bid for the Lycan heir, and Selena was dragged down with him. On the day she was exiled from the pack, I went to see her off. The way she looked at me was full of hatred. “You are just an Omega. What gives you the right to live better than me?” “I regret it. If I had known, back in the academy, I would never have let you take my place.” She suddenly pulled out a knife and stabbed it into my heart. I could have dodged, but I couldn’t, because I was filled with regret. Before I closed my eyes, I saw Rayne standing beside me, watching me, motionless.

Selena doesn’t listen to me. Within seconds, she completes the shift. Strangely, until she turns back into human form, none of the patrolling wolves show up. Could it be that Rayne is reborn too? With a heavy mind, I return to my room. Students like us all sleep in shared dorms. Selena and I are not assigned together. She only comes to me when she needs something. That day, I wait from noon until sunset, and still, there is no news in the academy about a female wolf sneaking in. If Rayne is reborn as well, he will definitely find a way to protect Selena. Now I can do what I want to do. Lost in thought, I suddenly feel two pieces of dried meat tossed into my arms. I look up, and Lucian is staring at me, his gaze intense. “You didn’t come to eat. I thought it was like before again. You scared me.” “Like before?” I don’t quite understand what he means. Lucian raises a brow and lies down beside me. “It’s nothing. Just eat. Going to sleep hungry doesn’t feel good.” Lucian is a friend I meet in the academy. When I first arrive, maybe because I am small and good-looking, everyone wants to sleep next to me. I am terrified and don’t know what to do. After all, I am a female wolf, and on both sides of me are male wolves. If this goes on, sooner or later I will be exposed. In the end, it is Lucian who drives those male wolves away with his fists and moves me to the spot at the very edge. In these three years, as long as he is around, no one dares to come close again. If I have to choose a mate, I would rather choose someone like him. I don’t need him to be powerful. I just want him to care for me and love me. I chew on the dried meat in my hand and see that Lucian has already closed his eyes. He looks no worse than Rayne. His features are sharp and defined, his build tall and strong. When he doesn’t smile, there is a natural edge to him that keeps others at a distance. If he had a better background, would have become a King’s warrior long ago. It’s a pity… in my past life, he was killed by Rogues.

That night, I barely sleep at all. After that, Selena comes to see me a few times. She says Rayne suddenly arranges a private room for her, but to avoid suspicion, she doesn’t plan to let me stay with her. “Chloe, just hold on a little longer. Once the tests are over, I’ll take you back and pick a good mate for you.” From her words, I am certain that Rayne is reborn too. “I’m your Omega. Whatever you say, I’ll do.” I lower my gaze. In this life, I don’t want to get involved in anything between her and Rayne ever again. Selena adds, “In a few days, I’ll follow Rayne to infiltrate the Rogue army. If it works, I’ll pass the tests early, and the whole academy will know my name.” “Three years… I’ve finally waited for this day.” My heart tightens all of a sudden. Right. This is the day. To make sure Rayne’s mission succeeds, Lucian went alone to lure the Rogues away. In the end, outnumbered, he died in battle. In my past life, when I heard the news, I was washing clothes for Rayne. When he came back and saw me in tears, he was clearly displeased. “I come back after passing the tests, and you were crying?” I didn’t say a word. I just felt like this world was unfair. We are like side characters in a story. From the very beginning, our fate is in someone else’s hands. Even when we die, no one cares. But I don’t want to live like this anymore. I find Lucian and try to get him to come up with an excuse, to not follow Rayne in the attack on the Rogues. He looks at me, lifts a hand to ruffle my hair, and a smile curves on his lips. “Chloe, I’m going to become the King’s warrior. How can I run from a fight?” My eyes sting as I say, word by word, “Then what if… you die?” Lucian answers me with words that hit like thunder. “I fight for the pack. I die with no regrets.” Seeing that I can’t change his mind, I decide to go with him. When I first enter the academy, I am too weak, so I am assigned to learn cooking. In these three years, I have never fought an enemy. But after Lucian dies in my past life, I replay his escape route countless times. I am sure I can save him.

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I clawed my way through ninety-nine rounds of the Marchetti family’s death trials to become his bride — and in the hundredth, my fiancé put a bullet in my chest to crown someone else. They call it the Queen’s Gauntlet. Every time Dante Marchetti collects ten girls, he runs an elimination. Whoever survives moves on. Whoever wins all one hundred rounds becomes his wife. I’m the one who made it to ninety-nine. I’m tough enough. I played every sick game he threw at me without making a sound. He started looking at me differently — something close to awe. He paraded me through the Five Families, made every soldier and capo call me Madonna. I was about to win it all. Then, twenty minutes before the final round, I see him outside the private room — pressing Anya Rossi against the wall, kissing her like she’s oxygen. “Fifth chamber’s the live round.” “Got it.” My heart seizes. Something invisible wraps around it and squeezes until I can’t breathe. But I don’t get time to think. The game has already started. I watch Anya draw the rigged order — second shooter. My stomach drops through the floor. If I keep playing, I lose. That’s a certainty. I take a slow breath and look up into Dante’s calm, unreadable eyes. “Wren-bird.” He swirls the whiskey in his glass, voice dripping with warmth and adoration. “Still want to play? You know I’d never let you lose a game like this.” The room erupts. Whistles. Catcalls. The made men lounge around the table, trading looks between him and me, voices thick with amusement. “Boss always favors his Madonna. This round’s pointless.” “New girl thinks she can challenge the Madonna? She doesn’t even know who Dante’s heart belongs to.” “Be smart, sweetheart. Fold now and you walk away with your dignity.” Across from me, Anya is shaking head to toe — but she sets her jaw. “I’m not folding. I’m playing.” I catch it. That flicker in Dante’s eyes. Admiration. “Interesting.” His lips curl into a lazy smile, and he turns to me. “Then let’s make it quick, Wren-bird. I’ve got something new for us tonight.” Disgusting. He’s already rigged this for her. He’s already chosen. And he’s still putting on this devoted-lover act for me. My chest goes numb. Ice-cold. I lift my chin and meet his gaze. “Let’s start.” I want to see it. I want to see if this man — the one who keeps swearing he’ll never let me lose — actually has the stomach to watch me take the fall. The revolver hits the table. The room goes quiet. I draw first slot. I pick up the gun, press the muzzle against my own chest, and pull the trigger. Click. Empty. The room exhales. Someone laughs. Bets start flying. Dante’s eyes soften, just barely. “Wren-bird. Don’t worry. I’ll always bet on you.” Anya’s turn. Her hand trembles — prettily, perfectly — and she pulls. Click. My turn again. Third chamber. Still empty. But my heart is hammering now, because I heard what he said. Fifth chamber. Fifth. That’s mine. My whole body starts to shake. My eyes burn. My vision blurs. The slip that gave me first shot — he arranged that too. He set me up to take the bullet. Anya fires the fourth — knowing she’s safe — and lets out a delicate little whimper of fear. The men jeer. “Just quit, sweetheart! Get on your knees and kiss the Madonna’s ring — the Boss might let you walk!” “Kid, these rounds aren’t real bullets, but they still hurt like hell!” Anya doesn’t back down. She slides the gun across to me. My heart is in my throat. I stare at Dante. Waiting. Stop this. Stop this right now. He just watches. There’s even a faint smile on his lips. He doesn’t lift a finger. Seconds drag. His brow creases, just slightly. “Wren-bird. Don’t be scared. The winner is always going to be you.” My mouth twists — bitter, broken. I raise the gun to my chest with trembling hands. BANG. The round slams into me. Specialty rubber — not lethal — but the pain explodes white-hot through my ribs and I can’t breathe, I can’t — Anya screams. “Oh God — I’m so sorry — I didn’t know it would be like this —” Every face in the room goes pale. They all turn to Dante. The rule is simple. Whoever takes the bullet loses. The winner becomes his bride. “Boss, this —” Dante rises. Slowly. He looks down at Anya, voice glacial. “It’s fine. A loss is a loss.” Then he bends, scoops the trembling girl into his arms, and lifts her clean off the floor. His movements are steady, absolute. His gaze sweeps the room. His voice cuts like a blade. “Wren. You lost. I’m disappointed. But the only Queen in my heart is you.” In his arms, Anya flinches — then shoots me a look of pure triumph. A sharp pain stabs through my chest. My lips curve into something cold. He carries her toward the door. Steady. Certain. He doesn’t look back at me. Not once.

The second his back disappears through the door, my tears finally break. This game was never fair. Whoever he wants wins. That’s all it ever was. I wipe my face pick up the wine glass on the table and drain every last drop. Outside, I press my hand against the burning ache in my chest and dial a number with shaking fingers. “You wanted to get married. The answer’s yes. Seven days. I’ll be there.” Back at the penthouse, I swallow four painkillers. Ninety-nine rounds have trained my body to handle pain. But tonight, for reasons I can’t name, everything hurts worse than it ever has. I stare at the photograph on the wall — the one that appeared just weeks ago. Our engagement portrait. Me in white silk, him in black, his hand resting low on my waist. He took me to shoot it after I cleared round ninety-nine. I’d laughed and asked if that was cheating his own game. He scoffed. “My game. My rules. And you’re the only reason I ever break them.” Now he’s broken them for someone else. And he stood there watching me take a bullet like a fool. He doesn’t come home that night. I see everything in the videos Anya sends me. Dante has her pressed up against every surface of his most lavish penthouse. Their marks are everywhere — the walls, the sheets, the floors. The rare South Pacific black pearl he flew halfway across the world to buy for me last month — it’s caught between his teeth now, dragging slowly over her skin while she breaks, screaming his name. His face — raw, savage, consumed with want , is something I’ve never seen. Not once. Not for me. Miss Bellamy, you can see how addicted he is to me. Be smart and walk away. I stare at the message until my fingertips go white. I will not let myself cry again. The night I met Dante Marchetti, my grandmother was dying. Heart failure. The hospital was going to discharge her because I couldn’t pay. I was twenty-two, broke, and out of options. He walked into that waiting room like the angel of death in a five-thousand-dollar suit. Paid Gran’s bill in cash. Then he handed me a black card — an invitation. He looked at me the way a wolf looks at a rabbit. Smiling. “It’s just a game, sweetheart. Play it well, and everybody wins.” Even outside the Five Families, you heard the stories. Dante Marchetti was twisted. Years ago, the woman he loved sold him out to a rival. He never trusted love again. He built the Queen’s Gauntlet to watch women tear each other apart for the chance to sit beside him — to prove how far they’d go, how low they’d crawl. I took the card anyway. I needed the money. I needed Gran alive. Inside the game he called himself the King. He sat on a black leather throne and watched women bleed for his crown. I clenched my teeth and survived ninety-nine rounds. Bungee jumps with frayed cords. A sealed coffin with a live python. Seven minutes underwater without air. Live cockroaches shoved into my mouth. Every trial that made other women scream and shatter — I took in silence. One round was a skydive. My competitor slashed my arm with a blade and ripped the only parachute off my back. The plane was over open ocean. I was bleeding, falling soon either way. The earpiece crackled, and Dante’s amused voice came through. “You’ve won forty-some rounds, Wren-bird. Didn’t think you’d end up here. Any last words?” I closed my eyes. “Wire Gran’s medical bills before they cut her off.” His low laugh filled my ear. I jumped. They pulled me out of the Atlantic. I woke up in the ICU. Later, he came to my room. His eyes were hollow. “That round’s yours. I changed the rule mid-game — the winner is whoever’s more reckless.” A bitter, self-mocking smile. “You want out? A hundred million. Walk away clean. Right now.” He looked, for the first time, lonely. Something inside me tore open. I didn’t answer. I just reached up and pulled him into my arms. His face changed in a heartbeat — wild, unguarded joy. He cupped the back of my head and kissed me like a drowning man. “Wren. You’re mine now. From this second on. I’ll give you everything.” He bought me a brownstone. Ten percent of the family’s legitimate holdings, in my name. He walked me into every Family event with his hand at the small of my back and made every soldier and capo kiss my ring and call me Madonna. When the woman who’d betrayed him years ago crawled back into a banquet — weeping at his feet, humiliating me in front of the room, begging him to take her back — he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a wine bottle and cracked it across her skull. His men dragged her out. She was taken to the docks and never seen again. He stood there with blood on his cuffs and said: “Anyone else want to insult my Queen? Step up.” He spoiled me so completely that everyone believed it. Every capo. Every heir. Every woman watching from the sidelines. Even me. I believed I was the one. The special one. The woman who could make Dante Marchetti believe in love again. Until tonight. Until I finally understood — it was never anything but my own delusion.

I sit alone in the dark penthouse all night, phone off. At dawn, the lock turns. Dante walks in. His suit reeks of someone else’s perfume. The bite marks on his throat are obscene. He sees me frozen on the couch and pauses — then drags a hand through his hair, irritated. “Wren. Don’t tell me you sat here all night waiting for me.” My voice comes out raw. “Do you want to shower?” He stiffens. He takes in my white face, my bloodshot eyes, and his brow creases. He tosses his jacket on the chair. But there’s a flicker of something pleased behind his eyes. He walks over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, gentle. “I know. You’re upset because you lost.” “The rule is the rule, baby. Hundredth round. Anya won. By rights, I should be marrying her.” He pauses, pulls a pink diamond ring from his pocket — easily worth a million — and presses a slow kiss to my throat. “But you’re mine. So I’m giving you one more chance. Another round. Win back your crown. That’s a privilege I don’t give anyone else.” “So next time, sweetheart — win.” Win. The word is so absurd I almost laugh. I had a fifty-fifty shot. He took the crown off my head with his own hands and placed it on Anya. The rules were written in black and white — the hundredth-round winner becomes his bride. Anya won. This pink diamond is nothing but a bone he’s tossing me. Something shifts in his eyes — a glint of challenge. His lips curl. “What’s wrong, Wren-bird? Not happy? You used to fight like a wildcat for me.” He’s so certain I’ll cry. So certain I’ll scream and beg, just like every woman before me. I just lift my eyes. My voice is flat. Like I’m talking about someone else’s life. “No. I don’t care.” “Dante. As of right now, I’m out of the game.” The smile freezes on his mouth. The playful warmth in his eyes stays — but underneath, something murderous flickers. “You quit? Say that again.” I hold his gaze. Steady. “Dante. Your game. I’m done playing it.” “I’m leaving you. I won’t make a scene. You can have Anya, with my blessing.” His breath catches. His hands snap to my arms — and right then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He answers. Whatever they tell him turns his face white with rage. “If you so much as touch her, I will end every last one of you!” He hangs up. His grip locks around my wrist — hard enough to grind bone. “Ow — Dante, what are you —” “In the car. Now.” His voice is ice. “Look what you’ve done.” He drags me out. I stumble, nearly fall. He shoves me into the back seat without a word. He drives like a man possessed. Jaw locked. Eyes dead ahead. He doesn’t explain a thing. The car stops at an abandoned warehouse by the river. Inside, Anya is on the concrete floor. Hands bound behind her back. Blood at the corner of her mouth. Dante crosses the room in three strides. He cuts her loose and pulls her against his chest. His eyes are red. Red. “Anya. Baby. Don’t be scared. I won’t let anything happen to you.” She sobs into his shirt — then lifts her head and looks at me with wide, frightened eyes. “Miss Bellamy — if you don’t want me near him, I’ll leave, I’ll disappear — but why would you have someone beat me…” I take a slow breath. I look only at Dante. “Dante. I didn’t do this. Do you believe me?” He scoops Anya up, bridal style, shielding her completely. And those narrow, cold eyes turn on me with undisguised disgust. “She’s an orphan! She doesn’t make enemies. Who else would touch her — except the woman who’s jealous she lost?” “Lose with grace, Wren. The second you start playing dirty, you’re the one who can’t handle the game.” I clench my fists so hard my nails break skin. “Dante. I told you. It wasn’t me.” “Dante, it’s okay,” Anya whimpers, voice barely a breath. “I don’t blame Wren. She just… she loves you too much.” He laughs — short, cold — and turns for the door with her in his arms. He snaps his fingers at the soldiers behind him. “The new Queen has been hurt by the old one. The old Queen needs to be punished.”

The four soldiers don’t hesitate. They wrench my arms behind my back. “Sir. How bad?” Dante glances at me, then bends his head toward Anya, voice silk. “The punishment is for my new Queen to decide.” Another knife in my chest. After every single elimination round, he handed me — me — the right to punish the loser. Every time, I just told them to leave. Walk away. Start over. I never made anyone bleed. Now Anya puts on her sweet, harmless face ， and her mouth curls into something cruel. “Dante, baby, I don’t really know your old rules. Just… whatever the punishment used to be, do that.” He gets it instantly. He turns to me, searching my face for something — anger, jealousy, anything. All he finds is dead silence. It enrages him. He pulls Anya tighter and forces the words through his teeth. “You heard the Queen.” They drag me into the compound. Down to the basement. They press me face-down on the stone floor and use a leather strap soaked in salt brine. On the other side of the wall, in the bedroom, he and Anya lose themselves in each other, all heat and desperation. Her moans and my screams braid together through the plaster, rising and breaking, until the whole house throbs with it. My back splits open. My heart breaks worse. I think of that day in the ICU. The kiss. The promise. He’d wanted to shut the Gauntlet down right then — pull me out, end it all. But the Family heirs had hundreds of millions riding on the bracket. The game wasn’t his alone anymore. They wouldn’t let him stop it before the final round. He’d held me in that hospital bed, eyes red, arms shaking, and whispered into my hair: “Wren. I promise. From now on, every single round — I will never let you lose.” And I believed him. I fought for him. I outsmarted, out-bled, out-survived every contender they threw at me. Some of them tried to kill me with rigged equipment. With knives. With poison. I won anyway — because I loved him. Every woman who cheated against me ended up exactly where I am right now. Pinned down. Beaten. Listening to him fuck the next one through the wall. It was always going to come to me eventually. He finally let me get hurt. They go all night. Somewhere near dawn, Dante steps out in a black silk robe. I hear his voice, distant, bored. “Call the family doctor. Patch her up. Don’t let her die.” Then I’m gone. I wake on the couch. His jacket is draped over me. The housekeeper’s face is blank, professional. “You’re awake. Mr. Marchetti took Miss Rossi to the victory dinner. He said to get yourself cleaned up and join them.” My voice is sandpaper. I grab my bag. “Tell him I can’t. My grandmother’s surgery is today. He knows. He arranged it.” He found Gran her donor heart himself , my prize for clearing round ninety-nine. Two soldiers grab me. “What are you — let go of me — I need to get to the hospital — Dante knows about Gran’s transplant today!” They don’t care. They yank a dress over my shredded back. They don’t let me bring my phone. They throw me in the SUV. I can’t breathe. He used to come with me to see Gran every single month. And today he’s at a champagne dinner celebrating a stolen crown for a girl he rigged the game to win. The ballroom is full of capos and their daughters. Dante is at the center with Anya glued to his side. I’m in a backless dress. The strap marks across my shoulder blades are visible to every person in the room. People whisper. His eyes darken. He walks Anya toward me, his hand on her hip. “Wren. Today is Anya’s coronation. As the former champion, you should congratulate her properly. You walked in empty-handed. Are you trying to humiliate her?” Anya bites her lip, all wounded innocence. “Maybe she just thinks I shouldn’t have won. After all — she had the first ninety-nine.” I cut her off. I look only at him. “I quit the game. I owe her nothing. Dante — Gran is in surgery right now. I’m leaving. Let me through.” Surprise flickers in his eyes. Then it ices over. “It’s a celebration. You bring up something this dark on purpose?” I press my hand against the ache in my chest. “What do I have to do for you to let me leave?” “What do you have to do?” His eyes glint. He kisses Anya in front of me, slow and deliberate. “Let my new Queen name the price.” She pretends to think. Then she grins. “Have Wren strip naked. Kneel in front of me. And bark like a dog. Three times.” The breath leaves my body. And then I hear him laugh ,soft, amused. “Done.”

I stare at him. “Dante. What if I refuse?” He laughs once. Cold. “Sweetheart. Since when do you get to say no to me?” He flicks a glance at the crowd behind him. That’s all it takes. They erupt on cue. “You heard the Madonna! On your knees,you filthy dog !” “You lost everything down to your panties , and you still think you can negotiate?” These are the same men who called me Madonna. Who bowed when I walked past. Who kissed my ring. Now they’ve turned like wolves, every last one of them falling in line behind Anya. My chest crushes inward. The pain goes numb. There’s a wall of soldiers behind me. I can’t run. Dante is unhinged enough that fighting will only drag this out longer — and Gran is on an operating table right now. Dignity is a luxury I can’t afford. “You’ll keep your word. After this, I leave.” I choke the words out. I undress. I get on my hands and knees on the polished marble. The room sucks in a breath. “Woof.” Laughter explodes around me. I feel tears slide down my face. “Woof.” Someone kicks me in the ribs — I don’t even see who. “Woof.” Dante’s voice cuts the room cold. “Enough.” “Get her out of my sight.” I grab my dress off the floor, yank it on crooked, and stumble out barefoot. It’s pouring outside. I don’t know when the rain started. I flag down a cab with shaking hands and tell him the hospital. Fast. Please. I sprint through the lobby. I burst into Gran’s room. She’s not there. I tear through the hallways like a madwoman — and then I see it. The OR doors swing open. A gurney rolls out. There’s a white sheet over the body, and one hand has slipped out from under the cloth. On her wrist is the silver bracelet I gave her for her seventieth birthday. Every drop of blood in my body turns to ice. “Gran!” I throw myself onto the gurney, screaming. The surgeon exhales, exhausted. “I’m so sorry. We did everything we could. She kept asking to see you one last time. We tried calling — we couldn’t get through. We had no choice but to proceed without you.” I don’t hear the rest. The room spins. I hit the floor. When I open my eyes, I’m in a hospital bed. A nurse adjusts my IV, her face tight with worry. “Honey, I know you just lost your grandmother and it’s awful. But you have to take care of yourself now. You’re pregnant.” The words hit me like a slap. “What?” My voice cracks. “I’m — I’m pregnant?” “Three months along. You really had no idea?” I press my hand against my belly. A tremor runs through me , something alive, something small, underneath my palm. I go cold all over. Once, I dreamed of this. Dante’s child. A home. A real life. It came now. Now. When the man I built my world around doesn’t love me anymore. The door opens. Dante walks in carrying half a cake on a plate. “Wren, you embarrassed me today.” His voice is flat with contempt. “Anya’s sweet. She thought you might be hungry. She saved you cake.” I look at the mangled thing on the plate — pawed at, half-eaten, barely recognizable. It’s not food. It’s a slap in the face. “You’re not even with your grandmother. You’re here, faking sick to get my attention?” “Get out!” I hurl the water glass at his head. He dodges. His eyes go pitch black. “Ungrateful. You’re not half the woman Anya is.” He slams the door behind him. I break apart. I sob until there’s nothing left inside me. For the next few days, Dante parades Anya across the city. Diamonds dripping from her throat and wrists. Yachts, rooftop parties, flashbulbs chasing them at every turn. Cameras everywhere. I bury Gran alone. The day we put her in the ground, the sky splits open and the rain doesn’t stop. While I’m standing graveside in the mud, Dante is at a charity gala downtown, presenting Anya with a flawless museum-grade diamond in front of the press. I go back to the penthouse. I pack one suitcase. I walk out. I rent a tiny studio across town. He calls. I pick up. “Where the hell are you?” “Dante. The game is over. We are nothing to each other.” He finds me the next day. He looks around my studio — the peeling paint, the narrow bed, the bare lightbulb — and his nose wrinkles like he smells garbage. “You’re living in this hole? Cute.” A mocking smile. “You’re playing hard to get.” “It’s none of your business. Get out.” His eyes flatten. He nods at the men behind him. They grab my arms before I can move. “Let’s go. Anya wants to take you somewhere fun.”

I fight. I lose. They drive me to a private estate outside the city. Underground, the owner keeps a fifteen-foot golden python in a steel-reinforced cage and charges the ultra-rich to watch it feed. Live prey. Invitation only. Anya is already there, draped in couture, champagne in hand. “Wren, sweetie — the feeding show tonight is so boring.” Inside the cage, the python is coiled around a slab of raw, bloody meat, jaw unhinged, swallowing it whole. She tilts her head, all innocence, but her smile has teeth. “You survived ninety-nine rounds of the Gauntlet. A little snake should be nothing for you, right? Dante, baby — I want to watch her tame it.” My blood turns to ice. Deep in my belly, something flutters — the baby. As if even he can sense what’s coming. “Are you insane? That gets people killed!” Dante looks at my white face. Something flickers — just for a second. Regret. Maybe mercy. He leans close. His breath stirs my hair. His voice is low, almost tender. “You know what I hate about you, Wren? You’re so goddamn stubborn. Just bend. Once. Ask me to save you ， beg me ， and I’ll rig the game so you win.” “Last chance. One more round. Beg me, and it’s yours.” I look back at him. My eyes are dead. My mouth curves into a smile so bitter it tastes like ash. “Dante. The biggest regret of my life is ever taking your invitation.” His face contorts. Anya jumps in, right on cue. “How can you be so ungrateful? Dante is giving you a chance! If I were you, I’d be on my knees crying! If you won’t play, it just proves you never loved him at all!” Murder flashes through Dante’s eyes. He shoves me — hard — and forces three words through clenched teeth. “Put her in.” Hands grab me. The cage door clangs shut behind me. The python’s head lifts. Its tongue flicks the air. It starts toward me. “Dante — please — let me out!” My scream rips through my throat. “I’m pregnant!” The crowd outside is roaring — drunk, wild, deafening. They can’t hear me. He can’t hear me. Dante squints, like he’s trying to read my lips. Anya hooks her arms around his neck and breathes into his ear. “Baby, she’s having so much fun in there. I’m jealous. Take me to the back room…” His Adam’s apple bobs. He scoops her up and walks away without looking back. The python coils around my legs. It bites — once, twice — then starts to constrict. I can’t breathe. My vision goes purple at the edges. I hear my own screams like they belong to someone far away. “Oh my God — the snake’s gone berserk —” “She’s bleeding — there’s so much blood — someone call 911!” I wake in a hospital bed. A tearing pain in my pelvis. I rip the sheet back. My belly is flat. The baby is gone. A scream rips out of me as it hits all at once—Gran is gone, and with this baby, the last of my family on this earth is gone with her. Why? Why would he do this? Why would he take the last thing I had? “No!” The door swings open. Dante walks in, flushed, with fresh marks on his throat. The evidence of what he was doing while I was dying. He glances at me. Mocking. Bored. “I heard you got your period. That’s why you’re in the hospital?” “Come on, Wren. Through ninety-nine rounds, even at your worst, you were never this dramatic.” I take a slow breath. I drag myself out of the bed. Pain screams through every nerve in my body. I cross the room and slap him across the face with everything I have. “Dante Marchetti — I hope you rot in hell.”

The wildness in my eyes makes him freeze. He runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek. Something dark flickers behind his gaze. His hand snaps around my wrist. “I’ve been too easy on you lately, haven’t I?” His phone rings. His face changes instantly. “Anya — baby, hold on — I’m on my way, don’t be scared.” He looks at me, already halfway to the door. “Anya’s stomach hurts. I’m going to her. And that studio of yours — I already canceled the lease. Stay put.” He’s gone before I can speak. The door slams. I sit on the hospital bed for a long time. Staring at nothing. Then I pick up my phone. My fingers are shaking, but my voice is steady. “Before I come to you — help me stage one last performance.” “Make it convincing. I need him to believe I’m dead.” I hang up. A new message lights up my screen. Anya, curled against Dante’s chest, tracing circles on his collarbone with her fingertip: See, Wren? Even after you nearly died from a snake attack, all I have to do is say one word and he drops you to come running to me. He doesn’t love you. He never did. You almost lost your life for him and he still picks me every single time. You’re pathetic. I grip the phone until my knuckles go white. Tears hit the screen and blur the words. There are guards outside my door. I can’t run. I can only wait. Every time I close my eyes, the nightmares come. Ninety-nine rounds of hell. Dante’s cold, empty stare. Gran dying alone on an operating table, calling my name. The baby I never got to hold. The next day, Dante brings Anya to visit me. “Wren, sweetie, are you feeling better?” Anya pouts, all wounded innocence. “Dante really does care about you, you know. Even after everything, he still wants to give you a fair rematch.” “But if you won’t play… it just proves you don’t really love him. That you never wanted him at all.” I turn my head. I look at both of them. Calm. “Fine. I’ll play.” Dante’s eyes flash bright — just for a second. Anya stiffens. She wasn’t expecting that. Hatred ripples under her sweet face, but her voice stays sugar-soft. “Of course I want a fair fight. But this time, I set the rules.” Dante strokes her hair, indulgent. “Of course. You earned that right when you won the last round.” Where he can’t see, her mouth curves into something venomous. “Last time we played the gun, and you lost. That must have killed you.” She tilts her head, mock sympathy. “So this time — we play the gun again. Sound fair?” My expression doesn’t change. I nod. “Fine by me.” “Then it’s settled.” Her eyes are full of calculation, but her smile is radiant. “Dante, baby, let’s go set everything up. Let her rest.” Something tugs at Dante — a flicker of unease he can’t name. But before he can think, Anya hooks her arm through his and pulls him out the door. The next night. They drive me to a cliff above the open ocean. A small table. Two chairs. A black revolver in the center, its barrel gleaming cold under the moon. Anya and I sit on opposite sides. The soldiers lead us to our places. Dante’s Bentley rolls up behind us. He steps out, slow, deliberate, and settles into a leather throne his men have placed at the cliff’s edge. A soldier stands beside him holding a bottle of champagne. “After this round,” he says, voice low, eyes drifting between us, “I’ll announce my engagement to the winner. Right here. Right now.” “Begin.” Anya plays modest. “Wren, sweetie — I’ll let you roll for first shot. Fair and square. Odd number, you go first.” I don’t hesitate. I roll. Odd. First shot is mine. I hear Dante’s breath catch. His knuckles go white around the arm of the throne. That reaction tells me everything. The bullet is in an even chamber. He rigged it for her again. Anya’s face goes pale. “Wait — no — best two out of three!” I almost laugh. I let her have it. She rolls again — somehow, both times landing odd. She steals first shot back. “Looks like I go first after all.” Dante doesn’t intervene. His voice is flat. “Get on with it.” Anya gives him a slow, seductive smile. She picks up the gun, presses it to her own chest, and pulls the trigger. Click. The gun slides across to me. I pick it up. I weigh it in my palm for just a second — and a cold laugh escapes my lips. This isn’t the same prop from last time. It’s heavier. The balance is different. This gun is real. And the bullets inside it are real too.

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