Even after the divorce and the affair that broke our family, my dad still swallowed his pride and made me ask my mom for money. I didn’t ask for much. Just fifty dollars a month. Every time Mom sent the money transfer, she attached the same note: Tell your father to stop raising you to be as shameless as he is. This month, for the first time, I gathered the courage to ask: Mom, can you please send me a thousand? She replied with a voice memo within seconds, her tone dripping with ice. It’s only been three years, and you’re already just like him. Greedy. Insatiable. But then, the bank notification popped up. She’d wired two thousand. If you want a penny more, tell your father to crawl back here and get on his knees to beg for my forgiveness. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the phone. Mom didn’t know. Dad was already dead. All I wanted was to cover the thousand-dollar cremation fee. … “Sweetheart, where is your adult?” the lady behind the hospital billing window asked, her forehead creasing with a frown. I stood on my tippets, straining to press my cracked phone screen against the thick glass barrier. “I have the money now, ma’am. My mom just sent me two thousand dollars. Can you cremate my dad now?” The lady froze, then let out a heavy sigh. “Sweetheart, it’s not just about the money. Cremation requires an immediate family member’s signature. You’re too young. Where is your mother? Have her come down here herself.” My chest tightened, and I lowered my gaze to my worn-out sneakers. “She’s busy. She won’t come. Besides… she doesn’t want to see my dad.” The lady shook her head, her tone turning firm. “That won’t work. Rules are rules. Call your mother again. Otherwise, your father has to stay in the cooling unit.” The refrigeration room was freezing. I’d gone in to see him once. He lay there with his eyes closed, a thin layer of frost dusting his eyelashes. Dad had always hated the cold. I didn’t want him to stay there. I retreated to the quietest corner of the waiting room. On my phone, the screen was still open to my mother’s last voice memo. …tell him to crawl back here and get on his knees. I swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and dialed her number. “Mom,” I whispered. “What now, Todd?” Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. “Your father wanted a thousand, I gave you two thousand. Is that still not enough? What kind of game is Dave trying to play this time?” I shook my head rapidly, even though she couldn’t see me. “No, Dad isn’t playing a game. Mom, can you please come to Marvin County Hospital?” A pause on the other end, followed by a bitter, mocking laugh. “Marvin County Hospital? He gets the money, and now he’s faking an illness? Tell Dave to drop the pathetic theatrics.” “Katherine, honey, who is that?” A soft, smooth male voice drifted through the receiver. I knew that voice. It was Simon. Back when Dad used to take me to Mom’s office, Simon would always smile and give me candy. But after Dad and I left, Simon took Dad’s place beside Mom. “It’s Todd,” Mom’s voice softened slightly as she spoke to him. “Todd? Is Dave using the kid as an excuse to harass you again?” Simon sighed. “Dave really is something else. He’s the one who made his bed, yet he keeps using the child as a bargaining chip. Don’t let him get to you, Katherine. It’s not worth ruining your day.” Mom gave a cold murmur of agreement. “Todd, I don’t have time to play house with your father. Three years ago, he pretended to be so noble, asking for a measly fifty dollars a month. I guess he can’t keep up the act anymore, can he? If he wants to use you to squeeze money out of me, tell him to crawl over here and ask me himself.” Tears hot and heavy welled in my eyes. “Mom, Dad can’t come. He really can’t. Please, just come and sign the paper. It’s so cold in the freezer. Dad is going to freeze.” Silence stretched over the line. After a few seconds, Mom spoke again, her voice sharp with ancient anger. “Three years ago, he sold out my company just so he could sleep with my best friend for cash. Now he’s teaching you to lie like this? A freezer? Why doesn’t he just tell you he’s dead and be done with it!” The line went dead. The dial tone buzzed painfully in my ear. I lowered the phone, staring at the dark screen. It reflected my messy, unwashed hair and my red, swollen eyes. Mom didn’t believe me. She thought Dad was lying. But Dad was really dead. I shoved the phone into my pocket and walked out of the hospital into the biting wind. It nearly knocked me over. Three nights ago, Dad was lying on our mattress, so thin his bones looked like they might pierce his skin. He couldn’t keep any food down. Every cough rattled his chest, bringing up thick spatters of blood. But that night, he suddenly seemed energetic. He called me to the bedside and touched my cheek, his palm slick with cold sweat. “Todd, Daddy is going to take a very, very long nap.” I squeezed his hand, shaking my head. “Don’t sleep, Daddy. I’m scared.” He smiled weakly, a single tear slipping into his hairline. “Be a good boy, Todd. Daddy is just so tired. Every month, on the first, you must remember to text your mother. Don’t ask for much. Just fifty dollars.” I didn’t understand. “Why only fifty, Daddy? Fifty dollars isn’t enough for rent.” His eyes grew unfocused, staring at some distant point on the peeling wallpaper. “Fifty is small… as long as she sends it, it means she still recognizes you as her son. If she still wants you… then after I’m gone, you’ll still have someone in this world.” Those were the last words he ever said to me. Then he closed his eyes. I called his name for hours, but he never woke up. Later, the landlady came by for the rent. She smelled something in the apartment and called the police. The officers took Dad away, bringing him to this cold, sterile hospital. I rubbed my frozen fingers together and walked to the bus stop. If I couldn’t explain it over the phone, I would tell her in person. Dad couldn’t stay in the freezer forever. The doctor said he needed to be cremated. If we put him in a warm little box, he wouldn’t be cold anymore. The bus jolted and swayed for over an hour before stopping in front of the tallest skyscraper downtown. Marvin Enterprises. I used to hold Dad’s hand as we walked here to bring Mom lunch. Back then, Mom would lift me up, laughing, and press warm kisses to my cheeks. Now, the building was the same, but I couldn’t get past the lobby. A security guard blocked my path. “Hey, street rat, you can’t come in here.” I looked down at myself. I’d slept in the corner of the hospital waiting room last night. My jacket was covered in dirt and soot. I did look like a street rat. I looked up and said quietly, “Sir, I’m looking for Katherine Marvin. She’s my mom.” The guard let out a harsh laugh. “Katherine Marvin’s son? Get real, kid. Scram before I call the cops.” I didn’t leave. I stood just outside the revolving glass doors, shivering. The wind grew stronger, and the gray sky threatened rain. I tucked my hands into my sleeves and kept my eyes glued to the elevator bank inside. My legs went numb from standing. Finally, the elevator doors chimed open. A group of executives in tailored suits walked out. At the front was Mom. Her brow was furrowed as she listened to a junior assistant. Simon walked beside her, leaning in to whisper something that made her lips twitch with a faint smile. I threw myself against the glass doors, banging with all my might. “Mom!” Mom froze. She turned her head, and through the thick glass, her gaze landed on me. There was no shock in her eyes, no maternal instinct to run to me. Only an overwhelming, heavy exhaustion. The guard rushed over, terrified. “Hey! I told you to beat it!” “Wait,” Mom’s cool voice sliced through the air. The glass doors slid open, and she stepped out into the cold. Simon followed right behind her. Her eyes swept over my filthy jacket and my blue, chapped lips. “Did Dave send you?” I shook my head, but the cold air hit my lungs, throwing me into a fit of coughing. “No, Dad didn’t… Dad is…” “Why didn’t he come himself?” Mom cut me off. “Using a seven-year-old for sympathy. Dave’s tactics are getting pathetic.” Simon stepped forward, offering a gentle, pitying smile. “Todd, how did you get so dirty? Your father really is heartless. Even if he wants to play the victim, he shouldn’t drag you into the mud like this.” He turned to Mom, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur. “Katherine, the boy is innocent. It’s freezing out here. Let’s not let him catch pneumonia.” Mom didn’t look at Simon. She kept her eyes locked on me. “Todd, your father teaching you to perform these little sob stories… it’s shameless.” I didn’t know what that word meant, but I knew she was insulting my dad. I stomped my foot, my tears finally spilling over. “He didn’t! Dad didn’t teach me anything! He’s asleep, and I can’t wake him up! Mom, please come to the hospital with me. If you just sign the paper, we can bring him out.” I reached out my dirty, freezing hand to grab hers, but she took a step back, avoiding my touch. Simon chimed in smoothly. “Todd, a good boy doesn’t tell lies. I saw your dad’s Instagram posts from Cabo just a few days ago. The beaches looked beautiful. He looked like he was having the time of his life.” I stared at him, my chest heaving. “You’re a liar! Dad has been in bed for months! He coughs and coughs and can’t go anywhere!” Simon’s face fell into an expression of hurt. “Todd, how can you speak to me like that? I’m only telling the truth.” Mom’s expression turned entirely to stone. “What else has Dave been teaching you? Lies and manipulation. You’re turning out exactly like him.” She turned away from me, addressing her assistant. “Gary, drive him back. And tell Dave this is his absolute last warning. If he sends this child to disrupt my office again, I will file charges for what he did three years ago.” With that, she spun on her heel and walked back into the warmth of the skyscraper. Simon followed, casting a small, satisfied look over his shoulder at me. Gary, the assistant, sighed beside me. “Come on, Todd. Let me take you home.” I stood frozen, watching the elevator doors close behind my mother. My tears tasted salty as they slipped into my mouth. Dad was right. Mom hated him, but she wouldn’t let me starve. She just didn’t care whether Dad lived or died. The sedan drove smoothly. Gary kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “Todd, tell me the truth. What’s going on with your dad?” I looked down, remembering the officer at the hospital telling me my dad was dead. I didn’t fully understand what death meant, but they said it meant he could never come home. “He’s dead,” I whispered, rubbing my numb fingers. Gary slammed on the brakes, pulling the car abruptly to the curb. He turned around, his eyes wide. “Todd, that’s not something you joke about!” I stared out the window at the gray street. “I’m not joking.” Gary stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head and shifted the car back into drive. “Your mother was right. Your father has completely ruined you.” He didn’t speak to me for the rest of the drive, dropping me off at the entrance of our narrow alley. “The street is too tight for the car. Walk the rest of the way, Todd.” I nodded and got out. But I didn’t walk toward our apartment. I turned around and began the long walk back to Marvin County Hospital. By the time I reached the hospital morgue, the sun had set, and the clerk at the window had gone home. I slipped past the empty security desk and found my way into the cooling room. It was so cold. I dragged a small step stool from the corner, climbing onto the high stainless steel gurney. I pulled back the heavy white sheet and crawled into my dad’s arms. His body was colder than ice, covered in a frost that didn’t melt when I touched it. “Don’t worry, Daddy,” I whispered, wrapping my arms tight around him. “Todd is here to keep you warm.” The cold seeped deep into my bones, making my entire body shiver violently. But after a while, holding him close, the shivering stopped. I didn’t feel cold anymore. Just very, very tired. My eyelids felt like lead. In the quiet darkness, I drifted back to a time long ago. We were all together—Mom, Dad, and me. On the coldest winter nights, Mom’s arms were always the warmest place in the world. Then it was just Dad and me in that drafty, leaking apartment. Dad would hold me just like this, stroking my hair. ‘Sleep now, Todd. Close your eyes. Once you’re asleep, you won’t feel the cold.’ I pressed my cheek against his frozen chest and closed my eyes. I thought it would be nice to stay here with Dad forever. I wouldn’t have to beg for fifty dollars anymore, and Mom wouldn’t have to push me away. Even if I never woke up… it would be okay. Meanwhile, in the library of the Marvin estate. Katherine sat at her mahogany desk, the wind rattling the glass panes. A strange, cold unease clawed at her chest. If Dave was just trying to extort money, why hadn’t he called to gloat? It had been years since she last saw him. What if… what if something actually was wrong? She stood up, reaching for her car keys, deciding she would see for herself. But just as she reached the door, her phone vibrated violently. Todd’s name flashed on the screen. The momentary worry vanished, replaced by instant irritation. Of course. He was still playing his games. The daytime stunt hadn’t worked, so now he was trying a late-night call. She answered, her voice sharp. “Todd, what does your father want now?” But it wasn’t my voice that answered. It was a deep, authoritative voice of an officer. “Is this Katherine Marvin? Your son was just found in the County Hospital morgue. He is suffering from severe hypothermia. We are performing emergency resuscitation right now.” Katherine’s anger flared. “What is Dave doing?! Leaving a child in a morgue in the middle of the night?! Is this his idea of parenting?! Put him on the phone!” A heavy silence hung over the line. “Mrs. Marvin, Mr. Dave Marvin cannot come to the phone.” Katherine let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Coward. He’s too ashamed to face me, isn’t he? To use our son’s life for a payout—he’s lost his mind!” “Ma’am, please shut up!” the officer snapped, his voice crackling with anger. “Dave Marvin isn’t playing a game. He is dead.”

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I filed for divorce the exact moment I discovered my wife had redirected the only rescue pod capable of saving our daughter from the deep ocean—all to save her childhood sweetheart’s son, who had merely swallowed a mouthful of water at a shallow beach. After the papers were signed, I threw myself into deep-sea salvage like a man possessed. I spent a decade learning the dark currents of this ocean until I knew them better than my own living room, eventually becoming the only specialist capable of executing a rescue at a depth of a thousand meters. And then, the file of that same boy who had choked on water landed right back on my desk. I stared at it, a cold smile tugging at my lips, before sliding the folder back to my partner. “Not this time. I’m not diving.” 1 “Are you out of your mind, Davis?” Sally snatched the folder off the desk and slammed it open in front of me again. “Ten million dollars. Do you know how many life-threatening risks we have to take to make that kind of money? If you’re passing on this, you need to give me a real reason.” I pulled my heavy work gloves back on, ignoring her as I began my daily maintenance on the dive gear. “I’m not diving. That’s the reason.” “Then look at this.” Sally flipped the pages to the back of the file. “The structural integrity of his submersible is failing rapidly. The cabin is deforming, and he has less than twenty-four hours of oxygen left. There is a living, breathing twenty-three-year-old kid trapped in there!” My hand froze on the pressure valve. My daughter, Daisy, was twenty-three when she died down there. “Davis, you’re the only diver in this entire sector who can execute a docking rescue at that depth,” Sally said, leaning in and lowering her voice. “If you don’t go, he’s dead. It’s that simple.” I tightened the valve with a sharp twist, then turned to face her. “Sally, you’ve worked with me for seven years. Have I ever turned down a rescue because of a personal whim?” She hesitated, caught off guard. “No. Never.” “Then leave it.” “But I don’t understand,” she pressed, her frustration bubbling over as she grabbed my arm. “Whether you know him or not, they are paying in cold, hard cash—” “I wouldn’t dive for a hundred million.” I gently but firmly pulled my arm from her grip. My voice remained flat, entirely devoid of emotion. “Don’t ask me why. In seven years, I can count the number of jobs I’ve rejected on one hand. Just trust me on this one.” Sally’s face flushed red, a dozen arguments clearly fighting for passage behind her teeth. She had been with me since the beginning, back when I first got my deep-sea certification and was operating out of a rented tin shack on the docks. She had seen me get three ribs shattered by a rogue current at four hundred meters. She had seen me drag a breathless teenager back onto the deck and spend the rest of the night dry-heaving over the stern of the boat. But she had never seen me like this. “Fine,” Sally said finally, snapping the folder shut and tossing it onto the table. “I trust you.” She turned toward the door but paused, her voice sounding muffled. “But that kid is still a living human being. If you change your mind… we’re ready to go.” The heavy metal door clicked shut behind her. Left alone in the equipment room, I stared at the folder on the table. On the cover, the photo of Meredith Croft, the head of Meredith Marine, looked slightly older than she had ten years ago, but those sharp, uncompromising eyes hadn’t changed at all. A decade ago, my daughter was slowly suffocating, one agonizing breath at a time, at eleven hundred meters. And Meredith had diverted the only available rescue vessel because Sean had panicked over the phone, screaming that their son, Noah, had fallen into the water. Noah had been in the shallows. He had lost his footing and swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. I closed my eyes, pushing the file to the far corner of the desk. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was a text from Sally: The client is on the line. She’s demanding to speak directly with the head of operations. Do you want me to patch her through? I stared at the screen for a long moment before typing back two words: Patch her. 2 “Hello? Am I speaking to the head of deep-dive operations?” The voice on the other end was sharp, carrying the same effortless arrogance I remembered from a lifetime ago. Ten years hadn’t softened it. “Speaking. Go ahead.” My own voice was barely recognizable. A decade of breathing pressurized helium-oxygen mixes in freezing depths had permanently ravaged my vocal cords, leaving me with a harsh, gravelly rasp. “Good. This is Meredith Croft from Meredith Marine. I assume you’ve reviewed the file.” She paused, expecting a deferential response, but when I remained silent, she continued, “Name your price.” “I’m not taking the job.” There was a brief silence on the line. Then, she let out a dry, humorless laugh. “I don’t think you heard me. I said name your price. Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.” “And I said, I’m not taking it.” “Fifty million.” Her voice didn’t waver. To her, it was just a number. “Fifty million in cash. Half when you submerge, the other half when you bring him up. There isn’t another salvage crew on earth getting an offer like this.” I kept my mouth shut. Taking my silence for hesitation, she pushed harder. “If you want equity, we can discuss that too. Half a percent of Meredith Marine’s non-voting shares, registered under your name. The annual dividends alone would—” “Ms. Croft,” I interrupted, my voice cutting through her pitch. “My refusal has nothing to do with money.” I could hear her breathing turn heavy and erratic. “Then tell me why.” “There is no why. I have the right to refuse a contract.” “Your right?” Her voice suddenly turned ice-cold. “Do you have any idea what the situation is down there? The cabin is deforming at over a thousand meters. That is a human life!” “I am aware.” “You’re aware? And you’re still sitting there saying no?” Her words began to spill out faster, thick with panic and rage. “You are the only person in this sector who can reach him in time. You didn’t even hesitate to reject the call… this is criminal negligence. You’re leaving him to die!” I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles turned white. “Leaving him to die…” I murmured. “Coming from you, Ms. Croft, that’s a fascinating choice of words.” “What is that supposed to mean?” “Nothing,” I said, regaining my composure. “The point is, I cannot help you. You’ll have to find someone else.” “There is no one else!” she nearly screamed. “I’ve already run the logistics. Your base has the only rig ready to deploy on this coast! If you won’t save him, you owe me a reason!” “Then I suppose you’re out of luck.” “You—” She took a sharp, ragged breath, clearly trying to master her temper. “Listen to me very carefully,” she whispered, her voice low and venomous. “I don’t care about your reasons, and I don’t care about your attitude. I am giving you exactly two hours to reconsider. If your answer is still no by then… I will personally ensure that you and your little salvage yard are blacklisted from every harbor in the country.” I closed my eyes. “Ms. Croft, I suggest you save your breath. If you don’t start looking for other options right now, you won’t even have a body to bring home. Good luck.” I hung up. Sally poked her head into the room, her eyes wide as she tried to read my expression. “Davis… that woman… did she threaten you?” I slipped the phone back into my pocket and bent down to inspect the oxygen lines. “She can’t touch me.” “But she—” Sally hesitated. “She said she’d shut us down.” “She can say whatever she wants. I don’t owe her a damn thing.” Sally didn’t push any further, but as she turned to leave, her expression was incredibly strained. “Davis… what did that family do to you?” I tightened the final connection and wiped the grease from my hands. “She owes me a life.” 3 Around three in the morning, Sally practically broke down my dorm room door. “Davis, we have a problem.” I sat up instantly. She was pale, her hands shaking so violently she could barely hold her phone. “It’s my son…” she choked out. “Toby’s company… they just transferred him out of accounting. They put him on the night-shift inspection crew for the deep-water drilling rig.” A heavy weight settled in my chest. “When?” “Just now. He texted me. He got a sudden notice from HR telling him to board a helicopter tonight. Davis, he doesn’t know anything about offshore work! He has a degree in finance! He doesn’t even have a basic marine safety certification!” “Did you try calling him?” “Yes, but the signal is blocked out there.” Sally’s eyes filled with tears. “His last text said he just landed on the platform and told me not to worry. Then the phone went dead.” I took her phone. The message had been sent thirty minutes ago, accompanied by a blurry photo of a dark, steel deck overlooking a pitch-black ocean. Just landed, Mom. The wind is crazy out here, but I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodnight. “Davis!” Sally dropped to her knees, burying her face in her hands. “It’s her. I know it’s that Croft woman. She’s doing this to get to me!” “Don’t panic, Sally.” “How can I not panic?” she sobbed, clawing at her hair. “You know what the inspection crew does on those rigs. They walk the outer cat walks in the middle of the night. If a rogue wave hits…” “She won’t actually let anything happen to him,” I said, trying to steady her. “She wants you to beg me.” Sally froze. Slowly, she looked up, her forehead resting against the cold concrete floor. “Davis…” “Get up, Sally.” “Davis, I know she must have done something unforgivable to you. I shouldn’t ask this of you, I shouldn’t… but Toby is only twenty-two. He’s terrified of the water. He won’t even go near the docks if he can help it…” She wept, her shoulders heaving. “Please. For the seven years I’ve stood by you… scream at me, fire me, do whatever you want… but please save my son.” I knelt beside her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Sally, look at me.” She raised her tear-streaked face. “I promise you, Toby is going to be fine.” “But are you…” “I have other ways of handling her,” I said, pulling her up from the floor. “I will get your son off that rig. But I am still not taking her contract.” Sally stared at me, bewildered and unable to speak. Suddenly, a deafening roar shook the walls of the compound. The rhythmic, heavy thudding of helicopter rotors grew louder, vibrating through the floorboards. A sleek, black helicopter bearing the silver crest of Meredith Marine was descending onto our gravel landing pad. Before the rotors had even fully spun down, the cabin door slid open. Meredith stepped out, dressed in a sharp, dark business suit, flanked by two burly security guards. Behind her came a man I recognized instantly. Ten years, and Sean hadn’t changed at all. Still the same soft-edged, fragile man who looked like he had never spent a day in the sun. “It’s them,” I murmured, turning to Sally. Sally’s fear was rapidly turning into blind rage. She clutched her fists, her whole body trembling. “Davis, they brought security…” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, grabbing my heavy canvas jacket from the rack. “Let’s go.” Meredith stood in the center of the pad, her assistant hovering closely at her side. She cast a dismissive glance over our meager base—the rusted shipping containers, the oil-slicked docks, the frayed mooring lines. Her lip curled in effortless disgust. Then, her eyes landed on me. Her gaze lingered for barely a fraction of a second before moving past me. She didn’t recognize me. I suppose I couldn’t blame her. The man standing before her now bore no resemblance to the husband who used to hold her hand every morning ten years ago. “Who’s in charge here?” Meredith asked, her patience already exhausted. Sally instinctively looked at me, and I took two steps forward, putting myself between them. “I am.” She finally looked at me properly, her brows drawing together. “You?” “Me.” She let out a cold, sharp laugh and whispered something to the guard beside her. Then, she turned her attention to Sally. “So, you must be Sally. I trust your son is enjoying his new assignment on my drilling rig?” 4 Sally lunged forward, but I caught her by the shoulder, holding her back. “Stay put.” Meredith watched Sally struggle against my grip, her smile widening into something cruel. “I told you that you had two hours to think about it. Since you didn’t call, I decided to come collect your answer in person.” Sean stepped forward from behind her, his face a mask of performative anguish. “I know you must think we’re being monsters,” he said, his voice trembling. “But that is my son down there. Noah is only twenty-three, and he’s been trapped in that dark cabin for fourteen hours…” His eyes welled with tears as he reached out to clasp Meredith’s hand. She gently patted his arm, her gaze hardening as she locked eyes with me. “Fifty million. I’ll wire it right now. Put on your gear and get in the water.” “I told you on the phone, Ms. Croft. I am not taking the job.” “Are you trying to negotiate with me?” She tilted her head, a dangerous glint in her eyes. “Fine. What’s your number? A hundred million? Two hundred? I know your type. You’re just holding out for a bigger payday because you think you have me cornered. Name your price, and I’ll pay it.” “It has nothing to do with money.” “Then what is it?” She took a step closer, trying to use her stature to intimidate me. “If it’s not about the money, then what? Do you have some personal vendetta against me? Have we ever even met?” I looked deep into her eyes. Once, those eyes had looked at me with tenderness. Now, they held nothing but cold, impatient transaction. “No,” I said quietly. “We’ve never met.” “Then there is no reason for this ridiculous holdout.” She waved her hand dismissively, issuing her final ultimatum. “I don’t care who you are, and I don’t care about your pride. My son is suffocating at the bottom of the ocean, and you are the only one who can get him out. You have two choices: take the money and dive, or…” She glanced sideways at Sally. “Toby is just an intern out there. He doesn’t have his safety certifications. If there’s an accident on the catwalk tonight, it won’t even qualify for a worker’s comp claim.” Sally’s face went entirely bloodless. “What are you saying?” “I’m not saying anything,” Meredith replied smoothly. “I’m simply pointing out that accidents happen on oil rigs all the time. Especially to inexperienced greenhorns who don’t know how to watch their footing.” “You… you’re threatening my son’s life!” Sally screamed. Meredith didn’t bother to deny it. She just kept her eyes on me. “And as for you—if my son dies down there, you had better pray you never have an ‘accident’ of your own out on the water. I will make sure this ocean becomes a very dangerous place for you.” Sean stepped forward, his eyes pleading. “Please, sir. I know this is terrible, but you’re a human being. Surely you can understand a father’s heart? My Noah is down there in the dark… he must be so cold, so terrified…” He reached out to touch my shoulder. I took a sharp step back. “Don’t touch me.” Sean’s hand froze in midair, a flash of irritation crossing his face before he quickly masked it with sorrow. “I didn’t mean to offend you… I’m just desperate…” Meredith pulled him back to her side, her eyes cutting into me like knives. “This is your last warning. What is your answer?” “No.” She laughed again, a harsh, mocking sound. “Fine.” She pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed a number. “Get me the supervisor on Rig 4… Tell him to put the new intern on the outer platform patrol tonight. Yes, alone. Have him walk the lower deck.” Sally lost all control. She broke away from me and threw herself toward Meredith. “No! You can’t do this!” One of the security guards stepped in, shoving Sally back with enough force to send her crashing into a metal container. “Davis!” Sally cried, scrambling up from the gravel and dropping to her knees in front of me, her face smeared with tears and dirt. “Davis… please… I beg you…” Meredith hung up her phone and looked down at us. “See? It could have been so simple. You brought this on yourselves.” I looked down at the blood trickling from a scrape on Sally’s temple, watching her whole body shake as she wept on the ground. Then, I looked up at Meredith. She still had that same self-righteous, untouchable expression. It was the same look she wore ten years ago, and the same look she wore now. To her, other people’s lives were nothing more than bargaining chips. “Do you honestly think I’m afraid of you?” I asked. “Fear doesn’t matter to me,” she shrugged. “If you don’t go down, your partner’s son becomes a tragic statistic by tomorrow morning, and your little base will suffer a devastating accident shortly after. Is your pride really worth all of that?” Sean tried to play the peacemaker again. “Please, sir. All you have to do is make one dive, and this all goes away. We’ll pay you, we’ll fund your base, and the boy on the rig goes home to his mother. Why make this harder than it needs to be?” He smiled, his voice dripping with gentle persuasion. I closed my eyes and took a slow, deep breath, letting the freezing sea air fill my lungs. “I cannot rescue the boy who killed my daughter,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “And if you force me into that water, I will disconnect his hatch myself, and make sure we both stay down there forever.”

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I am an ER attending physician. I had just finished a brutal night shift and stepped out through the hospital’s revolving glass doors when my phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a call from the nurses’ station. “Dr. Lawson, you need to come back right now. We just got a massive trauma case, and the Chief of Surgery wants you scrubbed in immediately!” Autopilot took over. I spun around, my exhausted body ready to march right back into the fray. But suddenly, the air in front of me shimmered. Glowing, ticker-tape letters materialized out of thin air, scrolling violently across my field of vision. DO NOT go into that OR! Do not touch this patient! The patient is already brain-dead. They are dragging you in to take the fall for the Director’s daughter! This family has ruthless connections. If you go in there, your career is over, you’ll end up behind bars, and the fallout will drive your parents to suicide! My boots froze on the pavement. For a few agonizing seconds, the cold morning air whipped around me. I felt a deep, primal chill settle in my bones. I decided to trust the glowing words. I decided to gamble my life on them. My eyes darted frantically across the concrete, locking onto a section of the sidewalk cordoned off by flimsy orange netting—an open, exposed utility shaft leading straight down into the city’s underbelly. I gritted my teeth. I squeezed my eyes shut. And I threw my body forward, plunging directly into the abyss. … I have been an emergency room doctor for nearly a decade. In my world, a patient’s life has always superseded my own comfort, my own sleep, my own sanity. So, when the urgent call came from the department, hesitation wasn’t even in my vocabulary. I immediately turned on my heel, heading back toward the glaring neon sign of the Emergency entrance. I was barely fifty feet from the doors when the impossible happened. Sentences began floating in the air, glowing with an unnatural, jarring luminescence. I stopped dead in my tracks. I shook my head, pressing my palms into my eye sockets, utterly convinced that the ninety-hour workweek had finally triggered a psychotic break. But when I opened my eyes, the words were still there, hovering relentlessly above me. It’s a trap. The second you step foot in that OR, they’re calling the time of death. They are literally waiting for you to walk in so they can make you the scapegoat. The whole surgical team is in on it. They are protecting Ruth, the Director’s daughter. They’re going to say your surgical error killed him. Watch your back! My jaw slacked. Ruth. We had been roommates for four years of undergrad. She was supposed to be my best friend. Why would she set me up to take the fall for a fatal malpractice suit? A chaotic swarm of questions buzzed in my skull, paralyzing me. I didn’t know what to do, what to believe. Just then, the chatter of a few nurses walking past caught my attention. “Did you see the wreck on the news? A blacked-out G-Wagon went straight off the overpass into the river.” “Yeah, they just rushed the driver into Trauma 1. Word is, he’s a heavy hitter. Major old money.” Before I could process that, my phone buzzed in my hand. Two rapid-fire texts. From Ruth. Rebecca, where are you? Hurry up! Prep is done. We are literally just waiting for you to scrub in. Run. I’m waiting at the OR doors for you. Staring at those three frantic bubbles of text, the blood in my veins turned to ice water. Could the universe really spin a coincidence this perfectly? A patient with terrifyingly powerful connections. Ruth, practically begging me to take the lead on a surgery she was already assigned to. When I forced my panicked mind to quiet down, the logic crumbled. The ER was fully staffed. There were plenty of brilliant, well-rested trauma surgeons on the floor. There was absolutely zero protocol that required a doctor who had just clocked out of a gruelling night shift to be dragged back to run a code. Looking at it through that lens, the glowing warnings in the air felt sickeningly real. The moment I slipped my arms into those sterile blue scrubs, I would become the sacrificial lamb. The patient’s death would be pinned entirely on my hands. With an entire team of coworkers bought off to testify against me, I wouldn’t stand a chance in any court. I couldn’t let my mind go down that dark rabbit hole. The more I thought about it, the more the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn’t reply to Ruth. Nearly ten minutes had passed since the initial phone call. In the span of a single breath, I made a choice. If the floating words were right, if I was walking into an execution… I was going to beat them at their own game. If I never made it into the building, no one could pin a damn thing on me. My eyes scanned the perimeter of the hospital plaza, immediately locking onto an ongoing plumbing excavation near the ambulance bay. The heavy steel cover of a deep utility shaft had been removed. I forced my legs into a hurried, purposeful jog, making it look like I was sprinting toward the ER doors. As I approached the lip of the hole, I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. I squeezed my eyes shut. And I stepped off the edge, letting gravity rip me downward. The sensation of weightlessness was terrifying and instantaneous. My muscles coiled on instinct. A second later, I slammed into the unforgiving concrete at the bottom of the shaft. The sickening crack echoed off the damp walls. The impact sent a shockwave of agony straight through my internal organs. Thankfully, the shaft was dry, but the bare concrete offered zero mercy. A blinding, searing pain exploded from my right leg and the back of my skull, radiating through every nerve in my body. My body convulsed. Cold sweat instantly soaked through my shirt. I knew, with the clinical certainty of an ER doctor, that my leg was shattered. This old utility access had been under maintenance all week. The heavy iron grate had been moved, and the only thing guarding the drop was a pathetic ring of yellow caution tape. In my “rush” to save a life, I hadn’t seen it. I had simply lost my footing. It was the perfect, undeniable accident. A few feet away, my phone had tumbled out of my pocket and was ringing incessantly. The cheerful marimba tone was deafening in the pitch-black, suffocating silence of the hole. But I didn’t move a muscle. I let it ring. Let it stop. Let it ring again. I kept my eyes squeezed shut in the dark. An unconscious woman cannot answer a phone. All I had to do was lie here and wait for the world to find me. And for my alibi, the longer that took, the better. Fifteen minutes later. A city maintenance worker arrived to replace the grate. He spotted my leather tote bag discarded near the edge. I heard his sharp intake of breath before his shadow fell over the opening. A heavy beam from a flashlight sliced through the dark, illuminating my crumpled, unmoving body. “Holy shit! We got a woman down in the hole! Call 911!” I heard him screaming into his radio. I maintained my act, letting my limbs stay limp, my eyes shut tight. I let the chaos erupt above me. Heavy boots pounded on the pavement. Shouts echoed down the concrete pipe. A crowd was gathering. I could even hear the faint, rapid clicks of smartphone cameras. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder until the fire department and paramedics swarmed the plaza. A rescue tripod was set up in record time. A firefighter rappelled down, gently securing my battered body into a harness, and I was slowly winched up into the morning light. When I broke the surface, the crowd gasped. My face was a mask of dark, slick blood. I let out a weak, barely audible groan. Wasting no time, the paramedics loaded me onto a stretcher and sprinted the fifty yards straight into the Emergency Department doors I had been trying to avoid. As I lay there, waiting for the trauma bay to clear, the glowing text in my mind fed me the rest of the missing puzzle pieces. Ruth and I were med school peers. We shared late-night study sessions, cheap coffee, and tears. We were as close as sisters. We both landed residencies at this prestigious, top-tier hospital. But the paths we took diverged sharply. I earned my spot through grueling hours and flawless board scores. Ruth got hers because her father was Dr. Richard Lockwood, the Hospital Director. She had spent years living in my shadow, and over time, that insecurity had fermented into something toxic. She needed to prove she was better. Today, she had been the one running the trauma bay when the G-Wagon driver was brought in. But her skills were rusty, her ego too big. She had panicked, pushing the wrong protocol, resulting in catastrophic brain death. Her first instinct wasn’t to save the patient. It was to throw me to the wolves. It was a brilliant, sick two-for-one deal: she avoids federal prison, and she permanently removes the woman she resented. Reading the truth in my mind, a profound, icy numbness spread through my chest. For four years, I had loved her like family. I had celebrated her wins and carried her through her losses. I had no idea I was sleeping across the room from a monster. But thank God. I had won the bet. Let’s see her pin a dead man on a doctor lying at the bottom of a hole. The doctor assigned to patch me up was Dean, a colleague I had worked alongside for years. When he pulled back the curtain and saw my bloody face, his hands froze mid-air. His pupils dilated in sheer panic. “Dr. Lawson?” Dean blurted out, his voice cracking. “What… what are you doing in here? Shouldn’t you be up in OR 3 right now?!” Before I could answer, the responding police officer who had followed my stretcher in stepped forward. “You know her? She took a nasty spill down a twelve-foot utility shaft out front. Fire department just pulled her out.” Dean stared at me, visibly trembling. He opened his mouth, closed it, and swallowed hard. He knew. But with a uniformed officer standing three feet away, he didn’t dare say a word. He simply picked up his suturing kit with shaking hands and began cleaning my forehead. The process was agonizing. It took three deep stitches to close the gash on my hairline. My right leg was definitively fractured, requiring a heavy, suffocating fiberglass cast. They wheeled me into the CT scanner. Thankfully, it was just a mild concussion. Once I was settled back in an observation room, looking a little more lucid, two police officers walked in with their notepads to take a standard accident report. “Dr. Lawson, could you walk us through exactly how you ended up in the shaft?” I leaned back against the thin pillows, furrowing my brow like I was struggling to piece it together. “I just got off my shift. I was walking to my car when the department called, demanding I sprint back to the OR for an emergency trauma.” “I was running. I was sleep-deprived. I completely missed the warnings and just… stepped into thin air.” The officers nodded sympathetically, jotting everything down. A moment later, a security guard from the hospital’s control room hurried in, handing a tablet to the officers. It was the exterior security footage, requested to confirm there was no foul play in my fall. The video was crystal clear. It matched my story down to the exact second. The officers murmured to each other, satisfied it was a tragic, straightforward accident. That was my cue. I let out a sudden, panicked gasp. “Oh my god! The surgery!” I yelled, perfectly mimicking the adrenaline-fueled panic of a dedicated doctor. “They’re waiting for me! How long have I been down?!” Ignoring the throbbing agony in my leg, I shoved the blankets off and threw my weight forward, desperately trying to get out of bed. “Get me a wheelchair! Please, I have to get to the OR!” The officers rushed forward to gently push me back. “Doc, you need to calm down. You have a severe concussion and a broken tibia. You can’t operate.” I played the role of the frantic, bleeding-heart physician flawlessly. I grabbed the bedrails, hauling myself into a nearby wheelchair. “No! You don’t understand, I need to know what happened to the patient!” They couldn’t stop me. But by the time Dean wheeled me up to the surgical floor, the hallway was a morgue. The red light above the OR doors was dark. A crowd of elegantly dressed, sobbing people—the patient’s family—were huddled together, their grief heavy and volatile. Standing in front of them, still in her blood-spattered surgical gown, was Ruth. She kept her eyes cast downward, playing the role of the devastated surgeon with Oscar-worthy precision. “I am so, so sorry. We did everything we could. But the injuries were too severe. Time of death was 9:42.” The family shattered. A woman, presumably the wife, let out a visceral, gut-wrenching scream that echoed down the sterile corridor. Then, Ruth shifted her weight. Her tone grew quiet, laced with a calculated, tragic hesitation. “To be completely honest with you… his vitals were stabilizing. He had a real chance. But the attending surgeon, Dr. Rebecca Lawson… she made a series of catastrophic errors during the primary closure. That’s what triggered the hemorrhage.” It was a lit match thrown into a powder keg. The grief in the hallway instantly mutated into violent, unhinged rage. “Where is she?!” “She killed him! I want her head!” The family members became a mob, demanding blood. I sat quietly in my wheelchair at the end of the hall, watching Ruth weave her masterful web of lies. In the chaos, a man from the family turned, his eyes locking onto the laminated badge pinned to my ruined scrubs. He read the bold letters aloud, his voice dripping with venom. “Attending ER Physician. Rebecca Lawson.” The entire hallway snapped their heads toward me. The widow, who had been crumpled on the linoleum, shot up like a predator. Her eyes were bloodshot, feral. She lunged down the hall, slamming into me. “You!” she shrieked, her perfectly manicured nails digging deep into the flesh of my collarbone. “You murdered my husband!” Her violent shaking jostled the wheelchair. White-hot pain exploded in my freshly casted leg. The rest of the family swarmed, a tidal wave of pushing, screaming, and spitting. “You’re a butcher!” “How do you sleep at night?!” “I’ll see you rot in a cell for this!” Confined to the chair, with a shattered bone and a concussion, I was utterly defenseless. All I could do was grip the armrests, swallowing the physical pain and the bitter injustice. “It wasn’t me!” I cried out, my voice cracking, playing the victim perfectly. “I wasn’t in that room! I never touched him!” But logic doesn’t exist in the face of raw grief. My words were drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Standing safely behind the mob, Ruth watched me get torn apart. A tiny, wicked smirk played at the corners of her mouth. “Rebecca, please. Have some decency,” Ruth called out, raising her voice just enough to be heard over the weeping. “You made a fatal mistake. You ran out, and now you’re faking an injury to get sympathy? You are a disgrace to this hospital!” Her words were the final nail. The crowd completely lost its mind. A young man—maybe the victim’s brother—let out a primal roar. “Faking it?! Let’s see how fake this is!” He drew his leg back and delivered a vicious, full-force kick to the side of my wheelchair. The chair tipped. I went flying, crashing hard onto the polished floor. Before I could even process the fall, the man raised his heavy dress shoe and brought it down with crushing force directly onto my broken, plaster-wrapped shin. “AGH!” A scream ripped from my throat that I didn’t know I was capable of making. It felt like a hot iron rod was being driven through my marrow. I curled into a fetal position, my body seizing with uncontrollable tremors. Hearing the commotion, the two police officers sprinted out of the elevators, shoving their way through the violent crowd to shield my body. “Back off! Step back right now!” the older cop roared, hand resting on his utility belt. The widow grabbed the officer’s uniform shirt, her face streaked with mascara. “Officer, arrest her! She’s a murderer! She killed my husband, and we have the surgeon right there who witnessed it!” The chorus of voices rose again, demanding I be hauled out in handcuffs. Everyone in that hallway was utterly convinced I was a monster. Except Ruth. For the first time, her smirk faltered. She looked at the police officers, then at the blood on my face, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing her features. She hadn’t known I was in the ER downstairs. The lead officer looked at the furious widow, then glanced down at my broken body. His eyes were dead serious as he looked back at the crowd. “Let me get this straight. You are alleging that Dr. Lawson was inside that operating room, performing a surgery, and made an error that killed this man?” “Yes! Exactly!” the family screamed back. The officer let out a dark, incredulous laugh. “Well, that is quite the trick.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the security tablet, and held it high above his head for the entire hallway to see. “I suggest you all take a very close look at this.” When the screen lit up, Ruth’s eyes widened. All the color instantly drained from her face, leaving her looking like a corpse. The roaring crowd fell into a stunned, absolute silence.

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After three years of marriage to Kelly, I’d become the poster boy for henpecked husbands in our social circle. She claimed she loved me down to my bones, which was her justification for curating everything—even my social media posts. She even subjected my meetings with female colleagues to an AI-driven risk assessment. The AI’s synthesized, robotic voice would regularly ping her phone with updates: “Subject displays blurred social boundaries. Recommend tighter oversight.” I was suffocating under the weight of this airtight, inescapable affection. Yet, I chose to believe it was just the intensity of her devotion. Until today. I was sitting in the passenger seat of her SUV, my phone inadvertently syncing with the car’s Bluetooth system. A young man’s laugh suddenly crackled through the premium speakers: “Hey Kelly, your husband is seriously well-trained. He’s more obedient than the AI.” “If he ever finds out you’re using an algorithm to track him, do you think he’ll still find it romantic?” Then came Kelly’s laugh, light and dismissive: “He’ll never know. He’s not as smart as the system.” I slowly lifted my head, watching the woman walking toward the car through the tinted window. She pulled the door open, her eyes meeting my quiet gaze. “Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice dripping with warmth. Right in front of her, I unlocked my phone, opened the tracking app, and tapped the voice input: “Evaluate the marital risk of a wife who stays out all night, subjects her husband to constant surveillance, and maintains flirtatious relationships with other men.” The screen flashed with a stark red warning box almost instantly: “Risk Level: Extreme.” “Recommendation: Divorce.” Kelly’s face drained of color in a heartbeat. I looked at her, offering a faint, tired smile. “Tell me… is it accurate this time?” 1 Kelly’s hand moved faster than her face could process. She snatched the phone from my grip. In less than three seconds, the app’s deletion progress bar was complete. “It was just a stupid joke by a clueless intern. Don’t overthink it,” she said, her tone instantly softening as she tossed the phone back onto my lap. “AI is a machine, Luke. It gets things wrong.” I stared at her. Her face had already settled back into its usual, gentle composure, as if the stark terror of a moment ago had been nothing but my imagination. “Who is he?” I asked. “Just a new intern. You know how kids that age are—no filter.” She started the ignition, resting one hand casually on the steering wheel. Her profile was elegant, sharp against the streetlights. “I’ve already had HR deal with him.” Her response was seamless. Flawless. I opened my mouth, wanting to press her about what using an algorithm to track me really meant. But she reached over, covering the back of my hand with hers, her thumb lightly tracing my skin. “Sweetheart, you’re my husband. What could I possibly keep from you?” The gesture was deeply familiar. Every time I pushed too close to a truth she wanted to hide, she used physical touch to derail my thoughts. Three years of marriage, and it had worked every single time. I remained silent. When we got home, there was a box waiting on the coffee table. Inside was a pair of cufflinks. Sapphire. Exquisite. “For the gala the day after tomorrow,” she said, standing by the walk-in closet and already coordinating my wardrobe. “Wear the royal blue suit—these will match beautifully.” I sat on the sofa, staring at the jewelry. In the past, whenever I was upset, she’d use gifts to turn the page. The first year it was roses. The second, designer ties. Now, in our third year, she had graduated to precious stones. The price tag was rising, almost as if she were trying to compensate for something she could no longer control. “I don’t feel well. I think I’ll skip the gala,” I said. She poked her head out of the closet, her brow furrowing slightly. “What’s wrong?” “My stomach. Just a dull ache.” She studied me for three long seconds. It wasn’t a look of concern; it was an interrogation. She was calculating whether I was just throwing a tantrum. “Get some rest then.” She didn’t push. She left alone, leaning down to press a kiss to my forehead before she walked out. Her lips were cold. Only when the front door clicked shut did I realize my fists had been clenched the entire time. I didn’t rest. Instead, I started sorting through my things. Not because I was packing to leave—not yet—but because I suddenly needed to know how much of this life actually belonged to me. My passport was locked in her study’s safe. My secondary debit cards synced directly to her phone, sending her alerts for every penny I spent. Even my messaging apps had been logged into her devices, duplicating my chat history onto her screen in real-time. I took inventory of my existence, item by item, feeling colder with every revelation. Finally, I walked into the closet to search for some old personal keepsakes I’d stored away. Sifting through a storage bin in the corner, my shoulder brushed against a decorative bronze sculpture on the shelf. It was a bronze stag. I remembered the day she brought it home, warning me: “This is incredibly fragile, Luke. Don’t touch it.” The stag tilted, and its heavy wooden base slid open a fraction of an inch. I reached out to steady it, and my fingertips brushed against a cold, coin-sized disc. A pinhole camera. The lens was positioned directly toward the center of the room—exactly where I stood to change every day. I pulled my hand back as if I’d been burned. I remained crouched there in the dark closet, a cold sweat breaking across my neck. She had told me her obsession was just a symptom of her love. Yet she had wired the space where I was most vulnerable. I didn’t touch the camera. I didn’t make a sound. I slid the base shut and carefully placed the stag back where it belonged. Then I opened my phone and placed an order online for a tiny, thumb-sized audio recorder. Overnight delivery. I needed to know just how much of my life was a curated stage play. 2 By the time the package arrived, Kelly was at her office. I crawled under the heavy mahogany desk in her study and taped the recorder to the underside. Then I got dressed and headed to work, pretending everything was normal. I worked as a project lead at a boutique architectural firm. On paper, I was the manager. In reality, Kelly called my boss every month to “check in” on my workload, dropping heavy-handed hints that I shouldn’t be traveling or taking on high-stress projects. My boss got the message. Slowly, quietly, the firm’s major accounts stopped coming my way. I was sidelined in my own career, yet I couldn’t even complain. Because whenever I tried, Kelly would look at me with soft eyes and say, “I’m just protecting your health, Luke.” I had barely settled at my desk today when HR paged me, letting me know an intern from another department was bringing over some files. I didn’t think much of it until the boy stopped in front of my desk. He was young, barely twenty-three, with a practiced, polished smile that felt like a luxury salesman’s pitch. But it was the scent that hit me first. It was the exact cologne Kelly had left on her vanity last night. “Hey there. I’m Dylan, from marketing. Here to hand off the Q3 files.” He extended the documents, deliberately lingering so his wrist rested in my line of sight. He was wearing a platinum watch. I had the exact same one. Kelly had spent two months on a waitlist to get it for me last Valentine’s Day. She’d told me it was one of only fifty in the world. “Nice watch,” I said, keeping my voice level. He glanced down at his wrist, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. A really generous friend bought it for me. She’s got incredible taste—loves guys with a bit of energy.” He stared straight into my eyes, adding with a soft tilt of his head: “Honestly, it’s impressive how hard you work at your age. If I had a wealthy partner taking care of me, I’d just stay home and let myself be spoiled.” The silent current of hostility between us went unnoticed by the rest of the open-plan office. I didn’t stand, and I didn’t let my expression waver. I simply took the folder, opened it, and flipped through the pages. “Dylan, on this Q3 budget report, the distribution data is pulled from a defunct Q1 template. And your ROI formula is wrong.” I slid the folder back across the desk. “Did your supervisor actually review this before you brought it to me? Because these are amateur mistakes.” His smile faltered. “Well, I… I’m still new…” “Being new isn’t an excuse. A mistake is a mistake.” I pulled out my phone and tapped the memo app. “Take it back and fix it. I’ll CC your department head so we’re all on the same page.” Dylan’s face turned a deep, blotchy red. He snatched the papers and turned on his heel. As he walked away, he muttered under his breath, “Someone’s sensitive.” I ignored it. At three-thirty that afternoon, the office keycard scanner chimed. When Kelly walked in, a hush fell over the entire floor. Her face was a mask of cold fury as she marched directly to my desk. “Outside. Now.” Out in the hallway, she leaned against the wall, crossing her arms. “You threw a tantrum at a new hire today?” “I didn’t throw a tantrum. I corrected a flawed report.” “Dylan called his manager in tears, saying you deliberately humiliated him.” “His work was riddled with basic errors. Asking him to do his job isn’t humiliation.” She stared at me, her eyes flashing with that familiar, weary condescension. It was her “you’re being dramatic again” look. “Your emotions are all over the place lately,” she said quietly. “You need to cool down.” When we got home, she pulled out her phone and tapped the screen a few times, right in front of me. My phone buzzed in my pocket almost instantly with a notification: Smart Lock Passcode Updated. “Stay inside and get some rest. Don’t go out,” she said, her voice dropping back into its soothing, maternal register. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.” She turned and walked out. I stood in the foyer, looking at the lock notification on my screen. She had locked me in with a gentle, “You need to cool down.” 3 She kept me locked inside for two days. The fridge was fully stocked, and the thermostat was set to a perfect seventy-two degrees. The fresh-cut flowers in the living room were immaculate, replaced by the housekeeper just before the lockdown. Everything was comfortable—a gilded cage, crafted down to the last detail. On the evening of the third day, the lock clicked. Kelly walked in, wearing a relaxed cashmere lounge set. “Feeling better?” she asked with the casual indulgence of a parent checking on a toddler who’d finished his tantrum. I sat on the couch, my old ginger cat, Rusty, curled up in my lap. “We have a dinner tonight with Gary and Mr. Henderson,” she said, setting a cup of chamomile tea beside me. “Wear the charcoal suit. You look incredibly handsome in it.” I knew exactly what the dinner was. It was a performance. She needed her trophy husband by her side to show our high-society friends that everything in our marriage was perfect. And if I refused, the door would lock again. I put on the suit. Dinner was at a private, members-only restaurant downtown. There were three other couples at our table. Mr. Henderson patted my shoulder, chuckling. “Kelly really dotes on you, Luke. I heard she won’t even let the firm send you on business trips because she misses you too much.” Kelly sat beside me, keeping my water glass filled, laughing off the wine offers on my behalf. Every movement was practiced, flawless. “He has a sensitive stomach, so please keep his courses light,” she told the server warmly. The other husbands looked at me with pure envy. None of them could see beneath the heavy linen tablecloth, where my hands were trembling. Because I had just caught a glimpse of her screen. She was actively texting Dylan. I set my fork down. “Are you alright?” she murmured, leaning in close. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” In the privacy of the marble stall, I pressed my forehead against the cool tile and closed my eyes. Then I pulled out my phone and dialed my old college mentor, Professor Kingsley. He had reached out last winter about an open regional director role in Chicago—a fresh start away from Kelly’s shadow. The call connected. “Professor, is that Chicago position still open?” “Luke? Yes, absolutely! Have you finally changed your mind? With your talent, you should have made this jump years ago. I’ll set up the interview for next week.” I hung up, taking a long, shuddering breath. When I returned to the table, Kelly suspected nothing. She was deep in conversation with Henderson about a new country club development. I sat there quietly and ate the rest of my meal. The next morning, a text from Professor Kingsley arrived: Luke, I’m sorry, but we have to cancel the interview. Your wife called the firm and politely declined on your behalf. She said your health isn’t up for a relocation. I stared at the screen, my fingertips turning numb. A second later, another notification came through from my bank: Your account ending in 3367 has been converted to a joint-authorization account. Any transaction exceeding $500 requires secondary approval. A text from Kelly popped up right beneath it: Sweetheart, have you been feeling stressed lately? Don’t exhaust yourself trying to change things. If you need anything, just ask me, okay? The tone was as tender as always—a velvet glove, slowly closing around my windpipe. Every exit route was blocked. I opened my contacts list and scrolled from top to bottom. Gary’s wife—Kelly’s golf partner. Mark—introduced by Kelly’s business partner. Every name was someone Kelly had vetted, curated, or handed to me over the last three years. In three years, she had systematically erased everyone from my life who wasn’t loyal to her. Rusty padded out of the bedroom, slowly brushing his warm flank against my ankle. He was old and frail now, with a tiny notch missing from the tip of his tail—a battle scar from a stray dog years ago. He was the last physical connection I had to my mother after she passed. I leaned down and scooped him up, burying my face in his soft, warm fur. “Hey, Rusty,” I whispered. “You’re the only one she couldn’t control.” He nudged my chin with his wet nose, letting out a soft, rattling purr. 4 2:17 AM. A strange sound woke me. It wasn’t Rusty’s usual lazy meow. It was a frantic, choking gasp—a desperate struggle for air that sounded like he was being strangled. I bolted upright in bed. He was collapsed on the hardwood floor beside his bed, his limbs stiffening. His mouth was wide open, his tongue tinged a terrifying shade of blue. His chest heaved violently, but no air was getting through. “Rusty!” I scrambled across the floor and pulled him into my arms. His small body was shaking uncontrollably. He was eleven years old, and his heart had been failing. The vet had warned me during his checkup last month that if he had another episode, every second counted. I had to get him to the 24-hour clinic immediately. The emergency clinic was only a ten-minute drive away. I cradled him against my chest and sprinted toward the front door. I threw my weight against the handle. It didn’t budge. I tried again, rattling it frantically. The lock’s digital screen glowed with a sterile, blue light: Security Mode Active. Administrator Authorization Required to Unlock. The administrator was Kelly. And she wasn’t home. I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking so hard I could barely type. I called her. First call. Six rings, then voicemail. Second call. Straight to voicemail. Third call. “The subscriber you are trying to reach is unavailable.” “Kelly!” I screamed at the dead line. “Unlock the door! Please, just unlock the door!” The automated voice coolly offered to record a message. I called the building’s security desk. “I’m sorry, sir,” the night guard said, his voice laced with practiced neutrality. “That’s a high-end private security system. We don’t have override codes for individual units. Only the primary account holder can unlock it remotely.” “I can’t reach her! My cat is dying! Can you please come up and break the door down?” “Sir, those are reinforced commercial steel doors. We don’t have the equipment to breach them without a locksmith, and that takes hours.” The phone slipped from my fingers. In my arms, Rusty’s tremors were beginning to slow. I sank onto the freezing tile of the foyer, holding him close. The stone chilled me right through my clothes. His eyes were glazed, half-open, his pupils dilated to the edge. He kept gasping, his mouth opening and closing like a fish stranded on dry sand. “Hang on, buddy. Please, just hang on a little longer…” I cupped my hand over his tiny chest, trying to press my warmth into his failing body. I could feel his heartbeat. Fainter. Slower. Like an old grandfather clock winding down its final, agonizing seconds. I tried everything. I threw myself against the door, but the reinforced steel didn’t even vibrate. I ran to the windows, but the double-paned ballistic glass was indestructible. She had insisted on it during the remodel, boasting about our safety. I pressed my forehead against the cold floor, cradling him. In the dark, a memory flashed through my mind with sickening clarity: Kelly, smiling, tracing the line of my jaw: “Everything in this house is the best money can buy, Luke. I built this to keep you safe.” Safe? She had built a prison. And now, her prison was suffocating the last piece of family I had left. Rusty let out one final, razor-thin whimper, a tiny sound that felt like he was calling my name. Then, his body went entirely limp. The frantic rising and falling of his chest stopped. I sat there in the dark, cradling that small, cooling bundle of fur. His eyes remained half-open. I gently closed them with my fingertips. I lost track of time. The darkness slowly dissolved into gray, then the pale, sterile white of morning. At exactly 6:00 AM, the lock gave a sharp, cheerful beep. The screen flashed: Security Mode Deactivated. Timer-Release: 06:00. A pre-set timer. Six in the morning. That was when my punishment was scheduled to end. Because I had been too cold to her during the day, she had pulled the lever. And the door opened at six because those were her rules. She was the architect. She calculated my tolerance down to the minute, assuming my obedience would remain intact. She just hadn’t factored the life of a cat into her equations. The latch clicked open. The warm hallway light spilled across the entryway. I looked down at Rusty. His body was stiff. I forced myself to stand, my legs entirely numb. I held him close and walked out of her apartment. 5 Kelly came home at 9:00 AM, carrying breakfast. Two oat milk lattes, a sourdough breakfast sandwich, and a small bundle of dried lavender she’d picked up from the bakery. “Sweetheart? You awake?” Silence met her. The living room was pristine. A throw blanket was folded neatly on the sofa; the coffee table was bare. The quiet was heavy, unnatural. She set the bags down and walked toward the bedroom. The bed was made. The closet lights were off. The bathroom door swung open to an empty room. She walked back to the kitchen and stopped at the dining table. Laying flat on the dark wood were my wedding band and a set of divorce papers. Every signature line was filled out. My handwriting was steady, showing no trace of hesitation. Beside them lay a small leather strap—Rusty’s collar. It was red, the leather worn at the edges, its tiny brass bell silent. Kelly stared at the three items for a long time. Then, she let out a dry, breathy laugh. “Another dramatic exit,” she muttered. She pulled out her phone to track my location. The signal was gone. She opened the home security app. Every camera feed was black. She checked the device manager. My phone, my watch, my tablet—all offline. She strode into the master bathroom and froze. At the bottom of the deep porcelain tub, submerged under inches of cold water, lay the phone she bought me, the platinum watch, my earbuds, and the sleek smart-tracker band she had insisted I wear. Her smile vanished. She began to dial. First, my number. The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Second, my closest friend, Zach. He answered on the second ring, his voice ice-cold. “What do you want, Kelly?” “Is Luke with you?” “Do you have any idea that Rusty is dead?” There was a sharp silence on the other end of the line. “…What?”

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Lola and I had been at each other’s throats for as long as I could remember. She said I was too pale, too soft—a pretty boy who didn’t belong in a fistfight. I told her she was a menace, a loudmouthed tomboy who didn’t know how to shut up. We traded insults for over a decade. Until senior year, when the new transfer kid confessed to her. She threw a sideways glance at me, smirked, and said, “Sorry, but you’re just not my type.” The crowd of classmates started chanting, “Oh, come on! Let me guess—you only have eyes for guys like Dan?” Lola let out a soft, lazy laugh, leaning back. “Yeah, actually. I like them with a bit of muscle, a bit of an edge. What of it?” Later, we went to college together, got married, and spent a lifetime bickering. Just before she passed away in that sterile hospital bed, she held my hand, laughing like a little girl. “Look at you. Still so scrawny, and your cooking is still terrible. Next time around, I’m definitely finding myself a handsome, built guy.” With tears burning my eyes, I gave her shoulder a gentle nudge. “Fine. Go find your muscle man. I’ll find someone who actually lets me live in peace.” Then I opened my eyes. And I was right back to the day the transfer kid confessed to her. “Lola, I… I really like you. Would you give me a chance?” Lola raised her eyes, spared me a brief, unreadable glance, and looked away. A slow smile curved her lips. “Sure. Let’s give it a shot.” 1 Zack’s eyes went wide, instantly shiny with disbelief. “Really… seriously?” Lola gave a careless shrug. “Yeah. You’ve got great abs, you’re handsome. Definitely my type.” I clenched my fists in my pockets, my fingers trembling. The crowd around us erupted. “Whoa, Lola! You actually like guys like Zack? We all thought you and Dan were a thing.” Lola lazily raised her eyelids, her lips twitching with amusement. “Who’d want him? He’s like a pretty boy. Too soft, too fragile.” The classroom exploded into laughter. “Dan’s good-looking, sure, but there’s nothing to him. No meat on those bones.” “Exactly. Girls want a real man. Someone strong.” I stood there frozen, the air turning to ice in my lungs. In my last life, at this exact moment, Lola had turned Zack down. Right in front of everyone, she had declared her feelings for me. My teenage heart had pounded so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. That night, I tossed and turned under my covers, unable to sleep a single wink. The next morning, when I dragged my feet downstairs with dark circles under my eyes, Lola was already waiting by the porch. She had looked me up and down, clicking her tongue. “Did you spend all night robbing banks, Dan?” I had snapped at her, and she had just laughed. After graduation, she was the one who asked me out properly. “You might be scrawny, but I guess you’ll do. Want to be my boyfriend?” I playfully punched her arm. “Who’d want to be your boyfriend?” She had clutched her shoulder, laughing, calling me a stubborn idiot who could never just admit what he wanted. Then college. Walking through autumn rain, kissing under the streetlights. Marriage right after graduation. A son, a daughter. Decades of beautiful, noisy, chaotic bickering. Once, we had a cold war that lasted a whole month. Everyone thought we were done. But Lola would just snap at them, “What do you know? This is foreplay.” And then she’d turn to me, grinning, “Right, honey?” Even on her deathbed, she was still teasing me, telling me she’d find a strong, handsome man in her next life. I thought she was just trying to get a rise out of me one last time. I didn’t realize she actually meant it. I pulled myself out of the wreckage of my memories. Looking at Lola, I forced my voice to remain steady. “…As if anyone would want to date you anyway. Loudmouthed tomboy.” Then I turned on the rest of them. “And you guys? Half of you look like bloated pigs and the other half like starved monkeys. You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about anyone else’s body. Go look in a mirror before you open your mouths.” Without waiting for a response, I turned and walked out of the classroom. 2 If I stayed another second, the tears would have spilled over. In the bathroom, I splashed freezing water onto my face over and over again. The cold droplets rolled down my jaw, soaking into my collar, freezing against my collarbone. I stared at the eighteen-year-old reflection in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, raw. This wasn’t a dream. Lola and I had both come back. Only this time, she had decided I wasn’t worth choosing. When I walked back into the classroom, Zack was sitting in my seat next to Lola, looking entirely too comfortable. I stopped by the desk, my voice cold. “Move.” He bit his lip, casting a helpless look at Lola. “But… Lola told me to sit here.” Right on cue, Lola walked in, holding her insulated thermos. “I told him to sit there. He’s my boyfriend now, so of course he sits next to me.” She pointed toward Zack’s old desk near the back. “Go sit over there.” When the teacher had first assigned seats, she was the one who had begged to sit next to me. She’d said, “You’re too small, Dan. Someone’s gonna bully you. I’m here to protect you.” I didn’t say a word. I grabbed my backpack from my old desk, and under the stunned gazes of our classmates, I walked straight to the very back row. “What is he doing? Is Dan going to sit with Maeve?” “Even if he wants to, there’s no way Maeve is going to let him.” Lola’s brow furrowed, her eyes following me. I tapped on the wooden desk in the back corner. The girl buried in her arms slowly blinked her eyes open, looking up at me. Her gaze was detached, cold, carrying a faint trace of annoyance at being disturbed. “Can I sit here?” I asked. She stared at me for a beat, then closed her eyes again, turning her face away. I pulled out the chair and sat down. The whispers around the room didn’t stop until the bell finally rang, plunging us into a tense silence. I opened my textbook, but my mind was a chaotic mess. My eyes kept drifting toward Lola. She was resting her chin on her left hand, her gaze locked onto the side of Zack’s face. A soft, contented smile played on her lips. She used to look at me just like that during lectures. She’d say, “You know when you’re the most adorable, Dan? When you’re actually paying attention to the teacher.” After we got together, the look remained. “Dan, you’re so pretty. I just want to kiss you.” And after we got married: “Husband, I want to be with you in this life, the next life, and every life after that.” Suddenly, a packet of tissues appeared on my desk. I looked down, only to realize a dark, wet circle had bloomed on the page of my textbook. Maeve had already pulled her hand back, leaning lazily against her chair, looking straight ahead as if she hadn’t done a thing. Her voice was a low, dry murmur. “If anyone walks in, they’re going to think I bullied you.” Two lifetimes added up to nearly a century of living, yet here I was, crying like a baby in front of an eighteen-year-old girl. The grief was quickly swallowed by a wave of pure mortification. I wanted nothing more than to sink through the floorboards. When the final bell rang at the end of the day, Lola walked over, carrying Zack’s backpack over her shoulder. Her tone was casual, almost indifferent. “Go on home without me. I’m walking with Zack today.” She took two steps, then paused, looking back. “And don’t you dare tell my parents I’m dating someone.” She turned back to Zack, her face lighting up with an effortless smile. “Come on, I’ll take you to get those amazing churros down the street.” Lola loved those churros. In our past life, she dragged me there every single afternoon. But now, she had someone else to share them with. I had spent the entire afternoon drowning in misery, but as I watched them walk away, something clicked. I understood now. Even if she had loved me fiercely in another life, that was a past that no longer existed here. I needed to let go. I needed to move forward. 3 I turned to my aloof new deskmate. “Hey. Want to get some hot pot? I know this place that makes the most incredible, numbing broth.” Maeve gave me a look like I had sprouted a second head. She swung her backpack over her shoulder and slipped past me, throwing a chilly line over her shoulder. “Are we friends?” Brutally rejected, I walked out of the school gates alone. The silence was jarring. Since kindergarten, the walk home had always been a shared routine. In college, I walked her back to her dorm every single night. When we got married, I’d leave work early just to wait outside her office so we could commute together. How could someone who loved me that deeply suddenly flip a switch and become a stranger? The frustration flared up, hot and sharp. I kicked a loose pebble on the sidewalk, sending it flying. “Selfish jerk!” I muttered. The pebble soared through the air and struck the back of a head a few yards in front of me. The person stopped dead in their tracks and slowly turned around. My stomach dropped. Maeve’s eyes were like chips of ice as she stared at me. “Who are you calling a selfish jerk?” My brain scrambled for an escape route. I pointed quickly at a stray golden retriever lounging by the brick wall. “The dog. I was talking to the dog.” The retriever blinked at us innocently, giving its tail a lazy wag. Maeve’s lips curved into a cold, dangerous smile. “You talk to dogs with rocks?” “…It was a slip of the foot. I didn’t mean to.” She walked back, stopping right in front of me. Her voice dropped to a quiet, threatening register. “Dan. Were you throwing that at me?” I waved my hands frantically. “No, no! I swear! I was cursing out Lola. Really.” Maeve went quiet for a moment, her eyes searching mine with a strange, unreadable intensity. “Why were you cursing her out?” “Because she’s… a selfish jerk.” Maeve arched an eyebrow. “So. Lola dumps you, you call her a selfish jerk, and I get a rock to the head?” I choked on my words. From an outsider’s perspective, I had indeed been dumped. When I first realized I had traveled back in time, I wanted to scream with joy. I thought I was getting a whole second lifetime to love her. Who could have guessed she’d be off eating churros with her new muscle-bound boyfriend? I took a deep breath. “What do you mean she dumped me? We were never even together. Besides, a girl like her—someone who forgets her promises, who betrays our… our friendship—she’s not worth my time anyway.” A small, unexpected chuckle escaped Maeve’s lips. “Right. Well, you still owe me an apology.” I hung my head. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you. Do you need to go to the nurse?” “No.” She turned to walk away. On some bizarre impulse, I called out after her. “Let me buy you dinner to make up for it. That hot pot place really is amazing.” She stopped. She didn’t turn around, but her cool voice drifted back to me. “Lead the way.” After sweating through a bowl of ridiculously spicy hot pot, I dragged Maeve to a street cart for fried chicken and skewers. The heavy weight in my chest finally began to lift, dissolved by the simple comfort of grease and spices. When I finally walked into my apartment courtyard, the first thing I saw was Lola sitting on a concrete bench. Beside her was a grease-stained paper bag of cold churros. Seeing me, she stood up, her face instantly souring. “Dan, did you lose your way? Why did it take you so long to get home?” I rolled my eyes and walked right past her. As our shoulders brushed, I said casually, “I was out having dinner with Maeve. Lost track of time.” A hand gripped my backpack strap, jerking me to a halt. Lola’s voice exploded behind me, raw with anger. “What did you just say? You had dinner with Maeve?” She spun me around, her eyes wide with sheer disbelief. 4 “You don’t even know her! Why the hell are you having dinner with her?” I yanked my strap out of her grip, my voice flat. “None of your business.” “None of my business?” Lola let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Dan, are you losing your mind?” “Since when is anything you do not my business? In preschool, you didn’t even know how to wipe your own butt, and I had to do it for you! In first grade, you lost a fight and cried, and I went back and punched the kid for you!” She rattled off a dozen childhood memories, her chest heaving. Watching her work herself into a frenzy, I felt a sudden, strange urge to laugh. “Who I eat dinner with is my choice. You and I are just neighbors, Lola. Lose the possessiveness.” “If you’ve got this much free time, go call your handsome boyfriend with the abs.” Lola ground her teeth. “Dan, you are unbelievable. You’re just doing this to get back at me. I only said yes to Zack because—” “I know,” I interrupted. “Because he has a six-pack.” I looked her straight in the eye. “And I went out with Maeve because she’s gorgeous. It’s nice to walk next to someone who actually looks good. Plus, she’s quiet. She doesn’t have a temper like a rabid dog.” Lola’s face went dark, practically purple with rage. I ignored her, turned around, and walked into my building. But the moment the heavy glass door clicked shut behind me, the tears broke. Large, hot drops spilled over my cheeks. It was so damn hard to let go. The next morning, the moment I walked into the classroom, I found a hot cup of sweetened soy milk and a breakfast sandwich sitting on my desk. It was my exact order—extra sweet, light on the ice. Zack was standing by the edge of my desk, offering a timid, polite smile. “Hey, Dan. Lola bought too much breakfast this morning, so she wanted you to have this.” Before I could even open my mouth, Lola’s voice drifted over from the desk behind him. “Zack, why are you wasting your breath? Just leave it there. If he wants to starve, let him.” She walked over, popped a straw into another cup of soy milk, and held it to Zack’s lips. Her eyes were warm, almost sickly sweet. “Drink this one. I added extra sugar. Sweet, just like you.” Zack blushed furiously as he took the cup, and a few classmates nearby started whistling. “Damn, Lola, since when did you become such a romantic?” “Seriously, I didn’t know you had it in you.” Lola smirked, her eyes casting a deliberate, sliding glance in my direction. “Depends on who I’m talking to.” I picked up the sandwich and the soy milk, walked over to the trash can, and dropped them inside with a heavy thud. Lola’s smug smile instantly froze on her face. At lunchtime, the moment I sat down at a cafeteria table with my tray, two people slid into the seats directly opposite me. Lola was clinging to Zack’s arm like a vine. She began picking the prime pieces of ribs from her tray and dropping them into his bowl, her voice practically dripping with artificial sweetness. “Eat up, babe. You need to keep those muscles fed.” Zack blushed, shaking his head. “It’s too much, Lola. I can’t finish all this.” Lola laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair. “If you can’t finish, I’ll eat your leftovers. It’s not like we haven’t shared food before.” The surrounding tables went quiet, several heads turning our way. “Whoa, Lola, moving fast, aren’t we?” “Seriously, get a room, you two.” My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles turned white. In our past life, Lola loved eating my leftovers. I was a notoriously picky eater, and she’d always lecture me about wasting food. She would complain the entire time, but she’d pull my plate over and polish off every single bite. I lowered my head, forcing spoonfuls of rice into my mouth, chewing desperately to swallow down the bitter lump in my throat. Lola suddenly looked up at me, her tone dripping with mock pity. “Dan, why are you eating all by yourself? Where’s your pretty new deskmate? Did she dump you already?” “None of your business,” I muttered, keeping my eyes on my tray. “Oof, still so touchy,” she mocked. She turned to Zack, her voice loud enough for the whole row to hear. “See? I told you he’s got a miserable temper. He doesn’t have a fraction of your sweetness.” As the words left her mouth, a tray slid onto the table right across from me. Maeve sat down, completely ignoring the tension in the air. She picked up her fork and began to eat her vegetables, chewing slowly and methodically. Her shoulders were broad enough that she completely blocked my view of Lola’s face. From behind her, I heard a sharp clatter of plastic. “I’m done. This place is giving me a headache,” Lola snapped. She grabbed her tray and marched off, Zack scrambling to catch up with her. The remaining students in the cafeteria stared. I finished my meal in silence, then looked up at Maeve. “Thanks.” She wiped her mouth with a napkin, her expression as blank as ever. “You owe me a meal.” “…Didn’t I just buy you hot pot yesterday?” “One meal replaces another. It’s a clean slate.” I stared at her, temporarily speechless. Who calculated debts like this? But looking at her, I realized she had just saved me from a massive amount of public embarrassment. “Fine. I’ll buy you dinner another day.” She stood up, throwing a final line over her shoulder. “Don’t flake on me.” That afternoon, I ran into Lola by the school gates. She was leaning against the concrete wall alone, holding a bottle of water. When she saw me, she straightened up. “Dan.” I didn’t stop walking. She caught up in three quick strides, stepping directly into my path. “What?” I asked, exasperated. She looked down at me, her throat bobbing as if she wanted to say a hundred things, but only one sentence came out. “Why aren’t you taking the bus today?” “I feel like walking. Good exercise.” “Then I’ll walk with you.” “No thanks. Go walk your boyfriend home.” She winced, looking away. “He had to leave early today. Family stuff.” I didn’t reply. I just kept walking. She fell into step beside me, unable to keep quiet for more than three seconds. “Since when did you and Maeve get so close? You’ve only been sitting together for two days, and suddenly you know she’s ‘quiet’ and ‘sweet’? And now you’re eating lunch together?” Her voice was taking on a frantic, high-pitched edge. “Dan, don’t tell me you actually like her? She’s not your type at all. She’s impossible to get along with. She walks around looking like the whole world owes her a million dollars…” I stopped so abruptly that she nearly crashed into my chest. “Lola. What is your point?”

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During our three years of marriage, Caroline spent nearly half her nights at the apartment across the river. She told me that because her older sister had passed away early, leaving Jared entirely alone, she had a duty as a sister-in-law to look after him. She called it the Grayson family’s deep sense of loyalty. Back then, I was foolish enough to believe her. To preserve her dignity and respect her sense of obligation, I endured her absence on holidays, tolerated our Thanksgiving dinners being cut in half, and even swallowed the quiet mockery of outsiders who whispered that I was a weak, accommodating husband—a man sharing his wife. Yet, whenever she spoke to me, her tone was always gentle but distant, like a glass wall. Until the day of the multi-car pileup, when all three of our cars were crushed into scrap metal. I was clutching my right leg, where the stitches had only recently been removed. Cold sweat drenched my clothes as I clawed at the shattered window. “Caroline, please, help me…” She managed to crawl out of the driver’s seat. Her eyes swept over my blood-soaked leg. But she turned away, wrenching open the back door instead. She pulled Jared—who had nothing but a minor scratch on his forehead—tightly against her chest. “Don’t look, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you.” She patted his back, soothing his panic over and over. While my door, warped and crushed, remained locked tight. She wasn’t fulfilling a sacred familial duty. She just couldn’t bear to see him suffer a single scratch. 1 The ambulance arrived, sirens blaring. The firefighters used hydraulic shears to cut through the door trapping me. I looked down beneath my seat. It was a pool of my own blood. A sharp, throbbing agony radiated through my right leg. I held it tightly with both hands. Seven months of agonizing physical therapy—all my hard work was riding on this leg, and I didn’t even know if I would ever move it again. I went limp as they hoisted me onto the stretcher. The paramedic pressed an oxygen mask over my face and shouted into the chaos outside: “Where is the family? What’s the patient’s history? Do you have his rehab records?” Caroline was leaning over, gently dabbing at a tiny scratch, barely an inch long, on Jared’s forehead with a tissue. The paramedic shouted again. Caroline glanced over her shoulder at me, her lips parting. “He’s… he’s been in rehab for seven months. Beyond that, I don’t really know.” She didn’t really know. Every time I came back from a checkup, I filed the progress reports in the second drawer of the study. She had never opened it. Yet she knew exactly which medications Jared was allergic to, which of his knees had the old injury, and precisely how many minutes to steep his herbal tea. As the stretcher rolled away, I turned my head to look at her. She didn’t follow. Jared gripped her arm, trembling against her shoulder. She lowered her head, resting her hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t look over there. You’re safe. Just close your eyes, I’m here.” Before the ambulance doors slammed shut, I saw her helping Jared into another vehicle. I was rushed straight into surgery the moment I arrived at the hospital. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, but tears leaked from the edges of my mask, hot and silent. A nurse banged on the operating room door. “We need a family signature! Consent form for emergency nerve repair. Is there anyone here?” The door swung open. Caroline walked in. Her hand shook as she signed her name on the bottom line. I thought she would step closer to me. But the moment the pen left the paper, she pulled out her phone to answer a call. She lowered her voice, but I heard every word. “Don’t worry, Jared. The scans will be ready soon. I had Oliver go with you. I’ll be there as soon as I sign this.” The anesthesia flooded my veins, dragging me into the dark. I had no idea how long the surgery lasted. When I finally woke up, it was the middle of the night. Oliver was slumped over the edge of my bed, his eyes red and swollen. My first words were, “My leg… how is it?” He didn’t answer. I looked at his face, and I closed my eyes. Outside the door, my mother-in-law’s hushed voice carried through the crack. “Jared, sweetheart, don’t blame yourself. Caroline has handled everything. Go home and get some sleep. Your health comes first…” Nobody mentioned my right leg. It was as if those seven months of grueling, agonizing physical therapy had never existed. Caroline came in later, just once. She stood at the foot of my bed, silent for a long time. Then she spoke: “I asked the rehab center to keep your spot. Just focus on healing.” She didn’t say she was sorry. She didn’t mention that my right leg was permanently damaged. I said nothing. The next day, Oliver showed me a photo taken by a passing car’s dashcam. In the first photo, Caroline stood by my side of the car, her hand resting on the warped metal frame. In the second photo, she had already turned toward the backseat, pulling open Jared’s door. I stared at the printout, my thumb pressing hard against the paper. It wasn’t a matter of running out of time. She had simply made her choice. I turned the photo face down on the hospital bed, placing my hand over my numb, useless leg. My eyes were dry, burning with a pain too deep for tears. Outside, someone whispered that Jared had been severely traumatized. I closed my eyes and turned my face toward the shadow. That night, for the first time, I didn’t wait for Caroline to come back. 2 On the day I was discharged, Caroline came to pick me up. She opened the passenger door, her hand hovering gently behind my back in a show of tender care. I didn’t speak the entire ride. When we reached our building, she got out to grab the luggage. I limped into the living room and noticed a brown medicine organizer on the coffee table. A man’s cashmere shawl—not mine—draped over the arm of the sofa. Beside the TV stand stood a framed black-and-white portrait of Caroline’s late sister, Catherine. I froze at the entrance. Behind me, Caroline paused as she kicked off her shoes. “Jared hasn’t been doing well. He’s having night terrors and can’t be left alone. I told him he could stay here for a few days, just until he stabilizes.” I didn’t reply. I walked straight toward the master bedroom. Pushing open the cracked door, I saw Jared sitting on the edge of my bed, sorting small pill bottles. He was wearing my slippers. Seeing me, he immediately stood up. “Jude, you’re back.” His voice was soft, fragile. “I’m just… I’m terrified of the dark, and I couldn’t handle being alone. Caroline said I could stay here for a couple of days. I’ll leave as soon as I’m a bit better. I won’t be a burden.” I looked down at the slippers on his feet. They were the slip-resistant ones I bought after my accident. Caroline had spent hours helping me choose them. I turned to Caroline. “He’s staying in the master bedroom?” Caroline leaned against the doorframe, a strained, conflicted look on her face. “He had a panic attack the other night and fell. No one found him until morning. The master bedroom is closer to the living room. It’s easier to keep an ear out.” “You can take the study for now. I’ve already made up the daybed for you.” A heavy knot tightened in my throat. There was so much I wanted to say, but not a single word came out. Not because I was afraid, but because in that exact moment, I realized my place in this home could be packed up and moved at her convenience. At dinner, Jared sat at the table, ladling soup for Caroline. He glanced up at me, then quickly lowered his gaze. “Jude, I know you just got out of the hospital, and I shouldn’t be intruding. But Caroline is Catherine’s only sister. If she turns her back on me, I truly have no one left to lean on.” Caroline placed a piece of chicken in my bowl. “Jude, it hasn’t been easy for Jared. Just focus on your recovery. I’ll handle the rest. I won’t let you down.” I stared at the food in my bowl. After dinner, I walked down the hall to my physical therapy room. The moment I pushed the door open, I knew something was wrong. The bins on the windowsill that held my knee braces and resistance bands were gone. In their place stood a wooden easel and several boxes of oil paints. An index card hung from the easel, written in elegant script: Art Therapy for Emotional Healing. I stood in the doorway, staring at the easel, as the knot in my throat finally dissolved into cold clarity. I turned around. Caroline was standing in the hallway. She spoke first. “Jared’s therapist suggested art therapy to manage his anxiety, and we don’t have any other spare rooms…” I cut her off. “This is my rehabilitation room.” She hesitated. “Jude, I packed your rehab gear away. I didn’t throw it out. Please don’t upset yourself, you’re still recovering. Once Jared moves back, I’ll put everything back exactly how it was.” I didn’t have the energy to fight her. I just suddenly wanted to know where my hope of walking properly had been stashed. In the middle of the night, I limped over to the storage closet and opened the door. My therapy table and heating units were nowhere to be found. The training clothes I had folded so carefully were gone too. Only a few label stickers lay at the bottom of an empty cardboard box. The housekeeper crept up behind me. “Sir… those things… Mrs. Grayson said keeping them around would only make you sad about your leg. She had them sent to the charity auction run by Mr. Jared’s foundation.” I bent down to pick up a label from the bottom of the box. On it, I had written my weekly milestones and expected recovery dates. I stared at it for a long time, then folded the paper and squeezed it tightly in my fist. In this house, even the physical proof of my struggle to heal had to be cleared out for him. I closed the closet door. The click of the latch was quiet. But as it snapped shut, something inside me locked away forever. 3 On the day of my follow-up appointment, Caroline said something urgent had come up at the office and sent the driver to take me. I registered, waited in line, got my scans, and waited for the report entirely alone. The doctor frowned as he flipped through my chart. “The nerve recovery isn’t looking good. There’s no improvement in the damaged tissue. You need to take your medication on schedule, avoid physical strain, and keep your stress levels down.” He looked up. “Where is your spouse? Why did you come alone?” “She’s busy,” I said. The doctor gave me a long look but didn’t press further. When I got back, Caroline was sitting in the living room. She stood up and took the folder from my hand. “What did the doctor say?” “Still recovering,” I replied. She nodded, relieved. Then she said something that made me freeze in my tracks. “Jude, let’s keep the news about your permanent limp quiet for now. Jared has been extremely unstable lately. Hearing about permanent injuries might trigger his PTSD from the accident. Please, try to be understanding.” I stood in the entryway, my coat still half-on. “You want me to hide it?” “Not hide it,” she said quickly. “Just… don’t make it public yet. We can talk about it once Jared is doing better.” I stared at her. Her expression was entirely earnest, pleading. It was a face I knew all too well. Every time she wanted me to compromise, she looked at me exactly like this. The next day, my mother-in-law called. “Jude, Caroline told me. Don’t think I’m being heartless, dear. You’re still young, you can take your time to heal.” “But Jared can’t. He already lost Catherine. Any more shock might break him completely.” “I’ve changed the reservation for your recovery dinner. We’re turning it into a three-year memorial dinner for Catherine instead. All the relatives have been notified. I’m sure you don’t mind.” I sat in the dim study, holding the phone. That recovery dinner was something Caroline and I had booked together four months into my therapy. I had picked out the menu. I had written the guest list. The table cards were supposed to say Celebrating a New Beginning. Now, it had been handed over to celebrate someone else’s grief. I cleared my throat. “Martha, even if my leg is ruined, I fought hard for it. I want to keep a small commemorative plaque. Nothing big. Just something to put on my desk.” The line went dead silent for a few seconds. “Jude, Jared is living with you. If you put that out, what happens if he sees it?” After I hung up, I sat in the darkness of the study as the sun sank below the horizon. I remembered telling Oliver once that Caroline was just weighed down by her family duty, but that she loved me. Yet now, even the memory of my recovery wasn’t allowed to exist in our home. On the night of the memorial dinner, I was seated at the very end of the long table. The entire room was reminiscing about Catherine. Jared sat right next to the head of the table, basking in the attention of the family. People patted his hand, piled food onto his plate, and sighed over how tragic it was for him to be a young widower. No one mentioned my leg. A distant uncle whispered to the person next to him: “Why does Caroline’s husband look so miserable? He’s so young, yet he sits there with a sour face. Doesn’t he know how much this family has been through?” My hand tightened around my water glass. Suddenly, Jared swayed, gripping the edge of the table. The entire room stood up in a panic. My mother-in-law was the first to reach him. “Jared! What is it? Are you feeling dizzy again?” Caroline rushed around the table, kneeling by his side. The uncle turned to me, raising his voice so the table could hear. “Did someone say something to upset him? Jared has been so fragile. How can anyone be so insensitive?” I knew he was looking at me. I didn’t get up. I realized then that no matter what I did, everyone in this room would find a way to blame Jared’s collapse on me. When we got home that night, I didn’t wait up for Caroline. I logged into my online banking and pulled up three years of joint account statements. Then I drove to the hospital to print the billing records from the night of the crash. On the night of the accident, Caroline had paid for Jared’s full battery of scans and a private room first. Her payment went through forty-seven minutes before I was wheeled into surgery. And the receipt for my surgical deposit bore Oliver’s name. I stacked the papers neatly and slid them into my briefcase. I remembered all the times I had made excuses for her. She was just too loyal. She was caught in the middle. She was forced into this position by the Grayson family. But looking at those receipts, the excuses ran dry. I slowly stood up. My right leg throbbed with a dull, aching pain. But more than the physical ache, I felt a clean, sharp crack open in my chest. The cold wind rushed in, and for the first time in three years, I was wide awake. 4 I went searching for my commemorative silver pendant. I had ordered it secretly—a palm-sized piece engraved with a butterfly breaking from a cocoon and the date my doctor predicted I’d throw away my crutches. I had locked it in my study drawer. I was the only one with the key. When I pulled the drawer open, it was empty. I asked the housekeeper. She shook her head, avoiding my eyes. I searched the entire house and finally found it in a recycling bag next to the trash bin. The silver was dented and deeply scratched, the engraving ruined. Jared walked into the study, stopping when he saw me kneeling on the floor, holding the damaged metal. “Jude… about the pendant. I didn’t mean to.” “I was tidying up the study and accidentally bumped the drawer. My hand slipped, and it just…” I spoke quietly. “The drawer was locked.” He hesitated. “Maybe the housekeeper forgot to lock it after cleaning. Jude, I really didn’t do it on purpose. I saw the dates engraved on it and felt so guilty about my own survival that my hands started shaking…” His eyes welled with tears. My mother-in-law marched into the room, grabbing Jared’s arm. “Jared, sweetheart, don’t cry. It’s just a piece of metal. Jude, your brother-in-law is fragile. Why must you keep these things out in the open? You know how much it hurts him to see them.” I remained on the floor, the cold metal edges biting into my palm. “Martha, this drawer was locked.” Martha’s brow furrowed. “What are you trying to say? Are you accusing Jared of breaking into your desk to ruin your things?” Jared took a step back, wiping his face. “Jude, if you don’t believe me… fine. It doesn’t matter what I say. You’ll always find a way to make it my fault.” He turned and hurried out of the room. Martha’s voice turned ice-cold. “Jude, you cannot take your anger about your leg out on Jared. He lost far more than you did.” By the time Caroline came home, Martha had already taken Jared back to the Grayson family estate. She stared at the damaged silver pendant on the coffee table. “Jude.” “I know you’re hurt. But Jared’s mental state is incredibly fragile. If he did this, it truly wasn’t malicious.” I didn’t look up. She reached out and covered my hand with hers. “I’ll have a new one made for you. Exactly the same. Okay? Whatever words you want, we’ll go together to get it engraved. I promise I won’t let Jared touch your things again.” She was placating me, just like she always did. And just like always, she expected me to yield. But this time, I didn’t. I pulled my hand back, stood up, and went into the study. I laid out three years of bank statements on the desk, organized chronologically. The HOA fees for the apartment across the river, Jared’s therapy bills, his private nurses, the personal debts of his mother’s family—all paid out of our joint marital account. Next, I pulled out the hospital billing records, the edited guest list for the memorial dinner, and the donation receipt for my physical therapy equipment. I slid everything into a single leather folder. The next morning, I had Oliver schedule an emergency family meeting. Martha sat at the head of the table, with Caroline beside her. Jared, his eyes red and puffy, sat across from them. I laid the folder on the table and opened the first page. “Over the past three years, the total amount of marital assets spent on Jared’s personal lifestyle and expenses comes to one hundred and ninety-two thousand dollars.” “That includes his rent, private nursing, therapy, and his mother’s family debts.” I turned to the second page. “These are the hospital billing records from the night of the crash. Jared’s private room and scans were paid for before I even entered the operating room. My own surgical deposit had to be paid by Oliver.” Third page. “My physical therapy equipment was donated without my consent. The charity receipt is made out directly to Jared’s personal foundation.” Fourth page. “The original draft for my recovery dinner. My name was crossed out, replaced with Catherine’s three-year memorial.” The room fell into a suffocating silence. Jared’s lips trembled. Martha’s face flushed with anger and embarrassment. Caroline stared at the documents, completely still. Jared was the first to break the silence, his voice cracking. “Jude, that money… when Catherine passed, her insurance hadn’t cleared yet. I truly had no other way to survive…” I looked him dead in the eye. “Jared, you were the sole beneficiary of Catherine’s life insurance. The policy paid out five hundred thousand dollars. It cleared three months after her death.” Jared turned white as a sheet. I kept going. “You weren’t broke, and you weren’t helpless. You just didn’t want to spend your own money.” Martha’s fingers gripped the armrests of her chair. Caroline closed her eyes. Jared stood up, sobbing, and ran out of the room, covering his face. After the family scattered, Caroline remained in the living room. I went back to our bedroom to pack my medical files, my marriage certificate, my bank statements, and the deed to the house. I pulled out my permanent disability diagnosis from the back of the drawer. I tucked it into my file folder. I heard the front door lock click open. Caroline walked in, helping Jared inside. Jared was draped in her coat, clutching a silver charm in his hand. It was the silver pendant. The one with my hope for recovery written on the back. My eyes locked onto it. And the thread that had kept me bound to this marriage for three years snapped. Caroline saw where I was looking, and her face fell. Jared instinctively tried to tuck the pendant into his sleeve. Caroline took a step forward. “Jude, listen to me—” I cut her off. “Caroline.” She froze. I placed the signed divorce papers on the entryway table and pulled my suitcase past her. I stopped at the threshold. “Don’t bother explaining.” “From now on, let’s not see each other again.” I closed the door behind me and walked toward the elevator.

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After the college reunion ended, the venue locked us in. A state-of-the-art “Equilibrium Protocol” had taken over the building. The rules were simple, yet absolute: only couples with genuine, reciprocal love could unlock the doors by interlocking their fingers. One by one, under the pressure of the locked room, secret crushes confessed, old sparks reignited, and classmates walked out safe. I didn’t move. Neither did Nicola. We had been together in secret for seven years, and I knew her rules. I understood her caution. So, I quietly waited by her side. Until only four of us were left in the suffocating room. I thought the hiding was finally over. I took a deep, relieved breath and reached my hand out to her. But Nicola didn’t even look at my hand. Instead, she stepped right past me and grabbed Simon, who was shaking in the corner. “Biometric verification successful. True love match confirmed. Doors unlocked.” The automated voice echoed through the speaker. My hand froze in midair. Nicola didn’t look back. She just threw a hasty promise over her shoulder: “Just wait for me here, okay? I’ll find a way to get you out as soon as I’m free!” The heavy steel doors slammed shut. I watched the silhouette of her back, shielding Simon as she hurried out. Seven years. Seven years of late nights, shared dreams, and quiet devotion. And yet, the system didn’t recognize me as her true love. But she didn’t know one crucial detail. A few days later, when she brought a rescue crew to pry the doors open… I had already walked out of that room, my fingers tightly locked with my fiercest rival. 1 When we first realized the exit protocol was active, panic swept the VIP lounge. I sat in the corner, my eyes instinctively drifting toward Nicola on the other end of the sectional. She didn’t look back. She was leaning against the leather, lazily spinning the delicate silver chain on her wrist. Loop after loop. Her face was a mask of cool composure. My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Nicola: Wait. Keep your distance. I replied: Okay. On our second day of dating, seven years ago, she had begged me to keep us a secret. “The firm is just getting off the ground, Zack,” she had pleaded, her eyes wide and anxious. “Investors don’t like partners with emotional baggage or distractions. Please.” So I agreed. For seven years, I became an expert at acting like a stranger in public. Couples kept matching and leaving. When there were only eight of us left, someone gestured toward us. “Hey, Nicola, Zack—you guys are both single, right? Why don’t you give it a shot?” My heart leaped. The crowd was small enough now. Even if we triggered the system, it wouldn’t matter. I looked at Nicola, ready to step forward. Before I could say a word, Nicola let go of her bracelet and laughed lightly. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re just old classmates. I wouldn’t want to take advantage of a handsome guy like Zack.” Her tone was casual, laced with a polite but chilling distance. The others Profile laughed, moving on. A familiar, dull ache bloomed in my chest, quickly fading into a numb acceptance. I was used to this. Nicola never, under any circumstances, showed any hint of affection in public. But then the doors kept opening and closing until only four remained. Me. Nicola. Simon Thatcher—who was curled up, looking terrified. And Maeve Harrington, sitting in the deepest shadow of the room. She had always been quiet, intense, and she hadn’t said a single word all night. But I was tired of waiting. I stood up and walked toward Nicola. I wanted to go home. I reached my hand out to her. But without warning, Nicola bypassed my outstretched fingers. She grabbed Simon’s trembling, tightly clasped hands. Before I could comprehend what was happening, the doors slid open. They crossed the threshold of the love-bound prison. The lounge wasn’t soundproof. Through the heavy wood, I could hear the immediate cheers of our classmates waiting outside. “I knew it! I knew you two were together! We were stressing out for you—the system only unlocks for real love!” “Damn, Nicola, you hid it well. But honestly, even back in college, you always treated Simon differently.” “Right? Remember sophomore year when those guys were bullying Simon, and then suddenly they stopped bothering him entirely? We thought they just found a conscience, but Tyler got drunk last month and let slip that Nicola took a baseball bat and some guys to the back alley to ‘educate’ them.” I slowly lowered my hand. My fingers were shaking so violently I had to tuck them into my pockets. Sophomore year. I remembered the night Nicola came back to our shared apartment with a split lip and scraped knuckles. I had panicked, running to the 24-hour Walgreens at two in the morning to buy antiseptic and bandages. She had pulled me into her lap, kissing my hair, and said softly: “You told me those guys were giving you trouble, right? I saw them today, and I couldn’t just stand by.” I had cried, my heart aching for her, and spent the next week waking up early to cook her favorite meals to help her heal. She hadn’t been fighting for me. She had been playing guardian angel for Simon. And that devotion had lasted seven years, culminating in a biometric system declaring them soulmates. My brain felt entirely hollow, ringing with a single question: What was I to her? 2 My phone buzzed with an incoming text from Nicola: Be good. Wait for me. I had heard those words for seven years. When I wanted to make us official, she told me to wait. When my parents wanted to meet the woman I was building a life with, she told me to wait. Now, she had walked out with her true love, and she still expected me to wait? No need. I’ll figure it out myself. Almost instantly, my phone rang. It was Nicola. I didn’t answer. Then came the flood of texts. Zack, don’t do this. Don’t be childish. It’s not what you think—the system must have glitched! Simon and I barely talk. He used to avoid me in college. How could he possibly love me? I know you’re upset, but he’s a major client. He was recently diagnosed with terminal cancer, Zack. He came to my firm to complete his bucket list. I couldn’t just leave him in there. Don’t be jealous. I checked the fridge—there’s enough food and water to last a few days. Once I get him settled and calm, I’ll find a way to get you out! Every line was placating, filled with reasonable-sounding excuses, but dripping with condescension. I didn’t believe her. And thank God I didn’t. Because outside, the voices of our classmates drifted through the door again. “Wait, isn’t it just Zack and Maeve left in there? Oh man, they’re going to be stuck forever!” The hallway went quiet for a second, followed by a burst of laughter. “Trying to get the star student and his academic rival to fall in love? That’s a death sentence.” “Should we play matchmaker from out here? Give them a little push so they can get out?” “That’s enough.” Nicola’s voice cut through the laughter, cold and sharp. “Stop joking. Those two are impossible.” She sounded so certain. I leaned my head against the door, a bitter, silent laugh escaping my lips. She was absolutely certain I would never look at Maeve. And she was even more certain that I could never leave her. She assumed I would do what I had always done: wait quietly in the dark until she was done playing her games, waiting for her to remember I existed. What gave her that right? Just then, my best friend, Kyle, called me. He was about to give me the answer. “I am losing my mind, Zack! That absolute piece of work. You need to hear what she’s saying right now.” He sent me an audio recording. The acoustics sounded like a hollow parking garage. Nicola’s voice was low, laced with a familiar, husky sigh: “You said you didn’t have feelings for me. Then why did the doors unlock when I grabbed your hand, Simon? Is playing hard to get fun for you?” Simon’s voice was thick with tears, trembling: “I regretted it… Nicola, back then, I just felt so worthless. I didn’t think I deserved you…” “You were so good to me. In high school, when everyone froze me out, you were the one secretly leaving milk in my locker. When they locked me in the gym closet, you skipped your final exams to climb through the window and find me.” “You even turned down early admission to Columbia just to stay in the same state as me… How could I not love you?” The sound of rustling jackets. “It’s too late,” Nicola said, her voice dropping. “I have a boyfriend.” “I don’t care,” Simon sobbed harder. “I don’t have much time left. Just for these next few weeks, Nicola… please, can you be my girlfriend? Even if it’s a lie.” There was a long pause, then a soft, heavy sigh. “Don’t cry. You’re still such a coward, afraid to even hold onto what you want…” I clicked the screen off, my fingers trembling. I slid down the door until I was sitting on the floor, hot tears finally spilling over my eyelashes and dripping onto my hands. Seven years. I thought I was the one who held her heart. 3 When I had a severe stomach ulcer and was hospitalized, she stayed by my bedside for three days and three nights without changing her clothes. When I casually mentioned I loved the apple fritters from that bakery across town, she stood in a snowstorm for three hours to get them for me. When I confessed I was afraid of the dark, she would stay on the phone with me every single night until she heard my breathing slow. It wasn’t because I was special. It was because she was capable of being that good to anyone she chose. I thought her secrecy was to protect us. Now I realized it was to keep her slate clean. She regretted that Simon hadn’t chosen her back then. So she kept her heart guarded, using me as a comfortable, safe harbor. Because she knew I loved her enough to swallow every insult, every compromise, and every lonely night. I was the only one who would let her sail away to mend her past regrets whenever she pleased, with zero consequences. Only this time, she was wrong. The illusion had shattered. I wiped my face, stood up, and looked across the dim room at Maeve. “Do you want to get out of here?” Her response was quicker than I expected, her voice cool and steady. “Yes.” “Have you heard of the suspension bridge effect?” I asked. “Under extreme stress or fear, the heart rate spikes, and the brain misinterprets it as romantic attraction.” “I’ve been looking at the system’s sensors. If we can get our heart rates over 130 and hold it there for ten seconds, we might fool the lock.” “Okay.” She stood up and walked toward me. A minute later. “Biometric verification successful. True love match confirmed. Doors unlocked.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and started to pull my hand back. But Maeve’s grip remained tight. She looked up at me, her chest rising and falling slightly. “I wasn’t holding my breath, Zack.” I froze, staring at her. Maeve let go, taking a polite step back to give me space. “I don’t need a suspension bridge, Zackary,” she said, her voice measured, quiet. “Just standing near you gets my heart rate over 120. My feelings don’t require a trick.” The air in the room seemed to solidify. Suddenly, memories I had dismissed flashed through my mind. Every time I had cried in the library after failing to secure a top internship, a hot coffee would mysteriously appear on my desk the next morning. Every time Nicola and I fought and I walked home alone in the dark, a familiar black sedan would crawl slowly behind me, keeping a safe, protective distance. I had always assumed it was a coincidence. “Maeve, I…” “You don’t have to say anything,” she interrupted, her expression softening. “I’m just stating a fact. The door is open. Let’s go.” I pulled out my phone and opened Nicola’s chat. I typed three words: We are over. I hit send. A red exclamation mark popped up. I was blocked. I opened Instagram. Simon’s latest post was a photo of a handwritten bucket list. Item #99: I want my girl to love only me from this moment on. The comments were already flooded. One of Simon’s friends commented: Not enough, bro. She needs to delete every guy on her phone who isn’t work-related to prove it! Simon had replied: She already did (blushing emoji) I stared at the red exclamation mark. Seven years in the dark, and I didn’t even get a decent goodbye. Then, my phone rang. It was an unknown number, but I knew the voice instantly when I answered. “Zack, it’s me. Are you okay in there? You aren’t scared, are you?” “I’m fine,” I said, my voice entirely flat. Nicola let out a relieved sigh. “Good. Don’t be mad about the block. It was just to appease Simon’s list—it’s a client management thing. Don’t be petty, Zack. Once I close this deal and get the final payment, I’ll add you back.” “Just try to understand me,” she pleaded, her voice softening into that sweet, manipulative tone. “Be good and wait for me. I’ll bring a crew to get the door open tomorrow.” Understand her? Hadn’t I spent seven years doing exactly that? “Don’t bother adding me back,” I said, looking up at the night sky outside the venue. “Nicola, we’re done.” 4 The line went silent for a few seconds before she let out a weary sigh. “Are you jealous again? I told you, it’s just work. I’ve been with you for seven years, Zack. Can’t you handle just a few days of this?” “Once I’m done with this client, I’ll buy you that watch you liked to make it up to you. Be good, stop throwing tantrums.” I hung up immediately, then blocked her number. By the time I got back to our apartment, the sky was beginning to turn pale. I pulled two large suitcases out of the closet and started packing. My clothes, my shoes, my books. When I reached for the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, my hand paused. Inside lay a pair of custom-ordered wedding bands. Engraved on the inner band: N.C. Next to them sat a wedding dress I had hand-sewn myself. Last year on her birthday, she got drunk and cried in my arms. She said she felt terrible for keeping me in the dark, and promised that once her company went public, she would give me the biggest wedding imaginable. I believed her. I secretly took sewing classes, pricking my fingers countless times, and stitched every detail of that dress by hand. I wanted to hand it to her on the day she finally went public. What a pathetic joke. I grabbed a pair of fabric scissors, lined them up against the collar of the dress, and sliced it to shreds. I threw the ruined silk and the custom rings into the trash. My phone rang. It was my father. “Zack, when are you finally bringing this girlfriend of yours home?” his voice sounded strained. “Seven years! You keep her hidden like she’s a secret. Tomorrow is your mother’s sixtyeth birthday. You must bring her.” “No more excuses!” My father only knew I had a girlfriend, but he had no idea who she was. Nicola had always maintained that until her business was successful, she would feel too embarrassed to meet my parents. I had covered for her every single time. She had never introduced me to her parents either, claiming they were traditional and wouldn’t approve of us living together before marriage. To keep things low-profile, I had only added her mother on a burner social media account, never interacting beyond liking her posts. Her mother had no idea who I was. But half an hour ago, she had posted an update. My sweet girl finally brought her fiancé home to meet us. Simon is such a wonderful young man. I know he’ll get through this. The photo showed her holding Simon’s hand, smiling warmly. A spread of gourmet food covered the table. Nicola sat next to him, peeling shrimp for him with a gentle expression. So, it wasn’t that she couldn’t introduce a partner to her parents. I was just the one who didn’t qualify. I took a deep breath. “Dad, tomorrow at noon. I’ll bring her.” This time, I wouldn’t hide. The next day, Nicola was at the amusement park with Simon, watching him ride the carousel. After they finished, she met up with her friends. Bella leaned in, smirking. “Hey, Nicola, going to pick up your guy? You’ve left him stewing for a few days. Is he going to be pissed?” Nicola rubbed her temples and let out a long breath. She hadn’t been able to reach Zack all day. She tried calling from other numbers, but they went unanswered. Her texts went into a void. She figured he was just sulking, but she wasn’t particularly worried. He always came around. Whenever they fought, she would give him the silent treatment for a couple of days, offer a small gesture, and he would happily take the olive branch. Besides, the VIP room had plenty of refreshments. He wasn’t in any danger. “Let’s go,” she said, motioning to the locksmith crew she’d hired. “Let’s go get Zack.” A group of them arrived at the venue. But as Nicola reached out to knock, she froze. The heavy door was wide open. “Why is it unlocked?” Nicola frowned. “Did we get the wrong room?” One of her friends didn’t answer. She was staring at her phone screen, suddenly catching her breath. “Oh my god… what is this? Nicola, look at this!” She hurriedly held her phone up to Nicola’s face. Nicola’s eyes went wide.

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Late-stage bone cancer. The oncologist asked if I wanted to go through with the amputation. My breath caught in my throat. I hesitated, staring at my phone screen for what felt like an eternity, before finally sending a message to my wife, Norma. The amputation will buy me another year. Do you want me to do it? Just a minute before they were scheduled to wheel me into the operating room, my phone finally buzzed in my palm. Wishing you prosperity and wealth. It was a digital red envelope. Just like every single response she had sent to my messages over the past three years. I stared at the screen, letting the silence of the pre-op room swallow me. Ever since our wedding night, when I desperately begged her to lend me fifty thousand dollars, Norma had been convinced I was exactly what her wealthy friends called me: a parasitic gold-digger. So, when I was hospitalized with severe internal injuries from pulling her out of a car wreck, she sent me a cash transfer. When I begged her to attend my father’s funeral, she sent me a cash transfer. Six months ago, I was diagnosed with the same hereditary bone cancer that took my father. In the near future, I knew I would end up just like him—confined to a sterile hospital bed, hooked up to a dozen tubes, slowly rotting away. Terrified and breaking down, I had sent her ninety-seven long, weeping voice notes. I received ninety-seven digital red envelopes in return. And now, facing the prospect of losing my leg just to drag out this agonizing survival, Norma was busy. She was over at her childhood best friend Glenn’s apartment, helping him assemble a fuse-bead art piece. Staring at their cozy Instagram stories—the warm lighting, the soft laughter, the flood of congratulatory comments from mutual friends—I smiled bitterly and pulled the IV needle out of my vein. Norma had once told me, her voice dripping with absolute venom: “Marrying a useless parasite like you is the single biggest regret of my life.” If that was true… then this time, Norma, I hope you can live the rest of your life without any regrets. … The needle came out with a small bead of dark blood. The nurse rushed over, pressing a cotton ball onto the puncture site, her face pale with panic. “What are you doing! Press down on this!” I only offered her a quiet, tired smile. “Could you please tell Dr. Evans to cancel the surgery?” The oncologist was summoned quickly. He stood by my bed, staring at me in heavy silence for a long time, before finally writing a prescription for high-dose painkillers and letting me discharge myself. As I walked out of the ward, I heard the nurse’s hushed, frantic voice pleading with him in the hallway. “Dr. Evans, this is his life! If he doesn’t get the amputation, the cancer will metastasize to his spine. He won’t even survive a week!” A week. I didn’t realize my release would come so quickly. The doctor sighed, his voice heavy with a profound sadness. “You know his father died in this exact bed, from the exact same disease.” My footsteps faltered in the corridor. “He’s been coming here alone for chemotherapy for a year,” the doctor continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. “While other patients have family members staying overnight, feeding them, wiping them down… he just curls up on the mattress, shaking in pain, pressing the call button himself. His wife hasn’t shown up once. Once, when he called her in the middle of the night, some other man answered.” He paused. “Maybe it’s just his fate.” I gripped the paper prescription slip in my hand, my nails digging deep into my palm. Yes. Maybe it was just fate. Just like when my dad was diagnosed. He had held my hand, his body racked with agonizing pain, yet he still managed to smile. “Don’t be scared, son. Dad can fight this.” In the end, he drew his last breath right in my arms. And just like when I had swallowed my pride on our wedding night, begging Norma for fifty thousand dollars to pay for his emergency surgery. I still remember the look of utter disgust and betrayal in her eyes. “Luke, is that all I am to you? An ATM?” “My parents, my friends, even Glenn—they all warned me you were a fraud. But I didn’t believe them. I ruined my own reputation, tore up my family’s contracts, let everyone in our circle mock me, all because I was determined to marry you.” Her voice had been raspy, her eyes bloodshot. Stunned by her reaction, I had stammered, “No, Norma, please listen to me. My dad… he’s really sick…” “Today is our wedding day,” she cut me off, tearing her lace veil from her hair and throwing it to the floor. “Did you really have to show your true colors today?” “Norma, I swear I’ll find a way to pay you back! Actually, forget it. I won’t borrow it from you. I’ll figure it out myself. Please, just don’t be angry.” She threw her credit card hard against my face, the plastic edge drawing a thin line of blood on my cheek. Her lips curled into a cold, stiff sneer. “Once a dog gets its teeth into a piece of meat, does it ever let go? Stop acting, Luke. You really are the gold-digging trash they all said you were.” She slammed the door and left. That was our wedding night. I sat on the living room floor, waiting until four in the morning, only for Glenn to bring her back. She was blackout drunk, leaning half her weight against him, her head tucked into his shoulder. The dark red marks on her neck were stark and glaring under the foyer light. Glenn gave me a smug, innocent smile. “Hey, brother-in-law. Norma’s safe with me. Go get some sleep.” I was too young then, too paralyzed by grief and confusion to know what to do. I felt the blood rush to my head, hot and suffocating. Terrified of fueling her misunderstandings further, I never touched her credit card again. The fifty thousand dollars was eventually “lent” to me by one of her wealthy socialite friends, on the condition that I accompany her to a private club. I was forced to drink until my stomach bled that night. When Norma came to pick me up at dawn, her face was livid. She didn’t say a single word on the drive back. The moment we stepped inside our apartment, her anger exploded. “Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if I’d been any later? Is money really that important to you?” “Why don’t you just put a price tag on yourself and work at a host club? At least then you’d stop embarrassing me.” The humiliation in that car tore my dignity to shreds. My stomach was burning, but my heart was freezing. From that day on, “leech” and “gold-digger” became labels I could never peel off. Her friends mocked me openly at dinners, and she never defended me; sometimes, she even laughed along. And yet, my father didn’t make it. On the day he passed, I called Norma in a state of absolute hysteria, my words slurred with tears. She was in a board meeting and hung up on me. I sent countless voice messages, pleading, explaining, pouring my soul out. Hours later, she sent a cash transfer. Wishing you prosperity. I stared at the $888 transfer on the screen, my hands shaking uncontrollably, my soul turning to ash. After that, Norma and I became husband and wife by law, but complete strangers in life. She stopped replying to my messages entirely, using those sterile cash transfers to remind me, over and over, of what a shameless parasite I was. But strangely, she never brought up divorce. I picked up my medicine from the pharmacy and returned to a freezing, silent house. The pain in my leg was growing vicious, like rusted needles driving deep into my bones, tearing through the flesh. With trembling hands, I swallowed the painkillers, along with two sleeping pills. The drugs took hold quickly. In my hazy vision, I looked up at the massive wedding portrait hanging on the wall. Norma was laughing so brightly, her eyes reflecting the sunlight and me. That was when we loved each other most. She had cupped my face back then, kissing me gently. “Husband, I’ll love you forever.” Forever. What a cheap lie. My fingers shaking, I typed into the chat box: Norma, if I died, would you be sad? I hit send. Almost instantly, the phone buzzed. A red transfer popped up. Wishing you prosperity. I stared at that transfer for a long, long time. Then, I suddenly clamped my hand over my mouth, rushed to the bathroom, and dry-heaved into the toilet. Nothing came out. The drugs were dragging me down, heavy and suffocating. I collapsed onto the bed, my vision blurring into abstract shapes. In the dark, I thought I saw twenty-year-old Norma walking toward me, burying her face shyly in my chest. “Hey, silly. When are you finally going to propose to me?” I smiled, stretching out my hand to reach her. I wanted to say yes, let’s do it. But my tears fell first. Let it be. It would be better if I never woke up. At least in my dreams, Norma wouldn’t look at me with that cold disgust, telling me that marrying me was the biggest mistake of her life. When I finally woke up, it was the morning of the third day. I reached weakly for my phone on the nightstand. I had slept for over twenty-four hours. Aside from a few app notifications, there was nothing. No missed calls from Norma. No texts. Our chat history ended on that red transfer, a silent, mocking sneer. I opened her social media. Ten minutes ago, she had posted a grid of nine photos. She was still at Glenn’s apartment. Under a warm, amber light, the floor was covered in colorful fuse beads. Norma sat on the rug, holding a pair of tweezers, her profile looking incredibly focused and tender. Her caption read: “Someone’s OCD demanded we finish this tonight. Pulling an all-nighter to assist.” Below was a string of comments from mutual friends: “Wow, the PDA is real.” “Since when did Norma have this much patience? Glenn really knows how to tame her.” “You two need to hurry up and get married already.” “This is what real love looks like.” If Glenn mentioned offhand that fuse beads seemed fun, Norma remembered. She bought all the tools and spent night after night with him. If Glenn wanted to go to a bar at midnight, she would drive across the city to accompany him. When Glenn caught a cold, she walked away from a multi-million-dollar contract just to sit by his bedside all night. Sifting through her feed was like reading a love journal. But this thick journal had once belonged to me. The twenty-year-old Norma would have crossed oceans for nineteen-year-old Luke. I swiped through the pictures. Somewhere along the line, the wedding band on her ring finger had vanished. I couldn’t look anymore. I put the phone down, feeling completely hollow. The medicine was wearing off. My throat was parched, but the agony in my leg kept me pinned to the mattress. When Norma’s call finally came, the painkillers had barely managed to blunt the latest wave of white-hot agony. Her voice was as cold and arrogant as ever. “Dinner at the estate tonight.” I remained quiet for a long moment before answering. “I don’t feel well.” She let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Last time it was your leg, what is it this time? How much do you need? Luke, unless your legs are literally broken, get your ass over here. Don’t forget your place.” The line went dead. I wanted to laugh. Maybe I really should have let them amputate my leg. Pushing myself up from the edge of the bed, I noticed dark, dried blood on the sheets. I stared at it for a few seconds, then silently swallowed a double dose of pills, changed my clothes, and went to face her. The Crawford estate was filled with laughter. Glenn sat next to Norma’s mother, Catherine, dressed in a tailored suit, occupying the seat meant for the man of the house. As I walked in, he was feeding her a slice of orange, making the older woman laugh warmly. Norma sat on the adjacent single sofa, her head bent over her phone. My arrival silenced the room for a fraction of a second. A maid pulled out a chair at the very far end of the long mahogany table. I sat down, separated from the head of the table by a vast, cold expanse. The women resumed talking about jewelry and designer bags; the men discussed stocks and luxury watches. No one spoke to me. Within minutes, the deep, throbbing ache in my bones started up again. As cold sweat began to bead on my forehead, Catherine finally noticed me at the far end of the table. She frowned. “Luke, you’ve been married to Norma for three years. You haven’t helped her career one bit, you don’t even have a real job, and all you do is hold your hand out for money. The Crawford family doesn’t harbor freeloaders.” My face drained of what little color it had. Three years ago, Glenn had crashed his car into a guardrail. To save Norma in the passenger seat, my knee had been impaled by a shard of shattered glass. But she had rushed a merely unconscious Glenn to the hospital, leaving me behind. Because I didn’t receive timely medical care, my knee would fester and ache to the bone whenever it rained. I lost my job after being hospitalized for six months. But Norma never believed I was genuinely injured, because she hadn’t visited me even once. Later, when I excitedly told her I had found a stable, new job to help support us, she only looked at me with mockery. And on the night my old injury flared up so badly I couldn’t sleep, I called her and messaged her repeatedly. In return, I received a barrage of cash transfers, followed by a text from Glenn: “Sorry, brother-in-law, Norma is busy making me hangover soup.” That was the night I finally broke. I smashed the apartment, tore up our marriage certificate, and screamed at Norma, “Why won’t you answer my messages? Why do you keep sending these cash transfers? What does it mean!” She had simply smiled. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted? What, is it not enough?” In sheer agony, I asked her, “If you hate me so much, why did you marry me? Why won’t you divorce me?” But she just laughed. “Luke, you’re too deep in your own act. Don’t start believing your own lies.” After that night, I stopped talking. “Oh, Catherine,” Norma’s aunt chimed in, smiling as she glanced at Glenn. “Why rely on him when you have Glenn? Glenn comes from a great family, he’s incredibly capable, and he’ll be the real partner Norma needs in business.” Glenn lowered his head with a modest, polite smile. Norma, however, suddenly frowned. “Don’t talk like that. Glenn is like a brother to me.” “Oh, we know, we know. A very close brother,” her aunt teased. “I still have the love poems you wrote to him when you were teenagers.” “I was young and foolish then—” My stomach churned, the pain and humiliation rising to my throat. I couldn’t bear it for another second. I stood up abruptly, my knee buckling, accidentally knocking over my porcelain plate. It shattered on the hardwood floor with a sharp crack. Instantly, every eye in the room turned on me with disgust. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice trembling as I stumbled toward the door. “Luke!” Norma called out, chasing me into the foyer, her face tight with anger. “Can you not even walk straight now? What kind of game is this? If you’re really that sick, go to a hospital. Stop throwing tantrums!” I opened my mouth, but no words came. I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say, In a few days, you’ll be entirely free. But before I could speak, a louder cry from inside drowned out my weak voice. “Norma!” Glenn whimpered, his voice laced with pain. “I cut my hand on the broken porcelain… it hurts so bad…” Norma’s face paled. She spun around instantly and ran back inside. “Don’t touch it! Don’t move, okay?” Her panic was completely unshielded. I stood on the porch, the freezing wind cutting through my thin coat. The hollow space in my chest, previously so fragile, didn’t ache this time. It was just numb. Instead of returning to our house, I went back to my father’s old, rundown apartment. My phone vibrated. It was Norma’s first text message in three years: Come back and apologize to Glenn. I stared at it, a quiet laugh escaping my lips. The phone rang. It was her, her tone impatient. “Did you hear me? Glenn said—” “Norma,” I interrupted her, my voice barely a whisper. “If I died, would you be sad?” The question that had haunted me for months was finally out in the open. The line went silent for a few seconds. Then, her voice exploded with frustration: “Are you completely losing your mind lately? Who taught you to speak in such depressing riddles? Are you even a man? If you want money, just say the word. It’s not like I’ve ever cut you off! Get over here right now!” She hung up without giving me an answer. But it didn’t matter anymore. I lay down on the creaky wooden bed where my father and I used to sleep when I was a boy. I pulled out an old flip phone from a rusted tin box. Inside were the messages Norma and I had sent each other when we were twenty. “Luke, I saw the class president giving you a love letter today. If you dare accept it, we are over!” “Luke, when are you going to make time for me?” “Luke, I miss you just a little bit today.” The excruciating pain had spread from my leg to my entire body, like a thousand claws tearing at my organs. I wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream. But I couldn’t make a sound. Only a single tear slid down my cheek. I read through all eight thousand messages, one by one. And then, I hit delete all. Using the very last of my strength, I swallowed the remaining sleeping pills and painkillers. My eyelids grew heavy. The pain began to recede into a soft, dull hum. For the first time in months, a genuine, peaceful smile touched my lips as I closed my eyes. Norma. I am free. I don’t hate you. I just hope that this time, you get to marry the right person. I stared at the disconnected call, a strange, suffocating restlessness settling in my chest. Instinctively, I opened the GPS tracking app on my phone. When we were dating, I had teased Luke into installing it, and I used to check it constantly. But ever since I realized he was a liar, I hadn’t opened it once. The red dot hovered over a dilapidated, old neighborhood. I frowned, reaching for my car keys. “Norma,” Glenn called out, pulling at my sleeve, his eyes wide and pleading. “You promised you’d come with me to the corporate gala tonight… and my hand still hurts.” My hand paused over the keys. I looked at the small adhesive bandage on his finger, and slowly sat back down. “Alright.” But throughout the entire gala, I couldn’t focus. Luke’s fragile, whispered voice kept echoing in my head. “If I died, would you be sad?” Annoyed, I loosened my collar and called my assistant, instructing him to look into Luke’s recent contacts. Who was feeding him these dramatic lines? Why did I even care? Luke was just a parasite who had sold his body and soul for my money. I was sipping my champagne when my assistant called back. “Ms. Crawford, Mr. Evans hasn’t contacted anyone except his doctors at the municipal hospital. His social circle is non-existent. His only relative was his father, who passed away three years ago.” My hand clamped hard around the glass. I stood up so fast my chair scraped loudly against the floor. People turned to look, but I didn’t care. “He had a father?” I demanded. Glenn had investigated him. Glenn told me Luke was an orphaned gold-digger who made a living swindling wealthy women. “Yes, Ms. Crawford. Three years ago, his father passed away from late-stage bone cancer.” My brain went entirely numb, a physical blow that left me breathless. A terrifying possibility flashed through my mind: what if he hadn’t lied to me? Bone cancer. The word felt horribly familiar. Where had I seen it? Then, like a bolt of lightning, I remembered the message Luke had sent me months ago.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “479986”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day my heart gave out, my parents died in a car crash trying to reach the hospital through a torrential downpour. I was still on the operating table, clinging to the fading edges of consciousness, when they slid the consent forms into my trembling hand so the surgeons could try to save them. When I finally woke from the jaws of death, all that was left for me to see were their cold, silent bodies. The woman who should have been holding my hand was busy posting a celebration on Facebook. “Huge congrats to Coco! She worked so hard all night and is finally a mommy!” With what little strength I had left, I tapped “like.” Within seconds, my phone buzzed with a text from her. Two words: Delete it. I sent her our shared location at St. Jude’s. “Come to the hospital. We need to talk in person.” “Don’t tell me your parents are sick again,” she shot back. “Honestly, I think they just have too much free time. I’m in the middle of something critical. I can’t leave.” “Your ‘critical’ emergency is delivering his dog’s puppies?” “Are you seriously jealous of a dog now? You’re so incredibly petty, Luke. It’s exhausting.” I didn’t have the strength to fight. If she wouldn’t come to me, she could talk to my lawyer instead. … By the time I finished making the funeral arrangements for my parents, it was late the following evening. I dragged my hollow body through the front door, only to find our meticulously kept apartment in absolute chaos. Leona was tearing through drawers, mindlessly tossing things onto the floor. It was the careless behavior of someone who lived with the absolute certainty that someone else would always clean up after her. Hearing the door, she didn’t even look up. Her voice was laced with irritation. “Where the hell have you been all weekend? I actually had to order takeout for lunch.” I froze. So she hadn’t come home last night either. Over the past two years, this had become our normal. If Toby’s apartment had a blown fuse, she would jump out of bed at 2 AM to fix it, yet she was the one who forgot to lock our front door, allowing a stumbling drunk to wander into our living room—an incident that left me with night terrors for a month. When Toby’s dog was due, she didn’t hesitate to skip my post-cardiac check-up, taking a whole week of paid leave just to be by his side, treating a canine labor like a medical residency, even though that was a vet’s job. When I didn’t answer, Leona finally looked up, her expression shifting to mild surprise. “You look like a ghost, Luke. Is your chest hurting again?” I took a step back, slipping out of reach of her outstretched hand. My voice felt entirely flat. “I called you seventy-six times yesterday. Why didn’t you answer?” Her hand remained suspended in the air, and her brow furrowed. “Are you interrogating me, Luke? Toby and I have been best friends since childhood. Coco isn’t just some pet; she’s practically his child. He was terrified. She was having a complicated delivery. Toby was losing his mind. I had to help her through it. In a life-or-death situation like that, I didn’t exactly have time to answer seventy-six pointless calls. It was just a routine follow-up, anyway. Normal people go to those alone all the time. And even if you needed someone, your parents are retired. They have nothing but time. What difference does it make if I’m not there?” Watching her stand there, so utterly righteous, a hollow ache bloomed in my chest. What about my parents, Leona? The crash had been horrific. My father’s heart had stopped before the paramedics could even pull him from the wreckage. My mother made it to the OR, but her internal injuries were catastrophically complex. Leona’s colleague had pulled me aside, telling me that only a surgeon with Leona’s specific, brilliant expertise could navigate a trauma that severe. Only she could have given my mother a fighting chance. She claimed she was too busy to look at her phone, yet the moment I liked her Facebook post, she had responded instantly to order me to take it down. She was so terrified of making Toby feel uncomfortable. “Is he really just your childhood friend?” I asked softly. “Because Leona, I saw you kiss him.” It was at the Bistro on 4th—the exact same restaurant where she had proposed to me. They were even sitting in our booth. I had been so blinded by shock when I walked out that I hadn’t seen the oncoming motorcycle. Though the rider managed to swerve, the sheer terror of the near-miss had sent my compromised heart into arrest. A flicker of panic pierced Leona’s usually unflappable composure. “Toby was just so stressed about Coco. I took him out to get some air. He had a few too many drinks, and it just…” She softened her tone slightly, reaching out again. “Look, let’s not do this. I’ll make it up to you. I promise I’ll be there for your next appointment.” Always the same pattern. A flimsy excuse, a sweet promise, and the expectation that I would sweep everything under the rug. But she didn’t get it. She would never have to accompany me again. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I want a divorce.” Leona stiffened, her guilt instantly souring into defensive anger. “For God’s sake, Luke. Is this what you journalists do? Always looking for a dramatic headline? I told you it was a mistake. You’re blowing this completely out of proportion. Besides, you’re turning thirty, and you’re still just a low-level clerk in the station’s archive room making pennies. Honestly, who else is going to put up with you? I work myself to the bone at the hospital to provide for us. I don’t come home to deal with your insecure tantrums!” She spun on her heel, storming toward the door. But as she reached the entryway, her eyes caught the edge of a document slipping out of my satchel. The words Death Certificate were printed in bold, stark lettering. Leona paused, frowning. “Who died?” She reached out to pull the paper from the bag. Before her fingers could touch it, her phone rang. Toby’s voice came through the speaker, high and trembling with tears. “Leona… one of the puppies is choking on milk. The shop is packed with customers and I don’t know what to do. Is it going to die? I’m so scared…” Leona’s expression tightened instantly. “Don’t panic. I’m on my way.” She hung up and rushed out the door without looking back. In her haste, she forgot to lock her home office—a room she had always guarded like a vault. Like a ghost drawn to a light, I walked inside. But the moment I looked under her desk, a cold shock ran through me. Wedged tightly beneath one of the uneven legs of her mahogany desk to keep it from wobbling was my old press badge. Five years ago, I had been the most promising young investigative journalist at the network. I had been assigned to interview the famously reclusive retired hospital president. After days of chasing him, running on empty, my blood sugar crashed and I fainted in the hospital courtyard. Leona was the one who found me. She revived me, gently telling me the old doctor was too stubborn to ever grant an interview. As my face fell, she slipped an orange candy into my mouth. “I’ve always had a soft spot for people who love their work,” she had whispered with a wink. “So… why don’t you interview me instead?” I found out later she was the youngest chief of cardiothoracic surgery in the state. Dozens of veteran reporters had tried and failed to get an exclusive with her, yet she broke her own rules for me. That was how we fell in love. But as our careers picked up, the demands became suffocating. One evening, Leona held my hands, her eyes filled with soft pleading. “Luke, I know how much journalism means to you. But with both our parents getting older, someone needs to manage the home front. Could you step back? I promise I’ll take care of you forever.” I knew her dream of saving lives was just as sacred. So, I compromised. I didn’t quit entirely; instead, I transferred to the quiet, dead-end archives department, just to keep a toehold in the building of the career I loved. On countless sleepless nights, I would sit in the dark, tracing the raised letters on my press badge. Whenever Leona caught me, she would wrap her arms around me, thick with guilt, repeating her promises to cherish me. And now, that very badge—the symbol of everything I had sacrificed for her—was being ground into the floorboards, used as a literal piece of trash to balance her furniture. I walked over to her safe. I entered Toby’s birthday, and the electronic lock clicked open. Resting on top was a thick manila envelope. Inside were dozens of photos: the two of them wrapped in each other’s arms, kissing, walking hand-in-hand down a sunlit beach. Beneath the photos were stacks of receipts—down payments she had made on Toby’s loft, start-up capital for his pet boutique, contractor bills for the renovations. She was quietly bankrolling his life, covering his losses month after month. Across the front of the envelope, in Leona’s precise, elegant handwriting, were the words: “I will always clear the path for your dreams.” I stared at those words for a long, quiet moment. I thought of the last five years of my life—the endless loads of laundry, cooking dinners she was always too busy to eat, managing her parents’ prescriptions. I thought of the hollow ache I felt whenever I saw my former colleagues rushing out with notebooks and recorders, fueled by the fire I had been forced to extinguish. I let out a soft, bitter laugh. So she did understand the sacredness of a dream. She just didn’t care about mine. I took photos of the documents with my phone, placed everything back exactly as it was, and closed the safe. I dialed a number I hadn’t called in years. “Hey, Rachel. I heard the network is still looking for a correspondent to go to the conflict zone in the Middle East. No one’s volunteered yet. If you’ll have me, I want to go.” Rachel gasped. “Luke? Are you serious? I was devastated when you took that desk job years ago. This is a massive opportunity. It’s incredibly dangerous, but if you make it back, your career will be completely revitalized.” “I’m ready,” I said. “I can leave within the week.” I hung up and began packing. There was nothing left in this apartment that belonged to me anymore. Except for one thing: the heavy wool sweater my mother had knitted for me before she died. When I was a kid, she made all my clothes. As I grew up and her eyesight began to fail, I begged her to stop, not wanting her to strain her eyes. But after my cardiac surgery, I began to suffer from severe chills. My mother had secretly taken up her needles again, staying up until her eyes were bloodshot. When I scolded her, she just waved me off with a tired smile. “Store-bought yarn doesn’t hold love, sweetie. I picked the softest wool myself. Knitted with love for my boy.” It was my most precious possession, too sacred to wear. But as I searched the closet, it was gone. I was about to call Leona when an Instagram notification popped up on my phone. It was Toby. “Puppies were shivering, so a certain angel brought over the perfect blanket! Thank you ‘Mommy’ Leona from the bottom of our hearts. And hey, my custom tailoring skills aren’t too bad either, right?” Leona was with him, celebrating the puppies’ birth. In the photo, their heads were tilted together, shoulders touching, each holding three tiny golden retrievers. But my gaze locked onto the fabric wrapped around the puppies. It was my mother’s sweater—chopped up, hemmed, and refitted into dog vests. The bell above the pet boutique door chimed as I walked in. Through the glass, I saw Leona and Toby sharing a single spoon, eating a slice of cake. Leona had severe germaphobia. At home, her cutlery had to be sterilized separately, and we always used serving spoons. Once, after a grueling day of cleaning, I had taken a sip from her water glass. She didn’t say anything at the time, but that night, I found the glass in the trash can. She later explained it was just a habit she picked up in the sterile environment of the hospital. I realized now, her boundaries were highly selective. Seeing me, Toby raised an eyebrow, a smug, venomous smile playing on his lips. “Oh, hey, Luke. Sorry, Leona and I have always shared everything since we were kids. Hope you don’t mind. Leona, what did I tell you? He’d never actually divorce you. I mean, let’s be real—a guy with a dead-end job relying on his wife’s handouts? How else is he going to take care of his aging parents? Look at him, tracking you down like a lost puppy. He’s clinging so tight.” He sighed dramatically. “I guess I’m just too independent. Back to being a hardworking entrepreneur for me!” Leona pinched his nose playfully. “Aren’t you the clever one? Always a troublemaker.” Then she turned her gaze toward me, her eyes carrying the patronizing indulgence one might show a stubborn child. “Alright, Luke. Since you came to make peace, I’ll pretend I never heard that nonsense about a divorce. Go on home and clean up the living room. The puppies are still in a fragile state, so I’m going to stay here and help Toby monitor them for a few more days.” Listening to them, a bitter sense of absurdity washed over me. One was a homewrecker proud of his status; the other was an adulterer wrapping her betrayal in noble excuses. Ignoring Leona entirely, I looked Toby dead in the eye and let out a cold laugh. “If you’re so incredibly independent, Toby, how is it that you’re not only taking my wife, but stealing my clothes too? Tell me, is this ‘hardworking entrepreneur’ brand of yours just code for being a full-time mistress?” Several women browsing the pet accessories turned around, staring in shock. “Wait,” one of them said, looking at Toby. “She’s not your wife? But you two were sharing a spoon… That’s a bit inappropriate, isn’t it?” “Yeah, when I said you guys looked like a lovely couple earlier, you didn’t deny it. So she actually has a husband?” Toby’s face flushed a deep, ugly crimson. Seeing his silent guilt, the customers scoffed, dropped their items onto the counters, and walked out. Toby’s eyes welled with tears as he turned to Leona. “Leona, did he come here just to ruin my business? I only thought that old sweater was soft enough to keep the babies warm. He spends so much of your money anyway—it’s not like he can’t afford a million other sweaters. Why is he attacking me like this? Those were some of my best clients. How am I supposed to run a business now?” Leona tenderly wiped his tears, then whipped around to glare at me with boiling fury. “Luke, I was the one who took the sweater. Don’t take your frustration out on Toby! It’s just a cheap piece of wool. Why are you being so incredibly petty? Just ask your mother to knit you another one! It’s not like it’s some designer label. Why are you acting like it’s priceless?” Looking at her sneering face, the sheer, dismissive cruelty in her eyes, something snapped. Before I could stop myself, my hand flew out and struck her across the cheek. “Yes, it is priceless!” I screamed, my voice cracking under the weight of a million shattered pieces. “Because my mother will never knit me another sweater again! While you were playing house with your little childhood friend, choosing to deliver his puppies over answering my dying calls, my parents died in a car crash!” Leona’s eyes widened in sheer horror. Her arm dropped, instinctively letting go of Toby. “What? What do you mean? Your parents… how could they…” Before she could finish, Toby lunged forward and shoved me hard. “How dare you hit her! It’s just a piece-of-shit sweater! Nobody wants your garbage anyway!” He violently ripped the small woolen vests off the puppies and threw them into a dirty litter box that the shop assistant was carrying out. “Crying about your parents being dead? Please! I literally ran into them at the grocery store this morning! I am sick of you, Luke. You’re a pathetic, freeloading parasite who tells sick lies to manipulate his wife. You’re an embarrassment to men!” The litter box hadn’t been cleaned yet. Clumps of soiled waste clung to the delicate yarn, emitting a foul odor. My mother’s last gift to me lay ruined, smeared in filth. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was going to do that…” the young assistant whispered, trembling as she looked at my bloodshot eyes. A searing, toxic rage burned through my chest. I turned back toward Toby, raising my hand to strike. But before my palm could connect, a stinging blow struck the side of my face. Leona had slapped me. The sharp crack echoed through the silent boutique. I stumbled backward, my cheek burning, a high-pitched ringing filling my ears. I looked up in complete disbelief. For a split second, Leona looked stunned by her own hand. But then her eyes drifted to Toby’s tear-streaked face, and her shock instantly hardened into disgust. “Luke, how dare you touch Toby? Because he exposed your pathetic lie? I thought you were a journalist who stood for the truth. Cursing your own parents just to get attention? Have you no shame? Think about our future children, for God’s sake! Either apologize right now, or take your trash and get out. If you make another scene, I’m calling the police!” I stumbled out into the pouring rain, clutching the soiled wool to my chest. By the time I made it back to the empty apartment, I was soaked to the bone and shivering violently. The rain had dissolved the waste, turning the beautiful sweater into a gray, stained rag. It was supposed to keep me warm. It was supposed to be my mother’s embrace. I sat on the cold floor all night. As the gray dawn crept through the windows, I reached into my bag and tore up the amicable divorce papers I had drafted. Leona was right. A journalist’s duty is to bring the truth to light. How could I ever disappoint her? The next night, I felt a cool, herbal ointment being gently rubbed onto my bruised cheek. I opened my eyes to see Leona sitting on the edge of the bed, her face softened with guilt. “Does it still hurt, Luke? I’m so sorry. I lost my temper. But you shouldn’t have attacked Toby like that in front of his customers. He’s a young, unmarried man trying to build a business. It’s bad for his reputation.” I brushed her hand away, my voice completely dead. “And?” Leona swallowed, looking tentative. “So… could you post a public apology? Just say you’ve been extremely stressed and delirious from lack of sleep. That those accusations were a misunderstanding. Toby’s hosting a big event for his shop’s second anniversary the day after tomorrow. Since you still have contacts in media, maybe you could get some of your influencer friends to give him some free promotion?” In that moment, the sterile smell of her medicine felt more sickening than the filth on my mother’s sweater. “Leona, I’m only going to ask you this once. Are you absolutely sure this is what you want?” She looked down, unable to meet my eyes, but her voice remained firm. “Toby has been crying non-stop. Just think of it as making things right. Do it for the sake of our parents’ peace of mind. If you do this, I promise I will never miss another of your appointments. I’ll make everything up to you.” I stared at her face, searching for a single trace of the woman I had fallen in love with. I found nothing. After a long silence, I smiled. “Okay.” Relief washed over her, and she reached out to hug me, but her phone began buzzing with rapid-fire texts. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. True to form, she grabbed her coat and rushed back to Toby. But this time, it didn’t hurt. A few minutes later, Toby called. “You really are pathetic, Luke, aren’t you?” he sneered, his voice dripping with venom. “Using your weak heart to play the victim so Leona would run back to you. But look what happened. All it takes is one text from me, and she drops you instantly. You have nothing but a piece of paper that says you’re married. It’s completely worthless.” In the past, I would have hung up. This time, I let out a low chuckle. “You’re right, Toby. I am her legal husband. Leona’s family values traditional marriages, and she cares deeply about her professional image. If I had to guess, you two always use protection, don’t you? Because she’s currently trying to get pregnant with me.” The sudden silence on the other end confirmed my theory. “So you see, she will never divorce me for a side-piece,” I continued smoothly. “Women can play around all they want, but at the end of the day, they go home. Oh, and she actually told me last night that once we have a child, all her real estate and investments will go to them. You won’t get a single dime. At the end of the day, Toby, you’re just a toy she plays with when I’m under the weather. Honestly, I should thank you.” Toby’s heavy, furious breathing echoed through the receiver. “Don’t get cocky, you bastard! I will make her divorce you!” He didn’t disappoint. Thirty minutes later, a video notification popped up. It was a recording of him and Leona in bed. It was accompanied by a smug voice note: “Who’s laughing now, Luke? I cried a little, and Leona promised to give me a baby. We didn’t use protection tonight. Once I’m carrying her child, you’ll be kicked to the curb!” I didn’t reply. It was pointless to argue with an idiot. Two days later, Leona hosted a lavish celebration at the Grand Plaza Hotel for the second anniversary of Toby’s pet boutique, paying for the entire event out of her own pocket. The room was packed with their mutual friends, hospital colleagues, and Toby’s high-end clients. Before the event started, Toby had boasted to everyone that I would be making a public livestream apology to him. When the time came, Leona nodded to the technician at the soundboard, signaling him to start the broadcast. The massive projector screen on the stage lit up, showing my face. “Good evening, everyone,” I said, looking straight into the camera. “At my wife’s request, I am here to make a formal public apology to Mr. Toby Evans.” Toby smirked, puffing out his chest with smug satisfaction. But then, a cold smile spread across my face on the screen. “I am deeply sorry that when you sent me the video of you sleeping with my wife, I threw up out of sheer disgust instead of respecting your dignity as a homewrecker. As compensation, I’ve decided to coordinate with my media colleagues to give you the free exposure you wanted. Everyone, please enjoy the show. Let us all bear witness to this grand, filthy affair.”

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Coming back from a business trip, I pointed to the limited-edition dirt bike that had just been delivered to the garage. “Howard, have the flatbed tow this over to my apartment around noon. I’m taking it out to the outer loop this weekend.” He didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at me with a cold, unblinking gaze. “My mom and Izzy are out this afternoon. You don’t need to drive them anywhere.” I nodded. “I know.” “Oh, and grab that new riding gear from my room and load it up too.” He didn’t answer. He just glared at me, his eyes dark and hostile. I paused. “Do you not know how to call a flatbed?” “Never mind. I’ll just call the towing service myself.” When the tow truck driver arrived and we started loading the bike and gear, Howard suddenly flew off the handle. “What do you think you’re doing, taking off with something this expensive? Did you even ask for my permission?” I was stunned. My mom and sister had always hated bikes. They had been terrified of motorcycles since they were kids. I was the only one in the family who rode. My dad had custom-ordered this off-road bike from Europe and had it shipped over specifically for me. Howard was just our driver. Did he honestly think living on the estate made him the man of the house? 1 “Howard, my mom and sister have zero interest in riding. This bike was bought for me.” “If you’re so interested, I can let you take it for a spin sometime.” His face fell, sneering at me with pure disdain. “Even if they don’t ride it, you have no right to just cart it away.” “You’re twenty-eight years old. No wife, no real career, still living off your parents’ dime. Aren’t you embarrassed?” My temper flared. “You’re the driver, Howard. Stick to your job and mind your own business.” He shut his mouth, but he kept staring at me like I owed him a million dollars. I didn’t care to indulge him. I told the tow truck driver to finish loading. As I walked out the door, I caught him muttering under his breath: “Twenty-eight and still acting like a spoiled brat. Your mother might coddle you, but I won’t.” I swallowed my anger. My mom suffers from severe motion sickness. We have gone through at least ten drivers in the past few years. Howard wasn’t exactly a pleasant guy, but he was the smoothest driver we’d ever had. My mom and sister could actually ride in the back without getting sick. That was the only reason I let it slide. The next morning, my mom came back from her morning run. The moment she stepped through the door, Howard rushed over, eagerly offering to take her coat and water bottle. When she politely declined, he turned around to pour her a glass of water. As she drank it, a smug, self-satisfied grin crept across his wrinkled face. Then, my sister Izzy came downstairs. Howard immediately started fussing over her. “Izzy, I got those fresh pastries you like from the bakery down the street.” “Izzy, the weather app says it’s going to pour today. Make sure you drive carefully.” “Izzy, what do you want for dinner tonight? I can pick up whatever you need.” I travel constantly for work. Even when I am home, I’m out early and back late, so I rarely interacted with him. Whenever he looked at me, his face was a mask of irritation and cold resentment. I had assumed he was just a miserable guy by nature. I hadn’t realized he was playing a double game. At the dinner table, Howard sat himself down right next to my mother. “Diana, that brand-new dirt bike you got yesterday? Elliot packed the whole thing up and took it to his place.” My mom smiled at me warmly. “Those bikes can be dangerous in the wind, sweetie. Don’t ride too fast, and please wear your helmet.” I took a bite of my food. “Don’t worry, Mom. I’m only riding on weekends. It’s staying in my apartment garage.” My mom said affectionately, “Alright. If you want, I can order you a road cruiser for your daily commute. It’ll be easier for getting to the office.” Howard slammed his fork down. “Diana, you’re going to ruin him if you keep doing this.” “A twenty-eight-year-old grown man, unmarried, no real ambition, still begging his family for toys. Aren’t you worried people will laugh?” Izzy looked up, her fork pausing. “Howard, my brother spends our family’s money. Why do you care?” My mom chimed in, “I like spoiling my son. Who has a problem with that?” Howard’s face turned a deep, angry purple, but he didn’t dare snap at them. Instead, he directed a look of pure venom at me. I stood up. “What is your problem?” “My mother can spoil me all she wants. Since when does our driver get to tell us how to run our lives?” Howard’s face flushed a deep red. “Diana, look at how he talks to me!” “I’m only speaking up for the good of this family. A grown man acting like a parasite—I can’t say a word about it?” I scoffed. “You’re overstepping, Howard. My dad bought me that bike, and my parents own this house.” “You’re just the hired help. Do you actually think you own the place?” He gasped, clutching his chest like he was having a heart attack. “You have the nerve to bring up the house? Your sister is the one who’s going to inherit this estate and carry on the family legacy. This house is her security.” “You’re a man. You’re supposed to build your own life. How can you be so shameless as to try and steal your sister’s inheritance?” Izzy’s face darkened. “Howard, that’s enough. I’ve never accused my brother of trying to take anything from me. Stop trying to drive a wedge between us.” My mom pushed her chair back, her voice cold. “Howard, you don’t make the decisions in this house.” Howard choked on his words. “Diana, Izzy… I was only trying to help.” “A boy needs discipline. Twenty-eight and still lounging around the family estate—what kind of woman would ever want to marry him?” Seeing that he wouldn’t drop it, my mother’s tone grew ice-cold. “Howard. Know your place.” 2 Howard finally shut up. But the look he gave me was dripping with resentment and unearned arrogance. That evening, in our family group chat, my mom and sister both sent me a Zelle notification. Ten thousand dollars each. Mom: “Elliot, honey, don’t listen to a word Howard said. You will always be my baby.” Izzy: “Seriously, Elliot. The driver is acting so bizarre lately. A couple of weeks ago, he literally pushed his son’s contact card on me.” My heart skipped a beat. “You didn’t add him, did you?” A brief pause. Izzy: “Somehow he got my number and added me first. But don’t worry, I blocked and deleted him immediately.” I thought back to Howard’s behavior toward my mother and sister this morning. It all clicked. He was trying to make a play for my mother, while simultaneously setting up his son to marry my sister. A double jackpot. He wanted to swallow our family whole. But my parents were happily married. My dad just spent most of the year overseas managing our international branches. Howard must have assumed my mother was a lonely divorcée or a wealthy widow. An audio message from my dad popped up in the chat. His voice was tight with barely suppressed rage: “You two just sat there and let some hired hand bully my son?” My mom and sister replied almost instantly, their voices trembling with guilt: “I’ll fire him first thing tomorrow!” I jumped in to stop them. “Wait until we find a replacement.” My mom’s motion sickness was no joke, and Howard really was a remarkably smooth driver. I figured we could tolerate him for just a little longer while we quietly scouted a new agency. The next morning, my mom left early to visit a high-end domestic staffing agency, and Izzy went to her office. I had pulled an all-nighter finishing a project proposal and had only just fallen asleep when a racket outside my door jolted me awake. It was the obnoxious, heavy thudding of sneakers stomping up the stairs, followed by a loud, grating voice boisterously shouting in the hallway. It was impossible to sleep through. I threw open my bedroom door, my face clouded with exhaustion and irritation. “Howard, keep it down. Some of us are trying to sleep.” A completely unfamiliar, gravelly voice barked back. “It’s the middle of the day, what are you still sleeping for? Get over here and help me unpack my bags.” I rubbed my bleary eyes. Standing in our hallway was a heavy-set, sunburned young man, looking at me with pure arrogance. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” Howard emerged from the guest room next door, his chin held high. “This is my son, Dustin. You’d better show him some respect from now on.” I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. I didn’t care if his son was the president. “Howard, this is my house. You are our driver. And you’re telling me to show your son respect?” Howard smirked, looking down his nose at me. “You’re a twenty-eight-year-old freeloader who doesn’t even have a real career. What right do you have to talk down to anyone?” “Who knows who’ll be running this house soon anyway.” Dustin sized me up from head to toe, a look of disgust on his face. “Just as useless as my dad said.” “I’ll give you twenty-four hours to pack your bags. Tomorrow, you’re out of here.” “Your sister is the one keeping this place. A grown man trying to squeeze his sister out of her own inheritance? Have some shame.” I kicked away the duffel bag Dustin had tossed onto the floor. “Get out of my house right now, or I’m calling the police for trespassing.” Howard pointed a finger at me, his face turning red as he screamed. “Don’t you dare act ungrateful! Your mother has carried you for twenty-eight years, that’s long enough! It’s time for you to get out.” “Your sister is staying. The house belongs to her. What are you trying to steal?” “A grown man with no job, no drive, and you actually think you have a right to this estate?” “Go look in a mirror and see if you even deserve to stand here!” His toxic words made my blood boil. “Howard, you’re fired. Both of you, get the hell out of my house.” Howard didn’t even flinch. “You don’t have the authority to fire us.” “Who was there to take care of your mother when she was sick? Did you spend a single dime? Did you lift a single finger?” “I’ve bled for this household, while you’ve done nothing but leach. What gives you the right to raise your voice to me?” I didn’t waste another breath. I pulled out my phone to dial 911. Dustin lunged forward, snatched the phone out of my hand, and slammed it onto the hardwood floor, shattering the screen. “You little punk. You don’t know when to play nice.” “I guess we’ve spoiled you too much. Today, I’m going to teach you who really runs this place.” 3 He shoved me aside and barged into my room, ripping open my closets and drawers. “Look at all these luxury watches, these designer sneakers. A worthless freeloader doesn’t deserve any of this. It’s mine now.” Howard stood by, cheering him on. “That’s right, Dustin! Take it all. He doesn’t deserve a dime of it.” “Twenty-eight years old, no job, just squandering his family’s money. It’s pathetic.” This was the absolute limit. I grabbed a heavy broom from the utility closet and began swinging it wildly, striking them wherever I could. “Thieves! Parasites! Get the hell out of my house!” I managed to force them out, slamming the heavy front door shut. Finally, the house was silent. But the adrenaline was surging, and any hope of sleep was completely gone. After restoring some order to my room, I headed downstairs to find something to eat. When the elevator doors opened into the lobby of our building, I walked into a crowd of residents gathered in a tight circle. In the center stood Howard and Dustin. Their clothes were torn, their faces smudged, and they looked completely disheveled. I kept my head down, trying to walk past them without making a scene. But someone stepped in front of me, blocking my path. “Don’t you dare walk away. You need to apologize to Howard and his son right now.” “We live in a civilized society. Assault is a crime.” Howard let out a pathetic, trembling sob. “Elliot… Diana works so hard to keep this family afloat, and you just walk off with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of custom bikes.” “Every day, it’s designer shoes, lavish vacations… you’re draining your mother dry.” “I tried to talk some sense into you, and you threw me out. You even tried to force Diana to sign the deed of the estate over to your name.” “Poor Izzy… she’s the one who’s supposed to inherit the house. It’s her security!” He wiped away a tear, sniffled, and put on a masterclass of tragic suffering. The surrounding neighbors immediately flared up with self-righteous anger. “Young man, you can’t behave like this. Your mother has severe health issues. If Howard hadn’t been taking care of her, who knows what would have happened?” “He works tirelessly for your family, and you just throw him out like garbage?” “You’re twenty-eight! No career, no family of your own, just mooching off your mother?” “And trying to steal your sister’s inheritance? How pathetic.” “Look at the bruises on Howard and his boy. Stepfathers really have it rough.” “Howard gave his heart and soul to that house, only to end up with a delusional stepson who wants him gone. What a nightmare.” I stood there, my hands shaking with absolute rage at their web of lies. “What the hell are you talking about? He is our driver!” Howard cried even harder. “My feelings for Diana are real! I never cared about her money!” “I poured everything into that home. What do you know about sacrifice, you spoiled brat?” An elderly neighbor, Mr. Henderson, shook his head with pity. “Son, you should be grateful. Having someone step up to take care of your mother is a blessing.” “At twenty-eight, you should be out making a life for yourself, not staying home trying to cheat your sister out of her house.” Others chimed in: “Exactly. And calling him ‘the driver’ to devalue him? How cold-hearted.” “Howard, you need to stand up for yourself. He’s only walking all over you because you’re too soft.” “Go to the clinic, get your injuries documented, and call the police. Let everyone see what an abusive, lazy, freeloading coward he is!” Howard frantically shook his head. “No, no, please, don’t call the police. It’ll ruin his future, and Diana would be devastated.” He lowered his head, the picture of martyr-like restraint. “I… I can take it. I’m used to it. Keeping the peace in the family is what matters.” The crowd’s anger boiled over, turning entirely on me. I felt physically sick. My mother? His partner? Did my mother have any idea this lunatic was spinning these fantasies? The crowd of onlookers was growing, and their venomous whispers began to pelt me like stones. “Go ahead, call the police!” I shouted, my voice raw. “This is slander and defamation. Let’s see who ends up ruined!” Howard pointed a trembling finger at me. “Elliot, don’t push it. I know you have friends in the local department. Are you really that determined to destroy my life?” He pulled up his sleeve. “Look at these bruises! He did this to me!” Then he tugged at Dustin’s shirt collar. “Dustin only wanted to protect his dad, and he got beat up too.” “Dustin, I’m so sorry. Your father is useless. I couldn’t protect you from these people. I’ve failed you, son.” Dustin lunged forward and struck me across the face. “Elliot, you’ve already ruined my happiness, and now you’re torturing my dad?” “You lazy piece of trash, karma is going to get you!” My head snapped back from the blow. It was the first time I had ever been hit like that in my life, let alone under such a humiliating, fraudulent pretext. Blinded by rage, I swung back and hit him. The moment I did, Dustin grabbed me by the hair and began raining punches down on me. “I’ll teach you to lay hands on my dad!” I tried to fight back, but two men from the crowd suddenly grabbed my arms from behind, pinning them. “That’s it, buddy! Teach this punk a lesson!” “We’ve got him pinned! Hit him!” Thankfully, the sound of sirens cut through the chaos. Two police officers rushed into the lobby, pulling Dustin and the men holding me apart. Every muscle in my body ached, my face burning where Dustin had struck me. I clenched my fists, trembling. “Officer, I want to press charges for assault, battery, and defamation.” But before I could finish, Howard dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “Elliot, I can’t protect you anymore. Not after what you did to my son. You’ve broken my heart.” “You have a sick, obsessive attachment to your mother. You can’t stand any other man being near her.” “Ever since I started caring for Diana, you’ve been acting like a psychopath.” “And my poor Dustin… he and Izzy are deeply in love, but you threatened to kill yourself if they didn’t break up.” “You just wanted to steal the trust fund and the house that Dustin and Izzy were supposed to share.” “Today, Dustin just came to visit his father, and you beat him half to death. And now you want to put us in jail?” “You’re trying to destroy us!” The surrounding neighbors immediately stepped up to back his story. “We saw the whole thing, Officer. This kid started it. Howard and his son were just defending themselves.” “The kid is unstable. He attacked them right in front of us. God knows what he does behind closed doors.” “Poor guys. I heard they were already planning the wedding, and the family was going to put Dustin’s name on the deed.” “Izzy is the real victim here, having a leech of a brother who wants to steal her life.” I was losing my mind. These people were weaving a fantasy that threatened to drag my entire family into the mud. “You’re both insane!” I screamed. The officer turned to me, his expression grave. “Is any of this true, sir?” “It’s a complete lie! He is a driver hired through an agency. If you don’t believe me, call the agency right now.” “This other guy broke into my apartment, threatened me, and tried to steal my personal belongings.” “I hired a driver, not a father figure, so I fired him on the spot.” “Then they come down here and make up this ridiculous story. Our relationship with Howard is strictly employer-employee. My mother is happily married, and my sister has never even met this man’s son.” The officer pulled out his notepad and made a call to the agency. “Howard Briggs? Yes, he was terminated from our registry six months ago.”

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