My husband was a saint. Or at least, that was the word everyone else used to describe him. He made ten thousand dollars a month, and every single cent of it went straight to various high-profile charities. Meanwhile, the mortgage, the car payments, my in-laws’ mounting medical bills, and our five-year-old son’s preschool tuition all rested squarely on my shoulders. My own salary barely covered the basics, leaving me trapped in a constant cycle of playing catch-up. Eventually, the stress became too heavy to carry alone, and I tried to talk to him. “David, is there any way you could start keeping just a small portion of your paycheck for the family?” He didn’t just refuse; he was insulted. “I work hard for my money, Rita. How I choose to give back is my business. Since when did you become so controlling?” His parents, who lived with us, immediately jumped to his defense. “Our son is a celebrated philanthropist in this community,” his mother, Maggie, chimed in, her voice dripping with disappointment. “Instead of being proud to stand beside him, you’re trying to hoard his income and tarnish his name. How can you be so selfish?” Even Toby, our five-year-old, looked up from his toys to glare at me. “Mom is mean. She wants to stop Daddy from being a hero!” I looked at the three of them, took a slow, quiet breath, and nodded. I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream. Instead, I walked into the other room and accepted a six-month, fully immersive executive training program at my company’s corporate headquarters. I wanted to see exactly how this family of saints would survive once the selfish villain was no longer there to keep the lights on. … On payday, David walked through the front door and immediately posted to his Facebook page: “Another $45,000 donated this month, including my year-end bonus. Just a small drop in the ocean, but I pray it brings hope to those who need it most. Let kindness ripple outward.” He attached a screenshot of the wire transfer alongside a digital certificate of appreciation from a prominent children’s foundation. Within minutes, the post was flooded with likes and comments. “You are incredible, David! Giving away your entire bonus? You’re an inspiration to us all.” “A true saint walking among us. The world needs more people like you.” “God bless you and your family.” Walter and Maggie were among the first to leave comments: “So proud of our boy! A shining light in a dark world.” I sighed, closed my laptop, and opened my household ledger. This month, the bills were staring back at me like an ultimatum. There was Toby’s quarterly tuition, Walter’s heart medication, Maggie’s insulin refills, the monthly mortgage, the auto loan, and the credit card balance I’d run up just to buy groceries the previous month. The grand total came to $5,500. My monthly take-home pay was $3,500. I was exactly $2,000 short. It was the same exhausting math, month after month. Every payday felt less like a relief and more like a slow suffocation, a tightening noose of numbers I couldn’t make stretch. I rubbed my temples, looking over at David, who was still lounging on the sofa, smiling at his phone screen. He was basking in the digital applause of strangers. Steeling myself, I cleared my throat. “David, do you have a minute? We need to talk about the budget.” He didn’t look up from his screen. “What about it?” “The bills for this month are fifty-five hundred,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and calm. “My check only covers thirty-five hundred. I’m short by two thousand.” I paused, hoping for some sign of understanding. “I’m not asking you to stop donating. Truly, I’m not. But could you please start reserving just a small fraction of your salary for the house? Just enough to help me cover the deficit?” David’s thumb stopped scrolling. He slowly raised his head, looking at me as if I had suggested we commit a felony. “I work fifty hours a week for that money, Rita,” he said, his voice tightening with offense. “I choose to use it to save lives. And you’re telling me you want to police my bank account?” “I’m not trying to police you,” I pleaded. “But your dad’s heart condition requires regular specialist visits. Your mom’s diabetes medications are expensive. Toby’s school is past due, and we have a mortgage to pay. I cannot carry this entire household on a single mid-level salary. It’s physically impossible.” David let out a dry, dismissive laugh. “If you can’t carry it, maybe you need to work harder. Push for a promotion. Find a side hustle.” He stood up, towering over me with an air of moral superiority. “My donations are the only reason our family has a respected name in this city. People look up to me. Why are you trying to drag me down to satisfy your own laziness?” I stared at him, utterly speechless. To keep this family afloat, I had worked myself to the bone. I pulled late nights, skipped meals, wore shoes until the soles wore thin, and hadn’t taken a single day off in three years—even when I was burning with a fever. I had given everything I had, and now, when I was finally admitting that I was drowning, he was accusing me of being lazy. Before I could find my voice, the guest bedroom door clicked open. My in-laws stepped into the hallway. They had clearly been listening. Maggie crossed her arms, looking at me with a heavy, patronizing sigh. “Rita, dear, you are really out of line here,” she said. “Our David is a pillar of the community. You should be honored to be his wife, not scheming to divert his charity money into your own pockets.” A dull ache began to throb behind my eyes. “Maggie, this isn’t about my pocket. It’s about keeping this roof over our heads. Walter’s heart prescription is sixty dollars a bottle, and your insulin supplies are almost completely depleted. If I don’t get some financial help, I literally won’t be able to pay for your medications next week.” Maggie waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, don’t use our health to guilt-trip us. We know our own bodies. You’re just using our prescriptions as a convenient excuse to complain because you don’t want to carry your fair share of the weight.” Walter nodded in agreement, his expression cold. “I’ve never met a woman so thoroughly selfish. David’s reputation as a pure philanthropist relies on the fact that he gives away his entire income. The moment he starts holding back money for household expenses, his public image is compromised. He is doing holy work, Rita. As his wife, you should be supporting him, not dragging him down over a few unpaid bills.” They stood there in a united front, painting me as the greedy, money-obsessed villain of the family. Looking at their self-righteous faces, something inside me finally snapped. But it wasn’t an explosion of anger; it was a sudden, icy clarity. For years, David had spent his weekends at charity galas and community fundraisers, soaking in the admiration of local reporters. I was the one who spent my lunch breaks driving Walter to his cardiology appointments, waiting in pharmacy lines, and managing Maggie’s dietary schedules, all while trying to make sure Toby had a normal childhood. During those hard years, Maggie would often take my hand and whisper, “Rita, sweetie, David has a calling, but you are the glue holding this family together. We would be completely lost without you.” Walter would look at me with tears in his eyes and say, “You’ve sacrificed so much for us, kiddo. If David ever treats you poorly, you come to us. We’ll set him straight.” And David himself would hold me at night and murmur, “I am the luckiest man alive to have a wife who understands my mission. I promise I’ll make up all this hard work to you someday.” They had been so convincing. And I had been foolish enough to believe them. I had assumed that once David’s philanthropic foundation was firmly established, he would turn his attention back to his own home. I thought they saw my sacrifice, appreciated my exhaustion, and loved me for it. But standing in our living room today, I realized the bitter truth. Those sweet words were never appreciation. They were just the grease used to keep the wheel turning. They didn’t want a partner; they wanted a silent, compliant mule to drag their heavy cart while they wore the laurels. As long as I kept quiet, worked myself to exhaustion, and never asked for help, I was a “wonderful daughter-in-law.” But the second I asked them to take responsibility, I was a greedy, lazy parasite. While I stood there, swallowing the bitter pill of my own naivety, Toby ran into the room. He pointed a small plastic block at me, his face twisted in a childish scowl. “I hate you, Mom! You’re a bad mom!” My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand. I had nearly died bringing this child into the world. My pregnancy had been plagued by severe preeclampsia. I had spent months swollen, vomiting, and terrified. During delivery, I hemorrhaged so severely the doctors had to rush me into emergency surgery. And now, my five-year-old was looking at me with pure hatred. I knelt down, trying to keep my voice steady. “Toby, why would you say that to Mommy?” He puffed out his chest, mimicking his father’s posture. “My teacher and my friends all say Daddy is a hero who helps poor kids. You’re trying to stop him from being a hero. That makes you the bad guy! I don’t want to look at you!” With that, he ran to David and wrapped his arms around his leg. David looked down at me, a flicker of smug triumph dancing in his eyes. He straightened his shoulders. “You see that, Rita? Even a five-year-old understand basic morality. You really need to do some soul-searching. This obsession you have with money is ugly. It’s vulgar.” Looking at the four of them standing together—a perfect, sanctimonious portrait of a family that had entirely cast me out—I stopped feeling sad. The pain simply evaporated, leaving behind a profound, empty stillness. “So,” I said, rising to my feet. “You are absolutely certain that you won’t contribute a single dollar to help with the household expenses?” Maggie’s insulin was empty. Walter’s heart pills were gone. Toby’s tuition was a week past the final grace period. And my bank account was completely drained. The house was on the verge of a financial collapse. David scoffed, an expression of profound disgust crossing his face. “After everything we just said, you’re still demanding my money? Unbelievable.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen aggressively for a few seconds, and then turned the screen toward my face. “There,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. “I just linked my payroll directly to the charity’s donor portal. It’s an ironclad, three-year recurring pledge. I can’t change it or cancel it without a formal board review. My salary is completely out of your reach now, Rita. You can stop dreaming about spending it.” Maggie clapped her hands, a bright smile on her face. “Oh, David, that is wonderful! True charity leaves no room for hesitation. You are a saint!” Walter nodded proudly, giving him a thumbs-up. “Amen, son. That’s how a real man stands by his principles.” He shot me a pointed look. “Some people are destined to live in the dirt, chasing pennies. They don’t have the vision for greatness.” Toby jumped up and down. “Yay! Daddy is the best! Daddy is a hero!” A family united. A beautiful, righteous circle. And me, the greedy outsider, left in the cold. I looked at their joyful faces and felt a sudden urge to laugh. “A complete pledge,” I murmured. “How noble. I hope you maintain that level of commitment.” David, misinterpreting my quietness as defeat, nodded magnanimously. “I knew you’d eventually see reason. This is a great thing I’m doing, Rita. As my wife, you should be honored to support it. If we’re short on cash, just pick up some freelance work. Put in some overtime. You’ll figure it out.” “Of course,” I said softly, reaching into my pocket for my phone. Three days ago, my director, Diane, had sent me an email: “Rita, we have an opening for our six-month executive leadership intensive at the Chicago headquarters. It’s a rare opportunity, and completing it successfully guarantees a promotion to Regional Director with a massive salary bump. The leadership team thinks you’re the perfect fit given your dedication over the last few years. What do you think?” My response at the time had been filled with hesitation: “Diane, I’m so incredibly honored, but my in-laws have severe health issues, my son is still so young, and my family relies on me heavily. I don’t think I can leave them for that long.” Because the program was fully immersive, participants were required to live on-site in corporate housing. No family visits, no personal phones, and no outside distractions for the entire six months. It was designed to test a leader’s focus under extreme conditions. At the time, I had been terrified of what would happen to the family if I left. Who would buy Walter’s medication? Who would manage Maggie’s diet? Who would pay Toby’s tuition? But standing here now, looking at this family of “saints,” I realized how incredibly foolish I had been. I was willing to sacrifice my career, my future, and my mental health for a family that viewed me as nothing more than a convenient, unpaid domestic servant. I opened the email draft, deleted my old response, and typed a new one: “Diane, I’ve reconsidered. I would love to participate in the training program. When do I start?” Her reply came almost instantly: “I was hoping you’d say that! The flight leaves tomorrow morning at seven. Send me your details tonight, and my assistant will book the ticket.” “Perfect,” I muttered. I spent the rest of the evening quietly packing my documents and submitting the corporate paperwork. By the time David and his parents were fast asleep, my bags were packed and sitting by the front door. The next morning, before the sun had even begun to rise, I quietly slipped out of the house, got into an Uber, and headed to the airport. By the time my plane touched down in Chicago, it was late afternoon. As soon as I turned off airplane mode, my phone began to vibrate violently. A cascade of missed calls and frantic text messages from David filled the screen: “Rita, where the hell are you? My mom’s insulin is empty and my dad is feeling dizzy. You need to get their medicine right now.” “Toby’s school just called. They said today is the absolute final deadline for tuition. If we don’t pay by five, they’re going to disenroll him!”

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After a brutal day at work, I dragged my exhausted, soaking-wet body home through a torrential downpour. My fever had spiked to 102, leaving me too weak to even think about making dinner. Mason, who had told me he’d be out late at a business dinner, suddenly rushed through the front door. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet, pulled out the Tylenol, and without even looking up at me, said, “Sadie caught a cold in the rain today. Make her some warm chicken broth. I’m heading over to drop off the medicine, and I’ll take the soup to her.” Right then, my phone buzzed. A viral post on my feed caught my eye: At what exact moment did you realize they didn’t love you anymore? I glanced at Mason’s hurried back, then typed a reply in the comments: Right now. But luckily, I don’t love him anymore either. 1 My comment instantly drew a flurry of replies. Everyone was asking why. Mason didn’t notice how flushed my face was, or how miserably I was shivering on the sofa. He went into the bedroom, grabbed a fresh change of clothes, and called out, “She can’t take care of herself when she’s sick. I won’t be back tonight.” “Once you finish the broth, make sure to lock the windows and doors. Get some rest.” My fever-addled brain felt like a crashed, obsolete computer, taking several seconds to process his words. “I don’t feel well,” I croaked. “If you want something for her, make it yourself.” Each breath felt like fire scraping against my lungs. I was burning up, but I forced my eyes open, trying to find the strength to stand, find my own medicine, and go to bed. Mason turned, giving me a cold, dismissive look. “Sadie’s sick, and now suddenly you’re sick too?” he scoffed. “Norah, you really will say anything to get my attention, won’t you?” That morning, I’d had a critical client presentation. I hadn’t had time to clear the kitchen and had asked him to help out. He’d sat at the dining table, barely glancing at me, and said with cool indifference, “You know I hate being in the kitchen. Just because we have nothing in common lately, you don’t need to pick fights to get my attention.” I’d stood there, stunned for a few seconds, but with no time to argue, I’d rushed out the door. I’d assumed that no matter how annoyed he was, he’d at least handle that small chore. But when I walked in tonight, those same dirty dishes were still sitting in the sink, soaking in greasy water. The laundry basket was overflowing, untouched. Even the bag of trash I’d forgotten to take out in my rush was still sitting quietly in the corner of the entryway. Normally, I would have lost my temper. We would have had a screaming match. But tonight, I didn’t have the strength. And honestly, I no longer cared enough to try. “Norah, why are you sitting there acting so brooding?” Mason grumbled, his irritation mounting. “You come home and you can’t even clean up the place? Go look at other people’s girlfriends. Who else is as lazy as you? Asking you to make a simple broth is like asking for your kidney.” His words felt like a serrated blade slicing into the deepest, most vulnerable part of my chest. It physically hurt to breathe. “Mason, I told you, I’m actually—” Before I could finish, his phone rang. He didn’t look at me again. He turned his back to me to answer it, and Sadie’s bright, slightly congested voice echoed into the room. “Hey, Boss! I finally picked out the car I want. The dealer said if I’m serious, I can pick it up tomorrow… cough, cough…” “I get it. Stop talking,” Mason’s voice softened instantly, thick with concern. “Don’t worry about anything while you’re sick. Just tell my assistant which model you want, and I’ll have him handle the paperwork.” He grabbed the entire first-aid kit from the shelf, not even bothering to look inside for what he actually needed, and headed for the door. “Mason…” My throat was so dry, so raw. Every word felt like glass tearing at my vocal cords, and hot tears spilled over my cheeks. “Leave… leave me some medicine.” He paused at the door, his hand on the knob. “Norah, stop acting out,” he said without turning around. “Sadie has a hundred and point four fever. If she doesn’t get medicine right now, it could turn into something serious. You can’t take responsibility for that.” The door clicked shut behind him. He left, completely unaware of the comment I had just posted under that viral thread: Because when I came home soaking wet, burning up with a 102-degree fever, he took all his warmth and all the medicine to go care for another woman. In that single second, I realized that loving or not loving… it doesn’t even matter anymore. 2 Outside, the storm raged on, wind howling against the windowpanes. Every local pharmacy and convenience store had closed early due to the severe weather. With no way to buy medicine, I could only manage a quick wash before collapsing onto the bed. But the fever burned in my bones, making sleep impossible. In my misery, I unlocked my phone and stared at the replies to my comment. A user had replied: Oh sweetie, why did you walk home in the rain? Why didn’t you ask your boyfriend to pick you up? Or call an Uber? When the storm had hit that afternoon, I’d called Mason repeatedly. He’d ignored every call. It wasn’t until right before clock-out that he sent a brief text: I’m tied up with something. Can’t make it. Figure out your own way home. Because of the flash flood warnings, rideshare prices had skyrocketed, and no drivers were accepting trips. Desperate, I’d had to unlock a city bike and ride home through the stinging rain, just like many of my stranded coworkers. Before I could type out a response, another user replied to her comment: Never rely on anyone but yourself, OP. If you have the means, buy your own car. A car is a girl’s ultimate shield. With your own set of wheels, you never have to wait on anyone else. Then, she attached a screenshot of a lifestyle influencer’s post. This is a lifestyle blogger I follow. She got caught in the rain today and caught a cold, so her boyfriend bought her a brand-new car on the spot. He said he never wants her to have to look out the window in a storm and envy the people sitting dry inside a car. Looking at the screenshot, my freezing fingertips began to tremble. The “lifestyle blogger” was Sadie Thompson—Mason’s executive assistant. Driven by some masochistic curiosity, I opened her TikTok account. Sadie had been documenting her daily life since she started at Mason’s company last fall. In almost every video, there was a familiar, towering silhouette. At first, Mason only showed his hands—his well-manicured, long fingers, or his deep, resonant voice narrating in the background. It was enough to gain her thousands of followers. The comments were filled with fans shipping them. One comment read: Your boss is so incredibly sweet to you! Asking for a friend… when do we get to hear wedding bells? Sadie had liked the comment and replied with just two words: Take a guess. She never clarified her relationship with Mason, letting the internet play matchmaker. I scrolled down, my eyes stopping on the video she’d uploaded just today. It showed Mason sitting on an unfamiliar, plush sofa, leaning over a bowl of hot soup, gently blowing on it to cool it down for her. She giggled behind the camera, asking, “Hey, Boss, can I ask you a quick question?” “Why do you think every girl needs her own car?” In the video, his eyes were incredibly soft, looking at her with a tender, focused devotion. “Because a car represents a woman’s independence,” he said. “Once you have your own car, you can go wherever you want, whenever you want. You’ll never be tied down by anyone or anything, and you’ll never have to look at someone else driving by in the rain and wish you were in their passenger seat.” My mind drifted back to last year, during a similar storm. When Mason picked me up from work, I’d casually mentioned, “Maybe I should buy a car? That way, you won’t have to take such a long detour to get me.” He’d shaken his head, smiling warmly. “If you have your own car, how am I supposed to play the doting boyfriend?” he’d said. “Don’t overthink it. Picking you up is never a chore. I’d gladly drive out of my way for you for the rest of my life.” Yet, just last month, when I was running late and asked him for a quick ride to the office, he’d frowned, his tone lecturing and cold: “You’re an adult, Norah, not a schoolchild. Having your boyfriend drive you to work every single day—don’t you think that’s a bit embarrassing?” I returned to the comment section on my phone. I typed a short reply: You’re entirely right. It’s time I started relying on myself. 3 Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe that was the exact moment my feelings for Mason died completely. I turned off my phone and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I finally drifted awake, the first thing I heard was the sharp, panicked voice of my best friend, Fiona. “Norah, are you out of your mind? You have a massive fever and you didn’t take anything? Why didn’t you call me?” Her voice shook, a mix of fury and pure, raw terror. “If I hadn’t decided to swing by and check on you, you would’ve ended up in the ICU with pneumonia!” “I’m sorry…” I whispered, feeling terrible for worrying her. But my voice was so raspy it sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. “Save your breath, your throat is raw,” Fiona snapped, though she gently placed a cool cloth on my forehead. Then she began pacing, muttering under her breath. “And where the hell is Mason? I called him five times and he didn’t even pick up. He used to lose his mind if you so much as sneezed. Now he’s a ghost?” I closed my eyes, remembering our junior year of college. I’d spiked a sudden, terrifying fever in the middle of the night. When Fiona found me, it was 3:00 AM. She couldn’t get me to the clinic alone, so she called Mason. It was the coldest night of the year. Mason had sprinted down the empty, frozen streets with me slung over his back, his voice shaking and raw with tears. “Norah, please stay with me. I’m getting you to the hospital. Just hold on, baby, please, we’re almost there.” By the time we reached the emergency room, he was drenched in sweat, tears streaming down his face, his eyes wide with terror. When I woke up, the nurse had smiled gently. “You’ve got a good one, sweetie. He loves you to pieces. Make sure you hold onto him.” I’d looked through the glass. Mason was slumped in a hard plastic chair in the hallway, his clothes disheveled, fast asleep. “He was terrified his snoring would wake you up,” the nurse added. “No matter how much I told him to sleep in the extra chair in here, he refused. He insisted on staying out there.” Back then, his love was loud, proud, and undeniable. I had thought, in my naive twenty-year-old heart, that I would marry him. I never could have imagined that love could be as fleeting as a firework. Five years. That was all it lasted. I stayed in the hospital for two days. Mason didn’t call once. I didn’t care. On the day I was discharged, I looked at Fiona. “Are you free today? I want to go look at cars.” Fiona stared at me, dumbfounded. “But Mason drives you everywhere. Why do you need a car?” I swallowed hard, then told her everything that had happened over the last few days—including how he’d taken my medicine to give to Sadie. Fiona’s face went red with fury. “Are you kidding me? What an absolute scumbag! He’s basically stepping out on you, and he left you burning up with a fever to play hero to another woman? I hope he rots! Break up with him. Right now!” Breaking up was a given. I’d just been too physically exhausted to handle the logistics. I nodded, pulled out my phone, and sent him a simple, direct breakup text. “Now,” I said, looking up at Fiona. “Will you come car shopping with me?” I didn’t just need a car. I needed a new place to live. Now that we were over, I couldn’t spend another night in his apartment. I wasn’t picky about the car or the apartment. I signed the paperwork for a compact SUV and found a fully furnished loft that was ready for immediate move-in. Once the lease was signed, I treated Fiona to dinner, and then went back to Mason’s apartment to pack my bags. Fiona insisted on waiting in the car downstairs, just in case. I didn’t expect anyone to be home. But when I unlocked the door, I saw Mason sitting on the sofa, his expression dark and stormy. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded, his voice tight. “You haven’t been home in two days!” 4 His reaction actually surprised me. I hadn’t realized he still cared whether I came home or not. I opened my mouth to speak, but he cut me off. “Why did you leave the sink full of dirty dishes before you left?” he snapped. “The laundry is overflowing, and you didn’t even bother to take out the trash. It’s practically rotting in the hallway.” “Just because you don’t own this place doesn’t mean you can treat it like a dumpster.” I stared at him, listening to his furious accusations, a bitter numbness spreading through my chest. From the very first day I’d moved in, I had quietly taken on the role of keeping this house running. I cooked, I cleaned, I did the laundry. I was even the one who made sure the utility bills were paid on time. How could he stand there and act like I’d done nothing? How could he be so utterly blind to everything I’d contributed? I looked at him, a cold, self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “Mason, am I your maid?” “When you begged me to move in, you promised I wouldn’t have to lift a finger. You said you’d take care of all the housework.” “But the reality is, I’ve done everything. What exactly have you done?” He’d said he hated the smell of grease, so I never asked him to step foot in the kitchen. He’d said he was too exhausted from work, so I never asked him to sweep a floor. I handled it all, believing that he appreciated my quiet efforts. Instead, he just looked at me with deep annoyance. “Sadie manages to keep her place absolutely spotless, and she never complains,” he muttered defensively. “Norah, why can’t you be more like her? Just grow up a little. Stop whining about every little chore. Honestly, with this attitude, who would even want to marry you?” We’d been together for five years. Our friends had asked us countless times when we were finally going to tie the knot. Every time they did, I would look at him, waiting, hoping. I wanted the proposal. I wanted to see myself in his future. But he would always brush it off with a casual smile. “No rush. Let’s wait a bit.” Six simple words to easily dodge the question. The memory made my chest ache, but I managed a quiet laugh. “Mason, we broke up. Whatever happens to me in the future is none of your business.” “I came back today to get my bags, not to listen to your lectures.” Mason’s face shifted through a dozen emotions, settling on a look of sheer disbelief. “Norah, are you actually serious?” “Do you even know—” Before he could finish, there was a light knock on the door. The lock clicked, and Sadie walked in, using her own spare key. “Mason! Are you ready to coach me?” she asked brightly. “I want to practice driving before the evening rush hour hits.” Then, she noticed me standing there. Her cheerful expression faltered, replaced by a delicate, fragile look of concern. “Oh, hi, Norah. You’re back. I… I didn’t mean to intrude. I can just go practice on my own…” “Wait,” Mason cut in, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “I don’t want you driving alone. I’ll come with you.” He turned back to me, his jaw tight. “Norah, think about this carefully. If you walk out that door today, don’t expect me to beg you to come back.” “And don’t expect me to forgive you or try to patch things up.” He turned on his heel and walked out. A small, victorious smile played at the corners of Sadie’s mouth. “We’ll be on our way then, Norah…” she said softly. “Oh, by the way, I left some organic peaches in the fridge. They’re incredibly sweet. Help yourself!” Her tone was so warm, so natural, as if she were the lady of the house welcoming a houseguest. I didn’t say a word. Once the door closed behind them, I went into the bedroom and finished packing my bags. Later that evening, when Mason finally returned, the building’s property manager stopped him in the lobby. “Oh, Mr. Gallagher. Your girlfriend, Norah, removed herself from the building’s community portal today. She said any future maintenance issues should go through you. Could you re-join the thread so we can keep in touch?” Mason froze, the words sinking in like lead. “Why would she leave the portal?” The manager looked at him, completely baffled. “Well… she said you two broke up. Since she doesn’t live here anymore, there was no reason for her to stay in the group.”

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I am a senior brand standards auditor for a national beverage franchise. When corporate ran its quarterly lottery to select locations for surprise audits, my sister’s store was drawn. To keep things unbiased, I grabbed a discount voucher on our mobile app and went in undercover. But after I stood in line for three hours, the kid at the register kept skipping my number. I swallowed my rising anger and asked him what the delay was. He didn’t even look up, just rolled his eyes. “Sorry, pal. Store policy is that promo orders go dead last. If you can’t wait, cancel the order. Nobody’s forcing you to buy.” I let out a harsh, incredulous laugh. “Is this really how you treat paying customers? Aren’t you worried I’ll report you to corporate?” He sneered, unpinning his name tag and slamming it onto the marble counter right in front of me. “Go ahead and report me. I’m the assistant manager here, and the manager is my girlfriend. What I say goes.” He leaned in, his voice dripping with condescension. “Imagine being too broke to buy a five-dollar drink without a coupon. What year is it? Still scraping for pennies like a starving street dog.” Before I could reply, he grabbed a black Sharpie, scribbled on a piece of cardboard, and slapped it onto the front door. [PROMO USERS AND DOGS NOT ALLOWED] Fine. You want to play hardball? I unzipped my windbreaker, pulled out my official corporate badge, and pressed it against the glass counter. “Surprise audit. Get your manager out here right now.” … When I first found out we were auditing Lauren’s store, I actually felt a wave of relief. I figured it would be an easy, pleasant afternoon. That was before I spent three hours standing near the pick-up counter, watching customer after customer who had ordered long after me walk out with their drinks while my number was completely ignored. With closing time fast approaching, I couldn’t afford to wait any longer. I approached the counter and spoke to Cody as politely as I could manage. “Excuse me, how much longer for my order? I have an urgent meeting to get to.” Cody looked up, his face twisted in annoyance. He slammed a plastic cup onto the counter, spilling sticky syrup over the edge. “Stop nagging! You’re using a two-dollar promo voucher. Do you honestly think you’re royalty here? We literally lose money on orders like yours. Letting you wait until the end of the shift is doing you a favor.” The sheer disdain in his eyes left me stunned. This was Cody. My sister Lauren’s boyfriend. Whenever Lauren talked about him, she described him as the most patient, sweet-natured man she’d ever met. She praised him to high heaven. But the hostile, arrogant face staring back at me didn’t have a single drop of patience in it. Even worse, the other employees simply kept their heads down, pretending not to see me being mistreated. I suppressed my anger and pressed him. “The promotion was launched by your own corporate office, and the queue numbers are generated automatically. Are you really not afraid of a customer complaint?” Cody hadn’t expected me to push back. He let out a cold laugh, gesturing to his name tag. “I told you, go ahead and complain! I’m the assistant manager, and the manager is my girlfriend. I run this place. If you can’t wait, cancel it. It’s hilarious—who still begs for a couple of bucks off in this day and age? It’s pathetic.” Cody had been fast-tracked into this store, landing the assistant manager role within two weeks of hiring. I had personally pulled strings at headquarters to make that happen for my sister. Now, that favor was swinging back like a boomerang, striking me straight in the face. My chest tightened with fury. But because I was undercover, I couldn’t blow my cover entirely and make a massive scene. I looked at the order screen; there was only one customer left ahead of me. I forced myself to swallow the humiliation and wait. As Cody prepared the final drink, he deliberately slowed his movements to a crawl, wiping down the counters with painful sluggishness. When he finally finished, I stepped forward to claim my beverage. Instead of handing it to me, he pulled up a chair, crossed his legs, and started scrolling through videos on his phone. Seeing my stunned expression, he gasped dramatically, mocking me with an insincere apology. “Oh, I am so incredibly sorry! I completely forgot about our prestigious voucher-holding VIP. My hands are just so sore from making drinks all day. You’ve already waited two hours anyway, so a few more won’t hurt, right?” He smiled, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. I was utterly speechless. In all my years of auditing, I had never encountered an employee this brazenly hostile. Thinking of how many regular customers must have suffered under this kind of treatment, I slammed my hand onto the counter. “Cody, is this really the attitude you think is acceptable? Get your manager out here. Now!” My voice shook with rage. Cody rolled his eyes and spat a sunflower seed shell onto my shoe. “Look, pal, don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a nobody scraping by on discount codes. You think you have the right to demand to see the manager?” He suddenly grinned, as if a lightbulb had gone off in his head. “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to hit on my girlfriend, aren’t you? Hoping to land yourself a successful woman. Too bad for you. With a face like yours, even a shelter dog wouldn’t look twice.” Seeing that I wasn’t backing down, he grabbed the thick marker, wrote the sign, and hung it right in front of my face. The words burned into my eyes: Promo users and dogs not allowed. Cody then walked back to the utility sink near the restroom, filled a cup with tap water, and shoved it toward me. “Here. For a couple of bucks, toilet water is about all you deserve. Now get out before I have you thrown out.” I didn’t take the cup. Instead, I stared at him, a cold, dark laughter bubbling up in my chest. I ripped off my windbreaker, pulled out my high-tier auditor credential, and threw it hard onto the counter. “You want me to drink toilet water? Cody, open your eyes and look at who the hell I am.” The moment he saw the official corporate seal on the gold-bordered badge, Cody’s face drained of color. He froze. But a second later, he burst into a hysterical laugh, doubling over. “Oh man, where did you buy this cosplay? You seriously think spending two dollars on a fake ID makes you a corporate auditor? Hey guys, look at this clown! He’s totally serious!” The other employees covered their mouths, giggling. A couple of customers waiting nearby cast sympathetic, mocking glances at me, as if I had just pulled out a toy badge instead of a real corporate license. “That’s enough!” I barked, my voice echoing through the lobby. I took a step toward the employee-only swinging doors. “This is an unannounced inspection. I am auditing the kitchen.” Cody leaped forward, blocking my path. He snatched my badge from the counter and tossed it straight into the trash can, raising his voice to drown me out. “Are you insane? You think a random customer can just walk into our food prep area?” A young kid working the register gave me a sympathetic look and gently pulled me aside by my sleeve. “Hey, look, man, I’ll be honest with you,” he whispered. “Our regional auditor is actually Cody’s brother-in-law. They already talked. We know the audit isn’t happening until next month. Just go. The manager is crazy about Cody, and he’s basically going to own this place soon. You’re only going to get hurt if you push this.” I’m going to get hurt? I stared at the smug, smirking face of Cody and almost laughed out loud. The rumor about the audit happening next month was a false lead we had intentionally leaked to see how the franchise operated when they thought they were safe. I just hadn’t expected to uncover a rot this deep. I raised Lauren. When our mother walked out and our dad was too busy drinking away his grief, I was the one who made her school lunches, who worked double shifts at a local diner to pay her college tuition. I was practically her father. I taught her how to stand, how to speak, how to survive. To see her name and her brand weaponized like this felt like a physical blow. Without a word, I raised my phone and took a clear photo of the filthy counter and the discriminatory sign. “Believe what you want about my badge,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady my voice. “But based on your conduct alone, this store has failed its evaluation. Tell your manager she needs to contact the regional director immediately.” I turned to leave, done trying to reason with them. But before I could even cross the threshold, Cody lunged forward. His hand flew out and struck me across the face. Slap. “Who the hell do you think you are?” he screamed, grabbing for my collar. “Taking unauthorized photos of our store is illegal! Give me the phone, or you aren’t leaving this room!” My head spun from the force of the blow. My cheek burned. Instinct kicked in, and I grabbed his forearm, locking it in place. “Cody, this is an official corporate investigation. Drop your hand!” “Official investigation? Stop hiding behind a fake title! I don’t give a damn about your little act!” Cody wrenched his arm free, snatched my phone out of my grip, and threw it violently onto the tiled floor. It shattered into pieces. “Oh, look at that. Your little auditor phone is broken. Where’s your corporate security now, huh?” he mocked, stepping on the screen for good measure. “Liars like you only understand force. Even if you were a real auditor, one word to my girlfriend and you’d be fired by dinner.” Before I could recover, a customer waiting in line shouted impatiently, “Alright, seriously, it’s just a discount code. Businesses have to make money. Do you have to be this dramatic?” “Exactly,” another chimed in. “The economy is bad enough without people making a scene over a cheap drink. If they don’t want your coupon, just go somewhere else. You’re holding up the line.” Hearing the customers side with Cody made a cold chill settle deep in my bones. At this point, this was no longer a minor issue of customer service or coupon policy. This was physical assault, destruction of property, and a blatant cover-up of franchise policy violations. I had spent my career building a reputation for fairness and integrity. I took pride in keeping our brand clean. I never could have imagined that my own sister would use the reputation I bought with my sweat and blood as a shield to run a corrupt, abusive business. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my backup work phone, and dialed Lauren’s number. It rang for a long time before she picked up, her voice sounding groggy and annoyed. “What is it, Tyler?” “Get to your store right now,” I commanded, my voice trembling with suppressed fury. “Otherwise, this business is—” Before I could finish, the line went dead. When I tried to call back, it went straight to voicemail. Cody, watching the entire exchange, let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Wow. I thought you were best friends with the boss, but she won’t even take your calls. Get lost, loser. Don’t make me call the cops to drag you out.” The remaining customers murmured in agreement, telling me to stop blocking the counter. My hands shook. Just as the weight of the betrayal threatened to crush me, a sharp voice cut through the noise from the doorway. “What is going on here? Why is there a crowd gathered at noon?” I turned, and a spark of hope lit up in my chest. It was Tiffany, Lauren’s business partner. I stepped toward her, catching her attention. “Tiffany, thank god. I’m conducting a surprise audit today, and Cody has refused to cooperate. He assaulted me and destroyed my work phone.” Tiffany blinked, looking from me to Cody. Of everyone in Lauren’s circle, Tiffany knew my face and my role at corporate the best. But just as I braced myself to finally put an end to this nightmare, Tiffany coldly took a step back, brushing my hand off her sleeve. “I’m sorry, who are you? Do I know you?” I froze. I pushed my hair back, thinking she just hadn’t recognized me in my casual clothes. “Tiffany, it’s me. Tyler. Lauren’s brother. We sat down to discuss the franchise expansion just last week. Have you forgotten?” “Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell.” Tiffany distanced herself further, turning to Cody and giving him a warm pat on the back. “Great job, Cody. We can’t let random scammers and grifters into our store.” She turned back to me, her voice dripping with deliberate malice. “Especially the cheap ones who can’t even afford a basic franchise fee. We have to keep the riffraff out.” My heart sank. Last month, Tiffany had asked to borrow fifty thousand dollars from me to fund a new location. With my own finances tight, I had to decline. I never realized she was harboring this much resentment. Cody beamed with triumph, throwing me a nasty smirk. “Even Tiffany says she doesn’t know you. What are you going to do now, you pathetic liar? If I were you, I’d die of embarrassment.” A wave of laughter rippled through the onlookers. The weight of their stares felt like ice water poured down my back. Tiffany was my sister’s closest friend, and she was also the first college student I had ever personally sponsored when I started making decent money. When she first moved to the city, she cried to me about how she couldn’t find a job. I helped her draft her resume, taught her how the business worked, and introduced her to my network. I had never asked for anything in return. I only wanted to help them build a life. But all I had done was feed the wolves. Exhausted, I pulled out my backup walkie-talkie and dialed our department channel. “This is Tyler. Send a team to the North Gate branch. Franchise management is actively resisting a scheduled audit.” The dispatcher’s voice came back instantly, crisp and urgent. “Copy that, Tyler. We have a unit nearby. ETA two minutes.” Cody put his hands on his hips and laughed louder. “Calling backup? You really committed to this roleplay, didn’t you? It’s honestly hilarious.” He leaned over the counter, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “Let me tell you a little secret. Lauren and her dad have already worked out a deal with headquarters. Once they finalize the paperwork, I’m taking over your spot at corporate.” My brain went numb. I stared at him. “What did you say?” Cody grinned, savoring my shock. “Your dad said you’re just a naive workaholic. Since you’re bound to get married and leave the family anyway, your high-paying corporate job should stay in the family—meaning, with me. He said you’re a curse anyway. You jinxed your mother when you were born, and it’s about time the people who actually tolerate you got a return on their investment.” “Shut up!” The rage erupted. I lunged forward and slapped Cody across the face. His head jerked back. He clutched his cheek, his eyes wide with disbelief, which quickly turned into pure, unadulterated venom. “You broke trash… you actually hit me? You dared to lay a hand on me?!” He turned to the kitchen staff, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Grab him! Pin him down and beat him! Whoever hits him the hardest gets triple pay today!” The eyes of the kitchen staff lit up. “Assault is a felony!” I warned, backing away, but none of them hesitated. They swarmed out from behind the counter, tackling me to the floor. Fists and fingernails rained down on my face, tearing at my skin. A sharp kick to my ribs took my breath away, leaving me gasping on the cold tile. Tiffany looked slightly uneasy, tugging at Cody’s sleeve. “Maybe that’s enough, Cody. You’re too important to get dirty over a piece of trash. Just let him crawl away.” “Let him go?” Cody’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice wild. “Nobody has ever hit me like that! A worthless loser who lives on coupons thinks he can touch me?” He pointed at the staff. “Keep going! Don’t stop! If I see anyone slacking, you’re fired!” My ears rang. My entire body throbbed with a dull, sickening ache. Just as my vision started to blur, the screech of tires echoed from the street. Several official black corporate utility vans pulled up to the curb, their doors flying open. “Stop right now! Step away from him!” My colleagues slammed through the entrance. The lead inspector took one look at me lying in a pool of my own blood and turned on Cody, his face white with fury. “Do you have any idea who he is? He is our lead senior auditor!” Cody crossed his arms, raising his chin defiantly. “Oh, please. What is this, a sequel? Where did he hire you actors? My girlfriend’s brother is the lead auditor, and he’s a respected executive, not some coupon-scraping bum!” Before the words had even fully left his mouth, the crowd outside was shoved aside. Lauren pushed through, looking frantic. “Tyler—”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “478347”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Ever since I was a child, I noticed a strange pattern: whatever I wished for, my stepsister got double. She took everything from me, and even my own mother loved her more. Until the day I decided to fight back. “I want a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend.” The next day, she brought home a fifty-two-year-old bald man. “I want to lose ten pounds.” She dropped twenty, landing herself straight in the ICU. My stepfather knelt before me, sobbing, “Please, I beg you, stop wishing!” I smiled. “I wish to stay up late for six hours every single night.” My stepsister lost her mind on the spot. 01 A single line of text popped up on my phone screen. System activated. User may make one wish per day. I stared at it for three seconds, locked my screen, rolled over, and went back to sleep. I’d seen enough of these annoying, intrusive spam ads to last a lifetime. But the next morning, the words were still there. It wasn’t a pop-up. There was no close button, no redirect link. It was just a line of white text against a black background, hovering at the very top of my screen like it had been nailed there. I tried taking a screenshot. The text didn’t show up in the image. I tried taking a photo of my phone with an old camera and sending it to a colleague; in the photo, the screen looked completely normal. I put my phone down and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then, I typed out four words: I want a hundred dollars. Nothing happened. I tried again, rephrasing it: I wish for a hundred dollars. The text on the screen shifted. Wish granted. I waited all day, but nothing out of the ordinary occurred. That evening, when I walked into the kitchen, my mother slapped a hundred-dollar bill onto the table. “For you,” she said, her eyes glued to her own phone screen. “Go buy a decent coat. Stop walking around looking like a stray.” I picked up the bill. Before I could even feel the warmth of the paper, she spoke again. “Oh, by the way, I bought Dulcie that winter coat she wanted. The two-hundred-dollar one. It looks gorgeous on her.” My fingers tightened around the bill. Two hundred. I got one hundred; she got two hundred. My mother didn’t even look up. “Don’t go getting upset. Hers was on sale. It was originally over three hundred.” I wasn’t upset. I was just remembering things. When I was seven, it was my birthday, and I closed my eyes and wished for a Barbie doll. The next day, my mother brought one home for me. That same afternoon, Dulcie received two. “Her aunt mailed them to her,” my mother had explained back then. “It has nothing to do with you.” When I was nine, I got straight A’s on my report card and wished for a new pair of running shoes. That weekend, my mother took me to the mall and bought them. But as we were checking out, Dulcie pointed to another pair on the shelf and said they were pretty. My mother looked at the price tag, bought them, and then pointed to another pair nearby, saying those looked nice too. She bought both. Two pairs. I got one pair; she got two. When I was twelve, I wished for a bedroom of my own. We moved into a new house that year, and I was given the tiny box room. Dulcie got the massive bedroom right next to the master suite, complete with an attached study nook. “She’s starting middle school soon,” my stepfather had argued. “She needs a proper space to study.” My mother had nodded in agreement. I hadn’t said a word. Looked at individually, every single one of those incidents had a perfectly rational explanation. A gift from an aunt, a sale at the mall, a practical academic need. But what if you lined them up side by side? I wanted one; she got two. I wanted a share; she got double. Every single time. It was too consistent to be dismissed as a series of coincidences. I sat on the edge of my bed, unlocking my phone. The text was still hovering there. System activated. User may make one wish per day. I stared at it, the silence of the room pressing in on me. How long had this system actually been active? I remembered childhood birthdays, the smoke of the candles, the silent promises I whispered into the dark behind my eyelids. Every single one of those wishes had come true. And every single time, Dulcie had received double. I had never connected the two. I had spent my entire life believing the fault lay with me. I thought I wasn’t good enough. I thought I wasn’t likable. Dulcie was the sweet one, the one who knew exactly what to say to make people smile, the one who was inherently easier to love. My mother loved her more because she deserved to be loved. I didn’t. But looking at the cold white text on my screen, a sudden, sharp clarity cut through years of quiet resentment. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good enough. It was just how the rules were written. I got one; she got two. It wasn’t favoritism, and it wasn’t luck. It was a mechanism, a hidden gear turning in the background of our lives. And now, the gear was waiting for me to turn it. I locked my phone and lay back down on the bed. Through the thin drywall, I could hear Dulcie’s bright, melodic laughter. She was Facetiming my mother from her room, talking about how warm her new two-hundred-dollar coat was. I closed my eyes. Only one thought echoed in the quiet of my mind: I finally know how to use this. 02 My name is Gwen. I’m twenty-two. My mother, Helen, divorced my father when I was six. A year later, she married my stepfather, Robert. Robert had a daughter of his own. She was a year younger than me, and her name was Dulcie. It was a fitting name. She was, in every sense of the word, sweet. When we first moved in together, I was a quiet, sullen seven-year-old. Dulcie, at six, already knew how to charm. The moment she met my mother, she started calling her “Mom” in a voice as soft and sweet as spun sugar. Helen ate it up. “Look at Dulcie, she’s so considerate,” Helen would say, her fingers gently braiding Dulcie’s hair while I watched from the doorway. “Why can’t you try to be more like her?” I would just stand there, silent. How was I supposed to do that? Was I supposed to call a strange man “Dad”? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Robert didn’t seem to care anyway; his entire world revolved around Dulcie. Over the years, the dynamics of our household shifted into a quiet, suffocating routine. It wasn’t an overt, screaming kind of favoritism; it was a slow, daily erosion. Take dinner, for instance. If Helen made pork chops, Dulcie always reached for the first one. It wasn’t a rule, just a habit of her quick hands. But if I ever reached first, Dulcie would quietly set her fork down, lower her head, and stare at her plate in silence. Then Helen would shoot me a look. I knew that look by heart. It meant: You’re the older sister. Just let her have it. Or take clothes. When the seasons changed and Helen took us shopping, Dulcie would try on three sweaters and declare them all beautiful. Helen would buy all three without hesitation. When it was my turn, I’d try on one. Helen would glance at the price tag and sigh, “This is a bit expensive, Gwen. Let’s find something else.” Dulcie would chime in, “Gwen, that color doesn’t really suit you anyway. The gray one over there would look much better.” The gray one was half the price. Helen would immediately beam. “See? Dulcie has such an eye for these things.” It happened so often that the boundaries blurred. I couldn’t tell where her malice ended and my paranoia began. But there was one memory that remained crystal clear. It was my fifteenth birthday. Helen had ordered a small sheet cake, just big enough for the four of us. Before I blew out the candles, she told me to make a wish. I closed my eyes and silently wished for a phone. Back then, almost everyone in my class had one, and I was tired of being the odd one out. A few days later, Helen handed me a phone. It wasn’t new; it was her old, cracked upgrade. “Make it work,” she said simply. “And don’t go bringing it to school to mess around.” I swallowed my disappointment and took it. That same week, Dulcie came home carrying two brand-new phones. One was a gift from Robert; the other, she claimed, she had won in a school raffle. Two. I got a cracked hand-me-down; she got two brand-new upgrades. At the time, I accepted it as my lot in life. But looking back now, the pattern was flawless. Fifteen years, and the math had never failed once. Did Dulcie know? I wasn’t sure. But I remembered a detail. Every year on my birthday, after the candles were blown out, Dulcie would lean in close, her eyes wide and curious, and whisper, “Gwen, what did you wish for?” I’d tell her that if I said it out loud, it wouldn’t come true. She’d just smile, her eyes curving into crescent moons. “Well, you have to tell me next time, okay?” Next time. Every single year, she asked. I used to think she was just being a sister. Now, I realized she was verifying her inventory. My phone screen flickered in the dark. Remaining wishes today: 1. I didn’t rush. I needed to test the parameters of the system first. I opened my notes app and created a simple spreadsheet. On the left, I wrote my wish; on the right, I left a blank column to record what Dulcie received. In the first row, I typed: $100. On the right, I wrote: $200 (Winter coat). The timeline matched perfectly. But I needed more data. I opened the system and typed: I wish for someone to send me a bouquet of flowers tomorrow. Wish granted. The next afternoon, a delivery courier arrived at our apartment with a modest arrangement of wildflowers. The card read, “Thank you for being a valued customer,” sent from an online nursery where I had purchased a ceramic planter months ago. I took a photo of the flowers. When I got home from work that evening, there were two massive, elaborate arrangements sitting on the entryway table—one of deep red roses, the other of delicate baby’s breath, both arranged in heavy glass vases. Helen was arranging them, a proud smile on her face. “Some guys from Dulcie’s office sent them. She really is popular wherever she goes.” Dulcie was curled up on the couch, taking photos of the bouquets for her social media. When she saw me walk in, she offered a sweet, sympathetic smile. “Oh, Gwen, you got flowers today too? What a strange coincidence.” I looked at her smile and said nothing. One bouquet for me; two for her. A strange coincidence indeed. Back in my room, I opened my spreadsheet and filled in the second row: 1 bouquet -> 2 bouquets. The data was conclusive. The rule was absolute: I wish for X, and Dulcie receives 2X. No exceptions. I closed the spreadsheet, unlocked the system interface, and stared at the glowing white text. It was time for her to return what she had taken from me over the last fifteen years. But I had to be careful. She had been receiving double benefits for so long that she had grown comfortable. If the supply suddenly cut off, she’d notice. But what if the wishes weren’t beneficial? What if I wished for something negative? If I wished for hardship X, would she receive hardship 2X? I sat on my bed, planning my first move. It had to be precise, devastating, and entirely disconnected from me. I stayed up all night thinking. By the time the sky turned gray outside my window, I was smiling. 03 Before leaving for work the next morning, I stood in front of the bathroom mirror for a long time. Twenty-two, and I had never been in a relationship. It wasn’t for a lack of interest from others; I just didn’t have the mental bandwidth. Surviving the quiet warfare of my household took every ounce of energy I had. Dulcie was different. She had been dating since she was eighteen, swapping boyfriends as easily as she swapped seasons, each one wealthier and more attentive than the last. And every time, Helen would sigh happily and say, “Dulcie really knows how to choose them.” I never replied. Today, I was going to make my first real wish. But before I did, I had to lay the groundwork. During breakfast, I casually brought up a fake detail. “Mom, a colleague of mine offered to set me up with someone. I’m thinking about meeting him.” Helen’s fork paused mid-air. She glanced at me. “What’s his deal?” “Nothing crazy. He’s twenty-six, works in corporate.” Helen let out a soft, dismissive grunt. “Twenty-six? You’re only twenty-two, Gwen. Why are you looking for someone so much older?” Dulcie, who was quietly sipping her smoothie next to her, looked up at me but remained silent. “It’s just a coffee date,” I said, shrug shrugged. “It doesn’t mean we’re getting married.” “Whatever,” Helen said, turning back to her food. The conversation didn’t matter. What mattered was that I had planted the phrase “twenty-six-year-old boyfriend” firmly in Dulcie’s ears. Back in my room, I unlocked my phone and opened the system. Taking a deep breath, I typed: I wish to have a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend. Wish granted. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stared at those words. It wasn’t anxiety; it was pure, cold anticipation. Double of twenty-six is fifty-two. That afternoon, a guy from another department actually messaged me on the company Slack. We had chatted briefly during a seminar a few weeks back. He asked if I wanted to grab coffee over the weekend. He was twenty-six, worked in marketing, and had a kind, ordinary face in his profile picture. That was my portion. Now, I waited for Dulcie’s. The following evening, I walked home from the subway and heard a strange voice in the living room the moment I opened the front door. It was deep, slightly raspy, and carried an unpleasant, oily slide to it. I took off my shoes and walked into the space. Sitting on our sofa was a man. He had a severe receding hairline, a prominent beer belly, and wore a tight, faded polo shirt that strained against his midsection. He had his legs crossed comfortably, holding a mug of tea Helen had brewed for him. Dulcie was sitting beside him, her face completely drained of color. Helen was standing near the kitchen doorway, looking equally pale. Robert sat at the dining table, staring silently at the floor. When the man saw me enter, he let out a loud, hearty laugh. “Ah, this must be the older sister! Great to meet you. I’m Howard, Dulcie’s boyfriend.” Howard. Fifty-two years old if he was a day. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. Dulcie’s hands were shaking. She reached out, desperately tugging at Howard’s sleeve. “I told you, you need to leave. Stop saying these things.” Howard looked at her, his expression a picture of mild confusion. “What do you mean, sweetheart? You’re the one who added me on that app yesterday. You said you liked mature, established men. That’s why I’m here.” Dulcie’s face flushed a deep, humiliated red before turning a sickly shade of gray. “I didn’t! I don’t even know who you are!” Howard pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and held the screen up to Robert. “Look for yourself, sir. Is this your daughter’s profile or not?” Robert leaned forward, glanced at the screen, and slammed his coffee mug onto the table with a sharp crack. “Dulcie, explain this.” Dulcie’s voice pitched into a desperate, panicked shriek. “Dad, I swear I don’t know him! I have no idea how he got my account! He added me yesterday, we exchanged two messages, and suddenly he’s showing up at our apartment demanding to meet my parents! I tried to stop him—” “Why didn’t you just block him?” Robert demanded. Dulcie’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. I stood by the entryway, taking in the scene. The system’s logic was far more precise than I had anticipated. It wasn’t just a simple mathematical doubling of a number. I wished for a twenty-six-year-old boyfriend, and I received a normal, age-appropriate relationship. Dulcie received a man twice that age—delivered into her life in a way she could neither prevent nor explain away. That was the true meaning of “double.” It wasn’t just the quantity that multiplied; it was the gravity of the consequences. Howard sat back, taking another sip of his tea, looking entirely like a man who believed he was visiting his future in-laws. Finally, Helen spoke, her voice strained. “Dulcie… be honest with us. Have you been talking to strangers on those online apps again?” “Mom!” Tears welled in Dulcie’s eyes. “I swear I haven’t!” She looked at me, and for a split second, her eyes held an expression I knew all too well. It was a plea for help. Whenever she got into trouble as a kid, she’d look at me exactly like that. It meant: Gwen, say something to save me. In the past, I always had. Now, I slowly slipped my hands into my coat pockets. “I’m going to my room,” I said quietly. “Have a good night.” As I turned the corner, I heard Dulcie call out behind me, “Gwen!” I didn’t look back. I shut my bedroom door, leaned against the wood, and took three long, steady breaths. My phone screen lit up. Daily wishes exhausted. Resetting tomorrow. A small, quiet smile touched my lips. What should I wish for tomorrow? Through the wall, I could hear Dulcie’s muffled sobs, Robert’s rising anger, and Howard’s oily voice repeating, “Hey now, let’s all calm down and talk this out like adults.” I opened my spreadsheet and added the third entry: 26-year-old boyfriend -> 52-year-old bald man. Status: Verified. I already knew what my next wish would be. 04 Howard didn’t leave until nearly eleven that night. When Robert finally pushed him out the door, Howard turned back and shouted down the hallway, “Call me, Dulcie! I’ll be waiting!” The door slammed shut with a force that rattled the frames on the wall. I lay in bed, listening to the muffled chaos in the living room. Robert was shouting, Helen was trying to play peacemaker, and Dulcie was crying. The crying lasted for about forty minutes before the apartment finally fell into an uneasy silence. I figured the drama would simmer down by morning. But when I stepped out of my room the next day to pour a glass of water, Dulcie was already sitting at the dining table. Her eyes were swollen to the size of walnuts. When she saw me, she said nothing. I remained silent too. Helen walked out of the kitchen, setting a bowl of oatmeal in front of Dulcie. She gently patted her head. “Don’t think about it anymore, sweetie. That man was clearly a lunatic. It has nothing to do with you.” Dulcie stared at her bowl, took a tiny bite, and then slowly set her spoon down. “Mom, something feels wrong.” Helen paused. “What do you mean?” Dulcie glanced at me. Just a brief, flickering look, before she quickly averted her eyes. “Nothing,” she muttered. “It’s just… it all feels too coincidental.” I stood by the water dispenser, holding my glass, entirely still. Helen didn’t catch the underlying tension, continuing to ramble about whether Howard had harvested Dulcie’s information from some dating application. But I caught it. Dulcie was starting to suspect me. She had no proof, but her instincts had always been sharp. That was the most dangerous thing about her; she wasn’t just a good actress, she was highly perceptive. She could smell an anomaly from a mile away. I needed to act faster. I went to work, performed my duties, and came home at my usual time. But when I walked through the door that evening, the air in the apartment felt heavy. Helen was sitting on the sofa, her expression dark. Robert sat beside her, staring blankly at the television screen without changing the channel. Dulcie was nowhere to be seen. “Gwen, sit down,” Helen said, her voice unusually formal. I put my bag down and sat on the armchair opposite them. “Dulcie told me something today,” Helen began, pausing to gauge my reaction. “She thinks you hired that man to humiliate her.” I said nothing. “She says you’ve been acting strange lately. She says you keep staring at her, and that you’ve been writing things down in a notebook.” My chest tightened slightly. The spreadsheet. I had kept the record on my phone’s secure folder, but she must have noticed me typing immediately after the incidents occurred. “I didn’t hire anyone,” I said flatly. “Then explain how that man showed up here yesterday,” Helen demanded, her voice rising. “That’s Dulcie’s business. How would I know?” “You’re her sister—” “I’m her stepsister,” I corrected. “And since when is her dating life my responsibility?” Helen blinked, momentarily stunned. Robert spoke up, his tone cold. “Gwen, your mother isn’t accusing you. She’s just asking. There’s no need to be defensive.” I looked at Robert. This man had lived under the same roof as me for fifteen years, and we had barely spoken a hundred words to each other. Every single one of those words had been some variation of “Your mother didn’t mean it that way,” “You’re overthinking,” or “You’re the older sister.” I stood up. “Are we done? I have things to do.” “Stop right there,” Helen snapped. I paused, but I didn’t turn around. “What is wrong with you lately?” Helen asked, her tone shifting to one of deep frustration. “Dulcie says you’ve changed.” “She said I’ve changed?” “She says the way you look at her is different.” I turned slowly to face my mother. “Mom, in fifteen years, have you ever asked me how I was doing? Just once? Have you ever asked if I was happy, or if there was anything I wanted? Have you ever cared?” Helen’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. “You never did. Whenever Dulcie says something, you believe it without question. The moment she claims I’ve ‘changed,’ you haul me in for an interrogation. It’s been fifteen years of this.” The living room fell into a dead silence. Robert lowered his head, avoiding my gaze. Helen’s lips pressed into a thin line, her voice dropping an octave. “I’m not interrogating you, I’m just—” “Save it,” I interrupted. “I get it.” I went into my room and locked the door behind me. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I pulled out my phone. The system interface was glowing. Remaining wishes today: 1. Dulcie was trying to turn my mother against me to keep me in line, just like she did when we were kids. Whenever she made a mistake, she’d cry, point her finger at me, and Helen would instantly take her side. I used to swallow it. Not today. I opened the input box and typed: I wish to lose ten pounds. Wish granted. I set my phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. The double of ten pounds was twenty. Dulcie only weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. I wanted to see if she’d still have the energy to cry to my mother when twenty pounds vanished from her frame. 05 The effects manifested even faster than I had anticipated. By the third day after the wish, I stepped onto the scale and saw that I had lost four pounds. It was a healthy, gradual descent, the kind that felt natural and didn’t leave me feeling drained. Dulcie’s experience, however, was entirely different. When I came home on the third evening, she wasn’t in the living room. Helen was in the kitchen stirring a pot of soup. When she saw me, she handed me a bowl. “Your sister hasn’t had much of an appetite lately. Take this to her room, will you?” I carried the bowl down the hall and knocked on Dulcie’s door. When the door opened, I barely recognized her. In just three days, her cheeks had hollowed out. Her collarbones protruded sharply beneath her shirt, and the delicate bones of her wrists looked like fragile twigs. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her voice barely a whisper. “Just leave it on the desk.” I set the bowl down and glanced around. There were three untouched takeout containers sitting by her trash can. “Are you not eating?” I asked. “I can’t,” she muttered, her eyes shot through with thick red veins. “Everything I swallow, I throw right back up.” She stared at me, her gaze intense and fearful. “Gwen… do you think I’m sick with something?” “You should probably see a doctor,” I replied neutrally. “I’m going tomorrow.” I nodded and stepped out, closing the door behind me. As the latch clicked, I heard the faint, wet sound of her dry-heaving inside. By the fifth day, I was down six pounds. My skin looked clear, my energy was high, and my clothes fit with a comfortable, loose drape. A few people at work commented on how rested I looked. Dulcie had lost twelve pounds. She had gone to the clinic, gotten blood work done, and run a battery of tests. The results were completely normal. There was no physical illness, no infection, no underlying pathology. But she still couldn’t keep food down. Even a sip of water made her nauseous. Her weight continued to plummet. On the seventh day, I came home to an empty apartment. I called my mother’s phone. It rang through several times before she finally picked up, her voice trembling. “Gwen… Dulcie collapsed. We’re at the hospital. Get over here now.” When I arrived at the emergency room, Dulcie was lying on a gurney, a clear line running from an IV bag into her bruised arm. Her face was completely devoid of color. Her skin seemed stretched tight over her cheekbones, and her eyes looked like two dark, sunken hollows. Helen sat on a plastic chair by the bedside, clutching Dulcie’s limp hand, her eyes rimmed with red. Robert stood out in the hallway, speaking in hushed, urgent tones with a doctor. As I walked toward them, I caught the tail end of the doctor’s assessment. “…extreme weight loss has led to severe dehydration and hypoglycemia. We can’t find any organic cause, so we’re keeping her for observation.” Robert nodded slowly. When he turned and saw me, the look on his face wasn’t anger. It was fear. “You’re here,” he muttered. “Yes.” “Go inside. See your sister.” I stepped into the curtained cubicle. Dulcie’s eyes fluttered open. When she saw me, her dry lips parted slightly. “Gwen.” “Yeah.” “I’ve lost so much weight.” “I see that.” “I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice like paper scraping against stone. “I can’t control it. It just keeps dropping, and nothing I do stops it.” I stood at the foot of the bed, observing her. I had looked at this face for fifteen years. For as long as I could remember, it had been covered in a bright, effortless smile. She smiled at Helen, she smiled at Robert, she smiled at strangers, and she smiled at me. I never knew how much of that sweetness was real. But there was no sweetness left now. Just a terrified twenty-one-year-old girl lying in a hospital bed, wasting away. “Get some rest,” I said after a long silence. “The doctors will figure it out.” I turned and walked back into the hallway. Robert intercepted me before I reached the exit. “Gwen, wait.” I stopped. “Let’s talk,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Just the two of us. Tomorrow morning.” His eyes were wide, scanning my face as if searching for a crack in a mask. It was a look I had never seen on him before. “Okay,” I said. “Tomorrow.” I walked toward the elevators. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Current wish progress: Lose 10 lbs (6 lbs achieved, 4 lbs remaining). Double effect active. The process was still running. Dulcie had already lost twelve pounds; she had eight more to go. Twenty pounds total. For someone of her size, losing twenty pounds wouldn’t kill her, but it would push her body to the absolute brink of collapse. I walked out of the hospital lobby. Outside, a cold rain was starting to fall. I stood on the sidewalk, letting the chill settle into my skin. I didn’t open my umbrella. This isn’t your fault, I reminded myself. For fifteen years, every bit of double fortune she received was carved out of my life. My toys, my shoes, my space, my mother’s affection. It was all hers, doubled, while I starved. Now, the balance was simply shifting. I wiped the rainwater from my face and walked toward the bus stop. Robert wanted to talk tomorrow. I knew exactly what he was going to say. But I wasn’t afraid. 06 Robert asked to meet me at a small, quiet diner near our apartment. At 7:30 AM, the place was mostly empty, save for a few regulars at the counter. He sat in a booth in the back, two plates of scrambled eggs and toast untouched between us. Neither of us picked up a fork. A full minute of heavy silence passed before he finally spoke. “Gwen, I’m going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.” “Go ahead.” “Does what’s happening to Dulcie have anything to do with you?” I stared at him. “What could I possibly have to do with it?” “She suddenly wastes away to nothing, and the doctors have no explanation. Before that, some fifty-year-old stranger shows up at our house claiming to be her boyfriend. These things only started happening recently.” He paused, leaning in. “Are you… doing something to her?” I picked up my coffee mug and took a slow sip. “Robert, do you honestly think a regular office worker like me has the power to make someone lose twenty pounds by magic? Or force a stranger into her life?” He stared at me, his eyes dark with suspicion. “I don’t know how you’re doing it. But I know that none of these bizarre things are happening to you. They’re only happening to her.” “Maybe it’s just a run of bad luck.” “Gwen.” His voice was low, but it vibrated with a quiet, desperate rage. “Dulcie is my daughter. She’s lying in a hospital bed. Don’t sit there and talk to me about bad luck.” I set my mug down. “And I’ve lived in your house for fifteen years, Robert. How many times did you look out for me in all those years?” He didn’t answer. “Dulcie got whatever she wanted. If I wanted something, you didn’t even look up. When my mother ignored me, you pretended not to see. When Dulcie took my things, you told me to let it go because I was older.” “That was different—” “How was it different?” My voice remained level, but the words were sharp. “On my fifteenth birthday, my mother gave me her cracked, discarded phone. That same day, Dulcie got two brand-new ones. Do you remember that?” His jaw clenched. “When we moved when I was twelve, I got the closet-sized room, and she got the master-adjacent suite. You said she was starting middle school and needed a study space. I was starting middle school too, Robert. Do you remember that?” He looked away, his gaze dropping to the laminate table. “Every year, every single time, I got one share and she got two. You and my mother acted like it was the natural order of the world. In fifteen years, did either of you ever look at me and ask, ‘Gwen, does this hurt?’” The diner’s refrigerator hummed loudly in the silence. Robert kept his head bowed, his hands clasped tightly together, his knuckles white. “I admit,” he said, his voice thick, “we could have paid more attention to you. But Gwen, those were decisions made by adults. You can’t take your anger out on Dulcie. You can’t destroy her life.” “I’m not destroying anything.” “Then why is this happening to her?” “I don’t know.” He raised his head, his eyes rimmed with red. “You really expect me to believe that?” “I don’t care what you believe,” I said, meeting his gaze without flinching. He couldn’t read me. He had spent fifteen years ignoring my existence; he had no idea what my lies sounded like, or what my truth looked like. To him, I was a stranger who happened to sleep down the hall. “Gwen, please,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “If anything happens to her…” “Robert,” I cut in, “do you realize you’re doing the exact same thing my mother used to do?” He froze. “Whenever Dulcie cried, my mother blamed me. Now that Dulcie is sick, you’re blaming me. To both of you, the problem is always me.” I slid out of the booth and stood up. “Ask Dulcie about the things she’s taken from me over the years. Once you have those answers, then you can come talk to me.” I grabbed my coat and walked out. My hands were trembling as I stepped onto the sidewalk. It wasn’t fear; it was a decades-old anger that had finally found its way to the surface. I took a deep breath, refusing to let the tears fall. I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I wouldn’t cry in front of anyone. When I got home, Helen was sitting on the sofa. She looked up as I entered, her mouth opening as if to speak, but she hesitated. I walked over and stood in front of her. “Mom, do you think I’m behind what’s happening to Dulcie too?” She avoided my eyes. “I didn’t say that.” “But you believe it. You knew Robert was meeting me this morning, didn’t you?” She remained silent. “Mom, let me ask you something.” She finally looked up at me. “Who do you think I am?” Her lips parted slightly. “You’re my daughter.” “Then why have you never once stood by my side?” She had no answer. I nodded slowly. “Understood. Watch closely then.” I walked into my room and locked the door. Sitting on the bed, I pulled out my phone. The system was active. Remaining wishes today: 1. Dulcie was trying to use Robert and Helen to crush me, just like she always did. Whenever she ran into trouble, she’d cry, point her fin

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The girl sitting across from me was someone I’d met only a handful of times, yet the look in her eyes was a mixture of pity and quiet satisfaction. “Derek is only with you for revenge,” she said, pushing a manila folder across the polished table. “He made a bet with the guys. He said he’d make you fall in love with him, just to watch you break.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “And he’s not some uneducated grease monkey working for minimum wage. He’s the youngest heir to the Lockhart fortune.” I stared at the documents, the photographs, the bank statements. Slowly, my hand drifted down to rest against my still-flat stomach. Inside my pocket, my fingers tightened around the folded ultrasound results I’d received just two hours ago. 01 I don’t even remember how I walked to the auto repair shop where Derek worked. He was sitting on the hood of a banged-up sedan, running a hand through his messy hair. He flicked his bangs out of his eyes and let out a dry, mocking laugh. “That old lady texted me again,” he said to the guy standing next to him. “Asking what I want for dinner.” “Her cooking is so incredibly bland,” he continued, scoffing. “Everything she makes tastes like cardboard.” The other guy chuckled, clearly enjoying the show. “Hey, your one-year anniversary is in three days, right? For that fake birthday you made up, she emptied her pockets to buy you that ten-thousand-dollar watch. What do you think she’s going to buy you this time?” Derek made a clicking sound with his tongue. “That piece of garbage? It’s not even worth a fraction of the tax on my real watches. If I wore that out, you guys would laugh me out of the city.” “So where is it?” “I tossed it to a pretty waitress at the club last weekend.” The two of them burst into laughter. I looked down and realized my hands were shaking. On my phone screen, Derek’s last text message glared back at me: Anything you make is perfect, babe. I love your cooking. 02 A year ago, a group of drunk, rowdy guys had started a fight at the bar where my friend worked. I was the one who called the police. During the chaos, when one particularly arrogant punk tried to lung at her, I had kicked him square in the face, leaving a pair of nasty scratches on his cheek. A few weeks later, I was having dinner at a quiet diner when another brawl broke out. In the middle of the screaming and shattering glass, a heavy wooden chair came flying toward me. Before I could react, someone threw himself in front of me, taking the blow. It was him—the arrogant punk from the bar. I brought him back to my tiny apartment to clean his cuts. The fierce, dangerous edge he usually wore vanished completely. Instead, he looked at me with a soft, vulnerable expression. “I had to pay for the damages at the bar,” he murmured, looking down at his hands. “I’m completely broke now. And because I stepped in to protect you, I lost my job.” He looked up, those beautiful, puppy-dog eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Norie… can I stay here for just a few days?” I looked into those eyes and sighed, unable to turn him away. Later, he told me he had found a job at a local auto shop. He said he wanted to change, to build a real life. With his very first paycheck, he bought me a bouquet of wild flowers. “Norie, please don’t make me leave.” And then, slowly, the boundaries blurred. “Norie, I got a bonus today. It’s all yours.” “Norie, can I kiss you?” “Norie, I love you.” … Chelsea told me the diner fight had been set up from the start. A carefully orchestrated play designed specifically for me. “He made a bet with us,” she said calmly. “He wanted to date you for exactly a year, and then dump you on the anniversary after telling you the whole truth.” I sat in silence for a long time. “Why are you telling me this now?” She shrugged. “Because you just saved my little sister’s life in the ER earlier today. Call it professional courtesy, or karma. Besides, I bet my new Porsche on this game. I’d hate to see him win.” 03 I clutched the crumpled piece of paper—the lab results confirming I was two months pregnant—and walked the gray streets of Boston, retracing my steps over and over. By the time the shadows of dusk settled over the city, I finally opened the door to our apartment. Derek immediately threw his arms around me, burying his face in my neck and whining like he always did. “Where were you? You said you’d be home early to cook!” I looked at his bare wrist. “The watch I bought you… why do you never wear it?” He stiffened for a fraction of a second. “Oh… it’s just too precious. I’m afraid I’ll scratch it at the shop. I keep it locked away safely.” To buy him that watch for his birthday, I had taken on extra freelance consulting work at night. I worked my day job, then stayed up until two or three in the morning, staring at a glowing screen. One morning, I had fainted from exhaustion on a crowded subway car during rush hour. Even then, I only allowed myself to take an hour off before heading back to the office. It had taken me nearly three months of starving my own needs to save up that money. I forced a tight smile, gently pushed him away, and walked past him into the bedroom. He frowned, following close behind. “Did that idiot manager of yours yell at you again? I told you that company is garbage. You need to quit…” I spun around, my voice sharper than it had ever been. “And which company isn’t garbage, Derek? The Lockhart Group?” “They framed me for corporate espionage. They fired me and sued me for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Overnight, I went from having a career to being completely bankrupted, blacklisted from the entire industry. Is that your idea of a good company?” He froze, the color draining from his face. Not long after the night at the bar, the general manager of the Lockhart Group had shown up at my office with a team of high-powered corporate lawyers. They accused me of leaking proprietary trade secrets, claiming I had caused millions in damages. I was fired, my savings were seized, and my reputation was thoroughly ruined. I had spent the last year believing I was just a casualty of corporate politics, a convenient scapegoat for some executive’s mistake. I never imagined it was all because I had offended the golden child of the Lockhart family. A boy five years younger than me playing a twisted game of revenge. I closed my eyes, feeling a profound exhaustion settle into my bones. “Derek, let’s not do this anymore—” The sharp ring of his phone cut me off. Derek answered, spoke in low, hushed tones, and then hung up. He looked at me, his voice softening into that sweet, familiar cadence. “The shop just got a major delivery. They need me to go in for an emergency shift.” I stared at him for a long, quiet moment, searching his face for any flicker of the boy I thought I loved. I swallowed the words rising in my throat. “Okay.” Derek didn’t come home that night. Instead, my phone buzzed with a new photo from Chelsea. Under the dim, amber lights of a VIP lounge, Derek was leaning close to a stunning young woman. He was taking a glass from her hand, his nose nearly brushing against hers. I turned off the screen. In that photo, a single bottle of champagne on the table cost more than the watch I had nearly killed myself to buy him. For the past year, I had skipped buying coffee, walked past bakeries, and counted every penny. When he casually mentioned he wanted cherries, I bought the organic ones at twelve dollars a pound. When he needed a jacket for the winter, I took him to the mall and spent three hundred dollars on a coat without a second thought. But when it came to myself, I spent hours comparing prices online before buying a pair of twenty-dollar canvas sneakers. What had he been thinking when I handed him that watch with such hope and love in my eyes? God, even his birthday was a lie. I curled up on the bed, clutching the duvet to my chest, and let the tears fall in the dark, silent room. 04 The next morning, I left the apartment early. My landlord called to ask if I wanted to renew the lease. I stared at the peeling paint on the hallway wall. “No, I won’t be renewing. I’ll be out in… a week.” The apartment was tiny, barely big enough for the two of us. Yet, during our quietest nights, Derek would gently stroke my stomach and whisper in my ear, “Do you think we’ll have a baby one day? If we do, this place is going to be way too small for them to run around.” “I’m going to work so hard, Norie. I’m going to buy a big house for you and our baby.” The memory made my chest ache so violently I had to lean against the wall, taking a deep, shuddering breath. When I stood up, the world spun, and I nearly collapsed. A colleague caught my arm, her eyes full of worry. “Nora, are you okay? You look pale. Let me drive you home.” The moment I unlocked the front door, Derek grabbed me, pinning me against the wall with a cold, furious expression. “Why haven’t you been answering my texts? Why did you decline my calls?” “And who the hell was that guy who just dropped you off? Why were you smiling at him?” I stared at him blankly. My mind kept looping back to how incredibly realistic his acting was. If I hadn’t seen the evidence, if I hadn’t heard his voice on that recording, I would have sworn he was madly, desperately in love with me. “Derek, don’t you ever get tired of this?” He blinked, his grip tightening on my wrists. “What are you talking about?” “Are you tired of me?” The image of him and that girl in the VIP lounge flashed behind my eyes. I lowered my gaze, pulling my hands free. “Yes.” Anger flared in his eyes. He leaned in, trapping me against the wall again, and bent his head to kiss me. I jerked my head to the side to avoid him, and a sudden wave of nausea hit me. I gagged. He froze, looking at me with pure disbelief. “Am I disgusting to you now?” “You didn’t seem disgusted when that guy was touching you! You smile at him like that, but you can’t even stand my touch?!” My colleague had only been helping me carry my bags. But I didn’t care to explain. I struggled to push him away. His fury only mounted. “What kind of loser is he anyway? Is that who you’re downgrading to?” “Am I not enough to satisfy you anymore, or are older women just that desperate when they’re lonely?” I froze. The exact words from the recording echoed in my mind: Just a lonely, desperate older woman. My eyes stung with hot tears. Before I could stop myself, I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. The sharp sound cracked through the small room. The air instantly turned to ice. He stared at me, his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. After a long, agonizing moment, he let go of me, turned on his heel, and walked out, slamming the door so hard the walls rattled. I slid down against the wall, burying my face in my knees as my strength drained away. 05 At eight that evening, my boss called, demanding I meet a client at a high-end private club downtown. “If we close this deal, I’ll make sure you get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus at the end of the month!” I dragged my exhausted body out of bed. “Fine. I’ll be there.” When I pushed open the door to the private VIP suite, my heart stopped. Sitting on the plush leather sofas were the very same men I had hoped to never see again. The man in the center, Brody, let out a loud laugh. “Well, look at that. I wondered who Davies was talking about when he said he was sending his best project manager. It’s Nora.” His lips curled into a nasty smirk. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?” They were. Six months ago, these same men had cornered me in a private room, claiming Derek had gotten into a fight with one of them and demanding seventy thousand dollars in damages. Remembering the bruises Derek had tried to hide and his terrified, silent behavior, my protective instincts had flared. I had cried out, “This is extortion!” Brody had laughed, holding up a bottle of expensive whiskey. “Do you know who we are? Extortion? If I wanted to, I could have him ruined permanently.” My blood had run cold. Then Brody had smiled. “But I don’t like being hard on pretty women. Drink this, and we’ll call it even.” I had stared at the row of bottles for what felt like an eternity before picking them up, one by one. By the end, I was violently ill, vomiting onto the polished floor while they stood around me, pointing and laughing. “Look at how pathetic she is.” “Like a dog.” “So sad.” When the bottles were empty, Brody had knelt down, studying my tear-streaked, pale face. “She really is an idiot,” he had muttered. They left me there. I had lain in my own sickness until the morning cleaning crew kicked me awake. I had never told Derek. I wanted to protect him. And now, here they were again. I clenched my fists, but as I glanced around the room, my eyes caught on a jacket draped over the arm of the sofa. It was Derek’s designer jacket. My gaze snapped back to Brody’s face. Suddenly, a memory clicked—a graduation photo Chelsea had shown me of Derek’s friends from his time studying in London. The guy laughing right behind Derek in the photo… was Brody. A wave of intense dizziness washed over me. I dug my fingernails into my palms until the pain kept me grounded. Brody smiled. “Since we’re old friends, let’s play by the old rules.” He slid a bottle of heavy liquor across the table. “Finish this, and I’ll sign the contract.” I stared blankly at the closed doors around the suite. The bathroom door was shut. The door to the adjoining private room was shut. Where was Derek? Was he hiding behind one of those doors, watching me? What expression was on his face right now? I opened the bottle, poured a full glass, and raised it. Then, I threw the amber liquid straight into Brody’s face. Gasps echoed through the room. Brody wiped the alcohol from his eyes, his expression turning venomous. Before I could even register his movement, his hand came flying down, slamming into my face. I crashed hard onto the floor. My ears rang, and a dull throbbing started in my temple. “Nora,” Brody sneered, looking down at me. “I tried to be nice.” A sharp, terrifying cramp flared in my lower abdomen. I clutched my stomach, my entire body beginning to shiver. So this was my punishment. My punishment for slapping the Lockhart family’s precious little prince earlier today. I remembered the last time I had been forced to drink. Derek and I had just had a massive fight because I called him irresponsible and lazy. The proud little prince had been offended, so his friends had punished me to make him feel better. Was he watching me now, lying bruised on the floor? Was he finally satisfied? I slowly pushed myself up. Without looking at anyone, ignoring my boss’s frantic shouts, I turned and walked out of the room. By the time I unlocked the door to my apartment, every ounce of strength had left my body. 06 Derek didn’t come back until the first pale light of dawn began to creep through the windows. He was wearing the exact same jacket I’d seen on the sofa at the club. When he saw me sitting in the dark living room, he startled. “Why are you up so early?” When I didn’t reply, his expression softened into something resembling guilt. “Are you still mad? I… I lost my temper yesterday. I know he was just a colleague. I’m sorry, Norie.” He walked over and knelt beside me, burying his face in my lap. “Let’s make up, okay? Norie, please.” I placed my hands on his shoulders and firmly pushed him away. As his brow furrowed in confusion, I turned my laptop toward him and hit play. He froze. On the screen, a video was playing. It was me, kneeling on the floor of that VIP room six months ago, covered in alcohol and my own sickness, while his friends laughed hysterically in the background. Derek’s face went entirely white. When I had returned home last night, I found his personal laptop—the one he usually kept locked in a drawer—sitting on the coffee table. Prompted by some dark instinct, I had opened it. The password hadn’t been hard to guess. It was the date of our fake one-year anniversary. And there, in a folder, I found the video. He lunged forward, grabbing my hands. “Norie, please, let me explain—” I yanked my hands back, my vision blurring with hot, stinging tears. “Was it fun?” My voice trembled, breaking as I looked at him. “Did you feel powerful watching me like this? Did it make you feel good?” I grabbed the laptop and slammed it down onto the floor in front of him, the plastic casing cracking. “You’re a monster, Derek.” Panic flared in his eyes. “No, Norie, it’s not like that…” “Stop,” I whispered, my voice completely dead. “Stop acting, little prince. I know everything.” “We’re done. It’s over.”

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Every single day, I cracked open a fresh durian in the private suite of the comatose heiress. I’d eat it while crying from the sheer, pungent deliciousness of it, and without fail, her EKG monitor would spike in a tiny, subtle wave. Right next to me, her spirit would hover, practically weeping with longing. “I would literally die for a bite of that,” she’d moan, her translucent face twisted in agony. “I swear to God, I am waking up just so we can go halves on one of those. I need it.” Nobody knew that I’ve lived in a world of whispers since the day I was born. I see souls. I hear them when they think they’re screaming into the void. So, when my adoptive brother, Wyatt, refused to marry the comatose crown jewel of Manhattan’s elite, I was the only one who saw her spirit standing right there in the room. Her face was a ghostly, pale blue, and her eyes were burning with absolute, unadulterated hatred as she glared at Wyatt. “He is so incredibly heartless,” she hissed. “The doctors literally said I’d be awake within six months. If anyone stepped up to take care of me right now, I’d hand them two hundred million dollars the second I opened my eyes, just to spit in this bastard’s face!” My eyes lit up. I timidly raised my hand. “What if… I marry her?” It wasn’t about marrying into high society. I just really, really wanted that two hundred million. … I fully expected Wyatt to put a stop to it. After all, we had a history. His favorite pastime since childhood was making my life a living hell, just to watch me squirm. But this time, he simply burst out laughing and shoved me forward. “Go ahead. You’re just a parasite anyway. It’s about time you went and scrubbed bedpans for a living.” He sneered, looking down his nose at me. “Look at you, so desperate you’re begging to marry a vegetable. How pathetic can you get?” I kept my head down, swallowing the insult. If playing the part of a desperate charity case meant escaping this house and pocketing two hundred million dollars, I’d gladly play it for the rest of my life. Isla Benson’s spirit, however, was absolutely livid. She floated right behind Wyatt, throwing wild, useless punches at the back of his head. “You absolute hypocrite!” she screamed. “You told me your brother Logan was the one who bullied you! It was all a lie. You’re a manipulative snake, and I was blind enough to let you play me!” The temperature in the room dropped noticeably as her anger flared. I instinctively shivered, pulling my collar tighter, and stepped toward her father, Mr. Benson. “I’m the biological son of the Mercer family,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite my nerves. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Benson, I am willing to take my brother’s place and marry Isla.” Mr. Benson looked exhausted, the lines of grief deeply etched into his face. Ever since Isla’s car accident, the family had maintained a public facade that she was recovering quickly. If Wyatt backed out of the engagement now, it would expose their vulnerability, make them a laughingstock in the tabloids, and inevitably crash the family company’s stock. I was, quite literally, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. Mr. Benson grabbed my hands, his eyes wide with desperate hope. “Are you sure, son? You do realize Isla is entirely unresponsive right now. We can’t file the legal marriage papers or hold a proper ceremony yet.” He paused, searching my eyes. “But if you take care of her, if you act as a husband should… I promise you, when she wakes, your place in this family will be set in stone.” I nodded, offering a gentle, reassuring smile. “I know how to care for people, sir. I looked after my grandparents when they were bedridden. I have plenty of experience.” Beside me, Isla’s ghost frowned, drifting closer to study me. A wave of icy air washed over my back, making me stiffen. I pretended not to notice her, focusing entirely on selling myself to her father. “I can cook, I know how to turn a patient to prevent bedsores, and I have a lot of patience…” My parents eagerly chimed in, desperate to seal the deal. “Oh, absolutely! Logan is built for manual labor,” my mother said, her tone dripping with casual cruelty. “He’s perfect for looking after your daughter. As his parents, we give our full blessing. You can take him with you today.” They couldn’t wait to throw me out, treating me like a bag of trash they were finally allowed to dump. As the door closed behind us, Wyatt’s sharp, mocking laughter echoed down the hallway. “A freak who talks to walls and a brain-dead corpse. A match made in heaven.” Isla’s spirit hovered near the ceiling, shaking her head in disgust. “He is so toxic. To think I actually believed he was the sweet, innocent one.” She drifted down, looking at me with a soft, lingering gaze. “I really was blind. But don’t worry, Logan. When I wake up, I’m giving you that money. I’ll make sure Wyatt watches you take every single cent.” I watched her float through the solid oak door, silently praying to whatever forces were listening: Please, let her remember that promise when she wakes up. Half an hour later, I was standing in the ultra-private VIP suite, looking at the physical Isla. She looked fragile, her skin nearly translucent under the harsh hospital lights, her breathing kept steady only by the rhythmic hum of the machines surrounding her. Mr. Benson wiped a tear from his eye. “The brain trauma was severe. The surgery was successful, but recovery takes time. The doctors said it could be six months, or it could be three years.” He sighed, looking at his daughter. “We wanted a partner for her, someone to keep her company. Wyatt didn’t get it. We could easily hire a dozen world-class nurses. We didn’t need him to scrub bedpans; we needed him to care.” He explained that patients in vegetative states often responded best to familiar voices and emotional connection. Having someone talk to her, keeping her mind stimulated, was crucial for her recovery. But because of the sensitive nature of her condition, they couldn’t trust an outsider, and Mr. Benson was too busy keeping the board of directors from panicking. Wyatt had been the logical choice. But the universe had handed the duty to me. Isla’s spirit stood by the edge of the bed, her expression wistful. “I really thought Wyatt would stand by me. I never expected him to abandon me the second things got ugly.” She looked at me, sighing. “I just wanted someone reliable to read me the financial news every morning. Is that really so hard to find? I wonder if this guy is actually up for it…” Listening to her complain, I began to understand the mechanics of her situation. Her consciousness had simply detached from her physical form. The day she woke up would be the day her spirit finally snapped back into place. I turned to Mr. Benson and laid out my plan. “I’m going to read her the Wall Street Journal every morning,” I said, counting the points on my fingers. “I’ll play her favorite movies and operas in the background. I’ll describe the weather to her daily and introduce different scents to keep her sensory pathways active.” I hesitated for a fraction of a second. “And if you don’t mind, Mr. Benson, I’d like to handle her daily sponge baths myself. It will help her get used to my presence.” Both Mr. Benson and Isla’s spirit looked at me like I was selling them a dream. They clearly didn’t believe I had the patience to follow through. But by the next afternoon, I had already proven them wrong. When Mr. Benson walked into the suite, he found Isla looking neat and presentable, her hair softly brushed. A newly released film was playing quietly on the television, and I was sitting by her side, gently explaining the plot points. On my lap was an iPad, where I was pausing every few minutes to read her the latest market updates. Near her pillow, a mug of freshly brewed herbal tea filled the room with a warm, spiced aroma, masking the sterile smell of bleach and rubbing alcohol. I had even set up a small cot in the corner of the room. “You don’t have to sleep here, Logan,” Mr. Benson said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re allowed to go back to the estate.” I smiled gently. “Honestly, Mr. Benson, anywhere is better than my parents’ house. And being here 24/7 helps establish a routine. It’s better for her.” I caught Isla’s ghost out of the corner of my eye. Her expression had softened dramatically. “Wyatt would have complained about the cot within five minutes,” she murmured, watching me adjust the IV lines with practiced ease. “This Logan kid is actually… incredibly decent. Maybe this accident wasn’t entirely a curse.” It seemed I had officially passed the heiress’s test. From then on, things became much easier. I paid close attention to where her spirit drifted. She rarely left the room, likely because staying close to her physical body kept her grounded. She only ventured out when the weather was exceptionally clear. Now that her feelings for Wyatt had turned to ash, she spent all her time hovering around me. Whenever I cared for her body, her ghost would chatter away right beside me. “How did Logan find out I love opera? He must have done some serious digging. I love it.” “But why does he keep bringing me apples? Doesn’t he know my absolute favorite fruit is durian? I am so sick of the smell of Red Delicious.” The very next day, I walked into the room carrying a massive, thorny durian. I cracked it open right in front of her bed. “Alright, Isla,” I whispered, looking at her sleeping face. “Let’s see how many sweet pods we got inside this one today.” As the days blended into weeks, I grew bolder. I started gently holding her hand, moving her fingers to form silly shapes—a peace sign, a thumbs-up. At first, her spirit would screech in protest. “Stop that! Nobody has ever dared to treat me like a doll! Do I look like a toy to you?” But eventually, she grew used to it. She’d roll her eyes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she watched me. When the rich, buttery scent of the durian filled the room, Isla’s ghost stared at it with wide, desperate eyes. Her survival instinct seemed to surge. “I want it so bad… I swear, I am waking up. I’m going to sit down and eat a whole one of those with Logan.” As she spoke, the green line on the EKG monitor spiked in a clear, rhythmic wave. I took a bite of the creamy fruit and smiled. “You know, Isla, this is actually the first time in my life I’ve ever eaten a durian. Back at my parents’ house, I only got the bruised apples and moldy oranges Wyatt didn’t want.” The ghost froze, staring at me. I had grown so accustomed to her presence that I began to treat her like a real friend, pouring my heart out during the quiet hours of the night. “Your dad thinks I’m working myself to the bone, so he gave me a ten-thousand-dollar bonus,” I murmured, staring at the ceiling. “But honestly? At home, I had to cook and clean for my parents, Wyatt, and my grandparents when they were sick. Coming here and only having to look after you feels like a vacation.” Isla’s spirit drifted down, hovering just inches above my face, searching my eyes in absolute silence. I told her everything during those long nights. I talked about the quiet emotional abuse from my parents, the way Wyatt would intentionally break things and blame me, and the suffocating isolation of growing up as the black sheep. When I finished venting, I felt lighter. But Isla’s spirit looked like she was on the verge of tears. “Are his parents completely insane? Why would anyone treat their own flesh and blood like garbage while worshiping an adopted brat?” She clenched her fists. “Just wait until I wake up. I am going to ruin that entire family for what they did to you.” A small wave of warmth bloomed in my chest. I didn’t care about revenge, but knowing someone—even a ghost—was in my corner meant the world to me. After that night, the bond between us grew even stronger. I kept up the act of pretending I couldn’t see her, but I made sure to fulfill every little complaint she voiced. By the fourth month, a miracle happened. I was gently stretching her fingers, a part of our daily physical therapy, when her index finger suddenly twitched against my palm. Isla’s spirit gasped, staring at her own hand. “My reflexes… my muscles are actually responding!” she cried out. “The neural pathways are repairing themselves. Am I finally going back?” Overjoyed, I immediately called Mr. Benson. The news of her potential recovery spread like wildfire. Within hours, a team of world-class specialists descended upon the suite. But along with the doctors came Wyatt. He marched into the room, sparing a brief, disgusted glance at Isla before grabbing my collar and dragging me out into the hallway. “I heard she’s waking up,” he spat. When I didn’t answer right away, he slapped me across the face. The sting was sharp and sudden. “You actually think you’re marrying into the Benson family now, don’t you? Who do you think you are, looking at me like that?” Isla’s spirit was practically vibrating with rage beside us. “Logan, what are you doing? Hit him back! I’ve got your back!” she screamed, swinging wildly at Wyatt’s face. “Are you an idiot? Punch him!” But her fists passed through him like mist, leaving nothing but a sudden, chilly draft. Wyatt poked his finger hard into my chest, his voice low and threatening. “The second she opens her eyes, you’re out of here. I’m going to make sure she believes I was the one who stood by her bedside every single day.” He smirked, adjusting his designer jacket. “Everyone knows I’m the one she actually loves. When she wakes up, she’s marrying me.” Isla’s ghost scoffed. “If my brain retains even a fraction of my memories from this state, I would rather die than marry you.” But then she paused, a sudden look of panic crossing her face. “Wait… will I actually remember this? What if my soul’s memories don’t transfer back to my physical brain? What if I forget everything Logan did for me?” She turned to me, her voice trembling. “Oh my god. If I forget… and I actually end up believing Wyatt was the one who saved me… what do I do?” I rubbed my stinging cheek, my stomach dropping. I didn’t care who Isla married, but if Wyatt stole the credit for my months of sleepless nights, my two hundred million dollars would vanish into thin air. Isla smacked her own forehead. “Wait, my dad! My dad knows what Wyatt is really like. He’d never let me marry that idiot.” She sighed in relief. “Yes, as long as my dad is around, he’ll tell me the truth. He knows Logan was the one here.” But Wyatt was already one step ahead. He cornered Mr. Benson in the hospital corridor later that afternoon, his voice dripping with performative sincerity. “You know Isla’s temperament better than anyone, sir,” Wyatt argued, his expression a perfect mask of devotion. “She’s incredibly stubborn. Once she’s set on me, she won’t change her mind. When she wakes up, you can’t force her to marry a stranger she has absolutely no feelings for.” He leaned in. “She’s surviving a miracle. As her father, shouldn’t you support her happiness instead of trying to control her life?” To my horror, Mr. Benson looked genuinely swayed. He pulled me aside later, his expression deeply apologetic. “Logan… Isla won’t have any memory of who was actually by her side during the coma.” He lowered his voice. “If we tell her it was Wyatt, it aligns with her pre-accident feelings. It makes the transition easier for her, and the marriage can proceed smoothly. It’s the best outcome for everyone.” He patted my shoulder. “I will compensate you generously. As long as you keep quiet, no one will ever know the truth.” Seeing no other choice, I nodded submissively. Beside me, Isla’s spirit was practically tearing her hair out. “Logan! Have some self-respect! Why are you just giving away everything you worked for?” I wanted to speak up, but a lifetime of survival had taught me that people like me didn’t win against people like Wyatt. I had no leverage, no power, and no family backing me. Once Wyatt secured Mr. Benson’s compliance, he immediately went to the press to solidify his narrative. Within days, headlines flooded the media: Devoted Fiancé’s Love Awakens Comatose Heiress. “Our wedding will proceed the moment she is discharged,” Wyatt was quoted in a front-page interview. “I am just grateful my love was enough to bring her back to me.” The public was enchanted by the romantic narrative. With the constant intervention of the medical team and Isla’s own fierce, stubborn will, her vitals reached near-perfect levels. Her brain activity was fully restored. She was ready to wake up. Isla’s spirit hovered near my bed on her final night, her eyes filled with a quiet, profound sadness. “Logan, I hope I remember,” she whispered, her translucent fingers reaching out to hover over my cheek without touching it. “Please, God, don’t let me forget how good you were to me. Don’t let me mistake that monster for my savior.” I wanted to tell her I hoped so too. But some things were entirely out of my hands. The next morning, I woke up, and the room felt empty. I looked toward the corner where she usually hovered. The air was still. My heart skipped a beat. She was back in her body. I immediately called for Mr. Benson and the doctors. Within minutes, Wyatt and my parents arrived, trailing a swarm of select media outlets they had tipped off. The room was packed, everyone holding their breath as the lead neurologist began the waking procedure. With a soft, long beep from the monitor, Isla’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes. The room was silent, nobody wanting to startle her as she adjusted to the light. She moved her fingers slightly, her throat working as she tried to swallow. She stared at the ceiling, her brow furrowing as if she were sorting through a massive, chaotic filing cabinet in her mind. I gripped the edge of my jacket, silently praying. Please remember. Please. If she had forgotten… everything I had done for the last six months would become Wyatt’s stepping stone to ultimate power. Wyatt couldn’t contain himself. He shoved past the doctors, throwing himself toward the edge of the bed. “Isla! You’re awake!” he cried, forcing tears into his eyes. “I’m right here, my love. I never left your side. For six months, I was here, caring for you, waiting for you to come back to me. You remember, don’t you?” Isla’s gaze remained vacant, drifting over his face without a spark of recognition. My stomach plummeted. She had forgotten. My mother leaned close to my ear, her voice a cruel whisper. “Stop dreaming, Logan. Mr. Benson already made the deal. The second she confirms she doesn’t remember, Wyatt takes over. Pack your things and get lost before you embarrass us.” I watched Isla look at Wyatt, her expression unreadable. The weight of defeat pressed heavily on my chest. I turned around, ready to slip out of the room unnoticed. But then, Isla spoke. Her voice was raw, cracked from months of disuse, but her question cut through the room like a knife.

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I gave my husband fifteen thousand dollars a month so he could stay home and focus entirely on raising our daughter. Until the preschool teacher sent me a video. In the grainy footage, my daughter, Lucy, looking heartbreakingly thin, was crouched in a dusty corner of the playground. She was picking up a piece of discarded chewing gum from the gravel and popping it into her mouth. The teacher’s voice in the accompanying audio note was heavy with reluctant pity. “Mrs. Colton, seeing this today just broke my heart. Last week, another teacher mentioned she caught Lucy licking the inside of a discarded potato chip bag because she was so hungry. The poor sweet girl is living in such neglect. If things are financially difficult at home, please let us know. The school has resources to help.” My eyes stung with sudden, hot tears. Fifteen thousand dollars a month. That was more than enough to ensure Lucy wanted for nothing. How could she possibly be suffering like this? With trembling fingers, I pulled up my banking app and verified every single transfer. Every month, on the exact same date, the fifteen thousand had been deposited into my husband’s account. Not a penny was missing. So where the hell was that money going? … Right then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Garrett. Just keeping my favorite girl updated! Taking Lucy to an art auction this afternoon. I stared at the screen, a cold numbness spreading from my chest down to my fingertips. I didn’t reply. Instead, I booked the earliest flight back home. Once the booking was confirmed, I dialed a familiar number. “David,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I need you to draft a divorce agreement. My husband is cheating.” By a stroke of irony, the private charity auction Garrett was attending happened to be organized by my closest friend, Beth. But when Beth and I arrived at the grand entrance of the gallery, two beefy security guards barred our way. “Private event, ladies. Invitation only,” one of them said, his eyes scanning my casual travel clothes with blatant disdain. “Today’s showcase is hosted by Miss Sylvia. It’s an exclusive crowd. We don’t let just any random off the street wander in. Move along before you embarrass yourselves.” Hearing the name Sylvia made me freeze. Wasn’t that the “foster sister” Garrett was always talking about? The charity case his family had taken in years ago, whom he constantly insisted on supporting? Peering past the guards into the glittering, high-ceilinged hall, I spotted Garrett immediately. He was standing right in the center of the room. Sylvia was clinging to his arm, looking every bit the delicate, pampered debutante. She was wearing a flawless designer gown, her makeup immaculate, and hanging from her earlobes were a pair of striking pink diamond earrings. The moment those diamonds caught the light, the blood rushed to my ears in a deafening roar. I had bought those pink diamonds last year as a future heirloom for Lucy. I had specifically handed them to Garrett, telling him to keep them in the family safe until our daughter was old enough to have them set. Now, those very diamonds—meant for my neglected daughter—were sparkling on his mistress’s ears. Around them, the wealthy patrons murmured in envy. “Garrett is incredibly generous. Giving away a flawless pink diamond set like that…” “Honestly, only someone with Sylvia’s elegance could truly carry off such rare gems.” “They look absolutely perfect together. A match made in heaven.” Garrett kept his hand casually rested on Sylvia’s waist, basking in the compliments of the crowd. Sylvia leaned into him with a practiced, shy smile, tilting her head just enough to make the diamonds catch the gallery’s spotlight. The rage inside me snapped. Before anyone could stop me, I lunged forward, grabbed Sylvia by her shoulder, and ripped the pink diamond earrings straight off her ears. “Ah!” Sylvia let out a sharp, piercing shriek, clutching her bleeding earlobes as her face turned pale. Garrett’s face darkened instantly. “What is security doing? How did this psycho get in here?” But when he turned and saw my face, his fury froze. A flicker of panic crossed his features, though he quickly masked it. “Olivia? What are you doing here?” I let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “You told me you were taking our daughter to an auction. Since when did our daughter turn into this cheap side-piece?” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Every eye in the gallery turned toward us, and a wave of whispers rippled through the crowd. “Who is this woman?” “Did she just call Miss Sylvia a side-piece?” “Is this some old flame of Garrett’s causing a scene?” Garrett’s expression grew incredibly ugly. Sylvia whimpered, her eyes pooling with tears as she whimpered, “Garrett… it hurts so much…” Garrett stared at me for a few agonizing seconds. Then, as if reaching some desperate decision, he raised his voice so the entire room could hear. “Olivia, are you seriously doing this again? Have you no shame? Do you really have to stalk me like a lunatic?” I stood there, my brow furrowing in sheer disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about?” Garrett looked at me with a face full of manufactured heartbreak and disgust. “Stop playing the victim! When we were dating, you cheated on me with a sugar daddy and threw me away. Now that I’ve finally found true happiness, you come crawling back to harass us? You’re pathetic!” I was so utterly stunned by his sheer audacity that I actually laughed out loud. “Garrett, you’ve really lost your mind now that you’ve got a taste of the high life, haven’t you? You don’t even recognize your own wife anymore? I give you fifteen thousand dollars a month, and you’ve been using my money to play prince charming for this fraud?” “Enough! Shut your mouth!” Garrett’s eyes flashed with genuine panic, and he cut me off with a vicious bark. “Get out of here before I have you thrown out!” Beth couldn’t stay quiet any longer. She stepped up, pointing a finger directly at Garrett’s face. “Garrett, are you even a man? You’re nothing but a parasite living off Olivia’s family. How dare you stand there and lie like this? Have you no dignity?” Garrett shoved Beth back with an irritated grunt. “Get lost! This is none of your business!” Beth stumbled backward, nearly losing her footing on her high heels. Seeing her stumble, I raised my hand to slap him, but Beth caught my wrist, shaking her head slightly, warning me not to escalate it further. My restraint only made Garrett bolder. “I’m warning you for the last time, Olivia. Get the hell out of here!” he sneered. “Sylvia is the host of this entire auction. Her father is the CEO of Crestview Group. You cross her, and you’ll find yourself ruined. You can’t afford the consequences.” Hearing this, Beth stared at him, completely dumbfounded. Around us, the whispers grew louder and nastier. “So the guy found someone better, and the ex is just a bitter stalker. How embarrassing.” “Miss Sylvia comes from such a prominent family. This crazy woman is way out of her league.” “Imagine being this desperate.” Seeing the crowd side with them, Sylvia put on her best saintly act, blinking back her tears. “Olivia, please stop doing this. We are happy now. Garrett has moved on, and I sincerely hope you find someone who actually wants you.” Her sickeningly sweet tone was the final straw. I swung my arm and delivered a resounding slap across her face. The force of the blow left a bright red print on her cheek. She gasped, covering her face as she sobbed, “Garrett…” Garrett looked as though his heart had been ripped out. His eyes turned wild with rage, locking onto mine. “Fine. You wanted to play dirty? Let’s play.” He turned and muttered something into the auctioneer’s ear. A moment later, the host stepped up to the podium, cleared his throat, and spoke into the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special, unscheduled addition to today’s catalog. These are private, intimate photos and videos of Miss Olivia Colton. Opening bid: one dollar.” The massive digital screen behind the stage flared to life. My heart stopped. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Displayed on the screen were intimate, private photos and videos from years ago—things Garrett had coaxed me into taking when we were deeply in love. The gallery erupted into laughter and crude murmurs. “Oh, wow. That’s a show!” “Garrett really knows how to put on a gallery. This is wild!” “I’ll bid ten bucks just to see the rest!” I lost all control. I rushed forward and slammed my fist directly into Garrett’s face. “You despicable pig!” Garrett’s head snapped back. When he looked back at me, his eyes were cold and murderous. He grabbed me by my shoulders and threw me hard onto the polished floor, screaming at the guards. “What are you waiting for? Throw this crazy bitch out! She assaulted me—teach her a lesson!” Three guards immediately lunged at me, pinning my arms behind my back. Beth threw herself in front of me. “Don’t you dare touch her!” Garrett shoved Beth out of the way, completely unhinged. “I don’t care who she is! Today, I’m going to make sure she learns what happens when she messes with me!” A guard yanked my hair back, exposing my face, and delivered a brutal slap. My cheek burned, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Suddenly, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the chaos. “Stop this right now!” I looked up through my blurred vision. It was my mother-in-law, Marina. A wave of relief washed over me. Marina had always been kind to me. When the family was drowning in debt years ago, I was the one who paid it all off. When she was bedridden in the hospital for three months, I was the one who bathed her, changed her bedpans, and fed her spoonful by spoonful without a single complaint. When she was discharged, she had held my hands, crying, and said, “Olivia, having you as a daughter-in-law is the greatest blessing our family has ever received. If Garrett ever does you wrong, I’ll be the first to handle him.” I was sure she would stand up for me. My throat tightened, and I was about to call out to her when a heavy, agonizing blow landed squarely on my face. “You worthless trash!” Marina spat, her face contorted in sheer malice. “How dare you harass my beautiful daughter-in-law! You must be tired of living!” The slap left my ears ringing. I stared at her, completely paralyzed by the betrayal. I couldn’t believe she was doing this to me, all to curry favor with a mistress she thought was rich. Sylvia stepped forward, gently wrapping an arm around Marina’s shoulders. “Mother, don’t upset yourself over her. Olivia is just confused. I won’t hold a grudge.” “Oh, Sylvia, you are always so sweet and sensible,” Marina cooed. The crowd joined in, their jeers raining down on me. “She’s getting exactly what she deserves.” “Throw her out. She’s ruining the atmosphere.” “Taking advantage of Miss Sylvia’s kindness… how utterly low.” I ground my teeth, reaching into my bag to pull out our marriage certificate to prove who I was. But Garrett saw what I was doing. He grabbed a heavy antique ceramic vase from a nearby display pedestal and smashed it directly over my head. A blinding pain exploded in the back of my skull. The world spun, and my legs gave out. “Are you still trying to pull some cheap tricks?” he hissed. “Olivia!” Beth screamed, trying to break free from the guards, but they held her fast. Garrett wasn’t done. He picked up a solid jade Buddha statue from another display and slammed it down onto my back. The impact stole the breath from my lungs. I collapsed onto the floor, warm blood quickly soaking through my hair and clothes. Beth let out a guttural scream, finally breaking away from the guards. She threw herself onto the floor beside me, cradling my head. “Olivia! Oh my god, Olivia, stay with me!” I weakly clutched at her sleeve, my vision fading. Beth glared up at Garrett, her eyes wild with tears. “This is assault! She is your wife of six years! How can you do this to her?” She pointed at the shattered jade statue. “And this piece is worth five million dollars! You are going to prison for this!” Garrett laughed, completely unfazed. “Sylvia is the host of this auction. Her father has more money than God. We can break ten of these and it won’t matter!” He picked up another heavy glass vase, aiming it directly at Beth. “And you—I think you need to learn to mind your own business!” With the last ounce of my strength, I rolled over, shielding Beth with my own body. A dull, heavy thud echoed through the room as the vase shattered against my shoulder. The pain was so intense that my entire body curled inward. “Olivia!” Beth wept. Garrett kicked Beth away. She flew backward, her head striking the sharp edge of the marble steps with a sickening crack. She let out a short scream and went limp, unconscious. Garrett’s eyes were completely bloodshot now. He waved his hands at the security guards. “Keep going! Beat them both! I’ll take full responsibility for whatever happens!” The guards descended on us again. Punches and kicks rained down on my bruised body. Every blow to my shoulder felt like my bones were being ground into powder. Beth lay beside me, a thin trickle of blood escaping the corner of her mouth. Through the tears and blood obscuring my vision, I saw Beth stir slightly. She tried to raise her head, whispering hoarsely, “Sylvia… I am the actual host of this auction… and Olivia is the sole heir to Crestview Group…” The crowd erupted into hysterical laughter. Sylvia covered her mouth, mocking her. “You two really are a pair of delusional clowns. You expect anyone to believe that? Look at yourselves.” Beth didn’t care about their laughter. She reached for her bag to pull out her ID and the venue lease. But before she could get her hand inside, a guard kicked her hard in the chest. She gasped, falling back onto the floor, completely unconscious this time. “Beth!” Summoning every remaining bit of life in my body, I reached into my jacket pocket, pulled out our red marriage certificate, and held it high above my head. “I am Garrett’s legal wife, Olivia Colton!” my voice was cracked and raw. “This is our marriage certificate!” The laughter died down. A heavy silence settled over the room as people stared at the document in my hand. I saw the color drain from Garrett’s face. But before I could even take a breath, Sylvia reached into her own luxury clutch and pulled out a identical red booklet, waving it mockingly. “Oh, you think you’re the only one with a certificate? I have one too!” she sneered. “Garrett and I just registered our marriage this morning. I am his legal wife!” A few nearby guests leaned in to inspect both documents. “Wait a minute… the bruised woman’s certificate looks highly authentic. Miss Sylvia’s looks… off.” “Yeah, look at the seal. There’s no embossed stamp, and the font is completely wrong. It looks like a cheap prop.” Murmurs of doubt began to rise, and Sylvia’s smug expression began to crack. She bit her lip, looking at Garrett with a mix of panic and desperation. Garrett immediately pulled her into his arms, glaring at the crowd. “Oours is the real one! This crazy stalker obviously forged hers to ruin our day!” He stepped closer, leaning down to whisper viciously in my ear. “You are going to stand up right now and admit your certificate is a fake. If you don’t, I will personally make sure your unconscious little friend is handed over to old man Gables tonight. You know what he does to helpless women.” Warren Gables was a notorious, sadistic predator in the city’s high society. If Beth fell into his hands, she wouldn’t survive the night. I looked at Beth’s bloody, motionless form. My chest heaved. I clenched my fists so hard my nails cut into my palms. Tears mixed with the blood on my face as I slowly nodded. “My certificate…” I choked out, each word tearing at my throat. “…is a fake.” Those four words took everything I had left. The crowd instantly erupted into jeering and insults. “I knew it! She’s a fraud!” “Forging a marriage certificate? That is dangerously unhinged!” “She deserves whatever she gets!” The kicks started again. Sylvia walked over and dug her high heel into my ribs, her face twisted in pure malice. I curled into a ball on the cold floor, bleeding and broken, as the darkness finally rushed in to swallow me. Right before I lost consciousness, the gallery’s main house lights flashed violently.

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At a dinner party with friends, someone leaned over, tapped my wife Erica’s shoulder, and asked: “Erica, a gorgeous woman like you must have had a ‘one that got away’ back in college, right?” Erica smiled, reaching over to adjust the collar of my shirt. “No, I only have eyes for my husband.” The words had barely left her mouth when Brody Crawford, her best friend sitting right next to her, burst out laughing. “Maybe not a ‘one that got away,’” Brody smirked, resting his chin in his hand and casting a smug wink in my direction. “But definitely a dirty little secret.” “Don’t look so tense, Luke. I’m talking about the old days. Erica was quite the wild child back then. Dragged me to every backseat and cheap motel in town. Nearly ran me ragged.” Someone gasped, and the private dining room erupted into a roar of laughter. But Brody wasn’t done. He took a slow sip of his drink and twisted the knife: “With us, it wasn’t some sweet, innocent puppy love. It was dirty. Heavy. The kind of stuff you keep in the dark because it’s too good to share.” He raised his glass to me, a thin smile playing on his lips. “Don’t take it personally, man. Just guys joking around. It’s all in the past.” “Besides, if we still had something going on, we wouldn’t be saying this on the exact night you guys announced the pregnancy, right?” 1 The air in the room froze. Someone recovered quickly and raised a glass to smooth things over. “Hey, come on, who didn’t have some wild, reckless years when they were young?” “It’s all in the past, let’s not dig up old history.” “Besides, look at how good Erica is to Luke now. No matter how busy she is with work, she always makes it home. She gives him her cards to spend, drives him around, and now that she’s pregnant, she’s got the whole household running like clockwork.” Another person chimed in: “Exactly, women like Erica are hard to find these days. Brody’s just got a big mouth and loves a joke. Don’t take it to heart, Luke.” The room filled up with noise again—laughter, clinking glasses, a blur of voices. As if the last few minutes had truly been nothing more than a harmless joke. I smiled along, too, though my fingertips were slowly turning ice-cold. They weren’t wrong. Erica was good to me. She was polite, attentive, and utterly flawless on paper. She bought me designer watches for our anniversaries, hired the best private doctors whenever I fell ill, and kept me showered with gifts and clothes. But in bed, Erica was always as cold and detached as if she were executing a task. It was always the same rhythm, the same positions, the same heavy silence. No kissing. No sweet talk. No eye contact. From beginning to end, she barely made a sound, her breathing so controlled it felt like she was presiding over a board meeting. When it was over, she would immediately get up and take a shower, her departing back sharp and efficient. She never once asked how it felt. At first, I thought she was just naturally reserved. Then, I thought I wasn’t good enough. I had tried so many times. I bought shirts I thought she’d like, practiced clumsy, affectionate gestures I’d copy from movies, and on the nights she came home late from the office, I would wrap my arms around her with a flushed face. But she would only frown and gently push my hands away. “Stop it, Luke. I’ve had a long day. Just be good.” Once, I gathered my courage, put on a new cologne, and wore the specific suit she had once complimented. She didn’t even look. She simply tossed her coat onto the sofa, her voice flat. “Don’t wear that again. It doesn’t suit you.” It doesn’t suit you. That night, I stood alone in the bathroom, washing the styling gel out of my hair under the running water, suddenly feeling like a pathetic clown. And now, Brody was leaning in close to her, laughing as he described how thrilling they used to be. Erica merely muttered, “That’s enough,” but she didn’t deny a single word. I finally understood. She wasn’t naturally cold. She had simply given her passion to someone else, leaving only her polite obligation for me. “Honey?” Erica suddenly called my name, handing me a glass of warm water. “You look pale. Don’t overthink it, he’s just drunk and talking nonsense.” I took the glass, feeling the warmth radiating through the glass. It was warm. But it couldn’t reach my chest. I looked up into her eyes and asked softly, “Erica, have you ever actually loved me?” She froze, her mouth parting slightly. Before she could speak, Brody laughed from beside her, lazily swirling his drink. “Hey, Luke, that’s a pretty depressing question to ask.” “Come on, she gave you her name, and she’s carrying your kid. Isn’t that enough?” “After all, this high-and-mighty heiress slept in my bed for years, and she never once gave me a title.” I looked at him, and suddenly, a smile crept onto my face. “You’re right,” I said. “A title. It really should be enough.” Only, from this moment on, I didn’t want it anymore. On the way back, the car was silent except for the rhythmic thud of the windshield wipers clearing the rain. Erica gripped the steering wheel, and only after a long while did she speak. “Don’t take Brody’s words to heart.” “It was just stupid stuff from when we were kids. He doesn’t know when to shut up.” She paused, her tone carrying the patient, patronizing weight of someone appeasing a petulant child. “You’re the one I married, and this is our baby. Isn’t that enough?” I stared out the window at the passing neon lights, my nails digging into the palms of my hands. “So you think I should be grateful?” Erica’s brow furrowed. “You’re being overly emotional tonight. Let’s just go home and get some rest.” Back at the house, she slipped off her coat, went to pour some water, washed her hands, and checked her phone, exactly as she did every other night. She was so calm, as if the humiliation in that dining room had never happened. I stood at the bedroom door, my throat tightening. In that moment, a desperate urge took over. I needed to know if she truly felt nothing for me, or if she simply didn’t want me. Gritting my teeth, I unbuttoned my collar and walked over to her. My fingers trembled, but I reached out and pulled her into my arms. “Erica…” “Look at me.” Her body went rigid for a second, and then she pushed me away. There was no desire in her eyes, no spark. Just exhaustion and a thin veneer of irritation. She picked up my jacket from the chair and draped it over my shoulders, her voice cool and detached. “Stop acting up.” My eyes stung instantly. “You’re three months along. The doctor said during the stable second trimester, we could…” “I’m not acting up. I just want to know if you still want me.” Erica looked at me, her expression hardening. “Luke, are you really that desperate?” The words felt like a physical slap across my face. I froze, my breath shaking in my chest. But she had already turned around, grabbed her keys, and walked out. The front door slammed shut. The entire house was dead silent, leaving me alone with the ruins of my dignity. I sat on the edge of the bed, tears silently spilling onto the backs of my hands. Half an hour later, my phone lit up with a notification. Brody had posted on his Instagram. The picture showed a woman’s wrist resting on a steering wheel. Around her wrist was the custom tennis bracelet I had bought for Erica. The caption read: “Someone got mad at me for running my mouth when I’m drunk.” “But she still showed up in the middle of the night anyway.” In the comments, he added another line: “Back when we were broke college students, we tried it everywhere. Except in this car.” “Looks like we’re unlocking a new level tonight.” I stared at those words, and a sudden laugh escaped my throat. But as I laughed, the tears only fell harder. So that was what she meant by “don’t overthink it.” She wanted me to stay home and keep up appearances, while she went to him to let her true feelings run wild. I wiped my face, opened my family group chat, and typed out a message. “Dad, Mom, please get a lawyer ready for me.” “I don’t want the baby, and I’m getting a divorce.” Almost immediately, my father called. His voice was heavy, steady, and cold. “You’ve finally woken up?” “Your mother and I never liked her for you.” “The Porter family has a pedigree, sure. But she was spoiled, and she kept that pathetic ‘best friend’ of hers on a leash. A woman like that doesn’t have the character to build a stable marriage.” “We only stood back because you loved her.” “But waking up now is better than never.” My mother took the phone from him, her voice filled with a mix of heartbreak and resolve. “I’ll have someone pick you up first thing tomorrow morning, sweetie.” “The divorce attorney is already on his way.” “As for the baby… I know it hurts. But if that child is born, you and Erica will be tied together forever. It’s better to cut this off completely. Trust me, it’s a blessing in disguise.” The next morning, the sound of the front door unlocking woke me. Erica walked in carrying a bakery box. Her expression was uncharacteristically gentle. “You’re awake? I bought you some cake.” She slid the box across the table toward me, her tone like she was coaxing a child. “Isn’t this your favorite place?” I looked down. Mango mousse. My stomach instantly turned. I am severely allergic to mangoes. If I eat them, my throat swells up and I can barely breathe. I stared at the mango mousse, and a flood of sharp, agonizing memories rushed back. Brody doesn’t eat onions. She always remembered. Every time she ordered food, she’d specify: “No onions in his, please.” Brody gets acid reflux from iced Americanos. She remembered. On rainy days, she’d pre-order a hot latte for him with half the sugar. Brody’s flight landing at 1:20 AM. She remembered. I had seen the reminders on her phone more than once: “Brody lands at 1:20. Cold front coming. Remind him to grab a jacket.” They were precise to the minute. But my life-threatening mango allergy? We had been married for three years, and she still forgot. Seeing my expression sour, Erica froze, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “I… I grabbed the wrong one.” She quickly reached into her designer bag and pulled out another box, eager to fix it. “Look at this instead. I picked it up when I walked past the boutique today.” “You said you liked this watch before.” She opened the box to reveal a beautiful luxury watch. It was indeed the one I had admired for a long time. If this were before, I probably would have teared up and forgiven her. But now, all I felt was a profound, suffocating exhaustion. I pushed the box back toward her. “Just leave it.” Erica frowned. “Are we still doing this?” I didn’t answer. I picked up my phone. As soon as the screen lit up, notifications from our old college group chat started flooding in. The group was still called “The Crew.” Chelsea had posted a series of photos. A man’s dress shirt, a woman’s skirt, and black lace underwear were scattered all over a hardwood floor. The group chat was losing its mind. “Holy shit, Brody, who was it last night?” “That looks intense.” “Give us details! How many rounds?” Brody replied lazily: “No comment. Let’s just say she nearly killed me.” “Usually acts so prim and proper, but she knows exactly what she’s doing when the lights go out.” A string of suggestive emojis followed. Then, Brody sent another text: “@Erica, you home yet?” “Did your hubby like the watch I picked out for him?” My fingers went completely cold as I read the screen. Even the apology gift was picked out by Brody. Right beside me, Erica’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, her face going pale, and she lunged to grab my phone. But I was faster. I locked the screen and looked up at her. “I haven’t even asked you anything yet. No need to panic.” Erica’s hand froze in midair, her throat bobbing as she swallowed. “Don’t overthink this.” “What happened between Brody and me… it’s ancient history.” “Once the baby is born, I’ll take you on a trip. Just the two of us. Didn’t you always want to go to Iceland to see the Northern Lights?” “Besides, if there was really anything going on between us, we would’ve ended up together years ago. Why would I have married you?” She reached out to take my hand, but I gently pulled back. I looked at her and let out a small, tired laugh. “Yeah. You’re right.” Erica blinked, assuming she had successfully pacified me. Her shoulders relaxed. “Exactly. Stop overanalyzing everything.” “Brody just has a big mouth and no filter. Don’t let him get under your skin.” I nodded, my voice completely flat. “It doesn’t matter to me anymore anyway.” Erica’s eyes narrowed slightly, clearly taking my words as a childish tantrum. She checked her watch and grabbed her keys. “Alright, stop sulking. I have a meeting this afternoon. I’ll be back to take you out for dinner tonight.” The moment the door clicked shut, silence flooded the apartment. I stared at the mango mousse on the table, picked up my phone, and texted my attorney: “You can start the process now.” At three that afternoon, I sat in a consultation room at the clinic. The afternoon sun streamed through the window, sharp and blinding. The doctor reviewed my file, then looked up at me with a calm, professional demeanor. “Mr. Davis, a termination of pregnancy must be authorized by the patient herself.” “As her husband, you can accompany her and sign certain auxiliary documents, but you cannot make this decision for her.” I nodded. I knew that before I even walked in. It was Erica’s body. No matter how much I resented her, no matter how much I wanted to sever our ties, I had no right to make that choice for her. But I had to come. I needed to hear it officially to snuff out the very last ember of hope in my chest. The doctor pushed the paperwork back to me, softening her voice. “If this is a marital issue, I suggest you resolve things between yourselves first. A child shouldn’t be used as leverage in an argument.” I looked down, my fingers clenching into fists. I wasn’t throwing a tantrum. I just knew that if this child was born, Erica and I would be bound together for the rest of our lives. My phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from Erica: “Honey, I just picked out a beautiful gold heirloom rattle for the baby.” “It’s so beautifully crafted. Our little one is going to love it.” I stared at the screen, my vision blurring. I suddenly remembered the day we found out she was pregnant. When she saw the positive test, she had frozen for a second, and then her eyes welled up. She had thrown her arms around me, laughing like a little girl in the middle of our living room. “I’m going to be a mom? Luke, I’m going to be a mom!” She had spent that night talking endlessly against my shoulder. She wanted to paint the nursery light blue, or maybe a soft yellow. She wanted me to choose the name. She promised that no matter how demanding work got, she would always make it home for dinner with us. Back then, I believed every word. I thought this baby would finally warm up the cold spaces between us. But now, the very same woman was texting me about baby toys while spending her nights playing games with Brody. Devotion and betrayal could coexist on the exact same face. I locked my phone and looked up at the doctor. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I understand.” When I stepped out of the hospital, my attorney was waiting by his car. He handed me the prepared draft. “Mr. Davis, the agreement states that if Mrs. Davis chooses to carry the pregnancy to term, custody, visitation, child support, and asset division will be handled under separate clauses.” “But as we discussed, you cannot legally force a termination.” I took the papers. They felt light, but they weighed a ton. “Then let’s proceed with the divorce first.” “We’ll handle the baby according to the law.” The lawyer nodded. “Understood.” When I got home that evening, the sound of familiar laughter hit me the moment I unlocked the door. Brody was sitting on our sofa, and Erica was pouring him a cup of tea. Seeing me, Brody immediately stood up. His eyes looked watery, his tone dripping with mock remorse. “Luke, hey. You’re back.” “Look, about last night… I drank way too much and was talking nonsense. Please don’t take it personally.” He took a couple of steps toward me, putting on a show of a sincere apology. “Erica and I have just been messing around since we were kids. We have no boundaries. I’m stupid.” “She’s pregnant, and I know you’re probably feeling sensitive right now. I get it.” “I’ll back off from now on. I don’t want to cause any more misunderstandings.” The words sounded like an apology, but the poison was baked into every syllable. He was painting me as the paranoid, oversensitive husband. Erica chimed in, her voice firm. “See? I told you it was a misunderstanding.” “We need to focus on our future and raising this baby. That’s what matters.” “You’re going to be a father, Luke. Stop letting your insecurities get the better of you.” I leaned against the entryway, my face pale. Even raising my hand felt like a monumental effort. Brody spotted the hospital paperwork in my hand and gasped with theatrical concern. “Geez, Luke, you look awful. You didn’t go to the hospital to get yourself worked up over nothing, did you?” “Come on, man, don’t be so fragile.” “Erica is carrying your kid. Don’t use the baby to punish her.” I slowly raised my hand, waving him off. “Save the performance.” The living room went dead silent. I looked directly at Erica, delivering each word with quiet precision. “I don’t want this baby anymore.” Erica’s face froze. “What did you say?” Before she could react, my attorney stepped into the room behind me, holding out a folder. The document was clear, bold, and undeniable. Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. The lawyer spoke calmly. “Mrs. Davis, this is the divorce petition drafted by Mr. Davis. Please review it.” “Regarding the unborn child, the terms specify that if you choose to proceed with the pregnancy, Mr. Davis will fulfill his legal financial obligations.” “But he is ending this marriage.”

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At our graduation party, everyone was buzzing with envy because Professor Kingsley was taking Logan and me to Paris to join his research team. “I heard you guys are getting legally married at the courthouse the day after tomorrow? Talk about a double win—career and love all at once!” “Couples who get married in Paris are destined for eternal happiness, you know!” I smiled, my heart full of hope, and reached out to pull Logan’s sleeve so we could raise a glass to everyone. But before my hand could reach him, he spoke, his voice cool and detached. “We aren’t going.” I froze. The glass in my hand suddenly felt incredibly heavy. “Amber’s graduation thesis experiment still isn’t finished,” Logan continued smoothly. “She’s been working so hard, and I can’t just leave her stranded.” “As for Gill, she’s going to stay behind with me.” Logan reached over, patting my head with a gentle, patronizing affection that suddenly made my skin crawl. “I need to head back to the lab to help Amber. You don’t hold your liquor well, so don’t drink too much.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the bar, leaving me standing there. A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the table. It took a full minute before someone awkwardly broke the tension. “Wow… you guys really have a great relationship. And you’re so generous, always helping others.” I forced a tight, empty smile, numbness spreading from my chest to my fingertips. Turning to Professor Kingsley, I quietly whispered, “I’m still going.” If Logan wanted to throw away his own future, fine. But what made him think he had the right to drag me down with him? … “If the Professor asks, just tell him you decided you didn’t want to go. I don’t want this affecting Amber’s focus,” Logan’s voice crackled through the phone. “She’s had a really rough time lately.” The graduation party had barely ended when Logan called. I stood on the sidewalk, the cold night air biting at my cheeks, utterly speechless. Before I could find my voice, Amber’s whiny, giggling voice drifted through the receiver. “Logan, I keep messing up this sequence! What do I do now?” Logan didn’t even bother to hang up. I heard his tone soften instantly, filled with a warmth he rarely showed me anymore. “Don’t worry, sweetie. Take it slow. Give me your hand, I’ll guide you through it step by step.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just swallowed the bitter lump in my throat and quietly ended the call. Then, I turned around and walked back to the science building to find Professor Kingsley. “Just you?” Professor Kingsley looked up from his desk, a frown creasing his brow. “Where’s Logan?” “He’s not coming,” I said simply. “What?” The professor looked genuinely shocked. “Logan has always been so protective of you. He’s really going to let you go abroad alone? And aren’t you two supposed to get your marriage license this week?” A sharp ache flared behind my eyes. Yeah. We were. I remembered a spring afternoon under the blooming cherry blossoms on campus. Logan had rested his head in my lap, looking up at me with eyes full of adoration, swearing that I was his entire world. I promise, Gill, you’re my absolute priority. I’ll spend the rest of my life making you happy. “Maybe he was just joking,” I murmured, trying to keep my voice steady. But before the professor could reply, the heavy office door swung open, and Amber burst in. “Professor Kingsley,” she said, practically bouncing on her heels. “Here’s the updated lab report you asked for.” After handing over the papers, she spun toward me, a sweet, saccharine smile plastered on her face. “Oh, Gill! I’m so incredibly jealous of you. Logan is literally the best boyfriend ever. My experiment would have been a total disaster without his help.” “By the way, he told me he’s going to spend the next few months practically living in the lab with me to make sure everything goes right. You don’t mind, do you?” The radiant, secure look on Amber’s face was a mirror of how I used to look. A deep, heavy sadness settled in my chest. But I refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing me break. I kept my face blank and gave a polite shrug. “Of course not. Logan is free to do whatever he wants.” “Really?” Amber’s smile sharpened, turning distinctly smug. “Well, Logan is so brilliant and handsome. There are always girls trying to catch his eye. If he ever decides to move on… I guess that’s his freedom, too, right?” “Yes,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “It is.” Professor Kingsley, sensing the thick tension, frowned deeply and barked, “Amber, that’s enough nonsense. Get back to your desk. I’ll review this and call you in later.” “I was just asking,” Amber muttered, rolling her eyes as she sauntered out of the office. The professor sighed, pulling out two official application forms from his desk and sliding them toward me. “Take these. Tell Logan to think long and hard about this. Opportunities like this don’t come twice.” He paused, looking at me with genuine concern. “And Gill… keep an eye on Amber. Don’t let Logan get too close to her.” I knew he was right. But I also knew a fundamental truth about people: you can’t keep someone who already has one foot out the door. By the time I walked out of the science building, the sky had bruised into a dark gray, and a torrential downpour began to slash against the concrete. Through the sheets of rain, I saw a familiar figure jogging toward the building under a large black umbrella. Logan. My heart did a habitual little leap, and I started to step forward, but before I could call his name, another figure darted past me, slipping seamlessly under his umbrella. It was Amber. Logan didn’t pull away. Instead, he adjusted the tilt of the umbrella to shelter her, leaving his own shoulder to get soaked. When his eyes finally met mine, they were entirely devoid of warmth. “Amber invited me over to her place for dinner,” he said casually. “Do you want to come?” “No,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the sound of the rain. It all made sense now. Why Logan had barely touched his food at the graduation party—he was saving his appetite for a private, intimate dinner. Amber gasped softly, putting a hand over her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh my gosh, Gill! I’m so sorry, I didn’t even see you there!” She looked up at Logan with wide, watery eyes. “Logan, the rain is so bad. Maybe we should postpone dinner. You should go home with Gill. I’ll just wait here until the storm passes. Don’t worry about me, really, I’ll be fine.” She played the selfless martyr beautifully, and I could see the protective instinct flare in Logan’s eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Logan said, his voice firm. “I’m a man of my word. If I make a promise, I keep it.” “But… what about Gill?” Amber peeked at me from under the rim of the umbrella, looking terrified that I might snap at her. “She’ll be fine. A little rain never hurt anyone!” Logan suddenly thrust the umbrella handle into my hands, grabbed Amber’s wrist, and pulled her out into the storm. Their bright, breathless laughter echoed through the heavy air, cutting through the thunder. A phantom memory flashed through my mind. Years ago, on a similarly miserable rainy day, Logan had looked at me with that exact same thrill in his eyes. Let’s just run for it! he’d yelled, pulling me into the downpour, laughing as we got soaked to the bone. I stood there holding the cold metal handle of the umbrella, staring at their retreating backs. I turned and started the long walk back to our apartment. But for some reason, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. In the past, if I ever went home alone, Logan would spam my phone with texts checking up on me, regardless of the weather. But tonight, after I showered and dried off, my lock screen was completely blank. Instead, when I opened my social feed, the first post was from Amber. [When you’re with the one you love, even the wildest storms feel like sunshine.] Below, a classmate had commented: Ooh, is someone in love? Who’s the lucky guy? Give us a hint! Amber had replied: Hehe, L.W. L.W. Logan Ward. A sharp, icy needle pierced my chest. If you’re willing to run through a freezing storm together, laughing all the way, how could it be anything less than love? When we first moved in together, we had a strict rule: always be home by ten. But tonight, the clock on the microwave read eleven when the front door finally clicked open. Logan walked in wearing a completely different outfit—a crisp, stylish shirt that fit him perfectly. It carried the subtle, clean scent of fresh laundry. Not ours. My vision blurred for a second. I took a deep breath, forcing my voice to remain steady as I picked up the application forms from the coffee table and held them out to him. “Professor Kingsley wants you to reconsider. He says this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” Without a single word, Logan snatched the papers from my hands and ripped them into shreds, letting the white pieces flutter to the hardwood floor like snow. I stood frozen, staring at the ruin at our feet. I couldn’t comprehend why his reaction was so volatile. “You know how hard Amber is working,” Logan hissed, his face contorted with anger. “Why do you have to target her? Why did you go out of your way to badmouth her to the Professor?” He glared at me as if I were a stranger, a monster. “Does tearing down a younger student make you feel powerful, Gill? Does it make you feel superior?” I stared at him, utterly bewildered. “Logan! Are you out of your mind? What proof do you have that I targeted her or said a single bad word? I have never, in my entire life, done something so petty!” “Do I really need proof?” Logan let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Amber’s lab report got rejected today, and Kingsley tore her to shreds over it. She was in tears!” “You were the only other person in his office when she handed it in. If you weren’t whispering poison in his ear, who else was it?” A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat, but I choked it down. “That report was drafted under my personal guidance,” Logan continued, his voice dripping with arrogance. “There is no way it would have failed unless you tampered with his opinion. And you still claim you’re innocent?” “Tomorrow, you’re going to go to Kingsley, explain your ‘mistake,’ and make sure her report gets approved.” He threw the demand at me like an order to a servant. I closed my eyes and drew a slow, ragged breath before looking back at him. “We have been together for four years, Logan. Do you honestly know so little about my character?” Everyone in our department knew I was the one who quietly fixed mistakes, who covered for underclassmen, who detested drama. And as for lab reports—who hadn’t had one rejected by Kingsley? Logan himself had failed seven times before getting his master’s thesis approved. It was practically a rite of passage. But now, all of his logic was blinded by a toxic protective urge for another girl. Logan shifted uncomfortably, a brief flicker of doubt crossing his face, but his pride won out. “People change, Gill.” “Yes,” I whispered, my gaze drifting slowly down to his expensive, unfamiliar shirt. “They certainly do.” “Gill!” he snapped, his face instantly flushing as if I’d struck a nerve. “Maybe I’ve just been too soft on you. I’ve spoiled you, and now you think you can be as petty and vindictive as you want!” He turned sharply, slamming the guest bedroom door behind him. I sat in the silent living room, staring at the white shreds of paper on the floor. Memories, unbidden and painful, began to flood back. Our junior year. A night of reckless passion, a failed birth control method, and a positive pregnancy test. I had wanted to keep the baby. But Logan had panicked, pleading with me that it would ruin our academic careers, that the timing was all wrong. He had held my shaking hands in his, tears streaming down his face as he made a thousand promises. I’m so sorry, Gill. I did this to you. I promise, this is the last time you will ever have to suffer. I will spend the rest of my life protecting you. From now on, your feelings are my only priority. I will never let you feel hurt or alone again. And yet, in a single day, he had shattered me a dozen times over. How incredibly foolish I had been to believe in the empty weight of those words. My phone buzzed in my hand, breaking the silence. It was Professor Kingsley: [The flight is booked for Thursday evening. It shouldn’t interfere with your morning courthouse appointment. Is Logan on board? Has he signed the papers?] Looking down at the shredded pieces of our future lying on the floor, my fingers hovered over the keyboard before I typed: [I’ll talk to him one more time.] The next morning, Logan left the apartment before the sun was fully up, skipping breakfast and slipping out without saying a word. Less than an hour later, another notification popped up. Amber had posted a new picture: [Nothing sweeter than feeding a spoon of strawberry cake to the person you love first thing in the morning.] The photo showed a close-up of a man’s neck and chin, a bite of cake hovering near his lips. On the right side of his neck, partially obscured by his collar, was a distinct, dark birthmark. I’d kissed that birthmark a thousand times. It was Logan. This was the man who had once proudly boasted to our friends about his “unshakable boundaries” with other women. Around noon, I went back to campus to hand my own completed application to the professor. As I passed our research lab, I glanced through the narrow glass window of the door. Logan was standing directly behind Amber, his chest pressed against her back, his hands over hers as he guided her through a pipetting sequence. Step by step, he had said on the phone. I had pictured them sitting side by side. I hadn’t realized “step by step” meant his arms wrapped entirely around her. That evening, as I quietly packed my suitcase in our dark bedroom, my phone lit up with yet another update from Amber. [The moon is so beautiful tonight. I have someone keeping me warm… do you?] The attached photo showed two shadows cast against a brick wall under a streetlight, their hands curved together to form a perfect heart. It was a direct, calculated attack. An open provocation. I didn’t call him. I didn’t send an angry text. Instead, I calmly tapped the heart icon, giving the post a “like.” By the time I snapped my suitcase shut ten minutes later, the post had been deleted. But the damage was done. My inbox began to light up with messages from mutual friends. [Hey, Gill, some people saw Logan up on the ridge with Amber tonight. Was that him in her story?] [Gill, you need to watch out. Logan is crossing some major lines with that new girl.] I sent a single copy-pasted reply to all of them: [His legs belong to him. I can’t control where he wanders to play hero.] Logan didn’t come home until midnight. He crawled into bed, smelling of cheap beer and that same unfamiliar, sweet laundry detergent, and wrapped his arms tightly around my waist. A wave of intense nausea hit me. I tried to pry his hands off, but he only pulled me tighter against his chest, burying his face in my hair. “Gill,” he mumbled sleepily. “Can you make those blueberry pancakes tomorrow morning? I missed them.” I stopped fighting and lay frozen in his grip, staring out the window at the cold, indifferent stars. The next morning, Logan stood in front of our closet, pulling out the elegant, ivory silk dress I had bought specifically for our courthouse ceremony. “Gill,” he said, turning to me with a casual smile. “Amber is doing a photoshoot for her portfolio today. Mind if she borrows this dress?” For a split second, my heart had fluttered, thinking he was getting it ready for me. In the next, a profound, chilling disappointment washed over me. “What’s with that face?” Logan frowned, looking irritated by my silence. “It’s just for one day. Don’t be so petty. Consider it an apology for making her cry to the professor.” He walked over to my vanity table, his eyes landing on a delicate silver bracelet resting in a velvet box. “Oh, and this matches the dress perfectly. She can borrow this too.” It was the first gift he had ever bought me, a token of his love from our sophomore anniversary. My hand shot out to snatch it back, but he was faster, slipping it into his pocket. My hand hovered in the empty air, trembling slightly. As he turned toward the front door, I managed to find my voice. “Logan. Today is the day we’re supposed to get our marriage license.” He froze, a brief flash of guilt crossing his features before he quickly masked it. “Right. Of course I remember. I’ll meet you at the courthouse at three sharp.” The moment the front door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. It was an automated airline notification: [Dear Ms. Fletcher, your flight to Paris departs tonight at 7:30 PM. Please check in at least two hours prior.] A second later, Professor Kingsley sent a text reminding me of our meeting time at the airport terminal. At 3:00 PM, I stood on the granite steps of the city courthouse. The afternoon sun beat down on me as I stared at my phone screen. No texts. No missed calls. Instead, a message popped up from Amber: [Thanks for the dress and bracelet, Gill! They looked absolutely stunning on camera!] Attached was a video. In the clip, Amber was wearing my ivory dress, her hand slipped possessively through Logan’s arm. She was giggling, whispering something in his ear. In the background, the photographer’s voice was clear: “You two make such a gorgeous couple. Seriously, the chemistry is amazing.” “He’s so attentive, always wiping her brow and keeping her hydrated.” “We should definitely book you guys for a wedding-style shoot next time!” Every word felt like a physical blow to my chest. I shut down the video, unfriended her, and blocked her number permanently. Three o’clock came and went. No Logan. By five o’clock, the security guards began locking the courthouse doors. Finally, my phone buzzed with a text from him. [Hey, things ran super late with the shoot. Let’s do the courthouse another day. We have the rest of our lives anyway, there’s no rush.] I didn’t reply. I walked down the steps, hailed a cab, and headed straight to my apartment to grab my suitcase before heading to the airport. On the way, another text came through: [Amber’s never seen a meteor shower before. I’m going to take her up to the ridge tonight to catch it. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.] Over the last four years, I had begged Logan a dozen times to go stargazing with me. Every time, he’d brushed me off, saying it was cold and pointless. But for Amber, he didn’t hesitate. I suppose the old saying was true: it was never about the activity. It was about who you were doing it with. Professor Kingsley was already waiting at the gate. When he saw me walking toward him alone, a long, heavy sigh escaped him. “Logan is really staying behind, then? He’s completely blinded by that girl.” “Yes,” I said quietly, adjusting the strap of my carry-on. “He made his choice, and I’ve made mine. Our careers are our own responsibility. So is our happiness.” The professor looked at me, a soft, approving smile touching his lips. “You’re right, Gill. Besides, across the ocean, there’s someone who has been waiting to see you for a very long time. Frankly, he’s a league above Logan anyway.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “478341”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The night before the Bar Exam, our suite’s golden boy turned off every single alarm in the building and unplugged the main hallway emergency buzzer. “I just wanted everyone to wake up naturally,” Toby murmured, his voice trembling with gentle innocence. “Toby doesn’t want anyone starting the most important day of their lives with an elevated heart rate. Truly capable people don’t need a buzzer to save them.” In my past life, I had woken up in the middle of the night to review my Criminal Law outlines. Sensing the eerie silence, I had run door-to-door, banging on every frame in the pre-law wing to wake everyone up. Everyone made it to the exam center on time. But because Toby’s “stress-free initiative” had failed so spectacularly, the housing dean called him in for a disciplinary meeting. He fled to the rooftop in tears, where the sudden winter cold triggered a massive asthma attack. He died alone in the freezing wind. Later, the rest of our cohort passed the Bar and secured lucrative associate positions at top-tier firms. On the night of our post-grad farewell dinner, they lured me into a rented penthouse and locked me out on the balcony. Rachel, the mentor I’d looked up to since my first year of law school, stood behind the double-paned glass, watching calmly as I fell to my knees, shivering and begging for mercy. “If you hadn’t insisted on playing the hero, Toby wouldn’t have run up to that roof,” she said, her voice muffled by the glass. “What’s the big deal with sleeping in thirty minutes? Anyone can write those essays. You think we’re incompetent like you?” “Since you love waking people up so much, stay awake and freeze.” Now, reborn to that very night, looking at my disabled phone screen, I silently slipped my backup mechanical watch into the inner lining of my jacket. This time, I was going to let these naturally rested geniuses see if they could even get past the test center gates. … “I… I only wanted everyone to get a decent night’s sleep.” Toby stood in the center of our common room, clutching a clear plastic storage bin to his chest. His eyes were rimmed with red, making him look fragile and terribly young. Inside the bin lay three smartphones. Their screens were entirely blank. The carefully calibrated alarms we had set for 6:00, 6:10, and 6:20 AM had been systematically toggled off, leaving the schedules as clean as if they had never existed. “The exam is tomorrow, and everyone has worked so hard this past year,” Toby said, sniffing softly. “Toby doesn’t want you all starting the morning with a heart-pounding alarm. Waking up naturally is the best gift we can give our bodies.” As soon as the words left his mouth, a light laugh rippled through the room. “Toby’s right. Honestly, the sound of my alarm makes me want to throw up lately,” Tyler Yates said, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s just the essay portion tomorrow morning anyway. A few minutes of sleep isn’t going to make or break our scores.” “Some people just treat this exam like a matter of life or death, forcing everyone else to drown in their toxic grind culture.” Brandon Higgins threw the last comment directly at me. I stood by my desk, looking down at my silenced phone. A cold sensation crept up from my fingertips, followed by a sharp, stinging pain in my palm. I had pinched myself. Hard. It hurt. I was back. I had returned to the night before the Bar Exam, the exact moment Toby launched his “Natural Wake-Up Initiative.” Toby was the golden boy of our pre-law housing suite. He was soft-spoken, spoke with a delicate cadence, and frequently referred to himself in the third person. When we first moved in, a few people in our group chat had complained that he was acting childish. But within a month, he had everyone wrapped around his finger. When he complained that studying was too exhausting, the suite went for walks around the track with him. When he said practice exams were suffocating, they traded mock trials for boba runs. When he declared that a legal career shouldn’t just be about scores, the entire floor began chanting his slogan: Reject the toxic grind. Even Rachel was no exception. She was an upperclassman I’d known since my freshman year, the person I had trusted most. We had spent years sharing library tables, compiling study guides, and dreaming of making it to the big firms in Manhattan. But once Toby arrived, her attitude toward me grew ice-cold. She told me I was clinical. She told me I was boring. She said I carried an exhausting, suffocating anxiety wherever I went. In my previous life, when I woke up past midnight to memorize constitutional law precedents, I realized the hallway buzzer had been silenced and all our phones were dead. Panicked, I woke up my roommates and ran through three floors of pre-law housing, knocking on every door. Even the classmates who had mocked me and excluded me from their study groups were dragged out of bed by my warnings. They all made it to the exam. But Toby was severely reprimanded by the housing dean for tampering with communal property and disabling other students’ alarms. He wept, claiming no one understood his healing intentions. That night, he ran to the roof to clear his head. A sudden cold front swept through the city, and his asthma flared up. By the time they found him, he had stopped breathing. Most of our classmates went on to pass the Bar and secure prestigious clerkships. But they didn’t thank me. On the night of our graduation send-off, they got me drunk and dragged me onto the balcony of a short-term rental. The winter wind cut through my clothes like a blade. I beat my fists against the glass, crying out for them to open the door. Rachel stood inside, holding a warm mug of tea, her expression detached. “If you hadn’t insisted on waking everyone up, Toby wouldn’t have been pushed to the edge,” she said. “You saved our careers, but you killed him.” “Daniel, a person like you deserves to be alone forever.” As my consciousness slipped away in the freezing dark, I could still hear their laughter drifting through the glass. “Isn’t he the one who always wants to stay sharp and alert? Let him stay alert out there.” The phantom chill of that night still clung to my bones. In this life, I would not be anyone’s alarm clock. I lowered my gaze, keeping my voice entirely flat. “I’m sorry. I overreacted.” The laughter in the room died down. Toby looked at me with wide, watery eyes. I stepped forward, picked up my phone, and voluntarily toggled off my last backup alarm before placing it into his plastic bin. “Toby is right,” I said. “The Bar Exam isn’t a prison sentence. Sleep is more important. If we wake up naturally tomorrow, our minds will probably be sharper.” After a brief, stunned silence, Tyler let out a dry smirk. “Well, look who finally crawled out of his shell.” “Always acting like he’s the only one actually working in this suite.” “The grind-lord finally saw the light.” Toby immediately waved his hands, tears pooling in his eyes again. “Don’t talk about Daniel like that, guys. He’s just stressed. Toby understands him.” “Everyone handles pressure differently. We need to be supportive.” The more Toby defended me, the more disgusted the others looked, as if I were a rigid, unfeeling machine that didn’t deserve his kindness. I didn’t argue. I simply went back to my desk and began carefully placing my admission ticket, photo ID, black pens, and erasers into a clear ziplock bag. Tomorrow morning, the first session of the essay exam would begin at 8:30 AM. No candidate would be admitted more than fifteen minutes after the start of the exam. That was the rule. And it was the fate they were choosing to ignore. As I prepared to slip the ziplock bag into my backpack, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Rachel had stepped up behind me, her eyes cold and suspicious. “What are you planning, Daniel?” “I’ve known you for years. I know exactly how your mind works.” “You’re playing along now, but the second we go to sleep, you’re going to set a secret alarm and go warning every room on the hall, aren’t you?” The air in the room instantly stiffened. Several pairs of eyes locked onto me, heavy with suspicion. Rachel reached down to snatch my phone from the bin. I took a step back, blocking her. “That’s my property.” She let out a harsh laugh. “Your property?” “When you were using it to disrupt the entire floor in the middle of the night, did you think about our peace of mind?” She grabbed my shoulder, using her weight to pry the device from my hand. I instinctively tried to pull back, but Tyler immediately stepped between us. “What’s your problem? Got something to hide?” “Toby is trying to help everyone decompress, and you’re determined to ruin the vibe.” Brandon rolled his eyes. “Don’t let him keep it. He’ll definitely set a silent alarm. People like him always say one thing and do another.” Rachel swiped my finger across the screen to unlock it. She knew my passcode from our sophomore year when I had a high fever and she had ordered food for me. Back then, I thought that level of access meant we were close. Now, it just made my stomach turn. She tapped into my notes app, reading my exam-day schedule aloud in a mocking tone. “Subway transfer to bus, backup Uber route, walking navigation screenshot…” She shook her head, laughing. “Daniel, is this a joke?” “It’s a standardized test, not an evacuation plan.” Toby murmured softly, “Rachel, don’t be mean. Maybe he just needs to feel secure.” Rachel’s expression hardened. “He doesn’t need security, Toby. He needs control. He wants everyone else to feel as miserable and anxious as he is.” Right in front of my face, she deleted the navigation screenshots. Then she tossed my phone back into the plastic bin. “Your phone stays locked up tonight with the rest.” “Tomorrow, when we all wake up naturally, we’ll get our things together.” I reached for my ziplock bag, but Rachel snatched my admission ticket from inside it. “I’ll keep this too.” My expression finally fractured. “Rachel, give that back.” She arched an eyebrow. “What are you scared of? We’re all leaving together tomorrow. It’s not like I’m going to burn it.” “Unless, of course, you never had any intention of waiting for us to wake up.” Toby bit his lip, looking deeply wounded by my defensiveness. “Daniel, Toby is really just trying to help you. Why do you have to assume we have bad intentions?” I stared at the paper in Rachel’s hand, forcing my heart rate down. In my past life, I had cared too much about being misunderstood, which allowed them to drag me into their emotional traps. This time, I wouldn’t trade my future for my pride. I softened my tone. “Fine. Keep it.” “Just remember to give it to me tomorrow morning.” Rachel blinked, clearly surprised by how quickly I had backed down. Then, the condescension in her eyes deepened. “See? That wasn’t so hard.” “If you let go of your need to control everything, people wouldn’t find you so exhausting.” Tyler, emboldened by her victory, began rummaging through my desk. “Hey, he’s got a small desk clock here.” “And look at this stupid countdown calendar. It’s depressing just looking at it.” With a sudden sweep of his arm, he knocked my study materials, prep books, and handwritten flashcards off the desk. They scattered across the floor. A thick, hand-bound binder slammed against the floorboard, its spine splitting open. It was my criminal law outline—four months of meticulous analysis and case briefs, every page covered in color-coded annotations. Brandon picked it up, flipping through a few pages with a sneer. “With this much material, half of it probably won’t even be on the exam.” “Some people just love to perform effort to make themselves feel important.” He held the binder directly over the trash can. I looked up, meeting his eyes. Brandon hesitated for a fraction of a second, then shoved it down into the bin with an arrogant smirk. “What? You think you’re going to read this garbage tomorrow morning before the test?” Toby quickly grabbed his arm. “Don’t throw it away, Brandon.” “Toby wanted us to rest, not bully Daniel.” He turned his soft, doe-like eyes back to me. “But seriously, Daniel, don’t study tonight. Every time Toby sees you turning pages, Toby feels completely useless, like nothing I do can help you relax.” It was the same emotional blackmail he always used. Because his feelings were fragile, everyone had to adjust. Because he was sad, my hard work was redefined as a personal attack against him. Rachel stuffed my admission ticket into her coat pocket, looking down at me. “No studying after midnight. Anyone caught sneaking a peek at their notes is showing zero respect for Toby.” “Daniel, that goes double for you.” I knelt down, quietly collecting my scattered papers from the floor. Just then, the door swung open. Dean Caldwell stepped into the room, holding a stack of official test-day directives. Seeing the mess on the floor, his brow furrowed deeply. “What is going on in here?” the Dean asked, his voice stern. “The Bar Exam is tomorrow morning. Why are you clearing out your desks now?” His eyes traveled to the plastic bin filled with phones, then to the bulge in Rachel’s pocket. “Who authorized a confiscation of personal devices?” No one spoke. Toby’s eyes immediately filled with tears. Holding the bin close, he took a small step toward the Dean. “Dean Caldwell, please don’t be angry.” “Toby just saw how stressed everyone was and wanted to make sure we got some peace. We all agreed to wake up naturally tomorrow and head to the test center together.” Dean Caldwell looked at him blankly. “Wake up naturally?” His voice rose sharply. “Tomorrow is the state licensing exam, and you’re telling me about a natural wakeup?” Toby flinched, his shoulders pulling in. Rachel immediately stepped in front of him, shielding him from the Dean’s gaze. “Dean, there’s no need to use that tone with him. Toby is only looking out for our mental health.” “You know how brutal the pressure has been this past year. Are we supposed to turn ourselves into unfeeling machines just to satisfy some archaic schedule?” Dean Caldwell let out a dry, incredulous laugh. “Machines?” “Me telling you to set an alarm and leave early is treating you like machines?” He slammed the test-day directives onto the desk. “Let me make this absolutely clear to everyone in this room.” “The morning session begins at exactly 8:30 AM.” “The security gates at the test center close precisely fifteen minutes after the start. If you are not inside by then, you are barred from entry. Not just the exam room—the entire building.” “Security checks, baggage drop, finding your assigned desk, using the restroom—do you think those things take zero time?” “The entire third floor of this building is registered for tomorrow’s exam. Who among you thinks they have the right to dictate when other candidates wake up?” Toby began to sob quietly. “But Toby only wanted us to suffer less. If we start our careers in pain, what was the point of any of this?” Tyler piped up. “Dean, we’re adults. We know our limits. The essays are just standard retrieval; sleeping in a bit won’t affect our scores.” Brandon muttered under his breath, “And everyone wanted to do this. It’s not like Toby forced us.” Dean Caldwell caught the detail immediately. “Everyone?” He pointed at the bin. “There are phones in here from other suites?” Rachel’s face paled slightly. Toby kept his head down, silent. The Dean stepped forward and lifted the lid of the bin. Inside, beneath the smartphones, lay several digital alarm clocks and two smartwatches. His expression turned furious. “Have you lost your minds? Whose idea was this?” “It was Toby’s suggestion,” Toby whispered, tears tracking down his cheeks. “But Toby had no bad intentions. The communal hallway buzzer is so loud, and Toby only unplugged it so everyone could sleep peacefully.” Dean Caldwell whirled around. “You unplugged the building alarm too?” “That is the emergency warning system for the entire wing!” “Do you have any idea how many candidates miss their exams every year because of simple delays? You read about those people online and think they’re stupid, but when it’s your own life, you treat it like a game?” Toby looked white as a sheet under the scolding. Rachel couldn’t restrain herself. “Dean, aren’t you blowing this out of proportion?” “It’s just an alarm.” “It’s just a buzzer.” “We’re going to pass this exam based on our legal knowledge, not because we rushed out of bed fifteen minutes earlier.” Dean Caldwell pointed a finger toward the hallway, his hand shaking slightly. “Rachel, you are a third-year representative and a graduate assistant.” “Instead of stopping this, you’re leading the charge?” “Return every single phone immediately. Plug that hallway buzzer back in, and post an announcement in the residence group chat telling everyone they need to be out of this building by 6:30 AM tomorrow.” Rachel’s jaw tightened. “Under what authority? They surrendered their devices voluntarily.” “Dean, you can’t invalidate everyone else’s choice just because Daniel is having a panic attack.” The Dean turned his gaze to me. I stayed completely silent. I knew that in this moment, anything I said would be twisted into a betrayal or an accusation. In my past life, I had begged them to understand. They hadn’t listened. This time, I chose silence. Dean Caldwell clearly saw the dynamics at play. He took a deep breath, keeping his voice strictly professional. “I don’t care who initiated this.” “If anyone is found withholding another student’s phone, disabling alarms, or tampering with university property tonight, I will personally file an academic misconduct report with the administration.” “The Bar Exam is not a playground. If you fail to show up, no one in this building can save your career.” He walked over to the wall, plugged the emergency buzzer back in, and looked at Rachel. “Give Daniel his admission ticket. Now.” With a rigid face, Rachel slowly pulled the paper from her pocket and handed it over. I took it and slid it securely into my inner coat pocket. Before leaving, Dean Caldwell delivered one last warning. “I will be standing at the lobby exit at 6:30 AM tomorrow. Do not test me.” The door clicked shut. The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by Toby’s soft weeping. A few seconds later, Rachel kicked a desk chair aside. “Are you happy now, Daniel?” I looked up at her. “Did I say anything?” She sneered. “You didn’t have to. Your face says everything.” Toby gently tugged at her sleeve, his voice incredibly soft. “Rachel, don’t blame him. Maybe Toby’s ideas are just too progressive for this place.” “But… since the Dean said we can’t keep people’s phones, why don’t we let everyone decide for themselves?” He looked up with wet, innocent eyes. “We can just put out a voluntary pledge in the floor group chat. Anyone who wants to participate in the Natural Wake-Up Initiative can turn off their own alarms and leave their phones in Room 314 to charge.” “That way, nobody is forcing anyone.” Rachel’s eyes lit up. “Exactly. A voluntary agreement. No one can touch us for that.” She pulled out her phone and recorded a voice note for the floor chat. “Hey everyone, the housing director just came by, spouting the usual warnings about late arrivals to stress everyone out. Toby doesn’t want us to be victims of that kind of toxic panic, so we’re keeping the Natural Wake-Up Initiative alive.” “If you want to join, turn off your alarms and bring your phones to Room 314. We’ll head out together when we wake up.” “Real legal minds don’t need a buzzer to tell them when they’re ready.” The group chat remained silent for a minute. Then, a student from down the hall sent a question mark. “The Bar is tomorrow. Are you guys serious?” “I’m out. I can’t risk sleeping in.” Rachel shot back immediately: “If you’re scared, don’t join. No one is forcing the cowards.” Tyler added: “Honestly, it’s hilarious how some people study for months and still rely on a machine to get them through the door.” Brandon chimed in: “Some people are defeated by their own anxiety before they even see the first question.” Slowly, the peer pressure began to work. “I’m in. Honestly, I’d rather not start the morning with a panic attack.” “It’s just the essay portion. Arriving a few minutes late isn’t going to erase what we know.” “We’ve prepared for this. A rested mind is better than a rushed one.” “Toby is right. The rebellion against toxic stress starts tonight.” More and more responses poured in. Some were genuinely convinced. Others signed up simply because they didn’t want to look terrified or weak. And some joined because they saw everyone else doing it and didn’t want to be left out. Before long, footsteps sounded in the hallway. A girl from the end of the hall came in, smiling as she held out her phone. “Count me in, Toby. I’ve wanted to smash my alarm for weeks.” Toby stood at the door, taking her phone with a bright, sweet smile. “You’re going to do amazing tomorrow.” Then came a second, a third, a fourth. The plastic bin filled up rapidly. Rachel had to fetch a second cardboard box. One guy hesitated at the door, clutching his phone tightly. Rachel let out a clear, mocking laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re actually afraid of sleeping in? After three years of law school, you still have zero self-control?” Flush-faced, the guy dropped his phone into the box. “Who’s afraid? I just didn’t want you guys leaving without me.” A wave of laughter went through the room. Rachel tapped the box like a general reviewing her troops. “Look at this. This is what a real community looks like.” “Not like some people, who treat their own personal paranoia like a universal law.” Toby produced a sheet of paper from his drawer. “Toby drafted a pledge. Since it’s voluntary, let’s all sign it. That way, no matter what time we wake up, no one can blame anyone else.” He smoothed the paper onto the table. At the top, written in his neat, elegant script, were a few lines: Reject pre-exam panic. Honor your body’s natural rhythm. I voluntarily disable my alarms to participate in the Natural Wake-Up Initiative. I assume full responsibility for my own results. Looking at those words, a strange sensation washed over me. Toby was far more calculating in this life than he had been in the last. Or perhaps, in my past life, I had been so desperate to save everyone that I never took the time to see what he was actually doing. Rachel took the pen and signed her name first. “I stand with Toby.” Tyler and Brandon followed immediately. Soon, the paper was passed down the hall. Some signed with a flourish; others hesitated before putting pen to paper. Eventually, the sheet was pushed toward me. I didn’t reach for it. Toby looked at me, his voice barely a whisper. “Daniel, aren’t you going to sign?” Rachel sneered. “Of course he won’t.” “He’s saving his right to play the victim and blame us if anything goes wrong.” I carefully checked my admission ticket and ID one last time. “Since it’s voluntary, I have the right to decline, don’t I?” Toby’s eyes welled up again. “Toby isn’t forcing you, Daniel. It’s just… when everyone is trying so hard to support each other, and you’re the only one staying distant, it hurts Toby’s feelings.” Rachel slammed the pen onto my desk. “Sign it.” “If you don’t sign, you’re actively working against this community.” I met her eyes. “I am not participating.” “And I will not wake any of you up.” “Is that clear enough?” She stared at me for a few long seconds, then let out a cold laugh. “Fine.” “Just don’t try to play the saint tomorrow morning.” At 11:50 PM, Rachel carried the two boxes of phones down to the end of the hallway. The outlet for the building’s emergency buzzer was located right there. Dean Caldwell had plugged it back in less than an hour ago. In full view of everyone gathered in the hall, she bent down and pulled the cord from the wall. A sharp click echoed through the corridor. The small green indicator light on the wall unit flickered and died. The crowd let out a quiet cheer. “Freedom!” “We’re passing this exam on our own terms!” “Death to the alarms!” Rachel turned toward the hallway security camera and flashed a bright, mocking victory sign. “Whoever sets an alarm tonight is officially the enemy of this suite.” Toby stood in the center of the crowd, clutching the signed pledge, looking incredibly pleased. “Tomorrow, when we wake up, we’ll all be exactly where we’re meant to be.” I stood in the doorway of my room, my fingers lightly brushing the mechanical watch tucked inside my jacket pocket. I said nothing. At 6:00 AM, under the grey morning light, I slipped out of the building alone. By 7:20 AM, I arrived at the test center. By 8:26 AM, I was seated at my designated desk. I laid out my admission ticket on the wooden surface. Just as the proctor began walking down the aisle, my phone—turned to silent in my pocket—gave a single, sharp vibration. I glanced down. A message had appeared in our housing group chat. Tyler: “What time is it?!” A second later, Rachel sent a frantic voice note. In the background, there was the sound of slammed drawers, heavy footsteps, and hysterical screaming. “Where is the key to the phone box? Who took the fucking key?!” I looked down at my wrist. My mechanical watch read exactly 8:26 AM. There were four minutes left before the doors locked forever.

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