1 I canceled our coastal wedding reservation. The manager stared, stunned. “You’re forfeiting a fifteen-thousand-dollar deposit. Shouldn’t we wait for the bride?” I slid the paperwork across the desk, offering a faint, empty smile. “I’m not waiting. She’s busy watching bioluminescent waves with the love of her life.” Amanda and I were together six years. Every summer, she took a “corporate retreat” to the coast, posting one aesthetic shot of the midnight ocean. When I suggested a beach honeymoon, she scoffed. “It’s just water. What’s so great about it?” I believed her until two days ago. Organizing her hard drive, I opened a folder named Tides. Six years. Over three hundred photos. The same man. The same beach. The same midnight sky. Him walking barefoot through surf, glancing back with a brilliant smile. Meanwhile, our only trip was to a neighboring city for wedding dresses. She sat scrolling her phone, blind to the gowns. “They all look the same. Pick one so we can get it over with.” And I’d believed her. The manager handed me the refund receipt. “What about the bridal suite decor? Your custom vow wall is installed.” I pictured that massive silk wall, our names intertwined. My mouth felt heavy. I’d stayed up until 3 a.m., revising the layout seven times. She never glanced at the sketches. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I forced back my tears. “Cancel it all.” My resignation was final. Today was my last day in this city. The tide wouldn’t wait for me, so I was done waiting for it. … “Nolan, did you seriously just nuke your entire beach wedding?” Carter’s voice crackled through the phone the second I stepped out of the resort lobby. The promotional poster for the venue was still standing by the glass doors. It read: Welcome to the Wedding Celebration of Amanda and Nolan. I glanced at it, my footsteps never slowing down. “It is done.” “You poured your heart and soul into planning that. Are you really just walking away?” “Yes.” “Does Amanda even know?” “She is out of town.” Carter went dead silent on the other end of the line for two full seconds. “Is she with Oliver again?” “Yes.” “Man, are you absolutely sure about this? They literally grew up together. They are just childhood friends.” I gripped my car keys so hard the metal bit into my palm. “Do friends secretly take over three hundred pictures of each other at the exact same beach for six years straight?” Carter did not have a response to that. I hung up the phone and opened my messages. I tapped on Amanda’s profile. Three minutes ago, she had sent me a picture. It was the ocean at night. The edge of the crashing waves glowed with a surreal, faint blue light. The caption she typed read: “The bioluminescent waves are much brighter this year.” I stared at those words and felt a hysterical urge to laugh. She had posted a nearly identical picture at this exact same time last year. Back then, I had commented: “That is stunning. When are you going to take me to see it?” She had replied: “It is way too crowded. You would hate it.” But the photos hidden inside that hard drive were not crowded at all. It was just Oliver. Standing by the water, wearing a loose white button-down, running freely along the empty shoreline. Amanda had taken dozens of shots of him just from that one night. Every single picture radiated an absolute, undeniable adoration. One of the digital files even had a hidden note attached to the metadata. Oliver says the waves look like stars falling into the sea. Amanda and I had been together for six years. The most romantic thing she had ever said to me was on the day we booked our marriage license appointment. “Teaming up to get through life together. Sounds pretty good.” When I pulled up to our apartment building, I did not go upstairs right away. I sat alone in the driver’s seat, scrolling endlessly through my phone’s photo gallery. Out of thousands of pictures, I only had twenty-six photos of me and Amanda together. Fifteen of them were from the very first year we started dating. Over the following four years, there were only eleven. Three of those were forced group photos from my company’s annual banquet. She was standing next to me, looking rigid and annoyed, like she had been dragged there against her will. Oliver, on the other hand, had over three hundred. Oliver sitting on the jagged coastal rocks. Oliver lounging in her passenger seat, holding half a cracked coconut. Oliver closing his eyes, letting the sea breeze mess up his hair. Every single one of his summers had been meticulously documented and archived by my fiancée. While every single one of my summers had been spent entirely in waiting. My phone buzzed violently. It was a FaceTime call from Amanda. I answered it. On the screen, she was wearing a floral sundress, the thin straps sitting lightly on her shoulders. Her hair was beautifully tangled by the ocean wind. Behind her was the vibrant chaos of a beachfront night market. “Did you eat dinner yet?” “Yeah.” “I am flying back the day after tomorrow. Keep an eye on the wedding planners for me.” “Okay.” She suddenly glanced off-camera and let out a soft, genuine laugh. I rarely ever saw her smile like that. It was so bright. So incredibly relaxed. “Amanda, the grilled shrimp is ready.” A man’s voice drifted in from outside the frame. Amanda turned her head and called back naturally. “Coming.” When she looked back at the screen, her tone shifted, becoming casual and dismissive. “Oliver is calling me. I have to go.” I asked her directly. “Why is he there with you?” “He has been really depressed lately. I am just keeping him company so he can clear his head.” “Is he depressed every single summer?” Amanda’s brow furrowed in instant irritation. “Nolan, stop being so passive-aggressive. His dad passed away when he was young. The summer is a really tough time for him.” I did not say a word. My dad also passed away in the summer. Amanda knew that. Three years ago, on the anniversary of his death, I practically begged her to drive back to my hometown with me to visit his grave. She told me she was drowning in a work project and could not get away. A few days later, I saw a picture on Oliver’s social media. Amanda was holding an umbrella over his head to shield him from the sun. The caption read: Thank God I have someone to watch the ocean with. Amanda’s voice snapped me back to the present. “Oh, by the way, I bought you a seashell wind chime. Oliver picked it out. He said it would look great hanging on the balcony of our new place.” I stared at her through the glowing screen, and my throat tightened so painfully I could not make a single sound. Even the decorations for my own marital home had to be selected by Oliver. Right before she ended the call, she sighed. “Stop overthinking everything. Just wait for me to get home.” I stared at the black screen for a long time before typing out a single word. “Okay.” Then I got out of the car, walked upstairs, and started packing my life into cardboard boxes. Amanda came home a day early. She dragged her suitcase through the front door, kicking off her heels as she complained. “I am so exhausted. I had to catch the earliest flight out.” I was sitting in the living room in total silence. I did not move to help her. She pulled a crumpled paper bag out of her tote and tossed it onto the coffee table. “Here. The wind chime I told you about.” Then, she unzipped the hidden compartment of her suitcase and carefully, almost delicately, pulled out a black velvet box. It screamed expensive. The kind of luxury you did not just buy on a whim. “Do not touch this,” she warned. “It is for Oliver.” I stared at it. “What is it?” “A designer diamond lapel pin. He has a big networking gala next week, it will be perfect for his suit.” She said it with such casual confidence, as if outfitting another man in diamonds right before our wedding was the most normal thing in the world. I reached forward and opened the crumpled paper bag she threw at me. Inside was a cheap, palm-sized wind chime made of synthetic string and shells. The clearance sticker for $19.99 was still plastered on the side. One of the main seashells was visibly chipped. I looked up at her. “This is what you bought me?” Amanda frowned, clearly annoyed by my lack of gratitude. “You are the one who likes all those useless little trinkets, aren’t you?” When had I ever liked cheap trinkets? Last year, we were at a department store and I found a pair of silver cufflinks I really liked. They were three hundred dollars. She had immediately shot the idea down, saying, “Weddings are expensive, Nolan. Stop wasting money on useless things.” I put them back. Oliver’s diamond lapel pin was from a top-tier Italian fashion house. The retail price online was over five grand. “Did he ask you to buy that for him?” I asked quietly. “No. I just saw it in the boutique window and thought it looked like him.” I nodded slowly. “Right. You just saw it.” She was already shrugging off her jacket and completely missed the heavy sarcasm in my voice. Later that evening, her mother called. “Nolan, did you finish the seating chart for the reception yet?” “Not yet.” “Good grief, why are you dragging your feet on everything? Oliver came over last week to help me review the catering menu. He said a traditional sit-down dinner is too boring, so we switched it to a modern seafood buffet. He says the younger crowd will love it.” The hand holding my phone froze in mid-air. “Oliver changed my wedding menu?” “Yes, he has a great eye for these things. You are always so busy with work, so I figured I would just handle it with him and save you the trouble.” “It is my wedding, Mrs. Amanda. Mine and your daughter’s.” The line went dead silent. When she spoke again, her tone was icy. “I am well aware of that. Oliver was just trying to be helpful. There is no need to be so incredibly sensitive.” Amanda walked out of the bathroom, drying her hair with a towel. “Who is on the phone?” “Your mother.” I tapped the speaker button so she could hear. Her mother continued complaining. “Also, that text you wrote for the vow wall was completely outdated. Oliver said it was too boring. He rewrote it for you. I will text you the new version right now.” My phone vibrated against the table. An image popped up on the screen. My original vow had read: We found our forever in the quiet of our ordinary days. Oliver had crossed it out and changed it to: Through the rising and falling tides, I am lucky to be anchored by you. Amanda leaned over and glanced at the screen. “Oliver’s version is actually really good. It has more of a poetic vibe.” I turned my head and looked her dead in the eye. “Did you even read the version I wrote?” “Of course I did.” “And what did you think of it?” She hesitated for a second, waving her hand dismissively. “It was just whatever.” Just whatever. I stayed up for two entire nights agonizing over those words, trying to perfectly capture our six years together. And to her, it was just whatever. Oliver scribbled down some cliché ocean metaphor, and she called it poetic. Her mother’s voice echoed through the speaker again. “Nolan, I am not trying to pick on you, but a man needs to step up when he gets married. You need to have some taste. You are always so rigid and boring. You really should take some notes from Oliver.” I reached out and ended the call. Amanda’s face instantly darkened. “Why the hell did you just hang up on my mother?” “Because I am done listening to her tell me to be more like Oliver.” “She is just blunt. She does not mean any harm.” “And what about you?” I asked quietly. “What about me?” “Amanda, it is our wedding. Why is Oliver’s shadow over absolutely every single part of it?” She groaned, aggressively running a hand through her damp hair. “He is just helping out! You work overtime every single day. What is the big deal if my mom asks him for a second opinion?” “Did you ever bother to ask if I was okay with it?” “Do I seriously need your permission for every little thing?” Little things. The catering menu was a little thing. The vow wall was a little thing. The bridal suite was a little thing. Every single thing that was supposed to belong to me could be casually hijacked by Oliver. As long as Amanda found it convenient. She huffed, walking over to the coffee table and picking up the cheap wind chime. “I am going to hang this on the balcony. Oliver said it makes a really nice sound when the ocean breeze hits it.” I stared at the jagged, broken shell dangling from the string. “There is no ocean breeze here.” She froze. I reached out, took the wind chime from her hand, and dropped it back into the paper bag. “So there is no need to hang it.” On Friday night, Blake organized a dinner with our old friend group. He booked a private room at an upscale seafood grill downtown. I did not want to go. But Amanda stood by the front door, impatiently tapping her foot. “They are our oldest friends, Nolan. Do not be a buzzkill.” I quietly put my coat on and followed her. When we walked into the private room, Oliver was already sitting at the table. He was wearing a tailored navy suit. Pinned perfectly to his lapel was the designer diamond brooch. The moment he saw Amanda, his eyes lit up and he waved. “Amanda, over here.” She gravitated toward him instantly, taking the seat right by his side like it was muscle memory. I stood there for two painfully long seconds before pulling out the chair on her other side. Blake raised his glass and cheered. “Look who it is! The groom has arrived. The big day is right around the corner, right?” Amanda smiled and nodded. “Almost here.” Oliver wiped his mouth with a napkin. A sly, unreadable smile played on his lips. “Well, you never know. Things can always change before the very last day.” The entire table went dead silent. Blake awkwardly cleared his throat to break the tension. “Oliver is just running his mouth. Don’t take it personally, man.” I did not take it personally. I was too busy staring at the diamonds glittering aggressively on his chest under the chandelier lights. A girl sitting across the table leaned forward, her eyes wide. “Oliver, that lapel pin is gorgeous. Who gave it to you?” Oliver let his gaze drift slowly toward Amanda. “An old friend.” Amanda did not even attempt to hide it. “I bought it for him. The diamonds really suit him.” The girl instinctively snapped her head toward me, her face pale. “Oh… well, I am sure Amanda bought you something just as amazing, right Nolan?” Amanda waved her hand dismissively before I could open my mouth. “He does not need things like that.” I let out a low, dry chuckle. “When exactly did I say I did not need things like that?” Amanda froze, staring at me in shock. Oliver immediately jumped in, his voice dripping with fake diplomacy. “Nolan, do not misunderstand. Amanda is just a straight shooter. I am sure whatever she prepared for you is incredibly special.” “Like what?” I asked. He hesitated, clearly caught off guard. I answered for him. “Like a twenty-dollar broken seashell wind chime from a souvenir shop?” No one at the table dared to breathe. The color completely drained from Amanda’s face. “Nolan, do you seriously have to air our dirty laundry in front of everyone?” “Weren’t you the one who just announced to everyone that I did not need nice things?” Oliver let out a soft, condescending sigh. “Nolan, if you keep acting like this, you are going to exhaust her.” Those words were spoken quietly, but they hit me like a physical slap across the face. I would exhaust her. So I was not allowed to ask questions. I was not allowed to make a scene. I was not allowed to feel hurt. I stood up and walked to the restroom to wash my hands. Oliver followed me in. He stood next to me at the marble sinks, casually adjusting his hair in the mirror. “Nolan, there is really no need to treat me like the enemy.” I turned the water off. “I do not have the time or the energy to treat you like anything.” He chuckled softly. “Glad to hear it. Amanda and I have known each other for twenty years. I know how she ticks better than anyone. She is terrible at expressing herself, but she has a soft heart.” “And your point is?” “My point is, stop suffocating her with this wedding. She told me the other day that you are making everything too complicated. It is making her feel trapped.” My chest caved in. “She talks to you about this?” “We talk about everything.” He grabbed a paper towel, dried his hands, and turned to look at me with a look of pure pity. “Look, man, I will be brutally honest with you. The only reason she agreed to marry you is because you are stable. You are responsible. You do not cause problems.” He paused, a sickeningly triumphant smile spreading across his face. “But when she is with me, she actually gets to be herself.” I stared at his smug face and suddenly started laughing. “Oliver, when you say things like that out loud, do you not feel disgusted with yourself?” His smile vanished instantly. “I am just giving you a warning. Do not grip her too tightly. The harder you push a woman, the faster she runs.” “And what about you?” I asked. “I do not have to push.” He reached up and lightly tapped the diamond pin on his chest. “She comes to me all on her own.” When I walked out of the restroom, Amanda was waiting in the hallway. “What took you so long?” “Just catching up with Oliver.” Her eyes instantly darted toward the restroom door, panic flashing in her expression. “He did not say anything stupid, did he?” “What are you terrified he might say?” Amanda scowled. “Nolan, you are being incredibly hostile tonight.” When it was time to leave, Oliver announced he had drank too much to drive. Amanda instantly grabbed her car keys. “I will drop you off.” I looked at her. “He lives on the north side of the city. Our apartment is on the east side. In what world is that on the way?” “It is late. It is not safe for him to take a cab alone.” “What about me?” “You are riding with me, obviously.” And so, Oliver slid effortlessly into the front passenger seat. I was banished to the back. Oliver confidently reached over, connected his phone to her car’s Bluetooth, and put on an indie beach folk song. “Amanda, remember this? We listened to this on repeat on the balcony of that beach house last year.” Amanda laughed, her voice light and musical. “I remember you trying to sing along and completely missing the notes.” For the entire forty-minute drive, they completely ignored me. They talked about the ocean, the beach house, the grilled fish from the night market. I sat in the dark in the backseat, feeling like a stranger who had accidentally hailed the wrong Uber. The car finally pulled up to Oliver’s apartment building. Before he got out, he leaned back and looked at me. “See you at the wedding, Nolan.” Then he turned to Amanda, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register. “Do not forget, Amanda. We are taking the boat out for deep-sea fishing next Saturday.” Amanda smiled warmly. “I remember.” The car door slammed shut. “Do you know what day next Saturday is?” I asked the back of her head. Amanda paused, her hands resting on the steering wheel. “Saturday?” “It is the anniversary of my father’s death.” The air inside the car instantly turned to ice. Three years ago, on that exact same day, she had abandoned me. This year, she had forgotten all over again. Amanda tightened her grip on the wheel. Her voice lost its usual confidence. “I can… I can go to the cemetery with you in the afternoon.” “And the morning?” “Oliver already paid the deposit for the charter boat. It is a nightmare to reschedule. I cannot just leave him hanging.” I turned my head and stared out the dark window. “Amanda, do you know what my dad said right before he died? He asked when you were coming over for dinner.” She did not say a word. “You never came. Not even once.” A long time passed before she finally whispered, “There will be other chances in the future.” I let out a broken laugh. The man is dead and buried. What future? It rained heavily on the anniversary of my father’s death. Amanda left the apartment at the crack of dawn. I bought a bottle of his favorite whiskey and took the earliest bus out of the city, riding alone for two hours back to my hometown. The cemetery was built into the side of a foggy hill. I stood in front of the cold granite headstone, holding a black umbrella. In the small porcelain photograph, my dad looked exactly the same. Smiling, with those deep, familiar crinkles around his eyes. I unscrewed the cap and poured the whiskey over the wet grass. “Dad. I do not think I am getting married anymore.” The wind whipped the freezing rain against my face. It was biting cold. I stood there in the storm for a long time. Finally, my phone started vibrating in my pocket. “Where are you?” Amanda asked. “The cemetery.” “Why didn’t you wait for me at the apartment?” “Wait for you to finish fishing with Oliver?” She paused, frustration seeping into her voice. “Nolan, please do not start this right now. The boat was already booked. If I did not show up, he would not have been able to handle the trip by himself.” “But I can handle the anniversary of my father’s death all by myself?” Dead silence on the other end. A few seconds later, she sighed. “I will drive out there right now.” “Do not bother.” “Nolan, stop throwing a tantrum, okay?” I stared blankly at the smiling photo on the gravestone. “Amanda, when my dad was dying in that hospital bed, you were in another state, watching the ocean with Oliver. Today is his three-year anniversary, and you are on a boat with him.” She panicked, her voice rising defensively. “He was having a complete mental breakdown that day! I was terrified he was going to hurt himself!” “And what about me?” “You have always been strong.” I had listened to that exact excuse for six years. You are so strong. You are so independent. You do not need me to hold your hand. Therefore, every single time I was abandoned, I was expected to just swallow the pain and deal with it alone. I hung up the phone. When I took the bus back to the city, I did not go home. I walked straight into the wedding planning agency and canceled every remaining vendor, every floral arrangement, every single detail. The lead planner looked at me, her eyes filled with pity and confusion. “Nolan… have you discussed this with Amanda?” “I will inform her myself.” “But the visual designs are completely finished.” She turned her laptop around to show me. On the screen was a beautiful digital mockup. My name and Amanda’s name, suspended over a gorgeous watercolor backdrop of the ocean. And right beneath it, the quote Oliver had rewritten. Through the rising and falling tides, I am lucky to be anchored by you. I stared at those words. It felt like a sick, twisted joke. Anchored by who? Oliver? I pulled out my phone and sent Amanda a single text message. “The wedding is canceled.” She called me back within seconds. I let it ring. She called five more times in a row. I powered my phone off. By the time I finally walked into our apartment, the sun had already set. I pulled my suitcases from the closet and started packing. I did not have many clothes, mostly just stacks of books. When I first moved in, Amanda had frowned at them. “Your books take up way too much space. Once we are married, stop buying so much useless junk.” Back then, I had just smiled and said, “Okay.” Yet Oliver’s surfboard, his heavy-duty camping chairs, and his endless boxes of photography equipment were allowed to consume our entire storage room. I opened the storage closet door. Inside were his hiking boots. His expensive tactical backpack. His backup toiletry bag. There was even a leather luggage tag with his name engraved in gold foil hanging on the hook. I had lived in this apartment for four years, but it felt like I was just the caretaker of Oliver’s personal storage unit. I packed everything I owned into two suitcases. Then, I slowly slid the engagement ring off my left hand. It was a cheap, basic band Amanda had bought using her credit card reward points during a mall promotion. She had tossed the box at me and said: “We are going to buy real wedding bands anyway, so this is just to make it official for now.” Back then, I was terrified she felt bad about it, so I promised I would buy her a massive diamond later to make up for it. Looking back on it now. When it came to me, everything she did was just the bare minimum. Just checking a box. I placed the ring directly in the center of the coffee table. Right next to it, I placed the broken shell wind chime. And a handwritten note. Amanda, I canceled the wedding. I am returning the ring. I am returning the wind chime. Since you already have someone to watch the ocean with, I won’t be joining you anymore. I set the pen down, grabbed the handles of my suitcases, and walked out the door. The exact second the door clicked shut behind me, I powered my phone back on. A tidal wave of notifications flooded my screen. Missed calls and texts from Amanda, Carter, the wedding planners, her mother. The very last text was from Amanda. “Nolan, where the hell are you? You are scaring me.” I glanced at it, locked my screen, and ignored it. The Uber I ordered pulled up to the curb. The driver rolled down the window. “Where to, man?” I threw my bags in the trunk and got in. “The airport.”

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1 I had worked on Ronan Shaw’s cars for seven years. From the days when my phone was always smeared with motor oil to the day I became one of the top custom tuners in the country, I was there for all of it. The year he won the national championship, I asked him once, “Can I sit in your passenger seat just one time? Just one run down Mount Akina?” He didn’t even stop wiping his wrench. “Racing is dangerous. You get carsick. Not suitable.” I said okay. And I never asked again. Until last night, when I was fixing his computer and a hidden cloud folder popped up. Inside was a video. In the video, he was taking his first love, Celine Rowe, on a high-speed drift through a mountain road. Celine sat in the passenger seat screaming and laughing, while he controlled the wheel with one hand and gripped hers tightly with the other. The caption read: “The fastest heartbeat belongs to the girl I love most.” I closed the laptop gently. At dawn, I tuned his engine one last time as usual. Then I submitted my resignation from the team and signed a base-salary contract with an overseas racing team. Seven years. I was done waiting for his passenger seat. I was going to hold the steering wheel myself. … “Hex wrench. Hand it to me.” I slid halfway out from under the car and reached blindly. Ronan was standing near the hood, head lowered as he replied to messages. He didn’t spare me so much as a glance. The new apprentice fumbled and shoved the tool into my hand. “I stiffened the left front suspension damping by two clicks,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my oil-stained hand. “The Velocity Cup qualifiers are the day after tomorrow. Don’t cut the corners too tight. The tires will slide.” Ronan finally tucked his phone into the pocket of his racing suit. He walked to the driver’s door, glanced with disgust at the spot I had just touched, and wiped it with his sleeve. “Got it. Your parameters have gotten more and more conservative lately.” “Conservative keeps you alive.” “Enough. You always use that to pressure me.” He opened the door. “I’m going to test the south mountain route later. I won’t be back tonight.” “Okay.” My quick answer made his hand pause on the seat belt. Before, whenever he ran the mountain roads at night, I would argue with him until the very last second. I checked the spare tires three times, attached a tracker to his helmet, and placed a bottle of the ice water he liked in the passenger seat. Today, I just packed the toolbox without looking at him. “What’s wrong with you today? Cat got your tongue?” He tapped the window with a frown. “I’m a little tired.” “You sit in the garage all day and never see the sun. Your body just lacks exercise.” The passenger-side glove compartment hadn’t been shut properly. A flash of pink slid out. It was a tiny rabbit-shaped air freshener. Ronan hated any scent in his car. Once, I put in a lemongrass charcoal deodorizer, and he threw it out the window. My phone lit up on the workbench. A notification popped up. Sender: Celine. “Ronan, remember to take me on the mountain run tonight. I’m already waiting at the south route entrance!” Ronan snatched up the phone fast. The screen light reflected the excitement in his eyes. He replied with one hand, not even fastening his seat belt properly. “Sponsor contact?” I asked, staring at the pink air freshener. He flipped the phone screen-down. “Yeah. Celine Rowe. The company’s new navigator. She just came back from abroad. I’m taking her to familiarize her with the route.” “A navigator doesn’t need to sit in the passenger seat for a night mountain run.” “Theory is theory. Practice is practice. You don’t understand racing, so stop ordering people around.” I watched him start the engine. The V8 engine I had refined thousands of times roared perfectly. But all I felt now was that it was loud. “Ronan.” “What now?” His face was full of impatience. “Do you remember what next Wednesday is?” He revved the engine. “Next Wednesday? Sponsors are coming to watch the test drive. What about it?” “Nothing.” Next Wednesday was the seventh anniversary of the day we founded the team together. Seven years ago, he had crashed. I dug him out of the wrecked car with my bare hands. He told me, “For the rest of my life, my passenger seat will always be yours.” He had forgotten completely. “I’m leaving. Don’t wait up.” The sports car shot out. The garage fell back into dead silence. I walked to the computer, opened the resignation email I had written the night before, and clicked send. Then I opened another page in English and confirmed my base-salary driver contract with a foreign Dakar Rally team. Seven days later, I would fly to that deathly desert. My phone vibrated in my pocket. My best friend, Tessa Cole, called. “I saw your resignation email. Are you insane? You’re just handing him seven years of your work?” “The team contract was always under his name. I can’t take it with me.” “And what about that bastard Ronan? You’re just letting him and that first-love drama queen have their happy ending?” “Trash belongs in the trash can.” I looked at the oil stain still on the floor. “Tessa, have you ever seen him drift one-handed?” “What?” “It’s cool. Even the smile at the corner of his eyes is arrogant.” I threw the bloodied gauze into the trash. “Too bad he was showing off for Celine.” The next morning, I called a truck from the recycling station and started clearing out every trace of myself from the garage. The custom wrenches hanging on the wall had been saved up one by one over the years. I had scrimped and saved to buy them. I told the workers to pack them all up and weigh them as scrap metal. The rest room was tiny. Just a single bed and a wardrobe. The wardrobe was filled with his racing suits, fireproof masks, and jeans that would never lose the smell of oil. My belongings were only a few faded T-shirts. I stuffed them into my backpack. In the corner sat a glossy black carbon-fiber helmet. He had bought it after winning a divisional championship and said he would take me for a drive. I picked it up. On the lining inside, someone had drawn an ugly little turtle in marker. Beside it were the letters C.R. Celine Rowe. I grabbed a hammer, smashed the visor, and kicked it into the trash pile. At three in the afternoon, the screech of brakes sounded outside the rolling shutter. Ronan walked in carrying a shopping bag. He smelled faintly sweet, like the rabbit air freshener from last night. He looked around at the empty tool wall. “Where did you put the wrenches?” “They were rusty. Sold them as scrap.” “The qualifiers are almost here and you sold the tools? What the hell has gotten into you lately?” “I won’t need them anymore.” He tossed the shopping bag onto my workbench. “I stayed up all night, and when I get back there isn’t even hot water waiting. Are you deliberately picking a fight?” “There’s water in the dispenser. You can pour it yourself.” He kicked over an empty oil drum. “Willa Lane! Who are you putting on this dead face for?” “I’m not.” “You’re not? Then what is this cold war? Yesterday I posted on social media and you didn’t even like it.” I looked at the corner of the item peeking out of the shopping bag. A pair of women’s Alpinestars racing gloves. XS. White and pink. Celine’s favorite colors. Her size too. “Are these gloves for me?” He froze and quickly reached to cover them. “No. Sponsor sample. Wrong size. Your hands are small, so I brought them back.” “I don’t wear pink.” His face immediately darkened. “You went through my bag? Celine made my navigation notes. I got her something in return. What’s wrong with that? Do you have to be so petty?” “I only said I don’t wear pink. I didn’t mention her name.” “The way you talk in circles is disgusting.” He irritably tugged open the zipper of his racing suit. “She’s a navigator. She needs to protect her hands for work. Is it wrong for me to take care of a colleague?” “You take very good care of her.” I stood and wiped my hands clean. “Ronan, I’ve locked all the suspension settings on this car. Find someone else to tune it.” “Willa Lane, try walking out of this garage today!” He exploded behind me. “I came back dead tired. Can you be sensible for once? Don’t make me feel like I raised an ungrateful stray for seven years.” Sensible. I gave up my path as a racer for him and ruined my neck staying up to tune his cars. In the end, I was an ungrateful stray. I shouldered my bag and walked into the wind without looking back. Over the next two days, I cut off every connection with the team. I closed the joint account, listed the air purifier on a secondhand site, and left the garage key on the workbench. Ronan noticed none of it. He only thought I was playing hard to get, that I had finally learned not to interfere with him. On Friday morning, he wore a newly customized team uniform and leaned against the car door, smoking. “Tonight Celine officially signs with the team. We booked Blue Harbor for her welcome dinner. You’re coming with me.” “What would I go for?” “Haven’t you always complained that the team dinners don’t include you? Sponsors will be there tonight. Go see the world for once. Don’t spend every day dressed like a mechanic.” Before, when I begged him to take me to meet people in the industry so I could help him secure sponsorships, he said: “They’re all important people. You’d embarrass me if you showed up smelling like oil.” Now he wanted me there because Celine was the star of the night. And he needed an audience. “Fine.” I might as well watch the whole show with my own eyes. At eight that night, inside the VIP room at Blue Harbor. When the door opened, over a dozen drivers and sponsors were already seated. Celine sat in the main seat, wearing a tight motorcycle suit and the pink Alpinestars gloves. “Ronan, Willa’s here!” She immediately stood and came toward me with a bright smile. “Hi, Willa. Ronan said you usually never leave the garage. What a rare guest.” She reached out to shake my hand. I did not move. “Congratulations on joining the team,” I said lightly. The laughter in the room paused for a second. Ronan yanked me aside and lowered his voice. “Don’t embarrass me tonight.” After a few rounds of drinks, every conversation circled around Ronan and Celine. One sponsor raised his glass and laughed. “Ronan, you’ve finally found your soulmate. That south route video last night was insane. That drift through the curve was silky smooth. Celine is the perfect navigator.” Celine covered her mouth and smiled. “It was all Ronan. That death curve last night nearly made my heart stop. Ronan held the wheel with one hand and held my hand with the other. He told me, ‘I’m here. Close your eyes.’ At that moment, I really felt like my life was worth placing in his hands.” The whole table erupted in teasing. Ronan laughed along, his gaze indulgent and without the slightest attempt to avoid suspicion. I stared at the strong liquor in front of me. Death curve. When he first ran that route years ago, a storm made him lose control. I lay in the mud for three hours, blocking the fuel tank that was about to explode, and dragged him out with my own hands. What he gave me back then was: “Get lost. Don’t block my way.” So he did know how to say, I’m here. “Willa, don’t you usually take care of Ronan?” Celine suddenly turned to me. “Ronan has an old waist injury. Yesterday I saw him get on the track without a support belt and felt so bad for him. You’re his mechanic. How could you miss a detail like that?” Her tone was sweet. Her words landed like a slap. The table went quiet. “You mean the old injury on his waist?” I looked up at her. Celine froze. I picked up the glass and slowly rubbed the rim with my fingertips. “That injury was from a rollover on the south route six years ago. Compression fracture of the third lumbar vertebra. He couldn’t bear weight for six months after surgery. It aches on rainy days. Yes, he should wear a support belt, but not only when you suddenly remember during a low-intensity route test.” The room fell completely silent. I looked at the pink gloves on her hands. “If you truly cared about him, you should have reminded him to slow down while you were in the passenger seat yesterday, not closed your eyes at the death curve.” Celine’s smile stiffened. I continued, “A navigator doesn’t sit in the passenger seat waiting to be protected. Route notes, braking points, entry speed, exit angle. If you misjudge any of them, the person crippled won’t only be the driver.” Her eyes instantly reddened. “Willa, I was only worried about Ronan. Why would you say that to me…” Ronan snatched the glass from my hand and slammed it onto the table. “Celine just joined the team. She doesn’t understand these things yet. Did you have to humiliate her in front of everyone?” I looked at the way he stood protectively in front of her and suddenly found it funny. “If she doesn’t understand, she can learn. But you know perfectly well you have an old injury, and you still risked your life acting out some romantic scene with her. Ronan, if one day you end up disabled, don’t blame anyone for not warning you.” Celine’s tears finally fell. Ronan laughed from sheer fury. “Are you cursing me?” “I’m just telling the truth the way you like to.” “Willa Lane! Are you insane?” Ronan shot to his feet. “Everyone came out to have fun, and you have to act like a shrew and ruin the mood?” “I ruined the mood?” I grabbed the ice bucket from the table and poured it out without hesitation. Ice water mixed with alcohol splashed across the fruit platter in front of Celine and soaked her clothes. “Ah!” Celine screamed and jumped up. “That,” I said, dropping the bucket, “is ruining the mood.” Under everyone’s stunned gaze, I opened the door and left. Seven years of rotten debt ended there. That night, Ronan did not come looking for me. At two in the morning, Celine posted a photo. Ronan was draping his jacket over her shoulders. The caption read: “Someone was afraid I’d get cold and insisted on staying with me until now.” I looked at the photo, and the last absurd thought in my heart went out. In seven years, it wasn’t that he didn’t understand tenderness. He just refused to give it to me. The next afternoon, Ronan kicked open the garage door. He reeked of smoke and alcohol, his eyes dark. “You got bold last night, huh? Embarrassing me in front of all the sponsors?” I was at the computer checking visa documents for the overseas team. I ignored him. “Are you deaf?” He strode over and yanked out the power cord. The screen went black. I leaned back in my chair. “What do you want?” He pulled a card from his pocket and threw it onto the desk. “Stop playing hard to get. I know what you’re mad about. Celine stole your spotlight, right?” He pointed to the card. “Next Wednesday. Passenger-seat experience for the Velocity Cup exhibition race. The organizers originally reserved it for Celine, but I went through a lot of trouble to get it for you. Didn’t you always want to sit in my passenger seat? Here.” I lowered my eyes. It was the main event of the national live broadcast. Every camera would be aimed at that car. He was tossing me the chance originally meant for Celine’s publicity like a handout. “You don’t want it?” He sneered. “Willa Lane, don’t be ungrateful. Do you know how many people would fight for this spot? I only made Celine give it up for you because of our seventh anniversary.” “You wronged her,” I said, looking up. “What?” “I said, give the spot back to her. I find it dirty.” Ronan’s face turned livid. “Willa Lane! I’m giving you a way out and you insist on making this ugly? You think my car can’t race without you? Who do you think you are?” “Who I am isn’t important. The door is over there. Close it on your way out.” He kicked over the jack beside him. Metal crashed heavily against the floor. “Fine. Don’t regret it. When the time comes, even if you kneel and beg me, I won’t let you touch my car again.” He slammed the door and left. I bent down to set the jack upright. My knee knocked against the floor and bruised. But compared to giving up my racing dream, this little pain was nothing. Next Wednesday was also the day my resignation officially took effect. The day I left for Dakar. I dragged my black suitcase to the international airport. My flight was at four in the afternoon. On the huge screen in the waiting area, the Velocity Cup exhibition race was being broadcast live. The commentator’s voice nearly broke with excitement. “Ronan Shaw has appeared! Ronan is in peak condition today! Viewers, please look at his passenger seat!” The camera zoomed in. Inside the red-and-black top-tier race car, Ronan sat in the driver’s seat. And in his passenger seat sat a woman wearing a pink helmet and a tight racing suit. Celine. She formed a heart at the camera while Ronan leaned over and personally tightened her seat belt. I looked at the screen and suddenly smiled. So the so-called seat he gave me had been a lie from start to finish. He no longer even bothered to lie properly. “They look so in love. Is that Ronan’s girlfriend?” two young women beside me whispered. “Definitely. A driver’s passenger seat is his life. Only his wife gets to sit there.” The boarding announcement for Paris sounded over the speakers. I tore the old team pass from my neck, the one I had kept for seven years, and threw it into the recycling bin. At the gate, I checked in. The plane rushed into the sky. At thirty thousand feet, there was no reek of engine oil, no roar of motors. Ronan, someone else is sitting in your precious passenger seat now. And I am going to hold the steering wheel that truly belongs to me.

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1 For the five years we were together, Sloane was one of the top astrophotographers in the world. But I never once begged her to take me on her expeditions. She had made her boundaries very clear. “The golden rule of astrophotography is zero light pollution. Even a single flash of a phone screen can completely destroy an entire night of long exposure.” Because of that rule, for five long years, I did not even dare to text her a simple “Are you there yet?” when she traveled. I was terrified that the brief glow of her screen lighting up in the dark would ruin her masterpiece. I just waited at home. Every time she ventured into the frozen tundras or snowy peaks, I folded a tiny origami star out of paper. Inside every single paper star, I hid the quiet, desperate murmurs I never dared to send her. The wind is brutal today, wear an extra layer. I am waiting for you to come home. Five years. One thousand and ninety-six stars. Filling three large glass jars. She never opened a single one. Last week, she was shortlisted for the most prestigious international astrophotography award. I was thrilled for her. I logged onto the official website to look at her submitted entry. The photograph was titled Light. Right in the dead center of the frame, her male assistant, Jace, stood in a bright red winter parka. He was holding a blazing sparkler, laughing with absolute, reckless abandon. The judge’s commentary below the photo read: “The photographer willingly abandoned a once-in-a-seventy-year comet, sacrificing the entire exposure of the night sky to perfectly capture the figure in the foreground.” It hit me then. Her world was never completely devoid of light. She just strictly forbade me from shining. That night, I poured all one thousand and ninety-six paper stars out of their jars. I unfolded them, one by one. I read every single hidden message out loud in the empty apartment. I read them entirely to myself. And then, I set them all on fire. When dawn broke, I washed the three empty glass jars until they were spotless. I lined them up perfectly on top of her expensive protective lens case. This universe holds ten thousand tons of boundless, brilliant galaxies. I was never meant to spend my life standing outside someone else’s lens, begging for a sliver of light. The next day, Sloane had a magazine interview scheduled for three in the afternoon. That morning, she set up her professional backdrop. She meticulously arranged her priceless lenses along the display wall. “National Geographic is coming to the apartment to shoot my exclusive. Clear all your junk out of the living room.” My “junk” consisted of my photography books and those three empty glass jars. I gathered my books in my arms and carried them into the bedroom. By the time I walked back out, she had already shoved the three jars into the darkest corner of the room. Her face was twisted in disgust. “Why are you keeping these ugly empty bottles? They look pathetic. Keep them out of the frame.” “Just leave them there for now,” I replied softly. She didn’t press the issue. The journalist arrived exactly at three. Sloane changed into a sleek black silk shirt I had just ironed for her last week. She sat elegantly at her workstation. I sat quietly by the kitchen island, my hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long gone completely cold. “Sloane, your piece Light absolutely stunned the judges. Can you walk us through what happened that night?” Sloane relaxed into her chair, her voice slowing into a thoughtful rhythm. “Our original observation window was locked onto a comet that only passes Earth once every seventy years. But the summit was brutally cold that night. We were pushing twenty below zero.” “My assistant, Jace, was shivering uncontrollably. He lit a sparkler just to feel a tiny bit of warmth. The exact second that spark ignited, it hit me. All those dead, frozen rocks floating millions of lightyears away could never compare to the living, breathing fire right in front of me.” The journalist let out a gasp of sheer awe. “But the entire industry knows you have an unbreakable rule. Absolute zero light pollution.” Sloane smiled. Her eyes filled with a soft, profound tenderness I had never once seen directed at me. “Rules are dead constructs. When that sparkler illuminated his face, I was more than willing to tear down every single rule I ever made.” Five years. I had guarded a pitch-black, suffocating darkness for over a thousand nights. And she willingly ignited the most blinding fire imaginable, just because another man was a little cold. The journalist flipped through her outline and let her gaze drift over to me. “Sloane, what is your family’s stance on your intense career? Your partner must be incredibly accommodating.” Sloane casually followed the journalist’s gaze and glanced at me. Her expression instantly reverted to total indifference. “He does not understand photography. He doesn’t get the grueling nature of the industry. But his best quality is that he is quiet. He never gets in my way.” Under the shadow of the kitchen island, my right hand curled into a violently trembling fist. Five years ago, my own deep-space photography portfolio won the national gold medal. Back then, I was the one holding the heavy telephoto lenses, waiting through overnight blizzards for the perfect shot. Then she told me a household did not need two starving artists. She said she needed a stable base camp to support her. To help her achieve her pure, uncompromised artistic vision, I locked my camera in a safe. I shrank myself down into the clueless, domestic housekeeper she just described. She had truly, completely forgotten. After showing the journalist out, Sloane paused by the study door. “Transfer the RAW files from the portable drive to the cloud tonight. Jace needs to prep them. The publisher is waiting for the photobook drafts.” She closed the door before I could even reply. I opened my laptop and plugged in the drive. My phone vibrated on the table. Sender: The Icelandic National Observatory Magazine. “Mr. Cole, a few days ago, our editorial board revisited your early photography portfolios. That acute, visceral connection to the cosmos is exactly the soul we have been searching for. The position of Chief Astrophotographer remains open for you. Have you made your decision?” I stared at the email, my fingertips turning cold. People sitting halfway across the globe could still recognize my light. Yet the woman sleeping beside me every night only saw me as a convenient maid. I closed the cloud drive and opened my email client. “Thank you for keeping the position open. Please give me three days to finalize my affairs. I will send my formal acceptance then.” Early the next morning, Sloane tossed a manila envelope onto the dining table. “The publisher needs twenty high-res shots for a special feature in the photobook. Go through the drive and pick them out for me.” “You want me to pick them?” “You used to dabble in a little bit of photography, right? You know the basics of composition and lighting. I have to coordinate with the award organizers for the next two days. I don’t have the time.” I plugged the drive back in. The candidate folder contained over three hundred photos. Every single one of them was of Jace. There were no equatorial mounts. No star charts. No galaxies. Just Jace wrapped in a sleeping bag, watching the sunrise from a tent. Jace crouching by a stream washing his hands, his side profile beautifully framed by the morning light. Every single image had been painstakingly color-graded and retouched. I actually understood photography. That was exactly why I knew. These three hundred photos were captured with a deep, bottomless reservoir of love. Sloane and I had been together for five years. She had never taken a single photograph of me. She always told me her lens was strictly reserved for the cosmos, never for human portraits. I sat there for two hours, coldly selecting the twenty photos with the most technically flawless composition. Sloane walked out of the study and flipped through my selections. “Not bad. These angles are pretty close to what I had in mind.” She pulled the drive out and walked to the front door. Right before she left, she casually tossed one last order over her shoulder. “Oh, by the way. Each photo in the book needs a short caption. Write them for me. Jace is terrible with words.” I was being ordered to write romantic captions for twenty breathtaking, intimate portraits of another man. “Alright.” I heard my own voice reply. It was terrifyingly calm. She slammed the door shut. I opened the first photograph. It was taken on a high-altitude plateau, easily twenty below zero. Jace was standing in knee-deep snow. Sloane had taken off her own heated thermal gloves and put them on his hands. He was smiling at the camera like a bright, innocent deer. I stared at those gloved hands on the screen. Slowly, I looked down at my own right hand. The joints of my index and middle fingers were grotesquely swollen and permanently deformed. They bore two ugly, dark purple scars from severe frostbite. Four years ago in the Alaskan tundra. A blizzard hit us at thirty below zero. To ensure she didn’t miss a breathtaking meteor shower, I dug through waist-deep snow with my bare hands to find a buried backup battery. The wind was too fierce. I slipped on the ice and fell hard, my thumb accidentally pressing the power button on my phone. The faint screen lit up the darkness for exactly one second. Sloane sprinted over from forty feet away, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Do you have any concept of what zero light pollution means! I waited four hours for this composition, and you just destroyed it!” I sat in the snow that night until my hands entirely lost feeling, resulting in permanent nerve damage. I slowly placed my ruined hand back onto the keyboard. Staring at Jace’s radiant smile on the screen, I typed out the first caption. “In the dead silence of the frozen wasteland, he is the only color more precious than the stars.” As I typed those words, I felt absolutely no sadness. Just a overwhelming sense of absurdity and dark comedy. The great master photographer who worshipped the absolute dark as her religion. She was now forcing me to write these painfully explicit words, declaring to the entire world that she had willingly surrendered to a cheap, polluting light. I would give her exactly what she wanted. I would make sure this hypocritical, humiliating caption was printed permanently in her personal photobook. These twenty captions were my final gift to her. A footnote written by someone who actually understood photography, mocking her pathetic faith. Late that night, I sent the twenty finished captions to her phone. She replied with a single word. “Fine.” I smiled, closed the document, and opened my email. “I officially accept your invitation. I will arrive in Reykjavik to report for duty on the 15th at the earliest.” Seven days until the 15th. Three days until the award ceremony. That afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was an international expedited courier. The envelope wasn’t sealed tight. I immediately saw the gold-foil English certificate inside. The International Star Registry. It listed precise coordinates. East Longitude: 18°36′56″, North Latitude: 38°47′01″. The Lyra Constellation. Right below those coordinates, a name was printed in elegant calligraphy. [Jace] The registration date was the exact same night she abandoned the comet to shoot Light. Tucked at the very bottom of the certificate was a handwritten note from Sloane. “Stars burn for billions of years. This star is my permanent exposure, dedicated only to you.” I stared at the small card in total silence. She spent a small fortune to buy a real, burning star in the cosmos and stamped Jace’s name on it. She hung it in the Milky Way, right beside Vega. I folded one thousand and ninety-six paper stars. She never even looked at a single one. Paper stars and real stars were never meant to carry the same weight. I put the certificate back exactly how I found it. I placed it dead center on her desk. When Sloane came home that evening and saw the certificate, her body visibly stiffened. She quickly grabbed a thick portfolio book and slapped it over the frame, violently changing the subject. “The organizers want me to prepare a five-minute acceptance speech. Since you are just sitting around the house doing nothing, write it for me.” “What exactly do you want to say?” “Write about the photographer’s absolute dedication to the dark. Write about how I overcame impossible odds to eradicate all light pollution.” I picked up a pen. The words flowed out of me effortlessly. Because for the last five years, I was the one standing in the freezing, pitch-black night with her. I was the one whose light was entirely eradicated by her rules. The next day, Sloane pinned her printed Iceland itinerary to the white board in the kitchen. “I am flying straight to Iceland right after the ceremony.” My hand froze as I packed my shirts into a box. “Iceland?” “It is the final window for the aurora season. Jace and I have been planning this for three months. We found the perfect observation point. Absolute zero light pollution.” That was my destination. “How long will you be gone?” “Ten days.” I stared at the red text printed in the notes section for the final day of her trip. [Shoot portraits of Jace under the aurora. Continuation of the Light series.] “Sloane.” I spoke without turning around to look at her. “Years ago, you promised we would go to Iceland together to see the aurora.” She stopped organizing her gear. Her eyebrows slammed together in deep irritation. “Cole, why are you digging up ancient history? It drops to twenty below zero in Iceland at night. Your hands ache the second they get cold. You would just be pure dead weight out there.” “Does Jace not get cold?” “He is a professional assistant! How can you even compare yourself to him? Can you please not throw a tantrum and cause trouble right now?” “Understood.” I turned away from her completely. I reached under the bed and pulled out my small, twenty-inch carry-on suitcase. I quietly packed my passport, my visa, and a few heavy wool sweaters. This apartment was massive. But the things that actually belonged to me couldn’t even fill half a small suitcase. The night of the award ceremony. I did not sit in the family VIP section. I used a staff pass and stood in the absolute darkest corner of the back row. The spotlight hit the center of the stage. On the massive screen, the photo Light was displayed. Jace was smiling wildly behind the sparks of the fire. Sloane walked up to the microphone wearing a stunning, custom-made evening gown. She pulled the speech I wrote out of her pocket and read the first sentence. “Astrophotography is a painful pilgrimage into the dark. We spend our entire lives chasing absolute zero light pollution.” She stopped. A heavy silence hung over the auditorium for ten full seconds. Then, in front of thousands of industry elites, Sloane folded the cue card in half and shoved it back into her pocket. “This speech is far too rigid. Tonight, I want to discard the script and speak from my heart.” She lifted her chin. Her eyes locked directly onto Jace, who was sitting in the second row. “Anyone who knows me knows I have an uncompromising golden rule. Zero light pollution. I demand that the people around me barely even breathe, just so they don’t disturb my exposure.” I stood in the shadows of the back row. I listened to her publicly describe the chains she had locked around my neck for five years. “Today, many people asked me why I abandoned a comet that only appears once every seventy years.” She paused for a fraction of a second. Her gaze melted as she stared at the dark coat in the second row. “Because a comet leaves, but it always comes back. Even if it takes seventy years, it will eventually cross this sky again.” “But some people are not comets. They are meteors. You never know when they will ignite, and you never know if they will ever shine again.” “So the exact second he appeared, I shut down all my equipment. I abandoned every single plan. I took my camera, my entire night, and the entire sky, and I pointed it all directly at him.” Her voice dropped into a soft, reverent whisper. “In that moment, I finally understood. The stars in the sky are dead. Their light travels for millions of years just to reach Earth, entirely devoid of warmth. True light is the warmth you feel the second you turn your head in the frozen wasteland.” She stared at Jace, whose eyes were shining with unshed tears. “So, I willingly shattered the golden rule I upheld for five years. Because what we call light pollution is just light shining in the wrong place. Jace, thank you for lighting up my universe.” Deafening applause nearly blew the roof off the auditorium. Under the gaze of thousands, Jace stood up and ran toward the stage. She used my five years of absolute, agonizing sacrifice in the dark to prove her discipline. And then she used Jace’s cheap sparkler to prove her true love. I did not stay to watch them embrace. Drowning in the roar of the cheering crowd, I turned around and walked out of the hall. I took a cab back to the apartment I had lived in for five years. I rolled my single, small suitcase to the front door. I walked over to the display shelf and took down those three perfectly washed, dustless glass jars. I lined them up with military precision right next to her hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar camera rig. No hidden notes. No lingering nostalgia. One thousand and ninety-six nights of dead silence. All completely emptied out. I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and closed the door behind me. My phone vibrated. A text from Sloane. “Jace had too much to drink at the afterparty. I will be home late. Go to sleep first, don’t leave a light on for me.” I stared at the screen for a second. Then, I popped the SIM card out of the phone I had used for five years, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the street. The taxi sped down the highway. The neon lights of the city blurred past the windows. The world was overflowing with blinding, beautiful light pollution. She used to say she could not see the stars in this city, so she had to travel far away. But she didn’t know that the astrophotographer who once buried all his brilliance and hid in the dark just for her had completely erased his existence from her life tonight. Sloane, your world doesn’t require zero light pollution anymore. And I am going to take back the boundless, infinite galaxies that always belonged to me.

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1 My husband was the communications officer on an ocean research vessel. And somehow, I could never reach him. Every time he went to sea, he told me the signal was unstable out there. Getting one reply every three to five days was normal. I believed him for two whole years. Until his ex-girlfriend, Isla Brooks, posted screenshot after screenshot of their video calls. In one month, she and Grant Mercer had called thirty-one times. The shortest call was forty minutes. The image was so clear I could see the deck behind him, and the stars hanging over the ocean. I opened our chat history. The longest he had ever taken to reply to me was fourteen days. His answer had been two words. Yeah, okay. After that, I learned. I stopped sitting up at night, staring at my phone, waiting for the screen to light up. I stopped sending paragraphs about how much I missed him. My messages shrank from three lines to one sentence. Stay safe. Then two words. Be safe. Later, just a period. In the end, not even that. When he docked again and came home, he frowned and asked me, “Why haven’t you been messaging me lately?” I smiled. In three days, our divorce hearing would put a final period on this marriage. And he still had no idea. Grant stood in the entryway, his duffel still in one hand. Once, I would have changed the sheets ahead of time, waited at the pier, and even placed his slippers facing outward so he could step into them the moment he came home. Today, I sat at the dining table organizing documents. He looked at the thick stack of papers in front of me and frowned. “Nora. I asked you a question.” I pressed the stapler down. The click sounded light in the quiet room. “How long are you staying this time?” The question caught him off guard. His tone softened a little. “A week. I’m back on board next week. Tomorrow night, the crew’s holding a welcome-back dinner.” For the past two years, every time he docked, he said he was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as he got home. But on Isla’s social media, he had energy to walk along the harbor with her, help her choose filming equipment, and stay on calls with her until dawn. I lowered my head and kept sorting the papers. Grant placed a gift box on the table. “For you. I was at sea on our anniversary last time, so this is to make up for it.” My fingers paused. Inside the box was a shell bracelet. The edges of the shells were rough, and the tag still hung from it. Harbor Gift Shop. Clearance Sale. Before I could speak, my phone vibrated. Isla had posted. In the photo, she stood at the pier, a strand of deep-blue sea pearls around her neck. At the corner of the frame was half of Grant’s sleeve. The caption read: Someone remembered I’m afraid of the dark, so he gave me a piece of the sea. I pushed my phone toward Grant. He glanced at it. His expression changed slightly, then quickly returned to normal. “She needed that pearl necklace for her documentary shoot. She borrowed it temporarily. Yours is more everyday. It suits you.” I nodded. “Isla suits deep-sea pearls. I suit clearance shells.” He seemed unused to this version of me. Just as he was about to speak, his phone rang with a video call. The name on the screen was Isla. Grant answered almost by reflex. On camera, Isla wore a black windbreaker. I recognized it. Grant had bought it before going to sea last year, saying it blocked wind well and was essential on the ship. Her voice was hoarse. “Grant, I think I have a fever. The hotel pharmacy is closed. I’m alone here and kind of scared.” Grant looked at me. In that one glance, there was hesitation. And the apology of someone who had already chosen. “Nora, she just arrived at the port. She doesn’t know anyone here. I’ll take her some medicine and come right back.” I watched him pick up his car keys. “You just got home. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” He frowned. “Don’t be like this. She’s sick.” After the door closed, the apartment fell silent. I sat at the table, placed the shell bracelet into an evidence bag, and labeled it. Anniversary gift discrepancy. Then I messaged my lawyer, Bennett Cole. Add one more item. Bennett replied quickly. Received. Half an hour later, Isla sent me a photo. Medicine. Hot water. Grant’s hand. Nora, you don’t mind, right? I replied: I don’t mind. After sending it, I plugged in my voice recorder to charge. The next evening, Grant sent me a location. Crew dinner at seven. Don’t be late. My supervisors and colleagues will be there. Save me some face. I looked at the message and put the recorder into my bag. 2 The welcome-back dinner was held at a hotel near the port. When I arrived at the private room, it was already full. Grant wore his uniform. Isla sat beside him, draped in his team jacket, a communications badge pinned to her chest. I had seen that badge before. Before he sailed, I once asked if he could leave me one as a keepsake. He said ship equipment was regulated. Family members couldn’t take it. Now it hung on Isla’s chest like a silently recognized identity. Grant saw me and pointed to the seat near the door. “Sit over there. The main table is for crew members. It’s inconvenient for you to sit here.” Isla looked up and smiled. “Nora’s here. Grant, why don’t you let her sit beside you? I can move.” That was what she said. But she made no move to stand. Grant lowered his voice. “Don’t make a fuss. It’s the same wherever she sits.” I sat near the door and turned on the recorder inside my bag. Not long after the dinner began, people started teasing them. “Isla and Grant are such a perfect team. One films the sea, the other connects the sea.” “When you two were together before, we always said you made a good match.” “Grant really takes care of Isla. No matter how bad the signal gets at sea, Miss Brooks never loses her video calls.” Grant only smiled and said, “Don’t talk nonsense.” He did not look at me. Isla lowered her head. The tips of her ears turned pink, as if someone had exposed an old secret that could not be admitted. The servers brought the dishes. Grant picked out the tender belly of the fish and placed it on Isla’s plate. “Don’t eat the parts with too many bones.” Then he replaced the iced drink beside her with hot tea. “Bad stomach and still drinking cold stuff?” I looked at the raw marinated crab in front of me. He knew my stomach was weak. He knew I couldn’t eat raw or cold food. During our first year together, he used to remind servers before meals to prepare hot soup for me. I did not know when the person he remembered became Isla. Isla picked up her glass and walked over. “Nora, let me toast you. I’ve actually always wanted to apologize.” “Grant gets so lonely at sea. Sometimes I talk to him because I’m afraid he’s under too much pressure.” Others started chiming in. “Families need to understand the job. The mental pressure on communications officers isn’t something ordinary people get.” “Nora, don’t take it to heart. Isla’s an old friend. She’s not an outsider.” “Grant is already good enough to his family, right? Young couples shouldn’t fight over little things.” I looked at those faces, each one so certain, and suddenly wanted to laugh. “Thirty-one video calls in one month. The shortest was forty minutes. Does that count as work pressure?” The room went quiet. Grant’s face darkened. “Nora, do you have to say this here?” Isla’s eyes immediately reddened. “Nora, you’ve misunderstood. I’m filming a documentary. I needed to understand the ship’s conditions. Grant was just helping me check technical details.” I took out my phone and lit up the screen. “Does checking technical details require singing happy birthday at two in the morning?” Isla’s expression slipped for a second, then softened again. “I was in a bad place that night. He was afraid I’d do something stupid.” Grant picked up the thread. “Nora, Isla really was struggling last year. I couldn’t just watch a friend fall apart.” A friend. Those two words were a universal sheet thrown over shame. I said nothing else and set down my teacup. The mood at dinner had been ruined by me. For the rest of the meal, no one joked at my expense again. Grant looked over several times, his eyes full of dissatisfaction. Halfway through, I went to the restroom. Isla followed me. She stood in front of the mirror, reapplying lipstick. Her smile was faint. “Nora, you’re recording, aren’t you?” I did not deny it. She twisted the lipstick back down. “You don’t have to guard against me like this. If Grant really cared about you, nothing I said would matter.” I washed my hands. Water rushed over my fingertips. “Do you know? When he’s at sea, I’m always the first person he contacts.” “The stars, the storms, the docking time. I know all of it before you.” I turned off the faucet. “You know he’s married.” Isla looked at me through the mirror. “I know. That’s why I never stole him. He’s the one who can’t let go of the past.” She took out her phone. On the screen was a screenshot. Grant had written to her: She hasn’t been messaging me lately. Honestly, it’s peaceful. The date was the same day I stopped sending him even a period. Isla said softly, “Nora, what men fear most isn’t that you make a scene. It’s that you’re no longer useful but still refuse to leave gracefully.” I dried my hands. “You can say that in court too.” Her expression changed. When I walked out of the restroom, Grant was waiting at the end of the hall. He looked at me with open displeasure. “The moment you came, everyone got awkward. Nora, can you not drag your emotions from home into public?” I lifted my head. “I’m going back to my parents’ place tomorrow.” His brows pulled tight, his eyes full of impatience. “I only have a few days off. How long are you planning to keep this up?” I walked past him toward the private room. Inside my phone, the red dot on the recorder was still glowing. When we got home, I started packing my clothes. Grant stood at the bedroom door, his face grim. “You’re moving out now? You want both our families to know we fought?” I folded my everyday clothes into the suitcase. “It’s not a fight. It’s separation.” “Nora.” Whenever he called me by my full name, there was always that strained patience in his voice. “I admit Isla and I have been in touch a bit too much. But you can’t twist a normal friendship into something dirty.” I stopped moving. “I messaged you at dawn when I had stomach pain. You replied fourteen days later. That night, you were on video with her for an hour.” Grant frowned. “There are communication rules on board. Private messages can’t just be answered whenever.” I placed a stack of printed screenshots on the bed. March fifteenth. I had a fever of 102 and asked if he could reply with just one sentence. That same night, Isla posted a call screenshot. Duration: sixty-three minutes. April twentieth. A pipe burst at home. I rushed back from work and dealt with it alone until dawn. Isla posted a video of Grant showing her the moonlight over the ocean. May ninth. My father had a sudden heart attack and was admitted to the hospital. I stood in line at the payment window with shaking hands, entering the wrong PIN over and over. Grant was singing happy birthday to Isla while someone whistled in the background. He looked at those papers for a long time without speaking. “Isla was depressed during that period. Her relationship with her family is bad too. I was afraid she might hurt herself.” I smiled faintly. “The day my father had surgery, I was afraid too.” He looked up at me. For a brief moment, something in his expression shifted. Then his phone rang. Isla. Grant answered and put it on speaker. Isla was crying so hard she could barely breathe. “Grant, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gone to the dinner. Nora said in the restroom that she was going to expose me and ruin my career.” Grant immediately looked at me. “You threatened her?” I kept packing. “The hotel has surveillance.” “No need to check.” His tone hardened. “Isla wouldn’t lie about something like this.” I looked at him. For the past two years, every grievance of mine needed evidence. One sob from Isla became fact. Isla continued over the phone, “Did I cause trouble for you two? I was only afraid you had no one to talk to at sea…” Grant lowered his voice. “Don’t cry. It’s not your fault.” After he hung up, his gaze settled heavily on me. “Why do you have to push someone who’s sick?” “Does she have a diagnosis?” “Nora, can you not be so cruel?” I took another document from the drawer. It was a transcript of a voice message I had sent him last winter. Grant, I’m not doing well. The house is so cold and my stomach hurts. I’m not trying to bother you. I just want to hear your voice. That voice message had only been sent to him. That afternoon, Isla sent me an audio file with a note. Nora, you really need to see a doctor. I handed him the screen. “You forwarded it to her?” Grant’s face changed. “I just wanted her to help me judge whether your emotions were unstable at the time. She’s taken some psychology courses.” The glass cup near my hand fell and shattered across the floor. A shard sliced across my palm. Blood welled up fast. Grant saw it. But he picked up his phone first and messaged Isla. She lost control. Don’t be scared. I looked down at my hand. So this was what happened when a person reached a certain point. Even pain arrived half a beat late. I pressed a tissue against the cut, picked up my bag, and left. The emergency hallway was harshly white. Bennett was waiting by the entrance, holding a copy of the court summons. When he saw my hand, he went to the nurses’ station for antiseptic cotton before handing me the papers. “The hearing time is confirmed. Three days from now. Nine in the morning.” I took them. Bennett hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t want mediation?” I looked at the thin cut across my palm. “I’m sure.” My phone vibrated. Grant had sent a message. You scared Isla badly. I’m going to check on her tonight. Calm down. Bennett glanced at it but said nothing. I screenshotted the message and saved it. The next morning, Grant called me. “I’m going with Isla to the lighthouse today to shoot some footage. Take your mother to her follow-up appointment yourself.” I looked at the appointment slip in my hand. “You promised you’d come with me.” He replied quickly. “It’s just a follow-up, not surgery. Don’t use family to pressure me.” My mother heard that sentence. 3 My mother stood at the hospital entrance holding a thermos. She did not ask. She only handed it to me. “Let’s go. Checkup first.” After reading the report, the doctor suggested further screening. My mother smiled. “I’m getting old. Little problems pile up.” The more she acted like that, the less I could say. When I was paying, I called Grant. No answer. But Isla’s documentary account updated with a short video. The wind by the lighthouse was fierce. Grant stood behind her, helping hold the tripod steady. Isla faced the camera and said, “The safest feeling in the world is knowing that whether he’s at sea or onshore, he’ll always make sure I can reach him.” My mother looked at the screen for a long while before asking, “Has he always been like this?” I put my phone away. “Yes.” This time, I did not explain for him. At eight that night, Grant came home. He carried a bag of seafood porridge and set it on the dining table. “Isla finished shooting. I brought this back on the way. Still hot. You and Mom can make do.” My mother could not eat seafood. My stomach was weak. I could not eat it either. He had forgotten all of it. I poured the porridge into the trash. For the first time, Grant lost his temper with me. “Nora, what exactly do you want now? I bring something back and you give me attitude. If I don’t, you say I don’t care.” “Is everything I do wrong?” My mother stood from the sofa. “Grant, Nora spent the whole day with me at the hospital. You promised you’d come.” Grant softened his tone, but his words stayed hard. “Mom, it’s not that I don’t care about you. Isla’s side was work too. She was alone near the lighthouse. If her equipment failed, it could have been dangerous.” My mother said nothing more. My phone vibrated again. Isla sent me a screenshot. She and Grant stood beneath the lighthouse, the sunset pressing against the ocean behind them. Nora, don’t blame him. He’s just too kind. I replied: See the evidence in court tomorrow. Within a minute, she deleted her post and removed the short video. Grant’s phone rang. He answered, and Isla’s voice shook. “Grant, Nora just said something about seeing evidence in court tomorrow. Is she suing me?” “I only posted an update. Why is she doing this?” Grant looked at me. For the first time, panic appeared in his eyes. “What does that mean?” I walked into the study and took out the folder from the drawer. Court summons. Copy of the divorce petition. Call records. One document after another, I laid them on the table. Grant picked up the summons. When he saw the hearing date, his face went pale. “Tomorrow?” “Nine in the morning.” “When did you file? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I did tell you,” I said, looking at him. “That day you went to answer Isla’s call. You didn’t hear me.” He set down the summons. His voice dropped. “Nora, we’re not at that point yet. Withdraw the case first. I can explain.” My mother stood beside me and said softly, “Grant, leave.” Grant seemed not to hear. He only stared at me. “Don’t let other people lead you by the nose. Was this Bennett’s idea? He’s an outsider. What does he know about us?” I picked up my bag by the door. “He knows the law.” Grant reached out to grab me. I stepped back. “Grant Mercer, my heart is dead. Tomorrow morning at nine, we divorce in court.” He stood there, his hand frozen midair. “Nora…” It was the first time in days he had called me like that. I opened the door. “Get out.” He looked at my mother, then at the documents on the table, as if only now realizing this was not another cold war. Before the door closed, he called hoarsely, “Honey.” I shut the door. Inside, there was only my mother’s controlled breathing and the court summons lying on the table. A few seconds later, his phone rang outside. Isla was still calling him.

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1 When the boss’s wife called for the ninety-ninth time, she didn’t ask what time he would be home. She only said one sentence: “Please tell Joe he needs to come home today.” My hand on the mouse froze. For the first twenty-six calls, her question was always, “What time will Mr. West be home tonight?” Back then, I always had a ready excuse for him. The brand ambassador, Miss Avery, had a sudden stomachache, and he had to drive her to the ER. The client, Ms. Albright, had one too many drinks, so he was escorting her back to her hotel. His old college classmate, Brooke, had just returned to the country and was unfamiliar with the city, so he was helping her look at apartments. Then, starting from the twenty-seventh call, her question simplified: “Is he coming home tonight at all?” And this time, the perfect excuse was right on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it. It felt like she didn’t need his excuses anymore. When I passed the message to Joe, he didn’t even look up from his desk. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll buy her something nice in a few days when I have a free minute. She’ll get over it.” I opened my mouth, the words hovering in my throat, but ultimately, I swallowed them down. I had worked as Joe West’s executive assistant for five years, managing hundreds of corporate public relations disasters. But in that quiet office, a sudden, heavy realization hit me. This marriage was heading toward a cliff, and no amount of PR could save it. … “Mr. West, about your wife…” “I know,” Joe interrupted, his tone even, carrying a touch of weary indulgence. “Vivian isn’t unreasonable. She just wants attention. Order a designer bag and have it sent over. Tell her I really can’t get away tonight.” The heavy mahogany door of the executive suite swung open. Brooke walked in, clutching a stack of files from the marketing department. She had recently returned from Europe, and Joe had personally bypassed HR to slot her into the company. Today, she wore an oversized white button-down, the top few buttons casually undone, projecting an effortless, borderline provocative charm. “Joe, save me,” she groaned. “The brand preview is tonight, and if you aren’t there, the team is going to eat me alive.” Joe looked up, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction of a second. “You’re wearing that?” Brooke looked down at herself and laughed, waving a hand. “It’s called effortless chic. Since when do you care about my outfit?” I lowered my eyes, focusing on my tablet. “Mr. West, you have the video conference with the European investors at eight.” Brooke immediately threw her hands up. “Fine, forget it. I’ll go alone. It’s not like anyone in marketing actually respects me anyway.” Joe was silent for two seconds. Then he shut his laptop. “Push the conference to tomorrow morning.” My fingers paused over the screen. “The marketing preview is critical tonight,” Joe justified. Brooke’s eyes lit up. She practically threw herself forward, her shoulder bumping against his chest. I stood by, quietly shifting my gaze away. “You are a lifesaver!” she squealed. She claimed they were just buddies, but her fingers remained wrapped around his sleeve, refusing to let go. Joe looked down at her hand, a helpless, fond smile gracing his lips. “Still as impatient as ever.” He turned to me. “Lynn, head over to the house. Go to the walk-in closet and bring back that champagne silk gown.” I froze. That gown had arrived from Paris just last month. It was a custom piece Vivian had spent three years designing. She hadn’t even had the chance to wear it once. Joe glanced at Brooke’s micro-hemline. “There will be press tonight. It’s not appropriate for you to go looking like that. Borrow Vivian’s dress for the evening.” Brooke waved her hands half-heartedly. “Oh, come on. That’s your wife’s dress. It feels wrong for me to wear it.” She said it felt wrong, but her eyes were practically shining with greed. Joe’s voice remained smooth and untroubled. “It’s just for one night. Vivian is sensible. She won’t mind.” I couldn’t hold back anymore. “Mr. West, perhaps it would be better if you went back to get it yourself. Your wife did ask you to come home today.” That was the absolute limit of what I could say as his assistant. Any further, and I would be crossing the line into taking sides. And after all, Joe was the one signing my paychecks. Joe looked up at me, his eyes cool. “Not tonight. You go get it. And tell her I’ll come home to make it up to her as soon as I’m done here.” Half an hour later, I arrived at the West estate. Vivian was wearing a simple, muted knit sweater, her hair loosely swept up in a clip. “Ma’am, Mr. West asked me to retrieve a specific gown,” I said softly. Vivian didn’t ask a single question. She simply stepped aside to let me in. “It’s in the main closet. Go ahead.” As I slipped off my shoes and walked into the foyer, my eyes caught two large, packed suitcases sitting by the door. The photo wall was half-empty. The colorful sticky notes on the refrigerator, once filled with sweet reminders she wrote for Joe, were entirely gone. “Are you going on a trip, ma’am?” Vivian kept her head down, quietly taping up a cardboard box. “Just staying somewhere else for a few days,” she replied, her voice flat. I entered the closet to fetch the gown. To my surprise, almost all of Vivian’s personal clothes were gone. She walked in behind me, gently helping me pull the protective garment bag over the champagne silk. When her fingers brushed against the hem, they lingered. Just for a heartbeat, but I saw it. “Mr. West said he’ll have it sent back immediately after the event,” I offered, trying to fill the heavy silence. “No need,” she said, looking up with entirely vacant eyes. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I stood there, suddenly remembering how she used to be when I first joined the company. Back then, Vivian was full of life. She wore bright, vibrant dresses, brought artisanal coffee to the office for the staff, and told me with a bright laugh, “Joe might look cold on the outside, but he has the softest heart.” Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the color began to drain from her. She stopped bringing treats to the office. She stopped smiling. Noticing my blank stare, Vivian let out a soft sigh. “I won’t be wearing it anyway,” she murmured. When I delivered the gown to the venue, Brooke was finishing her makeup. “You actually got it? Your wife won’t be furious, will she?” Joe glanced at her, his voice indifferent. “She’s not that petty.” She’s just past the point of caring, I added silently in my mind. That night, Joe was like a peacock in full display. On his left arm clung Brooke, whispering how nervous she was about her first big marketing event, her palms sweating. On his right was a young, rising influencer, holding up her phone and batting her eyelashes. Further out were two female corporate partners, including Ms. Albright. Throughout the evening, those women seemed to have only two goals. First, to find any excuse to press closer to Joe. Second, to boss me around. “Assistant Lynn, could you grab me some warm water?” “Lynn, check this photo for me. Does my face look too wide?” Their tones were completely casual, treating me like a personal maid rather than the executive assistant of a multi-million dollar corporation. Joe stood at the center of it all, charismatic, attentive, and perfectly chivalrous. But the longer I watched, the more a knot tightened in my stomach. I had seen how he treated Vivian. He wasn’t overtly cruel… he was just so dismissive of her, taking her presence entirely for granted. The brand promotional video began playing on the big screen. Brooke was called backstage to finalize some scheduling details. The moment she left, the young influencer slid closer to Joe, holding a glass of champagne. “Mr. West, I think my strap broke…” Her voice was pure sugar, and her TikTok livestream was still running. Joe glanced down. Deciding it was a harmless gesture, he reached out and casually adjusted the thin silk strap back onto her shoulder. The influencer immediately leaned into him with a coy smile. “You’re so sweet, Mr. West.” The live chat exploded instantly. “Oh my god, is this a real-life billionaire romance?” “The way he looked down at her… I’m melting.” “He looks so protective!” I wanted to step in and warn him, but I kept my mouth shut. I was just an assistant, after all. Then, as I monitored the screen, my heart dropped. Among the sea of cheering comments, I spotted a very familiar profile picture. It was Vivian. She had left a single comment: “Congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together.” The words were quickly buried under the avalanche of heart emojis and shipping comments, but I saw them clearly. The tablet in my hands suddenly felt heavy as lead. I hurried over to Joe and whispered, “Mr. West, your wife is watching the livestream.” Joe was looking down at the influencer’s phone. He froze slightly at my words. “She just left a comment,” I added. The influencer’s smile stiffened for a second before she quickly put on an innocent face. “Oh? Is your wife watching? Did I make things awkward for you, Mr. West?” Her camera was still rolling, and the chat was going wild. “The real wife is watching?” “Oh damn, the drama is real!” “But they look so good together anyway.” Joe pinched the bridge of his nose, looking slightly annoyed. “She’s overthinking again.” The influencer murmured, “Should I go online and clarify?” Joe glanced at her. “No need. I’ll deal with her when I get home.” He spoke as if this public display of intimacy was just a product of Vivian’s oversensitivity. I looked at him, desperately wanting to ask: Do you really think you still have a home to go back to? But an assistant doesn’t ask those kinds of questions. The influencer blinked. “Are you going to go home and apologize to her now?” Joe hesitated. Just then, Brooke returned from backstage, lifting the hem of the champagne gown. “Joe, can I get a ride with you later?” Joe looked at her. “I’ll drop you off first.” I pulled out my phone and clicked on Vivian’s profile. Checking on the boss’s wife technically fell within my job description… or at least, that’s what I told myself to quiet my racing heart. My fingers trembled as I typed: Ma’am, do you need Mr. West to come home tonight? If so, I will remind him right away. The message sat there unanswered for a long time. Long enough for the valet to bring the cars around. Long enough for Brooke to slide into the passenger seat of Joe’s car and wave goodbye to me through the window. Finally, my phone buzzed. No need. He’s not coming back. I left some things in the foyer. Please hand them to him tomorrow. I didn’t get home until one in the morning. Before I could even slip off my heels, my phone went off like a bomb. My group chats were flooded with notifications. “Is your boss seriously dating that influencer girl?” “I thought he was sleeping with that Brooke girl from college?” “Is working at your office like living inside a drama series?” I was too exhausted to even wash my face. I wanted nothing more than to toss my phone into the washing machine. It felt like the entire city had more energy than me, especially when it came to gossiping about my boss’s love life. Just as I was about to power down the device, my best friend sent me a link. “The Mystery of the West Empire’s Silent Wife: Why does a woman who doesn’t work, has no children, and offers zero emotional support get to keep her ring?” I clicked on it, a cold smirk forming on my lips as I read. The anonymous source claimed Vivian was an insecure housewife who spent her days tracking Joe’s location and throwing tantrums. It painted Joe as a saint who only stayed in the marriage out of a profound sense of duty, surrounded by brilliant, successful women. The final line was a knife: “Only a woman who can build an empire with him deserves to stand by his side.” I nearly laughed out loud in my dark apartment. Build an empire with him? Joe’s very first round of seed funding had come directly from Vivian’s family trust. His first major clients were personally introduced to him by Vivian’s father. On the original draft of the company’s business plan, Vivian’s name was printed right beneath Joe’s. When I first started, the older employees used to whisper about how Vivian had pulled three consecutive all-nighters to rewrite a financial model, single-handedly saving a crucial project that investors were about to reject. Then, her visits to the office grew sparse. Some said she was in poor health and trying to conceive. Others said Joe cherished her too much to let her work so hard. Just last year, when Vivian expressed a desire to return and manage the marketing line, I happened to walk into the executive suite with some documents. I saw Joe holding her hands, his voice incredibly tender. “Just focus on resting and getting healthy at home, darling. Let me handle the stress of the company.” At the time, I thought he was the ultimate devoted husband. Now, I realized he was just systematically pushing her out of her own creation. The most twisted part was that whenever the firm faced a liquidity crisis or needed the influence of the Jiang family, Joe’s visits home would miraculously spike. Flowers, diamonds, private rooftop dining… I had to draft three different romantic itineraries a day. During those brief periods, he spoke to her with such sickening sweetness that I almost believed he had changed. By ten the next morning, the gossip article had reached the top of the local trending boards. I placed my tablet in front of Joe. “Mr. West, the internet is ripping your wife apart. Should we have the PR team issue a statement?” Joe glanced at the screen, a brief frown crossing his forehead. “Not yet.” I blinked, stunned. He took a slow sip of his espresso. “Brooke’s marketing event just gained traction. If we bury the news now, all her hard work goes to waste. I’ll explain it to Vivian later. She’ll understand.” Always that phrase. She’ll understand. I stood there, feeling a profound sense of disgust. Brooke got her spotlight. The influencer got her followers. Joe got to look like the charming, untouchable bachelor. And Vivian was left to be publicly humiliated by strangers. At ten-thirty, I went to the West house. The suitcases were gone. The remaining frames on the photo wall had been taken down. The house felt like a tomb. Vivian was gone. On the console table in the foyer lay a thick manila envelope, held down by a small sticky note. Lynn, please give this to Joe. As I picked up the envelope, the unsealed flap slipped, revealing a glimpse of white parchment inside. Divorce papers. Standing in that silent, empty house, I remembered Joe’s words from the night before. She’ll understand. But this time, Vivian wasn’t planning on understanding anything ever again. When I placed the envelope on Joe’s desk, he was busy reviewing the traffic metrics from Brooke’s event. He tapped his fingers on the mahogany wood. “Brooke did an exceptional job with this.” I slid the envelope toward him. “Mr. West, your wife asked me to deliver this to you.” He opened it, and his eyes fell upon the divorce petition. He actually laughed. “She even hired a lawyer?” His tone wasn’t panicked; it was merely amused, like a parent dealing with a toddler’s tantrum. “She’s trying to make me chase her.” I hesitated, but the silence broke my resolve. “Mr. West… when she asked you to come home yesterday, I think this is what she wanted to discuss.” Joe slid the papers back into the envelope. “If she really wanted a divorce, she wouldn’t have used you as a courier. She would have faced me herself. She’s just waiting for me to apologize.” His phone rang. It was Ms. Albright. Her voice was dripping with sarcasm through the speaker. “You’ve been quite popular in the tabloids lately, Mr. West. With Miss Brooke running your marketing, I suppose you don’t need us old partners anymore?” After hanging up, Joe looked at me. “Book a dinner with Ms. Albright tonight.” I paused. “Sir, perhaps you should address the situation with your wife and the media first.” Even as I said it, I wanted to laugh at my own foolishness. Address it first. In Joe’s world, Vivian was always the last priority. The last to be explained to. The last to be handled. He looked up, a flash of annoyance in his usually calm eyes. “We cannot afford to lose Ms. Albright’s distribution channels. I will deal with Vivian tonight when I go home. Just do your job, Lynn.” I lowered my eyes. “Yes, sir.” The dinner was set at an exclusive private dining club. The moment we arrived, I knew something was wrong. Ms. Albright had arrived early and insisted on a table right next to the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, a black SUV sat with its engine idling, and two people in the corner of the courtyard were holding up their phones, lenses pointed directly at us. I leaned in close to Joe. “There are paparazzi outside.” Joe frowned. “Lynn, don’t be paranoid.” Ms. Albright sipped her wine, offering a cold smile. “Your assistant certainly likes to hover, Mr. West. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were doing something scandalous.” I swallowed my pride but pressed on. “Ms. Albright, Mr. West was just trending in the tabloids last night. Any photos of the two of you tonight will be twisted into a new narrative.” Ms. Albright’s face went cold. “Mr. West, your assistant is capable, but her lack of discretion is going to cause trouble eventually.” Joe set his glass down. “Ms. Albright,” his voice was quiet, but it carried an icy edge, “Lynn has been with me for five years. I know exactly how she works, and I trust her judgment.” I stood beside him, my feelings suddenly a tangled mess. Joe wasn’t a monster. He was fiercely protective of his staff, fair, and incredibly generous to those who worked for him. That was why I had held out hope for his marriage for so long. But it was incredibly tragic that a man who could draw such clear, solid boundaries for his employees could treat his own wife’s dignity as entirely expendable. Ms. Albright sneered. “Is this defensive attitude your directive, Mr. West, or is she acting on her own?” I scoffed inwardly. If we don’t protect his image, the tabloids will claim you’re pregnant with his child by tomorrow morning. After the agonizing dinner concluded, Joe tried calling Vivian. First call: no answer. Second call: declined. Third call: went straight to voicemail. His expression finally darkened. “She’s still playing games?” I said softly, “I don’t think she’s playing, sir.” Joe shot me a warning glance, and I fell silent. After a long pause, he picked up his coat. “Let’s go home. Order some white roses, buy a necklace, and pick up some dessert from that boutique she likes.” I checked my records. “Mr. West, that dessert boutique closed down permanently.” “Then what else does she like?” I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t because I was bad at my job. It was because over the last few years, my memory had been filled with Brooke’s dietary restrictions, the influencer’s favorite brands, and Ms. Albright’s wine preferences. Vivian had simply never been on my list of tasks. Joe fell silent for several seconds. Finally, he draped his coat over his arm, maintaining his usual mask of indifference. “Forget it. I’ll ask her myself.” He dismissed me for the night. But the moment I unlocked my apartment door, my phone rang. It was Joe. As soon as I answered, the sound of his ragged, frantic breathing filled the receiver. “Lynn… get to the house. Now. Find out where Vivian went.”

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1 Silverwood Academy had a rule: never take a graduation photo. Legend said whoever stood in the frame would be cursed. But Melody, our beloved class sweetheart, refused to believe in ghosts. “I’m moving abroad in weeks,” she pleaded, eyes brimming with tears. “Can’t we have one memory?” The class agreed instantly. “It’s just a stupid rumor,” they said. Everyone except me. My intuition was a physical weight, screaming disaster. I slipped away to find our homeroom teacher, shutting down the shoot. Melody left for Europe with a heavy heart. Her plane crashed into the Atlantic. No survivors. At her memorial, the class realized they had no group photo to remember her by. Grief turned to venom. They cornered me by the biology lab. Nelson, my childhood friend, delivered the final blow, shoving me down eight flights of stairs. I died in a pool of blood. To protect Nelson, the class lied to the police. My parents, unable to bear the injustice, locked themselves in their room with a charcoal stove, clutching my Ivy League acceptance letter as they succumbed to the fumes. We’ll make your dreams come true in the next life,they wrote. I opened my eyes. I was back in the classroom. Sunlight streamed in. Melody leaned over my desk, smiling like a porcelain doll. “Iris, can we please take the senior portrait? Just this once?” I slowly pulled my hand away, my voice flat. “Sure. Why not?” The entire room fell into a stunned silence. No one expected me to agree so easily. Melody squealed in delight, throwing her arms around my neck. “Iris! You’re the best! Thank you!” Behind her, someone muttered in disbelief, “Wait, Iris, aren’t you terrified of the curse? You’re usually the one preaching about bad omens and spirits.” I closed my textbook, my expression entirely unreadable. “Would my fear actually stop any of you from doing what you want?” “Of course not!” several voices chimed in unison. I knew they wouldn’t. Behind my back, they called me the teacher’s pet, the hall monitor brownnoser, and the friendless freak. They had never once cared about my comfort. Nelson was staring at me from across the aisle, his eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. “Iris, what kind of game are you playing right now?” I met his gaze. Nelson had been my childhood friend for fourteen years. I used to think he was the one person who would always have my back. But in my past life, when the class was screaming at me, he didn’t utter a single word of defense. Instead, he was the one who pushed me to my death. “You made her live her last days with regret, you should pay for it!” His voice still echoed in my nightmares. He loved Melody. He loved her so deeply that he was willing to become a murderer for her. And after I died, he orchestrated the cover-up. “Iris was clumsy. She just lost her footing and fell. You can’t blame anyone else for an accident.” When my acceptance letter from Evercrest University arrived, my parents broke. They knew how many sleepless nights I had spent pulling myself up from nothing to earn that future. To lose it all right at the finish line was a cruelty they couldn’t survive. My eyes stung with sudden, hot tears. Nelson’s stare became even more hostile. “What’s with the waterworks? Are you trying to play the victim again?” I swallowed the lump in my throat, my jaw tightening. “Nelson, whatever I do has absolutely nothing to do with you.” He recoiled slightly, clearly caught off guard by my icy tone. But his arrogance quickly returned. “But you’re always talking about your spiritual rules. No haunted houses, no swimming in the reservoir, no traveling to the deep woods… are you absolutely sure this curse isn’t real?” I kept my eyes on my book. “Does it matter? Do you even know what the curse actually is?” He let out a sharp, dismissive scoff. “Who doesn’t?” Five years ago, the senior class of Room 301 took their graduation portrait. Within a single month, half of those students died in bizarre, gruesome accidents. The other half fell into mysterious, prolonged comas, their bodies covered in inexplicable lacerations. When they finally woke up, they had completely lost all memory of that entire month. Since then, the administration at Silverwood Academy had quietly banned all group photos. For four years, every graduating class abided by the unspoken rule. Better safe than sorry. But Nelson’s lip curled in disgust. “It was just a massive statistical anomaly. Coincidences happen.” “If you’ve already made up your mind, why ask me?” I replied smoothly. Nelson leaned over my desk, his shadow blotting out the light. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” he whispered, his teeth clenched. “I’ll be watching you. Don’t even think about running to the principal.” He paused, a dark flicker in his eyes. “If you ruin this for everyone and make Melody leave with a heavy heart, I will make you pay.” A cold realization washed over me. He was reborn too. He carried the memories of the previous timeline. But his second chance was useless. He was still blind. Unlike me, he couldn’t see what was currently written on the classroom wall. Directly behind him, dripping in wet, crimson ink, a massive message was flashing on the chalkboard: DO NOT TAKE THE SENIOR CLASS PORTRAIT, OR MISFORTUNE WILL FALL! Melody slid into the seat next to me, her perfume sickeningly sweet. “Iris, when should we do it? How about today after school?” I shifted my chair a few inches away from her. “My name is Iris.” I didn’t want her using cutesy nicknames with me. We weren’t friends. Melody’s smile faltered, her eyes instantly filling with tears. “I… I’m sorry. I just wanted us to be close.” She sniffled softly. “Iris, do you hate me?” Before I could even open my mouth, Nelson snapped, “She’s just being her usual miserable self! Give her an inch of kindness and she thinks she owns the place. Ignore her.” He placed a comforting hand on Melody’s shoulder, his voice softening. “We’ll do it today after school. The weather is perfect.” Then, he shot me a deadly look. “And you, Iris, will be standing right there with us. No excuses.” I didn’t argue. “Fine.” In my last life, I fought tooth and nail to protect them, and it cost me my family and my life. This time, I wouldn’t stand in their way. But Nelson remained deeply paranoid. All afternoon, his eyes followed me. When I went to the restroom, he trailed me into the corridor. When I pulled out my phone, his shadow loomed over my shoulder. “Are you that terrified I’ll report this?” I asked, turning to face him. “I know exactly what kind of snake you are,” he spat, his eyes burning with resentment. “Your little psychic act might fool the teachers, but it doesn’t work on me.” I didn’t bother explaining. It was pointless. At five o’clock, the entire class of fifty students gathered at the edge of the running track. Someone suggested, “Should we grab the homeroom teacher and the principal? It won’t be complete without them!” “No,” Nelson intervened quickly. “Just us is fine.” He shot a pointed look in my direction. “We wouldn’t want some rat running to the administration and ruining the fun.” The air grew heavy. Fifty pairs of eyes turned to glare at me. Melody stepped forward, biting her lip. “Iris… you wouldn’t do that to us, right?” “Come on, Iris, don’t be a buzzkill.” “It’s our graduation! We need some memories!” A few students stepped closer, shoving their shoulders into mine to intimidate me. I simply held up my hands, my voice completely level. “I haven’t said a single word. I’m standing right here.” Nelson scoffed. “Just get in position. Don’t waste our time.” He had recruited a student from the junior class to act as our photographer. “Alright, everyone squeeze in close,” the junior called out, raising the camera. “On three… one… two…” Before he could count to three, a deafening crack shattered the sky. BOOM! A violent bolt of violet lightning tore through the atmosphere, striking the massive oak tree at the edge of the field. The trunk split in half with a sickening crunch, sparks and small flames bursting from the wood. The junior dropped the camera in terror, stumbling backward. The class screamed, scattering in all directions. I was the only one who didn’t run. I looked up at the sky. High above us, written in towering, bleeding letters that stretched across the clouds, was a message five times larger than the one in the classroom: LAST WARNING: DO NOT TAKE THE SENIOR CLASS PORTRAIT, OR MISFORTUNE WILL FALL!! The junior photographer was trembling so hard his teeth clicked. “I… I can’t do this. I remember now… the legend… it’s real.” He bolted down the street, leaving his tripod behind. The crowd was in a frenzy of panic. “Is the curse actually real?” “It was just a lightning strike! A storm is coming!” “But the sky was completely clear a second ago…” Whispers of doubt began to spread. The more timid students were visibly shaking. “Iris… you always know about these things,” one girl whispered, her eyes wide with fear. “Did you feel something?” I looked up at the bleeding red letters in the sky, which were slowly fading but still visible. “If I told you I felt a lingering, suffocating malice, would any of you actually walk away?” They hesitated. The collective bravado was beginning to crack. “Of course we’re taking it!” Melody cried, her voice rising in desperation as she saw her moment slipping away. “I’m leaving next week! This is my only chance!” Nelson stepped up to her side, his jaw set. “Don’t listen to Iris’s garbage. It’s just weather.” He pulled his phone and a small tripod from his backpack. “Everyone line up again. We’ll set a timer and do it ourselves.” They looked at one another, torn between fear and their desire to please Melody. In the end, they shuffled back into formation. I stood at the absolute edge of the second row. While their attention was focused on the lens, I quietly slipped my hand into my pocket and pulled out a thick black face mask. If this disaster was inevitable, I would cover my face. If my face wasn’t in the frame, perhaps the curse wouldn’t recognize me. Nelson adjusted the timer and started walking back to the group. But before he could take his place, a sharp, angry voice cut through the air. “What do you think you are doing?” Mrs. Gable, our homeroom teacher, was marching across the lawn, her face white with fury. “Step away from that camera! Immediately! Go home, all of you!” Nelson’s face contorted with rage. He turned on me like a wild animal. “You snitched! Iris, it was you again!” The class glared at me, their murmurs thick with disgust. “What a pathetic loser.” “Can’t even let us have a photo. Truly the teacher’s pet.” I remained entirely calm. “I have been standing right next to you the entire time. My hands haven’t even touched my pockets. How could I have called her?” Nelson didn’t believe me. He snatched my backpack, tearing it open and pulling out my phone. He bypassed my lock screen, which he had memorized from our years of friendship, and went straight to my call logs, text messages, and social media apps. Nothing. No contact with Mrs. Gable or any school official. “You deleted it!” he snarled, his eyes bulging. “You’re the only one who cares about this stupid superstition!” “Where is your proof?” I asked quietly. “Enough!” Mrs. Gable barked, stepping between us. “Do you think the school security cameras are decorations? The monitoring room saw fifty of you gathering on the field and called the office! The principal is furious!” She waved her hand dismissively. “The shoot is canceled. Go home.” Melody began to weep, burying her face in her hands. “Mrs. Gable… I’m leaving next week… I just wanted to remember them…” Mrs. Gable’s tone softened slightly, but her resolve remained absolute. “You can take small group photos, Melody. But the senior class portrait is strictly forbidden. It is school policy.” The students dragged their feet as they dispersed, their faces dark with resentment. But Nelson wasn’t finished. He pulled out his phone and sent a blast message to our private class group, the one without any teachers. Tomorrow is Saturday. No staff on campus. We meet at the front gates at ten in the morning. He tagged me directly. Iris, you better show up. I didn’t reply. I walked out of the school gates and looked up at the sky one last time. The bleeding letters had changed: FINAL WARNING: DO NOT TAKE THE SENIOR CLASS PORTRAIT, OR MISFORTUNE WILL FALL!!! At ten o’clock on Saturday morning, my doorbell rang. I opened it to find Nelson standing on my porch. “Let’s go. Time to take the photo.” He had actually come to my house to drag me there, all to satisfy Melody’s whim. Despite knowing me for fourteen years, Nelson hated coming to my neighborhood. Your family lives in a mansion, Iris. I don’t belong in places like this, he used to say. His fragile pride made him believe my parents’ success was a personal insult to his modest background, despite how warm and welcoming my family had always been to him. I used to spend hours reassuring him, trying to prove our friendship was deeper than money. But now, I saw the truth. A relationship that required constant walking on eggshells wasn’t worth saving. I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “I’m not going.” Nelson’s brow furrowed. “Why?” “Because I don’t want to,” I said plainly. “And I don’t care about keeping memories with any of you.” Nelson stared at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “It’s our graduation portrait, Iris. You only get one in your life.” I offered a dry smile. “There are plenty of moments in life worth remembering. The key is who you share them with.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I don’t consider any of you my friends. Why would I want to remember you?” He went rigid, his pride clearly stinging. “We’ve been friends since we were toddlers… fourteen years…” “No,” I corrected, my voice cold. “That was just your assumption. To me, you were just a classmate.” Nelson’s face flushed deep crimson. His fragile ego was shattering. When logic failed him, he resorted to demands. “I don’t care what you think. Melody wants this photo, so you’re going!” A small, mocking laugh escaped my lips. “Nelson… aren’t you even a little curious as to why Melody is so utterly obsessed with this portrait?” “She just wants a keepsake!” he shouted. “She wants a keepsake of me? Someone she barely knows and who clearly dislikes her? Does that sound rational to you?” Nelson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. I took a step back. “You are free to do whatever you want. But do not drag me into your grave. Goodbye.” As I went to shut the door, his hand shot out, grabbing the wood. He stared at me with intense, burning focus. “You… you know something, don’t you?” His eyes were wild. “You’re reborn too, aren’t you?” A bitter, sorrowful smile touched my lips. “You know exactly what you did to me in the last life, Nelson. You should understand perfectly why I will never consider you a friend again.” I stared at his trembling hand. “I can’t pretend none of it happened.” Nelson’s hand slowly slipped from the door. He didn’t say another word. He turned and walked away into the gray morning. Half an hour later, I opened my social media feed. At the gates of Silverwood Academy, forty-nine students were gathered in a perfect, smiling formation. Melody stood at the absolute center, her smile radiant and sweet. In her hand, she was holding a laminated printout of my student ID photo, holding it up to the camera. Her caption read: Iris couldn’t make it today, but we made sure she was there with us! Our family is complete! The comment section was filled with hearts and cheering emojis. My stomach dropped. A cold dread settled deep in my bones. Suddenly, a massive, earth-shaking thunderclap rattled the windows of my room. It was closer and louder than any storm I had ever experienced. I rushed to the window. Across the gray clouds, thick, crimson liquid was beginning to ooze from the sky. It fell in heavy, sluggish drops, like blood dripping from an open wound. The drops slowly formed words that stretched across the horizon: I TOLD YOU NOT TO TAKE THE SENIOR CLASS PORTRAIT, BUT SOMEONE DIDN’T LISTEN. A violent, blinding pain exploded in my temples. My vision began to fail, dissolving into a sea of static. In the distance, a low, mechanical hum began to echo in my ears. The anomaly had begun.

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1 For ten years, Caleb Whitman’s phone password had been the same six digits. Not just his phone. His bank cards, laptop login, and the safe at home all used that same string of numbers. I once asked him why. “Randomly punched it in back in college,” he said. “Got used to it. Too lazy to change it.” I nodded and didn’t think much of it. Until I went with him to a gathering with his childhood friends, and a girl arrived late. Everyone immediately started teasing her. “Lena flew back from overseas just for Caleb’s wedding, right?” “Back then, we all thought you two would end up together.” Lena smiled and gave the person a playful glare. “Caleb, you’re awful. You even deleted me on WhatsApp. Add me back right now.” Then she naturally took his phone and entered that string of numbers. The screen unlocked. “My college entrance exam ID ended in those digits. I can’t believe you still remember.” So the password he had used for ten years was never about convenience. It was a devotion he had never let go of. And I had never truly been part of it. … “Caleb, I just got back. Your downtown apartment is empty anyway. Can I stay there for a few days?” Lena raised her glass and looked at him. I froze. That downtown apartment was our future home. Caleb frowned and set down his fork. “No. That’s where Ava and I will live after the wedding.” A few old friends at the table laughed. “Caleb the wife-protector. Hopeless.” “Lena, don’t get any ideas. He’s a taken man now.” Caleb’s face stayed blank. That was how he looked when he was unhappy. He placed peeled crab meat into my bowl. I looked down but did not pick up my fork. He knew I was allergic to crab. In our second year together, I accidentally ate crab meat and swelled up like a balloon. When he carried me into the ER, his hands were shaking. After that, he became extremely careful about what I ate. “Why aren’t you eating?” I picked up my fork and pushed the crab to the edge of the plate. “No appetite.” When the gathering ended, rain had started outside. The steps in front of the restaurant were slick with water. “Careful. The steps are slippery.” Caleb reached out to me. Just as I was about to place my hand in his, a cry came from beside us. “Ah!” Lena staggered. Caleb’s hand pulled back instantly. Without support, my foot slipped. The back of my hand hit the stone pillar beside me hard. Blood immediately welled up. I turned my head. Caleb was staring at Lena. “I think I twisted my ankle,” she said softly. Caleb frowned, then turned back to help me. “Ava, why are you so careless?” “Caleb, can you take me home? I really can’t walk by myself.” Lena bit her lip, her eyes red. Caleb was silent for a moment. “That’s not convenient.” On the way home, he held my hand the whole time. After we got back, he found the first-aid kit. “Does it still hurt?” He looked up at me and smiled. “See? You really can’t manage without me.” I said nothing. He hugged me from behind, resting his chin on the top of my head. “Are you jealous?” he laughed softly. “Don’t listen to them. Lena and I are long over. You’re the only one in my heart now.” Then he got up and went into the bedroom. His phone vibrated. I unlocked the screen. Ten minutes ago, Lena had posted an update. The photo showed a rainy night street through a car window. Caption: Thanks to someone for arranging a late-night escort. In the window’s reflection, the driver’s silhouette was visible. Caleb’s personal assistant. I placed the phone face-down on the table. Caleb came out holding a stack of wedding design booklets. “You like white lisianthus, so we’ll make that the main flower for the wedding.” I looked up at him. In truth, I had clearly said long ago that my favorite flower was a passionate red rose. But on every anniversary and holiday, he always sent me cold, pale white lisianthus. I thought it was just his bad taste as a straight man. Until I saw Lena’s profile picture. A single white lisianthus. So he had not forgotten what I liked. His devotion, like that phone password, had always belonged to someone else. “It’s Lena who likes white lisianthus, isn’t it?” My voice was calm. His face darkened. “Why are you so suspicious now? Can you not start acting unreasonable when we’re supposed to be getting married?” I laughed. “Unreasonable? What about the six-digit password you’ve used for ten years? Is that unreasonable too?” Panic flickered in his eyes. But the next moment, shame turned to anger. “I told you, it was just an old habit. If you don’t like it, I can change all of them. Stop talking like that.” Caleb quickly realized his tone had been harsh and pulled me into his arms. “Ava, stop it. You’re just anxious before the wedding. Don’t overthink.” Late that night, after he fell asleep, I opened Lena’s new post. The room in the photo had a layout I knew too well. She was wearing pajamas, lying on a bed I recognized. Caption: You’re exactly like before. Tough mouth, soft heart. The next morning, there was a paper bag on the dining table. Inside was a new designer bag from the current season, along with a note. Yesterday was my fault. My apology. Caleb. I picked up the bag. When my fingers brushed the inner pocket, they touched a stiff piece of paper. A receipt. Purchase record: same handbag, two units. Suddenly, I found it almost funny. He no longer even bothered to put effort into deceiving me. That afternoon, I drove to the future apartment anyway. I entered the usual password at the smart lock. Incorrect password. I tried several more times. Still wrong. My fingers hovered for a long time. Then I entered those six digits. The door opened. My fingertips trembled. That password was like a silent slap across my face. The entryway light was on. Voices came from the living room. I walked in and saw Lena sitting on the sofa, holding a design booklet. Caleb stood beside her. They were very close, their heads almost touching. At the sound of the door, Caleb looked up. There was a flash of panic on his face. “Ava. Why are you here?” I walked in, my gaze sweeping over the living room. The vintage wallpaper that had covered the walls was gone. It had been stripped clean. Torn scraps still littered the floor. I had spent three months choosing that pattern. Imported cotton-linen texture. Back then, to help me buy that exact batch, Caleb had personally flown overseas to find the manufacturer. When they refused because the craftsmanship was too complicated, he waited in their office for an entire day. At the time, he held me and said, “As long as you like it, it’s worth any trouble.” I once thought that was love. I had cried from happiness. But now that wallpaper was ripped to pieces. Just like the love and tenderness I thought I had received. Lena closed the booklet. “Ava, the color you chose was too depressing.” She stood. “I changed it to something warmer. It suits you two better. You won’t blame me, right?” I looked at the mess on the floor, then at Caleb. “Lena majored in interior design. Her taste is better.” “Taste?” I let out a small laugh. “Her taste means destroying a client’s belongings without permission?” Lena’s lips curved faintly. “Ava, I graduated with honors from a British art college and won a top Red Dot Design Award.” “In my opinion, your previous decorating style was a little… small-minded.” “I’m doing this for Caleb’s sake too. With his status, he socializes with prominent people. His home can’t look low-class.” “Plenty of people would pay a fortune for my advice. You should be thanking me for elevating the place.” I looked at Caleb. “You knew how much I loved that design. You also said every inch of our home would follow my preferences.” Guilt flashed in Caleb’s eyes. “Enough, Ava. Lena meant well. If you really liked it that much, I’ll have another batch ordered later.” “Caleb,” Lena sighed, “apparently not everyone understands refined taste.” “It’s fine. Since Ava cares so much about the money, I can personally compensate her.” “Then compensate me,” I cut in. “The wallpaper, labor included, cost one hundred and twenty thousand. Pay the original amount.” Caleb’s face darkened. He stepped forward. “I already said I’ll pay to air-freight new materials over.” “Ava, don’t be so aggressive. Don’t embarrass people.” “This is my home,” I snapped. “Why does she get to do whatever she wants?” Caleb frowned. “I bought this apartment.” I froze. Something inside me seemed to shatter completely. Five years ago, he placed the keys in my palm. “Ava, everything I have is yours. For the rest of my life, I’ll shelter only you from the storm.” At the time, I thought I had the whole world. I forgot that promises expire. He could build me a city with his own hands. And for someone else, tear it down into ruins. I lowered my head and turned toward the door. Caleb did not follow. Before the elevator doors closed, I heard Lena cry out from inside. “The paper cut my hand.” “Why are you so careless? Let me see.” I looked at myself in the elevator mirror. The wound on the back of my hand had not even scabbed over yet. Last night, he said he would treat it when we got home. In the end, I washed the blood away myself with tap water. Back at my current place, I pulled out my suitcase. There weren’t many clothes left in my closet. Caleb had said we would move into the new apartment after the wedding, so I had happily moved most of my things there already. Now that I thought about it, that place was never my destination. I found an old jacket Caleb had given me. In its pocket was a concert ticket stub. Ten years ago, he stood in line for forty minutes to buy the last-row seats. After the concert, it rained. He put his jacket over my head and ended up getting sick himself. But even then, his phone password had already been those six digits. I packed my documents, photos, laptop, and a few old books into the suitcase. Inside one of the books was a white lisianthus card. The handwriting had faded a little. Ava, I’ll send you white lisianthus every year from now on. I threw the card into the trash. My phone rang. Caleb sent a row of photos. Gift boxes, liquor, supplements. All arranged in the trunk. Then he called. “Ava, I’ll be on time for tonight’s family engagement dinner. Don’t let your parents wait.” “Yesterday was my fault. I shouldn’t have spoken like that.” I looked at my half-open suitcase and gave a quiet hum. At eight that night, the private room at the old restaurant was full of relatives. My parents had arrived half an hour early. My father wore a newly bought suit. My mother had pinned her hair up. The food on the table cooled twice and was reheated twice. But Caleb never came. I called him again and again. No service. I asked his assistant. I asked his childhood friends. No one knew where he was. I began to worry about his safety. At nine-thirty, Caleb finally called back. “Ava, I’m sorry. My car broke down on the highway. I’m waiting for roadside assistance. Apologize to your parents for me.” I closed my eyes. “As long as you’re safe.” I was about to return to the private room when my cousin stood at the end of the hall and handed me her phone. “Liv, look at this.” On the screen was a livestream from a popular night market. The camera panned across the crowd in line. Caleb stood in the queue, holding two number slips. Lena stood beside him, standing on tiptoe to look at the soufflé stall. The streamer laughed and said this limited dessert required a ninety-minute wait. The image was crystal clear. No highway. No breakdown. No tow truck. I had never seen Caleb stand in line like that for anything. In ten years together, the longest he had ever queued with me was forty minutes for the concert ticket I wanted. He said he hated crowded places. Now he stood patiently in a noisy night market, waiting for a soufflé. He made my parents wait for two hours just to buy dessert with her. I handed the phone back to my cousin. Then I paid the bill and saw every elder into a cab one by one. My mother held my hand. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. After everyone left, I stood alone in front of the restaurant. The night wind blew over, cold against my skin. My eyes ached. Tears suddenly dropped onto the back of my hand. I wiped them away. All at once, I accepted it. Some devotion and effort were nothing more than a lie I had told myself. Some things had belonged to someone else from the very beginning. No matter how hard I held on, they were never meant for me. I took out my phone and called the project lead in Southport. “Ms. Reed, that overseas placement you mentioned last time. I’ll take it.” She sounded surprised. “Didn’t you say your wedding was coming up and it wasn’t convenient to leave?” “It’s convenient now.” The next morning, when I left home, Caleb was waiting at the door. He held a huge bouquet of lush red roses. When he saw the suitcase beside me, his pupils shrank. “Ava, I’m really sorry about last night.” “My car suddenly stalled on the highway. That stretch had terrible signal, and my phone died. I waited on the roadside for help half the night.” Listening to his easy lie, my stomach churned with disgust. He grabbed my wrist. “Ava, I know you were hurt. Today I canceled all my meetings. I’m taking you somewhere. Consider it my apology.” The drive took forty minutes. We stopped in front of an independent restaurant I often liked. The entire building had been booked. A sign on the glass door read: Private Event. Caleb held my hand and led me inside. The dining room was dimly lit. Warm golden light fell over rows of photographs. The photos lined the walls from our university days to now. Us in front of the library. Him placing my graduation cap on my head. Birthday candle photos from every year. Music began to play. Caleb dropped to one knee and slowly opened a deep-blue velvet box. “Ava.” “I’ve made you wait ten years. From today on, my world will only have you in it. Ava, will you marry me?” Bitterness spread through my chest. I had hinted countless times that I wanted a proper proposal. Before, he always frowned and said, “Ava, we’re practically an old married couple. Why bother with empty rituals?” Now that I no longer needed it, it appeared. Friends and childhood companions who had been hiding in the shadows stepped out one by one, clapping loudly. “Say yes! Say yes!” I looked at the ring. It was only a few inches from my fingers. Just then, Caleb’s phone rang. The special ringtone was exactly the same as the proposal music playing in the room. So this was connected to Lena too. Caleb’s face turned deathly white. He took out his phone. I spoke calmly. “Answer it.” He hesitated, then pressed speaker. Lena’s crying voice came through. “Caleb… the power in my apartment went out… it’s so dark. I’m scared… I think someone is knocking at my door…” His face changed instantly. He stood abruptly. Then he shoved the diamond ring carelessly into my hand. “Ava, I…” “Lena has claustrophobia. I have to go right now.” I stood still. “If you walk out that door,” I said, “we are over for good.” Caleb paused, then turned back. His face was full of anger. “Ava, can you stop being so selfish? She’s really sick. This could be life or death.” “Wait here for half an hour. I’ll come right back.” He did not wait for my answer. He turned and rushed out. The room fell into dead silence. I lowered my head and looked at the ring in my hand. Beside me was a champagne tower. The top glass was still empty. I dropped the ring into it. With a sharp crash, the champagne tower collapsed. I picked up the microphone from the floor. “Sorry for the show, everyone. This proposal is canceled.” At the door, I paused. I slid the plain band off my ring finger. It had been there for five years. It was old now, the edges polished bright by wear. He had bought it when his startup first succeeded. I loosened my fingers. The ring fell to the floor. I hailed a cab. “To the airport.” In the waiting area, I opened my phone. One by one, I deleted and blocked Caleb’s WhatsApp, phone number, and every other contact. The boarding announcement began. I turned off my phone and walked toward the gate. When the plane landed in Southport, my phone began vibrating wildly in my palm.

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1 Gavin’s favorite phrase was, “Just hold on a little longer.” He promised a house after his project payout. I waited four years in a dingy rental. Then he asked me to wait until his sister graduated to marry. I held on another year. At his family’s housewarming, his mother pulled out keys tied with red ribbon—for the apartment Gavin and I had picked out. I’d sold my late mother’s gold heirloom for forty-five thousand to help with the down payment. I thought my compromises had paid off. Instead, Mrs. Sinclair smiled and dropped the keys into Serena’s hand. “She just got back from Europe and needs a place,” she said. “She should move in first.” Silence. My heart sank. Someone asked where we’d live. Gavin placed salmon on my plate, patronizing. “It’s not safe for Serena alone. It’s temporary. The deed doesn’t matter, Audrey, our relationship does.” Serena jangled the keys, winking. “I won’t touch the master bedroom. You don’t mind, do you?” I set my fork down. “Why would I? It’s just an apartment.” Gavin sighed in relief. My phone buzzed: Evidence of your pre-marital contributions is ready. We can proceed with legal preservation tomorrow at nine. I looked at the keys in Serena’s hand and typed back, Proceed. … On the drive back, Gavin hummed a quiet tune, seemingly in high spirits. I sat in the passenger seat, staring down at the notary’s confirmation. Until he reached over and squeezed the back of my hand. “Still upset?” I pulled my hand away and slipped it into my coat pocket. “No.” He let out a soft laugh. “Audrey, you always do this. You’re so stubborn. I know my mother was a bit sudden tonight, but you know Serena’s situation. Her parents live abroad, and she just got back. We can’t just leave her in a hotel, can we?” I looked out the window at the streetlights blurring past. “So she gets our home?” Gavin frowned. “What do you mean, our home? Those are just the temporary keys the developer gave us for inspection. The handover isn’t even official yet. Besides, she’s just checking it out. It’s not like she’s moving in forever.” I turned to look at him. “Your mother handed her those keys in front of everyone.” The car went silent. Gavin tugged at his collar, clearly irritated. “Audrey, must you overanalyze everything? Do you really want to humiliate my mother in front of the whole family? Serena grew up with us, and her family helped my father back in the day. Can’t you show a little grace?” He always did this. Every time I voiced my hurt, he immediately painted me as the unreasonable, petty one. I looked down and smiled faintly. “Sure. I can show grace.” “Good,” Gavin said, visibly relaxing. “Don’t worry. Once Serena finds her own place, I’ll have her move out. It won’t delay our wedding plan.” Our wedding. The word felt as flimsy and cheap as scrap paper. Five years ago, we were crammed into a damp, drafty studio apartment in the run-down part of town. He had held me tight and whispered, “Audrey, just two more years of struggle. Once I buy a house, your name will be the first one on the title deed.” But when his firm finally took off, things changed. He bought a luxury penthouse for his mother, got his sister Hailey a car, and secured a job for Serena. I was the only one left waiting. Waiting for him to be free, waiting for his family’s approval. The car pulled up to our rental building. We had lived in this two-bedroom apartment for four years. I had picked out the living room light fixtures, hung the curtains, and hand-selected every single dish in the kitchen. Gavin unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned in to kiss me. I turned my head away, and his lips brushed the air. “Audrey,” his voice darkened. “That’s enough.” I pushed the door open and got out. “I have a busy morning tomorrow. I’m going to bed.” Gavin caught up, grabbing my arm. “What’s tomorrow?” “Just some paperwork.” “What kind of paperwork?” I met his eyes calmly. “Nothing that concerns you.” His face fell. “Do you really have to be so hostile?” I didn’t answer. My phone vibrated again. The notary officer had sent a list of supplementary materials: [Please bring all bank transfer records, the apartment purchase agreement, screenshots of chat logs promising the title split, and any evidence regarding the other party’s unilateral cancellation of the joint contribution agreement.] I replied with a quick “Will do.” Gavin caught a glimpse of my screen, his brow furrowing deeper. “Who’s that?” I locked the screen. “Just spam.” He had no idea. A month ago, I had discovered the amended contract. Originally, we agreed I would put down forty-five thousand dollars and my name would be added to the deed later. But in the developer’s registry, Gavin was listed as the sole owner. When I asked, he claimed it was a mistake by the agent. I only believed half of that excuse. The other half was enough to make me gather all my evidence. Tonight’s housewarming dinner was his last chance. But he had handed those keys to someone else. 2 The next morning at seven, a phone call woke Gavin. He stepped out onto the balcony, closing the glass door. But I could still hear Serena’s whimpering voice. “Gavin, I couldn’t sleep at all last night. When I think about those keys your mom gave me, I feel like an intruder in your and Audrey’s home.” Gavin’s voice softened instantly. “Don’t think like that. You’re family.” Serena said something else on the other end. Gavin glanced back at me. I was sitting at the dining table, packing bank statements into a folder. He lowered his voice. “She won’t mind. She’s just like that sometimes. She’ll get over it in a couple of days.” My hand paused, then I sealed the folder. Fifteen minutes later, Gavin was dressed. “Serena wants to measure the apartment for custom furniture today. I’m going to help her.” I looked up. “Weren’t we supposed to go to the town hall to register our marriage license today?” Gavin paused, his hands freezing on his cuffs. He looked as if he had completely forgotten. A few seconds later, he recovered his smooth tone. “It’s just an appointment, Audrey. We aren’t actually getting married today. Serena just got back; she doesn’t know her way around. She can’t handle this alone.” I stared at him. “Gavin, I was the one who contacted the designers. I stayed up for nights tweaking the floor plan. I calculated every single penny of the budget. And now you’re taking her to measure it?” Gavin finally snapped. “Audrey, are you ever going to drop this? She’s just looking. Why do you have to be jealous of everything? If you’re so worried, why don’t you just come with us?” He noticed the folder on the table and reached for it. “What’s this?” I pinned it down before he could touch it. “My things.” “What do you mean, your things? Why can’t I see them?” He tried to pull it away. I stood up, taking the folder with me as I stepped back. His hand hung in the air. The room grew freezing cold. He studied me with a strange, analytical look. “Audrey, you’ve been acting weird lately.” I smiled. “Have I?” “You never used to be like this.” “I also used to think I was getting married.” Gavin’s expression hardened. He stared at me for a long time before letting out a dry laugh. “Right. Here come the threats again. Is this all because of the keys last night? I told you, that place is going to be ours eventually. Why do you have to be so stubborn?” He walked over, softening his tone. “Audrey, stop playing games. I’ll come back tonight to have dinner with you, and we’ll set the wedding date. Deal?” “Don’t bother coming back tonight,” I said. He blinked, startled. I grabbed my bag and the folder. “I have plans.” The notary office opened at nine. The staff was just rolling up the shutters when I arrived. My reflection on the glass door showed a face that wasn’t crying or red-eyed. Just calm. Uncannily calm. After reviewing my documents, the notary officer looked up. “Ms. Audrey, are you sure you want to file a declaration of capital withdrawal? Once this is notarized, we will verify the execution of this document. However, freezing any property transfer might still require your attorney to send a formal demand letter to the developer.” I nodded. “I’m sure.” “You contributed forty-five thousand dollars to the down payment, and another ten thousand for custom interior deposits,” she reminded me. “If the other party refuses to refund it, you may have to take this to court.” I signed my name. “Then we’ll go to court.” As the pen glided across the paper, I thought of my mother’s gold bracelet. Before she passed, she had held my hand and whispered, Audrey, a girl must always keep her own money. You can love someone, but never hand over your life. I hadn’t understood then. I did now. 3 When I left the office, there were a dozen missed calls from Gavin. I ignored them. Soon after, Serena sent a photo. She was standing in the living room of the new apartment. The wall where I had planned to put a bookshelf had been digitally painted pink to look like a display cabinet. Her caption read: Audrey, did I make the place look too childish? Gavin said as long as I like it, it’s fine. Then came a voice note. Her voice was dripping sweet. “Audrey, please don’t misunderstand. I’m just helping you guys test-run the place. After all, I know Gavin’s living habits better than you do.” I saved the photo and forwarded it to my attorney. [Does this count as the other party unauthorizedly disposing of joint property interests?] The lawyer replied almost instantly: [Yes, we can use this as evidence.] My phone rang again. Gavin. This time, I picked up. “Audrey, where the hell are you?” his voice simmered with anger. “Paperwork.” “What paperwork? Did you go to the notary office?” I said nothing. Gavin’s breathing grew heavy. “Are you insane? My mother just got a call from the developer saying you filed a withdrawal of funds. We spent six months securing that apartment at that price! Now you’re pulling your funds?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum, Gavin.” “Then what do you call this?” I stood by the crosswalk, watching the pedestrian light countdown. “I’m taking back what’s mine.” Silence stretched over the line before Gavin let out a harsh laugh. “Forty-five thousand dollars. Is that really worth all this? When you sold your mother’s heirloom to chip in, I told you not to. You insisted. Now you’re using this to hold hostage?” My fingers clenched tightly around my phone. “You’re right. It’s not worth it.” Sensing my tone, Gavin softened his voice. “Audrey, I didn’t mean it that way. We’re about to get married. Splitting pennies like this ruins our relationship. Just withdraw the declaration. I’ll take you to that French restaurant you love tonight, and we’ll talk.” Talk. He always wanted to talk. And it always ended with my compromise. The light turned green. I stepped forward with the crowd. “No need, Gavin. We have nothing left to talk about.” The line went dead silent. It took him a long moment to speak. “Audrey, what is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like,” I said, and hung up. I headed straight back to the rental. The movers I had booked a week ago were already waiting downstairs. The moment I realized my name wasn’t on the registry, I had prepared for the worst. If Gavin had stood up to his mother last night, if he had given me a single honest explanation, I might have canceled the movers. But he didn’t. Seeing me alone, the mover asked, “A lot of stuff?” “Not much.” My belongings were sparse. A few boxes of books, two bags of clothes, my laptop, and my art supplies. The rest were pieces of a life I had built over the years. I left the kitchen mugs, the living room throw pillows, and the floor lamp I had visited three different shops to find. It wasn’t that I couldn’t let go; I just didn’t want them anymore. Near the end, the mover pulled a cardboard box from under the bed. “Do we pack this too?” I looked inside. It was filled with our years together: movie tickets, vacation photos, matching slippers, and a notebook filled with wedding plans. I knelt down and flipped open the notebook. On the first page, in my handwriting: Wedding budget: under twenty-five thousand. On the second page, in Gavin’s handwriting: Whatever makes the bride happy. I stared at his words and smiled. Then I threw the entire notebook into a trash bag. “Leave it.” At five in the afternoon, I left my keys on the entryway table. I snapped a picture and sent it to Gavin. [Keys are on the table. I’m moved out.] He didn’t reply. Three minutes later, his call came. I declined it. He called again; I declined again. After the seventeenth call, he sent a text: [Audrey, don’t do something you’ll regret.] I replied for the final time: [You’re the one who should start regretting.] 4 At eight, Gavin finally returned to the apartment. By then, I was already in a cab heading to the train station. Tess called me. “Are you really not going to tell him where you’re going?” “No.” “What about the apartment? The money? Knowing his family, do you think they’ll just hand it back?” “My lawyer will handle it.” Tess paused, then cursed softly. “It’s about damn time, Audrey. You’ve been living like a glorified maid for years. You helped his mother at the hospital, tutored his sister Hailey, and did the bookkeeping for his startup after your own working hours. And for what? He hands the keys to his childhood sweetheart and cancels your marriage registration appointment for her. Who does he think he is?” I leaned my head against the cold car window, listening to her rant, and felt a sudden weight lift from my chest. Gavin’s texts kept flooding my phone. [Where are you?] [Why is the closet empty?] [Audrey, are you serious?] [Did you go to Tess’s place?] [I’m warning you, don’t use a breakup to threaten me.] I didn’t reply. Ten minutes later, he sent a photo of the entryway table. The keys were there, right next to the silver ring I had left behind. It was a cheap silver band. Gavin had bought it with his first project bonus five years ago. He was so broke back then that he got the size wrong. It was loose on my finger, but I had worn it proudly. He had promised to buy me a diamond ring once he made it. Five years had passed, and that promise remained unfulfilled. My phone buzzed with a voice note. Gavin’s voice sounded raw and raspy. “Audrey, where are you? I admit my mother went too far last night, and Serena was out of line. But you can’t just pack up and leave. We’ve been together for five years. Are you really throwing that away?” I watched the city lights blur outside the window, ignoring him. Moments later, Serena’s social media feed updated. She posted a photo of the new apartment, the red-ribboned keys resting on the coffee table. Her caption: Some places don’t have to belong to me. At least tonight, I have someone to watch the skyline with. In the corner of the photo, Gavin’s sleeve was visible. Tess saw it too, her voice shaking with fury over the phone. “He has the nerve to call you while he’s sitting there with her? Is he insane?” I stared at the image for a few seconds. Then I exited the app and messaged my lawyer. [Please send the legal notices to Gavin and the developer tonight.] My lawyer replied: [Are you sure you want to send them now?] I replied: [Yes, absolutely.] The station PA system announced the final boarding for my train. I wheeled my suitcase toward the gate. Suddenly, my phone vibrated frantically. It was Gavin. I declined. He sent a voice note. In the background, Serena was crying softly. Gavin’s voice was laced with pure panic. “Audrey, explain this to me right now! Why did the developer call saying you withdrew your down payment? Why does this legal notice say we have no binding engagement? What the hell are you doing?” I stood in front of the ticket barrier, typing out my last words to him. [Gavin.] [I’m not doing anything.] [I’m just done with you.] The moment the message sent, I popped the SIM card out of my phone and dropped it into a nearby trash can. “Audrey!” A desperate shout echoed from behind. I turned around. Gavin was standing just outside the ticket barrier, clutching the silver ring I had left behind. His eyes were bloodshot.

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1 I was once Wall Street’s youngest prodigy, a legendary risk analyst. Now, I was trapped in an office drama as cannon fodder. Day one, I was handed a suicide mission: the Easton Properties risk assessment was due next week with no raw data. The department waited for me to burn. Bianca, the office sweetheart, pretended to help. She stayed until ten each night, eyes brimming with fake concern. Everyone called her an angel. She slid a folder across my desk. “Private contact files. Patch your report, but stay quiet.” The floating chat bar appeared: [Setup begins.][White lotus knows you’re desperate.][Fake lifeline = easy trap.][Submit cooked numbers, get humiliated, CEO trip goes to Bianca.] I opened the folder. Page three: net profit with an extra zero. Eight years on Wall Street, and they thought elementary math could blindside me? … “Thank you so much, Bianca. I won’t forget this,” I said, clutching the folder to my chest and putting on my best performance of a grateful, desperate rookie. A flash of smug satisfaction flared in Bianca’s eyes. She patted my shoulder soothingly before spinning on her heels and heading toward the breakroom. “Look at you, doing charity work again.” Mandy swaggered over with her mug, her eyes dripping with condescension as she scanned me from head to toe. “Some people graduate from Ivy League schools only to prove they can’t even balance a basic spreadsheet. It’s embarrassing how she clings to Bianca’s coat-tails every single day.” I kept my head down, staring at my sneakers without a word. Bianca hurried back from the breakroom, gently catching Mandy’s arm. “Mandy, don’t talk about Fiona like that. She’s new to the firm and still learning. We’re all on the same team, we should help each other.” Mandy scoffed. “You’re too soft, Bianca. Watch out, or you’ll hatch a snake that’ll bite you when you least expect it.” “Oh, hush,” Bianca teased, nudging Mandy before turning to me with a bright smile. “Fiona, since everyone is craving a coffee break, would you mind running down to the Starbucks downstairs? I’d love an iced shaken hibiscus herbal tea, light ice, and only one pump of cane sugar. Don’t get it wrong, okay?” She handed me a ten-dollar bill with a sweet grin. A single drink cost at least fifteen, yet she gave me ten. I took the bill and nodded meekly. “Sure, I’ll go right now.” As I walked toward the elevator, Mandy’s mockery drifted after me. “Run along. That’s about all you’re good for anyway.” The moment the elevator doors slid shut, my timid expression vanished. I pulled out my phone, typed a complex string of commands, and bypassed the security protocols to access a secure, private server. My fingers flew across the screen. Two minutes later, an encrypted file dropped into my personal inbox. It was the raw, unedited financial history of Easton Properties for the past three years. Behind their beautifully manicured balance sheets lay a looming multi-million dollar liquidity crisis. When I returned with the coffees, I walked past the breakroom. The door was cracked open, and hushed laughter slipped through. “Bianca, why did you even bother giving her those files?” Mandy’s voice was sharp. Bianca chuckled. “She has no other way to get data, so how is she going to deliver her report? I’m just playing the good Samaritan. I’d hate to see her get fired by Tabitha.” “You’re too kind for your own good! When she messes up the presentation tomorrow, make sure you don’t take any of the blame.” “Don’t worry, I know exactly what I’m doing.” I pushed the door open, my face blank. The laughter died instantly. Mandy cleared her throat awkwardly, turning her back to wash her mug. Bianca immediately masked her face with her signature sweet smile and walked over. “Oh, Fiona, you’re back! Thank you so much.” She reached for the tray of drinks. “It was no trouble,” I said, releasing my grip. Suddenly, the main office door was slammed open. Tabitha, our department director, marched out with a stormy face, her sharp eyes scanning the room. “Fiona! Get in my office right now!” The entire floor went silent. Smirks and whispers rippled through the cubicles as everyone watched me. Bianca gave my sleeve a worried tug. “Go on, Fiona. Just keep your head down and don’t argue with her.” I set the tray down and walked in. Tabitha slammed a heavy folder onto her desk. “The preliminary screening for Easton Properties is tomorrow. Where is your risk assessment model?” I glanced at the folder. “The raw data provided was insufficient. The model isn’t ready.” “Bullshit!” Tabitha roared, slamming her hand on the desk. “The entire team has been working themselves to the bone, and you spend your day fetching coffee and staring into space! If you can’t even put together basic numbers by tomorrow, don’t bother showing your face here again.” 2 Tabitha’s screech echoed right through the blinds, filling the entire floor. I kept my head bowed, letting her launch into her tirade. “I don’t think you’re cut out for this job at all!” Tabitha took a sharp breath, attempting to steady her voice. “Given how crucial this client is, I can’t leave this in the hands of an amateur.” She tapped her intercom. “Bianca, get in here.” In less than ten seconds, the door opened. Bianca stepped inside, looking as innocent as a lamb. “You called, Tabitha?” Tabitha pointed at me. “From this moment on, you are taking over the Easton project. Fiona will assist you.” Bianca immediately put on a show of shock and deep hesitation. “Oh, Tabitha, I don’t know… Fiona has been pulling late nights for this.” “She doesn’t know a damn thing!” Tabitha snapped. “It’s decided. You’ll lead the pitch tomorrow. Don’t let me down.” Bianca bit her lip, turning to look at me with a look of profound apology. “Well… alright. I’ll do my best to teach Fiona along the way.” The chat bar across my vision went into overdrive: [Wow, she really is the queen of green teas. Just like that, she steals the project.] [She’s dying to show off in front of the CEO, but she plays the reluctant victim so perfectly.] [The original character was such a pushover. She literally thanked people for stabbing her in the back.] As I stared at Bianca’s delicate, concerned face, a sharp throb flared in my head. It was a memory from the original host of this body. Three months ago, during the Eastside development bid, she had worked three consecutive all-nighters, compiling an incredible proposal. The night before the submission, she stepped away to wash her face. When she returned, her flash drive was gone. The next morning, Bianca presented her exact proposal. When the original host confronted her, Bianca cried a river of tears in front of Tabitha, whimpering, “Tabitha, I swear I wrote this myself. Fiona must be confused… I don’t know why she’s claiming it.” When she demanded to see the security footage, the head of security simply sneered, “The cameras in that sector were down for maintenance. We have nothing.” Tabitha had spent thirty minutes screaming at her for being malicious and jealous, stripping her of her monthly bonus and making her the laughingstock of the office. The sheer suffocation and despair of that memory still burned in my chest. I took a slow breath, locking the emotion away. “Are you listening to me?” Tabitha snapped, rapping her knuckles on the desk. “You follow Bianca’s lead from now on.” I nodded. “Understood.” The moment we stepped out, Mandy rushed over to drape an arm around Bianca’s shoulders. “I knew it! A massive account like Easton needs real talent to carry it.” Bianca sighed softly, leaning on Mandy. “The pressure is so intense. I have to review everything from scratch.” She turned to me, lifting a stack of paper receipts nearly two feet high and dumping them into my arms. “Fiona, could you verify these reimbursement slips and invoices for any typos? Take your time, we just want to make sure there are no errors.” A pile of useless scrap paper. She was not only hijacking my work; she wanted to keep me entirely occupied with busywork so I couldn’t salvage my own standing. I calmly accepted the stack. “Sure.” Back at my desk, I spread the receipts out. While my fingers appeared to sift through paper, my keyboard was flying as I ran the core scripts retrieved from the private servers. The true financial structure of Easton Properties took shape in my mind. Not only were their earnings fabricated, but they were also carrying massive, unrecorded high-interest loans. Once their credit dried up, they would fall off a cliff. The hours ticked by. As the office emptied out for the evening, Bianca stood up and stretched. “Fiona, are you done with those receipts yet?” “Almost,” I said without looking up. Bianca walked over, picking up a folder. “I’m heading down to the archive room to look up some old case studies. Do you want to come along? Maybe you’ll find some inspiration.” I stopped typing and stood up. “Sure.” The archives were at the very end of the corridor, a dimly lit space crowded with dusty filing cabinets that barely anyone visited. The moment I stepped inside, a sharp click echoed behind me. The door swung shut. I turned around and rattled the handle. Locked from the outside. Bianca’s airy voice drifted through the thick wood. “It’s nice and quiet in there, Fiona. You can take the whole night to find your inspiration.” 3 “Bianca? What are you doing?” I pitch-shifted my voice to sound slightly panicked, banging on the heavy wooden door. Bianca’s tone carried a smug warmth. “Oh, Fiona, I’m so sorry! The lock must be jammed. I can’t seem to open it from the outside either. The security team has already left for the day, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do in there tonight. Don’t worry, you only have to shadow me tomorrow anyway, so you don’t need to stress over the presentation.” The click-clack of her heels faded down the hallway, leaving the archives in total silence. The chat bar popped up once more: [This woman is brutal. It’s October, and she’s locking her in a freezing archive room with no heater?] [She wants to completely cut off Fiona’s escape route so she can’t even try to fix the report overnight.] [Tomorrow’s meeting is a firing squad. How is Fiona going to turn this around?] I let go of the handle, the panic instantly vanishing from my face. Brushing the dust off my hands, I walked over to a desk tucked away in the corner and sat down, pulling a compact, black tablet from my coat pocket. Locking me in? Perfect. In a secluded place like this, I could tear down Easton’s financial facade without anyone watching over my shoulder. All through the night, my fingers flew across the virtual keys. Advanced financial models, concealed cash transactions, and shell-company networks were mapped out. By five in the morning, a flawless, textbook-level audit report was complete. At eight the next morning, the rattle of a cleaning cart sounded down the hall. The latch clicked, and the door swung open. The cleaning lady gasped when she saw me. “Oh dear! Sweetheart, why are you sleeping in here?” I stretched my stiff neck and stood up. “The lock jammed.” As soon as I walked back to the main workspace, Bianca rushed toward me. She was holding a bag of breakfast, her eyes red as if she had been crying. “Fiona! Oh my god, are you alright?” she cried, grabbing my hands loudly enough to draw the attention of everyone arriving for work. “The door lock was broken last night, and I couldn’t get it open. Your phone had no service either! I was worried sick, you didn’t freeze, did you?” The concern in her eyes was a masterpiece of acting. I pulled my hands back, my voice dry. “I’m fine.” By noon, with only two hours left before the presentation, I sat at my cubicle, pretending to polish the layout of my slides. Bianca strolled over, holding a freshly brewed cup of hot coffee. “Fiona, how is the report coming along?” She leaned in, trying to get a look at my screen. “Almost done,” I replied flatly. “That’s wonderful.” Bianca nodded. Then, her wrist buckled. A full cup of scalding coffee poured directly onto my laptop keyboard. A sharp hiss echoed as the screen flickered twice and died. The scent of burnt electronics and coffee filled the air. “Oh!” Bianca let out a theatrical scream, grabbing a fistful of tissues and dabbing at the keys. “I’m so, so sorry! My hand slipped! Fiona, please don’t be mad, it was an accident!” Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at me, the picture of remorse. Nearby coworkers immediately swarmed us. Mandy pulled Bianca behind her, pointing a finger in my face. “Why didn’t you keep your laptop out of the way? Bianca was nice enough to bring you coffee, and you’re going to give her attitude?” I silently stared at the smoking laptop, saying nothing. Bianca dried her eyes and pulled a silver flash drive from her pocket, offering it to me delicately. “Fiona, I know your computer is ruined, but luckily I still have a backup of the Easton files I gave you yesterday. We’re out of time, so just use this for the meeting.” The chat bar exploded: [Oh my god, it’s a double play!] [Destroy the computer, then force the fake data on her. She’s literally backing Fiona into a corner!] [She knows the data is completely fabricated. This is a masterclass in clean-hands sabotage.] I stared at the flash drive before taking it from her hand. “Thank you, Bianca,” I said, drawing out each word. 4 At two in the afternoon, I carried the flash drive to the executive conference room on the top floor. Mandy stepped out from a corner, blocking my path. Folding her arms, she looked at me like I was walking to the gallows. “Fiona, keep your mouth shut in there. Don’t go embarrassing Bianca.” Her gaze was pure condescension, treating me like some insect. I didn’t even give her a glance, brushing past her to push open the heavy double doors of the conference room. The room was thick with tension, silent save for the hum of the air conditioning. Executive board members sat around the long mahogany table. And at the head of the table sat a man. Nolan Keener. He wore a flawlessly tailored charcoal suit, his tie knotted with sharp precision. His long, elegant fingers lazily spun an expensive fountain pen. With his gaze slightly lowered, his expression was impossible to read, yet his sheer, commanding presence filled the room like a quiet tide. Sitting across from him was the representative of Easton Properties, Rupert. Rupert sat with his legs crossed, a smug smirk plastered across his face. “Are we all here? Our time at Easton is quite expensive.” Tabitha immediately offered a fawning smile, beads of sweat forming on her brow. “Just a moment, Rupert. Our presenter is ready to begin.” She turned, her sharp eyes instantly locking onto me. “Fiona! What are you standing there for? Get up there and plug in the presentation!” I adopted my usual timid posture and walked to the projector. Bianca sat beside Tabitha, mouth gesturing silently to me, ‘Don’t be nervous. Just read what’s on the slides.’ I slotted the silver drive into the laptop and opened the only file on it. The projector screen flared to life. On page three, the doctored income statement appeared for everyone to see. An absolute hush fell over the room. Rupert scanned the slide lazily, but within a second, his expression turned livid. With a loud crash, he slammed his hand on the table and stood up. “Is this what passes for professional standards at the Harrington Group?” He pointed at the inflated revenue figure, shaking with rage. “You multiplied our net profit by ten! Are you trying to insult Easton, or are you just incredibly stupid?” Tabitha flinched, her head snapping to the screen. The moment she registered the absurd figure, every drop of color drained from her face. “That… that can’t be right…” Shaking, she leaped to her feet, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Fiona! What did you do to these numbers? How could you make such an amateur mistake?” The collective gaze of the room pierced through me like daggers. The chat bar flooded the screen: [And here comes the execution.] [Rupert is furious. Fiona is about to be thrown to the wolves.] [Get ready for Bianca’s performance. It’s time for her sweet-faced assassination.] Right on cue, Bianca stood up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Tabitha, please don’t be too hard on Fiona… She was just trying too hard to prove herself. I noticed her data looked off yesterday and offered to help, but she told me to mind my own business, insisting she could handle it. I wanted to verify the numbers this morning, but she spilled her coffee and ruined her laptop. It’s my fault. I failed to supervise her as her senior.” The executives shook their heads in disgust. “Young kids these days, arrogant with zero capability.” “People like this are a liability. Fire her.” “If this ruins our partnership with Easton, she should be sued for damages.” The wave of condemnation mounted, ready to bury me alive. Desperate to save her own skin, Tabitha snarled and pointed toward the door. “Fiona, pack up your things and get out! The Harrington Group has no room for useless trash!” I stood there, making no attempt to defend myself, watching the circus unfold. Just when everyone assumed I was done for, Nolan Keener, who had remained entirely silent, stopped spinning his fountain pen. The tip of the pen tapped against the marble tabletop with a sharp, resonant snap.

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1 By accident, I became online friends with my boyfriend from ten years in the future. Shyly, I asked him: Will our marriage be happy in the future? He replied: By then, I’d already cheated. Why would I marry you? Your future husband is my good friend, Reid Langford. Later, after I really married Reid, I was playing on his phone one day when I suddenly froze. Wait. Why did Reid’s phone have the social account of that so-called “Miles Archer from ten years in the future”? A stranger with the username S added me on my messaging app. He claimed to be my boyfriend, Miles Archer, from ten years in the future. At first, I didn’t believe him. But he kept trying to prove himself, sending one message after another. I know it sounds insane that I can be online friends with my ex-girlfriend across time, but I really am Miles from ten years later. I smoke Marlboro Reds. I hate scallions because I’m allergic. And… Oh, right. I have a mole on my butt. ! That piece of evidence was extremely private. Other than Miles and me, not even his parents necessarily knew about it. Could he really be Miles from ten years in the future? By then, I was mostly convinced. After thinking for a moment, I asked a shy question. If you really are Miles from ten years later, then tell me. Are we happy after we get married? Future Miles sent back two lines. I stopped loving you a long time ago and cheated. Why would I marry you? Your future husband is my good friend, Reid Langford. ? Confused, I typed: What does that mean? Ten minutes ago, after you walked me home, you told me you were going to make a fortune and take care of me. How could you have stopped loving me long ago? And how could I possibly marry Reid Langford? Another block of messages came through. Fine, Sophie Bennett. You’re a good person. For the sake of the two hundred dollars you still gave as a wedding gift when I got married, I’ll tell you the truth. That way, you won’t keep clinging to the current me. I frowned and stared at my phone in disbelief. Impossible. Miles loved me so much. He had rejected his childhood sweetheart, Lily Quinn, for me more than once. How could we possibly break up? Messages continued popping up. Actually, when I told you I’d make money to support you, it was because Lily had just miscarried my child. Lily Quinn was Miles’s childhood sweetheart. I felt guilty, so I said those things to comfort you. When you found out, you dumped me and got together with Reid. … Slowly, I typed: Impossible. You’re not Miles. You’re trying to sabotage my relationship with my boyfriend and drag Reid into it to humiliate him too. The other side pressed closer. Don’t believe me? Go check my game account first. Lily and I are listed as lovers in the game. Every night when I tell you I’m going to sleep early, I’m actually on voice chat playing with her. I didn’t play games. Clumsily, I downloaded the game and logged in. The game required a social account login. It could show which of my contacts were online. At that moment, Miles was duo-queueing with someone. I awkwardly tapped into his profile and checked his social relationships. Sure enough, Miles and a player named LilyBaby were in a lover relationship. And every night, during the hours he told me he was going to bed early, he had taken advantage of my ignorance and openly played with Lily. Sophie, believe me now? There’s even juicier stuff. Want to hear it? Messages kept coming. I rubbed my cold fingers and slowly exited the game. What else? Lily’s abortion report is on Miles’s phone. As soon as that message came through, it was recalled. So quickly I barely saw the second half. Then he sent it again. Lily’s abortion report is on my phone. I know you’re too well-mannered to touch other people’s phones, so I never even deleted it. Oh, and Lily has a private short-video account. It’s full of videos of us. There are kissing videos too. Want to see? Future Miles immediately sent me the profile link. I tapped in. It wasn’t just kissing videos of my boyfriend and his childhood sweetheart. There was also a video of them on a hotel bed, pressed intimately together. The time stamp showed it had just been posted. Miles had practically dropped me off with one foot and gone to meet Lily at a hotel with the other. In front of me, he had acted so well. The shock of betrayal hit me so hard my head spun and rang. S had been right about everything. It took me a long time to come back to myself. Then I screenshotted all the evidence and sent it to Miles in one burst. Very quickly, Miles called. His voice was panicked. “Sophie, listen to me. It’s not what you think.” “Break up. Get lost.” I hung up cleanly and blocked him. Right. That future version of him needed to be blocked too. A cheater was a cheater. Why distinguish between the present tense and the future tense? The next day after the breakup, I went to work with swollen red eyes. At the entrance of the company, Miles blocked me. He said urgently, “Sophie, Lily and I aren’t what you think.” “Oh, really?” I snatched his phone from his pocket. Face ID unlocked it instantly. I went straight into his photo album. Several pictures of Lily’s abortion report were lying there openly. My heart went completely cold. “Then what is this?” Miles’s face shifted again and again, but he stubbornly said, “Lily had an accidental miscarriage. She and I grew up together, so of course I had to help take care of her.” “And obviously, the child wasn’t mine.” I laughed from anger. Listen to this nonsense. “So you go to hotels with her every day and take care of her after a miscarriage, but the two of you are pure, innocent friends?” “Exactly. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but it really bothers me that you’re accusing me like this.” Miles slapped his thigh, insisting over and over that he was deeply wronged. I took a deep breath, trying to swallow my fury. I failed. I raised my hand and slapped him. “Miles Archer, how did I never realize you were this shameless? Eating from one bowl while eyeing another?” That slap stunned him. He held his face and finally stopped pretending. “Sophie Bennett, isn’t this partly your fault for not letting me touch you?” “Two years together and you kept things completely platonic. I was about to go crazy.” Then he had the nerve to add, “Besides, it was mainly because I love you too much. Lily grew up with me. She won’t take it seriously.” ? I slapped him again. “Being with you for the past two years is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. We’re done.” After two slaps, Miles stopped pretending completely. He grabbed my wrist and said viciously, “Fine. We can break up. But if you sleep with me once today, I’ll let you go cleanly.” My eyes widened in shock. There was shameless, and then there was this. I had no idea how my future self had managed to stay friends with him, much less give him two hundred dollars at his wedding. Suddenly, a large, slender hand pushed Miles away. “Miles, don’t argue outside my company.” I looked up. It was my direct boss. Also the good friend close enough to Miles that they could go to the gym and shower together. Reid Langford. Miles was a rich second-generation heir. But Reid was a true elite gentleman. He had the kind of face that made it look like genetics had handed him a blank check. Tall, long-legged, with relaxed brows and a lazy, elegant air. At that moment, he stood in front of me, expression casual. Miles clearly didn’t want his reddened face seen by his good friend and used as joke material, so he muttered, “Reid, we weren’t arguing.” “Anyway, I’ve got something to do. Sophie, we’ll talk later.” He had the look of someone who believed this wasn’t over. After patting Reid’s shoulder and exchanging a couple of brotherly lines, he covered his face and hurried away. I wiped my tears and tried to compose myself before looking at Reid. Honestly, I felt strangely unsettled. S had said I would marry Reid in the future. I didn’t know if it was true. So from the moment I saw him, I felt embarrassed. And inexplicably guilty. “Thank you, Mr. Langford.” Reid lowered his eyes to me. His hands were in his pockets, his posture relaxed. “No problem. Were you two breaking up?” “No. We weren’t breaking up. We already broke up.” Reid was actually a decent person. Every time Miles brought me to gatherings with his friends, Reid was always the most polite and proper one. He didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and never said anything crude. But he was close to Miles. I couldn’t be sure he would stay completely neutral between his employee and his friend. So I didn’t say much. A glimmer passed through Reid’s eyes. “Good that you broke up.” “Huh?” “He’s a jerk. He doesn’t deserve you.” Was this how people talked about their good friends? Male friendship was truly fake. Still, I was surprised. “Do you… really think so?” Reid’s tone was lazy. Together with his face and manner, it had a dangerously persuasive quality. “Of course. As his friend, there are some things I can’t say too bluntly. But breaking up is good.” “Thank you, Mr. Langford. I’ll work hard from now on. I’ll go press the elevator for you.” I bowed respectfully. Then, with my face faintly hot, I hurried to press the elevator button for him. If I really did marry Reid in the future, my weakness for good looks definitely had something to do with it. Reid’s dark gaze remained on my back, the corner of his mouth lifting almost imperceptibly. No matter how awful Miles was, breaking up still hit me hard. For the next two days, I worked in a daze. Once, I almost spilled a cup of coffee on Reid as he happened to pass by. I apologized frantically. Seeing my obviously poor complexion, Reid’s brows tightened almost imperceptibly. That day, right before work ended, our department manager announced something. The company would be having a gathering that night. A high-end club had been booked out. Food and drinks were covered. The only condition was that everyone had to attend. No choice. Corporate livestock couldn’t defy leadership. I went along half-dead. But to be fair, after playing around with a few colleagues for less than half an hour, I did feel better. The service at the club was thoughtful, the music lively, and my coworkers laughed and chatted. The heaviness that had been sitting in my chest for days slowly dispersed. And Reid, who was paying for everything, sat casually with his long legs stretched out. He was seated among a group of balding, beer-bellied middle-aged executives, wearing a faint smile. With that sculpted face, he looked like he came from an entirely different dimension. I secretly glanced at him twice and couldn’t help feeling curious. How on earth would I end up marrying Reid in the future? Would I pursue him? Probably not. I had always kept my distance from powerful people. Would he pursue me? Even less likely. I was his friend Miles’s ex-girlfriend. A man as clean and refined as Reid couldn’t possibly be that shameless, right? When the party ended, it was already very late. Other coworkers left in pairs and groups. I stood at the club entrance with my head down, calling a ride. “I’ll take you home.” Reid stood beside me, his suit jacket draped over one arm. I hesitated. “Uh, that…” It wasn’t that I thought he had bad intentions. I was just a tiny bit shy. Noticing my oddly wandering gaze, Reid suddenly spoke with a serious expression. “Miles just called and asked where you were. I think he’s probably waiting near your place.” “…” Just thinking of that shameless ex annoyed me. Back then, I agreed to date Miles because he once came to see Reid and happened to meet me. He claimed it was love at first sight and pursued me aggressively. I had no interest in rich playboys, so I kept politely refusing. Until one time, there was a sudden blackout at the company, and I was trapped alone in an elevator while working overtime. Miles had come through the darkness to save me. That softened my attitude toward him, and eventually I accepted his pursuit. Damn it. You really couldn’t know a person by their face. If I had known he would mess around with Lily, I would rather have died trapped in that elevator than agree to date him. Now that we had broken up, he was still harassing me. Remembering the vicious things he said that morning, I was honestly afraid. “Then thank you, Mr. Langford.” “No problem. I’m his friend. I can’t watch him make mistakes.” Good man. A truly good man. How could two rich men be so different? One shameless, one this kind. Moved, I followed Reid to his Bentley. In the car, Reid asked very casually, “Sophie, I haven’t had a chance to ask properly these past two days. Why did you and Miles break up?” I paused. Well. Becoming online friends with future Miles was so ridiculous it could make ridiculousness file a police report. No normal person with a scientific worldview would believe it. If I told Reid, I would probably earn myself a reputation for being mentally unstable. So I said vaguely, “I accidentally found out he cheated.” “With Lily?” “Mm…” “After he started dating you, he suddenly got close to Lily again and started fooling around. I warned him several times, but he didn’t seem to think he was wrong.” I pressed my lips together. Wasn’t that how all cheaters acted? Caught red-handed, still righteous enough to claim it was because of love. “It’s fine. We’ve already broken up.” “Any risk of getting back together?” “Huh?” Risk? That was a serious word. I scratched my cheek. “Probably not. I can’t tolerate sand in my eyes.” Just thinking about it made me upset. The corner of Reid’s mouth seemed to lift. Even his tone became lighter. “That’s good.” I hesitated. “Mr. Langford, you know Miles won’t let this go. So I was thinking…” I meant to ask him to act as a buffer and help persuade Miles. But Reid rested one hand on the steering wheel and glanced at me. “Don’t worry. For now, I’ll personally take you to and from work. I won’t let him near you.” “?” My expression went blank. Was my boss really willing to clean up his friend’s mess to this extent? We chatted pleasantly the whole way. Soon, the car arrived downstairs from my apartment. I opened the door and got out. Before I could turn around to say goodbye, an irritated voice suddenly sounded from nearby. “Sophie, whose damn car did you just get out of?”

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